from the ashes
title: from the ashes
pairing: baeksoo friendship
rating: pg
genre: angst, hurt/comfort
length: ~500
warnings: smoking, depression, teenage angst
summary: the world doesn't just stop crumbling around you, not really.
He figures it was never meant to be easy.
And it really isn’t, even when he’s sitting on his windowsill dramatically smoking an old and wrinkled cigarette.
He’d never been able to sit on a windowsill before with his leg dangling over the sidewalk. He always thought it would be deep. Therapeutic, even. Then again, he always did have a knack for finding something comforting in moments that were cliche and dramatic. People would mock him, sure, but there was something calming about modeling your life after stories where the protagonist always wins. Never mind that everyone is the protagonist of their own story. Baekhyun is the only star worth shining.
It isn’t therapeutic, though. As a matter of fact, his leg feels kind of cold and the position is uncomfortable, and nothing is really like it is in the movies and life hurts a lot worse when it’s not on the silver screen. Advice and media are not sedatives; things hurt a lot more when you see them coming.
He picks up his phone and thinks about who to call. Names move by so fast they blur and despite the fact that he’s still not halfway through his contacts he realizes he has never felt this alone.
As if on cue, he gets a text from Kyungsoo.
How are u
Ah, a man of few words. Baekhyun maybe-half-chuckles at his phone and takes a drag of his cigarette. Kyungsoo isn’t helping.
Another vibration startles him.
What u up to
Baekhyun rolls his eyes. This is Kyungsoo’s way of showing he cares, he knows that, but it still doesn’t make things easier.
Within minutes, there’s a shuffling sound inside the house, and Kyungsoo’s head pops into Baekhyun’s line of vision. He pulls himself onto the windowsill, sitting with his back against the wall and facing Baekhyun. He doesn’t say anything, just looks out the window at the rows of identical apartments across from them.
Baekhyun thinks about putting out his cigarette dramatically on his leg. He thinks about it and realizes he’d probably start complaining and then have Kyungsoo put Neosporin on it, so he puts it out in the ashtray instead.
“It’s too fucking hot,” Kyungsoo notes.
“Yeah.”
Kyungsoo doesn’t look at him so Baekhyun decides to let himself cry. Kyungsoo doesn’t look at him, still. When he’s done, he doesn’t feel any better.
In the movies they always feel better, he thinks. After crying a sign finds itself to the protagonist, the hero, and gives them enough strength and direction to do what needs to be done, but he got nothing other than a stuffy nose.
“It, uh,” Kyungsoo starts, contemplating every word carefully. “Whatever it is, it gets better.”
He wants to laugh and scream, because he’s looked for cliche his whole life, found safety in it, and sitting across from his best friend on a windowsill feels about as cliche as it gets. He has no idea what he even means, doesn’t know what’s supposed to get better. He wants to talk about how the inside of skull hurts and he wants to scratch his skin off, but he doesn’t. “Yeah.”
He hadn’t realized before, but he doesn’t feel lonely anymore.
pairing: baeksoo friendship
rating: pg
genre: angst, hurt/comfort
length: ~500
warnings: smoking, depression, teenage angst
summary: the world doesn't just stop crumbling around you, not really.
He figures it was never meant to be easy.
And it really isn’t, even when he’s sitting on his windowsill dramatically smoking an old and wrinkled cigarette.
He’d never been able to sit on a windowsill before with his leg dangling over the sidewalk. He always thought it would be deep. Therapeutic, even. Then again, he always did have a knack for finding something comforting in moments that were cliche and dramatic. People would mock him, sure, but there was something calming about modeling your life after stories where the protagonist always wins. Never mind that everyone is the protagonist of their own story. Baekhyun is the only star worth shining.
It isn’t therapeutic, though. As a matter of fact, his leg feels kind of cold and the position is uncomfortable, and nothing is really like it is in the movies and life hurts a lot worse when it’s not on the silver screen. Advice and media are not sedatives; things hurt a lot more when you see them coming.
He picks up his phone and thinks about who to call. Names move by so fast they blur and despite the fact that he’s still not halfway through his contacts he realizes he has never felt this alone.
As if on cue, he gets a text from Kyungsoo.
How are u
Ah, a man of few words. Baekhyun maybe-half-chuckles at his phone and takes a drag of his cigarette. Kyungsoo isn’t helping.
Another vibration startles him.
What u up to
Baekhyun rolls his eyes. This is Kyungsoo’s way of showing he cares, he knows that, but it still doesn’t make things easier.
Within minutes, there’s a shuffling sound inside the house, and Kyungsoo’s head pops into Baekhyun’s line of vision. He pulls himself onto the windowsill, sitting with his back against the wall and facing Baekhyun. He doesn’t say anything, just looks out the window at the rows of identical apartments across from them.
Baekhyun thinks about putting out his cigarette dramatically on his leg. He thinks about it and realizes he’d probably start complaining and then have Kyungsoo put Neosporin on it, so he puts it out in the ashtray instead.
“It’s too fucking hot,” Kyungsoo notes.
“Yeah.”
Kyungsoo doesn’t look at him so Baekhyun decides to let himself cry. Kyungsoo doesn’t look at him, still. When he’s done, he doesn’t feel any better.
In the movies they always feel better, he thinks. After crying a sign finds itself to the protagonist, the hero, and gives them enough strength and direction to do what needs to be done, but he got nothing other than a stuffy nose.
“It, uh,” Kyungsoo starts, contemplating every word carefully. “Whatever it is, it gets better.”
He wants to laugh and scream, because he’s looked for cliche his whole life, found safety in it, and sitting across from his best friend on a windowsill feels about as cliche as it gets. He has no idea what he even means, doesn’t know what’s supposed to get better. He wants to talk about how the inside of skull hurts and he wants to scratch his skin off, but he doesn’t. “Yeah.”
He hadn’t realized before, but he doesn’t feel lonely anymore.