Silhouettes, Chapter 4
Title: Silhouettes 4/5
Pairing: JaeChun
Beta: Unbetaed. See mistakes? Let me know :)
Genre: fantasy/romance/angst
Length: chaptered
For:abcdefghiluvyou (Hope you like it, bb <3)
Summary: Yoochun and Jaejoong are total strangers before they meet in class. But Yoochun's a little different, can see things that others can't. And that's probably a good thing, because Jaejoong is supposed to die on the day they meet.
A/N: Ok, so every train I've been on (I've yet to take one in SK) in the states has had airplane-style seats, not compartments a la Harry Potter. So take the imaginative leap with me and pretend the one in this story is set up like that. Shutting up now :)
Usually, the tingle of Yoochun in the back of Jaejoong's mind is a comfort, invisible security he wears invisibly, a warm flush that reassures him of his place in the world, its tendrils ever resonating with the other man butterfly light presence, a taste of the awe he still feels over Jaejoong's love. But as he gazes into a sky of forever before closing his eyes to let the sun graze his cheeks, turning them a dusky rose color, he's struck by the sudden and icy tangle of Yoochun's hum, the usual baritone hitting a high pitch unlike anything Jaejoong's felt before. It's fear and territorial anger, the snarl of a dog seconds away from wrapping its mouth around the menace threatening its owner.
He finds his lover on the floor, sitting sprawled with paper in his hands, eyes wide and staring at nothing, open but sightless. Shaking does nothing, not a goddamn thing but Jaejoong tries anyway, maybe harder than he means to before wrapping himself around Yoochun, wrapping both hands in the other man's longer locks.
“Come back to me, Yoochun,” he tries, keeping the hysteria out of his voice. Trying to. Failing. The body against his is boneless, heavy without the mind's control; though he holds Yoochun, the other man seems intent upon sinking, though the fall isn't steep.
“No.” And then, with no doubt creeping in, with only hope, Jaejoong reaches, grasps for the tie that binds them, one soul between two bodies and tugs. The world doesn't fall away like it did the first time they touched after Yoochun saved him, no, it softens, a cradle that makes it easy to forget about the rest of humanity because there's nothing but them, two hearts and minds that drift together, following instinct.
Jae. Fear, thick, and mouth-drying settles around Jaejoong, an unwanted blanket, dead on his shoulders. Yoochun is terrified.
Scaring me, Chun. And his lover still is, because the space where they are, the anti-time, anti-place they explore together, maybe the recesses of one another's minds, is not like it used to be. Yoochun's thoughts are fields and open spaces as Spring ushers in newborn life, the yellows and purples of wild flowers as they shoot up, teenage-lanky, above shorter, jealous grass. Yoochun weaves the beauty of the world Jaejoong forgets about when the surroundings, skyscrapers and the endless, squat shopping complexes begin to take over, choking nature from his humanity. Where they are now is cold, the frigid pitch of winter in its prime. All there is to see is white, and then the stark picture of Yoochun, cross-legged in the snow, skin almost as pale as the white stuff at his bare feet.
Jaejoong is distracted in the split second it takes him to reach his lover; whenever they'd gone this deeply into each other, no matter how connected they'd been, their bodies, the images of their physical selves had never followed. The thought falls away, just another snowflake when he wraps warm hands around Yoochun's wrists, urging the colder skin to sap his unneeded heat.
I'm a danger to you, Yoochun says, or doesn't, because his lips don't move but God, the power of his projection, the complexity of guilt and anger, the self-loathing he'd been slowly creeping away from. I brought you into this.
Like their bodies on the physical plane, Jaejoong envelops Yoochun, holding back the tremors of cold as their chests touch, the other man's still too fragile against his own. His lips slant over Yoochun's, a fit they've learned, grown into between soft presses and more insistent, animal-frenzied lust. Now his skin screams at his lover's proximity, at the biting chill he finds there. He licks the pouty mouth connected to his own anyway, asking for permission, the slick tangle that usually leaves him breathless.
I stopped thinking 'I' when you found me in the alley and pulled me back inside a body you fixed, Chun. There is no singular anymore, just we, and whatever is wrong, whatever's happening is something we'll face together. There's no other option. Please, please, love, don't pull away from me.
But I don't...I don't deserve you. And now it's ruined.
Yoochun. Jaejoong's focus spreads like water, grasping at every angle of his lover's mind, the trap he's left himself in. If anything, I don't deserve you. There wouldn't be a me without you. Worlds crumble in favor of the heat Jaejoong fills himself with, passing it on to Yoochun through his skin as he imagines them lazing in the sand of a beach where the water is bluer than irises could ever hope to be, where the sand is warm but doesn't stick and their slippery sunscreened skin makes it difficult for their fingers to remain intertwined but they'll keep trying, anyway. It feels like a trick when the soft breath of wind blows over him, lifting his hair, playing with the strands, turning them this way and that. But when he opens his eyes they're there, on their knees, sun-drenched.
This is where you belong. Jaejoong slides his cheek along Yoochun's, skin on skin, eyelashes brushing, inhaling the salt of the air and the overpriced fruit shampoo Yoochun insists on using because it's the only thing that tames his unruly hair. Luscious Locks, you mean? Jaejoong had smirked before working the hydrangea-scented liquid into a foam on his lover's head.
Beautiful, Yoochun sighs, forgetting himself long enough to look around, to take in the canvas Jaejoong has filled with all the goodness he can manage.
I know, Jaejoong replies, though his eyes don't stray from Yoochun. Now it's time for reality, Chun. Let's face it together. Reluctantly, he eases himself out, away from his lover, shakes himself like one would after waking from a dream.
“You can't go anywhere I won't follow,” he sighs into Yoochun's shoulder, pulling in the man's real scent, his skin hair essence that is just a bit better, sharper, than it is in their minds. “Not even if you think it's for my own good.”
“You'd think I'd have learned how stubborn you are by now,” The words shake, working through a tremor that still speaks of the curling shame working its way through the other man, the weakness he sees in himself. The burden he believes Jaejoong bears. So Jaejoong kisses him again, aligns them so he's on top and gives his breath to Yoochun, pushes the swell of I need you, I need this into every motion, the twist and dance of muscles and nips and accidental tooth-bumps. He makes Yoochun forget for a few moments, uses his tongue to trick the other man into thinking about something other than his own faults. The taste of Yoochun remains on his lips, waiting to be licked away when he pulls back, the other man following him, resisting the break.
“That was intense,” Yoochun keeps still, eyes closed, head tilted as he speaks, remains static for another heartbeat and then looks up at Jaejoong, apologies glassy in the caramel flecks of his irises.
“We've never gone that far before,” Jaejoong hums his agreement before flashing a lascivious grin. “I've never been so deep inside you.”
Yoochun rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “And you've never created a place before, Jaejoong. You moved us.”
The other man's concern dampens the light tone Jaejoong tries to inject into the situation, the tip of a needle he would gladly see slide past Yoochun's skin if it means just a little more dopamine in the other man's blood. His hand goes to his head, swipes back hair that feels a bit damp, like he'd run a few miles on that beach in their minds.
“I don't know how it happened,” he admits. “I just..I had to get you away from yourself. And it was the firs place I could think of.”
“It was perfect.” Yoochun is soft with him, admiration and caresses meant to be like silk but there's a hard edge there, an undercurrent of the irrational idea that he has to please Jaejoong, that if he acts truly, completely like himself, Jaejoong will find what he has to offer wanting, not enough.
“Yoochun,” careful hands, slow motions are what it takes to approach Yoochun, whose spirit rests inside him like an unbroken horse-one sudden movement and he's spooked, if only for a moment. But in that second, the other man's fear is directed at Jaejoong, and god, he can't take it, can't bear to see that cautious flicker, the tense of muscles until they're just frozen limbs, waiting to be adjusted to how others see fit. But now, with fingers on his lover's cheeks, he gets close enough to kiss again though he keeps the space between, using his voice to cover Yoochun with words that might distance the years he'd spent alone, so alone, thinking of himself as something strange, a freak to be pushed to the sidelines. “You're too beautiful to believe anything else, ok? I know this will take time, that you don't believe I'll stay, that you're worth me staying, but I'm here. Forever, or death. Whichever comes first.”
It's then that he sees the slip of paper on the floor, a neatly folded note with ant-black type face, old-fashioned, like the typewriters he'd fiddled with after finding one in his grandparent's closet. It takes no time to read, but like Yoochun, he's gripped by the meaning held between the straight lines of the sentences, the implications of someone knowing, maybe more than them, about what's going on. The words are dry cracker plain, an offer to share information but malice could be hiding in the spaces, ill intentions meant to spell out the end of both he and Yoochun. And he can't let that happen, can't let the world be robbed of a presence it hasn't even taken the time to acknowledge yet.
“We'll wait it out,” he says, unwilling to give up the tentative normalcy they've almost attained; no, their lives will not be interrupted until something sparks the ignition of a fire they'll fight or run from. That's all there is to it. “We'll just be careful.” He takes Yoochun's hand, rubs circles into the space between the index finger and thumb, trying for assurance, arriving at nervous instead.
“It'll be ok.”
Shim Changmin, he thinks, the name left unsaid on his tongue, you will find your end if you try to hurt Yoochun.
*
Jaejoong's slicing bell peppers, red and green and orange into perfect slivers when a hand comes from behind him to snatch a slice. Arms wrap around his waist, hiking up his shirt so fingers can trail across his stomach, a shiver-inducing touch that leaves his knees weak. The crunch of the crisp pepper is loud in his ears, Yoochun's jaw working as his chin rests on Jaejoong's shoulder.
“Stop picking,” he says, his mother's words tumbling from his mouth. She'd brandish a spatula at him, threatening life and limb, but always with a tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“But Mooooom,” Yoochun whines, a nasal pitch that does nothing for the headache building behind his eyes, a light pressure that's sure to get bolder as the evening continues. Tylenol, he notes. I should take Tylenol. He shakes his head, tries to turn, slip out of Yoochun's grasp so he can face the other man, but the lithe bands around his middle are stronger than they look. The other man presses a kiss to his temple.
“You feel a little warm, babe.”
“Just tired,” Jaejoong says, breath catching as Yoochun moves down toward his neck, kiss-nipping here and there, tracing the long lines of Jaejoong's body, the places that make him gasp and lean back further, tilting his head to give better access.
“You're beautiful,” soft words carried by hot breath on damp skin make Jaejoong's hands shake as he dumps the peppers into a pan already filled with other vegetables, waiting for the stove's flame. It jumps out blue before settling down to a sunrise orange.
“You're gonna make me burn it,” Jaejoong chastens, but he doesn't fight the hushed moan Yoochun coaxes out through his light, constant touches.
When they come back down, when pleasure drains from muscles and gives them back their strength, Jaejoong has to throw away a singed pan and makes Yoochun dig through a drawer of take out menus. But as they feed each other bites of rice and meat, flavors almost as good as Jaejoong's cooking, he's got to say it was worth it.
***
Yoochun finds the second note in his bag. His bag. Someone had gotten close enough to go through it, to slide that same thick, white paper under the cover of a notebook so when he opened it, expecting a blank page on which to scrawl notes about history he didn't particularly care about, he found it, staring up at him, expectant.
And that's where he is now, unable to focus on anything but keeping his emotions in check because Jaejoong can't know, can't think anything's wrong. So he takes deep breathes before his heart can break into a sprint, thinks of the smiles Jaejoong hides behind hands, his easy relaxation on his lover's face against their pillows before he's woken up by the ugly sounds of the alarm. Love, strong and sure, is all he can feel. After the forty-five minute drone he's forced to sit through, listening to events, he's told, that are important and epic and will be on the midterm, he gets up, envelope clenched between fingers, and trickles out amongst the other students, like a normal person, one who isn't trying valiantly to hold back the crush of worry he can't let Jaejoong feel.
The idea is desperate, but so is he. And maybe it will work. He stares at his cell phone, the last text he was sent (Love you <3) before tapping at the keys, typing out a lie that sounds enough like the truth to be believed.
Babe, he writes, Going to the library to study for the history exam. It's gonna be murder, I can feel it. Don't wait up. Love. XX
He's in a cab by the time Jaejoong texts back.
K. Miss you.
The words try to prick at his eyes, working tears from the barely-controlled ducts, but he doesn't let them win. He can't give Jaejoong any inclination that something's wrong, can't be felt out until it's too late to do anything about it. So he sits in the back of a stranger's car, jiggling his leg and directing the driver to the closest train station. The leather of the seats supports hm as he slumps into their depths, staring out through the window at streets that blur into a singular sameness, repetitions of stores that sell the same things under different names. The people on the street who take no notice of him-and how could they?-are a mockery, strings of Christmas lights that only emphasize his own darkness, the solitude he should have stuck with. He's dragged someone into this, the life he himself was slowly letting slip through his fingers. And for what? An unexpected bump in the road and his head meets the cool glass of the window; it's a pain that isn't enough, that doesn't dig deep in the ways he needs it to. The driver hurriedly apologizes, but Yoochun just glances at him, the thin, watery light barely emanating from his skin and turns head back to the window.
When they arrive, Yoochun presses a few extra bills into the man's hand and doesn't say anything at the enthusiastic goodbyes that follow. His throat hurts and he just wants to get away, though he has no idea where he's going and what he'll do when he gets there. It doesn't matter. Nothing does, besides Jaejoong's safety. He hikes his backpack up, fishes his wallet from his pants and goes to the ticket counter to buy a one-way to the first place he sees. So. Busan it is. In an hour, all he'll hear is the quiet hum of the train's engine, the click of steel on steel. He sits on a free bench and stares at the ground, the fraying fabric of his tearing converse, laces more grey than white. He rubs the white of the rubber sole against concrete littered with gum and cigarette butts, the steps of countless others invisible amongst the detritus of the passing days.
He looks upward now, subtly gazing at the thin collection of people waiting to be taken somewhere else. And old man stands across from him, breathing out the smoke of a countless cigarette, his pose, his breaths of nicotine so second-nature that he's probably been doing it longer than Yoochun's been alive. But his light is almost white, the kind that always hovered around people who tried to bring him out of his shell, who fell away reluctantly when he told them in no uncertain terms that he wasn't interested, that their effort was for naught. The old man catches him staring and he slides his gaze away, studying his knees instead. The minutes give way, as they always do and the train clacks into the station, pouring passengers out like water into a glass. And yet, even though Yoochun is the first person on the thing, it's packed, the only empty compartment the one at the end, a smaller space no one seems to want. It suits him fine, though, and he sits back into the seat, drawing his legs against his chest like he did when he was young, a sad-eyed boy who grew into a sad-eyed man. His hair falls into his eyes and he waits for it to be plucked out, smoothed back but Jaejoong's fingers don't come, his lips don't trail across a now-clear forehead.
Jaejoong.
The train starts. It's time. The envelope is slightly crushed now, its sharp edges bent, soft. A nail under the back of the thing frees the letter inside. He takes a breath.
Dear Yoochun,
It is with Kim Jaejoong's interest that I contact you again. Make no mistake, Mr. Park. You will be the death of him.
There's a number at the bottom for fingers to dial so voices can talk over one another and a scribbled signature, the same Shim Changmin, but all he can concentrate on is death, the way it would curl around Jaejoong's fragile features, leaving them hollow, though no less beautiful. But how can he be killing Jaejoong? It makes no sense. Nothing does, anymore.
The sound of someone scrabbling at the door of his compartment breaks Yoochun from the reverie trying to swallow him alive.
Fuck. If Jaejoong didn't know anything was wrong before, he does now.
Long legs are the first thing he sees, a body his eyes have to hike up before he's staring into a sheepish face.
“Hey, sorry,” the man says, hovering in the doorway, unsure as to whether he's welcome in the tiny space. “But all the other compartments are full. Is it ok to sit here?”
“Yeah.” No. But he smiles at the stranger, pretends to be just another college student on a train and stands to offer the tall man the best seat.
“Thanks.”
The man, maybe around his own age, sits, long legs spread out to the side. The compartment is just small enough to make sitting straight uncomfortable for him, Yoochun can tell. He's attractive, this stranger, all long lines and pretty long lashes, hair just long enough to be shaggy, lips wide enough to carry a reminder of little-boy openness. His jeans are skinny, but not too tight, black blazer expensive but not flashy.
“Going all the way to Busan?” Yoochun ventures, hoping casual conversation will distract him from the bile that's begun to leak from his heart, the first echo of unease from Jaejoong flickering through him, lodging in his throat.
“Hopefully not.” The other man smiles, setting off slightly asymmetrical eyes that are oddly gentle, something Yoochun usually sees in other people. But it makes sense, he guesses; the stranger's aura stretches out from his skin like it's trying to brush against everything it can. The pale white of it gives Yoochun the feel of a hot shower's comfort, its safety after a long walk through the cold.
But his brow wrinkles at the man's response. What can he mean?
“Alright,” he dismisses with a smile. Holding his hand out, he introduces himself. “I'm Yoochun, by the way.” The other man leans forward, extending a slim wrist, covers Yoochun's hand with his own. It's larger, warm.
“Changmin,” the man says, staring straight into Yoochun, waiting for the walls to come down, for panic to set in. “Shim Changmin,” he clarifies, liquidating the sliver of hope Yoochun has that this is all just one large coincidence. He can feel it, the man's steady concern, though agitation is holding out on the periphery, waiting.
“No,” he whispers, gaze jumping to the door, wondering if he could possibly be fast enough.
“You aren't,” Changmin drops the smile, his mouth set in a firm line. “But believe me, Yoochun, the only thing you're going to want to do in a second is get off this train. Because Jaejoong is in danger, Yoochun, but not by our doing.”
“Why should I trust you?” He hisses the words, keeping his voice low. Jaejoong's going to feel this, Yoochun's panic and fear and won't know why, oh, fuck, fuck, what did he do? “How do you even know about me?”
“You're not as unique as you think, Yoochun.” Changmin is a blur, next to him, fingers reaching for his forehead and then gone completely, enmeshed with him in a way only Jaejoong had been before.
What..no! Get out of my head!
You can feel me, Yoochun. You're not stupid. Now tell me if I'm the bad guy.
Yoochun tries to withdraw, to come out of the shared trance he's been forced into, but Changmin is stronger and determined, it seems, to be judged. But Yoochun is done, mind falling in around him. He can't see, can't hear anything around the muddled choices, though right and wrong blur together like colors of paint, beautiful on their own, awful when mixed. There are so many paths in front of him, but every one winds like a snake, tongue flicking out to taste the air, to urge him take me, I'm the one.
I don't know! He shouts into the darkness, the pieces of brick and mortar and broken glass that decorate the holes he's ignored for too long. I don't know what to do or who to trust. Until a few months ago I thought this was all in my fucking imagination!
We lost track of you once, and that was our fault. Changmin is crisp, the first bite of apple, the wind of morning just before Spring. But we're here now, and I promise you, we will do everything in our power to save Jaejoong. Changmin's voice, his essence floods Yoochun, illuminates him like a spotlight from above. He feels...old, somehow, years built up like rings on the inside of a tree.
Home, Yoochun thinks suddenly. Changmin feels like home, more than his own parents ever have, more than their big, lifeless house ever has. He remembers his mother, mannequin-like in front of a mirror, applying the face she'd use for a dinner party later that night, showing life and wit and grace she never shared with Yoochun.
He's let go of, opens his eyes to Changmin's close-up face, the seriousness there.
“We need to get back to Jaejoong,” he says, voice low, like he's battling to keep it from breaking, a shatter hard to come back from. “There will be a car waiting for us at the next stop.”
“Jaejoong...” Yoochun raises his hands to his head, confusion doing its best to rupture blood vessels and capillaries, to raise the pressure until he implodes. “What's wrong with Jaejoong? I...I brought him back, I saved him...”
“You brought him back,” Changmin agrees, taking hold of Yoochun's elbow, as if to steady him. “But you didn't bring him back human.”
Pairing: JaeChun
Beta: Unbetaed. See mistakes? Let me know :)
Genre: fantasy/romance/angst
Length: chaptered
For:abcdefghiluvyou (Hope you like it, bb <3)
Summary: Yoochun and Jaejoong are total strangers before they meet in class. But Yoochun's a little different, can see things that others can't. And that's probably a good thing, because Jaejoong is supposed to die on the day they meet.
A/N: Ok, so every train I've been on (I've yet to take one in SK) in the states has had airplane-style seats, not compartments a la Harry Potter. So take the imaginative leap with me and pretend the one in this story is set up like that. Shutting up now :)
Usually, the tingle of Yoochun in the back of Jaejoong's mind is a comfort, invisible security he wears invisibly, a warm flush that reassures him of his place in the world, its tendrils ever resonating with the other man butterfly light presence, a taste of the awe he still feels over Jaejoong's love. But as he gazes into a sky of forever before closing his eyes to let the sun graze his cheeks, turning them a dusky rose color, he's struck by the sudden and icy tangle of Yoochun's hum, the usual baritone hitting a high pitch unlike anything Jaejoong's felt before. It's fear and territorial anger, the snarl of a dog seconds away from wrapping its mouth around the menace threatening its owner.
He finds his lover on the floor, sitting sprawled with paper in his hands, eyes wide and staring at nothing, open but sightless. Shaking does nothing, not a goddamn thing but Jaejoong tries anyway, maybe harder than he means to before wrapping himself around Yoochun, wrapping both hands in the other man's longer locks.
“Come back to me, Yoochun,” he tries, keeping the hysteria out of his voice. Trying to. Failing. The body against his is boneless, heavy without the mind's control; though he holds Yoochun, the other man seems intent upon sinking, though the fall isn't steep.
“No.” And then, with no doubt creeping in, with only hope, Jaejoong reaches, grasps for the tie that binds them, one soul between two bodies and tugs. The world doesn't fall away like it did the first time they touched after Yoochun saved him, no, it softens, a cradle that makes it easy to forget about the rest of humanity because there's nothing but them, two hearts and minds that drift together, following instinct.
Jae. Fear, thick, and mouth-drying settles around Jaejoong, an unwanted blanket, dead on his shoulders. Yoochun is terrified.
Scaring me, Chun. And his lover still is, because the space where they are, the anti-time, anti-place they explore together, maybe the recesses of one another's minds, is not like it used to be. Yoochun's thoughts are fields and open spaces as Spring ushers in newborn life, the yellows and purples of wild flowers as they shoot up, teenage-lanky, above shorter, jealous grass. Yoochun weaves the beauty of the world Jaejoong forgets about when the surroundings, skyscrapers and the endless, squat shopping complexes begin to take over, choking nature from his humanity. Where they are now is cold, the frigid pitch of winter in its prime. All there is to see is white, and then the stark picture of Yoochun, cross-legged in the snow, skin almost as pale as the white stuff at his bare feet.
Jaejoong is distracted in the split second it takes him to reach his lover; whenever they'd gone this deeply into each other, no matter how connected they'd been, their bodies, the images of their physical selves had never followed. The thought falls away, just another snowflake when he wraps warm hands around Yoochun's wrists, urging the colder skin to sap his unneeded heat.
I'm a danger to you, Yoochun says, or doesn't, because his lips don't move but God, the power of his projection, the complexity of guilt and anger, the self-loathing he'd been slowly creeping away from. I brought you into this.
Like their bodies on the physical plane, Jaejoong envelops Yoochun, holding back the tremors of cold as their chests touch, the other man's still too fragile against his own. His lips slant over Yoochun's, a fit they've learned, grown into between soft presses and more insistent, animal-frenzied lust. Now his skin screams at his lover's proximity, at the biting chill he finds there. He licks the pouty mouth connected to his own anyway, asking for permission, the slick tangle that usually leaves him breathless.
I stopped thinking 'I' when you found me in the alley and pulled me back inside a body you fixed, Chun. There is no singular anymore, just we, and whatever is wrong, whatever's happening is something we'll face together. There's no other option. Please, please, love, don't pull away from me.
But I don't...I don't deserve you. And now it's ruined.
Yoochun. Jaejoong's focus spreads like water, grasping at every angle of his lover's mind, the trap he's left himself in. If anything, I don't deserve you. There wouldn't be a me without you. Worlds crumble in favor of the heat Jaejoong fills himself with, passing it on to Yoochun through his skin as he imagines them lazing in the sand of a beach where the water is bluer than irises could ever hope to be, where the sand is warm but doesn't stick and their slippery sunscreened skin makes it difficult for their fingers to remain intertwined but they'll keep trying, anyway. It feels like a trick when the soft breath of wind blows over him, lifting his hair, playing with the strands, turning them this way and that. But when he opens his eyes they're there, on their knees, sun-drenched.
This is where you belong. Jaejoong slides his cheek along Yoochun's, skin on skin, eyelashes brushing, inhaling the salt of the air and the overpriced fruit shampoo Yoochun insists on using because it's the only thing that tames his unruly hair. Luscious Locks, you mean? Jaejoong had smirked before working the hydrangea-scented liquid into a foam on his lover's head.
Beautiful, Yoochun sighs, forgetting himself long enough to look around, to take in the canvas Jaejoong has filled with all the goodness he can manage.
I know, Jaejoong replies, though his eyes don't stray from Yoochun. Now it's time for reality, Chun. Let's face it together. Reluctantly, he eases himself out, away from his lover, shakes himself like one would after waking from a dream.
“You can't go anywhere I won't follow,” he sighs into Yoochun's shoulder, pulling in the man's real scent, his skin hair essence that is just a bit better, sharper, than it is in their minds. “Not even if you think it's for my own good.”
“You'd think I'd have learned how stubborn you are by now,” The words shake, working through a tremor that still speaks of the curling shame working its way through the other man, the weakness he sees in himself. The burden he believes Jaejoong bears. So Jaejoong kisses him again, aligns them so he's on top and gives his breath to Yoochun, pushes the swell of I need you, I need this into every motion, the twist and dance of muscles and nips and accidental tooth-bumps. He makes Yoochun forget for a few moments, uses his tongue to trick the other man into thinking about something other than his own faults. The taste of Yoochun remains on his lips, waiting to be licked away when he pulls back, the other man following him, resisting the break.
“That was intense,” Yoochun keeps still, eyes closed, head tilted as he speaks, remains static for another heartbeat and then looks up at Jaejoong, apologies glassy in the caramel flecks of his irises.
“We've never gone that far before,” Jaejoong hums his agreement before flashing a lascivious grin. “I've never been so deep inside you.”
Yoochun rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “And you've never created a place before, Jaejoong. You moved us.”
The other man's concern dampens the light tone Jaejoong tries to inject into the situation, the tip of a needle he would gladly see slide past Yoochun's skin if it means just a little more dopamine in the other man's blood. His hand goes to his head, swipes back hair that feels a bit damp, like he'd run a few miles on that beach in their minds.
“I don't know how it happened,” he admits. “I just..I had to get you away from yourself. And it was the firs place I could think of.”
“It was perfect.” Yoochun is soft with him, admiration and caresses meant to be like silk but there's a hard edge there, an undercurrent of the irrational idea that he has to please Jaejoong, that if he acts truly, completely like himself, Jaejoong will find what he has to offer wanting, not enough.
“Yoochun,” careful hands, slow motions are what it takes to approach Yoochun, whose spirit rests inside him like an unbroken horse-one sudden movement and he's spooked, if only for a moment. But in that second, the other man's fear is directed at Jaejoong, and god, he can't take it, can't bear to see that cautious flicker, the tense of muscles until they're just frozen limbs, waiting to be adjusted to how others see fit. But now, with fingers on his lover's cheeks, he gets close enough to kiss again though he keeps the space between, using his voice to cover Yoochun with words that might distance the years he'd spent alone, so alone, thinking of himself as something strange, a freak to be pushed to the sidelines. “You're too beautiful to believe anything else, ok? I know this will take time, that you don't believe I'll stay, that you're worth me staying, but I'm here. Forever, or death. Whichever comes first.”
It's then that he sees the slip of paper on the floor, a neatly folded note with ant-black type face, old-fashioned, like the typewriters he'd fiddled with after finding one in his grandparent's closet. It takes no time to read, but like Yoochun, he's gripped by the meaning held between the straight lines of the sentences, the implications of someone knowing, maybe more than them, about what's going on. The words are dry cracker plain, an offer to share information but malice could be hiding in the spaces, ill intentions meant to spell out the end of both he and Yoochun. And he can't let that happen, can't let the world be robbed of a presence it hasn't even taken the time to acknowledge yet.
“We'll wait it out,” he says, unwilling to give up the tentative normalcy they've almost attained; no, their lives will not be interrupted until something sparks the ignition of a fire they'll fight or run from. That's all there is to it. “We'll just be careful.” He takes Yoochun's hand, rubs circles into the space between the index finger and thumb, trying for assurance, arriving at nervous instead.
“It'll be ok.”
Shim Changmin, he thinks, the name left unsaid on his tongue, you will find your end if you try to hurt Yoochun.
*
Jaejoong's slicing bell peppers, red and green and orange into perfect slivers when a hand comes from behind him to snatch a slice. Arms wrap around his waist, hiking up his shirt so fingers can trail across his stomach, a shiver-inducing touch that leaves his knees weak. The crunch of the crisp pepper is loud in his ears, Yoochun's jaw working as his chin rests on Jaejoong's shoulder.
“Stop picking,” he says, his mother's words tumbling from his mouth. She'd brandish a spatula at him, threatening life and limb, but always with a tiny smile playing at the corner of her mouth.
“But Mooooom,” Yoochun whines, a nasal pitch that does nothing for the headache building behind his eyes, a light pressure that's sure to get bolder as the evening continues. Tylenol, he notes. I should take Tylenol. He shakes his head, tries to turn, slip out of Yoochun's grasp so he can face the other man, but the lithe bands around his middle are stronger than they look. The other man presses a kiss to his temple.
“You feel a little warm, babe.”
“Just tired,” Jaejoong says, breath catching as Yoochun moves down toward his neck, kiss-nipping here and there, tracing the long lines of Jaejoong's body, the places that make him gasp and lean back further, tilting his head to give better access.
“You're beautiful,” soft words carried by hot breath on damp skin make Jaejoong's hands shake as he dumps the peppers into a pan already filled with other vegetables, waiting for the stove's flame. It jumps out blue before settling down to a sunrise orange.
“You're gonna make me burn it,” Jaejoong chastens, but he doesn't fight the hushed moan Yoochun coaxes out through his light, constant touches.
When they come back down, when pleasure drains from muscles and gives them back their strength, Jaejoong has to throw away a singed pan and makes Yoochun dig through a drawer of take out menus. But as they feed each other bites of rice and meat, flavors almost as good as Jaejoong's cooking, he's got to say it was worth it.
***
Yoochun finds the second note in his bag. His bag. Someone had gotten close enough to go through it, to slide that same thick, white paper under the cover of a notebook so when he opened it, expecting a blank page on which to scrawl notes about history he didn't particularly care about, he found it, staring up at him, expectant.
And that's where he is now, unable to focus on anything but keeping his emotions in check because Jaejoong can't know, can't think anything's wrong. So he takes deep breathes before his heart can break into a sprint, thinks of the smiles Jaejoong hides behind hands, his easy relaxation on his lover's face against their pillows before he's woken up by the ugly sounds of the alarm. Love, strong and sure, is all he can feel. After the forty-five minute drone he's forced to sit through, listening to events, he's told, that are important and epic and will be on the midterm, he gets up, envelope clenched between fingers, and trickles out amongst the other students, like a normal person, one who isn't trying valiantly to hold back the crush of worry he can't let Jaejoong feel.
The idea is desperate, but so is he. And maybe it will work. He stares at his cell phone, the last text he was sent (Love you <3) before tapping at the keys, typing out a lie that sounds enough like the truth to be believed.
Babe, he writes, Going to the library to study for the history exam. It's gonna be murder, I can feel it. Don't wait up. Love. XX
He's in a cab by the time Jaejoong texts back.
K. Miss you.
The words try to prick at his eyes, working tears from the barely-controlled ducts, but he doesn't let them win. He can't give Jaejoong any inclination that something's wrong, can't be felt out until it's too late to do anything about it. So he sits in the back of a stranger's car, jiggling his leg and directing the driver to the closest train station. The leather of the seats supports hm as he slumps into their depths, staring out through the window at streets that blur into a singular sameness, repetitions of stores that sell the same things under different names. The people on the street who take no notice of him-and how could they?-are a mockery, strings of Christmas lights that only emphasize his own darkness, the solitude he should have stuck with. He's dragged someone into this, the life he himself was slowly letting slip through his fingers. And for what? An unexpected bump in the road and his head meets the cool glass of the window; it's a pain that isn't enough, that doesn't dig deep in the ways he needs it to. The driver hurriedly apologizes, but Yoochun just glances at him, the thin, watery light barely emanating from his skin and turns head back to the window.
When they arrive, Yoochun presses a few extra bills into the man's hand and doesn't say anything at the enthusiastic goodbyes that follow. His throat hurts and he just wants to get away, though he has no idea where he's going and what he'll do when he gets there. It doesn't matter. Nothing does, besides Jaejoong's safety. He hikes his backpack up, fishes his wallet from his pants and goes to the ticket counter to buy a one-way to the first place he sees. So. Busan it is. In an hour, all he'll hear is the quiet hum of the train's engine, the click of steel on steel. He sits on a free bench and stares at the ground, the fraying fabric of his tearing converse, laces more grey than white. He rubs the white of the rubber sole against concrete littered with gum and cigarette butts, the steps of countless others invisible amongst the detritus of the passing days.
He looks upward now, subtly gazing at the thin collection of people waiting to be taken somewhere else. And old man stands across from him, breathing out the smoke of a countless cigarette, his pose, his breaths of nicotine so second-nature that he's probably been doing it longer than Yoochun's been alive. But his light is almost white, the kind that always hovered around people who tried to bring him out of his shell, who fell away reluctantly when he told them in no uncertain terms that he wasn't interested, that their effort was for naught. The old man catches him staring and he slides his gaze away, studying his knees instead. The minutes give way, as they always do and the train clacks into the station, pouring passengers out like water into a glass. And yet, even though Yoochun is the first person on the thing, it's packed, the only empty compartment the one at the end, a smaller space no one seems to want. It suits him fine, though, and he sits back into the seat, drawing his legs against his chest like he did when he was young, a sad-eyed boy who grew into a sad-eyed man. His hair falls into his eyes and he waits for it to be plucked out, smoothed back but Jaejoong's fingers don't come, his lips don't trail across a now-clear forehead.
Jaejoong.
The train starts. It's time. The envelope is slightly crushed now, its sharp edges bent, soft. A nail under the back of the thing frees the letter inside. He takes a breath.
Dear Yoochun,
It is with Kim Jaejoong's interest that I contact you again. Make no mistake, Mr. Park. You will be the death of him.
There's a number at the bottom for fingers to dial so voices can talk over one another and a scribbled signature, the same Shim Changmin, but all he can concentrate on is death, the way it would curl around Jaejoong's fragile features, leaving them hollow, though no less beautiful. But how can he be killing Jaejoong? It makes no sense. Nothing does, anymore.
The sound of someone scrabbling at the door of his compartment breaks Yoochun from the reverie trying to swallow him alive.
Fuck. If Jaejoong didn't know anything was wrong before, he does now.
Long legs are the first thing he sees, a body his eyes have to hike up before he's staring into a sheepish face.
“Hey, sorry,” the man says, hovering in the doorway, unsure as to whether he's welcome in the tiny space. “But all the other compartments are full. Is it ok to sit here?”
“Yeah.” No. But he smiles at the stranger, pretends to be just another college student on a train and stands to offer the tall man the best seat.
“Thanks.”
The man, maybe around his own age, sits, long legs spread out to the side. The compartment is just small enough to make sitting straight uncomfortable for him, Yoochun can tell. He's attractive, this stranger, all long lines and pretty long lashes, hair just long enough to be shaggy, lips wide enough to carry a reminder of little-boy openness. His jeans are skinny, but not too tight, black blazer expensive but not flashy.
“Going all the way to Busan?” Yoochun ventures, hoping casual conversation will distract him from the bile that's begun to leak from his heart, the first echo of unease from Jaejoong flickering through him, lodging in his throat.
“Hopefully not.” The other man smiles, setting off slightly asymmetrical eyes that are oddly gentle, something Yoochun usually sees in other people. But it makes sense, he guesses; the stranger's aura stretches out from his skin like it's trying to brush against everything it can. The pale white of it gives Yoochun the feel of a hot shower's comfort, its safety after a long walk through the cold.
But his brow wrinkles at the man's response. What can he mean?
“Alright,” he dismisses with a smile. Holding his hand out, he introduces himself. “I'm Yoochun, by the way.” The other man leans forward, extending a slim wrist, covers Yoochun's hand with his own. It's larger, warm.
“Changmin,” the man says, staring straight into Yoochun, waiting for the walls to come down, for panic to set in. “Shim Changmin,” he clarifies, liquidating the sliver of hope Yoochun has that this is all just one large coincidence. He can feel it, the man's steady concern, though agitation is holding out on the periphery, waiting.
“No,” he whispers, gaze jumping to the door, wondering if he could possibly be fast enough.
“You aren't,” Changmin drops the smile, his mouth set in a firm line. “But believe me, Yoochun, the only thing you're going to want to do in a second is get off this train. Because Jaejoong is in danger, Yoochun, but not by our doing.”
“Why should I trust you?” He hisses the words, keeping his voice low. Jaejoong's going to feel this, Yoochun's panic and fear and won't know why, oh, fuck, fuck, what did he do? “How do you even know about me?”
“You're not as unique as you think, Yoochun.” Changmin is a blur, next to him, fingers reaching for his forehead and then gone completely, enmeshed with him in a way only Jaejoong had been before.
What..no! Get out of my head!
You can feel me, Yoochun. You're not stupid. Now tell me if I'm the bad guy.
Yoochun tries to withdraw, to come out of the shared trance he's been forced into, but Changmin is stronger and determined, it seems, to be judged. But Yoochun is done, mind falling in around him. He can't see, can't hear anything around the muddled choices, though right and wrong blur together like colors of paint, beautiful on their own, awful when mixed. There are so many paths in front of him, but every one winds like a snake, tongue flicking out to taste the air, to urge him take me, I'm the one.
I don't know! He shouts into the darkness, the pieces of brick and mortar and broken glass that decorate the holes he's ignored for too long. I don't know what to do or who to trust. Until a few months ago I thought this was all in my fucking imagination!
We lost track of you once, and that was our fault. Changmin is crisp, the first bite of apple, the wind of morning just before Spring. But we're here now, and I promise you, we will do everything in our power to save Jaejoong. Changmin's voice, his essence floods Yoochun, illuminates him like a spotlight from above. He feels...old, somehow, years built up like rings on the inside of a tree.
Home, Yoochun thinks suddenly. Changmin feels like home, more than his own parents ever have, more than their big, lifeless house ever has. He remembers his mother, mannequin-like in front of a mirror, applying the face she'd use for a dinner party later that night, showing life and wit and grace she never shared with Yoochun.
He's let go of, opens his eyes to Changmin's close-up face, the seriousness there.
“We need to get back to Jaejoong,” he says, voice low, like he's battling to keep it from breaking, a shatter hard to come back from. “There will be a car waiting for us at the next stop.”
“Jaejoong...” Yoochun raises his hands to his head, confusion doing its best to rupture blood vessels and capillaries, to raise the pressure until he implodes. “What's wrong with Jaejoong? I...I brought him back, I saved him...”
“You brought him back,” Changmin agrees, taking hold of Yoochun's elbow, as if to steady him. “But you didn't bring him back human.”