tvxq: points for honesty
points for honesty
jaejoong/changmin. 1,123w.
five times he doesn’t fall in love
1.
He meets Jaejoong in a stairwell, self-conscious and sixteen, a victim of mutual inelegance. Changmin bows his head as he apologizes and catches a glimpse of Jaejoong’s orange shoelaces. In five minutes, they trip into and out of each other’s lives. It’s a minor enough encounter that Changmin forgets it with little regret, and only two months later does he remember the grip steadying his shoulder, or the embarrassed, sidetracked smile.
This is the second time they meet, when Changmin still has the startling, magic word for debut running through his brain. He smiles back automatically and says, I look forward to working with you.
Even later, they fill a studio with the exhaustion of beginners. Yunho disappeared five minutes ago for vending machine coffee; Junsu has drifted off in the corner, his head in his arms; Yoochun is the last one recording. Jaejoong becomes quiet company when it’s this late, headphones slung on, sweatshirt hood pulled down over his eyes. He has a habit of disappearing sometimes, the way he does on their un-broadcasted stages when the spotlights wash him out. Changmin still doesn’t know where he goes. He wonders what it’d take to shake Jaejoong out, what it’d be like to hold his hands and pull him into focus. Jaejoong’s reflection flickers in the window, painted over Seoul nightlife three stories below.
It’s snowing when they leave. Yunho carries Junsu, half-awake, on his back, and Yoochun is slow behind them with a cigarette burning between his fingers. Jaejoong runs ahead down the wet sidewalks with his arms out for balance, the thin ice cracking under his feet. The streetlamps give him a sickly yellow glow and light his snow-freckled hair into wings. Changmin breathes out December air into his cupped hands, navigating down the rain-frozen streets until he finds Jaejoong again, next to a stop sign. Jaejoong throws his scarf around Changmin’s neck and they sit together on the curb until they have to leave, Jaejoong’s face tilted towards the black sky. He lays their hands together, flat on his knee with palms outstretched and catching water. Changmin can barely see anything outside the snow thawing Jaejoong’s eyes - moonlit, alive and here. He flexes his fingers inward between Jaejoong’s and mouths into the dark: it’s nice to meet you.
2.
It’s their first award.
There’s nothing beyond the stage except a flood of red balloons. When Jaejoong reaches out, Changmin falls into him without thinking, hiding his face against Jaejoong’s shoulder. “Crybaby,” Jaejoong says, outside the range of microphones, and lets him.
3.
Jaejoong discovers by accident how ticklish Changmin is. The rest of the week becomes a series of ambushes that finally ends with both of them on the floor in a collision of limbs. Changmin’s hair is in his face; his skin is tingling and warm. Jaejoong leans over him smugly, exploiting his new power. “Surrender?”
“I’m going to rip off your fingers,” Changmin squirms, “and make you eat them-”
Jaejoong’s hands linger. Changmin is brave from the lack of air. The couple of seconds when the world stops at the walls of their apartment, allowing Changmin to brushes his lips against Jaejoong’s jaw, are a weak memory later. If Jaejoong feels it at all, it’s forgotten once he digs his fingers into Changmin’s armpits for round two.
4.
The shoot takes up most of the day. Changmin studies in between long sessions with the camera, though Junsu lures him away a few times with his solemn attempts at palmistry. High vitality, he says, peering at the shallow grooves of Changmin’s hand. Practical thinker. Amateur in love. I see five beautiful children in your future.
You’re making this up, Changmin says.
Junsu admits: Sorry, your kids will be ugly and fat.
Jaejoong’s individual shoot gets scheduled for last. By then Changmin has fallen asleep on one of the couches off-set. When he wakes up, it’s with his arm trapped between his textbooks and the cushions, his whole body sore and half-stuck in dreams. Jaejoong is waving his hand centimeters from Changmin’s face. He’s back in his street clothes but Changmin can still smell the leftover hair product and makeup remover. “Finished?” he asks.
Jaejoong sits, careful with his knee. He’s been off crutches for a month. “You didn’t tell me you were going to wait.”
“I meant to leave earlier with Yunho.”
“He probably didn’t want to wake you.” All the promotion fucks with their circadian rhythms, and Yunho is generous whenever there’s the chance. But Changmin can feel his need for rest already being swallowed under the drum of Jaejoong’s hand against his thigh (there’s a case study in Jaejoong’s eyes, as if the pattern of Changmin’s heart has been laid out for dissection). “It’s because you look so young when you sleep,” Jaejoong continues.
Changmin says, lightly, annoyed at his own age, “Those two long years between us.”
“No, I mean.” Changmin should have learned to read between the lines by now. Jaejoong doesn’t think things through enough, but at the same time nothing about him is accidental: the idling of his fingers, how he bites his lip in thought. “You’ve really grown up,” Jaejoong finishes, and pulls him up from the couch before Changmin can try to shed the nerves pushed up into his throat. Practical thinker, he recalls. Amateur in love.
5.
Changmin gets his first kiss at age eighteen, with one of Jaejoong’s hands on his wrist, keeping him there, the other curled at the base of his neck. They’re in the empty hallway, it’s six in the morning, and Jaejoong is wet from his shower, hair dripping water down his throat (it’s shock-blond, and the color of it stays behind Changmin’s eyelids). In five minutes, the rest of the apartment will wake up; in an hour, they’ll slip into their professional bold-lighted names; everything had already stopped mattering the moment Jaejoong said, “Good morning,” against his mouth. Jaejoong tastes like toothpaste and smells like body wash, warm and awake and human. His thumb rubbing circles around Changmin’s pulse isn’t asking for confessions, revelations. Changmin eases into it. It’s as much reassurance as either of them needs.
(There is a word for this. When Jaejoong kisses him in the bathroom during rehearsal breaks; when Jaejoong sings with him; when Jaejoong draws stars, messages, and then an elephant on his arm after he falls asleep in the van. Changmin hasn’t invested in any happy endings, but he still has the idea of it waiting on the back of his tongue for a clumsy enunciation. He thinks, someday he is going to say something really irrational and stupid, and he isn’t going to regret it at all.)
jaejoong/changmin. 1,123w.
five times he doesn’t fall in love
1.
He meets Jaejoong in a stairwell, self-conscious and sixteen, a victim of mutual inelegance. Changmin bows his head as he apologizes and catches a glimpse of Jaejoong’s orange shoelaces. In five minutes, they trip into and out of each other’s lives. It’s a minor enough encounter that Changmin forgets it with little regret, and only two months later does he remember the grip steadying his shoulder, or the embarrassed, sidetracked smile.
This is the second time they meet, when Changmin still has the startling, magic word for debut running through his brain. He smiles back automatically and says, I look forward to working with you.
Even later, they fill a studio with the exhaustion of beginners. Yunho disappeared five minutes ago for vending machine coffee; Junsu has drifted off in the corner, his head in his arms; Yoochun is the last one recording. Jaejoong becomes quiet company when it’s this late, headphones slung on, sweatshirt hood pulled down over his eyes. He has a habit of disappearing sometimes, the way he does on their un-broadcasted stages when the spotlights wash him out. Changmin still doesn’t know where he goes. He wonders what it’d take to shake Jaejoong out, what it’d be like to hold his hands and pull him into focus. Jaejoong’s reflection flickers in the window, painted over Seoul nightlife three stories below.
It’s snowing when they leave. Yunho carries Junsu, half-awake, on his back, and Yoochun is slow behind them with a cigarette burning between his fingers. Jaejoong runs ahead down the wet sidewalks with his arms out for balance, the thin ice cracking under his feet. The streetlamps give him a sickly yellow glow and light his snow-freckled hair into wings. Changmin breathes out December air into his cupped hands, navigating down the rain-frozen streets until he finds Jaejoong again, next to a stop sign. Jaejoong throws his scarf around Changmin’s neck and they sit together on the curb until they have to leave, Jaejoong’s face tilted towards the black sky. He lays their hands together, flat on his knee with palms outstretched and catching water. Changmin can barely see anything outside the snow thawing Jaejoong’s eyes - moonlit, alive and here. He flexes his fingers inward between Jaejoong’s and mouths into the dark: it’s nice to meet you.
2.
It’s their first award.
There’s nothing beyond the stage except a flood of red balloons. When Jaejoong reaches out, Changmin falls into him without thinking, hiding his face against Jaejoong’s shoulder. “Crybaby,” Jaejoong says, outside the range of microphones, and lets him.
3.
Jaejoong discovers by accident how ticklish Changmin is. The rest of the week becomes a series of ambushes that finally ends with both of them on the floor in a collision of limbs. Changmin’s hair is in his face; his skin is tingling and warm. Jaejoong leans over him smugly, exploiting his new power. “Surrender?”
“I’m going to rip off your fingers,” Changmin squirms, “and make you eat them-”
Jaejoong’s hands linger. Changmin is brave from the lack of air. The couple of seconds when the world stops at the walls of their apartment, allowing Changmin to brushes his lips against Jaejoong’s jaw, are a weak memory later. If Jaejoong feels it at all, it’s forgotten once he digs his fingers into Changmin’s armpits for round two.
4.
The shoot takes up most of the day. Changmin studies in between long sessions with the camera, though Junsu lures him away a few times with his solemn attempts at palmistry. High vitality, he says, peering at the shallow grooves of Changmin’s hand. Practical thinker. Amateur in love. I see five beautiful children in your future.
You’re making this up, Changmin says.
Junsu admits: Sorry, your kids will be ugly and fat.
Jaejoong’s individual shoot gets scheduled for last. By then Changmin has fallen asleep on one of the couches off-set. When he wakes up, it’s with his arm trapped between his textbooks and the cushions, his whole body sore and half-stuck in dreams. Jaejoong is waving his hand centimeters from Changmin’s face. He’s back in his street clothes but Changmin can still smell the leftover hair product and makeup remover. “Finished?” he asks.
Jaejoong sits, careful with his knee. He’s been off crutches for a month. “You didn’t tell me you were going to wait.”
“I meant to leave earlier with Yunho.”
“He probably didn’t want to wake you.” All the promotion fucks with their circadian rhythms, and Yunho is generous whenever there’s the chance. But Changmin can feel his need for rest already being swallowed under the drum of Jaejoong’s hand against his thigh (there’s a case study in Jaejoong’s eyes, as if the pattern of Changmin’s heart has been laid out for dissection). “It’s because you look so young when you sleep,” Jaejoong continues.
Changmin says, lightly, annoyed at his own age, “Those two long years between us.”
“No, I mean.” Changmin should have learned to read between the lines by now. Jaejoong doesn’t think things through enough, but at the same time nothing about him is accidental: the idling of his fingers, how he bites his lip in thought. “You’ve really grown up,” Jaejoong finishes, and pulls him up from the couch before Changmin can try to shed the nerves pushed up into his throat. Practical thinker, he recalls. Amateur in love.
5.
Changmin gets his first kiss at age eighteen, with one of Jaejoong’s hands on his wrist, keeping him there, the other curled at the base of his neck. They’re in the empty hallway, it’s six in the morning, and Jaejoong is wet from his shower, hair dripping water down his throat (it’s shock-blond, and the color of it stays behind Changmin’s eyelids). In five minutes, the rest of the apartment will wake up; in an hour, they’ll slip into their professional bold-lighted names; everything had already stopped mattering the moment Jaejoong said, “Good morning,” against his mouth. Jaejoong tastes like toothpaste and smells like body wash, warm and awake and human. His thumb rubbing circles around Changmin’s pulse isn’t asking for confessions, revelations. Changmin eases into it. It’s as much reassurance as either of them needs.
(There is a word for this. When Jaejoong kisses him in the bathroom during rehearsal breaks; when Jaejoong sings with him; when Jaejoong draws stars, messages, and then an elephant on his arm after he falls asleep in the van. Changmin hasn’t invested in any happy endings, but he still has the idea of it waiting on the back of his tongue for a clumsy enunciation. He thinks, someday he is going to say something really irrational and stupid, and he isn’t going to regret it at all.)