how can we ask for more. (flashfic challenge 24: half a conversation)
title how can we ask for more.
author sleepish.
word count 634.
concrit hit me.
pairing yoochun/jaejoong
A car arrives to pick some of them up at five thirty in the morning. Yoochun doesn't need to leave until half an hour later. He lounges on the couch and stays out of the way as the rest of the apartment rushes past him. There are far away faces printed on the inside of his eyelids and keeping him from getting any sleep. Junsu shuffles down the hallway with bleary eyes and his shirt inside-out. He turns on the tea kettle and leaves to brush his teeth.
Jaejoong's last, covered up in white clothes. Water darkens his hair and the back of his shirt. His body's something pulled open and forced back into one piece, no better than earth right before a landslide. When he stops by the couch, his fingers are damp and cold above Yoochun's.
"We'll see you two later," Jaejoong says.
Yoochun needs another hour alone practicing in the bathroom before Jaejoong's name in his mouth will sound less like a numb, dying nerve. "Yeah," he says. He feels tired. "Drive safe."
The thing is that they can't do anything like pack up all their stuff and leave. There won't be a red, angry gash in Yoochun's chest if he unbuttons his shirt. It's quiet and it's ordinary. Jaejoong's arms fight their way into his hoodie, and he disappears through the door. Yoochun turns on the television and checks Junsu's tea. Five minutes later he's at the balcony, blowing cigarette smoke down at the streets and waving it goodbye.
Pretend there's this machine and Yoochun walks through it, back to karaoke and drunken kissing, or the time they played showtunes on the keyboard for hours, or ran through the rain, or fucked in the bathroom, or trashed the kitchen in a fight. He can go up to that Yoochun, who's full of hunger and leftover idealism, and tell him you're making a mistake, you're wrong for him and he's worse for you. You are going to hurt each other and hurt the people around you and say things you never wanted to say. He can grab his own wrists and look at his own face and say stop, but he remembers kissing and playing and running and fucking and trashing, and the only thing he says is it'll be okay. Then he stands by the door and watches it happen all over again.
Before they spend five months fighting and making up and believing sex can solve everything, Jaejoong asks, "Is this a good idea?"
The digital clock next to the bed reads a little before their day officially starts. Yoochun acts like it's five minutes too fast. He bites Jaejoong's shoulder and holds him down as Jaejoong's body opens up against his. "When are any of our ideas good ideas?"
Jaejoong, when he's low on sleep and the lights are out, is physical and lukewarm with inky eyes that look like they've been smudged onto his face. Yoochun isn't used to being rough with people, but Jaejoong's conditioning it into him. Jaejoong doesn't know how to answer sometimes unless Yoochun pushes or pulls hard enough for him to feel it.
"Could be more of a good idea than a bad idea," Jaejoong says.
Yoochun kisses Jaejoong's jaw and rolls off of him. "Good enough."
He tugs on a pair of jeans and sees Jaejoong's reflection through the mirror, sitting in bed, the blankets pooled around his waist. His hair is a mess and his skin is pale enough that Yoochun wonders if he could reach his hand right through it and leave something of his own in there, and if wanting to means love.
"We're a good idea," Jaejoong says, five months ago. "We're gonna be big. You know, the type that people write songs about."
"I already do," Yoochun says.
author sleepish.
word count 634.
concrit hit me.
pairing yoochun/jaejoong
A car arrives to pick some of them up at five thirty in the morning. Yoochun doesn't need to leave until half an hour later. He lounges on the couch and stays out of the way as the rest of the apartment rushes past him. There are far away faces printed on the inside of his eyelids and keeping him from getting any sleep. Junsu shuffles down the hallway with bleary eyes and his shirt inside-out. He turns on the tea kettle and leaves to brush his teeth.
Jaejoong's last, covered up in white clothes. Water darkens his hair and the back of his shirt. His body's something pulled open and forced back into one piece, no better than earth right before a landslide. When he stops by the couch, his fingers are damp and cold above Yoochun's.
"We'll see you two later," Jaejoong says.
Yoochun needs another hour alone practicing in the bathroom before Jaejoong's name in his mouth will sound less like a numb, dying nerve. "Yeah," he says. He feels tired. "Drive safe."
The thing is that they can't do anything like pack up all their stuff and leave. There won't be a red, angry gash in Yoochun's chest if he unbuttons his shirt. It's quiet and it's ordinary. Jaejoong's arms fight their way into his hoodie, and he disappears through the door. Yoochun turns on the television and checks Junsu's tea. Five minutes later he's at the balcony, blowing cigarette smoke down at the streets and waving it goodbye.
Pretend there's this machine and Yoochun walks through it, back to karaoke and drunken kissing, or the time they played showtunes on the keyboard for hours, or ran through the rain, or fucked in the bathroom, or trashed the kitchen in a fight. He can go up to that Yoochun, who's full of hunger and leftover idealism, and tell him you're making a mistake, you're wrong for him and he's worse for you. You are going to hurt each other and hurt the people around you and say things you never wanted to say. He can grab his own wrists and look at his own face and say stop, but he remembers kissing and playing and running and fucking and trashing, and the only thing he says is it'll be okay. Then he stands by the door and watches it happen all over again.
Before they spend five months fighting and making up and believing sex can solve everything, Jaejoong asks, "Is this a good idea?"
The digital clock next to the bed reads a little before their day officially starts. Yoochun acts like it's five minutes too fast. He bites Jaejoong's shoulder and holds him down as Jaejoong's body opens up against his. "When are any of our ideas good ideas?"
Jaejoong, when he's low on sleep and the lights are out, is physical and lukewarm with inky eyes that look like they've been smudged onto his face. Yoochun isn't used to being rough with people, but Jaejoong's conditioning it into him. Jaejoong doesn't know how to answer sometimes unless Yoochun pushes or pulls hard enough for him to feel it.
"Could be more of a good idea than a bad idea," Jaejoong says.
Yoochun kisses Jaejoong's jaw and rolls off of him. "Good enough."
He tugs on a pair of jeans and sees Jaejoong's reflection through the mirror, sitting in bed, the blankets pooled around his waist. His hair is a mess and his skin is pale enough that Yoochun wonders if he could reach his hand right through it and leave something of his own in there, and if wanting to means love.
"We're a good idea," Jaejoong says, five months ago. "We're gonna be big. You know, the type that people write songs about."
"I already do," Yoochun says.