are you going to age with grace?
pairing: kyungsoo/jongin
rating: pg
wordcount: 2k
warnings: [1]one-sided love
summary: ten thousand and one words later, he realises that he loves do kyungsoo. he has now, for many, many years.
notes: this is for pleaseuu. hello peanut. happy birthday! <3 hope you like it even though you said you like fluff. gurgles please don't murder me.
title taken from bastille - oblivion.
My name is Jongin, he’d said, the first time he’d walked into the classroom, smiling as wide as his face could allow, and I like to write.
The other kids had snickered, confusion and child-like cruelty molding themselves around consonants and vowels, and Jongin’s face had fallen.
“Hi, Jongin,” Kyungsoo had said, and the class had gone silent, because Kyungsoo almost never spoke, Kyungsoo was the one who sat quietly at the back of the class and did all the teachers asked him to do and handed his homework up on time and never, ever played with the other kids. “My name is Kyungsoo. You can sit with me.”
Jongin had scrambled over immediately, feet shuffling and bumping into desks and chairs, clumsily making his way to where Kyungsoo sat at the back of the class. He’d sat himself down in the empty seat, turned to Kyungsoo, and said, thank you.
Kyungsoo had looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable, and something in Jongin’s chest screamed, please don’t be like them, please be nice, please be my friend.
But then Kyungsoo had smiled, and Jongin had just stared back, pulse thumping in his throat, ease ebbing through his veins. “Do you like math? I do.”
I’m not good at it.
“It’s okay.” The legs of Kyungsoo’s chair had scraped against the floor as he scooted over slightly to get closer to whisper, “I can help you with it.”
Jongin’s smile had spread slowly across his face.
Okay.
They grow up together, Do Kyungsoo and Kim Jongin, from age nine all the way up to high school.
Playing in the playgrounds turns into playing on their game consoles, running in the parks turns into lazing about on each other’s bedroom floors. Reading comics turns into reading books, books that Jongin hands to Kyungsoo with excitement, books that Jongin makes him finish within the week so he can stuff another novel into Kyungsoo’s bag.
Jongin loves the written word. It is his peace, his solace.
He used to love performing. He adored dance, and everything that came with it: the blinding spotlight, the rush of adrenaline as he swung himself across the stage in graceful, half-planned and half-uncontrolled arcs, basking in the awe of the audience, revelling in the way the crowd stood on their toes after the curtains dropped, and applauded a discordant storm.
But now, he thinks, as he curves his fingers around the pen his mother had given him for his thirteenth birthday, he could love words more than any other.
“Write,” says Kyungsoo, one day in the fifth year of their friendship, as they’re lying upside down on Kyungsoo’s sofa, the heels of their feet hooked into the cushions and their arms hanging limply beside their heads. “You should write. Stories, poems. Anything.”
What would I write about, asks Jongin, eyebrows furrowing.
“Everything,” says Kyungsoo, nudging his elbow with his own, “write about school. About dragons and princesses and kings and queens. About the sky and the grass and everything in between. Write about you. About me.”
About us?
“Sure, why not? You can do it,” urges Kyungsoo, and his eyes are bright. “I know you can.”
I can. Jongin smiles. I will.
Jongin writes.
He writes, and writes, and writes. He puts his pens to paper and runs out of thread-bound and ring-bound notebooks faster than Kyungsoo finishes math workbooks. His mum lets him use the computer to write, and he does. He types. He builds up a typing speed that rivals office secretaries and he builds up folders of unread documents and unseen works that he attempts to hide under flimsily names like ‘gardening research’ and ‘chemistry homework.’
Nobody ever gets to read them, though.
Not even Kyungsoo.
But that’s because I’m not ready, explains Jongin, flipping impatiently through his math homework, as Kyungsoo steadies his pen and pushes his glasses further up his nose. I’m not ready, Kyungsoo.
“It’s okay,” says Kyungsoo, “you can always show me next time. When you’re ready.”
Okay. I will.
“Promise?”
A pinky is held out in offering. Jongin holds up his hand, and loops their little fingers together, smiling. Promise.
“Let’s get back to math now, yeah?” Kyungsoo’s shoulder leans against his comfortably, and Jongin reclines into the touch. “Now, circles are like this.”
Jongin writes.
He writes to keep the sadness away. He writes to keep the pain at bay. He writes to keep the happiness in play, in his heart and in every part of his soul, and he cannot say-
He cannot say how much it means to him, because it means much more than him.
Sometimes he thinks, it is all he has, and sometimes he thinks, it is all he can have.
But then Kyungsoo walks up to him at the entrance to the school, and slides his arm across Jongin’s shoulders and laughs into the curve of his neck, and smiles that smile at him, the one that’s reserved only for Jongin, only for him.
He writes about that smile, mostly.
At their high school graduation, Kyungsoo is valedictorian.
He gets Jongin to write the speech.
Jongin’s fingers tremble with every word, but he knows they will be true, sincere, real. He sees the looks on his schoolmates’ faces, and he knows that what he’s written will keep in their memories, if not at least for the day.
Kyungsoo’s voice is clear, is smooth. He reads the speech, he reads Jongin’s words, he reads Jongin.
And Jongin wants to hear Kyungsoo read his words forever.
Kyungsoo catches his eye, smiles, and says, “This speech was written by Kim Jongin.”
Figures arise, palms meet palms.
Jongin has never shook nor smiled this much in his entire life.
And Kyungsoo laughs, throwing his hat. It is a beautiful laugh.
Jongin immortalizes it in his words forever.
Kyungsoo goes to college. He studies accounting.
So does Jongin. He studies language.
They study cities apart, and meet on holidays, throwing arms around each other in easygoing hugs, and ruffling the hair on each other’s heads, and curling their palms together like nothing has changed.
They catch up over lunch and dinner, and visit each other’s homes.
Sometimes, there’s a gap between then, grown over time by distance and separation. Sometimes, there is a little pause in the air, when one of them racks their brain to respond to a question. Sometimes, there is a little awkward shift, when one of them mistakes a word for another.
But it’s okay, thinks Jongin, as he watches Kyungsoo wave from the sidewalk on his way back, it’s okay.
He still has his words.
That night, he sits, and types, and types, and types.
He writes about Kyungsoo’s slow smile when Jongin does something stupid. He writes about Kyungsoo’s soft hair in the breeze, the way he tucks his hands into balls and shoves them in his pockets when he gets cold, the way his cheeks redden in the snow. He writes about Kyungsoo’s love for numbers, echoing his very own love for words. He writes about Kyungsoo, he writes about Kyungsoo, he writes about Kyungsoo.
Ten thousand and one words later, he realises that he loves Do Kyungsoo.
He has now, for many, many years.
“Her name is Yeonhui,” says Kyungsoo, “and we take the same course.”
Oh, says Jongin, she sounds very nice.
Oh, thinks Jongin, what’s that sound inside my chest.
“She is,” says Kyungsoo, smiling faintly. “I really like her, Jongin.”
That’s not fair. That’s Jongin’s smile. That’s the smile that only Jongin should get. Not a girl who lives far, far away, not a girl who has caught Kyungsoo’s heart in less than a year, not a girl.
Oh, says Jongin, are you dating her now.
Oh, thinks Jongin, I can’t breathe.
“Oh,” says Kyungsoo, rubbing at his nose in embarrassment, “I guess so.”
Oh, thinks Jongin, why does it hurt.
Not a girl, not a girl, not a girl.
Jongin writes his first novel when he is twenty-one.
It is about a boy who falls in love, and a boy who doesn’t fall in love in return.
Fast forward to a month later, Kyungsoo shows up at Jongin’s door.
“I read your book,” he says. He no longer wears the glasses from his past years. “It’s good, Jongin. It’s more than good. It’s great.” His features twist slightly. “Jongin. Are you-“
Yes, says Jongin, and his heart is a flat tire jerking to a stop in his chest. I am.
Kyungsoo exhales. “I’m not.”
Jongin writes.
He writes to keep the sadness away. He writes to keep the pain at bay. He writes even though the happiness will not stay, he writes even though he knows that this day-
This day has been long in the making.
It’s okay, says Jongin, the book wasn’t about you. It wasn’t.
“It wasn’t,” says Kyungsoo, looking decidedly relieved, and Jongin takes another heavy slam to his ribcage. He curls his fingers into the doorway and pretends Kyungsoo cannot see his pulse throbbing anxiously in his neck. “It wasn’t. Okay.”
Okay, says Jongin. Okay.
“Okay,” says Kyungsoo, “Jongin. I think I love her.”
Okay, says Jongin. Okay.
He isn’t okay. He isn’t. He isn’t. He isn’t.
Tell me about her, he says. She can be in my next book.
Jongin writes his second novel when he is twenty-three.
It is about a boy who falls in love, and a girl who falls in love.
He doesn’t send it to his editor. He sends it to Kyungsoo.
A week later, Kyungsoo emails him, and says that it’s great. Says that he should publish it. Says that it’s really a great book.
Jongin breaks into pieces, because it is his most hated work to date.
Yet, it is crushingly good, says his editor, says his parents, says Kyungsoo, says Kyungsoo, says Kyungsoo.
Jongin writes.
He writes to keep the sadness away. He writes to keep the pain at bay. He writes even though now his hands will not stay, on the keyboard of a laptop, or on the page of a notebook, even though the words pass quicker each day, and he cannot stop them from fading away.
He is fading away.
“Be my best man,” Kyungsoo asks him, years later.
I will.
She’s beautiful.
She smiles like the early light breaking through the clouds on a winter day. She turns her face up towards the skies the way a sunflower does, and laughs like the tinkling of bells. She is small, pretty, petite, lovely. She is perfect for Kyungsoo.
She doesn’t understand Jongin in the slightest.
“She’ll learn,” whispers Kyungsoo nervously, straightening his bow-tie for the nth time, and Jongin takes over the job, settling his fingers into soft fabric, adjusting the article absently as Kyungsoo goes on. “She will, I promise. Then we can all get along really well. I know it.”
Jongin smiles, pats him on the shoulder, and pushes him out the door. Time to shine.
Kyungsoo stops for a second, turns around, and smiles at Jongin. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”
I know.
“The only friend I’ve ever had, really.” Kyungsoo reaches out to clasp Jongin’s hand. “Thank you for everything. Thank you, Jongin.”
I know.
Kyungsoo doesn’t let go of his hand. “You haven’t been writing, recently, have you?”
Jongin just shakes his head, and attempts to tug his hand out of Kyungsoo’s grasp. It’s your wedding, he says, you shouldn’t be thinking of anything else. Think of her.
Think of me, thinks Jongin desperately, irrationally, fearfully, think of me, Kyungsoo, think of me and look at me the way you look at her and smile at me the way you smile at her and love me the way you love her. Think of me.
Kyungsoo smiles, and lets go of his hand. “I will. But promise me you’ll start writing again? I’ll check up on you.”
Think of me, Jongin wants to say. But all he says is, I promise.
I promise, I promise, I promise.
At the reception, Jongin doesn’t read his speech, for the same reason he has never read any speech, for the same reason he has never read aloud in class, for the same reason he only writes, for the same reason he never speaks.
Jongin lifts his hands, and signs the words slowly.
Congratulations, Kyungsoo. I love you. All the best with life. My next book is for you.
Kyungsoo lifts his hands in return, and signs back.
Thank you, Jongin. I love you too.
Kim Jongin writes.
He writes because he cannot speak. He has never been able to, all his life.
Jongin writes his third and last novel when he is thirty years of age.
It is about a boy who learns to love, who learns to live, who learns to let go.
He keeps it in a folder on his laptop, and in a compartment of his heart, forever.
He never publishes it.
rating: pg
wordcount: 2k
warnings: [1]one-sided love
summary: ten thousand and one words later, he realises that he loves do kyungsoo. he has now, for many, many years.
notes: this is for pleaseuu. hello peanut. happy birthday! <3 hope you like it even though you said you like fluff. gurgles please don't murder me.
title taken from bastille - oblivion.
My name is Jongin, he’d said, the first time he’d walked into the classroom, smiling as wide as his face could allow, and I like to write.
The other kids had snickered, confusion and child-like cruelty molding themselves around consonants and vowels, and Jongin’s face had fallen.
“Hi, Jongin,” Kyungsoo had said, and the class had gone silent, because Kyungsoo almost never spoke, Kyungsoo was the one who sat quietly at the back of the class and did all the teachers asked him to do and handed his homework up on time and never, ever played with the other kids. “My name is Kyungsoo. You can sit with me.”
Jongin had scrambled over immediately, feet shuffling and bumping into desks and chairs, clumsily making his way to where Kyungsoo sat at the back of the class. He’d sat himself down in the empty seat, turned to Kyungsoo, and said, thank you.
Kyungsoo had looked at him for a moment, expression unreadable, and something in Jongin’s chest screamed, please don’t be like them, please be nice, please be my friend.
But then Kyungsoo had smiled, and Jongin had just stared back, pulse thumping in his throat, ease ebbing through his veins. “Do you like math? I do.”
I’m not good at it.
“It’s okay.” The legs of Kyungsoo’s chair had scraped against the floor as he scooted over slightly to get closer to whisper, “I can help you with it.”
Jongin’s smile had spread slowly across his face.
Okay.
They grow up together, Do Kyungsoo and Kim Jongin, from age nine all the way up to high school.
Playing in the playgrounds turns into playing on their game consoles, running in the parks turns into lazing about on each other’s bedroom floors. Reading comics turns into reading books, books that Jongin hands to Kyungsoo with excitement, books that Jongin makes him finish within the week so he can stuff another novel into Kyungsoo’s bag.
Jongin loves the written word. It is his peace, his solace.
He used to love performing. He adored dance, and everything that came with it: the blinding spotlight, the rush of adrenaline as he swung himself across the stage in graceful, half-planned and half-uncontrolled arcs, basking in the awe of the audience, revelling in the way the crowd stood on their toes after the curtains dropped, and applauded a discordant storm.
But now, he thinks, as he curves his fingers around the pen his mother had given him for his thirteenth birthday, he could love words more than any other.
“Write,” says Kyungsoo, one day in the fifth year of their friendship, as they’re lying upside down on Kyungsoo’s sofa, the heels of their feet hooked into the cushions and their arms hanging limply beside their heads. “You should write. Stories, poems. Anything.”
What would I write about, asks Jongin, eyebrows furrowing.
“Everything,” says Kyungsoo, nudging his elbow with his own, “write about school. About dragons and princesses and kings and queens. About the sky and the grass and everything in between. Write about you. About me.”
About us?
“Sure, why not? You can do it,” urges Kyungsoo, and his eyes are bright. “I know you can.”
I can. Jongin smiles. I will.
Jongin writes.
He writes, and writes, and writes. He puts his pens to paper and runs out of thread-bound and ring-bound notebooks faster than Kyungsoo finishes math workbooks. His mum lets him use the computer to write, and he does. He types. He builds up a typing speed that rivals office secretaries and he builds up folders of unread documents and unseen works that he attempts to hide under flimsily names like ‘gardening research’ and ‘chemistry homework.’
Nobody ever gets to read them, though.
Not even Kyungsoo.
But that’s because I’m not ready, explains Jongin, flipping impatiently through his math homework, as Kyungsoo steadies his pen and pushes his glasses further up his nose. I’m not ready, Kyungsoo.
“It’s okay,” says Kyungsoo, “you can always show me next time. When you’re ready.”
Okay. I will.
“Promise?”
A pinky is held out in offering. Jongin holds up his hand, and loops their little fingers together, smiling. Promise.
“Let’s get back to math now, yeah?” Kyungsoo’s shoulder leans against his comfortably, and Jongin reclines into the touch. “Now, circles are like this.”
Jongin writes.
He writes to keep the sadness away. He writes to keep the pain at bay. He writes to keep the happiness in play, in his heart and in every part of his soul, and he cannot say-
He cannot say how much it means to him, because it means much more than him.
Sometimes he thinks, it is all he has, and sometimes he thinks, it is all he can have.
But then Kyungsoo walks up to him at the entrance to the school, and slides his arm across Jongin’s shoulders and laughs into the curve of his neck, and smiles that smile at him, the one that’s reserved only for Jongin, only for him.
He writes about that smile, mostly.
At their high school graduation, Kyungsoo is valedictorian.
He gets Jongin to write the speech.
Jongin’s fingers tremble with every word, but he knows they will be true, sincere, real. He sees the looks on his schoolmates’ faces, and he knows that what he’s written will keep in their memories, if not at least for the day.
Kyungsoo’s voice is clear, is smooth. He reads the speech, he reads Jongin’s words, he reads Jongin.
And Jongin wants to hear Kyungsoo read his words forever.
Kyungsoo catches his eye, smiles, and says, “This speech was written by Kim Jongin.”
Figures arise, palms meet palms.
Jongin has never shook nor smiled this much in his entire life.
And Kyungsoo laughs, throwing his hat. It is a beautiful laugh.
Jongin immortalizes it in his words forever.
Kyungsoo goes to college. He studies accounting.
So does Jongin. He studies language.
They study cities apart, and meet on holidays, throwing arms around each other in easygoing hugs, and ruffling the hair on each other’s heads, and curling their palms together like nothing has changed.
They catch up over lunch and dinner, and visit each other’s homes.
Sometimes, there’s a gap between then, grown over time by distance and separation. Sometimes, there is a little pause in the air, when one of them racks their brain to respond to a question. Sometimes, there is a little awkward shift, when one of them mistakes a word for another.
But it’s okay, thinks Jongin, as he watches Kyungsoo wave from the sidewalk on his way back, it’s okay.
He still has his words.
That night, he sits, and types, and types, and types.
He writes about Kyungsoo’s slow smile when Jongin does something stupid. He writes about Kyungsoo’s soft hair in the breeze, the way he tucks his hands into balls and shoves them in his pockets when he gets cold, the way his cheeks redden in the snow. He writes about Kyungsoo’s love for numbers, echoing his very own love for words. He writes about Kyungsoo, he writes about Kyungsoo, he writes about Kyungsoo.
Ten thousand and one words later, he realises that he loves Do Kyungsoo.
He has now, for many, many years.
“Her name is Yeonhui,” says Kyungsoo, “and we take the same course.”
Oh, says Jongin, she sounds very nice.
Oh, thinks Jongin, what’s that sound inside my chest.
“She is,” says Kyungsoo, smiling faintly. “I really like her, Jongin.”
That’s not fair. That’s Jongin’s smile. That’s the smile that only Jongin should get. Not a girl who lives far, far away, not a girl who has caught Kyungsoo’s heart in less than a year, not a girl.
Oh, says Jongin, are you dating her now.
Oh, thinks Jongin, I can’t breathe.
“Oh,” says Kyungsoo, rubbing at his nose in embarrassment, “I guess so.”
Oh, thinks Jongin, why does it hurt.
Not a girl, not a girl, not a girl.
Jongin writes his first novel when he is twenty-one.
It is about a boy who falls in love, and a boy who doesn’t fall in love in return.
Fast forward to a month later, Kyungsoo shows up at Jongin’s door.
“I read your book,” he says. He no longer wears the glasses from his past years. “It’s good, Jongin. It’s more than good. It’s great.” His features twist slightly. “Jongin. Are you-“
Yes, says Jongin, and his heart is a flat tire jerking to a stop in his chest. I am.
Kyungsoo exhales. “I’m not.”
Jongin writes.
He writes to keep the sadness away. He writes to keep the pain at bay. He writes even though the happiness will not stay, he writes even though he knows that this day-
This day has been long in the making.
It’s okay, says Jongin, the book wasn’t about you. It wasn’t.
“It wasn’t,” says Kyungsoo, looking decidedly relieved, and Jongin takes another heavy slam to his ribcage. He curls his fingers into the doorway and pretends Kyungsoo cannot see his pulse throbbing anxiously in his neck. “It wasn’t. Okay.”
Okay, says Jongin. Okay.
“Okay,” says Kyungsoo, “Jongin. I think I love her.”
Okay, says Jongin. Okay.
He isn’t okay. He isn’t. He isn’t. He isn’t.
Tell me about her, he says. She can be in my next book.
Jongin writes his second novel when he is twenty-three.
It is about a boy who falls in love, and a girl who falls in love.
He doesn’t send it to his editor. He sends it to Kyungsoo.
A week later, Kyungsoo emails him, and says that it’s great. Says that he should publish it. Says that it’s really a great book.
Jongin breaks into pieces, because it is his most hated work to date.
Yet, it is crushingly good, says his editor, says his parents, says Kyungsoo, says Kyungsoo, says Kyungsoo.
Jongin writes.
He writes to keep the sadness away. He writes to keep the pain at bay. He writes even though now his hands will not stay, on the keyboard of a laptop, or on the page of a notebook, even though the words pass quicker each day, and he cannot stop them from fading away.
He is fading away.
“Be my best man,” Kyungsoo asks him, years later.
I will.
She’s beautiful.
She smiles like the early light breaking through the clouds on a winter day. She turns her face up towards the skies the way a sunflower does, and laughs like the tinkling of bells. She is small, pretty, petite, lovely. She is perfect for Kyungsoo.
She doesn’t understand Jongin in the slightest.
“She’ll learn,” whispers Kyungsoo nervously, straightening his bow-tie for the nth time, and Jongin takes over the job, settling his fingers into soft fabric, adjusting the article absently as Kyungsoo goes on. “She will, I promise. Then we can all get along really well. I know it.”
Jongin smiles, pats him on the shoulder, and pushes him out the door. Time to shine.
Kyungsoo stops for a second, turns around, and smiles at Jongin. “You’re my best friend, you know that?”
I know.
“The only friend I’ve ever had, really.” Kyungsoo reaches out to clasp Jongin’s hand. “Thank you for everything. Thank you, Jongin.”
I know.
Kyungsoo doesn’t let go of his hand. “You haven’t been writing, recently, have you?”
Jongin just shakes his head, and attempts to tug his hand out of Kyungsoo’s grasp. It’s your wedding, he says, you shouldn’t be thinking of anything else. Think of her.
Think of me, thinks Jongin desperately, irrationally, fearfully, think of me, Kyungsoo, think of me and look at me the way you look at her and smile at me the way you smile at her and love me the way you love her. Think of me.
Kyungsoo smiles, and lets go of his hand. “I will. But promise me you’ll start writing again? I’ll check up on you.”
Think of me, Jongin wants to say. But all he says is, I promise.
I promise, I promise, I promise.
At the reception, Jongin doesn’t read his speech, for the same reason he has never read any speech, for the same reason he has never read aloud in class, for the same reason he only writes, for the same reason he never speaks.
Jongin lifts his hands, and signs the words slowly.
Congratulations, Kyungsoo. I love you. All the best with life. My next book is for you.
Kyungsoo lifts his hands in return, and signs back.
Thank you, Jongin. I love you too.
Kim Jongin writes.
He writes because he cannot speak. He has never been able to, all his life.
Jongin writes his third and last novel when he is thirty years of age.
It is about a boy who learns to love, who learns to live, who learns to let go.
He keeps it in a folder on his laptop, and in a compartment of his heart, forever.
He never publishes it.