shiver
title: shiver
rating: r
pairing: eeteuk-centric
count: 1416 words
shiver.
They're at it again. The angry yelling, the pushing and shoving as they ignore all attempts to stop their fight.
Some of them just shake their heads and walk off, hiding until the storm is over.
Some of them want to say something, but the words just seem to die in their throats when they see the stormy faces.
Some try to stop it before it starts, but it's hard to do when you live in an apartment of thirteen.
The rest settle for stopping the fights before they get too far. Nothing serious has happened before, but that's only because they've all managed to restrain each other before it got beyond bruises and little cuts.
They're all guilty of it, these childish little squabbles. You are guilty of it, too, but you learnt a long time ago to stay out of it. You're beyond caring now.
You wonder where it all went wrong. How could something that started off so well suddenly go so wrong?
--
You can feel it, the constant trembling in your hands. Sometimes, when you're sure you're alone and you're feeling particularly empty, you hold them up in the air and watch them.
The tremble is always there, but only very slight. So much so that no one else would notice unless they were watching you use a camera or they were doing what you were now.
The fingers twitch, the pale skin glowing in the moonlight. You can trace the thick blue vein that snakes up your wrist, rubbing the bulge absently.
Your fingers, they don't look like pianist's fingers at all, short and thick and not that strong. You know this, and though no one's ever commented on it (they only talk about your playing, commenting on how well and expressively you play, although you personally think that's more because of the sweaty unresponsive fingers you get in front of others more than anything else) you're sure they notice.
Your entire forearm trembles, though not as much beyond your thick wrists. It's much more noticeable if you're scared or nervous, so much more profound that your entire body trembles and you feel feverishly cold. But your hands and your toes, they're always cold no matter what you do.
You're terrified that someone else will discover it. Some of them have already noticed, so you blame this on the caffeine just so they will nod and go away. But you think that one of them will know soon, especially since you've stopped consuming anything with caffeine but the trembling has only gotten worse. They will suspect something, and then you will be sent away. Even with the way things have been going lately, that's the last thing you'd want, to be sent away.
You tear your eyes away from your hands, and let them drop in your lap. But you can still feel the trembling, the twitching. You command them to stop, clenching them into fists and closing your eyes as you will them to stop. It's no use though, you can feel them tremble more than ever.
You hear keys jangling, and then the front door is opened. Quickly, you pull the blanket up to your chin, curl up into a ball and lay down to face the blank wall.
Light floods in as the bedroom door is pushed open, a soft voice calling out "Hyung?" as your pulse quickens.
You slow your breathing to deep, even breaths and unclench your closed eyes, forcing them to relax into a blank expression. Your eyes, they sting, but you pretend anyway, trying not to flinch when the other person brushes your fringe off your face and kisses your forehead.
And it is only when you count to eight after they leave the room that you allow yourself to release a great shuddering breath as the tears leak onto your pillow.
--
You've been drinking a lot of milk lately. You're positive that's what's making you fat. After all, a tiny little baby grows so fast just from drinking milk. The management won't like it at all, but it's nice so you think you'll continue for a while.
One day, you decide to make hot milk because warmth seems to soothe the trembles, for a little bit at least.
You take one sip of it, grimace, and pour the entire contents of the near-full mug down the sink.
It's a pity, you think as you rinse out the saucepan and watch the murky mixed liquids swirl around the sink, all that milk wasted.
You walk away before it's done draining, but it's left this sour taste in your mouth.
When you're done brushing and rinsing, you can't help but notice that the trembling has come back and it's worse than ever.
--
You hear voices. No, you're not crazy, even though you hear what others don't.
But you don't just hear them. You feel them, too. They're just there, the faint but ubiquitous presence of something else in the apartment, that little sense you can't shake off that's niggling at the edges of your peripheral vision. But when you whip around, sure that you've almost got them as you scan the room fervently, there's nothing there to suggest they're there, that they even exist, except for that feeling.
Sometimes you hear clatters when you're alone in the apartment, or little scuffles and you know that's them. At night when you hear creaks and rustles, you know they're angry and that they're coming for you. Then the burning prickles start, little pinpricks of heat all over your spine and down your legs and you know you'll have trouble falling asleep again as you listen to them whisper harsh things in your ear.
You're not crazy.
--
They make the ink bottle fall over with a tinkling crash, the leaking ink staining another perfectly good pair of pants and completely ruining your shirt.
You don't know why you still use old fashioned ink bottles with crystal stoppers and nibbed pens with wooden handles but your roommate insists on it and you don't question it.
When your flatmate gets back and asks you what happened, you shrug.
"It was them," you say, "I swear." Because well, it was.
He raises an eyebrow at you. "What? Hyung, this isn't very funny..."
"No, really!" You insist. How can he not notice? They're just there, watching and hovering.
He raises the other eyebrow at you, but doesn't pursue it. Instead, he picks up the grocery bags he's left by the door and heads to the kitchen. "We're having pasta for dinner, is that alright?"
You make a sound of consent and sit down, twisting your hands together. The trembling has gotten worse lately.
"Really..." you say softly. Because you're not crazy.
Really, you're not.
--
It hurts a little bit, but it's become numb, especially around that gaping hole that's just leaking and won't stop.
It feels a little sticky around where it was first pierced, and the taste is coppery on your tongue. It stains your fingers, seeping into the little cracks but they say it's okay, and you trust them because they were right (even though no one else would believe you about it even after the ink incident).
The trembling has stopped.
"Oh hyung," he says, catching you as you trip over your own feet in your haste to turn around, "You're shivering."
"I am," you say, smiling absently at the spinning room and the transcluent man who's holding you. The room lurches and so do you. You can vaguely hear someone yelling outside as they crash through the hall, before the door bangs open.
And that's when you fall.
"I am, aren't I?"
--
The next time you wake up, you have a pounding headache and a leathery tongue that feels swollen and ill-fitting in your mouth.
It feels like the time you went out drinking with a few guys from your senior physics class after the finals and you got so wasted you couldn't even keep upright long enough for your spew to reach the toilet bowl. It had missed by an amazing twenty four centimetres, and ended up all over the toilet paper.
Your fingers flutter and brush over some amazingly rough skin on your torso. It turns out to be a bandage, white gauze with a little dark red beginning to seep through where the dressing is not so thick.
You frown and hold up your hands.
They lied.
Your hands are still shaking.
rating: r
pairing: eeteuk-centric
count: 1416 words
shiver.
They're at it again. The angry yelling, the pushing and shoving as they ignore all attempts to stop their fight.
Some of them just shake their heads and walk off, hiding until the storm is over.
Some of them want to say something, but the words just seem to die in their throats when they see the stormy faces.
Some try to stop it before it starts, but it's hard to do when you live in an apartment of thirteen.
The rest settle for stopping the fights before they get too far. Nothing serious has happened before, but that's only because they've all managed to restrain each other before it got beyond bruises and little cuts.
They're all guilty of it, these childish little squabbles. You are guilty of it, too, but you learnt a long time ago to stay out of it. You're beyond caring now.
You wonder where it all went wrong. How could something that started off so well suddenly go so wrong?
--
You can feel it, the constant trembling in your hands. Sometimes, when you're sure you're alone and you're feeling particularly empty, you hold them up in the air and watch them.
The tremble is always there, but only very slight. So much so that no one else would notice unless they were watching you use a camera or they were doing what you were now.
The fingers twitch, the pale skin glowing in the moonlight. You can trace the thick blue vein that snakes up your wrist, rubbing the bulge absently.
Your fingers, they don't look like pianist's fingers at all, short and thick and not that strong. You know this, and though no one's ever commented on it (they only talk about your playing, commenting on how well and expressively you play, although you personally think that's more because of the sweaty unresponsive fingers you get in front of others more than anything else) you're sure they notice.
Your entire forearm trembles, though not as much beyond your thick wrists. It's much more noticeable if you're scared or nervous, so much more profound that your entire body trembles and you feel feverishly cold. But your hands and your toes, they're always cold no matter what you do.
You're terrified that someone else will discover it. Some of them have already noticed, so you blame this on the caffeine just so they will nod and go away. But you think that one of them will know soon, especially since you've stopped consuming anything with caffeine but the trembling has only gotten worse. They will suspect something, and then you will be sent away. Even with the way things have been going lately, that's the last thing you'd want, to be sent away.
You tear your eyes away from your hands, and let them drop in your lap. But you can still feel the trembling, the twitching. You command them to stop, clenching them into fists and closing your eyes as you will them to stop. It's no use though, you can feel them tremble more than ever.
You hear keys jangling, and then the front door is opened. Quickly, you pull the blanket up to your chin, curl up into a ball and lay down to face the blank wall.
Light floods in as the bedroom door is pushed open, a soft voice calling out "Hyung?" as your pulse quickens.
You slow your breathing to deep, even breaths and unclench your closed eyes, forcing them to relax into a blank expression. Your eyes, they sting, but you pretend anyway, trying not to flinch when the other person brushes your fringe off your face and kisses your forehead.
And it is only when you count to eight after they leave the room that you allow yourself to release a great shuddering breath as the tears leak onto your pillow.
--
You've been drinking a lot of milk lately. You're positive that's what's making you fat. After all, a tiny little baby grows so fast just from drinking milk. The management won't like it at all, but it's nice so you think you'll continue for a while.
One day, you decide to make hot milk because warmth seems to soothe the trembles, for a little bit at least.
You take one sip of it, grimace, and pour the entire contents of the near-full mug down the sink.
It's a pity, you think as you rinse out the saucepan and watch the murky mixed liquids swirl around the sink, all that milk wasted.
You walk away before it's done draining, but it's left this sour taste in your mouth.
When you're done brushing and rinsing, you can't help but notice that the trembling has come back and it's worse than ever.
--
You hear voices. No, you're not crazy, even though you hear what others don't.
But you don't just hear them. You feel them, too. They're just there, the faint but ubiquitous presence of something else in the apartment, that little sense you can't shake off that's niggling at the edges of your peripheral vision. But when you whip around, sure that you've almost got them as you scan the room fervently, there's nothing there to suggest they're there, that they even exist, except for that feeling.
Sometimes you hear clatters when you're alone in the apartment, or little scuffles and you know that's them. At night when you hear creaks and rustles, you know they're angry and that they're coming for you. Then the burning prickles start, little pinpricks of heat all over your spine and down your legs and you know you'll have trouble falling asleep again as you listen to them whisper harsh things in your ear.
You're not crazy.
--
They make the ink bottle fall over with a tinkling crash, the leaking ink staining another perfectly good pair of pants and completely ruining your shirt.
You don't know why you still use old fashioned ink bottles with crystal stoppers and nibbed pens with wooden handles but your roommate insists on it and you don't question it.
When your flatmate gets back and asks you what happened, you shrug.
"It was them," you say, "I swear." Because well, it was.
He raises an eyebrow at you. "What? Hyung, this isn't very funny..."
"No, really!" You insist. How can he not notice? They're just there, watching and hovering.
He raises the other eyebrow at you, but doesn't pursue it. Instead, he picks up the grocery bags he's left by the door and heads to the kitchen. "We're having pasta for dinner, is that alright?"
You make a sound of consent and sit down, twisting your hands together. The trembling has gotten worse lately.
"Really..." you say softly. Because you're not crazy.
Really, you're not.
--
It hurts a little bit, but it's become numb, especially around that gaping hole that's just leaking and won't stop.
It feels a little sticky around where it was first pierced, and the taste is coppery on your tongue. It stains your fingers, seeping into the little cracks but they say it's okay, and you trust them because they were right (even though no one else would believe you about it even after the ink incident).
The trembling has stopped.
"Oh hyung," he says, catching you as you trip over your own feet in your haste to turn around, "You're shivering."
"I am," you say, smiling absently at the spinning room and the transcluent man who's holding you. The room lurches and so do you. You can vaguely hear someone yelling outside as they crash through the hall, before the door bangs open.
And that's when you fall.
"I am, aren't I?"
--
The next time you wake up, you have a pounding headache and a leathery tongue that feels swollen and ill-fitting in your mouth.
It feels like the time you went out drinking with a few guys from your senior physics class after the finals and you got so wasted you couldn't even keep upright long enough for your spew to reach the toilet bowl. It had missed by an amazing twenty four centimetres, and ended up all over the toilet paper.
Your fingers flutter and brush over some amazingly rough skin on your torso. It turns out to be a bandage, white gauze with a little dark red beginning to seep through where the dressing is not so thick.
You frown and hold up your hands.
They lied.
Your hands are still shaking.