[fic] broken-like stars.
TVXQ FIC!
OK, so I wanted to write doppelgänger!Chun because mimei waaanted and her doppelgänger!Su fic was absolute pwnage. Though, like most things, it didn't quite work out. Here goes anyway though~
TVXQ.
400w approx.
angst. angst. angst. & no pairings. just Chun.
BROKEN-LIKE STARS.
You look at your broken self and you blink and, then, you look again. And you feel like digging your fingers under his ribs just to see how far in you can get.
You look at his face and see the differences-you’re sure you’re imagining them-but, his face, it seems so different. The way your face seems different in old photographs, the smaller nose, the thinner lips. That kind of different. Only he’s probably the new photograph and you the old because he looks so broken and so old. So much older than twenty. So much less alive than twenty.
And his voice, the voice which sounds as though it was burnt by all those cigarettes-and left wrinkled and raw like a burn. Surely, that is not the same as your voice. He doesn’t speak to you so it’s hard to be sure but he sings, sometimes, to himself-maybe to you-when he thinks no-one’s listening. He only sings in public when he has to, he doesn’t let anyone hear him practice-partly because he hates the way his strained voice sounds and partly because he knows the others will worry about how his strained voice sounds. But, really, you think the fact that his voice is like that, hitches like that, whispers like that, is what makes it. It’s like a record making fut-fut-fut noises softly as it plays its music. The music which is so much richer there than it ever is on the mp3. (The new single downloaded. The studio-tampered, ‘corrected’ version.)
You look at him and you think of bed sits and words neither of you understand but which he might remember saying or hearing and pretending he understood. But mostly you think of broken things. Broken sentences, maybe. Broken things. He is smashed glass. He is seven years worth of bad luck-more, much more than that. The mirror you smashed so that you wouldn’t have to see him anymore. The mirror he smashed because he missed you. All the mirrors in the dance studio he wants to smash. All the photos he wanted to tear up. The only one’s he’d ever keep are the magazine shots, the deliciously touched up ones with beautiful skin and no shadows under eyes or protruding ribs. No damage. The ones which are you and not him. The ones where he doesn’t look like he locks himself in a room every night and sings himself to sleep because he can’t-can’t sing or can’t sleep.
OK, so I wanted to write doppelgänger!Chun because mimei waaanted and her doppelgänger!Su fic was absolute pwnage. Though, like most things, it didn't quite work out. Here goes anyway though~
TVXQ.
400w approx.
angst. angst. angst. & no pairings. just Chun.
BROKEN-LIKE STARS.
You look at your broken self and you blink and, then, you look again. And you feel like digging your fingers under his ribs just to see how far in you can get.
You look at his face and see the differences-you’re sure you’re imagining them-but, his face, it seems so different. The way your face seems different in old photographs, the smaller nose, the thinner lips. That kind of different. Only he’s probably the new photograph and you the old because he looks so broken and so old. So much older than twenty. So much less alive than twenty.
And his voice, the voice which sounds as though it was burnt by all those cigarettes-and left wrinkled and raw like a burn. Surely, that is not the same as your voice. He doesn’t speak to you so it’s hard to be sure but he sings, sometimes, to himself-maybe to you-when he thinks no-one’s listening. He only sings in public when he has to, he doesn’t let anyone hear him practice-partly because he hates the way his strained voice sounds and partly because he knows the others will worry about how his strained voice sounds. But, really, you think the fact that his voice is like that, hitches like that, whispers like that, is what makes it. It’s like a record making fut-fut-fut noises softly as it plays its music. The music which is so much richer there than it ever is on the mp3. (The new single downloaded. The studio-tampered, ‘corrected’ version.)
You look at him and you think of bed sits and words neither of you understand but which he might remember saying or hearing and pretending he understood. But mostly you think of broken things. Broken sentences, maybe. Broken things. He is smashed glass. He is seven years worth of bad luck-more, much more than that. The mirror you smashed so that you wouldn’t have to see him anymore. The mirror he smashed because he missed you. All the mirrors in the dance studio he wants to smash. All the photos he wanted to tear up. The only one’s he’d ever keep are the magazine shots, the deliciously touched up ones with beautiful skin and no shadows under eyes or protruding ribs. No damage. The ones which are you and not him. The ones where he doesn’t look like he locks himself in a room every night and sings himself to sleep because he can’t-can’t sing or can’t sleep.