super junior
Title: Static
Pairing: Donghae/Hankyung
Word Count: 1320
Notes: First post? And... first thing I've written for about a year. Sorry for the lack of closure.
I. Backstage, he was always quiet, shy, only talking when called upon, stumbling a bit over his words. At home, he wasn’t much different. And with you, he never spoke much, either. In truth, when the two of you were alone together, few words ever passed between you. Mostly all you would hear were gasps, maybe moans, all soft and hushed, and sometimes your name accompanied by a bashful smile. He was always less daring, more wary of being discovered. He was cautious.
II. He is pacing your room, livid, the words spilling out of his mouth like he can’t control them. Calm down, you say, let’s talk this over. He ignores you, continues on in his tirade. Please, you say, the word foreign on your tongue, unfamiliar on your lips, can’t we make this work? He stops talking, yanks open the door, throws you a glance over his shoulder, a glance full of hatred and anguish and you don’t know what else, then leaves the room. The door slams shut behind him. Your only thought is that you never knew he had so much to say.
III. You turn on the radio to the sound of static, faint melodies cutting in and out. You feel like your life makes just a little more sense. People are outside your room, pounding on your door, yelling, begging. Open the door, please, how long have you been in there already?, come on, open up. You think that you hear a voice, a familiar voice, saying softly, I’m sorry…, but it must be your imagination. You do not understand, you do not open the door. No lights are on; you’ve grown used to the dark. You listen to the static some more, and think that it sounds like the airwaves are being attacked. This thought makes you giggle, and you continue to giggle, a bit madly, until you fall asleep. The sound of static is comforting, you decide.
IV. They tempt you with sundaes, chocolate and candied apples, marshmallows, coke floats and fuzzy peaches. Come out, they say, this isn’t good for you. What they don’t offer you is probably what you need the most. Pillows, you think, if you had lots and lots of pillows, you would never get hurt again. That’s what you need, lots and lots of pillows. You wait until you hear them leaving, hear the front door slam. You open your door and look out. It is bright. You are not used to the light. I’m almost a ghost, you say aloud. You like the way it sounds, your voice echoing in the empty hallway. You retreat. Your room is still safest.
V. They are outside your room again, pounding on the door, demanding to be let in. Did you take all our pillows?, somebody says. He sounds angry. You pad across the floor, soft and white and cushy with pillows, and put your ear up against the door. They’re speaking, but not to you. They’re talking amongst themselves. They sound confused, worried, a little impatient, maybe annoyed. Look, we can’t just let him stay in there forever, someone says. I want my pillow back, somebody else whines. Shut up, somebody hisses. This is followed by a dull smacking noise. You move back to your bed, away from the door, disappointed yet glad that nobody is breaking down the door to drag you out. That would be exciting, you think, but dangerous as well. It’s dangerous out there. There are no pillows.
VI. You are pulling your T-shirt apart, one thread at a time. It unravels easily. I do not have your pillows, you announce to the growing pile of orange threads by your feet. A green dragon came and took them, you say. Maybe he got tired of his hard, bumpy cave, you say. There is no reply, and you almost wish there were people outside your door, talking to you and offering you pudding and strawberries and cupcakes and whipped cream, just because it would be a change. Nobody comes. You think you hear a car crash and people screaming outside, but you aren’t sure about anything, anymore.
VII. When you wake up there is a blue slipper beside your head. You eye this unfamiliar slipper and prod it once or twice, thinking it is rather like the magic glass slipper-shoe thing from that one fairytale whose name you can never remember. Hello, Slipper, you say, with a capital on the first letter, who do you belong to? Slipper, you say again, did somebody leave you behind? You smile your goofiest smile, close your eyes, and go back to sleep. When you look again, the slipper is gone, but your pillows show no sign of having been disturbed. Maybe he is a ghost, you think, or maybe he is an angel with wings.
VIII. You are watching the bees and the butterflies, watching them fly, the colors of their bodies a brilliant contrast against the blue summer sky. You wish you still felt like you could fly. You did once, you remember. You wish that feeling had never gone away. It felt nice, you remember. There is a pile of marshmallows beside you, all wrapped in shiny cellophane wrappers. You tear one open. Hello, Marshmallow, you say. Then you eat it. You chew and then you frown because it tastes funny, and then you swallow and then you frown again when it leaves your mouth tasting sour in the bad way, and not in the happy way of sour oranges and lemonade. You reach for a pillow because you are in need of comforting, but there are no pillows anywhere in your room. Where did my all my pillows go?, you muse. You have a nagging feeling that you should know, but you don’t because you can’t remember.
IX. It is dark and only the nightlight in the hallway is on, and only now do you realize that maybe going out to steal pillows while everybody is asleep is not the best idea, but oh well, too late. You are sneaking down the hallway and you accidentally step on the creaky floorboard, and it is loud. Shh, you say, making your best face of disapproval, and continue making your way in the dim light. You are careful to step over all the other squeaky spots. You didn’t spend all of yesterday memorizing them for nothing. You walk from room to room, opening doors, lifting up people’s heads and stealing their pillows, and happily, none of them wake up. Some of them talk in their sleep and some of them clutch at you a bit desperately, but they are all asleep for sure. You are relieved that you won’t be caught outside of your room.
X. You are returning to your room, holding your stack of pillows, your gigantic stack of pillows so tall that you can’t see over them, when you bump into somebody. Ow, you say. That hurt, you say. You have dropped all the pillows and they are lying scattered on the floor, messy and all over the place. You bend down and try to pick them all up, but there are too many and you decide to just kick them into your room instead, only somebody is standing in your doorway. Excuse me, you say. You’re in my way, you say. You don’t look up to see who it is. He moves aside, and you start to kick, throw, shovel and drag pillows into your room. You intend to make the floor white and soft and puffy again. You liked it that way. He coughs and you look up, meaning to offer him some medicine or maybe some marshmallows. Instead, you drop all the pillows you are holding. And you stare. I know you, you say. You made me drop my pillows twice, you say accusingly. I’m sorry, he says, his voice strangled like he has something caught in his throat, I’m sorry.
Pairing: Donghae/Hankyung
Word Count: 1320
Notes: First post? And... first thing I've written for about a year. Sorry for the lack of closure.
I. Backstage, he was always quiet, shy, only talking when called upon, stumbling a bit over his words. At home, he wasn’t much different. And with you, he never spoke much, either. In truth, when the two of you were alone together, few words ever passed between you. Mostly all you would hear were gasps, maybe moans, all soft and hushed, and sometimes your name accompanied by a bashful smile. He was always less daring, more wary of being discovered. He was cautious.
II. He is pacing your room, livid, the words spilling out of his mouth like he can’t control them. Calm down, you say, let’s talk this over. He ignores you, continues on in his tirade. Please, you say, the word foreign on your tongue, unfamiliar on your lips, can’t we make this work? He stops talking, yanks open the door, throws you a glance over his shoulder, a glance full of hatred and anguish and you don’t know what else, then leaves the room. The door slams shut behind him. Your only thought is that you never knew he had so much to say.
III. You turn on the radio to the sound of static, faint melodies cutting in and out. You feel like your life makes just a little more sense. People are outside your room, pounding on your door, yelling, begging. Open the door, please, how long have you been in there already?, come on, open up. You think that you hear a voice, a familiar voice, saying softly, I’m sorry…, but it must be your imagination. You do not understand, you do not open the door. No lights are on; you’ve grown used to the dark. You listen to the static some more, and think that it sounds like the airwaves are being attacked. This thought makes you giggle, and you continue to giggle, a bit madly, until you fall asleep. The sound of static is comforting, you decide.
IV. They tempt you with sundaes, chocolate and candied apples, marshmallows, coke floats and fuzzy peaches. Come out, they say, this isn’t good for you. What they don’t offer you is probably what you need the most. Pillows, you think, if you had lots and lots of pillows, you would never get hurt again. That’s what you need, lots and lots of pillows. You wait until you hear them leaving, hear the front door slam. You open your door and look out. It is bright. You are not used to the light. I’m almost a ghost, you say aloud. You like the way it sounds, your voice echoing in the empty hallway. You retreat. Your room is still safest.
V. They are outside your room again, pounding on the door, demanding to be let in. Did you take all our pillows?, somebody says. He sounds angry. You pad across the floor, soft and white and cushy with pillows, and put your ear up against the door. They’re speaking, but not to you. They’re talking amongst themselves. They sound confused, worried, a little impatient, maybe annoyed. Look, we can’t just let him stay in there forever, someone says. I want my pillow back, somebody else whines. Shut up, somebody hisses. This is followed by a dull smacking noise. You move back to your bed, away from the door, disappointed yet glad that nobody is breaking down the door to drag you out. That would be exciting, you think, but dangerous as well. It’s dangerous out there. There are no pillows.
VI. You are pulling your T-shirt apart, one thread at a time. It unravels easily. I do not have your pillows, you announce to the growing pile of orange threads by your feet. A green dragon came and took them, you say. Maybe he got tired of his hard, bumpy cave, you say. There is no reply, and you almost wish there were people outside your door, talking to you and offering you pudding and strawberries and cupcakes and whipped cream, just because it would be a change. Nobody comes. You think you hear a car crash and people screaming outside, but you aren’t sure about anything, anymore.
VII. When you wake up there is a blue slipper beside your head. You eye this unfamiliar slipper and prod it once or twice, thinking it is rather like the magic glass slipper-shoe thing from that one fairytale whose name you can never remember. Hello, Slipper, you say, with a capital on the first letter, who do you belong to? Slipper, you say again, did somebody leave you behind? You smile your goofiest smile, close your eyes, and go back to sleep. When you look again, the slipper is gone, but your pillows show no sign of having been disturbed. Maybe he is a ghost, you think, or maybe he is an angel with wings.
VIII. You are watching the bees and the butterflies, watching them fly, the colors of their bodies a brilliant contrast against the blue summer sky. You wish you still felt like you could fly. You did once, you remember. You wish that feeling had never gone away. It felt nice, you remember. There is a pile of marshmallows beside you, all wrapped in shiny cellophane wrappers. You tear one open. Hello, Marshmallow, you say. Then you eat it. You chew and then you frown because it tastes funny, and then you swallow and then you frown again when it leaves your mouth tasting sour in the bad way, and not in the happy way of sour oranges and lemonade. You reach for a pillow because you are in need of comforting, but there are no pillows anywhere in your room. Where did my all my pillows go?, you muse. You have a nagging feeling that you should know, but you don’t because you can’t remember.
IX. It is dark and only the nightlight in the hallway is on, and only now do you realize that maybe going out to steal pillows while everybody is asleep is not the best idea, but oh well, too late. You are sneaking down the hallway and you accidentally step on the creaky floorboard, and it is loud. Shh, you say, making your best face of disapproval, and continue making your way in the dim light. You are careful to step over all the other squeaky spots. You didn’t spend all of yesterday memorizing them for nothing. You walk from room to room, opening doors, lifting up people’s heads and stealing their pillows, and happily, none of them wake up. Some of them talk in their sleep and some of them clutch at you a bit desperately, but they are all asleep for sure. You are relieved that you won’t be caught outside of your room.
X. You are returning to your room, holding your stack of pillows, your gigantic stack of pillows so tall that you can’t see over them, when you bump into somebody. Ow, you say. That hurt, you say. You have dropped all the pillows and they are lying scattered on the floor, messy and all over the place. You bend down and try to pick them all up, but there are too many and you decide to just kick them into your room instead, only somebody is standing in your doorway. Excuse me, you say. You’re in my way, you say. You don’t look up to see who it is. He moves aside, and you start to kick, throw, shovel and drag pillows into your room. You intend to make the floor white and soft and puffy again. You liked it that way. He coughs and you look up, meaning to offer him some medicine or maybe some marshmallows. Instead, you drop all the pillows you are holding. And you stare. I know you, you say. You made me drop my pillows twice, you say accusingly. I’m sorry, he says, his voice strangled like he has something caught in his throat, I’m sorry.