DRABBLES; 15-minute challenges pt. 3
15-minute drabbles, part three ; various pairings
roselit @ viewscape
angst, gen, romance maybe, fluff ; varying wordcounts
A/N: More 15-minute drabbles from kpfw. Made very minor edits to a couple of them.
____________________
changmin-centric; G, 323w. (prompt)
(this was going to be yoomin, but i ran out of time)
People have always yearned for the unattainable, those idealistic things that seem only to be beyond reach. Years turn into decades into centuries, and the world bears witness to alchemists, scientists, people who play tricks with nature and time and life. Most never did succeed, but some did, they say. There are stories.
Changmin doesn't know all the histories, all the details. He can't bring himself to care enough, a consequence of those days spent on the school's rooftop instead of sitting in desks, instead of committing facts to memory like the automated clones his peers have become. All he knows is what his grandfather used to tell him, about how people used to have hearts-real hearts-once upon a time. It was when the skies weren't clouded over gray, when the air didn't smell of rust and metal, when colors still existed and draped the world in vibrant hues.
But over the course of the years, things changed. Now, they take hearts at birth, just minutes after the first breath, and replace the void with a clunk of steel, clicking (beating) as good as real. And when it's all said and done, babies still cry at their mothers' breasts, warm against her skin but cold and strange and different inside.
Even now, labeled a dropout and delinquent and living the first years of adulthood, Changmin sits by the run-down cafe as he usually does, with a mug of coffee nursed between thin fingers and his grandfather's stories in his head. He takes a glance around the dingy place, a straggler here and there, a couple in the corner.
His eyes catch the old stereo behind the counter, a lilting tune drifting to his ears.
It's quiet enough that if he were to have a heart, Changmin thinks he'd hear it beating against his chest, rhythmic and faint, but there. If he strains enough, all he can hear is something monotone: click, click, click...
jaejoong-centric, slight jaechun; G, 363w. (prompt)
Every Sunday, Jaejoong goes grocery shopping at the supermarket just down the street from their apartment. He goes around noon, give or take, after he's had an early lunch, and he always finishes within the hour.
One particular Sunday, Jaejoong steps out of the supermarket, paper bags threatening to spill from his arms. The grocery list was a bit longer than usual this time, and Jaejoong thinks that Changmin and Junsu are probably the ones to blame for that.
Adjusting the bags for better grip, he makes his way back towards the apartment, and he's halfway there when he hears a small mewl from somewhere just beyond the sidewalk. Jaejoong pretends that he's hearing things, but when the noise comes again, he stops and moves to peer over his bags.
And there, a little further down, at the base of an oak tree lies a small cat, almost lost in its bed of grass. Jaejoong makes his way over and sets his groceries down as he squats to get a better look.
Gray and meek, the cat tilts its head back to gape at Jaejoong, and the latter has to resist the urge to scoop the feline up and take it home. Instead, he reaches into one of his bags, feels around for a moment, and finally retrieves a can of tuna.
Peeling the lid off and setting it down, Jaejoong watches the cat pad over. With a small grin of satisfaction, he gathers his bags and leaves after an affectionate ruffle to the cat's head.
When he gets home, Yoochun's sprawled on the couch, watching TV. Jaejoong sets the groceries onto the kitchen counter and pauses to face Yoochun when the younger man finally meanders over.
"Do you think love comes in cans?"
Yoochun gives him an is-that-a-serious-question look, then remembers that this is Jaejoong and shrugs as he starts digging through the groceries.
"I don't know," Yoochun answers, his voice echoing into the paper bag as he removes item after item onto the counter. "Love doesn't really come self-contained."
Jaejoong mulls over Yoochun's suddenly-philosophic statement, ignores when Yoochun asks him where his tuna is, and thinks that maybe he's wrong.
Maybe.
jaechun; R, 221w. (prompt)
Tonight's not any different, Yoochun knows, despite the smell of a new cologne clinging to starch-white flannel, despite the smirk of a smile on Jaejoong's lips (that could say more, should mean more).
It's everything else that's the same: half past midnight when Jaejoong appears on his doorstep, five minutes later when Jaejoong's coaxed him to the bedroom with hands none too gentle, and almost a quarter 'til when Yoochun feels rough cotton against his bare back and the urgency that is Kim Jaejoong over and around and on top.
Yoochun hates Jaejoong. He hates how Jaejoong knows his every weakness, hates how he knows just where to touch, where to align tongue along skin like he's setting off a trail of fireworks whose sparks never reach Yoochun's eyes. It burns and excites him all the same, again and again as if tragedies were meant to be etched in orbits and choruses and everything that's ever repeated itself.
Tonight's not any different, Yoochun knows. Jaejoong presses down against him, a dark silhouette above, and forces his tongue between Yoochun's lips.
And Yoochun always closes his eyes at this part, switches brain and heart off and surrenders to every push and pull. It's what he can't see that won't hurt him, he believes.
But belief wavers every now and then, doesn't it?
homin; PG, 248w. (prompt)
Changmin's curled into a hardbacked wooden chair by the window, drawing what comfort he can from the sharp edges digging into his back and legs. He spends many of his afternoons here, blinds raised and gazing over cityscapes of brick and glass and asphalt. And he never speaks, barely moves, propped against the sill like an old and misplaced rag doll.
It's this much that Yunho's observed, a habit quick to form and worry easily seeping into his chest. He doesn't say anything the first few times, just passing by the living room of their small apartment with some semblance of purpose. Changmin never moves, never looks his way, and Yunho always finds himself on the brink before tearing himself away and pretending to forget.
One day, Yunho finally approaches him, pulls a chair over until the edge of the seat touches Changmin's, and sits. And as usual, Changmin doesn't say or do a thing, even when Yunho reaches out and traces the patterns of sunlight splattered along Changmin's arm. It's a gentle gesture, fingertips light but real and tangible.
Yunho pauses when he brushes over Changmin's wrist, and then he flattens his palm into Changmin's own, threading their fingers together, a little awkward, a little perfect.
It takes a moment, but Changmin finally shifts, turning until his eyes meet Yunho's. Yunho lets himself smile then, soft but sure. He doesn't say a word, but he's sure Changmin can hear him all the same.
Hello, hello. I'm here.
yoomin; G, 212w. (prompt)
Strung on doubleshot caffeine and a work ethic that bears witness too often to pre-dawn hours, Changmin abandons the desk in his workroom one evening in favor of venturing to Yoochun's. The room is empty when he steps in, keyboards, computers, and carpet alike all littered with scraps of paper. Everything is messy in a way that's characteristically Yoochun, and as Changmin makes his way over to sit on Yoochun's unmade bed, he can't help managing a soft smile.
He lets his eyes wander over the room, dancing over half-effort scrawls on crinkled paper, ink stains and blotches. Unartful art, it's what Changmin calls Yoochun's premature compositions; the chords don't ever meet back the same way, but it's a perfect melody in Changmin's mind.
It always is.
Yoochun appears at the door then, black-framed glasses perched low on his nose and two mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. They make eye contact, and Yoochun breaks into a grin before joining Changmin and offering him a mug.
"Being an artist again, huh?" Changmin mirrors something of a playful smile, long fingers curling around hot porcelain.
Yoochun hums in affirmation but stays where he is, his arm brushing Changmin's just so. They're a masterpiece in the making, but Changmin doesn't tell him that.
jaejoong/eita; G, 338w. (prompt)
(you know, the guy jaejoong's holding hands with here)
Three minutes after scene cut, break is announced and Jaejoong drops into his habitual bows, echoing calls of thank you for your hard work as easily as saying hello.
As the cast and crew alternatively disperse and mill about, Jaejoong subconsciously makes his way to his chair by the set. He all but drops himself into it, sleep deprivation noticeably taking its toll and exhaustion seeping into his nerves. He musters what he hopes is a grateful smile at a young stage hand hovering nearby, just long enough to take the proffered bottle of water and letting it slip from his face when the girl leaves to tend to something else.
Finally left to his own devices, Jaejoong heaves a sigh, letting his head loll back for a moment. He's never entirely alone, always surrounded with voices and the sounds of equipment and cameras rolling. But when he closes his eyes, it hits him hard-noises that aren't noises, people that aren't people, this world is only as familiar as he allows it to be.
"Jaejoong-san?"
He opens his eyes to see Eita pulling a chair alongside and seating himself beside him. There's a certain kind of smile across Eita's lips, genuine with benign curiosity and a sort of fresh camaraderie Jaejoong's only recently discovered. It leaves Jaejoong with a smile, too, even if it's rough around the edges.
"Are you doing all right?" Eita asks in casual Japanese, and when Jaejoong meets his eyes, he knows there's more to it than that. It's like how Eita will call two hours to midnight, when hello actually means let's hang out, and what are you doing means I'm coming over. They're like a messy kind of clockwork, fitting together only in certain places.
Jaejoong doesn't know when things became different, but his smile stretches into a grin, and he thinks he feels the exhaustion lift just a little.
"Yeah," he answers and accepts the unspoken invitation. To them, words never quite meant what they said, not since day one.
jaesu; PG, 244w. (prompt)
Several months into Japan and Junsu starts adopting gag phrases and jokes that he almost doesn't understand. His tongue goes loose on something about you and eggs and yolk, and Jaejoong does little more than shake his head when Junsu claims it'll be his greatest weapon one day, tucking it away in choppy syllables practiced between photoshoots.
Jaejoong doesn't realize how big Junsu's arsenal gets until nearly a year has passed since their foray into the Japanese market. Junsu's gotten smoother by then, seamlessly connecting verbs and particles and nouns like he's been born to think, breathe, speak in the language. Not once does Jaejoong agree with Junsu about the humor level in his jokes, and he's discovered that the mirror is just another place to school his laughter into nothing more than a practiced smile.
The day comes when Junsu unleashes his self-proclaimed 'greatest' weapon, and it's chaotic at best. The audience erupts with laughter and squeals, drowning out every eukyangkyang that follows. Jaejoong finally laughs then, even as he shakes his head, and Junsu catches sight, blossoms into a grin unlike any Jaejoong's seen in a while.
And after the show, Jaejoong makes sure to fall behind just so, to walk two feet by Junsu's side. And when no one else is looking, Jaejoong speaks in a way that only he knows how: lips to lips, with laughter caught between, and he knows he doesn't have to wait for Junsu to understand.
junsu-centric; G, 176w. (prompt)
Heart and soul, he always hears people say, when Junsu sings, he sings; when he laughs, he laughs.
It's not like they're talking in riddles or playing therapist for him, but there's always that moment at the end of the day when Junsu returns to the sanctuary of his quiet apartment. He lets himself unravel then, onion layers giving way to the face he doesn't recognize when he stands before the bathroom mirror.
Well, hello- Maybe it's another voice, a conscience living on its own but not. Junsu can never tell anymore, not since two years ago, when Kim Junsu ceased to exist and when Junsu became not-Junsu.
Sometimes, he ignores it like a stranger would, but sometimes, he listens because the world stopped doing that a while ago. And sometimes, he discovers, there's a treasure inside, something rare and often left unspoken in the faces around him.
Live, Kim Junsu, it tells him, live, live, live.
And Junsu opens the door, steps out, and breathes, if only because no one else ever reminds him to.
jaemin; PG, 258w. (prompt)
Nine times out of ten, Jaejoong does or says something that sets off the switch in Changmin's head. The end result is usually a light fist to the arm or maybe a manly slap to the back. And nine times out of ten, the things Jaejoong says or does aren't somethings, or anythings, really.
(At least, they're the kind of nothings you'd expect from a certain Kim Jaejoong.)
Suffice to say, nine point five times out of ten, Changmin conjures excuses from thin air, for a reason none other than to bridge the space between the eldest and himself. Jaejoong usually retaliates in some form, and Changmin thinks he'd break it down into something like this:
60% punch to the arm;
20% slap on back/arm, plus a push/shove if he's lucky;
15% physical pursuit, with verbal mock-insults; and
5% the unknown abyss
Changmin supposes an explanation is due for the last percentage, but he has no other label for it. He'd call it 'the unexpected' if it weren't for the fact that he has a certain dignity to uphold, and nothing is ever unexpected to Shim Changmin. But all analyses aside, Changmin thinks he's pretty good at guessing Jaejoong's reaction.
Except, of course, those rare moments when Jaejoong lands in that miniscule five percent and throws Changmin off the ropes. It's a pull-in-by-the-neck-and-plant-a-sloppy-kiss maneuver, and before Changmin can recompose himself, Jaejoong's grinning ear to ear and disappearing out the door with a taunt on his tongue.
"Catch me if you can, favorite!"
Changmin follows. Revenge can be bittersweet, he reasons.
____________________
A/N: i know, you're probably sick of these by now lol. D; but i figured this will be it for a while from me in terms of drabbling, so yeah. not crossposting these until later, maybe. :| idk.
roselit @ viewscape
angst, gen, romance maybe, fluff ; varying wordcounts
A/N: More 15-minute drabbles from kpfw. Made very minor edits to a couple of them.
____________________
changmin-centric; G, 323w. (prompt)
(this was going to be yoomin, but i ran out of time)
People have always yearned for the unattainable, those idealistic things that seem only to be beyond reach. Years turn into decades into centuries, and the world bears witness to alchemists, scientists, people who play tricks with nature and time and life. Most never did succeed, but some did, they say. There are stories.
Changmin doesn't know all the histories, all the details. He can't bring himself to care enough, a consequence of those days spent on the school's rooftop instead of sitting in desks, instead of committing facts to memory like the automated clones his peers have become. All he knows is what his grandfather used to tell him, about how people used to have hearts-real hearts-once upon a time. It was when the skies weren't clouded over gray, when the air didn't smell of rust and metal, when colors still existed and draped the world in vibrant hues.
But over the course of the years, things changed. Now, they take hearts at birth, just minutes after the first breath, and replace the void with a clunk of steel, clicking (beating) as good as real. And when it's all said and done, babies still cry at their mothers' breasts, warm against her skin but cold and strange and different inside.
Even now, labeled a dropout and delinquent and living the first years of adulthood, Changmin sits by the run-down cafe as he usually does, with a mug of coffee nursed between thin fingers and his grandfather's stories in his head. He takes a glance around the dingy place, a straggler here and there, a couple in the corner.
His eyes catch the old stereo behind the counter, a lilting tune drifting to his ears.
It's quiet enough that if he were to have a heart, Changmin thinks he'd hear it beating against his chest, rhythmic and faint, but there. If he strains enough, all he can hear is something monotone: click, click, click...
jaejoong-centric, slight jaechun; G, 363w. (prompt)
Every Sunday, Jaejoong goes grocery shopping at the supermarket just down the street from their apartment. He goes around noon, give or take, after he's had an early lunch, and he always finishes within the hour.
One particular Sunday, Jaejoong steps out of the supermarket, paper bags threatening to spill from his arms. The grocery list was a bit longer than usual this time, and Jaejoong thinks that Changmin and Junsu are probably the ones to blame for that.
Adjusting the bags for better grip, he makes his way back towards the apartment, and he's halfway there when he hears a small mewl from somewhere just beyond the sidewalk. Jaejoong pretends that he's hearing things, but when the noise comes again, he stops and moves to peer over his bags.
And there, a little further down, at the base of an oak tree lies a small cat, almost lost in its bed of grass. Jaejoong makes his way over and sets his groceries down as he squats to get a better look.
Gray and meek, the cat tilts its head back to gape at Jaejoong, and the latter has to resist the urge to scoop the feline up and take it home. Instead, he reaches into one of his bags, feels around for a moment, and finally retrieves a can of tuna.
Peeling the lid off and setting it down, Jaejoong watches the cat pad over. With a small grin of satisfaction, he gathers his bags and leaves after an affectionate ruffle to the cat's head.
When he gets home, Yoochun's sprawled on the couch, watching TV. Jaejoong sets the groceries onto the kitchen counter and pauses to face Yoochun when the younger man finally meanders over.
"Do you think love comes in cans?"
Yoochun gives him an is-that-a-serious-question look, then remembers that this is Jaejoong and shrugs as he starts digging through the groceries.
"I don't know," Yoochun answers, his voice echoing into the paper bag as he removes item after item onto the counter. "Love doesn't really come self-contained."
Jaejoong mulls over Yoochun's suddenly-philosophic statement, ignores when Yoochun asks him where his tuna is, and thinks that maybe he's wrong.
Maybe.
jaechun; R, 221w. (prompt)
Tonight's not any different, Yoochun knows, despite the smell of a new cologne clinging to starch-white flannel, despite the smirk of a smile on Jaejoong's lips (that could say more, should mean more).
It's everything else that's the same: half past midnight when Jaejoong appears on his doorstep, five minutes later when Jaejoong's coaxed him to the bedroom with hands none too gentle, and almost a quarter 'til when Yoochun feels rough cotton against his bare back and the urgency that is Kim Jaejoong over and around and on top.
Yoochun hates Jaejoong. He hates how Jaejoong knows his every weakness, hates how he knows just where to touch, where to align tongue along skin like he's setting off a trail of fireworks whose sparks never reach Yoochun's eyes. It burns and excites him all the same, again and again as if tragedies were meant to be etched in orbits and choruses and everything that's ever repeated itself.
Tonight's not any different, Yoochun knows. Jaejoong presses down against him, a dark silhouette above, and forces his tongue between Yoochun's lips.
And Yoochun always closes his eyes at this part, switches brain and heart off and surrenders to every push and pull. It's what he can't see that won't hurt him, he believes.
But belief wavers every now and then, doesn't it?
homin; PG, 248w. (prompt)
Changmin's curled into a hardbacked wooden chair by the window, drawing what comfort he can from the sharp edges digging into his back and legs. He spends many of his afternoons here, blinds raised and gazing over cityscapes of brick and glass and asphalt. And he never speaks, barely moves, propped against the sill like an old and misplaced rag doll.
It's this much that Yunho's observed, a habit quick to form and worry easily seeping into his chest. He doesn't say anything the first few times, just passing by the living room of their small apartment with some semblance of purpose. Changmin never moves, never looks his way, and Yunho always finds himself on the brink before tearing himself away and pretending to forget.
One day, Yunho finally approaches him, pulls a chair over until the edge of the seat touches Changmin's, and sits. And as usual, Changmin doesn't say or do a thing, even when Yunho reaches out and traces the patterns of sunlight splattered along Changmin's arm. It's a gentle gesture, fingertips light but real and tangible.
Yunho pauses when he brushes over Changmin's wrist, and then he flattens his palm into Changmin's own, threading their fingers together, a little awkward, a little perfect.
It takes a moment, but Changmin finally shifts, turning until his eyes meet Yunho's. Yunho lets himself smile then, soft but sure. He doesn't say a word, but he's sure Changmin can hear him all the same.
Hello, hello. I'm here.
yoomin; G, 212w. (prompt)
Strung on doubleshot caffeine and a work ethic that bears witness too often to pre-dawn hours, Changmin abandons the desk in his workroom one evening in favor of venturing to Yoochun's. The room is empty when he steps in, keyboards, computers, and carpet alike all littered with scraps of paper. Everything is messy in a way that's characteristically Yoochun, and as Changmin makes his way over to sit on Yoochun's unmade bed, he can't help managing a soft smile.
He lets his eyes wander over the room, dancing over half-effort scrawls on crinkled paper, ink stains and blotches. Unartful art, it's what Changmin calls Yoochun's premature compositions; the chords don't ever meet back the same way, but it's a perfect melody in Changmin's mind.
It always is.
Yoochun appears at the door then, black-framed glasses perched low on his nose and two mugs of steaming coffee in his hands. They make eye contact, and Yoochun breaks into a grin before joining Changmin and offering him a mug.
"Being an artist again, huh?" Changmin mirrors something of a playful smile, long fingers curling around hot porcelain.
Yoochun hums in affirmation but stays where he is, his arm brushing Changmin's just so. They're a masterpiece in the making, but Changmin doesn't tell him that.
jaejoong/eita; G, 338w. (prompt)
(you know, the guy jaejoong's holding hands with here)
Three minutes after scene cut, break is announced and Jaejoong drops into his habitual bows, echoing calls of thank you for your hard work as easily as saying hello.
As the cast and crew alternatively disperse and mill about, Jaejoong subconsciously makes his way to his chair by the set. He all but drops himself into it, sleep deprivation noticeably taking its toll and exhaustion seeping into his nerves. He musters what he hopes is a grateful smile at a young stage hand hovering nearby, just long enough to take the proffered bottle of water and letting it slip from his face when the girl leaves to tend to something else.
Finally left to his own devices, Jaejoong heaves a sigh, letting his head loll back for a moment. He's never entirely alone, always surrounded with voices and the sounds of equipment and cameras rolling. But when he closes his eyes, it hits him hard-noises that aren't noises, people that aren't people, this world is only as familiar as he allows it to be.
"Jaejoong-san?"
He opens his eyes to see Eita pulling a chair alongside and seating himself beside him. There's a certain kind of smile across Eita's lips, genuine with benign curiosity and a sort of fresh camaraderie Jaejoong's only recently discovered. It leaves Jaejoong with a smile, too, even if it's rough around the edges.
"Are you doing all right?" Eita asks in casual Japanese, and when Jaejoong meets his eyes, he knows there's more to it than that. It's like how Eita will call two hours to midnight, when hello actually means let's hang out, and what are you doing means I'm coming over. They're like a messy kind of clockwork, fitting together only in certain places.
Jaejoong doesn't know when things became different, but his smile stretches into a grin, and he thinks he feels the exhaustion lift just a little.
"Yeah," he answers and accepts the unspoken invitation. To them, words never quite meant what they said, not since day one.
jaesu; PG, 244w. (prompt)
Several months into Japan and Junsu starts adopting gag phrases and jokes that he almost doesn't understand. His tongue goes loose on something about you and eggs and yolk, and Jaejoong does little more than shake his head when Junsu claims it'll be his greatest weapon one day, tucking it away in choppy syllables practiced between photoshoots.
Jaejoong doesn't realize how big Junsu's arsenal gets until nearly a year has passed since their foray into the Japanese market. Junsu's gotten smoother by then, seamlessly connecting verbs and particles and nouns like he's been born to think, breathe, speak in the language. Not once does Jaejoong agree with Junsu about the humor level in his jokes, and he's discovered that the mirror is just another place to school his laughter into nothing more than a practiced smile.
The day comes when Junsu unleashes his self-proclaimed 'greatest' weapon, and it's chaotic at best. The audience erupts with laughter and squeals, drowning out every eukyangkyang that follows. Jaejoong finally laughs then, even as he shakes his head, and Junsu catches sight, blossoms into a grin unlike any Jaejoong's seen in a while.
And after the show, Jaejoong makes sure to fall behind just so, to walk two feet by Junsu's side. And when no one else is looking, Jaejoong speaks in a way that only he knows how: lips to lips, with laughter caught between, and he knows he doesn't have to wait for Junsu to understand.
junsu-centric; G, 176w. (prompt)
Heart and soul, he always hears people say, when Junsu sings, he sings; when he laughs, he laughs.
It's not like they're talking in riddles or playing therapist for him, but there's always that moment at the end of the day when Junsu returns to the sanctuary of his quiet apartment. He lets himself unravel then, onion layers giving way to the face he doesn't recognize when he stands before the bathroom mirror.
Well, hello- Maybe it's another voice, a conscience living on its own but not. Junsu can never tell anymore, not since two years ago, when Kim Junsu ceased to exist and when Junsu became not-Junsu.
Sometimes, he ignores it like a stranger would, but sometimes, he listens because the world stopped doing that a while ago. And sometimes, he discovers, there's a treasure inside, something rare and often left unspoken in the faces around him.
Live, Kim Junsu, it tells him, live, live, live.
And Junsu opens the door, steps out, and breathes, if only because no one else ever reminds him to.
jaemin; PG, 258w. (prompt)
Nine times out of ten, Jaejoong does or says something that sets off the switch in Changmin's head. The end result is usually a light fist to the arm or maybe a manly slap to the back. And nine times out of ten, the things Jaejoong says or does aren't somethings, or anythings, really.
(At least, they're the kind of nothings you'd expect from a certain Kim Jaejoong.)
Suffice to say, nine point five times out of ten, Changmin conjures excuses from thin air, for a reason none other than to bridge the space between the eldest and himself. Jaejoong usually retaliates in some form, and Changmin thinks he'd break it down into something like this:
60% punch to the arm;
20% slap on back/arm, plus a push/shove if he's lucky;
15% physical pursuit, with verbal mock-insults; and
5% the unknown abyss
Changmin supposes an explanation is due for the last percentage, but he has no other label for it. He'd call it 'the unexpected' if it weren't for the fact that he has a certain dignity to uphold, and nothing is ever unexpected to Shim Changmin. But all analyses aside, Changmin thinks he's pretty good at guessing Jaejoong's reaction.
Except, of course, those rare moments when Jaejoong lands in that miniscule five percent and throws Changmin off the ropes. It's a pull-in-by-the-neck-and-plant-a-sloppy-kiss maneuver, and before Changmin can recompose himself, Jaejoong's grinning ear to ear and disappearing out the door with a taunt on his tongue.
"Catch me if you can, favorite!"
Changmin follows. Revenge can be bittersweet, he reasons.
____________________
A/N: i know, you're probably sick of these by now lol. D; but i figured this will be it for a while from me in terms of drabbling, so yeah. not crossposting these until later, maybe. :| idk.