[fic] of withered dreams; chapter two
Title: of withered dreams
Pairing: Mark/Jinyoung (Slight Mark/Jackson, Jaebum/Jinyoung)
Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Warnings: N/A
Synopsis: When Jinyoung is dead drunk one night, Mark takes it in his kind character to lug the 'stranger' home. For lonely nights and nostalgic mornings, this is a story of forgotten childhoods, surreal neverlands, white lies, black truths and of withered dreams.
A/N: Beta-ed by the ever so wonderful neutralsmile (start writing again omgyouuuuaskdjsd)
//02//
Jinyoung leaves after an exchange of phone numbers and empty promises. It’s 8:02 and he’s pretty sure the Autumn wind is too chilly for his liking, cold air enveloping his brain-he feels his headache worsen. There’s barely anyone on the streets Saturday morning and he tries to stop himself from reminiscing mornings where he ran down the streets chasing after a bus. Tries to stop himself from remembering the times where dreams and passions didn’t run into dead ends.
Fallen leaves upon grey cement, Jinyoung watches as they crumble under his footsteps.
He gets home an hour later, knees shaky and mind full of regrets. His hands are numb and with frozen fingers, he attempts to open the door. Jaebum opens it when he’s still fumbling with his keys a minute later, warms hands enveloping his own as he’s pulled into the apartment. He’s too tired to think despite having just woke up two hours ago and Jinyoung nudges into the nook of Jaebum’s neck. Resting on the other’s shoulder, Jaebum half pulls, half carries the other to the living room sofa.
They both collapse, falling back onto the leather couch-Jaebum thinks of quicksand for a moment and sinks further. Jinyoung’s hands are still cold and Jaebum doesn’t let go, tracing patterns in the other’s palm as he asks;
“You didn’t come home yesterday.”
“I had to meet with a client,” Jinyoung responds quietly, and he knows that Jaebum knows. That Jaebum knows that he knows Jaebum knows-that there’s still half a sentence left unsaid. So Jaebum waits, fingers still lingering on the other’s skin, for Jinyoung to give in.
And so he does, a while later. There’s a hitch of breath before he starts talking again, “I had too much to drink and someone took me in.” He continues, voice a bit softer, “Turns out we all went to the same college-you, me, him, and his roommate.”
“He’s a designer, you know? And his friend is a musician.” Jinyoung lifts his hands, fingers touching upon the other’s heart; “You’re a writer.” Jaebum watches as the younger male pulls away, lying back down on the sofa.
It doesn’t take much for Jaebum to read between the lines, twelve years of being best friends isn’t just for show. So he tilts forward, arms embracing the younger. Jinyoung speaks again, voice hoarse and faint. “I guess I’m really bad at selling insurance.”
“It’s okay.” Jaebum states, “I can take care of you.”
And there they stay, both resting upon the leather sofa-breath in synch as the clock ticks away.
Jinyoung falls asleep and wakes up still in Jaebum’s arms. Rubbing his eyes slowly, he looked up at the other, “Don’t you have deadlines to meet?” The other hummed in response, drumming his fingers on Jinyoung’s chest as he spoke. “Are you feeling any better?”
“You’re not answering my question, you know?” Jinyoung stated.
“I know.”
“Then answer me.”
“Answer me first.” Jaebum mutters while staring off into the ceiling, finding hidden clouds.
“But I asked first!” Jinyoung retaliates.
He never gets his answer, but after spending several hours drafting up presentations and proposals, Jinyoung walks out of his room to see Jaebum rushing manuscripts-sipping on what might be his sixth cup of caffeinated poison. It’s an heart attack waiting to happen and Jinyoung faintly remembers the days where Jaebum wrote without deadlines and restrictions. Just one sentence a day, waiting until he finds the perfect way to word his scattered thoughts. Where he’d be sitting on the dormitory floor--strumming his guitar, softly humming whilst the older male laid on the bed, writing away in one of his many notebooks.
He sorts them by emotions, each book designated a certain “feel.” The blue leather bound book was for rainy days, where he’d write sentences on unlined paper-words crooked and arrhythmic. The thin white paperback was for early mornings, where everything was calm and collected. Jinyoung remembers more than once of days he woke up to find the other sitting down at the dining table, cursive letters appearing onto orderly lines while Jaebum waited for the water to boil.
But four years later, and his guitar is stashed in the closet. Jaebum keeps his notebooks locked up in his cabinet, writing only on his laptop. Tapping keys until his eyes strained and throat dried. Jinyoung is the same, except he’s not writing about surreal dreams and aromantic plot lines-he’s writing about budgets, payments, inclusions, and exclusions. Jaebum marks his deadlines on his calendar in red, Jinyoung tallies his clients in purple. Jaebum’s counting down, Jinyoung’s counting up.
There’s not enough time to reminisce and Jinyoung forces his attention back to his monitor, eyes scanning the lists of possible clients. The glare of the screen burns his eyes-burns his soul.
Pairing: Mark/Jinyoung (Slight Mark/Jackson, Jaebum/Jinyoung)
Rating: PG-13 (for now)
Warnings: N/A
Synopsis: When Jinyoung is dead drunk one night, Mark takes it in his kind character to lug the 'stranger' home. For lonely nights and nostalgic mornings, this is a story of forgotten childhoods, surreal neverlands, white lies, black truths and of withered dreams.
A/N: Beta-ed by the ever so wonderful neutralsmile (start writing again omgyouuuuaskdjsd)
//02//
Jinyoung leaves after an exchange of phone numbers and empty promises. It’s 8:02 and he’s pretty sure the Autumn wind is too chilly for his liking, cold air enveloping his brain-he feels his headache worsen. There’s barely anyone on the streets Saturday morning and he tries to stop himself from reminiscing mornings where he ran down the streets chasing after a bus. Tries to stop himself from remembering the times where dreams and passions didn’t run into dead ends.
Fallen leaves upon grey cement, Jinyoung watches as they crumble under his footsteps.
He gets home an hour later, knees shaky and mind full of regrets. His hands are numb and with frozen fingers, he attempts to open the door. Jaebum opens it when he’s still fumbling with his keys a minute later, warms hands enveloping his own as he’s pulled into the apartment. He’s too tired to think despite having just woke up two hours ago and Jinyoung nudges into the nook of Jaebum’s neck. Resting on the other’s shoulder, Jaebum half pulls, half carries the other to the living room sofa.
They both collapse, falling back onto the leather couch-Jaebum thinks of quicksand for a moment and sinks further. Jinyoung’s hands are still cold and Jaebum doesn’t let go, tracing patterns in the other’s palm as he asks;
“You didn’t come home yesterday.”
“I had to meet with a client,” Jinyoung responds quietly, and he knows that Jaebum knows. That Jaebum knows that he knows Jaebum knows-that there’s still half a sentence left unsaid. So Jaebum waits, fingers still lingering on the other’s skin, for Jinyoung to give in.
And so he does, a while later. There’s a hitch of breath before he starts talking again, “I had too much to drink and someone took me in.” He continues, voice a bit softer, “Turns out we all went to the same college-you, me, him, and his roommate.”
“He’s a designer, you know? And his friend is a musician.” Jinyoung lifts his hands, fingers touching upon the other’s heart; “You’re a writer.” Jaebum watches as the younger male pulls away, lying back down on the sofa.
It doesn’t take much for Jaebum to read between the lines, twelve years of being best friends isn’t just for show. So he tilts forward, arms embracing the younger. Jinyoung speaks again, voice hoarse and faint. “I guess I’m really bad at selling insurance.”
“It’s okay.” Jaebum states, “I can take care of you.”
And there they stay, both resting upon the leather sofa-breath in synch as the clock ticks away.
Jinyoung falls asleep and wakes up still in Jaebum’s arms. Rubbing his eyes slowly, he looked up at the other, “Don’t you have deadlines to meet?” The other hummed in response, drumming his fingers on Jinyoung’s chest as he spoke. “Are you feeling any better?”
“You’re not answering my question, you know?” Jinyoung stated.
“I know.”
“Then answer me.”
“Answer me first.” Jaebum mutters while staring off into the ceiling, finding hidden clouds.
“But I asked first!” Jinyoung retaliates.
He never gets his answer, but after spending several hours drafting up presentations and proposals, Jinyoung walks out of his room to see Jaebum rushing manuscripts-sipping on what might be his sixth cup of caffeinated poison. It’s an heart attack waiting to happen and Jinyoung faintly remembers the days where Jaebum wrote without deadlines and restrictions. Just one sentence a day, waiting until he finds the perfect way to word his scattered thoughts. Where he’d be sitting on the dormitory floor--strumming his guitar, softly humming whilst the older male laid on the bed, writing away in one of his many notebooks.
He sorts them by emotions, each book designated a certain “feel.” The blue leather bound book was for rainy days, where he’d write sentences on unlined paper-words crooked and arrhythmic. The thin white paperback was for early mornings, where everything was calm and collected. Jinyoung remembers more than once of days he woke up to find the other sitting down at the dining table, cursive letters appearing onto orderly lines while Jaebum waited for the water to boil.
But four years later, and his guitar is stashed in the closet. Jaebum keeps his notebooks locked up in his cabinet, writing only on his laptop. Tapping keys until his eyes strained and throat dried. Jinyoung is the same, except he’s not writing about surreal dreams and aromantic plot lines-he’s writing about budgets, payments, inclusions, and exclusions. Jaebum marks his deadlines on his calendar in red, Jinyoung tallies his clients in purple. Jaebum’s counting down, Jinyoung’s counting up.
There’s not enough time to reminisce and Jinyoung forces his attention back to his monitor, eyes scanning the lists of possible clients. The glare of the screen burns his eyes-burns his soul.