grow up and blow away; drabbles + ficlet
For seouldout round four.
merry and hell go round
jaechun
rated r
philanthropic suggestions, and bail.
It's an off-with-their-heads situation. 4:26 A.M., and the police have got them surrounded: better come out now, nowhere else to hide. Jaejoong traces circles into the cocaine spilled across the concrete. He licks his fingers. They leave wet spots on the front of Yoochun’s shirt.
“Next time I meet you, I’m not telling you where I live or work,” Yoochun replies. A searchlight peeks in, highlighting the fact that his pupils are so blown that Jaejoong can almost reach in and touch Pluto.
The air is bitter and damp where Jaejoong laughs into the corner of Yoochun’s mouth, “Any other philanthropic suggestions?”
“If they made aisles in supermarkets wider so cars could drive through, we could grab toilet paper through the window and pay on the way out,” says Yoochun, smiling faintly. “Like McDonald’s.”
The factory fan carousels dust motes and smoke rings and clicks to the unsteady heartbeats Jaejoong catches in his palms through Yoochun’s ribcage. Yoochun drinks bourbon off Jaejoong’s tongue. Gunfire in the stairwell splinters through the walls and flesh like World War 3. They look for Orion and smiley faces in the holes.
“Friends bail friends out of Hell,” Jaejoong says; then it all grayscales, dulls.
the man who sold the world
jaechun
rated pg
jaejoong's life is on crutches. yoochun rolls with perfection.
At twenty-three, Jaejoong hasn't got much left to do except go to sleep not knowing if he'll wake up. He'd dropped out of college for fifteen minutes of fame as a local indie band's leading man, knocked up a groupie or three, bought and done enough shrooms to buy a house and kill a horse. I'm fine, my life is exciting, he tells Yunho over the phone.
"What your life needs is some soul-searching," Yunho retorts, and gives him the phone number of the local orphanage.
Sunday morning, Jaejoong shows up at St. Jude's Disabled Children's Home. The kids hobble over to him on crutches and braces with wide, hopeful eyes, clutching at his jeans, and the nuns bless him. They show him Yoochun. Yoochun, they say, has perfect syndrome and none of them have ever seen him sleep. He's got no faults, never played a mistake on the piano, never dropped a grain of rice at dinner.
"I don't believe them," Jaejoong says and pulls a stool up beside the wheelchair. Yoochun's fingers spill over the keys; Rachmaninov rolls over in his grave, the universe gasps, Jaejoong grins and throws Yoochun a lifeline, "You look like you've skydived before."
push your body, push your soul
jaechun
rated pg-13
silly rabbit, tricks are for kids.
It’s a typical weekend scene: lighting up cigarettes in bed with the sheets tangled between their legs. They’re scoffing in the face of sleep, waiting for Saturday to drag itself into Sunday so Yoochun can throw his sobriety back on and button up an excuse to leave before Jaejoong can offer him beer for breakfast.
“You play dirty. I said no,” Yoochun says. “She’s going to take my kids, half my bank account, and hop on the next plane back to America.”
Jaejoong sighs smoke rings and echoes the infomercial jingle on the keyboard pulled up next to the bed. He laughs into Yoochun’s ear. “Having me is like having a lifetime supply of free weed and kimchee-chigae. You just don’t say no to that.”
“And an open tab at Beluci’s every Friday night. How is that not a scam?” Yoochun points out, indignant. He stamps outs his cigarette in the ashtray and tries to trade his desire for three easy payments of $19.99 for a Magic Bullet. Instead, Jaejoong presses maddeningly close until Yoochun’s eyes water and his lungs burn and his mouth aches for taste and touch.
“Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids,” Jaejoong says, and leans in.
you play charades
jaechun
rated pg
chick flicks never happen in real life, especially not at lunchtime.
The skinny boy is making Jaejoong’s sandwich again. Cellophane over bony fingers folding lettuce and turkey slices, lining up pepper-jack and tomatoes like toy soldiers on a baguette. The crease in the bend of his elbow looks like a bruise, a faint pink akin to the mosquito bite scratched just below his wrist bone. Jaejoong contemplates the number of ways he could ask for a name and number, and a few hours on Saturday afternoon at the dollar theater with popcorn drowned in butter. ‘How about it?’ he would write on the back of the receipt. Maybe he’d say it in French; everything sounds more important in French.
The boy looks up and asks, “Anything else?” Jaejoong’s head suddenly clears. The summers that would’ve been spent sitting together in front of the air conditioning and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream, skin sticky from playing soccer and pushing each other up against the goal posts, is filed away out of reach. There will be no road-tripping west to the see the sun rise from the east. No leaving sticky notes on the fridge or buying things in pairs at the convenience store.
“Olives,” Jaejoong says, even though he hates olives.
we're significant
g-top
rated pg
uncertainties at home.
When Seunghyun says it, Jiyong laughs and rolls around in the sand and waves, hair plastered in strange formations against his cheek and his t-shirt made see-through from the water. His skin glows orange and purple in the early summer sunset.
“I’m serious. A shark could eat you, or a whale could wash up with you under its belly, or a tide could swallow you whole,” Seunghyun repeats, taking a step further away from the tide. The sand gets in between his toes. “And you are not getting the leather interior of my car wet.” Jiyong rolls his eyes and lets the ocean wash him ashore, lying next to Seunghyun’s feet. Seunghyun feels obligated to kick sand into Jiyong’s eyes, but keeps the thought to himself and sits down, curled up instead.
“A gazillion years ago we were just tiny molecules submersed in this water. It’s home,” Jiyong tells him, leaning into the side of Seunghyun’s knee, pressing awfully close and uncomfortable. Seunghyun brushes the sand off Jiyong’s ear. He wonders if Jiyong can feel the shakiness of his touch because in that one second, he forgets to breathe.
He clears his throat, “You’re still not getting in my car.”
the 1920's are disneyland
g-top, roaringtwenties!au
rated pg-13
"this thing can go up to forty miles per hour. we can go anywhere now."
Model A’s engine roars under them, tires spitting dirt and smoke past the countryside manors and onto the unpaved road. The sun glints off the glass and gets into their eyes like any typical Seoul summer day; the smell of ripe orange blossoms is heady. Seunghyun reaches over to wipe the sheen from Jiyong’s nose.
Jiyong smiles a bit, loosens his tattered bowtie, and undoes the first button of his rigidity. “I’m fine,” he says. “Keep your eyes on the road.”
“Do you even know where this road leads?” Seunghyun asks, reluctantly returning his hand to the wheel, and taps his fingers to the steady pounding of blood in his temples. He knows the answer even before Jiyong nods his head.
“Away,” Jiyong mumbles, then clears his throat and says it louder, “We’re going away.”
There had been a girl. There is always a girl; one with curly hair the color of blackberries and large, dark eyes, and a tongue that can speak four languages, approved by his mother and his ancestors four generations back. Wedding date set in late spring, honeymoon in the works.
“Really, mother?” Jiyong holds the phone with his shoulder and rummages through the pile on his desk for a pen. “No, I promise I’ll be home for dinner. Where are they from again? New York? I’m busy right now.”
“Sir, you have visitors,” his secretary tells him from the doorway. Jiyong sees the yellow billow of a chiffon dress and a suit through the glass window separating his office from the lobby. He sets the phone back into its cradle and nods. The girl marches in, confident and all smiles, and her butler rushes in after her, her plaid designer bag on one arm and an apologetic look on his face.
“I told her we’d meet you at dinner, but she insisted-“
“Hush now, Seunghyun. We’re here for casual introductions and then we’ll be on our way.”
The girl, beautiful and smart as rumoured, continues her polite talk. Jiyong keeps a smile plastered on his face, and glances up from the page he’d been absently reviewing since noon. Instead of catching Seo-yoon’s gaze, he ends up looking at her butler standing nervously beside her, fiddling with the strap of her purse. Seunghyun’s eyes flicker up to catch Jiyong’s.
“-pple or cherry pie?”
Jiyong switches his focus to Seo-yoon. “Dinner’s going to be catered. You don’t need to bring dessert.”
“Sir, she asked you, apple or cherry?” Seunghyun hastily cuts in.
For a moment, there is nothing but tension, with all eyes on Jiyong and Jiyong’s sight nearer to Seunghyun than Seo-yoon. “Cherry, I suppose,” Jiyong says after a minute and waves them out so he can pour himself a mid-afternoon tonic and gin.
Six months later at the engagement party, Seunghyun says, “Hi” and holds up his glass of wine.
“Hi,” Jiyong says, slightly taken aback but holds up his glass as well. If anybody asks, they’re mingling by the coat closet. Lines have worn into both of their faces, but the look is more than familiar by now. Daily office visits from Seunghyun delivering lunch made by Seo-yoon and sometimes a quick after-work drink. The company is nice. They have a lot in common: piano, always doing the crossword puzzles in the daily paper, Yahtzee.
“So, uh, what do you think of that Disney guy?” Seunghyun strikes up the small talk. He’s good at that. “Alice Comedies. He made that series.”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” Jiyong tells him. “But he did Plane Crazy too, right? Mickey Mouse? I can tell he’s going to be iconic.”
The front door opens and Jiyong steps aside, inviting the new guest and his wife to pass through the foyer. When it’s just the two of them again, they circle each other, following the age-old ritual patterns in the tile until Seunghyun is backed up into the wall under the stairs.
“Hi,” Seunghyun breathes.
“Hi,” Jiyong murmurs, and presses their dry lips together.
Seunghyun is walking out of the downtown bakery with a cherry pie when a car, black and brand new and straight from the West, pulls up next to him and the driver reaches over to open the passenger door.
“Get in,” Jiyong says, wearing a top hat, grinning and pointing at the gray sky. “It’s going to rain.”
“Sir, where is your chauffeur?” Seunghyun stands close enough so the door won’t close but doesn’t get in.
“It’s Jiyong, not sir. I took a driving lesson from my chauffeur and paid him to go help the gardener plant the tulips,” Jiyong quickly explains and revs up the engine again. “Model A isn’t going to wait around all day for you to decide. This thing can go up to forty miles per hour. We can go anywhere now.”
Their car runs out of gas in the parking lot of a motel. It’s no Waldorf Astoria, but it’s close. The peeling paint and worn bedsprings are just “Quirks,” says Jiyong, and pulls Seunghyun on top of him, hot and heavy and willing.
They stop by the gas station the next morning and manage to return to the manor before breakfast is served.
“I already told Seo-yoon I’m not going to marry her,” Jiyong says. “She said it was okay.”
A little birdie tells Jiyong’s father. World War One and a Half shows up on Jiyong’s doorstep, armed with pistols and Bibles and a sense of self-righteousness. They’re given no time to run. The room door swings open, easy, and all there is a made-up bed and an empty armoire.
“Does anybody even live in this room?” one of the men dares to ask.
“We’re going to Hell,” Seunghyun tells Jiyong in Model A hidden under the dappled shadow of the orange trees just outside of the estate.
“Norway’s pretty far from here,” Jiyong points out, and pushes the steering wheel in Seunghyun’s hands left onto the open road.
merry and hell go round
jaechun
rated r
philanthropic suggestions, and bail.
It's an off-with-their-heads situation. 4:26 A.M., and the police have got them surrounded: better come out now, nowhere else to hide. Jaejoong traces circles into the cocaine spilled across the concrete. He licks his fingers. They leave wet spots on the front of Yoochun’s shirt.
“Next time I meet you, I’m not telling you where I live or work,” Yoochun replies. A searchlight peeks in, highlighting the fact that his pupils are so blown that Jaejoong can almost reach in and touch Pluto.
The air is bitter and damp where Jaejoong laughs into the corner of Yoochun’s mouth, “Any other philanthropic suggestions?”
“If they made aisles in supermarkets wider so cars could drive through, we could grab toilet paper through the window and pay on the way out,” says Yoochun, smiling faintly. “Like McDonald’s.”
The factory fan carousels dust motes and smoke rings and clicks to the unsteady heartbeats Jaejoong catches in his palms through Yoochun’s ribcage. Yoochun drinks bourbon off Jaejoong’s tongue. Gunfire in the stairwell splinters through the walls and flesh like World War 3. They look for Orion and smiley faces in the holes.
“Friends bail friends out of Hell,” Jaejoong says; then it all grayscales, dulls.
the man who sold the world
jaechun
rated pg
jaejoong's life is on crutches. yoochun rolls with perfection.
At twenty-three, Jaejoong hasn't got much left to do except go to sleep not knowing if he'll wake up. He'd dropped out of college for fifteen minutes of fame as a local indie band's leading man, knocked up a groupie or three, bought and done enough shrooms to buy a house and kill a horse. I'm fine, my life is exciting, he tells Yunho over the phone.
"What your life needs is some soul-searching," Yunho retorts, and gives him the phone number of the local orphanage.
Sunday morning, Jaejoong shows up at St. Jude's Disabled Children's Home. The kids hobble over to him on crutches and braces with wide, hopeful eyes, clutching at his jeans, and the nuns bless him. They show him Yoochun. Yoochun, they say, has perfect syndrome and none of them have ever seen him sleep. He's got no faults, never played a mistake on the piano, never dropped a grain of rice at dinner.
"I don't believe them," Jaejoong says and pulls a stool up beside the wheelchair. Yoochun's fingers spill over the keys; Rachmaninov rolls over in his grave, the universe gasps, Jaejoong grins and throws Yoochun a lifeline, "You look like you've skydived before."
push your body, push your soul
jaechun
rated pg-13
silly rabbit, tricks are for kids.
It’s a typical weekend scene: lighting up cigarettes in bed with the sheets tangled between their legs. They’re scoffing in the face of sleep, waiting for Saturday to drag itself into Sunday so Yoochun can throw his sobriety back on and button up an excuse to leave before Jaejoong can offer him beer for breakfast.
“You play dirty. I said no,” Yoochun says. “She’s going to take my kids, half my bank account, and hop on the next plane back to America.”
Jaejoong sighs smoke rings and echoes the infomercial jingle on the keyboard pulled up next to the bed. He laughs into Yoochun’s ear. “Having me is like having a lifetime supply of free weed and kimchee-chigae. You just don’t say no to that.”
“And an open tab at Beluci’s every Friday night. How is that not a scam?” Yoochun points out, indignant. He stamps outs his cigarette in the ashtray and tries to trade his desire for three easy payments of $19.99 for a Magic Bullet. Instead, Jaejoong presses maddeningly close until Yoochun’s eyes water and his lungs burn and his mouth aches for taste and touch.
“Silly rabbit, tricks are for kids,” Jaejoong says, and leans in.
you play charades
jaechun
rated pg
chick flicks never happen in real life, especially not at lunchtime.
The skinny boy is making Jaejoong’s sandwich again. Cellophane over bony fingers folding lettuce and turkey slices, lining up pepper-jack and tomatoes like toy soldiers on a baguette. The crease in the bend of his elbow looks like a bruise, a faint pink akin to the mosquito bite scratched just below his wrist bone. Jaejoong contemplates the number of ways he could ask for a name and number, and a few hours on Saturday afternoon at the dollar theater with popcorn drowned in butter. ‘How about it?’ he would write on the back of the receipt. Maybe he’d say it in French; everything sounds more important in French.
The boy looks up and asks, “Anything else?” Jaejoong’s head suddenly clears. The summers that would’ve been spent sitting together in front of the air conditioning and eating mint chocolate chip ice cream, skin sticky from playing soccer and pushing each other up against the goal posts, is filed away out of reach. There will be no road-tripping west to the see the sun rise from the east. No leaving sticky notes on the fridge or buying things in pairs at the convenience store.
“Olives,” Jaejoong says, even though he hates olives.
we're significant
g-top
rated pg
uncertainties at home.
When Seunghyun says it, Jiyong laughs and rolls around in the sand and waves, hair plastered in strange formations against his cheek and his t-shirt made see-through from the water. His skin glows orange and purple in the early summer sunset.
“I’m serious. A shark could eat you, or a whale could wash up with you under its belly, or a tide could swallow you whole,” Seunghyun repeats, taking a step further away from the tide. The sand gets in between his toes. “And you are not getting the leather interior of my car wet.” Jiyong rolls his eyes and lets the ocean wash him ashore, lying next to Seunghyun’s feet. Seunghyun feels obligated to kick sand into Jiyong’s eyes, but keeps the thought to himself and sits down, curled up instead.
“A gazillion years ago we were just tiny molecules submersed in this water. It’s home,” Jiyong tells him, leaning into the side of Seunghyun’s knee, pressing awfully close and uncomfortable. Seunghyun brushes the sand off Jiyong’s ear. He wonders if Jiyong can feel the shakiness of his touch because in that one second, he forgets to breathe.
He clears his throat, “You’re still not getting in my car.”
the 1920's are disneyland
g-top, roaringtwenties!au
rated pg-13
"this thing can go up to forty miles per hour. we can go anywhere now."
Model A’s engine roars under them, tires spitting dirt and smoke past the countryside manors and onto the unpaved road. The sun glints off the glass and gets into their eyes like any typical Seoul summer day; the smell of ripe orange blossoms is heady. Seunghyun reaches over to wipe the sheen from Jiyong’s nose.
Jiyong smiles a bit, loosens his tattered bowtie, and undoes the first button of his rigidity. “I’m fine,” he says. “Keep your eyes on the road.”
“Do you even know where this road leads?” Seunghyun asks, reluctantly returning his hand to the wheel, and taps his fingers to the steady pounding of blood in his temples. He knows the answer even before Jiyong nods his head.
“Away,” Jiyong mumbles, then clears his throat and says it louder, “We’re going away.”
There had been a girl. There is always a girl; one with curly hair the color of blackberries and large, dark eyes, and a tongue that can speak four languages, approved by his mother and his ancestors four generations back. Wedding date set in late spring, honeymoon in the works.
“Really, mother?” Jiyong holds the phone with his shoulder and rummages through the pile on his desk for a pen. “No, I promise I’ll be home for dinner. Where are they from again? New York? I’m busy right now.”
“Sir, you have visitors,” his secretary tells him from the doorway. Jiyong sees the yellow billow of a chiffon dress and a suit through the glass window separating his office from the lobby. He sets the phone back into its cradle and nods. The girl marches in, confident and all smiles, and her butler rushes in after her, her plaid designer bag on one arm and an apologetic look on his face.
“I told her we’d meet you at dinner, but she insisted-“
“Hush now, Seunghyun. We’re here for casual introductions and then we’ll be on our way.”
The girl, beautiful and smart as rumoured, continues her polite talk. Jiyong keeps a smile plastered on his face, and glances up from the page he’d been absently reviewing since noon. Instead of catching Seo-yoon’s gaze, he ends up looking at her butler standing nervously beside her, fiddling with the strap of her purse. Seunghyun’s eyes flicker up to catch Jiyong’s.
“-pple or cherry pie?”
Jiyong switches his focus to Seo-yoon. “Dinner’s going to be catered. You don’t need to bring dessert.”
“Sir, she asked you, apple or cherry?” Seunghyun hastily cuts in.
For a moment, there is nothing but tension, with all eyes on Jiyong and Jiyong’s sight nearer to Seunghyun than Seo-yoon. “Cherry, I suppose,” Jiyong says after a minute and waves them out so he can pour himself a mid-afternoon tonic and gin.
Six months later at the engagement party, Seunghyun says, “Hi” and holds up his glass of wine.
“Hi,” Jiyong says, slightly taken aback but holds up his glass as well. If anybody asks, they’re mingling by the coat closet. Lines have worn into both of their faces, but the look is more than familiar by now. Daily office visits from Seunghyun delivering lunch made by Seo-yoon and sometimes a quick after-work drink. The company is nice. They have a lot in common: piano, always doing the crossword puzzles in the daily paper, Yahtzee.
“So, uh, what do you think of that Disney guy?” Seunghyun strikes up the small talk. He’s good at that. “Alice Comedies. He made that series.”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” Jiyong tells him. “But he did Plane Crazy too, right? Mickey Mouse? I can tell he’s going to be iconic.”
The front door opens and Jiyong steps aside, inviting the new guest and his wife to pass through the foyer. When it’s just the two of them again, they circle each other, following the age-old ritual patterns in the tile until Seunghyun is backed up into the wall under the stairs.
“Hi,” Seunghyun breathes.
“Hi,” Jiyong murmurs, and presses their dry lips together.
Seunghyun is walking out of the downtown bakery with a cherry pie when a car, black and brand new and straight from the West, pulls up next to him and the driver reaches over to open the passenger door.
“Get in,” Jiyong says, wearing a top hat, grinning and pointing at the gray sky. “It’s going to rain.”
“Sir, where is your chauffeur?” Seunghyun stands close enough so the door won’t close but doesn’t get in.
“It’s Jiyong, not sir. I took a driving lesson from my chauffeur and paid him to go help the gardener plant the tulips,” Jiyong quickly explains and revs up the engine again. “Model A isn’t going to wait around all day for you to decide. This thing can go up to forty miles per hour. We can go anywhere now.”
Their car runs out of gas in the parking lot of a motel. It’s no Waldorf Astoria, but it’s close. The peeling paint and worn bedsprings are just “Quirks,” says Jiyong, and pulls Seunghyun on top of him, hot and heavy and willing.
They stop by the gas station the next morning and manage to return to the manor before breakfast is served.
“I already told Seo-yoon I’m not going to marry her,” Jiyong says. “She said it was okay.”
A little birdie tells Jiyong’s father. World War One and a Half shows up on Jiyong’s doorstep, armed with pistols and Bibles and a sense of self-righteousness. They’re given no time to run. The room door swings open, easy, and all there is a made-up bed and an empty armoire.
“Does anybody even live in this room?” one of the men dares to ask.
“We’re going to Hell,” Seunghyun tells Jiyong in Model A hidden under the dappled shadow of the orange trees just outside of the estate.
“Norway’s pretty far from here,” Jiyong points out, and pushes the steering wheel in Seunghyun’s hands left onto the open road.