2009 WIPs
I was going through some old folders and realised I had some WIPs from 2009 that I don't think I've posted before. I may have nicked bits from them for use in other stories...oh well.
IT GOES LIKE THIS; JAEJOONG IS A ROBOT; YUNJAE
He opens his eyes to meet those of a boy. The boy is a beautiful boy, or at least that’s what he thinks, because he’s never seen a real boy before. He’s a foolish thing. He’s a foolish thing with no life in him, just the imitation of it running through his wired veins. He’s a fake boy, a puppet boy, a boy who isn’t really a boy at all, opening his eyes and seeing a human for the very first time.
‘Hey,’ the human says, ‘hey, are you okay?’
‘I?’ he manages. His voice comes out coarse from disuse, rusted in more than one way.
‘Yes you,’ the human says. ‘I didn’t think there’d be anyone left. How long have you been here? How have you been living? I’m Yunho, by the way.’
The false boy is taking in the surroundings. He is on the ground, propped up against a pillar in the lobby of a hotel sinking into slow decay. He can tell from the taste of the dust in the air that the hotel was built in 1991. It is seventy-two years old. The front doors lie on the floor in glass splinters. The roof has long since given way and sunlight strikes him in the face. There is a human boy in front of him, looking into his eyes. There hasn’t been a human on earth for twelve years.
‘Twelve years,’ he says. ‘I’ve been here for twelve years.’
‘Twelve,’ Yunho repeats. ‘How could you…’
The word ‘you’ fades into the air. He’s noticed the false boy’s pupils, the light inside them.
‘You’re not human,’ he says.
‘No,’ the false boy says. ‘No, I’m not.’
Two boys meet in a dead city. One is real and the other is an imitation, a puppet boy, a fake boy, a boy who isn’t really a boy at all, and he’s meeting a real boy for the first time in twelve years. The city decays like a slow ache around them. If either of them listen, they would hear the day breathing through the empty subway tunnels, the broken tooth buildings. It’s not dark yet.
The real boy says, ‘I’m Jung Yunho.’
The other boy is very different. He answers, ‘I’m Kim Jaejoong.’
They’re small trinkets, playthings, model aeroplanes that cast winged shadows across the walls of the toy shop. He can remember when the children used to come through the door, hands sticky with sweets and eyes wide. He’d smile. They’d like him, of course. It was part of him, the open smile, open-mouthed laugh, wide-open arms. They’d crowd around him, asking to see that plane or that doll or that motorized train, and hold each one up to the light, looking at it from every angle. He knew all of their names; knew them from the moment he saw them, and after twelve years he can still remember them.
There was another mechanical person at the time. His name was Junsu, and he made trains. Together they would sit through the night in the back room, one of them building planes and the other trains, and it was an easy a life they could wish for, if they could.
Junsu wound down a little while ago. He simply stopped. The other mechanical boy looked at him. He had a half-finished train in his hands. His eyes were open.
He left him there. Mechanical boys don’t feel pity.
Until the toy shop became overcrowded with model aeroplanes, stacked upon each other, wooded and light to the touch. The remaining mechanical boy moved Junsu outside, to make space. He placed him in an unused car, behind the driver’s wheel.
We all loved the wrong boy.
FUCK YEAH PRINCES; HANCHUL
So let’s say, let’s say Hankyung’s a prince because he was born into it, let’s say he meets a boy and falls in love with him. He’s there one night, dark hair, darker eyes, soft mouth, and the two of them are dancing in the dark just outside the ballroom where they can only just hear the music and no one can see them. Hankyung’s got one hand on his waist and the other on his shoulder, and he could believe that this was a girl, any girl, if he closed his eyes, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t close his eyes once but at midnight the boy says ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry but I have to go,’ and one moment he’s there, pressed up against Hankyung and the next he’s gone.
Hankyung’s still looking, even though he’s a prince and there’s things he has to do, like meet world leaders and the occasional celebrity. He wears dark glasses so no one can recognize him, but they always do, and he learns to hide in corner shops, pretending to peruse a magazine. Sometimes his bodyguard comes with him, sometimes Siwon comes with him, but Hankyung wishes he wouldn’t, it attracts attention, Siwon in his long coat and unmistakable pistol at his waist. Siwon who at nineteen and newly employed had said to Hankyung, who was sixteen and just beginning to be the prince he was meant to be, long socials and polite smiles, prince, Hankyung, I think I might love you. I know we can’t do this, I just wanted you to know, and Hankyung hadn’t told anyone. Maybe they’re best friends. Hankyung’s still a prince and Siwon’s still a bodyguard. In twenty years time maybe Hankyung will be the king, but Siwon will still be his bodyguard. There’s nowhere for either of them to go but they’re okay with that, just a little bit.
Hankyung’s still looking. He thinks that maybe he could forget, because he was still a teenager at the time, really, and it was just one dance. There’s a girl, a singer, just in from America, and he says all the right things, and she’s beautiful, this girl, Jessica. He thinks, I could love this girl, and he tries. She’s beautiful, shirt exposing a curved shoulder, hands in Hankyung’s hair, and he thinks she’s beautiful, but she’s not what he’s looking for, and this time he’s the one apologizing. She says she’s alright with it. Sometimes he sees her at functions, singing, and just wonders, what it could have been like.
Next time it’s Siwon. They’re overseas, and it’s late, and Hankyung’s not used to vodka, didn’t realize it was stronger than he thought until they’re back in the hotel room and Siwon is shutting the door behind them, which is when Hankyung kisses him, drunk and awkward and teenage. He doesn’t remember anything in the morning.
After Jessica it’s another six months of whiling away the days, until she invites him to her birthday party, out by the ocean, where the sea breathes. Siwon drove Hankyung in a hired car with tinted windows, but there were cameras anyway when he gets out. Jessica is wearing a white dress, whiter than the sand, and she’s got her sandals in one hand, hair in the wind. ‘So glad you could come,’ she says, and Hankyung smiles and says, ‘It’s nothing,’ and smiles some more for the cameras, because he’s still a prince.
He sits next to her at dinner, her at the head of the table, him at her right. The champagne is light and cloying, and Hankyung is raising his glass to his lips when he sees the boy, halfway down the table, talking to a famous composer. His hair isn’t as dark as Hankyung remembers, or as long, but he recognizes the way his hands move when he speaks, the way he holds himself. ‘Is there something wrong?’ Siwon asks him, and Hankyung says, ‘No, nothing,’ and takes a sip of champagne.
He asks Jessica who the boy is. She smiles in a kind of knowing way, one hand pushing her hair behind her ear, saying, ‘That’s Kim Heechul. He’s a singer, like me.’
Hankyung watches Heechul laugh. It’s too far away for him to hear over the noise of the other guests, but he can remember the way it sounded. Jessica looks at him too, a little sadly, and she doesn’t say anything after dinner when they’re filtering out onto the beach and Hankyung doesn’t wait for Siwon, just goes ahead and puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hey, Kim Heechul.’
And he’s not sure what to say after that, not after this long: I’ve been looking for you for six months, I’ve only just been told your name, I don’t even know who you are but I’m in love with you.
Heechul gets there first and says it for him without making a sound.
They’re walking down the beach. Hankyung had told Siwon to stay back, talk to the guests, stop worrying about him for half an hour. Kim Heechul has his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket, staring out at the crests of waves as they come to the shore. Hankyung’s not sure what to say, not after this long: I’ve been looking for you for six months, I’ve only just been told your name, I don’t even know who you are but I’m in love with you.
‘I didn’t know you were a prince,’ Heechul says, not taking his eyes off the sea.
‘I didn’t know you were a singer,’ Hankyung says.
‘I’m going to ruin your reputation,’ Heechul says, and smiles.
THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE IS NIGH; DBSK OT5
Here is the beginning of the end. Take a good look. Everyone’s breaking into a run now. Let us out, they’re screaming; let us out, they’re begging, but even if they can make it out, there’s nowhere at all to go.
(and Jaejoong would know. Seoul had a population of twenty-four million and counting; now it is the city of the monsters with human faces and the teeth that tear you straight open.)
DAY ONE.
It’s mid-concert when the news is announced. They’re singing Remember, and Jaejoong is never going to forget the moment when their microphones cut out, the way the strobe lights stutter before snapping them all into darkness, like the civilization is beginning to fail them already, pushing them away. Jaejoong can feel the sweat on the back of his neck, seeped into his shirt, between the fingers still clenched around his microphone, and then the fear you feel when you are approaching the rollercoaster summit and your heart is already anticipating the plunge. This when their manager’s voice tells them that the virus that they have all been fearing is now airborne and this is when he tells them that Seoul is going into quarantine, that there is no way in or out in less than six hours and what he is not saying is: it’s already too late.
Their manager meets them backstage five minutes later. ‘I’ve gotten us a car,’ he says, and Jaejoong doesn’t miss the way his voice is forcedly calm. ‘We’re going to go to the airport, and get on the next flight to Japan. I’ve got your passports. The car is waiting outside.’
The driver is anxiously smoking one cigarette after the other. ‘I can’t drive, man,’ he says. ‘Look at the roads.’
Yunho fumbles with his wallet, pulls out a wad of notes and shoves it at him. ‘Please,’ he says.
The driver looks at the money, pockets it, starts the engine. Jaejoong leans into the seat and feels his nails dig into his palms.
It’s slow going. The roads are flooded with traffic, thousands of people trying to make their way out of the streets. Whole families in four wheel drives edge past. Some people are walking, clutching bags, baskets, anything they can carry; Jaejoong sees a child with a kitten to her chest, wide-eyed, mouth exposed, too young to understand the danger. He tugs his facemask higher, pulls his sunglasses off. The sky is overgrown with clouds, like it’s going to rain, like the weather is already setting the stage up.
Their car has slowed to a crawl, unable to move in any direction, framed from all sides by people and vehicles. Junsu is trying to call Junho, but the call isn’t getting through, cell phone stuck on loudspeaker and a dial tone. There’s a click, Junsu says, ‘hello?’ and a calm woman’s voice answers, ‘the number you have dialed is-’ before Junsu sobs, dry-throated, and dials again. Jaejoong wants to cover his ears. Yunho is silent beside him, their pinkies just touching, so light that Jaejoong could almost miss it. He moves so that his hand is covering Yunho’s; it’s a plea for safety, security, all the things Yunho has ever offered him, and Yunho says quietly, ‘It’s going to be okay.’
Jaejoong takes a shuddering breath, fingers tightening. Any of the air in his lungs could hold the virus, he thinks. Any of the air they’re breathing.
‘We’re going to be okay,’ Yunho repeats.
But after fifteen minutes, the driver says, ‘I can’t go any further,’ and before they can stop him, he has thrown open the door and scrambled out. He’s gone within seconds, disappeared into the crowd, and Jaejoong knows they won’t be seeing him again.
Changmin opens his door. Yoochun presses his palms to his eyes as he steps from the car. He has soft hands, Yoochun; made for playing the piano, made for writing the songs that make people want to cry, but not made for this. Junsu still can’t get through to Junho and Jaejoong doesn’t miss the way his hands shake, the way his steps drag. Changmin is mouthing words to the distance. It takes Jaejoong a moment to realize he’s saying, save us.
They never do make it to the airport.
They’re on the hill above it. There’s so many people around them that Jaejoong can’t move without bumping into someone.
There’s a screech, the sound of planes flying low. Everyone looks to the sky. They’re army planes, painted dark and dappled, flying towards the airport, but there’s something strange in the way that they are moving through the air: their trajectory isn’t to land, but to pass right over the airport. Next to him, Jaejoong hears Changmin murmur, ‘They’re carrying something.’ And Jaejoong can see them; slung beneath each one is a cylinder, long and black, and even at this distance he has recognized the shape, mind already playing the inevitable sound of falling missiles and
‘Shit,’ Yunho says, then, ‘Get down!’
(the last thing jaejoong sees on the first day of the ending are the dead eyes of a girl staring right back at him. the kitten in her arms is licking the blood off her cheek. there’s no sound yet, and jaejoong is unconscious before he can hear. curtains, boy.)
DAY SEVEN.
Jaejoong wakes up in the dressing room. For a second he thinks that he has been dreaming, but it’s just the same old misconception stuck on constant replay- his mind has accepted the situation, but his heart hasn’t caught up yet.
After the airport had gone, there wasn’t anywhere else to go but back to the concert arena. There are posters tacked up on every telephone pole, covering missing dog notices and advertisements: infected persons are sensitive to light. Stay indoors unless the sun is high in the sky. Everything will be alright, all you have to do is wait. Jaejoong had come to in a car he didn’t recognize, Yoochun behind the wheel, rubber wheels burning against the asphalt. Junsu’s knee was bleeding; Changmin was trying to staunch it with tissues.
AN ENDING; DBSK
They said, we’re going our separate ways. Separate, Jaejoong thinks, doesn’t even begin to cover it. Sometimes Junsu’s there in the corner of a bar with a name that’s long since peeled off from its door, not dancing, not singing, not moving, just looking at the way the lights spin, the way the music rolls through the air. Yoochun’s a fleeting glance in the shadows where the streetlamps don’t go, just a glimpse, a twist of mouth, hey, and then he’s gone again, gang tattoo on the back of his wrist, stains under his nails that aren’t dirt, crescent moons traced out in something that could be blood (and Jaejoong wonders whose.)
Changmin’s gone to ground and disappeared to Paris, or England, or Canada, anywhere that won’t remember him or who he used to be. Sometimes Jaejoong gets a postcard in the mail, with no signature, just Changmin’s handwriting saying: Merry Christmas, Jae- with love, from London, rushed, like he writes them with pen lid clenched in teeth, card balanced on knee; sometimes there’s a smudge of lipstick, cherry red or sorbet pink, and Jaejoong wouldn’t ask even if he could.
Jaejoong doesn’t even know where Yunho is.
IT GOES LIKE THIS; JAEJOONG IS A ROBOT; YUNJAE
He opens his eyes to meet those of a boy. The boy is a beautiful boy, or at least that’s what he thinks, because he’s never seen a real boy before. He’s a foolish thing. He’s a foolish thing with no life in him, just the imitation of it running through his wired veins. He’s a fake boy, a puppet boy, a boy who isn’t really a boy at all, opening his eyes and seeing a human for the very first time.
‘Hey,’ the human says, ‘hey, are you okay?’
‘I?’ he manages. His voice comes out coarse from disuse, rusted in more than one way.
‘Yes you,’ the human says. ‘I didn’t think there’d be anyone left. How long have you been here? How have you been living? I’m Yunho, by the way.’
The false boy is taking in the surroundings. He is on the ground, propped up against a pillar in the lobby of a hotel sinking into slow decay. He can tell from the taste of the dust in the air that the hotel was built in 1991. It is seventy-two years old. The front doors lie on the floor in glass splinters. The roof has long since given way and sunlight strikes him in the face. There is a human boy in front of him, looking into his eyes. There hasn’t been a human on earth for twelve years.
‘Twelve years,’ he says. ‘I’ve been here for twelve years.’
‘Twelve,’ Yunho repeats. ‘How could you…’
The word ‘you’ fades into the air. He’s noticed the false boy’s pupils, the light inside them.
‘You’re not human,’ he says.
‘No,’ the false boy says. ‘No, I’m not.’
Two boys meet in a dead city. One is real and the other is an imitation, a puppet boy, a fake boy, a boy who isn’t really a boy at all, and he’s meeting a real boy for the first time in twelve years. The city decays like a slow ache around them. If either of them listen, they would hear the day breathing through the empty subway tunnels, the broken tooth buildings. It’s not dark yet.
The real boy says, ‘I’m Jung Yunho.’
The other boy is very different. He answers, ‘I’m Kim Jaejoong.’
They’re small trinkets, playthings, model aeroplanes that cast winged shadows across the walls of the toy shop. He can remember when the children used to come through the door, hands sticky with sweets and eyes wide. He’d smile. They’d like him, of course. It was part of him, the open smile, open-mouthed laugh, wide-open arms. They’d crowd around him, asking to see that plane or that doll or that motorized train, and hold each one up to the light, looking at it from every angle. He knew all of their names; knew them from the moment he saw them, and after twelve years he can still remember them.
There was another mechanical person at the time. His name was Junsu, and he made trains. Together they would sit through the night in the back room, one of them building planes and the other trains, and it was an easy a life they could wish for, if they could.
Junsu wound down a little while ago. He simply stopped. The other mechanical boy looked at him. He had a half-finished train in his hands. His eyes were open.
He left him there. Mechanical boys don’t feel pity.
Until the toy shop became overcrowded with model aeroplanes, stacked upon each other, wooded and light to the touch. The remaining mechanical boy moved Junsu outside, to make space. He placed him in an unused car, behind the driver’s wheel.
We all loved the wrong boy.
FUCK YEAH PRINCES; HANCHUL
So let’s say, let’s say Hankyung’s a prince because he was born into it, let’s say he meets a boy and falls in love with him. He’s there one night, dark hair, darker eyes, soft mouth, and the two of them are dancing in the dark just outside the ballroom where they can only just hear the music and no one can see them. Hankyung’s got one hand on his waist and the other on his shoulder, and he could believe that this was a girl, any girl, if he closed his eyes, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t close his eyes once but at midnight the boy says ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry but I have to go,’ and one moment he’s there, pressed up against Hankyung and the next he’s gone.
Hankyung’s still looking, even though he’s a prince and there’s things he has to do, like meet world leaders and the occasional celebrity. He wears dark glasses so no one can recognize him, but they always do, and he learns to hide in corner shops, pretending to peruse a magazine. Sometimes his bodyguard comes with him, sometimes Siwon comes with him, but Hankyung wishes he wouldn’t, it attracts attention, Siwon in his long coat and unmistakable pistol at his waist. Siwon who at nineteen and newly employed had said to Hankyung, who was sixteen and just beginning to be the prince he was meant to be, long socials and polite smiles, prince, Hankyung, I think I might love you. I know we can’t do this, I just wanted you to know, and Hankyung hadn’t told anyone. Maybe they’re best friends. Hankyung’s still a prince and Siwon’s still a bodyguard. In twenty years time maybe Hankyung will be the king, but Siwon will still be his bodyguard. There’s nowhere for either of them to go but they’re okay with that, just a little bit.
Hankyung’s still looking. He thinks that maybe he could forget, because he was still a teenager at the time, really, and it was just one dance. There’s a girl, a singer, just in from America, and he says all the right things, and she’s beautiful, this girl, Jessica. He thinks, I could love this girl, and he tries. She’s beautiful, shirt exposing a curved shoulder, hands in Hankyung’s hair, and he thinks she’s beautiful, but she’s not what he’s looking for, and this time he’s the one apologizing. She says she’s alright with it. Sometimes he sees her at functions, singing, and just wonders, what it could have been like.
Next time it’s Siwon. They’re overseas, and it’s late, and Hankyung’s not used to vodka, didn’t realize it was stronger than he thought until they’re back in the hotel room and Siwon is shutting the door behind them, which is when Hankyung kisses him, drunk and awkward and teenage. He doesn’t remember anything in the morning.
After Jessica it’s another six months of whiling away the days, until she invites him to her birthday party, out by the ocean, where the sea breathes. Siwon drove Hankyung in a hired car with tinted windows, but there were cameras anyway when he gets out. Jessica is wearing a white dress, whiter than the sand, and she’s got her sandals in one hand, hair in the wind. ‘So glad you could come,’ she says, and Hankyung smiles and says, ‘It’s nothing,’ and smiles some more for the cameras, because he’s still a prince.
He sits next to her at dinner, her at the head of the table, him at her right. The champagne is light and cloying, and Hankyung is raising his glass to his lips when he sees the boy, halfway down the table, talking to a famous composer. His hair isn’t as dark as Hankyung remembers, or as long, but he recognizes the way his hands move when he speaks, the way he holds himself. ‘Is there something wrong?’ Siwon asks him, and Hankyung says, ‘No, nothing,’ and takes a sip of champagne.
He asks Jessica who the boy is. She smiles in a kind of knowing way, one hand pushing her hair behind her ear, saying, ‘That’s Kim Heechul. He’s a singer, like me.’
Hankyung watches Heechul laugh. It’s too far away for him to hear over the noise of the other guests, but he can remember the way it sounded. Jessica looks at him too, a little sadly, and she doesn’t say anything after dinner when they’re filtering out onto the beach and Hankyung doesn’t wait for Siwon, just goes ahead and puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Hey,’ he says. ‘Hey, Kim Heechul.’
And he’s not sure what to say after that, not after this long: I’ve been looking for you for six months, I’ve only just been told your name, I don’t even know who you are but I’m in love with you.
Heechul gets there first and says it for him without making a sound.
They’re walking down the beach. Hankyung had told Siwon to stay back, talk to the guests, stop worrying about him for half an hour. Kim Heechul has his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket, staring out at the crests of waves as they come to the shore. Hankyung’s not sure what to say, not after this long: I’ve been looking for you for six months, I’ve only just been told your name, I don’t even know who you are but I’m in love with you.
‘I didn’t know you were a prince,’ Heechul says, not taking his eyes off the sea.
‘I didn’t know you were a singer,’ Hankyung says.
‘I’m going to ruin your reputation,’ Heechul says, and smiles.
THE ZOMBIE APOCALYPSE IS NIGH; DBSK OT5
Here is the beginning of the end. Take a good look. Everyone’s breaking into a run now. Let us out, they’re screaming; let us out, they’re begging, but even if they can make it out, there’s nowhere at all to go.
(and Jaejoong would know. Seoul had a population of twenty-four million and counting; now it is the city of the monsters with human faces and the teeth that tear you straight open.)
DAY ONE.
It’s mid-concert when the news is announced. They’re singing Remember, and Jaejoong is never going to forget the moment when their microphones cut out, the way the strobe lights stutter before snapping them all into darkness, like the civilization is beginning to fail them already, pushing them away. Jaejoong can feel the sweat on the back of his neck, seeped into his shirt, between the fingers still clenched around his microphone, and then the fear you feel when you are approaching the rollercoaster summit and your heart is already anticipating the plunge. This when their manager’s voice tells them that the virus that they have all been fearing is now airborne and this is when he tells them that Seoul is going into quarantine, that there is no way in or out in less than six hours and what he is not saying is: it’s already too late.
Their manager meets them backstage five minutes later. ‘I’ve gotten us a car,’ he says, and Jaejoong doesn’t miss the way his voice is forcedly calm. ‘We’re going to go to the airport, and get on the next flight to Japan. I’ve got your passports. The car is waiting outside.’
The driver is anxiously smoking one cigarette after the other. ‘I can’t drive, man,’ he says. ‘Look at the roads.’
Yunho fumbles with his wallet, pulls out a wad of notes and shoves it at him. ‘Please,’ he says.
The driver looks at the money, pockets it, starts the engine. Jaejoong leans into the seat and feels his nails dig into his palms.
It’s slow going. The roads are flooded with traffic, thousands of people trying to make their way out of the streets. Whole families in four wheel drives edge past. Some people are walking, clutching bags, baskets, anything they can carry; Jaejoong sees a child with a kitten to her chest, wide-eyed, mouth exposed, too young to understand the danger. He tugs his facemask higher, pulls his sunglasses off. The sky is overgrown with clouds, like it’s going to rain, like the weather is already setting the stage up.
Their car has slowed to a crawl, unable to move in any direction, framed from all sides by people and vehicles. Junsu is trying to call Junho, but the call isn’t getting through, cell phone stuck on loudspeaker and a dial tone. There’s a click, Junsu says, ‘hello?’ and a calm woman’s voice answers, ‘the number you have dialed is-’ before Junsu sobs, dry-throated, and dials again. Jaejoong wants to cover his ears. Yunho is silent beside him, their pinkies just touching, so light that Jaejoong could almost miss it. He moves so that his hand is covering Yunho’s; it’s a plea for safety, security, all the things Yunho has ever offered him, and Yunho says quietly, ‘It’s going to be okay.’
Jaejoong takes a shuddering breath, fingers tightening. Any of the air in his lungs could hold the virus, he thinks. Any of the air they’re breathing.
‘We’re going to be okay,’ Yunho repeats.
But after fifteen minutes, the driver says, ‘I can’t go any further,’ and before they can stop him, he has thrown open the door and scrambled out. He’s gone within seconds, disappeared into the crowd, and Jaejoong knows they won’t be seeing him again.
Changmin opens his door. Yoochun presses his palms to his eyes as he steps from the car. He has soft hands, Yoochun; made for playing the piano, made for writing the songs that make people want to cry, but not made for this. Junsu still can’t get through to Junho and Jaejoong doesn’t miss the way his hands shake, the way his steps drag. Changmin is mouthing words to the distance. It takes Jaejoong a moment to realize he’s saying, save us.
They never do make it to the airport.
They’re on the hill above it. There’s so many people around them that Jaejoong can’t move without bumping into someone.
There’s a screech, the sound of planes flying low. Everyone looks to the sky. They’re army planes, painted dark and dappled, flying towards the airport, but there’s something strange in the way that they are moving through the air: their trajectory isn’t to land, but to pass right over the airport. Next to him, Jaejoong hears Changmin murmur, ‘They’re carrying something.’ And Jaejoong can see them; slung beneath each one is a cylinder, long and black, and even at this distance he has recognized the shape, mind already playing the inevitable sound of falling missiles and
‘Shit,’ Yunho says, then, ‘Get down!’
(the last thing jaejoong sees on the first day of the ending are the dead eyes of a girl staring right back at him. the kitten in her arms is licking the blood off her cheek. there’s no sound yet, and jaejoong is unconscious before he can hear. curtains, boy.)
DAY SEVEN.
Jaejoong wakes up in the dressing room. For a second he thinks that he has been dreaming, but it’s just the same old misconception stuck on constant replay- his mind has accepted the situation, but his heart hasn’t caught up yet.
After the airport had gone, there wasn’t anywhere else to go but back to the concert arena. There are posters tacked up on every telephone pole, covering missing dog notices and advertisements: infected persons are sensitive to light. Stay indoors unless the sun is high in the sky. Everything will be alright, all you have to do is wait. Jaejoong had come to in a car he didn’t recognize, Yoochun behind the wheel, rubber wheels burning against the asphalt. Junsu’s knee was bleeding; Changmin was trying to staunch it with tissues.
AN ENDING; DBSK
They said, we’re going our separate ways. Separate, Jaejoong thinks, doesn’t even begin to cover it. Sometimes Junsu’s there in the corner of a bar with a name that’s long since peeled off from its door, not dancing, not singing, not moving, just looking at the way the lights spin, the way the music rolls through the air. Yoochun’s a fleeting glance in the shadows where the streetlamps don’t go, just a glimpse, a twist of mouth, hey, and then he’s gone again, gang tattoo on the back of his wrist, stains under his nails that aren’t dirt, crescent moons traced out in something that could be blood (and Jaejoong wonders whose.)
Changmin’s gone to ground and disappeared to Paris, or England, or Canada, anywhere that won’t remember him or who he used to be. Sometimes Jaejoong gets a postcard in the mail, with no signature, just Changmin’s handwriting saying: Merry Christmas, Jae- with love, from London, rushed, like he writes them with pen lid clenched in teeth, card balanced on knee; sometimes there’s a smudge of lipstick, cherry red or sorbet pink, and Jaejoong wouldn’t ask even if he could.
Jaejoong doesn’t even know where Yunho is.