Careful Fissures - Oneshot (Jaechun)
Title: Careful Fissures
Author: kayjayloves
Word Count: 701
Pairing: Jaechun
Band: DBSK/THSK/TVXQ
Genre: angst
Rating: PG-13
Warning: angst, sexual reference
Disclaimer: Don't own these guys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: Jaejoong used to tell him he’s too thin, but Jaejoong’s cutting milk and ramyeon and Yoochun from his diet.
Comments: Written for dbsk_flashfic, flash fic prompt 17: expanding from. original post here.
sand moving hand over hand
in the dunes, memory,
like invisible paper, ribbons away
from the dead pulp mill.
We want proximity with how we feel
but it expands and divides.
-----
Changmin and Junsu are playing charades, two feet too close to Yoochun’s spot on the sofa. He’s sprawled out with the week’s worth of dance steps and fights hanging heavy against his eyelids. Junsu shrieks laughter.
Changmin’s making flapping motions with his hands; an overgrown bird, Yoochun thinks.
“An angel,” Junsu grins. “’Cause everyone loves an angel.”
“Or hates one,” Yoochun flops over in their direction, mumbles, “Too perfect - too beautiful. The very thing to shame human existence.”
Junsu laughs, pauses, laughs a little more. Changmin is making new motions: a crashing airplane - a catastrophe - a women screaming at her children. Yoochun closes his eyes.
Yoochun’s ribs are a curved sculpture of exactness; he can count their columns fast and easy as he changes his shirt, gets ready for a shower. His spine is a stripe of discord in the smoothness of his back. Jaejoong used to tell him he’s too thin, but Jaejoong’s cutting milk and ramyeon and Yoochun from his diet.
“I love you,” he said in the darkness, when it was too early and a little cold. “But I can’t understand you right now.”
“Or yesterday,” Yoochun mused.
Jaejoong curled close but turned away, back against the wall with his legs pulled up to his stomach; he looked careful-quiet. “Or yesterday,” he whispered.
Yoochun once had a girl tell him laughter was the meaning of love - she was full of pretty dreams and those tumbling doe legs and a few too many ties, her heart in a city and a family and every half-lie he whispered into the pale skin of her neck. “You’re too much,” she used to tell him, and one day it was with a smile and the next with a frown, her bag packed and her arms closed.
“I want you to stay,” he’d meant to say, but she’d walked into the street and never came back. He caught a whiff of her perfume on his way to the recording studio years later - turned around and smiled unsteadily at a stranger.
The day tasted of wine and memories.
Some times Yoochun takes Jaejoong captive and fights Jaejoong’s ghosts along with his own, numbed and fake-happy with alcohol and cigarette smoke - they try to tear holes in each other’s hearts in the backseat of his car. How much faster can we go, how much faster - can we crash, how fast how fast, Jaejoong says with his eyes and his hands and his body pressed flush and hot against Yoochun’s.
The rise and the fall, and “See it,” Jaejoong murmurs, reaches out to touch their sadness, hand landing on Yoochun’s cheek.
They wake up tangled and still tired; too drunk on feeling to find the new crack, the new fine silk-thin fissure on their hearts. Too many times.
Yunho moves around Yoochun in easy steps; he moves with soft eyes and tired shoulders, a blanket in his hand. Yoochun jolts awake at the first touch of fabric against his skin, eyes bleary and his arms reaching out - pushing away.
“Go to sleep,” Yunho says, gestures his own charade - a don’t worry. “It’s just me.”
(Two years and eight months ago Yunho had caught Yoochun and Jaejoong kissing against the bathroom door. “Don’t do this,” he’d said, “don’t do this to us.”)
Yoochun dreams of piano melodies and too-soft satin, he dances with a girl with long doe-legs and pretty hair and murmurs that he’s had enough of her. He whispers love songs into a microphone and he waxes poetics to screaming fans, and he wakes up in a tangle of couch and blanket with Jaejoong leaning quiet over his head.
“Can’t figure you out,” he tells Yoochun.
“Me either,” Yoochun agrees, soft and easy. “Come back?”
Jaejoong kisses a love you - a goodbye - a song onto the back of Yoochun’s hand. “Radio show in an hour.”
Yoochun’s dreaming again, but now he’s walking and everything is playing talk-track, real-time nonsense except the thoughts in his head. He’s writing piano pieces in the workroom, he’s filling a coffee cup until it spills over onto the counter, he’s talking with a ghost. Jaejoong walks into the room; Jaejoong gives him a sad-sweet smile.
This time he wakes up.
Author: kayjayloves
Word Count: 701
Pairing: Jaechun
Band: DBSK/THSK/TVXQ
Genre: angst
Rating: PG-13
Warning: angst, sexual reference
Disclaimer: Don't own these guys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: Jaejoong used to tell him he’s too thin, but Jaejoong’s cutting milk and ramyeon and Yoochun from his diet.
Comments: Written for dbsk_flashfic, flash fic prompt 17: expanding from. original post here.
sand moving hand over hand
in the dunes, memory,
like invisible paper, ribbons away
from the dead pulp mill.
We want proximity with how we feel
but it expands and divides.
-----
Changmin and Junsu are playing charades, two feet too close to Yoochun’s spot on the sofa. He’s sprawled out with the week’s worth of dance steps and fights hanging heavy against his eyelids. Junsu shrieks laughter.
Changmin’s making flapping motions with his hands; an overgrown bird, Yoochun thinks.
“An angel,” Junsu grins. “’Cause everyone loves an angel.”
“Or hates one,” Yoochun flops over in their direction, mumbles, “Too perfect - too beautiful. The very thing to shame human existence.”
Junsu laughs, pauses, laughs a little more. Changmin is making new motions: a crashing airplane - a catastrophe - a women screaming at her children. Yoochun closes his eyes.
Yoochun’s ribs are a curved sculpture of exactness; he can count their columns fast and easy as he changes his shirt, gets ready for a shower. His spine is a stripe of discord in the smoothness of his back. Jaejoong used to tell him he’s too thin, but Jaejoong’s cutting milk and ramyeon and Yoochun from his diet.
“I love you,” he said in the darkness, when it was too early and a little cold. “But I can’t understand you right now.”
“Or yesterday,” Yoochun mused.
Jaejoong curled close but turned away, back against the wall with his legs pulled up to his stomach; he looked careful-quiet. “Or yesterday,” he whispered.
Yoochun once had a girl tell him laughter was the meaning of love - she was full of pretty dreams and those tumbling doe legs and a few too many ties, her heart in a city and a family and every half-lie he whispered into the pale skin of her neck. “You’re too much,” she used to tell him, and one day it was with a smile and the next with a frown, her bag packed and her arms closed.
“I want you to stay,” he’d meant to say, but she’d walked into the street and never came back. He caught a whiff of her perfume on his way to the recording studio years later - turned around and smiled unsteadily at a stranger.
The day tasted of wine and memories.
Some times Yoochun takes Jaejoong captive and fights Jaejoong’s ghosts along with his own, numbed and fake-happy with alcohol and cigarette smoke - they try to tear holes in each other’s hearts in the backseat of his car. How much faster can we go, how much faster - can we crash, how fast how fast, Jaejoong says with his eyes and his hands and his body pressed flush and hot against Yoochun’s.
The rise and the fall, and “See it,” Jaejoong murmurs, reaches out to touch their sadness, hand landing on Yoochun’s cheek.
They wake up tangled and still tired; too drunk on feeling to find the new crack, the new fine silk-thin fissure on their hearts. Too many times.
Yunho moves around Yoochun in easy steps; he moves with soft eyes and tired shoulders, a blanket in his hand. Yoochun jolts awake at the first touch of fabric against his skin, eyes bleary and his arms reaching out - pushing away.
“Go to sleep,” Yunho says, gestures his own charade - a don’t worry. “It’s just me.”
(Two years and eight months ago Yunho had caught Yoochun and Jaejoong kissing against the bathroom door. “Don’t do this,” he’d said, “don’t do this to us.”)
Yoochun dreams of piano melodies and too-soft satin, he dances with a girl with long doe-legs and pretty hair and murmurs that he’s had enough of her. He whispers love songs into a microphone and he waxes poetics to screaming fans, and he wakes up in a tangle of couch and blanket with Jaejoong leaning quiet over his head.
“Can’t figure you out,” he tells Yoochun.
“Me either,” Yoochun agrees, soft and easy. “Come back?”
Jaejoong kisses a love you - a goodbye - a song onto the back of Yoochun’s hand. “Radio show in an hour.”
Yoochun’s dreaming again, but now he’s walking and everything is playing talk-track, real-time nonsense except the thoughts in his head. He’s writing piano pieces in the workroom, he’s filling a coffee cup until it spills over onto the counter, he’s talking with a ghost. Jaejoong walks into the room; Jaejoong gives him a sad-sweet smile.
This time he wakes up.