(no subject)
tea for two
jonghyun/onew, pg-13, 440ⓦ
Note: To quote a friend, "Menthol cigarettes do not do the same for a sore throat as menthol cough drops."
When Jinki wakes up, the room is greyed with the light of late afternoon. Jonghyun is sitting by the balcony window, smoking a cigarette. His mouth is dry, body stiff with yesterday's aches as he flips the thin blanket off his legs.
"Hey," he says quietly, voice still rough with sleep, sitting down next to Jonghyun. Jonghyun turns toward him slightly in silent acknowledgement; their shoulders brush with the movement. Jonghyun is pale, the sickness throwing shadows across his face, his eyes; it reminds Jinki of rose petals, bruised and powder-soft.
They're quiet, for a while. The press of Jonghyun's mouth, in between drags, says he doesn't want to talk. Not yet. The sounds of the street are just barely audible from where they are, on the eighth floor in a hotel room for two. Their breathing is out of sync, Jonghyun's open-mouthed, smoke-hazy breaths washing over Jinki's quiet in and out like waves.
Jonghyun reaches forward, flicks ash onto the balcony floor. Jinki is drawn to the motion - the line of his wrist, the way Jonghyun's eyelashes drop. He watches the ashes shift toward the edge of the balcony, stirred by the air conditioning from inside. One of Jonghyun's sleeves is rucked up slightly. Jinki contemplates fixing it, but Jonghyun wouldn't mind either way.
"Should you be smoking?" Jonghyun's been trying not to talk; he's spent most of their time in transit and between performances sleeping or mouthing Japanese words out of the beginner's language books they've all been given. Saving his voice for when he needed it. So far, it hasn't helped.
"It's a menthol cigarette," Jonghyun says; it sounds like a sigh, soft and drowsy, but just the slightest bit petulant. It's reassuring, the obstinance; Jinki laughs a little, and Jonghyun smiles back with his fingers splayed across his mouth for a drag. It's a nice change from the sad, sotto voce boy; this is easy, Jinki thinks. Familiar, drawing the warmth back out of Jonghyun.
Jinki stretches his legs out, wiggling his toes. The color in his socks has faded in the wash, one now darker than the other. He leans forward, elbows on his knees in a half-hearted stretch. Jonghyun turns away to stub out the cigarette and his face is obscured by the curve of his shoulder, but the smile is lingering in his eyes.
The ashtray is on the table, Jinki remembers; he's starting to climb to his feet when Jonghyun reaches out and holds onto his hand. Stay, Jonghyun is saying.
When Jinki settles back down, their bodies align in parallels, a line of warmth all the way down to their hands.
jonghyun/onew, pg-13, 440ⓦ
Note: To quote a friend, "Menthol cigarettes do not do the same for a sore throat as menthol cough drops."
When Jinki wakes up, the room is greyed with the light of late afternoon. Jonghyun is sitting by the balcony window, smoking a cigarette. His mouth is dry, body stiff with yesterday's aches as he flips the thin blanket off his legs.
"Hey," he says quietly, voice still rough with sleep, sitting down next to Jonghyun. Jonghyun turns toward him slightly in silent acknowledgement; their shoulders brush with the movement. Jonghyun is pale, the sickness throwing shadows across his face, his eyes; it reminds Jinki of rose petals, bruised and powder-soft.
They're quiet, for a while. The press of Jonghyun's mouth, in between drags, says he doesn't want to talk. Not yet. The sounds of the street are just barely audible from where they are, on the eighth floor in a hotel room for two. Their breathing is out of sync, Jonghyun's open-mouthed, smoke-hazy breaths washing over Jinki's quiet in and out like waves.
Jonghyun reaches forward, flicks ash onto the balcony floor. Jinki is drawn to the motion - the line of his wrist, the way Jonghyun's eyelashes drop. He watches the ashes shift toward the edge of the balcony, stirred by the air conditioning from inside. One of Jonghyun's sleeves is rucked up slightly. Jinki contemplates fixing it, but Jonghyun wouldn't mind either way.
"Should you be smoking?" Jonghyun's been trying not to talk; he's spent most of their time in transit and between performances sleeping or mouthing Japanese words out of the beginner's language books they've all been given. Saving his voice for when he needed it. So far, it hasn't helped.
"It's a menthol cigarette," Jonghyun says; it sounds like a sigh, soft and drowsy, but just the slightest bit petulant. It's reassuring, the obstinance; Jinki laughs a little, and Jonghyun smiles back with his fingers splayed across his mouth for a drag. It's a nice change from the sad, sotto voce boy; this is easy, Jinki thinks. Familiar, drawing the warmth back out of Jonghyun.
Jinki stretches his legs out, wiggling his toes. The color in his socks has faded in the wash, one now darker than the other. He leans forward, elbows on his knees in a half-hearted stretch. Jonghyun turns away to stub out the cigarette and his face is obscured by the curve of his shoulder, but the smile is lingering in his eyes.
The ashtray is on the table, Jinki remembers; he's starting to climb to his feet when Jonghyun reaches out and holds onto his hand. Stay, Jonghyun is saying.
When Jinki settles back down, their bodies align in parallels, a line of warmth all the way down to their hands.