fic; junda
I needed to write something. So I did. And it's not DBSG or SuJu! It's JJ AND YIDA. And I don't much like it. But I can't be bothered to fix it. Hooray.
title homesick
rating pg
pairing junda (jjlin/huang yida)
summary jj reminds you of home.
he says, i like your songs, your voice, your style.
he says, and we should get some ramen some day. my treat.
you say, okay, thinking of how he smells and sounds--maybe would even taste--like singapore, like home. okay.
you say, call me, and give him your number.
he forgets. my schedule's busy, he says, after the show is finished in the studio; let's go now, and takes your hand, and the warmth creeps up your fingers to settle in your cheeks.
this does not feel like singapore.
he says, you don't eat much, looking at your bowl, still three-fourths full.
you say, it's too salty, and don't tell him that everything's too salty, too sweet, too spicy, too bland.
he says, can i? after he's already taken your bowl, spilling a little soup over the rim.
before you can think you're saying, you'll get fat. and at once you regret it, but he doesn't seem to notice; he chuckles, nods, eats, nudges your foot gently with his own under the table.
i'm not anorexic, you say; i just don't like eating. it's different.
of course, he says, pushing a baby carrot between your lips and holding it there until you bite and chew and swallow. he says, i just don't want you to collapse on stage, and then suddenly his finger is against your lips, tingling. he pulls away quickly, his cheeks round and rosy and you think of summers in singapore, when it's raining and saturated and perfect.
you say, i won't, the thick mugginess of singapore in the air as you wade through the space between him and you and you hope he doesn't flee when you bring your hands to his red, red cheeks and kiss him.
he says, good, and doesn't flee.
a/n: comments and concrit appreciated. ♥
title homesick
rating pg
pairing junda (jjlin/huang yida)
summary jj reminds you of home.
he says, i like your songs, your voice, your style.
he says, and we should get some ramen some day. my treat.
you say, okay, thinking of how he smells and sounds--maybe would even taste--like singapore, like home. okay.
you say, call me, and give him your number.
he forgets. my schedule's busy, he says, after the show is finished in the studio; let's go now, and takes your hand, and the warmth creeps up your fingers to settle in your cheeks.
this does not feel like singapore.
he says, you don't eat much, looking at your bowl, still three-fourths full.
you say, it's too salty, and don't tell him that everything's too salty, too sweet, too spicy, too bland.
he says, can i? after he's already taken your bowl, spilling a little soup over the rim.
before you can think you're saying, you'll get fat. and at once you regret it, but he doesn't seem to notice; he chuckles, nods, eats, nudges your foot gently with his own under the table.
i'm not anorexic, you say; i just don't like eating. it's different.
of course, he says, pushing a baby carrot between your lips and holding it there until you bite and chew and swallow. he says, i just don't want you to collapse on stage, and then suddenly his finger is against your lips, tingling. he pulls away quickly, his cheeks round and rosy and you think of summers in singapore, when it's raining and saturated and perfect.
you say, i won't, the thick mugginess of singapore in the air as you wade through the space between him and you and you hope he doesn't flee when you bring your hands to his red, red cheeks and kiss him.
he says, good, and doesn't flee.
a/n: comments and concrit appreciated. ♥