61
A Catalogue of Injuries, in Order of Appearance
DBSK/SuJu, JaeCin
2,149 words. Second person. R. For k0uryuu in exchange for SiBum. ♥!
When Jaejoong pushes you back against the bathroom wall, tiles rigidly smacking the sharply pointed edges of your shoulder blades, all you can think about is his hair. His teeth settle harsh against the side of your neck, and you can tell by the puffs of air against wet skin that he’s talking there, too soft for you to hear. You, you are thinking about his hair.
It looks better on him than it ever did on you, that pale pale blond pushed up on his forehead, and you’re not afraid to admit that to yourself. (It sharpens his features, dark eyes large on his face, twisted up with suppressed rage and jagged betrayal and a brokenness that’s never gone away and you’re only beginning to understand.) Denial has never been something that you’re good at, even if sometimes you wish it was.
You gasp and let your head thud back against the wall, sharp fingernails under you shirt, and you know that they mean to hurt you, you know that you’re going to bleed from this, but his anger excises yours and so you don’t care. He growls against your neck, and you can feel the impression of his teeth, and you know you shouldn’t be doing this here, but when has that ever stopped you before?
You clench your fists and you think about Yunho.
The hospital tries to keep you out, but you won’t have any of it. The overweight man in the security uniform says,
“Sorry, sir, approved personnel only,” his voice broaching no argument, but you don’t care.
“Fuck you, get the hell out of my way,” you say in response, because poorly paid security guards don’t matter to you, but what’s in that room does, more than almost anything else.
“I really don’t want to have to call my supervisor,” the man says, meaty arms crossed over his chest. You suppress a what the fuck-, hands clenched at your sides, and you think about pulling rank and you think about punching him, but it doesn’t matter, because Yoochun comes down the hall and spots you. You can see him wipe his eyes as he waves to you, and you slide past the security guard with a venomous glare and grab his hand.
“Thanks,” you say, and he shrugs, bites his lip. You don’t know him that well, but you still squeeze his fingers and follow him down the hall.
He’s cursing against your skin, and your shirt’s on the floor, and you’re glad that you’re leaning against the wall because you’re not sure that your leg is ready for this much weight yet. He’s licking the scratches his fingernails made all up and down your chest, and you sink your hands into his hair, peroxide blond, your skin blending in with the bright white.
“Fuck them,” he says against your neck, and it’s the second thing he’s said loud enough for you to hear since you entered the bathroom, “fuck all of them.” He’s breathing heavily, fingers on your hips, weight against your shoulder, and you can’t tell if he’s angry anymore or just distraught. You think you’d know if he was crying, but you’re not positive.
“Yeah,” you say, and you have the urge to kiss the top of his head, but you don’t. Jaejoong would never forgive you for implying that he’s weak, or that he’s broken, even though he’s the latter and he knows it. And he knows he always will be.
You know all about that. The one time anyone tried to pity you, Kibum ended up with a black eye and Hankyung had to get ice from the kitchen while Kangin held you down. You don’t pity Jaejoong and you don’t empathize. You know, you know.
You stand in the doorway and it’s not that you’re waiting to be invited in so much as you’re gauging how much of an interruption you’ll be. Junsu and Changmin are curled up on a chair in the corner, at least half asleep, Changmin’s hands fisted into Junsu’s shirt. You notice Junsu’s eyes flick over towards you, but he looks back at the top of Changmin’s head without comment. Yoochun is sitting next to the bed, staring at the wall and nothing, eyes red and swollen. His fingers are on the back of Yunho’s wrist, lightly, but Yunho is sleeping. Yunho looks pale, but healthy, and you think of the frantic call you got the day before, and you think about how much worse it could have been, and you look away from the beeping machines and far too white sheets and your eyes fall on Jaejoong leaning against the large glass windows on the other side of the room. His arms and legs are both crossed in an effort to look both relaxed and untouchable, and he’s biting his lip, scowling at the white speckled linoleum tiles that line the floor. He looks up when you don’t look away, and you register the surprise on his face before he covers it. His hair is tousled like he’s been running his fingers through it, but he’s still for now; for how long, you don’t know.
He looks like there’s something that he wants to say, lips parted, brows furrowed, but when he opens his mouth, all he says is,
“I need some coffee,” and he walks out of the room, pushing past you and striding down the hall without looking back. You watch him turn the corner, and you look back at Yoochun and Yunho, Changmin and Junsu, before you shake your head. If the situation was any less tense, you’d roll your eyes, but you can’t make yourself do it, you can’t make yourself act normal, because this so much isn’t. You can’t run, yet, and your walk isn’t all that fast either, but you’re not limping that much anymore, so you set off after him.
He hasn’t moved, yet, from your neck, nose and lips and eyelashes pressed there. You can feel the flutter of him blinking, and you shiver every time he breathes in, warmth brushing when he breathes out.
“I fucking hate hospitals,” he says, the movement of his mouth and tongue wetting the skin over your jugular, and pulls away. He’s still angry, his jaw is clenched and the set of his shoulders makes you think of knots, cords of tightly twisted rope, and you’re not sure how much longer he’ll repress it for. You bury your hands in his hair, the heels of your palms sitting in the hollow under his cheekbones, and you say nothing. There is nothing you can say, really, so you kiss him. He presses his body against yours, lets his hands slide up, and then he’s biting your lips and grabbing your hair and he’s stepping on your toes in an effort to get closer, and his shirt is pressed to your bare chest.
You’ve never thought of him as needy, but it isn’t him, this time, who is hurt. And somehow, that makes all the difference.
He’s standing in front of the vending machines when you catch up to him, holding a cup of coffee he must have pilfered from the nurse’s station. You stop a few feet behind him and you keep quiet, tapping your foot against floor and waiting for him to acknowledge you. You don’t like waiting, but it’s better than him snarling at you. He’s clenching the Styrofoam cup a little too tightly, staring at the rows of Doritos and Fritos and packets of gum like they can tell him something he doesn’t already know.
You know him well enough to know what will set him off, so you don’t touch him, not without permission. Usually you don’t care, usually you wouldn’t hesitate to say what the fuck is up with you, Jae? and clap him on the shoulder, wait for him to snap at you or take a swing, but not today.
You stand there, motionless, until your leg starts to ache, and you just want him to get on with it. You sigh and you look at the ceiling and you almost miss it when he finally speaks.
“I’m going to kill her,” he says, and his voice is matter of fact, deliberate, chilled to the bone. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t address you, but he knows you are there. “I’m going to slice her into so many pieces they won’t be able to identify her.” You’re surprised the Styrofoam hasn’t split from the force of his clenching fingers. He turns to look at you, and if you didn’t know him so well, you’d think his eyes were wide with pain, sadness maybe, but no, this is rage, pure and simple.
“You do that,” you say, and you smile, cock your head to the side. “It’s not like I’d care.” You shrug your best and stuff your hands in your pockets, carefully putting most of your weight on one leg, ignoring the pain in the other. If you were smart you’d sit down soon, but you know you’re not going to.
The truth is, if you met that girl in a crowded city street, you’d punch her in the face and you wouldn’t stop until she fell, and then you’d kick her in the stomach.
The truth is, whatever apologizing management wants you to do, you don’t regret any of the words you said, and you never will.
Jaejoong nods then, and draws in a deep breath, and he knows that you understand. Yoochun might not, and Junsu might not, and everyone else might not, but you do.
“Good,” he says, and grabs hold of your wrist.
His hands curl in the fabric of your pants, clawing, and you push his shirt up on his chest, the cloth bunching up near his armpits. He’s leaning heavily against you, and you are crushed between his solid body and the cold wall at your back. You bite at his lips and his tongue and his teeth clash with yours - it’s messy, and it’s violent, and it’s what you both need. Your fingers press against his ribs and catch in the spaces between, holding on with sharply filed fingernails and he gasps against your lips and holds himself upright with the waistband of your jeans. You’re sliding your hands down the back of his pants and he’s yanking open the front of your jeans without looking and you’re thinking about killing her.
“Fuck,” he says as you pull him closer, words pressed up tight to your lips, “if I ever see her again -”
“Yeah,” you gasp out, “fuck yeah, you can count on it.”
His fingernails dig into your wrist as he pulls you down the hall, and you can tell that you’re limping, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so it doesn’t matter. You’re not sure where he’s going but you don’t mind following - he’s not heading back to the room, and you’re curious enough not to ask. You feel his thumb swipe over the inside of your arm, pressing lightly against the skin there.
He chucks his lukewarm coffee in a trashcan across the hall and he shoves you through the swinging bathroom door. You’re not ready for the sudden push, and you wince as you stumble, feeling the jerk in new muscle and scar tissue, but you glare at him.
“God, Jae, be a little more careful will you?” you snap, because you’re sensitive about your leg, and if you have to do more PT because Jaejoong was fucking sloppy and pushed you too hard, you’re going to rip him a new one.
“Sorry,” he says flatly, and then he kisses you.
You’re not ready for it, and you should’ve seen it coming, but you understand almost immediately.
You come with his name on your lips and taste the tang of blood in your mouth (you’re not sure if it’s yours or his and ultimately it doesn’t matter) and feel the tremor running through overworked muscle. He arches against you, buries his face against your shoulder, and you feel the shiver work its way through his body. You thread your free hand into his hair and you pull the other out of his pants and you wait to see if your leg is going to buckle, but it doesn’t.
“He’s going to be okay, you know,” you say, voice rough, syllables harsh and uneven at the edges.
“So’s your leg,” he replies, calm but out of breath, and you feel his wet fingers slide up over your hip and rest at the curve of your belly, pressing there and remaining still. You spread your fingers along the back of his head and the length of his neck and the top of his spine, silky hair and tacky skin, protruding bone.
“Yeah,” you say, and you close your eyes.
End Notes: As many of you probably know, I don't write Jaejoong or Heechul that much. It was fun to write some new people for a change, but tell me if you think I'm horribly off in the characterizations. Because, well, it's always a nice thing to know. And k0uryuu, I hope that you like it well enough. :D
DBSK/SuJu, JaeCin
2,149 words. Second person. R. For k0uryuu in exchange for SiBum. ♥!
When Jaejoong pushes you back against the bathroom wall, tiles rigidly smacking the sharply pointed edges of your shoulder blades, all you can think about is his hair. His teeth settle harsh against the side of your neck, and you can tell by the puffs of air against wet skin that he’s talking there, too soft for you to hear. You, you are thinking about his hair.
It looks better on him than it ever did on you, that pale pale blond pushed up on his forehead, and you’re not afraid to admit that to yourself. (It sharpens his features, dark eyes large on his face, twisted up with suppressed rage and jagged betrayal and a brokenness that’s never gone away and you’re only beginning to understand.) Denial has never been something that you’re good at, even if sometimes you wish it was.
You gasp and let your head thud back against the wall, sharp fingernails under you shirt, and you know that they mean to hurt you, you know that you’re going to bleed from this, but his anger excises yours and so you don’t care. He growls against your neck, and you can feel the impression of his teeth, and you know you shouldn’t be doing this here, but when has that ever stopped you before?
You clench your fists and you think about Yunho.
The hospital tries to keep you out, but you won’t have any of it. The overweight man in the security uniform says,
“Sorry, sir, approved personnel only,” his voice broaching no argument, but you don’t care.
“Fuck you, get the hell out of my way,” you say in response, because poorly paid security guards don’t matter to you, but what’s in that room does, more than almost anything else.
“I really don’t want to have to call my supervisor,” the man says, meaty arms crossed over his chest. You suppress a what the fuck-, hands clenched at your sides, and you think about pulling rank and you think about punching him, but it doesn’t matter, because Yoochun comes down the hall and spots you. You can see him wipe his eyes as he waves to you, and you slide past the security guard with a venomous glare and grab his hand.
“Thanks,” you say, and he shrugs, bites his lip. You don’t know him that well, but you still squeeze his fingers and follow him down the hall.
He’s cursing against your skin, and your shirt’s on the floor, and you’re glad that you’re leaning against the wall because you’re not sure that your leg is ready for this much weight yet. He’s licking the scratches his fingernails made all up and down your chest, and you sink your hands into his hair, peroxide blond, your skin blending in with the bright white.
“Fuck them,” he says against your neck, and it’s the second thing he’s said loud enough for you to hear since you entered the bathroom, “fuck all of them.” He’s breathing heavily, fingers on your hips, weight against your shoulder, and you can’t tell if he’s angry anymore or just distraught. You think you’d know if he was crying, but you’re not positive.
“Yeah,” you say, and you have the urge to kiss the top of his head, but you don’t. Jaejoong would never forgive you for implying that he’s weak, or that he’s broken, even though he’s the latter and he knows it. And he knows he always will be.
You know all about that. The one time anyone tried to pity you, Kibum ended up with a black eye and Hankyung had to get ice from the kitchen while Kangin held you down. You don’t pity Jaejoong and you don’t empathize. You know, you know.
You stand in the doorway and it’s not that you’re waiting to be invited in so much as you’re gauging how much of an interruption you’ll be. Junsu and Changmin are curled up on a chair in the corner, at least half asleep, Changmin’s hands fisted into Junsu’s shirt. You notice Junsu’s eyes flick over towards you, but he looks back at the top of Changmin’s head without comment. Yoochun is sitting next to the bed, staring at the wall and nothing, eyes red and swollen. His fingers are on the back of Yunho’s wrist, lightly, but Yunho is sleeping. Yunho looks pale, but healthy, and you think of the frantic call you got the day before, and you think about how much worse it could have been, and you look away from the beeping machines and far too white sheets and your eyes fall on Jaejoong leaning against the large glass windows on the other side of the room. His arms and legs are both crossed in an effort to look both relaxed and untouchable, and he’s biting his lip, scowling at the white speckled linoleum tiles that line the floor. He looks up when you don’t look away, and you register the surprise on his face before he covers it. His hair is tousled like he’s been running his fingers through it, but he’s still for now; for how long, you don’t know.
He looks like there’s something that he wants to say, lips parted, brows furrowed, but when he opens his mouth, all he says is,
“I need some coffee,” and he walks out of the room, pushing past you and striding down the hall without looking back. You watch him turn the corner, and you look back at Yoochun and Yunho, Changmin and Junsu, before you shake your head. If the situation was any less tense, you’d roll your eyes, but you can’t make yourself do it, you can’t make yourself act normal, because this so much isn’t. You can’t run, yet, and your walk isn’t all that fast either, but you’re not limping that much anymore, so you set off after him.
He hasn’t moved, yet, from your neck, nose and lips and eyelashes pressed there. You can feel the flutter of him blinking, and you shiver every time he breathes in, warmth brushing when he breathes out.
“I fucking hate hospitals,” he says, the movement of his mouth and tongue wetting the skin over your jugular, and pulls away. He’s still angry, his jaw is clenched and the set of his shoulders makes you think of knots, cords of tightly twisted rope, and you’re not sure how much longer he’ll repress it for. You bury your hands in his hair, the heels of your palms sitting in the hollow under his cheekbones, and you say nothing. There is nothing you can say, really, so you kiss him. He presses his body against yours, lets his hands slide up, and then he’s biting your lips and grabbing your hair and he’s stepping on your toes in an effort to get closer, and his shirt is pressed to your bare chest.
You’ve never thought of him as needy, but it isn’t him, this time, who is hurt. And somehow, that makes all the difference.
He’s standing in front of the vending machines when you catch up to him, holding a cup of coffee he must have pilfered from the nurse’s station. You stop a few feet behind him and you keep quiet, tapping your foot against floor and waiting for him to acknowledge you. You don’t like waiting, but it’s better than him snarling at you. He’s clenching the Styrofoam cup a little too tightly, staring at the rows of Doritos and Fritos and packets of gum like they can tell him something he doesn’t already know.
You know him well enough to know what will set him off, so you don’t touch him, not without permission. Usually you don’t care, usually you wouldn’t hesitate to say what the fuck is up with you, Jae? and clap him on the shoulder, wait for him to snap at you or take a swing, but not today.
You stand there, motionless, until your leg starts to ache, and you just want him to get on with it. You sigh and you look at the ceiling and you almost miss it when he finally speaks.
“I’m going to kill her,” he says, and his voice is matter of fact, deliberate, chilled to the bone. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look at you, doesn’t address you, but he knows you are there. “I’m going to slice her into so many pieces they won’t be able to identify her.” You’re surprised the Styrofoam hasn’t split from the force of his clenching fingers. He turns to look at you, and if you didn’t know him so well, you’d think his eyes were wide with pain, sadness maybe, but no, this is rage, pure and simple.
“You do that,” you say, and you smile, cock your head to the side. “It’s not like I’d care.” You shrug your best and stuff your hands in your pockets, carefully putting most of your weight on one leg, ignoring the pain in the other. If you were smart you’d sit down soon, but you know you’re not going to.
The truth is, if you met that girl in a crowded city street, you’d punch her in the face and you wouldn’t stop until she fell, and then you’d kick her in the stomach.
The truth is, whatever apologizing management wants you to do, you don’t regret any of the words you said, and you never will.
Jaejoong nods then, and draws in a deep breath, and he knows that you understand. Yoochun might not, and Junsu might not, and everyone else might not, but you do.
“Good,” he says, and grabs hold of your wrist.
His hands curl in the fabric of your pants, clawing, and you push his shirt up on his chest, the cloth bunching up near his armpits. He’s leaning heavily against you, and you are crushed between his solid body and the cold wall at your back. You bite at his lips and his tongue and his teeth clash with yours - it’s messy, and it’s violent, and it’s what you both need. Your fingers press against his ribs and catch in the spaces between, holding on with sharply filed fingernails and he gasps against your lips and holds himself upright with the waistband of your jeans. You’re sliding your hands down the back of his pants and he’s yanking open the front of your jeans without looking and you’re thinking about killing her.
“Fuck,” he says as you pull him closer, words pressed up tight to your lips, “if I ever see her again -”
“Yeah,” you gasp out, “fuck yeah, you can count on it.”
His fingernails dig into your wrist as he pulls you down the hall, and you can tell that you’re limping, but he doesn’t seem to notice, so it doesn’t matter. You’re not sure where he’s going but you don’t mind following - he’s not heading back to the room, and you’re curious enough not to ask. You feel his thumb swipe over the inside of your arm, pressing lightly against the skin there.
He chucks his lukewarm coffee in a trashcan across the hall and he shoves you through the swinging bathroom door. You’re not ready for the sudden push, and you wince as you stumble, feeling the jerk in new muscle and scar tissue, but you glare at him.
“God, Jae, be a little more careful will you?” you snap, because you’re sensitive about your leg, and if you have to do more PT because Jaejoong was fucking sloppy and pushed you too hard, you’re going to rip him a new one.
“Sorry,” he says flatly, and then he kisses you.
You’re not ready for it, and you should’ve seen it coming, but you understand almost immediately.
You come with his name on your lips and taste the tang of blood in your mouth (you’re not sure if it’s yours or his and ultimately it doesn’t matter) and feel the tremor running through overworked muscle. He arches against you, buries his face against your shoulder, and you feel the shiver work its way through his body. You thread your free hand into his hair and you pull the other out of his pants and you wait to see if your leg is going to buckle, but it doesn’t.
“He’s going to be okay, you know,” you say, voice rough, syllables harsh and uneven at the edges.
“So’s your leg,” he replies, calm but out of breath, and you feel his wet fingers slide up over your hip and rest at the curve of your belly, pressing there and remaining still. You spread your fingers along the back of his head and the length of his neck and the top of his spine, silky hair and tacky skin, protruding bone.
“Yeah,” you say, and you close your eyes.
End Notes: As many of you probably know, I don't write Jaejoong or Heechul that much. It was fun to write some new people for a change, but tell me if you think I'm horribly off in the characterizations. Because, well, it's always a nice thing to know. And k0uryuu, I hope that you like it well enough. :D