The Boy in the Picture
Title: The Boy in the Picture
Author: b2utifulyoebo
Pairing: Doojoon/Yoseob
Rating: PG
Summary: Yoseob watched him everyday.
Author's Notes: Not used to LJ, but hopefully the DooSeob makes up for it!
I watched him grow up.
I was always there. I didn't even remember where I came from any more. I was just the boy in the picture, the picture that hung on the wall. And he… He was life, he was love, he was fun, he was beautiful.
His name was Doojoon. And every day I watched everything he did.
From simple things like watching the rickety old television set in his room, to homework, to changing clothes- an exercise which left me wishing I knew how to blush-, to sleeping, to eating, to hanging posters, to… Well, I think you get the idea.
I wished I was more. I wished I was one of those people who walked into his room patting him on the back and laughing, getting told off for kicking the soccer ball in the house and asking where he had got his “Girl’s Generation” posters.
I wasn't. I was just the boy in the picture. The one he stared at sometimes, wondering what I was even doing there, in his room.
I wondered why he didn't take me down and replace me with another poster. He liked the girls in the posters. He sometimes pecked them on their cheeks and lips with coveted kisses. They were coveted because I wanted one, too.
Sometimes he talked to me though, at least, I think it was to me. He looked right into my unmoving eyes when he spoke and sometimes he tapped the glass between us with his finger. I always wished I was more. If I was more I could answer his questions.
“Why are people so cruel, hanbok-boy?”
I really wished I could answer him. He needed an answer, and here I was in all my unmoving glory, an answer and a comforting hug ready and willing.
People are cruel because they have no reason to be.
It hurt me to see him sad. He was sad a lot as he got older. I watched with aching pain where my heart would be, if I weren't made of glass. His tears made me want to leave my frame and comfort him. The posters couldn't be bothered, but they hadn't been there since forever, they didn't understand.
Some days it was worse than others. Some days he would curl into a ball and sob for hours on end. His mother would call him to dinner and he would call back that he was doing homework and not hungry. He would just cry.
I hated that he wouldn't tell anyone. I hated that he didn't say anything. He just wiped his eyes and turned the rickety old television set on. He never did anything to fix it. I don’t think he knew how.
Sometimes I even thought he knew that I was there. He would stare at me, right in my eyes. His face was so handsome. I wished I looked like that, maybe I wouldn't have been cast as the hanbok boy if I did.
I tried to move. I did that lots, I hoped- no- believed that it was mind over matter. I believed that if I tried hard enough I could change the very structure of my being. I could. I knew I could. If I just tried hard enough, maybe I could stop bowing. Maybe I could be normal.
And so I did it. I moved.
Not very much, though. I managed a finger, but I couldn't do any more. It was so, so hard. It left me exhausted. If I could sleep I would, as it was everything went fuzzy and nothing made sense. I saw colours swirling and pretty patterns in front of my eyes.
As he got older, it got worse.
I watched as he sat on his bed. He was staring at something, it glinted in the light and it took me a few minutes to realise what it was.
A razor.
He was going to cut himself. He’s going to fucking cut himself! I struggled. I tried to move against my invisible bonds, tried to break out of my frame. It was the only way I could help. I needed to help him.
I had a thought. I’d seen posters fall from the wall. He always stopped whatever he was doing to pick them up. I had never fallen before. I wasn't a poster, my frame would break. I would break. But I didn't even care. I had to help.
He positioned the sharp edge against his wrist. He ran it across his skin gently and dots of blood appeared.
I struggled and fought against everything holding me. I felt exhaustion already clawing at me, but I couldn't stop. My frame was starting to rattle, I could feel it. I jumped, or at least tried to. I lurched, or at least tried to.
Eventually I felt a sensation I had never been subject to before. It could only be falling. I would have screamed if I could, as it was I stared out to the room at large with a charming smile fixed on my face as my whole world flew past my eyes.
Everything I could see shattered.
Was I dead? What happens to me when I break? I heard a gasp. I wasn't dead. I couldn't be. His face hovered over my shattered frame. He looked strange through my cracked glass. He picked me up.
“Doojoon! Are you ok? You’re bleeding!”
His mother ran to him and scolded him for picking up broken glass. She wound up his hand with a bandage and gave him a pat on the back. Doojoon pointed to my broken frame and to me.
“Can we fix it?”
His mother seemed confused, but agreed. Within the week I had a new frame. It was different, plastic and aluminium. I wasn't so sure I liked it, it didn't suit me one bit. But he liked it.
I knew I had to get out for good. Someone had to stop him if he tried again, and I knew he would. I could see it in his eyes. He looked at me and I could see it. He was hurting. His hurt was my hurt.
Moving hurt. It hurt so much. It was tiring. I just want to die, but I can't. I'm a picture, pictures can't die. Every time I tried to fight my bonds and won, I still lost because the simple strain of keeping myself in the new position was more than I could possibly bear.
Eventually the day I dreaded came. He was sitting on his bed. Tears streamed down his handsome face. A razor sat in his palm, it looked almost innocent. Almost.
I tried to scream, though I had never before made a sound. I tugged at my bonds, I yanked and pulled and tore at my bonds as he cut across him arm. He lined it up again and I felt like crying.
No… I didn't feel like crying, I was crying. Never before had any liquid touched me. I was scared, but I was more scared for him.
He sliced again.
I struggled. I fought with every fibre of my being. I tried to change the fabric of myself. I visualised it. Me, out of my frame and holding him. I felt the surface of me burning, that’s what it felt like. A sting.
I tore as he cut again and said something.
“This time… It ends…”
I screamed, or I tried to. No, I actually did it. I screamed. It hurt, everywhere hurt. I felt like every cell in my body was on fire, and not the good kind. My muscles ached. Muscles… Since when did I have muscles?
“Please… Don’t hurt… Yourself…"
I managed to sputter a sentence. Doojoon's wide eyes stared at me. What a sight. On my hands and knees, in my hanbok, no longer smiling that glued on grin.
I suddenly wondered what would happen to me. Maybe I would turn into dust? Who knows… I drew the last of my energy and looked towards my frame.
Empty.
No hanbok-boy. No me. Obviously a synthetic background pasted on a wall and a shadow where I used to be. Nothing more, nothing less. No boy bowing in a hanbok silently watching. I smiled.
“I'm not just the boy in the picture anymore…” I murmured before it all went black. I could feel myself floating. Did I really turn into dust?
Author: b2utifulyoebo
Pairing: Doojoon/Yoseob
Rating: PG
Summary: Yoseob watched him everyday.
Author's Notes: Not used to LJ, but hopefully the DooSeob makes up for it!
I watched him grow up.
I was always there. I didn't even remember where I came from any more. I was just the boy in the picture, the picture that hung on the wall. And he… He was life, he was love, he was fun, he was beautiful.
His name was Doojoon. And every day I watched everything he did.
From simple things like watching the rickety old television set in his room, to homework, to changing clothes- an exercise which left me wishing I knew how to blush-, to sleeping, to eating, to hanging posters, to… Well, I think you get the idea.
I wished I was more. I wished I was one of those people who walked into his room patting him on the back and laughing, getting told off for kicking the soccer ball in the house and asking where he had got his “Girl’s Generation” posters.
I wasn't. I was just the boy in the picture. The one he stared at sometimes, wondering what I was even doing there, in his room.
I wondered why he didn't take me down and replace me with another poster. He liked the girls in the posters. He sometimes pecked them on their cheeks and lips with coveted kisses. They were coveted because I wanted one, too.
Sometimes he talked to me though, at least, I think it was to me. He looked right into my unmoving eyes when he spoke and sometimes he tapped the glass between us with his finger. I always wished I was more. If I was more I could answer his questions.
“Why are people so cruel, hanbok-boy?”
I really wished I could answer him. He needed an answer, and here I was in all my unmoving glory, an answer and a comforting hug ready and willing.
People are cruel because they have no reason to be.
It hurt me to see him sad. He was sad a lot as he got older. I watched with aching pain where my heart would be, if I weren't made of glass. His tears made me want to leave my frame and comfort him. The posters couldn't be bothered, but they hadn't been there since forever, they didn't understand.
Some days it was worse than others. Some days he would curl into a ball and sob for hours on end. His mother would call him to dinner and he would call back that he was doing homework and not hungry. He would just cry.
I hated that he wouldn't tell anyone. I hated that he didn't say anything. He just wiped his eyes and turned the rickety old television set on. He never did anything to fix it. I don’t think he knew how.
Sometimes I even thought he knew that I was there. He would stare at me, right in my eyes. His face was so handsome. I wished I looked like that, maybe I wouldn't have been cast as the hanbok boy if I did.
I tried to move. I did that lots, I hoped- no- believed that it was mind over matter. I believed that if I tried hard enough I could change the very structure of my being. I could. I knew I could. If I just tried hard enough, maybe I could stop bowing. Maybe I could be normal.
And so I did it. I moved.
Not very much, though. I managed a finger, but I couldn't do any more. It was so, so hard. It left me exhausted. If I could sleep I would, as it was everything went fuzzy and nothing made sense. I saw colours swirling and pretty patterns in front of my eyes.
As he got older, it got worse.
I watched as he sat on his bed. He was staring at something, it glinted in the light and it took me a few minutes to realise what it was.
A razor.
He was going to cut himself. He’s going to fucking cut himself! I struggled. I tried to move against my invisible bonds, tried to break out of my frame. It was the only way I could help. I needed to help him.
I had a thought. I’d seen posters fall from the wall. He always stopped whatever he was doing to pick them up. I had never fallen before. I wasn't a poster, my frame would break. I would break. But I didn't even care. I had to help.
He positioned the sharp edge against his wrist. He ran it across his skin gently and dots of blood appeared.
I struggled and fought against everything holding me. I felt exhaustion already clawing at me, but I couldn't stop. My frame was starting to rattle, I could feel it. I jumped, or at least tried to. I lurched, or at least tried to.
Eventually I felt a sensation I had never been subject to before. It could only be falling. I would have screamed if I could, as it was I stared out to the room at large with a charming smile fixed on my face as my whole world flew past my eyes.
Everything I could see shattered.
Was I dead? What happens to me when I break? I heard a gasp. I wasn't dead. I couldn't be. His face hovered over my shattered frame. He looked strange through my cracked glass. He picked me up.
“Doojoon! Are you ok? You’re bleeding!”
His mother ran to him and scolded him for picking up broken glass. She wound up his hand with a bandage and gave him a pat on the back. Doojoon pointed to my broken frame and to me.
“Can we fix it?”
His mother seemed confused, but agreed. Within the week I had a new frame. It was different, plastic and aluminium. I wasn't so sure I liked it, it didn't suit me one bit. But he liked it.
I knew I had to get out for good. Someone had to stop him if he tried again, and I knew he would. I could see it in his eyes. He looked at me and I could see it. He was hurting. His hurt was my hurt.
Moving hurt. It hurt so much. It was tiring. I just want to die, but I can't. I'm a picture, pictures can't die. Every time I tried to fight my bonds and won, I still lost because the simple strain of keeping myself in the new position was more than I could possibly bear.
Eventually the day I dreaded came. He was sitting on his bed. Tears streamed down his handsome face. A razor sat in his palm, it looked almost innocent. Almost.
I tried to scream, though I had never before made a sound. I tugged at my bonds, I yanked and pulled and tore at my bonds as he cut across him arm. He lined it up again and I felt like crying.
No… I didn't feel like crying, I was crying. Never before had any liquid touched me. I was scared, but I was more scared for him.
He sliced again.
I struggled. I fought with every fibre of my being. I tried to change the fabric of myself. I visualised it. Me, out of my frame and holding him. I felt the surface of me burning, that’s what it felt like. A sting.
I tore as he cut again and said something.
“This time… It ends…”
I screamed, or I tried to. No, I actually did it. I screamed. It hurt, everywhere hurt. I felt like every cell in my body was on fire, and not the good kind. My muscles ached. Muscles… Since when did I have muscles?
“Please… Don’t hurt… Yourself…"
I managed to sputter a sentence. Doojoon's wide eyes stared at me. What a sight. On my hands and knees, in my hanbok, no longer smiling that glued on grin.
I suddenly wondered what would happen to me. Maybe I would turn into dust? Who knows… I drew the last of my energy and looked towards my frame.
Empty.
No hanbok-boy. No me. Obviously a synthetic background pasted on a wall and a shadow where I used to be. Nothing more, nothing less. No boy bowing in a hanbok silently watching. I smiled.
“I'm not just the boy in the picture anymore…” I murmured before it all went black. I could feel myself floating. Did I really turn into dust?