APTF [2/?]
Title: A Prayer Time Forgot
Length: Chaptered [2/?]
Rating: PG13, for a bit of cussing. I'm pretty sure it'll go up though.
Genre: Umm. Unsure. Angst, supernatural, generally. Weirdness. We'll see.
Pairing: Yes, there are pairings. (Gasp! A first!) I'm guessing it's YunJae.
Summary: Yoochun’s behavioral problems become a constant companion. There are tantrums (bath time is World War 3 in his book), objects hurled at the wall (chopsticks one night, a shoe just this morning), and empty childish threats that he flings at Yunho with six-year-old rage. He kicks up dirt in the park, screams out loud in public places and cries until his throat his raw.
A/N: My laptop's fixed, thanks to my brother. ^^ Back to normal font size.
---
Prologue + Chapter 1
Chapter Two
He remembers the downward spiral that was the past three months. The fiasco that was crying fits in the night, destroyed toys, and the sudden, heavy responsibility of him being shackled with a child not his.
It’s clinical depression, Mr. Jung, the child psychologist told him after endless hours with Yoochun, in a tone that he supposes was expected to ease his worry of his only nephew. Children deal with it in different ways. I suggest a fresh start. A new school perhaps?
Perhaps.
But this is an entirely different COUNTRY, for Christ’s sakes, Junsu reprimands. He shakes with disbelief as the Fed-Ex boxes come and clutter their hotel room one by one. You shouldn’t have brought him this far, hyung. There might be better doctors in New York. What were you thinking?
But Yunho keeps his silence, bites his lip as somewhere inside of him a child does the same.
Too long.
---
Yoochun’s behavioral problems become a constant companion. There are tantrums (bath time is World War 3 in his book), objects hurled at the wall (chopsticks one night, a shoe just this morning), and empty childish threats that he flings at Yunho with six-year-old rage. He kicks up dirt in the park, screams out loud in public places and cries until his throat his raw.
“I want to go home,” Yoochun wails on the third day. The remains of what used to be his plate lie in shards below the table (the nth hotel plate, Yunho notes wryly but is thankful they’ve stuck to room service), sticky and red with untouched puttanesca sauce. “You told me this would be better. You promised me. This is stupid. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you, hyung.”
He sees himself in Yoochun’s place. Him and Siwon, 9 and 11, sent away to live in schools of redbrick and iron, oceans and oceans away from home, before anyone could discover their hands, black with blood only they could see. This is going to be better, trust me. We’ll be okay here.
He’d believed it, had believed enough for it to become even a little bit true. He looks at Yoochun, remembering the day he was born (he’d been at university, and Siwon had called him in the middle of class), then the day he suddenly, unexpectedly became his (he’d been at work, at a shoot for a magazine; the police had called before he could watch the news). It strikes a similar chord inside of him, and it stings him when he realizes that no amount of belief or sugarcoating will ever really make this kind of pain go away.
“I know,” is the only thing he can say, and he leaves it at that.
---
“It’s the best place I could find given your time constraint. The hotel must be racking up a bill with you two,” Junsu tells him, a week and counting into their arrival. “It’s a little off the charts with the price but you told me you wouldn’t care.”
The apartment he’s found is big and spacious, with a grand view of the city coming in through large bay windows. The city is not as majestic as New York, or as intimidating, but the familiar sight of tall steel structures looming over the mess of people below calms Yunho a bit. The price has been named (the zeroes made his head spin a little), but he isn’t fazed. He’s more than willing to start settling in, to finally gain even a piece of his sanity back.
“It’s perfect,” Yunho says, eyeing Yoochun who is standing by the windows looking contemplatively at the view, warily. The keys jangle noisily as Junsu passes them to Yunho. He forces a smile to plaster onto his face. “Yoo-Micky! Micky, what do you think huh? You like it? You can have any room you want.”
He receives silence as a reply, and Junsu clamps a hand over his shoulder.
“Poor kiddo,” he says under his breath, clucks his tongue against his teeth. “Give it time, hyung. Kids are supposed to be very resilient. He’ll come around, you’ll see.”
Yunho wants to tell him horror stories (of Yoochun and his breath-holding, of his constant playground violence and dark knotted expressions) but decides against it, and contents himself with watching Junsu croon at and coddle Yoochun as though he were any child.
---
He tries to explain one final time to Yoochun after giving in to a rare dinner of just ice cream, as they sit in front of the largest bay window and try to give names to buildings that used to never exist. He rests his chin on the crown of Yoochun’s head, breathes in his baby scent of cookies and watermelon shampoo, relishes this moment of bequeathed quiet and stillness.
Chrysler. No, that’s Namsan Tower.
“Yoochun.”
O-A-K-W-O-O-D. Oakwood. I can read it, hyung. Course you can.
“This is the city where Daddy and uncle grew up in.”
They have a Hudson river too. No, it’s called the Han.
“This is where you and I will be living in from now on, okay?”
That building says Hana Bank.
“Okay?”
…Daddy and Mommy will miss me.
“We’ll make it better. Trust me.”
The ghost of his brother’s voice slips in and out of his ears like water (rhythmic, smooth) and when it does, the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
We’ll be okay here.
---
He unearths his camera for the first time in months some days after they move in. There have been calls from studios and magazines, all willing to hire Jung Yunho, one of New York’s most sought-after photographers (as one studio had put it, more than willing to flatter him senseless). Spreads, exhibits, shoots are waiting, they said, Seoul is waiting.
They can wait a little more, Yunho mutters to himself, not forgetting the fact that the sole (and single most important) recipient of his attention is napping in the next room. His hands and fingers easily find the notches and grooves they’re meant to mold against and he brings the camera up to his face. The sharp familiar tschk of the shutter brings a smile to his lips.
Tschk. Tschk. Capture, preserve, remember.
He enters Yoochun’s room with as much stealth as he can muster (walks over still-unpacked boxes and loose sneakers), and smiles at the still, darling form of the little boy under the Spongebob Squarepants covers. The old Yoochun, before the nightmares and rebellion that Yunho is starting to grow weary of facing. It’s his favorite and best subject.
Tschk, (the light, soft and golden, is perfect)
and he sets the camera down a bit, sighs, thinks of Yochun light and dark, but knows he loves both either way.
---
There are odd shadows that line the pictures he uploads onto his laptop that night, but they’re slight, like cobwebs, brushing along the gentle curves of Yoochun’s sleeping face and along the yellow walls of their apartment. Yunho credits it to camera disuse and makes an appointment for professional cleaning for the next morning.
---
He brings Yoochun to the playground a day before an appointed school meeting. To get rid of unwanted steam, Junsu suggests, and as a backup plan promises Yoochun a trip to Lotte World if he behaves himself enough for the teachers. Yunho is cautious and keeps a careful eye on Yoochun who stomps and tramples his way through sand piles and concrete, keeping his distance away from the other children. Despite Junsu successfully teaching him bits and pieces of Korean, he is rendered mute, and merely stays on the sidelines to watch the other children build their sandcastles and claim their fortresses.
Come on, you can do it, Yunho bites his lip in agitation, waits anxiously as Yoochun fidgets, looks from left to right then at him, looking more uncomfortable by the second. His face is flushed, roses already blossoming on his cheeks, and fists have started forming at his sides. Come on.
Another minute, and still, Yoochun is alone.
Maybe this was a bad idea. His camera, forgotten and useless at this point, is set aside. Maybe we should just go, get ice cream somewhere, forget all this…fuck…
“Your child?”
He is on the verge of standing, his muscles already taut and wired to spring up and pull Yoochun out of his plight. The voice has come from his left and he twists his neck to the side to come face-to-face with the speaker. It’s a man (his age, or maybe even younger; he can’t tell), his face partly hidden by a baseball cap, sitting Indian-style on the bench next to his. He turns to Yunho, flashes at him a one-sided smile softened by the shadows that line his face.
“He’s ummm…ah…” Yunho scratches the side of his jaw. His eyes dart from the stranger to Yoochun. “He’s my nephew, actually.”
“Oh? Cute kid,” the stranger comments. Yunho finds himself wringing his hands. “Looks a lot like you actually.”
“He can’t speak Korean,” Yunho says as though to explain. “Well…he can, but only a little. I don’t know how little, but a little. My friend taught him. His parents never did.” He cranes his neck, counts time by the seconds. The waiting is torture. “…I’d better go get him before this becomes even more traumatizing…”
He rises, but an arm blocks his path and he’s surprised as the stranger sidles up to him, hunches over as though some secret of great importance is about to be revealed.
“Wait. Just wait.”
“I’m sorry but I can’t.” He is apprehensive and half-expects the sounds of children screaming and crying coming from Yoochun’s general direction. “He might start a ruckus or some-”
The stranger gives him a slight smack on the leg and points. Yunho sees that a little girl has approached Yoochun shyly and reaches out to hold his hand. There’s an offering of giggles and she covers her mouth with pudgy hands, her fingers tinted pink from the cold. Play, she says in Korean, Come play with us. Yoochun, small and hesitant, gives Yunho a backward glance.
Go, Yunho mouths, gives a nod of his head. Yoochun shrugs with a slight air but accompanies the girl back to the jungle gym where they’re in need of a prince to come save several damsels in distress.
“The shy ones always get to attract the cute girls. Are you new at this job?” the stranger is still smiling at him, a teasing lilt in his tone.
“Kind of. His parents died recently. I’m the clueless uncle.” He doesn’t know why he says it out loud, but he realizes it soon enough and clamps his mouth shut. “Sorry.”
“S’okay. I’m sorry too. About his parents, I mean.” He points at the camera. “Photographer?”
“Hmhm.”
“Not from here, are you?” The cap is removed with a deft flick of a wrist and Yunho sees silky raven-colored hair (bronze under fingers of sunlight), tousled, that’s patted down by a gloved hand. “Your Korean sounds strange.”
“I’ve been away.” It’s the only explanation he offers. He wonders why he’s even bothering to entertain this boy, pale under a meek winter sun, but with bright flashing eyes that remind him of black diamonds. “Are you…do you have a child?”
The stranger gives a surprised laugh, covers his mouth with his hand. Yunho finds himself smiling; his happiness is infectious.
“No no. God that would be something wouldn’t it? I just come here sometimes. To think. Draw.” He reveals a sketchpad from beside his leg. A fairly rough (but good) sketch of Yoochun is thrust towards Yunho. “Your nephew stayed still long enough for me to get him properly.” His face turns serious. “1000 won please.”
Yunho gawks at him, raises an eyebrow. “What-”
“Kidding. You’re too serious. Have it for free. I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” Another laugh. The stranger’s eyes glisten with mirth.
He hides the small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Silence falls like snow between them, slow but comforting, reassuring. Yoochun has managed to clamber to the top of the jungle gym and is in the middle of slaying a dragon the last time Yunho checked. The boy beside him has returned to his sketchbook, the pencil in his hand seemingly taking a life of its own. Yunho stands, stretches, pretends to be busy. He takes pictures of dead trees, birds in flight, Yoochun giving a rare smile. His curiosity piqued, he formulates a conversation in his head the Korean way (honorifics, conservative, so unlike the typical American style he’s gotten used to), manages to string a few proper words together, but turns around to see an empty park bench, empty except for a lone sheet of paper held in place by a stone.
To the poor uncle, it says in messy scrawl, just above the penciled drawing of his profile with a camera. There’s a signature at the bottom but even with squinting (or even holding his face a millimeter from the paper), Yunho is unsuccessful. He looks from side to side but sees nothing aside from children, soft in their padded clothing, and their nannies. He sighs, lets the drawing drop with his arms to his sides.
Oh well.
“Hyung!” Yoochun calls from somewhere far away and he turns, smiles back as his nephew gives him a wave.
Back to business.
TBC
A/N: I'm sorry for this chapter. It seems more draggy than what I intended it to be. ^^;; I'm sorry too for the very very short Jae role. But I promise, that sort of camera time is needed. I really couldn't keep him in that long. ^^ Mian. Also, I have to say in advance, updates might be slower than my usual pace. School. TT_TT I think that single word can explain it all.
Oh, and Yoochun calling Yunho 'hyung'. Haha. I'm fully aware that that's improper, but let it slide for this fic. Yunho's too young to be called 'samchon'.
Length: Chaptered [2/?]
Rating: PG13, for a bit of cussing. I'm pretty sure it'll go up though.
Genre: Umm. Unsure. Angst, supernatural, generally. Weirdness. We'll see.
Pairing: Yes, there are pairings. (Gasp! A first!) I'm guessing it's YunJae.
Summary: Yoochun’s behavioral problems become a constant companion. There are tantrums (bath time is World War 3 in his book), objects hurled at the wall (chopsticks one night, a shoe just this morning), and empty childish threats that he flings at Yunho with six-year-old rage. He kicks up dirt in the park, screams out loud in public places and cries until his throat his raw.
A/N: My laptop's fixed, thanks to my brother. ^^ Back to normal font size.
---
Prologue + Chapter 1
Chapter Two
He remembers the downward spiral that was the past three months. The fiasco that was crying fits in the night, destroyed toys, and the sudden, heavy responsibility of him being shackled with a child not his.
It’s clinical depression, Mr. Jung, the child psychologist told him after endless hours with Yoochun, in a tone that he supposes was expected to ease his worry of his only nephew. Children deal with it in different ways. I suggest a fresh start. A new school perhaps?
Perhaps.
But this is an entirely different COUNTRY, for Christ’s sakes, Junsu reprimands. He shakes with disbelief as the Fed-Ex boxes come and clutter their hotel room one by one. You shouldn’t have brought him this far, hyung. There might be better doctors in New York. What were you thinking?
But Yunho keeps his silence, bites his lip as somewhere inside of him a child does the same.
Too long.
---
Yoochun’s behavioral problems become a constant companion. There are tantrums (bath time is World War 3 in his book), objects hurled at the wall (chopsticks one night, a shoe just this morning), and empty childish threats that he flings at Yunho with six-year-old rage. He kicks up dirt in the park, screams out loud in public places and cries until his throat his raw.
“I want to go home,” Yoochun wails on the third day. The remains of what used to be his plate lie in shards below the table (the nth hotel plate, Yunho notes wryly but is thankful they’ve stuck to room service), sticky and red with untouched puttanesca sauce. “You told me this would be better. You promised me. This is stupid. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you, hyung.”
He sees himself in Yoochun’s place. Him and Siwon, 9 and 11, sent away to live in schools of redbrick and iron, oceans and oceans away from home, before anyone could discover their hands, black with blood only they could see. This is going to be better, trust me. We’ll be okay here.
He’d believed it, had believed enough for it to become even a little bit true. He looks at Yoochun, remembering the day he was born (he’d been at university, and Siwon had called him in the middle of class), then the day he suddenly, unexpectedly became his (he’d been at work, at a shoot for a magazine; the police had called before he could watch the news). It strikes a similar chord inside of him, and it stings him when he realizes that no amount of belief or sugarcoating will ever really make this kind of pain go away.
“I know,” is the only thing he can say, and he leaves it at that.
---
“It’s the best place I could find given your time constraint. The hotel must be racking up a bill with you two,” Junsu tells him, a week and counting into their arrival. “It’s a little off the charts with the price but you told me you wouldn’t care.”
The apartment he’s found is big and spacious, with a grand view of the city coming in through large bay windows. The city is not as majestic as New York, or as intimidating, but the familiar sight of tall steel structures looming over the mess of people below calms Yunho a bit. The price has been named (the zeroes made his head spin a little), but he isn’t fazed. He’s more than willing to start settling in, to finally gain even a piece of his sanity back.
“It’s perfect,” Yunho says, eyeing Yoochun who is standing by the windows looking contemplatively at the view, warily. The keys jangle noisily as Junsu passes them to Yunho. He forces a smile to plaster onto his face. “Yoo-Micky! Micky, what do you think huh? You like it? You can have any room you want.”
He receives silence as a reply, and Junsu clamps a hand over his shoulder.
“Poor kiddo,” he says under his breath, clucks his tongue against his teeth. “Give it time, hyung. Kids are supposed to be very resilient. He’ll come around, you’ll see.”
Yunho wants to tell him horror stories (of Yoochun and his breath-holding, of his constant playground violence and dark knotted expressions) but decides against it, and contents himself with watching Junsu croon at and coddle Yoochun as though he were any child.
---
He tries to explain one final time to Yoochun after giving in to a rare dinner of just ice cream, as they sit in front of the largest bay window and try to give names to buildings that used to never exist. He rests his chin on the crown of Yoochun’s head, breathes in his baby scent of cookies and watermelon shampoo, relishes this moment of bequeathed quiet and stillness.
Chrysler. No, that’s Namsan Tower.
“Yoochun.”
O-A-K-W-O-O-D. Oakwood. I can read it, hyung. Course you can.
“This is the city where Daddy and uncle grew up in.”
They have a Hudson river too. No, it’s called the Han.
“This is where you and I will be living in from now on, okay?”
That building says Hana Bank.
“Okay?”
…Daddy and Mommy will miss me.
“We’ll make it better. Trust me.”
The ghost of his brother’s voice slips in and out of his ears like water (rhythmic, smooth) and when it does, the hairs on the back of his neck rise.
We’ll be okay here.
---
He unearths his camera for the first time in months some days after they move in. There have been calls from studios and magazines, all willing to hire Jung Yunho, one of New York’s most sought-after photographers (as one studio had put it, more than willing to flatter him senseless). Spreads, exhibits, shoots are waiting, they said, Seoul is waiting.
They can wait a little more, Yunho mutters to himself, not forgetting the fact that the sole (and single most important) recipient of his attention is napping in the next room. His hands and fingers easily find the notches and grooves they’re meant to mold against and he brings the camera up to his face. The sharp familiar tschk of the shutter brings a smile to his lips.
Tschk. Tschk. Capture, preserve, remember.
He enters Yoochun’s room with as much stealth as he can muster (walks over still-unpacked boxes and loose sneakers), and smiles at the still, darling form of the little boy under the Spongebob Squarepants covers. The old Yoochun, before the nightmares and rebellion that Yunho is starting to grow weary of facing. It’s his favorite and best subject.
Tschk, (the light, soft and golden, is perfect)
and he sets the camera down a bit, sighs, thinks of Yochun light and dark, but knows he loves both either way.
---
There are odd shadows that line the pictures he uploads onto his laptop that night, but they’re slight, like cobwebs, brushing along the gentle curves of Yoochun’s sleeping face and along the yellow walls of their apartment. Yunho credits it to camera disuse and makes an appointment for professional cleaning for the next morning.
---
He brings Yoochun to the playground a day before an appointed school meeting. To get rid of unwanted steam, Junsu suggests, and as a backup plan promises Yoochun a trip to Lotte World if he behaves himself enough for the teachers. Yunho is cautious and keeps a careful eye on Yoochun who stomps and tramples his way through sand piles and concrete, keeping his distance away from the other children. Despite Junsu successfully teaching him bits and pieces of Korean, he is rendered mute, and merely stays on the sidelines to watch the other children build their sandcastles and claim their fortresses.
Come on, you can do it, Yunho bites his lip in agitation, waits anxiously as Yoochun fidgets, looks from left to right then at him, looking more uncomfortable by the second. His face is flushed, roses already blossoming on his cheeks, and fists have started forming at his sides. Come on.
Another minute, and still, Yoochun is alone.
Maybe this was a bad idea. His camera, forgotten and useless at this point, is set aside. Maybe we should just go, get ice cream somewhere, forget all this…fuck…
“Your child?”
He is on the verge of standing, his muscles already taut and wired to spring up and pull Yoochun out of his plight. The voice has come from his left and he twists his neck to the side to come face-to-face with the speaker. It’s a man (his age, or maybe even younger; he can’t tell), his face partly hidden by a baseball cap, sitting Indian-style on the bench next to his. He turns to Yunho, flashes at him a one-sided smile softened by the shadows that line his face.
“He’s ummm…ah…” Yunho scratches the side of his jaw. His eyes dart from the stranger to Yoochun. “He’s my nephew, actually.”
“Oh? Cute kid,” the stranger comments. Yunho finds himself wringing his hands. “Looks a lot like you actually.”
“He can’t speak Korean,” Yunho says as though to explain. “Well…he can, but only a little. I don’t know how little, but a little. My friend taught him. His parents never did.” He cranes his neck, counts time by the seconds. The waiting is torture. “…I’d better go get him before this becomes even more traumatizing…”
He rises, but an arm blocks his path and he’s surprised as the stranger sidles up to him, hunches over as though some secret of great importance is about to be revealed.
“Wait. Just wait.”
“I’m sorry but I can’t.” He is apprehensive and half-expects the sounds of children screaming and crying coming from Yoochun’s general direction. “He might start a ruckus or some-”
The stranger gives him a slight smack on the leg and points. Yunho sees that a little girl has approached Yoochun shyly and reaches out to hold his hand. There’s an offering of giggles and she covers her mouth with pudgy hands, her fingers tinted pink from the cold. Play, she says in Korean, Come play with us. Yoochun, small and hesitant, gives Yunho a backward glance.
Go, Yunho mouths, gives a nod of his head. Yoochun shrugs with a slight air but accompanies the girl back to the jungle gym where they’re in need of a prince to come save several damsels in distress.
“The shy ones always get to attract the cute girls. Are you new at this job?” the stranger is still smiling at him, a teasing lilt in his tone.
“Kind of. His parents died recently. I’m the clueless uncle.” He doesn’t know why he says it out loud, but he realizes it soon enough and clamps his mouth shut. “Sorry.”
“S’okay. I’m sorry too. About his parents, I mean.” He points at the camera. “Photographer?”
“Hmhm.”
“Not from here, are you?” The cap is removed with a deft flick of a wrist and Yunho sees silky raven-colored hair (bronze under fingers of sunlight), tousled, that’s patted down by a gloved hand. “Your Korean sounds strange.”
“I’ve been away.” It’s the only explanation he offers. He wonders why he’s even bothering to entertain this boy, pale under a meek winter sun, but with bright flashing eyes that remind him of black diamonds. “Are you…do you have a child?”
The stranger gives a surprised laugh, covers his mouth with his hand. Yunho finds himself smiling; his happiness is infectious.
“No no. God that would be something wouldn’t it? I just come here sometimes. To think. Draw.” He reveals a sketchpad from beside his leg. A fairly rough (but good) sketch of Yoochun is thrust towards Yunho. “Your nephew stayed still long enough for me to get him properly.” His face turns serious. “1000 won please.”
Yunho gawks at him, raises an eyebrow. “What-”
“Kidding. You’re too serious. Have it for free. I’ve got plenty more where that came from.” Another laugh. The stranger’s eyes glisten with mirth.
He hides the small grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. Silence falls like snow between them, slow but comforting, reassuring. Yoochun has managed to clamber to the top of the jungle gym and is in the middle of slaying a dragon the last time Yunho checked. The boy beside him has returned to his sketchbook, the pencil in his hand seemingly taking a life of its own. Yunho stands, stretches, pretends to be busy. He takes pictures of dead trees, birds in flight, Yoochun giving a rare smile. His curiosity piqued, he formulates a conversation in his head the Korean way (honorifics, conservative, so unlike the typical American style he’s gotten used to), manages to string a few proper words together, but turns around to see an empty park bench, empty except for a lone sheet of paper held in place by a stone.
To the poor uncle, it says in messy scrawl, just above the penciled drawing of his profile with a camera. There’s a signature at the bottom but even with squinting (or even holding his face a millimeter from the paper), Yunho is unsuccessful. He looks from side to side but sees nothing aside from children, soft in their padded clothing, and their nannies. He sighs, lets the drawing drop with his arms to his sides.
Oh well.
“Hyung!” Yoochun calls from somewhere far away and he turns, smiles back as his nephew gives him a wave.
Back to business.
TBC
A/N: I'm sorry for this chapter. It seems more draggy than what I intended it to be. ^^;; I'm sorry too for the very very short Jae role. But I promise, that sort of camera time is needed. I really couldn't keep him in that long. ^^ Mian. Also, I have to say in advance, updates might be slower than my usual pace. School. TT_TT I think that single word can explain it all.
Oh, and Yoochun calling Yunho 'hyung'. Haha. I'm fully aware that that's improper, but let it slide for this fic. Yunho's too young to be called 'samchon'.