SSS 2010: for bree_nd
For: bree_nd
From: Your (Emergency) Secret Santa
Title: It doesn’t matter; I can’t help it anyway
Pairing: Onew/Key
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,027
Summary: He can’t find what it takes to stop. And maybe that’s not as bad it seems.
The night that Key stumbles home, dead drunk off feet and tripping all over himself, Onew is waiting.
He’s sitting at the kitchen table, in the cherry wood chair that they had gone and picked out together; nine months and a million life times ago. His hands are folded almost quietly in his lap, and he doesn’t look up as Key stumbles in and trudges his way to the fridge to snatch a bottle of water with fingers that tremble.
He’s so quiet, so uncharacteristically subdued that Key doesn’t even notice him until a good two minutes and half bottle of chugged down water later.
The lights were off when Key had come in, and he hasn’t bothered to flip them on after coming in (…the Almighty Key would never need something as petty as light bulbs to help him, after all; he doesn’t need anybody’s help) so they are still shrouded in darkness.
Their eyes meet for a second, just long enough for Onew to catch the slight surprise and resulting swirl of wondering contempt in the other’s gaze. He averts his eyes immediately, opting instead to stare unwaveringly at the worn tiles by his feet. He’s not wearing slippers; he realizes dully, just thick socks, and the chill of the ground is already beginning to seep through them.
Key wordlessly stops drinking and looks at Onew impatiently, waiting for him to spit out whatever that’s on his mind; drugged brain still coherent enough to be pissed off.
“I can’t keep going on like this.” Onew whispers suddenly into the silence.
The words are razor sharp, spoken quietly and coldly; and Onew’s eyes’ are filled with silent determination, hidden loathing.
But Key can see through it all; he has always been able to see through it, and even in the dim, nonexistent light, he can sense the other’s weakness. He can hear the soft trembling edge on the otherwise hard and biting words; can see the too bright sheen of unshed tears behind the unforgiving almond eyes.
Key doesn’t bother to respond (…when has he ever?) and only sidles haphazardly over the table, inching closer and closer to Onew until he’s right where he wants to be, all up in his personal space.
He’s always has a funny thing for space, Onew has, insisting on maintaining a certain amount of it and childishly resisting any intrusion of Key’s, even after they had gotten together. (So different from Key, who doesn’t know what personal space means, never has known.)
But Onew is outright trembling now, Key notes with a small degree of satisfaction - small shudders and blatant shivers that only seem to increase the closer and closer he gets. Key’s expression hasn’t changed, the lines and smirking scowl only become more prominent the closer he moves.
“Oh, but I’m sure you can,” he breathes.
He wants to get closer, to see if he can coax those pretty, pretty tears to fall for him. But in his intoxicated state he misjudges badly, and instead winds up sprawled in Onew’s lap, hot breath and murmured words brushing right up against his ear.
And it’s so strange; so odd and out of place, because usually it’s Onew who’s the one doing the tumbling and falling. It’s normally him who finds himself giving Key a lap full of uncoordinated limbs and this startles Onew more than anything else has this night- the pliant weight on top of body that’s soft and maybe a little heavy and smells so damn familiar, even under the mask of cigarette smoke and undiluted vodka.
“Get off,” he whispers, losing control of his voice when Key refuses, refuses, to move at all.
“Why don’t you make me, hm?” Key shifts lazily over until his tongue is flicking at Onew’s sensitive ear, wanting to swallow the resulting shiver.
Onew’s hands untwist from his lap, eyes falling shut and mouth parting as he turning his head suddenly to press his lips hesitantly against Key’s. He tastes like a mix of one too many shots and a particularly foul ashtray, but Onew doesn’t notice anything other than the softness of his lips moving fast over his own and coaxing his mouth open.
It doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds for him to forget where he is, why he’s here, his name. Onew moans; a small, defeated sound that makes Key smirk against his skin; and he twines long fingers into the other’s dark hair.
Giving up; giving in, completely. Again.
As the dark haze of lust begins to crowd his vision, and as Key begins to mewl and grind frantically against him, Onew wonders why he even bothers anymore.
***
The next morning he wakes up slowly, fingers feeling the sheets around him out of habit and just barely choking back a sob at the emptiness before he hears the pounding rush of the water in the next room. He rolls over onto his side slowly, hands grasping for the pillow lying beside him. It’s still warm, he notes with a growing smile.
The early morning air is frigid, and has Onew pressing his face further into the liquid softness of the pillow and twisting the sheets further around him. He sighs, contently listening to the hiss of the steam in the bathroom. The door is wide open, and the yellow gold light spills through and bathes a small rectangle portion of the bed. Onew lets one hand twist into the illuminated sheets, watching his fingers play with the fleeting light.
He doesn’t know how long this will last; this lulling quiet and peace; knows it won’t last long enough, not nearly.
Maybe someday things will change. Maybe someday he’ll be able to talk himself into getting out, into starting over. Someday he’ll be able to resist; he’ll be able to
truthfully promise himself that he won’t fall for the same lie over and over again every single time.
Someday.
But he doesn’t see that day coming anytime soon, and as he cuddles closer to Key’s side of the bed; desperate for some more of his left over warmth, he wonders half heartedly if it ever will.
From: Your (Emergency) Secret Santa
Title: It doesn’t matter; I can’t help it anyway
Pairing: Onew/Key
Rating: R
Wordcount: 1,027
Summary: He can’t find what it takes to stop. And maybe that’s not as bad it seems.
The night that Key stumbles home, dead drunk off feet and tripping all over himself, Onew is waiting.
He’s sitting at the kitchen table, in the cherry wood chair that they had gone and picked out together; nine months and a million life times ago. His hands are folded almost quietly in his lap, and he doesn’t look up as Key stumbles in and trudges his way to the fridge to snatch a bottle of water with fingers that tremble.
He’s so quiet, so uncharacteristically subdued that Key doesn’t even notice him until a good two minutes and half bottle of chugged down water later.
The lights were off when Key had come in, and he hasn’t bothered to flip them on after coming in (…the Almighty Key would never need something as petty as light bulbs to help him, after all; he doesn’t need anybody’s help) so they are still shrouded in darkness.
Their eyes meet for a second, just long enough for Onew to catch the slight surprise and resulting swirl of wondering contempt in the other’s gaze. He averts his eyes immediately, opting instead to stare unwaveringly at the worn tiles by his feet. He’s not wearing slippers; he realizes dully, just thick socks, and the chill of the ground is already beginning to seep through them.
Key wordlessly stops drinking and looks at Onew impatiently, waiting for him to spit out whatever that’s on his mind; drugged brain still coherent enough to be pissed off.
“I can’t keep going on like this.” Onew whispers suddenly into the silence.
The words are razor sharp, spoken quietly and coldly; and Onew’s eyes’ are filled with silent determination, hidden loathing.
But Key can see through it all; he has always been able to see through it, and even in the dim, nonexistent light, he can sense the other’s weakness. He can hear the soft trembling edge on the otherwise hard and biting words; can see the too bright sheen of unshed tears behind the unforgiving almond eyes.
Key doesn’t bother to respond (…when has he ever?) and only sidles haphazardly over the table, inching closer and closer to Onew until he’s right where he wants to be, all up in his personal space.
He’s always has a funny thing for space, Onew has, insisting on maintaining a certain amount of it and childishly resisting any intrusion of Key’s, even after they had gotten together. (So different from Key, who doesn’t know what personal space means, never has known.)
But Onew is outright trembling now, Key notes with a small degree of satisfaction - small shudders and blatant shivers that only seem to increase the closer and closer he gets. Key’s expression hasn’t changed, the lines and smirking scowl only become more prominent the closer he moves.
“Oh, but I’m sure you can,” he breathes.
He wants to get closer, to see if he can coax those pretty, pretty tears to fall for him. But in his intoxicated state he misjudges badly, and instead winds up sprawled in Onew’s lap, hot breath and murmured words brushing right up against his ear.
And it’s so strange; so odd and out of place, because usually it’s Onew who’s the one doing the tumbling and falling. It’s normally him who finds himself giving Key a lap full of uncoordinated limbs and this startles Onew more than anything else has this night- the pliant weight on top of body that’s soft and maybe a little heavy and smells so damn familiar, even under the mask of cigarette smoke and undiluted vodka.
“Get off,” he whispers, losing control of his voice when Key refuses, refuses, to move at all.
“Why don’t you make me, hm?” Key shifts lazily over until his tongue is flicking at Onew’s sensitive ear, wanting to swallow the resulting shiver.
Onew’s hands untwist from his lap, eyes falling shut and mouth parting as he turning his head suddenly to press his lips hesitantly against Key’s. He tastes like a mix of one too many shots and a particularly foul ashtray, but Onew doesn’t notice anything other than the softness of his lips moving fast over his own and coaxing his mouth open.
It doesn’t take more than a couple of seconds for him to forget where he is, why he’s here, his name. Onew moans; a small, defeated sound that makes Key smirk against his skin; and he twines long fingers into the other’s dark hair.
Giving up; giving in, completely. Again.
As the dark haze of lust begins to crowd his vision, and as Key begins to mewl and grind frantically against him, Onew wonders why he even bothers anymore.
***
The next morning he wakes up slowly, fingers feeling the sheets around him out of habit and just barely choking back a sob at the emptiness before he hears the pounding rush of the water in the next room. He rolls over onto his side slowly, hands grasping for the pillow lying beside him. It’s still warm, he notes with a growing smile.
The early morning air is frigid, and has Onew pressing his face further into the liquid softness of the pillow and twisting the sheets further around him. He sighs, contently listening to the hiss of the steam in the bathroom. The door is wide open, and the yellow gold light spills through and bathes a small rectangle portion of the bed. Onew lets one hand twist into the illuminated sheets, watching his fingers play with the fleeting light.
He doesn’t know how long this will last; this lulling quiet and peace; knows it won’t last long enough, not nearly.
Maybe someday things will change. Maybe someday he’ll be able to talk himself into getting out, into starting over. Someday he’ll be able to resist; he’ll be able to
truthfully promise himself that he won’t fall for the same lie over and over again every single time.
Someday.
But he doesn’t see that day coming anytime soon, and as he cuddles closer to Key’s side of the bed; desperate for some more of his left over warmth, he wonders half heartedly if it ever will.