❁ Heart's Note ❁

毕生难忘 (Things We Will Never Forget)

heartsnote — Sun, 22 Nov 2015 05:08:14 GMT

//Pairing//: Xiumin x Chen
//Prompt//: Xiumin and Chen go on a grand food tour of China.
//Rating//: PG
//Word Count//: 5,748
//Author’s Note//: This is the longest fic I’ve ever written, but I had fun with it because it gave me the chance to revisit a couple of places in China that I’ve been to. I really hope this fits the bill!

Originally posted HERE as part of the Xiuchen Fic Fest.

Seoul

Mornings were pretty dismal, Minseok decided, when you found yourself hauling ass (not just one’s own, mind you) across the departure hall of a busy airport. Incheon International Airport wasn’t a walk in the park on the best of days, and it wasn’t any better at 5.45 in the morning, when one had just 45 minutes to get to the boarding gate and catch a plane to China. Right now, all Minseok wanted was to not be surrounded by people who needed to go places and hand over his suitcase to the nice lady at the check-in desk so he could have both hands free for a hassle-free flight.

That, and get himself some breakfast, because his stomach was currently making some pretty ungodly sounds.

It didn’t help that Jongdae, his traveling companion for the impending trip, had fallen asleep on the cab ride to the airport and was trying to keep step with him as they approached the check-in desk, all sleepy eyes and tousled hair. “Do you need help with that?” Minseok didn’t wait for an answer from the other boy before reaching to heft Jongdae’s suitcase on to the conveyer belt.

“My hero,” Jongdae cooed, as his lips curved up into a kittenish smile and he batted his eyelashes at Minseok. Minseok only snorted and nudged Jongdae with his elbow as he tried to stifle an amused chuckle. Time to change the subject. “Jongdae-ah, where’s your passport? Hand it over.”

With boarding passes tucked into their respective pockets, they headed off in search for food. Breakfast came in the form of a rather soggy fast-food breakfast wrap that Jongdae wolfed down rather happily, while Minseok spent his time frowning at the rather lonely piece of limp lettuce peeking out of the top of his wrap.

Before long, they were on the aircraft and comfortably ensconced in their seats, Jongdae bagging the window seat and looking out on to the tarmac as they awaited take-off. Minseok, on the other hand, immersed himself in that morning’s publication of the Seoul Shinmun.

“Are you sure it was a good idea to fly to Beijing first? What if we max out our bellies and decide to bail on the whole trip?”

Minseok looked up at Jongdae in a rather surly fashion, eyebrows furrowed slightly as he peered at him over the top of the free airport newspaper. He held Jongdae’s puppy-like gaze for a couple of seconds before clearing his throat and turning his attention back to the morning’s headlines (Kim Jong-Un’s disappearance may be a trick), all while rustling his paper rather officiously. “Then it’d be your fault,” he said, as he kept his eyes on the lines of printed text in front of him. “Since you veto-ed my suggestion that we end the trip in Beijing, rather than start it.”

More rustling, and Minseok eventually looked up once again when Jongdae remained quiet. That was clearly a bad move, since the sight he was greeted with was Jongdae’s bright almond-shaped eyes peering at him from over the top of his paper, eyebrows slightly raised with just the smallest smidgen of reproach.

“You don’t mean that. Besides, isn’t your old uni friend only going to be in town for the next few day? We couldn’t have ended the trip in Beijing if you wanted to meet him.”

Minseok only harrumphed softly when he got called out thus unceremoniously, falling into rather sullen silence thereafter. It took the plane taxiing and beginning its ascent for him to put his newspaper away and throw an apologetic glance in Jongdae’s direction. “Sorry.” His eyebrows and the corners of his lips re-arranged themselves in a mildly sheepish expression as he spoke, while picking at an imaginary bit of fluff on Jongdae’s airline-issue blanket. “It’s been a rushed morning.”

Jongdae only smiled and reached over to pat Minseok’s forearm gently. “I would give you the cold shoulder, but we’re stuck with each other for the next couple of weeks, so I’m going to tell you it’s okay, and let’s get along.” He chuckled softly, before gently swatting Minseok’s hand away from his blanket. “But please stop picking at my blanket – I don’t want a hole in it before we’ve even fully left the ground.”

Beijing

Their passage into Beijing wasn’t too bad – Minseok’s friend from university, a boy called Luhan with eyelashes longer than a camel (most accurate description, in Jongdae’s own humble opinion), met them at the airport, hustling them both through the arrivals hall with surprising efficiency. Jongdae sat in the back of Luhan’s BMW coupe while Minseok rode shotgun with their host, both talking nineteen to the dozen. Jongdae idly scrolled through his social media feeds during the half hour long ride out from Beijing Capital International Airport to the city center, half-dozing as he occasionally glanced out the window to see if he could catch a glimpse of the city proper, instead of the decidedly gray expressway.

“You okay back there?”

Minseok’s voice brought Jongdae back from his almost-daydream (of Lee Minho’s character in The Heirs rescuing him rather gallantly from a near brush with a reckless bicycle – hey, a boy could hope) and back to the confines of Luhan’s car. “Um, yeah – of course,” he said, airily brushing the question off before motioning for Minseok to resume his catching up with Luhan the Camel-Lashed. Minseok had always been like that – that is, doting in a strange, detached kind of way. At least, that was how things seemed to Jongdae. The other boy was thoughtful to a fault, in his big brother way, and while Jongdae appreciated the concern sometimes, other times it just gnawed at his consciousness because god, Kim Jongdae was a grown man, and he didn’t need to be babysat.

Minseok smiled in response and reached back to pat Jongdae’s knee in a friendly fashion. “I just figured you were being really quiet. Luhan here speaks Korean too, you know, there won’t be a language barrier, or anything.” From the driver’s seat, Luhan snorted and spouted a rather impressive stream of near-fluent Korean – something to the effect that his Korean was rather rusty, and Minseok was the only person keeping him in practice (never mind that Jongdae understood 80% of whatever Luhan said in Chinese – night classes, for the win).

It might have been the leftover turbulence from the plane, but the blatant flirty undertones in Luhan’s voice made Jongdae want to gag.

Instant dislike (and infuriatingly long lashes) aside, Jongdae had to admit that Luhan was a pretty decent host. After dropping off their stuff at his studio apartment, he drove Minseok and Jongdae to the gates of the Forbidden City. “For photo ops,” Luhan said, as he nudged Minseok playfully in the ribs. Minseok only groaned and muttered something about how much he hated the way his cheeks looked in pictures before Jongdae sighed to himself and wandered off to take a picture of a rather interesting looking ceiling beam.

Minseok caught up with him as he made his way across Tiananmen Square (while the very patriotic Chinese national anthem blared through the venue’s PA system). “Hello, you dashed off like a shot – I was gonna get you to take a photo with me.” Jongdae barely turned around as he focused his camera lens on taking a panoramic view of the scenery (failing miserably, since his little point-and-shoot couldn’t really accommodate the breadth of the view before him), merely shrugging in acknowledgment of Minseok’s presence as he carefully sidestepped a military man and his blushing bride who were taking their wedding photos.

“Thought you were busy sightseeing with Luhan-ssi.”

The statement sounded unduly reproachful, and Jongdae lowered his camera to jut his lower lip out at Minseok, suddenly apologetic for his behavior. If Minseok noticed, however, he didn’t give any indication that he did, and linked his arm with Jongdae’s.

“After you’ve walked diagonally across the square, there isn’t that much to see – come on, let’s take that photo quickly. Luhan says he wants to bring us to this famous night market.” Minseok grinned as he walked Jongdae back to Luhan’s car. “Right on time, too. I could eat. I’m starved. Now smile and say ddeokbokki?” With that, Minseok clicked his phone on and put one arm around Jongdae’s shoulders, grinning broadly as he snapped the cheesiest selfie ever.

Wangfujing night market was rather more exciting than Jongdae had anticipated, thanks to the very colloquial sights and sounds of night-time Beijing, which made Jongdae feel like he had stepped into China’s answer to Seoul’s Dongdaemun – only with the addition of cooked caterpillars, scorpions and other creepy crawlies into the mix. Within five minutes of alighting, he was assailed with the oily scent of deep-fried starfish on a stick from a nearby stall. “Ew,” Minseok wrinkled his nose and averted his gaze, before tugging on Luhan’s sleeve, silently asking that they beat a hasty retreat (and possibly go in search of some candied haws).

Jongdae, however, was rather drawn to the idea of eating a starfish, and ended up buying one just for fun. He made an unwilling Minseok take the inaugural picture of him taking a sizeable bite out of said starfish before posting the image on Instagram with the caption:

“Tasty! Wandering the night market in Beijing with @minseokkim.”

(Minseok resisted all of Jongdae’s attempts at trying to get him to share his fried starfish with him though)

The night came to an end at a roadside hotpot stall with each of them dunking chunks of meat into a copper pot filled to the brim with steaming soup broth. Jongdae wanted to ask if they were going to go the tourist trap route and go for a round of Peking roast duck as well (he wasn’t at all averse to subjecting himself to being scalped for it either – to complete the tourist experience), but didn’t because eating steaming hotpot on a rather chilly evening was just the antidote he needed.

“Come, eat more while the fire’s hot.” Minseok’s voice invaded Jongdae’s happy, hazy thoughts as a choice piece of beef found its way atop his rice bowl. When Jongdae looked up, the first things he saw were Minseok’s eyebrows waggling at him as he motioned for him to eat up. “The shopkeeper just told Luhan that we only have 60 minutes to eat, and we’re already at 45 minutes but I haven’t even touched the seafood yet.” Minseok turned his attention back to his rice bowl, chopsticks held aloft as he decided what to eat next. “Besides, we’ve got a train to catch.”

Luhan dropped them off at the station with their bags, after unsuccessfully trying to convince Minseok that staying over at his apartment for the night and taking the first train out of Beijing would be less hectic. Jongdae waited until after they had boarded the late-night train to Qufu (hometown of Confucius! the brochures gaily declared) to ask about the sudden change of plan.

“How come you didn’t want to stay over at Luhan’s place for another night?” (Honorifics, be damned). “I thought we were intending to spend a bit more time in Beijing.”

Minseok only shook his head and shrugged. “Didn’t feel like it.” It took another moment for him to look up at Jongdae and give him a half-smile as he hit the nail right on the head. “I got the feeling you didn’t really feel like it either.”

Jongdae only ducked his head sheepishly in acknowledgement of Minseok’s astuteness.

“Anyway,” Minseok checked his watch and pouted as he calculated the estimated time of their arrival in Qufu. “Better get some sleep, Jongdae, it’s a six-hour ride.”

Qufu

The train pulled in to Qufu station just as the sun was rising, and Jongdae nudged Minseok awake as the first of the morning sunbeams seeped in through the cabin. Minseok just rubbed his eyes and surreptitiously tried to wipe the trickle of drool that had somehow managed to find its way to the edge of his mouth during the night, furrowing his brows at his traveling companion in the hope that the other boy hadn’t noticed.

“What are you, did you even close your eyes?” he asked, as the younger boy just grinned his cat-like smile and shrugged his shoulders rather enigmatically. “Smile!” Next thing he knew, he heard the click as Jongdae snapped a picture with his phone that was undoubtedly going to find its way to social media once again (and it did, with the rather sprightly caption of “Good morning sunshine! @minseokkim” in stark contrast to Minseok’s decidedly non-sprightly countenance). Jongdae had been scrolling through his Instagram feed (or something) the night before when Minseok had decided to call it a night, and yet here he was, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed like the morning person that he was. Admittedly, it was rather infectious, and by the time Jongdae offered him a cup of instant coffee, along with a couple of rectangular bags of sweetener (Minseok was on a reduced-sugar diet), Minseok was very much on board with Jongdae’s brand of sunniness.

“Says here we should definitely visit the Temple of Confucius, Confucius Mansion and Forest of Confucius.” Jongdae’s voice lilted in his refined tone as he read from the brochure they had somehow acquired upon boarding. By the time they disembarked at Qufu station, Jongdae had successfully managed to convince Minseok that a full-day tour of Confucian everything was exactly what they needed (though Minseok quickly recanted this thought, much to his dismay). They ended up trekking through halls and temples, houses and mansions, until Minseok thought his feet might go weak from all the walking. Jongdae insisted on stopping and studiously admiring every plaque, mural and artifact with quiet awe, and Minseok couldn’t even wander away without the other boy snaking his arm around his in a bid to keep him by his side. At the rate Jongdae was going, Minseok would be able to recite the Confucian Analects in his sleep, he was certain of it. But Minseok wasn’t a quitter, and he held on till the very last plaque had been admired and its contents duly digested, before enquiring rather innocuously about their dinner plans for the evening.

Jongdae put his digital camera away in its holster while humming in contemplation. “I vote that we eat something awesome tonight.” He said, with certainty in his voice, before crossing his arms across his chest in a way that suggested that he meant business. “Let’s go eat at the restaurant in the hotel – I saw the poster as we were walking out earlier.”

Trust Jongdae to think of everything, and although the notion of having to eat their way through a banquet sounded fairly intimidating, Minseok was more than happy to leave the sight-seeing behind in favor of some good dinner. “You’re the best,” he said rather cheerfully, his mood picking up significantly as he made a beeline for their hotel. Little did he know that he would be in a right dilemma not half an hour later when Jongdae sat them both down at the hotel restaurant for an eight-course banquet based wholly around, you guessed it, Confucian teachings.

“What’s this…?” He said rather weakly, holding up with his chopsticks a thin, stringy morsel of what could only be meat of some description. They had just been served a cold platter based on the “Six Arts” advocated by Confucius (Rites, Music, Archery, Chariot Racing, Calligraphy and Mathematics), and Jongdae was already getting stuck in while Minseok attempted to verify the origins of each food item. “Mm..” The younger boy squinted at the menu while taking a look at the specimen Minseok had enquired about. “Spiced duck tongue,” he replied eventually, before lumping some sea whelk jelly on to Minseok’s plate. “Eat up – all of this is really good, isn’t it?” Minseok felt his stomach do a turn as a result, but he ate anyway – partly because his stomach was growling, and partly because he didn’t want to do Jongdae a disservice by being a bad travel partner. When the bill came, Jongdae only grinned his kittenish grin and casually slid the bill across the table over to Minseok.

“Oldest pays right? Hyung.”

Perhaps Jongdae turning on the charm was his way of trying to seal the deal, but that little detail was forgotten when Minseok’s eyes found the (rather large) figure at the bottom of the receipt. Jongdae only reached over to pat his hand affectionately in a reassuring fashion as he chuckled.

“It’s okay, I’ll buy the next meal.”

Shanghai I

As it turned out, the next meal they had together wasn’t a meal at all. Instead, it involved nothing more than Long Island Iced Teas and a couple or so rounds of tequila. The commute from Qufu to Jinan and the connecting flight to Shanghai had been awful – claustrophobic and noisy – and Minseok’s declaration that he really needed a drink once they disembarked and cleared through customs sparked a little something in Jongdae’s mind. Grabbing the other boy’s hand, he walked them both in the direction of the nearest taxi rank.

“Let’s do something a little bit crazy.”

Before long, they had dropped their things off at the hotel, bypassed the famed Shanghai Bund and ended up in a faux-dive bar in Tianzifang at a round table shielded by a twee parasol, sipping Long Island Iced Teas so chock-full of alcohol they almost ran clear.

“I can taste um…. tequila, vodka, gin, rum… what else is there that I haven’t named?” Jongdae said, sucking thoughtfully on a straw as he spoke. Minseok only snorted at the other boy’s question to the world at large, while sipping his drink rather nonchalantly. “It’s Triple Sec, bitters, and coke – your guesses don’t count because you were peeking at the drinks menu just a second ago, I saw your wandering gaze!” Minseok chuckled and pointed his index finger at Jongdae rather accusingly, which he responded to by raising said drinks menu in an attempt to deflect the playful glare from Minseok’s almond-shaped eyes.

It probably was a little bit rash, to rush out to a bar this early in the day (Jongdae realized that they were probably high-risk targets for being mugged at the moment), but that aside, he reckoned they were both having a rollicking good time, thanks in part to their very enthusiastic bartender and his gift of alcohol. While Jongdae’s half of the table showed rather haphazard signs of his drinking endeavors, everything on Minseok’s side was immaculate – glasses stacked and arranged neatly, and peanut shells laid out on an unfolded napkin to aid removal (a picture of this dichotomy later found its way to Jongdae’s Instagram with the caption – “Obviously @minseokkim is the neat freak on this trip~”).

“Funny this, I never thought that I would be drinking my first ever Long Island Iced Tea, not in Long Island, but in Shanghai.” Minseok set down his now-empty glass with a satisfied air, before smiling broadly at Jongdae. The alcohol had helped him cast off the fatigue of their journey, and now Minseok’s smile was bright and joyful and really made Jongdae’s heart much lighter as well.

“I know, life is funny sometimes, isn’t it?” Jongdae raised his hand to get the attention of Tao, their aforementioned bartender, motioning for him to please bring them a round of tequila shots (a couple of summer jobs moonlighting in a local watering hole back home had taught him drinking lingo he found hard to forget). When the shots and lime wedges landed on their table, Jongdae met Minseok’s gaze and smiled. “You have to divulge a secret after each shot – something you’ve never told anyone in your life.” With that, he licked the back of his hand, sprinkled salt on the spot, licked it again and with an exhale, tossed a shot of tequila down the hatch, since what better time to start a drinking game than the present?

“My favorite color is red.” The sting of the tequila coursed down his throat, and Jongdae winced as he reached for a lime wedge to suck on. Minseok just laughed in response before placing another shot in front of Jongdae (Tao was more than willing to fan the flames of their drinking game and was keeping the shots coming). “You little liar, your favorite color is silver – and I know that for a fact, so take another one, and I’m not having a go till you do that.”

Damn, Minseok was still lucid (while Jongdae’s faculties were getting ever-so-slightly blurred around the edges), despite their liquid lunch. Nevertheless, Jongdae obliged, only frowning slightly this time when he felt his esophagus start to burn thanks to the bitter shot.

“I don’t think Luhan’s as good-looking as everyone thinks he is.” It was the first thing that came to his mind, and well, by his own rules he had asked for secret truths, so God help him, he was prepared to fall by his own sword.

Minseok nodded appraisingly as Jongdae sucked on his lime wedge, before taking his shot. “I agree.” The words were simple and easily strung together, Minseok setting down his empty shot glass before he sucked on his lime wedge.

“Really?” Jongdae’s voice held a twinge of incredulousness as he raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I always thought you…” Liked him, had a thing for him, probably fucked him like everyone said you did – Jongdae didn’t get to finish his thought, because Minseok had already waved it away with a dismissive flutter of his fingertips.

“Nah.” As if to even the score, Minseok promptly took another shot, squeezing his eyes shut once the silver liquid had gone down. “He’s not my type.” Again, Minseok’s words were – like him – small and perfectly formed, and perhaps it was the alcohol’s doing, but Jongdae could feel his pulse drumming in his ears as he reached for his next (and second last) shot. His judgment was sufficiently swayed by this point for him to loosen that one particular secret he had been keeping close to his chest, and well, it was time to go large or go home.

“I’ve always liked you.” Perhaps the burning sensation that he felt in his chest was just tequila and not burning shame, since Jongdae actually felt a bit relieved to get that off his chest. He took a moment to lift the taste from his mouth with a wedge of lime before continuing his thought. “But especially since that time two years ago when we kissed and I said I couldn’t remember what happened the day after because I was too drunk. But I do remember, and don’t you dare say something lame like ‘I’ve always liked me too’ - I’ll slap you.” Jongdae’s words slipped past his lips fast and loose, squarely hitting home before his spent lime wedge could hit the plate. “You infuriate me sometimes with your hyung shit.”

Jongdae glanced up to meet Minseok’s gaze, and in that moment, despite all the haziness from before, it felt like he had never been more lucid in his life. Minseok’s eyes were bright – sparkling, almost – with a clarity that hadn’t been there before, and Jongdae’s gaze dipped to the older boy’s pouty lips – still slick with tequila – just as his companion raised a shot glass to his lips.

“I’ve always liked you too.” Jongdae could barely believe his ears when he heard those words fall from Minseok’s lips. Far from his fear of being patronized, Minseok sounded nothing short of genuine as he set the now-empty shot glass aside. “But I’d appreciate it next time if you told me about these things sooner, rather than later.” Minseok’s voice remained level, but bore a tinge of “we’re-done-here” as he spoke. Jongdae opened his mouth to protest, but then Minseok fished out a couple of bills to settle their tab (despite it being Jongdae’s turn to pay) and got up, so he didn’t see it through, instead downing the last shot and wincing – this conversation being something best continued behind closed doors.

The cab ride back to the hotel that followed seemed to take a million years, and Jongdae had a million questions that seemed to multiply the more he left them unarticulated. “Later.” Minseok mouthed those words to him when their glances crossed in the back of the cab, and Jongdae allowed himself to heave a small sigh of relief at that simple promise.

Shanghai II

Later turned out to be in their shared room at the Shanghai Regal, on the 35th floor. It had been more economical to room together in a fancy hotel, and Minseok had already called dibs on the bed nearer the window.

Jongdae was the one who broke the silence.

“Do you still… feel that way? The way you said you felt earlier.”

It was hardly the most articulate question in the world, but Minseok fully understood what the younger boy was trying to get at. The silly drinking game the other boy had suggested had led to the unearthing of emotions that Minseok had long-since thought he had managed to put away, but Jongdae’s off-hand confession had threw things all off-kilter. It had happened a good two years ago now, but god, Minseok remembered it like it was yesterday. Now, he felt like he was 22 again, earnest and nothing short of hopeful that his well-hidden crush on the younger boy with the kittenish smile would come to fruition. The kiss in question had happened after a night out with friends – Minseok had walked Jongdae home in the cold at 4 in the morning, Jongdae’s lips were warm and soft, and he tasted like oranges and makgeolli and an overwhelming sense of hope. He had turned up on that same doorstep the following morning with a pounding heart and an invitation to a hangover breakfast, but ended up getting rebuffed by a seemingly aloof Jongdae who claimed not to remember a thing from the night before.

He nodded, before flopping back on the bed and turning to look at Jongdae. “Yeah.” It would be a lie to say no, and Minseok’s voice brimmed with emotion, his heart willing this to finally –finally – go somewhere. “I’ve felt that way for a long time,” Minseok could feel the heat starting to rise in his cheeks, and damn, he was probably doing a pretty good impression of a tomato by this point (how embarrassing). “I just thought that if we didn’t want the same things, then I’d be the best hyung to you that I possibly could.”

Minseok turned back to look up at the ceiling, though he could still see Jongdae looking at him from the corner of his eye. Pretending that it hadn’t happened was hard, but necessary, since Minseok wasn’t the confronting type, especially when it came to these things. Now, knowing that Jongdae felt the exact same way about him – still felt that way about him - made his heart want to swell with anticipation, but the more rational side of him thought better of it, since two years was a long time, and ill-thought out confessions were oftentimes just that – ill-thought out –that didn’t amount to anything.

He was jolted out of his thoughts when he felt his hotel bed dip with the weight of Jongdae moving to perch on its edge. “I hope you don’t mind,” More movement, as he shifted around a little more. His traveling companion dangled his legs over the edge of the bed and leaned back to prop himself up on one elbow, eventually scooting up so he could lean over Minseok – a move that made Minseok squint slightly as Jongdae’s all-too familiar countenance loomed into view.

“Hi.” The younger boy’s eyes curved into merry little crescents, which made it incredibly hard to remain morose. Minseok smiled back.

“Hi.”

Jongdae’s expression softened with a mixture of affection as an unspoken understanding passed between them. “I’m sorry for lying to you, hyung.” An apology that was two years too late, but Minseok didn’t mind one bit, only shaking his head to indicate that it didn’t matter (because it didn’t). “You’re really great at looking after me,” Jongdae’s gaze dipped coyly as a smile curved up his lips. “But I really would much prefer if we could look after each other from now on.”

Minseok felt his pulse start to race as Jongdae leaned in expectantly while waiting for an answer. He wasn’t one of those whose face turned red at the slightest touch of alcohol (his flatmate Yixing was exactly one of those people, and Minseok was incredibly keen on never letting him forget it), and neither was Jongdae, so he couldn’t quite tell if the other boy was sufficiently inebriated to be playing around with him. Nevertheless, his stomach was turning flip-flops at having Jongdae in such close proximity, and when the younger boy eventually bridged the gap between them to press his lips against his own, Minseok realized that two years was a long time to keep a secret, but the good thing about secrets was that it felt so much better once they were set free.

Guangzhou

Jongdae woke up beside Minseok in their shared hotel room in Guangzhou, following a particularly hearty dim sum buffet that had somehow managed to knock both of them out after consuming one too many xiaolongbao. Outside, the dusk had already set in, and Jongdae was filled with the sinking sensation that they had slept most of their short time in Guangzhou away.

“Hey, hyung, wake up – it’s already 7 in the evening,” Jongdae murmured, before getting out of bed and looking for a shirt and some decent pants he could pull on (for what reason, he wasn’t particularly sure). The rustling of sheets from the direction of the bed he had just left gave him a good enough indication that Minseok had heard him.

“We … slept?” Minseok half-sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the bases of his palms (and looking incredibly cute while doing so). “Oh, we slept.”

By now, Jongdae had gotten used to the way Minseok’s faculties didn’t fully take hold until at least twenty minutes after he woke, so he only smiled affectionately and gave up his search for clothes in favor of crawling back into bed with the other boy. “We slept the whole afternoon away, to be accurate – I can’t imagine what our tour guide must have thought – we were supposed to go sightseeing today.” Jongdae pouted slightly, before jabbing an index finger against Minseok’s chest. “I’m totally telling Yifan that this was your fault.”

Yifan was a friend of Luhan’s who was supposed to be their tour guide in Guangzhou, a tall, handsome individual whom Jongdae had cheekily declared as being rather dishy (a fact that made Minseok more than a little peeved) on their first night. Judging by the time displayed on the analog clock on the bedside table, the time for sightseeing was long past, and tomorrow, it would be time to say goodbye to Guangzhou, as they made their way back home to Seoul.

“Tell him then – I don’t care.” Minseok declared rather nonchalantly, before lying back against the incredibly fluffy hotel-issue pillows with a satisfied sigh. “These pillows are like huge marshmallows, they’re heaven on earth. I don’t regret missing sightseeing one bit.”

Jongdae only snorted in amusement at what Minseok said before following suit, because those pillows were really incredibly comfortable. “But we missed the boat ride in Hangzhou, and the… something in Xi’an.” He pouted and twiddled his thumbs as he looked rather dolefully at Minseok. “I think we kinda blew the last leg of our trip, hyung.” Jongdae then sat up belatedly and delivered a playful punch to Minseok’s chest. “I know you said you don’t care, but we should at least text Yifan to let him know – he might be having the jitters in the hotel lobby thinking we got axe murdered or something.”

Minseok remained rather cheery at the thought of being murdered with an axe, and reluctantly shifted to retrieve Yifan’s number. “Yes, dear, I got it…” The term of endearment only elicited another snort as Jongdae rolled over in bed to snuggle up to Minseok, right as the latter groaned quietly and murmured something about feeling the spring rolls from lunch still stewing in his stomach.

“Really attractive, hyung.” Jongdae deadpanned, before sitting up to leaf through the room service menu – it had been seven hours since lunch, and he was beginning to get hungry again. “What do you feel like having for your last meal in China?”

Minseok remained where he was with his head against the pillows as he ran his fingertips gently down Jongdae’s spine. “Can I have you?”

Jongdae chuckled lightheartedly and shook his head. “You won’t get much out of me, I’m a man, but I won’t feed you for long.” His response was a joke, but the contemplative silence that came after was an indication that the older boy’s question was anything but.

Oh.

“I mean, whether I could… we could let this continue even after we get back home.” There hadn’t been time to touch on the subject ever since that night in Shanghai, but judging from Minseok’s expression, Jongdae had a feeling that having this talk was only a matter of time.

It took him a moment to respond, but then Jongdae had had enough of running and hiding from his feelings – this was more than just a passing phase, and he desperately wanted to hold on to it, so he readied himself, and then answered.

“Yeah, yes.” And then once again, as if to reassure himself that he had correctly articulated what was on his mind, he repeated himself. “Yes, of course we can. I would really like us to.”

Jongdae smiled a smile that Minseok reciprocated in full, before reaching out to intertwine their fingers (this, he decided, gave life to the saying that the spaces between one’s fingers were made to fit perfectly with someone else’s) and shifting to lay beside the older boy once more.

That night, Jongdae’s Instagram was uploaded with a picture of the Guangzhou cityscape, the skyline illuminated with constellations of light that punctuated the darkness. The image bore the caption “Saying goodbye to a great trip in Guangzhou with @minseokkim – and hello to the start of something much more wonderful :3.”

[fic] Perverse Situations

heartsnote — Mon, 27 Oct 2014 17:24:20 GMT

//Pairing//: Lay x Luhan
//Prompt//: Cross-dressing
//Rating//: PG-13
//Summary//: Never let Luhan plan date night.
//Word Count//: 1,131
//Author’s Note//: Collaboration with the very snappily named xoxo_nat_xx, with whom writing comes easily.

Originally posted here as part of the justgetlayd Bingo Round 2 Challenge

This isn’t how date night is supposed to go.

Date nights are supposed to be all lovey-dovey movies and romantic dinners and walks by the Han river, if Yixing had anything to do with it. Instead, he had gone and left date night planning to Luhan, and instead of going out for dinner and all that jazz, they end up buying beer from the conbi, ordering pizza and playing video games in their living room on a Friday night.

The night gets off to a pretty slow start, because for one, Luhan is completely entrenched in his rather vicious computer game, and spends a good part of his time twiddling the knobs on his game controller without even casting one glance his way. Second, Yixing sucks at this game, and gives up halfway in favor of just watching his boyfriend play video games while he nurses a can of beer. All it takes is a bit of alcohol for Yixing to hatch a plan to try out a little experiment, just to test if the other boy is capable of multi-tasking.

“Ah, I’m really tired…”

No response.

“I wonder if Man U will beat Liverpool this year?”

Yixing nearly gets lucky when Luhan shouts out a “Damn you!” in response, only to be disappointed when he realizes it was directed at a particularly hard to kill zombie.

“You know, I think you would look pretty hot in a skirt.”

Luhan’s gaze remains glued to the television screen as he hacks on-screen zombies into little bits, and he barely bats an eyelid at the audacious statement Yixing has just thrown out into the air. In fact, Yixing almost thinks he has gotten away with it when Luhan (who must have superhuman listening powers) casts him a funny glance in-between racking up zombie kills and snorts audibly.

“What did you say?” Another snort. “Skirts are for girls.”

Yixing is quick to defend his position. “No way, men can wear skirts too – just think about…” He clasps his hands in his lap and tries to think of something on the fly. “Scottish people, those are skirts… sort of?”

The screams of the undead are suddenly cut short when Luhan hits the “pause” button on the controller. “Are you comparing one of your perverse sexual fantasies to a type of national dress?” Luhan turns to grin at the other boy, one eyebrow raised in amusement as he puts his video game controller away. Yixing stutters and shakes his head in a half-hearted manner, unable to weasel his way out of the situation he has created.

“That totally isn’t perverse!”

Luhan only cocks his head sideways in a way that suggests that Yixing isn’t convincing him one bit. He flicks his gaze in the direction of Yixing’s half-empty can of beer on the coffee table, and shakes his head. “We’re going to have to get you to control your drinking, Zhang Yixing,” Luhan coos, before chuckling and inviting himself to straddle Yixing’s lap, grinning broadly as he runs his hands over the younger boy’s shoulders.

“You were mumbling a bit just now – why don’t you tell me what you were thinking about again?” Every word Luhan utters is engineered to tease, and Yixing knows that there is no way he can run from repeating himself now. It also doesn't help that Luhan is now in his lap, making himself comfortable as he awaits for a reply.

"You have nice legs..." Yixing shrugs feebly, attempting to make light of the situation. It is not a perverse fantasy, he repeats, completely not one, for his main aim has been to test Luhan's multitasking skills. It does allow for easy access, and Yixing can simply run a hand up casually when they are watching television, or even when Luhan is busy killing zombies in that game of his--

"And he says it's not perverse~" Luhan snorts in reply, poking the other in the cheek to snap him out of his thoughts. "We have been together for almost two years now, and this is the first time I hear you mention about me wearing skirts," He hums, a thoughtful expression now on his face. Yixing raises his eyebrows in response, because is Luhan really considering this possibility, and perhaps, maybe, one of Yixing's random dreams may come true at this stage--

"Nope," Luhan decides with a quick shake of his head, "you should be the one cross dressing if it comes down to it...your legs are firmer," He throws in a waggle of his eyebrows as well, milking this situation for all its worth, and it's definitely hilarious as he watches Yixing turn a shade of furious red, eyes downcast as he starts mumbling again. "Cheer up, it's a compliment that you connect with femininity! You will look pretty hot in a skirt," And nope he totally does not imitate how Yixing has said it earlier on.

"...That's not what you said last night," Yixing mumbles again when Luhan gets off, the latter seemingly returning to his game. "Said I was manly and all..." He casts a quick glance at his boyfriend, who is completely focused on hacking his way through the throngs of zombies who have suddenly descended upon his character. Ah well, perhaps that isn't the best thing to say now. He picks up his half-finished can of beer and swirls it slightly, wrinkling his nose as he wonders how drunk he will get when he finishes the other half of it.

It takes Luhan a few more minutes before he safely reaches a checkpoint in the game, where he promptly proceeds to save his game. It is a date night after all, and he does want to pay Yixing some attention at the end of tonight. "You are manly~ Maybe you should remind me of how manly you can get in bed, you know?" He remarks, a wicked grin spreading across his face as he turns around to face the other (he has been hatching this plan right after Yixing mentions that particular comment, and it doesn't hurt to end the date on that note).

All he sees is a dead-to-the-world Yixing, empty beer can neatly set aside as the owner is sprawled over the couch, deeply asleep. It doesn't take long for Luhan to put all of this together, and he sighs in resignation; how can he be angry or disappointed when his boyfriend looks adorable sleeping like this (and is that a tiny bit of drool escaping from the corner of his mouth?) There is a faint, amused smile as Luhan heads to the bedroom to pull out blankets, draping one over Yixing to make sure he doesn't catch a cold; it's getting cooler now, with autumn approaching.

"Next time then Yixing. Perhaps next time."

[fic] Ghost Heart

heartsnote — Mon, 27 Oct 2014 17:14:57 GMT

//Pairing//: Lay x Sehun
//Prompt//: Supernatural
//Rating//: PG
//Summary//: Ghosts are just figments of your imagination.
//Word Count//: 1,690
//Author’s Note//: Character death

Originally posted here as part of the justgetlayd Bingo Round 2 Challenge.

There is a ghost living in my dorm room.

Whenever night falls, I can almost see him out of the corner of my eye, flitting through my consciousness. His form gathers as silvery dust motes do, coming to rest in the farthest reaches of my room. Blink and you’ll miss him, when he fades as quickly as he appears, and all you are left staring at is the darkened outline of a bookshelf, or a mirror. Turn on the light, and he dissipates completely, leaving nothing but a whisper and the faint scent of smoke.

If you must know, he was already here when I moved in. The first time I see him is on a balmy summer’s evening in late August. He flickers for a moment just as I stand on a stool to hang a picture up. You know, just like an old time movie – zip-zap, and gone. For a split second, I can see everything about him in searing detail – from the set of his shoulders to the cross pendant he always wears around his neck. It is my first night in the big city, and I swear to god, I scream like a girl and smash the picture glass all over the wooden flooring.

“I’m sorry,” are the first words he says (rather forlornly, I might add), as his see-through fingers grasp uselessly at broken shards of glass. “Are you okay? My name’s Yixing.” A pause, as he waits for me to stop screaming long enough to listen. “I live here. I hope you don’t mind.”

I stop screaming after that, but only because I am certain I am going completely mad. What’s more, against all probability, I reply.

“I’m Sehun. Nice to, er, meet you. I also, um, live here.”

(Bite me, you try and introduce yourself to a dead person.)

Yixing the Ghost smiles in a way that is pretty magical, which is what he must be. Then, he sticks his pale hands into his (what must be) imaginary pockets, and looks around at the half-opened packing boxes on the floor, spilling their contents like brown cardboard cornucopias of all the crap I never knew I had. “I guessed,” he says rather amiably, and right about now I wonder how the hell I am having a conversation with a dead guy.

“Yeah,” I say, unfurling myself from my half-crouched huddle of fear into something more human-like as I try to squint into the gathering darkness to get a better look at the entity that shares my room. Oh well, if he’s already here, I might as well get used to it. He looks harmless, anyway. So I smile, and pick my way through the sea of my belongings to scoop up the glass. “I think we’ll get along just fine.”

It isn’t so weird, sharing a dorm with someone who, well, isn’t someone, if only because everything about Yixing feels so incredibly normal. We sit up in the night and watch dramas, play cards, he even asks me how my day went. Gradually, I realize that Yixing has as much of a personality as anyone I could ever meet. He is forgetful – never remembers what day or month or year it is – but so caring and thoughtful, always looking out the window to check the weather before I leave the dorm to ascertain if my attire is seasonally appropriate. He always looks the same – checked flannel shirt, worn blue jeans, and hair that looks like it needs a bit of a cut (except it never gets longer), but when he smiles, a ghostly dimple appears in his cheek, and well, I’ve never seen anything quite like it.

He tells me stories of his youth growing up in China, how he was a scholarship kid, but never got to finish, how he loved (loves) music and kept a book of his own compositions that got thrown out when the school authorities cleared out his stuff. I just sit and listen, content in watching him talk about the past, and then let him play xbox vicariously through me.

Most days, it’s like he doesn’t even know what he is. I come home from my lectures in the early evening and find him pacing the floor or lying on my bed and staring up at the ceiling without even making a wrinkle on the sheets. I wake up in the middle of the night to see him sitting on my windowsill, singing Chinese songs that I don’t understand and strumming an imaginary guitar, or staring at the half-eaten bag of potato chips that I carelessly leave open on the study desk after a long night of cramming. It is completely mystifying, but so fascinating at the same time. For all intents and purposes, it feels like Yixing is trying to remember what it feels like to be alive.

“So tell me, how did you, you know,” It is almost half a year later, when I pluck up the courage to ask him the question that has been burning a hole in my head since Day One. I ask it carelessly, callously, over a “shared” six-pack of Hite and some indie music in the background (Yixing’s pick) and the sound of Yixing giggling as he tries to pop the tab on a can of beer. “How did you die?”

Yixing’s hand stops in mid-air. The beer can stays in the exact same spot where I put it on the floor. The goddamn music plays in the background but I can’t hear a word. All I can focus on is how Yixing’s gaze hardens, and the feeling of resignation that falls like a lead weight between us.

“I don’t really want to talk about it,” he says eventually, his voice soft as velvet despite the realization that I have royally fucked up. I’ve asked the taboo question that should never been asked, and serves you right, Oh Sehun, because now you’ve ruined it, and once the mystery is gone, things will never be the same.

“I…” I stammer, my old lisp recurring now that I am nervous. “Yeah, it’s cool. I understand.”

(I don’t.)

He avoids my gaze, running his fingers through his hair as his foot passes silently through the beer can he was so eagerly trying to open just a couple of moments before. “I- I’ve gotta go.”

Yixing has never said that to me before. I turn my head to ask why, where could he go, but before I can ask, he is gone, leaving nothing behind but the plaintive sounds of a guitar playing in the background. He doesn’t reappear the next night, or the next, and in that time I feel so crushingly alone that every little sound drives me crazy. Yixing has gone somewhere I cannot follow, and to be honest, all I want is to get him back.

It takes me a week of waiting before I say something.

“I know you’re out there.” I feel stupid calling out into the shadows, whispering words that barely travel to the opposite end of my already too-small room. The lights of the city blink outside, and I can see the shaft of green light from the neon billboard opposite the road. Everything about this setting screams low-budget horror flick, but far from being scared, I am hopeful, wanting to feel a little less alone. “Yixing, hyung, don’t hide. I know you’re there.”

(I don’t know that for a fact, but I try it anyway.)

He keeps me waiting for five more minutes before flickering into view at the foot of my bed, and despite everything, I can’t help but smile with relief when I see him again. “Where have you been?” I clamber over to sit cross-legged amongst the sheets, eager to know what I have missed. It is like no time has passed, and Yixing smiles, picking at an imaginary mote of dust on my duvet before falling quiet again, because we both know that isn’t something for him to tell.

“It was a car accident.”

My mouth feels like it is stuffed full of cotton wool. I grip at the sheets, only loosening my hold just enough so the tips of my fingers can almost touch the icy tips of his.

“It was raining, I was hurrying back to the dorm, and the driver wasn’t looking. I fell into a coma and after a while when everyone could see that I wasn’t waking up, they just…” He mimes turning a switch in the most resigned, heartbreaking way possible. “They just turned me off.” When he looks up, Yixing’s eyes well up with silvery tears and god, my heart breaks for a life that was never mine.

“I wish I could hug you.”

Yixing wipes his eyes with the back of his hand and shakes his head with a small smile. “Just hug yourself. That’ll be good enough.”

It takes another bout of silence for him to speak again. “Can I go on living here?”

In a way, my answer has to be yes, simply because he has nowhere else to go.

“Only if you let me hug you.”

He nods, and so I do. It feels like a minor electric shock, letting my arms and chest graze the boundary of his outlines, and despite the fact that it makes me shiver and gives me goosebumps, it is the right thing to do. I feel the chill of Yixing’s hand against my back and the slightest of breezes against my ear, and I know that he feels it too.

“You know, if you were alive, I would probably have asked you out.” The words are out before I can stop them, and I almost hit the back of my head against the bedroom wall for my errant stupidity. Yixing only chuckles (the sound is like the music that he loves so much), and I feel the chill of his palm against my cheek as his lips curve up into a smile, making his dimple appear, and my heart beat just a little bit faster.

“For what it’s worth, I would have said yes.”

[fic] Letters From The Edge Of The World

heartsnote — Mon, 27 Oct 2014 16:35:23 GMT

//Pairing//: Lay x Luhan
//Prompt//: Long-distance
//Rating//: PG
//Summary//: Yixing writes stream-of-consciousness letters to Luhan that tell a rather more different story than the one he intends to.
//Word Count//: 2,443
//Author’s Note//: Hover over the Chinese text for translations. Now with added postcards! Image credits to their respective owners.

Originally posted here as part of the justgetlayd Bingo Round 2 Challenge.

Tottenham Court Road, Tuesday, 19 February 2013

Dear Luhan

I’m writing this letter to you from my hotel room, about ten minutes past midnight. It looks out onto Tottenham Court Road and is just two doors down from a small shop selling fish and chips.

After dinner, I went for a walk down Oxford Street, and though the bright lights of the stores gave me a headache after a short while, I found a small cafe run by this really nice Korean lady. I stopped there for a while to hide out from the cold night air and have a cup of coffee. The coffee wasn’t bad either.

Anyway, I should tell you about my journey so far. I got in at Heathrow Airport this morning at about 5, just in time to see the sun rise. Technically, that is. I was riding the airport shuttle into London at the time, trying to find my way to my hotel. That is no mean feat when you’re carrying a heavy suitcase full of stuff, I tell you! However, staying in a hotel is ~~fancy, but~~ expensive, so I was contemplating looking up a couple of old friends who are currently studying here. I can spend my days wandering around and sleep on the couch at night. I think it might work - this city is so much more interesting when you’re exploring out-of-doors anyway.

That’s a problem for another day though. Wish me luck?

I guess now would be a good time to tell you that I miss you already. Terribly. You’ll probably laugh and say that it’ll get better with time, but I beg to differ, because how do you quell the feeling in your chest when the only place I want to be is by your side?

Making this trip was to help me find myself. Xiaolu. Help me find the answer, please.

Love
Yixing

p/s: Tomorrow should I go to Big Ben first, or the London Eye?

p/p/s: I bought the fish and chips for my dinner tonight, by the way. It was pretty awesome.

p/p/s: I’ve put my home address in Changsha as the return address. I don’t really trust the postal service these days.

Leicester Square to Westminster, Wednesday, 20 February 2013

Hi Xiaolu

I ventured a little further down the road from my hotel this morning, and before I knew it, I found myself in London’s Chinatown.

On the way there, I passed all these people trying to sell me tickets to go see shows on London’s Broadway. I admit that for a minute I actually seriously thought about buying a ticket, just to see what it was like. And because I was feeling homesick. Broadway is famous for its musicals after all, and I thought that losing myself to 3 hours’ worth of music and fantasy might help ease some of the longing in my heart. But then it was nearing lunchtime, and I got lured in by the smell coming from a nearby Chinese restaurant.

Bad move. The food was pretty awful (and spicy! Why didn’t the 阿姨 forewarn me?), but, because it was made by the hand of a Chinese cook (I think), it helped ease the homesickness a bit. I left the restaurant with a heavy feeling in my chest, and almost bought a sweet potato from the Chinese supermarket, because I missed… eating… sweet… potatoes. I can’t honestly even remember when I last ate a sweet potato, but there you go, I guess. Sometimes the human mind works in funny ways.

From there, I wandered down to Trafalgar Square to the National Portrait Gallery. That place is chock full of paintings of famous people. Well, I had no idea who anyone in that gallery was, but they were somehow famous all the same. I don’t remember much about it, except that it was very quiet and I looked long and hard at each portrait, studying the upward curves of lips and the blues and browns of eyes. I tried to sit and make a sketch of a particularly interesting looking portrait, but all I had was notepaper, and I couldn’t find the right focus inspiration.

After another half an hour of walking down a long corridor lined with portraits I had to get out - I realized that the reason I was looking so hard was because I was hoping to find a little inkling of you in each one (I failed).

Not to be disheartened, I made a quick trip to Westminster, to the famous Big Ben and then down to the river for a trip on the London Eye. They made me wait a long time to get on it, but it was worth it in the end when I found myself facing a bird’s eye view of London. I could see far, far over the horizon, to where the sky meets the sea. It was absolutely beautiful - although you would probably have hated it - so just believe me when I say it was pretty.

I tried to count back to see what time it would be in Beijing, but I couldn't decide if it was 7 or 8 hours' difference. I thought about it for a bit more, then I realized that the time difference probably didn’t matter. For the duration of the ride I looked out as far as I could over the horizon and hoped that somehow, wherever you were, you could see me too.

It's starting to rain now. Seems like it rains a lot here.

Anyway, keep well.
Yixing

p/s: As you can see, I decided to go to both places in the end.

p/p/s: Last year, with my 汤圆. That’s when I last ate sweet potatoes. Proud of me and my memory yet? ^^

Greenwich Village, Thursday, 28 February 2013

Dear Luhan

The middle of the world is here!

I mean, the International Date Line is here. I’m standing on it right now, so it’s 11 am on one side of the line, and noon on the other side of the line. Isn’t that crazy? The little information plaque in the Meridian Courtyard tells me that this is Longitude 0°0' 0”, and before you ask, it doesn’t feel like anything particularly special (no fireworks or special effects when you cross the line, I checked). Although really, it must be, because time is such a precious commodity to us mere mortals. How funny it is, to be able to hop over a line and lose 60 minutes, then hop back over and gain it right back again.

But then I suppose that sometimes once time is gone, there isn’t any way to get it back. 岁月不留人, right?

Speaking of the middle of the world. Our ancestors were horribly wrong for thinking China was the middle, because surprise, someone else half a world away had the exact same idea, and built a magnificent observatory to commemorate it too. This place is pretty magnificent, but then again, so is the Great Wall, so I’m not quite sure where I’m going with this train of thought here.

I walked around the village after I finished this bit of sightseeing, thinking about how time is a man-made construct that we align our lives to - seconds, minutes, hours, days - when in the end, it isn't exactly clear what it all means. Time is the only commodity that we have less and less of as we try to amass more and more of everything else during the course of our lives. Isn’t that funny? At the end of it, all you have are empty hands. Empty hands, and a really long trip to go far, far away.

You are currently far away from me too. I wonder how you’re doing.

It’s been more than a week since I last wrote you. I should update you on what’s happened since then. An old friend from high school, Ayuan, is in London studying to be a doctor. She lives near Paddington Station (yes, like the bear). I moved out of the hotel and into her living room the day after my last letter and I’ve been there ever since. She’s nice, but she isn’t around much because she runs shifts at St. Mary’s Hospital. I’m okay though, with being alone for most of the day. I probably should tell you that I’ve booked my return ticket as well. I’ll be back home in Changsha by April.

I hope this message gets to you safe, and that you’re taking care of yourself.

Don’t make me worry.

Love
Yixing

The Barbican Centre, Sunday, 3 March 2013

Dear Luhan

I stood outside the Barbican (which is a gallery, not how the Englishmen pronounce barbecue) for quite some time this afternoon, wolfing down my chicken mayonnaise sandwich before heading in. That’s such unbecoming behavior, right? I could practically hear you chuckling at me for giving in to the hunger pangs and buying lunch right before going in to view the exhibit. Art is enjoyed better on an empty stomach, I should think, all the better to build up an appetite after. But I was hungry, not having eaten anything the whole day, and the sandwich smelt like a creamy piece of heaven.

I walked straight into the middle of the Rain Room without getting a drop of water on me. 100 square meters of artificial rain. It was magical, I tell you, even though the humidity in that place was so high I could almost feel my hair starting to fuzz up. I just closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the water falling around me, imagining that I was back in the pagoda in the park near my parents’ home in Changsha. Did you know that I always ended up there when I got caught in the rain on the way back home from school? I never remembered to bring an umbrella with me, so during the rainy season I would try to take a shortcut across the park to get back home before the rain began. I guess I never really succeeded, since I always ended up doing my homework in the pagoda, wringing out my soggy socks and waiting for the rain to stop.

Anyway, back to the Rain Room. When I opened my eyes again, I could have sworn I saw you standing in the darkness at the far end, looking straight back at me. I hurried over, but it must have been a trick of the light, because when I got to the other end, there was no one there but me.

The mist from the rain was getting in my eyes, so I left and went out to get some fresh air. The lady at the information desk told me that after today, the Rain Room would be closed. I guess it was kind of lucky to get to experience it on the very last day.

Last days are always a little bit bittersweet, aren't they?

Yixing

p/s: Perhaps there was something weird about the sandwich, because my stomach felt all funny and I didn’t feel quite so hungry after that.

p/p/s: Maybe you were right. Chicken mayonnaise isn’t so good for me after all.

South Bank, Sunday, 24 March 2013

Dear Luhan

Spring is coming. I can smell it in the air.

I walked through the rain along the river bank this morning, trying to calm my nerves by sitting on a nearby bench and people-watching. It was still a bit cold, being early Spring, but thank goodness I had my coat with me, otherwise I might have caught a chill.

Did you know that the Queen’s Jubilee was held here? I mean, kind of. The procession of boats passed by the South Bank, and … I’m sure you know all of this already, if they could have broadcast the thing to space, they would have.

Ayuan and I went out for dinner last night, at this small Italian place just round the corner from her apartment. In the couple of weeks since I’ve been living at hers, we’ve gotten close - which is inevitable I suppose, when two people are living in close quarters with each other. Although I think she thought that perhaps we were closer than we actually were. Does that make sense? She told me that she had feelings for me – like real feelings for me - ever since high school, and I just sat there, like a real fool, not knowing what to say or what to do.

In the end I changed the subject, which on hindsight was a rather stupid thing to do. I apologized on the way home though, because I was sorry, I truly was. Walking home with someone you’ve just rejected - I have never felt more awkward in my life. When we got back to her apartment I sat in the darkness of the living room for hours, trying to wish away the awkwardness. In the end, I fell asleep in the early hours of the morning.

I know you would have said that it would never have worked out anyway, but I still feel like a bit of a jerk.

I think my time in this city is drawing to an end. My heart longs to be back at home, and my back aches from curling up on a couch for so long. When I started this journey, I wanted to find myself and what I stood for, but during the course of it all I could think of was you. I’ve overstayed my welcome, and all I want to do is go home.

Perhaps the reason why you are on my mind so much is because you’ve become a part of me. These things are possible, you know.

I guess this will be the last letter I write to you from London. I don’t think I’ll miss it.

Xing

Changsha, China, Monday, 1 April 2013

Yixing returns to his parents’ house after a 14-hour red-eye flight on April Fools’ Day. He makes his way home in a taxi, and is fussed over by his loving parents when they realize their only child has returned home early. That evening, Yixing goes to collect the mail from the postbox in their apartment lobby. In it, is a bundle of 5 letters - his letters to Luhan - all postmarked Beijing and stamped “Return to Sender”.

He stares at the letters, sighs, collects them all and tucks them in the topmost drawer of his study desk once he gets home.

Yixing doesn’t write Luhan any more letters.

-----------------------

Author's post-script:

A couple of people who have read this fic have expressed their thoughts on the mystery of why Yixing is traveling, or why he writes letters to Luhan, who is presumed imaginary, dead, missing, or just missing to Yixing. I didn't seek to portray a particular sense of loss with this, or pursue a specific back story for the two - I just wanted to explore how people hold on to things and people who they shouldn't, if only because they want to or think they can't let go. Yixing's trip is symbolic in that he seeks to forget, but like a romantic hero, can't get Luhan out of his mind. His personal struggle is ended only when all hope is erased, because Luhan won't (or can't?) write back.

Anyway, enough from me. Happy to hear your thoughts on what you think might have happened ^~^

-----------------------

[fic] The Road Less Traveled

heartsnote — Mon, 13 Oct 2014 10:14:24 GMT

//Pairing//: Lay x Luhan
//Prompt//: 60-year old married Layhan, with lots of toothache-inducing fluff
//Rating//: PG
//Summary//: The joys in life are in the journey, not the destination.
//Word Count//: 1,451
//Author’s Note//: Especially for Jamie. Happy, happy (belated) birthday! Lots and lots of love ^~^ (Regretfully unbeta-ed) Hover over the chinese text for translations. Also I think I got a cavity after writing this.

“Xing,close the windows, will you?”

Luhan puts down his magazine and reaches for his sweater, which currently hangs on the wooden clothes hook beside his armchair. The weather is colder these days, as the tail end of summer transitions into fall, and he feels it in his bones more acutely than he did before. Luhan mutters under his breath when he can’t quite reach the sweater, one hand grasping to try and get at it from his perch. He doesn’t have to struggle for long because Luhan’s fingertips soon come into contact with his sweater and he looks up with a smile, already knowing who it is.

“Here you go. I think the cleaner pushed the armchair back a little bit yesterday when she was tidying up in here.” Yixing’s voice doesn’t sound all that different now than it did when they first met, and Luhan nods in thanks before he shifts in his chair and puts his sweater on while murmuring something about how he had gotten the distance between the armchair and the clothes hook just right, and he’ll have to watch the cleaner closely when she comes in next so she doesn’t mess anything else up. There isn’t time to complain though, because Yixing moves to perch himself on the armrest, placing one arm around Luhan’s shoulders before he leans over to press a kiss against the crown of his head – a move that never fails to make Luhan smile.

“I’ve closed the windows,” Yixing says gently, before pulling away to look at Luhan. “Like you asked.” Luhan looks up and smiles. The years have been good to Yixing, and although his hair has turned gray at the temples and there are now a few well-placed laugh lines on his countenance, he has retained his good looks (even though the man himself doesn’t think so).

“Thank you,” Luhan smiles, and reaches over to pat Yixing’s hand gently. He feels the warmth of the other man’s hand, and the thin metal band at the base of his ring finger, which remains cool to the touch. “It was warm before when I sat down to read, but then it got cold really quickly.”

Yixing only chuckles and shakes his head. “I thought we said no more leaving the windows open – you’re not 25 anymore, you know.” He says that in a mock-chiding tone before sliding a little further down towards the middle of the armchair. Luhan responds by snorting and trying to push back against his bicep, though he eventually ends up giving in and letting Yixing rest his weight (rather heavily) against him.

“Well, it’s been 25 years and you’re still ugly,” is the best retort Luhan can come up with, even though it has absolutely no bearing on the current situation (and he doesn’t mean it one bit). “Dunno what I’m still doing with you.”

Even after all these years, Yixing remains inherently understanding, and he acknowledges Luhan’s need to have the last word. “Because you’re charitable enough to like ugly people.” He weaves his fingers affectionately through Luhan’s hair - which is still jet-black thanks to hair dye - before pressing another kiss on the top of his head. “So thank you for that. But seriously, the air in this city isn’t good for your health – that’s what we have the air purifier for.”

The decision to move back to Beijing from Seoul some years earlier had been a mutual one. Both of them had spent too long trying to figure out their lives without the other, and it took Luhan’s 30th birthday celebration for them to fall back together again. It was obvious – everything about their being together was easy, and everything about them being apart was hard, so after avoiding the issue for years, Luhan threw caution to the wind and turned up on Yixing’s doorstep with an overnight bag and a heartfelt confession. “Me without you doesn’t make sense.” The words came easy to Luhan, who had repeated them to himself every night since the day he had filed the lawsuit. It had been necessary at the time, but then again, so was spending the rest of his life with Yixing and now, now none of that matters, because Luhan has had Yixing to bring him his sweater when the weather gets cold for many years now, and each one has been more fruitful than the last.

The first few years were easy, with Yixing playing the guitar to Luhan’s lead vocals, both professionally and privately. The former garnered more attention, of course, with Luhan’s clear, flawless voice melding beautifully with Yixing’s raw, heartfelt lyrics and impeccable fretwork. Casting off the boyband persona was something that seemed to come naturally with age (Luhan almost forgets that Yixing’s stage name was Lay), and as far as they were concerned, no one needed to know that at night, when the recording stopped and the sheet music and instruments were put away, Luhan snuggled up to Yixing, and listened to his lover whisper lyrics that were meant for him, and only him.

The inevitable wedding was something that everyone had seen coming - neither of them were fond of the idea of being bound by a piece of paper, but it was a matter of formalizing their relationship, and Luhan knew, as he had always known, that Yixing was the one for him, without a doubt (both their mothers had even shed a tear or two at the ceremony).

After a few years of living by themselves, the both of them came to the logical conclusion that the overspill of their love should be poured out on children – biological or not, it didn’t matter. This resulted in them adopting Jiale, a little boy who, at three months old, was big for his age, and loving him as their own. Two years later, a little girl, Jiaxuan, followed. Unlike her brother, she was delicate and on the small side, and despite none of them having any blood ties between them, they formed an unbreakable familial bond that proved all their naysayers wrong. Two years ago, Jiale had gotten married and promptly started raising a family of his own (two dogs, one hamster), and had a baby on the way – heralding the start of endless chats on sleepless nights, toddler feeding adventures and first days at school, all of which Luhan and Yixing were more than familiar with.

“Did Jiale say he was going to drop by this evening after work? He left us a voicemail on the answering machine, but that phone he bought us for Christmas is too new-fangled for my taste.” Yixing says, pulling away for a bit to frown at the clock, which reads 7.30 in the evening.

The corners of Luhan’s lips curve up in amusement, highlighting the laugh lines and crow’s feet that have deepened only slightly with age, as he gestures that Yixing needn’t worry about that. “He got held up at the office, but he’ll be here with Jiaxuan later on. He’s picking her up from home.” At the mention of their children, Luhan reaches up to pat Yixing’s head affectionately.“记忆还是老样子，没有我你会怎样？”

Yixing respectfully agrees, humming as he nods and tilts his head in Luhan’s direction for patting, and his answer couldn’t be more genuine, if only because it is true. “You’re right, I’d be lost without you.” He moves to place Luhan’s hand in his, so they are sitting side by side and palm to palm (Luhan seems to remember that Shakespeare once wrote something about that – a memory from high school literature classes, if his memory serves him right). Luhan lets his thoughts dally for a moment, but then Yixing tilts his chin towards him to kiss him, and even after all these years, Luhan’s heart still skips a beat.

“我爱你” The words that fall from Yixing’s lips - simple, but true, and most of all, reciprocated, just as they have been and will be. A knock sounds at the door, interrupting their tender moment, and the sounds of boisterous laughter that follow are a clear indication that their evening is just about to start. Luhan pulls away, but doesn’t let go of Yixing’s hands, squeezing them affectionately before gesturing in the direction of the door.

“唉，老的，咱们过去开门儿吧。”

Yixing nods and gets up, giving Luhan a hand up as well. Living out the sunset of their lives isn't so bad, Luhan thinks, as long as he has Yixing by his side to see things through.

[Fic] Serendipity And Other Life Events

heartsnote — Thu, 09 Oct 2014 14:48:46 GMT

//Pairing//: Xiumin x Luhan
//Prompt//: N/A
//Rating//: PG
//Summary//: Sometimes things in life just fall into place. Remix of 21walker's Dibs!
//Word Count//: 2,547
//Author's Note//: Thanks to hoyah for beta-ing. Many hearts.

Originally posted here as part of the 2014 Kpop Ficmix.

i.

“You do realize that you can’t yell in the library, right?”

Luhan dusts off the base of his backpack before slinging it over one shoulder and hurrying to catch up with Minseok, who is currently furrowing his eyebrows at him and generally looking like he isn’t very impressed. He wrinkles his nose and runs his fingers through his blonde hair before declaring (if a little weakly). “But Minseok, she was looking at you all googly-eyed, I couldn’t possibly not say anything about it.”

“Yes, but Luhan, one more time and we get banned from the campus library. I can’t get banned from the campus library – I have a degree to finish. I need the campus library.” Minseok huffs and hugs his textbooks closer to his chest while shuffling away to evade Luhan’s attempts to reach for his hand. “Besides, I don’t understand this ‘dibs’ business at all. I have a name.”

If fault was to be allocated, Minseok would have to place the blame on Joonmyun. His roommate had dragged him to that after-exams party (that he hadn’t wanted to attend in the first place), and had swiftly abandoned him within minutes of them arriving in favor of some sweet young thing, exposing him to the elements and the wiles of some drunk individuals who just seemed to “know him from somewhere”. Meeting Luhan had been an unexpected twist to his night, and even now, three weeks into the new semester, the jury was still out on whether their serendipitous meeting was a good or bad thing.

The upside of it all was that Luhan was funny, smart (when not shouting), an incredibly good kisser, and very easy on the eyes. The downside was, of course, that he kept on getting Minseok evicted from public places for being the cause of someone disturbing the peace.

“Let me make it up to you – I swear I won’t do it again.” Luhan’s bottom lip juts out in a pout as he quickens his pace to keep in step with Minseok, who by the way is still refusing to hold his hand. “I’ll buy you dinner.” Silence, since Minseok was determined not to give in so easily. It worked, because there was a touch of pleading in Luhan’s voice when he spoke next, wide eyes intent on getting Minseok to come round. “Let me buy you dinner.”

Minseok sighs with the air of someone who has heard this request exactly fifteen times in the past three weeks. “You’re really persistent, you know,” he says, while folding his arms across his chest in a last-ditch attempt to evade a hand-hold (this later fails, when Luhan reaches to tug on Minseok’s pinky finger, and oh, how easily one’s defenses fall).

“Well I wasn’t going to let you be a random hook-up forever.” Luhan says that with a shrug of his shoulders, and boy, his golden hair almost sparkles in the March sunlight. “I’m Chinese, we have proverbs about persistence.” Luhan catches Minseok’s gaze, right before his lips curve up into a bright smile, and Minseok cannot help the way his heart starts to race involuntarily as a result. So, he gives in.

“Fine. Fine, you win.”

Luhan’s smile only gets brighter as he punches the air triumphantly, and it takes all of Minseok’s willpower not to grin along with him.

ii.

For their first date, Minseok meets Luhan at a small, hole-in-the-wall café, where they eat plate after plate of churros dipped in cinnamon sugar and chocolate, and talk about everything under the sun for hours. By the end of it, Minseok feels like he has most certainly put on something like twenty pounds thanks to all that overeating, but his fears of an expanding waistline are quelled when he walks Luhan back to his dorm, and is rewarded by plush lips delivering warm, cinnamon-scented kisses to his own slightly chapped ones.

“I’ll have to see you again, just for that.” He can feel himself cringing from the cheesiness of what he has just said, and god, his cheeks are practically burning from embarrassment. Luhan, though is thankfully unfazed.

“If that’s you asking me out on a date, then I’ll see you next week. After your Friday afternoon lecture?”

Minseok graciously accepts, and he is pleased enough not to really question how come Luhan is aware that he has a Friday afternoon lecture.

They go back the next week, and the weeks after that, until Minseok finally stages an intervention, on grounds that he can’t actually do up his favorite jeans anymore.

Luhan just grins and lets his gaze dip down to Minseok’s (admittedly slightly bloated) waistline. “That’s alright,” he says with a coy shake of his head, before closing the distance between them to pull Minseok into an embrace. “Your jeans look much better on my bedroom floor anyway.”

iii.

“Ladies first,” Minseok quips as he opens the door to their new apartment and steps aside to let Luhan through. This earns him a grunt and shove from his decidedly unladylike companion and, as an added bonus, some sore toes when Luhan playfully tramples on his feet on his way in, accidentally-on-purpose.

“This place is exactly how I imagined it,” Luhan coos as he hurries past the breadth of their new one-room studio apartment to the balcony, leaving a wincing Minseok in his wake. “No,” He breathes quietly, before running his fingers through his now-light brown hair. There is a touch of amazement in Luhan’s voice as he keeps his gaze trained on their newfound surroundings. “It’s better.”

They had been apartment-hunting for a while before they found the place that was to become their home. Minseok figured it was high time for them to move out of university housing, particularly since a college dorm room was no place for a PhD student to live. The place they had eventually chosen was a loft villa apartment in Hongdae, just a stone’s throw away from food and entertainment for not a lot of money (since PhD students were also, alas, not rich).

“You forget we still have a ton of boxes – most of which are your shoes – waiting outside in the corridor.” Minseok casts a rather harried look over his shoulder in the direction of the open front door as he speaks. “We should go pick that stuff up before someone takes it away.”

Luhan ignores his boyfriend in the most spectacular fashion, before moving to open the screen doors to let in some fresh morning air. Once he steps out onto the balcony, he throws his shoulders back to take a deep, deep breath. “I can practically smell the goodness in the air, filling my lungs.”

In all honesty, the only thing Minseok can smell is the vague odor of cooked food wafting up from the food center beside their new place, but the scent of Luhan’s cologne when he leans in to press a kiss against his temple more than makes up for it. They can always pick their stuff up later, after all. Luhan just tilts his head towards the brush of Minseok’s lips, chuckling softly before reaching up to curve his palm against the softness of the other boy’s cheek.

“Let’s go get those shoes then, baozi.”

iv.

They have a huge fight the day before Minseok hands in his doctoral thesis. Months and months of slaving over this one project (affectionately dubbed “Minseok’s baby” by Luhan) has made Minseok’s temper short and he snaps at Luhan for forgetting to buy their dinner that night. The way he sees it, he now faces an all-nighter spent putting the finishing touches to his thesis with only instant ramyeon to keep him going, instead of piping hot, comforting cooked food from the shikdang down the street, and that is practically criminal.

Minseok only realizes the strain his studies have put on their relationship when he hears the front door slam and Luhan’s footsteps echoing down the corridor, but his pride stops him from calling him back. Instead, he attempts to drown himself in sorting out his thesis, but then, home without Luhan isn’t really home and, half an hour later, Minseok is wandering the streets, trying to look for a boy who isn’t answering his phone.

He leaves messages – numerous voice messages – as each call he makes goes through to voice mail.

“Luhan? Luhan?”

“Luhan, I’m sorry, please pick up.”

“I’m sorry I was a jerk, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

“You’re not at any of the places we usually go to. Where are you?”

“Please don’t leave me.”

He returns home only to find Luhan asleep on the couch, clearly exhausted, along with a packet of cold food sitting on the kitchen bench. Luhan stirs when Minseok, awash with relief, goes to envelope him in hugs, kisses and apologies.

“You big silly,” Luhan murmurs, his voice still addled with sleep as he holds Minseok close and weaves his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. “I’d never leave you.”

v.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Luhan asks one day in November over flat whites at their favorite coffee joint, just days before their third anniversary. Today, Luhan is all smiles as he sits across Minseok at their small, round table, legs crossed at the ankles in a not-so-subtle attempt at under-table footsie. Minseok deftly avoids his boyfriend’s advances in view of them being in a public place, but this only lasts about five minutes before he gives in, letting Luhan’s feet nudge against his (Luhan’s smile gets a little bit brighter, when he knows he has won).

“Yes, our eyes met across a crowded room, and then you puked all over my shoes.” That is a pretty accurate summary, if Minseok says so himself, and he grins at the other boy before cupping his coffee mug in both hands and raising the rim to his mouth to take a sip. Perhaps letting Luhan’s feet in close proximity of his was a bad idea, because next thing he knows, he gets cracked across the shins with the heel of Luhan’s Nike Airs. Minseok doubles over to nurse his injured shins (that will bruise itself up a treat tomorrow), but can’t help chuckling at the memory.

“For the avoidance of doubt,” he says, once he sits up again and adjusts his black-framed glasses, “It was a pretty awesome first meeting.” It is now Minseok’s turn to nudge his feet closer to Luhan’s and, to his delight, the other boy doesn’t resist him. “I have never enjoyed getting puked on more in my life.”

Luhan just clicks his tongue and mutters something under his breath about how Minseok is a meanie, but Minseok knows that he appreciates the sentiment nevertheless from the way the other boy’s lips curve upwards ever so slightly after. Luhan gets embarrassed every time he brings up the puking incident (which is strange, because Luhan is almost always the one who mentions the first time they met), but Minseok doesn’t mind, because he absolutely loves the way the tips of the other boy’s ears turn red whenever he gets bashful.

“Shut up, you,” is the best comeback Luhan comes up with, though his words have no bite, since he reaches over to pat the back of Minseok’s hand and give it an affectionate squeeze before pulling away. “You are literally the best reason why I stayed in Korea after graduation.”

Minseok’s eyes crinkle with mirth when he hears Luhan’s raw confession. “Oh really? What other reasons did I have to contend with?”

Luhan refuses to say what those reasons are (Minseok highly suspects that one of them is Korean fried chicken), so he lets the topic slide. That information is nothing new to Minseok – he is well aware that he is the reason behind Luhan staying on in Seoul past graduation, and the ring sitting in the freezer at home (the only place in the house Luhan isn’t likely to look in) is a clear indicator of his intentions.

“Come on, let’s go home,” he says, once their coffee mugs have been drained. Minseok stands up to grab his coat before reaching over to ruffle Luhan’s hair, which has grown darker of late, letting his roots grow through, since constantly dyeing one’s hair is too high-maintenance. Luhan looks up with mock disgruntlement, but that is swiftly replaced by a smile as he gets up too.

“Yeah, let’s.”

vi.

Paris, France is a bit of an incongruous place for them to find themselves in, but then, Luhan declares, why get married any place other than in the bona fide City of Love?

(City of Light, Minseok gently corrects - and numerous times at that - but nevertheless, Luhan ignores him, and jogs down the Champs-Élysées chanting “City of Love, City of Love” in a sing-song voice on their first day. Minseok can’t stop himself from leaning against a lamppost and chuckling as he watches the back of Luhan’s head bob further and further down the street.)

The hassle they have to go through is incredible. From the very start, they have to jump through hoop after hoop after hoop, just to be eligible to get married. There even is a low period where Luhan picks at the woolen blanket that Minseok drapes over him on a cold January morning, muttering how things might be so much easier if one of them had been a girl. “Do you resent this?” Luhan sounds exhausted, and Minseok is too, but all he does is smile and shake his head before pulling him into a warm embrace. “Luhan, you’re worth every inconvenience.”

He knows he is right, and when they stand outside the town hall on a sun-dappled day in April, Minseok figures that he wouldn't have had it any other way.

“You are the most beautiful person I have ever seen.”

He says this without any doubt, because the years have been kind to Luhan, and he stands there, smart and fresh in his suit, lips curving up into a shy kind of smile in response to what Minseok says. “You’re just saying that,” Luhan murmurs, before shuffling his feet (in Givenchy loafers, no less). “Anyway, how many times do we have to go through this? Not cute, manly.”

Minseok barely has time to roll his eyes at that old chestnut, before Luhan clears his throat while fidgeting with his boutonniere, and says in the most serious of voices. “Although, I have something important to tell you.”

When Minseok looks up, he can see the springtime in Luhan’s eyes, and yes, he is completely enamored of the way they crinkle at the edges. Luhan smiles that brilliant smile of his when he catches his eye, and playfully nudges Minseok with an elbow. “I’ve got cold feet, Minseok. What do we do?”

Luhan is a jerk for making jokes at a time like this, but Minseok knows better than to get anxious. Instead, he repeats a line that someone, a long time ago, once said to him as he reaches for Luhan’s hand.

“That’s okay, we have the rest of our lives to get to know each other.”

They kiss under the sun, and the stars thereafter, and there is no doubt in Minseok’s mind that this is exactly the way things were supposed to turn out.

[fic] Meet Me In Tianjin

heartsnote — Sun, 22 Jun 2014 15:15:20 GMT

//Pairing//: Lay x Luhan
//Prompt//: Here
//Rating//: PG
//Summary//: Yixing goes to visit Luhan in Tianjin on a whim and a very tight schedule, only to get much more than he bargained for.
//Word Count//: 1,546
//Author's Note//: Thanks to Nat for beta-ing.

Yixing wakes up with a lump in his throat the day Luhan leaves for filming in Beijing. The guys all take turns hugging their bandmate goodbye before they head off to the airport, and Yixing dutifully waits his turn, pulling the older boy into an embrace when their glances cross. Yixing hugs Luhan once, and in a moment of frailty, doesn’t let go until his best friend gently removes his arms from around his waist.

“Don’t worry man, we’ll be in the same country in a couple of days.” Luhan is optimistic as always, his voice reasonably upbeat, which Yixing knows is his tactic to hide the slight trepidation of not doing well on his first solo filming assignment. “You can call me all day then.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I’ll talk your ear off after talking for hours in front of a live studio audience.” Luhan just laughs, and gives him an affectionate pat on the shoulder before picking up his travel bag. “See you in a couple of weeks, Xing. I’ll miss you.” Yixing just chuckles quietly and pulls away from the hug rather reluctantly, sticking his hands deep in his pockets after in an attempt to appear less affected about Luhan’s temporary departure than he actually is.

In actual fact, he knows that it is to stop himself from holding them out again for one last hug.

***

The idea of getting from Beijing to Tianjin is the proverbial seed that plants itself into the fertile soil of Yixing’s mind en route to Beijing for that MC-ing gig of his. He stops writing sheet music for the bud of a song that he has been nurturing for the past week, filing the loose-leaf papers away carefully before turning to his manager (who is dozing in the passenger seat beside him).

“How do I get from Beijing to Tianjin?”

***

The answer, as Yixing soon finds out, is by overland train, and after filming wraps, he asks the driver to send him to the Beijing South Railway Station, heart set on making the last train for the night, if the train schedules he brings up on the internet are to be trusted. The driver, as all good drivers do, doesn’t ask why, but not many fans follow Yixing around in China (his Xingmis are perennially well-behaved), and the change in route is taken in stride.

Getting to Beijing South Railway Station is a real bitch, even at past ten at night. Yixing’s heart begins to get faster with each second that ticks past, his gaze flitting from the car clock to his own watch to his phone, checking and cross-checking the time, just to make sure.

“Thank you! Have a good night!” When the driver pulls up to the station drop-off point, Yixing, in his eagerness, doesn’t wait for the car to come to a complete stop before alighting, shutting the door before making a run for the ticket booth.

***

The platform for the K101 11.20pm train to Tianjin is drafty and reasonably deserted, even for the early days of summer, and Yixing ends up sitting on a railing, texting Luhan as his fingers tremble with anticipation.

Meet me in Tianjin.

It sounds quite romantic, he thinks, but then his bubble bursts quickly when Luhan responds, five minutes before the train pulls into Tianjin Station.

I /am/ in Tianjin, you fool.

Yixing doesn’t have time to type a response, when his phone buzzes thanks to a second message from Luhan.

Are you coming to visit me?

Luhan’s spidey senses have always been quite strong (except, when they aren’t), and Yixing can’t help but smile when the other boy guesses right on the first try.

I’m at the station.

The response he gets is exactly what he expected.

I’ll come get you.

***

Luhan pulls him into an embrace when he steps into the car, and not long after, they find themselves sitting opposite each other in a small café, Luhan looking slightly shifty and unwilling to head back to his hotel. They both skirt around the subject of why for about ten minutes (long after the coffee is gone), and finally Luhan just sighs and shakes his head.

“These people follow me around all the time. I mean, it’s becoming stupid.” He pauses, and Yixing notices that Luhan has consciously chosen a seat with his back facing the café entrance. “I’m glad the ones who were on set today gave up and went home when filming dragged on behind schedule a bit.”

For all his 24 years, Luhan looks small, and a little lost and helpless as he speaks, which makes Yixing feel lost and helpless too. He wants to reach out and take the other boy’s hands in his in a show of solidarity, but his fingers barely stretch out fully before he pulls back without going further.

“You came in on the last train, right?” Luhan asks, when Yixing doesn’t reply. “How are you intending to get back?” Yixing looks up, slightly startled in the realization that he has gotten lost in his own thoughts again, and Luhan, despite the precariousness of his present situation, is more concerned for Yixing instead.

“O-oh, I… uh.” Yixing hadn’t thought about that, and he shrugs, because the next train is at 7am the following day, and in all honesty, Yixing has never really been on point with scheduling, anyway. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to answer because Luhan figures it out for him. “I’ll get the driver to send you back once we’re done.” It is Luhan who reaches over to take his hand, squeezing it tight as he curls his fingers over Yixing’s, his smile brightening his expression, and Yixing has to check himself as his heart involuntarily skips a beat.

***

“Do you think we’ll ever find our feet again?” Yixing asks, rather abruptly, on the way back to the car after they get kicked out of the café when the owner wants to close up. He can tell that it blindsides Luhan, from the way his eyes shine in the dim light of a nearby streetlamp. Luhan doesn’t say anything, but Yixing knows he is well aware of what he is referring to.

It is a while before Luhan responds, his voice sounding small and unsure as he kicks at a stone that has fallen by the path. “I don’t know.”

He expects Luhan’s answer, and Yixing doesn’t have anything good to say to that – not when his own mind is whizzing with a thousand burning what-ifs and could-have-beens that may never come true.

“I guess I just hoped our path would have been easier.” Yixing’s response just elicits a quiet chuckle from Luhan as he shakes his head.

“You know even without all of this, it wouldn’t have been easy.”

They end up buying ice creams from a convenience store and sit in the car to enjoy the air-conditioning while the driver goes out to the road shoulder to have a smoke. “So why did you come over? It’s damn late.” Luhan’s voice is husky from being awake for the past goodness knows how many hours, but his tone remains light, right before he winces and cups his own cheek, mumbling “brainfreeze”.

Yixing looks up with ice cream on his lips, his mind grinding to a halt, because why did he come over? He has always known the answer –because me without you doesn’t feel right, because I miss you, because– He doesn’t allow himself to continue that thought, because to do so would be to dip his toes into something that he isn’t quite prepared to acknowledge.

“I … just felt like – I missed you.” That part, at least, he has come to terms with.

Luhan just chuckles, and nudges him gently. “You just felt like you missed me? I must be really missable, huh?” He then slings his arm around Yixing’s shoulders and draws him close for a warm hug. Yixing melts into the hug, giving in as he nods in acknowledgment.

“You are.”

When he looks up, Luhan is looking back at him with what can only be affection in his eyes. There is something there that wasn’t there before, and Yixing feels his pulse quicken when he realizes how close they are. He feels Luhan’s warm breath against his cheek, and it would be so easy to bridge the distance between them and just know—

It would be too rash, too hasty, too imprecise. Not at a time like this.

So he doesn’t. Instead, Yixing holds his arms out to embrace the other boy and hold him close, reaching out for that last hug as his heart aches.

***

Yixing dozes off on the way back to Beijing, but Luhan doesn't have the heart to wake him. It is two hours each way, and Luhan will have to buy the driver a really good breakfast the next morning, but he doesn’t mind so much – not when he gets to have Yixing’s head lying on his shoulder, his breathing even as he looks nothing short of serene. “Thanks for coming to see me.” He whispers that as he rests his chin against the crown of Yixing’s head, before his eyes eventually close, head resting against the other boy’s as he, finally, gets some much-needed rest.

[fic] Video Store Woes

heartsnote — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 00:51:47 GMT

//Pairing//: Xiuchen, or maybe it's all in Minseok's head
//Prompt//: Weirdo in the video store
//Rating//: G
//Summary//: All Minseok wants is to watch a good movie.
//Word Count//: 1,234
//Author's Note//: For hoyah. The movie and t-shirt references were relevant, not sure why. u__u Regretfully un-beta-ed.

Crazily enough, this was translated to Russian here by antanya. Wow!

The name on the damaged neon sign reads “_R_AT VIDEO”, which is enough to make Minseok chuckle as he makes his way to the burnt-out video store down the street from his slightly dingy apartment. Unfortunately, nothing else about this particular jaunt is very amusing, because it’s drizzling out, and why in the world does he always draw the short straw when it comes to picking who goes to the video store?

“Your turn to rent movies!”

From the way his housemates Luhan and Yixing snicker every time they say that, Minseok’s pretty sure the whole selection process is rigged.

Minseok pushes open the slightly worn glass door to the store, but the girl who is usually on duty (Was her name Hanbyul?) is nowhere to be seen. In her place, there is a boy manning the counter with a slightly crooked name badge that declares “Hi! My name is Jongdae”.

“How can I help.” Hi! My name is Jongdae sets his dog-eared copy of PC Gamer down on the counter and looks up at him lazily. Minseok notes that the other boy’s face doesn’t extend the same courtesy, although he is wearing a Darth Vader t-shirt that looks awfully like something Minseok would wear himself.

“Ehm… I need a movie recommendation?” Minseok isn’t quite sure why his request ends up sounding more like a weird question. Mentally, he blames it on the fact that there are no big releases out, and from the looks of what is available in the store, his best option seems to be something called “The Quiet American”, which he reckons won’t really impress his housemates very much (his express instructions were to get “an action movie”). “An action movie. The Amazing Spider Man, or something”

Hi! My name is Jongdae purses his lips, gives Minseok a brief once-over, and turns to frown at the remaining video titles on the shelf before picking one from the stack and placing it on the counter. “… here.”

“Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” Minseok squints at the title because this isn’t what he asked for. “Doesn’t this count as horror?”

Nonplussed, Hi! My name is Jongdae shrugs and states his case. “Murdering someone is an action.” He taps his fingers impatiently against the counter as he says this. “It’s either that, or –“ There is a dramatic pause for effect, as a smile curves slyly along his lips. “… The Quiet American.”

Minseok has never made a split-second decision faster in his life (primarily because he doesn’t know any Americans, quiet or otherwise, he justifies). “I’ll take it.”

Before he leaves, Minseok gestures towards the Darth Vader t-shirt, and nods, in an attempt at building rapport. “Cool t-shirt, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Hi! My name is Jongdae looks up from his magazine and gives him a half-smile. “Yours… looks like a t-shirt.”

As if that wasn’t enough, Luhan and Yixing yell at him when he gets home because which part of action movie did you not understand?! But then Luhan pops the DVD in the player in a fit of frustration, because none of them have dates or anything remotely interesting to do on a Friday night. All three of them spend it huddled against each other, peeking at the TV screen through their fingers.

“That’s it, I’m getting my money back tomorrow.” Minseok declares with unequivocal certainty as the credits (finally) roll across the screen. After all, Hanbyul will be there tomorrow, and he can always try to charm her into giving him his money back (or at least, some store credit).

Sadly, his hopes are dashed when he makes the five-minute sprint from the tiny apartment to the video store. It doesn’t help that the sky is heavy with dark clouds, and large raindrops start to pepper the pavement just as he pushes the glass door open.

In his haste, he almost kicks over a stack of videos (and Jongdae, who was squatting by the entrance, arranging them on the shelves). Today, his t-shirt has a screened print of some sort of galaxy on it, swirled with purples and blues. If Minseok didn’t already hate him in theory for rebuffing his t-shirt compliment from the day before, he would feel compelled to ask where Jongdae shops.

“Hey! Watch it!” Jongdae draws himself to his full height at this point, and Minseok realizes (with a sickening lurch) that he’s a good few inches taller than him.

“Sorry,” He manages weakly, sounding vaguely apologetic as he holds up the Texas Chainsaw Massacre DVD. “Came to return this.”

“Already?” Jongdae’s expression clears up, and he takes the DVD from him, before heading over to the counter, stack of teetering videos momentarily forgotten. “That good, huh?”

No, actually I have to do the washing-up when I get home for not being able to follow simple instructions.

Instead, what comes out is a slightly strangled “….er. Yeah.” Eventually, his curiosity gets the better of him, and he hazards a follow-up question. “You know, the girl who usually works here—"

Jongdae doesn’t even let him finish. “She quit. You’re stuck with me now.” This is followed by a resigned shrug . “Mm… would you like a membership card?”

“What?” Minseok’s eyes widen at the very thought of that. “No, why would I –“

“You get 1,000₩ off your next rental…” Jongdae says this with an upward lilt of his voice that, annoyingly, seems to hint that this is a great deal, right before he delivers the kicker. “That’s two bottles of water.” Jongdae’s lips curve up into a smile, yet again.

“And I’ll give you another movie recommendation.”

Half an hour later, Minseok returns home with a digitally re-mastered copy of Pretty Woman, a brand-new video store membership card and (you guessed it) two bottles of mineral water from the mart. “Oh, my god,” It’s almost like Luhan can smell his defeat. “if you’ve brought back another crappy movie, I’m going to scream.”

Minseok silences all further argument by chucking the bottles of water (still ice-cold from the refrigerator in the mart) into Luhan’s lap, along with the Pretty Woman DVD. “This one won a Golden Globe Award – I think that makes it ok.”

“Don’t suppose you got your money back, did you?” Luhan’s voice taunts Minseok all the way down the narrow corridor.

Bellowing “Shut up!” back at him from his room is the best comeback Minseok can muster.

Despite all Luhan’s sneering, he ends up riveted to the screen once the movie starts. Minseok even swears that his housemate is more than a little misty-eyed when he walks in on him at what he can only assume is a particularly poignant moment.

The next day, he’s at the video store again.

“You guys really blaze through these movies,” Jongdae is wearing a periwinkle blue t-shirt today with a cartoon mug of coffee declaring “DRINK MEEE!”, which makes a smile tug at the corners of Minseok’s lips. Jongdae chuckles quietly as he beeps Pretty Woman back into the cataloguing system. “Or do you come back just so you can see me?”

“What? No, I – what?”

Minseok’s eyes widen with disbelief as he stammers his way through that non-sentence, but before he can say anything further, Jongdae slides a DVD emblazoned with the words “The Amazing Spider Man” across the counter towards him. Minseok looks up in mild confusion, but Jongdae just smiles enigmatically.

“On the house.”

[fic] Inefficient Vampirism

heartsnote — Sun, 01 Jul 2012 03:09:27 GMT

//Pairing//: Kris-centric, OT6
//Prompt//: comicbookending alleges that Kris looks like an awkward vampire.
//Rating//: PG-13, for a couple of uses of language.
//Summary//: After Kris gets "bitten" by what appears to be a vampire bat, his life will never be the same again.
//Word Count//: 1,837
//Author's Note//: I enjoyed writing it. I regret nothing. ^___^

Inefficient Vampirism

Tuesday, 7:36 p.m.

It starts on a Tuesday.

The skies grow dark and angry in a manner that bears the promise of terrible things to come. "Like a maelstrom," says the weatherman, in a surprising burst of creative prose, "that will sweep away everything in its path!" This is a sadly mistaken concept, seeing as a maelstrom tends to suck, more than sweep. "Perhaps he means a tsunami," Yixing says lazily, without budging from his spot on the couch, earning him a look of general bemusement from the four who sit alongside him. Despite the weatherman's inaccurate exaggeration, to Kris, the skies bear nothing but portent.

Mildly put-off by his band mates' latent lack of respect for the elements, he puts down his magazine and stomps off to bed on the pretext of having a migraine. He only emerges from his room long after dark, long after the rest of the occupants of the dorm have fallen asleep. All he wants to do is open a window – an innocent enough gesture –to feel the electricity in the air that a thunderstorm brings.

The silent glide of the glass panel brings an unwelcome visitor – a furry, black something that squeaks and barrels its way into the living room, clawing at Kris in the process. Kris tries to stop the onslaught, forearms and neck getting scratched (not the face, please, not the face), until a well-placed swipe lands the invader flat out on the parquet flooring. Kris’ face contorts into a horrified grimace when he realizes what it really is.

“Fuck, a bat--!”

Still nursing his battle scars, Kris reaches for a light switch, ignoring the fact that the rain has already started to come in, splattering erratically over the windowsill and the floor. He squats over the motionless body with an odd look on his face, even going so far as to poke it with a pen to see if it is still alive. Soon, red droplets begin to form on the floor by his feet, and he feels an odd slickness on his neck, eyes widening in surprise when realization sinks in.

Blood.

Wednesday, 8:02 a.m.

The change is gradual, but pronounced. Kris wakes up the next morning, feeling decidedly weak and anemic. His appetite is gone, and he eschews his morning congee in exchange for chewing on gum. Lots and lots of gum.

“Ge, you smell like spearmint,” Zitao says, sniffing the air vaguely when he walks past him on his way to the bathroom. Kris is hunched in front of his closet, lanky arms sorting through his clothing. “What’s the matter? It’s not like it’s a bad smell, right?” Is his subdued response, even though Kris’ tummy is rumbling from not having eaten anything the whole day. In swift, clean movements, he unhooks, unfolds and unbuttons all manner of colored clothing, chucking it in a black binliner, which seizes the younger boy’s attention even more than the odd whiff of mint.

“Ge… what are you doing?” The youngest doth protest at this, and he kneels at Kris’ feet beside the rapidly filling binliner, curious hands sifting through the gathering pile of clothes. “You’re throwing all these away? What a waste!” Kris just mumbles vaguely that he won’t be needing them anymore. Zitao’s curious eyes peer into what little is left in Kris’ closet, and is bemused to note that everything is either white or black.

“Why is—?” The question barely leaves Zitao’s lips, before he is silenced by one of Kris’ looks. The youngest doesn’t question further, but spends the rest of the week strutting around in the leader’s clothes – behavior that Kris doesn’t even try to curtail. “Oh, this old thing? Duizhang didn’t want it. He had a happy purge,” Zitao says proudly, whenever anyone compliments him on his snazzy new gear, right before he proceeds to educate them on the benefits of recycling any pre-loved clothing that may be hanging in their closets (“They get so lonely, hanging there. Why not let me have them? I’ll love them.”).

Thursday, 2:53 a.m.

Kris takes to wearing dark glasses whenever he can, be it day or night. This is a blessing, because the next few days bring a bout of God-given sunshine which masks the fact that his eyes are rimmed red from staying up all night. It’s not like Kris even does much at night – he just lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling with both hands crossed over his chest. What is not a blessing though, is how Yixing tries to pull his dark glasses off every chance he gets because “Ge, I can’t see your eyes,” and protests that “Ge! You could be staring at anything behind those sunglasses,” as well as an added “I feel uneasy.”

Kris just swats the younger boy’s curious fingers away, and keeps his Ray-Bans firmly on. Yixing eventually sees the funny side (not that there was one to begin with), and begins ominously humming Bi’s “Ways to Avoid the Sun” whenever Kris enters the room.

His roommate Jongdae is almost always fast asleep in the next bed, snoring gently and completely unaware of Kris’ odder-than-normal behavior. Come to think of it, Jongdae’s obliviousness is a boon, of sorts, because it means Kris can get up in the middle of the night and sneak outside to the kitchen area to stare weakly at the clingwrapped steaks that are laid out neatly in a stack on the top shelf of the freezer. The lady who does the housekeeping (no, contrary to popular belief, that’s not Minseok’s job) finally caved after weeks of Yixing’s begging and browbeating to please cook them steaks for dinner one of these days. When asked, Kris’ first reply was that he wanted his steak cooked rare. Really rare.

Jongdae only mumbles something inaudible in his sleep when Kris returns, hands icy-cold from fondling meat in the freezer. He doesn’t wake either, when Kris stubs his toe against his bedpost in the darkness and mutters something unprintable under his breath.

Ha, eagle eyes, my ass.

Friday, 9:25 p.m.

He notices that his canines seem pointier and longer than before, although much to his dismay, his skin retains a healthy, rosy glow, despite his nocturnal jaunts and general lack of sleep. Minseok wanders into the bathroom one day when Kris is doing a cursory dental inspection in front of the bathroom mirror, and shoots him what looks like an odd squint.

“What?” Kris retracts his index finger from where it has been pulling up his upper lip. Can you still see me? He almost asks. Because vampires don’t have reflections, do they? But he decides against it, because that would just be a bit weird.

In any case, Minseok responds with a probing question before he can comment further. “Why do you have one of Lu Han’s plasters on your neck?” Kris does a double-take at the plaster he hastily clapped over the bite in his (sadly wholly visible) reflection, and only now notices the tiny yellow birds hopping across its length and breadth.

Damn it.

Pointing this out just earns Minseok a dirty look though, as Kris claps one hand defensively over the maligned plaster.

“It was the only type we had!”

He says this in a voice thick with protest, while making a mental note (i) not to use Tweety Bird plasters ever again, and (ii) to run to the convenience store to buy some normal, flesh-colored ones, like normal people.

Minseok gives him a funny look again, mutters something about hickeys, and walks out of the bathroom while shaking his head.

Saturday, 7:21 p.m.

The next evening at dinner, a literal slab of merely seared meat is placed in front of him. “Has anyone wondered why a very rarely-cooked steak is called a blue steak?” Lu Han muses, as he chews thoughtfully on a mouthful of his dinner (cooked fragrant and medium-well, mind you). “I mean, it’s hardly blue – look at Duizhang’s plate!”

Kris spends the next 30 minutes wincing subtly as he chews on sinewy muscle and ignores the fact that his dinner tastes more like cow than steak. He also ignores the “witty” quips from his over-zealous band mates on the far side of the table (“Blue steaks – so rare, they’ll give you AIDS!”), and tries to shift his gaze from their exposed necks to the melamine surface of the dinner table. It helps even less when Zitao marches up to him with his laptop, clearly after being egged on by the others, which currently shows a picture of a cartoon cow grazing happily in a field of daisies.

“You’re eating this,” the youngest says this in hushed tones as he points at the screen, then at whatever’s left on Kris’ plate, just as Kris is laboring through another barely-cooked mouthful, which makes Kris very nearly want to throw his fork at him. Needless to say, Zitao beats a hasty retreat after completing his dare.

That night, the Tweety Bird plaster falls off in his sleep. He finds it crumpled up on his pillow in the morning, and when he looks at his reflection in the mirror again, he finds that the wound on his neck has healed over, without any trace that it ever existed.

Tuesday, 8.57 p.m.

It ends as swiftly as it started.

Outside, a storm brews as the occasional bolt of lightning forks through the skies, swiftly followed by a roll of thunder that sounds angry - menacing almost. "When I was younger, I used to imagine my upstairs neighbors were moving furniture around whenever there was a thunderstorm," Lu Han says while running his fingers through his hair, just as the thunder roars in the distance.

"There, that's a cabinet being pushed down the stairs right now!" This earns a babble of garrulous laughter from the younger members of the group, and a couple of gazes are cast skywards in curious contemplation.

Kris sits quietly in a corner of the living room, slightly away from the rest. The weather has gone back to being dismal, but he doesn’t really mind. Even his band mates agree that he behavior has gone back to normal (sort of) – not least because his sunglasses remain in their case unless his eyes actually need shielding from the sun, and because he insists on getting his food cooked through and piping hot before he even hazards a bite. Reclaiming his clothes from Zitao is a work-in-progress, and Kris foresees that it might take a little more coaxing before the youngest relents.

Another bout of laughter rises to the beams of their low ceiling when Lu Han tells another joke. Something about vampires and a mocked-up version of “Do I dazzle you?”

Kris can’t help but smile. That guy can be quite funny when he wants to. With a sigh, he puts his things away and rejoins the group.

“Hey! At least get Jongdae to be Bella, if you’re going to re-enact that line!”

It would never have worked out anyway.

[fic] Under the Mattress

heartsnote — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 15:58:57 GMT

//Pairing//: L x Sungyeol
//Prompt//: Under the mattress + additional inspiration: {✘}
//Rating//: PG
//Summary//: In which Sungyeol is an architect, and L is a skeptic.
//Word Count//: 1,225
//Author's Note//: For confettistars. I felt guilty for taking so long with the other one, so I bumped you up! ^^♥ Beta-ed by my lovely epik_sense! ^^

Sometimes, L thinks Sungyeol must be a bit special. At least, he thinks that sometimes, in response to what the other boy says, or from the way he reacts. Especially when he coos like a pigeon in L's ear for no particular reason (L has never had more vivid pigeon dreams in his life – who dreams about pigeons anyway?), or hides behind the shower curtain in their shoebox of a bathroom to scare the other members (L knows those are a few brain cells he will never see again – he still checks thoroughly before getting into the shower area – twice). To say the least, sometimes he thinks the one who ranks one step up from him on the age ladder may have a mental age of, oh, say, negative twelve.

This is coming from a person like L, who occasionally has the carriage and bearing of someone who is wise beyond his years (or just quiet and kind of creepy, Sungyeol will murmur, with an affectionate nudge against his shoulder, before humming the Death Note theme song with a chuckle – and hand actions), so he doesn't see it as anything out of the ordinary when he returns from dance practice one day and feels slightly irritated to see a fort constructed entirely with the couch cushions and various other bits of soft furnishings, sprawled with reckless abandon over the living room floor.

“It's a fort!” Sungyeol's slightly muffled voice rings out on cue, before L even has the time to formulate a proper question. One lanky arm is extended from behind a teepee-like construct (blankets draped over a couple of chairs arranged back-to-back, some distance apart), followed by a wave and the on-off, on-off of a flashlight from within. “It's Morse code for 'hi', backwards!” Sungyeol rattles on, finally emerging from his hiding place with a grin before clambering onto a rather threadbare ottoman, all lines and angles as he sits cross-legged on the squat seat. “I didn't want our messages to get intercepted,” He says in a conspiratorial fashion, which only earns him a look of infinite wonderment from his bandmate.

“By who?” L should really know better than to ask questions like that, because Sungyeol's mind works in strange and mysterious ways. Mostly strange, L amends his thought process with a mental note to himself.

“Whom,” Sungyeol says quickly, raising his index finger to correct L's grammar in one of his moments of latent genius, still sitting cross-legged on the ottoman. “And I don't know, someone. You never know who might be watching,” He laughs, an infectious laugh, and beckons to L from across the slightly mad jumble of cushions, pillows, and the like. “Come over here already! It's fun, you'll see! Bbali!”

L just shakes his head – Sungyeol's enthusiasm is undeniable, and he can't help but feel some of his previous irritation dissipate with the other boy's amiable request. “Ya, what made you decide... this, anyway?” He asks this of Sungyeol as he picks his way across the organized mess, mindful not to topple any of the upended chairs and – is that the mattress? L only now notices that the mattress from one of their beds (Sungjong's, from the looks of it – the repeated patterns of toy sailboats are a dead giveaway) has been propped up to form some kind of makeshift retaining wall in the corner of the living room.

“Of course! Don't you think I did a pretty good job?” Sungyeol's proud voice rings in his ears again, and L realizes that he must have said that out loud. He purses his lips and points towards the offending structure (if he can even call it that), his expression nothing short of skeptical. “Why did you even--”

“Just sit down,” Sungyeol says, having found his way through the soft jumble of debris by now with arms akimbo as he stands (very nearly head and shoulders above, mind you) beside L, who, very reluctantly, does as he is told. He reckons that by sitting down he will run a lesser risk of dismantling something, because at this point, everything looks like the slightest push will dislodge something. He almost leans against the relatively solid mattress, but stops himself from doing so, and in any case, Sungyeol's long fingers grab his forearm to coax him into desisting.

“Hoya did that just now, and the daikon plushie came tumbling down on him,” Sungyeol's regular smile and easy manner is evident as he briefly relates the incident, all the while pointing up at said daikon plushie which is now sitting pretty again, perched atop the mattress in a haphazard way that suggests Hoya paid dearly for this misstep. “Everyone's had a go at the fort, besides you,” There is a hurt edge to Sungyeol's voice, like he is being reproachful for L not being at home all day, but this is quickly replaced once again by his boundless enthusiasm. “I've got the fort plan all figured out – there's a tunnel over there – Nam Passage - that I've named after Woohyun hyung, and that over there? I've called it Dongwoo Street...” Sungyeol jib-jabbers away, while L listens, just listens. He sits there, one hand cupping his cheek as he looks up at his bandmate's lanky figure, currently gesticulating as he relates a story about how Sunggyu hyung wanted to ... something, or – L doesn't get to hear the end of it, because with a careless sweep of his hand, Sungyeol manages to send the mattress flopping down on the both of them with a rather depressing “whomp-whomp” sound.

For L, it's almost like his world comes crashing down around his ears, in a way that he's never quite imagined possible.

Sungyeol, you are quite special.

L comes to this conclusion as he stares back at Sungyeol underneath the relatively small pocket of space that separates them. The shock of the mattress falling (the toy sailboats look like they're dancing, from the corner of his eye) makes spots appear before his eyes, but enough light filters through the gaps for him to see the smile on Sungyeol's face – a smile that somehow makes everything, no matter how dire, seem okay again.

“We push on the count of three, okay? One, two...” With a laugh and a chuckle, Sungyeol pushes at the mattress with both hands and feet, letting the living room light flood in again. With a heave, he manages to push the mattress back into place, even reaching up to replace the daikon plushie in its original position (it is clear he has no intention of dismantling the fort, not even for bedtime).

L only pushes with one hand – his attention (just like his irritation) is otherwise dissipated.

Once everything is all over, Sungyeol laughs, and pats the mattress into place, smoothing the printed toy sailboats out with long, slender fingers. He turns to L, hair slightly tousled, cheeks slightly pink with the effort of mattress-hoisting. He jerks a thumb in the general direction of the living room, and smirks at L. “Let's go get some sleep in Nam Passage tonight? It's big enough for two.”

Yes, without a doubt, Sungyeol is quite special, quite special indeed.

Reawaken

heartsnote — Mon, 28 Mar 2011 16:33:56 GMT

I have been away for so long!

It all started with embarking on a full-time job, so I'm sorry, first and foremost, for neglecting this fic journal, my WIPs and my fic requests, and all the lovely people I've met through the writing process. Mianhaeyo!

But I'm slowly getting back in the swing of things. I can do this!

I hope all of you are well, and that life is treating you good. If you have a burning fic desire that you'd like me to conjure up for you, please feel free to leave it here, or if you'd like to go over the ground again (and/or reassess me one more time), please go here.

Questions? Queries? Suggestions? Please go here.

That's it for now, so please excuse me whilst I go back into my writing cave and get started with clearing the outstanding requests! ^__^v

[fic] The Taste of Rain

heartsnote — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 16:30:07 GMT

//Pairing//: Doojoon x Junhyung
//Prompt//: {✗} + "under the rain"
//Rating//: PG-13
//Summary//: Junhyung meets Doojoon when they're both stranded outside the convenience store.
//Word Count//: 1,859
//Author's Note//: For daetothebak - I hope the end product is to your liking! Sorry for taking so long! Thanks to comicbookending for beta-ing.

The first time they meet, it’s outside the convenience store. Well, not exactly the first time, as in, the first time ever, because Junhyung has noticed Doojoon plenty of times, mostly when he’s making a monkey of himself on the University’s Astroturf (he means that in the most affectionate way possible). But the first time they meet – as in, for real, with actual greetings and everything (that’s not exactly true either, because Junhyung only sort of squeaks in response to Doojoon’s outstretched hand and throaty laugh – Junhyung never squeaks), the first time they meet, it’s outside the convenience store.

“Quickly Convenience Store - Quickly does it!”

The red-and-white signboard assaults Junhyung’s eyes as he saunters into his local corner shop. He grabs a worn plastic basket from the stack by the door and starts picking ‘essentials’ (tinned sardines, beef jerky, beer) off the tightly-packed shelves. If he didn’t live in such a crappy neighborhood, Junhyung would be able to afford food with a better nutritional index, instead of the stuff he’s buying that probably even his fictional pet dog wouldn’t eat. His housemates Hyunseung and Dongwoon complain that they can’t live on beans and toast forever, no matter how tantalizing that sounds, but they shovel down whatever Junhyung puts on the table, so he figures they can’t mind all that much. Since Junhyung got sacked from his one good gig hauling speakers around Itaewon because he somehow “needed” 22 hours of sleep, finances have been tight, to say the least.

Plus, the supermarket is too far away, so Quickly Convenience Store will have to do.

He stands in line for the cashier, his bobbly sweater an odd-shade of deep pink (to date, Dongwoon has apologized about 57 times for putting the coloreds in with the whites, but Junhyung still hasn’t really forgiven him – it was his best sweater, dammit, 58 apologies wouldn’t hurt). His basket creaks precariously and a broken piece of plastic snags his sweater, eliciting a string of colorful swear words from his lips. The teenage mother standing in line in front of him covers her baby son’s ears with both hands in response to this, shooting him a look of hatred that almost makes Junhyung wants to laugh in her face and say hey baby girl, if the condom hadn’t broke, you wouldn’t be here with that aegi in the first place. But he just bites his tongue and picks at the loose threads on his sweater, adding an extra cuss word or two just to spite her (small triumphs like these are … well, they’re Junhyung’s only triumphs at this point, pretty much).

He doesn’t look at the cardboard standee of cigarettes while paying. Two months ago Junhyung realized that he was spending more money on nicotine-flavored cancer sticks than on actual food and transport, so he made the bold decision to quit smoking (by quit he meant stop buying them – it didn’t mean he couldn’t steal the occasional drag or ten from Hyunseung’s nightly smoke). He thinks by avoiding eye contact with all that tobacco, he will be able to resist the burgeoning urge in him to smoke until he forgets his name (is that even possible? Junhyung doesn’t know, it just sounds epic).

He reaches for a lollipop instead.

This results in him standing outside the convenience store, his plastic bag of junk food in one hand, and one vanilla-flavored lollipop in the other. He squats on the step outside the store just staring at it, until he decides that it’ll go to waste otherwise and apparently simple sugars can be as deadly as nicotine (he just says that to comfort himself – it’s not exactly true), so what the heck. He unwraps the sucker (get it, get it) and rolls the wrapper up into a ball as he sticks the candy in his mouth, just as hard, angry raindrops hit the pavement.

Ah, frick.

He’s stuck outside without an umbrella, so Junhyung has every intention of squatting where he is and waiting it out, until his thoughts are interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps – footsteps that are connected to beat-up canvas shoes, leading up to khaki pants and a white shirt with an upturned collar. Footsteps that belong to feet that almost bypass him, before they do an about-turn and 5 feet 8 (almost 9) inches of slightly damp Doojoon land right beside him.

“Damn thing won’t light,” is the first thing he says, after giving Junhyung the obligatory nod and grunt of acknowledgment at having infiltrated his personal space thus unceremoniously. He is fiddling with a cigarette (also slightly soggy), holding a cheap lighter to its tip, the weak flame drawing nothing but the odd wisp of smoke (disappointing, to say the least). Junhyung wants to say that he knows how that feels – instead, he says “Hello.”

Doojoon looks at him like he’s crazy, but whether he really does, Junhyung doesn’t know, because he laughs, and sticks his hand out towards him. “Hey, Doojoon. You?” Again, Junhyung wants to say “I know”, but he doesn’t, and this is where the squeak comes in (furthermore, he has a mouthful of vanilla lollipop, which makes things that much more difficult, obviously). But he takes Doojoon’s hand and shakes it anyway, accompanied with a slightly oddly-pitched “I’m Junhyung,” in response.

Once he swallows (vanilla-flavored saliva, nervousness, hero-worship), he manages to make actual conversation.

“I thought athletes weren’t supposed to smoke?”

So much for making actual conversation, Junhyung thinks, with an inward sigh at his obvious non-starter of a conversation topic. The rain is getting heavier now, and his shoes and the edges of his pants are getting wet – as are Doojoon’s, but neither of them seem to care, because Doojoon just laughs, and stuffs both cigarette and lighter into his pocket.

“Yeah. And I thought nice boys weren’t supposed to hang out in neighborhoods like this?”

This makes Junhyung laugh. A sense of humor, now that’s a first. “At least you’re funny,” he says in a tone of voice that breaks the ice – Junhyung’s always had a talent for that… not. Though this time, it really does.

“And if not?” Doojoon sidles closer to him to let someone else pass, using his mustard yellow backpack as a cushion as he holds one palm outstretched, watching raindrops splash off his fingertips (though he does retract his hand eventually to try his luck with the hapless cigarette again - tick, tick, boom).

“If not, you’d just be all beauty with no brains,” Junhyung’s gaze seizes up for a moment, because, Yong Junhyung, could you be any more gay with a guy you just met? No, this isn’t gay - this is just being funny. Humorous. “No one likes a meathead.”

“Yeah, my girlfriend might say otherwise,” Doojoon says coolly with a roll of his eyes, making a sound of approval when he finally gets the cigarette to light, and starts attempting to blow blue smoke rings that make Junhyung’s lollipop start to taste very inferior in comparison (he can almost taste the musky scent on his tongue). Junhyung bites down on the spherical impediment, cracking a piece of candy off it - he’s gritting his teeth so hard to curb his addiction. Doojoon must notice, because he stops talking about his housemates Yoseob and Kikwang, turning those sharp eyes of his on him, cigarette drooping from his lips (which are curved into some sort of smirk).

“Here, swap.”

The cigarette stub is offered to him, pinched between thumb (clubbed! He never knew) and forefinger. Junhyung hesitates for a moment, but in the end he caves, his craving for nicotine and 4000+ chemicals too strong for him to deny what is staring him in the face. In return, he offers his vanilla-flavored lollipop, which has one plane surface where he’s bitten a chunk off (he wasn’t going to, but Doojoon’s hand remained outstretched after he took the cigarette and that was all he had).

He really only means to take one (polite) drag, and return the thing to its owner, but the draw of it (menthol, musky tobacco, poison) is way too seductive for him to refuse, so he takes one, then another, then another, until he almost chokes when he realizes where said cigarette has been. “Err…” the words dry up in his throat, but his body language speaks for itself as he hands what’s left of the cigarette back to Doojoon. To his surprise, the so-called Athlete Who Smokes takes the lollipop out of his mouth, furrowing his eyebrows as he draws in another lungful of cigarette smoke, and pursing his lips as he expels it.

“Rain doesn’t look like it’s gonna let up,” he mutters, as he hands the stub (it really is a stub right now – two more drags and it’ll be gone) back to Junhyung, moving to place the lollipop back on his tongue (Junhyung takes that sucker back quick as a flash). “Oh, sorry,” Doojoon turns to him again and chuckles lowly, sticking out his tongue as he motions for him to do the same too. Feeling slightly violated, Junhyung does as he is bid, only to find the sweet, sticky taste of vanilla on his tongue. It only lasts for a moment, but he tastes something else mingled with it – a touch of cinnamon, lemongrass, sandalwood (his mother used to burn incense, so what), that he realizes, with a start, is what the inside of Doojoon’s mouth tastes like.

One, two, one, two. Doojoon swipes the lollipop across Junhyung’s tongue with a deft stroke of his wrist, before sticking it right back into his mouth, and Junhyung has to desperately suck the life out of that cigarette to take his mind off the riot in his tastebuds.

Because Junhyung’s life sucks (he hears Doojoon talk about something else, but doesn’t really process it, making non-committal sounds as he finishes the cigarette, then stubs it out with a vengeance on the pavement for having left him so prematurely), the rain starts to peter out, as rain often does, but he continues squatting there like nothing’s happening, hoping Doojoon won’t notice. He admits to himself that his heart sinks just one tiny notch when the other man dusts his pant legs off before moving to stand up. In fact, he’s surprised when Doojoon offers a hand to help him up, his sharp gaze lingering on Junhyung’s face a split-second longer than is necessary.

“So, Junhyung. I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“What, like at Uni?”

“Duh like at Uni. Unless next time you wanna make it a date for real.”

Oh, ha-de-ha-ha. “You wish.”

A pause, then a laugh, as Doojoon takes a step in the opposite direction, before saying with a grin. “Yeah, thought so.”

Junhyung purses his lips like he is actually thinking about it for a moment, then shrugs, and nods. “Yeah. See you around. Duh like at Uni.” He laughs, the taste of vanilla still on his tongue. “Okay if next time you wanna make it a date for real.”

“Cool.”

“Cool.”

The next day, Junhyung goes back to the convenience store and buys up all their vanilla lollipops.

[fic] Four times Doojoon misses the signs and one time he almost does

heartsnote — Tue, 26 Oct 2010 18:18:28 GMT

//Pairing//: Doojoon x Yoseob, Junhyung x Yoseob if you squint.
//Prompt//: {✗ ✗ ✗}{✗ ✗ ✗}{✗ ✗ ✗}
//Rating//: PG-13
//Summary//: Title's self-explanatory :3
//Word Count//: 2,100
//Author's Note//: May be part of a twinned fic with comicbookending.

Four times Doojoon misses the signs and one time he almost does

1

1 October 2009, Dance practice

Yoseob misses practice one day, and there’s a spot missing in the choreography where he is supposed to be. They’ve been practicing like crazy in the days leading up to debut, and when Kikwang bounds into the practice room, saying that his high schoolmate is going to be sitting this one out due to an attack of “chronic flu”, Doojoon’s first thought is to wonder if the vocalist is okay. Would be terrible if he allowed something to happen to him at such a crucial stage, he thinks, as he goes through the motions of singing, dancing, even adlibbing their part in Bad Girl quite admirably without the help of his blonde bandmate. The tension of debuting is reaching fever pitch, but Doojoon’s prime concern is how Yoseob is doing. The text messages and phone calls sent in-between dance breaks go unanswered, and after practice ends, the first thing Doojoon does is catch a bus back to the dorms, declining the others’ invitations to eat out on the pretext that he has a prior appointment. Yoseob is out for the count by the time he pops his head around the bedroom door, and Doojoon whispers his name as he checks his temperature and his pulse points (because you can never be too sure), eventually crawling into bed, but keeping one hand draped over the railing separating their bunks.

The rest of them return after supper, and in the darkness no one notices that Doojoon is already in bed and asleep, the even breathing in the direction of Yoseob’s bunk being confirmation enough that their sick friend is recuperating well. Doojoon wakes with a start in the wee hours of the morning, with a sour taste in his mouth and cramp in his arm, but when he realizes that the warmth in his palm comes from Yoseob’s hand clutching his, he allows himself to flop back against the pillow, giving the other boy’s hand a squeeze before he falls asleep again.

2

24 November 2009, South Africa

The nights in Africa are freaking cold, Doojoon concludes, no matter what anyone back home says. Swaddled in a down jacket, scarf and gloves, he leafs through his travel journal by the light of a torch. Junhyung had thought it would be an edgy enough going-away-slash-good-luck-and-don’t-get-eaten-by-tigers present before he left for the airport, and he chuckles at the cute (yeah Junhyung, not edgy) animals prancing over the colored pages in the safari-themed journal. He rummages in his backpack for a stub of a pencil and scribbles the date at the top left corner of the first page, and taps his lower lip thoughtfully, as he thinks about what to write. His thoughts are interrupted when, inexplicably, his phone rings, bleeping a withheld number. Thinking it is his mother, he picks up.

“Umma?”

There is a pause, followed by Yoseob’s voice, made tinny from the bad reception. “Doojoonie, I’m not your Umma.”

“Oh,” Doojoon quietens down, because the uppermost thought in his mind is that Yoseob sounds like he’s in the next room, and isn’t modern technology wonderful? His next thought isn’t as light-hearted, when his newly-minted leader senses kick in and he automatically assumes the worst, asking his bandmate if the house has burned down, or if their roughhousing has finally landed Kikwang in the hospital. Yoseob just snorts and Doojoon can almost imagine him shaking his head on the other end of the line, before he starts talking about nothing in particular. Doojoon listens to the autopilot run-down of his friend’s day, and two minutes in, feels compelled to stop him.

“This is gonna cost me a fortune, you know.”

Yoseob stops, like he hadn’t considered that before. “Okay, I can go now, I just—“

“Nah,” Doojoon says lazily, sandwiching the torch he had been using between his ear and shoulder, and he picks up his pencil again. “You can keep talking.”

Doojoon’s next telephone bill is for four times the usual amount, but despite the dressing-down their manager gives him, none of the others can understand why he doesn’t really seem to mind.

3

25 March 2010, Mnet Countdown

His head is a muddle of emotions after their name is called out over the booming speakers. Doojoon has a pretty good idea of how stupid his face must look right at that moment, and is vaguely aware that his stupid face will be plastered all over national TV, looking, well, stupid (the jokey congratulatory text messages from his friends confirm this). But then the tears of joy come, and he couldn’t really give two hoots. All he wants to do is squat down and cradle this beautiful trophy and cry, and cry, and cry, but someone thrusts the microphone towards him, and he has to keep everything in, stumbling through thank yous and words of gratitude that seem to run from an auto-cue in his head. At some point, he feels Hyunseung’s hand on his shoulder, sees Dongwoon’s teary face, and hears Yoseob’s voice in his ear, but the moment is over all too quickly, and it is nearing midnight when they are all in the car en route to the dorms.

Dongwoon is sandwiched between him and Yoseob in the back seat, snoring gently as his head rocks against his chest. The other three in the front are no different. Doojoon rests his weary head against the window and looks over at Yoseob, only to be greeted by the sight of a mass of oddly-colored hair. The other boy must feel him staring, because he turns to meet his gaze, pulling out the earbud of his mp3 player as he raises his eyebrows at him quizzically. Doojoon shakes his head, and Yoseob smiles, reaching over Dongwoon’s head to tap his shoulder. In between his thumb and forefinger, Yoseob holds one of the earbuds of his mp3 player, which he offers to him, and Doojoon recognizes the song as one of the ones that the other boy has been humming non-stop since he had found it by chance on YouTube.

*我在　這裡陪你無奈　// 看過小說裡面人家等待更習慣等待　// 唱過人家的愛　更想找愛

The both of them listen to the words sung in a foreign tongue, hunched forward in their seats so as not to obstruct their sleeping companion’s slumber. Yoseob’s lips silently struggle with the pronunciation before he shows him the translation on his music player. Doojoon just squints in the faint blue light, but his eyes are a little bit too tired to figure out the tiny words on the screen, and he closes his eyes, humming gently the hook of the chorus.

Yoseob just rolls his eyes, and puts his music player away, chuckling quietly as he says that Doojoon just isn’t a sensitive soul, and probably never will be.

* 愛愛愛 by Khalil Fong: “I’m here, forlorn like you, and the more I read about people waiting for love, the more I’ve become accustomed to waiting – the more I sing about other people’s love, the more I want to find love.”

4

20 September 2010, MBC Idol Athletics

It’s been a long day, and everyone’s tired. The weather is still quite warm for this time of year, and it’s a perfect time, really, to have a sports meet. Doojoon has run, jumped, and generally exercised himself out by the time he sits down on the grass verge next to the running track. He can hear Hyuna and Gayoon chatting about something or other, and talking about how Hyunseung oppa is weird, dancing in the corner like that, as he reties the white towel tied around his head for the umpteenth time. He just laughs when Hyuna pats his head and comments that oppa looks like a construction worker, using a towel for a hat. Turning to look at her over his shoulder, he laughs, and says well at least he’s a handsome construction worker, which is better than nothing. She laughs, and slaps his arm playfully, right before someone tugs on the sleeve of his polo shirt.

“Doojoonie!”

Yoseob calls out to him, while half-lying in the rapper’s lap, The sprig of hair that sticks up from his forehead sways back and forth as he chuckles, Junhyung’s arm draped around his shoulders. Yoseob’s been spending a lot more time with Junhyung these days, the both of them laughing quietly about things Doojoon isn’t privy to, Junhyung’s arm lingering around Yoseob’s waist a little too long, or whispering against the other boy’s ear just a little too secretively. Doojoon feels a bit violated at this turn of events – not being the person Yoseob turns to first for things, be it advice, hugs, or just not being the first person he greets in the mornings on the way to the bathroom. “You’re jealous,” Gayoon says, on one of those days when there is a lull in their schedules and they meet by chance in the corridors. “I can see it in the way you react,” He just waves one hand dismissively and shakes his head, muttering something about not being jealous, and who gets jealous about things like that, anyway.

“Doojoonie—!” Yoseob’s voice dissolves into uncontrolled laughter as Junhyung rocks him back and forth on the astroturf.

Doojoon just snorts and shakes his head, before turning his attention back to the goings-on by the track. His smile only returns when Yoseob comes over to hug him tight half an hour later.

5

15 October 2010, Youndeung fansigning

“My feet are so cold they’ve gone numb,” Yoseob mutters, while nudging Doojoon with his elbow. “Wiggle your toes then,” Doojoon grunts through gritted teeth. His hands ache from signing –must be hundreds- of albums, and he inwardly hates himself for having such a complicated signature that just takes ages to sign. His bandmate just grins, and not-so-subtly taps his freezing cold fingers against Doojoon’s exposed forearm, making him jump and smudge the artistic doodle he had been engrossed in.

“Ya, that’s cold!” He makes a face, and swats the other boy’s hand away, placing it palm facing downwards on the table. This doesn’t deter Yoseob, who returns his ice-cold digits to the same place, stroking against Doojoon’s warm skin – making his hair stand on end. He goes back to signing, all smiles and polite conversation, because the queues aren’t getting any shorter, and he kind of wants to be away as soon as possible. Yoseob’s fingers tap against his forearm a couple of times, before they slip away as quickly to sign more autographs.

“You act like you like me sometimes, honestly,” Doojoon mutters back when there is a lull in the queue, after Yoseob’s ankle knocks against his for the third time in the past forty-five minutes. He means this as a part-joke - a hopeful half-truth, almost, because the number of times he’s lain awake in bed, thinking about the boy in the bunk next to him has increased exponentially in recent months, for some inexplicable reason. He fully expects a kick in the shins for a comment like this, but instead, Yoseob moves closer, almost resting his chin on his shoulder as he whispers coyly against his ear.

“And?”

He pulls away slightly to look at him, blinking once, twice, like he doesn’t quite comprehend. Yoseob just looks back at him, eyebrows slightly raised, and it’s infuriating how they’re in public and he can’t kiss him senseless. Not like he can do that in private anyway, Doojoon rationalizes, realizing how far ahead of himself he’s gotten. Leaning towards the other boy, he lowers his voice as he whispers.

“And it means that this changes things, entirely.”

Yoseob just smiles, and taps his marker a couple of times against the tabletop. They don’t speak of it until later that night, when they are alone; when Yoseob lets Doojoon put his arms around him and press tentative kisses against his temple. “So many hints, I gave you,” the other boy murmurs, fingers on one hand outstretched as he turns to face him.

They don’t stay outstretched for long, because Doojoon finds the spaces between them easily. “I’m glad I finally found one.” He chuckles, as Yoseob pouts, with lips that he can’t resist kissing again.

“Sorry for taking so long.”

Yoseob shakes his head, as he turns to face him, fingers toying with the collar of his t-shirt. “Just promise you won’t, ever again.”

[fic] Not As Bad As We Seem

heartsnote — Sun, 24 Oct 2010 06:28:01 GMT

//Pairing//: Junhyung x Gayoon
//Prompt//: None
//Rating//: R, for very occasional language, and implied (archaic) drug use and prostitution.
//Summary//: Junhyung is really, only a man.
//Word Count//: 851
//Author's Note// The beginning of an as-yet-untitled writing project with comicbookending, but can easily be read as a stand-alone installment. Contains elements of Victoriana and steampunk.

Not As Bad As We Seem

The day dawns with a kind of understated brilliance, sunbeams filtering through soot-streaked windows and making the tireless turbines glisten and gleam as they churn away amongst curls of steam and smoke. The sunlight seeps across the floor, almost reaching the sheer crimson drapes that shield them from the outside world. Only the soft rustle of sheets and the muted creak of aged pine gives them – gives them away.

There is a sun-soaked patch on the discolored wallpaper that Junhyung focuses on, his gaze unwavering even after slender fingers undo the buttons on his waistcoat and caress him tenderly. Even in this hellhole she is beautiful, he thinks, when he catches glimpses of her in the morning sunlight. – the occasional swatch of pale skin, the pinks, the reds, the curve of her hips in his hand. But the funny thing is, Junhyung ruminates, as he lays on his back, sweat slick against his forehead, hands slipping under layers of crepe, linen, velveteen – whatever passes for fashionable these days – pleasuring a woman whose pleasure he sells to the highest bidder. Most days he does so over and over, until she says no more for tonight, she is spent. The funny thing is…

The funny thing is.

Gayoon –that beautiful creature- moans, her voice tinged with an edge he has never heard, he convinces himself – an edge that he has never heard in the many times he has listened jealously behind her closed doors. Her nails dig into his shoulders, and she is desperate, hungry for him, only him – begging him please, please, please… He feels the yield of her warm flesh against his, and like an epiphany, he understands why men spend their hard-earned money on whores like her – she is exquisite, just exquisite.

The funny thing is, he thinks, as his last sigh is expelled, and he turns his attention to her – finally, a smile playing on his lips. She rearranges the rumpled layers of clothing that have come undone in their hasty clinch, hair framing her face in loose tendrils as she leans forward to dab the sweat off his forehead, a handkerchief clasped between her rose-scented fingers, and he feels her warmth against his cheek, the tang of laudanum coasting on her breath like the poison that it is, only tempered by the softness of sugar and sighs.

“You look glorious like that,” For a moment, Junhyung almost thinks that he has said it, but while his mouth hasn’t moved, Gayoon’s perfect, ruby lips are grazing against his jawline, her voice gentle as she whispers huskily against his ear. He is quiet for a moment, and lets her have the upper hand, half-smiling in the glare of the early morning sunshine.

“So do you,”

Her laughter is like the golden bell that chimes the hour in the middle of Times Square, reminding them of how they are living on borrowed –no, stolen- time. In the daylight, he almost believes that his deepest fantasies will come true. He watches her paint her nails rose-red, and daub her cheeks with crimson, as he talks – does nothing but talk. He makes promises he knows he cannot keep, and she listens with a girlish hopefulness she knows she is not entitled to have. Where they come from, these shining concepts do not belong; for them, dreams are built on escapist fantasies and drug-addled stupors that maybe, maybe one day, things will get better. Junhyung knows, even as he whispers those stupid, worthless words, tracing them against the curve of her collarbone, he knows what he has allowed himself to do.

The funny thing is…

The funny thing is, he finally decides, as she tucks his pocket watch in the breast pocket of his waistcoat, and adjusts the creases of his cravat, the very, funny thing is… he turns the words around and around in his mind as she walks him to the door – the door that will soon receive more drunken, churlish louts -fucking bastards- who will no doubt make her work in exchange for the money they will throw her way.

She leans against the door-frame as she runs one hand across his chest. “Here, you forgot this,” she produces a handkerchief –his- with his initials embroidered on it. He had found it by chance at a makeshift stall set up by gypsies, but she’s not to know.

“Keep it, it’s yours,” he closes her fingers around the thin piece of linen, and she smiles. Then, it all finally comes clear. “Keep it…”

For the first time, he finds out that her lips are inexplicably sweet, and his kisses are desperate, hungry for her, smudging her carefully applied frippery in his haste, but neither of them could care less. For the first time, he allows himself to act like a fool in love, when his heart takes over and his mind doesn’t see each fuck as a monetary transaction. For the first time he touches, he sees, he tastes, each sense more potent than the last. For the first time, for the first time, Junhyung loves.

Take my heart, keep it. It’s yours.

[fic] The Kikwang Diaries: Part I

heartsnote — Sat, 09 Oct 2010 07:09:21 GMT

//Pairing//: None, just Kikwang. Potentially Kikwang and his abs.
//Prompt//: This piece of fanart.
//Rating//: PG
//Summary//: Kikwang exposes himself to all and sundry. This is a fact.
//Word Count//: 627
//Author's Note//: Once again, comicbookending and taecyeon, you corrupt me.

Kikwang’s abs are his pride and joy. No -- for real. If he was stuck in a burning building and could only save one thing – well, his abs would be that one thing. Things? Thing. Nevermind that they are attached to him and really, really, he should pick something else, because all the other members have chosen really reasonable stuff, like Doojoon’s football, or Hyunseung’s favorite ring. In fact, everyone’s chosen really awesome things, like, precious stuff, and suddenly Kikwang feels like if he says what he really thinks, people are gonna laugh at him.

“Kwangie? What say you?” Yoseob says in between chuckles, because the previous joke about Dongwoon’s plushies being the first thing he would try to grab before exiting a burning building has yet to subside (“You’d be a 6-foot tall walking fire hazard”, Junhyung had commented snidely, earning him a kick in the shins from the indignant magnae). “What precious item would you grab first in a fire?”

The question is innocent enough, and Kikwang’s mind goes into overdrive as he tries to find an answer plausible enough to sound convincing. “Uhh…” he starts, trying to stall for time with his hemming and hawing, and naming the first item his eyes rest on when he does a visual sweep of the practice room.

“My shoes!”

5 pairs of eyes turn to gaze quizzically at Kikwang’s beat-up sneakers, then back at him, then the sneakers again, and Kikwang feels duty-bound to justify his choice. “T-they have sentimental value!”

A short pause is followed by a nonchalant shrug from Junhyung and a nod from Doojoon, making Kikwang heave a quiet sigh of relief. “Sounds possible,” the leader says, although Dongwoon eyes him with a look of what might be disbelief.

Shucks, Kikwang curses inwardly and avoids the youngest’s gaze when he remembers the many times in the past week he has pulled up his shirt in front of the bathroom mirror, and the distinct words “My abs are my most precious possession, Woonie” come back to haunt him. He sneaks a peek at Dongwoon, who is still eyeballing him – like, really eyeballing him – and he squirms with discomfort.

He looks at a patch of wall just past Yoseob’s head, and only then does he realize that both him and Hyunseung are giving him strange looks as well. “What?” he protests half-heartedly, holding both palms skywards in the universal gesture of the maligned. Hyunseung then narrows both eyes at him, and he remembers, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, the time when he was practicing the Ab Dance (okay, so it wasn’t really called that – it was just a dance that Kikwang did sometimes – for encouragement. That wasn’t a crime, was it?) in the studio comes back to him. He thought he had been alone up to the point when he swiveled around to find 7 pairs of eyes staring right back at him (that would be Hyunseung, Yoseob, and the whole of 4 Minute – he counted). He briefly wonders how much of the dance they witnessed, and whether they heard the lyrics too…

But there is no time to ponder further, because the Beasts are interrupted when the door of the practice room opens, and Gina and Mario walk in to a chorus of enthusiastic calls of “noona!” and “hyung!” Dongwoon gets up and dangles Kikwang’s aforementioned shoes in front of the 2 newcomers, accompanied by a surprisingly succinct executive summary of events, and does he think that Kikwang’s most precious item is really his shoes?

This earns a laugh from Gina, and Mario just shrugs, grinning first at Dongwoon, then at Kikwang. “Bro…” he begins, and Kikwang is so mortified, he makes a mental note to smother Dongwoon in his sleep. For real.

[fic] Online Games

heartsnote — Wed, 06 Oct 2010 04:34:50 GMT

//Pairing//: Doojoon / Yoseob
//Prompt//: Online Games
//Rating//: PG-13
//Summary//: Doojoon is obsessed with playing computer games, so when he gets ignored, Yoseob decides to take matters into his own hands.
//Word Count//: 1,075
//Author's Note//: For the lovely ohmygod_sun :3

This is the last time Doojoon is getting a computer game, ever, Yoseob thinks to himself, fuming inwardly as he stalks out of the bedroom in a huff, arms folded firmly across his chest. It has been a few days since Doojoon acquired the latest evolution of Starcraft, and in that time the leader has refused all offers of food, drink, entertainment, communication – even exhortations for cleanliness and basic hygiene have fallen on deaf ears.

“Don’t you even want to do anything else other than play computer games?”

To his credit, Doojoon actually grunts in response, although his eyes never leave the screen. The first few instances in which people had tried to hold a proper dialogue with him had gone ignored, so this is actually a huge step-up. Yoseob stands in the living room (where vague “pew-pew” sounds can still be heard) and throws his hands up in despair, his face the very picture of hopelessness as he says to no one in particular.

“It’s over. He’s a goner.”

From the kitchen area, Dongwoon snickers, and mutters some smart-ass quip that you’re not going to get noticed dressed like that, hyung, as he snickers into his mug of milky tea. This makes Yoseob huff and chuck a plushie in the magnae’s direction for being plain insolent, before he sinks into a beanbag chair, cheeks flushed in frustration.

“Ya! What’s wrong with this T-shirt, anyway?” He demands of the other boy about half a minute later, making a face when the youngest just shrugs enigmatically and beats a hasty retreat lest more stuffed objects get thrown his way. The infernal “pew-pew” noises can still be heard from where he is sitting, and Yoseob sighs in frustration, petulantly plugging his ears in an attempt to block out the sound.

“He’s impossible, he really is impossible…” Yoseob mutters under his breath as he tries –tries- to watch cartoons, which is pretty difficult considering that he has his index fingers stuck firmly in his ears. Junhyung and Hyunseung give him weird looks when they return from dance practice, and Kikwang almost trips over his ankles en route to the bathroom upon his return from the gym. No one else can figure out why Yoseob’s feathers are so ruffled, much less why he keeps on shooting pointed glances towards the computer room.

“Careful of your eyeballs,” Junhyung snorts when he pops his head into the living room. “The way you’re shooting daggers with them you could cause a guy some serious damage.”

“Well, serves him right!” Yoseob answers before he can even stop himself, and Junhyung just looks at him knowingly, shrugging nonchalantly as he disappears again, because he knows he’s gotten his point across. Yoseob knows.

Yoseob knows that Junhyung’s off-hand comment is enough to make him come to the conclusion that enough is enough, and he’ll have to take things in his own hands. That is why when night falls, and Doojoon’s bowl of take-out noodles remains cold and untouched, he stomps over to where the other boy is sitting and wedges himself between leader and keyboard, reaching to press the “escape” button, which makes the screen image disappear with a rather depressing bleep.

“Hey, what did you go and do that for—“ Doojoon’s mouth –that gorgeous mouth- opens with what seems like the beginnings of a tirade, but before he has time to speak further, Yoseob is in his lap, his mouth warm and moist as he runs his fingers through the other boy’s hair.

“My turn,” he mutters in between kisses, and he can almost feel Doojoon’s eyebrows furrow slightly in response as he pulls away to catch his eye. He toys with the collar of Doojoon’s shirt, fussing over creases that aren’t there as he mumbles, rather sheepishly. “I’m a gaming widow…er.”

Yoseob’s voice is completely earnest, but it still earns him a confused look from the older boy, to which he shrugs his shoulders before replying matter-of-factly. “Duh. I lost my spouse to online video games.”

The moment between them lingers after Yoseob speaks, neither of them sure of what exactly transpired between them. This is the first time either has used a word so serious, so intimate, so defining in the context of their relationship, and for a moment, two pairs of eyes have nowhere to look, two pairs of hands seem too many, and two pairs of lips can’t find the right words to say.

“Ya… don’t be like that,” Doojoon says eventually, running his fingers through the other boy’s hair as he coos in his placating manner – the one that makes the butterflies in Yoseob’s tummy flutter. “No stupid game can replace you.”

“That’s a lie, stop lying,” Yoseob folds his arms and pouts. “You haven’t spoken to me in days since you got that stupid game.”

Again, to his credit, Doojoon has the sense to look guilty, his bottom lip curved into a pout as he shrugs his shoulders sheepishly, which earns him a half-hearted punch on the shoulder.

“Sorry…”

“Ass.”

“I got caught up—”

“You’re an ass.”

“It’s kind of a good game—“

“So? Still an ass.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you—“

“Assy assy ass. Ass.”

“I love you.”

“A—what?”

Yoseob’s eyes are round with surprise, like he never expected that, and Doojoon’s heart contracts for a moment as a wave of guilt washes over him. He feels guilty for being a lousy boyfriend, and wishes he never bought that damn game (well, not really, because no matter what anyone says, those Zergs are good).

“I’m sorry,” he says finally, nodding in acknowledgment. “I’m an ass. Tell you what, I’ll make it up to you.” He doesn’t know how he’s going to do that, but he figures he’ll manage it somehow. Then, he tries stringing that sentence together again, just to prove that it wasn’t fluke.

“I love you.”

Yoseob feels Doojoon’s shoulders tense, then relax as he says those words again, and even though he is old enough to know better, he finds his lips crashing against the older boy’s as he murmurs that he loves him, he really loves him. Doojoon doesn’t disappoint, his strong arms tightening around him as Yoseob’s fingers weave through his hair.

“And your making up better be good,” Yoseob says as an afterthought, to which the leader laughs and tweaks his nose, giving him the best, most satisfying answer he’s heard in days. They're quits.

“You bet.”

[fic] Make-up, touch-up

heartsnote — Tue, 21 Sep 2010 13:07:27 GMT

//Pairing//: Jinwoon/Key
//Prompt//: Make-up
//Rating//: PG
//Summary//: When Key has make-up in his hands, no one is safe! Well, not exactly...
//Word Count//: 876
//Author's Note//: Once again, requested by funkyrice. Unfortunately un-beta-ed, but I had a quick sweep through and didn't find anything of note. :3

There, Kibum thinks triumphantly to himself as he gazes at his made-up reflection in the mirror. Now that’s Key. Satisfied with his handiwork, he puts the eyeliner pencil away amongst the coordi noonas’ treasure trove of cosmetics, and turns to locate his jacket from one of the over-stuffed clothes rails at the back of the dressing room.

After a fair amount of riffling, he finds the right one and pulls it on, before calling out to the others (“Jjong? Taeminnie?”), but gets no response. Oh well, he shrugs to no one in particular and turns his attention back to his reflection, their loss. He smoothes out an imaginary crease in his shirt, as his idling gaze falls upon the cosmetics strewn across the dressing table.

Key looks right, then left, even though there is no one around, then at the big analog clock on the wall. Oh, is that the time? He chuckles to himself as he runs his slender fingers over the tubes, pots and pretty shiny containers. There’s ages yet, he purrs to himself, before selecting a couple of ‘essentials’ – eyeliner, lipstick, bright, red rouge. Positive Yejin noona won’t miss any of these…

Thus armed, he strides out of the SHINee dressing room in search of… pretty much anyone.

Dongwoon runs past him with Yoseob, patting him heartily on the shoulder as they rush to go rejoin the rest of their bandmates, though his expression changes to one of mild trepidation when he notices what Key is holding. “I haven’t forgotten the last time you put eyeshadow on me when I was asleep…” His eyes crinkle slightly as he laughs at the amusing, though highly embarrassing memory.

Yoseob says something about them being late, and Dongwoon nods hastily. Turning back to Key, he gives him a smile and thumbs-up, before waving as he continues down the corridor.

Key waves goodbye, and turns the corner, walking past the raucous MBLAQ dressing room. He narrowly escapes being pulled in by an overly-excited MIR who demands that he see his new computer game Right Now. Key politely declines, but not after promising that yes, he will be over during the week for a tag team game (whatever that is). He does contemplate redrawing G.O.’s recently-shorn goatee with eyeliner and black eyeshadow - maybe a bit of glitter to bling it up… but dismisses that as a ridiculous suggestion. I mean, that’s hardly a challenge, is it?

He is almost at the end of the row of dressing rooms (a couple in-between are occupied by girl groups– those aren’t any fun, they already have make-up on), when a very tall, muscular someone barrels out of the room to his right. A couple of hurried apologies later, he is gone, but the unmistakable back view tells Key that it could be no one else but Seulong. Well – that and the fact that the word “2AM” is emblazoned across the door he just emerged from.

And 2AM can only mean one thing. Jung Jinwoon. Key grins to himself and subtly pushes open the dressing room door. “Hellooooo….?”

2AM’s youngest is currently sprawled along the breadth of the dressing room couch, snoring serenely as he naps with a blanket swathed around his shoulders. Jo Kwon is just heading out, and claps Key on the shoulder, asking him if he would please babysit Jinnu for a teeny, tiny second while he goes to grab something to eat? Key laughs, nodding his agreement, and the older man flits out immediately, murmuring something about stomach pains and gastric.

Key waits till he hears his footsteps disappear down the hallway before he turns back to his sleeping friend. A mischievous smile plays on his lips as he kneels down beside the couch, idly running his fingertip along the defined bridge of Jinwoon’s nose. A little dusting powder here, a little bronzer there wouldn’t hurt, would it?

He is jolted from his thoughts by Jinwoon sighing quietly in his sleep, clearly unaware to what Key has in store for him. Already, his brush is poised for aim, daubed with a generous amount of gold highlighting powder.

Until something stops him. The other boy’s lips curve upwards as he dreams of God knows what, parting slightly when he settles back into slumber. Key leans forward to take a closer look, his previous plan forgotten. His gaze lingers on Jinwoon’s bottom lip, how perfectly formed it is, full and curled into an adorable pout. He runs the pad of his finger against the curve of the sleeping boy’s lip, suddenly feeling … daring.

Just a little one wouldn’t hurt, would it?

The brief moment is over as quickly as it began, but all Key can hear is the beating of his heart as it pounds in his chest. His fingers want to weave through Jinwoon’s hair, his lips want to be pressed against those lips again, again, and again, and for a moment, he just kneels there, his mind boggling as he tries to figure out exactly what just happened.

Jinwoon stirs, stretching his lanky frame as he stifles a yawn, and Key looks up in alarm. “Oh, hey Kibummie, it’s you,” his eyes curve into little crescents as he smiles at him, seemingly oblivious.

“What’d I miss?”

[fic] Magnae Down

heartsnote — Sun, 15 Aug 2010 03:07:33 GMT

//Pairing//: OT6, Dongwoon-centric
//Prompt//: Sickness
//Rating//: G
//Summary//: When Dongwoon falls ill, the rest try their best to make him feel better.
//Word Count//: 630
//Author's Note//: for funkyrice. It took me about 20 minutes typing away on my iPhone, but I think it didn't turn out half-bad~ :3

Magnae Down

Dongwoon gets caught in the rain one night on the way home from schedule, and comes back dripping rainwater all over the precious wooden flooring. Manager Jiyong hurries him into the bathroom for a hot shower, a cup of warm milk and bed despite the youngest’s adamant protests that he’s perfectly fine, it was only a drizzle hyung, and… doesn’t he know that he is lactose intolerant?

He gets the glass of milk anyway, and is bundled into bed at the first instance. Doojoon calls out his goodnights by name in order of age, as always, but by the time he makes it to Dongwoon, all he gets in reply is a gentle snore. He reaches over the railing separating their bunks and ruffles the younger boy’s head.

“Don’t do that again, you hear?” He chides gently, even though he knows he is talking to himself. “They invented umbrellas for a reason. Use them.” With a soft sigh, he runs his fingers through a sleeping Dongwoon’s hair, before rolling over in bed and saying knowingly. “If you’re not well tomorrow, Yoseob will be all over you like a rash.”

The next morning, the glass of milk from the night before remains untouched on the nightstand, and sure enough, Yoseob checks on him first thing, just in case.

“This babo is running a temperature, look at him…” He clicks his tongue and fusses with wetting a warm towel, placing it on the younger boy’s forehead and calling out to Hyunseung to please sponge Dongwoon while he goes out to get some medicine from the pharmacy. Hyunseung does this reluctantly, but his touch is gentle, and he even helps with getting a fresh glass of sugared water to help the medicine go down when Yoseob returns with two white plastic bags filled with an assortment of remedies. Then he runs off to update the manager hyungs of the situation, leaving Yoseob to resume his bedside vigil.

“I can help! I can help!” Kikwang, who has just returned from filming, bounds into the bedroom, having heard on the grapevine that the magnae is under the weather. Yoseob relinquishes his post to get some food, but not before shushing him viciously, unwilling to wake a sleeping Dongwoon.

Kikwang sings him songs, or hums disjointed fragments of them, as he taps the rhythm out against the railing. This makes Dongwoon stir in his fevered sleep long enough to pat the other boy’s hand and mumble that his mouth feels like sandpaper.

At first Kikwang mishears and wonders briefly if it is his voice that sounds scratchy, but by the time he figures it out, Junhyung, fresh from a shower, lets him know that it is his turn to use the bathroom. Kikwang leaves, but not without squirting a sip of water from his squeezy bottle into the youngest’s mouth. “Don’t do that, you’ll drown him!” The rapper chides his bandmate, but thankfully the water goes down without complaint.

He contemplates swatting Dongwoon with his soggy towel, until Doojoon spots him and warns him that if he does…

Junhyung doesn’t wait to hear the rest, clambering up to the youngest’s bunk once he is changed, and moving Dongwoon’s plushies from where they sit on the windowsill to his bedside. He tucks Peanut, Dongwoon’s current favorite, under the other boy’s arm before patting his forehead and letting him sleep.

***

Once the coast is clear, Dongwoon cracks open one eye to scan his surroundings. Now wouldn’t be a good time to tell them he’s feeling better, he thinks, clutching Peanut to his chest. The youngest considers this for a second before snickering triumphantly to himself and ducking under the covers again.

He can’t keep the charade up for long, he thinks, but he could definitely get used to this.

[fic] Pretty

heartsnote — Sat, 14 Aug 2010 17:35:45 GMT

//Pairing//: Hyuna x Kevin (U-Kiss)
//Prompt//: This song
//Rating//: PG-13, for themes
//Summary//: Pretty isn't everything.
//Word Count//: 916
//Author's Note//: Written for starorchid23. Sorry for not telling you about the AU theme earlier - I just rolled with it. ^^

Pretty

She is a denizen of the night, without a doubt. An angel who has had her wings clipped, as she stands by the roadside, all red lipstick, sequins and lace. Taking a long drag of the cigarette she holds between two slender digits – she picked the vice up at an early age - her gaze darts amongst the pools of light that illuminate the darkened street. Sitting in a shard of rose-tinted light from a nearby bar, her flame-red hair glistens like a ruby halo in the night.

“Hey gorgeous, how about you and me go somewhere a little more private...” The stench of soju and a brush of rough tweed against her shoulder makes her glance up at the figure who blocks out the light. Immediately, her perfect lips settle into a frown.

“I’m not that kind, maybe you should try the brothel down the road.” She doesn’t bat an eyelid at the sleazy stranger, focusing her attention back to blowing smoke rings into the balmy night air.

“C’mon, I know who you are, I bet the lounge doesn’t pay you half of what you’ll earn to spend a night with me, huh? Come on baby, come on Hyuna…” His voice makes her stomach turn, and she pushes him roughly away, stubbing her cigarette out viciously on the pavement before ducking behind the curtained entrance to the lounge, telling Minjoo the bouncer not to let that harassing son-of-a-bitch in even if his life depends on it.

She leaves just in time for her to hear him shout, “Slut, who the hell do you think you are? You’re no different to any of the ones on this street, who the hell do you think you are?”

Only ten more minutes before she’s due onstage, and the crowd of half-cut salarymen out there thirsty for cheap wine and thrills before they stumble back in the dark to their nagging wives will be wanting a good show. She shrugs to no one in particular, before looking at her reflection in the backstage mirror.

“You look gorgeous, babe, don’t pay any attention to what that asshole by the door said. You’re special. Different.”

She stops, holding a tube of lipstick in her hand, as her gaze shifts to the speaker’s reflection in the mirror. Smiling, she puts her make-up away and turns around, arms akimbo to face the owner of that familiar voice.

“Oppa, you always say the nicest things,” She reaches out to him for a hug, nevermind that he’s already got his costume and stage make-up on. The rustle of a feather boa follows and she is enveloped in a comforting hug, then a “tut-tut” as he fusses over her outfit and clicks his tongue.

“Not Oppa, ‘Sunghyun’, repeat after me – Sung. Hyun. See? Easy. Now say it with me…” The delicately-lined lips repeat the two characters another three times, just to drum it properly into her head, and she dutifully follows suit. Hyuna can smell his perfume, and the softness of his hands as he gives her one last squeeze before pulling away from their embrace. “You should be thankful I don’t call you Kevin –” She says it because she knows it will get him, and it does. He laughs, and shoves her playfully, polished nails narrowly grazing her bare shoulder. “You – babo! You’re lucky you’re pretty, or your cheekiness would have gotten you in a lot of trouble by now!”

“Pretty isn’t everything, Oppa,” Hyuna reaches for her earrings – sparkling, dangly affairs – and hooking them on as she looks at both their reflections in the mirror. A pretty face, that’s all she is, she realizes. Pretty might not be everything, but—

She doesn’t get to finish her thought before he voices it for her while primping in the mirror, stealing her powder brush to put the finishing touches to his make-up. “Pretty isn’t everything, but pretty to people like you, and me – it’s what pays the bills. Some people were just destined to be empty vessels—” A brush of powder, a waft of exotic perfume, a rich, throaty laugh. “—not like there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Time to get your gladrags on, girls, it’s showtime!” The manager of the lounge pops his head through the gap in the heavy velvet drapes, and beckons towards the two of them before disappearing in much the same way.

There is no time to think – a swig of whisky for Dutch courage, a quick good luck hug and last-minute make-up checks is all they have time for. Hyuna readies herself, her pinky reaching for his amongst all their feathers and sequins, and it may be the glare from the spotlight, but she thinks that he catches her gaze, just for a moment, before looking out at the crowd. “Nasty crowd tonight,” he shrugs, whilst peeking through the curtains. “Sorry, babe.”

She flashes him a quick smile, which he returns, she thinks – his drag-queen eyebrows give him a look of permanent surprise – and she almost walks right on stage, before he holds her back.

“Wait.”

She turns to look over her shoulder. A look. A smile. A moment.

“Knock ‘em dead, girl.”

Hyuna beams, and nods, her curls bouncing as she leans in to peck him on the cheek. “Oppa, I will, don’t you worry.” She winks and runs her fingertips along his jawline as he pulls away. “Supper tonight? You’re buying!”

And then, in a whirl of perfume and sparkle, she waltzes out of his reach.

[fic] Laundry

heartsnote — Fri, 06 Aug 2010 14:42:46 GMT

//Pairing//: Junhyung x Hyunseung
//Prompt//: Laundry
//Rating//: R for language and some compromising situations
//Summary//: Junhyung takes it upon himself to do some laundry, but other things get in the way.
//Word Count//: 994
//Author's Note//: Un-beta-ed. Any takers? Specially for comicbookending.

Laundry

Junhyung hates laundry - definitely, definitely hates laundry. Everything about it irritates him; from its smell, to the way it looks, and most of all the fact that it is inevitable. Every time he looks at that pile of dirty clothes languishing in the corner of the bathroom, he feels queasy, like his stomach is doing flip-flops – in a bad way.

Oh, it wasn’t always like that. The laundry basket – quite sizeable to support the needs of six young men – was blue… no, wait. It was yellow – or was it sort of a mustardy-orange? Junhyung sighs and frowns at the very thought – he hasn’t physically seen the laundry basket in weeks, thanks to all the clothes that are piled up in, above and around that hapless cylinder of thin plastic. Heck, right now he can see a roll of sweaty fabric (gym clothes, courtesy of Kikwang) nudging Dongwoon’s t-shirt off the very summit of the laundry pile. With a grunt of disapproval, he calls out in the direction of the living room, loudly reminding everyone that the bathroom looks like a bombsite and if everyone was a bit more conscientious, maybe the living room wouldn’t smell like a locker room half the time.

The only answer he gets is a quiet grunt from Doojoon who is catching forty winks on the floor. To be honest, Junhyung isn’t sure if Doojoon was replying him or if the other man was just having a particularly vigorous dream. Resignedly, he turns back to the laundry mountain, shoulders sagging at the thought of carting all that stuff to the washing mach—

“Need a hand?”

He swings round to see Hyunseung grinning at him, arms folded and leaning against the doorframe in a devil-may-care manner. A lock of flame-red hair springs away defiantly from the confines of the headband circling the other man’s head. Hyunseung had warmed to the idea of headbands so much since one of the stylists plonked one on his head minutes before a performance, that he had taken to wearing them at home. Sometimes at quite a jaunty angle.

Fucking infuriating, they were.

Junhyung snorts, and shakes his head, already clutching an armful of dirty laundry to his chest. “You’ve still got that retarded headband on.”

“You’re retarded.” Hyunseung’s crystal-clear laughter pitches itself against the acoustics of the bathroom as he takes one – no, two – steps towards a teetering Junhyung, chuckling quietly to himself as he reaches for a handful of clothes, freeing one of the rapper’s hands. “Here, let me give you a hand…”

“Er… you wanna wash that?” At a loss of things to say, Junhyung hems and haws, before pointing lamely at the circlet of metal (okay, it was wrapped in fabric) around the other man’s head. Only after the words are out of his mouth does he realize what a dumb thing that was to say.

Hyunseung’s shoulders sag when he hears this, raising an eyebrow at Junhyung as he hoists his armful of clothes more securely in the crook of his arm. “Even I know you don’t wash headbands, Junhyung.”

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” Junhyung nods, like that was what he meant all along, nevermind that it makes no coherent sense, nudging his bandmate accidentally on purpose as he pushes past him on his way out of the bathroom to the washing mach—

He never makes it there, because before he knows what is happening, his chest is pressed flush against Hyunseung’s, in their postage stamp-sized bathroom, arms taking leave of their station as he leans forward to press his palms against the cold, clean counter-top. Hyunseung’s have too, he figures, by the fact that the both of them are standing calf-deep in miscellaneous items of clothing (the arm of one of Yoseob’s hoodies is wrapped around his ankle and refusing to let go); definitely when he realizes that the other man’s fingers are clutching at the fabric of his wifebeater, narrowly missing skin by millimetres.

There is no time for how, or why, because someone makes a move – it could have been either of them, to be honest – and Hyunseung’s lips are soft, beautiful, delicious. He fully experiences the warmth of his mouth, and grunts in approval when the other man reciprocates with a soft moan that makes his skin tingle and drives him crazy. He wants to shut the door and shut everyone else out, so he can better focus on what – who – is in front of him. Junhyung briefly wonders what has gotten into him as he pushes away that offending (sort of) lock of hair, tucking it behind Hyunseung’s ear. His fingertips brush against a milky swatch of skin in the process, which make him lose all resolve and swear under his breath, before hoisting his companion onto the counter-top, wrapping the other man’s legs around his waist.

“Quit playing around,” Hyunseung’s voice sounds raspy in his ear, which sends a shiver down his spine, followed by a low chuckle, and a pinch in his side. “… Umma.”

“How many times do I have to tell you not—” Junhyung has every intention to complete his sentence, but Hyunseung doesn’t let him, covering his mouth with one hand and looking him straight in the eye, with the intended effect of shutting him up.

It works. Well, sort of.

“Same time tomorrow? Kitchen.” Hyunseung’s voice has a frustrating lilt to it as he whispers in his ear. Tease.

“That’s another household chore you’ve ruined this week. Small wonder shit-all gets done in this house.” Junhyung complains, only not really, because the grin on his face gives him away as his hands sneak under the cool fabric of Hyunseung’s t-shirt, making contact with warm, smooth skin.

Hyunseung, with his fiery, glorious blaze of red hair, only laughs, as he leans forward to kiss Junhyung again, this time harder than before, which makes him forget everything that he was intending to say.

Everything except, “Yeah, tomorrow. Kitchen’s good.”

[meme] iTunes Drabbles

heartsnote — Sun, 01 Aug 2010 07:28:54 GMT

1. Pick a character, pairing, or fandom you like.

2. Put iTunes or equivalent media player on random.

3. For each song that plays, write something related to the theme you picked inspired by the song. You have only the time frame of the song: no planning beforehand: you start when it starts, and no lingering afterward; once the song is over, you stop writing. (No fair skipping songs either; you have to take what comes by chance!)

4. Do 10 of these, then post.

//Title//: iTunes Fic Meme
//Pairing//: Onew x Yuri (random yes, I know)
//Rating//: PG
//Summary//: A random mish-mash of vaguely inspired bits of writing.
//Word Count//: I typed it straight into LJ so not quite sure.
//Author's Note//: First time investing so much time into a fic meme. But I'm surprisingly quite satisfied with it. :)

1. Song: Lucifer - Shinee

Onew taps his feet to the pounding bass beat, mentally running through the long-rehearsed dance moves, as if by clockwork. He's so engrossed that he almost doesn't notice the light footsteps that creep up behind him until cool hands clap over his eyes.

"Gotcha! Guess who?"

He snorts. As if he needed to guess. He'd recognize that voice anywhere.

"Uhhh... Madonna? Is that you?"

A resounding smack lands on his shoulder, which makes him wince. "I come over to say hi and congratulate you on the new song, and this is the thanks I get? I'm not 50, you know!" Yuri's brow is creased with jokey annoyance, and he can't help but grin at her, eyes lighting up with glee.

It's a smile that he knows will make her smile too, and true enough, it does.

"The song's awesome. We haven't stopped playing it at home since it was released." Without missing a beat, she turns a heel and freestyles to the last bars of the rousing chorus. Moves that leave him transfixed in admiration - they way she transfixes everyone else.

He would get up and join her, but something stops him, because he feels that for now, just watching her shine is good enough.

2. Song: Great Indoors - John Mayer

The rain batters down against the windowpane as Yuri paces across the breadth of the living room. Restless, she flips through magazines, channel-surfs and even tries to count blue cars to evade boredom - all to no avail, until the doorbell rings.

She dashes to open the door, ready with an upbeat greeting to welcome whichever of the girls it is who has returned home, but the person standing on the other side of the door is most definitely not a girl.

Onew invites himself in with a breezy hello, shaking the last remaining droplets of rainwater from his clothes and hair, discarding the sheet of soggy newspaper he has used as a makeshift umbrella. Proffering his bag to her, he gestures for her to open it, which she does with a curious look.

Inside there is only one thing - a box labeled "Onew's Rainy Day Kit". "Come to keep you company," he says gently, running his fingers through his still-moist hair.

She laughs, suddenly understanding. "Okay, but first, we'll have to get you dry, mister."

3. Song: California Girl - Tristan Prettyman

He is waiting for her when she steps off the plane, his neck craning to look out for her when he hears the airport voiceover announce that the plane has landed. In twos and threes, passengers emerge, deep tans and shopping bags, their throaty laughter echoing in his ears as they walk through the gantry and past him, not noticing, swathed in their own post-holiday pleasure.

Then, he sees her, at the tail-end of the crowd, hauling her duffel bag over her shoulder. Suddenly eager, he sticks his hand up in the air and waves to get her attention. His previous ennui is forgotten. Finally, she looks over, her eyes brightening behind the shade of her sunglasses.

"Yuri!" he mouths the words "Welcome Back!", unable to keep the greeting from bubbling forth any longer.

She smiles in acknowledgment, and waves back.

4. Song: Damn Girl - Justin Timberlake ft. will.i.am

God. He has to rub his eyes and shake his head to regain focus. Why do I feel like this? Isn't this... incest, or something? He opens his eyes, only to be greeted by the images of 9 nubile, beautiful girls, and is forced to avert his gaze.

Since when did they get so ... hot?

He excuses himself to go to the bathroom, taking his time in splashing his face with cool water and wiping the droplets off, staring at himself in the mirror and coming to the sad conclusion that he, Lee Jinki, has not been on a date in too long.

Now, all he has to do is make it down the corridor without seeing any of them.

No such luck.

"Jinki!" her laughter chimes merrily as she comes over to give him a hug. Damn, she smells good - he puts his arms around her in reciprocation, hands already clammy with nervousness as they rest in the curve of her... waist?

"H-hi, Yuri," is the most he can muster without making a fool of himself.

Everything about her sparkles as she pulls him into one last (friendly) hug, before asking him about his day, but he knows deep down, as he releases her reluctantly, that when it comes to her, maybe these feelings aren't exactly incestuous after all.

5. Song: To Make You Feel My Love - Kris Allen

The words don't come easy, he thinks to himself, as he runs through them - one more time, and again, and again. Somehow whenever he thinks he's got it down, they come out sounding silly and stupid.

"Would you..."

"Go out with me?"

"Uh..."

It's hopeless, he drags his heels as he shuffles down the familiar corridor, hands shoved deep in his pockets. There's just no way. No way she would ever--

Then, as if by some divine intervention, there she is, right in front of him, only not standing - crouched over on a step, crying softly as if her heart would break.

All words are forgotten as he steps forward to embrace her, murmuring sounds meant to soothe and comfort. She looks up at him to catch a breath, tears running down her pristine face, and his expression softens as his shoulders lose their previous tension.

Whatever he had to say isn't important now.

Maybe next time.

6. Song: Missing You - Black Eyed Peas

The clock chimes twelve, and the apartment is quiet. Yuri sits up in bed, looking around as her eyes adjust to the darkness, hands clammy and breathing heavy, an ache in her heart.

She picks up her phone, but she doesn't see what she was hoping to find. Nothing. She cradles the stupid device in both hands, gazing out the window, thinking of nothing much. As if on cue, the phone vibrates with a jolt that startles her. Yuri looks at the lit-up screen, eyes wide as she reads the tiny scrolling words.

"Thinking of you. You okay?"

It isn't exactly what she was waiting for, but it makes her smile. Smile stupidly as her cheeks subtly start to flush in a way that she can't even explain.

Someone cares.

7. Song: Mr Sensitive - David Cook

He holds a coin in the palm of his hand, turning it over and over between his fingers as he stares out at the setting sun from the confines of the dorm. Finally, with a sigh, he shakes his head and turns away, trying to focus his attention elsewhere.

Yet, turning away doesn't help, because his gaze falls on a picture lying on his desktop. Taken two years ago - maybe? Or was it three? He goes to pick it up and looks at the faces beaming back at him, and then sighs at his reflection in the mirror.

When did he grow up?

With such grown-up emotions?

Jinki doesn't know, but all too often, the words do get the best of him.

8. Song: Baby Baby - 林俊杰

"What is it with terms of affection, do you think?" Her voice is lilting and tinged with inquisitiveness as she flounces in like a whirlwind, finding her way to your side with a swiftness that is mind-boggling.

Her skin is soft, smooth, silky. You wonder what it feels like, that little patch of skin just above her collarbone, but social etiquette stops you from actually reaching out and finding out for yourself. Instead, you smile and wave hello, idly joking that a hello would be nice, Yuri, instead of the third degree at -what- 10 in the morning?

"And for the record, I think terms of affection are nice." You laugh and glance up at her, a cheeky grin playing on your lips. "Hi baby."

You have never at one time been in possession of so much courage before, but you laugh it off. She'll never know you were being serious.

9. Song: 小情歌－蘇打綠

Yuri, this is a love song that you will never know you wrote.

It weaves in and out of your consciousness, building eaves and spirals in the quiet air, sunsets and sunrises, like an apparition that is gone with the first to the morning dew.

You toss and turn in your bed, restless like you are waiting for something - or was it someone? It was someone, you decide. The accelerated beating of your heart, and the flush in your cheeks must be for someone.

The first notes come to you easily, golden and stirring as you watch them skip over an imaginary page. These go on, and on, words filling the spaces until the spaces between your fingers are filled, and his voice resonates in your mind like sunlight, like wind, like moonshine.

Yuri, this is a love song that you will never know you wrote.

10. Song: First Love - Adele

"So, this is it."

The words sound like cotton wool in his mouth. No, sandpaper. Jinki's hands are clammy, so he sticks them in his pockets to disguise this, hoping she won't notice.

In any case, Yuri doesn't. All she is focused on is his face, having come to terms with something that she only just realized. Tentatively, she nods.

"I suppose it is."

That he gives her comfort, protection, and above all, friendship. Hesitantly, he opens his mouth to say something, but she silences him by winding her arms around his neck, shaking her head before she presses a chaste kiss to his cheek.

"Don't say a word. This is enough."

He hugs her, every muscle reacting to her presence around him, closing his eyes like he's afraid of waking from a dream.

She's right. This is enough.

[welcome post]

heartsnote — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 14:12:43 GMT

❁ heartsnote is the fic journal of tingstarplace. Hey, nice to meet you!

❁ All ficposts will be unlocked forever and ever, amen, but please do friend the journal if you like the writing!

❁ I try to get the work beta-ed as much as possible, but if you spot something we haven't, or just feel like giving some concrit, please feel free, I've an open mind.

❁ Above all else, I hope that you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

❁ Big thanks goes to comicbookending for naming the journal :3

[masterlist]

heartsnote — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 13:52:36 GMT

B2ST

Bad Dreams: Doojoon x Yoseob
Laundry: Junhyung x Hyunseung
Magnae Down: OT6, Dongwoon-centric
Online Games: Doojoon x Yoseob
The Kikwang Diaries: Part I: Kwang x his abs, Kikwang-centric
Four times Doojoon misses the signs and one time he almost does: Doojoon x Yoseob
The Taste of Rain: Doojoon x Junhyung

EXO

Inefficient Vampirism: OT6, Kris-centric
Video Store Woes: Chen x Xiumin
Meet Me In Tianjin: Lay x Luhan
Serendipity And Other Life Events: Xiumin x Luhan
The Road Less Traveled: Lay x Luhan
Perverse Situations: Lay x Luhan
Letters From The Edge Of The World: Lay x Luhan
Ghost Heart: Lay x Sehun
毕生难忘 (Things We Will Never Forget): Xiumin x Chen

INFINITE

Under the Mattress: L x Sungyeol

ONE DAY

Ephemera: OT7, Wooyoung-centric
Fix You: Khun x Chansung
Full Circle: Chansung x Wooyoung
954: Jaybeom x Chansung

CROSSOVERS

Sushi: Yoochun x Yoona
iTunes Fic Meme: Onew x Yuri
Pretty: Kevin (U-Kiss) x Hyuna
Make-up, Touch-up: Jinwoon x Key
Not As Bad As We Seem: Junhyung x Gayoon

Tags List

[fic] Ephemera

heartsnote — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 13:45:30 GMT

//Pairing//: OT7, Wooyoung-centric
//Prompt//: I can't remember - it was written so long ago!
//Rating//: G
//Summary//: Wooyoung looks at the things he has in his pocket and tries to define himself.
//Word Count//: 422
//Author's Note//: Originally written for comicbookending.

Wooyoung's memories are scattered amongst his possessions - an eclectic, jumbled mess of random events that have been cobbled together in his consciousness. From the odd crumpled-up receipt in his wallet to the inconspicuous note in one of his jacket pockets, crease lines worn deep into the grain of the paper - all of them coexist in a timeless vacuum of his own creation. Together, they piece together a vague impression of Jang Wooyoung - not THE Jang Wuyoung, not Woo Mandu, not anyone. Just simple, uncomplicated Jang Wooyoung, who is sometimes the person he wishes he could be.

"Hyung, your shoelace is loose," the youngest calls out, from somewhere behind him. Without turning round, he nods in acknowledgment and kneels down to rectify that. He pauses for thought, and reaches into his pocket, his fingertips brushing against the motley collection that resides on his person. Eventually, he locates his phone (having a utility-built camera just doesn't factor high on his list of priorities), and fumbles about with the catch, hearing the satisfying click as he takes a picture. "What're you doing?" The leader mumbles, as he strides past him, chuckling softly and muttering something about how he'll never really understand his members. Wooyoung just shakes his head and smiles, before replacing his phone into the back pocket of his jeans, the whole episode forgotten.

The ephemera is worthless, he thinks, as he unloads his possessions onto his desk when they reach home. Well, home is what they call it, but only insofar as it means the roof over their head for that night. Wooyoung smiles, as he sifts through a crumpled-up receipt, a creased note... that eclectic, jumbled mess. His phone lies atop of it all, and he scrolls through the grainy pictures on it, stopping at the most recent one - a candid image of six pairs of shoes, belonging to six boys in various states of motion, the weak winter sun seeping through the edges of the digital exposure. With a smile, he replaces his phone on the table, and goes to have a much-needed lie down, at least - until one of the others pops his head around the door and demands his attention.

Wooyoung's memories are scattered amongst his possessions - an eclectic, jumbled mess of random events that have been cobbled together in his consciousness. As he drifts off, Wooyoung realises that it is because of these, he is still the same Jang Wooyoung. Simple, uncomplicated Jang Wooyoung, who will always be a part of him.

[fic] Fix You

heartsnote — Wed, 21 Jul 2010 13:30:02 GMT

//Pairing//: Nichkhun x Chansung
//Prompt//: Fix You
//Rating//: PG-13, for emo!Khun and one use of language
//Summary//: Khun is upset, but no one knows why.
//Word Count//: 874
//Author's Note//: Originally written for comicbookending, who I write a lot of things for but never get anything back. ♥

Khun has been quiet for days, withdrawing more and more behind his facade of laughter and smiles. He thinks no one has noticed this regression - this deterioration, even - but he is sorely mistaken. As his laugh gets hollower, his eyes icier with the effort of restraining his inner discomfort, everyone notices, but they don't say a word, not yet willing to tread on the ticking time-bomb that he has become.

When you try your best, but you don't succeed

When you get what you want, but not what you need

He doesn't know what it is either, but his heart - his soul - is burning up. On some level in his consciousness, he sees the concern, the gentle nudges and knowing looks, the extra helpings on his plate at mealtimes - his brothers showing him concern the only way they know how. He resents it, being this way. He feels weak, and impotent, trapped in a quagmire of confusion that he cannot get out of, yet cannot help being in.

When you feel so tired, but you can't sleep

Stuck in reverse

Only Chansung dares to risk it, but even then, it is a delicate operation that he mulls over for a while before acting upon. "Hyung...?" he whispers, leaning over the rails of his bunk well into the wee hours of the morning, long after goodnights have been said, and the rest of the house has fallen quiet.

"Are you awake?"

A creak, a gentle, exasperated sigh cuts through the darkness.

"I'm asleep."

A short - or long - pause follows. Neither can tell.

"You're awake, hyung." The younger says eventually, in his gentle monotone.

"I'm asleep." Khun says in response, his voice sounding like concrete breeze blocks in the still air.

He waits with bated breath, staring up at the base of the bunk above him for the other to give up and go to bed. His eyelids grow heavy with fatigue, but his heart is racing, his synapses lighting up like flares as he lies in bed, shivering with the effort of restraining a barrage of emotions that have been building up, like a raging torrent pressing against a dam. Only when the other's even breathing is resumed, does he even dare to exhale.

And the tears come streaming down your face

When you lose something you can't replace

The tears have been a long time coming; short, choking sobs that fill his throat and stain his pillow. He turns in bed, shoving his face into the mattress, both arms wrapped around his lanky frame to try and ease the shivers that run down his spine.

Only when he looks up to take in a short gasp of air, does he feel the depression on the bed from where his roommate is sat, and the gentle pressure of Chansung's long, tapered fingers as they graze the curve of his cheeks, his neck, running through his messy, slightly unkempt hair.

"Hyung, you were awake," he says, his voice laden with worry.

You lying bastard - Khun entertains the thought for a moment, angry at having his privacy infringed upon, before his conscience takes over, and he wipes his face with the back of his hand before turning to face the other. There is one brief, blessed moment of eye contact in the semi-darkness, before he feels the damp heat of Chansung's breath on his cheek as he is enveloped by the warmest embrace he has ever had the privilege to receive.

"I'm here, hyung." are the last words he hears, as he buries his head in the other's shoulder, as if hoping to find in Chansung the support that he has thus far tried vehemently to resist. It is a sweet release, this feeling, as the emotional overload finally tides itself over. Are things going to be alright, he questions silently, still not really daring to speak at all. Yet, as if on cue, Chansung's voice cuts through the quiet.

"Everything's going to be alright, hyung."

And... release.

Lights will guide you home,

And ignite your bones,

And I will try to fix you.

Despite the darkness, there is a light reflected in Khun's eyes, Chansung thinks, as he waits, watching for the moment when his roommate's chest will begin to rise and fall; when sheer exhaustion finally takes over. He doesn't - or can't - let go, hands stubbornly clasped together as his arms wrap themselves around the other's still-shivering shoulders. He feels the wet warmth that seeps through his t-shirt moistening his shoulder, as the last of Khun's frustrations ebb out of him. Only when the sobbing and shivering stops, does he speak again, in a whisper that is barely, barely audible.

"Love you, hyung."

The words are clueless, muddled, and clumsy, and Khun seems to stir in his sleep, lips upturned in a serene half-smile as he lies in Chansung's arms. Only then does the magnae heave a gentle sigh of relief, before resting his head against the headboard of the bunk, hoping that the beating of his heart will not give him away.

For now, just this is enough.

Lights will guide you home

And ignite your bones

And I will try to fix you