dbsk_flashfic | in a burning room (flashfic challenge 12: slow dance)

Title: in a burning room
Author:

junyoo
Word count: 1780 (not counting the poetry headers)
Concrit?: sure thing!
Pairing: yoochun/junsu, junsu/jaejoong
Rating: light R
Summary: yoochun's burning him.
Author's Notes: once again, for

angelacaduca, because she said i should write yoosu for this and i saw it and BAM. it had to be done. warning for uh... a lot of angst, though. and kind of a weird junsu pov.... :/

More than putting another man on the moon,
more than a New Year’s resolution of yogurt and yoga,
we need the opportunity to dance
with really exquisite strangers. A slow dance

Another promotional party, another night of too many drinks and Yoochun's draped across the shoulders of some nameless woman, who's showing everything and not enough. Yoochun's whispering in her ear with that liquid smile spread thick across his lips, red from too much alcohol, or maybe he's been doing other things out of sight. It's not hard to read him like a book, though Junsu's never been good at reading.

Yoochun's eyes slide across the room and meet Junsu's with a jolt; the jolt's all Junsu's and he shudders at the darkness in Yoochun's eyes, simmering, slow boil. Junsu looks away because he's not in the mood to be burned. Not tonight.

The song changes from upbeat to sensual, reminds Junsu of Yoochun's lips in private or maybe even in public, sliding over his pulse like he's trying to steal Junsu's life away. It's happened before. Yoochun leads her out on the floor, smiling, smiling, mumbling in her ear as he pulls her in slow and moves like water beneath bridges, sluggish with a certain grace. Junsu can't stop watching. The boil's running over now and whether he likes it or not, it stings hot on his skin.

between the couch and dinning room table, at the end
of the party, while the person we love has gone
to bring the car around

"Hey," Jaejoong whispers in his ear, a hand on his shoulder and Junsu's surprised Jaejoong doesn't flinch away at the heat. "You okay?" It's said with the air of concern, but there's that underlying inuitive sense Jaejoong has of knowing exactly when one of his bandmates really aren't okay. He's really saying 'we can leave, if you want', and Junsu wants. He just doesn't know if that's it.

"Yeah," he says, leaning into the touch. "You driving?"

Jaejoong fingers beneath the collar of his shirt, casual in all the right places, more in hidden ones. "Can, if you want. Yunho won't mind calling for the van."

Junsu nods. "Please."

Jaejoong presses down lightly, then the touch is gone, leaving fade-to-pink imprints and the scent of him lingering as he leaves to find Yunho. Junsu keeps watching Yoochun fall from grace, fingers splayed out, inching towards the cracks in her less-than-honorable innocence. She only wants his name and body, one night. Junsu wanted more and it was too much.

because it’s begun to rain and would break their heart
if any part of us got wet. A slow dance
to bring the evening home, to knock it out of the park. Two people
rocking back and forth like a buoy. Nothing extravagant.

There's something off about the way she moves against Yoochun. She doesn't know him like Junsu does, doesn't know the shape of Yoochun's body and where to press, where he's vulnerable. Maybe, Junsu thinks, that's a good thing. Yoochun's delicate no matter how much alcohol he hides behind; one wrong move and he could shatter into a million pieces. Junsu's cleaned him up enough to know. He knows every crevice, missing pieces he's stolen for himself. They say Yoochun's selfish, but Junsu's good at hiding without alcohol to hinder his senses.

She's nothing special, Junsu thinks as he looks her over. The swell of her breasts, barely covered by the thing she calls a dress, it's no different than all the others. Though maybe that's what Yoochun's going for. Nameless, faceless women he can fuck, then forget about, remembering only lush curves and nails that leave long, angry, red lines down his back like punishment. Her nails are long and blood-red, Junsu notes absently. Fitting.

A little music. An empty bottle of whiskey.
It’s a little like cheating. Your head resting
on his shoulder, your breath moving up his neck.

It's only fair, Junsu thinks as he sits curled up into Jaejoong on the couch, some slow, sad song paying faintly in the background, that he gets to be selfish, too. Only fair that he gets to move his lips and breathe along the soft skin of Jaejoong's neck, make him shiver and suck in a hissing breath. It's only fair that Junsu gets to press harder, like he's trying to suffocate himself on Jaejoong's warmth, on the scent of him like spice and mulled wine, though Junsu's not actually sure what mulled wine smells like. Maybe this is the only alcohol he feels is safe enough to hide behind, this living, breathing shelter from the pain. If only for a little while.

Completely fair. Jaejoong's willing enough, hands curled like fire along Junsu's thigh, palm open wide. It's not cheating. There's nothing to cheat on, or with.

(Love's not a game, after all. Junsu imagines if it was, he'd have beaten it by now.)

Your hands along her spine. Her hips
unfolding like a cotton napkin
and you begin to think about how all the stars in the sky
are dead. Then my body

Junsu wonders if he would ever be able to do it. He imagines curves alike yet different than his own, sinking into warm heat and feeling softsilk skin beneath his fingertips, the smell of roses or some other flower pungent in his nostrils. Would he choke on it? Would he moan her name and let her punish him with imaginary whips, nails like some slow burn down his back, marking? Junsu can see it so very clearly, pink tongue skewering syllables against dark lips, his name, perhaps, maybe love. Though it wouldn't really be love, just some chemical reaction that's more akin to lust.

Maybe he doesn't really love. Maybe it's all in his head, like this imaginary scene he can't bring himself to play out. He was always bad at acting, anyway. So Yoochun says.

is talking to your body slow dance. The Unchained Melody,
Stairway to Heaven, power-cord slow dance. All my life
I’ve made mistakes. Small
and cruel. I made my plans.

Despite this, this: Jaejoong's got one hand on the small of his back and the other on the nape of his neck and they're dancing, slow and purposeful. Junsu wonders if Jaejoong's as scared as he is.

I never arrived. I ate my food. I drank my wine.
The slow dance doesn’t care. It’s all kindness like children
before they turn four. Like being held in the arms
of my brother. The slow dance of siblings.

Dancing, dancing and Junsu's heart is trying to claw its way out of his throat on a ladder with too many missing rungs. Jaejoong holds him close and closer still. They fit together awkwardly, but it works, somehow. Junsu drinks the mulled wine of Jaejoong's neck and Jaejoong doesn't say his name. Yoochun never did, either. Maybe Junsu's cheating, just a little.

Two men in the middle of the room. When I dance with him,
one of my great loves, he is absolutely human,

Jaejoong's living, breathing. Junsu can't do this anymore. He laughs like a scared, little child, and he opens his mouth to say something, anything. If he said anything, it's drowned out by the loud giggling at the door, familiar and sending a sharp pang of life to Junsu's heart, still for the moment. Jaejoong watches Junsu with sad eyes and an even sadder smile, nothing like dishonesty. Junsu leaves before he can see what Yoochun looks like when he's graceless and moving too fast for Junsu to catch him.

and when he turns to dip me
or I step on his foot because we are both leading,
I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer.

Yoochun slips inside his bed and he's warm, really warm. Junsu doesn't try to stop him when he smiles that smile, liquid and full of that simmering heat, burns Junsu when he slides lips along Junsu's pulse. Junsu lets him, too scared to try and stop him. For all his wishful thinking, he doesn't want Yoochun to leave, craves him like a drug dipping chocolatey smooth in his veins. Yoochun's voice rumbles along his neck and throat, his hands slip beneath Junsu's shirt and pull him off the bed with imaginary strings, arching graceless; God's not listening to Junsu now.

Yoochun's name falls from Junsu's lips like a plea and Junsu can feel Yoochun's smile spread wide along his collarbone, mapping plans and cruelty. Junsu doesn't think Yoochun means it, any of it. Love, playing with Junsu's heart with strings that cut. Yoochun's just Yoochun, too used to building his walls. Maybe Jaejoong helped, a little.

(If this were a game, Junsu's just been a victim of K.O. Maybe he'll try again.)

The slow dance of what’s to come
and the slow dance of insomnia
pouring across the floor like bath water.

Yoochun doesn't sleep after it's over. He doesn't stay, either. Junsu doesn't try to stop him, because it'll all have been in vain, anyway. He's already lost and being a sore loser was never really his thing. He watches Yoochun re-dress like it's a dance, memorizing the details so maybe one day he'll be able to dance it, too. Maybe he's not a sore loser, but he's not against petty revenge.

When the woman I’m sleeping with
stands naked in the bathroom,
brushing her teeth, the slow dance of ritual is being spit
into the sink.

Junsu dreams of that nameless, faceless woman, with her curves and her ugly innocence. She infects him like a disease, scratching like his heart along his back. He wakes up and his back is burning. It's just where Yoochun punished him for the things he's never done.

There is no one to save us
because there is no need to be saved.
I’ve hurt you. I’ve loved you. I’ve mowed
the front yard.

There's an angel on the dresser across from Junsu's bed. His mother gave it to him and told him to stay strong, the angel would protect his voice. Junsu's voice isn't what needs protecting.

(He can still taste mulled wine on his lips, licks them clean.)

When the stranger wearing a shear white dress
covered in a million beads
comes toward me like an over-sexed chandelier suddenly come to life,
I take her hand in mine. I spin her out
and bring her in. This is the almond grove

The last promotional party, and the tables have turned, flipped by Junsu's hands on a porcelain doll with dark, simmering eyes. Her innocence is as fake as the breasts just above his thumbs, but Junsu just smiles and slides his hands back to count the knobs of her delicate spine. She's easy to fit against, though it's only because he forces it, if it were natural they wouldn't be having this dance and Junsu would be hiding behind memories of wine and heat. She's warm, though, welcoming and Junsu spins her around, watching champagne-white fan out and close back in slowly, suffocating.

in the dark slow dance.
It is what we should be doing right now. Scrapping
for joy. The haiku and honey. The orange and orangutang slow dance.

Yoochun's watching, watching, and Junsu hopes Yoochun's falling from grace, because he's flying.

(If he falls, it'll have been worth it.)

Current Mood: artistic
Current Music: dareyori mo takaku ← wakashi hiyoshi