and then there was...
and then there was...
fewshot part 1/?
yoosu
[note: its been a while... does anyone even remember me? anyway, i've no idea what this is. so yea.]
“Fuck.” Junsu stumbled, tripping up the couple of steps to the front door of his apartment complex, shoes slipping on the rain soaked concrete. His palm thudded against the door and he bit back another curse, using his free hand to haul his keys out of the back pocket of his shorts.
“Hey.” The soft voice caught him off guard and he cursed again, nearly dropping his keys. He turned and looked down, noticing for the first time the man sitting just a few feet away taking shelter from the downpour on the apartment steps. He was met with dark eyes that had dark wet hair dripping into them. The rythmic thudding of the rain could be heard in the seconds of silence that followed, Junsu getting lost in a stranger’s gaze. He frowned.
“Who are you?” The stranger’s eyes broke away to look Junsu over, a detached assessment of the young man’s character as conveyed by his outword appearance: wet clothes, a t shirt with fragments of the english language wrecked across it and the shorts, sneakers, an unfortunately small umbrella tucked under one arm, and dyed brown hair, cut short and half-assedly styled with a few extra minutes in front of an uneccesarily large mirror. The man ignored the question altogether.
“Got a light?” He held up a cigarette between two pale, slender fingers. Junsu eyed the object with mild distaste, debating internally the pros and cons of simply entering the apartment and abandoning the conversation right there. Then he sighed and searched through another pocket for his lighter.
“Everybody fucking smokes, no matter where the fuck I go…” He mumbled under his breath in Korean, flicking the small case open to check that it still worked. “Here.” He added in Japanese. He held it out and the man leaned forward to take it, his eyes still trained on Junsu’s face.
“So you’re Korean too.” The man said, lighting up while continueing to stare. Junsu jerked his head back up at the familiar words, his native language being spoken back to him for the first time in months. Or was it years? Giving the man a second look, he could suddenly detect the slightly foreign style hidden behind the obviously ‘made in Japan’ outfit, the subtle differences in the man’s features, painful hints of home. He flinched, a movement so infinitismal that even his doorstep companion missed it.
“But you don’t smoke?” The man continued, needing no answer to his previous statement. The rain beat harder in a short burst, pounding into the building above and around them, reaching for their feet. Smoke from the lit cigarette rose into the air, as if to physically carry the man’s question to Junsu’s ears. He’d had enough.
“I’m trying to quit.” He held out his hand once more, an unvoiced demand for the return of his lighter. The man watched him a second, twirling the object artfully in his fingers before bringing its movement to an abrupt stop. He leaned forward again and placed it back in its owner’s awaiting palm. Then he pushed himself up. He walked to the edge of the stairs, the cigarette dangling from his fingers, and looked outward and upward, watching the sky’s tears fall from the clouds and seep back into his bangs, dripping into his eyes.
“Park Yoochun.” He said, inhaling once more before tossing the cigarette out onto the street. He turned back just once, “Good luck,” before trotting down the steps to follow it.