[One-Shot] Picture Perfect - Junsu's Story
Title: Picture Perfect - Junsu's Story
Pairings: Junsu/Yoochun, Implied Changmin/Yoochun
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, Romance
He considers standing there until everything falls into place - but it's better this way, Junsu argues.
http://community.livejournal.com/hug______/5379965.html
He almost expects the house to be empty - that doesn’t stop his chest from clenching in anguish. He stands frozen in his spot, his head against the cool wooden frame, keys cutting into the palm of his hand. He considers standing there until everything falls into place (but that would take an infinity, his heart screams), but it’s better this way, Junsu argues.
On the weekend his parents (and his engaged twin brother) drops by, arms full of food and freshly picked flowers. Junsu pushes down the urge to close the door on their smiling faces - instead, he kisses his mother’s cheeks, and hugs his father. Junho, old but immature, lightly punches his shoulder - Junsu cringes, “It hurts, hyung”, and ignores the other’s curious stare.
Mrs. Kim is fond of Yoochun, his roommate. Yoochun doesn’t have a mom or a dad or even an older brother like Junsu, and Mrs. Kim, in the name of motherly justice, feels the need to shelter this frail boy. But Mrs. Kim doesn’t know that in secret Yoochun refers to her as the mother-in-law, his eyes disappearing into a blinding smile (his sunshine). Mrs. Kim doesn’t know that this Park Yoochun sleeps in the same bed as his son - doesn’t know that Junsu kisses him soft and holds him tight.
“When is Yoochun coming home, dear?”
His mother asks while Junsu slumps across the kitchen island, chopping vegetables into the sizzling pan. Junsu nearly chokes on his plate of chocolate cake (leftovers, Junho smirks). But Mrs. Kim doesn’t notice the redness in Junsu’s cheeks, or the fingers that press against his eyes.
He wants to ask himself the same question.
“He moved out. He wanted to find a place for himself, you know, for his music.”
He explains to his mother (to himself), and Mrs. Kim smiles sadly. She mutters about how much she’ll miss Yoochun living with Junsu - “He keeps the house so clean, Junsu.” - and talks about giving him a call. Junsu agrees like the poster child that he is, and returns the plate in the sink, half eaten cake smeared across the surface.
Before they leave, Junho punches a number into his cell phone. Junsu doesn’t question, he’s too tired to, and waves off the older man’s sly wink.
“You’ll like her - she’s a doctor.”
His mother chimes in.
Junsu feels like breaking everything in the room.
Days later he meets the woman. He opens the door for her, helps her out of her coat, pulls her chair out - the perfect gentleman, she coos. They have nice conversations - the ones about music (his breath hitches and Junsu reaches for his glass of wine - Yoochun is his favorite genre), musicals and operas. She wants what he wants: a family with a boy and a girl and a family dog. Because Junsu is pretty damn sure he wants this dog, he decides that she’s just what he needs.
She’ll be the trophy wife - the supermom with beautiful children, a well-respected job and sophistication dripping from her every word. She smells like perfume and strawberries, and it’s nice - of course, it’s never like the feeling of ecstasy, never like being airborne - but it’s nice.
And Junsu can settle for something nice.
It rains on their anniversary (6 months, she explains, is half a year - it’s special). Junsu pulls her hand and they run in the middle of the City Street, half-hearted laughter and hair dripping with water.
And Junsu’s eyes find him in midst of fleeting colors and honking cars. His hair is shorter, and it frames his face beautifully. There’s a book propped against his lap, glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He is smaller, skinnier, more fragile, and Junsu’s heart thumps against his chest. And his head scold him, stop, stop, stop, but his feet are running towards the brightly lighted café, one step after another.
He lets go of the woman’s hand once he enters the building, doesn’t care whether she minds of not. He whispers about someone he knows (her eyes snap open wider, “Really? Your friend?”), and from the corner of his eyes he sees her fixing her hair against the water-stained glass door. His conscious, his damned conscious sputters - liar, liar, liar.
Junsu taps Yoochun’s shoulder, his face aching from the uncontrollable smile.
And when Yoochun smiles back (a little startled but beautiful nevertheless), for a second he forgets. But Yoochun shakes hands with the woman, asking them to sit.
“I’m waiting for someone.”
Yoochun explains, eyes meeting Junsu’s stare - he can’t breathe; Yoochun is beautiful, beautiful, beautiful. He talks about his music, and the woman chatters, excited. It’s awkward, Junsu thinks, the way Yoochun keeps reaching for his mug, responding to questions a second too late.
He thinks about running away. About grabbing his hand and bolting into the rain - but he is Kim Junsu, and he is Park Yoochun, and there is a woman, nice and perfect, by his side.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Shim Changmin.”
The man, sculpted and tall, shrugs out of his drenched Armani jacket, placing the roses carefully next to the blushing Yoochun. He can hear the woman inhaling sharply, as Changmin kisses him, gently, lovingly.
He hears his heart break.
He doesn’t stop Yoochun from following Changmin out - he’s a coward, he knows. He can’t bring himself to stare at their intertwined hands (people stare, and the woman grins, “I’m not so conservative, Junsu - they look like they’re in love”).
He thinks that Yoochun isn’t supposed to be happy - not when they are supposed to be an eternity and more. Not when Yoochun belongs in his arms; not when his heart beats in time with Yoochun’s voice, Yoochun’s smile, Yoochun’s love.
But Junsu knows that if Yoochun comes back, he’ll still be the soft-spoken roommate. He’ll still stumble home some nights, smelling of perfume and strawberry. Yoochun will still cry himself to sleep, and Junsu will pretend that he’s blind.
And Junsu knows.
It’s better this way.