tvxq: moonlight sonata on aisle 3
moonlight sonata on aisle 3
jaejoong/yoochun. 1,171w.
soundtrack.
Yoochun comes in at 3:19am to buy toothpaste. It's a Thursday. Once it becomes a Thursday, time drags its feet like a child, and looking at the clock will fuck you over. Jaejoong keeps his eyes down and thumbs through his book of unfinished sudoku puzzles until Yoochun shows up at his lane.
"You again." Jaejoong half-smiles.
Yoochun smiles back. "Me."
Jaejoong knows who Yoochun is because two days ago, Yoochun came in to buy Camel Filters, and Jaejoong had to check his ID. On just-turned-Tuesdays, the world is either dirty water grayscale or choking on over-saturation, and you're hungry for anything like human contact. Jaejoong'd said, "I used to smoke these."
"Not anymore?" Yoochun'd said. Black hair, brown eyes, 64kg, 180cm, born 6.4.1986. Under that, he was bony wrists, warmth for whoever would take it, and something like woody, smoky vanilla. Jaejoong'd looked for too long.
"I quit," he'd answered, and given Yoochun his change.
Park Yoochun, age 22, too invested in small talk with strangers. "To be honest, I had you down as the type to like Reds."
He'd looked for just as long. Everyone on just-turned-Tuesdays did. Jaejoong's first cigarette at age nineteen had been a Marlboro Red; it'd burned his throat raw, and a small part of him had fallen in love.
Today, Yoochun pays in cash again. He stays longer at the checkout with his toothpaste and his change, asking about Jaejoong's sudoku. Jaejoong shows him puzzles in the book where he's filled in the boxes with animal doodles, and countdown after countdown to 7am. Yoochun takes Jaejoong's pen to finish the rest of the eights. He asks, without looking up from the page, "Do you work every night?"
Jaejoong's here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. It pays a little more, since no one else'll work his hours. The manager's never really around, either. "What's your excuse for being up this late?"
Yoochun shrugs, and sketches a flower next to the column of clocks that Jaejoong's drawn in the margin. "I can't sleep," he says. The grocery store light pulls on the shadow of his body. Jaejoong thinks about Yoochun's driver's license, and how it doesn't say anything about the way Yoochun's the same as morning rain, all that smooth melancholy, or how his hands are warm regardless.
Jaejoong shares two of his graveyard shifts with Changmin, who's using the job to help pay his way through school. Changmin reads world literature as he shelves cereal boxes and rearranges produce. Some days they'll race shopping carts together down the aisles; other days, they're just passing ships, Jaejoong painting his nails Electric Eel at the register and Changmin taking notes on political articles next to the canned soup.
"Goodnight," Jaejoong says at 11:59pm, watching Changmin ring up a woman's purchase. He waits a minute and says, "Good morning."
Changmin yawns against the inside of his wrist. He has an exam soon. Jaejoong estimates two and a half hours before Changmin falls asleep over pages 348-349 of his Cognitive Psychology text. "I hate this job," Changmin says.
Jaejoong doesn't feel either way. He straightens out the fallen paper towels in aisle five, singing Hello Goodbye.
On Thursdays-turned-Friday, Jaejoong hangs out with the TV dinners and takes the color off his nails. It's Changmin's week to pick the music, and the store speakers are repeating his piano classics. Satie's Gymnopédie No.1 fades everything else out to mute. No more white noise or cold air from the freezers. Jaejoong feels like he's in a movie, and his fingertips smell like acetone, still smudged with shiny green. For the length of one song, he's not here anymore. He was never here at all.
Yoochun shows up half an hour later to buy tea and nutrition bars.
"Nice nails," he says.
"Thanks," says Jaejoong.
They're in the section with instant coffee. Jaejoong doesn't remember why. Yoochun reaches past him for the shelf, and Jaejoong forgets to move to avoid the skim of Yoochun's hand over his waist.
"I know this song," Yoochun says.
Moonlight Sonata sounds hollow in the grocery store. Jaejoong counts three seconds between when he takes every step and actually feels his feet connect with the floor.
Yoochun's holding packaged cherry chapstick. He's wearing his hood up like it's going to hide things, the way his spine and shoulders feel painted on. He's thin air under all the fabric. Jaejoong rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes. There are shallow ring marks on his cheek from resting it against his hand.
"Are you okay?" Yoochun asks.
"Just falling asleep," Jaejoong says, taking the chapstick. Changmin isn't here today, so the only thing to listen to is the sound of items being scanned over and over. It pulses in Jaejoong's ears. "If you remember what that feels like."
"Kind of," Yoochun says.
"I'm using up all of the plastic bags on you," Jaejoong continues.
Yoochun leans forward on his elbows. His eyes are the color of burnt film, and they give everything away, the months of not knowing where to go when the buildings start turning over their sorry, we're closed signs. "Small price to pay for my company."
The last half of the eight hours always feels longer. The aisles go on for miles. People waste down in pairs under bad store lighting. Jaejoong wonders if Yoochun's mouth would taste like cherries.
On a Wednesday-turned-Thursday, Yoochun buys a bottle of Light My Sapphire and paints Jaejoong's nails over the cash counter. They don't say much but they mouth the lyrics to Strawberry Fields Forever. Yoochun writes on Jaejoong's arm afterwards, the polish brush cold and slick, making glitter blue stars. Jaejoong waits until his nails and skin are dry before he twists his fingers into Yoochun's hair and kisses him languidly on the mouth until 5:50am when the automatic doors open, the first time in hours, for a married man in a thick cloud of perfume, buying chocolates.
Jaejoong gets off work at 7, and Yoochun says he can give him a ride home so he won't have to take the bus. The streetlights are still on as they make their way through the parking lot. Jaejoong blows Yoochun in the backseat, and as Yoochun shakes and comes, something clicks awake.
On Friday morning, Yoochun's loitering with the shopping carts when Jaejoong walks out, smoking his Camel Filters. Yoochun's different in the day. His skin has more color, and the sun plays off his hair, turns it a little red. All his flaws and sharp bones and pockmarks are lit up. Jaejoong fucked up today, looked at the clock, the leftover constellation of blue numbers on his arm.
Yoochun jumps off the railing. "Let's celebrate the death of insomnia," he says, and moves Jaejoong against him, brushes his palm over Jaejoong's face to coax his eyes shut.
The world doesn't turn black, just blank. The air Yoochun breathes out is hot and smoky against Jaejoong's cheek. He kisses Jaejoong's eyelids, cherry, dry, and Jaejoong opens his eyes.
jaejoong/yoochun. 1,171w.
soundtrack.
Yoochun comes in at 3:19am to buy toothpaste. It's a Thursday. Once it becomes a Thursday, time drags its feet like a child, and looking at the clock will fuck you over. Jaejoong keeps his eyes down and thumbs through his book of unfinished sudoku puzzles until Yoochun shows up at his lane.
"You again." Jaejoong half-smiles.
Yoochun smiles back. "Me."
Jaejoong knows who Yoochun is because two days ago, Yoochun came in to buy Camel Filters, and Jaejoong had to check his ID. On just-turned-Tuesdays, the world is either dirty water grayscale or choking on over-saturation, and you're hungry for anything like human contact. Jaejoong'd said, "I used to smoke these."
"Not anymore?" Yoochun'd said. Black hair, brown eyes, 64kg, 180cm, born 6.4.1986. Under that, he was bony wrists, warmth for whoever would take it, and something like woody, smoky vanilla. Jaejoong'd looked for too long.
"I quit," he'd answered, and given Yoochun his change.
Park Yoochun, age 22, too invested in small talk with strangers. "To be honest, I had you down as the type to like Reds."
He'd looked for just as long. Everyone on just-turned-Tuesdays did. Jaejoong's first cigarette at age nineteen had been a Marlboro Red; it'd burned his throat raw, and a small part of him had fallen in love.
Today, Yoochun pays in cash again. He stays longer at the checkout with his toothpaste and his change, asking about Jaejoong's sudoku. Jaejoong shows him puzzles in the book where he's filled in the boxes with animal doodles, and countdown after countdown to 7am. Yoochun takes Jaejoong's pen to finish the rest of the eights. He asks, without looking up from the page, "Do you work every night?"
Jaejoong's here on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. It pays a little more, since no one else'll work his hours. The manager's never really around, either. "What's your excuse for being up this late?"
Yoochun shrugs, and sketches a flower next to the column of clocks that Jaejoong's drawn in the margin. "I can't sleep," he says. The grocery store light pulls on the shadow of his body. Jaejoong thinks about Yoochun's driver's license, and how it doesn't say anything about the way Yoochun's the same as morning rain, all that smooth melancholy, or how his hands are warm regardless.
Jaejoong shares two of his graveyard shifts with Changmin, who's using the job to help pay his way through school. Changmin reads world literature as he shelves cereal boxes and rearranges produce. Some days they'll race shopping carts together down the aisles; other days, they're just passing ships, Jaejoong painting his nails Electric Eel at the register and Changmin taking notes on political articles next to the canned soup.
"Goodnight," Jaejoong says at 11:59pm, watching Changmin ring up a woman's purchase. He waits a minute and says, "Good morning."
Changmin yawns against the inside of his wrist. He has an exam soon. Jaejoong estimates two and a half hours before Changmin falls asleep over pages 348-349 of his Cognitive Psychology text. "I hate this job," Changmin says.
Jaejoong doesn't feel either way. He straightens out the fallen paper towels in aisle five, singing Hello Goodbye.
On Thursdays-turned-Friday, Jaejoong hangs out with the TV dinners and takes the color off his nails. It's Changmin's week to pick the music, and the store speakers are repeating his piano classics. Satie's Gymnopédie No.1 fades everything else out to mute. No more white noise or cold air from the freezers. Jaejoong feels like he's in a movie, and his fingertips smell like acetone, still smudged with shiny green. For the length of one song, he's not here anymore. He was never here at all.
Yoochun shows up half an hour later to buy tea and nutrition bars.
"Nice nails," he says.
"Thanks," says Jaejoong.
They're in the section with instant coffee. Jaejoong doesn't remember why. Yoochun reaches past him for the shelf, and Jaejoong forgets to move to avoid the skim of Yoochun's hand over his waist.
"I know this song," Yoochun says.
Moonlight Sonata sounds hollow in the grocery store. Jaejoong counts three seconds between when he takes every step and actually feels his feet connect with the floor.
Yoochun's holding packaged cherry chapstick. He's wearing his hood up like it's going to hide things, the way his spine and shoulders feel painted on. He's thin air under all the fabric. Jaejoong rubs the heel of his palm against his eyes. There are shallow ring marks on his cheek from resting it against his hand.
"Are you okay?" Yoochun asks.
"Just falling asleep," Jaejoong says, taking the chapstick. Changmin isn't here today, so the only thing to listen to is the sound of items being scanned over and over. It pulses in Jaejoong's ears. "If you remember what that feels like."
"Kind of," Yoochun says.
"I'm using up all of the plastic bags on you," Jaejoong continues.
Yoochun leans forward on his elbows. His eyes are the color of burnt film, and they give everything away, the months of not knowing where to go when the buildings start turning over their sorry, we're closed signs. "Small price to pay for my company."
The last half of the eight hours always feels longer. The aisles go on for miles. People waste down in pairs under bad store lighting. Jaejoong wonders if Yoochun's mouth would taste like cherries.
On a Wednesday-turned-Thursday, Yoochun buys a bottle of Light My Sapphire and paints Jaejoong's nails over the cash counter. They don't say much but they mouth the lyrics to Strawberry Fields Forever. Yoochun writes on Jaejoong's arm afterwards, the polish brush cold and slick, making glitter blue stars. Jaejoong waits until his nails and skin are dry before he twists his fingers into Yoochun's hair and kisses him languidly on the mouth until 5:50am when the automatic doors open, the first time in hours, for a married man in a thick cloud of perfume, buying chocolates.
Jaejoong gets off work at 7, and Yoochun says he can give him a ride home so he won't have to take the bus. The streetlights are still on as they make their way through the parking lot. Jaejoong blows Yoochun in the backseat, and as Yoochun shakes and comes, something clicks awake.
On Friday morning, Yoochun's loitering with the shopping carts when Jaejoong walks out, smoking his Camel Filters. Yoochun's different in the day. His skin has more color, and the sun plays off his hair, turns it a little red. All his flaws and sharp bones and pockmarks are lit up. Jaejoong fucked up today, looked at the clock, the leftover constellation of blue numbers on his arm.
Yoochun jumps off the railing. "Let's celebrate the death of insomnia," he says, and moves Jaejoong against him, brushes his palm over Jaejoong's face to coax his eyes shut.
The world doesn't turn black, just blank. The air Yoochun breathes out is hot and smoky against Jaejoong's cheek. He kisses Jaejoong's eyelids, cherry, dry, and Jaejoong opens his eyes.