Rating: Eventually NC-17 (probably)
Summary: When words and time create a distance between two beating hearts, Yoochun and Junsu must decide if their love can be resurrected from the ashes of their pain.
Sorrow played through Yoochun’s living room as Apocalyptica’s four cellos poured from the stereo speakers and over him as he stared out of the wide window overlooking the city. At three in the morning, the city slept under the storm, its lights subdued. The glass kept what little street noise that might have crept in and it muted the fury of the thunder rolling out of the heavens. Periodically, a sheet of lightening flashed between the hills and the dark room lit up with an unexpected brilliance, the bursts of white turning the tears on Yoochun’s face silver on his pale cheeks.
The couch squeaked as Yoochun turned over onto his belly. Lounging between the sofa and the coffee table, Harang twitched his ear when Chun’s fingers brushed over his shoulders. He scratched at the spot and the dog sighed contentedly, falling into a deeper sleep. Yoochun’s elbow hit the coffee table and the beer bottles he’d emptied during the night chimed against one another, singing a gentle reproach at the drunken buzz lodged in his skull.
In the three days since he’d eaten bibimbap with Jaejoong, Yoochun thought about what the older man said to him. Each time his mind ghosted over the hurt he’d received at Junsu’s sharp words, he recoiled at reaching out to his former lover.
“He’s already hurt you once,” Yoochun mumbled to himself. “Are you crazy enough to let him do it again?”
The chiming from the coffee table continued, louder than before and Yoochun stared at the inert empty bottles. Another rolling toll echoed in his head and he frowned, wondering if the beer bottles had somehow turned into ghosts, their lamenting cries haunting him even though they stood dead and empty in the middle of the table.
Harang grumbled and stood up, shaking off his sleep while he trotted to the front door. After giving Yoochun a quick, disgusted look over his shoulder, the dog let go a half-hearted bark at the front door before collapsing into a bone-shaking yawn. The chiming sounded again and Yoochun bolted to his feet to get to the door. A sharp pain crested through his leg when his knee struck the table’s edge and he swore, hopping on his good leg as he rubbed at the injured area. Nearly falling over Harang, he grabbed at the door handle and jerked it open,
“Hello, Yoochun-ah.” Junsu’s honey brown eyes were dark and shadowed, flicking up from the ground to settle on Yoochun’s face before falling away again. He shuffled back and forth, his clenched hands shoved so deep into his jean pockets that a stretch of his stomach peeked wantonly above his loose waistband.
Yoochun’s brain sparked with the taste of Junsu’s belly, a soft sweetness usually followed with the salty bitters of the young man’s sex. It was rare Yoochun was able to just lick at the smooth, downy skin below Junsu’s navel. He couldn’t count the minutes he’d spent laving at the dark gold line he’d found there, a faint trail leading straight from Junsu’s elongated belly button to the succulent treasure of his responsive sex.
Swallowing, Yoochun tried to erase the phantom scents his mind called up at seeing Junsu appear in front of him. Shaking his head, he glanced back over to the coffee table and tried to count the number of bottles he’d collected there. The empty beers mocked him, blurring whenever he reached six or seven. He lost track of the count quickly and Yoochun swore under his breath, cursing his mind for playing tricks on him.
“Fuck,” Yoochun spat in English.
He liked the feel of the word against his tongue and even better, the clattering harshness on the roof of his mouth when he put his anger behind it. For good measure, he repeated it and turned away from the door but his mind continued to twitch and the beer-induced Junsu walked into the apartment, closing the door behind him. The hallucination followed him when Yoochun fled to the kitchen in search for more alcohol, a sadness on the illusion’s face that rivaled any Yoochun could have imagined up.
“There’s soju in here someplace. Or sake,” Yoochun muttered. Digging through the pantry, he came up empty-handed and when he paced back into the kitchen, the illusion was standing there waiting for him. A quick desperate glance at the freezer lit up Yoochun’s face when he remembered a gift he’d been given by an American dancer he knew. “Vodka. There is vodka in the ice box.”
“Do you really need to drink to talk to me?” Junsu whispered and grabbed at Yoochun as he passed.
The hand on Yoochun’s bare arm felt real enough, burning hot and sensual making Yoochun long to lean into the touch. His body ached with the need for the man he’d let go…the man who’d tossed him aside as if he were nothing more than something to wipe his spent seed on. The anger he’d stoked in his heart flared in Yoochun’s chest and he stumbled back, striking the small of his back against the hard granite counter.
“Isn’t it bad enough that you haunt me during the day? You’ve got to come here at night too?” Yoochun cried out. His legs folded and he crumpled to a curl on the kitchen floor. His eyes were burning and the tears he’d shed earlier that evening flaked off under the new storm falling from his lashes. Digging the heels of his hands into his face, Yoochun let his grief run, his spine jerking with the force of his sobs.
“Chunnie-ah, please…” Junsu crouched in front of his ex-lover.
His hands trembled as he reached for Yoochun, hovering a breadth over the man’s bent head. The anguish in Yoochun’s cries tore at him, shattering the grudging anger he’d held against the other singer. His fingers twitched, the need to stroke Yoochun’s soft hair and reassure the tender-hearted man that he would okay was strong. Even stronger was the desire to tell him that they would be okay but the maybe-lie stuck in his throat, a sand-encrusted sourness he couldn’t quite spit out.
“I tried, you know.” Yoochun sniffed. With his face buried into his knees, Junsu could barely make out the other man’s murmurs but the rumbling baritone continued to speak, still convinced the man before him was nothing more than a beer-besotted nothingness he’d called up from his misery.
“What did you try, baby?” He whispered. The hunkering position was hard on Junsu’s knees and his legs strained to keep him balanced but putting his hands on Yoochun for balance would be a folly he couldn’t risk. If Junsu couldn’t trust his voice not to crack over a whisper, he definitely had no faith in his ability to keep from pulling Yoochun to him if he touched him.
“Don’t call me baby. Not now. Not after…” Yoochun lifted his head and stared up at his illusion. The hurt in Yoochun’s gaze stung Junsu’s heart, especially since he knew he’d burnt the pain into the other man’s eyes. “I gave you everything and it wasn’t good enough. I gave you…everything of me, Susu.”
Chun’s words hurt, finding every scab Junsu had on his heart. The stink of beer hit Junsu and he leaned back, unconsciously reeling from the steeped in scent on Yoochun’s skin. He hooked his arm around Yoochun’s ribcage and strained to get the man up onto his feet.
“We… we can’t talk like this. Not with you… like this,” Junsu murmured, struggling to keep his emotions under control. His eyes ached with unshed tears and his body buckled under the weight of the other man’s body. Fighting to get Yoochun to his feet, Junsu sighed with relief when he felt the man shift and stumble forward.
“Need to puke,” Yoochun gasped, pitching sideways. Junsu caught him up, dragging the man up by the armpits. “I can’t talk to you. You’re not real.”
“I’m real,” Junsu whispered helplessly. '
It was futile to keep talking, especially since Yoochun was blindingly drunk. From the amount of beer bottles on the coffee table and the empties littering the kitchen, Junsu wasn’t sure there was any alcohol left in Seoul. Maneuvering Yoochun into the bathroom, Junsu sighed with relief at sight of the open glass shower door. The enormous multi-head shower would be easy enough to get Yoochun into although Junsu held little hope of being able to strip off the man’s clothes.
The baritone slumped against the shower’s stone wall, bending over to rest his forehead against the cold floor. Junsu gave a half-hearted tug on the man’s cargo shorts, trying to reach the button on his waistband. Yoochun tried to pull free but his body had other ideas and his stomach rebelled the rough treatment.
Junsu balked at the sour smell of Yoochun’s sick and his stomach rebelled. Forcing himself to be strong, Junsu turned on the shower, moving the knobs until the water was warm. Rinsing the liquid from Chun’s body down the drain with the shower extender, Junsu tried once more to remove Yoochun’s clothes from his body.
Warm water pounded them and despite the difficulty of working with Chun’s soaked through clothes, Junsu stripped his ex-lover down to his briefs then collapsed against the man’s prone body. Panting from the ordeal, Junsu lay against Yoochun and patted the baritone’s shoulder.
“Okay, Chunnie-ah,” Junsu murmured, running his palm over Yoochun’s bare skin. “I’m here now. I’ll take care of this. Let me take care of you.”
Harang’s concerned whimper got Junsu to move and he scrubbed down Yoochun as much as he could then dried him off with a fluffy towel. He had another grunting struggle to get Yoochun up and into his unmade bed then Junsu flopped over in exhaustion. Panting heavily, he lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling of a room he’d never been in.
Turning over onto his side, Junsu reached over and stroked Yoochun’s cheek. A thin stubble tickled Junsu’s fingers, the barest of growth starting to darken Yoochun’s upper lip. They’d both laughed at the fake facial hair he’d worn for his drama, the briefest of happy they had over the past few months. He’d watched the final episode with Jaejoong and Yoochun, stiffening when Song Joong Ki flashed on the screen for his final scene. The blush on Junsu’s face was one of shame for throwing the other man’s friendship in Yoochun’s face and he’d looked away, hoping the other man wouldn’t notice his embarrassment.
When Jaejoong called him at midnight, he’d lain in his own bed and debated coming over to see Yoochun. The older singer did everything within his power to persuade Junsu to talk to Yoochun about their shattered relationship, pointing out the strain between them would break them eventually but Junsu had turned a deaf ear to the man’s reasoning.
Then fell apart when Jaejoong whispered softly through the phone, “Please.”
“Did I do the right thing, Yoochun?” Junsu murmured, his delicate touch a ghostly whisper over his ex-lover’s mouth. “Do I have a chance to make things right with you again? Or have I lost you to someone else?”