(one-shot) you are like no other
Title: You are like no other
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: JaeMin
Genre: Friendship, romance, AU
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): Standard disclaimers apply.
Summary: He is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the sidewalk, strumming a guitar lightly, lips pursed in thought.
A/N: This has very little plot :l only my second time writing JaeMin, so please be kind? Comments are very much appreciated! ♥
There’s not a cloud in the sky the day you meet him, sunshine and flowers painted against the bright blue sky of the city. He is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the sidewalk, strumming a guitar lightly, lips pursed in thought. Strands of dyed blond hair frame his face, delicate features half-shadowed by the large tree nearby (it almost looks like it doesn’t fit, smack dab in the middle of the city). His voice is soft, a soft lulling sound that washes over you, makes you think of lazy days at the beach.
Sunlight is in his eyes, in his voice when he glances up at you (and your heart, it skips a beat, thuds against your chest). He is singing in a language you can’t seem to understand, but it’s beautiful all the same - a string of melodies, rhythm following the pulse of your heartbeat (you catch a few snippets of French; English perhaps).
You’re not sure what it is that makes you sit down beside him, scuffing a toe against the pavement and crossing your legs to match his. His lips lift into a smile, his voice still clear in the light summer breeze, his foot pressed against your leg. You hum along involuntarily, notes harmonizing with his tune.
His smile widens (and it is beautiful, so beautiful that you want to take a mental snapshot of it and store it somewhere forever). Jaejoong, he tells you to call him when the song ends and you are fingering the smooth wood of his guitar, skidding the pad of your finger across its surface, the gleam of sunlight.
“Changmin,” you say, and he laughs (covering his mouth - it’s endearing, almost).
“I know.”
You feel like you’re not obliged to ask how, or why. He starts to sing again (it’s Korean this time, something you can understand) and the tune is lower than before, his voice is huskier. It reminds you of nighttime, of stars and shapes of the galaxy (he makes you see things you’ve never seen before, abstract things like the fuzzy feeling in your heart). You feel like you could sit here and listen to him forever.
---
You meet him underneath the shade of the tree every day (all sunny, glorious summer days). You listen to him sing, and talk - about nothing, and anything, and everything. He tells you that he wants to be a singer, to stand in front of millions of people shouting his name, to sing until his voice is hoarse and weary, breaking, beautiful. You let him trace his fingers along the palm of your hand. His hair (it’s black now, a dark black to accent his silver earring) falls down across his eyes, brushing against your skin as he leans over to peer at the lines. He tells you your future - “Die rich and old, in your sleep. Marry a beautiful woman (but not your first love), have four children. Become a world-famous artist.”
“You paint?” He glances up at you with wide, curious eyes, lips quirking into a soft smile.
“Sketch,” you answer, absently (and barely manage to catch the way his eyes light up anew).
“Really,” he muses over this for a second or two, and then lets go of your hand (you retract it back towards you, skimming fingers across where his touch still lingers). “Really.”
There are other, rare days when he is quiet, unbelievably quiet. You have come to learn he has mood swings often. On the quiet days, you content yourself with sitting a few inches away, perfecting the unfinished works in your sketchbook. Out of your peripheral vision, you watch him bend over his guitar, furiously scribbling away with a pen and then crossing it all out (as if he is searching for something, a hidden melody that only he will recognize).
What he doesn’t know during these days is that you find the melodies he crosses out, you keep all the papers he crumples up and tosses aside (he never remembers which ones he has or hasn’t thrown out, anyway). You bring them home, smooth them out, and lay them across the piano you’ve never touched since you bought it five years ago (you don’t know how to play).
---
It is unbearably hot one day, so hot that when you arrive at the park, even he is wearing Capri’s cut right above his ankles (he usually always wears jeans, always always always). His guitar is nowhere in sight, only a suspicious box-like object grasped in his right hand, unorganized sheets of music in his left. You squint, and can make out the tiny scrawl of his handwriting on them, the messy, almost illegible characters in the margins.
You don’t need to look any further than the glint in his eyes to know he is excited (his hair is more like brown now, cut shorter at the edges). He grins as soon as he sees you approaching, raising a handful of papers at you in acknowledgment.
“What the hell is going on,” you incline your head towards the vague direction of his hands, tucking your own into your pockets. He just continues to smile, shaking his head secretively and waving you along to follow him.
“You’ll see.”
He leads you past the corner of the street shop, down a small, winding alleyway. The signs are lopsided, the only sound the clacking of a girl’s high heels somewhere far up ahead of you. The buildings are tall, grayish and dull in the sunlight, windows small and embedded into the walls. You almost stumble over a small step in the ground, but catch yourself just in time (and look up to see that he is already far, far ahead).
By the time you catch up, he is already standing still, arms limp at his sides, head raised upwards. You follow his line of sight to find yourself right before the Eiffel Tower, its metal designs strong and tall against the sky’s canvas of blue. You hear him humming a nonsensical tune beside you, the small box in his hand emitting a small click as he travels forward. Confused, you trail behind him, unable to tear your eyes off the large, silently magnificent tower.
The buzz of tourists and passerby makes you glance back down, and you watch as he plops himself down onto the grass, lying down on his back, his hair splaying onto the ground. Around you, there are numerous people all doing the same, scattered couples and families with books and picnics and laughter. With a shrug, you sit down on the grass beside him, inching backward in order to be able to keep track of his actions from your peripheral vision.
Just as you move to bring out your sketchbook into the light (you don’t know why, but ever since you met him you’ve been bringing it everywhere with you), there’s another click from beside you. You turn to him, and he smiles at you as his own voice begins to play from the device (you recognize the nonsensical tune from before, the same nasal, uncoordinated hum of his melody). You finally realize that the strange box in his hand is a microphone-recorder-thing (you’ve never been good with technology, no wonder) and you lie down on your back as well, placing your hands on your chest and letting him press the microphone-recorder-thing to your ear.
The tune sounds different as you look up at the stray clouds, his voice ringing in your ears, the world upside down from your viewpoint. There’s a sort of mysterious beauty to it, the way the notes rise a little, trail off unexpectedly. You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of dry grass and dirt, a little bit of his mint chewing gum, and him (almost like sunshine, if sunshine had a smell).
When the melody ends, he glances at you with a smile. “So?”
Biting your lip, you attempt to answer as honestly as possible. “It’s good,” you say finally. “Different.”
Delighted, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, digging into his pocket and extracting an old, worn pen (a familiar sight to you now). “Awesome,” he murmurs as he starts to write, the empty page filling with his handwriting once again. “Thank you.”
You want to ask him for what, but choose to stay silent instead. It’s nice, just to lie down sideways and watch him hard at work, his dark eyes focused, his shirt creasing to match the bent contours of his body. You are almost asleep, bathed in the warmth of sunlight when he pokes your side, making you squirm away, eyes cracking open.
He only smiles at you, fondly. “Draw me.”
“Huh?” Blinking, you sit up. “You want me to sketch you?”
With a nod, he hands you your sketchbook (you’d forgotten about it, lying on the grass). “I want you to,” he crouches back down on his heels, his head tilted at you. “Please?”
“I don’t draw portraits.”
“Pretend I’m just a part of the scenery.” He gives you a hopeful look, edging backwards, throwing his head back in an attempt to blend in (but he’s too beautiful, too much sunshine to be able to). You laugh anyway, and nod (just this once, you think - you can compromise).
“Okay.”
His smile widens, and he slides his hands back to rest on the grass, his body relaxing. As you etch out the beginnings of your sketch, he starts to hum a new melody, notes wavering back and forth as he tries out different approaches to the tune (you want to smile, but you hide it by lowering your head in pretense of concentration). You listen as he begins to insert random lyrics (you even catch your own name in there a few times), and this time, you can’t prevent a smile.
“So you do smile,” he comments, and you look up from your sketchbook to see him beaming at you, tossing his head a little to get rid of the hair falling into his eyes. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
There’s a warm, tingly feeling in your heart when he gives you that look, and you bite the inside of your cheeks, forcing your smile downwards. “Shut up,” you mutter, and hear him laugh, carefree. You continue to focus on the sketch laid out before you, your eyes furrowing, pencil curving along with his contours on the page. “Stop moving.”
“Sorry.” He’s silent for the remainder of the time, staying still for two straight hours (the sun beats down on both of your backs, harsh). You feel almost apologetic when finally, he asks softly if he is allowed to stretch for a bit, and you nod. You look down at your sketchbook to see that you’ve only just finished his face.
“Hey,” his voice startles you from your thoughts, breath cascading in your ear. “Can I see?”
Fumbling, you thrust it at him - “It’s no good” - anything to get away from such an uncomfortably close proximity. Your heart feels warm, too warm for its own good (you want to blame the sunshine, but you know it isn’t that). “I’ll try again tomorrow,” you offer.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He is staring at the drawing, so intensely that you wonder if you should take it back, or maybe if you should just run away (now? Now would be a good time), or - “It’s perfect,” he whispers, and your rush of thoughts comes to a halt.
“What?”
He looks up at you, completely serious. “It’s perfect,” he says, in that melodious voice of his, and you feel the need to laugh in relief, to treasure the moment forever. “It’s absolutely perfect, Changmin.”
It’s the first time he’s called you by name (it sounds almost foreign to your ears), and you are about to blush before you catch yourself. You make a mental note to stay away from any more opportunities to allow him to affect you like this, like you are some stupid high school girl head-over-heels in love.
(In love?)
But then he is advancing towards you, the corner of his lips quirking upwards, his hand so close to yours as he gives you the sketchbook back (you resist the urge to grab his hand and never let go). “Could you maybe finish it?” He seems shy, almost, his eyes wandering elsewhere with the inquiry, hands uselessly fluttering at his sides.
You pause. “Sure,” you find yourself agreeing (you don’t know why; you never know why around him anymore). “Tomorrow?”
“Okay,” he says immediately, and helps pull you up from the ground with one hand (you’d never noticed how strong he was). “So I’ll see you, I guess.”
“Yeah,” you reply, tucking your sketchbook back into the folds of your jacket. “See you.”
(You walk back home with a flutter in your chest, and a sort of unwanted longing in your heart.
You can’t wait for tomorrow to come.)
Author: fingeredheart
Pairing: JaeMin
Genre: Friendship, romance, AU
Rating: PG
Disclaimer(s): Standard disclaimers apply.
Summary: He is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the sidewalk, strumming a guitar lightly, lips pursed in thought.
A/N: This has very little plot :l only my second time writing JaeMin, so please be kind? Comments are very much appreciated! ♥
There’s not a cloud in the sky the day you meet him, sunshine and flowers painted against the bright blue sky of the city. He is sitting cross-legged on the edge of the sidewalk, strumming a guitar lightly, lips pursed in thought. Strands of dyed blond hair frame his face, delicate features half-shadowed by the large tree nearby (it almost looks like it doesn’t fit, smack dab in the middle of the city). His voice is soft, a soft lulling sound that washes over you, makes you think of lazy days at the beach.
Sunlight is in his eyes, in his voice when he glances up at you (and your heart, it skips a beat, thuds against your chest). He is singing in a language you can’t seem to understand, but it’s beautiful all the same - a string of melodies, rhythm following the pulse of your heartbeat (you catch a few snippets of French; English perhaps).
You’re not sure what it is that makes you sit down beside him, scuffing a toe against the pavement and crossing your legs to match his. His lips lift into a smile, his voice still clear in the light summer breeze, his foot pressed against your leg. You hum along involuntarily, notes harmonizing with his tune.
His smile widens (and it is beautiful, so beautiful that you want to take a mental snapshot of it and store it somewhere forever). Jaejoong, he tells you to call him when the song ends and you are fingering the smooth wood of his guitar, skidding the pad of your finger across its surface, the gleam of sunlight.
“Changmin,” you say, and he laughs (covering his mouth - it’s endearing, almost).
“I know.”
You feel like you’re not obliged to ask how, or why. He starts to sing again (it’s Korean this time, something you can understand) and the tune is lower than before, his voice is huskier. It reminds you of nighttime, of stars and shapes of the galaxy (he makes you see things you’ve never seen before, abstract things like the fuzzy feeling in your heart). You feel like you could sit here and listen to him forever.
---
You meet him underneath the shade of the tree every day (all sunny, glorious summer days). You listen to him sing, and talk - about nothing, and anything, and everything. He tells you that he wants to be a singer, to stand in front of millions of people shouting his name, to sing until his voice is hoarse and weary, breaking, beautiful. You let him trace his fingers along the palm of your hand. His hair (it’s black now, a dark black to accent his silver earring) falls down across his eyes, brushing against your skin as he leans over to peer at the lines. He tells you your future - “Die rich and old, in your sleep. Marry a beautiful woman (but not your first love), have four children. Become a world-famous artist.”
“You paint?” He glances up at you with wide, curious eyes, lips quirking into a soft smile.
“Sketch,” you answer, absently (and barely manage to catch the way his eyes light up anew).
“Really,” he muses over this for a second or two, and then lets go of your hand (you retract it back towards you, skimming fingers across where his touch still lingers). “Really.”
There are other, rare days when he is quiet, unbelievably quiet. You have come to learn he has mood swings often. On the quiet days, you content yourself with sitting a few inches away, perfecting the unfinished works in your sketchbook. Out of your peripheral vision, you watch him bend over his guitar, furiously scribbling away with a pen and then crossing it all out (as if he is searching for something, a hidden melody that only he will recognize).
What he doesn’t know during these days is that you find the melodies he crosses out, you keep all the papers he crumples up and tosses aside (he never remembers which ones he has or hasn’t thrown out, anyway). You bring them home, smooth them out, and lay them across the piano you’ve never touched since you bought it five years ago (you don’t know how to play).
---
It is unbearably hot one day, so hot that when you arrive at the park, even he is wearing Capri’s cut right above his ankles (he usually always wears jeans, always always always). His guitar is nowhere in sight, only a suspicious box-like object grasped in his right hand, unorganized sheets of music in his left. You squint, and can make out the tiny scrawl of his handwriting on them, the messy, almost illegible characters in the margins.
You don’t need to look any further than the glint in his eyes to know he is excited (his hair is more like brown now, cut shorter at the edges). He grins as soon as he sees you approaching, raising a handful of papers at you in acknowledgment.
“What the hell is going on,” you incline your head towards the vague direction of his hands, tucking your own into your pockets. He just continues to smile, shaking his head secretively and waving you along to follow him.
“You’ll see.”
He leads you past the corner of the street shop, down a small, winding alleyway. The signs are lopsided, the only sound the clacking of a girl’s high heels somewhere far up ahead of you. The buildings are tall, grayish and dull in the sunlight, windows small and embedded into the walls. You almost stumble over a small step in the ground, but catch yourself just in time (and look up to see that he is already far, far ahead).
By the time you catch up, he is already standing still, arms limp at his sides, head raised upwards. You follow his line of sight to find yourself right before the Eiffel Tower, its metal designs strong and tall against the sky’s canvas of blue. You hear him humming a nonsensical tune beside you, the small box in his hand emitting a small click as he travels forward. Confused, you trail behind him, unable to tear your eyes off the large, silently magnificent tower.
The buzz of tourists and passerby makes you glance back down, and you watch as he plops himself down onto the grass, lying down on his back, his hair splaying onto the ground. Around you, there are numerous people all doing the same, scattered couples and families with books and picnics and laughter. With a shrug, you sit down on the grass beside him, inching backward in order to be able to keep track of his actions from your peripheral vision.
Just as you move to bring out your sketchbook into the light (you don’t know why, but ever since you met him you’ve been bringing it everywhere with you), there’s another click from beside you. You turn to him, and he smiles at you as his own voice begins to play from the device (you recognize the nonsensical tune from before, the same nasal, uncoordinated hum of his melody). You finally realize that the strange box in his hand is a microphone-recorder-thing (you’ve never been good with technology, no wonder) and you lie down on your back as well, placing your hands on your chest and letting him press the microphone-recorder-thing to your ear.
The tune sounds different as you look up at the stray clouds, his voice ringing in your ears, the world upside down from your viewpoint. There’s a sort of mysterious beauty to it, the way the notes rise a little, trail off unexpectedly. You close your eyes, breathing in the scent of dry grass and dirt, a little bit of his mint chewing gum, and him (almost like sunshine, if sunshine had a smell).
When the melody ends, he glances at you with a smile. “So?”
Biting your lip, you attempt to answer as honestly as possible. “It’s good,” you say finally. “Different.”
Delighted, he pushes himself up onto his elbows, digging into his pocket and extracting an old, worn pen (a familiar sight to you now). “Awesome,” he murmurs as he starts to write, the empty page filling with his handwriting once again. “Thank you.”
You want to ask him for what, but choose to stay silent instead. It’s nice, just to lie down sideways and watch him hard at work, his dark eyes focused, his shirt creasing to match the bent contours of his body. You are almost asleep, bathed in the warmth of sunlight when he pokes your side, making you squirm away, eyes cracking open.
He only smiles at you, fondly. “Draw me.”
“Huh?” Blinking, you sit up. “You want me to sketch you?”
With a nod, he hands you your sketchbook (you’d forgotten about it, lying on the grass). “I want you to,” he crouches back down on his heels, his head tilted at you. “Please?”
“I don’t draw portraits.”
“Pretend I’m just a part of the scenery.” He gives you a hopeful look, edging backwards, throwing his head back in an attempt to blend in (but he’s too beautiful, too much sunshine to be able to). You laugh anyway, and nod (just this once, you think - you can compromise).
“Okay.”
His smile widens, and he slides his hands back to rest on the grass, his body relaxing. As you etch out the beginnings of your sketch, he starts to hum a new melody, notes wavering back and forth as he tries out different approaches to the tune (you want to smile, but you hide it by lowering your head in pretense of concentration). You listen as he begins to insert random lyrics (you even catch your own name in there a few times), and this time, you can’t prevent a smile.
“So you do smile,” he comments, and you look up from your sketchbook to see him beaming at you, tossing his head a little to get rid of the hair falling into his eyes. “I never thought I’d see the day.”
There’s a warm, tingly feeling in your heart when he gives you that look, and you bite the inside of your cheeks, forcing your smile downwards. “Shut up,” you mutter, and hear him laugh, carefree. You continue to focus on the sketch laid out before you, your eyes furrowing, pencil curving along with his contours on the page. “Stop moving.”
“Sorry.” He’s silent for the remainder of the time, staying still for two straight hours (the sun beats down on both of your backs, harsh). You feel almost apologetic when finally, he asks softly if he is allowed to stretch for a bit, and you nod. You look down at your sketchbook to see that you’ve only just finished his face.
“Hey,” his voice startles you from your thoughts, breath cascading in your ear. “Can I see?”
Fumbling, you thrust it at him - “It’s no good” - anything to get away from such an uncomfortably close proximity. Your heart feels warm, too warm for its own good (you want to blame the sunshine, but you know it isn’t that). “I’ll try again tomorrow,” you offer.
For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He is staring at the drawing, so intensely that you wonder if you should take it back, or maybe if you should just run away (now? Now would be a good time), or - “It’s perfect,” he whispers, and your rush of thoughts comes to a halt.
“What?”
He looks up at you, completely serious. “It’s perfect,” he says, in that melodious voice of his, and you feel the need to laugh in relief, to treasure the moment forever. “It’s absolutely perfect, Changmin.”
It’s the first time he’s called you by name (it sounds almost foreign to your ears), and you are about to blush before you catch yourself. You make a mental note to stay away from any more opportunities to allow him to affect you like this, like you are some stupid high school girl head-over-heels in love.
(In love?)
But then he is advancing towards you, the corner of his lips quirking upwards, his hand so close to yours as he gives you the sketchbook back (you resist the urge to grab his hand and never let go). “Could you maybe finish it?” He seems shy, almost, his eyes wandering elsewhere with the inquiry, hands uselessly fluttering at his sides.
You pause. “Sure,” you find yourself agreeing (you don’t know why; you never know why around him anymore). “Tomorrow?”
“Okay,” he says immediately, and helps pull you up from the ground with one hand (you’d never noticed how strong he was). “So I’ll see you, I guess.”
“Yeah,” you reply, tucking your sketchbook back into the folds of your jacket. “See you.”
(You walk back home with a flutter in your chest, and a sort of unwanted longing in your heart.
You can’t wait for tomorrow to come.)