Fiction (1/2)
Title: Fiction
Chapter: Part 1/2
Author: frolickings
Pairing: Junseung
Rating: PG
Summary: Hyunseung is just a boy and Junhyung is just a work of fiction.
Author's Notes: au!junseung / fantasy!junseung because that's what i like best. u__u anyway, i'm already back again because of my growing obsession with writing junseung. enjoy!
Hyunseung is seven years old when he meets Junhyung and learns that words are a dangerous, dangerous thing.
Stories were just nothing but a blur of vocabulary, so blurred that they became one with each other and melted into a delicious sentence, things he liked to taste even though they stumbled with difficulty over his little tongue. He’d always enjoyed the weight of a story in his mouth, in his hands, in his heart; stories were nothing until they were read and he wanted to make them something, even if only in his mind or muttered underneath the glow reflected from moonlight deep into the early morning. He much thought of himself as some sort of superhero, with his bringing tales to life and making the knights and damsels in distress dance in front of his vision as if they’d unfurled themselves, living matter, from the pages.
The book, thick with a dusty cover and a flaking gold leaf title, wobbles in between his crossed legs, a smear of jam in the corner (he would later grimace at his own childish treatment of books and stare at that tiny stain with burning shame) with his fingers idly playing with the soft pages. His aunt’s birthday greeting peaks up happily from the title page -- Happy 7th birthday, Hyunseung!! May you grow up and shoot for the stars!!! -- and he isn’t sure what makes him more sick: the message, the over excessive use of exclamation points, or the fact that she has defaced a perfectly good title page with her cramped writing. The words are floating around in his head, swimming lazily and sewing themselves together as they please, his mouth poking into an oh and then pinching itself together for the tight vowels.
Midnight is crawling about over his head, but under the sheets, it is a no-man’s land and the faint, flickering glow of the flashlight is enough sun to last him until the real one spills into the room with gold to drag him from the covers. He’s never read a book like this and it isn’t filled with the normal stories of glass slippers that slide off feet like water, poisoned apples so red that they almost bleed down the wrist, and mermaids that fade like seafoam into the curls of waves.
The radio buzzes safely in the corner, alternating hisses of English and Korean with the melodic background of static and he raises his voice slightly, squinting down at the text because the words are so tiny, as if the author could not cram enough magic into the story.
“Once upon a time...” It starts, as all good stories should and he sinks into the familiarity of the words, words that warm his chest and fall over his shoulders like a comfortable blanket, “...there lived a prince named Junhyung in a castle far, far away...”
There is a playground down the street, made out of cheap plastic and a tiny castle slide peaked with what he supposes are supposed to be the tallest towers, just like in the stories, but instead lift a few inches from the bright roof with a tattered flag flapping to top it off. During the day, it’s filled to the brim with children that scrape their knees, loud screeches, and sneakers slapping against the asphalt but at the time of day when the sun goes to sleep and everything is drowning in the orange of sunset -- then it is perfect for just sitting.
Hyunseung can already tell that he is a little off and not like the other boys, who prefer the articulate activities of eating dirt and dangling insects in front of girl’s faces instead of burying themselves inside of books. He probably wouldn’t have noticed, had it not been for the moms with the coiffed hair and their too-loud whispers, words that were ugly and crawled like rodents, skittering across the ground; what a strange boy and all he does is read those fairy tales and his mother said he won’t do any sports, she is just beside herself. It was hard to notice a mother being beside herself, especially his mother, who has a way of speaking through tight, pale lips and everything she says to him -- slow, careful tones as if she is trying to house train him -- is what is necessary. There is no neatly cut sandwiches, frothy glass of milk waiting for him at home when school ends and there is certainly no offhanded how was your day, sweetie? that seems to accompany every other mother with a certain, easing grace. If he had to associate his mother with a color, it would be gray -- the sharp, cutting kind that came in shades of business and work, not the kind that softly dulled at the edges. But she was his mother and he figures that he is morally obligated to love her, even if he doesn’t like her too much.
His feet dangle off the edge of the slide and a slim, papery-thin novel tucked between the fingers of his one hand, eyes slimming down further into a squint as the sun tucks itself away into bed behind the tops of buildings. The sound of approaching life, the crunch of woodchips underneath shoes, is starkly familiar against the backdrop of cars on the freeway and church bells clanging so hard, the air seems to vibrate. His eyes raise for a split second, stinging like they were peering through smoke as they did when he had to peel away from a story, and focused ahead. His head tilts, hair sweeping against the curve of his shoulder.
The man looks a bit too old to be wandering around on the playground, seeming a bit alien compared to the scenery but he is wonderful and stunning and complexly familiar in that way where one builds something up so much in their mind and it finally unravels in fantastic simplicity in front of them. Hyunseung can only guess he is around forty years old, although he can’t be more then twenty in reality, but as Hyunseung’s mind is wired like a child’s, anybody older then him must be around forty, just like his mother. But the man is exactly how he imagined him, with the dark hair that feathers against his jaw line and the rugged curves of his face that chisel him out as so handsomely male, which makes Hyunseung’s feet swing excitedly.
“Who are you?” He asks, book clutched to his chest as if he’s trying to absorb it into his heart and he knows the answer to his question already but he wants to hear it in that voice. That voice, smoky and crisp around the edges, the kind of voice that is meant to tell stories and soothe and yell above the din of battle.
The man’s fingers graze Hyunseung’s cheeks, smooth over the slinking feline curve of his eyelids and dusting across his lashes. “Junhyung.”
He figures that, after many rattling around of conclusions and theories in his head, he is able to read things out of books and so begins the dangerous tiptoeing around the spoken word of stories. They huddle under the sheets - him and Junhyung, who has adapted to this world faster then both of them could possibly imagine - with the flashlight tipped between the two, making the shadows of Junhyung’s face elongate and drip down his skin. It feels strange to have another person here, as if it were some sort of sacred place that involved a few rituals and sacrifices to be allowed to enter, but their warm breath ghosts across each other’s flesh and their limbs fumble against each other and it really feels like, for once, he has something to share with anybody. The book is between them, much like an ancient something-or-another that has so much power, it would burn the whirls and swoops off the pads of their fingers if they touched it. And in a way, as his ability blooms inside Hyunseung’s body and he realizes just how magic that voice of his is, he almost is scared to touch it.
“Once upon a time, there lived a mermaid under the sea…” He trails off, warily pulling his face away from the book, expression squished into fear that a half naked girl will suddenly scatter into view, fish tail slapping against the hardwood and water spilling everywhere. “…and she was one of many princesses…”
Hyunseung looks up for a second, as his lower lip quivers and makes eye contact with Junhyung, who gives him a kind-of-half-smile of encouragement, and he wonders silently how he has already taken to this so well. Plucked from his own world and forced around by a seven year old with grubby hands and a tiny bit of a book fetish, he is surprisingly nonchalant about the whole situation. Later, they will both learn that he serves another purpose, that he fits in all the spaces that Hyunseung will lack but the one thing a person knows about telling a story is to never tell the end in the beginning.
The story continues, tugging him along and he can practically feel the sea breeze scratch at his cheeks, making his hair thick with texture, smelling the heavy scent of brine that hangs low like a salty fog. He suddenly longs for something to appear, casting a frantic glance at Junhyung to see if he is already bored but Junhyung stares back, mildly amused, chin cupped in his palm. Hyunseung’s voice trails away without him even noticing and he only blinks back into purpose as he thoughtlessly trails over the line, “…thousands of black bugs that covered the prince's castle…”
And they do come, spilling out of the pages; little black bugs with glittering wings and tiny feet that tickle his arms and he shrieks, the book tumbling off his lap. Junhyung almost falls off the bed and they are tangled in the covers with what seems to be billions, not thousands, of bugs that rush out until Junhyung finally has the good sense to slam the book shut. It is just in time for the hallway light to flick on and his door to creak open, much like an omen, and his mother’s silhouette looking particularly threatening at three in the morning. It distracts him from the bugs that are still creeping, threading in loose paths through the rumpled sheets and he absently scratches at his doughy child limbs, trying to explain the situation at hand because even though he is seven, he knows he has a lot of explaining to do. If it wasn’t the twitching, glittering insects creeping around her feet, then it was obviously the grown man staring at her absently from where he was huddled under the comforter.
His mother didn’t seem phased in the slightest, the sides of her mouth drooping considerably and unaware of the crawling feeling of tiny insect legs over her bare legs, pasty as they peeked underneath the thin pink chiffon of her night gown. The curlers in her hair give her the appearance of some sort of pit bull disguised with sloppy lipstick and shoved inside of flimsy sleepwear, especially with the wrinkled narrow of her eyes.
“Hyunseung.” Her voice starts out hesitantly and he prepares himself for it because it has that quiver of something in it and he realizes, after a second, it sounds like an undertone of punishment. “It is three in the morning. What time does mommy go to work?”
It never fails to surprise Hyunseung that the only time his mother peppers her sentences with affectionate terms is when she is preparing to make him feel like the worst child in the world. Over the years, she has built up a tolerance with the whole idea of love and coddling one’s child, knowing it so far in and out that she is now able to use it against him. As he will learn later, he has to know the rules like the back of his hand before he can go around breaking them without care, one of the few precious morals he has picked up from his ever absent mother figure.
“Mommy goes to work at five.” His mouth grows smaller, his voice fading off at the end as if he has just been slapped across the face and his cheeks burn too hard to talk properly with confidence again. Junhyung’s eyes flicker with a bit of morose pity before staring down at the closed book to spare Hyunseung the shame of having to face the blatant stare of a person watching another being scolded - as a child, it is a traumatic experience, much like a beloved family pet passing away or being put in time-out.
The lines around his mother’s lips pucker slightly, creating little deltas and forked trails into the creases of her face before softening - as soft as she could possibly go, which truly means her shoulders slump a bit and the white of her knuckles peering through the taut skin of her hand fade away. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
His head is still tilted down, hair carefully arranged to make sure she doesn’t see that his eyes are red and there is a thin line of water about to collapse over the edge of his lashes. “Yes, mommy.”
“Mother, not mommy.” The door slams shut behind her, because even if she is putting on a nice show of uncontrollable anger and lack of love to her seven year old son, she must make a perfect exit. “I won’t be disrespected like that.”
They later discover, after much thought, that there must be some blurred line between the psychological and reality of reading fiction into real life. The incident with the bugs, creeping and flowing past his mother’s feet without stop like an inky river, has him thinking too hard. Obviously, she can’t see them and neither can anybody else, the things he creates but there has to be some sort of semblance to them because when he wakes up, his little legs are coated in angry, itching welts. Even his mother, who is trying to keep up a façade of being especially frosty the next morning, lifts her coffee mug in mild amusement and asks if he went and shoved his legs in a thriving nest of severely angry mosquitoes. This surprises him and he scratches absently at them, placing the question off to the side without a response and already trying to figure out how the cause is not visible but the effect, the itchy and uncomfortable effect, is very much there. He gives up after a while, somewhat thinking of the things he reads out as little poltergeists; invisible and quiet, but their actions quite visible.
“So,” Hyunseung trails off, fingers laced with Junhyung, who has accepted his unofficial role of father figure with a spoonful of quiet modesty, “what does that make you? I mean, if nobody can see you but... I mean, you’re here and you can do stuff and people can see the... the effects of that...”
Junhyung carefully pushes the hair away from Hyunseung’s face with his free hand, rubbing small circles on the soft, pale skin of the inside of his wrist. It will become a habit, he notices later on, to feel and make sure that Hyunseung is still there, to feel the creamy expanse of his skin and the pale bruise-colored veins push against his fragile body, blood pulsating through. It starts out as a habit but quickly switches its motives to a protective, possessive manner that begins to rear its ugly head when Hyunseung gets older and, in turn, gets more desirable from genders alike.
“I think…” He purses his lips tightly, falling down on his knees to pinch Hyunseung’s cheek, who slaps him away with a whine, “…that it makes me fiction.”
Fiction. It makes sense it some hypothetical sort of way, as fiction is not alive until you wish it to be and fiction lives and breathes as much as a human being, embedded under the skin and pulsing in the mind. It certainly marks its place in the world, that much is obvious, as fiction could change the world - a single statement that lacks a grain of truth had the delectable ability to destroy countries, rot a marriage into a loveless union, and it didn’t even have to solidify itself. It was very well alive; it spoke, it caused, and it affected but without being seen.
“Fiction.” Hyunseung repeats, eyebrows knotted together and a wrinkle delicately folds itself in between. “Huh.”
He digs his nails slightly into Junhyung’s hands, just to feel the flesh underneath him and feel it soften in his grip and how could he be fiction if he’s right here? but he smiles up, eyes crinkling. “Fiction. Okay.”
A/N: alright now i'm obsessed w/ writing junseung hsdifu ;___; um!!
part two will probably be up later this week since i'm busy and even though it's pretty much all prewritten, i like to reread all my stuff over like twenty times before i post it because i'm so unsecure with it. :c
also in other news ITALICS MAKE EVERYTHING PRETTY.
-jie
Chapter: Part 1/2
Author: frolickings
Pairing: Junseung
Rating: PG
Summary: Hyunseung is just a boy and Junhyung is just a work of fiction.
Author's Notes: au!junseung / fantasy!junseung because that's what i like best. u__u anyway, i'm already back again because of my growing obsession with writing junseung. enjoy!
Hyunseung is seven years old when he meets Junhyung and learns that words are a dangerous, dangerous thing.
Stories were just nothing but a blur of vocabulary, so blurred that they became one with each other and melted into a delicious sentence, things he liked to taste even though they stumbled with difficulty over his little tongue. He’d always enjoyed the weight of a story in his mouth, in his hands, in his heart; stories were nothing until they were read and he wanted to make them something, even if only in his mind or muttered underneath the glow reflected from moonlight deep into the early morning. He much thought of himself as some sort of superhero, with his bringing tales to life and making the knights and damsels in distress dance in front of his vision as if they’d unfurled themselves, living matter, from the pages.
The book, thick with a dusty cover and a flaking gold leaf title, wobbles in between his crossed legs, a smear of jam in the corner (he would later grimace at his own childish treatment of books and stare at that tiny stain with burning shame) with his fingers idly playing with the soft pages. His aunt’s birthday greeting peaks up happily from the title page -- Happy 7th birthday, Hyunseung!! May you grow up and shoot for the stars!!! -- and he isn’t sure what makes him more sick: the message, the over excessive use of exclamation points, or the fact that she has defaced a perfectly good title page with her cramped writing. The words are floating around in his head, swimming lazily and sewing themselves together as they please, his mouth poking into an oh and then pinching itself together for the tight vowels.
Midnight is crawling about over his head, but under the sheets, it is a no-man’s land and the faint, flickering glow of the flashlight is enough sun to last him until the real one spills into the room with gold to drag him from the covers. He’s never read a book like this and it isn’t filled with the normal stories of glass slippers that slide off feet like water, poisoned apples so red that they almost bleed down the wrist, and mermaids that fade like seafoam into the curls of waves.
The radio buzzes safely in the corner, alternating hisses of English and Korean with the melodic background of static and he raises his voice slightly, squinting down at the text because the words are so tiny, as if the author could not cram enough magic into the story.
“Once upon a time...” It starts, as all good stories should and he sinks into the familiarity of the words, words that warm his chest and fall over his shoulders like a comfortable blanket, “...there lived a prince named Junhyung in a castle far, far away...”
There is a playground down the street, made out of cheap plastic and a tiny castle slide peaked with what he supposes are supposed to be the tallest towers, just like in the stories, but instead lift a few inches from the bright roof with a tattered flag flapping to top it off. During the day, it’s filled to the brim with children that scrape their knees, loud screeches, and sneakers slapping against the asphalt but at the time of day when the sun goes to sleep and everything is drowning in the orange of sunset -- then it is perfect for just sitting.
Hyunseung can already tell that he is a little off and not like the other boys, who prefer the articulate activities of eating dirt and dangling insects in front of girl’s faces instead of burying themselves inside of books. He probably wouldn’t have noticed, had it not been for the moms with the coiffed hair and their too-loud whispers, words that were ugly and crawled like rodents, skittering across the ground; what a strange boy and all he does is read those fairy tales and his mother said he won’t do any sports, she is just beside herself. It was hard to notice a mother being beside herself, especially his mother, who has a way of speaking through tight, pale lips and everything she says to him -- slow, careful tones as if she is trying to house train him -- is what is necessary. There is no neatly cut sandwiches, frothy glass of milk waiting for him at home when school ends and there is certainly no offhanded how was your day, sweetie? that seems to accompany every other mother with a certain, easing grace. If he had to associate his mother with a color, it would be gray -- the sharp, cutting kind that came in shades of business and work, not the kind that softly dulled at the edges. But she was his mother and he figures that he is morally obligated to love her, even if he doesn’t like her too much.
His feet dangle off the edge of the slide and a slim, papery-thin novel tucked between the fingers of his one hand, eyes slimming down further into a squint as the sun tucks itself away into bed behind the tops of buildings. The sound of approaching life, the crunch of woodchips underneath shoes, is starkly familiar against the backdrop of cars on the freeway and church bells clanging so hard, the air seems to vibrate. His eyes raise for a split second, stinging like they were peering through smoke as they did when he had to peel away from a story, and focused ahead. His head tilts, hair sweeping against the curve of his shoulder.
The man looks a bit too old to be wandering around on the playground, seeming a bit alien compared to the scenery but he is wonderful and stunning and complexly familiar in that way where one builds something up so much in their mind and it finally unravels in fantastic simplicity in front of them. Hyunseung can only guess he is around forty years old, although he can’t be more then twenty in reality, but as Hyunseung’s mind is wired like a child’s, anybody older then him must be around forty, just like his mother. But the man is exactly how he imagined him, with the dark hair that feathers against his jaw line and the rugged curves of his face that chisel him out as so handsomely male, which makes Hyunseung’s feet swing excitedly.
“Who are you?” He asks, book clutched to his chest as if he’s trying to absorb it into his heart and he knows the answer to his question already but he wants to hear it in that voice. That voice, smoky and crisp around the edges, the kind of voice that is meant to tell stories and soothe and yell above the din of battle.
The man’s fingers graze Hyunseung’s cheeks, smooth over the slinking feline curve of his eyelids and dusting across his lashes. “Junhyung.”
He figures that, after many rattling around of conclusions and theories in his head, he is able to read things out of books and so begins the dangerous tiptoeing around the spoken word of stories. They huddle under the sheets - him and Junhyung, who has adapted to this world faster then both of them could possibly imagine - with the flashlight tipped between the two, making the shadows of Junhyung’s face elongate and drip down his skin. It feels strange to have another person here, as if it were some sort of sacred place that involved a few rituals and sacrifices to be allowed to enter, but their warm breath ghosts across each other’s flesh and their limbs fumble against each other and it really feels like, for once, he has something to share with anybody. The book is between them, much like an ancient something-or-another that has so much power, it would burn the whirls and swoops off the pads of their fingers if they touched it. And in a way, as his ability blooms inside Hyunseung’s body and he realizes just how magic that voice of his is, he almost is scared to touch it.
“Once upon a time, there lived a mermaid under the sea…” He trails off, warily pulling his face away from the book, expression squished into fear that a half naked girl will suddenly scatter into view, fish tail slapping against the hardwood and water spilling everywhere. “…and she was one of many princesses…”
Hyunseung looks up for a second, as his lower lip quivers and makes eye contact with Junhyung, who gives him a kind-of-half-smile of encouragement, and he wonders silently how he has already taken to this so well. Plucked from his own world and forced around by a seven year old with grubby hands and a tiny bit of a book fetish, he is surprisingly nonchalant about the whole situation. Later, they will both learn that he serves another purpose, that he fits in all the spaces that Hyunseung will lack but the one thing a person knows about telling a story is to never tell the end in the beginning.
The story continues, tugging him along and he can practically feel the sea breeze scratch at his cheeks, making his hair thick with texture, smelling the heavy scent of brine that hangs low like a salty fog. He suddenly longs for something to appear, casting a frantic glance at Junhyung to see if he is already bored but Junhyung stares back, mildly amused, chin cupped in his palm. Hyunseung’s voice trails away without him even noticing and he only blinks back into purpose as he thoughtlessly trails over the line, “…thousands of black bugs that covered the prince's castle…”
And they do come, spilling out of the pages; little black bugs with glittering wings and tiny feet that tickle his arms and he shrieks, the book tumbling off his lap. Junhyung almost falls off the bed and they are tangled in the covers with what seems to be billions, not thousands, of bugs that rush out until Junhyung finally has the good sense to slam the book shut. It is just in time for the hallway light to flick on and his door to creak open, much like an omen, and his mother’s silhouette looking particularly threatening at three in the morning. It distracts him from the bugs that are still creeping, threading in loose paths through the rumpled sheets and he absently scratches at his doughy child limbs, trying to explain the situation at hand because even though he is seven, he knows he has a lot of explaining to do. If it wasn’t the twitching, glittering insects creeping around her feet, then it was obviously the grown man staring at her absently from where he was huddled under the comforter.
His mother didn’t seem phased in the slightest, the sides of her mouth drooping considerably and unaware of the crawling feeling of tiny insect legs over her bare legs, pasty as they peeked underneath the thin pink chiffon of her night gown. The curlers in her hair give her the appearance of some sort of pit bull disguised with sloppy lipstick and shoved inside of flimsy sleepwear, especially with the wrinkled narrow of her eyes.
“Hyunseung.” Her voice starts out hesitantly and he prepares himself for it because it has that quiver of something in it and he realizes, after a second, it sounds like an undertone of punishment. “It is three in the morning. What time does mommy go to work?”
It never fails to surprise Hyunseung that the only time his mother peppers her sentences with affectionate terms is when she is preparing to make him feel like the worst child in the world. Over the years, she has built up a tolerance with the whole idea of love and coddling one’s child, knowing it so far in and out that she is now able to use it against him. As he will learn later, he has to know the rules like the back of his hand before he can go around breaking them without care, one of the few precious morals he has picked up from his ever absent mother figure.
“Mommy goes to work at five.” His mouth grows smaller, his voice fading off at the end as if he has just been slapped across the face and his cheeks burn too hard to talk properly with confidence again. Junhyung’s eyes flicker with a bit of morose pity before staring down at the closed book to spare Hyunseung the shame of having to face the blatant stare of a person watching another being scolded - as a child, it is a traumatic experience, much like a beloved family pet passing away or being put in time-out.
The lines around his mother’s lips pucker slightly, creating little deltas and forked trails into the creases of her face before softening - as soft as she could possibly go, which truly means her shoulders slump a bit and the white of her knuckles peering through the taut skin of her hand fade away. “We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
His head is still tilted down, hair carefully arranged to make sure she doesn’t see that his eyes are red and there is a thin line of water about to collapse over the edge of his lashes. “Yes, mommy.”
“Mother, not mommy.” The door slams shut behind her, because even if she is putting on a nice show of uncontrollable anger and lack of love to her seven year old son, she must make a perfect exit. “I won’t be disrespected like that.”
They later discover, after much thought, that there must be some blurred line between the psychological and reality of reading fiction into real life. The incident with the bugs, creeping and flowing past his mother’s feet without stop like an inky river, has him thinking too hard. Obviously, she can’t see them and neither can anybody else, the things he creates but there has to be some sort of semblance to them because when he wakes up, his little legs are coated in angry, itching welts. Even his mother, who is trying to keep up a façade of being especially frosty the next morning, lifts her coffee mug in mild amusement and asks if he went and shoved his legs in a thriving nest of severely angry mosquitoes. This surprises him and he scratches absently at them, placing the question off to the side without a response and already trying to figure out how the cause is not visible but the effect, the itchy and uncomfortable effect, is very much there. He gives up after a while, somewhat thinking of the things he reads out as little poltergeists; invisible and quiet, but their actions quite visible.
“So,” Hyunseung trails off, fingers laced with Junhyung, who has accepted his unofficial role of father figure with a spoonful of quiet modesty, “what does that make you? I mean, if nobody can see you but... I mean, you’re here and you can do stuff and people can see the... the effects of that...”
Junhyung carefully pushes the hair away from Hyunseung’s face with his free hand, rubbing small circles on the soft, pale skin of the inside of his wrist. It will become a habit, he notices later on, to feel and make sure that Hyunseung is still there, to feel the creamy expanse of his skin and the pale bruise-colored veins push against his fragile body, blood pulsating through. It starts out as a habit but quickly switches its motives to a protective, possessive manner that begins to rear its ugly head when Hyunseung gets older and, in turn, gets more desirable from genders alike.
“I think…” He purses his lips tightly, falling down on his knees to pinch Hyunseung’s cheek, who slaps him away with a whine, “…that it makes me fiction.”
Fiction. It makes sense it some hypothetical sort of way, as fiction is not alive until you wish it to be and fiction lives and breathes as much as a human being, embedded under the skin and pulsing in the mind. It certainly marks its place in the world, that much is obvious, as fiction could change the world - a single statement that lacks a grain of truth had the delectable ability to destroy countries, rot a marriage into a loveless union, and it didn’t even have to solidify itself. It was very well alive; it spoke, it caused, and it affected but without being seen.
“Fiction.” Hyunseung repeats, eyebrows knotted together and a wrinkle delicately folds itself in between. “Huh.”
He digs his nails slightly into Junhyung’s hands, just to feel the flesh underneath him and feel it soften in his grip and how could he be fiction if he’s right here? but he smiles up, eyes crinkling. “Fiction. Okay.”
A/N: alright now i'm obsessed w/ writing junseung hsdifu ;___; um!!
part two will probably be up later this week since i'm busy and even though it's pretty much all prewritten, i like to reread all my stuff over like twenty times before i post it because i'm so unsecure with it. :c
also in other news ITALICS MAKE EVERYTHING PRETTY.
-jie