collarbones (Kibum/Ryeowook)
Kibum, Ryeowook. Implied Yesung/Ryeowook, possible Kibum/Ryeowook. (Super Junior)
PG for implied eating disorder and subsequent worry/semi-angsting/feelings of uselessness.
Sometimes I look at videos and pictures of Wookie recently and my heart aches because his wrists are so slim and tiny and I just want to give him a hug and tell him to stay healthy! This fic spawned from the SJ Random Prompt Generator (Kibum / Ryeowook / collarbones).
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Kibum’s been watching Ryeowook. He watches the surety with which he moves in the kitchen, the quiet confidence he has in the studio. He watches him as he makes sure everyone is fed, makes sure every grain of rice and every last spoon of soup is eaten. He watches as Yesung teases him about his mothering, his shy smile almost covered by a half-curled fist of delicate fingers that slips to a bony wrist and the flash of a thin arm in the loose sleeve of a hooded sweatshirt a size too big.
He’s been watching Ryeowook, and Kibum knows something is not right when he quietly closes the door to Ryeowook and Yesung’s room behind him, muffling the living-room sounds of the other members, of Kangin’s low, joking voice and Eeteuk’s full-bodied laugh; he knows something is not right when he sees the dark outline of Ryeowook lying on his bed, hands clasped loosely over his stomach and his eyes closed. His breathing is shallow but even in sleep, and it’s only nine in the evening.
From where he stands, Kibum sees the faint shadow of too much sleep to make up for not enough food in the gaunt hollow of Ryeowook’s cheeks, the harsh line highlighted by the moonlight that shines in from the window, and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if it has slipped past Eeteuk’s usually observant notice, if Yesung has pointed it out in the way of his that masks concern with snark, if Donghae has happened upon it and frowned, tilting his head, fingers clasped around Ryeowook’s wrist.
He doesn’t know what to do.
For all his acting, he is helpless in times like these. Acting is unable to help him mother Ryeowook like Eeteuk, with bowls of soup and soft concern and quiet calls to management. It can’t drive him to confront Ryeowook like Yesung, a little loud and a lot convincing, invasive of personal space; Wookie, you want to disappear completely or something? Let’s go for ddukbokgi, I’ll give you all the fishcakes. With no script, no scribbled notes in the margins to fall back on, he can’t offer advice and cheer like Donghae, dorkiness and soothing words that put his mind at ease and a smile on his face.
Instead he silently crawls onto the bed in the space between Ryeowook and the wall, resting a careful arm over his waist, hand cautious against the cold skin of Ryeowook’s arm, and molds his body against the side of Ryeowook’s own. He presses his forehead against his shoulder and inhales, exhales. Ryeowook stirs in his sleep.
“Kibummie?” Ryeowook’s voice has always been high, but he sounds exhausted, his voice thin and whisper-quiet in the darkness; Kibum barely catches it. He hums in affirmation, cupping Ryeowook’s elbow with his hand and stroking softly with his fingertips. The baby-smooth skin is just a little too dry, stretched over small bones too sharp against his fingers. He lifts his head from Ryeowook’s shoulder, and can make out Ryeowook gazing at him sleepily, brow furrowed slightly in confusion.
“Is something wrong?” Ryeowook asks, and Kibum feels like he’s going to cry, seeing the concern written over Ryeowook’s thin face, but he’s gotten too good at subconsciously controlling his emotions, so he just gives the tiniest shake of his head in response. He reaches up with his other hand, shifting slightly against Ryeowook, and brushes away the hair starting to fall into the other boy’s eyes.
“No,” he murmurs, “nothing’s wrong with me.” His words are quiet; any louder, and he feels that he might choke.
Ryeowook smiles a small smile before letting his eyelids flutter shut again. “You don’t mind if I just… take a nap, then?”
Kibum’s eyes follow the touch of pale moonlight tracing the slope of Ryeowook’s nose and dipping into the bow of his lips and he wants to say, Yes, I do mind; what’s happening to you, Wook-ah? You’re perfect the way you are, but his throat is still too dry to work without choking and Kibum has never been able to speak so freely, not even to his band mates and friends of five years.
Ryeowook has fallen back to sleep already; Kibum can feel the rise and fall of Ryeowook’s ribcage under his arm. He tightens his hold on the other boy, still holding him gently, but firmly enough so that he won’t slip away. It’s an irrational action that doesn’t quite placate the nervous twisting in his stomach as he lets his head fall back against Ryeowook’s shoulder and his eyes fall shut.
His cheeks are wet when he wakes up later, arms empty and the sounds of Ryeowook chiding Yesung for stealing food from the pan spilling through the open door. Yellow light from the hallway floods over the bed and his body casts misshapen shadows across the coverlet when he sits up, swiping at his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into them. When he plods to the kitchen, squinting against the bright light and leaning against the door frame, he sees Yesung gripping Ryeowook’s slight wrist with one hand and forcing a spoon loaded with rice into Ryeowook’s laughing mouth with the other. Ryeowook sputters indignantly through the huge mouthful, still giggling, and stray grains of rice fall onto the tiled floor.
Yesung is cackling like a madman armed with his metal spoon, but when he notices Kibum standing by the doorway, his grin fades into a quirk of a smile, and he acknowledges him with a slight tilt of his head. Kibum nods and gives him a close-lipped smile.
Unaware of Kibum’s presence, Ryeowook finally swallows the rice and hits Yesung with a weak fist, protesting, “Hyung! I wasn’t hungry!” His face is stretched into a wide, uninhibited smile, happy and carefree, and the delighted curve of his mouth chases away shadows that linger in the plane of his cheek.
Kibum pushes away from the door frame as Yesung turns back to Ryeowook and leans in, murmuring something low, private; as he heads back down the hallway, he can hear that beautiful smile, can almost see it still, in Ryeowook’s soft reply.
He falls into bed with Ryeowook’s tired voice in his ears and his smile in his mind’s eye and forces himself to fall asleep; when he wakes up the next day, he doesn’t remember what he dreamed of, or if he dreamt at all. Phantom impressions (the turn of a full wrist, red strawberries falling from juice-stained hands) linger and then fade in the indistinct grey haze of morning, leaving him only with a sense of restlessness.
PG for implied eating disorder and subsequent worry/semi-angsting/feelings of uselessness.
Sometimes I look at videos and pictures of Wookie recently and my heart aches because his wrists are so slim and tiny and I just want to give him a hug and tell him to stay healthy! This fic spawned from the SJ Random Prompt Generator (Kibum / Ryeowook / collarbones).
.
Kibum’s been watching Ryeowook. He watches the surety with which he moves in the kitchen, the quiet confidence he has in the studio. He watches him as he makes sure everyone is fed, makes sure every grain of rice and every last spoon of soup is eaten. He watches as Yesung teases him about his mothering, his shy smile almost covered by a half-curled fist of delicate fingers that slips to a bony wrist and the flash of a thin arm in the loose sleeve of a hooded sweatshirt a size too big.
He’s been watching Ryeowook, and Kibum knows something is not right when he quietly closes the door to Ryeowook and Yesung’s room behind him, muffling the living-room sounds of the other members, of Kangin’s low, joking voice and Eeteuk’s full-bodied laugh; he knows something is not right when he sees the dark outline of Ryeowook lying on his bed, hands clasped loosely over his stomach and his eyes closed. His breathing is shallow but even in sleep, and it’s only nine in the evening.
From where he stands, Kibum sees the faint shadow of too much sleep to make up for not enough food in the gaunt hollow of Ryeowook’s cheeks, the harsh line highlighted by the moonlight that shines in from the window, and he doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know if it has slipped past Eeteuk’s usually observant notice, if Yesung has pointed it out in the way of his that masks concern with snark, if Donghae has happened upon it and frowned, tilting his head, fingers clasped around Ryeowook’s wrist.
He doesn’t know what to do.
For all his acting, he is helpless in times like these. Acting is unable to help him mother Ryeowook like Eeteuk, with bowls of soup and soft concern and quiet calls to management. It can’t drive him to confront Ryeowook like Yesung, a little loud and a lot convincing, invasive of personal space; Wookie, you want to disappear completely or something? Let’s go for ddukbokgi, I’ll give you all the fishcakes. With no script, no scribbled notes in the margins to fall back on, he can’t offer advice and cheer like Donghae, dorkiness and soothing words that put his mind at ease and a smile on his face.
Instead he silently crawls onto the bed in the space between Ryeowook and the wall, resting a careful arm over his waist, hand cautious against the cold skin of Ryeowook’s arm, and molds his body against the side of Ryeowook’s own. He presses his forehead against his shoulder and inhales, exhales. Ryeowook stirs in his sleep.
“Kibummie?” Ryeowook’s voice has always been high, but he sounds exhausted, his voice thin and whisper-quiet in the darkness; Kibum barely catches it. He hums in affirmation, cupping Ryeowook’s elbow with his hand and stroking softly with his fingertips. The baby-smooth skin is just a little too dry, stretched over small bones too sharp against his fingers. He lifts his head from Ryeowook’s shoulder, and can make out Ryeowook gazing at him sleepily, brow furrowed slightly in confusion.
“Is something wrong?” Ryeowook asks, and Kibum feels like he’s going to cry, seeing the concern written over Ryeowook’s thin face, but he’s gotten too good at subconsciously controlling his emotions, so he just gives the tiniest shake of his head in response. He reaches up with his other hand, shifting slightly against Ryeowook, and brushes away the hair starting to fall into the other boy’s eyes.
“No,” he murmurs, “nothing’s wrong with me.” His words are quiet; any louder, and he feels that he might choke.
Ryeowook smiles a small smile before letting his eyelids flutter shut again. “You don’t mind if I just… take a nap, then?”
Kibum’s eyes follow the touch of pale moonlight tracing the slope of Ryeowook’s nose and dipping into the bow of his lips and he wants to say, Yes, I do mind; what’s happening to you, Wook-ah? You’re perfect the way you are, but his throat is still too dry to work without choking and Kibum has never been able to speak so freely, not even to his band mates and friends of five years.
Ryeowook has fallen back to sleep already; Kibum can feel the rise and fall of Ryeowook’s ribcage under his arm. He tightens his hold on the other boy, still holding him gently, but firmly enough so that he won’t slip away. It’s an irrational action that doesn’t quite placate the nervous twisting in his stomach as he lets his head fall back against Ryeowook’s shoulder and his eyes fall shut.
His cheeks are wet when he wakes up later, arms empty and the sounds of Ryeowook chiding Yesung for stealing food from the pan spilling through the open door. Yellow light from the hallway floods over the bed and his body casts misshapen shadows across the coverlet when he sits up, swiping at his eyes, pressing the heels of his hands into them. When he plods to the kitchen, squinting against the bright light and leaning against the door frame, he sees Yesung gripping Ryeowook’s slight wrist with one hand and forcing a spoon loaded with rice into Ryeowook’s laughing mouth with the other. Ryeowook sputters indignantly through the huge mouthful, still giggling, and stray grains of rice fall onto the tiled floor.
Yesung is cackling like a madman armed with his metal spoon, but when he notices Kibum standing by the doorway, his grin fades into a quirk of a smile, and he acknowledges him with a slight tilt of his head. Kibum nods and gives him a close-lipped smile.
Unaware of Kibum’s presence, Ryeowook finally swallows the rice and hits Yesung with a weak fist, protesting, “Hyung! I wasn’t hungry!” His face is stretched into a wide, uninhibited smile, happy and carefree, and the delighted curve of his mouth chases away shadows that linger in the plane of his cheek.
Kibum pushes away from the door frame as Yesung turns back to Ryeowook and leans in, murmuring something low, private; as he heads back down the hallway, he can hear that beautiful smile, can almost see it still, in Ryeowook’s soft reply.
He falls into bed with Ryeowook’s tired voice in his ears and his smile in his mind’s eye and forces himself to fall asleep; when he wakes up the next day, he doesn’t remember what he dreamed of, or if he dreamt at all. Phantom impressions (the turn of a full wrist, red strawberries falling from juice-stained hands) linger and then fade in the indistinct grey haze of morning, leaving him only with a sense of restlessness.