Verse - Chapter One (DBSK; various pairings)
Title: Verse
Author: kayjayloves
Chapter: 1/?
Pairing: Homin, Yoosu
Band: DBSK/THSK/TVXQ
Genre: AU/action/drama
Rating: PG-13
Warning: cussing
Disclaimer: Don't own these boys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: Destiny: n., pl. -nies.
It starts with Jaejoong clutching a bloody nose, gaining fresh blood on worn black gloves and snickers from the crowd. Play it calm, he tells himself, as the pain overrides the first flow of numbness and he’s left clutching his stomach, wincing, feeling the ache on his shoulder blade from where it grazed against the wall.
The street fighter in front of him has that determined look in his eyes - like someone hungry, a feral animal - but Jaejoong doesn’t think he wants flesh. This one’s hungry for fame, the tantalizing feel of blood thirst never trickling past his thoughts. He doesn’t see in shades of red.
Jaejoong’s expecting the next blow; he doesn’t have time to even raise his hands and he’s tripping against a rut in the pavement. The place stinks of sweat and straining muscles, with the crowd pushing in close around them, waiting for the inevitable fall.
Jaejoong collapses on curtain call.
Time’s called, and he’s pulled to his feet by a scrawny child, who grins carefully at him and runs off into the crowd. His opponent is being patted on the back - Great work, that time, Yunho. You finally broke that losing streak. Yeah, Yunho, maybe you have a chance to gain back some honor now. He looks up from the praising, biting words and locks eyes with Jaejoong.
You won, Jaejoong thinks, when the other doesn’t break the gaze. You won, against someone who isn’t even a street fighter, so what do you want now?
The crowd trickles away, pulled back into the routine of their daily lives, the prostitutes back to the corners, the workers back to construction sites, the beggars and the stealers and the homeless back to desperation. "Hey," the street fighter - Yunho, they called him - says, "Hey, good fight?"
Jaejoong walks away. He kept up the facade; no one will look at him twice now, they’ll write him off as a broken-down fighter, part of the woodwork just like everyone else.
"Hey!" And there’s footsteps behind him, speeding up. He winces as a hand grabs onto his shoulder, jarring the bruises. "-Sorry." A pause. "Why didn’t you say anything back?"
He turns around and Yunho stares back at him, sweat dripping from his chin and his brown hair darkened with moisture. Jaejoong smiles. "Never fought before."
A beat. "-What?" The hand slides off his shoulder and he keeps walking. "Wait," Yunho calls after him, "you mean I pounded you good and that was your first fight? Shit - um?"
"Jaejoong."
Yunho’s following him now, steps matched with his own and his brow furrowed. "Shit, Jaejoong, I would’ve gone easier on you."
His palms are tingling, and Jaejoong takes in a deep breath - finds he can’t get in the air. Wait - he wants to say - wait, wait, wait, but his head starts pounding and his spine catches on fire. The sounds of yelling and bartering and footsteps on pavement fade, and the sensation of Yunho too-close, hand grasping his shoulder again, suddenly disappears.
Wait, and it's black.
"Below the moon’s shadow, the wind whispers in my ear."
Sung. Notes off your lips, falling into the world.
You’re smiling, joy bubbling and rising from your heart, pushing down against the doubts you don’t really have. Doubts, after all, weigh you down. They make you unable to fly.
You open your mouth. Sing.
"Where will it take me?"
"I beat you up pretty bad," Yunho claims, eyes dark with worry and his tone apologetic. Jaejoong blinks - once, twice; he’s sitting against a dank wall in a side alley, the place claustrophobic with only a murky filter of light.
"Yeah," he agrees, shakes away the last traces of disorientation. His head hurts. Badly. "Hey, Yunho, I’m grateful that you didn’t leave me collapsed in the street, but this is more than enough to make up for the fight - really." Jaejoong smiles, gestures vaguely in front of him, a subtle message to leave.
Yunho doesn’t take the hint.
Yoochun writes a lot of things off as the products of his own self doubt - he’s long since decided his subconscious took charge of making sure he feels enough guilt for the things he’s done wrong in this life. So he tosses aside pretty much all of the past two days, because the signs have been there;
Smelling sulfur. He connects it to the transaction he set into motion - the thought of guns was on his mind, after all.
The weird dreams. Again, guilt. Some sort of nightly self-torture, even if they aren’t particularly unpleasant.
The only thing he can’t write off is the nagging sensation of something being wrong. He nearly explains the feeling to Changmin - but the boy’s caught up in his games of logic and devil’s advocacy, and Yoochun knows he’d write it off as what Yoochun wants to explain it as: more guilt.
It’s not.
He tangles the blanket in his fingers, curling into the soft comfort and the feel of fabric against his skin. It’s too early (or too late) for it to be dark in here, for him to be sprawled in bed like this, but Yoochun’s always sought comfort in the seclusion of his room.
He makes it half a day before his self-isolation is interrupted, the knock on the door pulling him from his half-asleep state - staring at the ceiling.
Changmin, apparently, doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He’s shifting from foot to foot on the front step, and as soon as Yoochun has the door propped open he starts, "Can’t you get a phone?"
Yoochun leans out, looks behind him and takes in the shiny new red porsche. "Nice car."
"Thanks." Changmin steps inside. He doesn’t take off his coat or get comfortable, instead he’s staring at Yoochun - waiting. Yoochun sighs.
"I don’t know, Changmin." He doesn't want to explain the paranoia of the last past days, the need to lock himself in and forget it all, the growing amounts of guilt over what he's been involved in. The projects that Changmin himself is heading.
"We need to talk."
They end up in the outskirts of the city, where the buildings are in shades of grey and empty sky with crowds just spots of shifting colors, all moving in opposite directions. It’s a condensed sort of chaos; Yoochun feels at ease, Changmin tenses. Why are we here - Yoochun can feel it in Changmin’s thoughts, the way his friend is coiling tightly, drawing into himself. Why are we back here?
It makes sense, he figures. Changmin’s never been a fan of his birthplace.
Never really liked being born into the dredges of society.
-----
Author: kayjayloves
Chapter: 1/?
Pairing: Homin, Yoosu
Band: DBSK/THSK/TVXQ
Genre: AU/action/drama
Rating: PG-13
Warning: cussing
Disclaimer: Don't own these boys, just my interpretations of them.
Synopsis: Destiny: n., pl. -nies.
- The inevitable or necessary fate to which a particular person or thing is destined; one's lot.
- A predetermined course of events considered as something beyond human power or control
It starts with Jaejoong clutching a bloody nose, gaining fresh blood on worn black gloves and snickers from the crowd. Play it calm, he tells himself, as the pain overrides the first flow of numbness and he’s left clutching his stomach, wincing, feeling the ache on his shoulder blade from where it grazed against the wall.
The street fighter in front of him has that determined look in his eyes - like someone hungry, a feral animal - but Jaejoong doesn’t think he wants flesh. This one’s hungry for fame, the tantalizing feel of blood thirst never trickling past his thoughts. He doesn’t see in shades of red.
Jaejoong’s expecting the next blow; he doesn’t have time to even raise his hands and he’s tripping against a rut in the pavement. The place stinks of sweat and straining muscles, with the crowd pushing in close around them, waiting for the inevitable fall.
Jaejoong collapses on curtain call.
Time’s called, and he’s pulled to his feet by a scrawny child, who grins carefully at him and runs off into the crowd. His opponent is being patted on the back - Great work, that time, Yunho. You finally broke that losing streak. Yeah, Yunho, maybe you have a chance to gain back some honor now. He looks up from the praising, biting words and locks eyes with Jaejoong.
You won, Jaejoong thinks, when the other doesn’t break the gaze. You won, against someone who isn’t even a street fighter, so what do you want now?
The crowd trickles away, pulled back into the routine of their daily lives, the prostitutes back to the corners, the workers back to construction sites, the beggars and the stealers and the homeless back to desperation. "Hey," the street fighter - Yunho, they called him - says, "Hey, good fight?"
Jaejoong walks away. He kept up the facade; no one will look at him twice now, they’ll write him off as a broken-down fighter, part of the woodwork just like everyone else.
"Hey!" And there’s footsteps behind him, speeding up. He winces as a hand grabs onto his shoulder, jarring the bruises. "-Sorry." A pause. "Why didn’t you say anything back?"
He turns around and Yunho stares back at him, sweat dripping from his chin and his brown hair darkened with moisture. Jaejoong smiles. "Never fought before."
A beat. "-What?" The hand slides off his shoulder and he keeps walking. "Wait," Yunho calls after him, "you mean I pounded you good and that was your first fight? Shit - um?"
"Jaejoong."
Yunho’s following him now, steps matched with his own and his brow furrowed. "Shit, Jaejoong, I would’ve gone easier on you."
His palms are tingling, and Jaejoong takes in a deep breath - finds he can’t get in the air. Wait - he wants to say - wait, wait, wait, but his head starts pounding and his spine catches on fire. The sounds of yelling and bartering and footsteps on pavement fade, and the sensation of Yunho too-close, hand grasping his shoulder again, suddenly disappears.
Wait, and it's black.
"Below the moon’s shadow, the wind whispers in my ear."
Sung. Notes off your lips, falling into the world.
You’re smiling, joy bubbling and rising from your heart, pushing down against the doubts you don’t really have. Doubts, after all, weigh you down. They make you unable to fly.
You open your mouth. Sing.
"Where will it take me?"
"I beat you up pretty bad," Yunho claims, eyes dark with worry and his tone apologetic. Jaejoong blinks - once, twice; he’s sitting against a dank wall in a side alley, the place claustrophobic with only a murky filter of light.
"Yeah," he agrees, shakes away the last traces of disorientation. His head hurts. Badly. "Hey, Yunho, I’m grateful that you didn’t leave me collapsed in the street, but this is more than enough to make up for the fight - really." Jaejoong smiles, gestures vaguely in front of him, a subtle message to leave.
Yunho doesn’t take the hint.
Yoochun writes a lot of things off as the products of his own self doubt - he’s long since decided his subconscious took charge of making sure he feels enough guilt for the things he’s done wrong in this life. So he tosses aside pretty much all of the past two days, because the signs have been there;
Smelling sulfur. He connects it to the transaction he set into motion - the thought of guns was on his mind, after all.
The weird dreams. Again, guilt. Some sort of nightly self-torture, even if they aren’t particularly unpleasant.
The only thing he can’t write off is the nagging sensation of something being wrong. He nearly explains the feeling to Changmin - but the boy’s caught up in his games of logic and devil’s advocacy, and Yoochun knows he’d write it off as what Yoochun wants to explain it as: more guilt.
It’s not.
He tangles the blanket in his fingers, curling into the soft comfort and the feel of fabric against his skin. It’s too early (or too late) for it to be dark in here, for him to be sprawled in bed like this, but Yoochun’s always sought comfort in the seclusion of his room.
He makes it half a day before his self-isolation is interrupted, the knock on the door pulling him from his half-asleep state - staring at the ceiling.
Changmin, apparently, doesn’t like to be kept waiting. He’s shifting from foot to foot on the front step, and as soon as Yoochun has the door propped open he starts, "Can’t you get a phone?"
Yoochun leans out, looks behind him and takes in the shiny new red porsche. "Nice car."
"Thanks." Changmin steps inside. He doesn’t take off his coat or get comfortable, instead he’s staring at Yoochun - waiting. Yoochun sighs.
"I don’t know, Changmin." He doesn't want to explain the paranoia of the last past days, the need to lock himself in and forget it all, the growing amounts of guilt over what he's been involved in. The projects that Changmin himself is heading.
"We need to talk."
They end up in the outskirts of the city, where the buildings are in shades of grey and empty sky with crowds just spots of shifting colors, all moving in opposite directions. It’s a condensed sort of chaos; Yoochun feels at ease, Changmin tenses. Why are we here - Yoochun can feel it in Changmin’s thoughts, the way his friend is coiling tightly, drawing into himself. Why are we back here?
It makes sense, he figures. Changmin’s never been a fan of his birthplace.
Never really liked being born into the dredges of society.
-----