Unfinished Business
Title: Unfinished Business
Genre: angst, horror
Pairings: Geng-Centric, Hanchul?
Rating: PG-15 for violence
Warnings: Past child abuse, violence
Summary: Geng spends his life trying to fix Heechul, only for Heechul to try and fix him.
----
He can see the blood again; He can see those eyes, those beautiful brown eyes glistening with tears; pleading for help. He couldn’t move; He could only watch - watch as that beautiful face contorted in pain. He could see the blood, deep crimson on those pale, drawn lips. He couldn’t move.
Sweating, He awoke from His nightmare, breathing in frantic, panicked breaths.
He often woke up like this. It was always the same nightmare. No matter how He tried He could never get back to sleep. Those eyes He saw, they haunted Him, no matter how He hated to admit it, and they completely controlled his life, ever since that night three years ago when his life was ripped to pieces, just like his parents.
He’d grown up in a small town on the east coast of China with His mother, father and adopted brother. To their neighbours and friends, they were a normal family, but He knew different. He knew of his fathers’ brutality and abuse towards his younger brother and mother.
His brother would come into his room almost every day, late at night, covered in bruises and shaking, not falling asleep unless He held him.
His brother hated their father; he’d always talk about how he wished him dead, that one day he was the one who’d kill him - that he’d kill their mother for not protecting them, for letting him beat her too. He always agreed. He thought they were just words that helped him release the pain inside himself, until He saw it with His own eyes.
He was walking home from school late at night, it was cold and there was a heavy fog. His friends had all gone home before Him and He was alone. He walked as fast as he could; the streets were dangerous after dusk. It was cloudy and the moon was hardly visible. There was something wrong about that night. It was too quiet.
As He approached His front door, He could smell an awful scent, it reeked of copper.
It reeked of blood.
He rushed inside, the smell was overwhelming, and He felt faint. All the lights were off, but He could tell someone was home, the house always smelt of fresh flowers, his mother loved them. It was too odd. He heard a shuffling noise in the back room, almost as though someone was dragging something.
He tiptoed along the hallway, trying to be as quiet as He could, feeling along the cold walls to keep Himself from tripping up. He felt something wet on his fingers; in the dim light it looked black on his fingertips.
Blood.
Now that His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, He could see it. Blood everywhere, all over the carpet and the walls, drag marks leading into every room.
His heart was thumping inside His chest, His throat was dry.
What had happened? Had His father gone mad? Was there a murderer in the house? What had happened to His brother, His mother?
He crept into the back room, where the carpet sunk under his feet, saturated by the viscous, crimson liquid; holding His breath. What would He do if they noticed him? He didn’t know how to fight.
He scanned the room with His strained eyes; the curtains were pulled; only a little moonlight lit the room. There was someone sitting there, on the sofa. Staring at Him, so it seemed, though the shadows stopped Him from seeing persons face.
The shadowed figure rose from its seat, walking towards him. He could feel himself hyperventilating, his fingertips felt numb and his shoulders were slack, making his satchel slip off his shoulder and fall to the carpet, the thud echoing in the tense silence.
From the silhouette, the stranger was revealed to be quite short, a few inches shorter than Him, with a lithe figure and short hair.
“I told you I’d do it, Geng.” The stranger whispered, getting closer. That voice. It was familiar, soft and mocking, but it sounded off. It was too strained, wavering as if the speaker was shaking.
A cloud must have passed by, the light filtering in through a gap in the curtains. His eyes were drawn to the figures on the floor around His feet.
A stifled scream escaped his lips as He looked upon his mothers pretty face; her eyes were open, her usually soft, olive skin white as snow. His father was lying but a few feet away, both lying in a pool of their own blood.
He looked back up at the stranger, tears spilling down His cheeks as He looked into those wide, brown eyes.
He knew those eyes.
‘Heechul?’
They weren’t Heechuls’ real parents, they’d adopted him when he was six and treated him as their own, until the beating started. Geng could only watch, his father never turned on him. He wasn’t pretty like Heechul, handsome like his father instead. His mother never treated him badly. He was their joy.
But Heechul was another story.
They barely fed him, Geng would often sneak his dinner away from the table and take it up to their bedroom just so the other boy wouldn’t starve. He’d hold the younger boy at night, cleaning the cuts scattered over his milky skin, red and deep and painful to look at.
Heechul wouldn’t cry. He’d sit in Gengs lap, knuckles turning white as they gripped his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck.
He’d never ask him what happened. The screaming, the banging, the smashing of glass - he could guess. His mother would always scream at Heechul whenever their father was away. She’d tell him it was his fault. She’d tell him that they should never have taken him in.
He’d never step up to Heechuls defence. He didn’t want to be treated the same, and it made him feel sick. He was a coward.
‘Chul?’ he repeated, mouth dry and the words scratching at his throat. Heechul stepped closer again, the moonlight casting shadows against his pretty face, and Geng gasped.
The glow from the moon shone through cracks in his hair, now knotted with dry blood, the light bending around his silhouette. Those eyes; those same eyes that would plead at him when their father would get violent; those eyes so full of desperation that it physically hurt to even look at them.
But he couldn't look away.
He was frozen to the spot, mind trying to absorb everything that was happening; his mind was telling him to run, to run as far as he could, but he could only watch, watch as the light glinted off something in Heechuls hand.
He barely blinked before he felt Heechuls breath ghosting over his neck, unsteady and cold. He was crying.
Gengs arms wrapped around the younger boys body on instinct, softly pulling him against his chest. Heechuls hands were fisting the front of his shirt, twisting the material as soft sobs racked his thin frame.
Tears.
He'd never seen Heechul cry, and he was glad he hadn't.
The boy slowly looked up at Geng, long hair framing his face as his eyes glinted with moisture.
Geng could feel the blood running through his veins turn cold, breath catching in his throat as his nerves were set alight. It felt like he was burning, as if his chest had caught alight.
It hurt.
He looked down at himself, seeing a deep red spread across his shirt, sticking to Heechuls pyjamas. A feminine pair of hands wrapped around a pair of scissors, slowly pushing them deeper into his chest.
He felt the world spin.
He heard the soft, dull thud of his blood dripping onto the carpet before his legs gave way. Heechul caught him, letting go of the scissors protruding from his chest and settling his against the wall, a streak of blood painting it a deep shade of crimson in the darkness.
Geng lifted his head, lolling as his weak body fought against gravity.
Heechul was leaning over him, hair hanging down around his face. He looked terrible. Beautiful, but terrible.
He kneeled down beside Geng and put a finger under his chin, turning his head gently to look at him before leaning close and pressing his lips to the older boys.
He pulled away, tears sparkling in his wide, brown eyes.
'It's okay,' He whispered, voice soft and steady, 'I'll fix you.'
The same words he'd tell Heechul every time he got hurt, they echoed in his head as the world span and blurred, the only thing he felt before the light faded to black was the warmth of Heechuls arms around his back, his face being pressed against his neck.
'I'll fix you.'
--------------------
AN: I found a creative writing coursework piece on my computer at school today, and decided to tweak it a little. Weird thing to write about when you're thirteen. I know I should have added something on the end, but I'm lazy and have no idea what to write~ Let's just say Heechul does fix him afterwards. Written while listening to this on repeat..
Genre: angst, horror
Pairings: Geng-Centric, Hanchul?
Rating: PG-15 for violence
Warnings: Past child abuse, violence
Summary: Geng spends his life trying to fix Heechul, only for Heechul to try and fix him.
----
He can see the blood again; He can see those eyes, those beautiful brown eyes glistening with tears; pleading for help. He couldn’t move; He could only watch - watch as that beautiful face contorted in pain. He could see the blood, deep crimson on those pale, drawn lips. He couldn’t move.
Sweating, He awoke from His nightmare, breathing in frantic, panicked breaths.
He often woke up like this. It was always the same nightmare. No matter how He tried He could never get back to sleep. Those eyes He saw, they haunted Him, no matter how He hated to admit it, and they completely controlled his life, ever since that night three years ago when his life was ripped to pieces, just like his parents.
He’d grown up in a small town on the east coast of China with His mother, father and adopted brother. To their neighbours and friends, they were a normal family, but He knew different. He knew of his fathers’ brutality and abuse towards his younger brother and mother.
His brother would come into his room almost every day, late at night, covered in bruises and shaking, not falling asleep unless He held him.
His brother hated their father; he’d always talk about how he wished him dead, that one day he was the one who’d kill him - that he’d kill their mother for not protecting them, for letting him beat her too. He always agreed. He thought they were just words that helped him release the pain inside himself, until He saw it with His own eyes.
He was walking home from school late at night, it was cold and there was a heavy fog. His friends had all gone home before Him and He was alone. He walked as fast as he could; the streets were dangerous after dusk. It was cloudy and the moon was hardly visible. There was something wrong about that night. It was too quiet.
As He approached His front door, He could smell an awful scent, it reeked of copper.
It reeked of blood.
He rushed inside, the smell was overwhelming, and He felt faint. All the lights were off, but He could tell someone was home, the house always smelt of fresh flowers, his mother loved them. It was too odd. He heard a shuffling noise in the back room, almost as though someone was dragging something.
He tiptoed along the hallway, trying to be as quiet as He could, feeling along the cold walls to keep Himself from tripping up. He felt something wet on his fingers; in the dim light it looked black on his fingertips.
Blood.
Now that His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, He could see it. Blood everywhere, all over the carpet and the walls, drag marks leading into every room.
His heart was thumping inside His chest, His throat was dry.
What had happened? Had His father gone mad? Was there a murderer in the house? What had happened to His brother, His mother?
He crept into the back room, where the carpet sunk under his feet, saturated by the viscous, crimson liquid; holding His breath. What would He do if they noticed him? He didn’t know how to fight.
He scanned the room with His strained eyes; the curtains were pulled; only a little moonlight lit the room. There was someone sitting there, on the sofa. Staring at Him, so it seemed, though the shadows stopped Him from seeing persons face.
The shadowed figure rose from its seat, walking towards him. He could feel himself hyperventilating, his fingertips felt numb and his shoulders were slack, making his satchel slip off his shoulder and fall to the carpet, the thud echoing in the tense silence.
From the silhouette, the stranger was revealed to be quite short, a few inches shorter than Him, with a lithe figure and short hair.
“I told you I’d do it, Geng.” The stranger whispered, getting closer. That voice. It was familiar, soft and mocking, but it sounded off. It was too strained, wavering as if the speaker was shaking.
A cloud must have passed by, the light filtering in through a gap in the curtains. His eyes were drawn to the figures on the floor around His feet.
A stifled scream escaped his lips as He looked upon his mothers pretty face; her eyes were open, her usually soft, olive skin white as snow. His father was lying but a few feet away, both lying in a pool of their own blood.
He looked back up at the stranger, tears spilling down His cheeks as He looked into those wide, brown eyes.
He knew those eyes.
‘Heechul?’
They weren’t Heechuls’ real parents, they’d adopted him when he was six and treated him as their own, until the beating started. Geng could only watch, his father never turned on him. He wasn’t pretty like Heechul, handsome like his father instead. His mother never treated him badly. He was their joy.
But Heechul was another story.
They barely fed him, Geng would often sneak his dinner away from the table and take it up to their bedroom just so the other boy wouldn’t starve. He’d hold the younger boy at night, cleaning the cuts scattered over his milky skin, red and deep and painful to look at.
Heechul wouldn’t cry. He’d sit in Gengs lap, knuckles turning white as they gripped his shoulders, face buried in the crook of his neck.
He’d never ask him what happened. The screaming, the banging, the smashing of glass - he could guess. His mother would always scream at Heechul whenever their father was away. She’d tell him it was his fault. She’d tell him that they should never have taken him in.
He’d never step up to Heechuls defence. He didn’t want to be treated the same, and it made him feel sick. He was a coward.
‘Chul?’ he repeated, mouth dry and the words scratching at his throat. Heechul stepped closer again, the moonlight casting shadows against his pretty face, and Geng gasped.
The glow from the moon shone through cracks in his hair, now knotted with dry blood, the light bending around his silhouette. Those eyes; those same eyes that would plead at him when their father would get violent; those eyes so full of desperation that it physically hurt to even look at them.
But he couldn't look away.
He was frozen to the spot, mind trying to absorb everything that was happening; his mind was telling him to run, to run as far as he could, but he could only watch, watch as the light glinted off something in Heechuls hand.
He barely blinked before he felt Heechuls breath ghosting over his neck, unsteady and cold. He was crying.
Gengs arms wrapped around the younger boys body on instinct, softly pulling him against his chest. Heechuls hands were fisting the front of his shirt, twisting the material as soft sobs racked his thin frame.
Tears.
He'd never seen Heechul cry, and he was glad he hadn't.
The boy slowly looked up at Geng, long hair framing his face as his eyes glinted with moisture.
Geng could feel the blood running through his veins turn cold, breath catching in his throat as his nerves were set alight. It felt like he was burning, as if his chest had caught alight.
It hurt.
He looked down at himself, seeing a deep red spread across his shirt, sticking to Heechuls pyjamas. A feminine pair of hands wrapped around a pair of scissors, slowly pushing them deeper into his chest.
He felt the world spin.
He heard the soft, dull thud of his blood dripping onto the carpet before his legs gave way. Heechul caught him, letting go of the scissors protruding from his chest and settling his against the wall, a streak of blood painting it a deep shade of crimson in the darkness.
Geng lifted his head, lolling as his weak body fought against gravity.
Heechul was leaning over him, hair hanging down around his face. He looked terrible. Beautiful, but terrible.
He kneeled down beside Geng and put a finger under his chin, turning his head gently to look at him before leaning close and pressing his lips to the older boys.
He pulled away, tears sparkling in his wide, brown eyes.
'It's okay,' He whispered, voice soft and steady, 'I'll fix you.'
The same words he'd tell Heechul every time he got hurt, they echoed in his head as the world span and blurred, the only thing he felt before the light faded to black was the warmth of Heechuls arms around his back, his face being pressed against his neck.
'I'll fix you.'
--------------------
AN: I found a creative writing coursework piece on my computer at school today, and decided to tweak it a little. Weird thing to write about when you're thirteen. I know I should have added something on the end, but I'm lazy and have no idea what to write~ Let's just say Heechul does fix him afterwards. Written while listening to this on repeat..