The Minor Details ; Jaejoong/Changmin
Title: The Minor Details (between you and me)
Rating: PG
Fandom: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Pairing: Jaejoong/Changmin
Disclaimer: The boys do not belong to me. This is also nothing but pure fiction.
The Minor Details (between you and me)
DBSK, Jaejoong/Changmin, PG
Cereal in an orange bowl. Half asleep, he reaches into the fridge for milk. On his first try, he comes up with a box of beans and blinks twice before retrieving the right carton. It is five minutes past six in the morning, and an unholy hour to be awake.
Some things you have to sacrifice for work. Some things like sleep, among others.
He turns to you, and eyes still half-lidded with sleep, hands you the carton of milk absently.
"Aren't you going to pour some for yourself?" You stare up at him, gesturing towards his bowl of dry cereal.
He stares at the carton in his hand, and looks annoyed with himself for a fleeting second, before unscrewing the cap and pouring some into his orange bowl. The cereal bits float and bob around.
He hands you the carton.
You stare down at the sandwich in front of you that you're having for breakfast, and cannot be bothered to tell him you don't need the milk at all. You take the carton and replace it in the fridge. He shovels cereal into his mouth like a zombie.
Behind you, the leader is padding around the kitchen in his pajamas, eyes only half open.
None of you are good with mornings.
Across from you, he chokes on his cereal, and this shocks the sleep out of his system, his eyes instantly becoming bright and alert as he shoves the bowl away from him, glaring at it as though it had tried to attack him.
Your eyes meet.
He slowly drags the bowl back in front of him, and resumes eating silently.
The leader reads out the schedule for the day, packed as usual. You can't help but think that this isn't ever going to end, and that one day, the weariness is going to catch up when you're not so young, not so healthy anymore, and you'll be all alone with only regret for company.
As though your thoughts were broadcasted across the small kitchen, the leader rests a hand on your shoulder, warm and squeezing lightly. "Your hair is a mess," he murmurs, before pulling the chair next to you and sitting down with a bowl of his own cereal.
You stare down at your uneaten sandwich. Shaking your head, you push it away from you, and just as you do, he slides his orange bowl of half-eaten mushy cereal towards you. You look down at the orange bowl, pick up the spoon, and start to eat. Opposite, he smiles, pushes his blond fringe away from his eyes and you think that even though he's the oldest one- albeit just by a little- some times it feels like you are exactly the same age, equally young, equally green and equally matched in everyway.
Blond strands of hair on a hairbrush. You turn accusingly. "You've been using my hairbrush again," you cannot keep the whine from your voice.
He scowls. "Why are you such a selfish neat-freak?" You bristle.
You secretly never minded sharing hairbrushes. It never made a difference. You shared toothbrushes, underwear, secrets. A hairbrush was nothing in comparison. Gingerly, you pick the blond strands away and drop them on his bed, just to be irritating.
He doesn't notice, and it defeats the purpose. You hurl the hairbrush at him. It hits him on the knee and he howls.
Like little kids playing in the sandbox in kindergarten, you hit at each other, kicking and rolling around his bed like ruffians. He yanks out some of your hair- you can feel it on your scalp where it burns. It doesn't matter- you have lots of hair. Viciously, you push and chortle as he rolls off the bed and lands in an unglamourous heap on the ground.
You pick the hairbrush up from the bed and drags it through his tousled blond hair, leaving it on his head before walking out of the room.
Silver snipping scissors. You are all scheduled for a haircut Friday afternoon, so the five of you sit in five chairs in a row, with five scissors going snip snip snip snip snip across five very still heads. There is endless chatter, a lot of laughter, and next to you, he's not blond anymore.
It's okay. You never particularly fancied his blond bleached hair anyway. Not that you particularly like the light brown colour that it is now, but with a trim, it brings his hair closer to the nape of his neck, and you admit that he looks better than before. Your own hair falls around your shoulders.
You wonder when they're going to decide that they want you with short hair again. Now, the stylist still thinks you look delicious with your hair long and in a ponytail, so it stays. Sometimes it's convenient to have lots of hair, you decide, as the scissors dance around your head.
Between the chairs, you lace your fingers through his and smile at your own reflection in the mirror.
It really is the minor details that matter.
It doesn't matter who he hugs, or who he laughs with, or who he dances with. None of that matters.
This is what matters:
The way he presses his cold feet against your legs in the night so that you can't get to sleep before he does.
The way he tries and feeds you cereal in the mornings where you don't feel like having any breakfast because of your gastric problems.
The way he was the first person who brought you drinking, even though you were underage, and brought you back when you passed out drunk.
The way he plays the piano.
The way he sings while playing the piano, and not shrugging you off when you place your hands on his shoulders.
The way he laughs at the particularly embarrassing things you do and then brings your hands to his face when you get unhappy.
And the lyrics you sing together.
Comments are very welcome.
Previously posted here.
MASTERLIST OF FICS HERE
Rating: PG
Fandom: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Pairing: Jaejoong/Changmin
Disclaimer: The boys do not belong to me. This is also nothing but pure fiction.
The Minor Details (between you and me)
DBSK, Jaejoong/Changmin, PG
Cereal in an orange bowl. Half asleep, he reaches into the fridge for milk. On his first try, he comes up with a box of beans and blinks twice before retrieving the right carton. It is five minutes past six in the morning, and an unholy hour to be awake.
Some things you have to sacrifice for work. Some things like sleep, among others.
He turns to you, and eyes still half-lidded with sleep, hands you the carton of milk absently.
"Aren't you going to pour some for yourself?" You stare up at him, gesturing towards his bowl of dry cereal.
He stares at the carton in his hand, and looks annoyed with himself for a fleeting second, before unscrewing the cap and pouring some into his orange bowl. The cereal bits float and bob around.
He hands you the carton.
You stare down at the sandwich in front of you that you're having for breakfast, and cannot be bothered to tell him you don't need the milk at all. You take the carton and replace it in the fridge. He shovels cereal into his mouth like a zombie.
Behind you, the leader is padding around the kitchen in his pajamas, eyes only half open.
None of you are good with mornings.
Across from you, he chokes on his cereal, and this shocks the sleep out of his system, his eyes instantly becoming bright and alert as he shoves the bowl away from him, glaring at it as though it had tried to attack him.
Your eyes meet.
He slowly drags the bowl back in front of him, and resumes eating silently.
The leader reads out the schedule for the day, packed as usual. You can't help but think that this isn't ever going to end, and that one day, the weariness is going to catch up when you're not so young, not so healthy anymore, and you'll be all alone with only regret for company.
As though your thoughts were broadcasted across the small kitchen, the leader rests a hand on your shoulder, warm and squeezing lightly. "Your hair is a mess," he murmurs, before pulling the chair next to you and sitting down with a bowl of his own cereal.
You stare down at your uneaten sandwich. Shaking your head, you push it away from you, and just as you do, he slides his orange bowl of half-eaten mushy cereal towards you. You look down at the orange bowl, pick up the spoon, and start to eat. Opposite, he smiles, pushes his blond fringe away from his eyes and you think that even though he's the oldest one- albeit just by a little- some times it feels like you are exactly the same age, equally young, equally green and equally matched in everyway.
Blond strands of hair on a hairbrush. You turn accusingly. "You've been using my hairbrush again," you cannot keep the whine from your voice.
He scowls. "Why are you such a selfish neat-freak?" You bristle.
You secretly never minded sharing hairbrushes. It never made a difference. You shared toothbrushes, underwear, secrets. A hairbrush was nothing in comparison. Gingerly, you pick the blond strands away and drop them on his bed, just to be irritating.
He doesn't notice, and it defeats the purpose. You hurl the hairbrush at him. It hits him on the knee and he howls.
Like little kids playing in the sandbox in kindergarten, you hit at each other, kicking and rolling around his bed like ruffians. He yanks out some of your hair- you can feel it on your scalp where it burns. It doesn't matter- you have lots of hair. Viciously, you push and chortle as he rolls off the bed and lands in an unglamourous heap on the ground.
You pick the hairbrush up from the bed and drags it through his tousled blond hair, leaving it on his head before walking out of the room.
Silver snipping scissors. You are all scheduled for a haircut Friday afternoon, so the five of you sit in five chairs in a row, with five scissors going snip snip snip snip snip across five very still heads. There is endless chatter, a lot of laughter, and next to you, he's not blond anymore.
It's okay. You never particularly fancied his blond bleached hair anyway. Not that you particularly like the light brown colour that it is now, but with a trim, it brings his hair closer to the nape of his neck, and you admit that he looks better than before. Your own hair falls around your shoulders.
You wonder when they're going to decide that they want you with short hair again. Now, the stylist still thinks you look delicious with your hair long and in a ponytail, so it stays. Sometimes it's convenient to have lots of hair, you decide, as the scissors dance around your head.
Between the chairs, you lace your fingers through his and smile at your own reflection in the mirror.
It really is the minor details that matter.
It doesn't matter who he hugs, or who he laughs with, or who he dances with. None of that matters.
This is what matters:
The way he presses his cold feet against your legs in the night so that you can't get to sleep before he does.
The way he tries and feeds you cereal in the mornings where you don't feel like having any breakfast because of your gastric problems.
The way he was the first person who brought you drinking, even though you were underage, and brought you back when you passed out drunk.
The way he plays the piano.
The way he sings while playing the piano, and not shrugging you off when you place your hands on his shoulders.
The way he laughs at the particularly embarrassing things you do and then brings your hands to his face when you get unhappy.
And the lyrics you sing together.
Comments are very welcome.
Previously posted here.
MASTERLIST OF FICS HERE