#au. due to. the things they will go through in order to end here | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sunboki · 2 months

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⎯ SUMMER SOLACE. a StrayKids fiction

Stray Kids x implied! fem. reader (no poly)

TROPE. friends to lovers (not really lovers, more just strangers to friends), summerschool! au, reader is in student council as class prez

WORD COUNT. 12.6k words

PLAYLIST.

WARNINGS. cursing, very troubled childhoods, han lacks parental figures, minho’s mother passed, bullies, evidence of physical violence, mentions of depression & anxiety, just overall very angsty themes, healing, sadness, comfort comfort comfort — ALL OF THE ISSUES/TROUBLES OF CHARACTERS ARE 100% FICTION

AUG'S NOTES. i hope whatever you’re going through works out in the end, and that reading this very indulgent fic can help heal a part of you and get you through summertime sadness — inspiration for the fic came from this!

SYNOPSIS. It was never your intention to be the one in charge of a summer school class—a troubled summer school class, but here you were. Eight boys in this classroom, all with their individual stories and silenced opinions. And somehow, you can’t find it in yourself to give up on them.

or alternatively :

Eight kids, one purpose. Get them to be okay with one another — with themselves — by the end of the summer.

Eight kids, one purpose.

Get them to be okay with one another.

Although, you didn’t realize that yet. That your Class President position would throw you right into such a mess (or what you referred to it as the first time you got word).

We all have the things we hate. The things we say we “heavily dislike”. But in reality, we hate it. It incessantly grates our nerves, has our patience forming into a ticking pipe bomb, enough that sometimes, we explode. Say things we don’t mean, get angry, get mad.

The thing that sets these boys apart, according to the acknowledgements paper you were given, is that they don’t even try to be sweet, they don’t ask for forgiveness. Not towards one another, and most certainly not towards anything else.

Your job is just as you said. Get them to be okay with one another.

Catch? There’s a time limit.

Twelve weeks of summer school.

Twelve weeks for eight boys to, no, not be nice to each other, not be best friends (not even friends), but just to be okay with being in the same room, be within six feet of each other without tearing someone’s throat — or their own — out.

Is it simple? Absolutely not.

You want to try though, because up till now, everyone has given up on these boys. People that the school district have deemed always successful have pushed them aside, called them impossible.

You won’t be the next to give up.

Twenty chairs in the classroom, yet not two sit next to each other, spaced out by at least three chairs per person.

Your roster sits upon your desk, listing their names by alphabetical order.

(Sitting on the furthest end of the classroom) Bahng, Christopher - nickname: Chan

He’s a football player (god knows how), who, despite hardly showing up to practices and arriving to random games—is always responsible for their wins. In some way you’re sure that’s the only reason he hasn’t been kicked off.

Christopher’s an interesting case.

He’s got amazing grades and passes school without fail, but no one has any clue about his home situation or whether he even has a home or not. You’re told he’s extremely distant and closed off, sort of void to life. He was sent due to excessive absences.

2. (Planted dead front of the class) Han, Jisung

His record states he’s been sent to the counselor eleven times in the first two weeks of school for disruptions and inappropriate behavior. Jisung has an older brother who’s valedictorian, but they never speak to one another and don’t seem to have the best relationship. He’s said to be obnoxiously straight-forward and senseless, you wonder if it’s true.

3. (Nearest to the window on your right) Hwang, Hyunjin

Despite his popular facade, Hyunjin is regarded as the “troublesome face-card” by many deans and counselors alike. Students adore his looks, but he couldn’t butt heads more with Jisung, and they’re often sent out together. Hyunjin is believed to have a worrisome superiority complex according to the last counselor he’s been seen by.

4. (Opposite of Hyunjin across the classroom) Kim, Seungmin

Not much has been recorded as far as Seungmin goes. He’s apparently a huge instigator in lots of illegal activity surrounding campus, but no one’s certain. His last counselor claimed he stayed silent throughout his consultation and answered suspiciously vague for almost every question.

5. (A few seats behind Jisung) Lee, Felix

Both him and Christopher have been reported for vandalizing parts of the school in odd, incomprehensible words like “Miroh” and “Maze of Memories”. Some gossip that they’re secretly a part of an underground gang. But upon first glance, Felix looks harmle—

A hand raising grabs your attention. It’s Jisung, wearing a grin when you nod for him to speak.

“How much for a tit-pic, Teach?”

Everyone is silent, and you hear Hyunjin stifle a snicker in the distance.

So this is what they meant by inappropriate behavior.

The corner of your lips twitch slightly, but you successfully maintain an unnerved expression, instead, smiling back at him.

“Let’s not ask questions like that, alright?”

Jisung amusedly huffs, still eyeing you incredulously. Although, he doesn’t say any more, and you continue down the roster’s descriptions.

Lee Minho whose info is conspicuously sparse , Seo Changbin who lashes out randomly without clear conscience (some claim he’s bipolar, you think different), and Yang Jeongin remain, bio’s dotted in unspecified theft attempts, assumed messy family situations and brief mentions of mental illness that seems to a follow a similar pattern to the rest.

Stacking the papers upon your desk, you card eight sheets of notebook paper from the drawer, walking through rows of desks to pass each boy a slip.

All eyes are on you now, and your breathing feels excessively loud in the stifling quietness.

Lightly clapping your hands together in hopes of stirring some sort of sound in this stale air, you speak as fluidly and audibly as your voice will let you.

“Today’s assignment is simple. I want you to write everything about yourself.”

Confused brows lift, primarily from Minho.

“Whether it’s what you like to do, what you don’t like to do, your favorite things, your favorite places, books, movies.”

Another hand raises. Changbin, you remember his name.

“Yes?”

“We’re not in fifth fuckin’ grade.” He growls, words booming. That was another complaint: Changbin’s explosively unprovoked opinions.

Biting back the urge to snap back, you place both hands on the podium at the front of the class, essentially grounding yourself.

“Yes, well this is—“

Somebody grumbles an incoherent sentence, and Changbin is immediately on his feet, chair squealing, eyes wild with fury.

Second complaint: his flaming temper.

Grabbing a fistful of Chan’s shirt (presumably the one who muttered), he sizes up the taller boy, spitting wild curses.

Inhaling deeply, you approach them, withholding the instinct to wince at Changbin’s yelling.

“Changbin, please go back to your seat,” You usher, watching them never take their eyes off one another. Chan is eerily unmoved, though effortlessly intimidating nevertheless.

The former spins around, shoving the other boy off to the side and resorting to sizing you up now, chin lifted, gaze belittling.

One press and you’ll have assistance come in and help. You remind yourself, referring to the small red button residing in your pocket that sends a direct call to the other counselors.

What good will that do? Your first step is getting them to be okay with you, not to mention each other.

No. You can do this, you’ll be fine.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” He spits, glaring as you back up the more he steps forward. That is till you stop and cause him to stop as well, leaving only a few centimeters separating your faces.

“Because,” You ease, shoving a finger into the center of his chest sternly. “I’m your teacher now, and you’re stuck with me. So deal with it.”

Tilting your head, you meet his eyes, hooded behind a veil of black hair.

“I’m sure a fifth grader could understand that, right?”

And with that, you point to his seat and spin on your heel, taking a seat and watching the boys, one by one, lower their heads and begin writing. Well, excluding Changbin, who’s hands stick by his sides, staring at you.

He chews his lip then turns around, shuffling back to his desk.

By the time the dismissal bell echoes, you would like to say you see light in the distance, but the endless tunnel ahead tells you you’re far from even beginning.

Glasses propped on the bridge of your nose, you sort through the papers, carefully observing each one.

It’s a Friday evening, meaning you’re given a meager two days to inhale as much information as possible for the approaching week.

There’s a variety of answers on the papers, from some stating only a song they like or others more of a list-type structure. Felix apparently bakes in his free time and has two sisters while Jeongin plays piano. Although, a certain paper in particular stands out to you.

Han’s.

Only his name is written, nothing else. You’re not sure if it’s a matter of his laziness or carelessness toward the assignment, but clear as day, dead center of his paper, is simply his name.

You at least anticipated some kind of response, like an offensive joke or something, but no. Just: Han Jisung.

Interesting.

A sudden buzzing redirects your attention. It’s from Chaeryoung, cheerily asking about how the first day went along with spilling details about her own day as well.

So far, things are going well. So far.

Not permanent. Just like how you haven’t permanently tamed the beast named Changbin.

And, although you hate such a mindset, realistically, it’s only a matter of time until something goes wrong.

“Chae,” You echo, the faint rustling of your papers sounding on your side of the line. She hums.

“What do you think about this one.”

A grunt of acknowledgement is heard.

You sidle to another sheet; Han’s will have to wait for another occasion.

“Hwang Hyunjin. Said to be trouble-some, argues a lot, apparent superiority complex.”

Although your senior, Chaeryoung has always been a helping hand—a soul to rely on through the rocky periods, your rocky periods.

“Hmm..” She considers, seeming to weigh the matter for a moment. “Have you seen his grades?”

Odd question.

“Straight A student according to his records.”

Impressive. Each quarter, top-scores.

Well, it makes sense for the superiority portion in the case he uses his grades to hang over others heads, but the rest is strange, making it unusual for him to behave so brashly.

Or, maybe it wasn’t unusual, but overlooked.

As if reading your mind, she utters the same words you’d planned to.

“Anxiety?”

Said in unison, you both burst into laughter. Her blindingly bright laugh sends warmth throughout your stomach, easing the droning headache building between your temples.

Hours you’ve spent glaring at the same papers, determined to locate something, anything as a way to help them. A problem to find a solution.

Yet, each case was different—personal to each boy in a sense you couldn’t assign an overall solution.

Instead, you pinpointed one case at a time.

Starting with Hwang Hyunjin.

However, his wasn’t an easy fix. As a high school student, it was virtually impossible to “fix” anxiety (if that was even the issue at hand at all).

Everyone had it in their system. Upcoming tests, pressure.

It was also impossible to really “fix” anybody generally, meaning, more or less, you had to find a way to help them want to help themselves.

With Hwang Hyunjin though, his, stated in the page’s description saying: Cares little to nothing about grades, wasn’t a testing anxiety of a sort, but maybe a tad bit deeper, barely visible without a sharper, clearer lense.

“Send me a pic of the sheet, can you?” She begins, startling the hypothesizing from your mind.

Again, an odd question, but you oblige, swiping off the calling tab to snap a quick picture.

A long silence situates itself between you, presumably Chaeryoung investigating his information.

Strangely, you feel like a detective. Climbing skyscrapers to find a solution to a problem nobody addressed until it became horridly powerful—possessing, now fallen in your hands to solve.

You refused to let their problems ruin them. And although becoming a illegitimate teacher wasn’t the plan for your senior year, you doubt you could back away at this point, not when you had already unearthed the treasure chest.

Last step was finding the key.

Well, detectives are equipped with a magnifying glass for a reason, right?

…

“… His drawings are pretty good?”

Then do you notice the doodles in the far corner of his introductory paper, a flower, a few butterflies, and a dog.. of a sort. Chihuahua-looking.

“C’mon Chaeryoung, take this seriously,” Lightly scolding, you sigh, wetting your lips whilst flipping to the back of the page.

It’s a quick script of things he enjoys, accounts from students he knows or that know him, overall containing an overview of his person.

Hyunjin gets in lots of arguments with Han Jisung.

You know that much.

Your finger slips down the page, scouring each sentence.

XXXX: Hyunjin likes drawing. I’ve seen him drawing at his desk before.

Baseless information, the doodles prove that—

Hold on.

“Chae, when you’re anxious, do you have a reliever? Like doing something, listening to something?”

She chuckles, clattering of dishes in the background causing you to cringe slightly.

“Dancing, you know this. I’m not going to Hanlim Art School for nothing.” Teasingly voiced, you frown, deciding not to egg on her sarcasm.

“Then do you think, where it says he gets in arguments a lot, he’s projecting that anxiety when arguing because he doesn’t have a reliever?”

She clicks her tongue.

“Could be. But we don’t really know Hyunjin, yeah? It could be something deeper Y/nnie. You can’t look surface level when it comes to these guys.”

You sigh, rolling back your shoulders.

“You’re right, but I’m still gonna try it. I need to get through to him that I want to help him somehow, so I might as well exhaust all my options.”

You can’t look surface level when it comes to these guys. A phrase truthful to its fullest extent.

“…Try what?”

Ah, you forgot to mention that part.

“Drawing. I’m gonna try convincing him to give it a chance.”

The stunned silence tells you she’s likely thinking you’re crazy, her only response a breath of disbelief.

You smile.

“I’m insane, I know.”

“No wonder we’re best friends.”

Staring daggers at the papers in front of you, you prop your feet on the desk, sorting through option after option on what you plan next for class.

In the midst of learning more about each boy’s papers though, you overhear something, a few key words.

Friday. Fair.

Aha.

The school’s annual summer fair, held as a congratulatory sort of event to celebrate moving onto a new year of school.

It’s decided. Friday, you’re taking them to the fair.

Mentally thanking whoever had brought it up outside the classroom, you’re quick in crumpling the additional papers, watching as one by one, the boys enter.

Hey, at least none of them are late.

…Not like they had a choice in that anyway.

And, through a rather painfully awkward second time teaching, the ice seems to be breaking little by little.

Any progress is good progress, you’ve deemed.

“Alright, before you’re dismissed, I wanna let you know we’re going to the fair Friday. Be there.” You hum, tapping the podium.

You swear there hasn’t been a more stifling pause in your life.

Though you’d been anticipating something adverse, this is a downright oddity.

“Uh.. what?” Han speaks up as you near the door. Morbidly quiet.

“All of you, meet me at the grounds at 7pm.”

Added into the deplorable silence, you glance over your shoulder whilst stepping into the hallway, face donning a mixture of curiosity and anticipation. “Okay, class dismissed.”

Beginning out the sliding door, the eruption of voices behind you cascade into a multitude of conversation, your clarification they had in fact heard and you weren’t discussing plans with a brick wall.

All you can do is hope they show up.

Class continues through the week, trying to get them to grow more comfortable with the atmosphere—their classmates, more specifically.

Of course, you earn your fair share of close calls and near incidents in those four days leading to Friday, but seeing the whole group turn up that fateful evening seems to make the ordeal worthwhile.

Quick to move your separate ways, you’re hasty in tagging along with Hyunjin, the boy unusually quiet as you fall into step to his right.

“So.. you draw?” You start, scorning the nervousness evident in your tone.

Surprisingly, he doesn’t interject, nor bite back something as his infograph had led you to believe.

“Yeah,” He sharply replies, eyes trained ahead, taking swift, motivated steps through heavily trodden grass.

It confuses you, in all honesty. Everything about this so-called ‘superiority complex’. From these few days you’ve seen him or interacted (though fleeting), not once has the man exhibited any form of arrogance nor shed of his assumed traits.

He’s shy, actually. Maybe you’re simply gracing surface level like Chaeryoung advised, but certain aspects could be seen in the black of night.

“Y’know, you’re pretty good.”

Despite his lack of response, you can feel his eyes dance to your face for a split second.

“‘Think you should try it. You’ve got potential, just saying,” You shrug, merely talking without reason nor inhibition.

“You think?”

It’s his voice breaking through your barrier of unrequited cordiality that stirs the air. A final, conversational pair of words after watching him play countless fairground games in quietness.

“I do,” You hum, nodding avidly while watching Hyunjin’s eyes flicker down to the ground below before back to yours, holding eye-contact.

In those moments, you decipher two things.

Hyunjin rivals the prettiest of paintings, and whatever earlier assumptions had been stuck to his tanned skin couldn’t be more wrong.

“Yo! If you’re just gonna stand there, move it!”

Changbin’s interjection successfully scares the living soul out of you and simultaneously wrecks your intense staring session.

Nevertheless, it’s hard even for you to explain how you ended up competing against the boisterous boy in ball toss, only that you find yourself wanting to tattoo the sight of Hyunjin laughing and Changbin shouting with defeat beneath your eyelids forever.

Granted a gift upon winning, you snag a snorlax plush amongst the scattered options hanging at the top of the booth, presenting it to the him with a smile.

“Huh?” Changbin grunts, head tilted, gazing at you as if you’ve spawned two heads.

“Take it, ‘s for you,” You urge, surveying the boy’s tentative touch against the plush’s soft fur with evident glee.

Still pouty, yes, but you take the sight of the stuffie held in his arms while the three of you walk back as a victory.

After a quick stop by a corn dog stand, you lean against the food truck’s side, wordless as Changbin and Hyunjin head off their own ways — the only trace of familiarity near you being someone clearing their throat.

Off to the side stands Chan, quietly sparing you not-so-sneaky glances, his hands stuffed in his black jogger’s pockets.

You cock your brows, head tipped as if silently asking: “What?”

“Waiting for you,” Is his reply, and it catches you off guard at the consideration in those syllables.

Not that you envisioned Chan as someone cold, but you certainly weren’t expecting him to wait for you while you ate.

Granting the boy a tiny smile of gratitude, you find yourself unconsciously gravitating his way, stuck in an orbital pattern of continuous voyage, indifferent to moving away.

“Chris is an interesting name,” You offer, aimlessly walking past endless booths, people.

“From Australia,” He speaks. Short and straight to the point, yet lacking any hostility.

“Yeah? Why’d you move?”

Ushering him on carefully, you manage to tiptoe a bit into foreign territory, navigating rows of traps and ambushes ahead.

“There’s nothing for me back there apart from my family.” His shoes, caked in mud, shuffle to a halt, gaze trained upward toward the constantly reeling Ferris Wheel.

Almost instantly, you can sense a shift in demeanor. It nearly makes your hair stand up on end, specifically upon seeing the hint of vulnerability shed across his face.

Maybe you’re seeing things.

“I’m just.. here. Like I work so hard for a something I’ll never have.”

His nose scrunches, beautifully glossy brown irises reflecting the blinking lights. Red, blue, green, yellow, all encompassed in those eyes.

No, this is all real.

The sight steels you a bit.

After a moment, you nudge his shoulder, his head finally turning to look at you.

“I don’t think I’m really the greatest to talk to when it comes to this but, Chan, you have to live without a purpose.”

You inhale deeply.

“Because if you keep trying to find a reason for everything-“

The shouting of an oh-so skillful interruption known as Changbin calling your name in the distance temporarily cuts you off.

“You’ll never be satisfied with a reality that won’t change unless you do, with this life.”

For Chan, no place like home only applied when he had a place to call home. As for now, he was a wanderer.

That, or inches from deluding himself into a comfortable, insufficient reality instead.

Making believe until something becomes real.

“Do you think it’ll be okay?”

His words catch you off guard, and you sort of stare for a moment, holding his gaze as if looking away means your demise.

For a second, you wonder if every boy’s eyes are this captivating.

Hyunjin, now Chan.

“I do,” You whisper, voice hardly audible amidst the bustling fairground.

His lips quirking into a smile serve as your indication he heard, and he reaches a hand up to gently sweep a strand of hair from your face behind your ear.

Again, unexpected, not disliked.

“Live on, yeah?” Chan hums, lifting his pinky for you to take with a mirrored grin, emotion buried within his dark chocolate pools for eyes you fear to unearth.

Maybe that’s something irrevocably agreed upon.

Live on.

It seems so, even when you regroup with an avidly boastful Changbin barking over who won at a rifle booth against him and Han. Agreed in the pinkies still intertwined behind your backs, in the shared smiles he gives you here and there as the night continues.

“Say, what is it with the both of you?”

Sidled between Han and Hyunjin on the walk back to campus, you find the question slipping from your lips before thinking.

Hyunjin grunts, and Han shrugs.

Children, you swear.

“Constantly biting at each other’s throats, yeah?” You huff, arms crossing.

Glancing over at Hyunjin after neither boy decides to respond, you raise a brow.

“As your teacher, I’m gonna assign something,” You begin, glaring at the tiny scoff Han resounds when you try using an authoritative tone.

“Next time you see each other, try to be nice.”

Another silence.

“I’m dead serious.”

“Y/N-“ Han starts, quickly silenced by your lifted hand.

“No buts. Do it, got it?” Firmly commanding, you leave no room for argument, the two responding as if it were the worst of punishments, wallowing in self pity.

Despite an onslaught of beginnings and continuations to newly opened books, you think the chapter where Hyunjin and Han sulk all the way back to campus takes the cake.

For now it does.

“I want someone to play me,” Han says, bringing the popsicle up to his lips.

The sun beats onto their skin, warm rays causing a scrunch to appear between his brows.

In an attempt at following your “get-along” suggestion, the two found themselves coincidentally running into each other at the nearby Supermarket after school, sparing cautious glances back and forth till someone broke the silence.

Like fate, drawn together in the ugliest of ways.

Han went first, a hesitant “hey” somehow leading to the two hunkering down on bamboo flooring with a conversation in tow.

It’s a start.

“Play you?” Hyunjin parrots, confused.

“Yeah,” He responds, fiddling with the name tag attached to his uniform. “They say nobody knows you better than yourself, but I dunno.. I feel like I don’t know anything about me. I’m an alien to myself.”

Jisung bunches up the wrapper, the crinkling sound rivaling screeching cicadas clinging to the trees overhead.

“I bet if I had an actor play me, I’d make a lot more sense.”

Somehow, out of all the things Han Jisung has said to him, this is the one thing Hyunjin can fully understand.

Understand that, despite living with yourself all your life, you’re still a novice even in your own body, in need of someone to tell you about yourself, an opposing point of view to help round out the sharp corners.

That’s it. The word to describe it, how Hyunjin found himself bound to art.

Your words replay in his mind on loop.

“Think you should try it. You’ve got potential.”

Understanding.

Art, in its most frustrating, brutally painful form, allows Hyunjin to understand. Himself, his wishes, life, despair. It’s his actor. An ideal perspective responsible for clearing his conscious, a contact lense to the eyes he hadn’t realized were blurry, half-open.

“What did you write on that paper about yourself?” Hyunjin ventured, beaming sunlight cast upon long fingers that peer from the balcony’s shade, highlighting cool toned veins in an almost transparent ray.

Coins cash into the vending machine, the dull cry of birds soaring to the sky in a flurry of wings echoing in his eardrums.

“The one Y/N handed out?”

Hyunjin hums.

“My name.”

The latter’s lips quirk into a clumsy smile.

Han Jisung, that’s all he wrote. How original of him.

Hyunjin watches an ant crawl atop a leaf, simultaneously swiping a droplet of water from the popsicle’s wrapper with his thumb.

He tests his words.

“I want,”

A pause.

“To add art now. To the paper, as my friend.”

Jisung purses his lips curiously, brows lifted.

However, he doesn’t pester.

“Art is your friend?”

Meeting the other boys gaze, Hyunjin finds himself, for the first time when looking at Han Jisung, smiling.

“Yeah, it is.”

. . .

“Heh. What a weirdo— YAH!”

Next Wednesday’s evening consists of a plethora of instances, some more notable to mention than others.

One, getting slammed to a wall by Changbin, and two, getting screamed at right after.

Though you weren’t aware of that yet, not when you looked up from your phone after school to see the boy storming toward you, and certainly not when you smiled, an action seeming to have provoked his hand to your collar, cornered against a wall without so much as a greeting.

“Changbin..?” You manage, slightly breathless at the impact, brows furrowed.

And instantly, listening to the words he spews, it feels as if all the progress you’d made at class—nevertheless the fair—dissolved into nothing.

Back to square one.

“Who do you think you are?” He spits, looking you up and down with a wrinkled nose. “What? You think you own the world ‘cause you’re doing something good? Helping ‘troubled’ kids?”

Before you can interject, his grip tightens on your shirt, shaking you angrily before stopping again, darks eyes burning with nothing but rage.

“We aren’t your confidence boost, Teach, so get out of your stupid headspace. We don’t need your help and never asked for it in the first place, so get lost.”

Changbin dips dangerously close to your face, venom dripping in his tone.

“Got it?”

Using as much force as you can muster, you ram your palm against his chest, effectively pushing him off of you before slamming against his shoulder and walking away.

Halfway down the street do you stop, not daring to look back at him.

“I don’t know what makes you think I’m doing this for a confidence boost, and I’m not going to try understanding. But that gives you no right to pick me apart like you know me!” You shout, continuing to head as far as you can from him, glaring ahead.

It’s fair he got that idea. Some random student infiltrating your summer all for the sake of what? Their future? Yours? What was this for anyway? Your position as Class President using this “summer school” to make you feel better about yourself, add more to a resume?

Plopping down at a bus stop a mile or so later, you pull your legs to your chest, rehearsing just what drove you into the mess anyway.

You want to help them. That’s it.

Repeating the phrase like a sacred oath, it isn’t until the burning sun’s waning scorch that you’re reminded of evening’s approach, begrudgingly lifting yourself off the now-sweaty seat.

Unbeknownst to you, Chan stood as a witness, watching either of you quarrel prior to parting, you disappearing elsewhere while Changbin remained in place, burning holes into the ground with a furious glower.

Hurriedly assessing what his first move should be (or if he should even move at all), he decides upon following you when the dark-haired boy stalks off.

“Y/n!”

The oddly familiar voice graces your senses when you look up, pausing just outside the bus stop, earbuds dangling from your pocket.

It’s Chan, still wearing his school uniform.

“Oh, hey Chan.” Slapping a hopefully convincing smile on, you allow him to occupy the space to your left as you head home, entertaining his occasional questions, sentences.

You’re glad it’s Chan though.

“Um, Chan?” You pique upon reaching your door, looking back at him, question inches from slipping off your tongue.

Has anything happened with Changbin lately?

“Yes?”

No, you can’t.

“Never mind, um, bye!” Brushing off the thought, you give him another tight smile, waving the boy off and slipping into your home with a loud sigh.

Outside, Chan tugs his lip between his teeth, watching you debate on your words. He knows what you wanted to ask, what so obviously sat heavy on your shoulders the entire way home.

Perhaps it’s his perception that’s gotten him this far.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he decides the next course of action would be locating the other half of this division.

Unfortunately for him, Chan has no idea where he could be. The likelihood he’s home is minuscule if his hunch is right, and so, the man wracks his head for any clues.

Abruptly, a past conversation hits him.

“Have you been there? The old train station below the tunnel?”

Chan, lips pursed as he tries recalling, shakes his head.

“I like that place, ‘helps me think.”

That’s it.

Racing off despite the darkness creeping across star-splattered sky, his legs carry him as fast as possible.

Dipping below the bridge, his skin prickles at the cold air. Minimal lighting apart from a few white beams paves a clear path to his desired individual, planted in the dead center of the platform.

“Binnie,” Chan calls.

Only he can get away with calling Changbin “Binnie”, a nickname grown into second nature as the two grew more accustomed these past two weeks.

The boy doesn’t budge, doesn’t reply. He stands there, chin down, hands firmly bunching his pants in a tight hold.

Yet, when he looks up after a lengthy pause, Chan watches his lip quiver, watches his shoulders shake senselessly as he gradually reaches his outstretched arms.

“I.. I keep hurting so many people and.. and…it’s so lonely, why is it so lonely?”

Without an utterance, he pushes Changbin’s head against his shoulder.

And they hug. They hug for a long, long time. Basking there, healing there.

Changbin cries.

There’s a lot to cry about, a lot of things he’s needed to cry about, things he couldn’t cry about before. But he does. Tonight, in this empty train station, Changbin cries in Chan’s arms, his friends arms.

Changbin’s first friend—who smoothes messy curls down in delicate strokes, holding him dearly close.

Chan isn’t oblivious, because in those particularly tender moments, one in specific taking place right after the fair, Changbin speaks words Chan had never heard before.

Problems. They told each other it all. Their secrets, struggles.

Changbin’s issues with his parents, Chan’s with his home-situation, his internal displacement.

“I know things are hard right now, but we’re going to get someplace better together, okay? We’re brothers.” Chan whispers, and his friend sniffles, nodding wordlessly.

Brothers.

Changbin is his brother now, and no blood needs to prove that. Because in times you don’t have that family, that connection, you make it yourself.

Seungmin: Y/n, can you meet me at Gokseong Hill?

You groan picking up your phone, granted a mere thirty minutes of peace after your painful run-in with Changbin and an equally painful attempt at a conversation with Chan before your phone lights up.

Y/n: Do you plan to murder me or something?

Seungmin: I’m not as creative as Jisung, so no

You crack a smile.

Y/n: I’ll be there

Fastening a jacket over your shoulders, you lock the door behind yourself, stuffing jingling keys into your pocket.

Hey, a bit of fresh air sounds tempting.

At the peak of the hill he sits, and it’s not until you follow his upward stare that you take in the stars overhead.

The slight altitude paves way to a more than incredible view. Countless galaxies right above your head, twinkling so brightly in the sky. Far from streetlights, from civilization.

Your staggered breathing hiking up here proves worthwhile now.

Wordlessly plopping down beside him, you lay back, admiring.

“Do you ever wanna scream?” Seungmin reaches his hand to the sky, allowing the dark blue and black hues to waltz in his grasp.

The twinkling wonder dappled above prohibit a full view of his facial expressions, but you have an idea of how wistfully he gazes into that atmospheric abyss. Aching.

You humorlessly chuckle.

Do I ever.

“When I first met Changbin, I wanted to scream every twenty seconds.”

Seungmin laughs. Pretty.

“Guys like that do that to you.”

He curls his fingers into a fist, arm remaining outstretched.

“Do it.”

“Hm?”

“Scream.”

He looks at you like you’re insane for a moment, then pauses, fingernails digging into the earthy soul beneath you before he screams.

Screams, louder and louder, so loud you’re surprised his lungs haven’t given up yet, surprised you haven’t laughed at how comical the entire thing is. His body practically lifts off the ground, eyes screwed shut.

Then he stops, catching his breath.

No comments nor laughter. Quiet.

Reaching out, you give his hand, dirty fingernails and all, an assuring squeeze.

I don’t know, but I care.

A silent utterance.

“Better?”

He nods.

You’re next, and this time, you’re first to laugh.

As the two week mark of class is pinned, you want to give yourself a pat on the back for managing - no less surviving till now.

So, it really makes you wonder how you ended up in such a predicament.

Han Jisung, someone you never anticipated to be beside you on your Saturday, resides in the drivers seat of your parent’s car, hands sweating up nothing short of an ocean without even starting the vehicle.

Well, you are aware of how this all began, but then again, your pride wants to be salvaged, if barely.

A bit of pleading on Han’s side about his parents nagging him and a pinch of your groggy mumbling at 9am to end up here, to be exact.

“Look… About what I said the first day.. I’m really sorry about that. I shouldn’t have asked that, it was rude and- ow!”

A hard flick delivered to the boy’s forehead has his face wrinkling up, an offended expression worn on chubby cheeks.

“Yes, it was rude, and I’ll ostracize you if you ever do it again. But I forgive you, you’re welcome,” You state, arms crossed.

Han’s sheepish nod seems to be the best reply you’ll get.

“Alright, now, shift the gear to drive.”

“…That’s ‘D’, right…?”

“You’re kidding.”

No, he wasn’t kidding, and a lesson that could’ve been an hour long turns into two and a half hours in no time.

Finally, by some miracle, you end up on the road, holding on the seat like a vice, the boy mirroring your panic with nervous jittering and random comments.

“Oh wait! Isn’t the Film Festival coming up-“

“FOCUS ON THE ROAD!”

Ah, he has the attention span of a squirrel, that too.

And if you aren’t doused in gray hairs after that you’d be surprised, Han looking just as frazzled, exiting the car with wobbly legs and wide, frazzled eyes.

From then on out, you decide teaching the boy how to drive would have to wait.

With July days away (a miracle, you’d like to say), you bury your nose into new assignments and exercises for the class, desperately gripping onto the bits and pieces of progress you’re making.

It’s meager, and certainly not sturdy, but you’ll take what you can get.

..Even if those hard silences are crippling.

A knock ushers you away from the barstool you perch on, cautiously peering from your front door’s tiny peephole.

Felix.

Upon opening in the door, you first notice his raw cheeks, eyes puffy and red.

He’d been crying, unmistakably.

You don’t move away when he walks forward and presses his face against your shoulder.

“Can I stay here? I don’t want to go home tonight.” The boy whispers, and you reach a tentative hand to pat his head.

“Of course.”

Clambering the teary boy inside, you spend a decent ten minutes helping him catch his breath and calm down a bit, not wanting to stress the poor thing out with questions.

Standing in your foyer, it’s his shaky voice piercing the air responsible for your head snapping up.

“Do you.. have brownie mix?”

“He was always the fearless kid,” Felix mutters, occupying himself with folding the batter in a bowl.

Interestingly enough, Felix is a stress baker, something of which you hadn’t realized until getting schooled on the correct ingredients to use for brownies.

The topic is Minho. Or, what Felix knew of him.

“I could never read him. I still can’t. I remember he saved this cat once and it bit him. I cried the whole way to the doctor’s office and he was the one who calmed me down instead.”

All you can do is laugh in reply, the blond sheepishly grinning.

Licking off some brownie mix, he hands you the other whisk where you lean against the counter.

Leaning forward to smear some of the sugary goodness on his cheek with a giggle, you adore the way his eyes light up, causing his freckles to almost glow.

If past-lives were real, you think Felix would’ve been a fairy.

“You knew Minho when you were younger?”

Felix nods.

“We met in seventh grade. Our mom’s were friends through work. Although, I don’t think he liked me very much.”

He shakes the bubbles from the cooking sheet, ensuring the edges of the pan were even. You slip past him to pre-heat the oven.

There’s a soft chuckle on his end, and it’s not until you turn around do you see the pikachu mitten he’s quite literally critiquing with his eyeballs.

Such expressive eyes, though they’re different than Minho and Seungmin.

While Minho has something like the atlantic ocean hidden deep behind those pupils, Seungmin is more of an open field.

Though Felix, he has stars.

So many stars, in fact, that they couldn’t possibly all fit, spreading to his face instead. Down his arms, his chest. Till all of a sudden the entire galaxy found its home in the boy standing in front of you.

“Hey, no judging,” You grin, scrutinizing his innocent shrug.

Snatching your precious oven-mit from his fingertips to load the pan in yourself, a gasp stirs when a pair of arms winds around your middle, his chin resting upon your shoulder as you close the door and set your timer.

“Thank you.”

“Hm? What for?” Stopping your movements, you allow the boy to snuggle closer.

“For reminding me of myself. I seem to get lost in other people sometimes and forget I’m here too.” At the last part of his sentence he laughs, rocking back and forth on his heels and causing you to rock with him.

Ten minutes or so you rock. Easy, comfortable.

Felix gives nice hugs. His clothes are sprinkled with a strange mixture of both brownies and chocolate chip remnants he’d snuck in without your knowledge.

Comfortable.

He’s a kid who never really got the chance to grow up. The one who was constantly told he’s so mature for his age, a phrase that eventually melded so far into his brain it became second nature, gum stuck to his shoe.

Because the kid that was so mature for his age was never asked if he needed help or if he was okay, everyone simply assumed. Even when the world came crashing down, Felix was fine. Just fine.

Until he wasn’t, and suddenly, Felix came crashing down with the world.

“..Do you like face-masks?”

You may not be able to fix his crumbling world, but you could give him some good memories to remember it by.

Which is how you found yourself roped in your bathroom, carefully applying the charcoal face mask onto his perfect skin, unblemished and definitely not deserving of the treatment. But, like you said, memories.

You should be off to bed, already prepping for the next morning, school. June 17th, officially seventeen days into summer school. Yet here you are, greedily shoving down brownies with a new companion, Lee Felix, on the couch while looking like utter idiots in face masks.

After seven episodes of Gilmore Girls does he wearily rise up, beckoning you with him to wash off your skincare madness only to make an equally weary trip straight back to the living room.

“Do you think Minho likes me?” Your baking partner whispers, his head resting upon your lap. Those unfairly long lashes begin to dust closed, the subtle flash of light emitted from your scented candle sending a golden gleam across the room.

“Mm.. I’m sure he does. I’m sure he likes you very much,” You assure, not needing a response from his fallen-asleep form, not expecting one anyway.

What occurred in the first place nor why he asked such questions wasn’t your business, but somewhere, a part of a you wanted to know. The cause of his pain, of all of their pain.

Hardest part of your evening was definitely attempting to slip him off your lap, luckily a success after four or five minutes.

Carefully propping a pillow behind his head and layering a blanket across his jacket-clad body, you sneakily turn off the TV, bidding the exhausted boy a hushed “good night” and placing a gentle peck to his forehead before turning off the porch light.

Laying in bed whilst your eyes resist closing, you find yourself hoping he’ll sleep well, hope this night is something he can look back on with a smile on his face.

Felix deserves that.

That morning, upon forgetting your alarm, either of you are scrambling from bed or, in Felix’s case, flopping from your couch with a loud thud!

“Minho lives pretty close,” Felix winds the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, glancing from side to side while observing the area. You follow suit, both clambering to rush out the door, jogging down the street hurriedly.

Seems the Minho kick is still here then, huh.

“But he might not be at school off and on because of his Grandma.”

The awaiting tip of your head calls for an explanation, and a light bulb seemed to bloom above him — obviously having realized something.

Either of you pause at a crosswalk.

“Didn’t I tell you?”

You shake your head, brows pinched.

Felix pokes his tongue into his cheek.

“Well, Minho’s mom died a bit back. He takes care of his Grandma now. After she passed he got really distant and we…” His tone dissolves, and you don’t interrupt, allowing the boy to speak his mind. “Haven’t talked since.”

Apparently, there’s a corner to this billion-piece jigsaw.

One, horrifically fateful paper lay taped down onto one desk far too many boys are trying to look at.

Levanter High Film Festival. Participants will make a 25 minute short film with cinematography and soundtrack themes made entirely by themselves.

“..And you want us to do this?” Jeongin mutters, skeptically scratching the bottom of his chin.

“Yep! We are!” You proudly announce, given quite a few confused glances in return.

As Jisung had taken the time to so kindly mention while nearly crashing the car, July, the month in which you’ve somehow made it to with this group, means the arrival of creative festivals — or, the school boards way of enhancing student participation.

“Uh.. I’ve gotta DAW at home..?” Chan speaks up, brows furrowed thoughtfully.

“…A dawg?” Han snorts, Felix smacking his back in an attempt to quell his own laughter.

“A music birth giving machine,” Changbin offers.

“Ew, weird way to put it.”

“Shut it, Jisung.”

“Alright. Now, we’re gonna break off into departments, okay? We need director, maybe script writers? An idea of where we’re gonna film, song producers, and someone with a camera.” Murmuring with your lip tugging between your teeth, you tap your foot, the group cumulating into frenzied discourse, seemingly arranging themselves.

And, almost as fast as you blink, you’re pleasantly surprised to find no blood had been shed over positions.

Accordingly — with obvious inclusion in every position at some point — Chan, Changbin, and Han are working music, Seungmin is working on the script, Jeongin and Hyunjin are doubling as directors and camera-providing members, and Felix and Minho have been elected as the main characters.

You can’t help but find it rather interesting considering your prior knowledge of the situation. Their situation.

Felix’s longing, Minho’s loss.

The imperfect, perfect pair.

“What’s the name gonna be?” Jeongin piques, the eight of you squinting at his frame leant against the windowsill.

The boy hesitates.

“Like, our label?”

Equally confused stares.

In honorary mention of the esteemed ‘Film Festival’ introduced this summer, you decided, along with Han’s incredibly distracting tendencies, that you guys would be participating.

Then again, everyone is still getting used to being within six feet of each other, so being stuck in the old photography club room on a school night remains effortlessly uncomfortable.

And with the slow eye contact each of you exchange, a gradual cacophony of “Ohhh”’s.

“How about Boy’s Generation!” Jisung jumps in, earning a smack across the head from Hyunjin followed by loud whining whilst burying his head in Minho’s chest (of whom looks unbearably awkward) who tries to console.

Emphasis on the “tries” part.

“Maybe.. Lost Men?” Changbin suggests, quiet hums of agreement sounding from the remainder.

You choke back a laugh, which, doesn’t turn out to be as choked as you’d prefer by the glare you get in response.

“Lost Men? Are we sailors?” Stammering down your giggles the best you could manage, Seungmin clears his throat, attention quickly directing his way.

Seungmin has a habit, if that’s what you want to call it. He’s never outspoken, no, but he speaks, a lot. Minho is the same in that sense. Whether quiet mumbling or the illustrious expressions he makes, you’re confident the both of them could maintain a perfectly understandable conversation using just their eyes.

Sort of scary.

“Stray Kids?”

Five seconds later and Felix grumbles, interrupting everyone’s inner contemplation.

“Kind of fitting if you think about it.”

Minho grunts, voicing a question that extinguished the conversation beforehand.

“Well what happens when we aren’t astray anymore?”

And, although the foreboding tension sat heavy in the air, it was easy to tell he held no weight to his words.

Because regardless of what kind of conclusion they reached at some point, it was irrevocably known they’d always be stray. Searching, looking for something they weren’t sure existed.

No reply came. No one complained.

Chan typed up the label in the lower left corner of the doc, the laptop he’d taken from his bag propped on his lap.

You gave Minho a half-smile he sheepishly returned.

The more you thought about it, the more it matched. Not only searching, but paving. One way or another, the assumed nobodies were growing, developing into something unforgettable, if only to a few people.

You had no doubt more would remember their names in the future, but as for now, you stay as Chan, Minho, Changbin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, Jeongin, and Y/n, lodged in the school’s vacant club room, arranging ideas for the Film Festival.

Stray Kids.

You liked it.

The quiet rolling of his bike gears sits between you, familiarly nostalgic chirping of crickets heightening the darker the sky becomes, dusk plowing a runway through orange clouds.

Headed back from school, you happened to run into Minho, jogging to catch up with him in the midst of his departure.

“I like my life.”

Mid-chew on a sour gummy worm, you cease your gluttonous rampage in order to catch Minho’s hushed breath.

“Being alive is nice.”

And when he says that, he turns his head toward you, expression piquing a “don’t you think so?” type of question you struggle to answer.

Zoning in on the repetitive motion of his wheel, you wrack your brain.

“Yeah? It’s hard, but I would say it’s worth it.”

His brows raise, a barely visible, lopsided smile winding itself around his lips — chapped but still such a captivating pink hue.

All he has to do is hum, doing that habitual blinking thing he always does to know he agrees.

Minho is the small things, you configure.

He’s fixing the bulletin when a paper fell off and picking up Changbin’s Snorlax plushie when he almost forgets it. He’s reminding you to text him when you get home “just because”. He’s the little things nobodies notices, little things that show he cares.

Lee Minho is the small things, but he’s also so much too — so many stories, people, places. He’s heartbroken but he tries, pained but still swimming in a whirlpool of an ocean that flushes him from its tides.

Perhaps somebody could be his buoy, somebody who’d keep him afloat.

You have a hunch as to who that person might be.

Bike squealing to a stop, you clamber to catch pace, backing up a bit to notice what Minho points at.

A field.

“This would be a good place to film if it weren’t off limits.” He observes, either of you acknowledging the “No Trespassing” sign latched loosely onto a chain link fence.

Biting your lip, a small smirk finds itself upon your face.

“It’s not off limits if we can get in, right?”

Minho gives you an uncertain stare, quickly tampering into downright exasperation.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a good influence?”

You laugh at this, laying your bike down to hitch each hand into diamond-shaped openings and climb, sending your suspicious audience an expectant look.

“I’m meant to be a good learning experience, think of this as part of a the process. Now c’mon, climb. Let’s see what we’re working with.”

Half-heartedly, you’re joined in your risky pursuit, scaling up to the top before thumping down on the other side.

Minho, on the other hand, is a tad bit more skeptical, remaining at the fence’s peak, glaring down nervously.

Although, with lots of patience and encouragement, the anxious boy takes a leap of faith onto uncut grasses and stalking weeds.

Halfway into your adventure do clouds begin festering, setting the atmosphere in a gray haze the longer you brainstorm filming spots, whether that’s pointing out certain locations or deciding on specific scene placement.

“We could have Felix here, then I run in and find him?”

“Okay— what if we make it like a huge confrontation. You run in, confront him-“

Jutting of metal against another surface redirects your mid-sentence focus, gaze averting toward the sound.

Shit. Security.

“Hey you! What do you think you’re doing!?”

Momentary silence and either of you go bolting as fast as your legs will go.

“Quick!” You shriek, the sky dotted in strikes of lightning, alighting into a sudden electrified cauldron of clouds and rain.

Minho is right on your heels, jackets strung over your heads in a feeble attempt to divert some watery droplets from their rapid descent.

Not only the useless fear of getting soaked, but the lingering outline of an approaching flashlight in the distance and the thumping of footsteps from behind urge you onward, scaling the looming fence using slippery fingers and wild adrenaline.

Except, just as you edge over the top of the fence does your shirt get caught in the twisted wire, effectively preventing your movement (much to your panic) while Minho shouts below.

Luckily, in the nick of time do you manage to free yourself, having to lurch forward and simultaneously earn a stinging cut before racing to your bikes and speeding off.

Learning experience was certainly a word for it.

“So..” You start, lingering by Chan’s doorway.

According to a fretful, rain drenched Minho speaking to your equally drenched self, his place was the closest.

“What’s our excuse?” You mumble, Minho scoffing before shrugging off his jacket to hand to you, earning a curious tip of your head.

Wordlessly does he point to your now dampened white shirt, and you can’t help but smile at the realization.

Hm. What a gentleman.

Easing the fabric over your soaked shirt, you just finish buttoning to the bottom when Chan opens the door, cocking a brow.

“Who knew it actually rained cats and dogs?”

“You’re not funny.”

Stepping inside, you’re greeted with the chilling temperature, skin erupting into goosebumps as either of you awkwardly stand in the doorway, Chan disappearing into the other room only to return with two t-shirts.

“Bathrooms are on either side of the hall, you’ll find them,” He hums, and you give him a grateful smile before padding off to change, the sound of your squeaking steps making you cringe.

Chan’s old swim-team tee hangs loosely from your body upon stepping out, plopping down onto his couch with an exaggerated groan.

Behind you, Minho sits on an unoccupied chair, taking sips of water here and there.

“So…” The eldest of the group steps in the room, hesitant. “Care to tell me how-“

“No.” Minho bluntly speaks, and you cock a bemused brow at his forwardness.

“Got it,” Chan nods quickly, eyes zeroing in on you for a moment, honing a stare you can’t discern.

“Y/N?” He quietly asks where you lift from your spot.

“Wanna come with me for a minute?” He hums, and you curiously follow him into the kitchen, plopping on the counter he motions for you to sit on.

“Lift up your shirt,” He softly instructs, and you do a double take to make sure you heard him right.

“Huh?”

Nonplussed, he repeats himself, appearing completely unaffected despite such a request.

So slowly, nervously, you lift your shirt as he nonchalantly maneuvers antiseptic from a medical container, your brain registering the predicament as he dabs right below your chest, bottom lip held in his teeth while he works.

Your scratch from earlier on the fence.

Leave it to him to be the ever perceptive one.

Chan doesn’t budge, shy away, nor show any reaction to the newfound vulnerability. Your heart warms a bit at the sight.

He cares, and you’ve known that, but it’s just, it’s sweet. Really, truly sweet.

Immediately upon applying the antiseptic, you wince, your grip (which you noticed) on his arm tightening while he calmly hushed you, carefully placing a bandaid on top of the wound.

“If you don’t dress it properly you could get an infection.” Chan explains. “Tell me next time, okay?”

You nod as he rearranged his materials below the cabinet and ensured you’ve hopped off the countertop.

“Lix told me you used to be a restaurant’s chef in Hongdae, eh?”

At this, he looked up in surprise, chuckling lowly, lips situating themselves into a sheepish straight line.

“Lix?” He echoes, and you tilt your head, evidently confused as to what he’s asking.

“Mm nothin’, just not many people can call him Lix,” He explains, padding into the living room.

“Really? Am I just the lucky one?” Snickering to yourself, the man nudges your side with his own squeaky laugh as you enter into the living room.

“That’s.. a word for it.”

It’s hard to recall when the gears really began turning. Breaking from rusty shackles to rotate seamlessly.

Chan opening up and giving you a glimpse of the heartthrob of a personality beneath his once cold facade. Han and Hyunjin able to have a normal conversation, talking to Jeongin more and more about anything and everything.

Maybe it’s the familiarity, the routine that naturally mends. Like a new fridge you hadn’t realized you were so accustomed to until gone, until you look back at what was.

A part of you wants to give yourself a pat on the back as if you were the person responsible for this summer school’s progress. Though, you’re sure just about four hundred other things also left an imprint.

Late nights spent in the old club room. Arranging meetups for filming spots. Headaches from the sound of a power drill where props are put together. Endless repeats of the same scene everyone keeps messing up.

And all of a sudden, it hurts. Because this is one of those moments. Fleeting. Fleeting in the sense that—as you watch Chan and Seungmin burst out laughing when Changbin fails a prop test—never again in this entire world will there ever be another night like this.

Felix won’t accidentally spill his drink. Minho won’t throw a childish fit after he gets his twenty-fifth take wrong.

There won’t ever be another summer like this. A summer in your senior year of high school you really don’t want to forget right now, not if it costs it all to stay engrained in your mind.

“Alright. So..” Chan begins, the nine of you clambering to get a glance of his screen as he finishes the final touches.

“We’re finally done!”

It takes a whopping three weeks to finish filming and editing, the clamorous chorus of relief sounding in unison as your group’s unofficial (though wordlessly voted) leader, Chan, taps the save button one last time.

Your film covers the tale of two. Fated, yet, unable to ever meet. A constant tug of war of souls infinitely bound.

One steps north, the other makes five steps south. Pulled together like magnets even when worlds apart in all aspects, even when it seems they’re only given more reasons to avoid each other.

..Yes, you certainly thought of what Felix told you that bit ago.

No, you have been thinking about it.

When they filmed; those certain scenes where you’d watch them make eye contact. Oh to listen to the thoughts behind those eyes.

So leaden with emotion.

Longing.

A longing for what was, for what could’ve been.

To watch two people like that makes your ears ring. So much said in the hurried lines, the occasional eye-contact.

Listen, listen. You’ll miss it if you blink.

How gut-wrenching to be a witness to such tragedy you never were involved in. Perhaps that’s human empathy.

You inhale and exhale, but don’t count for how long. Watching the film on the that old projector sheet makes you wish you narrowed things down to the tee, scribbled them down in a notebook to recall for eternity.

Too fast, too fast. You’ll miss it if you breathe.

No, stay forever.

If only.

And perhaps that’s the best part.

Stray Kids places fourth place in the festival, and to be honest, you might as well have taken home first.

It sure felt like it.

Smiles and laughter. Congratulations and many thank you’s amidst a densely packed theatre room.

Though, something is missing. No, someone is missing. Because in the midst of a celebration intended for everyone, it suddenly comes to your attention a presence has gone awry.

Meeting Chan’s eyes, it appears he just realized as well.

Han.

“Jisung where the hell were yo—“

Having stormed through the oddly unlocked door like a madman, Chan stops, noticing how positively bruised the boy is, sharp cut veering across his nose, lip busted and bloody.

Hurriedly forcing his face between either of Chan’s hands, Han winces.

“Tell me everything.” The older of the two demands, eyes racing.

Quick to pull away, his mouth pulls taut. It’s quiet before Han kicks the cabinet, voice watery, breaking.

“Fuck!” He clutches his head, biting back the prospect of crying.

Dropping down to bury his head in his knees, he stifles a shaky exhale.

“..These guys from Class 3-B broke my bike, that’s why I couldn’t go.”

Ah.

There’s a stillness.

Then, quietly, Chan shuffles down beside Jisung, mirroring the way his knees sit close to his chest, back flush against the wooden cabinets below the sink.

“I just.. wish I was stronger,” Jisung hardly manages, words barely audible through a trembling bottom lip.

Sparing moments of silence, Chan’s jaw tightens, attention directed onto the tile floor.

“I’m quitting the football team.”

Jisung’s head snaps to the adjacent boy.

“But why? Football’s your forte. Plus, you kick ass every time your name gets called out onto the field.”

Chan ruffles the boys hair, giving him a tight smile.

“I have.. other priorities right now.” His voice shrinks, hand resting atop Jisung’s head, staring into those bottomless brown eyes.

He’s grateful no other questions were asked.

“Say,” He begins, his counterpart experimentally prodding his swollen eye, cringing back with a hiss.

“I can help you get stronger.”

Slowly, the younger’s head turns, brows raised as if asking: “really?”, to which Chan nods, a faint grin tugging at his lips.

‘Reach for me’, and Chan reaches.

Jisung oftentimes thought the boy foolish to trust so blindly, to pour so much into someone who could easily let you down.

Yet, seeing the fist his friend held out, he returns the fist bump with a feeble grin, head slumping onto the older boy’s shoulder.

This time, an exception has been made.

There were many weird circumstances in Minho’s life, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated this one.

“..What are you doing?” Minho inquires flatly, slowing his bike down whilst Han, dripping in sweat, jogs past, avidly motivated for a reason the bystander can’t quite understand on a Tuesday morning.

He planned to bike into town and buy extra soil for his grandmother’s garden, now finding himself unable to ignore this strange appearance.

“Conditioning! New year new me!”

Minho sends the boy a mildly disgusted, mildly annoyed expression in reply.

“It’s June.”

“Leave me be.”

His sarcastic brow returned with Han’s entertained giggle, the older boy finding it irritably hard to resist an approaching smile, pedaling to catch up to him.

How burdensome, Minho thinks.

“Is this about the Film Festival?”

Gliding past, Han’s eyes widen into saucers.

“Please don’t tell me Y/n’s mad I couldn’t show up, I’m scared she’ll beat me up or something on Monday.”

He grins at the sheepish plea.

“She’s not, trust me.”

“And why should I trust you?”

Minho shrugs. “Why not?”

“Fair,” Han deflates, stopping to catch his breath, balancing his hands on his knees.

The other boy, observing his exhaustion as he pushes on his brakes, grants him a side-eye, patting the back of his bike.

“Want a ride?”

Han, looking up with sweat wrecking his hair to stick up in wild directions, gradually nods, uttering a quiet “Feels like I’m cheating” as he climbs behind Minho, legs dangling off the side.

The ride is peaceful, rice fields flourishing, fields dappled with flowers of all sorts of hues on the way to town, breeze cooling down Han’s heated face, whipping his linen shirt in each gust.

Neither talk, simply enjoying the weather, the smells, the sounds.

Though, the enjoyment is quelled as soon as it began, Minho lugging a bag of soil atop where the younger boy had sat on the back of his bike—said boy lingering outside the gardening shop.

Door bells clanging overhead when he exits, Han gives him a questioning look as he works on tying the soil down.

“..Where am I gonna sit?” He questions aloud, and the devilish boy can’t help but wear an evil smile.

“You’re not,” He says matter-of-a-fact, swinging a leg over the seat, watching despair cross his friend’s face.

“New year new you, right? Good luck!”

Quickly racing off on his bike, Minho laughs at Han’s shouting while he disappears in the distance, knowing full well the silent-treatment he’ll receive later at school.

Oh the throes (and woes) of summer.

Meanwhile, you’re helping Chan hang laundry in his backyard, having reviewed more of an album him, Han, and Changbin have been working on after the festival.

The longer you listen, the more you find Chan has a knack for curating incredible music, enough that you find yourself leaning infinitely close to the old monitor of his, craning into each note the speaker procures.

“So I was thinking,” Chan clicks his tongue, hanging a t-shirt to the close pins. “What if we had a unit name? Han, Binnie and I?”

Processing his question in your mind, you purse your lips, wiping beading moisture from your forehead.

“What’d you have in mind?” You pique, giving the boy a sidelong glance, mischief evident on your face.

Mirroring your grin, he steps down from the stool, giving you a hand as you step from yours.

“3RACHA? Cause like.. we’re three and we’re hot like Sriracha?”

Instantly, you both burst out into giggles, smacking his shoulder at the sly phrasing.

“No no I’m kidding—“

“I like it!” You loudly interject, bringing the water bottle up to your lips.

Chan’s eyes bulge out of his skull, tilt in his head, a hint of surprise etched on sun kissed skin.

“Really?”

“Yeah! I like it! 3RACHA fits,” Elaborating with exaggerated hand gestures, the spectator has to bite back his smile, dimples nudging at his cheeks.

“I’ll let them know,” He raises his brows, giving you a small high five before officially collapsing on the grass, you following suit.

By the time your eyes open again, you can’t even recall what happened in the first place, trying to figure out why the sky is already pitch black, not to mention why you’re still lying in the grass.

Leave it to falling asleep to waste your day away.

Leaning over where you stretch your arms, Chan grins, extending a hand to help you up that you gratefully accept—granted an explanation as to how you ultimately fell asleep while he was mid conversation.

Waving him off upon noticing nighttime’s introduction, you begin back past school, crossing by the playing fields in the process.

And of course, lo and behold, Minho sits on the bleachers, watching an ongoing football practice while glancing down at his lap here and there, apparently writing something.

Seems today you’re running into everyone, huh?

Perks (and curses) of a small town.

Curiosity driving your feet toward him, you carefully jump up the steps, sitting beside him without word.

He obviously senses your presence but fails to speak up, simply letting you peek over his shoulder at his notes (to which you learned were for a class), occasionally striking conversation only to engulf in comfortable quietness once more.

“Hey Minho?” You inhale slowly, heel tapping again the metal bleacher plank below.

He grunts in acknowledgment.

“Do you think I’m doing a good job?”

The football coaches whistle blows alarmingly loud, causing either of you to involuntarily flinch.

Minho, lifting his head from his notebook, studies your face for a moment, from the way your nose perches to your parted lips, he analyzes.

Returning to your eyes, he blinks.

“I do. I mean, we all like you whether we admit it or not.”

The statement causes a smile to stretch your cheeks, turning to face him.

“Why?”

“Hm.. You actually treated us like human..? It’s like,” He scoffs, one brow twitching upward the longer he thinks. It’s the first time you noticed the small freckle seated atop his right nostril.

Charming.

“Everybody else seemed to think we were animals.”

Hearing him say that, it’s almost.. cruel. To think these boys simply needed a friend, a person to count on for a bit.

But they didn’t. They were deprived.

Yet, in a twisted way, it worked out. Because it led them to you.

“Well you’re doing it right.. I think.”

You shift your weight back onto your hands, humid air finally cooling into an even breeze.

“Thanks Min.”

“Mhm.”

You’ve grown accustomed to accepting good things never last. It’s one of the many things keeping your grip tight on anything you get ahold of.

Though, it strikes you nearly dizzy how quickly something so good turned sour.

As in, what was once near-conversation between Minho and Felix has now diminished into distanced glares and horrifically heavy silence like before.

Asking the more openly emotional of the two leads to nothing. No explanation, no reasoning. Just a shrug when you ask: “Hey, what’s up with you and Minho?”

More than ever with this group had you learned assumptions lead nowhere. But when assumptions are the sole thing to be made, you feel quite like you’re chasing your own tail in this predicament.

“Minho, you have to come to school. I’m responsible for your attendance.”

Amongst the week and a half the boy had been absent, you don’t plan to waste the opportunity for confrontation.

No, it isn’t your usual approach, but any softer and he’ll slip right through your fingertips like warmed butter.

Back facing you where he’d been routinely walking his bike behind his house, you stand firm, eyes trained to the cowlick embedded in his hair.

He doesn’t move, nor budge a single centimeter—voice cut and concise upon speaking.

“I’ve been busy.”

“You’ve been avoiding Felix.”

You can hear him inhale sharply, not daring to turn around.

“I know it isn’t my business, but there was this.. time Felix and I spoke. You two had a falling out again.. right?”

Prodding deeper into the wound, you can feel your heart constricting tighter and tighter in your chest.

“You’re right.” He whispers, tone low enough you crane to hear. “It isn’t your business.”

It’s your turn to suck in a quick breath.

“And.. it isn’t your place pretending like you know what my life is like. I… I’ll come back to school just-“

Ah. That hiccup. The shudder of his shoulders, the ache in his vocal cords.

“Let me deal with this by myself, alright?”

Who are you to disagree? Spoken seconds earlier, it isn’t your business nor your place shoving your nose into his life.

Synonymously, you don’t blame him. Blame his irritation, his evasiveness.

Whatever this is with Felix runs deeper. It takes but a single glance to dictate that conclusion. Minho’s loss, his hurt. Bottled up feelings bubbling over in their soda can.

When so much of you is battered, you hide, hide in fear that everything will be ripped from your fingertips — that horrid feeling of helplessness; forging grief continuing to wrack you numb.

Minho distanced himself to protect himself, but most importantly to protect them. To protect his friends, to protect Felix.

And yet, he forgot to install a safety net around his own perimeter.

Jittering hands frantically reaching for his bike’s handlebars, and you spectate wordlessly as abundant tears streak down his cheeks the moment a glimpse of his face is seen, fingernails furiously digging into the aged rubber.

“Minho.”

The boy shakes his head, sniffling senselessly before you step forward and grab his collar, lightly yanking him up, redirecting once castaway focus staring down to the cracked pavement below.

“Minho.”

Just then you notice his watery eyes and the heartbreaking, trembling frown adorning his features. Stifling tears.

Thumb carefully tracing his waterline to rid of those beading tears, he leans into your hand, face breaking a bit.

“Just.. please don’t deal with this alone, okay?”

Looking into someone’s eyes had never made you feel like you were dying until now. How can a soul carry such heavy heartache? Grieve so tirelessly even the eyes form as a window?

So broken, so beautiful.

We’re all the same, are we not?

Ten minutes later, seated upon the playing field’s bleachers familiar to the last time you encountered Minho, a comfortable silence answers any of the unspoken questions lingering in afternoon skies.

The boy beside you, puffy eyes and swollen skin, quietly delights in an ice cream bar, your own held between your lips in contemplation before utilizing your thumb and index to speak for a moment.

“I mean, I may dance around in my room to music, but that doesn’t mean I don’t cry in the shower at night. I’m still human, y’know?”

Curious feline eyes hang onto your words, enough of a beckon to go on.

“My days can be bright, my nights could be dark, there’s no limit to how you’re supposed to feel.”

Leaning forward, you tap his chest with your unoccupied hand.

“And there’s no need to try and reject something you want to feel. Otherwise, you suffocate.”

He tilts his head.

“It’s like.. hmm… if I hated the way I breathed—“

“You hate the way you breathe?” Minho interrupted, giving you an “are you stupid?” look you quickly shake your head at.

“No no, it’s an example,” You defend with a feigned scowl. “So if I hated the way I breathed, I can’t just hold my breath for too long or a pass out, right? You can’t let yourself get to a blackout point for the sake of others.”

The boy across from you sucks on the skin of his cheek, observing your extended pinkie before taking it in his own.

“Promise me you won’t get to that blackout point.”

Another promise.

Chan, now Minho.

Expression knit thoughtfully, Minho gradually nods, pressing your thumbs together before cracking an amused grin.

“Y’know, that was well-said.”

You chuckle, smacking his shoulder playfully. “I know right? I’m proud of that one.”

Of course he rolls his eyes in return, but you can see the remnant of a smile in the lifted corners of his mouth, the soft, flushed skin of his under eyes crinkling when he grins.

Ah. He’s beautiful, isn’t he?

On July 31th, your summer school class officially makes a close, and you and eight other boys graduate.

A miracle, maybe a fluke or some sort you made it out in one piece. A task proved possible after all—intentionally or unintentionally.

In the end, perhaps there wasn’t reason to stare at each sheet and pinpoint flaws.

No, Chris isn’t void of life. Hyunjin doesn’t have a superiority complex, and Jisung certainly isn’t senseless. Seungmin gets nervous ordering coffee and hasn’t participated in illegal activities a day in his life. Felix isn’t in an underground gang, and no one has stolen before.

There’s too many sides to a cube, so most stick to 2D squares. The complexity is shrunk so it’s easier to digest.

In the end, perhaps you forget it’s all so wondrous in a way, so intricate and raw. 3D.

Right before you graduated, Hyunjin gave you a painting he made. ‘A thank you for motivating me to add art as my friend’ he had told you.

Changbin still sleeps with his Snorlax plushie, and 3RACHA released their first album just yesterday.

Han finally got his license, Seungmin and Jeongin attend Sejong University as freshman, and Felix sells baked goods on Sundays while interning at a local bakery.

Minho volunteers at an animal shelter on the far side of town, he also took up dancing again.

He and Felix began talking again too.

In the end, perhaps it wasn’t a matter of you helping them, but for the all of you to understand that, in the grand scheme of things, you live on, just as you and Chan had promised.

There is no choice, no point, no break to the cycle.

It hurts, it burns, it breaks. You glue yourself together, even when the pieces shatter over and over. Shards draw blood, but a glued glass can still be useful, can still be worthy.

Bruised and battered, scraped and scorned, a connection lies within Stray Kids that sinks deeper than the anchor you planted in a sea of possibilty, a sea of what you thought was something one-sided, a sea you once believed you’d swim alone.

Maybe it’s discovery after discovery that keeps you close, or maybe it’s something deeper.

Nonetheless, your summer—a summer of hellish heartbreak and love reaping all bounds of repercussion—was one to remember.

A summer solace, for what it’s worth.

FIC TAGLIST. @kayleefriedchicken, @chaotic-world-of-the-j, @minhosbitterriver, @reignessance, @thatonexcgirl, @panbish-1209, @jeonginplsholdmyhand, @neviestayy, @stayinlimbo, @tenmii, @sunoosmainchick, @hannamoon143, @juliettacandy, @c0smicstxrs

sunboki, may 2022 ©

248 notes · View notes

leclsrc · 2 years

Text

see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways.

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety.

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.”

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water.

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you.

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening.

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family?

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh.

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!”

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family.

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it.

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills.

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone.

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place.

You slide him five euros over breakfast.

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards.

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you.

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses.

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes.

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room.

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.”

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face.

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles.

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating.

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings.

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh.

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes.

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him.

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply.

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off.

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts.

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #charles leclerc imagine #f1 x reader

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shunsuiken · 1 year

Text

THE ONE I RETURN TO.

pairing. kamisato ayato x fem!reader

genre. fluff + marriage au + reader is kinda shy btw (PLEASE CAN U BLAME ME ITS AYATO) + also you wear fragranced hand cream here

synopsis. day to day life married to kamisato ayato is never boring. there is always something to complete and achieve by the end of the day. however, due to your husband’s busy schedule, he’s never seen you in your element at work to ensure the household is in order. and tonight, he finally gets that chance.

wc. 2k

an. heavily inspired by ayato’s character story where the maids and servants often leave notes for him on his study so that he stays up to date with anything going on in the household I LOVE MY HUSBAND SO MUCH AWHWEHEURUFHDB its also my birthday today (well, it was, like 30mins ago but still) so this is a gift from me to you <3 okay please enjoy !!!

as ayato’s wife, you make sure to take care of the household while your husband attends to official duties. even if these duties take much of his time, you don’t fail to report and update him of any changes or requests made within the household and thanks to his lovely sister, ayaka, you learnt that the estate’s way of filling in the clan head on any news was though writing little notes to stick onto any books that were left open after the commissioner left his study.

as your husband, ayato really should be spending more time with you. everyone around him is aware of the capable and loving wife he has at home. some even whisper underneath their breaths that the lord commissioner is too busy to even have a wife. but he knows that is wrong, he doesn’t leave you unattended. in fact, he showers you in so many gifts (hand creams, hair products, skin care products—the list goes on!) when he knows he’ll be on business for longer than usual. this is how you found two new sets of kimono’s waiting for you on your shared bed. you must admit, they’re gorgeous. the delicate hands of ogura mio never disappoint… you nod your head in agreement to your own thoughts as you hold up the material closer to your face.

a knock on the door snaps you out of your mind.

“yes?”

“y/n? i was wondering if you were free? thoma made some pastries, would you like to—”

you bolt for the shoji before sliding it open with practiced grace. your gentle smile greets ayaka’s cute expectant expression. “of course, ayaka! you know i always have time for you.”

her eyes curl like crescents, boldly looping her arm with yours so she can take you to the area outside the estate’s doors. the evening breeze is cool but it doesn’t make you chilly enough to request a coat.

you and ayaka have always been the best of friends, even before you were wed to ayato. although you were a few years older than her, it did not change the shared frequency you both had when it came to certain hobbies and topics. then one day, you met ayato while he was on official business and you couldn’t deny how composed and… gorgeous that man was on that day. so after silently eyeing each other from across the room of authorities and inazuman nobility, he finally introduced himself, saying “he never had the pleasure of meeting you.”

you both soon grew closer, contacting each other through letters—referring to one another as your “penpal” when really you two were flirting (very, very subtly) on a piece of paper. you both only spoke during events hosted by other noble clan’s or official authorities, which was for the safety of both your reputations because god forbid a rumour that the yashiro commissioner was seeking a wife. imagine the uproar it would cause in inazuma city!

oh, and it certainly did.

as you stack papers upon papers in your husband’s study, you reminisce quietly with a relaxed smile on your face. you take the notes other servants have left and arrange them in categories of: household updates, requests and miscellaneous things. you often find yourself reading through the miscellaneous category of notes the most as they bring a laugh out of you. once you read that a servant politely asked the clan head to watch his step when leaving the study so he would avoid bumping into any potted plants. you remember that day and you remember how you were holding in your laughter at the disaster in the room when thoma showed you.

“my lady, sometimes the lord likes to get ahead of himself so it results in his feet working quicker than his head,” thoma commented as he cleaned the mess of soil and the depressing state of the plant.

you hummed in agreement. “that, i could tell very easily.”

a chuckle leaves your lips as you read through more of the notes from the retainers. “oh dear, these are too much for me.” you cover your mouth to contain your giggles. these people just have the most outlandish things to say! oh well, it is nice to know they aren’t afraid to be honest.

you’re lucky it’s past midnight, when everyone is asleep so they wouldn’t have to hear your muffled giggles.

everyone except for one person.

your husband, of course. who idly stands in the corridor with the shoji being the one thing that separates you two. he listens to how you whisper under your breath as you read the notes, or how you repeat what some of them say due to how amusing they are.

“my lord, your bountiful order of rice cakes will arrive within 3-5 days. until then please refrain from stepping into the kitchen to fi—pfft.” clearly, pursing your lips isn’t enough to keep you from bursting into laughter. “��to fix up your own—oh no, that is absolutely something he would do.”

ayato only realises how much he’s been yearning to hear your voice until now. it’s a shame this is the first time he’s bumped into you on these midnight reviews (he can see the smile on your face as you read the note even when he’s not looking at you, oh how he misses that sweet look on your face). licking his lips lightly, his gloved fingers stealthily slide the shoji open by an inch so the view reveals your figure that is turned back to him. his lavender gaze captures the sight of your hair loose and that you’re wearing the yukata he gifted you two weeks ago. you sit comfortably on his specially made tatami mat too.

sometimes ayato barely even has the time to be in your presence. but this moment right now, where he enjoys your presence without you even knowing, is nice. although the painful drop in his stomach inks him with a tinge of regret, he well understands how his duties must stay a priority. after all, he has a family to protect. ayaka, you, thoma and the retainers. he cannot fail any of you.

ayato purses his lips before he announces his presence with a light thud of the shoji shutting behind him. “hello darling.”

your spine snaps straight up at the sound and the voice. “ayato?” turning around, you watch your husband make his way toward you sitting on his tatami mat. he kneels down beside you before pulling another mat from the side to sit on it.

your mind struggles to process the moment until he is sat down. your movements are paused, two notes from the retainers still held in your hands. “when… did you arrive? it’s pretty early.”

a light chuckle leaves ayato’s lips, “darling, what are you implying? would you rather i leave?” he puts on an expression feigning disappointment, pretending to get up from his seat.

your hands move quickly, halting his act with your warm palm on his knee. “no no, don’t! stay here please.” the hastiness in your voice is accompanied by your wide eyes that have a longingness to them, a longingness that you still struggle to communicate verbally. which is how you end up subconsciously relying on your husband’s perceptiveness to get wind of what you’re feeling without telling him.

he huffs at you fondly, fixing his clothing to sit comfortably on the tatami mat again. then he takes your hand in his hand before you can pull it back. “as you wish, my dear.” he tugs on your hand and you give him a questioning look.

“come closer.”

“o- oh.” your other hand scrunches up the material of your yukata, which ayato totally sees and pretends he doesn’t. little shit. you want to curse because he knows how good he is at making your heart flutter. your body gives into him nonetheless, the longing and yearning for him finally melting into your limbs as you become putty in his arms, sitting in between his legs with both the tatami mats providing your bottom's comfort.

your arms shyly snake around his clothed waist, comfortably wrapping yourself around your husband you missed so much.

ayato lets you do whatever you want, knowing you will indulge in his invitation. sliding his gloves off his fingers, he puts them on the table so that he can feel your body without the obstruction. such a sullied garment that shakes hands with officials, signs documents and motions at retainers to obey his orders simply does not earn the right to hold you.

your head hides in the juncture between his neck and shoulder and he feels your soft breaths against his neck. he gently places his jaw on the crown of your head, finding solace in the embrace as his arms hold onto your smaller body.

the warmth from his palms spread on your skin, calming your nerves instantaneously.

“so is this what you do in my office at this time?”

you hum into his skin, “usually you’re not home by this time so it’s only natural you don’t bump into me when i’m in here.” your breath tickles ayato, a tug playing on his rosy lips at the physical intimacy. “you can imagine how shocked i was when you magically appeared behind me.” your soft giggle fills the room momentarily.

“it’s no wonder that all of my notes are arranged tidily when i return,” ayato chuckles softly, “it’s not to say that they weren’t tidy before but these notes held a certain scent on them that led me to believe that my wife was here prior.” he gently takes your hand that was wrapped around him, pulling it up to plant a kiss on your knuckles.

oh, you definitely felt how he inhaled slightly when his lips touched your knuckles. you glare at him, but there is no anger behind your eyes. “you rascal, you sniff your notes?”

ayato’s grin only widens at the name you call him, enjoying your response to his teasing. “darling, you’re the only one in this estate who wears this scented hand cream. i also personally chose it for you so i had no doubts about it.” he then sighs disappointedly, “though it is a shame this is the first time i’ve caught you in here, what if you stayed longer next time?”

you deadpan at him. “you want me to camp out here in your office?” because with his schedules, you might not even step foot into your bedroom until dawn.

ayato shakes his head, laughing softly at your expression. “don’t say that, you know i rush home every time once i’m finished.”

you pat his shoulder, putting on an act of sympathy before exhaling to feign exasperation. “and you will find me in our bedroom once you’re done.”

“y/n!” your husband almost whines, his brows creasing sorrowfully.

his expression doesn’t improve until you’ve kissed every inch of his pretty face, and only then does the corner of his lip curl up. with your hands cupping his face, he opens an eye to peek over at you ready to give him another smooch, consequently making you pause.

“are you satisfied, my lord?”

“hm, perhaps another one—over here.” ayato ponders for a moment before tapping his index finger on his own cheek. he closes his eyes yet again to await your kiss.

it does not arrive.

so he opens his eyes again, mouth ready to pester you with complaints for not granting him your divine kisses but just as he does, you’re up in his face to place that kiss he was waiting for on his cheek.

“there you go, happy?”

“most unbelievably.” his voice is soft, tender, almost a whisper. but clear enough for your ears to catch it. ayato stares at you with these eyes that tempt you into looking away. the loving and affectionate gaze of those lilac eyes, paired with that gentle curl of his pink, moistened lips is reserved, just for you. he takes your hands in his again, lifting one of them to place another ardent kiss on your knuckles.

“especially since it’s you, the one i return to.”

#kamisato ayato x reader #ayato x reader #ayato fluff #kamisato ayato fluff #genshin x reader #genshin fluff #genshin x reader fluff

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a-mel0n · 29 days

Text

Okay, so I know we joke about the whole “Invisible String theory” thing a lot for Bucktommy, but this idea just hit me like a fucking train and I feel like I’m going to explode if I don’t write it down. So, hear me out:

A Bucktommy “Your Name” AU.

If you don’t know about Your Name (go watch it it’s a good movie), the basic synopsis is that two people keep switching bodies when they fall asleep. The switches are fairly common, but they’re random and not on a set schedule. When they “wake up,” they only have faint impressions of their time in the other person’s body— like it was a dream. To keep track of what the other person does in their body, the pair write small “diary entries” at the end of the day to inform the original owner of the body what happened, and to just talk to the other.

Throughout the film, the two people slowly fall in love with each other before the switches suddenly stop, and all memory of the experience fades, including the memos they wrote each other. All that’s left is the faint impression that they’re searching for something, for someone.

So. Here’s my idea. The switches can start at really any point in their lives, but my idea is that they start switching sometime in Season 6, at least from Buck’s perspective. For Tommy, the switches start when he’s still at the 118.

A crucial part of the swaps is that they’re not only switching places, they’re also switching through time, which prevents the pair from actually meeting, because any attempt to meet someplace would just get fucked over due to the time difference.

They write each other small reminders of things they set up while in the other’s body on the other’s phone or on their body; a small set of rules of things to NOT do while they’re swapped; the occasional back-and-forth; the whole nine yards. Maybe you could have a fun scene of Chimney showing up at the 118 for the first time while Buck is in Tommy’s body and he has to slam his mouth shut everytime he goes to instinctively call him “Chimney” instead of “Howard” or “Howie.”

(Maybe that’s how Chim got his nickname in this universe, a whole bootstrap paradox situation.)

The swaps continue all the way up until Buck gets struck by lightning while in his own body, and that three-minute-eleven-second period where he’s dead is enough to prevent the swaps from ever happening again. Once he wakes up from his coma dream, he’s lost all memory of the swaps, and all the little notes that Tommy wrote on his phone are gone.

Despite that, he can’t help but feel like he’s missing something, or… someone. Someone dear to him, someone he couldn’t have possibly forgotten. And yet, no matter how hard he tries, he can’t remember anything about them.

(Actually… maybe there is a moment where they can talk to each other. While Tommy is passed out due to the gas leak in that mall, Buck is still in his coma dream, and they actually speak face-to-face for the first time. Maybe they promise each other to meet up after they wake up. But, once they do— they’ve forgotten all about the other.)

Tommy continues to live his own life, with this faint feeling that he’s waiting for something. He transfers out of the 118 and over to Harbor in order to satisfy that feeling, and while it does provide some relief, that feeling doesn’t go away. When Howie calls him to help the 118 out with that residential fire, that feeling of “waiting waiting waiting searching” blazes to life again, pulling him towards the ground and the people running around beneath him. It recedes fairly quickly, though, in fact— as he’s flying away from that neighborhood after preforming the water drop.

Buck, on the other hand, is in that post-lightning-strike state. He’s got his super math powers and the newfound appreciation for life, yet the feeling that he’s looking for something (a feeling he’s had all his life, independent of the swaps), has gotten a whole lot stronger and he can’t pinpoint why.

Then the cruise disaster happens, and he has to push those thoughts out of his mind, for Bobby and Athena’s sake. And then… Chimney calls in an old friend for a favor.

(“You and I… haven’t we… haven’t I met you somewhere before?”)

#is this anything #idk i just rewatched your name and this idea screamed at me so loudly it felt like a train horn #if someone does actually want to write this fic go ahead #i just had to get this out of my brain #tommy kinard #evan buckley #bucktommy #911 abc #911

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hypewinter · 6 months

Note

HC/AU Prompt Thingy (7 I think?)

1). Ghost Batman

2). Halfa Jason

3). Ghost Joker

Considering the amount of times Batman has died (or come close to death) and the amount of things Joker has somehow survived, I'd believe it.

Let's say, Joker died many years ago, the day he first fell into the vat of acid. Too bad the clown had enough strong emotions to come back. And let's be honest, Batman also died a long time ago. Probably when Bane broke his back. At this point, he is purely living off of spite and vengeance.

With that out of the way, do you guys remember that one idea where while Jason's dead, he spends his time in the zone and becomes friends with Danny? Only for his to mysteriously disappear because he got resurrected? That's what I'm going with here.

Danny found Jason aimlessly floating and quickly took him under his wing. It only took a short time for the two to become inseparable. Which is why Danny is crushed when Jason up and vanishes. No one saw where he went. No one saw what happened to him. His disappearance was so sudden and so mysterious that Danny almost wanted to believe his best friend had his final death. But things just didn't add up. So he went searching.

Meanwhile, our ghosty boy has now become only a half ghosty boy due to his unique resurrection. Unfortunately for Jason though, halfas still need ectoplasm too and he is not getting nearly enough of it, leading to him being quite angry and destructive.

Oh! You what would be interesting? If instead of wanting Bruce to kill Joker to avenge him, Jason just goes for the kill himself. Except for Joker won't die. No matter what he does to him. Because of the whole already a ghost thing. But that doesn't stop Jason from trying. Nor does it stop Bruce from trying to talk him down.

So now there's this three-way stand off going on. It is at this point in time that Danny comes through a portal determined to find Jason. But that's not all! Because by time Danny has finally managed to track his bestest buddy down, he may or may not have acquired the title of Prince of the Infinite Realms. Which may or may not give him power over all dead and never living. Which includes Joker and Batman. Which makes it extra funny when said three-way stand off comes to an end by Phantom appearing and ordering two of the three to kneel.

#dp x dc #dc x dp #dpxdc #dcxdp #winter answers #thanks for the ask!#you will not believe how long this bad boy has been sitting in the drafts #my bad

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m1d-45 · 2 years

Note

i’ve reread duality of man so many times, it’s completely captured my brain and i’m literally obsessed with it….. i’m going insane (/pos) imagining how it would feel for childe to learn that he was wrong, he was wrong and if it weren’t for foul legacy, his god would be dead at his hands!! how horrible it would be to learn that the creator trusts foul legacy over him because of his own actions!! FUCK!!!

inversion of fate

a/n: you are so right. target audience. anon is referencing this post.

word count: 1.8k

-> warnings: childe, major spoilers for his lore, imposter au things, it/its pronouns for foul legacy because it’s childe’s perspective

-> gn reader (you/yours)

taglist: @samarill || @thenyxsky || @valeriele3 || @shizunxie || @boba-is-a-soup || @yum1x || @esthelily

< masterlist >

childe doesn’t really see foul legacy as much more than an extension of himself, an extra tool he utilizes in the heat of battle, so to be shown that this ‘tool’ was correct? that his bloodlust had blinded him to the one thing that matters??? OUGH

foul legacy’s emotions sort of bleed into his due to the nature of their bond, so he can feel the genuine love that legacy feels for you and it drives him mad. he can tell it’s being genuine, that the claws swiping a strand of hair from your face are only moved by care, and it’s so irritating to him. he has to just sit there and simmer in the adoration from legacy, and he can’t do anything while you’re being so lovingly cared for by a creature of the abyss, only sit in a body he no longer has control over.

when foul legacy finally urges you to stand, he thinks it’s over. he tracks your direction and hears through abyssal ears, following your movement. he’s ready to go the moment that legacy gives up control.

maybe that’s why the moment never comes.

foul legacy closes its eye, spinning quickly to a seemingly random direction. it navigates solely by its own invisible senses, one’s childe’s brain isn’t wired to receive and decode, and he’s stunned into silence.

why is it going through so much trouble to protect you? surely it knows that even if childe isn’t the one, you’ll be caught eventually, right? it has to know that it can’t control his body forever (can it?) and that eventually he’ll get his revenge. it has to.

childe tries to keep himself oriented as best he can, if only to point others in the right direction, but legacy kept stopping to spin and confuse him. it only opened its eye once the sounds of the harbor reached its ears, and even then, childe found himself near the southern end of the harbor, near where the path split to lead up to the golden house.

he’d found you somewhere near luhua pool. he couldn’t tell whether to be impressed or annoyed that legacy managed to get him here so quickly.

standing on shaking legs, childe stumbled into the harbor. maybe it would be wise to get an agent to walk with him: he was always exhausted after a transformation, and this one was more mentally taxing than most.

in the back of his mind, he swears he can hear a satisfied rumble from the devouring deep.

it was rare that childe received a letter.

folders were common, crossing his desk to report on missions he didn’t order and announce things he didn’t ask about. orders themselves were common enough, ‘letters’ of notice in neat packages, a small box with a map and a card denoting what was to be done. he was familiar with both, as all harbingers were, but an actual letter?

childe spotted the bright blue paper from the moment he stepped into his office, slowly closing the door behind him. as he rounded his desk, he saw the bright gold wax seal shimmered under the light, taunting him from the center of his desk. the room was eerily quiet, the creak from his chair bouncing off the walls and back at him. as he picked up the envelope, the textured paper sparking a memory, the seal suddenly felt a lot more daunting.

the seal of the fatui was also a familiar thing. it was stamped on papers and issued on uniforms, badges and reports embossed with the dark four-pointed star. he had a stamp of it himself, in one of his drawers, though he’d admittedly swapped the usual black ink for a blood red. all the harbingers tended to put their own spin onto their paperwork, usually for ease of filing or to show off. signora had the corners of the seal spiked into flames, licking across orange ink. dottore had his in a variety of shades of blue, wire forming the outer ring.

pantalone had the circles in the star changed to mora.

he flipped it over just to be sure, reading the shining golden scrawl, but the writing in the corner confirmed it was from pantalone, the characteristic cursive ‘regrator’ justifying the weight of the paper. he doubted there was much more than a single page inside; pantalone was always rather concise, even if a touch flowery in the way he did it.

with a sigh, childe turned the envelope back over and fit a nail under the wax, neatly separating it from the textured paper. he pulled the letter out and turned it to the side: only one page, though it felt like three.

a laugh slipped from him. it felt forced. in the back of his mind, foul legacy chittered.

‘shut up,’ he muttered, tossing the empty envelope on his desk.

‘you will not wish for my silence much longer.’

childe paused, a finger under the flap of the folded paper. ‘what does that mean?’

‘what do you think it does?’

he shook off the cryptic response—though it’s been months since he ran into you, it’s been in a mood ever since—and unfolded the letter, beginning to read.

he almost wished he didn’t.

there’s only two paragraphs on the page—succinct as always, he thought numbly—but the paper weighed as much as a mountain in his hands.

it was a letter updating him on the hunt for the imposter. a common source of news for him, who couldn’t personally take part in it due to his foul legacy, but this…

no matter how many times he rereads the cursive scrawl, it refuses to register. the expensive paper wrinkles around where his thumb is pressing into it, his grip tightening with every passing moment in an attempt to combat the shake beginning to set in. the same words glare at him, unchanging, shimmering off the page like an oasis of poison.

he feels legacy crawl out of the cave in his head that it has sealed itself in, finally coming forward into the light of reality that childe is washed in. the abyss stares, inspecting the harsh gleam of truth, the shine that pierces into childe’s eyes and makes them water, the one that doesn’t go away even if he closes them. legacy chitters, almost like a laugh, and the paper finally falls from childe’s hands.

‘we were wrong,’ the paper says.

you were wrong, his mind repeats.

legacy reads the paper, cooing sadly at the news that you’ve been missing ever since zhongli cornered you. you’d slipped away in his shock, and he could feel the way it wanted to chase after you. the barrier between their minds was always rather thin, and he can feel it press against it, the sadness and concern bleeding into him.

legacy pawed at his mind, urging him to let it take over and find you, and childe couldn’t even find humor in the fact that a creature of the abyss was whining at him.

it was his fault. his fault, his, if he had just listened to legacy and to the call in his own heart, if he had stopped and thought like he was told, if he had recognized the fact that legacy would never turn down a fight-

something like pride washed into his mind from legacy but it didn’t register, the overwhelming realization that he’d tried to kill his god driving all thoughts from his mind.

and he would have succeeded were if not for the abyss.

the abyss itself, the liquid poison that clung to his skin and made him dream of stars fallen from the sky, the small part of it that he had to permanently take on to survive, that had been more right than his own mind. the very place known for being bloodthirsty and ruthless, that never turned down a fight and was the first to draw blood, had been kind to you. he should have noticed.

he was wrong. how could he be?

his foul legacy chittered, an equal mix of taunting him and asking to find you.

‘give up,’ it cooed, a bitter edge of false affection around its words. ‘you’ve already done enough.’

he hated that it was right.

he hated that were it not for legacy he would have hurt you further. he hated that he had the gall to try and taunt you, you, the one he’d sworn to devote his life to after he escaped the abyss. you who gave him a form strong enough to handle the devouring deep, you who gave him the strength to stand up and keep on, and he repaid you by hunting you down, claws bared.

and he hated that he would never be able to find you on his own.

‘let me find my god.’

‘my god,’ he weakly replied, but bile quickly rose in his throat. were you? did he even have the privilege of calling himself your follower if the only words he spoke to you were threats? could he call himself faithful when he pressed on after the abyss itself cried for mercy?

‘are you the one they held close?’

childe was going to be sick.

he wasn’t, he wasn’t, he was so awful that you had to turn to the abyss for comfort, his hands were so stained that even the highest of the high recoiled, weapon drawn. you, his light, the one thing that he could always rely on, the sole constant in his life, and he turned his back on you when you needed it most. he had willingly thrown it all away, blindly following a fake that took advantage of his faith. even when all the signs asked him to stop—to think—he had pressed onward, so blinded that a creature of sea and stars could see what he could not.

‘let me find them.’

he stared at his desk, at the work he still had to do, at the letter proclaiming his failure, at the wide window to his left that spanned nearly the entire wall, more than large enough for even his foul legacy, and made a decision.

ajax gave up his body, bitter in the knowledge that the only time he could only see you would be through another’s eyes, and sick in the understanding that it was all his fault.

#i encourage you to laugh at the visual of foul legacy bouncing through liyue like a game of pong to throw of childe. go on. it’s funny.#genshin sagau #sagau #genshin #genshin impact #self aware genshin #sagau impostor au #childe angst #sagau foul legacy #sagau tartaglia #foul legacy x reader #sagau childe #gn reader #childe #tartaglia #tartaglia angst #genshin x gn reader #gender neutral reader #also hc childe keeps the seals from pantalone and whenever he sends a letter back he fills the envelope with the seals.#i just. think it would be really funny. also hey pantalone gets his wax back so yay recycling(?) every messenger thinks it’s odd though.#to be fair childes already a Strange Character so i doubt they’d think much of it. probably think he’s sending mora which is funny when you #consider the fact that pantalone is like. insanely rich.#it’s like mailing jeff bezos a letter with a fistful of crumpled 1 dollar bills inside #fun drinking game: take a shot every time i use the words ‘foul legacy’ to refer to both legacy himself and childe’s past / reputation #FUCK I FORGOT A TITLE AGAIN SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT #H O W DO I ALWAYS DO THIS FUCK #teddy anon #:)

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jeankluv · 5 months

Text

Birdie - Satoru Gojo | Chapter 06

Words: 4,5k

Summary: You didn’t like him, at all. But due to your bad luck you would have to be forced to work with him and different circumstances end up leading you to the fact that perhaps the word dislike is not the one you use to describe him.

ac: _3aem

Tags: modern au, college au, fem!reader, academic rivals, he fell first, fluff, old money Gojo Satoru, abusive parents, slight slow burn, Satoru is a softy, secondary couple (Geto Suguru x oc), a bit of angst, no use of y/n, eventual smut, Gojo plays basketball

Authors note: I need y’all to chose between yes or no. Depending on which one wins, something will happen in one of the future chapters 🤭 also thank you for the support ❤️

Materialist | previous chapter | next chapter

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Gojo parked the car near the restaurant you had mentioned. It was a street ramen restaurant, a place you had visited countless times before. The ramen bowls were generous, and the prices were quite affordable, much to the relief of your wallet.

Luckily, you found a place to sit and perused the menu.

“I already know what I'm going to order.” You smiled, setting your menu aside.

“Oh, really?” He glanced up.

You nodded. “The house specialty with extra spice.” Just thinking about it made your mouth water.

“You like it spicy?” He looked at you with a hint of horror.

“Of course I do, Gojo. Don't tell me you don't?” Gojo nodded in response to your question. “Shit, most of the dishes here have some spice to them.”

“It's okay, it's just for one day.” He shook his head.

As the conversation flowed lively and you discovered new things about Gojo, the weight that had been on your shoulders since you stepped foot in the lake slowly fade away.

“Gojo…” You whispered after thanking the waiter who brought you dinner. “About what happened at the lake.”

“You don't have to tell me.” He gently interrupted. “If you want to tell me, then I'll listen and support you. But... if it's too much for you, then you don't have to tell me anything, birdie.” He smiled, and you could feel a warmth spreading in your chest.

“Thank you.” You whispered.

At times, you completely forgot that you didn't like Gojo, and another feeling you wanted to suppress emerged.

You shook your head and picked up the chopsticks to start eating. As usual, it was delicious and spicy as you liked it. You glanced through your lashes at Gojo and saw him struggling with the spiciness of his ramen, even though it was one of the mildest they had.

“Are you sure you're okay?” You stifled a laugh as you watched him fan himself with his hand.

“Yes, of course.” He coughed a bit. “It's just that... I'm not used to it.” He tried to smile.

“We can order milk, so the spiciness goes away better.” Gojo nodded deliberately, and you couldn't help but laugh.

You signaled for the waiter to bring a glass of milk. Watching him take a few sips and visibly relax, you couldn't help but chuckle at the sight.

“Feeling better now?” You asked, a playful glint in your eyes.

Gojo nodded, a grateful smile spreading across his face. “Much better, thank you.”

The warmth of his smile melted away any lingering tension between you, and for a moment, you simply enjoyed the comfort of Gojo’s company.

As both of you continued eating, Gojo struggled to conceal his discomfort. Despite your initial concerns that dinner might be awkward because of what happened at the lake, it wasn't. You felt at ease with Gojo, and his occasional antics made you forget everything.

As you continued to share anecdotes and laughter, your ramen bowls emptied. And the night grew darker outside.

You watched as Gojo got up from his seat to pay. As you observed his back, you couldn't help but feel grateful for having accepted to come to this place with him. Gojo turned on his heels and flashed you a smile, a smile that made your cheeks turn crimson.

You didn't want to admit it, but perhaps Satoru Gojo was growing on you more than he should.

When Gojo returned to the table, you couldn't help the flutter of warmth his smile had ignited within you. Despite your best efforts to ignore him, you found yourself drawn to him in a way that both excited and unsettled you.

“Ready to go?” He asked, breaking the silence between both of you.

You nodded, getting up from your seat and following him out of the restaurant. The cool night air hit your face as you stepped outside, the soft breeze rustling the fabric of your clothes.

As you walked side by side, the comfortable silence between you said it all. It was a silence filled with unexpressed thoughts and emotions, a silent acknowledgment of the growing connection between you.

With every step, you couldn't help but look at Gojo, the presence of him at your side calming and strangely comforting. And when you got to the car, you couldn't deny the pang of disappointment that washed over you at the thought of saying goodbye.

“Gojo…” You muttered, getting a slight gaze from him. “About the other day…” How could you continue? “I know we are not close but I mean.” Shit. You were awful at these things. “You can talk to me I guess? We are classmates and all that.”

“You seemed awkward.”

“Shit. Is just that I’m awful with these things, okay? That’s why I didn’t know how to react the other day, when you, you…”

“It’s okay birdie. I get it.” You saw him smile. “Thank you for caring and I’m okay, so don’t worry.”

You nodded, still not sure if you should trust that okay he gave you, because it sounded like a lie and that it was hiding more behind.

At this point you couldn't deny that something was growing inside you. Satoru Gojo was making it difficult not to. His easy charm, genuine kindness, and unexpected moments of vulnerability had touched something deep within you, igniting a spark of longing you couldn't ignore.

Lost in your thoughts, you were jolted back to reality as the car came to a stop outside your house. Turning to face Gojo, you were met with his warm gaze, a silent understanding passing between you.

“Thanks for tonight, birdie.” He said softly, his voice tinged with sincerity. “For coming to the match and for then, coming with me to…”

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you returned his sentiment. “No, thank you. I had a really wonderful time having dinner with you. And don’t worry about what happened back in the lake, it was not your fault.”

As you stepped out of the car and onto the sidewalk, a sense of anticipation filled you. Despite the late hour and the weariness that threatened to weigh you down, you couldn't shake the excitement that bubbled within you.

Gojo stepped out of his car and walked you to the door, apparently wanting to make sure you arrived safely.

“I'll see you in class.” He whispered.

“Yeah.” You whispered back. “Goodbye, Satoru.” You smiled.

“Huh?” He looked at you in surprise. “Wait, did you just...?”

“Goodbye!” You hummed and closed the door before he could say anything else.

As you leaned against the front door, the familiar sound of Gojo's car engine ignited a flurry of emotions inside you. You couldn't help but feel a pang of longing mixed with a hint of anticipation. However, as the sound faded into the distance, a bittersweet smile appeared at the corners of your lips before you forcibly pushed those feelings away, reminding yourself of the need to remain grounded in the present moment.

As you walked through the quiet house, you found solace in the familiarity of your own room. Kyoko's absence, along with the echo of silence, allowed your thoughts to wander freely. Despite the calm outside, turmoil brewed beneath the surface as repressed memories of that night threatened to resurface.

Sinking into bed, you were once again faced with the weight of unresolved emotions. Your mind returned to a pivotal moment etched into your past. With trembling fingers, you reached for the photograph.

“Mom…”

With a whispered word, you invoked the memory of a figure frozen forever in time.

In the quiet solitude of your room, you wrestled with the complexities of your past, piecing together fragments of memories your mind had decided to forget.

As tears threatened to spill, you recalled the few vivid moments still etched in your memory alongside your mother. But many had long since faded away, her laughter, her voice, her scent, now even her expressions were difficult to conjure.

Resting your head on your knees, you closed your eyes, letting yourself drift back to the sweet melody she used to sing before bedtime. Each note resonated with a sense of comfort and longing, a bittersweet reminder of a love that transcended time and space.

Enveloped by the silence of the room, with only the melody resonating from your vocal cords, you began to feel the warm embrace of sleep. Despite your desire to stay awake for Kyoko, your body was simply too exhausted. Each note of the lullaby seemed to lull you deeper into a state of peaceful surrender, until finally, with a reluctant sigh, you succumbed to the soothing embrace of slumber.

As the sun streamed through your window, you blinked opening your eyes, realizing you had slept through the night without interruption. Your cheeks felt wet, and it wasn't surprising; you had dreamt of your mother, something that hadn't happened since you were a child. You wiped your face with the palm of your hand and stretched as you rose from the bed.

With Kyoko's parents away for the weekend, it would just be the two of you. You reached for your phone in your bag to check for any messages.

Kyoko☀️

I'm home now. I saw you were asleep, so I didn't disturb you. Come to my room as soon as you wake up tomorrow!!

That was a good sign, right?

And then there was another message.

Pain in the ass

The exam is approaching. How about we meet on Sunday to study? By the way, good night birdie.

Perhaps it was time to change the nickname, huh? You mentally chastised yourself for realizing you were smiling. You left your phone aside and headed to Kyoko's room with excitement. You flopped onto her bed, calling out her name eagerly.

“Come on!” You urged, nudging her gently. “You have to tell me what happened yesterday.” You smiled with anticipation.

Kyoko opened her eyes slightly and murmured your name. “What time is it?” She asked, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

“Almost noon.” You replied.

“Almost noon?” Kyoko sat up, surprised. “I've slept the whole morning away.” She sighed with resignation.

“After getting home at three in the morning, it's understandable.” You teased.

“Don't make fun of me or I won't tell you.” She warned with a smile.

“Come on…” You pleaded with a pout.

Kyoko returned your smile and sat up in bed. “We're officially dating.” She announced with joy. You let out a small yay and embraced your best friend.

“Was it romantic?” You asked curiously.

“Yes. He took me out to dinner first, and then we went to the teamLab, where he asked me.” She sighed nostalgically.

“At teamLab?” You asked, amazed. “You've been wanting to go there for ages, but the tickets were always sold out.” You recalled with surprise.

Kyoko shrugged. “I know, and I don't know how he did it, but we got in, and in one of the rooms, the crystal room, he asked me if I wanted to officially start dating.”

“That's amazing.” You exclaimed, feeling genuinely happy for Kyoko. “It sounds like he put a lot of thought into it.”

Kyoko nodded, a soft smile playing on her lips. “He really did. It was like a dream.”

“I'm so happy for you.” You said, giving her another hug. “You deserve all the happiness in the world.”

Kyoko returned the hug warmly, her eyes shining with gratitude. “Thank you for always being there for me.” She said softly.

“Of course.” You replied, feeling a surge of warmth in your chest. “That's what friends are for, right?”

As you both sat there, basking in the glow of Kyoko's newfound happiness, you couldn't help but feel grateful for moments like these—moments of joy, laughter, etc..

“By the way…” Kyoko looked at you with a smirk on her face. “How was your night?”

“My… my night?” You responded confused.

“Don’t play silly. You went with Satoru, tell me.” She pouted.

“We just went and had dinner.” You said. “Nothing else.”

“Really?” She said with a disappointed tone.

“Yeah.” You shrugged. “Why do you seem upset?”

Kyoko shook her head. “It's nothing, don't worry about it.”

You nodded reluctantly at her response, sensing that she was hiding something. “We'll see each other again tomorrow.” You said. “We're going to study, don't get confused.”

“Pfft.” She laughed. “Of course not.”

“The exam is next week, and I have to beat Sa-Gojo.” You corrected yourself before saying his name.

“Technically, you already had a date.” Kyoko pointed out.

“Last night wasn't a date, we were just two colleagues going out to dinner.”

“Whatever you say.” She smiled. “Anyways, you have to work today right?”

You bite your lip. “Ugh, yeah.”

“Do you want to meet up after your shift? We can meet Shoko and I can introduce you to her.” She smiled.

“That sounds good.” You replied.

“Perfect.” She got up from her bed and stretched. “Should we have breakfast?” You nodded in agreement.

Kyoko and you enjoyed a breakfast filled with laughter and conversation, but before you knew it, it was time for you to head to work. After bidding Kyoko farewell, you made your way to the store.

It was mid-afternoon when you suddenly remembered that you hadn't responded to Gojo's message. Retrieving your phone, you quickly finding the chat with Gojo.

You to Pain in the ass

Okay, we will meet again tomorrow.

At your place?

Within minutes, your phone lit up again, displaying a new message from Gojo.

Pain in the ass

Yep

I'll come pick you up, is 10 AM okay for you?

You read Gojo's message and felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension. Despite the playful nickname you had given him, there was an undeniable anticipation building within you for your upcoming meeting.

You to Pain in the ass

Sounds good, see you then 😌

With the message sent, you set your phone aside and resumed your tasks at the store. The remainder of the afternoon passed in a blur of customer interactions and inventory management, but Gojo's invitation lingered in the back of your mind, adding an extra spring to your step.

As evening approached and your shift came to an end, you found yourself eagerly looking forward to the following day.

You saw Kyoko waiting for you outside, engaged in lively conversation with another girl, whom you assumed was Shoko, Gojo and Suguru's friend. With excitement bubbling within you, you closed the store and made your way over to them.

As you approached, you couldn't help but smile at the sight of Kyoko and Shoko chatting animatedly. Their laughter filled the air, adding to the sense of camaraderie that surrounded them. Kyoko noticed you approaching and waved enthusiastically, gesturing for you to join them.

“Hey there!” Kyoko greeted you with a bright smile. “This is Shoko, the one I was telling you about.”

You exchanged introductions with Shoko, feeling a sense of warmth in her presence.

“Hi!” She smiled wildly. “I have heard a lot about you.”

You felt a twinge of embarrassment coursing through you. “Oh... really?” You attempted to laugh, trying to diffuse the awkward moment.

“Yeah, that idiot…” Shoko began to say before being cut off by Kyoko.

“Shall we?” Kyoko interrupted Shoko before she could continue speaking, her tone indicating a desire to move past that topic.

Confused, you looked at Shoko and then at Kyoko, wondering what had caused this sudden interruption.

“Let's go.” Kyoko said, taking your arm reassuringly. “I know you're starving.”

As you walked together, you couldn't shake off the feeling of curiosity about the conversation that was abruptly halted.

On the way to the restaurant, you learned that Shoko was studying medicine and was of the same age as you. In fact, she had been friends with Gojo and Suguru since they were about 14 or 15 years old.

“They tend to be quite intense.” Shoko joked. “And pretty dumb when they're together, but they're good people.” She added with a smile.

You nodded, returning the smile. The camaraderie between you was growing with each exchange.

“But let's stop talking about those two, tonight is girls' night.” Shoko suggested, changing the subject.

“Exactly.” Kyoko agreed with a smile.

Finally, you arrived at the restaurant and took a seat at a table.

Through the night you found out, Shoko liked to drink just as much as Kyoko. So now you were sitting in front of two drunk girls that wouldn’t stop laughing at every minimum thing. Don’t get it wrong, you also drunk and we’re having fun, just not as much as your best friend and your new friend.

“For real?” Kyoko laughed heavily, holding her belly. “I can’t believe it.”

“I swear.” Shoko said with a small hiccup. “Let’s ask for another round!”

You smiled and stopped her. “Shoko… you both are too drunk. For tonight it’s enough.”

“Oh crap… you just sounded like Satoru.” She looked first at you and then at Kyoko. “They would be cute…” She whispered but it was enough for you to hear. Shoko called out your name. “Do you like Satoru?”

You opened your eyes slightly, surprised by her question. “What…?” Only that question came out of your mouth but your mind was functioning like crazy, because as crazy as sound that question also came to your head in the last few days. “Shoko what are you talking about?” You tried to laugh. “No, no, I don’t…”

Kyoko laughed saying your name. “You’re completely red.”

“That’s true!” Shoko screamed pointing at you. “You do like him!”

“I don’t!” Your voice sounded nervous. “I just… I consider him a friend now!”

“But would you fuck him?” Shoko questioned you.

And your face turned completely red. “Shoko! What?!”

“C’mon!” Kyoko scream. “You would right?”

“You are both drunk!” You stood up from your place. “Let’s head home.”

“She definitely would.” Shoko laughed. “I heard he is quite…”

“Okay enough. Let’s go.” You cut her off before hearing what she was about to say.

“Ugh you are no fun.” Shoko and Kyoko cried out.

With great effort, you managed to get Shoko and Kyoko out of the bar where you had been spending the night. Hailing a taxi, you arranged for transportation back home. Shoko would be staying with you at your place; you didn't want to leave her to her own devices in that state, and besides, you didn't even know where she lived. True, you could have called Gojo and asked him, but after that conversation, the last thing you wanted was to have anything to do with Satoru Gojo. You decided to postpone facing the jumble of emotions inside you until the next day.

As the taxi pulled up to your destination, you helped Shoko and Kyoko out of the car and guided them inside your home. Once inside, you settled Shoko on the couch with a blanket and made sure she was comfortable to rest. Despite the late hour, your mind was buzzing with thoughts of the evening's events and the unresolved feelings surrounding Gojo.

After ensuring your friends were settled in for the night, you retreated to your own room, the weight of the night's emotions pressing down on you. Tomorrow would bring its own challenges, but for now, you needed to rest and gather your strength for the emotional turmoil that lay ahead.

*･゜ﾟ･*:.｡..｡.:*･'･*:.｡. .｡.:*･゜ﾟ･*

You adjusted the rebellious strand of hair that kept falling out of place and took a deep breath. Why were you so nervous? You were just meeting up with Gojo to study, but still, your heart couldn't help but race at the thought.

Your phone buzzed in your bag, signaling that it was likely Gojo letting you know he was already outside waiting for you.

You bid farewell to Kyoko and her parents and stepped out of the house. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw Gojo leaning against his car, engrossed in his phone. When he heard the door close, he looked up, and your eyes met.

“Hey.” Gojo smiled.

You nodded. “Hi…”

Damn it, what was wrong with you?

“Birdie, you okay?” Gojo leaned in slightly to get a better look at your face.

“Huh?” You refocused your gaze on him. “Oh... yeah, yeah.” You smiled faintly. “Ready to go?” You motioned towards the car.

Gojo nodded and reopened the car door, and you climbed into the vehicle that was already starting to feel familiar. Gojo settled in beside you, and as he started the car, it dawned on you that you were headed to Gojo's apartment.

The conversation from last night echoed in your mind. You were beginning to develop feelings for Satoru Gojo. And that terrified you. You were afraid of what might happen if you let those feelings continue to grow.

“You seem quite distracted.” Gojo's gentle voice broke through your thoughts.

“It's nothing.” You tried to brush it off. “Just thinking about something.”

Gojo simply nodded and focused his gaze on the road ahead. The landscape began to change, arriving at a neighborhood of the city that you did not know. It was a rich neighborhood, the cars that were parked and the whole atmosphere screamed money. It didn't surprise you, where else could the great Satoru Gojo live after all.

Gojo parked his car in a garage and you both silently took the elevator. You watched as Gojo played with the car keys in his hand, while he looked ahead. Your heart continued to beat strongly.

As you entered Gojo's apartment, a feeling of surprise washed over you. It was not what you expected, it was a warm, cozy place. You took off your shoes at the entrance and followed Gojo into the kitchen.

“Do you want something to drink?”

“Water is fine.” You said. Gojo turned around and grabbed a glass to put some water on it. “Thank you…” You whispered when Gojo gave you the glass.

You tried avoiding his gaze but you knew he knew something was off with you. “Birdie…”

“Should we start with the study time?” You cut him. “Should we study in the living room?” You looked around. “Or there is somewhere else we could study.”

“In the living room it’s okay.” He said, still looking at you.

“Great! Let’s go!” You grabbed your bag and walked towards the living room.

Sitting on the big couch of Gojo’s department, you took out the notebook and waited patiently for Gojo to come and start studying.

You felt Gojo enter the room and sit next to you, too close for your liking. Too much. You could feel your hands starting to sweat and your heart racing again.

Do you like Gojo?

Do you have feelings for him?

The words repeated themselves in your head over and over again.

“Shit…” You murmured.

“Is everything alright birdie?” His soft voice spoke.

“Huh?” You turned your head only to be met with his blue eyes, way too close for your liking, for yourself.

Surprised, you moved backwards, causing you to fall off the couch. Gojo quickly stood up from her position and walked over to you to help you. “Birdie…” He said with concern. "Are you alright?" Gojo grabbed your hands and helped you sit on the couch.

You shook your head. “Yeah…” No. “I went out last night and I’m tired.” I can’t shake this feelings away. “It’s nothing.” It’s everything. “It’s okay…” It’s not.

“You should had told me…” He said with a sad look. “We could have chosen another day…” He whispered. “Nothing would have happened.” He smiled at you.

Satoru Gojo stop or I will completely fall and I don’t want to.

You shook your head. “Don’t worry.” You faintly smiled.

He hesitated but nodded at your words. You both sat next to each other and started studying. Gojo carefully explained the things that were still unclear to you. Each time he approached, your heart rate quickened.

Your feelings were completely tangled up. Satoru Gojo couldn't possibly be someone you liked, but no matter how many times your mind repeated that, your heart felt differently. It reacted tumultuously every time he was near.

As Gojo continued to clarify things for you, you found it increasingly difficult to focus on the conversation. His proximity seemed to amplify the turmoil within you, leaving you torn between what your head was telling you and what your heart was feeling.

Satoru Gojo POV

Gojo glanced at you from the corner of his eye, observing how completely engrossed you were in trying to solve the problem at hand. You delicately chewed on the end of your pen, your brow furrowing slightly in concentration.

She's beautiful.

Gojo shook his head and turned his gaze away from you.

Ever since he realized that you shared classes and even a major, he had tried on numerous occasions to get closer to you, but without any success.

When he invited you to the lake, he had attempted to confess, not in a romantic way. You see, Gojo did have strong feelings for you, a crush according to him. But he considered it too early to express them; he didn't want to risk pushing you away. What he had wanted to confess was his immense gratitude for what you did when you were six years old. However, just as he was about to do so, you had that panic attack.

He felt immensely guilty. Something had happened to you at that lake, and he had unwittingly triggered those memories. Seeing you so vulnerable and broken had shattered his heart. Holding you close had felt natural, and all he had wanted was for that pain you were experiencing to go away as soon as possible.

As Gojo watched you, he felt remorse for unintentionally causing your distress. He had tried to express his gratitude, but he had only made things worse, leaving you emotionally affected.

Despite his good intentions, Gojo felt guilty for contributing to your discomfort. He hadn't wanted to hurt you, he just wanted to comfort you. The image of seeing you so affected haunted him.

He silently decided to be there for you, support you with everything you needed and show you with actions how much you meant to him. Maybe he couldn't express his feelings at the time, but he was determined to show you his affection in other ways.

“Hey, birdie.” Gojo said softly, breaking the silence between them.

You looked up from your task, meeting his gaze with a curious expression. “Yeah, Gojo?”

“I just wanted to say... I'm sorry.” He began, his voice tinged with sincerity. “I know you already told me it was okay but I didn't mean to upset you back at the lake.”

You paused, studying his earnest expression for a moment before offering a small nod. “It's okay, Gojo. I know you didn't mean any wrong. And... thank you, for trying to help.”

Gojo smiled gratefully at your understanding, relieved to have cleared the air between them. “Of course, birdie. I just want you to know that I'm here for you, no matter what.”

Gojo saw you blinking slowly at his words and a small smile appearing on your lips. “Thanks, Gojo. That means a lot to me.”

Note: comment if you want to be tagged

Tagged people: @lavender-hvze, @crybabytoru, @sanriosatoru, @norvacaine, @sadmonke, @faetoraa,@hexipessimistic, @gojoful , @kitzusune , @sh0jun

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ninthcircleofprythian · 4 months

Text

🔥- Smut 💕- Fluff 🙈- Angst 🩹- Hurt/Comfort

Masterlist Header by @saradika-graphics

Please read all warnings on fics - some fics contain heavy emotional topics and explicit descriptions. All fics will be appropriately tagged at the time of posting. Please read them carefully before diving in. Your mental health matters.

Azriel

🔥 Winner Takes All - After returning from a girls retreat weekend at the cabin, Nesta and Celeste find out the Bat Boy husbands have made a bet they are sure to lose. (Azriel x OC Celeste)

🔥Here Comes The Sun - When the Spymaster of the Night Court discovers your little crush, you end up crossing a lot of firsts off your list. (Azriel x You/Reader)

🔥💕Dinner and Dessert - As his mate's due date approaches, Az can't handle the sight of her pregnant body in a sundress without going a bit feral. (Azriel x OC Mira)

Continuing Series

Unbound - Not having a mating bond didn't stop the love Azriel and Celeste have for each other or their commitment. When an unknown magic lingering from Celeste's past causes her to lose all memories of the last century, will they be able to rebuild their life without a bond tethering them together? (Azriel x OC Celeste)

💕🙈 Part 1 - They Don't Know About Us

🙈 Part 2 - Don't Pull Away

💕Part 3 - We're Going to Solstice Dinner -- and We're Gunna Get Married

🙈🩹 Part 4 - Dancing With Your Ghost

🙈 Part 5 - As The World Caves In

🙈 Part 6 - Numb, But I Still Feel It

🙈 Part 7 - Putting on a Brave Face

🙈 Part 8 - Take Me To Church

Cassian

🔥 Kiss - Don't Tell - Cassian/Azriel - M/M - after a wild threesome months ago - Cas and Az get a little curious what things would be like without a third party involved

Eris

🔥 Make It Hurt - After a truly terrible day you come home only to be surprised by the one and only Eris Vanserra and he knows how to make it all better. (Eris x You/Reader)

💕 Stuck in the Middle with You - Eris relents to participate in a throuples Halloween costume contest at your insistence. (Halloween modern AU) (Eris Week 2024 - AU day) (Azris/Reader)

Continuing Series

The Bird and The Badger - a series of interconnect one shots told in non-linear order detailing the life of Eris x OC (Bryn) --- eventual Azris x OC (Parts will be listed here in chronological order)

💕A Matter of Trust - Eris needs to find someone he can trust to help with part of his secretive plan against Beron.

🙈Keeping Up Appearances - Eris and Bryn travel to Night Court to enact the bargain with Rhys.

Azris

💕A Pocketful of -- Ragweed? - (Short little drabble for Azris week) Eris might be snide and snarky with his words, but he sure knows how to surprise his mate with his actions.

🙈 May Her Memory Be a Blessing - no summary. please read the authors notes. this will hurt. emotional damage.

💕 When You Wish Upon a Star - just a little slice of life and domesticity for dad!Az and dad!Eris.

Elucien

💕 Scrabble Drabble - Family game night after weekly dinners tended to get a little contentious. It wasn’t unusual for someone to quit midway through or to accuse another of cheating. It was no different now that Lucien had joined in the weekly tradition with his mate, Elain.

💕Icing Is The Spice Of Life - Elain may have slightly over-commited her famous holiday cookies to friends and family. But her mate Lucien comes to the rescue. Cuteness abounds.

Headcanons

💕 In which the fae of Prythian discover bubble gum - (Feysand, Nessian, Elucien, Azris, Mor)

Corner Productions

(Collaborations with Chaos)

🔥 Gold Star for You - silly NSFW smut headcanons of everyone and reader - Reader introduces gold star reward system in the bedroom.

💕 With This Ring - Headcanons about Eris Vanserra and his affinity for jewelry - especially after a certain Shadowsinger enters his life.

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kingofbodyrolls · 2 months

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End of the World: epilogue (m) | myg

you think about all the shit you’ve been through, how far you’ve come and what you can look forward to in the future.

→ Pairing: Yoongi x reader (female) → Genres/AUs: post-apocalyptic, dystopian turning into utopian. Baby angst with fluff and hope. → Tropes: established relationship → Rating: mature/explicit/R18 (this is mature/explicit content, so minors, please do not interact.) → Word count: 0.9k → Warnings + triggers: mentions of the nuclear war, pregnancy, future, a cancer cure, dystopia turning into utopia? → Author’s note(1): this is just a really short drabble for the sweet anon that wanted to know if OC and Yoongi got cancer free or not, and also just an epilogue to the story [link to the request]. So here it is 💕 → Read on AO3? [link]

[navi]: end of the world // end of the world: a flickering hope // shower drabble // whalien52 // end of the world: epilogue

Your hand finds its way over your tummy. Your very round tummy.

You smile at your boyfriend, your rock through this whole nightmare of a world. And now you’re going to bring life into a broken, but healing world.

You had discussed endlessly as soon as you found out you were pregnant, debating if bringing a child into a dystopian world was even a good idea. The idea of putting a tiny human into this shattered world seemed impossible, but you and Yoongi didn’t use protection all the time, and it’s really your own fault. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

But you’re okay with it. The thought doesn’t seem as terrifying as it did a few years ago when the war started. That wouldn’t have been a good life to bring a child into. But now? With the way the world is gradually healing and things are beginning to be better, you think this time is alright. The New World Order is gone, there’s no longer an elitist group at the top, people are free to do as they please, and most importantly, all information is free.

You think of cancer, not just for you and Yoongi, but for many of the world’s population who suffered due to the radiation after the bombings. Seokjin has been working nonstop since Jimin got the important data from the New World Order. Sadly, it wasn’t a cure as you’d all hoped, but now, years later, Seokjin has practically been living in his lab. And he has finally succeeded in making a cure.

A cure for cancer.

You can hardly believe it, but he has.

You and Yoongi were the first to get it, and after, Seokjin studied your tissue and cells tirelessly to make sure that no cancer cells were left. And they’re all gone. You’re cancer free.

Seokjin has made a cancer cure that is free for everyone.

And you think the world is truly healing. People are happy again, people are smiling.

Cities are slowly being rebuilt. People can go to the doctor, dentist, and have showers—everything that was taken away when the nuclear war started. Everything is almost back to normal, but you can still feel the scars, and you think they’ll always be there. You must not forget all the horrible things that happened to make this possible for everyone.

The sun is shining every day. Sometimes it rains, sometimes it storms. The greenery is slowly getting its life back thanks to the sun and its photosynthesis. Watching trees, bushes, and plants grow is amazing to you, and it makes you feel alive. Hopeful.

You glance at Yoongi, his eyes filled with a tenderness that mirrors your own feelings. Together, you will bring new life into this world, nurturing it with the love and hope that has sustained you through the darkest times. You place your hand over his, resting on your belly, and in that simple touch, you feel the promise of a brighter future.

The nightmare of the last few years has been gruesome, and you’ve all endured so much, but you’ve finally made it, thanks to the wonderful people at Whalien52. You can’t imagine what you would have done without them.

Taehyung has helped build a house for you and Yoongi, a secluded sanctuary reminiscent of the one Yoongi had all those years ago. You can already picture its beauty in a few years when the greenery truly takes hold.

You meet up with the crew almost daily, cherishing their company. The guys have been joking about who should be a godfather to your unborn child. Even though you don’t really believe in God, you like the idea of someone taking care of your child in case something happens to you. And you already know that someone is Jungkook.

“Excited?” Yoongi asks, his hand finding its way on top of yours on your tummy again.

You hum softly. “Yeah,” you say, turning to face him. “I just hope everything will be fine.”

“Of course it will, babe,” he replies with conviction, his voice filled with so much emotion. “You’re strong and incredible. Think about all you’ve been through. You’ll be an amazing mom.”

You smile, hoping he’s right. You’ll borrow his words and repeat them to yourself over and over until they become true. You have been through so much—surviving a nuclear war, getting sick with cancer, getting shot, starving, and now being cured. It has been a hell of a ride, but you made it.

You kiss him deeply, lovingly.

You and Yoongi are now researchers working under Seokjin, trying to develop cures for other diseases. You truly want to save everyone. This dedication to research is also fueled by your desire to create the best possible world for your child. You want the best for them.

You gaze out the window from what will be your child’s room; the view outside is a mix of brown and green, mostly dirt, but grass is beginning to peek through the ground, and small trees are growing in the backyard. It’s going to be great. You’ve finally made it to the other side, and you wonder if this horrible dystopia you’ve endured will transform into a utopia one day.

“I’m so happy this wasn’t the end of the world,” you quip, Yoongi’s hand still resting on yours, on your tummy.

“Me too. It’s just the beginning,” he says, and you feel his words reverberate through your body. It truly is just the beginning—the beginning of a wonderful life for you, your child, and everyone else.

→ Taglist:@idkjustlovingbts@lovelgirl22@gimeow@sweeetas@viankiss @goldietigers294 @this-most-assuredly-counts @futuristicenemychaos @funnygirls-things @ysljoon @livingformintyoongi @as-hs-blog @urmomluvsrose @yasmineixyjay @purpleheartsandarock1 @alextgef @coree730 @wobblewobble822 @coldcoffee2121 @zzoguri

okay fuck you tumblr for not making the tags work! rip, I don't get why it isn't tagging people *cries*

→ Author’s note(2): I know this was really, really short. I could probably have done a lot more, but I’m not really feeling it a lot in terms of writing. I was nice to revisit this couple though, and I hope this reassures everyone that they are fine and safe 🫶 Thank you for reading this story and series! I hope I improve my writing soon, but I might just take a break… I don’t know. I’m not in the best place, but writing helps me escape, but it’s also not the thing I wanna do when I feel like everything I write is crap? 🥲 Ahahaha.

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lividstar · 5 months

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愤怒的星星 ★ — COLLISION OF PARALLEL LINES.

៚ wc: 17.6k

៚ fluff, punk!hongjoong x fem!reader, slowburn, ot8 cameos, college au except idk if i did it right, mutual pining, first few parts are just flashbacks, opposites attract (kinda?) will probably be a 2-part series

៚ The thought of enjoying your Saturday morning however you please may initially seem exciting, but it can become as daunting as weekdays when you end up with tasks even on your supposed days off—which, in your case, is none other than buying a psychological thriller book for your roommate, who claims she needs it in order to share a "common interest" with the nerdy guy from her linguistics class she seems to be obsessed with. You already saw it coming when you opened your phone to find numerous missed calls from her, but what you didn't expect was a coincidental encounter with a guy who seems to have visited the bookstore for the same reason as you. It only took you two more no-longer-so-coincidental encounters for you to realize just how deep you’ve fallen into the bottomless pit.

You never really tend to realize just how much of an effect a certain person’s presence has on you until you start to crave more of it during the times you fail to feel it around.

The first time you saw him was when you were walking in and out of your local bookstore’s aisles, fingers brushing through the rows of books neatly arranged according to their genres. For how long you’ve been doing the exact same thing, you begin to forget just why and how exactly visiting the place managed to sneak itself in between your routine for the day.

Rewinding the day’s events so far so you could recall what exactly were you doing inside a bookstore standing in front of an aisle solely for the psychological thriller genre, you vividly remember your roommate calling you in the middle of your morning stroll at the park asking if you could stop by a nearby bookstore and buy her a book she apparently needs for “academic purposes.”

You were hesitant at first, thinking she was probably airing out a false reason. With the amount of times you’d come home to the sight of her deeply engrossed in a complex thriller movie, you’d assume she wanted the book solely due to her interests.

You ran your eyes through the columns once more, sighing in relief when you finally found the book your roommate wanted you to buy. You took your phone out to take a picture of it and send it to her for confirmation, but just as you were about to reach for it, another person whose presence you failed to notice until now did so as well, making your hands brush against each other after reaching for the same book stacked in the sixth row of the shelf.

You immediately looked to the side and managed to catch a glimpse of his eyes slightly widening, and so did he with yours. You remember being the first one to snap back to reality, taking a step back to face him while waving your arms off in front of your chest.

“You can take it,” you said, awkwardly chuckling as you gestured for him to take the book instead. You figured you’d just buy a copy of it online, or if you’re going to be free on some days this week, perhaps you’d stop by other bookstores. Your roommate didn’t specify when exactly she needed the book, anyway.

He mirrors your actions instead of reaching for the book, gently pulling down the left cord of his earphones—you thought it was a subtle gesture of bouncing your initiation of small talk back to you, so you let your attention get taken away as your ears perked up to listen to whatever the stranger had to say.

“It’s fine, i’m sure you’ll need that one more than I do,” he said, pointing to the book neither of you were considering taking with a gentle smile. “I’ve actually read it five times already—just thought a sixth reread was necessary earlier in the morning, so here I am now.” He chuckled, and only then did you manage to get a good look at him.

His hair had a striking resemblance to the burgundy patterned carpets of the bookstore, and from the looks of it, you were able to tell from a single glance that it definitely wasn’t the first time he’s ever dyed his hair. Black sunglasses remained sat atop his head, and his ears were decorated in multiple piercings. He wore a layered chain necklace, the silver material of the accessories shining as the lights by the roof reflected on it. A dark red leather jacket was hung lazily over his shoulders, showing the black tank top he wore underneath. He was wearing black, ripped baggy jeans, and it was adorned with chains attached to its waistline. His combat boots were of the same color, and the shoelace of the left foot was undone—you couldn’t tell if it was on purpose or if he simply didn’t notice. He wore silver rings on almost each of his fingers, and you were able to see that one of his nails was painted black when he adjusted one of his rings. It almost made you smile, but it wasn’t until he cleared his throat that you realized you’ve been staring at him for about a minute or two.

Your eyes widened in surprise, awkwardly chuckling as you did your best not to give him the wrong impression. “Sorry, I was just...” you trailed off, not knowing what horrible excuse you should use to drag yourself out of a potentially awkward encounter. “...just wondering why you’d want to read the same book six times straight.” Great, you certainly didn’t come off weird, but you definitely sounded rude.

Just as you were about to hurriedly mutter out an apology, the man’s stifled laugh immediately put a halt to your train of thought. “It sounds strange, doesn’t it? My friends have been asking me the same question for a while now, so this isn’t really surprising for me. See, this book has a lot of foreshadowing in it, so I think It’s nice to reread it every once in a while to see the points I’ve missed.” He shrugged his shoulders, making his leather jacket fall off smoothly on one side.

He noticed you struggling with thinking of what to respond, so he took it upon himself and steered the conversation away from himself and towards you. “What about you? what were you going to buy the book for?” he asked, and you were quick to answer—thankful for his initiative.

“Going to the bookstore wasn’t originally part of today’s schedule, but apparently my roommate couldn’t get any more lazier and asked me to stop by to purchase the book for her because she can’t do it herself.”

There was something about the way you expressed your frustration (although jokingly) with a deadpanning look on your face that almost made him want to laugh, and you could tell by the way he was visibly fighting against the corners of his lips that were twitching upwards.

“That’s tough,” he stated the obvious as he ran his jewelry adorned fingers through his burgundy hair—with the way you saw a line of sweat drip down by the side of his face, you knew you weren’t the only one who found the bookstore to be in a strangely warm temperature today.

You saw a few air conditioners here and there on the walls, and they were working perfectly fine earlier, so you assumed they were probably just malfunctioning. “Are the air conditioners going through a malfunction or something?” he voiced out your thoughts for you as he practically asked himself the question with the way it came out as a whisper while he was looking around.

You took your cardigan off, and only then did you notice the stark contrast between your choices of outfits. You were clad in a pink knitted cardigan your mother made by her own hands—she gave it to you as a present for Christmas a while ago, and underneath it was a white camisole top decorated with lace and a pink ribbon on its center—something you added yourself. You wore a long, white ruffled skirt, a piece of clothing you bought online two years ago when you and your online best friend agreed upon buying it together to wear it the moment you’ll finally get the chance to meet up. You stopped talking to each other a year ago, so you just started to wear it to your own liking. You chose to wear the pink doll shoes you found at a thrift store a week ago, and the cherry on top was the white ribbon hair clips you placed on either side of your hair.

“They were doing just fine when I first came in, so I guess it has something to do with technical issues.” You shrugged, and the man mirrored your actions yet again as he proceeded to fully take off his leather jacket as well.

Just as he parted his lips to say something, your phone suddenly rang, making both of you look at the device you didn’t even notice you were still holding in your hands until now. Staring right into your eyes was your roommate’s caller id on the phone screen, and for a second, you were debating whether to answer or not.

You decided to ignore the latter, figuring the call was made regarding the book. You apologetically smiled at the man first, gesturing to your phone as he returned your smile, urging you to go ahead as he mouths something about checking out other sections of the book store so you could have some privacy.

Once he was out of the frame, you didn’t hesitate to press the green button, bringing the phone up to your ears. “Before I proceed to say anything, I need you to answer a question of mine first. Do you think you’re capable of committing murder today?” She asked from the other end of the line, making your brows furrow as you scoffed in both confusion and disbelief at the sudden confusion. “Am I what?”

“Please just say yes or no,” she said in a hurried tone. “No... why? Did something bad happen over there?” She chuckled nervously as you heard the shuffling of bedsheets, assuming she was either rolling around her bed or sitting up.

“No, but... you see, about the book I asked for you to buy... remember that guy from my linguistics class I told you about last weekend?” You were confused about where the conversation was heading, yet hummed in confirmation anyway. “I do. What about him?”

“Okay, so, thanks to my... connections, I found out just now that he owns an annotated physical copy of the book, and, if you’re already catching my drift...” she trailed off, yet the moment she heard your sigh from your end, she was quick to regain composure and stumble over her words.

“I’m sorry! I’m really sorry! I wouldn’t have sneaked the task in between your schedule if I had known beforehand—I just really don’t want to waste the opportunity of a potential connection between us... and, I mean, well, yeah, I should’ve done it by myself to begin with, but I wasn’t really thinking straight earlier in the morning so I—” you cut her off by ending the call, heading straight to your messages as you scrolled down to look for her contact number.

The sound of your nails clicking on the phone screen echoed across the empty aisle as you typed, “Go shoot your shot. Don’t stress it out, alright? Just make sure this won’t happen again. Love you :)” With a sigh, you turned your phone off and put it back inside your bag. You were happy for your roommate, yet at the same time, you couldn’t help but feel like you just wasted a portion of your day.

Exiting the aisle, your thoughts went back to the man you were just engaging in small talk with a few minutes ago, eyes darting around the bookstore to search for him. You didn’t see which direction he went when he left, already having your back turned against him the moment you heard his fading footsteps.

The man sitting by the register who seemed to be around the same age as you noticed you and was quick to call for your attention. “Are you looking for the redhead, miss?” And for a second, you were slightly embarrassed, but it was the truth, anyway, so you found yourself nodding wordlessly. “He already left a minute ago.”

Hearing those words come out of his mouth, you almost let a disappointed sigh slip out of your lips, but you were quick to cover it up. “I see. Thanks for telling me,” you said, flashing him a polite smile as he gave you his own.

Figuring there was no longer any purpose for you to stay inside the bookstore any longer, you headed to the exist, the clinking of the bells on top of the doors ringing in your ears as you swung it open, putting your cardigan back on when the cold temperature of the city hit your skin like a speeding truck. Only then did you realize you didn’t even get to ask for his name, and since then, he hadn’t left your mind for the rest of the day.

The next time wasn’t any different. You were taking a stroll at the park for a much-needed unwinding after taking your exams. Kids were running around and chasing each other by the grassy fields, couples were being all cute and cuddly as they sat by the benches, and some elderly people were walking around much like how you were, admiring the beautiful sceneries unfolding in front of their very own eyes.

Your pink dress was being carried away by the soft breeze, making it flow as you took one step after another. Thankfully, you chose to wear a long dress for the day, so you didn’t have to worry about any potential wardrobe malfunctions.

From a near distance, you saw a little boy standing by the grass fields pointing towards you. His voice was a little loud, so you managed to hear what he was saying to the two men he was with. “Wooyoung-hyung, look! A princess!”

The little boy’s comment caught you off guard, making you look the other way as you pretended not to hear the words he was saying, which were hard to ignore due to how loud he was speaking. “Kyungmin, she’s not a princess, and you can’t just point to strangers like that!”

The man who you assumed to be his older brother lightly scolded him, and for a second, you were debating between playing along with the child’s wide imagination—it wasn’t his fault for thinking you were a princess as he was still young, after all, or fleeing from the park so his attention would be directed to something else so his brother would stop scolding him. “But she is a princess! Seonghwa-hyung, you see it too, right?” The other man with them was probably a friend of the little boy’s brother.

“Well, Kyungmin, she might look like one, but she isn’t—” the man you assumed to be Seonghwa stopped in between his words all of a sudden, and the next thing you knew was the little boy was standing right in front of you, tugging on your dress that was still flowing due to the wind.

“Kyungmin!” Both men yelled his name in unison, but he ignored them, his attention fully focused on you instead. “Miss pretty lady! You’re a princess, right? Right?” He looked up at you with a smile, and once again, you found yourself ignoring the latter between your choices of how to handle the situation.

You sat down so you could see each other eye to eye, a fond smile spreading across your face as you let out a soft laugh. “You think I’m a princess?” You tilted your head, making him let out a gasp of disbelief. “But you are! Wooyoung-hyung and Seonghwa-hyung won’t believe me, but I know you are! Right?” he asked for confirmation again, making you laugh once more as you rested your hands on the area of your chest where your heart was.

“Well… I think it depends on what you want to believe. I won’t tell you whether I’m a princess or not, but if you think I am, then so be it. What you believe in is what matters the most, and not what anyone else does, don’t you think?”

You figured talking some wisdom into a boy who’s probably still in kindergarten wasn’t exactly the best way to handle the situation, but it’s not like you knew better ways. Seeing his smile grow even wider after hearing your words, though, was enough to let you know you handled it just fine. “So you are a princess! I knew it!” Okay, well, that was definitely not the reaction you were going for, but at least he’s happy, right?

“You should tell them that, too!” He pointed to where his brother and his friend stood, but this time, there were three of them, and the one standing in the middle was definitely not an unfamiliar face to you contrary to the two who stood by his side. You certainly couldn’t have been mistaken—especially not when you saw his burgundy hair.

Your eyes met briefly, yours widened and his completely normal, save for the fond gaze you assumed was probably directed to the little boy in front of you. He probably didn’t even recognize you at all. “Come with me, miss pretty lady! You should meet them so they’ll be proven wrong,” he said, reaching for your arm as he took a step towards where the three men stood.

When you didn’t budge from where you crouched at all, he looked back at you with a confused expression on his face. “What’s the matter, miss pretty lady?”

You chuckled awkwardly as you stood up, looking down at him. “They’re waiting for you, not me. Go on now, don’t keep them waiting. I’m sure you’ve proven them wrong already, anyway,” you said, using your free hand to take his off your wrist. “Are you sure? I…”

“Kyungmin!” His older brother called out his name once more, making his head turn to where they were all standing, patiently waiting for the little boy to go back to them. “See? You should go.” You ushered, making him look back and forth between you and his brother and his friends for about a few seconds.

“Well… okay, then.” The frown on his face was a huge contrast to the huge smile he once had a few seconds ago, and you were quick to do whatever you could to bring it back.

“Hey, don’t be sad, alright? It’s always better to spend days like this with a smile on your face,” you said, smiling at him fondly. “Will I get to see you again?” The sudden question put you at a loss for words, and you spent a good couple of seconds thinking of how to respond correctly.

“Neither of us know the answer to that, but if you ever see me again, I promise I’ll let you introduce me to your brother and his friends, okay?” It was definitely not the right thing to say, but it was certainly what the boy wanted to hear.

With the smile on his face returning, he waved at you enthusiastically, running back to the three men who have been waiting for him for quite a while now. He approached them with a cheerful expression on his face, and you watched them slowly start to smile as well while the little boy told them about his interaction with you.

Unbeknownst to you, your attention was unconsciously directed towards the burgundy haired man who was now exchanging laughter with his friends while the little boy was still going on about his story. This time, he was wearing a see-through black jacket with a beige compression long-sleeve shirt underneath, partnered with baggy denim jeans that were secured by a black belt with embellishments. His ears had less piercings this time, and so were the amount of necklaces he wore. His boots were the same as the ones you saw him wear when you first met him, and his fingers were still adorned with multiple accessories. You could tell he opted for a casual look today, yet he still looked as cool as ever. Perhaps it was due to the vibe he carries with him, and not just his choices of clothing itself. There’s still a huge contrast between your outfits.

The little boy didn’t mention his name when he was talking to you earlier, and that was the only thing you were disappointed about with your heartwarming interaction with him. You’d probably look strange if you were to approach them, yet it proved to be impossible either way as they now had their backs faced towards you, walking away as they continued their conversation. Luck really hasn’t been on your side lately. You wonder when it will be.

Three weeks later, and you’re now walking through the halls in search of your roommate. Thirty minutes ago, she sent you a message, telling you to meet her on the third floor. She didn’t really tell you why, and it drove you off the edge more than it should’ve—one thing you’ve always disliked was when people would ask you to meet up for an unspecified reason, or even worse, message you by texting you only your name and your name alone without telling you what’s the matter beforehand. So now, here you were, eyes searching the halls in hopes of finding a familiar face.

“Hey!” A familiar voice called out a few steps behind where you stood, making you immediately look back. Sighing in relief as you recognized who it was, your roommate made her way towards you, pushing past the small portion of people crowding the halls. “Sorry for asking to meet up all of a sudden—I know you hate it when I do this, but I promise this is the last time!” So was last week, you said in your thoughts.

“What’s this about, anyway? And it better not be about your crush from your linguistics class because I swear—” She cuts you off with an apologetic chuckle, making you sigh in disappointment. “Nope, I’m not doing it.”

Just as you were about to walk away, she held your arm to keep you steady in your place, desperately pleading as she shook your arm repeatedly. “Please, please just hear me out! I promise I’ll leave you alone after this!” No way in hell you would, you thought once again.

Still, you chose to hear her out anyway. Sure, she may be annoying at times—especially when it comes to her undying crush on the boy from her linguistics class, but you can’t really deny the fact that you hold a soft spot for her deep within. When it wasn’t about her man who technically isn’t her man but you’re sure will be her man one day, she was really fun to be around. She was loud and outgoing, a huge contrast to your calm and collected personality, and as different as you both may be, you feel the most comfortable around her compared to anyone and everyone else. Whenever she’d notice you were feeling down, she wouldn’t hesitate to speedrun to the nearest convenience store by where you both lived, buy you your favorite food even during the times her pockets are begging for her to leave them alone for once, and put on your favorite movie once she comes back.

So then, you now find yourself heading towards the library to look for yet another book her crush has apparently been frequently visiting the library for lately. You figured you should hire whoever’s airing all this information to her as your detective one day, if it ever came to it.

Apparently, the book is a tale as old as time, so he couldn’t really find a copy of it anywhere, hence why he chooses to visit the library on a daily basis to read it. Your roommate thought sharing the same interests with him would be a great way to deepen her “connection” with him—if they even had one to begin with, considering how the only bridge between both of them was the annotated book she borrowed from him—which she still hasn’t returned—and that was pretty much all of it. She claims she’s too shy to approach him, and maybe that’s why.

You found yourself standing in between two tall bookshelves once again, the situation being somewhat familiar to you in a way that almost made you laugh. This time, though, the air conditioners were working just fine, and you weren’t accompanied by a presence other than your own.

Your eyes search through the books neatly stacked in the shelves, squinting and inching closer to get a better view in case you accidentally miss the book you’re looking for. There was a blank space in between two books, and for a moment, you assume the book had already been borrowed by your roommate’s crush, or maybe someone else.

You were about to message your roommate to tell her about it, until you heard some shuffling from the other side of the shelf you were facing, drawing a confused expression on your face. You heard from one of your colleagues that the librarian was way too strict for everyone’s liking, so students would mostly stop by the library just to borrow a book, but never to actually stay.

Which student was brave enough to actually stop by the library to read? Wouldn’t they be at least a little scared to be yelled at to shut up over the smallest of things such as breathing like how a normally functioning person should?

Peeking through the empty space in between the books to see who it was, your eyes widened comically as you recognized the person solely from their hands resting on the table alone. The sight of a singularly colored nail and layers of rings and bracelets couldn’t have been more familiar to you.

But what was he doing here? His hair was half blonde and half black, though, so you were contemplating whether your assumptions about his identity were correct or not, but you knew there was only one way to find out—and it certainly wasn’t peeking through a bookshelf like a creep.

Exiting the aisle—a familiar experience once again, you slowly walked towards the table while rethinking your life decisions, wondering if you should just leave him alone and mind your own business. You were on the brink of considering it, but it wasn’t until you recognized what he was reading.

It was the book your roommate asked you to borrow from the library, and it was certainly the one meant to be placed in the blank space by the aisle you were searching through just now.

Your mind was racing with questions pleading to be answered—the first ones being, Who the hell is this man? Why do I keep seeing him around? Why did no one ever tell me he goes to the same university as I do? And what is his name?

You figured there couldn’t have been a better time for your questions to be answered other than now, and even if you were gambling with the possibilities of him either recognizing you or not feeling any sense of familiarity with you at all, you couldn’t really care less right now.

“Hey,” you were hesitant, making your voice come off as soft and barely above a whisper—and it certainly wasn’t due to your fear of being scolded by the librarian. The man shot up and immediately turned his head around, and as he stared at you with those eyes of his, you knew your assumptions regarding his identity were correct, after all.

For about a second or two, all he did was stare at you with a blank expression on his face, and you swore you were about to let the ground swallow you whole right there and then. But for the next second, his face softens as he flashes you a toothy grin, and the words that soon followed after it caught you completely off guard. “It’s you.” It’s you?

What on Earth could he have possibly meant by that? Does that mean he recognized you when his friend’s little brother was talking to you within a fair distance from where he and his friends stood by the park, after all? Does that mean he remembers? “I was starting to think I’d stop seeing you around. Turns out we’re closer than I thought we would be.” Okay, what?

“What?” You voice out your thoughts by accident, tilting your head in confusion as all he did in return was smile at you once more. “Third time’s the charm, after all, isn’t it?” He closes the book laid out in front of him on the table, pulling out the chair beside him, tapping on it as he gestured for you to take a seat.

You do so wordlessly, awkwardly fiddling with a loose stitch of your white knitted sweater adorned with baby pink strawberry patterns. How come you’ve never seen him around? With a face as strikingly beautiful as his, you’re sure you would’ve already noticed him long ago—or maybe you were just looking at the wrong places all along.

“He still thinks you’re a princess, you know.” He rests his elbow on the table, placing his chin on his hand as he looks at you with a smile. “Who?”

“Kyungmin—the little boy from the park, remember?” That was all it took for you to put two and two together and realize what he was talking about, making you let out a hum of realization, nodding soon after. “He hasn’t stopped talking to us about it, especially Wooyoung, since he’s his older brother and he’s pretty much the only one out of all of us who keeps on breaking his little bubble of imagination.”

The conversation flowed through more smoothly than you expected a few seconds ago, and the next thing you knew was you were stifling a chuckle, careful not to drive the librarian mad—actually, was she even still around right now? He was practically speaking in a normal tone and not in hushed whispers, so he should’ve been told off by now already. But he isn’t.

“It was a little hard trying to convince him to go back to you and your friends, honestly…” you said, rubbing the back of your neck as he chuckled at your response.

“Kids and their imaginations never fail to impress me. You know, when we went to the park again last night, he kept crying because he couldn’t see you anywhere. He said you promised you’d let him introduce you to us once you both meet each other again, so he was really upset. It was adorable, though.”

You found yourself smiling as you imagined the little boy crying in the arms of his brother due to not seeing you around, this time being the one chuckling.

“I didn’t mean to leave him hanging off by my words… I hope it wasn’t too much for your friend to handle his tantrums,” you said, smiling apologetically. He waves his arms off in front of his chest—another action appearing to be somehow familiar to you. “Don’t feel bad about it. Pretty sure Wooyoung’s used to it by now,” he responded, shrugging afterwards. He was right, the boy was his friend’s younger brother, after all.

Finding both yourselves at a loss for another topic to discuss, you opted for the first thing that came up in your head. “You changed your hair color,” you stated the obvious, rushing over to make a follow-up statement in order not to look stupid, “it suits you.”

But only after voicing it out did you realize that perhaps maybe leaving your first statement as it is would’ve been a better option. Unbeknownst to you, heat immediately flushed through his cheeks, but he was quick to cover it up, making you fail to notice the way your words made his breath hitch for a slight second. “You think so?”

“W-Well, yeah. Burgundy looked just as great, though.” It was a huge lie, though. Sure, burgundy looked good on him and suited his style pretty well, but a split-dyed hair look is always a hit or miss.

For him to make it look this good, though, definitely proved to you that it’s a hit—a rare one. Even so, you were just glad you managed to save yourself from embarrassment, playing off the fact that you literally just complimented a stranger.

But with the way you’ve been thinking of him ever since you first touched each other’s hands by accident at the bookstore, was he really still a mere stranger to you at this point?

He found himself smiling at your comment, fiddling with the rings on his fingers like how you were doing with your sweater just a while ago. “Thanks, I definitely needed to hear that.” With his response, you looked at him in confusion, subtly asking for context. He was quick to catch on, bracing himself for a little bit of a story time.

“My roommates have been flaming me ever since I came home with the red dye all gone, asking me if my hairstylist ran out of bleach in the middle of the process. They’ve been teasing me about how my scalp is probably begging to be freed by the shackles of my stylist at this point, too.” You then ended up thinking about it as well. Just how many times has this man changed his hair color by now?

“Wanna take a guess?” You didn’t need further explanation from him in order to know what he was talking about, as you’ve already been pondering about it anyway.

“I’ll say… five times, maybe?” If the correct answer was to go way past that, you think you’ll end up having the same thoughts as his roommates by the end of the day. “I hate to be the bearer of the bad news, but the answer’s very far from that.” Oh.

Seeing the flabbergasted expression on your face, he laughed loudly, and only then were your suspicions about the librarian no longer being around confirmed. If she was, he’d be thrown out the window by now. “Surprising, isn’t it? I don’t know how my scalp is still holding out well until now, either.” He shrugged, and about a couple of seconds after, you ended up joining him on his fit of laughter as well.

“I gotta say, though, that’s really impressive. Anyone else would be bald by now,” you said, making him laugh once more with how you voiced out your thoughts in such a serious tone. His laughter died down after a little while, eyes now staring right into yours. “What brings you here, though?” He finally brought it up, making you wordlessly point to the closed book in front of where he sat by the table.

“Take a guess. It’s not any different from last time,” you said, and he was quick to piece your words together. “Your roommate?” You nodded, mimicking his actions as you rested your chin on your hands like how he did earlier.

Right now, he was lazily slouched on the chair, one arm of his placed on the table as the other was resting on his thigh. He seemed to be comfortable. Only then did you manage to look at him completely from head to toe.

The contrast between your choices of clothing remained the same as ever, so you weren’t really surprised at this point. For you, beneath your white knitted sweater was a pink lace camisole top, paired with a short, pink frilly skirt. Along with your pink doll shoes—one that was different from what you wore when you went to the bookstore a while ago, was a pair of knee-length lace socks with pink ribbons resting atop its garter. And lastly, for your hairstyle, you decided to go for a simpler look today, with half of it tied up and adorned with a large pink ribbon hair clip.

For him, you noticed he looked simpler than how he’d usually style himself. But then again, you’ve only ever seen him twice before today, so you were not one to talk. He wore an oversized black shirt with a simple red graphic design in front, and it was tucked in his black denim cargo jeans that were held up by an equally simple black belt, partnered up with glossy black boots that were shining every time he’d move his feet around due to the lights by the roof of the library reflecting on its shiny surface. He was only wearing one necklace today, but as always, his hands were clad in multiple accessories. A cap, which you assumed he was probably wearing earlier before you found him, remained sat on his lap. When he ran his right hand through his hair, the sleeve of his oversized shirt went down a little, giving you the chance to catch a glimpse of his tattoo that says, “NO 1 LIKE ME.”

Once again, you failed to see the corners of his lips twitching upward when he noticed your eyes raking over his form, eyes twinkling in amusement. You’ve only seen each other thrice, but for each time that you did, something that would never overlook his attention was the way you’d always examine his clothing. It was cute, though. And it’s not like he doesn’t do the exact same thing every time as well, anyway.

His smirk disappeared as quick as the speed of light the moment your eyes met his, making you avert your gaze immediately. It’s not like you were uncomfortable, but rather because his eyes just hold such an intense aura within them that never fails to make you feel intimidated—in a good way, you assume.

“You know,” you began to speak, although still refusing to meet his eyes, “I still don’t know what your name is, and we’ve crossed paths three times already…” Due to the lack of a response from him, you were quick to assume you were probably overstepping a few lines.

What if he doesn’t really want your connection with each other to go way past two people who coincidentally see each other in the most random circumstances and places? What if he liked things better this way—you not knowing his name, and him not knowing yours?

But your thoughts dissolved into nothingness the moment he finally spoke up, his voice a little softer than you could recall as he says, “Kim Hongjoong.” Of course his name is just as beautiful as he is. Were you really surprised at this point?

“Kim Hongjoong,” you let his name roll off your tongue, and something you failed to notice yet again due to how you were still refusing to face him was the way his breath hitched—again. “What about you?”

He was quick to come up with a question to ask in order to keep his composure, head tilting ever so slightly, secretly anticipating for you to turn your head towards him again. And it seems luck chose to be on his side today, with the way you did exactly what he wished for you to.

“Me?” You asked, and he nodded. “Yeah, you.” You were hesitant at first—once you and Hongjoong finally exchange your names with each other, there’s no guarantee of which direction your affiliation with him would lead to.

Sure, you may have been overanalyzing things a little—maybe he’s just asking for your name with the hopes of being friends, but even so, you couldn’t help but wonder where you were both headed, because even if you were only a potential friend to him, he certainly wasn’t one for you.

You knew the risks of dating way before you even first entered college two years ago. If anyone were to wish for a relationship, the best periods of time to do so would either be in high school or adulthood. High school’s for the cheesy moments, the sneakily exchanged glances during class, the chasing each other by the fields, the heartfelt confessions during prom night. You’d break up with each other over something childish yet would be serious if you were to be at the age of a high school student, and you’d forget all about it the moment you step into your college life.

Getting into a relationship once you have grown into an adult would be the best option out of all, because as we grow older, we learn more things about life each day. Relationships during high school are ruined pretty easily usually because of how both parties aren’t emotionally mature enough to handle conflicts, and such an occurrence can be easily avoided if you’re both functioning adults with a better perspective on most things in life. It’d certainly be more mature compared to the aforementioned.

But relationships during college aren’t exactly the brightest of all. College students are around the ages where all you’d ever want is to mess around and have fun no matter the cost knowing you’ll barely ever get the chance to do so once you step into adulthood. So, with that being said, relationships being taken seriously by college students isn’t really a common occurrence. They live to fuck around and find out, and that’s all that’s there to it. You’ve seen girls getting their hearts shattered left and right by stupid men who seem to only think with their hormones, and you know how bad it gets.

From struggling to balance their studies and relationships to completely losing focus on their goals because apparently a conventionally attractive yet emotionally unintelligent man is worth crying over more than great examination results were, all you know about college relationships is that it either plays out surprisingly well and lasts long, or it could initiate the beginning of your downfall for years on end. You swore you’d never try it out, afraid to end up being part of the latter.

But as hard as relationships during college seem, resisting your undeniable attraction towards the man sitting in front of you also proved to be just as difficult with the way all you could think about at the very moment was how those soft hands of his clicking on the table while patiently awaiting your response would feel against your skin. It wasn’t much of a surprise for you, anyway—you knew you were doomed the moment your eyes first met his in an empty aisle and you ended up staring at him longer than you should’ve.

You knew there was no point in considering the pros and cons of deepening your connection with someone who wasn’t meant to play a role of just a friend and nothing more in your life—and might I add, someone you’re heavily crushing on yet would rather jump off a cliff than admit it to yourself and accept the terms, knowing even if he asked for your name that day at the park or that one time in the bookstore, you would’ve given him what he wanted with zero hesitation anyway.

And so you do.

He proceeded to mirror your actions from earlier, rolling your name out of his tongue—and you swear your name hasn’t sounded so beautiful until now. “That’s a beautiful name you’ve got,” he starts, and when you finally gained enough courage to turn your head to the side and meet his eyes, you were met with that toothy grin of his you didn’t seem to be able to get enough of, “it suits you pretty well.”

“Oh, I—” You weren’t sure whether to be thankful for your friend for saving you from embarrassing yourself over not knowing how to react to Hongjoong’s unprovoked compliment, or to completely loathe her for cutting in between your conversation with him once again.

You’ve been getting deja vu over the parallels between everything that’s been happening right now that has already happened before although under a different situation way too often it’s actually starting to make your head hurt.

The loud ringing of your phone echoed around the empty library, and once again, you found yourself contemplating between pressing the green button or the red one. But not this time, no. You figured she’s probably calling to ask you whether you’ve borrowed the old book from the library yet, and that’s a question you were capable of answering either through text or personally, so you clicked on the red button, hearing Hongjoong let out a confused hum. “Why’d you decline?”

Because I’m feeling selfish right now and couldn’t care less about my roommate and her linguistics crush, especially not when you’re sitting right in front of me looking so breathtakingly beautiful like you’re an angel from an art museum that came to life and escaped to taste the wonders of life, was what was begging to escape from the pit of your mouth, “It’s probably about the book, so I’ll just talk to her in person later,” was all that came out.

And with the way he looked at you as if he was waiting for you to say something else, you knew he knew of your thoughts. Thankfully, he was kind enough not to bring it up. Or he probably didn’t notice at all. Truth be told, you’re hoping the latter was the case.

“What’s up with your roommate and books, anyway?” He asked curiously, although you could tell there was a hint of playfulness with the way he spoke. “You mean what’s up with her crush from her linguistics class and books?” You shrugged, holding back your laughter when you noticed his eyebrows shoot upward ever so slightly with his mouth agape.

“Oh. So that’s what it’s about, huh?” You let out an exasperated sigh, faking a frustrated expression as you responded, “Unfortunately so.”

Classes had already ended a few minutes ago, but students were still allowed to stay in the library afterwards—at first, you thought the implemented policy was stupid at first, seeing how literally no one ever visits the library, but now, you find yourself being grateful for it.

You both sat beside each other as silence surrounded both of you, but it wasn’t the kind of silence that would drive you on the edge and make you hurriedly think of what you should do or say in order to dissipate the looming tension, no. The silence between you and Hongjoong was comfortable. He wasn’t demanding you to speak, and neither were you. But just as the silence was starting to grow deeper, you were drowning in an ocean of your own thoughts again—specifically, thoughts about Hongjoong.

You weren’t sure when it happened or if you were the one who moved or if it was him, but the distance between both of you was now smaller than how it was a few minutes ago—you were sitting so close beside each other you’d occasionally feel the fabric of his jeans brush against your thigh whenever either of you would move. Since he was now closer, the scent of his cedarwood perfume engulfed you completely. You thought it made perfect sense for someone like him to favor such a scent—it suits him pretty well.

Every now and then, you’d steal a few glances from your peripheral vision while he remains engrossed in his phone, chewing the inside of your cheek whenever you’d find yourself wondering what it would feel like to rest your head on those shoulders of his. You were wondering what it feels like to rest your head on those shoulders of his?

And since you’re way too focused on not making yourself too obvious, you, as usual, fail to notice him doing the exact same thing as well. He was scrolling on his phone, sure, but in reality, he wasn’t even reading any of the posts that were appearing on his feed, way too focused on the way your eyelashes would flutter so beautifully whenever you’d blink.

The awkward smile you gave him when you first met each other in the bookstore is an image he had taken a mental photograph of, the memory still lingering in the back of his head clearly. The first thing he noticed about you that day was the way almost all of the pieces of clothing you wore were adorned in ribbons, as it reminded him of himself, in a way.

But instead of ribbons, anyone could find more than a handful of silver chains attached to almost everything in his closet. You seemed to love wearing knitted sweaters and cardigans, much like how half of his wardrobe consisted of leather jackets in varying designs and colors, though most of them were black, just like how most of yours were pink. It’s amusing to him how you two were so similar yet so different all the same.

The day he went to the park with Wooyoung, Seonghwa, and Wooyoung’s little brother, Kyungmin, he wasn’t really any different from you. You’d never know of it much like the other way around, but even when he went to the park with the same purpose you had, he couldn’t get you off his mind. It was as if his mind was the shore, and you were the waves of the ocean constantly pushing forward after being pulled away by the tides.

So, when he came back to where Seonghwa and Wooyoung were after separating himself from them for a while to look for less crowded areas of the park they could go to, to say he was surprised to see you talking to Kyungmin would be nothing short of a huge understatement.

“What’s Kyungmin doing over there?” he asked Seonghwa and Wooyoung, to which one only laughed at while the other sighed. “He kept on insisting that the girl he’s talking to right now is a princess and wouldn’t let me hear the end of it when I told him she isn’t. Then he ran off, and the next thing we both knew was he’s already tugging on her dress.” Hongjoong’s gaze went back to you, who was now crouching to face Kyungmin eye to eye.

It wasn’t exactly like he could blame the little boy for thinking that way—you did look like a princess, especially with the beautiful dress you chose to wore that day, and not to mention, the natural look of your face he was sure people under the influence—and even those who aren’t—would mistaken as one that belongs to an angel gracing the Earth with her presence.

He couldn’t believe his very own eyes that day. When he left you by yourself when you had to answer a phone call in the bookstore, he was originally supposed to head back to the aisle you were at after checking out the other sections that seemed interesting enough to grab his attention, but just as he was about to, another one of his friends (a.k.a roommates) along with Seonghwa and Wooyoung, Mingi, messaged him, telling him to come home as soon as possible because Yunho burnt the kitchen while trying to remake a recipe he saw on his feed.

At first, he thought they were just messing around with him—a normal occurrence, at this point, but it wasn’t until Yeosang sent a video of the kitchen actually burning to their group chat. Hongjoong could no longer afford to go through all the five stages of grief looking for an apartment that would suffice for eight people, so he immediately left the bookstore and ran faster than the speed of light.

Just as he was about to cross the street the moment the lights for vehicles turned red, he started contemplating between quickly heading back to the bookstore just to bid you farewell or just heading straight to his apartment building. His phone vibrated once again, and his lockscreen was being flooded by notifications of his roommates spamming his DMs, most of them coming from Jongho and San. Only then did the answer become clear to him.

Fortunately, he was able to fix the fifth problem his roommates have created for the week on time, immediately proceeding to scold all of them, save for Seonghwa who just got home from buying groceries and was now cleaning up the kitchen. For a fleeting moment, his mind drifts back to you, making him scold the six men even more than he should’ve, not-so-slightly upset over the fact that they timed burning the kitchen perfectly right when Hongjoong was just about to head back to you and continue your conversation.

Later that night, they were messaging one another one by one privately, each of them all saying the same thing: “It wasn’t really that deep. What got him so riled up?” But not even Hongjoong himself knew the answer to the question he never knew they were thinking of.

He thought he wasn’t going to see you again, and it never failed to make him feel confused whenever he found himself being a little too disappointed over it. So, when he saw you again—talking to his friend’s little brother, if anything, he was at a loss for both words and thoughts. The moment Kyungmin pointed to where he, Wooyoung, and Seonghwa stood, your eyes met for a fleeting second, and with the way he saw your eyes widen ever so slightly, he felt a little too happy over you recognizing him, so he did the first thing he thought of—trying to look as unbothered as possible even though his heart was literally spinning around, begging to be freed.

He failed to realize how smiling at you would’ve been a better option until he saw the way the corners of your lips went downwards ever so slightly upon seeing the look on his face, and before he could even clear things up by waving at you or literally anything to make sure you know he knows you, your gaze was already back on Kyungmin, and by the looks of it, you didn’t seem like you wanted to look his way yet again. To be fair, neither would he.

And as usual, he still couldn’t get you off his mind that day—though this time, it was worse, especially with the realization over the fact that he could’ve walked up to you yet didn’t dawning over him. He was beyond frustrated, to say the least. So, so frustrated he couldn’t even sleep.

Figuring his emotions were way too all over the place for him to be able to fall into a deep slumber, he sat up with a groan, stumbling over with his steps as he went to the living room, finding Yunho sitting by himself on the couch while watching a film that seemed to be a coming of age romance movie.

“What are you all up and about for?” Hongjoong walked around the couch, sitting beside Yunho as the cushion underneath him sank. “I could ask you the same question, you know,” Yunho responded, not even sparing Hongjoong a glance, obviously way too focused on the movie playing on the television screen in front of him.

“Just frustrated over some things.” Hongjoong leaned against the couch, sighing as he initiated a staring contest with the ceiling. With this, Yunho was quick to reach for the remote, pausing the movie before shuffling around so he could face Hongjoong while sitting down. “What’s the matter?”

“Do you ever think about something so often it starts to make you feel frustrated?” His question had Yunho pondering for about a while, making him think about it thoroughly.

“Depends on what this “something” we’re talking about is. I’m pretty sure that would mean two different things, depending on whether it’s “something” or “someone,” so which one of the two is it?” Hongjoong was hoping Yunho wouldn’t bring it up, but oh well. If he’s screwed, then he’s screwed.

All he had to do was stare right into Yunho’s eyes, hoping he’d put two and two together—and luckily, he did. “Since when?” Yunho was surprised, given how Hongjoong isn’t exactly the type of person who’d let himself be bothered by such things. Still, he wanted Hongjoong to tell him all about it, thankful he trusts him enough to do so.

��I don’t know, honestly. We just met by coincidence in the bookstore a few blocks away about a few weeks ago, and I haven’t been able to go through a single day without my head being filled with thousands of thoughts ever since then.”

“By coincidence?” Yunho tilted his head, and Hongjoong was quick to rewind and tell him all about it. After Hongjoong was done telling him about how it started and how it’s going so far, Yunho found himself smiling, already knowing what was up with Hongjoong, while he himself was still left in the dark.

He resorted to convincing Hongjoong to get up and do all the work himself so he’d be the one to come to terms about his feelings first-hand. “You know, nothing’s gonna happen if you keep on refusing to make a move. You can’t just expect your paths to cross once again if you’ve been staying at the same spot for days on end.”

And that was when he messaged Wooyoung privately once he was back in his room, asking if he was free to hang out for the upcoming day and if he wouldn’t mind tagging Kyungmin along with him. You’ll never know he was the reason behind Kyungmin’s second visit to the park, and part of him thinks things will be better off that way.

However, both of you were going through your own predicaments unconsciously. Until now, you still don’t know why you’re thinking of resting your head on his shoulder, and in his case, he still doesn’t know why on Earth he actually debated between bidding you farewell or saving his apartment from its impending doom.

It didn’t help how you weren’t really one to open up to people, so you were left all alone trying to fix the tangled wires inside your head, unlike Hongjoong, who was blessed enough by the gods to have a friend like Yunho. Still, despite being provided moral support and advice, he wasn’t any less oblivious to his feelings than you were.

“What’s it like?” You asked all of a sudden, surprising both Hongjoong and yourself. Much to your surprise, though, Hongjoong let the blooming conversation flow freely as he said in response, “What do you mean?” You shrugged, fiddling with yet another loose stitch of your sweater—you figured you’d definitely have to fix it up once you get home later.

“You know… having a lot of roommates.” You weren’t sure why you were asking about his roommates when you could’ve asked a question about him instead, yet you were blissfully unaware of the fact that Hongjoong was more than happy to hear you ask about his roommates—his best friends.

“It’s fun on most days, yet it’s also very frustrating sometimes. Living with seven people doesn’t exactly sound like the best experience when you’re living in an apartment that can barely fit all of you—even more when more than half of us have proven themselves deserving to be banned from the kitchen.” You laughed at his words, his laughter soon following after, watching you attempting to wind down your voice with a toothy grin on his face. “Why’s that?” You managed to ask in between your stifled laughs.

“Remember when we first met?” How could you ever forget? “Yeah, what about it?” You tilted your head, wondering what your first encounter had to do with Hongjoong’s roommates burning their kitchen. “While you were on a phone call with someone, I was in the middle of checking out the other sections, but just as I was about to head back to where you were, they spammed our group chat with messages, each of them telling me to head back home as soon as possible. Wanna guess why?”

“Please don’t tell me someone actually set the kitchen on fire.” Hongjoong only laughed in response, shaking his head. “Unfortunately.” Your eyes widened slightly, scoffing in disbelief. “You’re lying, aren’t you?” This time, it was now Hongjoong’s turn to look at you in utter disbelief, making you think he was actually offended over you not believing his story for a split second.

“Don’t wanna believe me? Here,” he said, showing you the video waiting to be played on his phone screen as he gestured for you to press the button yourself. As the video started playing, a look of shock spread all over your face as you watched the fire get worse as the video progressed, hearing screams from people whom you could only assume were his roommates.

Someone draped a towel over the flames, hurriedly stepping back when his solution turned out to be an additional problem with the way the fire grew even more. “Mingi, are you fucking stupid?! Take that towel back!” to which the man named Mingi responded with, “No way in hell! San, you do it!” followed by another, “Don’t drag me into the consequences of your stupidity!”

You heard someone from the background yell Hongjoong’s name, and as the camera was turned towards where the sound came from, you were met with the sight of a man who you recognized as Wooyoung hiding behind someone who seemed to be way too calm considering the fact that the kitchen was literally being set on fire—he was even eating an apple, if anything. The video switched to the front camera, revealing a man who, this time, seemed to look too happy despite the fire unfolding right behind him, and he even had the guts to giggle and wave to the camera.

Needless to say, you were left speechless, and the video wasn’t even halfway finished yet. You pressed his screen to pause the video, being met with the sight of him contemplating whether to laugh over the memorable (strangely enough) moment or to let his grudges come crawling back at him.

Looking at the expression on his face, you couldn’t help but laugh, your voice echoing around the quiet halls of the library. “So that’s what living with seven people looks like…” With the way you spoke, Hongjoong was unsure whether you meant it in a good way or not—and if he were to be honest, that’s exactly what made your reaction even more amusing.

“That’s also why I wasn’t able to come back to the aisle after looking around. Sorry,” he apologized, sheepishly rubbing his nape. You were quicker than a millisecond to dismiss his apology, shaking your head as you reassured him that it’s fine and a while has passed ever since that day anyway so you don’t really mind anymore. You had that awkward smile on your face again, and Hongjoong had to put every fiber in him to use in order to hold himself back from just melting right there and then.

Suddenly, your phone rang yet again, cutting your conversation with Hongjoong short. Assuming it was your roommate calling you, you were about to decline the call, but it wasn’t until you read the contact number’s nickname and realized it was your mother calling you and not your roommate.

You were quick to tidy yourself and hung your pink crocheted crossbody bag over your shoulder, reaching for the book that was resting in front of Hongjoong by the table, retracting your hand for a split second when you realized you hadn’t even told him yet that the book your roommate wanted you to borrow from the library was the one he was reading before you approached him.

He looked up at you from his seat, tilting his head. “You need it?” he asked, making you nod. “If you don’t mind, of course, it’s just—” Hongjoong waved you off, gesturing for you to take it, swearing he doesn’t mind at all. Just as you reached for the book once more, his hand rested on its cover at the same time, pushing it towards your direction. It didn’t take you longer than a second to realize your hands were on top of his. Your phone has stopped ringing, and the sound has now been replaced with your thundering heartbeat.

You were the first one to break the contact, taking your hand off his. Too focused on trying to look calm—you have no idea why having composure seems to turn itself into an almost unattainable challenge whenever Hongjoong was around—you fail to notice the way a hint of disappointment flashed on his eyes with you taking your hand off so soon, and it disappeared as quick as it showed up when you reached for the book once more the moment his hand was no longer sitting atop of it.

“I, um, have to go,” you stumbled over your words as you shoved the book inside your bag, “I’ll… see you around?” You sounded way too hopeful for your liking, but before you could take your words back and replace it with something more neutral, Hongjoong beat you to it by grinning at you widely, nodding at your words. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you around.”

But he doesn’t, and neither do you.

Three weeks have passed, and the increasing amount of his library visits were starting to become more noticeable to the seven men Hongjoong shared his apartment with through every passing day. They all went to the same university, so they knew just how annoyingly cruel the campus librarian was, which made things even harder to piece together for them. Hongjoong had also spoken up once about how much he hates the librarian during one of their drinking games when he was under the influence, so his frequent visits at the library were really confusing—save for one person who had an idea what the reason behind it was.

“You’ve noticed it too, haven’t you?” Mingi tilted his head at San who sat across from him, enthusiastically munching on the desserts he ordered while taking a few sips of his coffee in between—clearly, he didn’t hear Mingi’s question. “You’ve noticed it, right?” Mingi repeated his question, this time a little louder in hopes of getting an answer from San. His attempt proved to be successful as San finally looked up at him with a confused expression on his face. “Noticed what?”

“Oh, you know. Hongjoong and his sudden library star user transition,” he shrugged, and San let out a hum of realization after being given context. “Yeah, I have. What about it, though?” Mingi scoffed in disbelief, having a hunch that San was just playing dumb. “Come on, San. Don’t you think it’s strange? Because I do.” But the aforementioned man’s eyebrows only furrowed as he asked once again, “What is?”

“What isn’t strange about it? You know he hates the librarian just as much as we all do, right? Don’t you ever wonder what on Earth is he stopping by the library everyday for?” For a few seconds, the only thing San could do was stare at Mingi from across the table, mouth slightly agape as if he was trying to connect the dots inside his head. And then it clicks—finally. “Oh… Oh. I mean, now that you’ve mentioned it, it does seem a little weird.”

“Right? I asked Seonghwa last night if he knew anything about it, but he told me Hongjoong hasn’t brought up anything related to the library to him so far. I mean, sure, yeah, Hongjoong likes to read, so normally, it would make sense for him to visit the library every now and then—but everyday? Is he reading a compilation of the terms and conditions of every existing app?”

“You may be overanalyzing a little, don’t you think?” A familiar voice spoke up from behind San’s seat at the cafe, making him turn his head around as Mingi only had a smile on his face, already having seen the man enter the cafe before he even approached the two of them. “You know you can visit the library for more than one reason, right?” He gestured for San to move aside, opting to sit beside him as both of them were now facing Mingi, who sat on the opposite side of the table.

“And what would those other reasons be?” Both Mingi and San asked in unison. “I don’t know, maybe the usual things that happen when you’re a college student on the brink of graduation with an eye for attractive people?” Mingi’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Yunho, what the hell are you even talking about right now?”

Yunho rolled his eyes, leaning against the cushion of the sofa he sat on. “Think it through, Mingi. Hongjoong wouldn’t even dare to consider visiting the library everyday, had he not been developing feelings for a certain person he often sees there.” Both Mingi and San knew Hongjoong as someone who wasn’t quite fond of the idea of anything romantic, but it’s not like they knew what Yunho knew, anyway, so they resorted to laughing Yunho’s words off.

“You’re not onto something, Yunho,” Mingi began, and San continued his words, saying, “you’re on something.”

“Are you seriously accusing me of being high on a Saturday afternoon? Being high, if anything?” Yunho stared at the two men who were now proudly laughing over their joke in disbelief, frowning when he realized they didn’t even plan on taking his words with a grain of salt. “And are you seriously trying to get us to consider your idea of Hongjoong being hit by Cupid all of a sudden?”

“It’s not an idea, San. Just—would you just listen to at least a goddamn word I’ll be saying?” Yunho ran his hand through his hair, and only then did Mingi and San stop with their antics. Moments of Yunho being upset were extremely uncommon, and whenever it would happen, all of them would always fail to hear the end of it. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry. Where did your theory come from, anyway?”

“For the second time now, it’s not a theory. It’s a possibility loosely based on a conversation Hongjoong and I had a few weeks ago while you were all asleep.”

“So… a theory?”

“God, no!”

“It is, though.” San backed up Mingi, making him pat his back with a grateful expression on his face. “See? He gets me.” Yunho only responded by rolling his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s a theory or not—just hear me out, please.” San could tell Yunho was growing tired of their shenanigans, so he was quick to lock in and get serious. “Shoot.”

“It was around three in the morning already, and I was in the living room watching a movie. Hongjoong suddenly came out of his room and sat beside me, and he asked me a question I wouldn’t have expected to come from him. He asked me if I’ve ever thought of something so often to the point where it drives me frustrated, and based on the look on his face that night, I assumed his answer would’ve been yes if I asked him the question instead and not the other way around. I told him it depends on whether it’s a “something” or a “someone,” and he gave me a look that non-verbally told me it was the latter in his case.”

“So, to sum it all up, he likes someone who visits the library often?” Mingi asked, and Yunho shook his head. “From the looks of it, I’m pretty sure he’s waiting for a certain someone to visit the library everyday.”

“Why the library, though? And why would he have to do it everyday? Doesn’t that sound a little creepy? Or maybe that’s just me, but, I mean, there’s no way you don’t find it weird at all, Yunho,” San said, wondering why on Earth would Hongjoong have to visit the library everyday just to see whoever his crush was.

Yunho sighed, “That’s not exactly the case, you know.” Both Mingi and San’s attention were completely hooked once again, both of them leaning forward on the sides of the table they sat on, eager to listen to what Yunho was about to tell them.

“What I’m thinking is that Hongjoong probably last saw his crush in the library, and that whoever that person is went out of town—but Hongjoong doesn’t know, hence why he keeps on visiting the library everyday in hopes of seeing his crush again.”

“That’s… oddly specific,” Mingi gave Yunho a skeptical gaze, whereas San remained drowning in his own thoughts. “The fact that your theory is actually highly likely to be correct is what scares me,” San said, finally speaking up after a few seconds of silence.

“It’s not a—”

“Yeah, yeah, not a theory! We get it!”

It’s been three months, at most. You wanted nothing more but to leave your hometown and head back to your apartment—you never liked the suffocating feeling the walls of your mother’s household would always give you. You’re starting to miss hearing your roommate’s loud snoring in the brink of dawn, too. You wonder how she’s holding up—it’s not really your thing to keep in touch with people while you’re away as it only makes you miss them even more, and this is something you fortunately remembered at the last minute to tell her before you left.

Your mother had contacted you that time you were hanging out with Hongjoong in the library to tell you to head back to your household as she and her garbage of a boyfriend had scheduled a three month vacation for themselves, leaving you the responsibility to watch over their house while they go out and enjoy their lives to its fullest. How pathetic.

You vividly remember feeling your heart ache with flames while you had to fight back your tears while packing your things—trying so hard to convince your roommate—who you assumed by that time was probably hanging out with the guy from her linguistics class—that you were fine when she was on the other line of the call while you were informing her about your sudden vacation, even though it was painfully obvious you weren’t by the way your voice kept on trembling with every word you spoke.

It didn’t help that all you could think of while spacing out while waiting for the train you took to arrive at its destination was the way Hongjoong’s eyes widened ever so slightly when you placed your hands atop of his by accident, as well as the way he’d flash you that toothy grin of his every single time you’d find yourselves staring into each other’s eyes.

No, it really didn’t help. Especially considering the fact that you don’t even know why the hell you were thinking of him when you were supposed to be upset because of your parents. It really, really didn’t help how thinking of him ended up painting a small smile on your face that was quick to disappear the moment you snapped back into reality.

Yet here you are now, mindlessly staring outside the window of your childhood bedroom, watching the sun slowly fall into a deep slumber as you wonder what Hongjoong could have possibly been doing by the other side of the world. Part of you regrets not taking the old book you borrowed from the library with you, but at the end of the day, you borrowed it to help your roommate forge a connection with her crush, and not with your own, for heaven’s sake. Wait, what?

And then it hits you—he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know you’re out of town and will continue to be for three more days. You wonder if he thinks of you as much as you do of him. You wonder if he’s out there, waiting for you. You wonder if he wonders what you’re doing right now as well. You wonder if he’s concerned about you.

“Oh, God, I can’t do this anymore,” you buried your face in your hands in frustration, sighing heavily as you parted your fingers to glance at your phone placed by your bedside table. Its screen, although pitch black, felt as if it was glaring directly at you, taunting you to take it and just say “screw it” and break your no-contact-during-vacation rule.

And you did, in fact, say, “Screw it.”

Quickly scrolling through your contacts, you wasted no time and immediately dialed your roommate’s number, the constant ringing of your phone echoing around the almost empty surroundings of your bedroom. Most of the things you left here before moving out have already been thrown out, it seems.

“Oh my God!” The screeching of your roommate from the other end of the line made you jolt in surprise, hissing as you felt your ears ring due to how loud her voice was. “Is this real?! I thought you said you wouldn’t call me until you’re back here! What happened?! Is something wrong?! Are you okay?! ARE YOU—”

“Calm down! Do you want me to go deaf or something?” Your voice was as calm as ever, a stark contrast to hers. “Did you really miss me that bad?” Chuckling, you await her response, which arrived faster than a millisecond.

“Did I miss you? Did I miss you? You have no idea how quiet it has been in here ever since you left! I have no one to annoy and it’s slowly driving me insane…” she let out an exasperated sigh, making you laugh. “I’ll be taking that as a yes, then.”

Your roommate clears her throat, going back to the topic at hand. “Seriously, though, why’d you suddenly decide to break your no-contact rule? Are you alright?” Concern was evident in her voice, and it almost made you tear up. You failed to realize just how much you missed her until now.

“I’m still breathing, that’s for sure,” you joked, laughing after hearing her groan as she said, “Now’s not the time for your jokes! Did something bad happen over there?”

“No, not really, but… well, you know, I’m not supposed to come back until Friday this week, but I really don’t think I can stay here for any longer. I’m all alone because my mother and her boyfriend are out on a vacation, and I haven’t had anyone to talk to for the past few months I’m not used to waking up because of my alarm and not because of your loud snoring, you know?”

Truthfully, you really did miss her. But even if you knew she was not the only reason behind you desperately wanting to leave your hometown, you figured you’d have to tell her all about it another time—just not now.

“I can’t tell whether you meant that as a compliment or an insult…” she sighed, making you erupt in a fit of laughter. Darkness was now starting to consume your surroundings, with the moon all up and about. Your bedside lamp is now the only source of light your bedroom has. “Do me a favor and take it as both?”

“Haha, yeah, real funny. I really hate you, you know.” You could tell from the tone of her voice alone that she was rolling her eyes, making you laugh once more—she seriously had to stop, or else you were certain you were gonna have to go to sleep with an aching stomach. “I don’t think you do, though…”

“You know me too well,” she sighed, faking an exhausted tone. “Is there anything you wanna tell me about? Like, you know, literally anything? I feel like all we’ve ever been talking about lately is mister linguistics class who is my man but is technically not my man but will, one day, become my man… come to think of it, I don’t think you’ve ever talked to me about any of your crushes—”

You could still hear her voice through the speaker of your phone, but the moment her words entered your ears, they were all muffled—you were, once again, adrift in a sea of your own thoughts. In a way, she was right about the part where you never talk to her about anything regarding your romantic affiliations—but that’s precisely because you don’t even have one in the first place, and you swore to yourself you’d keep things that way until you graduate.

But right now, as your thoughts drift back to Hongjoong yet again—something that seems to have been happening way too often for your liking at this point, you weren’t so sure anymore.

“—Oh, you do like someone!” Beaming happily, she squealed like a little child winning a plushie from a claw machine for the first time, pulling you back up to the surface of reality. Surprised, you stumbled over your words, “W-What?”

“You suddenly grew quiet when I started talking about relationships, you know.” I did?

“If I were to guess, I’d say there’s a certain someone who came to your mind the moment I mentioned the word “crush” and brought up how you’ve always been so secretive with your dating life.” You could visualize the teasing smile on her face as she spoke, and it made you feel flustered. She was right, but were you really going to tell her that?

“So, who is it? Can I make a few guesses? Promise me you’ll bring a basket of candies home for me if I get it right!” It wasn’t exactly like you were doubting her—it was more on the fact that you, yourself, weren’t even sure if you actually harbor feelings for the only person in your mind right now. If you were to think about it, wouldn’t it be too soon to say you do?

Maybe it was the way he seemed to have an eye meant for seeing everything around him as diamonds in the rough—an eye able to see the best even in those already proven to be the worst. Maybe it was the way he has no fear of expressing himself freely—maybe you just admired that trait of his and wished to have it as your own. Maybe it was the way he’s always eager to thoroughly get to know the details of everything he crosses paths with—the way he reread a book five times just to look for the foreshadowed parts may sound a little silly to be used as an example, but it serves its purpose.

You don’t really know much about him, except for the fact that he lives with seven people whom you could tell he adored so much, and that he liked to design his own clothes. So for a split second, you begin to debate whether you do like him or if you just admire him as a person.

But it wasn’t until you were reminded of the way you felt sparks ignite all over your veins when his fingers first brushed past yours that day in the bookstore, the way you stared at him a little longer than you should’ve when you saw him at the park, the way you had to hold yourself back from unconsciously leaning your head on his shoulder that day in the library—maybe the way you felt about Hongjoong was a whole book itself, and you’d also have to reread it a few times to catch everything you’ve overlooked in the long run.

You may not know him at all, but right now, one thing was crystal clear to you—you wanted to.

“Do you know the…” A little uncertain at first, you trailed off, not knowing whether you should continue or not. But then again, running away wouldn’t draw you any closer to your destination. “... Do you know anyone named Kim Hongjoong?”

Silence engulfed both of you for at least ten seconds at most, until it was broken by yet another squeal of hers. “Are you for real?! The Kim Hongjoong?! You like him?! Oh my God! Wait, now that I’m thinking about it, aren’t you two, like, polar opposites, at most?”

If only she knew.

“I guess…? Why?” You decided to play along with her for now, eager to hear what she has to say. “You two would totally be the cutest couple of the whole campus! I mean, come on, think about it! He’s a punk, and you do ballet! Well, technically, you don’t, but I trust you enough to rest assured you get the reference, so…”

“You think so?” Truth be told, you could perfectly visualize the message she was trying to deliver. Subconsciously, a smile soon began to creep up on your face over the thought of you and Hongjoong walking together, the stark contrast between your styles and the way you carried yourselves being heavily obvious.

“Oh, I know so! Wait, though—when, where, why, and how did this even start? I can’t believe you’re actually telling me about your dating life now!” She beamed, but you were quick to tone her down. “Now…? I don’t even have any experience within the dating field,” you said, bracing yourself from the scream that was yet to come from her.

“I’m sorry, what?!” Yeah, called it. “You heard it right. I wasn’t hiding anything from you—there were never any secrets to be hidden to begin with.”

“So Hongjoong is your first boyfriend—” “—I think we’re skipping a few chapters here,” you immediately cut her off, turning her assumptions down as fast as you could. “What do you mean?”

“Well… remember when you asked me to buy that one psychological thriller book from our local bookstore there?” You started, continuing after hearing a hum from the other line. “That was when I first met him. He was going to buy the same book as well, but we reached for it at the same time, and, I don’t know, we kinda… talked? And…”

You continued on, starting from when you first met him to when you last saw him. At this point, you could no longer even count the amount of times she had squealed over the phone.

“Wait, so you mean to tell me you didn’t even exchange contacts before you left the library? And he doesn’t know why you left?!” You could tell she was frustrated—and to be fair, so were you. “Well, if I did, we’d be talking to each other right now, wouldn’t we?” You sighed.

“So that means it’s been three months since you… wait, hold on… three months? Like, actually?” You have no idea why she was asking for confirmation all of a sudden, yet you let out a hum of approval anyway. “So that’s why he’s been… oh my God! If you don’t come back as soon as you can, I swear!”

“Huh? Why would I need to?”

“Hongjoong’s been visiting the library everyday for three months straight now! It’s, like, one of the many things our whole campus gossips about everyday! It all makes sense now…” What?

“What?”

“I’m telling you, you need to come back before it’s too late and he loses hope!” You couldn’t help but laugh at how she seemed to be more passionate about the topic at hand than you yourself, but in a way, she also had a point. There’s no guarantee he’d continue to wait for you until you’re finally allowed to leave your mother’s household.

And that was all you needed to hear for you to immediately hang up and rummage through the clothes you packed with you for your vacation—you could hardly even call it such, but whatever. You have no idea why you’re in such a rush, but for the first time ever, you opted for a casual look: a white shirt with an oversized pink hoodie with a half-done zipper on top of it, paired with shorts that weren’t even visible due to the hoodie’s length. You quickly slipped on a pair of white socks and wore your pink converse afterwards, having to re-do the shoelaces about three times due to messing it up over and over again because of how you were in such a rush.

You didn’t even have time to stand in front of your mirror to see what you looked like—your mind was set on coming back to you and your roommate’s apartment as soon as you could.

For a minute, you were stuck in a debate between following what you had to or what you wanted to. You knew for sure that dire consequences were to wait ahead of you if you were to follow the latter, but you could no longer find it in you to care. You had to follow your heart.

Sighing under your breath, you finally got yourself to twist the doorknob open, being met with the cold breeze of the night. Perhaps it wasn’t the best decision to wear shorts, but it’s too late to reconsider things now, is it? Quickly locking the door with your keys in hand, you wasted no time in sprinting to the nearest train station, not wanting to waste the chance that laid itself upon you.

“Mind explaining what’s been going on with you lately?” Seonghwa asked, hands on either side for support as he leaned against the kitchen counter, eyes boring directly into Hongjoong, who was standing across him, too busy spacing out that Seonghwa was certain he didn’t hear anything at all.

“What?” Hongjoong’s voice was a little slurred, and one could easily tell he lacks sleep. “I said, do you mind explaining what’s been going on with you lately?” Seonghwa enunciated his words so Hongjoong could hear him better, only for the said man to respond with a chuckle.

“You really gotta stop overanalyzing everything around you, Seonghwa.” Yet the aforementioned man wasn’t having any of it. He knew very well of Hongjoong’s tendencies to deny his own struggles—even to himself, always refusing to admit he’s going through something even though it’s already crystal clear. Of course, Seonghwa and the rest knew to respect his boundaries and not pry further, but the circles under Hongjoong’s eyes were starting to grow darker, and he just couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

“I’m not buying your excuses this time, Hongjoong. Clearly, you’re forcing yourself to go through something all alone again.” Seonghwa sighed, brows furrowed in concern as he took in Hongjoong’s appearance.

“What? Like it’s the first time I’ve ever done so?” Hongjoong chuckled, although it was easy for Seonghwa to tell he was forcing it upon himself. “You know you can’t keep everything to yourself forever, right? They’re all worried about you, and so am I. Look, you don’t have to tell me all the details, okay? Just tell me what’s wrong.”

“How on Earth am I supposed to feel when someone tells me ‘see you around’ but then they proceed to literally disappear right after those words come out of their mouth? Wouldn’t you be downing a dozen shots in one streak too?” From the way Hongjoong spoke, it was clear that he was beyond frustrated. His words came out slurred and raspy, and even Seonghwa himself was surprised he understood what Hongjoong said.

Brows furrowed in confusion, Seonghwa leaned forward from the counter, clearly not knowing what the hell Hongjoong was talking about. “Woah, woah, alright, calm down. Where’d all this even come from?”

“It’s been three months—three months, Seonghwa. Disappearing without a word is one thing, but not showing up for three months is just absurd, isn’t it?” Hongjoong groaned, running his hands through his hair. Still confused, Seonghwa attempted to ask for a little more context. “Who are you even talking about?”

“Her, Seonghwa. The girl whose name I could’ve gotten sooner, had those stupid goons not decided to burn our kitchen. The girl Kyungmin mistook for a princess.”

Oh.

So it all makes sense now. It now makes sense that Hongjoong scolded the rest of them for almost burning their apartment way too harshly than he normally would have. It now makes sense why he caught Hongjoong staring at the girl from the park longer than any other person would have. It now makes sense that—does this mean what Seonghwa thinks it does?

Hongjoong likes someone? The Hongjoong, who swore he’d never allow himself to get into a relationship yet again after a bad falling out with one of his exes a few years ago? The Hongjoong, if anything?

“Can I take a wild guess and assume she’s the reason behind your daily library visits?” Seonghwa asked carefully, not wanting to hit a wounded spot by accident. Hongjoong only sighed, “I wish she wasn’t. Really, really wish she wasn’t.”

“Why? Do you like her?”

Does he like you?

At first, Hongjoong refused to accept the terms. He knew very well of his promise to himself not to fall for anyone again, tired of experiencing the same hardships that came along with it over and over again. He knew he shouldn’t be thinking of you as often as he does. He knew he shouldn’t be letting you affect him in the simplest ways possible.

Yet here he was now.

“I tried to stop myself, you know. I really did. But I just—I couldn’t. I didn’t have it in me to forget about her just like that, even if she’s been gone for three months straight now and I don’t even know where she is.” Seonghwa could tell Hongjoong meant every word he said. It was still mildly surprising, but the words came out of his mouth so smoothly it was enough to tell Seonghwa he was really being genuine.

“I know I look stupid waiting like a dog in the library everyday, hoping I’d be met with her awkward smile when I turn my head towards the door whenever I hear it open, but I just—I can’t, you know? I can’t stop. Not when the last words we spoke to each other was about seeing each other around. I can’t help but wonder if I messed up unknowingly, somehow.”

Seonghwa’s gaze softened, stepping forward to gently caress Hongjoong’s shoulder in a comforting way. “Why not go on a midnight stroll? I think you really need one right now. I’ll make sure they won’t burn the kitchen again this time, okay?”

“You really know how to make me feel better, don’t you?” Hongjoong chuckled, looking upwards to prevent his tears from falling down. “I’m gonna need you to remember the fact that we’ve known each other since we were kids. Of course I’ll know that,” Seonghwa sarcastically said, although a smile was plastered on his face.

At this point, you were certain your legs were about to give up before you could even reach your apartment. The train you took had a major malfunction in the long run, but you didn’t have it in you to wait for 30 minutes until the train would start working again, so you did the only thing you could—run. Okay, that was most likely not the correct solution, but it wasn’t like you had any other choice. You need to head home at least before 8:30AM tomorrow, since that’s usually when your mother would call you to ask how you, or rather, her house, is doing.

You stopped between your tracks to catch your breath, hands on your knees as your chest heaved with exhaustion. You decided to walk for at least a few minutes for now so you could regain enough energy to start running again later on, knowing there was absolutely no way you’d be able to keep on sprinting without passing out in the middle of it.

You were walking on an empty road, the dim lamp posts and the convenience stores from a distance being your only sources of light. As you were peacefully admiring your quiet surroundings, you spotted a coastline from a fair distance besides the road, only about a few steps away. As you drew closer to where the waves of the ocean met the sand, you saw a figure from afar sitting on a boulder all by themselves.

Except it wasn’t just a figure.

Your heart started racing, eyes widening in surprise as you focused your gaze on the person’s hair—you couldn’t have been mistaken. You know exactly who that split-dyed hair belongs to.

Before you even knew it, your feet had a life of its own, running towards where the figure was sitting even though your legs were literally about to give up after running for half an hour without stopping.

“Hongjoong?”

He turned around almost right after you called out his name, eyes all puffy and widened in surprise, blinking repeatedly as if he was trying to process the fact that you were standing right in front of him.

“It’s you.”

You no longer even cared if your actions were way too straightforward, immediately engulfing him in a warm, tight embrace as you buried your face in the crook of his neck. “Hongjoong—I’m sorry, I just…” Your voice came out as nothing but trembling whispers blending it with the midnight breeze.

For at least a few seconds, all he did was stand still, not an ounce of his body reacting to your touch. Afraid he might not have been comfortable with what you were doing, you were quick to take a step back, removing your face from his neck.

Yet just as you were about to release the grip you held around his body, he was quick to wrap his arms around yours, this time being the one to embrace you tightly. Hongjoong’s arms envelop you, holding you tightly against him. The warmth of his body, the gentle rise and fall of his breath—it’s an entirely new feeling, yet it felt soothing all the same, as if this was where you were always meant to be.

You let yourself let loose in his embrace, feeling the tension and worry of the past three months slowly melt away. You close your eyes, savoring the moment as you bury your face in his shoulder. The subtle scent of his cedarwood cologne that you missed so much mixed with the salty sea air lingers in your senses, making you feel grounded and safe.

His chin rests on top of your head, and you can feel him take a deep breath, almost as if he’s trying to breathe you in and reassure himself that you’re really there. His embrace feels secure and protective, as though he’s shielding you from the heavy burdens of the world weighing upon you.

You notice his hesitation in the way his hands pause on your back, almost unsure of how to hold you at first. But eventually, after being allowed a little more seconds to familiarize himself with the feeling of your body resting against his, he started rubbing your back in soothing circles, making you feel lightheaded—as if all of your worries have slipped away with just a single touch.

He removes his chin from the top of your head, making you stare into his eyes with a teary gaze as he does so to yours as well. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you about it beforehand, I…” you trailed off, words getting stuck in the middle of your throat after feeling Hongjoong cup your face with his hands, “... It all happened so fast, I… my mother needed me home right away, and I just couldn’t say no to her… I wish I could’ve told you beforehand, but she only told me why she needed me home when I was already there, so I couldn’t…”

Hongjoong’s gaze softens as he listens to your words. He gives you a small, understanding nod, but you can still see the hint of hurt in his eyes—his dark circles were so visible, even under the dim light of the moon. He pauses for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts, before speaking.

"I thought I might have done something wrong," he admits quietly, vulnerability evident with the way he spoke.. "I kept wondering if you were upset with me. It was... hard not knowing what happened.”

“When you left without a word, it felt like my world shifted,” Hongjoong begins. “We were in the library, and the last thing you said was you’ll see me around—but I didn't see you again. Not the next day, or the day after. I just kept going back, hoping you’d show up. It didn’t make sense—you were there, and then you were gone.”

“I started overthinking everything, replaying our conversations in my head. I wondered if I said something wrong or came on too strong, that maybe you didn’t want me to. I was scared that I might have scared you away somehow," he admits, and the way his voice trembled ever so slightly made your heart twist in pain.

“Hongjoong, I’m so sorry… I didn’t mean to leave you wondering if you ever did something wrong—I didn’t like what happened just as much as you do. I just… it’s complicated…” Truth be told, it really was.

Still, Hongjoong nodded with a faint smile on his face, reassuring you that he understands.“I know it wasn’t intentional,” he said, caressing your face with his thumb. “The nights were the hardest. I’d lie awake wondering if you hated me or if I had done something to upset you.”

You reach up to caress his face with your hands as well, staring at him with eyes that hold a swirl of emotions. “God, no, it never had anything to do with you… I’m so sorry for disappearing like that," you say softly, your voice filled with a mixture of guilt and frustration. "I wish I could have told you what was happening, but my mother... she wasn’t easy to deal with.”

As you hold Hongjoong close, you sense there’s more he wants to share, but he seems to be holding back, seemingly at war with his own emotions. You give his hand a reassuring squeeze, encouraging him to express himself.

He lets out a heavy sigh, his expression a mix of longing and frustration. “I’ve been trying so hard to sort out how I feel about all of this,” he begins slowly. “I’ve been at war with my own thoughts ever since you left. Trying to keep my feelings under control, trying to convince myself it was just a worry for a friend. But it just… doesn’t add up.”

He pauses, running a hand through his hair, his gaze on a far distance. “Every day, I would tell myself I could keep it together, but I kept thinking about you so much, it was starting to drive me insane,” he admits, although a little hesitantly. “I tried to keep it down to just concern, but it wasn’t enough. My mind kept circling back to you, wondering where you were, if you were okay.”

His eyes meet yours again, making your breath hitch. “I’d go to the library every day, hoping to see you, hoping to hear your voice again. It was maddening, not knowing if you’d come back or if I’d lost you completely,” he sighs, as his grip on the skin of your waist becomes a little tighter. “I just couldn’t shake it off,” he continues, his voice quieting down.

“You were on my mind all the time, and the more I tried to ignore it, the more frustrated I became. I tried so hard to deny it, but...” he pauses, taking a deep breath, as if he’s steeling himself for what comes next.

“Oh, screw it all,” he finally mutters, as if giving in to his own feelings. “I love you, and I don’t think I can hold it back any longer.”

“You… What?” Your eyes widened in surprise, struggling to process Hongjoong’s words. Hongjoong only smiled at you in return, repeating his words, “I said I love you. I really, really do.”

“Hongjoong,” you begin softly, your voice carrying a hint of nervousness. Hearing his name slip out of your mouth sent his nerves going haywire—oh, how he missed the sound of it.

“When I had to leave so suddenly, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. It was so difficult not being able to explain what happened or tell you how much you mean to me.” You pause, trying to find the right words.

“You know, I… I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone in until I graduated," you confess, your voice being a little softer than it already was. “So when I first started catching feelings for you, I was in complete denial. I didn’t know how to handle it.” You look away for a moment, feeling embarrassed.

“It was a war with myself, one I never expected to fight," you continued. “I told myself it was just a phase, just a fleeting crush. I even thought maybe I was imagining things or confusing friendship with something more.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh, trying to hide the depth of your feelings. “I even tried to tell myself that you were just a good friend, that I was misinterpreting my own emotions,” you admit. “But the more I tried to distance myself from my feelings, the harder it became. My heart kept betraying me, reminding me how much I looked forward to seeing you again, how your smile could light up my whole day.”

Your tone grows quieter as you share your struggle. “I kept thinking, ‘This can’t be happening. Not now. I promised myself I wouldn’t fall for anyone,’” you say, vividly remembering the battle with your own feelings you once faced. “But every time I thought of you, it became harder to deny it. My heart wouldn’t let me forget you, and it drove me insane. Eventually, I lost control, and…”

You take a deep breath, forcing yourself to face the reality of your feelings. “Now that I’m standing here with you, hearing you pour your heart out, I just… I can’t deny it anymore,” you admit. “I’ve fallen for you, Hongjoong, and I’m done pretending otherwise.”

And that was all it took for him to inch his face closer to yours, intertwining your lips with his. The kiss was nothing short of pent-up tension being released, and you could feel every part of your body being set aflame.

His hands wrap themselves around your waist, its grip on your skin tightening every now and then. Your hand traces his jawline, soon finding itself tangled in his hair while the other one balls the fabric of his shirt into your first, feeling yourself get even more lost in the moment with each passing second.

As the kiss intensifies, there’s a sense of exploration, as if both of you are savoring the taste and feel of each other’s lips for the first time. Hongjoong’s hands slide up your back, one hand finding the nape of your neck, his touch gentle yet firm as if he was using every single fiber within his body to hold himself back, sending a shiver down your spine.

You mirror his movements, one hand now resting on his shoulder while the other presses against his back, wanting to be as close as possible. The world around you fades away, leaving just the two of you lost in the moment.

As your lips finally part, you both find yourselves gazing into each other’s eyes as if both of you believe the other hung up the stars in the sky. “You know,” Hongjoong began to speak. “As grateful as I am that you’re back here with me now… I can’t help but wonder where on Earth you came from...”

“Can we please save that discussion for another time?”

🪞 — lividstar.

#౨ৎ﹒ノ﹒lividstar．#ateez #ateez fluff #ateez fic #hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong fluff #seonghwa #yunho #yeosang #san #mingi #wooyoung #jongho #atz x reader #ateez x reader

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