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theblueintheday2015-04-12 11:51 pm
bluedreaming) wrote in theblueintheday2015-04-12 11:51 pm
[team five] Continue
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singilu has to regretfully skip, here's my poor attempt at a birthday fic for Sehun at the last minute, because why not. Apologies.
The title and cut texts are from Make Believe by Jiro Wang (of course). This is the first story in the 紅樓夢 AU.
(Boy)friends suck, is what Jiro decides after leaving the bar and heading out into the rain, the sharp daggers of words still flying at his back as the door swings shut, cutting his past off from sight.
What did you expect? He should know better than to fall into bed with people he knows, it always gets too complicated and messy and there are trailing threads of his heart left, unconnected wires sparking as they lie exposed. It hurts. Jiro shrugs his jacket collar up, shoulders hunched against the rain, and wishes, not for the the first time, for a cigarette, but he can't. I lose my voice enough as it is.
Sometimes he thinks it wouldn't be any great loss. Looking up the sky, he lets the water drip onto his face and pool in the hollows of his eye sockets, the pollution in the water stinging his eyes. Maybe it's all make-believe anyway, the connections we have between people.
He sighs and keeps walking; water squelches in his shoes, he tries to flag down a taxi but there's already someone inside, water splashing up to soak him in a gritty bath as the taxi sweeps past.
there are no tears // why are my eye sockets wet and rusting
By the time he's walking down the block his apartment is on, Jiro is completely soaked and shivering. Lights spill out of the clubs along the road behind him, remnants of parties and broken bottles flashing rainbow lights that shatter into the reds of brake lights driving away. Empty happiness.
He's staring at the sidewalk in front of his feet, concrete, crack, concrete, crack a steadying rhythm to keep him going towards a hot shower and his bed when he hears something over the muffled staccato of raindrops on asphalt and wheels on water. Looking up, he sees a young man bent over a side-walk planter, vomiting the liquid contents of his stomach onto the remnants of acid-rain-ravaged chrysanthemums.
First instinct is to walk away, after all it's not his problem right? He's had a tough night, he's cold, wet, and feeling more robot than human. But Jiro stops anyway.
You're such a bleeding heart, his friends always say, and maybe they're right. But it isn't up to them, it's up to him, and Jiro looks at the man, barely older than a boy, and sees himself. Except I never had rainbow hair.
"Are you alright?" he asks, walking up to stop a safe distance. Not because of the smell, the rain is taking care of most of that, but because he knows what it feels like to be cold and alone, vomiting out the contents of one's recent bad decisions. How vulnerable it feels. Standing in the rain, Jiro feels somehow old, all of a sudden. He's not drunk, not now, walking out of the bar and drowning himself in the rain instead of alcohol, a lighter punishment to wake up to in the morning. But the idea of letting it all go is nostalgic, in a way.
The boy sways, looking up with wide eyes, hand slipping on slick metal, and Jiro reaches out instinctively to catch him before he falls. So much for keeping a distance. The boy slumps back into his chest, not passed out, just weak, and Jiro can feel even through his jacket how much he's shivering.
"What's your name?" he asks, instead of whether the young man is okay because he's obviously not.
"Sehun," he mumbles, the s catching on his teeth. Jiro nods.
"Do you have anywhere to go?" he asks. Sehun only looks at him with eyes fringed with wet lashes, chin quivering as water drips down his face from his rainbow hair. Jiro sighs.
what you want I truly understand
They end up in his apartment, both dripping onto the white tiles of his entranceway. Sehun looks bewildered and Jiro understands, peeling off his jacket and dropping it in a sopping mess on the ground before stepping up onto the wood floor, wincing at the small puddles of water in his wake.
"Come on," he gestures to Sehun, who looks up, eyes taking a moment to refocus before he gives his head a small shake and steps up. Jiro shows him the shower and towels and leaves him a spare pair of pajamas before shutting the door. From in his bedroom, stripping out of his wet things and temporarily drying off, he hears the hesitant moments before the shower finally starts.
"I'm not going to bite," he tells the walls, remembering other voices that weren't as kind. It's cold and he thinks longingly of the large bath next to the shower but it's not to be. A thick terrycloth bathrobe from his grandmother, the one he only uses for the rare occasions when someone sleeps over, will have to do. And a cup of coffee, which he runs through the machine before staring regretfully at the water puddles on the floor and getting the mop. The ten-years-younger version of him wouldn't have bothered at all, but he's too old now and knows better. Unfortunately.
By the time he's done the shower has been off for a while and the door opens as Jiro sits at the table in his bathrobe, eyeing the grounds at the bottom of his cup. I predict a mix of sun and clouds for tomorrow, both in weather and everything else. Sehun is standing in the doorway. Jiro does a second take at the sight of him in his spare pajamas; they fit the young man perfectly. Sehun feels shorter than he is.
"Do you need a hair dryer?" he asks, watching a drop of water fall off a tuft of hair to land on Sehun's nose. It's cute. He nods, and Jiro finds it for him before heading off to have a warm shower himself. Finally.
What with the warm water and his favourite sandalwood soap, the scent always somehow managing to tug gently at the coils of thoughts lurking in the wings of his mind, why did I ever agree to sleep with you anyway? Jiro has almost forgotten about Sehun when he steps out of the bathroom, towelling his hair dry and warm in his own striped pajamas. Sehun is sitting at the table, hair dryer on the table in front of him. His hair is still wet.
"Is something wrong?" Jiro asks, draping his towel over the back of the other chair before plugging the hair dryer into the outlet in case it doesn't work. Sehun shakes his head as the hair dryer turns on perfectly. Jiro pauses, looks at the young man properly. He seems sad.
"Do you want me to dry your hair?" he asks on a whim, mostly thinking about his childhood, his mom sitting him at the table while she gently dried his hair and then brushed through the silky blackness with a brush. He's surprised when Sehun nods, but turns on the dryer with his thumb and starts anyway.
Sehun's hair is surprisingly soft for being so dyed; Jiro cards his fingers through the silky strands, carefully drying it in sections and brushing them smooth. He can feel Sehun's initial tenseness evaporating as he moves over his scalp, the rain and the shower and whatever other traces of the night gently blown away by warm air and gentle fingers. By the time he's done Jiro is having fun, like playing hair dresser with the neighbourhood kids, and Sehun is almost dozing in his seat. He smiles, the young man seems so childlike right now, not like someone who was just puking out his guts in the dark on the sidewalk.
You look nicer like this.
Jiro decides to give Sehun his bed, I can just sleep on the couch, I'm out of practice anyway, he can find out more about the young man in the morning, preferably over pancakes and coffee after a good night's rest.
"Come on," he nudges Sehun, trying to pull him to his feet, but the young man is too sleepy, floppy arms and legs and Jiro shrugs and gives up, slinging him into his arms. I'm out of practice for this too. Sehun feels too light, Jiro doesn't even weight train at the gym and the burden is negligible. I'll make you eat double the pancakes.
He's tucking Sehun into his bed, trying to remember where he left the extra blankets for sleeping on the sofa when a hand clamps onto his arm and won't let go.
"What is it?" Jiro asks, trying to read the answer in Sehun's eyes. He looks sleepy but determined.
"Sleep here," he says, and Jiro could swear that he pouts just a bit. Jiro looks at the bed, it is a queen after all, and then thinks about trying to find his extra blankets. I'm tired. It's not a hard battle, after all they're both in their pajamas and it's obvious that Sehun is fighting to keep his eyes open. After a few moments of internal battle, comfort wins over propriety and Jiro slips into bed beside the younger man, pulling up the blanket but keeping a respectable distance which Sehun promptly erases, flopping over to nestle under Jiro's arm. He tries to pry Sehun off but he's tenacious, even mostly asleep, and Jiro finally gives up, reaching over to turn off the lamp.
It's nice, actually, to sleep with someone again; he hasn't done it in a long time and it's surprising how good it feels. The evening's unpleasantness has faded into fluffy sheep jumping over fences and Jiro is almost asleep when he hears a soft whisper.
"Thank you," Sehun whispers into the fabric of his pajamas, "for making my birthday okay after all."
Jiro drifts off to sleep, but not before resolving to follow up on this development in the morning.
First things first, I'd better find out the reason he was alone and trashed on his birthday, and then I'll ask the. . .
tagginglattelotus ♡
singilu has to regretfully skip, here's my poor attempt at a birthday fic for Sehun at the last minute, because why not. Apologies.The title and cut texts are from Make Believe by Jiro Wang (of course). This is the first story in the 紅樓夢 AU.
(Boy)friends suck, is what Jiro decides after leaving the bar and heading out into the rain, the sharp daggers of words still flying at his back as the door swings shut, cutting his past off from sight.
What did you expect? He should know better than to fall into bed with people he knows, it always gets too complicated and messy and there are trailing threads of his heart left, unconnected wires sparking as they lie exposed. It hurts. Jiro shrugs his jacket collar up, shoulders hunched against the rain, and wishes, not for the the first time, for a cigarette, but he can't. I lose my voice enough as it is.
Sometimes he thinks it wouldn't be any great loss. Looking up the sky, he lets the water drip onto his face and pool in the hollows of his eye sockets, the pollution in the water stinging his eyes. Maybe it's all make-believe anyway, the connections we have between people.
He sighs and keeps walking; water squelches in his shoes, he tries to flag down a taxi but there's already someone inside, water splashing up to soak him in a gritty bath as the taxi sweeps past.
By the time he's walking down the block his apartment is on, Jiro is completely soaked and shivering. Lights spill out of the clubs along the road behind him, remnants of parties and broken bottles flashing rainbow lights that shatter into the reds of brake lights driving away. Empty happiness.
He's staring at the sidewalk in front of his feet, concrete, crack, concrete, crack a steadying rhythm to keep him going towards a hot shower and his bed when he hears something over the muffled staccato of raindrops on asphalt and wheels on water. Looking up, he sees a young man bent over a side-walk planter, vomiting the liquid contents of his stomach onto the remnants of acid-rain-ravaged chrysanthemums.
First instinct is to walk away, after all it's not his problem right? He's had a tough night, he's cold, wet, and feeling more robot than human. But Jiro stops anyway.
You're such a bleeding heart, his friends always say, and maybe they're right. But it isn't up to them, it's up to him, and Jiro looks at the man, barely older than a boy, and sees himself. Except I never had rainbow hair.
"Are you alright?" he asks, walking up to stop a safe distance. Not because of the smell, the rain is taking care of most of that, but because he knows what it feels like to be cold and alone, vomiting out the contents of one's recent bad decisions. How vulnerable it feels. Standing in the rain, Jiro feels somehow old, all of a sudden. He's not drunk, not now, walking out of the bar and drowning himself in the rain instead of alcohol, a lighter punishment to wake up to in the morning. But the idea of letting it all go is nostalgic, in a way.
The boy sways, looking up with wide eyes, hand slipping on slick metal, and Jiro reaches out instinctively to catch him before he falls. So much for keeping a distance. The boy slumps back into his chest, not passed out, just weak, and Jiro can feel even through his jacket how much he's shivering.
"What's your name?" he asks, instead of whether the young man is okay because he's obviously not.
"Sehun," he mumbles, the s catching on his teeth. Jiro nods.
"Do you have anywhere to go?" he asks. Sehun only looks at him with eyes fringed with wet lashes, chin quivering as water drips down his face from his rainbow hair. Jiro sighs.
They end up in his apartment, both dripping onto the white tiles of his entranceway. Sehun looks bewildered and Jiro understands, peeling off his jacket and dropping it in a sopping mess on the ground before stepping up onto the wood floor, wincing at the small puddles of water in his wake.
"Come on," he gestures to Sehun, who looks up, eyes taking a moment to refocus before he gives his head a small shake and steps up. Jiro shows him the shower and towels and leaves him a spare pair of pajamas before shutting the door. From in his bedroom, stripping out of his wet things and temporarily drying off, he hears the hesitant moments before the shower finally starts.
"I'm not going to bite," he tells the walls, remembering other voices that weren't as kind. It's cold and he thinks longingly of the large bath next to the shower but it's not to be. A thick terrycloth bathrobe from his grandmother, the one he only uses for the rare occasions when someone sleeps over, will have to do. And a cup of coffee, which he runs through the machine before staring regretfully at the water puddles on the floor and getting the mop. The ten-years-younger version of him wouldn't have bothered at all, but he's too old now and knows better. Unfortunately.
By the time he's done the shower has been off for a while and the door opens as Jiro sits at the table in his bathrobe, eyeing the grounds at the bottom of his cup. I predict a mix of sun and clouds for tomorrow, both in weather and everything else. Sehun is standing in the doorway. Jiro does a second take at the sight of him in his spare pajamas; they fit the young man perfectly. Sehun feels shorter than he is.
"Do you need a hair dryer?" he asks, watching a drop of water fall off a tuft of hair to land on Sehun's nose. It's cute. He nods, and Jiro finds it for him before heading off to have a warm shower himself. Finally.
What with the warm water and his favourite sandalwood soap, the scent always somehow managing to tug gently at the coils of thoughts lurking in the wings of his mind, why did I ever agree to sleep with you anyway? Jiro has almost forgotten about Sehun when he steps out of the bathroom, towelling his hair dry and warm in his own striped pajamas. Sehun is sitting at the table, hair dryer on the table in front of him. His hair is still wet.
"Is something wrong?" Jiro asks, draping his towel over the back of the other chair before plugging the hair dryer into the outlet in case it doesn't work. Sehun shakes his head as the hair dryer turns on perfectly. Jiro pauses, looks at the young man properly. He seems sad.
"Do you want me to dry your hair?" he asks on a whim, mostly thinking about his childhood, his mom sitting him at the table while she gently dried his hair and then brushed through the silky blackness with a brush. He's surprised when Sehun nods, but turns on the dryer with his thumb and starts anyway.
Sehun's hair is surprisingly soft for being so dyed; Jiro cards his fingers through the silky strands, carefully drying it in sections and brushing them smooth. He can feel Sehun's initial tenseness evaporating as he moves over his scalp, the rain and the shower and whatever other traces of the night gently blown away by warm air and gentle fingers. By the time he's done Jiro is having fun, like playing hair dresser with the neighbourhood kids, and Sehun is almost dozing in his seat. He smiles, the young man seems so childlike right now, not like someone who was just puking out his guts in the dark on the sidewalk.
You look nicer like this.
Jiro decides to give Sehun his bed, I can just sleep on the couch, I'm out of practice anyway, he can find out more about the young man in the morning, preferably over pancakes and coffee after a good night's rest.
"Come on," he nudges Sehun, trying to pull him to his feet, but the young man is too sleepy, floppy arms and legs and Jiro shrugs and gives up, slinging him into his arms. I'm out of practice for this too. Sehun feels too light, Jiro doesn't even weight train at the gym and the burden is negligible. I'll make you eat double the pancakes.
He's tucking Sehun into his bed, trying to remember where he left the extra blankets for sleeping on the sofa when a hand clamps onto his arm and won't let go.
"What is it?" Jiro asks, trying to read the answer in Sehun's eyes. He looks sleepy but determined.
"Sleep here," he says, and Jiro could swear that he pouts just a bit. Jiro looks at the bed, it is a queen after all, and then thinks about trying to find his extra blankets. I'm tired. It's not a hard battle, after all they're both in their pajamas and it's obvious that Sehun is fighting to keep his eyes open. After a few moments of internal battle, comfort wins over propriety and Jiro slips into bed beside the younger man, pulling up the blanket but keeping a respectable distance which Sehun promptly erases, flopping over to nestle under Jiro's arm. He tries to pry Sehun off but he's tenacious, even mostly asleep, and Jiro finally gives up, reaching over to turn off the lamp.
It's nice, actually, to sleep with someone again; he hasn't done it in a long time and it's surprising how good it feels. The evening's unpleasantness has faded into fluffy sheep jumping over fences and Jiro is almost asleep when he hears a soft whisper.
"Thank you," Sehun whispers into the fabric of his pajamas, "for making my birthday okay after all."
Jiro drifts off to sleep, but not before resolving to follow up on this development in the morning.
First things first, I'd better find out the reason he was alone and trashed on his birthday, and then I'll ask the. . .
tagging
lattelotus ♡
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But ahhh it sucks that they're both sad in this fic, but at least Jiro took Sehun to his place and took care of him on his birthday. It must be really sad to spend birthdays alone. :( I love how as a reader I don't know why they're sad. Like sure okay both characters are sad, but the whole story started with them just feeling miserable and their feelings being expounded in the way they think, act and decide, but the exact reason why aren't clearly stated (except Jiro) and ahhh I like that. Makes me want to read more :3 especially that ending part.
did you do that on purpose? lol
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Also Ofc I like Jiro bc Fahrenheit!!!!!!!!! My cutie babies ♡
I really want to know Sehun's story, and so does Jiro. Maybe we'll find out ^.~
Thanks for reading!!! (♡O♡)
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I really want to know Sehun's story too ♡ hmmmmm
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hot bath and clean pajamas and cuddles are the best way to fall to sleep <33
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