Voice
Voice
Pg; Yoochun/Changmin
This is for insomoleptic , happy 18th birthday Jose! I hope I'm not late and you'll like this! :D
And you'd be inclined to be mine for the taking,
And part of this terrible mess that I'm making.
But you, you're the catalyst.
Catalyst; Anna Nalick
The boat sways gently in his dreams. The porcelain jar feels cold and heavy in his hands. In his hands, lay the weight of his parents’ ashes, mixed up, not knowing where one begins and where the other ends. “They would have loved to die like that.” Changmin hears his own voice whispering in his sleep, “even till death, we shall never part.” The ashes slipped through Changmin’s fingers and he desperately try to catch them. As they empty themselves out, scattered into the sea or blown away like dandelion seeds, Changmin can see the end as a beginning, and the beginning ending in crumbles. He wonders how he could possibly survive. He wakes up, and the dream vanishes.
“Changmin, if you take my shift tonight, I’ll give you half of my pay.”
“The last time you said that, you disappeared for a good few weeks and claimed to have lost your memory.”
“I won’t! I swear!”
Changmin scribbles something quickly on the piece of crumbled paper, “sign this.” He demands, his co-worker sighs, grabbed the pen and tattooed his signature above the dotted line. “Gee, thanks dickhead.” Changmin made sure he regretted ever saying that. “But have you heard though?” the man groans, “There’s a new singer tonight. He’s a hot catch Changmin, too bad I’ve got a tigress who bore me two kiddies at home.” Changmin chuckles and mumbles a horny bastard as he was leaving. “Hey!” he could vaguely hear before the door gives way and closes behind him. He laughs, Changmin wonder what can be more beautiful than death, or perhaps, this pretty boy is death itself.
He must admit Park Yoochun is pretty impressive. His voice couldn’t go as high as JaeJoong neither was it as powerful as Junsu, but there was something special that they both lack. He heard them gossip in their locker room, “Have you heard? He wrote all the songs.” Changmin likes him instantly; he likes people who know the beauty in pain. “Changmin ssi?” a voice rang through amongst the rough, gruff ones. He turns around and faces him; his face was smooth, no signs of foundation or any make up except for a layer of lip gloss, his skin was the color of the porcelain jar Changmin held in his hands 5 years ago. “Yes hyung?” he asks a bright smile to cover up his thoughts. “I’m wondering if you would like to have a dinner with me.”
Changmin learns that Yoochun is a simple man who walked on the hot coals of life. He understands that music is the man’s life, music saved his life, but Changmin wants to change that, he wants to be the one who save his life. Changmin leans back on his bed, listening to the soft flutter of the thin curtains and the crickets outside his window. Against the quiet background, he can hear the shower being turned off, the quiet conversation between his two sisters and Changmin thinks of home, the one where his parents were still alive, tucking him into bed, his mother watching him as he gulps down the cup of hot chocolate, her fingers threading through his hair, his father leaving a chaste kiss on his forehead in the dark, his slumped shoulders. Changmin remembers the meaning of safe. He remembers what it felt like to be alive, but he fears it, that one day, he would forget it all.
The next day had Changmin yawning, two drops of tears at the corner of his eyes, “only old man has that Changmin ah.” His co-worker (the one whom was forced to sign an IOU) grumbles, all the while maintaining a tight hold on the check which was swiftly rendered useless as Changmin gave one hard tug. “Nope, I never believe that only old people tear when they yawn. I can’t possibly be 74 in a 13 years old body, right?” “You mean you are 13 years old? But the last time I checked, Changmin ssi, you are 21!”
Changmin slams the door, talk about playing the harp to an ox.
He doesn’t see him ever since that day, when the both of them went to have dinner after Yoochun’s first night at the bar. It wasn’t until the third week, when Changmin was feeling extremely frustrated and worried, that he received a call from a very unfamiliar, familiar voice. “hello?” he says, and the man on the other line mirrored him, “is this Yoochun?” he asks, bile rising in his throat, he can still recognize his voice, but something’s changed, something unpleasant. “yeah, can you come? I’m at the hospital.” Changmin hangs up and asked for a leave. He could be fired for all he cares, but there’s a man on the outside waiting for him.
“They say I can’t sing anymore, Changmin ah.” His voice is low and husky, barely above a whisper.
“How? How did that happen?”
“Accident.”
“From that night?”
“Yeah.”
Changmin slumps into Yoochun’s laps; he can hear his heartbeat, Yoochun’s breathy whispers of “I have nobody left Changmin ah.” He nods his head against the rough fabric of the flimsy blanket. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Yoochun doesn’t ask why he was apologizing. Changmin know he knew so he doesn’t explain.
His sisters welcome Yoochun with open hearts, they do everything in their capabilities to ease Yoochun’s pain, but Changmin can see, the eyes bag growing heavier and heavier each day, the desperate attempt to sing again. Sometimes Changmin had to stop him, his hand around the scarred neck, the place where his Adam apple is, “stop.” He begs and crumbles under Yoochun’s soul less eyes. “It left me too, Changmin ah.” He kisses him softly I’m still here, I’m still here. Changmin hopes to be the one who save him.
He was starting to write again. The piano Changmin stopped using ever since his parents died was cleaned and its parts repaired. He could watch Yoochun all day, long lean fingers sliding back and forth on the keyboard. A pencil tucked behind his ear, occasionally taken out as he scribbles a note on the white paper. Changmin hugs him from behind and waits for him to still, “let me be your voice.” He says; trailing kisses down the bruised fingers imprints on Yoochun’s neck. “okay.” The older man breathes, “I’ll write Changmin ah, and you’ll sing.”
Yoochun moves from the couch into Changmin room, the piano now lay quietly at the corner. He plays when Changmin was away, play when one of his sisters had a bad day, play and scribble, write and erase. He goes on and on until Changmin comes back home and then he would lay on their bed, the completed work in his hands. Yoochun would beam proudly as Changmin sings his composition, and when he’s done, Yoochun gives a standing ovation for the world whom had yet heard him sing. At night, with the lights off and the windows open, Yoochun would snuggle comfortably in the crook of Changmin’s neck, occasionally leaning up to stare in his eyes. He could see stars that never fade or die out, promises that wouldn’t be broken. “You won’t leave too right?” he asks, listening to his new voice resound in the room,
“No, I said I’ll be your voice remember? I’ll help you sing.”
“I love you.”
Yoochun can feel his smile against his cheek, “I know.”
Pg; Yoochun/Changmin
This is for insomoleptic , happy 18th birthday Jose! I hope I'm not late and you'll like this! :D
And you'd be inclined to be mine for the taking,
And part of this terrible mess that I'm making.
But you, you're the catalyst.
Catalyst; Anna Nalick
The boat sways gently in his dreams. The porcelain jar feels cold and heavy in his hands. In his hands, lay the weight of his parents’ ashes, mixed up, not knowing where one begins and where the other ends. “They would have loved to die like that.” Changmin hears his own voice whispering in his sleep, “even till death, we shall never part.” The ashes slipped through Changmin’s fingers and he desperately try to catch them. As they empty themselves out, scattered into the sea or blown away like dandelion seeds, Changmin can see the end as a beginning, and the beginning ending in crumbles. He wonders how he could possibly survive. He wakes up, and the dream vanishes.
“Changmin, if you take my shift tonight, I’ll give you half of my pay.”
“The last time you said that, you disappeared for a good few weeks and claimed to have lost your memory.”
“I won’t! I swear!”
Changmin scribbles something quickly on the piece of crumbled paper, “sign this.” He demands, his co-worker sighs, grabbed the pen and tattooed his signature above the dotted line. “Gee, thanks dickhead.” Changmin made sure he regretted ever saying that. “But have you heard though?” the man groans, “There’s a new singer tonight. He’s a hot catch Changmin, too bad I’ve got a tigress who bore me two kiddies at home.” Changmin chuckles and mumbles a horny bastard as he was leaving. “Hey!” he could vaguely hear before the door gives way and closes behind him. He laughs, Changmin wonder what can be more beautiful than death, or perhaps, this pretty boy is death itself.
He must admit Park Yoochun is pretty impressive. His voice couldn’t go as high as JaeJoong neither was it as powerful as Junsu, but there was something special that they both lack. He heard them gossip in their locker room, “Have you heard? He wrote all the songs.” Changmin likes him instantly; he likes people who know the beauty in pain. “Changmin ssi?” a voice rang through amongst the rough, gruff ones. He turns around and faces him; his face was smooth, no signs of foundation or any make up except for a layer of lip gloss, his skin was the color of the porcelain jar Changmin held in his hands 5 years ago. “Yes hyung?” he asks a bright smile to cover up his thoughts. “I’m wondering if you would like to have a dinner with me.”
Changmin learns that Yoochun is a simple man who walked on the hot coals of life. He understands that music is the man’s life, music saved his life, but Changmin wants to change that, he wants to be the one who save his life. Changmin leans back on his bed, listening to the soft flutter of the thin curtains and the crickets outside his window. Against the quiet background, he can hear the shower being turned off, the quiet conversation between his two sisters and Changmin thinks of home, the one where his parents were still alive, tucking him into bed, his mother watching him as he gulps down the cup of hot chocolate, her fingers threading through his hair, his father leaving a chaste kiss on his forehead in the dark, his slumped shoulders. Changmin remembers the meaning of safe. He remembers what it felt like to be alive, but he fears it, that one day, he would forget it all.
The next day had Changmin yawning, two drops of tears at the corner of his eyes, “only old man has that Changmin ah.” His co-worker (the one whom was forced to sign an IOU) grumbles, all the while maintaining a tight hold on the check which was swiftly rendered useless as Changmin gave one hard tug. “Nope, I never believe that only old people tear when they yawn. I can’t possibly be 74 in a 13 years old body, right?” “You mean you are 13 years old? But the last time I checked, Changmin ssi, you are 21!”
Changmin slams the door, talk about playing the harp to an ox.
He doesn’t see him ever since that day, when the both of them went to have dinner after Yoochun’s first night at the bar. It wasn’t until the third week, when Changmin was feeling extremely frustrated and worried, that he received a call from a very unfamiliar, familiar voice. “hello?” he says, and the man on the other line mirrored him, “is this Yoochun?” he asks, bile rising in his throat, he can still recognize his voice, but something’s changed, something unpleasant. “yeah, can you come? I’m at the hospital.” Changmin hangs up and asked for a leave. He could be fired for all he cares, but there’s a man on the outside waiting for him.
“They say I can’t sing anymore, Changmin ah.” His voice is low and husky, barely above a whisper.
“How? How did that happen?”
“Accident.”
“From that night?”
“Yeah.”
Changmin slumps into Yoochun’s laps; he can hear his heartbeat, Yoochun’s breathy whispers of “I have nobody left Changmin ah.” He nods his head against the rough fabric of the flimsy blanket. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Yoochun doesn’t ask why he was apologizing. Changmin know he knew so he doesn’t explain.
His sisters welcome Yoochun with open hearts, they do everything in their capabilities to ease Yoochun’s pain, but Changmin can see, the eyes bag growing heavier and heavier each day, the desperate attempt to sing again. Sometimes Changmin had to stop him, his hand around the scarred neck, the place where his Adam apple is, “stop.” He begs and crumbles under Yoochun’s soul less eyes. “It left me too, Changmin ah.” He kisses him softly I’m still here, I’m still here. Changmin hopes to be the one who save him.
He was starting to write again. The piano Changmin stopped using ever since his parents died was cleaned and its parts repaired. He could watch Yoochun all day, long lean fingers sliding back and forth on the keyboard. A pencil tucked behind his ear, occasionally taken out as he scribbles a note on the white paper. Changmin hugs him from behind and waits for him to still, “let me be your voice.” He says; trailing kisses down the bruised fingers imprints on Yoochun’s neck. “okay.” The older man breathes, “I’ll write Changmin ah, and you’ll sing.”
Yoochun moves from the couch into Changmin room, the piano now lay quietly at the corner. He plays when Changmin was away, play when one of his sisters had a bad day, play and scribble, write and erase. He goes on and on until Changmin comes back home and then he would lay on their bed, the completed work in his hands. Yoochun would beam proudly as Changmin sings his composition, and when he’s done, Yoochun gives a standing ovation for the world whom had yet heard him sing. At night, with the lights off and the windows open, Yoochun would snuggle comfortably in the crook of Changmin’s neck, occasionally leaning up to stare in his eyes. He could see stars that never fade or die out, promises that wouldn’t be broken. “You won’t leave too right?” he asks, listening to his new voice resound in the room,
“No, I said I’ll be your voice remember? I’ll help you sing.”
“I love you.”
Yoochun can feel his smile against his cheek, “I know.”