Fic: Here and Now
Title: Here and Now
Pairing: Hyukjae/Donghae
Rating: PG-13
And now that it's over, here, my entry for the contest on miracle______. Hyukhae, because, well, what else? <3
Hyukjae plans for the future, maps out a path, straight and clean and true, in the deepest corner of his heart. There will be time enough for song and dance and laughter, for the warmth of stage lights on bare shoulders and the screams of row upon row of fans; later there will be a house, a car, a family. A life of my own, he tells anyone who asks, though he can’t imagine doing anything else but this, heartbeat loud in his ears, face flushed, the warmth of the other boys all huddled together around him almost overwhelming. Hyukjae sees Kibum’s wide, wide grin, Eeteuk’s tears, Shindong mouthing in wonder over and over again, we won, we won. Hyukjae memorizes colours, sounds, the feel of arms about his shoulder, hip, waist; saves them for later days. Hyukjae knows better than to believe in forever, knows better than to go forth unprepared. He hides them in the hollow of his ribs, behind his eyes, between his teeth; guards them like stolen treasure.
Donghae dreams of yesterday and lives for today, for here and now and the curve of Hyukjae’s smile on his skin. Donghae remembers being ten, remembers the tiny roadside stall and the way the old woman had smelled of spice and incense. What do you see? His mother had asked as he squirmed in his seat, his own hand small in the fortune teller’s callused palm. She had squinted through rheumy eyes, bent down to peer more closely at the myriad crossing lines; had sighed and shaken her head. His mother’s shoulders had slumped in disappointment, but even then Donghae had decided that he doesn’t want to know, in any case; had hopped off the crate and run headlong into the teeming market before his mother was even done pressing the money down on the table. While Donghae is just as afraid of losing he isn’t too afraid to give, to take, to lose himself in the sounds Hyukjae makes against his lips, fingers twisted tight, tight, tight in the loose fabric of his shirt. Now, Hyukjae says into his shoulder, bites down, now now now now now, and Donghae agrees, replies with tongue and teeth and hands.
I’ll take you with me, Hyukjae promises whenever there is talk of dissolution, of moving apart, of change. Donghae isn’t afraid of change, of currents, of being swept away. Hyukjae fears the undertow, the unknown, the end. Donghae kisses him like there is no tomorrow, and there isn’t, not really, not yet. Don’t go, Hyukjae mouths between breaths, tripping slightly over the syllables, voice thick and rough, don’t go, and Donghae smiles, stays. He thinks of songs he could write, hopelessly sappy tributes that he could sing to Hyukjae over breakfast, imagines he can hear the chords of his guitar and the seamless harmonization of Hyukjae’s laughter.
While there are futures and tomorrows to think about, when they finally come they are all today and now and Donghae will always, always, always be here. While there is time, infinite and endless and stretching in all directions, front and back as far as the eye can see, for Donghae there is only now, here and now and the weight of Hyukjae’s head on his thigh, the feel of Hyukjae’s fingers intertwined with his. Hyukjae’s face is too pale, drawn and weary and frightened, and Donghae lets him hold on. Don’t you ever worry? About the future? Hyukjae’s voice is a breath of air, a whisper of wind, and Donghae has to strain to hear him. No, he replies, the truth. While there are futures and tomorrows they all eventually become here and now, here and now and the softness of Hyukjae’s hair through his fingers, the smooth line of Hyukjae’s jaw, the gentle jut of his collarbones; for Donghae the only sort of future
Pairing: Hyukjae/Donghae
Rating: PG-13
And now that it's over, here, my entry for the contest on miracle______. Hyukhae, because, well, what else? <3
Hyukjae plans for the future, maps out a path, straight and clean and true, in the deepest corner of his heart. There will be time enough for song and dance and laughter, for the warmth of stage lights on bare shoulders and the screams of row upon row of fans; later there will be a house, a car, a family. A life of my own, he tells anyone who asks, though he can’t imagine doing anything else but this, heartbeat loud in his ears, face flushed, the warmth of the other boys all huddled together around him almost overwhelming. Hyukjae sees Kibum’s wide, wide grin, Eeteuk’s tears, Shindong mouthing in wonder over and over again, we won, we won. Hyukjae memorizes colours, sounds, the feel of arms about his shoulder, hip, waist; saves them for later days. Hyukjae knows better than to believe in forever, knows better than to go forth unprepared. He hides them in the hollow of his ribs, behind his eyes, between his teeth; guards them like stolen treasure.
Donghae dreams of yesterday and lives for today, for here and now and the curve of Hyukjae’s smile on his skin. Donghae remembers being ten, remembers the tiny roadside stall and the way the old woman had smelled of spice and incense. What do you see? His mother had asked as he squirmed in his seat, his own hand small in the fortune teller’s callused palm. She had squinted through rheumy eyes, bent down to peer more closely at the myriad crossing lines; had sighed and shaken her head. His mother’s shoulders had slumped in disappointment, but even then Donghae had decided that he doesn’t want to know, in any case; had hopped off the crate and run headlong into the teeming market before his mother was even done pressing the money down on the table. While Donghae is just as afraid of losing he isn’t too afraid to give, to take, to lose himself in the sounds Hyukjae makes against his lips, fingers twisted tight, tight, tight in the loose fabric of his shirt. Now, Hyukjae says into his shoulder, bites down, now now now now now, and Donghae agrees, replies with tongue and teeth and hands.
I’ll take you with me, Hyukjae promises whenever there is talk of dissolution, of moving apart, of change. Donghae isn’t afraid of change, of currents, of being swept away. Hyukjae fears the undertow, the unknown, the end. Donghae kisses him like there is no tomorrow, and there isn’t, not really, not yet. Don’t go, Hyukjae mouths between breaths, tripping slightly over the syllables, voice thick and rough, don’t go, and Donghae smiles, stays. He thinks of songs he could write, hopelessly sappy tributes that he could sing to Hyukjae over breakfast, imagines he can hear the chords of his guitar and the seamless harmonization of Hyukjae’s laughter.
While there are futures and tomorrows to think about, when they finally come they are all today and now and Donghae will always, always, always be here. While there is time, infinite and endless and stretching in all directions, front and back as far as the eye can see, for Donghae there is only now, here and now and the weight of Hyukjae’s head on his thigh, the feel of Hyukjae’s fingers intertwined with his. Hyukjae’s face is too pale, drawn and weary and frightened, and Donghae lets him hold on. Don’t you ever worry? About the future? Hyukjae’s voice is a breath of air, a whisper of wind, and Donghae has to strain to hear him. No, he replies, the truth. While there are futures and tomorrows they all eventually become here and now, here and now and the softness of Hyukjae’s hair through his fingers, the smooth line of Hyukjae’s jaw, the gentle jut of his collarbones; for Donghae the only sort of future