secret
I.
Brazil is a flurry of music, of rehearsed shots, extras clamoring for more screen time, of stolen looks and a sort of missing Junsu can’t put his finger on. It feels oddly misplaced, a foreign kind of touch, he thinks, a strange one that sends static creeping down his spine as he traces her outline in the dark, hand dipping at too soft curves.
“Shouldn’t,” he finds himself thinking out loud amidst the sounds of muffled lust and she laughs, tastes like expensive liquor and experience. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he thinks of French summers, low voice a harmony to his own but she kisses the hollow base of his throat and that will come in it’s own time because this is here, this is now and want and a secret he knows he won’t be able to keep.
II.
They’re across the street, Paris traffic cutting through his line of vision every so often but there’s the bronze shade of Jaejoong’s hair in the sun, Yunho’s red jacket, a glimpse of Changmin’s camera strap, filming crew.
Yoochun standing somewhere off his right, waiting to catch him when he dashes across asphalt, bags and all.
Later, in the half light of hotel rooms initially meant only of one, it feels like a sad homecoming, different kinds of uncomfortable and awkward as Junsu stumbles in the dark, Yoochun feeling the protruding bones of his shoulder blades as he complains softly about how he should eat more, didn’t they take care of you there?
It’s harder than Junsu thinks, to remember how to relax into a familiar hold but Yoochun’s eyes are stoic, hands saying otherwise as he draws half polygons on flushed skin.
“I know.”
The Eiffel Tower in the window is intimidating, a silent spectator that Junsu shuts out with shaking hands, pulling curtains over glass and a sleeping city.
“Sorry.”
A whispered apology accepted and Junsu is glad he can’t keep secrets.
[fin]
Brazil is a flurry of music, of rehearsed shots, extras clamoring for more screen time, of stolen looks and a sort of missing Junsu can’t put his finger on. It feels oddly misplaced, a foreign kind of touch, he thinks, a strange one that sends static creeping down his spine as he traces her outline in the dark, hand dipping at too soft curves.
“Shouldn’t,” he finds himself thinking out loud amidst the sounds of muffled lust and she laughs, tastes like expensive liquor and experience. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he thinks of French summers, low voice a harmony to his own but she kisses the hollow base of his throat and that will come in it’s own time because this is here, this is now and want and a secret he knows he won’t be able to keep.
II.
They’re across the street, Paris traffic cutting through his line of vision every so often but there’s the bronze shade of Jaejoong’s hair in the sun, Yunho’s red jacket, a glimpse of Changmin’s camera strap, filming crew.
Yoochun standing somewhere off his right, waiting to catch him when he dashes across asphalt, bags and all.
Later, in the half light of hotel rooms initially meant only of one, it feels like a sad homecoming, different kinds of uncomfortable and awkward as Junsu stumbles in the dark, Yoochun feeling the protruding bones of his shoulder blades as he complains softly about how he should eat more, didn’t they take care of you there?
It’s harder than Junsu thinks, to remember how to relax into a familiar hold but Yoochun’s eyes are stoic, hands saying otherwise as he draws half polygons on flushed skin.
“I know.”
The Eiffel Tower in the window is intimidating, a silent spectator that Junsu shuts out with shaking hands, pulling curtains over glass and a sleeping city.
“Sorry.”
A whispered apology accepted and Junsu is glad he can’t keep secrets.
[fin]