Be Loved

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Title:  Be Loved (1/1) Hug Mini Bang Challenge
Author: radioheading
Rating: R, language and violence.
Characters/Pairings: Junsu/Yunho
Warnings: AU. Really, really, really AU. Warnings for cutting.
Word Count: 5197
Summary: Yunho meets a stranger on Christmas Eve, and finds he has a chance for change, because Junsu is nothing short of a miracle.



Yunho carves three lines into his forearm on the morning of Christmas Eve when daybreak is just barely casting its light through his slanted shades. The razor is easy in his hand, comfortable and steady as it parts his skin, allowing a rush of blood and relief that has him sagging to the floor into a plush carpet dark enough to conceal the ruby liquid that will dry black and flaky. His blood runs warm as spring rain and feels almost like touch as it slides down, down, reaching for the crook of his elbow. Each cut has a name he doesn't think too much about (mom, dad, sister, gashes for people who used to be and aren't anymore). The teeth he gritted as the razor bit down relax now, parting to take in deep, heavy breaths.

The trails dry tight and clammy. Yunho stands and holds the arm under running water, watching as it's turned red, then pink, droplets catching on invisible-to-his-eyes ridges in the porcelain so he has to run his other hand across the bowl and sweep the evidence, his guilt, down the drain. The antiseptic that comes next barely stings, fizzes along the ragged edges of the wounds like pop rocks in an open mouth. When he draws his sleeve back down, the cotton will stick.

***

Hunger and an empty fridge send him out into the bite of December air, a bitter chill that crawls inside and will make itself at home until May. Time off ("No one's taking dance workshops two days before Christmas, Yunho. Go home. Get some rest."), leaves him unsure, adrift in a sea of days until he can go back to the studio every morning and return exhausted, too tired to do anything but choke down tasteless food and fall into restless sleep. But now his stomach voices its acidic protests, tightening with rolling hunger.

It's then that Yunho sees him, the huddled slip of a barely-covered man leaning on the brick of his apartment building. He's wrapped in a sheet that leaves one shoulder, a slice of pale skin revealed, a though he imagines it must be numb under the relentless assault of cold. The man is shaking, rocking forward and back so slowly he probably doesn't know he's moving at all. Yunho doesn't intend to go over, has no need to care about a street urchin with a soft, curved profile and shaggy, too-long hair. But then the man looks up and choice leaves him. The molten liquid of a dark gaze, color-absorbing black, catches his and drowns him with its weight, a quicksand pull that has his legs moving before his mind can veto the decision. He's arrested, heart diving to the bottom of his stomach but he just carries on, one foot in front of the other until he's arm's-length away from the man whose gaze has leveled on Yunho's neck, glassing over so it seems as if he's not looking outward but searching inward.

“Hey,” Yunho's calling out, harsher than he means, but what is this man doing here? “Whatever you're selling, you're in the wrong neighborhood.” And oh, those are the wrong words because those goddamn sloe eyes are so big now, opening wide with a flash of hurt and helplessness that sends something lurching within Yunho, an unexpected little tumble that just flushes his blood hotter. Who is he to be concerned over the feelings of a stranger? Yunho tells himself that the boy's just coming down from something, that the reason for the shaking and blue lips is just a body realizing it's got nothing left to keep the high and is bucking the control it's being asked to resume. So why is he still standing there? Why is he looking down into eyes that rise like the sun over his face, dawn breaking as they move up over his jaw then cheek before finally meeting Yunho's?

The man stagger-steps forward, tongue pushing out to wet dry, cracked lips before sliding back into the confines of his mouth, pink skin that purses as it forms a single word, a name. His. With no explanation, just a gasp, the man stiffens before crumpling toward ground he never reaches because Yunho's arms move snake-strike fast, pulling the smaller man to his chest, looking for all the world like he's embracing this stranger, ushering him toward the comforting beat of his heart, a muscle that tenses and flutters for just a moment before returning to business at usual.

Yunho looks down at the man, the curve of his hair as it falls past his brow and sighs as he lifts him, bridal-style, and heads back into his apartment.

Looks like he'll be ordering in today.

***

The man hasn't woken up yet. He sleeps, generous mouth open and slack, forehead smooth and unworried as he dreams on Yunho's couch, doesn't stir when a delivery man knocks on the door, laden with various dishes, enough to get an army through the week. But the food can wait; he turns back to his unexpected guest who's now turned over, bare back exposed, the sheet that had been wrapped around him slipping down to reveal thin lines spread across his shoulder blades, pale white ink shaped and shaded into an expanse of wings that gleam against the sunset tinge of his skin. The angles of his back are sharp and they call out, a coo of touch me, an invitation to trace the tips of fingers over the drawn-on feathers and then do it again with his tongue, curling it slick and wet to swallow down the taste of salt and ecstasy.

Fuck, Yunho's hands ball into fists as he shakes himself and pushes the thoughts away, the kinds of wants and needs and perversions that left him orphaned. So when fingers do reach to touch, they do it roughly, gripping the bone just below skin and insisting.

“Hey,” Yunho says, shaking harder now. “Hey, come on. Wake up.”

The man's head snaps back and he arches, turning into an inverted bridge of straining muscle as he stretches, a low moan of pleasure slipping from between his lips. It slides like oil across Yunho's cheek, a teasing little touch that heats his blood, though he'll pretend the feeling is impatience, frustration. With a pull that makes his own shoulder ache, a flicker of crackling, twisting heat, he wrenches the man toward him, almost sending him sprawling off the couch completely. The man's gaze falls on him and he's nailed to the floor, tripped again by the darkness there, the strange lack of color that should be maybe a little unnerving but only feels like the warmth of steam rising from tea just cooled enough to sip down, flooding a chilled throat.

“Who-who are you?” He looks away, at the floor and his own feet. There's something strange with this man, like he's looking through and beyond and Yunho just wants to duck his head, hide the blackness in himself that's so unlike that of the man's eyes. Just get him out of here, the harder part of him urges in rusted-metal tones, growling a warning.

“I'm Junsu,” is his reply, a breath-through teeth exhalation that's raspy but pitched high, an unusual combination that reminds him of Italian choirs, boys still trapped in soprano, pledging allegiance to a heavy-handed deity sitting high in the sky.

“That's helpful,” Yunho mutters darkly. “Why do you know my name? Why do you know who I am?”

“I know a lot about you,” Junsu says softly. The couch under him grumbles its protests as Junsu shifts over its aged cushions and springs, the wood sturdy enough but loud. It had been in the apartment when he'd signed the lease, his bed before he'd been able to afford furniture. Junsu's sitting up now, knees pulled to his chest, draped in the yellow blankets of the midday sun, the light making the smooth length of his dark hair take on an almost-glow, like liquid silk. Everything about the man is temptation, the beginnings of sin he can't commit, an urge he isn't allowed to feed. No one else has done this to him, has had to make him fight the darkness and wrongness inside harder than he'd ever needed to before.

“Did my parents send you?” He's too angry to think about the effect of the man's inky eyes, the soul-deep stare that's now splashed with confusion.

“Are you some fucking missionary?” Yunho rises to his knees, breaking the space barrier between them. “Are you here to cleanse me of my sins, Junsu?” He's speeding up, heart racing, ready for a fight, to scream and hit and kick, anything to feel better. To feel relief.

Junsu raises his hands, small palms with deeply-etched lines and long, slim fingers. They're delicate. He's appeasing, showing he means no harm but he's so close, almost touching and then he does, lays a palm on the clap of Yunho's heart, the building anger that is begging to overflow. He lets it.

“Don't fucking touch me,” it's a snarl and he's on his feet, backing away. Junsu doesn't lose his balance, doesn't even look perturbed.

“I don't know your parents, Yunho,” he says, and he's standing too now and the sheet he's wrapped in slips away reveals his entirety, swathes of clear, unmarked skin, lithe limbs. Junsu had been naked under that thin sheet, with no protection from the skin-searing elements. “I just know you.” One step closer, two, and he's reaching out again, but this time to brush Yunho's bangs back, the hair that's helping block his sight, that's keeping him from looking down. His hand moves over Yunho's temple, tracing a circle.

Push him, get him away! Yunho should obey, but his arms have forgotten how to do anything but twitch under the ministrations of a single digit; his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth and Junsu speaks again.

“You can't go on like this, Yunho.”

Can't...what? His mind is in pieces, focused only on the touch, the haltingly slow tracing a flicker of light that makes its way through him, flourishing around nerve endings.

“What are you..” his mouth forms the words and they're slurred out, hesitant. Junsu's other hand touches down on his cheek and it feels good, so good, but then there's that voice in his mind, but this time it's not his own. The memory unfurls, familiar, ice-tipped and sharp.

“What did you say, Yunho?” The question had sent a chill down his spine then and his body recreates the feeling now, cold gripping his stomach, fear settling down on his tongue. He'd known, then, that confessing had been a mistake, that admitting the strong line of beauty, the lush dark of hair and eyes and form only suited him if it had a Y chromosome was a terrible error. But he'd never known how much it would cost him, this slip. He hadn't expected sharp pain to erupt in his jaw where his father's fist struck once and then again, again, until his mother intervened, pulling her panting, red-faced husband off her only son.

“You'll kill him!” She'd shrieked, desperate, words cast black with anger and disgust. “My baby,” she'd said, gathering Yunho's head into her lap, ignoring the blood and tears and snot coating his cheeks, lips. She'd leaned closer, thin form bending easily, tired face so close to his.

“Tell me it's not true, Yunho,” each word had been a knife to the chest. Please tell me you're not....that. Please tell me I can continue to love you. Please tell me you're normal and right. He dipped his tongue in acid when he answered her, swallowed it down and let it shrivel his heart.

“It's true, mom. Everything. It's true.” He sat, aching, tired, and crawled out of her lap, toward the door. The handle creaked when he put his weight on it and tried to stand, but it held. He was almost out when her hands came around him again, drew across his waist and turned him around.

“Wait, Yunho,” she whispered, stuffing a roll of bills into his hand, closing his fingers around the money. His college fund, most likely. “Don't come back,” she said, eyes filling with something Yunho couldn't quite pinpoint. Grief. Guilt, maybe. “Don't ever come back.”

“It wasn't right,” Junsu says in front of him, the shock of his words snapping Yunho back into the present, where the smaller man is too close, eyes too knowing. “They tore you apart, Yunho. And you can't go on with that hole inside.”

“What-how do you know-”

“It's my job to know, Yunho. And I do. I know that you're falling away from everything. I know you're wandering this world alone and it doesn't have to be that way.”

“No,” Yunho blinks, shakes his head. Don't come back. Don't ever come back. “No. Get away from me.” He hands find Junsu's shoulders and he tries to squirm away, to force the other man back but he's strong, too strong for a form so slight. Yunho scrabbles for control, but it eludes him, is tucked safely within Junsu, who apparently has no inclination to give it up. Instead, the smaller man rises onto his toes, looking at Yunho's lips before his mouth follows his eyes and they're pressed together, pillow-soft, slightly dry ghosting over his own. The kiss is like static electricity, a charge that empties Yunho's mind of anything but the way Junsu opens his mouth and asks for permission, slicks Yunho's lips with his tongue and waits until a sigh allows him access. Yunho can't breathe, can't think. He's being entwined with Junsu, the kiss deepening, though the movements stay gentle, caresses and playful motions that echo in his hazy mind, rekindling the drive for pleasure he'd let dry up so long ago. Nails bite into the back of his neck where his hair starts, a bitter jolt of just the right amount of pain that has him gasping, groaning. Junsu smiles against his lips; he feels the pull of the other man's mouth tipping up and growls, fucking growls. It's his turn to dominate now, his turn wrap himself around Junsu and step him backward until his knees hit the couch and they're sitting, Yunho now very, very aware of the other man's state of undress. He's hard, the velvet skin there warm, even through the fabric of Yunho's jeans.

“Please,” Junsu whispers, breaking away, though they're still close enough to breathe one another's air, though Junsu doesn't smell like anything, not shampoo or sweat or cologne, dirt or cold. Yunho leans into his neck, presses close, but still...nothing. Surprise reels him back far enough to look at Junsu, to catch the beauty that is his open, reddened mouth, the yearning in his eyes and the tussled state of his hair. It's also enough to see that something is very, very wrong with the man underneath him. It's easy, at first, to believe it's a trick of the sun that burns around Junsu, that lights him up like a comet as it streaks across the sky, onlookers attaching their wishes to it as it goes. But a canopy of outside sunlight wouldn't spread across the other man this way, wouldn't hide between his fingers, behind burnished onyx irises. The light is coming from inside him, burning just below the surface. Yunho holds flame in his hands, close, someone that isn't human, is the blaze of star shine and consistency of smoke; his fingers slip over the light, marveling as it brightens with his touch, warming the skin.

“What-what are you?” he hears himself, voice quiet, far away, straining, like he's been walking uphill.

“Yunho-”

No. No. He's not-this isn't happening. He isn't kissing a naked stranger who knows far too much about him. He isn't being touched by someone who's started to glow. But he is having trouble breathing, can't quite make his lungs work, and his apartment begins to edge in around him until all he can see is the bathroom and the safety it represents. If he crawls or walks, it doesn't matter because he gets there and locks the door behind him, though it's only a few seconds later that he hears a voice beyond the door, Junsu speaking in quiet tones meant to soothe, to coax him back out, but it's like the tide hitting a sandy shore, sending Yunho into a flurry of motion, opening the cabinet behind the mirror and reaching for the thing that will steady him.

“I'll never hurt you, Yunho.” Junsu tells him through the door, fingers drumming on the thin wood. Yunho just smirks and rolls his sleeve up, leaning against the impersonal cold porcelain of the toilet. He tightens his hand into a fist and bears the razor down in a quick line, waiting for the first rush so the tightening in his chest can stop, so his pulse can draw away from his throat, where it's slowly choking him. But it doesn't come. The pain, the softening of the spike trying to bleed him out from the inside is held back. He tries again, this time harder, and still he's denied the plunge into red-tinged nirvana, a moment of peace where he flies outside his body, free.

One more time. Then another. Another. The razor just keeps coming, slicing, but when Yunho finally looks down at his arm, all he has is clean, scarred skin. No new cuts. Not even the ones he made this morning.

The sound of crying, wretched gasp-sobs and panic-shuddering cries seep in through the door.

“Please,” Junsu is saying. “Please, Yunho, no more.” The other man quiets, but the words don't stop, a barely-there murmur that sounds like a prayer.

Yunho opens the door and the acid in his stomach rises to his throat. The man is on the floor, curled around a pool of blood flowing steadily from his arm, a decimated limb of criss-crossed cuts and gashes so deep they mimic garish smiles.

“What the fuck,” he breathes as the wind goes out of him and he finds himself on his knees, hands reaching to wrap around the wound. Pressure, apply pressure, god it's bleeding so hard.

“Did I-” he can't look at Junsu, can't do anything but squeeze his sticky fingers and hope, fucking pray that he isn't dying. “Did I do this?”

“You would do it to yourself,” Junsu's lips barely move when he speaks. “Why not to another?”

“Because-” Yunho's frantic now because the bleeding just isn't stopping. The truth comes out without his permission, distracting overriding the protection of an easy lie. “No one else deserves it.”

“And you do?”

“I-” He tugs at Junsu, pulls him closer before awkwardly unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it over the other man's arm, wrapping it tight. “I'm wrong. It's-there's too much wrong with me.” To love, he tacks on to the end. I lost the love of my parents over a perversion.

“Your father,” Junsu murmurs, staring into Yunho, his eyes still back lit by that light, “Will die with your name on his lips. You will be his only and biggest regret, and when he realizes that, he'll be forgiven for what he's done.”

“But-”

“You humans, you're all turning with the earth so fast, you forget to live. And You, Yunho. You're so stuck in the black and white that you're letting yourself fade away entirely. Where are your friends? Where is your life?”

“I-I don't want to bring anyone down with me.”

And there it is. He has a lifetime of experience in being told his feelings are bad, wanting another man is a sin and he will pay for it with his soul. It's hard not to believe, after so long, voices shouting so loud. His body remembers the sting of his father's hands, the depthless fury behind eyes that had never looked at him with anything but pride before he told the truth.

“You're not an infection, Yunho.” Junsu's eyes shine too bright, tangled with anger and sorrow. “Love is love in any form and you're giving everything up because of human superstition.”

“What do you know?” Yunho shakes his head, lifts his chin and aims for defiance, though the tremors running through him, shaking the hands that are still latched tight on Junsu's arm show that he's anything but strong. “You could be a figment of my imagination.”

“I could,” Junsu agrees. “But I'm not.”

“Then what are you?” Please. Please be good. Please don't let me down. I can't fall any further.

“I'm a guardian, Yunho. Yours.”

“Like-like an...” He can't form the word. It's not coming out because it makes no sense. None of it makes any sense.

“Shh.” Junsu's good arm reaches up to cover his mouth. “Let me show you.” He pivots so his back faces Yunho, and then something changes. The tattoo begins to shimmer, a moving mirage on Junsu's back, but the image steadily gains depth. The sooty bristles of imaginary paintbrushes touch down on skin and begin to blend, tracing silver-tipped feathers that shift and rustle and then are just there, so close to Yunho, waiting to be touched. But he's covered in blood, fingers sticking now as it dries. He's filthy.

“Touch me, Yunho.”

Shaking hands and hesitation are an effective paralytic, though, so Junsu reaches, grasps, and Yunho finds he's buried up to his elbows in other-worldly softness, the feathers faintly slick and when he moves, when he brings his hand up and down through the layers, down and longer flight feathers, it's like being submerged in water. Everything's just a little heavier, just a little distorted.

Junsu basks under the touch, wings shifting as a low noise resonates in his throat, stretching into Yunho like a cat being stroked. He can't help himself; his hands move lower, wrap around the smaller man's waist so he can bury his face in the wings, breathe in the their early-morning air scent.

“I have one chance, Yunho. One chance to save you.” Junsu doesn't turn, speaks to the floor, his voice wavering only slightly, though it's a tell that might as well be a red flag, loud and clear in front of a white background. “I'm not even supposed to be here, you know that? We're not supposed to intervene.”

“Then-why-”

“Can you trust me, Yunho?” Junsu leans his head back into the crook of Yunho's neck. “Can you try?”

There's no reason for him to. Nothing at all ties him to this man (this angel) who could very well be shadow, ether of his mind's creation. But he wants to, wants to believe in the beauty in front of him, the shock-burst of hope that comes with each brush of Junsu's wings, the way they look spread out and curved around the other man's body. He wants to touch and taste and know this man and forget about his parent's voices, the wrongbadsinner label they've stamped on his forehead, a tattoo only he can see.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes.”

“Come here,” Junsu stands, sliding out of his grip. Yunho's shirt drops away from his arm, revealing nothing out of the ordinary, no deep cuts splitting the surface. He is whole again. Yunho catches him around the wrist and lays his lips there, kissing each spot he'd sliced, replacing the feel of steel with tenderness, though he knows he can't erase the pain he must have caused Junsu.

“Go into the bathroom.” Junsu cups his cheek, wetting his lips before running his thumb over the beauty mark on the cusp of Yunho's mouth.

“Why?”

“Just go, Yunho. You need to see something.” Junsu nudges him forward, and Yunho reaches for the cool handle of a door he doesn't remember closing. And then he steps forward into the small space and almost trips over what Junsu wanted him to see.

Himself. He's draped on the floor, arms out, grasping forward for something they obviously didn't get. He is frozen, brows furrowed, lips stretched into a grimace, all for the last time. This is the last expression he'll ever wear, and it's one of pain, sorrow, mouth ready to call out for help that's never coming. The blood pooled on the floor is drying, his life coagulating on white tile. His eyes, still open, are unseeing and beginning to cloud over white.

“Yunho,” the breath is in his ear, hot like the salted drip of tears as they track down his face. Junsu's got him, is holding him up now. Good. He can't feel his legs. “You cut too deep this morning. You hit an artery and couldn't stop the bleeding.” A droplet hits Yunho's shoulder and trails down his arm, fat and lazy. An angel is crying over him.

“I was with you, Yunho. I was here and I watched as the the light drained from you. And I couldn't do it.”

Yunho's throat clenches, a confused sort of squeak making its way out in place of actual words. He can't look away from his death-gripped form, the chalk of his skin, the glaring cuts so evenly spaced on his wrist.

“Let you go.”

Not worth it, don't understand...

“But you are, Yunho. Don't you get it?” Junsu's yelling now, gripping him tight. “We're not supposed to love our charges but I'm here and I want you. I need to know you the way you should be known.” Junsu steps in front of him, forcing his gaze to hover on the angel's eyes instead of his own corpse. “But I need to ask you a question, alright?” Without waiting for an answer, he goes on, avoiding Yunho's eyes now, gazing at his lips, the curve of his chin instead, like he's trying to memorize the features.

“So I'm asking you, Yunho. Please. Please don't go where I can't follow.” Yunho hears the ragged skid in the angel's voice, but it's not until he stops speaking aloud that he finally gets it.

Love, Yunho. Time and space and eternity don't matter without you. There is no without you. No me without.

Junsu's thoughts are inside him, a wind twisting through the branches of his own busy mind, reaching for each and every pain he has, trying to gloss over it, to breathe it back to life. Each word is a welcome home, hands worshiping inches of skin slowly revealed, the lazy, sensuous play of bodies too comfortable for shame, to heed any crackpot warnings from the outside world.

“Don't let me go.” Don't leave me, he begs with his entirety, holding his hands up to his face to keep the crumpling sobs undercover, the ugly face of his pain hidden away.

“Let me see,” Junsu chides, waving Yunho's hands away before using his lips to wipe the damp sorrow away from his cheeks. “So beautiful.” Perfect.

An angel, a being who can see into Yunho's deep dark, past the easy facade, through to the pain and regret and anger, thinks he's beautiful. He takes a breath, and it feels like the first in years. He bends forward to share it with Junsu, to capture upturned lips and pour himself into a kiss that spreads like whiskey's fire, the tang of black cherry and cold, cold water filtering over his essence. His soul. He fists at the down just behind Junsu's shoulder blades, gasps when he opens his eyes and finds himself surrounded in a cocoon of the wings, a buffer away from the rest of the world. And Junsu...isn't Junsu anymore. He's more nebulous than solid, a luminous mist that hovers in the shape of a person.

It's me, Junsu assures, his words lapping at Yunho's jaw like a cat's tongue as it drinks. And it's you, too. Yunho gazes down at his own form and wonders at its sudden translucence, the absence of a everything but what makes him.

Is-is this...

Your soul.

Junsu steals away any further questions when he slips through Yunho, meshes so they're two but one, a press of togetherness that lays him bare and cast a spotlight on his every doubt, every self-inflicted lash of hatred he's ever known. They're brushed away, though, lifted and forgotten by the feel of love radiating from Junsu, a heady perfume that smells like summer's blooms in the thick of a humid day. There is no wrong here, not with this much emotion directed toward him and the sudden mirroring of it sent back to Junsu. Honesty is easy when it comes to this revelation, when he thinks the words as they become the truth.

I love you.

It feels like Junsu's laughing, the tinkling of old, loud bells, a resonating joy that digs underneath his layers of guilt and exhaustion. Each sound washes over him and there's a tightening in his chest, but not like the panic that used to live there, no, this is what happiness used to feel like, being overwhelmed in a good way until he thinks he might explode, a firework of color and light and joy, big enough to light up the night sky.

***

Yunho wakes from what feels like a dream, the pit of his stomach clenching in despair, throat tight with tears. Loss pushes him down into his mattress, makes the soft blanket tucked under his chin feel like strangulation. It was all just a dream. A beautiful, aching dream. He doesn't want to open his eye, can't face Christmas Day alone after the gift he thought he'd been given.

“Technically,” a sleep-thickened voice near his mouth chimes, “It's still Christmas Eve.”

Yunho opens his eyes. There is a man with wings in his bed. A man with slightly shaggy hair and almost-black eyes and generous lips that Yunho's kissing before he can think to do anything else.

“You brought me back,” he says when they break away. His hands are everywhere on Junsu, stroking hair, the planes of skin he can easily reach, the curve of his cheek and the angle of his jaw. It's too good to be true, too right to be real.

“You let me.”

“And,” he's swallowing hard, trying not to flood his words with the longing that fills him through and through. “You're staying?”

“Let's just say,” Junsu breaks into a wicked smile, “That I'm on loan to a certain human for awhile.”

The End