opaque [two]
changmin/jaejoong.
r.
977 words.
the rest of the day is just as monotone as before, jaejoong curled up in the same position every time you walk through his door. he'd refused to leave his room for the entire day, and you, knowing the consequences of going near him, were unable to do anything about it.
isolation. he prefers to be untouched and left alone, despises human contact and social behavior. the incident, as it's so cleverly named, has left him mute, unspoken for three years. if any were to break through this barrier he's submitted himself to, the result would be disastrous. spasms, seizures, etc.
lying on your bed, you play over the words in your head, discontentment running through your veins as that's all they've allowed you to know of him. the basic facts, enough for you to care for yourself and him. you're slightly unhappy about it. you want to know more, you need to know more. the boy, that young, seventeen year old boy, interests you.
you blink your eyes open a few times, running a hand through your hair, breathing out slowly as you collect yourself. the boy makes you uneasy, anxious-it's only just the first day. you haven't even gotten to know him that well. what? know him? what's there to know? all you're there for is to care for him, bring him food and clothes and any other necessities that relate to his well-being. that is your job. nothing more. you don't need to understand him.
you don't need to understand him.
- - - -
another day comes, you find yourself up and ready a few minutes early, making your way to the lounge for the usual bland oatmeal you get when you're stuck here for a few weeks' time. they won't let you go when you're assigned to the more 'unusual' patients.
walking in, you're greeted with the sight of yoochun, hunched over and flipping through the pages of his notebook, black and white smudges scattered across every page. you wonder how he has the inspiration to write, what with the place they're working in.
the creaking of your chair snaps him from his reverie. he lifts his head up and sends you a half-smile. "hey," he says, short and curt. you roll your eyes at him, knowing he's in one of those modes now. leaning forward, you peer over at the notes hanging upside down in front of you.
"what've you got this time?" you ask, though you know the entire thing's a different language for you, music never being your forte.
"a masterpiece, as usual." he chuckles then, eyes glued to his paper as he notes. "it's a ballad, something heart-wrenching and touching, a really emotional-type piece. changes a few octaves, very broad and..."
you nod, as if everything he's saying is crystal clear to you. you feel sorry for him, knowing his reason for being here is only for the money. the money. yes, just as you are. working a job like this gives you more than enough for yourself and your future. what you want to do, though you're not entirely sure of that yet, is what this is all for. you'd refused to submit yourself to vile acts: sex, prostitution, it disgusts you. you'd never dirty your body in such a way, it's a sin. a cruel, sick pleasure you will never go near, never even taste. this was the best option for you. this is why you've been working here for the past few months now.
you used to hate this place, but you've grown from it. every day has made you more and more curious, wondering of each and every patient you see and what they've become to be thrown into such a hell. this isn't living, what they do, this is death. a slow, painful living death they're unable to escape, though those are the unlucky ones, you note. however those are the ones you've (so far) been so lucky to be chosen to deal with. they are, interesting, though, their erratic, unusual behavior. not the best choice of words, but one, nonetheless. how else could you describe such strange people? sometimes you wonder, how have they become like this? what had been done? what did they do?
you always shake those thoughts from you, they unsettle you, keep you out of your comfort zone. those are the moments when you call family or yoochun or anyone, really. just to get back to humanity, to reality outside of this isolated, undesirable world. there are times where you feel as if you're the patients themselves, suffering in this white-walled, claustrophobic room. a shiver runs through you, and you register the sound of yoochun's voice, bringing you back.
"changmin, changmin," he repeats, his hand on your shoulder and shaking you awake. you open your eyes and look up into his hovering face, frowning at you. "jesus, changmin, sleep more or something, you've got to stop dazing like this. this place already scares the shit out of me, i don't need you to also."
you laugh in reply, "sorry."
"yeah, sorry. of course that's all you've got to say." shaking his head, he extends an arm you gladly use to pull yourself up. he slaps you on the back. "come on, then. back to work."
- - - -
you make your tenth consecutive trip down that same hallway to find a standing jaejoong walking circles around his room. he hadn't heard you come in, surprisingly enough. you close the door then, and watch as his body racks and stops short, the sound inevitably heard this time. his whole body, not facing you, stiffens, shoulders hunched and head bent down, arms hanging loosely against his sides.
you don't know why, but you speak to him. a soft, thrumming word that echoes against the white walls.
"jaejoong." →▬←
well hello and here's a little further information about them. you might want to disregard but also not disregard the previous piece because it's in some ways a future yet beginning chapter of the story and. well. i cannot entirely explain but just read this and try not to question what i'd wrote before. anyway. thank you for reading, yes?
r.
977 words.
the rest of the day is just as monotone as before, jaejoong curled up in the same position every time you walk through his door. he'd refused to leave his room for the entire day, and you, knowing the consequences of going near him, were unable to do anything about it.
isolation. he prefers to be untouched and left alone, despises human contact and social behavior. the incident, as it's so cleverly named, has left him mute, unspoken for three years. if any were to break through this barrier he's submitted himself to, the result would be disastrous. spasms, seizures, etc.
lying on your bed, you play over the words in your head, discontentment running through your veins as that's all they've allowed you to know of him. the basic facts, enough for you to care for yourself and him. you're slightly unhappy about it. you want to know more, you need to know more. the boy, that young, seventeen year old boy, interests you.
you blink your eyes open a few times, running a hand through your hair, breathing out slowly as you collect yourself. the boy makes you uneasy, anxious-it's only just the first day. you haven't even gotten to know him that well. what? know him? what's there to know? all you're there for is to care for him, bring him food and clothes and any other necessities that relate to his well-being. that is your job. nothing more. you don't need to understand him.
you don't need to understand him.
- - - -
another day comes, you find yourself up and ready a few minutes early, making your way to the lounge for the usual bland oatmeal you get when you're stuck here for a few weeks' time. they won't let you go when you're assigned to the more 'unusual' patients.
walking in, you're greeted with the sight of yoochun, hunched over and flipping through the pages of his notebook, black and white smudges scattered across every page. you wonder how he has the inspiration to write, what with the place they're working in.
the creaking of your chair snaps him from his reverie. he lifts his head up and sends you a half-smile. "hey," he says, short and curt. you roll your eyes at him, knowing he's in one of those modes now. leaning forward, you peer over at the notes hanging upside down in front of you.
"what've you got this time?" you ask, though you know the entire thing's a different language for you, music never being your forte.
"a masterpiece, as usual." he chuckles then, eyes glued to his paper as he notes. "it's a ballad, something heart-wrenching and touching, a really emotional-type piece. changes a few octaves, very broad and..."
you nod, as if everything he's saying is crystal clear to you. you feel sorry for him, knowing his reason for being here is only for the money. the money. yes, just as you are. working a job like this gives you more than enough for yourself and your future. what you want to do, though you're not entirely sure of that yet, is what this is all for. you'd refused to submit yourself to vile acts: sex, prostitution, it disgusts you. you'd never dirty your body in such a way, it's a sin. a cruel, sick pleasure you will never go near, never even taste. this was the best option for you. this is why you've been working here for the past few months now.
you used to hate this place, but you've grown from it. every day has made you more and more curious, wondering of each and every patient you see and what they've become to be thrown into such a hell. this isn't living, what they do, this is death. a slow, painful living death they're unable to escape, though those are the unlucky ones, you note. however those are the ones you've (so far) been so lucky to be chosen to deal with. they are, interesting, though, their erratic, unusual behavior. not the best choice of words, but one, nonetheless. how else could you describe such strange people? sometimes you wonder, how have they become like this? what had been done? what did they do?
you always shake those thoughts from you, they unsettle you, keep you out of your comfort zone. those are the moments when you call family or yoochun or anyone, really. just to get back to humanity, to reality outside of this isolated, undesirable world. there are times where you feel as if you're the patients themselves, suffering in this white-walled, claustrophobic room. a shiver runs through you, and you register the sound of yoochun's voice, bringing you back.
"changmin, changmin," he repeats, his hand on your shoulder and shaking you awake. you open your eyes and look up into his hovering face, frowning at you. "jesus, changmin, sleep more or something, you've got to stop dazing like this. this place already scares the shit out of me, i don't need you to also."
you laugh in reply, "sorry."
"yeah, sorry. of course that's all you've got to say." shaking his head, he extends an arm you gladly use to pull yourself up. he slaps you on the back. "come on, then. back to work."
- - - -
you make your tenth consecutive trip down that same hallway to find a standing jaejoong walking circles around his room. he hadn't heard you come in, surprisingly enough. you close the door then, and watch as his body racks and stops short, the sound inevitably heard this time. his whole body, not facing you, stiffens, shoulders hunched and head bent down, arms hanging loosely against his sides.
you don't know why, but you speak to him. a soft, thrumming word that echoes against the white walls.
"jaejoong." →▬←
well hello and here's a little further information about them. you might want to disregard but also not disregard the previous piece because it's in some ways a future yet beginning chapter of the story and. well. i cannot entirely explain but just read this and try not to question what i'd wrote before. anyway. thank you for reading, yes?