perrier out of a paper bag
title: perrier out of a paper bag
pairing: yoosu ♥
rating: PG-13
fluff. idek. kinda angsty, perhaps.
4435 words.
there is something very odd about normal, daily activities. junsu has decided, seeing as he cannot get through a day without fidgeting and daydreaming, that he has been too focused on one thing for too long and lived too little in the common world. he is the perfect glitch in the collectivist society existing around him.
before, it has always been like watching in from the outside - they returned home for three, sometimes four days off and hardly had to adapt to anything less glamorous than their celebrity lives. paparazzi followed them, fans asked for autographs on the backs of cell phones; nothing really changed aside from having no schedule.
but now time stretches and warps him into a new world; a world he is experiencing from the inside, looking out. deep-rooted urges have him longing for the stage, longing for the raspy feeling in his throat after a concert.
he kind of misses the wig he had to wear impersonating mozart; it made him look incredibly awkward in normal light yet had him feeling like a million bucks on stage. at least mozart had derived his attention long enough to keep him from panicking.
as it is all a matter of the past now, it no longer occupies his life and thus he does panic. he tries to come up with something pretty; a melody, a word - anything less lonely and less sixteen-all-over-again. all his books and cds are lined up alphabetically already. he's called his brother and has been to the game centre too often this past week.
nothing quite suffices.
there are random memories on his mind, all the time;
”dali!”
yoochun is the cool summer breeze smelling of warm roses and walks through the park at twilight. he is like the colours orange and lilac mixed up with a hue of deep red and a tinge of mint green; he buys junsu shaved ice which tastes like artificial cherries. they make a picture with dali as changmin explains who the man is.
junsu never really listens to changmin anyway. the boy is far too smart for him, far too tall and handsome, cunningly so as if it were his intention to be the personification of sarcasm itself. junsu watches yoochun listening, wonders where the man bought his sunglasses from and trips over his own feet twice.
they never quite make it back to their hotel rooms. jaejoong and yunho venture off into streets unknown, hunting down souvenirs and obligatory postcards. changmin pays to enter an art exhibition. junsu feels yoochun tailing him and slows down a couple of steps.
“you would make a lousy detective,” he says, burying his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket because they keep going places, keep pointing at things unfamiliar.
yoochun folds his arms behind his head, pretends to be lying down on the air as he walks. the sun reflects off his glasses. “they would have to pay me big bucks to get me to follow you,” he retorts, but it is always a joke and makes it less scary to walk around in the heart of europe without knowing a word of proper french.
junsu supposes they could run away, if they really wanted to. some staff is following them, but they would be easy to outrun and honestly, what would be the worst thing that could possibly happen to them?
later on they are leaning against the railing of a bridge, watching the sky as it turns dark. the staff is having dinner at a restaurant nearby, but junsu is not hungry. he presses his shoulder against yoochun’s as they stand there side by side.
“do you remember that art shop from before? the one jaejoong bought that hideous painting at?” yoochun talks in a slow voice, not deliberately. junsu can hear the tremor, knows all the ways the other man’s tone can bend and stretch and listens. “I need to get my mom one of those sketches of the eiffel tower.”
junsu is not sure what triggers it, but he feels so small all of the sudden. twisting, he manoeuvres his arm through the other man’s and links their hands on top of the railing. sometimes yoochun says things that hold too much of his heart.
“hey you,” is what jaejoong calls him over the phone, “you with the cute butt.”
“it’s not very cute right now,” junsu informs him. he wriggles in his seat some as if to empathise his point (- he is still somewhat under the impression he is not alone) and adds; “hey. so what do people do on sundays?”
he can hear jaejoong’s eyebrow lift. “us people, or people in general?”
perhaps that question is the problem. “would it be weird if I’d go out and walk the city on my own?”
it stays silent on the other end, until the noise of something big falling over distorts the connection. “damnit. I think I wrecked my cabinet,” jaejoong sounds pensive. “sorry about that- I knew I should’ve- well. anyway. now what. you don’t know how to behave like a human anymore?”
junsu shrugs and absentmindedly waits for jaejoong to say something.
“is this what I think it is? are you feeling unhappy?” worry.
“well- no, not really. not unhappy,” junsu frowns real hard, unsure of how to answer that question exactly. it has nothing to do with anything jaejoong can imagine him being unhappy with. it is a different type of discomfort.
“hey. it’s probably just after-gig depression. you know how those days go. there's suddenly so much time. don’t worry so much.” it is like jaejoong is trying to convince himself, too.
before he hangs up he wants to say something like, but you guys were always there after gigs, but it sounds stupid in his head so he just fakes a smile against the mouthpiece and kisses the plastic when the other makes smooching sounds.
but there really is too much time. all these vast empty minutes piled upon one another, crashing into walls of more piled up minutes as they pass. by now he has come up with words, yes; he has come up with melodies and songs, entire elegies dedicated solely to the passing of time.
“I never noticed the clock doesn’t work anymore,” yoochun takes the thing off the wall and sits down cross-legged on the couch. junsu turns off the tv.
somewhere in the house, yunho is singing. he is always practicing, always looking for improvement. junsu admires the older man because of that, yet cannot help but listen more carefully sometimes, just to pick up the sound of yoochun playing the piano.
the other singer takes the batteries out of the clock and flings them onto the floor. “dibbs on the playstation,” he mentions in between looking round at junsu and successfully pushing the remote control onto the floor as well when stretching his legs. he grins widely, fatigue drawing lines on his face.
“dibbs on the tv, then,” junsu tries, leaning back against the armrest with his head and pushing his feet against the side of the other man’s thigh. he feels oddly smug.
yoochun looks scandalized. “everybody knows the playstation and the tv come as a set, you can’t just randomly bend the rules of obvious reality,” he claims, then stares at the empty battery compartment. he tosses the clock aside.
“there’s something like obvious reality?” junsu feels something tug on the corners of his mouth, but he fights it because he hardly ever gets the chance to ridicule yoochun nowadays. not when the man is so serious and hardworking.
“obviously there is.” pale fingers wrap around junsu’s socked feet and press just hard enough for him to feel , but too weakly to react to.
junsu closes his eyes and allows himself to focus on the other’s pulse; a steady rhythm throbbing in the other’s leg. “obviously, I go beyond reality.” this time he does smile.
when he opens his eyes again, yoochun’s hands are on his ankles and he knows that there is a possibility the other might push him off the couch, or something. he waits for it. “I’m very glad you agree to that yourself,” is all yoochun replies and when junsu kicks the man’s hands away he can feel him laugh. it is much like adrenaline rushing through his veins.
how strange it is to imagine a stage with the five of them, adding more forevers caught on tape to their history of moments of small eternities. he knows they will exist again, some day - maybe in a year, maybe in five. perhaps not until he has forgotten how to sing.
the things people do and the ways a man can think are starting to scare him. there are far too many choices and possibilities, far too many questions and mysteries. he has forgotten how to love pondering on them, keeps forgetting how to embrace the habits of his wandering mind.
it is one of those lazy hours in the afternoon when his phone buzzes to announce he has received a text message;
from:park yoochun
‘I secretly recorded your T_T
performance with my phone
in daegu and ive watched it
twice today and will go watch
it some more after this. in
conclusion, I think I deserve
some of your ginseng tea
because I feel fabulous and
sophisticated today’
it is true, he does have ginseng tea and junsu would be the last to claim that ginseng tea is not meant for fabulous and sophisticated people. yet half-way through his reply, he scrolls back up to read yoochun’s message again.
a shiver runs through him. the curling sensation of warmth spreading up to his shoulders, immediately bringing comfort. he replies;
to:park yoochun
‘your watching me sounds
horribly obsessive, stalker fan.
why not just ask for my sign
on your face. it would easily
fit on your forehead. but I do
respect your dedication and
therefore will gladly come and
drink some tea with you.’
maybe it is because they were never awkward. junsu remembers feeling sort of shy in the very beginning, unsure of how to face a ‘foreigner’ and remembers being nervous and excited when greeting the other. throughout the years, their first meeting is the only memorable thing coming close to awkwardness.
he does not specifically remember hugging the other for the first time, or holding his hand or wiping his tears - he finds it rather hard to imagine there was a time when he did not do that, a time when he did not know the others yet.
from:park yoochun
‘I am sorry, I didn’t mean for
you to misunderstand. surely I
said I deserved some tea,
nothing along the lines of you
coming with that. but alas, so be
it then. see you now, bring tea.’
he waits on yoochun’s doorstep. though it is practically next door, it is as if though he is in another city. the familiarity he used to have seems to be ebbing away and it makes yoochun’s house look ridiculously huge.
yoochun looks different after sex. the man does not even have to share his stories of the previous night, it is as if though junsu can see them written on the man’s skin in the shape of the hickeys on his neck. he carries around an air of fulfilment, limbs lazy in their movements and eyes pleasantly half-lidded.
he smokes cigarettes hanging out of the window, leaning his upper body through the open space. it is an irritating habit and it makes junsu restless; it makes him angry. he watches yoochun smoke his hours away over girls with pretty faces and long nails as the sun sets and dyes the walls an eerie orange.
the girl does not reply to his messages left and eventually yoochun settles onto the floor with his back pressed against the wall, pretends he is listening to music.
junsu wants to laugh at him, though not really; “hey, what if we went out to get some food?”
nobody is hungry for anything, not anymore. it is a stupid suggestion. yoochun shifts and lifts himself up off the floor, unsteady on his feet for a second or two before he even responds to junsu’s presence. “I wrote a song in your key,” he says, unrelated to the topic.
junsu takes the lead to the music room, knowing the other man will follow eventually. he wants to say something more, but yoochun chooses to be incredibly silent and strengthens the walls around his heart once more. it is so very tiring to see, yet yoochun still takes his place at the piano and plays.
the song is not meant for him at all, junsu knows this. despite that, he sings it. his tongue twists around words that hurt; words that scratch and cut and make things bleed. he feels his heart race when the moon is out, doing absolutely nothing for yoochun’s already sleep-deprived figure.
nevertheless, junsu misses a note. nevertheless, he cannot look away. he wants to know what it is deep down in the other’s soul; whatever it is. junsu knows he can handle it.
“I am wearing two different socks today,” yoochun proudly announces as he lets junsu in. his hair is straight and his face is devoid of make-up, yet the man knows how to dress himself even if he is just wearing sweatpants and an old sweater.
junsu snickers. “of all the intelligent things you could’ve said,” he proceeds to take off his shoes and ruffles harang’s fur when the dog runs up to him.
“oh shut up. you look horrible. joongie said something about your butt not being cute today,” yoochun ushers him into the living area and lowers the volume of the music some. “I had to come up with all these lies to get you here. I don’t even like ginseng tea.”
of course, junsu knows these things. he knows what the others like and dislike by now, even if he gets horribly distracted from time to time. he recognises the offer yoochun is attempting to make and he hesitates whether or not to accept it without a struggle. there is always a feeling of immense selfishness involved when allowing yoochun to treat him like some charity project.
sighing, he flops down on the big leather couch and listens to the other man making tea in the kitchen. he did not even bother to bring along the ginseng leaves in the first place. from the familiar scent he can tell yoochun’s chosen jasmine instead; he supposes he could meet the effort halfway.
real men never talk. not according to plan, in any case. out of all the heartfelt conversations junsu has had, none were actually meant to happen. yunho speaks to him like a father, opens him up like a can; junsu feels less occupied with things after they talk. with yoochun it sometimes happens when they are weary of jokes and always where nobody is around.
deep in the night, yoochun wraps a blanket around himself and offers junsu the other half to wrap around his shoulders. they sit side by side in front of the tv, but both know that they will not finish watching the show.
it is either when junsu leans his head on the other man’s shoulder or when yoochun’s fingers seek out the other’s that they start talking. there is no insecurity when they turn serious because there are no words that junsu does not expect. with a heart as big as yoochun’s, it is necessary to understand how even little things can curl up inside the man and captivate him.
yoochun’s low voice, vibrating in the man’s throat is a pleasant mantra lulling his body into complete comfort. his limbs are relaxed, warm and resting, like hugging a big stuffed animal or sleeping on satin sheets - that type of comfort junsu fears he only finds in yoochun’s presence.
no longer does anyone believe they were put together by a manager, were introduced through their mutual interest; there is none of that left anymore. what is left is something akin to meant-to-be and being generally lucky, being absolutely privileged to have met. junsu knows they are no longer friends, no longer as brothers; he can feel it in the press of yoochun’s fingers on his wrist, can smell it when he closes his eyes and leans a little closer to the other’s neck.
it is a good thing yoochun is such a sentimental idiot. it makes it less strange to discuss what is on his mind. he pretends that he is not gradually shifting closer, pretends that when he presses a soft kiss below the other’s jaw it is just a friendly gesture. yoochun turns his head to look at him, eyes soft and red and wet - he smiles.
there are nights when they talk until sunrise.
“you’re an idiot, you know that, right?” yoochun says later, when they are both on his couch, nursing cups of tea and easy conversation. it is taking a turn for a more serious topic, but junsu allows it because he knows he can.
yet he wants to deny. “I know I am, but what are you,” he tries in butchered english and successfully makes yoochun double over with laughter for the first time that day. he cannot imagine doing otherwise.
after the man’s hiccoughs die down, yoochun’s expression changes as well and junsu bites on the inside of his lip. “what I am?” yoochun sighs and pauses, takes a sip from his tea and burns his tongue. he looks up at junsu with a look reserved for occasions. like when they cannot be overheard backstage and share a piece of hidden chocolate.
“worried? I suppose,” yoochun answers after a long time. he pushes the hair out of his face and stares at junsu directly. it is confronting, but not intimidating anymore. it has stopped being intimidating a long time ago.
echoing the man’s sigh, junsu sinks a little deeper into the soft mess of pillows on his side of the couch. he simply stares back at the other and allows a minute to pass by silently. “I can’t think anymore,” he says eventually, not expecting yoochun to make a witty comment at this point. “thinking upsets.”
”honestly, you’re like a wall. I can talk all I want and you still manage to stare back at me blankly. sometimes I even wonder if you-“ junsu zones out again, rests his eyes on yoochun’s necklace and wonders what the pendant exactly portrays. he cannot quite figure it out, it looks a little like a star, but something is off.
something wacks him over the head.
junsu looks up. “no, I was listening. just before, you said you wanted mochi but minnie-ah said you were getting fat and then joongie said it’d be fine because he’s taking all your clothes anyway. I also heard you say someone put gum under your chair.”
“it’s true. I did say that. and I still stand by my words,” changmin offers, grinning over the edge of his magazine as three stylists hang around him like a swarm of bees.
yoochun rolls his eyes. “world! this guy is going to be the death of me,” he exclaims loudly to the rest of the room and from the other end, jaejoong’s laughter comes ringing.
“stage in ten,” yunho announces, a smile travelling over his serious face as he looks at them.
when yoochun tries to hit him on the head again but misses, junsu sticks out his tongue. “loser.”
but even though that and even though there is no time, yoochun pulls the other aside for a brief second, in between the racks of clothing and the props.
curious, junsu raises his eyebrows and is awarded with a nod of yoochun’s head; “I finished that song for our grand leader last night. I don’t want the others to know yet, okay?”
a slow grin stretches junsu’s mouth. “you need my musical hearing and ability,” he declares. he expects the punch against his shoulder that yoochun playfully throws and blocks it.
“genius,” yoochun scolds with fondness in his eyes.
“loser.”
somehow yoochun magically pulls out a blanket from somewhere and they are leaning against each other, sipping their tea silently. although the tv is on, there is more talking left to be done. yet they take their time, conversation having died out after junsu’s words.
the weather comes on, predicting spring. “I know that we’re going to be fine,” junsu eventually adds, glancing at yoochun as he leans into him a little. “I know that.”
because somewhere deep down inside he knows that yoochun would give up in a blink if he quit. it feels kind of sad and warm at the same time, knowing that there is someone like the other man, next to him and for him. the other’s sentimental personality is beginning to rub off after all these years.
“you just miss it,” yoochun tries, putting his tea down on the table and slipping his arm around the other man’s waist. it is intimate, but familiar. there should not be any barriers between the two of them.
“I just miss it,” junsu agrees. he leans his cheek against the other’s shoulder, somewhere at the beginning of his chest. he imagines blood flowing through the other, breathing in life and vitality and all these wonderful ideas that sometimes make him a hopeless dreamer. mostly, he imagines talent and a sense of trust. he would be silly to think yoochun is ever going to be somewhere else other than at his side.
they never go out in seoul, because it is simply too crowded for a well-known idol to be wandering about. they went out in osaka before, but now they are in tokyo and try to walk the darker streets of the metropolis.
yoochun's japanese is so much better when he is in conversation with random, dancing people, drinking alcohol and sharing laughter. he is open and all over the place, social the way jaejoong taught him and junsu watches from the sidelines.
after three songs, yoochun comes over and orders edamame with his beer. he leans against the bar and stares at junsu pleasantly. “bored?” he wonders.
junsu pushes himself away from the wall and sits down on one of the barstools. he feels yoochun’s hand slip onto his thigh and shakes his head. “not bored. was watching yunho dance. he's trying to impress a girl, maybe-“
edamame appears and yoochun is momentarily distracted. he pops the beans into his mouth and slides his hand up higher. “you should dance, too,” yoochun laughs and washes the snack down with beer. junsu considers his options and then shakes his head again.
“I’m going to get some air instead,” he says and slips off the stool. he makes way for the door, but yoochun follows him and so he comes to a halt.
“hey. what is wrong with you? why are you so-“ yoochun waves his hand about and junsu runs a hand through his hair. “you know. we're in a club, we never come here. at least have some fun, I want to see you smile.”
yoochun talks too easy when he is getting drunk, but it does cheer him up. “I’ll just find changmin and get him wasted. I need something to blackmail him with anyway.”
grinning, yoochun reaches out and hooks his arm around his neck. he pulls their heads closer until their foreheads touch. half-veiled by the tangled mess that is yoochun’s ridiculous new hair, their eyes lock.
“you. you don’t know half how people long to just see you. dance a little, find something cute, make someone’s day- make your day.”
it does sound a little silly, with yoochun’s breath gushing over his lips and the man’s fingers pressing in his neck, but he supposes yoochun is right. the man has a thing for pin-pointing his mind and he imagines oxygen rushing into the other’s body with every breath he takes. he parts his lips, watches yoochun’s eyes twinkle.
he is pushed onto the dance floor mere seconds later, drowning in a crowd of scarcely-dressed teenagers. he does not want to dance, but people recognise him. he remembers sharing a breath with the other and it is still warm in his lungs.
he wakes up but keeps his eyes closed. sleep drunk, he rubs his face against the warm thing beside him. regaining consciousness, he inhales deeply and recognises the smell. when he opens his eyes, his eyelashes go brushing against yoochun’s neck. the other man shivers.
“fell asleep?” junsu mumbles, getting a mouthful of t-shirt. he groans and shifts a little, realizes they are still on the couch but somehow oddly entangled with the blanket, with each other. he chews on his lip.
“myeah,” yoochun sounds just as buzzed, turning his head to look at him. they move until they’re both resting their heads on the armrest, facing one another. their legs tighten around the other’s, keeping some sort of balance to refrain from sliding off the pillows.
junsu does not really know what to say, so he just stares.
“feel better, though?” yoochun asks lazily, his arm sliding around the small of the other’s back. their bodies press closer and their noses touch.
not answering, junsu feels his consciousness slip again, sometimes steadying his view of yoochun and sometimes blurring it. he parts his lips and this time he talks, but he does not even have to. his words are caught by yoochun’s tongue, suddenly there and learning the shapes by tracing his own.
this is what normal people do.
yoochun introduces himself as ‘micky’ and shyly hovers around the manager. he shakes all their hands and looks at all their faces, but junsu knows he cannot remember their names in one go.
afterwards, when things are less formal and they are huddled up in what is going to be their van, yoochun asks him for his name and age again.
“that means we’re friends,” he says, something akin to hope readable in his eyes.
junsu smiles. “yeah,” he watches yoochun smile too, “that means we’re friends indeed.”
“so, when uhm, when there’s something on your mind-“ yoochun makes a vague gesture with his hands. junsu blinks at the other boy, but catches his drift. it would be too awkward had yoochun finished what he wanted to say. boys don’t do that.
“yeah, sure. likewise.” but he still smiles widely.
note: written for applesu. because reasons. and stuff.
pairing: yoosu ♥
rating: PG-13
fluff. idek. kinda angsty, perhaps.
4435 words.
there is something very odd about normal, daily activities. junsu has decided, seeing as he cannot get through a day without fidgeting and daydreaming, that he has been too focused on one thing for too long and lived too little in the common world. he is the perfect glitch in the collectivist society existing around him.
before, it has always been like watching in from the outside - they returned home for three, sometimes four days off and hardly had to adapt to anything less glamorous than their celebrity lives. paparazzi followed them, fans asked for autographs on the backs of cell phones; nothing really changed aside from having no schedule.
but now time stretches and warps him into a new world; a world he is experiencing from the inside, looking out. deep-rooted urges have him longing for the stage, longing for the raspy feeling in his throat after a concert.
he kind of misses the wig he had to wear impersonating mozart; it made him look incredibly awkward in normal light yet had him feeling like a million bucks on stage. at least mozart had derived his attention long enough to keep him from panicking.
as it is all a matter of the past now, it no longer occupies his life and thus he does panic. he tries to come up with something pretty; a melody, a word - anything less lonely and less sixteen-all-over-again. all his books and cds are lined up alphabetically already. he's called his brother and has been to the game centre too often this past week.
nothing quite suffices.
there are random memories on his mind, all the time;
”dali!”
yoochun is the cool summer breeze smelling of warm roses and walks through the park at twilight. he is like the colours orange and lilac mixed up with a hue of deep red and a tinge of mint green; he buys junsu shaved ice which tastes like artificial cherries. they make a picture with dali as changmin explains who the man is.
junsu never really listens to changmin anyway. the boy is far too smart for him, far too tall and handsome, cunningly so as if it were his intention to be the personification of sarcasm itself. junsu watches yoochun listening, wonders where the man bought his sunglasses from and trips over his own feet twice.
they never quite make it back to their hotel rooms. jaejoong and yunho venture off into streets unknown, hunting down souvenirs and obligatory postcards. changmin pays to enter an art exhibition. junsu feels yoochun tailing him and slows down a couple of steps.
“you would make a lousy detective,” he says, burying his hands deep in the pockets of his jacket because they keep going places, keep pointing at things unfamiliar.
yoochun folds his arms behind his head, pretends to be lying down on the air as he walks. the sun reflects off his glasses. “they would have to pay me big bucks to get me to follow you,” he retorts, but it is always a joke and makes it less scary to walk around in the heart of europe without knowing a word of proper french.
junsu supposes they could run away, if they really wanted to. some staff is following them, but they would be easy to outrun and honestly, what would be the worst thing that could possibly happen to them?
later on they are leaning against the railing of a bridge, watching the sky as it turns dark. the staff is having dinner at a restaurant nearby, but junsu is not hungry. he presses his shoulder against yoochun’s as they stand there side by side.
“do you remember that art shop from before? the one jaejoong bought that hideous painting at?” yoochun talks in a slow voice, not deliberately. junsu can hear the tremor, knows all the ways the other man’s tone can bend and stretch and listens. “I need to get my mom one of those sketches of the eiffel tower.”
junsu is not sure what triggers it, but he feels so small all of the sudden. twisting, he manoeuvres his arm through the other man’s and links their hands on top of the railing. sometimes yoochun says things that hold too much of his heart.
“hey you,” is what jaejoong calls him over the phone, “you with the cute butt.”
“it’s not very cute right now,” junsu informs him. he wriggles in his seat some as if to empathise his point (- he is still somewhat under the impression he is not alone) and adds; “hey. so what do people do on sundays?”
he can hear jaejoong’s eyebrow lift. “us people, or people in general?”
perhaps that question is the problem. “would it be weird if I’d go out and walk the city on my own?”
it stays silent on the other end, until the noise of something big falling over distorts the connection. “damnit. I think I wrecked my cabinet,” jaejoong sounds pensive. “sorry about that- I knew I should’ve- well. anyway. now what. you don’t know how to behave like a human anymore?”
junsu shrugs and absentmindedly waits for jaejoong to say something.
“is this what I think it is? are you feeling unhappy?” worry.
“well- no, not really. not unhappy,” junsu frowns real hard, unsure of how to answer that question exactly. it has nothing to do with anything jaejoong can imagine him being unhappy with. it is a different type of discomfort.
“hey. it’s probably just after-gig depression. you know how those days go. there's suddenly so much time. don’t worry so much.” it is like jaejoong is trying to convince himself, too.
before he hangs up he wants to say something like, but you guys were always there after gigs, but it sounds stupid in his head so he just fakes a smile against the mouthpiece and kisses the plastic when the other makes smooching sounds.
but there really is too much time. all these vast empty minutes piled upon one another, crashing into walls of more piled up minutes as they pass. by now he has come up with words, yes; he has come up with melodies and songs, entire elegies dedicated solely to the passing of time.
“I never noticed the clock doesn’t work anymore,” yoochun takes the thing off the wall and sits down cross-legged on the couch. junsu turns off the tv.
somewhere in the house, yunho is singing. he is always practicing, always looking for improvement. junsu admires the older man because of that, yet cannot help but listen more carefully sometimes, just to pick up the sound of yoochun playing the piano.
the other singer takes the batteries out of the clock and flings them onto the floor. “dibbs on the playstation,” he mentions in between looking round at junsu and successfully pushing the remote control onto the floor as well when stretching his legs. he grins widely, fatigue drawing lines on his face.
“dibbs on the tv, then,” junsu tries, leaning back against the armrest with his head and pushing his feet against the side of the other man’s thigh. he feels oddly smug.
yoochun looks scandalized. “everybody knows the playstation and the tv come as a set, you can’t just randomly bend the rules of obvious reality,” he claims, then stares at the empty battery compartment. he tosses the clock aside.
“there’s something like obvious reality?” junsu feels something tug on the corners of his mouth, but he fights it because he hardly ever gets the chance to ridicule yoochun nowadays. not when the man is so serious and hardworking.
“obviously there is.” pale fingers wrap around junsu’s socked feet and press just hard enough for him to feel , but too weakly to react to.
junsu closes his eyes and allows himself to focus on the other’s pulse; a steady rhythm throbbing in the other’s leg. “obviously, I go beyond reality.” this time he does smile.
when he opens his eyes again, yoochun’s hands are on his ankles and he knows that there is a possibility the other might push him off the couch, or something. he waits for it. “I’m very glad you agree to that yourself,” is all yoochun replies and when junsu kicks the man’s hands away he can feel him laugh. it is much like adrenaline rushing through his veins.
how strange it is to imagine a stage with the five of them, adding more forevers caught on tape to their history of moments of small eternities. he knows they will exist again, some day - maybe in a year, maybe in five. perhaps not until he has forgotten how to sing.
the things people do and the ways a man can think are starting to scare him. there are far too many choices and possibilities, far too many questions and mysteries. he has forgotten how to love pondering on them, keeps forgetting how to embrace the habits of his wandering mind.
it is one of those lazy hours in the afternoon when his phone buzzes to announce he has received a text message;
from:park yoochun
‘I secretly recorded your T_T
performance with my phone
in daegu and ive watched it
twice today and will go watch
it some more after this. in
conclusion, I think I deserve
some of your ginseng tea
because I feel fabulous and
sophisticated today’
it is true, he does have ginseng tea and junsu would be the last to claim that ginseng tea is not meant for fabulous and sophisticated people. yet half-way through his reply, he scrolls back up to read yoochun’s message again.
a shiver runs through him. the curling sensation of warmth spreading up to his shoulders, immediately bringing comfort. he replies;
to:park yoochun
‘your watching me sounds
horribly obsessive, stalker fan.
why not just ask for my sign
on your face. it would easily
fit on your forehead. but I do
respect your dedication and
therefore will gladly come and
drink some tea with you.’
maybe it is because they were never awkward. junsu remembers feeling sort of shy in the very beginning, unsure of how to face a ‘foreigner’ and remembers being nervous and excited when greeting the other. throughout the years, their first meeting is the only memorable thing coming close to awkwardness.
he does not specifically remember hugging the other for the first time, or holding his hand or wiping his tears - he finds it rather hard to imagine there was a time when he did not do that, a time when he did not know the others yet.
from:park yoochun
‘I am sorry, I didn’t mean for
you to misunderstand. surely I
said I deserved some tea,
nothing along the lines of you
coming with that. but alas, so be
it then. see you now, bring tea.’
he waits on yoochun’s doorstep. though it is practically next door, it is as if though he is in another city. the familiarity he used to have seems to be ebbing away and it makes yoochun’s house look ridiculously huge.
yoochun looks different after sex. the man does not even have to share his stories of the previous night, it is as if though junsu can see them written on the man’s skin in the shape of the hickeys on his neck. he carries around an air of fulfilment, limbs lazy in their movements and eyes pleasantly half-lidded.
he smokes cigarettes hanging out of the window, leaning his upper body through the open space. it is an irritating habit and it makes junsu restless; it makes him angry. he watches yoochun smoke his hours away over girls with pretty faces and long nails as the sun sets and dyes the walls an eerie orange.
the girl does not reply to his messages left and eventually yoochun settles onto the floor with his back pressed against the wall, pretends he is listening to music.
junsu wants to laugh at him, though not really; “hey, what if we went out to get some food?”
nobody is hungry for anything, not anymore. it is a stupid suggestion. yoochun shifts and lifts himself up off the floor, unsteady on his feet for a second or two before he even responds to junsu’s presence. “I wrote a song in your key,” he says, unrelated to the topic.
junsu takes the lead to the music room, knowing the other man will follow eventually. he wants to say something more, but yoochun chooses to be incredibly silent and strengthens the walls around his heart once more. it is so very tiring to see, yet yoochun still takes his place at the piano and plays.
the song is not meant for him at all, junsu knows this. despite that, he sings it. his tongue twists around words that hurt; words that scratch and cut and make things bleed. he feels his heart race when the moon is out, doing absolutely nothing for yoochun’s already sleep-deprived figure.
nevertheless, junsu misses a note. nevertheless, he cannot look away. he wants to know what it is deep down in the other’s soul; whatever it is. junsu knows he can handle it.
“I am wearing two different socks today,” yoochun proudly announces as he lets junsu in. his hair is straight and his face is devoid of make-up, yet the man knows how to dress himself even if he is just wearing sweatpants and an old sweater.
junsu snickers. “of all the intelligent things you could’ve said,” he proceeds to take off his shoes and ruffles harang’s fur when the dog runs up to him.
“oh shut up. you look horrible. joongie said something about your butt not being cute today,” yoochun ushers him into the living area and lowers the volume of the music some. “I had to come up with all these lies to get you here. I don’t even like ginseng tea.”
of course, junsu knows these things. he knows what the others like and dislike by now, even if he gets horribly distracted from time to time. he recognises the offer yoochun is attempting to make and he hesitates whether or not to accept it without a struggle. there is always a feeling of immense selfishness involved when allowing yoochun to treat him like some charity project.
sighing, he flops down on the big leather couch and listens to the other man making tea in the kitchen. he did not even bother to bring along the ginseng leaves in the first place. from the familiar scent he can tell yoochun’s chosen jasmine instead; he supposes he could meet the effort halfway.
real men never talk. not according to plan, in any case. out of all the heartfelt conversations junsu has had, none were actually meant to happen. yunho speaks to him like a father, opens him up like a can; junsu feels less occupied with things after they talk. with yoochun it sometimes happens when they are weary of jokes and always where nobody is around.
deep in the night, yoochun wraps a blanket around himself and offers junsu the other half to wrap around his shoulders. they sit side by side in front of the tv, but both know that they will not finish watching the show.
it is either when junsu leans his head on the other man’s shoulder or when yoochun’s fingers seek out the other’s that they start talking. there is no insecurity when they turn serious because there are no words that junsu does not expect. with a heart as big as yoochun’s, it is necessary to understand how even little things can curl up inside the man and captivate him.
yoochun’s low voice, vibrating in the man’s throat is a pleasant mantra lulling his body into complete comfort. his limbs are relaxed, warm and resting, like hugging a big stuffed animal or sleeping on satin sheets - that type of comfort junsu fears he only finds in yoochun’s presence.
no longer does anyone believe they were put together by a manager, were introduced through their mutual interest; there is none of that left anymore. what is left is something akin to meant-to-be and being generally lucky, being absolutely privileged to have met. junsu knows they are no longer friends, no longer as brothers; he can feel it in the press of yoochun’s fingers on his wrist, can smell it when he closes his eyes and leans a little closer to the other’s neck.
it is a good thing yoochun is such a sentimental idiot. it makes it less strange to discuss what is on his mind. he pretends that he is not gradually shifting closer, pretends that when he presses a soft kiss below the other’s jaw it is just a friendly gesture. yoochun turns his head to look at him, eyes soft and red and wet - he smiles.
there are nights when they talk until sunrise.
“you’re an idiot, you know that, right?” yoochun says later, when they are both on his couch, nursing cups of tea and easy conversation. it is taking a turn for a more serious topic, but junsu allows it because he knows he can.
yet he wants to deny. “I know I am, but what are you,” he tries in butchered english and successfully makes yoochun double over with laughter for the first time that day. he cannot imagine doing otherwise.
after the man’s hiccoughs die down, yoochun’s expression changes as well and junsu bites on the inside of his lip. “what I am?” yoochun sighs and pauses, takes a sip from his tea and burns his tongue. he looks up at junsu with a look reserved for occasions. like when they cannot be overheard backstage and share a piece of hidden chocolate.
“worried? I suppose,” yoochun answers after a long time. he pushes the hair out of his face and stares at junsu directly. it is confronting, but not intimidating anymore. it has stopped being intimidating a long time ago.
echoing the man’s sigh, junsu sinks a little deeper into the soft mess of pillows on his side of the couch. he simply stares back at the other and allows a minute to pass by silently. “I can’t think anymore,” he says eventually, not expecting yoochun to make a witty comment at this point. “thinking upsets.”
”honestly, you’re like a wall. I can talk all I want and you still manage to stare back at me blankly. sometimes I even wonder if you-“ junsu zones out again, rests his eyes on yoochun’s necklace and wonders what the pendant exactly portrays. he cannot quite figure it out, it looks a little like a star, but something is off.
something wacks him over the head.
junsu looks up. “no, I was listening. just before, you said you wanted mochi but minnie-ah said you were getting fat and then joongie said it’d be fine because he’s taking all your clothes anyway. I also heard you say someone put gum under your chair.”
“it’s true. I did say that. and I still stand by my words,” changmin offers, grinning over the edge of his magazine as three stylists hang around him like a swarm of bees.
yoochun rolls his eyes. “world! this guy is going to be the death of me,” he exclaims loudly to the rest of the room and from the other end, jaejoong’s laughter comes ringing.
“stage in ten,” yunho announces, a smile travelling over his serious face as he looks at them.
when yoochun tries to hit him on the head again but misses, junsu sticks out his tongue. “loser.”
but even though that and even though there is no time, yoochun pulls the other aside for a brief second, in between the racks of clothing and the props.
curious, junsu raises his eyebrows and is awarded with a nod of yoochun’s head; “I finished that song for our grand leader last night. I don’t want the others to know yet, okay?”
a slow grin stretches junsu’s mouth. “you need my musical hearing and ability,” he declares. he expects the punch against his shoulder that yoochun playfully throws and blocks it.
“genius,” yoochun scolds with fondness in his eyes.
“loser.”
somehow yoochun magically pulls out a blanket from somewhere and they are leaning against each other, sipping their tea silently. although the tv is on, there is more talking left to be done. yet they take their time, conversation having died out after junsu’s words.
the weather comes on, predicting spring. “I know that we’re going to be fine,” junsu eventually adds, glancing at yoochun as he leans into him a little. “I know that.”
because somewhere deep down inside he knows that yoochun would give up in a blink if he quit. it feels kind of sad and warm at the same time, knowing that there is someone like the other man, next to him and for him. the other’s sentimental personality is beginning to rub off after all these years.
“you just miss it,” yoochun tries, putting his tea down on the table and slipping his arm around the other man’s waist. it is intimate, but familiar. there should not be any barriers between the two of them.
“I just miss it,” junsu agrees. he leans his cheek against the other’s shoulder, somewhere at the beginning of his chest. he imagines blood flowing through the other, breathing in life and vitality and all these wonderful ideas that sometimes make him a hopeless dreamer. mostly, he imagines talent and a sense of trust. he would be silly to think yoochun is ever going to be somewhere else other than at his side.
they never go out in seoul, because it is simply too crowded for a well-known idol to be wandering about. they went out in osaka before, but now they are in tokyo and try to walk the darker streets of the metropolis.
yoochun's japanese is so much better when he is in conversation with random, dancing people, drinking alcohol and sharing laughter. he is open and all over the place, social the way jaejoong taught him and junsu watches from the sidelines.
after three songs, yoochun comes over and orders edamame with his beer. he leans against the bar and stares at junsu pleasantly. “bored?” he wonders.
junsu pushes himself away from the wall and sits down on one of the barstools. he feels yoochun’s hand slip onto his thigh and shakes his head. “not bored. was watching yunho dance. he's trying to impress a girl, maybe-“
edamame appears and yoochun is momentarily distracted. he pops the beans into his mouth and slides his hand up higher. “you should dance, too,” yoochun laughs and washes the snack down with beer. junsu considers his options and then shakes his head again.
“I’m going to get some air instead,” he says and slips off the stool. he makes way for the door, but yoochun follows him and so he comes to a halt.
“hey. what is wrong with you? why are you so-“ yoochun waves his hand about and junsu runs a hand through his hair. “you know. we're in a club, we never come here. at least have some fun, I want to see you smile.”
yoochun talks too easy when he is getting drunk, but it does cheer him up. “I’ll just find changmin and get him wasted. I need something to blackmail him with anyway.”
grinning, yoochun reaches out and hooks his arm around his neck. he pulls their heads closer until their foreheads touch. half-veiled by the tangled mess that is yoochun’s ridiculous new hair, their eyes lock.
“you. you don’t know half how people long to just see you. dance a little, find something cute, make someone’s day- make your day.”
it does sound a little silly, with yoochun’s breath gushing over his lips and the man’s fingers pressing in his neck, but he supposes yoochun is right. the man has a thing for pin-pointing his mind and he imagines oxygen rushing into the other’s body with every breath he takes. he parts his lips, watches yoochun’s eyes twinkle.
he is pushed onto the dance floor mere seconds later, drowning in a crowd of scarcely-dressed teenagers. he does not want to dance, but people recognise him. he remembers sharing a breath with the other and it is still warm in his lungs.
he wakes up but keeps his eyes closed. sleep drunk, he rubs his face against the warm thing beside him. regaining consciousness, he inhales deeply and recognises the smell. when he opens his eyes, his eyelashes go brushing against yoochun’s neck. the other man shivers.
“fell asleep?” junsu mumbles, getting a mouthful of t-shirt. he groans and shifts a little, realizes they are still on the couch but somehow oddly entangled with the blanket, with each other. he chews on his lip.
“myeah,” yoochun sounds just as buzzed, turning his head to look at him. they move until they’re both resting their heads on the armrest, facing one another. their legs tighten around the other’s, keeping some sort of balance to refrain from sliding off the pillows.
junsu does not really know what to say, so he just stares.
“feel better, though?” yoochun asks lazily, his arm sliding around the small of the other’s back. their bodies press closer and their noses touch.
not answering, junsu feels his consciousness slip again, sometimes steadying his view of yoochun and sometimes blurring it. he parts his lips and this time he talks, but he does not even have to. his words are caught by yoochun’s tongue, suddenly there and learning the shapes by tracing his own.
this is what normal people do.
yoochun introduces himself as ‘micky’ and shyly hovers around the manager. he shakes all their hands and looks at all their faces, but junsu knows he cannot remember their names in one go.
afterwards, when things are less formal and they are huddled up in what is going to be their van, yoochun asks him for his name and age again.
“that means we’re friends,” he says, something akin to hope readable in his eyes.
junsu smiles. “yeah,” he watches yoochun smile too, “that means we’re friends indeed.”
“so, when uhm, when there’s something on your mind-“ yoochun makes a vague gesture with his hands. junsu blinks at the other boy, but catches his drift. it would be too awkward had yoochun finished what he wanted to say. boys don’t do that.
“yeah, sure. likewise.” but he still smiles widely.
note: written for applesu. because reasons. and stuff.