102.
very old; originally posted at fandom_mule
-
When Heechul can’t sleep, he goes walking. He supposes it’s part of the reason why he’s so skinny and Hankyung used to complain of his bones when they slept.
“It hurts when we sleep together. You just poke me, here and here, I’ll get bruises, you just wait.”
And Heechul would stare at the spots Hankyung would point at pointedly, remembering the roadmap of veins as he traced them and Hankyung would hiss, close to his ear. Sometimes, his hands would still and then he’d just wait, finger above the pulse, and then snort and pushes him away, Hankyung chuckling low and dirty in his ear. Sometimes, he’d just look at him, innocence bright in his eyes and a sorry ready on his lips - but he’d never say it. It just wasn’t him.
Most times, he’d just hurl an insult before Hankyung was close enough for Heechul to feel the breath on his cheek and storm off.
Heechul, he’s not afraid to admit that he’s afraid of people getting close to him because it’s the truth, and lying, to him, is a dirty sin. He doesn’t believe in God, but a sin is a sin, and the disgust that always rose in his mouth when he utters a lie threatens to choke him, everytime.
Now, he chooses his words carefully. Each word is carefully selected before he lets them touch the tip of his tongue in case he burns someone and someone else runs far away from him.
When he checks his watch as after he has walked around Seoul, beanie pulled over his bright hair, it reads something like one am, and that can’t be right because that was when he had left the house. Then he remembers that this isn’t his watch, just one he happened to find in his drawer, and who knows what timezone this is at.
“I’m not lonely,” he says, and the bile rises again before he swallows quickly.
“I’m fine,” he says as he walks along the footpath, the quiet rumbling of a train in him making it sound like the city burped under his feet. He swallows three times, for luck.
He digs deeper into his pockets for warmth, the fake frames on his cheeks forming dents already, and these aren’t his either. They’re a bit loose on him, about to slip and fall onto the asphalt underfoot, cracking into a thousand pieces.
When he gets to a bridge, his feet are kind of sore and when he takes his hands out of his pockets, they’re burning. He puts them to his face and sighs, fog in front of him and the sudden craving for a cigarette overwhelms until he’s gasping, leaning over the handrail of the bridge.
Blinking, he tries to find some sanity -- a little semblance would be nice -- and it’s granted when the frames slip off his face. They tumble into the river, fast flowing and the splash is there for barely a second. He dangles his hands over the edge for a moment, the cold wind tugging at his hair and turning the tip of his nose numb. For a moment, he’s almost tempted to say a little goodbye to the glasses before he snorts and curls his hands.
“I miss you baby girl, I miss you baby girl,” he sings softly, and he’s almost amused when no bile rises and he turns his back on the river with half a name. Half a name he misses.
His hands dig into the depths of the pockets again and he finds a few folded tissues, an old face mask and some coins. If only it were a movie, he smiles, he would’ve found an old ring, or necklace, something meaningful. But he takes a tissue and breathes it in, before tipping his head back and wishing for sleep, for peace.
-
When Heechul can’t sleep, he goes walking. He supposes it’s part of the reason why he’s so skinny and Hankyung used to complain of his bones when they slept.
“It hurts when we sleep together. You just poke me, here and here, I’ll get bruises, you just wait.”
And Heechul would stare at the spots Hankyung would point at pointedly, remembering the roadmap of veins as he traced them and Hankyung would hiss, close to his ear. Sometimes, his hands would still and then he’d just wait, finger above the pulse, and then snort and pushes him away, Hankyung chuckling low and dirty in his ear. Sometimes, he’d just look at him, innocence bright in his eyes and a sorry ready on his lips - but he’d never say it. It just wasn’t him.
Most times, he’d just hurl an insult before Hankyung was close enough for Heechul to feel the breath on his cheek and storm off.
Heechul, he’s not afraid to admit that he’s afraid of people getting close to him because it’s the truth, and lying, to him, is a dirty sin. He doesn’t believe in God, but a sin is a sin, and the disgust that always rose in his mouth when he utters a lie threatens to choke him, everytime.
Now, he chooses his words carefully. Each word is carefully selected before he lets them touch the tip of his tongue in case he burns someone and someone else runs far away from him.
When he checks his watch as after he has walked around Seoul, beanie pulled over his bright hair, it reads something like one am, and that can’t be right because that was when he had left the house. Then he remembers that this isn’t his watch, just one he happened to find in his drawer, and who knows what timezone this is at.
“I’m not lonely,” he says, and the bile rises again before he swallows quickly.
“I’m fine,” he says as he walks along the footpath, the quiet rumbling of a train in him making it sound like the city burped under his feet. He swallows three times, for luck.
He digs deeper into his pockets for warmth, the fake frames on his cheeks forming dents already, and these aren’t his either. They’re a bit loose on him, about to slip and fall onto the asphalt underfoot, cracking into a thousand pieces.
When he gets to a bridge, his feet are kind of sore and when he takes his hands out of his pockets, they’re burning. He puts them to his face and sighs, fog in front of him and the sudden craving for a cigarette overwhelms until he’s gasping, leaning over the handrail of the bridge.
Blinking, he tries to find some sanity -- a little semblance would be nice -- and it’s granted when the frames slip off his face. They tumble into the river, fast flowing and the splash is there for barely a second. He dangles his hands over the edge for a moment, the cold wind tugging at his hair and turning the tip of his nose numb. For a moment, he’s almost tempted to say a little goodbye to the glasses before he snorts and curls his hands.
“I miss you baby girl, I miss you baby girl,” he sings softly, and he’s almost amused when no bile rises and he turns his back on the river with half a name. Half a name he misses.
His hands dig into the depths of the pockets again and he finds a few folded tissues, an old face mask and some coins. If only it were a movie, he smiles, he would’ve found an old ring, or necklace, something meaningful. But he takes a tissue and breathes it in, before tipping his head back and wishing for sleep, for peace.