anartic-monkeys

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] of flavoured names and coloured sounds (chapter 2 of 2)

Summary: "He doesn’t question it at first, the fact that sounds have colours and words have flavours. He grows up with it, grows up seeing powerful ruptures of colour when his mother plays the piano and softer, translucent bursts when the people around him speak. His father’s voice fills his vision with sombre oranges and lilacs while his mother’s is a pleasant mix of delicate greens, blues, and greys. The word father tastes like wet wood and the word mother tastes like the pumpkin juice the house-elves frequently serve him."

In which Draco just wants to know what colour Hermione's moans would be. He also wants to know if her skin would taste as sweet as her surname or maybe as intoxicating as her given name.

LINKS

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567740/chapters/56541799  FFN: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13547597/1/of-flavoured-names-and-coloured-sounds

CHAPTER 2

Potter’s following him around. He had thought that maybe breaking the bloke’s nose and leaving him hidden under his own invisibility cloak would get rid of the nosy scarhead, but that had been a mistake on his part. Now he feels the other wizard’s eyes constantly on him, and if he had the same energy as last year, he would have teased Potter for having a crush on him. Unfortunately, the world looks substantially bleaker now, with his condition significantly impaired, and so he doubts that he would still find pleasure in his old shenanigans.

He concedes that nothing would look cheery when one has a skull branded onto their skin, directly connected to a megalomaniac hellbent on killing one of your classmates. Even the sweetness of the word cheery tastes like ash in his mouth these days, and he can no longer tell if what he’s tasting on his tongue from thinking of the word megalomaniac is the flavour of a kiwi or that of a pear.

Pansy seems to have recovered from their messy break up, shifting from pointedly ignoring him to constantly hovering around him and acting like a worried girlfriend. It especially annoys him as her voice produces some of the most monotonous hues he’s ever seen coming from one person, her only contender for the crown being his godfather and the former Durmstrang headmaster turned fugitive.

The great hall, previously a place where he would often get lost drowning in the seas of flashing colours, now looks like it is littered with gossamers of barely-there pigments. From where he’s sitting, he can see Granger and her two wanker friends whispering to each other. She’s arguing with them (real shocker that is) and he can see a look of irritation on her face being directed at Potter. He almost smiles at this, but then her eyes suddenly flit to meet his and, stupidly enough, he feels himself freeze at the contact.

She must realise that he’s been watching them, because she raises one eyebrow at him and doesn’t stop staring until the plates are magically being cleared from the table, even when he finally breaks from the intensity of her gaze and looks away first.

He knows this because every time he looks to check if she’s no longer staring at him, their eyes would meet before his would snap away to look back down at his mutilated food. It’s odd, not to mention stressful, because what he needs right now is for people like Potter and Pansy and Hermione Granger to leave him alone.

He has a mission that’s doomed to fail, after all, and he would rather stumble through that without those three constantly monitoring him.

   Legilimens tastes like strawberry profiteroles and Occlumens tastes like Arabic coffee—they’re flavour he finds odd to associate with his godfather as he can’t imagine the man enjoying pastries and drinking anything other than unsweetened tea.

“I see your Aunt has taught you Occlumency,” Snape finally says, having spent the last three minutes trying to break into Draco’s mind. “Whatever it is you’re trying to achieve, Draco, trust that I am capable of helping—,” he begins to offer, but Draco cuts him off.

“I don’t need your help,” he grits out. “I was chosen for this. He trusts me to do this.” It’s a lie that he keeps telling himself, but Occlumency doesn’t work on one’s own mind and he can only pretend to believe the sham for so long—he knows that this task had been placed upon his shoulders as punishment for each and every one of his father’s failures, hand delivered by the Dark Lord himself, complete with the Dark Mark and a lovely death threat.

Suddenly, the older wizard begins throwing silencing charms all over the classroom, his tunnel-like eyes never once leaving Draco. “Do you even have the slightest idea how to cast any of the Unforgivables?”

Draco inwardly cringes. He had witnessed the Dark Lord performing all those spells, watched as subdued shades of navy blue intermingled with the green and red lights of the curses. Avada Kedavra had tasted like burnt meringue, the flavour not unlike that of Harry Potter’s combined name. Hearing the Dark Lord torture someone with repeated incantations of Crucio had assaulted his tongue with the taste of melting ice, more of a sensation that an actual flavour. Imperio, as he had come to learn, tastes like the air after a period of rain.

His mind had reeled at how innocent these curses had tasted on his tongue, when he could not even attempt to cast the Patronus charm, the purest of the spells in his opinion, as the incantation brought about a disagreeable fishy flavour. Expelliarmus he could manage quite easily, disarming people all the while savouring the taste of lemon sherbet on his taste buds.

“Can you conjure the Dark Mark, Draco?” Snape continues, either oblivious or uncaring that Draco had gone and retreated into his own mind. “Do you even know the incantation?”  

“Morsmordre,” he easily answers, but his voice is barely above a whisper. He prays he never has to cast that spell as he does not particularly like the taste of rust on his tongue. When Snape does not respond to that, Draco turns away and begins to head out of the room, shoving the door open and fleeing from his godfather before the man can further prove to him how unfit he is to take on the role of a Death Eater.

   Petrichor. It’s the name of the taste on his tongue as he leaves the Three Broomsticks, fake galleons tightly clutched in one hand and the feeling of guilt clawing at his heart.

(Upon inspection, he admits to himself and to himself only that the guilt wasn’t so much over what he had done to Rosmerta, but more because of the fact that he had stolen Granger’s ideas and used them for his own twisted needs.)

   “Why are you slacking off on school-work?”

His physical desire to be with her is still surprisingly there, but he had demanded from the Head Boy that he change his patrol partner to no avail. Draco suspects that the Slytherin is aware that the Malfoy family is not in such a good place, as even the mention of his father could not change the mind of the older student.

“Leave it, Granger. It’s none of your business what I do.”

“It’s just curious, is all,” she continues, as if she hadn’t heard a word that he said. “Last year you spent four hours working on one Transfiguration homework, and now you’ve already missed two. Makes one wonder, what had happened over the summer that would warrant such a change—”

The minute his hands wrap around her shoulders, he regrets it, but not enough to stop himself from pushing her against a wall and invading her personal space. There’s an inch or two of space separating their faces, and he can barely stop himself from getting lost in the sea of her freckles. “I said leave it, you filthy Mud—”

“What’s so different about you now that you’d even pay someone to take your place in the Slytherin quidditch team?”

When she speaks, her breath hits him and overwhelms him with the scent of spearmint, presumably from her toothpaste. It washes out the dirty word that he had almost used on her, and before he can stop himself, he’s groaning in response to the stimulus. It startles the both of them, and he can imagine that the blush currently riding high on her cheeks is identical to the one staining his.

He pushes away from her, striding back the direction they came from and cutting the patrol short. He decides then and there that if he has to quit being a prefect to be away from her, he’ll do it.

   The following week he has to listen to her describe her love potion. Amortentia, the word, tastes like overly ripe mangoes, just a good day or two away from rotting. He can’t even muster enough energy to be angry at the fact that he catches a whiff of spearmint, vanilla, coconut, and green apples when he passes by the blasted cauldron.

   His tongue feels cold, but before he can cast the spell, the one that leaves Potter’s mouth replaces the ice with the slight heat of cumin. It’s a spell that he’s not familiar with, but when it hits him, he feels the gashes opening up on his skin as he falls to the bathroom floor.

It’s a queer feeling, being aware of one’s own approaching death. At first it fills him with a sense of dread, panic at the thought that everything ends there, but then as the blood drains out of his clothes to stain the tiles he’s lying helpless on, it takes with it all the regret, the hope, leaving him feeling numb as his life slips from his fingers.

His eyelids close, his ears barely pick up the sound of hurried footsteps, of someone crying beside him, and his tongue tells him that Vulnera tastes like red grapes and Sanentur tastes like sulphur.

   He doesn’t know how she does it, but she sneaks in to the infirmary in the middle of the night and proceeds to spend ten minutes just standing by his bed, arms crossed over her chest, lips set into an angry line, and eyes glassy with unshed tears.

“Crying for me now?” he asks, voice rough from disuse. “Save it for someone who matters.”

“He didn’t mean to do it,” she whispers back, sinking onto the chair beside his bed. “He wasn’t trying to kill you.”

“I don’t care what he was trying to do, I was trying to kill him.” The lie comes easily enough, what with the Occlumency walls and the fact that he honestly doesn’t have a clear idea what he had been trying to do.

Hermione doesn’t say anything, just keeps staring, but the tears don’t fall from her eyes and he’s grateful for that. He wants to remind her that he’s the bad guy in her story, the same bloke who had looked at her like she was beneath him simply because her parents weren’t magical. One successful paired homework and a couple of times spent sharing a library table shouldn’t change that, shouldn’t erase what he was and what he is.

He almost wants to show her his Dark Mark just so she’d stop trying to act like he’s still got a soul hiding somewhere inside his body.

“You should sleep,” she finally says, after a long moment of just staring at each other. “Merlin knows you need it.” With that she rises from her seat, walking away from him. He panics at the sight, his mouth opening before his brain can register what he’s about to do.

“Don’t come back here, Granger,” he tells her. When she pauses her stride but doesn’t turn to look back at him, he clarifies, “Don’t come back to Hogwarts.”

   The word tastes like burnt meringue on his tongue, but he can’t bring himself to say it. Instead, he finds himself talking, telling the old man everything that he’s done during the year, as if he would vomit if he stopped talking. He calls her a mudblood for appearance’s sake and actually laughs when Dumbledore asks him to not use that word in front of him.

Defenceless tastes like biting the rind of a citrus, bitter and unappealing. It’s a word that certainly does not suit the greatest wizard of modern times.

The promise of safety is a jumble of salty and bitter words, one in particular tasting like sardines and another like freshy harvested caviar. He rambles, lowers his wand, then the others rush in to bare witness to his incapability of becoming a murderer.

Albus Dumbledore’s wine-coloured pleas are answered by Snape’s sweet and smoky spell.

   He quickly becomes intimate with the sensation of melting ice on his tongue. It’s when he spends most of the day torturing people that he feels the slightest bit thankful for his impaired condition.

It’s when he watches his deranged aunt torture her that he yearns the most for the colours to come back, to obstruct his vision so it would be filled with explosions of orange and teal and he won’t have to look her in the eye and face her judgment. He would much rather take the cold numbing his tongue than to look at her lying near lifeless on the ground.

   Working as a double agent is beyond exhausting, but he’d sooner get killed than do nothing and allow the Dark Lord to win this war. It’s been three months since he had demanded from his godfather that he take him to the other side, for Severus to make him a spy not unlike the older man. For a moment, they had seized each other up, the both of them waiting for the other to turn out as a cleverly placed decoy to sniff out traitors amongst their ranks.

It’s been three months since he’s been allowed free passage into 12 Grimmauld Place, three months since his godfather had told him everything he needed to know in order to be allowed into the ranks of the Order, three months since he was stunned then questioned by Mad-Eye Moody while under a powerful dose of Veritaserum, unable to use Occlumency to counter the effects of the potion, and three months since Remus Lupin introduced him to the rest of the Order as their new spy.

Draco had tried to explain to Kingsley, Moody, and Lupin that Severus had been acting under Dumbledore’s commands, but the three of them had insisted that even if it were true, it would be too risky for Snape to keep working with them. Still, the clarification on what had truly happened that night at the Astronomy tower proves useful in that they relax just enough to start using the safehouse again.

He doesn’t see Potter even once during those three months, and he doesn’t try to ask them about his whereabouts. The less he knows about the Order’s plans, the better. He does, however, see the ginger weasel on occasion, and he does his best to not hex the bloke on sight.

It’s difficult, but he manages.

The concealment charm is just wearing off as he enters the house, closing the door behind him, when he hears and sees them; the sound of a piano playing invades his ears and colours his vision. The sound doesn’t come together to form music, just random notes here and there as if the person playing them is just testing out the keys. Still, it’s been too long since he’s last heard music and last seen the colours dancing in his vision, as neither he nor his mother have found much reason to touch the grand piano in the manor after he took the Dark Mark.

(It is, after all, quite difficult to indulge in music when Death Eaters are torturing and raping people just down the hall.)

He follows the sound further into the house and finds Hermione Granger sitting in front of the rusty piano. She looks up upon his entrance, her finger hovering over one of the keys, then their eyes meet. Draco mentally prepares a speech declaring himself their ally, but she surprises him by smiling.

“Hello, Draco. I was told I’d see you here,” she says, her voice causing the familiar pinks to flash before him. There’s a pang in his chest when he sees how translucent they are, barely there, and he regrets not enjoying the sights when he had the privilege to. “I must say, I was glad when they told me you defected, but I wasn’t exactly surprised.”

“Why’s that?” he asks, genuinely confused by her declaration. He moves towards her, placing a finger on the piano and swiping at the dust that had accumulated there. He reaches for his wand and performs a quick scourgify, moving to sit beside her. He sits on the very edge of the wooden bench, keeping as large as a distance between them as it would allow. He’s surprised she doesn’t jump up and slap him across the face for daring to sit next to her.

“You did save me that night, and you didn’t kill Dumbledore,” she says, a smirk playing on her lips and a knowing look in her eyes. She gestures to the piano and asks, “Do you know how to play?”

He’s slightly taken aback by the sudden change in topic, but he doesn’t show her his surprise, nodding his head in affirmation. “Do you?”

“No. You should play; I’d love to hear it.”

He should really be asking her where the others are, preferably Lupin as he has information to relay to them, but his hands rise and then his fingers are tentatively pressing down on a few keys. The colours instantly return, and with that he feels a surge of confidence that has him transitioning from hesitant strokes of the keys to the beginning notes of one of his favourite pieces. He plays for a while, closing his eyes and enjoying the dance of the colours behind his lids, and when he opens them again they seek her out as if on instinct.

The look in her eyes as they meet his has him cutting off the music, his fingers lifting from the keys mid stroke. The silence that fills the room as the last vibrations from the piano fizzle out is awkward, to say the least, and he finds himself wracking his mind for something to say.

She beats him to it by declaring, “I didn’t know you listened to muggle classical music. That was Chopin, wasn’t it?”

He nods, still unable to tear his gaze away from her. The words that stumble out of his mouth make it out of their confines purely on accident, only because he’s lost in the colour of her eyes—honey, harvested during the late summer. “His pieces have the prettiest colours.”

Confusion settles on her features and he wishes he could take it back, wishes he could fulfil his promise to his mother that he would never tell anyone about this but then again, he has broken more promises than he can remember, some that had been more detrimental to their well-being than admitting to someone that he sees coloured sounds and tastes flavoured names. Her eyebrows are furrowed, and he can barely stop himself from reaching out to smooth away her frown.

“What do you mean, they have the prettiest colours? Do you have synaesthesia?”

He’s already opening his mouth to explain but then her words register to him and he blurts out, “What? Do I have what?”

“Synaesthesia, from the Greek words sún meaning “with” and aísthēsis meaning “sensation”, is a condition wherein the synesthete, a term for a person who has the condition, is able to process data in the form of several senses all at once,” she explains, and he’s instantly taken back to their classes at Hogwarts, when her hand would shot up and she would then proceed to unload a verbal vomit of information unto all of them. “For example, some people can see colours when they hear music, or they can taste certain words. It’s a very rare condition, and most people who have it go on to become artists or writers.” 

She must mistake his astounded expression as a response to her vast knowledge on the topic because she blushes and looks away. Draco, on the other hand, is experiencing something akin to euphoria. He has never heard anyone describe his little “talent” so accurately, sod it, he has never heard anyone describe it, period. In hindsight, he thinks he shouldn’t be so surprised that Hermione Granger, swottiest of swots, would know that something like this exists. That someone like him exists.

“It’s a muggle thing, then? I’ve never heard of anyone else in the wizarding community talk about something like this, and I’ve tried to research about it but nothing ever came up in my readings,” he tells her, staring at the colours his voice makes.

“I honestly don’t know,” she admits, looking back towards him and appearing somewhat sheepish, as if her not knowing everything is something to be embarrassed about. “What do you see?”

“I taste words and names. Everything has a flavour associated with them. I see bursts of colours when I hear music, and I see fainter, more translucent colours when people speak.”

“Words have colour, too? Right now, you’re seeing colours as we speak?”

“It’s not really the words that are coloured, it’s the notes that people produce when they talk,” he elaborates. Running a hand through his hair, he decides to reveal some more information to her, information that he had thought he would carry to the grave with him. “When you speak, you make pastel colours, mostly pinks and blue. They used to be so harsh and bright when we were younger, used to give me headaches every time you opened your mouth in class.”

“Is that why you hated me so much?”

He feels guilty in an instant, remembering all the things he said to her back then. “That was one thing, it was another thing that I’ve been told my whole life that muggle-borns don’t have a place in our world, but obviously you made me question that by besting me in everything except flying a broom.”

She laughs, a quiet one, but it makes him realise that she’s one of those rare people who have musical laughter. “What does my name taste like?”   

Draco draws in a quick breath, quickly looking away from her searching eyes. He begins to question what he’s doing, sitting beside her, playing music for her, telling her the one thing he has never voluntarily told anyone else, lusting after her, wanting her.

(Falling for her.)

“Hermione tastes like Sauvignon Blanc and Granger tastes like green apples,” he lets out in one breath, overcome by a misplaced need to be honest with her in that moment. Before she can make a comment, before she can do something like reveal to him that she had somehow known his bias for green apples, he rushes to add, “I can’t taste it anymore as well as I used to, and the colours aren’t as vivid as they were before the Dark Mark. It dulled everything.”

He looks away from her, resolutely staring at the piano in front of him and wishing that someone would walk into the safehouse and put an end to this bizarre interaction. Talking to her has been the only good thing that has happened to him in months, maybe in years, but he’s overwhelmed by her and by his need for proximity. It’s ridiculous, wanting someone you had actively tormented for two years, wanting someone you had watched get tortured by your crazed aunt while you stood by and did nothing.

“Does it interfere with your vision, the colours?”

He frowns, turning his head to look back at her. “When there’s too many people talking, it used to throw me off a bit, but not ever since I got the mark.”

She looks pensive, her eyes unfocused before they look up to meet his confused gaze. “After this, what are you going to do about your aim?”

“Pardon?”

“The Dark Mark, it would fade once Voldemort’s dead,” she says, gesturing to his arm. “I can only assume that when that happens, the effects of the mark on your synaesthesia would also disappear or won’t be as potent as it is right now.”

He feels his chest tighten at what she’s building up to, feels something like hope blossoming there. It’s an emotion that he has almost entirely forgotten, and he’s not certain that he should be allowing her to fill him with such a thing when he had only planned to swing by and give information then be back out again in less than thirty minutes—

“What are you going to do when we defeat him, Draco?”

   Severus knows what he’s doing or, at least, knows what potion he’s about to attempt to make. The man takes one good look at the ingredients laid out on the table, one good look at Draco, then wandlessly summons a quill and a piece of parchment. As his godfather writes, Draco begins the preparations for the brewing process, double and triple checking that he has everything he needs.

When he��s finished writing, Severus hands over the piece of parchment and leaves the hidden cottage without uttering a single word. When he peers down at it, he realises the man had just given him something that he would treasure for the rest of his inevitably short life.

There, in his trembling hands, are the potion master’s notes on how to successfully brew the concoction without ending up with a few missing limbs. The word Ashwinder tastes like coriander, squill bulb tastes like a combination of mayonnaise and strawberries, Occamy tastes like dried up carrots, and Murtlap tastes like the back of one’s hand.

   He comes by again, nearly a month after his last visit, and this time Remus is there to receive the information.

Granger sits in the meeting, inviting herself into the table with a tray of tea for the three of them. He’s the only one with a cup that has a coaster and Remus eyes it with a smirk on his tired face. Hermione sits beside him, self-inking quill in one hand, parchment in front of her, and gives him an expectant look that he takes as his cue to start.

It takes him twenty-three minutes to finish relaying every detail he’d been able to cram into his head from the meetings he had attended, every drunken whisper, every careless slip of the tongue, he had shoved into a corner of his brain only to purge it all out right onto her messy notes.

His old DADA professor nods at him, tells him he should stay and finish his tea, then the older man is pushing away from the table and leaving the two of them alone in the old house. He performs a quick warming charm on his tea, taking in the decaying wood of the table while she worked on tidying up her notes. Once she’s done, she looks up at him and he takes the liberty of warming up her tea for her.

“Thank you,” she says, reaching for her cup and bringing it to her lips. “It’s already horrid enough when it’s hot, it’s just plain unacceptable when it’s lukewarm.”

He only nods. He doesn’t tell her it’s the best tea he’s had in nearly a month solely because she’s the person he’s enjoying it with. Not even the most expensive tea in the world would taste good when you have to drink it in the presence of other Death Eaters.

“The last time I saw you, you looked like you hadn’t slept in two weeks. That was two years ago and you still look like you haven’t slept a wink.”

Draco raises an eyebrow at this, gulping down a mouthful of the herbal tea concoction before answering, “The last time I saw you, you were being tortured by my crazed aunt with a spell that makes me feel like I’ve put a cube of ice on my tongue to melt. That was roughly a year ago and you didn’t look quite so good yourself then, Granger.”

“I was actually referring to that night in the infirmary.”

He rolls his eyes at her, plucking the parchment from her fingers and reading over her notes. “I know what you were referring to. It wasn’t the last time you saw me.”

“You’re right, I saw you last month, so I guess we’re both recalling our last meeting all wrong.”

He looks at her, watches her raise her drink to her lips to hide her smile. There’s mirth in her eyes and he’s almost foolish enough to think that she’s flirting with him, but he quickly kills the thought, crushes it underneath his dragonhide shoes and fires a hex at it for good measure.

“It was very nice of you to try and save me again, that night at the infirmary.”   

“When will you stop assuming that everything I do is an attempt to save you—”

He’s used to seeing and hearing her cut off people mid-speech, usually talking over them to correct the way they’re saying an incantation or just to tell them that they’re wrong and she’s right. A couple of times, he had seen her walk away from the weasel during an argument, causing the ginger to splutter at her sudden departure.

He can’t recall a time when he’s seen her kiss someone to shut them up, but that’s what she’s doing to him.

Hermione’s lips are warm, probably from the tea, and they’re soft against his own. His eyes had closed from her sudden movement, bracing himself to get a much-deserved punch, and he doesn’t dare open them now. Her lips start to move against his and he answers in earnest, deciding he’ll enjoy it while it lasts and dissect every moment of this later, in the false safety of his own room at the manor. When he feels the tip of her tongue touch his bottom lip, he immediately grants her access, reckless in his need to finally taste whichever part of her that she’s offering.

She’s a clumsy kisser, using far too much force when she bites his bottom lip, and it’s the best kiss he’s ever had. Her tongue tastes like the tea they’ve just shared, with just the slightest hint of spearmint. When she moans, he answers it with a groan of his own, his hands finally moving to cradle her face. He feels her fingers toying with the topmost button of his shirt, popping the first three open and sliding her hands inside to touch the skin of his collar and the base of his neck.

She breaks away from his lips and trails kisses down his neck, starting at the corner of his mouth and ending at the hollow of his throat.

“Your toothpaste, it’s fennel, isn’t it?”

He tries to clear the fog from his brain but her hot breath repeatedly touching the skin of his neck isn’t helping. Somehow, his own fingers have tangled themselves into the mess she calls her hair, and he spends a quiet moment just admiring how surprisingly soft it is to the touch. When he finally gets his mouth to move, the only word he can manage is, “What?”

She lifts her head, moving to place her lips on his once more, speaking against his mouth and letting her breath fan his face. “Fennel toothpaste, it’s what your breath smelled like back in sixth year.”

   His mother eyes him from across the table, one hand soundlessly stirring her tea, the other idly playing with her wand. They’re all alone in the dining room, his father having ambled away after finishing off three bites of his breakfast and three glasses of brandy.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, placing the teaspoon aside and taking a sip from her tea. He knows that tone, and that tone paired with the look she’s giving him means nothing but trouble for him.

“Death Eater duties,” he offers, his own tone bordering between sarcastic and bored. Truth be told, he has been busy—busy smuggling information to the Order and busy snogging Granger the moment they’re left alone in that house. It never goes further than hurried, messy kisses, and he tells himself he’s fine with that.

   They almost get caught one day, with her sitting on the dinner table and him standing in between her thighs. He doesn’t know how he had somehow missed the sound of the door opening, but then colours float into his vision and he jumps away from her.

She’s hopping off the table, wiping at the residual saliva on her lips, when Weasley walks in along with Tonks. His presence immediately brings back the taste of his name, aggravated by the fact that Granger acknowledges them by saying both their names. Tonks tastes like butter cookies, and it would have paired nicely with the weasel’s milk-tasting name had the milk not been curdled.

It’s a good thing, really, because the taste helps kill the boner he’d been trying to hide.

   It’s the first time he sees Potter after the incident at the Manor, and he barely pays attention to the boy wonder and the fact that he looks almost as pale as Draco himself because he’s reaching for Granger’s quill and a scrap of parchment. The people in the room grow quiet as he writes, and he’s thankful that they’re unknowingly helping him focus by not creating unnecessary colours to cloud his vision.

Merlin knows he needs it, the assault on his tongue already distracting enough without the visual part of his condition contributing to the skirmish. He keeps writing, struggling to maintain a straight face as flavours like soap, tripe, and horseradish clash on his taste buds, fitting together as well as mismatched puzzle pieces would.

When he’s done, he hands the paper over to Potter. His eyes search the room, finally landing and getting lost in late summer honey as the man meant to save them all reads over all the information Draco’s been able to gather about the attack to be launched at Hogwarts tomorrow. Tomorrow, Voldemort will know that there’s an informant in their midst, and Draco will confirm it by fighting for the Order. Tomorrow, he’ll dose his mother with felix felicis, the only protection he can grant her when it’s revealed to everyone on the dark side that he’s a traitor.

Tomorrow, both him and Hermione may die, but right now he ignores the sound of Harry Potter’s voice as he relays orders to the people gathered around the table, ignores the green and red colours swimming in his vision, ignores the flavours on his tongue in favour of staring into her eyes for reassurance that he knows he won’t ever find there.

   He’s surprised he hasn’t had a seizure yet. He had physically felt it when Voldemort died, the burning on his arm disappearing like a bubble popping out of existence. Also like a bubble, the synaesthesia comes back in full force. It’s like having your hearing muffled by water stuck in your ear, and when the water finally gets dislodged the sound comes back in a rush, only for him it’s the colours and the flavours that crash down on him like a tidal wave.

It knocks him off his feet and he lands on his knees, staring at all the colours bursting in and out of his sight. He can barely see the people all around him, can barely focus on anything as he keeps whispering her name and relishing the full effects of Sauvignon Blanc and green apples on his taste buds.

Someone’s kissing him, and even with the colours blocking his vision with his eyes open and the hues persisting behind his lids with his eyes closed, he knows it’s her. He knows it’s her even though she doesn’t taste like the crappy tea they have at the safehouse, even though she fills his mouth with the taste of blood instead of the natural taste of her tongue.

The colours start to fade as he takes notice of the hush that slowly envelops the grounds. He imagines that they must make quite the sight, Draco Malfoy and Hermione granger all bloodied up and kissing each other, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“You were right,” he whispers against her lips, opening his eyes and staring into pools of late summer honey. “I have to figure out what to do about my aim.”

   Granger does not taste like green apples, nor does her skin remind him of an expensive bottle of wine. She tastes like the soap she had used to aggressively scrub out the grime and blood from every inch of her skin, leaving her pink and tender. He understands the almost obsessive way with which she cleans herself—it’s been a week since the war ended but he still wakes up feeling dirty, feeling like he would never get rid of the warm, sticky blood on his hands. He knows she hadn’t killed anyone, unlike him, but she feels dirty all the same.

Her bones are prominent, especially the ones encasing her lungs and her heart, and he takes his time kissing down her ribs to her jutting hipbones. She giggles and it makes him see soft bursts of salmon pink. “I’m ticklish there,” she says, and it makes him see pale yellows, the colour of daffodils. He’s never seen her produce that colour before and he chases after it for a few seconds, enthralled by its appearance.

He tries to keep as quiet as he can, tries his best not to adulterate her colours and her flavours with his own voice. When she had emerged from the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around her body, dripping water everywhere, he had told her in a quiet voice to come closer. He had watched the deep burgundy dance in and out his vision and had decided that he’d much rather see pale pinks and Varathane bleached blues.

Now he’s inching closer to her centre and she’s making breathy little sighs of pleasure, her fingers finding purchase in his still damp hair. He’s doing his utmost best to keep his head as blank as possible, to taste only her on his tongue. She smells like soap down there too, and when he uses his fingers to spread her, he marvels at how pink and wet she is for him.

“Draco.”

Salmon pink flashes behind his closed lids and his favourite chocolate melts on his tongue immediately. He has to kiss her thighs, biting into the soft flesh in an effort to contain himself from tasting that part of her. He doesn’t want to taste chocolates in his mouth, he wants to know what she tastes like without the synaesthesia, so he kisses her thighs and looks up at her. He watches her bite her lower lip, nod at him once, and he knows she understands.

It takes him a moment, but his senses finally calm down enough that his tongue can only detect the faint salt and soap of her thighs. Her hands are still buried in his hair and she begins to tug his face towards her centre. He looks up at her once more, maintaining eye contact when he runs the flat of his tongue over her exposed slit.

They moan almost in unison, both their voices filling his eyes with colours that he hadn’t thought would fit well but surprising compliment each other. She doesn’t taste like Sauvignon Blanc but he thinks he could get drunk all the same. He fucks her with his tongue, watches her bite around her closed fist to keep her moans under control.

She loses the battle when his lips close around her clit and his name comes pouring out of her mouth. He groans against her slick lips, using the flat of his tongue to swipe at her clit and two fingers to fuck her entrance. Her moans grow louder as she nears her release and he’s glad he had put up silencing charms on the room—the rest of the Order still staying in the house would probably appreciate not hearing them having sex.

When she comes, she nearly shouts his name. He pulls back and sheaths himself inside of her with one push, gripping her hips and feeling her walls fluttering all around his cock. He doesn’t move an inch, feelings the muscles in his stomach tightening from the effort it’s taking him to hold back from fucking her into the mattress.

She reaches out to him, pulling him down to kiss her and taste herself on his mouth. With their lips still pressed together, their chests flushed against each other, she whispers, “You can move now.”

It’s all the encouragement he needs. Her name springs out from him unbidden, and it’s one of those moments when he can almost convince himself that he can get drunk just from saying her name.

He makes her come three more times, twice on his cock, and he would have gone for more but she starts crying after the third time and he knows what those tears are for.  War had taken away his father to Azkaban and, along with the older man, much of Draco’s prejudice and the things he used to believe in. It had cost him the life of one of his friends and had crushed any chance of him ever producing a Patronus, but he knows she had lost so much more than that. He was part of the Order, a valuable spy that had ultimately help tip the scale in their favour, but he hadn’t been friends with any of those people.

As for her, they had become her family after she had been forced to give up her parents. They won the war, but he suspects that it would take a long time before her hands stop shaking, before she can go out without holding on to her wand as if her life still depends on it, before she can go to sleep without worrying that she’ll wake up screaming her head off because of a nightmare.

“I didn’t know orgasms could be that overwhelming,” she whispers sheepishly, the tip of her fingers tracing the Sectumsempra scars among the other blemishes he now sports.

The word orgasm tastes like a slice of Victoria sponge. He wraps a moth-bitten quilt around their naked bodies, and when he tells her to go to sleep, her Sauvignon Blanc-flavoured name on his tongue and her rose-coloured laugh behind his eyes are the things that lull him to the most peaceful sleep he’s ever had in years.

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] of flavoured names and coloured sounds (chapter 1 of 2)

Summary: "He doesn’t question it at first, the fact that sounds have colours and words have flavours. He grows up with it, grows up seeing powerful ruptures of colour when his mother plays the piano and softer, translucent bursts when the people around him speak. His father’s voice fills his vision with sombre oranges and lilacs while his mother’s is a pleasant mix of delicate greens, blues, and greys. The word father tastes like wet wood and the word mother tastes like the pumpkin juice the house-elves frequently serve him."

In which Draco just wants to know what colour Hermione's moans would be. He also wants to know if her skin would taste as sweet as her surname or maybe as intoxicating as her given name.

LINKS

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23567740/chapters/56541799 FFN: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13547597/1/of-flavoured-names-and-coloured-sounds

CHAPTER 1

synaesthesia: a condition in which two or more of the five senses that most people experience separately are mixed so that, for example, a person may see colour when they hear a particular sound or read a particular word

 He doesn’t question it at first, the fact that sounds have colours and words have flavours. He grows up with it, grows up seeing powerful ruptures of colour when his mother plays the piano and softer, translucent bursts when the people around him speak. His father’s voice fills his vision with sombre oranges and lilacs while his mother’s is a pleasant mix of delicate greens, blues, and greys. They create a firework display in front of him whenever they talk, varying in intensity depending on the nature of their conversation. He falls asleep to soft shades of blue and wakes up to freckles of purple.

(The albino peacocks produce varying shades of reds and violets, the house-elves create splashy tones that have the tendency to give him a headache when subjected to prolonged exposure.)

It’s only later, when he grows up, that he starts to discover the names of these colours, stops referring to them as various shades of the same six hues he knows and combinations of them. He comes to learn that his mother’s voice is composed of aquamarine notes, interspersed with azure, Maya blue, Bleu de France, teal, and harbour grey. When he tells her this, she gives him a curious look and makes him promise he would never tell anyone about these sensory experiences of his.

Tasting words and names is an experience that is more peculiar and, sometimes, less pleasant. As a child, the flavours are fairly simple: words like absinthe, python, moth, and thunder taste bitter, while words like cheery, rye, and cutlery taste sweet. The word father tastes like wet wood and the word mother tastes like the pumpkin juice the house-elves frequently serve him. When he hears the word Dementor, he develops a sudden overwhelming urge to vomit as the word tastes like rotten meat and mouldy bread. The meaning of the word sends a chill down his spine and he thinks his taste buds hit the mark with that one.

(Pansy, his childhood friend, has a name that tastes like steamed broccoli, and the taste is so odd that he never says her name when he fucks her, much to the witch’s disdain. It doesn’t help that her moans are coloured like coal.)

Harry Potter’s name is a mixture of sweet and smoky. The name Harry is sweet, much like cheery and rye, but he finds the sweetness nauseating. Potter, on the other hand, is smoky, so he settles with that and decides to call the boy the smoky name. The name Ron tastes like milk that’s been left out for hours, better poured down the drain than allowed to linger on the tongue. The surname isn’t much better, reminding him of the time his father had made him eat some blue cheese and he gagged it all out, leaving his tongue and throat burning with stomach acid. Every time he says the ginger’s name, his face automatically pulls into a sneer of disgust, his taste buds protesting the abuse.

During their first year, most everyone’s voices make him see light colours, but as they grow older the male voices turn darker shades and the females’ a softer hue. Some voices grate on his nerves, the explosion of colours too vivid, with no sense of harmony, and he often finds himself snapping at these people to shut up.

That’s when he becomes certain that this condition is unique to him. If they could see the colours he sees and if they could taste the flavours he tastes, they would all be snappish too.

Then there’s Hermione Granger.

Hermione reminds him of a summer trip his family had taken to France before his first year at Hogwarts. His father, ever the champion of luxurious delicacies and drinks, always insisting that he must develop a taste for the finer things, had insisted that his mother let him sample a glass of white wine.

His eleven-year-old tongue quickly detected hints of white peach, dill, and coconut, but they were overwhelmed by the bitterness of the alcohol. He had not appreciated the taste then, not even trying to hide his grimace to the amusement of his parents.

“When you’re older, you’ll learn to value the flavour of an excellent Sauvignon Blanc,” his father had reassured him.

Now the intoxicating flavour is back, every time he hears Potter call her name and every time it flashes through his mind. The taste of it never changes throughout the years, but his reaction to it does. Understandably, his younger self only felt disgust, but the older he got the more willing he became to accept that his father had been right all along—he’s learned to value the taste of Hermione’s name, learned to savour the white peach along with the dryness unique to the drink.

Sometimes, he could convince himself that he could get drunk just from her name.

Granger was safer, and even in his younger years he had enjoyed the taste of the surname on his tongue. Granger tastes like green apples. It’s the first thing he grabs at the dining table every morning for breakfast, and it’s a flavour that he chases after constantly. His immature self had found a way to say it every chance he could get, enjoying the sudden burst of citrus inside his mouth with every call of her name. He would resort to taunting, teasing her about being a swot, insulting her and making sure to use her last name by the end of every sentence.

He had been foolish, he soon realises, and so he stops saying her name to her face all the time lest people notice that he has developed an unhealthy habit out of it. He says it in private now, in the confines of the baths and in the privacy of his bedroom. At first it had only been so he could taste the green apples, so he could relive over and over again the tangy sweetness of her name, but later on it became less innocent.

(Later on, he started to favour the alcohol of her given name over the fruit of her surname whenever he would stroke his cock through his sleeping trousers.)

Unsurprisingly, the word Mudblood tastes like dirt in his mouth. When he first hurls it at her, the sensation is so intense that he almost gags before the weasel can even attempt his slug-eating spell at him. It repulses him, but she had insulted him and annoyed him to no end, and not even the sweetness of her name could soothe the headache he got from the bursts of vibrant colours her voice made him see whenever she opened her filthy mouth. Potions quickly became his favourite subject, not only because his Godfather favoured him, but because he almost never allows Granger to recite in class.

He finds that his annoyance slowly dissipates over the years as her voice goes from irritating and migraine-inducing to almost melodic and soothing. The colours stop being so harsh, become muted shades or pastel versions of themselves. He finds that in the splashes of colour he sees every minute of his waking hours, he looks forward to seeing hers.

   The first time he realises her voice has ceased to be a source of annoyance for him is during their third year. It’s an odd thing to feel, to suddenly yearn to hear the colours of her voice, when two years ago he had wanted to bolt from every room she was occupying. That annoys him, too, because all his life he’s been told that his kind should rule the wizarding world and her kind should not even be welcomed, so who is she to drive him out of a room? Throughout their first and second year in Hogwarts, he would stay, not only because he had no choice but to stay in classes he shared with her, but because he’s a pureblood and she’s nothing but that dirty word that makes him gag.

The sound of her palm connecting with his face is the colour of autumn leaves, a bright orange thunder-like streak that flashes behind his closed eyes. Everything is a sensory blur, and he finds himself running away from her, from them, feeling the shame welling in his chest and the taste of her given name still heavy on his tongue.

The word foul tastes like oatmeal and the word evil tastes like cold chicken soup.

   The yule ball is a ticket to a night of sensory overload. The music they dance to causes him to nearly go into a catatonic state, his head thrown back and his eyes following the lights bursting in and out with every note and every chord. Pansy has been clinging to him ever since he had first fucked her three weeks ago, and now he knows what a colossal mistake it had been to ask her to be his date to this ball. She has somehow convinced herself that they’re exclusively seeing each other, much to his disappointment, so he’s been planning to “break up” with her despite his father’s approval of their supposed relationship.

He’s thinking of a way to tell her the sex is good (not good enough really, considering the taste of her name and the colours of her voice) but he’s simply not looking for a relationship when he catches sight of her again. Immediately the spiked punch is replaced by Sauvignon Blanc and green apples at the thought of her name. She’s a periwinkle blue blur from his vantage point, but from what he had seen approximately an hour ago, she’s an absolute stunner tonight.

He turns his head so he can fully watch her, difficult as it may be with the pulsing colours interrupting his vision, and all but forgets the witch hanging on to his arm. He watches her dance with Krum, ignores Pansy’s demands for him to take her to the dancefloor, and then barely notices when his date finally lets go of his arms and stomps away from him. He watches Granger skip over to her friends, then he watches her get into a row with the weasel before promptly walking out of the ballroom.

None of her friends move to follow her, and he doesn’t know what possesses him to do it but he’s rising to his feet and moving towards the direction she had gone to. He keeps walking down the hallway until he spots her, snivelling in an alcove and using her hands to wipe at her face. When he gets close enough, he sees that her makeup is ruined, but it’s the fact that he doesn’t seem to mind that gives him pause.

“If you’re pining after the weasel, don’t you think you should have gone with him as your date?” he asks, startling her.

She jumps up and whips around to face him, wand already tightly held in one of her hands, tear tracks still marring her face. “Malfoy? Did you… did you follow me out here?”

He shrugs, moving to plop himself down to take her abandoned seat on the alcove. “I think I may be drunk,” he admits, the colours still blurring his vision and the word alcove tastes like garlic in his mouth.

She eyes him, her gaze darting back and forth between him and the empty hallway. He can practically hear her calculating her next steps, can hear the cogs in her brain working double time to assess the conundrum in front of her.

He cringes, the taste of residual beeswax coating his tongue at the thought of the word conundrum.

“How can you be drunk? Alcohol’s not allowed—”

“We spiked the punch,” he cuts her off, reaching for the flask hidden in the inner pockets of his robes. She stiffens, her wand raising ever so slightly to point at him, but he just retrieves the flask and waves it at her. “Paranoid.”

Granger watches him return the flask and fold his wandless hands on his lap where she can see them. “Well, it was very bizarre chatting with you, Malfoy.” With that, she turns to walk away, the floaty periwinkle blue robes moving with the sway of her hips.

When he returns to his dorm room, he places about half a dozen silencing charms on his bed, draws the curtains closed, and for the very first time, wanks himself off to images of Hermione Granger.

   They’re prefects, and he should have expected this to happen. Sooner or later they would get paired to do patrols together, he had known this, but he had been foolish enough to neglect to prepare for it. He knows that her voice will no longer make his head throb, has been familiar with the shades of her still-swotty voice for more than two years now.

The castle is quiet, and his eyes are blessedly free of colours bursting around his vision as he and Granger walk the castle grounds side by side. Neither of them speaks, but the silence isn’t antagonistic. Last month, they had been paired up for an Astronomy assignment, and although everyone in the bloody castle had been surprised by the pairing and had expected things to blow up, they miraculously did not.

Granger may be an insufferable know-it-all as his Godfather had put it, but her diligence, as he’s come to learn, perfectly complements his occasional bouts of perfectionism. He had fully expected them to buttheads, get into rows as bad as the one that had landed him that nasty slap back in third year, but they had ended up working quite well with each other. By the end of the two week-long assignment, he had to begrudgingly admit to himself that his father had been wrong to accuse her of cheating to get good grades.

It had hurt his pride and he had ignored her completely after that. He only resumed “talking” to her last week, when she had come up to him to ask if he was finished with the DADA book lying on his table in the library. He had wanted to say no, tell her to bugger off and find her own copy, but had found himself gesturing for her to take it.

The witch had instead taken the seat in front of him and began working on her own essay right there, in his space. He had floundered for a good minute or two, just staring at her furiously scribbling on a piece of parchment, getting ink everywhere. Nobody would have seen her sitting there with him, his little corner hidden from the heavy traffic of the library. After a while he had given up trying to understand what the swot was hoping to achieve by infringing upon his peace so he had resolutely returned to working on his Transfiguration homework.

When she had finally gotten up to leave, he noted that it was just a little over ten minutes before dinner time. “Thanks for letting me use the book, Malfoy.”

From what he can tell, the school isn’t abuzz with gossip surrounding the two of them so he can only assume that she had told no one of their little study session, nor the two that had followed the first. He doesn’t know what they’re doing but he knows that he doesn’t mind it as much as he’d like to fool himself into thinking.

“Draco.”

He knows the taste of his name, of course. Draco tastes like an expensive brand of chocolate that his mother had indulged him with when he was a kid, and Malfoy tastes like leather. The fact that his name tastes like chocolate had been the only redeeming quality he found out of having sex with Pansy. Every time she moaned his name, the taste of chocolate would make the flashes of coal slightly worth the trouble.

Hermione’s voice doesn’t bother him anymore. What does bother him is the fact that he has spent months imagining what colour her moans would be and what colour his name would take when it leaves her lips.

Now he knows the answer to one of those things. It’s salmon pink, much like what her other notes sound like, the ones she would produce when talking about a subject only she knows about in class and the ones that would leave her lips when something particularly good happens to her.

He can’t imagine a reason why she’s speaking his name like that, but he turns his eyes to her and gestures for her to keep speaking. He can only hope that she doesn’t notice the blood rushing to fill his cheeks in the darkness.

“Why did you save me last year?”

The question catches him by surprise, so much so that he stops walking and only stares at her for a long moment. He instantly knows that she’s talking about the world cup, about the warning he had given the trio. Slowly, his features harden, and he feels a scowl replacing his baffled expression. “Is that why you’ve been hanging around me? You think we can become what, friends, because you assumed that I had saved you that night?”

She doesn’t immediately respond, instead taking a step closer to him. He feels his chest tighten at the proximity, every word out of his father’s mouth about pureblood superiority suddenly swimming through his head and causing an explosion of varied flavours to occur on his tongue. She’s so close, close enough that he can see the freckles dotting her nose, close enough that he can detect the scent of coconuts from her hair.

“I didn’t assume anything, Malfoy. You saved me that night.”  

   Aunt Bellatrix trains him, and she becomes fascinated with his condition when she learns about it from his mind. It occupies her interests enough that she doesn’t stumble upon the thoughts of her, and he’s so frightened by the possibility of her finding out that he’s been lusting over a muggle-born that it speeds up the process.

He’s always been a quick study, but there’s nothing like the fear of your infatuation being exposed to your deranged aunt to really get someone to master a spell.

   He had expected that the dark mark would affect his condition, make the colours duller and the flavours blander. He’s right—once the ugly black thing gets branded on his skin, he can instantly tell that the colours will be nearly transparent now, the various hues no longer as defined as before and no longer obstructing his vision. His aunt tells him it’s a good thing, as he wouldn’t want those silly hallucinations coming in the way of a successful Avada or Crucio. The thought of the Dark Lord’s name no longer brings up an overpowering seaweed flavour, the taste subdued now.

When his mother plays the piano for him, the colours are still brighter and more pronounced than when people speak, but it’s no longer a fireworks display. She looks at him with a forlorn expression, one that he hadn’t expected but can understand because, as much as hated the migraines he got from those colours, they had been his. They had been bright, sometimes blinding, sometimes erratic enough that he feared he would go into a seizure, sometimes causing him to miss the target of a hex, but they had been his.

With his Occlumency walls safely in place, he allows himself to think of her name. The Sauvignon Blanc isn’t nearly as potent as before, the flavour of the green apples no longer as crisp, but he tells himself he can only be thankful that it’s still there.

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] opiate this hazy head of mine (chapter 1 of 2)

Summary: The brick walls of his dorm rooms, the white tiles of the baths, the drapes in his childhood bedroom, they all know her name. Initially it had been in anger, in frustration, in denial even as he pumped himself into completion to images of her. Eventually the name was whispered in resignation, in concealed adoration, and in an agonized declaration of a love that would never be returned.

TRIGGER WARNING: Character is diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder (MDD). If you are triggered by mentions of suicidal thoughts, depressive episodes, panic attacks, or even medication, please skip this story or proceed with caution.

Title is directly lifted from the lyrics of Medicine - The 1975

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23413189

FFN Link: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13537767/1/opiate-this-hazy-head-of-mine

CHAPTER 1

la douleur exquise: the heart-wrenching pain of wanting the affection of someone unattainable 

 August 4, 2002

He knows for certain that she’ll be leaving soon.

The timepiece on his wrist tells him it’s well past one in the morning, but he keeps his eyes open and trained on the woman lying next to him. Hermione Granger’s face is peaceful in sleep, the lines that usually mar the space between her eyebrows hidden from sight. He wants to touch her, her cheeks and the exposed skin of her shoulders, but he’s terrified of waking her up.

He knows that once those eyes open, she’ll realize what a colossal mistake it had been to sleep with him, then she’ll be gone from his life.

Forever.

So he stays still, tries to keep his breathing as even as possible so as not to rouse her. Just minutes ago he had been drowning in a sea of her—her eyes, her warm heat wrapped around him, her hands everywhere, her lips leaving marks that are not his to keep. Now he’s lost, the constellation of freckles dancing across the skin of her nose and cheeks drawing him in deeper into what would be very dangerous territory.

He has never been this close, despite the many cruel efforts on his parts to be physically near her.

The taunting.

The dirty looks.

The insults thrown at her face, right at her face, allowing him just a moment to be that close to her face.

Tomorrow she’ll be gone, but for now he allows himself to live in the reverie that she is his.

 He wakes and feels his chest constrict in panic, his breath catching in his lungs and his limbs freezing up. In the back of his mind, he imagines that this is how it would feel for her to wake up the morning of their N.E.W.T.s, realizing that she had fallen asleep in lieu of studying. The space beside him is empty, only the ruffled sheets and some stray strands of hair on the pillow serving as evidence that Hermione had spent the night with him. He had meant to watch her to the very last minute, savour the very last moment before she’d leave, and he had fallen asleep instead and wasted precious time. He doesn’t even try to get up, choosing instead to close his eyes and will the sharp pain in his chest to fade into a dull throbbing. He doesn’t know how much time passes but he finally moves his head to face the other way, discovering a kink in his neck.

“Draco, are you awake?”

His eyes snap open at the voice and he imagines that his body visibly stiffens.

“Do you mind if I use your kitchen to make breakfast?”

He rises slowly, leaning on his elbows, and finds her sitting on the wide windowsill. He swallows at the sight of her wearing his shirt, a book propped open on her exposed legs. For a moment, he entertains the idea of sleep-induced hallucinations, wracking his brain for an explanation for the anomaly that is Hermione Granger.

He opens his mouth to ask her a dozen questions, each one an attempt to explain why in Salazar’s balls she's still here in the poor death eater’s lair, but his mind blessedly decides to kick in before his mouth can do any damage.

She had said his name. His given name.

“I’ll make breakfast,” he says instead, swinging both legs off the bed and turning away from her for a moment to search for his pants. Only half-naked, he takes note of the time and beckons for her to follow him into the kitchen.

She doesn’t move from her spot (he has no idea how many hours she’s been sitting there but he knows for certain that it couldn’t have been long enough for it to justify him referring to it as her spot) and the minutes tick by with the two of them merely staring at each other. She would never hear it from him, but he would much rather stare at her than cook breakfast. A few heartbeats pass and then she’s pushing off the ledge, raising her eyebrows at him and he answers the unvoiced question with a roll of his eyes. “I can cook.”

“Here, I’ll give you your shirt back," she replies, ignoring his declaration.

He shakes his head, not even trying to hide the appreciate way his eyes roam over her body. He doesn’t know why she decided to put his shirt on, it doesn’t seem like something she would do, but he wants to keep her in his clothes for as long as possible.

Maybe then her scent would be permanently engraved into the fabric.

 She says she wants pancakes and Draco pretends he’s not thankful that she chose something he actually knows to make. He doesn’t burn anything, even when he feels her eyes boring holes into the back of his head, but he barely stops himself from going overboard with the blueberries.

Little triumphs.

He’s plating up a high stack for her, ignoring the curious stare she’s been maintaining ever since he poured her a cup of tea. He wants to run away from the scrutiny and jumps on the opportunity once he hears a light tapping sound coming from the window. His owl delivers him letters that he leaves in a drawer for later and a copy of the paper that he brings back to Hermione, wordlessly handing it over to her just to get her to stop studying him.

“Do you have powdered milk?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s just,” she pauses, glancing up from behind the face of an elderly wizard being tried for tax evasion. “I usually put some powdered milk on my pancakes, but these are fine. You’re surprisingly good at this.” She makes a show of taking a rather large bite that has him hiding a smile behind his tea.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Granger,” he says, not without irony. She catches on his meaning and then they’re sharing a smile, an inside joke that only the two of them know, and Draco wonders at what exact moment did the universe tilt the wrong way and allowed him to have this with her.

To have her.

“This is odd,” she finally says, looking at him in a way that tells him its not his culinary skills she finds bizarre. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that she means them, that she means it’s odd that she had slept with him and him with her and that he had made her pancakes with far too many blueberries and she had just shared a smile with him that made the darkest parts of his mind recede for a moment—

“Don’t overthink it, I can hear the cogs in your brain turning all the way here,” he responds, hoping against all odds that he sounds as nonchalant as he wants to be about it. He knows for a fact that if he wants to keep her from finding out the mess that is his thoughts around her, he best start putting up the occlumency walls he had so carelessly torn down last night.

He tells himself he will, in a minute, when she finishes her pancakes and she’s had enough tea. He’ll put up the walls when she stops looking as if she doesn’t hate him, doesn’t hate that she had fallen into bed with him, doesn’t hate that he’s standing shirtless in front of her because she’s wearing his shirt.

He tells himself he couldn’t have expected her to stay any longer. She has work, she tells him, and he doesn’t tell her that of course you’re working on a Sunday. He watches her tiptoe her way back to his room and he watches her emerge once again dressed in her own clothes, her healer robes tucked in the crook of her arm. He tells himself he isn’t disappointed when she only kisses his cheeks, tells himself he doesn’t feel his fingers warm when she tells him that she had a good time, that she’ll see him around soon.

He tells himself it’s not the hope that she would come over again that has him purchasing the tin of powdered milk from the muggle pharmacy. It sits in one of the cupboards, right next to the tea that she had picked out.

  February 11, 2000

Draco grits his teeth, mentally listing off a number of hexes that he could fire at the beady-eyed wizard sitting in front of him.

“I beg your pardon?” he asks, struggling to keep the drawl in place. To the untrained ear, they would hear an almost bored quality to the question. To anyone who pays attention, they would hear the unnatural lilt that his voices takes on right at the beginning.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy, we need to perform legilimency on all ex-Death Eaters wishing to apply for a job at the ministry,” he eyes Draco, one hand coming to scratch at his whitened beard. “Of course, everyone knows you’re a skilled Occlumens, which is why we’ve prepared a special potion that will ensure you do not… keep things from our knowledge.”

Draco feels a muscle twitch somewhere on his jaw. “And why exactly would such a thing be necessary in the first place, if I may ask?”

The veil covering the cruel sneer falls away and the man in front of him openly shows him just what he thinks of Draco. “Mr. Malfoy, you can’t honestly expect the ministry to let you work here without the reassurance that you do not have any ill plans tucked away that mind of yours. Think of it as a way of earning your future employer’s trust. That is, if we do end up hiring you.”

Draco has no response, choosing instead to steeple his fingers against each other and stare back at the other wizard. When the silence stretches on, with no attempts from Draco to end it, the other man speaks up in a tone brokering no argument, “This is an absolute requirement. If you do not wish to go through with it then I will be bidding you farewell.”

“When?” he asks, feeling the last dredges of his pride slipping away from his grasp.

 A healer performs the spell. When it’s over and he feels like his mind has been repeatedly stabbed by a blunt knife, he turns away from the judging eyes staring right at him. There’s a flurry of papers and the sound of a book rapidly being flipped through. The healer furiously scribbles on his chart while Draco awaits the verdict.

“Mr. Malfoy, you’ve been diagnosed with major depressive disorder. Here’s a prescription for anti-depressant pills that you are to take if I’m to clear you for work at the ministry.”

He turns back to the healer with a deliberate slowness, as if reducing the speed of his movements could aid his brain in keeping his mouth from falling wide open. “I beg your pardon?” he finds himself asking for a second time that day.

“Mr. Malfoy, you have suicidal tendencies—”

“Harry Potter has suicidal tendencies, did you also diagnose him with depression?”

“We value patient confidentiality, Mr. Malfoy, I assure you. You won’t be hearing about Mr. Potter’s medical business as he won’t be hearing about yours,” the healer states this with a pointed look, no doubt alluding to the fear she saw in Draco’s head about his thoughts becoming of public access. Draco takes little relief in this.

“I also know for a fact that when you say suicidal tendencies, you’re referring to the things he did during the war,” the healer continues. “Unfortunately, that was a case of reckless heroism, not a sign of depression.”

Draco raises his eyebrow at this, finding that the comment made him like his healer infinitesimally better than before. “I’m not depressed.”

“Would you like me to read to you all the signs I just picked apart from your mind? Aside from constantly thinking about your own death, you have severe insomnia, you have very little interest in doing things you like, you have virtually no appetite to speak of, you’re conflicted between the belief that your mother would be better off without you and the guilt of leaving her now that your father is gone—”

“Enough.”

The healer pauses, adjusting the spectacles that had started to slip down her nose. “As you know, depression is not something you need to be ashamed of. You’d be surprised how many of the British wizarding folk have been diagnosed with various mental health issues following the war.” 

For the second time that day, he chooses to answer with cold silence. The healer meets his gaze and wordlessly hands over a small sheet of paper. Draco takes it and his eyes drop to read the messy scrawl. His eyebrows draw together at the unfamiliar words staring back at him. “This is muggle medicine.”

“Yes. Do you have a problem with that?”

The question catches him off-guard and he looks up, realizing his mistake a second too late. The potion hasn’t fully worn off and he is unable to build up his occlumency walls in time to counter the healer’s legilimency.

Scared.

Don’t know how to buy these.

Don’t know where to go to get these.

Not depressed.

Can’t be depressed.

“Stop,” he finally grits out, turning away from the healer and finally breaking the spell. He wants to scream, wants to get up and run away from the room, job at the ministry be damned. He almost does the latter when he hears her ripping out a small piece of parchment.

“This is the address of a pharmacy I frequent. You may think of it as a muggle apothecary of sorts. Just hand your prescription over and make sure you have muggle money on you.”

Draco takes it, hating the trembling of his fingers as he fights the urge to crush both pieces of paper in his fists.

“Come back with the filled prescription and I’ll give you your medical clearance. Goodbye, Mr. Malfoy.”

 He likes to think he makes a graceful exit, but he knows that he all but stumbles out the room and into the lit hallway. The walls, white and suddenly so oppressive, seem to close in on him as he feels his breathing grow laboured. A panic attack, his mother had described it on the one occasion he had been weak enough to show her that he wasn’t as put-together as he would like everyone to believe. She had scoffed at him, her aristocratic face wet with tears, and had pulled his head to rest on her shoulder.

Now he thinks the healer would have listed off sporadic episodes of panic attacks if he hadn’t interrupted her.

His legs miraculously carry him towards the floo networks and he struggles to fight off the last vestiges of the potion remaining in his system, already working on constructing the ever-trusted wall around his mind. His throat has gone dry, all moisture seemingly travelling to his now-clammy hands, and his vision starts to blur when he’s only steps away from the floo that would get him away from this wretched place—

“Malfoy?”

Fuck.

If someone were to slice his ears off, damage the sensory organ enough that he would only be able to hear anything if one were to use a sonorous charm and shout directly into the mangled hole on the side of his head, he would still be able to recognize that voice. The last time he had heard her, last time he had seen her, was during his trial shortly after the culmination of the Second Wizarding War. He had been more surprised to see her than when he’d seen Potter, more surprised to hear her testify for him than when it had been Potter doing the same thing.

His hands had been bound before him, but his heart had soared at the sight of her then. He had been so certain that he would never see her again, not when he had been on his way to be locked in Azkaban. He had barely paid attention to the words she was saying, his focus trained on the sound of her voice, the fire in her eyes. Not once during her speech did she glance at him and he had only been given the chance to look into her eyes when she had been about to exit the room.

He had sworn that day that he would never forget that image, would hold on to it through the horrors of Azkaban. When he’d been told that the Wizengamot had decided to put him under ten years of heavy probation instead of 10 years in Azkaban, he had let himself foolishly hope that he’d be able to see her again under different circumstances.

Nearly two years later and he finally gets his wish, but the circumstances are only marginally better than before. He attempts to take a steadying breath and only succeeds in affirming that he still can’t breathe quite properly. The last of the bricks fall into place and he turns to face her. A lesser witch would see nothing amiss, only an ex-death eater making a hasty escape from St. Mungo’s, but she’s no lesser witch.

Hermione Granger takes one look at him and the suspicion in her eyes is replaced by that of concern and he fucking hates it. He pretends to appraise her, feigns the slightest bit of shock at her healer robes, only enough that she would think he had failed at trying to hide his surprise at the knowledge that she works here.

Of course he knows she works here; he had almost worked himself up into an early panic attack worrying that she would be assigned his healer.

“Granger.” He notes that there’s only the slightest bit of a tremor to his voice and he imagines his godfather would have been proud. Still, he keeps his hands behind him where she won’t be able to see how badly they’re shaking.

“Malfoy, are you—” she cuts herself off, eyes narrowing at him. “Are you okay?”

He manages a smirk and a slight inclination of his head. “Never better. Goodbye, Granger.”

“What?” is the indignant cry. He’s already stepping into the floo and tossing down a handful of the powder when she calls to him. “Malfoy, wait—” 

He doesn’t think about the possible repercussions of fleeing from a healer, of fleeing from Granger of all people, the only thought running through his head as he’s engulfed by the flames is how he needs to get away from her and her worried eyes.

He doesn’t deserve her concern.

  August 8, 2002

He startles awake, hanging suspended between grappling for consciousness and holding on to the last images of sun-kissed skin against his tongue. He blinks away the fog clouding his mind and searches for the source of his sudden waking, feeling a throbbing behind his eyebrow that somehow falls into beat with the knocking outside his door—

He’s on his feet and rushing out of the bedroom, wand at the ready. The frontal lobe of his brain catches up to his adrenal glands just as he reaches the front door. He reasons with himself—the  wards wouldn’t have allowed just anyone within 20 yards of the door, and since the knocking isn’t a figment of his imagination, he can only imagine that it’s someone from the ministry on the other side of the door. With a wandless flick of his wand, the door opens.

Draco hadn’t known who exactly to expect, but he had not expected to see her. Her hand is raised mid-knock, her hair is flattened down by the knit cap keeping her ears warm, and her eyes are wide and bloodshot as they stare back at him in shock.

He barely has time to open his mouth and call her name before her face contorts and she starts crying, right there by the doorway. Something in his chest constricts at the sight and he almost rubs at it to soothe the sudden painful throbbing radiating right above his left breast.

In the back of his mind, he suspects that it might be his heart aching at the sight of her tears.

“Can I come in?” she asks, uselessly wiping at tears that are only followed by others. She all but collapses into his arms when he moves to pull her into the flat.

He tries to lead her over to sit on the settee but she shakes her head at him, hands clinging to the collar of his shirt and effectively wrinkling the fabric. He blames the epinephrine still coursing through his blood vessels when he finds himself leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead. He freezes, lips still pressed to her skin, waiting for her to shove him away for daring to do something so intimate to her of all people.

Hermione releases her hold on his collar, her hands travelling upward to cradle his face. She tugs him down until their lips meet in a soft kiss, Draco all too cautious to deepen it and risk scaring her away.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” she asks against his mouth, breath washing over his face and leaving behind a distinct scent of chamomile and peppermint. He wonders if he’s being manipulated, wonders if he should allow himself to be manipulated by soft lips and cold hands.

Why?

“Please.”

“Okay.”

Hermione transfigures her clothes into something more sleep-appropriate and Draco slips away to prepare her a cup of tea. When he returns, she’s already settled in the middle of the bed, hands fidgeting with the edges of the quilt. She spots the cup he’s holding and reaches out to take it from him.

“Thank you, Draco,” she says, turning to him as he moves to sit net to her. “For all of this.”

He frowns down at his own hands, the adrenaline from before already well out of his system by the time he’d finish preparing her tea. Chamomile, the same thing she had chosen the last time she was there, with one heaping cup of honey and enough milk to turn the drink an ugly shade of Dutch white. She doesn’t comment on how he’s already committed to memory the way she takes her tea and he doesn’t ask her the barrage of questions assaulting his brain.

When the tears start flowing down her cheeks in a silent current, he takes the hand that’s not holding on to the delicate china in both of his. He feels foolish, offering her comfort when the whole wizarding world knows he’s the last person qualified to do as such, but she doesn’t pull away from his touch and the trembling of her lips still just enough for her to keep sipping her tea. Draco spots her wand lying on top of his bedside table and his grip on her hand tightens, the sight making him wonder when exactly he started to earn that level of trust from her.

He watches her lower the empty cup and start to pull away from him, moving to put the cup beside her wand. He vanishes the china with a wandless and non-verbal flick of his hand and allows himself to revel in the impressed look she gives him.

“Sleep, Granger,” he tells her. He moves to lie down, giving her enough space to decide the distance that would exist between them, telling himself that whatever she chose he would keep it that way all through the night. He watches her chew on her lip for a moment then promptly slide down to lie with her sides pressed against his. A few moments pass and then they simultaneously move, him raising his arm to circle her shoulders and her moving to place her head right above his erratically beating heart.

The silence stretches out long enough that he suspects she’s fallen asleep, her breathing even and her heart finally calm in its thumping. His own eyes start to drift close when he hears her soft voice whisper against his skin.

“Goodnight, Draco.”

 He wakes up to lips pressed against his neck and he thinks this is how he dies, a bite to his jugular that will drain him of his pure and ancient blood. When Hermione does move to bite him, he finds himself moaning in pleasure instead of pain, his hands shooting out to cradle her head and keep her mouth firmly in place. She soothes the bite with a languid drag of her tongue.

“I thought you just wanted to sleep?” he asks, voice thick with sleep and dick already half hard in his trousers. “Granger.”

“Draco,” she responds, her own voice just the right amount of rough. Her hands move down to work on the buttons of his shirt and he finally gathers enough sense to still her movements.

“Granger,” he grounds out, firmer this time. “We can’t. We shouldn’t. Not when you’ve been crying all night.” He wants to add not when you’re vulnerable but thinks better of it, suspecting it would only grant him a hex or two.

“I’m sorry,” she says, extracting her body from his hold and completely turning away from him. She hunches forward on her sides, curling into a position that makes her look so small and makes Draco’s eyebrows draw together into a frown of genuine confusion.

“Why do I feel as if you’re under the impression that I don’t want you?” he asks, tugging on her shoulder to make her lie on her back and face him again.

“Because I am,” she responds right away. The next part comes a few seconds later, in a much quieter voice. “Because you don’t.”

The occlumency walls fall apart and he grabs her hand and places it right where he wants it, rubs himself using her palm for a few wicked seconds before stilling them both. “You’re as much of a fool as I am.”

Hermione resumes stroking him through his trousers, her eyes alight and her mouth parted. She pushes him down to lie on his back and moves to straddle him, her hand still on his cock while the other works on completing the mission of removing his shirt. She helps him out of the garment and runs warm hands down his chilled torso, leaning down to once again attack his neck with her lips.

His hands map out an exploration of their own, gripping her hips through soft cotton shorts and seeking out the skin hidden underneath her jumper. His hands reach up until the tips of his fingers tease the edges of her bra, feeling up the lace and groaning when he feels her hand leave his crotch.

She pulls back and whips off the jumper, watching his steadily darkening expression. Hermione reaches back and unclasps the final piece of clothing holding her back from being equally half-nude as he is and he watches with rapt attention. The bra falls away, tossed to lie forgotten somewhere on the floor, but his eyes never stray from the sight of her full breasts just inches away from his face. He swallows and her eyes follows the motion, smiling down at him and grabbing his hands to pull them to her chest.

The first time he had seen her tits, he had ended up worshipping them for the better part of an hour, not neglecting to tell her she had the most beautiful breasts he had ever laid his eyes on. He had been granted a sharp laugh for his eloquence, a laugh that quickly evolved into a drawn-out moan when he had wrapped his lips around one nipple and used the nail on his index finger to tease the other.

Now he holds both of her breasts in his hands, testing out their weight much like the last time, caressing the underside with his palms and watching the skin breakout in goosepimples. She leans back to rest her hands on his thighs, pushing her chest out to him and letting out breathy little moans that fill the room. Her hips start a steady grinding motion, the heat of her clothed arse rubbing against his cock enough to drive him half delirious with need.

He rolls her nipples between his fingers, alternating between slow rubbing and fast swiping. He leans forward, sitting up, and catches one hardened nub in his mouth. The answering moan eggs him on to suck harder, switching between breasts with an almost desperate edge to his movements. This close, her scent invades his senses and overwhelms the part of his brain that usually has him questioning every move, every thought, every word coming out of his mouth.

“Fuck, you smell so good,” he tells her, lips pressed against a reddened nipple. She responds by further pushing her chest into his face and he is happy to oblige, continuing his ministrations on her breasts. He feels her hands fumbling to pull down his trousers and he lifts his hips high enough to assist her.

“It’s been days but I can still feel you inside me.”

Her words make him groan and he bites down on one nipple, just a light graze of his teeth. He helps her out of her shorts and her underwear, leaning back down to his original lying position with his hands firmly on her hips. “Think you can ride me, Granger?”

She takes his cock into her hand and the shock from the difference in body temperature has him biting down on his lip. She smiles at him, teasing her entrance with the tip of his length. “Not if you keep calling me that.”

“Hermione, fuck, Hermione,” he gasps, the syllables of her name rolling from his tongue with practiced ease. The brick walls of his dorm rooms, the white tiles of the baths, the drapes in his childhood bedroom, they all know her name. Initially it had been in anger, in frustration, in denial even as he pumped himself into completion to images of her. Eventually the name was whispered in resignation, in concealed adoration, and in an agonized declaration of a love that would never be returned.

He watches her sink down on him, her heat engulfing him and obliterating any coherent thought he was previously capable of making. His muscles burn from the effort it takes him to not move, to keep still and let her do everything in her own pace. He thinks his grip on her hips may leave bruises in the morning, but he allows himself the selfish thought, forgives himself when he doesn’t loosen his hold on her.

She stops when he’s fully inside her, their skin flushed against each other, chests rising and falling in tandem. Hermione leans down and kisses him, her face overheated and her lips slow and wet against his. He lets her take charge of the kiss, following her lead, matching her peck for peck, tongue for tongue. When she pulls back, he catches a glimpse of the scar on her arm and he’s immediately overwhelmed with the familiar feeling of guilt. He swallows, hoping to physically push back the thought.

“Take what you want from me, Hermione. Take what you need.”

For a moment she looks like she’s about to cry, but she swoops down and kisses him with ardour, catching his bottom lip in between her teeth and giving a painful bite that she quickly soothes with a swipe of her tongue. She doesn’t break the kiss when she starts moving, moaning against his lips with every thrust.

He kisses the side of her mouth, making his way down to the spot beneath her ear that had her screaming his name last time. She whimpers when his lips touch the sensitive skin, her hips picking up speed. Her mouth attaches itself to the back of his neck and he feels her sucking, biting, leaving marks that he won’t hide with a concealment charm. The forward-backward canting of her hips transforms into a circular motion and he knows she’s close. Aside from the constant assault of his mouth on her neck and his hands groping her breasts, he keeps still, feeling her walls clamp down on him and her teeth press down on his neck almost hard enough to break the skin.

She lifts her head, kissing him while riding the waves of her first orgasm for the night. Her body collapses on him and he pulls out of her, still painfully hard, and moves her to lie down on the bed. Even in the dim light of the room he sees the flush of her skin, the light sheen of sweat on her chest and on her legs. He kisses her face, pushes away the curls stuck to her forehead, kisses the arch of her brow, both of her cheeks, the tip of her nose and the dip of her upper lip, and kisses his way down her body.

She shudders when he takes his time kissing her shoulders, biting and sucking and selfishly leaving marks that she’ll have to hide with a concealment charm. Her hands shoot out to tangle in his hair when he reaches her breasts, torn between pulling him away from the over-sensitive flesh or pushing him to keep sucking on the spot just centimetres from her right nipple. He promises to worship her tits later, when he’s inside of her again, and begins to move further down her body.

As he draws closer to her centre, her scent grows stronger. He kisses her inner thighs, careful not to touch the swollen folds of her cunt. Hermione has grown progressively louder as he grew progressively bolder in his exploration, his tongue dipping into her wet hole. They moan in unison and he thinks he may get drunk on her taste. He fucks her with his tongue, letting her grow accustomed to the feeling, waiting for her to come down from the high and demand for more.

When the last of the tremors from her orgasm fade away, his lips find her clit and he sucks the sensitive nub into his mouth. Her hold on his hair borders on painful, her hips bucking up into his face. He pushes her down with his hands, keeping her in place as he uses the flat of his tongue to massage her clit.

He alternates between swiping and circling the kernel with his tongue, using two fingers to fuck her hole. He feels her walls tighten around the appendages and he withdraws them, determined to make her cum using just his mouth. He sucks on her clit, pulling her impossibly closer to him and allowing her to mindlessly fuck his face. When she comes for the second time he barely hears his name pouring from her lips, her thighs clamping down on his head and effectively blocking out the world.

He doesn’t give her time to ride out her orgasm, pushing into her in one swift thrust. He makes good on his promise, kissing her to let her taste herself on him then moving down to worship her breasts once more. Draco only half recognizes the things she’s saying, a mix of familiar swears words and his name and then things his orgasm-deprived mind just can’t seem to put together.

“Your cunt feels amazing,” he replies when she tells him how good he feels inside her. “You feel so goddamn good, Hermione.”

“Harder, Draco, please,” she mewls, fingers clawing down his back and leaving even more marks for him to keep. “Please, please, I’m going to come again.”

She comes a third time, not nearly as intense as the first and the second one, but enough to pull him spiralling into his own orgasm. He spills himself inside of her, the euphoria of his release settling deep into his bones. In those blinding seconds he forgets that they’re former enemies, that they were only tentative acquaintances before this whole fling started, forgets that he doesn’t understand her motivations and forgets to question his own.

He doesn’t pull out of her, remembering how she had asked him to stay inside of her the last time, and he’s rewarded with a smile and a tender kiss. He moves them so she’s half-lying on top of him, the sheets shielding their naked bodies from the cold. He’s internally debating with himself on whether he should go back to sleep when she makes the decision for him.

“Sleep, let’s give it another go when we wake up.”

 “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”

He only nods, moving to gather his clothes from the floor. He finds his trousers first and slips them on, facing away from her.

“Not yet,” she amends, as if she had somehow known her response had hurt him. “In the morning, I will.”

He doesn’t point out that it already is morning. They had woken up multiple times during the night and had satisfied each other countless times. The first time he had been the one to wake up, pulling her warm body into his arms, kissing her shoulder as an overwhelming feeling of gratitude took over his heart at the sight of her still curled up beside him. She had taken it as him initiating and things had quickly escalated from there. That had been followed by more sleep and even more sex, and now the sky is tinged with a warm orange and he can’t bring himself to feel regret at the prospect of being sleep-deprived at work. 

He looks down at her and catches her watching him, his shirt from last night hanging open on her shoulders. He wants to know if this is her own cruel way of revenge—false hope, a taste of what could have been and what may be but will inevitably never happen. He wants to know why he’s been allowed to feel as much as he has only for it to be violently taken away from him in the end.

“Come back,” she says, delicate hand patting the empty spot beside her on the bed. “It’s far too early to get ready for work, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make you breakfast later. Get some more sleep.”

He retrieves a fresh shirt and leaves her alone in the bedroom, not turning around to give her a chance to seduce him back into his own bed. He waits by the door for a few seconds, listening for any tell-tale signs that she’ll follow him out, and breathes a sigh of relief when his ears are met with silence. The papers he had been reading before turning in for the night lay abandoned on the coffee table, the sight of them prompting images of Hermione stumbling upon them and asking him questions he can’t and won’t answer, even for her. 

His legs carry him to the sitting room and he hastily shoves the papers into the drawer, eyeing the half-empty bottle of pills staring back up at him. He grabs it, pops one pill into his mouth and swallows it dry, then tosses it back in to join the papers. The drawer is locked with a flick of his wand and he starts to breathe easier.

There are many things he doesn’t know about whatever it is going on between them, but one thing he is certain of is that she must never find out about his depression. The thought that she had only slept with him four days ago out of pity had plagued his mind during the interim between then and now. It had taken him every logical cell in his body to convince himself that the impossibility of her finding out about his illness came second only to the impossibility of her sleeping with anyone out of pity for their mental predicament.

He had spent hours every day thinking about what had happened between them, thinking about how and why it happened, how he wanted it to happen again. He wouldn’t go as far as deluding himself into thinking that he was anywhere near done thinking about it, and her showing up in his flat and then fucking him senseless for hours certainly did not offer any help.

What he didn’t have any problem accepting was that there wouldn’t have been a repeat after the first time. Another thing he had been certain of—that Granger would never set foot in his flat again, that it had been a one-time thing. Then last night happened, and now she’s in his bedroom, possibly sleeping, and he’s in his kitchen preparing the ingredients for pancakes.

He’s finally going to put that tin of powdered milk to use.

 Draco suspects that it’s the smell of food that has her emerging from the bedroom, his shirt buttoned up around her form and her hair resembling a nest of some large bird species. He’s torn between the desire to fix her hair for her (with his hands, not using magic) and the desire to see if it would be possible to mess it up even further. He slides her a plate of pancakes and pulls the tin from the cupboard, presenting it to her.

“Is that… did you get me powdered milk?”

His brain tells him to lie, to downplay the gesture, make up a story about seeing it during one of his grocery runs and purchasing it out of curiosity. He knows she would stop believing him the moment he tries to pretend he does his own grocery.

“Yes.”

She stares at him, mouth hanging slightly ajar, and he braces himself for the questions to come. “I have so many questions about that, but I must admit I’m more hungry than curious.”

It’s his turn to gape at her. The many years between them has given him the privilege of knowing enough about her to know that she must be burning to ask him, to clarify, to make sense of whatever it is that isn’t making sense to her brilliant brain. He watches as she pops the lid open and spoons out a generous amount of the milk, pouring it all over her pancakes. The sound she makes when her lips close around the first bite is devilish and he feels his face heat up.

“Here, try some,” she says when she catches him still staring at her. She catches him by surprise when she leans forward to feed him off her own fork. “Go on, it won’t bite you back if you bite it first.”

The milk is too sweet and it dries out the edges of the pancake. He tries to hide his grimace by drinking from his tea but she catches it and openly laughs at his reaction.

“Bit weird, is it?” she asks him, still eating the ruined cakes. “My parents made me these, but they had forgotten that we’d already run out of syrup. They were arguing about it, so I just grabbed a tin of milk and poured it all over my pancakes so they would stop fighting about the bloody syrup.”

He finds that he’s at a loss for words. He’d heard about what happened to Hermione’s parents, what she’d been forced to do to keep them safe from Death Eaters, from people like him. The sweetness from the milk turns sour in his mouth and he feels his hands begin to tremble. Once again he’s left wondering why she would ever associate herself with him, why she would ever trust herself to be vulnerable in his presence, why she would look at him and talk to him like he isn’t scum on the bottom of her shoe.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says. The words are inadequate, useless, but he continues to speak. “I’m sorry about your parents. I’m sorry you had to do that. I know I’m probably the last person you want to hear this from, but I’m so sorry about everything that happened to you during the war. I’m sorry about everything I did to you, every nasty word I told you before the war. I’m sorry, Granger, I’m sorry I stood by and did nothing but watch when my demented aunt did that to you—”

“Draco, shh.” He hadn’t even realized his voice had risen and had taken on a hysterical tone before she was suddenly standing before him, his face in her hands. “It’s okay, Draco, I forgive you. I’ve forgiven you. We were children. I don’t blame you.”

“Well you should,” he says, stepping back from her reassuring touch. “I was your bully, I was a Death Eater, I let those people into Hogwarts and let them torture and kill children. I called you that word, that fucking word, for years.”

She looks like she’s ready to argue but he doesn’t let her, speaking over her attempts to placate him and tell him he’s not a monster. “I let her do this to you,” he says, grabbing her arm and pointing at the word engraved there. The letters are still an angry shade of red against her skin, framed by other tiny scars that have already faded. “You lost your family trying to hide them from us, from me. Many people hate me, Granger, but none of them should hate me more than you.”

She looks like she’s on the verge of tears and he doesn’t know which one of them is shaking harder. He thinks she might slap him, maybe wake up from whatever delusion she had the he could be someone she should be sleeping with. Whatever they had, surely she’s going to end it now that he’s talked some sense into her.

“Are you sorry?”

The words are spoken so quietly that he half believes them to be a figment of his imagination. He stares down at her, into the fire of her eyes and the set of her shoulders. Forget a slap, he thinks she might punch him.

“More than anything,” he replies.

“Then I forgive you,” she tells him, moving to wrap her arms around his waist. With her head pressed against his chest, her voice comes out muffled when she adds, “And don’t you dare presume to tell me that I shouldn’t forgive you. That’s for me to decide.”

He doesn’t doubt her words, doesn’t doubt for a second that her Gryffindor heart has forgiven him. Draco wouldn’t be surprised if she’d forgiven him before he asked for her forgiveness; it’s simply her character to be the forgiving one, to be the person to look for the good in people even when they’ve been swallowed whole by the bad.  He allows himself a moment to embrace her to him, pull her body even closer to his and kiss the top of her wild hair.

When he pulls back, he doesn’t meet her gaze. “Eat your pancakes, Granger.”

 She’s redressed in her old clothes and about to floo in to work. He wonders if she’s not worried about people commenting that she’s wearing the same clothes as yesterday sans the knit cap but decides to keep his mouth shut on the matter. There’s a myriad of questions in his head that he’d much rather voice but, just like the last time, he chooses to savour the last moments. He doesn’t know when he’ll see her again, but he knows last night had only been another moment of weakness on her part. She had been emotional over something and for some twisted reason he had been the one she sought comfort from.

It’s never going to happen again, he knows. A one-time fluke that just so happened to be repeated a second time, but he wouldn’t dare raise his hopes up for a third. The world simply does not work that way.

She looks like she wants to say something, her brow furrowed and her bottom lip caught in between her teeth. She looks up to meet his eyes and they just stare at each other for a few moments, her working something out in her brain and Draco just waiting for whatever it is she’s going to say.

“I never got to tell you,” she finally says.

“Tell me what?”

“I never got to tell you what happened, I said I would in the morning,” Hermione explains. There’s a hint of a smile playing at her lips but she looks nervous and he immediately regrets asking in the first place.

“It’s okay, Granger, I won’t pry into your personal business,” he says, feigning boredom. He sees a flash of trepidation in her eyes and wonders if he could fuck things up any further than he already has.

After a few terse moments, she seems to come to a decision and clenches her fists at her sides. “Would you like to talk about it over dinner?” she asks, her chin raised and her eyes staring directly into his.

He feels his mask slipping through his fingers, the surprise showing in his face and fuelling her confidence. His mind is reeling with about a dozen thoughts per second. She looks less scared and more determined, and she looks beautiful like this. She looks beautiful brandishing her Gryffindor courage. She looks beautiful in old clothes and with her hair smelling like his shampoo. She looks beautiful standing in front of his floo, standing inside his flat, she looks beautiful wearing his clothes—but she’s not his and why is she asking him out to dinner?

“Why?”

“To eat and converse, obviously,” she replies, her cheeks coloring. He thinks she looks beautiful like that too, flustered and annoyed at him. “Do you not want to, then?”

Draco decides then and there to stop trying to pretend that he would ever understand the inner workings of Hermione Granger’s head. He knows very little about her—she’s the most brilliant witch of her age, she eats her pancakes with powdered milk and takes her tea with one heaping cup of honey topped with an obscene amount of milk, and she uses about half a dozen drying charms on hair. She’s the poster girl for all Gryffindors, she’s a reluctant war heroine, she’s a healer and she probably overworks herself to near death. She’s the only girl he’s ever been in love with and she can never be his but there she is, asking him out to dinner.

“I would like to have dinner with you. When and where shall this take place?”

She giggles at his words and he decides that when she leaves his life for good (in the very near future, he knows) he would endeavour to keep the sound of her laughter playing in his head.

“Would tomorrow work for you? I have the day off,” she says, still smiling up at him. “I’ll bring takeout here.”

He realises that it’s only to be expected that they would have dinner at his place, not outside, not where people can see them and judge her for her choice in company. Whatever they are, it could never become public information, which is why he nods his head even though he doesn’t have the slightest idea as to what takeout is.

Her smile grows bigger and she also nods. She seems to hesitate for half a second before pushing on her tiptoes and kissing the corner of his mouth. The contact only lasts for a few blissful moments but it’s enough to leave him the slightest bit breathless.

“Right. I’ll see you tomorrow, Draco.”

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] whisky on ice

Summary: Yuuri’s last customer for the night is a handsome foreigner who seems to take an interest in him. The catch? Well, there’s a gold band.

He stares down the neck of an empty bottle of wine much like how he’d stare down the barrel of a gun, willing the incessant tick! tock! of the clock behind him to either pick up its pace or just stop bugging him completely.  He wonders, not for the first time that night, what forces on earth had been strong enough to push him into agreeing to take over Minako’s bar for the weekends and decides, also not for the first time that night, that it had been the promise of free pork cutlet bowls for a whole week.

Keep reading

[anartic-monkeys]

fill the space between my lungs

This is a drabble/oneshot that I wrote as an entry for a weekly writing contest that I joined on AFF.

Link to original post:  http://www.asianfanfics.com/story/view/1193001

He hates the smell of it, the harsh chemicals invading his nose in an unpleasant manner. He hates the whole vibe of the place, the sterile redolence that the building instantly attacks you with in an effort to overwhelm your senses and make you forget about the underlying scents that they’re trying to mask; death, disease, tears, sweat, and lots of blood. He looks at the white walls that seem to scream the word safe at him, but he can only see a trail of letters that oddly spell out quarantine when he squints hard enough.

To say that he hates hospitals is an understatement, especially when it comes to this one, but he trudges on. He walks with purpose towards the room at the end of the hall, idly wondering if he should have brought flowers with him, debating whether a fresh posy of dandelions would serve as a much needed change to the air or if the strong traces of antiseptic in it would just kill the flowers as slowly as the virus is doing to his friend. There’s not much time to turn around and walk out the way he got in though, because he’s suddenly standing in front of an intimidating door, its pale blue façade looking immaculate at first glance.

On the second glance, he notices the cracks on the worn paint, evidence of the time that it has spent slathered on an expansive piece of wood whose sole purpose is to keep in the person inside rather than keep people outside. On the third glance, he takes in the single smudge of rust on the door handle, an almost imperceptible flaw that takes years of seeing the same thing over and over again with the same tired eyes to notice. He thinks that the rust is testament to how the thing that they need most to survive is ultimately the thing that will kill them in the end, pulling on the protective gear over his head and securing it tightly to prevent himself from being contaminated. When he thinks that the oxygen gas is settling finely in and out of his lungs, he slices his card through the reader, the telltale beep instructing him to push the door open.

He hates the smell of it, the air that he breathes in invading his nose in an unpleasant manner. He hates the fact that he needs the RPE in the first place, the pretentious equipment that strives to appease his mind that the air he’s breathing in won’t kill him after 10 or so years of exposure to it. After 4 years of working in the quarantine department, he knows better than to rely on the deceitful sense of safety that their meager hospital equipment could offer. He knows that the real danger isn’t the disease that is clawing its way around his patient’s lungs, rendering him unable to get up from the stiff bed that he’s currently strapped down to with numerous amount of tubes and wires connected to him.

He knows that the danger here is that Chanyeol’s lungs might be giving out on him, but his heart is still quite a kicker. His fingers, the ones that used to fill the space between Baekhyun’s, twitch when his eyes settle on his visitor, a quiver in his bones to signify that he is trying to wave at his doctor with all of his might.  Baekhyun almost turns around and leaves right then and there.

Still, he goes about with his routine, the procedure that he has inked all across the frontal lobe of his brain. He checks Chanyeol’s vitals, reads and rereads the report that a surly nurse had left for him, and concludes that nothing has improved. Absolutely nothing has improved about his patient’s condition, and the air between them is still heavily tinged with the virus that he so badly wants to be tangible if it meant that he could crush it under the soft rubber of his shoes. At this rate, Chanyeol is well on his way to the morgue, and there’s nothing that Baekhyun could do to stop him from taking on that journey.

The only option left for him to be there for Chanyeol, to accompany him on his path to meet death head on. How many times has he thought about it, he wonders, grabbing a flimsy white chair and plopping down heavily on it. The easiest way out of the situation is the simple method of taking off his respiratory protective equipment, even for just a second, just so he could breathe in his only path to freedom.  

For a moment, he lets himself indulge the fantasy in his head. He imagines how the equipment would blow out a warning, a loud beeping sound to protest his actions, but he would still pull the offending material off so he could finally breathe the same air that Chanyeol breathes, so that it would finally fill the space between his lungs. He imagines how it would smell, how he would absolutely hate it as much as he hates the disgusting smell of disinfectant lingering from the air outside. How the smell of death and decay would overwhelm his senses just so much that he would forget that salvation is merely a hairbreadth away.

Then he would tear off the gas mask from Chanyeol’s face, the stupid thing doing nothing to prolong Baekhyun’s life, and he would order Chanyeol to breathe. He would tell the other male that he’s not getting any better because he’s sucking off oxygen from a machine, that his cure is the air that everybody else is enjoying but is depriving him of.  He would tell Chanyeol to inhale, to exhale, inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, to let the gush of his virus-infected breath to travel all the way to Baekhyun’s face, invading his nose, his mouth, even his jaw, in a pleasant manner.  

But the fantasy lives and dies in his head because he feels a cold hand wrap around his wrist, stopping his hand from pulling off the barrier standing between him and Chanyeol. He stares at the muted brown color of Chanyeol’s once overly-expressive eyes, the matted and balding mess that is what’s left of his dark hair, the measly strands spread out to contrast the white of the pillow supporting his skin-taut skull, and the chapped and faded lips that had once claimed his. He wonders if this is an appropriate time to pray to a deity he doesn’t even believe in.

God, he thinks, if you’re real, make it swift. Pull the trigger and let the contamination die in this room along with the man I love. Free the air of this contamination and get over with it. Please.

And then he leaves the room, the airlock closing behind him. He notes that he had stayed in there for a total of 25 minutes, yet he feels as if it had been over a day before he could finally remove the RPE and breathe in the undisturbed and still very much sterilized air of the hospital.

Saying that he only holds pure and unadulterated hatred for the air around him would be an understatement, but he trudges on. After all, Chanyeol is just one out of the hundreds of dying patients that he has to check on, but he is undoubtedly the only one whose breath Baekhyun wants to take in like a handful of poison berries.

He hates it, absolutely hates it, but he lets the air and its harsh chemicals invade his nose, hoping that it would overwhelm his senses enough so he could forget the room at the end of hall when the occupant finally leaves it for good.

[anartic-monkeys]

[anartic-monkeys]

can i tempt you to a cup of coffee?

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] set my midnight sorrow free (i will give you all of me) 2/2

Summary:  He can tell the difference between black and white, night and day, right and wrong. Black is the color of his favorite sweater, and white is the color of his favorite shirt. Night is when they can be together, day is when they have to pretend that nothing's going on. Right is when he thinks about ending it, and wrong is what they're doing. He can tell all of these things apart, and yet he chooses not to because he thinks he's fine with wearing white, he's fine with risking getting caught during the day, and he's fine with pretending that what they're doing isn't wrong. 

Baekhyun thinks he's fine with anything as long as Chanyeol holds him.

Chapter 2: the endless nights, the rhyming of the rain

“Can I get that kiss now?”

And he does. Jongin does get that kiss when he leads Baekhyun to the club’s small bathroom and locks the door behind them. He gets that kiss when Baekhyun meets his lips midway, when Baekhyun reaches out to grab the back of his head to crash their mouths together. He gets that kiss when he pushes Baekhyun back up against a wall, trapping him between his arms.

Baekhyun thinks that Jongin is unsurprisingly a good kisser, with the way he puts just the right amount of pressure in the kiss, just the right amount of lip bites, and just the right amount of tongue. The make out isn’t sloppy, almost professional in a way, and it makes heat pool in Baekhyun’s stomach. Jongin tastes like alcohol, tastes like a man, and he finds the bitter taste befitting of their situation.

They swallow each other’s gasps, small moans of pleasure, and every word that they decide to keep unspoken. Things are lost in the kiss, but Baekhyun finds that he can think straight, think about how much this will change everything, about how he could maybe just live with this.

They break away, and Baekhyun is left to stumble around his thoughts while Jongin eyes him, gaze intense. What should he say now? What should he do? It gets harder to focus when Chanyeol decides to pop into his head, and it gets harder to pull Jongin into another kiss when Baekhyun starts thinking about kissing Chanyeol instead.

He was wrong; he can’t live with just this.

They don’t kiss again, don’t venture into something that they both know they’d end up regretting. The first kiss was enough evidence, perhaps for the both of them, that they’re far in too deep, have fallen too deep for people that they could never have. It hurts, at least for Baekhyun, because he would gladly accept any method of moving on, would gladly accept help from anyone regarding this issue.

He just wants to be happy.

Baekhyun climbs into the car and waits for Jongin. They drive in silence, the realization heavy in the air. Maybe they were both hoping that they’d click together, that they’d help each other. Maybe in a way, this could also be their very own heartbreak from each other, because it certainly feels like one.

He just wants to feel a little less lonely.

He thanks Jongin for the drinks, the night, and the ride back home. They’re not tense when they say their goodbyes and good nights to each other, and Baekhyun feels a slight ache in his chest when he watches Jongin’s car speed away. He thinks about how easy it would be to fall in love with Jongin, how easy it would be to love Jongin, be in love with Jongin, be with Jongin.

The air is crisp and chilly and, for a while, Baekhyun just stands there, watching his breath turn into pretty clouds of white. Christmas, he thinks. Maybe I can get myself a muffler.

Baekhyun finds himself very busy in his new work environment, working as their only cartoonist and illustrator. Because his new company wants him to become part of the magazine team, he gets help from senior graphic designers about graphic designing and a few lessons about digital arts. He leaves for work early in the morning and gets home late in the evening, and he barely sees Kyungsoo and Chanyeol around.

“You sure they’re not overworking you?” Kyungsoo asks him one morning. Baekhyun was getting ready to leave while Kyungsoo had just woken up. “Are you even eating properly?”

“I make breakfast, I eat lunch, and I get to eat late dinner all thanks to you,” Baekhyun replies, finishing his coffee. “You can stop worrying about me, Soo, I’ll be fine. They’re opening a lot of new doors for me and I’m just really… excited? Yeah, that could be it.”

He doesn’t mention how he’s glad that he’s so busy that he doesn’t have to stay up at night trying to get some sleep. Nowadays, once his head hits a pillow, he’s a goner. Honestly, though, he’s content with how he lives his life; he wakes up, gets ready for work, goes to work, gets home, eats, goes to sleep, repeat.

His current lifestyle doesn’t give way to over thinking and worrying about things. He’s just too busy for that, and he’s thankful.

He’s also too busy for things like holidays and merry-making, much to his friends’ apparent disappointment.

“Baek, what do you want for Christmas?”

Baekhyun doesn’t bother to lift his head from the article he’s reading when he replies, “You don’t have to get me anything.”

“It’s for the Secret Santa thing I mentioned before, actually. I’m making the wish list so no one just buys random shit. You didn’t forget about it, did you?”

He finally looks up at Chanyeol who has his arms crossed over his chest, a small notepad in his hand. In all honesty, Baekhyun did forget. “No, I was just thinking that the others won’t give a fuck about a wish list, they’d probably buy a prank gift or something.”

“Well, hope that you get lucky and get picked by Suho, or maybe Luhan, or maybe Yixing. You could ask for a car and they’d probably give it to you.”

“Then write that down for me,” Baekhyun says. “Got nothing to lose, right?”

Chanyeol rolls his eyes but he does write something down on his notepad. “Right. I’ll post this online so you can see it later.”

“Shut up, you can show me now.”

Baekhyun snatches away the list and reads it, his eyebrow arching steadily higher. “Jongdae wants a tiger, you want a bunch of dogs, and Sehun wants a trip for two to Italy?” he asks Chanyeol, his voice colored with disbelief.

“Well, you want a new car,” Chanyeol chides, shrugging.

“The most realistic thing on this list is Kyungsoo’s new vacuum cleaner. Did you break the old one?”

Chanyeol makes a point of taking his notepad back and turning away from Baekhyun, muttering something under his breath that sounded like, “Why does everyone blame me about broken things?”

Baekhyun watches Chanyeol retreat into his and Kyungsoo’s room, shutting the door behind him.

“Like broken hearts.”

He has never been a killjoy, that’s one thing that Baekhyun knows for sure. In fact, he has always considered himself the life of the party, always up to whatever his peers wanted to do, always trying to impress people with his poor dancing skills, always trying to make people laugh, always fun to be around. Right now, he might as well be sucking the life out of the party by sucking on his straw.

It’s not like he doesn’t know where his friends are; it would be quite difficult to lose them when Baekhyun could hear them from where he’s sitting by the bar. He could tell that there is currently a group of obnoxious men dancing in the middle of the dance floor, shouting to just about every song that came on, and he could tell that that group of obnoxious men is his group minus him.

Why he’s being such a loner, drinking by himself while the others have fun, is beyond him. He spots Jongin in the crowd, saying something into Kyungsoo’s ear before heading over to where Baekhyun is. He smiles at Baekhyun and steals Baekhyun’s drink from his hand.

He takes a generous gulp and immediately makes a face. “What the fuck are you drinking, Baekhyun? No, scratch that. What the fuck are you doing over here?”

“It’s strawberry milk,” Baekhyun retorts, taking his glass back. “I’m here to supervise you kids so you don’t end up doing crazy shit. Someone needs to be sober, after all.” After saying this, Baekhyun observes Jongin, taking in his appearance. His hair is a bit messy and there are beads of sweat travelling down his neck, disappearing under the silky fabric of his black shirt. Baekhyun doesn’t even stop himself when he thinks about their previous episode in a fancy club’s bathroom.

“That’s Kyungsoo’s job,” Jongin tells him, using his hand to push back the hair over his forehead. “Come on and have fun, Baek.”

Oh, right. They’re both in love with someone else, him and Jongin. And Baekhyun could see the object of his affection making his way to the bar, looking pissed.

“Baek, what the fuck are you doing?” Chanyeol immediately asks once he gets within earshot. “Are you a nanny? Get in the dance floor with us.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to get him to do,” Jongin quips, shaking his head. “I’m sure you can handle this grandma.”

Jongin leaves Baekhyun alone with Chanyeol who stares at Baekhyun with a single eyebrow raised. “Well? Are you coming or what?”

“I don’t know, Yeol, I think I’ll just sit here. I’m really not in the mood to dance right now.” It’s the truth, Baekhyun decides, looking over Chanyeol’s shoulder. The amount of people grinding into other people’s crotches, sweaty bodies, and intoxicated morons, overwhelms him and he turns away.

“Fine, then I’m sitting here with you.” Chanyeol takes the seat next to Baekhyun and calls the bartender.

“What? No, get out of here and go join them, you stupid butthole,” Baekhyun demands, spinning around in his seat to face Chanyeol. “You don’t have to join me here, I’m perfectly happy with my solitude.”

“You look perfectly happy getting drunk, I’m envious, so I’m going to copy you and do the same.” Chanyeol orders a bottle of beer for himself, still bobbing his head to the music.

“I’m not even getting drunk, this is just spiked strawberry milk,” Baekhyun argues, glaring at Chanyeol’s cheek. “Besides, I don’t want you here. You make me feel lonely.”

Chanyeol gets his beer and takes an experimental sip before taking a larger gulp. “But I thought you enjoy solitude?”

“Yeah, but you being here makes me lonelier than when I was all alone.” He needs to shut up. “You make me lonely by just presenting me with your presence, you fucking prick.” Why can’t he just shut his mouth? Maybe the strawberry milk is a little too spiked.

Chanyeol has the nerve to smile at him, flashing him a perfect set of white teeth. “But I used to make you so happy, right? I’d like to go back to those times.”

Baekhyun feels sick all of a sudden. His stomach feels too warm and he starts praying that the dancing lights would conceal the redness on his face. He feels like a huge smile might tear his mouth open, yet he also feels like he could just break down and cry. Chanyeol isn’t supposed to be making him feel the butterflies, but there they are, flying around his stomach.

“Too bad we can’t,” Baekhyun replies. He’s about to say more when someone throws an arm around him and Chanyeol, causing him to almost jump from his seat.

“After party at your place, giant. Time for the presents!” Jongdae shouts, excitedly trying to pry them off their seats.

Baekhyun starts to pull out his wallet but Chanyeol stops him, saying that he’d pay for them both. Baekhyun already has his mouth open, ready to argue, but Jongdae pulls on him harder, practically dragging him away. He watches Chanyeol finish his beer then hand the bartender a couple of bills before joining them. Baekhyun glares at him and he only stares back.

“I can pay for my own drink, you know?” Baekhyun shouts over the music. Chanyeol has to lean down to hear him. “It was one glass of fucking overly spiked strawberry milk!”

They continue walking towards the exit, the music steadily getting louder as they near the dance floor. Baekhyun sees Chanyeol laughing and then he swoops down to talk directly into Baekhyun’s ear. “Shut the fuck up, Byun Baekhyun, you fucking grumpy wart.”

Baekhyun wants to tell Chanyeol that it is the worst insult he has ever heard and that the tall idiot should try to become more creative with his words but Baekhyun feels a large hand rest on the small of his back, guiding him forward. He doesn’t need to check if it’s Chanyeol, because he’s fairly sure of it already.

He rides with Chanyeol and Kyungsoo in their car, sharing the backseat with Jongdae. The two of them end up playing a game of chess on Jongdae’s phone and Baekhyun is just about to beat him with Chanyeol announces that they’ve arrived.

“I was this close to owning your ass, Kim Jongdae,” Baekhyun says as he climbs out the car, Jongdae following right behind him.

“Too bad you didn’t,” Jongdae says, laughing. He throws his arm around Baekhyun’s shoulder and they enter the apartment building together. The others start filling in soon after, some taking up the space on the couches, some on bean bags, and others sitting on the floor.

Baekhyun thinks it’s somehow nice to be back in this kind of scene, hanging out with his friends like this. It’s comforting to see them all gathered inside Kyungsoo and Chanyeol’s apartment, making playful banter among themselves. Kyungsoo serves them some snacks and beer and everyone cheers. Baekhyun admits to himself that he missed this; having fun, hearing his friends laugh, hearing himself laugh.

Jongdae moves that they open the presents and Luhan seconds him, so Chanyeol retrieves a big cargo box from their room and places it in the center of the living room. He pulls out a present and someone claims that it’s from him, and then he proceeds to give it to the person he picked. The person who receives the present picks out his own present, this goes on until everybody has their own gifts in hand, and they open it all at once.

Baekhyun receives a racecar toy from Jongdae and he finds that it isn’t even all that surprising. It’s actually a good toy, one that he would have wanted if he was younger, so he dances around the room to portray how happy he is with his present, kissing Jongdae on the cheek when he passes him. It gets a good laugh out of everyone, even him, and the heavy feeling on his chest lightens just a bit.

Around one in the morning, the others decide to go home. Kyungsoo nags them about driving safe and making sure that no one puts Jongdae and Sehun behind the wheels, to which everyone agrees. They promise Kyungsoo that they won’t get into an accident and Kyungsoo walks them outside.

Chanyeol helps Baekhyun clean up, throwing away disposables and clearing the dishes for Baekhyun to wash. They’re halfway done when Kyungsoo comes back up.

“Do you two need any help?” he offers, rolling up the sleeves of his sweater.

Chanyeol waves him off. “Go rest, you’ve done enough today. Thanks for your hard work, Soo.”

Kyungsoo shrugs. “It was nothing. Thanks for the vacuum cleaner, Baekhyun. You’re the best.” He greets them again and then retreats to his and Chanyeol’s room, shutting the door behind him.

Baekhyun goes back to washing the dishes and Chanyeol cleans up the living room. They work in relative silence, Baekhyun just wanting to finish the clean up as fast as possible. When he’s done with the dishes and he has deemed the kitchen clean to Kyungsoo’s standards, he saunters off to the living room and plops down on the couch. Chanyeol’s already there, toying with a simple four by four Rubik’s cube. It’s part of Wufan’s gift; a set of very complicated-looking Rubik’s cubes that Baekhyun would definitely stay away from.

“Wow, I think I wanna smoke,” Baekhyun absentmindedly says, staring out the glass window behind the TV. “It looks real nice outside.”

“Wanna have a snowball fight?” Chanyeol offers, still fiddling with his toy. He looks up at Baekhyun and smiles. “You don’t smoke, Baek.”

“Right now? Nah, I’m too cold.” Baekhyun rubs his hands together and blows at them, trying to keep them warm. “And it would just be one cigarette, Yeol. It won’t kill anyone.”

Chanyeol just laughs at him, setting the puzzle down and looking out the window too. “Wow, it really looks nice.”

“It does,” Baekhyun agrees.

“It looks beautiful,” Chanyeol adds. “And lonely.”

Baekhyun doesn’t really expect it, so he’s fairly surprised to see Chanyeol looking at him when he turns to look at Chanyeol. He isn’t entirely sure if Chanyeol’s still describing the snow, but he vainly hopes that he isn’t. “Does it?”

Perhaps he should have stopped Chanyeol when the latter reached out a hand to cradle his face. Perhaps he shouldn’t have angled his face to meet Chanyeol’s advances. Perhaps he should have felt guilty when their lips touched. Perhaps he shouldn’t have kissed back.

He thinks that perhaps they should be stopping now, but when they do, he feels terribly cold once again.

“Why?” he breathes out, so scared that Kyungsoo might hear that one simple word, that one simple question.“Why?”

And it hurts how Chanyeol looks so conflicted, his hand slipping away until he himself eventually draws away from Baekhyun.

It’s so cold, Baekhyun thinks as he waits for Chanyeol’s answer.

“I just...” Chanyeol starts, eyes darting around the room. “You just… you just looked so lonely Baek.”

Pity, it’s always pity. Chanyeol always pities Baekhyun, and Baekhyun always ends up pitying himself.

“And so beautiful,” Chanyeol adds. “So lonely and so beautiful. You looked like you needed that kiss. You looked like you needed someone to love you.”

The world never stops spinning, Baekhyun knows. It’s stupid to say that time could somehow stop for someone. The snow keeps falling outside, the world keeps spinning, time keeps moving, but it feels like everything else has paused. Everything that comes out of Chanyeol’s mouth is like a small fire from lighting up a match stick, thawing away the cold surrounding Baekhyun.

“You looked like you needed me to love you, Baekhyun.”

It’s not hard, really. Pretending that nothing happened that night isn’t as hard as Baekhyun thought it would be. He goes about his days like he would normally do, and Chanyeol does the same as far as Baekhyun can tell. It’s probably the right thing to do; to simply avoid bringing the topic up and to avoid each other all together.

It’s the right thing to do but Baekhyun feels so wrong. He feels like he’s doing everything wrong, like he drew something wrong, or made his coffee wrong, or said the wrong thing at the wrong time. He feels like everything he does is a mistake, like what he’s doing is a mistake, and all the things that he plans to do will all turn out to be mistakes.

It’s funny how one mistake, one thing gone wrong, could change everything in his perspective. Kissing Chanyeol was not the right thing to do, he knows that for sure, but it also seems like everything he does after that or in response to that one moment is all going to be another mistake that he’ll end up regretting.

The high that he felt when he had his lips latched to Chanyeol’s is something that he can never explain, but what followed is something that he knows all too well. It’s like watching a newly built sand castle get washed away by the unforgiving waves, and you can’t blame anyone because it had been your mistake to build it there, it had been your miscalculation. It’s that feeling of misery when you think that all your effort has gone to waste, that everything ends there, but it doesn’t. The world continues to spin, time continues to run, and nothing pauses for anything or anyone who stumbles behind.

Baekhyun needs a break, that’s another thing he knows for sure. He needs a remote control so he could hit pause, so everything would stop for a while, and then he could arrange his thoughts and clear his mind. He’d be able to decide if ignoring Chanyeol is better than talking to him, if avoiding confrontation is better than initiating it.

If going around in circles is better than hearing Chanyeol say that it had been a mistake on his part, that he shouldn’t have done that, that Baekhyun should just forget all about it.

He’s scared of closure, he admits. He’s scared that his one big chance was never even a chance to begin with, just another mistake that they both regret, albeit presumably for different reasons.

Two knocks on the door has him sitting upright, the water in the tub sloshing around with his movement. How long has he been inside the bathroom, ten minutes, twenty? He can’t really tell, but he doesn’t want to inconvenience anyone just because he has been having inner monologues with himself inside the bathtub, so he carefully gets up and reaches for his towel.

“Give me a second!” he calls out, wiping his body dry before wrapping the towel around his waist. He opens the door and finds Chanyeol looming over him, eyes fixed on a spot on Baekhyun’s cheek. “Ah. Sorry for taking so long.”

“No worries,” Chanyeol replies, his low voice sending a shiver down Baekhyun’s spine.

Baekhyun tries to tell himself that it’s just from being exposed to the cold and not because he has been dying to hear Chanyeol’s voice again. He catches himself biting his lip so he quickly moves to get past Chanyeol, muttering “Excuse me,” under his breath. He makes his escape and retreats to his room, closing the door behind him.

He’s leaning on his desk, using both hands to support his weight, when he hears the door open behind him. There’re no knocks this time, just the sound of the door swinging open and then closing again with a final click.

He almost doesn’t turn around to face Chanyeol.

“Hey, I know it’s your place and all that but would it really hurt you to knock?” Baekhyun asks, scratching his head. “You know, privacy and shit like that. Guess we should have made some sort of contract, huh?”

“Baekhyun, let’s talk,” Chanyeol calmly says, a polite smile on his face. “Do you want to get dressed first?”

“Nah, I don’t think we need to talk.” Baekhyun moves forward, reaching for the door. “But yes, I would like to get dressed now, thank you very much for leaving.”

He doesn’t get a chance to grab the doorknob, the hand on his arm stopping him. Chanyeol’s grip is borderline painful and causes Baekhyun to wince.

“Why not, Baek?” Chanyeol questions him, the grip on his arm unrelenting.

“Because I just don’t want to, okay? Let me go. I don’t want to talk.” Baekhyun’s teeth are gritted, he realizes. He tries pulling his arm away but Chanyeol only pulls him closer. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“Then what do you want?”

It’s like getting asked what you want as a birthday gift, or what you want for the holidays. Baekhyun tells himself that these sorts of questions are hard to answer because he doesn’t have anything particular in mind, that anything would do, but he knows that that’s just not the case right now. He finds it hard to answer Chanyeol because there are too many things in his head, too many things he knows he wants.

He wants to have a place of his own so he won’t have to live with them, so he won’t have to see Chanyeol happy with someone else. He also wants to be happy himself. He wants to feel less lonely, less cold. He wants to be able to love someone else, he wants to fall in love with Jongin instead and he wants Jongin to fall in love with him. He wants to move on.

Yet he also wants Chanyeol. More than anything, he just wants Chanyeol. He wants Chanyeol for himself, he wants Chanyeol to want him and not Kyungsoo. He wants Chanyeol to look at him more often; he wants to feel Chanyeol gazing at him for longer periods of time.

He wants Chanyeol to love him, that’s one obvious thing.

“I want you to kiss me,” Baekhyun murmurs, feeling his arm relax. “I want you to kiss me again.”

Chanyeol doesn’t respond, doesn’t move for a few moments. He just keeps his eyes on Baekhyun’s face, his expression unreadable. He drops Baekhyun’s arm and then takes the slighter male’s face in his large hands, rubbing Baekhyun’s cheek with his thumb.

“Are you doing that on purpose?”

Baekhyun wants to ask Chanyeol what he meant by that but the warm feeling is slowly returning, starting from the point where their mouths meet and spreading all over his body like wildfire. It’s pleasant, Baekhyun thinks. Even more so when he feels Chanyeol’s lips move against his. He finds his hand stuck in Chanyeol’s mess of a hair, the other clutching the front of the taller man’s shirt.

He doesn’t remember how naked he is until he feels Chanyeol’s hand slip away from his face, and then there’s a strong arm wrapping around his waist to pull him closer. It feels undeniably good and he finds himself kissing Chanyeol with a tinge of desperation, his tongue probing at the other’s mouth to give him access which he is quickly granted.

How long has he been fantasizing about this moment? How many times has he jerked off to the thought of tasting Chanyeol? Too many times, most probably. Too many times for his own good.

He shudders, gasping against Chanyeol’s mouth. He lets out a low moan when Chanyeol grabs him by the hips, suddenly very aware of his erection. Apparently aware of it too, Chanyeol starts playing with the towel wrapped around Baekhyun.

He bites Baekhyun’s lip and abruptly takes hold of Baekhyun’s undeniable hard-on, eliciting a soft whimper from him. Baekhyun breaks away from the kiss when Chanyeol starts stroking him, resting his head on the tall male’s broad shoulder. Chanyeol flicks his wrist and that has Baekhyun biting into his shoulder, trying to contain the sinful sounds that he knew he would end up letting out.

Chanyeol handles him all too well. Every pump of his fist around Baekhyun’s cock has Baekhyun shivering in pleasure, hands finding purchase on Chanyeol’s shirt. When Chanyeol’s other hand reaches around to grab Baekhyun’s ass, the latter almost loses it. He feels his legs go jelly when Chanyeol probes around his puckering hole and he’s on the verge of cumming when Chanyeol suddenly releases him, pushing him away.

For a moment, Baekhyun’s scared. Terrified, even. He doesn’t want to look up and see Chanyeol’s expression, worried that it’d be the last straw for him if he sees how disgusted Chanyeol is, but he can’t help it.

Instead of disgust, though, Baekhyun sees lust painted all over Chanyeol’s face. He immediately goes hard again, his eyebrows drawing together and his mouth hanging open, waiting for Chanyeol to do something.

“Get on top of the bed,” Chanyeol says, voice incredibly low and throaty.

Baekhyun’s heart races in his chest. He feels the beating all over his body and hears it loudly in his ears as he makes his way over to his bed, lying down on his back and looking up at Chanyeol.

Fuck, I’m so hard.

For a while, Chanyeol just watches him until Baekhyun starts to squirm a little, anticipation and anxiety mixing up in his system. He bites his lip when Chanyeol moves towards him, hands already working on his pants.  The bed dips with Chanyeol’s added weight, positioning himself on his knees, in between Baekhyun’s legs so he’s hovering over Baekhyun. He leans over to plant wet kisses on his neck, licking a wet stripe all the way up to Baekhyun’s ear. His hand snakes down to pull off the towel and then he grasps Baekhyun’s cock again, playing with the head teasingly and smearing precum on the shaft.

Baekhyun doesn’t even notice it when Chanyeol pulls out his own dick from his underwear, only finding out when Chanyeol grabs his hand and guides it so it closes around Chanyeol’s swollen length.

“You feel that, Baek?” he asks, mouth still pressed to Baekhyun’s ear. “You got me real bad.” He pulls away and laughs when Baekhyun makes a whining sound when he has to let go of Chanyeol’s cock. Chanyeol makes it up to him by placing a finger on his hole, slowly circling it while pumping Baekhyun’s dick faster. A finger inches in and Baekhyun has to squeeze his eyes shut.

He’s no virgin; he’s tried doing it with a girl a couple of times and has tried topping a male a few times now, but most of his relationships always found him in the bottom position. This kind of thing isn’t new to him, but perhaps it’s the fact that it’s finally Chanyeol doing it to him that helps him ease through the pain of getting prepared without any form of lube. A second finger enters him, then a third.

He can tell that Chanyeol, too, is very much experienced with this kind of thing.

He’s panting by the time Chanyeol pulls out his fingers. He spits on his hand and pumps his length while watching Baekhyun, and then he repeats the process one more time before positioning himself over Baekhyun’s entrance.

Chanyeol looks oddly focused as he inches inside Baekhyun, his lips caught between his teeth and his eyebrows drawn together in concentration. He doesn’t immediately move, breathing heavily and letting the both of them adjust to each other.

The knocks on Baekhyun’s door freezes the both of them in place. “Baek? Do you know where Chanyeol is?”

Baekhyun instinctively grabs Chanyeol’s arms, hoping to hold him in place. He doesn’t want this to end, although the reality of the situation is rapidly closing in on him. What they’re doing is wrong, a betrayal from them both, yet he doesn’t have the will to let Chanyeol go.

He almost opens his mouth to beg for him to stay when Chanyeol suddenly moves and thrusts into him. Baekhyun almost lets out an audible gasp, but Chanyeol’s hand is already there, covering his mouth. He removes it and jerks his head, motioning to the door.

He wants Baekhyun to say something to Kyungsoo.

“I think he went out,” Baekhyun calls out, surprised at how normal his voice sounds. Chanyeol thrusts into him again and he has to swallow hard before continuing. “Said something about running to the convenience store.”

He hears Kyungsoo thank him and then a door opens and closes. Baekhyun doesn’t have time to wonder whether Kyungsoo went back to their room or went out because Chanyeol suddenly picks up his pace, thrusting into Baekhyun in earnest.

Baekhyun is aware of how much of a mess he is, both emotionally and physically. In the back of his head, he’s already thinking about how all of this might end, how he’ll probably get kicked out of the house, how he’ll ruin Chanyeol and Kyungsoo’s relationship, how he’ll be ending his friendship with them. On the forefront of his mind, he’s thinking about how good he feels, how good Chanyeol feels inside of him.

He’s also thinking about how shitty he probably looks right now, his mouth hanging open like a yapping dog and his eyes occasionally rolling into his head whenever Chanyeol hits that certain spot. He brings up his arms to cover his face but Chanyeol doesn’t sit well with this, groaning and grabbing both of Baekhyun’s arms away from his face, pinning them down on either side of Baekhyun’s face.

He tilts his head from side to side, trying to conceal his face from Chanyeol. The latter clicks his tongue at him and says in a growl-like manner, “Look at me, Baekhyun.”

He doesn’t know why, but hearing Chanyeol order him like that send a jolt of pleasure all throughout his body and he ends up following Chanyeol’s command. Baekhyun looks up at Chanyeol and he bites his lip when Chanyeol starts pounding into him even faster, his movements almost erratic in nature.

“Why do you have to be so…” Chanyeol pauses mid-speech, pulling back almost all the way out and then thrusting in hard, “So fucking beautiful?”

It’s nothing, really. Baekhyun has been called many things, ranging from an array of insults to compliments. ‘Beautiful’ isn’t something that is said to him often, and he thinks this is because no one really sees anything in him to call him that. He thinks that if someone like Jongdae, or maybe even Jongin, called him beautiful, he would just laugh it off. His heart wouldn’t race abnormally, his cheeks wouldn’t flame up,  and he wouldn’t feel the almost painful coil of pleasure in his stomach finally release something in him.

As he comes –and he comes really hard– he admits to himself that he’s feeling all these things because it’s Chanyeol calling him that. It Chanyeol’s who’s looking at him, it’s Chanyeol appreciating him enough to call him beautiful.

It’s Chanyeol. Only Chanyeol.

With his release, he feels his hole tighten around Chanyeol’s dick, egging the man to thrust into him faster. Baekhyun can tell that he’s almost desperate for his own release with the way his eyebrows are mashed together and his mouth is set into a tight line.

Chanyeol swoops down and latches his lips to Baekhyun’s, kissing him and biting his lips hard. He moves down to Baekhyun’s neck and peppers the area with kisses before returning to his lips.

“I’m so close, Baek. I’m so close,” he whispers against Baekhyun’s lips, licking the swollen part where he bit too hard. He comes with one final thrust, painting Baekhyun’s insides white.

For a while, no one says anything. The room is steamy and almost completely quiet except for the sound of their heavy breathing, exchanged with one another as they stared into each other’s eyes.

Chanyeol is the first to move, given their position. He gets off Baekhyun and sits on the side of the bed, cradling his face in both hands. The gravity of the situations starts to weigh down on Baekhyun’s shoulders, pushing him down, making him unable to move. He just watches Chanyeol, back turned to him, and hopes that things aren’t completely broken between the two of them.

“We shouldn’t have done this,” Chanyeol finally says, raising his head from his hands. He still doesn’t look at Baekhyun, a painful contrast to how they were just a few minutes ago, to how he treated Baekhyun. “This is all wrong.”

“I know,” Baekhyun agrees. He tries to ignore the physical pain his chest, the tears rapidly forming in his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Chanyeol gets up, fixes his clothes, and then strides to the door. He stands there, listening, most probably checking if Kyungsoo’s outside, then he pulls the door open and closes it quietly behind him.

And just like that, Baekhyun’s all alone again. What did Chanyeol use to describe him that time? Lonely, and beautiful. It’s almost funny how Chanyeol could make him feel so beautiful one moment, then step out of his life and make him feel so lonely the next. Beautiful, and lonely.

Maybe it’s for the best that this happened, he thinks as he curls into himself. Maybe this is that slap I deserve, that wake up slap that I never got.

Knowing that Chanyeol regrets holding him is one thing. There’s the pain of rejection, although Chanyeol hasn’t outright rejected him yet. In fact, Chanyeol wanted him, right? It doesn’t matter what triggered that moment, it doesn’t matter when Chanyeol started seeing him like that. All that matters is that at some point, in some fleeting moment, Chanyeol had wanted him, Chanyeol had been looking at him, Chanyeol had been his.

Knowing that if Kyungsoo ever finds out, he would never forgive Baekhyun, is another thing. Knowing that he is the other person, that he’s calling someone else’s property his, that he’s that type of person, is something that he accepts with a small stab to his chest. Knowing that he let Chanyeol cheat on Kyungsoo, that he’s the one Chanyeol cheated with, that Chanyeol must hate him now and Kyungsoo would eventually hate him too when he finds out, all of these are things that Baekhyun think he can never, ever forget. Things that would haunt him when he’s still awake at 2 AM and when he’s at work at 2 PM.

In a way, he deserves this. Baekhyun knows that he had messed up, but he can’t fully bring himself to regret that. How can he regret it when he’s still savoring Chanyeol’s kisses, Chanyeol’s moans? How can he honestly say that he wishes it never happened when it has always been everything that he’s ever wanted?

It’s like how white shows how dark black is—maybe happiness only exists to make you feel how broken you really are.

Life would be a lot easier if he didn’t have a conscience. He would be able to talk to Kyungsoo and not feel like the other knows what had transpired and, for that, like he’s always silently judging Baekhyun for all the shit he’s been doing. Life would be a lot easier if Baekhyun doesn’t think that he deserves to be judged by Kyungsoo, that Kyungsoo’s judgment is the best thing that could happen to him now.

But Kyungsoo never says anything, and Baekhyun never knows what to do around him, around them. He hasn’t talked to Chanyeol ever since the guy walked out his bedroom door, and Baekhyun thought that it was somehow a metaphor of Chanyeol walking out his life. Problem is, it’s not even really Baekhyun’s, that bedroom, and he’s only borrowing it. He thinks that’s another metaphor of how pathetic he is and how he doesn’t even have a life to begin with for Chanyeol to walk out of.

He thinks life would be easier if he could at least pretend to be okay, even if it was just around Chanyeol. It would be easier for the both of them to just forget what happened, to pretend that they haven’t made love to each other while Kyungsoo was probably just in the other room. But Baekhyun isn’t okay, and he can’t pretend to be okay, he can’t forget about it, and he can’t pretend that it never happened. Some part of him thinks that maybe he’s doing it on purpose; maybe he’s really trying to get Chanyeol to pity him.

It’s during times like these, slow and uneventful afternoons in the office, that he can’t help but let his mind stray to places it should only wander into when it’s two o’clock in the morning. He only notices the figure hanging around the walls of his cubicle when Baekhyun wipes away a stray tear before it could drip down his cheek.

“Tough day?” Lee Hyunjoon, one of the senior animators and Baekhyun’s supervisor, asked. “Was I too rough on you today?”

“No, no,” Baekhyun immediately replies. “That just now was nothing, sir. Just some… personal agenda. Sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Hyunjoon smiles at him, entering his cubicle and sitting on his desk. “You don’t have to be so formal around here, Baekhyun. Artists are almost never formal, and you’re one hell of an artist,” as he says this, Hyunjoon picks up one of the sketches lying around Baekhyun’s table. “If the industry was kinder, you could probably live off selling your works.”

“Thank you, but I think I’ll be staying here until you guys kick me out,” Baekhyun jokes, returning Hyunjoon’s smile.

“Drat, it didn’t work, huh?” His boss is openly laughing now, dispelling some of the heavy weight on Baekhyun’s chest. “Kidding aside, we’re genuinely glad to have you on our team, Baekhyun. You can’t leave us now.”

Baekhyun laughs too, putting up his hands in mock surrender. “Shackle me down.”

“Hey, hey, I hear some pretty kinky shit going on here.” Lee Jihoon, one of the animators helping Baekhyun out, pops his head into the cubicle, giving Baekhyun and Hyunjoon a devious smile. “I can’t believe you, Hyun.”

Hyunjoon laughs and shakes his head, lightly punching Jihoon on the arm. Baekhyun thinks it’s starting to get crowded in his cubicle.

“So, Baek, since we still haven’t given you an official welcome party, why not join us tonight for drinks? It’ll be fun, I promise. I’ll be there,” Jihoon tells Baekhyun, wiggling two pierced eyebrows at him.

“Out of curiosity, are you two related in anyway?” Baekhyun blurts out, staring at the two. “If that’s not too much information to share,” he adds, biting his lip.

“Don’t worry, we get that a lot,” Hyunjoon says. “It’s the names, right? And I guess we kinda do look alike.”

“You’re flattering yourself too much,” Jihoon interjects. “Really, Baekhyun? Do you really think I look anything like this person?” The two of them bicker for a bit while Baekhyun watches, slightly amused. He answers when asked but refrains from taking sides, laughing off questions like “who’s sexier?” and “who teaches better?” as to avoid making the two fight even more.

“Anyway, I didn’t come here to take no as an answer, so you really have to come with us,” Jihoon says, turning to Baekhyun. “The tab is on the seniors, good for you kids.”

“I’ll go,” Baekhyun replies, adding a mental note to text Kyungsoo that he won’t have dinner at home. He thinks it’s a good opportunity to get to know his coworkers and to get his mind off things.

They all leave together, going to the city’s busier parts, where all the building were lit up with bright lights and music boomed from everywhere. They choose a big sushi and grill bar, occupying two long tables that they move so they’re all eating and drinking together. Baekhyun sits next to Hyunjoon and a female coworker who’s friendly enough to occasionally talk and joke with him.

They give Baekhyun the welcoming shot, lead by Jihoon, then people start cooking, passing drinks, and generally just having a good time. Baekhyun finds himself having fun, laughing really loud, teasing people and getting teased, mock flirting with Jihoon, then laughing even harder when the other man spills some of his drink on his shirt. He looks around the table and notices how everyone is dressed nicely, but almost everyone either had a tattoo, a piercing, or very vividly colored hair. Baekhyun himself thinks that his blonde mop is starting to get boring, even for him. He turns to the girl sitting beside him, Hyesung, for her opinion.

“I think it looks really good, actually. What color do you have in mind?” she asks, running a hand through Baekhyun’s hair. “Oh, I wasn’t expecting it to be that soft.”

“Thanks, I don’t really have an idea, maybe red? Or something dark,” Baekhyun murmurs, twisting a lock of his bangs with his finger.

“Why do I have this wild idea that you’d look really hot with black hair?” Hyujung says, staring really hard at Baekhyun. “Listen, you up for something crazy?”

“Depends, what’s the big plan?” Baekhyun asks, his answer already on the tip of his tongue.

“My apartment is literally so close, just a five-minute walk from here, more or less. I’ll do your hair for you, if you want,” she offers, eyes big and bright with anticipation.

Baekhyun doesn’t really see a problem with it, only that it might be rude to leave with her especially when he’s so new to the group. Hyesung seems to understand this, grinning at him then turning to their table.

“Guys, I’m going to leave with Baekhyun for a bit but we’ll back real soon. Trust me on this.” The others don’t seem to mind; they only tease them and laugh when Hyesung flips them off. She drags Baekhyun outside, chatting his ears off until they reach the apartment complex. Hyesung’s room is on the fourth floor and she insists that she’s too out of shape to use the stairs so they get on the elevator instead.

“I hope you don’t mind if it’s a bit messy,” she says when she lets Baekhyun inside her place, flipping on the lights. Her flat isn’t really messy, save for some books and papers lying around the center table. She beckons for Baekhyun to follow her deeper into the house, leading him into the bathroom.

“I’m positive I still have a pack of—voila! Today’s your lucky day, I saved my favorite pack of black dye,” she informs Baekhyun, showing it to him and dancing around on the spot. “Now, do you trust me?”

“I followed you into your house, I think I do,” Baekhyun responds, laughing when she rolls her eyes.

“Okay, give me your shirt; we don’t want to ruin it with black smudges.” She holds out her hand expectantly, screwing her eyes shut. “Go, go, get naked already.”

Baekhyun laughs at her, thinking that he’s starting to really like her personality. “You don’t have to close your eyes, unless you’re doing it for yourself.” He finishes unbuttoning his shirt and hands it over.

Hyesung hangs it up and tells Baekhyun to bend over with his head over the toilet. She starts the process and idly chats with him.

“You have a nice body, you know,” she says.

“It’s not much, never been into bodybuilding,” he replies.

“That’s nice. I don’t like my men big and burly.” There’s a teasing hint to her voice which makes Baekhyun wonder if she’s entirely joking or if she was actually hitting on him.

“Me neither,” Baekhyun replies, his breath stilling as he feels her pause her work. He waits for her to say something and is relieved when he hears her let out a breathy chuckle.

“I kinda felt that,” she admits. “Though I don’t think it’s obvious or anything, if you’re going to worry about that. Just always thought you looked so… delicate? Is that an okay word? Have I offended you?”

“No offense taken at all. I’ve been openly gay for years. I just hadn’t thought about telling everyone at work. It won’t bother me if they thought of me that way, though,” he tells her, tilting his head up to smile at her. “You’re fine.”

She continues talking and Baekhyun listens to her. They talk for over 30 minutes about all sorts of random stuff while they wait for the dye to set in, then she washes it off for him and even uses a really nice smelling brand of shampoo on his hair.

The phone suddenly goes off so she hands Baekhyun a towel to dry his hair, leaving him to answer the call. When she returns, Baekhyun has his shirt back on and he’s looking at himself in the mirror.

“Wow, you did a great job,” he tells her. “How much will this be costing me?”

Hyesung steps up and stands beside him. “I’m aesthetically pleased enough, you don’t have to worry about extra charges.”

They return to the others and everyone tells Baekhyun that the color suits him and he keeps telling them that it was Hyesung’s brilliant idea. Apparently, while they were gone, Jihoon and Hyunjoon had gotten into a bet to hold hands for the rest of the night. The first one to let go would pay 50% of the tab, which explains why neither one of them is willing to let go. In the end, they each pay a quarter of the tab while the other seniors pay the rest.

“Will you be okay going home?” Jihoon suddenly asks him, stuffing his wallet in his back pocket. “The trains have closed, should I get you a cab?”

“I’ll wait for one here, thanks. For inviting me out tonight, too. I really did have fun,” Baekhyun tells him. They wait for the girls to get into their cabs before Jihoon hails one for Baekhyun. He sees Jihoon leave with Hyunjoon before the car speeds away.

He hears the door unlock with a click and he lets himself in, thankful that he didn’t forget the spare key that Kyungsoo gave him. The apartment is dark and he doesn’t bother to turn a light on when he goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water. Baekhyun is leaning on the counter when he almost jumps out of skin, spotting a figure sitting on the couch. His heart doesn’t slow down even when he realizes it’s Chanyeol.

“Do you know what time it is?” Chanyeol asks in a quiet voice, not turning his head to look at Baekhyun.

“I know that I texted Kyungsoo and I told him I’ll be eating out with my coworkers,” Baekhyun replies, suddenly feeling defensive. “You didn’t have to wait up for me.”

“It’s almost 12 midnight, must have been awfully fun.”

Baekhyun rolls his eyes, setting the glass down on the sink and storming off, heading to his room. Chanyeol catches his arms when he passes by the couch, holding him in place.

“When did you decide to dye your hair back?” he asks, reaching out a hand to touch Baekhyun’s hair. “I remember you being blond just this morning.”

“I told a girl at work that I wanted to change the color and she offered to do it for me,” Baekhyun says, wondering why the hell he was even explaining himself to Chanyeol. “Can you let go of my arm now?”

“I want to talk to you,” Chanyeol says in a commanding tone. He tugs on Baekhyun’s arm but the other resists.

“No, Chanyeol. The last time you wanted to talk to me, we ended up fucking, and you ended up regretting it. I don’t see a point in going through all that shit again when I could just walk away now.”

Chanyeol doesn’t answer for a while, just silently stares up at Baekhyun. He starts to loosen his hold and Baekhyun starts to pull away when he asks, “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am sure,” Baekhyun says. He almost slaps Chanyeol’s hand away when it reaches for his cheek.

When Chanyeol rises from his seat, leaning over the couch to kiss Baekhyun on the lips, the other starts to feel his knees tremble a little.

“Are you still sure?” Chanyeol asks, lips still touching Baekhyun’s. The hand holding Baekhyun’s arm slips away, finding their way around Baekhyun’s waist, pulling their bodies together as close as they could be with the sofa between them. “How about now?”

Baekhyun thinks he’s tired of this. When he wraps his arms around Chanyeol’s neck and allows the taller male to pull him down onto the couch, he thinks he’s had enough. When Chanyeol kisses him again and starts unbuttoning his shirt, Baekhyun thinks he wants it to end.

Or at least, that what he wants to think.

It’d be easy not to kiss Chanyeol back. It’d be easy to think that what he’s doing is wrong, absolutely wrong. It’d be easy to not ask Chanyeol to give him more, do it harder, faster. It’d be easy to tell himself that he’s disgusting, that he’s being a horrible person to his friends, that he’s being a horrible person to himself.

But he doesn’t. Baekhyun doesn’t choose to do the right thing. Instead, he lets Chanyeol carry him into his room, a pleasured moan escaping Baekhyun’s lips when he hears the door lock behind them. He lets more of those moans spill out his mouth when they go at it again, and again, and again, until Chanyeol has to leave.

They’re both afraid. They’re afraid that Kyungsoo might catch them, afraid that he might notice something going on. They’re afraid that Kyungsoo might already have his doubts, might already be on them. They’re afraid of what they’ve done to each other, of how everything’s going to change, of how things can never be the same.

Baekhyun’s afraid he might never be able to stop, even when the day comes that Chanyeol realizes that what they have isn’t worth losing the one he really loves. That’s what he’s really afraid of, more than anything, because he thinks he’s fine with everything else.

When it comes down to it, Baekhyun can tell the difference between black and white, night and day, right and wrong. Black is the color of his favorite sweater, and white is the color of his favorite shirt. Night is when they can be together, day is when they have to pretend that nothing's going on. Right is when he thinks about ending it, and wrong is what they're doing. He can tell all of these things apart, and yet he chooses not to because he thinks he's fine with wearing white, he's fine with risking getting caught during the day, and he's fine with pretending that what they're doing isn't wrong.

Baekhyun thinks everything’s fine when one day, Kyungsoo notices him wearing Chanyeol’s white shirt. He just does his best to look like he’s telling the truth when he lies about not having anything to wear because he forgot to do his laundry, and Chanyeol was just generous enough to lend him a shirt. Kyungsoo just clicks his tongue, flicking Baekhyun’s forehead, and says, “Stop wearing our clothes and do your damn laundry.”

Baekhyun thinks everything’s fine when one night, Chanyeol sneaks into the kitchen while Baekhyun’s works on making dinner for the three of them. He just does his best to keep quiet when Chanyeol starts touching him, keeps his hand tightly clamped over his mouth when Chanyeol starts fucking him. The following day, Baekhyun pretends to be okay when he sees Chanyeol and Kyungsoo on the couch, snuggling together while watching a movie.

Baekhyun thinks everything’s fine when he tries to tell Chanyeol that they should stop what they’re doing. He just does his best to act like he really believes what he’s saying, does his best to act like he really doesn’t want it when Chanyeol touches him, does his best to act like he’s seriously resisting. In the end, he still thinks that everything’s fine when he gives in and lets Chanyeol do what he wants, what they both really want.

Baekhyun thinks he’s fine with Chanyeol not loving him. He thinks he’s fine with ruining his friendship with Kyungsoo, and ruining his relationship with Chanyeol. He thinks he’s fine with sleepless nights with Chanyeol and awkward meetings in the morning. Baekhyun thinks he's fine with anything as long as Chanyeol holds him.

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] set my midnight sorrow free (i will give you all of me) 1/2

Summary:  He can tell the difference between black and white, night and day, right and wrong. Black is the color of his favorite sweater, and white is the color of his favorite shirt. Night is when they can be together, day is when they have to pretend that nothing's going on. Right is when he thinks about ending it, and wrong is what they're doing. He can tell all of these things apart, and yet he chooses not to because he thinks he's fine with wearing white, he's fine with risking getting caught during the day, and he's fine with pretending that what they're doing isn't wrong. 

Baekhyun thinks he's fine with anything as long as Chanyeol holds him.

Chapter 1: leave your lover

It’s always here, confined in the clean, white tiled walls, that he realizes just exactly how pathetic he is. Although, given that the two of them are definitely his closest friends, and they’ve welcomed him so warmly and have been treating him so well, plus he does pay for his expenses and a quarter of the rent, he still feels like he shouldn’t be there, like he’s imposing on them and intruding their privacy.

That’s probably because he really is.

When he really thinks about it, he admits to himself that there were a million ways to turn down Chanyeol’s offer; it seemed futile, but he could have continue to search for an apartment that he could afford, or maybe find another person to room with that lived around the area so he wouldn’t have to get too far from work to cut down expenses on commuting. If it really came down to it, he could have quit work and gone back to his parent’s place for a while, just until he’s able to fix his shit.

But there he is, body submerged in a tub of now lukewarm water, pitying himself even more as the minutes tick by. There’s a knock on the door and he almost doesn’t acknowledge it.

“Baekhyun?” Kyungsoo calls from outside. “I’m going out for a bit. Chanyeol’s still asleep, feel free to make breakfast for the three us.”

Baekhyun gets up into a sitting position and splashes water to his face. “Sure, if you’re down for burnt eggs and maybe some milk.”

“Totally down for that,” Kyungsoo replies. Baekhyun hears him chuckle and then he goes, indicated by the fading sound of his footsteps.

For a while, Baekhyun just sits there, in the middle of the tub, before he gets up and grabs the towel he prepared for himself. He pats his body dry and wraps the towel around his waist. Little droplets of water drip from his hair down to his exposed chest and he hurries to get to his room where he gets dressed. He walks over to their room, Kyungsoo’s and Chanyeol’s shared room, and peeks his head inside.

He remembers how, when he first arrived, he had suggested that he sleep on the couch, to which Chanyeol chuckled and told him that there was no need, that Baekhyun could use the guest room because nobody used it anyway. Of course, Baekhyun had thought.

Chanyeol is lying on his stomach, his limbs sprawled all over the bed now that the other occupant isn’t around. He’s snoring, Baekhyun could tell, and then he snorts unhappily in his sleep before shifting around so he’s lying on his back, his arms bent in a weird angle. He seems to wake up, hands feeling up the bed, probably looking for Kyungsoo…

Baekhyun gets out of sight before Chanyeol can see him. He walks over to the small kitchen place and pokes around the refrigerator for something to make just as he hears a door open and then promptly close. He’s still deciding whether he wants to impress Kyungsoo with something other than eggs for breakfast or just settle for the usual scrambled yellows when Chanyeol appears, bed hair and all, looking a bit confused.

“Where’s the little devil?”

“He would love to hear that,” Baekhyun replies, taking out five eggs from the refrigerator, almost dropping one but successfully catching it before Chanyeol does.

“Oh, nice reflex,” Baekhyun absentmindedly says, already cracking open two eggs over a bowl. He opens the fridge and feels relieved when he’s able to fish out tomatoes.

“And you used to say I have bad eye-hand coordination,” Chanyeol says, to which Baekhyun replies by tossing him a tomato which he barely catches. “Hey!”

Baekhyun just shakes his head, swiftly catching the tomato, although he admits that it could be because he was prepared for it.

“You still haven’t answered me,” Chanyeol reminds him. “Where’d Kyungsoo go?”

Baekhyun is ready to fry the eggs when he answers, “I don’t know, he just told me he was going to go out and that I should make breakfast. He said he wouldn’t be out for long, and since he wants me to make breakfast, maybe he’ll be back for it.”

The taller male hums, slumping on one of the metal stools around the small kitchen island. “And he couldn’t bother to tell me,” he whines, pout and all.

Baekhyun holds back a remark about how Chanyeol should stop acting like him and Kyungsoo were newlyweds. “Well, seeing how sound asleep you were, I wouldn’t have to guess why he didn’t tell you about it.” It takes a moment for him to realize it but when he does, he pauses and bites his tongue, internally punching himself for his slip. Baekhyun didn’t see how Chanyeol was sleeping, or, at least, Chanyeol doesn’t know that he did.

Thankfully, Chanyeol only nods, seemingly not understanding what Baekhyun had just unconsciously implied. He says something about taking a shower and then leaves Baekhyun alone to make breakfast.

“Hey, Baek, Jongin just called me, says he knows somewhere you could transfer to. He doesn’t know how much they’ll pay you, but you could give it a shot, go for an interview,” Kyungsoo tells him, handing Baekhyun his phone. “There, he messaged me the details for you.”

Baekhyun whips out his phone and saves the information. “Thanks, Soo. He could have just called and messaged me, though.”

Kyungsoo shrugs. “He lost his phone recently, had to help him pick out a new one yesterday. I don’t think he’s had the brain to ask for anyone else’s contacts yet.” Just as Baekhyun hands back Kyungsoo’s phone, it alerts them both of a new text message. “Oh, right on time, he’s asking for your number.”

“Well, you have it. Thanks again, Kyungsoo.”

“Well, it sucks to see you so overworked yet so underpaid.”

Baekhyun chuckles, shaking his head. “Well, that’s what I get for going to college to get myself a degree in art.” He gets a brief flashback of his father telling him to take something else, something practical, something that would put money in his hands and food on his plate. “Turned out to be a pretty useless degree.”

The next day, he meets up with Jongin in a nearby coffee shop, one that seems to be a bit too fancy for Baekhyun’s wallet. He’s the first one to arrive and when he sees Jongin walking over to him, a playful smile already plastered on his youthful face, Baekhyun is just about ready to open his mouth to suggest a different place.

“Coffee’s on me, for being late,” Jongin immediately says, sitting on the opposite side of the table. “Have you ordered yet?”

Baekhyun wonders if he arrived late on purpose so he would have an excuse to treat Baekhyun, knowing that if he didn’t have that excuse, Baekhyun wouldn’t accept because he’s just that type of person; as much as he hates being hopeless, he also hates being pitied. He knew, though, that he was in no position to be worrying about his pride.

“No, you can order for the both of us.”

Jongin makes small talk with him while they wait for their orders to arrive, asking him about the “stupid couple” he’s living with and if he’s doing well with them.

“Yeah, I guess,” Baekhyun allows. “Everybody knows that my burning desire to move out isn’t because of them.”

Jongin doesn’t respond immediately, giving Baekhyun a funny look. “I see… well, you know that you could live with me, right? If you want to.”

He could do that, yeah, if only he doesn’t know Jongin well enough. Baekhyun wouldn’t want to be around when Jongin decides to bring back some girl and do shit with her. “No, no. I wouldn’t want to bother any of the other boys; I’m already causing enough trouble for Chanyeol and Kyungsoo. Thank you for the offer, though, and for recommending me that company.”

“I’m sure they don’t mind,” Jongin says as their orders arrive. He begins to tell Baekhyun about a friend of his who works for the publication company he talked about before. “I’ve told him about you and your skills, he seemed pretty eager to see you for an official interview. Didn’t give me any details about the salary, though, so I guess you’ll have to find out by yourself.”

“That works for me. Did he give you a date?”

“Yeah, Friday this week. Will that work for you?” Jongin asks, pulling out his phone. “I could maybe talk to him if you can’t make it so we can reschedule.”

“No, I’ll just take a day off. If I get the job then I’ll just quit this current one and if I don’t then a single day off won’t do much damage to my already near-nothing pay.”

Jongin grins at him. “That’s the spirit.”

He’s sitting on the couch, watching The Walking Dead, when his two favorite people in the world come home. They’re talking about some fancy new restaurant that Chanyeol discovered and then they spot Baekhyun on the couch.

“Baek! Why haven’t you been answering my texts?” Chanyeol questions, storming over to Baekhyun and glaring down at him. “When did you get home?”

“A few hours ago. My phone died and I forgot to recharge it, thanks for reminding me. Oh, I hope you don’t mind me using the TV.”

“Shut the fuck up, you know we don’t. Anyway, so?” Chanyeol urges, his pretend anger already gone.

“That doesn’t make sense. So…? What?” Baekhyun knows what he means, but it’s always nice to see Chanyeol get so worked up.

“Don’t do that, Baek,” he hears Kyungsoo say. “He kept worrying about it on the way home. Couldn’t do anything to shut him up.”

“That’s because you were too scared,” Chanyeol retorts, a cocky grin settling on his lips. “Because I was driving—.”

“I got the job,” Baekhyun cuts him off, before the situation could turn awkward for him. “They offered me almost twice my current salary. Their old cartoonist resigned and I’m the only one they have now so…”

“Oh my god, Baekhyun!” Chanyeol exclaims, his eyes going comically wide. “Congratulations!”

“Congrats, Baek. See, told you he would get it.” Kyungsoo finally appears and flops down beside Baekhyun, something Chanyeol copies.

They’re sandwiching him and he can’t find it in himself to mind. “Thanks, you two. I’ll have to file in my resignation letter before I can start, good thing I was only part-timing for them. Just give me a few months and I can move out and I’ll pay you guys back, I promise.”

“Whoa, slow down, Baek. You don’t have to worry about it, okay?” Chanyeol reassures him, slinging an arm around his shoulder. “Me and Kyungsoo are just genuinely happy for you, because you deserve something better than that shit you get.”

“Kyungsoo and I,” said man corrected. “It’s still true, though.” His phone rings and he informs them that it’s Jongin. “Did you tell him the good news yet?”

“Oh, shit, yeah, that’s another thing I forgot. Can I talk to him?” Kyungsoo shrugs and hands him the phone.

“Hey, you home yet?”

“Hey, it’s Baekhyun. Sorry for not calling you, my phone died and I may have completely forgotten to contact anyone. I got the job, by the way, thanks to you.”

“You fucking piece of shit. I was waiting for you to tell me but when it became apparent that I was not going to get any calls or messages from you, I had to find out from your new employer.”

“Yeah, thanks, I’m glad, too,” Baekhyun rubs his face, thinking about all the loans he has to pay to his friends. “I’ll make it up to you when I get my first pay.”

“We could celebrate here,” Kyungsoo chimes in, saving Baekhyun’s ass (wallet). “I could make some pasta, we still have some beer and a bottle of wine, I think.”

“Kyungsoo says he wants to talk to you,” Baekhyun quickly says into the receiver, he gestures that Jongin wants to kill him, handing Kyungsoo his phone back. Deal with him, he mouths, and Kyungsoo laughs at him.

Baekhyun watches as Kyungsoo gets up, the phone pressed to his ear, heading to the kitchen. He turns to face Chanyeol, following Kyungsoo with his eyes, still looking at the same spot even when Kyungsoo disappears into his realm. His eyes snap into focus and lands on Baekhyun’s face.

“Congrats, Baek,” he says, his tone chirpy. “I’m sure they’ll promote you within a few months, or something like that.”

Baekhyun nods, recalling his conversation with his soon-to-be boss. “He did say that I could try out for their magazine and do digital art for them once I get better at it.”

“I’m sure that’ll be in no time, knowing you,” Chanyeol murmurs, picking at imaginary lints on his sweater. He looks up and meets Baekhyun’s stare, cocking an eyebrow in question. “What? What is it?”

Baekhyun thinks about it, if he really wants to ask Chanyeol this, and how he should proceed with the question without possibly making things even more difficult. He can hear Kyungsoo working in the kitchen, no longer talking on the phone, and Baekhyun decides to open his mouth to ask, “Chanyeol, you’re not jealous of Jongin, right?”

Chanyeol’s face goes slack, his lips forming an almost straight line. His eyes flicker over to the kitchen area before settling back on Baekhyun’s face. When he speaks, he speaks in a quiet voice, as if worried that Kyungsoo might overhear them talking. “We both know how Jongin felt about Kyungsoo.”

“Felt, Yeol. They’re just really good friends now, as they’ve always been. Kyungsoo chose you.” Baekhyun bites his tongue to keep from saying and you chose him. “I’m sure nothing’s going on between them.”

“Are we even sure that Jongin’s feelings are really gone, though?” Chanyeol almost scoffs. They’re both silent for a few moments, Baekhyun staring at him while he refuses to make eye contact. “Look, forget I even said that. I know that there’s nothing to be jealous about, but I think I’m entitled to that. It’s not like I’m giving Soo a hard time. In fact, I’m positive he doesn’t even know that I’m jealous.” The last part is said pointedly, Chanyeol’s way of telling Baekhyun to shut up about the issue. “I’ll get over it, okay? Me, Jongin, Kyungsoo, and you, we’re all friends, no need to get jealous of anybody, I guess.”

Before he can stop himself, Baekhyun’s responding, “It’s funny that you would bring me up, given the context of this conversation.” He says this with more malice than intended, the statement dripping with bitterness. “What’s that supposed to mean, huh?”

“We both know what I mean, Baekhyun,” Chanyeol spits back, his jaw visibly clenching. “I’m not stupid and I’m not dense.”

For a moment, Baekhyun feels stunned. “You knew all this time?” He feels something hot in his chest, hears his own heart beating frantically. “Since when?”

“It doesn’t even matter, Baek. What I’m trying to say is—,” he cuts himself off when Baekhyun suddenly stands up, startling him.

“Is this some kind of joke?” Baekhyun asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Are you some sort of sadist? Is that why you were so insistent about me moving in with you two?”

“No! Jesus Christ, Baek. Fuck, why would you even think that?”

“Does it make you feel good, huh? That someone’s still into you even though you’re committed, now?” Baekhyun doesn’t know why he can’t shut up, even when he sees the look of disbelief on Chanyeol’s face turn into something more akin to hurt. “Does that make the whole thing more exciting for you? Makes you cocky, confident about yourself?”

His rant ends, but Chanyeol doesn’t reply, just stares at Baekhyun as the latter tries to regain his breathing. Baekhyun licks his lips, clenching and unclenching his hands. He needs to get out, get some fresh air in his lungs before they collapse, so he turns around and leaves. He hears both Chanyeol and Kyungsoo calling after him but he keeps walking, no certain destination in mind.  

He keeps walking until he realizes he somehow ended up in an unfamiliar looking street, deserted save for a stray dog that merely lifts its head and looks at Baekhyun when he stops a few feet away from it. He allows himself a few seconds to even his breathing, to clear his head, and then starts looking around. He thinks that the place isn’t as unfamiliar as he thought it was when he starts to remember passing by the street a couple of times on his pursuit for a new job. He calms down a bit, knowing that he could go home without getting lost and further embarrassing himself by calling one of his housemates to pick him up after he stormed off like that when Kyungsoo was preparing a celebratory dinner for him. Not to mention he got upset with Chanyeol for the dumbest reason ever, and if he did get himself lost, he wouldn’t be able to contact anybody because he didn’t have his phone with him.

“Fuck, I’m stupid,” he whispers, kicking a small rock out of his way, rousing the dog once again but it only looks at him for a while and then turns its head away, as if it too was tired of Baekhyun’s shit. He decides to sit down on a shabby looking bench near the dog’s place and throws his head up to look at the sky. “Wow, I’m really so messed up.”

There was no reason for him to get mad at Chanyeol, because the guy didn’t do anything to him except save him from ending up like the dog, living in the streets, homeless. He puts a hand to his face as he thinks about how ungrateful he acted, like he would be able to survive without someone’s help, without Chanyeol and Kyungsoo’s help. Who was he kidding? After 24 years, he still hasn’t managed to grow himself a backbone.

And now he ended up fucking up his friendship with his best friend all because he had feelings for the stupid giant, who’s going out with his other best friend. Perfectly pathetic.

“You know,” he says to the dog. “You’re actually lucky to be living out here. It’s a real pain in the ass to be living with people, so you should be thankful you’re free and able to provide for yourself.”

He admits to himself that he is now at his ultimate low, talking to a dog, when he hears feet crunching on gravel and automatically stiffens.

“Patty?” A woman calls, apparently referring to the dog. “Oh my god, what are you doing here?” As if to confirm Baekhyun’s ultimate defeat, that the dog isn’t even homeless, Patty gets up and wags its tail while running to meet the woman. “Did you wait for me to come home? You silly, silly dog. Come on, I got you a treat.”

Baekhyun watches them go, watches as the woman pretends to run away from her dog so it could chase after her, and even in the fair distance, Baekhyun thinks he could still hear her laughter and Patty’s happy barks. He gets up, dusting off his pants, and decides that it’s time to take the long walk home.

“Maybe I should get myself a dog.”

He furiously pats all his pockets, hoping that maybe the key would magically appear after the seventh pat, but he soon gives up and admits to himself that he will have to do the painful task of ringing the bell and waiting to find out which one of his favorite people would open the door for him.

He gets a trump card in the form of Kim Jongin, who raises a single eyebrow at him. “You’re almost just in time, Baek. We haven’t opened the wine yet.”

“Shit, Jongin, you are a fucking life saver, I could kiss you right now,” Baekhyun says in a whisper and Jongin’s eyebrow shoots up further into his hair. “Damn, I was so nervous.”

“Well, I’m glad I could be of help? Again?” Jongin’s smiling now, already trying to pull Baekhyun into the apartment. He frowns when Baekhyun doesn’t budge. “What is it now?”

“Listen, okay? I fucked up. Real bad. Real fucking bad. I can’t be…  around them right now,” Baekhyun explains. “Can you cover for me, please? Just tell them that it wasn’t me, just some pizza guy or something, and then I’ll sneak into my room and send Kyungsoo a text that I’ll be spending the night with Jongdae and that I’m sorry for walking out on them like that—.” He gets interrupted by Jongin’s abrupt snort. “What? Please don’t laugh at me.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll cover for you,” Jongin agrees, shaking his head. “But tomorrow, when we both get off from work, you’ll go drinking with me and tell me what exactly happened here that got you all sweaty like that. Deal?”

Baekhyun almost groans, wiping at his forehead and discovering that he is indeed sweating a bit. He almost flips Jongin off with his finger but decides against this, fearing that he might lose his savior. “Fine, fuck, okay, I’ll go. Just so you know, I’m broke, okay? And you’ll have to pick me up from my workplace with your fancy ass car.”

Jongin chuckles and moves so he isn’t blocking Baekhyun’s path to salvation. “That was the plan, sir.”

Wasting no time, Baekhyun makes his escape to his room, quietly locking the door behind him and making sure no one would hear it. He makes a beeline to his small desk and grabs his phone, quickly sending a text message to Kyungsoo, and then to Jongdae so he can confirm Baekhyun’s cover if someone asks. He contemplates sending one to Chanyeol but decides that he would just man up and talk to him tomorrow before they both leave for work.

Heaving a deep sigh, Baekhyun collapses on top of his bed, not bothering to change out of his clothes. He realizes that he’s still wearing his slippers, which is a good thing because he would definitely die if someone found his slippers by the doorway when he’s supposed to be out. He kicks them off and rolls over so he’s lying on his stomach, burrowing his face into the pillows.

Baekhyun thinks that his fatal flaw is his habit of over-thinking. He acknowledges that his stomach shouldn’t be knotting up like this, that he is definitely overreacting and he’ll be able to fix things up with the two tomorrow when he gets the chance –and the courage– to talk to them. To Chanyeol, mostly, for lashing out on him like that. And to Kyungsoo for purposely missing dinner after the poor guy went out of his way to make spaghetti for them, for him.

And now he’s over-thinking again. Maybe it doesn’t really bother Chanyeol all that much that Baekhyun has feelings for him, and maybe Kyungsoo doesn’t know anything about this. Maybe it wouldn’t at all be  awkward with Chanyeol if Baekhyun still lives with them for some time, or maybe Baekhyun won’t be needing to live with them for much longer, after all.

Maybe tomorrow, when he wakes up, he’ll find that he’s gotten over Chanyeol.

Or maybe he’s gotten over Kyungsoo.

Shut up, he commands his brain. Stop fucking thinking and let me go to sleep. Of course, as how the rest of his day went after getting the job, absolutely nothing goes his way and he doesn’t manage to fall asleep until it’s 2 in the morning, when he stops trying to decide whether he’s feeling cold or warm.

Maybe I’m just really lonely, he thinks, before drifting off.

He dreams about getting his own place, a place where pets are allowed, because he also dreams about getting himself a dog, and wakes up thinking that maybe it would be a really good investment because he has never seen anyone that happy to see him.

Baekhyun can say that he likes reading, and he has read various stories. He has a collection of books, some e-books on his laptop, and some things that he reads on the internet. He has read a lot of fictional stories, and one thing that he really can’t relate to is when the characters wake up and “can’t remember anything that transpired last night”, because right now he can remember absolutely everything that transpired last night.

He knows that it’s still a bit early, that he can still sneak in a few minutes of sleep and not be late for work (but who cares anyway? He’s going to hand in his resignation letter today) but he’s unable to because of a headache that’s blooming on his right temple, creating an annoying ache that he can’t dispel by repeatedly changing his position. He gives up the cause and gets up into a sitting position and immediately regrets it as the pain in head almost immediately intensifies. Checking his phone with one eye, he groans when he reads 8:40 AM, meaning he only slept for about six hours and is actually just 20 minutes earlier than his alarm clock.

“The pain of a hangover without the pleasure of alcohol,” he mumbles, stumbling to get to the door. He pokes his head out, checking for any telltale signs of anyone up yet like him, and finds none, so he goes to the bathroom to pee and to wash his face. He decides that he may as well start his day early so he texts Jongdae and tells him that the cover is that Baekhyun left his house at around 8 o’clock, and now there he is, already starting on breakfast.

Kyungsoo wakes up before Chanyeol, as usual, and spots Baekhyun by the kitchen counter, a plate of steaming bacon and eggs in front of him, toast in one hand and phone in the other. Baekhyun almost chokes on his bread but quickly puts his phone down and grabs his glass of orange juice.

“Hey, Soo, g’morning,” he greets, already feeling bashful. “Hey, I’m really sorry about last night. I know you especially made pasta for me and I was being a dick by walking out like that because—.”

“Yeah, I know, Chanyeol told me that you two had an argument and he offended you because of something stupid that he said. It’s okay, Baek. We both know he can be really stupid at times,” Kyungsoo says, grabbing a plate and serving himself breakfast.

Baekhyun feels a lot of different things at once, like hurt and betrayal and shame and fear but most of all he feels dread creep through his veins. “Oh, he told you?” he asks, trying to act casual about it and thanking the lord that his voice doesn’t crack and he doesn’t sound as nervous as he really is.

“Yeah, about the old job and the new job and stuff like that, right?”

And now Baekhyun feels relief wash over him, followed quickly by confusion. Chanyeol didn’t rat him out, so it seems. “I mean, I still missed dinner and all…”

“It’s okay,” Kyungsoo says, standing up and heading over to the fridge where he retrieves a medium-sized bowl of the pasta. “I saved some for you, but the two dorks finished all the booze and that’s not really my fault so I didn’t bother doing anything about it.”

“Um, wow. Thanks for saving me some of the spaghetti, I really wanted to eat it,” Baekhyun says, ogling the contents of the bowl. He doesn’t have the appetite for it yet, having just recovered from the feeling of his stomach dropping so low that it hit the ground, but he really does like Kyungsoo’s spaghetti.

“Sure, eat it at work or something.” Kyungsoo gulps down a large amount of water and looks Baekhyun dead in the eye. “And next time, even if it’s like a four-person thing with cheap wine and delicious pasta, actually attend your parties, alright?”

Baekhyun grins, an actual grin, and says, “Yeah, I’m really sorry about that. I’ll make it up you.”

“Of course you will. You’re sentenced to washing the dishes for today.”

They move on to talking about Baekhyun’s plans and they’re in the middle of discussing possible dates he might get as to when he can officially leave his current company when they hear the sound of a door opening and closing and a half-awake Chanyeol approaching them soon follows. He slumps down on the stool next to Kyungsoo and a plate of food is slid over to him, right under his nose. He starts eating the food with his bare hands and Kyungsoo actually looks disgusted for a few moments before he shakes his head and gets up to leave.

“I’m gonna go take a bath, need to be at the office early.”

“I can’t drop you off, Soo!” Chanyeol calls, picking at his food. “It’s too early for me!”

“I can drive, you can commute!” Kyungsoo calls back, his voice reverberating from the bathroom. There’s a loud thud followed by Chanyeol’s sigh and Baekhyun’s amused chuckle.

Then Chanyeol’s raising his eyes to look at Baekhyun and the latter steels himself. “Okay, let me go first,” he says. “I’m sorry. I overreacted. You have every right to kick me out of your house, Chanyeol, and I won’t hold it against you. I know it must be… strange for you.” When Chanyeol just continues to stare at him, Baekhyun adds, “And thank you for not telling Kyungsoo about it. I’m sorry you had to lie to him.”

Chanyeol finally relents, shrugging his broad shoulders in an act of nonchalance. “It was for the best. Would have been awfully awkward here if he found out about it, and it’s not really my secret, Baekhyun. I’m not the one hiding something from him.”

There it is again, that feeling of immense guilt although he knows to himself that he has honestly not done anything morally wrong.

“I’m sorry, okay? I’ve liked you way before you started going out with him, Chanyeol. I’m not saying that it gives me any rights whatsoever, I’m just saying that if I could have gotten rid of these feelings, I would have the day you told me you liked him.” He’s feeling defensive again, like Chanyeol is judging him for keeping his feelings a secret, for hiding it from Kyungsoo. There’s a sting in his eyes that he ignores. “I’m working on it, okay? I’m sorry.”

Chanyeol seems to soften after this, the ice in his stare already melting, being replaced by something that Baekhyun hates; pity.

He’s just so sick of people pitying him and being someone so pitiful.

“I’m sorry, Baek. I have this awful headache right now and I took it out on you and that wasn’t fair.” Chanyeol idly chews on a bacon strip, looks down at his plate and appears as though he’s blushing and starting to get flustered. Perhaps only now did it dawn on him that Baekhyun has just made a blatant confession of his feelings towards him, and even revealed that it has a long standing history.

Baekhyun is quick to change the topic, forcing down a thick lump in his throat. “Hangover, hmm? That’s what you get for drinking all the booze that wasn’t even for you.”

“Ugh, fuck it was Jongin’s fault for staying for so long,” Chanyeol mutters, pushing his now empty plate away. “Do you want me to do the dishes?”

Another reminder goes off in Baekhyun’s head; text Jongin when he gets off from work. “No, I’ll do it. Kyungsoo put me on dishwashing duties for the whole day.”

“He’s too soft on you,” Chanyeol says, shaking his head. He clears his throat and gets up when he hears the door to the bathroom door swing open. “Thanks for breakfast, Baek. What time do you have to leave for work?”

Baekhyun collects Chanyeol’s plate and moves to start on the dishes, turning his back to face him. “Uh, around 10:30. How about you?”

“Around that time too. I could drop you off,” Chanyeol offers, giving Baekhyun a small smile when the latter turns to look at him, checking if he’s being serious.

“Kyungsoo’s going to use the car, right?” Baekhyun’s eyebrows are drawn together now that he’s facing away from Chanyeol again. It’s not rare for Chanyeol to offer him a ride, but it’s also not rare for Baekhyun to turn him down. The last thing he needs is time spent alone with Chanyeol in a small and closed space.

“I have a bike, remember?”

Oh, indeed he does remember. Baekhyun does remember that bike; a huge, black motorcycle that scared the shit out of him when he first saw it. He remembers nearly dying when he rode that thing, his arms tightly wrapped around Chanyeol’s mid section. The fear almost outweighed the rapture of pressing his body so close to Chanyeol’s and feeling, not hearing, Chanyeol’s laughter, undeniably echoed through his own.

The next thing he says is equal parts a lie and the truth, “I’d really rather commute and get stuck in a hour-long traffic than ride that monster again. The last time I did I almost fell off and died, all because of a certain person enjoying himself too much to care about his passenger.”

“Shut up, Byun Baekhyun. You loved that night and we both know it. Besides, I knew what I was doing and I got you, right? I always have, silly.”

He knows that he shouldn’t read deeper into that simple statement, but he can’t help the warm feeling that fills his stomach and lights up his face like a Christmas decoration. He doesn’t turn to face Chanyeol for multiple reasons so he keeps scrubbing the plate that should have already been drying by now.

“If you think you can use that thing in broad daylight then fine,” he finally relents, faking a sigh afterwards. “Just so you know, if we get into some sort of accident then it’s all on you, all the hospital expenses and Kyungsoo’s wrath.”

Turns out that when placed in a road with other vehicles, the monster transforms into a normal motorcycle. They glide through the traffic with ease except for a few angry honks from impatient drivers. Baekhyun’s arms aren’t wrapped around Chanyeol like the first time. Instead, his hands rest on Chanyeol’s sides and he only grabs into the fabric of Chanyeol’s jacket when they make a few sharp turns that makes Baekhyun’s heart race a bit faster.

Contrary to what Baekhyun thought would be a very uncomfortable and awkward moment, the ride is spent in agreeable silence, and Baekhyun thinks that Chanyeol’s body doesn’t tense in response to Baekhyun’s touch. Miraculously, they arrive  without a single scratch, and Baekhyun is forced to look at Chanyeol’s smug smile.

“I think that was safe,” Chanyeol says as he gets the helmet from Baekhyun. “A lot less thrilling than the last one, though.”

“A lot better, that is,” Baekhyun replies, barely stopping himself from rolling his eyes at Chanyeol. “Thanks, I’ll see you at home.”

“Yep.” Chanyeol gives him one last mock punch on his shoulder then the giant’s speeding off, but the eerie roar of his bike remains in Baekhyun’s head all the way into the main office where he hands in his resignation later. He is told to finish his last assignment for the company before leaving them, so he does. By the end of the day, he has all his stuff packed in a small box and is just waiting for Jongin to drive by so he can officially say “Fuck you” to Hansen Publications.

The minute he sees Jongin’s black Mercedes, he’s getting up from his place on the bench and walking over to the fancy car. Jongin helps him with his things, putting them in the backseat, and Baekhyun climbs into the passenger seat and waits for Jongin to get behind the wheel.

“I’m so sorry I took that long,” Jongin immediately says, already driving away from the building.

“I looked like I was fired, waiting for you,” he deadpans, looking at Jongin with an expression that he hopes brings across the message that he is not amused.

“Yeah, yeah, really sorry about that. It’s okay, you’ll forget all about it when we get to the bar. It’s a really good place,” Jongin assures him, glancing at him from time to time but generally keeping his eyes on the road.

“If I can’t afford it then it’s not that good of a place, Jongin. I’m jobless.”

“It’s on me, Byunbaek. You’re gonna pay me something else.”

Even from this angle, Baekhyun can clearly see the teasing smile set on Jongin’s lips and he pretends to gag. “That sounds so wrong and so fucking inappropriate.”

They exchange a few banters, Jongin always laughing and smiling at him, being a good sport. That’s what Baekhyun likes the most about him; he almost never gets mad, or at least Baekhyun has never seen him mad and he has never been mad at Baekhyun. They arrive at their destination and, even from the outside, Baekhyun can tell that the place isn’t like one of the cheap bars that he and Chanyeol used to go to during their university days.

When they get inside, Baekhyun is more than relieved when he sees that the place isn’t packed with people yet. There are still a few vacant tables and a lot of seats available by the bar, and only a handful of people occupy the dance floor; the music isn’t heavy on the bass part so they’re just swaying and slightly raising their arms and making silly gestures with their hands while conversing and drinking.

Jongin leads Baekhyun to the bar and they sit by the far end, a good three stools away from another customer. The bartender quickly attends to them and, in a few minutes, they each have their drinks.

“So, cheers to getting the job or cheers to being jobless?” Jongin asks, already holding up his glass.

Baekhyun shakes his head and bumps his glass with Jongin’s. “To me potentially getting a better life.”

Jongin laughs at him, downing a quarter of his martini. “You’re such a little ball of positivity, I just love it.”

“I try,” Baekhyun lamely says, noting to himself the change of the music into a parade of slow and dirty songs. He avoids looking at the dance floor from then on.

“You didn’t get busted, right?” Jongin casually asks, resting his chin on his hand.

“I didn’t, thankfully.” There’s a pause in which Baekhyun remembers something and contemplates whether he should talk to Jongin about it or not. He looks at his glass and gulps down a generous amount, the familiar burning sensation travelling down his throat to give his stomach a pleasant warmth. “Can I ask you something?”

“Well the plan was that I’m gonna do the asking and you’re gonna do the answering but okay, shoot.”

He downs the rest of his drink before asking, “Are my feelings for Chanyeol obvious?”

Jongin raises an eyebrow, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “Whoa. Where’d that come from?”

Baekhyun shrugs, pouring himself another glass. “Apparently it was obvious enough that even he noticed.”

Jongin stares at Baekhyun’s refilled glass, and then at Baekhyun’s face. He seems to think about the answer, toying around with the cubes of ice in his own glass. “During high school, I think everyone thought that you two were going to end up dating each other,” he starts. “The four of us, we were the closest, right? You and Chanyeol… me and Kyungsoo.”

Baekhyun doesn’t react, doesn’t show any indication that he understood what Jongin was hinting at. He just sits there and listens, lets the other man speak.

“And then things happened, and suddenly they’re spending a lot of time together and then everyone was expecting them to get together and they did. I think that maybe for an outsider, it would look like you were just genuinely happy for them but, as your friends, we knew that wasn’t entirely the case.”

And that applies to you, too, Baekhyun thinks. “So do you think Kyungsoo knows?”

“Possibly,” Jongin allows, refilling his glass. “Did he ever say anything about it? Like, when he and Chanyeol told us, did you and Kyungsoo ever talk about it?”

“No. He never mentioned anything that had me thinking he knew about it so I assumed that he didn’t.”

“Then maybe he really doesn’t know about it. He doesn’t mention anything to me about it, so maybe we’re right.”

They’re silent for a while, the both of them. Jongin has his eyes trained on something that the bartender is doing, and Baekhyun has turned to nursing his drink. After a few more moments of silence, Jongin speaks up again.

“Are my feelings for Kyungsoo obvious?”

Baekhyun’s almost taken aback, except he thinks he was subconsciously waiting for that. “That’s debatable, really, especially now that I had it confirmed directly by you.”

“That’s true.”

It’s lonely, really. Right now, it’s not only himself that he feels sad for, but he also feels sad for his companion. He also thinks that it’s almost silly, almost unbelievable, how the two people that they like are together, and there they are, drinking while speculating about it like high school girls.  

“Do you think it’s awful how I wish you’d end up with Chanyeol?” Jongin wonders out loud, his expression unreadable despite the smile that he flashes at Baekhyun. “Do you think we’d both be happy then? Do you think they’ll be happy with us?”

“Yes, and I think it’s awful how I wish you’d end up with Kyungsoo,” Baekhyun answers, shrugging his shoulders. “I… don’t know if we’d be happy then, and I don’t know if they’ll be happy with us because they fairly look happy with each other already.”

There’s a pregnant pause before Jongin lets out a quiet laugh. “Well, that’s depressing.”

“It is,” Baekhyun agrees. “Especially when you’re living with them.” He realizes that there’s a strain in his voice so he clears his throat and takes small sips of his drink.

Jongin looks at him, stares at him, sporting a soft smile. “That thing that you said last night, is that still valid?”

“I said a lot of things last night, Jongin. You have to be a bit more specific.”

Nothing really changes, in Baekhyun’s perspective. There’s no difference with the way Jongin looks at him, or the set of his lips in that cheeky smile. The music’s still the same, or maybe Baekhyun just really wasn’t paying attention, but it takes him a while to answer to what Jongin says next.

“Can I get that kiss now?”

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] this is why we should (not) get drunk

Summary: It's that classical tale of Eren challenging Levi to a drinking competition and getting his ass handed to him (in more ways than one).

“Fucking give it up, kid.”

“I’m not a kid, sir.”

Levi raised an eyebrow, mouth covered by the cup he was drinking from, and inadvertently set it down with a bit of unnecessary force. Eren merely blinked, seemingly startled. “You’re a kid. You’re such a kid, it’s almost painful.”

“With all due respect, Captain, but why would it be painful for you? What does my age have to do with you?” Eren poured himself another shot, downing it while he waited for Levi’s answer.

Eren watched him and Levi returned the gaze, a blank expression carefully placed on his face. He was starting to think that maybe he should have not invited the kid over, after all. If he were to be even more self-deprecating, he would admit that, from the very beginning, he should have pretended to never notice how Eren looked at him, how Eren reacted to him, and how Eren acted around him. He should have pretended that he never noticed Eren Jaeger, because Eren Jaeger was just a kid, like what Levi said and what the brunet so adamantly denied.

Also, if he had truly wanted to avoid this situation, he should have walked away or punched the kid in the face when Eren had asked Levi who the older man thought would win if they had a “little drinking game”, and he most definitely should have not taken up the challenge.

Why he agreed to turn a simple task such as cleaning the rooms into a drinking showdown, Levi didn’t know. As much as it sounded stupid to him, one thing happened after the other, things were said, and now there they were, a table separating them while they stared each other down.

Why he has been associating himself with this person outside of soldier duties for the past few weeks was another thing unknown to him.

“Captain Levi?”

“Calm down, kid. Your age has nothing to do with me. Frankly, I couldn’t force myself to give a shit even if I wanted to.” He drank another shot, maintaining eye contact with the brunet. “Don’t get your humble self too worked up.”

“Do you know how old I am, sir? I’m 17, and most people think that’s old enough to be in the military, that’s why I’m here. They wouldn’t let a kid in, right, Captain?”

Levi rolled his eyes, leaning his elbow on the table and resting his cheek in his open palm. “Nice try, smartass. I could kick your ass for talking like that, especially when you’re talking to your commanding officer.”

“Sorry, sir.” Eren didn’t look the least bit sorry, grinning while he downed another cup. “I was just trying to convince you that I’m not a kid, much less a brat.”

“You’re both, Jaeger. And if you think you being 17 is impressive, I’m 34. I’m ancient.”

Eren’s eyebrows shot up, surprise clear on his face. To Levi’s amusement,  it took the kid a few moment to compose himself, then he was grinning at Levi again. “Wow. You certainly don’t look the part.”

Levi rose from his seat and leaned forward, grabbing the teen’s chin with his hand and tilting his face forward. “I don’t need flattery from someone half my age, but thanks.” He let go of Eren’s flushed face and walked away, heading to the small collection of cupboards that lined the other side of the wall from where they were seated. He pulled out another bottle of rum, one that he was sure Eren wouldn’t be able to take like what he was doing right now.

“It’s getting a bit uneventful, isn’t it?” He asked, putting down the bottle in front of Eren. He watched as the teen’s eyes flickered over to his face, to the bottle, then back up again. “What, not so confident anymore?”

Eren visibly swallowed, his jaw flexing. “Go ahead, Captain. Your turn.”

They resumed drinking, talking about pointless things and Levi insulting Eren without actually saying it. After a couple of cups, Eren was leaning back in his chair and Levi’s foot was rubbing against his leg, tracing up all the way to his knee. Eren glanced down and raised an eyebrow. “I’d appreciate this more if you removed your shoe, sir.”

His speech had a hint of a slur to it, his ears all red and his cheeks dusted with pink.

“If titans attacked us right now, you’d be too shitfaced to lift a finger. Why bother if your pants get dirty?”

“Because,” he started, breath stilling for a second when Levi’s foot moved to his inner thigh, resting there. “Because I wash my own clothes, sir.”

Levi snorted, pushing back the hair hovering over his forehead. “I bet you do a shit job at it. The only thing you’re good at is getting angry and running your mouth.”

Eren had the gall to look offended. He grabbed the half-empty bottle of liquor and drank directly from it, slamming it down after taking a big gulp. “That’s not true.”

Levi thought the only thing that was missing was the pout. “Really?” he drawled. “What else can you do with that mouth, then?” After saying this, he resumed doing the rubbing motions, smirking when he saw Eren bite his lip.

The view was anything short of indecent, Eren Jaeger all flushed, hair a mess because of how he constantly pulled and dragged his hand through it, lower lip caught between his teeth. The scene was cut short, though, when he slumped over and banged his head on the table.

“Fuck, I give up.”

Victory was delicious, Levi noted. He waited a few seconds before pulling back his leg and pushing away from his chair, coming over to Eren’s side. The kid was still conscious, but he didn’t protest when Levi hoisted him up and dragged him into the smaller room, Levi’s bedroom, and threw him on the bed.

“What are you going to do?” Eren asked. He didn’t sound scared, only genuinely curious. Or wasted. Levi couldn’t really tell anymore.

“You can calm down and sleep, Eren,” was Levi’s simple answer. “Or are you scared of what I might do? Too fucking drunk to fight me if things happened?” He left and didn’t wait for an answer, clearing out the small table of the bottles of alcohol and the cups they used. When he came back, he found Eren wrapped inside the white covers of his bed, looking like he was having one heck of a peaceful dream. Levi loosened the cravat around his neck until he could completely remove it, setting it down on the small bedside table.

“Already sleeping?” Levi asked, voice low. Eren shifted a bit so he was facing the raven, snuggling into Levi’s frame. The older man clicked his tongue but ran a gentle hand through tousled brown hair. “Some soldier you are. Don’t let your defenses down, Eren.”

His hand reached down lower, slipping to hold Eren’s cheek. His lips twitched when he felt the brunet lean into his touch. He had his hand gently placed on the teen’s neck when he whispered into his ear, “What if this were someone else, hmm?”

In one swift motion, he flipped the teen so he was lying on his back, Levi straddling him. “Eren, wake up.” He worked on Eren’s belt, partly hoping that it would wake the brunet up. No success in that, but he did succeed in get getting the leather off. He popped the button of Eren’s pants and pulled the zipper down, tracing the outline of his dick through his underwear. He raised an eyebrow as he felt the member harden under his touch.

“I thought I was the pervert here,” Levi murmured, pulling off the pants and dropping them to the floor. He gripped the growing bulge and watched Eren’s face go different shades of red. He thought for a moment, was he really going to do this? Different warnings went off in his head, words like “underage” and “practically rape” mixed in somewhere in there. Despite this, he found himself reaching over the side of the bed and to one of the drawers, pulling out a bottle of scented oil. “Wake up, beautiful.”

He heard something that sounded like a moan as an answer and any second thoughts he was having flew out the window. Pulling off the final piece of cloth that hid Eren’s lower body, Levi slickened a finger with the oil, the strong scent of vanilla invading his senses and making his head go a bit light, topped with the fact that he was already a bit drunk (though not as drunk as the person he was currently fingering).

Eren’s face was nothing short of exceptional. An arm was draped over his eyes, mouth hanging open, the shades of red spreading over to his neck. Small gasps and moans could be heard coming out from him and that drove Levi further, his pants suddenly very tight around his crotch.

Did Levi felt guilty? Yes, he could say that, considering that what he was doing was so wrong in every possible aspect, but when he felt Eren clench around his fingers and when he heard the boy moan his name, he decided that he really didn’t give a fuck anymore.

“Eren, for fuck’s sake, you’re going to drive me insane, I swear,” he grumbled, pulling down his own pants. He almost felt relieved when his hard member was freed and out in the open, the restrictions of the garments had been quite painful. He poured oil over his palms and pumped his length, positioning it to Eren’s entrance.

“You better not be sleeping through this, fucking brat,” he said before inching in, watching Eren’s face contort into different expressions varying from pain to lust and other things that Levi’s haze-filled mind couldn’t comprehend at the moment. He paused when he was completely engulfed by Eren’s warmth, leaning down so he could kiss the boy on the mouth.

“Eren, look at me,” he commanded. He waited until the teen’s eyes slowly opened, tears swimming around them. Levi kissed away the ones that escaped from the corner of Eren’s eyes, pulling out so he could slam in again. He leaned back and held onto Eren’s thighs for support so he could watch the teen, biting his fingers and clawing at the sheets. He was babbling something that Levi didn’t bother to decipher, the only thing he cared about was the fact that he could hear his name repeatedly called out.

Did he feel good? No, he felt amazing, so he told Eren just that. The brunet reached for him and Levi let him grab his hair, pulling him down for a rough kiss. Levi only stopped when he tasted blood in his mouth, his blood, but he wasn’t complaining. Not when Eren leaned forward so he could lick at the abused part of the older male’s lips.

“Are you close?” Levi asked, taking hold of Eren’s neglected dick and pumping it in time to his thrusts. The teen nodded so fast, Levi let out a short burst of laughter. “Come for me, then. Go on, beautiful.”

Eren came, and he came hard. He spilled his cum all over Levi’s hand, his hole clenching around Levi. It took the grey-eyed man all his willpower not to cum inside the teen, instead pulling out and shooting white streams all over the bed sheets. Exhausted and feeling the effects of the alcohol after coming down from his high, Levi collapsed beside Eren after he cleaned the both of them up with a damp rag.

The teen immediately snuggled into him and Levi let him, putting an arm over a tanned waist and even going as far as kissing Eren’s forehead. He hoped that this act of affection would go unremembered when they woke up, but Levi doubted that. Eren, as much as an idiot he was, had a knack for remembering things that ensued after sex.

He was about to drift off, thinking that Eren was already asleep, when he felt a kiss being pressed to his lips, and then Eren was murmuring something against his mouth which he, of course, didn’t understand. He decided that he would just ask the brunet what he was trying to tell him when they woke up.

Days passed after that, more nights of fooling around followed. Eren never told him what it was, but Levi felt like he already knew.

[anartic-monkeys]

[fanfic] cheap coffee and cold thrills

Summary: “So why don’t you learn a new trade? Add a new chip to your skill set? It would be fun, I swear.”

Snowed-in and with nothing else to do, Katniss agrees to take him on when Peeta offers to teach her how to play the piano. In the end, his efforts prove to be futile because she finds that she's much more interested in listening to him play than learning the art of it herself.

Before the storm hit, he had been telling her about a new coffee and tea place that he had recently discovered. They were weighing the pros and cons of checking it out (pros being the idea of a huge selection of warm coffee for Katniss and warm tea for Peeta, cons being the long trek in the snow that they were both reluctant to take on) when she glanced outside the window.

“Holy fuck, that’s a lot of snow.”

Peeta had followed her gaze, groaning when the sight of pure white greeted him instead of the ratty apartment building that stood across the street from his place.

“I’m so glad I argued with you,” Katniss had said, a shiver running down her spine at the thought of getting stranded in her car while a death storm raged on outside. “If I hadn’t, we’d be freezing our asses off by now. I think it’s time you show me some gratitude.”

But that was 30 minutes ago. After bickering some more, Peeta finally conceded to treat Katniss something nice. Now, he’s leading the way to the kitchen, one that Katniss knows more than the one she owns.

“What do you want to eat, hmm?” he asks her, rummaging through his fridge. The sight of it, almost bare save for a few water bottles and a carton of eggs, saddens her so much that she almost slams it close. The door misses Peeta’s head by a few inches, his wide eyes proof of his surprise. “Why’d you do that? What happened?”

“Sorry. Your fridge is making me feel depressed,” she tells him. “Besides, you’re the reason why I’m having this sudden craving for coffee and apple cinnamon rolls, you take responsibility for that.”

“I’m not the reason why the gods all mighty are shoving their snow-coated fingers up our asses,” he murmurs, opening cupboards to peer into them. “It’s you and your constant swearing that got us snowed in, so help me look for something.” He smiles playfully at her and she returns it with a mock-scowl.

After turning Peeta’s kitchen upside down and inside out, they’re unable to find something to take care of his tea withdrawal, but they find something for Katniss: a packet of three-in-one instant coffee. She scrunches her nose in disgust, holding it out as she would if it were a dead rat.

“Peeta, this is making me so sad,” she declares, watching him heat up water for her coffee. “The first thing we’re doing once this storm leaves us the fuck alone is grocery shopping.”

“I’m kind of broke right now, remember?” He turns to face her, arms folded over his chest, an apologetic look on his face. “I already told you about Haymitch being a special little smelly dick right now.”

Katniss gags, taken aback by his sudden colorful language. “That’s why we’re snowed in, the gods are mad at you because you keep saying disgusting shit like that when you’re mad at your employer.”

“If anything, they’re mad because Abernathy is being a choosy cheapskate.”

She feels sympathy for him, knowing how it takes a toll on Peeta when his artwork keeps getting rejected. “Hey, I’ll chip in for the grocery shopping since I love you so much.”

He snorts, messing up his hair by running his hand through it. “You mean because you’re going to eat half of whatever we buy.” After a while, his features soften and he reaches a hand out to tap her on the cheek. “Thank you, Kat. You’re a real blessing. Maybe the gods sent you to me today because they wanted to snow us in. That way, you’d be able to spend some more time with me.”

Guilt weighs her stomach down, Peeta’s words making her feel bad even though she’s sure that hadn’t been his intention when he said them. “I’m sorry. Really, I am. You know how it gets at the bar, there’s always these young hipsters thinking that they can steal my position from me just because they dress a bit better and sing those stupid emo songs that everybody else is singing now.”

Peeta holds her face and gives in, pulling her into a tight hug. “Hey, it’s okay, I know that you think the competition is getting tougher. I understand if we can’t hang out as often as we’re used to, okay?” Katniss nods, hitting the crown of her head against Peeta’s chin. “I’m sure the Hob knows that you’re the best singer a pub has ever been graced with. At least, the owner does.”

Katniss laughs. Of course Gale knows, her father had made sure that the Hawthornes knew about her “knack for singing”. Peeta had knows about it since they were five.

The light click! of the electric kettle has Katniss pulling away from Peeta’s loosening hold. He gets her mug, the blue one with white polka dots that she had gotten from him during their last high school Christmas party. At that time, she had wanted to bash it against his head, knowing full well that he had enough money to buy her a proper gift.

The smell of cheap coffee invades her nose. She considers it for a while, staring down at the steaming mug of translucent brown liquid. It doesn’t smell bad, she decides, but it’s definitely nowhere near as good as Peeta’s usual brew for her when it comes to the aroma aspect of it. She takes a tiny, experimental sip, careful not to burn her tongue or to choke on it if it turns out to taste like something offensive.

She doesn’t gag, at least, but she barely forces out a smile when she turns to Peeta. “It’s good.” She tries to elaborate when Peeta’s eyebrow just shoots up. “Uh, it’s a bit washed down, but it’s not terrible at all.”

Peeta pokes her nose, a small smile lighting up his face. “It’s okay, Katniss. I’m sure you don’t mean to offend the company who poured all of their efforts into making that.”

They return to the small living room, standing side by side to look out the window. When her eyes start to hurt from squinting so hard, trying to see if she could see past the white flurry, she abandons her post and sits down on the carpeted floor, setting her coffee on the center table.

“Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks, plopping down beside her. They stare at the blank television screen, their backs resting against the foot of the sofa. “Oh, I know what we can do.”

She reaches for her mug and sips on her coffee, nodding at Peeta to continue. “Well, you don’t want to get decommissioned because of these hipsters who dress nicely and sing well-known songs, right?”

She nods, not quite following his line of thought.

“So why don’t you learn a new trade? Add a new chip to your skill set?”

She narrows her eyes at him, trying to gauge if he was being serious or not. “You’re not really suggesting that I learn how to rap, right? Or scream. Either way, it’s a big no.”

“Actually, I was thinking about something concerning instruments,” he tells her, rolling his eyes at the way she tries to wiggle her eyebrows suggestively. “Why don’t you try learning how to play the piano?”

Her eyes immediately and almost instinctively flicker to where Peeta’s keyboard is backed against a wall, looking harmless yet strangely intimidating for something inanimate. “So, you want to teach me.”

He shrugs, a casual lifting and dropping of his shoulders. “I’m sure I could help you out if you’re willing to learn. Besides, I just remembered that I’m all out of movies and Finnick lost my only set of cards. It would be fun, I swear.”

She highly doubts that she’d be able to learn how to play a new instrument in the span of a few hours and she doubts that it would be anywhere near as “fun” as Peeta promises, but she lets him pull her up, dragging her and sitting her down on the small cushioned bench that she had gotten for him just last year. She takes a deep breath, nodding to Peeta, and he starts talking. He points to keys, tells her what it’s called, and let’s her hear what it would sound like. He plays a tune, a fairly simple one that Katniss can follow with her eyes, and asks her to repeat it.

After about 20 minutes of trying to memorize the keys and almost succeeding yet still failing in the end, she gives up, admitting to herself that she is much more interested in listening to him play than learning it herself, so she asks him to play a song for her. He chuckles, shaking his head, but grants her request and presses down on a few keys, as if to test them out. The tune warps into something she’s familiar with, recognizing the melody of her favorite go-to song for sudden performances; The Girl from Ipanema. She hums the song, earning a big smile and nod from Peeta. The hums are replaced with the actual words and they finish their little performance with a flourish.

“Here,” Peeta offers, getting up from his seat to stand behind Katniss. He reaches over her from behind, his front pressed almost snuggly against her back. “I’ll guide your hands.”

They start out slow, Katniss’ fingers stiff and unyielding due to her lack of experience and knowledge about playing the instrument. Peeta tells her to relax and she becomes hyperaware of how close his mouth is to her ear. At one point, he flips her braid to rest on her left shoulder, baring the skin on her right side to him.

Peeta takes a deep breath and exhales it through his mouth, a sudden rush of hot air that touches her skin, causing it to break out into goose bumps at the contact. Katniss doesn’t know if he had meant for that to happen, but she doesn’t ask, letting him have his way with her fingers, coaxing them into compliance.

Katniss is barely paying attention to the sounds Peeta is creating with her fingers, though. She tilts her head slightly, allowing him better access. He chuckles, pressing a kiss to the base of her exposed neck, causing her to shiver against him. She feels him then, hard and pressed up against her back, and it serves as an invitation for her to moan and pull his head down, silently asking him to press more kisses against her flushed skin.

Peeta complies, kissing and sucking along her neck, licking a wet stripe from the base up to the shell of her ear. She notices that the music has stopped when his fingers move to ghost over the skin of her arms, leaving a fresh trail of goose bumps in their wake. His hands reach their intended destination, cupping the swell of her breast. He massages one mound, playing with her nipples through the fabric of the oversized sweater that he had lent her. His other hand comes up to touch her braid, pulling the elastic band from her hair and unraveling the weaves.

He lifts her up so suddenly, she doesn’t know it’s happening until she’s seated again, this time facing him. She moves to kiss him the same time he does and their lips meet, slow and heated against each other. He returns to cupping her breasts, this time with both hands, making her moan into the kiss. He grabs the hem of her –his– sweater, dragging it up over head and past her arms, dumping it onto the floor.

Despite the miracle that is Peeta’s fully functional heater, she still feels the cold air biting and latching onto her skin, making her crave the heat that Peeta would surely emit if he were shirtless like her. She mewls into his mouth, tugging on his shirt, but Peeta just smiles. He pecks her lips one more time before dropping down onto his knees to kneel in front of her.

Peeta kisses the skin along her collarbones, inching his way down to kiss her breast, the other one held snug in his hand.  He starts pinching her nipple, exerting just the right amount of pressure to border on pain, and then twisting the numb between his fingers. His tongue darts out to lick on her other bud, sucking it into his mouth, lightly grazing it with his teeth.

Her hand rests against the back of his head, stroking his hair to spur him on, encouraging his actions. He releases his hold on her breast to reach down and pop open the button of her pants, pulling the zipper down. He teases her with his fingers dipping into the waistband of her panties, touching the skin above the fine peppering of hair. She feels how wet she is when she grinds her thighs together, hoping to create some sort of friction while he continues to tease her.

Peeta tugs on her pants, trying to extract them from her. She giggles, feeling an ever slight tinge of regret over her choice of clothes which quickly dissipates when he gets the skinny jeans off her legs along with her underwear.

He looks at the small piece of clothing, smirking at her. “That’s cute,” he tells her, tossing away her panties. She forgets the shame that had bubbled in her chest at his comment, letting out a surprised gasp when he kissed the inside of her thigh. She forgets about wanting to defend her cotton panties, feeling as if he found the strawberry prints funny, when his mouth drags closer to the spot that’s been aching to be touched.

The first swipe of his tongue against her slit is followed by another, then another, and then she’s entwining her fingers in the strands of his golden hair, keeping his face pressed up where she wants it. He fucks her with his tongue, his hand reaching up to fondle her breasts.

She lets out a particularly loud moan when the flat of his tongue pressed against her clit, swiping against the bundle of nerves. Katniss is bucking her hips into his face now, desperate to get more of that delicious friction, to get her release. She feels her orgasm building up, her feet starting to curl against the floor.

“Fuck, Peeta,” she manages, grabbing his hair even tighter. He moans, encouraging her to topple over the edge, a chorus of his name spilling from her lips as waves of pleasure rippled over through body. He licked at her entrance, catching her wetness with his tongue.

He looks up at her, wiping at his glistening mouth with the back of his hand, looking very much pleased with himself. “More?”

She groans, throwing her arms to wrap around his neck when he moves to pick her up. When he lays her down on the soft bedding, she once again tries to get him to take his shirt off and join her in her nudity. Peeta acts like he’s considering it, swiping his thumb against Katniss’ protruded bottom lip, leaning down to capture it between his teeth. She hums his approval when he removes the shirt in one fluid motion, revealing the expanse of his upper body.

“Damn, Mellark,” she says, raking her hand up the muscles of his abdomen, feeling it flex underneath her touch. “Pants. Off. Now.”

He laughs, low and throaty, but complies to her demands and pushes off the bed to strip his pants off. When he returns to hover above her, his dick is out and proud, standing erect in all of its glory. She licks her lips at the sight, reaching down to grasp him. He moans in approval, pinning her down with his stare.

Katniss isn’t one to back down, though. She pushes him off her, forcing him to lean back.

With his lips pulled up into a lazy grin, she thinks that there wasn’t even any “forcing” needed. She takes him into her hand again, slowly pumping the shaft up and down, using her thumb to play with the head.

“You like that?” he asks, playing with her hair. “You enjoying yourself down there?”

She nods almost too eagerly, positioning herself lower so her mouth is mere inches away from his dick.  She looks up at him before licking a long stripe on his shaft, swirling her tongue around the tip. He throws his head back, his fingers finding their way through her hair, urging her to go deeper. She takes more of his dick into her mouth, hollowing her cheek and moaning around him. Wrapping her hand around the base to cover what her mouth can’t reach, she starts bobbing her head, trying to take him in a little bit deeper every time she goes back down.

She feels aroused again, and she knows what she wants. Tapping Peeta’s thigh, she sends across the message without having to verbalize it. She knows he understand, thrusting off the mattress to fuck her mouth, using both of his hands to hold her head in place.

Katniss loves the sound of him moaning, echoes of her own, and it urges her to reach down and play with her clit.

“Fuck, this always turns you on so much,” he says, pulling her hair. “Are you going to come for me again, Katniss?”

She moans louder, her fingers working out her orgasm even faster now that he’s spurring her on with his words. If she could talk, she would be chanting his name.

Katniss comes again, hearing Peeta hiss when she is unable to stop herself from lightly clamping her teeth around him. Still, he is gentle with her, letting her ride out her second orgasm before continuing the wild bucking of his hips.

“I’m so close,” he warns, his hold on her hair loosening to let her move away, but she just takes him deeper into her mouth. He curses, thrusting into her mouth before stilling.

She swallows, still not quite used to the slippery feel of cum cascading down her throat, but she’s able to get every last drop of him. He’s running a hand through her hair and Katniss meets his stare, full of awe and something else. She releases him with a loud pop, putting up a show of licking her lips clean.

“I love it when you swallow,” he tells her, kissing her languidly. She climbs on his lap, breaking away from the kiss to tuck her head under his chin. He showers her head with kisses, his laughter vibrates off his chest, making her feel all fuzzy and warm. “Tired?”

“Mm-hmm,” she hums, nuzzling deeper into his neck. “Give me five minutes.”

“It’s okay, take your time,” he whispers into her hair. “I don’t have any condoms on me, anyway.”

She laughs with him, letting him move her so they’re lying on the bed with pillows to support their heads. She doesn’t need them, though, because she’s already moving to rest her head on his chest. “I haven’t finished the coffee,” she says as an afterthought. “It’s still there. On the center table. Will you get it for me?”

“Sleep, Katniss.” He lifts her head up, angling her face so he could press a kiss to her forehead.

“Will you do that with me again?” she asks, stifling a yawn.

“What, oral sex?” There’s a hint of amusement lacing his tone. “We could go all the way once the snow clears up and I can jog to the nearest convenience store to buy a whole box of condoms.”

“No, silly. I meant what we did before that,” she explains. “When you were playing the piano and I was singing. I meant if you’d be willing to perform with me again.”

Peeta is quiet for a while; the only indication that he hasn’t fallen asleep yet is the way his fingers run up and down her back in a soothing pattern. She’s getting ready to rephrase herself, her head lifted to look at his face, when he finally speaks. “I think I’m too busy being hopelessly in love with this one,” he pauses and Katniss doesn’t miss the way his eyes flit to her face, “…with painting, to fall for another art form, but I’ll think about it.”

She smiles, closing her eyes and trying to burrow herself closer into his warm body. “Okay. I’ll wait for you.”