lights
lights
Jaejoong/Yoochun; PG; romance, general
Whispers in the dark, the heavy smell of flowers, hand-holding and warm coats, shaking shoulders, soft words.
for sly_pantera. ♥
It's three a.m. and still, like the room is holding its breath - all Yoochun can hear is the dripping of water from the kitchen tap and how it sort of echoes quietly. He's sitting at the dinner table, cup of coffee in his hand, and his face is close to the table's surface, almost resting on it.
It's cold. He likes the cold, but it's freezing his fingers and his coffee is just a pile of dregs floating at the bottom of his mug now. There's this quiet restlessness in him, but it's lazy as it goes through Yoochun's bones, right under the surface. He wants to sleep so badly. The dark smell of coffee beans is almost dizzying.
They got home three hours ago. They're supposed to get up at six a.m. He should be in bed, but it's like there's something holding up his eyelids no matter how heavy they feel, like maybe they're pasted or taped or pinned up and Yoochun can't sleep because of it. He lays his head down onto the table gently and curls his fingers close to themselves, as though this will bring warmth to them, and keeps his eyes open. He’s thinking of everything he has today; music, family, the sort of enviable friendships that most people can only wish they have. What does he want, then? For Yoochun there is no fairytale; there's nobody to take him away to Neverland when he's sick of not being enough, and no fairy godmother to grant his wishes, because he's never been allowed the luxury of dreaming too far beyond childhood, even though it's dreams that have got him here. It's unreasonable, childish, but Yoochun finds excuses in the cold and the lack of sleep.
He thinks of them: Yoochun, Junsu, Yunho, Changmin, Jaejoong; whispers in the dark, the heavy smell of flowers, hand-holding and warm coats, shaking shoulders, soft words. He doesn't know when he falls asleep and is dreaming in piano keys and the high notes of laughter, but then he's looking at the clock and it's four-thirty and maybe he should go to bed. Maybe you should stop thinking, Yoochun, he thinks, but he keeps his eyes open until they burn.
Jaejoong's used to these familiar sights, water dripping into a sink rhythmically and Yoochun, his hands too cold and his eyes too far gone, like he's not really here. He drags the chair next to Yoochun out, and the scraping sound it makes on the floor makes Yoochun jerk, as though he was sleeping with his eyes open. Yoochun’s hair has been getting longer, and it’s curling onto his neck and into his eyes, thick and dark. Jaejoong moves close, eyes adjusting to the dim light that's coming from the stove, and the neon numbers of the clock glow, another second gone until they reach their tomorrow, and then another, and another.
Jaejoong pulls his eyes away from bright green and focuses on Yoochun's thin wrists as he makes a grab for one for no reason at all. The touch is familiar, reassuring; Yoochun comes back, not moving, but he seems more solid now, like now he is more than ink and paper, black hair and pale skin. He looks at Jaejoong and smiles, says the same things he always does: go to bed, we have to work again soon, I'm sorry I can't sleep. Jaejoong says the same things he always does, too: I couldn't sleep, don't be sorry, just try.
He stays with Yoochun until the neon numbers of the clock feel as though they are burned into his retinas. Five twenty-three, five twenty-four. Jaejoong can feel exhaustion catching up, bending his body forward like a crumbling tower, and he lets himself lean on the table with Yoochun. He pulls absent fingers through Yoochun’s tangled hair and mindlessly thinks about gravity and inertia, and how there is always that moment right before you crash where you know you’re going to crash and still can’t stop.
Yoochun’s head is resting on the table, turned away from Jaejoong, but Jaejoong thinks that he’s still awake. He knows he’s right when he hears Yoochun say, “Hey, Jaejoong.” His voice is muffled, and Jaejoong struggles to keep his eyelids open, but they feel as though they are encased in extra weight. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up, later,” Yoochun says. I won’t leave, he could say, but maybe it’s because he doesn’t have anywhere to go.
Jaejoong is close to protesting but then he falls asleep, fingers in Yoochun’s hair and body bent over the table, his other hand curling in his lap and his mouth a little open. Yoochun turns his face to look at Jaejoong for a moment, and then he looks up, at the digital clock. Five thirty-two, five thirty-three. He doesn’t know when he falls asleep again.
Yoochun’s dreams are restless, mixed, like film that’s overlapping. He sees city lights and Paris skylines, and in his dream, there is Yoochun and Jaejoong, older, more tired, but also happier. In his dream, Jaejoong has wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his hands are the same as they always are, pale as wings and warm in Yoochun’s own. They go to Prague again, then Tokyo, and then small towns nobody’s ever heard of, where dream-Yoochun thinks that he can hold dream-Jaejoong’s hand and be safe forever. The film distorts, senselessly; Paris, wings, rivers, colours rushing and blending and clashing all at once. Jaejoong is nowhere, but there are towers leaning inward, towards Yoochun, threatening to crush him and never quite succeeding in falling.
Yoochun wakes up to gentle hands shaking his shoulders, and his eyes open slowly, like he is still half-stranded in film and it’s hard to step out of it. It’s Yunho, who says that it’s morning, time to get dressed. Take care of yourself, Yoochun, he says. He’s holding himself back, Yoochun thinks, from saying things like: we won’t really be gone if you sleep. Yoochun’s not scared of things like that, not really, because the fear’s irrational and stupid. He’s not scared.
He goes into the bathroom and into the shower first, and when he gets out, he brushes his teeth and stares at the fogged up mirror. When he leaves the bathroom, he passes Jaejoong, who showered before him. He smells faintly of citrus, like Yoochun, and Yoochun swallows the guilt because Jaejoong’s eyes look bruised.
He is about to walk past completely, but Jaejoong holds onto his wrist and says good morning close to Yoochun’s mouth, and Yoochun is dizzy with citrus and morning and steamed bathroom mirrors. He opens his mouth to say something, but then Jaejoong is gone, shouting to Changmin and Junsu to hurry up because they are going to be late.
When they arrive at the apartment again, long past midnight, Yoochun goes straight to the roof and lights a cigarette. It’s not long before he can feel Jaejoong coming up beside him, and then Jaejoong’s fingers are warm on Yoochun’s pulse before he takes the cigarette. Yoochun watches out of the corner of his eye. He wishes he could say, Jaejoong, go to sleep, but he thinks that he doesn’t have the right, even though he knows that Jaejoong would be adamant about the opposite.
Jaejoong turns to look at the cars below them. His profile is dark, almost blending into the night, but he is still close enough to touch. Yoochun’s arm brushes Jaejoong’s almost every second as they breathe, and when Jaejoong looks at Yoochun again, his eyes are bright with city light and Yoochun’s pulse pounds like heavy bass in his ears. “Jaejoong,” he says.
Jaejoong kisses warm and heady, and when Yoochun opens his eyes again, Jaejoong is still there. Yoochun doesn’t know what time it is, but he thinks it might be too early for revelations that may have been building up for weeks (months, years). He thinks of Jaejoong’s cooking, the shape of his eyes, his laughter, and his voice when he sings to help Yoochun sleep. Yoochun's always had something young and desperate in him, this need to be loved, and Jaejoong has it, too; maybe that's the reason Jaejoong folds silent promises into his fingers. Yoochun thinks about how Jaejoong holds Yoochun’s hand close to his heart when they end up in the wrong bed together, cold nights spent alone, and how he’s always kept Yoochun wondering about the same things that might have never mattered at all, because maybe he’s never wanted to leave.
When he kisses Jaejoong again, he is thinking that it is too early for revelations but it isn’t too late. Yoochun's not good at letting go or growing up, but maybe he’s never needed something like a storybook fairytale because he has this.
Jaejoong/Yoochun; PG; romance, general
Whispers in the dark, the heavy smell of flowers, hand-holding and warm coats, shaking shoulders, soft words.
for sly_pantera. ♥
It's three a.m. and still, like the room is holding its breath - all Yoochun can hear is the dripping of water from the kitchen tap and how it sort of echoes quietly. He's sitting at the dinner table, cup of coffee in his hand, and his face is close to the table's surface, almost resting on it.
It's cold. He likes the cold, but it's freezing his fingers and his coffee is just a pile of dregs floating at the bottom of his mug now. There's this quiet restlessness in him, but it's lazy as it goes through Yoochun's bones, right under the surface. He wants to sleep so badly. The dark smell of coffee beans is almost dizzying.
They got home three hours ago. They're supposed to get up at six a.m. He should be in bed, but it's like there's something holding up his eyelids no matter how heavy they feel, like maybe they're pasted or taped or pinned up and Yoochun can't sleep because of it. He lays his head down onto the table gently and curls his fingers close to themselves, as though this will bring warmth to them, and keeps his eyes open. He’s thinking of everything he has today; music, family, the sort of enviable friendships that most people can only wish they have. What does he want, then? For Yoochun there is no fairytale; there's nobody to take him away to Neverland when he's sick of not being enough, and no fairy godmother to grant his wishes, because he's never been allowed the luxury of dreaming too far beyond childhood, even though it's dreams that have got him here. It's unreasonable, childish, but Yoochun finds excuses in the cold and the lack of sleep.
He thinks of them: Yoochun, Junsu, Yunho, Changmin, Jaejoong; whispers in the dark, the heavy smell of flowers, hand-holding and warm coats, shaking shoulders, soft words. He doesn't know when he falls asleep and is dreaming in piano keys and the high notes of laughter, but then he's looking at the clock and it's four-thirty and maybe he should go to bed. Maybe you should stop thinking, Yoochun, he thinks, but he keeps his eyes open until they burn.
Jaejoong's used to these familiar sights, water dripping into a sink rhythmically and Yoochun, his hands too cold and his eyes too far gone, like he's not really here. He drags the chair next to Yoochun out, and the scraping sound it makes on the floor makes Yoochun jerk, as though he was sleeping with his eyes open. Yoochun’s hair has been getting longer, and it’s curling onto his neck and into his eyes, thick and dark. Jaejoong moves close, eyes adjusting to the dim light that's coming from the stove, and the neon numbers of the clock glow, another second gone until they reach their tomorrow, and then another, and another.
Jaejoong pulls his eyes away from bright green and focuses on Yoochun's thin wrists as he makes a grab for one for no reason at all. The touch is familiar, reassuring; Yoochun comes back, not moving, but he seems more solid now, like now he is more than ink and paper, black hair and pale skin. He looks at Jaejoong and smiles, says the same things he always does: go to bed, we have to work again soon, I'm sorry I can't sleep. Jaejoong says the same things he always does, too: I couldn't sleep, don't be sorry, just try.
He stays with Yoochun until the neon numbers of the clock feel as though they are burned into his retinas. Five twenty-three, five twenty-four. Jaejoong can feel exhaustion catching up, bending his body forward like a crumbling tower, and he lets himself lean on the table with Yoochun. He pulls absent fingers through Yoochun’s tangled hair and mindlessly thinks about gravity and inertia, and how there is always that moment right before you crash where you know you’re going to crash and still can’t stop.
Yoochun’s head is resting on the table, turned away from Jaejoong, but Jaejoong thinks that he’s still awake. He knows he’s right when he hears Yoochun say, “Hey, Jaejoong.” His voice is muffled, and Jaejoong struggles to keep his eyelids open, but they feel as though they are encased in extra weight. “Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up, later,” Yoochun says. I won’t leave, he could say, but maybe it’s because he doesn’t have anywhere to go.
Jaejoong is close to protesting but then he falls asleep, fingers in Yoochun’s hair and body bent over the table, his other hand curling in his lap and his mouth a little open. Yoochun turns his face to look at Jaejoong for a moment, and then he looks up, at the digital clock. Five thirty-two, five thirty-three. He doesn’t know when he falls asleep again.
Yoochun’s dreams are restless, mixed, like film that’s overlapping. He sees city lights and Paris skylines, and in his dream, there is Yoochun and Jaejoong, older, more tired, but also happier. In his dream, Jaejoong has wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and his hands are the same as they always are, pale as wings and warm in Yoochun’s own. They go to Prague again, then Tokyo, and then small towns nobody’s ever heard of, where dream-Yoochun thinks that he can hold dream-Jaejoong’s hand and be safe forever. The film distorts, senselessly; Paris, wings, rivers, colours rushing and blending and clashing all at once. Jaejoong is nowhere, but there are towers leaning inward, towards Yoochun, threatening to crush him and never quite succeeding in falling.
Yoochun wakes up to gentle hands shaking his shoulders, and his eyes open slowly, like he is still half-stranded in film and it’s hard to step out of it. It’s Yunho, who says that it’s morning, time to get dressed. Take care of yourself, Yoochun, he says. He’s holding himself back, Yoochun thinks, from saying things like: we won’t really be gone if you sleep. Yoochun’s not scared of things like that, not really, because the fear’s irrational and stupid. He’s not scared.
He goes into the bathroom and into the shower first, and when he gets out, he brushes his teeth and stares at the fogged up mirror. When he leaves the bathroom, he passes Jaejoong, who showered before him. He smells faintly of citrus, like Yoochun, and Yoochun swallows the guilt because Jaejoong’s eyes look bruised.
He is about to walk past completely, but Jaejoong holds onto his wrist and says good morning close to Yoochun’s mouth, and Yoochun is dizzy with citrus and morning and steamed bathroom mirrors. He opens his mouth to say something, but then Jaejoong is gone, shouting to Changmin and Junsu to hurry up because they are going to be late.
When they arrive at the apartment again, long past midnight, Yoochun goes straight to the roof and lights a cigarette. It’s not long before he can feel Jaejoong coming up beside him, and then Jaejoong’s fingers are warm on Yoochun’s pulse before he takes the cigarette. Yoochun watches out of the corner of his eye. He wishes he could say, Jaejoong, go to sleep, but he thinks that he doesn’t have the right, even though he knows that Jaejoong would be adamant about the opposite.
Jaejoong turns to look at the cars below them. His profile is dark, almost blending into the night, but he is still close enough to touch. Yoochun’s arm brushes Jaejoong’s almost every second as they breathe, and when Jaejoong looks at Yoochun again, his eyes are bright with city light and Yoochun’s pulse pounds like heavy bass in his ears. “Jaejoong,” he says.
Jaejoong kisses warm and heady, and when Yoochun opens his eyes again, Jaejoong is still there. Yoochun doesn’t know what time it is, but he thinks it might be too early for revelations that may have been building up for weeks (months, years). He thinks of Jaejoong’s cooking, the shape of his eyes, his laughter, and his voice when he sings to help Yoochun sleep. Yoochun's always had something young and desperate in him, this need to be loved, and Jaejoong has it, too; maybe that's the reason Jaejoong folds silent promises into his fingers. Yoochun thinks about how Jaejoong holds Yoochun’s hand close to his heart when they end up in the wrong bed together, cold nights spent alone, and how he’s always kept Yoochun wondering about the same things that might have never mattered at all, because maybe he’s never wanted to leave.
When he kisses Jaejoong again, he is thinking that it is too early for revelations but it isn’t too late. Yoochun's not good at letting go or growing up, but maybe he’s never needed something like a storybook fairytale because he has this.