from gold; from silver (Donghae/Eunhyuk)
Donghae/Eunhyuk (Super Junior)
PG, Farm!AU. 624 words (+212)
1.
He was all hands. Always a hand hefting a sack of feed or milking the cows with shit streaking his shoulder or wrestling a hen to weigh on the balance in one swift motion. You would watch him behind the pages of your textbooks, safe in the distance of the farmhouse porch, or under the groaning branches of the giant oak. Always in the shade, where the air was still. He would toil endlessly in the sun, every now and then disappearing into sheds and pens beyond your peripheral vision. He would emerge after a period of time and you would avert your wandering eyes, and turn a page. He would wear the oversized coveralls meant for the kind of son you were supposed to be. Someone like him.
And sometimes, when your gaze travelled too slowly, he would catch you staring, you with your dog-eared foreign novels in your pale-knuckled hands. He would wave a friendly arm, tiny in the distance, but not so far that you were unable to see the flash of his grin. You thought of the sweltering heat in the air distorting his image; you could imagine the sheen of perspiration across his golden skin.
When he rode the horses into their new paddocks, the skin of his forearms and the back of his neck was so brown it looked like it would burn under your touch. Your own skin was of a sensitive pallor, one that easily took ill and pinkened and peeled in the scorching summer sun. Your father had often mourned your very nature; you were never made to be a farmer's boy; but your mother had secretly rejoiced in your delicate constitution, her cool, dry hands flitting across your feverish skin.
He had first sauntered to your tree after a long day's work with a hand outstretched, biting his lip in a friendly grin. You had been pale back then, but you had grown like a stubborn weed as an awkward adolescent, and you'd found yourself staring at the top of his head when you stood to shake his hand. His grip had been firm and you had matched it, but you hadn't expected him to let go and fling himself down beside you on the gnarled whorl of old roots that made your seat. He'd plucked the book from your sweating hands and flipped the pages, pretending he could read English as his arm lay alongside yours, baked brown against your fair complexion. The hairs on your arms had barely grazed, and you'd held your breath as he'd laughed and tossed the novel to your lap.
You had somehow expected the rise and fall of his chatter to feel as familiar as it was. Like you had known him your entire life. You hadn't even remembered his name, just the fleeting memory of a first impression across a doorframe. A book in your hands at the kitchen table, and a glimpse of strong arms and rubber boots beyond the figure of your father. A quiet, even voice.
"Donghae. Lee Donghae."
Like the sea? you'd asked, and he'd squared his fingers to form a frame, squinting and swinging his outstretched arms to the eastern horizon. All you'd seen was the chicken coop, but he must have had seen differently, because he'd fallen silent when his gaze had drifted to the setting sun. The heady backdrop of sundown had crept around his silhouette, lining the curve of his bicep and the slight swell of his lip in muted metallics.
You had wondered if you could take in the impenetrable gold of his colour through your own pale body, and when he'd left with a cheery farewell, you had bitten your bottom lip softly, just to see.
2.
He pressed chilly fingers to your jaw, silent among the hay bales, and his flesh was cold and goose-pimpled beneath your own gripping hands. You could hear the cows lowing, unhappy moans caught in the shuddering wind whistling against the sides of the barn. The structure was too old and time-tested to rattle in the wind, but you could still smell the stink of excrement from the sties, being downwind. It had been gusting to the point of constancy all evening. The inside of the barn was a silent, motionless sanctuary amidst the powerful rushing.
His hands were cold against your skin.
The darkness made him look like a ghost, with a strange translucency to his skin that was at odds with the rich tan he wore beneath the sun. In the seclusion of the towering haystacks, Donghae's touch shivered like cool water across your skin, and you wanted to drink him in.
He touched you the way he handled the horses, gentle and sure, and when you kissed him his mouth laughed beneath yours, a chuckle cantering down your throat. When it faded away, silence took its place in the to-and-fro of your mouths. The slick movement of his mouth tasted of rain, and all you could hear was the wind.
PG, Farm!AU. 624 words (+212)
1.
He was all hands. Always a hand hefting a sack of feed or milking the cows with shit streaking his shoulder or wrestling a hen to weigh on the balance in one swift motion. You would watch him behind the pages of your textbooks, safe in the distance of the farmhouse porch, or under the groaning branches of the giant oak. Always in the shade, where the air was still. He would toil endlessly in the sun, every now and then disappearing into sheds and pens beyond your peripheral vision. He would emerge after a period of time and you would avert your wandering eyes, and turn a page. He would wear the oversized coveralls meant for the kind of son you were supposed to be. Someone like him.
And sometimes, when your gaze travelled too slowly, he would catch you staring, you with your dog-eared foreign novels in your pale-knuckled hands. He would wave a friendly arm, tiny in the distance, but not so far that you were unable to see the flash of his grin. You thought of the sweltering heat in the air distorting his image; you could imagine the sheen of perspiration across his golden skin.
When he rode the horses into their new paddocks, the skin of his forearms and the back of his neck was so brown it looked like it would burn under your touch. Your own skin was of a sensitive pallor, one that easily took ill and pinkened and peeled in the scorching summer sun. Your father had often mourned your very nature; you were never made to be a farmer's boy; but your mother had secretly rejoiced in your delicate constitution, her cool, dry hands flitting across your feverish skin.
He had first sauntered to your tree after a long day's work with a hand outstretched, biting his lip in a friendly grin. You had been pale back then, but you had grown like a stubborn weed as an awkward adolescent, and you'd found yourself staring at the top of his head when you stood to shake his hand. His grip had been firm and you had matched it, but you hadn't expected him to let go and fling himself down beside you on the gnarled whorl of old roots that made your seat. He'd plucked the book from your sweating hands and flipped the pages, pretending he could read English as his arm lay alongside yours, baked brown against your fair complexion. The hairs on your arms had barely grazed, and you'd held your breath as he'd laughed and tossed the novel to your lap.
You had somehow expected the rise and fall of his chatter to feel as familiar as it was. Like you had known him your entire life. You hadn't even remembered his name, just the fleeting memory of a first impression across a doorframe. A book in your hands at the kitchen table, and a glimpse of strong arms and rubber boots beyond the figure of your father. A quiet, even voice.
"Donghae. Lee Donghae."
Like the sea? you'd asked, and he'd squared his fingers to form a frame, squinting and swinging his outstretched arms to the eastern horizon. All you'd seen was the chicken coop, but he must have had seen differently, because he'd fallen silent when his gaze had drifted to the setting sun. The heady backdrop of sundown had crept around his silhouette, lining the curve of his bicep and the slight swell of his lip in muted metallics.
You had wondered if you could take in the impenetrable gold of his colour through your own pale body, and when he'd left with a cheery farewell, you had bitten your bottom lip softly, just to see.
2.
He pressed chilly fingers to your jaw, silent among the hay bales, and his flesh was cold and goose-pimpled beneath your own gripping hands. You could hear the cows lowing, unhappy moans caught in the shuddering wind whistling against the sides of the barn. The structure was too old and time-tested to rattle in the wind, but you could still smell the stink of excrement from the sties, being downwind. It had been gusting to the point of constancy all evening. The inside of the barn was a silent, motionless sanctuary amidst the powerful rushing.
His hands were cold against your skin.
The darkness made him look like a ghost, with a strange translucency to his skin that was at odds with the rich tan he wore beneath the sun. In the seclusion of the towering haystacks, Donghae's touch shivered like cool water across your skin, and you wanted to drink him in.
He touched you the way he handled the horses, gentle and sure, and when you kissed him his mouth laughed beneath yours, a chuckle cantering down your throat. When it faded away, silence took its place in the to-and-fro of your mouths. The slick movement of his mouth tasted of rain, and all you could hear was the wind.