From Point 'A' to Us [One-shot; Mirror fic]
Title: From Point 'A' to Us
Authors: curionenene and tees2mai
Rating: G
Genre: Angst, Psychological
Pairing: Eunhyuk/Donghae
Summary: Distance doesn't always have to be physical. Sometimes, people are but a few inches apart, but their hearts are lost miles apart from each other. [Written from 2 POVs; Inspired by 'Set the fire to the third bar' - Snow Patrol]
I cannot believe it.
My mind is like a blank piece of canvas - thick, coarse and deceptively smooth. It’s only when you rub your hand over you discover the bumps and rough surfaces. It’s only then that you discover that it’s not perfect.
Not perfect, that’s what you are. That’s why I got angry at you.
I had thought I had liked you imperfect. I had thought that I liked you for who you are. It seemed now that I was wrong. I had wanted perfect after all.
I stare at the wall, covered in smooth, shiny surfaces. Pictures and posters of perfect people and perfect scenery. They soothe me, numb my mind from thinking about imperfections.
Small ones like irritancies. Big ones like anger.
Big ones like the man just a room away, locked out of my life by a small metal key, small enough to fit into a quarter of my palm.
I stare at the wall, and my eyes somehow roam to a patch not covered by the perfection. My eyes see the coarse bumps covered by mere paint and are fascinated, tracing the lines and the obvious crudeness of a rough done job.
A rough done job done by me and the man I had locked out of my life.
A man not perfect.
A man I was angry at.
Slowly I stand, and lift the biggest painting off the wall. It is a painting of blue clouds and happy skies, a façade of ideal happiness.
I take it off, the smooth surfaced blue, and stare at the bumpy work of a paint job underneath. Messy strokes, patches, bumps, scratches.
Somehow, I love it more than the beautiful painting that I hold in my hand.
Somehow, I want to go out and apologize for what I’ve done. For storming out. For thinking I liked perfection better.
Somehow… I can’t.
It’s as if the wall is a boundary. More than just mortar and brick.
It’s distance.
Distance further than it actually is. Like a map, tracing fingers across from point A to point B, barely a step away on paper, but thousand of miles in actuality.
It is distance I cannot hope to cross.
*
There is a clock in the room. I watch the hands move and click, making their rounds. It is the second I have watched, those metal hands in their smooth movement, telling me of the time passed without you.
Two hours. My brain tells me. And as the second hand sticks to the number twelve, that troublesome organ goes - exactly two hours.
Two hours is a long time.
A long time without you.
Suddenly anxious, I get up and race to the door. I want to run out, to run into your arms, to cry and to make up with as little apology as possible as I know we will. Then you will kiss away my tears and carry me to our room where you will soothe the ache and pain away and I will thank you for it.
The coldness of the doorknob penetrates my thoughts.
A cold lance into delusions of warmth.
And suddenly the door seems like an impenetrable barrier - not one and three quarters inches of wood, but an opening to a dark place where one wrong move would be a headlong plunge into heartbreak and sorrow.
My hand pulls back from the door knob and falls uselessly to my side, quivering and twitching with indecisiveness.
I should have had nothing to fear, I know. I know that you love me, I know that I love you.
But the science of it eludes my heart, and it quakes at the thought of being hurt - of being torn out and fed to the vicious vultures of lady love, whose two-sided face I now do not trust.
The brave would venture out, traveling into the dark places of my mind. The brave wouldn’t care, laughing in the face of pain. The brave wouldn’t cower behind a door, afraid of a monster that should have been myth - nonexistent. The brave would have trusted the one he loved.
I am not brave.
And so, I back away from the door and hide in the depths of my fear, and despair.
*
The floor is cold. The bed would have been softer and more comforting despite how dusty from misuse it is, but I can’t stand it. It is not soft enough, not warm enough.
Not a worthy substitute of you.
And so, my body is beginning to ache from the uncomfortable position, the coldness of the floor seeping into my bones. My head lolls as it gets tired, tired of holding itself up against the hard wooden door. Tired of not resting against your chest as it should be.
I want you.
I want you.
I want you…
It shouldn’t have happened. That quarrel. I shouldn’t have stormed out. I shouldn’t have tried to find fault when there was actually none. I shouldn’t have wanted you to be perfect when you already were.
I shouldn’t have been so stupid.
Tears of hot anger roll down my cheeks. But they are not filled with anger towards you. No, the anger is against myself, for wanting more than I should have. For not realizing that you were mine and that I must take you for whatever you are.
But most of all, angry at myself for hurting you.
The cold is even more painful against the heat of my self disgust. I feel older than I should be - my youth and vivacity locked away with my heart that has been long given to you.
I am not brave, nor am I strong.
And so, I get up and gather a bolster from the bed. Curling around it, sniffling lightly from both the dust and the self-pity boiling in my stomach.
I lay back against the door again, holding the bolster to my chest, feeling warmer although it is not nearly warm enough.
But if I close my eyes and dream dreams of you, it is enough. Better compared to the hatred I might face if I open the door.
And so, I lay against the door, exhausted, clutching a limp bolster and pretend it is you.
( Eunhyuk )
( Epilogue )