baby, you're a hurricane.
baby, you're a hurricane
sonyong/junwoon (junhyung/dongwoon/junhyung), pg-13, goosebump-inducing unbeta'd
idek OTL in the process of changing things a little...
Dongwoon presses his cheek against the freezing window pane and watches the bruising sky outside. The clouds are a dark purple and the radio plays Debussy, a crackling piano melody that rings in his ears until a loud rapping on the door slices through the music. With a frown, Dongwoon shuffles over to the door and throws it open.
A man with a black eye greets him with a bow and a polite smile, and Dongwoon stares at the bags right outside the doorway. Something connects in his head, and he remembers receiving a call a few days ago about a housemate.
Yong Junhyung, he says, holding out a slightly shaky hand to Dongwoon. It's nice to meet you.
But what he really means to say is, 'Hi, I'm going to live with you from now on because I have a boyfriend who's a sick fuck who treats me as his personal punching bag, and I'm hiding from him, so it's nice to meet you.'
Blinking away confusion, Dongwoon offers an easy smile and reaches to shake Junhyung's hand. He doesn't take his eyes off the blueblack patches on Junhyung's face when he says, hello, I'm Son Dongwoon, it's nice to meet you too.
Junhyung manages a real smile with teeth although it hurts (his entire face hurts) and Dongwoon helps him with his bags. During dinner that night, Dongwoon struggles with himself when he sees Junhyung's wounds up close, should he ask questions, or should he just keep quiet?
"All you need to know about me", Junhyung says after swallowing a mouthful of rice, "is that I'm hiding from somebody right now."
"Are you a spy or some sort of secret agent?" Dongwoon blurts out without thinking and Junhyung looks slightly taken aback. "W-Well, I mean..."
The older boy puts a hand over his growing grin and Dongwoon can see his shoulders shaking. "You must have been watching too many action films. "
Three weeks later, Dongwoon suddenly tells Junhyung that he should laugh without covering his mouth. "Don't hold it back, just laugh freely."
"But I don't laugh," Junhyung says and goes back to putting ice against his healing wounds.
Two weeks after and Junhyung's black eye is gone, along with the awkwardness between them. Dongwoon finds out that Junhyung is obsessed with cleaning. He wipes down fingerprints from any shiny surface he can find, he enters Dongwoon's room and cleans the area despite the younger's protests; Dongwoon whines while Junhyung nags.
"I wonder if you've always been such a clean freak." Dongwoon mumbles. Junhyung freezes, his gloved hand hovering over a dusty shelf, the other lifted to his left eye.
Dongwoon asks for Junhyung's phone number that afternoon (in case I get into trouble, he tells him with a sunny smile). With slow fingers, Junhyung punches in his number. Dongwoon does a little dance of joy, hurray, my contact list just became longer. Junhyung flicks his finger against Dongwoon's forehead. "You idiot, I don't even use my phone anymore."
"Why?" Dongwoon asks. "Is it because you're still hiding from that someone?"
The corners of Junhyung's mouth twitch into a pained smile (and something trapped within Dongwoon's ribcage pounds faster, rattling his bones).
"I'll only pick up the phone if you're the one calling. "
Beethoven and Mozart live in Dongwoon's head. He drains black blood from his pen and translates emotions into quavers, crotchets. His manuscripts are different seas, and when he plays them out on his rusty keyboard, tiny ripples lead onto waves of sound, sometimes a crescendo or a diminuendo.
Junhyung listens to him play his music after dinner, and even though he doesn't really like classical music, he still appreciates the beautiful tunes that Dongwoon creates.
Junhyung is a different language altogether. He speaks and breathes rhymes, gluing words together with careful strokes of a pencil. Rhythm means knocking milkwhite knuckles against any hard surface, and rhyme means knitting syllables together to form similar sounds. When Dongwoon walks by his room, all he hears is the booming bass of his music and the loud, confident lyrics that he raps.
He grows to love the same kind of music later on (Yoseob laughs when he tells him that he's learning to write lyrics). He presses his ear to Junhyung's bedroom door on the rare ocassions that he sings quiet ballads.
"One day." Dongwoon speaks through a spoonful of kimchi and ends up staining his chin red; Junhyung clicks his tongue while reaching for a napkin but Dongwoon continues spluttering, "One day we'll hold a concert together and I'll play the piano under the spotlight, and and we'll sing together, and you can rap, too!"
Junhyung rolls his eyes as he pushes the napkin against Dongwoon's chin. "You dream big, kid."
The table vibrates; Dongwoon points to Junhyung's handphone with his chopsticks. "Your phone's ringing, hyung."
"I know." Junhyung bites on the metal of the spoon and waits for the ringing to stop. The phone doesn't stop ringing and Dongwoon is close to picking it up himself, but Junhyung's glare stops him.
Finally the phone screen fades to black.
"Why didn't you pick up the phone, hyung?" He knows why, but he still wants to hear Junhyung's answer.
"Eat your dinner, Dongwoon-ah."
Junhyung finishes his meal quickly and leaves the dinner table before Dongwoon. "I'm going to my room now," he announces as he grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge. Dongwoon nibbles on a piece of celery, okay hyung.
The bedroom door closes with a click, and Dongwoon sighs.
More and more often Junhyung's phone rings, a haunting melody that they both try to ignore. "Why don't you pick it up, hyung?" Dongwoon always asks. Pick it up, and tell him to stop bothering you.
Junhyung puts his sandwich down, jabs at the phone with angry fingers until it stops ringing. Dongwoon watches him end the sandwich in just three bites until the phone rings again.
This time, Dongwoon seizes the ringing device from under Junhyung's hand and answers the call (Junhyung makes loud noises of frustration through his half-chewed sandwich which can be translated as yah, son dongwoon hang up right now).
"Hello, whoever this is, please stop bothering Junhyung with your phone calls and text messages, he won't reply you anyway. Good bye."
Dongwoon hangs up before the other person can say something and he returns the phone to a silent Junhyung. "There, done, he won't disturb you anymore, hyung."
Junhyung's fist tightens around the phone and through grinding teeth he breathes,
"Why. The. Fuck. Did. You. Do. That."
Each word is a piercing nail that drives itself into Dongwoon's chest, and he swallows thickly, blinking back his fear, "But, hyung, if you don't make it clear to him, he'll-"
"Shut. Up. Just shut the fuck up."
Junhyung knocks his drink over and shoves at the table and it screeches against the floor, a painful sound that hurts Dongwoon's ears. He snatches the phone from Dongwoon's trembling fingers and throws it against the wall; it breaks into pieces of plastic and metal that can never be put back again.
You won't understand anything. You won't.
When Junhyung is gone, Dongwoon cleans up the mess. You won't understand, he said, you won't understand. There's too much he doesn't know about Junhyung, and his past is locked away from Dongwoon's outstretched arms. He wants the key to it, but he can only pick up the leftover crumbs on Junhyung's plate and have a tiny taste of his life. It isn't enough for him, he wants more than that.
More and more, more and more, until his lungs grow tired and his blood rushes to his heart, pumping out a different, whole new rhythm.
This hunger will break you one day, he tells himself. More and more you'll hurt.
He calls him 'hyung', but in his head he means something else.
Junhyung stumbles home at three in the morning, his collar smelling of heavy liquor and the overwhelming sweetness of perfume. "Hyung," Dongwoon trips over himself as he gets up from his position on the couch (pins and needles weakening his calves) and rushes over to help Junhyung.
He drags Junhyung to the couch and quickly moves to the kitchen to get water and a wet towel. When he returns to Junhyung, the latter is half-asleep, his slack mouth forming words that don't make sense. Dongwoon bends over Junhyung and removes his leather jacket, his eyebrows curving downwards and Junhyung watches him through his heavy eyelids. He wants to wave the younger off, but his hand feels too heavy to move.
"Go away. Go away, shoo," he slurs. Don't touch me, I'm a fucking mess, I'll kill you.
He continues grumbling while Dongwoon takes care of him with his sharp, concentrated stare (it scares Junhyung just a little).
Don't.
He repeats those words over and over again, he chokes up when he says that he's lonely. His eyes are black holes, he sucks on dry air until it changes into the warm salt of skin; Dongwoon leans in without hesitation and Junhyung pulls him nearer by the soft cotton of his shirt. I've been so lonely, he whispers and their mouths collide again and again, lonely lonely lonely. Dongwoon's face burns and Junhyung likes touching his cheek like that, because it's warm and it's Dongwoon.
But lonely doesn't mean love.
"Morning."
Dongwoon stretches out uncomfortably against Junhyung's body when the sunlight sweeps across the living room. The couch is too small for the both of them, and as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, Dongwoon starts searching for the calm in Junhyung's eye.
He sees past glass shards oozing blood, alcohol spinning in those veins, a loosened jaw when someone's fist crashes into his face. He tries to look further, but Junhyung is sitting up against the couch and shifting away.
He isn't saying anything, but the tiny distance between them is enough for Dongwoon to understand this time.
"You have a heart like an artichoke's."
Thickening with each day, petal over petal. Dongwoon wonders if he's beginning to smooth away at the rind of his heart with his hands.
Silence hangs from the ceiling with an invisible noose around its neck. Junhyung gets up onto his feet and walks towards the bathroom without a word. He's sliding against the floor, back slightly hunched, he's like a ghost. Dongwoon leans against the couch, his hand hovering over the fading warmth that was Junhyung.
In his mind, an artichoke unpetals itself.
Like a mirror you swallow his reflection and replicate the melting curves of his mouth. You try to mimic the way his fingers curl around a cigarette, the swan-neck bend of his lazy wrist, but you remember that you don't smoke. With patient blinks he turns away and chooses Vodka, not you (you're water, he tells you one day, I don't drink water anymore).
Still you sit and wait, reaching for a dented bottle of water near you, copying the tilt of his head when he downs the transparent alcohol. Do you pretend that you're drinking water, you want to ask, but as always, you bite back your question. The plastic rim of your bottle cuts into your lower lip and the water is saline when it touches your tongue.
He finishes the entire bottle of Vodka and it doesn't surprise you when he drapes himself all over you, gently curling around your tightening shoulders and he cries, don't love me, please don't love me.
I'm a wreck, he bubbles, I'm a disaster, you don't deserve me.
You say nothing and let him rest against your aching arm, and as his breathing slows down, Chopin starts to play in your head. His forehead is too hot, you think, but you can't move your hand away.
Outside the window, the moon is a cat's eye, watching as you lay your head against his, until sleep claims you too.
sonyong/junwoon (junhyung/dongwoon/junhyung), pg-13, goosebump-inducing unbeta'd
idek OTL in the process of changing things a little...
Dongwoon presses his cheek against the freezing window pane and watches the bruising sky outside. The clouds are a dark purple and the radio plays Debussy, a crackling piano melody that rings in his ears until a loud rapping on the door slices through the music. With a frown, Dongwoon shuffles over to the door and throws it open.
A man with a black eye greets him with a bow and a polite smile, and Dongwoon stares at the bags right outside the doorway. Something connects in his head, and he remembers receiving a call a few days ago about a housemate.
Yong Junhyung, he says, holding out a slightly shaky hand to Dongwoon. It's nice to meet you.
But what he really means to say is, 'Hi, I'm going to live with you from now on because I have a boyfriend who's a sick fuck who treats me as his personal punching bag, and I'm hiding from him, so it's nice to meet you.'
Blinking away confusion, Dongwoon offers an easy smile and reaches to shake Junhyung's hand. He doesn't take his eyes off the blueblack patches on Junhyung's face when he says, hello, I'm Son Dongwoon, it's nice to meet you too.
Junhyung manages a real smile with teeth although it hurts (his entire face hurts) and Dongwoon helps him with his bags. During dinner that night, Dongwoon struggles with himself when he sees Junhyung's wounds up close, should he ask questions, or should he just keep quiet?
"All you need to know about me", Junhyung says after swallowing a mouthful of rice, "is that I'm hiding from somebody right now."
"Are you a spy or some sort of secret agent?" Dongwoon blurts out without thinking and Junhyung looks slightly taken aback. "W-Well, I mean..."
The older boy puts a hand over his growing grin and Dongwoon can see his shoulders shaking. "You must have been watching too many action films. "
Three weeks later, Dongwoon suddenly tells Junhyung that he should laugh without covering his mouth. "Don't hold it back, just laugh freely."
"But I don't laugh," Junhyung says and goes back to putting ice against his healing wounds.
Two weeks after and Junhyung's black eye is gone, along with the awkwardness between them. Dongwoon finds out that Junhyung is obsessed with cleaning. He wipes down fingerprints from any shiny surface he can find, he enters Dongwoon's room and cleans the area despite the younger's protests; Dongwoon whines while Junhyung nags.
"I wonder if you've always been such a clean freak." Dongwoon mumbles. Junhyung freezes, his gloved hand hovering over a dusty shelf, the other lifted to his left eye.
Dongwoon asks for Junhyung's phone number that afternoon (in case I get into trouble, he tells him with a sunny smile). With slow fingers, Junhyung punches in his number. Dongwoon does a little dance of joy, hurray, my contact list just became longer. Junhyung flicks his finger against Dongwoon's forehead. "You idiot, I don't even use my phone anymore."
"Why?" Dongwoon asks. "Is it because you're still hiding from that someone?"
The corners of Junhyung's mouth twitch into a pained smile (and something trapped within Dongwoon's ribcage pounds faster, rattling his bones).
"I'll only pick up the phone if you're the one calling. "
Beethoven and Mozart live in Dongwoon's head. He drains black blood from his pen and translates emotions into quavers, crotchets. His manuscripts are different seas, and when he plays them out on his rusty keyboard, tiny ripples lead onto waves of sound, sometimes a crescendo or a diminuendo.
Junhyung listens to him play his music after dinner, and even though he doesn't really like classical music, he still appreciates the beautiful tunes that Dongwoon creates.
Junhyung is a different language altogether. He speaks and breathes rhymes, gluing words together with careful strokes of a pencil. Rhythm means knocking milkwhite knuckles against any hard surface, and rhyme means knitting syllables together to form similar sounds. When Dongwoon walks by his room, all he hears is the booming bass of his music and the loud, confident lyrics that he raps.
He grows to love the same kind of music later on (Yoseob laughs when he tells him that he's learning to write lyrics). He presses his ear to Junhyung's bedroom door on the rare ocassions that he sings quiet ballads.
"One day." Dongwoon speaks through a spoonful of kimchi and ends up staining his chin red; Junhyung clicks his tongue while reaching for a napkin but Dongwoon continues spluttering, "One day we'll hold a concert together and I'll play the piano under the spotlight, and and we'll sing together, and you can rap, too!"
Junhyung rolls his eyes as he pushes the napkin against Dongwoon's chin. "You dream big, kid."
The table vibrates; Dongwoon points to Junhyung's handphone with his chopsticks. "Your phone's ringing, hyung."
"I know." Junhyung bites on the metal of the spoon and waits for the ringing to stop. The phone doesn't stop ringing and Dongwoon is close to picking it up himself, but Junhyung's glare stops him.
Finally the phone screen fades to black.
"Why didn't you pick up the phone, hyung?" He knows why, but he still wants to hear Junhyung's answer.
"Eat your dinner, Dongwoon-ah."
Junhyung finishes his meal quickly and leaves the dinner table before Dongwoon. "I'm going to my room now," he announces as he grabs a bottle of beer from the fridge. Dongwoon nibbles on a piece of celery, okay hyung.
The bedroom door closes with a click, and Dongwoon sighs.
More and more often Junhyung's phone rings, a haunting melody that they both try to ignore. "Why don't you pick it up, hyung?" Dongwoon always asks. Pick it up, and tell him to stop bothering you.
Junhyung puts his sandwich down, jabs at the phone with angry fingers until it stops ringing. Dongwoon watches him end the sandwich in just three bites until the phone rings again.
This time, Dongwoon seizes the ringing device from under Junhyung's hand and answers the call (Junhyung makes loud noises of frustration through his half-chewed sandwich which can be translated as yah, son dongwoon hang up right now).
"Hello, whoever this is, please stop bothering Junhyung with your phone calls and text messages, he won't reply you anyway. Good bye."
Dongwoon hangs up before the other person can say something and he returns the phone to a silent Junhyung. "There, done, he won't disturb you anymore, hyung."
Junhyung's fist tightens around the phone and through grinding teeth he breathes,
"Why. The. Fuck. Did. You. Do. That."
Each word is a piercing nail that drives itself into Dongwoon's chest, and he swallows thickly, blinking back his fear, "But, hyung, if you don't make it clear to him, he'll-"
"Shut. Up. Just shut the fuck up."
Junhyung knocks his drink over and shoves at the table and it screeches against the floor, a painful sound that hurts Dongwoon's ears. He snatches the phone from Dongwoon's trembling fingers and throws it against the wall; it breaks into pieces of plastic and metal that can never be put back again.
You won't understand anything. You won't.
When Junhyung is gone, Dongwoon cleans up the mess. You won't understand, he said, you won't understand. There's too much he doesn't know about Junhyung, and his past is locked away from Dongwoon's outstretched arms. He wants the key to it, but he can only pick up the leftover crumbs on Junhyung's plate and have a tiny taste of his life. It isn't enough for him, he wants more than that.
More and more, more and more, until his lungs grow tired and his blood rushes to his heart, pumping out a different, whole new rhythm.
This hunger will break you one day, he tells himself. More and more you'll hurt.
He calls him 'hyung', but in his head he means something else.
Junhyung stumbles home at three in the morning, his collar smelling of heavy liquor and the overwhelming sweetness of perfume. "Hyung," Dongwoon trips over himself as he gets up from his position on the couch (pins and needles weakening his calves) and rushes over to help Junhyung.
He drags Junhyung to the couch and quickly moves to the kitchen to get water and a wet towel. When he returns to Junhyung, the latter is half-asleep, his slack mouth forming words that don't make sense. Dongwoon bends over Junhyung and removes his leather jacket, his eyebrows curving downwards and Junhyung watches him through his heavy eyelids. He wants to wave the younger off, but his hand feels too heavy to move.
"Go away. Go away, shoo," he slurs. Don't touch me, I'm a fucking mess, I'll kill you.
He continues grumbling while Dongwoon takes care of him with his sharp, concentrated stare (it scares Junhyung just a little).
Don't.
He repeats those words over and over again, he chokes up when he says that he's lonely. His eyes are black holes, he sucks on dry air until it changes into the warm salt of skin; Dongwoon leans in without hesitation and Junhyung pulls him nearer by the soft cotton of his shirt. I've been so lonely, he whispers and their mouths collide again and again, lonely lonely lonely. Dongwoon's face burns and Junhyung likes touching his cheek like that, because it's warm and it's Dongwoon.
But lonely doesn't mean love.
"Morning."
Dongwoon stretches out uncomfortably against Junhyung's body when the sunlight sweeps across the living room. The couch is too small for the both of them, and as he rubs the sleep from his eyes, Dongwoon starts searching for the calm in Junhyung's eye.
He sees past glass shards oozing blood, alcohol spinning in those veins, a loosened jaw when someone's fist crashes into his face. He tries to look further, but Junhyung is sitting up against the couch and shifting away.
He isn't saying anything, but the tiny distance between them is enough for Dongwoon to understand this time.
"You have a heart like an artichoke's."
Thickening with each day, petal over petal. Dongwoon wonders if he's beginning to smooth away at the rind of his heart with his hands.
Silence hangs from the ceiling with an invisible noose around its neck. Junhyung gets up onto his feet and walks towards the bathroom without a word. He's sliding against the floor, back slightly hunched, he's like a ghost. Dongwoon leans against the couch, his hand hovering over the fading warmth that was Junhyung.
In his mind, an artichoke unpetals itself.
Like a mirror you swallow his reflection and replicate the melting curves of his mouth. You try to mimic the way his fingers curl around a cigarette, the swan-neck bend of his lazy wrist, but you remember that you don't smoke. With patient blinks he turns away and chooses Vodka, not you (you're water, he tells you one day, I don't drink water anymore).
Still you sit and wait, reaching for a dented bottle of water near you, copying the tilt of his head when he downs the transparent alcohol. Do you pretend that you're drinking water, you want to ask, but as always, you bite back your question. The plastic rim of your bottle cuts into your lower lip and the water is saline when it touches your tongue.
He finishes the entire bottle of Vodka and it doesn't surprise you when he drapes himself all over you, gently curling around your tightening shoulders and he cries, don't love me, please don't love me.
I'm a wreck, he bubbles, I'm a disaster, you don't deserve me.
You say nothing and let him rest against your aching arm, and as his breathing slows down, Chopin starts to play in your head. His forehead is too hot, you think, but you can't move your hand away.
Outside the window, the moon is a cat's eye, watching as you lay your head against his, until sleep claims you too.