going to a town
title: going to a town
pairing: yunjae
rating: R (drugs, language)
au. bittersweet. jaejoong visits his friends in virginia, has a hangover and might be in love.
1870 words.
Pristine white surrounds him and he’s never before seen a carpet this red. His head is like a boulder on a match stick; his throat a fish on dry land. Something’s thumping thump thump repeatedly, but it couldn’t be the clock because there is no clock on the wall anymore. thump thump it’s inside his head and he sits up, fists the sheets and falls off the couch.
The calendar says it’s Thursday and he has a hangover the size of China.
This isn’t his room, which makes it all the more confusing. He remembers feet; blue socks padding over the floorboards, trying not to wake him up at the crack of dawn. The alcohol hadn’t been out of his system then thump thump and when his toes touch the rug and he tries to stand up he realizes it still isn’t.
Legs made out of jelly, he is just a breath away of relocating the pacific ocean when Micky comes crashing through the door.
The sight of his friend helps him orientate and he remembers that this is Virginia and they speak English here. He thinks he remembers trying to chat someone up, but the rest is vague, blurry, much like the expression on the American’s face.
“Some party, huh?”
thump thump “I need to pee,” the mother tongue slips out and he tries to stabilize his existence by holding onto the vase on top of the cabinet. It crashes to the floor far louder than he had imagined it would and he makes a show out of not stepping into the glass.
One visit to the bathroom, two painkillers and half a glass of orange juice later, Hero finally identifies himself.
They had been out partying for two days straight; Hero and his four friends, somewhere in Virginia. It is all pretty ironic because Hero can’t even pronounce the ‘v’ and his friends used to be just like him. Used to be, before they immigrated and told him that no really, you should come over for the summer and he had been stupid enough to believe it would be a great idea.
Micky is by far the worst - he can handle his alcohol in ways an Asian man should not be able to and sounds like one of his dad’s old records on repeat; slightly scratchy, but nostalgic. He is one of the two with an American passport now, having lived here for over four years and it had been so long that Hero hasn’t been able to remember what he used to look like back in high school.
The other one with the American passport is Max - the type of guy that will never fit in but that hangs out with you anyway because he looks up to you somehow and for all the wrong reasons (and Hero never says that out loud, if only for the fact that Max is smarter than the four of them combined). He comes in through the backdoor, carrying a bag of groceries and tells him off for lighting a cigarette.
Trailing behind him is that one guy that’s never called by his birth name anymore. They had their share of nicknames for the fellow, but none really described him as well as Sunshine, with the smiling eyes and the red hair and whatnot. Hero thinks he is the funniest guy on the planet, too, but recalls Micky saying that sharing a house with him is a natural disaster. Hero isn’t so sure of that, not after last night's third round of tequila shots.
The four of them have breakfast or some American’s excuse for that because he can’t really digest the bacon and eggs and soggy cereal Max cooks up. They used to vote over this and they used to end up at the MacDonald’s, bloodshot eyes trying to read the brightly lit menus above the counter. Hero wonders why today is different because MacDonald’s originally started in America didn’t it and Micky had promised him it wouldn’t be any different.
He feels intimidated, almost, but it’s starting to get better when he helps Max clean away the dishes while Micky and Sunshine are playing games in the living area. Plate after plate after plate he stacks in the cupboard and tries to keep his head with it, tries not to think back on the past few days and the oh my god, you’re micky’s friend from korea too much.
The only person who had been slightly helpful in making him feel less of an alien had been that one guy that could get along with everyone, surprisingly, but he doesn’t live with the others. He is far too much of a grown-up to be drinking himself to death and rolling ganja in the wee hours of morning. Somewhere in between sobering up and watching Oprah, he kind of misses the guy and his mother’s kimchi soup.
Yunho does show up later and he looks fresh; clean white teeth, healthy skin, and perfectly styled hair. He smells like chai tea, like breath mints and oranges and wears a track suit with so much dignity Hero wonders why it’s not fashion. “Jaejoong,” he says, and Hero is reminded once more that he is not one of them, that his American name is just a given, never validated by any record but his friends’ drunken behavior. He smiles a little forced when Yunho dumps an apple in his lap and sits next to him on the couch.
They never sit in silence, though Hero is not the one doing the talking. He’ll do more of that, talking, once there is alcohol in his system again and he forgets about the warmth and the loneliness back in Korea. Sunshine claims Micky’s feet smell and the latter swings his legs up in the air to press his toes right in the other’s face. Oh, Jaejoong thinks, half an hour later when he’s finished the apple and Yunho’s taken it from his hands to play with, Xiah, that was Junsu’s American name.
Max puts on a record and Micky starts grinning when a smooth voice and a repetitive piano fill up the stretches of silence in between their conversations. I’m so tired of America, the voice sings and Hero closes his eyes, leans back until his head rests against the back of the couch. Somewhere next to him, he can hear Yunho chuckle. He pretends the fingers curling around his wrist and stroking along his palm don’t mean anything.
It’s not like they had ever talked about it and Hero had the feeling they weren’t going to. Back in Korea, he remembers a kiss on a rainy day in a dirty back alley. He remembers it correctly, because there’s still a smudge on his coat he can’t wash out. can’t or unable to or not wanting to. Yunho’s fingers tighten around his hand for a second before they let go and hasn't it always been like that? He’s stopped trying to hold on in return, because it ends him up in foreign places where he is only reminded over and over again that he’s chasing something he can’t have. friendship, love, America.
“Hey,” Yunho says to him, a day before his plane leaves. He’s high, we’re both high, Hero corrects and somehow they’re alone in the kitchen, waiting for water to boil.
“Hey,” Yunho repeats, reaching for his hands and tugging him closer. So close that Hero has to tilt his head a little in order to look at the man’s eyes and so close that he can feel the other’s breath gushing out of his mouth, humid where it touches his skin. This time, Yunho smells of grass and lime - marihuana and tequila.
“Hmm?” he tries to avoid speaking full words because everybody addresses him in English and he doesn’t want to work his tongue around the sounds. A mosquito zooms between their faces, sits down on Yunho’s nose for a second before the former-Korean brushes it away and thereby creates some distance between them. Distance, Hero doesn’t want to think.
“About that,” Yunho speaks again, this time without sounding as fucked up as he is. His fingers move to curl into the fabric of Hero’s shirt and luckily he’s using Korean, otherwise the sentiment would’ve gone unnoticed. “About that.”
Hero shrugs a shoulder, trying very hard not to look at his friend’s(?) face. “There is that,” he replies after a while, shuffling his weight. “Isn’t there.” He’s not one for denying things, not that, and definitely not when his mind is far, far away. Maybe ever further than Korea. He chuckles bitterly and doesn’t even cover it up with his hand anymore.
The water boils. Yunho looks up at the familiar click, but then focuses his attention on Hero once more and the latter meets his eyes, always waiting. “They don’t know,” Yunho says, and; “it’s not fair,” and it isn’t, and; “but I understand.” Does he? They never really seem to want to tell the truth, Hero remembers the lyrics of the song they listened to that afternoon.
“Jaejoong,” he stresses, “Jaejoong.” And he’s just that, isn’t he? There’s a tinge of sadness in Yunho’s voice, but also hope and reason and all that jazz, all those things that are supposed to make him feel better and are supposed to make him aware of the fact that the other doesn’t see it as lightly as Micky, doesn’t think come over this summer but come over and stay forever and yet he doesn’t exactly say that.
“I am going to kiss you,” Yunho announces, looking nervous and under influence of the everything and nothing they have smoked, salt from the tequila shots earlier gathered in a corner of his mouth.
Hero nods, just once, because perhaps he needs this and perhaps he doesn’t, but there’s not much left to be ruined anymore. Not much more trouble he can put his body and heart through by himself, anyway.
They kiss in the dark kitchen with flickering lights outside and boiled water waiting. They kiss; Yunho’s hand is in his hair and his stubble brushes along his chin. They kiss, but all Hero thinks is home, home, home. The damp warmth of the other man’s mouth is all he can feel. He doesn’t taste anything, not anymore, and his tongue goes numb.
His plane leaves too early for Micky or Sunshine to make an effort. They both give him farewells from in between sheets and hangovers, woven with promises see you soon and he thinks; not here. The thumping in his head is back and he nearly steps into the scattered remains of the vase he broke days before. Isn’t it always like that? he repeats, until he’s outside and Max gives him a hug out of nowhere. Kind of like how he felt the first time he set foot on American soil.
Yunho is there, by his side, for a couple more hours. They don’t speak and especially not of that anymore. There are countries and cultures and general distances between them. Before he boards the plane, he feels Yunho’s fingers tighten around his own and bitterly, for the very first time in his life, he gives a little squeeze in return.
note:
I totally shouldn't repost older stories but this is one of the few that I actually find quite alright. working on new material though!
pairing: yunjae
rating: R (drugs, language)
au. bittersweet. jaejoong visits his friends in virginia, has a hangover and might be in love.
1870 words.
Pristine white surrounds him and he’s never before seen a carpet this red. His head is like a boulder on a match stick; his throat a fish on dry land. Something’s thumping thump thump repeatedly, but it couldn’t be the clock because there is no clock on the wall anymore. thump thump it’s inside his head and he sits up, fists the sheets and falls off the couch.
The calendar says it’s Thursday and he has a hangover the size of China.
This isn’t his room, which makes it all the more confusing. He remembers feet; blue socks padding over the floorboards, trying not to wake him up at the crack of dawn. The alcohol hadn’t been out of his system then thump thump and when his toes touch the rug and he tries to stand up he realizes it still isn’t.
Legs made out of jelly, he is just a breath away of relocating the pacific ocean when Micky comes crashing through the door.
The sight of his friend helps him orientate and he remembers that this is Virginia and they speak English here. He thinks he remembers trying to chat someone up, but the rest is vague, blurry, much like the expression on the American’s face.
“Some party, huh?”
thump thump “I need to pee,” the mother tongue slips out and he tries to stabilize his existence by holding onto the vase on top of the cabinet. It crashes to the floor far louder than he had imagined it would and he makes a show out of not stepping into the glass.
One visit to the bathroom, two painkillers and half a glass of orange juice later, Hero finally identifies himself.
They had been out partying for two days straight; Hero and his four friends, somewhere in Virginia. It is all pretty ironic because Hero can’t even pronounce the ‘v’ and his friends used to be just like him. Used to be, before they immigrated and told him that no really, you should come over for the summer and he had been stupid enough to believe it would be a great idea.
Micky is by far the worst - he can handle his alcohol in ways an Asian man should not be able to and sounds like one of his dad’s old records on repeat; slightly scratchy, but nostalgic. He is one of the two with an American passport now, having lived here for over four years and it had been so long that Hero hasn’t been able to remember what he used to look like back in high school.
The other one with the American passport is Max - the type of guy that will never fit in but that hangs out with you anyway because he looks up to you somehow and for all the wrong reasons (and Hero never says that out loud, if only for the fact that Max is smarter than the four of them combined). He comes in through the backdoor, carrying a bag of groceries and tells him off for lighting a cigarette.
Trailing behind him is that one guy that’s never called by his birth name anymore. They had their share of nicknames for the fellow, but none really described him as well as Sunshine, with the smiling eyes and the red hair and whatnot. Hero thinks he is the funniest guy on the planet, too, but recalls Micky saying that sharing a house with him is a natural disaster. Hero isn’t so sure of that, not after last night's third round of tequila shots.
The four of them have breakfast or some American’s excuse for that because he can’t really digest the bacon and eggs and soggy cereal Max cooks up. They used to vote over this and they used to end up at the MacDonald’s, bloodshot eyes trying to read the brightly lit menus above the counter. Hero wonders why today is different because MacDonald’s originally started in America didn’t it and Micky had promised him it wouldn’t be any different.
He feels intimidated, almost, but it’s starting to get better when he helps Max clean away the dishes while Micky and Sunshine are playing games in the living area. Plate after plate after plate he stacks in the cupboard and tries to keep his head with it, tries not to think back on the past few days and the oh my god, you’re micky’s friend from korea too much.
The only person who had been slightly helpful in making him feel less of an alien had been that one guy that could get along with everyone, surprisingly, but he doesn’t live with the others. He is far too much of a grown-up to be drinking himself to death and rolling ganja in the wee hours of morning. Somewhere in between sobering up and watching Oprah, he kind of misses the guy and his mother’s kimchi soup.
Yunho does show up later and he looks fresh; clean white teeth, healthy skin, and perfectly styled hair. He smells like chai tea, like breath mints and oranges and wears a track suit with so much dignity Hero wonders why it’s not fashion. “Jaejoong,” he says, and Hero is reminded once more that he is not one of them, that his American name is just a given, never validated by any record but his friends’ drunken behavior. He smiles a little forced when Yunho dumps an apple in his lap and sits next to him on the couch.
They never sit in silence, though Hero is not the one doing the talking. He’ll do more of that, talking, once there is alcohol in his system again and he forgets about the warmth and the loneliness back in Korea. Sunshine claims Micky’s feet smell and the latter swings his legs up in the air to press his toes right in the other’s face. Oh, Jaejoong thinks, half an hour later when he’s finished the apple and Yunho’s taken it from his hands to play with, Xiah, that was Junsu’s American name.
Max puts on a record and Micky starts grinning when a smooth voice and a repetitive piano fill up the stretches of silence in between their conversations. I’m so tired of America, the voice sings and Hero closes his eyes, leans back until his head rests against the back of the couch. Somewhere next to him, he can hear Yunho chuckle. He pretends the fingers curling around his wrist and stroking along his palm don’t mean anything.
It’s not like they had ever talked about it and Hero had the feeling they weren’t going to. Back in Korea, he remembers a kiss on a rainy day in a dirty back alley. He remembers it correctly, because there’s still a smudge on his coat he can’t wash out. can’t or unable to or not wanting to. Yunho’s fingers tighten around his hand for a second before they let go and hasn't it always been like that? He’s stopped trying to hold on in return, because it ends him up in foreign places where he is only reminded over and over again that he’s chasing something he can’t have. friendship, love, America.
“Hey,” Yunho says to him, a day before his plane leaves. He’s high, we’re both high, Hero corrects and somehow they’re alone in the kitchen, waiting for water to boil.
“Hey,” Yunho repeats, reaching for his hands and tugging him closer. So close that Hero has to tilt his head a little in order to look at the man’s eyes and so close that he can feel the other’s breath gushing out of his mouth, humid where it touches his skin. This time, Yunho smells of grass and lime - marihuana and tequila.
“Hmm?” he tries to avoid speaking full words because everybody addresses him in English and he doesn’t want to work his tongue around the sounds. A mosquito zooms between their faces, sits down on Yunho’s nose for a second before the former-Korean brushes it away and thereby creates some distance between them. Distance, Hero doesn’t want to think.
“About that,” Yunho speaks again, this time without sounding as fucked up as he is. His fingers move to curl into the fabric of Hero’s shirt and luckily he’s using Korean, otherwise the sentiment would’ve gone unnoticed. “About that.”
Hero shrugs a shoulder, trying very hard not to look at his friend’s(?) face. “There is that,” he replies after a while, shuffling his weight. “Isn’t there.” He’s not one for denying things, not that, and definitely not when his mind is far, far away. Maybe ever further than Korea. He chuckles bitterly and doesn’t even cover it up with his hand anymore.
The water boils. Yunho looks up at the familiar click, but then focuses his attention on Hero once more and the latter meets his eyes, always waiting. “They don’t know,” Yunho says, and; “it’s not fair,” and it isn’t, and; “but I understand.” Does he? They never really seem to want to tell the truth, Hero remembers the lyrics of the song they listened to that afternoon.
“Jaejoong,” he stresses, “Jaejoong.” And he’s just that, isn’t he? There’s a tinge of sadness in Yunho’s voice, but also hope and reason and all that jazz, all those things that are supposed to make him feel better and are supposed to make him aware of the fact that the other doesn’t see it as lightly as Micky, doesn’t think come over this summer but come over and stay forever and yet he doesn’t exactly say that.
“I am going to kiss you,” Yunho announces, looking nervous and under influence of the everything and nothing they have smoked, salt from the tequila shots earlier gathered in a corner of his mouth.
Hero nods, just once, because perhaps he needs this and perhaps he doesn’t, but there’s not much left to be ruined anymore. Not much more trouble he can put his body and heart through by himself, anyway.
They kiss in the dark kitchen with flickering lights outside and boiled water waiting. They kiss; Yunho’s hand is in his hair and his stubble brushes along his chin. They kiss, but all Hero thinks is home, home, home. The damp warmth of the other man’s mouth is all he can feel. He doesn’t taste anything, not anymore, and his tongue goes numb.
His plane leaves too early for Micky or Sunshine to make an effort. They both give him farewells from in between sheets and hangovers, woven with promises see you soon and he thinks; not here. The thumping in his head is back and he nearly steps into the scattered remains of the vase he broke days before. Isn’t it always like that? he repeats, until he’s outside and Max gives him a hug out of nowhere. Kind of like how he felt the first time he set foot on American soil.
Yunho is there, by his side, for a couple more hours. They don’t speak and especially not of that anymore. There are countries and cultures and general distances between them. Before he boards the plane, he feels Yunho’s fingers tighten around his own and bitterly, for the very first time in his life, he gives a little squeeze in return.
note:
I totally shouldn't repost older stories but this is one of the few that I actually find quite alright. working on new material though!