gossip ;; 2jae [Editing]

Chapter 23

Where I live, we have a phrase that adults tell kids when they do smth stupid: "if your ass don't hear, you're gonna feel" (the English is a bit more broken but yeah). Pretty much 'if you don't listen to me, you're gonna feel the consequences by getting yourself hurt'. This long-winded explanation is related to the line 'so the burgundy-haired boy would hear and feel for it.'

For y'all that like to decipher prose 💜.

||| » Mama Choi « |||
• Thursday •

A Week Later...

"Move," Jaebum said, pushing through the group of people that were crowding around, whispering amongst themselves instead of helping. "Move!" He ordered, pushing through to the core. He rushed to BamBam's side, the younger boy slapping Youngjae's cheek every other minute. Putting a hand on BamBam's shoulder to stop him, Jaebum stooped down. "What happened?"

BamBam's head whipped in his direction, his eyes wide with worry. "He was walking to the bleachers. Then he just collapsed."

Jaebum picked Youngjae up, the sea of people clearing a path for him as he stood and started walking to the nearest exit. "Is he okay?" The PE teacher asked, following Jaebum to the door, BamBam trailing behind as well, gnawing at his nails.

"I'm carrying him to the nurse," Jaebum replied, thanking them when the teacher and BamBam held the hall's doors open for him.

Halfway down the corridor, and now walking beside Jaebum, BamBam seemed to come to. "He fainted!" The blonde shouted to no one in particular.

Jaebum grimaced. He'd spent enough time around Youngjae to know that if their friends shouted anything about him it would be broadcasted everywhere by the next morning. Yay.

"If he feels bad when he wakes up, make him go home!" The PE teacher yelled back.

- - -

The sheets were soft under his back, early morning sun mixing blinding light and shadows until they were almost one and the same, a steady heartbeat drumming under his colour-streaked fingertips and a scent he loved but had begun to forget filled his lungs as he inhaled and closed his eyes.

He opened them again when paper mache fingers intertwined with his. The colours seemed to have travelled further, painting the backs and palms of Youngjae's hands in vibrant patches. That was not important now, though. What was important was that the room was silent and for once in his life, Youngjae didn't feel like he had to fill it.

"Stay," he whispered into an ear, silky black hair tickling his cheek. The demand was always more a subtle thing that hung in the air like the heady scent Youngjae adored, but he felt the need to say it this time for some reason.

When arms hugged him close, sighing in the whimsical way Youngjae missed, he knew why it had never been said. Yet maybe it was different this time?

Suddenly, Youngjae's skin burnt as though a hundred hot needles were poking him from his wrists to the middle of his forearms, the blotches of colour crawling up his arms. It stopped when Youngjae whispered that word again, "Stay."

The paper mache hands squeezed his, letting go. Youngjae tried to catch it, but he couldn't find it. He couldn't see much. The shadows had overtaken the morning light, had crept over and consumed the room until all Youngjae could hear was a familiar, haunting voice whisper back, "You know I can't."