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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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72 Hours In Montreal [Part I]

A/N: Many moons ago, the incomparably lovely @im-an-adult-ish pitched a Montreal concert fic idea (jokingly, I think), and quite a few of my followers fell in love with it. They were even kind enough to vote on which Queen member should be the love interest, and there was a clear winner: John!

I couldn’t get the idea out of my head, and at last, here is the first of three chapters of this new mini-fic. I’m going to tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy. 💜

Series Summary: John Deacon is a rock star at a crossroads. Y/N is a world-weary employee at a Yankee Candle shop. They’ll only ever have three short days in Montreal together...or will they??

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual content (not graphic).

Word Count: 6.8k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk @rhapsodyrecs @joemazzmatazz @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @namelesslosers @inthegardensofourminds @sleepretreat @hardyshoe @sevenseasofcats @jennyggggrrr @madeinheavxn @whatgoeson-itslate @herewegoagainniall @anotheronewritesthedust1 @pomjompish @allauraleigh @bluutac @johndeaconshands

The obnoxious British men are still laughing. The one with the mustache, suspenders, and illogically tight red leather pants is standing on the tiptoes of his equally red Adidas shoes to paw candles off the top shelf so he can sniff them. The blond one has no less than eight jars balanced precariously in his wiry arms. Journey’s Don’t Stop Believing is billowing through the shop speakers.

“Oh my god, he’s gonna break something,” you moan in a whisper, covering your eyes but peeking through your fingers. Your apron is suddenly too tight around your waist; your cheeks are roaring with blood as you envision the inevitable confrontation: Sir, unfortunately you ruined some of our giant tacky overpriced candles and so now you have to pay for them. So sorry. Paper or plastic? We take Mastercard.

“Who?” Kevin asks. He’s holding a broom in one pudgy, pinkish hand and a dustpan in the other. He has surrendered.

“That one. Suspenders and moustache guy. Red shoes guy. Dorothy without Toto.”

Kevin cracks a smile. “That is frighteningly accurate. He is rather whimsical, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll click his heels and disappear back to London or wherever.”

“We aren’t in Kansas anymore,” you mutter in commiseration. Actually, to be perfectly literal, you’ve never been to Kansas in your life.

“Wait, I think I might have met that guy before somewhere.” Kevin squints with great concentration. “He looks oddly familiar…”

“Hm.” You check your eyeliner wings in your reflection in the cash register screen. From what you can tell, they’re every bit as tragically asymmetrical as you remembered. Spectacular.

“Staring won’t make it better,” Kevin notes, very unhelpfully.

“I know,” you reply, miserable, toying with your bangs so you can hide behind them.

“How does that even happen? The right one is practically a 90-degree angle. The left one looks like you drew it on with a Sharpie.”

You groan. “I’ll try to scrub them off during my break.”

“If you’re not too busy helping me sweep glass off the floor, sure,” Kevin says. “I told you, I took an electrical engineering class as an elective once. I could totally take a look at your bathroom.”

“I thought you said you failed that class.”

“No, I said I got a D in that class. Ds aren’t failing.”

“Well now you’ve convinced me.” You scrutinize your reflection again, frowning. You rent a rather dilapidated one-bedroom apartment above a bakery just a few blocks from the Yankee Candle shop. The apartment always smells like powdered sugar and baking bread, which you like. What you don’t like is everything else about it: the peeling paint, the low water pressure, the windows that you can’t wrestle open, the occasional mice, the shoddy electrical wiring. On any given day, there’s an approximately 27% chance that the bathroom light won’t turn on when you flip the switch. This morning you had been on the losing side of those odds, and with the only mirror in the apartment being the one mounted over the sink—and the overcast November skies outside offering painfully little natural light—you had haphazardly guesstimated your way through your makeup routine before dashing off to work. Your guesstimation skills, apparently, are not all that great.

“If he’s The Wizard of Oz...” Kevin points his broom handle from the snickering moustached man to the gangly, poodle-haired one who has been trying to decide between two candles—Christmas Cookie and Cinnamon Stick—for twelve uninterrupted minutes. He’s wearing a parka spotted with patches: a NASA emblem, a soaring rocket, a smiling green extraterrestrial face, Saturn and its rings. “That guy’s gotta be Star Wars.”

“Or Alien,” you suggest, clutching your chest and pretending to die melodramatically.

Kevin laughs. “2001: A Space Odyssey.”

“Close Encounters of The Third Kind.”

“What about that one?” Kevin nods to the guy who has large blue eyes and bleach-blond, fried tufts of hair sticking out in every direction and a grin that is simultaneously childish and foxlike. Under Pressure comes on the shop speakers, and the British men all start cheering and high-fiving each other, leaving their candles momentarily tucked under their arms or quivering precariously on the edges of wooden display tables. You are entirely mystified. “God, he’s gorgeous.”

“Bye Bye Birdie,” you decide. “Beautiful. Charming. Beloved by all. Perhaps a little dangerous. I can picture teenage girls sobbing themselves to sleep as he gallantly marches off to war.”

“You think he’s gay?” Kevin asks hopefully.

“I don’t think he’s dressed well enough for that.” The blond man is wearing a shapeless, polka-dotted sweater that has ‘NIVEA’ spelled across the front, for reasons that are difficult to fathom.

Kevin sighs, crestfallen. He suffered a nasty breakup with his boyfriend Patrick two weeks ago, and is enthusiastically on the hunt for a rebound to distract him. “You’re probably right. Okay, last but not least.” Kevin aims his broom handle at the fourth and final British stranger. “What shall we call him?”

You consider the man who has wandered away from the others. He’s wearing Levi’s, a black bomber jacket, aviator sunglasses, a mop of unwrangled auburn hair, thoughtful lines that break around the corners of his hidden eyes. He is browsing unhurriedly, perhaps even distractedly, through the fruit-scented candles. He picks up a jar of Macintosh Apple, sniffs a few times, then sets it back down precisely where he found it. He even spins the jar so it’s label-side-facing-outwards again. You warm to him immediately.

“One of the James Bond movies?” Kevin offers. “He seems…enigmatic somehow. Esoteric. Yet still clearly leading man material.”

“Casablanca,” you say, not tearing your gaze from the stranger. “I can imagine him waving off some old flame on a foggy, night-draped airport runway, breaking hearts with sparse words of wisdom. Can’t you?”

“Oh, that’s exactly right!” Kevin sighs again, dreamily, yearningly. And whether he’s yearning for his ex-boyfriend Patrick or Bye Bye Birdie a.k.a. NIVEA-sweater man or passion or sex or love or maybe just the ineffable high that accompanies the beginnings of things, you couldn’t say.

You peer at your reflection in the cash register screen once again, feeling more self-conscious than ever. “Maybe if I—”

“Freddie!” Star Wars cries, and you whirl just in time to see The Wizard of Oz, whizzing around and giggling and preoccupied with teasing NIVEA-sweater man, stumble into the six-foot-tall tower of Christmas Tree-scented candles and send countless jars crashing to the tile floor.

“I knew it!” you unleash in a rush of misery and exasperation, the biting threat of tears in your eyes and the back of your throat. And of course, it isn’t just about the mess on the floor, it isn’t just about having to tell your manager and hoping to God he doesn’t fire you. It’s about your derelict apartment, it’s about your fucked up eyeliner, it’s about everything that’s happened in the past eighteen months; it’s about the never-ending feelings of helplessness and inertia and predestined ruin, it’s about not being able to get fifteen meters down the street before life throws up another red light, another jagged sinkhole gaping like ravenous jaws. And none of that is these ridiculous British men’s fault; yet still, in that moment the fury you feel towards them is overwhelming.

“Jesus christ,” Kevin mumbles, stepping out from behind the counter to survey the damage, his hands still clutching the broom and dustbin.

“You couldn’t just mosey around and ask which candles are on sale and maybe sniff one or two like a normal person?!” you explode. “You had to come in here acting like goddamn animals and destroy like a third of our inventory?!”

“I’m so sorry,” The Wizard of Oz sputters, looking at you and Kevin with wide, profusely apologetic dark eyes. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man are helping him to his feet, albeit with very spirited chidings. Kevin is grudgingly asking if he’s alright. Casablanca is already trying to sort through which candles are broken and putting those that survived aside. And when he casts furtive glances from behind his aviator sunglasses, they’re directed not at Kevin or The Wizard of Oz but at you.

“Freddie, bloody hell,” NIVEA-sweater man laments.

“I’ll pay for them all,” The Wizard of Oz tells you. “I’m so, so, so terribly sorry, you’re absolutely right to be cross with me, and I’ll pay for everything. Here, let me get my wallet…” He digs around in the pockets of his preposterously tight red leather pants.

“Uh…sir…” Kevin begins uncertainly, not wanting to break the bad news.

“It’s going to be hundreds of dollars,” you inform The Wizard of Oz. “Maybe over a thousand. You’re really going to pay that? Or are you just going to wait until we start sweeping up and then sprint out the front door the first chance you get?”

“Hey,” Kevin warns you quietly. He wants you to keep this job probably even more than you do. You are, by his own admission, far and away his favorite coworker.

“No, no, darling, please, let her scold me, I deserve it.” The Wizard of Oz at last locates his wallet. He sashays to the counter, brushing nuggets of glittering glass off his clothes, and counts out two thousand Canadian dollars in hundreds. “Will that do? You can keep the change as compensation for the inconvenience. And we’ll help clean up as well, has anyone got an extra broom?”

As you stare down at the money, shocked into speechlessness, three hulking men dressed in black come barreling into the shop.

“Lord in heaven, Freddie, what happened?!” one asks. He has a thick beard and an Irish accent and closely resembles a grizzly bear.

“I made a complete ass out of myself and am now trying to win the affections of this marvelous creature,” The Wizard of Oz replies, flourishing a hand towards you. “Is it working, dear?”

“Kind of,” you admit, still stunned.

“Oh my god.” The broom tumbles out of Kevin’s grasp and clatters on the floor. He points at The Wizard of Oz. “I know where I’ve seen you before. You…you…you’re Freddie Mercury, right?”

In reply, The Wizard of Oz only flashes an enormous, toothy, dazzling grin.

“Oh my god,” Kevin says again, a starry, awed smile rippling across his round face.

“Please don’t make his ego any bigger,” Star Wars pleads.

“And you’re Brian May!” Kevin replies. “And you’re…” He turns to NIVEA-sweater man, snapping his fingers, trying to remember. “Robbie…no, Ronnie…uh…Ricky…?”

“Roger Taylor.” But it comes out like ‘Rogah Taylah.’ NIVEA-sweater man extends a hand for Kevin to shake, not the least bit offended. “It’s a pleasure. Sorry about the candles.”

“No problem, sir!” Kevin squeaks as he takes Roger’s hand, beaming. The men in black—the band’s security, you’ve gathered—have descended upon the crime scene, confiscated Kevin’s broom and dustbin, and are rapidly clearing glass and chunks of candlewax from the floor and discarding the mess in a trash bin that usually collects only chewed gum and unwanted receipts.

“So I guess I probably shouldn’t have yelled at you,” you tell Freddie Mercury guiltily, all the venom in your voice evaporated. You’re no Queen superfan, true, but everyone knows the words to Bohemian Rhapsody and We Will Rock You and We Are The Champions. And Another One Bites The Dust. And Killer Queen. And Crazy Little Thing Called Love. And Somebody To Love. Your thoughts are suddenly a racing, indecipherable blur. Your knees are boneless. You’ve never met a celebrity before. Well, not unless you count professional hockey players, which you definitely don’t.

“No, you absolutely should have,” Freddie retorts. “I was dreadfully discourteous. I’m positively mortified about it. I should be punished severely. Have you got anything behind the counter to whip me with? A riding crop, perhaps?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Not that I know of. I’m sorry I called you an animal.”

“I’m sorry about the candles. There, now we’re even. Wait, not quite yet.” He calls over to Kevin: “Darling, how would you and your friend like front row seats at our show tonight?”

The squeal that bursts out of Kevin is not human.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Freddie Mercury says, very pleased.

“This is really too generous of you,” you protest, although your heart isn’t in it; Kevin might legitimately strangle you if you screw this up, and you’re finding that you want to see Queen in concert too. It’s something to interrupt the powerless, unrelenting monotony; it’s like something that might happen in a movie or a dream.

“Nonsense!” Freddie announces cheerfully. Star Wars and NIVEA-sweater man—or, rather, Brian and Roger—are chatting with the security guys and nodding along as the bearlike Irishman reviews the day’s itinerary.

You peer over at Casablanca. Now that the floor is mostly clear, he’s migrating towards you and Freddie. You glance apprehensively down at your reflection. “Goddammit,” you mutter, manipulating your bangs again, wishing you could disappear. “I meet a rock star for the first time ever and I look like this.”

“It’s not that bad,” Kevin says, obviously lying.

“I like it,” Freddie tells you, propping his elbows on the counter and resting his chin on his knuckles. “It’s very goth raccoon chic.”

“My bathroom light wouldn’t turn on this morning and I was late for work and I guesstimated and that was clearly a poor decision.” Poor decisions are my expertise, you think instinctively, and feel a tug of something you don’t quite have the words for. Shame, grief, disappointment, a raw sting like a flame beneath your palm, a dread like a child who’s lost their mother’s hand.

“I’ve offered to take a look at the wiring!” Kevin exclaims. “I told you, a D is passing!”

“Kev, babe,” you reply. “I really, truly appreciate your enthusiasm, but you’ll probably just make it worse. And then my landlord will hate me and keep my security deposit and write me awful references and I’ll have to live in an endless string of ancient, hideous apartments until I die.”

“It’s an electrical problem?” Casablanca asks, pushing his aviator sunglasses up into his unruly hair. His unveiled eyes are a blueish grey—they remind you of one of the candles, maybe Beach Walk or Bahama Breeze—and very direct. He stares at you and you stare back, and at some point you realize that everyone is waiting for you to answer.

“Oh, uh, yeah, I guess so. Sometimes nothing happens when I flip the switch. That’s the extent of my handyman knowledge, unfortunately.”

Casablanca nods. “I could take a look, if you like.”

Not Beach Walk. Not Bahama Breeze. Warm Luxe Cashmere, maybe. “Now that really is too generous. I couldn’t possibly put a rock star to work on my terrible apartment.”

“John’s got a degree in electrical engineering, that’s right in his wheelhouse,” Brian counters.

“Yes,” Roger says, grinning, teasing in a way that has absolutely no malice in it. “He’s more of an engineer than a rock star anyway, isn’t he?”

“Seriously?” Casablanca—John, you mentally correct yourself—doesn’t seem much like an electrical engineer. But Roger’s right: he doesn’t really seem like a rock star, either. What John seems like is steady and abiding and perceptive, attentive, unflinching. He studies you like some people study paintings, like you once studied paintings; not in a passing-by-in-a-crowded-hallway type way but in a patient way, a methodical way, with the quiet that comes from knowing that vision in the frame is older than you will ever be and will still be hanging on that wall when you’re bones in a box somewhere.

Freddie lights a cigarette and puffs on it decadently. Smoking definitely isn’t allowed inside the Yankee Candle shop, but you aren’t about to snap at Freddie Mercury for the second time today. “Oh, let him tinker around in your flat, darling. It’ll make his day.”

“Is it far?” John asks you.

“No, really, Casa…uh, I mean, John, I appreciate the offer more than I could possibly express but I—”

“It’s just a few blocks north,” Kevin says, and tosses you a wily smile.

“How convenient!” Freddie trills. “When does your shift end, dear?”

“Not until 5:30.”

“She can take a long lunch break.” Another smile from Kevin. “Honestly, there’s not much to do around here now that the Great Candle Massacre of 1981 has been remediated.”

“Splendid!” Freddie says, radiant.

You shake your head, very slowly. “This is the weirdest day of my life.”

“Then you clearly haven’t lived enough,” Freddie quips.

“Fred!” Roger presses. “Are we going to the bookstore down the street or not? That was the whole deal, we suffer through your candles, you suffer through our books.”

“You didn’t seem to be suffering,” Brian says.

“Of course I’m suffering. That cashier over there almost murdered me,” Roger slings back.

Freddie sighs and rolls his large, dark, expressive eyes. “Yes, darling, of course, don’t give yourself an aneurism. We’ll go to the bookstore, John can rendezvous with us later.” Now he turns to you. “We’ll send a car to your flat at 7 to pick you and Kevin up for the show tonight. Don’t let John leave without knowing your address. Wear something deliciously opulent. Lots of sparkle. Maybe furs.”

“I make eight dollars an hour,” you tell him.

“Or you could just wear nothing.”

“Sparkle and furs it is.”

Freddie chuckles and turns to the men in black. “Chubby, my dear?”

The towering bearlike Irishman replies: “Yeah, I’ll go with John. Don’t wreck anything else while I’m gone. Don’t get yourselves deported before the show. EMI will have your heads on spikes.”

Freddie pretends to be scandalized. “Causing destruction? We would never.” He saunters towards the shop door, jingling the bells as he swings it open, and waves like royalty. “See you tonight, darlings!”

“Bye!” Kevin shouts after him. And then, after Freddie, Roger, Brian, and the two non-bearlike men in black have departed: “Oh my god I just met Freddie Mercury and he’s amazing and he knows I exist and he spoke to me and tonight he’s sending a car to take me to a concert and I’m going to have front row seats and what if he invites me to have a drink afterwards oh my god.”

John, evidently unaffected, prompts you: “So your place is just a few blocks away?”

“Yeah. Just let me get my coat…”

The man in black—Chubby, as Freddie had introduced him—fetches your coat off the rack by the door and holds it up so you can slip inside it. No one has ever done that for you before.

“…Thanks…?” You button your coat, feeling a little like royalty yourself at the moment.

John pulls open the door, the tiny metal bells jangling, and gestures out into the streets of downtown Montreal. He’s wearing his aviator sunglasses again; the November wind gusts through his hair. You catch threadbare ghosts of cigarette smoke and cologne that the breeze lifts from his skin like pages of a book. And he smiles, just barely. “After you.”

You walk north together along the path of the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets, your breath fog in the cold, weaving through the bustling crowds of tourists and holiday shoppers, Chubby trailing not far behind and displaying his talent for keeping watch while not letting on that he is. To even your own horror, you can’t seem to shut up.

“John, this is so kind of you, this is completely unnecessary, you really shouldn’t feel like you owe me anything because Freddie already paid for the candles twice over and I was totally unprofessional for yelling at customers, even annoying customers, and Kevin and I are already getting a free concert tonight and so—”

“Okay,” John says firmly. “You have to talk about something else now.”

“I can’t talk about anything else. All I can think about is how ridiculous this is.”

“Have you lived in Montreal long?” he asks, very casually, as if you’re strangers in line next to each other at Starbucks.

“My whole life.” Minus a little over three years, but you don’t need to get into that. “My parents live over in Verdun, right on the St. Lawrence River.

“Sounds scenic.”

“It certainly is.” You’re trying not to look at John, because every time you do it’s hard to stop. You look at the cars rolling by instead. “This is super embarrassing, and I don’t mean to offend you, but what exactly do you do in Queen?”

He’s not offended; he thinks it’s hilarious. “I’m the bassist.”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“Yeah, bassists are quiet and reliable or whatever. Bassists don’t terrorize Yankee Candle employees.”

“You’re not a Queen fan?”

“I’m a casual and appreciative listener, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I couldn’t pick any of you out of a lineup, clearly. Roger is the drummer, right?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Drummers are feral, almost universally. Which means Brian must be lead guitar.”

“And what do you think of lead guitarists?”

“Word on the street is that they are brilliant yet micromanaging egomaniacs, but I don’t want to bash your friend or anything.”

John chuckles, like there’s some joke you aren’t in on yet. “No, please, bash away. So you prefer bassists.”

And finally you do look at him, and you regret it immediately; because now you’re caught in the thoughtful crinkles around his eyes and the barely-there stubble of his cheeks and the playful curve of his lips and how the wind ruffles his auburn hair the same way it steals leaves off of slumbering trees. You almost walk right past the bakery. “Oh, wait, we’re here.”

You lead John and Chubby upstairs to your chronically irritating apartment. John removes his sunglasses, inspects your bathroom light switch, then asks if you have a specific kind of screwdriver. You bring him the toolkit that has lived beneath the kitchen sink since before you moved in and he roots around, finds what he’s searching for, and unfastens the light switch plate from the wall.

“Please don’t electrocute yourself,” you fret, as Chubby meanders around in the living room and tries not to intrude. “If you die your groupies will never forgive me.”

“Who says I’ve got groupies?” John replies, amused.

“I just assumed all rock stars do.” Your eyes flick down to his hands as he fidgets with the wiring; and you notice randomly—or, maybe, not all that randomly—that he’s not wearing a ring. You’re still ruminating over that when he returns the light switch plate to the wall, secures each of the four screws with a few deft twists of his wrist, and performs a test flip. The light turns on immediately.

“Mission accomplished,” John says mildly.

“What?! No, no way, no freaking way.” You flip the switch again. The light turns off and on obediently. You try it at least five more times. Perfection. “…How?!”

“Just a few loose wires. No great hardship.” He tucks the screwdriver back into the toolkit.

You gape at him. “That took you…like…two minutes.”

“Aren’t you glad my band wandered into your candle shop and almost demolished the place today?” He rests his hands on his waist; his sturdy, skillful, ringless hands. “Anything else I can fix for you?”

“Definitely not.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He stares at you. You stare back.

“Stop looking at my fucked up eyeliner.”

John laughs. It’s a delightfully clear, disarming sound. “That’s not what I was doing.”

“I should fix my makeup and go back to work now. And you should probably go help your friends burn down the bookstore or blow up a Starbucks or do whatever else is on your agenda for today.”

“Soundcheck and dinner, actually,” John says. He slides the toolkit back beneath your kitchen sink, meets Chubby by the front door, and pauses there to give you one last lingering, laden gaze. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“In my best furs,” you purr in your most convincing Freddie Mercury impression.

“Or nothing at all,” John suggests levelly. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

It turns out better than you thought it would. Your tan, knee-high suede boots are celebratory without being too uncomfortable. Kevin brings you a faux fur jacket that he stole from Patrick during the breakup. You find a glittery black dress in the back of your closet that you once loved, then couldn’t stand to look at, then forgot existed entirely; but tonight it’s like you’re seeing it with brand new eyes. It fits even better than you remember. In the mirror, you look like a stranger and a hauntingly familiar acquaintance and yourself all at once.

Chubby arrives in a black limousine at precisely 7pm, parks along the curb next to the bakery, and honks the horn twice. You and Kevin dash down the narrow steps and climb into the backseat, finding complimentary cigarettes and bottled water and chilled champagne. As the limo rolls though Montreal under changing traffic lights, Kevin prattles on about the band, their history, their albums, their tours…and John in particular. He tries to tempt you. You resist valiantly…for the first fifteen minutes, anyway.

Finally, you sigh in capitulation. “Okay. Fine. I get it. What do you know about him?”

“I know he’s divorced,” Kevin says, wiggling his eyebrows. “I saw it on the cover of a tabloid a while back. Very contentious, spicy stuff. He’s got like eight kids.”

“He does not have eight kids!”

“Okay, maybe not eight. But he has a lot,” Kevin insists.

You rearrange your hair with deliberate flippantness. “What do I care if he’s divorced?”

Kevin grins. “You know why you care.”

“Stop,” you plead.

“Look, all I’m saying is that he definitely likes you. And you like him. And I haven’t seen you like anybody, ever, in the…wait, let me count…the nine whole months that I’ve known you. When was the last time you even had a boyfriend? When was the last time you got laid? Oh my god, it hasn’t been nine months, has it?! That’s way too long to go without sex. No wonder you’re so serious all the time. It all makes sense now. You poor thing. You’re in dick withdrawal.”

“Assuming that’s my problem—which it isn’t, by the way—if I wanted to get laid there are far easier ways to accomplish that.”

“Sure,” Kevin says. “But you don’t want just any dick. You want British bassist dick. John Deacon dick. Casablanca dick.”

“This friendship is terminated.”

Kevin cackles, pouring himself a glass of champagne that bubbles over the top and spills onto the limo floor. “I’m really glad you’re here with me. I’m glad we can do this together.”

You fill a champagne flute with bottled water and clink your glass against his, smiling. The limo is turning into the parking lot of the Montreal Forum. “Me too.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The backstage room that Chubby escorts you and Kevin to after the show is full of chatter and heavy smoke and roadies and fans and musicians and journalists, trays of hors d'oeuvres, wine and Stella Artois and vodka and tequila and rum, the electric promise of things that will go unmentioned in the morning. There are stacks of stereo speakers in the corner rumbling out Another One Bites The Dust. You and Kevin camp out on a green velvet couch—making small talk with each other to avoid making it with anyone else—until the band arrives.

John is still wearing his concert outfit: blue pants, blue shirt, a black leather jacket that gives him an edge like a knife. He passes out a few polite nods; but Freddie and Roger are undeniably the suns in this room, and the guests their planets. Freddie is soon surrounded by a constellation of followers and whisks Kevin away with him. John, meanwhile, comes straight to where you’re sitting on the couch and stands in front of you with his messy hair and his veil of cologne and his mystery-candle-blue eyes.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks in that calm, measured way that you’ve learned he has. “Rum and Coke? Moscow Mule? Hurricane? I’ve been on a mojito kick recently.”

“I don’t drink.” And you wait for the inevitable awkwardness that usually follows that sentence, when he says why? or seriously? or maybe just oh in wilted disappointment.

Instead, what John says is this: “No problem. Rum minus the Coke?”

You smile up at him. You can’t help yourself. “That would be perfect.”

There are innumerable drinks already poured on a table, dark carbonated liquid trembling in red plastic cups as the bass from the stereo speakers quakes through the crowded, droning, smoke-hazed room. John moves from cup to cup, taking tentative sips before shaking his head and putting them back down on the table. After each attempt, he casts you a rueful smirk before continuing on to the next cup. At last, he finds two unadulterated Cokes and brings them to the couch: one for you, and one for him. He sits beside you with one of his legs crossed over the other, a lit cigarette in his right hand, a red plastic cup of Coke in his left, and his eyes on you in a way that isn’t hungry or arrogant or restless but merely, benignly contemplative. You find yourself thinking of paintings in museums again, you even start to feel a little like one; and you wonder what colors he sees in you, what types of brushstrokes, what signatures scribbled in the corners of the canvas, what shadows painstakingly penciled in to mimic the angles of the sun.

You tell John about growing up in Montreal, about autumn strolls along the St. Lawrence River, about snowfalls and Mont-Royal and Chinatown and the Notre-Dame Basilica, about the exhilarating turmoil of the Summer Olympics in 1976. You tell him about how Kevin is in his last year at Concordia University and works part-time at the Yankee Candle shop for money to invest in his hair gel and travel fund. You tell him so many things he doesn’t notice all the parts you leave out. In return, John tells you about himself; not about John Deacon the bassist of Queen, but about the understated man who likes cars and electronics and the Beatles and tea in the evenings beside a roaring fireplace. And when his arm comes to rest on the back of the green velvet couch, and then across your shoulders, and then around your waist, it doesn’t feel strange at all. You lean into him as you exchange stories and clandestine giggles until you’re nearly in his lap, and that doesn’t feel strange either. And you haven’t had a drop of alcohol—you haven’t in almost a full year, in fact—but you feel a little drunk tonight, because your cheeks are hot and the room is blurry and the world is brimming with a pure, rose-gold, uncomplicated happiness.

The other band members periodically stop by to say hello, clutching their drinks and making stilted pleasantries as you and John smile drowsily up at them, looking nothing like the soberest people in the room. Chubby and the rest of the men in black are simultaneously omnipresent and scarce, which you are beginning to think is a requirement inked into their job description. Kevin, having been fully absorbed into Freddie’s entourage, is beaming and flushed and extremely, blissfully tipsy. And they all watch you and John not with scandalized sideways glances but with warm approval swimming in their gleaming eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you yet,” you tell John when you are alone again. “For improving my dreadful apartment. So thank you. You really didn’t have to do that. I hate that I marred your time in Montreal with unpaid labor.”

He shrugs it off. “I like fixing things. It’s what I’m best at.”

“Besides being an internationally acclaimed rock star, you mean.”

“I’m honestly not so sure I’m cut out for the rock star life.”

“You are, though. I saw you. I watched you all night.”

John just stares at you, and then he leans in even closer, inhaling deeply. You can feel the heat of his breath on your collarbone, your shoulder, your neck; goosebumps spring up across your skin like stars at twilight. “What the hell is that? Perfume? Lotion? Shampoo?”

“It’s probably sugar and baking bread, because I live on top of a bakery.”

“Does Yankee Candle make anything that smells like you?”

You laugh, shaking your head. “They definitely do not.”

“They should,” John murmurs. And with the rough whirlpools of his fingertips he turns your face to his so he can kiss you.

It should be kind of humiliating, right? Making out with some guy you just met on a green couch in front of thirty strangers, your hands getting tangled in each other’s hair, your lips meeting again and again, taunting darts of the tongue and quick painless bites and stifled moans and grasping tugs at clothes that you’re starting to wish weren’t there at all. It should feel embarrassing, you should feel overexposed, here in this land of unfamiliar expectations and accents and faces. But no one seems to be watching too closely. This must be so tame in the world of rock stars, it occurs to you; almost wholesome. And you can’t remember a time you’ve ever felt more at peace.

“There’s a pool table in the next room,” someone says, startling you, and you break away from John to discover Roger perched on the arm of the couch, grinning coyly as he sips his emerald glass bottle of Stella Artois. “I mean…you know. If you’re into that. John’s got all sorts of moves, we played for days at a time at Ridge Farm. You could challenge him to a round or two. Place bets. But be warned…he’s a total pool shark.”

“Is he?” you ask mischievously, clasping the lapel of John’s leather jacket. Even if you freed him, he shows no indication of retreating. He’s raking his knuckles back and forth along the length of your thigh that your little black dress leaves exposed, never venturing above the hem.

Roger winks. “Just thought you might want to know.” Then he hops off the couch and disappears into the crowd again.

John is trying to keep his eyes locked on yours, and no lower. He’s trying to not be even vanishingly forceful. He’s trying not to sway you. But you know exactly what he wants. “Do you…?”

“Show me how to play pool,” you whisper. And you lead him through the shuffling bodies and boisterous, increasingly intoxicated laughter and cumulus clouds of cigarette smoke to the door on the other side of the room.

Beyond the threshold you find a pool table and not much else. It’s terribly unceremonious; it’s absolutely perfect. You can hear Blondie’s Call Me playing back in the packed room where the rest of the band is still reveling, the bass crawling through the walls to radiate in your eardrums, your bones. You lock the door and reach out to flick off the harsh florescent lights, but John stops you. You don’t have to ask him why. He wants to be able to see you. He asks if this is okay—again, wordlessly, with the forthright blue of his eyes—and you nod. And then he kisses you as you drag him in, breathing in his cologne and nicotine, tasting the virgin Coke on his lips that he drank just for you.

John tears off his leather jacket. You toss the faux fur that Kevin lent you to the floor. You climb up onto the pool table, and John follows you. You yank off his shirt, link your suede boots around him as he positions himself between your naked, down-soft thighs. And then John stops.

“Look, I have to be honest,” he says. His hands tremble as they cradle the small of your back, just barely. “I’m newly divorced, and I’m really out of practice, I mean really out of practice, and this is not at all my usual way of doing things, and if I’m total rubbish or only last like thirty seconds or something I just want to apologize in advance and swear that I’ll do absolutely everything I can to make this worth it for you. Because I like you. I really, really like you.”

“I’m a little rusty too,” you confess with a small, sheepish smile. But he doesn’t need to know exactly how rusty you are, or in how many ways, all those layers of blood-hued ruin that spin webs from the skin down to the marrow.

John seems relieved. “Then maybe we’re even.”

You’re not even, you’re nowhere close; but it’s comforting that he thinks you could be.

John kisses you again. His hands find the zipper on the back of your dress, and then the tiny metal clasp of your bra, and then the black lace of your panties…and then everything else as well.

~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you return together to the green velvet couch in the next room, not with bashful swiftness but with your hands entwined, your eyes satiated and calm, your clothes unapologetically rumpled. The partying is winding down. The song pouring through the stereo speakers is In The Air Tonight by Phil Collins. And now you and John don’t talk very much at all; you just sit there with fresh cups of Coke, your head resting against his chest, his left arm draped around you, watching the rest of the universe spin on like a carousel as your feet stay rooted to the earth.

“So you’re the smart one,” you say eventually. “You must be, with an electrical engineering degree.”

“You’d be surprised. We’re rather erudite, as far as rock stars go.” He smiles drowsily down at you. “Freddie’s got a degree in graphic art and design. Roger has one in biology. Brian has the better part of a PhD in astrophysics. He might even go back to finish it one day. He probably will, just to be able to lord it over us.”

“Wow,” you reply, distantly, suddenly feeling very small.

“What did you study?” he asks you.

In truth, you never finished college; but you aren’t going to tell John that. “Something useless.”

John is intrigued, and perhaps a little concerned as well. His brow furrows with grooves like lines of fortune in an open palm.

“I wanted to be a painter,” you explain, smirking at the absurdity. “But the world doesn’t need painters anymore. They have pictures and videos that are just as clear as real life. They don’t need my fantasies or interpretations. They have reality.”

“I think we still need painters,” John disagrees, his calloused fingertips tracing lazy circles around your bare shoulder.

“Really?”

“Yeah. For when reality requires improving.”

You let a few moments of silence tick by. And then you put on your faux fur jacket, finish the last of your Coke, stand and find your balance on the low heels of your boots with exhausted, shaky calves.

John jolts upright, somewhat alarmed. “Hey, you don’t have to—”

“This was great, John. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time. So thank you for that. But I have to go home now.”

“Okay.” He studies you, processing. “Okay, okay. I’ll have Chubby drive you.”

“That’s really not necessary, I can get a cab…”

But John has already waved Chubby over, and the massive man appears serendipitously with an impossible degree of stealth. Kevin finds you, staggering, babbling breathlessly about all of his adventures, showing you where Freddie and Roger and Brian signed his chest with a black Sharpie, repeating the same stories on an identical loop every few minutes. As you leave, you offer John a brief parting wave; and he returns it, like a reflection in a mirror, but he’s wearing a pensive frown and eyes dark with thought. Then again, maybe you are too.

Chubby leads you and Kevin outside to the waiting limousine. You slip into the backseat, ply Kevin with bottled water, open the sunroof so moonlight and cold, reviving November air can flood in like a river.

Kevin is coming down now from the high of the champagne and the concert and the carousing with Freddie Mercury. He blinks, soaking you in, really seeing you for the first time in hours. “Wow, you had a good night with Casablanca. You had a really good night.”

“Yeah,” you reply softly, resting your head against the window and watching the stars and streetlights pass by above like seasons. “And it will never happen again.”

#queen fic #john deacon fic #fic series #72 hours in montreal

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galoots · 5 years

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Team Uncle Week 2019 - Day Two: Teasing Donald and his classmate, Daisy, are working on a school project at the McDuck Manor. And these two obviously have it bad for one another. Politely, Scrooge waits until after Daisy leaves to mercilessly clown on his beloved nephew.

Scrooge carefully picked his way through an obstacle course of scattered sheets, uncapped markers, open textbooks, glue sticks, and vials of glitter that littered the floor. His previously pristine living room now resembled the desolate battlefield of some craft-related war. Not that he particularly minded a little mess as long as Donald and his little study partner were getting their project done. Duckworth, however, would surely have a fit if he laid eyes upon this catastrophic mess.

He reached the couch just as the kids re-entered the living room. Both Donald and Daisy were carrying armfuls of fresh school supplies, backup munitions to bolster their existing armaments. Donald’s greeting was cut short when a stray marker underfoot caused him to lose his footing, sending him crashing to the ground. With an elegant sidestep, Daisy avoided the trajectory of Donald’s fall and watched his supplies spill everywhere.

“Hello Mr. McDuck.” She greeted him politely while using her sneaker-clad foot to jostle Donald’s prone body, making sure he was still alive.

His uncle fought back a sigh. Ever since that boy had hit his growth spurt, he’d become an accident waiting to happen. He’d been clumsy before, but puberty compounded his bungling into something extraordinary. A regular bull in a china shop.

Scrooge suppressed the urge to rush to his nephew’s side to check on him like he would whenever he took a spill as a tot. The last thing he wanted to do was embarrass Donald in front of his new objet d’affection. Still, he couldn’t conceal a sympathetic wince when Donald’s chin collided with the hardwood floor.

He cleared his throat loudly to distract Daisy from the spectacle of a flustered Donald scrambling to collect himself. “So how goes the project, kiddos?”

“G-good!” Donald was crouched now, trying to play off his fall as if it hadn’t happened and gathering up the items he’d spilled. “We, uh, we’ve been working hard. A+ material for sure!”

Daisy made a smug little noise at that remark. “I’ve been working hard he means. Donald here—” she flipped his bangs teasingly with her hand, “—keeps zoning out and staring off into space.”

“Not true!” He stopped cleaning up in order to playfully yank her tied shoelaces undone. “I wrote the whole section about the socio-political fallout that lead to the dawn of WWII!”

“Hey!” Daisy cried with mock offense at his retribution and bumped him with her hip in response. “Only ‘cause I had to nag you last night to work on it instead of bombarding me with IM’s.”

A small knowing smile crept on to Scrooge’s face while he watched their cute repartee over the folded edge of his newspaper. They’d only befriended each other recently but almost immediately established a familiar coquettish rapport with one another. Scrooge wasn’t the most perceptive duck in the flock, but even he knew puppy love when it was staring him in the face. He watched their spectacle with subtle attention while the two of them—absorbed in laughter and chatter, shy accidental brushes of the hand, exchanges of coy smiles and glances—forgot entirely about his presence in the room.

He let their steady banter coupled with the soft scratch of pencil lead on paper serve fade to the background of his focus as he turned back to his reading. The two of them were well-suited for each other it seemed, since they were able to make steady progress on their project despite their flirting.

Time passed pleasantly as the hour grew later, marked by the steady fading of the light outside. Having noticed the change, Daisy checked her wristwatch and began to pack up her things. “I gotta get home.” She swung her backpack over her shoulder and stood up, smoothing her skirt as she did so.

“Already?” Donald complaint was tinged with disappointment. No doubt their time together seemed excruciatingly short from his point of view.

Daisy nudged him with her shoulder. “It’s late! If I stay any later my mom will flip. She’ll think I skipped town with some hunky guy or something.”

Donald opened his beak to ready a response, but Scrooge intervened, asking Daisy if she needed a ride home before his nephew could utter a word. He knew his nephew well enough to know when he was about to insert his foot into his mouth. It was for his own good anyway—he doubted Donald’s remark about the identity of that hunky guy being a certain teen-aged duck would have been successful.

Scrooge threw his newspaper onto the couch as he hastily moved to prevent disaster. “So, need a ride home, Daisy?”

“No thanks, Mr. McDuck. I rode my bike here.”

“Alright,” Scrooge yielded, “Just see to it you get home safely, alright? I don’t want to read about a reckless driver’s collision with cyclist because of low visibility in tomorrow’s paper.”

“I’ll be fine, Mr. McDuck. I got those reflective stickers on my bike.” She smiled at him, pleased that he cared enough to worry about her.

Like the courteous gentleman Scrooge raised Donald to be, he walked their guest to the door to see her out. Scrooge trailed behind, letting Donald hold the door open for her while they exchanged pleasantries. As Daisy took off down their driveway, she waved to them both before finally pedaling out of sight.

Donald waved dreamily at her retreating figure and said, in a voice too quiet for her to hear, “Bye, Daisy.”

Scrooge smirked at his love-sick nephew. Turning to head back inside, Donald caught his uncle’s smug little grin.

“What?” Donald shut the door behind him, noticing Scrooge’s impish grin.

He didn’t want to tease his nephew about his crush when she was present, but now that she was gone? It was a no-holds barred moosewood stadium freestyle goofing sesh, and Scrooge was ready to bring the heat.

“Oh, nothing…” He swung his cane nonchalantly in the air on his way back to the living room, eager for Donald to take the bait.

Donald jogged after him, a perturbed, suspicious look fixed on his face. “What are you smiling about?”

Scrooge sat gingerly back down on the couch. Hook, line, and sinker. Time for the games to begin. “Can’t a man smile in his own home?”

Donald eyed him with apprehension, let out a hmph, and bent down to start tidying the mess he’d left on the living room floor.

Crossing his ankle over his knee, Scrooge tittered to himself. “That Daisy of yours is quite the nice young gal, isn’t she?”

Right on cue, Donald blushed and stammered nervously. “She’s fine! I guess. Whatever, its not like I like her or anything. I mean, I like her but not like, like-like her. She’s just a girl! Who happens to be a friend!”

Scrooge hummed, sounding unconvinced. His nephew ducked his head bashfully, focusing his attention on his cleaning efforts.

He tapped a finger against his chin, peering down at Donald. “You know, Tennyson said Spring was the time a young man’s fancy turns to thoughts of love. I think he may be mistaken; the season’s clearly fall.”

Dropping his armful of stationery, Donald squawked. “I don’t love her!”

Chuckling, Scrooge swatted Donald’s head lightly with his rolled-up newspaper. “I was discussing poetry, nephew. You should be the expert. You are the designated poet in this family, after all.”

Grumbling loudly, Donald started to pack up the arts and crafts supplies even faster.

“Speaking of, you haven’t given me one of your poems to read in a while. Yet, I always see you scribbling away in that notebook of yours…”

Donald abruptly stood, eyes wide, and brow furrowed, briskly walking out the room. Following in quick pursuit, Scrooge wheeled around the corner into the parlor. Donald was already making his way up the stairs, beating a hasty retreat to his room.

He called after him good-naturely, enjoying the sport. “What’s the matter, nephew? No blason? No sonnets?” Scrooge puffed out his chest, thudding a fist against it, recited pompously, “My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun…”

“Shut it!” Donald leaned over the banister, waist against the railing, to shout angrily at his uncle. “That’s not even what that sonnet’s about! It’s a satirical send-up of the poetic conventions of courtly love! God!”

Scrooge’s laughter echoed up the staircase and down the hall Donald was trying to cross as fast as he could. Motivated, Scrooge ignored the pain in his hip to catch up with his nephew. He swung an arm over the boy’s shoulder, pulling him so close their cheeks were smushed together. “Ah young love! You never forget your first love. It’s special you know.”

With a violent shrug, Donald escaped from his uncle’s hold and stomped off towards his bedroom, quickly flinging the door closed. He hadn’t escaped the onslaught however, because Scrooge had wedged his cane between the door and its frame before it could close. Donald leaned his weight on the door, trying to keep Scrooge out, but his uncle still outclassed him when it came to strength, and he slid forward as Scrooge pushed the door open. He strolled in like he owned the place, continuing on like he hadn’t just strong-armed his way past Donald’s defenses.“Although I suppose Mickey was your first love. Oh my, he isn’t upset about this, is he?”

“I’ve told you a million times, Uncle Scrooge! We were friends! We were never together! I don’t even like boys!” Donald squeaked out through the thick of his embarrassment.

“Ah, is that why I found you two locked in a passionate kiss that one time?”

Donald covered his bright-red face with his hands and, with a phrase now commonplace in their household, whined, “It wasn’t what it looked like!” He whipped around shoving fruitlessly at his uncle’s back. “Get out of my room! Go away!”

“Oh no,” Scrooge melodramatically exclaimed, throwing a hand to his forehead in an imitation of a faint. “I feel weak, Donald!” He leaned his weight against Donald’s hands.

“No, you’re not! Leave me alone!”

“Donald, m’boy, my body’s growing heavy. I can’t seem to move at all! How curious!” Donald was supporting his uncle’s weight now as Scrooge went limp. His arms shook with strain as he protested.

“If you don’t love me, Donnie, I do believe I’ll expire right here on the spot!”

“No, you won’t! Cut it out!”

“I’m dying…” Scrooge slumped completely against Donald. “I’m dead…” They flopped onto the bedspread as Donald’s arms gave out, and Scrooge sat on top of his nephew, pinning him to the bedspread with his weight.

“Get offa me!” Donald struggled, kicking his legs and waggling his arms, but couldn’t break free. Frustrated, he buried his head in his duvet, grumbling furious remarks into the fabric.

Well that wouldn’t do, Scrooge thought. He wanted a happy Donald, not a grumpy one. Fortunately, he knew the perfect solution. Scrooge grabbed the boy’s ankle, confining his leg between his arm and his side, and started tickling the underside of Donald’s foot. Immediately, Donald burst into hysterical laughter, his body shaking with his guffaws while he squirmed to try and get away.

It didn’t take long for Donald to yield, crying, “Uncle! Uncle!”

Unfortunately for him, Scrooge loved a good pun. “Yes, I am your uncle. What of it?” Scrooge grinned with devilish glee at his own joke.

“I mean I give! Lemme go!”

Finally, Scrooge ceased his efforts, watching Donald’s slight frame shake with residual laughter. He freed him from his hold, moving his weight off the boy and onto the mattress so the lad could catch his breath. When his breathing had evened out, Scrooge looped an arm around Donald’s neck, pulling him into a loose headlock so he could noogie him. By then, Donald had given up trying to escape his uncle’s little wrestling match. He was too tired to fight back anymore and chose to lay limply in his uncle’s grasp like a dead fish.

“You’re so mean, Uncle Scrooge.” Donald’s complaint had no bite behind it just the fond exasperation of a child dealing with a parent.

“Oh, come now, I only tease because I love you, dear.” He planted a gentle kiss on top of Donald’s captive head.

“Yeah, whatever.” Donald apathetically replied, before adding, in a quiet, rushed voice, “It’s not like it’s a big deal or anything but, um, Iloveyoutoo.”

Scrooge said nothing, smiling down happily at his nephew, who returned his loving gaze with a small shy smile of his own. It was a perfect moment—the kind you’d like to freeze in its tracks so you could tack up the memory in your mind like a snapshot. But time flowed on, and the peaceful little bubble was popped by a warbling cry of despair of a posh British voice that rang from downstairs. What happened to my living room?!”

“Uh oh. Puppa sounds mad,” Donald mumbled, realizing with a gasp why. “We forgot about the mess!”

“Woops.” Scrooge replied with dry dismay.

They exchanged a look, communicating wordlessly with one another. We’re really in for it now.

#duckverse #disney ducks #duck comics #donald duck #scrooge mcduck #teamuncleweek2019 #day two #loots duck universe #LDU

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sunnysidewrites · 7 years

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The Dove and the Peacock | Joshua vs Junhui

Genre: fluff/angst, meta (abstract concept), a little bit of everything its just a wild ride

Pairing: Reader x Joshua vs Junhui

Word count: 8.4k (this is the longest fully written scenario I’ve ever written omg)

Synopsis: All she had to do was choose between the dove or the peacock. Easy enough, right?

A/N: This was originally written for the same friend I did ZA!Hwiyoung for!! This is written in a completely different writing style than what I usually do (I wanted to try something new), but it still has “me” elements, if that makes sense LOL. This concept is a little abstract and difficult to understand, but I hope you still enjoy reading and pls give me feedback! THIS IS SO LONG I CANT BELIEVE ITS FREAKING 8.4K HOLY CRAP SLKFFL IT SUCKS IM SORRY BUT HAPPY READING FROM YOUR FAV MOM!!!!

Just choose one.

Blank, empty walls surrounded her body, if one would even call it that. She floated around mindlessly, a soul having left her body. She didn’t feel tied down as she did earlier, a weight having lifted off of her. Her limbs freely moved as much as her thoughts wildly ran. Her eyes glazed over the sight in front of her with serenity that would expectedly send one into hysteria.

A hundred – that’s how many birds occupied the empty space, particularly doves and peacocks.

“There’s far too many,” she whispered. She took in every corner of the room, every feather, every color. Where would she even start?

As if reading her mind, the voice cried out again.

You’ll know.

“I’m not so sure about this,” your voice was laced with concern and anxiety. “Relax, Y/N!” your friend countered with her optimism. “What better way to dress up this nice than tonight? You have gorgeous clothes, and it’s time to finally put them to use!”

Your university held its annual ball at the end of the year to celebrate completing finals, and of course it just had to be masquerade-themed. Your fingers fiddled with the hem of your white lace dress that hit mid-thigh with a neckline that would be way too low if it were to plunge an inch or two more. The silver necklace stood out on your chest in contrast to your dark waves cascading down your back pinned back into a half updo with a cream bow. Your other hand grasped the matching glittery black half face mask with a design intricately highlighting your eyes, bolding your eyeliner and mascara, courtesy of your friend’s talent. “I look ridiculous.”

You saw your friend’s hands land on your shoulders through the mirror with her face almost align to yours. “You look amazing, and you’ll do more than just turn heads,” she cheekily winked before giggling. She gestured to her oppositely colored outfit coordination, “We both look hot! You need to let loose after hitting those books for months. You just finished your last final a few days ago and haven’t been doing anything fun,” she emphasized her last word. “Our graduation is just around the corner, Y/N, and this is the first and last time you will be able to attend this ball.”

You sighed, “You already know I’m not a party person.” You shook your head. “But since you were so nice asking me to go, I’ll do it for you,” you jokingly rolled your eyes as your friend tugged on your arm from delight. She looked at the clock you shared in the apartment and gasped. “We’re going to be late! Let’s go now,” she pushed you out the door and grabbed her bag before securely locking the door behind her.

Upbeat melodies and pumping beats filled every inch of your body once you entered the venue. The dance was already in full-swing despite only having the doors opened fifteen minutes ago. “So much for not going to prom,” you muttered under your breath as you took in the dimly lit room that was quickly tightening due to the amount of attendees arriving. Neutrally colored balloons decorated the ceiling, and some were taped to the inner balconies that upheld couples and their intense makeout sessions. You tore your eyes away and focused on finding the one thing you really came for: the food.

Making a beeline to the mini buffet, you steadily stacked your plate and headed towards to an empty table. You lost your friend long ago when some of her peers stopped her to squeal about how fabulous they both looked on the dance floor, but that wasn’t on your mind as you pleasantly stuffed your mouth with the delicacies. You were midway through finishing your plate when someone’s voice rang out above the music and the chattering.

“Y/N?”

You froze, half of the dessert you were chowing down remaining in your mouth. You’re kidding me, you mentally slapped yourself and tried gulping down the food as a familiar face hidden behind a similar mask appeared from behind you. “It is you! Didn’t think I’d find you here out of all places,” he laughed. You weakly smiled, hurriedly wiping your mouth with a napkin and reaching for your glass. “I could say the same for you, Mr. I-Prefer-Video-Games.”

His sweet laugh sent blood rushing up to your cheeks. “Alright, point taken. Peer pressure?” he asked, casually stuffing his hands in his slacks.

“Peer pressure,” you confirmed with a nod, your lips spreading into a smile with him returning the gesture. “Mind if I join?” Your heart started beating erratically, and you attempted to imperceptibly wipe your sweaty palms on your dress. “S-sure.”

To both of your surprises, a conversation filled with lame jokes and belly laughs occupied the rest of your night. You both revisited the food table countless times, your overstacked empty plates evidently on the table. Your newest dishes were long finished and your conversation had hit a dull end but was replaced with the inevitable slow ballads. You broke your gaze from him and looked at the mountain of plates seemingly about to fall. He awkwardly cleared his throat and uttered words you wouldn’t have imagined hearing in a million years:

“Would you like to dance?”

You abruptly whipped your head back up to meet his hopeful gaze, his hand slightly outstretched. When you didn’t give an immediate response and in return intently stared at his hand, he slowly withdrew it. “I-I’m sorry, I thought you were comfor–”

You quickly grabbed his hand, his mouth slightly agape and eyes widened. “N-no! I… would like to dance with you,” you stammered out, scanning the ground to avoid his gaze (and hide your flushed face). He broke out into a toothy grin, his eyes crinkling into crescents. He swiftly stood up, angling his arm for you to take. “Shall we?” You tried to hold back a smile as your hand slowly touched the crook of his elbow.

“We shall.” You slowly made your way through the dance floor.

“Then what happened?!” your friend practically shouted in your ear despite being on the opposite bed. You covered both sides of your head and winced, “Easy, Y/F/N! I’m getting there!” She let out an exasperated sigh and frustratingly ran her fingers through her hair. “This is what happens when you leave me the second we stepped foot in the dance,” you teased. She huffed, blowing her bangs out of her eyes. “They practically dragged me! And I probably would have been a third wheel anyways.”

You laughed. “I kid, I kid,” you shifted on the bed, pulling your pillow closer to your body. “My arms were around his neck, and his were around my waist. We just… danced,” you dreamily sighed, reminiscing the past events. The way your head fit perfectly in the crook of his neck, the light sensation of his breath on your cheek, the smoothness of your steps, the –

Your friend edged you on, “And?!” You snapped out of last night’s memories and hid the bottom half of your face behind your pillow. “That’s – that’s it,” you shyly mumbled from behind your pillow. Your friend groaned, “That’s it? Girl, you were left alone with the Joshua Hong, adored by essentially every female on campus, and that’s… it?” She straightened her back. “We’re scoring you on a date.”

Your jaw went slack. “A date? This joke is almost as good as convincing me Mingyu and Wonwoo were a thing.”

“Well, doesn’t it seem like it?” She shrugged, “and oh, please! He’s totally into you!” She leaned over. “Joshua Hong whose nose is constantly buried in books when he’s studying and immersed in video games when he’s not, was dancing. With you. You can’t tell me otherwise, Y/N,” she crossed her arms and smirked. You rolled your eyes, “We only bonded because some,” you gestured to your friend, “people pressured us into going. That’s it,” you concluded, letting out a small sigh almost inaudible that your friend might have heard if only she was focused. You tried to ignore the disappointment and dull throb in your chest. That was only the reason why, right?

She already threw open your closet doors and started rummaging for an appropriate outfit. “Oh, hush. My friend is having a small outing this weekend, and guess who’s coming along?” You stared incredulously at her hunched back. “You’re not saying what I think you’re saying, right?”

“I was told I could bring a friend if I want.” She stopped midway and turned around to face you. “You in?”

You sighed, closing your eyes and leaning your head back on the wall. There was just no way of talking her out of this. “Get the skirt out.”

Saturday came rolling around; it was already a full week after that fated night. You and your friend were technically already running late, but since a big number was involved, you still ended up waiting for a few more to show up. Your eyes casually scanned the enlarging group.

“Try to hide your disappointment,” your friend laughed from beside you. You flushed and glared at her. “Don’t give me away!” you angrily whispered. Her teasing gaze soon melted as her eyes went past you. “One o’clock,” she subtly jutted out her jaw.

You turned around and reflexively adjusted your hair and outfit. He was with his own group of friends but his aura stood out the most with his center placement. The light breeze gently pushed back his light brown bangs, revealing more of his flawless skin and nicely shaped eyebrows that shaped his catlike chocolate eyes you could still recall from the dance. He was only wearing a simple white and light blue striped button-up paired with blue skinny jeans and sneakers, but he always managed to make everything look like it was created for him.

“Wow,” you breathed, starstruck and oblivious to your friend’s knowing look. She nudged your shoulder. “You’re boring a hole through him. Take it easy,” she playfully grinned. “Hey guys,” one of Joshua’s friends waved once they joined the group. “Great, everyone’s here! Let’s start heading to the amusement park,” your friend’s friend announced, who you assumed was the one who organized the get-together.

You along with at least fourteen other people began walking to the bus stop, having ten minutes to spare. You were in the middle of conversing with your friend when you felt a figure sidle up next to you. Someone lightly tapped you on your shoulder.

“Hey,” you met Joshua’s smile once you turned your head to the left. Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t –

You felt a nudge on your right. “H-hi!” He chuckled, taking in the sight of the subtle pink tint on your cheeks. “I haven’t seen you since last week.”

I wonder why. You cleared your throat and looked up at him, “Yeah, funny how we meet again here.” You heard a small snicker on your right and side-eyed your friend who was covering her mouth with her hand.

“Yeah, what a coincidence!” He laughed unknowingly. “Do you like going to amusement parks?” You nodded, deep in thought. “I’m such a homebody,” you gave a small laugh, “but when I’m in the mood to go out, I like going to fun places.” He raised an eyebrow. “Fun? What’s your definition of fun?”

You leaned against the bus stop construction. “Well, for starters,” you began. You and Joshua had once again launched into a lighthearted conversation even after you had arrived at the amusement park. While getting off, you tried to ignore your friend throwing you cheeky looks as her eyes constantly went back and forth between the both of you standing together. Your bodies were closely confined on the packed bus, so much that you couldn’t help but duck your head in embarrassment if having made eye contact with him for more than three full seconds. Your faces were close enough you could see every long lash each time he blinked or gave you his side profile. You gulped and glanced back at your friend who was too immersed in texting someone. Once Joshua found a new topic to bring up, you silently cursed at your friend and turned back to him and relaxed your facial features.

Now, as the group waited in line for tickets, you stood with Joshua, your friend not too far ahead. Once you made your purchase, you started making your way to her, assuming that he would do the same. You walked a few steps only to have a hand on your arm stop you. You found a slightly bashful Joshua, his other free hand awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you… wanna go on the rides together?” his voice slightly wavered.

Wide-eyed, you gaped at him, hastily throwing your head back to look for your friend. Her mouth was open but quickly closed it and gave you a thumbs-up while nodding frantically. You looked at the ground before slowly turning back to him. “I’d love that,” you smiled. He beamed, slowly letting go of your arm. With arms brushing, you both made your way to the park with smiles on your faces.

Joshua made every wait in line bearable and every ride enjoyable. For the first time in forever, you couldn’t stop talking about – well, anything. The topics ranged from what your plans after college were to a joke your professor made the other day. The sun rays weren’t the only things making you feel warm; you felt it in your chest every time you and Joshua shared a good laugh, and you tried to soak in every detail about him, from the little crinkles of his eyes to the way he excitedly pointed out more thrilling rides for you to go on. When it would get too crowded and you would be occasionally pushed by strangers, you stumbled back into Joshua who was always readily to catch you by the shoulders. “Easy there,” he would always say with a light chuckle, “You okay?” Your faces would be too close for comfort, resulting in you withdrawing from him and glancing at the ground. “I’m fine,” you would always mumble.

In between all the rides, you would grab some food and eventually sat down for a proper lunch at some point. Due to the ridiculous overpriced food and beverages, you shared a fish and chips but each got a separate water bottle. Whenever you stumbled upon a game Joshua found interesting, he would drag you to one and declare he would win a prize for you. In all the games you went to, he was only able to win at a basketball shooting game and gifted you with an adorable white baby seal. You couldn’t help but to break out into a wide grin the rest of the day every time you looked down at the stuffed animal in your hands. You were too captivated by the cuteness of the seal and the memories behind that you failed to catch Joshua’s soft smile and endearing gaze.

Once the group had gotten off at the bus stop, it was already sunset. Most of the group had already dispersed with everyone going in their own direction – all but you, your friend, Joshua, and his friends. You and Joshua reluctantly turned to each other and bid each other goodbye. Before you could turn away to walk back to your friend, he quickly embraced you. You froze in shock for a second before wrapping your arms around him. He pulled away and you both gave each other a smile before turning the opposite way.

The moment he was out of earshot, your friend wiggled her eyebrows, “Ooooh, I saw your little touchy interaction.” You laughed to cover your burning cheeks, “Stop that! It was just a friendly hug.” “Don’t lie to me! I saw the both of you whispering. What did he say?” she bounced on her toes.

You smiled. “Oh, nothing. He just said today was fun.” Your friend pouted. “Whatever. Let’s head home – my feet are killing me. You’re gonna have to catch me up on everything, missy.”

I can’t wait to do this again, his voice still rang in your ears, I keep missing you.

Then come and find me.

“And here we have the Temple of Emerald Buddha!” Your tour guide gestured to the scenery. A burst of “oohs” and “ahhs” filled the hall with a series of shutters and snaps from flashing cameras.

You joined the camera snapping and soon drifted your camera focus to the tour guide. He was practically a work of art himself; a jawline like that wasn’t given to just anyone. You subtly snapped a photo and dropped your camera clinging on to your neck. There was no need to embarrass you further in a foreign country, not to mention in an arm’s length of a cute boy.

The tour continued with frequent meal and restroom breaks accompanied by the relentless clicking of camera shutters and bright flashes. You (and all the other females concentrated on the tour bus) quickly caught on to the tour guide’s all-too-natural flirtiness, i.e., greasy lines that were always similar to “this monument is timelessly beautiful but not comparable to the ladies here, right?” followed by a wink and a chorus of dreamlike “ahhs.” He even tried directly sending you one but you wouldn’t even bat an eyelash; after all, he gets paid to be appealing to the crowd, and who knows how many girls he’s had?

The tour bus soon slowed down in front of the morning location of the check-in near your hotel. There was only a matter of time before the sun would completely disappear below the horizon, and the only thing on your mind was hitting the shower and deep, deep sleep. You and the passengers were filing out and heading back to their respective rooms when someone abruptly tugged on your arm.

I swear, can’t I just get some peace? Irritated, you huffed and turned to tell the person off when you were met with a cheery smile. “What is it?” You snapped, “I need to get ready for tomorrow.” His smile wavered but he still managed to keep it upright. “I think you might have left this on the bus, right?” he inquired with a chuckle, holding out a camera. Your eyes widened and you considered bolting. The first words you uttered to this extremely attractive boy had almost scared him off when he was only trying to help. You reluctantly reached out for his outstretched hand. “…Thanks,” you muttered, avoiding eye contact and hurried off to the hotel. He watched as you go with a slight smirk. What an odd girl.

“Okay, everyone!” The same enthusiastic voice cheered after breakfast was served. “You’re probably sick of being around these same people by now,” he said, earning a round of laughter. “You’ll be encountering more mammals today – many, many,” he breathed out, “many elephants,” another round of laughter, “at Thailand’s Khao Yai National Park! But not just elephants – there are plenty of other exotic species waiting for you to explore. Let’s start filing on the bus,” he gestured.

As you were waiting for the long queue to shorten, you waited to get him alone and hesitantly approached him. He was in the midst of checking for any passengers left behind and was nothing short of surprised to see you beside him. “Hey,” you started shyly, still feeling the leftover embarrassment, “I’m sorry about last night. I was a little cranky from fatigue and all that,” you genuinely admitted and looked in his eyes. “I really do appreciate you returning my camera back though.” His mouth slightly opened before he broke out into a grin, “Ahh, that? Don’t worry about it!” He waved his hand. “It happens to the best of us. I hope you don’t mind I went through your photos to confirm you were the owner.” He suddenly bent down to whisper in your ear, “There was a lot of nice scenery on it. But you know, if you wanted models, no need to be shy with me.” You could practically hear his infamous smirk lodged in his words. Your face furiously flushed red, knowing too well he was referring to that one picture. “I-I was just checking to see if my camera worked!” You defensively crossed your arms. “The button sometimes acts up,” you huffed and turned around to scatter up the stairs but nearly tripped over your feet. You failed to catch the grin he did to himself as he watched you disappear up the stairs.

This will be interesting, you both thought.

Disappointingly enough, the week long tour was drawing to an end, and there was an air of bitter-sweetness among the passengers. The tour guide sadly smiled, “I hope you enjoyed your time at Thailand, everyone. It was a great pleasure serving you,” he deeply bowed while the passengers clapped. “I hope you enjoyed your stay at Thailand. Please do not hesitate to return!” He squeezed in his final words before the bus slowed down to a stop and opened the doors. You felt a tug in your chest, but all you could do was focus on the back of someone’s head as you made your way down the stairs. Your hotel building now seemed to be looming over your head. Dejected, you sighed and threw away all your short-lived regrets in the foreign country.

You arrived in front of the two heavy doors. Once you entered, you knew whatever hopes and romanticized dreams would not travel with you back home.

There was no choice but to choose the –

“Wait!” Your ears twitched. Your head swiveled around, but you didn’t see anyone. Great, you thought. I’m becoming more delusional the longer I stay here. You raised your right arm, hovering over the door handles when you heard it again, this time much clearer and apparent than the last. “Wait, don’t go yet!” You fully turned your body in the direction of the voice.

“The tour guide?” You whispered in disbelief as the distance between you two rapidly closed. His hands rested on his knees, his head bent down, his chest heaving. Needless to say, he was a hot mess.

“I,” he started between gasps, “I was wondering if you were free later today or tomorrow?” He glanced up, his face contorted from the unexpected exercise. You stared at him. Today? The sun had long set. Tomorrow? You were only hours away from departing from the country. There was simply no time, and as much as you wanted to hit yourself for turning down your one shot at romance, you knew there was no way it would have worked out to begin with. As if he was sensing your concerns, he asked, “When do you go back?”

You hesitated before admitting, “Ten.”

“We have plenty of time! We could go to–”

“In the morning.”

“…”

“Oh. Well, that’s no time at all.”

He pulled out his phone and squinted at the screen. “Well, it’s nine now so… we would only have thirteen hours before your flight.” His eyes twinkled as the seemingly permanent smirk returned. “How about we hit a night market in the capital?”

UH, HELLO, YES, LET’S GO Y/N, your heart was pounding.

Girl, you have to be insane to be going out this late at night. You need rest; it’s a long trip back, your brain countered.

You’re about to go on a once-in-a-lifetime date with the hottest guy here. You deserve to live a little!

You need to call it a night already! You’re about to leave this guy and this place in just a bit over half a day.

“You… still there?” He waved his hand in front of your face. You snapped back and mentally facepalmed yourself. You lost count of how many times you’ve embarrassed yourself in front of him. “D-don’t you have a job to get back to?” He shrugged, “I was booked this entire week exclusively for this tour. As far as my schedule shows, I’m not needed until mid-afternoon tomorrow.” He looked down at you with a playful grin. “Any more excuses I need to battle?”

“Shouldn’t you be going over your future tours?”

“Orientation,” he air quoted with his fingers, “isn’t until an hour or so beforehand, which isn’t until 1 PM at the earliest, doll.”

“Don’t you need to check in with your boss?”

“What’s there to check in with? I’m still technically booked with your tour as of right now, and as long as I show up to my next orientation to my appointment, I’m still doing my job.”

“Don’t you–”

“Babe, please, enough with these questions,” he laughed, your face burning at the mention of the pet name he casually threw out. “Are you in?” He held out his palm.

How deja vu. Your eyes flickered between his relaxed features and his hand.

“I… don’t even know your name.”

His eyes softened with his smile. “Junhui. Wen Junhui.”

Well… how often do you get to go on a date with a cute foreign boy?

You took a deep breath and squared your shoulders. “Well, what are we waiting for then? Let’s start heading there now,” you smiled and grasped his hand.

One hectic taxi ride later, you and Junhui were jumping stall to stall, exploring all of Thailand’s unique and different foods. You and Junhui also got closer, both physically and emotionally. The crowded streets left no room for you have a personal bubble. Meanwhile, Junhui used up the excuse of the crowd as much as he could to justify his proximity to you, his hand tugging on your waist. You would be lying if you said you minded the close contact; his scent was too intoxicating. Between all of the stall-hopping, you had managed to snag countless dishes to bring back home all while trying to inhale the food Junhui was feeding you and vice versa. His arm consistently took turns around your shoulders and waist (and him still claiming it was because he didn’t want to lose you in the crowd). You couldn’t even remember the last time you went on a date, but anything you couldn’t recall was what Junhui so proudly reminded you about (and the fact that he kept taking selfies with you so you wouldn’t forget anything). The light feeling in your chest whenever you both shared a laugh and how your hands would tightly intertwine when he would get tired of holding up his arm suddenly carried a heavier weight when the night drew closer to an end. You knew you would have to resume your normal life once you returned to your room, and even moreso once you entered the gates.

Junhui looked down at you worriedly, noticing you had gone quiet. He lightly squeezed your hand. “Something on your mind?” You shook your head, smiling sadly. “Are you sure?” You raised your head to meet his anxious eyes. “No, just… I had a good time today. Thanks for that getaway,” you squeezed his hand back. Sensing the underlying reason of your forlornness, he slowed down in his tracks and stepped in front of you. You quizzically tilted your head while he sighed and for the first time that night, dropped his gaze to the floor.

“There are probably – no, there are many things that we don’t know about each other,” he stated. You held your breath; he looked utterly serious and conflicted yet determined from the look of his eyebrows narrowing. “And I know what kind of image you had of me before tonight.” You opened up your mouth to protest but he snapped his head back up to you to silence whatever words that were now caught in your throat. “I know you thought of me as just a playboy, someone who doesn’t know how to commit.” You anxiously wrung your hands as he continued.

“I’ve never kissed anyone.” You almost took a step back from the shock. “What?”

He laughed dryly. “I never even held hands before – well,” he held up your intertwined fingers. “I never dated, I never asked anyone out, I never even called anyone ‘babe’ or ‘baby,’” he shyly rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks dangerously warming. There was still something you were unsure about. “So why?” Your eyebrows furrowed together. “Why what?” “Why do all of this tonight on me… a girl you’re probably never meeting again?”

He gaped at you before chuckling and merely doing his light hearted shrug. “Life is short, right? I knew from the moment I took on this job that I wouldn’t have the time to have a girlfriend. No matter how many winks I send, it’s all just for show, part of the charismatic tour guide I’m expected to be.” You nodded understandingly. You were curious as to why he chose this particular path, but before you got to ask, he commented, “And why would I pass up getting to know a beautiful girl like you?” You winced and hit him on the shoulder laughing. “Okay, easy on the grease, Mr. Smooth Talker. Well, you’re right about life being too short. I would know that better than anyone else,” you gazed at the glowing city. Completely oblivious to Junhui’s stare, you murmured, “Let’s head back to the hotel. It’s nearly midnight.” You tugged on his arm and started taking a few steps but you were suddenly pulled back and landed straight in a warm embrace.

A million thoughts buzzed in your head. What was he doing? Why was he hugging you? Do you hug back? Do you do nothing? He stroked your hair comfortingly, as if he somehow knew the unspoken secrets that escaped into the night. You didn’t know why, but tears prickled the back of your eyes, and you found yourself wrapping your arms around his torso. No words were exchanged, but you seemed to already know everything about him, and he about you. The walk back was only in comfortable silence with your arms lazily swinging.

You checked out of your hotel the next morning and began heading to the airport with your carry-on in one hand. You stopped and turned back to face the building one last time. The building where so little yet so much had happened – you were about to leave. You chuckled to yourself in astonishment and shook your head, thinking how this one-week trip had just so badly affected you. You smiled bitterly at the hotel and headed to your destination again for good.

You were waiting in line for security check, and once you were through, you would have to force yourself to part with this beautiful country. You still had a decent amount of people before you, but you were critically nearing the front of the line.

“Y/N!”

You froze. Did he seriously…

You turned your head in the opposite direction, and your eyes widened. Junhui was racing down the airport from practically the other end. He’s out of his mind. You began moving up the line as the proximity between you and him decreased. “Junhui! What are you doing here?” He only grasped your forearm and maintained eye contact stronger than ever. “Are we really just leaving things off like this?”

You were only a person away now. “Junhui, please, we both knew this wasn’t really going to work out!” You pleaded with your eyes. “Y/N, you and I both know you’re lying,” his voice cracked. “Next in line,” the security guard called. “I need to go,” you grabbed your carry-on and made your way down to the metal detector. “I’m going to the States soon! Where can I catch you?” Junhui desperately moved down to follow your figure.

He caught one last glimpse of you, a defeated smile hanging on your lips. “San Diego,” you uttered before disappearing.

The moment you stepped foot on familiar ground, you were already getting bombarded with text messages and messages on social media. You sighed and put away your phone, a reminder of how much time had passed. You were greeted by your family and friends and launched into a narrative of just how crazy things were (excluding a certain brown-haired boy).

Despite having only been gone for a week, you found it more difficult to adjust back than you would like to admit. A day had passed, then a month, and it now has been over two months since your enchanting experience. You were in the middle of completing your education program to get your teacher credentials and had happily stumbled upon Joshua along the way. You both were planning on becoming kindergarten teachers and made an additional goal to even co-teach someday. You couldn’t deny the lingering feelings you harbored for him for years, but your mind always lingered back to the foreign boy at the end of the day. You shook your head to erase such thoughts so often to the point where Joshua thought you were feeling a little under the weather.

Your friends from college were also slowly transitioning into their new careers, a crucial stepping stone in their professional lives. If it weren’t for Joshua’s company, you wouldn’t be much social, if at all. You and Joshua had gotten significantly closer, and it seemed like every hangout was more than what the name let on.

You two were at your regular weekly cafe “hangout” to help destress in a change of pace from life. You visited the shop so often the staff knew you two by names (and indirectly as a couple). From the way your latte art was always some form of a heart or how you and Joshua coincidentally seemed to have similar fashion tastes, there was always something to tease the both of you about. You secretly just wanted to stop denying it, but the way Joshua coolly deflected the cooing and playful banter made you feel just a little hopeless. For now, you only settled on being coworkers.

“Mingyu was back at it again,” you shared, shaking your head as you blew on your drink. “For a giant, he’s so clumsy.” Joshua’s eyes crinkled as he laughed, making your heart skip a beat. “He’s got the biggest heart out of all of us, that’s for sure.” Conversations like this with Joshua were always a part of your coffee talks, ranging from what you saw Mingyu knocking something over to later weekend plans. It was a nice time to relax and take a breather, and Joshua was more than enough to provide that for you. After spending approximately an hour chatting your troubles away, you and Joshua got up and discarded your plastic cups.

“It’s getting a little late,” Joshua glanced at the setting sun. “I can walk you home.” You furiously blushed, hoping you would play it off as just irritation from the wind. “I’m alright; I’m only a block away the opposite direction from you!”

“No no, it’s ok, I want to make sure you’re safe.”

“Joshua, it’s literally a five-minute walk.”

“Y/N, I insist.”

“Joshua, no.”

“Joshua, yes.”

“Joshua! I’ll be fine,” you shook your head and laughed, hitting his shoulder playfully. “Okay, okay!” He smiled, rubbing his arm. You exchanged a hug that you wished could last longer and turned to be on your way when he suddenly grabbed your arm. You looked back to see him hesitantly clearing his throat. “Do… do you wanna go for another hangout?”

You stared at him. “Well, we just did, didn’t we?” He shook his head. “No, I mean, not just for coffee. Do you,” he slowly chose his words, “want to make this into dates?”

You could only gape at him. Your crush for who knows how long had just asked you out. You expected to be overwhelmingly ecstatic, but all you felt was conflicted and confused. “Joshua, I–”

“Y/N!”

Both of your heads turned to the source of the familiar voice. You did a double take; were you seeing what you thought you were seeing?

Standing in a ten-feet radius from you was the same foreign boy you were so certain you had left along with your heart. A white tee peeked out from underneath his open blue and green plaid button up with interlaced specks of yellow. The rough light blue denim hugged his legs a little too well. Junhui was a walking image of a model constantly on the runway in contrast to Joshua’s more reserved lighter tones in exchange. Joshua’s baby pink sweater and white jeans reflected his calming demeanor. Perhaps the only thing they had in common were how they opted for sneakers to finish off their unique styles of casual, and well…

They were both vying for your attention at the same place and time.

“J-Junhui?” You stuttered as he advanced towards the two of you. He offered you a smile and curiously sized up the opposing male. “Who is this?”

Joshua looked baffled to say the least, but nonetheless he released your arm and politely introduced himself. “Well, I suppose I should be asking you that, but I’m Joshua. And you are?”

“Junhui.” They stiffly shook hands. Your eyes flickered between the two men, a strange heavy air replacing the once light atmosphere. “What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be–” Junhui cut you off, “I said I was going to catch you, didn’t I?” He flashed his signature smirk. Joshua, who was witnessing this strange ordeal unfold, awkwardly cleared his throat. “Sorry… Junhui, but I need to speak to her alone.”

Junhui’s eyes never left yours. “It took me some time to get settled down here, but well, here I am.” Your head started to throb, and to make matters worse (or better?), Joshua’s hand landed on your arm once more. “Y/N, you don’t look so good. Here, I’ll walk you home.” He started to guide you to your apartment, but Junhui grabbed a hold of your other elbow. “I just saw her for the first time after being away for two months. Can you give us some alone time?”

Joshua narrowed his eyes. “Can’t you see she’s not feeling well? She’s as pale as ice! She needs to rest right now.” He tugged on your arm. Junhui tugged back. “I don’t think you have the right to be saying what Y/N needs and doesn’t need.” He turned to you. “Y/N, who do you want to talk to?” “Yeah, who?”

You could only gape, dumbfounded at the strange outcome. “I… I just need to go home.” Joshua reached out a hand to you. “Alone.” Before they could grab a hold of you and say “wait,” you were already briskly crossing the street.

“No. Way!”

“I can’t believe it either!” You groaned in your pillow. “How did this even happen? And in one day?”

“Honey, you’re a total babe magnet!” Your friend sat on the other side of the bed facing you. “The Joshua Hong and a cute foreign boy both want you! I thought this only happens in the movies.” You threw your pillow at her. “Now is not the time! I don’t want this to happen at all! I thought it was absolutely final once I returned here that I would cast away everything that happened in that country. I was finally able to progress further with my relationship with Joshua, and now…”

“You can’t get over someone who never left,” she pointed out. “I know you, Y/N. He’s been on your mind since day one.” You sighed, not wanting to admit she was right. “I don’t know what to do.”

She leaned back on the headboard. “Look, maybe you just need to take a break and think about it. Who really has been there for you? Who makes you feel more… you? Those are the real questions here. You obviously like both of them, so now take a step back and really reflect on who truly is the one.” You placed your head on her shoulder and heaved a sigh again. Comparing Joshua and Junhui was nothing different to comparing apples and oranges; they were just too different.

“I’ll just sleep on it. I’m turning off the lights,” you mumbled. Several minutes had passed after and you heard a soft whisper.

“Hey, Y/N?

“Yes?”

“You’re an amazing girl. And if they fail to see that, then neither of them are worth your time.”

You smiled. “Goodnight, Y/F/N.”

“Sweet dreams.”

A week had passed, and you managed to avoid both Junhui and Joshua, the latter being more difficult since you saw him practically every day. You knew you had to face the music someday, but you still had feelings to sort out. You always timed yourself to leave a lot earlier than Joshua who was miraculously held back to do other errands at times. It had worked fine — until today.

“Y/N, wait up!” You only quickened your pace but he was quick to catch up to you. “We need to talk.” “Joshua, what is there to even talk about?” You gazed intently at the concrete. “Things have been crazy, and I’m just not ready.” “Y/N, look at me.” Nothing. “Y/N.”

He gently but firmly held your chin and turned your head to face him. “I don’t know what happened with you and that guy, but I do know that I want to be with you. I always have ever since college. I was a fool to wait this long to ask you, but now that I have, I can’t just back down now.” You opened your mouth to say something, but you heard a voice that wasn’t your own.

“Y/N.”

Why do we keep meeting like this? You shook your head and heard footsteps nearing you from behind. “Joshua.” “Junhui.”

“Guys, I just need more time. You can’t expect me to give a straight response after dumping this on me.” You pulled yourself out of Joshua’s grasp and started backing away. “Y/N, I don’t mean to rush you, I really don’t, but I don’t have much time here left.” Junhui stepped closer to you. “What do you mean?” He sighed. “I’m returning to Thailand tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!”

He held up his hands. “I know, I know! It’s sudden, but so was this visit,” he sheepishly admitted. “My boss let me go for this week, but no more than that. I’m leaving tomorrow night.” Joshua piped up, “Don’t just force her to be quick with this. These things take time!” Junhui coldly shot back, “Stay out of this, Jello Boy. You act so soft around her, but we all know your motives.” Joshua’s jaw hardened. “At least I don’t show up spontaneously and suddenly expect her to willingly follow me around!” “Listen, Pretty Boy, I actually knew her longer–”

“Stop! Both of you!” You raised your voice, ceasing their argument. “If you both truly liked me, you would respect my decision and just stop with this pettiness. I’m not your toy you can keep tugging on and not expecting it to fall apart.” Your vision started to blur. From what, you had no idea. Was it your tears? Were you about to faint?

You took too long.

“Y/N. Y/N!” Their voices became more distant. Your body felt heavy yet light. Was this how death was? You could only see darkness invading your vision and let it consume you as your eyelids drooped.

“Y/N. Y/N, can you hear me?”

You slowly started to regain your senses and felt immobile. Your chest felt as heavy as a weight, your throat was in desperate need of a drink, and your head was throbbing. Your eyes fluttered open to see your friend.

“Thank god you’re alright!” She buried your head in her chest. “I was so worried!” You lazily looked around the room, careful to not strain your neck. “What happened? Where is this?” She withdrew from the hug. “We’re in the local hospital. You fainted from fatigue and stress. The doctor told me to have you take it easy for the next several days in order for you to regain your strength. Don’t worry; it’s nothing major. A proper diet and rest should be just the trick.”

Your thoughts fumbled over. There was something you were forgetting, but you couldn’t recall. You could only shrug it off and felt your eyelids closing again.

You were finally discharged and plopped yourself on your welcoming sofa. “I’m never leaving here again.” Your friend giggled, “That may be a good idea. You need to take care of yourself better, Y/N. I know finals have been a little hectic lately, but–”

Finals. You saw flashbacks of a black dress and mask. Your friend stopped mid-sentence when she saw your alarmed expression. “What’s wrong?”

“I know this sounds a little weird, but do I happen to own a mask?” She stared at you. “Honey, I think you need to go back to that hospital.” “Y/F/N, I’m serious. Do I?” She tilted her head, chin in her hand. “You would think I would see you own one. Why?”

“Oh, nothing. I passed by a shop and thought it looked nice.” She got up and shook her head. “You probably need more rest. I’ll prepare some soup for you. Need me to get anything from the market?” You shook your head. “You have cash on you?” She jokingly stretched out her palm.

You got another flashback, but this time it was at a dark crowded area. Someone fed you, hugged you, and carried your bag. And they were all the same person.

She put down her hand. “I was just joking, dude. You really need to get more rest; you’re not looking too hot.” She was in the middle of putting on her shoes before you called out, “Wait! I’ll just go. I need some fresh air.” She gave you a look. “I’m not sure if I trust you being out in this state of mind. You seem to be pretty out of it.” “I’m fine! I need to clear up my mind. I might as well run some errands along the way.” She sighed before moving out of the way. “If you don’t come back in an hour and a half, I’m calling the cops.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you shouted over your shoulder as you shut the door.

You passed by the local cafe, but your feet naturally slowed down. What am I doing here? Hm, I suppose it looks nice. I’ll check it out another day. You were about to head further down the street when you abruptly collided into someone.

“Sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going.”

You looked up to see familiar cat eyes. “Oh, it’s…. Fine. I wasn’t – I was just–” Why did he look so familiar?

He laughed at your words. “You weren’t either, I’m guessing?” You blushed. “Yes, that.” He briefly nodded, a grin ghosting his lips. “Well, sorry about that again. I’ll be on my way.” He resumed walking when you grabbed his arm on impulse. He glanced at your arm, bewildered, your action surprising the both of you. “Sorry, but… Have I seen you around before?”

He sweetly laughed before teasingly said, “Is that a pick-up line?” Your cheeks flamed, making him laugh even more. “I’m joking. I don’t think we’ve ever met. I would remember a face like yours. Let’s say your pick-up line worked though.” He mysteriously smiled and scribbled something on his napkin before handing it to you and stalking off.

You shook your head. You were clearly not in the right state of mind today. Everything seemed to be in a constant loop of major deja vu. You turned to resume your supermarket trip but you couldn’t help but to notice a figure leaning on the side of a building. The way his leg was casually rested on the wall as he sipped his coffee cup screamed “model.”

His eyes landed on yours and you felt a tug in your chest. Why am I acting like this? I don’t even know these people… He smirked, and with that came a stronger tug. “Babe, if you’re staring me down like that, you might as well ask me what you came here for,” he chuckled. You reeled back in confusion. Babe?

“Well, if you’re not gonna ask, then I probably should. Do you wanna hit the open market?” You hesitated. “I don’t even know your name.”

His smile softened. “Junhui. Wen Junhui.”

You held up a hand. “I have to let my friend know first.” You quickly sent her a message and tucked your phone back in.

“You still live with her?” You froze. How does he…

“I was in your Chemistry class. I always heard the two of you talking. I was also in the same high school as you, surprise surprise.” He peeked at your face to find any signs of you remembering.

You racked your brain, looking for a face like his in your memories. However, he cut your train of thought. “Are you in?” You took a hold of his hand. “Let’s go.”

He unlocked his phone to check the time. What you didn’t catch was the familiar scene of two people at a night market on his lockscreen.

All the doves and peacocks soon started to disappear. Before she knew it, only one dove and one peacock stood in front of her. She took in each bird carefully.

The dove. Elegant and calm, very predictable. She felt a sense of serenity wash over her. She felt safe and stable.

The peacock. The flashy colors drew her attention, as well as the puff in its chest. Wild, charismatic. She felt a rush of adrenaline, something to always keep on her on her toes. “They’re both lovely.”

Choose before it’s too late.

A looming clock started its countdown. 20… 19… 18…

With every predictable thing, there’s always a tiny possibility of the unexpected.

10… 9… 8…

With every wild and confident thing, there’s always a tiny possibility of tameness and insecurity.

Make your decision now.

She reached her hand out slowly, using up every bit of her last seconds. She was just about to touch the bird when the room flashed a brilliant white. Her time was up.

A single blue, green, and yellow feather floated down.

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