APTF [5/?]
Title: A Prayer Time Forgot
Length: Chaptered [5/?]
Rating: NC17 now, to be safe.
Genre: Umm. Unsure. Angst, supernatural, generally. Weirdness. We'll see.
Pairing: Yes, there are pairings. (Gasp! A first!) I'm guessing it's YunJae.
Summary: It’s an empty playground they wind up in, swings, slides, seesaws glinting under the weak moonlight; sheen of frost over the metal adds glitter to the sight, urging it to appear more magical than lonely.
A/N: OH MAN, it's been so LONG! Mian!
Prologue + Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
---
Chapter Five
For once, Yunho allows himself to be led. He recognizes the train station as they board, feels the rumble of the train as they hop on, and closes his eyes to the soft swaying. Jaejoong holds his hand, leads him down trains and frozen sidewalks, hums a nameless song, looking iridescent under dimming streetlights.
“Where are we going?” Yunho dares to ask, slightly suspicious as he can no longer name the streets and buildings they pass.
“You’ll see,” Jaejoong says, gliding weightless in and out of shadows. Yunho can hear the smile in his voice and for a moment he wonders just how.
It’s an empty playground they wind up in, swings, slides, seesaws glinting under the weak moonlight; sheen of frost over the metal adds glitter to the sight, urging it to appear more magical than lonely. Yunho, however, is not comforted; the black skeletons of what are supposed to be children’s play equipment when under sunlight strike him as more eerie than anything else.
“Olly olly oxen free…” Jaejoong says in a singsong tone, letting go of his hand, and Yunho watches apprehensively as Jaejoong hops soundlessly onto a merry-go-round, pushes himself into motion with a quick kick, then grasps the railings to extend his body forward in mock flight. The squeaks that emanate from the rusty hinges make the hairs on the back of Yunho’s neck rise, his skin prickling with the familiar fear of the uncertain and undetermined.
“…Jaejoong.”
“You look like death,” Jaejoong says, his mouth stretched into a wide grin. “Ease up a bit. Sit down, Yunho.”
“What are we doing here?” Yunho doesn’t come a step closer, prefers to keep his distance as the other man continues with his play.
“I come here to think. Best place in the world,” he beams at Yunho. “Thought I could share it with you.”
Jaejoong jumps off the merry-go-round, and lands like an awkward bird, crouched, on the dirt. He stretches to his full height and dusts off his jeans and coat.
“I always used to come to these sorts of places as a child. Never had many friends.” He looks up, smiles at Yunho, his teeth gleaming like porcelain.
“S’all right though. You know what they say: what doesn’t kill you…”
He trails off and reaches for Yunho’s hand. Unconsciously, Yunho shies from his touch, retracts his arm as though he’s been burnt. Around them the wind circles, whispers lost secrets, whistles hidden tunes into their ears.
“A little jumpy, aren’t we?”
Yunho takes a second, then a gulp of air. Jaejoong’s eyes are locked on his, black fire half-hidden by stubborn hair that sweeps across his forehead.
“I knew…a Kim Jaejoong. Once. As a child.”
His throat has gone dry, and the words come out as a hoarse whisper. Jaejoong looks at him (surprised, Yunho wants to believe), then cocks his head to the side like a curious animal would.
“You did? Kim Jaejoong, you say? How odd. What a coincidence. Were you friends?”
“…No. Not really.”
“Where is he now, then?”
He’s dead, Yunho wants to say. He was there during Kim Jaejoong’s funeral, two days before he and Siwon were forced to leave by their angry father and fearful mother, two boys on the run from the truth. He’d seen the dead boy, had even thrown up on the grass at the sight. He forces himself to keep his gaze on Jaejoong, forces a wad of spit down his suddenly parched throat.
“…I never saw him again.”
Jaejoong shakes his head. “Too bad. He could be anywhere now, could be anyone. Could even be me, don’t you think? Poor twenty-something artist living alone in a city. I would remember a Jung Yunho though.” He clucks like a mother would, then shakes his head once more. “Pity. And I thought my name was unique.”
His pseudo distress he seems to dismiss in slightly less than two seconds. Within the timeframe he turns, reaches for Yunho’s hand again. Yunho, still perturbed, nearly jumps when their fingers brush against each other. When Jaejoong laughs at his persistent reluctance, Yunho is surprised to discover his ears turning a violent shade of crimson.
“What’s so funny?” he frowns, not appreciating someone poking fun at his misery.
“You are.” Jaejoong says, a smile still poking at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know what skeletons you keep hidden in your closet but you have to trust me when I tell you I won’t bite.”
Yunho is still unsure, still apprehensive. But Jaejoong is warm to the touch and before he can react, the other man has reached out and has placed a firm grasp on his hand. He’s pulled close, close enough in fact to smell the scent of the other’s cologne and feel his heart beating against another’s chest, and then Jaejoong’s lips brush against his in an ever-so-slight kiss. Yunho’s eyes open wide at the sensation, but they close as Jaejoong pulls closer, sucks on his lower lip in a way that makes Yunho’s knees weak. When they part, Yunho’s heart is racing, his mind looping holy fuck what in sweet Jesus like a broken record.
“Still scared?” Jaejoong asks, looking mischievous. Dumbfounded beyond belief, Yunho silently shakes his head.
“Good.”
---
They start over upon Jaejoong’s suggestion, the first awkward moments (for Yunho at least) reminding Yunho of overheard Korean lessons from Yoochun and Changmin (“Annyeonghaseyo, Jung Yoochun ib nida”; “Annyeonghaseyo, Shim Changmin ib nida. Pangapsumnida.”). Jaejoong is slightly older than he is (“And don’t even think about calling me hyung unless you want my foot somewhere you wouldn’t want it to be”), lives in an apartment north of the river, and (Yunho is relieved to discover) is not a Seoul native.
“Only came about for college then dropped out after a year or two, of course. Not my style. Can you imagine me being confined to four walls for several hours? No? Well neither could I,” Jaejoong says, almost with glee. “And you?”
Yunho doesn’t tell him much; only bits and pieces of 15 years away, New York, photographer, Yoochun in one breathless sentence. Jaejoong tsks at his short introduction, mutters something about people playing hard-to-get but not prodding further, only ending the conversation by leading Yunho to the empty swing set where he sits, convinces Yunho to sit beside him and produces a cigarette stick from his pocket. They trade portfolios upon his insistence (“Job interview? God, I hate those. Is that why you were throwing yourself into the river this afternoon? I’m kidding, God, don’t gawk at me like that”), and Yunho asks if he can share Jaejoong’s cigarette.
“Liked my kiss that much, didn’t you?” Jaejoong smirks but offers it just the same, and Yunho takes it without retort, too embarrassed to say yes.
Jaejoong’s ‘portfolio’ is actually a sketchbook, worn at the sides and showing evidences of more than several coffee and cigarette stains on the scratched leather cover. Upon opening it, Yunho is assaulted with color: bright shades of tangerine, turquoise, gold and emerald, vivid still even under the weak light, distorts the reality of poverty, hunger, cold and loneliness felt in pictures of Seoul page after page after page.
“You’re an escapist, aren’t you?” Yunho asks, touches each drawing one by one, wishes he could feel the same liveliness and hope that they exude.
“Aren’t we all?” comes the reply and Yunho can’t say he doesn’t agree. He goes from pictures of bridges and rivers, buildings and trees, all painted or crayoned in vivid strokes of color before slender fingers pluck the cigarette dangling from his lips and he turns, his attention diverted; Jaejoong is frowning at his portfolio, his forehead creased as he goes from one page to the next.
“Anything wrong?”
“Your photos.”
“What about?” He’s almost afraid of what Jaejoong would say and Yunho cranes his neck to see what the other man is looking at.
“They’re beautiful, but they’re immensely sad.”
Yunho watches as Jaejoong flips from one photo to the next: black-and-white pictures of cities and people gone past almost disappearing in a cloud of smoke as Jaejoong exhales. He shifts closer, nearly rests his chin on the other man’s shoulder.
“Black and white is my specialty.”
A black-and-white photo of sky and church towers, a bustle of people unaware of traffic lights.
“It’s depressing.”
Yunho nods, contemplates on saying nothing for the few seconds that stretches between them. He leans into Jaejoong’s touch as the other’s hand rises and caresses the side of his face in an almost absent-minded manner.
“It’s difficult for me…to feel anything else,” he confesses, regretting it almost immediately after. “I’m not…like you.”
Jaejoong’s reply comes in the form of rusty squeaking and metal chains clinking, before the portfolio is snapped shut and he feels Jaejoong’s breath tickling the skin on his neck.
“I don’t want you to be.”
---
The second time they do it, it’s Yunho who initiates. They move from the swing set to a bench, hands more comfortably linked this time, and Yunho leans in at the first right quiet moment. Jaejoong tastes of smoke and sweet tea and his skin is velvet against Yunho’s lips; he doesn’t even bother to feign surprise at the gesture.
“Mm,” Jaejoong smiles as they part to take a breath, his face inches away from Yunho’s, his tongue mischievously poking out and touching a portion of his upper lip. “I’d kill you if you plan to jump into any more rivers. You’re a damned good kisser.”
Yunho licks his lips, offers a small grin. “There’s more where that came from.”
“Damned shame to see it go to waste.”
“Mmhm, damned shame.”
Yunho feels Jaejoong’s hands on the back of his neck, urging him to move closer. Heat rises to his face as he feels his scarf being loosened and the buttons on his coat being undone. Blindly, he gropes around Jaejoong’s front to do the same, tenses a bit as he feels an unnatural heat gather at his crotch.
Bzzz.
Jaejoong’s tongue is in his mouth, making his throat tighten,
Bzzz.
and he does the same, pushing Jaejoong back to a lying position.
Bzzz.
“Yunho…your phone,” Jaejoong gasps, motions to the insistent vibrations rattling between their chests.
“Fuck it.”
“It’s fucking buzzing against me, Yunho. Either answer it or goddamn throw it away.”
“It’s only Junsu.”
“Just fucking get it already.”
Yunho lifts himself off of Jaejoong with a growl and fumbles around in his coat pockets, nearly ripping the containing pocket off its seams as he yanks the phone out.
“This had better be fucking good-”
“Yunho, where the fuck are you?”
It’s the absence of the ‘hyung’ that sets Yunho off. Perhaps. Or maybe it’s because Junsu sounds unnaturally rattled.
“What happened?” He sits straighter, feels the cold crawling back into his nerves as the heat he was feeling seconds before diminishes bit by bit. Beside him, Jaejoong sits upright, alerted by the sudden change in his tone. “Yoochun, is Yoochun-”
“Get home right now. Just…fuck. Just get home.”
“Junsu what the fuck-”
“Just get home, hyung. Now.”
“All right, all right. I’m on my way,” he says before the phone is clacked shut. He turns to Jaejoong, attempts to think up a good-enough apology, as he quickly buttons up his coat again and zips up his fly. The scarf he manages to wind around his neck again in a way that he nearly strangles himself.
“I’m…fuck, I’m sorry…but Junsu called and I think there’s something wrong…” He can barely think straight, his adrenaline rushing in opposite directions. He gathers his things, nearly dropping the portfolio and spilling his photos onto the ground in the process.
“Whoa whoa, what’s happened?” Jaejoong looks worried and grasps his hand in an attempt to steady him. His wool cap has been straightened, but his coat is still undone and in the light, Yunho sees the slight shadow of the collarbone his lips had been resting on earlier.
“I don’t know…but…God this is unbelievable. Fuck I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Yunho is red-faced, embarrassed, horny and worried at the same time. “I have to go.”
“I’ll come with you.”
There are no additional questions or comments. Jaejoong jumps up, immediately sets into motion. Fly. Coat. Scarf.
“You don’t have to.”
“Shut up. I want to.”
“…All right.”
Not that Yunho is against the idea anyway.
---
It had happened quicker than Yoochun had thought. He isn’t even sure that it was him who had done such a thing, but looking at the mess at his feet, he doesn’t know what to think anymore.
“Yoochun, what-”
He turns at the sound of Junsu hyung’s voice, feels himself go pale as Junsu’s eyes go wide at what he’s done. He looks frantically around his uncle’s room in search of the boy, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Hyung, hyung…it wasn’t me, I can explain.”
His Daddy and uncle’s faces are cut up and shredded on the carpet like confetti, leaving headless pictures, ruined beyond repair beside them. The scissors are in his hand, but he knows it’s not his fault. It’s not his fault.
“Hyung, the boy. It was the boy…”
“Yoochun-ah, what have you done? What have you done?” Junsu asks, yanking the scissors away from his hands. Yoochun doesn’t wait; he uproots himself from his spot and runs, slamming his door shut behind him and locking it, hides in the darkest corner with his teddy bear as he buries his nose into its fur.
It’s really easy, the boy had told him. The boy with the jet-black hair and shining eyes. He had let himself into Yoochun’s room, one finger over his rose-lipped mouth, and Yoochun had liked him instantly.
You want your Daddy back, don’t you? You don’t want to live with your mean uncle?
Yunho hyung isn’t…he’s not really mean…
Whatever. Take this, and I’ll show you something really cool. If you do it, I promise you’ll be able to see your Daddy.
And the scissors had been shoved into his hands while the pale boy grasped his arm and pulled him into his uncle’s room, giving him a canvas envelope filled with pictures he’s never seen before.
Cut their heads off. Go on.
I don’t…
The next few moments were a blur, and now he’s in his room, hearing his uncle call out his name in a way he’s never imagined. “JUNG YOOCHUN!” he’s shouting, shouting so loudly that even the wall he’s pressing against shakes. “JUNG YOOCHUN!”
Yoochun cries, hugs the bear tighter, shakes his head silently as though a response to Yunho hyung’s calls. They’re right outside their door and his uncle is banging on the wood. “Open the door and tell me why you did this! YOOCHUN!”
I didn’t do it. I swear.
Another voice takes the place of his uncle’s. Softer now, and more soothing. It’s in Korean and Yoochun doesn’t understand (Changmin hyung has only taught him so far), but Junsu hyung is translating alongside it, and slowly, he lifts his head to listen.
“Yoochun-ah. Yoochun-ah, open the door. It’s me, the hyung from the supermarket. Remember me? We need you to open the door, okay? Uncle wants to talk to you. Yoochun-ah. Uncle won’t hurt you, okay? I promise. Hyung will protect you. Hyung won’t let anything happen, okay? Come out. Come out, Yoochun-ah.”
He opts to consider the invitation, even forgets his fear of his uncle for a second, and he stands, sniffling, wiping his nose with his sleeve. But when he looks, the boy is there again, sitting cross-legged on his bed like nothing ever happened, and giving no clue as to how he ever got there. Yoochun opens his mouth to speak, an accusation ready on his tongue, but the boy is quick to speak, words forming themselves out of thin air and pressing into Yoochun’s brain, initiating a conversation without actual speaking.
Your uncle has quite a temper hasn’t he? Grown-ups are so weird.
Yoochun frowns. “You have to tell him it’s your fault. I won’t have it. He’s going to kill me.”
A peal of laughter echoes inside his head, and the boy on the bed rocks back and forth gleefully.
I promised you you’d see your Daddy, didn’t I? You’d have to trust me.
Yoochun clenches a hand into a fist, bites his lower lip out of frustration at what he knows is the truth.
“…My Daddy’s gone.”
The boy shakes his head confidently, and Yoochun swears he feels water droplets landing on his arm.
No he isn’t. And I’ll prove it to you. You’ll just have to do what I say and not tell your uncle.
Someone rattles his doorknob and Yoochun turns to look. The kind hyung’s voice could be heard again through the wood, followed by Junsu hyung. “Yoochun-ah. Yoochun-ah, are you all right? Open the door.”
He straightens, holds his stuffed bear to his chest, then steals a glance at the boy one last time, but his bed is empty like it had been when he first came into the room.
TBC
A/N: Honestly, I'm having a hard time balancing the elements of these story but we'll see how it goes.
Length: Chaptered [5/?]
Rating: NC17 now, to be safe.
Genre: Umm. Unsure. Angst, supernatural, generally. Weirdness. We'll see.
Pairing: Yes, there are pairings. (Gasp! A first!) I'm guessing it's YunJae.
Summary: It’s an empty playground they wind up in, swings, slides, seesaws glinting under the weak moonlight; sheen of frost over the metal adds glitter to the sight, urging it to appear more magical than lonely.
A/N: OH MAN, it's been so LONG! Mian!
Prologue + Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
---
Chapter Five
For once, Yunho allows himself to be led. He recognizes the train station as they board, feels the rumble of the train as they hop on, and closes his eyes to the soft swaying. Jaejoong holds his hand, leads him down trains and frozen sidewalks, hums a nameless song, looking iridescent under dimming streetlights.
“Where are we going?” Yunho dares to ask, slightly suspicious as he can no longer name the streets and buildings they pass.
“You’ll see,” Jaejoong says, gliding weightless in and out of shadows. Yunho can hear the smile in his voice and for a moment he wonders just how.
It’s an empty playground they wind up in, swings, slides, seesaws glinting under the weak moonlight; sheen of frost over the metal adds glitter to the sight, urging it to appear more magical than lonely. Yunho, however, is not comforted; the black skeletons of what are supposed to be children’s play equipment when under sunlight strike him as more eerie than anything else.
“Olly olly oxen free…” Jaejoong says in a singsong tone, letting go of his hand, and Yunho watches apprehensively as Jaejoong hops soundlessly onto a merry-go-round, pushes himself into motion with a quick kick, then grasps the railings to extend his body forward in mock flight. The squeaks that emanate from the rusty hinges make the hairs on the back of Yunho’s neck rise, his skin prickling with the familiar fear of the uncertain and undetermined.
“…Jaejoong.”
“You look like death,” Jaejoong says, his mouth stretched into a wide grin. “Ease up a bit. Sit down, Yunho.”
“What are we doing here?” Yunho doesn’t come a step closer, prefers to keep his distance as the other man continues with his play.
“I come here to think. Best place in the world,” he beams at Yunho. “Thought I could share it with you.”
Jaejoong jumps off the merry-go-round, and lands like an awkward bird, crouched, on the dirt. He stretches to his full height and dusts off his jeans and coat.
“I always used to come to these sorts of places as a child. Never had many friends.” He looks up, smiles at Yunho, his teeth gleaming like porcelain.
“S’all right though. You know what they say: what doesn’t kill you…”
He trails off and reaches for Yunho’s hand. Unconsciously, Yunho shies from his touch, retracts his arm as though he’s been burnt. Around them the wind circles, whispers lost secrets, whistles hidden tunes into their ears.
“A little jumpy, aren’t we?”
Yunho takes a second, then a gulp of air. Jaejoong’s eyes are locked on his, black fire half-hidden by stubborn hair that sweeps across his forehead.
“I knew…a Kim Jaejoong. Once. As a child.”
His throat has gone dry, and the words come out as a hoarse whisper. Jaejoong looks at him (surprised, Yunho wants to believe), then cocks his head to the side like a curious animal would.
“You did? Kim Jaejoong, you say? How odd. What a coincidence. Were you friends?”
“…No. Not really.”
“Where is he now, then?”
He’s dead, Yunho wants to say. He was there during Kim Jaejoong’s funeral, two days before he and Siwon were forced to leave by their angry father and fearful mother, two boys on the run from the truth. He’d seen the dead boy, had even thrown up on the grass at the sight. He forces himself to keep his gaze on Jaejoong, forces a wad of spit down his suddenly parched throat.
“…I never saw him again.”
Jaejoong shakes his head. “Too bad. He could be anywhere now, could be anyone. Could even be me, don’t you think? Poor twenty-something artist living alone in a city. I would remember a Jung Yunho though.” He clucks like a mother would, then shakes his head once more. “Pity. And I thought my name was unique.”
His pseudo distress he seems to dismiss in slightly less than two seconds. Within the timeframe he turns, reaches for Yunho’s hand again. Yunho, still perturbed, nearly jumps when their fingers brush against each other. When Jaejoong laughs at his persistent reluctance, Yunho is surprised to discover his ears turning a violent shade of crimson.
“What’s so funny?” he frowns, not appreciating someone poking fun at his misery.
“You are.” Jaejoong says, a smile still poking at the corner of his mouth. “I don’t know what skeletons you keep hidden in your closet but you have to trust me when I tell you I won’t bite.”
Yunho is still unsure, still apprehensive. But Jaejoong is warm to the touch and before he can react, the other man has reached out and has placed a firm grasp on his hand. He’s pulled close, close enough in fact to smell the scent of the other’s cologne and feel his heart beating against another’s chest, and then Jaejoong’s lips brush against his in an ever-so-slight kiss. Yunho’s eyes open wide at the sensation, but they close as Jaejoong pulls closer, sucks on his lower lip in a way that makes Yunho’s knees weak. When they part, Yunho’s heart is racing, his mind looping holy fuck what in sweet Jesus like a broken record.
“Still scared?” Jaejoong asks, looking mischievous. Dumbfounded beyond belief, Yunho silently shakes his head.
“Good.”
---
They start over upon Jaejoong’s suggestion, the first awkward moments (for Yunho at least) reminding Yunho of overheard Korean lessons from Yoochun and Changmin (“Annyeonghaseyo, Jung Yoochun ib nida”; “Annyeonghaseyo, Shim Changmin ib nida. Pangapsumnida.”). Jaejoong is slightly older than he is (“And don’t even think about calling me hyung unless you want my foot somewhere you wouldn’t want it to be”), lives in an apartment north of the river, and (Yunho is relieved to discover) is not a Seoul native.
“Only came about for college then dropped out after a year or two, of course. Not my style. Can you imagine me being confined to four walls for several hours? No? Well neither could I,” Jaejoong says, almost with glee. “And you?”
Yunho doesn’t tell him much; only bits and pieces of 15 years away, New York, photographer, Yoochun in one breathless sentence. Jaejoong tsks at his short introduction, mutters something about people playing hard-to-get but not prodding further, only ending the conversation by leading Yunho to the empty swing set where he sits, convinces Yunho to sit beside him and produces a cigarette stick from his pocket. They trade portfolios upon his insistence (“Job interview? God, I hate those. Is that why you were throwing yourself into the river this afternoon? I’m kidding, God, don’t gawk at me like that”), and Yunho asks if he can share Jaejoong’s cigarette.
“Liked my kiss that much, didn’t you?” Jaejoong smirks but offers it just the same, and Yunho takes it without retort, too embarrassed to say yes.
Jaejoong’s ‘portfolio’ is actually a sketchbook, worn at the sides and showing evidences of more than several coffee and cigarette stains on the scratched leather cover. Upon opening it, Yunho is assaulted with color: bright shades of tangerine, turquoise, gold and emerald, vivid still even under the weak light, distorts the reality of poverty, hunger, cold and loneliness felt in pictures of Seoul page after page after page.
“You’re an escapist, aren’t you?” Yunho asks, touches each drawing one by one, wishes he could feel the same liveliness and hope that they exude.
“Aren’t we all?” comes the reply and Yunho can’t say he doesn’t agree. He goes from pictures of bridges and rivers, buildings and trees, all painted or crayoned in vivid strokes of color before slender fingers pluck the cigarette dangling from his lips and he turns, his attention diverted; Jaejoong is frowning at his portfolio, his forehead creased as he goes from one page to the next.
“Anything wrong?”
“Your photos.”
“What about?” He’s almost afraid of what Jaejoong would say and Yunho cranes his neck to see what the other man is looking at.
“They’re beautiful, but they’re immensely sad.”
Yunho watches as Jaejoong flips from one photo to the next: black-and-white pictures of cities and people gone past almost disappearing in a cloud of smoke as Jaejoong exhales. He shifts closer, nearly rests his chin on the other man’s shoulder.
“Black and white is my specialty.”
A black-and-white photo of sky and church towers, a bustle of people unaware of traffic lights.
“It’s depressing.”
Yunho nods, contemplates on saying nothing for the few seconds that stretches between them. He leans into Jaejoong’s touch as the other’s hand rises and caresses the side of his face in an almost absent-minded manner.
“It’s difficult for me…to feel anything else,” he confesses, regretting it almost immediately after. “I’m not…like you.”
Jaejoong’s reply comes in the form of rusty squeaking and metal chains clinking, before the portfolio is snapped shut and he feels Jaejoong’s breath tickling the skin on his neck.
“I don’t want you to be.”
---
The second time they do it, it’s Yunho who initiates. They move from the swing set to a bench, hands more comfortably linked this time, and Yunho leans in at the first right quiet moment. Jaejoong tastes of smoke and sweet tea and his skin is velvet against Yunho’s lips; he doesn’t even bother to feign surprise at the gesture.
“Mm,” Jaejoong smiles as they part to take a breath, his face inches away from Yunho’s, his tongue mischievously poking out and touching a portion of his upper lip. “I’d kill you if you plan to jump into any more rivers. You’re a damned good kisser.”
Yunho licks his lips, offers a small grin. “There’s more where that came from.”
“Damned shame to see it go to waste.”
“Mmhm, damned shame.”
Yunho feels Jaejoong’s hands on the back of his neck, urging him to move closer. Heat rises to his face as he feels his scarf being loosened and the buttons on his coat being undone. Blindly, he gropes around Jaejoong’s front to do the same, tenses a bit as he feels an unnatural heat gather at his crotch.
Bzzz.
Jaejoong’s tongue is in his mouth, making his throat tighten,
Bzzz.
and he does the same, pushing Jaejoong back to a lying position.
Bzzz.
“Yunho…your phone,” Jaejoong gasps, motions to the insistent vibrations rattling between their chests.
“Fuck it.”
“It’s fucking buzzing against me, Yunho. Either answer it or goddamn throw it away.”
“It’s only Junsu.”
“Just fucking get it already.”
Yunho lifts himself off of Jaejoong with a growl and fumbles around in his coat pockets, nearly ripping the containing pocket off its seams as he yanks the phone out.
“This had better be fucking good-”
“Yunho, where the fuck are you?”
It’s the absence of the ‘hyung’ that sets Yunho off. Perhaps. Or maybe it’s because Junsu sounds unnaturally rattled.
“What happened?” He sits straighter, feels the cold crawling back into his nerves as the heat he was feeling seconds before diminishes bit by bit. Beside him, Jaejoong sits upright, alerted by the sudden change in his tone. “Yoochun, is Yoochun-”
“Get home right now. Just…fuck. Just get home.”
“Junsu what the fuck-”
“Just get home, hyung. Now.”
“All right, all right. I’m on my way,” he says before the phone is clacked shut. He turns to Jaejoong, attempts to think up a good-enough apology, as he quickly buttons up his coat again and zips up his fly. The scarf he manages to wind around his neck again in a way that he nearly strangles himself.
“I’m…fuck, I’m sorry…but Junsu called and I think there’s something wrong…” He can barely think straight, his adrenaline rushing in opposite directions. He gathers his things, nearly dropping the portfolio and spilling his photos onto the ground in the process.
“Whoa whoa, what’s happened?” Jaejoong looks worried and grasps his hand in an attempt to steady him. His wool cap has been straightened, but his coat is still undone and in the light, Yunho sees the slight shadow of the collarbone his lips had been resting on earlier.
“I don’t know…but…God this is unbelievable. Fuck I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Yunho is red-faced, embarrassed, horny and worried at the same time. “I have to go.”
“I’ll come with you.”
There are no additional questions or comments. Jaejoong jumps up, immediately sets into motion. Fly. Coat. Scarf.
“You don’t have to.”
“Shut up. I want to.”
“…All right.”
Not that Yunho is against the idea anyway.
---
It had happened quicker than Yoochun had thought. He isn’t even sure that it was him who had done such a thing, but looking at the mess at his feet, he doesn’t know what to think anymore.
“Yoochun, what-”
He turns at the sound of Junsu hyung’s voice, feels himself go pale as Junsu’s eyes go wide at what he’s done. He looks frantically around his uncle’s room in search of the boy, but he’s nowhere to be found.
“Hyung, hyung…it wasn’t me, I can explain.”
His Daddy and uncle’s faces are cut up and shredded on the carpet like confetti, leaving headless pictures, ruined beyond repair beside them. The scissors are in his hand, but he knows it’s not his fault. It’s not his fault.
“Hyung, the boy. It was the boy…”
“Yoochun-ah, what have you done? What have you done?” Junsu asks, yanking the scissors away from his hands. Yoochun doesn’t wait; he uproots himself from his spot and runs, slamming his door shut behind him and locking it, hides in the darkest corner with his teddy bear as he buries his nose into its fur.
It’s really easy, the boy had told him. The boy with the jet-black hair and shining eyes. He had let himself into Yoochun’s room, one finger over his rose-lipped mouth, and Yoochun had liked him instantly.
You want your Daddy back, don’t you? You don’t want to live with your mean uncle?
Yunho hyung isn’t…he’s not really mean…
Whatever. Take this, and I’ll show you something really cool. If you do it, I promise you’ll be able to see your Daddy.
And the scissors had been shoved into his hands while the pale boy grasped his arm and pulled him into his uncle’s room, giving him a canvas envelope filled with pictures he’s never seen before.
Cut their heads off. Go on.
I don’t…
The next few moments were a blur, and now he’s in his room, hearing his uncle call out his name in a way he’s never imagined. “JUNG YOOCHUN!” he’s shouting, shouting so loudly that even the wall he’s pressing against shakes. “JUNG YOOCHUN!”
Yoochun cries, hugs the bear tighter, shakes his head silently as though a response to Yunho hyung’s calls. They’re right outside their door and his uncle is banging on the wood. “Open the door and tell me why you did this! YOOCHUN!”
I didn’t do it. I swear.
Another voice takes the place of his uncle’s. Softer now, and more soothing. It’s in Korean and Yoochun doesn’t understand (Changmin hyung has only taught him so far), but Junsu hyung is translating alongside it, and slowly, he lifts his head to listen.
“Yoochun-ah. Yoochun-ah, open the door. It’s me, the hyung from the supermarket. Remember me? We need you to open the door, okay? Uncle wants to talk to you. Yoochun-ah. Uncle won’t hurt you, okay? I promise. Hyung will protect you. Hyung won’t let anything happen, okay? Come out. Come out, Yoochun-ah.”
He opts to consider the invitation, even forgets his fear of his uncle for a second, and he stands, sniffling, wiping his nose with his sleeve. But when he looks, the boy is there again, sitting cross-legged on his bed like nothing ever happened, and giving no clue as to how he ever got there. Yoochun opens his mouth to speak, an accusation ready on his tongue, but the boy is quick to speak, words forming themselves out of thin air and pressing into Yoochun’s brain, initiating a conversation without actual speaking.
Your uncle has quite a temper hasn’t he? Grown-ups are so weird.
Yoochun frowns. “You have to tell him it’s your fault. I won’t have it. He’s going to kill me.”
A peal of laughter echoes inside his head, and the boy on the bed rocks back and forth gleefully.
I promised you you’d see your Daddy, didn’t I? You’d have to trust me.
Yoochun clenches a hand into a fist, bites his lower lip out of frustration at what he knows is the truth.
“…My Daddy’s gone.”
The boy shakes his head confidently, and Yoochun swears he feels water droplets landing on his arm.
No he isn’t. And I’ll prove it to you. You’ll just have to do what I say and not tell your uncle.
Someone rattles his doorknob and Yoochun turns to look. The kind hyung’s voice could be heard again through the wood, followed by Junsu hyung. “Yoochun-ah. Yoochun-ah, are you all right? Open the door.”
He straightens, holds his stuffed bear to his chest, then steals a glance at the boy one last time, but his bed is empty like it had been when he first came into the room.
TBC
A/N: Honestly, I'm having a hard time balancing the elements of these story but we'll see how it goes.