(can't find my way) home
Title: (can't find my way) home
Pairing: yunjae
Rating: g
Length: drabble/one-shot/type thing lol I don't know.
Summary: He thinks your hands are beautiful.
A/N: I wrote this as a birthday fic for Bea. OTL I hope that this is worthy.
(can't find my way) home
You put on your brightest smile for the cameras - a perfectly aligned set of pearl white - turn slightly to the right and raise your hand, silently thank the fact that even though you’re one of the most photographed people on the planet, no one bothers to look past the lens, through the film, to dig deeper and really try to understand the man behind. No one cares - and it is almost as if you are made of plastic instead of flesh and blood, as if there is nothing worth looking for underneath all the costumes and makeup and the perfect, perfect man they all say you are.
It’s better this way, you tell yourself.
No one finds the secrets in your eyes or the tears in your smiles.
-
He stares at his script, biting at his nails as he mouths obscure words of love and promises into the wind, with the cold bringing a slight flush to his cheeks and the fluorescent lights painting a halo on freshly cropped blond hair. He catches you looking and looks back with an is-there-something-on-my-face written across bright blue eyes before he throws that thought away and smiles your favorite kind of smile - simple, sweet, genuine - filled with so much unconditional love that it spills over the seams of his lips and sweeps your heart to the floor.
It is short-lived, though.
He has work to do, and so do you.
You look away first.
-
He thinks your hands are beautiful.
He thinks your hands are beautiful, and he is not afraid to tell you, with his voice rich and deep and perfect as usual, filled with such honest appreciation that it floods your heart with warmth and pumps the blood faster and faster, rushing it to your cheeks and to your head where your thoughts crash into each other like the tides during a storm and threaten to turn you into a drowning mess of feelings you can’t even describe, and you find that suddenly you can’t breathe - can’t focus on the camera or the words or the music, but you need to - you need to, and you can’t, and so he needs to stop. You tell him to stop, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t stop.
He tells you incessantly - when your fingers carelessly handle the mic during practice, when they create disjointed melodies on the piano keys, when they rest idly in your lap or run through your hair or rub self-consciously over scars that are usually hidden from the rest of the world with makeup and hair and camera angles and computerized effects.
He links your hands with his own and tells you that your scars are beautiful.
You laugh quietly and start to pull your hand away as you change the topic, try to get back on the agenda, but he doesn’t let you - looks you straight in the eye and repeats himself, as if you didn’t hear him the first time.
He tells you that you’re beautiful.
The worst part is that he actually believes it.
-
He makes you want to cry, with all his friends and lives and thoughts and words that reach out but never quite reach you, not because he doesn’t try, but because you don’t want him to - because you build a wall of no and no and I want to, but I can’t - because you know that they think this is wrong, because you think that this is wrong, because this is wrong, because there are too many hopes and dreams riding on your shoulders and no matter how right love feels -
You cannot afford to be wrong.
-
You love and you hate and you laugh and you fight, but even as you deny, deny, deny, you cling to each other, almost like you’re falling apart. Part of you thinks that you are. Desperation clings to your skin like the smokes you used to sneak before you had to stop, wraps its hands around your heart and squeezes it tight, until it hurts so much that you think you’re bleeding from the inside out.
You feel the wetness on your face when he’s said his two cents and you’ve said yours, and you want to think it’s from the heat - like the sheen of sweat on your skin from that one time you both remember but pretend you forgot - but you know it’s not true. Not when the only thing you agree on is that these people are family, this place is home, and that together you can do anything the world throws at you - but you’re scared and he’s scared and you know what he wants and he understands what you want, and he does not intend to leave it all behind, but.
He leaves you behind.
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