Angling - Oneshot (Yoosu)
Title: Angling
Author: skybacktoblue
Pairing: yoosu
Band: DBSK/THSK/TVXQ
Word Count: 938
Genre: introspection, drama
Rating: pg-13
Warning: implied sexual tones
Disclaimer: Don't own these guys, just my interpretations of them.
Summary: junsu’s gaze slides like liquid across him, again, not focused enough to latch on to. yoochun has a dam of conversation jammed up in the back of his throat.
Notes: if you want me - marketa irglova and glen hansard
his first memory is of the town where his grandparents lived; small and unassuming, tucked away from the hustle of the world into a still preserved niche of nature. he remembers the sunset superimposed against blue-gold mountains, imperfect majesty, his cheeks cold against the morning breeze and his fingers warm in junho’s grasp.
he barely talked at all, those days.
his grandfather used to hum barely distinguishable tunes that bounced off junsu’s stubbornly silent figure, his hands working at the fishing line as both boys watched. junho would shout in anticipation when the line jerked, and his grandfather would give two tugs and a harsh pull, then reel in the catch. junsu had always been mortified by the sight of the dead fish later on, vivisected and bared open to the world, mouth agape in undignified denial.
‘when you were born,’ his grandmother would say, her hands slick with fish and her words plain but gentle. ‘the heavens opened up and cried for the loss of two beautiful angels.’ junsu had heard this story, once, from his mother as she pretended not to cry and held him close.
there was a thunderstorm the morning after, as his father drove the boys up to their grandparent’s house, their things packed and his mouth set in a thin line. junsu, naïve and young, had wondered if the heavens were still crying for him.
park yoochun kept trying to catch his attention. the wadded up ball of notebook paper had hit junsu on the bone of his ankle; it would’ve been barely noticeable if not for the heaving breath yoochun had taken as he swung his arm. junsu’s gaze slides like liquid across him, again, not focused enough to latch on to. yoochun has a dam of conversation jammed up in the back of his throat.
‘we could have the first of them,’ the man is saying. junsu hangs on every word, detached interest schooled on his face. he can’t afford to lose the flow of the conversation, this could be his last chance, this could be it. he coughs once, heavy, and tastes the thick feel of rusted notes in his throat.
the three other boys fidget in unison, accidentally, and the quiet surprise on jaejoong’s face at the shift is obvious. yunho sits closest to the door. he’s wearing a black beanie he once left at junsu’s house, retrieving it the next day with a sheepish shrug and a flash of crooked teeth. shim changmin is still nameless, young and gangly and everything junsu would hate if he let himself.
‘well, boys,’ says the man, cheerfully summing up the speech with a grin. ‘say hello to your new band mates.’
the quiet is near stifling, broken only by the crunch of paper as junsu’s foot hits the floor, hard.
the first fistfight junsu got in was with hyukjae. the fall weather had hung papery and oppressive over the school fields and the sidewalk they walked home on every day, and three minutes from junsu’s house hyukjae had said, ‘lee heeyoung is cute.’
and junsu had said ‘oh.’ he stepped on a crack in the sidewalk.
‘you just broke your mother’s back,’ hyukjae said, voice laced with irritating amounts of knowledge.
‘no, i didn’t.’ junsu replied. ‘why do you care about a stupid girl like heeyoung anyway?’
‘she’s not stupid,’ hyukjae said. he pushed into junsu’s shoulder, a little harder than usual and junsu shot him a glare. ‘i bet you don’t even like girls,’ he continued. ‘i bet you don’t think they’re pretty at all, i bet you’re a freak-‘
when they got to junsu’s house, his mother had fussed over the cut on hyukjae’s lip and the bruise on junsu’s jaw, the nicks on his knuckles. junho had walked in, dropped his baseball equipment on the floor next to the shoes, and said, ‘nice.’
junsu had cried when his mother dabbed antiseptic on the cuts, and he didn’t understand why.
yoochun smokes on the balcony in their apartment in japan. the wisps of smoke and carcinogens whirl like intangible thoughts around him, make him look like transparent through the haze. junsu can see him through the sliding door if he stands at the corner of the hall, body stilled against the wall.
yoochun smokes alone, and junsu watches, feeling words bubble up into his mouth until he can barely keep them from spilling out the sides and coating the walls in embarrassment. he waits every night for the pad-pad of yoochun’s footsteps as he slips out of the room and out to the balcony, oppressive with its decidedly japanese air. one night, jaejoong gets out of bed before junsu can make his way against the wall, down the hall, to the corner, and he touches yoochun’s hair with pale slender fingers as yoochun curls shaken hands against his oversized hoodie.
junsu stops watching.
the first time is heavy consequence, with junsu’s mouth tangled between ‘no-‘ and an embarrassing spill of moans as yoochun presses lips against his neck, tense with intention. the floodgates had broken open when yoochun had stepped into the hall and stopped, his eyes thick with exhaustion and intent, his hair curling in protest against the product in his hair, when junsu hadn’t stepped past him.
there’d been a moment, one, two counts of imbalance, and then the resolve of the last four years came tumbling down as junsu’s hand hit yoochun’s chest in a half-attempt at war, at love. yoochun had misinterpreted and crushed their mouths together.
in the middle, it starts to rain, and junsu, naïve, wonders if the heavens are crying for them.
Author: skybacktoblue
Pairing: yoosu
Band: DBSK/THSK/TVXQ
Word Count: 938
Genre: introspection, drama
Rating: pg-13
Warning: implied sexual tones
Disclaimer: Don't own these guys, just my interpretations of them.
Summary: junsu’s gaze slides like liquid across him, again, not focused enough to latch on to. yoochun has a dam of conversation jammed up in the back of his throat.
Notes: if you want me - marketa irglova and glen hansard
his first memory is of the town where his grandparents lived; small and unassuming, tucked away from the hustle of the world into a still preserved niche of nature. he remembers the sunset superimposed against blue-gold mountains, imperfect majesty, his cheeks cold against the morning breeze and his fingers warm in junho’s grasp.
he barely talked at all, those days.
his grandfather used to hum barely distinguishable tunes that bounced off junsu’s stubbornly silent figure, his hands working at the fishing line as both boys watched. junho would shout in anticipation when the line jerked, and his grandfather would give two tugs and a harsh pull, then reel in the catch. junsu had always been mortified by the sight of the dead fish later on, vivisected and bared open to the world, mouth agape in undignified denial.
‘when you were born,’ his grandmother would say, her hands slick with fish and her words plain but gentle. ‘the heavens opened up and cried for the loss of two beautiful angels.’ junsu had heard this story, once, from his mother as she pretended not to cry and held him close.
there was a thunderstorm the morning after, as his father drove the boys up to their grandparent’s house, their things packed and his mouth set in a thin line. junsu, naïve and young, had wondered if the heavens were still crying for him.
park yoochun kept trying to catch his attention. the wadded up ball of notebook paper had hit junsu on the bone of his ankle; it would’ve been barely noticeable if not for the heaving breath yoochun had taken as he swung his arm. junsu’s gaze slides like liquid across him, again, not focused enough to latch on to. yoochun has a dam of conversation jammed up in the back of his throat.
‘we could have the first of them,’ the man is saying. junsu hangs on every word, detached interest schooled on his face. he can’t afford to lose the flow of the conversation, this could be his last chance, this could be it. he coughs once, heavy, and tastes the thick feel of rusted notes in his throat.
the three other boys fidget in unison, accidentally, and the quiet surprise on jaejoong’s face at the shift is obvious. yunho sits closest to the door. he’s wearing a black beanie he once left at junsu’s house, retrieving it the next day with a sheepish shrug and a flash of crooked teeth. shim changmin is still nameless, young and gangly and everything junsu would hate if he let himself.
‘well, boys,’ says the man, cheerfully summing up the speech with a grin. ‘say hello to your new band mates.’
the quiet is near stifling, broken only by the crunch of paper as junsu’s foot hits the floor, hard.
the first fistfight junsu got in was with hyukjae. the fall weather had hung papery and oppressive over the school fields and the sidewalk they walked home on every day, and three minutes from junsu’s house hyukjae had said, ‘lee heeyoung is cute.’
and junsu had said ‘oh.’ he stepped on a crack in the sidewalk.
‘you just broke your mother’s back,’ hyukjae said, voice laced with irritating amounts of knowledge.
‘no, i didn’t.’ junsu replied. ‘why do you care about a stupid girl like heeyoung anyway?’
‘she’s not stupid,’ hyukjae said. he pushed into junsu’s shoulder, a little harder than usual and junsu shot him a glare. ‘i bet you don’t even like girls,’ he continued. ‘i bet you don’t think they’re pretty at all, i bet you’re a freak-‘
when they got to junsu’s house, his mother had fussed over the cut on hyukjae’s lip and the bruise on junsu’s jaw, the nicks on his knuckles. junho had walked in, dropped his baseball equipment on the floor next to the shoes, and said, ‘nice.’
junsu had cried when his mother dabbed antiseptic on the cuts, and he didn’t understand why.
yoochun smokes on the balcony in their apartment in japan. the wisps of smoke and carcinogens whirl like intangible thoughts around him, make him look like transparent through the haze. junsu can see him through the sliding door if he stands at the corner of the hall, body stilled against the wall.
yoochun smokes alone, and junsu watches, feeling words bubble up into his mouth until he can barely keep them from spilling out the sides and coating the walls in embarrassment. he waits every night for the pad-pad of yoochun’s footsteps as he slips out of the room and out to the balcony, oppressive with its decidedly japanese air. one night, jaejoong gets out of bed before junsu can make his way against the wall, down the hall, to the corner, and he touches yoochun’s hair with pale slender fingers as yoochun curls shaken hands against his oversized hoodie.
junsu stops watching.
the first time is heavy consequence, with junsu’s mouth tangled between ‘no-‘ and an embarrassing spill of moans as yoochun presses lips against his neck, tense with intention. the floodgates had broken open when yoochun had stepped into the hall and stopped, his eyes thick with exhaustion and intent, his hair curling in protest against the product in his hair, when junsu hadn’t stepped past him.
there’d been a moment, one, two counts of imbalance, and then the resolve of the last four years came tumbling down as junsu’s hand hit yoochun’s chest in a half-attempt at war, at love. yoochun had misinterpreted and crushed their mouths together.
in the middle, it starts to rain, and junsu, naïve, wonders if the heavens are crying for them.