[super junior] a field of almost-dreams made just for you [hangeng x heechul]
a field of almost-dreams made just for you
hangeng x heechul
pg
a/n: like a stupid person i was listening to Sigur Ros's Untitled 3 again today, and somehow during japanese i got the image of a straw field, dust motes, and a train. and then there was this ):
when hangeng’s mother dies, hangeng is devastated. leeteuk wrestles quietly with their manager for time off in another room, and ryeowook takes over all cooking. donghae clings to him with sad eyes, and it’s double the heartbreak in the face of donghae’s reemerging grief. no one quite knows what to do or say, too afraid to move unless they break all the eggshells lining the paths to every room. no one can quite meet hangeng’s too-bright eyes either.
except heechul.
on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul towers over him, looking him directly in the eye and heechul says- demands, “let’s take a trip.”
hangeng looks up at him, with a red-rimmed, disbelieving stare and says, quite clearly, in a voice gone all hoarse, “no.”
he follows heechul anyways.
heechul takes them, just the two of them, to the countryside, where even the teenage girls won’t recognize them, bundling hangeng onto a train so they can watch the world speed on past, still moving too too fast, on the other side of the dirty windows. the air is sticky-warm and heechul plucks, irritated, at his t-shirt, clinging to his skin in the heat. the compartment they share is cramped, knees banging painfully with every sudden jerk, and the crackly strains of an old song heechul might have once know can sometimes be heard, over the steady rumblings of the train. the sunlight, bright and brilliant and painful, filters in through the windows, catching dust motes in the air and setting them on fire, as they spin round and round their heads like crowns. it’s a moment of almost magic, something spectacular and somehow unbelievable, as if little planets float above their heads to the sound of a ballerina’s lullaby. it’s wonderful and beautiful and it could have been perfect, but hangeng’s quiet sniffling and his turned away face destroy it.
the light illuminates everything; it illuminates nothing; nothing that can’t already be seen with a naked eye. heechul watches the nearly imperceptible shake of his shoulders out of the corner of his eye. heechul pretends he doesn’t see hangeng wipe his eyes dry.
when heechul decides they are deep enough into nowhere, he pulls hangeng off the train, hand caught tightly in his, pulling him along and along, farther and farther from reality and deeper into a quiet world of fields of green and golden and straw and wheat. it’s not quite silent, a steady, quiet hum of life, just beneath the soil, leading them on, deeper and deeper into this nowhere land. the wind is cool, gentle against their burned, feverish skin, and it rustles the grass they crush beneath their feet.
at some point, hangeng stops, holds up his fingers in the shape of a photo frame and makes a quiet click with his tongue that still sounds too loud in the silence anyways.
heechul peers over his shoulder to see what he framed but he doesn’t see anything there, in the gaps between hangeng’s fingers, just empty, empty space, too far away to touch.
he makes his own frame when hangeng isn’t looking, the straight, clear lines of hangeng’s shoulder blades through his shirt. his click is silent.
somehow, in heechul’s eyes, his photo and hangeng’s look, startling enough, the same.
later, just as the sun starts to set golden and glowing, heechul leads him into a sea of yellow, a field of straw that scratches, itchy, against their uncovered, sunburnt legs.
on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul takes him out the countryside. on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul lets them get lost in a field of straw.
on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul kisses him, like he’s trying to chase out all of hangeng’s pain.
he can’t, but it helps, somehow, because heechul doesn’t pull away when hangeng finally breaks down, his blank eyes shattering under the force of his pain, sobbing against the press of heechul’s mouth. he doesn’t pull away, continuing their exchange of messy, hard kisses. and heechul lets hangeng hold onto his hips so tight there are bruises; lets him cling to something solid; something almost-real.
on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul kisses him like they are in love.
because it’s the only thing he can do.
hangeng x heechul
pg
a/n: like a stupid person i was listening to Sigur Ros's Untitled 3 again today, and somehow during japanese i got the image of a straw field, dust motes, and a train. and then there was this ):
when hangeng’s mother dies, hangeng is devastated. leeteuk wrestles quietly with their manager for time off in another room, and ryeowook takes over all cooking. donghae clings to him with sad eyes, and it’s double the heartbreak in the face of donghae’s reemerging grief. no one quite knows what to do or say, too afraid to move unless they break all the eggshells lining the paths to every room. no one can quite meet hangeng’s too-bright eyes either.
except heechul.
on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul towers over him, looking him directly in the eye and heechul says- demands, “let’s take a trip.”
hangeng looks up at him, with a red-rimmed, disbelieving stare and says, quite clearly, in a voice gone all hoarse, “no.”
he follows heechul anyways.
heechul takes them, just the two of them, to the countryside, where even the teenage girls won’t recognize them, bundling hangeng onto a train so they can watch the world speed on past, still moving too too fast, on the other side of the dirty windows. the air is sticky-warm and heechul plucks, irritated, at his t-shirt, clinging to his skin in the heat. the compartment they share is cramped, knees banging painfully with every sudden jerk, and the crackly strains of an old song heechul might have once know can sometimes be heard, over the steady rumblings of the train. the sunlight, bright and brilliant and painful, filters in through the windows, catching dust motes in the air and setting them on fire, as they spin round and round their heads like crowns. it’s a moment of almost magic, something spectacular and somehow unbelievable, as if little planets float above their heads to the sound of a ballerina’s lullaby. it’s wonderful and beautiful and it could have been perfect, but hangeng’s quiet sniffling and his turned away face destroy it.
the light illuminates everything; it illuminates nothing; nothing that can’t already be seen with a naked eye. heechul watches the nearly imperceptible shake of his shoulders out of the corner of his eye. heechul pretends he doesn’t see hangeng wipe his eyes dry.
when heechul decides they are deep enough into nowhere, he pulls hangeng off the train, hand caught tightly in his, pulling him along and along, farther and farther from reality and deeper into a quiet world of fields of green and golden and straw and wheat. it’s not quite silent, a steady, quiet hum of life, just beneath the soil, leading them on, deeper and deeper into this nowhere land. the wind is cool, gentle against their burned, feverish skin, and it rustles the grass they crush beneath their feet.
at some point, hangeng stops, holds up his fingers in the shape of a photo frame and makes a quiet click with his tongue that still sounds too loud in the silence anyways.
heechul peers over his shoulder to see what he framed but he doesn’t see anything there, in the gaps between hangeng’s fingers, just empty, empty space, too far away to touch.
he makes his own frame when hangeng isn’t looking, the straight, clear lines of hangeng’s shoulder blades through his shirt. his click is silent.
somehow, in heechul’s eyes, his photo and hangeng’s look, startling enough, the same.
later, just as the sun starts to set golden and glowing, heechul leads him into a sea of yellow, a field of straw that scratches, itchy, against their uncovered, sunburnt legs.
on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul takes him out the countryside. on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul lets them get lost in a field of straw.
on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul kisses him, like he’s trying to chase out all of hangeng’s pain.
he can’t, but it helps, somehow, because heechul doesn’t pull away when hangeng finally breaks down, his blank eyes shattering under the force of his pain, sobbing against the press of heechul’s mouth. he doesn’t pull away, continuing their exchange of messy, hard kisses. and heechul lets hangeng hold onto his hips so tight there are bruises; lets him cling to something solid; something almost-real.
on the day hangeng’s mother dies, heechul kisses him like they are in love.
because it’s the only thing he can do.