tvxq: y-junction
y-junction
yoochun/jaejoong. 1,294w.
Rule #2: don't be a fool.
It's been raining for the past week. Yoochun's hair is plastered to his skull, sticking to his face and the back of his neck. Their umbrella is open and useless. Jaejoong's hand slip-slides around his wrist, pulling him down flooded sidewalks. When they duck inside the studio building, Yoochun collapses against the door, coughing, drenched. Beside him, Jaejoong presses his forehead to the glass, clothes dark with water and dripping onto the tiled floor. Lightning catches in his eyes. "Wow," Jaejoong says, fogging the glass, and reaches his fingers against the door like if he presses close enough, he can sink right through.
"Yeah," Yoochun agrees, and shoves his hair back out of his face. Honestly, he's watching Jaejoong more than the rain, and Jaejoong barely has time to turn before Yoochun is wrapping their arms together, digging wet fingers into Jaejoong's sides until Jaejoong leans against him in the middle of the doorway, laughing through his weak counter-attacks. When they finally make it to the office, Yoochun's hair has already started to frizz and dry.
Afterwards, Yoochun realizes he keeps touching his own chest, as if wondering when Jaejoong gouged through his ribcage and stretched rain-slick fingers around what he found there. If Yoochun wakes up sometimes with his hands folded across his heart like a prayer, he doesn't remember the implications.
Rule #4: open your door.
Jaejoong has formed an attachment to roofs. It's an escapism thing, Yoochun recognizes. There's a freedom to high places and their absent sense of time. He doesn't disappear as much lately, since the air is too thick during the summer, but no one's really surprised anymore if they turn to find only an empty space.
The breaks interrupting practice are ten minutes long. Yoochun climbs the stairwell two steps at a time. Jaejoong's already there, elbows braced on the metal railing and head bent towards the ground, a cigarette between his teeth. The line of his back is bold and heavy against a sky still marble-pale from recent storms. Yoochun slides up behind him, sneaking hands over Jaejoong's eyes. "Guess who," he singsongs.
"Asshole," Jaejoong says, after jumping from the sudden touch.
"Wrong answer--ow."
Jaejoong withdraws his elbow smugly. Yoochun rubs his ribs.
With Jaejoong's palm on his back for support, Yoochun sits on the top rail, gripping carefully, his back to the jeer of traffic below. From here, the sidewalks look like peels of graffiti. Yoochun's eyes drift outwards, then back down to Jaejoong. "You look tired."
"Take care of yourself first," Jaejoong says, the back of his hand covering his mouth as he dips his head to hide a yawn. Yoochun watches Jaejoong's face disappear behind his hair and thinks of leafs before winter, how they curl in on themselves, but when Jaejoong's eyes reappear, they're clear even through the smoke. "You're wearing my shirt," he adds.
Jaejoong pushes off the rails, meshing his fingers together, stretching. Yoochun is seconds from an excuse, before Jaejoong's cigarette finds his lips.
"Keep it. I'm wearing yours," Jaejoong continues, and taps his wrist, the face of an imaginary watch. "Don't stay up too long." When he leaves, he takes the stairs two at a time. The familiarity makes Yoochun's throat feel thick. He breathes in on instinct and it almost burns, being left on an empty roof and trying to think through the smell of smoke and summer and Jaejoong's shirt sticking to his skin in the heat.
Rule #6: don't be pricks.
They fight sometimes, over stupid things. You're not getting enough sleep, Jaejoong says, and Yoochun asks, What about you? Jaejoong says, That's not the same, and Yoochun gets angry, gets worried, tells him: I don't need a babysitter, Jaejoong, and wants to slam a fist into the wall afterwards.
Jaejoong's eyes focus past Yoochun's face and he says, Fine. Fine, I don't care.
Yoochun circles the apartment, raids the fridge without eating anything, avoids Yunho's concern. He goes through old composition drafts and stares at the ceiling above the couch for minutes, hours, until it's late and the light in their room is still on. Yoochun leans against the wall and counts to ten.
"Jaejoong," he says, and skims his knuckles softly against the door.
The response is silence. Neither of them has ever been good at fixing things. When the door opens, Jaejoong is in sweatpants, nudging his headphones down so that they're draped around his neck. It's a reach for normality. Yoochun tries on an apology in his smile. "Hey," he says, and in the full pause, Jaejoong suddenly, finally un-tenses.
"Hey," he replies, and leans his forehead against Yoochun's shoulder, like whatever that's been holding him together has fallen apart all at once.
Later, Yoochun adds, "I was lying," as he plays with Jaejoong's hair unthinkingly, sharing his bed, "the thing about babysitters - because I do, sometimes. I mean, me needing--"
What he wants to say is you, but Jaejoong interrupts, "it's okay, Yoochun," and falls asleep.
Rule #9: just take your time.
"I think I'm in love," Jaejoong says. He sits with his back to Yoochun's shoulder, studying his half-empty can of beer - one leg pulled up to his chest, an arm draped over his knee, the other leg hanging off the side of the bed. "I mean," he continues, "maybe. I don't know. Is that weird?"
City nightscape slips in through open windows. It's cool, humid outside, and Jaejoong's elbow keeps pushing against Yoochun. The stale lamplight bloats the shadows on the opposite wall, a single dark shape like they've melted together, spine to spine. Yoochun stays still. "What's weird?"
"Not knowing what you're feeling." Jaejoong leans back and rubs his eyes with the back of his palm. His head knocks into Yoochun's, restless and accidental. "I think I'm drunk."
"We still have filming in the morning," Yoochun reminds him.
"It is morning." Jaejoong rises to his knees, the mattress dipping under his weight. He brings the beer to his mouth, finishes it, and aims for the trash; the can hits the edge and falls to the floor instead. "I'm really bad at this," Jaejoong says, breathing out.
Yoochun moves to turn off the light.
Rule #1: Carpe Diem.
An hour in, Yoochun is shaken awake by the bus. His MP3 player is still on, playing a low, silky song that he doesn't immediately recognize. Across the aisle, Changmin stirs drowsily, curled into a loose ball that occupies both seats, his head resting against the window. Outside is an endless shape of empty, unfamiliar streets. They still have some time left.
Jaejoong sits one or two rows behind, staring out the window. Yoochun leans forward against the back of his seat, watching from over the inside of his elbow. When the bus rolls to a stop at an intersection, he rises and maneuvers past Changmin's feet jutting carelessly into the aisle. Jaejoong looks up as Yoochun slides into the seat next to him.
"You're awake," he says.
"You too." Yoochun shares his headphones. "Hanging in there?"
"I'll probably just pass out once we get to the hotel."
"Zombie."
Jaejoong smiles. Their knees bump when the bus starts again. Conversation lulls. There are butterflies in Yoochun's throat; he swallows them down, feeling jumpy and nervous and a little off-center. "Hey," he says after a while, "don't move, okay?"
Yoochun kisses close-mouthed and careful, holding a palm to Jaejoong's heart like he's still wondering. His entire body is warm and desperately solid. Jaejoong opens under Yoochun's mouth, and it's dizzy, electric, like they're in the rain again, on rooftops, in the dark, like Yoochun is finally feeling the weight on his fingertips and how he's always been able to reach in.
yoochun/jaejoong. 1,294w.
Rule #2: don't be a fool.
It's been raining for the past week. Yoochun's hair is plastered to his skull, sticking to his face and the back of his neck. Their umbrella is open and useless. Jaejoong's hand slip-slides around his wrist, pulling him down flooded sidewalks. When they duck inside the studio building, Yoochun collapses against the door, coughing, drenched. Beside him, Jaejoong presses his forehead to the glass, clothes dark with water and dripping onto the tiled floor. Lightning catches in his eyes. "Wow," Jaejoong says, fogging the glass, and reaches his fingers against the door like if he presses close enough, he can sink right through.
"Yeah," Yoochun agrees, and shoves his hair back out of his face. Honestly, he's watching Jaejoong more than the rain, and Jaejoong barely has time to turn before Yoochun is wrapping their arms together, digging wet fingers into Jaejoong's sides until Jaejoong leans against him in the middle of the doorway, laughing through his weak counter-attacks. When they finally make it to the office, Yoochun's hair has already started to frizz and dry.
Afterwards, Yoochun realizes he keeps touching his own chest, as if wondering when Jaejoong gouged through his ribcage and stretched rain-slick fingers around what he found there. If Yoochun wakes up sometimes with his hands folded across his heart like a prayer, he doesn't remember the implications.
Rule #4: open your door.
Jaejoong has formed an attachment to roofs. It's an escapism thing, Yoochun recognizes. There's a freedom to high places and their absent sense of time. He doesn't disappear as much lately, since the air is too thick during the summer, but no one's really surprised anymore if they turn to find only an empty space.
The breaks interrupting practice are ten minutes long. Yoochun climbs the stairwell two steps at a time. Jaejoong's already there, elbows braced on the metal railing and head bent towards the ground, a cigarette between his teeth. The line of his back is bold and heavy against a sky still marble-pale from recent storms. Yoochun slides up behind him, sneaking hands over Jaejoong's eyes. "Guess who," he singsongs.
"Asshole," Jaejoong says, after jumping from the sudden touch.
"Wrong answer--ow."
Jaejoong withdraws his elbow smugly. Yoochun rubs his ribs.
With Jaejoong's palm on his back for support, Yoochun sits on the top rail, gripping carefully, his back to the jeer of traffic below. From here, the sidewalks look like peels of graffiti. Yoochun's eyes drift outwards, then back down to Jaejoong. "You look tired."
"Take care of yourself first," Jaejoong says, the back of his hand covering his mouth as he dips his head to hide a yawn. Yoochun watches Jaejoong's face disappear behind his hair and thinks of leafs before winter, how they curl in on themselves, but when Jaejoong's eyes reappear, they're clear even through the smoke. "You're wearing my shirt," he adds.
Jaejoong pushes off the rails, meshing his fingers together, stretching. Yoochun is seconds from an excuse, before Jaejoong's cigarette finds his lips.
"Keep it. I'm wearing yours," Jaejoong continues, and taps his wrist, the face of an imaginary watch. "Don't stay up too long." When he leaves, he takes the stairs two at a time. The familiarity makes Yoochun's throat feel thick. He breathes in on instinct and it almost burns, being left on an empty roof and trying to think through the smell of smoke and summer and Jaejoong's shirt sticking to his skin in the heat.
Rule #6: don't be pricks.
They fight sometimes, over stupid things. You're not getting enough sleep, Jaejoong says, and Yoochun asks, What about you? Jaejoong says, That's not the same, and Yoochun gets angry, gets worried, tells him: I don't need a babysitter, Jaejoong, and wants to slam a fist into the wall afterwards.
Jaejoong's eyes focus past Yoochun's face and he says, Fine. Fine, I don't care.
Yoochun circles the apartment, raids the fridge without eating anything, avoids Yunho's concern. He goes through old composition drafts and stares at the ceiling above the couch for minutes, hours, until it's late and the light in their room is still on. Yoochun leans against the wall and counts to ten.
"Jaejoong," he says, and skims his knuckles softly against the door.
The response is silence. Neither of them has ever been good at fixing things. When the door opens, Jaejoong is in sweatpants, nudging his headphones down so that they're draped around his neck. It's a reach for normality. Yoochun tries on an apology in his smile. "Hey," he says, and in the full pause, Jaejoong suddenly, finally un-tenses.
"Hey," he replies, and leans his forehead against Yoochun's shoulder, like whatever that's been holding him together has fallen apart all at once.
Later, Yoochun adds, "I was lying," as he plays with Jaejoong's hair unthinkingly, sharing his bed, "the thing about babysitters - because I do, sometimes. I mean, me needing--"
What he wants to say is you, but Jaejoong interrupts, "it's okay, Yoochun," and falls asleep.
Rule #9: just take your time.
"I think I'm in love," Jaejoong says. He sits with his back to Yoochun's shoulder, studying his half-empty can of beer - one leg pulled up to his chest, an arm draped over his knee, the other leg hanging off the side of the bed. "I mean," he continues, "maybe. I don't know. Is that weird?"
City nightscape slips in through open windows. It's cool, humid outside, and Jaejoong's elbow keeps pushing against Yoochun. The stale lamplight bloats the shadows on the opposite wall, a single dark shape like they've melted together, spine to spine. Yoochun stays still. "What's weird?"
"Not knowing what you're feeling." Jaejoong leans back and rubs his eyes with the back of his palm. His head knocks into Yoochun's, restless and accidental. "I think I'm drunk."
"We still have filming in the morning," Yoochun reminds him.
"It is morning." Jaejoong rises to his knees, the mattress dipping under his weight. He brings the beer to his mouth, finishes it, and aims for the trash; the can hits the edge and falls to the floor instead. "I'm really bad at this," Jaejoong says, breathing out.
Yoochun moves to turn off the light.
Rule #1: Carpe Diem.
An hour in, Yoochun is shaken awake by the bus. His MP3 player is still on, playing a low, silky song that he doesn't immediately recognize. Across the aisle, Changmin stirs drowsily, curled into a loose ball that occupies both seats, his head resting against the window. Outside is an endless shape of empty, unfamiliar streets. They still have some time left.
Jaejoong sits one or two rows behind, staring out the window. Yoochun leans forward against the back of his seat, watching from over the inside of his elbow. When the bus rolls to a stop at an intersection, he rises and maneuvers past Changmin's feet jutting carelessly into the aisle. Jaejoong looks up as Yoochun slides into the seat next to him.
"You're awake," he says.
"You too." Yoochun shares his headphones. "Hanging in there?"
"I'll probably just pass out once we get to the hotel."
"Zombie."
Jaejoong smiles. Their knees bump when the bus starts again. Conversation lulls. There are butterflies in Yoochun's throat; he swallows them down, feeling jumpy and nervous and a little off-center. "Hey," he says after a while, "don't move, okay?"
Yoochun kisses close-mouthed and careful, holding a palm to Jaejoong's heart like he's still wondering. His entire body is warm and desperately solid. Jaejoong opens under Yoochun's mouth, and it's dizzy, electric, like they're in the rain again, on rooftops, in the dark, like Yoochun is finally feeling the weight on his fingertips and how he's always been able to reach in.