the sharp knife of a short life
a/n: these are too long to be drabbles, but kinda short for full-on fics. ficlets it is orz. might be too early to say, but these might be one of my last het drabbles/mini fics for a while. i need to get back to writing full length shots again lksdghsdjf.
you were my best four years
646w; pg-13 (jay park/ailee)
i can still feel you hold my hand.
it’s summer again. hot, sweaty, blistering. she covers her eyes with a lazy hand, all lethargic muscles. the radio’s on, a whiny voice barely audible in the midst of static. no one sings along.
it’s one of those days. she curls herself up into a small ball, small enough to disappear. it’s one of those days. rocks herself back and forth, breathes in deeply
his old things are everywhere, back on their kitchen counter, hung up in their closet. it’s like he’s still here. she sighs, watery and shaky. he should still be here.
it’s one of those days. the fan hums beside her, sending vibrations through her fingertips that remind her of his laughter against her ear.
she’s saying something again, something deep and thought-invoking, the words settling into his ears absentmindedly, collecting like dust. the late afternoon sun is orange and pink, skin cancer staring them straight in the eye and melting them into their picnic blanket. he pokes her in the stomach, interrupting her thoughts.
“what was that for?” a playful pout is on her lips. he smiles, eyes half-moons. laughter bubbles out of his throat before he can think about it. the dry air swallows it up, parching his throat
“you think too much.” she lays back down, fidgety and turning. “profound stuff.” she finally settles on her elbows, propped up just slightly, just to face him.
“like confucius?” she deadpans. her eyes twinkle. strands of caramel hair tickle his arm.
he plays along. “yeah. like confucius.”
“you can’t stay this way forever.” i know, you’ve told me a million times already. the american in her can’t help but roll its eyes.
“it’s like you’re my conscious now.” she can hear hyorin sighing over the static. she’s tired of this, i’m tired of this, we don’t need to pretend anymore.
“i’m just trying to help.” but what excuse is that? she wants to talk back, but she’s not american enough for that.
“i don’t need your help.” it’s rude, uncalled for, but she doesn’t see the point anymore. hyorin hangs up after that and she adds her to the growing list of people who don’t understand.
the call comes in the morning. around five fifty-eight. a blur, a phone ringing, pull that damn thing out and throw it out of the house, won’t you please go away and leave me alone
it’s still dark outside. that’s all she remembers as she listens, hangs up, cries, sobs, fuck this, fuck that, fuck everything, it’s a lie, drives to the hospital, good thing the roads are empty because she can’t see shit, runs, what room is it, fuck, tell me this isn’t real.
he’s gone and she doesn’t even get to say goodbye.
she lights the candle. it’s a sad cake this year, couldn’t bring herself to bake it again. that’s three times now. the chocolate icing stares her straight in the eye, accusingly. he always liked mundane flavors.
the chair scrapes against the linoleum floor. sits herself down. what does she wish for? he always let her do this, always even though she swore that the next year would be his turn. quick, the wax is starting to drip. there are no next years, she remembers. blink. deep breath. there are no next years.
what does she wish for? she stares at the tiny flame, mind blank and eyes glassy, until it burns itself out. wax pools onto the cake, dark reflections on its miniscule surface
what a mess. it goes into the trash can. she wraps her arms around herself and pretends that she’s small, small enough to disappear.
it just has to end like this. eyes that turn into half-moons, three letters to remember, engraved, just like he wanted.
it just had to end like that. j-a-y. the american in him couldn’t resist.
there’s no one to laugh with about it.
no one ever said it would be this hard
945w; pg-13 (jaejoong/lee yeonhee, so jisub/lee yeonhee)
how can you miss what you never had?
love is a destructive thing. he scribbles it down in messy letters, scrawled and scratchy against paper. destructive, but necessary all the same.
at first, he doesn’t know how to describe her. she’s pretty - even teeth, pale skin, long hair, tall. nice legs. but what makes her special? he asks himself this when he sees her again and again, white smile on her face, courteous acknowledgement as she gets in the elevator
“are you talking about yeonhee?” yunho asks when he mentions her. oh. that’s her name. of course yunho would know. that’s why he’s the leader.
“guess so.” they leave it at that. what is there to say about her? she’s not special, just the girl who takes the same elevator as him every day.
it’s been a while. she voices this to him repeatedly. it’s awkward, and he’s painfully aware of the fact. she laughs every now and then at what he says even when it isn’t funny, strained and stretched, like something that’s about to break. but she’s strong, he remembers. she’s strong.
“it’s been a while.” he wants to imagine her smiling over the phone, happy to talk to him. it’s too late for that. four years too late.
“yeah.” he agrees again, swallowing what he wanted to say. the words stick to the roof of his mouth
i missed you
she’s smiling again. presses her own button when she comes in. independent, he thinks. clears his throat, wanting to say something. she turns her focus to him, perfectly amicable.
“good morning,” she says before he can start. bows her head a little for good measure. her hair sways slightly forward
“good morning.” lame. he scolds himself but her smile doesn’t fade. it doesn’t grow either, just remains stagnant on her lips
she gets off on the third floor. he watches her walk down the hallway until the doors close between them, taking them to their separate lives
he sees her on tv sometimes. on commercials, once on a billboard. he could watch her dramas, but that would hurt. watching her shine. that would hurt.
he’s hypocritical, but he misses her, his yeonhee, the one that would smile up to him at the break of dawn with no makeup, just the morning light soft on her face, non-radiant and mundane but perfect. perfect.
he never counted on her being anything more than nondescript
(he used to be the one that shone.)
“yeonhee?”
he gets the chance to speak first this time. she faces him, expression open but eyes guarded. and there he sees it for the first time. the fine print on the corner, almost too small to read.
“would you like to go out for a cup of coffee?” he smiles a little. she regards her choices slowly, warily
“ok.” he squints a little. caution, this side up is printed all over her face in size two font.
“are you ok with this?” of course he’s not. fuck you. fuck him. he’s trying to keep it together. how could you even do this to me, why are you so fucking stupid, don’t you want to go backwards?
deep breath. one. two. three, for precaution. he wants to slam something on the floor. “why do you even need to ask me?” closes his eyes. he sees her, his yeonhee. where is she
“i just thought you’d care.” she’s not in that voice. his yeonhee wasn’t this strong. where is she? silence on the other line. he wonders what she looks like now. decides it’s better that he doesn’t because that might salt the wound
“jisub can take care of me, jaejoong.” but what about me? don’t you care about me? he doesn’t break the silence. she doesn’t either.
unlike you, it accuses him.
her hands feel warm on his back. she leans against him and he feels the need enveloping him, protruding from her arms. everyone’s tossed her aside, what is she good for? not good enough, they tell her. not good enough. he knows, he’s heard. but that doesn’t make this less exhausting
“but you’ll come back for me, right?” her voice is a drowsy mumble, fuzzy and slurred from the alcohol. his heart beats in his chest. throbbing. he wonders if she’s listening to it, if she knows what he’s about to do.
“of course.” it escalates to a staccato. you know you’re doing something wrong. she tangles herself into him even more and sighs sleepily
“good.&rdquo
no one understands. he doesn’t expect them to. why couldn’t you just move on? you broke her heart, you know. junsu and yoochun, respectively.
he knows he didn’t expect them to. then what did you expect? smoke curls into the sky, the bitter smell of tobacco pungent. it makes him think
her placid smile. broken fragments splayed out on the floor. i don’t know. he takes another puff. maybe i thought she still cared.
he leaves her behind in the spring and doesn’t look back. a new beginning. he looks forward. she remains stagnant. doesn’t smile anymore
this is how we live. makes it sound exclusive, like a club she’s not part of. it doesn’t sound glamorous. he stares hard at her, jaded. maybe i don’t want to be famous. he’s waiting for something to push away. it hurts more than anything she ever thought would
but i love you. it’s no excuse. it doesn’t stop him. bites her lip. don’t let it stop you. she picks up the pieces
that year, he stops reading people and she white-outs the fine print
(love doesn’t mean anything, she whispers before she falls asleep. tears in her eyes. meaningless, so why did we try?)
you were my best four years
646w; pg-13 (jay park/ailee)
i can still feel you hold my hand.
it’s summer again. hot, sweaty, blistering. she covers her eyes with a lazy hand, all lethargic muscles. the radio’s on, a whiny voice barely audible in the midst of static. no one sings along.
it’s one of those days. she curls herself up into a small ball, small enough to disappear. it’s one of those days. rocks herself back and forth, breathes in deeply
his old things are everywhere, back on their kitchen counter, hung up in their closet. it’s like he’s still here. she sighs, watery and shaky. he should still be here.
it’s one of those days. the fan hums beside her, sending vibrations through her fingertips that remind her of his laughter against her ear.
she’s saying something again, something deep and thought-invoking, the words settling into his ears absentmindedly, collecting like dust. the late afternoon sun is orange and pink, skin cancer staring them straight in the eye and melting them into their picnic blanket. he pokes her in the stomach, interrupting her thoughts.
“what was that for?” a playful pout is on her lips. he smiles, eyes half-moons. laughter bubbles out of his throat before he can think about it. the dry air swallows it up, parching his throat
“you think too much.” she lays back down, fidgety and turning. “profound stuff.” she finally settles on her elbows, propped up just slightly, just to face him.
“like confucius?” she deadpans. her eyes twinkle. strands of caramel hair tickle his arm.
he plays along. “yeah. like confucius.”
“you can’t stay this way forever.” i know, you’ve told me a million times already. the american in her can’t help but roll its eyes.
“it’s like you’re my conscious now.” she can hear hyorin sighing over the static. she’s tired of this, i’m tired of this, we don’t need to pretend anymore.
“i’m just trying to help.” but what excuse is that? she wants to talk back, but she’s not american enough for that.
“i don’t need your help.” it’s rude, uncalled for, but she doesn’t see the point anymore. hyorin hangs up after that and she adds her to the growing list of people who don’t understand.
the call comes in the morning. around five fifty-eight. a blur, a phone ringing, pull that damn thing out and throw it out of the house, won’t you please go away and leave me alone
it’s still dark outside. that’s all she remembers as she listens, hangs up, cries, sobs, fuck this, fuck that, fuck everything, it’s a lie, drives to the hospital, good thing the roads are empty because she can’t see shit, runs, what room is it, fuck, tell me this isn’t real.
he’s gone and she doesn’t even get to say goodbye.
she lights the candle. it’s a sad cake this year, couldn’t bring herself to bake it again. that’s three times now. the chocolate icing stares her straight in the eye, accusingly. he always liked mundane flavors.
the chair scrapes against the linoleum floor. sits herself down. what does she wish for? he always let her do this, always even though she swore that the next year would be his turn. quick, the wax is starting to drip. there are no next years, she remembers. blink. deep breath. there are no next years.
what does she wish for? she stares at the tiny flame, mind blank and eyes glassy, until it burns itself out. wax pools onto the cake, dark reflections on its miniscule surface
what a mess. it goes into the trash can. she wraps her arms around herself and pretends that she’s small, small enough to disappear.
it just has to end like this. eyes that turn into half-moons, three letters to remember, engraved, just like he wanted.
it just had to end like that. j-a-y. the american in him couldn’t resist.
there’s no one to laugh with about it.
no one ever said it would be this hard
945w; pg-13 (jaejoong/lee yeonhee, so jisub/lee yeonhee)
how can you miss what you never had?
love is a destructive thing. he scribbles it down in messy letters, scrawled and scratchy against paper. destructive, but necessary all the same.
at first, he doesn’t know how to describe her. she’s pretty - even teeth, pale skin, long hair, tall. nice legs. but what makes her special? he asks himself this when he sees her again and again, white smile on her face, courteous acknowledgement as she gets in the elevator
“are you talking about yeonhee?” yunho asks when he mentions her. oh. that’s her name. of course yunho would know. that’s why he’s the leader.
“guess so.” they leave it at that. what is there to say about her? she’s not special, just the girl who takes the same elevator as him every day.
it’s been a while. she voices this to him repeatedly. it’s awkward, and he’s painfully aware of the fact. she laughs every now and then at what he says even when it isn’t funny, strained and stretched, like something that’s about to break. but she’s strong, he remembers. she’s strong.
“it’s been a while.” he wants to imagine her smiling over the phone, happy to talk to him. it’s too late for that. four years too late.
“yeah.” he agrees again, swallowing what he wanted to say. the words stick to the roof of his mouth
i missed you
she’s smiling again. presses her own button when she comes in. independent, he thinks. clears his throat, wanting to say something. she turns her focus to him, perfectly amicable.
“good morning,” she says before he can start. bows her head a little for good measure. her hair sways slightly forward
“good morning.” lame. he scolds himself but her smile doesn’t fade. it doesn’t grow either, just remains stagnant on her lips
she gets off on the third floor. he watches her walk down the hallway until the doors close between them, taking them to their separate lives
he sees her on tv sometimes. on commercials, once on a billboard. he could watch her dramas, but that would hurt. watching her shine. that would hurt.
he’s hypocritical, but he misses her, his yeonhee, the one that would smile up to him at the break of dawn with no makeup, just the morning light soft on her face, non-radiant and mundane but perfect. perfect.
he never counted on her being anything more than nondescript
(he used to be the one that shone.)
“yeonhee?”
he gets the chance to speak first this time. she faces him, expression open but eyes guarded. and there he sees it for the first time. the fine print on the corner, almost too small to read.
“would you like to go out for a cup of coffee?” he smiles a little. she regards her choices slowly, warily
“ok.” he squints a little. caution, this side up is printed all over her face in size two font.
“are you ok with this?” of course he’s not. fuck you. fuck him. he’s trying to keep it together. how could you even do this to me, why are you so fucking stupid, don’t you want to go backwards?
deep breath. one. two. three, for precaution. he wants to slam something on the floor. “why do you even need to ask me?” closes his eyes. he sees her, his yeonhee. where is she
“i just thought you’d care.” she’s not in that voice. his yeonhee wasn’t this strong. where is she? silence on the other line. he wonders what she looks like now. decides it’s better that he doesn’t because that might salt the wound
“jisub can take care of me, jaejoong.” but what about me? don’t you care about me? he doesn’t break the silence. she doesn’t either.
unlike you, it accuses him.
her hands feel warm on his back. she leans against him and he feels the need enveloping him, protruding from her arms. everyone’s tossed her aside, what is she good for? not good enough, they tell her. not good enough. he knows, he’s heard. but that doesn’t make this less exhausting
“but you’ll come back for me, right?” her voice is a drowsy mumble, fuzzy and slurred from the alcohol. his heart beats in his chest. throbbing. he wonders if she’s listening to it, if she knows what he’s about to do.
“of course.” it escalates to a staccato. you know you’re doing something wrong. she tangles herself into him even more and sighs sleepily
“good.&rdquo
no one understands. he doesn’t expect them to. why couldn’t you just move on? you broke her heart, you know. junsu and yoochun, respectively.
he knows he didn’t expect them to. then what did you expect? smoke curls into the sky, the bitter smell of tobacco pungent. it makes him think
her placid smile. broken fragments splayed out on the floor. i don’t know. he takes another puff. maybe i thought she still cared.
he leaves her behind in the spring and doesn’t look back. a new beginning. he looks forward. she remains stagnant. doesn’t smile anymore
this is how we live. makes it sound exclusive, like a club she’s not part of. it doesn’t sound glamorous. he stares hard at her, jaded. maybe i don’t want to be famous. he’s waiting for something to push away. it hurts more than anything she ever thought would
but i love you. it’s no excuse. it doesn’t stop him. bites her lip. don’t let it stop you. she picks up the pieces
that year, he stops reading people and she white-outs the fine print
(love doesn’t mean anything, she whispers before she falls asleep. tears in her eyes. meaningless, so why did we try?)