antifeu - 1/1
antifeu. (gen)
2 294 words. pg.
◦ caused by and dedicated to countingcarbs
wooyoung is the thorn that doesn't scratch. for every fire, there is an extinguisher.
when jaebum leaves, it's as though he takes wooyoung's hunger with him.
"would you like to eat now wooyoung?"
"no thank you very much but i will later."
too many people around him are dieting for this to be significant.
--
wooyoung walks in on chansung in the washroom one day. it would have been funny if chansung was doing something embarrassing, like taking a dump or jerking off, but he's only sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at nothing. he has two fingers in his mouth, one on each side, teeth clenched tight. he looks up when wooyoung comes in, and pulls his hand out.
"my teeth hurt," he says simply, and then he brushes past wooyoung, slips out the door.
wooyoung touches the sharpest part of his jaw and kneels down to clean the sweet, slippery blood off the linoleum.
--
the next day, chansung is writing a letter at the kitchen table. his fingers are no longer raw and mangled. they're perfect again, wrapped neatly around a long black sharp-tipped pencil. wooyoung says nothing. junsu is on the phone, respectful but angry. it might be park jinyoung. it probably is. wooyoung sits down next to him on the sofa, puts his hand over junsu's. he watches junsu turn to him, and slowly deflate.
"fine. i'll do it. it doesn't matter anymore," junsu says into the phone, but as he does this he's looking straight into wooyoung's eyes. "whatever you want."
wooyoung mouths back silently, "whatever you want." junsu squeezes his hands, sad and comforting.
--
you hate junsu's new face.
you don't recognise him in the mornings anymore, always startled to find a stranger in your kitchen, drinking things out of junsu's mug and wearing junsu's things. like a plastic, carbon copy was placed in his stead. nobody sees the differences but you. the sharp, unnatural movements of his eyes and mouth, the jerky way his elbows catch against his clothes. you want to rip him open and eat the colourful, twisted wiring within. but you're not hungry. you haven't been in a while.
"eat," says nichkhun.
"i did," you say. "where were you?"
nichkhun looks at you, shrugs and goes back into his room. you watch his retreating back, too far to touch too close to forget. you wish the air wasn't so heavy. it hurts to hold your spine so straight.
--
practice starts again too soon. everybody is uncoordinated and distracted. somehow, you've become jaebum's inadequate replacement. your adlibs suck. you never asked to be a singer, just a celebrity. you hate the shitty suicidal flips the dance instructors ask you to perform. you haven't said no in a long time. (no, i don't want to. no, i will. no, i have. no, don't leave me. no no no no no no don't leave us please don't leave me.)
your arms hurt.
chansung is so fucking perfect it makes you sick. he's never been so obedient and responsive. every dance move flows through his body like electricity, each note hits exactly the way park jinyoung wants it. junsu too. junho is quiet, watching. you don't know what he's watching for but if you knew, you'd give it to him. you find yourself standing behind him whenever you can, and he doesn't say anything about it.
"thanks," you say during one rehearsal, after chansung nails a flip. you don't say what for. he turns to you, still quiet, still watching. he breaks into a smile.
the way he grips your wrist, it feels like cold resolute relief.
in the background is the sound of taecyeon falling. a dull, loud, empty sound that bounces off the walls and the mirrors.
--
taecyeon spreads himself thin and wide, like parisian silk. every member and staff is suddenly his best friend. if something goes wrong, it's immediately his fault because don't worry everybody, i can fix it. i apologise. it won't happen again. i sincerely apologise deeply truly honestly please forgive me please. every bow is awkward and jerky.
wooyoung asks one night, "are you okay?"
taecyeon grins with all his teeth and says, "i'm perfect." there's a tremor that wooyoung can't hear.
his hands are cold when he places them against wooyoung's back, he's struggling to stand.
--
junsu is writing songs and junho is singing them. wooyoung listens.
they're all horrible.
--
junho's voice is cracking.
park jinyoung says nothing.
it's become a watching game.
--
wooyoung is sitting on the balcony when junho comes to him. the air is cold and dry, like the air in the house. but in a different way, a way that keeps wooyoung awake. junho has a gigantic fleece blanket that he wraps around them both. the warmth burns holes into wooyoung's skin.
junho says, "you're going to be okay."
wooyoung says, "you can smoke if you want to."
junho pauses. "wooyoung," he says, hesitantly. wooyoung shrugs. silence forces itself into the spaces between them and expands like fire. something shifts and junho sighs. wooyoung feels him shuffling beside him under the blanket as he reaches inside his jacket. he doesn't take out a carton, just one white cigarette. when he ignites it, the flare of light makes wooyoung's eyes ache. he watches junho's cheeks sink in and puff out, the way his nails leave creases in the paper.
"you want?" he offers. wooyoung shakes his head. his knees are uncomfortable under his chin, and his hand is sweaty and cramped in junho's grip. but he doesn't move for the rest of the night, not until junho's finished the cigarette. he stubs it out on the floor and throws it over the edge. they watch it fall, small and crumpled. it makes wooyoung wish he were sleeping.
"that wasn't mine," junho says finally, when the sky is showing bits of pink and orange in the corners. he rubs and covers his eyes with the hand that held the cigarette. "i don't smoke."
"i know," says wooyoung. he pulls his hand out of junho's grasp and stands up. "i know."
junho looks up at him, still sitting on the rocky balcony floor. his hands are lying beside him now, limp and useless looking.
"it's bad for you," wooyoung says, and he doesn't mean the nicotine or the tar or the cyanide.
junho turns back to the skies. licks his lips and teeth. "they taste like him."
"yeah." wooyoung steps back into the house and watches the sun light up junho's outline. "i know."
--
wooyoung wakes up one night, starving. the hunger jolts him awake, abrupt and demanding. the kitchen feels foreign to him, and it takes him three tries to find the chopsticks. he's halfway through a bowl of soggy, swollen rice when he hears somebody talking. it's nichkhun.
"make him stop," he's saying.
someone says back, "what are you talking about."
wooyoung walks quietly down the hall. the door is ajar, so wooyoung looks. nichkhun is facing away from him, and his arms wrapped around junho's naked torso. his hands are moving over junho's back, searching, pressing. junho sees him standing there and smiles, empty and polite.
you lose your appetite. you leave the half finished bowl on the table and go back to bed.
when you wake up, the bowl and chopsticks are washed and put to dry.
--
junho's voice stops cracking. junsu still can't smile properly. everything chansung says is wrong and unfamiliar. taecyeon has learned how to laugh without making a sound.
everybody is perfect.
except nichkhun looks angry all the time, and for some reason, this is comforting to you.
--
wooyoung says, "i'm very cold."
nichkhun says, "the heater only works with the outlet in my room."
wooyoung says, "i can't sleep, it's too cold."
nichkhun says, "i have really good blankets. but you can't have them."
wooyoung says, "please."
nichkhun opens his door and lets wooyoung into his bed. nichkhun is the only warm body left in the entire house.
--
practices go off without a hitch. park jinyoung is pleased. there is talk of albums and comebacks. wooyoung spends all day shivering. at night, he pushes himself closer to nichkhun and lets the heat wash over him. in the middle of the night, when wooyoung is supposed to be asleep, nichkhun touches wooyoung's back. sweeping his hands over the stretched skin, gripping, scratching.
as if searching for something.
something like save me.
--
"geez you two," taecyeon laughs. "leave some breathing room, won't you?"
wooyoung slowly peels himself from nichkhun, sleepy and disoriented. something in taecyeon's eyes is flashing. under the covers, nichkhun's hand is lying over wooyoung's arm, shaking and tight.
"wake nichkhun up, we're going to the studio." chansung is standing at the doorway, watching. he touches taecyeon's hip when he walks past and they leave together, two tall wide figures side by side.
nichkhun is writing something on his arm. his finger is too unsteady for wooyoung to figure out what he's trying to do. it feels like be careful and don't go at the same time.
"come on," he says, pulling his arm away. "we'll be late." when he gets up from the bed, nichkhun's arm slides across the small of his waist and falls to the side. the body heat makes him shiver. he can feel nichkhun staring at him as he picks up his clothes.
nichkhun is playing the watching game too.
--
"where's nichkhun?"
"he's still back at the apartment; the manager will bring him later. can you flip like this?"
"yes."
"can you sing like this?"
wooyoung looks at his reflection in the studio mirror. it stares back with disinterest. "yes."
--
"please don't sleep in my room anymore," says nichkhun at dinner. "you have your own bed."
wooyoung shrugs. he reaches for nichkhun's free hand under the table. it gives him a steady, hard squeeze and lets go. wooyoung retracts his hand and starts to shake.
--
junsu finds him in the work room, earphones pushed against his head. he's singing, loud and flat.
"do you still have one?" junsu asks abruptly. wooyoung stops. he turns, stares at the junsu-like thing in junsu's hat. he tries to figure out the right answer.
"one of what?" he says finally.
"nevermind," junsu says. "you're doing well, wooyoung."
wooyoung doesn't respond. he shifts in the chair and feels jaebum's cigarette bend and twist in his pocket. junsu is still standing behind him, hand on his shoulder, when he starts to sing again.
--
waking up to jaebum in the kitchen is surreal-- like breathing, running underwater, everything pushing and yielding slowly against his shivering skin. wooyoung can't move. he would rub his eyes if he wasn't scared of rubbing away the image of jaebum's sloping, sleepy back leaning into the fridge. the light from the fluorescent bulb hits the clicks of his spine just right, so naturally, so picturesque and normal that it makes wooyoung sick. each shadow is burning spots into his eyes. jaebum straightens. there's a carton of milk in his hand, and he drinks straight from the peaked gable. just like before. just like always. wooyoung thinks that he might cry. everything is moving before him like a broken film reel, out of his control, too far to touch to hear to see to understand. someone touches wooyoung's shoulderblade. he doesn't turn. he can't.
"wooyoung?" asks nichkhun, casual and friendly. so casual and friendly. too casual and friendly. it terrifies and enrages him.
"nichkhun," he replies, and that's about all he can say.
"something up?"
he still can't rip his eyes from jaebum's back, sharp and angular. his hands are shaking, he's sure of it now. he might throw up if nichkhun touches him again. he swallows and needles slide down his throat, settling like stones in his stomach. he walks slowly towards the kitchen, nichkhun fading out of his periphery, blurry and blue. he reaches for jaebum's arm, and his fingers look naked and wrong stretched out like that in the morning air.
cold. burning cold. cold and solid and shifting.
"yeah?" jaebum turns, and he's confused, god, he's confused. there's milk caught in the corners of his mouth. it makes wooyoung want to laugh.
"jaebum," he says. "jaebum."
"is something wrong, wooyoung?" taecyeon is suddenly behind him. junho is standing next to him. both of them have little twinned smiles, pleasant and uniform. nichkhun and junsu, in the living room, are smiling the same way.
"nothing," wooyoung says. "i'm hungry." he feels nauseous and hollow.
"that's good," says chansung. wooyoung doesn't remember seeing chansung walking into the kitchen. "i'll make you some rice." but chansung just stands there, watching.
wooyoung puts his arms around jaebum, pulling him into a hug. he wills himself to stop shaking and spreads his hands over jaebum's back.
"what's wrong with you?" he laughs. perfect, colloquial korean.
"nothing," wooyoung says. he begins to move his hands around, slowly, carefully. "there's nothing wrong with me." taecyeon and junho are still standing behind him. quiet. wooyoung grips a little harder, a little faster.
suddenly, his fingers catch on something hard and curved under the thin cloth of jaebum's wifebeater. in between two notches of jaebum's spine bones, unnatural and synthetic. it gives, slightly, like tubing. like wiring. wooyoung lets his head fall onto jaebum's shoulder. his ear presses against jaebum's neck.
the sound of slow, rhythmic gears fill his ears. jaebum's grip on his waist begins to tighten until it hurts.
nichkhun puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him upright.
there is no heartbeat at nichkhun's wrists.
--
taecyeon: wooyoung
wooyoung: yes
chansung: are you okay
wooyoung: i
junho: wooyoung
junsu: wooyoung
nichkhun: are you okay
wooyoung: i'm
jaebum: are you okay, wooyoung
wooyoung: perfect. i'm perfect.
2 294 words. pg.
◦ caused by and dedicated to countingcarbs
wooyoung is the thorn that doesn't scratch. for every fire, there is an extinguisher.
when jaebum leaves, it's as though he takes wooyoung's hunger with him.
"would you like to eat now wooyoung?"
"no thank you very much but i will later."
too many people around him are dieting for this to be significant.
--
wooyoung walks in on chansung in the washroom one day. it would have been funny if chansung was doing something embarrassing, like taking a dump or jerking off, but he's only sitting on the edge of the bathtub, staring at nothing. he has two fingers in his mouth, one on each side, teeth clenched tight. he looks up when wooyoung comes in, and pulls his hand out.
"my teeth hurt," he says simply, and then he brushes past wooyoung, slips out the door.
wooyoung touches the sharpest part of his jaw and kneels down to clean the sweet, slippery blood off the linoleum.
--
the next day, chansung is writing a letter at the kitchen table. his fingers are no longer raw and mangled. they're perfect again, wrapped neatly around a long black sharp-tipped pencil. wooyoung says nothing. junsu is on the phone, respectful but angry. it might be park jinyoung. it probably is. wooyoung sits down next to him on the sofa, puts his hand over junsu's. he watches junsu turn to him, and slowly deflate.
"fine. i'll do it. it doesn't matter anymore," junsu says into the phone, but as he does this he's looking straight into wooyoung's eyes. "whatever you want."
wooyoung mouths back silently, "whatever you want." junsu squeezes his hands, sad and comforting.
--
you hate junsu's new face.
you don't recognise him in the mornings anymore, always startled to find a stranger in your kitchen, drinking things out of junsu's mug and wearing junsu's things. like a plastic, carbon copy was placed in his stead. nobody sees the differences but you. the sharp, unnatural movements of his eyes and mouth, the jerky way his elbows catch against his clothes. you want to rip him open and eat the colourful, twisted wiring within. but you're not hungry. you haven't been in a while.
"eat," says nichkhun.
"i did," you say. "where were you?"
nichkhun looks at you, shrugs and goes back into his room. you watch his retreating back, too far to touch too close to forget. you wish the air wasn't so heavy. it hurts to hold your spine so straight.
--
practice starts again too soon. everybody is uncoordinated and distracted. somehow, you've become jaebum's inadequate replacement. your adlibs suck. you never asked to be a singer, just a celebrity. you hate the shitty suicidal flips the dance instructors ask you to perform. you haven't said no in a long time. (no, i don't want to. no, i will. no, i have. no, don't leave me. no no no no no no don't leave us please don't leave me.)
your arms hurt.
chansung is so fucking perfect it makes you sick. he's never been so obedient and responsive. every dance move flows through his body like electricity, each note hits exactly the way park jinyoung wants it. junsu too. junho is quiet, watching. you don't know what he's watching for but if you knew, you'd give it to him. you find yourself standing behind him whenever you can, and he doesn't say anything about it.
"thanks," you say during one rehearsal, after chansung nails a flip. you don't say what for. he turns to you, still quiet, still watching. he breaks into a smile.
the way he grips your wrist, it feels like cold resolute relief.
in the background is the sound of taecyeon falling. a dull, loud, empty sound that bounces off the walls and the mirrors.
--
taecyeon spreads himself thin and wide, like parisian silk. every member and staff is suddenly his best friend. if something goes wrong, it's immediately his fault because don't worry everybody, i can fix it. i apologise. it won't happen again. i sincerely apologise deeply truly honestly please forgive me please. every bow is awkward and jerky.
wooyoung asks one night, "are you okay?"
taecyeon grins with all his teeth and says, "i'm perfect." there's a tremor that wooyoung can't hear.
his hands are cold when he places them against wooyoung's back, he's struggling to stand.
--
junsu is writing songs and junho is singing them. wooyoung listens.
they're all horrible.
--
junho's voice is cracking.
park jinyoung says nothing.
it's become a watching game.
--
wooyoung is sitting on the balcony when junho comes to him. the air is cold and dry, like the air in the house. but in a different way, a way that keeps wooyoung awake. junho has a gigantic fleece blanket that he wraps around them both. the warmth burns holes into wooyoung's skin.
junho says, "you're going to be okay."
wooyoung says, "you can smoke if you want to."
junho pauses. "wooyoung," he says, hesitantly. wooyoung shrugs. silence forces itself into the spaces between them and expands like fire. something shifts and junho sighs. wooyoung feels him shuffling beside him under the blanket as he reaches inside his jacket. he doesn't take out a carton, just one white cigarette. when he ignites it, the flare of light makes wooyoung's eyes ache. he watches junho's cheeks sink in and puff out, the way his nails leave creases in the paper.
"you want?" he offers. wooyoung shakes his head. his knees are uncomfortable under his chin, and his hand is sweaty and cramped in junho's grip. but he doesn't move for the rest of the night, not until junho's finished the cigarette. he stubs it out on the floor and throws it over the edge. they watch it fall, small and crumpled. it makes wooyoung wish he were sleeping.
"that wasn't mine," junho says finally, when the sky is showing bits of pink and orange in the corners. he rubs and covers his eyes with the hand that held the cigarette. "i don't smoke."
"i know," says wooyoung. he pulls his hand out of junho's grasp and stands up. "i know."
junho looks up at him, still sitting on the rocky balcony floor. his hands are lying beside him now, limp and useless looking.
"it's bad for you," wooyoung says, and he doesn't mean the nicotine or the tar or the cyanide.
junho turns back to the skies. licks his lips and teeth. "they taste like him."
"yeah." wooyoung steps back into the house and watches the sun light up junho's outline. "i know."
--
wooyoung wakes up one night, starving. the hunger jolts him awake, abrupt and demanding. the kitchen feels foreign to him, and it takes him three tries to find the chopsticks. he's halfway through a bowl of soggy, swollen rice when he hears somebody talking. it's nichkhun.
"make him stop," he's saying.
someone says back, "what are you talking about."
wooyoung walks quietly down the hall. the door is ajar, so wooyoung looks. nichkhun is facing away from him, and his arms wrapped around junho's naked torso. his hands are moving over junho's back, searching, pressing. junho sees him standing there and smiles, empty and polite.
you lose your appetite. you leave the half finished bowl on the table and go back to bed.
when you wake up, the bowl and chopsticks are washed and put to dry.
--
junho's voice stops cracking. junsu still can't smile properly. everything chansung says is wrong and unfamiliar. taecyeon has learned how to laugh without making a sound.
everybody is perfect.
except nichkhun looks angry all the time, and for some reason, this is comforting to you.
--
wooyoung says, "i'm very cold."
nichkhun says, "the heater only works with the outlet in my room."
wooyoung says, "i can't sleep, it's too cold."
nichkhun says, "i have really good blankets. but you can't have them."
wooyoung says, "please."
nichkhun opens his door and lets wooyoung into his bed. nichkhun is the only warm body left in the entire house.
--
practices go off without a hitch. park jinyoung is pleased. there is talk of albums and comebacks. wooyoung spends all day shivering. at night, he pushes himself closer to nichkhun and lets the heat wash over him. in the middle of the night, when wooyoung is supposed to be asleep, nichkhun touches wooyoung's back. sweeping his hands over the stretched skin, gripping, scratching.
as if searching for something.
something like save me.
--
"geez you two," taecyeon laughs. "leave some breathing room, won't you?"
wooyoung slowly peels himself from nichkhun, sleepy and disoriented. something in taecyeon's eyes is flashing. under the covers, nichkhun's hand is lying over wooyoung's arm, shaking and tight.
"wake nichkhun up, we're going to the studio." chansung is standing at the doorway, watching. he touches taecyeon's hip when he walks past and they leave together, two tall wide figures side by side.
nichkhun is writing something on his arm. his finger is too unsteady for wooyoung to figure out what he's trying to do. it feels like be careful and don't go at the same time.
"come on," he says, pulling his arm away. "we'll be late." when he gets up from the bed, nichkhun's arm slides across the small of his waist and falls to the side. the body heat makes him shiver. he can feel nichkhun staring at him as he picks up his clothes.
nichkhun is playing the watching game too.
--
"where's nichkhun?"
"he's still back at the apartment; the manager will bring him later. can you flip like this?"
"yes."
"can you sing like this?"
wooyoung looks at his reflection in the studio mirror. it stares back with disinterest. "yes."
--
"please don't sleep in my room anymore," says nichkhun at dinner. "you have your own bed."
wooyoung shrugs. he reaches for nichkhun's free hand under the table. it gives him a steady, hard squeeze and lets go. wooyoung retracts his hand and starts to shake.
--
junsu finds him in the work room, earphones pushed against his head. he's singing, loud and flat.
"do you still have one?" junsu asks abruptly. wooyoung stops. he turns, stares at the junsu-like thing in junsu's hat. he tries to figure out the right answer.
"one of what?" he says finally.
"nevermind," junsu says. "you're doing well, wooyoung."
wooyoung doesn't respond. he shifts in the chair and feels jaebum's cigarette bend and twist in his pocket. junsu is still standing behind him, hand on his shoulder, when he starts to sing again.
--
waking up to jaebum in the kitchen is surreal-- like breathing, running underwater, everything pushing and yielding slowly against his shivering skin. wooyoung can't move. he would rub his eyes if he wasn't scared of rubbing away the image of jaebum's sloping, sleepy back leaning into the fridge. the light from the fluorescent bulb hits the clicks of his spine just right, so naturally, so picturesque and normal that it makes wooyoung sick. each shadow is burning spots into his eyes. jaebum straightens. there's a carton of milk in his hand, and he drinks straight from the peaked gable. just like before. just like always. wooyoung thinks that he might cry. everything is moving before him like a broken film reel, out of his control, too far to touch to hear to see to understand. someone touches wooyoung's shoulderblade. he doesn't turn. he can't.
"wooyoung?" asks nichkhun, casual and friendly. so casual and friendly. too casual and friendly. it terrifies and enrages him.
"nichkhun," he replies, and that's about all he can say.
"something up?"
he still can't rip his eyes from jaebum's back, sharp and angular. his hands are shaking, he's sure of it now. he might throw up if nichkhun touches him again. he swallows and needles slide down his throat, settling like stones in his stomach. he walks slowly towards the kitchen, nichkhun fading out of his periphery, blurry and blue. he reaches for jaebum's arm, and his fingers look naked and wrong stretched out like that in the morning air.
cold. burning cold. cold and solid and shifting.
"yeah?" jaebum turns, and he's confused, god, he's confused. there's milk caught in the corners of his mouth. it makes wooyoung want to laugh.
"jaebum," he says. "jaebum."
"is something wrong, wooyoung?" taecyeon is suddenly behind him. junho is standing next to him. both of them have little twinned smiles, pleasant and uniform. nichkhun and junsu, in the living room, are smiling the same way.
"nothing," wooyoung says. "i'm hungry." he feels nauseous and hollow.
"that's good," says chansung. wooyoung doesn't remember seeing chansung walking into the kitchen. "i'll make you some rice." but chansung just stands there, watching.
wooyoung puts his arms around jaebum, pulling him into a hug. he wills himself to stop shaking and spreads his hands over jaebum's back.
"what's wrong with you?" he laughs. perfect, colloquial korean.
"nothing," wooyoung says. he begins to move his hands around, slowly, carefully. "there's nothing wrong with me." taecyeon and junho are still standing behind him. quiet. wooyoung grips a little harder, a little faster.
suddenly, his fingers catch on something hard and curved under the thin cloth of jaebum's wifebeater. in between two notches of jaebum's spine bones, unnatural and synthetic. it gives, slightly, like tubing. like wiring. wooyoung lets his head fall onto jaebum's shoulder. his ear presses against jaebum's neck.
the sound of slow, rhythmic gears fill his ears. jaebum's grip on his waist begins to tighten until it hurts.
nichkhun puts a hand on his shoulder and pulls him upright.
there is no heartbeat at nichkhun's wrists.
--
taecyeon: wooyoung
wooyoung: yes
chansung: are you okay
wooyoung: i
junho: wooyoung
junsu: wooyoung
nichkhun: are you okay
wooyoung: i'm
jaebum: are you okay, wooyoung
wooyoung: perfect. i'm perfect.