SHINee Fic: JongYu
too young to sleep
jonghyun/onew, clichés
It starts with a window. A window and a shared balcony.
“Hey,” he says. He’s wearing jeans that are scuffed at the knee, shirt comfortable and snug in all the right places.
“Hey,” you smile (happy, stupid) and cross your arms to cover the ratty old jersey you forgot was so completely and utterly bad looking.
The bus stop is cold and empty save for the both of you, breath misting. He crosses his legs when he sits, leg thrown over the other so he can put his elbows on his calf as he leans forward to talk to you. It’s charming, the way he seems to bend closer to whomever he’s talking with. You lean closer too, just to see if he’ll lean away, only he never seems to notice so of course he just laughs and laughs and leans that much closer. And then the bus comes and he leaves and you’re going the opposite way so you wave goodbye as he laughs, face pressed to the window, and try hard not to watch it until it disappears into traffic.
You like to think that you’re lucky.
“Homework?” he asks as he leans over the balcony railing. His hair is mussed from soccer practice, sweat barely visible on his forearms, and you think he must have changed shirts because he’s not wearing the one he wore to school this morning.
“Uhm. Yeah,” you laugh and hold up your Biology textbook. “Kind of. Studying.” You shrug. He laughs.
“You sure are smart,” he says, stretching upward toward the sky, shirt rising above the waistband of his pants for a few seconds and you lose your breath.
“No,” you breathe, looking up at him from under your fringe. “Just studious.” And then you smile and he’s laughing harder, so free and happy, and he’s leaning closer to you over the railing, and god, you hope this never has to end.
“Studious,” he repeats, mulling over the word. “Doesn’t sound like much fun, though.” He locks eyes with you and for a heartbeat you think that he’s trying to tell you something, but then it’s your turn to laugh, curling in on yourself until your sides ache, and there’s something in his eyes that almost makes you wish it were true.
He leaves while saying something about a shower and needing to study and you’re left to sit on the balcony alone and hit the railing and throw your textbook against the wood floor because you’re young and you’re in love and it all seems so pointless and messy and you don’t know how to express it any other way.
You are lucky, really, you are. It’s just you’re also a teenager and sometimes the unfairness in that is enough to block out the good things you’ve been given.
“Hey,” you call over to him, heart pounding. You normally don’t start the conversations. You normally don’t have the courage to. But he looks down today and his curtains are open and you think you saw him kicking his bed when he came home from school today, frustrated and angry, and. Well. You care.
He looks sideways at you, cheek pressed to his pillow. He smiles but it falls quickly and he turns away, staring at the wall opposite you.
You wish that didn’t hurt so much.
“Bad day?” you ask, though you’re sure he can’t hear because the window is closed, locked, shut tight. “I know. I’ve had them too. I understand.” You wring your hands together. “They sure suck. Don’t they?”
You’re standing on the corner of 5th and Georgia when he drives by, convertible top pulled back, and he’s got his girlfriend in the passenger seat. They’re laughing, happy and carefree, and she’s beautiful, gorgeous, and they’re singing to some old REO Speedwagon song with fingers entangled over the armrest. He doesn’t see you.
You forget where you were going and turn around and walk back home and close the curtains in your room.
“Hey,” he says. He’s out of breath, sweatpants bunched up around his knees, pajama shirt rumpled from sleep. He’s running after you.
“Hey,” you smile (oblivious, naïve) and try not to look like your heart is about to burst. “Long time no see.”
He bends forward and rests his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. “You sure walk fast,” he comments, laugh wheezing and disbelieving. “But. Yeah, hey. Have you been avoiding me lately or something?” he laughs, voice somewhat hesitant and overly nonchalant. “I mean, I haven’t seen you at the bus stop lately. And then there’s the curtains and all.”
You don’t answer because you’re not really sure what to say to that. You could lie, but you don’t want to, and the truth requires an explanation and that’s not something you think you’re ready for.
“Did I do something wrong?” He offers a smile, timid, friendly, and you want to take it, keep it in a pocket in your heart forever and ever only you’re afraid to.
“No,” you say. He waits expectantly for more.
“Onew,” he says when you don’t give it to him and you smile like you always do and pat him on the back and say You won’t miss me.
And you leave him at the bus stop, hands twisting nervously in your lap as you finally let him understand what it feels like to watch a bus disappear into traffic, unable to stop it.
Head between your knees, thighs pressed to chest, you heave a few deep breaths, stomach flipping as you try to swallow this suffocating feeling pushing against your ribcage.
It’s prom night and he’s in a tux, neatly pressed and crisp looking. He’s looking in the mirror, making sure not a hair is out of place with his jacket slung comfortably over his shoulder. And you’re hyperventilating over something you want to ask him, something you want to tell him, and you miss him as he walks out the door, miss the way he lingers at the light switch.
You miss the look he throws over his shoulder, lonely, regretful.
You calm your heart and talk yourself back into denial, back into an easy, love-free night.
He comes home around ten and you try to forget the fact that you stayed up waiting for him. You pull the blankets up higher under your chin and turn away from the window.
He steps outside, jacket and tie already discarded on his bed, and he leans forward on the railing with closed eyes and clasped hands. You suddenly can’t sleep.
You push the blankets down and swing your legs off the side of the bed, sitting still for a second as you debate your sanity before going outside to meet him on the balcony.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey,” he smiles, soft, wispy.
“You’re home early for prom night,” you joke, going to stand against your own railing.
“It was...” He laughs, sighs. “It was a bad night.”
You laugh back in reply, turning to press your stomach against the metal and say, “Yeah, I know. I’ve had those, too.” He shrugs but continues to smile. Your stomach flips. “They sure, uh. They sure suck, don’t they?”
“They do,” he nods, eyes catching yours and you try to swallow past the lump suddenly forming in your throat.
“So I noticed you weren’t there tonight,” he changes topic, head tilting to the side in curiosity.
You wave a hand at your pajamas. “Uhm, yeah. School dances aren’t really… I mean. I don’t really do well with. With social stuff.” You smile at him, bright and blinding. He doesn’t look convinced.
“Would’ve been better if you’d been there,” he says.
And there’s so much truth in it that you find yourself fumbling over your words, stuttering and silly, and you try to tell him what you’ve been trying to tell him for months, knuckles white as you grip the railing. He leans closer, leans forward, and takes your hands in his own from across the space in between your balconies and pulls you toward him.
“Jonghyun,” you say as he holds your face in his hands, eyes studying your every move, and suddenly he’s pressing lips to your cheek, kissing upward toward your eyelids which flutter closed. You can feel his eyelashes against your skin, light and ticklish.
And you’re both just silhouettes against a darkened night sky, stars lighting up the streets as you kiss underneath them. You’re just two boys, two teenagers, two people, young and lucky and in love.
And you’re on top of the world.
“You have no idea how long,” he breathes into you, ghosting across your cheek. “How long I’ve. About you. So, so long.”
“Me too,” you say, pushing forward into the kiss again.
So maybe life’s not perfect and maybe his ex-girlfriend will hate you and maybe you’re just naïve and stupid and too young to know what love is, but you think you’ve found it anyway, you think you understand a little more now.
It ends with a window. A window a balcony and a kiss.
Drivers Ed sucks. o;wakjdflamn.
jonghyun/onew, clichés
It starts with a window. A window and a shared balcony.
“Hey,” he says. He’s wearing jeans that are scuffed at the knee, shirt comfortable and snug in all the right places.
“Hey,” you smile (happy, stupid) and cross your arms to cover the ratty old jersey you forgot was so completely and utterly bad looking.
The bus stop is cold and empty save for the both of you, breath misting. He crosses his legs when he sits, leg thrown over the other so he can put his elbows on his calf as he leans forward to talk to you. It’s charming, the way he seems to bend closer to whomever he’s talking with. You lean closer too, just to see if he’ll lean away, only he never seems to notice so of course he just laughs and laughs and leans that much closer. And then the bus comes and he leaves and you’re going the opposite way so you wave goodbye as he laughs, face pressed to the window, and try hard not to watch it until it disappears into traffic.
You like to think that you’re lucky.
“Homework?” he asks as he leans over the balcony railing. His hair is mussed from soccer practice, sweat barely visible on his forearms, and you think he must have changed shirts because he’s not wearing the one he wore to school this morning.
“Uhm. Yeah,” you laugh and hold up your Biology textbook. “Kind of. Studying.” You shrug. He laughs.
“You sure are smart,” he says, stretching upward toward the sky, shirt rising above the waistband of his pants for a few seconds and you lose your breath.
“No,” you breathe, looking up at him from under your fringe. “Just studious.” And then you smile and he’s laughing harder, so free and happy, and he’s leaning closer to you over the railing, and god, you hope this never has to end.
“Studious,” he repeats, mulling over the word. “Doesn’t sound like much fun, though.” He locks eyes with you and for a heartbeat you think that he’s trying to tell you something, but then it’s your turn to laugh, curling in on yourself until your sides ache, and there’s something in his eyes that almost makes you wish it were true.
He leaves while saying something about a shower and needing to study and you’re left to sit on the balcony alone and hit the railing and throw your textbook against the wood floor because you’re young and you’re in love and it all seems so pointless and messy and you don’t know how to express it any other way.
You are lucky, really, you are. It’s just you’re also a teenager and sometimes the unfairness in that is enough to block out the good things you’ve been given.
“Hey,” you call over to him, heart pounding. You normally don’t start the conversations. You normally don’t have the courage to. But he looks down today and his curtains are open and you think you saw him kicking his bed when he came home from school today, frustrated and angry, and. Well. You care.
He looks sideways at you, cheek pressed to his pillow. He smiles but it falls quickly and he turns away, staring at the wall opposite you.
You wish that didn’t hurt so much.
“Bad day?” you ask, though you’re sure he can’t hear because the window is closed, locked, shut tight. “I know. I’ve had them too. I understand.” You wring your hands together. “They sure suck. Don’t they?”
You’re standing on the corner of 5th and Georgia when he drives by, convertible top pulled back, and he’s got his girlfriend in the passenger seat. They’re laughing, happy and carefree, and she’s beautiful, gorgeous, and they’re singing to some old REO Speedwagon song with fingers entangled over the armrest. He doesn’t see you.
You forget where you were going and turn around and walk back home and close the curtains in your room.
“Hey,” he says. He’s out of breath, sweatpants bunched up around his knees, pajama shirt rumpled from sleep. He’s running after you.
“Hey,” you smile (oblivious, naïve) and try not to look like your heart is about to burst. “Long time no see.”
He bends forward and rests his hands on his knees, breathing heavily. “You sure walk fast,” he comments, laugh wheezing and disbelieving. “But. Yeah, hey. Have you been avoiding me lately or something?” he laughs, voice somewhat hesitant and overly nonchalant. “I mean, I haven’t seen you at the bus stop lately. And then there’s the curtains and all.”
You don’t answer because you’re not really sure what to say to that. You could lie, but you don’t want to, and the truth requires an explanation and that’s not something you think you’re ready for.
“Did I do something wrong?” He offers a smile, timid, friendly, and you want to take it, keep it in a pocket in your heart forever and ever only you’re afraid to.
“No,” you say. He waits expectantly for more.
“Onew,” he says when you don’t give it to him and you smile like you always do and pat him on the back and say You won’t miss me.
And you leave him at the bus stop, hands twisting nervously in your lap as you finally let him understand what it feels like to watch a bus disappear into traffic, unable to stop it.
Head between your knees, thighs pressed to chest, you heave a few deep breaths, stomach flipping as you try to swallow this suffocating feeling pushing against your ribcage.
It’s prom night and he’s in a tux, neatly pressed and crisp looking. He’s looking in the mirror, making sure not a hair is out of place with his jacket slung comfortably over his shoulder. And you’re hyperventilating over something you want to ask him, something you want to tell him, and you miss him as he walks out the door, miss the way he lingers at the light switch.
You miss the look he throws over his shoulder, lonely, regretful.
You calm your heart and talk yourself back into denial, back into an easy, love-free night.
He comes home around ten and you try to forget the fact that you stayed up waiting for him. You pull the blankets up higher under your chin and turn away from the window.
He steps outside, jacket and tie already discarded on his bed, and he leans forward on the railing with closed eyes and clasped hands. You suddenly can’t sleep.
You push the blankets down and swing your legs off the side of the bed, sitting still for a second as you debate your sanity before going outside to meet him on the balcony.
“Hey,” you say.
“Hey,” he smiles, soft, wispy.
“You’re home early for prom night,” you joke, going to stand against your own railing.
“It was...” He laughs, sighs. “It was a bad night.”
You laugh back in reply, turning to press your stomach against the metal and say, “Yeah, I know. I’ve had those, too.” He shrugs but continues to smile. Your stomach flips. “They sure, uh. They sure suck, don’t they?”
“They do,” he nods, eyes catching yours and you try to swallow past the lump suddenly forming in your throat.
“So I noticed you weren’t there tonight,” he changes topic, head tilting to the side in curiosity.
You wave a hand at your pajamas. “Uhm, yeah. School dances aren’t really… I mean. I don’t really do well with. With social stuff.” You smile at him, bright and blinding. He doesn’t look convinced.
“Would’ve been better if you’d been there,” he says.
And there’s so much truth in it that you find yourself fumbling over your words, stuttering and silly, and you try to tell him what you’ve been trying to tell him for months, knuckles white as you grip the railing. He leans closer, leans forward, and takes your hands in his own from across the space in between your balconies and pulls you toward him.
“Jonghyun,” you say as he holds your face in his hands, eyes studying your every move, and suddenly he’s pressing lips to your cheek, kissing upward toward your eyelids which flutter closed. You can feel his eyelashes against your skin, light and ticklish.
And you’re both just silhouettes against a darkened night sky, stars lighting up the streets as you kiss underneath them. You’re just two boys, two teenagers, two people, young and lucky and in love.
And you’re on top of the world.
“You have no idea how long,” he breathes into you, ghosting across your cheek. “How long I’ve. About you. So, so long.”
“Me too,” you say, pushing forward into the kiss again.
So maybe life’s not perfect and maybe his ex-girlfriend will hate you and maybe you’re just naïve and stupid and too young to know what love is, but you think you’ve found it anyway, you think you understand a little more now.
It ends with a window. A window a balcony and a kiss.
Drivers Ed sucks. o;wakjdflamn.