♥ 120 - Iteration
Title: Iteration
Author:
amine87
Fic Challenge 095. Drowning, Hyukjae/Sungmin
Pairing: Hyukjae/Sungmin, implied Kyuhyun/Sungmin
Genre: angst
Rating: PG-13
WC: 2060
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story.
A/N OK. It is done in like… 1 hour or more (unbetaed), because the plot is killing me during class. And I dedicate this to jishu as she wrote me a few fics but I’ve never written her even once xD
You wake up in the middle of your sleep and hope it is just all a dream.
Your breath rags, shivers chill down your spine, and your palms are wet. Wet, wet, wet, covered in sweat. You try to focus as you feel your head spinning, aching, as you feel needles have been jabbing on your brain, on your head, and you think the world has turned upside down when you get out of your bed and reach for the phone.
It must be something out of reflex, something is definitely controlling you, but you look up the phone book and you feel your eyes blurry that you can’t differentiate between A and E. You scream. Frustrated. And finally you press speed dial seven and the dialing tone fills in your ear.
He is there but he doesn’t pick up the phone.
He is there, in his bed, in his room, in his studio apartment, and he is alone.
You ring the bell. Once. Twice. Thrice. And you knock loud, you scream, you yell, and you pray for him to just please open the fucking door.
He is there but he doesn’t hear your knocks, nor does he hear your scream, and your yell, and your plead.
You take a long breath. Annoyed. Mad. And you shift a few centimeters to the right and lean your back on the wall. You must be dreaming, you think, that everything is fine and nothing has happened. Nothing worse has happened.
Unconsciously you lift your right hand, vivid red red and red of your obtrusive knockings. You stare and just keep staring at your hands, as you don’t know how many minutes have passed until you hear a crack of the door.
He is there and he’s been crying and his eyes are puffy red and his nose is even redder and you thank Gods that he’s alive, he’s safe, and he is willing to open the door.
You walk in and you reach for him, but he backs off, avoiding your hand, avoiding your hug, and avoiding your eyes.
You are caught off guard and you look at him. He doesn’t look at you, and it has happened for a good two minutes until you call his name.
“Minnie-ah?” you whisper, as you walk closer, slowly, gradually, that you don’t want him to avoid you more.
You think he will budge, but he doesn’t when you reach for him and pat his shoulder. It gives you more, more courage as you clear out your throat and force a smile on your face.
“He won’t be happy if you keep crying,” you say, and you know you have just said the wrong thing, or perhaps constructed the wrong choice of words when he shoves your hand off his shoulder and glare at you menacingly.
“I should be with him!” he hisses, eyes burning. “I should’ve just died with him!”
You wake up in the middle of your sleep and hope it is just all a dream.
He is the first thing flashes in your mind, and you ignore your muscle stretching because of your sudden movements as you get up and reach for the phone, which is now lying close to you next to your pillow. Just to be sure to be near.
You feel the sweat on your forehead and roughly you wipe them off. You chew your bottom lips when he doesn’t pick up at the seventh or eighth ring; is something going wrong again?
The next thing you realize what you’ve done is you are standing in front of his door.
He is there but he doesn’t hear your knocks, nor does he hear you asking if he is fine and if he can open the door for you.
You don’t know what tells you so, but you try to open the door, and you do.
The door is unlocked.
You walk in and you notice nothing has changed since your visit yesterday, and you can’t help but to smile as you notice one change in the middle of the room, the flowers on the vase beside the couch are changed fresh. You walk to his room, to the room you know he has previously shared with his husband, and you knock on the door.
He is there, he is inside as you see the light shining through the small windows above the door, but he doesn’t open it. You think he has no intention to do so as you wait for another good five minutes. Perhaps he’s sleeping, you think, or that’s what you like to think. You don’t want to admit that you’re afraid to know what is happening.
No, he is not someone who would try to commit suicide, you know it. You know him better, being good, close friends for the past ten years, he is not a type of person wanting to kill himself.
But that’s before he met a certain Cho Kyuhyun, you realize.
You open the door and you see him curling at the edge of his bed. He’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but you don’t think of it’s much, because it’s obviously normal for someone in the third day of his grief. He’s still curling in the same position as you watch him, as you keep watching him.
“Minnie-ah?” you whisper, as you walk closer, slowly to the bed, and you feel grateful when he lifts his head to look at you.
You see emptiness in his eyes.
“Who are you?” he asks, emotionless, and you feel yourself broken.
You wake up in the middle of your sleep and hope it is just all a dream.
He is the first you think about, and you stumble out of the bed, almost running to reach his room. It’s the first night you’ve slept in his apartment, in the same unit, but you feel he is miles away although his room is just next to the one you are sleeping in. You ignore your fast heartbeat and you knock on his door, again, before you open it and you find him sitting on the bed, with what you assume a photo book laying on the bed.
He looks at you, and he smiles.
“Hi,” he says, “come in?”
You know it’s better for you to just turn your back and leave. Instead you do as he says as you walk in and sit on the opposite edge of the bed.
“Sungmin-ah,” you say, “what are you doing?”
He looks at you in a way that makes you shudder. “Oh,” he says, looking at the photo book then looking back at you, “so it’s mine?” he asks as he points at the photo book he is holding.
“Yes,” you answer, and you shift a bit closer to him.
If you can wish for one thing, you think you just want to flee.
But no, you know you have to be strong, and you smile at him (while you are breaking inside). “You want me to tell you stories of these photos?”
His eyes beam with happiness, something you don’t see anymore these days.
He is there, and he is looking, he is staring at you. His eyes are empty but you can feel the air tensing as you finish your explanations and close the photo book.
“So…,” he pauses mid air and looks at you curiously, “where is Kyuhyun now?”
That is definitely one thing you don’t want to answer.
He waits and waits and waits, and you are thinking of excuses, you are thinking of something to say, something but the fact that you don’t want to tell him.
“He is my husband right?” he asks again, nudging your hand, “why isn’t he here with me then?”
You have to be strong. And honest, as much as you don’t want to hurt him.
“He died, Minnie,” you say, looking straight at his eyes. “Remember the explosion four days ago?”
He freezes. And he looks at you.
You regret of telling him the truth as you see burning anger in his eyes.
“You’re lying.” And he signals you to go out, and you do as you have your heart smashed into pieces.
You find him sitting in the kitchen when you finish your morning shift at one thirty in the afternoon and you decide to return to his place. You open the door with your duplicate keys, and the first room you’ve gone to is his bedroom, in which you find no one, and you think you hear noises from the kitchen, and there he is, sitting with a small box of strawberry cake on the table.
He looks at you, eyes wide, filled with curiosity, and you smile. “Can I come in?” you say, he nods, and you take a seat next to him.
“Umm,” he fidgets while looking at you, “who are you anyway? And why I am here?”
Your eyes are fixed on his hands as you notice he is holding something. A paper. Oh, is that a photo?
“This is your home,” so you answer, “You’re Sungmin, and I’m Hyukjae, your best friend, Minnie-ah.”
“Oh,” he is still looking at you.
You are just saying the truth, you know, but you don’t know if you should be happy or not. He keeps looking at you, and you say nothing for the next one minute.
“Hyukkie,” he nods, “you want this cake?”
“Did you buy it?” you ask, clearly you have no idea where it is from; that six hours ago when you left his house, his fridge is empty but some apples and oranges.
He nods, “I found the brochure near the phone,” he says, “and a wallet, I think it’s mine anyway.”
“Oh.”
And you feel you really love to disappear right then. You know, sooner or later, he would ask you about the photo. About his photo. About Kyuhyun’s and his photo on his hands.
“So…,” he starts, and you stare at the red strawberry in front of you. A piece on the side, bright red, with white whipped cream around, and why do you suddenly lose your appetite?
“So,” he takes a breath, “Who is this? Why I found a photo of him and me in my wallet?”
Oh yes, strawberry is nice; it’s red and it’s lovely and you’ll love to have one…
“Hyukjae-ah,” he repeats, louder, and he jolts your hand. You can’t help but to glance your attention back to him, as he is staring at you with unreadable eyes. “Tell me, who is this?”
“That’s Kyuhyun,” the name blurts out of your mouth, and you mentally slap yourself for answering without thinking anymore, “he’s your husband, you’re married to him, Minnie.”
He looks at you, and looks back at the photo. He tilts his head a few degrees and he looks at you again.
“Then why isn’t he here with me?”
You know you shouldn’t keep telling him that his husband has died.
You are killing him, you realize, again and again, by repetition after repetition.
He forgets everything.
He doesn’t remember his name, nor does he remember you.
He doesn’t remember he is married, and he doesn’t remember he has a husband, and more, he doesn’t remember Kyuhyun anymore.
Doctors advise for him to be hospitalized. He doesn’t want to, and you don’t want him to.
Doctors tell you to take a very good care of him. He screams when you try to give him injection for the first time.
Doctors tell you to be patient. They are trying. Researchers are trying.
But it takes time.
You know you don’t want to tell him the truth. You don’t need to tell him the truth, you rationalize, but your heart has its own way, and that’s what you feel right.
So you keep telling him. He is Lee Sungmin, he is married to Cho Kyuhyun, and Cho Kyuhyun has died.
You are his best friend. You are his close friend. But once, you wish you’ve never known him, you wish you’re not that close to him, as you think it won’t be that hard to run away if that’s the case.
But you keep telling him. That he is Lee Sungmin, and he is married, and his husband has died.
You are killing him, as much as you are killing yourself.
.end.
Started/finished 2009.02.05
A/A/N PLEASE DON'T KILL ME FOR THIS!!!
This was inspired by two things... one is during Singapore Fringe Festival, Phillip Toledano's Days with My Father and another is by my Psychology textbook, the study of memory... xD~
well, jishu I wrote an EunMin because I can't write angsty!KangMin, and it's the plot choosing for either EunMin or KyuMin xD~
actually I'm thinking of writing a KyuTeuk/KangTeuk but it just doesn't fit @_@
Author:
amine87
Fic Challenge 095. Drowning, Hyukjae/Sungmin
Pairing: Hyukjae/Sungmin, implied Kyuhyun/Sungmin
Genre: angst
Rating: PG-13
WC: 2060
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story.
A/N OK. It is done in like… 1 hour or more (unbetaed), because the plot is killing me during class. And I dedicate this to jishu as she wrote me a few fics but I’ve never written her even once xD
You wake up in the middle of your sleep and hope it is just all a dream.
Your breath rags, shivers chill down your spine, and your palms are wet. Wet, wet, wet, covered in sweat. You try to focus as you feel your head spinning, aching, as you feel needles have been jabbing on your brain, on your head, and you think the world has turned upside down when you get out of your bed and reach for the phone.
It must be something out of reflex, something is definitely controlling you, but you look up the phone book and you feel your eyes blurry that you can’t differentiate between A and E. You scream. Frustrated. And finally you press speed dial seven and the dialing tone fills in your ear.
He is there but he doesn’t pick up the phone.
He is there, in his bed, in his room, in his studio apartment, and he is alone.
You ring the bell. Once. Twice. Thrice. And you knock loud, you scream, you yell, and you pray for him to just please open the fucking door.
He is there but he doesn’t hear your knocks, nor does he hear your scream, and your yell, and your plead.
You take a long breath. Annoyed. Mad. And you shift a few centimeters to the right and lean your back on the wall. You must be dreaming, you think, that everything is fine and nothing has happened. Nothing worse has happened.
Unconsciously you lift your right hand, vivid red red and red of your obtrusive knockings. You stare and just keep staring at your hands, as you don’t know how many minutes have passed until you hear a crack of the door.
He is there and he’s been crying and his eyes are puffy red and his nose is even redder and you thank Gods that he’s alive, he’s safe, and he is willing to open the door.
You walk in and you reach for him, but he backs off, avoiding your hand, avoiding your hug, and avoiding your eyes.
You are caught off guard and you look at him. He doesn’t look at you, and it has happened for a good two minutes until you call his name.
“Minnie-ah?” you whisper, as you walk closer, slowly, gradually, that you don’t want him to avoid you more.
You think he will budge, but he doesn’t when you reach for him and pat his shoulder. It gives you more, more courage as you clear out your throat and force a smile on your face.
“He won’t be happy if you keep crying,” you say, and you know you have just said the wrong thing, or perhaps constructed the wrong choice of words when he shoves your hand off his shoulder and glare at you menacingly.
“I should be with him!” he hisses, eyes burning. “I should’ve just died with him!”
You wake up in the middle of your sleep and hope it is just all a dream.
He is the first thing flashes in your mind, and you ignore your muscle stretching because of your sudden movements as you get up and reach for the phone, which is now lying close to you next to your pillow. Just to be sure to be near.
You feel the sweat on your forehead and roughly you wipe them off. You chew your bottom lips when he doesn’t pick up at the seventh or eighth ring; is something going wrong again?
The next thing you realize what you’ve done is you are standing in front of his door.
He is there but he doesn’t hear your knocks, nor does he hear you asking if he is fine and if he can open the door for you.
You don’t know what tells you so, but you try to open the door, and you do.
The door is unlocked.
You walk in and you notice nothing has changed since your visit yesterday, and you can’t help but to smile as you notice one change in the middle of the room, the flowers on the vase beside the couch are changed fresh. You walk to his room, to the room you know he has previously shared with his husband, and you knock on the door.
He is there, he is inside as you see the light shining through the small windows above the door, but he doesn’t open it. You think he has no intention to do so as you wait for another good five minutes. Perhaps he’s sleeping, you think, or that’s what you like to think. You don’t want to admit that you’re afraid to know what is happening.
No, he is not someone who would try to commit suicide, you know it. You know him better, being good, close friends for the past ten years, he is not a type of person wanting to kill himself.
But that’s before he met a certain Cho Kyuhyun, you realize.
You open the door and you see him curling at the edge of his bed. He’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday, but you don’t think of it’s much, because it’s obviously normal for someone in the third day of his grief. He’s still curling in the same position as you watch him, as you keep watching him.
“Minnie-ah?” you whisper, as you walk closer, slowly to the bed, and you feel grateful when he lifts his head to look at you.
You see emptiness in his eyes.
“Who are you?” he asks, emotionless, and you feel yourself broken.
You wake up in the middle of your sleep and hope it is just all a dream.
He is the first you think about, and you stumble out of the bed, almost running to reach his room. It’s the first night you’ve slept in his apartment, in the same unit, but you feel he is miles away although his room is just next to the one you are sleeping in. You ignore your fast heartbeat and you knock on his door, again, before you open it and you find him sitting on the bed, with what you assume a photo book laying on the bed.
He looks at you, and he smiles.
“Hi,” he says, “come in?”
You know it’s better for you to just turn your back and leave. Instead you do as he says as you walk in and sit on the opposite edge of the bed.
“Sungmin-ah,” you say, “what are you doing?”
He looks at you in a way that makes you shudder. “Oh,” he says, looking at the photo book then looking back at you, “so it’s mine?” he asks as he points at the photo book he is holding.
“Yes,” you answer, and you shift a bit closer to him.
If you can wish for one thing, you think you just want to flee.
But no, you know you have to be strong, and you smile at him (while you are breaking inside). “You want me to tell you stories of these photos?”
His eyes beam with happiness, something you don’t see anymore these days.
He is there, and he is looking, he is staring at you. His eyes are empty but you can feel the air tensing as you finish your explanations and close the photo book.
“So…,” he pauses mid air and looks at you curiously, “where is Kyuhyun now?”
That is definitely one thing you don’t want to answer.
He waits and waits and waits, and you are thinking of excuses, you are thinking of something to say, something but the fact that you don’t want to tell him.
“He is my husband right?” he asks again, nudging your hand, “why isn’t he here with me then?”
You have to be strong. And honest, as much as you don’t want to hurt him.
“He died, Minnie,” you say, looking straight at his eyes. “Remember the explosion four days ago?”
He freezes. And he looks at you.
You regret of telling him the truth as you see burning anger in his eyes.
“You’re lying.” And he signals you to go out, and you do as you have your heart smashed into pieces.
You find him sitting in the kitchen when you finish your morning shift at one thirty in the afternoon and you decide to return to his place. You open the door with your duplicate keys, and the first room you’ve gone to is his bedroom, in which you find no one, and you think you hear noises from the kitchen, and there he is, sitting with a small box of strawberry cake on the table.
He looks at you, eyes wide, filled with curiosity, and you smile. “Can I come in?” you say, he nods, and you take a seat next to him.
“Umm,” he fidgets while looking at you, “who are you anyway? And why I am here?”
Your eyes are fixed on his hands as you notice he is holding something. A paper. Oh, is that a photo?
“This is your home,” so you answer, “You’re Sungmin, and I’m Hyukjae, your best friend, Minnie-ah.”
“Oh,” he is still looking at you.
You are just saying the truth, you know, but you don’t know if you should be happy or not. He keeps looking at you, and you say nothing for the next one minute.
“Hyukkie,” he nods, “you want this cake?”
“Did you buy it?” you ask, clearly you have no idea where it is from; that six hours ago when you left his house, his fridge is empty but some apples and oranges.
He nods, “I found the brochure near the phone,” he says, “and a wallet, I think it’s mine anyway.”
“Oh.”
And you feel you really love to disappear right then. You know, sooner or later, he would ask you about the photo. About his photo. About Kyuhyun’s and his photo on his hands.
“So…,” he starts, and you stare at the red strawberry in front of you. A piece on the side, bright red, with white whipped cream around, and why do you suddenly lose your appetite?
“So,” he takes a breath, “Who is this? Why I found a photo of him and me in my wallet?”
Oh yes, strawberry is nice; it’s red and it’s lovely and you’ll love to have one…
“Hyukjae-ah,” he repeats, louder, and he jolts your hand. You can’t help but to glance your attention back to him, as he is staring at you with unreadable eyes. “Tell me, who is this?”
“That’s Kyuhyun,” the name blurts out of your mouth, and you mentally slap yourself for answering without thinking anymore, “he’s your husband, you’re married to him, Minnie.”
He looks at you, and looks back at the photo. He tilts his head a few degrees and he looks at you again.
“Then why isn’t he here with me?”
You know you shouldn’t keep telling him that his husband has died.
You are killing him, you realize, again and again, by repetition after repetition.
He forgets everything.
He doesn’t remember his name, nor does he remember you.
He doesn’t remember he is married, and he doesn’t remember he has a husband, and more, he doesn’t remember Kyuhyun anymore.
Doctors advise for him to be hospitalized. He doesn’t want to, and you don’t want him to.
Doctors tell you to take a very good care of him. He screams when you try to give him injection for the first time.
Doctors tell you to be patient. They are trying. Researchers are trying.
But it takes time.
You know you don’t want to tell him the truth. You don’t need to tell him the truth, you rationalize, but your heart has its own way, and that’s what you feel right.
So you keep telling him. He is Lee Sungmin, he is married to Cho Kyuhyun, and Cho Kyuhyun has died.
You are his best friend. You are his close friend. But once, you wish you’ve never known him, you wish you’re not that close to him, as you think it won’t be that hard to run away if that’s the case.
But you keep telling him. That he is Lee Sungmin, and he is married, and his husband has died.
You are killing him, as much as you are killing yourself.
.end.
Started/finished 2009.02.05
A/A/N PLEASE DON'T KILL ME FOR THIS!!!
This was inspired by two things... one is during Singapore Fringe Festival, Phillip Toledano's Days with My Father and another is by my Psychology textbook, the study of memory... xD~
well, jishu I wrote an EunMin because I can't write angsty!KangMin, and it's the plot choosing for either EunMin or KyuMin xD~
actually I'm thinking of writing a KyuTeuk/KangTeuk but it just doesn't fit @_@