#stretto!drabbles

[exkyumin-stretto]

Prompt: 'Your kisses are my favorite.'

UGH IT LOOKS LIKE I SENT THIS TO MYSELF EVEN THOUGH IT WAS HANBYUL ON MY ACCOUNT UGH

sings boy like you while i write this tbh

Kyumin was grumpy.

I mean, he was often pretty grumpy.  But today was one of his more childish, annoyed days.  When he’d end up with his arms crossed and that bratty expression on his face, waiting impatiently for Hanbyul to notice.  Because he was too stubborn to make him pay attention, but then again, that was exactly what he was doing (considering he was glaring daggers into the back of his head).

Hanbyul noticed.  Of course Hanbyul noticed.  When Kyumin was nothing but angry silence, it was obvious he was annoyed.  Usually he’d be all over Hanbyul when he wanted his attention, but obviously today he wanted it the other way around.

Being who he was, the Aussie would give in.

With a soft sigh, he stood, joining Kyumin on his separate bed (why did they even have separate beds anymore?).  A stubborn look still on his face, the younger simply looked at him, waiting for him to do something.

“Kyumin.”

“Hanbyul.”

Yeah, that was his annoyed voice.

“Why are you mad?”

There was that arrogant huff that he always received — ah, well, he was used to that.

“I’m not mad,” was his lame response, although eye contact was broken and he had shifted his weight on the bed.  Liar.

With his head shaking slowly, Hanbyul inched up further on the bed, sitting next to Kyumin, trying to bite back the amused smile of the sight of Kyumin trying to avoid his gaze; trying to keep that determined look on his face.

“Kyumey..”

No answer.  Silent treatment, now?

“Kyudemort.”

Nothing.

“Kyutie.”

Ah, that was the jackpot.

Out of either frustration or just to make him stop whining his name, Kyumin had turned to curl his fingers into the front of Hanbyul’s shirt almost too tightly, pulling him forward, his lips pressed against his almost too hard.  This was more like the Kyumin he was used to when he was upset with him.  Jealous, probably.  Likely.

The kiss lasted longer than expected.  Kyumin ended up pushing Hanbyul back and straddling his hips, eyes shut and lips moving against his with all his frustration put into it (was that the sound of teeth clashing?).

They were both breathing hard when one pulled away, the redhead’s fingers still digging into Hanbyul’s shirt, expression a little less frustrated, just desperate.  For attention, most likely.

“Stop making me so jealous.”

Hanbyul almost laughed.  He knew better, though — he might have bleeding lips by the end of this.  ”What did I do?”

“…  Nothing.  I just want your attention.”

With his hand cupping the back of his neck, Hanbyul pulled him down for another kiss — a lot gentler this time, just (swollen) lips sliding against each other.

“Your kisses are my favourite.  They always will be.”

“Better be your favourite everything,” was his mumbled response, as always.

[exkyumin-stretto]

Write a prompt based off of this quote; "I have buried you in every place I've been, you keep ending up in my shaking hands."

There was always some way that Kyumin would try to forget him. 

He honestly felt like he was going insane by doing this.  There were a million things he’s done.  A million places he’s moved to to get his mind away.  It wouldn’t work.

Every time he skipped town, every time he’d find a new person to go out drinking with, it’d end up the same.

He’d end up in one of those shitty motel rooms, lying on the bed, possibly with some unnamed drunk next to him, and he’d stare at the ceiling blankly.  When he was alone, which was more often than not, he’d talk out loud to himself.  It had been far too long for him to care how insane he looked by doing it.  He would do it.

His hand would be buried in his growing hair and his eyes would droop, only the thoughts of the man he’d hurt in his mind.  Why it happened every night was beyond him.  Maybe he needed to do more to get away.  Get it out.  Make the thoughts disappear.

It was a comforting thought that maybe one day he’d wake up, and he’d have moved on.

But he had to keep burying any thoughts of Ba—fuck, he couldn’t even say his name—in the back of his mind.  Night after night.  Town after shitty little town.  There were only so many places he could drive to in his life before he saw it all.

New scenery got boring fast.

But the same thoughts ran through his head.

Why couldn’t they stay buried like he pleaded for them to?  Why would they crawl back to his mouth, making him weep and scream for it to go away?

You’d think that if it changed, it would be better.

It never was.

It only got worse.

It never stayed buried.

No matter how deep he dug.

[exkyumin-stretto]

it.

He hated it.  Well, maybe he didn't hate it, but he couldn't stand it.  Whatever it was.  It was ruining his life.  It made him hate himself.  It was too much.

He was too far gone.

He wasn't dangerous to anyone but himself.  When it hit him, he'd be by himself, maybe watching TV or about to fall asleep.  And then he'd be awake.  Too awake.  He'd check the clock, constantly.  He'd get paranoid.  Looking around, making sure no one was home.

Then he'd sit.

He'd take what he needed, and he'd sit on the floor.

Be it in the bathroom, his bedroom, the kitchen.  He just needed a cold hard surface to keep him grounded.

The first time, he remembered clearly.  He didn't know what it was, but he was shaking.  He fell to the floor.  Kitchen, this time.  That's when he realized it was comforting having the hard surface to keep him grounded.

But then he scratched.

His arms, mostly.

He had to wear long sleeves the next day, he remembered.

His nails would dig deep into his wrists and drag back to mid forearm.  And repeat.  He'd rock.  Back and forth, just on the ground.  Looking like a mad man.

He didn't hear voices, he wasn't crazy.

It hurt him too much.

He had to hurt it back.

Maybe it was the twelfth time, but he was in his bedroom this time.  Too young to go clubbing.  He'd gotten into a fight.  Argument, really.  With Minseok.  He hated fighting.  He'd heard enough of it as a kid.

Hanbyul was making food in their room the night before.  He'd left the knife he was using for it on the side table.  The glint caught his eye.

The first time was messy.  He had to say he tripped on the side table.  Hanbyul had gotten into trouble, not Kyumin.

He borrowed some of Minseok's long sleeved shirts.

The blood that came from his wrists, thighs and stomach never turned out to be enough.  It frustrated him.  It was the eighteenth time.

He drove the knife into the floor in pure rage.

It hurt.

He dragged himself to the bathroom (where he had used Yeeun's razors, that was the fifteenth time, to hurt it.) to calm himself with the cool spray of the sink.  The mirror-- it had one of those medication cabinets behind it.

He got curious.

It didn't like the pills Kyumin took.  Which is why he continued.  He'd lie on the ground, mind hazy, his limbs sprawled next to him as his blown pupils stared blankly ahead.  Patterns would appear.  Sometimes they calmed him.  Calmed it.

Sometimes he'd fall asleep on the floor.

But he couldn't do that, when people found him asleep on the bathroom floor, by himself.

This time was the twenty-first.  He counted with the scars on his stomach.  It was summer now, though.  It wouldn't come around as often.

He had a good day.

He was with people.

Good people.

Nice people.

But it hit.

He panicked.

It never hit when he was with people.  How was he supposed to surpress it when he was with people?  No, it was so bad, so bad this time.  He was breathing shallowly.  He had to excuse himself.

Hanbyul was suspicious.

Kyumin left.  Calmly, at first.  Then he ran.  He didn't bother with the elevator.  His head was pounding, his muscles hurt, everything hurt, he didn't like it.  It was eating him up.

He didn't know where he was going.

Hanbyul did.

He followed.

"Kyumin!"

The taller shuffled a little on his spot, eyes closing against the fresh air. It felt nice.

"Kyumin, stop!"

Maybe the voices that it had finally created in his head were a sign.

"K-Kyumin!"

That was a sob.  Was it trying to stop him?  To drag him back into more terror and sobbing?  Sleepless nights?

He snapped.  He said something.  His foot slipped.  It stopped bothering him.

He cried out.

Hanbyul screamed.

He ran to the ledge of the apartment roof, his arm outstretched.

It was too late.

Everything was done.  Ambulances were heard from his frozen spot, arm still outstretched to something he couldn't have stopped.

"It got me, Byullie.  I'm sorry."

That's what they told him at the hospital later.

Depression.

Kyumin always smiled.

How could it get him?

He choked.

It wanted him next.

[exkyumin-stretto]

we are none of us alone. (+green)

"Hyung!"

Smile.  Raise a hand and wave.  Do it all and look happy.  Don't make it look forced.  You can do that, Sandeul.  And that he did.

Not for any dramatic reasons, really.  But for the brightness that blinded him momentarily when he caught sight of the neon shirt resting snug over Kyumin's torso.  Why would he wear such a disgusting shirt?  Distasteful, really.  That was a gross, green, blinding colour and it was so goddamn hard to look away.

He'd almost forgotten to smile as the younger came to sit with him.  But he managed.

The conversation was normal.  Like he'd always make it seem.  He'd smile, say oh, I'm doing great and nod like he honestly cared.  He wanted to, really.  But he couldn't do it.

It was a blessing when Kyumin had to leave, though.  Of course he wouldn't voice his relief, instead he'd pout and make that noise that went something along the lines of aw, do you have to go? and a small smile of goodbye.

But it was different when they--they, being anyone. you. me. anyone but Sandeul.--left.  It was relaxing.  There wasn't that front to put up and say he was amazing, he was doing well, he didn't need anything.  Here, by himself, he could do that 180˚ into his own world, his own personality.

Not that it was really much different.  But he was loose here.  If that was how to phrase it.  There wasn't that constant need to do something to keep another person happy that he had to do so often.

He liked to think that it was the same with most people.

Maybe when Kyumin walked away, he'd look down at the green shirt, and maybe it was forced upon him by an unwanted friend, and the bright smile would fade, just as the green of the godly shirt would.

Yeah.

Maybe he wasn't the only one like that.

Yeah.

[exkyumin-stretto]

drabble prompt: refuge

It felt like things were spinning.  Were they?  They must be, what else could it be?  He wasn’t insane.  He knew what he was seeing.

Sudden pounding scared him.

What—

That was his own fist.  Right, fuck, Jaejoong, pull yourself together. 

It was his fist hitting the door in front of him.  It belonged to four people, four people he wasn’t incredibly close to, but four people he could rely on.  The pounding continued.  Relentless and weak — was a sound even coming from it anymore?

His fist dropped to his side only when the door was pulled open in a hasty manner — I didn’t—I didn’t mean to rush—

But he couldn’t really pull an apology between the noises escaping him.  He could see the surprised expression on the tall man’s face, but he didn’t say a word as he pushed past, into the apartment, stumbling and nearly falling over.  His head hurt.  The light was too bright.  Tell the ground to stay still, I can’t stand.

Had he said it out loud?

The lights were turned off and he was being led to the couch.  Why did he come here?  Had he ever been to this apartment before?  Whose hands—Kyumin.  Kyumin was leading him to safety.  Thank God.  Thank Kyumin.

“I’m no God.”

The words were produced with a soft chuckle — how long had he been saying his thoughts aloud?  Everything was too much, but suddenly there was cushiony warmth beneath him.  He appreciated it, and he showed it, his whole body feeling as if it could recoil into the old fabric of the cushioned couch.

It was oddly safe here.  Refuge from his mind and his thoughts — how had he even gotten into this state?  No, that wasn’t his own thought, that was Kyumin speaking.  He didn’t answer.

He could smell hot chocolate.

There was a faint smile on his face as it was placed before him on a coffee table.  He hoped he hadn’t tripped over it. 

The softness of the couch was turning wet and, fuck, when had he started crying?

He didn’t care anymore.

It was safe here.

[exkyumin-stretto]

Drabble Prompt: Eyes

“Guk?”

That voice seemed familiar.

“Hey, Guk, c’mon, quit playing.”

Why did it feel like a hand was being waved in front of his face?

“Yongguk, christ, open your eyes.”

So he did.  They opened, but nothing came.  Had he opened them?

He tried again, this time blinking multiple times — maybe it was just his eyesight being blurred.  No.

“Guk, you’re lying on the ground, what happened?”

He didn’t know.  His mouth opened, but it was a sad sound that left his lips.  Whoever was above him—Kyumin, right?—let out a slight sigh.  Not of annoyance, or disappointment, something in between a sigh of knowing and of sadness.  It was shaky.

The words that reached his ears next seemed to be softer, as if he was worried for him now.  He didn’t want pity, he wanted to get whatever was over his eyes, off.  Now.

Whatever Kyumin was saying was ignored.

His hands reached his face, his immediate reaction being to claw the blind off his head and throw it at the teenager.  But instead, his nose burned a little.  A red line formed down it — had he scratched himself instead?

With a huff, he bolted upright, the palms of his hands patting at his face to feel for anything across his eyes.

Kyumin sat back on his heels, hands placed in his lap as he watched the other, his expression dropping with each desperate touch of the older’s hands to his face.

“Guk…”

“Kyumin, my eyes, what did you—”

“I’m sorry.”

[exkyumin-stretto]

too long.

Breathe.  He couldn't breathe.  He woke up choking, sputtering, wheezing into his pillow.  Countless times now.  This would happen over and over.  When was the last time he had a good night's sleep?  Three months ago, at least.   One more choked cough.

The way Kyumin sat up was abrupt and jerky, the look on his face as if he wasn't quite awake.  He'd slept walked in the past three months, he knew that, but he was awake.  Sort of.  He didn't want to be.  Not anymore.

He stood up slowly, almost robotically from the bed, pushing the blankets away slowly.

"I told you, Kyumin, I'll be fine.  Stop worrying so much about me."

His face was blank, emotionless.  Footsteps were the only things ringing in his ears as he padded towards the door of his shared room.  It was a shock he hadn't woken Hanbyul in the bed across from his own.

"I know, I just -- fine.  Fine, Sehun, just go."

"Kyumin..."

The way he turned his back was hazy now.  The reasons in his mind seemed pointless.  Of course why were pointless, why had he done it in the first place?  He should of asked Sehun to stay.

Even the soft sounds of his feet hitting the floor and pausing in front of his shoes were mute to him now; had slowly disappeared from any senses.  He was being led blindly now.  He wasn't sure anymore.

He didn't even watch Sehun get into that car.  Why couldn't he have at least done that for him?  The last thing Sehun would see of him was his back turning in that childish manner that he always did.

Sehun was always the older one at heart.

He wasn't sure when he had opened the door, but he was in the hallway now, with shoes and his pajamas.  It was cold, why was he doing this?  It was still early January, but he would leave with a wifebeater and loose plaid pants anyway.

One thing he remembered clearly was waking up to a shake.  He had swatted whoever it was away, until he heard that name on the TV playing in the next room.

"--Hun.  Hit and run.  Driver unknown, victim deceased."

He'd hoped he was dreaming.

Maybe if he just went for a walk, his mind would clear.  He'd be okay.  With thoughts like this, he'd nod to himself, but he was straight and stiff.  He didn't great the doorman.  He walked out of the apartment with a straight face and a pounding heart.

"It's a different Sehun, it has to be.  I can't-- he's not--"

"Kyumin, please, he's gone."

"He was--he IS--my best friend, you don't understand! You don't!"

He screamed a lot during that month.  Threw things and grew distant from his flatmates.  He was loud and desperate for attention, for the tears that streamed down his face to be evident to them.  The next two, he just grew quiet.  And cold.  They worried.

How long had he been walking?  Maybe half an hour now.  He had left his watch at home.  It was quiet, it was nice.  He should go on walks like these more often.

Crosswalk.  Green light, cars were passing.  Stop.

He didn't stop.

His legs were moving by himself.

His mind was a lot clearer now.  It was relieving.  He wanted to feel like this.  Please, don't let the thoughts come back.

Where was the screaming coming from, though?

It was distant, and he didn't want it interrupting his silence.  His bliss.  The white that he could only see now.  The scenery was gone.  There weren't cars, there wasn't pain.

There was Sehun.

It'd been too long.

But there was Sehun.

[exkyumin-stretto]

"cheeky"

Seeing as Sehun was always the calmer of the two, Kyumin would take his chances as he could to bother him.  Even when he was doing his best to focus on things, the redhead thought it was a lot more amusing to do things like this.  I mean, honestly, they were best friends, if he didn’t taunt him now and then, what kind of friend would he be?

“You’re dumb.”

“Kyumin—”

“What are you even writing?  Man, your handwriting is so messy.  Gross.  That’s an unattractive trait.”

“Don’t get cheeky with me—”

“You sound like an old man.”

He wasn’t sure which comment set him off first, but at some point during the time he was poking fun at the younger of the two, he had been tackled. And not just a playful jump, but tackled onto the ground, out of the chair he had been sitting on.  Of course, Sehun was a little annoyed at the start, but it honestly didn’t end that way.

How it ended included more laughing—because giggling was too much of a girly term to use—and weak hair pulling.  Kyumin had managed to roll on top of Sehun, his face buried into his shoulder as his own shook with laughter, unable to hold back from the fingers ghosting his ticklish spots.

“Christ, Sehun, stop, there are tears in my eyes—”

Did he care?  Not really.  Considering there was a 188cm giant lying on top of him, wiggling around and making girly giggling noises in his ear.  He wouldn’t stop until he was able to breathe properly.  But, no, of course not, Kyumin just had to do more to annoy him, didn’t he?

And that meant blowing one of those loud, wet, gross raspberries against his neck.  ”Ew, Kyu, oh my god!”

Giggling turned into snickering as Kyumin pulled the hands from his Far Too Ticklish Sides, pinning them to the ground with a triumphant grin.  ”You’re an old man, Sehun.”

“I swear to god, Kyumin, I will hurt you.”

“You love me too much.”