there is a fountain filled with blood
r
angst
junsu-centric, slight ot5, religious fic
454 words

this actually started off as a little scrap of a thing while i was freewriting, but the more i wrote the more i grew to like the idea and i suppose i just let it run away with me. also, the thought of trying to characterise junsu kind of terrifies me, so i'm sorry if this is terrible or sth.

religious fic warning! nothing terrible, but please no flames or anything. for r_hr_maniac because she's my junsu and i love her and i hope you enjoy this bb ♥



The dying thief rejoiced to see
that fountain in his day;
and there may I, though vile as he,
wash all my sins away.
- There is a fountain filled with blood

Junsu steps through the doors of the Church, old and magnificent and most of all welcoming, and not for the first time in his life feels a familiar rush of belonging somewhere inside his soul.

It’s nice, warm and tender and a little bit nostalgic, and Junsu remembers his childhood well. He’d spent all of his Sundays here, rain or shine, through thunder and hail, singing in the mornings, studying in the afternoons and smiling regardless the hour.

He remembers it all too well, and he can almost see himself, ten years younger, fresh faced and bright eyed, standing at the altar and singing his heart out. Junsu remembers the way his mother had smiled, watching him from her seat in the pews, bursting with dignity and pride as she reminded all the others – neither boastful nor pretentious – that’s my son up there.

But the happy memories begin to fade, begin to slip and slide away, when Junsu remembers all the other things that he’s done. He takes a seat at the back, shoulders sagging in defeat – defeat, but never shame – as other memories, no less happy or precious, begin to flood his mind.

Yunho’s touch at his waist, Changmin’s breath on his neck. More than once, twice, so many times that Junsu’s lost count. Jaejoong curled against his side, fingers dancing slowly up his thighs. Yoochun. Junsu’s breath catches in his throat and he tips his head back, tries to remind himself how to breathe.

Yoochun’s lips around his cock, hot and heavy and groaning his name softly through the darkness. Junsu can almost feel his cheeks colouring, body temperature soaring and tangling with the regret and fear bubbling beneath his skin.

And Junsu wishes he could have both, wishes that embracing the warmth of one didn’t force him into the hate of another. But they clash, incompatible, and Junsu has lived with it long enough to finally realise that two mismatching halves will never ever make a whole.

And he knows why he’s here, but even as he stands, heart pounding against his ribcage and tears glistening in his eyes, Junsu can almost hear the shadows of his past, voices whispering in his ears, begging him to reconsider, to make the sensible decision, to do what’s right.

But Junsu’s tired, tired of doing what’s ‘right’, what’s expected, and with one final glance, he turns to leave, footsteps echoing in the silence. And the only comfort in Junsu’s mind is the knowledge that he’s playing by their rules, not his own.