two plus two (makes three ninety seven)
Title: two plus two (makes three ninety seven)
Pairing: minsu
Rating: g
Length: oneshot
Summary: you fall somewhere between love and hate.
A/N: for Kali. I'd intended to finish this last week and post it on Monday when LJ told me about her birthday, but writer's block had other plans for me lol. Hope you like it, bb! Special thanks to Andi who was basically an angel in digsuise while I spazzed about this. ♥
two plus two
(makes three ninety seven)
He is your hyung, he is your sunbae, and he is more talented and dedicated and hardworking than you. They call him the best in Korea, they applaud him like he’s a king, they call him an idol and deem him a god. They say you should respect him.
But you can’t.
You don’t see him as a hyung or a sunbae or a king or a god or anything of the sort. Junsu is Junsu - a child in every essence of the word - from the way he looks to the way he acts: careless and carefree, immaturity thriving in the depths of his eyes as he places his hand on your thigh, playing your nerves to the rhythm of a song you probably don’t even like.
You don’t know what he’s thinking.
And it pisses you off.
You match his playful expression with a deadpan when you capture his hand in yours - and it feels small, delicate, filled with way too much life for a dull planning meeting at nine in the morning.
He smiles at you mirthfully, as if the innocence in his expression will be his saviour.
It won’t.
You hold his hand so tight he squirms, uncomfortable at first, pained later, and eventually he fights to be free.
You try to hurt him as much as you hurt before you let him go.
Junsu is not like you though. He forgives as easily as he forgets, and you - you wallow in your misery until it colours you blind and swallows you whole.
It isn’t fair, you think, that his new cologne smells so distinctly of rooftop heights and déjà vu when he brushes against you, absentmindedly munching on a pear while poring over the plans for the new album. You try your best to ignore him, breathe in, hold your breath, breathe out, and direct your attention to something else - the manager, the proposal, the theme, the words, the sound, the language, and anything and everything that isn’t him.
It isn’t fair.
He looks up, left cheek slightly rounded from the fruit, eyes crinkling with some faux sort of understanding, like he’s a smart piece of shit that’s figured out all your secrets when really he’s been around long enough to put two and two together but still somehow got three ninety seven. He smiles so wide his cheeks get rounder, give the nostalgic illusion of chub that isn’t there, and you hate it - and you hate that you do, because you love him.
You love him.
You love him.
You love him.
And that makes you hate him all the more.
You want to destroy him.
It doesn’t help that he doesn’t know, that his cluelessness riles you up and makes you want to shoot him down with poisoned words that you aim straight at his chest with ignore him / he’s an idiot / I don’t care / you’re ugly.
But you never land a fatal blow. Because you both know that’s not what you want.
Sometimes you think it’s better this way.
You are studying for your exams, but he does not seem to care because he shuffles into your room, closing the door softly behind him. There is a thick blanket of sleep covering his teardrop eyes when he collapses on your lap, carelessly crumpling papers underneath his weight, and your heart dives into your stomach too close, too close, get off, get off, get the fuck off -
He whines into the thin cotton covering your thighs about how Yoochun left the window open again and Changminnie, it’s cold and I’ll get sick and then we’ll all get sick - please let me sleep with you.
You don’t know what to think.
You want to push him off, to tell him that you are not some sort of sacrificial lamb, that you’re not a self-destructive idiot and you won’t do that to yourself, but his voice is wet, drowning in unshed tears, and you can’t bring yourself to make them spill.
You don’t ask, but for the rest of the night, even as he sleeps comfortably with his mouth open, contorting his body all over your notes, you can’t stop yourself from wondering why.
You don’t want to feel this way.
When morning comes, he talks to Yoochun like he is the warmth of sunshine. He embraces Jaejoong like he is the comfort of rain. He does not whine, he does not cry. He eats breakfast and chatters away like usual with hey Yunho hyung, what’s the score and goes on with life like it never felt a hitch.
But you are not an idiot.
His vision strays beyond the group and into the skies where his hopes and dreams have materialized and vaporized into nothing, and you see the undertones of a song writing itself in his eyes - sad, slow, and heart achingly beautiful.
It is not about you.
It never will be.
I think I always knew, he confesses under the quiet blanket of darkness as he turns to you. You think you’re suffocating.
You tighten your hold on the duvet, wearing it as a shield, hoping against hope that it keeps your stubborn heart from beating its way out of your chest and into his hand. You keep your eyes shut tight and try to dream up another world.
You hope he thinks you’re asleep.
After what feels like an eon, he sniffles softly and turns away.
I just hoped it wasn’t true.
Pairing: minsu
Rating: g
Length: oneshot
Summary: you fall somewhere between love and hate.
A/N: for Kali. I'd intended to finish this last week and post it on Monday when LJ told me about her birthday, but writer's block had other plans for me lol. Hope you like it, bb! Special thanks to Andi who was basically an angel in digsuise while I spazzed about this. ♥
two plus two
(makes three ninety seven)
He is your hyung, he is your sunbae, and he is more talented and dedicated and hardworking than you. They call him the best in Korea, they applaud him like he’s a king, they call him an idol and deem him a god. They say you should respect him.
But you can’t.
You don’t see him as a hyung or a sunbae or a king or a god or anything of the sort. Junsu is Junsu - a child in every essence of the word - from the way he looks to the way he acts: careless and carefree, immaturity thriving in the depths of his eyes as he places his hand on your thigh, playing your nerves to the rhythm of a song you probably don’t even like.
You don’t know what he’s thinking.
And it pisses you off.
You match his playful expression with a deadpan when you capture his hand in yours - and it feels small, delicate, filled with way too much life for a dull planning meeting at nine in the morning.
He smiles at you mirthfully, as if the innocence in his expression will be his saviour.
It won’t.
You hold his hand so tight he squirms, uncomfortable at first, pained later, and eventually he fights to be free.
You try to hurt him as much as you hurt before you let him go.
Junsu is not like you though. He forgives as easily as he forgets, and you - you wallow in your misery until it colours you blind and swallows you whole.
It isn’t fair, you think, that his new cologne smells so distinctly of rooftop heights and déjà vu when he brushes against you, absentmindedly munching on a pear while poring over the plans for the new album. You try your best to ignore him, breathe in, hold your breath, breathe out, and direct your attention to something else - the manager, the proposal, the theme, the words, the sound, the language, and anything and everything that isn’t him.
It isn’t fair.
He looks up, left cheek slightly rounded from the fruit, eyes crinkling with some faux sort of understanding, like he’s a smart piece of shit that’s figured out all your secrets when really he’s been around long enough to put two and two together but still somehow got three ninety seven. He smiles so wide his cheeks get rounder, give the nostalgic illusion of chub that isn’t there, and you hate it - and you hate that you do, because you love him.
You love him.
You love him.
You love him.
And that makes you hate him all the more.
You want to destroy him.
It doesn’t help that he doesn’t know, that his cluelessness riles you up and makes you want to shoot him down with poisoned words that you aim straight at his chest with ignore him / he’s an idiot / I don’t care / you’re ugly.
But you never land a fatal blow. Because you both know that’s not what you want.
Sometimes you think it’s better this way.
You are studying for your exams, but he does not seem to care because he shuffles into your room, closing the door softly behind him. There is a thick blanket of sleep covering his teardrop eyes when he collapses on your lap, carelessly crumpling papers underneath his weight, and your heart dives into your stomach too close, too close, get off, get off, get the fuck off -
He whines into the thin cotton covering your thighs about how Yoochun left the window open again and Changminnie, it’s cold and I’ll get sick and then we’ll all get sick - please let me sleep with you.
You don’t know what to think.
You want to push him off, to tell him that you are not some sort of sacrificial lamb, that you’re not a self-destructive idiot and you won’t do that to yourself, but his voice is wet, drowning in unshed tears, and you can’t bring yourself to make them spill.
You don’t ask, but for the rest of the night, even as he sleeps comfortably with his mouth open, contorting his body all over your notes, you can’t stop yourself from wondering why.
You don’t want to feel this way.
When morning comes, he talks to Yoochun like he is the warmth of sunshine. He embraces Jaejoong like he is the comfort of rain. He does not whine, he does not cry. He eats breakfast and chatters away like usual with hey Yunho hyung, what’s the score and goes on with life like it never felt a hitch.
But you are not an idiot.
His vision strays beyond the group and into the skies where his hopes and dreams have materialized and vaporized into nothing, and you see the undertones of a song writing itself in his eyes - sad, slow, and heart achingly beautiful.
It is not about you.
It never will be.
I think I always knew, he confesses under the quiet blanket of darkness as he turns to you. You think you’re suffocating.
You tighten your hold on the duvet, wearing it as a shield, hoping against hope that it keeps your stubborn heart from beating its way out of your chest and into his hand. You keep your eyes shut tight and try to dream up another world.
You hope he thinks you’re asleep.
After what feels like an eon, he sniffles softly and turns away.
I just hoped it wasn’t true.