ONESHOT; It's a little bit like this
It's a little bit like this ; Jaejoong-centric, past!YunJae
roselit @ paperside
angst, tragedy
R for dark themes ; 1709w.
Jaejoong's in prison for murder and counts the days until he's lucky again.
A/N: Warning for dark themes, character death, and um. I have no idea what this is, rofl. Unbeta'd, so please excuse. :'D
____________________
i. here, we go by numbers.
his world doesn’t exist beyond cinderblock walls layered in decaying paint or beyond dust-covered floors of cells no bigger than closets. daily routines bring him to the other side of wrought-iron bars only to be faced with the same picture over and over: a world of monochromatic grays punctured with faded orange uniforms and the rough voices of suited officers. occasionally, a brawl or a small scuffle breaks the monotony, when a certain no-name encounters a streak of rebellious courage and runs with it. but in the end, everything tapers back to lead and stone, metal and rust, back to the process of forgetting.
48217. it tastes bland rolling across his tongue, but he embraces it all the same. he’s not entitled to have a proper identity; no, not even if he remembers his own name. no one’s unique here, no one’s special. this is a gathering for dead men to repent, to wallow in guilt; he can’t exactly say if everyone does just that, though.
here, you don’t go far. the furthest you can hope is for death to stop outside your cell, but even then, it’s a liberty granted when they feel you’ve rotted away your soul enough not to care anymore.
ii. what’s in a name when you and i are so similar?
he remembers the first time someone asked his name since his arrival. five months and three days in (he’s been counting), he’s almost forgotten what it feels like to talk, much less to a human, a person who shows some semblance of sanity. he forgets he’s not exactly surrounded by sane people (himself included).
it happens in the mess hall, in the middle of raucous chatter and the clash of food trays. he’s almost too busy stuffing down the pathetic excuse for porridge on his plate when another orange uniform slides onto the bench beside him.
hey, what’s your name, comes a calm voice, and he looks up to see a face not much older than his own, but it’s a visage marred slightly in rugged lines and eyes that have seen more than they need to. he wonders how similar they must look.
jaejoong, he answers without thinking, and his voice sounds wonderfully cracked and hoarse and not like the jaejoong five months ago. but he’s learned not to care or worry about caution, not when everyone around him is just like he is. he glances down at the other man’s uniform, takes note of 62952 printed in discolored black across his chest. yours?
the man turns to his own tray, a trace of nonchalance in his response. just call me kwan.
jaejoong nods and pokes at his tray with his fork. it’s weird, awkward even, but he decides that a little genial talk can’t hurt. besides, he’s a bit curious, too. so why are you in here? he asks kwan without looking at him, his face still turned down to the glop on his plate.
killed my girlfriend. kwan’s tone is flat, without a hint of feeling or remorse. you?
jaejoong finally turns to meet kwan’s gaze, and if he could still remember how to smile, he thinks he’d do so right now.
killed my boyfriend.
iii. dirty little secret (you border on psychotic).
it was a day jaejoong would have called beautiful: sunshine, clouds, a slight breeze, a setting from a storybook. early afternoon has him slumped into the couch in a shirt three sizes too big, eyes almost pleading as he watches his lover slip on his blazer and attach a silver watch to his wrist.
yunho, where are you going?
yunho doesn’t meet his eyes, just continues straightening himself up, erasing the last twelve hours like he always does. jaejoong doesn’t need an answer from the other man; he knows, but he still wants him to say it, cut a little deeper.
are you going back to her?
jaejoong watches yunho pause then, and when he finally meets the older man’s gaze, there’s a paper-thin smile stretched across his lips. jaejoong wants to kiss that smile off his face, wants to do lots of things to yunho.
when the younger man walks out the door and leaves without a word or a second glance, jaejoong thinks he’s tired of being masochistic all the time. he decides it’s someone else’s turn to hurt; he’s no hero, after all.
eight hours later, he’s standing outside the bedroom door in yunho’s house, and on the other side, he hears them: her moans and gasps, a soft knock against the headboard, his groans muffled into honey-scented hair. jaejoong swallows the bile in his throat (it’s disgusting, revolting) and tightens his grip on the handle of the kitchen knife in his hand.
the room finally falls silent, and jaejoong takes it as his cue, counts one, two, three in his head, twists the doorknob. it’s a lucky strike-they don’t realize what’s going on until jaejoong’s pulling yunho off of her; there’s a moment of stunned recognition and jaejoong’s driving the blade through his heart.
the woman screams, but jaejoong doesn’t hear her (she doesn’t matter, she never should’ve mattered); he hears silence and the fading of a heartbeat, the hot rush of red pouring over his fingers and something like satisfaction tearing a sinister smile across his lips.
you had all of me, so why can’t i have all of you?
jaejoong doesn’t remember what happens after that. it quickly becomes a gray blur, the remnant of a laugh on the tip of his tongue as he realizes a part of him died that day, too. it’s like the climax scene of a movie, reaching the peak in a clash of chaos until the beginning of the descent.
it was a day jaejoong would have called beautiful.
iv. erase me, erase you.
jaejoong meets kwan again several weeks later on the prison grounds’ basketball court. the older man is perched against the chain-linked fence, a cancer stick between his lips and eyes watching other inmates engaged in a vigorous game. jaejoong makes his way over and joins him, the fence cold and hard against his back and a canopy of barbed wire overhead.
kwan offers his cigarette, and jaejoong takes it, inhales nicotine and fire like a long-gone addiction before he hands it back in a small cloud of faded white.
do you play? kwan gestures to the court and looks at jaejoong.
no, jaejoong says, eyes dull as he observes the game, not anymore. i used to, though.
why’d you stop?
jaejoong tries not to reflect on it; he doesn’t reflect, doesn’t think or reminisce or try to comfort himself in memories as dead as he is. there’s no point in doing that.
because he and i used to play together.
kwan shrugs and nods in understanding, and as jaejoong glances at his companion, he decides not to mention that he doesn’t want to be reminded, that he’d rather forget. he thinks kwan already knows anyway.
he watches the older man take another drag and exhale in a puff of smoke, and for a second, jaejoong wonders what his story is, what drove him to do what he did. jealousy? infidelity? jaejoong finally looks away. maybe kwan is just like him and doesn’t want to remember.
so he doesn’t ask, doesn’t continue the conversation. it’s a lost cause, really; all that matters is that they’ll both end up going to the same place, for the same reason. who ends up going first, though-that’s the thing jaejoong’s most curious about.
he was lucky at least once in his life. maybe he’ll be lucky again.
v. it’s a little bit like this: electric culmination.
it’s been nine months, fourteen days; or at least, that’s what jaejoong thinks. he’s lost count somewhere along the way, his piece of charcoal whittled down to nothing, and he doesn’t think it’s worth it to continue the marks on his cell wall using his blood.
he hears the metal door on the far end of the hall open and slam, then footsteps, heavy and slow, methodic. a certain hush falls over the cells, and jaejoong knows it’s the death guard, come to whisk away a lucky man.
jaejoong closes his eyes. today’s the day, he thinks; he can feel it, something tingling along his skin and in his very bones. he doesn’t think he’s ever been this excited, this riled up in anticipation, not even when he and yunho-
a loud screech breaks his thoughts, and jaejoong opens his eyes to see a heavyset officer pulling his door open. two other guards flank him from behind, and jaejoong thinks it’s like an escort, a procession to freedom and escape.
48217, the man says roughly, without preamble or emotion, get up.
jaejoong does as he’s told, lets the guards secure cold metal around his wrists as they lead him away. he passes several other cells, their inhabitants looking on gravely, half of them breathing sighs of relief and the other half hiding behind glares of envy. he thinks he sees kwan in one of them, but he isn’t sure; his feet keep walking, walking, walking.
when he steps into the small room, hollow and empty save for a wooden chair in the middle, jaejoong feels his heartbeat increase just a notch and labels it exhilaration. it’s a majestic piece of furniture, big and full of leather straps and wires, topped with a thin metal helmet.
the guard releases him from the handcuffs and leads him to the chair. jaejoong sits, allows the men to bind him in at the wrists and ankles. as they fit the helmet over his head, he stares at his reflection in the mirrored window before him. his face is gaunt, pale and sunken, a countenance of wrecked ships and deterioration; he almost doesn’t recognize himself.
the door slams shut, and he’s alone again. they say it actually doesn’t hurt, that you hit pitch black once the voltage sears through your body the first wave through. of course, it’s something only they know, even though they’re not the ones sitting here now.
pretty little lies, jaejoong thinks, and watches his lips curl upward slightly in the window’s reflection.
____________________
A/N: First time trying something like this. ^^; Left in lapslock because it seemed fitting somehow.
Urgh, I don't even know what this is, lmao. Feel free to let me know what you think. ♥ :D
Please let me know I'm not some disturbed little person lolol ;A;
roselit @ paperside
angst, tragedy
R for dark themes ; 1709w.
Jaejoong's in prison for murder and counts the days until he's lucky again.
A/N: Warning for dark themes, character death, and um. I have no idea what this is, rofl. Unbeta'd, so please excuse. :'D
____________________
i. here, we go by numbers.
his world doesn’t exist beyond cinderblock walls layered in decaying paint or beyond dust-covered floors of cells no bigger than closets. daily routines bring him to the other side of wrought-iron bars only to be faced with the same picture over and over: a world of monochromatic grays punctured with faded orange uniforms and the rough voices of suited officers. occasionally, a brawl or a small scuffle breaks the monotony, when a certain no-name encounters a streak of rebellious courage and runs with it. but in the end, everything tapers back to lead and stone, metal and rust, back to the process of forgetting.
48217. it tastes bland rolling across his tongue, but he embraces it all the same. he’s not entitled to have a proper identity; no, not even if he remembers his own name. no one’s unique here, no one’s special. this is a gathering for dead men to repent, to wallow in guilt; he can’t exactly say if everyone does just that, though.
here, you don’t go far. the furthest you can hope is for death to stop outside your cell, but even then, it’s a liberty granted when they feel you’ve rotted away your soul enough not to care anymore.
ii. what’s in a name when you and i are so similar?
he remembers the first time someone asked his name since his arrival. five months and three days in (he’s been counting), he’s almost forgotten what it feels like to talk, much less to a human, a person who shows some semblance of sanity. he forgets he’s not exactly surrounded by sane people (himself included).
it happens in the mess hall, in the middle of raucous chatter and the clash of food trays. he’s almost too busy stuffing down the pathetic excuse for porridge on his plate when another orange uniform slides onto the bench beside him.
hey, what’s your name, comes a calm voice, and he looks up to see a face not much older than his own, but it’s a visage marred slightly in rugged lines and eyes that have seen more than they need to. he wonders how similar they must look.
jaejoong, he answers without thinking, and his voice sounds wonderfully cracked and hoarse and not like the jaejoong five months ago. but he’s learned not to care or worry about caution, not when everyone around him is just like he is. he glances down at the other man’s uniform, takes note of 62952 printed in discolored black across his chest. yours?
the man turns to his own tray, a trace of nonchalance in his response. just call me kwan.
jaejoong nods and pokes at his tray with his fork. it’s weird, awkward even, but he decides that a little genial talk can’t hurt. besides, he’s a bit curious, too. so why are you in here? he asks kwan without looking at him, his face still turned down to the glop on his plate.
killed my girlfriend. kwan’s tone is flat, without a hint of feeling or remorse. you?
jaejoong finally turns to meet kwan’s gaze, and if he could still remember how to smile, he thinks he’d do so right now.
killed my boyfriend.
iii. dirty little secret (you border on psychotic).
it was a day jaejoong would have called beautiful: sunshine, clouds, a slight breeze, a setting from a storybook. early afternoon has him slumped into the couch in a shirt three sizes too big, eyes almost pleading as he watches his lover slip on his blazer and attach a silver watch to his wrist.
yunho, where are you going?
yunho doesn’t meet his eyes, just continues straightening himself up, erasing the last twelve hours like he always does. jaejoong doesn’t need an answer from the other man; he knows, but he still wants him to say it, cut a little deeper.
are you going back to her?
jaejoong watches yunho pause then, and when he finally meets the older man’s gaze, there’s a paper-thin smile stretched across his lips. jaejoong wants to kiss that smile off his face, wants to do lots of things to yunho.
when the younger man walks out the door and leaves without a word or a second glance, jaejoong thinks he’s tired of being masochistic all the time. he decides it’s someone else’s turn to hurt; he’s no hero, after all.
eight hours later, he’s standing outside the bedroom door in yunho’s house, and on the other side, he hears them: her moans and gasps, a soft knock against the headboard, his groans muffled into honey-scented hair. jaejoong swallows the bile in his throat (it’s disgusting, revolting) and tightens his grip on the handle of the kitchen knife in his hand.
the room finally falls silent, and jaejoong takes it as his cue, counts one, two, three in his head, twists the doorknob. it’s a lucky strike-they don’t realize what’s going on until jaejoong’s pulling yunho off of her; there’s a moment of stunned recognition and jaejoong’s driving the blade through his heart.
the woman screams, but jaejoong doesn’t hear her (she doesn’t matter, she never should’ve mattered); he hears silence and the fading of a heartbeat, the hot rush of red pouring over his fingers and something like satisfaction tearing a sinister smile across his lips.
you had all of me, so why can’t i have all of you?
jaejoong doesn’t remember what happens after that. it quickly becomes a gray blur, the remnant of a laugh on the tip of his tongue as he realizes a part of him died that day, too. it’s like the climax scene of a movie, reaching the peak in a clash of chaos until the beginning of the descent.
it was a day jaejoong would have called beautiful.
iv. erase me, erase you.
jaejoong meets kwan again several weeks later on the prison grounds’ basketball court. the older man is perched against the chain-linked fence, a cancer stick between his lips and eyes watching other inmates engaged in a vigorous game. jaejoong makes his way over and joins him, the fence cold and hard against his back and a canopy of barbed wire overhead.
kwan offers his cigarette, and jaejoong takes it, inhales nicotine and fire like a long-gone addiction before he hands it back in a small cloud of faded white.
do you play? kwan gestures to the court and looks at jaejoong.
no, jaejoong says, eyes dull as he observes the game, not anymore. i used to, though.
why’d you stop?
jaejoong tries not to reflect on it; he doesn’t reflect, doesn’t think or reminisce or try to comfort himself in memories as dead as he is. there’s no point in doing that.
because he and i used to play together.
kwan shrugs and nods in understanding, and as jaejoong glances at his companion, he decides not to mention that he doesn’t want to be reminded, that he’d rather forget. he thinks kwan already knows anyway.
he watches the older man take another drag and exhale in a puff of smoke, and for a second, jaejoong wonders what his story is, what drove him to do what he did. jealousy? infidelity? jaejoong finally looks away. maybe kwan is just like him and doesn’t want to remember.
so he doesn’t ask, doesn’t continue the conversation. it’s a lost cause, really; all that matters is that they’ll both end up going to the same place, for the same reason. who ends up going first, though-that’s the thing jaejoong’s most curious about.
he was lucky at least once in his life. maybe he’ll be lucky again.
v. it’s a little bit like this: electric culmination.
it’s been nine months, fourteen days; or at least, that’s what jaejoong thinks. he’s lost count somewhere along the way, his piece of charcoal whittled down to nothing, and he doesn’t think it’s worth it to continue the marks on his cell wall using his blood.
he hears the metal door on the far end of the hall open and slam, then footsteps, heavy and slow, methodic. a certain hush falls over the cells, and jaejoong knows it’s the death guard, come to whisk away a lucky man.
jaejoong closes his eyes. today’s the day, he thinks; he can feel it, something tingling along his skin and in his very bones. he doesn’t think he’s ever been this excited, this riled up in anticipation, not even when he and yunho-
a loud screech breaks his thoughts, and jaejoong opens his eyes to see a heavyset officer pulling his door open. two other guards flank him from behind, and jaejoong thinks it’s like an escort, a procession to freedom and escape.
48217, the man says roughly, without preamble or emotion, get up.
jaejoong does as he’s told, lets the guards secure cold metal around his wrists as they lead him away. he passes several other cells, their inhabitants looking on gravely, half of them breathing sighs of relief and the other half hiding behind glares of envy. he thinks he sees kwan in one of them, but he isn’t sure; his feet keep walking, walking, walking.
when he steps into the small room, hollow and empty save for a wooden chair in the middle, jaejoong feels his heartbeat increase just a notch and labels it exhilaration. it’s a majestic piece of furniture, big and full of leather straps and wires, topped with a thin metal helmet.
the guard releases him from the handcuffs and leads him to the chair. jaejoong sits, allows the men to bind him in at the wrists and ankles. as they fit the helmet over his head, he stares at his reflection in the mirrored window before him. his face is gaunt, pale and sunken, a countenance of wrecked ships and deterioration; he almost doesn’t recognize himself.
the door slams shut, and he’s alone again. they say it actually doesn’t hurt, that you hit pitch black once the voltage sears through your body the first wave through. of course, it’s something only they know, even though they’re not the ones sitting here now.
pretty little lies, jaejoong thinks, and watches his lips curl upward slightly in the window’s reflection.
____________________
A/N: First time trying something like this. ^^; Left in lapslock because it seemed fitting somehow.
Urgh, I don't even know what this is, lmao. Feel free to let me know what you think. ♥ :D
Please let me know I'm not some disturbed little person lolol ;A;