Of love, etcetera ; Jaejoong/Changmin, Yoochun/Changmin
Title: Of love, etcetera
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Pairing: Jaejoong/Changmin, Yoochun/Changmin
Disclaimer: The boys do not belong to me. This is also nothing but pure fiction.
Summary: Changmin contemplates the man he loved and the man who loves him.
dreaming, etcetera, of your smile eyes knees and of your etcetera
-- e.e. cummings
The numbers of the clock read 6:38, and next to me, he’s snoring lightly.
Outside, the sun is about to rise, the beginning of orange forming a gradual flush across the grey horizon, and I’m wide-awake. The breeze that whispers through the open window is cool, but not cold. I remember standing in the rain, watching you leave me. It was a Saturday night; I was standing outside that cosy Japanese restaurant we frequented, fists clenched at my sides, shouting after you.
I remember you screaming back, the two of us lost in the furious disconnection, the disintegration of a relationship that once meant everything. You were livid, disgusted at my failure, and I was indignant, angered by your betrayal. I remember the rain falling in a violent flurry around us, and blinking the water out of my eyes. I remember how you swiped your wet fringe off your forehead, the bleached blond strands moonlight-coloured - you were always beautiful. You were beautiful when I met you, and you were beautiful even as you left me.
He shifts on the bed beside me, tangling limbs further into the blanket, breath escaping his mouth with a small sigh. I met him four months ago at one of the bars I frequent. He plays the piano there on weekends, and we exchanged numbers. The next Saturday I was back there, listening to him play and sing. He opens one eye lazily.
“Morning,” his voice is hoarse from sleep.
“Morning,” I answer.
I remember making love with you as the sun was rising outside the window, I remember your laughter and your heartbreaking smiles, I remember your beautiful voice, and I remember the man you left me for.
He props his head up with an elbow, looking at me. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he yawns behind his free hand.
“I slept,” I say, lying back down on the bed to humor him. “I’ll go back to sleep with you if you want.” I want to avoid a conversation; I don’t feel like talking, not when I am breathless from memories of you.
He shakes his head. There’s the beginning of sunlight in his eyes when he smiles.
You and me - we wanted different things, you tried to tell me one thing, and I tried to tell you something else, and we were always headed in different directions, opposite directions. I didn’t trust you, and you didn’t give me any reason to, and we were always meant for disaster. You thought I was too wary, too suspicious, too careful, and I thought you were too reckless, too open, too wild.
Maybe I should have given in to you that night in the rain, but then I think of the way you touched his hands and the way he looked - the man you left me for, and the way you fit your hips to his when you danced together, while I sat, waiting for you. We were meant for failure right from the start.
He leans towards to me, and opens his mouth to speak. I don’t want to hear any of it, so I lean forward to kiss him.
He backs away at the briefest contact, and rolls out of bed. He heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth and I smile. You never cared about bad breath, I remember being woken up by your fierce, demanding kisses, waking up to your body pressed onto me.
I hear the water running and the sound of raspy humming.
This is probably the eleventh or twelfth time I am in his apartment. I have never invited him back to mine, afraid that someone would disturb what’s left of your presence, to sleep in your side of the bed, to take your place. I look around and as usual, our clothes are strewn around various parts of the room, and there is a ripped condom wrapper next to my pillow.
I pick it up and toss it onto the ground. The mattress dips and he is crawling over to me, kissing me.
I still don’t know how to act in times like this. During the many times I’ve been with you, I always felt inexperienced, awkward and clumsy. You were always so sure of yourself, hands wringing pleasure from me, and I never knew the right thing to do. “Harder,” you would demand sometimes, and I’d hasten to obey, frowning with the effort to do something right.
He coaxes my mouth open and moans encouragingly. His pianist fingers stroke at my neck, gentle, soft, drawing me closer. You always liked to kiss me with your hand against my throat, to the outside world, it would have looked like you were trying to kill me - you could have strangled me if you wanted.
You almost did once, choking me, slamming me against the wall. The time you caught me going through the messages on your phone after you came out of the shower, the messages from someone else that were painfully intimate - messages from the man you eventually left me for. You grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, snatched the phone from my hands and threw it on the floor so with so much force it fell apart, the mechanical parts skittering across the ground noisily like tears, or shards of a broken promise. You kissed me, backing me against the wall, fingers leaving bruises at my neck, a choke-hold. I was taller than you were, and yet contrary to your delicate appearance, you had more strength than I did.
Distracted, I push him away from me, gasping for air.
He doesn’t ask about the tears in my eyes that I try to blink away. He doesn’t ask about you, or how you broke my heart. He doesn’t ask about the man you left me for. He doesn’t ask if I still love you, if I imagine you in his place when we are having sex.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. Naked, he pads around the room, picking up our clothes. He folds mine neatly, leaving them on a chair. He smiles when he sees me watching him. He reaches into his wardrobe, and puts on a white shirt and boxer shorts with musical notes all over them.
By the time I walk out, dressed and washed up, he’s already pouring coffee into two cups. He drops two cubes of sugar into my cup without asking. I want to laugh.
Even after two years you still had to ask how many sugars I wanted in my coffee. “Two,” I always answered, forgiving you, and then hating you more when I watched you drop one and half cubes of sugar into the coffee for the man you left me for. I watched you do it without asking, as if you’ve been doing it for your entire life. The things you did for him but not for me.
He catches my eye. I don’t have enough room in my heart for both you and him.
This is my favourite memory of you:
Three weeks after I met you, you found your way to my doorstep. I was still bleary-eyed from sleep when I opened the door and discovered you standing there, wearing a heart-stopping smile and clutching a handful of helium balloons. The balloons had words on them: I love you, Smile!, Be happy, Hello and You’re gorgeous! You kissed me, and we stumbled into my bedroom, clothes coming off in layers, and you pressed against me like a second skin. The first time we made love.
He’s pressing the coffee into my hands, the surface of the cup hot enough to startle me away from the insistent memories of your fingers skimming down my back, the addictive heat of your tongue mapping my body, and the sound of your voice repeatedly crying out my name, the syllabuses running into each other in a mess, a river of desire.
“Thank you,” I say, meeting his eyes over the rim of the cup.
He drinks half of his coffee, abandons the rest of it on the table and makes his way to the piano by the window. He sits down, lifts the lid carefully and begins to play.
Once upon a time, I wanted to dedicate my entire life to you. Now, I think, I shouldn’t have met you, I shouldn’t have gone to that party, I shouldn’t have given you my number, I shouldn’t have fallen for you.
I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, and standing in the apartment of a man who loves me more than he should.
“Yoochun,” I say quietly.
He ignores me and continues playing. Outside the window, the sun is already half way up in the sky. His face is silhouetted in the light, and his entire body is moving with the music. The possibilities are endless. I skate my fingers across the expanse of his broad shoulders, dropping a kiss to the nape of his neck.
“What are you playing?” I ask, burying in my nose against his skin, breathing in his spicy scent.
He hums a few notes. “It doesn’t have a title yet,” he says.
Right before you left me, you were learning the piano. “So I can play for you,” you told me, with a wink. You never got to play for me anything more than a few simple tunes. I imagine you are probably good enough now to play something proper for the man you left me for.
I finish up the coffee, and he walks me to the door. “I’ll see you tonight?” he says, holding the door open as I bend down to wear my shoes.
“Tonight,” I agree, straightening. He kisses me goodbye on the mouth, brief and affectionate.
He waves, smiling. “I love you,” he says to me, just as the elevator doors are closing.
I can’t remember the last time you said that to me. I remember your smile, your kisses, your beautiful eyes, the way you felt against my skin, your voice, and the exact contours of your features but I can’t remember the last time you told me I love you.
As always, comments would be great.
MASTERLIST OF FICS HERE
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Pairing: Jaejoong/Changmin, Yoochun/Changmin
Disclaimer: The boys do not belong to me. This is also nothing but pure fiction.
Summary: Changmin contemplates the man he loved and the man who loves him.
dreaming, etcetera, of your smile eyes knees and of your etcetera
-- e.e. cummings
The numbers of the clock read 6:38, and next to me, he’s snoring lightly.
Outside, the sun is about to rise, the beginning of orange forming a gradual flush across the grey horizon, and I’m wide-awake. The breeze that whispers through the open window is cool, but not cold. I remember standing in the rain, watching you leave me. It was a Saturday night; I was standing outside that cosy Japanese restaurant we frequented, fists clenched at my sides, shouting after you.
I remember you screaming back, the two of us lost in the furious disconnection, the disintegration of a relationship that once meant everything. You were livid, disgusted at my failure, and I was indignant, angered by your betrayal. I remember the rain falling in a violent flurry around us, and blinking the water out of my eyes. I remember how you swiped your wet fringe off your forehead, the bleached blond strands moonlight-coloured - you were always beautiful. You were beautiful when I met you, and you were beautiful even as you left me.
He shifts on the bed beside me, tangling limbs further into the blanket, breath escaping his mouth with a small sigh. I met him four months ago at one of the bars I frequent. He plays the piano there on weekends, and we exchanged numbers. The next Saturday I was back there, listening to him play and sing. He opens one eye lazily.
“Morning,” his voice is hoarse from sleep.
“Morning,” I answer.
I remember making love with you as the sun was rising outside the window, I remember your laughter and your heartbreaking smiles, I remember your beautiful voice, and I remember the man you left me for.
He props his head up with an elbow, looking at me. “Don’t you ever sleep?” he yawns behind his free hand.
“I slept,” I say, lying back down on the bed to humor him. “I’ll go back to sleep with you if you want.” I want to avoid a conversation; I don’t feel like talking, not when I am breathless from memories of you.
He shakes his head. There’s the beginning of sunlight in his eyes when he smiles.
You and me - we wanted different things, you tried to tell me one thing, and I tried to tell you something else, and we were always headed in different directions, opposite directions. I didn’t trust you, and you didn’t give me any reason to, and we were always meant for disaster. You thought I was too wary, too suspicious, too careful, and I thought you were too reckless, too open, too wild.
Maybe I should have given in to you that night in the rain, but then I think of the way you touched his hands and the way he looked - the man you left me for, and the way you fit your hips to his when you danced together, while I sat, waiting for you. We were meant for failure right from the start.
He leans towards to me, and opens his mouth to speak. I don’t want to hear any of it, so I lean forward to kiss him.
He backs away at the briefest contact, and rolls out of bed. He heads for the bathroom to brush his teeth and I smile. You never cared about bad breath, I remember being woken up by your fierce, demanding kisses, waking up to your body pressed onto me.
I hear the water running and the sound of raspy humming.
This is probably the eleventh or twelfth time I am in his apartment. I have never invited him back to mine, afraid that someone would disturb what’s left of your presence, to sleep in your side of the bed, to take your place. I look around and as usual, our clothes are strewn around various parts of the room, and there is a ripped condom wrapper next to my pillow.
I pick it up and toss it onto the ground. The mattress dips and he is crawling over to me, kissing me.
I still don’t know how to act in times like this. During the many times I’ve been with you, I always felt inexperienced, awkward and clumsy. You were always so sure of yourself, hands wringing pleasure from me, and I never knew the right thing to do. “Harder,” you would demand sometimes, and I’d hasten to obey, frowning with the effort to do something right.
He coaxes my mouth open and moans encouragingly. His pianist fingers stroke at my neck, gentle, soft, drawing me closer. You always liked to kiss me with your hand against my throat, to the outside world, it would have looked like you were trying to kill me - you could have strangled me if you wanted.
You almost did once, choking me, slamming me against the wall. The time you caught me going through the messages on your phone after you came out of the shower, the messages from someone else that were painfully intimate - messages from the man you eventually left me for. You grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, snatched the phone from my hands and threw it on the floor so with so much force it fell apart, the mechanical parts skittering across the ground noisily like tears, or shards of a broken promise. You kissed me, backing me against the wall, fingers leaving bruises at my neck, a choke-hold. I was taller than you were, and yet contrary to your delicate appearance, you had more strength than I did.
Distracted, I push him away from me, gasping for air.
He doesn’t ask about the tears in my eyes that I try to blink away. He doesn’t ask about you, or how you broke my heart. He doesn’t ask about the man you left me for. He doesn’t ask if I still love you, if I imagine you in his place when we are having sex.
“I’ll make coffee,” he says finally. Naked, he pads around the room, picking up our clothes. He folds mine neatly, leaving them on a chair. He smiles when he sees me watching him. He reaches into his wardrobe, and puts on a white shirt and boxer shorts with musical notes all over them.
By the time I walk out, dressed and washed up, he’s already pouring coffee into two cups. He drops two cubes of sugar into my cup without asking. I want to laugh.
Even after two years you still had to ask how many sugars I wanted in my coffee. “Two,” I always answered, forgiving you, and then hating you more when I watched you drop one and half cubes of sugar into the coffee for the man you left me for. I watched you do it without asking, as if you’ve been doing it for your entire life. The things you did for him but not for me.
He catches my eye. I don’t have enough room in my heart for both you and him.
This is my favourite memory of you:
Three weeks after I met you, you found your way to my doorstep. I was still bleary-eyed from sleep when I opened the door and discovered you standing there, wearing a heart-stopping smile and clutching a handful of helium balloons. The balloons had words on them: I love you, Smile!, Be happy, Hello and You’re gorgeous! You kissed me, and we stumbled into my bedroom, clothes coming off in layers, and you pressed against me like a second skin. The first time we made love.
He’s pressing the coffee into my hands, the surface of the cup hot enough to startle me away from the insistent memories of your fingers skimming down my back, the addictive heat of your tongue mapping my body, and the sound of your voice repeatedly crying out my name, the syllabuses running into each other in a mess, a river of desire.
“Thank you,” I say, meeting his eyes over the rim of the cup.
He drinks half of his coffee, abandons the rest of it on the table and makes his way to the piano by the window. He sits down, lifts the lid carefully and begins to play.
Once upon a time, I wanted to dedicate my entire life to you. Now, I think, I shouldn’t have met you, I shouldn’t have gone to that party, I shouldn’t have given you my number, I shouldn’t have fallen for you.
I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes, and standing in the apartment of a man who loves me more than he should.
“Yoochun,” I say quietly.
He ignores me and continues playing. Outside the window, the sun is already half way up in the sky. His face is silhouetted in the light, and his entire body is moving with the music. The possibilities are endless. I skate my fingers across the expanse of his broad shoulders, dropping a kiss to the nape of his neck.
“What are you playing?” I ask, burying in my nose against his skin, breathing in his spicy scent.
He hums a few notes. “It doesn’t have a title yet,” he says.
Right before you left me, you were learning the piano. “So I can play for you,” you told me, with a wink. You never got to play for me anything more than a few simple tunes. I imagine you are probably good enough now to play something proper for the man you left me for.
I finish up the coffee, and he walks me to the door. “I’ll see you tonight?” he says, holding the door open as I bend down to wear my shoes.
“Tonight,” I agree, straightening. He kisses me goodbye on the mouth, brief and affectionate.
He waves, smiling. “I love you,” he says to me, just as the elevator doors are closing.
I can’t remember the last time you said that to me. I remember your smile, your kisses, your beautiful eyes, the way you felt against my skin, your voice, and the exact contours of your features but I can’t remember the last time you told me I love you.
As always, comments would be great.
MASTERLIST OF FICS HERE