(no subject)
Title: Refraction (Bend and Not Break)
Author: butterflyweb
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: MinSu
Summary: Junsu's the one who stayed.
Notes: Short and angsty. Release after a rough day.
The spoon taps against the mug, three short clinks of silver and ceramic before the clatter of the flatware in the sink. A teabag is discarded nearby, soaking through its wrapped and sure to leave a stain on the tiled counter. Sugar packets are ripped, fingers fishing one out of the dark tea when shaking hands let it slip.
It burns his mouth on the first sip, again on the second, but if he isn’t swallowing something he’ll be drowning, and he knows it.
The fan whirs dully from the living room, stirring the drapes. Junsu is uneasy about having it in the small space, but Changmin likes it. Tells Junsu between hiccupping sobs, the cord clenched tight in his fist, that it feels like he’s at the sea
Junsu has always had a hard time saying no.
He checks the timer obsessively instead, feet shuffling over the carpets with tea in hand, perching on the edge of the couch.
He watches the sunlight play with Changmin’s skin where he sits in front of the television, fingers kneading the fabric of the carpet. The nape of his neck is bare where they had to cut off his hair, the knot of his spine in stark relief. Junsu shifts till he can reach him, rubbing at the spot with his fingertips. Changmin stays silent.
Junsu swallows back frustration, setting down the mug with a clink, sitting back into the couch.
He doesn’t know why he lets this bother him still. He’s stayed, stayed through everything when all the others have gone. He should know better then to take the silences to heart. Know better than to fear the sight of a knife in trembling hands when he wakes to make his coffee in the mornings.
Changmin can’t help it.
He’s told himself this for three years; why doesn’t he believe it yet?
He pushes socked feet into the plush carpet, mimcing the nervous movement of Changmin’s hands, starring up at the whirled ceilings. Days like these make him miss the old days, the bad days to some. The screaming and the hysterical laughter and the nonsense that put Jaejoong to shame. Changmin has always communicated with his full body--the stillness is disconcerting.
Junsu slips down from the sofa, gently slipping his arms around thin shoulders, listening to the sharp, quick breaths Changmin takes, eyes open and staring at a blank screen. He presses his lips to the nape of Changmin neck, ignores tears that turn the taste of his skin salty.
It’s just a bad day, and Junsu won’t tell anyone he’d trade moments of lucidity to see Changmin smile again.
He draws Changmin back to lie on the carpeted floor, pulling despite the initial resistence, the tension in his limbs. Lies him back and leans over him, stroking at his cheek and chin, tracing his eyebrows and the straight line of his nose with a finger.
Sometimes Changmin opens so easily for him Junsu feels like he’s fucking a doll.
Yunho didn’t approve. His eyes had said it, the line of his shoulders and the taut corners of the edge of his mouth. The fingers that dug into Junsu’s arm. The voice that hissed “you sick bastard”, leaving Junsu red-eyed and scrubbing himself raw in the shower for days after.
He doesn’t understand, Junsu knows. None of them do and that’s why he’s here. The only one left.
Changmin sings into his cereal some mornings, wrapped up in sleep pants and socks and a hoodie, sleeves pulled down past his fingertips. Hiding. He sings to the characters on the back of the cereal box, milk running down his chin and Junsu picks up the melody, follows it around his tea and toast.
And sometimes Changmin will look at him, eyes bright and young and clear, like they used to be. Before.
And then the sleeve will slip from his grasp to show scars and Junsu’s smile dies before it stretches his lips.
He folds him into his arms at night in bed, Changmin small like a child when he sets his mind to it, chin sharp and digging into Junsu’s shoulder. He strokes his hair and kisses his temple and loves him, helplessly. Desperately and painfully.
“Night, Minnie Mouse,” he whispers, because Changmin likes it, and he wants him to smile so badly.
Changmin looks up at him with dark eyes in a young face. “Night, Micky-hyung.”
“Junsu,” he reminds him softly, and holds him tight, hoping the embrace will keep his heart intact.
Author: butterflyweb
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: MinSu
Summary: Junsu's the one who stayed.
Notes: Short and angsty. Release after a rough day.
The spoon taps against the mug, three short clinks of silver and ceramic before the clatter of the flatware in the sink. A teabag is discarded nearby, soaking through its wrapped and sure to leave a stain on the tiled counter. Sugar packets are ripped, fingers fishing one out of the dark tea when shaking hands let it slip.
It burns his mouth on the first sip, again on the second, but if he isn’t swallowing something he’ll be drowning, and he knows it.
The fan whirs dully from the living room, stirring the drapes. Junsu is uneasy about having it in the small space, but Changmin likes it. Tells Junsu between hiccupping sobs, the cord clenched tight in his fist, that it feels like he’s at the sea
Junsu has always had a hard time saying no.
He checks the timer obsessively instead, feet shuffling over the carpets with tea in hand, perching on the edge of the couch.
He watches the sunlight play with Changmin’s skin where he sits in front of the television, fingers kneading the fabric of the carpet. The nape of his neck is bare where they had to cut off his hair, the knot of his spine in stark relief. Junsu shifts till he can reach him, rubbing at the spot with his fingertips. Changmin stays silent.
Junsu swallows back frustration, setting down the mug with a clink, sitting back into the couch.
He doesn’t know why he lets this bother him still. He’s stayed, stayed through everything when all the others have gone. He should know better then to take the silences to heart. Know better than to fear the sight of a knife in trembling hands when he wakes to make his coffee in the mornings.
Changmin can’t help it.
He’s told himself this for three years; why doesn’t he believe it yet?
He pushes socked feet into the plush carpet, mimcing the nervous movement of Changmin’s hands, starring up at the whirled ceilings. Days like these make him miss the old days, the bad days to some. The screaming and the hysterical laughter and the nonsense that put Jaejoong to shame. Changmin has always communicated with his full body--the stillness is disconcerting.
Junsu slips down from the sofa, gently slipping his arms around thin shoulders, listening to the sharp, quick breaths Changmin takes, eyes open and staring at a blank screen. He presses his lips to the nape of Changmin neck, ignores tears that turn the taste of his skin salty.
It’s just a bad day, and Junsu won’t tell anyone he’d trade moments of lucidity to see Changmin smile again.
He draws Changmin back to lie on the carpeted floor, pulling despite the initial resistence, the tension in his limbs. Lies him back and leans over him, stroking at his cheek and chin, tracing his eyebrows and the straight line of his nose with a finger.
Sometimes Changmin opens so easily for him Junsu feels like he’s fucking a doll.
Yunho didn’t approve. His eyes had said it, the line of his shoulders and the taut corners of the edge of his mouth. The fingers that dug into Junsu’s arm. The voice that hissed “you sick bastard”, leaving Junsu red-eyed and scrubbing himself raw in the shower for days after.
He doesn’t understand, Junsu knows. None of them do and that’s why he’s here. The only one left.
Changmin sings into his cereal some mornings, wrapped up in sleep pants and socks and a hoodie, sleeves pulled down past his fingertips. Hiding. He sings to the characters on the back of the cereal box, milk running down his chin and Junsu picks up the melody, follows it around his tea and toast.
And sometimes Changmin will look at him, eyes bright and young and clear, like they used to be. Before.
And then the sleeve will slip from his grasp to show scars and Junsu’s smile dies before it stretches his lips.
He folds him into his arms at night in bed, Changmin small like a child when he sets his mind to it, chin sharp and digging into Junsu’s shoulder. He strokes his hair and kisses his temple and loves him, helplessly. Desperately and painfully.
“Night, Minnie Mouse,” he whispers, because Changmin likes it, and he wants him to smile so badly.
Changmin looks up at him with dark eyes in a young face. “Night, Micky-hyung.”
“Junsu,” he reminds him softly, and holds him tight, hoping the embrace will keep his heart intact.