[fic] When tomorrow finally comes
Aug. 15th, 2011 02:47 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sessho08Title: When tomorrow finally comes
Fandom: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Pairing: Yunjae
Rating: G
Words: 785
A/N: Written while travelling by train back from Cracow. Somehow inspired by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
quirke's Sunny Otaku. Gratuitous angst.
You think of scenarios that will never come to life. About hopeful -–naïve-- promises you made to each other.
Not yet, both of you would say, he’d tell you, holding your hands, tracing intricate, illegible signs on the sensitive skin of your wrist with his thumb.
Someday, you’d answer. A routine but not an empty one, not like a prayer of someone who stopped believing in what they were whispering with their hands clasped together long ago.
Sometimes he’d leave you notes –excerpts cut out from magazines, napkins with unrecognisable scribbles; short, inconspicuous letters written on anything and everything, filled with tentative ideas, enthusiastic propositions. (A house in the countryside, wouldn’t be that nice?) No more spacious high-positioned golden cages as not to let people’s prying eyes reach them.
You’d show him songs you just started on, ones that even Yoochun hadn’t heard yet. Melodies still without lyrics, pieces that for once weren’t written with hopes of them being included in an album or an upcoming single.
He’d stay up late in the night (no time during the day) to work on inventions that were sure to bring him fame and make people’s lives more comfortable, and you’d accompany him, but from afar.
(You knew how one track mind he had and how he hated being disturbed when he was so focused on something.)
After he was done, his uncomprehending eyes would land at you and his mouth would voice his confusion – why are you still up? We have an early schedule in the morning.
You’d answer with a look of your own and the surprise would cease (always there, though, as if he was still able to forget that it wasn’t always his job to keep vigil and be the protector, the care-taker.)
You would go with your friends to drink (not able to keep all that piling up stress in anymore, desperately needing a release and kind faces that you weren’t practically made to see every day). Come morning, you’d be woken up as the last one or he’d even take your turn during make-up if you just happened to have lost rock-paper-scissors the night before.
(You’d convey your gratitude to him with a smile just a little brighter or a longer squeeze of his hand. He never wanted your gratefulness and it made it just a tad bigger.)
And sometimes (only more ‘times’ than ‘some’, since he’s always been a hot-blooded person – passionate with everything he did, be it love or work, compassion or anger, and you –having both been pampered in your women-ruled household, and to fight to have your way for the very same reasons -- were no less stubborn), sometimes you would argue.
It always started innocently – a civil discussion of two people with differing stances and sometimes you’d reach a compromise rather quickly. But most of the times it’d escalate and there would be objects thrown and damaged, regrettable thoughts that appeared in your minds so rarely (that normally you didn’t even have to squash, they dissipated by themselves – too exaggerated and harmful) would be voiced out, spat with simmering, blinding will to hurt one another at least for a moment, to have an upper hand.
Afterwards, there would be almost tangible tension lingering in the air (your grandmother would say ‘thick enough to be cut with a knife’). It’d last for the rest of the day, often for longer.
And then, you’d finally cool down and one of you would swallow their pride (usually it ended up to be you and you did resent it at times, but not enough not to get over it eventually) and things would be a bit more delicate than before, brittle around the edges, but ultimately everything returned to normalcy.
Once again, you’d find a folded page from a magazine with a picture of a small but well-groomed flower garden or some other final peace offering, a piece of your future life; a sign that your promise still stood true, that he didn’t change his mind, the same way you would never do.
You still haven’t thrown away any of those accumulated over years notes that he gave you. They’re wrinkled, the edges worn out with time and being touched far too many times, some of them ripped in half (some by accident and other – not), some of them taped back together.
You still haven’t changed your mind. But you’ve learned the hard way that some things are not a matter of just deciding on them, just believing.
That sometimes love – glorified, painful, wonderful, egoistically selfless, conquering all love isn’t enough.
(You’re still trying to find a way of taping back your heart, when there’s a massive bleeding chunk of it missing.)
Comments and criticism are love! :)
Fandom: Dong Bang Shin Ki
Pairing: Yunjae
Rating: G
Words: 785
A/N: Written while travelling by train back from Cracow. Somehow inspired by
quirke's Sunny Otaku. You think of scenarios that will never come to life. About hopeful -–naïve-- promises you made to each other.
Not yet, both of you would say, he’d tell you, holding your hands, tracing intricate, illegible signs on the sensitive skin of your wrist with his thumb.
Someday, you’d answer. A routine but not an empty one, not like a prayer of someone who stopped believing in what they were whispering with their hands clasped together long ago.
Sometimes he’d leave you notes –excerpts cut out from magazines, napkins with unrecognisable scribbles; short, inconspicuous letters written on anything and everything, filled with tentative ideas, enthusiastic propositions. (A house in the countryside, wouldn’t be that nice?) No more spacious high-positioned golden cages as not to let people’s prying eyes reach them.
You’d show him songs you just started on, ones that even Yoochun hadn’t heard yet. Melodies still without lyrics, pieces that for once weren’t written with hopes of them being included in an album or an upcoming single.
He’d stay up late in the night (no time during the day) to work on inventions that were sure to bring him fame and make people’s lives more comfortable, and you’d accompany him, but from afar.
(You knew how one track mind he had and how he hated being disturbed when he was so focused on something.)
After he was done, his uncomprehending eyes would land at you and his mouth would voice his confusion – why are you still up? We have an early schedule in the morning.
You’d answer with a look of your own and the surprise would cease (always there, though, as if he was still able to forget that it wasn’t always his job to keep vigil and be the protector, the care-taker.)
You would go with your friends to drink (not able to keep all that piling up stress in anymore, desperately needing a release and kind faces that you weren’t practically made to see every day). Come morning, you’d be woken up as the last one or he’d even take your turn during make-up if you just happened to have lost rock-paper-scissors the night before.
(You’d convey your gratitude to him with a smile just a little brighter or a longer squeeze of his hand. He never wanted your gratefulness and it made it just a tad bigger.)
And sometimes (only more ‘times’ than ‘some’, since he’s always been a hot-blooded person – passionate with everything he did, be it love or work, compassion or anger, and you –having both been pampered in your women-ruled household, and to fight to have your way for the very same reasons -- were no less stubborn), sometimes you would argue.
It always started innocently – a civil discussion of two people with differing stances and sometimes you’d reach a compromise rather quickly. But most of the times it’d escalate and there would be objects thrown and damaged, regrettable thoughts that appeared in your minds so rarely (that normally you didn’t even have to squash, they dissipated by themselves – too exaggerated and harmful) would be voiced out, spat with simmering, blinding will to hurt one another at least for a moment, to have an upper hand.
Afterwards, there would be almost tangible tension lingering in the air (your grandmother would say ‘thick enough to be cut with a knife’). It’d last for the rest of the day, often for longer.
And then, you’d finally cool down and one of you would swallow their pride (usually it ended up to be you and you did resent it at times, but not enough not to get over it eventually) and things would be a bit more delicate than before, brittle around the edges, but ultimately everything returned to normalcy.
Once again, you’d find a folded page from a magazine with a picture of a small but well-groomed flower garden or some other final peace offering, a piece of your future life; a sign that your promise still stood true, that he didn’t change his mind, the same way you would never do.
You still haven’t thrown away any of those accumulated over years notes that he gave you. They’re wrinkled, the edges worn out with time and being touched far too many times, some of them ripped in half (some by accident and other – not), some of them taped back together.
You still haven’t changed your mind. But you’ve learned the hard way that some things are not a matter of just deciding on them, just believing.
That sometimes love – glorified, painful, wonderful, egoistically selfless, conquering all love isn’t enough.
(You’re still trying to find a way of taping back your heart, when there’s a massive bleeding chunk of it missing.)
Comments and criticism are love! :)
