(no subject)
Title: Acts of Insurrection (20/20)
Authors: butterflyweb and nemesis_cry
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: OT5
Warning(s): violence, graphic sex, language
Summary: It's been six months since Changmin crashed on the remote planet known as Elysia. Five months since Yunho and Junsu found him. Four months since Jaejoong was shot by a man he and Yoochun both trusted. Now training as the Empress' men, former soldiers and former rebels have shed past allegiances in service of a common goal. But the tide is turning--and not in their favor.
Banner credit: luvmeanddespair
A/N: Thank you for all your wonderful feedback for the first part. We hope you enjoy this one!
Prequel: Acts of Contrition;
Acts of Insurrection: One; Two; Three; Four; Five; Six; Seven; Eight; Nine; Ten; Eleven; Twelve; Thirteen; Fourteen; Fifteen; Sixteen; Seventeen; Eighteen; Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Victory is bittersweet and clings to his skin like ash, like blood. He can't muster the strength for Her Majesty's rallying call or the enthusiasm to plan their next battle. War is just beginning and he finds himself loathe of it already. His wounds agree, his mind, his loyalty to the Throne protests.
Temporary reprieve is what he grants himself in compromise, taking Junsu with him as if the man might disappear again, as if the past days are in danger of being revisited.
He strips slowly, working the thin cotton shirt over his head, groaning as the action stretches sore muscles. Boots are unlaced, tossed into the pile, trousers soon following. Flicking on the taps, he sticks his hand under the spray, waiting until the water sears his hand to move under, letting out a low hiss. Wet bangs hang into his eyes, full of grime and sweat and blood. Not just his own.
Junsu is too quiet as he undresses, padding slowly into the shower until their shoulders bump, unintentional and far from painless, but comforting.
"Gods, I've missed this," he sighs, nudging Yoochun's hip even though there's enough room under the spray. The older man reaches to brush wet locks off of the other's forehead, the palm of his hand lingering on Junsu's cheek. He can't begrudge him his company, even though part of him hesitates, wants to be alone.
He reaches for the soap, still silent, working it into his hands and into short, dark hair in turn. Junsu's eyes close, a measure of calm washing over his features and Yoochun lets himself take quiet comfort in that. After all, he's been here before. Years ago, on Elysia, he gladly forgot his own pain to soothe Jaejoong's. It's no different now, with his hands stroking Junsu's scalp, gentle and careful as if the other man is breakable.
Without the bruises and the cuts, Yoochun might think there's truth to the thought, but there's no denying the scars marring their skin, nor the way Yoochun is careful to keep his back to the wall. On impulse alone, he presses his lips to a purple mark on the other man's shoulder, not too hard because he doesn't want to hurt him.
"Missed this too," Junsu breathes into the wet, humid air, voice catching when he realizes what he's said. "Not that you have to... do... anything..."
He kisses him to silence the apology, the stilted words that betray Junsu's worry, his discomfort and his uncertainty. He is not glass. He isn't broken. He can still take refuge in the warm, smooth slick of Junsu's skin, tipping his head back under the spray to wash away the lingering traces of soap.
None of it stops him from tensing at the sound of approaching footsteps and gods, how he hates it.
"It's us," a soft voice tells him, low and trembling.
A belt buckle hits the ground with a dull thud and he tries not to hear it, feeling Junsu move closer, pressing their bodies into close contact. He tries not to move away. He isn't broken. He isn't dirty.
"We don't have to come in," he hears Jaejoong tell the others, voice shaking and Yoochun knows he's seen the burn on his back. Shame is heavier than lead in his stomach, something catching in his throat. It was his promise, and he let them take it away from him.
He can't speak.
Lips press against his collarbone, sucking lightly. "Tell them it's okay, Chunnie." Junsu is soft and warm under his hands, familiar in a way that nothing in the last days has been. "Please?"
They probably don't need to hear it, he thinks, watching them through the glass partition as they undress mechanically, grown men standing side by side in the nude with panic in their eyes and hands at their sides. Maybe he's projecting. Maybe he's still on the Acheron and dreaming. Maybe he doesn't want to wake up.
He takes a shuddering breath, still not looking at them. How can he?
"Of course it's okay," he says, loud enough to be audible. Still hiding in Junsu's arms and gods, he's a coward. He forces himself to pull back, to meet their eyes, to still be whole and proud before them. "Of course it is."
Changmin is first, eyes lowered but not in shame, looking down at his body and up at his face like he can't believe it's him. He covers his back with his tall and lanky frame and Yoochun finds himself breathing again because he's safe like this, with the two of them.
It's only when he sees Yunho at Junsu's side, tilting the other man's chin up and seeing their lips meet that he feels his fear renewed, arms falling uselessly at his sides, a hollow where Junsu's body should be. Jaejoong is there, for a moment out of reach before he steps in and lays his head on Yoochun's shoulder, and lays his lips over his heart.
"I'm sorry." They're the first words out of his mouth, startling the silence, and it might as well be him who says it.
Four pairs of disbelieving eyes center on him and he wants to pull away, looking down in shame but that grants no reprieve, Jaejoong's eyes like pools of ink, drawing him in. He bites his lips hard, eyes stinging and quickly falling shut. "I'm sorry," he chokes again, because he doesn't know what else to say.
"Don't be an idiot," Changmin whispers in his ear, but it's strained, all of them walking on eggshells as if they know. Dimly, he thinks, they probably do. There's no hiding that much tearing, not from eyes and hands that know him so intimately.
Junsu cries first, sobs barely muffled into Yunho's skin and echoing dully off the walls. For a moment, Yoochun just watches him and feels nothing. In another, he's aching inside, stomach twisting because he cares and he understands and he feels every halting breath resonate inside him as if it were his own.
Yunho holds him, lines of pain carved into his graceful features, eyes shadowed, and Yoochun can see the tension in his body, can feel it as if it were his own. He wants to comfort Junsu, wants to stroke his hair and kiss him and hold him close, but he feels like a doll with the strings cut and distantly he's aware that Changmin is sobbing quietly into his hair.
Jaejoong's wet hair hangs limp around their shoulders and the other man produces scissors seemingly out of nowhere, pressing them into his palm and kneeling by their feet under pouring water.
"What..."
"Cut it, Chunnie."
He shakes his head, not looking at Jaejoong, not--"No. Jaejoong, don't. You can't." It's against the customs, the funeral rites. It will leave him dishonored and he won't let him do such a thing in empty comfort.
Eyes like obsidian meet his, dark and hard and somewhere beneath all of it, pleading with him. "It doesn't matter. Don't you see? It's just conceit. The marks, the customs...they don't change us, Yoochun. The loss of the symbol doesn't erase what it stood for."
He's still shaking his head when Changmin shifts against his back, understanding and trying to pull back. Yoochun's free hand shoots out to stop him, bringing their hips into contact again. "It doesn't hurt," he answers because this is an easier question than the one laid out before him. This could never hurt.
"We don't need them," Jaejoong murmurs and it's like the sound of water against the shore, gentle against his toes, burying him in warm, wet sand. Safe. Familiar. "We love you anyway."
He takes the scissors from Yoochun's hand, fitting them against a fistful of dark hair and cuts. Again and again, smooth, dark hair falling to the tile until he stands, wet locks uneven and barely brushing his chin. Yoochun swallows hard, brushing a hand through a butchered mane and letting Jaejoong kiss him. Kissing him back with desperation.
It isn't until he feels Changmin's lips on the small of his back, kissing the ugly scars, until he's been held and touched and shown repeatedly that nothing has changed, that he realizes Jaejoong didn't speak in Basic. As if words, like symbols, even matter anymore.
He's home, he thinks, pressed between warm bodies on all sides. He can be mended.
He has time.
Authors: butterflyweb and nemesis_cry
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: OT5
Warning(s): violence, graphic sex, language
Summary: It's been six months since Changmin crashed on the remote planet known as Elysia. Five months since Yunho and Junsu found him. Four months since Jaejoong was shot by a man he and Yoochun both trusted. Now training as the Empress' men, former soldiers and former rebels have shed past allegiances in service of a common goal. But the tide is turning--and not in their favor.
Banner credit: luvmeanddespair
A/N: Thank you for all your wonderful feedback for the first part. We hope you enjoy this one!
Prequel: Acts of Contrition;
Acts of Insurrection: One; Two; Three; Four; Five; Six; Seven; Eight; Nine; Ten; Eleven; Twelve; Thirteen; Fourteen; Fifteen; Sixteen; Seventeen; Eighteen; Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Victory is bittersweet and clings to his skin like ash, like blood. He can't muster the strength for Her Majesty's rallying call or the enthusiasm to plan their next battle. War is just beginning and he finds himself loathe of it already. His wounds agree, his mind, his loyalty to the Throne protests.
Temporary reprieve is what he grants himself in compromise, taking Junsu with him as if the man might disappear again, as if the past days are in danger of being revisited.
He strips slowly, working the thin cotton shirt over his head, groaning as the action stretches sore muscles. Boots are unlaced, tossed into the pile, trousers soon following. Flicking on the taps, he sticks his hand under the spray, waiting until the water sears his hand to move under, letting out a low hiss. Wet bangs hang into his eyes, full of grime and sweat and blood. Not just his own.
Junsu is too quiet as he undresses, padding slowly into the shower until their shoulders bump, unintentional and far from painless, but comforting.
"Gods, I've missed this," he sighs, nudging Yoochun's hip even though there's enough room under the spray. The older man reaches to brush wet locks off of the other's forehead, the palm of his hand lingering on Junsu's cheek. He can't begrudge him his company, even though part of him hesitates, wants to be alone.
He reaches for the soap, still silent, working it into his hands and into short, dark hair in turn. Junsu's eyes close, a measure of calm washing over his features and Yoochun lets himself take quiet comfort in that. After all, he's been here before. Years ago, on Elysia, he gladly forgot his own pain to soothe Jaejoong's. It's no different now, with his hands stroking Junsu's scalp, gentle and careful as if the other man is breakable.
Without the bruises and the cuts, Yoochun might think there's truth to the thought, but there's no denying the scars marring their skin, nor the way Yoochun is careful to keep his back to the wall. On impulse alone, he presses his lips to a purple mark on the other man's shoulder, not too hard because he doesn't want to hurt him.
"Missed this too," Junsu breathes into the wet, humid air, voice catching when he realizes what he's said. "Not that you have to... do... anything..."
He kisses him to silence the apology, the stilted words that betray Junsu's worry, his discomfort and his uncertainty. He is not glass. He isn't broken. He can still take refuge in the warm, smooth slick of Junsu's skin, tipping his head back under the spray to wash away the lingering traces of soap.
None of it stops him from tensing at the sound of approaching footsteps and gods, how he hates it.
"It's us," a soft voice tells him, low and trembling.
A belt buckle hits the ground with a dull thud and he tries not to hear it, feeling Junsu move closer, pressing their bodies into close contact. He tries not to move away. He isn't broken. He isn't dirty.
"We don't have to come in," he hears Jaejoong tell the others, voice shaking and Yoochun knows he's seen the burn on his back. Shame is heavier than lead in his stomach, something catching in his throat. It was his promise, and he let them take it away from him.
He can't speak.
Lips press against his collarbone, sucking lightly. "Tell them it's okay, Chunnie." Junsu is soft and warm under his hands, familiar in a way that nothing in the last days has been. "Please?"
They probably don't need to hear it, he thinks, watching them through the glass partition as they undress mechanically, grown men standing side by side in the nude with panic in their eyes and hands at their sides. Maybe he's projecting. Maybe he's still on the Acheron and dreaming. Maybe he doesn't want to wake up.
He takes a shuddering breath, still not looking at them. How can he?
"Of course it's okay," he says, loud enough to be audible. Still hiding in Junsu's arms and gods, he's a coward. He forces himself to pull back, to meet their eyes, to still be whole and proud before them. "Of course it is."
Changmin is first, eyes lowered but not in shame, looking down at his body and up at his face like he can't believe it's him. He covers his back with his tall and lanky frame and Yoochun finds himself breathing again because he's safe like this, with the two of them.
It's only when he sees Yunho at Junsu's side, tilting the other man's chin up and seeing their lips meet that he feels his fear renewed, arms falling uselessly at his sides, a hollow where Junsu's body should be. Jaejoong is there, for a moment out of reach before he steps in and lays his head on Yoochun's shoulder, and lays his lips over his heart.
"I'm sorry." They're the first words out of his mouth, startling the silence, and it might as well be him who says it.
Four pairs of disbelieving eyes center on him and he wants to pull away, looking down in shame but that grants no reprieve, Jaejoong's eyes like pools of ink, drawing him in. He bites his lips hard, eyes stinging and quickly falling shut. "I'm sorry," he chokes again, because he doesn't know what else to say.
"Don't be an idiot," Changmin whispers in his ear, but it's strained, all of them walking on eggshells as if they know. Dimly, he thinks, they probably do. There's no hiding that much tearing, not from eyes and hands that know him so intimately.
Junsu cries first, sobs barely muffled into Yunho's skin and echoing dully off the walls. For a moment, Yoochun just watches him and feels nothing. In another, he's aching inside, stomach twisting because he cares and he understands and he feels every halting breath resonate inside him as if it were his own.
Yunho holds him, lines of pain carved into his graceful features, eyes shadowed, and Yoochun can see the tension in his body, can feel it as if it were his own. He wants to comfort Junsu, wants to stroke his hair and kiss him and hold him close, but he feels like a doll with the strings cut and distantly he's aware that Changmin is sobbing quietly into his hair.
Jaejoong's wet hair hangs limp around their shoulders and the other man produces scissors seemingly out of nowhere, pressing them into his palm and kneeling by their feet under pouring water.
"What..."
"Cut it, Chunnie."
He shakes his head, not looking at Jaejoong, not--"No. Jaejoong, don't. You can't." It's against the customs, the funeral rites. It will leave him dishonored and he won't let him do such a thing in empty comfort.
Eyes like obsidian meet his, dark and hard and somewhere beneath all of it, pleading with him. "It doesn't matter. Don't you see? It's just conceit. The marks, the customs...they don't change us, Yoochun. The loss of the symbol doesn't erase what it stood for."
He's still shaking his head when Changmin shifts against his back, understanding and trying to pull back. Yoochun's free hand shoots out to stop him, bringing their hips into contact again. "It doesn't hurt," he answers because this is an easier question than the one laid out before him. This could never hurt.
"We don't need them," Jaejoong murmurs and it's like the sound of water against the shore, gentle against his toes, burying him in warm, wet sand. Safe. Familiar. "We love you anyway."
He takes the scissors from Yoochun's hand, fitting them against a fistful of dark hair and cuts. Again and again, smooth, dark hair falling to the tile until he stands, wet locks uneven and barely brushing his chin. Yoochun swallows hard, brushing a hand through a butchered mane and letting Jaejoong kiss him. Kissing him back with desperation.
It isn't until he feels Changmin's lips on the small of his back, kissing the ugly scars, until he's been held and touched and shown repeatedly that nothing has changed, that he realizes Jaejoong didn't speak in Basic. As if words, like symbols, even matter anymore.
He's home, he thinks, pressed between warm bodies on all sides. He can be mended.
He has time.