( don’t go looking for boys in the dark. )

Long Way Home [Lu Han/Kris/Sehun]

emberberry — Sun, 23 Sep 2012 19:19:03 GMT

Long Way Home
Lu Han/Kris/Sehun, hinted Kai/Sehun
PG-13; 5,300 words
Lu Han leans against the counter and sighs, trying to think about Kris burning toast at 7AM and Sehun’s eyes watering from lack of sleep, not the memory of his mother leading him around for groceries, never letting go.

a/n: finally done ;; this is a pretty late birthday fic for citypolaroids! love you, dear! sorry this is late, lol, tbh it was supposed to be a little shorter but then I started to wordspew. things that might make anyone uncomfortable: mentions of loss of family members.

The auditorium is surprisingly cold and quiet now that it’s just the three of them. People usually bring body heat and noise, and crumbs to leave behind even when there is clearly a ‘do not eat or drink in the auditorium’ sign outside the main doors. It’s on those occasions that the air conditioning gets stamped out, erased from their environment, but right now it swirls around them and makes them want to wrap arms around each other, more than usual.

There are three boys. One is very young, the youngest, and on the surface he is the most naive. He is only eighteen, and as naive as he is, he’s learned to be an adult already; or he at least knows how. The boy with his arm curled around the eighteen-year-old’s waist is older, twenty two, and holds him close as if he’ll run away if he thinks of letting go. This one is not really a boy, he’s too old to be a boy, but his face betrays his age on his best days. He only looks tired, and ragged on others.

The last one is the tallest, but not the oldest, and he stands a little ways behind them, giving them space that they don’t need. He is the one who holds the curtain back for them so that they can look out onto the empty plane of the auditorium stage. Kris, they call him, one of his many names. Kris rolled off his tongue before he thought it through, and so he became Kris, but he’s been Kris since before the three of them met.

Autumn day, a young kid wearing a thick knitted hat on his way to school, eyes red and wet. His name is Oh Sehun. There’s someone holding his hand, someone a little taller although that would all change once the growth spurt hit, leading him with hurried steps. This is Lu Han. Kris will never know what happened for sure that day, but it would lead into the future, because he remembers Lu Han from the playground back in China as soon as he sees him, eyes trailing from teary-eyed Oh Sehun’s small fingers to Lu Han’s, up to his face. So we meet again his mind had told him. He’d heard that in a movie. It sounded nice, but Kris only managed a small. “Oh. You,” when Lu Han had nearly bumped into him.

Kris snaps back into the now. It almost seems colder here than in the past, on a truly chilled day in the fall, when they were children and were swaddled in coats and scarves. Lu Han is just as he always is, pushing Sehun along, pushing him forward, hand now pressed into the youngest’s back. “Go on,” he says.

Sehun hesitates, as he always does. There’s a side to him that is somewhat terrified of making mistakes. He freezes up too easily, so there are times when he forgets to smile, afraid that it will be lopsided or that something will be lodged in his teeth and others will laugh at him. Sehun is a carefully calculated self experiment, and Kris always worries. Lu Han pushes him forward. “Go,” he says.

Sehun, the new university student, steps forward in his blue jeans and loose t-shirt, and waits for Lu Han to turn the music on.

The apartment is cramped, two tiny bedrooms and a bathroom they all share, small living space, narrow kitchen.

Now.

It’s quiet. They are all asleep, three separate beds. It used to just be two, two boys and two beds, two rooms. The framework stays the same, they’ve just added another. They are a family.

There are dreams in this household, from three separate minds, intertwined like vines in the air between them.

A check from Sehun’s grandparents comes soaring into the mailbox every fews Thursdays; it’s a day to look forward to, only in principle. There is no fun in going to the bank, but Sehun stands in line with Kris and nags him about buying lunch for the two of them before he has to go back to campus for his next class. In high school it was always after class, in between the end of the day and his hagwon trip, but that was when he still lived with his aunt and uncle, and Kris felt more like a babysitter than anything else.

Families have been unconventional for years. Kris has always been no different. He makes trips back to China, back to Canada when he can afford them. Lu Han, on the other hand, relies on the three of them, and sometimes on a cousin who sends him nice things on his birthdays and Christmases, when she remembers. There isn’t much to look forward to from Lu Han’s past anymore, but people tend not to look forward to their past lives anyhow. It’s old news, and the future is always imminent.

“Carrots.”

“Carrots,” Sehun scribbles characters on a small legal pad.

“Sponges,”

“Mhm.”

“Milk.”

“Eggs?”

“We always need eggs,” Kris stares into the cupboard, then opens the fridge. Sehun, perched on the counter, notes the empty bread box.

“Bread,” he says out loud.

And later again, at the supermarket as he pulls his cap down to shield his eyes from the bright store lights, he says it out loud. He repeats things like an obedient parrot, a reflection of the times when his aunt would seat him on the front of their cart, giving him words to say back to her. When his uncle came along with them, he’d grimace every time Sehun’s lisp came out, or every time he stuttered. Their child was supposed to be eloquent; Sehun had been too young, it made him unable to tell them that he was never their child, that he had parents once. They were shadows of his parents. Sometimes he saw his father’s face when he looked at his uncle, but Sehun always preferred the photographs on their mantle to the older, real life copy. He was just too young to remember anything else; Sehun is always too young.

“Peppers,” Kris nudges him lightly. “Did you get peppers, too?”

Sehun shivers from the cold, but smiles when Kris rubs his arms for him, furiously quick and a little rough, but it gets a laugh out of them both. He glances down at the legal pad that he had brought with him. ‘Peppers’ hasn’t been crossed out yet. “Peppers,” he parrots.

The light sleeping is what brings him out of a thin layer of a dream in the first place, paired with Lu Han’s knee sinking into his mattress and fingers slipping around his wrist as Lu Han curls around his body. He’s got a smaller build, but a stronger hold. Sehun feels safe like this, just as safe as he feels around Kris.

In another dimension, Lu Han thinks that this would be normal. Another place, another time, maybe. It would be okay for him to wake up in the middle of the night and slip into Sehun’s room, crawl into his bed and hold him whenever he wanted. It is normal, though, he tells himself. Comfort is a necessity, and Lu Han is only human.

It would feel less normal if he didn’t spend so many nights thinking about Kris. Sometimes being with him overrides the thoughts and takes out his imagination with long, gentle and calloused hands. Even now, Lu Han lets Sehun bury his face into his neck as he tries to shoo away the recent memory of Kris kissing him until he was flat into the mattress of someone’s bed.

“Can’t sleep?” Sehun mumbles, Korean barely distinguishable from sleep talk, but Lu Han manages. He nods, and knows that Sehun can feel him, and falls asleep with his heartbeat pressed against Sehun’s cheek.

Kris’ hands are what Lu Han remembers the clearest when he dives into the crevices of his mind. His dreams are thick, congested like an illness, but all that runs through his body when he opens his eyes in the morning to the tune of Sehun’s Electric Shock alarm is bliss, and peace, with guilt written around the edges.

By the time Sehun is up and dressed for his first class, he’s blotted out the guilt in his brain. It will always be okay, he tells himself, when Kris’ hand lingers on his hip as Lu Han scurries around the kitchen, scavenging for some semblance of a breakfast. Lu Han at 9AM is the most frantic Lu Han, second only to 3AM deadline writing Lu Han, and Sehun has a shuttle bus to campus to catch.

“Don’t you have class, too?” Kris asks, eyebrow arched like question mark.

“I do,” Lu Han slides across the tile floor as he re-enters the kitchen, Sehun heading toward the front door. Kris catches him with his arm. “At ten.” He’s coming down from his frantic 9AM Lu Han state, but he’ll need to put on proper pants before he leaves.

Kris nods, already aware. They have each other’s schedules memorized like ink etched into the backs of their hands. He kisses Lu Han as the front door clicks shut, letting him out of his arm and curling fingers around the back of Lu Han’s neck.

It takes all of Lu Han’s willpower to not give in completely, to not stand on his toes and lean upward into their kiss. His fingers wind up gripping Kris’ loose t-shirt. Lu Han pulls away and rocks back on his heels; he feels Kris’s hand, heavy and warm and now tracing curved lines on his shoulder.

“Don’t you think he already knows?” Kris asks, dropping the question like shattered glass on the kitchen floor. Lu Han feels like he’s been knocked over.

He shoves away the shock with a long sigh, tugging on the cotton t-shirt in his hands. “Don’t do that to me. Don’t put me in that position.”

“What position?” Kris counters. “I’m not putting you anywhere. I just want to stop lying to him.” He lays a hand flat against his own chest, fingers splayed, in an attempt to show the degree of his earnestness. I. I. I want to stop. I want to stop lying.

Lu Han sets Sehun’s cereal bowl in the sink. “We’re not lying. We just aren’t telling him. There’s a difference.”

“We’ve been keeping it from him for a long time, Lu Han,” Kris reminds him. Lu Han tries not to count the years. That sort of thought only leaves him wanting something, wanting to walk outside with Kris’ hand wrapped around his smaller fingers.There is nothing wrong with this, and there is nothing wrong with wanting this. But his thoughts dissolve into Sehun before he can help it.

“We’ll tell him someday.”

The main outside entrance into the dance studios is part of the main gym on Sehun’s campus; Kris’ old campus, Lu Han’s tired campus. He’s been here a little too long, every corner and building is written into his memory as though a map had been drawn there in permanent marker. Kris knows exactly where the dance studios are inside the large arena of a building, but he waits for Sehun to text ‘done!’ like he always does, whenever Kris comes to get him, from anywhere.

The message doesn’t come. A group of kids Kris can assume are Sehun’s classmates flow out, Sehun trailing behind, mouth wide open in a huge laugh.

He walks toward Kris with a surprised expression written all over his face. “Hyung.” The surprise is what hits Kris, a reminder that Sehun hasn’t texted him ‘done!’ in over a year for anything. Kris feels himself shot back into the present, as though he’d been swimming in a memory without realizing it.

“Hey,” Kris puts away his phone and takes out his pack of cigarettes as a trade off, ignoring the sign that clearly reads ‘non-smoking campus.’ They start walking, the clamor of exhausted, hyper dance majors echoing in the streets in front of them, but they take a different route and soon it’s just the two of them again, alone.

They’re alone together more often than they think they are. There’s usually a third element, one that cements them together when neither of them have any words for each other, and that third element is so clearly Lu Han that it has always gone unsaid.

But they get along just fine. They always have. Kris used to hold Sehun’s hand when they were three children walking home from school. He used to intimidate the kids who said Sehun talked funny, and he’d worked endlessly to get a reaction after Sehun had vowed not to speak anymore.

They fall into step. Left, right, left.

“A friend of mine hurt his waist pretty bad.”

Kris exhales, a white puff of smoke in the night air. Sehun watches it fade. “That sucks.”

“He’ll be out of practice for a while, at least a week,” Sehun says, hands shoved into his pockets. He makes a face and sighs. He sounds angry, but his eyes are soft and curled downward like frowns. “Maybe more. Teacher’s orders.”

“You sound pretty worried.”

“He’s my friend, of course I’m worried. I have other friends besides you, hyung,” he laughs. “And Lu Han.”

Kris laughs, too, lips clamped around his cigarette, but his laughter melts into the air the way his smoke does. It vanishes. Sehun has other friends. This was never a novel thing. Kris and Lu Han are two people he lives with, the ones who love him; they are friends, but they are more than that, too.

“I was supposed to dance with him at the next competition,” Sehun sighs.

Kris shrugs. “You’ll get someone else, though, right?”

“He won’t be as good.”

“How do you know that?”

Sehun deadpans. “I’ve known everyone in the studio for at least year now,” but he breaks into an easy chuckle.

“Maybe he’ll surprise you,” Kris suggests. Sehun had been expecting him to say that.

“Maybe,” Sehun mumbles. “Maybe I just don’t pay close enough attention.” Sehun drops the words slowly, like falling papers out of the hands of someone who’s been nearly knocked over. He looks at his toes, points them like he learned in the fourth grade, and nods. It’s always difficult to do with sneakers on, but Sehun likes challenges, even stupid ones. “That’s probably it.”

A card arrives from Canada. Kris waits until Lu Han and Sehun have dispersed from their small dinner table, Lu Han going off to shower, and Sehun to finish a Chinese literature assignment, to open the envelope. But Sehun creeps into his privacy like a shadow, lingering at the door with a question, but the question dies in his throat before he has a chance to open his mouth. Kris’s shoulders are shuddering, dry sobs shaking his body, but he forces himself to pull it together as the feeling of eyes on his back hits him.

“Sehun, what are you—”

“Don’t cry.”

“I’m not.”

“But,” Sehun backtracks, “if you want to, it’s okay. You can.”

“I won’t, though,” Kris waves it off, opening his desk drawer to shove away the family card for now. It’ll ruminate in his thoughts all night, but he’ll distract himself well enough.

“I’m just . . . saying that you can.”

A slow smile creeps across Kris’ face. He wonders how Sehun perceives him, how he’s always perceived him. They’ve known each other for years, yet Kris is positive Sehun hasn’t seen him shed a single tear within in the past three. The tears still refuse to come. They lodged themselves in his thoughts, his coming ideas, but they would not show. Sadness flows through him as he realizes that he wanted Sehun to see him cry.

Don’t be sad anymore, the boy says with his eyes, with a not-so childish feeling that if you let the sadness flow from your eyes until they’re dry again and your lungs hurt, you will only hurt less. But this is something that neither of them have put into practice in the presence of anyone in a long time.

“Why did you stay here?” Sehun asks, suddenly, voice cutting through the silence.

“Hm?”

“Why did you stay in Korea?”

Kris pauses.

“I didn’t want to leave you, like everyone else did.”

There was a point in Lu Han’s life where he realized that they are all still growing up. They never stop aging. They move just a little too quickly, and they are finite. Life.

Lu Han works at a hospital gift shop ten minutes from their apartment during most of the week, when he’s not in class, when he’s not struggling over deadlines for papers and feeling nostalgic as he misses his exercises for Korean Linguistics. But those were the years before Sehun came into the apartment with boxes and an apologetic grin. What Sehun had wanted was stability, and who was Lu Han to deny this boy anything?

Lu Han lost everything at thirteen. Sehun had lost everything before his life even began. They gravitated toward each other. Lu Han shivers, suddenly.

The air conditioning works a little too well, particularly around the counter that Lu Han sits at, being perched on a tall, cushioned stool as he opens a new stack of coins to refill the register with. There was a point in his life where he realized his mental counting had shifted to Korean; when customers stopped asking him where he came from. Something Lu Han wondered if everyone knew, or if they all let him blend into the background, the backdrop of teddybears and seasonal Valentine’s Day cards and Get Well Soon! balloons; the hanbok-wearing couple keychains or dolls with hearts in their eyes. Lu Han stopped standing out as a foreigner, until some of the Chinese residents came in to chat during their breaks and the image of his normal facade broke like a stone hitting water for customers who do nothing but assume.

People are made of assumptions, Lu Han thinks, as he counts, and hands change to a young girl paying for a heart-snuggling brown teddy. She blinks at him a few times, blushes, and disappears out of the store and down the hall. A cold gust of wind hits him, and he feels the hairs on the skin of his arm raise.

There was a point in Lu Han’s life where he realized Sehun is not a baby any more. Maybe it was after his entrance to junior high when he stopped reaching for Lu Han’s hand at street corners before they crossed. Other children did this, too, Lu Han told himself, and Sehun does not belong to him in the first place. He never has. He’s a figure in Lu Han’s life that he refused to let go of once he had walked in.

Lu Han had never taken care of anything else before Sehun. After his dog passed away, his mother wouldn’t let him have another one. His younger cousins turned away from him and ran off to play games together, and the elders couldn’t be bothered with him and his baby face. Sehun’s hand was Lu Han’s turning point, when they’d met on the playground in the most clichéd of ways, with a smearing of blood scraped over Sehun’s knee and hot tears in his eyes and Lu Han swooping in to help a stranger. A child. Taking Sehun’s hand marked the beginning.

There are things that he feels have been branded into his memory that he no longer needs to do anymore. Lu Han used to text Kris to remind him to pick up “our baby” from his dance classes when Lu Han was stuck at work, stuck at the library, stuck in class or in meetings with professors. He used to call, if Kris didn’t answer. He’s never felt like a parent, but he’s acted like one. The last thing Lu Han could be to Sehun is a parent.

He’s selfish, he knows this. He’s selfish but at the core of this problem, he is a little too selfless. Too selfish to let anyone other than Kris have Sehun, but too selfless to hold him back. Lu Han can’t tell up from down with him anymore. Sehun is Lu Han’s, but he’s not Lu Han’s; he’s Kris’ but he’s also not. Sehun is not pushing him away; he wants Lu Han to come with him everywhere, but he wants to be himself, he wants to play with his eighteen-year-old friends, and sneak alcohol, and dance in the studios until 3AM.

On his lunch break, Lu Han wolfs down a sandwich and some apple juice. He sits in a bathroom stall, lid closed and door locked, and holds his head in his hands.

Appearances are never how they seem. On the outside, he’s always looked well-assembled, a neat pile of skin, bones, muscle, and clothes to cover his decently-toned body, neatly buttoned or ironed for work, tucked in, folded nicely at home. But he feels as though he’s decomposing. The image is a lie.

He’s been wilting for years; since death snatched away the only family member who ever loved him. His new family is the only source of strength he has left.

Sehun has been keeping a secret. Kris can feel it in the way Sehun moves toward the refrigerator in the morning, and in the way he dodges Kris’ arm on the way to the bathroom. He ignores any interception from Lu Han and laughs it off with a smile and a ‘sorry, hyung, I don’t want to be late’ text after he’s gone out the door. Lu Han watches him go, running down the street, from the window sill before he sits back down at his desk and edits his paper. Kris is making breakfast. He burns Lu Han’s toast, but the coffee is good. Kris keeps him on the ground, like an anchor. Sehun is the one who may be floating away, and Lu Han still isn’t quite sure how to deal with this fact.

His bathroom thinking session at work the other day is still lingering in his thoughts. Kris eyes him from the side as he buttons up his jacket, fumbling through the box of a front hall closet for a scarf to wear. It’s getting cold.

“Are you ever going home?” Kyungsoo hands him a tall coffee, black, with the sleeve around its slim cup. It’s not that he wants Lu Han gone, he’s just the kind of friend you make that can’t help but be concerned about, well, everything.

“Of course I am.”

“I mean home,” he takes a moment to play a horribly choreographed game of charades that Lu Han can only assume means ‘China’ from the way he directs Lu Han’s attention to the blenders and machines behind him. He means back back.

Kyungsoo doesn’t really know, and Lu Han is at fault, for letting Kyungsoo believe that he wasn’t going to be his favorite customer forever. Lu Han gives off that impression that he’ll jump from here to there, he’ll disappear right before your eyes if you don’t keep them trained on him at all times. Lu Han had left home years ago, when he wasn’t even tall enough to lean against the counter at Starbucks or the convenience store his mother would bring him into, her soft fingers closed tightly around his own. He never talked about her anymore, though, despite the fact that she had everything to do with his presence here, and everything to do with why he would never return. She had been the only thing that mattered in his life since the day he was born. She’d struggled in a foreign country for him; and she’d brought him to the park that day he’d met Sehun, the little boy who barely had a family either. No, he doesn’t talk about her anymore.

But he laughs and taps his cup with his pinky, idly. “Why would I do that?”

“Doesn’t your family want you back? I don’t know,” Kyungsoo sighs, and keeps himself from running a hand through his hair. He’s on the job. No hairs in anyone’s cappuccinos. “You must have left some sort of life back in Beijing, Hyung . . .”

Lu Han laughs again, a slow burst that’d been bubbling up in his throat. He takes a sip of hot coffee and waits for Kyungsoo to finish calling out two more drink orders. He works as Lu Han leans against the counter and sighs, trying to think about Kris burning toast at 7AM and Sehun’s eyes watering from lack of sleep, not the memory of his mother leading him around for groceries, never letting go. His throat hurts. “No, I don’t want to go anywhere. My family here is all I’ve got left.”

The bus ride back to the apartment is nearly empty, despite the rush hour time of day. Lu Han’s coffee sloshes around in the cup, putting up a feeble fight against the green stopper that Kyungsoo had handed him before he’d left. Lu Han wants to pull out his little notebook, to write down his thoughts and pour them out of his head before they eat him alive. Memories are tricky little fuckers, the wrong ones can destroy you from the inside out.

Family is something you create, if you aren’t born with it, or if you lose it on the way, he tells himself.

He repeats it, plays it over and over in his mind as the wheels turn and the windshield wipers zip back and forth when it starts to rain. Lu Han refuses to let it fade from his mind.

His research papers are waiting for him on his desk, in a neat stack that he doesn’t remember making before he left for his meeting. Kris is still not back from work yet, but Sehun had been the last to leave this morning. He heaves a sigh and slumps at his desk, bag dropping to the ground in front of the drawers.

Sehun appears, swaddled in blankets up to his shoulders, from down the tiny hall that leads to their bedrooms and the one bathroom they all share. Lu Han switches his gaze too quickly from his papers to Sehun’s face for him to hide. The light, watery shine around Sehun’s eyes, paired with redness, is easy to identify. He’s been crying.

“Hey,” Lu Han is out of his chair before Sehun can turn away. His hands curl around Sehun’s blanket-padded shoulders. His attempt to stop himself from crying again fails miserably; he sends Lu Han into a panic, ready to fuss at the slightest thing.

Like when they first met. Or when Sehun almost injured his back at a late ballet rehearsal. Sehun can’t believe he’s let himself remember these moment now, out of all of the things he could be thinking about.

“Tell me what’s wrong.”

The answer has difficulty getting past Sehun’s lips. He’s been spending his late nights at his dance partner’s place—those nights when he tiptoes through the door after sending Kris or Lu Han a text that he’s out late studying with a friend, or staying at the studios until they close. Sometimes they’re true, Sehun soon admits, when they’re nestled into the couch and both wrapped in the blanket he’d pulled from his bed. “Sometimes I really am staying late at the studios. He came to help me, but he wasn’t allowed to dance. He hurt himself pretty bad . . .”

“You told me,” Lu Han nods, brushing Sehun’s fringe away from his still damp eyes. His hair is getting shaggy. “It’s okay, go on.”

Sehun laughs an empty laugh and looks down into their laps, avoiding Lu Han’s eyes. “It just . . . didn’t work out. Not the way I thought it would.”

“You liked him a lot, didn’t you?”

“I guess I did,” Sehun says, in that childish manner; the re-adjusting of his body tells Lu Han that yes, he did, but also no. He doesn’t know. He’s young, though, and he doesn’t have to know, not yet. Responsibility will hit him someday. Lu Han will be there when it does. “This sort of stuff happens when you dance with someone for so long. Sometimes. I don’t know.”

Sehun is still good at keeping secrets. Lu Han knows that they are there, but he can’t get past the wall in his mind, he can’t read Sehun’s mind no matter how much he wishes he could. So he lets Sehun lean his head into the crook of his neck and wipe his tears on the collar of Lu Han’s dress shirt he’d worn to his meeting and still not found the time to take off. “There’ll always be someone else,” Lu Han tells him.

“I know.”

Arms snake around Lu Han’s waist, and he sits up to make room for them. He pulls Sehun closer and lets the younger boy swing his legs up over his lap. Eyelashes flutter against the skin of his neck, and he feels the goosebumps rise. The urge to kiss Sehun returns like a ghost, rising inside his body like the need to scream or throw his arms around someone, but he’s already holding him too close, and he can’t find his voice. This is the sort of urge he tries to avoid, but it’s all too difficult with Sehun warm and pressed against his side. And then comes the little voice inside Lu Han’s head.

What if we all loved each other the same? Would that be okay?

“Sehun.”

“Hm?”

“Look at me.”

He hesitates, but pulls his arm out from between Lu Han’s back and the couch, peeling his face away from the comfortable muscles of Lu Han’s shoulder. Lu Han kisses him before he can pull away any further, a soft, closed-mouth kiss. They kissed like this when they were children, once or twice. Lu Han’s mother thought it was sweet. Sehun’s uncle had scowled, his aunt remaining expressionless; a distant memory of Sehun’s parents.

But Sehun goes on, kisses him harder like this semi-broken heart gave him a little bit of extra strength to do something Lu Han has always wished they’d done. He unwinds easily, back of his head pressing into the couch as Sehun’s hand falls to his him and the blanket covers them both, Lu Han biting his bottom lip when Sehun kisses his cheek and trails his lips to his eyelids, nose, forehead. He makes Lu Han feel small, very small, but warm.

Lu Han wraps his arms around him and lies on his back, Sehun pressed close to him, buried beneath a soft quilt. Yellow light filters in through the stitches and makes them look fragile; makes Sehun kiss him again until they’re tired, but smiling. This may be the way they were meant to be all along. Here, tucked into each other, Sehun fighting down a heartbreak in Lu Han’s arms, faces pressed together and even breathing, is where they will stay.

Kris steps through the door around 8PM.

The apartment is still, he can hear himself breathing. He eyes the shoes on the rack next to the door and notes that everyone is home. It’s then that he spots them, the wrapped up pair on the couch, lying flat against each other, Lu Han’s leg hanging off the edge of the couch, Sehun’s hand and wrist sticking out from underneath blankets. Lu Han’s arm thrown around Sehun’s thin waist. Kris smiles to himself, hand falling against Sehun’s disheveled hair light enough to not wake him, eyes landing on Lu Han’s smile, mid-dream.

This is home.

//

~ happy late birthday, Mysa! （*＾ワ＾*）
~ inspiration pulled at first from this
~ thank you for reading!

Something Good Can Work [Suho/Kai/Sehun]

emberberry — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 01:43:09 GMT

Something Good Can Work
Suho/Kai/Sehun
NC-17; 4,480 words
He’s always been less than smooth, but he tries.

a/n: written for kanintallrik at runandgun! :)

He finds Sehun about five minutes after Statistics 119 with a horse mask shoved over his head. It’s unnerving for two reasons:

1) Jongin can recognize him without a face
2) he has a horse head for a face

But Jongin supposes that Sehun’s lanky build will always be a giveaway; that and the matching wristbands they’ve been wearing since junior high. Sehun is fiddling with it. Jongin assumes that he wouldn’t have known it was him otherwise. Maybe he would have stared for even longer, trying to figure out who would even wear that around campus for fuck’s sake, were they asking to get shoved into the fountain?

Jongin has come to Sehun’s rescue before. The Glitter Episode is Jongin’s favorite. It had still been embarrassing but only regarded a tiara and some sparkles from the art department in high school. Sehun’s been a target for harmless bullying dealt out by mutual friends or classmates. Harmless pranks.

“Jongin is that you?” a familiar voice echoes from beneath the cage of a mask he’s trapped in.

He lifts it away from Sehun’s head as a response, watching him gasp for air; clean, cooler air. Doesn’t smell like chemicals or gross old rubber anymore. Sehun wipes sweat away from his forehead on the back of his long sleeve shirt. He looks just as bewildered as he had as a horse. “Thanks.”

“What happened to you?” Jongin settles the mask underneath his arm.

“Joonmyun-hyung let his Shakespeare class have me.”

“Sehun, you need to be careful. Hyung isn’t the Hyung we know when he’s with his thespians.”

“Thespi—what?” Sehun’s eyebrows raise in confusion.

Jongin deadpans. “His people.”

“Okay . . .”

“I was making a joke. Even if it’s true. Just,” Jongin sighs. “I’m gonna bring this back to the theater department. Go wait for me at Java’s, I’ll buy you something.”

Sehun is never the sort to turn down free coffee—free anything. Cheapskate kinda kid, letting Jongin pay for his meals now and then. He never argues when Jongin offers, like others will. No, no, it’s alright, they’ll say, even though they’ll relent sooner or later. Jongin doesn’t get that sort of fight with Sehun and he supposes it’s the level of comfort they’ve reached over the years. A disturbing amount of comfort. Once upon a time when they were little Sehun would hide behind trees and try to make himself small because he was afraid Jongin would kick sand into his eyes like the other schoolchildren.

Now Jongin comes to his rescue.

--

Sometimes he pulls a shitty rescue, though, and Joonmyun isn’t helping much. Joonmyun is especially unhelpful this time, letting Jongin kiss him senseless in the closet where he and the other thespians keep their masks and miscellaneous props. Joonmyun kisses him like he kissed that girl in last semester’s play, only it isn’t staged, so Jongin supposes this comparison he’s drawn in his mind is invalid. Jongin can’t even remember the name of it or what happened during the near two hours of it. He remembers that during intermission Sehun kept bugging him about the candy being sold at concessions, and so he’d let up and paid up, Sehun’s fingers curling around his wrist.

Fuck, he’s in too deep with the both of them, his own fingers tugging Joonmyun’s hair by the roots, tipping his head back. Didn’t he say something about meeting Sehun somewhere and doing something? Maybe. Joonmyun’s thigh parts his legs, nestling in between and pressing against his crotch and it’s then that Jongin pulls away, his hand still caught up in his hyung’s hair. Loosely, though, like an afterthought. “Shit, I have to go.”

“What?” Joonmyun grunts, hands pulling back from Jongin’s hoodie where they’d curled into fabric, and pulled. The sound of the A/C buzzes lightly in between them, coming from the tiny vent overhead. Jongin stares. Joonmyun’s hands have dropped to his sides.

Saying the wrong thing could mean another go at it, and maybe they’d lose the clothes next time, as well. The closet door doesn’t have a lock but they’ve shoved a stool underneath the handle. Joonmyun had remembered to do that much before they started their frantic grabbing. Too horny for their own good.

“Bye, hyung,” he says, breathless. “I’ll see you later.” The dramatic exit is difficult to do when he yanks the chair away from the door, smacking himself in the leg in the process.

He’s always been less than smooth, but he tries.

--

Sehun is easy to spot again, leaning his head on his fist as he stares into the distance, phone settled in the empty space in front of him at the little circular table. “What do you want?” Jongin asks, setting his backpack down in the chair across from Sehun’s.

He blinks a few times. “Is it windy outside?”

Hair. He’s talking about Jongin’s messy hair.

“I ran here,” he says. “Professor Hwang was pretty ticked about the missing mask so he lectured me for a bit but no big deal, really.”

“Sorry,” Sehun twists his mouth to the side. Jongin ignores the way the lie makes him feel. It’s a little too exciting, really.

“I didn’t get in any trouble. If anything, pretty sure Hyung is gonna get an earful on Monday.”

Sehun laughs. He just wants hot chocolate. Whipped cream, too. They always put sprinkles on it no matter who asks, as long as there’s whipped cream. Sehun’s fingers tap against the wood table; Jongin listens to it fade as he walks to the counter. Third in line. The rush happens around three, usually, and can last sometimes until seven, depending on exams and papers. Jongin orders from Baekhyun today, who’s smiling a little bit too smug for Jongin’s liking. Baekhyun’s eyes flicker over to Sehun and Jongin remembers that Baekhyun is in Joonmyun’s Shakespeare class.

“Why a horse, though?” Jongin asks, accepting his change.

Baekhyun almost drops a coin onto the counter, another wave of giggles hitting him as he tries to keep his cool. It sounds a bit reminiscent of a horse neighing to Jongin. “We’re doing Midsummer Night’s Dream in a few weeks.”

“I thought it was supposed to be a donkey head, though.”

Baekhyun shrugs. “No donkeys in the mask closet.”

Jongin waits until Zitao, the exchange kid who works here, hands him his organic brew, medium size, and Sehun’s hot chocolate. “Fair enough,” he says to Baekhyun, nodding a thank you at Zitao before returning to his table where Sehun is busy texting.

“Joonmyun-hyung is coming,” Sehun says.

He doesn’t know why he almost misses his chair on the way to sitting. “Oh is he?”

So he drags another chair over. Someone once told him that everything is better than threes. It was probably Joonmyun.

--

It’s not really a big deal, and it shouldn’t be. So there, it isn’t, Jongin tells himself. The gears in his mind shift, classmates come and go, Sehun sleeps in his bed and drinks his orange juice and sometimes his roommate’s aloe drinks when things get mislabeled. Joonmyun comes and goes, they run up and down the halls screaming and sometimes a little bit drunk but their RA never gets sick of them, they go to Joonmyun’s house, they do things that three best friends do and other times they don’t. Jongin never gets sick of letting someone crash on top of him with clumsy limbs and a goofy smile. It’s Joonmyun more often than he would like to admit.

It’s no big deal that sometimes Joonmyun sleeps over and gives his roommate a reason to flee to someone else’s room. Except there are time when Jongin thinks that Joonmyun must have bewitched him; behind that innocent smile there’s an actor. A theater major concealing his inner side. Joonmyun practices his future art on Jongin, pulling innocent faces except for when Jongin has him pressed against a wall, or flattened into his mattress.

He imagines Joonmyun putting a spell on him, voodoo witchcraft, all that stuff that no one really believes but Jongin sometimes pictures Joonmyun standing over a boiling pot, spitting into it, slitting his wrist open to let the blood flow it. He’d grin, catlike and proud of himself as the red mixes in and turns black.

Jongin admits that his imagination takes off way too easily, but silly thoughts like this have turned into outstanding marks in his short story class this semester. He always changes Joonmyun’s name, and Sehun’s. Because Sehun is another story.

--

He tells stories about a bony looking kid, somehow with enough muscle on him to make him look like he isn’t going to topple over. He looks like he needs a nap, even when he’s bouncing up and down. He gets pushed over a lot, pinched and laughed at. They wanted reactions, they wanted him to cry or smile or fight back but he would keep his head down until Jongin cut through the line of kids and dragged him away.

That kid Sehun would never let on that he needed Jongin all those years ago. It’s easy to deny it, because they hardly still talk to anyone from elementary school except for each other. Sandbox days are gone. Now here come the days where Sehun sleeps in Jongin’s boxers and drools all over his pillow, and Jongin tries not to think about the smooth expanse of Sehun’s back that he wants to touch while he jerks off in the shower.

Play it safe; keep pretending. Pretend you’re Joonmyun-hyung and you’re on your way to being an actor.

--

Joonmyun is could easily be named ‘the theater stud.’ He styles his hair every morning; sometimes he even wears his glasses to be slightly fashionable, wears button up shirts and well-fitting pants and anything else that makes him look damn good, and he always gets a main role. The girls love him and the boys love him, and the girls wonder if Joonmyun wants to love the boys back. His reputation carried over nicely from high school, with a few rumors of swapping spit with various schoolmates in closets at cast parties. Not all of them had been true, but high school kids liked to whisper. So did college kids. Jongin could refute most of them easily. In high school he was almost everywhere Joonmyun was.

But Jongin was always a lead dancer, until he got sick of theater and watching awkward teen elbows bump into each other because they couldn’t properly execute jazz squares. High school productions were never quite Jongin’s thing. Joonmyun always made it his thing, whatever he did. He pulls smiles and people call him an angel, but Jongin has seen more sides to him than anyone else without it being an act, to win a role, to be better than the others.

Joonmyun usually smiles when Sehun is around, or when Jongin takes his shirt off. Not so angelic, then.

The truth is, though, that Joonmyun doesn’t act around the two of them. There is never anyone around to impress when it’s just the three of them. Jongin and Sehun aren’t callbacks. Some people say he’s two-faced. They whisper things behind his back and when Jongin hears, they don’t expect him to do anything about it. Sehun glares, but he’s never particularly threatening until he stands, and looms. Sehun is particularly good at looming. They make honest attempts at protecting each other. They are three people who love each other more than any of them would ever admit.

--

Today, Joonmyun’s hair is a disaster. The red isn’t a problem. In fact, Jongin quite likes it. He fixates on that, because it’s the only good thing. Other than that—

“You look like a poodle,” Sehun says it first.

Jongin flops onto Joonmyun’s couch. He sputters when Joonmyun’s eyes fall on him, blaming. “He said it!”

“Do I really?” Joonmyun groans, tugging at one of his new wavy locks.

“What happened to your head anyway?” asks Sehun, sitting beside Jongin. He folds his knees up to his chin and makes enough room for three, though he’s already pretty compact.

“Well I dyed it.”

Jongin’s arm curls around Sehun’s shoulders. “And?”

“The chorus girls brought out the curling iron during break . . .”

Sehun snorts, head falling back against Jongin’s arm. “Say no more,” the youngest remarks. He learned how chorus girls can be when it comes to hair—especially boys’ hair. Whether the victim is willing or semi-willing is secondary to them.

“Is it gonna come out?” Jongin voices his concern. “Ever?”

“Right now,” Joonmyun groans. “Watch TV or something, I’m washing this out.”

Sehun reaches over Jongin’s lap for the remote. “Gladly.”

--

He wakes up in the middle of a nightmare he can’t even remember, but it might have involved Joonmyun as a witch—pointy hat fitted over awful, blood red curls. Jongin clutches at his chest and feels the space next to him shift as Sehun stirs, sleepy eyes more tired than usual and blinking furiously. He wipes the sweat from Jongin’s forehead for him and falls back lightly against a shared pillow, hand left behind to linger on Jongin’s chest as he flattens himself to his bed again.

But then he realizes that it’s not his bed, nor is it any bed. Then he recalls last night, falling asleep with Sehun’s face tucked into his neck on a few blankets on Joonmyun’s floor. The three of them were always too much for Joonmyun’s small mattress.

Sehun has already drifted back to sleep, quickly slipping back into his own dreams that must be less fearful. His face is relaxed, the outline of his nose pressing into the pillow they’ve both been sleeping on for the past who knows how many hours. Jongin doesn’t remember falling asleep, and he knows they didn’t drink. Sehun rolls over, face twitching in his sleep, pink lips parting slightly. The moon filtering in through Joonmyun’s window gives Jongin enough light to see; it lights his path as he rests his hand against Sehun’s flat stomach, caressing fabric.

Somewhere between rolling over and falling asleep again, Jongin tries kissing Sehun. Lightly, with more feeling than what Sehun can give back while drifting off to sleep. He wonders if Sehun even notices; if Sehun even cares. He tries not to press, and he hates how it hurts to pull away.

Morning brings a confirmation along with it. Sehun is blissfully unaware, pulling on his sneakers at the front door with his bag hanging off his thin shoulder. Joonmyun doesn’t have class until two today, but Sehun needs to be in his lecture hall in twenty minutes and Jongin knows he’s missing his first class right now. Sehun looks like a large child, tying shoelaces and grabbing the toast Jongin hands him with his teeth. “Bye,” he says through crumbs that are starting to fall into the folds of his polo shirt.

Nothing in his eyes suggests that he’d been awake last night. Jongin smiles anyway, telling himself that he should be relieved, that he doesn’t need to complicate things any more. It’s already getting to be too much; he can keep Sehun out of it, but he doesn’t know if he can keep it up for much longer.

The front door to Joonmyun’s apartment shuts, and Jongin stands there, barefoot on hardwood before plodding back into the kitchen where Joonmyun has a hoodie zipped up, no shirt underneath, hair messy from sleep. His jeans are hanging low without a belt—too skinny for his own good. And Jongin can see skin. He licks his lips.

Well, he’s missing his first class anyway.

--

Jongin fits in the middle, the little spaces in between Joonmyun and Sehun. It’s true that things are best done in threes. At times.

Without the third side, there’s a gaping hole and a shape that doesn’t really have a form. He thinks that maybe one day he will wake up with both of them by his side, Sehun cutting off the circulation in his arm and Joonmyun pulling them both closer. This sort of lifestyle is meant for them, but perhaps he’s the only one who knows it, for now. Maybe he’ll have to keep it that way. He’s afraid of ruining what they have now, no matter how hard the tension hits when he has to reign it all in as Sehun angers him with a lip bite or Joonmyun smiles a little bit too wide. Jongin is just a little too afraid of cutting off two legs of the triangle. But fears can be erased.

--

The thespians got to him again. There’s remnants of glitter and stage makeup on Sehun’s face when Jongin finds him bent over the bathroom sink just outside the main performance hall on campus. As soon as he’d gotten Sehun’s text he’d jumped up from his little corner of the research library and sprinted right over. Help it had said.

Sehun’s fringe is hanging in front of his pleading eyes. Help. Jongin can’t help but smile, grabbing a few sheets of paper towels from the dispenser. He turns the faucet off for him and lifts Sehun’s face by his chin so their eyes meet while he dabs at a glob of stage makeup clinging to his cheekbones.

“Why are you such an easy target?” Jongin chuckles.

“I don’t know.” Sehun mumbles his answer, eyes aimlessly scanning Jongin’s face. “I guess I’ve always been that way.”

“Maybe it’s just their strange way of showing affection.” He picks pieces of glitter out of Sehun’s slightly damp hair. “Joonmyun’s, at least.”

“He wasn’t there.”

Jongin pauses, fingers smoothing down the sides of Sehun’s hair for him, paper towels poised in his other hand to wipe away excess tap water. “Why were you there then?”

“I was looking for him.”

“Oh.”

“I wanted to talk to him,” Sehun mumbles. His eyes are downcast, as his hands play with the hem of Jongin’s t-shirt.

“Did you text him? Call?”

“He didn’t answer me,” Sehun says. “Figured he was either in rehearsal or class. Or with you.”

Jongin nods, swiping glitter away from a space near Sehun’s earlobe. “They got you pretty good, didn’t they?”

“I guess.”

“Are you okay?”

“Do you like Joonmyun-hyung, Jongin?”

“Like him? I—” it clicks. “Oh. You know.”

“I know.”

Jongin leans around Sehun to toss the used paper towel into the trash bin. “How do you know?”

“Hyung isn’t good at keeping secrets from me, like you are.” Sehun rests slightly against the counter, eyes never leaving Jongin’s face. “So I know.” Easily picked on, but clever. The look in his eyes tells Jongin that he’d known something before Joonmyun had even opened his mouth and surrendered the details of their stupid little non-affair affair.

“So I’m good at it?” he tries to let his lips melt into a smirk, but it only half works.

Sehun gives a single laugh. “Infuriatingly good. Also,” he pauses. “Did you kiss me last night too?”

Jongin notes the eyebrow raise. Sehun is pretty infuriating, too. He takes on the kind of tone people only use when they already know the answer. So Jongin doesn’t answer. He grabs, pulling Sehun toward him by the collar until they’re flush against each other and Sehun is clutching at his sides, mouth opening up to him.

“Is that a yes?” Sehun grunts as Jongin pushes him into one of the stalls. He pushes the door closed and leans against it before leaning his head back and letting Jongin’s teeth graze his skin, gently. He doesn’t notice the hands tugging his hair until they leave, and Jongin is standing back, frozen. The creaking of the bathroom door as it swings open permeates their sudden silence as Sehun bites back a curse at the lack of Jongin’s tongue in his mouth.

Steps, sneakers squeaking against bathroom tiles, the stall next to theirs opening and Jongin suddenly puts his hand over Sehun’s mouth. He takes his revenge, revenge for Sehun being infuriating, letting his fingers brush past the front of Sehun’s mouth. Retaliation comes with a quick bite, teeth barely sinking into one of Jongin’s fingers.

When the bathroom’s other occupant leaves, Jongin grips Sehun’s hip with one hand and kisses him so hard he whimpers, before slipping out the door and grabbing the bag he’d kicked underneath the sink. He leaves that memory with Sehun, along with the need to jerk off before his next class starts, and hopes that Sehun takes it as an invitation to make things just a little more complicated.

--

They try kissing in front of Sehun, over a table covered with a pizza box and soju bottles and assorted chocolates they had picked up at the convenience store on the way over. It was Sehun’s idea, nudging Jongin with an elbow as they sit side by side, Joonmyun across from them with his styled hair and leftover eyeliner from a dress rehearsal. There’s a wide grin on Joonmyun’s face that dissolves into a flustered downward look, cheeks pink even without the stage makeup from earlier.

Joonmyun follows anyway, like he’s taking stage directions and he lets Jongin’s lips press fully against his own, too tentatively at first compared to what they’re used to. Joonmyun steadies himself with his hands on the spaces where the table isn’t covered with food and drink, and Jongin’s hand moves to the back of his neck, pulling him closer and deeper.

“Satisfied?” Jongin eyes Sehun when they’ve broken away from each other.

“For now.”

“Brat,” he snickers.

Minutes later, he’s done joking around. Sehun pulls Jongin down on top of him, arms heavy around his neck as Joonmyun watches the two of them, legs crossed on his bed. The top button of his jeans is unbuttoned already, and Jongin is busy working Sehun out of his own pants. He supposes he’s fucked up the triangle, but only in a way that makes it much stronger. There are more perks as well, like when Joonmyun kneels next to them on the floor and unzips Jongin’s jeans for him.

Jongin is tugging Sehun’s pants down just as he feels a hand slip past the elastic waistband of his boxers, and he shudders, nearly collapsing on top of Sehun and the only thing that reminds him of Sehun’s existence is the somewhat pathetic whimper than crawls out of Sehun’s throat. Joonmyun laughs and kisses the back of Jongin’s neck as he strokes him, his own erection clothed and pressing into the curve of Jongin’s ass not-so-accidentally. Jongin tries to focus, nipping at Sehun’s hip bones and sucking little marks on his inner thighs once Jongin has slid his pants down all the way.

The thoughts of whether or not this is getting too complicated or not slip away as Joonmyun starts to slip a cold finger inside of him without warning. He knows where this is going and he arches in anticipation, freeing Sehun’s dick from his underwear, and very slowly taking him in. This situation is familiar. Maybe only a week ago he’d done this for Joonmyun. The idea that Sehun probably knows about that passes through his mind, until Joonmyun curls his fingers inside him and Jongin pushes himself back, Sehun falling out of his mouth. He forgets what he’s supposed to do with his tongue and his mouth and he thinks maybe doing this all together was a bad idea until he holds his breath to keep from panting, and holds Sehun’s hard cock in his hand. He breathes again, slowly and bites his lip as he gives Sehun’s cock, earning a sharp cry. He whimpers as Jongin’s thumb strokes the tip, smearing precome.

Jongin watches through blurred vision as Sehun’s eyes shut tight and he gasps from the feeling of Jongin’s fingers working him into complete submission. He notes Sehun’s white knuckles digging into the blanket beneath them just as Joonmyun starts pushing inside, stretching him open. Doing this seemed almost like a mistake to Jongin, until he realized how good it feels, to give and receive like this, to be fitted into the middle of two people, body opened up and shared.

“Please,” Sehun whispers, hands frantically clutching at Jongin’s hair. He doesn’t mind the pulling, he decides as he closes his mouth around the head of Sehun’s cock once more, humming as Joonmyun thrusts inside him and his hands grip his hips. Joonmyun is a different person when they have sex; his eyes do not curl into smiles, and his body is quick, entering Jongin with hard snaps and sometimes the bed shakes, but today he’s taking it slow.

Sehun comes just as Jongin starts to feel dizzy, unaware of himself or how close he is to his own orgasm until Sehun is releasing into his mouth. Uttering curses, Sehun arches his back, and then he slumps, eyes closed and breathing heavy. Jongin lurches forward as Joonmyun presses him down and quickens his pace, gasps falling from his mouth as he licks up the bitter taste Sehun left behind on his lips. His arms are shaking from the weight of keeping himself up, cheek beginning to press into Sehun’s thigh.

He breathes hot against Sehun’s skin and mindlessly digs his fingers in as well, looking for something to grab as he’s brought dangerously close to an orgasm. And then he snaps, head hanging low and eyes screwed shut as he feels himself release into Joonmyun’s hand. Joonmyun lets out a strangled sound, between a cry and a grunt as he comes.

They all fall against each other, Jongin letting Sehun curl his arms around him as Joonmyun flops on the other side, thin layer of sweat making his body glow. Jongin touches his chest and trails his fingers across the rising and falling muscles. He aches, but in a pleasant way; blissed out, Jongin rolls his head against Joonmyun’s shoulder and starts to feel the evenness of Sehun’s breath. He always falls asleep too quickly.

“I like you both,” Jongin mutters, Sehun snoring against his chest. “More than I should.”

“There’s nothing wrong with sharing,” Joonmyun suggests, fingers threading through Jongin’s hair. Jongin supposes Joonmyun has learned how to break away from being the jealous type. Hearts are easy to break backstage, when you’re busy watching everyone furiously change out of their costumes and spending nights unwinding together. Everyone falls in love, and everyone gets hurt. Not Joonmyun, who after wrapping his hand around Jongin’s dick can still lean down and kiss a sleeping Sehun on the forehead, rough palm trailing down the younger boy’s arm. There is still love here, with an absence of jealousy or hurt.

Jongin’s eyelids flutter and Joonmyun swoops in to kiss him again. “Good,” is all he can say, to a grinning face in front of him.

Very good.

//

- thank you for reading!
- (hides because I can't write porn but it still took this route somehow)

The Spaces Between Us [Xiumin/Luhan]

emberberry — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 01:25:04 GMT

The Spaces Between Us
Xiumin/Luhan, side Baekhyun/Chanyeol
PG; 7,895 words
Maybe Luhan isn’t even a person, he joked with himself.

a/n: written for seeeno for runandgun! also thank you to my lovely Annie for holding my hand throughout most of the stages of this fic, draft to whole new draft to panicked writing to actually finishing :)

He’s doing it again.

This boy, Luhan, had just recently taken the seat next to Minseok’s in homeroom. It’d been empty throughout the year so far—they had only gotten a month and a half in—but now it was suddenly filled.

Luhan was quiet, Minseok learned, but he talked when talked to. The teachers addressed him, asked him to answer things for the class like any other student, and he would answer with a smile on his delicate features. He seemed so eager to learn, and eager to please. Minseok squirmed in his desk and tried to remind himself not to mess with his uniform tie whenever their physics teacher’s eyes landed on him. Watching Luhan’s face glow when he glanced up from his notes, eyes seeming to sparkle, Minseok knew that he wanted to capture that sort of confidence. It was fascinating.

At the same time, he wanted Luhan to stop staring at him when he didn’t think Minseok was looking.

--

“It’s so hot!”

Chanyeol cast Baekhyun a sideways glare. Baekhyun shoved Chanyeol’s arm off his shoulders because of that very reason. Minseok laughed and continued walking his bike forward, careful not to accidentally step in the way of the pedals. It was unnecessarily hot, as his friend had said, and Minseok wanted to ditch his uniform so badly.

“Stop whining,” Chanyeol retorted. Baekhyun gave him another push and they nearly toppled over into Minseok. The two of them were going to tumble into traffic some day if they weren’t careful. But Minseok kept laughing, worries aside.

Other than the sweltering heat, the air was nice. There was a slight breeze whipping through the air, fluffing the sides of Minseok’s hair into his face so that he had to squint. But it felt good, at least. Sweat drying inside a mandatory, white button up shirt. The sun threatened to fry the three of them on their way out of school, but at least the wind was kind, and it smelled sweet.

Roses, from the house they were walking past. And … something else.

“Hey, isn’t that the new guy?” Chanyeol asked, eyes moving across the street.

“Luhan!” Naturally, Baekhyun already liked him. Baekhyun was like a puppy in the sense that he loved anyone who gave him a nice pat on the head, or let him borrow a pencil for a quiz. Either of the two would suffice. Minseok prided himself in the fact that him and Baekhyun had built a friendship on legos and hide and seek for many years before the need for quizzes arose. Chanyeol, as well. The two of them were a bit of a packaged deal.

Sure enough, it was Luhan, a few paces ahead and on the sidewalk opposite the three of them, alone. They all recognized him despite the fact that he hung his head as he walked. He’d already thought the new kid was a little strange from the way he seemed to have little stars in his eyes to his smiles to the way he stared at Minseok now and then.

Honestly, if anyone else had done it, it would have given Minseok the creeps. But Luhan was a different, slightly infuriating story. A mystery.

He didn’t know why he was so irked at the fact that Baekhyun knew him, and reacted to him that way. When Luhan turned and eyed the three of them, a smile broke across his face—that stupid, beautiful face—and he lifted his arm to wave a little bit too enthusiastically, perhaps. Baekhyun was practically bouncing up and down. He wanted Luhan to walk with them, and Minseok wasn’t sure why that was suddenly the last thing he wanted.

The air was sickly sweet, and Luhan’s presence was like the sun in his midst. Overwhelming outside of the classroom, outside desks and furtive glances. He wanted to talk to Luhan, but he didn’t know how.

It was too strange. Minseok always knew how to talk to people. He was the Nice Guy in school, he talked to lots of people. Just not Luhan. Luhan was someone he looked at, and who looked back at him, and smiled at him.

Maybe Luhan isn’t even a person, he joked with himself. He made a note not to mention that to Chanyeol; it was more than possible that Chanyeol would just take him seriously, because Chanyeol was Chanyeol, which meant that he did not joke around with other-worldly beings

--

Everyone knew Luhan. Everyone in this school was nosy, and having a new kid meant there was a new person to learn and explore and try to befriend. New mind to climb into. Minseok watched from the sidelines; he wanted to be different. They flocked to him, but Luhan treated them all the same. The lines around his eyes when he smiled framed his pretty eyes the same way for each person.

He would spread himself thin if he kept this up, Minseok knew. Or maybe Luhan operated differently. Another thing to add to his fake what if Luhan isn’t human list.

Luhan was ‘from China’ he said. The accent came out, then, after someone asked him to speak Mandarin once before homeroom started and their teacher waltzed in to silence them. Minseok heard him trying to work out certain words under his breath for another five minutes or so, tongue caught somewhere between two languages.

The first time they spoke, Luhan asked him for an eraser. Minseok fumbled around until his pencil case would open properly and handed it over. A “thank you” came, politely, with a quick flash of nice, white teeth. It didn’t end there.

“You know Baekhyun,” Luhan continued.

“I do,” he smiled.

And it ended with Minseok asking Luhan to come get bubble tea with them after school. Luhan took a moment to think at first, gears turning, but he agreed, and his eyes twinkled. Minseok bit his lip and said, “Great!” before they were promptly shushed by their teacher. Minseok couldn’t help but feel nothing but excitement as he and Luhan both stifled their giggles.

--

“Do they not have bubble tea in China?”

Chanyeol was the one who asked.

The four of them sat together, circled around a table, drinks in their hands. Baekhyun was chewing on on a tapioca bead, slowly. Luhan only seemed more confused as he watched the muscles in Baekhyun’s jaw work. It was like he’d never seen a person chew before.

Minseok bit back a laugh as Luhan lifted his own cup and examined the bottom, where the bubbles rested. His brow furrowed. If he was trying to be funny, it was working.

“No, we do . . .” said Luhan. “I’ve just never had it?”

Baekhyun swallowed. “Wow, really?”

Luhan nodded. “There are a lot of things I haven’t had before, actually.” His eyes sparkled, again. “Especially Korean food. That, too. My family stays in.”

“We should take him out more often,” Chanyeol said, his eyes toggling between Minseok and Baekhyun’s faces.

“My mom makes great ddukbokki,” Baekhyun chimed in. “I’ll take you to my house sometime.”

The gratitude presented itself on Luhan’s face in a way that made him look as though he may cry, lips closed around his straw with a bubble caught in the middle of it. He let go and the three of them watched as his eyes sparkled at Baekhyun, almost magically.

Luhan was now, officially, part of their trio. With only a few kind words and some bubble tea, and shining eyes, they had morphed into a quartet.

Minseok felt warm inside, and he smiled wider when Luhan looked at him again.

--

“Do you like soccer?” Minseok asked one day, while their teacher had gone to procure chalk from another teacher after his own had mysteriously vanished.

Luhan paused, body completely still for a moment, before he nodded.

“I do too,” he said. “We should play sometime.”

A grin opened up on Luhan’s face. “That’d be great.”

Anything else they might have said was cut off as the door slid open again, and in came an angry teacher, fresh with new chalk and questions to pester them with. Lucky Luhan was prepared for everything, as usual, and Minseok slumped in his chair, trying to avoid being seen by the world.

Trying to avoid everything but Luhan.

--

It was a little infuriating how easily Luhan had permeated his mind; wormed his way in like a stray thought that kept coming back until it had become part of everyday life. It happened like second nature. They sat together in every class, ate lunch together with Chanyeol and Baekhyun once, twice, soon every day of the week. After school, they would run off to coffee shops, libraries, and all sorts of places to attempt to do homework and group projects.

Luhan was a fan of sweets. It was almost gross how quickly he would consume his cupcakes whenever they made a stop at a bakery on the way to Chanyeol or Baekhyun’s house for what was supposed to be a study session.

Today it was raining, and Minseok had to hold both their umbrellas when they stopped at a crosswalk, while Luhan wolfed down sugar in the form of a large cookie. Minseok’s was still sitting in his backpack as it had been for the last three blocks, untouched save for one bite that, thankfully, was his own work.

He’d probably end up sharing it later.

--

Sharing was exactly what happened. Luhan was ahead of them in their various math exercises, as usual, and bored while he waited for the timer to go off. Baekhyun and Chanyeol had a test the next day, and Minseok had been falling behind in stupid calculus.

Luhan had already had a few of the store-bought cookies that Minseok’s mother had bought for them, and he’d sipped his lemonade so that it was less than half full. Luhan was a monster when it came to treats. A monster. It was funny, though, to the three of them. But it was also slightly concerning. Minseok thought it was especially amusing when his mother’s face twisted indignantly at Luhan’s chocolate-smeared lips; his sated face.

He tore into the paper bag that housed Minseok’s snickerdoodle, asking permission first, and rested his chin against his other hand as he waited, picking mindlessly at sugar-coated goodness. Minseok would have frowned, but he didn’t.

He finally tore his eyes from Luhan when Baekhyun poked him and pestered him with a question about pre-calc. That, Minseok could help with. He could feel Luhan’s gaze on the top of his head, across the table.

--

A hard thud against the floor was what woke him.

Minseok sat up, in time with the beginning of his mother’s old music box, and dug his fingers into the ends of his thin blanket, terrified of some sort of intruder. But the music box was still going, oddly creepy at this hour when he’d always used it as a sort of comfort. His mother would pull it down from his top shelf for him—until high school Minseok had been unable to reach his top shelf without a little bit of trouble—and wind it up for him, too. But all Minseok could see how was some horrible creature come to murder him in the middle of the night. And it had knocked down Minseok’s favorite possession as well.

Switching on his bedside lamp, Minseok threw off the thin blanket and swung his legs over the side of his bed, feet connecting with the floor. As a sharp yellow light flooded the room, he could see that there was no one else in his room. The paranoia subsided.

He crouched down next to his bookcase and scooped the music box into his hands, closing the top and sighing. It hadn’t been broken. That was all that mattered. Its song was over, for now, until Minseok decided to open it again.

It was when he reached up to put it back into its rightful place that he saw him: the tiny person, only a few inches tall, trying to hide behind the shoebox he had placed up there. The shape was familiar, though small, and much too alarming for any sort of recognition. Minseok felt himself the drop the music box, the ornament bumping into his chest on the way down and slamming into his toe and making him crouch down in pain. He cried out.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry, are you okay?” the four inch human asked. It spoke.

Minseok looked up, and saw the boy’s thumbprint sized head looking down at him over the ledge of the tall bookshelf. He rubbed his eyes a few times, to wipe away any blurred doubts. “Lu … Luhan?”

He lifted a tentative hand, and waved.

“I don’t . . . understand . . .”

Luhan sighed. “It might be better if you don’t ask questions.”

“You’re tiny.”

“You’re a giant,” Luhan snapped. “Have you considered that?”

“Really?”

“Maybe you’re part of a race of giants and I’m the normal one here,” said Luhan. Minseok could hear the falseness in his voice. He was aware of his size, that he was all of four inches tall, shrunk down to something that was even smaller than a doll. And he didn’t like being reminded of this very fact, Minseok could tell.

It was still weird.

“You’re in my house.”

“Can you help me down?”

“You’re in my house,” Minseok repeated, awed, and puzzled.

Luhan frowned, pulling the corners of his mouth down in an over-exaggerated manner. “Are you going to leave me up here?”

“How did you even get up there?”

“So many questions,” he fussed. “I’m a good climber. But I’m . . . scared of heights.”

“Yet you still ended up there.”

“I’m also very curious.”

“I knew that already,” Minseok chuckled.

“If you’re not going to help me—” He watched Luhan tie a long piece of string around the top bar of the bookcase. Luhan began to descend, and he made it a full foot before he stopped and whimpered, eyes on the floor. Minseok bit his lip, trying to ignore how cute it was to see him pout over something that seemed so little to him.

No matter how out of this world the situation was, Minseok could not just leave Luhan there overnight to try and overcome his fear of heights on his own. He came closer, extending his hand so that it was placed under Luhan’s suspended feet. “Let me help.”

“Oh now you want to help?” he laughed the force of it making him slip into Minseok’s palm. His shoes felt weird against Minseok’s opened hand. Luhan nearly tumbled over again, but Minseok saved him with his other hand, coming to his rescue.

This was too weird.

Really.

Weird.

“My classmate is sitting in the palm of my hand . . .” he said out loud, slowly. “This is interesting.”

“Can you put me down?”

He had a person in his hands, a real person that walked and talked and sat next to him in class, and answered unnecessarily difficult history questions without missing a beat. “Uh, sure,” he mumbled, crouching down.

Once he’d lowered Luhan to the floor, Luhan looked back up at him and said, “If you move your shelf a little to the right, I’ll show you where I’ve been.” He proceeded to disappear behind that very shelf. Minseok sighed. He was waiting for himself to wake up from this strange dream. As soon as he got to school, he could tell Luhan all about it and they could laugh together over how ridiculous it was and how Minseok was never going to eat right before bed any time soon.

Really, this had to be a dream. He dismissed the pain he’d felt earlier from the music box colliding with his toe and used his shoulder to help him nudge his bookcase over a couple inches. Light poured out through a hole in the wall, spilling onto the carpet. Minseok got onto his stomach and tried to look in. There wasn’t much room. The opening was like those mouse holes he’d seen in cartoons, but larger. He wondered how long that had even been there in the first place.

“Wow.”

“Ta-dah,” said Luhan, spreading his arms. “You’ve been awfully calm about this. Thanks for not squishing me. I’ve never had an incident like this with owners before.”

“How long have you been living in here?” Minseok asked, blinking, waiting for something to change. He could only fit his head in. “In my wall?”

“Four days, I think,” Luhan replied, taking a seat on the dollhouse chair that had gone missing from his little sister’s set about two days ago. Her tantrum had only lasted a few minutes. “The last place I lived in had a cat that tried to eat me.”

Minseok followed a trail of little footprints in the dust that Luhan left behind. “Well the neighbors have a cat, so be careful if you go outside.”

“I know,” Luhan said. “I managed to get past it on my way here.” He fluffed his pillow. It was an actual pillow, tiny, with floral patterns. Minseok wondered for a moment if it came from his sister’s dollhouse as well. She hadn’t thrown a tantrum about any pillows.

“Is that comfortable?” Minseok asked, eyeing the makeshift bed that Luhan had made, still possibly under construction.

“It’s better than nothing, even though I’ve had better,” his classmate replied. Classmate. Friend. Minseok remembered this suddenly, that this was how they knew each other. Luhan went to his school. Too many questions were busy buzzing through his head as Luhan was taking a dainty bite out of a crumb that Minseok assumed was probably from some bread in his mother’s kitchen. Luhan was staring at him. “Do you want me to leave . . . ?”

“No, I just . . . why here?”

“Why? Because there’s space in this wall and I’ve been able to take things without anyone noticing. Until now. You’ve probably noticed by now.”

“You took a chair from my sister’s dollhouse.”

Luhan fought the grin that threatened to spread across his face. “I did. Sorry.”

“She has other chairs,” Minseok chuckled. “Is that it, though? It’s easy to steal from us?”

Suddenly, Luhan seemed offended, his almost-smile falling away from his face. “No cats. No dogs. Nothing that wants to eat me. I didn’t know it was your house at first, honestly. But it’s more than about stealing, Minseok. This is about finding a home. I feel safe here; you’re my friend.”

“But don’t you have a home?” he asked, but where is your family?

Luhan’s hand rested on what appeared to be some sort of switch for the regular-sized lightbulb that sat next to his little fabric mattress with the floral pattern pillow. He’d done that himself, in four days. Minseok’s mind was spinning in its attempt to wrap itself around all of this. The fact that Luhan was living in his bedroom wall without him knowing for this many days was enough to throw him for a loop. “I’ll tell you after school tomorrow,” he said. “I know it’s your house and all, but I’m tired.”

The expression that graced Luhan’s delicate features, caught between gratitude and something else Minseok couldn’t exactly pinpoint, was enough to make Minseok say ‘okay’ and bid him goodnight.

--

Morning came, along with more questions than answers. It hadn’t been a dream. The first thing he did upon waking up and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes was flip over and glance at his wall.

The opening was still there, but there was no light; no outward signs of Luhan. But if the opening was there, then Luhan was real, and only a few inches tall. Thumbelina sized, and everything. Minseok’s head spun into a headache and he knew he was going to need some of his parents’ strongest coffee that morning.

He kept his uniform tie loose and folded his blazer into his backpack as he went down the stairs, patting his sister on the head and reminding her not to try to stick her head through the bars or she’d get stuck. She stuck her tongue out at him but obeyed, following him into the kitchen and attempting to latch herself onto his leg instead.

“Minseok, you look pale,” his mother said over her shoulder. His father handed her a mug of coffee.

“Just tired. Studying,” he mumbled, taking a bowl out of the cupboard. But even cereal was hard to get down. He drank more coffee than he ate an actual breakfast. Luhan was still on his mind, and he ran out the door before his parents could ask what was wrong.

--

Seeing him again. That was almost stranger than what had happened the previous night.

It was almost like watching the sea part; their classmates, separating and scurrying around each other chatting and returning to their desks before homeroom began. And there he was, in his seat, third row from the back, to the left of Minseok’s desk, scribbling circles in his notebook, head kept down.

Minseok’s shadow over him as he set down his own books made Luhan lift his head.

“Hi,” he said first.

Minseok managed a small smile. It wasn’t hard. “Hi.” Luhan waited, staring. Minseok slowly lowered himself into his desk. “So.”

“Let’s do something after school.”

“Sounds good,” he answered a bit too quickly, perhaps.

“The usual,” Luhan went on. “But just us.”

“Perfect.”

--

“Where do you keep all your school things?”

“Books? Basement,” Luhan chirped through sips of his macchiato. “Or in a locker.” He broke off another piece of the scone they were sharing and popped it into his mouth. He was probably going to be the one to finish it. They were seated under a tree in a park about ten minutes away from their school. Baekhyun and Chanyeol had pouted in response when told they would have to do their own thing today. Sorry guys, we made plans. We forgot to tell you, they had lied.

“Do your clothes shrink with you when you change?”

“Thankfully, yeah,” he replied with a laugh. “That’s just the way it’s always been.”

“It’d suck if you kept changing back and forth without clothes.”

“Tell me about it.”

Minseok laughed with him this time. “This is really happening, right?”

“If you don’t believe me now I’ll poke you in your sleep until you acknowledge me,” Luhan said, narrowing his eyes. Something told Minseok that having little fingers jabbing away at his sides would either be painful or annoying in that awful, ticklish way. He wouldn’t be in a rush to find out. Minseok pushed the scone all the way into Luhan’s hands, like a peace offering despite the fact that there had only been peace between them. And confusion, but peaceful confusion.

“Thanks for not . . .”

“Not what?”

“Not throwing me away,” Luhan grinned. Minseok thought he looked terribly lonely for just a blip of a second, before the sun came out again, and Luhan seemed happy.

He wouldn’t ask about Luhan’s family, not yet.

--

Chanyeol’s arm came out of nowhere, hooking around Minseok’s neck. “Let me go, let me go I’m older than you, you have to listen to me,” Minseok struggled. Their heights made it difficult and Chanyeol was caught between leaning down and pulling Minseok up, but at the risk of straining his neck, he let go. The older card never worked with Chanyeol, who had always been too defiant and hyper for his own good. Sometimes he listened. Sometimes.

“Where have you been?”

“I’ve been,” he paused. He’d seen Chanyeol yesterday, in class, as usual. “With Luhan . . . ”

“Oh.”

“What? What do you mean by oh?”

“Just. Oh.”

“You know, I could have pointed out a long time ago that you’re always with Baekhyun,” Minseok said, clever smile in tow.

Chanyeol nodded once, eyes narrowing. “Indeed. I see.”

“Wait. No. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“We’ll see,” Chanyeol sang as he began to walk away.

Minseok groaned. “What does that mean?”

But Chanyeol was already around the corner and gone, hair bouncing along with him and when Minseok checked his phone for the time, he realized he had one minute to get to class.

--

Luhan’s desk was empty. Unoccupied.

Vacant.

There would be no Luhan today.

Minseok never saw Luhan in the mornings when he woke up. They had their own routines and they always waited until the school day started to greet each other. It was better that way; it was easier to pretend that Luhan wasn’t nearly pocket sized in his true form and that he wasn’t living in Minseok’s wall, and that they didn’t spend a good amount of time lying on Minseok’s floor, talking about nonsense. Whatever they wanted.

He hadn’t seen Luhan since last night, when he’d made tea and given Luhan tiny sips by lowering his spoon down to Luhan’s level as they sat on the floor, textbooks open.

Luhan had branded himself into Minseok’s daily routine, a near-constant presence.

But Luhan was missing. Minseok stared, and stared and stared, willing Luhan to appear again in his usual seat so they could pass notes and share erasers. And at lunch, the trio didn’t feel right as a trio again. Baekhyun frowned at his soda, and Chanyeol was trying desperately to get the two of them back to their normal selves. He’d even resorted to flailing his arms around.

Normal wasn’t normal with just three anymore.

--

Minseok had never gone home so quickly. He sent a text to Baekhyun that he wouldn’t be able to hang out with them after school anymore, and hopped onto the bus before it could buzz with Baekhyun’s reply. He’d been the first one out the door when classes finished, nearly tripping down the stairs in a rush to get out of there and get home.

His parents still weren’t home yet, and his sister was at a friend’s house until his mother was off work. Minseok threw the front door open after practically shaking his bag to find his house keys at the bottom. This time he tripped up the stairs, dropping his backpack on the top step and bursting through his bedroom door with a light shove.

During school he’d always kept it so that his bookcase would conceal Luhan’s hideout. He edged it aside again, as he always did when no one else was home, or when everyone else had turned their lights out for the night. He crouched down and then flattened himself to the ground, peering through the opening and looking around. “Luhan?”

“Ack!”

“Luhan!” Minseok rejoiced, watching his friend’s small frame tumblr from his bed, the fabric of his blankets blankets tangling around his body. “Luhan, what happened? Why weren’t you in school today?”

He sat up. “Can you give me a moment? I’m upside down.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Luhan flipped over and pulled the blankets away from his face, fringe puffing upward slightly. He blinked at Minseok, eyes bleary. “Hi.” He added a wave.

“Are you alright?” Minseok raised an eyebrow.

“I don’t know. I woke up this morning and I couldn’t . . . change back to you-size.”

“Me-size?”

Luhan shook his head. “Couldn’t do it,” he sighed. “I couldn’t sleep in the first place. That usually does it. No energy.”

“When will you be able to change back?”

Luhan gathered up his blankets again and sat on the edge of his makeshift bed. “Tomorrow, maybe?”

“You should sleep some more,” Minseok said, exhaling into the floor. Over the weeks it had gotten less dusty. He wished he could have been a part of that effort, but he hadn’t. It was hard enough only being able to fit his head into this odd space in the wall. He decided then, as he watched Luhan flop back into his bed, that Luhan was slowly going to turn him into a very anxious person.

Tossed onto his own bed, Minseok’s phone kept buzzing.

Baekhyun would drive him nuts, too, if he kept this up.

--

Thunder cracked again, and Minseok could feel the floor rumbling through the legs of his bed, mattress trembling ever so slightly. The loud rumbling forced his eyes open for the third or fourth time that night. As he sat up to close the window he couldn’t help but notice the light in the corner of his eye, and the small shadow, elongated in the light coming from the hole in the wall, peeking out to say hello.

“Minseok?” Luhan’s voice called, tentatively. It was strange how far away he could sound, when he was so close. The light was put out soon after. His steps were quick, feet padding across the carpeted floor. Minseok leaned over the side of his bed. Thunder whipped through the air again, and Luhan tripped, letting out a small cry that almost sent Minseok flying out of his bed to help him.

“Are you okay?” whispered Minseok.

“I’m . . . fine,” he said. Luhan had his pillow underneath his arm. “Is it okay if I sleep down here?”

Minseok blinked a few times, eyes aided by. A flash of lightning lit up Luhan’s face for him as he worried at his bottom lip. “You can sleep next to my pillow.”

“Can I?”

“As long as you aren’t worried I’ll crush you in my sleep.”

Luhan hesitated for a moment, but another rumble shuddered through the floor, and Luhan wobbled. The thunder was what tipped him over, what kept him awake, and what frightened him. Minseok lowered his hand for Luhan to grab onto without another word, and his friend held onto his finger as he brought him up to the edge of his mattress, where Luhan set his feet down and traveled to the space next to Minseok’s pillow. There, he set down his own pillow and curled into a half ball, eyes still open; they searched Minseok’s face.

“Thanks,” he finally said.

“No problem.”

“Thunder feels like a mini earthquake when I’m on the ground,” he explained. He didn’t have to, though. Minseok smiled, lips closed, but content. Luhan seemed less afraid the next time lightning cut through the clouds and thunder lashed out at them. His eyelids didn’t flutter or shut, but he wasn’t shaking, and he didn’t freeze up with the sky flashed with light. His body was calm.

Minseok felt at peace, just because Luhan was. And so he closed his eyes.

“I ran away from home,” Luhan whispered.

“You what?”

“I ran away,” Luhan repeated. “I ran away from my family. My parents.”

“Why?”

“They didn’t like it when I changed, when I made things big, when I made myself like you. They smothered me.”

Minseok watched as he buried his face into his pillow, fingers digging just slightly into Minseok’s sheets. “They’re your family, though.”

“They didn’t understand. They thought all I was good for was stealing, for making things small. I could do things that no one else could do,” Luhan muttered. “I was their miracle child.” But I didn’t want to be, he must be thinking.

Someone that small could still be so full of responsibility; maybe he wished that he’d been born as any one other than himself. Being Luhan was too much for him. There were too many things he hadn’t done, and they were the same age—they weren’t children anymore, but Luhan had already missed out on so much.

“I wanted to go to school and have lunch with friends and have fun. I just wanted to be a regular kid,” Luhan sighed into floral patterns.

“There’s . . .” Minseok reached his hand out a little, but he stopped himself. “There’s nothing wrong with being a bit special. Being different.”

“But this—this is nice. I don’t want to go back to my old life, Minseok.”

I don’t want you to, he realized. “Don’t think about it now. Go to sleep.”

Luhan finally closed his eyes. “You’re right.”

There was another boom in the distance, the storm retreating from them. There was silence between them, and Minseok’s eyes scanned Luhan’s smaller, fragile frame. Even now, he could see more strengths than weaknesses in him.

He was much stronger than he looked. Stature meant nothing. Luhan could do things that no one else could; he was amazing. Minseok felt his heart swell, and it was then that he realized he’d been biting his lip. As he let go, he nestled into his own pillow and shut his eyes, following after Luhan into his own dreams.

When he woke, he felt a warm weight against his chest. His hand flew to it, to move it away or to know what it was. Skin. An arm, casually flopped over him. He lifted his head; he could feel little exhales against his shoulder, running up his neck, and when he turned he saw it. Luhan’s sleeping face, his body curled securely around Minseok’s, and he’d grown again.

Luhan fit nicely into his side. He felt almost as though it was okay to think these things, to like the way Luhan’s leg had ended up tossed over his own. The dollhouse pillow was long gone, and they were sharing now. It was good.

He flopped back down again, his own fingers against Luhan’s soft forearm. Just as he was about to close his eyes again, the alarm went off.

--

“If you’re so good at stealing why did my sister notice the stuff you took from her set?”

Luhan chuckled and bit into his sandwich he’d bought at the cafeteria. Minseok had given him both chocopies he’d packed into his bag for lunch, though. That was a plus. “Not my best work.”

A bag dropped into the space next to Luhan, soon replaced by Chanyeol, with Baekhyun on Minseok’s side. They all clicked into place. Baekhyun spent enough time fussing over how Luhan had missed so much by missing even only one day, and Chanyeol wanted to go somewhere after school. Was there ever a day when he didn’t want to? Baekhyun nodding along was only encouraging them.

“Can we just go to the library?” asked Luhan.

Chanyeol paused, arm slung around Luhan’s shoulders. “Sure thing!”

Minseok saw Luhan’s face falter, as he lowered his eyes to his sandwich again and tried to remember to smile.

--

Minseok was the one who went to get coffee, leaving the other three in a quiet, tucked away corner of the library that was surprisingly vacant today. Usually everyone wanted to sit there, by themselves, when there were four or five seats open depending on chairs. Something with lots of sugar for Luhan, and then cookies to go along with it. Something that would make him look less nervous.

When he sat down, he even tried nudging Luhan’s feet under the table, toes of their sneakers knocking together. Luhan barely fought back. He tried to smile, and he tried to bring that smile to his eyes to get Minseok to relax, but really, it only made him worry even more.

They went home the way they usually did, the two of them leaning on each other inside the skeleton of a bus, sometimes nodding off, sometimes chattering about nonsense, but Luhan was less talkative as compared to the usual Luhan. Sometimes that Luhan would never stop, unless he had food in his mouth, or Minseok or Chanyeol had found a way to fascinate him with their own words.

The next day was not much better. Luhan failed to take notes in any class. When Minseok glanced at his notebook all he would see were winding squiggles, aimless pen marks dragged throughout the pages. The day time brought nothing but nerves for Minseok, worried that Luhan would drift away. This distance was closed when they were home, and Luhan would bring a tiny pillow up into Minseok’s bed at night. It was nonexistent when they woke and Luhan was Tall Luhan again, their arms wrapped around each other.

But there was one particular morning where Luhan woke with tears in his eyes.

--

Then there was the next time that Luhan didn’t show up at homeroom.

Minseok kept waiting, eyes fixed on the door, kept away from the desk where Luhan should have been.

He never came.

--

Minseok hurried home, as he had before. The familiar sense in his gut twisted around and made him feel sick. It made his legs heavy, but he ran through the front door of his house like a mirror of the past, except this time his mother called after him, telling him to close the door behind him. “Straighten up your shoes! Don’t just leave them like that!” But her scolding faded behind him as he ascended the steps and sprinted to his room.

The doorknob was cold and cruel in his hand, as if it was telling him what was coming.

The hole in the wall was there, mocking him as he laid on the floor and peered through, no light to help him. He called for Luhan, again and again, and shined his phone light into the space, but there was no one there.

In fact, there was nothing there at all. No bed, chairs and pillows gone, miniature books taken away as well, and the lightbulb that Luhan had borrowed was smashed, bits of glass covering the floors where Luhan’s footprints had been, where his bed had been.

He was gone, and Minseok felt a horrible tightness in his throat.

--

Night came, and he was still alone. The space in the wall was like a vortex; he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the opening, the threshold into a smaller world. But it was a world that he liked. Luhan’s world. Minseok thought that he would have liked to live in it, too, to be that small and tucked away in a corner of the universe that barely anyone was lucky enough to see.

He pulled the music box down from the top of his bookcase, where he had found Luhan all those weeks ago. How long had it been? The music box belonged to his mother once, but she passed it on to him. He played it for his sister sometimes, but mostly it just sat up there and collected dust; sometimes fingerprints pressed into dust and wiped it away, only to collect more later in silence. But Luhan had wanted to see it.

Minseok sat down on the floor, back pressed against the side of his bed, and wound it up until it sang from the beginning, chiming in his ear. The glitter on the edges of the box reminded Minseok of Luhan’s eyes. The sparkle that he possessed in those little windows, Looking down at his hand in the dim, yellow light from his desk lamp on the other side of the room, Minseok remembered the mornings when he’d woken up and Luhan’s fingers had been laced with his.

Nothing about it felt wrong. It was right—so right. He wondered if he’d ever get to feel that again.

A voice, clear through the silence, whispered to him. “Hey. Minseok.”

“Luhan?” when he whipped around, sure enough, there was his friend. His best friend. Four inches of height, standing in his window sill on the second floor of his house. “How did you get up there?”

“I’m a good climber, remember?” he stumbled as he tried to land gracefully on Minseok’s bed from the window frame. It didn’t work out so well, but the messy, unfolded blankets caught him.

Minseok rested his head on the edge of his mattress, setting the music box aside. “You were gone again. And your things, too. Are you moving?”

“I have to.”

“Why?”

“My family found me,” said Luhan, walking across the mattress until he was in front of Minseok’s face, and there he sat down, little hands falling onto Minseok’s finger. “They made me pack all my things. I had to go with them. I didn’t want to.”

Minseok’s eyelids fluttered. He bit his lip and told himself that he couldn’t break. “I know.”

“Close your eyes for a second.”

“What?”

Luhan smiled. “Just do it. Close your eyes. Go on,” he urged, and Minseok listened.

There was a soft noise, like a deep breath but something that didn’t quite sound so normal and human. It sounded like the wind was passing through, and he felt it move around his face; it tickled his eyelashes. Another beat of silence passed, before he felt two hands grip his wrists. “Minseok.”

He opened his eyes again, taking in the sight of a fully grown Luhan once more, seated on the edge of his bed, trying to smile. Minseok leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Luhan’s waist and burying his face into Luhan’s stomach so he could feel it contract when he breathed. Luhan held him just as tight, fingers threading through Minseok’s hair. His thumb brushed against the skin behind his ear, soothing.

“I don’t want to leave you,” Luhan sighed, pulling him up so that he could rest his chin on his shoulder. His hands began rubbing Minseok’s back as if he was trying to memorize this feeling. “This isn’t goodbye. Well it is, just not forever. Okay?”

“Not forever. I think can deal with that.”

“We’re going to have to.”

They broke apart, Luhan’s hand lingering for a moment on Minseok’s cheek. He held back a sigh, and breathed slowly.

“I’ll be back, when I can.”

“Bye.”

He leaned down and kissed Minseok where his hand had been, lips ghosting over his skin, and then he was gone.

Goodbye.

--

University was approaching. The nervousness spread through his system and busied his mind with dorm life, what to bring, emailing his future roommates, spending as much time with friends as possible. Summer had engulfed them in sticky humidity once more, and Chanyeol’s hair was frizzy as usual, so he’d cut it short again and Baekhyun whined and complained about how much he’d liked the perm. Minseok found comfort in their stupid arguments. Falling back into their old routines without a fourth person was a little shaky, but they would manage. They had managed before—they’d been just fine—and so they could do it again, Minseok getting hooked under someone’s arm. Everyone was taller than him, even Baekhyun whose mother called him her little bug. Chanyeol had always teased him for that.

Summer meant summer routines, and since junior high that meant reverting to childhood, buying ice cream and running through sprinklers, and Jongin’s pool party smack dab in the middle. Sparklers came along with nearly everything so long as it was nighttime and there were fireflies in the air. Sometimes Minseok would get lost enough in his own laughter, his arm curled around a close friend, that he would forget his troubles. Luhan was a memory, but he should have been a good one. Minseok didn’t need to hurt because of him.

But the familiar curve of an arm around his waist would sometimes send him spiraling, until he would sit off to the side, soda in his hand as he watched Baekhyun and Chanyeol try to scare each other with sparklers.

University was coming for him, and so he tried to ignore the fact that he would be alone again.

--

“When Chanyeol and I go to college, we’ll live with you!” Baekhyun proclaimed loudly, inside a cafe that was already filled to the brim with noise. Everyone wanted iced Americanos. Not like Chanyeol or Baekhyun needed the caffeine, but they gulped it down anyway, eyes wide and excited. They were full of youth, and Minseok was always reminded of the fact that he was, too, when he was with them.

Thankfully he was with them most of the time, these days.

“You guys might end up going to a completely different school, though,” he told them, with a laugh.

“Nope,” said Chanyeol.

Minseok somehow knew; he knew that they were serious, despite their wide, goofy grins and how Baekhyun would remind him of a puppy when he was excited. They were young, though, and they could change their minds. But they’d all been young for a long time, and they’d always been together. They were the constants in his life. They’d never threatened to fade.

It’d been months since Luhan had vanished, and sometimes he wondered if Luhan had existed at all. Baekhyun and Chanyeol never mentioned him, though sometimes Minseok caught Baekhyun staring into nothing for too long, dark eyes deep and contemplative. He could have been thinking about anything, Luhan included. It was hard to hide the look that came when you missed someone. He knew that look pretty well, from trying to force it from his own face. Smiling helped.

“My house?” Minseok asked, after downing the rest of his coffee, warm as he gulped it down.

“Sure,” his friends agreed. Baekhyun shook the ice in his drink as they stood and headed toward the exit. The three of them were greeted by a gust of warm wind, pushing hair into their eyes as Minseok continued to hold the door open for a group of high school kids, from another school perhaps. He loosened his uniform tie as he let it shut, and nearly bumped into Chanyeol’s back as he started after them. Chanyeol had stopped short, grabbing Baekhyun’s wrist in the process.

“Guys,” he said. “Guys.”

Baekhyun peered over at Minseok, who was busy steadying himself after practically head-butting Chanyeol in the spine. “What?”

“Is that who I think it is?”

“Who?” Minseok pushed his disheveled hair away from his face, and moved around Chanyeol. His mother had always told him not to stand him or he’d never be able to see anything anywhere. Why did my son get my short gene, why why?

“Tell me, hyung,” Chanyeol said, grabbing Minseok with his free hand. “Look, tell me that’s not—”

“Luhan!” the name slipped past his mouth as quickly as his eyes began to sting. He could blame it on the wind, but that would be a terrible lie. The crosswalk lit up, and the three of them took off, running as fast as they could, dropping the remains of iced coffees as their feet pounded against the pavement.

Because there was Luhan, across the street, beaming at them.

//

- thank you for reading!

to where you felt safe [Luhan/Sehun]

emberberry — Mon, 06 Aug 2012 14:45:52 GMT

to where you felt safe
Luhan/Sehun
G; 1,142 words
He is weary from life, but excited. He folds his hands, and waits.

a/n: birthday fic for 13fireflies! Happy Birthday, dear ♥ it's not much but I hope that you like it and that you have a lovely day! (inspiration also taken from this prompt)

you’re the finest thing that i’ve done
the hurricane i’ll never outrun
i could wait around for the dust to still
but i don’t believe that it ever will
(x)

Sehun wraps himself up in Luhan’s green sweater, folded in his thoughts. It smells like ‘fresh linens’ and he comes to associate that smell with the people he loves, like a habit. He can’t help it. Today they are coming home, but they’ll be late and Sehun should be asleep by then. Should being the operative word. This sweater is one of the things Sehun likes to steal that Luhan decidedly left behind, for that very reason. Luhan is the same with Sehun’s hats, but he never wears them, except if he wants to be a little more discreet when he makes convenience store runs with Yixing.

They would always bring back something for Sehun, like a handful of foil-wrapped chocolates, and Luhan always had a habit of coming back to him and folding himself in Sehun’s body. He’d snuggle between his legs and remove a borrowed cap from his head, returning to his owner and coming close enough to kiss.

Eventually, they do.

This is the first night flight he’s taken in a while. He’s surprisingly less tired than he thought he would be, but he can’t say the same for Yixing. His best friend is nodding off, neck pillow keeping him up, trying to make him comfortable but Luhan knows it doesn’t always work. Sometimes a body is too tired to feel anything but pain. Lean your head on my shoulder, he wants to say, but he doubts that would help, and he’s been fast asleep for a while now. It would be cruel to wake him up.

Luhan is shrouded in darkness, and dryness from the excessive cool air from the AC.

He is weary from life, but excited. He folds his hands, and waits.

“Don’t, he’s sleeping—” Kris.

“It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Sehun’s eyes snap open in the dark, but he shuts them again quickly. He had fallen asleep too soon, maybe if he had just waited a bit longer . . . but Joonmyun is asleep too. He should be, at least, since the lights have been switched off and there’s a blanket around his shoulders above the sweater Sehun has encased himself in.

Waiting hurts, but he can hear Luhan’s feet padding against the floor. The thin trail of light that cuts Sehun’s room in half is cut off with a faint click as the door closes. Sinking into Sehun’s mattress, Luhan puts his hand on Sehun’s shoulder. He doesn’t mean to wake him up, not yet, though he is already awake and tense and perhaps Luhan can feel that. When Luhan means to wake someone up, they’ll know.

It’s almost funny considering Sehun has dragged Luhan out of bed by his ankles before.

Luhan’s laugh is almost inaudible, fingers squeezing just a bit. Sehun can feel him leaning down, chest resting comfortably against Sehun’s arm as Luhan kisses his hair. This is almost enough, he thinks, as his body relaxes again, Luhan pulling back the blanket and sliding in next to him. Sehun tries to resist, but he feels himself being lured back into sleep just as Luhan drapes an arm over him, his cheek rubbing against Sehun’s shoulder. He drifts, floating away on a sea of dreams and Luhan is holding him.

Sehun wakes him up, nuzzling and kissing him into awareness. He has this feeling that he’s bringing Luhan out of a dream about his mother, his father maybe, his family. Luhan’s face contorts. He didn’t get to see them, again. But somehow Sehun knows that he’s alright. He’ll push on, like Luhan always does.

It’s almost as though he can tell from Luhan’s heartbeat beneath his chest and his fingers, and from the way Luhan blinks in the morning light that he’s okay. Since the last time they’ve seen each other, Luhan has taken better care of himself. Maybe he’s eaten more, gotten more sunlight, smiled a bit more often and cried less often. Luhan lies and says that he’s growing old, but he’s young inside.

Sehun kisses Luhan’s sleepy eyelids again.

“Good morning,” Luhan buries his face in between the sheets and Sehun’s shoulder, arm tight around his waist.

“Morning,” Sehun muses. He presses his cheek against Luhan’s hair; soft, a bit worn and damaged from constant coloring and cuts, but it’s still thick somehow. He breathes deep. “And yes, it’s very good.”

“Stop sniffing me.”

“Why?”

“What do I even smell like?” Luhan rolls back, but his fingers hook into the neck of Sehun’s sleepshirt. “Enlighten me.” His nose wrinkles.

“Shampoo.”

“You’re stupid.”

“You’re pretty,” Sehun smoothes back some of his puffed up fringe. Luhan is always a fluffy mess after waking up. He feels stupid after he says it, but he’s sort of known all along that Luhan is always right when it comes to him. Embarrassingly so, at times.

Sometimes Sehun thinks Luhan just wants to leave; to go home, where he felt safe once, but he doesn’t know how or where to go anymore. “Beijing,” he tells people, with his white teeth shining. It glimmers with my home has turned to dust in my memories.

“Don’t cry,” Sehun whispers into Luhan’s hair, holding him close, when Luhan finds fabric to clutch to as he cries. Luhan’s face burns hot then, and his tears are heavy against Sehun’s skin. Sehun finds that he’s been waiting for this, the release. It’s times like this that Sehun remembers how important it is to love someone. He wonders if they keep him safe in China, if they love him enough. They would have to. Everyone loves Luhan at least little bit, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

He laughs.

It’s good to see him smiling again, smiling like he means it. Smiling because they’re all together and his fingers are deadlocked around Sehun’s bigger hand. There is loneliness in his hands, the bones that stick out and always remind Sehun of how tired Luhan is.

He’s stronger than he looks and sometimes he squeezes the life out of Sehun’s fingers until his knuckles go white, but he’s still smiling and laughing.

God, it sounds good to Sehun.

And when they have a moment alone together again the smile doesn’t even fall away.

“Are you smiling because you mean it?”

“I’m smiling because we’re all here. I’m here. You’re here. You.”

Sehun leans in to kiss him, bolder than ever. Happiness encourages him to act on what his heart tells him. Luhan has the kind of beauty that makes you want to steal away, snatch him up from the rest of the world and hold him until he’s yours. Sehun takes his head in his hands, but lets Luhan close the distance.

His fingers curl into Sehun’s t-shirt. And Luhan kisses him, slow and shy, as if they’ve never kissed before.

//

~ snagged more inspiration & the title from this song
~ thank you for reading!
~ HAPPY BIRTHDAY JESS :D

Complexities [Luhan/Chen]

emberberry — Thu, 24 May 2012 03:14:08 GMT

Complexities
Luhan/Chen
G; 1,470 words
Six ways in which Luhan is a good hyung.

a/n: for shihan_ai because I sarang her ♥ just a few moments of chenhan/luchen/wtfistheirotpname

1. 막내 (maknae)

He’s not the maknae but they all forget sometimes, even Zitao. He’s second in line. Jongdae whines like a child and pouts as good as any kindergartener would. He’s a professional when it comes to being cute. He and Zitao the Panda have the kpop world charmed. Luhan forgets more than anyone, because beyond his sharp, delicate features that would deem him a heartbreaker, he’s always wanted someone to take care of. Perhaps that was why he’d taken to Sehun so instantly.

They don’t talk about everything on the air, not that they would ever dream of it. Jongdae can’t properly defend himself quick enough; he’s a firecracker in the dorms but he has that sweet face, and he’s not about the make the translator’s lives harder than he has to. So he speaks slowly and the others leave him alone to his own little world unless they need him. He’s only been studying Chinese for six months; he deserves a little bit of a break.

They’re in Korea for now, but they’ll be shipped off in a plane to China sooner or later and Luhan will need someone to take care of again. Jongdae is perhaps the easiest target. He’s a maknae, born at the wrong time.

He’s still a child, and so Luhan will spoil him, like the hyung he’s become.

2. 가요 대전 (gayo daejun)

Luhan comes out of nowhere in white, with hair that’s only been temporarily dyed red (then again, everything is temporary in this business), and shining eyes. Jongdae is fidgeting with his mic and ear piece. It’s almost time. This is his first real stage. He’ll only be on it for about twenty seconds (twenty five? thirty?), maybe longer if he forgets how to walk when it’s time to step down, but he can’t exactly think straight.

The stage presence is part of what had brought him into exo so early. Jongdae hadn’t trained like the rest of them. He is different, he would always be different. He can use this stage presence to his advantage. Use it to mask the vulnerability underneath.

“You look sharp,” says Luhan, reminding Jongdae of his presence.

Jongdae stop fidgeting with his mic and reaches for his tie, silver and smooth, but Luhan gets there first. He feels Luhan’s pretty fingers at his throat, straightening and then patting. Comfort in a few swift movements.

Luhan is up before Jongdae, performing with their sunbaes from Super Junior and SHINee (even though Luhan falls in the median range when it comes to age), but he doesn’t seem the least bit nervous.

This is the first time they will ever be on a stage like this. It’s a huge show. Jongdae feels like a baby in his parents clothing. But Luhan is holding him by the shoulders and looking into his eyes saying, “You are amazing.”

Jongdae’s words catch in his throat.

3. baby don’t cry

Jongdae is pretty disappointed when he finds out that his favorite song isn’t going to be on their first mini album. He’s been told to inform the public that his favorite song is ‘Machine’ with a laundry list of reasons so that he could name a few of them if he forgets the rest. But his heart rests in all the work he put into ‘Baby Don’t Cry.’

He rejoices in the fact that they’ll be performing it at their showcase. Luhan is the one that reminds him of this, “Don’t cry, baby,” he coos, and the two of them fall back into the easy motions of rehearsing.

Jongdae doesn’t mind when Luhan babies him. He most certainly doesn’t mind when Luhan takes him out for a late dinner, because Luhan will always insist on paying.

4. milk

He finds Jongdae at two in the morning, pouring over stroke order with tired eyes. Luhan turns on an extra light in the kitchen where Jongdae is sitting, on the floor, legs crossed. Odd, Luhan thinks, but the boy’s always been a little different. He probably finds some sort of comfort in kitchens and the familial qualities they possess.

“You should be asleep,” Luhan scolds, albeit playfully.

Jongdae pouts. “This is hard.”

“You’ll get it,” he says, sitting down in front of him. “I should speak to you in Mandarin more often. I spoil you.”

“Not yet,” Jongdae’s brow furrows and his cute little toes curl when he tries to read a line of characters in front of him. Six months, it’s been. Luhan is still amazed at his effort. Luhan reaches out to pat the boy on the head, messing his already tossed-from-sleep black hair.

“I’ll make you coffee, okay?” says Luhan. He stands and searches for the new brand he’d bought just a few hours ago on their way home from practice.

“No, hyung, I shouldn’t . . .” there’s a but written in there.

Luhan will play along. “Why?”

“Because you’ll put milk in it. Milk isn’t good for your voice, you know,” Jongdae says, but the shape of his eyes, round instead of narrowed and smiling tells Luhan that it’s fine to break the rules this once. Plus, their interview isn’t until the morning. He’d be fine.

The caffeine will drive Jongdae through the rest of his notes until he is satisfied. Even if the milk sticks in his throat and Luhan feels guilty for it, but there is more than a good chance that Jongdae will be fine by the time an MC asks him to sing. Luhan can’t remember what interview they’re doing tomorrow. The managers will remind him in the morning.

“I’ll go light on the milk,” he suggests.

Jongdae’s looks up from his messy Chinese characters. “. . . But then it’d be too bitter.”

Smiling, Luhan rummages through their cupboard for the mug he knows is Jongdae’s favorite. “What about hot chocolate instead? Better than getting jittery from the coffee. It’s too late for that.”

When he turns around to see the look on Jongdae’s alarmingly youthful face, he knows the answer would always be yes.

5. stickers

Luhan’s Korean is better than any of the other Chinese members, even Kris; Kris, who’s pretty much an expert at any language you hand him. Sometimes Sehun tells people that Luhan’s Korean is even better than his, but he’s just being a suck-up. Luhan is lenient when it comes to buying things for his “dongsaengs.”

Jongdae is no exception. Luhan uses the little bits of change he has in his wallet and buys Jongdae stickers and bookmarks and pens to help make his Chinese notes more colorful. Jongdae has attention span problems sometimes, so sometimes Luhan breaks into his notebooks and plants new stickers and notes for him to look at, to keep his interest alive.

Hearing newly memorized Mandarin tickles Luhan’s ears and feeling Jongdae hug him from behind, he knows he’s done well.

6. 집

The sadness is all too familiar. He feels it down to his bones.

Luhan has fashioned it into an art, holding someone while they cried. He thinks for a second that this isn’t fair; he’d had no one to hold him in Korea, no one to brush off tears with their thumb or kiss his forehead. This isn’t right, and he should hate Jongdae for being such a child when Luhan is the one who should be crying. He’s been away from home far longer than Jongdae has ever been as of yet.

The truth is that these are things that should have bothered Luhan to the ends of the earth and back. What gave Jongdae the right to miss his family and country when they hadn’t even been gone for that long? These are things that should have distanced Luhan from Jongdae more than anything. More than that voice—the voice that everyone in this whole group envies.

Luhan lies next to him and just holds him, hands against Jongdae’s warm back that feels too frail from being worked into exhaustion. Here lies another reason. He’s been wound too tight from day one; promised fame and success with that voice and his bone structure, but in such a short time frame, anyone could feel close to exploding.

Luhan presses his hands against Jongdae’s tired skin, through his t-shirt, and lets his neck be dampened with tears.

There are a lot of things he wishes he could promise Jongdae. They just aren’t things that he can give him, necessarily. Luhan can sing with him or sing to him, and he can promise that they’ll always be together. He can’t promise that everything will be fine, or that he can take Jongdae away from the weariness. But he can pretend, and Jongdae can pretend. Sometimes fantasies of freedom and a little more innocent fat on their bodies can bring as much comfort as a good cry.

//

also wow I wrote canon again; seriously, I am shocked, wanted to tag with "au" but then I realized that this is actually real life (hiding myself because I can't do canon, but I am posting this because this pairing is too cute and Annie likes it so I have to)

National Anthem [Kai-centric]

emberberry — Sun, 20 May 2012 20:06:54 GMT

National Anthem
Kai-centric, implied Luhan/Kai and Chanyeol/Kai
G, 463 words
Amazing how charming he can be when he puts the effort in.

a/n: Idk, I wasn't at Disney with exo because I live all the way on the other side of the country but in a lot of the pictures I saw, Jongin looked kind of bored/tired/lonely. so I wrote this~ kind of angsty but also not? because Chanyeol

Fatigue pulls Jongin’s eyebrows together and keeps his eyes from being fully open, hooded in his silence. He puts his earphones in and tries to drown it all out. He knows in the back of his aching mind that he should do better. They’re in public and now that they’re practically national treasures (well, not really), they need to put on smiles. Some of them do, some of them break. It’s hot and they’re all still sort of running on Korean time.

The passion is what drives him on through the heat of the day and the cameras in his face. The fact that they love him and that’s why they’re doing this reminds him too. He may be in it for the passion of performance and the way it feels after he steps off stages and sets, but the attention will always create a perfect mix. The clichéd cherry on top.

Amazing how charming he can be when he puts the effort in. Clocks in or puts in coins like a bubble gum dispenser. He knows how to be cute. He uses that knowledge to his advantage. They’ll just think he’s always like this, always strange and always dancing around. Kai, EXO-K’s dancer. He’s not the youngest, but he knows how to be adorable. Still a child.

He wants so badly to hold someone’s hand. Luhan is the easiest to attach to, but Luhan is like that with almost everyone, and Luhan has busied himself with Sehun today. They’ve gotten to the point where Jongin can’t tell if it’s fanservice or just the level their friendship is at anymore.

This is supposed to be a happy place, and Jongin does feel happy. Happy to be alive and happy to be famous, but he can’t shake the pain lingering in his mind. It’s too hot and there are too many people. The need for someone to hold onto is only another burden on top of it all.

Everyone is too far away. They know how to have fun. Jongin will only bring them down.

He lingers around Chanyeol, the one whose pheromones are made of happiness and summertime fun. Like beaches and roller coasters and the bubbles that they blow together later.

Chanyeol has always had a good smile. He won’t try to imitate it, but he’ll remember to be happy.

He’ll play with Tao’s hair later. He likes being close to him. He’ll pose for a picture with Luhan after his palm tree updo disappears and maybe he’ll lean a little close. Their heads will touch, and Jongin will drift to this comfort, halfway there pressing his weight into him. He doesn’t. He swallows this feeling down like a large lump in his throat; almost chokes, and smiles for yet another camera.

//

end inspired by this photo of Luhan and Jongin :)

also this is so cute omg. sorry if I'm ruining the mood but I just love seeing those smiles ;; also this was named "national anthem" because I was listening to the song by Lana Del Rey.

hell is gonna be a party [Kai/Krystal]

emberberry — Wed, 16 May 2012 06:11:57 GMT

hell is gonna be a party
Kai/Krystal
PG-13, 627 words
The problem with Krystal was that she was almost too hot to be just friends with.

a/n: this is basically bb kkamjong perving on soojung. I don't know why this happened.

“These strawberries are fucking brilliant,” she said.

And then her tongue darted out to catch some rogue juice. Red. Red against pink lips that shined from both the fruit and her faded lip gloss.

The problem with Krystal was that she was almost too hot to be just friends with. Actually, that was more of the problem of spending time with her when she had things in her mouth. Jongin generally had a problem with her putting things in her mouth (re: food) when he was around.

“Remind me to send my mom a thank you card or something. Even if we do live in the same house.” Krystal picked up another one and opened her mouth yet again. “Why would she even think about asking me to pack my own lunches if she pulls awesome shit like this?”

“Yeah. I know. Right,” he replied; the dutiful friend he was supposed to be.

Krystal wore her skirt at a perfect length, too. Not that he was looking at her skirt right now. It was actually hard to, when she was sitting right next to him. He’d have plenty of chances to ogle her legs when she wasn’t looking. He’d perfected that art from a young age. And he was young now, too.

It was part of his job as a graduating high school student and a full-time teenager to be somewhat perpetually horny, though. Just maybe not for one of his closest friends. Something like this had the potential to get awkward fast. He hated the ‘friend-zoning’ thing and so did Krystal. She said it didn’t exist. Remember, she’d said once to him and Sehun, just because I am a girl and I have a vagina, I do not owe you sex for being nice to me. The mention of ‘vagina’ alone had him and Sehun stifling giggles. Maturity was never one of his strong points, Jongin would admit to that. Neither was chemistry, but he was doing a lot better at that one.

He watched Krystal’s lips temporarily soak in redness again, a lump slowly traveling down his throat. Said lump was about reappear as a tent in his pants if he didn’t get his act together. But this wouldn’t be the first time he’d gotten a boner around Krystal. In the past, he’d been able to blame it on “boys think about sex every three seconds or some shit like that” but she stopped liking that excuse the second time. Which had been the last time. Still, he didn’t think she would like it if she heard it again.

“Can I have some of your water?” she asked. He handed it to her without another word.

Her dress shirt was buttoned almost all the way to the top, except the last button. Sometimes he actively searched for a bra strap. Sometimes he just caught a glimpse of one in passing. The perks of having a female friend to hang out with. He’d only feel guilty if he jerked off thinking about her. He usually didn’t.

If he crossed his eyes and held his breath it would look like she was trying to seduce him. He could daydream himself into a lapdance.

This was bad. And it was only going to get worse. He daydreamed about “accidentally” walking into the girls’ locker room while she was changing. And other things. He pinched the bridge of his nose and pretended to be looking at his phone. Even though he wasn’t.

Krystal tucked some hair behind her ears, but then changed her mind and tied her hair up.

Great, he thought. Her neck was exposed. He hated watching her swallow. He just—

“I’m going to hell,” he mumbled.

“What was that?”

“You’ve got juice. On your, um, face.”

//

yeah I don't know how to come back from that. this isn't even that bad! is it? I think I'm exhausted. I don't even know what time it is.

also, I like this ship, ~~even if I like Sehun/Krys more tbh~~

Skip [Taemin/Kai]

emberberry — Tue, 08 May 2012 05:31:31 GMT

Skip
Taemin/Kai
G, 442 words
There are some things Jongin can't force.

a/n: this idea came to me but then I was stuck for a little, and I couldn't sleep until it was written out in some way. short, though! also, apologies, it's iffy…this idea had a decent amount of potential but I shot it in the foot and it limped trying to run away until I wrote it to death. tiny warning for hinted eating disorder. there is obviously a part of me that will concede to liking this, or else I would not be posting lol.

Jongin hates that Taemin never eats lunch. They “eat” together almost every day, but Taemin just watches. Stares at the sky, finding shapes in clouds to the rhythm of Jongin’s chewing. Opens his notebook to drill Chinese characters so he doesn’t fail his quiz this week. If he brings his computer he surfs YouTube for dance covers and k-pop idols’ practice versions of their latest singles. They watch together, Taemin chin pressed into Jongin’s shoulder like a comfortable, heavy weight. Not that Taemin has a big head. It’s a nice head. Jongin likes Taemin’s head, a lot.

Not that he would ever tell him. He’s pretty sure Taemin already knows he’s a good looking fellow.

Some people think Taemin looks younger, but they’re wrong. Very wrong. Jongin knows he’s the baby here, even if Taemin is shorter (not by very much) and thinner (no comment). Taemin thinks Jongin is cute when his nose scrunches up, and when he touches his thick lips with one finger. Yeah. Real cute.

Today the breeze is too warm but that would never stop them from sitting outside anyway, underneath those thin trees. Made out of sticks like their legs, but not as sore from dancing. The trees, though, are sore from the wind. Tired. The wind always liked Taemin’s hair, but it's a bitch to Jongin.

Jongin’s sisters packed mangoes for him today. Girls like doting on him. He’s got the sweet face and a nose that sisters and aunts like to kiss. He stabs at a piece with his plastic fork and stares at its cube form. It’s then that he wishes he could shove it down Taemin’s throat. There are some things he just can’t force, though. Taemin is fragile, made even more fragile from his self-inflicted erosion. Jongin eats. Chews. Swallows. Stomach churns.

When Taemin’s stomach growls, they both pause. This habit hits him hard on some days. Today is a Thursday and he has an exam tomorrow. Jongin knows because Jongin always knows. They tell eachother everything.

Taemin’s eyes are shadowed from the hood he’s pulled over his head. Jongin stares for a full minute at the shadows and how they and the patterns from the leaves over their heads dance around. Dancing. They both love dancing. Gently, so as not to upset him, Jongin tugs on the hood with his pinky finger. It doesn’t fall, but Taemin’s eyes meet his own. They don’t break their stare until Taemin’s buried his face into Jongin’s neck. He’ll hold him this way now; he’ll let Taemin’s arms snake around him. Warm limbs, warm friend. It’s Taemin that he cares about. It’s always been Taemin.

a perfect day for thunder [Luhan/Lay]

emberberry — Wed, 02 May 2012 00:35:00 GMT

a perfect day for thunder
Luhan/Lay
R, 1,543 words
It takes Luhan forever to get out of bed that morning. Every day it gets a little worse.

a/n: wow, I'm not sure what this is. trying to get back into this…

It takes forever to get Luhan out of bed that morning. Every day it just gets a little worse. Luhan is addicted to sleep; addicted to the way he feels wrapped up in his blankets, all warm and trapped and suffocated. He hasn’t let anyone sleep in the same bed as him since he needed his mother’s warmth as a child. He thinks he doesn’t need anyone anymore.

Yixing makes a habit of keeping the blinds closed in the morning. Luhan always shies away from it when he first opens his eyes. He squints even in the dimmest light when it’s still morning. Today, though, it’s the afternoon when Luhan finally opens his eyes. He stares at Yixing in his own bed, blinking until Yixing gets up and goes to him. Yixing is reading, absentmindedly. He tosses the guitar magazine aside and it falls to the floor.

He lets Luhan grab his hand. His fingers are gentle during the day, and soft. At night, Luhan’s touch is vicious and they only fool around in Yixing’s bed if they even do anything at all anymore. Sometimes Yixing thinks Luhan considers sex unclean and wants his bed to remain pure. If it weren’t for these looks in the morning—those fragile hands touching his wrist—Yixing would think that their relationship was almost over. He’d always thought he’d sleep in the same bed with whoever he happened to end up with. Luhan is strange. He’s been an enigma since the beginning.

Collarbones peek out from beneath Luhan’s comforter. After all this time together, Yixing is still amazed by the shape and form of his body despite his angelic face. He wants to touch Luhan now, but sometimes it’s better to let Luhan do the touching first. If Luhan wants it, Luhan will go ahead and take it. A dull ache suddenly reminds him that he hasn’t been inside Luhan for over a week.

Yixing watches Luhan stretch and whimper when his back cracks. The sound he makes sends shivers up Yixing’s spine. Luhan lets go of Yixing’s wrist and it seems like he’s going to sit up, but he stays there, hands digging into the fabric of his blankets, eyes wide open and staring in the opposite direction. Yixing leaves him like this, but tells him, “It’s two.”

He doesn’t expect Luhan to respond. Someday he’ll wake up and Luhan will be lost in sleep forever. Perhaps it won’t be the case, but Yixing can’t help but worry.

He’ll count the hours that he’s awake when Luhan isn’t.

“Coffee,” says Luhan. It’s already been made. Yixing is good about that. “You don’t have class today,” he comments as he narrows his eyes at the calendar placed at his eye level on the fridge.

Yixing hands him his favorite mug. Plain, bright red. “It’s Tuesday. I never have class on Tuesdays.”

“Right,” he laughs. “Sorry. Still asleep, I guess.” There’s a pack of cigarettes on top of the fridge that Luhan reaches for. It’s not out of his way, so he takes it down and shoves it into the large pocket of his hoodie for later. Right now, it’s coffee that he wants the most. Maybe a smoke later, and maybe a good long kiss from Yixing to finish everything off and to remind Yixing that he there is still something there between them. Luhan draws people to him and then they stay for what feels like a lifetime, orbiting around him for too long.

“You have class at six, though,” Yixing reminds him, sitting down at the tiny kitchen table.

“I know.”

“Are you going?”

“I don’t know,” he replies. Childlike. He stands there, in front of Yixing, in a hoodie that is almost too large for him, boxers, and his hair mussed from tossing in his sleep. His real physique is hidden, and so he appears too young, too little and too confused to be an adult.

The sleeves are long, too. Luhan takes a tentative sip from his red mug, and then a bolder one. The heat doesn’t bother him. And when he smiles, Yixing smiles too. “Will you go to class if I walk you there?”

Luhan keeps smiling. “I’ll think about it.” Yixing wants to make Luhan laugh. He’s good at making people laugh, but only when he’s not trying. It’s not going to work now, though. Luhan can only smile and drink his coffee. He won’t eat breakfast, even when Yixing offers him the toast he made for himself.

Yixing knows how badly they need to go grocery shopping, so he takes Luhan out with him today. It’s unlikely that Luhan will go to his one class today. But Luhan also surprises Yixing now and then. He reaches for Yixing’s hand halfway there and doesn’t let go until he needs both hands. On the way back he lags behind and smokes.

Even though the sun is out, there are storm clouds far away. Yixing doesn’t want to make any comparisons. They’re too clichéd by now. He just waits for Luhan at the corner, and thinks about how he won’t wait for the storm. It’ll come when it comes. It’s time to go home.

The thunder comes out of left field. It startles Luhan out of his chair. His palms will be bruised come tomorrow, but Yixing thinks of other things and runs to him. The floor shakes a little with each rumble but the first was the worst. It shakes Luhan to the core, his eyes widening until Yixing peels him off his hands and knees. He needs a little extra strength to do it, no matter how light Luhan is on his own. His body is tense and afraid—uncomfortable because Luhan hates being vulnerable like this. Somewhere in the back of his mind he is cursing himself for being this way.

Yixing knows how unstable Luhan is. He is constantly reminded of it when there is thunder. A day like today will remind him of everything that those on the outside looking in on them would tell him to leave. Yixing has always ignored them.

“Always a baby when there’s loud noises,” Yixing teases, dragging Luhan into their room. He doesn’t expect Luhan to retaliate now. Later, when he’s not afraid of the rumbling that’s shaking him from the inside out.

Yixing sets him down on the edge of his bed and smooths his hair back. By now Luhan’s eyes have calmed. He doesn’t like to be touched this much unless he is afraid, or horny, honestly. Luhan hates the taste of fear, but he seems to like the way Yixing feels and tastes when he is like this. Yixing isn’t caught off guard when Luhan grabs and kisses him.

He pulls down until Yixing is on top of him, pressed together completely, settled between his legs. Yixing can still feel him trembling just a bit, but he steadies Luhan with a hand on his hip, sliding underneath his shirt and maybe Luhan knows how long it’s been. Maybe Luhan has been counting the days, not that Yixing has.

Luhan whimpers something, but their mouths are too close together for Yixing to tell if he’s trying to moan or speak. He feels fingers tugging at his shirt, though, frantic in nature and somewhat neurotic like how Luhan can be from time to time. Luhan allows Yixing to undress him and does the same in return. This is a routine they’re familiar with, no matter how many days or weeks it’s been. Some point during their touching, when Luhan is ready, Yixing wonders if Luhan will regret this tomorrow when he wakes up. Luhan likes sex, it’s true. He likes being fucked, but he’s not one for touching or showing weakness.

Yixing watches his face rid itself of fear and fill with something else. His weakness is showing, between the pleasure and pain he feels from being out of this routine. Luhan looks as if he may cry. He’ll regret this tomorrow, Yixing is almost certain of it. His cries sound pained but Yixing doesn’t stop. After he comes, Luhan closes his eyes and Yixing pretends that he’s just fallen asleep.

The routine ends with Yixing kissing Luhan’s face and crawling off to sleep in his own bed, but he stops at one kiss, and holds him. Luhan’s body is relaxed and warm, and he does not fight him off. Yixing looks at him one last time before he drifts and can’t keep his eyes open, hands tired from touching.

Open eyes greet him when he wakes. They stare, eyes full of each other. They haven’t done this in so long. “It’s seven,” says Luhan.

Yixing blinks.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

He remembers thunder in the back of his mind, everything slows, he sees Luhan’s face in the dark and then he sees the real version again in front of him. This face haunts him. The hands he associates with this face are still touching him, not shying away. This is new. He feels every inch of Luhan’s skin that’s in contact with his own and feels the air on his exposed arm. It’s going to be a sunny day. He reminds himself that the face that haunts him may still love him.

//

before I run off to write something else, thank you to my lovely 13fireflies for making me feel motivated again! I promise I will write you something better than this ♥

three percent, part i [krystal/myungsoo/sungyeol]

emberberry — Fri, 27 Apr 2012 20:23:44 GMT

three percent
Krystal/Myungsoo/Sungyeol
PG, 2,084 words
It's important to remember. It helps him through the confusion.

a/n: it's been a while! ah, school, keeping me so busy. but I'll be done with school in about a week, and right now I'm in a end-of-school-year-related bliss I guess? projects are over and all I need to do is study for finals next week. and I've been thinking about writing fic again. this is something I wrote a while ago, back in November, but I'm posting this now so I can persuade myself to post up the next two parts. there are three parts to this. Myungsoo, then the other two. tbh, I have no idea where this ot3 came from?? maybe that advertisement that f(x) and Infinite did together forever ago, haha

i. kim myungsoo

Krystal’s sister is looking down at all of them. And looking down on them. She thinks she’s better than us. Then again, she probably is. The three of them are sprawled on the floor, and Krystal has her legs crossed over Sungyeol’s chest. It’s five minutes from midnight. Myungsoo forgets Krystal’s sister’s name for a minute until he remembers that he used to think she was the most beautiful creature to ever walk the planet when he was in junior high. He wrote a secret poem about her in creative writing but never turned it in (he’d compared her to a mermaid), but Krystal found it and burned it in the backyard on New Year’s Eve. Myungsoo hadn’t had a clue where it’d gone until Krystal had pulled it out. The weird thing is, though, that Krystal never said anything. Just burned it.

“I really, really want milk right now,” Krystal muses, rubbing Myungsoo’s hand. He hadn’t realized she’d been holding his wrist until she started moving.

Jessica barks something at her in English that neither he nor Sungyeol really get, but she sounds angry.

“No!” Krystal shouts back, sitting up. Sungyeol coughs loudly underneath the shift in weight against his chest. She sighs angrily and moves her legs, standing up. “Let’s go.” She’s talking to Myungsoo and Sungyeol, who’s rubbing his chest, pouting at her.

“Don’t stay out too late,” says Jessica, resigned.

“We won’t,” Krystal replies.

They’re halfway down the hall when Sungyeol mumbles. “Yeah we will,” sounding just as resigned as Jessica. Myungsoo can’t help but smile and clap him on the back.

There’s a convenience store a few blocks away from Krystal’s house. Technically, it’s Jessica’s house. Technically, it’s also their mother’s house. Jessica couldn’t pay the bills with just her modeling gigs, and Krystal didn’t want to live at home with mom anymore. Myungsoo logs all this information in his head, on a day-to-day basis, reminding himself. He’s known Krystal since she was five. He’s know Sungyeol since he was three. Myungsoo doesn’t remember that meeting very well; he was only two back then. His parents said he wouldn’t talk to anyone usually, but sometimes he’d say nonsense to Sungyeol. Myungsoo always thinks of Sungyeol as someone special. Krystal is special, too.

“How late is too late, exactly?” Sungyeol asks. For some reason, Krystal’s making them get on a bus. It’s not like they have to do what she says. They just end up doing it, anyway.

She’s holding onto one of the bars, even though there are seemingly thousands of open seats and both Myungsoo and Sungyeol are sitting down now. She’s so thin it seems like she’s dangling, barely hanging on. One pothole and she’ll go flying. Myungsoo feels the need to grab onto her, strap her down between him and Sungyeol, save her. That’s what he’s always been doing, really. Saving her from the world; from herself, even.

“Doesn’t matter,” she shrugs, smiling a little.

“Yah, Jessica-noona will eat you alive,” he scolds. Myungsoo laughs.

Krystal rolls her eyes. “Maybe she’ll gain some weight, then.” She’s so loose it seems like she wants to climb the bar she’s holding onto, like a monkey.

“You’re the one who needs to gain weight,” Sungyeol objects. It’s then that Myungsoo realizes he hasn’t spoken in almost an hour. He continues his silence. He’ll wait for one of them to point it out. They probably won’t. Not until later, when he and Sungyeol are walking home at 3am. Myungsoo is going to assume that they aren’t going to get home until then.

He thinks, they’re talking about cannibalism like it’s a diet plan, and almost laughs. But he doesn’t feel like making noise right now. Every time he shifts, or crosses a leg over the other, he does it carefully, silently. Blending into the bus seats. Myungsoo is invisible. Or at least, he would be, were Krystal not glancing at him every five seconds mid-conversation/argument with Sungyeol, and were Sungyeol’s thigh not placed right next to his. He’s warm. The bus’ endoskeleton is cold. November is also cold most of the time, and Myungsoo didn’t wear a very warm jacket today.

He almost opens his mouth then, but he finds he has nothing to say.

The lights in the convenience store are giving him a budding headache. He blinks a few times and focuses on Sungyeol’s back. Itaewon Freedom is quietly playing in the background, accentuated by Sungyeol singing along. He doesn’t know most of the words; he fumbles through them. Krystal laughs a few times, louder than she probably means to. She’s making a beeline for the refrigerators in the back, and they’re both following.

Somewhere between winding through cereal and paper towel aisles, Sungyeol put his arm around Krystal’s shoulder, and her arm found its way to his waist. Myungsoo doesn’t care, he just notices things; notices that they look like a couple. He makes a note and continues on. He has this habit of watching them interact from time to time, observing, not interfering.

Myungsoo stops walking when he realizes that Krystal has knocked over part of a tower of toilet paper. She and Sungyeol are laughing and before an employee can rush over to the scene, Krystal grabs Myungsoo by the hand and drags him along. “Come on,” she says. He does.

“There’s so much milk,” says Krystal, once they’ve gone into the refrigerated zone. She seems out of her element. This place is unlike other convenience stores she’s been to. Myungsoo isn’t even sure she knows how to get back home from here. “I don’t even know which one to get.”

“Fat free,” suggests Sungyeol.

Pouting involuntarily, “You’re the one who’s always telling me to gain weight,” she mumbles. She’s still holding onto Myungsoo’s hand. He likes it when she does this, holding on and then forgetting but subconsciously wanting to stay latched onto him. Reminds him that he’s still important to her.

“Two percent.” New idea, brought to them by Sungyeol.

“Hm . . .”

“Three percent!”

“That doesn’t exist,” she objects.

“Well, how do you know?” Sungyeol argues.

“Because you never see it.”

“Just because you never see it doesn’t mean it can’t exist.”

Myungsoo smiles at this; at his friend for saying it. He feels Krystal’s grip loosen on his hand as she reaches for the two percent with her free one. He doesn’t mean to squeeze hers, it just happens. “What?” she asks.

He only shrugs. Nothing, he means to say, but she gets that from his face. Sometimes just looking at him is all it takes to understand. When she smiles, both boys smile back at her. She’s theirs, maybe even the center of their universe, even though the link between Sungyeol and Krystal was made when Myungsoo introduced them back in the day. She wedged her way, slowly, into both their hearts. She can be eccentric and a brat from time to time, but they still love her.

She breaks contact with his hand and roughs up his hair, pausing to tangle her fingers in it and when she lets go, walking toward the counter, he doesn’t smooth it back down.

Myungsoo follows Sungyeol to the cereal aisle. He picks up some Fruit Loops, glancing over at Myungsoo several times within ten seconds. Five. Myungsoo counts. Six. “You haven’t spoken all night.”

Not true. I just haven’t spoken for an hour and a half, he corrects in his head, but Sungyeol can’t read his mind, not all the time. He just pretends to now and then. They’re close enough.

“And you aren’t speaking now.”

Myungsoo nods.

Sungyeol starts to laugh. “Remember that time when you didn’t speak for almost a year?”

He nods again. How could he forget?

His laughing fades. “Just . . . don’t do it again, okay?”

Myungsoo lets the words fall out of his mouth. “I promise.” He has a smug smile on his face. Sungyeol won’t be able to tell if he’s being seriously just by that face, but the words are sincere. This, they both know. They can’t lie to each other.

Almost 2am. Krystal is sitting down on the bus this time. The three of them are in the back, Sungyeol and Krystal seated side-by-side. Sungyeol is throwing different colored pieces of cereal at Myungsoo, who catches them in his mouth. He hasn’t missed one yet. They keep checking to see if the bus driver notices. He doesn’t.

“I feel nauseous.”

Myungsoo pauses, mouth only half open, and a fruit loop hits him in the nose. He watches Krystal double over, starts feeling himself rise out of his seat.

“You shouldn’t have chugged half that milk and then gotten on a bus,” Sungyeol half-scolds. Seemingly on cue, the bus jerks a little from a pothole, and Myungsoo has to hold onto something before he goes flying. Krystal groans. Sungyeol has a point.

“Okay, okay, I think I’m okay,” she says, hands on her knees, sitting up straight. Her face is twisted a little, until she looks at Myungsoo. “What’s wrong with you?”

“What do you mean what’s wrong with you? You scared him,” Sungyeol elbows her.

Krystal rubs her stomach. “It’s not like I’m dying.” She’s missing the point. Myungsoo drops his expression. There’s no use in his concern unless she cares, and right now it’s clear she doesn’t. He watches her, arms folded around her midsection, leaning her forehead against the window.

Sungyeol leans over the aisle and picks the stray fruit loop from Myungsoo’s lap. “Got it.”

A silence passes over all of them. It’s thick and oppressive and Myungsoo knows it’s his fault. More than anything, he wants to be invisible again.

By the time they’ve completed their mission as friends to walk her back to her house, they’ve returned to their earlier routine: Sungyeol and Krystal interact, and Myungsoo looks on. But when they say goodnight, Krystal stares, for an unnervingly long amount of time, at Myungsoo. Just stares, then disappears behind the front door. They listen to her lock up, and then walk away.

Myungsoo walks home in a daze with Sungyeol’s arm slung casually around his shoulders. She’s always been strange. Tonight shouldn’t be any different, and it almost isn’t. Friendship shouldn’t be like this, and it shouldn’t feel like this, either. But Krystal does as Krystal has done her whole life. Myungsoo knows. Sungyeol knows. Everyone and their aunt knows.

“You stopped talking again,” says Sungyeol when they reach their apartment building. The words make him sound like he knows more than he actually does. “Thought I’d point that out.” They take the stairs, still attached.

They reach the fifth floor when Myungsoo points out, “Where’d your cereal go?”

Sungyeol takes a step back, searching himself as if he’d be able to hide a box on his person without knowing it. The act itself gets a chuckle out of Myungsoo, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “Bus, probably.”

“Bus driver might be pretty happy about that.”

“Who wouldn’t want free cereal?”

Sungyeol hums in happy agreement. “Remember that time when they gave out free cereal and milk at school for lunch?”

“Yeah.” He feels as though he’s been doing a lot of remembering tonight. It’s important to remember. It helps him through the confusion, leaving notes behind in his brain like clues. Sungyeol has always been your best friend, Krystal can’t make up her mind. Don’t forget. “Good times.”

Sungyeol doesn’t make it to his own bed. He flops down on Myungsoo’s, like he’s forgotten which one is his, but Myungsoo could care less. When they were kids, they shared beds and futons and sleeping bags all the time. Today is another day of sharing things with Sungyeol, and he doesn’t bother changing into his pajamas.

There’s no need for a blanket. He has a thin jacket and Sungyeol throwing an arm over his chest in his sleep. Outside, the moon hangs in the sky, shining on the other bed in the room, the empty one. It casts a blue light against his semi-made sheets and blankets. The owner of that bed snores lightly, mumbles something incoherent, and goes back to light, controlled breathing. Myungsoo closes his eyes, head rolling so that his cheek rests against the top of his best friend’s head. He breathes in, he breathes out. He sleeps.

He dreams of Krystal; of a little girl named Soojung hiding behind her big sister’s skirt. They say you can control what you dream about, but that’s—quite frankly—a lie.

Wake Me Up [Sungyeol/L]

emberberry — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 23:26:06 GMT

Wake Me Up
Sungyeol/L, slight Sungyeol/Sungjong
PG-13, 979 words, written for 50ficlets (table 3: prompt #37, missing)
Myungsoo goes missing. He's been replaced by L.

a/n: this is kind of my first Infinite fic :O I've been writing others, but this is the first I've finished. I really have no idea how accurate my portrayal of their personalities is, from the fact that I haven't written them a lot, and I've only watched Sesame Player, some interview clips, and 4 episodes of yamo. this also is a darker fic whereas Infinite are crazy fun boys. uhhh so I apologize for this fic in general >___< and I apologize for saying that I still like it because now I sound arrogant :| also, was prompted by both the table prompt and this prompt generator.

Sungyeol wakes one morning and feels strange. Something’s been taken from him. The first thing he does is check for Daeyeol. His motions are slow, lethargically removing the covers from his body until he can will himself to stand up and walk the extra few feet to his brother’s bed. He’s there, untouched and in a perfect state of deep sleep.

Something is still wrong, but Daeyeol is fine. He checks on his mother. Everything is fine. The house is standing up, everything is put away neatly, and it is six in the morning. But something is wrong.

It’s too early, but he picks up the phone and calls Myungsoo. The dial tone never begins. It never rings. There is only static. Sungyeol can only stand there, alone in the middle of the kitchen. The worst has happened.

When he goes back to his room, his feet react slowly. He finds Daeyeol is sitting in his bed. “You disappeared,” even though it was only for five minutes, tops. “I thought you’d been deleted.”

“No, stupid,” he smiles, “I’m fine.” But he lets Daeyeol sleep in his bed anyway, even though it’s too small for both of them.

Sungjong arrives at one in the afternoon, just like they’d planned. He brings with him a stranger. This stranger has Myungsoo’s face. Sungyeol is the only one who notices, except Sungjong. He’s already lost someone before; he knows the feeling, but his face remains expressionless. A boy that was once full of life now smiled when he had to, never when he wanted to. Some part of Sungyeol thinks Sungjong will never want to be happy again, and now he knows why.

“Ready?” Sungjong asks.

Sungyeol avoids the stranger’s eyes, kisses his mother goodbye, and leaves. Everyone knows something is wrong. No one dares to say what it is, though.

“His name is L now,” Sungjong says.

“L.”

“Yes, I am L,” says the stranger. He’s across the table, parallel to Sungyeol. This is how they used to sit.

Myungsoo. “Nice to meet you.”

“We’ve met before,” says L. He’s using Myungsoo’s voice. It all sounds horrible and Sungyeol wants to run way, far away.

“Right, of course we have,” Sungyeol has to laugh.

L smiles. “You’re my best friend.” Everything about him mocks Myungsoo. Sungjong lets Sungyeol squeeze his hand underneath the table. When he laughs again, he feels like sobbing.

They go to a park a few days later. Sungyeol can’t stand being alone with L. He hates it. He’s not even allowed to cry.

They aren’t allowed to talk about it, but Sungyeol wants to. If he says it, they could hear him. If he texts it, they’ll read it. If he emails it, they’ll find him faster. If he runs, they’ll catch him.

Every time L speaks, he sees a stranger using Myungsoo’s body, using his words and his mind. He hasn’t even touched L. It’s not really the same body, just a replacement. A copy. Fake.

“Do those bodies really bleed the same way we do?”

“Hyung?” Sungjong nudges him before picking up his pace on the swings again. He’s thinking out loud again. This is bad.

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Be careful.”

Sungyeol sighs, digging the toe of his sneaker into the dirt. He looks up again, watching Myungsoo pick up a little girl’s dropped teddybear, brushing off the dirt. For a second, he sees Myungsoo underneath the fake skin and bones. He wonders too many things and pushes off again, swinging as high as he can without falling and breaking himself. “I will,” he finally answers.

But Myungsoo is still missing, and he may never be found.

He tries kissing L, up against the wall in Myungsoo’s house—or is it L’s house now. He reacts the way Myungsoo had once, but Sungyeol had only kissed him that one time before. It feels like a repeat, torturing him. L isn’t warm the way Myungsoo is, or was. L only copies.

Sungyeol doesn’t notice his own tears until he pulls away, keeping L within arm’s length. L tries to move forward, but he shoves him, lightly, and takes a step back.

“You’re not Kim Myungsoo,” he sighs. What it really feels like is a confession, even though he’s known it all along.

There’s silence, and then there’s, “Kim Myungsoo has been deleted.”

“What?”

L’s eyes are empty. His mouth forms the words again. “Kim Myungsoo has been deleted.”

Sungyeol’s fist lands lamely beside L’s head. “I heard—”

“Kim Myungsoo has been deleted.”

“Stop it.”

“Kim Myungsoo has been deleted.”

“Shut up.”

“Kim Myungsoo has been deleted. He has been deleted. I am Kim Myungsoo. I am L.”

“Shut up! Shut up, stop it!” Before he can even think to stop himself, he starts; throwing punches left and right, hitting L square in the jaw, cheek, nose, eyes. It’s Myungsoo’s face, but it isn’t Myungsoo and the thought alone forces inconsolable sobs throughout Sungyeol’s entire body as he shoves L, slamming him into the wall and throwing him against the ground, kicking him in the stomach, smashing his heel against the crook of his neck and his cheekbones until they’re both soaked with a black liquid too dark to be blood but the smell is the same, it feels the same, and Sungyeol starts to scream.

L isn’t real, but the cracks of his bones are, and the dark blood spilling from every gash and dent Sungyeol has made are real. L’s fingers twitch as the synthetic life is pulled away, pooling around Sungyeol’s knees. He’s fallen to the ground, grabbing L by the collar. “You are not real.”

“S…S……”

Sungyeol watches L’s lips form something as the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand. “Stop. Please, just stop.”

“Sss…Sung…yeol.”

Neither of them have much time.

When Daeyeol wakes up in the morning, he feels empty.

50ficlets: CHALLENGE ACCEPTED

emberberry — Mon, 05 Sep 2011 22:01:50 GMT

#01 - Curse	#02 - Blessing	#03 - Sweet	#04 - Sour	#05 - Breakfast
#06 - Beginning	#07 - Small	#08 - Breathe	#09 - Mind	#10 - Tall
#11 - Body	#12 - Partner	#13 - Dinner	#14 - Surface	#15 - Hunt
#16 - Ashes	#17 - Soul	#18 - Run	#19 - Hold	#20 - Share
#21 - Drive	#22 - Night	#23 - Feet	#24 - Fingers	#25 - Poker
#26 - Taste	#27 - Scent	#28 - End	#29 - Stripe	#30 - Clothes
#31 - Leather	#32 - Abandoned	#33 - Hand	#34 - Dream	#35 - Unknown
#36 - Memory	#37 - Missing	#38 - Gift	#39 - Supernatural	#40 - Awe
#41 - Fight	#42 - Take	#43 - Myth	#44 - Lord	#45 - Royalty
#46 - Back	#47 - Forward	#48 - Whimper	#49 - Enemies	#50 - Whisper

50ficlets -- fandom: Infinite, general/any pairing

Running Girl [Luna-centric]

emberberry — Sat, 03 Sep 2011 03:53:09 GMT

Running Girl
Luna-centric, some Luna/Amber, Luna/Krystal, and hinted Luna/Key
PG, 1,733 words
Luna isn't quite sure what she's afraid of.

a/n: I was a pinch-hitter for kpop_olymfics, on team canon, and this is what I wrote :) my prompt was Epik High's Run, which I think most of you are probably familiar with. I've also been writing a ton, but a lot of it is long fic and will probably end up being in more than one part—hopefully this means that I can start contributing to this comm again :D but no promises for a bit; I just got through my first week of college classes and I do have homework . . . it's also a long weekend, hehe.

She's happy.

“You’re disappearing,” Amber says one morning. Luna wonders if she'd seen her checking the scale in the bathroom before she came skipping into the kitchen.

Luna just smiles.

“Just don’t end up like skin-and-bones over there,” she motions—with a mouthful of breakfast—toward the couch where Krystal is lounging, barely moving save for the click of the remote control. “She's got a grudge against food.”

“For what?”

“Existing,” she says.

Krystal, still on the couch, grunts. “You know I can hear everything—”

“—yeah, I know,” Amber remarks, dryly. She reaches for her water and chugs it all down in seconds. Luna can't help but watch her move. Everyone in this house is thinner and taller than her. She suddenly feels tiny, like she's shrinking and she finds herself involuntarily gripping the kitchen table. She's thinner now, but she's still small, short, small, tiny, and disappearing.

She excuses herself without a word, and leaves Amber alone with a mouthful of eggs. It shouldn't be a big deal. All girls have mood swings.

——

Sometimes she wants to run away.

She took up running before their comeback, before Pinocchio. It seemed like a good idea at the time. She took up running, but only runs at night, when no one else is around, and she runs for so long that it seems she can't even stop. If she can't stop, would someone else try to stop her? Would they come looking for her?

Of course they would. They'd have to. Does a company magically lose one of their vocalists overnight via running away? Krystal has mentioned it before, how she could pack her bags and simply leave if she wanted to, but Victoria would give her that look—that look that was so maternal and concerned and angry all in one place and all in one face—and Krystal would go back to pushing around bits of meat with her chopsticks. Rebelliousness becomes her. Luna has never been the type, though.

So Luna always stops. She always stops, and she turns around, and she runs home before anyone else wakes up, or notices she's gone.

——

“You’ve gained weight.”

Luna looks up at Amber again. She wants to ask how she knows, but maybe the whole world can tell.

“It's all over your face.”

“…What?”

“You’re moping, and you’re only drinking tea.”

Luna clutches the cup in her little hands, wanting to shrink away.

“What’s with you?” the older girl asks. “Come on. There’s something else.”

She sighs, shakes her head, and takes another sip. “It’s nothing. I’ll…I’ll work it off again.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I wouldn’t have noticed unless you were defying the act of eating a normal breakfast,” says Amber, taking a bite of toast she’d burned for herself. “Most important meal of the day. And hey! It could be a lot worse.”

“Hm?” at this point, she's humoring Amber. She almost doesn't want to hear it at all.

“You could weigh 500 pounds and need assistance getting out of bed every morning.”

“Kilos, Amber. Kilos.” ‘Pounds’ sounds strange, yet some things just don't convert for this girl. Amber's mind has come overseas rather well since their debut, since the days of broken Korean and mixed English with Krystal. They were all a bit lost back then. Thrown into this new business. Luna was only sixteen then, she thinks. She can't even remember anymore. Maybe she'd only just been born. That's what it'd felt like, at least.

“Well, that'd be even more, wouldn't it?” said the Californian. “I rest my case.”

Luna doesn't feel like eating the rest of her food. She pushes it at Amber.

“You’ve gotten a lot less sunshine-y.”

She flings a bit of rice at Amber's face. A few grains leave a trail from bangs to nose.

“And a bit more belligerent.”

She can't help but smile. A piece of rice drops from the tip of Amber's nose. “I’m as sunshine-y as ever,” she lies, about to throw another chunk of rice, but her hand freezes. Stiff. Tense.

——

She gets an email from her sister. It's one of those things that makes the whole day feel like a holiday. Luna is ready to cry before she even opens it to read. But she needs to stop that. She's seen herself turn into a mess before, even in the most positive of ways. The whole world will think she's a pretty little train wreck when she cries before long.

You look beautiful, she says; her sister. You've lost so much weight. Then again, you were always beautiful. Love you!

People said things about her body, whispering, writing and printing things about her legs and how everyone else looked better in a skirt (Amber not included) than she did. It shouldn't bother her so much, with her voice and all, but it still does.

Victoria taps on the door and elbows her way in slowly, eyes wide open with concern. “I made you some tea…”

“Thanks, umma,” she says, grinning. Too much teeth.

——

It's nearing three in the morning. She's running anyway, it doesn't matter.

She’s searching for something; something smaller yet bigger than herself, spinning in circles. But, she also feels good; safe. And alone.

Am I finding myself, or am I losing track of myself?

A few hours later, after the sun comes up, they dye her hair red.

——

Key is poking her new hair. He's acting like she just slipped a wig on, tugging locks upwards—somewhat gently—inspecting. Waiting for her former blonde-ish look to pop out of nowhere.

When f(x) was just starting out, Luna had a dream where she was in love with Key, though he always seemed like the wrong person for her to love, but when she'd woken up all those nights ago she almost believed it and wouldn't talk to him for weeks. Now she lets him play with her hair while she touches up her makeup, replacing a gap she'd made in her lipstick from drinking water out of a glass, like it's nothing.

In her mind, she's running back to the days when she was almost afraid of him; of making eye contact with anyone with more experience than her. They could hurt her if they wanted, but only because she willed herself into believing every single one of them had more talent than she did, to keep herself humble.

“No, no,” he says, taking the lipstick away from her. “Wrong shade.”

“Ah, shoot,” she says, sweet and ladylike. He reaches over Krystal and grabs the right one without looking at it more than once. But he's right. Luna's stomach lurches when she takes it from him. Nothing makes sense right now. Her hair is red instead of blonde or black or anything, and she's dressed all in red, and everyone else is red and everything is red and she just may fall over if she doesn't close her eyes.

I don't know where I am anymore, she thinks, and almost says it out loud, but doesn't need to anymore. Key has her by the shoulders, steadying her in her chair again. Her eyes are closed, but she knows it's him. And then with one pat on the head, Key is gone. She opens her eyes. Everything is still red and hot and too full of summer, but she takes a deep breath and swallows the entirety of her feelings, swallowing herself whole into a place where her lipstick is perfect.

I am Luna, and I am okay.

——

She doesn't know what she's so afraid of. There's nothing wrong with her life. They're successful. She's regarded highly for her voice and sometimes her smile and her cuteness if she can pull it off right. She's landed a part in Coyote Ugly and they're wrapping up promotions for Hot Summer. They won awards for Pinocchio. She loves her new hair color. There is nothing to be afraid of.

But one night when Krystal gives her a hug—a normal, friendly hug between two girls—but it gets to Luna. Life is full of too many possibilities. She could wake up in the morning to find that they're disbanding. Their descent would come, maybe before, if it did. No one would love them anymore. They'd be a two-year spot on the Korean Pop industry, left behind by SM Entertainment on their climb to the highest level of popularity.

They have other groups, Luna thinks as she digs her fingers into Krystal's back, almost willing to forget herself, why would they need us, because if she could forget about everything that's happened and all they've achieved, I don't think I would mind losing it.

“Luna?”

“What?” her voice is muffled by the sleeve of Krystal's t-shirt.

“Ow.”

“Oh!” Luna jumps back, flexing her fingers.

Krystal laughs, surprised, but she's smiling and Luna wants to hug her all over again. She laughs, too, so hard that she has to lean on Krystal's shoulder. They can't end. Sulli comes out of the bathroom, sees them laughing nearly hysterically, and walks away without a word. Neither of them know why their laughing so hard anymore, but it feels good.

——

It's raining. Luna sees the drops smack against her window as she hurries to put on her running shorts and a t-shirt. She'll come back wet, she knows, but a little rain isn't going to stop her. She pulls the sneakers she loves most out of the closet. If she were a normal girl, they'd be her go-to shoes every day, perhaps, even if they are starting to fall apart. But she isn't a normal girl. She's an idol, about to go for a run in the pouring rain. She could care less if she comes back soaked to the bone, though.

Everything is going to be alright. Being fragile is a trait and as much of a curse as it is a blessing. The worst is over.

She's happy.

mechanisms [Alex/Sean]

emberberry — Sat, 16 Jul 2011 14:41:15 GMT

mechanisms
Alex/Sean (X-Men: First Class)
PG-13ish, 1,315 words
The boy who hardly smiled in the first place smiled even less now.

a/n: so I haven't posted anything around here in a long time O__O hi everyone! I know it's not kpop, but I've got so many fandoms, so…if this isn't your cup of tea, don't drink it :) originally written/posted here at 1stclass_kink .

Everything is ending. Something is supposed to be beginning, too, but it doesn't feel like it. Everything is too empty. The house is too empty.

It's as though no one else lives here anymore. Sean is alone; all alone in the kitchen, in his room, in the halls, outside, in the sun, standing in the ways until he burns up unto nothing. No one would notice, either, would they? It's just so quiet, like there's a thick blanket of snow smothering the ground, swallowing any noise that may grace the earth. This winter would be deadly cold, deadly soft.

The best days are when he catches Alex coming up and out of the bomb shelter like he's finally coming up for air. Those are nice days. It's kind of like seeing the sky when it's been overcast for weeks. Even then, he's never quite sure if Alex feels the same way. The boy who hardly smiled in the first place smiled even less now. Must've been something to do with Erik.

The other good days are when Sean can hole himself up in his room and light up. Weed helps; shrink in a bag. Sean feels bad from time to time, add a little pot, Sean feels better. Not perfect, but better than ground zero. He's getting there. Charles isn't going to catch him, either; the man almost never left his study, the place where he'd stay up late chatting with Erik, never finishing their game of chess. Sean at least guessed that they'd never finished one. He'd been in that room, before, scoping out anything to occupy him via book form on one of the shelves, and there was something about those chess pieces that screamed of a game that would never be completed. Always in motion, always waiting. All of them are waiting now, but for what? Erik isn't coming back, and neither is Raven.

——

"Do you really need that shit to get high?" Alex is in his doorway, sweaty from training, not smiling, hands in his pockets. The usual image of him remains constant, but what is he doing all the way up here? "You know you can fly."

"Very observant of you. And I'm impressed, you know what this is, Summers," Sean says, facing his window again. He blows smoke at the glass before realizing the window is still closed. The darkness of night and his yellowish reflection would have been a dead giveaway were he in the right state of mind.

Suddenly Alex is opening the window for him, saying, "I wasn't born yesterday."

"And here I was, thinking you were. All this time, wasted."

Alex's face barely changed to reflect any sense of confusion. "On what?"

Sean shrugs and takes another drag, this time blowing smoke out the window. Handing his head, he laughs to himself because really, he's not sure, and for some reason he thinks it's hilarious that Alex looks so serious all the time. "Who the hell knows."

"…I'd ask if you're high, but I think we both already knew the answer to that."

"Well done!" he raises his hands, like he's about to clap, but slowly they sink back down.

Alex isn't sitting. Sean thinks he should be by now. Standing would give him a headache right now, were they in opposite roles. "Is this your way of…"

"My way of what?"

"Coping."

"Yeah. It beats the shit out of yours."

Alex doesn't react, but he finally sits, deciding on the edge of the bed. "Charles will kill you, you know."

"I think he's busy," he sends a few puffs toward Alex's face. "He could care less about the rest of us right now. Erik's gone, Raven's gone, Moira's gone. The rest of us are crap at comforting. Hank's growling to himself in his lab, you spend all day depressed and shooting at manikins, and I'm high. Not the best company." Then again, they'd turned into a house full of men, and none of them are particularly fluffy. Hank is more of the furry kind. "Damn, what I wouldn't give for a sandwich right now."

Alex laughs. "If I can get you a sandwich, would you stop with…with that?"

"If I stop with this," Sean starts, eyes on his joint, "would you stop with the," this time he pauses to mimic Alex's face, eyebrows set hard, mouth pressed into a solemn line. It makes the real Alex smile, and Sean didn't know until that moment that a response like that was all he ever wanted. The corner of Sean's mouth upturns just a little, still stuck in its imitation.

"I guess I could." The grin is still there, sort of stuck on his face like a stain.

"Still hurts, though, doesn't it?" Sean says, tossing the joint into the waste bin behind him. He almost misses. Stumbling, he gets up and makes his way over to where Alex is sitting, on the edge of Sean's bed, and then falls face first onto the mattress. Laughing, breathless, about to cry, all at the same time. "Still hurts…" slowly, he sits up again, the smile gone. "It's like when your parents get separated, or divorced. But they didn't want it all along. You know?"

Deep down, Sean's probably been as depressed as Alex felt. He stares down at their feet, wanting to say something. But there's nothing to say, and Alex kind of wants the ground to open up and swallow both of them. Then they could be at peace. Sean flops down again, on his back this time.

Quiet sweeps over them, and Alex does have to admit, it's nice just being with someone. "It's like being abandoned," he says, because the words had only just begun to bubble up and slip from between his lips. And then he lays back, too, looking at Sean sideways. And Sean is peering right back at him, eyes unmoving. There could have been a fire in the next room, and something about the way Sean is looking at him says that he's not planning on looking away any time soon. But he does roll over.

He rolls over so that he can put an arm on the other side of Alex. Everything slows down and their chests make contact, t-shirt against t-shirt, then jeans against jeans, and then Sean kisses him.

"Sorry," he says when he pulls away. His eyes are glossy, and confused, but something about them also says that he means it.

"Don't be."

Maybe a whole minute rolls by, maybe two, but when it happens again, its deeper and longer than the first time. He feels more like a kid than ever. No, they were kids, he'd overheard Erik say, and now they're kids again, but they're touching each other. They're confused, but what they're doing is good. It's right, comforting—just good. Warmth spreads itself all over his body as Sean's lips continue grazing the length of his neck, down his collarbone, and back up again.

They're a little bit reckless, rolling over one too many times and knocking Sean's alarm clock over and almost sending the lamp right next to it crashing down. And Sean is still high, leaving Alex to wonder whether he even knows what's happening. Part of him doesn't really care.

——

The sun is what wakes him. His shirt is half off, and Sean's is completely gone. Alex's belt is undone, but after that, nothing. Mission aborted. The sun is still in his eyes, rays blasting in from the window, exposing both of them. The sleeping body next to him looks almost white; arms spread out and red hair mussed, eyes shut to the world and lips closed, but grinning like an idiot. Feeling vulnerable, Alex turns his head a little more, filling Sean's empty hand with his cheek. And then he closes his eyes to the world, too, joining his silent company. Washed away by the sun, together.

//

also posted on tumblr here.

drink and dance and laugh and lie

chiaroscuro18 — Wed, 25 May 2011 01:10:06 GMT

drink and dance and laugh and lie;
hankyung/heechul.
pg, 1180 words.
which is better, truth that is a lie or the lie that is truth?*

Hankyung comes back to dorm at quarter to three that morning; the damp ends of his hair—half sweat, half dew—crystallised into stiff spikes from the cold. He dumps his keys on the counter, and rubs off one combat boot with the sole of the other.

There’s a low buzzing coming from the other end of the room, and a faint blue light. He trudges inside.

His brain registers something of a face sandwiched between two pillows, eyes bulbous like lit saucers, looking very much alive and kicking but for the downturned lip, and a jagged dribble of saliva running sideways along the jaw. There’s an upended milk carton a few inches to its left and underfoot, the upper half of a plastic spoon stuck to the rug like glue.

He nudges the figure with his toe. It doesn’t move.

“Shit,” says Hankyung. “Why’d you sleep with your eyes open?”

He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over the man, careful to tuck it in at the edges. Just as he’s about to turn off the TV, something sharp grabs him by the legs.

“What is the matter with you?” mumbles Hankyung, turning around to see a newly awakened Kim Heechul, who looks about as happy as sour grapes.

Heechul shrugs. “My bed’s been highjacked.”

Hankyung raises an eyebrow. “Donghae?”

“Worse.” He grabs Hankyung’s hand and runs it along the side of his face. It feels hot and bumpy, like the hardened edges of pizza crust, only far less edible.

“That’s a rash,” begins Hankyung uncertainly.

“It’s bedbugs, idiot. Now shove over, I want to finish this before tomorrow.”

“This is tomorrow.” Hankyung retorts, but he just gets ignored. So he slumps down onto the floor besides Heechul; he figures he’s too awake for sleep now anyway. “What are we watching?”

“Jim Carrey.”

“Huh.” The name means pretty much nothing to him.

After a few moments of companionable silence, Hankyung feels compelled to say, “Her hair colour sure changes a lot,” and then, “Clementine’s a funny name,” and “Isn’t that Frodo?” to which he gains no response other than a few menial grunts and half-hearted shushes.

Forty minutes later, the film’s finished, Heechul’s cheek has somehow fused to the lining of his shirt, and he finds himself left with very few options. So he reaches into the back pocket of his jeans, gingerly slides out his smartphone and taps the screen: 0615.

“Hey,” he coos softly. “Kim.”

He prods Heechul on the forehead with a finger.

“Mmrgh,” says Heechul coherently. “Fuck off.”

He thinks back to the last time he attempted to breach Heechul’s first line of intrusion, which was what, eight or nine months ago? Crazy SME schedule breeds fuzzy memories. But it definitely involved some racy sleep-deprived bitchiness and a string of nasty profanities, in both tongues. He’s a bit of a coward; so maybe it’d be best if he left Heechul to Mother Nature.

He’s just switched on the Russell Hobbs for two cups of medium roast when Heechul walks in, dragging his feet along the linoleum floor because he’s too goddamn lazy to pick them up, his mouth stretched wide in an extravagant yawn.

“What’s cookin’, good lookin’?” He’s seated himself on the stool opposite, eyeing Hankyung expectantly.

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“So make your own.”

Heechul snorts. “Then what would be the point in having you around?”

“Because I’m fun to hang with? Because I’m a caring, compassionate, kind—”

Heechul is grinning at him. “Don’t flatter yourself, Kyungie. I only keep you here for the food. Or I would’ve sold you off to Siwon a long time ago.”

Hankyung makes a mock grimace. “Ryeowook cooks.”

“Yeah, well.” Heechul shrugs, his eyes drifting. “He won’t cook for me.”

“I don’t blame him.”

They lapse into an awkward silence.

Hankyung scours through the fridge. “We’ve got... marmalade. And an onion.”

He takes out the jar and squints at its lid. “Yeah, and its sell-by-date was 2004.” He scoops the remaining gelatinous gloop down the plughole, and chucks the container into the bin. He stares at Heechul, who just stares amusedly back. “Jesus, what did you eat when I was in China?”

“Mostly cardboard,” says Heechul coolly. “Sometimes lettuce.”

Twenty minutes later, they’re sitting out on the veranda of a downtown bistro.

Heechul looks positively alarming with his bright-red felt fedora and retro shades (“Well we’ve gotta lie low”) that is attracting furtive glances from unwanted third parties.

Hankyung stirs his black coffee with a straw. “You’re such a pathological attention seeker.” He mutters stiffly in Mandarin.

“Sorry,” Heechul chirps. “I didn’t catch that.”

“Just drink.”

They stare at the passers-by through the window for a while.

“You know,” Heechul says suddenly, “If it wasn’t for you, I would have left SME four years ago.”

Hankyung looks up, surprised to hear a flicker of sincerity in Heechul’s voice.

“Why?”

“Simple,” Heechul smiles sadly. “I can’t sing. I’m a pretty lousy dancer. I’d rather own my own gag show and make money straight off my face than drag you guys down with my mood swings.”

“Heechul —”

“No, man, don’t give me that mushy co-op crap.” Heechul bites his lip. “I mean, jeez, I’m making a confession here. Just, cut me some slack, would you?”

Hankyung nods, holding his cup steady.

“The crazy shit I do. Kissing other... boys, dressing up—those cyworld entries. Did they ever – ?” He backtracks, shuts his eyes for a moment. “It’s just so easy, isn’t it? So easy to cover. Fucking SM-patented bromance.”

Hankyung is silent.

“I just. I want to know if we’re on the same page.” He’s playing with his straw, twisting it around his fingers like a pencil. “I mean, I know you. I’ve known you for, what, six years? But I don’t know you, you know?”

“Yeah,” Hankyung says softly. He would have added an extraneous I know under normal circumstances, but somehow, he feels it wouldn’t be too appropriate right now.

Heechul is staring at him intently. “I guess – I don’t want to spell it out or anything, but,” he glances away, then glances back quickly. “Shit, why is this so fucking hard?”

Hankyung clears his throat. “Would you, um.” He gestures at the fedora and shades. Heechul returns a shaky laugh, and slowly removes his adornments.

Hankyung wants to say something like, you’re so stupid, of course I feel the same way. Or, god you’re so fucking beautiful, I could eat you. Or, a million other things that could be closer to the truth than the words that tumble out of his mouth like spilled sewage.

“Heechul,” he breathes, his voice barely audible, “I – I like you. As a friend. Nothing more.”

And he wanted so badly for him to see through the lie, diaphanous like filter paper. He wanted him to say, you’re such a shitty liar, Hankyung, now tell me the truth. He wanted him to kick, scream, shout, punch him in the face if need be.

But he doesn’t.

He just sits there, like a limp fish. Always smiling.

A/N: so yeah, i still love hanchul. but, it's somehow, idk, more dilute now? acceptance, maybe. closure, definitely. it's just less painful? to write.

and, on a new (old?) note, I AM SO SO THANKFUL FOR ALL YOUR LOVELY COMMENTS ON THE QMI, and i wholeheartedly apologise for not replying to them sooner. it's just, (vip) exams are nigh. and i find it hard to reply to such nice comments, i'd rather leave them neat and pretty and packaged :|||| but i will definitely get back <3<3

*from THE JUDGES: A NOVEL, ELIE WIESEL

[2/2] pretty little time bomb

chiaroscuro18 — Mon, 25 Apr 2011 01:54:42 GMT

pretty little time bomb; part 2 of 2.
kyuhyun/zhou mi, friendship!kyuhyun/ryeowook.
pg, 4023 words.
kyuhyun finds love in strange places.

part i | part ii

Ryeowook has always been a firm subscriber to the philosophy: food heals all ills.

Which is why, when Kyuhyun turns up half-dressed and punch drunk on their doorstep at two o’clock in the morning, he isn’t fazed. Things like this happen, he concedes, and practicality is always the best way forward.

He hauls Kyuhyun’s arm over one shoulder and shuffles him through their front door, careful to keep his head from lolling against any sharp edges. In the dim lamplight, Kyuhyun’s face is a disturbing shade of grey, blotched in places with a rare crimson flush. There’s a trace of a fever developing just beneath the hairline, yet his arms feel deathly cold to the touch. Ryeowook lays him flat on the sofa, and gently peels the crusted shirt away from his chest—it smells faintly of spirits and salt.

“What have you done to yourself, Kyu?” he mutters dimly as he smoothes a damp towel across Kyuhyun’s forehead, tenderly stowing a few stray hairs from his face. He stays there for a moment, closing the inches between them, and letting his eyes wander over his roommate’s limp form, the steady rise and fall of his chest, hardly daring to imagine what his life may have become if he had ever the courage to confess his true feelings.

Just before he leaves the room, he decants two sachets of potpourri into a perfume bowl, and presses play to Stravinsky on his Yamaha music player, one of the more pragmatic gifts from a photographer boyfriend who had lately discovered Ryeowook’s taste for opera. The strings, harps, crests and troughs of castrato voices, were more for him, for his nerves, than for Kyuhyun. Because sentimentality in song can sometimes heal the sentimental at heart.

Back in the kitchenette, Ryeowook finds salvation.

Among his population of copper kettles and tin saucepans and terracotta stockpots, his little kingdom, he plots his next move: hot water bottle, ginseng tea, Berocca. The three lines of attack.

By the time he’s finished boiling water, Kyuhyun steps in, wearing one left slipper and half a dressing robe.

“What time is it?” Kyuhyun asks, his voice slurred.

“Three thirty.”

“Jesus.” Kyuhyun slumps into the nearest stool, and eyes Ryeowook warily. “You couldn’t stay away for ten hours?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re not the fucking kitchen god, Ryeowook. Why can’t you just get a life?”

There is a stiff silence.

Then, Ryeowook starts to tear through the aluminium wrapping paper of the Berocca tube with trembling fingers. He drops one tablet into a mug of hot water and slowly, daintily, slides it across the table to Kyuhyun.

“Here,” Ryeowook whispers. “Drink this. It might make you feel better.”

Ryeowook doesn’t get angry because he knows there’s no reason to. Words can only hurt him so much. Forgiveness is second nature. And besides, Kyuhyun has always been a bad drunk.

The next morning, Kyuhyun wakes up feeling fantastic.

The fact that he can barely remember anything that happened the day before, if possible, only makes him happier.

“Memory lapses,” he chirps to Ryeowook over a plate of fried eggs ten minutes later. “What are they a sign of?”

“Old age.” Ryeowook is dicing chives on a butcher block. “Dementia. Head trauma. Epilepsy.”

“Alcohol.” Kyuhyun states with an air of finality. “I got smashed last night, didn’t I? I don’t remember a thing.”

Ryeowook sets down his knife, and wipes his hands on a tea towel. “Lucky you.”

Kyuhyun shrugs, and starts to shovel humungous portions of egg down his throat with a sudden vigour. “You – make the – best – eggs —” he burbles between mouthfuls. “Never stop.”

Ryeowook shoots him a wry smile. “I won’t.”

Just at that moment, they are both startled by a shrill beep, followed by ten or more so continuous beeps of the exact same pitch, coming from somewhere in the nether regions of the kitchen.

“What on earth –”

But Kyuhyun stands up, shares one look of bewilderment with Ryeowook, and pounces over to the patch of floor by the fridge where his sad-looking rucksack lies abandoned. The alarm he’d set on his cell a few days back had gone off, and the screen displays only two words: Mi surgery.

Kyuhyun’s eyes grow very round. “Mi... surgery.”

As if struck by a blast of recognition, he grabs his rucksack, flings it over his shoulder, scuttles to the door, pauses, turns round and shoots an apologetic glance at Ryeowook – I remember – before racing outside.

The events of the past few days rush back to him in flashes of deliria as he fumbles with the ignition of his motorbike and struggles to fasten together his helmet. Zhou Mi, the long legged idiot, his teeth, his stupid flashing teeth, his smile, his smile... and then he almost swerves into a lorry.

Cursing under his breath, he haphazardly parks the bike at a random lamppost and musters up all his leg muscles into a sprint, helmet and rucksack in tow, towards the nearest flower shop.

“Life,” he pants to the girl at the counter, who blinks, and stares blankly back at him.

“Sorry?”

“I want something that means life. You know, flower-speak.”

The girl nods slowly, and reaches up for a large folder from the shelf behind the counter. She flicks to the glossary. “Well, it depends on whether you’re looking for a traditional meaning or –”

“Old, new, alien—I don’t care, just, anything.”

“Amaranth, lavender, bamboo, apple, peony –” the girl dictates from the page.

“Thanks,” Kyuhyun mumbles before disappearing into the labyrinth of flowers and returning some ten seconds later with a giant bouquet of pink peonies.

He pays her in 1000 won notes, not bothering to check the full sum in his haste, instead bowing to her from behind his great floret agglomeration and choking out the words – “Keep the change!”

In the main foyer of the hospital, Kyuhyun finds solace behind a marble pillar.

He hugs the peonies to his chest, and attempts to control his erratic breathing: in, out, in, and out. Eyes shut, and count to three. One, two—

“Pity about the sticker kid.” Someone is saying in a thoroughly disheartened tone. Kyuhyun holds his breath. They sound like nurses.

“Who?”

“You know, that Marfan kid, the one with all the stickers.”

“What happened to him?”

“Aortic dissection.”

The other nurse gives a strangled gasp. “In surgery?”

“He had an afternoon slot for his aneurysm, but it happened this morning.”

A whisper. “Did he –”

“Emergency operation.” The other nurse deadpans. “They’re still at it.”

Their voices drift further away, and Kyuhyun slumps into a heap at his pillar, clutching onto the peonies for dear sanity. Emergency operation. This hateful phrase becomes etched onto his brain, proliferations of foreboding and utter futility in the face of disasters wash over him in waves of panic, like the aftershocks of a recent earthquake. Zhou Mi, the man with the smiles and rainbows and sunshine, doesn’t deserve this. Nobody deserves this.

Emergency operation. It reverberates in Kyuhyun’s mind like a bullet, like some form of mantra, rewinding and replaying over and over and over. What does this mean? What’s the prognosis? What are the risks? Will there be complications? Is he in good hands?

Will he live?

Kyuhyun squeezes his eyes shut. The darkness is small comfort, cushions his reality, calms his nerves. As he collects together his thoughts, he is faced with two options: stay and play the waiting game, or go home and drown his sorrows in Ryeowook’s cooking. His inclinations lean nowhere.

So he flips a coin.

Back home, Ryeowook hands him a box of tissues and an onion.

Kyuhyun holds the onion in his hand, and stares up at Ryeowook through red-rimmed eyes.

Ryeowook smiles. “Cry it out.”

And he closes the door behind him, mumbling something about comfort food and lots of sleep.

In the end, Kyuhyun doesn’t need the onion. His limbic system functions perfectly well without catalysis.

Kyuhyun returns to the hospital at half past nine carting two thermos flasks of Ryeowook’s healing soup: red ginseng for warmth, and winter melon congee for the cool down. They swish about in their containers as he traipses along the ward corridors, mentally steadying himself with each tentative step for what, he fears, may be about to come.

He stands outside the double doors of the PACU, attempting to peer casually through the oblong-shaped window slits, so as to arouse little attention, all the while frantically searching for a familiar pair of legs, one particular face.

Just as he thinks he may have hit the jackpot, someone taps him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Kyuhyun whirls around. It’s a blue-uniformed nurse – short, plump and stern faced.

“Who are you looking for?”

Kyuhyun hesitates. “Uh – Zhou... Zhou Mi.”

The nurse sweeps an eye through her list of patients, confirms the name, validates the situation, and the mood suddenly lifts; her former stony face morphs into a surprisingly mellow expression.

“Are you family?” She asks softly.

“N—yes.” She raises an eyebrow at his dithering. “I mean – I’m his brother. Brother.” Kyuhyun repeats for extra effect.

She smiles absently, and leads Kyuhyun by the arm to one corner. Kyuhyun can feel his heart thumping in his throat, and the blood rushing to his head; he clenches both fists.

“Your brother is a very special patient at our hospital,” the nurse begins slowly, her eyes boring into Kyuhyun’s. He releases his grip a little at her words—is—present tense, still here, still present, still alive?

“As you well know, Marfan’s syndrome is rare in the general population, and so the doctors here take particular interest in his medical situation, obviously for his benefit, but also for our own research purposes.” Here, she pauses for breath, and Kyuhyun finds his mind whirling at a rapid rate – research purposes? What right does she have at bargaining for an extra body for science when Zhou Mi, the very person in question, is lying next door, his heart most veritably pumping?

“Ten hours ago, at around ten o’clock this morning, your brother’s aneurysm ruptured of its own accord, and led to a proximal dissection of his aorta.”

Kyuhyun clears his throat. “Explain, please?”

The nurse takes out a leaflet from her pocket and shows him a primitive diagram of human lungs. “The aorta, here, is biggest artery in the body, and it carries blood away from the heart at a very high pressure to the rest of the tissues. It is quite common for Marfan individuals to develop an aortic aneurysm, which is basically a weakness in the muscle wall, where your insides can bulge outwards, and result in a swelling. Unfortunately, in the hours before your brother was due for a surgical repair of his aneurysm, the swelling broke through and turned into what we call a dissection, which is a tear in the inner wall of the aorta.” She folds the leaflet back into her pocket. “He suffered from massive internal bleeding.”

Kyuhyun falls against the wall for support.

The nurse gives him an unconvincing smile. “Happily—”

“What?” Kyuhyun is suddenly alert.

“We caught him at the right time.” Kyuhyun stares. “Without immediate treatment, there would have been a 1 in 4 chance of his death within one day. However, we managed to get him into theatre, and perform emergency surgery.”

Kyuhyun has had enough. He overlooks social convention in his moment of weakness, and cups her hands in his, whispers hoarsely: “Tell me, is Zhou Mi still alive?”

The nurse nods.

Kyuhyun releases her hands and cries out, half out of exasperation and half out of uncontrollable, all-consuming relief.

“The bad news is –”

Kyuhyun spins round, his ears ringing. Bad news?

“He’s in a coma.”

In his isolation chamber, Zhou Mi looks not unlike a masculinised Sleeping Beauty. Or Cinderella, just after her episode with the poison apple. Funny, how people love to read of such pain in stories, and consider it merely a dose of fantasy. It takes only a half dose of pain in reality to puncture someone’s heart.

Kyuhyun sets his thermos flasks aside on the bedside table, no doubt ice-cold now, and leans in towards Zhou Mi’s face, the faint trace of a smile still playing on those pale lips, his eyes shut out from the world.

He extends a cautious finger, halts hesitantly in mid air, before closing down and outlining the contours of Zhou Mi’s nose, so high and regal looking even in sleep, and the protruding bones of both cheeks. His skin sags a little under Kyuhyun’s touch, Newton’s Third Law of Motion: every action must have a reaction.

He presses harder into Zhou Mi’s cheek, creating dimples and crevices where they should not naturally be, willing the supple surface to react, however, whatever.

It stays harmlessly still.

Sighing, he leans back, and pulls Zhou Mi’s coverlet upwards to his neck, tucking it in gently around his shoulders.

“Didn’t you believe me last time?” He whispers. “I told you everything’s going to be okay.”

He fluffs up a pillow with both hands, and rests his head down upon it, leaning at such an angle so he could speak directly into Zhou Mi’s ear.

“I’m not going to give up on you, okay? So don’t you give up on yourself. Because if you do –” here Kyuhyun stifles a dry sob, “you’ll get bad karma. And you’ll be reborn as a snail.”

TWO MONTHS LATER

Kyuhyun comes home from his physics lecture feeling utterly, and unashamedly, dead.

He dumps his helmet and rucksack in one corner and collapses sensationally onto the sofa.

Ryeowook watches him with hidden amusement. “What’s up with you today?” He tries to inject a hint of concern into his voice.

“Cheon Woobin is the greatest fucking asshole alive.”

“What did he do now?” Ryeowook says flatly. These days, conversation with Kyuhyun is circular, and 85% of it revolves around Prof. Cheon Woobin and his many charming antics.

“I was well on my way to disproving another one of his so-called theories on quantum entanglement and non-locality, and he starts launching a fucking personal attack on me!” Kyuhyun hisses. “What the fuck does my upbringing have to do with my perception of the Schroedinger wavefunction?”

Ryeowook pauses, the rhetoric inklings of his question giving way to an awkward silence.

“Uh – nothing?” Ryeowook says, hoping for the best.

“Exactly!” He heaves a deep, lingering sigh, before launching into another solo show of inane mumblings.

Ryeowook leaves him to it.

Ten minutes into their potato-and-leek gratin, there is a phone call.

Ryeowook glances over at Kyuhyun, and takes heed from his grumpy concave figure that he has absolutely no intention of picking up. He rushes over to the receiver.

“Hullo?” Ryeowook says dully. Then – “What?” Kyuhyun looks up from his plate. “I—yes—he’s here—just a minute.”

He hands the receiver to Kyuhyun, mouthing the word hospital at him repeatedly.

Kyuhyun perks up at once. The speaker is a woman.

“This is Cho Kyuhyun,” he says in a small voice.

“Hello, Mister. Cho, the Seoul St. Mary’s Hospital ICU ward would like to inform you of some recent developments, but we cannot divulge any information via the telephone. Could you please confirm your attendance at one of the following dates?”

“Uh—sure.”

“Wednesday 15th, 9am?”

“That’s tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“I... I think I can, yes.”

“Thank you, Mister. Cho, we look forward to seeing you again. Good evening.”

Kyuhyun dangles the receiver precariously in his hand, and absentmindedly walks back to the table where Ryeowook is sitting.

“He can’t be dead,” he whispers dangerously. “He can’t be.”

Ryeowook drops his piece of potato. “What?”

“He can’t be dead.” Kyuhyun says louder this time, as if trying to prove a point. “He can’t be dead!”

Ryeowook gets up from his seat. “Did they – did they tell you he was –”

“No.”

Ryeowook frowns. “Then how can you assume –”

“Because they told me to meet them, godammit! They told me to go to down to ICU tomorrow morning and meet them!”

“Okay, first off, you’ve got to calm down.”

“How can I bloody well calm down when –”

“And maybe lay off the swearing a little.”

Kyuhyun leans his forehead against the doorframe, his breathing shallow.

“You’ve been to see him every other day for the past two months, right?”

Kyuhyun doesn’t answer.

“And every time you go, he doesn’t seem to get any worse, does he?”

Kyuhyun shoots Ryeowook a sideways glance. “He doesn’t get any better either.”

“But he’s still stable, right?”

“...Right.”

“If he’s been stable for two months, Kyuhyun, he wouldn’t suddenly relapse. Trust me.”

Kyuhyun stares at him for a short while. “How can you be so sure?” He asks gruffly.

“I can’t. But keeping a cool head in these sorts of situations is far better than killing yourself, twice.”

Kyuhyun stands quite still for a moment, and then suddenly pulls Ryeowook into a tight hug. “I’m so scared, Wookie.”

“I know,” Ryeowook pats him awkwardly on the head. “I know.”

Early the next morning, Kyuhyun nitpicks through his wardrobe for suitable attire. No black; that’s the colour for funerals. No flashy colours. No frills. No flowers.

He drinks Ryeowook’s morning brew of coffee in two large gulps, and stands at their doorstep, neither in nor out of the house, for two straight minutes in absolute silence. It is his prayer, and tribute, to the heavens. Please let God have mercy, he prays. Please forgive me for being a poor Catholic.

At twenty minutes to nine, Ryeowook massages Kyuhyun’s tense shoulder muscles with his palm, thumps him on the back with a couple of lucky bashes, and gives him a hearty shove out of the door.

“Good luck!” He flashes Kyuhyun a wicked grin, one which he does not return.

Once outside, Kyuhyun fastens his helmet and starts up his motorbike methodically, as if he were following a user manual, well aware of the tinny alarm bells in his brain that alert him of this morning’s possible last goodbyes. He shakes his head wearily, and kicks his engine to a start.

The cold blasts of wind hit his face like the first sprays from a showerhead, and he quickly falls into rhythm with the traffic.

Keep cool, he mutters under his breath, keep cool Cho Kyuhyun.

He arrives at the hospital with five minutes to spare. His head in the clouds, his feet carry him involuntarily along the well-trodden steps to the ICU ward.

The clock overhead reads 9:01. He waits with bated breath.

There is a soft click, and the doors to Zhou Mi’s isolation chamber swing open.

“Mister. Cho?”

Kyuhyun nods, his throat dry.

“Good news.”

As the nurse leads him towards the room, Kyuhyun is seized by a sudden desire to laugh out loud. What in the world possessed him to feel this way for Zhou Mi, the man who was little more than a stranger even three months ago? Perhaps it is merely human nature to fall so quickly, fall so hard, for something that seemed unreachable, beyond the limits of conscious effort. Were memories really meant to grow stronger, was nostalgia meant to proliferate to such extremities that his every waking moment, every movement, became engulfed by a dull panic in the pits of his stomach, terrified that this one person should ever die? The hours, days, weeks that he spent in the isolation chamber—remembering his past, dreaming of his future, venting the frustrations of daily life—wasn’t it all just a one man show? Maybe the spirit he perceived to be Zhou Mi’s, so ceaselessly patient, so easy to talk to, was all just pretence. Maybe he fell in love with a chimera. Maybe he fell in love with himself.

Kyuhyun gives his head a violent shake, desperate to oust away these unhappy thoughts.

He wanders unsteadily to Zhou Mi’s bedside.

“Hello,” he mumbles.

Zhou Mi turns slowly towards Kyuhyun, sees him standing there awkwardly, his head bowed, and stretches his lips into a weak smile. “Thank you,” he breathes.

Kyuhyun looks up. Zhou Mi’s face is a blank canvass, pale to the point of being bleached, like a ghost, a shell of a former man.

“Thank you?” he repeats.

“Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“You knew?” Kyuhyun whispers.

“I heard every word.” Zhou Mi is still smiling, as if he were trying to make up for two months of an expressionless mask. “You told me not to let go.”

“You knew.” Kyuhyun says again, half to himself. “You heard everything?”

“Everything.”

Kyuhyun leans forward, takes Zhou Mi’s hand and enfolds it within his own.

“Thank you for coming back.”

TWO YEARS LATER

“Does this suit make me look fat?” Zhou Mi peers out of the dressing room at an immensely bored looking Kyuhyun, who is perched on a high stool, flicking through last month’s edition of PhysicsWorld.

“No,” he replies automatically.

“Oh shush,” Zhou Mi waves him off playfully. “You know white suits don’t compliment my figure.”

Kyuhyun slams his magazine down on the glass table, and checks his Rolex.

He clicks his tongue. “Seriously, Mimi, if you don’t get your butt out here in the next ten seconds –”

“You’ll come and personally drag me out?”

“No.” Kyuhyun rattles his car keys. “I’ll be leaving without you.”

Zhou Mi narrows his eyes. “Fine. I’ll go naked. I’m sure all the women will be over the moon when they see just how long –”

But his words are abruptly cut short when Kyuhyun swoops over to the dressing room, seizes him by the neck, and kisses him full on the lips. They stay lip-locked for fifteen seconds, before they break apart, both gasping for breath.

Zhou Mi touches his lips gingerly. “Wow,” he breathes. “Wow, Kyuhyun, that was—”

“Fantastic? Sexy? Absurd? The best kiss of your life?”

Zhou Mi bites his bottom lip. “That was horrible. That really hurt. That—”

But Kyuhyun’s lips were on his again, this time, with a much softer, smoother touch. Zhou Mi breaks their kiss prematurely.

He shoots a lopsided smirk at Kyuhyun, who just stares at him, looking utterly bewildered. “Made you do it, made you do it. Made you kiss me again...” he says in a singsong voice.

Kyuhyun slaps him on the bum as a retort.

They turn up at Ryeowook’s debut stage fifty minutes late.

It is the opening night of La Petite Tortue, the restaurant co-owned by Ryeowook and his photographer civil-partner, Kim Yesung (with the special interest in sea turtles and sepia).

Its menu consists of exotic dishes from all seven continents of the world, compiled together within the bounds of a photobook compilation, each dish with its own specially designed photo to send the taste buds buzzing.

Midway through the four-course dinner, Ryeowook, as chef de cuisine, stands on stage to deliver a small vote of thanks.

He reads off a thoroughly tattered piece of paper in a quivering voice. “...my parents, my cooking school, my late cooking instructor, who taught me everything I know today, even in their frustration and repeated exclamations that nothing ever penetrates this thick skull of mine!”

Then, as suddenly as the change of wind, he scrunches the paper into a ball in his hand and begins, albeit tentatively, to ad lib.

“But most of all, I’d like to give my warmest and most heartfelt thanks to my roommate, and unknowing crush of eight years—” Kyuhyun’s face flushes bright pink. “The boy who was my experiment, enduring years of my every whim and passion, from the depths of the tasteless and inedible, to heights of the richest fruitcake, and became a man. Cho Kyuhyun, thank you for existing. Thank you for crossing paths with me. Thank you for being the pot to my pan.”

Later on, as everybody tucks into dessert, and the embarrassment had faded from Kyuhyun’s cheeks a little, he stretches out a hand and gives Zhou Mi a little squeeze.

“Don’t worry,” he says quietly. “You're still my favourite.”

fin

A/N: my own heartfelt thanks to anyone who still remembers this fic! i am truly sorry guys for this long, long wait. i know 'busy' is not excusable - it never is, but i'm not sure if i'd be willing to forfeit this part ii for something i may have churned up a month or two earlier. all in all, here it is. early or late, this is what i have to offer. ♥

edit: many thanks to lark for spotting inconsistencies in my writing, and helping me clean it up. this fic is by no means perfect. it may not even be complete in your eyes. i know that writing (fanfic!) is a steady learning curve, and i'm just grateful that i've made it this far.

Send In the Clowns [Yonghwa/Seohyun]

emberberry — Sat, 23 Apr 2011 02:53:39 GMT

Send In the Clowns
Yonghwa/Seohyun
PG-13, 1,881 words
Showcase, show time, let the show begin, send in the clowns.

A/N: okay that was a poor effort. posting again. sorry to people who might be watching this comm mostly for chiaroscuro18! okay, so this fic came off a fic challenge I made for myself in case I needed prompts/pairings. this doesn't have a real beginning because I knew anything I wrote before the "beginning" would have been mundane and I wouldn't like it. haha I have so much confidence. also, I owe the line about Se7en and Park Hanbyul to 13fireflies in a way because I forgot they were together until she reminded me!

Isn’t it rich?
Are we a pair?
Me here at last on the ground,
you in mid-air.
Send in the clowns,
where are the clowns?

- Send In the Clowns - A Little Night Music (Sondheim)

“Oh, you’re still wearing it.”

“I am,” she pauses to let her smile be on its own for a moment. “I like it.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Why? Oh…”

He wants to grab her hand; tell her that he keeps it in his pocket. If he wears it around everywhere, they’ll peg him with another scandal. He doesn’t want to risk anything. Not with her. There was already the Strong Heart Incident, which they haven’t even talked about yet—not a word. “The necklace, too?”

“Um,” her cheeks turn pink. She brings her hand to her neck and coaxes the chain out of her sweater. So she hides it, he thinks.

“See, I told you I would say whenever I noticed it.”

“You did,” she’s smiling again. “Thank you.”

“Always with the banmal.”

“Ah, I’m sorry!”

He chuckles, touching her shoulder. They haven’t really had much physical contact since their last hug. The half-hug they’d shared at this first meeting didn’t mean much. It’d been empty, like the way he felt after saying goodbye those weeks ago, and he’d unconsciously tried transferring those feelings through himself to her. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He says it once for her, once for himself. “Alright. Let’s go somewhere.”

“We are somewhere.”

“Then let’s go somewhere else, Hyun!”

She grins and lets him lead her down the street, into this temporary future together. Arm-to-arm, she thinks how she never wants the sun to rise again if it would mean she could stay like this, with Jung Yonghwa.

--

“I didn’t realize I was holding onto Seohyun.”

It’d kind of always been too natural to comprehend.

--

Half-way to the restaurant (at least he said they were going to one):

“Can we hold hands again?” she asks through a bout of courage. “One last time?”

He doesn’t answer; gently, he reaches that short distance toward her still fingers, waiting until she slowly raises them to fold into his. “Aish, your hands are cold.”

“Yours are warm,” she says, then sighs, the words bouncing around on her tongue. “I miss this.”

“Skinship!” he shouts. His voice echoes down the street, and she giggles in response. “I miss this, too,” he says, quieter. I miss you. Her hand starts to warm up inside his. Yonghwa thinks about wrapping a scarf around both their necks, about sheltering her from the cold. He wants to put his arm around her until she isn’t shaking anymore, even if she’s only shaking a little bit. The days are warming, but nights are still chilly. Especially without each other. Seohyun is surrounded by friends, unnies, girls at home, but she still seems lonely.

For a second Yonghwa imagines them as a matching set. In a way, they are. He doesn’t know that she’s been making lists; pros and cons. He doesn’t know that she’s been confused ever since they left each other. She doesn’t know that he has been, too.

--

“I had a good time.”

“Me, too.”

--

Seohyun went into We Got Married prepared. She was ready for an attachment to happen (although she watched Taeyeon on the show from time to time, and that was different from what Seohyun would get into, for sure). She was ready for it to feel real, and she was ready to tell herself that it wasn’t. But she was also ready to be herself—she couldn’t help it. Unfortunately, there was something about her being herself that her “husband” would be drawn to. Attachment became inevitable. Simple companionship formed; it was nice. She wouldn’t be ready for what would follow.

Reminding herself that this was TV became a daily ritual. Showcase, show time, time to be in love for screen time and money (but she was never in it for the money), let the show begin, send in the clowns.

--

“She is so innocent and pure that she asked me the difference between liking and loving someone.”

--

“Oppa.”

“Yong.”

“…Yong,” she says, not willing to put up a fight. “Can we even go to a restaurant together?”

She asks this tentatively. Every word is fragile. Seohyun means to be practical, even when being out of her dorm room at three in the morning is already completely impractical to her. Yonghwa knows this.

“That’s a good question,” he pauses. They stop walking. Their hands don’t let up, though; they’re holding tight. No intentions of letting go any time soon. “You’re right. I guess we can’t.” He thinks about it for a while, for too long. They’ve stopped walking. They’re in the middle of a park. Seohyun is looking off towards the pair of swings. She looks back at him, but his mind is still gone, staring off into the distance.

“Oppa…?”

Yonghwa blinks a few times and then says, “Yong,” instinctively, with a smile. He turns them around to tune of her soft laughter.

--

They’ll recognize us. You’ll get in trouble. Your company will kill you—no, they’ll kill me and then punish you. My company will kill me if your company doesn’t or my manager-hyung doesn’t already. You’ll be objectified: C.N.Blue’s Yonghwa’s girlfriend. I’ll be objectified: Girls’ Generation’s Seohyun’s boyfriend. I want to be more than that. In the media and in your life, is that too much to ask for?

What if we can’t be like Se7en and Park Hanbyul? They’re lucky, I hope they know that.

What if we end up like Alex and Shinae? She’s marrying someone else. I couldn’t live with that. I just…couldn’t.

--

That restaurant idea falls through. Yonghwa admits later, while they’re on the swings, that he didn't even have a place in mind. The original idea in his head was the restaurant they visited on their first date, but they were too far away and he wanted to get her back to her dorm before five-thirty. Or six.

For a second, Yonghwa thinks about back at his own dorm. Only Jungshin knows, because Jungshin was on his way to the bathroom when Yonghwa was tying his sneakers. Even in the dark, Yonghwa could see the all-knowing look on his dongsaeng’s face, and there was nothing he could do but whisper to him not to tell management anything. They call Jungshin ‘untouchable’ for a reason.

When he had to wake her up for breakfast during the time they lived together, she’s wake up with a look in her eyes that said she couldn’t believe where she was. At the same time she seemed so content, so married with the idea of being married to him. Not even the cameras could capture that right, so Yonghwa would keep the idea behind her expression to himself.

“I like ‘Mr. Taxi.’ Very catchy. Sexy, I might also add,” he says, breaking the silence.

“Thank you,” she replies, bowing her head a few times. He chuckles because nothing can compare to this, seeing her react this way again. She’s so cute that he feels his chest begin to ache, in a good way, he thinks. “I love ‘Intuition.’ The unnies make fun of me for it. Because I keep humming it around the dorm.”

Scratch that. Nothing can compare to the swell of pride that now starts forming inside his chest.

--

There was a point in my life when I'd go for days without showering, but I could never tell you that. Hell, the guys and I would probably rough it in a van across the country—well, maybe America, our country’s a little small for that journey—if we had the opportunity.

But I think you'd still love me if I told you.

You’re good for me, Joohyun. I just hope I’m good (enough) for you.

--

When she’d walked away the first time, she expected a renewal to occur—like a soft explosion, like fireworks, or a crack of a flame housed in a fireplace. She may have experienced love, and she needed to in order to really become the lady everyone had been calling her. Letting go is part of the process.

When she has to walk away this time, she turns around and stands there, watching his back begin to fade in the dark. Suddenly she feels so alone. The world is closing in on her. Yonghwa is getting away. Yonghwa is leaving. Why is Yonghwa leaving her by herself, alone, in the dark street? She’s grounded, but he’s floating away. It’s then that she tries to listen for his footsteps and hears nothing.

“Oppa!” she shouts. Seohyun: shouting. “Oppa!” the third time she does it, her voice cracks. Peering through the dark, she sees the white glint of his hair against a street lamp. He stopped. He’s standing with his back to her, stuck in time, unsure of which step to take. Which is the smartest? Which is the right one?

“Yong!” he corrects.

“…Yong,” she says, giving in, with her hand pressed to her cheek. Yonghwa looks both ways before crossing the street even this late at night. He runs to her, slow-motion-style, movie star, perfect boyfriend, loving husband, closing the gap they never wanted.

--

Ten years. It can pass like ten days if you aren’t careful. But Seohyun is a careful person, though. Yonghwa has learned how to be. He is careful about remembering birthdays, anniversaries, doctor appointments or dentist appointments, lunches or dinners or meetings he promised to have with his bandmates. Because Jonghyun only takes driving Changhyun to guitar lessons as real excuses (a running joke).

He is careful with Seohyun in so many ways (the butterfly necklace, the engagement ring, due dates, and the birthdays after that), and he is careful with his two boys.

Seohyun makes sure her husband remembers when Minhyuk’s birthday party is, or that Jungshin’s wedding is this weekend, or that he promised to babysit Jonghyun’s daughter on Thursday night. She reminds Yonghwa to be on time for Youngjin’s check-up.

Ten years, when it’s actually been more like eleven years if they count the warm-up round. They do.

“What time is it?” Tiffany yawns, fresh out of bed. Taeyeon and Yuri are making breakfast already.

“Someone wake Seohyun, please,” says Taeyeon over her shoulder.

“I tried already, but she’s practically comatose,” Yuri mumbles, focusing on the stove.

Sooyoung steals a piece of egg from a plate Taeyeon starts to fill. “Maybe we should call a doctor?”

“Whisper in her ear and tell her Yonghwa came over,” Jessica says, swatting Sooyoung’s hand away before she goes for another piece.

Hyoyeon giggles. “That should get her out of bed.”

Tiffany snorts. “Out of bed?”

“Yah,” Taeyeon hands Sunny a plate, eyes on Tiffany. “Seohyun is a good girl.”

“The best,” Sunny adds, absentmindedly.

“I think we should leave her,” Yoona chimes in, a little hesitant, standing in the threshold of their bedroom. All eyes on her, Yoona starts to move into the kitchen, into the chair next to Tiffany. “What? She’s really tired,” she says. “Seohyun—”

The voice that cuts her off is groggy, filled with sleep or the lack of it. The girl’s hair is almost like a bird’s nest on a good day. “Yes?”

“Good morning,” Tiffany smiles behind a cup of orange juice.

“Good morning,” Seohyun replies, dignified as ever.

Well. At least she’s trying.

Little Casanova [Taemin/Luna]

emberberry — Wed, 20 Apr 2011 04:27:39 GMT

Little Casanova
Taemin/Luna, kind of Jonghyun/Key
G, 711 words
The first time they met, he kind of embarrassed himself.

A/N: just something to keep myself writing. I know I said I was posting too much, so I'll try to stop that for a while >_< I used the prompt "Casanova" from a prompt/challenge list I wrote up for f(SHINee) a while ago.

The first time they met, he kind of embarrassed himself.

“Come on, Casanova, put on the charms,” said Jonghyun, patting the maknae on the back. Taemin looked over for some support from someone—anyone—but Key was lost in his magazine, not paying attention to a single thing outside its pages.

Taemin stuttered and turned his head a few degrees to the side, so she was merely in his peripheral. Already, he wasn’t so sure he could go through with this, not to mention she was going to get away if he didn't start walking. Jonghyun gave him a push and a thumbs up when Taemin sought support again—it wasn’t the kind of support he was hoping to attain.

Luna was her stage name. If talked to her, would she tell him her birth one or this new one? Well, he was on his way to talking to her anyway, one step at a time. She was leaning over, to pull a water bottle out of the vending machine. Donned in grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt, she looked like she’d waltzed straight out of dance practice. The last thing Taemin was at that point was a Casanova. He was weak and small, made of bones, skin, and an affinity for dancing like he didn't even have the bones in the first place. They’d picked him because of that, and his face. Maybe someday his voice would bloom and show them that he really was worth more than they thought.

She was about to walk away. The clicks of the cap’s seal brought Taemin back to reality. He was standing right next to the machine, but Luna's back was to him. So he called out, “Uh, hi,” to her. And then she turned, her eyes two surprised, round spheres staring back at him. Taemin didn’t have anything else prepared. Nothing at all.

“Hello,” she said, smiling a little. She bowed, too, water bottle clutched to her chest. Taemin was short, but she was smaller. Delicate, doll-like, even. Or maybe it was the infatuation talking. He could feel Jonghyun’s eyes burning into his back. No doubt Luna could see him. Taemin hadn’t looked back yet but it was more than likely that Jonghyun forgot to hide himself. And Key didn’t really care; he was probably still reading his magazine.

He watched her take a sip from her water. “I’m—I’m Taemin. Lee Taemin.”

“I know,” she said, after a short pause. “The unnies talk about you. I’m Luna.” She was still smiling. Perpetually polite and happy. But Taemin wasn't sure what to say after that. Usually he was alright with talking. The noonas thought he was charming, at least. Usually when there were girls around him, there would usually be a hyung or two making their moves, circling, using him as bait. He wasn’t used to being out of the nest yet, on his own.

The hyungs were too into girls sometimes. They looked like they wanted to prove something every time they went in for a new flirting session. Was Taemin supposed to watch and learn? Because so far, he learned almost nothing. Kids minds were supposed to be like sponges, but Taemin’s mind right now as Luna stared at him with wide, confused brown eyes, was bone dry.

“Sorry…I, um, I have to go now, Taemin-ssi.”

The blood all pooled in his cheeks. Why didn’t he saying anything? “W…” but the word was stuck in his throat, lodged behind a bit of fear and some mucous that’d been building up because of that oncoming cold. “Bye,” he finally said, but she’d already disappeared behind the door she’d emerged from. Taemin sighed. Another time.

“Yah, you idiot!” Jonghyun shouted from down the hall. Taemin pivoted on the ball of his sneaker.

“Hyung, that was your fault!”

As Taemin stomped off to find Onew or maybe even Minho (whoever popped out first), Jonghyun stared after him in shock. “He yelled at me!” he said, mouth gaping, poking Key’s shoulder repeatedly.

Key shrugged his hand away before smacking him in the chest with the magazine. “Not like you didn’t deserve it.”

Jonghyun was still sort of pouting. “He still yelled at me…”

“You’re such a baby,” Key scoffed.

Landslide [Jonghyun/Seohyun]

emberberry — Tue, 19 Apr 2011 16:22:57 GMT

Landslide
Jonghyun-centric, Jonghyun/Seohyun, Yonghwa/Seohyun, temporary (lol) Jonghyun/Yoona
PG, 2,668 words
He is the support, the back-up.

A/N: this was originally going to be MUCH shorter and posted for unniefic's 24-hour challenge. but that didn't work because haha I woke up late on the day it was due with only half the fic done and ten minutes to post it. so I took the rest of the weekend and yesterday to finish writing it…well, and two hours of Tuesday. HOORAY FOR LOSING SLEEP FOR FIC! short story time: this is also very loosely inspired by Haruki Murakami's Norwegian Wood (I love this book T___T) something about Yonghwa/Seohyun/Jonghyun really makes me think of the storyline of that novel and makes me really want to write a Norwegian Wood AU. but! I know very well that a whole, full-scale thing might not happen from me because I'm a loser and I start and stop projects all the time. so if that never happens, have this ~2000 word thing! I've edited for too long. I give up, take it.

She knew that my memories of her would fade. Which is precisely why she begged me never to forget her, to remember that she had existed.

The thought fills me with an almost unbearable sorrow.

Because she never loved me.

- Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami

He walks her home from school; it’s a ritual. Halfway there, he starts to feel nauseous. On the bus, she rubs his back as he puts his head between his legs like everyone always says to. “When we get off at our stop, you could just go home,” she says. “I’ll walk you there.”

“It’s fine—”

“You shouldn’t go alone, though,” she persists. Silence falls, and she nudged him. “Oppa.”

“I feel fine,” he lies, through happy teeth. People are staring. She takes her hand away, leaving small finger imprints in his t-shirt. But when he sits up again, her invisible hand is lost to the back of his seat. “Just a wave, nothing big.”

She laughs, covering her mouth. “Remember when our parents took us on that boat together?”

“Ugh,” he feels another ‘wave’ hit him, “we both got seasick.”

“You were so sad because you had to lie down the rest of the trip,” she sighs, hands against her knees. She brings them up to the hem of her skirt, twisting the fabric.

“Because everyone else got to have fun without me.”

“That's not true.”

He looks at his own hands, then at the backpack sandwiched between his school shoes, then at her shoes. Clean, pristine, pretty. “How? You were playing with Yoona and Yonghwa-hyung, right?”

For a moment, her face is empty, like she had even forgotten that Yonghwa had been there, too. But it wasn’t like her to forget things about him. Jonghyun could still remember when he married her and Yonghwa in his backyard. Those kind of memories would stay there, imprinted in his mind forever, no doubt in Seohyun’s, too. They’ve always been there for each other, dedicated, knowing that when they break through into their big kid lives, they’ll still be together. Jonghyun knew that, and he knew Yonghwa would come back for her sure as he knew Seohyun would leave with him. Wherever he went. And Jonghyun would need to get out of this, this thing, while he’s still alive.

It’s all too dramatic when he really thinks about it, as the bus rolls into its stop and he glances at her. But she’s looking toward the front of the bus. She’s imagining Yonghwa paying the toll where a young, college age kid is dropping a few coins in. They are nothing alike, but Jonghyun can tell from the way her jaw clenches that her mind is imposing Yonghwa's face on that poor guy.

He tightens his hands into fists and closes his eyes. Before he knows it, her soft hand is on top of his wrist. “I really think you should go straight home,” she says, crystal clear, practically robotic. It might be best for her, too, probably, to have some space.

Right now Seo Joohyun is lost somewhere in time, cartwheeling into her own mental destruction. Honestly, Jonghyun doesn’t want to leave her alone.

“I’ll walk you there,” she says, again.

She wouldn’t be alone, at least. He thinks about it. “I’m fine,” he decides, with a smile. “I’ll bring you home. Promise.” He places his other hand over hers. Like a flash of lightning, her fingers disappear, retreating to her own lap. They’d almost never been there, save for the soft tingle that lingers on his skin.

When they’d met, Seohyun had been using Yoona as a shield, from boys. Specifically, from Yonghwa and Jonghyun, the only boys she had to deal with facing. Yoona may have grown past the ‘boys have cooties, yuck’ stage quick, but Seohyun wouldn’t for another few years. Even after she let it go, Yonghwa wouldn’t let her live it down. Yonghwa was always there to make her laugh, quoting their old days together while Yoona would butt in every now and then and they’d giggle on the playground until their parents made them come home for dinner. Jonghyun was on the sidelines, watching, playing with them but he was never that important. He’d be the happy face in the background—the pleasant eyes that would smile for her or him even when they needed it. The support that couldn’t fade. He loved them both.

He really loved her.

He’d tried dating Yoona. In their first year of high school, they’d given it a shot. But it was like winter: long, and by the end of the time span, everyone wanted to get out without frost bite. Life returned to normal. Everything was how it should’ve been. Then Yoona moved away, and they lost their fourth wheel. No one heard from her again. Talking about her was getting painful, so they stopped altogether.

Seohyun was always kind of with Yonghwa in the dating sense, only they never called it that until Yonghwa was dangerously close to stepping onto a university campus. When he went, he went further than they’d expected. Yonghwa took off and landed in Japan. There was a whole body of water between him and Seohyun and Jonghyun and he could see it on her face.

An hour after they bid goodbye at the airport, Seohyun was leaving tear stains on Jonghyun's sweatshirt. And he held her like when they were young again and she'd scraped her knee on the sidewalk with no Yonghwa to kiss it and make it better. He was a back-up and he knew it, even if she would never—ever—put it that way.

She calls him, crying again. Instantly, he knows: something went wrong. He’s fully awake now, sitting up in his bed, waiting for her to compose herself. Trying to coax her into saying something coherent. She's never like this.

But as soon as he can make out the name of the hospital, he’s out of bed, racing down the hall and doesn’t care if his parents or siblings wake up from the sound of his thudding footsteps. He doesn’t care if it's three minutes past midnight. Jonghyun doesn’t care if his shoelaces are completely tied. Seohyun is sobbing. Yonghwa is hurt. Yonghwa is back form Japan, but something went terribly, terribly wrong.

There is a bandage on Seohyun’s head. He’s allowed to see her first, after waiting for them to clear him. He touches her shoulders, eyes plastered to the bandage wrapped around her forehead. When he finally looks down at her face, he can see how hard she’s been crying before he came. Her hands are gripping his sleeves, face somewhat hysterical. There's a nurse trying to hand her a tissue. Jonghyun has never seen her like this.

“What if he dies, oppa?” she asks, shaking.

He feels like a wall—like a dam that’s on the verge of breaking. Jonghyun stands still, face like a mask, holding her by the shoulders as she sits on a hospital bed she doesn’t really need. It’s surprising how okay she is, physically. Jonghyun feels guilty being so relieved when he hasn’t even gotten wind of Yonghwa yet. His sides are cracking with every tremble rushing through Seohyun to him, and every tremble caused by not being able to see his friend. What if Seohyun’s fears come true?

Very slowly, he holds her. He’s afraid of breaking her, and he’s afraid of breaking himself. What would she do if he suddenly shattered? “He’s not going to.”

She nods into his shoulder, snuggling into his neck, where he can feel her damp eyelashes.

Jonghyun is there when Yonghwa opens his eyes, slightly blue around the edges. One of them is purple from his head hitting the passenger’s seat like a defenseless sack of potatoes. Faulty taxi seatbelts. At least he hadn’t gone flying through the windshield like the driver. Yonghwa is in tip-top shape in comparison. Jonghyun suddenly feels like a horrible person, but he stifles it and reaches forward, towards Yonghwa.

“What time is it?” he asks.

Jonghyun scrambles for a clock on the wall before remembering his own watch. "4:36. PM."

He tries to move in his bed, but doesn’t get very far. "What day is it?"

“April 19th. It’s a Tuesday.”

“Where’s Seohyun?”

“She’s sleeping.”

“Where? I need to see her,” Yonghwa grumbles, sitting up this time. “Is she okay? Is she hurt? How does she look? Hey, you’ve lost weight—”

Trying not to smile too wide, Jonghyun shakes his head. “I think you need more pain killers.”

Yonghwa chuckles, throat hoarse from lack of use, even when he wasn’t out for very long. It sounds like he’s been in a coma for years, and that scares Jonghyun out of his mind. “How long have I been…?”

“Overnight,” he answers. “Seohyun is fine. She had a minor head injury.” He says this all with a straight face, through remembering how he felt last night upon seeing the bandage around her forehead, speckles of blood coming through. It takes him a lot of effort not to flinch.

“Did she get to go home?” he asks, somewhat hopeful that she was okay enough to sleep in her own bed.

“No,” he sighs. “They ran some tests on her and now she’s resting. She had a rough morning.”

"I hope you were with her," Yonghwa says. A warning.

“They wouldn't let me. I’m not family, hyung. So I’ve been here,” he smiles a little. Yonghwa ruffles his hair, grinning that goofy grin of his. He can tell that Jonghyun doesn't want to talk. He’s never been particularly good at articulating. That’s what the music is for. But when he knows what he wants, every word is in order, felt and perfect.

“You can at least tell me you’re glad I'm okay.”

“I’m glad you're okay,” he says, akin to a parrot, only he means it. “You are okay, right?”

“If I start seeing spots, you’re the second to know, after the doctor.”

Jonghyun nods.

The next day, Seohyun joins them on the other side of Yonghwa’s bed while Yonghwa looks forlornly at what they’re feeding him here. They can both tell that he wants something much more filling, not to mention natural-looking. He’d prefer his cup of salad to not be graying or his peanut butter and jelly so sad-looking.

“I’d be pretty sad if no one was going to eat me, too,” Jonghyun says, without realizing what just came out of his mouth. Two seconds later, the boys explode into immature giggles, clutching at their sides. Jonghyun is leaning against the corner of the mattress and Yonghwa is practically crying into his pillow. Seohyun doesn’t get it.

Jonghyun finds her alone on a bench, in the courtyard. In a few hours, Yonghwa will most likely be going home. Seohyun got to sleep in her own bed last night, and she came back first thing in the morning. Yet here she is, alone on this bench, eyes distant as other patients hobble or play around her. She is merely a decoration—a lawn ornament—here.

“Hey,” he says, standing beside her. He can see down her v-neck.

She snaps out of her imaginary world or wherever she was, and he sits down next to her. “Hi.”

“Why aren't you inside, with hyung?”

“I’m just thinking.”

He nods, squinting in the white light of this cloudy day, and leans a little closer to her with his arm against the back of the bench. He’s always respected the privacy of her mind, no matter how much he’s longed to know what she’s thinking. Or longed to have her think of him. Maybe, for once, he could be the subject of her thoughts. But even as they’re sitting this close on a bench, two friends, Jonghyun has never felt this far apart from Seohyun.

“Do I seem happy?” she asks.

He turns. “Right now? Not really.”

“I don’t?”

“This morning you did.”

“Good. I was actually sad. Upset, even.”

“Oh,” he says, lost, “I would’ve never guessed.”

“Well, I was,” she nods, looking down at her shoes and the dirt beneath them. “Oppa, promise you’ll always remember me. Please?” She kicks a stone around for a while, and Jonghyun watches the sun come out and get caught in stray wisps of Seohyun’s hair.

“O-Of course,” he pauses. “Whatever you want.” He doesn’t ask why, though, and she smiles at him like a thank you.

This is the last image he’ll ever have of her: beauty caught between the dirt of the day and something she might never be able to reach. Her whole body begs to be remembered. He’ll pocket this one memory in a place where he’ll never lose it, even after everything else fades. And he’ll miss her, frozen with the sun in her hair, so bad that his lungs will ache.

It’s five in the morning, and he gets a text from Yonghwa. Jonghyun rolls over to read it.

She’s gone.

Somehow, Jonghyun almost expects it. Instead of the overwhelming pang of loss that could force him into at least a single choking sob, he thinks, so it finally happened.

He makes the trip up the neighborhood to Yonghwa’s house, climbing up the pear tree that leads up to his bedroom window. As kids this had been their major feat of rebellion. Now it is nothing more than a natural part of their friendship. Yonghwa is there to unlock the window, wide awake. His right eye is less purple around the edges and it looks like he’s been eating properly, after only a few hours. His smile is weary, though, close-lipped.

“Do you remember where Yoona went?” he asks, sitting on the edge of his bed. Jonghyun is leaning against the windowsill.

“No.”

“Neither do I. That’s where Seohyun is going. Don’t ask me how. She's going. I can’t stop her. And neither can you.”

“I’m not the one she was in love with.”

“I know you wanted her, too. I’m sorry you never had a chance.”

“You knew?”

“I’ve always known. It’s always been on your face, plain as day.”

“It doesn’t matter much now. She never loved me,” he says, trying to cast off the past so casually. Yonghwa narrows his eyes. It does matter, his face says to Jonghyun.

“How could you say it that way? It matters. It matters that you’ve never said a word of this to me, ever. It matters that you’ve been unhappy for all these years. It matters that she’s gone now, and neither of us can do anything about it. Everything matters, Jonghyun,” Yonghwa says, voice cracking by the end. His shoulders slump from his own weariness, from unloading this laundry list of problems. “She’s gone. You’re right. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

Just then, it really hit him. Jonghyun felt himself lurch. Turbulence. A big wave rolling underneath his own, feeble little boat. She was gone and he was filled to the brim with some sort of emptiness that made itself aware with a dry sob. So he let himself be ugly with that first sob, covering his eyes, unaware of himself anymore and unaware of Yonghwa watching him. Seohyun was gone and she would never know that he loved her—maybe even deeper than Yonghwa had loved her, because of the distance that swelled up between them even when they sat so close and she held his hand when he seemed upset or rubbed his back when he felt ill or leaned her head against his shoulder during the long train ride to meet Jungshin and Minhyuk at an amusement park. The days when Yonghwa wasn't around. But it isn’t his fault. Seohyun never responded; never leaned in to kiss Jonghyun even when he got close enough.

Yonghwa is waving a hand in front of his friend’s face. This time, Jonghyun is lost in time, sitting in hatred of himself for letting her go after all this time. Because Seohyun would turn into nothing but a memory. A fleeting moment in his mind, with her hands twisting around in her lap as she swam in her own thoughts, with light playing in her hair. The physical being is gone from his life—from both their lives. Now, they only have each other.

But Jonghyun opens his eyes for real and looks at his best friend. Through the aches they both feel, they can smile back at each other, with a fondness set deep into their eyes that they wouldn’t need a girl for.

//

I've been posting too much .___.

masterlist: emberberry ♣

emberberry — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 23:25:47 GMT

things I've written on this journal so far (might add fics from old journal).

f(x)

flying
Krystal-centric, Minho/Krystal hints, Amber/Krystal hints
Krystal wants to run away; G, 524 words.

Running Girl
Luna-centric, some Luna/Amber, Luna/Krystal, and Luna/Key hinted
Luna isn't quite sure what she's afraid of; PG, 1,733 words.

hell is gonna be a party
Kai/Krystal
Horny teenage boy plus clueless female friend; PG-13, 627 words.

Something There
D.O./Krystal
They are best friends, and nothing more; PG-13, 1,470 words.

SNSD

This Is For Real
Changmin/Yoona
In Yoona’s case, today, forty-eight hours before Valentine’s Day, she undergoes a lot of internal monologues. Love-related monologues, to be exact; PG, 2,851 words.

Imagination
Yonghwa/Seohyun
And if it wasn't love, it was still something important; G, 246 words.

Landslide
Jonghyun-centric, Jonghyun/Seohyun, Yonghwa/Seohyun
He is the support, the back-up; PG, 2,668 words.

Send In the Clowns
Yonghwa/Seohyun
Showcase, show time, let the show begin, send in the clowns; PG-13, 1,881 words.

TVXQ

C.N.Blue

Landslide
Jonghyun-centric, Jonghyun/Seohyun, Yonghwa/Seohyun
He is the support, the back-up; PG, 2,668 words.

Send In the Clowns
Yonghwa/Seohyun
Showcase, show time, let the show begin, send in the clowns; PG-13, 1,881 words.

SHINee

Little Casanova
Taemin-centric, Taemin/Luna
The first time they met, he kind of embarrassed himself; G, 711 words.

Infinite

Wake Me Up
Sungyeol/L, slight Sungyeol/Sungjong
Myungsoo goes missing. He's been replaced by L; PG-13, 979 words.

EXO

a perfect day for thunder
Luhan/Lay
Every day it gets a little worse; R, 1,543 words.

Skip
Taemin/Kai
There are some things Jongin can't force; G, 442 words.

hell is gonna be a party
Kai/Krystal
Horny teenage boy plus clueless female friend; PG-13, 627 words.

거미: The Spider
Luhan-centric, Luhan pairings
Luhan makes victims, and then makes a victim out of himself; R, 3,320 words.

National Anthem
Kai-centric, implied Luhan/Kai and Chanyeol/Kai
Amazing how charming he can be when he puts the effort in; G, 463 words.

Complexities
Luhan/Chen
Six ways in which Luhan is a good hyung; G, 1,470 words.

Open Me Slowly
Luhan/Sehun, Luhan/Kris
Sehun is Luhan's biggest temptation; R, 7,560 words.
** Warning: character death, some vaguely violent flashbacks

Something There
D.O./Krystal
They are best friends, and nothing more; PG-13, 1,470 words.

Fish Tanks
Kai/Sehun
Jongin is an extension of Sehun; NC-17, 2,382 words.

Trade Mistakes
Luhan/Suho, Luhan/Kris
Let's be honest, something always goes wrong; R, ~11k words.

Match
Luhan/Sehun, Baekhyun/Chanyeol
On being perfect together, basically; PG, 1,088 words.

Hands Away
Tao/Kai
He has always found comfort in Zitao; G, 421 words.

Warm Sun, Warm Friend
Kai/Sehun
Jongin is quietly infatuated and Sehun muses over, well, them; G, 1,265 words.

Shameless (US)

Above Zero
Lip/Karen
She likes a lot of boys, but she likes Lip the most; R, 926 words.

Marvel

mechanisms
Alex/Sean (X-Men: First Class)
The boy who hardly smiled in the first place smiled even less now; PG-13, 1,315 words.

Chaptered

three percent | i | ii | iii
Sungyeol/L/Krystal
If two people you love run off in different directions, which one do you chase? ; PG to PG-13, unfinished.

.

flying [Krystal-centric]

emberberry — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 23:05:25 GMT

flying
Krystal-centric, Krystal/Minho hints, Krystal/Amber hints
G, 524 words
All little girls want to run away from home at some point, she thinks; her excuse.

A/N: I'm supposed to be writing a drama assignment for creative writing, but this was me procrastinating. yay!

flying

All little girls want to run away from home at some point, she thinks; her excuse. Only Krystal isn't really a little girl anymore. In America she's seventeen and in Korea she's eighteen. She's practically an adult. A grown-up. A bigger person in a thinly shaped suit of skin, bones, and emotions.

The jersey she wears on her way out of the house is what keeps her grounded to her youth. Krystal wears the one with the 54 on it. It'd been Minho's number last year. He let her keep it, now that he has a new one with a lower number, now that he wants everyone to remember that she's his. And Minho is the last person Krystal calls before she steps out the door. It's too early in the morning—no later than 4am—and when he answers, he's too tired to form real words. She hangs up before he can remember to say 'hello?' correctly.

As Krystal rolls her suitcase down the road, turning off her phone, toting her boyfriend's soccer jersey, she tears up at the idea of him not remembering to check the ID before he answered. He'll never know it was her. He's probably gone back to sleep already, dreaming of another goal. She might be ready to leave him behind, and he might be ready to focus on that scholarship instead of their life together. They didn't have too much to build off of, anyway. It was only high school.

But he isn't the reason she's left. Krystal kept enough money from her side jobs: modeling gigs, singing at local cafés and cleaning tables after her sets, acting in commercials, but she never thought she'd get much farther entertaining. Everyone else could see it. Krystal could only see this ending with her behind a desk, filing papers and typing up numbers until her fingers could only follow motions instead of feelings. Her future doesn't matter to her now, though. She has enough money for a ticket to LA, and that is what matters.

She'll land in the States and call Amber. Hopefully she never changed her number.

Krystal crosses her fingers and keeps walking, hypnotized by the rumble of suitcase wheels scraping the sidewalk. When the sun comes up, Jessica might go into her room to wake her from sleep, but Krystal won't be there. She left her bed nice and tidy, corners tucked in like hospital sheets ought to be, pillows fluffed like she'd come back for them at the end of the day, like she'd made a promise to return. In her head, she imagined that Jessica wanted to do something like this when she was younger, but Krystal always remembers her sister being there in the morning. A constant force of nature, to acting jobs and back, traveling like Wonder Woman through traffic. The daughter that stayed when she'd wanted to leave so desperately has blossomed into something almost happy.

Krystal wants something else. Flying might give her the power to change her future. Standing at the corner of her own street and its lonely friend, she hovers underneath a stop sign, and then goes.

Imagination [Yonghwa/Seohyun]

emberberry — Thu, 07 Apr 2011 18:46:58 GMT

Imagination
Yonghwa/Seohyun
G, 246 words
And if it wasn't love, it was still something important.

A/N: the only warning I can think of is that it's a little sad? I haven't watched the last episode. wrote this out somewhat quickly and didn't edit much. it also gives me a strange Wicked 'For Good' feeling, haha.

Imagination

She imagines that this is what she'd feel if she were divorcing a real husband while she was still madly in love; it was all his decision and she went along for the ride, for his sake, to give him the gift of freedom. She thinks that maybe this feeling she feels sink into her heart with some kind of squeezing, tightening motion is the world's way of telling her that what she had with him was love. And if it wasn't love, it was still something important. Seohyun had a connection with another human being that stemmed from her inexperience of companionship, and it'd been fed through the things he said, the guitar he played for her and tried to teach her how to play, the way he helped her learn to accept a man in her life. Sort of like training for the real world, only it backfired. Seohyun imagines that someday she'll be ready to find another man, someone she wasn't supposed to only think of as her on-screen husband, but a real husband with a real ring and a real ceremony. Seohyun imagines that someday she'll grow out of this. That someday all these blissful memories will only be remembered as such, and not as reasons to start crying in the middle of an interview or dance rehearsal. That someday she'll see Jung Yonghwa and not think of what they used to have, but of how he changed her for the better.

Above Zero [Lip/Karen]

emberberry — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 02:43:05 GMT

Above Zero
Lip/Karen, spoilers for season 1 finale and episode 11
R (ish), 926 words
She likes a lot of boys, but she likes Lip the most.

A/N: this is for unactivist , because both of us are in love with Showtime's Shameless (based off a long-running British drama), and also because I love this pair from the show so much, and because she prompted me. pretty sure we both do, haha. so cute together! so I'm pretty sure that Michele is the only person who'll read this, but I figured I'd post it anyway :)

Sometimes, I would give anything to be something more than nothing.

above zero

The city is cold and Karen Jackson sometimes feels like a whore. It's always cold, but she didn't always feel this way. Before she started giving head, she was almost normal. Sure, her mother wouldn't leave the house and her father was (still is) obsessed with Jesus, but she was almost normal anyway.

Karen knows exactly why this happened. She wants to feel good. She wants to rebel, because rebelling is fun and her mother doesn't seem to notice. Or usually Sheila is worried, but doesn't know how to deal with this "phase" her daughter's been plagued with. No matter what, Karen loves her mother; always has. Her mother may not be the best rock to lean against for stability, but Karen would take her over her father any day.

---

She likes a lot of boys, but she likes Lip the most. This isn't supposed to happen, but it has and what can she do about it? She'll step out of a bathroom stall with Darren from her math class but check her phone for a message from Lip.

Somehow, lately, that Gallagher kid's been making her feel like less of a nothing and more of a something. It feels pretty good, and Karen does like it when that happens. Florence + the Machine. The tickets—Lip buys her tickets. He takes her out for her birthday, he makes her feel like more than something to get naked with or the like. Something more than nothing, above zero: no longer freezing.

---

Karen flinches when she remembered the way he tried to hold onto her, clad in only boxers, as she pushed him away with as much strength as she could get to course through her thin arms, as he failed to take back his words. She hurt him so much. It shocks her that those little words she spoke in her attempt to break herself off from him could hurt him so much: he, Lip Gallagher, who would probably reel in any broad he wanted with those brains of his.

She didn't mean any of it, though. Before she said those things: I think we should stop seeing each other—before any of that, she didn't mean to fuck his fuck up of a father.

So she'll default to the excuse again and again until it's the only response she can muster up at all. All dads are assholes. So many times the reason ran through her mind that she forgot how she's been a pretty big asshole, too. Lip only wanted to help. That's all Lip's been wanting in the first place, to help, to assist, to be something of an intellectual knight at first; from the first time he showed up at her doorstep to help her get an A in her lame physics class (which she, thanks to him, did) to when he stumbled somewhat casually into her basement with only good intentions. But for that second—you have been kind of a whore—he was an asshole, too.

---

When Frank comes back smelling like piss, she ignores him. Her mom puts him in the bath and she listens to Shelia's fussing for at least an hour. Every few minutes she thinks she hears something tapping her window, like Lip is waiting below with that cute smile on his face she only might have fallen for. She fucked his father; his dirty, alcoholic, possibly insane father, but Lip seemed to forgive her in a way.

Through the walls, she can hear him mention that my boy took a goddamn leak on me! when he tried to apologize. He doesn't tell Sheila the truth; the truth of what he needed/wanted to apologize to Lip for. Sheila doesn't need to know. She wouldn't want to know, either, and Karen is glad for once that Frank is a liar, even if her mother is now convinced that Lip needs psychiatric attention.

---

So she's screwed everyone over, especially Eddie. She thought it'd been done with Lip's forgiveness, by holding his hand again and leaning against his shoulder on a rooftop, smelling the fibers of his coat, the soap from an earlier shower, and the cigarette caught between his lips. Karen thought then that it'd been enough.

"I'm sorry about your dad," Lip says. Trying. They're on the steps outside her house. Karen is pretty sure Sheila isn't very keen on letting Lip back in for a while.

She stays quiet for a while, tracing the part of his hand she knows is still sore. If it's hurting him, he's not saying anything—and Lip would probably speak up if it is. "Don't be."

"I know you think dads are worthless bastards or something similar, at least. And it's usually true. But I still think it would suck to actually lose one," he adds. He's right.

"You'd be sad if Frank died?"

"Don't act so surprised," he tries to smile. "I hate him, but—one time, we had to fake his death. It was weird."

She cocks her head to the side. "There wasn't any part of you that liked it?"

"I don't know. I guess not."

"Oh," she says, then hums.

"If you, um, want to cry or something—"

"Not yet. I'm not sure, just—just stay here, Lip," Karen asks, pressing her fingers softly into his wrist now. She puts her head against the rounded corner of his shoulder and breathes into the night air, in cold white puffs.

He brings the cigarette back up to his lips again and hisses smoke out through his teeth. "I'm not going anywhere."

♫ [mix] for your world will at last be built

chiaroscuro18 — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 12:08:39 GMT

an infinite; playlist.

(he was like a song i'd heard once in fragments but had been singing in my mind ever since)

all my stars aligned (st. vincent)

i read the signs
i got all my stars aligned
my amulets, my charms
i set all my false alarms

comptine d'un autre été l'après midi (yann tiersen)

(instrumental)

soft rock star (metric)

i tried looking up to you girls
please correct me, but didn't you let the work slide
capitalize on a novelty, cheap pink, spotlight

makka na ito (plastic tree)

goodbye, my love for you is tied to my heart by a deep red thread
it’s broken, magic has broken it, can I walk onwards on my own?

earthquake (little boots)
every little earthquake, every little heartbreak
going unheard
every little landslide, catch it in my hand
i won't say a word

kaleidoscope (kate havnevik)

you cut me out in little stars
and place me in the sky
i lose my sense of time

you belong to me (jason wade)
see the pyramids around the nile
watch the sun rise
from the tropic isle

somewhere over the rainbow/what a wonderful world (israel kamakawiwo'ole)

high above the chimney tops thats where you'll find me oh
somewhere over the rainbow bluebirds fly
and the dream that you dare to, why, oh why can't i

jar of hearts (christina perri)
and who do you think you are
running 'round leaving scars
collecting your jar of hearts

can you hear me? (lee hae ri)
no matter where you are in this world
please remember that we are living under the same sky

time (chantal kreviazuk)
i’m missing the moments as they pass
now i’ve looked in the mirror and the worlds getting clearer
so wait for me this time

AEIOU (charlotte sometimes)
you called me the other day you said my head was sweet yet cruel
i laughed the whole way through, don't you see the problem is you

the origin of love (rufus wainwright)
when the earth was still flat, and the clouds made of fire
and mountains stretched up to the sky, sometimes higher
folks roamed the earth like big rolling kegs
they had two sets of arms, two sets of legs

antebellum (vienna teng)
i know the border lines we drew between us
keep the weapons down,
keep the wounded safe;
i know our antebellum innocence
was never meant to see the light

dreaming (수현)
even today step by step,
i step forward carefully
my heart is full of fears
but it’s an excitement i’m embracing

white houses (vanessa carlton)
now we're spinning empty bottles
it's the five of us
with pretty eyed boys girls die to trust
i can't resist the day

as tears go by (sao vicente ft. ituana)
it is the evening of the day
i sit and watch the children play
smiling faces i can see
but not for me

dream high (드림하이 OST)
i can fly high, i believe that i can spread my wings
go up in that sky, fly higher than anyone

.rar
a selection of songs i like to listen to when i write;

for your world will at last be built; playlist.
27.3.11
a simple collection of songs (for writers).

This Is For Real [Changmin/Yoona]

emberberry — Fri, 18 Mar 2011 16:54:13 GMT

This is For Real
Changmin/Yoona, friendship!Heechul/Yoona
PG, 2,851 words
In Yoona’s case, today, forty-eight hours before Valentine’s Day, she undergoes a lot of internal monologues. Love-related monologues, to be exact.

A/N: Wrote this for kpop_het 's secret valentine challenge :) I had a bit of a hard time, since I've never done the pairing before, but I had fun with it anyway! (original post)

This is For Real

Having a valentine is akin to a silent competition. At least, usually, it’s silent. For some people, there is a lot of waiting by the phone, there is a lot of talking on the phone, there is a lot of talking face-to-face with someone you want to be your valentine (or someone who already is your valentine, or someone who also wants a valentine but both of you are left without one).

In Yoona’s case, today, forty-eight hours before Valentine’s Day, she undergoes a lot of internal monologues. Love-related monologues, to be exact. She’s received a few text messages, one out of however many actually being connected to the holiday coming up on the 14th, from Minho.

Yoona tries not to think too much of it. Minho flirts with everyone. She adores him, she really does, but he’s grown from that lanky, shy case of a cute boy to an outright flirt—albeit a kind, convincing, genuine one at best. Not to mention, she knows he’s much more interested in Yuri in the first place.

The days leading up to Valentine’s Day are the worst of it, though, she tells herself. Because—logic—you don’t know what’s going to happen. There’s anticipation, and that’s what truly gets to people and tears them apart from the inside out, especially if they have someone in mind yet that someone has someone else in mind.

The anticipation is, was, and will always be horrible for some, but the result should typically prove alright. No scars, no flesh wounds. It’s okay.

“I’ll be okay,” Yoona says out loud, like an affirmation, only there’s no mirror to stare herself down through.

Jessica walks into the kitchen, eyes glancing over Yoona’s hands under tap water. “Are you going to turn off the sink?”

Loneliness sinks in again on the twelfth. It happens like that, most of the time. Then again, Changmin’s loneliness is usually sporadic, but before the day, it is expected, like an old friend. Or a cousin you played with as toddlers but feel awkward around as adults.

Yunho is clipping his toenails in the bathroom when Changmin walks by and doesn’t say anything—instead his face does all the talking, or just enough. Yunho breaks the silence. Clip, clip, “Hey, what’s up with you?”

Walking backwards, Changmin appears in the doorway again. “Nothing.”

“You looked like a kicked puppy.”

“But I’m not.”

“I said you look like one, not that you are one.” Clip, clip, almost done.

“Right.”

“There has to be something,” he says, putting the clippers down, and then deciding a few seconds later while Changmin is being mute to put them back into the top drawer. “Come on. Tell hyung your problems.”

Changmin wrinkles his forehead, eyebrows pulling together. “I have no problems.”

“Nobody has no problems.”

“Hyung.”

“What? It’s true. No one is perfect. Didn’t you learn that in elementary school or something?” Yunho stands up from the toilet seat cover, the one that a fan gave them. It’s still a little odd, having it in their bathroom, but at the same time, it completed the space. They couldn’t bring themselves to get rid of it.

For a moment, Changmin feels like a girl; like he and Yunho have morphed into two teenage girls about to talk it out, about to talk about love. Yunho was fixing up his toenails a few seconds ago, after all. His upper lip curls a little at the thought. Too weird.

He pats Changmin’s shoulder. “Is it the season?”

“Tis not the season to be jolly,” says the maknae.

“It could be,” he pauses; corrects, “no, it should be. Valentine’s! Happy hearts, love, chocolate. Want hyung to buy you chocolates? What am I saying? You’ll get some—and by that, I’m still only talking about the candy.”

They both stop and remember the fans. Someone had already sent them chocolate earlier this morning. And then their minds both seemed to drift. There’d been this one Valentine’s where a poor, lonely girl had sent Jaejoong her underwear taped to the lid of a box of chocolates. Changmin had been upset over perfectly ruined chocolates, and he and Junsu proceeded to argue over whether or not it was okay to still eat them. The panties in question were most likely clean, although not one out of the five was willing to check. Eventually Yoochun suggested they could have been poisoned (meaning, of course, the chocolates), and then they all established a rule; a rule in which they weren’t allowed to talk about this ever again.

She knew there was something underhanded about Heechul wanting to take her and Jessica out shopping. Well, it was more along the lines of Heechul taking the two of them out shopping so he could get Yoona to leave Jessica in front of a pretzel stand nearby. Underhanded, otherwise known as Kim Heechul’s middle name.

Heechul throws an arm around Yoona’s shoulders. They’re both trying on new sweaters right in front of the racks they found them on, too lazy and too busy to use a dressing room (“You can just put them over your clothes anyway,” Heechul always says). They stand in front of the mirror like they’re working one of their modeling jobs.

“He isn’t going to break your heart, is he?” he starts, catching Yoona off guard. His tone reminds her of a few days ago when Onew stopped her in the hall and asked her what time it was.

“Excuse me?”

“I know it can happen. You aren’t exempt from that rule, my dear,” he says.

“I’m lost,” she shakes her head. “Why are we talking about this right now?”

Heechul lowers his mouth to her ear, darting his eyes around in search of anyone that might be looking at them. Yoona furrows her eyebrows at him through the mirror. He opens his mouth to say something, when—

“There you are!” a voice calls to them; Jessica’s voice, to be exact. Heechul stands up straight. “You disappeared!”

“Well you were taking too long!”

“To get a pretzel you wanted,” she remarked. Heechul stuck his tongue out at her. And then he was lost in the argument, leaving Yoona puzzled and staring at her reflection in the mirror.

The thing is: they both have valentines. They’d had valentines for a little under two months, and refused to spill any information on it. Even in the company, they felt that their secret needed to be kept under lock and key. Neither of them was willing to risk it.

2010: the Christmas party. Mistletoe. Shim Changmin walked straight into Im Yoona underneath the mistletoe without noticing. Yunho and Heechul, the devil’s best friends in this kind of situation, were cheering. So it happened. A kiss happened, with other eyes on them, but it hasn’t been spoken of since. Changmin sometimes wonders if it actually did happen or if everyone who’d paid a decent amount of attention had also had more than a decent amount of alcohol.

That was how it started. Something so innocent turned into a secretive mess that still no one seemed to know about but the two of them. It was a well-kept secret, in that case.

Yoona. Im Yoona. Yoona is pretty. She is into him, and Yunho has said so before. He says he can see it in her eyes. At the time, Changmin couldn’t bring himself to say anything about it in front of his hyung. No one was supposed to know. No one still is.

She is one of Korea’s most natural-looking beauties, and whether she knows it or not, she uses it to her advantage. She’ll flash a smile and unknowingly make someone fall in love with her for an hour, before they go their separate ways. Maybe that’s how Siwon feels during a photoshoot with her, or perhaps they are immune to each other by now.

But, Changmin feels as though he’s far from being immune to her. It’s a blessing and a curse that SM Town’s 2010 concert tour is continuing into 2011, because it means he’ll see her semi-regularly. There would be less of running into her by chance because he’s too afraid to just call her, even after they’ve gone past the not-so-simple step of confessing. The task sounds simple, but when the mere idea of it festers in someone’s said—particularly Changmin’s—the drive deteriorates with worry. He’d put off texting her until the next day, instead of calling. Cop-out.

He rolls over in his bed and watches the clock stumble from 11:59 to midnight. He is never going to be immune to her at this rate. She’d bewitched him.

Finally, he calls.

“Are you going?” he asks, “To the party?”

She thinks about it. “I guess so. Seohyun wants me to.”

“Yonghwa’s going to be there,” he states, halfway between a question and a declaration.

She curls her fingers tighter around the phone. Hearing his voice starts to make her bite her lip, tapping her free hand against the counter top while the other eight girls are still asleep.

“I want to see you,” he breathes, and then stops to wait through her pause on the other end.

She’s crossing and uncrossing her legs, sitting on the counter now when she answers. A smile forms. “Then I’ll be there.”

Yoona arrives arm-in-arm with Seohyun, looking like the close friends that they are, but loses her to Yonghwa in under twenty minutes. Thankfully, the two of them turn shy around company. Still, though, with a kind force, Seohyun leads him around, and they warm up to everyone. They become everyone’s favorite couple. Everyone wants to be like them, and Yoona hates herself for hoping that something is wrong beneath the surface. She hates herself, too, for knowing that she must be a little bit right.

It’s a mostly SM Town party, she should be able to find someone to stand next to without looking lost, shouldn’t she? There are the stragglers from other companies, like Yonghwa and Jonghyun from FNC, and some YG and JYP kids.

She looks around, tries to find Heechul, sees that Yuri is busy with Minho, tries to find Donghae, sees that Jonghyun (the Lee one) is alone yet fearless on the outside, and tries to find Changmin.

Five minutes later, she’s standing next to Lee Jonghyun, engaging in sporadic conversation about comebacks and all that fun business, discreetly searching for anyone. It feels horribly like a high school dance, where Yoona’s date ran off to be with someone else. She doesn’t blame Seohyun for leaving her when she has a TV husband to worry about, but Yoona doesn’t like the feeling of being alone in a room full of people she knows, next to someone she’s speaking with but isn’t truly listening to. He’s handsome, she’ll give him that, and he’s interesting, she’ll give him that, too. Yet, she can’t focus herself. She’s gone, gone into another place where she suddenly isn’t sure if gravity is pulling her down anymore.

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” she asks, gently putting her hand against Jonghyun’s shoulder.

He grins, obviously a bit bashful from her presence. Embarrassed, maybe, that she wasn’t listening to him. “Nothing, Yoona-ssi.”

“I’m sorry,” she says again. She could like him if she let herself, if she let go and tried to figure out what she wanted. She could like him as more than just a fellow celebrity or something close to a friend. He could be something more to her, if she just let go of whatever she was searching for. Yoona wasn’t going to find it if she kept obsessively working at it, with no results. “I need some air. Excuse me,” she adds, and he lets her leave. Perhaps he understands more than she thinks he does about her. She could like him if she didn’t have someone else in mind.

He arrives about a half hour late, tumbling out of a car with Heechul and Yunho. The latter goes in first, not even noticing when the former pulls Changmin back, keeping him from entering. Changmin’s hand is still on the face of the door.

“What are you intending to do with her?” asks Heechul.

Changmin blinks a few times before letting the door close, realizing that neither of them are going in until Heechul has an answer. They are friends, at the most, or dongsaeng and hyung—sunbae and hoobae, maybe—but Heechul has an unfamiliar look in his eyes; a look that worries Changmin.

“What exactly are you trying to do with her?” he speaks again.

“Talk,” says Changmin, then shaking his head. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at, hyung,” he adds, putting his hand against the door again, in a sudden surge of courage. He is going to go inside, march into that Valentine’s party and reach her, and screw Kim Heechul if he is going to try getting in the way. But Heechul’s face is twisted in disapproval. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes soften, though the rest of his face is still tough and intimidating. “Just looking out for her,” he says, pocketing his hand. “It’s what I do.”

Changmin’s too afraid to say, “don’t you usually just look after yourself?” because he knows what might happen to him. He’s been on Heechul’s good side these days, and that’s a good place to be.

No, he can’t let himself chicken out just for the sake of being on Kim Heechul’s good side. He needs to fight for this right now. Once he’s in, he’s in.

“Okay,” says Changmin. “Okay, hyung.”

“I care about her—”

“And you think I don’t?”

Heechul pauses. “She told me. About the aftermath.”

“Oh. Nothing big happened, hyung, I swear,” he interjects, although he isn’t sure why he’s busying himself trying to garner an understanding. “We’re only—”

“I know what you two are doing. But you still need to tell me what you want out of this,” Heechul says, nonchalantly checking his nails, like they were chatting about anything at all mundane, not Yoona.

Changmin sighs. “I only want to go inside. I just want to see her. And talk. I told her I’d be coming,” he clenches his jaw for one second before putting his hands on Heechul’s shoulders. “Hyung, I love you, but you aren’t going to stop me.”

Ten minutes of fresh air out back and she’s let her hair down, in a literal sense. She’s been leaning against the wall, staring into the street on the other side of the club that’d been bought out for the night for the sake of this party. She’s not sure if she should care, though, that she hasn’t been enjoying herself. This party isn’t completely for her; it’s for the others in there, too. She’s a small portion belonging to the rest of the whole.

“You told Heechul-hyung,” says a voice. It’s Changmin, trying to sneak up on her.

“He’s like a brother to me. And he’s better at keeping secrets than you’d think. He just isn’t good at keeping his own secrets, most of the time. Also, he’s really good at figuring things out. It’s Heechul.”

He can’t figure out how to argue with her. She has a point. No one else knows anything about the two of them. No one even talks about the Christmas party’s mistletoe moment, and there had even been at least two others—only no one else had dared to go for the real thing and kiss anyone else on the lips. Changmin sighs. Something always happens at a party. After the SM Town in LA after-party, Jessica and Jonghyun couldn’t look at each other with a straight face for at least a month.

“Are you mad?”

“No.”

She hesitates, starting to smile. Changmin can see the corners of her mouth turning upwards. “Good.” Coming closer, he puts his coat around her shoulders. She has her own coat, but there’s something about giving it to her anyway that makes Changmin feel good enough to not need his own jacket.

“He seemed kind of angry,” Changmin chuckles.

“Who? Heechul-oppa?”

He nods.

She laughs, soft and loud at the same time. “He gets angry at a lot of things, haven’t you noticed?”

Again, Changmin nods, but they both stop talking suddenly. She reaches out and takes one of his hands out of his pockets, folding her smaller fingers inside of his. He wants to put his arm around her shoulders, but this move is just as good. Something about that simple move makes him feel like he doesn’t need anything else. He’s slowly forgetting where he is and thinking only about her. She’s bewitched him. They smile at each other, but look away in childish embarrassment, laughing like school kids.

“So,” he squeezes her hand, “should we go?”

She looks at him again, recovering. And she gives a few small nods as she bites her lip. “Yes.”

“Coffee. I’m buying.”

For a moment, she thinks about arguing. She’s a big girl and she can pay for her own coffee. But she’s also a big girl in love who doesn’t need to pay for her own drinks anymore. It’s about time she accepted it. Plus, she left her wallet on the table just inside the SNSD dorm. “If you insist,” she says.