Fic: I died in a car crash (DBSK)
Title: I died in a car crash
Category: Kpop (DBSK)
Character: Jaejoong-centric
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2300
Summary: Jaejoong lingers on after his death and maps out all the grief.
I died in a car crash two days ago; was unrecognizable when they pulled me from the gears.
Jaejoong is standing in the middle of the street and there are people staring, screaming, pointing their fingers... He takes a step back in alarm, one hand rising in a startled attempt to cover his face as he prepares to turn on his heel and run like hell like any dignified idol who finds himself totally, inexplicably at the mercy of the public.
Glass crunches beneath his shoe and he looks down, then up. Several feet away is the mangled wreck of a car, metal doors crumpled in on the driver's side and windows shattered. He can see someone inside, slouched and unmoving, with highlighted popstar hair and too-white skin that stands out against smears of red blood.
At first he's only confused, then concerned.
"Hey-" And he stops, one step removed from comprehension, toeing a straight, narrow line with his eyes closed and his breath held.
Finally, he hears the sirens.
* * * * *
He screams himself hoarse at everyone - the buzzing crowd (cell phones out and snapping pictures, oh God, that's twisted), the grim-faced cops (do they know who he is, and does it even matter?), and even his own battered and broken body as it's being taken away, carefully covered (no, Jaejoong insists over and over, I'm fine, let me back, I-). He shouts unintelligibly, grabs and shoves at bodies that are unaffected by his touch, but no one responds, not even when he can practically feel the rawness of his abused vocal chords. His throat gives out and the pain makes his eyes burn with tears at the unfairness.
He can feel, isn't that enough?
His next thought is automatic: but we're recording for the new album, I need to sing...
Jaejoong's heartbeat, if he still has one, stops.
* * * * *
The funeral is nice, even if he absolutely cannot stand the sight of his mother's crying face, mirrored in the many faces of his sisters. But it's oddly soothing to see his family all together, a moment of respite in this surreal reality where the deceased attends his own funeral like an uninvited guest. Jaejoong can't remember the last time he saw everyone at once - his visits with his family are all too brief and scattered in his memory. He was never able to fully appreciate those snatches of time with them, always worried about work, even while on vacation.
His biological parents attend, of course, and they are no less grieved. But we're practically strangers, he wants to say. The protest is too weak, never making it past his lips to die in the air anyway.
"I'm sorry," Jaejoong says instead, and he could be saying it to them, to the room, or to everyone else mourning him in Korea, in the world.
But time goes on; it doesn't stop, not even for him.
* * * * *
At first he's pissed more than anything.
"What do you mean, 'Dong Bang Shin Ki will disband'?" Jaejoong demands in panic, looking back and forth between management and his groupmates, their eyes red and mouths pressed thin. Jaejoong hovers on the outside, and that's annoying too; he wants to shoulder his way in, to jam his elbow into Yoochun's ribs and smack the side of Changmin's head, claiming his place in their lineup. He glares at the meager space between the two, a small gap implying something lost and missing. I'm right here! he wants to scream - has screamed, only to be ignored as always. It's Jaejoong against the world.
"Well," Yunho begins. He shifts slightly on his feet, expression stony, and it's like the words get stuck in his throat.
Jaejoong whirls on him, hands clenched at his sides and his eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare agree to that! You guys," you four he wants to say, but can't quite, "are going to stay together, you're going to sing and dance and make music that's better than anything else you've ever done. Dong Bang Shin Ki is going to live because you're gods, and gods are immortal. So tell them that, Yunho. Tell them."
"Well," Yunho says again, and he sounds like Leader-sshi, firm and measured, leaving no doubt that he speaks for the group (as it is, not as it remains). "We understand, but right now it's too soon. We'll think about it, but for now, we still..."
Jaejoong moves so that he's standing in front of Yunho, gazing straight into his eyes, searching for reassurance, for the future.
* * * * *
For a while he's worried that Yoochun will never stop crying.
"If you lose any more weight, you'll be more of a ghost than I am," Jaejoong says into the open air one night, lying on his back beside Yoochun on the bed. He acts as though it'll make a difference, that maybe his words can reach his friend, somehow, because he doesn't know what else he can do. If it had been one of the others (heaven forbid) Yoochun was crying over, Jaejoong would still be here saying the exact same thing.
He would still be rolling over and pressing the palm of his hand to Yoochun's back. Jaejoong can feel the warmth of Yoochun's body beneath his shirt, but the sensation only goes one way. He strokes downward, regardless, following the length of Yoochun's spine to rest over the area where his tattoo is: TVfXQMYC
"You're still Micky Yoochun," Jaejoong says, inching closer until he can drape himself over the other's body. "I'm still Youngwoong Jaejoong. We're the chunjae soulmate couple."
Yoochun's shoulders shake like he could be laughing in the quiet room.
Jaejoong continues, "What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine. Don't forget, okay? But even if you do, I'll just remind you again. You know me, I'm annoying like that." His mouth quirks in a grin as he rests his cheek against Yoochun's thin shoulder blade and the room goes even quieter.
Some things are permanent like ink on skin, like names and souls, like this.
"You'll write me a dedication song, won't you?" Jaejoong asks softly, teasingly. "Something sappy, I hope, that'll really get the tears going. You'll roll your eyes later and say that I'm such an attention whore, so I'll definitely love it. And I will. It'll be beautiful."
* * * * *
When Jaejoong first met Changmin, there were a lot of walls between them. Politeness, professionalism, and deference acted as buffers between the oldest and youngest members as they got along competently enough. Then the barriers eroded with time and familiarity. There were annoyances at first - small, irritating things that showed up unavoidably when they had to spend a lot of time together, and their personalities aren't alike at all. They don't have many common interests. Jaejoong is the oldest, but he acts like such a child sometimes. Changmin is the youngest, but he can be the most mature out of all of them.
Despite everything, they actually do match well. They balance out.
"I guess this means you won't be complaining about your bruises anymore," Jaejoong comments from where he lies on the bed, flat on his stomach with his feet in the air and his chin in his hands. He gazes up to where Changmin is sitting at the desk with the computer. "Not that you had bruises because of me to begin with. I don't hit that hard, you liar."
Jaejoong sticks his tongue out and imagines Changmin rolling his eyes knowingly. He misses the chatter, the banter, the acknowledgements and affirmations of his existence.
Jaejoong gets to his feet without a sound and stands behind the younger man, draping his arms around lean shoulders and propping his chin on top of Changmin's head. "So listen," he begins, gaze taking in the computer screen and Internet browser opened to an online college course. Jaejoong smiles a half-smile. "Listen," he says again, tightening his hold for his own sake. "You're all grown up now. You're smart, and handsome, and tall, you lucky bastard. With that combination, there's no way you can go wrong in life. Whatever you do, I'll be proud. We all will."
He turns his cheek to rub against Changmin's soft hair, breathing in the faint scent of his shampoo. "Whatever you do," he repeats, and musters the courage to speak with a full, honest heart. "You can be more than Dong Bang Shin Ki."
Changmin's form heaves in a full-body sigh. Jaejoong hasn't seen him cry much, but there's a telltale puffiness to his eyes and a tiredness to his limbs, despite the break in the group's normally busy schedule. Furthermore, the kitchen hasn't been raided nearly as often.
"Do you know what my number one fear is?" Jaejoong asks, remembering Yoochun's too-thin frame. "That you're all going to starve without me. That's not allowed to happen, okay? Tell everyone that they're big boys now, they can learn how to feed themselves."
* * * * *
Huddled shivering on the side of a field at the ass-crack of dawn, Jaejoong fervently curses Junsu's name with one breath and sneezes with another. Bleakly, he wonders if ghosts can catch cold. He'd have grabbed a coat before following Junsu out if he could have.
Lucky Junsu, with his nice, warm sleeves. Insane Junsu, sneaking out so early with a soccer ball under one arm.
Jaejoong hunkers down in the t-shirt and jeans he'd died in - he supposes he should at least be thankful that his appearance isn't bloody and gross - breathing warm air into his cupped hands. He makes an effort to balance and not fall over in the dew-tipped grass, watching Junsu kick the ball around the empty field.
He isn't quite sure why he's out here in the first place, and for a rare moment, he's glad to be invisible. It's awkward enough without Junsu being aware of the uncomfortable scene. Out of all the members, Junsu is the one who is least likely to lean on Jaejoong. Not to say that there's anything amiss with their relationship, it's just... Jaejoong doesn't offer his hand much, because Junsu doesn't need it. Junsu is good at making his demands loud and clear - and obnoxious.
Jaejoong crosses his arms over his knees and lowers his head, curled tight in a ball. Maybe this time, if he were alive, this would be one of those times when Junsu does need him to offer. They don't have many heart-to-hearts, Junsu and he, but that doesn't mean they don't know what the other's feeling.
A solid thump sends the soccer ball flying, and Junsu jogs after it. Straightening up, Jaejoong sucks in a lungful of cold, morning air, and lets it out in a punctuated shout after Junsu's back.
"If you're offered a solo contract, you damn well better take it!"
* * * * *
"I guess this is really happening after all."
Jaejoong is addressing Yunho's prone figure. The group leader is stretched out on the bed, already asleep, with a half-composed text message on his cell phone. Jaejoong reaches out to take it gently from his hand, turning it off and setting it aside. Maybe Yunho will notice when he wakes up, maybe he will wonder...
"It's okay," Jaejoong muses to himself. "Like this, it's okay. We're still Dong Bang Shin Ki and that won't ever change. We don't exist solely on the stage or in front of a camera." He lets himself fall backward, settling beside Yunho, turning to look at his slumbering face.
Definitely the cutest, Jaejoong thinks with a deep contentment, and this is all at once the happiest and saddest moment of his life - or afterlife.
"We're all going to be okay."
* * * * *
Yoochun begins locking himself in the room with the piano. Everybody worries about him, hesitating outside the door until they hear the sound of experimental notes and the bars of an unfamiliar song. It becomes routine.
He walks out one day, blinking as if stepping into sunlight, and wanders into the living room where Changmin and Junsu are engaged in a competitive video game, if the button-mashing and intense looks of concentration are any indication. Yunho glances up from a battered paperback and nudges Changmin into making more room on the couch. Yoochun sits, stretches, and drapes languidly with his head thrown back, gazing blearily at the nondescript ceiling.
"I could use some coffee."
"Kitchen's right there," Changmin points out unhelpfully, eyes glued to the TV.
Junsu, sitting on the floor, jostles Yoochun's knee as he jerks his body along with his character on screen. "You could ask Jaejoong's ghost to get it for you."
"Just because you lost your favorite jersey, doesn't mean Jaejoong's ghost is haunting you and misplacing your stuff." Changmin punches the buttons on his controller furiously and Junsu lets out some garbled combination of a shout and a whine.
Yoochun snorts softly, but Yunho looks up again with a thoughtful, rather wistful expression on his face. "Do you think his ghost could be hanging around, though?"
"He probably thinks we're hopeless without him," Yoochun says, rolling his eyes, and they only get a little shiny with moisture.
This is how it should be: the four of them, whole.
Jaejoong stands in the doorway, smiling. He pulls his right hand from his pocket and there are keys hooked over his fingers.
* * * * *
Jaejoong drums his fingers against the steering wheel, sitting restless in the car. It's early morning and cold. On impulse, he leans close to the window and breathes on the surface, fogging up a patch of glass. With the tip of his finger, he delicately writes in: TVfXQ. Underneath it: SOUL. He draws a heart that barely shows up around the fading letters.
Then he's turning the ignition key-
(fading around the edges)
Hurtling down, the highway-
(going white)
...Hardly makes a sound.
I died in a car crash a lifetime ago it seems; a decade or two... or three.
end
Category: Kpop (DBSK)
Character: Jaejoong-centric
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2300
Summary: Jaejoong lingers on after his death and maps out all the grief.
I died in a car crash two days ago; was unrecognizable when they pulled me from the gears.
Jaejoong is standing in the middle of the street and there are people staring, screaming, pointing their fingers... He takes a step back in alarm, one hand rising in a startled attempt to cover his face as he prepares to turn on his heel and run like hell like any dignified idol who finds himself totally, inexplicably at the mercy of the public.
Glass crunches beneath his shoe and he looks down, then up. Several feet away is the mangled wreck of a car, metal doors crumpled in on the driver's side and windows shattered. He can see someone inside, slouched and unmoving, with highlighted popstar hair and too-white skin that stands out against smears of red blood.
At first he's only confused, then concerned.
"Hey-" And he stops, one step removed from comprehension, toeing a straight, narrow line with his eyes closed and his breath held.
Finally, he hears the sirens.
* * * * *
He screams himself hoarse at everyone - the buzzing crowd (cell phones out and snapping pictures, oh God, that's twisted), the grim-faced cops (do they know who he is, and does it even matter?), and even his own battered and broken body as it's being taken away, carefully covered (no, Jaejoong insists over and over, I'm fine, let me back, I-). He shouts unintelligibly, grabs and shoves at bodies that are unaffected by his touch, but no one responds, not even when he can practically feel the rawness of his abused vocal chords. His throat gives out and the pain makes his eyes burn with tears at the unfairness.
He can feel, isn't that enough?
His next thought is automatic: but we're recording for the new album, I need to sing...
Jaejoong's heartbeat, if he still has one, stops.
* * * * *
The funeral is nice, even if he absolutely cannot stand the sight of his mother's crying face, mirrored in the many faces of his sisters. But it's oddly soothing to see his family all together, a moment of respite in this surreal reality where the deceased attends his own funeral like an uninvited guest. Jaejoong can't remember the last time he saw everyone at once - his visits with his family are all too brief and scattered in his memory. He was never able to fully appreciate those snatches of time with them, always worried about work, even while on vacation.
His biological parents attend, of course, and they are no less grieved. But we're practically strangers, he wants to say. The protest is too weak, never making it past his lips to die in the air anyway.
"I'm sorry," Jaejoong says instead, and he could be saying it to them, to the room, or to everyone else mourning him in Korea, in the world.
But time goes on; it doesn't stop, not even for him.
* * * * *
At first he's pissed more than anything.
"What do you mean, 'Dong Bang Shin Ki will disband'?" Jaejoong demands in panic, looking back and forth between management and his groupmates, their eyes red and mouths pressed thin. Jaejoong hovers on the outside, and that's annoying too; he wants to shoulder his way in, to jam his elbow into Yoochun's ribs and smack the side of Changmin's head, claiming his place in their lineup. He glares at the meager space between the two, a small gap implying something lost and missing. I'm right here! he wants to scream - has screamed, only to be ignored as always. It's Jaejoong against the world.
"Well," Yunho begins. He shifts slightly on his feet, expression stony, and it's like the words get stuck in his throat.
Jaejoong whirls on him, hands clenched at his sides and his eyes narrowed. "Don't you dare agree to that! You guys," you four he wants to say, but can't quite, "are going to stay together, you're going to sing and dance and make music that's better than anything else you've ever done. Dong Bang Shin Ki is going to live because you're gods, and gods are immortal. So tell them that, Yunho. Tell them."
"Well," Yunho says again, and he sounds like Leader-sshi, firm and measured, leaving no doubt that he speaks for the group (as it is, not as it remains). "We understand, but right now it's too soon. We'll think about it, but for now, we still..."
Jaejoong moves so that he's standing in front of Yunho, gazing straight into his eyes, searching for reassurance, for the future.
* * * * *
For a while he's worried that Yoochun will never stop crying.
"If you lose any more weight, you'll be more of a ghost than I am," Jaejoong says into the open air one night, lying on his back beside Yoochun on the bed. He acts as though it'll make a difference, that maybe his words can reach his friend, somehow, because he doesn't know what else he can do. If it had been one of the others (heaven forbid) Yoochun was crying over, Jaejoong would still be here saying the exact same thing.
He would still be rolling over and pressing the palm of his hand to Yoochun's back. Jaejoong can feel the warmth of Yoochun's body beneath his shirt, but the sensation only goes one way. He strokes downward, regardless, following the length of Yoochun's spine to rest over the area where his tattoo is: TVfXQMYC
"You're still Micky Yoochun," Jaejoong says, inching closer until he can drape himself over the other's body. "I'm still Youngwoong Jaejoong. We're the chunjae soulmate couple."
Yoochun's shoulders shake like he could be laughing in the quiet room.
Jaejoong continues, "What's mine is yours and what's yours is mine. Don't forget, okay? But even if you do, I'll just remind you again. You know me, I'm annoying like that." His mouth quirks in a grin as he rests his cheek against Yoochun's thin shoulder blade and the room goes even quieter.
Some things are permanent like ink on skin, like names and souls, like this.
"You'll write me a dedication song, won't you?" Jaejoong asks softly, teasingly. "Something sappy, I hope, that'll really get the tears going. You'll roll your eyes later and say that I'm such an attention whore, so I'll definitely love it. And I will. It'll be beautiful."
* * * * *
When Jaejoong first met Changmin, there were a lot of walls between them. Politeness, professionalism, and deference acted as buffers between the oldest and youngest members as they got along competently enough. Then the barriers eroded with time and familiarity. There were annoyances at first - small, irritating things that showed up unavoidably when they had to spend a lot of time together, and their personalities aren't alike at all. They don't have many common interests. Jaejoong is the oldest, but he acts like such a child sometimes. Changmin is the youngest, but he can be the most mature out of all of them.
Despite everything, they actually do match well. They balance out.
"I guess this means you won't be complaining about your bruises anymore," Jaejoong comments from where he lies on the bed, flat on his stomach with his feet in the air and his chin in his hands. He gazes up to where Changmin is sitting at the desk with the computer. "Not that you had bruises because of me to begin with. I don't hit that hard, you liar."
Jaejoong sticks his tongue out and imagines Changmin rolling his eyes knowingly. He misses the chatter, the banter, the acknowledgements and affirmations of his existence.
Jaejoong gets to his feet without a sound and stands behind the younger man, draping his arms around lean shoulders and propping his chin on top of Changmin's head. "So listen," he begins, gaze taking in the computer screen and Internet browser opened to an online college course. Jaejoong smiles a half-smile. "Listen," he says again, tightening his hold for his own sake. "You're all grown up now. You're smart, and handsome, and tall, you lucky bastard. With that combination, there's no way you can go wrong in life. Whatever you do, I'll be proud. We all will."
He turns his cheek to rub against Changmin's soft hair, breathing in the faint scent of his shampoo. "Whatever you do," he repeats, and musters the courage to speak with a full, honest heart. "You can be more than Dong Bang Shin Ki."
Changmin's form heaves in a full-body sigh. Jaejoong hasn't seen him cry much, but there's a telltale puffiness to his eyes and a tiredness to his limbs, despite the break in the group's normally busy schedule. Furthermore, the kitchen hasn't been raided nearly as often.
"Do you know what my number one fear is?" Jaejoong asks, remembering Yoochun's too-thin frame. "That you're all going to starve without me. That's not allowed to happen, okay? Tell everyone that they're big boys now, they can learn how to feed themselves."
* * * * *
Huddled shivering on the side of a field at the ass-crack of dawn, Jaejoong fervently curses Junsu's name with one breath and sneezes with another. Bleakly, he wonders if ghosts can catch cold. He'd have grabbed a coat before following Junsu out if he could have.
Lucky Junsu, with his nice, warm sleeves. Insane Junsu, sneaking out so early with a soccer ball under one arm.
Jaejoong hunkers down in the t-shirt and jeans he'd died in - he supposes he should at least be thankful that his appearance isn't bloody and gross - breathing warm air into his cupped hands. He makes an effort to balance and not fall over in the dew-tipped grass, watching Junsu kick the ball around the empty field.
He isn't quite sure why he's out here in the first place, and for a rare moment, he's glad to be invisible. It's awkward enough without Junsu being aware of the uncomfortable scene. Out of all the members, Junsu is the one who is least likely to lean on Jaejoong. Not to say that there's anything amiss with their relationship, it's just... Jaejoong doesn't offer his hand much, because Junsu doesn't need it. Junsu is good at making his demands loud and clear - and obnoxious.
Jaejoong crosses his arms over his knees and lowers his head, curled tight in a ball. Maybe this time, if he were alive, this would be one of those times when Junsu does need him to offer. They don't have many heart-to-hearts, Junsu and he, but that doesn't mean they don't know what the other's feeling.
A solid thump sends the soccer ball flying, and Junsu jogs after it. Straightening up, Jaejoong sucks in a lungful of cold, morning air, and lets it out in a punctuated shout after Junsu's back.
"If you're offered a solo contract, you damn well better take it!"
* * * * *
"I guess this is really happening after all."
Jaejoong is addressing Yunho's prone figure. The group leader is stretched out on the bed, already asleep, with a half-composed text message on his cell phone. Jaejoong reaches out to take it gently from his hand, turning it off and setting it aside. Maybe Yunho will notice when he wakes up, maybe he will wonder...
"It's okay," Jaejoong muses to himself. "Like this, it's okay. We're still Dong Bang Shin Ki and that won't ever change. We don't exist solely on the stage or in front of a camera." He lets himself fall backward, settling beside Yunho, turning to look at his slumbering face.
Definitely the cutest, Jaejoong thinks with a deep contentment, and this is all at once the happiest and saddest moment of his life - or afterlife.
"We're all going to be okay."
* * * * *
Yoochun begins locking himself in the room with the piano. Everybody worries about him, hesitating outside the door until they hear the sound of experimental notes and the bars of an unfamiliar song. It becomes routine.
He walks out one day, blinking as if stepping into sunlight, and wanders into the living room where Changmin and Junsu are engaged in a competitive video game, if the button-mashing and intense looks of concentration are any indication. Yunho glances up from a battered paperback and nudges Changmin into making more room on the couch. Yoochun sits, stretches, and drapes languidly with his head thrown back, gazing blearily at the nondescript ceiling.
"I could use some coffee."
"Kitchen's right there," Changmin points out unhelpfully, eyes glued to the TV.
Junsu, sitting on the floor, jostles Yoochun's knee as he jerks his body along with his character on screen. "You could ask Jaejoong's ghost to get it for you."
"Just because you lost your favorite jersey, doesn't mean Jaejoong's ghost is haunting you and misplacing your stuff." Changmin punches the buttons on his controller furiously and Junsu lets out some garbled combination of a shout and a whine.
Yoochun snorts softly, but Yunho looks up again with a thoughtful, rather wistful expression on his face. "Do you think his ghost could be hanging around, though?"
"He probably thinks we're hopeless without him," Yoochun says, rolling his eyes, and they only get a little shiny with moisture.
This is how it should be: the four of them, whole.
Jaejoong stands in the doorway, smiling. He pulls his right hand from his pocket and there are keys hooked over his fingers.
* * * * *
Jaejoong drums his fingers against the steering wheel, sitting restless in the car. It's early morning and cold. On impulse, he leans close to the window and breathes on the surface, fogging up a patch of glass. With the tip of his finger, he delicately writes in: TVfXQ. Underneath it: SOUL. He draws a heart that barely shows up around the fading letters.
Then he's turning the ignition key-
(fading around the edges)
Hurtling down, the highway-
(going white)
...Hardly makes a sound.
I died in a car crash a lifetime ago it seems; a decade or two... or three.
end