| Fan Fiction |
by GreenHammock
Six stared at Hero as he talked quietly into his phone, glancing over at her occasionally, turning away when he noticed her staring. He was talking about her, she knew. She hated it when people talked about her as if she wasn’t there – yet she was used to it.
She brought her attention back to the book in her hands, lips puckering as she turned the page. The Blind Assassin, Margaret Atwood – something she knew verse by verse but couldn’t remember how. Hero hung up the phone and pocketed it, setting his eyes back onto the tiny girl sitting on the floor. Money still gone, no one knew where it was; perfect. He smiled softly as she tossed the book aside and reached for another one, biting on to his bottom lip. She dropped the new book and went searching for another one.
“Nothing catching your fancy?” he asked, trotting over to her and nudging a few books with his foot. Her head shook once, lips barely moving as she said ‘I’ve read them all before.’ He laughed.
Six brought her eyes up to him, puzzle set deep somewhere in her iris. “Of course you’ve read them,” he mused, “They’re yours.”
Six’s mouth fell opened. She turned her gaze to the novel in her hand, one she’d never seen before, and then over the walls of literature, sitting patiently, waiting for the day she would pluck them out of their casing and indulge in them once more. “M-mine?” she asked, timidly. She couldn’t remember ever owning anything – she felt she was nothing but a freeloader, floating through time, innocent of possessions and proper memories. In fact, the only thing she’d ever heard being possessively acclaimed to her was the journal Yunho had handed to her that night in the kitchen – the one she had written – the journal…
“The journal!” she gasped, patting herself desperately for it. She sifted through the books, rummaging hopelessly, before she threw opened the closet doors and searched through the set of clothes she had come here in – a pair of Junsu’s jeans and one of YooChun’s large T-shirts. She slid her hands into the jean pockets, running a hand through her hair when she found nothing. Her heart sunk deeply into her stomach, recalling that she didn’t bring it with her. Her journal – her memories…
When she turned, she found Hero standing closely behind her, looking down with softened eyes. She followed his gaze to his hands, where he held a thick, worn moleskin journal. Once a deep burgundy, the dye in the cover had been worked off to a smooth pink-tinted beige. It wasn’t what she had been looking for, but something about it felt so eerily familiar. Hero nudged her hands with the soft bound back, the cracks nuzzling up against her fingers – she hesitantly wrapped them around it, peeking up to his face to find him smiling softly down at her.
Six cleared her throat and returned her eyes to the journal, cracking it opened slowly, though the seam gave no sounds of protest. And that was all she needed.
She could recognize her writing, easily. Tiny and squished together, scrawled with haste.
‘If we hold on to eachother, life would be so sweet / If we hold on to eachother, life would be complete / all this time winter was coming / all this time summer wind was blowing / all this time all this time leaves of fall were still red / all this time winter was coming’
“This… was mine,” she spoke quietly, turning the tiny journal over in her hands. She barely felt his fingers in her hair, brushing against her scalp – his nose against her jaw.
“This is yours.”
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