wow one of these drabbles are from february heh;; two of them are tweetfics! i actually have more but the file is on my laptop, which is, uh. broken OTL
crumble to dust again
jaehwan-centric (past!jaehwan/ofc); g; canon!au; angst; ~840
it's inevitable, really. a heart will be crumbled too many times in a lifetime.
(there are many versions: smashed into pieces, ripped, pulled, torn, slashed, too many versions to list – but for jaehwan, his heart crumbles like a ruined brickwall.)
it's somewhat like a cruel fact. jaehwan learned it the hard way, of course. such a poor boy, to be honest, always learning things the hardest way. he doesn’t deserve it – no one will ever deserve it, especially not over and over again, especially, not him.
he has just finished packing up his things about her, lying in the darkness of the bottom of his bed, so he can put and push it all out. he didn't cry. jaehwan can't cry, of course, because people would just dub him as weak. he's an idol, for god's sake. he wanted this, didn't he? he pushed aside his perfect and fairytale-like life and immersed himself in singing and dancing inside the dirtied practice rooms until he faints from exhaustion. he chose this.
i chose this, jaehwan firmly repeats to himself, as if those words were a mantra that would strengthen his walls. i chose this, and i will not let my walls crumble again.
her framed photos with him are turned down, because he has no intention to look at the images that are already burned in the back his mind, anyway. jaehwan hoists the box carefully, careful not to break anything inside it.
(he hates breaking things. it reminds jaehwan of crumbling.)
he opens the door to his room and closes it carefully once he's outside.
(but remember about the fact that he's a poor boy? remember the fact that he always learns things the hardest way? jaehwan has a bad luck that results in minuscule but horrendous catastrophes, the poor, poor boy.)
all of them are lazing around, wonshik absentmindedly shifting through garageband to work on whatever composition he has in mind now, taekwoon with his plugged earphones, humming, hongbin and hakyeon watching a new drama, volume so low that jaehwan can only hear murmurs of indistinguishable syllables.
bad luck, lee jaehwan.
sanghyuk strides so quickly – and when he accidentally thuds on jaehwan, the poor boy doesn't have any chance to grip tighter – the box slips from his fingers, things spilling out with a hard thud or a loud shatter that reverberates and echoes inside the living room.
her photo with him is turned upside down again, the picture for everyone to see – glass pane cracked – as if she’s taunting jaehwan. he can imagine her doing that, mock-smugly, eyebrows raised and lips curving up to a smirk.
i knocked down your walls again, didn't i, lee jaehwan?
the air stills and everyone freezes, shifting their eyes to jaehwan.
"i'm sorry," he can hear sanghyuk whisper (oh, she was still smiling so serenely with him in that picture, still so lovely, still so real, not forced, not fake, not bitter). “i – i’m sorry, jaehwan-hyung.”
jaehwan can feel his walls starting to tumble down again, bricks falling down, holes gaping wide, her last words to him repeating themselves inside his head.
there's no use to this again, jaehwan-oppa.
"don't be silly," jaehwan laughs, extracting his gaze away to gaze at sanghyuk and patting his shoulder. "i mean, the past is the past, right? i should have thrown this all out from the beginning, i completely forgot about that because of our schedules. she’s probably with someone else now – someone better than an idol. your hyung here isn’t that silly to imagine such stupid ideas, haha."
jaehwan knows he's not convincing anyone, but it was worth a try.
"i'm – still sorry," sanghyuk whispers again, and jaehwan can see his eyes, afraid, posture timid, and he shrinks away from jaehwan's touch, hakyeon staring at jaehwan impassively, biting the inside of his cheek.
(“listen to me – listen to me, jaehwan. we all need to sacrifice things in this. it doesn’t matter how tiny or how big it is, we need to sacrifice things in order to do things. things like debuting and becoming idols. we all sacrificed our time, our so-called normal life. you needed to make a bigger sacrifice – your – your girlfriend. i’m so sorry, jaehwan, but you need to let her go. listen to me, jaehwan – jaehwan, don’t cry. this isn’t your fault. this is not anyone’s fault. i’m sorry. i’m sorry.”)
and so jaehwan smiles – "it's okay, really, i'm over it," he says – tight-lipped, and he crouches down, collecting the things and dumping them carelessly inside the box, ready to not just dispose it – but to burn it forever, so there will be only ash, not her smile, not her face, not her.
the rest just stare at him dumbly, watching jaehwan collect the bricks of his walls (this is the last time this is happening, i will not let my walls fall down again) – mutely witnessing him trying to rebuild his walls again.
bad luck, lee jaehwan.
baekhyun/jongdae & past!jongdae/liyin; pg13; power!au; suggested character death; ~450
when jongdae finds out that he's assigned to a boy named byun baekhyun, he isn't even sure what the instructor was hoping him to do.
"light manipulator," he repeats it doubtfully to his instructor, kim minseok, who's currently staring at the glass pane separating them both from the new kid. "why did you pick him? i don't like him already. how is thunder and light supposed to do things? why does he have that smug smile on his face? what if he's –"
he doesn't even notice minseok sighing and snapping his fingers together, or the fact that there's currently a light sheen of ice covering his mouth – mild, but still effective on shutting jongdae up.
he glances at his reflection and notes on how ridiculous he looks with it.
"byun baekhyun is a trained light manipulator from china," minseok informs him, and jongdae raises his eyebrows at how the name sounds very, very korean. minseok is always quick on his answers, of course (he's been spending too much time with that lovesick mind reader and making the mind reader think that he’s actually into him, the jerk). "adopted kid. family died when the great war happened."
jongdae's heart stings – as always, like every time anyone mentions the great war. he remembers linking his fingers – trying to link his fingers – with liyin's own, but it was no use, his power was undeveloped and useless, and she – and she was gone.
gone, just like that, with her tears on the skin of his dirty neck and a bitter kiss on his lips.
jongdae shakes his head and tries to look at this byun baekhyun with a new perspective.
he begins to speak, but he realizes that the ice is still sticking on his lips. jongdae mildly zaps minseok, a grin threatening to break on his face (and break the ice, too) – and minseok yelps, almost immediately snapping his fingers, a stony look on his face.
(there was a burn on minseok's back that was jongdae's immediate and absolute fault, made by him when he had first went to the academy – untrained, scared, and scarred. minseok was the one who chose to help jongdae control his powers – but he was frightened, and he didn't know how to use his powers.
minseok had been scared of even the littlest zaps ever since, but that didn't stop him from trying to reach out to jongdae.)
minseok sighs. "come along then, you little brat."
jongdae glances at byun baekhyun, who's talking with an unfamiliar face – lips forming syllables that jongdae didn't know existed – and sighs.
he's never had a friend before minseok (and liyin, his mind hisses painfully) – so this is a start, jongdae guesses.
untitled #2 for junfhongs
broken!junmyeon/yifan & mentioned junmyeon/luhan; pg13; domestic!au; angst; ~550
"so," yifan says, voice thick and throat tight as junmyeon taps his foot, looking at anywhere beside him. his luggage is beside him, months worth of memories and clothes tucked neatly away in storage. this feels surreal; it feels strange and abnormal to not see junmyeon wearing one of yifan's too-big-for-him basketball jerseys – he's instead wearing a black hoodie with someone else's scent on it, someone that is clearly not yifan.
"can we please make this quick," junmyeon mutters, still not looking at yifan. he is, instead, more interested with the tiled flooring than he is interested with talking with him, and that gives yifan a dull and aching feeling deep in his gut.
suddenly junmyeon is looking at him, mouth set in a thin line and an annoyed look on his face.
yifan falters a little bit.
the other sighs. "luhan is waiting for me at the lobby, yifan. can we please make it quick? i don't want to waste his time."
"right," yifan suddenly remembers, throat dry. he remembers luhan from the university he attended years ago – luhan, the boy with a strong heart and even sturdier walls: a friendly smile on his lips and the ability to not let his emotions show through. "yeah, um, luhan."
"yes, luhan," junmyeon snaps, eyes flitting towards the framed photo of them both six months ago – before this, this thing happened. "and i don't want my boyfriend to wait too long for me, like what i have done for you. like what you did to me."
stings like a bitch, doesn’t it, realization?
junmyeon is still staring at yifan, steely eyes and a slight and unamused frown decorating his face – and yifan suddenly realizes that he was the one who did this in the past, who stared at junmyeon and hoped to uncloak him, hoped to peel his armors away until it's only junmyeon – only junmyeon, with no forced smiles or faux amusement.
but now, junmyeon is doing that to him.
"you could have done better," junmyeon voices out, taking a step back – yifan misses him already, misses their kisses and junmyeon's sweet words and how he giggles and laughs – yifan misses him already, junmyeon, whose only a few footsteps away from him.
yet, he seems so far away, too far away.
(yifan had once needed to leave korea to attend his mother's remarriage, a few months of limited contact, but to yifan, junmyeon never feels far away, and maybe – maybe that was because back then, junmyeon had truly cared for him – maybe that was because junmyeon had truly loved yifan – preferably, with his whole heart.)
he feels desperate. "i know, i know and please – if you give me one more chance –"
but junmyeon only smiles – he smiles, shaking his head – chuckling. "but don't you remember?" he says, as if he has a brilliant idea – as if saying, aha, i caught you – eyes crinkling. "i've already given you that."
daggers stab yifan’s chest.
junmyeon adds, as an afterthought: "too many times, in fact.”
he excuses himself after that, bowing his head and saying a breezy "goodbye, wu yifan" – and junmyeon’s gone, swallowed by the turns of the hallway inside their – no, not theirs, his – yifan's apartment building, the sound of a luggage being wheeled echoing around the cold air.
yifan stares at the opened door for a while.
sehun-centric; r; multiple universe!au; self-harm, suicide; ~480
sehun opens his eyes.
the phantom feeling of a blade weighed down his throat is still strong, still too fresh and too vivid – but he ignores it, ignores the feeling of pain slitting his artery, ignores the fading feeling of both metal and blood on his hands, because he chose it.
(again. and again, and again – and most probably, again.)
he blinks – one, two times – bracing for the sudden tidal of memory that would always rush into the missing gaps inside his mind, memories like puzzle pieces that would always fit into the puzzle board that is his head –
– but no such thing happens.
sehun blinks his eyes, more rapid and more furious, but his mind won’t just cooperate, his body isn’t filling his mind with the memories – memories that should have been there, memories that should always be automatically there – panic rises like vomit and he’s breathing too hard so hard sehun’s –
the blood splatters on the worn and cemented floor, mixed with the contents of his stomach.
he stares at the floor, stares at the blood and focuses his mind to the wide gap inside his head – he died, he died again and he didn’t die, he was transported to another world again but this is the first fucking time that he doesn’t remember anything –
“shut up, we’re trying to sleep,” someone grunts, voice deep and uncaring, and sehun tries to fight down the whys screaming inside his mind, begging to be let go.
“sorry, i’m –” and he takes hold of himself, takes in the image of a razor lying uselessly on the floor, takes in the realization of what it means – of course, of course.
sehun picks the rusted metal up, feeling the rough texture of the surface, feeling the amazingly still-sharp edges it has.
“kid,” is someone’s urgent whisper, someone’s panicky voice. “kid, don’t do it. it’s not worth it. hey, kiddo, listen to me. kiddo, we still have hope out there. we’re not going to die here. there’s hope, we’re innocent –”
but he ignores the voice and drives the razor deep in his wrist, no pain, no screams, only blood and sehun.
only blood and sehun, just like always.
his stomach doesn’t churn, his eyes don’t blink away, he doesn’t hear the scream of frustration or people’s groans, doesn’t feel someone trying to shake the razor away from his grip, because it’s normal, normal, normal.
sehun will wake up anyway – for the thousandth time, again –
(but his hand shakes about the fact that he doesn’t remember, doesn’t remember his past lives, doesn’t remember his memories, doesn’t remember everything that he has been doing for centuries – maybe more than that, maybe a millenium – sehun doesn’t remember –)
– repeat dying until it’s perfect, he guesses.