[FIC] JaeChun
Title: Color My World
Pairings: JaeChun, though subtle.
Rating: G
Genre: Generic, fluff?
A/N: For milena_1980! ♥♥♥ muchos abrazos y espero que te guste este cuento ^_^
This is something I've been tinkering around with for a while, but it finally came together today. It may be a little cryptic, but I hope you can enjoy it!
Draw
There's an image that always comes to mind, one he finds himself naturally sketching in his notebook. Intense eyes, pouty lips that are slightly open, longish messy hair. He wonders why he dreams of a foreigner, blond hair and blue steel grey eyes looking towards the horizon.
Sometimes it's in profile, other times 3/4, but never head on, looking directly at him. It's not anyone he's seen before, no matter how many times Yoochun tries to wrack his memory for a name, a place, a time.
He sets his coffee down, looks up to watch the people.
He sits alone.
Music
B, C, A, G, he plays, wondering where the bit of melody comes from. He feels like there should be words, but when he opens his mouth, they don't come out and he can only hum the little tune. It's not quite sad, but it's not quite happy either.
He's in a music room, managing to sneak in after a University kid swiped her card. The space is small, three walls of perforated dry wall and a glass door. The piano is old but in-tune.
He sits on the left side, traces the empty space next to him on the bench.
Dance
The boombox blares an old song, and a makeshift floor of cardboard is tossed on the sidewalk. It's a kid, small and scrawny, doing some pop and lock, some basic coffee grinders.
The motion is awkward, unpolished, raw. But there's a fierceness, an intensity and desperation that hits at him hard. He sees the occasional dart of a tongue, a slight unfocused gaze in the boy's expression.
Messy black hair flies out and he notices plastic rings, gummy bracelets, more jewelry than seems appropriate for a dancer.
The boy’s shirt slips and he sees black ink near the neck, in the back.
Photo
He finds a discarded disposable on the ground, near one of the frat houses. There's still some pictures left so he snaps around, peering through the cheap lens of the viewfinder and ratcheting the wheel forward.
A coupon from the local store gives him enough incentive and he waits for the pictures to develop.
They're streaked with red, a haze over the hodgepodge of people he doesn't know, places he doesn't recognize until he finds the last six pictures he took.
He stops at the last picture. It's almost black. But there's a flash of white in the corner, overexposed and bright.
Film
It's Friday and there's a free showing of student films.
Some are animated, some are live action, some are a mix of both, but they leave him mostly indifferent.
The last one is by some sophomore. There's original music and he finds himself soaring through colorful leaves, diving through waters, wandering lush woods.
But while people applaud the finale, a breathtaking vista of mountains, there's a bit of incongruity that sticks with him. It's a train going over a bridge and a shutter flutter effect as the scene changes in the windows. Only the moon and stars are constant.
It feels familiar.
Sculpture
He's in the public park today, the one where they have statues of people sitting on benches, forever frozen in conversation to each other.
He presses his fingers to each one of them, stroking the smooth metal which has turned brownish with age.
The perfect combination is of an older man's nose, a stylish young girl's lips, and a young boy's large eyes.
But the body is too hard to find. None of them are quite tall enough, though he's searching for someone slightly shorter than him, and none of them seem to have the edge, that strength he's looking for.
Paint
Yoochun is simply a name, an entity that allows him a form in this environment.
He realizes that it is the name he has chosen, had almost forgotten his name in his wanderings, in his journey.
Because he's standing in front of it. In New York City. Hubbub and mecca of everything and all in America.
The alarm goes off as he touches the hardened oil and he's home, where he always is.
The stars are always bright and he's there, the moon, perfect and steady to light the dark green of him.
Jaejoong, he rustles, I’m home.
Jaejoong smiles.
Pairings: JaeChun, though subtle.
Rating: G
Genre: Generic, fluff?
A/N: For milena_1980! ♥♥♥ muchos abrazos y espero que te guste este cuento ^_^
This is something I've been tinkering around with for a while, but it finally came together today. It may be a little cryptic, but I hope you can enjoy it!
Draw
There's an image that always comes to mind, one he finds himself naturally sketching in his notebook. Intense eyes, pouty lips that are slightly open, longish messy hair. He wonders why he dreams of a foreigner, blond hair and blue steel grey eyes looking towards the horizon.
Sometimes it's in profile, other times 3/4, but never head on, looking directly at him. It's not anyone he's seen before, no matter how many times Yoochun tries to wrack his memory for a name, a place, a time.
He sets his coffee down, looks up to watch the people.
He sits alone.
Music
B, C, A, G, he plays, wondering where the bit of melody comes from. He feels like there should be words, but when he opens his mouth, they don't come out and he can only hum the little tune. It's not quite sad, but it's not quite happy either.
He's in a music room, managing to sneak in after a University kid swiped her card. The space is small, three walls of perforated dry wall and a glass door. The piano is old but in-tune.
He sits on the left side, traces the empty space next to him on the bench.
Dance
The boombox blares an old song, and a makeshift floor of cardboard is tossed on the sidewalk. It's a kid, small and scrawny, doing some pop and lock, some basic coffee grinders.
The motion is awkward, unpolished, raw. But there's a fierceness, an intensity and desperation that hits at him hard. He sees the occasional dart of a tongue, a slight unfocused gaze in the boy's expression.
Messy black hair flies out and he notices plastic rings, gummy bracelets, more jewelry than seems appropriate for a dancer.
The boy’s shirt slips and he sees black ink near the neck, in the back.
Photo
He finds a discarded disposable on the ground, near one of the frat houses. There's still some pictures left so he snaps around, peering through the cheap lens of the viewfinder and ratcheting the wheel forward.
A coupon from the local store gives him enough incentive and he waits for the pictures to develop.
They're streaked with red, a haze over the hodgepodge of people he doesn't know, places he doesn't recognize until he finds the last six pictures he took.
He stops at the last picture. It's almost black. But there's a flash of white in the corner, overexposed and bright.
Film
It's Friday and there's a free showing of student films.
Some are animated, some are live action, some are a mix of both, but they leave him mostly indifferent.
The last one is by some sophomore. There's original music and he finds himself soaring through colorful leaves, diving through waters, wandering lush woods.
But while people applaud the finale, a breathtaking vista of mountains, there's a bit of incongruity that sticks with him. It's a train going over a bridge and a shutter flutter effect as the scene changes in the windows. Only the moon and stars are constant.
It feels familiar.
Sculpture
He's in the public park today, the one where they have statues of people sitting on benches, forever frozen in conversation to each other.
He presses his fingers to each one of them, stroking the smooth metal which has turned brownish with age.
The perfect combination is of an older man's nose, a stylish young girl's lips, and a young boy's large eyes.
But the body is too hard to find. None of them are quite tall enough, though he's searching for someone slightly shorter than him, and none of them seem to have the edge, that strength he's looking for.
Paint
Yoochun is simply a name, an entity that allows him a form in this environment.
He realizes that it is the name he has chosen, had almost forgotten his name in his wanderings, in his journey.
Because he's standing in front of it. In New York City. Hubbub and mecca of everything and all in America.
The alarm goes off as he touches the hardened oil and he's home, where he always is.
The stars are always bright and he's there, the moon, perfect and steady to light the dark green of him.
Jaejoong, he rustles, I’m home.
Jaejoong smiles.