Love; far too long 5/6
Title: Love; far too long 5/6
Plot: kiboushinjitsu
Pairing: YunJae
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2683
Disclaimer: Don’t own anything.
Summary: A beautiful young secretary, two rings and a bouquet of daisies. Sometimes love goes on for too long and the ones in love forget what it feels like.
♥♥♥
Sometimes, he woke up with the resolve to get Jaejoong back.
From the moment he opened his eyes, his heart would be full of conviction that yes, he would wait till he came back, and he will come back.
He would turn to lie flat on his stomach, palm caressing the sheets on the side of the bed Jaejoong used to sleep on (His hand landed a little heavily onto Jaejoong in his groggy state, and Jaejoong whined, murmuring drowsily), face pressed against the bed a little awkwardly but he would never be able to find it in himself to care.
He’d breathe for a few long minutes, not moving, trying to get the scent and warmth of Jaejoong, because maybe, just maybe Jaejoong left something behind. Even if the days pass faster and more days add to the duration of their separation, he had come home to Jaejoong so many times (Jaejoong looked up from his book and opened his arms in welcome - Yunho gladly took him into embrace), and Jaejoong had lay in this bed so many nights (“Good night, Jaejoongie.” Yunho leaned over to kiss the mope of dark hair), so there must have been something more intangible that not even time could take away. Then he’d despair, because he could find nothing, even though he knew. Knew that something had to be there. He’d still lay there for a few moments, until his closed eyes started stinging and he knew that he had to move.
He would get up, make the bed the way Jaejoong always used to do it (but he didn’t know why - no matter how he tried, it was always different) and grab a quick shower. Cereal for breakfast because he would burn something down if he tried to eat something else (Jaejoong laughed, “You should just leave the cooking to me, Yunnie~”).
He’d head up the stairs again, fixing his tie, frustrated (“You big baby, why can’t you do this on your own,” Jaejoong teased, a smile playing on his lips). A customary deep breath once he stepped over the threshold and closed the door behind him, and he would move soundlessly around the carpeted floor, fingers trailing, dancing across spines of cookbooks and those books that Jaejoong loved to cry over (“Yunho, I love you,” Jaejoong all but sobbed, clutching the book in his hands. “I’m afraid I won’t have the chance to tell you if I don’t tell you now.” Yunho later found out the book was written as tribute to victims of 911 by their families and loved ones). Some days he picked one of those books to read, wanting to read of life, of sadness, of grief, of sacrifice and love as Jaejoong saw it. Other days he plucked a piece of blank paper from the tray and wrote a note to Jaejoong (Jaejoong, I wish I could call you Joongie, I love you even if you don’t believe it, I miss you like my heart could burst, I wished you were here when I got home yesterday and when I went to bed and when I woke this morning, I love you, will you believe me?), leaving it on the desk for him.
Then he’d notice the time and have to rush down the stairs, grabbing (though carefully) the bouquet of white and red roses he had left on the holder the night before, and scramble into his car. The drive to Jaejoong’s house would be fast, and he’d rap his knuckles on the door two times, then lose his courage, and whisper only loud enough for himself to hear (“Good morning Jaejoong, I love you.”), then walk off quickly, the bouquet at the doorstep in his wake.
Work would go by quickly, and he’d drop by the florist to pick up his daily bouquet before driving home. The flowers would be left in the holder, keys by the side, and he’d take a shower. He’d make himself a simple dinner (He nodded to himself - he would go to cooking class, so when Jaejoong came back, he’d be able to cook for him) then tidy up the house like he had learned to (He looked at the mess, and promised himself he would keep things clean like Jaejoong had, so Jaejoong would come back).
Whatever work he had, he would finish, and then he’d head up to Jaejoong’s room again - though he’d probably just left it, seeing that he spent the most time there making sure everything was in order - and slump over the small rectangular piece of patterned hard paper, writing a few words to Jaejoong which he didn’t know would get read. Once, it read “I read 991 - the Aftermath, and I love you”; then another, “Today I made stir-fried beef from your cookbook, I’ll cook it for you one day. I love you”. Some days, it was just “I love you, I still love you” and others, “Will you come back to me? I love you”.
A trudge downstairs to leave the card in the flowers, and then to bed.
---
Sometimes, he woke up wondering if he should continue breathing.
Those times, he had most likely been jolted awake by realisation and overwhelming grief that followed his habit of grabbing Jaejoong’s pillow and pulling it to himself in sleep. Only to realise that it wasn’t Jaejoong then Jaejoong wasn’t around anymore and it’s all his fault. It was always an out-of-body experience when the grief hit him after that. And the pain that felt like his heart was being torn out of his chest would get him wondering is this real? and is he still alive?
He would think it couldn’t be real, that this just had to be a dream. To think that he cheated on Jaejoong, embodying the one person he hated the most to take his place. It was unbelievable. Unreal, even. How could he ever do that? After growing up almost fatherless (almost because his father treated the house like church, coming back only one day of the week for a few hours), he had watched his mother waste away, waiting for a man who never came back even till she was dying, and had hated his father all his life with a passion. He had avoided his father in all aspects all his life, telling himself that though the man’s blood ran through his veins, he would not turn out like him; he would decide his own destiny and character. He had steered clear of any traits of his father, running the other way the moment he displayed any aspect of his father, desperately rejecting every single smidge of his father in him. So how? How had he turned out like this? HowhowHOW? (I’m sorry Jaejoong, don’t forgive me). He would curl up in a foetal position on the bed - sometimes screaming, sometimes silently anguished - but always, always unable to stop the hot tears from leaking over as he gasped for breath amidst his cries (I’m sorry Jaejoong, don’t come back).
Finally convincing himself to get up, he’d make his way to the kitchen, too tired to bother with washing up. Instead of breakfast, he’d down large gulps of hard liquor right from the bottle because, please, anything - just anything to numb the pain. But he never had enough time to get drunk, he’d dress hurriedly and drive to Jaejoong’s house, knock, whisper something, then walk off.
Work would be a haze, an alcohol-induced buzz in his ears and heat in his veins. Off to the florist again and then back home, where he’d head straight for the wine cooler and get smashed. He’d lose control and throw things, smash and punch things and cut himself on shards of glass and broken pieces of ceramics, trying to hurt himself the way he’d hurt Jaejoong, wanting to inflict a wound large enough for all of his father’s blood to flow out of him, as he cried from the anger and hatred at himself. Then he’d slump somewhere in a corner, the rage draining away and the raw sorrow brought forth, as he curled in on himself and cried and cried till he succumbed to exhaustion.
Whenever he woke a few hours later, in the middle of the nights, strangely enough, he’d always remember what happened. He’d look around the house, of which state looked like a tornado swept through it, and get up to fetch rags from the back, not caring, not feeling when he stepped on shards, not flinching when he bled.
After all, he deserved it.
His tears would leak, dripping onto his hands and the rag and the floor as he wiped and wiped at the floor and the table and the walls, trying to remove the stains his (disgusting) blood had made, because the house that Jaejoong loved so much, I wrecked it, I wrecked it. And through the night he’d clean, picking up pieces and throwing them in trash bags. Only when it was clean enough, like nothing had happened, save for a few empty spaces where breakable ornaments had been, would he head for a shower, washing at stinging wounds and letting blood from unclosed wounds bleed into the drain with the water. He’d write his note to Jaejoong, grab a few hours of sleep on the bed (only bandaging the worst of the wounds because he didn’t want to dirty their bed), then wake in the morning to deliver the flowers.
Days like this, he’d just pick up the roses, and drive to his alma mater - his and Jaejoong’s - entirely abandoning work. It was where they had first met. It used to bring a smile to his face, but now he had to bite his inner cheeks so he could stop himself from breaking down-
“You’re a jock, you practically rule the school; you shouldn’t want to talk to me.”
“But I do, and you could be my queen if you wanted.”
The glare he got was expected, but the blush on Jaejoong’s cheeks surprised Yunho and spurred him on even more.
“You’re going to break my heart,” Jaejoong muttered under his breath, looking down - almost shyly, Yunho thought.
“No, I won’t,” Yunho smiled nervously, his hand wrapping around Jaejoong’s slowly, unsurely.
When Jaejoong let him, he suddenly felt like the silence of the library held a lot more promise than before and the musty smell of books was amazingly pleasant.
-How he wished Jaejoong hadn’t been right.
---
“This is it!” Haejin scowled one day when she caught sight of another barely-closed wound, took in the sight of Yunho looking like he was another pound thinner, another decade older. “You need help, Yunho.”
Yunho sighed. “I don’t need this now, Haejin.”
Her answer was soft, pleading.
“I’m still your friend, Yunho, and I just want you to be okay.”
---
Yunho sat through hours and hours of leather chairs and sanitised, monochrome surroundings, of the damn psychiatrist asking and asking “what do you think about that?” and “how did that make you feel?”.
He sat through those, hands clawing into the armrests of the leather chair, resisting the urge to squeeze his eyes shut, resisting, resisting, resisting - all because “Jaejoong’s not going to want you back like that.”
Perhaps - perhaps Jaejoong would take him back if he was better, if he was changed (even though he wanted to stand and shout at Dr. Choi that he’s totally fine.).
---
The days he’d wake with the determination that he would get Jaejoong back - that Jaejoong would come back - kept diminishing.
“Nine, please.” The other man had smiled at him before jabbing a finger to poke at the button. Yunho couldn’t help but notice that he hadn’t pressed another.
He didn’t know how to bring those days back.
He waited for the stranger to walk out, his fingers wrapped around a bouquet of red roses he hadn’t noticed before. But-oh-
He stopped in front of Jaejoong’s door.
And he didn’t know how to get Jaejoong back.
His heart was stuttering and there wasn’t enough air. Wha-
-what could he do when Jaejoong was smiling the way he used to smile at him and hugging the man the way he used to him and-
Didn’t know if it was too late.
What could he do when Jaejoong’s eyes widened upon seeing him whilst hugging the man? Just-
Just- what else could he do, but comply, when Jaejoong pleaded wordlessly with him.
“Your words aren’t enough. Not anymore.”
Because-
-because he couldn’t deny him anything-
He stood still and let Jaejoong-and his companion-whisk past him as his heart broke.
---
Breathtaking.
Even in sleep, he was beautiful to the point that it hurt. No one would tear the two apart at this point. So he knelt on one creaky knee, lifting and kissing a hand of his lover. Because of the air-conditioning and the low temperature was set at, the skin against his lips were cold. Cold, everything was cold, like how they described his lover to be. Yet these hands signified so much more to him; they told of warmth and love he didn’t deserve. And so, he didn’t feel the cold, instead he felt love he knew was never hidden - just forgotten at one point of time - flare in his heart. Slow, overwhelming, almost choking.
He carefully and slowly wrapped the fingers around the simple band he carried every day before placing it back on his chest. Kissing the familiar forehead gently one last time, he rose from his knees and walked out silently.
Inscribed on the inner surface of the ring,
forever your Yunho ✿
---
“..ho…Yunho…Yunho.”
He opened dazed eyes to stare into brown eyes he loved the whole of his life - because he knew his life didn’t start till Jaejoong waltzed into it.
“Wake up already!”Jaejoong pouted petulantly at him, lips inviting. “You’re so lazy.”
“I...”
Breath stolen at the beautiful sight.
Yunho mumbled and turned his face to one side to avoid Jaejoong’s poking finger at his cheek.
“Yes?”
A smile. Teasing. Alluring.
He shut his eyes again, against the tears that he knew was building up.
His eyes stung from the onslaught of tears.
“I-I like you!”
His nose and throat were clogging up, and he threw an arm over his eyes.
“I know. And…?”
The first of the hot tears slid down his cheek as he faced away from Jaejoong.
“I think you’re as beautiful as the daisy I see when I get to school!”
A single white daisy thrust out in a fist. Freshly plucked.
He let out an accidental sob when he gasped for breath.
A frown. Unwavering gaze on his face.
“…and…?”
An alarmed gasp sounded above him.
“Yunnie, why are you crying?”
Blush. Hot, red, uncomfortable. All the way to his ears.
“Willyougooutwithme?”
Forcing his eyes open, he reached a wrinkly arm out for Jaejoong-
Beautiful, delicate fingers wrapped around his own, around the flower.
-and watched as Jaejoong disappeared.
“I’d love to.”
A kiss. Innocent, chaste, at the age of fifteen.
The sobs, uncontrollable now, wracked his frail, thin body.
He wheezed, trying to draw breath into his lungs, but realised it was not needed anyway; his heart was losing strength, its beat sluggish and slow, slower, slower. He closed his eyes and waited-
At the age of 83, Jung Yunho wanted to stop fighting, found no reason for fighting. His love had died five years back; his was a lonely existence for remaining part of his life, but even before, he was waiting. Only waiting for one person to return and allow him to atone for his sins. But love sometimes doesn’t return, and love didn’t return to him. And he spent his entire life after wishing he lived another, knowing he could have lived another (‘if only I hadn’t… If only…if only…”).
-till he slipped into unconsciousness, embracing the calm, unfeeling void that came with death, with an image of Jaejoong speaking to him (“Your words aren’t enough. Not anymore.”) burned into his eyelids and tears in his closed eyes.
♥♥♥
A/N: Ugh, I’m not too happy with this, but I can’t seem to pinpoint it. Somehow I think I’m being a little too anal with this because it’s like I’m feeling neutral and roarrrr. WHY AM I LIKE THIS? But other than this, really thank you, you amazing babies who have been there being all lovely and kind with waiting and with the encouragements! You all are TOO AWESOME for me!! :O OOH. And I got a Twitter account for LJ friends finally! It’s the same, broken_ephemera, because I’m so uncreative XD I wonder if I’d get friends..??? XD