(no subject)
cinnamon sticks
drabble | yunchun-centric (non-pairing), confusion, angsty, maybe death, maybe not? (200 Words)
part of a 30 minute writing exercise between me and your_lil_button
Yunho is late in a way that he's never late. A second is acceptable; a minute is not. He's punctual and precise down to the painful, minuscule seconds that no one else can feel (he feels them; they burn into his skin, seep into the cracks between his pores and arm hair.)
Screaming out in negatives.
Yoochun slips his fingers through his hair - drags ridged nails over the roots, cutting through grease and ideas he'd forgotten he'd put there. They curl in white sebum under his nails, peeking over the edges, heading to the north where they'll see half moons devoured by stars.
He waits, seriously, for barely ten minutes before he turns home, leaving a sticky-note on the door that says something like "I need to wash my hair tonight."
Yunho isn't showing up. Yoochun has the feeling that he's somewhere deeper than dirt, gurgling back metal and coffee, snapping after too many seconds he's wasted in traffic or digging up excuses for absences he can't explain. If he's gone, so is the warmth, the unity - and so is anyone being prompt ever again.
But Yoochun has his cinnamon sticks, so he's okay.
drabble | yunchun-centric (non-pairing), confusion, angsty, maybe death, maybe not? (200 Words)
part of a 30 minute writing exercise between me and your_lil_button
Yunho is late in a way that he's never late. A second is acceptable; a minute is not. He's punctual and precise down to the painful, minuscule seconds that no one else can feel (he feels them; they burn into his skin, seep into the cracks between his pores and arm hair.)
Screaming out in negatives.
Yoochun slips his fingers through his hair - drags ridged nails over the roots, cutting through grease and ideas he'd forgotten he'd put there. They curl in white sebum under his nails, peeking over the edges, heading to the north where they'll see half moons devoured by stars.
He waits, seriously, for barely ten minutes before he turns home, leaving a sticky-note on the door that says something like "I need to wash my hair tonight."
Yunho isn't showing up. Yoochun has the feeling that he's somewhere deeper than dirt, gurgling back metal and coffee, snapping after too many seconds he's wasted in traffic or digging up excuses for absences he can't explain. If he's gone, so is the warmth, the unity - and so is anyone being prompt ever again.
But Yoochun has his cinnamon sticks, so he's okay.