[fic]
untitled (or Dear Nostalgia)
rating: PG
fandom: Super Junior
pairing: Zhou Mi/Kyuhyun
summary: Back then, everything had been left to a smile.
notes: this is for kyuppuccino who apparently has magical powers. Prompts were 'angsty and desperate but happy ending'. I...don't even know. AU, and illogical, being as I imagined this in the 1800's. 1800's England. Don't even ask.
Zhou Mi’s pen flows across the paper, as fluid and easily as one thought sinks into the next. He pauses only to dip the nib into ink, and continues as if it were a mere break for breath. That’s how it seems to Zhou Mi, at least. A pause for breath, ink dark and fresh on paper, and words that are all too easy for him to write. It is always the same. Each and every letter he has written, and will continue to write, always the same, shallow sentiments and questions, the same inane and senseless news of his own life and society. It is never what Zhou Mi truly desires to write, but only what he can, what he is allowed to.
This time, however, as he nears the end, he pauses for longer than a breath. A drop of ink falls to the paper, unnoticed, a tiny smudge of darkness beneath his last sentence. This time, Zhou Mi considers ending the letter differently. Entirely different. Not with an empty ‘yours faithfully’, or any of the usual.
Another dip in ink, and he returns, and before where he was calm and composed, almost mechanic, he is struck with a sudden fervour. In the grip of spontaneity, a rush of something he isn’t supposed to do. His pen spells out a neat ‘W’, and that is as far as he gets, before the steam is knocked from him, and the sudden passion within him flames out. Careful, he’s supposed to be careful, and he gave his word, also, to be so. This is not careful. It’s enough, or it ought to be, that he pens these letters in the first place.
But it is not. It’s not, and although the rush of carelessness has left him, Zhou Mi still feels the need, the desire, to say something that he isn’t supposed to. To make the empty words and the shallow sentiments of his letter mean just that little bit. To show some of what he feels, what he keeps penned in and pushed down, forces from thought and locked tightly within his heart.
So he gives in, and signs the letter as, ‘with warmest affection’.
It isn’t the same, but it’s enough. For now.
Finished, he seals the letter and addresses it, and as usual with these special letters, mentally sets aside the time to take this to the post himself. Whilst there’s nothing special, nothing out of the usual, in these letters, Zhou Mi doesn’t entrust them to anyone else. Not least since he’s certain his mother may still harbour her same suspicions, no matter the interminable years between then and now.
But there is something else he feels he must do even before this. Quietly, and quite certain there is copious time before he will be called to dine, he moves through his room, to the corner of wall by his bed, and kneels, carefully. There is a loose floorboard here, and beneath it, Zhou Mi keeps a box, fairly small in size, and entirely devoid of any pattern or engravings. He pulls it open, and finds the most recent letter, on top of all the rest he keeps stored safely inside.
He’s read the words a hundred times, at the least, the self-same meaningless sentences he pens in his own letters, but it is the name he looks to. The sure, confident lines of ink, the meanings he can see, or hopes he can see, beneath the simple writing of a name.
Kyuhyun.
Zhou Mi traces the letters with a finger, as close as he’s able to get, and by just looking at such achingly familiar handwriting, he finds himself remembering countless times of watching Kyuhyun writing; penning letters, essays, and eventually, only to Zhou Mi, little tidbit remarks on events he had witnessed during the day, something a person had said or done, to make Zhou Mi laugh. He had always, and quite vocally too, enjoyed the biting edge to Kyuhyun’s humour.
The memory is so strong, still so close to him, that even now, kneeling on floorboards and holding a letter clasped tightly in one hand, Zhou Mi can see the image of Kyuhyun slouched studiously at his desk, leaning over whatever he’s writing at the time. Zhou Mi can even hear the familiar scratch of nib against paper; can all but hear the steady rhythm of Kyuhyun’s breathing in what would otherwise be a silent room.
And for a moment, the memory, the vision, is so vivid and stirring that Zhou Mi feels himself close to being washed away in a wave of poignant emotion.
Years. It has been years, since they were at school together, since he last saw Kyuhyun’s face, heard his voice, saw his smile. Since he had last touched him, or told him...told him...
But, no, he had never quite told him, because even then, in the rush of something new and exciting and taboo, nothing had ever been said with words. Back then, everything had been left to a smile, a brush of fingers against the inside of a wrist, hushed laughter and warm breath stifled in the hollow of a neck and emotions hidden within dark eyes.
He remembers, almost as clear as if it were only yesterday, how precisely things had changed, how, with one simple smile and the barest brush of lips, they suddenly had to become careful; cautious and guarded and wary of every look and smile they gave each other. Everything had changed between them, and yet they’d had to pretend that it wasn’t so.
Zhou Mi has never been the greatest of actors, but the risk had been great enough that he’d learnt to. They both had.
And then, school was over, and they both went back to their respective families; Zhou Mi to find a good match for the family, no consideration for himself, and Kyuhyun to learn how to take over his father’s business.
For a moment in time, all of this is so clear, so achingly vivid and starkly real, inside Zhou Mi’s mind, that it feels as if he’s experiencing it all over again, saying goodbye, being told that this is the end but that he can keep in touch, letter’s are acceptable if he desires.
He was a fool, then, to think he had a plan, that he could convince Kyuhyun of it, that they could be fine. He’s a fool even now, to wish that that is how events had gone, instead of this, of empty letters and unwritten feelings every several months or so. Instead of immersing himself inside the memories, walking the oft-travelled paths of his nostalgia.
With a sigh, this entire scenario is rehashed and repeated to utter perfection by now, Zhou Mi conceals the box once again within its hiding place, and returns to his own letter. It is nearing supper time, he’s sure, but he’ll forsake the scolding this time. He has a feeling, a tiny little twinge, like an unseen splinter within him, that this may be the last letter he ever sends. The same scene plays out every single time, and Zhou Mi is tiring of reawakening old hurts, and remembering unhealed wounds.
Without a word he slips from the house, like a shadow in the encroaching darkness, and it hurts surprisingly less than he imagined it would, as he posts what he’s come to think of as his last letter. The last letter he’ll ever write to the past, and to what could have been.
A few months later, Zhou Mi receives a letter in return. And it’s the first, in all the time of their erratically spread and shallow letters, that one has ever made him smile, with real meaning. He smiles widely, brightly, the way he used to smile, at Kyuhyun’s bitingly dry sense of humour. The way he used to smile when fingers enclosed around his own. How he smiled, whenever Kyuhyun smiled at him, and meant it.
‘With all my love,
Kyuhyun.’
rating: PG
fandom: Super Junior
pairing: Zhou Mi/Kyuhyun
summary: Back then, everything had been left to a smile.
notes: this is for kyuppuccino who apparently has magical powers. Prompts were 'angsty and desperate but happy ending'. I...don't even know. AU, and illogical, being as I imagined this in the 1800's. 1800's England. Don't even ask.
Zhou Mi’s pen flows across the paper, as fluid and easily as one thought sinks into the next. He pauses only to dip the nib into ink, and continues as if it were a mere break for breath. That’s how it seems to Zhou Mi, at least. A pause for breath, ink dark and fresh on paper, and words that are all too easy for him to write. It is always the same. Each and every letter he has written, and will continue to write, always the same, shallow sentiments and questions, the same inane and senseless news of his own life and society. It is never what Zhou Mi truly desires to write, but only what he can, what he is allowed to.
This time, however, as he nears the end, he pauses for longer than a breath. A drop of ink falls to the paper, unnoticed, a tiny smudge of darkness beneath his last sentence. This time, Zhou Mi considers ending the letter differently. Entirely different. Not with an empty ‘yours faithfully’, or any of the usual.
Another dip in ink, and he returns, and before where he was calm and composed, almost mechanic, he is struck with a sudden fervour. In the grip of spontaneity, a rush of something he isn’t supposed to do. His pen spells out a neat ‘W’, and that is as far as he gets, before the steam is knocked from him, and the sudden passion within him flames out. Careful, he’s supposed to be careful, and he gave his word, also, to be so. This is not careful. It’s enough, or it ought to be, that he pens these letters in the first place.
But it is not. It’s not, and although the rush of carelessness has left him, Zhou Mi still feels the need, the desire, to say something that he isn’t supposed to. To make the empty words and the shallow sentiments of his letter mean just that little bit. To show some of what he feels, what he keeps penned in and pushed down, forces from thought and locked tightly within his heart.
So he gives in, and signs the letter as, ‘with warmest affection’.
It isn’t the same, but it’s enough. For now.
Finished, he seals the letter and addresses it, and as usual with these special letters, mentally sets aside the time to take this to the post himself. Whilst there’s nothing special, nothing out of the usual, in these letters, Zhou Mi doesn’t entrust them to anyone else. Not least since he’s certain his mother may still harbour her same suspicions, no matter the interminable years between then and now.
But there is something else he feels he must do even before this. Quietly, and quite certain there is copious time before he will be called to dine, he moves through his room, to the corner of wall by his bed, and kneels, carefully. There is a loose floorboard here, and beneath it, Zhou Mi keeps a box, fairly small in size, and entirely devoid of any pattern or engravings. He pulls it open, and finds the most recent letter, on top of all the rest he keeps stored safely inside.
He’s read the words a hundred times, at the least, the self-same meaningless sentences he pens in his own letters, but it is the name he looks to. The sure, confident lines of ink, the meanings he can see, or hopes he can see, beneath the simple writing of a name.
Kyuhyun.
Zhou Mi traces the letters with a finger, as close as he’s able to get, and by just looking at such achingly familiar handwriting, he finds himself remembering countless times of watching Kyuhyun writing; penning letters, essays, and eventually, only to Zhou Mi, little tidbit remarks on events he had witnessed during the day, something a person had said or done, to make Zhou Mi laugh. He had always, and quite vocally too, enjoyed the biting edge to Kyuhyun’s humour.
The memory is so strong, still so close to him, that even now, kneeling on floorboards and holding a letter clasped tightly in one hand, Zhou Mi can see the image of Kyuhyun slouched studiously at his desk, leaning over whatever he’s writing at the time. Zhou Mi can even hear the familiar scratch of nib against paper; can all but hear the steady rhythm of Kyuhyun’s breathing in what would otherwise be a silent room.
And for a moment, the memory, the vision, is so vivid and stirring that Zhou Mi feels himself close to being washed away in a wave of poignant emotion.
Years. It has been years, since they were at school together, since he last saw Kyuhyun’s face, heard his voice, saw his smile. Since he had last touched him, or told him...told him...
But, no, he had never quite told him, because even then, in the rush of something new and exciting and taboo, nothing had ever been said with words. Back then, everything had been left to a smile, a brush of fingers against the inside of a wrist, hushed laughter and warm breath stifled in the hollow of a neck and emotions hidden within dark eyes.
He remembers, almost as clear as if it were only yesterday, how precisely things had changed, how, with one simple smile and the barest brush of lips, they suddenly had to become careful; cautious and guarded and wary of every look and smile they gave each other. Everything had changed between them, and yet they’d had to pretend that it wasn’t so.
Zhou Mi has never been the greatest of actors, but the risk had been great enough that he’d learnt to. They both had.
And then, school was over, and they both went back to their respective families; Zhou Mi to find a good match for the family, no consideration for himself, and Kyuhyun to learn how to take over his father’s business.
For a moment in time, all of this is so clear, so achingly vivid and starkly real, inside Zhou Mi’s mind, that it feels as if he’s experiencing it all over again, saying goodbye, being told that this is the end but that he can keep in touch, letter’s are acceptable if he desires.
He was a fool, then, to think he had a plan, that he could convince Kyuhyun of it, that they could be fine. He’s a fool even now, to wish that that is how events had gone, instead of this, of empty letters and unwritten feelings every several months or so. Instead of immersing himself inside the memories, walking the oft-travelled paths of his nostalgia.
With a sigh, this entire scenario is rehashed and repeated to utter perfection by now, Zhou Mi conceals the box once again within its hiding place, and returns to his own letter. It is nearing supper time, he’s sure, but he’ll forsake the scolding this time. He has a feeling, a tiny little twinge, like an unseen splinter within him, that this may be the last letter he ever sends. The same scene plays out every single time, and Zhou Mi is tiring of reawakening old hurts, and remembering unhealed wounds.
Without a word he slips from the house, like a shadow in the encroaching darkness, and it hurts surprisingly less than he imagined it would, as he posts what he’s come to think of as his last letter. The last letter he’ll ever write to the past, and to what could have been.
A few months later, Zhou Mi receives a letter in return. And it’s the first, in all the time of their erratically spread and shallow letters, that one has ever made him smile, with real meaning. He smiles widely, brightly, the way he used to smile, at Kyuhyun’s bitingly dry sense of humour. The way he used to smile when fingers enclosed around his own. How he smiled, whenever Kyuhyun smiled at him, and meant it.
‘With all my love,
Kyuhyun.’