[fic]
title: Scattered Dreams
rating: PG, I guess.
fandom: Super Junior
pairing: ?/? it's totally ambiguous
summary: All his dreams have been scattered by whispered words.
notes: This came out as HaeMin in my mind, but read it as whoever you want.
“So you … so …”
You don’t feel the same. You don’t want me. You don’t love me.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the thickness in his throat.
“Okay … okay …”
The ability to formulate sentences leaves him. Words vanish like smoke in the wind, leaving only a faint trace of their memory behind, wisps of letters and half words all that is left.
Tears well up in dark eyes, thick and wet and stinging. A broken sob wants to make its way past trembling lips.
But he won’t.
He won’t cry, not in front of him.
He doesn’t think he can look at the other, he doesn’t think he can see that sweet face and those pretty eyes, eyes that will most certainly be looking at him with pity and sympathy. That might just break down the crumbling wall within him.
But he can’t help himself. He glances up. That face shines and shimmers beyond the wetness that fills his eyes. And there is sympathy in that look. Sympathy, and pain, in those pretty eyes.
He swallows again, trying to stifle the sobs that want to work their way out of him. He won’t. He won’t.
A nod and he glances away. He can’t look at him. He can’t. Those dark, pretty eyes are too much for him.
This is not what he had expected. Far from any of his hopes. It’s almost like one of those life-like dreams that just go completely wrong and the whole world tumbles down around you.
Except this isn’t a dream. He wishes it was. But it’s not.
He doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He’s aware he’s probably making a fool of himself now, but he can’t help it. What is he supposed to do when all his wishes and dreams have just been scattered around him, dispersed by the simple wave of a hand through smoke and blown away by a gentle whisper?
‘I can’t.’
A hand finds one of his own. He would have been startled, except he’s now too empty to make any kind of reaction at all.
Warm fingers squeeze his own, firmly, comfortingly. Although it’s not a comfort. Not at all. In that firm hold and warm squeeze of fingers, he can feel the words he never wants to hear again.
‘I’m sorry.’
- end -
rating: PG, I guess.
fandom: Super Junior
pairing: ?/? it's totally ambiguous
summary: All his dreams have been scattered by whispered words.
notes: This came out as HaeMin in my mind, but read it as whoever you want.
“So you … so …”
You don’t feel the same. You don’t want me. You don’t love me.
His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows the thickness in his throat.
“Okay … okay …”
The ability to formulate sentences leaves him. Words vanish like smoke in the wind, leaving only a faint trace of their memory behind, wisps of letters and half words all that is left.
Tears well up in dark eyes, thick and wet and stinging. A broken sob wants to make its way past trembling lips.
But he won’t.
He won’t cry, not in front of him.
He doesn’t think he can look at the other, he doesn’t think he can see that sweet face and those pretty eyes, eyes that will most certainly be looking at him with pity and sympathy. That might just break down the crumbling wall within him.
But he can’t help himself. He glances up. That face shines and shimmers beyond the wetness that fills his eyes. And there is sympathy in that look. Sympathy, and pain, in those pretty eyes.
He swallows again, trying to stifle the sobs that want to work their way out of him. He won’t. He won’t.
A nod and he glances away. He can’t look at him. He can’t. Those dark, pretty eyes are too much for him.
This is not what he had expected. Far from any of his hopes. It’s almost like one of those life-like dreams that just go completely wrong and the whole world tumbles down around you.
Except this isn’t a dream. He wishes it was. But it’s not.
He doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He’s aware he’s probably making a fool of himself now, but he can’t help it. What is he supposed to do when all his wishes and dreams have just been scattered around him, dispersed by the simple wave of a hand through smoke and blown away by a gentle whisper?
‘I can’t.’
A hand finds one of his own. He would have been startled, except he’s now too empty to make any kind of reaction at all.
Warm fingers squeeze his own, firmly, comfortingly. Although it’s not a comfort. Not at all. In that firm hold and warm squeeze of fingers, he can feel the words he never wants to hear again.
‘I’m sorry.’
- end -