The Want
I SPAM YOU. :D hem. sorry. 15 minutes? Maybe?
Jaejoong wants.
He wants so bad that it hurts sometimes, and he curls into himself at night, his fists closed so tight he breaks the skin of his palms with blunt nails.
He hates that he wants, because it’s not right. Not right, not right, he whispers to himself in the mirror in the morning, and then turns away from himself in shame.
It’s OK, Yoochun tells him, wrapping his arms around Jaejoong’s waist and hugging him tight. Jaejoong can’t breathe, and chokes on the air; still until Yoochun lets go.
It wasn’t meant to be like this. It’s all wrong, but he can’t stop it. He wants, and he wants not to want, but it doesn’t stop. He bites his lip, tasting copper, but it doesn’t stop the coiling in his stomach.
Don’t do this to yourself, Junsu chastises, brushing his hair from his face. Jaejoong jerks away, not looking him in the eye until the younger boy moves away with a sigh.
He smokes on the balcony sometimes, his hands shaking and his eyes vacant as he struggles to blank out his mind. The smoke is bitter on his tongue, and the sickly taste of soju burns the back of his throat. Just enough to numb, not enough for him to do what he fears.
You’re really stupid you know, Changmin tells him with a frown, and Jaejoong pretends to ignore him. Making an exasperated noise, Changmin leaves, knowing he just won’t listen.
It’s fear and it’s pain and the ache inside that makes him sick. He hates himself too sometimes, for being weak. Sometimes he’ll move or gaze longingly, only to realise a second later, the bile welling up inside to taint the back of his mouth like the want has tainted his mind. And knowing, knowing that one day he might give in.
Jaejoong, he whispers, eyes so soft and worried, like the touch on his face. Jaejoong blanches further, his reassuring words turning to ash and dust as he feels the want rising again. His heart thunders, his pulse racing. So close, so close, his blood screams, and his mind screams back, deafening, not right, not right!
He runs, because he can’t do anything else. In the bathroom, he stares at himself with loathing, for the want, for the pain inflicted on others, and he bites his thumb so hard he tastes blood.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because the want does not leave.
Jaejoong wants.
He wants so bad that it hurts sometimes, and he curls into himself at night, his fists closed so tight he breaks the skin of his palms with blunt nails.
He hates that he wants, because it’s not right. Not right, not right, he whispers to himself in the mirror in the morning, and then turns away from himself in shame.
It’s OK, Yoochun tells him, wrapping his arms around Jaejoong’s waist and hugging him tight. Jaejoong can’t breathe, and chokes on the air; still until Yoochun lets go.
It wasn’t meant to be like this. It’s all wrong, but he can’t stop it. He wants, and he wants not to want, but it doesn’t stop. He bites his lip, tasting copper, but it doesn’t stop the coiling in his stomach.
Don’t do this to yourself, Junsu chastises, brushing his hair from his face. Jaejoong jerks away, not looking him in the eye until the younger boy moves away with a sigh.
He smokes on the balcony sometimes, his hands shaking and his eyes vacant as he struggles to blank out his mind. The smoke is bitter on his tongue, and the sickly taste of soju burns the back of his throat. Just enough to numb, not enough for him to do what he fears.
You’re really stupid you know, Changmin tells him with a frown, and Jaejoong pretends to ignore him. Making an exasperated noise, Changmin leaves, knowing he just won’t listen.
It’s fear and it’s pain and the ache inside that makes him sick. He hates himself too sometimes, for being weak. Sometimes he’ll move or gaze longingly, only to realise a second later, the bile welling up inside to taint the back of his mouth like the want has tainted his mind. And knowing, knowing that one day he might give in.
Jaejoong, he whispers, eyes so soft and worried, like the touch on his face. Jaejoong blanches further, his reassuring words turning to ash and dust as he feels the want rising again. His heart thunders, his pulse racing. So close, so close, his blood screams, and his mind screams back, deafening, not right, not right!
He runs, because he can’t do anything else. In the bathroom, he stares at himself with loathing, for the want, for the pain inflicted on others, and he bites his thumb so hard he tastes blood.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because the want does not leave.