(no subject)
Title: Little White Lie
Pairing: Junsu/OFC
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for the contest atdbsk_het
Prompt:
Transient:
(a.) Hasty; momentary; imperfect; brief; as, a transient view of a landscape.
(a.) Staying for a short time; not regular or permanent; as, a transient guest; transient boarders.
(n.) That which remains but for a brief time.
It’s a small restaurant, tucked away in a side street in an obscure part of Seoul. The prickly smell of kimchi and sticky sweetness of frying meat hangs like a heavy, dripping heat. A drop of sweat is building on his brow, but he has not removed his cap, and an unsure quirk plays at his mouth as he pulls out the chair to sit. It’s raining, you realize, looking at his water-marked coat.
“Sorry I’m late,” he murmurs at a whisper. You can just barely see the dark brightness of his eyes under the cap.
You smile in return, a little forced, a little angry-sad-jealous. And as usual, it’s a little heartbreaking. “It’s fine. I know you’re busy.”
The two of you order quickly, without having to look at the menu. You’ve been here too many times, and the waitress’ mouth is a thin slash that knows too little and remembers too much as she scribbles down your orders.
He gets you your favorite drink, like he always does, and when it arrives he takes it first. It’s a gentlemanly gesture. Your fingers brush, and for a moment the stark contrast of his hand is next to yours; your graceless fingers and the pen mark that didn’t wash off properly, his performer’s fingers and perfectly oval nails. You wonder dimly if he’s wearing that clear nail polish again.
“How have you been?”
The cold glass is already dripping with condensation. You take it from him, curling both hands around it and staring at the straw, the little paper umbrella. “Okay, I guess. Same as usual.”
The thin-lipped waitress comes with her round tray of meats. When she leaves, she leaves an uneasy silence behind her.
“How was Japan?” you ask, when it has become too much. The grill sizzles, empty, in the table between the two of you. “You should eat,” you add, “Are you leaving again soon?”
“Yeah,” he says, “Next week.” He’s rolling a single silver chopstick between his fingers. Nervous. He shouldn’t be. “It was great. A lot of work. But always interesting.” He falls silent, and you find yourself hating the soft edge of his smile as he looks at the table.
“Really?” The pork hisses as you lay it on the grill. “Maybe I can come next time.”
You’re vindictive, and you hate yourself like this. Grow up, you want to say. Hey, don’t. I’m sorry. I know.
“Oh.” This is the first time he’s met your eyes. There’s a worried, panicked crinkle between his brows. It looks sad and aching, like an abandoned child. “I-I don’t. It’s not that I don’t want to. I…” He’s gorgeous, in and out, and that’s what hurts.
“It’s fine. I was joking.” You take care in turning every slice of meat, and offer him the first one.
“Thanks.”
You wanted him to eat it off your chopsticks. Like a real couple. Instead, you drop it into the bowl he holds out.
You preoccupy yourself with the grill and the red, raw meat. He always orders too much food for the both of you, like he’s too used to four big eaters always at his side. You inhale sharply through your nose, eyes stinging from the rising smoke, and pile cooked meat, steaming and warm brown, onto one of the unused plates.
He touches your wrist lightly, reaching across the table. “Hey…”
He looks worried. Good, you think. Out loud, you laugh, lightly and too loudly. “I think I got some sauce in my eye. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
In the cramped, tiled bathroom, you stick your hand under the faucet, running the water as cold as it can go. It’s a poor alternative to splashing your face, but you don’t want your makeup to wash off. It had taken three hours in front of the mirror before you could even consider yourself possibly close to being worthy of dating someone like him. You want to touch up your eyeliner, but you had left your purse at the table.
Your hand is going numb with cold. Something had smudged your mascara, and the blackness is a short streak down your cheek. You wipe at it roughly with a damp piece of coarse paper towel, and throw the used paper blindly towards the trash afterwards.
You don’t care to know if you missed.
“I’m back,” you say, returning to your chair.
He’s tilted his cap further down over his eyes. After that, it isn’t hard to pinpoint the small group of schoolgirls settling into a table in the corner. He smiles at you, you think, but you can’t see it.
The chatter of the other patrons fills up the empty idle silences between the two of you. There is a black fly hovering above the table to your left. It’s circling towards the bare lightbulb on the ceiling.
He glances at his lap when his phone beeps, and mouths an apology as he moves to pick up. “Hello?”
You watch the fly. Silly little thing, it’s getting closer and closer to the lightbulb. Don’t touch it. You’ll burn, you’ll die.
“Oh, hyung… Yes. Yeah, I know. I’m eating dinner with, with my. Girlfriend.” He murmurs the last word. “Alright. Mm, you too. Bye.” His phone closes with a light click.
The woman at the next table screams. A dead fly has just landed in her rice bowl. The man, her husband, scrambles to sooth her. The waitress scurries to save the situation, and reluctantly you return your gaze to him.
“What was it?” You’re burning up inside. It’s a still-bleeding wound, and he’s about to twist the knife.
“Yunho-hyung,” he says. He’s chasing a piece of yam around with his spoon, shedding drops of soup around his plate. “He just wanted to know if I’d be home soon. We have rehearsal tomorrow morning.”
You were going to ask him to watch that new movie with you. “Okay,” you say. You pick up a piece of beef- cold now - and bite into it.
His phone rings again. This time it’s a text message, and it brings a scowling laugh to his face and his voice. You can’t see his phone, but he mouths the words as he replies with flying fingers.
Shut up, Changmin. Go to sleep. It’s not like you can beat my high score anyway.
“It’s getting late,” you mention, when he’s sent the message, “They must be getting worried.”
“I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.” he says, and maybe-smiles at you shyly.
“We both have work in the morning,” you say. You take your neglected drink in your hands again, and stir it lightly with the straw. It’s still cold.
“You’re right,” he says hesitantly. You call for the check, and return to sipping at your drink. The taste of tangerines overpowers everything that you had eaten. The waitress comes by with the bill, and you pay for half despite his protests.
He stands in front of your seat, holds out his hand, waiting for you to take it. You look at it for a long moment. You raise your hand, fingers chilly from your glass, and touch his palm lightly to nudge it away.
“You head off first,” you say, looking out the window, “I’m going out with a few friends later anyway.” It stopped raining, you notice. Underneath the streetlamps, the pavement is wet and gray.
You can imagine his expression. His feet shuffle awkwardly for a moment, then he brushes your hair back with a light touch, and presses soft lips against your cheek. For a second, just for a second, so quickly it might have been a breath. “Missed you,” he confides quietly into the small space between your faces.
I know. Me too. The words won’t come out. You give him an insincere smile, instead.
After he leaves, the waitress brings you a cup of piping hot tea, and you stay for another hour, as you always do. Through the windows, you imagine you can still see him walking down the street, silhouette lean and alone.
Sometimes you want him to be hurting, too.
Pairing: Junsu/OFC
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for the contest atdbsk_het
Prompt:
Transient:
(a.) Hasty; momentary; imperfect; brief; as, a transient view of a landscape.
(a.) Staying for a short time; not regular or permanent; as, a transient guest; transient boarders.
(n.) That which remains but for a brief time.
It’s a small restaurant, tucked away in a side street in an obscure part of Seoul. The prickly smell of kimchi and sticky sweetness of frying meat hangs like a heavy, dripping heat. A drop of sweat is building on his brow, but he has not removed his cap, and an unsure quirk plays at his mouth as he pulls out the chair to sit. It’s raining, you realize, looking at his water-marked coat.
“Sorry I’m late,” he murmurs at a whisper. You can just barely see the dark brightness of his eyes under the cap.
You smile in return, a little forced, a little angry-sad-jealous. And as usual, it’s a little heartbreaking. “It’s fine. I know you’re busy.”
The two of you order quickly, without having to look at the menu. You’ve been here too many times, and the waitress’ mouth is a thin slash that knows too little and remembers too much as she scribbles down your orders.
He gets you your favorite drink, like he always does, and when it arrives he takes it first. It’s a gentlemanly gesture. Your fingers brush, and for a moment the stark contrast of his hand is next to yours; your graceless fingers and the pen mark that didn’t wash off properly, his performer’s fingers and perfectly oval nails. You wonder dimly if he’s wearing that clear nail polish again.
“How have you been?”
The cold glass is already dripping with condensation. You take it from him, curling both hands around it and staring at the straw, the little paper umbrella. “Okay, I guess. Same as usual.”
The thin-lipped waitress comes with her round tray of meats. When she leaves, she leaves an uneasy silence behind her.
“How was Japan?” you ask, when it has become too much. The grill sizzles, empty, in the table between the two of you. “You should eat,” you add, “Are you leaving again soon?”
“Yeah,” he says, “Next week.” He’s rolling a single silver chopstick between his fingers. Nervous. He shouldn’t be. “It was great. A lot of work. But always interesting.” He falls silent, and you find yourself hating the soft edge of his smile as he looks at the table.
“Really?” The pork hisses as you lay it on the grill. “Maybe I can come next time.”
You’re vindictive, and you hate yourself like this. Grow up, you want to say. Hey, don’t. I’m sorry. I know.
“Oh.” This is the first time he’s met your eyes. There’s a worried, panicked crinkle between his brows. It looks sad and aching, like an abandoned child. “I-I don’t. It’s not that I don’t want to. I…” He’s gorgeous, in and out, and that’s what hurts.
“It’s fine. I was joking.” You take care in turning every slice of meat, and offer him the first one.
“Thanks.”
You wanted him to eat it off your chopsticks. Like a real couple. Instead, you drop it into the bowl he holds out.
You preoccupy yourself with the grill and the red, raw meat. He always orders too much food for the both of you, like he’s too used to four big eaters always at his side. You inhale sharply through your nose, eyes stinging from the rising smoke, and pile cooked meat, steaming and warm brown, onto one of the unused plates.
He touches your wrist lightly, reaching across the table. “Hey…”
He looks worried. Good, you think. Out loud, you laugh, lightly and too loudly. “I think I got some sauce in my eye. Hold on, I’ll be right back.”
In the cramped, tiled bathroom, you stick your hand under the faucet, running the water as cold as it can go. It’s a poor alternative to splashing your face, but you don’t want your makeup to wash off. It had taken three hours in front of the mirror before you could even consider yourself possibly close to being worthy of dating someone like him. You want to touch up your eyeliner, but you had left your purse at the table.
Your hand is going numb with cold. Something had smudged your mascara, and the blackness is a short streak down your cheek. You wipe at it roughly with a damp piece of coarse paper towel, and throw the used paper blindly towards the trash afterwards.
You don’t care to know if you missed.
“I’m back,” you say, returning to your chair.
He’s tilted his cap further down over his eyes. After that, it isn’t hard to pinpoint the small group of schoolgirls settling into a table in the corner. He smiles at you, you think, but you can’t see it.
The chatter of the other patrons fills up the empty idle silences between the two of you. There is a black fly hovering above the table to your left. It’s circling towards the bare lightbulb on the ceiling.
He glances at his lap when his phone beeps, and mouths an apology as he moves to pick up. “Hello?”
You watch the fly. Silly little thing, it’s getting closer and closer to the lightbulb. Don’t touch it. You’ll burn, you’ll die.
“Oh, hyung… Yes. Yeah, I know. I’m eating dinner with, with my. Girlfriend.” He murmurs the last word. “Alright. Mm, you too. Bye.” His phone closes with a light click.
The woman at the next table screams. A dead fly has just landed in her rice bowl. The man, her husband, scrambles to sooth her. The waitress scurries to save the situation, and reluctantly you return your gaze to him.
“What was it?” You’re burning up inside. It’s a still-bleeding wound, and he’s about to twist the knife.
“Yunho-hyung,” he says. He’s chasing a piece of yam around with his spoon, shedding drops of soup around his plate. “He just wanted to know if I’d be home soon. We have rehearsal tomorrow morning.”
You were going to ask him to watch that new movie with you. “Okay,” you say. You pick up a piece of beef- cold now - and bite into it.
His phone rings again. This time it’s a text message, and it brings a scowling laugh to his face and his voice. You can’t see his phone, but he mouths the words as he replies with flying fingers.
Shut up, Changmin. Go to sleep. It’s not like you can beat my high score anyway.
“It’s getting late,” you mention, when he’s sent the message, “They must be getting worried.”
“I’m an adult. I can make my own decisions.” he says, and maybe-smiles at you shyly.
“We both have work in the morning,” you say. You take your neglected drink in your hands again, and stir it lightly with the straw. It’s still cold.
“You’re right,” he says hesitantly. You call for the check, and return to sipping at your drink. The taste of tangerines overpowers everything that you had eaten. The waitress comes by with the bill, and you pay for half despite his protests.
He stands in front of your seat, holds out his hand, waiting for you to take it. You look at it for a long moment. You raise your hand, fingers chilly from your glass, and touch his palm lightly to nudge it away.
“You head off first,” you say, looking out the window, “I’m going out with a few friends later anyway.” It stopped raining, you notice. Underneath the streetlamps, the pavement is wet and gray.
You can imagine his expression. His feet shuffle awkwardly for a moment, then he brushes your hair back with a light touch, and presses soft lips against your cheek. For a second, just for a second, so quickly it might have been a breath. “Missed you,” he confides quietly into the small space between your faces.
I know. Me too. The words won’t come out. You give him an insincere smile, instead.
After he leaves, the waitress brings you a cup of piping hot tea, and you stay for another hour, as you always do. Through the windows, you imagine you can still see him walking down the street, silhouette lean and alone.
Sometimes you want him to be hurting, too.