Fic For: winterbubbletea
Set in Paris for: belchan, tumi, suah and a whole bunch of other people
Rating: R-ish in this section.
Summary: Junsu searches Venice with only the scent of another man to guide him.
Set a couple of years after Red Windmill.
Part One, Part Two
The sun touched the horizon, spreading a pink sheen over sprays of clouds until the sky was filled with cherry blossom puffs that stretched across the Venetian horizon. Junsu laughed, rubbing at Yoochun’s swollen mouth, feeling at the dips his teeth created in the other man’s lips. Shyly, the smile was returned, a dimple winking in the black-clad man’s cheek. Without knowing, they’d passed the night standing within the shelter of one another’s arms, finding solace in the furious storm of their kisses.
When the morning finally rose, they emerged from the fire, soft gentle coos and caresses. Their thirst slaked, now was time for exploration and laughter, a sip from the other’s mouth and the feel of a finger pressed onto a tongue. Yoochun shivered under the feel of Junsu’s fangs running along the column of his neck, touching lightly at the base where a pulse beat erratically, skipping in excitement when Junsu’s hands spread flat over Yoochun’s chest.
His doublet discarded, Junsu half-leaned against the man he longed for, the fine linen shirt he’d worn underneath open to Yoochun’s questing fingers. His own hands found the plum tips of Yoochun’s chest and he smiled knowingly when he heard the other man gasp when he flicked his tongue back and forth, wetting the nub before sinking his front teeth into the firm flesh.
“Where do you live?” Junsu murmured, staring into the other vampire’s eyes. “I want to see where you’ve been hiding from me.”
“I — not far,” Yoochun answered, stammering. He’d never taken anyone into his lair, the retreat where he licked his wounds and dreamed of humanity. Only the servants he periodically hired were allowed in and then, only to the living quarters. No one passed the threshold into his personal chamber, least of all someone he found taking up residence in his heart.
“But you need time,” Junsu said, holding tightly onto Yoochun’s shoulders. The man looked guilty, torn between needing to embrace the presence of an angel in his life and fighting back the shadows that choked his heart from beating freely. Laying a gentle kiss on Yoochun’s mouth, Junsu breathed into the other man’s core. “I will wait for you. I will wait for whenever you feel you can open for me. I will do anything I need to make you feel as cherished as you should have been and if that means the clouds are burnt from the sky because the stars are falling then so be it — it will never be too long of a wait to have you by my side. I promise you this.”
They met every night, through Carnivale and then into the dreary Lent season when the night hung heavy over a waiting Spring. Junsu spent his time spinning stories of his brothers and their lovers, tattling on Changmin’s insatiable appetite for knowledge and Jaejoong’s curious tilted view of the world. He shared his own battles spent fighting windmill giants and searching for something to quench the parch of his soul.
Neither spoke each other’s name but they knew — deep within their hearts — that the world would stop turning if they no longer breathed in the other’s warmth.
It took time to draw Yoochun out. At first the man was quiet, sitting nearly too still in the café chairs then when the wine bottles they shared were rolling empty and there were only crumbs left of the olive-studded bread Junsu loved to dip into oil and red vinegar, Yoochun would speak. Haltingly at first, leaving small drops of pain and sorrow on the silvery water of Junsu’s laughter.
With his face hidden mostly in shadows, Yoochun spoke in low dark whispers. At first it was of the fear he had of being a demon and Junsu let him speak, listening intently to the other man spinning out the terrors he had for his soul.
The touches were tender then, smoothing and consoling. Yoochun’s tears flowed unhindered by shame or pride. He tried turning away so Junsu wouldn’t see his weaknesses but the other man was insistent on kissing them away, pressing his mouth to each salty drop as if it were the sweetest rain.
“Let me take your pain into me, bacio,” Junsu would whisper. “You shouldn’t bear the weight of it on your shoulders. Let me lift your burdens.”
Yoochun shared the shredded words he carried in his heart, nestled against Junsu as they sat in a gondola, punted through the light-draped canals. A nod to the man poling the boat assured Junsu of their privacy, a canopy of silk and tassels hiding them from prying eyes and Yoochun parted the curtains of his silence to an audience of one.
Junsu heard his beloved’s laugh for the first time in a library room, nothing like the rumble of humour he purred at one of Junsu’s horrible puns but a full hearty burst of pleasure. A private arrangement by his mistress gave them time to view a kinetoscope filmstrip of a vaudeville act brought the sun indoors when Yoochun’s laugh burst from his chest. The projectionist didn’t notice, used to viewers’ reactions but Junsu’s breathing stopped, starting again only when Yoochun leaned over to kiss the tender ticklish spot below his ear.
That night when Junsu held Yoochun’s hands as they kissed each other farewell, he whispered against the tormented vampire’s lips the most terrifying thing Yoochun ever heard.
“I love you so much, bacio,” Junsu sighed, holding the warmth of Yoochun’s laughter in his heart.
In that moment, Yoochun discovered the depths of his fear plummeting even further when he breathed in the kiss of air from Junsu’s words and replied, “As I love you, Susu.”
They stole time from the day, climbing the stairs to Yoochun’s top floor apartment, tangling their bodies together. Yoochun scrambled to open the door, nearly dropping the key down into the banister well, swearing in French when the metal pinged loudly on a grate and bounced back onto his booted foot. Another attempt fitted the hasp and they were inside, cocooned in the plaster walls of his sanctuary.
Junsu stepped in first, tentative at being allowed past a door Yoochun kept closed to all souls. It was different than he expected, open and airy. Filmy curtains hung from the main room’s enormous windows, framing a splendid view of a canal teeming with morning traffic. Banks of beewax candles filled the room, long thin columns of white and ivory set into iron candelabras or on porcelain dishes, anything flat that would catch the drip of wax. Unlit in the coming dawn, Junsu could still imagine Yoochun standing among them, the glow of light a golden bath over the other man’s beautiful face.
A red velvet couch, battered and dinged from years of use, sat at one end of the room. Next to it, a long table scattered with pages filled with inked dots, lines and words. The floors gleamed with lemon oil, fragrant and polished to a high gloss but the honey oak merely served as a frame for the most precious items set about the room.
A grand piano dominated the centre of the room, three smaller pianos arranged at the west end. The instrument was a ebony angel wing unfurled over a strung harp, ivory and black keys slightly worn on the edges from Yoochun’s fingers. Its stand held a half empty page, an inkwell and pen left nearby, waiting for the composer to return. Its piano bench looked upholstered over, a cushion covering the flat and stuffed for comfort, well suited for hours of sitting. A few guitars rested on Y stands, classical shapes made of fine woods. The fretboards were as worn as the piano keys and one lay on a side table waiting to be restrung.
Open archways led to other rooms but Junsu knew the heart and soul of Yoochun’s life lay in the salon he stood in. This was where he breathed freely and worried away the hours, lost in a world of ink and notes.
“Play me something,” Junsu said softly, stepping away from Yoochun to sit on the couch. “I want to hear you.”
“I’ve never played for anyone,” He admitted, shy now that he lay bare and vulnerable to the man he broke open his heart for. “I… wouldn’t know what… suppose I…”
“I’ve heard your words and have loved you,” The other replied. “Let me hear your soul. Play me something, Yoochun-ah. Let me hear what gives you life.”
“What gave me life,” Yoochun corrected then shuffled his feet, rubbing at the back of his head with his hand, ruffling his long black hair. “Still gives me life but now, it’s sweeter. Everything I sing is for you. Every note I write is yours.”
“Then share,” Junsu laughed, poking at Yoochun’s side when the man came over to sit on the piano bench. “Show me your life.”
“This is something someone I know is working on,” He ducked his head, letting the wealth of his hair hid his nervousness. “I hope I do it justice. If you don’t like it, the fault is purely mine.”
“I’m certain I will love it,” Junsu laughed, resting his chin on the carved high arm of the couch. “How could I not? You are singing it for me.”
It was not Italian, that much Junsu was certain and Yoochun’s voice growled around the words, swelling and falling in a molasses sweet darkness but the composition broke his control when the piano throbbed its passion under the man’s skillful touch.
A second verse, this time in a familiar Venetian tongue wrung tears from Junsu’s heart. Yoochun no longer saw the room with its forest of candles and honey wood. His eyes were distant, remembering a moon set above him and a kiss that sealed his destiny. Junsu knew of the night Yoochun sang of and the yearning in his voice echoed the stillness of Junsu’s heart, the coldness he braved while looking for a single man in a domino mask.
I lungamente per voi. I lungamente per il vostro regno.
La mia bramosia è più grande quando siete vicino.
Sempre, I lungamente per il regno della vostra bellezza;
I lungamente da essere là --- anche quando sono là. **
The final note hung in the air, a sultry kiss from Yoochun’s lips and it whispered off, carried into the day on a sunbeam. A man shouted from below, the slap-slap-slap of water against his gondola punctuated with his cries of bella!, bringing a blush to Yoochun’s cheeks.
Crying, Junsu stood, trembling as he wiped his face, only to replenish the tears with each step. Placing his hands on Yoochun’s shoulders, he straddled the bench and guiding his mouth over the other’s, drank the music left on Yoochun’s tongue.
If their first kiss was wine, this kiss was brandy, potent and distilled — simmered in oak and aged to perfection amid the beauty of Venice. Yoochun’s soul sang under Junsu’s touch, his tender, battered heart blooming under the sunny caress of the other’s words and laughter, coaxed open by the pure sincerity of his loving embrace. If asked, Junsu would say the moment his fingers found Yoochun’s warmth was the instant his world sprang forth in vibrant colour. Around him, the life turned rich, a full hearty experience seen through the eyes of a man coming out of the darkness. The still silence of Yoochun’s company held small humours, folded slips of gold leaf caught on his soul when they walked through the streets, arm in arm as the city laughed and sang with them.
Yoochun brought with him music, forged in the dark of the hills and beaten to a sharpness by a man full of hatred. Italy and its open arms welcomed the self-proclaimed pariah, fostering him in its bosom until he healed enough to sing the laments of his soul. Within his gilded cage, Yoochun played, lost in the strung together notes on endless pages until the day he ventured out and touched Junsu’s heart.
To Yoochun, Junsu was a storm, washing him free of the sins laid on his flesh and soul by a man who knew nothing of who he was. He’d been bled, an innocent sacrifice laid upon a bed of thorns and cut open for a false priest’s delusions. Junsu bathed his wounds, stitching each long rent in his soul with a laugh or a smile and for every tender kiss given, Yoochun’s scars faded a little bit more.
He knew what he was now — a man, formed by the blood of an immortal creature but still at heart, a man. His soul was his own to lose or save, threatened only by loneliness when Junsu wasn’t near. In the company of the almost-woman who brought Junsu to eternity, Yoochun found a teasing aunt, a benevolent heart that took him in and wrapped him in silks and love. He envied their easy relationship, seeking to forge his own between them. The missteps he took were laughed off and the triumphs he had were celebrated.
For the first time since he could form a thought, Yoochun found a peace in his soul, a stoked ember banked in the warmth of people who loved him — and fanned by the wings of an angel the Heavens let him find.
Their clothes were torn from their bodies, the heat of their skin melting away the fabric. Desperate to touch every inch of Yoochun’s long form, Junsu tugged and pulled, snapping off buttons with a feverish delight. They barely broke their kiss, standing quickly enough to topple the piano bench to the floor. Piano keys sounded a disgruntled protest when Yoochun’s hand slammed onto the board, his balance taken from him when Junsu’s fingers found the close of his pants.
Stroked hard and weeping with need, his sex strained and fought, wanting to be touched yet the man shivered, afraid at the closeness and what it would bring. His fear turned his eyes to sienna diamonds, glittering and wet and Junsu murmured nothings, comforting the man he’d fallen in love with — the man who brought him moonlight with his voice and silk in his touch.
“What are you afraid of, bacio?” The man whispered, biting at the plump of Yoochun’s mouth. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
“Tonight — today — is a time of first for me. First, that I’ve brought you here — that I play for you and now,” Yoochun shuddered when Junsu suckled at the corners of his mouth, tasting each word as it slipped from Yoochun’s tongue. “I’ve never — shared myself with anyone before.”
“Then I will show you that pleasure,” Junsu sighed, thanking God for the gift of a man so willing to return his love. “I will show you what we can create together. I cannot wait to hear your voice rising with my name and I will weep when I cry out yours in joy.”
Note: Next piece will be lemon. I will try to contain it within that piece and write the epilogue separate as a consideration for those readers who feel uncomfortable viewing those sections. Thank you.
Hugo Alfvén: Jag längtar dig (I long for you) (in Swedish I believe)
Here it sung in its native rendering here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wpfm7dP1sP8
I long for you. I long for your kingdom.
My longing is greatest when you are near.
Always, I long for the kingdom of your beauty;
I long to be there — even when I am there.