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swee7dream · 3 days ago

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─── COP 1028

思念 sicheng’s been chasing after you for the past five months. what is he to do, then, when he gets so close to catching you, the beautiful foreign woman in blue who’d been on his radar for nearly half a year, and you slip away in the span of thirty seconds?

warnings mentions of crime, criminals, protests, and riots, reader is technically a criminal, sicheng is a harlot of the heart, it may get a bit weird at times, his relationship with reader is sort of codependent, this fic is angsty and very prose heavy!! depictions of alcohol consumption, smoking, insomnia, under-eating, and very soft kissing

genre chungking express au, 90s au, slowburn, cat and mouse relationship, enemies to lovers, detective!sicheng, radical!reader

word count 8.4k

notes how did i finish this in like four days what the fuk… anyway, i hope you guys enjoy my first sicheng fic! i miss him so much bruh sicheng come back our kids miss you

moodboard soundtrack

THERE’S AN ODD SORT of intimacy to strangers.

If you come across someone you’d never met before, if you bump into a woman you hadn’t seen before that very serendipitous encounter, you could pretend to be someone completely different from your true self and she wouldn’t know. Perhaps you could act more like your true self, let the front you usually use around family and coworkers fall away in favour of a different you, and the gorgeous girl in front of you would be none the wiser.

For all you know, she’s pretending to be someone else as well. Maybe she’s finally being herself.

All you know, the only thought you share in the usually short moment you’re together, is that you won’t be judged. You won’t be judged, or mocked, or ridiculed, because the chances of you ever running into someone you’d met by chance in a sandwich shop are incredibly low.

For Sicheng, as he’d assumed, the chances of running into you again after he’d taken you on a whirlwind adventure one night were low.

Apparently, though, not zero.

1994 年 4 月 28 日

28 APRIL, 1994

香港 HONG KONG

The streets were bustling with people as Sicheng raced through them, the city of Hong Kong bustling with life new and old, glimmers and glimpses of people’s lives following him wherever he went; a couple’s half-heard argument as he rounded a corner, hot on your heels, an old woman laughing over a game of mahjong with her friends as he leaped over a stack of boxes carrying fresh fruit, university students and salarymen yelling at him to slow down, to be careful where he went after he almost bumped into them. He heard these voices, these calls for peace, these insistences from strangers, but he did not listen, could not listen, too focused on the beautiful woman in front of him.

You were a figure wrapped in mystery, shrouded in all which was unknown to someone like Dong Sicheng. It wasn’t as if nobody knew who you were—the entire Hong Kong was familiar with you: the woman in the mask, known only by her voice which cut through protests and police sirens, which called for the equal treatment of others; the women, the children, the foreigners.

The woman with the black high heels, whose vague visage appeared on wanted posters across the country, across China, who advertised a need for free thinking, for renewed academia. Everything the men in power stood against, you stood for.

You, the protester who had been plaguing Sicheng’s dreams for longer than he could remember. You, the person who’d single-handedly started riots in offices and schools. You, the presumed drug lord who’d stolen children and kept them from their rightful guardians in the name of freedom.

You, the foreign woman in blue.

He’d been chasing you for five months now.

And he was so close to catching you.

You cut corners, took shortcuts through shopping centres and dingy districts. Sicheng could only see the back of your head, the curve of your hips in the fluorescent lights, could only hear the click of those familiar red-bottomed heels. So close.

I’m a cop. No 1028. My name is Dong Sicheng.

He muttered a hushed apology when he bumped into a young woman, barely brushing her shoulder in assurance before he took off after you again, this time through a narrow, harshly-lit hallway that led somewhere between two buildings and a shopping centre.

He wondered what you were thinking, what was going through your mind as he, the cop who’d been plagued by you for the past five months, got closer and closer to finally catching you. Were you scared? Regretting, perhaps, being so outspoken in your disapproval of everything the government stood for?

If you were scared, you did a fine job at hiding it. Though, Sicheng reminded himself, he couldn’t see your face. Perhaps you were smirking, thinking to yourself what an idiot he was, following after you when you’d devised a bigger, far worse plan that you yourself wouldn’t be executing.

For a moment, doubt rippled through Sicheng at the thought. Curse him and his overactive imagination, because now the only thing he could think of was your nonexistent higher scheme, how this whole chase could’ve just been a diversion to take his attention from the larger things that were about to happen.

It was no surprise, then, that Sicheng didn’t notice you stop. You’d tripped, palms spread and split open over the pavement, internally cursing yourself for not seeing whatever you’d lost your footing on.

Only when he turned back to you, having dismissed all thought of your potential master plan, did he notice you touching your ankle with a hesitant hand, rolling the joint in an attempt to see if anything particularly terrible had happened to it. His heart lurched, eyes widening at the sight of blood. Crimson splotched your palms as you attempted to regain your footing, your legs wobbling uneasily.

He almost forgot that you were a fugitive, wanted by the city for your crimes, when he saw you give a shaky exhale, bottom lip drawn under your teeth as you hissed in pain. That was all he could see of your face beneath the makeup, the mask you painted to hide your true self—your lips, pink, plump and glowy under the city lights; all the details he was allowed to see were those that couldn’t betray humanity, that couldn’t lead him to believe you possessed a soul, that couldn’t trick him into drawing closer and closer just to look deeper and deeper into your eyes, searching for any hint of benevolence.

Then, he remembered himself.

“Freeze!”

He lunged forward, nearly covering the distance between you in half a step, one hand shooting out to reach for your own, the other already making a grab for the handcuffs that hung from his waist.

Your skin felt soft under his fingertips, wrist delicate, hands clenched into fists as you surged up; he’d gotten so close to wrapping his calloused hand around you, holding you in place, catching you. For a moment, he was the cat that caught the mouse.

This was the closest we ever got. Just 0.01 centimeters between us.

And then you were gone.

But 57 hours later, I fell in love with this woman.

Sicheng spent the rest of the night drinking.

After you’d made away with his dignity, disappearing among the twists and turns of the city streets, the dejected police officer had all but given up on his pursuit of you. In a few seconds, five months of fight left him, battered, bruised, and breathless at the start of a narrow hallway between two dingy buildings, while you disappeared through the end of it.

The cityscape sounded muffled as Sicheng stalked back home, to the overpriced matchbox he lived in, though home to Sicheng didn’t necessarily mean his actual flat. It didn’t mean the place he lived out of, a small, dingy place he paid too much to live in, nor did it mean the neighbourhood he lived in, just as small and just as expensive.

He stopped by the local grocery store just a few blocks from his apartment complex, and asked the shopkeeper if they had any tiramisu left. He got a no, was told that he’d bought it all himself, and their new stock hadn’t arrived yet.

“Are you sure?” he asked, in the best broken Cantonese he could manage.

The man gave him a look that said, Yes, I’m sure, and Sicheng knew then that he wasn’t going to be humoured tonight. Not by the shopkeeper, not by you, not even by his cat, who would probably turn away from his affection once more, leaving him cold and yet again dejected. He wondered if he was wallowing, moping around a grocery store and thinking about how the world must hate him. But can you resist a good wallow, really, can you deny the fact that the world is against you when you’ve got hoards of evidence to prove it?

Lily broke up with me six months ago, over a cup of tiramisu at my apartment.

“I’m sure,” the shopkeeper said, before turning away.

“You don’t maybe have any in the back?” the detective asked, making the older man sigh, turning to him with a chagrined expression.

“Why would I be lying to you about whether or not I have tiramisu in-store?” he asked incredulously. “If I lied to customers just because they bothered me, I’d go out of business! What we have available for desserts is what you see on display there. I— Why don’t you give me your number, so that I can call you when we have stock again?”

Sicheng froze. “Really?”

“No!” the shopkeeper scoffed.

“Oh.”

After deciding he’d annoyed the older man quite enough for one night, Sicheng called Lily. Or, perhaps a better phrasing would be, Sicheng tried to call Lily but, once again, got her answering machine. Heard the voice of another man, saying with a smile Sicheng could hear, “Apologies, but Lily Chung can’t come to the phone at present. If you have a message for her, wait until the beep!”

A voice that said the words he once had, through a smile he once wore.

She did it on April 1st, so I thought it was a joke.

Sicheng sighed, staring dejectedly at the bright blue telephone in his hands. He thought perhaps to try someone else’s number—an old flame, a love that had long not been rekindled. He coughed up about three numbers besides Lily’s.

Kawasaki Shiina.

“Shiina-chan… long time no see, huh?” he said, deep voice swallowed by the passing cars and bicycles as he held his plump lips close to the receiver. “It’s been, what, two years? Four? Oh, that’s too long. What say you we catch up tomorrow night over a few drinks, just you and me? I heard you’re in Hong Kong for good now, and I’ve got the day off— You’re married? For… three years?” He smiled ruefully. “No, no, it’s alright. You don’t need to come. Congratulations, by the way. Leslie’s one lucky man.”

Chow Fei.

“Fei!” This, with a delighted, flirty smile. “How’s work going in Singapore? I heard you transferred there after we broke up, and I got curious to see how you were doing all of a sudden.” Silence, then her hesitant answer. “Oh? You’re back in Hong Kong. For how many years, now? Two? And you’re— That’s great. Great, that you’re seeing him. I always knew you two would end up together. Anyway, uh, you should probably go to bed. It’s late. Yeah. Good night, Fei.”

Margot Wong.

“How are you, jiejie? I know you haven’t heard from me in a while. Yeah, I— I, uh, got caught up with work for a while, sorry, jie. Mm. I know I promised to call you back, but— Oh, do you have a visitor? Well, you should probably get to them, then. Uh, nice talking to you, and we should definitely have coffee somet— Hello? Margot?”

Each and every moment more and more dreary as it passes, each and every call more embarrassing as they come. Somehow, all three girls he’d had prior passionate connections with had realised their worth and got busy, cozied themselves up to men who could offer what Sicheng had once teased them with. He supposed it served him right—even if he’d grown out of it, there was no denying he used to be one sick bastard when it came to romance.

That was almost one month ago.

The tabletop was cold, polished slick and slippery as Sicheng laid on it, resting his head in his arms as he exhaled deeply, desperately. His tongue was athirst for the sweet, creamy taste and texture of tiramisu, the same that he’d eaten right before Lily looked him in the eyes and told him she was leaving him; his eyes longed for a pretty woman to look at, fingertips aching for just one hand to hold onto, one pretty, plump hip to squeeze. Lips to kiss, a tongue to taste, whispers to share, hair to card his lean fingers through.

Sicheng probably sounded really perverted, he knew. But loneliness—romantic loneliness—did indescribable things to the psyche, especially to those of people like Sicheng’s. Quiet people with too much love to give, reserved humans with too many praises to sing to lovers they didn’t have.

I’m hoping she’ll come back to me before May 1st, in 55 hours.

Burgers had never really been Sicheng’s favourite food; hotpot had always been more his speed. But that was a food to enjoy with others around you—burgers, on the other hand, the solitary, pathetic lone meal, working perfectly for someone like Sicheng.

He sat on the steps of a local fast food place, chewing sadly on a burger that would’ve tasted so much better if he hadn’t been so depressed. Everything is affected by your mood, he thought. Tastes, sights, experiences, people—how you perceive and receive them is totally dependent on how you feel that day. I hate that. Sips of the soft drink in his hands didn’t taste as sweet as they would’ve if he’d had someone to go home to. The softness of the bread didn’t satisfy him the way it would’ve had he been able to release some of this pent up longing, to love on someone worthy of his time and affection. Perhaps even someone unworthy.

Hopeless romantics tend to get desperate the longer they’re alone.

Two days, and then some.

Sicheng didn’t have much; a cat named Peanut that had started hissing at him out of the blue a month ago, two goldfish named Mako and Miki who didn’t do much besides blow bubbles, and fifteen forgotten cups of tiramisu in his fridge, right next to the unopened bottle of whiskey and oddly-coloured vitamin drinks. But, god, did these few things make him happy when he got home.

Peanut allowed his owner to give him a few scratches behind the ears before a low, familiar yowl building at the back of his throat made Sicheng sigh, retracting his hands in a gesture that showed he understood what his grumpy cat was trying to say. The aforementioned bottle of cheap liquor was balanced precariously between his slim thighs as he leaned against his kitchenette wall, head tilted forward as he tried to light the cigarette between his lips. The first few puffs were satisfactory, warming his cold lungs with stony, bitter smoke, before that warmth came instead from erratic sips of whiskey.

Sicheng sometimes wondered how he went from the Chungking Precinct’s best detective to this. This… this pathetic, numbed shell of a man he once used to be. Longing and wishing for a life he couldn’t ever have, because he was too busy working toward the life that so plagued him presently.

A low hum eminated from his fridge, occupying most of Sicheng’s thoughts, acting as a backtrack to his ruminations; a fronttrack, even, he wondered, as his thoughts drowned out, gave way to the constant thrum of the machine. Smoke clouded his vision, the biting scent clinging to his clothes, to his skin, glowing and dewy to the touch in the Hong Kong summer heat. A fan was on somewhere, probably on top of his fridge, uselessly recycling warm air from above him. He didn’t care to turn it off, to stop wasting his electricity for something that wasn’t even working properly. He wasn’t even working properly, and no greater power would’ve had the authority to dispose of him just for his uselessness.

When I found the cups of tiramisu in my fridge, I saw that they had an expiry date.

May 1st.

Sicheng had gotten to thinking, these days, about how everything had an expiry date. Even tiramisu, which he’d always held in high regard like some immortal entity of cream and coffee-soaked biscuits, went bad if left uneaten for too long. Bread, milk, cucumbers, cabbage, pineapple, tiramisu—every product had a ticking clock.

Everything seems to have an expiry date.

The same could be said for people—relationships, personalities, careers, emotions, everything eventually expired. People outgrew each other the way cucumbers went soft, got watery the way friendships faded out and into oblivion. They changed like dairy changed colour, changed tastes the way people did in an entirely different sense.

If love could expire, I wonder how long mine’s going to last. I hope it never expires.

He wondered if his love for Lily would expire the same way that tiramisu in his fridge was going to. He wondered if his love, his affection, too, only had 53 hours before it went bad. What would he do in those 53 hours?

These days, I feel like crying often.

And it’s not as if he hadn’t—he’d spent many a night and morn laying on his back with hot, salty tears streaming down his face, dotting his bedsheets. He’d coughed and hiccuped his way through showers as the boiling hot water cascaded down his back, did nothing to warm his numb skin as steam fogged up every reflective surface in the room.

Dong Sicheng had never been a man that denied himself a good weep every now and then, in the comfort of his own home, especially after the most kind and beautiful woman he knew left him. However, he never saw the sense behind doing it too much, crying. He could cry, and cry, till his eyes were puffy and the tip of his nose was red, but it wouldn’t change the fact that he was alone, that his girlfriend left.

He easily slipped into his running shoes, shrugging on a black jacket over the T-shirt he’d thrown on earlier. It was already dawn when he looked out of his window, and he felt the ache of exhaustion in his shoulders when he remembered the lateness of his late night chase for you. Then, he tried not to think about you, because thinking about you made him want to cry even more.

A good way to forget about wanting to cry is going for a run.

You’d been running all night.

The streets grew hot and stuffy the longer you ran, limbs screaming for a moments’ pause, sweat beading on the tip of your made up brow. You knew you probably looked ridiculous to passersby unfamiliar with you—a strange woman in blue, hair and face done up most oddly, running through the streets of Hong Kong without once looking back; but people knew you. Most of them did.

Dong Sicheng knew you especially well.

You knew he’d given up trying to catch you, for tonight, at least, due to the lack of laboured breathing over your shoulder, the lack of his worn-in sneakers crunching against the hot, dewy pavement as he ran after you, thin, lean fingers reaching to curl around your wrist.

It was as though, however, you couldn’t stop, despite knowing you were in the clear. Once you ran past the dingy Chungking mansions, and the even dingier areas that followed, you didn’t stop until you arrived back where you started, at the building you’d been operating out of for the past five months.

I’ve been living at Blue Moon Mansion for nearly half a year.

A temporary arrangement, you’d told yourself. You’d been pressed for money, couldn’t pay your rent, and were friends with one of the receptionists at the hotel, so finding cheaper lodgings came easy. A bit too easy, you supposed, because you’d settled into the hotel lifestyle so quickly you were afraid to try and try following your old routines.

You allowed yourself a brief glance over your shoulder when you arrived at Blue Moon, half-expecting to see the handsome detective who’d been on something of a witch hunt for you since January. You found nothing, however, besides the normal crowd of people who milled about this side of town.

Your stomach grumbled in protest, and you were reminded then that you hadn’t eaten in nearly an entire day. Nothing a call to your favourite sandwich shop wouldn’t fix, you thought, already looking around for the nearest pay phone to call them.

Just after you’d put in your order, you wandered up the front steps of the hotel before making your merry way down again, plopping onto the bottom step with a huff, hugging your knees to your chest. It was a childish sight, you were sure, but you were too tired to care. To think, you still had flyers to hand out and posters to place across town, a feat that could easily take up the rest of your night.

You lifted yourself to your feet uneasily, begrudgingly tugging your coat tighter around you. Your makeup was starting to feel stifling, loose like someone else’s skin, though you made no effort to take it off just yet. You couldn’t; though everyone in Hong Kong knew who you were, they knew this you—not the one that existed beneath the many layers of white paint and red rouged lips, the swipes of black around your eyes and the dusting of pink on the apples of your cheeks. No one knew who the real you looked like, without all those layers hiding your face, hiding your body, and no one could. Part of your confidence came solely from the anonymity.

That’s why, in the dark night of the twenty-eighth of April, fifteen minutes before midnight, you walked to the Midnight Express to pick up your meagre dinner in heels and makeup; you walked past the Chungking mansions, bumped into another foreigner who’d been shopping for second-hand cameras—some younger girl who wore the same colours as you—and shuffled into your favourite food joint, all with a face painted like a court jester, an opera singer, a clown.

These days, you were starting to feel more and more like one, and there seemed to be nothing you could do to stop that feeling.

Most nights, sleep doesn’t come easy to me.

After dinner, you loitered on the steps of the Midnight Express for a little while longer than you suppose you should’ve. Your fingers itched to curl around a glass of the strongest whiskey you could afford, and you felt as if you desperately needed a smoke. What’s worse, you weren’t someone who drank or smoked at all.

Tonight it was even more difficult.

You eventually stalked back to Blue Moon, this time taking the steps one by one until you got to the elevator that would take you to your room, and you stumbled through halls and doors until you came to your front door. You unceremoniously flopped onto your bed, not bothering to remove the paint caked on your skin, or the red-bottomed heels digging into your toes.

It wasn’t as if you weren’t tired; your joints ached from overexertion, your lungs screamed for rest. You were not complete without a tremble running through your body, shaking your fingers, making your knees knock. Everything about you was exhausted, but your mind was restless like a sleepwalker’s legs. There was nothing that could silence it, or even bring the frantic scheming to a whisper, a murmur to lull you to sleep, to welcome your slumber. You were tired, but it was as if you’d been struck by lightning and were still living through the aftershocks of electricity travelling through your body.

Most nights, you simply wished for a warm pair of arms to curl around your shoulders, your waist, the small of your back. You felt as if the warmth of another would relax your body, as if soft shoulders would have your heavy heart resting easy.

But just as well, you’d never known that kind of affection from anyone. The people you worked with weren’t with you for company, for friendship, merely to complete their mission, to get the job done and make sure your efforts weren’t in vain.

Your mission to fight back against the oppressive, close-minded reality the government was insisting their young people endure, the prejudiced systems which discarded talented people in favour of obedient ones. Your effort to lift up those overshadowed in the largely Eastern, masculine society which ran Hong Kong, to snuff out the censorship which ran rampant across the country.

Such endeavours came not with romance, with any sort of affection.

Sometimes, you wished it did.

Some nights I manage to get in a few hours of shuteye before the banging wakes me up.

It usually happens around eight o’clock, five hours after you stumble back home, seven hours before you go outside again. You’d asked around and found out that it was construction for a new library, one apparently geared towards students of a nearby school, for extra studying time, or recreational reading, or just somewhere to be alone.

It was for monuments like these that you worked so hard.

Besides being a literary radical—among several other things—you were a librarian, though not at the library you previously mentioned being built. Not a very good one, you supposed, because you spent your days reading and gossiping with university students whenever you got the chance. No one knew who you were there, the expert disguise of a bare face and modest clothing doing wonders for concealing your true identity.

I wonder what that is a lot. My true identity, I mean.

You mention your job now, because you remembered that it was your day off when you lurched to the tiny, lacklustre bathroom of your hotel room to scrub the paint off of your face and apply a brand new layer. When you saw your reflection, you sighed with great effort. The paint had seeped into your skin, smeared in odd places. You looked a mess.

Is it this… this painted clown, white as a ghost, with daring eyes, blushing cheeks, and bold red lips? This face I painted on at the beginning of every day?

You barely looked at the skin, your skin, underneath the paint as you removed it, wettening your brush and smearing white paint right over washed skin, delighting in how the cold air dried the mask in an insant. Next came your lips, red as fresh blood, shining bright under the glaring lights. Then, your cheeks, from your apples to the high bones, dusted with pink like the opera singers from the northeast.

Or is it the young girl hidden beneath, skin soft and supple and slick with tears, lips plump and cracked? The face I was gifted on the day of my birth?

“Who am I, without this paint?” you wondered aloud. “Without the protests, the posters… without Officer 1026 running after me, chasing me, giving me meaning?”

You didn’t really know anymore.

The last day of April came quicker than expected.

Sicheng wasn’t sure what he’d occupied himself with between the twenty-eight and the thirtieth—it was all an unpleasant blur, anything on from the night he’d lost you in the haze of neon lights and street signs. Perhaps he’d simply been laying in bed, hands folded loosely over his chest, wondering what he was supposed to do with his life.

You were gone.

Lily wasn’t calling back.

Peanut hated him.

Why was he still here, again?

I spent the last night of April wandering aimlessly through the streets of Hong Kong.

He sighed shakily, risking a look up at the starry sky, high above the pesky city lights. Someone yelled at him to step out of their way, and he did, eyes not straying from the stars.

Gripping onto my police badge as if it was going to give me meaning.

First, he went to a bar. It was a sort of burlesque scene, but he came in too late to see any of the dancers; the lights were low, the barstools uncomfortable, his collar hot. He had three drinks, all strong, all leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Then, he went to the local library. He’d always liked making conversation with the young librarian there, though she’d made herself scarce this past week. There was no one there save for a student cramming last minute for a test she had to write the next morning, and a couple making out somewhere in the back by the world atlases. Sicheng didn’t even bother to shine the flashlight hanging from his belt in their eyes, didn’t even lift the badge he’d been holding onto for dear life, didn’t even tell them to break it up and book a motel instead.

He visited an old lady’s pastry stall, and left with powdery fingers and plump lips dotted with whipped cream. He stumbled to a payphone and tried to call Lily, only to get her machine again. He wondered what her new boyfriend’s name was. He sounded like a Sangyan.

Whenever I want to cry, and I can’t run, I eat.

He leaned against a lamppost, the cold rod digging into the soft flesh of his back, through his denim jacket. He adjusted his sunglasses—rounded, yellow, sitting low on the bridge of his nose—and looked around for his favourite sandwich shop, which he knew was nearby.

It’s as if food cures me of all illnesses or unhappiness.

The Midnight Express was a small, somewhat dingy sandwich shop nestled between a boutique and a record store. Sicheng knew the owner the same way the owner knew Sicheng’s order; by heart, and like the back of his hand.

When Sicheng walked into the tiny establishment, hands shoved in his pockets, stumbling only a little, the owner perked up from behind the counter and gestured for him to come closer, leaning over the glass barrier between them like he was sharing some great secret, though not whispering like he was.

As the detective approached the counter, he nearly bumped into a waitress—a new, quirky-looking girl he didn’t recognise—as she swept past him, dragging a wet mop across the floor.

This was the closest we ever got. Just 0.01 centimeters between us.

She glanced up at him, straightening her posture, purply blue crop top riding up to reveal a toned tummy, before dropping her raised brows and continuing with her work.

But 15 hours later, she fell in love with another man.

There was another customer in the shop, though Sicheng didn’t see their face when he entered. They were wearing a large, blue coat, and he thought for a moment of your own coat, the one you wore whenever he bumped into you or tried to catch you. He didn’t pay the stranger any mind, however, turning back to the owner of Midnight Express.

“Evening, boss man,” Sicheng greeted, smiling lazily, and he could hear himself slurring in the slightest.

“Hey, Sicheng,” the man said. “What can I get for you tonight? The usual?”

He nodded. “You know it. Shredded pork sub with lao gan ma, and grape soda. How much will it be?”

“Same as always,” came his reply. “Ten dollars, with a guarantee to listen to some advice on the side.”

Sicheng sighed. “Do I have to listen to your advice tonight? I’m really not in the mood for it. Now, less than ever.”

“Listen,” the owner started, hands working deftly underneath the counter as he grabbed the ingredients for Sicheng’s order, “you’re still hung up on Lily, right?”

“You could say that,” Sicheng said begrudgingly.

“Okay, well, I might have a solution for you.” When the cop raised his brows, the owner said, “Sweets over there!” and pointed to the waitress Sicheng had bumped into, who had abandoned mopping to wipe down the windows. “She’s a new hire, a foreigner, and very perky, if you know what I mean.”

Sicheng’s face contorted in disgust. “Gross, boss man. Can’t she hear you?”

He squinted. “What? Oh, no, she can’t. She’s got her Walkman with her.” He pointed to the circular device in the waitress’ hip, and the chord that split into two earphones which were popped into her ears as she bobbed her head to a song no one could hear. “She’s a bit manic, kind of difficult to talk to, but like I said—”

“Yeah.” Sicheng nodded. “Perky.” He didn’t much feel like discussing the look of a young woman he didn’t know, who couldn’t hear what her own boss had to say about her. It made him feel incredibly uncomfortable.

Boss Man placed his neatly wrapped sub on the counter, accompanied by a can of grape soda—Sicheng’s favourite. The detective handed his acquaintance a ten dollar bill, nodding in thanks.

It was then that the other customer made themselves known, walking with a limp in their step to the counter. “Just a bottle of water, boss man.”

Sicheng stilled.

Hearing that voice made my blood run cold.

Because he’s heard it somewhere before.

Made my entire body feel hot.

Because he’s witnessed it speaking words of encouragement, of resistance against the system he worked for, of taunting as he nearly caught up to you, of flattery as you recommended him a book, smiling with a face he didn’t know belonged to you.

In an awful moment, he spared a glance downward, at your feet, just to make sure.

Black heels. Scuff marks on the toe. You raised your right leg to rub against the back of your left leg, to satisfy a faint itch. Red bottoms. Faded golden circle with a six in the middle, for the size.

And sure enough, when he looked up, a phoney Peking opera star looking back.

Your expression didn’t betray any surprise, or any fear, as he thought it would. Instead, your eyes, the eyes he finally got to see up close for the first time in his life, darted over his face, settled on his lips, and dragged back up to look into his own eyes. Your pupils were soft, almost misty at the edges; there was no fight, no daring look, no insistence that seemed to say, Try and catch me. Just gentle, welcoming eyes.

Boss Man handed you your bottle of water, exchanging it for a wad of cash you were all aware was far too much, and you walked out without another word.

It all happened so quick that Sicheng didn’t even notice his legs moving of their own accord, plump, beaky lips forgetting to form a goodbye or a thank you to his friend, didn’t even notice how one second he was inside the Midnight Express, grabbing his food, and the next he was outside, staring at you while you stared right back.

When I saw her, the woman I’d been chasing for five months, my words failed me.

He stood there for far too long, and you allowed him to stare at you for as long as his brain didn’t catch up with what he was seeing, merely staring back.

Then, pathetically, after you’d turned round and starting walking up the street, Sicheng following desperately behind,

“Do you like tiramisu?”

Once, in Cantonese. When you gave no answer, he tried again in Mandarin. Then, in English.

“Not particularly,” you admitted, turning to look at him again. “But I don’t hate it.”

Sicheng gulped. “I like tiramisu.”

You stopped, tilting your head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Do you want to go back to my place?” he asked. “I… I have food.”

You smiled softly. “Why would I do that, or care that you have food?”

“You look tired,” he supplied. “As if you haven’t had a proper meal in a while.” No matter that he was currently holding his own dinner—not homemade, not proper. But he wanted to make you something proper. “Or proper sleep.”

“I haven’t,” you admitted. “But why do you care?”

“Let me help you with that.”

Sicheng’s soft, velvety voice broke the silence that had been perpetuated on the way back to his flat. His hands skirted over your shoulders, giving your coat an experimental tug to see if you’d drop them, let your heavy coat fall from your body so that he could hang it up somewhere, over a chair or something. You did, and Sicheng didn’t trust the way his heartbeat sped up at the sight of your bare back beneath the straps of your camisole. He wondered, then, what you were doing wondering around the city in summer pyjamas, full opera makeup, a coat that reached your shins, and heels.

His flat was uncharacteristically warm, he noticed, feeling a distinct lack of goose flesh on his arms when he slipped off his own jacket. He then noticed you looking around the place, a curious look in your eyes, on your made up face, and he smiled nervously.

“It’s not much,” he supplied to the woman he’d considered his mortal enemy mere days before, “but it’s home.”

“I like it,” you commented. “It’s homey. Much better than the Blue Moon Mansion.”

His eyes widened slightly. “You live in a hotel?”

“Only temporarily,” you explained, stepping further into the small, dark flat of his, switching on one of his smaller, warmer lights, as opposed to the harsher main lights.

From somewhere in Sicheng’s living room, Peanut gave an questioning meow. You stopped in your tracks when the blue-eyed, black and beige ball of fur approached you, though you did crouch down to scoop it up into your arms.

Sicheng sucked in a sharp breath, surging forward to pull the aggressive feline off you, only to stop dead in his tracks when he heard Peanut purr for the first time in months.

“He’s not growling at you,” the man observed.

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” you asked, joking.

“It’s surprising, is what it is.” Sicheng laid a hesitant hand on Peanut’s head, and was pleasantly surprised when his pet melted into the touch. He could almost feel the warmth of your chest beneath his hand, the proximity of your bodies not lost on him. “He hasn’t allowed me to touch him in months.”

You took a hesitant seat on Sicheng’s couch, fingers still deftly working behind Peanut’s ears.

It was odd to see you like this, his greatest, most powerful adversary in her pyjamas, on his couch with his cat curled up in your chest, but still dressed in your greatest weapons—your face, and the shoes you used to step on anyone who disagreed with you.

“I have, um… tea,” he offered. “And a pullout bed. Uh, makeup wipes, too, for that.” He gestured to his own face, and you got the hint that he was talking about your makeup. “Or sponges, and hot water, if that would work better. You don’t look very comfortable in that. Your skin looks dry.”

You merely hummed, standing up without a second thought. Peanut was deposited back into Sicheng’s arms, and he tensed up, waiting for the infamous, throaty yowl, but it never came. He showed you to his bathroom, and filled his washbasin with warm water, wetted a sponge for you.

“Actually…” he muttered, placing his cat down. “May I?”

Slowly, and with all the gentleness he could muster, Sicheng removed your makeup. You let him, not once flinching as he gently scrubbed the paint off, as he attempted to wipe the lipstick from your lips. He patted your face off with a warm, sweetly-scented towel afterward, and the pads of his own thumbs followed, pressing gently into your soft skin. He glanced only into your eyes, never allowing his gaze to stray anywhere else.

You looked so much younger without the mask. The apples of your cheeks looked soft, squishy to the touch, the curve of your lips could entice anyone to lean forward just to feel them against their own, your eyes soothed when the harsh black paint was removed from your waterline. You looked, to Sicheng’s utter delight and dismay, like the most gorgeous girl he’d ever seen.

He carried you to his couch once he’d caught on that your legs were tired from walking, gently laying you down on the worn furniture, disappearing into his kitchen for a moment before returning with a cup of tea and his Midnight Express purchase split in two.

He handed you half of the sandwich, placed fancily on his best bright blue plastic plate, already halfway through a bite of his own.

“What about your dinner?” you asked.

He shrugged. “I’m eating, aren’t I?”

An unfamiliar silence befell the pair of you as you ate, not even exchanging glances between bites of food and sips of your respective drinks.

Sicheng sank further into his seat, though showed no signs of continuing conversation with you. You, whether out of fear or indignation, similarly made no effort to speak.

I’m not sure when I fell in love with her.

“Why do you do it?” Sicheng asked.

I think it was somewhere between midnight and two in the morning.

You scowled. “Do what?”

Somewhere between her telling me why she did what she did, and me explaining why I did what I did.

“…What you do,” Sicheng said, gesturing loosely to you. “Protest, fight for change. Why? What for?”

You shifted in your seat, crossing your legs one over the other like a businesswoman. The swell of your thighs were almost as distracting as the curve of your hips. “Because people forget of those who are different from the rest,” you said. “They’re ignored, or shunned, not given a place in society. They can only find community on the outskirts of the city, can only see themselves in one in a million people. Soft women, men, children, anyone in-between or otherwise, all get pushed into the boxes that the hard, heartless men in power built. No one stands up against it, calls for more freedom, for more creativity. The big companies and corporations want slaves, not bright minds that can think for themselves.

“There’s a perceived mould for a ‘perfect person’,” you continued, shrugging, “and I didn’t fit it. When I came to study in Hong Kong, there was barely any place for me to do what I came to do—write, paint, be creative, and not in the mainstream way. All my friends slaved away their youth, sitting in desks that broke their backs and learning from books that broke their hearts. I… I do what I do because I want other children to have what I didn’t have when I came here.”

You turned to him then, a question on your tongue. “Why do you do what you do?”

Sicheng paused.

Took a long moment to consider his next words.

“I used to think I was changing people’s lives for the better,” he started. “Keeping the city safe, bringing justice to the vagabonds, the people who didn’t contribute to society the way I did. But now it just seems as if I’ve spent all my time as a detective chasing the wrong people, bringing the wrong outcasts to justice,” he chuckled. “I’ve never had a school library built in honour of my work, like you had. The average citizen doesn’t look at me with respect—not the same respect they’d look at you with.”

You tilted your head. Not saying anything, not agreeing, not disagreeing; not nodding, not shaking your head, not showing any signs that you hear him at all, apart from the sympathetic downward tilt of your brows.

“I’m just as insignificant as the people you say you fight for,” he continued, “except I’ve got nothing more to offer than myself, and my time.”

“Those are already two very important things,” you said softly.

Your hand felt warm when it landed on his thigh, doing nothing more than rubbing comforting circles with your thumb as his breath hitched.

“I’m thinking of quitting the force.”

You nodded. “Then what?”

“…”

“I’ve always wanted to be a traditional dancer.”

There was a slight twinkle in your eye when you responded, though it was awfully sincere. “You’ve got the right legs for it.”

Sicheng found himself smiling at your words, plump lips twisting into a shy grin.

May 1st came with a beep of my analogue clock, while her and I were finishing off the last of that tiramisu I bought, right before it expired.

“You know,” you admitted, scooping another spoonful of the treat into your mouth, “tiramisu isn’t so bad.”

Sicheng turned to you. “It’s not?”

You shook your head. “With you, it’s not.”

You fell asleep on his couch, after he’d pulled it out to become a double bed that could fit both of your tired bodies. He’d offered up his bed, but you had refused. You didn’t know him well enough, you said.

Your cheek rested against a pillow he’d brought from his bedroom, lips open in a gentle ‘o’ as you breathed deeply, seeming peaceful for the first time since he met you five months ago.

She was so beautiful to me in that moment.

Your legs tangled in his throw blanket, one hand on your chest, the other spread out under your pillow.

Sicheng gently removed your shoes, fingers carefully grazing over the gentle skin of your heels, of your ankle, before he laid them down side by side on his carpeted floor and took a seat on the edge of your bed.

My mom always told me that if a woman had her shoes on for too long, her feet would get swollen.

His hand swept across your face, fingertips brushing the slightest bits of you; the swell of your bottom lip, the curve of your brow, the intersection where your forehead meet your hairline, the unpierced lobes of your ears.

Such a pretty woman deserves to sleep comfortably.

“I think I’m in love with you,” he murmured, quiet enough not to be heard. He knew it sounded insane, falling in love with someone whose soul you’d only caught a glimpse of that night. He sounded, and was, desperate, ridiculous, but he didn’t care, because he was sure you were in love with him, too. Just as desperately, ridiculously, stupidly, as he was with you.

Your reply came as a surprise, whispered against the pad of his thumb as it caressed your lips. “I don’t think it’s possible to fall in love with someone so quickly,” you’d said. “But I’ve believed crazier things.”

And that was good enough for Sicheng.

He’d never been at someone else’s mercy before, not like this. He’d always kept to himself. Stayed as silent, introverted, and unmoved as he could. Never asked a girl on a date first, never said I love you before someone else did. This… this was something new, and perhaps not the kind he hated. But certainly not the kind he got used to easily.

“I want you,” he said, admitted in earnest. “It doesn’t even have to be physical.”

“It’s not going to be physical,” you said, though you pressed a reverent kiss to the palm of his hand.

“That’s okay,” he whispered desperately. “I just want you. I want to get to know you. Your beautiful soul. If it takes a hundred years and I don’t get a taste of you once, that’s okay. As long as you let me stay by your side.”

You smiled, your eyes still closed, still half asleep. “You’ll get a taste of me someday. Just not tonight.”

Someday. That sounded good; as if you were considering it, keeping him close to you, whether as a friend or a lover. He didn’t mind someday. He could wait for someday.

The early morning air felt crisp against Sicheng’s skin as he raced along the dirt track, legs pushing him continuously forward across the circle painted into the ground, arms at his sides as he ran for all he was worth.

When I want to cry, I go for a run.

His legs had started to ache at this point; he’d been running for two hours already, trying his best to keep his tears at bay. There were moments when it didn’t work, when he could feel hot tears spilling down his cheeks and couldn’t do anything to stop them.

For the first time in a long time, he was okay with that.

My favourite song is That’s Life by Frank Sinatra. Not because I like the sound of it, or even because I like Frank Sinatra.

He arrived back at his flat just as the sun went up, and found you sitting on your bed, scratching the back of Peanut’s ears as he purred contentedly in your lap, soaking up the first rays of morning sun. You were still soft with sleep, a mark from your pillow pressed lightly into the side of your face you slept on.

Sicheng glanced at the scene with admiration, with ardent love ever-present in his eyes. He took only a few steps before you heard him, tuned in to the familiar scuff of his worn-in sneakers, the same sneakers that used to follow you through the city as you ran from a version of the man you discovered wasn’t real.

“You went out,” you noted.

Sicheng smiled, nodding. “I just went for a run.”

“Why?” came your curious enquiry.

He shrugged. “Because I felt like crying.”

It’s mostly because I feel as if anyone could relate to the lyrics.

You kissed him for the first time that morning, six hours after May 1st had started. Your lips felt soft pressed against his, your tongue tasting sweet mingling with his own. You tilted your head to deepen the kiss, and he smiled, not because he felt as if he was in control, as if he had the upper hand, but because he was comfortable knowing that you did, that you were.

For the first time in his life, he allowed someone equal parts familiar and alien take up such personal space against his lips, in his flat, in his heart.

For the first time in your life, you found meaning beneath the mask, felt as if you had purpose outside of a fight. You had affection. Love, as he’d called it.

“Will you love me even when I’m different?” you asked. Or perhaps it was Sicheng who’d asked it; neither of you could remember.

There was a smile, full of light and love, a deep kiss. “I love you because you’re different,” Sicheng said. Or perhaps it was you who’d said it; neither of you could remember.

Puppet, pauper, pirate, poet, pawn, king.

perm taglist @hyuneskkami @jwiloves @bluedbliss @ayukas @rubiiisyeon @vantxx95

#GET REC’D ! 💥#dejundesign #this is insane #i'm not okay #THIS IS WHAT WRITING IS ALL ABOUT #the descriptions are so vivid in my mind #the split pov was so appreciated #loser sicheng was unexpected but also appreciated #i really really really love this

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swee7dream · 2 months ago

Text

Fools - H.Renjun

Pairing - Boyband Member!Renjun x Makeup Artist!Female Reader

Genre(s) - Fluff, Angst, Hairspray!AU, The Outsiders!AU, Soc!Renjun, Greaser!Reader, 60s!AU

Warning(s) - social group rivalry/discrimination (Greasers vs. Socs), mild physical violence

Summary - You’re a Greaser makeup artist and he’s the Soc golden-boy idol with a perfect smile and a secret streak of rebellion. Every Tuesday, Renjun trades polish for something real, and he kisses you like it’s worth losing everything he has.

Word Count - 6.5k

Author’s Note - I wrote this to be similar to Hairspray, where Renjun and the reader work for a weekly recurring show except without the racism. Hairspray was one of the first Broadway musicals I was introduced to and I remember it so clearly as a part of my childhood so I really tried to include things like the childhood crush I had on Link and the hurdle of social unrest regarding the difference in groupings of the characters

Taglist - @k-vanity @cosyhomenet @neocity-net @k-films @cinneorolls @dinonuguaegi @tinyzen @fancypeacepersona (join my taglist!)

Written for The Outsiders Collab hosted by @fruityutas. Also part of my NCT Dream: Seven Days Collection.

Now playing: Fools - Troye Sivan, Without Love - Motion Picture Cast of Hairspray, Just Wanna Be With You - High School Musical Cast

The scent of hairspray lingered like smoke in the backstage areas, curling through rows of vanity bulbs and cracked linoleum floors. It was a Tuesday–always a Tuesday–when the studio lights buzzed hotter than usual, and the city’s golden kids rolled in with smiles lacquered like records. On camera, everything gleamed, but off camera, it was all duct tape, sweat, and powdered noses.

There were two kinds of people in this town, the ones who owned the spotlight and the ones who held it up on their shoulders.

The Socials, otherwise known as the Socs, cruised around in candy-colored convertibles, wallets fat with daddy’s money, and grins cleaned up to perfection. They wore clean, pressed clothes and carried names that opened doors. Their lives were picture-perfect, lacquered in fame and privilege.

The Greasers? You guys clawed your way through life with dirt under your nails and oil in your veins. Your world was diner counters, cigarette breaks in the studio parking lot, and leather jackets that doubled as armor. You painted on your eyeliner like war paint and didn’t flinch when someone called you ‘rough around the edges’. Let them be scared.

Recently, you had taken up work in the shadows behind the scenes of a weekly music show, touching up the kinds of people who never looked at you unless their powder ran dry. You weren’t one of them. Not even close. But still, every Tuesday, at noon sharp, you stood behind the same cracked vanity lit by buzzing bulbs and the flicker of dreams that weren’t yours.

You wiped your makeup-stained hands with a stained rag before tugging a stool toward the large vanity in front of you. Another Tuesday meant another round of perfecting faces that never saw a hard day’s work. You adjusted your cat-eye liner with the edge of your thumbnail, checking your reflection. Smudged, tired, yet still standing.

“Dreamboys live in ten minutes,” barked the stage manager’s voice, a sharp call throughout the studio.

In came your last task for the day, Renjun. A golden boy of the Soc scene. Perfect blazer, white teeth, hair so neat it could’ve been painted. The suit he wore likely cost more than your entire paycheck. His voice sent girls into shrieking frenzies as it was broadcast into homes all over the country. You’d seen the posters of him and his boy band, the Dreamboys. A bunch of clean-cut Socs with harmonies tight enough to sell innocence and fake rebellion all in one song.

He slid into your makeup chair without asking, his presence filling the room like he belonged there. His cologne was sharp but expensive with notes of citrus and power. His eyes flicked up to meet yours through the mirror. Cool and curious.

“You always look this serious when you touch up the stars?” He asked, voice smooth like velvet.

You grabbed a powder puff and tapped it sharply against his cheek. “Only when they act like they burn brighter than the rest of us.”

He chucked. “Fair enough.” He looked at you with a hint of amusement. Something dangerous, something real. “You don’t belong back here,” he said quietly, like a confession. “You’ve got eyes like someone meant to be on stage.”

You rolled your eyes, but your hands fell to the collar of his jacket, straightening it out. “And you’ve got the face of someone who’s never been told no.”

He laughed, light and airy. Something changed in the air between you. Perhaps it was just the heat of the lights or the static of the studio.

“Dreamboys on standby in five,” the director's voice called. The hallways buzzed with movement. Staff scurried past while the producer was yelling something about lighting cues. Yet Renjun didn’t move.

He lingered in your makeup station, perched in the seat with his legs splayed, watching you as you lined up your brushes with practiced precision. You dusted his cheeks with a final touch of blush, pulling back to assess your work before straightening his tie. With a nod of approval, you grabbed your puff to blot the shine off the tip of his nose, your free hand coming to his chin to hold him steady.

You felt the way his breath hitched just slightly as his face sat in your hold, your hand brushing against his jaw. His gaze dropped to your mouth, lips pulled tight in concentration, before flicking back up to meet your eyes.

“You always this gentle?” He mused.

You clicked the powder compact shut. “You always this nosy?”

Before he could answer, someone shouted again from behind the camera. “Dreamboys, now! We’re rolling in two!”

Renjun slid off the chair with a reluctant sigh. He glanced back once, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re good at this,” he stated plainly.

“What? My job? I kinda have to be.”

“No,” he shook his head. “I mean, hiding how much you like me.”

You nearly threw your puff at him. “Break a leg, Dreamboy.”

He winked. “Only if you’re the one patching me up later.”

With that, he disappeared in the hustle of the studio, his polished shoes tapping against the floor and echoing in your ears long after he was gone.

The next Tuesday, he was back. Same velvet voice, same blinding smile. But this time, when the producer called for touch-ups, Renjun asked for you by name.

You had barely clocked in, still shrugging off your jacket and slipping your makeup brushes out of your bag, when the stage manager tapped your shoulder. “One of the Dreamboys asked for you.”

You rolled your eyes. Of course he did. “I’ll bring him in.”

You found him lounging in the Dreamboys’ dressing room, sleeves rolled up, legs splayed out and crossed at the ankles like he had nothing better to do. He was halfway into costume–slim-fit slacks, pastel button-down tucked somewhat into his waistband, and a tie hanging around his shoulders as if he had all the time in the world.

“Greaser girl’s here,” he announced when you walked in, drawing glances from the other boys. “I was starting to think I scared you off after last week.”

“You wish,” you responded coolly. “You’re not that special.”

He grinned. “Tell that to the hundreds of fan letters I got this morning.”

You scoffed. “Can’t decide whether to give you a touch-up or an ego check.”

“Can I get both?” He asked coyly.

“Sure, golden boy. Need you in my chair first,” you quipped, leaving the dressing room and heading back to the hair and makeup room with Renjun in tow.

Once he was seated, he watched you through the mirror as you leaned in close, dabbing a tissue at the smudge of lipstick from the corner of his mouth. His gaze was equally as playful as it was sharp and studying, like he was trying to figure out the story behind the chipped polish on your nails.

“You always this serious?” He asked, quieter than usual.

“Only when I’m working,” you replied.

“And what about when you’re not?”

You set the tissue down and rolled your eyes, feigning annoyance. “How about you find that out for yourself?”

Later that night, the crew packed up fast, the stage lights dimming to an orange glow. Rain tapped gently on the rooftop, the kind of soft weather that made the neon signs outside glow like fireflies.

You were halfway to the exit when you saw Renjun again, waiting by the loading dock, tucked into the shadows where a random passerby wouldn’t think to look. Gone was the pastel shirt and blazer. In its place was a leather jacket two sizes too big and slung around his narrow frame. His hair wasn’t slicked back like it always was, but instead it was a little windblown, as if he’d run through the streets without worry for his appearance. His loafers were scuffed, yet his eyes were bright.

“Hey,” he said with his voice low as you walked past.

You paused mid-step, turning to him and raising a brow at his reckless visual. “Did you rob a Greaser on your way out?”

“No,” Renjun chuckled, tugging at the collar lightly. “Just wanted to try something new...Feel something different.”

“You wanted to feel what it’s like to be poor?”

“To be real,” he countered.

You folded your arms across your chest. “You’re gonna get yourself in trouble.”

He stepped closer, cocking his head. “You gonna tell on me, Greaser girl?”

You bite back a smile, heat crawling from your neck to your cheeks. “Only if you keep calling me that.”

Behind you, the lights of the studio flickered off, signaling the end of the day, but something else was just beginning. Renjun reached out and slotted his arm into the nook of your elbow. “Let’s go. I’ll walk you home.” Your heart skipped once at the sudden physical contact, yet you didn’t pull away.

The following week, after the final applause fades and the crowd’s cheers for the Dreamboys die down, you slip backstage, heart still pounding from adrenaline as you practically had to shove Renjun out of your makeup chair and to his mark on the stage just as the bell sounded, signaling they were airing live. The Dreamboys make their way backstage after the show, eager to get out of their brightly colored suits and sweat-stained makeup. Renjun catches your eye across a dim hallway, his smile quiet but full of words unspoken.

He pulls you aside, voice low and urgent. “We can’t keep meeting where everyone’s watching. I want a place where we can just…be us.”

You nod, understanding the weight behind his words. Somewhere off stage, somewhere away from the expectations of work, somewhere far from the crowd’s fantasies. He settles into your chair in front of the vanity, eyes meeting yours as you speak to him through the reflection of the mirror. “That old diner by the drive-in theater,” you suggest. “It’s closed during the week, and hardly anyone goes there late at night.”

Renjun’s eyes light up for the first time all night. “Tonight. After this is all done.”

Against all odds, you and Renjun managed to meet in secret, away from the flickering lights of the studio and the commotion of the production team.

You slide into the booth just as the neon sign outside sputters to life, its electric glow painting the vinyl seats in shades of blue and pink. Renjun’s already seated across from you, sipping from a coffee that’s long gone cold, his eyes darting to the door every few seconds. You catch his gaze and flash a quick, cautious smile before dropping your purse behind you and giving a wave to the waitress at the counter. She knew your regular order.

“This place hasn’t changed much,” he notes, voice almost a whisper. “Feels like a time capsule back from the good old days.”

“You used to come here often?” You inquired, wondering how you’ve never seen a Soc like him in a diner that was a favorite among the Greasers.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Back when I was just a kid with a dream, I’d come here after class with the other guys.” You nod in understanding. It’s strange how the air feels heaving within the walls of the diner, like the world outside was holding its breath. Renjun leans closer, his expression serious. “You know, back then, it was easier to just be myself. But now…I’m tired of being the guy everyone pins their fantasies on. It’s like they don’t see the real me.”

You glance away, fingers tracing the scratches on the table. “Guess I’m glad I don’t know what that’s like. I never really had the luxury to dream…not like you.”

He studies you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Maybe it’s time you start.”

You continue meeting up with Renjun after the red ‘Now Airing’ signs go out every Tuesday night. The boardwalk on the way to the diner smells of wet leaves and late-night smoke, far from the polished studio lights and manicured stages. The diner’s neon buzzes faintly behind you as you duck into the building, taking a seat next to him at the bar.

“Here,” you say, pulling a comb from your bag and handing it over to Renjun. “Let me show you how to slick your hair back without looking like you’re trying too hard.” He looks at you quizzically, as if you had just spoken in a different language. “I saw the way you were trying to do it in the dressing room earlier. That’s not how you do it.”

Renjun takes the comb from your handles, toying at the bristles like he’s holding a foreign object instead of a simple bit of plastic. He doesn’t move at first, just studies you, the flickering neon lights outside the window catching on his cheekbones.

You scoot a little closer to him, the barstool squeaking beneath you. “It’s all about the angle,” you tell him, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and guiding his hand up. “Don’t push it flat, it’ll make you look like a schoolboy whose mom did their hair on picture day.”

A laugh slips out of him, short and surprised. “She used to,” he said, grinning crookedly. “Back when I was still doing auditions and struggling to book gigs.”

“Figures,” you mutter, but for some reason, you’re smiling too. You dip your fingers into the small tin of pomade you always carry, and you warm the paste between your hands. “Tilt your head.” Renjun obeys without question, and there’s something about the way he lets you touch him, his trust, his curiosity, that settles a strange warmth in your chest. Your hands smooth through his hair, coaxing it back in careful swoops. “It’s gotta look effortless, like you did it without thinking.”

“Is that what you do?” He asks, eyes closing as your fingertips press gently along his scalp.

“No,” you admit. “I think. A lot.”

Renjun opens his eyes again, studying your face from mere inches away. “Well, if it helps, I think you make it look easy.”

You look away first, cheeks warming. “Don't you go getting all soft on me now.”

But his voice deepens, sincere in a way that cuts through the hum of the diner. “You make me feel like I can be someone else. Someone true to myself.”

You pause, your hands lingering near his cheek. “And you make me feel like I can want more than I have.”

He tilts his head, hair now perfectly slicked, a ghost of your touch still in the strands. “Like what?”

You almost said it. Almost. But instead, you shrug, dropping your hands to the counter. “Maybe I’ll tell you next Tuesday.”

Renjun’s smile is quiet. “I’ll be here.” For a moment, it’s just the two of you and the quiet music from the jukebox in the corner, spinning some lovestruck tune you barely know. His fingers brush yours, light and tentative. “It’s different with you, it’s like I can breathe.” His swallow is audible. “When I’m in the studio, it's like I’m wearing a mask. I’m tired of being the guy everyone expects. The perfect Soc boy.”

You bite your lip, heart clenching. “Well, you do what you gotta do to survive. I’ve never had the luxury of dreaming like that. Greasers don’t get that kind of hope.”

Renjun reaches for your hand, for real this time, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that feels like a promise. “But maybe you deserve to want more, to want out. Maybe it’s okay to dream, even if the world doesn’t make it easy.”

You shake your head. “That’s easy for you to say.”

When you return home that night, you’re climbing up the stairs to the front door when a hand rests on your shoulder, stopping you cold.

“Where have you been?” Johnny questions. You’ve always known him as the one who doesn’t talk much unless it matters.

He’s the guy who taught you how to change a tire before you knew how to drive, who patched up your busted knuckles the first time a street fight went sideways. He buys you coffee when he’s got spare change and slips you his extra cigarette when yours gets crushed in your bag. He never asks for anything in return, except maybe your common sense. So when you hear his voice behind you, low, steady, and unmistakably tired, you already know you’re in trouble.

“Where’ve you been?” He asks once more.

You turn slowly, looking upon Johnny’s face that was half illuminated by the street lights. He took his hand back, crossing his arms and staring you down with his brows furrowed. His hair was swept off his forehead, his leather jacket creased at the elbows like he’s been waiting for a while.

“Nowhere,” you blurt all too fast.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Try again.”

You blow out a breath, eyes flicking to the ground. “It’s nothing. Just…went for a walk after work.”

Johnny steps forward, slow and deliberate. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t curse. That’s not him. It’s worse, somehow, his concern dripping from every word. “I saw you,” he states plainly. “Slipping out from the back of the studio. With him.”

You wince. “So?”

“So?” He copies, voice inflecting up at the end in ridicule. Johnny’s jaw tightens, his hands balling into fists under crossed arms. “You think this is a game? That guy’s a Soc, through and through. Silver spoon in his mouth, money in his pockets, the whole nine yards. He gets paid to play pretend. You don’t.”

“He’s not like the others.”

The corner of Johnny’s mouth twitches. “They never are…until they become like the others.”

You want to snap back and say something cruel just to shut him up, but you don’t, simply because it’s Johnny. The guy who once sat in a hospital waiting room for hours when you cracked a rib. The one who pulled you off the train tracks when your anger got bigger than you were. You know he’s not judging you, he’s just scared. For you.

“I know what I’m doing,” you mutter.

“Do you?” He asks gently, and suddenly he’s not the towering, cocky guy everyone follows without question. He’s just your friend. The one who’s seen what heartbreak can do to you. The one who’s tried to shield you from it more than once.

You swallow. “He makes me feel like I deserve to want things.”

Johnny’s expression cracks just a little. “Then I hope to hell he’s worth it.”

You don’t answer. You just open the front door, pretending your hands aren’t trembling. He doesn’t try to stop you, but he stands on your porch well after you slip inside and shut the door.

The next day, on the other side of town, the Dreamboys flood into the cramped, shabby dressing room at a magazine shoot. Renjun doesn’t even make it to his seat before they surround him like a storm gathering. Chenle perched on the vanity like it was a throne, Jisung by the door like a guard, and Jaemin leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and a lollipop in his mouth. Mark is the only one standing in the middle, blocking the path like he’s hoping this will be a conversation and not a war.

“You had pomade on your collar,” Jaemin says, nodding over to the jacket he wore at the diner last night. “Was she touching you, or were you just playing hairstylist for fun?”

Renjun doesn’t answer. Just grabs the jacket and tosses it to the side.

Mark steps forward. “Look, we get it. She’s cool. Greasers are cool…if you’re into chasing danger and pretending you’re not rich just for the hell of it.”

Renjun folds his arms. “She’s not just a Greaser.”

“Then what is she?” Chenle asks, hopping down from his spot. “A rebel? A middle finger to your family’s perfect image?”

“She’s real,” Renjun states, quiet but firm. “She’s the only person who doesn’t treat me like a porcelain doll or a paycheck.” There’s an ember of surprise, even hesitation, among them.

Jeno, who’s been silent in the corner until now, finally speaks up. “We’re just trying to protect you. You know how this goes. If you cross lines like this, you pay, one way or another.”

“I’m not scared of paying,” Renjun replies, almost bitterly. “I’m scared of being nothing more than what people expect me to be. Some golden Soc boy who’s never lifted a finger.”

A heavy silence settles. Jisung shifts like he wants to speak, but thinks better of it. Jaemin’s lips closed around his lollipop, and his jaw flexed. Mark sighs, exhausted. “Just don’t forget who you are.”

Renjun meets his gaze, steady and unyielding. “Maybe I’m just starting to figure that out.” He pushes past them, jaw tight, and chest burning with something fierce and raw. Hope, fear, defiance, who knows? None of them tried to stop him, but none said goodbye, either. Behind him, the room feels colder, the weight of old expectations pressing down harder than ever.

The backstage chaos swirls around you, the chatter of the crowd beyond the stage, the last-minute checks, the bright and unforgiving lights buzzing overhead. But hidden behind the heavy velvet folds of the curtain that separated the stage from the rest of the studio, everything felt calm.

Renjun sits in the stool in front of you, silent, his eyes closed as you steady his face with one hand and brush foundation over the hollow of his cheek with the other. The world melts away with every gentle stroke, every soft exhale that escapes him. The scent of him surrounds you, a combination of cologne, sweat, the biting sharpness of hairspray, and something distinctly Renjun. Your fingers steady his chin as your brush continues gliding over his skin in practiced strokes.

You’re closer than you should be. You lean closer, your thigh brushing his knee, your breath mingling with his. Every time your hand grazes his cheek, you feel his breath hitch just slightly.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs without opening his eyes.

You pause in your motions. “So are you.”

A silence settles between you. Not empty, but full of what-ifs and possibilities. Then, slowly, he opens his eyes and looks up at you. Before you can talk yourself out of it, your lips meet his.

It’s not desperate. It’s quiet, reverent. The kind of kiss that makes time hesitate. When you break away, you glance over your shoulder. No one is watching. Or at least, not yet. “Someone might come back here,” you whisper. You mean it as a warning, a line drawn.

“I don’t care,” he mutters. But you do. You both do.

Still, your hands falter as you reach for the powder. His fingers brush yours, ink-stained from notes he scribbled in the margins of his script. The touch lingers, hesitant. “Just for a second,” he pleads softly.

It’s reckless. Stupid, even. Yet you kiss him again anyway. It’s quick, stolen, a breathless thing tucked between shadows and seconds. A kiss meant to disappear the moment it’s over. But it lingers on your lips like a secret you’ll never be able to bury deep enough.

You break apart as footsteps echo nearby. Both of you turn away like nothing happened, like you’re still just a makeup artist and a client. But the heat in his gaze tells a different story.

Later, after the curtain has fallen and the show has ended, the price of that kiss begins to surface. Renjun’s manager pulls him aside backstage, voice sharp and cutting. “You need to be careful. Your image, and ours, cannot afford distractions.” The message is clear, and so is the cost. And just like that, the pressure tightens around you.

The whispers grow louder. You catch your name on the lips of coworkers when they think you’re not listening. Your name gets dragged into meetings and sits under pointed fingers. The warning arrives in your hands like a slap. “Inappropriate fraternization,” the letter reads in thick, bold typeface. One of the other makeup artists snickered over your shoulder, seeing the words stretch across the paper.

The director calls you in after hours. His words are clipped. “We’re putting you under review,” he tells you. “You know why.” You nod, lips tight, throat dry. You knew this was coming. Still, it hurts more than you expected.

The next week, Renjun catches your eye across the studio. His look says everything. ‘I’m sorry. I’m scared. I’m not letting go.’

Later, when you step outside for a breath of fresh air, he’s already there. He doesn’t speak, just slips his hand into yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers squeeze, hesitant at first, then tighter like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go. You don’t. Not yet.

Your hand stays in his, your grip firm. It’s a quiet rebellion, tucked in the shadows of the studio’s back door. It’s defiant and dangerous, but it’s yours. Still, your heart twists because holding his hand doesn’t pay the bills. Affection doesn’t soften the sting of a paycheck withheld or the anxiety of being replaced.

You look down at your shoes, worn and secondhand, then up at him, still glowing in post-show adrenaline. He has everything. Or at least, he’s supposed to. Fame, fans, futures mapped out in contracts. You only have this job, this one shot at a foothold in a world that was never built for people like you.

“I can’t afford to be reckless,” you finally say, breaking the silence. “Not like you can.”

“I’m not trying to be reckless,” Renjun responds, his brows furrowing. “I’m trying to be real. Like you.”

“But real doesn’t put food on the table.” You pull your hand just slightly from his. “And it sure as hell doesn’t get me a second chance when they decide I’m a problem.”

“I’m sorry.” He swallows hard, as if your words are a weight he wasn’t ready to carry. “I hate that I’m part of what makes you choose between this job and me.”

You hesitate. Then say the truth. “You’re not the choice. The choice is between surviving and falling for someone who makes me forget how hard this world is.”

The silence stretches between you but still, his hand lingers at your side. Your fingers brush his, aching to believe in a moment that doesn’t come with consequences.

The rumors spread like wildfire–snippets in the morning papers, hushed conversations in dinner booths, sideways glances on the street. The town’s eyes weren’t kind.

You bury yourself in work, hours stretching into late nights spent under the harsh fluorescent lights. Every brushstroke and contour serves as a desperate plea to prove you’re more than just a disposable cog in the glittering machine of showbiz. But the rules have tightened around you like a noose. You’re forbidden from touching Renjun, from being near him at all in the studio. You’re assigned one of the other Dreamboys instead, Jaemin, the one whose eyes narrow each time he catches your reflection in the vanity mirror, sharp as knives.

One evening after the show, the air thick with exhaustion and stale cigarette smoke, he corners you by the loading dock, where you had promised Renjun you would wait for him. His voice dripped with venom. “You’re just a dirty back-alley fling,” he sneers, eyes gleaming with something meaner than jealousy. Entitlement

You shove Jaemin, knuckles hitting his chest with more force than you thought you had left in you. The hit barely moves him, but it’s not that. It’s about not standing there and taking the words he meant to hurt you with.

His hand shoots out, grabbing your arm with a grip tight enough to bruise. “You think he’s gonna save you?” His eyes narrowed. “You think being pretty and pitiful means you get to climb your way out of grease and grime? You’re nothing but a leech.”

The word lands harder than a bruise. Leech. Like you weren’t down here scraping together a life with your own work before anyone like him ever looked at you. Like you didn’t take this job because you needed it, because the bills don’t wait for dreams and hopes.

He spits on your jacket, the wetness soaking through the fabric, cold and sour. “You don’t belong here,” he snarls.

You rip yourself from his grip, your breath shallow while your cheeks burn with shame that’s not yours to carry. Rage coils in your gut, but it doesn’t have anywhere to go, so you walk. Fast. Past the studio, past the places where Renjun might have been already looking for you. You press a hand to your knuckles, the ache blooming under your skin.

Everyone saw what they wanted to see. A girl chasing a golden boy for a leg up in the world. A desperate Greaser who got too close to the fire and now deserved to burn. But they didn’t see the long nights, the cracked fingers from mixing color palettes on a budget, the quiet pride you took in your work. They didn’t see that Renjun wasn’t some prize. He was the only person who ever looked at you like you were already someone.

The world outside may see you as nothing more than a stain on the perfect image they want to protect. But deep inside, under the bruises and the smoke, you vow that this isn’t where your story ends. Not by a long shot.

Renjun waited behind the studio like you’d agreed, the silence stretching longer than usual. When you didn’t show up, his chest tightened with worry, but he didn’t want to cause a scene.

So he went looking for you, finding you already seated in a booth at the diner. You were alone in the corner booth, the bruises on your arm hidden beneath the sleeve of your jacket, but the tremble in your hands was impossible to hide.

Renjun’s footsteps are careful as he slides into the seat across from you. The diner is mostly empty, just a waitress wiping down the counter and a song crackling from the jukebox. You don’t look up right away, you can’t. His voice is quiet, but it cuts through the silence like a knife. “I can’t be everything they want me to be,” his words trembling at the edges and his eyes flickering with a vulnerability you rarely see. “But I know I want to be yours.”

You finally lift your gaze, heart twisting in your chest, but you shake your head, pain flashing across your face at all the things he doesn’t understand. “You’re not built for this kind of fight, Renjun. You’re not like me.” Because you grew up learning to keep your head down, how to survive in the gaps of the world. Because you didn’t have the luxury of falling for someone who could burn your whole livelihood down with a kiss in the wrong hallway. And yet he’s here with ink-stained fingers and hopeful eyes, asking you to believe in something so fragile.

Slowly, he leans in, forehead resting against yours in a quiet promise, his breath warm and trembling. “No, I’m not. But I’d rather be a fool with you than polished and empty without you.”

You want to believe him. God, you do. But the ache in your hand reminds you of the cost. Your gaze drops to your hands, and so does his. He sees the bruised knuckles before you can tuck them away. His breath catches, shoulders going stiff. “What happened?”

You don’t answer, not directly. You watch the way his expression shifts, the fury that pulses under his skin. He’s trying to hold it in, trying not to make it about him. “They don’t want me to love anyone real,” he growls. “Only someone they can market. A perfect girl in a dress with the right smile and no opinions.”

You meet his eyes, something fierce and raw pushing past your walls. “Then why are you still here?”

You stayed because you needed the paycheck, because makeup was a skill you earned, because every time you got close to something good, the world reminded you what you weren’t allowed to have. And yet here he is, with everything to lose, still sitting across from you.

For a long moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, softly, “because maybe, just maybe, I know you’re worth the fight…even if I have to learn how to throw punches.”

You almost laugh, almost cry. Instead, you just look at him and think maybe, for once, someone actually saw you. Not as a threat, not as a leech, just as a girl who wanted something more.

You don’t show up to work the following week. No warning, no note, just an absence that was sharp and loud. The other makeup artists avoid saying your name, like it might summon more trouble, like it might make the bruise on your arm appear on their own.

That Tuesday, Renjun goes on stage anyway. Because that’s his job, it’s what he’s supposed to do. The lights feel colder to him now. Harsher. The applause doesn’t hit like it used to, and when he smiles into the camera, it feels fake in a way it never used to bother him. He goes through the motions, but every step feels like walking across thin ice. Thin, brittle, about to crack if he breathes too hard.

He starts showing up to rehearsals with scuffed shoes. His shirt untucked, his hair slightly undone, like he got halfway through styling and couldn't be bothered to sit still any longer before it was finished. His manager glares at him, and the director asks if he’s getting sick. The other Dreamboys don’t speak to him unless they have to.

You’re there too, eventually. Subdued, backgrounded, careful not to cross lines anymore. At least not publicly. Your work remains professional and impeccable. Your hands don’t shake when you apply powder or smooth flyaways. But you don’t laugh anymore, not with the other girls, not with the crew, not even with Renjun. You nod in passing but avoid his gaze.

Sometimes, just sometimes, when the curtains fall and the stage lights dim, the applause is already fading, you catch him watching you. He watches you like you’re the only thing that matters, like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

Maybe it won’t last. Maybe the world is too big and cruel and loud for something like this. For the pinky promises and hidden kisses and Tuesday night declarations whispered over chipped diner mugs.

But that night, when the last number ends and the curtain sways in the dust swirling, illuminated by the spotlight, Renjun walks straight past the dressing room. He finds you by the prop racks and doesn’t say a word. He simply cups your face in ink-stained hands and kisses you like the world was about to end.

And for a second, it feels like it already has. Like the mess and noise can’t touch you, like the cameras aren’t rolling, like you’re just a girl in a leather jacket and he’s just a boy with too much to lose, like none of it matters.

You kiss him back, sinking into the moment, into him, until a burst of footsteps and familiar laughter cuts through the silence. You break away, peering over Renjun’s shoulder and seeing the other Dreamboys approaching. Panic sparks in your chest, making you go wide-eyed and breathless. “I can’t,” you gasp, and then you’re bolting down the hallway, pushing through the last door, stumbling out into the cool air, and running under the cover of the alley next to the studio.

You brace yourself against the brick wall, heart racing, eyes stinging. The chill in the night presses hard against your skin, but you don’t care. You just need to breathe and think. To feel like the walls weren’t closing in on you.

You hear the door swing open again. Renjun steps out into the alley, breathing hard, jacket sitting halfway down his shoulders like he didn’t have the time to fix it. His lip is split, and there’s a smudge of makeup across his cheek, like someone grabbed him mid-exit. Maybe one of the boys tried to stop him.

He didn’t care. He looks wild and alive. “Don’t run from me,” he begs, voice raw. “Please, not now.”

You shake your head, tears blurring the corners of your vision. “Renjun–”

But he’s already reaching for you, already kissing you again. Harder this time, desperate. You taste blood and peppermint, and something sharper. Fear, maybe. Perhaps even defiance.

When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours. Fingers curled tight into the sleeves of your jacket. “I won’t let you go,” he says resolutely. “Not now. Not ever.”

For the first time, you almost believe him.

The next Tuesday, the cheers from the audience are still echoing through the studio when Renjun steps offstage, but he doesn’t stop to bow. He doesn’t linger for notes or compliments or photo ops like a proper celebrity would.

His shoes are creased, his collar slightly crooked, his hair slipping out of place. He’s not polished, not perfect. He’s not performing anymore. He’s feeling.

Renjun runs past the lights, the dressing rooms, the voices calling his name. He continues down the corridors, through the double doors, out into a thick rain that blurs the edges of the world around him. He keeps going, barely stopping at street lights and crosswalks.

The pavement shimmers under the glow of neon signs. And there you are, exactly where he thought you might be. Leaning against the wall outside the diner, jacket pulled tight, rain clinging to your lashes. You don’t move as he approaches, soaked and breathless. You just look at him, waiting.

“I’m tired,” his voice breaking through the rain. “I’m tired of playing their golden boy. I’m tired of pretending that the stage is enough.”

You stare at him, heart in your throat. “You sure you’re built for this side of town?”

Renju nods, stepping close. “I’m sure that I don’t fit in here, not yet, at least. But I’ll learn if it means I get to see you past just Tuesdays.”

His words catch between you, settling into your skin, soft and brave. Then you’re kissing him again, right there in the rain, under the pink glow of the diner sign.

You don’t know what tomorrow looks like. Maybe the world is still too cruel. But maybe you can write something new. Together. One Tuesday at a time.

Autoplay: If you liked this, you may also like Perfect - Z.Chenle

#GET REC’D ! 💥#yuta-nakamots #renjun x reader #this was such a wonderful literary experience #a read for a rainy summer night after your high school job #i loved this so so much

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