You're a little tired of sitting around and waiting, waiting, waiting for the figurative green light. Word's spreading that you might be a part of a group called the Four Seasons or something, but before you can even react to the rumors, the project's canceled. Something about how it's not the right time or how it's not the right people. No spark, one of the directors of SM says in clipped words, as if annoyed by your presence. No spark means no go. And so you wait.
A friend tells you about the competition and a small part of you is intrigued. A contest, you ponder, and it's not a serious thought until a week later and you realize that you've barely thought about anything else. When you stand on the stage it becomes crystal clear that this is what you want to be doing for the rest of your life. It's as much a surprise to you as it is to your friend when you win and your first thought isn't so much excitement as it is don't screw this up.
When word gets out that you're going to be in a five-member group, you barely even stir. It'll be another wild goose chase, you think to yourself. Except it's not. This time it's true and you're almost not prepared for this. Years of waiting and now you don't have to wait anymore.
You'll never admit it to anyone, but you're a little worried about meeting the American (what was his name again? Yoochun?) and the young kid who didn't expect to get past the first basic audition, but did anyways. It turns out that you don't have to be worried about Yoochun, who fits in with careless American ease and a strange accent in his otherwise flawless Korean.
It's the young kid, Changmin, who makes you nervous. He's quiet and unapproachable, nodding when appropriate and staring into the air other times. Yunho tells you to forget about it— stardom would be blinding to anyone, yeah? Junsu laughs and says that everything will work out just fine, wait and see.
You wait (it seems your entire life has been made of waiting).
Fifteen minutes before you're set to formally meet the rest of the group you're going to debut with, all the nerves that you should have had when you auditioned but miraculously didn't suddenly descend tenfold.
You've talked to Yunho before, liked him well enough, all crooked smiles and dancing obsession. You know Junsu because everyone knows Junsu— the boy who lost three years of his voice and came back about a million times better than all of the trainees combined, with a smile and laugh bright enough to make everyone forgive him for it. Jaejoong's a bit of an enigma, spacey most of the time and mothering everyone the rest of it, and then you remember the first time you heard him sing and how you stood and stared until Heechul came over and picked your jaw up for you. It'll be the first time any of you have met Yoochun, but you watched his tape and you know boys your age aren't supposed to sound like that, all low and sultry.
You have no earthly idea what you're getting yourself into.
Then Yunho grins wide, Junsu laughs too loud, Yoochun gives you all a shy smile, Jaejoong tries to hide his behind his hand, and you think it might all just work out okay.
The debut causes less anxiety in you than you would have thought. You're an old hand at all this entertainment stuff, so it's not really that big of a deal when your free time starts shrinking. But you can see the bruised marks underneath Changmin's eyes every morning, the way he stumbles into the practice sessions— all long and awkward limbs. You hear from Yunho in the middle of a quiet hallway that Changmin's a genius, that he's one of the smartest kids in his high school.
It's just one more thing about him that you never knew before. Quietly, you steal his cellphone one day and set his alarm for ten minutes later. It won't hurt, you tell yourself. He needs all the sleep he can get and it's your job as the oldest person in this group to look out for everyone.
Of course, that explains why you're still sitting outside the recording booth on a crappy couch as the clock ticks away another hour. You can barely make out his figure by the mic and the way his fingers dig into the headphones dwarfing his head. You can't see his face, but you can imagine his expression. Frustration. Anger. His voice is strong, but wild, as if his vocal trainers never quite taught him to control all that power.
You ignore your phone when Yunho calls and stare outside the window as the sky turns black and purple. It's getting late and when you turn back to look at him, he looks small and lost. That's when you decide that at some point, he's going to need to stop. There's only so much he can do and it's a little painful to watch him alone, fingers clenched with his self-hatred practically choking the air.
Changmin. His name is soft on your lips and he turns, blinking more than necessary. You pretend not to notice. Here. You throw the water bottle by your side into his hands and look away as he struggles to twist open the cap with shaking fingers. It's not your place to watch him in his moment of weakness.
The walk back to the subway is quiet, if not a little awkward. You leave him underneath the fluorescent lights, smile fading into the night on your face.
It comes time to record your debut song faster than you expect and you thought you were busy before. Your sunbae offer words of encouragement and tell you that you'll get used to it (no one ever tells you it gets less hectic and you're thankful they're honest at least) but the future isn't what you're worried about at the moment. The amount of time you spend in voice lessons and dance instruction triples and you wonder if someone forgot to tell whoever comes up with your schedule that you still have to go to school and that you do occasionally need sleep.
You perfect the art of multitasking— you do homework on the way from classes to the studio and back with headphones playing the demo of your songs (your songs, it still feels so strange thinking that) to drown out the city around you, you spend any breaks you have at school in an unused classroom going over and over and over the choreography (one of the teachers finds you and kicks you out; you find a new classroom on another floor), at home you sing in the shower and when you're doing your chores until your little sisters know all of the words and sing along with you in ridiculous voices (young as they are, they can still tell when their big brother needs a laugh).
When you step into the recording booth, everything you've memorized, all of the vocal techniques you've learned, it's all forgotten. The headphones feel like they're going to swallow your head and the microphone somehow becomes the scariest thing ever in the tiny space. It all makes you feel small and you hate that, hate feeling intimidated by anything, much less inanimate objects, so you suck it up and ignore the twisting nervousness in your gut and just sing.
The first take is too loud, the second is too quiet, and hours later you end up being the last member of the group to leave. A soft voice calls your name and you lift your head in surprise, blinking (not because you're about two seconds from crying) at the sight of Jaejoong sprawled on the couch outside the booth like he has absolutely nothing better in the world to do than wait for you. He tosses you a bottle of water that you catch with hands that are shaking so hard it takes you three tries to get the thing open.
You'd say thank you if you thought you could get the words out without your voice cracking. He seems to understand when you give him a tentative nod instead, wordlessly rolling off the couch and falling in step with you, a quiet presence all the way to the nearby subway station where he says goodbye with one of those enigmatic smiles of his before turning to walk away.
You've never had personal space to begin with. From the very start, it was your mom's coddling touches and your many sisters and their inherent need to cry on your shoulder when their relationships didn't work (you don't mention that there is never a happily-ever-after to a love story). When management announces the new living arrangements, you shrug it off with a smile and a little laugh.
Changmin, you notice, looks more cramped and uncomfortable than ever before. Oh right, you think. He's the youngest, the least experienced. He's two times too insecure and four times too stubborn to admit it. And so maybe that's the reason you tell the others that the bed under the air conditioner isn't that great and oh, look Junsu, that other bed is closest to the electrical outlet so you can game at night. Yoochun, the view's not that fantastic by this one, why don't you try the one by the wall, you know, the one with a little private corner for when you want to write out melodies? Yunho, of course, understands what you want to do and opts for the worst bed possible under some ridiculous explanation or another on how it'll make him more 'leader-like'.
It works and Changmin ends up with that 'awful, too-cold-too-hot bed by the air conditioner'. You know the window and the view will stop him from suffocating.
Sure enough, he stops complaining about his bed after one night.
A week later they tell you that you'll all be moving into an apartment together. Not only will the five of you be sharing one living area, you'll be sharing one bedroom. You're already in mourning over the loss of your personal space before you've even started deciding what to bring, but then again being in a boyband sort of negates any sense of physical boundaries anyways.
You end up with the bed right under the air conditioner but you have the best view so you don't mind quite as much as you make everyone else believe.
You wince when you hear the crack. It's not because the sound that comes out is terrible (because it isn't, it's just strained and honestly, it lasts too short for anything to come of it). It's because you know, (fuck it, you know) that he's going to beat himself up for it. It doesn't matter that this live isn't going to determine the path of DBSK or that this live really isn't all that awesome to begin with. You know it'll matter to him because he'll think that he's letting you all down and that he's the weak one.
(Nobody has ever bothered to tell him about Yoochun's personal family troubles or Junsu's battle past his own demons. One day, you think you might sing him a story about a person who waited and waited and secretly feared that there was nothing worth waiting for in the end. One day.)
Yunho tells you about being brushed off backstage, of cursory glances and a face that resembles that of a stranger. I can't get to him, Yunho says, honestly frustrated. You tell him to breathe— he's the leader, he needs to stay calm about this. It's okay, really it is.
But later, when you try to catch Changmin's wrist with your hand only to be thrown aside, even you're not sure if things are going to be fine. When you catch him in the bathroom, his expression freezes all the words you've ever wanted to say. His eyes are narrowed, bright only in their intense self-loathing.
You reach out for him again, but he shoves you away.
You pretend it doesn't hurt.
It's not your first appearance or even your second, but singing live is still a novelty to you that hasn't quite worn off. Still, no matter what you want to think, there's no excuse for letting your voice crack like that— wildly enough to make you almost stop, but you keep going, forcing yourself to finish lest you become an even bigger embarrassment to those who have worked so hard for you, with you, to get you to where you are now.
Yunho drapes an arm over your shoulder as you slink backstage and you shrug it off and pretend to not notice the flash of hurt in his eyes. You can't let yourself get too attached to these boys; this industry is transitory at best, doubly so for those who simply can't cut it.
Yoochun and Junsu are off joking with each other and it's Jaejoong who stays beside you. He opens his mouth and you give him your best glare, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. When he touches your wrist, you jerk away like you've been burned (maybe you have a voice whispers in the back corridors of your mind) and make sure you're the first through the door to the dressing room.
You change as fast as you can but there's nowhere to escape to. The bathroom will have to do. You don't do anything as banal as locking yourself into a stall for a good cry; you simply run your hands under the faucet and splash water over your face. It's not until Jaejoong comes looking for you that you realize your hand is pressed against the mirror and if looks could kill, your reflection and Jaejoong's behind you would be incinerated without a thought.
He opens his mouth again and you shove him into the doorframe on your way out, ignoring the heat of his skin.
You're a fucking dumbass your reflection says matter-of-factly.
You don't even have enough energy to muster up a glare. It's true. You're a complete idiot. Why did you think you could fix him up so quickly? It's not as simple as walking into the workroom when the door is practically glued shut and talking to him. It's never easy with Changmin.
You should have known that. But you didn't. Or maybe you did, but you decided it didn't matter because you were the person who knew him best and he would listen to you. Ha. What had you said? Something about how it's okay, he'll have another chance to sing live in a week? Or no, maybe it was about he shouldn't beat himself over the small things in life.
Either way, he'd locked eyes with you and said clearly, calmly, without so much as a tremor that you had no place in what he felt or thought or did. You hadn't known how to deal with the stranger talking to you. You'd stammered something out and he'd laughed.
You don't get it, he'd said. I don't need you to worry about me. This is my life, get out of it.
And of course, you hadn't listened— convinced that you could do something to change his mind.
You're a fucking dumbass.
Changmin hasn't been out of his room for a day.
You've taken to doing your homework after everyone else has gone to sleep, or at least had the decency to pretend to go to sleep. It's not an ideal situation, but the stylists have a hard time working around your textbooks and it's not like you can carry your laptop with you on stage. The workroom's become your haven, math papers strewn across the keyboard, history book propped up beside the monitor, notebooks full of nearly illegible scribbles (science, music, language) in piles next to Yoochun's completely illegible lyrics and chord progressions.
You're absently tapping a pencil against the side of your neck (to the beat of Hug, but you don't notice), deep in thought about what order you want to discuss the topics of your essay in, when the door opens.
Sorry, Chunnie, I— Oh, it's you.
Jaejoong's the absolute last person you want to see right now. And when he asks why you're up, you give him your best withering stare (he's not stupid) and the lateness of the hour (plus the fact that it's Jaejoong) negates any sense of tact you have left.
You're not my mother, you remind him flatly. Why does everyone always seem to forget that you've been the oldest far longer than you've been the youngest? You were taking care of yourself and your little sisters long before you became a pop star. It's not like you've forgotten how.
Except Jaejoong just won't stop, and even though you know he means well, his constant poking and prodding and fucking intruding gets under your skin so badly that you can't help but strike back.
You're pretty sure you manage to get your point across this time.
This time, you know better than to tell Yunho it'll be fine.
Wait, you tell him instead. Wait.
For what? Yunho asks you, confused, fingers raking through his hair.
I don't know, you respond. Even though you think you do.
You're waiting for him to crack, because only then will he be able to talk.
You don't remember much of the interview.
You don't remember Jaejoong making an ass out of himself (as usual).
You don't remember freezing on the most ridiculous of questions.
You don't remember Yunho's concerned glance before he answers in your blank stead.
You don't remember Yoochun's ankle pressed against yours.
You don't remember Junsu's slow blink.
At least, that's what you keep telling yourself.
He needs his sleep, everyone unanimously agrees. But the truth of the matter is that the manager will fry you all if you're late for your briefing in the apartment. It's just too bad that no one wants to be the one to wake up Changmin, now that he's finally managed to catch more than ten minutes of sleep.
Changmin. You call his name softly, the sound barely escaping your lips. He doesn't stir, bangs in his eyes and child-like beauty in his place against the armrest of the seat. You sigh, exasperated. He's too cute like this. It makes you forget about all those times he's shoved you away or pushed you out. It reminds you of why you try so damn hard to get to know him better.
Half-jokingly, you bend over him and plant a kiss on his lips. Yunho takes a picture and Junsu and Yoochun are about ready to sing songs about love at first sight or something equally ridiculous. But the sound fades into the background as he opens his eyes sleepily.
The sweet moment lasts for all of two seconds before he punches you hard in your arm and practically runs away.
You laugh, but when at midnight, he still hasn't come out for his cold dinner, you decide to take drastic action.
You're already going to hell for kissing him, you might as well as cement your status there while you're at it.
It's almost too easy to pick his lock.
The motion of the van is lulling you to sleep against your will and you eventually give in, slumping against the armrest after turning up the volume on your headphones to silence the rest of the world. You're under a two-mooned sky struggling to make your way through ribbons of silvery light when something drags you out of your dreamscape.
Thinking it's just the van stopping, you go to stretch in your seat but something's keeping you in place. Time slows down once you realize it's someone, not something, and that someone is Jaejoong who's—
You don't hear Yunho taking a picture with his phone. You don't hear Junsu and Yoochun catcalling. Your entire focus is on Jaejoong a breath away from you with laughter in his eyes and a strange quirk to his smile.
The driver calls out we're here and habits take over since your brain has stopped. You punch Jaejoong in the arm as hard as you can and climb out of the van before he can react, going straight up to the apartment to lock yourself in the bedroom.
You ignore everyone for the rest of the night, no matter who knocks and tries to draw you out.
Bedtime comes and you feign sleep when you hear someone picking the lock.
You are usually never the sober one. Back in your trainee days, you'd sneak out some nights with Yunho to a bar and toast to the vague future until you couldn't lift the soju glass anymore and passed out all over him. It's an unspoken agreement between the two of you. If he's drunk and burbling songs, you have to stay sober enough to save everyone's asses. If you're drunk and toppled over on the floor, he's got to have enough wits about him to label all the alcohol as coca cola— just in case.
This is of course why you're sitting on the couch right now with Changmin's body warming your side, watching Yoochun and Junsu draw jigglypuff-like squiggles all over Yunho's face with an obnoxious purple sharpie.
Damn, you're going to have to take care of that later tonight. Exasperated but unwilling to put a stop to Junsu's newfound talent for art (is that a bird or an ant scribbled on Yunho's eyebrow?), you absentmindedly run your fingers through Changmin's hair. The short strands are like threads of silk in your hand and it feels nice.
When you look back down, Changmin's chugging the soju at a pace fast enough to rival your drinking contests with some of the older Super Junior members. You wait until he's done before you gently loosen his fingers from the bottle and set it on the table with the other empty and half-empty bottles. He gives a little hiccup and you laugh, ruffling his hair more than a little affectionately. Supposedly, he's still angry at you. After all, the whole point behind the rare drinking session was to let out our pent-up frustrations as Yoochun proposed slyly.
It's an open secret that the only person around here right now with pent-up frustrations happens to be Changmin. Silly, you think with a half-smile. Your almost sleepy mentality is broken when you feel the soft touch of fingertips across the web of skin between your thumb and forefinger. The effect is almost instantaneous and you freeze (but not before shivering a little at the sensation), awareness trickling back into your system.
When Changmin settles his head on your shoulder and curls up closer to you, you realize a little wryly that he's the affectionate sort of drunk person. Two seconds later as you feel warm puffs of air against your shirt, you amend the statement. He's a really affectionate drunk. Your breath hitches as he decides that your shirt isn't the best thing to kiss and moves onto your neck. You don't manage to hide your flinch well enough.
You are the most insufferable person ever, Shim Changmin. The words make you feel a little bit better about the situation and you sigh, resigned to the fact that he probably doesn't understand what you're saying. You just need to hold onto your sanity long enough for the alcohol to catch up to him and make him sleep— even Junsu and Yoochun are out cold now.
What was that again? Your mind asks as you find a mouth on yours. Sanity! You scream to yourself mentally, but sanity is out to dinner with inhibition and doubt, leaving you all alone to deal with a very physical Changmin. You manage to make a sound of strangled frustration before deciding that to hell with it all, he started it.
You invade his mouth, drawing out little coaxing sounds as you press him closer to yourself. You don't break the kiss even when he shifts into your lap, his fingers wandering over your body. It's hot and his face is flushed when you finally pull away, his eyes lit with something like lust and want and need.
You are not sober right now. When you shift underneath him, the friction is as painful as it is pleasurable and you lean in to steal one more kiss, taking in his soft gasps and moans.
Sanity returns just long enough to remind you that the bed is a better place than the sofa. You tug him down the hallway and into the bedroom, the heat never abating for a second. There's a sharp feeling of something when he giggles, clearly drunk, but you brush the thought aside. Like this, Changmin's more open than he's ever been, unafraid to ask for what he wants.
Like this, you aren't afraid to ask for what you want either.
There's a very good reason alcohol is considered contraband in the dorms. Many reasons actually, one of which is the obnoxiously loud giggling coming from Yoochun and Junsu as they fight over who gets to use the purple sharpie to draw on poor passed-out Yunho.
You would be laughing with them except you're infinitely smarter than they are, even when tipsy (not drunk, you're too smart for that), and have a much better seat curled up against Jaejoong's side. The voice in the back of your mind that's been reminding you not to do anything stupid, not to leave yourself open, it's muffled, each mouthful of soju you swallow quieting it even more.
It pipes up again when Jaejoong starts running his fingers through your hair (you're mad at him, dammit) but you do a damn good job of silencing it by downing your half-empty bottle in one gulp.
There's a hand prying your now completely empty bottle from your fingers but you don't know why anyone would want an empty bottle. There's also the question of who took it away, since the peanut gallery is still laughing themselves sick and Jaejoong's busy petting you.
He has two hands. Right.
To prove your point (to whom you're not entirely sure, but it still should be proven), you steal Jaejoong's hand when it returns and it's fascinating, really, the differences between his hand and your own. They don't match his face, you decide, but they both fit him. Jaejoong is nothing if not a mass of contradictions.
His palm feels different, rougher than yours, though the skin between his thumb and forefinger is soft and you run your fingertips over it again and again. Jaejoong shivers.
How can you be cold, hyung, it's so hot in here, you ask, sitting up a little so you can curve your body against his side to keep him warm. The room wobbles and you close your eyes to wait for it to stop, resting your head on Jaejoong's shoulder.
Your lips brush against his shirt and it's the most curious tingly sensation. With a little stretch you can reach Jaejoong's neck and when your lips slide over warm skin the tingly feelings spread out from your lips to your entire body, pooling low in your stomach. The second time it's even better but you can't figure out why Jaejoong's making sounds like he does when you hit him.
He says something and you miss it, blinking slowly to bring him back into focus as you look up. He's too close, and you find yourself completely lost when you stare into his eyes. You make a quiet disappointed noise when the hand in your hair moves, but it doesn't go far, just to the side of your face and okay, that feels nice too, especially when you tilt your head and rub your cheek against his palm.
Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Jaejoong's tongue peeking out to sweep over his lips and it makes you wonder how they would feel against your own. Then you remember, before, vaguely, except that was too fast to really base anything on. Not enough. You want more.
When you lean in to take it, Jaejoong's the stillest you think you've ever seen him; that observation is quickly eclipsed by just how good that simple touch feels. It makes you gasp but you don't move, mouth parted against his closed lips. He makes a pained sort of noise in the back of his throat and suddenly his mouth is moving, opening up to yours, his tongue curling along your lip before slipping between your teeth.
About that time you completely stop thinking at all and fall back on just reacting, his shirt crumpled in your fist and his fingers tangled in your hair.
Closer, you want closer, and he's right there beside you, easy for you to slide onto his lap and so much easier to kiss him straight on. Easier for you to touch him, too— he's so warm and when he groans the vibrations bleed into your fingers where they're pressed against his throat, his chest.
Jaejoong shifts under you, making your hips slide against his, and the only thing that keeps you from crying out loudly is him stealing your breath so thoroughly that you're shaking.
Suddenly he's pushing you away and you whine when he stands up. You move and he's right there, gripping your wrist tightly and pulling you flush against him, whispering in your ear before he tugs you down the hallway. He's steady at your side and does a better job of keeping you upright than you would yourself at the moment, especially when that last bit of soju hits you with a vengeance and the whole world spins.
You fall back on your bed and giggle at the bounce Jaejoong makes when he falls beside you. Then he's crawling on top of you and god that's so much better. Things start going blurry after that. It's all too much but you can't help begging for more, tugging at Jaejoong's hair and getting tangled in your own clothes.
Wet heat surrounds you and you can't even breathe, choking on air as light explodes behind your eyes. Then darkness takes you and you remember no more.
You get up while he's still sleeping off the alcohol, carefully sliding out of the bed to put on your clothes. You still haven't washed off the sharpie marks on Yunho's face and you need to take care of the empty soju bottles because you clearly weren't able to last night.
Told you it was time to work off pent-up frustrations. Yoochun says with a wink. The living room is spotless and you see Junsu snoring happily by the table. Yunho's still on the floor, but his face is devoid of those squiggly marks though you think you see a camera hanging from his neck (no doubt, it contains photos for evidence).
Thanks, you manage to say and Yoochun shrugs the gratitude like it's no big deal, gesturing for you to sit next to him on the couch.
So what happened while I was out cold? he asks in a suggestive tone and you roll your eyes before leaning over to whisper nothing, idiot in his ear. As if he could get the details so easily.
You hear the door slamming before you see it and then the sound of the shower running. Worried, you can't resist getting up, poised to walk over and knock gently on the door. Yoochun holds you back though, a hand pressed on your shoulder.
Let him be, he says, dropping the carefree personality. He needs to figure this out for himself.
You bite your lip but don't take another step towards the bathroom door.
Later on, as you see Changmin hanging around a confused Junsu, you wish you hadn't listened.
Your bed is empty when you wake up, and you don't know why you're disappointed.
A flash of warmth runs through you when a thought (a memory, fuck) plays in your mind, Jaejoong and warmth and Jaejoong.
On your way to the shower you walk past Jaejoong and Yoochun curled up like kittens on the living room couch, heads bent close but you can see the knowing smile on Jaejoong's lip as he whispers something to Yoochun.
The bathroom door has a tendency to slam if not closed properly. You let it fall shut as loudly as it wants to.
Within five minutes, you're getting dizzy from the steam and the water turned as hot as it will go. The tiles are cool and hard under your forehead.
When you get dressed later, you make sure the sweater you pull on comes down past your bruised knuckles.
Junsu doesn't say anything when you cling to him for the rest of the day; he just takes your teasing with a laugh that almost eases the tightness in your chest enough for you to breathe again.
He's withdrawing again, running away like all those times before. You can practically see the defenses he's thrown up. But you're tired of waiting outside the walls, waiting for him to see you and think it's okay to let you in for a little bit before kicking you out just as quickly.
You find him playing a videogame on Junsu's gamecube, eyes narrowed in a look of intense concentration. He doesn't so much as blink when you settle down on the couch next to him. There's a tense silence that lasts for minutes.
I liked you better when you were drunk, you finally say unapologetically and he retorts with something about being able to molest him. And that's not true, it's not true you want to say even though a part of you, that part that stirred when he giggled last night, is wondering if he's right and you're wrong.
You are sick of waiting for the door to appear and this is why you push forward, telling him No, you're wrong and there's much more to you than your body. He's not listening though, you can see from the hunched shoulders, hands clenched around the controller as if he wants to bring them up to his ears to block the sound of your voice out.
You reach for his shoulder and barely avoid the violent shove. And you're suddenly angry at him and at yourself. You think that he looks about as surprised as you must feel when you push him back forcefully, face pinched with anger and a thousand crackling emotions. But his surprise doesn't last long and then he's trying to push you down, trying to leave you on the ground so he can run the fuck away again.
He lands on the floor first, but you follow within seconds via his grip on your shirt. You see anxiety, fear, and panic freewheeling in his eyes— out of control and sparking bright against the dark color of his pupils. He isn't going to run again. You won't let him. You kiss him savagely, trying to convince him that you were never in it for just that one night of desire. But when you pull back, he shoves you hard enough to almost make you lose your balance.
You've never told him before, but you're a stubborn bastard too.
You're staring intently at the television when Jaejoong plops down on the couch beside you. It takes a large amount of willpower to keep playing (you are not going to run away from him), ignoring the eyes you can feel boring into the side of your head.
I liked you better drunk, he finally says, and the audacity of that statement is at a whole new level, even for Jaejoong.
You grit your teeth and take a deep breath before you answer. What, so you could molest me and laugh about it later?
Jaejoong's stammered refusals make your heart twist in something like hope but you squash the feeling before it can grow. Still he keeps talking, explaining, barreling past the fact that you don't want to listen, you don't want to hear his excuses.
When he pulls at your shoulder it's the last straw. You shove him off but this time he doesn't let up, pushing back with a force that surprises you. He's not playing but neither are you, not anymore, and you don't pull your punches as you wrestle him to the couch.
Your legs are tangled when you thud to the floor and Jaejoong falls with you, ending up on top of you in a way that sends heat rushing through your veins. Jaejoong gasps and when his eyes hit yours the wildness in them has you bucking up against him in desperation to get the fuck away from there. Away from Jaejoong and everything about him that sends you into freefall.
He crashes against you and it's teeth and taut lips and about as far from perfect as it can get, but you can't stop it, fighting back out of instinct until he pulls back, licking at the edge of his mouth.
You snap, teeth bared in a snarl as you shove as hard as you can, nearly succeeding in toppling him but he won't. fucking. give. up. Your movements are as wild as his eyes and when he finally pins you down, both hands tight in your hair and elbows nearly crushing your wrists into the floor, your chest is heaving and your eyes are wet and you haven't the faintest idea what you really want anymore.
Finally, his agitated movements stop and there's a heartbeat of silence and quiet. His voice is pitifully small when he asks Why, for once unable to throw up those walls.
I liked you better because you actually let me in. And you remember a wonderfully open side of him, all giggles and hiccups, completely unconcerned with defending himself from all the people in the world.
I liked you better because you actually let me in, he finally whispers, cracks in his voice and in his eyes.
You kiss him sweetly and as he relaxes bit by bit underneath you, you know.
You open your mouth to reply but he shushes you with his lips against your own, tentative and soft, heartbreaking.
You will never have to stand outside those walls again, waiting with bated breath for a glimpse of the person within.
This time you let him.