amnesia; [yehsung/ryeowook]
amnesia
yehsung/ryeowook, pg-13
1,320 words
Summary: Future North Korean dictator Yehsung & Presidential aide Ryeowook have an affair. Uh, so finally I got around to writing something that isn't Kyuhae :| I just hope this does the pairing justice.
Lately, Jongwoon dreams the same dreams. In these dreams, it's always him lying on moist soil as grass grows over his body in tender green tendrils, the echo of choirs singing in high-roofed churches in his ears (the memory is distant, but he can hold it when he's like this - his younger self, watching banned tapes of European choirs in his mother's room; his younger self, crying and pleading for mercy as his father whips his back until it blossoms purple with regret.) He feels himself rising up and pressing onto stone, imagining the dead souls trapped inside and they're screaming but the noise of gunshots drown them out.
He reaches out, he wants to help, but the spirits' groans turn into cursing and gusts of wind spit at his face.
He wants to wake up. He wonders if he ever will.
-
He meets Kim Ryeowook without much fanfare.
His father is in the next room with the South Korean president, engaged in diplomatic talk over permanent peace, economic cooperation and a joint Olympic cheering squad. Jongwoon suppresses a snort; these things bore him but he's expected to be there anyway, not as much for moral support (his father is never one to condone such silly tripe) as to learn something. He knows his father is ailing. He knows he will be leader soon.
Then he comes out. The crisp suit and tie ensemble bothers Jongwoon, but he goes and claps a hand on his shoulder anyway. "Where do you think you're going?"
The other man - really, much more like a boy - blinks up at him with guileless eyes. "The president asked me to fetch his personal files. They're with the bodyguards."
Jongwoon narrows his eyes in suspicion, then motions for his personal guard to get the President's files from the bodyguards on the lower floor. The other man doesn't even protest, he only stands there and gapes in a manner unbecoming of anyone privileged to be in these halls.
"Y-you didn't have to do that," he stutters, looks away. A peculiar flush makes it way up his cheeks, and Jongwoon is confused. The entire building's temperature was regulated according to his father's wishes, and his father hated sweating.
That night, Jongwoon dreams again, but this time, the spirits break free of the stone. When he cautiously walks over to the other side (something he has never done before, and there may be some traitor out to kill him and his trigger finger twitches), he is there, looking at him with sad eyes, pushing against stone with all the force his little body can muster.
-
For some reason, his father thinks it necessary to let the South Korean President's entourage stay for a week, which means the presidential aide is staying in as well.
Jongwoon scoffs at these frivolities. He knows why the South Korean rats have come - they still suspected them of keeping nuclear plants in place. Well, these may be true at some point, but the United Nations doggedly pursued the issue and other countries threatened blockades.
They were foolish animals, all of them.
He doesn't have an excuse when he grows fascinated with the aide, with him, with Ryeowook. The next day after the meeting, he intentionally passes by his room and is mildly shocked to hear singing coming out of it. He doesn't recognize it, years of chants and marches are ingrained into his mind, but the melody is so sweet it sickens him, wipes out the dull hum of drums and trumpets and "All hail!".
Ryeowook comes out of the room in a button-down shirt and iron-pressed trousers, and he is caught red-handed. He looks like he's about to run away for a second, before his face decides to settle on breaking into a nervous smile.
"Kim Jongwoon-shii," he says, bowing so low Jongwoon thinks his back might break. "I hope my... activities... didn't disrupt anything? If it did, I apologize. It's a bad habit," he explains in a hurry.
Jongwoon still thinks all South Koreans are dogs, but he plans to be a bit different from his father. He's willing to make exceptions.
-
He camps out in Ryeowook's room a few hours before midnight, listens to Ryeowook sing all sorts of nonsensical melodies with even more absurd words, takes in the sight of his small frame, his face, the way his eyes shine in delight when he indulgently, awkwardly claps after a song.
"Sing with me," Ryeowook says. He waves a hand to decline, but Ryeowook is insistent, repeating the same tune over and over until he gets the hang of it. At first, his voice is soft, unsteady and horrid, but he pushes on and on until he hears his untrained vibrato blending seamlessly with Ryeowook's.
(A sepia-toned memory of choirs and romantic languages buzzes in his head, and he feels the pain of the lashings again, but Ryeowook unconsciously fists his uniform and the pains subsides, just a little.)
"See? Your singing wasn't half-bad," he says when they're through, and his smile is so wide it threatens to crack at the edges.
He can't help it. Training, propriety, leadership, what have you - all these things meant nothing as he leans over and kisses him. It's unfamiliar and he stumbles more than once, but Ryeowook's hand is on his scalp and the heat from his lips is more than he possibly take.
Three days in and he's never felt so utterly alive.
-
His father calls him in two days later into his private office. The desk between them is imposing and it makes his father feel so much farther away, but he doesn't mind much now, not as much as he used to.
"Jongwoon," his father rumbles. He recognizes the tone, and fear that he hasn't felt for so long seizes his heart. "I've been hearing things."
Ryeowook comes to him that night with barely controlled tears welling up in his eyes. The heavy fabric of the uniform does little to hide his pained limbs; the welts on his back still drip crimson. He falls into Ryeowook's waiting arms, curls up against his chest, breathes in his scent, feels the thumps of his heart underneath his designer undershirt. He knows this want, and it's revolting and freeing all at once: he wants to own this man-child, etch his thumbprints across his wrist (the same wrist his father struck as a child, telling him to think about country and only country, telling him traitors should burn), slam into him so hard the mattress will dip and their bodies will be carved forever on pristine white sheets.
He lets go only when the guards knock. He puts his mask back on and Ryeowook does the same.
-
The welts have turned a pale yellow by the time Ryeowook leaves with the entourage. He promises to write to Jongwoon the moment he comes home. He wants him to meet all his friends someday. He wants him to go to karaoke with him.
The welts leave permanent ugly scars on his back, and the letters never come.
-
Jongwoon dreams, but this time there are no stones and spirits, no soil or grass. Ryeowook is just there, sitting beside him. He is smiling, his mouth opens and closes, and they are apparently having some sort of conversation. Only the drums and chants and hymns of the country ring loudly in his ears, and he can't hear himself nor Ryeowook.
-
It's months before he sees Ryeowook again. He's sent to South Korea on yet another diplomatic talk as a stand-in for his father, who has been bedridden for weeks.
He will be leader soon.
When Ryeowook hands him and the President coffee, his fingers linger just a little longer on Ryeowook's.
He is a traitor. He is a dog. He is a leader.
Ryeowook's mouth, whispering sweet filth, breathes on the curve of his shoulder later that night, and he forgets who he is.
yehsung/ryeowook, pg-13
1,320 words
Summary: Future North Korean dictator Yehsung & Presidential aide Ryeowook have an affair. Uh, so finally I got around to writing something that isn't Kyuhae :| I just hope this does the pairing justice.
Lately, Jongwoon dreams the same dreams. In these dreams, it's always him lying on moist soil as grass grows over his body in tender green tendrils, the echo of choirs singing in high-roofed churches in his ears (the memory is distant, but he can hold it when he's like this - his younger self, watching banned tapes of European choirs in his mother's room; his younger self, crying and pleading for mercy as his father whips his back until it blossoms purple with regret.) He feels himself rising up and pressing onto stone, imagining the dead souls trapped inside and they're screaming but the noise of gunshots drown them out.
He reaches out, he wants to help, but the spirits' groans turn into cursing and gusts of wind spit at his face.
He wants to wake up. He wonders if he ever will.
-
He meets Kim Ryeowook without much fanfare.
His father is in the next room with the South Korean president, engaged in diplomatic talk over permanent peace, economic cooperation and a joint Olympic cheering squad. Jongwoon suppresses a snort; these things bore him but he's expected to be there anyway, not as much for moral support (his father is never one to condone such silly tripe) as to learn something. He knows his father is ailing. He knows he will be leader soon.
Then he comes out. The crisp suit and tie ensemble bothers Jongwoon, but he goes and claps a hand on his shoulder anyway. "Where do you think you're going?"
The other man - really, much more like a boy - blinks up at him with guileless eyes. "The president asked me to fetch his personal files. They're with the bodyguards."
Jongwoon narrows his eyes in suspicion, then motions for his personal guard to get the President's files from the bodyguards on the lower floor. The other man doesn't even protest, he only stands there and gapes in a manner unbecoming of anyone privileged to be in these halls.
"Y-you didn't have to do that," he stutters, looks away. A peculiar flush makes it way up his cheeks, and Jongwoon is confused. The entire building's temperature was regulated according to his father's wishes, and his father hated sweating.
That night, Jongwoon dreams again, but this time, the spirits break free of the stone. When he cautiously walks over to the other side (something he has never done before, and there may be some traitor out to kill him and his trigger finger twitches), he is there, looking at him with sad eyes, pushing against stone with all the force his little body can muster.
-
For some reason, his father thinks it necessary to let the South Korean President's entourage stay for a week, which means the presidential aide is staying in as well.
Jongwoon scoffs at these frivolities. He knows why the South Korean rats have come - they still suspected them of keeping nuclear plants in place. Well, these may be true at some point, but the United Nations doggedly pursued the issue and other countries threatened blockades.
They were foolish animals, all of them.
He doesn't have an excuse when he grows fascinated with the aide, with him, with Ryeowook. The next day after the meeting, he intentionally passes by his room and is mildly shocked to hear singing coming out of it. He doesn't recognize it, years of chants and marches are ingrained into his mind, but the melody is so sweet it sickens him, wipes out the dull hum of drums and trumpets and "All hail!".
Ryeowook comes out of the room in a button-down shirt and iron-pressed trousers, and he is caught red-handed. He looks like he's about to run away for a second, before his face decides to settle on breaking into a nervous smile.
"Kim Jongwoon-shii," he says, bowing so low Jongwoon thinks his back might break. "I hope my... activities... didn't disrupt anything? If it did, I apologize. It's a bad habit," he explains in a hurry.
Jongwoon still thinks all South Koreans are dogs, but he plans to be a bit different from his father. He's willing to make exceptions.
-
He camps out in Ryeowook's room a few hours before midnight, listens to Ryeowook sing all sorts of nonsensical melodies with even more absurd words, takes in the sight of his small frame, his face, the way his eyes shine in delight when he indulgently, awkwardly claps after a song.
"Sing with me," Ryeowook says. He waves a hand to decline, but Ryeowook is insistent, repeating the same tune over and over until he gets the hang of it. At first, his voice is soft, unsteady and horrid, but he pushes on and on until he hears his untrained vibrato blending seamlessly with Ryeowook's.
(A sepia-toned memory of choirs and romantic languages buzzes in his head, and he feels the pain of the lashings again, but Ryeowook unconsciously fists his uniform and the pains subsides, just a little.)
"See? Your singing wasn't half-bad," he says when they're through, and his smile is so wide it threatens to crack at the edges.
He can't help it. Training, propriety, leadership, what have you - all these things meant nothing as he leans over and kisses him. It's unfamiliar and he stumbles more than once, but Ryeowook's hand is on his scalp and the heat from his lips is more than he possibly take.
Three days in and he's never felt so utterly alive.
-
His father calls him in two days later into his private office. The desk between them is imposing and it makes his father feel so much farther away, but he doesn't mind much now, not as much as he used to.
"Jongwoon," his father rumbles. He recognizes the tone, and fear that he hasn't felt for so long seizes his heart. "I've been hearing things."
Ryeowook comes to him that night with barely controlled tears welling up in his eyes. The heavy fabric of the uniform does little to hide his pained limbs; the welts on his back still drip crimson. He falls into Ryeowook's waiting arms, curls up against his chest, breathes in his scent, feels the thumps of his heart underneath his designer undershirt. He knows this want, and it's revolting and freeing all at once: he wants to own this man-child, etch his thumbprints across his wrist (the same wrist his father struck as a child, telling him to think about country and only country, telling him traitors should burn), slam into him so hard the mattress will dip and their bodies will be carved forever on pristine white sheets.
He lets go only when the guards knock. He puts his mask back on and Ryeowook does the same.
-
The welts have turned a pale yellow by the time Ryeowook leaves with the entourage. He promises to write to Jongwoon the moment he comes home. He wants him to meet all his friends someday. He wants him to go to karaoke with him.
The welts leave permanent ugly scars on his back, and the letters never come.
-
Jongwoon dreams, but this time there are no stones and spirits, no soil or grass. Ryeowook is just there, sitting beside him. He is smiling, his mouth opens and closes, and they are apparently having some sort of conversation. Only the drums and chants and hymns of the country ring loudly in his ears, and he can't hear himself nor Ryeowook.
-
It's months before he sees Ryeowook again. He's sent to South Korea on yet another diplomatic talk as a stand-in for his father, who has been bedridden for weeks.
He will be leader soon.
When Ryeowook hands him and the President coffee, his fingers linger just a little longer on Ryeowook's.
He is a traitor. He is a dog. He is a leader.
Ryeowook's mouth, whispering sweet filth, breathes on the curve of his shoulder later that night, and he forgets who he is.