(no subject)
in the years to come, han geng will go back to china and lead the quiet life his father always dreamed he'd have.
he'll walk the aisles of a supermarket without covering his face and he'll pause for a moment as a woman passes him by, the fresh scent of her shampoo filling the air and he'll freeze, breath just stopping in his lungs and his hand outstretched to a bottle of hoi sin sauce.
he'll want to whisper, "heechul," and he might, but the woman will be gone, the moment broken, and he'll just stand there, slippers and gaudy cardigan on.
he'll remember the time he had run down to the korean store he knew was on the corner, cracked open the bottle of aloe vera shampoo and breathed deep.
it hadn't been enough -- it was too pure, he needed the underlying, very-heechul smell, but he had bought it anyway, and it's there somewhere, in the box he never touches.
he'll walk the aisles of a supermarket without covering his face and he'll pause for a moment as a woman passes him by, the fresh scent of her shampoo filling the air and he'll freeze, breath just stopping in his lungs and his hand outstretched to a bottle of hoi sin sauce.
he'll want to whisper, "heechul," and he might, but the woman will be gone, the moment broken, and he'll just stand there, slippers and gaudy cardigan on.
he'll remember the time he had run down to the korean store he knew was on the corner, cracked open the bottle of aloe vera shampoo and breathed deep.
it hadn't been enough -- it was too pure, he needed the underlying, very-heechul smell, but he had bought it anyway, and it's there somewhere, in the box he never touches.