Author's note:
30 kisses challenge yet again. This one came out nice. I think I overlistened to Fats&Furious 3 OST.
Drift
There was some hidden part of Yoochun that carved for
brutality. He liked his music loud and noisy, a low beat that seemed to
penetrate his skin and make his heart follow an unknown pattern. He preferred
rapping and screams to soft melody of the voice. The sound would make him lose
his mind and move his body mindlessly to the beat.
Yoochun liked driving fast. He enjoyed pressing gas
pedal into the floor and watching the speedometer hand go from sixty to one
hundred twenty in seconds. He would drive in the night breaking all limits,
speeding through dark streets, taking illegal u-turns and passing on red lights.
Seat belt was overrated and laws were made to be broken.
He knew he could take anything Fate had in store for
him.
Nothing and nobody could stop him when Yoochun decided
to be reckless. He chose the heaviest brand of cigarettes, claiming he liked to
feel the way they burned through his lungs. The same went for alcohol. Liqueurs
and wine were for sissies, he used to say, and whisky tasted like a camel piss.
Nothing could compare to the raw and clear taste of vodka, which seemed to skip
unnecessary trips to his stomach, going straight for his head, messing up with
his brain and clouding his mind.
It gave him the freedom, he did not possess when he was
sober.
He would come to Jaejoong only when he was high. When
he felt some savage and brutal desires burn into his chest. Then he would enter
a bedroom with walls painted beige and advance on a slender body that always
yielded to him. He would have to drink himself silly, till he stopped thinking
that it was human flesh under his fingers; that it was a living being under his
body; that it was a friend, who moaned and cried and bleed.
But Yoochun let that brutality overcome him, possess
him, erasing all traces of sense from his mind. It seemed as if he would go
blind and deaf at the same time, leaving him with the only burning urge to
clench, scratch, bite, and thrust, thrust, thrust.
Mornings were non-existent in Yoochun’s world. No
morning-afters, no regrets, no fights and demands for explanation. Because there
was no doubt about whose nails had left the scratches and bruises on the
porcelain skin of the other’s back, or whose blinding lust caused smears of
blood on the sheets.
Never in his life did Yoochun meet with resistance.
Whatever he wanted he would get. And he never knew punishment for his deeds.
That was why when finally he was met with a gun pointed
unwaveringly at his head and a pair of determined dark orbs, he simply laughed
it off.
“Oh my, aren’t we snappy today?”
He grins his ‘couldn’t-care-less’ smile, as his
hand slides down smooth thigh. The bed smells fresh, like it does always. But it
is not for long.
“Don’t.”
Jaejoong sounds deadly serious, and if Yoochun was
sober he would have noticed it, but he is not, that is why he doesn’t. His
hand still moves in circles, each time pressing harder into the soft flesh. His
other hand is undoing the buttons of his shirt. He ignores the gun as if it is
not there.
“Stop.”
But he doesn’t. And his hand still moves.
“Stop it, God dammit, Yoochun!”
His hand dives into Jaejoong’s briefs, and the gun
goes off.
For a moment both of them are still. Then Yoochun’s
fuzzy brain registers that his cheek is stinging. When he wipes the back of his
hand over it, it comes off bloody. Jaejoong’s eyes are impossibly big and
scared, his hands are shaking. He looks ghostly pale against white sheets.
“What the hell are you doing, Yoochun?” He whispers
hoarsely, tears gathering in his eyes, threatening to spill soon. “What are
you trying to make me do?”
Yoochun stares at the gun dropped on the bed, black and
too real. In his mind somebody is screaming at him, and he wonders vaguely if it
is what a person feels when going mad.
“Like hell I know…”
~*~*~