pikasu
in
crosswards
stories that never saw the light (or: wips)
i was browsing through my folders when i stumbled upon my old fic folders, tucked away into the depths of my computer and i thought, hey, why not?
more than a year old, nostalgic, and an (im)proper farewell?
some days i miss them a lot. some days i wished i hadn't fell out. oh well.
some of these are rather long, but incomplete nonetheless. hope you enjoy.
edit: found one more.
hogwarts fic, ot5.
The minute Jaejoong receives the letter, he reads it once over, then again to make sure he's not dreaming, before tearing down the stairs to search for his best friend, Yunho. Jaejoong's still in his pyjamas then; they're a little tattered and oversized, but Jaejoong doesn't really care much about his appearance right now. He sprints across the hallways until he reaches the forty-first door on the left, and then yanks it open without hesitation. Inside, he spots Yunho, who looks as if he is about to sprint out of the door to find Jaejoong as well, so there's a little bumping of foreheads among the both of them before they settle. Yunho eyes him with equal glee when they sit by the narrow bed and compare matching envelopes. They clutch onto each others hands for awhile, just because everything seemed too fucking surreal to be true. And due to the intensity of their excitement, a few random sparks start to whiz above their heads in elation as well.
The sparks eventually fizzle out when they're a little calmer. Not quite calm, but calm enough to subconsciously reign in their powers. A stray spark lands onto Jaejoong's envelope and crackles before dying out. Jaejoong is momentarily surprised by the sound, but snaps out of it enough to pull Yunho into a tight hug, as if the full-body contact would allow Jaejoong to properly transfer his emotions across. The envelopes remains between them, resting silently on the slightly dirty blanket. They are peeling at the edges, with a slight yellow searing the crinkled papers and small, miniscule bumps in between; a little like parchment. There are emblems at the top, stamped proudly in black, and there are purple wax seals clamping the flaps into place. The 'H' imprinted on them are now halved, due to Jaejoong's and Yunho's utter excitement upon receiving the letter. Yunho sidles closer to Jaejoong, bringing him closer in the embrace, and they sit there for awhile, relishing in the moment. Jaejoong then edges a little nearer to Yunho as well, effectively scrunching up the blanket and sending the envelope straight down to the cemented floor. He barely hears the soft thud of the letters connecting against the ground, because Jaejoong's too happy, and so the only thing he hears now, is them, their breaths enveloping the whole room, rising and falling in perfect harmony.
“It's really happening,” Yunho breathes after a few minutes of comfortable silence.
“Yeah,” Jaejoong mumbles; his heart makes happy loop-de-loops in his body. “It is.”
The envelopes fall on the ground. One seal slips apart, while the other remains intact. The former's flap slowly unfolds itself, before a piece of paper partially slides out. It is jagged around the edges, and a little yellowed too, just like the envelope itself. On the paper, there are words inked in a cursive scrawl. Jaejoong and Yunho's address are at the top left corner, but this particular one is addressed to a Mr. Kim Jaejoong. Trailing down, a 'Dear Mr. Kim' is seen, before the words 'We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry' come into view, a little shielded by the flap of the envelope, but nonetheless distinct all the same.
“We're going to Hogwarts.”
/
creepy jaemin, black swan inspired
aejoong is quiet, and unbearingly so. His heart is racing and his lungs feel as if they're about to explode, scrape blood onto his ribcage. But he refuses to breathe. The canvas before him blurs his vision with dried acrylic and unfilled spaces; a picture of a wilting flower in the hands of a baby. One more stroke till completion. Jaejoong steadies his brush, bites his lips to prevent a single breath from escaping, and stares at the spot until his eyes tear, prickle with pain. The throbbing ache from his chest is determinedly ignored, and he dabbles one last stroke onto his work of art. It had to be perfect.
Only after does he release his breath. He scrutinizes the painting for a few seconds. The baby in the painting is in frozen laughter. A flower is held in one of his hand, and a shriveled petal in another. It's as if he's amused by the fragility of the flower. How it folds with the slightest squeeze of his hand; death is only inevitable for the weak. Under close observation though, by the very edge of the baby's eyes, there is a single tear. Jaejoong lets out a satisfied smirk and ghosts his hands over that tear trickling down the baby's cheek. He bites his lips, and touches his own eye, then laughs. It's been too long since he had last cried.
-
In the showers, Jaejoong allows himself a small groan when the icy water connects with his skin. He stretches to loosen the muscles, and then begins to rub the paint stains off his hands.
The water that spirals down the drain is inked a deep red used to paint the flower. A stray thought latches onto Jaejoong, about how it reminds him of blood. It's almost as if he had killed someone, and was now ridding of the evidence. And he laughs at that thought, before going back to scraping the paint off his body. Murder is too risky these days. It takes about five rounds and a little more before the stubborn acrylic is gone.
Jaejoong grabs a towel and dries himself off. He frowns in distaste when he reaches his hands though - there's a patch of red on his palm. He grabs a bottle of soap, squirts forcefully straight onto the stain, turns on the tap and attempts to scrape it all away. But Jaejoong's persistence is met with stubborness as it refuses to get off. Jaejoong lets out a frustrated growl; his rubbing turns to nails scratching and finally frantic clawing. Satisfaction only comes after his palm is burned an angry red when the paint is finally gone.
Smiling, Jaejoong brings his palm to his eyes to admire his work. The scratch marks burns against his pale skin, now peeling. But the paint is finally gone. He blinks once. Somehow the patch of red reappears. Jaejoong growls in displeasure, and frowns in confusion, ready to seize the bottle of soap. But when he blinks again, it disappears. Like it's never been there.
-
Jaejoong always loved art. He loved to paint, watch colours blend like second nature with a flick of his brush. All in his control. He never had so much power over something before. The fumes became the very air he breathed and blotches of colour the only thing he sees from morning till night. A brush was nothing less than a third hand to him. He thought in brush strokes, imagination framed by oil paints and water colour. Nothing could stop him from art.
It seemed only natural to pursue an arts major in college, before graduating as a freelance artist. Jaejoong did just that. His family was mildly displeased though. Art could consume a person whole, his father had warned. But Jaejoong never took him seriously.
Be careful, his mother had said. Jaejoong had merely beamed, suitcase in hand, and walked away.
-
“Your art is most certainly one of the best out there, Kim-sshi,” the man says, while strolling and occasionally bending to observe Jaejoong's paintings.
“Thank you Mr. Park,” Jaejoong murmurs. He clenches his fists, in nervousness and desperation. He needed this. It was his big break. A hand makes its way to his tresses; he scratches his scalp gently. Sometimes he has a habit of scratching his hair, especially during pangs of nervousness. He would shake his head, watch the dandruff fall to the ground like snowflakes. When they land on his skin he will burn in guilt of indulging in the bad habit.
“Now,” Mr. Park continues. “The question is whether or not you're good enough for the job.”
“I am!” Jaejoong immediately says. He retracts his hand from his hair, and catches himself. “I-I mean, I believe so sir.” He steals one glance at his hand, and tries to hold back his gasp. The fingertips were brushed a dark red that prickles. Jaejoong holds back the urge of sniffing for blood. He tucks his hand into his pocket, and bites his lips. Resisting the ache to claw at his fingertips was harder than he expected.
“You're good, Mr. Kim,” Mr. Park says contemplatively. “But you paint with a fatal flaw.”
Jaejoong's eyes widen, his nails digging small crescents onto his palm. Like he's drawing blood. “W-what do you mean?” he asks. There was no way his art could be flawed. Everything had to be perfect. A slight hysteria creeps up his spine and the images in his mind race faster than he can think. Of mocking laughter, condemnation. Of splattered red on his walls. Of tattered paintings. Of failure.
“Your paintings are too perfect,” is an answer he gets, very much unexpected.
“In all technicality, there's nothing wrong with your works. But there's no emotion. No feeling from the paintings.” He continues. “You need to feel art, Mr. Kim. Not create.”
“You get the job. But remember what I said, Mr. Kim. Don't let me down.”
-
Your paintings are too perfect.
Jaejoong crashes into the washroom, careful to lock the door. The only thing he hears is the gushing of water from the tap, as he frantically washed the red away from his hands, and the echoing of Mr. Park's words, relentless and unforgiving.
Your paintings are too perfect.
He uses up the entire bottle of soap, but the red still remains. Jaejoong rubs, claws in attempt to scrape it all away, until his skin peels and sheds crimson. But it doesn't come off. Like an imprint of burning guilt after murder. The bloodstains always remain on the hands of the villian. In the brief period of black Jaejoong sees when he blinks, the stains somehow seemed to have spread to his wrists.
Your paintings are not perfect.
Jaejoong washes and rinses and scrapes but the red's never gone and in frustration he could do nothing but slam his hands against the basin, trembling. His heartbeats thunder in his ears it's as if they're bleeding from the inside, screaming at him to get out, throwing him out of his body. Jaejoong needed art as much as he needed this. He had to be perfect.
Your paintings are not worth looking at.
Letting out a frustrated scream, Jaejoong smashes his fist to the mirror, uncaring of how the broken shards scraped against his knuckles. It wasn't as if they weren't red in the first place. More blood on his hands only meant he's a step nearer to death. In death he could be free, but in life there was art. He stuck on just for that.
This time he feels the pain. The scratches on his fists throb in a dull ache. Jaejoong stares at it for awhile, numb, before the image in his mind solidifies again. It's of him, laughing in satisfaction.
Jaejoong takes a deep breath. He's determined to prove that old man wrong.
Gathering himself from the aftermath of his anger, Jaejoong raises his bloodied fist to his lips. His tongue peeks out, takes a slow lick to taste the blood. It is bitter, and lingers at the back of his throat after. Persistent and unsettling.
Hours later, the blood dries up, hardens and crusts over the scratches. An ugly reminder to his imperfection. It scars.
-
Mr. Park wanted sinister. He wanted ominous. A painting that sent chills down one's body, in lieu with his Halloween party. Jaejoong didn't know how to do that.
But he throws such thoughts to the wind. Today he was going to celebrate.
Yoochun, his best friend, has thrown a party in accordance to Jaejoong's new commision. Clinching a deal with one of the most influential businessman in Korea was not something to be taken lightly. Jaejoong knew he was treading on dangerous ground.
In the midst of celebrations, Jaejoong spots a fresh face. He nurses on his glass of whiskey, nudge Yoochun before pointing to the person perched on the stool. Tall with innocent eyes and an aura of mystery. Jaejoong's curiousity is rustled. The man appears to be making light conversation with the bartender, his smile unbearingly bright.
“Who's that,” Jaejoong whispers to Yoochun, earning an amused chuckle.
Yoochun leans, whispers to Jaejoong's ear, breath tickling. “Shim Changmin. Budding new artist.”
“Cute,” Jaejoong says unconsciously. Yoochun laughs.
“Dangerous too,” he says nonchalantly. “His paintings are unique. Caught the eye of many. People say he's got potential to be one of the best. The best even.”
Jaejoong freezes upon hearing Yoochun's words. His glass trembles along with his hand. With narrowed eyes, Jaejoong strode closer, approaches Changmin from behind. Any protest from Yoochun goes unheard over the faint buzzing of his skull.
“Hey,” Jaejoong settles in a seat next to Changmin's. He attempts an endearing smile. It comes out more threatening and awkward than anything else.
Changmin is genuinely surprised, and happy too, from the way his eyes lit up when he saw Jaejoong. “H-Hi.”
Jaejoong smirks, leans closer and snakes a hand around Changmin, ignoring his gasp. His lips brush slightly against Changmin's neck, before he brings it up to his ear. He rubs the other's thigh lazily in circles, and breathes, teasing. “I'm Jaejoong,” he whispers. And he swears he felt a shiver from Changmin.
Before Changmin has the chance to reply though, Jaejoong abruptly extracts himself and vanishes into the crowd. He allows himself a brief glance back. Changmin's eyes are lost now, frightened even; his lips pressed into a thin line, visibly rattled. But there was a spark of wonderment in them too.
So vulnerable, Jaejoong thinks in amusement.
-
When he is home, his mind is constantly plagued only with Changmin's frightened, frightened eyes.
In bed, the thought of Changmin spreads to his entire self. Words flit past his subconscious - Your paintings are too perfect - people say he's got potential to be one of the best. The best even. - H-Hi - and he growls, clutches onto his blankets tight. Changmin's fright morphs into a smug grin, sends shadows that engulf Jaejoong, ink his skin with crimson oils. One manages to creep past his lips, and it stains his mouth with the bitter taste of blood yet again. Like he's consuming his own self from within. Jaejoong trembles, his body in spasms as he thrashes in his bed in attempt to block the images out. His mouth is unable to contain the blood, and it overflows, drips unceremoniously into the darkness and floods his lungs, choking him. He bolts.
In the bathroom the shower is hastily turned to full blast as Jaejoong strips himself of his clothes. He scrubs his entire body, and uses up another bottle of soap. Jaejoong rinses his mouth, yanks his teeth and rubs the walls forcefully over and over again until the bitterness is gone. He pants, desperate, tries not to swallow the water gushing down when he rids himself of the red. The water that flows from his body does not change in colour. It takes three rounds, and angry red scratch marks over his entire body before he is satisfied.
But when he settles into bed and shuts his eyes again, all he can see is the innocent glimmer of Changmin's eyes, hiding something sinister. The echos of mocking laughter trail from behind. There is blood shed, once again.
Whether it is his or not, Jaejoong does not know.
-
“No.”
Jaejoong blinks, relatively taken aback. He presses his legs together, tense, carefully watches as Mr. Park scrutinizes his painting. “Look at it. Do you feel anything from it? The least scared?” He glances up to Jaejoong, eyes expectant of a reply. Jaejoong hastily adverts his gaze to the painting. No matter how he tries to conjure some form of emotion though, there is no spark. He shakes his head, guilty.
The painting is thrust back into Jaejoong's hands. “I expect more the next time we meet.” And Jaejoong can do nothing but hastily nod his head, relieved of a second chance.
Beyond the blur by his tears, Jaejoong only makes out faint blobs when he returns home, painting chucked into the nearest dustbin on the way out. Walking without focus causes him to bump against something, or someone. Only after he wipes his tears does he make out the startled figure he had collided against. It was Changmin.
“J-Jaejoong-sshi-” Changmin stutters. “A-are you-al-alright?” His body is bent awkwardly, as if in hesitation of whether to reach down and help Jaejoong up, or to stand there, polite, and observe Jaejoong clamber up by himself.
“Drop the sshi,” is the first thing that comes to his mind, and out of his mouth. Changmin is startled, but not as much as Jaejoong is by himself. He eventually picks himself up and faces Changmin, careful to allow a small smirk to play on his face. A sign of confidence, even if he doesn't feel very much so inside. It was always necessary to show that he was in control. Of himself, especially.
“Um. Jaejoong h-hyung -” Changmin abruptly adverts his gaze and extends his hand. “I- I love your paintings, Jaejoong hyung.” There is an embarrassed flush on Changmin's cheeks after he says this, and it makes Jaejoong mildly amused. He grasps onto Changmin's hand, a gentle brush at first, before he wraps around the other. There is a hitch in Changmin's breath. They shake hands. It comes off a little awkward, and tense. What Jaejoong finds it strange is the brief scraping of wood he hears when his arms clasp around Changmin's. A soft undertone in his ears, and a snap, like the sound of a brush breaking.
Snap. Jaejoong extracts his hand away, and he beams. “I'll see you around,” he says, earning an eager and incredulous nod from Changmin. Like he can't believe in the prospect of a second meeting. Only when Changmin walks away does Yoochun's words flood back to him. Dangerous too. People say he's got potential to be one of the best. He could be the best.
Snap. Jaejoong blinks, catches himself and swerves around to steal a glance of Changmin's retreating back. He is headed in the direction of where Jaejoong had came from. The Park Corporations. A visible tremble overtakes Jaejoong, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and anger. Snap. The sound escalates in volume. Jaejoong brings his hand - the one that shook Changmin's - to his face. The edge of his nails are of a rusty red, and a faint brush of ugly purple peeks from beneath his nails. Snap. He gasps, and hastily picks at it. It takes awhile before he gives up, and scurries home, the back of his mind burned with the image of Changmin's smile, shy and disconcerting. It needed to be torn apart, bloodied and ripped from his face.
Snap. Jaejoong hopes he makes it back alive.
-
The door is slammed in complete panic when Jaejoong finally stumbles home. He takes deep breaths, willing to calm himself down. There was something about Changmin that sears his mind - perhaps the piercing sincerity in his smile, or the forceful pull of his paintings. Every time he closes his eyes there is the shy curve of Changmin's smile in the periphery of darkness, and it burns him from the inside, a slow fire beneath his lungs. Every lick brings about another wave of pain. Like it's going to rip him apart. Shred his skin so fine it'll be like the snowflakes in his hair.
Snap. He bites his lips until the skin gives away, draws blood once again, desperate for the taste. Changmin's meek voice ghosts past his mind. I love your art, Jaejoong-hyung, sweet like caramel-coated apples and childish laughter. But it morphs. His voice deepens and the syllables are drawn out, mocking even. A constant repitition in Jaejoong's head wrapped in silky velvet draped around his throat. Every repeated sentence brings a harsher tug, straining his neck muscles and juxtaposing the whites of his skin, coaxing the very air out of him. A quiet death.
And then Changmin's smile becomes a cruel smirk, eyes a piercing black and he stabs daggers into Jaejoong from within, once, twice, thrice until Jaejoong loses count and screams. He screams. Screams until his throat burns, velvet cloth tightening around it with every breath he takes and he's clawing at it. I love your art, Jaejoong-hyung, I love your art, Jaejoong-hyung a constant mantra in his mind, high pitched and mockingly drawled. Shut up- shut up shutupshutupshutup - Jaejoong thrashes, hands fighting between covering his ears and latching onto his throat. And he claws at it, rips and tears until his ear turns an angry red and the cloth breaks. Snap. It dissipates into black feathers, disintegrating once they touch the floor. He can breathe again.
Jaejoong blinks once, twice, and the night is still again. It's as if nothing had happened in the first place. He draws out a slow incredulous grin, settles onto a chair and picks up a brush, still visibly rattled. Licking his lips, he grabs an empty canvas from the sides and dabbles paint onto his palette, hands trembling. Imagination grows a pair of hands and they wrap around Jaejoong's; it guides the brush across the canvas in bold strokes. There's a quiet burn in him today that intensifies his urge to paint.
In between deep shades of paper white, crimson and black, a figure takes shape. The eyes are drenched in red, bloodshot and haunted, then well defined cheekbones and a teasing smirk playing on the lips. It's Changmin, Jaejoong realizes. The features all belong to Changmin.
I love your art, Jaejoong-hyung, a soft teasing whisper caresses the crook of Jaejoong's ear. It startles him. He drops his paintbrush, bends down and picks it up with trembling arms. In sight with the painting again, Jaejoong notices a slight brush of red along Changmin's skin in the painting. It's not supposed to be there. He frowns, hastily blots white over the red. But the red seeps through, past the white and collects into a droplet that trickles to the base of the canvas. It gathers there, onto the concrete floor Jaejoong had painted, like a puddle of blood. He stirs in mild panic, unconsciously snaps his paint brush into half as the puddle spills over his canvas, stains the wood of his easel and the carpeted floor. Snap. It spreads to his feet, and before Jaejoong can bolt, inches up his feet. It nearly triggers several kicks from him, eventually restrained.
Frantic, he crouches on the stool, lifts his feet up and wipes the red away with a cloth. But it remains, etches right into Jaejoong's skin, Jaejoong's veins. He struggles, to maintain balance and to rid of the red - peels and peels until his skin tears away. Then his phone rings. It snaps Jaejoong out enough for him to grab the phone and bolt to the bathroom. When he settles, and answers the phone - Hi it's Yoochun and I was wondering if - the trail of red disappears, and the patch of skin he had peeled returns to normal. Jaejoong lets out a sigh of relief, and reverts his attention back to Yoochun. After hanging up, Jaejoong showers, scrubs his feet, his knees for a few rounds until he's finally satisfied.
Outside, the puddle of blood vanishes, and only an awkward blot of white on Changmin's cheek remains, his smirk as unsettling as ever.
Snap.
/
paper walls, yunjae
This is a story about an ordinary neighbourhood with ordinary green trees that naturally turn orange, brown and bald as the ordinary year passes by. And besides such ordinary trees, there are also ordinary houses with ordinary white picket fences and ordinary garages filled with ordinary cars that only differ in size and color. But otherwise, they are still the same cars you can find anywhere in the world. In fact, the entire place is so ordinary that even the people started to become ordinary as well. You see, this is a story where these ordinary people have peepholes on their chest to their hearts, so that doens't really make them very ordinary people as well, normal people like us don't usually have such things on our body. And even friends or family members of such ordinary people can take a peek at their hearts if they are allowed to. But then the ordinary people grew afraid of showing their true emotions, of baring themselves for the world to see, as these people aren't very sure of themselves, being ordinary and all. So they started building walls around their heart - fortified with steel and bricks and everything in between, just to protect it from breaking and crumbling down into tiny pieces. These ordinary people also start inventing ordinary clothes that covered the peephole securely, and from then on, sealed their extraordinary hearts away from the rest of the ordinary world. So the ordinary people became ordinary once again.
In this ordinary place, there are also two houses erected side by side each other, where the inhabitants live normal lives and have normal nine to five jobs, but hated each other with a fearful intensity. And although the houses have the same ordinary red roofs, the same white picket fence and the same freshly mown lawn, in between the two houses is a wall so tall and so thick that it is not a very ordinary wall at all. In fact, it is so tall and so thick that no one has been able to knock it down (or had even bothered trying, for that matter). This is only because the two ordinary neighbours decided one day that they couldn't stand seeing each other, and hence decided to build a wall. Because walls are the best ways to shut people off. And the neighbours really wanted to shut themselves away from each other. So for generations onwards, the wall remains erect at the same ordinary spot in between the two, almost symmetrical houses, slicing off all form of communication from the two rather ordinary families.
Until of course, the ordinary neighbours give birth to a baby boy each, born on the same ordinary time of the same ordinary day of the same ordinary month of the same ordinary year. Because not even a wall can stand against such a strong fate between the two babies, especially when they are named Yunho and Jaejoong.
This is a story about breaking down walls.
/
Jaejoong thinks of himself as a rather sad child. Tragic, actually, he believes it would be more fitting a word than sad.
He feels that he does not have a very caring family like most others have, and that he is not as popular as he wants to be. Jaejoong flits through this phase of his life rather meaninglessly, he believes. He goes through the same ordinary routine every single day just to be molded into some ordinary person society approves of. Maybe it is due to the fact that he is a teenager, and it is perhaps the teenage angst that is settling in, causing him to have a rather negative outlook on his life as of now. But Jaejoong refuses to believe it is so. He thinks his negativity is justified. He hates his life.
There isn't a moment in time where he can remember his mother ever hugging him, or his father praising him of anything - like the time where he had painted a marvellous picture of the sky with tiny swallows captured in their mid-flight to freedom, or the time where he had scored full marks for his math. They had told him that such praises, that such signs of affection was bad for the heart. It would make him vulnerable. It would make him weak. It would make him regret and blame them in the future.
Jaejoong doesn't really know why though, as he's feeling pretty vulnerable now, without their love.
He does remember that his mother had told him once why this is so, when he was five and curious and his mother, exasperated by his onslaught of questions. She had sat him down onto the little green chair right at the corner and had squatted right in front of him, face etched with a little sadness and a faint hint of tenderness. She had sighed a little; Jaejoong remembers, how her eyebrows had stitched together in contemplation, and her hands had crossed each other, while she was thinking of perhaps the most appropriate way to put this to a five year old.
She told him about the story of their peepholes and their hearts, about how Jaejoong has to build strong walls around his so that no one can ever see it. How Jaejoong, the young innocent Jaejoong, had to hurry up and grow so that Jaejoong would no longer be innocent and he would no longer be young. Instead, Jaejoong would be strong and mature and so knowing of the world that no one, no one would be able to exploit him or tear away his defences.
Because the world is cruel, his mother had said. The world isn't forgiving or filled with nice people like in story books and television shows. There will be bad people. There will be people that would take advantage of the weaknesses in Jaejoong, and rip him apart until there's nothing of him left but his tears and blood. And there will be, there will be such people in the world that they need to be wary of, and the best way to protect himself against these people is to grow strong.
“So Mama,” Jaejoong had curiously asked. “Does that mean I have to build walls...like the one at the garden?”
Jaejoong can remember clearly how his mother's face had changed into an expression of horror and fury at the mention of that wall.
/
tastebuds, onkey
onew kisses key on a dry sunday with the sun up against their backs and a lazy breeze skimming the frayed ends of his jeans. key tastes like lemons: sour with a hidden zest; it simmers quietly on onew's tongue once they've pulled out, nice and slow. he threads his fingers across key's brown locks, the sweat painting a sticky sheen after a comb. he thinks it would have tasted a little salty too, if he had dared to dabble some on his lips for a taste. onew doesn't though. instead, he grins lazily at key, who smirks in return.
but he wishes he had.
/
playtime, supposed link to showtime / bedtime, yunjae
Imagine a box.
Imagine it has little boxes inside, all shaped like houses and a blue sky painted on the inner faces. Imagine there are street lamps lining the tarmac on the box's base, and a mini sun suspended from the very top.
Imagine there are people walking, like how they do in your neighbourhood. They hobble along the streets and some of them walk so fast you feel like there's never enough time in the world for everything. Imagine some bushes and trees along the sidewalk and an occasional bird perched on a fence.
Imagine there is a Kim Jaejoong living in one of the little house-boxes, and a Jung Yunho living in another. Imagine that Kim Jaejoong's family oppresses him, and wants him to be a lawyer no matter how he doesn't want to and how he hates law. Imagine that Jung Yunho's family is the same, except that they don't want him to be a lawyer. They want him to delve into the business world and succeed their empire.
Imagine the strongest tape you can has sealed up the box from the inside and the outside; imagine Kim Jaejoong and Jung Yunho to be a hundredth the size of this box. Imagine the amount of hatred they have, and the amount of restrain they are feeling from not being able to do something they want.
Now, imagine that they try to jump and struggle, despite their sizes to open this box, to peel away the layers and layers of tape bit by bit just to pry apart the edges.
Imagine how the box can never open.
--
Jaejoong's never good with first impressions, especially when he's here, with the heir of the Jung Company that everyone worships. Not Jaejoong though - Jaejoong's never been into such things, and never will, even if his future job requires him too. He sighs, and fiddles with the straw of his smoothie, before meeting the other's eyes.
Jung Yunho, one of the most highly anticipated businessmen of the year 2011. Having graduated from Seoul University, Jung Yunho's supposed to possess high intellectual capacity, as well as a shrewd mindset in order to takeover the family's business. He's supposed to be a gentleman too, charming ladies with every step and every smirk he makes, and is therefore considered one of the most 'perfect human beings' in the entire world. At least, that's what the magazines say.
Jaejoong doesn't find him any less impressive than the people he's met before though.
Yunho tries hard, Jaejoong can see, to be like how everyone else should - straight posture, a polite smile in between sentences and always trying to feed in an advertisement or two for his company in his speech. But Yunho's a little strange too. Sometimes he stumbles on his words, and shuffles his feet unintentionally. Sometimes he accidentally laughs a little too loud when Jaejoong says something and then covers his mouth in shock, as if he's realized that he isn't supposed to do that. And there are also times where Jaejoong's caught Yunho secretly tracing intricate patterns in his coffee; it isn't something anyone here does.
Yunho's different, Jaejoong concludes. And he doesn't fit here.
“What about you, Jaejoong-sshi?”
Yunho looks up then, and tilts his head in anticipation for Jaejoong's reply. Jaejoong is caught in the middle of his thoughts, and jolts upwards.
“Um, what were you saying?” Jaejoong asks hesitantly, shooting him an awkward smile. He curses in the inside and tries not to fumble too obviously. Yunho manages a polite grin in return, and repeats his sentence. Jaejoong laughs then, as if he's trying to clear up their awkward atmosphere, and they continue with their conversation as if nothing's happened, like how they should. Later, he reviews his first meeting in his mind, and lets out a resigned sigh.
It's not like he fits here any better.
--
Jaejoong's supposed to become acquainted with Yunho, because apparently their families are supposed to go into some partnership, and also apparently their parents decided to send them out for reconaissance. So Jaejoong meets Yunho every Friday at the cafe just for some idle talk (and some intellectual ones too), just to get to know the other better and supposedly judge whether or not he's suitable enough for their partnership to take flight.
He may seem enthusiastic and cheerful on the outside when he meets Yunho, but Jaejoong really doesn't want to do this. He's so sick and tired of the forced smiles he has to put on and the diplomatic shifts in topics he has to make because he has to and because it is his job to do so. It is for the sake of his family, and it is for the sake of a stronger law firm, for them. But Jaejoong really doesn't want to.
He tries sometimes, to get out of their meetings, but his parents always find out in the end, and so he is forced once again back to that same rigid chair ordering the same smoothie and holding stiff, awkward conversations with Jung Yunho.
Frankly, Jaejoong likes Yunho. He likes the way Yunho sometimes act as if he's not here for a business partnership (though he tries his best to do so), and how he doesn't act as if he has a stick shoved up his ass like most peope do. But Jaejoong isn't supposed to let his feelings, or opinions about Yunho affect his judgement. He's supposed to judge Yunho based on how everyone else does to people they meet - on a superficial level, how he acts and how he speaks and not the tiny things he does that make his character. Jaejoong's supposed to do just that, and see if he indeed has the intellectual capacity and the wits to do business.
But everytime Yunho laughs a little too loud, Jaejoong cannot help but like him more and more.
No one else does that anymore.
--
It's on their fifth meeting that Jaejoong lets out a little slip in his act. They're still in the same cafe, because it is there that they are supposed to meet, and not anywhere else. Because they aren't supposed to meet anywhere else. And just because. Jaejoong has a smoothie as usual, and Yunho is now with a cup of coffee. There are distinct eyebags on Yunho's face this time, and this makes Jaejoong a little worried. Nonetheless, Jaejoong does not say anything about it, because he isn't supposed to, and instead they carry on talking about mundane things, like how the other companies are doing, and where they stand on the unforgiving social ladder in life.
/
strange jaemin
the best feeling in the world is when the person you're singing to sings back. jaejoong's experienced this one, back in the corner of his high school days where there had been a part of him that hated everything. changmin had sang to him, during one of their stolen times on the rooftop. soft melodies that no one knew except for both of them- i'll pen down a thousand words / and give you one / my heart / would you like my heart/
changmin had smiled then, so softly and heartbreakingly it makes jaejoong ask what's wrong. it's nothing, changmin had said. it's nothing at all. but then he asks jaejoong if he would miss him if he was gone. jaejoong had not known what to say then, and perhaps out of the uneasiness of it all, waved it off as a joke. i won't, he had said. inside, he thinks, too much. i'd miss you too much.
the next day, jaejoong had been told that they had found changmin by the river, eyes without a soul and his mouth gaped open, as if he had never managed to say his last goodbyes.
and they say when you die you'd forget how you had lived.
jaejoong does not cry during changmin's funeral. but he thumps his chest a few times, just making sure he doesn't have an extra heartbeat. just making sure changmin hadn't given him his heart to die.
xxx
there is an echo of a stream where jaejoong is. a lonely, hollow sound of the wind, skirting past his ears; the stir of leaves and the persistent sound of crickets underneath a map of stars, imbued in jaejoong's mind. but above all, there is an echo of a stream. persistent and distinct. the echo of a solitary stream - weathered with age, wiser with every rainfall it collects.
jaejoong takes a deep breath, traces the seams of his jeans, and trudges on.
/
the times when we were happy / 私たちの幸せな時間
-- 10 a.m. on Thursdays. That was the time we got to live --
There are times when the world seemed bleak, Jaejoong thinks. Like when you wake up in the mornings just to pray that it'll be night again. How you recoil from the warmth of the sun, curl yourself up in a corner, basking in the shadows. Jaejoong likes that. Because when he was in the dark, it's as if he could live unaffected by the true identity of things that coiled around him, strangling him.
Refusing to let him go.
And so, it was around the time when November was coming to an end, that Jaejoong tested death.
--
The first thing Jaejoong awakes to is the sun's rays. It stings his skin. He turns around, away from the window, from the warmth. Inside he is a little disappointed, and very much resigned. So he manages to live again.
He closes his eyes. He remembers that lull between his collapse and his awakening. There had been ivory keys in his dream, like never ending steps that Jaejoong had to climb. Every step he took produced a note, and every note that rung through that black empty space resonated with an echo of a laughter. A chilling laugh that Jaejoong never wanted to hear ever again.
The next time Jaejoong opens his eyes, he finds a woman standing next to his bedside, eyeing disdainfully at the IV drip piercing his veins, as if sucking his very life away. Somehow though, all Jaejoong could feel was a disarming sense of numbness and a wave of indifference.
"How strange," he says with a cynical smile, brown locks brushing against his cheek. "Even though I'm finally awake, when I see your face, I want to die again, Umma."
"How petty," is the reply he gets. Unexpected, but not shocking. "You think fighting with your mother is fun, even at your age, do you?" Her eyes flutter, lashes brushing against the wrinkles drawn by the hands of time.
"Well," she sighs. "If you'd excuse me."
There's a sickening feeling in Jaejoong's stomach when he hears her words. It interwines with the darkness and weighs on his heart. Somehow, Jaejoong couldn't bring himself to care. He knew his mother had never loved him.
"Your tenacity towards life is the same as ever," he says idly. "Even when you drained away Appa's life, you kept on living..."
A turn. Jaejoong barely catches the frown on her face. That is the last he sees of her for a long time.
--
The first night--
"I decided to die, because if I had lived any longer, I'd kill you."
--
Jaejoong dreams of drowning together with his mother.
"It would have been better if you were never born."
--
While they plunge, his hands are on her neck.
"You are pathetic."
--
And Jaejoong swore he could feel her life escaping into the waters.
How many times have I heard those words?
--
Disappearing, like how he would.
--
The next time Jaejoong awakes he sees another woman by his bedside, black scarf draped around her head and a cross on her neck. It's been a long time since he had last saw her.
"Aunt Monica," Jaejoong hurriedly greets, mouth agape in shock.
She smiles, and Jaejoong could just taste the autumn air during that year they spent together. It made him feel like a child again. A gust of air fills the room, pressing against his skin, eerily pale.
"It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
--
--"I'm not waiting for that day... To me, the hours that pass by each day are just an agony that I want to fling away, along with myself."--
His aunt hasn't changed a single bit. Her words still manage to cut him like before, like no one else's did. Today though, there was something different about the way she spoke. A little solemn, a little of disappointment and an air of sorrow.
"No. 3987," she murmurs, and continues despite Jaejoong's lost expression.
"He's a convict on death row. I keep on sending him letters, but he won't meet me."
Inside, Jaejoong is a little curious, and a little taken aback at his aunt's persistence. Why care so much about someone who's about to die?
"That man has attempted suicide many times in prison," she continues, stares at Jaejoong pointedly.
"Just like you."
--
"Your mother sent you for a month's worth of counselling."
"It sounds like something she'd do. Pushing problems onto others."
"Say, why don't you lend me a hand instead?"
--
The first time Jaejoong visits the prison is on a Thursday morning, too warm and too bright for his liking. Inside the building is painted white, as if it'll wash away all their sins. Though there are windows, somehow it felt a lot colder than it should have.
Jaejoong doesn't know what possessed him to say yes. He guesses it might have been the prospect of being locked up in the mental ward. Somewhere in his heart though, tells him the reason is something else altogether.
His aunt chastises him for being late, but doesn't say anymore when they enter the room. They are greeted by the guard on duty. Yoochun, he says with a lilt on his face, is his name.
"For some reason, he said that he'd like to meet you today," Yoochun smiles. It's all too clear how hopeful he is, Jaejoong notices. Perhaps he cares a lot more than he should.
They are led to a small room, sparsely furnished with a glass wall cleanly cleaving the room to two. There are tiny holes in it, like a speaker. Like the only thing that can worm its way in are words.
"No. 3987," the warden announces mechanically, devoid of warmth. When the door opens, Jaejoong cannot help but let out a small gasp. There stood a man of his height, hair down in soft locks, nearly covering his eyes. What surprised him was how familiar his eyes looked, like the spark's gone and all that's left is an emptiness and a dead end.
How it looked so much like his.
"So you must be Yunho," his aunt greets, smile betraying the joy of finally being able to see him.
No. 3987, or Yunho, eyes her with a steely gaze. "The reason why I agreed to see you wasn't to talk to you," he says.
"You know, when I was a kid, I went to a few Catholic services in order to get food." He speaks, as if mocking them. "But once, there was a vagrant close to death. Because of the sister's kind actions, he was overcome with emotion and grasped her hand."
Abruptly, Yunho stretched both of his hands out, fingers gnarled and calloused. "At that instant she pulled back and cried out in rejection," he says, grasping onto Jaejoong's
it's been fun (:
more than a year old, nostalgic, and an (im)proper farewell?
some days i miss them a lot. some days i wished i hadn't fell out. oh well.
some of these are rather long, but incomplete nonetheless. hope you enjoy.
edit: found one more.
hogwarts fic, ot5.
The minute Jaejoong receives the letter, he reads it once over, then again to make sure he's not dreaming, before tearing down the stairs to search for his best friend, Yunho. Jaejoong's still in his pyjamas then; they're a little tattered and oversized, but Jaejoong doesn't really care much about his appearance right now. He sprints across the hallways until he reaches the forty-first door on the left, and then yanks it open without hesitation. Inside, he spots Yunho, who looks as if he is about to sprint out of the door to find Jaejoong as well, so there's a little bumping of foreheads among the both of them before they settle. Yunho eyes him with equal glee when they sit by the narrow bed and compare matching envelopes. They clutch onto each others hands for awhile, just because everything seemed too fucking surreal to be true. And due to the intensity of their excitement, a few random sparks start to whiz above their heads in elation as well.
The sparks eventually fizzle out when they're a little calmer. Not quite calm, but calm enough to subconsciously reign in their powers. A stray spark lands onto Jaejoong's envelope and crackles before dying out. Jaejoong is momentarily surprised by the sound, but snaps out of it enough to pull Yunho into a tight hug, as if the full-body contact would allow Jaejoong to properly transfer his emotions across. The envelopes remains between them, resting silently on the slightly dirty blanket. They are peeling at the edges, with a slight yellow searing the crinkled papers and small, miniscule bumps in between; a little like parchment. There are emblems at the top, stamped proudly in black, and there are purple wax seals clamping the flaps into place. The 'H' imprinted on them are now halved, due to Jaejoong's and Yunho's utter excitement upon receiving the letter. Yunho sidles closer to Jaejoong, bringing him closer in the embrace, and they sit there for awhile, relishing in the moment. Jaejoong then edges a little nearer to Yunho as well, effectively scrunching up the blanket and sending the envelope straight down to the cemented floor. He barely hears the soft thud of the letters connecting against the ground, because Jaejoong's too happy, and so the only thing he hears now, is them, their breaths enveloping the whole room, rising and falling in perfect harmony.
“It's really happening,” Yunho breathes after a few minutes of comfortable silence.
“Yeah,” Jaejoong mumbles; his heart makes happy loop-de-loops in his body. “It is.”
The envelopes fall on the ground. One seal slips apart, while the other remains intact. The former's flap slowly unfolds itself, before a piece of paper partially slides out. It is jagged around the edges, and a little yellowed too, just like the envelope itself. On the paper, there are words inked in a cursive scrawl. Jaejoong and Yunho's address are at the top left corner, but this particular one is addressed to a Mr. Kim Jaejoong. Trailing down, a 'Dear Mr. Kim' is seen, before the words 'We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry' come into view, a little shielded by the flap of the envelope, but nonetheless distinct all the same.
“We're going to Hogwarts.”
/
creepy jaemin, black swan inspired
aejoong is quiet, and unbearingly so. His heart is racing and his lungs feel as if they're about to explode, scrape blood onto his ribcage. But he refuses to breathe. The canvas before him blurs his vision with dried acrylic and unfilled spaces; a picture of a wilting flower in the hands of a baby. One more stroke till completion. Jaejoong steadies his brush, bites his lips to prevent a single breath from escaping, and stares at the spot until his eyes tear, prickle with pain. The throbbing ache from his chest is determinedly ignored, and he dabbles one last stroke onto his work of art. It had to be perfect.
Only after does he release his breath. He scrutinizes the painting for a few seconds. The baby in the painting is in frozen laughter. A flower is held in one of his hand, and a shriveled petal in another. It's as if he's amused by the fragility of the flower. How it folds with the slightest squeeze of his hand; death is only inevitable for the weak. Under close observation though, by the very edge of the baby's eyes, there is a single tear. Jaejoong lets out a satisfied smirk and ghosts his hands over that tear trickling down the baby's cheek. He bites his lips, and touches his own eye, then laughs. It's been too long since he had last cried.
-
In the showers, Jaejoong allows himself a small groan when the icy water connects with his skin. He stretches to loosen the muscles, and then begins to rub the paint stains off his hands.
The water that spirals down the drain is inked a deep red used to paint the flower. A stray thought latches onto Jaejoong, about how it reminds him of blood. It's almost as if he had killed someone, and was now ridding of the evidence. And he laughs at that thought, before going back to scraping the paint off his body. Murder is too risky these days. It takes about five rounds and a little more before the stubborn acrylic is gone.
Jaejoong grabs a towel and dries himself off. He frowns in distaste when he reaches his hands though - there's a patch of red on his palm. He grabs a bottle of soap, squirts forcefully straight onto the stain, turns on the tap and attempts to scrape it all away. But Jaejoong's persistence is met with stubborness as it refuses to get off. Jaejoong lets out a frustrated growl; his rubbing turns to nails scratching and finally frantic clawing. Satisfaction only comes after his palm is burned an angry red when the paint is finally gone.
Smiling, Jaejoong brings his palm to his eyes to admire his work. The scratch marks burns against his pale skin, now peeling. But the paint is finally gone. He blinks once. Somehow the patch of red reappears. Jaejoong growls in displeasure, and frowns in confusion, ready to seize the bottle of soap. But when he blinks again, it disappears. Like it's never been there.
-
Jaejoong always loved art. He loved to paint, watch colours blend like second nature with a flick of his brush. All in his control. He never had so much power over something before. The fumes became the very air he breathed and blotches of colour the only thing he sees from morning till night. A brush was nothing less than a third hand to him. He thought in brush strokes, imagination framed by oil paints and water colour. Nothing could stop him from art.
It seemed only natural to pursue an arts major in college, before graduating as a freelance artist. Jaejoong did just that. His family was mildly displeased though. Art could consume a person whole, his father had warned. But Jaejoong never took him seriously.
Be careful, his mother had said. Jaejoong had merely beamed, suitcase in hand, and walked away.
-
“Your art is most certainly one of the best out there, Kim-sshi,” the man says, while strolling and occasionally bending to observe Jaejoong's paintings.
“Thank you Mr. Park,” Jaejoong murmurs. He clenches his fists, in nervousness and desperation. He needed this. It was his big break. A hand makes its way to his tresses; he scratches his scalp gently. Sometimes he has a habit of scratching his hair, especially during pangs of nervousness. He would shake his head, watch the dandruff fall to the ground like snowflakes. When they land on his skin he will burn in guilt of indulging in the bad habit.
“Now,” Mr. Park continues. “The question is whether or not you're good enough for the job.”
“I am!” Jaejoong immediately says. He retracts his hand from his hair, and catches himself. “I-I mean, I believe so sir.” He steals one glance at his hand, and tries to hold back his gasp. The fingertips were brushed a dark red that prickles. Jaejoong holds back the urge of sniffing for blood. He tucks his hand into his pocket, and bites his lips. Resisting the ache to claw at his fingertips was harder than he expected.
“You're good, Mr. Kim,” Mr. Park says contemplatively. “But you paint with a fatal flaw.”
Jaejoong's eyes widen, his nails digging small crescents onto his palm. Like he's drawing blood. “W-what do you mean?” he asks. There was no way his art could be flawed. Everything had to be perfect. A slight hysteria creeps up his spine and the images in his mind race faster than he can think. Of mocking laughter, condemnation. Of splattered red on his walls. Of tattered paintings. Of failure.
“Your paintings are too perfect,” is an answer he gets, very much unexpected.
“In all technicality, there's nothing wrong with your works. But there's no emotion. No feeling from the paintings.” He continues. “You need to feel art, Mr. Kim. Not create.”
“You get the job. But remember what I said, Mr. Kim. Don't let me down.”
-
Your paintings are too perfect.
Jaejoong crashes into the washroom, careful to lock the door. The only thing he hears is the gushing of water from the tap, as he frantically washed the red away from his hands, and the echoing of Mr. Park's words, relentless and unforgiving.
Your paintings are too perfect.
He uses up the entire bottle of soap, but the red still remains. Jaejoong rubs, claws in attempt to scrape it all away, until his skin peels and sheds crimson. But it doesn't come off. Like an imprint of burning guilt after murder. The bloodstains always remain on the hands of the villian. In the brief period of black Jaejoong sees when he blinks, the stains somehow seemed to have spread to his wrists.
Your paintings are not perfect.
Jaejoong washes and rinses and scrapes but the red's never gone and in frustration he could do nothing but slam his hands against the basin, trembling. His heartbeats thunder in his ears it's as if they're bleeding from the inside, screaming at him to get out, throwing him out of his body. Jaejoong needed art as much as he needed this. He had to be perfect.
Your paintings are not worth looking at.
Letting out a frustrated scream, Jaejoong smashes his fist to the mirror, uncaring of how the broken shards scraped against his knuckles. It wasn't as if they weren't red in the first place. More blood on his hands only meant he's a step nearer to death. In death he could be free, but in life there was art. He stuck on just for that.
This time he feels the pain. The scratches on his fists throb in a dull ache. Jaejoong stares at it for awhile, numb, before the image in his mind solidifies again. It's of him, laughing in satisfaction.
Jaejoong takes a deep breath. He's determined to prove that old man wrong.
Gathering himself from the aftermath of his anger, Jaejoong raises his bloodied fist to his lips. His tongue peeks out, takes a slow lick to taste the blood. It is bitter, and lingers at the back of his throat after. Persistent and unsettling.
Hours later, the blood dries up, hardens and crusts over the scratches. An ugly reminder to his imperfection. It scars.
-
Mr. Park wanted sinister. He wanted ominous. A painting that sent chills down one's body, in lieu with his Halloween party. Jaejoong didn't know how to do that.
But he throws such thoughts to the wind. Today he was going to celebrate.
Yoochun, his best friend, has thrown a party in accordance to Jaejoong's new commision. Clinching a deal with one of the most influential businessman in Korea was not something to be taken lightly. Jaejoong knew he was treading on dangerous ground.
In the midst of celebrations, Jaejoong spots a fresh face. He nurses on his glass of whiskey, nudge Yoochun before pointing to the person perched on the stool. Tall with innocent eyes and an aura of mystery. Jaejoong's curiousity is rustled. The man appears to be making light conversation with the bartender, his smile unbearingly bright.
“Who's that,” Jaejoong whispers to Yoochun, earning an amused chuckle.
Yoochun leans, whispers to Jaejoong's ear, breath tickling. “Shim Changmin. Budding new artist.”
“Cute,” Jaejoong says unconsciously. Yoochun laughs.
“Dangerous too,” he says nonchalantly. “His paintings are unique. Caught the eye of many. People say he's got potential to be one of the best. The best even.”
Jaejoong freezes upon hearing Yoochun's words. His glass trembles along with his hand. With narrowed eyes, Jaejoong strode closer, approaches Changmin from behind. Any protest from Yoochun goes unheard over the faint buzzing of his skull.
“Hey,” Jaejoong settles in a seat next to Changmin's. He attempts an endearing smile. It comes out more threatening and awkward than anything else.
Changmin is genuinely surprised, and happy too, from the way his eyes lit up when he saw Jaejoong. “H-Hi.”
Jaejoong smirks, leans closer and snakes a hand around Changmin, ignoring his gasp. His lips brush slightly against Changmin's neck, before he brings it up to his ear. He rubs the other's thigh lazily in circles, and breathes, teasing. “I'm Jaejoong,” he whispers. And he swears he felt a shiver from Changmin.
Before Changmin has the chance to reply though, Jaejoong abruptly extracts himself and vanishes into the crowd. He allows himself a brief glance back. Changmin's eyes are lost now, frightened even; his lips pressed into a thin line, visibly rattled. But there was a spark of wonderment in them too.
So vulnerable, Jaejoong thinks in amusement.
-
When he is home, his mind is constantly plagued only with Changmin's frightened, frightened eyes.
In bed, the thought of Changmin spreads to his entire self. Words flit past his subconscious - Your paintings are too perfect - people say he's got potential to be one of the best. The best even. - H-Hi - and he growls, clutches onto his blankets tight. Changmin's fright morphs into a smug grin, sends shadows that engulf Jaejoong, ink his skin with crimson oils. One manages to creep past his lips, and it stains his mouth with the bitter taste of blood yet again. Like he's consuming his own self from within. Jaejoong trembles, his body in spasms as he thrashes in his bed in attempt to block the images out. His mouth is unable to contain the blood, and it overflows, drips unceremoniously into the darkness and floods his lungs, choking him. He bolts.
In the bathroom the shower is hastily turned to full blast as Jaejoong strips himself of his clothes. He scrubs his entire body, and uses up another bottle of soap. Jaejoong rinses his mouth, yanks his teeth and rubs the walls forcefully over and over again until the bitterness is gone. He pants, desperate, tries not to swallow the water gushing down when he rids himself of the red. The water that flows from his body does not change in colour. It takes three rounds, and angry red scratch marks over his entire body before he is satisfied.
But when he settles into bed and shuts his eyes again, all he can see is the innocent glimmer of Changmin's eyes, hiding something sinister. The echos of mocking laughter trail from behind. There is blood shed, once again.
Whether it is his or not, Jaejoong does not know.
-
“No.”
Jaejoong blinks, relatively taken aback. He presses his legs together, tense, carefully watches as Mr. Park scrutinizes his painting. “Look at it. Do you feel anything from it? The least scared?” He glances up to Jaejoong, eyes expectant of a reply. Jaejoong hastily adverts his gaze to the painting. No matter how he tries to conjure some form of emotion though, there is no spark. He shakes his head, guilty.
The painting is thrust back into Jaejoong's hands. “I expect more the next time we meet.” And Jaejoong can do nothing but hastily nod his head, relieved of a second chance.
Beyond the blur by his tears, Jaejoong only makes out faint blobs when he returns home, painting chucked into the nearest dustbin on the way out. Walking without focus causes him to bump against something, or someone. Only after he wipes his tears does he make out the startled figure he had collided against. It was Changmin.
“J-Jaejoong-sshi-” Changmin stutters. “A-are you-al-alright?” His body is bent awkwardly, as if in hesitation of whether to reach down and help Jaejoong up, or to stand there, polite, and observe Jaejoong clamber up by himself.
“Drop the sshi,” is the first thing that comes to his mind, and out of his mouth. Changmin is startled, but not as much as Jaejoong is by himself. He eventually picks himself up and faces Changmin, careful to allow a small smirk to play on his face. A sign of confidence, even if he doesn't feel very much so inside. It was always necessary to show that he was in control. Of himself, especially.
“Um. Jaejoong h-hyung -” Changmin abruptly adverts his gaze and extends his hand. “I- I love your paintings, Jaejoong hyung.” There is an embarrassed flush on Changmin's cheeks after he says this, and it makes Jaejoong mildly amused. He grasps onto Changmin's hand, a gentle brush at first, before he wraps around the other. There is a hitch in Changmin's breath. They shake hands. It comes off a little awkward, and tense. What Jaejoong finds it strange is the brief scraping of wood he hears when his arms clasp around Changmin's. A soft undertone in his ears, and a snap, like the sound of a brush breaking.
Snap. Jaejoong extracts his hand away, and he beams. “I'll see you around,” he says, earning an eager and incredulous nod from Changmin. Like he can't believe in the prospect of a second meeting. Only when Changmin walks away does Yoochun's words flood back to him. Dangerous too. People say he's got potential to be one of the best. He could be the best.
Snap. Jaejoong blinks, catches himself and swerves around to steal a glance of Changmin's retreating back. He is headed in the direction of where Jaejoong had came from. The Park Corporations. A visible tremble overtakes Jaejoong, his eyes narrowing in suspicion and anger. Snap. The sound escalates in volume. Jaejoong brings his hand - the one that shook Changmin's - to his face. The edge of his nails are of a rusty red, and a faint brush of ugly purple peeks from beneath his nails. Snap. He gasps, and hastily picks at it. It takes awhile before he gives up, and scurries home, the back of his mind burned with the image of Changmin's smile, shy and disconcerting. It needed to be torn apart, bloodied and ripped from his face.
Snap. Jaejoong hopes he makes it back alive.
-
The door is slammed in complete panic when Jaejoong finally stumbles home. He takes deep breaths, willing to calm himself down. There was something about Changmin that sears his mind - perhaps the piercing sincerity in his smile, or the forceful pull of his paintings. Every time he closes his eyes there is the shy curve of Changmin's smile in the periphery of darkness, and it burns him from the inside, a slow fire beneath his lungs. Every lick brings about another wave of pain. Like it's going to rip him apart. Shred his skin so fine it'll be like the snowflakes in his hair.
Snap. He bites his lips until the skin gives away, draws blood once again, desperate for the taste. Changmin's meek voice ghosts past his mind. I love your art, Jaejoong-hyung, sweet like caramel-coated apples and childish laughter. But it morphs. His voice deepens and the syllables are drawn out, mocking even. A constant repitition in Jaejoong's head wrapped in silky velvet draped around his throat. Every repeated sentence brings a harsher tug, straining his neck muscles and juxtaposing the whites of his skin, coaxing the very air out of him. A quiet death.
And then Changmin's smile becomes a cruel smirk, eyes a piercing black and he stabs daggers into Jaejoong from within, once, twice, thrice until Jaejoong loses count and screams. He screams. Screams until his throat burns, velvet cloth tightening around it with every breath he takes and he's clawing at it. I love your art, Jaejoong-hyung, I love your art, Jaejoong-hyung a constant mantra in his mind, high pitched and mockingly drawled. Shut up- shut up shutupshutupshutup - Jaejoong thrashes, hands fighting between covering his ears and latching onto his throat. And he claws at it, rips and tears until his ear turns an angry red and the cloth breaks. Snap. It dissipates into black feathers, disintegrating once they touch the floor. He can breathe again.
Jaejoong blinks once, twice, and the night is still again. It's as if nothing had happened in the first place. He draws out a slow incredulous grin, settles onto a chair and picks up a brush, still visibly rattled. Licking his lips, he grabs an empty canvas from the sides and dabbles paint onto his palette, hands trembling. Imagination grows a pair of hands and they wrap around Jaejoong's; it guides the brush across the canvas in bold strokes. There's a quiet burn in him today that intensifies his urge to paint.
In between deep shades of paper white, crimson and black, a figure takes shape. The eyes are drenched in red, bloodshot and haunted, then well defined cheekbones and a teasing smirk playing on the lips. It's Changmin, Jaejoong realizes. The features all belong to Changmin.
I love your art, Jaejoong-hyung, a soft teasing whisper caresses the crook of Jaejoong's ear. It startles him. He drops his paintbrush, bends down and picks it up with trembling arms. In sight with the painting again, Jaejoong notices a slight brush of red along Changmin's skin in the painting. It's not supposed to be there. He frowns, hastily blots white over the red. But the red seeps through, past the white and collects into a droplet that trickles to the base of the canvas. It gathers there, onto the concrete floor Jaejoong had painted, like a puddle of blood. He stirs in mild panic, unconsciously snaps his paint brush into half as the puddle spills over his canvas, stains the wood of his easel and the carpeted floor. Snap. It spreads to his feet, and before Jaejoong can bolt, inches up his feet. It nearly triggers several kicks from him, eventually restrained.
Frantic, he crouches on the stool, lifts his feet up and wipes the red away with a cloth. But it remains, etches right into Jaejoong's skin, Jaejoong's veins. He struggles, to maintain balance and to rid of the red - peels and peels until his skin tears away. Then his phone rings. It snaps Jaejoong out enough for him to grab the phone and bolt to the bathroom. When he settles, and answers the phone - Hi it's Yoochun and I was wondering if - the trail of red disappears, and the patch of skin he had peeled returns to normal. Jaejoong lets out a sigh of relief, and reverts his attention back to Yoochun. After hanging up, Jaejoong showers, scrubs his feet, his knees for a few rounds until he's finally satisfied.
Outside, the puddle of blood vanishes, and only an awkward blot of white on Changmin's cheek remains, his smirk as unsettling as ever.
Snap.
/
paper walls, yunjae
This is a story about an ordinary neighbourhood with ordinary green trees that naturally turn orange, brown and bald as the ordinary year passes by. And besides such ordinary trees, there are also ordinary houses with ordinary white picket fences and ordinary garages filled with ordinary cars that only differ in size and color. But otherwise, they are still the same cars you can find anywhere in the world. In fact, the entire place is so ordinary that even the people started to become ordinary as well. You see, this is a story where these ordinary people have peepholes on their chest to their hearts, so that doens't really make them very ordinary people as well, normal people like us don't usually have such things on our body. And even friends or family members of such ordinary people can take a peek at their hearts if they are allowed to. But then the ordinary people grew afraid of showing their true emotions, of baring themselves for the world to see, as these people aren't very sure of themselves, being ordinary and all. So they started building walls around their heart - fortified with steel and bricks and everything in between, just to protect it from breaking and crumbling down into tiny pieces. These ordinary people also start inventing ordinary clothes that covered the peephole securely, and from then on, sealed their extraordinary hearts away from the rest of the ordinary world. So the ordinary people became ordinary once again.
In this ordinary place, there are also two houses erected side by side each other, where the inhabitants live normal lives and have normal nine to five jobs, but hated each other with a fearful intensity. And although the houses have the same ordinary red roofs, the same white picket fence and the same freshly mown lawn, in between the two houses is a wall so tall and so thick that it is not a very ordinary wall at all. In fact, it is so tall and so thick that no one has been able to knock it down (or had even bothered trying, for that matter). This is only because the two ordinary neighbours decided one day that they couldn't stand seeing each other, and hence decided to build a wall. Because walls are the best ways to shut people off. And the neighbours really wanted to shut themselves away from each other. So for generations onwards, the wall remains erect at the same ordinary spot in between the two, almost symmetrical houses, slicing off all form of communication from the two rather ordinary families.
Until of course, the ordinary neighbours give birth to a baby boy each, born on the same ordinary time of the same ordinary day of the same ordinary month of the same ordinary year. Because not even a wall can stand against such a strong fate between the two babies, especially when they are named Yunho and Jaejoong.
This is a story about breaking down walls.
/
Jaejoong thinks of himself as a rather sad child. Tragic, actually, he believes it would be more fitting a word than sad.
He feels that he does not have a very caring family like most others have, and that he is not as popular as he wants to be. Jaejoong flits through this phase of his life rather meaninglessly, he believes. He goes through the same ordinary routine every single day just to be molded into some ordinary person society approves of. Maybe it is due to the fact that he is a teenager, and it is perhaps the teenage angst that is settling in, causing him to have a rather negative outlook on his life as of now. But Jaejoong refuses to believe it is so. He thinks his negativity is justified. He hates his life.
There isn't a moment in time where he can remember his mother ever hugging him, or his father praising him of anything - like the time where he had painted a marvellous picture of the sky with tiny swallows captured in their mid-flight to freedom, or the time where he had scored full marks for his math. They had told him that such praises, that such signs of affection was bad for the heart. It would make him vulnerable. It would make him weak. It would make him regret and blame them in the future.
Jaejoong doesn't really know why though, as he's feeling pretty vulnerable now, without their love.
He does remember that his mother had told him once why this is so, when he was five and curious and his mother, exasperated by his onslaught of questions. She had sat him down onto the little green chair right at the corner and had squatted right in front of him, face etched with a little sadness and a faint hint of tenderness. She had sighed a little; Jaejoong remembers, how her eyebrows had stitched together in contemplation, and her hands had crossed each other, while she was thinking of perhaps the most appropriate way to put this to a five year old.
She told him about the story of their peepholes and their hearts, about how Jaejoong has to build strong walls around his so that no one can ever see it. How Jaejoong, the young innocent Jaejoong, had to hurry up and grow so that Jaejoong would no longer be innocent and he would no longer be young. Instead, Jaejoong would be strong and mature and so knowing of the world that no one, no one would be able to exploit him or tear away his defences.
Because the world is cruel, his mother had said. The world isn't forgiving or filled with nice people like in story books and television shows. There will be bad people. There will be people that would take advantage of the weaknesses in Jaejoong, and rip him apart until there's nothing of him left but his tears and blood. And there will be, there will be such people in the world that they need to be wary of, and the best way to protect himself against these people is to grow strong.
“So Mama,” Jaejoong had curiously asked. “Does that mean I have to build walls...like the one at the garden?”
Jaejoong can remember clearly how his mother's face had changed into an expression of horror and fury at the mention of that wall.
/
tastebuds, onkey
onew kisses key on a dry sunday with the sun up against their backs and a lazy breeze skimming the frayed ends of his jeans. key tastes like lemons: sour with a hidden zest; it simmers quietly on onew's tongue once they've pulled out, nice and slow. he threads his fingers across key's brown locks, the sweat painting a sticky sheen after a comb. he thinks it would have tasted a little salty too, if he had dared to dabble some on his lips for a taste. onew doesn't though. instead, he grins lazily at key, who smirks in return.
but he wishes he had.
/
playtime, supposed link to showtime / bedtime, yunjae
Imagine a box.
Imagine it has little boxes inside, all shaped like houses and a blue sky painted on the inner faces. Imagine there are street lamps lining the tarmac on the box's base, and a mini sun suspended from the very top.
Imagine there are people walking, like how they do in your neighbourhood. They hobble along the streets and some of them walk so fast you feel like there's never enough time in the world for everything. Imagine some bushes and trees along the sidewalk and an occasional bird perched on a fence.
Imagine there is a Kim Jaejoong living in one of the little house-boxes, and a Jung Yunho living in another. Imagine that Kim Jaejoong's family oppresses him, and wants him to be a lawyer no matter how he doesn't want to and how he hates law. Imagine that Jung Yunho's family is the same, except that they don't want him to be a lawyer. They want him to delve into the business world and succeed their empire.
Imagine the strongest tape you can has sealed up the box from the inside and the outside; imagine Kim Jaejoong and Jung Yunho to be a hundredth the size of this box. Imagine the amount of hatred they have, and the amount of restrain they are feeling from not being able to do something they want.
Now, imagine that they try to jump and struggle, despite their sizes to open this box, to peel away the layers and layers of tape bit by bit just to pry apart the edges.
Imagine how the box can never open.
--
Jaejoong's never good with first impressions, especially when he's here, with the heir of the Jung Company that everyone worships. Not Jaejoong though - Jaejoong's never been into such things, and never will, even if his future job requires him too. He sighs, and fiddles with the straw of his smoothie, before meeting the other's eyes.
Jung Yunho, one of the most highly anticipated businessmen of the year 2011. Having graduated from Seoul University, Jung Yunho's supposed to possess high intellectual capacity, as well as a shrewd mindset in order to takeover the family's business. He's supposed to be a gentleman too, charming ladies with every step and every smirk he makes, and is therefore considered one of the most 'perfect human beings' in the entire world. At least, that's what the magazines say.
Jaejoong doesn't find him any less impressive than the people he's met before though.
Yunho tries hard, Jaejoong can see, to be like how everyone else should - straight posture, a polite smile in between sentences and always trying to feed in an advertisement or two for his company in his speech. But Yunho's a little strange too. Sometimes he stumbles on his words, and shuffles his feet unintentionally. Sometimes he accidentally laughs a little too loud when Jaejoong says something and then covers his mouth in shock, as if he's realized that he isn't supposed to do that. And there are also times where Jaejoong's caught Yunho secretly tracing intricate patterns in his coffee; it isn't something anyone here does.
Yunho's different, Jaejoong concludes. And he doesn't fit here.
“What about you, Jaejoong-sshi?”
Yunho looks up then, and tilts his head in anticipation for Jaejoong's reply. Jaejoong is caught in the middle of his thoughts, and jolts upwards.
“Um, what were you saying?” Jaejoong asks hesitantly, shooting him an awkward smile. He curses in the inside and tries not to fumble too obviously. Yunho manages a polite grin in return, and repeats his sentence. Jaejoong laughs then, as if he's trying to clear up their awkward atmosphere, and they continue with their conversation as if nothing's happened, like how they should. Later, he reviews his first meeting in his mind, and lets out a resigned sigh.
It's not like he fits here any better.
--
Jaejoong's supposed to become acquainted with Yunho, because apparently their families are supposed to go into some partnership, and also apparently their parents decided to send them out for reconaissance. So Jaejoong meets Yunho every Friday at the cafe just for some idle talk (and some intellectual ones too), just to get to know the other better and supposedly judge whether or not he's suitable enough for their partnership to take flight.
He may seem enthusiastic and cheerful on the outside when he meets Yunho, but Jaejoong really doesn't want to do this. He's so sick and tired of the forced smiles he has to put on and the diplomatic shifts in topics he has to make because he has to and because it is his job to do so. It is for the sake of his family, and it is for the sake of a stronger law firm, for them. But Jaejoong really doesn't want to.
He tries sometimes, to get out of their meetings, but his parents always find out in the end, and so he is forced once again back to that same rigid chair ordering the same smoothie and holding stiff, awkward conversations with Jung Yunho.
Frankly, Jaejoong likes Yunho. He likes the way Yunho sometimes act as if he's not here for a business partnership (though he tries his best to do so), and how he doesn't act as if he has a stick shoved up his ass like most peope do. But Jaejoong isn't supposed to let his feelings, or opinions about Yunho affect his judgement. He's supposed to judge Yunho based on how everyone else does to people they meet - on a superficial level, how he acts and how he speaks and not the tiny things he does that make his character. Jaejoong's supposed to do just that, and see if he indeed has the intellectual capacity and the wits to do business.
But everytime Yunho laughs a little too loud, Jaejoong cannot help but like him more and more.
No one else does that anymore.
--
It's on their fifth meeting that Jaejoong lets out a little slip in his act. They're still in the same cafe, because it is there that they are supposed to meet, and not anywhere else. Because they aren't supposed to meet anywhere else. And just because. Jaejoong has a smoothie as usual, and Yunho is now with a cup of coffee. There are distinct eyebags on Yunho's face this time, and this makes Jaejoong a little worried. Nonetheless, Jaejoong does not say anything about it, because he isn't supposed to, and instead they carry on talking about mundane things, like how the other companies are doing, and where they stand on the unforgiving social ladder in life.
/
strange jaemin
the best feeling in the world is when the person you're singing to sings back. jaejoong's experienced this one, back in the corner of his high school days where there had been a part of him that hated everything. changmin had sang to him, during one of their stolen times on the rooftop. soft melodies that no one knew except for both of them- i'll pen down a thousand words / and give you one / my heart / would you like my heart/
changmin had smiled then, so softly and heartbreakingly it makes jaejoong ask what's wrong. it's nothing, changmin had said. it's nothing at all. but then he asks jaejoong if he would miss him if he was gone. jaejoong had not known what to say then, and perhaps out of the uneasiness of it all, waved it off as a joke. i won't, he had said. inside, he thinks, too much. i'd miss you too much.
the next day, jaejoong had been told that they had found changmin by the river, eyes without a soul and his mouth gaped open, as if he had never managed to say his last goodbyes.
and they say when you die you'd forget how you had lived.
jaejoong does not cry during changmin's funeral. but he thumps his chest a few times, just making sure he doesn't have an extra heartbeat. just making sure changmin hadn't given him his heart to die.
xxx
there is an echo of a stream where jaejoong is. a lonely, hollow sound of the wind, skirting past his ears; the stir of leaves and the persistent sound of crickets underneath a map of stars, imbued in jaejoong's mind. but above all, there is an echo of a stream. persistent and distinct. the echo of a solitary stream - weathered with age, wiser with every rainfall it collects.
jaejoong takes a deep breath, traces the seams of his jeans, and trudges on.
/
the times when we were happy / 私たちの幸せな時間
-- 10 a.m. on Thursdays. That was the time we got to live --
There are times when the world seemed bleak, Jaejoong thinks. Like when you wake up in the mornings just to pray that it'll be night again. How you recoil from the warmth of the sun, curl yourself up in a corner, basking in the shadows. Jaejoong likes that. Because when he was in the dark, it's as if he could live unaffected by the true identity of things that coiled around him, strangling him.
Refusing to let him go.
And so, it was around the time when November was coming to an end, that Jaejoong tested death.
--
The first thing Jaejoong awakes to is the sun's rays. It stings his skin. He turns around, away from the window, from the warmth. Inside he is a little disappointed, and very much resigned. So he manages to live again.
He closes his eyes. He remembers that lull between his collapse and his awakening. There had been ivory keys in his dream, like never ending steps that Jaejoong had to climb. Every step he took produced a note, and every note that rung through that black empty space resonated with an echo of a laughter. A chilling laugh that Jaejoong never wanted to hear ever again.
The next time Jaejoong opens his eyes, he finds a woman standing next to his bedside, eyeing disdainfully at the IV drip piercing his veins, as if sucking his very life away. Somehow though, all Jaejoong could feel was a disarming sense of numbness and a wave of indifference.
"How strange," he says with a cynical smile, brown locks brushing against his cheek. "Even though I'm finally awake, when I see your face, I want to die again, Umma."
"How petty," is the reply he gets. Unexpected, but not shocking. "You think fighting with your mother is fun, even at your age, do you?" Her eyes flutter, lashes brushing against the wrinkles drawn by the hands of time.
"Well," she sighs. "If you'd excuse me."
There's a sickening feeling in Jaejoong's stomach when he hears her words. It interwines with the darkness and weighs on his heart. Somehow, Jaejoong couldn't bring himself to care. He knew his mother had never loved him.
"Your tenacity towards life is the same as ever," he says idly. "Even when you drained away Appa's life, you kept on living..."
A turn. Jaejoong barely catches the frown on her face. That is the last he sees of her for a long time.
--
The first night--
"I decided to die, because if I had lived any longer, I'd kill you."
--
Jaejoong dreams of drowning together with his mother.
"It would have been better if you were never born."
--
While they plunge, his hands are on her neck.
"You are pathetic."
--
And Jaejoong swore he could feel her life escaping into the waters.
How many times have I heard those words?
--
Disappearing, like how he would.
--
The next time Jaejoong awakes he sees another woman by his bedside, black scarf draped around her head and a cross on her neck. It's been a long time since he had last saw her.
"Aunt Monica," Jaejoong hurriedly greets, mouth agape in shock.
She smiles, and Jaejoong could just taste the autumn air during that year they spent together. It made him feel like a child again. A gust of air fills the room, pressing against his skin, eerily pale.
"It's been a long time, hasn't it?"
--
--"I'm not waiting for that day... To me, the hours that pass by each day are just an agony that I want to fling away, along with myself."--
His aunt hasn't changed a single bit. Her words still manage to cut him like before, like no one else's did. Today though, there was something different about the way she spoke. A little solemn, a little of disappointment and an air of sorrow.
"No. 3987," she murmurs, and continues despite Jaejoong's lost expression.
"He's a convict on death row. I keep on sending him letters, but he won't meet me."
Inside, Jaejoong is a little curious, and a little taken aback at his aunt's persistence. Why care so much about someone who's about to die?
"That man has attempted suicide many times in prison," she continues, stares at Jaejoong pointedly.
"Just like you."
--
"Your mother sent you for a month's worth of counselling."
"It sounds like something she'd do. Pushing problems onto others."
"Say, why don't you lend me a hand instead?"
--
The first time Jaejoong visits the prison is on a Thursday morning, too warm and too bright for his liking. Inside the building is painted white, as if it'll wash away all their sins. Though there are windows, somehow it felt a lot colder than it should have.
Jaejoong doesn't know what possessed him to say yes. He guesses it might have been the prospect of being locked up in the mental ward. Somewhere in his heart though, tells him the reason is something else altogether.
His aunt chastises him for being late, but doesn't say anymore when they enter the room. They are greeted by the guard on duty. Yoochun, he says with a lilt on his face, is his name.
"For some reason, he said that he'd like to meet you today," Yoochun smiles. It's all too clear how hopeful he is, Jaejoong notices. Perhaps he cares a lot more than he should.
They are led to a small room, sparsely furnished with a glass wall cleanly cleaving the room to two. There are tiny holes in it, like a speaker. Like the only thing that can worm its way in are words.
"No. 3987," the warden announces mechanically, devoid of warmth. When the door opens, Jaejoong cannot help but let out a small gasp. There stood a man of his height, hair down in soft locks, nearly covering his eyes. What surprised him was how familiar his eyes looked, like the spark's gone and all that's left is an emptiness and a dead end.
How it looked so much like his.
"So you must be Yunho," his aunt greets, smile betraying the joy of finally being able to see him.
No. 3987, or Yunho, eyes her with a steely gaze. "The reason why I agreed to see you wasn't to talk to you," he says.
"You know, when I was a kid, I went to a few Catholic services in order to get food." He speaks, as if mocking them. "But once, there was a vagrant close to death. Because of the sister's kind actions, he was overcome with emotion and grasped her hand."
Abruptly, Yunho stretched both of his hands out, fingers gnarled and calloused. "At that instant she pulled back and cried out in rejection," he says, grasping onto Jaejoong's
it's been fun (: