make love not war; oneshot; g
make love not war (but always before you fall)
jinki/jonghyun
The world starts shaking a month and a few days before Jinki’s twenty-second birthday.
It starts slow and small, like all the important things do. Covert whispers late at night and blind hands groping for something to hold onto in the dark- these wispy nothings make and break stronger hearts. Jonghyun has been singing about them half his life. He should know.
Of all people, he really should have known better.
It’s an arrow through his heart and the fog in his brain every morning when he wakes up to Jinki’s empty bed. The first time, he bolts out of the bedroom and Jinki looks up at him strangely when he jerks to a halt in the kitchen doorway. Jonghyun thinks he will never stop replaying this moment. It is an infinitesimal loop in his head in the millisecond it takes for Jinki to blink and smile.
“Breakfast?”
No, he shakes his head. His stomach is nauseous and he runs to the bathroom feeling like he’s about to dry-heave his stomach out. The urge is gone by the time he locks the door and turns around to stare at himself in the mirror. Every time after this, he thinks, is one time closer to the last.
Next morning, he sits by Jinki at 6 o’clock in the morning. The days are getting shorter and the mornings dimmer, but breakfast in the dark is not that much different from late night cereal runs. Only the city outside marks the time; it has turned off its lights and fallen unwillingly to rest before being roused for another long day.
Their shoulders don’t match and neither do their knees, but they sit hip to hip and Jonghyun’s bony elbow fits in the sharp curve right above Jinki’s pelvis.
This is a new development. He’s not quite sure how he feels about it yet.
Other days, he stays in bed with his (h)ear(t) against the wall and earphone in one ear, no music. It’s only a short wait for Minho’s snoring to fade into the background of before another soundtrack starts: the quiet creak of the kitchen cupboard, a clink of ceramic, the dry rattle of cereal-all of it is Jinki.
All of it is Jinki telling Jonghyun telling himself that Jinki is still here.
This is the only way he can roll out of bed and pad softly into the kitchen, slip silently into the chair next to Jinki. He eats the same thing every morning, some kids’ cereal that glows faintly fluorescent and turns the milk an ominous shade of lime green. It’s so strong that Jonghyun can smell the fructose and glucose, and he thinks this is probably why Jinki drinks coffee on the side. Always black, in some silly cheap chipped mug emblazoned with Best Leader, bought in half-drunken (on his and Kibum’s part, not Jinki’s) post-after-party revelry on the night they won Best Rookie.
Jonghyun decides it's his duty to tell him so, and he does.
“One day, you’re going to get diabetes from the sugar and gastric cancer from the coffee, and then where will we be.”
Jinki blinks, half-grins. “It’s important to be energized in the morning, and sufficiently hydrated.”
“Actually, coffee’s a diuretic.” He started this, and now he won’t give up without a fight.
“Caffeine is important.”
“So is water.”
“It tastes good.”
“It’s bitter.”
“But I have you.” Jinki trills the last note a little, smiling around the rim of his mug. Jonghyun gives up and mumbles defeat into his shoulder; Jinki just cackles quietly and drinks his coffee, sugary deathbomb disarmed at the moment.
Merely the fumes wafting over from time to time are enough to soon shake the sleep from Jonghyun’s eyes, and he thinks Jinki may have won this time. He stares at light brown split ends turning golden in the strengthening sunlight until his vision goes cross-eyed and fuzzy.
“You need a haircut.”
“I want one.”
“Mmmm.”
A truce isn’t so bad.
“Your hair looks nice.”
“Thanks. They had to dye it three times to get the colour right.”
“So you got in late from the salon last night?”
“Yeah.”
“It was worth it. I’m still more handsome, though.”
Jinki groans, laughs. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“You love it.”
“Mmm, coffee?”
Peacetime.
The sky starts falling less than a month before Jinki’s twenty-second birthday.
Silence rings in his ears when he awakens; he’s already forgotten the way the sun rises over his bed. Jinki’s closet is full but the top-left drawer is half empty and his bed is made neatly, sheets pulled around and under the mattress.
It starts slow and small, like all the important things do. By the time realization hits him, he’s already halfway out the door and Jinki is standing over the kitchen table, empty coffee mug in hand.
Only it’s not Jinki, because this person has short black hair, a jaw set in stone, a letter in hand.
These things have made and broken stronger hearts. Jonghyun’s pretty sure the floor is steady beneath his feet, but he supposes that he also wasn’t looking in the right direction for the right things.
This moment, he’s rehearsed over and over in his head. He’s replayed and rewritten and crossed out the words, but this is not a song and South Korea has been at war for two days.
“You’re not even close to thirty five.” He’s half laughing, half-choking, half-crying- but still a hopeless optimist until the end. “You don’t have to go,”
“People are dying.”
“People can die from heartbreak too.”
It starts slow and small, a quiet exchange in the foyer of an apartment somewhere in Seoul.
Like all the important things do: war, love, hope.
jinki/jonghyun
The world starts shaking a month and a few days before Jinki’s twenty-second birthday.
It starts slow and small, like all the important things do. Covert whispers late at night and blind hands groping for something to hold onto in the dark- these wispy nothings make and break stronger hearts. Jonghyun has been singing about them half his life. He should know.
Of all people, he really should have known better.
It’s an arrow through his heart and the fog in his brain every morning when he wakes up to Jinki’s empty bed. The first time, he bolts out of the bedroom and Jinki looks up at him strangely when he jerks to a halt in the kitchen doorway. Jonghyun thinks he will never stop replaying this moment. It is an infinitesimal loop in his head in the millisecond it takes for Jinki to blink and smile.
“Breakfast?”
No, he shakes his head. His stomach is nauseous and he runs to the bathroom feeling like he’s about to dry-heave his stomach out. The urge is gone by the time he locks the door and turns around to stare at himself in the mirror. Every time after this, he thinks, is one time closer to the last.
Next morning, he sits by Jinki at 6 o’clock in the morning. The days are getting shorter and the mornings dimmer, but breakfast in the dark is not that much different from late night cereal runs. Only the city outside marks the time; it has turned off its lights and fallen unwillingly to rest before being roused for another long day.
Their shoulders don’t match and neither do their knees, but they sit hip to hip and Jonghyun’s bony elbow fits in the sharp curve right above Jinki’s pelvis.
This is a new development. He’s not quite sure how he feels about it yet.
Other days, he stays in bed with his (h)ear(t) against the wall and earphone in one ear, no music. It’s only a short wait for Minho’s snoring to fade into the background of before another soundtrack starts: the quiet creak of the kitchen cupboard, a clink of ceramic, the dry rattle of cereal-all of it is Jinki.
All of it is Jinki telling Jonghyun telling himself that Jinki is still here.
This is the only way he can roll out of bed and pad softly into the kitchen, slip silently into the chair next to Jinki. He eats the same thing every morning, some kids’ cereal that glows faintly fluorescent and turns the milk an ominous shade of lime green. It’s so strong that Jonghyun can smell the fructose and glucose, and he thinks this is probably why Jinki drinks coffee on the side. Always black, in some silly cheap chipped mug emblazoned with Best Leader, bought in half-drunken (on his and Kibum’s part, not Jinki’s) post-after-party revelry on the night they won Best Rookie.
Jonghyun decides it's his duty to tell him so, and he does.
“One day, you’re going to get diabetes from the sugar and gastric cancer from the coffee, and then where will we be.”
Jinki blinks, half-grins. “It’s important to be energized in the morning, and sufficiently hydrated.”
“Actually, coffee’s a diuretic.” He started this, and now he won’t give up without a fight.
“Caffeine is important.”
“So is water.”
“It tastes good.”
“It’s bitter.”
“But I have you.” Jinki trills the last note a little, smiling around the rim of his mug. Jonghyun gives up and mumbles defeat into his shoulder; Jinki just cackles quietly and drinks his coffee, sugary deathbomb disarmed at the moment.
Merely the fumes wafting over from time to time are enough to soon shake the sleep from Jonghyun’s eyes, and he thinks Jinki may have won this time. He stares at light brown split ends turning golden in the strengthening sunlight until his vision goes cross-eyed and fuzzy.
“You need a haircut.”
“I want one.”
“Mmmm.”
A truce isn’t so bad.
“Your hair looks nice.”
“Thanks. They had to dye it three times to get the colour right.”
“So you got in late from the salon last night?”
“Yeah.”
“It was worth it. I’m still more handsome, though.”
Jinki groans, laughs. “You’ll be the death of me.”
“You love it.”
“Mmm, coffee?”
Peacetime.
The sky starts falling less than a month before Jinki’s twenty-second birthday.
Silence rings in his ears when he awakens; he’s already forgotten the way the sun rises over his bed. Jinki’s closet is full but the top-left drawer is half empty and his bed is made neatly, sheets pulled around and under the mattress.
It starts slow and small, like all the important things do. By the time realization hits him, he’s already halfway out the door and Jinki is standing over the kitchen table, empty coffee mug in hand.
Only it’s not Jinki, because this person has short black hair, a jaw set in stone, a letter in hand.
These things have made and broken stronger hearts. Jonghyun’s pretty sure the floor is steady beneath his feet, but he supposes that he also wasn’t looking in the right direction for the right things.
This moment, he’s rehearsed over and over in his head. He’s replayed and rewritten and crossed out the words, but this is not a song and South Korea has been at war for two days.
“You’re not even close to thirty five.” He’s half laughing, half-choking, half-crying- but still a hopeless optimist until the end. “You don’t have to go,”
“People are dying.”
“People can die from heartbreak too.”
It starts slow and small, a quiet exchange in the foyer of an apartment somewhere in Seoul.
Like all the important things do: war, love, hope.