Title: Forgiven
Title: Forgiven
Pairing: Yoochun/Junsu, Yoochun/Jaejoong
Rating: R
More hooker!verse
Hooker!fic. In which Junsu is a hooker, too, (well, sort of) And because I wanted an excuse to write Jaechun. Plus I came home to hooker!fic and just, it is taking over the world, bb XD
The chill in his bones is deep, sharp, so cold he can feel himself shivering despite the heat of the summer day, the warm press of bodies by his side. His younger brother’s grip on his arm is vice-like, clinging, his mother a marble carving, inscrutable, eyes hidden behind shades, lips pressed together tight, tight, tight. Yoochun loathes the colour of the sky, blue on blue on blue, the pale smoothness of the headstone, the dark, gaping maw of the shallow grave. “Let us pray”, he hears, and lowers his head dutifully, out of decorum if nothing else. All the wealth of a lifetime, he thinks wryly, lips twisting, in stocks and bonds and European bank accounts, and not a shred of it any defense against white hot, debilitating disease, against mortality.
He stays as the mourners depart in ones and twos and threes, feet shuffling, arms snug about each other. “Hyung”, a tug on his coat sleeve, “hyung”, and Yoochun shrugs the hand off gently. “I’ll meet you by the car”, he says; waits until the sound of footsteps fades away.
The marker is warm under his fingers, silently mocking. “You.” Soft, his lips barely moving, fond, bitter, bitter, bitter. All yours now, the old man had said, grin feral, eyes bright and fevered. Yours, and Yoochun had bowed his head, unwilling to betray the dampness on his cheeks. His father had touched him, then, hand withered, frail, voice gruff. Chin up, Park, and Yoochun had laughed, at the familiar mantra, another of his favourites, chin up, and he mouths it to himself now, drawing heart from the phrase.
He jerks upright when he hears the laugh, so incongruous in this setting, so strange in this place of endings, of loss, but never dissonant, never anything but high and clear and melodious- Luminous, he thinks, when he sees the boy coming around the corner, luminous, as he thinks of the play of light on water, the slow swirl and eddy of cigarette smoke in the air, of chords and major keys. “Shut up, Hyukjae”, the boy is saying, pushing at his friend’s shoulder before they both disappear through the front doors of the old church.
It almost seizes him, the urge to follow, to ask, a name, a name, anything- He makes it to the top of the steps when the door pushes open, when he has to stumble and pinwheel his arms ungracefully to keep from falling. It’s the boy, his eyes wide in surprise, apology already forming on his tongue. “Hello”, Yoochun says before he can even finish shaping the words; watches as he frowns, as his brow creases.
“Hello”, he replies, hesitant, wary, when Yoochun hears his brother’s voice again, calling, hyung-
“I- It was nice meeting you”, he finishes lamely; turns so he doesn’t have to see the bemused expression on the other boy’s face.
---
“You look like shit”, Siwon confides, not unkindly, after Yoochun’s third glass. Yoochun, still sober enough to shoot him a dirty look, holds the card Siwon presses into his hand up to the dim light and squints. Pantheon Gentlemen’s Club. “My father owns the place”, Siwon replies blandly to his raised eyebrow and Yoochun shrugs, pockets it.
Which is how he finds himself in front of Eeteuk three hours later, the slight flush in his cheeks not entirely due to the alcohol in his blood. “Someone…bright.” He gestures slightly, tries to explain. “Glowing”, and tries again when Eeteuk continues to look perplexed. “Exuding a sort of…innocence”, and at this Eeteuk perks up, even as his cheeks heat, even as he’s reminded of a smile, of white, white teeth. “I have just the thing”, Eeteuk promises, tells him to wait.
He knows, the moment he steps into the room, that Eeteuk’s got it all wrong, despite the downcast eyes, the demure clasp of the hands, the soft, silken fabric of his drawstring pants. This boy is dark, pale, coolly breathtaking. Cold fire to the radiance of the boy in the churchyard, and yet Yoochun is drawn, all the same, beguiled by the curve of full lips, the expanse of bare skin, the premise of an incubus masquerading as a creature of the light.
“Jaejoong”, the boy purrs, once he realizes Yoochun’s seen through the act, once Yoochun’s hands move unerringly to rest on his hips. “But you’re allowed to call me anything you want.”
Yoochun swallows, hard; doesn’t trust himself to speak when Jaejoong clasps his right hand between his palms and lifts it, when Jaejoong pauses to slip a digit past his lips. “Such pretty hands”, he murmurs into Yoochun’s palm. “I like men with pretty hands”, Jaejoong tells him; kisses up the inside of his wrist. He takes Jaejoong on the sheets, hard, fast, and again, later, slower this time, smoother, Jaejoong muffling his cries in his shoulder. “Come again”, Jaejoong tells him before he leaves, eyes dark, dark, dark, and Yoochun kisses him, presses an extra bill into his hands.
---
He isn’t sure what he’s doing here, especially when he isn’t even in the slightest bit religious any longer, but all he knows is that the service is starting, and that people are filing in. He slides into a pew near the back and scans the crowd, eyes wandering hopefully over the backs of heads. It’s only when the music starts that he hears the voice, that he sits up and cranes his neck and attempts to peer over the heads of all the people in front.
It’s oddly familiar, an old hymn he remembers from Sunday school as a child, a refrain from ages past. There is something ethereal about him now, a strange sort of rapture in his face, voice blending effortlessly with the notes of the organ, entire being lost in song. Yoochun is caught, caught, gripped; barely realizes he’s holding his breath until the music stops, until the boy moves to slip to the side, into a half-open door.
“Wait”, and he’s aware people are staring, at his sudden rising, “wait-”
The corridor is deserted when he enters, and he finds a side exit; emerges into the heat of the day. Foolishness, he chides himself as he digs around for his car keys, ridiculous, this, chasing flights of fancy and strange golden boys-
“Were you looking for me?”
Yoochun spins, stumbles over the words. “No- I mean, yes.”
The boy’s smile is friendly, easy. “I’m Junsu.”
“Yoochun”, he manages, mouth dry.
“Yoochun.” The boy nods to himself, tone musing. “I have to go back, Yoochun. Goodbye.”
“I- wait-”
Junsu, he tests on his tongue as the door clicks shut, Junsu; thinks of the sun the whole way home.
---
“Do you sing?”
He isn’t aware he’s spoken aloud until Jaejoong pulls away, expression half incredulous, eyes laughing. “What?”
“Do you?”
Jaejoong shrugs. “Only to myself, and I’m not very good-”
“Sing, then.” Yoochun leans back, hand moving up to loosen the knot of his tie, and Jaejoong crosses his arms defiantly.
“I really don’t think-”
“Jaejoong-”
“This is going to cost you extra”, Jaejoong promises before taking a deep breath and launching into the chorus of an old love song. He isn’t surprised to find Jaejoong has a wonderful singing voice, if a little rough about the edges; god knows what he can do with that voice of his, tongue never once tripping over lewd invitation and extremely vocal encouragement. “That was very good”, he tells the other boy later; laughs as he preens slightly and settles firmly on his hips.
“That’s not all I’m good at”, Jaejoong whispers; rolls his hips into Yoochun’s.
---
Yoochun is only mildly drunk this time when he hears the voice, soft, slow, crooning. A jazz number, this time, one he likes better than the hymn. He stays, listens, waits until the figure stands and puts down the microphone, until he leaves the stage. He’s drunk enough to pull on the boy’s arm as he passes close by his table, to ignore the boy’s gasp when he pulls him onto the seats.
“Stay”, Yoochun says, glad his voice doesn’t slur; wonders what a boy like Junsu is doing in a seedy place like this. “Stay.” Junsu’s face is unreadable in the dimness of the bar, but he doesn’t move to leave, and Yoochun takes this as a good sign. Junsu declines the drink he pours with a shake of his head; watches silently as Yoochun swallows, as Yoochun tries desperately to fill up the spaces between them.
“I never thought I’d see you in a place like this- I’d ask you out for coffee, and I wanted to, but then you left so quickly-” He’s aware he’s babbling, aware he’s inching closer and closer and closer. Junsu’s eyes are dark in the dimness, and Yoochun mourns the coolness, the silence, the loss of the light. Junsu doesn’t flinch away, when his fingers come to rest on the boy’s forearm, and Yoochun is warm, warm, too hot, heat coursing through him in a flood. “Junsu”, he says; presses his lips to Junsu’s. “Junsu-”
Junsu is soft, yielding, sweet, different. Yoochun sighs, pushes himself closer, hands grappling with fabric; growls in the back of his throat when Junsu pushes him away. “How much?” Junsu says, and Yoochun blinks. “How much?” Junsu repeats, and then it sinks in. Oh, he thinks, oh, when Junsu bites his lip, when his gaze doesn’t waver. This he wants, he knows, tonight, now, here, this-
“As much as you want”, he hears himself reply, wanting pounding loud in his ears. “Name your price”, and he stands when Junsu nods, the barest inclination of his head, and takes his hand.
“My car-” and then they’re there, Junsu stretched out below him in the roomy backseat, skin flushed orange from the light of the streetlamps, arms up over his head, eyes shut. Yoochun takes his time exploring with fingers, with lips, with tongue; tries to ignore the way his hands tremble on the zipper. The sun, he thinks incoherently, when Junsu’s eyes fly open, when he kisses him, warm, when his hands push Yoochun’s out of the way. “Let me”, he says against Yoochun’s lips, and Yoochun shudders when Junsu pushes the fabric of his pants down his hips.
“Junsu-”
“Shhh”, into his ear, and Yoochun closes his eyes; groans into Junsu’s shoulder.
---
Junsu does these things because it pays well, a night’s work equivalent to a week’s worth of singing himself hoarse to a crowd of drunken fools too hammered to discern music from discordant warbling. As a child he’d dreamed of his name in gilt and glitter, three feet high; all he can aspire to now is a hefty tip from a generous customer. As this Yoochun was, he muses. Junsu does these things because there is money to be made, because his mother is frail, ill (dying, dying), because Junho is away on a sports scholarship, because Junho must never know, must never give that up just to come home.
Junsu does these things because he knows he will be forgiven. The cool silver of the cross is cold in his fingers, burning. “Our Father who art in Heaven”, he begins, soft, soft, a whisper, “hallowed be thy name-”
Junsu, he hears, sees dark eyes behind his closed eyelids, a face, handsome, flushed, feels strong hands moving across his bare chest, Junsu-
“- as it is in Heaven, amen.” Junsu stops, takes a deep, shuddering breath; wonders why he doesn’t feel dirty, this time, why it doesn’t feel wrong.
Pairing: Yoochun/Junsu, Yoochun/Jaejoong
Rating: R
More hooker!verse
Hooker!fic. In which Junsu is a hooker, too, (well, sort of) And because I wanted an excuse to write Jaechun. Plus I came home to hooker!fic and just, it is taking over the world, bb XD
The chill in his bones is deep, sharp, so cold he can feel himself shivering despite the heat of the summer day, the warm press of bodies by his side. His younger brother’s grip on his arm is vice-like, clinging, his mother a marble carving, inscrutable, eyes hidden behind shades, lips pressed together tight, tight, tight. Yoochun loathes the colour of the sky, blue on blue on blue, the pale smoothness of the headstone, the dark, gaping maw of the shallow grave. “Let us pray”, he hears, and lowers his head dutifully, out of decorum if nothing else. All the wealth of a lifetime, he thinks wryly, lips twisting, in stocks and bonds and European bank accounts, and not a shred of it any defense against white hot, debilitating disease, against mortality.
He stays as the mourners depart in ones and twos and threes, feet shuffling, arms snug about each other. “Hyung”, a tug on his coat sleeve, “hyung”, and Yoochun shrugs the hand off gently. “I’ll meet you by the car”, he says; waits until the sound of footsteps fades away.
The marker is warm under his fingers, silently mocking. “You.” Soft, his lips barely moving, fond, bitter, bitter, bitter. All yours now, the old man had said, grin feral, eyes bright and fevered. Yours, and Yoochun had bowed his head, unwilling to betray the dampness on his cheeks. His father had touched him, then, hand withered, frail, voice gruff. Chin up, Park, and Yoochun had laughed, at the familiar mantra, another of his favourites, chin up, and he mouths it to himself now, drawing heart from the phrase.
He jerks upright when he hears the laugh, so incongruous in this setting, so strange in this place of endings, of loss, but never dissonant, never anything but high and clear and melodious- Luminous, he thinks, when he sees the boy coming around the corner, luminous, as he thinks of the play of light on water, the slow swirl and eddy of cigarette smoke in the air, of chords and major keys. “Shut up, Hyukjae”, the boy is saying, pushing at his friend’s shoulder before they both disappear through the front doors of the old church.
It almost seizes him, the urge to follow, to ask, a name, a name, anything- He makes it to the top of the steps when the door pushes open, when he has to stumble and pinwheel his arms ungracefully to keep from falling. It’s the boy, his eyes wide in surprise, apology already forming on his tongue. “Hello”, Yoochun says before he can even finish shaping the words; watches as he frowns, as his brow creases.
“Hello”, he replies, hesitant, wary, when Yoochun hears his brother’s voice again, calling, hyung-
“I- It was nice meeting you”, he finishes lamely; turns so he doesn’t have to see the bemused expression on the other boy’s face.
---
“You look like shit”, Siwon confides, not unkindly, after Yoochun’s third glass. Yoochun, still sober enough to shoot him a dirty look, holds the card Siwon presses into his hand up to the dim light and squints. Pantheon Gentlemen’s Club. “My father owns the place”, Siwon replies blandly to his raised eyebrow and Yoochun shrugs, pockets it.
Which is how he finds himself in front of Eeteuk three hours later, the slight flush in his cheeks not entirely due to the alcohol in his blood. “Someone…bright.” He gestures slightly, tries to explain. “Glowing”, and tries again when Eeteuk continues to look perplexed. “Exuding a sort of…innocence”, and at this Eeteuk perks up, even as his cheeks heat, even as he’s reminded of a smile, of white, white teeth. “I have just the thing”, Eeteuk promises, tells him to wait.
He knows, the moment he steps into the room, that Eeteuk’s got it all wrong, despite the downcast eyes, the demure clasp of the hands, the soft, silken fabric of his drawstring pants. This boy is dark, pale, coolly breathtaking. Cold fire to the radiance of the boy in the churchyard, and yet Yoochun is drawn, all the same, beguiled by the curve of full lips, the expanse of bare skin, the premise of an incubus masquerading as a creature of the light.
“Jaejoong”, the boy purrs, once he realizes Yoochun’s seen through the act, once Yoochun’s hands move unerringly to rest on his hips. “But you’re allowed to call me anything you want.”
Yoochun swallows, hard; doesn’t trust himself to speak when Jaejoong clasps his right hand between his palms and lifts it, when Jaejoong pauses to slip a digit past his lips. “Such pretty hands”, he murmurs into Yoochun’s palm. “I like men with pretty hands”, Jaejoong tells him; kisses up the inside of his wrist. He takes Jaejoong on the sheets, hard, fast, and again, later, slower this time, smoother, Jaejoong muffling his cries in his shoulder. “Come again”, Jaejoong tells him before he leaves, eyes dark, dark, dark, and Yoochun kisses him, presses an extra bill into his hands.
---
He isn’t sure what he’s doing here, especially when he isn’t even in the slightest bit religious any longer, but all he knows is that the service is starting, and that people are filing in. He slides into a pew near the back and scans the crowd, eyes wandering hopefully over the backs of heads. It’s only when the music starts that he hears the voice, that he sits up and cranes his neck and attempts to peer over the heads of all the people in front.
It’s oddly familiar, an old hymn he remembers from Sunday school as a child, a refrain from ages past. There is something ethereal about him now, a strange sort of rapture in his face, voice blending effortlessly with the notes of the organ, entire being lost in song. Yoochun is caught, caught, gripped; barely realizes he’s holding his breath until the music stops, until the boy moves to slip to the side, into a half-open door.
“Wait”, and he’s aware people are staring, at his sudden rising, “wait-”
The corridor is deserted when he enters, and he finds a side exit; emerges into the heat of the day. Foolishness, he chides himself as he digs around for his car keys, ridiculous, this, chasing flights of fancy and strange golden boys-
“Were you looking for me?”
Yoochun spins, stumbles over the words. “No- I mean, yes.”
The boy’s smile is friendly, easy. “I’m Junsu.”
“Yoochun”, he manages, mouth dry.
“Yoochun.” The boy nods to himself, tone musing. “I have to go back, Yoochun. Goodbye.”
“I- wait-”
Junsu, he tests on his tongue as the door clicks shut, Junsu; thinks of the sun the whole way home.
---
“Do you sing?”
He isn’t aware he’s spoken aloud until Jaejoong pulls away, expression half incredulous, eyes laughing. “What?”
“Do you?”
Jaejoong shrugs. “Only to myself, and I’m not very good-”
“Sing, then.” Yoochun leans back, hand moving up to loosen the knot of his tie, and Jaejoong crosses his arms defiantly.
“I really don’t think-”
“Jaejoong-”
“This is going to cost you extra”, Jaejoong promises before taking a deep breath and launching into the chorus of an old love song. He isn’t surprised to find Jaejoong has a wonderful singing voice, if a little rough about the edges; god knows what he can do with that voice of his, tongue never once tripping over lewd invitation and extremely vocal encouragement. “That was very good”, he tells the other boy later; laughs as he preens slightly and settles firmly on his hips.
“That’s not all I’m good at”, Jaejoong whispers; rolls his hips into Yoochun’s.
---
Yoochun is only mildly drunk this time when he hears the voice, soft, slow, crooning. A jazz number, this time, one he likes better than the hymn. He stays, listens, waits until the figure stands and puts down the microphone, until he leaves the stage. He’s drunk enough to pull on the boy’s arm as he passes close by his table, to ignore the boy’s gasp when he pulls him onto the seats.
“Stay”, Yoochun says, glad his voice doesn’t slur; wonders what a boy like Junsu is doing in a seedy place like this. “Stay.” Junsu’s face is unreadable in the dimness of the bar, but he doesn’t move to leave, and Yoochun takes this as a good sign. Junsu declines the drink he pours with a shake of his head; watches silently as Yoochun swallows, as Yoochun tries desperately to fill up the spaces between them.
“I never thought I’d see you in a place like this- I’d ask you out for coffee, and I wanted to, but then you left so quickly-” He’s aware he’s babbling, aware he’s inching closer and closer and closer. Junsu’s eyes are dark in the dimness, and Yoochun mourns the coolness, the silence, the loss of the light. Junsu doesn’t flinch away, when his fingers come to rest on the boy’s forearm, and Yoochun is warm, warm, too hot, heat coursing through him in a flood. “Junsu”, he says; presses his lips to Junsu’s. “Junsu-”
Junsu is soft, yielding, sweet, different. Yoochun sighs, pushes himself closer, hands grappling with fabric; growls in the back of his throat when Junsu pushes him away. “How much?” Junsu says, and Yoochun blinks. “How much?” Junsu repeats, and then it sinks in. Oh, he thinks, oh, when Junsu bites his lip, when his gaze doesn’t waver. This he wants, he knows, tonight, now, here, this-
“As much as you want”, he hears himself reply, wanting pounding loud in his ears. “Name your price”, and he stands when Junsu nods, the barest inclination of his head, and takes his hand.
“My car-” and then they’re there, Junsu stretched out below him in the roomy backseat, skin flushed orange from the light of the streetlamps, arms up over his head, eyes shut. Yoochun takes his time exploring with fingers, with lips, with tongue; tries to ignore the way his hands tremble on the zipper. The sun, he thinks incoherently, when Junsu’s eyes fly open, when he kisses him, warm, when his hands push Yoochun’s out of the way. “Let me”, he says against Yoochun’s lips, and Yoochun shudders when Junsu pushes the fabric of his pants down his hips.
“Junsu-”
“Shhh”, into his ear, and Yoochun closes his eyes; groans into Junsu’s shoulder.
---
Junsu does these things because it pays well, a night’s work equivalent to a week’s worth of singing himself hoarse to a crowd of drunken fools too hammered to discern music from discordant warbling. As a child he’d dreamed of his name in gilt and glitter, three feet high; all he can aspire to now is a hefty tip from a generous customer. As this Yoochun was, he muses. Junsu does these things because there is money to be made, because his mother is frail, ill (dying, dying), because Junho is away on a sports scholarship, because Junho must never know, must never give that up just to come home.
Junsu does these things because he knows he will be forgiven. The cool silver of the cross is cold in his fingers, burning. “Our Father who art in Heaven”, he begins, soft, soft, a whisper, “hallowed be thy name-”
Junsu, he hears, sees dark eyes behind his closed eyelids, a face, handsome, flushed, feels strong hands moving across his bare chest, Junsu-
“- as it is in Heaven, amen.” Junsu stops, takes a deep, shuddering breath; wonders why he doesn’t feel dirty, this time, why it doesn’t feel wrong.