Love Cacophony (Chansung/Junho)
Title: Love Cacophony
Author: mo_chan_tf
Group: 2PM
Characters: Chansung/Junho
Rating: R
Word Count: 9,600
Summary: Reality is absence of the reality he wants.
Notes: Written for unreal-2pm; originally posted here. Once again, thanks to everyone involved in the challenge! Special hugs to Gabs, Kojo and Mica for the extra help/support. :)
Prompt 1: "Do you want the truth or something beautiful? Just close your eyes and make belief." (lyrics from Paloma Faith's Do you want the truth or something beautiful?)
Prompt 2: http://iv1.lisimg.com/image/814670/600full-luke-worrall.jpg
Prompt 3: Forever
x
Junho is used to arriving at the dorm with at least one of the lights still on, a sign that Chansung’s home and went to bed long after Nichkhun, which is the usual routine for them. Tonight, though, it’s all dark, and he has to feel for the switch on the wall, which turns out to be surprisingly difficult. He doesn’t understand why but it unsettles him, this darkness and how he should have been able to locate the switch fast considering how many times he’s used it, but that’s what happens when things become automatic. Change one factor and your brain has something new to handle.
Once the light is on, he finds himself in an empty living room, so organized it seems devoid of life, the whole place dead silent. It makes him tense instead of grateful that he could just go to bed and sleep. He gets rid of his shoes, leaving them by the door next to the others’, and he remains barefoot. He throws his bag and his jacket on the armchair diagonally across the couch where he lies down, covering his eyes as he realizes he should have just kept the lights off.
A long-coming sigh escapes him. He knows he shouldn’t sleep here because his muscles will complain, his shoulder is already strained as it is, there are knots on his neck and down his spine, but he doesn’t want to go to his own messy, cramped room. He’s never asked Chansung to tidy it up for him, but now that it stopped, as surprised as he was when it started, he wonders what made the other quit.
The bitter laugh comes unbidden and he shakes, shakes with the certainty that he’s fooling himself again, that he knows what this is about. This is Chansung throwing his words back at him, telling him, Okay, if that’s what you really think, if that’s what you really want, then deal with it.
Chansung has always been too good at giving him what he wanted, whereas Junho has always been terrible at stating his wishes, his doubts, his fears. He’s never had a good grip on his feelings, he’s never been good with words, yet he’s always been too fast at acting and reacting and blabbering when he didn’t mean half the shit that came out of his damn mouth.
I don’t need you, he hears his own voice, lashing back as hard as it must have struck at Chansung when he said it, angry and sick and desperate to get rid of all his feelings. I don’t need you. He said it like he hated the very possibility of the opposite being true, and he did. Because he knew. He knew he was lying and he hated himself for it, but he refused to accept anything else.
x
How long is forever?
Chansung’s eyes are on the ceiling, but his eyebrows draw together and Junho knows he’s been heard. The question needs some thinking. I don’t know, Chansung says, but that’s not his final answer. Isn’t it something you can’t measure? It’s... endless?
Junho turns to lie on his left side and face Chansung, or his profile, since the other is still on his back, hands entwined under his head. It’s a chill morning, both weather and schedule wise, and the lack of rush gets Junho’s mind going. Chansung seems mostly used to it now, having laughed once or twice until realizing that these were actually things Junho wondered about and wanted to understand better. But isn’t that impossible?
Why?
Because everything ends.
Chansung doesn’t answer. He mirrors Junho, supports his head on his right arm, and stares for many a heartbeat. Junho doesn’t budge, lets the other’s eyes search through his own, slide like a caress down his face and throat, flicker at his naked torso before finding his gaze again. How would you describe it, then?
Junho sighs, looks down. I don’t believe in it.
He doesn’t catch the look on Chansung’s face on purpose. He suspects it might make him want to take the words back, but it wouldn’t change a thing. He said it, it’s the truth, and like most truths, it’s a hard one to bear.
Chansung doesn’t turn away from him, though. He doesn’t get up, doesn’t challenge him, doesn’t fight him. He has his own beliefs, he’s more certain of them than Junho thinks he will ever be. Chansung's feelings are not about to be rippled because of a little thrown-in stone. It’s not the first one, nor is it the last, but so far he’s handled Junho’s doubts better than he ought to. Instead of reassuring him, though, it makes Junho more disquieted by his own thoughts.
Everything ends, Chansung echoes, voice as soft as the fingertips tracing invisible lines on Junho’s forehead, down his temples, his cheeks, under his chin, up to his lips. Junho’s skin awakens quickly, having its own memories of the previous night, and early morning, just a couple of hours ago, before breakfast, when it just happened that they stayed in the dorm while the other four residents enjoyed their one free day out and about. There might have been a knock on the door, one shout or two for them to get their lazy-ass off the bed, but they were being anything but lazy back then. That’s why you have to enjoy it while it lasts, Chansung says, but the words will only register later. What gets to Junho at the moment is his whispered voice, his teasing breath, the noise of the mattress under the weight of them both as Chansung rolls over him, slowly yet decisively, his lips demanding, his hands wandering.
Junho gives, and takes, and for an instant forever doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.
x
They are not alone, the two of them, the first time Junho feels like he has more questions than answers regarding Chansung and him. The ground shifts beneath his feet, his sense of security and confidence giving way to some awareness that would only shake him further. He’s sitting down, though, very comfortably. Way too comfortably. The couch sinks under his weight, even as he sinks against Chansung, whose insistent warmth and needy skin have long conquered Junho’s personal space.
One of Junho’s legs is over Chansung’s, whose hand touches his thigh as if it were the most natural thing to do. It’s always been like that with the maknae, who touches people in ways words cannot, his fingers telling and listening intently. Yet it feels different this time. Junho feels it like a caress, the hand moving like an inconspicuous foreigner about to cross a border, but it also rests on Junho’s thigh as if the territory were already Chansung’s own.
They’re recording a video. Some message about 2AM’s new song. Junho can still see them - the video is on the Internet anyway - but he can see them both wearing a beanie, Chansung’s green and Junho’s black, the white woolen scarf carefully wrapped around Chansung’s neck, their thick winter jackets and slightly longish hair back around daring bare faces, when dreams had just come true and forever seemed like an easy word to utter, to think, to believe. He still sees Chansung’s upper lip curling in mock disagreement at something either Junho or someone else had said, Junho’s own lips almost pouting as he gestures and tries to argue about something, his own mock disbelief as Chansung smiles and keeps touching him...
The moment spirals around his head until its turning works to weave strings that pull at his heart whenever he’s around Chansung, whenever he thinks about everything they’ve shared so far as rivals, as members of the same group, as friends. It’s not entirely bad, the way he feels, or at least he doesn’t think so. It makes him want to smile even though there doesn’t seem to be a reason to. He feels light with excitement even as the fear weighs down on him, but when the former overcomes the latter no gravity will hold him down.
Questions lead to hypotheses that need to be tested, however dangerous such an experiment might be, so when that happens he makes sure they are alone.
Chansung is stretched out on the sofa, seemingly uninterested in what's on the television. Junho feels those watchful eyes on him as soon as he approaches, propping himself down on the couch. He has to get Chansung's feet out of the way for that, but instead of just shoving them aside or ordering him to move, Junho lifts his calves, settles down and lets the other's legs drop on his lap. Chansung frowns briefly at him, but when Junho looks his way he turns back to the program. He might have let it pass, but some time later Junho also lets his own hands rest over Chansung's legs, enough to make him look intrigued again. Junho has an innocent smile ready when he pulls at the fuzzy hair that leads to the skin under the sweatpants and then Chansung jerks up, shoving at his shoulder even as he sits basically against Junho.
Hey, you wanna watch something nice? Junho asks as soon as he feels Chansung's smile on him, seemingly ready to inquire about something. He’s puzzled, Junho can tell by his parted lips and intent, nearly frowning eyes, but he nods, one of his curiosities overcoming the other.
Junho puts on Vicky Cristina Barcelona, but doesn't tell him what it is about. He makes them some popcorn while the trailers - even on DVD Chansung doesn’t skip them - and opening credits play, and returns to the couch with a bowl and two cans of beer that he will have to replace before Taecyeon gets back home. Chansung smiles at him and devours half the popcorn, finishing two thirds of it just as Scarlett Johansson’s character, Cristina, gets interested in Juan Antonio, played by Javier Bardem. The maknae appears to be focused on the movie most of the time but Junho is forcing himself not to look so often, so he can't tell for sure. He's not entirely surprised, though, when Chansung sinks back against the couch, their bodies aligned as one leans on the other almost unconsciously. Junho is very aware of it though, how pleasant the skin of his arm feels against Chansung's, the warmth that comes from his thigh and his side and his overall presence, his natural closeness.
Juan Antonio has succeeded at getting the other girl, Vicky, when Junho puts the empty bowl except for the unpopped corns on the floor along with their finished cans. He leans back against Chansung, fully conscious that he's diminishing an inch or two of space, and that Chansung, ever observant despite not always showing it, will notice it. Junho's holding his breath and trying not to, expecting something while dreading it, but some time later, just as he feels Chansung relaxing next to him, his right leg moves over Chansung's left one, and Junho somehow manages to keep his eyes on the screen even as his ears turn red under his thankfully longish hair, although that doesn’t mean Chansung's big eyes won’t take it in. Junho has a number of rehearsed escapes in his mind if this fails but he forgot to prepare for a situation in which Chansung's hand would reclaim its place on his knee.
Is this what he wanted? He has never been able to tell. He just knows he liked the thrill, and since then he's always liked to feel Chansung's hands on him, especially when it's a close repeat of this moment: palm on his thigh, fingers circling around his knee, sensitivity working through the jeans, the caress as real as if there were no fabric in the way. Junho's breath catches, swallowing becomes hard and he's suddenly unable to ignore the way his own Adam’s apple moves up and down, what with Chansung looking down at his throat before piercing at him with questioning eyes and a hovering smile. Junho's eyes find him sideways from under his fringe and his lips pull up for a fleeting second in which the air leaves him with a little noise, nothing short of stunned.
It takes him a second or two but his own hand finds Chansung's, the touch sending a jolt through him that he will later recognize as the breaking of something as another takes shape.
Chansung squeezes his thigh and turns his palm up to gently lock their fingers, pulling Junho's arm to him while leaning in so his forehead is almost resting on top of Junho's hair. Junho wills himself to breathe and it works wonders once he hears Chansung mumbling his name, sounding so hesitant and hopeful Junho doubts he heard it right. But no, the sound is already within his body, so he has to answer it. He turns his head to Chansung, looking down, seeing their joined hands as he feels another touch on his leg, this time more determined and daring. It slides up his thigh and stays there, holding and spreading warmth and teasing him, or leaving a way out. Even if they could pretend this is a joke or nothing, there are lines to be crossed and this is one of them.
Junho tenses under him, purposefully flexing muscles that cause his hips to move slightly yet undeniably, and Chansung - Chansung doesn’t pull him or squeeze him again, nor does he ravish him on the spot. He is patient, his lack of movement and words a question and advance in itself. Junho’s breathing doesn’t sound as low as it ought to nor does his heartbeat keep a steady pace. He risks looking up, though, and is rewarded with Chansung’s transparent eyes, deep water on which he would willingly tread if he knew how. Then eyelids droop, breathing gives way to anticipation, distance vanishes. Captured lips, moving hands, rustling sounds, broken borders.
They are alone.
x
How long is forever?
As long as you want it to be.
x
Are you afraid of the dark? Junho asks him once, having got up to turn off the hallway light the other left on after returning from the bathroom. It's okay if you are, his voice tells Chansung, who just shakes his head, beckoning him to come back to bed.
Maybe I just like to watch you walk around, he says as Junho crawls between his legs and rests his face on Chansung's chest again. His scalp welcomes Chansung's fingers and he hums, not reacting to the joke besides a fleeting smile that Chansung must have felt on his skin. I really just forget it, Chansung adds, needlessly.
I think you just want something to talk about, Junho teases, referring to the interviews where they've brought this up.
So, is that why you never clean up your room?
Chansung is just throwing the humor back at him, but Junho still tenses, caught in the question. Is that why? His mind echoes; and he doesn't know. Such a small, silly thing, but those are the ones that matter, the ones that have eventually brought them together because they are much more than just small, silly things.
Hey, Chansung whispers, caressing the nape of his neck, dull nails light around his spine, fingers soothing on Junho's skin. Chansung senses everything, but Junho also feels his heartbeat giving away what his calm voice conceals. What are you afraid of?
A simple question. Perhaps a follow-up to what Junho asked, but probably Chansung seeing through the momentary yet strained silence. Junho shakes his head slightly, hoping that will shake the rest off too, the question and his own doubts. Myself, he doesn't say, but his mind does. You. This feeling. 2PM. Losing you. Loving you.
x
I love you, Chansung says, with or without words, but he says it, his every move and stare and touch and whispered word and patient silence. He’s always said it because Junho has always heard it resonating at the depths of his soul.
How do you know? Junho wants to ask. How do you know it’s love? Isn’t it because you want to believe it? Isn’t that what love is about? Isn’t it a choice you make?
To fall or not to fall.
To fly or not to fly.
Does one exclude the other?
No one is ever truly free, Junho whispers instead.
But you still want freedom.
Junho nods, knowing Chansung will see or feel it as he drapes himself half over Junho’s back. Junho sighs and closes his eyes, giving in to the feel of Chansung’s hands on his skin, fingertips tracing lazy lines down his shoulders, down his sides, up his neck.
If you try to escape all bars, you’ll end up caging yourself, Chansung says, his voice letting it show he’s heard or read this somewhere, the words coming back to him in a moment where he can understand them.
Junho thinks about that. Is that what he’s doing? He wonders, but not out loud.
I would never try to cut off your wings. Chansung smiles against his nape, and Junho tries to do the same, but his lips form a thin line instead.
Will you always come back to me?
Of course I will.
Junho shakes his head once, slowly but surely. No, he says. You can’t promise that.
He feels Chansung’s deep breath, the chest pressing against him, the air escaping and reaching Junho’s hair. Why do you ask, when you never accept my answer?
Junho’s silence says he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and that’s why he’s asking. He wants to understand.
You have to live it, Chansung states, holding on to him, pressing a warm kiss to his trapezius. I can’t prove what we-- Chansung pauses, and Junho swallows. What I feel for you, when you don’t let me show you.
I know, Junho wants to say, but he doesn’t. Chansung still caresses him, so he finds that hand and holds it with his own, tucking them against their bodies.
It’s not me you’re doubting, Chansung whispers. You’ve never said you loved me, but I don’t need to hear that.
Junho squeezes his fingers, and Chansung cradles even closer.
x
Junho stares at the article as if the letters were made of gunpowder, his reading the match about to be lit and cause the explosion. Avoiding it is no use, the words still burn. He knows what they talked about here, ranking each other by most gentle with girls, most easily scared, who takes the longest to shower or looking at a mirror, who’s the most into skinship... He made the mistake of mentioning him and Chansung. Not a blatant lie, but not exactly the truth, for the memory is old, or at least that's what it feels like.
The words blur before him as he recalls one of the many moments in which he would be in bed, either playing games on his cell phone or texting friends, checking the news or just trying to come up with some lyrics, humming some upcoming melody when he was not listening to music. If home, Chansung would come to find him, draw his attention through bites or pokes or pulls or kicks, sometimes just throwing himself unannounced beside or on top of Junho. Other times he would be looking at him from the door until Junho noticed he was being watched, though he often had the impression of realizing that a little too late.
He's sitting over the covers, about to score a goal at FIFA on his cell phone, when Chansung flops down next to him, propping himself up on his elbows and looking up at him, waiting. When Junho doesn’t turn away from the phone soon enough, Chansung elbows his thigh, nudging him a few times until Junho pinches his arm but doesn’t return his stare. The pinch is for the goal he’s lost, but this - Chansung coming to his bed, Junho pretending he doesn’t care - is also a game on its own. Therefore, despite his outraged gasp, Chansung just rests his face on his hand and keeps watching him, his eyes growing in earnest as they trace the other’s features. It’s hard for him not to give in but Junho wants to know how else Chansung will try to get to him, and the wait is usually worth it.
This time, Chansung moves to sit on the bed, dragging his butt over the mattress until he is just behind Junho, his legs bent at Junho’s sides. Junho’s hand stops moving on the screen as a slight shiver of anticipation crawls up his spine, something Chansung’s attentive eyes are bound to catch no matter how much Junho tries to control his body. Fingers rake at his hair, teasing at his nape before he gets a bite on the shoulder. He could try to ignore it but Chansung is persistent, teeth digging into his flesh, warm breath playing at his skin, just so Junho has no chance of pretending to be angry and hitting him. Other times, he might have told Chansung to go to his own room and sleep. He’s not surprised, though, when he drops the phone, the pretense, and leans back against Chansung, who smiles even as their lips meet.
Now he is light years away from that reality. Such a feeling makes forever seem small, easy to tackle, something he should have been able to accept and believe. Not because it was true, but because not knowing when it ends wouldn't have been so bad.
Some uncertainties are not meant to be solved.
x
One day you won’t love me anymore.
Chansung sighs, exasperated. He usually lets statements like that pass, but sometimes the words get to him, and Junho knows he’s hurt, or at least frustrated enough. How can you say that? How can you know?
I just do. It’s obvious. I’ll do something to upset you - Junho knows that’s exactly what he’s doing right now, but he can’t hold it back -, it’ll be the final straw, and then you’ll just. Stop.
Chansung shakes his head. His face twists, brows furrowing, shooting up, drawing together again. His hands grip at the sheets over their bodies as if trying to gather and hold on to the pieces scattered within him, between and around them. When he turns to look at Junho, his hardened expression strikes more than the retort. Will you?
Junho’s throat tightens.
When you talk like that, that upsets me. I love you, now, with everything I have. Why is that not enough for you? Why can’t you just enjoy what we have? Why do you have to spoil it? Is that what this is about? Do you want me to stop loving you, just to prove yourself right?
Junho wants to say no, but the word is stuck in his throat.
Chansung’s face softens; his voice goes from grave and incredulous to a mere whisper, nearly lifeless. Do you want to try that? See if you stop loving me?
Junho remains silent, unable to speak or move. The strings now pull at his insides, but he also feels tied to the bed, an invisible but heavy weight setting over him. Does he? Will he? Does he really want to know the answer?
Chansung voices what he won’t. Do you want to know when our last kiss will be?
Junho’s sudden intake of air is noisy and then he’s biting at his lower lip, but the words still escape him. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Chansung gapes at him for a second, but then his face turns somber again. Nice? We’re breaking up and you think it’d be nice?
No, I mean...! Junho has to pause a moment, telling himself they’re talking hypothetically. Chansung just said, we’re breaking up, but maybe he just expressed it the wrong way, given the situation? He plummets at those words with his own. I mean... you would know. You would know it was the last time, and you would do something about it. It’s not like breaking up after a fight or because something else happened and then you think, when was our last kiss? Was it good? You could make it good. So you’ll want to remember it.
Chansung looks shocked. Do you really believe that? Do you even want to believe that?
Junho’s silent. He’s not sure about anything. Not when Chansung looks at him as if he’s just made the most absurd statement ever.
That’s not... real. It’s not fair.
Junho has no doubt about how he feels when it comes to that. And you think the other way is fair? Do you think hurting is fair? Do you think staying together until we rip each other apart is fair?
Chansung breathes in deeply, so that when he speaks again, he sounds composed. His quietly uttered words, however, carry the storm in his eyes. Like it or not, you’ll still get hurt.
Junho wants to reply, but whatever words he had die under Chansung’s lips.
Last time.
Did he hear that?
You’re always holding back.
Did Chansung say that?
Do something about it. He needs to do something about it.
Let go.
Let yourself go.
He grips at Chansung’s hair just as his head is yanked back, throat bitten, pulse quickening. They roll, sheets getting in the way and thus being pulled or kicked aside, and they kiss, hard and passionate. Chansung’s hands are unusually rough in the way he grips at Junho’s sides and thighs, his teeth savoring Junho’s mouth as much as his tongue. They roll until Junho straddles him, and Chansung’s tenderness returns in the way he helps Junho up to ease himself in. Junho stops, adjusts, heels under his thighs, eyes on Chansung, Chansung’s eyes and hands on him.
They are bare.
They are bared.
They ride.
Chansung is deep inside him, one makes the other gasp, the pace builds and slows and builds up, up, Junho stops again and they go, he moves up and around and Chansung moves up and around him as well. Hands grip at hands and arms and scratch at one’s belly and chest. Chansung touches him, Junho holds and pulls at the skin on his forearms but then his hands become fists, grasping at nothing as his insides squeeze around Chansung.
Junho lets go.
x
Chansung pushes him.
Away.
Over the edge.
But does he open his wings?
Crushes.
Breaks to pieces.
Does he fly?
Fears.
Does he fall?
Loses.
Loses?
Loses.
Finds.
Not what he was looking for.
It never happens that way.
x
He wakes up next to Chansung.
Last time, he hears. An echo. In his body.
Blood pounds in his ears.
He closes his eyes, but the emptiness can’t be avoided. Daylight sifts through the window and reaches Chansung, whose back tells of awareness and tension. The room is not dark, but darkness seeps in, reaching for Junho.
Chansung doesn’t reach for him. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t say anything. Junho wishes he would. He wishes he had it in himself to make Chansung argue with him again, but the strength has left him as it did when they came. Apart.
Chansung has always been understanding, compassionate, and Junho - he swallows, chokes, conceals his inner turmoil by standing very still - Junho has always loved him for that, has always been grateful one of them could be down-to-earth enough to keep them both on the ground.
Now that is getting in the way, though. If this is Chansung’s last display of empathy, it’s the very one Junho doesn’t want. He wants Chansung to fight him, to fight for him.
But he’s already asked too much. He’s asked for too much. He caused this. He wanted this.
Didn’t he?
Didn’t he?
x
Junho’s wearing a t-shirt as thin as his own seams, tug a little and he will come undone. It's as white as the peace he's lost, as transparent as what his face fights. Bitten lips, pursed mouth, furrowed brow.
He stands behind Chansung, who’s ready to go on stage, sleepy eyes and slow voice withholding the energy he will display later. His dark hair is done, short and spiked up, not too much makeup on, his lips as pale as the rest of his face. Junho knows how red those lips can get. Junho knows how his skin looks when he’s just exercised, when he’s just woken up, when he’s eaten too much fat that he stares angrily at the pimples the mirror shows them before they shower together and Junho makes him forget everything, Chansung makes him forget everything.
Chansung talks to the camera, but for once Junho is barely aware they are being recorded. They do it so often he will blame the numbness on that. He doesn’t know what his own face looks like right now, but he will find out later, much later, when he has to face his demons on his own and Chansung won’t be there to distract him. Junho looks at him, at his neck and his ears and his back, what the thin shirt won’t hide and what is carved as memories into his hands by every time he’s touched him. He waits, takes a step to the side, but Chansung doesn’t react to his presence until he’s done talking and one of his arms hits Junho by accident as he lowers them after giving their fans the thumbs-up.
Junho looks to the side just before Chansung looks at him, and he thinks that maybe he should do something else. He looks at the camera and reminds himself of where they are, what they are doing. This is a big day, a huge day, there are thousands and thousands of fans out there waiting for them to come back on stage and keep the entertainment to the maximum. The show must go on.
Junho ah, he hears. It tugs at Junho’s seams, gently, softly, yet as strong as the waves dragging back before hitting the shore once again. He’s barely aware of what they’re saying. It’s small talk, talk for the fans, but it gets Chansung to look at him, even if he turns to the camera and doesn’t really turn to face Junho completely. Junho keeps his eyes on him as long as he can, as long as he dares. He looks briefly at the camera, his lips forming a thin line as he also withholds, not what he will display later, but what he can’t display now.
Chansung’s shirt is so thin, as thin as his own; they’re the same, but - Chansung’s one is a little bigger and it hangs on his chest, not loosely but not as tight as Junho’s, and his neck is distracting, his collarbone is distracting, his Adam’s apple is distracting. Everything about him has Junho fighting temptation; don’t look down, don’t look, don’t. They nod at each other, as good friends do when they are in agreement, and he might even smile, a little, though Chansung doesn’t return it, his own brief smile is at the camera, and that’s it. If Junho has to blink himself back to reality, it’s okay. He’s okay. He has to be.
x
When Junho closes his eyes, Chansung comes to him. Heavy footsteps, ragged breathing, fumbling hands, warm body. He touches Junho's hair, fingers tender on his scalp, eyes intent on Junho's face. Parted lips, loud heartbeat, a kiss to the forehead, a light brush on the cheek, a sigh mouth to mouth. Ghostly captured, reminiscent taste, lingering want.
It's all in your head, sad voice, imminent distance. He refuses to look, chooses the darkness, knowing Chansung is in the light, yearning for the light he once shone on him. Yet, somehow, Chansung is also in the darkness with him, his presence is there. Reality is absence of the reality he wants.
x
He holds the blankets tight around him, right hand gripping at the thick layers of fabric as the left one holds his knees against his chest, sometimes kneading at his feet. He’s in the living room, Revolutionary Road playing on the TV, but he just memorized the title because it caught his attention. The rest of the movie passes as a blur in front of him. He just knows it’s some sad story and that the couple seems to be at each other’s throat all the time. They say one thing and mean another. It makes him want to laugh, but what comes instead is either a cough or a sniff. From the cold.
He hears. A voice in the kitchen. Nichkhun. He’s on the phone.
“I’ve told him to go to bed a dozen times but he says he’s okay. He’s clearly not okay. He’s got a fever.”
Junho doesn’t roll his eyes only because that will make his head ache even more.
“Chansungie, he usually listens to you. ... What? But you’ve always taken care of him. ... I’m sure he’ll appreciate that. ... Yes, we do. There are some in the fridge. ...That too. ... I’ll leave him to you, then, okay? ... You know how he is. Just ignore his outbursts. ... Bye.”
Junho’s grip on the blanket loosens and he stares unseeing at the TV, wanting to confront Nichkhun about the call but knowing the other won’t back down once his nurturing instincts have kicked in. It’s Chansung he will have to handle, later, possibly soon if the call means he’s coming home from wherever he is just to take care of Junho.
He feels sick. Not from the cold.
“Nuneo,” Nichkhun leans on the armrest and looks at him. “I’m off to bed, but Chansung will arrive any time now. If you need anything, I’ll be in my room, okay?”
“Don’t worry.” Junho doesn’t say he shouldn’t have called Chansung. “‘Night,” he mutters, turning to the screen once more.
He feels Nichkhun’s eyes on him for a second longer before the other resigns, bids him good night and goes to his room.
Kate Winslet is screaming just like her character said she would when Chansung arrives, a slight frown already shadowing his features. Junho lowers the volume, the shriek resounding like a thousand drums inside his head. He looks briefly at the bag Chansung’s carrying before staring down at his own knees, fixing the blankets back around his shoulders.
Hey.
Junho mutters a reply.
Chansung stops a moment. I’ll make you some soup.
I’m not hungry.
Yeah? I don’t care. You need to eat. Nichkhun hyung told me you haven’t eaten anything all day.
He wasn’t with me the whole time.
Junho sees him pursing his lips out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment he almost hopes Chansung will lash at him, because that’s all he needs to let something out too. Chansung’s not that easy to ruffle, though. He goes to the kitchen, and for the next minutes what Junho hears is the bag being emptied, cupboard doors opened and closed, the fridge, chopping, the electric stove being turned on.
What comes to him is not the smell of soup, though. It’s citric and sweet, mild yet difficult to forget. Pineapple-apple tea, Chansung used to tell him with a smile as sweet as the concoction, with just the right amount of honey so you won’t get sick of it.
You’ve always taken care of him, Nichkhun said. Junho closes his eyes. Yes, he used to. They both used to. Keep each other company. Make the fever go away by sleeping together. Risk taking cold showers to make the temperature stop rising, even though Nichkhun insisted the cold shower was a myth that might render them both sick instead of curing the one.
Junho lets go of the covers and musters up what little energy he’s got left to go to the kitchen. Chansung is stirring the tea, his back stiff as Junho leans against the wall opposite him, not sitting down only because he reckons he won’t get up again if he does. You don’t have to do this, he says, covering his mouth when he coughs.
Chansung looks sideways at him, but doesn’t answer. He also doesn’t reproach him for being up and all that shit, not being in his bed, not wearing socks, not putting on more than just winter pajamas. The maknae serves him a steaming mug of tea, which he leaves on the counter, at his reach.
I’ll make the soup, he repeats, and Junho’s about to reply when he goes on. You don’t have to eat it now. If you don’t, just tell me and I’ll put it in the fridge so you can eat it later, or tomorrow.
Chansung.
Chansung seems a little surprised at the call, but he doesn’t let his guard down for long. He looks at Junho, waiting.
I don’t need you to take care of me.
Chansung looks down for a second. There’s no venom, no biting in his voice, no sarcasm, no nothing. You’re doing a great job by yourself.
The lack of emotion in his words make them twist inside Junho like a knife whose blade has gone blunt, its bearer needing to force the cut so it hurts more than if it were sharp. He swallows, his whole body aching. From the cold. Not from the cold.
I know you don’t want to need anything, or anyone, Chansung whispers, voice soft and words hard. But sometimes we gotta accept we can’t always depend on ourselves alone.
Junho half crosses his arms, half hugs himself, short nails digging at his own skin. He knows Chansung is right, he’s understood enough to accept that, at least. But. His mind wavers, or is it his body, he’s lost track of his thoughts, or his feet, but everything seems to be swaying and then he’s not against the wall anymore, but Chansung, Chansung is holding him, supporting his weight, one arm securely around him as his palm comes to Junho’s forehead.
Damn. Junho ah, come on, we need to get you to bed, don’t--
Junho grips at Chansung’s arms hard enough to bruise. Let go, he mumbles. Let me go.
This is not the time! Chansung sounds aggravated, and Junho almost smiles for finally ruffling his feathers. Shut up and listen to me. Did you organize that mess--
Junho shakes his head. A hurricane may come and it won’t cause nearly as much chaos as what they would find in his room right now.
Chansung clicks his tongue, but drags him away from the kitchen. Junho would resist if he could. He’s almost gone but Chansung manages to get him to his own room, laying him on the bed. Chansung’s bed. Chansung’s room. Chansung’s scent. Chansung’s hand on his forehead, Chansung’s blankets over him, Chansung’s presence in his sleep. Chansung’s warmth working against the fever.
Chansung.
Shhh, just sleep, okay? I’ll be here. Just sleep.
He wakes up next to Chansung.
First time, his mind tells him. First time since last time. First time? As if there will be others. As if.
His throat is dry and his whole body weighs a ton, but when he finally manages to lift an arm and touch his forehead, the fever seems to have gone away.
Chansung.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but he moves his head to the side, and looks. Chansung’s breath is a little noisy; he’s not snoring only because he’s lying on his side instead of on his back. He might have fallen asleep while watching over Junho, who knows that’s a stupid thought but not exactly impossible. Chansung’s nature allowed that.
Chansung.
He calls. Watches. Waits.
Chansung stirs; his eyes open for a second and then close again. Junho knows he’s awake.
I’m sorry. His lips barely move, but the words come out. His voice makes it through. He finds it within himself to say it again. I’m sorry I kept doubting us. You gave me so much, I took it all, but I never gave you anything back. I was-- I never said it, but you were right. I was afraid of myself. What I felt for you. I still am.
x
"Hey you bunch of lazy-ass fuckers," comes Taecyeon’s voice through the speakerphone, boisterous and annoying. "Come upstairs!"
"It's snowing!!!" Wooyoung sounds overly excited and then he screams. "Come back here, Kim Minjun!!!" His voice fades and both his and Minjun's laughter can be heard.
"Five minutes or consider Young Boy Team as losers already!!!" Taecyeon hangs up.
Nichkhun shuts his phone and looks expectantly at Chansung, who would usually be jumping around and getting ready to join the others. He attempts a smile that makes Nichkhun's grin falter as he looks from the maknae to Junho a few times. Nichkhun seems unsure of what to do or say and Junho feels momentarily guilty both for having let him notice anything and for not telling him in the first place. Not that it need telling, nor does anybody else need to know. He figures this is between him and Chansung alone.
"Are you better?” He asks Junho, who until a few days ago was still singing in a strained voice. Their constant flights had not helped him recover, but he did feel better already. He nods, at which Nichkhun beams. “Come on, cheer up you two! We go back to Japan the day after tomorrow, so we gotta have some fun, right?"
Junho is relieved when Nichkhun decides to take that attitude, standing up and dragging Chansung, whose smile has broken out and looks real now. If he were to get serious, questions would be asked, Nichkhun would get worried, and Junho doesn’t want to drag any of their hyungs into this. They’ve managed to get this far without the others’ intervention, so they ought to keep it that way.
The three of them put on extra sweaters, impermeable windbreakers and gloves, thick scarves and beanies. As they go to the rooftop and climb the final stairs, everything is silent. Chansung looks sideways at Junho, an unexpected conspiratorial stare that has Junho smiling for a second and then laughing when Nichkhun is tackled to the ground as soon as they step out. And then he has to run, because Taecyeon is throwing a stack of snowballs at him while Wooyoung holds Minjun by the collar to stuff snow down his back.
They're all screaming and laughing and Junho basks in the sounds as he hides behind the structure that covers the staircase to try and make some ammunition. He looks to the sides but Taecyeon seems to be running from Chansung, who's chased by Nichkhun in turn. By the time Junho turns to aim at anybody, as long as the “Old Boy Team” got hit as well, he almost collides with Minjun, who shoves snow at his mouth before pushing him aside as he escapes from Wooyoung. Junho spits and coughs and curses but then he has to duck Nichkhun's shots while also trying to strike him.
Minjun bumps into Chansung and they both fall. Taecyeon, who was running after the maknae, almost trips over them, but his distraction is used as an opportunity for Wooyoung to bring him down. Junho doesn't waste time when he sees Nichkhun laughing at their messy bundle and jumps on him, making sure they both join the others in getting all covered in freezing white dirt.
"WHO'S THE LOSER NOW!!!" Wooyoung shouts as he holds Taecyeon's face against the snow, sitting on top of his back. The older one tries to call for help but his team members already have to deal with Chansung, who laughs as a maniac while managing to keep both Minjun and Nichkhun under his weight as Junho throws snow at them.
"Okay, okay, I YIELD!!!" A breathless Taecyeon yells. Wooyoung hesitates a moment before letting him go, but his suspicion is proved right when Taecyeon immediately drags him down to stuff snow under his clothes. Junho gets distracted by Wooyoung's cries and next thing he knows Minjun is throwing snowballs at his face.
“What the--” Minjun fills his mouth with snow once more and Junho wants to scream at him and punch him but their oldest one goes and does the same to Chansung, whose laughter breaks into coughs and breathless chuckles, still amused even though he’s abused by not only Minjun but now Taecyeon as well. “We won!” Junho hears himself complaining, but of course he’s ignored, so he has to get Wooyoung to help him as they go and yank at the two attackers’ jackets, their butts hitting the ground again.
Nichkhun has started taking pictures so he doesn’t come to the rescue, which spares him of Wooyoung and Junho’s attacks as well. When Taecyeon attempts to throw yet another snowball at either of them, Chansung pulls at the hood of his jacket, shaking his head once, and Taecyeon may or may not have pouted as he dropped the snow and finally accepted defeat.
Junho doesn’t get to put the bags on the sink before a coughing fit hits him and he has to drop the groceries on the floor, albeit carefully. His eyes well up and he blinks it away, bothered by that and the constant burn in his throat. One might say he shouldn’t have joined the others at their childish game in the snow when he was still recovering from the cold, but his guts tell him he did the right thing.
He goes to the bathroom, takes care of all the nasty business the sickness brings, washes his hands and face, and finally returns to the kitchen. He puts away the lemons, oranges and the huge chunk of ginger root, leaving two out of eight apples on the sink. He had already left the frozen half of one pineapple on the sink so it would be ready for the tea when he got back home. The honey he gets from the pot in the cupboard, right where Chansung had left it last time.
Each movement seems to drain him but he endures, cutting the apples into thin slices that go in the teakettle, along with the small pieces of pineapple. He adds about half a liter of water, covers it with the lid and sets it on the stove. He’ll add the honey and sieve the tea only after it’s ready. Chansung said it had to boil for at least ten minutes, so he has a while to wait.
He drops down on one of the chairs around the kitchen table and rests his head on his arms, tired even though it’s early morning and he had just got out of bed to get the ingredients for the tea. He didn’t exactly have a restful sleep, but he did spend more time in bed than usual. He doesn’t have to make sense of that, though, the cold taking hold of his mind as well.
Junho ah, he hears.
He must have nodded off, but is he still sleeping? He slowly moves one eyelid up; peeking at where he thinks the voice came from. He sees Chansung on his feet, and then feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. Junho opens his eyes to look at him, but they droop and his face is buried on his arms even as he fights to keep awake. There’s the soft sound of Chansung’s breathing that indicates a smile, but he must have misheard that too.
Why are you not in your bed?
Junho’s voice is muffled by his shirt sleeves. The tea...
Here, Chansung says as he puts a mug in front of him. Junho accepts it silently, no unnecessary tantrums or hurtful words this time. I’m off to KBS but Khun hyung will be around. Don’t be too difficult on him, okay?
Go away, he grumbles, but his tone is light and he’s not so doubtful of Chansung’s audible smile this time.
x
How long is forever?
It is like a good song. It might play for its supposedly limited time, but really good songs are timeless. The melody stays with you. Echoes within you. Your body moves along. You want to hear it over and over again, so you play it. And your soul sings. Again.
x
Sometimes he dares hope. He thinks, maybe he can still fix this. Just go there and tell him, tell him you love him with all your heart, body and soul, you love him from his fingers to his lips to his short legs and narrow waist, you love him from his intoxicating laugh to his deep eyes to his warm touch and his soothing voice, you love him from his beliefs to his strength to his naivety and his capacity to love, he loves so much, he gives so much, and you're stupid, stupid, stupid for ever rejecting that. Can you really fix this? Can you make up for the pain you've caused him? Can you promise you'll be better, can you forgive yourself?
He's suffocating. He swallows, swallows, swallows, but the words are stuck in his throat, the questions and the feelings and what his mind hears even as his heart tries to remain shut because every time he gives attention to logic he just screws up.
He hears.
Chansung’s voice.
Words he never said, words his actions have written. Words Junho still has to learn and understand.
To love is to have a bird perched on your hand, never knowing when it will take flight. You have to appreciate its beauty, down to every color and tiny detail and little shake of the head, and let it fly because that’s what it was born to do. Let it sing, feel your heart resonate with the music even when you cannot see or touch it anymore.
To love is to have a bird perched on your hand. To hold onto it is to deny its freedom. To define its existence is to limit what craves for the horizon. To doubt its power is to break the spell.
You do not talk about love, you do not think about love. You just feel it, you just act on it.
He hears words he has heard before. Words Chansung has said. Words engraved in his mind, burning in his core. Words he can’t erase from his skin.
Love is like flying. Your heart soars, your view broadens. It is not a cage, it is freedom. It is infinite and infinity because it always grows and always wants more. You do what you want to do. I want to kiss you, and it fills me with joy that I can do it. I want to listen to you, do everything with you, become part of you just like I feel you within me.
x
He wakes up to a sore neck, his muscles aching, the knots tied harder than when he arrived home. He gets up and stretches, touches his toes, pulls at his arms, rolls his head from side to side, endures the good kind of pain in order to make the bad one go away, if only for a little while.
The living room is still silent, but there’s the smell of coffee from the kitchen, a sign that Nichkhun’s up, or has been. The faint light that comes through the window tells him it’s too early for any of them to be out of bed. He finds the kitchen empty and pours himself a cup of coffee. His bare feet make no sound as he walks to Nichkhun’s room, but the open door reveals a tidy bed and no sign of him. He goes on, past Chansung’s closed door and into his own room, and almost expects to find Nichkhun there, the mess on his bed gone, the mess on the floor gone, his stability gone. He can’t move for a second, his fingers white around the mug, unsure of why the huge mess looks so wrong now. He feels horrible like he never did when Chansung went through his stuff.
He takes a sip of coffee and returns to the kitchen, putting his mug on the sink. He could leave it there, but decides to wash it. Then he returns to his room, and looks around.
He starts by organizing his working desktop. Headsets, phone cases and gadgets to a corner, music sheets to another, empty bags and wrappers of several kinds of junk food to the trash. Lots of other things join the garbage, things he doesn’t use anymore, things from the past, notes to remind him of this and that, notes he doesn’t remember writing. When he starts sorting what’s on the floor, in the closet, on chairs and the clothes rack as well, the trashcan overflows. He needs to fetch two big plastic bags from the pantry, stuffing them with papers, burnt batteries, old phones and rechargers, a broken joystick, more papers, empty boxes and packages, socks with holes in them, useless souvenirs he doesn’t even remember where he got. Some things he’ll donate, others he’ll see if any of his fellow members want.
He goes through the bundles of clothes on his bed, throwing the ones which need washing to the floor - together with the garments already at his feet. He folds the ones which he hasn’t even worn after washing but just left there when deciding to wear something else at the last minute - and these he puts in a separate pile in his closet, because they’re not a hundred percent clean anymore. He folds others still, clothes that do not belong to him, and places them on the wheeled chair in front of his laptop. He tries to ignore them as he goes through the rest of his clutter, but once in a while his eyes end up there, and he stops, gripping at a stuffed animal, a hat, a pillow case while the vision numbs his other senses.
He has to resist the urge to go there and bury his hands and face in the clothes, so much he’s ashamed. Each time he adds something else to the pile - a purple t-shirt, grey sweatpants, a checked shirt, black shorts - it’s like picking up the pieces of himself and cutting at his own skin with how sharp the shards still are. He doesn’t bring any of them to his chest or face, though. He doesn’t smell them. He can feel it anyway, how one’s scent has mixed with the other, until he could almost say these belong to him.
It takes hours but he eventually finishes organizing everything, having changed the sheets and washed the clothes and cleaned the floor. He calls Wooyoung to tell him the earphones he had been looking for were with him after all, and Minjun to concede they had indeed swapped sunglasses by accident months ago. Wooyoung pretends to be angry and asks for new ones, Minjun laughs and tells him he doesn’t even remember that anymore. He gets a message from Taecyeon asking if he found his gloves by any chance, and Junho texts back to say he would need to become a child again for Taecyeon’s gloves to fit him.
When he leaves to take a shower, the door to Chansung’s room is not closed anymore, but he doesn’t take a peek to check if he’s there. He lets the freezing water wash away his sweat and his unwelcome thoughts, cool his mind and body.
The pile is still there when he returns, not so tired anymore, refreshed enough to have ideas for a song he might write later. At least the bedroom doesn’t look like a crime scene anymore, and he can sleep and work here without worries, that is, when he and his fellow members are not traveling. He might still be haunted by memories, but that will happen regardless of where he is.
There’s a knock at the door jamb and Junho turns to see Chansung there, his gaze caught by the tidiness that surrounds Junho. Wow, he mumbles, grinning when they look at each other. Khun hyung prepared lunch for us. He said we gotta hurry though, because he has some schedule before we go to the airport later.
Junho nods, unable to come up with a response to that. Is he even supposed to say anything?
He notices how Chansung’s stare flickers over the pile on the chair. His friendly expression changes slightly, but for once Junho can’t decipher what’s there, and he has no idea how to take his next words. You can keep that, Chansung says, voice soft, the prelude to a smile ghosting over his lips.
Junho doesn’t know what to say, then. He opens his mouth, licks his lips, closes his eyes and tries - to do what? Think of another question? This time he would like to hear Chansung’s answer. Really hear it. Believe what he says, no matter what it is.
Do you still love me, he almost asks. Do you still want me? Do you ever think, what if? Do you hope? Is the door shut? Did I kill it; did I pull out the roots to make it stop growing? Are you withering from the inside, or did I just hit a branch and you can still reach me someday? Will I ever reach you? Will I ever deserve you?
He’s still afraid, still caged, still overthinking.
Chansung turns to leave, and Junho doesn’t stop him.
He hears.
The words are everywhere.
The answers are nowhere.
x
How long is forever?
As long as the love that never starts, and thus never ends.
x
Author: mo_chan_tf
Group: 2PM
Characters: Chansung/Junho
Rating: R
Word Count: 9,600
Summary: Reality is absence of the reality he wants.
Notes: Written for unreal-2pm; originally posted here. Once again, thanks to everyone involved in the challenge! Special hugs to Gabs, Kojo and Mica for the extra help/support. :)
Prompt 1: "Do you want the truth or something beautiful? Just close your eyes and make belief." (lyrics from Paloma Faith's Do you want the truth or something beautiful?)
Prompt 2: http://iv1.lisimg.com/image/814670/600full-luke-worrall.jpg
Prompt 3: Forever
x
Junho is used to arriving at the dorm with at least one of the lights still on, a sign that Chansung’s home and went to bed long after Nichkhun, which is the usual routine for them. Tonight, though, it’s all dark, and he has to feel for the switch on the wall, which turns out to be surprisingly difficult. He doesn’t understand why but it unsettles him, this darkness and how he should have been able to locate the switch fast considering how many times he’s used it, but that’s what happens when things become automatic. Change one factor and your brain has something new to handle.
Once the light is on, he finds himself in an empty living room, so organized it seems devoid of life, the whole place dead silent. It makes him tense instead of grateful that he could just go to bed and sleep. He gets rid of his shoes, leaving them by the door next to the others’, and he remains barefoot. He throws his bag and his jacket on the armchair diagonally across the couch where he lies down, covering his eyes as he realizes he should have just kept the lights off.
A long-coming sigh escapes him. He knows he shouldn’t sleep here because his muscles will complain, his shoulder is already strained as it is, there are knots on his neck and down his spine, but he doesn’t want to go to his own messy, cramped room. He’s never asked Chansung to tidy it up for him, but now that it stopped, as surprised as he was when it started, he wonders what made the other quit.
The bitter laugh comes unbidden and he shakes, shakes with the certainty that he’s fooling himself again, that he knows what this is about. This is Chansung throwing his words back at him, telling him, Okay, if that’s what you really think, if that’s what you really want, then deal with it.
Chansung has always been too good at giving him what he wanted, whereas Junho has always been terrible at stating his wishes, his doubts, his fears. He’s never had a good grip on his feelings, he’s never been good with words, yet he’s always been too fast at acting and reacting and blabbering when he didn’t mean half the shit that came out of his damn mouth.
I don’t need you, he hears his own voice, lashing back as hard as it must have struck at Chansung when he said it, angry and sick and desperate to get rid of all his feelings. I don’t need you. He said it like he hated the very possibility of the opposite being true, and he did. Because he knew. He knew he was lying and he hated himself for it, but he refused to accept anything else.
x
How long is forever?
Chansung’s eyes are on the ceiling, but his eyebrows draw together and Junho knows he’s been heard. The question needs some thinking. I don’t know, Chansung says, but that’s not his final answer. Isn’t it something you can’t measure? It’s... endless?
Junho turns to lie on his left side and face Chansung, or his profile, since the other is still on his back, hands entwined under his head. It’s a chill morning, both weather and schedule wise, and the lack of rush gets Junho’s mind going. Chansung seems mostly used to it now, having laughed once or twice until realizing that these were actually things Junho wondered about and wanted to understand better. But isn’t that impossible?
Why?
Because everything ends.
Chansung doesn’t answer. He mirrors Junho, supports his head on his right arm, and stares for many a heartbeat. Junho doesn’t budge, lets the other’s eyes search through his own, slide like a caress down his face and throat, flicker at his naked torso before finding his gaze again. How would you describe it, then?
Junho sighs, looks down. I don’t believe in it.
He doesn’t catch the look on Chansung’s face on purpose. He suspects it might make him want to take the words back, but it wouldn’t change a thing. He said it, it’s the truth, and like most truths, it’s a hard one to bear.
Chansung doesn’t turn away from him, though. He doesn’t get up, doesn’t challenge him, doesn’t fight him. He has his own beliefs, he’s more certain of them than Junho thinks he will ever be. Chansung's feelings are not about to be rippled because of a little thrown-in stone. It’s not the first one, nor is it the last, but so far he’s handled Junho’s doubts better than he ought to. Instead of reassuring him, though, it makes Junho more disquieted by his own thoughts.
Everything ends, Chansung echoes, voice as soft as the fingertips tracing invisible lines on Junho’s forehead, down his temples, his cheeks, under his chin, up to his lips. Junho’s skin awakens quickly, having its own memories of the previous night, and early morning, just a couple of hours ago, before breakfast, when it just happened that they stayed in the dorm while the other four residents enjoyed their one free day out and about. There might have been a knock on the door, one shout or two for them to get their lazy-ass off the bed, but they were being anything but lazy back then. That’s why you have to enjoy it while it lasts, Chansung says, but the words will only register later. What gets to Junho at the moment is his whispered voice, his teasing breath, the noise of the mattress under the weight of them both as Chansung rolls over him, slowly yet decisively, his lips demanding, his hands wandering.
Junho gives, and takes, and for an instant forever doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.
x
They are not alone, the two of them, the first time Junho feels like he has more questions than answers regarding Chansung and him. The ground shifts beneath his feet, his sense of security and confidence giving way to some awareness that would only shake him further. He’s sitting down, though, very comfortably. Way too comfortably. The couch sinks under his weight, even as he sinks against Chansung, whose insistent warmth and needy skin have long conquered Junho’s personal space.
One of Junho’s legs is over Chansung’s, whose hand touches his thigh as if it were the most natural thing to do. It’s always been like that with the maknae, who touches people in ways words cannot, his fingers telling and listening intently. Yet it feels different this time. Junho feels it like a caress, the hand moving like an inconspicuous foreigner about to cross a border, but it also rests on Junho’s thigh as if the territory were already Chansung’s own.
They’re recording a video. Some message about 2AM’s new song. Junho can still see them - the video is on the Internet anyway - but he can see them both wearing a beanie, Chansung’s green and Junho’s black, the white woolen scarf carefully wrapped around Chansung’s neck, their thick winter jackets and slightly longish hair back around daring bare faces, when dreams had just come true and forever seemed like an easy word to utter, to think, to believe. He still sees Chansung’s upper lip curling in mock disagreement at something either Junho or someone else had said, Junho’s own lips almost pouting as he gestures and tries to argue about something, his own mock disbelief as Chansung smiles and keeps touching him...
The moment spirals around his head until its turning works to weave strings that pull at his heart whenever he’s around Chansung, whenever he thinks about everything they’ve shared so far as rivals, as members of the same group, as friends. It’s not entirely bad, the way he feels, or at least he doesn’t think so. It makes him want to smile even though there doesn’t seem to be a reason to. He feels light with excitement even as the fear weighs down on him, but when the former overcomes the latter no gravity will hold him down.
Questions lead to hypotheses that need to be tested, however dangerous such an experiment might be, so when that happens he makes sure they are alone.
Chansung is stretched out on the sofa, seemingly uninterested in what's on the television. Junho feels those watchful eyes on him as soon as he approaches, propping himself down on the couch. He has to get Chansung's feet out of the way for that, but instead of just shoving them aside or ordering him to move, Junho lifts his calves, settles down and lets the other's legs drop on his lap. Chansung frowns briefly at him, but when Junho looks his way he turns back to the program. He might have let it pass, but some time later Junho also lets his own hands rest over Chansung's legs, enough to make him look intrigued again. Junho has an innocent smile ready when he pulls at the fuzzy hair that leads to the skin under the sweatpants and then Chansung jerks up, shoving at his shoulder even as he sits basically against Junho.
Hey, you wanna watch something nice? Junho asks as soon as he feels Chansung's smile on him, seemingly ready to inquire about something. He’s puzzled, Junho can tell by his parted lips and intent, nearly frowning eyes, but he nods, one of his curiosities overcoming the other.
Junho puts on Vicky Cristina Barcelona, but doesn't tell him what it is about. He makes them some popcorn while the trailers - even on DVD Chansung doesn’t skip them - and opening credits play, and returns to the couch with a bowl and two cans of beer that he will have to replace before Taecyeon gets back home. Chansung smiles at him and devours half the popcorn, finishing two thirds of it just as Scarlett Johansson’s character, Cristina, gets interested in Juan Antonio, played by Javier Bardem. The maknae appears to be focused on the movie most of the time but Junho is forcing himself not to look so often, so he can't tell for sure. He's not entirely surprised, though, when Chansung sinks back against the couch, their bodies aligned as one leans on the other almost unconsciously. Junho is very aware of it though, how pleasant the skin of his arm feels against Chansung's, the warmth that comes from his thigh and his side and his overall presence, his natural closeness.
Juan Antonio has succeeded at getting the other girl, Vicky, when Junho puts the empty bowl except for the unpopped corns on the floor along with their finished cans. He leans back against Chansung, fully conscious that he's diminishing an inch or two of space, and that Chansung, ever observant despite not always showing it, will notice it. Junho's holding his breath and trying not to, expecting something while dreading it, but some time later, just as he feels Chansung relaxing next to him, his right leg moves over Chansung's left one, and Junho somehow manages to keep his eyes on the screen even as his ears turn red under his thankfully longish hair, although that doesn’t mean Chansung's big eyes won’t take it in. Junho has a number of rehearsed escapes in his mind if this fails but he forgot to prepare for a situation in which Chansung's hand would reclaim its place on his knee.
Is this what he wanted? He has never been able to tell. He just knows he liked the thrill, and since then he's always liked to feel Chansung's hands on him, especially when it's a close repeat of this moment: palm on his thigh, fingers circling around his knee, sensitivity working through the jeans, the caress as real as if there were no fabric in the way. Junho's breath catches, swallowing becomes hard and he's suddenly unable to ignore the way his own Adam’s apple moves up and down, what with Chansung looking down at his throat before piercing at him with questioning eyes and a hovering smile. Junho's eyes find him sideways from under his fringe and his lips pull up for a fleeting second in which the air leaves him with a little noise, nothing short of stunned.
It takes him a second or two but his own hand finds Chansung's, the touch sending a jolt through him that he will later recognize as the breaking of something as another takes shape.
Chansung squeezes his thigh and turns his palm up to gently lock their fingers, pulling Junho's arm to him while leaning in so his forehead is almost resting on top of Junho's hair. Junho wills himself to breathe and it works wonders once he hears Chansung mumbling his name, sounding so hesitant and hopeful Junho doubts he heard it right. But no, the sound is already within his body, so he has to answer it. He turns his head to Chansung, looking down, seeing their joined hands as he feels another touch on his leg, this time more determined and daring. It slides up his thigh and stays there, holding and spreading warmth and teasing him, or leaving a way out. Even if they could pretend this is a joke or nothing, there are lines to be crossed and this is one of them.
Junho tenses under him, purposefully flexing muscles that cause his hips to move slightly yet undeniably, and Chansung - Chansung doesn’t pull him or squeeze him again, nor does he ravish him on the spot. He is patient, his lack of movement and words a question and advance in itself. Junho’s breathing doesn’t sound as low as it ought to nor does his heartbeat keep a steady pace. He risks looking up, though, and is rewarded with Chansung’s transparent eyes, deep water on which he would willingly tread if he knew how. Then eyelids droop, breathing gives way to anticipation, distance vanishes. Captured lips, moving hands, rustling sounds, broken borders.
They are alone.
x
How long is forever?
As long as you want it to be.
x
Are you afraid of the dark? Junho asks him once, having got up to turn off the hallway light the other left on after returning from the bathroom. It's okay if you are, his voice tells Chansung, who just shakes his head, beckoning him to come back to bed.
Maybe I just like to watch you walk around, he says as Junho crawls between his legs and rests his face on Chansung's chest again. His scalp welcomes Chansung's fingers and he hums, not reacting to the joke besides a fleeting smile that Chansung must have felt on his skin. I really just forget it, Chansung adds, needlessly.
I think you just want something to talk about, Junho teases, referring to the interviews where they've brought this up.
So, is that why you never clean up your room?
Chansung is just throwing the humor back at him, but Junho still tenses, caught in the question. Is that why? His mind echoes; and he doesn't know. Such a small, silly thing, but those are the ones that matter, the ones that have eventually brought them together because they are much more than just small, silly things.
Hey, Chansung whispers, caressing the nape of his neck, dull nails light around his spine, fingers soothing on Junho's skin. Chansung senses everything, but Junho also feels his heartbeat giving away what his calm voice conceals. What are you afraid of?
A simple question. Perhaps a follow-up to what Junho asked, but probably Chansung seeing through the momentary yet strained silence. Junho shakes his head slightly, hoping that will shake the rest off too, the question and his own doubts. Myself, he doesn't say, but his mind does. You. This feeling. 2PM. Losing you. Loving you.
x
I love you, Chansung says, with or without words, but he says it, his every move and stare and touch and whispered word and patient silence. He’s always said it because Junho has always heard it resonating at the depths of his soul.
How do you know? Junho wants to ask. How do you know it’s love? Isn’t it because you want to believe it? Isn’t that what love is about? Isn’t it a choice you make?
To fall or not to fall.
To fly or not to fly.
Does one exclude the other?
No one is ever truly free, Junho whispers instead.
But you still want freedom.
Junho nods, knowing Chansung will see or feel it as he drapes himself half over Junho’s back. Junho sighs and closes his eyes, giving in to the feel of Chansung’s hands on his skin, fingertips tracing lazy lines down his shoulders, down his sides, up his neck.
If you try to escape all bars, you’ll end up caging yourself, Chansung says, his voice letting it show he’s heard or read this somewhere, the words coming back to him in a moment where he can understand them.
Junho thinks about that. Is that what he’s doing? He wonders, but not out loud.
I would never try to cut off your wings. Chansung smiles against his nape, and Junho tries to do the same, but his lips form a thin line instead.
Will you always come back to me?
Of course I will.
Junho shakes his head once, slowly but surely. No, he says. You can’t promise that.
He feels Chansung’s deep breath, the chest pressing against him, the air escaping and reaching Junho’s hair. Why do you ask, when you never accept my answer?
Junho’s silence says he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know, and that’s why he’s asking. He wants to understand.
You have to live it, Chansung states, holding on to him, pressing a warm kiss to his trapezius. I can’t prove what we-- Chansung pauses, and Junho swallows. What I feel for you, when you don’t let me show you.
I know, Junho wants to say, but he doesn’t. Chansung still caresses him, so he finds that hand and holds it with his own, tucking them against their bodies.
It’s not me you’re doubting, Chansung whispers. You’ve never said you loved me, but I don’t need to hear that.
Junho squeezes his fingers, and Chansung cradles even closer.
x
Junho stares at the article as if the letters were made of gunpowder, his reading the match about to be lit and cause the explosion. Avoiding it is no use, the words still burn. He knows what they talked about here, ranking each other by most gentle with girls, most easily scared, who takes the longest to shower or looking at a mirror, who’s the most into skinship... He made the mistake of mentioning him and Chansung. Not a blatant lie, but not exactly the truth, for the memory is old, or at least that's what it feels like.
The words blur before him as he recalls one of the many moments in which he would be in bed, either playing games on his cell phone or texting friends, checking the news or just trying to come up with some lyrics, humming some upcoming melody when he was not listening to music. If home, Chansung would come to find him, draw his attention through bites or pokes or pulls or kicks, sometimes just throwing himself unannounced beside or on top of Junho. Other times he would be looking at him from the door until Junho noticed he was being watched, though he often had the impression of realizing that a little too late.
He's sitting over the covers, about to score a goal at FIFA on his cell phone, when Chansung flops down next to him, propping himself up on his elbows and looking up at him, waiting. When Junho doesn’t turn away from the phone soon enough, Chansung elbows his thigh, nudging him a few times until Junho pinches his arm but doesn’t return his stare. The pinch is for the goal he’s lost, but this - Chansung coming to his bed, Junho pretending he doesn’t care - is also a game on its own. Therefore, despite his outraged gasp, Chansung just rests his face on his hand and keeps watching him, his eyes growing in earnest as they trace the other’s features. It’s hard for him not to give in but Junho wants to know how else Chansung will try to get to him, and the wait is usually worth it.
This time, Chansung moves to sit on the bed, dragging his butt over the mattress until he is just behind Junho, his legs bent at Junho’s sides. Junho’s hand stops moving on the screen as a slight shiver of anticipation crawls up his spine, something Chansung’s attentive eyes are bound to catch no matter how much Junho tries to control his body. Fingers rake at his hair, teasing at his nape before he gets a bite on the shoulder. He could try to ignore it but Chansung is persistent, teeth digging into his flesh, warm breath playing at his skin, just so Junho has no chance of pretending to be angry and hitting him. Other times, he might have told Chansung to go to his own room and sleep. He’s not surprised, though, when he drops the phone, the pretense, and leans back against Chansung, who smiles even as their lips meet.
Now he is light years away from that reality. Such a feeling makes forever seem small, easy to tackle, something he should have been able to accept and believe. Not because it was true, but because not knowing when it ends wouldn't have been so bad.
Some uncertainties are not meant to be solved.
x
One day you won’t love me anymore.
Chansung sighs, exasperated. He usually lets statements like that pass, but sometimes the words get to him, and Junho knows he’s hurt, or at least frustrated enough. How can you say that? How can you know?
I just do. It’s obvious. I’ll do something to upset you - Junho knows that’s exactly what he’s doing right now, but he can’t hold it back -, it’ll be the final straw, and then you’ll just. Stop.
Chansung shakes his head. His face twists, brows furrowing, shooting up, drawing together again. His hands grip at the sheets over their bodies as if trying to gather and hold on to the pieces scattered within him, between and around them. When he turns to look at Junho, his hardened expression strikes more than the retort. Will you?
Junho’s throat tightens.
When you talk like that, that upsets me. I love you, now, with everything I have. Why is that not enough for you? Why can’t you just enjoy what we have? Why do you have to spoil it? Is that what this is about? Do you want me to stop loving you, just to prove yourself right?
Junho wants to say no, but the word is stuck in his throat.
Chansung’s face softens; his voice goes from grave and incredulous to a mere whisper, nearly lifeless. Do you want to try that? See if you stop loving me?
Junho remains silent, unable to speak or move. The strings now pull at his insides, but he also feels tied to the bed, an invisible but heavy weight setting over him. Does he? Will he? Does he really want to know the answer?
Chansung voices what he won’t. Do you want to know when our last kiss will be?
Junho’s sudden intake of air is noisy and then he’s biting at his lower lip, but the words still escape him. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Chansung gapes at him for a second, but then his face turns somber again. Nice? We’re breaking up and you think it’d be nice?
No, I mean...! Junho has to pause a moment, telling himself they’re talking hypothetically. Chansung just said, we’re breaking up, but maybe he just expressed it the wrong way, given the situation? He plummets at those words with his own. I mean... you would know. You would know it was the last time, and you would do something about it. It’s not like breaking up after a fight or because something else happened and then you think, when was our last kiss? Was it good? You could make it good. So you’ll want to remember it.
Chansung looks shocked. Do you really believe that? Do you even want to believe that?
Junho’s silent. He’s not sure about anything. Not when Chansung looks at him as if he’s just made the most absurd statement ever.
That’s not... real. It’s not fair.
Junho has no doubt about how he feels when it comes to that. And you think the other way is fair? Do you think hurting is fair? Do you think staying together until we rip each other apart is fair?
Chansung breathes in deeply, so that when he speaks again, he sounds composed. His quietly uttered words, however, carry the storm in his eyes. Like it or not, you’ll still get hurt.
Junho wants to reply, but whatever words he had die under Chansung’s lips.
Last time.
Did he hear that?
You’re always holding back.
Did Chansung say that?
Do something about it. He needs to do something about it.
Let go.
Let yourself go.
He grips at Chansung’s hair just as his head is yanked back, throat bitten, pulse quickening. They roll, sheets getting in the way and thus being pulled or kicked aside, and they kiss, hard and passionate. Chansung’s hands are unusually rough in the way he grips at Junho’s sides and thighs, his teeth savoring Junho’s mouth as much as his tongue. They roll until Junho straddles him, and Chansung’s tenderness returns in the way he helps Junho up to ease himself in. Junho stops, adjusts, heels under his thighs, eyes on Chansung, Chansung’s eyes and hands on him.
They are bare.
They are bared.
They ride.
Chansung is deep inside him, one makes the other gasp, the pace builds and slows and builds up, up, Junho stops again and they go, he moves up and around and Chansung moves up and around him as well. Hands grip at hands and arms and scratch at one’s belly and chest. Chansung touches him, Junho holds and pulls at the skin on his forearms but then his hands become fists, grasping at nothing as his insides squeeze around Chansung.
Junho lets go.
x
Chansung pushes him.
Away.
Over the edge.
But does he open his wings?
Crushes.
Breaks to pieces.
Does he fly?
Fears.
Does he fall?
Loses.
Loses?
Loses.
Finds.
Not what he was looking for.
It never happens that way.
x
He wakes up next to Chansung.
Last time, he hears. An echo. In his body.
Blood pounds in his ears.
He closes his eyes, but the emptiness can’t be avoided. Daylight sifts through the window and reaches Chansung, whose back tells of awareness and tension. The room is not dark, but darkness seeps in, reaching for Junho.
Chansung doesn’t reach for him. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look at him, doesn’t say anything. Junho wishes he would. He wishes he had it in himself to make Chansung argue with him again, but the strength has left him as it did when they came. Apart.
Chansung has always been understanding, compassionate, and Junho - he swallows, chokes, conceals his inner turmoil by standing very still - Junho has always loved him for that, has always been grateful one of them could be down-to-earth enough to keep them both on the ground.
Now that is getting in the way, though. If this is Chansung’s last display of empathy, it’s the very one Junho doesn’t want. He wants Chansung to fight him, to fight for him.
But he’s already asked too much. He’s asked for too much. He caused this. He wanted this.
Didn’t he?
Didn’t he?
x
Junho’s wearing a t-shirt as thin as his own seams, tug a little and he will come undone. It's as white as the peace he's lost, as transparent as what his face fights. Bitten lips, pursed mouth, furrowed brow.
He stands behind Chansung, who’s ready to go on stage, sleepy eyes and slow voice withholding the energy he will display later. His dark hair is done, short and spiked up, not too much makeup on, his lips as pale as the rest of his face. Junho knows how red those lips can get. Junho knows how his skin looks when he’s just exercised, when he’s just woken up, when he’s eaten too much fat that he stares angrily at the pimples the mirror shows them before they shower together and Junho makes him forget everything, Chansung makes him forget everything.
Chansung talks to the camera, but for once Junho is barely aware they are being recorded. They do it so often he will blame the numbness on that. He doesn’t know what his own face looks like right now, but he will find out later, much later, when he has to face his demons on his own and Chansung won’t be there to distract him. Junho looks at him, at his neck and his ears and his back, what the thin shirt won’t hide and what is carved as memories into his hands by every time he’s touched him. He waits, takes a step to the side, but Chansung doesn’t react to his presence until he’s done talking and one of his arms hits Junho by accident as he lowers them after giving their fans the thumbs-up.
Junho looks to the side just before Chansung looks at him, and he thinks that maybe he should do something else. He looks at the camera and reminds himself of where they are, what they are doing. This is a big day, a huge day, there are thousands and thousands of fans out there waiting for them to come back on stage and keep the entertainment to the maximum. The show must go on.
Junho ah, he hears. It tugs at Junho’s seams, gently, softly, yet as strong as the waves dragging back before hitting the shore once again. He’s barely aware of what they’re saying. It’s small talk, talk for the fans, but it gets Chansung to look at him, even if he turns to the camera and doesn’t really turn to face Junho completely. Junho keeps his eyes on him as long as he can, as long as he dares. He looks briefly at the camera, his lips forming a thin line as he also withholds, not what he will display later, but what he can’t display now.
Chansung’s shirt is so thin, as thin as his own; they’re the same, but - Chansung’s one is a little bigger and it hangs on his chest, not loosely but not as tight as Junho’s, and his neck is distracting, his collarbone is distracting, his Adam’s apple is distracting. Everything about him has Junho fighting temptation; don’t look down, don’t look, don’t. They nod at each other, as good friends do when they are in agreement, and he might even smile, a little, though Chansung doesn’t return it, his own brief smile is at the camera, and that’s it. If Junho has to blink himself back to reality, it’s okay. He’s okay. He has to be.
x
When Junho closes his eyes, Chansung comes to him. Heavy footsteps, ragged breathing, fumbling hands, warm body. He touches Junho's hair, fingers tender on his scalp, eyes intent on Junho's face. Parted lips, loud heartbeat, a kiss to the forehead, a light brush on the cheek, a sigh mouth to mouth. Ghostly captured, reminiscent taste, lingering want.
It's all in your head, sad voice, imminent distance. He refuses to look, chooses the darkness, knowing Chansung is in the light, yearning for the light he once shone on him. Yet, somehow, Chansung is also in the darkness with him, his presence is there. Reality is absence of the reality he wants.
x
He holds the blankets tight around him, right hand gripping at the thick layers of fabric as the left one holds his knees against his chest, sometimes kneading at his feet. He’s in the living room, Revolutionary Road playing on the TV, but he just memorized the title because it caught his attention. The rest of the movie passes as a blur in front of him. He just knows it’s some sad story and that the couple seems to be at each other’s throat all the time. They say one thing and mean another. It makes him want to laugh, but what comes instead is either a cough or a sniff. From the cold.
He hears. A voice in the kitchen. Nichkhun. He’s on the phone.
“I’ve told him to go to bed a dozen times but he says he’s okay. He’s clearly not okay. He’s got a fever.”
Junho doesn’t roll his eyes only because that will make his head ache even more.
“Chansungie, he usually listens to you. ... What? But you’ve always taken care of him. ... I’m sure he’ll appreciate that. ... Yes, we do. There are some in the fridge. ...That too. ... I’ll leave him to you, then, okay? ... You know how he is. Just ignore his outbursts. ... Bye.”
Junho’s grip on the blanket loosens and he stares unseeing at the TV, wanting to confront Nichkhun about the call but knowing the other won’t back down once his nurturing instincts have kicked in. It’s Chansung he will have to handle, later, possibly soon if the call means he’s coming home from wherever he is just to take care of Junho.
He feels sick. Not from the cold.
“Nuneo,” Nichkhun leans on the armrest and looks at him. “I’m off to bed, but Chansung will arrive any time now. If you need anything, I’ll be in my room, okay?”
“Don’t worry.” Junho doesn’t say he shouldn’t have called Chansung. “‘Night,” he mutters, turning to the screen once more.
He feels Nichkhun’s eyes on him for a second longer before the other resigns, bids him good night and goes to his room.
Kate Winslet is screaming just like her character said she would when Chansung arrives, a slight frown already shadowing his features. Junho lowers the volume, the shriek resounding like a thousand drums inside his head. He looks briefly at the bag Chansung’s carrying before staring down at his own knees, fixing the blankets back around his shoulders.
Hey.
Junho mutters a reply.
Chansung stops a moment. I’ll make you some soup.
I’m not hungry.
Yeah? I don’t care. You need to eat. Nichkhun hyung told me you haven’t eaten anything all day.
He wasn’t with me the whole time.
Junho sees him pursing his lips out of the corner of his eye, and for a moment he almost hopes Chansung will lash at him, because that’s all he needs to let something out too. Chansung’s not that easy to ruffle, though. He goes to the kitchen, and for the next minutes what Junho hears is the bag being emptied, cupboard doors opened and closed, the fridge, chopping, the electric stove being turned on.
What comes to him is not the smell of soup, though. It’s citric and sweet, mild yet difficult to forget. Pineapple-apple tea, Chansung used to tell him with a smile as sweet as the concoction, with just the right amount of honey so you won’t get sick of it.
You’ve always taken care of him, Nichkhun said. Junho closes his eyes. Yes, he used to. They both used to. Keep each other company. Make the fever go away by sleeping together. Risk taking cold showers to make the temperature stop rising, even though Nichkhun insisted the cold shower was a myth that might render them both sick instead of curing the one.
Junho lets go of the covers and musters up what little energy he’s got left to go to the kitchen. Chansung is stirring the tea, his back stiff as Junho leans against the wall opposite him, not sitting down only because he reckons he won’t get up again if he does. You don’t have to do this, he says, covering his mouth when he coughs.
Chansung looks sideways at him, but doesn’t answer. He also doesn’t reproach him for being up and all that shit, not being in his bed, not wearing socks, not putting on more than just winter pajamas. The maknae serves him a steaming mug of tea, which he leaves on the counter, at his reach.
I’ll make the soup, he repeats, and Junho’s about to reply when he goes on. You don’t have to eat it now. If you don’t, just tell me and I’ll put it in the fridge so you can eat it later, or tomorrow.
Chansung.
Chansung seems a little surprised at the call, but he doesn’t let his guard down for long. He looks at Junho, waiting.
I don’t need you to take care of me.
Chansung looks down for a second. There’s no venom, no biting in his voice, no sarcasm, no nothing. You’re doing a great job by yourself.
The lack of emotion in his words make them twist inside Junho like a knife whose blade has gone blunt, its bearer needing to force the cut so it hurts more than if it were sharp. He swallows, his whole body aching. From the cold. Not from the cold.
I know you don’t want to need anything, or anyone, Chansung whispers, voice soft and words hard. But sometimes we gotta accept we can’t always depend on ourselves alone.
Junho half crosses his arms, half hugs himself, short nails digging at his own skin. He knows Chansung is right, he’s understood enough to accept that, at least. But. His mind wavers, or is it his body, he’s lost track of his thoughts, or his feet, but everything seems to be swaying and then he’s not against the wall anymore, but Chansung, Chansung is holding him, supporting his weight, one arm securely around him as his palm comes to Junho’s forehead.
Damn. Junho ah, come on, we need to get you to bed, don’t--
Junho grips at Chansung’s arms hard enough to bruise. Let go, he mumbles. Let me go.
This is not the time! Chansung sounds aggravated, and Junho almost smiles for finally ruffling his feathers. Shut up and listen to me. Did you organize that mess--
Junho shakes his head. A hurricane may come and it won’t cause nearly as much chaos as what they would find in his room right now.
Chansung clicks his tongue, but drags him away from the kitchen. Junho would resist if he could. He’s almost gone but Chansung manages to get him to his own room, laying him on the bed. Chansung’s bed. Chansung’s room. Chansung’s scent. Chansung’s hand on his forehead, Chansung’s blankets over him, Chansung’s presence in his sleep. Chansung’s warmth working against the fever.
Chansung.
Shhh, just sleep, okay? I’ll be here. Just sleep.
He wakes up next to Chansung.
First time, his mind tells him. First time since last time. First time? As if there will be others. As if.
His throat is dry and his whole body weighs a ton, but when he finally manages to lift an arm and touch his forehead, the fever seems to have gone away.
Chansung.
He doesn’t say it out loud, but he moves his head to the side, and looks. Chansung’s breath is a little noisy; he’s not snoring only because he’s lying on his side instead of on his back. He might have fallen asleep while watching over Junho, who knows that’s a stupid thought but not exactly impossible. Chansung’s nature allowed that.
Chansung.
He calls. Watches. Waits.
Chansung stirs; his eyes open for a second and then close again. Junho knows he’s awake.
I’m sorry. His lips barely move, but the words come out. His voice makes it through. He finds it within himself to say it again. I’m sorry I kept doubting us. You gave me so much, I took it all, but I never gave you anything back. I was-- I never said it, but you were right. I was afraid of myself. What I felt for you. I still am.
x
"Hey you bunch of lazy-ass fuckers," comes Taecyeon’s voice through the speakerphone, boisterous and annoying. "Come upstairs!"
"It's snowing!!!" Wooyoung sounds overly excited and then he screams. "Come back here, Kim Minjun!!!" His voice fades and both his and Minjun's laughter can be heard.
"Five minutes or consider Young Boy Team as losers already!!!" Taecyeon hangs up.
Nichkhun shuts his phone and looks expectantly at Chansung, who would usually be jumping around and getting ready to join the others. He attempts a smile that makes Nichkhun's grin falter as he looks from the maknae to Junho a few times. Nichkhun seems unsure of what to do or say and Junho feels momentarily guilty both for having let him notice anything and for not telling him in the first place. Not that it need telling, nor does anybody else need to know. He figures this is between him and Chansung alone.
"Are you better?” He asks Junho, who until a few days ago was still singing in a strained voice. Their constant flights had not helped him recover, but he did feel better already. He nods, at which Nichkhun beams. “Come on, cheer up you two! We go back to Japan the day after tomorrow, so we gotta have some fun, right?"
Junho is relieved when Nichkhun decides to take that attitude, standing up and dragging Chansung, whose smile has broken out and looks real now. If he were to get serious, questions would be asked, Nichkhun would get worried, and Junho doesn’t want to drag any of their hyungs into this. They’ve managed to get this far without the others’ intervention, so they ought to keep it that way.
The three of them put on extra sweaters, impermeable windbreakers and gloves, thick scarves and beanies. As they go to the rooftop and climb the final stairs, everything is silent. Chansung looks sideways at Junho, an unexpected conspiratorial stare that has Junho smiling for a second and then laughing when Nichkhun is tackled to the ground as soon as they step out. And then he has to run, because Taecyeon is throwing a stack of snowballs at him while Wooyoung holds Minjun by the collar to stuff snow down his back.
They're all screaming and laughing and Junho basks in the sounds as he hides behind the structure that covers the staircase to try and make some ammunition. He looks to the sides but Taecyeon seems to be running from Chansung, who's chased by Nichkhun in turn. By the time Junho turns to aim at anybody, as long as the “Old Boy Team” got hit as well, he almost collides with Minjun, who shoves snow at his mouth before pushing him aside as he escapes from Wooyoung. Junho spits and coughs and curses but then he has to duck Nichkhun's shots while also trying to strike him.
Minjun bumps into Chansung and they both fall. Taecyeon, who was running after the maknae, almost trips over them, but his distraction is used as an opportunity for Wooyoung to bring him down. Junho doesn't waste time when he sees Nichkhun laughing at their messy bundle and jumps on him, making sure they both join the others in getting all covered in freezing white dirt.
"WHO'S THE LOSER NOW!!!" Wooyoung shouts as he holds Taecyeon's face against the snow, sitting on top of his back. The older one tries to call for help but his team members already have to deal with Chansung, who laughs as a maniac while managing to keep both Minjun and Nichkhun under his weight as Junho throws snow at them.
"Okay, okay, I YIELD!!!" A breathless Taecyeon yells. Wooyoung hesitates a moment before letting him go, but his suspicion is proved right when Taecyeon immediately drags him down to stuff snow under his clothes. Junho gets distracted by Wooyoung's cries and next thing he knows Minjun is throwing snowballs at his face.
“What the--” Minjun fills his mouth with snow once more and Junho wants to scream at him and punch him but their oldest one goes and does the same to Chansung, whose laughter breaks into coughs and breathless chuckles, still amused even though he’s abused by not only Minjun but now Taecyeon as well. “We won!” Junho hears himself complaining, but of course he’s ignored, so he has to get Wooyoung to help him as they go and yank at the two attackers’ jackets, their butts hitting the ground again.
Nichkhun has started taking pictures so he doesn’t come to the rescue, which spares him of Wooyoung and Junho’s attacks as well. When Taecyeon attempts to throw yet another snowball at either of them, Chansung pulls at the hood of his jacket, shaking his head once, and Taecyeon may or may not have pouted as he dropped the snow and finally accepted defeat.
Junho doesn’t get to put the bags on the sink before a coughing fit hits him and he has to drop the groceries on the floor, albeit carefully. His eyes well up and he blinks it away, bothered by that and the constant burn in his throat. One might say he shouldn’t have joined the others at their childish game in the snow when he was still recovering from the cold, but his guts tell him he did the right thing.
He goes to the bathroom, takes care of all the nasty business the sickness brings, washes his hands and face, and finally returns to the kitchen. He puts away the lemons, oranges and the huge chunk of ginger root, leaving two out of eight apples on the sink. He had already left the frozen half of one pineapple on the sink so it would be ready for the tea when he got back home. The honey he gets from the pot in the cupboard, right where Chansung had left it last time.
Each movement seems to drain him but he endures, cutting the apples into thin slices that go in the teakettle, along with the small pieces of pineapple. He adds about half a liter of water, covers it with the lid and sets it on the stove. He’ll add the honey and sieve the tea only after it’s ready. Chansung said it had to boil for at least ten minutes, so he has a while to wait.
He drops down on one of the chairs around the kitchen table and rests his head on his arms, tired even though it’s early morning and he had just got out of bed to get the ingredients for the tea. He didn’t exactly have a restful sleep, but he did spend more time in bed than usual. He doesn’t have to make sense of that, though, the cold taking hold of his mind as well.
Junho ah, he hears.
He must have nodded off, but is he still sleeping? He slowly moves one eyelid up; peeking at where he thinks the voice came from. He sees Chansung on his feet, and then feels a gentle hand on his shoulder. Junho opens his eyes to look at him, but they droop and his face is buried on his arms even as he fights to keep awake. There’s the soft sound of Chansung’s breathing that indicates a smile, but he must have misheard that too.
Why are you not in your bed?
Junho’s voice is muffled by his shirt sleeves. The tea...
Here, Chansung says as he puts a mug in front of him. Junho accepts it silently, no unnecessary tantrums or hurtful words this time. I’m off to KBS but Khun hyung will be around. Don’t be too difficult on him, okay?
Go away, he grumbles, but his tone is light and he’s not so doubtful of Chansung’s audible smile this time.
x
How long is forever?
It is like a good song. It might play for its supposedly limited time, but really good songs are timeless. The melody stays with you. Echoes within you. Your body moves along. You want to hear it over and over again, so you play it. And your soul sings. Again.
x
Sometimes he dares hope. He thinks, maybe he can still fix this. Just go there and tell him, tell him you love him with all your heart, body and soul, you love him from his fingers to his lips to his short legs and narrow waist, you love him from his intoxicating laugh to his deep eyes to his warm touch and his soothing voice, you love him from his beliefs to his strength to his naivety and his capacity to love, he loves so much, he gives so much, and you're stupid, stupid, stupid for ever rejecting that. Can you really fix this? Can you make up for the pain you've caused him? Can you promise you'll be better, can you forgive yourself?
He's suffocating. He swallows, swallows, swallows, but the words are stuck in his throat, the questions and the feelings and what his mind hears even as his heart tries to remain shut because every time he gives attention to logic he just screws up.
He hears.
Chansung’s voice.
Words he never said, words his actions have written. Words Junho still has to learn and understand.
To love is to have a bird perched on your hand, never knowing when it will take flight. You have to appreciate its beauty, down to every color and tiny detail and little shake of the head, and let it fly because that’s what it was born to do. Let it sing, feel your heart resonate with the music even when you cannot see or touch it anymore.
To love is to have a bird perched on your hand. To hold onto it is to deny its freedom. To define its existence is to limit what craves for the horizon. To doubt its power is to break the spell.
You do not talk about love, you do not think about love. You just feel it, you just act on it.
He hears words he has heard before. Words Chansung has said. Words engraved in his mind, burning in his core. Words he can’t erase from his skin.
Love is like flying. Your heart soars, your view broadens. It is not a cage, it is freedom. It is infinite and infinity because it always grows and always wants more. You do what you want to do. I want to kiss you, and it fills me with joy that I can do it. I want to listen to you, do everything with you, become part of you just like I feel you within me.
x
He wakes up to a sore neck, his muscles aching, the knots tied harder than when he arrived home. He gets up and stretches, touches his toes, pulls at his arms, rolls his head from side to side, endures the good kind of pain in order to make the bad one go away, if only for a little while.
The living room is still silent, but there’s the smell of coffee from the kitchen, a sign that Nichkhun’s up, or has been. The faint light that comes through the window tells him it’s too early for any of them to be out of bed. He finds the kitchen empty and pours himself a cup of coffee. His bare feet make no sound as he walks to Nichkhun’s room, but the open door reveals a tidy bed and no sign of him. He goes on, past Chansung’s closed door and into his own room, and almost expects to find Nichkhun there, the mess on his bed gone, the mess on the floor gone, his stability gone. He can’t move for a second, his fingers white around the mug, unsure of why the huge mess looks so wrong now. He feels horrible like he never did when Chansung went through his stuff.
He takes a sip of coffee and returns to the kitchen, putting his mug on the sink. He could leave it there, but decides to wash it. Then he returns to his room, and looks around.
He starts by organizing his working desktop. Headsets, phone cases and gadgets to a corner, music sheets to another, empty bags and wrappers of several kinds of junk food to the trash. Lots of other things join the garbage, things he doesn’t use anymore, things from the past, notes to remind him of this and that, notes he doesn’t remember writing. When he starts sorting what’s on the floor, in the closet, on chairs and the clothes rack as well, the trashcan overflows. He needs to fetch two big plastic bags from the pantry, stuffing them with papers, burnt batteries, old phones and rechargers, a broken joystick, more papers, empty boxes and packages, socks with holes in them, useless souvenirs he doesn’t even remember where he got. Some things he’ll donate, others he’ll see if any of his fellow members want.
He goes through the bundles of clothes on his bed, throwing the ones which need washing to the floor - together with the garments already at his feet. He folds the ones which he hasn’t even worn after washing but just left there when deciding to wear something else at the last minute - and these he puts in a separate pile in his closet, because they’re not a hundred percent clean anymore. He folds others still, clothes that do not belong to him, and places them on the wheeled chair in front of his laptop. He tries to ignore them as he goes through the rest of his clutter, but once in a while his eyes end up there, and he stops, gripping at a stuffed animal, a hat, a pillow case while the vision numbs his other senses.
He has to resist the urge to go there and bury his hands and face in the clothes, so much he’s ashamed. Each time he adds something else to the pile - a purple t-shirt, grey sweatpants, a checked shirt, black shorts - it’s like picking up the pieces of himself and cutting at his own skin with how sharp the shards still are. He doesn’t bring any of them to his chest or face, though. He doesn’t smell them. He can feel it anyway, how one’s scent has mixed with the other, until he could almost say these belong to him.
It takes hours but he eventually finishes organizing everything, having changed the sheets and washed the clothes and cleaned the floor. He calls Wooyoung to tell him the earphones he had been looking for were with him after all, and Minjun to concede they had indeed swapped sunglasses by accident months ago. Wooyoung pretends to be angry and asks for new ones, Minjun laughs and tells him he doesn’t even remember that anymore. He gets a message from Taecyeon asking if he found his gloves by any chance, and Junho texts back to say he would need to become a child again for Taecyeon’s gloves to fit him.
When he leaves to take a shower, the door to Chansung’s room is not closed anymore, but he doesn’t take a peek to check if he’s there. He lets the freezing water wash away his sweat and his unwelcome thoughts, cool his mind and body.
The pile is still there when he returns, not so tired anymore, refreshed enough to have ideas for a song he might write later. At least the bedroom doesn’t look like a crime scene anymore, and he can sleep and work here without worries, that is, when he and his fellow members are not traveling. He might still be haunted by memories, but that will happen regardless of where he is.
There’s a knock at the door jamb and Junho turns to see Chansung there, his gaze caught by the tidiness that surrounds Junho. Wow, he mumbles, grinning when they look at each other. Khun hyung prepared lunch for us. He said we gotta hurry though, because he has some schedule before we go to the airport later.
Junho nods, unable to come up with a response to that. Is he even supposed to say anything?
He notices how Chansung’s stare flickers over the pile on the chair. His friendly expression changes slightly, but for once Junho can’t decipher what’s there, and he has no idea how to take his next words. You can keep that, Chansung says, voice soft, the prelude to a smile ghosting over his lips.
Junho doesn’t know what to say, then. He opens his mouth, licks his lips, closes his eyes and tries - to do what? Think of another question? This time he would like to hear Chansung’s answer. Really hear it. Believe what he says, no matter what it is.
Do you still love me, he almost asks. Do you still want me? Do you ever think, what if? Do you hope? Is the door shut? Did I kill it; did I pull out the roots to make it stop growing? Are you withering from the inside, or did I just hit a branch and you can still reach me someday? Will I ever reach you? Will I ever deserve you?
He’s still afraid, still caged, still overthinking.
Chansung turns to leave, and Junho doesn’t stop him.
He hears.
The words are everywhere.
The answers are nowhere.
x
How long is forever?
As long as the love that never starts, and thus never ends.
x