dlwnsghek: (2PM | Sex Monkeys)
king of Hoes ([personal profile] dlwnsghek) wrote2012-11-24 10:42 pm

[fic] 2PM: but hold me still (bury my heart on the cold)

Written for [livejournal.com profile] pandabee21 under the prompt of Aziatix's "Sleeping away". Betaed by [livejournal.com profile] rainbwoo and titled after Mumford & Sons' "Ghosts that we knew".


But hold me still (bury my heart on the cold)
2pm ; chansung/junho ; r
~3600 w, au-ish

In which Junho leaves 2PM out of nowhere, and Chansung thinks prolonging the inevitable is inevitable.

*

1:

From: Lee Junho (therealjunho@hotmail.com)
To: Hwang Chansung (generalhwang@gmail.com)
Subject: No Subject

I meant to tell you sooner, Chansung. I've been calling you like crazy but you aren't answering any of my calls. I'm sorry, please. Please, just answer your damned phone, alright? Just. There's a lot I need to tell you.

Love,
Junho.

--

From: Lee Junho (therealjunho@hotmail.com)
To: Hwang Chansung (generalhwang@gmail.com)
Subject: No Subject

Chansung, I'm really really sorry. If you won't let me see you at least answer my calls.

Please.

Love,
Junho.

- - -

From: Lee Junho (therealjunho@hotmail.com)
To: Hwang Chansung (generalhwang@gmail.com)
Subject: No Subject

I have to perform in an hour but I'll call you again as soon as I'm back home. Please answer. Please.

Love,
Junho.




2:

Chansung is sitting on his bed with his back leant against the headboard and his laptop on top of his spread legs when there's a knock on his door. "What," he asks tonelessly, lifting his eyes momentarily from his computer's screen.

The door opens slightly, enough for Nichkhun to poke his head inside. "Dinner's ready," he says, eyes tired and dark-bagged.

Chansung kind of feels sorry for him, for still trying to pretend things are okay when they're not, not anymore. He doesn't tell Nichkhun this whole 'I'll still take care of you – all of you – no matter what happens' thing is beyond pointless, mainly because he knows it helps Nichkhun to go through this, and because a part of him still wishes for everything to go back to normal eventually.

But it won't. It's over, nothing can go back to normal now. This isn't how things were supposed to be, he thinks. They weren't supposed to lose Junho too. He wasn't supposed to lose Junho, at all.

"'M not hungry," he murmurs quietly, looking away. Nichkhun seems to sense the uneasiness and the upcoming headache Chansung's about to have and doesn't push it any further.

Chansung appreciates it, a lot.

"Okay, then." Nichkhun closes the door behind him and then the silence in the room feels like the size of an elephant, crushing Chansung's lungs inside his chest. He has the urgency to call Nichkhun's name but restrains himself from doing so with a sharp, Get it together, Hwang Chansung.

His eyes dart back to the email he'd been reading earlier. Junho's writing looks strained and broken and full of promises Chansung doesn't know how much truth they really hold. It dates about seven hours earlier, so if Chansung's math is right, Junho should already be home – wherever that is – from that performance-thing he mentioned.

His eyes hover over the words again, reading, understanding, trying to find any kind of subliminal message (he wants to slap himself in the face when a distant voice inside his brain says he'd give anything to find an I'll come back), but doesn't find one of any kind, he just reads blank, plain words that seem to be honest.

His phone buzzes in his nightstand, echoing in the silent room with far more strength than expected. (Chansung's this close to run off and join Nichkhun for dinner.)

He doesn't pick up.

He reaches for the phone at the same time it announces a missed call with a loud beep. The call is, as expected, from Junho. Chansung isn't surprised, in all honest. He knew Junho would eventually end up calling him (because even though if Junho had written that was his plan, it didn't mean he actually would achieve it, Chansung still knew it was Junho after all), but what are they going to talk about anyways? Of how Junho decided to just walk away, walk out?

Chansung can't take that conversation. Chansung can't take whatever Junho is going to say because a part of him had foreseen this, his wildest thoughts had conjured this up many times—but not like this. Not overnight.

Chansung doesn't call him back. Or picks up when Junho calls again.

Two minutes after the fourth missed call, there's a text message:

I'm sorry. I'll explain everything to you, I swear. Don't leave me hanging here.

Knuckles white around his phone, Chansung stares hard at the lone, framed photo standing on top of his nightstand, a picture of him, Junho, Nichkhun's forehead and half of his eye, Taecyeon's cheesy grin from behind the couch, Junsu's middle finger sticking from one of the corners and Wooyoung's smile from the opposite one.

He kind of envies the people in that photo right now.

He presses Reply, and when he hits Send, everything seems to crumple down around him.

I don't know what's more unsettling: you trying to leave or me not trying to stop you.




3:

Chansung is back in Seoul after a long time of absence; so long no one seems to blink twice at him when he walks around crowded, cold streets with his hands deeply shoved in his pockets. Everything seems new and yet oddly familiar around him, like a dream he had long ago that's now sort of true before his eyes.

There are far more buildings than he remembers, and definitely more stores in this part of the city. For example, that coffee shop wasn't there three years ago — if Chansung remembers correctly, it was a library back then. And in that same corner where there's a mailbox, used to be a newspaper post, and, man, there was even a tiny hot-dogs tend next to it, wasn't it? They were so good.

He shakes his head with an amused smile stretching his lips; how he remembers stuff like that, he'll never know. He turns the corner into a new, more lit and packed street and his heart seems to skip a beat when he catches sight of the store he's standing in front of.

He sees Junho's latest (because he's had quite a few, Chansung remembers from Wooyoung's stories) project: a music-related store that helps up-coming musicians to mingle in the wide business. The Cave, he's named it.

Chansung finds it ironic. Ironic and annoying because he saw one in Los Angeles a month ago and another one in Tokyo just mere days back. He stares at the glass window, at the poster of a new, upcoming boy band that's now breaking every single chart they come across of with their crazy-ass stunts and demanding notes. They're seven, seven and young and full of dreams that Chansung remembers too well and that he still tries to let go of.

He thinks going in to take a quick look won't hurt anyone — not more anyways — and so he does, walks straight to the door and pushes it open with trembling hands and uncertain steps.

He can't prolong the inevitable forever, can he?

The insides are warm and homey, but Chansung tries not to think about it that way because it hits closer to home than it's allowed. There's a piano in a corner, guitars hanging in the walls, and the first poster of their first album as seven and one as six next to it.

He looks around, taking in the modern decorations and the scent of the whole place. It's neatly divided, sorted by categories: Eastern Music, Western Music, and then each into Blues, Jazz, Pop, R&B, Funk, and probably half a dozen more genres Chansung doesn't recognize. It's all about all kinds of music, Chansung notices amused, and it's so much Junho around every corner that it tugs painfully at his chest, whether he wants to admit it or not.

There's a guy standing behind a light-colored wooden counter, a young boy probably in his freshman year trying to make a living with a part-time job at a nice shop. The guy looks at him straight in the eye, and if he recognizes Chansung, he doesn't let it show.

"Good night, sir," he says politely; Chansung, not trusting his voice, just nods in reply.

He keeps browsing around the store (he's found a large list of CDs he must buy later) for about fifteen minutes when he catches sight of a reflection in one of the nearest glasses.

He's seen those eyes somewhere, somewhere, he's touched that face, tasted those lips and kissed that smile, so, so many years ago it almost feels like a dream now.

Chansung wonders if this is what fate is supposed to feel like.




4:

The coffee shop is small and oddly cozy and Chansung finds himself relaxing just a little. Junho, sitting across the table, has his hands around a steaming mug of coffee, and he hasn't said much in the past fifteen minutes they've sat there.

Chansung is not sure if there's something adequate to say, either.

What seems like a lifetime later, Junho clears his throat, eyes never leaving the hot liquid in his cup. "So... how have you been?"

Chansung blinks in response. "Okay, mostly." He finds it hard to believe he doesn't want to have this conversation with Junho considering he's not been okay with half of his world gone, but he manages to quell the uneasiness down. "I've been doing stuff. I got to act a lot."

"Sounds like you didn't like it," Junho says quietly.

Chansung smiles softly. "I did. But it wasn't really my thing." His hands close around his cup of chocolate and for a minute Chansung has the urgency to look up into Junho's eyes and say my thing was you – you kept me going all those years but he knows that's not the best thing to say right now.

Chansung has never blamed Junho for what happened. But it doesn't mean he hasn't tried.

"How about you," he asks, and momentarily lifts his gaze. Junho is staring right back at him. Chansung feels his cheeks coloring. "What have you been doing?"

Junho takes a long sip from his mug and then is silent for a while. "Well," he sighs, and then seems to blurt, "I've also been doing stuff. It hasn't been easy with Junsu nagging me all day about how cool it would be if we could get together again. I have the music store, and I'm helping a few kids with promoting their music and writing some stuff for other people, but. But it hasn't been the same since... since, you know."

Something unfurls within Chansung then, something awful and heavy because he thinks well, serves you right, you're the one to blame for that, after all, and he has to look back into his chocolate to steel himself and not blurt that out.

He doesn't press the subject and changes its course abruptly. "How's Junsu doing? I haven't heard of him in a while."

"He's engaged. I don't know her, yet, but I've heard she's nice."

Chansung nods, "Yeah, Wooyoung told me that bit."

They fall into another awkward silence and this time it's too much. Chansung is caught up in between standing up to leave, reach across and punch Junho's face in, or doing both in no specific order.

He runs a tired hand through his hair, looking up from his mug. "I have to go," he says at the same time Junho whispers, "Chansung, I'm so sorry."

And there they are those eyes again. Those tiny eyes that look so open and vulnerable and scared that set shakes on Chansung's hands. He needs to get out of here, need to stand up and leave and never comeback to this side of town — he doesn't stand.

"You're sorry?" he echoes quietly. There's something thick at the back of his throat trying to break past his lips and he's got a feeling it won't be nice if it does. "Do you have any idea how many 'I'm sorry's I've heard from you so far?"

He's quite amused at how his voice is as steady and calm as if he were talking about the weather outside the coffee shop.

Junho sags back against his chair with a tight-lipped smile. "I wouldn't have said I was sorry so often if you'd answered my fucking calls, you know."

Chansung shakes his head. "Fuck you. You don't get to turn this on me, you're the one who walked out."

And Chansung, just because he can, stands up and walks out, too.

He's halfway down the block when fingers curl around his forearm, grip tight and so fucking familiar it hurts for all the wrong reasons, and then he's being pushed into an alley. Trust Junho to be poetic and cliché.

"I tried to explain it to you," Junho says, letting go of Chansung's arm but still within reach. They're close enough for Chansung to smell the coffee in his breath and it makes him step back, as far as possible before he—

"I talked to fucking everyone and you're the only one who avoided me like the fucking plague."

"Well, maybe you were," Chansung says very smartly, very dazed. He wants nothing better than to punch Junho. Or kiss him senseless. Whatever shuts him up first.

Junho lets out a loud, desperate sigh. "I had reasons."

"I don't care about your reasons," Chansung says, and it's kind of unsettling to realize indeed, he doesn't. "Not anymore."

Junho's face falls. It pains Chansung in more ways than one, but, honestly, what is he supposed to do? As much as striding up to Junho and kiss the living lights out of him sounds way more appealing than this conversation, Chansung can't find it in himself to give in so easily. And finding out Junho still manages to make him lose comfort zones even now, even after everything, it's appalling as well.

"If you'd told me back then, back when you hadn't left yet, I would've—" Chansung falters a bit, his chest clenching painfully, "I would've tried to understand. But you left out of fucking nowhere."

"I tried—"

"And what good would it have done to hear what you had to say anyways," Chansung cuts him off, and Junho's mouth closes with a loud click from his teeth. "It wouldn't mean you'd come back, would it. It wouldn't make it hurt any less."

Chansung is breathless. His heart is going into overdrive and his brain is pretty much fried but his blood is on fire and his senses are on fire, too, and if Junho comes any closer Chansung might burst.

"Don't," he says when Junho makes a step forwards. "Don't. It scares the fuck out of me how much I want to punch you right now so just stay where you are."

Junho holds his hands up, stepping forwards anyways, because he's still the same stubborn fucker he's always been and Chansung can feel his heart break all over again.

"If punching me will make you feel better, get it over with." He steps even closer, and really, does he have a death wish or something?

And then Junho's eyes are impossibly brighter, his mouth curving upwards tentatively and Chansung kind of wants to die in the spot.

"I don't know what's more unsettling," Junho says, voice barely above a whisper, "you about to punch me or me not trying to stop you."

Chansung punches him, hard.




5:

It's not fate, Chansung decides thirty minutes later as he closes the door to his flat and walks into the kitchen in search of ice. It's not fate, it's definitely not fate, it's more of a series of unfortunate and annoying events resulting from Chansung's pathetic strolling.

Yeah, that seems about right.

"Here," he says, tossing the bag of ice at Junho across the counter.

Junho catches it and holds it to his jaw. "Oh fuck, I think you dislocated it." Chansung smiles smugly and Junho groans. "I hate you," he says, dropping himself on a chair.

Chansung laughs bitterly. "I don't. I tried, though, tried for years."

And he hadn't meant to say that — okay, maybe just a little — but it comes out anyways, and it makes the air between them steely and thick. He leans back into the fridge's door, crossing both arms over his chest, his eyes on Junho's.

Quit the bullshit, he thinks, which is fair, in all honesty. This is Chansung's place, his home; Junho doesn't get to be a smartass here, not if Chansung can help it. Just because he's sitting in Chansung's kitchen doesn't mean all these years get to be forgotten. If anything, it just accentuates Junho's absence even more.

"Why did you come into the shop, Chansung?" Junho asks then, holding Chansung's gaze.

I felt suicidal, Chansung thinks. I wanted to see you—I wanted to make sure you were alive. You were real. You were you, even after all these long fucking years.

"I don't know," he says.

"Liar," Junho says quietly, putting the ice-bag down.

"I wasn't looking for you," Chansung replies, just as quiet, unfolding his arms and throwing them helplessly at his sides. "I wasn't planning for any of this to happen. As much as punching you was rather fulfilling, it's not how I wanted things to go."

"And yet you still walked in," Junho says, and he stands. Chansung's hair at the back of his neck stands on end.

"Technicalities," Chansung shrugs, and he makes no move as Junho walks up to him. Suddenly the kitchen feels much smaller.

This close, Chansung can see the bruise on Junho's jaw blooming already, can see Junho's split lip, and he wants to push him away, but—

"Kiss me." Junho's swollen jaw is set, defiant. "If you don't feel anything, I'll leave."

Chansung snorts a laugh. "Funny how I did that long ago and you left either way."

"Chansung," Junho says, and he moves closer, close enough for Chansung to feel claustrophobic. His voice is raw, broken. "How did you really want things to go?"

There are so many meanings to that single question that Chansung's brain just short-circuits at the amount of answers that pop up. He wants to punch Junho again, make him feel at least a quarter of what he felt, but he's done so already and his knuckles are still stinging and he's running out of reasons to not kiss him.

He cradles Junho's face in his hands, moving forwards, pinning him against the wall, and holy fuck, it's like his nerves are about to sing when Junho gasps loudly, already out of breath.

"If you'd stayed long enough," he says, leaning in to catch Junho's lower lip with his teeth, "you would've found out."




6:

They're not even naked. They're not even on a bed. Chansung's got his fly undone and Junho's shirt is hiked all the way up to his armpits. They're in the middle of the hall, with pictures of Chansung's family smiling down at them hanging off the walls, and it's weird as crap but it's also disturbingly close to perfect, so it doesn't matter.

Junho grinds his hips down, his mouth lost somewhere in Chansung's neck, and he pushes back up, meets Junho halfway next time, digging his fingertips on his naked lower back.

It's all so blurry, though. Chansung's mind is running to catch up with everything, with Junho's fingers closing around his cock, with Junho's tongue licking apologies into his mouth, with Junho's scorching skin under his fingertips, and it all feels so familiar Chansung can almost pretend nothing ever happened at all.

"Junho—"

When he comes, it catches them both off guard. Junho's hand tightens and stills around him so Chansung can thrust up into it and ride his orgasm off, and Chansung does so, pulling Junho closer by his hips, sliding a thigh between his legs and hitching up just slightly into Junho's cock.

"Fuck," Junho gasps into Chansung's mouth, and then he's grinding down again. He comes shortly after, pulling away to let a loud, breathless moan than Chansung can feel all the way into his bones. "Chansung, Chansung, Chansung."

Chansung leans up with all the willpower he manages to find and kisses Junho again, deep, then soft, then deep again, and Junho complies, kisses back just like in the old days, and it makes Chansung want to scream.

"I didn't," Junho manages in between pants, his lips still somehow connected to Chansung's, "this is not what I meant— What I came for. I didn't—"

"I know," Chansung murmurs, running his hand up Junho's back, feeling every deep and crease of his spine. "I know."

As far as Chansung knows, though, they could be talking about different things and it still wouldn't make a difference.

Later, after Chansung's remapped the insides of Junho's mouth with his tongue and left enough bruises on his neck, Junho tucks him back into his pants and then lies next to him on the floor. They're quiet for a good while, Chansung trying to catch his breath and Junho staring absently at the ceiling. It needs to be repainted.

"You would do it again, wouldn't you?" Chansung asks then, his voice barely there.

He turns to look at Junho, face calm and tired and spent, mostly because prolonging the inevitable is fucking tiring and not just for having had three orgasms in less than thirty minutes.

Junho cranes around and meets Chansung's gaze, holds it until Chansung can't take it anymore and turns back to the ceiling.

"I would," Junho says quietly, his voice stern and broken at the same time.

It's weird how Chansung's heart doesn't even break this time around.

"You should leave," he says. The again is already implied.

And Junho does.