[fic] Glass Houses (PG-13) Yunjae
Title: Glass Houses
Authors: itsplashes and kayjayloves
Pairings: Yunjae
Rating: PG-13
Genre: angst/romance
Word Count: 3215 words (oneshot)
Summary: Yunho wonders when it started. A dream within a dream within a dream.
A/N: Dedicated to our wonderful betas under_an_oak, miyamoto, and gumi. Thanks for putting up with us. <3 With an honorable mention for tvxqluvv. Because she's that awesome.
Glass Houses
Yunho wonders when it started. A dream within a dream within a dream (does he wish to wake up or does he want to keep on dreaming? What's a dream, anyway? Bitter laughter in his ears. A swathe of white. Skin? Cloth?). The light overhead turns the clear liquid inside his glass yellow and white (or is it red?) - his vision blurs briefly and he tries to stare at the wall. Beside him, Chung-hee is laughing (or is he talking, maybe he is). Yunho sees black spots and crosses his eyes-
-they're still there. The glass quivers in his hand.
"Yunho-yah, tipsy already?" Chung-hee (it's Chung-hee, right?) asks him lightly.
Yunho squints and tries to punch his arm. "Of course not." His arm falls on the table. Liquid sloshes out of his glass and trickles from the table into his lap. "I'm Jung Yunho. U-Know Yunho. Dong Bang Shin Ki."
"Your face is turning red." It's Ilsung. Yunho can tell by the way he rolls his r's. "God, Yunho, do you want to go home?"
Yunho aims a punch at a blurry face. "No, I wanted to get out so I'm out, okay."
In the distance, he thinks he hears a familiar, quiet voice asking him, Why, why? Do you really have to do this? The glass falls to the floor and shatters. A mosaic of broken pieces. Pool of liquid at his feet. Yunho leans down and reaches for a shard, his eyes trained on the sharp edge. Closer, closer. He's almost there.
(He's falling off the ledge.)
An arm grabs at his hand. "God, Yunho."
"He's had too much to drink." Chung-hee again. Apologizing for him? But they're with friends. Friends.
Friends. Friendship. Dong Bang Shin Ki. Xiah Micky Hero Max U-Know
HeroU-Know
HeroFriendsU-Know
HeroHeroHero
(What's this, what's this, what are we? Dark eyes, wide eyes looking into his soul in the dim light.
We’re friends.
Friends?
Friends.)
"Ilsung," Yunho says in a sing-song voice. "Do you know why I'm out here and not-" He thinks he’s choking - there’s something lodged at the back of his throat, it won’t get out. He swallows. “And not-" Chokes again. He attempts to stand up instead. An arm goes around his shoulders, helps him up slowly.
“Yunho, if you were going to be like this, we shouldn’t have gone out.” Ilsung sighs.
Another arm. Chung-hee. “I should have known something was up when you called me out of the blue. Yunho-yah, this isn’t like you.”
Yunho just laughs. How do you know? How do you know what I’m like? “Chung-hee.”
They're moving and Yunho drags his feet along, stares at the hazy patterns on the wooden floor. “Chung-hee,” he calls out, softly, almost like a question.
“What?”
Yunho feels the cement under his socked feet.
Ilsung grumbles (“God, Yunho, put on your shoes, at least.”) and suddenly his feet are warm. He thinks he might have preferred the cold. Cold skin, cold eyes. Cold, cold eyes.
Chung-hee nudges him forward. One step. Three? He's lost count. "Chung-hee," Yunho insists, looking at the sky (why is it black? Just black.). “I want to get married soon.” He laughs.
They stop walking. He thinks he sees Ilsung and Chung-hee exchanging a look but it's dark and his world is spinning and maybe he's still dreaming.
“Oh, Yunho.”
There’s something lodged at the back of his throat. It hurts. God, it hurts. He brings a hand to his cheek. It's wet.
It started when they were sixteen.
Yunho was a boy, just a boy, with sharp eyes and long limbs. He looked confident, chin held high, movements fluid, and Jaejoong wondered, fleetingly - carefully, what he would look like if he stumbled and fell. He caught him slouching after dance practice, staring at his face reflected in the studio's mirror. He was singing quietly to himself, voice too rough, stumbling over the notes. Jaejoong forgot to hide and their eyes met.
"Hello," Yunho had said, his voice echoing in the almost empty studio.
There was an awkward silence. Jaejoong looked from his own hands, chalky pale, up to Yunho's tan ones, veined and twined rope-thick around his wrists. They should've looked ugly. They didn't.
"What are you two still doing in here?" A face appeared beside Yunho in the mirror, bright eyes and a smile. Kim Junsu, Jaejoong thought, the one with the beautiful voice. "It's late and I'm hungry." He gave Yunho a beseeching look and wiggled his eyebrows at Jaejoong.
Jaejoong shifted his eyes to the spot above Junsu's head.
Yunho sighed but he was smiling. "I guess I am kind of hungry. There's this ramyeon stand two streets away from here. The ramyeon's really good. Spicy." His voice trailed off - beside him, Junsu snorted - and he looked at Jaejoong, scratching the back of his head. "So maybe you'd like to come with us."
"Okay," Jaejoong said, and Yunho smiled wider, not afraid to hide bright, beautiful, crooked teeth.
That had been years ago.
Yunho wants to leave. He's lying spread-eagle on the bed and he's looking at the ceiling. There's a crack near the corner, barely even visible, but Yunho knows it's there - it's staring him in the face - and it irks him.
(He wants to leave.)
He gets up, makes a brief call ("Hey. Let's meet up."), and then he's putting on a shirt, fingers fumbling mechanically at the buttons. His jeans are too tight across his knees.
His face in the mirror is full of sharp edges; his eyes are too bright. Don't look. He slips his wallet into his back pocket and grabs his cellphone. The backlight makes the lines on his hands glow briefly.
(He's almost running.)
"Going out?"
Yunho pauses in the living room. One, no, two words and he's frozen just like that, still as a statue (and maybe he doesn't want to leave anymore). He will not look back, he will not look back, he will not look back.
He does.
Jaejoong is sitting on the couch, half-hunched over with his elbows on dark-washed jeans. Waiting. The light reflects off the curves of his hands; for a moment there's nothing but the quiet hum of the radiator.
Yunho looks at the tips of Jaejoong's fingers, pale and slender, poised at a standstill under the smooth skin of his jaw.
"Where are you going?" Jaejoong's right hand moves to tuck dark hair behind his ear. Yunho looks everywhere but Jaejoong's eyes, doesn't need to look, feels them piercing right through him, anyway.
Silence again.
"Yunho."
"Jaejoong."
Jaejoong sighs softly. "Meeting with your other friends?" (Other means not Dong Bang Shin Ki. It needs to be clear.)
A simple question that doesn't need a complicated answer. "Yes." Yunho looks at Jaejoong's lips, pursed slightly, and the smoothness of his cheek. Not the eyes, never the eyes.
Not anymore.
"Be safe," Jaejoong says, fingers moving to his lap.
Yunho nods, turns away. He can still feel Jaejoong's eyes and he knows, without looking back (with his eyes closed), that Jaejoong isn't moving, the outline of his body, his face, static in the half-lit room. Yunho's hand is on the slightly open door, the evening cold already stinging his cheeks, but his feet won't move.
He doesn't want to leave. He's waiting-
"Have fun," Jaejoong says quietly.
-for nothing.
He leaves.
Nineteen was photo shoots on carnival rides and cut-scenes with clipped profanity, it was the recklessness that Jaejoong couldn't quite shake off. It was shoving ice cream in Yunho's face just because he could and not caring about repercussions. "Hey," Yunho had said, face schooled in fake disapproval, "don't disrespect your leader." He'd been one-fifth of a whole for two years. Dong Bang Shin Ki. The words still tasted strange on his mouth, on the off days where he woke up too late, curled in the thin film of exhaustion and day-old foundation- the remnants of a rusty hangover (you and me we're drunk on music, as Yoochun claimed.)
And, "Leadershii," he had said back, eyes wide as Yunho wiped ice cream from his chin, "I wouldn't do such a thing."
They had laughed like the world was at their feet.
In the plaza, Changmin and Junsu had played in a fountain, oblivious.
“What are you doing.” Yoochun states, flat-lined. He knows - of course he knows. Yoochun reads Jaejoong’s thoughts like they’re the subtitles on the TV, decoding a Chinese game show that neither of them are watching. Jaejoong changes the channel.
“Waiting.”
“Oh.” A pause. Yoochun’s fingers dance along the inseam of his jeans; he looks at Jaejoong draped across the other half of the couch, his eyes heavy-lidded and tired. “Junsu’s on a date.”
“A girl?”
“She looked pretty, from what I saw of the picture.”
“Oh.”
Silence. The channel changes three times: a talk show, a commercial, a late night drama. The girl on the screen is yelling something or another, tragedy schooled perfect in her wide mouth, broken eyes. Jaejoong's face looks sunken against fluorescent-lit skin, his eyes flickering minutely as Yoochun nudges a toe against the bone of his ankle. "So," he says. "Yunho?"
"Yeah."
It’s enough to make the whole night taste sick.
Junsu opens the door to Yunho's and Changmin's room, eyes on the human-sized lump in Yunho's bed. He breathes in deeply and smooths the ends of his hair with shaking hands. "Yunho?" he half-whispers. Silence. He approaches the bed. The tips of Yunho's hair are sticking out. "Yunho?" Nibbling on his lower lip, he raises the end of the nearest bedcover.
Yunho doesn't move.
Satisfied that Yunho is asleep, Junsu slips into bed beside him, shoes and freshly ironed clothes and all. Briefly, he wonders if if his date would find it thoughtless of him to come in wrinkled clothing (and then he wonders, does that even matter?). He moves in closer to Yunho, presses the side of his face against Yunho's back. He's warm and, for a moment, Junsu feels the tension ebbing away from his body. In the distance, his ears pick up the out-of-tune notes of the piano and he presses his face in tighter.
Yunho grunts, moves; his face appears in Junsu's line of vision. "Junsu-yah?" Yunho's voice is scratchy and low. He blinks. "Shouldn't you be out on your date?"
"Not yet."
Yunho maneuvers himself into a half-sitting position. Junsu continues to lie on the bed, noting the bags under Yunho's eyes and his five o' clock shadow.
Yunho sighs. "What's wrong, Junsu-yah?"
Junsu reaches for Yunho's pillow, clutches it tightly with both hands. He looks at Yunho. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
They're both silent.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Junsu mumbles, hides his face under the pillow.
Yunho tugs the pillow gently out of his grasp. "Don't we all."
Junsu shifts and turns away from Yunho. "How do you know when to-" He pauses and looks at the picture frame on the bedside table. All five of them, smiling, arms around each other's shoulders. Yoochun smiled more then, Junsu thinks. Yunho did, too. "I don't understand anything anymore, Yunho-yah." He feels Yunho's hand flat against his neck.
Yunho sighs again, arms pulling at Junsu until he's nestled against his chest. "Neither do I."
Junsu listens to Yunho's even breathing. "You should go talk to him."
Yunho stiffens. "What are you talking about." He tries to pull back but Junsu holds onto him, snuggles in closer.
"He's just as confused as you are," Junsu says, looking at Yunho's face carefully. His face is set in a mask of indifference. Junsu pats Yunho's cheek with his hand before closing his eyes.
"Hey, you shouldn't keep your date waiting."
"Five minutes," Junsu whispers, and tucks his face into Yunho's chest.
Dinner is a hectic affair on the best of nights, usually two or three of them instead of a complete five - someone always at practice or a meeting or 'not hungry.' Most days, it's take-out, order-in. On the good days, there's Jaejoong. Changmin's watching him from the corner, banished from his previous spot on the countertop after Jaejoong - hands to his hips, violent intent on his features - declared, "I don't think we want your ass where the food goes."
The food smells delicious. It's a rare occasion for Jaejoong to be cooking, even with as much as they advertise his talent. Their schedule is too hectic to allow for it, let alone leave them home often enough to keep the kitchen stocked with fresh food. But Changmin's let himself in on a less-known fact: he knows Jaejoong only cooks when something's wrong. He's no expert to the unconscious corners of Jaejoong's mind, but with his hair pulled back and the kimchi almost ready, Jaejoong looks almost fragile.
"Hyung," Changmin says.
"Don't distract me," Jaejoong replies, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth.
Changmin coughs.
There's a good chance Jaejoong will say nothing, he thinks, and all the clues will be there in the way Jaejoong's tangling his fingers in black hair and the way Yunho and Jaejoong have been fighting recently and the hollow edges of Yoochun's eyes and the old laugh-lines in Junsu's solemn face as he sleeps in the bed across from Changmin's when it's midnight and all Changmin can find to do is think. (Why, someone had asked him, are you always so damn analytical? And if Changmin had answered truthfully he would've said because it keeps me sane.)
"Hyung," Changmin says, "I'll set the table."
He sets their little table for five, sets a spot for Yunho right next to Jaejoong and a spot for Yoochun next to Junsu and a spot for him where he can reach them all, and afterwards he wonders if it's wishful thinking. Because dinner is a hectic affair on the best of nights, usually two or three of them instead of a complete five.
Only he and Jaejoong sit down.
Five a.m. and it's a little like the dawning of D-day, keys jingling in the lock (and Jaejoong has a split-second memory of front doors with no need to be locked; the sound of his sisters gossiping over school, the rumors, the cute new trainees their little brother keeps meeting) and Jaejoong twists on the couch, away from the entrance. He doesn't want to see Yunho when he comes in.
He sees him, anyway, can feel him half-slouched in the doorway even as he's turned away. Jaejoong curls into a ball, picks at a loose thread on the couch. The thread comes off and he blinks at it, stares at the frayed end.
Footsteps. A crash. "Fuck."
Jaejoong wets his lips.
There's nothing for a moment, then shuffling - a clunk. One shoe, Jaejoong counts silently. He's waiting for the inevitable second drop, but there's only the weight of keeping his gaze locked forward and his lips closed. Movement, and then his eyes shutter, Yunho's hand too warm and clammy on his neck. "Don't."
"Tell me you don't want this." Lips press against Jaejoong's neck. The smell of stale alcohol drifts toward his face, lingers on his skin.
Jaejoong's hands grip onto the sides of the couch. "You're drunk."
Yunho kisses the side of his jaw. His lips burn. Jaejoong shifts, moves away. The couch dips. Yunho's warm arms are snaking around his waist. Hot breath on his lips. Jaejoong traces the scar on Yunho's cheek. "Don't," he whispers even as Yunho's lips find his. He doesn't taste like alcohol. Jaejoong breathes out, says quietly:
"I hate you."
Yunho's arms are phantom limbs around Jaejoong's waist even as he pulls away; the weight on the couch disappears.
"Stop telling me what to do."
"What are you talking about." Yunho's voice is low. "I don't."
"No." Jaejoong replies. He's sudden-still, chest barely rising with each breath. "I hate it - the patronizing. Just because I'm not a dancer doesn't meant I'm not trying. You don't need to-I hate how you wake up early to shove those damn color coded schedules and their reminders at me. You don't push me anymore, you-"
Yunho is standing, motionless. Jaejoong's eyes splinter like broken shards of glass.
"If you-" Deep breath. "-don't like my food, then don't touch it. Damn it, Yunho."
Warm arms are back around his waist. "Sorry, I'm sorry." Whispers in his ear. Yunho's grip on him tightens. "I hate-" Jaejoong finishes, "-this." And he's shaking in Yunho's arms, face vulnerable without his hands to hide the silent sobs; his breath catching again.
Yunho brushes the hair away from Jaejoong's ear. Lips meet skin. "This isn't going to work," he says, laughs bitterly.
A beat too late, Jaejoong laughs along. His eyes slip straight past Yunho's gaze.
Minutes after he's gone, his laughter still echoes in Yunho's ears.
It started when they were sixteen.
Jaejoong was dark eyes, dark hair, baby-faced and awkward. A voice just broken of mistakes, the notes finally curving into some form of beauty. Yunho had recognized him from the studio-wide dance practice, when the boy had fallen over himself in an attempt to keep up. Junsu told him his name was Kim Jaejoong.
The first time their eyes met was in the studio mirror. Yunho shivered and almost missed a step. Cold eyes, he thought. Why? Why?
He lingered in the studio after practice, singing to himself, watching an unmoving Jaejoong reflected in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. He touched his throat, felt the notes trembling there. Rough, rusty, not beautiful (not ever) but they were his. He wanted Jaejoong to hear them. Why?
Jaejoong met his eyes.
"Hello," Yunho said.
Silence.
Yunho tried to smile but he couldn't. He scratched his head.
Junsu walked in then, bright smile on his face, and Yunho smiled back at him (he hoped). Jaejoong wasn't moving, just standing there, pale thin arms wrapped around his middle. Yunho leaned against the glass, clearing his throat - he was about to say, "Hey." when Junsu said, "I'm hungry".
He looked up, exhaling. "I guess I am kind of hungry. There's this ramyeon stand two streets away from here." An awkward laugh. "The ramyeon's really good. Spicy." He glanced at Jaejoong, attempted a smile. Jaejoong was looking back, eyes dark and unreadable. "So maybe you'd like to come with us."
Silence.
"Okay," Jaejoong said, his eyes lighting up just a little.
Yunho smiled widely.
(After ramyeon they'd stood there, side by side at the corner of the street, and Yunho had said, "Let's be friends."
"Friends?"
"Friends.")
In the living room Yunho stands, shoulders drawn down and the last curtain of dark before the sunrise falling over him. Jaejoong hadn't meant to look back.
(It ended when-)
Authors: itsplashes and kayjayloves
Pairings: Yunjae
Rating: PG-13
Genre: angst/romance
Word Count: 3215 words (oneshot)
Summary: Yunho wonders when it started. A dream within a dream within a dream.
A/N: Dedicated to our wonderful betas under_an_oak, miyamoto, and gumi. Thanks for putting up with us. <3 With an honorable mention for tvxqluvv. Because she's that awesome.
Glass Houses
Yunho wonders when it started. A dream within a dream within a dream (does he wish to wake up or does he want to keep on dreaming? What's a dream, anyway? Bitter laughter in his ears. A swathe of white. Skin? Cloth?). The light overhead turns the clear liquid inside his glass yellow and white (or is it red?) - his vision blurs briefly and he tries to stare at the wall. Beside him, Chung-hee is laughing (or is he talking, maybe he is). Yunho sees black spots and crosses his eyes-
-they're still there. The glass quivers in his hand.
"Yunho-yah, tipsy already?" Chung-hee (it's Chung-hee, right?) asks him lightly.
Yunho squints and tries to punch his arm. "Of course not." His arm falls on the table. Liquid sloshes out of his glass and trickles from the table into his lap. "I'm Jung Yunho. U-Know Yunho. Dong Bang Shin Ki."
"Your face is turning red." It's Ilsung. Yunho can tell by the way he rolls his r's. "God, Yunho, do you want to go home?"
Yunho aims a punch at a blurry face. "No, I wanted to get out so I'm out, okay."
In the distance, he thinks he hears a familiar, quiet voice asking him, Why, why? Do you really have to do this? The glass falls to the floor and shatters. A mosaic of broken pieces. Pool of liquid at his feet. Yunho leans down and reaches for a shard, his eyes trained on the sharp edge. Closer, closer. He's almost there.
(He's falling off the ledge.)
An arm grabs at his hand. "God, Yunho."
"He's had too much to drink." Chung-hee again. Apologizing for him? But they're with friends. Friends.
Friends. Friendship. Dong Bang Shin Ki. Xiah Micky Hero Max U-Know
HeroU-Know
HeroFriendsU-Know
HeroHeroHero
(What's this, what's this, what are we? Dark eyes, wide eyes looking into his soul in the dim light.
We’re friends.
Friends?
Friends.)
"Ilsung," Yunho says in a sing-song voice. "Do you know why I'm out here and not-" He thinks he’s choking - there’s something lodged at the back of his throat, it won’t get out. He swallows. “And not-" Chokes again. He attempts to stand up instead. An arm goes around his shoulders, helps him up slowly.
“Yunho, if you were going to be like this, we shouldn’t have gone out.” Ilsung sighs.
Another arm. Chung-hee. “I should have known something was up when you called me out of the blue. Yunho-yah, this isn’t like you.”
Yunho just laughs. How do you know? How do you know what I’m like? “Chung-hee.”
They're moving and Yunho drags his feet along, stares at the hazy patterns on the wooden floor. “Chung-hee,” he calls out, softly, almost like a question.
“What?”
Yunho feels the cement under his socked feet.
Ilsung grumbles (“God, Yunho, put on your shoes, at least.”) and suddenly his feet are warm. He thinks he might have preferred the cold. Cold skin, cold eyes. Cold, cold eyes.
Chung-hee nudges him forward. One step. Three? He's lost count. "Chung-hee," Yunho insists, looking at the sky (why is it black? Just black.). “I want to get married soon.” He laughs.
They stop walking. He thinks he sees Ilsung and Chung-hee exchanging a look but it's dark and his world is spinning and maybe he's still dreaming.
“Oh, Yunho.”
There’s something lodged at the back of his throat. It hurts. God, it hurts. He brings a hand to his cheek. It's wet.
It started when they were sixteen.
Yunho was a boy, just a boy, with sharp eyes and long limbs. He looked confident, chin held high, movements fluid, and Jaejoong wondered, fleetingly - carefully, what he would look like if he stumbled and fell. He caught him slouching after dance practice, staring at his face reflected in the studio's mirror. He was singing quietly to himself, voice too rough, stumbling over the notes. Jaejoong forgot to hide and their eyes met.
"Hello," Yunho had said, his voice echoing in the almost empty studio.
There was an awkward silence. Jaejoong looked from his own hands, chalky pale, up to Yunho's tan ones, veined and twined rope-thick around his wrists. They should've looked ugly. They didn't.
"What are you two still doing in here?" A face appeared beside Yunho in the mirror, bright eyes and a smile. Kim Junsu, Jaejoong thought, the one with the beautiful voice. "It's late and I'm hungry." He gave Yunho a beseeching look and wiggled his eyebrows at Jaejoong.
Jaejoong shifted his eyes to the spot above Junsu's head.
Yunho sighed but he was smiling. "I guess I am kind of hungry. There's this ramyeon stand two streets away from here. The ramyeon's really good. Spicy." His voice trailed off - beside him, Junsu snorted - and he looked at Jaejoong, scratching the back of his head. "So maybe you'd like to come with us."
"Okay," Jaejoong said, and Yunho smiled wider, not afraid to hide bright, beautiful, crooked teeth.
That had been years ago.
Yunho wants to leave. He's lying spread-eagle on the bed and he's looking at the ceiling. There's a crack near the corner, barely even visible, but Yunho knows it's there - it's staring him in the face - and it irks him.
(He wants to leave.)
He gets up, makes a brief call ("Hey. Let's meet up."), and then he's putting on a shirt, fingers fumbling mechanically at the buttons. His jeans are too tight across his knees.
His face in the mirror is full of sharp edges; his eyes are too bright. Don't look. He slips his wallet into his back pocket and grabs his cellphone. The backlight makes the lines on his hands glow briefly.
(He's almost running.)
"Going out?"
Yunho pauses in the living room. One, no, two words and he's frozen just like that, still as a statue (and maybe he doesn't want to leave anymore). He will not look back, he will not look back, he will not look back.
He does.
Jaejoong is sitting on the couch, half-hunched over with his elbows on dark-washed jeans. Waiting. The light reflects off the curves of his hands; for a moment there's nothing but the quiet hum of the radiator.
Yunho looks at the tips of Jaejoong's fingers, pale and slender, poised at a standstill under the smooth skin of his jaw.
"Where are you going?" Jaejoong's right hand moves to tuck dark hair behind his ear. Yunho looks everywhere but Jaejoong's eyes, doesn't need to look, feels them piercing right through him, anyway.
Silence again.
"Yunho."
"Jaejoong."
Jaejoong sighs softly. "Meeting with your other friends?" (Other means not Dong Bang Shin Ki. It needs to be clear.)
A simple question that doesn't need a complicated answer. "Yes." Yunho looks at Jaejoong's lips, pursed slightly, and the smoothness of his cheek. Not the eyes, never the eyes.
Not anymore.
"Be safe," Jaejoong says, fingers moving to his lap.
Yunho nods, turns away. He can still feel Jaejoong's eyes and he knows, without looking back (with his eyes closed), that Jaejoong isn't moving, the outline of his body, his face, static in the half-lit room. Yunho's hand is on the slightly open door, the evening cold already stinging his cheeks, but his feet won't move.
He doesn't want to leave. He's waiting-
"Have fun," Jaejoong says quietly.
-for nothing.
He leaves.
Nineteen was photo shoots on carnival rides and cut-scenes with clipped profanity, it was the recklessness that Jaejoong couldn't quite shake off. It was shoving ice cream in Yunho's face just because he could and not caring about repercussions. "Hey," Yunho had said, face schooled in fake disapproval, "don't disrespect your leader." He'd been one-fifth of a whole for two years. Dong Bang Shin Ki. The words still tasted strange on his mouth, on the off days where he woke up too late, curled in the thin film of exhaustion and day-old foundation- the remnants of a rusty hangover (you and me we're drunk on music, as Yoochun claimed.)
And, "Leadershii," he had said back, eyes wide as Yunho wiped ice cream from his chin, "I wouldn't do such a thing."
They had laughed like the world was at their feet.
In the plaza, Changmin and Junsu had played in a fountain, oblivious.
“What are you doing.” Yoochun states, flat-lined. He knows - of course he knows. Yoochun reads Jaejoong’s thoughts like they’re the subtitles on the TV, decoding a Chinese game show that neither of them are watching. Jaejoong changes the channel.
“Waiting.”
“Oh.” A pause. Yoochun’s fingers dance along the inseam of his jeans; he looks at Jaejoong draped across the other half of the couch, his eyes heavy-lidded and tired. “Junsu’s on a date.”
“A girl?”
“She looked pretty, from what I saw of the picture.”
“Oh.”
Silence. The channel changes three times: a talk show, a commercial, a late night drama. The girl on the screen is yelling something or another, tragedy schooled perfect in her wide mouth, broken eyes. Jaejoong's face looks sunken against fluorescent-lit skin, his eyes flickering minutely as Yoochun nudges a toe against the bone of his ankle. "So," he says. "Yunho?"
"Yeah."
It’s enough to make the whole night taste sick.
Junsu opens the door to Yunho's and Changmin's room, eyes on the human-sized lump in Yunho's bed. He breathes in deeply and smooths the ends of his hair with shaking hands. "Yunho?" he half-whispers. Silence. He approaches the bed. The tips of Yunho's hair are sticking out. "Yunho?" Nibbling on his lower lip, he raises the end of the nearest bedcover.
Yunho doesn't move.
Satisfied that Yunho is asleep, Junsu slips into bed beside him, shoes and freshly ironed clothes and all. Briefly, he wonders if if his date would find it thoughtless of him to come in wrinkled clothing (and then he wonders, does that even matter?). He moves in closer to Yunho, presses the side of his face against Yunho's back. He's warm and, for a moment, Junsu feels the tension ebbing away from his body. In the distance, his ears pick up the out-of-tune notes of the piano and he presses his face in tighter.
Yunho grunts, moves; his face appears in Junsu's line of vision. "Junsu-yah?" Yunho's voice is scratchy and low. He blinks. "Shouldn't you be out on your date?"
"Not yet."
Yunho maneuvers himself into a half-sitting position. Junsu continues to lie on the bed, noting the bags under Yunho's eyes and his five o' clock shadow.
Yunho sighs. "What's wrong, Junsu-yah?"
Junsu reaches for Yunho's pillow, clutches it tightly with both hands. He looks at Yunho. "What about you?"
"What about me?"
They're both silent.
"I don't know what I'm doing," Junsu mumbles, hides his face under the pillow.
Yunho tugs the pillow gently out of his grasp. "Don't we all."
Junsu shifts and turns away from Yunho. "How do you know when to-" He pauses and looks at the picture frame on the bedside table. All five of them, smiling, arms around each other's shoulders. Yoochun smiled more then, Junsu thinks. Yunho did, too. "I don't understand anything anymore, Yunho-yah." He feels Yunho's hand flat against his neck.
Yunho sighs again, arms pulling at Junsu until he's nestled against his chest. "Neither do I."
Junsu listens to Yunho's even breathing. "You should go talk to him."
Yunho stiffens. "What are you talking about." He tries to pull back but Junsu holds onto him, snuggles in closer.
"He's just as confused as you are," Junsu says, looking at Yunho's face carefully. His face is set in a mask of indifference. Junsu pats Yunho's cheek with his hand before closing his eyes.
"Hey, you shouldn't keep your date waiting."
"Five minutes," Junsu whispers, and tucks his face into Yunho's chest.
Dinner is a hectic affair on the best of nights, usually two or three of them instead of a complete five - someone always at practice or a meeting or 'not hungry.' Most days, it's take-out, order-in. On the good days, there's Jaejoong. Changmin's watching him from the corner, banished from his previous spot on the countertop after Jaejoong - hands to his hips, violent intent on his features - declared, "I don't think we want your ass where the food goes."
The food smells delicious. It's a rare occasion for Jaejoong to be cooking, even with as much as they advertise his talent. Their schedule is too hectic to allow for it, let alone leave them home often enough to keep the kitchen stocked with fresh food. But Changmin's let himself in on a less-known fact: he knows Jaejoong only cooks when something's wrong. He's no expert to the unconscious corners of Jaejoong's mind, but with his hair pulled back and the kimchi almost ready, Jaejoong looks almost fragile.
"Hyung," Changmin says.
"Don't distract me," Jaejoong replies, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth.
Changmin coughs.
There's a good chance Jaejoong will say nothing, he thinks, and all the clues will be there in the way Jaejoong's tangling his fingers in black hair and the way Yunho and Jaejoong have been fighting recently and the hollow edges of Yoochun's eyes and the old laugh-lines in Junsu's solemn face as he sleeps in the bed across from Changmin's when it's midnight and all Changmin can find to do is think. (Why, someone had asked him, are you always so damn analytical? And if Changmin had answered truthfully he would've said because it keeps me sane.)
"Hyung," Changmin says, "I'll set the table."
He sets their little table for five, sets a spot for Yunho right next to Jaejoong and a spot for Yoochun next to Junsu and a spot for him where he can reach them all, and afterwards he wonders if it's wishful thinking. Because dinner is a hectic affair on the best of nights, usually two or three of them instead of a complete five.
Only he and Jaejoong sit down.
Five a.m. and it's a little like the dawning of D-day, keys jingling in the lock (and Jaejoong has a split-second memory of front doors with no need to be locked; the sound of his sisters gossiping over school, the rumors, the cute new trainees their little brother keeps meeting) and Jaejoong twists on the couch, away from the entrance. He doesn't want to see Yunho when he comes in.
He sees him, anyway, can feel him half-slouched in the doorway even as he's turned away. Jaejoong curls into a ball, picks at a loose thread on the couch. The thread comes off and he blinks at it, stares at the frayed end.
Footsteps. A crash. "Fuck."
Jaejoong wets his lips.
There's nothing for a moment, then shuffling - a clunk. One shoe, Jaejoong counts silently. He's waiting for the inevitable second drop, but there's only the weight of keeping his gaze locked forward and his lips closed. Movement, and then his eyes shutter, Yunho's hand too warm and clammy on his neck. "Don't."
"Tell me you don't want this." Lips press against Jaejoong's neck. The smell of stale alcohol drifts toward his face, lingers on his skin.
Jaejoong's hands grip onto the sides of the couch. "You're drunk."
Yunho kisses the side of his jaw. His lips burn. Jaejoong shifts, moves away. The couch dips. Yunho's warm arms are snaking around his waist. Hot breath on his lips. Jaejoong traces the scar on Yunho's cheek. "Don't," he whispers even as Yunho's lips find his. He doesn't taste like alcohol. Jaejoong breathes out, says quietly:
"I hate you."
Yunho's arms are phantom limbs around Jaejoong's waist even as he pulls away; the weight on the couch disappears.
"Stop telling me what to do."
"What are you talking about." Yunho's voice is low. "I don't."
"No." Jaejoong replies. He's sudden-still, chest barely rising with each breath. "I hate it - the patronizing. Just because I'm not a dancer doesn't meant I'm not trying. You don't need to-I hate how you wake up early to shove those damn color coded schedules and their reminders at me. You don't push me anymore, you-"
Yunho is standing, motionless. Jaejoong's eyes splinter like broken shards of glass.
"If you-" Deep breath. "-don't like my food, then don't touch it. Damn it, Yunho."
Warm arms are back around his waist. "Sorry, I'm sorry." Whispers in his ear. Yunho's grip on him tightens. "I hate-" Jaejoong finishes, "-this." And he's shaking in Yunho's arms, face vulnerable without his hands to hide the silent sobs; his breath catching again.
Yunho brushes the hair away from Jaejoong's ear. Lips meet skin. "This isn't going to work," he says, laughs bitterly.
A beat too late, Jaejoong laughs along. His eyes slip straight past Yunho's gaze.
Minutes after he's gone, his laughter still echoes in Yunho's ears.
It started when they were sixteen.
Jaejoong was dark eyes, dark hair, baby-faced and awkward. A voice just broken of mistakes, the notes finally curving into some form of beauty. Yunho had recognized him from the studio-wide dance practice, when the boy had fallen over himself in an attempt to keep up. Junsu told him his name was Kim Jaejoong.
The first time their eyes met was in the studio mirror. Yunho shivered and almost missed a step. Cold eyes, he thought. Why? Why?
He lingered in the studio after practice, singing to himself, watching an unmoving Jaejoong reflected in the mirror out of the corner of his eye. He touched his throat, felt the notes trembling there. Rough, rusty, not beautiful (not ever) but they were his. He wanted Jaejoong to hear them. Why?
Jaejoong met his eyes.
"Hello," Yunho said.
Silence.
Yunho tried to smile but he couldn't. He scratched his head.
Junsu walked in then, bright smile on his face, and Yunho smiled back at him (he hoped). Jaejoong wasn't moving, just standing there, pale thin arms wrapped around his middle. Yunho leaned against the glass, clearing his throat - he was about to say, "Hey." when Junsu said, "I'm hungry".
He looked up, exhaling. "I guess I am kind of hungry. There's this ramyeon stand two streets away from here." An awkward laugh. "The ramyeon's really good. Spicy." He glanced at Jaejoong, attempted a smile. Jaejoong was looking back, eyes dark and unreadable. "So maybe you'd like to come with us."
Silence.
"Okay," Jaejoong said, his eyes lighting up just a little.
Yunho smiled widely.
(After ramyeon they'd stood there, side by side at the corner of the street, and Yunho had said, "Let's be friends."
"Friends?"
"Friends.")
In the living room Yunho stands, shoulders drawn down and the last curtain of dark before the sunrise falling over him. Jaejoong hadn't meant to look back.
(It ended when-)