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honestlyfragile · 4 years ago

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so you think you've fallen in love | d. sc

— summary: it’s 1997 and there are two things you’ve learned during your final year of college: one, you’re painfully in love with your childhood best friend and, two, you absolutely despise your next-door neighbor. however, sometimes, love and hate go hand in hand.

— pairing: dong sicheng x reader.

— genre: fluff, comedy (i hope); 90's au, friends to lovers, rivals to lovers, neighbors au, college au, painter! winwin.

— word count: 7,047 (7.0k)

— warnings: a bit of swearing, a brief joke about murder (no violence ever happens).

— song: kiss me — sixpence none the richer.

— a/n: for angel, @moonctzeny, as my gift for the @ficscafe exchange event! i’m so sorry about the delay, but i really hope you like it! 💞 as always, thank you to the love of my life, @svtxsoju, for helping me make sure it all makes sense! hehe i’m in jlove with jyou 💞.

You’re not completely sure about how it all started.

It’s a petty thing, really, and not one you should pay as much attention to as you do, but, as you realize the moment you stare down at the bright yellow paper in your hands, it’s not one you can get off of your mind. He makes your patience run out and your skin crawl, and it surprises you, because the mere thought of him has you biting the inside of your cheek in desperation.

You shouldn’t care. You really shouldn’t care, because, thinking about it, it’s not even that big of a deal. Right? It’s just paint cans. Yeah, paint cans right beside your door. Paint cans, right beside your door, almost making you trip. You do care.

“Prick,” you mutter under your breath, sticking the post-it note in the (nearly empty) bulletin board that hangs right beside the apartment complex’s door. “Asshole.”

Hey, 10B, pick up your spray-paint cans and I’ll give you back your blue mug… untouched. Fail to comply, and Pocchaco will suffer the consequences!

Nestled deep between a couple of big flyers, you realize it doesn’t really stand out much. It’s a small note, barely half of a normal post-it note, but still, bright yellow. And, most importantly, a note he’s probably gonna be looking for… especially after the one he’d left.

It had become a bit of a tradition, complaining to each other through small (and petty) notes via the complex’s bulletin board. It’s all trivial stuff, really; him asking you to not play The Smiths at top volume past two in the morning after going through a couple of sleepless nights, you asking him to not leave his paintings out on the hallway all night after suffering one too many headaches from the smell of fresh paint, and so on.

To be completely honest, in any other setting, it’d be almost entertaining. If only it was a song, or a movie, perhaps, and you’d be all about the classic Picking Dumb Fights With My Neighbor story. You’d even laugh at what the fights have been about, because, looking back, you probably wouldn’t have been in danger of tripping over his spray-paint cans if only you had been paying a bit more attention to your feet and a bit less to fixing the volume in your walk-man.

These dumb fights, however, do happen to you, and that way, it’s really not that entertaining. It’s infuriating, almost, because you really could go on about your day without having the urge to hide inside your apartment the moment you hear the door opening across the hall, simply because the thought of your neighbor stresses you just so much.

“You could just confront him, you know,” your roommate, Taeyong, says from next to you. He’s picking up pieces from an almond croissant with his fingers and eating them with each step he takes, coordinating the movement of his hand with the one of his feet. “Just go out there and stick the post-it note in his face. Say ‘Hey! Give me my T-tool back because I’ve been driving my roommate mad with how much I’ve asked for his!’”

“I thought you didn’t mind lending me your T-tool,” you reply, rolling your eyes. “And I’m not… I’m not talking to him. Ever. In fact, I wish I could pretend he doesn’t exist. If I ever saw him, I think I’d just... ”

“You’d just… what? I mean, for all you know, he might as well be a figment of your imagination,” Taeyong laughs. “You’ve never even seen the guy’s face. How do you know it’s not just me pulling one on you? Plot twist: that time you thought 10B had the slippers you had forgotten outside, it was me you had to bribe with chocolate milk to get them back!”

“I know it’s not you because I know you value me not letting your plants die,” you say. Taeyong gasps next to you, nudging your side with his elbow. “And you don’t like chocolate milk.”

“Nah, I just don’t like the one you make. Way too little cocoa powder,” he laughs, taking another piece of bread into his mouth. A little bit of the powdered sugar that tops the treat stays in the corner of his mouth, and he quickly wipes it with his tongue. “You could be a little more generous when you’re making it, share some more of your love with me, your best friend.”

You cross the street as Taeyong finishes his croissant, scrunching up the white paper bag it was in and putting the paper ball inside the pocket of his hoodie. He stops as you reach the sidewalk, turning so he can walk towards the record shop he works a morning shift in.

“Yeah, best friend, I’ll keep that in mind,” you smile. “So, I’ll pick up the pizza tonight after class and we’ll meet back home, right?”

Taeyong nods.

“The veggie one, but ask for extra peppers,” he smiles. “You know, to make up for the chocolate-less milk. I’ll be sure to tell you if 10B complied, and you can finally give the poor guy his mug back.”

He waves as he begins to walk back, and when he’s out of sight, you put a set of headphones over your ears. Reaching into your bag, you press play onto your walkman and “I Can’t Be With You” by The Cranberries flood your ears. The cold morning air rustles between the trees and crashes against your face, cool and crisp, and smelling like fall. The leaves in the ground crumble when you step over them, and with the music in your head, the walk down the street feels more like a movie with every step.

Coffee Tuesdays have become a sort of tradition for you and Sicheng.

Long ago, back when you were kids, there was not a single moment you and Sicheng ever spent apart. You had grown up together, being neighbors and childhood friends, but his family had to move away and even though you had both promised to, neither of you kept in touch. You had meant to, and even sent a few letters and postcards at first, followed by a couple emails, but time had passed and life had moved on. And then, so did you.

He had still been there, in the back of your mind, and you’d remember him in the pink hues of an afternoon sky in the winter, and in the thick, white wisps of steam from a cup of hot chocolate after a long day. He had still been there, in the summer breeze, and in the whispers of secrets and shared, secret jokes. He had still been there, in a friend’s smile after a long day, and there, too, in a warm, comforting hug. He had been your best friend, and your most trust-worthy confidante and, even though he never knew, your first (majorly unrequited, or at least, to your knowledge) love.

And then, there he was, too, one year ago, sitting in the only un-crowded table in the library with his headphones on and his walk-man buried between a stack of papers. He was there, in a comfy-looking hoodie, hair tousled from all the times he’d ran his fingers through it, and you had not recognized him at first.

Okay, yeah, to be completely honest, you hadn’t been paying much attention. It was almost one in the morning before your last final exam, and you had quickly asked him if the seat in front of him was free. He’d given you a polite nod, eyes not quite leaving his paper for anything more than a quick glance up and down your frame. It hadn’t been until almost an hour later, mid-Aerosmith’s Special Hits mixtape when Taeyong had waltzed in, placed a bag of chips in front of you and wished you good luck on your studying that Sicheng had actually looked at you.

“Wait, is it really you?”

“Oh my God, Dong Sicheng?”

He’d looked at you, and you had looked at him, and suddenly you were back in his backyard after school, trying to decide who had collected the coolest rock on the way home. He’d asked about you and you had joked with him, and the two of you had laughed, wholeheartedly, until you were eventually kicked out of the library and forced to study in the back of your dorm’s crowded cafeteria.

And now you’re here, hanging out after actually keeping in touch, still not exactly sure about how you have been able to live life without him.

“God, I don’t even know how to start,” Sicheng whines, throwing his head back, his shoulders relaxing upon the top of the seat. “Help me brainstorm, please. Here, you get a fry for every idea.”

“Didn’t you say it’s an abstract piece, Win?” You ask, drinking a sip from your coffee. It’s overly sweet, but you’ve been having the same drink ever since Sicheng had gotten the idea you’re a caramel latte aficionado, and you’re not really sure you have it in you to tell him he’s been buying you the wrong thing this entire time. “I don’t know how this entire art thing works, but doesn’t it come from your heart, or something like that?”

“That’s the thing,” he says. “All my heart is telling me these days is ‘Sicheng, you’re not rich enough to live on your own yet. Do not murder Hendery in his sleep, remember he pays half of the rent.’”

“Ah, all you need to do is leave Ivy boyfriend-less! Problem solved! You’ll get an A on your project once you get your focus back and you’ll be left with a full month of rent, but I think we really have to keep our priorities in check.”

“Do you promise to be my get-away driver?” He asks, grabbing a fry from the plate in front of you. “I’ll even let you play that weird mixtape you were listening to the other day.”

Resting a finger on your chin, you pretend to consider. You let out a hum, but you break into a soft laugh when Sicheng rolls his eyes at you. Leaning over the table, you steal one of his fries, taking a bite before he can say anything.

“I’d always be your get-away driver, Win,” you say, winking in his direction before finishing the fry. “No, but really. Why don’t you just give it a try? Pick some colors, see where they take you.”

He smiles, nudging the plate of fries closer to the center of the table. “Ah, I don’t know. The other option sounds quite nice right now.”

“He ate your leftovers, didn’t he?”

“It was Ivy’s Mexican food,” he explains, voice raising softly at the end of the sentence. “But I guess he’s the only reason Ivy gives us Mexican food anyways, so I’ll think about forgiving him while I work on my project. I don’t know, I might change my mind.”

“Such a proactive man,” you tease. “You know, that rhyme you did moments ago… you could become a poet, it touched my heart and warmed my soul and all. Dong Sicheng’s Selected Poetry: how I discovered my true passion during my roommate-less senior year of school.”

“Yes, what could I ever do without your support,” he smiles. “I was about to say I’ll send you a copy of the first print, but I think I’ll let you help me with the full rent I’ll have to pay by making you purchase your own.”

You laugh at his words before stealing another one of his fries, and when he nudges the plate a little closer to your side of the table, you think about just how lucky you were to have run into Sicheng once again.

The entire apartment smells like paint.

It’s a Sunday, a quarter past two, and the rain that had fallen since morning has finally stopped. There’s a quiet tune flowing in the living room, music emanating from Kunhang’s record player (or, well, his girlfriend’s record player) and sounding like a 70’s love song. It’s soft, and melodic, and before he can even think about it, Sicheng is moving his body along to the calm beat of the music as he stares at the canvas in front of him.

Two days after your meeting, he still hasn’t figured his piece out. He’s been playing around with colors, mixing in different amounts of pigment in the search of a divine strike of inspiration, but even after fanning out different shades of yellow, he’s back on square one.

Truth be told, he can’t just quite focus. He doesn’t know if it’s because of the fact that he told you about it, and now can’t think of it without thinking of you, or if he has actually, seriously, lost every bit of artistic sense he once possessed. God, yeah, it must be the latter one.

“Still no luck?” His roommate, Kunhang, asks as he comes home from a quick walk to the store. He heard the dangling of the keys before he even heard the door opening, but still, the younger boy’s voice makes him jump in his seat. “You’re lucky that’s due in two weeks, or else you’d be fucked, my dude.”

“Your faith in me is comforting,” he replies. “Maybe it’s the full hour of Joni Mitchell I’ve been listening to, though. I know Ivy swears by this album, but man, I haven’t had my 70’s genius enlightenment yet.”

“Nah, it’s definitely you,” Kunhang smiles, reaching inside the pocket of his hoodie and handing Sicheng a pack of peanut M&M’s. “Joni is sort of Ivy’s muse, you know, but this album is actually a revelation. Trust her, hear her calling and she’ll help. She helped me pass my Econ final last semester.”

“That was you actually going to class,” Sicheng laughs, placing the paint palette down on the table and opening the packet of sweets. “I actually don’t know what to do, though. I’ve been sitting here all morning and my brain is as dry as my canvas — god, no, whatever joke you were about to make, keep it to yourself.”

His roommate lets out a loud laugh, walking towards the kitchen with a can of Coca-Cola in his hand. Sicheng hears a soft “pop” over the music, and turns his focus towards his canvas again.

“Didn’t you say your friend was gonna help you?” Kunhang asks, voice loud. He stops for a few seconds, and when he speaks again, Sicheng can just hear the smirk in his voice. “Oh… or is that why you can’t focus?”

He knows he’s out of sight, but when Kunhang’s words bring a blush to his cheeks, he still bites on his lip and turns towards the big window on his right, as if trying to hide.

“Weren’t you gonna go have lunch with Ivy today?” Sicheng asks, trying to distract his friend, but he knows it’s not going to work before he even says anything.

“No, not today,” his roommate responds, returning to the living room with a cup in hand. A rainbow straw rises from the center, and through the clear plastic of the cup, Sicheng can see the contents of the can Kunhang had just bought. Coke with a straw? “That’s not gonna… You’re not gonna distract me, Romeo. Tell me, is their face the only thing you see when you think about art?”

“God, shut up, stop talking, never speak to me again.”

Kunhang sits on top of his red beanbag, coming face-to-face with his friend. The hood of his sweatshirt is still over his head, with his long, black hair falling out and fawning across his forehead. And, god, he’s grinning.

“I just wanna help you, Win!”

Picking up the palette, Sicheng wets his brush on the cup of cleaning solution he had poured out (in hopes of actually painting), and squeezes in a drop of white paint next to the mustard yellow he had managed to mix. He sets his eyes on the paint, trying to visualize the way the light bounces back on the paper of the books you read, golden and warm, and he doesn’t even fight the way his thoughts just seem to go back to you once more.

“No, but really,” Kunhang says, sipping loudly from his rainbow straw. He alternates between sipping and blowing bubbles, and Sicheng isn’t sure about just why the younger had felt the need to drink Coke with a straw. “You should think about it. Consider following my advice, my young padawan.”

Sicheng hums. He doesn’t really pay much attention to his roommate’s words, much too occupied with bobbing his head to the rhythm of the music. He keeps his eyes trained on his palette, carefully watching the colors mixing in as he stirs his brush in the paint. He raises it a bit, enough for the sunlight to hit the color completely, before he resumes the action.

“You’re not listening to me,” Kunhang whines. He shakes his drink, the loud sound of the ice cubes crashing against the plastic distracting Sicheng from the task at hand. “It all gets better once you confess, you know. You can finally be happy!”

“Okay, you’re saying that like you have any experience in it,” Sicheng laughs. “Didn’t Ivy confess to you? You know, asked you out on a date and kissed you afterwards because you were taking oh so very long in actually admitting your feelings?”

“Yeah, they did, and their life has been significantly happier since,” Kunhang smiles, sipping the last of the Coke before setting the cup down on the coffee table. Hard. “It doesn’t make my words any less true, you know. We’ve all seen you pining, bro. Just rip the band-aid off, channel your inner Shakespeare and enjoy eternal smooches or whatever the hell you’re into.”

Sicheng sighs just as the song changes, and he listens to the opening riff in the Pixies song before finally turning to look at his friend. His canvas still lays untouched, a million thoughts running wildly inside his brain. A million thoughts; wild, reckless, and all of them materializing in the shape of you.

“We’re just friends,” he says. It’s a lie, and he knows. Kunhang does, too, and he lets out a soft laugh in response. “Hey, it’s true! We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“And then you lost track of each other for, what, ten years?” Kunhang asks. “Look, my bro, heed my advice: sleep on it. Think about it while you paint, consider it as you walk to uni, do whatever you need to do to finally come to terms with the fact that you’re painfully in love with your best friend before it’s too late for you to do so.”

Before he can reply, a loud guitar riff interrupts his thoughts. He closes his eyes, lets out a quiet groan, and throws his head back before knocking on the wall once, twice, and three times, until his neighbor (and nemesis) finally ends up lowering the volume of Queen’s Stone Cold Crazy’s guitar solo.

“God, you must be kidding me! I’m seriously gonna — It’s Sunday, come on!”

“Don’t say anything Win, unless you want your Keroppi mug to go, too. I just saw you left it outside with your brushes,” Kunhang lets out a laugh. “You kind of deserve it, though, I saw the T-tool in the kitchen and I know you don’t skate.”

“Wait, they still haven’t returned Pocchaco? I cleared my cans when I saw the note!”

“So, how’s the painting going?” You ask.

“Oh, don’t remind me,” Sicheng replies. “I’ve even been trying to manifest some focus by following Kunhang’s partner’s advice and listening to sad 70’s songs while I stare into nothingness. Yeah, I’ve gone insane. Got some pretty nice yellow hues, though.”

It’s Monday, the sky is cloudy, and you and Sicheng have just run into each other after class. It’s not too rare to see him around campus, though usually, both of you are too busy with trying to get to class or enrolled in conversations, so the interactions barely go beyond a quick wave or a hurried ‘hello’. It’s funny, though, because never would you have guessed you two have almost the exact same schedule, and thus, the same free spaces in your day. Now that you do, though, you’re sure to make the most out of it.

“Sad 70’s songs?” You smile. “Well, why don’t you listen to something a bit happier? You don’t have to change the decade if you really like the 70’s, just make it a bit more cheerful. Do you have anything in mind for the yellows?”

“Not really, but I think I’m just gonna roll with it,” Sicheng replies. He looks around and guards his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, shivering a little from the cold. “I might get something nice.”

“Oh, that’s for sure,” you say, nudging at his side. “If there’s anyone that can make art out of a sea of yellow hues, that’s you, Win.”

If he were to be completely honest, Sicheng has always known he’s in love with you.

Even when you were kids, and even during the years you spent apart, you had always been in the back of his mind like the melody behind a love song or the inspiration behind a poem. And even during the moments when he wasn’t feeling so poetic, during the moments that he wished he could just, for once and for all, gather enough courage to finally admit what he was feeling, he kept thinking of you as he looked for signs.

A sign in your voice, or in your eyes, or in your smile. A sign in a memory, or in an action, or in whatever little thing he could think about that could maybe make him think that you could, maybe, feel the same.

“Ah, now you’re just being nice,” he says, looking to the side. He can feel the tips of his ears go hot, and he’s completely sure, his face is an entire hue of red and a half. “What about you, though? Did you manage to get the takes you told me about the other day?”

You throw your head back with a sigh. “Taeyong didn’t have enough time to help me this week, and now I’m model-less and a month away from the deadline.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, feeling the wind crash against his skin as he tries to make up his mind. He quickly finds, though, that there’s not really that much left to think about. All of his commitments, all of his nerves — it all quickly transforms to you. You make it all worth it.

“I’ll help you,” he says, quickly. “It’s a short film, right? I’m pretty sure I could just squeeze it in.”

You quickly turn to look at him, mouth opening wide. Sicheng shrugs, a soft smile on his lips, trying to look as smug as possible under your surprised stare. He’s not sure if you buy his confident act, but you don’t really say anything about it, so he keeps it up. What was that Kunhang had always said? Oh, yeah, fake it ‘til you make it.

“Win, no, you’re pretty busy yourself,” you shake your head. “Besides, Taeyong owes me from that time I helped him with his final essay, and I wouldn’t want to take your time from you.”

“It’s no problem, really, it’s way better than the times Kunhang asks me to hold stuff for him while he hot-glues them to his models. I’m pretty sure that’s where most of my time goes these days. Besides, you told me you have the script already, right?”

You let out a laugh, soft. “Yeah, I’ll photo-copy it for you. God, Win, I don’t think I can thank you enough for this. You’re really about to save my life.”

He turns to face you, smiling at you from the side. He doesn’t need it, really, because seeing you as happy as you are right now, by his side, is more than enough. As your friend, as your boyfriend, as the model for your film, he doesn’t care — he just cares about being there with you.

“Are you going home? I can walk you in case it starts raining,” Sicheng offers, hands still balled up inside the pocket of his hoodie. As if on cue, loud thunder cracks from up above, and you can begin to smell the upcoming rain as you walk. “Or if you have some free time, we can go for a coffee? I could really use something warm right now.”

Your smile fades a little. “Oh,” you begin. “I promised to cover Taeyong’s shift at the record shop today. Roommate privileges and obligations, or whatever. Rain check?”

“Tomorrow?” He asks, and when you nod, he’s sure he can feel his spirits raise a bit. “I mean, we usually hang out on Tuesdays anyways.”

“It’s a date,” you say. You smile wide again, biting your lip as you hope he catches the tone in your voice. “We could go out for dinner if you want to, you know, change it up a bit.”

Sicheng blushes, a bit too hard for you not to notice, and he lets out a quiet giggle. He runs a hand through his hair, trying to anchor his nerves in a physical action, and you have to restrain yourself to not mention just how handsome he looks when doing that.

“Yeah,” he nods. He smiles, feeling his feet rising from the ground in his mind, because he thinks about your words and he feels like he’s flying, and he looks at your mind and he realizes that he never wants to come down. “Yeah, it’s a date.”

Taeyong’s coffee maker is loud.

You can faintly hear the bubbling of the water as the coffee brews, even over the music, and just as you’re about to comment on it, the scent starts reaching your nose. It makes your mouth water, and you turn towards the kitchen to see the little red dot still lit on top of the machine. You let out a quiet groan. Taeyong’s coffee maker is loud and slow.

It’s Tuesday, the clock marks a quarter to six, and your date with Sicheng feels closer and closer with every passing second. You had tried to not think about it during the first half of your day, but the reminder had you daydreaming as soon as you had stepped out of the shower in the morning.

“God, you’re just as dramatic as Johnny,” Lily, your best friend, comments. She’s sitting next to you on the living room couch, her flowy pink sundress pooling against her legs. “Five more minutes without coffee isn’t really going to kill you guys.”

“Says you,” Johnny comments, smiling at his girlfriend. “I’ll be sure to remind you of this the next time your quesadilla takes too long to grill, baby.”

“Okay, you do that on purpose though!” She exclaims, pointing in his direction. “I hear you laughing from the kitchen every time!”

Johnny gasps loudly, slapping a hand to his chest. “Me? Your loving boyfriend, doing that to you? To your quesadillas?”

His laughter betrays him, though, and he throws his head back mid-giggle as the coffee maker lets out a loud beep. Finally! Johnny smiles as he rises from one of the single couches by your side, quickly taking your place next to Lily as you walk towards the kitchen.

Grabbing two mugs from a shelf, you bop your head softly to the music coming out of the record player. The album, Prince’s Purple Rain, had been a Christmas gift from Jaehyun and his girlfriend, the third pair in your friend group, and something you had started listening to as a way to try and calm your nerves. It had been a sort of tradition when you still lived in your dorm and you visited Taeyong, Jaehyun and Johnny’s apartment (before the later two moved in with their girlfriends), and now that you share a place with your best friend (and the only single one out of the three), you keep that tradition going.

You hadn’t admitted it to your friends when they had asked (although you’re pretty sure they’re able to tell), but the idea of actually, finally, going on a date with Sicheng still has your heart beating wildly against your chest. What if things went wrong? Or worse, what if he suddenly realized you two are better off as friends? You’re not even completely sure he thinks of it the way you do. When he said yes, had he thought it was a friendly date? What if he had never intended to say yes, romantically, at all?

God, are you overthinking it? Yeah, you probably are.

“No, that’s just too many shots in a single coffee,” you hear Lily laugh, the sound breaking you out of your daze. “That's why you can't go to bed early! Isn't it too many shots?”

“Huh?” You turn, facing your friend. Johnny has his arm draped over her shoulders, but she’s still looking at you over the edge of the couch. “Are you asking me?”

“Ah, you’re right, I forgot you probably drink just as much coffee as him,” she smiles, bringing a hand to her head to smooth out a strand of her pink hair. “Where is the other tea lover when I need him?”

“He had a double shift,” you answer, filling both cups with steaming coffee. “He said he’d meet you guys for dinner here, though.”

You leave Johnny’s black, but you sprinkle in a packet of brown sugar in yours, shaking the cup a bit as you walk back to the couch. You quickly regret your action when some of the liquid inside the cup spills from the side, hot against the inside of your hand.

“Oh, you’re not staying?” Johnny asks, confused, as you hand him his cup. “I can’t believe it! Come on, I even brought the Beatles Monopoly for after dinner like you asked! You're telling me I carried this giant box around for nothing?”

You can’t help but laugh at his dramatism. Lily, next to her boyfriend, nudges his shoulder with hers.

“I, uh,” you begin, walking towards the chair Johnny had been using. “I thought Lily had told you. And that box isn't even that big, Johnny.”

“I did,” Lily responds, smiling. “I told him the moment we got off the phone. I’m so excited for you!”

“I swear I never heard it,” Johnny giggles, bringing the cup to his lips and putting it back again when he realizes the temperature of the beverage. “But you can tell me now! And don’t you dare skip any details!”

You’re sure you can feel your cheeks heating up, a smile threatening to break on your lips as you attempt to hide it behind your cup.

“It’s Sicheng,” you begin. “We — well, I sort of asked him out yesterday, when we were getting out of class. I… I didn’t know how, but I asked if he wanted to go for dinner today, and that’s why I’m skipping on your amazing Beatles Monopoly.”

“Oh god, I never knew you were crushing on Sicheng!” Johnny exclaims, accidentally spilling a few drops of coffee on Taeyong’s mustard yellow rug, but not paying it any mind as he grins at you. “I see it, though. He’s cute, and totally your type.”

“I don’t have a type,” you say, huffing. Lily giggles, raising her eyebrows at you, and Johnny simply points in your direction. “I don’t! I’ll tell Taeyong you both bullied me and we’ll see if he gives you his Chow Mein recipe.”

“He made Chow Mein?” Johnny asks, completely distracted from the previous topic as he begins to think about dinner. “God, his cooking is so good! You know, when we lived together, he used to collect all these scrapings from food magazines and sometimes when he couldn’t sleep he would randomly pick one from a hat and �� ”

“As much as I’d like to hear that anecdote, we have more important matters to attend to right now, baby,” Lily says, smiling, cutting Johnny off before he can continue explaining Taeyong’s random recipe story. She looks over at you, her smile growing when your eyes meet hers. She gets up from her seat, smoothing out her dress as she makes her way over to you. “Let’s get you ready, or you, my friend, are gonna be late… and you have a guy to sweep off his feet.”

You’re still nervous.

All ready and repeating Lily’s pep talk, you still can’t help the way your hands shake by your sides as you walk down the hall. You’re not entirely sure what it is; the fact that you don’t know Sicheng as a lover or the fact that you know him too well as a friend, but still, the nerves behind the possibility of the night going wrong are, in a way, blocking you completely from thinking it could go right. God, you like him too much to screw this up.

Lily and Johnny, and eventually Taeyong (when he had finally gotten home), had tried to make you see just how good it could be. Yes, nerves were normal, and especially in a situation like this, but they had seen Sicheng around you, and they were sure he was just as infatuated by you as you were by him. Easier said than believed, though. Still, it was nice to know they were there to cheer you on, no matter just how their words seem to have fled over your head as soon as they had changed the topic (Taeyong had, apparently, told Johnny about Doyoung, the economics student he’s been sitting next to in the library and doesn’t, really doesn’t, have a crush on).

Just a typical Tuesday night — except for your date with Sicheng, of course. Oh, you just had to remember the date.

“Jesus, calm down,” you mumble to yourself, trying to smooth out the front of your sweater as you reach the elevator. You press the button as you try to remember Lily’s words to give yourself a pep talk. “It’s Sicheng, come on. You’ve seen him with green paint all over his face, it’s gonna be alright.”

And, I mean, what could actually go wrong?

“Hold the door!” Someone calls from outside in the hall, and you quickly set your foot in-between the elevator doors to stop them from closing, keeping your eyes on the faux marble lined floor. You hear a set of quick footsteps and loud breathing as the person who had called finally gets inside the elevator, and you can quickly tell that they’re panting. “Thanks, God, I really couldn’t have just waited for another one right now.”

The guy next to you rants about how long it takes the elevator to come up and down again, even telling you about how his roommate had used up all the hot water even when he knew he had to get ready for his date. The voice sounds familiar, but you don’t really give it much thought. Or at least, you try to, but it only serves to remind you of the very thing that has you twirling the ends of your sweater around your finger about. He sounds so much like —

“Sicheng?” You ask when you finally look up.

Next to you, Sicheng stands up straight, having placed his hands on his knees in an effort to regain his breath, and he freezes up on the spot. You’re not really sure what it is about him that makes your breath get caught in your throat. Is it the sight of him in a black turtleneck? Is it the confused look on his face? Is it the fact that he’s here, in the same elevator as you, of all places he could ever be at? What is he even doing here?

“Oh, hey,” he breathes out. From the look on his face, you can tell he also doesn’t quite understand what’s going on. He rests his back against the wall behind him in an effort to look a bit less nervous. Mission? Failed. “I… what are you doing here?”

“I live here,” you say. There’s a quick silence shared between you two as you listen to the jazz-y elevator music neither of you had ever liked. “Are you visiting someone?”

“No, I live here too,” Sicheng answers. “You… I have never seen you ar—”

He stops mid-word, a look of understanding dawning upon his face as you let out a loud gasp. You turn to look at each other completely, raising your hands so you’re pointing towards each other’s frames as realization strikes the both of you like lightning.

“Wait!”

“God, okay, so you’re really telling me that all this time it’s been you who I’ve been shading on the bulletin board?” You laugh, throwing your head back as you do. “I stole your Pocchaco mug?”

The night is chilly, and the sky is clear, and you can practically feel the stars glowing all around you (okay, maybe it’s the city lights, but the hopeless romantic in you doesn’t really care). The crisp smell of chilly wind brought by the beginning of the fall brings a smile to Sicheng’s lips, which is only widened by the warmth that envelops his hand when it grazes against yours.

“Yeah, and I think I stole your T-tool,” he answers, laughing with you. “It’s been sitting in my kitchen counter for like, what, three weeks?”

“Yeah, Taeyong hasn’t really let me forget about it,” you say. “I’ve stopped asking him for his because every time I do, he starts telling me how I should go out to the hall and finally confront you face to face.”

He nods, grazing his hand against yours once more. You’re sure he’s doing it on purpose, swinging it a bit too far away from his body for it to be coincidental, but you’re not about to stop him.

“Kunhang always says the same thing when you don’t let me sleep with how loud you play your music,” he rolls his eyes, still smiling. A giggle hangs on the edge of his words, and you’ve known him long enough to know he’s only teasing. “Do you think they know? I mean, Kunhang knows I like you, but I’m not sure if he also knows I low-key hate you.”

“Oh, I’m sure they do,” you laugh. “Lily and Johnny probably know, too! Actually, now that I think about it, I ran into Kun once in the hall and I never saw him again… I really should have guessed. He helped me with my groceries and all.”

“God, I see Johnny and Lily around all the time and I know they don’t live there, but I never would have thought they were visiting you,” he adds, laughing and shaking his head. “We’re both idiots! Like, actually. I even know what your handwriting looks like!”

You break out in a fit of laughter, stopping dead in your tracks, and Sicheng joins you shortly after, almost even falling over you as he closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy the moment. You laugh right next to each other, loud and completely free, and there’s nothing more comforting than knowing he’s the person behind it. It’s a weird feeling for the two of you, but then again, not really. Sicheng and you have always felt like home to each other.

And then, even when the laughter dies down, there’s still an aura of pure, unfiltered happiness hanging all around you that brings a blush to the boy’s cheeks. He’s never felt happier, or more in love, and he knows it’s all due to you. He knows it’s always been.

You’re both a little out of breath when you stop laughing, turning and finding each other’s eyes under the bright city lights.

“I meant what I said, you know,” he says when he’s finally facing you. His voice is soft, as if he’s telling you a secret, but it’s loud enough for you to hear, as if he doesn’t mind the entire world knowing it. “I like you a lot.”

You don’t really notice the moment you both move towards each other, standing so close you can feel each other’s warmth against your chest. There’s the look on his eyes as they meet yours, and you don’t know if you will ever be able to think about anything else. Anything that isn’t him, and him and you, and the way he makes you feel.

“I like you a lot too, Win,” you answer, smiling when he slips his hands around your waist. “A bit too much, I think, considering I almost fell on my ass the other day because of your cans and I still really want to kiss you right now.”

Time seems to freeze for the two of you. For a moment, the world stops spinning and the entire moment is turned into a still-frame. You’re sure, that even if it’s just for a second, there’s nothing beyond the space that your bodies occupy, because the only thing that’s real is the feeling of your hand on his.

“So, what do you say, 10A?” Sicheng asks. “Truce?”

His breath falls hot over your lips, and you close your eyes the moment you feel his forehead touching yours. He smells strongly like mint and faintly like paint, and it’s everything you would have ever imagined. It’s everything you would have ever wanted. It’s everything.

You smile when you feel the ghost of a kiss against your lips.

“Truce,” you say.

It’s 1997, and you and Sicheng have been friends. It’s 1997, and you and Sicheng have been (sort of) enemies. It’s 1997, and you now stand somewhere in the middle, and it’s love, the most magical kind of it.

It’s 1997, and it’s him, and it’s you, and it’s you and him together, and you wouldn’t change it for the world.

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