A Boy and the Sea [2/?]
Title: A Boy and the Sea
Chaptered: Yes. This is Chapter Two.
Rating and Everything Else: G-ish; Jae-centric; no pairings but everyone will be in it (aye, they'll be kids)
Summary: He's never known a minute to last for so long.
---
Two
Their father says nothing at first when they reappear at the cabin, and his expression doesn’t even change despite seeing Yoona trailing behind Jaejoong.
“Don’t bring sand into the house,” he instructs them once they’ve set foot on the porch, the pinks, purples, oranges and blues of the sunset behind them. “I tried to give Junsu a bath and he left trails of sand on the floor. I promised Frank I’d keep this place spic-and-span, so you kids…”
His voice trails away as though he’s just lost his energy. From the inside, Jaejoong can hear Junsu giggling and the clattering of game board pieces.
“Where have you guys been?” their father finally asks, one hand on his hips and the other on the side of his face. He checks his watch. “Jae, you were gone for almost two hours and Yoona…” His voice fades away again and he gives them a look that appears almost hopeful. Jaejoong fidgets, uncomfortable under his gaze, and he almost tells him where he’s been. He remembers being smaller and more accommodating to his father, remembers days of actually spending time on his lap and recounting everything that had happened during the day, when his father would patiently nod through stories of clay molding or jungle expeditions, would listen intently as he pored through every detail. But that was a long time ago, it seems, and Jaejoong has long since grown up.
“Sorry,” is the only thing he says, the only thing he’s capable of saying. “Sorry, Dad.”
There’s a small quiet as though their father is waiting for Yoona to apologize too, but she stamps her foot hard on the wooden floor before making her way towards the half-open front door, past their father (“There’s a hotdog for you in the-”), without uttering a single word.
“Junsu,” Jaejoong hears his sister saying once she’s safely back inside, her voice now golden and filled with air and light. “Junsu, Yoona’s back. Baby, where are you?”
He hears as Junsu’s giggles rise, swelling in pitch and volume before a series of thumping and galumphing tell Jaejoong that Yoona’s probably chasing Junsu and, judging by the screams, eventually manages to catch him. He wants to join them, wants to escape this awkward frozen silence he’s sharing with his father, but he can’t move.
Say something, he pleads silently, not able to stand the defeated slump of his father’s shoulders, the averted gaze towards the faded, salt-scrubbed floorboards. For a moment he feels as though he’s walking through a bog, because he can’t understand why this is happening, how this was able to happen.
“Go inside, Jae,” his father finally tells him, eyes still cast downward. “I’ll follow you in a minute.”
He obeys of course, almost immediately in fact, only too relieved to be released. The room he’s chosen is right above the porch, and amidst Junsu’s shrieks and Yoona’s laughing, he stares out the window and keeps an eye out.
He’s never known a minute to last for so long.
In his dream, the afternoon is replayed, only time passes slower and the colors of the sunset shine brighter. Yoona is crying beside him, although her mouth stays shut and her hands keep still, two white stones on her lap.
“Joongie, you know what Daddy wants me to do right?” she says, over and over, her fingers touching her stomach, her tears dropping like rain from the tip of her nose.
He stays silent, because he knows and there always seems to be no appropriate reply. Dusk passes and blends into night, and the stars appear above them as though someone has suddenly switched them on. Dawn comes after and paints the sea peach and lemon, then morning with clouds that toss and tumble over their heads.
And Yoona is still crying.
On the first morning, he wakes to Junsu on his bed: there are little fingers pinching his cheeks, pulling his sheets, little feet jumping on the mattress. “Joongieeee,” he hears even before he opens his eyes, and when he does, Junsu’s face is inches away from his, eyes crinkled in mid-laugh. “Wake up, c’monnnn.”
He groans, not really remembering where he is at first until the warm fishy air wraps around him like an extra blanket and makes him want to hide out and linger in bed for a few moments more. “Suuuu,” he moans, attempts to roll away from his baby brother by inching towards the edge.
“Daddy says to wake you.” Junsu says, his tone nearly that of a whine’s. “He’s making flapjacks. I like flapjacks. They’re yum-yum, especially if Daddy made them. So c’monnnn. I’m hungryyyy.”
It’s only when Junsu mentions it that Jaejoong can actually discern the scent of something cooking from downstairs, the faint fragrance of butter and sugar melding with the strong smell of the sea and the bleach on his sheets. It takes him back to years and years before, when there had been Flapjack Day, impromptu days when they would wake up to their father in the kitchen flipping golden discs from the large black skillet in his hand to their plates. “Order up!” he’d say, and their mother would flit from the counter to the table to place toppings: strawberries for Yoona, peanut butter on his, and crushed walnuts and syrup for both her and their father. They would kiss then, their lips sticky with syrup and cream, and their mother would end up laughing and laughing as she wiped at their faces with a damp towel.
“Joongieeeee,” Junsu says, and this time his tone holds a more dangerous lilt, telling Jaejoong that it’s only two more seconds before his baby brother bursts into tears.
“All right, all right,” he finally says, and peels sheets off his body as though they had been a protective cocoon. He feels slightly sticky, as though the sea and salt had somehow managed to seep into his skin and had oozed through his pores during the night.
“Slowpoke.” Junsu tells him.
“Whiner.” Jaejoong answers.
“Meanie.”
“Crybaby.”
“Dad!”
Jaejoong laughs. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”
The flapjacks are ready when they go down, set on mismatched plates on the weathered dining table. One has strawberries, the other a dollop of peanut butter, and the third an almost obscene amount of chocolate syrup.
“I…wasn’t sure what Junsu would like,” his father says from the doorway, his face lightly dusted with flour, his expression looking sheepish. Any doubts they would have, however, are erased as Junsu jumps up from floor to table, rattling cutlery in the process, and declares his appreciation with loud over-the-top moans.
“Which one’s for me, Daddy? Which one’s for me?” he asks, and Jaejoong points to the chocolate one. “Really? Thanks, Daddy, you’re the absolute coolest! Mmmm! They’re good!”
He’s unable to move for a second, too mesmerized by Junsu’s enjoyment of their father’s cooking. “Jaejoong,” he hears his father say, and when he looks, his father is looking at him, waiting for him. “Sit down and join your brother. You know which one’s yours.”
Jaejoong can tell he’s secretly pleased. Finally, I’ve done something right, he can almost hear his father sighing, even though he isn’t actually sure what exactly his father has done wrong. He nods anyway, takes his place at the spot beside Junsu and picks up the fork set by the plate.
“Thanks, Dad,” he says, forcing a smile, not having the heart to tell his father that he doesn’t eat peanut butter anymore.
Mornings here seem different, and Jaejoong takes a deep breath as he stands by the seawall, taking in a moment’s peace brought about by Junsu’s absence since their father had invited him (them both, actually, and Yoona too if she had already been awake) for a visit to the general store. Everything seems more open somehow, like his life is suddenly a slate wiped clean. The possibility, however, scares him, and he feels as though he’s on the edge of a cliff, one foot in the air, about to be tipped into the unknown.
“Hey, Jaejoong!” somebody calls him, and he opens his eyes, squinting as sun blinds him for a few seconds. Someone is walking towards him. A second look tells him it’s the boy he met yesterday. Changmin, was it?
“Oh.” He frowns. “It’s you.”
Changmin is laughing, looking no different from yesterday. His expression is playful, and the sun and shadows dancing on his face reminds Jaejoong of Junsu on the brink of mischief. “What are you doing? You’re so weird.”
“Weird?” he says, feeling more than slightly offended. “Who are you calling weird? You’re the one who keeps following me around.” Jaejoong makes a face at him.
“O-ho!” Changmin says, his smile never wavering. “That’s a good one! I like you, I do. Even though you’re a city kid. I don’t usually like city kids.” He eyes Jaejoong’s sneakers. “You know, it’s better to be barefoot on the beach…”
“Well I didn’t ask for your opinion. And I don’t like you, anyway.” He’s starting to feel hot under the collar and, almost instinctively, Jaejoong attempts to make himself look more threatening by jutting his chest out. Changmin’s build reminds him of a tree: tall (slightly taller than he is, anyway) and solid (how in the world did the kid get muscles??), but he is older (he presumes) and by that reasoning, he has no reason to be intimidated at all. “Beat it, would you? I’ve got enough things to think about.”
Changmin, however, doesn’t seem to be listening, or even the slightest bit affected by what he’s said. His hand touches Jaejoong’s arm for the briefest of moments, and his skin is cool and smooth against Jaejoong’s, like a stone kept underwater.
“Man, aren’t you hot in those clothes? You should go swimming. It’ll cool you off. The water’s great at this time of day. I can teach you if you don’t know how. I’m pretty good at it…”
Jaejoong shuts his eyes and counts to ten. He talks to Changmin through gritted teeth. “Leave. Me. Alo-”
Bonk.
Something hard bounces off of his head and he loses his balance with a loud “Whoa!” He expects to hit Changmin and braces himself for it, but is surprised as he falls through empty air, the sky flashing by his eyes one second before being replaced with a horizontal view of sand and sea. “YUNHO, YOU DOOFUS!” he hears a boy yelling, and then there are fingers tugging on his shirt, hands that are pulling him to an upright position.
“Man, are you okay?”
“Hey, hey, kid. Yoohoo! C’mon, talk to us!”
Two unfamiliar boys are kneeling on either side of him, half arguing and half asking him questions that are making his head spin. A football is near his feet, its shone brown leather warm against his skin.
“You should’ve caught it, Yoochun!”
“Well if you’d thrown it properly I could have!”
“He’s probably messed up by now…hey, kid, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Changmin,” Jaejoong answers, and he blinks at the two boys beside him, turns his neck towards the spot where Changmin had been standing moments before. “Changmin?”
The spot is empty.
The boys’ names are Yunho and Yoochun (“Not Changmin,” the boy named Yoochun says. “Who’s Changmin?”), and they’re cousins (“I’m Jung, he’s Park, don’t mix us up.”). Jaejoong is picked up and dusted off by the both of them, and Yunho leads them from the seawall back to where the cabins are with an invitation for Cokes and ice cream sandwiches to provide as some sort of apology.
“Diet or regular?” Yunho says. “We have both kinds because my Mom’s sort of into that health stuff, but my Dad hates Diet.” He has his head stuck in the large refrigerator, his body surrounded by white smoky frost. The air conditioning is comforting against Jaejoong’s skin after being out in the sun, the coolness of it lapping up all the heat that had been previously trapped inside of him.
“Everybody hates Diet,” Yoochun says with distaste, and takes a seat on one of the bar stools at the counter. He’s slightly smaller than Yunho, but leaner. His hair is matted down by sweat and sand, and he’s trapped the football between one of his arms and the tiled kitchen counter. “It tastes like toilet water. Give him regular, Yunho.”
“Heads up!” Jaejoong hears Yunho saying, and he turns in time to catch a frosty can that would have hit his head. “Good one,” Yunho says and joins them at the counter, dropping three ice cream sandwiches in front of each of them.
“One day you’re going to kill someone with your throws,” Yoochun says, rolling his eyes.
“I said I was sorry! You’re okay now, aren’t you?” he asks, and Jaejoong nods, opening the can of Coke and slurping off the excess fizz and froth that gathers on the rim. The liquid refreshes him almost instantly; he hadn’t realized he had been parched. “What were you doing out there anyway?”
He decides to shut up about Changmin, even though he knows they know he’s said his name. “Just checking the place out.” He says with a nonchalant shrug, and thankfully, they let it pass.
“Newbie?” Yoochun asks, looking curious. Chocolate is smeared at the sides of his mouth. “Where are you renting? There’s only one available for this summer and it’s Frank Hartford’s place.”
“My Dad did mention he’s renting it from someone called Frank…”
Yoochun cheers. “Finally, some company aside from Yunho’s! How long are you staying?”
He wrinkles his nose, almost taken aback by the ease Yoochun has accepted his presence. He remembers Changmin and his disconcerting friendliness. Really, were people from around here really this friendly?
“Two weeks,” he says, and finishes the last of his ice cream, feels as chocolate and vanilla coat his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
“We come here every summer since our parents used to spend time here when they were kids,” Yunho explains, licking vanilla ice cream from his lip. “Honestly I’m getting kind of sick of hanging out with just Yoochun for an entire month every year. I mean, we’re already nearly the same age and we see each other every Christmas and Thanksgiving and Easter…and there’s only so much you can actually do here.” He gives a dramatic shake of his head. “It gets so bad sometimes that I’d rather do homework than to look at his ugly mug.”
It’s a joke of course, and Yunho’s almost-grin gives him away easily, but Yoochun still pulls Yunho down from the stool by the neck with a loud “YARRGHH!” and roughhouses with him on the floor before they end up as a giggling heap of arms and legs, sneakers and baseball caps.
“What was your name again?” Yoochun asks, out of breath and with a smile as wide as the sky, and Jaejoong is reminded of the pair of twins he met when he was in the first grade and who had become his best friends, until one day their father lost his job and they had to move away. Their names were Luke and Liam. Luke and Liam. Yunho and Yoochun. “Sorry, I don’t think we ever asked.”
Yunho is under him, half-laughing and half-gasping that if Yoochun isn’t going to get off of him in five seconds, he’s going to fart in his face.
“Jaejoong,” he says, for the second time since he’s arrived. But this time, he’s smiling.
TBC
Chaptered: Yes. This is Chapter Two.
Rating and Everything Else: G-ish; Jae-centric; no pairings but everyone will be in it (aye, they'll be kids)
Summary: He's never known a minute to last for so long.
---
Two
Their father says nothing at first when they reappear at the cabin, and his expression doesn’t even change despite seeing Yoona trailing behind Jaejoong.
“Don’t bring sand into the house,” he instructs them once they’ve set foot on the porch, the pinks, purples, oranges and blues of the sunset behind them. “I tried to give Junsu a bath and he left trails of sand on the floor. I promised Frank I’d keep this place spic-and-span, so you kids…”
His voice trails away as though he’s just lost his energy. From the inside, Jaejoong can hear Junsu giggling and the clattering of game board pieces.
“Where have you guys been?” their father finally asks, one hand on his hips and the other on the side of his face. He checks his watch. “Jae, you were gone for almost two hours and Yoona…” His voice fades away again and he gives them a look that appears almost hopeful. Jaejoong fidgets, uncomfortable under his gaze, and he almost tells him where he’s been. He remembers being smaller and more accommodating to his father, remembers days of actually spending time on his lap and recounting everything that had happened during the day, when his father would patiently nod through stories of clay molding or jungle expeditions, would listen intently as he pored through every detail. But that was a long time ago, it seems, and Jaejoong has long since grown up.
“Sorry,” is the only thing he says, the only thing he’s capable of saying. “Sorry, Dad.”
There’s a small quiet as though their father is waiting for Yoona to apologize too, but she stamps her foot hard on the wooden floor before making her way towards the half-open front door, past their father (“There’s a hotdog for you in the-”), without uttering a single word.
“Junsu,” Jaejoong hears his sister saying once she’s safely back inside, her voice now golden and filled with air and light. “Junsu, Yoona’s back. Baby, where are you?”
He hears as Junsu’s giggles rise, swelling in pitch and volume before a series of thumping and galumphing tell Jaejoong that Yoona’s probably chasing Junsu and, judging by the screams, eventually manages to catch him. He wants to join them, wants to escape this awkward frozen silence he’s sharing with his father, but he can’t move.
Say something, he pleads silently, not able to stand the defeated slump of his father’s shoulders, the averted gaze towards the faded, salt-scrubbed floorboards. For a moment he feels as though he’s walking through a bog, because he can’t understand why this is happening, how this was able to happen.
“Go inside, Jae,” his father finally tells him, eyes still cast downward. “I’ll follow you in a minute.”
He obeys of course, almost immediately in fact, only too relieved to be released. The room he’s chosen is right above the porch, and amidst Junsu’s shrieks and Yoona’s laughing, he stares out the window and keeps an eye out.
He’s never known a minute to last for so long.
In his dream, the afternoon is replayed, only time passes slower and the colors of the sunset shine brighter. Yoona is crying beside him, although her mouth stays shut and her hands keep still, two white stones on her lap.
“Joongie, you know what Daddy wants me to do right?” she says, over and over, her fingers touching her stomach, her tears dropping like rain from the tip of her nose.
He stays silent, because he knows and there always seems to be no appropriate reply. Dusk passes and blends into night, and the stars appear above them as though someone has suddenly switched them on. Dawn comes after and paints the sea peach and lemon, then morning with clouds that toss and tumble over their heads.
And Yoona is still crying.
On the first morning, he wakes to Junsu on his bed: there are little fingers pinching his cheeks, pulling his sheets, little feet jumping on the mattress. “Joongieeee,” he hears even before he opens his eyes, and when he does, Junsu’s face is inches away from his, eyes crinkled in mid-laugh. “Wake up, c’monnnn.”
He groans, not really remembering where he is at first until the warm fishy air wraps around him like an extra blanket and makes him want to hide out and linger in bed for a few moments more. “Suuuu,” he moans, attempts to roll away from his baby brother by inching towards the edge.
“Daddy says to wake you.” Junsu says, his tone nearly that of a whine’s. “He’s making flapjacks. I like flapjacks. They’re yum-yum, especially if Daddy made them. So c’monnnn. I’m hungryyyy.”
It’s only when Junsu mentions it that Jaejoong can actually discern the scent of something cooking from downstairs, the faint fragrance of butter and sugar melding with the strong smell of the sea and the bleach on his sheets. It takes him back to years and years before, when there had been Flapjack Day, impromptu days when they would wake up to their father in the kitchen flipping golden discs from the large black skillet in his hand to their plates. “Order up!” he’d say, and their mother would flit from the counter to the table to place toppings: strawberries for Yoona, peanut butter on his, and crushed walnuts and syrup for both her and their father. They would kiss then, their lips sticky with syrup and cream, and their mother would end up laughing and laughing as she wiped at their faces with a damp towel.
“Joongieeeee,” Junsu says, and this time his tone holds a more dangerous lilt, telling Jaejoong that it’s only two more seconds before his baby brother bursts into tears.
“All right, all right,” he finally says, and peels sheets off his body as though they had been a protective cocoon. He feels slightly sticky, as though the sea and salt had somehow managed to seep into his skin and had oozed through his pores during the night.
“Slowpoke.” Junsu tells him.
“Whiner.” Jaejoong answers.
“Meanie.”
“Crybaby.”
“Dad!”
Jaejoong laughs. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding.”
The flapjacks are ready when they go down, set on mismatched plates on the weathered dining table. One has strawberries, the other a dollop of peanut butter, and the third an almost obscene amount of chocolate syrup.
“I…wasn’t sure what Junsu would like,” his father says from the doorway, his face lightly dusted with flour, his expression looking sheepish. Any doubts they would have, however, are erased as Junsu jumps up from floor to table, rattling cutlery in the process, and declares his appreciation with loud over-the-top moans.
“Which one’s for me, Daddy? Which one’s for me?” he asks, and Jaejoong points to the chocolate one. “Really? Thanks, Daddy, you’re the absolute coolest! Mmmm! They’re good!”
He’s unable to move for a second, too mesmerized by Junsu’s enjoyment of their father’s cooking. “Jaejoong,” he hears his father say, and when he looks, his father is looking at him, waiting for him. “Sit down and join your brother. You know which one’s yours.”
Jaejoong can tell he’s secretly pleased. Finally, I’ve done something right, he can almost hear his father sighing, even though he isn’t actually sure what exactly his father has done wrong. He nods anyway, takes his place at the spot beside Junsu and picks up the fork set by the plate.
“Thanks, Dad,” he says, forcing a smile, not having the heart to tell his father that he doesn’t eat peanut butter anymore.
Mornings here seem different, and Jaejoong takes a deep breath as he stands by the seawall, taking in a moment’s peace brought about by Junsu’s absence since their father had invited him (them both, actually, and Yoona too if she had already been awake) for a visit to the general store. Everything seems more open somehow, like his life is suddenly a slate wiped clean. The possibility, however, scares him, and he feels as though he’s on the edge of a cliff, one foot in the air, about to be tipped into the unknown.
“Hey, Jaejoong!” somebody calls him, and he opens his eyes, squinting as sun blinds him for a few seconds. Someone is walking towards him. A second look tells him it’s the boy he met yesterday. Changmin, was it?
“Oh.” He frowns. “It’s you.”
Changmin is laughing, looking no different from yesterday. His expression is playful, and the sun and shadows dancing on his face reminds Jaejoong of Junsu on the brink of mischief. “What are you doing? You’re so weird.”
“Weird?” he says, feeling more than slightly offended. “Who are you calling weird? You’re the one who keeps following me around.” Jaejoong makes a face at him.
“O-ho!” Changmin says, his smile never wavering. “That’s a good one! I like you, I do. Even though you’re a city kid. I don’t usually like city kids.” He eyes Jaejoong’s sneakers. “You know, it’s better to be barefoot on the beach…”
“Well I didn’t ask for your opinion. And I don’t like you, anyway.” He’s starting to feel hot under the collar and, almost instinctively, Jaejoong attempts to make himself look more threatening by jutting his chest out. Changmin’s build reminds him of a tree: tall (slightly taller than he is, anyway) and solid (how in the world did the kid get muscles??), but he is older (he presumes) and by that reasoning, he has no reason to be intimidated at all. “Beat it, would you? I’ve got enough things to think about.”
Changmin, however, doesn’t seem to be listening, or even the slightest bit affected by what he’s said. His hand touches Jaejoong’s arm for the briefest of moments, and his skin is cool and smooth against Jaejoong’s, like a stone kept underwater.
“Man, aren’t you hot in those clothes? You should go swimming. It’ll cool you off. The water’s great at this time of day. I can teach you if you don’t know how. I’m pretty good at it…”
Jaejoong shuts his eyes and counts to ten. He talks to Changmin through gritted teeth. “Leave. Me. Alo-”
Bonk.
Something hard bounces off of his head and he loses his balance with a loud “Whoa!” He expects to hit Changmin and braces himself for it, but is surprised as he falls through empty air, the sky flashing by his eyes one second before being replaced with a horizontal view of sand and sea. “YUNHO, YOU DOOFUS!” he hears a boy yelling, and then there are fingers tugging on his shirt, hands that are pulling him to an upright position.
“Man, are you okay?”
“Hey, hey, kid. Yoohoo! C’mon, talk to us!”
Two unfamiliar boys are kneeling on either side of him, half arguing and half asking him questions that are making his head spin. A football is near his feet, its shone brown leather warm against his skin.
“You should’ve caught it, Yoochun!”
“Well if you’d thrown it properly I could have!”
“He’s probably messed up by now…hey, kid, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Changmin,” Jaejoong answers, and he blinks at the two boys beside him, turns his neck towards the spot where Changmin had been standing moments before. “Changmin?”
The spot is empty.
The boys’ names are Yunho and Yoochun (“Not Changmin,” the boy named Yoochun says. “Who’s Changmin?”), and they’re cousins (“I’m Jung, he’s Park, don’t mix us up.”). Jaejoong is picked up and dusted off by the both of them, and Yunho leads them from the seawall back to where the cabins are with an invitation for Cokes and ice cream sandwiches to provide as some sort of apology.
“Diet or regular?” Yunho says. “We have both kinds because my Mom’s sort of into that health stuff, but my Dad hates Diet.” He has his head stuck in the large refrigerator, his body surrounded by white smoky frost. The air conditioning is comforting against Jaejoong’s skin after being out in the sun, the coolness of it lapping up all the heat that had been previously trapped inside of him.
“Everybody hates Diet,” Yoochun says with distaste, and takes a seat on one of the bar stools at the counter. He’s slightly smaller than Yunho, but leaner. His hair is matted down by sweat and sand, and he’s trapped the football between one of his arms and the tiled kitchen counter. “It tastes like toilet water. Give him regular, Yunho.”
“Heads up!” Jaejoong hears Yunho saying, and he turns in time to catch a frosty can that would have hit his head. “Good one,” Yunho says and joins them at the counter, dropping three ice cream sandwiches in front of each of them.
“One day you’re going to kill someone with your throws,” Yoochun says, rolling his eyes.
“I said I was sorry! You’re okay now, aren’t you?” he asks, and Jaejoong nods, opening the can of Coke and slurping off the excess fizz and froth that gathers on the rim. The liquid refreshes him almost instantly; he hadn’t realized he had been parched. “What were you doing out there anyway?”
He decides to shut up about Changmin, even though he knows they know he’s said his name. “Just checking the place out.” He says with a nonchalant shrug, and thankfully, they let it pass.
“Newbie?” Yoochun asks, looking curious. Chocolate is smeared at the sides of his mouth. “Where are you renting? There’s only one available for this summer and it’s Frank Hartford’s place.”
“My Dad did mention he’s renting it from someone called Frank…”
Yoochun cheers. “Finally, some company aside from Yunho’s! How long are you staying?”
He wrinkles his nose, almost taken aback by the ease Yoochun has accepted his presence. He remembers Changmin and his disconcerting friendliness. Really, were people from around here really this friendly?
“Two weeks,” he says, and finishes the last of his ice cream, feels as chocolate and vanilla coat his tongue and the roof of his mouth.
“We come here every summer since our parents used to spend time here when they were kids,” Yunho explains, licking vanilla ice cream from his lip. “Honestly I’m getting kind of sick of hanging out with just Yoochun for an entire month every year. I mean, we’re already nearly the same age and we see each other every Christmas and Thanksgiving and Easter…and there’s only so much you can actually do here.” He gives a dramatic shake of his head. “It gets so bad sometimes that I’d rather do homework than to look at his ugly mug.”
It’s a joke of course, and Yunho’s almost-grin gives him away easily, but Yoochun still pulls Yunho down from the stool by the neck with a loud “YARRGHH!” and roughhouses with him on the floor before they end up as a giggling heap of arms and legs, sneakers and baseball caps.
“What was your name again?” Yoochun asks, out of breath and with a smile as wide as the sky, and Jaejoong is reminded of the pair of twins he met when he was in the first grade and who had become his best friends, until one day their father lost his job and they had to move away. Their names were Luke and Liam. Luke and Liam. Yunho and Yoochun. “Sorry, I don’t think we ever asked.”
Yunho is under him, half-laughing and half-gasping that if Yoochun isn’t going to get off of him in five seconds, he’s going to fart in his face.
“Jaejoong,” he says, for the second time since he’s arrived. But this time, he’s smiling.
TBC