Title: After the Bittersweet Taste
Genre: Romance
Rating: R; just to be on the safe side of profanity and innuendos
Length: Oneshot
Pairing: JaeHo with a dash of YooSu
Author's Note: This is the sequel to The Bittersweet Aftertaste requested by the readers and I can only hope to match the essence of the previous ficcie. So if it's not too happy, you know why. Gotta follow up in a reasonable way! =]


(The Bittersweet Aftertaste)


Sometimes you fall asleep alone.

The bed stretches forever beside you, expectedly cold and untouched. You have this habit, this unbreakable habit, of curling up to the edge, daring to fall but merely hoping that someone will take form next to you – to untidy the neat silence and static pillow case.

So you lay there, a lithe, reclusive figure tucked beneath thin sheets, back against the morning sun that beams from the window you forgot to cover after your casual smoke.

The heat kisses your skin.

It lingers on a beauty mark upon your shoulder and how real the warmth feels, running across bare flesh in a manner that stirs you awake – you know the sun does not feel this good so early in the day.

“Wake up, sleepy head…” he whispers into your hair, smiling against it and you can feel it, meet it when you turn to face him.

He appears like the blur of a dream before your dazed eyes, still fluttering away the slumber to greet Yunho’s tepid smile with clear perspective.

“You always look this good in the morning, Jae?”

And like a dream, you hold onto it, slip your arms about him and breathe in his scent. “Depends on how I wake up…”

This time, you wake up to a surprise.



Sometimes you hurt yourself.

A slip of the hand, overwhelming lettuce, the raucous upstairs of Junsu’s stomping bed and Yoochun’s guttural singing – it all adds up and spills over the cutting board.

“Shit!” you hiss, dropping the knife into the sink and quickly shove your finger into your mouth.

“You cut yourself?”

The question begs something sarcastic from you and you cleverly deliver, baring teeth like a tempered dog.

“No, Yunho. I’m just sucking on my finger for the fuck of it.” The words, though, are more honest than they were ever intended and a furious blush sweeps over your cheeks and neck.

If only the smirk on his face was not so mischievous and the space between you both so little.

He takes your hand; plucks out your injured finger, without any consolation, and you hold your breath as he stares tentatively at the trickling blood.

Before wrapping his mouth about the injured digit.

You gulp down words of shock but cannot refrain from peering at him with wide eyes, hot and bothered under his stare that reads quite frankly:

For the fuck of it, indeed.



Sometimes enough is enough.

“You’re gonna have to come home sooner or later.”

The hum of Changmin’s old Nissan follows close behind, gnawing at your patience under this cold, endless drizzle. The shirt you tended to this morning, ironed with care and smiled at the work, now clung to your frame, hooking into your every crevice and silk had never felt so goddamn irritable. The cold creeps into your lungs but the ire settled at the pit of your stomach, flashing in the glare you send him, it keeps you hot and lets you go on for another street.

Yunho drives up beside you, window down and eyes soaking in your stubborn image.

He’s not amused but

he isn’t going to leave you; hasn’t done so in the past hour.

“….You’re going to freeze to death, Jaejoong. Can we talk about this when we get home?”

You sneer.

 “Why? So we can play mommy and daddy in front of the others and show just how perfect of a man you are? And how you’re always right, how you know everything, and whatever you say is law?”

The words are laced with venom and each syllable tied to a regretful memory that keeps you moving forward, whether you freeze to death or not.

Silence settles between you and him for a moment, the sound of pitter pattering rain upon the hood of the car an attempt to soothe your rage but failing miserably. It annoys you (but you love it) to know that he is still here.

He sighs and you pretend not to care (or watch) as he parks the car ahead and comes out, resigned with his hands in his pockets and a frown for forgiveness. He does not wait for you to walk up, rather comes up and takes his place beside you, eyes forward to the darkened horizon.

“You’re so difficult.”

A smirk slowly draws upon his features, “But I love you just the way you are. Even if it means arguing down the street, in the rain, at three in the morning.”



And you remember why you can't stay unbreakable.

You wonder behind the cold steel of your eyes if he knows how much the word love means to you. And how heavy it feels on the heart.

"You say it so easily," comes the shudder past your pale lips, eyes cast to the puddle ahead that you have every intention to step in.

But his fingers form about your arm and gently moves you out the way. "Because it comes easily to me...."

"Saying it or meaning it?"

Separating yourself from his grasp with a superflous amount of strength -- that's more for show than anything --- you look to him. In the way you wished he would look at you, into you.

The smirk falls from his mute lips and questions shift under his furrowed brows. "....Both, Jaejoong."

"Doesn't feel like it. Never does. Look," you scoff and feel that unnatural smile twist your mouth into that mechanic feature -- because the tears are burning behind your eyes and it is all a chain reaction. His words, your feelings, the silence, the pretense.

"I'll be home soon. I just want to walk thi---"

Interruption comes in the shape of his palms about your cheeks and his mouth a breath from yours. He sees you now, peers in past the irises and any closer, your lashes would brush with his to catch and cradle the raindrops.

"I love you." He says. "I love you."

A rivulet slips into the curve of your lip, perhaps from the rain, perhaps from the....

"Mean it, Yunho.....Mean it."

And he kisses you, tasting the saline from your tear and presses the meaning of love into every line of your lips.

And you remember why you love him.

.



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