kyukihae
drabbling back in january
i'm pretty sure i never posted this one, but i remembered it today.
untitled
kyuhyun/donghae/kibum
Kibum has an itch. It’s centered in the small of his back, four finger-lengths below the nape of his neck, just out of reach. Kyuhyun keeps his hands on the console and eyes darting back and forth between the screen and Kibum’s arms twitching over the acoustic guitar. They’re distracting, despite lying on the periphery of his vision, currently blurring from five cups of coffee and forty-six hours of sitting on a couch. His butt hurts, if it’s still there.
“Try using a chopstick.” Donghae walks into the kitchen like he belongs in it. Air expands to accommodate. He chews on an apple thoughtfully, a flawed imitation of Rodin; the features are too soft. His hair falls into his eyes in pieces when he sweeps an arm around Kibum and holds his head close to his waist. Kibum reaches up his strumming hand to graze the funny rough patch of skin stretched across the elbow.
“Don’t tease me,” Kibum warns with no bite in his voice. Kyuhyun wonders if he should be here at all. He sets the console down and checks the weather channel for updates. “’Another meter of snow,’” he says. “Looks like we’re trapped.”
The refrigerator hums every thirty seconds, stops for ten, and picks up again. The clock on the wall is only audible when Shindong, Heechul, Leeteuk, and Yesung aren’t around. The television sometimes switches itself on and off in the middle of the night. Those are the nights Kyuhyun finds himself young and nervous again, although he’s never stopped being the latter, just better at concealing the tremors. He clings to Sungmin in a way that only speeds up his heart rate, but Sungmin is tolerant and lets him hog the blankets and the bed.
The refrigerator launches into its inconsistent melody, but underscoring it is Kibum’s low laughter. He’s being tickled by slippery fingers, mercilessly, and he doesn’t look like he minds. Kyuhyun sets his chin on the sofa arm and watches the way Donghae’s hands slip under Kibum’s underarms and strokes kitten-like for the split second before Kibum jumps and crosses his arms over his chest.
Kibum’s eyes curve downward behind his thick-framed glasses, and they curve further when Donghae leans over him like that, when their faces are close enough to suggest something yet too far for suggestions to be realized.
“You know what? I’m hungry.” Donghae says suddenly, throwing a brief, apologetic smile in Kyuhyun’s direction. He rummages through cupboards for cereal, cup noodles, anything for an excuse to keep his hands away from a certain other body. Kyuhyun smiles at the gesture, but his chest hurts from where he’s pressing it into the couch. When he leans back he remembers Donghae’s friendly kisses and camping out in backyards, peering at vague constellations. They drank beer out of cans and laid themselves out on the grass. Donghae, thin and shivering, kissed him between sips, and Kyuhyun had wished he’d practiced with girls more often back in grade school. His tongue slid into corners he wasn’t sure about, but he’d closed his eyes and let the alcohol do its work. It felt good to be young.
i'm pretty sure i never posted this one, but i remembered it today.
untitled
kyuhyun/donghae/kibum
Kibum has an itch. It’s centered in the small of his back, four finger-lengths below the nape of his neck, just out of reach. Kyuhyun keeps his hands on the console and eyes darting back and forth between the screen and Kibum’s arms twitching over the acoustic guitar. They’re distracting, despite lying on the periphery of his vision, currently blurring from five cups of coffee and forty-six hours of sitting on a couch. His butt hurts, if it’s still there.
“Try using a chopstick.” Donghae walks into the kitchen like he belongs in it. Air expands to accommodate. He chews on an apple thoughtfully, a flawed imitation of Rodin; the features are too soft. His hair falls into his eyes in pieces when he sweeps an arm around Kibum and holds his head close to his waist. Kibum reaches up his strumming hand to graze the funny rough patch of skin stretched across the elbow.
“Don’t tease me,” Kibum warns with no bite in his voice. Kyuhyun wonders if he should be here at all. He sets the console down and checks the weather channel for updates. “’Another meter of snow,’” he says. “Looks like we’re trapped.”
The refrigerator hums every thirty seconds, stops for ten, and picks up again. The clock on the wall is only audible when Shindong, Heechul, Leeteuk, and Yesung aren’t around. The television sometimes switches itself on and off in the middle of the night. Those are the nights Kyuhyun finds himself young and nervous again, although he’s never stopped being the latter, just better at concealing the tremors. He clings to Sungmin in a way that only speeds up his heart rate, but Sungmin is tolerant and lets him hog the blankets and the bed.
The refrigerator launches into its inconsistent melody, but underscoring it is Kibum’s low laughter. He’s being tickled by slippery fingers, mercilessly, and he doesn’t look like he minds. Kyuhyun sets his chin on the sofa arm and watches the way Donghae’s hands slip under Kibum’s underarms and strokes kitten-like for the split second before Kibum jumps and crosses his arms over his chest.
Kibum’s eyes curve downward behind his thick-framed glasses, and they curve further when Donghae leans over him like that, when their faces are close enough to suggest something yet too far for suggestions to be realized.
“You know what? I’m hungry.” Donghae says suddenly, throwing a brief, apologetic smile in Kyuhyun’s direction. He rummages through cupboards for cereal, cup noodles, anything for an excuse to keep his hands away from a certain other body. Kyuhyun smiles at the gesture, but his chest hurts from where he’s pressing it into the couch. When he leans back he remembers Donghae’s friendly kisses and camping out in backyards, peering at vague constellations. They drank beer out of cans and laid themselves out on the grass. Donghae, thin and shivering, kissed him between sips, and Kyuhyun had wished he’d practiced with girls more often back in grade school. His tongue slid into corners he wasn’t sure about, but he’d closed his eyes and let the alcohol do its work. It felt good to be young.