Chasing Blue Skies (2/2)
Title: Chasing Blue Skies
Pairing: SuChen
Rating: PG-13
Genre: multi-universe!au, slight!angst, romance
Length: 4900~w
Summary: Grey skies remind Jongdae of something painful.
chasing blue skies
1
The fifth time Jondae meets Junmyeon is when he falls in love with words and the musky scent of books alongside with pink lips and curly hair.
“I don’t get it.”
“You should.”
“But I don’t.”
“...But you should.”
“Would you just explain to me instead of looking like I’ve disappointed you. In my defense, my original major was biology but for some absurd reason I do not understand, my parents decided to force me into English Literature.” Chen gives Suho a supremely unimpressed look. “Does that even make sense?”
“Sure it does,” Suho says brightly. “Parents forcing children into specific majors. Everyday common occurrence.”
“...But most people force their kids out of English and into Biology. I think I’m a rare case of shoot-for-the-impractical-job! parents.”
Chen groans and flops onto the library table, letting his copy of Anna Karenina clatter loudly onto the table, earning him a few evil-eyes from the surrounding students.
“Quit being a wimp and write your analytical essay,” Suho reprimands gently, opening his own textbooks.
Chen mutters something under his breath and turns his head to face Suho.
“Hey. Why did you become an English major?”
There’s a pause.
“I’m not.”
“Not what?”
Suho chuckles. “I’m not an English major.”
Chen immediately shoots up in his seat and looks at Suho, wide-eyed.
“Wait, you’re not? T-then how?? This...and...that...and...Tolstoy and wait, HOW are you not an English major?” Chen splutters, incredulous.
Suho shrugs. “I’m a math and physics double major. My courses don’t even touch upon English. Finished the preliminary classes back in freshman year.”
“B-but...but...Tolstoy...how can you even understand it?” Chen pouts and crosses his arms.
“I don’t know Chen, perhaps I’m just better than you?” Suho jokes lightly.
Chen scowls. “That’s not funny.”
“I know it’s not. Now get back to work.”
Chen obliges, not because he likes English--no, not yet he does not--but because a certain curly-haired boy with glasses too large for his face has told him to.
It’s when he sees Suho standing amidst the peach trees, pale pink blossoms spiraling down around him, does Chen finally understand Gatsby’s undying love for Daisy.
It’s when Suho looks up at the sky, back facing him because there’s something romantic about the way the person you love stands facing away from you, does Chen finally understand how Cyrano could write poem after poem to profess his affection for Roxane.
It’s when Suho turns around and smiles at him, the sunlight surrounding him like a halo and making him seem almost angelic, does Chen finally understand Carton’s unwavering loyalty to Lucie.
The giddiness and nerve-tingling of first loves is short-lived, however, and one day, Chen finds himself screaming his throat hoarse at Suho, his voice dying in the freezing winds and never reaching the person he’s fallen heads over in love with.
He begs him to stay, to not abandon him and leave, but he knows he’s selfish because he’s tying Suho down to a life without liberty. He knows he should let Suho leave, let him fly and find freedom, but he hurts, and he doesn’t want to hurt anymore.
Unrequited love pierces the heart like glass shards, but seeing your love tumble from the pinnacle--or is it the nadir?--shatters your world into irreparable pieces.
His words are caught in his throat as he watches Suho plummet from the roof of his university library. He seems suspended in air for a second, as time stops for Chen out of pure horror. Chen thinks Suho is an angel, and there’s something awfully painful about watching such a pure, beautiful creature fall, and Chen almost feels like he’s the one dying.
Sharp pain shoots through both his mind and his chest, and he falls to the floor before Suho does, hands clutching at his head.
Centuries worth of memories flood his brain, and he sees the Union Jack waving in the air, tattered and ripped. He sees rolls and rolls of golden silk, all with the dragon embroidered on them, and he sees the pained smile of a beautiful boy looking much too uncomfortable under the weight of the country. He sees the iron cross taunting him under the moonlight, and he hears distant voices singing Silent Night in a language he now recognizes as German. He sees a young boy with bright eyes that have dimmed over the years, and he sees the horrible letter of fate informing him of an unfortunate car crash, and he sees his own death in the form of his dying loved one.
He sees a gangly young man buried under textbooks of a subject he cared nothing for--a young man with his wings ripped out one by one as he desperately tried to salvage the feathers.
He sees the person he’s loved, not only in this life, but in countless other lives over the centuries the earth has seen.
Somewhere far away, a bell tolls and Chen watches in horror as Suho’s body collides with the ground. The cement is painted red, and Suho’s skin is deathly pale, but Chen can not bring himself to look away. He stumbles over to Suho and drops to his knees painfully. He notices his hands are shaking as he reaches for Suho’s body, but he hugs him anyways. He cradles him to his chest, much like how Jun Mian had did to Zhong Da thousands of years ago, and lets his tears wash the blood away from Suho’s face. He cradles him to his chest and screams into the grey skies, anguish drenching every one of his cries, and he becomes known as the Boy Who Loved.
The sixth time Jongdae meets Junmyeon, they are boys chasing for a glittering horizon that’s inches beyond their grasp.
“Hyung, I swear the dance does not go like that,” Jongdae says indignantly. “I’m pretty sure Jongin doesn’t do that.”
“Shh, listen to the master. I’ve got seven years of training under my belt, helloooo,” Junmyeon replies, dismissing Jongdae’s comment with a noncommittal wave. “Okay, so follow me, one-two-three-turn-five-six-seven-turn, and a one-two--”
“Uh, Junmyeon-hyung? What...are you doing?”
Junmyeon freezes and spins around to Jongin’s voice.
“I’m teaching Jongdae the new choreography!” He says brightly.
“...Oh really.”
“Yeah!”
“Why do I not recognize it.”
“......Oh.”
“I TOLD YOU YOU WERE DOING IT WRONG. BUT I TRUSTED YOU. HOW COULD YOU LIE TO ME.” Jongdae points at Junmyeon accusingly, sliding to the floor and leaning against the practice room mirrors. “Oh my God, all those hours of practice.”
“...Whoops.”
“Jongdae-hyung, get your ass up, we need to perfect this dance by next week, and Junmyeon-hyung is obviously shit as a teacher,” Jongin demands, pulling a limp Jongdae up by the arms.
Jongdae groans and rubs his face wearily with his hands before falling in step with Jongin (and surprisingly, Junmyeon). There’s a tired ache in his bones when they’re finally done with that day’s practice, but Jongin’s “good job, hyung,” gives him a warm, satisfied feeling, and the excitement for their upcoming debut is still brewing strongly in the pits of his stomach.
Jongin leaves first for cram school, and Jongdae and Junmyeon are left in the dark practice rooms by themselves.
It’s comfortable, Jongdae finds, being alone with Junmyeon. He never talks too much, and there’s a subtle charm about him. Like you just couldn’t help but to be drawn to him.
Junmyeon finishes packing up his bag and drops to the floor next to Jongdae, and Jongdae instinctively leans into him, placing his head on his shoulder. Junmyeon wraps an arm around Jongdae, never minding the fact that they’re still sweaty from practice, and holds him close.
“Tired?”
Jongdae hums in reply and closes his eyes.
“Hey, don’t go to sleep kid,” Junmyeon says, shifting a little. “I don’t want to carry you home.”
Jongdae doesn’t reply, and instead shuffles closer to Junmyeon.
“Aren’t you hungry? I’ll buy you dinner.”
At the mention of dinner, Jongdae’s eyes shoot open and he looks at Junmyeon excitedly.
“Really, really?”
Junmyeon laughs, and something stirs in Jongdae’s chest. He vaguely remembers grey skies and flashes of a fleeting, broken love.
“Yeah, let’s go for samgyupsal.”
Junmyeon stands up and heads towards the door with Jongdae scrambling to run after him. It’s the end of February, and there are still traces of snowflakes fluttering down from the sky.
“I don’t like winter,” Jongdae says under his breath as they step out into the cold.
“Why not?”
“The skies are grey.”
“Do you have something against the color grey?” Junmyeon asks, nonplussed.
Jongdae thinks for a moment. “Nah. Just...a vendetta against grey skies. They remind me of something painful.”
“Mmh.”
Junmyeon doesn’t ask further, and Jongdae is grateful for that, because he doesn’t really know what grey skies remind him of. All he remembers is bits and pieces of memories that don’t even seem like they’re his, but at the same time, he knows they’re his. It’s almost...almost as if they are from a different lifetime.
Junmyeon and Jongdae shuffle into a street side-vendor and Jongdae orders plates and plates of samgyupsal until Junmyeon says, “Your stomach is going to burst and my wallet’s crying. Please stop.”
Jongdae finishes most of the food by himself, and Junmyeon watches him half in horror and half in amusement as he inhales three-fourths of the meat.
Junmyeon ends up carrying Jongdae home anyways.
Somewhere on the walk to the trainee dorms, Jongdae’s arms tighten around his neck, and Junmyeon feels warm droplets of tears falling onto his shoulder. He shifts a little, trying to catch a glimpse of Jongdae, but finds that he’s still sleeping.
The sight of the crying boy wrenches Junmyeon’s heart, and he wants to do nothing but to kiss the tears away and grant him years and years of smiles and laughter.
When they get back to the dormitory, it’s late and Junmyeon ends up crashing on the floor, buried in Jongdae’s spare blankets. He wakes up earlier than Jondae the next day, and sits by his bedside reading his history textbook about the American Revolution, waiting for the boy to open his eyes.
When Jongdae wakes up, his tears are still drying on his cheeks, and the raw pain he’s felt in his dreams is still ripping his heart apart somewhere in his chest. The film of tears blurs his vision, but as he blinks them away, the worried face of Junmyeon comes into view.
“Jongdae? Jongdae, are you okay?”
Jongdae doesn’t know why, but the air is ripped out of him, and his lungs are drowning in pain, and all he can do is let out a broken sob and throw his arms around Junmyeon.
“Hyung, hyung,” he repeats under his breath, voice cracking from sleep and heartache. “You’re here. You’re still here.”
Junmyeon is confused, but there’s something instinctive telling him to wrap his arms around Jongdae, so he does. He finds that their bodies fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle. Their edges are worn and messy, but he knows that they belong together.
“Of course I’m here, Jongdae. I’ll always be here.”
Sunlight breaks through Jongdae’s curtains as Junmyeon kisses him.
…
“Hey, Jongdae, look. The skies are blue today.”
*Hun is a common term the British used to refer to the Germans in WWI.
**Edward White was the first American ever to perform EVA. He basically walked in space with a tube connecting him to the spacecraft.
A/N: two-shot because lj is mean.
Pairing: SuChen
Rating: PG-13
Genre: multi-universe!au, slight!angst, romance
Length: 4900~w
Summary: Grey skies remind Jongdae of something painful.
chasing blue skies
1
The fifth time Jondae meets Junmyeon is when he falls in love with words and the musky scent of books alongside with pink lips and curly hair.
“I don’t get it.”
“You should.”
“But I don’t.”
“...But you should.”
“Would you just explain to me instead of looking like I’ve disappointed you. In my defense, my original major was biology but for some absurd reason I do not understand, my parents decided to force me into English Literature.” Chen gives Suho a supremely unimpressed look. “Does that even make sense?”
“Sure it does,” Suho says brightly. “Parents forcing children into specific majors. Everyday common occurrence.”
“...But most people force their kids out of English and into Biology. I think I’m a rare case of shoot-for-the-impractical-job! parents.”
Chen groans and flops onto the library table, letting his copy of Anna Karenina clatter loudly onto the table, earning him a few evil-eyes from the surrounding students.
“Quit being a wimp and write your analytical essay,” Suho reprimands gently, opening his own textbooks.
Chen mutters something under his breath and turns his head to face Suho.
“Hey. Why did you become an English major?”
There’s a pause.
“I’m not.”
“Not what?”
Suho chuckles. “I’m not an English major.”
Chen immediately shoots up in his seat and looks at Suho, wide-eyed.
“Wait, you’re not? T-then how?? This...and...that...and...Tolstoy and wait, HOW are you not an English major?” Chen splutters, incredulous.
Suho shrugs. “I’m a math and physics double major. My courses don’t even touch upon English. Finished the preliminary classes back in freshman year.”
“B-but...but...Tolstoy...how can you even understand it?” Chen pouts and crosses his arms.
“I don’t know Chen, perhaps I’m just better than you?” Suho jokes lightly.
Chen scowls. “That’s not funny.”
“I know it’s not. Now get back to work.”
Chen obliges, not because he likes English--no, not yet he does not--but because a certain curly-haired boy with glasses too large for his face has told him to.
It’s when he sees Suho standing amidst the peach trees, pale pink blossoms spiraling down around him, does Chen finally understand Gatsby’s undying love for Daisy.
It’s when Suho looks up at the sky, back facing him because there’s something romantic about the way the person you love stands facing away from you, does Chen finally understand how Cyrano could write poem after poem to profess his affection for Roxane.
It’s when Suho turns around and smiles at him, the sunlight surrounding him like a halo and making him seem almost angelic, does Chen finally understand Carton’s unwavering loyalty to Lucie.
The giddiness and nerve-tingling of first loves is short-lived, however, and one day, Chen finds himself screaming his throat hoarse at Suho, his voice dying in the freezing winds and never reaching the person he’s fallen heads over in love with.
He begs him to stay, to not abandon him and leave, but he knows he’s selfish because he’s tying Suho down to a life without liberty. He knows he should let Suho leave, let him fly and find freedom, but he hurts, and he doesn’t want to hurt anymore.
Unrequited love pierces the heart like glass shards, but seeing your love tumble from the pinnacle--or is it the nadir?--shatters your world into irreparable pieces.
His words are caught in his throat as he watches Suho plummet from the roof of his university library. He seems suspended in air for a second, as time stops for Chen out of pure horror. Chen thinks Suho is an angel, and there’s something awfully painful about watching such a pure, beautiful creature fall, and Chen almost feels like he’s the one dying.
Sharp pain shoots through both his mind and his chest, and he falls to the floor before Suho does, hands clutching at his head.
Centuries worth of memories flood his brain, and he sees the Union Jack waving in the air, tattered and ripped. He sees rolls and rolls of golden silk, all with the dragon embroidered on them, and he sees the pained smile of a beautiful boy looking much too uncomfortable under the weight of the country. He sees the iron cross taunting him under the moonlight, and he hears distant voices singing Silent Night in a language he now recognizes as German. He sees a young boy with bright eyes that have dimmed over the years, and he sees the horrible letter of fate informing him of an unfortunate car crash, and he sees his own death in the form of his dying loved one.
He sees a gangly young man buried under textbooks of a subject he cared nothing for--a young man with his wings ripped out one by one as he desperately tried to salvage the feathers.
He sees the person he’s loved, not only in this life, but in countless other lives over the centuries the earth has seen.
Somewhere far away, a bell tolls and Chen watches in horror as Suho’s body collides with the ground. The cement is painted red, and Suho’s skin is deathly pale, but Chen can not bring himself to look away. He stumbles over to Suho and drops to his knees painfully. He notices his hands are shaking as he reaches for Suho’s body, but he hugs him anyways. He cradles him to his chest, much like how Jun Mian had did to Zhong Da thousands of years ago, and lets his tears wash the blood away from Suho’s face. He cradles him to his chest and screams into the grey skies, anguish drenching every one of his cries, and he becomes known as the Boy Who Loved.
The sixth time Jongdae meets Junmyeon, they are boys chasing for a glittering horizon that’s inches beyond their grasp.
“Hyung, I swear the dance does not go like that,” Jongdae says indignantly. “I’m pretty sure Jongin doesn’t do that.”
“Shh, listen to the master. I’ve got seven years of training under my belt, helloooo,” Junmyeon replies, dismissing Jongdae’s comment with a noncommittal wave. “Okay, so follow me, one-two-three-turn-five-six-seven-turn, and a one-two--”
“Uh, Junmyeon-hyung? What...are you doing?”
Junmyeon freezes and spins around to Jongin’s voice.
“I’m teaching Jongdae the new choreography!” He says brightly.
“...Oh really.”
“Yeah!”
“Why do I not recognize it.”
“......Oh.”
“I TOLD YOU YOU WERE DOING IT WRONG. BUT I TRUSTED YOU. HOW COULD YOU LIE TO ME.” Jongdae points at Junmyeon accusingly, sliding to the floor and leaning against the practice room mirrors. “Oh my God, all those hours of practice.”
“...Whoops.”
“Jongdae-hyung, get your ass up, we need to perfect this dance by next week, and Junmyeon-hyung is obviously shit as a teacher,” Jongin demands, pulling a limp Jongdae up by the arms.
Jongdae groans and rubs his face wearily with his hands before falling in step with Jongin (and surprisingly, Junmyeon). There’s a tired ache in his bones when they’re finally done with that day’s practice, but Jongin’s “good job, hyung,” gives him a warm, satisfied feeling, and the excitement for their upcoming debut is still brewing strongly in the pits of his stomach.
Jongin leaves first for cram school, and Jongdae and Junmyeon are left in the dark practice rooms by themselves.
It’s comfortable, Jongdae finds, being alone with Junmyeon. He never talks too much, and there’s a subtle charm about him. Like you just couldn’t help but to be drawn to him.
Junmyeon finishes packing up his bag and drops to the floor next to Jongdae, and Jongdae instinctively leans into him, placing his head on his shoulder. Junmyeon wraps an arm around Jongdae, never minding the fact that they’re still sweaty from practice, and holds him close.
“Tired?”
Jongdae hums in reply and closes his eyes.
“Hey, don’t go to sleep kid,” Junmyeon says, shifting a little. “I don’t want to carry you home.”
Jongdae doesn’t reply, and instead shuffles closer to Junmyeon.
“Aren’t you hungry? I’ll buy you dinner.”
At the mention of dinner, Jongdae’s eyes shoot open and he looks at Junmyeon excitedly.
“Really, really?”
Junmyeon laughs, and something stirs in Jongdae’s chest. He vaguely remembers grey skies and flashes of a fleeting, broken love.
“Yeah, let’s go for samgyupsal.”
Junmyeon stands up and heads towards the door with Jongdae scrambling to run after him. It’s the end of February, and there are still traces of snowflakes fluttering down from the sky.
“I don’t like winter,” Jongdae says under his breath as they step out into the cold.
“Why not?”
“The skies are grey.”
“Do you have something against the color grey?” Junmyeon asks, nonplussed.
Jongdae thinks for a moment. “Nah. Just...a vendetta against grey skies. They remind me of something painful.”
“Mmh.”
Junmyeon doesn’t ask further, and Jongdae is grateful for that, because he doesn’t really know what grey skies remind him of. All he remembers is bits and pieces of memories that don’t even seem like they’re his, but at the same time, he knows they’re his. It’s almost...almost as if they are from a different lifetime.
Junmyeon and Jongdae shuffle into a street side-vendor and Jongdae orders plates and plates of samgyupsal until Junmyeon says, “Your stomach is going to burst and my wallet’s crying. Please stop.”
Jongdae finishes most of the food by himself, and Junmyeon watches him half in horror and half in amusement as he inhales three-fourths of the meat.
Junmyeon ends up carrying Jongdae home anyways.
Somewhere on the walk to the trainee dorms, Jongdae’s arms tighten around his neck, and Junmyeon feels warm droplets of tears falling onto his shoulder. He shifts a little, trying to catch a glimpse of Jongdae, but finds that he’s still sleeping.
The sight of the crying boy wrenches Junmyeon’s heart, and he wants to do nothing but to kiss the tears away and grant him years and years of smiles and laughter.
When they get back to the dormitory, it’s late and Junmyeon ends up crashing on the floor, buried in Jongdae’s spare blankets. He wakes up earlier than Jondae the next day, and sits by his bedside reading his history textbook about the American Revolution, waiting for the boy to open his eyes.
When Jongdae wakes up, his tears are still drying on his cheeks, and the raw pain he’s felt in his dreams is still ripping his heart apart somewhere in his chest. The film of tears blurs his vision, but as he blinks them away, the worried face of Junmyeon comes into view.
“Jongdae? Jongdae, are you okay?”
Jongdae doesn’t know why, but the air is ripped out of him, and his lungs are drowning in pain, and all he can do is let out a broken sob and throw his arms around Junmyeon.
“Hyung, hyung,” he repeats under his breath, voice cracking from sleep and heartache. “You’re here. You’re still here.”
Junmyeon is confused, but there’s something instinctive telling him to wrap his arms around Jongdae, so he does. He finds that their bodies fit together perfectly, like two pieces of a puzzle. Their edges are worn and messy, but he knows that they belong together.
“Of course I’m here, Jongdae. I’ll always be here.”
Sunlight breaks through Jongdae’s curtains as Junmyeon kisses him.
…
“Hey, Jongdae, look. The skies are blue today.”
*Hun is a common term the British used to refer to the Germans in WWI.
**Edward White was the first American ever to perform EVA. He basically walked in space with a tube connecting him to the spacecraft.
A/N: two-shot because lj is mean.