#back in.. i think april? may? probably may. i wrenched it again while trying to sit on a table | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

joonsrack · 4 years

Text

+Pairing: Namjoon x fem!reader, Taehyung x fem!reader (one-sided),

+Genre: Angst, humor, fluff, two-shots, sfw

+Word count: ~8.5k

+Warning: Mention of past recreational drug use (weed), blood mention (nosebleed), lot of pinning

+Rating: Pg13

+Summary:

Your roommate and long-time one-sided crush disappears one morning, leaving behind only a post-it note stating two things:

1. He’s off to finally meet the love of his life whom he met on the internet, might take the whole summer;

2. He’s sub-renting his room while he’s gone, don’t worry it’s all taken care of;

+A/N: Just six days late, nothing too major. This is the first part of a two-shot I’m writing for the bangtanscenery collab: April Shower & May Flower. This didn’t turn out as expected, but it is what it is lmao. Thank you to @gguksgalaxy for helping me brainstorm, and @spicykoreantatertots and @starlightseoks for reading over my stuff, fixing my mistakes and giving me the validation I needed to carry on 💖

The first day of summer vacation is supposed to be a good day, a great day even. No more finals, no more studying; just warm weather, lazing around, and maybe picking up some shifts at the grocery store.

Today is all of that, but it’s also the worst day of your life.

It had started as it was supposed to; no alarm clock, just your body waking up by itself. You had messed around on your phone for a while, not caring about the time you were wasting. After the last three weeks of nerve-wracking deadlines and exams, you had deserved a break. The next thing on your schedule was work on Thursday, meaning you had two days completely to yourself. You had big plans for these two days; doing absolutely nothing.

But then, as the day was slowly shifting from morning into noon, the stillness of the house cued you that something was… not right.

As you have come to learn, your roommate, Taehyung, is not one to go about his summer day without his 20 minutes of morning stretching on zen nature sounds. Sometimes you join him, sometimes you don’t. He has a morning routine that he sticks to a T, and in a way, you find the sound of him doing his routine comforting.

Two years you’ve been living together now; or well, almost two years.

You had met in your first semester of freshman year, both residing in the same co-ed dorm. The horror of shared bathroom, kitchen, and living areas had prompted you two to throw caution to the wind and start living together, even if you were both still technically strangers. Two years later, the concept of being a stranger with Taehyung is so far fetched, it’s like you’ve never not known each other.

Which is why this comes as a slap to your face.

After finally making it out of your room and to the kitchen, you find in lieux of your roommate, a single post-it note, stuck to his old fashioned shelf stereo.

There are barely fifteen words on it, but that’s enough to destroy your post-final, beginning of summer haze:

Going back to Korea for the summer, I’m finally going to meet Busan_baby!

I sub-rented my room, he should get here soon :) xx

Objectively, Taehyung doing spontaneous things is not out of character. But this… Leaving for a whole summer, without even hinting at it...

You had plans for this summer. Plans that consisted of spending quality time with him, and maybe, possibly, finally confessing to him. Him leaving kind of put a wrench into that.

Plus.

Busan_baby…

The mysterious internet friend that’s been plaguing Taehyung’s mind since they met during an Overwatch raid, whatever that means.

Your two-year crush had only evolved in the time you were living together, and a part of you had become possessive overtime. So these days, only the mention of Tae’s friend’s username was enough to put you in the worst of moods. And now you’re going to lose your summer with your roommate to her? To a perfect stranger living on the other side of the planet?

And the whole sub-renting situation...you’re boiling. He just... rented his room. To someone you might not know, with whom you’ll be stuck all summer.

The first day of summer vacation is supposed to be a good day. This, this is not a good day.

Your first reaction is to, well, do nothing. You feel tears of frustration welling up in your eyes, and you recognize the burning sensation in your chest as anger. You feel a little ridiculous; you’re always factoring Taehyung into your plans, always have, but clearly he isn’t giving you the same kind of courtesy. You grab your phone, knowing he hasn’t sent you any text, but checking anyways. You have no idea what time he left, he could already be in the plane for all you know, but you send him a message anyways.

Me 1:27pm: Is this a joke?

You wipe a tear away, trying to breathe through the negativity. He must have had his reason, he does have his whole family in Korea, maybe they’re the real reason he left and he’s just joking with you.

Just as the thought is starting to make sense, you hear the key in the lock, and your heart starts beating double time.

It was all the prank, he’s not leaving for real, it’s him coming back to surprise you. See? You had nothing to worry about. The smile grows on your face, and you quickly dry the tears track on your face, not wanting Taehyung to tease you about them.

But doubt quickly sets in your mind when it’s clearly taking too long for whoever on the other side to open the door. The bolt is old, and it had taken you and Taehyung weeks before you had been able to know the right way to unlock it without struggling.

You can hear them struggling with the key, rattling the doorknob, until finally the bolt clicks into place and the door swiftly swings open. Obviously, whoever is on the other side wasn’t expecting it to give, and they stumble past the doorsill, barely missing the floor by a few centimeters.

You’re shocked into stillness, watching the catastrophe unveil.

Mystery man then trips on the entry mats, throwing him forward once again until his head gets dangerously close to the kitchen table; but like a seasoned tripper, he flips his body mid-plunge, landing hard but cushioned by the shag carpet of the living room.

He groans, rolling on his side holding his head in between his hands, and you’re too shocked to do anything but stare in both horror and wonder.

The living trainwreck on the floor doesn’t seem to have noticed your presence yet, and you’re inclined to just lay low and wait until you can observe more accidental gymnastics, but you realize that would be weird. Would it be weirder than everything you’ve just witnessed though?

You clear your throat to announce your presence, and he freezes, opens one eye, spots you, closes it again, and groans even louder.

“Is there any chance you just materialized now and missed all of that.”

You shrug emphatically.

“I can lie if that makes you feel better.”

He sits up, smiling grimly and resigned, like this is not the first time this has happened.

You would go offer him a hand but you also have no idea who this man is, what he’s doing in your apartment, with a key, and seemingly enough bad luck to bring this whole building down by himself.

“So… Who might you be?”

He looks up to you in confusion, and for a second you think you also see hurt flicker across his eyes, but it disappears as fast as it appeared.

“Taehyung… didn’t tell you?”

Right, sub-renting.

You grab the post-it off the stereo and wave it in his direction, letting him connect the dots.

“He just did.” You say, voice dripping with sarcasm, and he winces, noticing how you’re clearly unhappy with the whole ordeal.

“I thought you knew...I... fuck. I can leave if you want? You don’t look like you agreed to this.”

You sigh, feeling bad that you made him feel bad. It’s not his fault after all. Plus, him sub-renting means he most probably doesn’t have a place to stay right now.

“No, no. Of course not. It’s not your fault, I’m just… he didn’t even tell me he was leaving. It’s a lot.”

Silence fills the room, and he smiles awkwardly at you before dusting himself off. You take the opportunity to finally properly look at him.

He looks vaguely familiar now, with his tall body, long limbs and soft brown hair. He’s wearing grandfather clothes, but it’s strangely fitting with his energy. The glasses perched on his nose are slightly crooked, but it doesn’t like it’s from the fall. It looks permanent.

If he’s Taehyung’s friend, you probably saw him around Uni or something.

“So, I still don’t know your name?” You finally break the silence, and he looks startled by the question, pushing the glasses up his nose.

“Kim Namjoon. Well, Namjoon Kim here.” He finishes with a faint blush on his cheeks, and you nod, well aware of the whole last name difference. You’ve been living with Taehyung for two years after all.

“I’m going to try calling him, you can...get your luggage in I guess.”

“His plane was leaving 3 hours ago, I doubt you’ll be able to reach him.” He says sheepishly, as if that was his fault.

You pinch your lips in anger containment, not needing Namjoon to watch you slowly lose your sanity. You feel a surge of dark emotions invading your chest, so you have to make your escape swift.

“Cool, nice. Ok. Well, I need to... be in my room. If you have any questions just knock on my door. Or call my name.”

You’re already off into angst world, making your way to your room, so you miss Namjoon’s parting words;

“But... you haven’t told me your name, y/n.”

You feel the need to grieve the summer that could have been, so you do.

The first stage is denial.

It’s a little hard to deny though, with Taehyung gone and Namjoon currently moving into his room, so you jump straight to anger.

You would feel bad for Namjoon, you didn’t even show him to Taehyung’s room, and your welcome was pretty cold. But you can’t be blamed, this was sprung on you. You were blindsided; betrayed; fooled.

You try to remember your chats with Taehyung in the last few days, but everything is covered by a mist of confusion. The last few weeks are blurred and blended together, a mess of studying, late nights, nervous breakdowns; so you and Taehyung were not exactly talking. You were more...existing in the same space. Or crying in the same space, really.

But still, you know that if Taehyung had mentioned his plans to disappear for the summer you would have surely remembered.

You write an angry text a hundred words long, fueled by the horrible feeling of having been wronged and a need for vindication.

You don’t send the text because you know at the bottom of your heart you’re being overly dramatic, but it’s still therapeutic to act like you’re going to send it to him.

Then comes bargaining.

You write another text, this one more conciliating. You promise to be a better roommate, to stop bunching up your socks and leaving them in the cracks of the couch (although he does that too, the hypocrite), to stop stealing the Korean snacks his mom sends send him once a month (which is a big commitment; they’re just so good, you can’t find this quality in your uni town), and to stop using up all the hot water in the morning.

You also do not send this text. There’s a little too many promises in it you just know you won’t be able to hold.

You’re transitioning into the depressive stage when you hear a crash coming from the living room, followed by a few curses.

With the whole thing you witnessed earlier, you’re surprised that nothing fell victim to Namjoon’s long limbs sooner. He clearly has coordination issues; you would be worried, except pretty much everything decorating the apartment belongs to Taehyung.

Everything except…

There’s a bad feeling creeping up in your stomach. You don’t have the worst luck in life, but you also don’t have the best. And bad things usually happen in a group of three.

Taehyung ditching you for the summer, Taehyung clearly being fooled by some internet catfisher, and….

You jump to your feet, following the sound to the living room. There, your new roommate is kneeling on the floor, gathering the pieces of dried macaroni scattered around him. You can see the picture frame on the floor, the glass cracked in the middle.

The first day you had moved in together, Taehyung and you had taken a picture together with a single-use camera. You were both exhausted from the move, boxes laying all around, but beaming with satisfaction.

You had gotten a frame for it but Taehyung thought it was too bare, so one time, completely high as a kite, he’d decorated it with macaroni and hot glue.

You hold it very dear, and it has a central place in the living room. Or well, it did.

The macaroni remains on the floor is probably the saddest thing you’ve ever seen, and you can’t bear the sight of them, so you give a parting blank look to Namjoon, who’s looking up at you pale as a ghost, and you walk back to your room.

Alright, so stage one of grief; denial.

Belting your heart out to Italian music is usually your way of dealing with sorrow, but with a new and strange presence in your home, it probably won’t be happening for a while, so you settle for laying in your bed, with your curtain pulled closed and some Andrea Bocelli blasting from your earphone. It works for a while, until your stomach reminds you that you haven’t eaten all day.

You sigh, bracing yourself for yet another reminder that you’ve been basically abandoned by the possible love of your life. You come out of your room dragging your feet, only to be basically assailed but the unmistakable smell of frying garlic. You’re both disgusted and intrigued, so you pick up your pace to the kitchen, finding Namjoon there, sweat on his forehead, with a concentrated look on his face. His glasses are hanging at the tip of his nose, probably having slipped there from the sweat, and you find yourself endeared by the sight. Only for a quick second though.

“Are you sure it’s safe for you to be left alone in the kitchen?” You ask, and he whips his head towards you, clearly startled by your presence.

“Well…” He says, followed by a deprecating laugh, and you kind of feel like an asshole. He probably broke the frame by accident, and it’s not like it’s his fault that Taehyung bailed on your summer plans to go run off to who knows who the fuck busan_baby really is.

“What are you cooking?” You ask, trying to change the subject, and he looks grateful but also very nervous.

“Hm, well Taehyung told me once garlic pasta was your favorite, and since I was trying to apologize for, well the frame but also just being sprung onto you so suddenly, I figured I could cook your favorite dish...”

You nod, but you can’t contain a snort, and Namjoon’s expression becomes worried.

“Taehyung thinks that because that’s the only thing he can successfully cook, and the first time he did I didn’t have the heart to tell him I can’t stand garlic.”

Namjoon looks at the dish, then back at you, then back at the dish. You see all the energy drain from his body, face falling as he groans in frustration.

“It’s fine you didn’t know.” You try to sound as apologetic as you can, but it doesn’t seem to be helping, and he moves the pan from the burner, closing the heat, plastering a hand on his face.

“This is going all wrong. This day is just mess after mess. I’m so sorry I’m usually much better at human interaction, I’m just very nervous right now, I guess.”

You want to ask what he’s so nervous about, but you feel like it might not help his distraught state. “Ok so, clearly this was doomed from the start.” You say, and his face falls even more, so you hurry to finish your thought before he can jump to conclusions.

“You showed up while I was having a horrible day; I had no idea you were coming; you...tripped and fell in front of me, probably making you feel embarrassed, then all this nervous energy lead to you having another clumsy accident, and I probably didn’t help with my overall coldness… and now, this, which again, is totally not your fault…” You let the silence hang for a little longer before you finish your thought. “ I think we should start over.”

“...What?”

“Yeah, I think we should start over. Like, come here.” You wave your hand in a motion for him to follow after you, and he does, albeit definitely looking reluctant.

You lead him to the front door, opening it, waiting for him to get the cue. He stands there, looking a little dumbfounded, glimpsing down at his slipper clad feet.

“Come on, only for a second.”

He finally follows your directions, stepping outside in the hallway, and you close the door behind him. After a good 30 second of silence, you realize he might be dumber than he looks.

“You’re supposed to knock.” You say just loud enough for him to hear on the other side, and there’s a split second before he finally does.

You throw the door open with the biggest smile you can muster, and he stares at you in actual worry.

“Hello Namjoon Kim, nice to meet you! Taehyung totally told me you were coming! Come on in!”

Namjoon finally catches up, pinching his lips to stop himself from smiling.

“Nice to meet you,-” He greets back, taking a step into the apartment, but the sole of his slipper gets caught on the doorsill, ripping it off.

He stares down at his slippers in betrayal, and you have to bite the inside of your cheeks to hold back a cackle.

“At this point, I don’t know how to convince you I’m not like this 24/7.” He says, and he looks a little bit more relaxed than before, which is good.

“I’m sorry to say that ship has sailed.”

Going to sleep at five in the morning is never the right decision, even when you have nothing planned, but the prospect of watching Hannah Brown finally eliminating Luke P off The Bachelorette is just too good, keeping you wide awake until you finally get the satisfaction of seeing the smug smile being wiped off his face. Taehyung was so looking forward to this, cursing out the man after every episode, and not having him by your side, yelling incoherently at your computer screen, definitely made you sad.

There's also the whole waiting-for-a-text-that-never-came thing.

You know his flight landed, you looked at the flight time between where you are and Incheon airport. The realization that you weren’t even worth an “I’ve just landed” text is enough to ruin you Luke P elimination afterglow, sending you straight to sleep.

So being rudely awoken at 9 a.m., eyes sore from the lack of sleep and maybe some possible tears of frustration, is not the best feeling.

At first you think you dreamed it, a loud crash from somewhere in the apartment, but then the groans of pain that follows are sounding pretty damn real.

You throw the comforter off, jumping out of bed in the same breath, trying to locate the source of the commotion but still woozy with sleep, and you find its origin in the bathroom;

Very naked, save for the shower curtain draped over the figure.

Namjoon squeals at the sight of you, making sure all the important bits are covered with the curtain that he probably dragged in his apparent fall, half of it still hanging off the pole.

Your sleep-deprived brain slowly catches up to the situation, and you slap both hands over your eyes, turning around with the intention to get out of dodge, only to walk straight into the door frame. The impact makes you lose your balance, the unforgiving tiles making contact with your ass at the speed of light. There’s a throbbing pain in your backside and there’s definitely something dripping from your nose. Another beautiful start to your summer vacation.

It’s your turn to groan, holding your head back to stop the blood from dripping all over your PJs. There’s wet fumbling in the general area of the shower, the sound of the water being cut off and then a moment later, a very naked man appears in your field of vision.

“Hum.” Is all you say, as he snatches his boxer brief from the counter, slipping them on in a flash. But you’ve seen. You’ve witnessed. You’re a changed person now.

“I forgot my towel.” He answers back, face so red it looks like it must hurt. There’s still shampoo suds in his wet hair, dripping down his forehead, neck, and shoulders, but he doesn’t seem to care as he grabs the toilet paper roll, offering it to you.

“Are you ok?” he asks with concern in his voice. He’s kneeling in front of you, skin glistening, and the sight he makes doesn’t help with your blood pressure. His handsomeness didn’t escape your notice, but this….this is a little overwhelming.

“I’ve known you for less than 24 hours and I’ve already seen your junk; I’m great.”

He looks a little thrown by what you’ve just said, but you can blame it on a concussion later, so you’re not too worried.

“Lean forward and breath through your mouth,” He says, choosing to ignore your comment. You follow his recommendation, pinching your nose.

“You seem familiar with nosebleeds.” You tease, knowing full well he’s clearly the clumsy type.

“I’ve had my share of encounters with flat surfaces.”

“So are you gonna tell me what possessed you to shower in the middle of the night?”

“Is 9 a.m. the middle of the night?” He asks, a grin playing at his lips.

“It sure is during summer vacation.”

Namjoon chooses to ignore your admission of being a living, breathing, couch potato.

“I wanted to go get a new pair of slippers, maybe a new frame as well. I obviously need to add a new shower curtain to the list.”

You look up at the way his tone goes slightly somber from irritation, and you’re having none of that; it’s 9 am, middle of the night, and all you want right now is everything to be happy and breezy.

“Do you mind if I tag along? I wanted to get a corkboard for all my pictures, so I won’t need a new frame actually. We could go get some middle of the night breakfast too.”

His eyes light up, a new energy filling the room.

“Of course! You can, totally.”

His metaphorical tail seems to be wagging, and you’re a little confused about the source of his sudden excitement, but he seems to be in a good mood so that’s the important part here.

“Alright then, I’ll let you finish your shower- oh my god, wait. Are you ok? I heard you fall; that did not sound like a painless descent.”

Namjoon winces, rubbing at the back of his head like he’s suddenly reminded of the pain.

“I’ll survive with only slight bruising, it’s all good.”

You nod, relieved he didn’t hurt himself seriously.

“Let’s get you some bubble wrap while we’re there.” You tease, and he rolls his eyes, probably having heard that one before.

There’s this moment of silence where neither of you are moving, and you’re wondering what he’s waiting for to go back in the shower.

“So...are you waiting to get another peek at my junk, or?” He teases.

You blush, staring at him dumbfounded. Your sleepy brain says yes, but your pride says no.

“Right, let me get out of here.”

You take your roll of toilet paper with you as you leave, pride almost intact.

Both of your loudly growling stomachs make the decision for the order of things, and your first stop is the cheap dinner a few streets down. The usual grumpy waiter that you’ve grown fond of is on shift, and his eyes zeroes straight on you two the second you step in.

His regular glare is already pretty intimidating, but the intensity of his stare is enough to make you want to take a menu and hide behind. Instead you walk with Namjoon to the table you usually sit at with Taehyung.

“Hey Joon.” Is the first thing Yoongi says, throwing the menu on the table with all the lack of grace in the world. Namjoon salutes him back with the ease of someone who’s used to being the target of Yoongi’s laser focus. You deduce they’re friends, by the way they seem to have a silent conversation with their eyes.

He switches his focus to you after a beat, and you gulp loudly, confused by the inquisition in his stare.

“Hi Y/N, where’s your tragic love story?”

Your jaw drops to the table, shocked by Yoongi’s blunt call out of your unrequited love for Taehyung. You two often come to eat here, but clearly you come too often if Yoongi figured you out so accurately.

“Jesus am I that obvious?” You mutter, picking up a menu to avoid looking at either man. You don’t need to see Namjoon's reaction when learning you’re crushing on your roommate who’s also one of his friends.

Yoongi snatches the menu out of your hands, having none of that.

“The usual I presume?” He asks snapingly, throwing one last unimpressed look at Namjoon before walking away.

Namjoon waits before he’s out of earshot to sigh. “Who pissed in his cereal this morning?” he scoffs, trying to lighten the mood, and you’re grateful for his attempt but you’re also feeling pretty shitty; why do your feelings for Taehyung seem so obvious to everyone but Taehyung himself?

“Well, I guess the elephant is out of the bag”, you say with fake enthusiasm. You want to be mad at Yoongi for his brusque ways, but Namjoon would probably have figured it out one way or another. This is kind of ripping the bandaid in a way.

There’s another beat of silence before Namjoon clears his throat, and you brace yourself for what he’s going to say, which is why what he asks comes as a surprise.

“Are you ok?”

His voice is empathic, genuine.

You look up to him, eyes a little glossy.

He’s got a kind face; a dimple here, soft corner smile there; eyes searching but not judging, the crooked glasses giving him a nerdy look. Yet, you’ve...seen. There’s nothing nerdy about the rest of him.

You smile sadly, biting your lips while looking back down at the table. You’ve known him for less than 24 hours and you already feel like Namjoon is the kind of person you can confide in, and before you know it, words are tumbling off your tongue.

“I guess… It just sucks that I was not even worth a ‘I’ve just landed text’. Or even better, him telling me in person that he was leaving for the summer, completely ruining all the plans we made together.” Namjoon nods along with your confession, and once you open your mouth, you just can’t shut it. “Like I’m always making sure he’s included in all of my planifications, and I always go beyond to do stuff that he likes… Like I’m sorry but I hated doing pottery, like, I suck at it. All I made always ended up having a vaguely phallic shape and I’m pretty sure the teacher was judging me, but I still put through three months of pottery class, which were very expensive by the way, because I knew Taehyung would love that. And the Pasta! I hate garlic, I can’t stand it, but I still told him it was my favorite since it’s the only thing he can cook!”

Namjoon clears his throat, looking around at the people starting to take notice of your meltdown. You were getting increasingly louder, you realize, so you sigh, letting the tension escape your body with a deep breath.

Yoongi stops by the table to drop two cups of coffee, raising an eyebrow at you, to which you answer with a glare of your own. He walks away with an evil glint in his eyes, and you already know what’s about to happen. You still risk a small sip of the steaming coffee, only to spit it back into the cup, face void of emotion.

Namjoon winces at you, offering you some napkins for the drops dripping down your chin.

“He put mustard in it, didn’t he?” He asks while you wipe your mouth, then taking your water to wash down the acre taste.

You nod slowly.

“He’s got a weird way to comfort his friends.”

You nod again, but grabbing his cup at the same time. “Do you mind?” You ask, and he agrees enthusiastically, only to frown when he sees what you do with it next.

You grab the table syrup, dripping some all over Namjoon’s coffee cup handle. You put it back on Namjoon’s side of the table, smiling warmly at him.

“Where were we?” You ask cheerfully.

“I think he might just ban me from the Dinner.” Namjoon says in a daze, looking back at where Yoongi is throwing daggers at the both of you from the window, wiping his sticky finger on his apron in vain; You know this stuff is impossible to get rid of.

You knew Yoongi would expect your handle to be sticky after the stunt he pulled, which is why you did it on Namjoon’s cup instead. You make sure to send Yoongi your most radiant smile as you walk away, waving. You should probably avoid the dinner for a few weeks.

But now, belly full of good food, mood lightened, you can go on your productive day of buying stuff. You take the bus to the closest Target, a comfortable chatter between the two of you, when something suddenly hits you between the bedroom aisle and the bathroom aisle.

“Now hold on a second; I just realized I never properly introduced myself. I mean obviously you already know my name, since Taehyung seems to have talked about me, and well, Yoongi used my name earlier too. But still... Wow, I’m so sorry I'm the worst new roommate ever.”

Namjoon shakes his head no, fiddling with the brand new slippers he picked up on the way.

“It’s...fine. Actually, well. I was hesitant to tell you since I don’t want you to feel bad about it but... we’ve already been introduced. Also we shared like, three classes so far. I’m minoring in languages.”

“Oh… Oh my god.” You say, stopping in your tracks. You look up at Namjoon with wide, confused eyes.

“It’s ok.” Namjoon says, pulling you after him into the bathroom aisle with a light touch to the arm.

“Oh my god I’m so sorry,”

“It’s fine I swear.” He reassures, steering you until you’re standing in front of the shower curtains.

“Wow, all this time I was acting like we didn’t know each other-”

“Y/N...” He tries to stop you.

“I’m sorry I have the worst memory.”

“I think it was more your complete and utter lack of interest for anyone but Taehyung that did it.” He teases, not unkindly. There’s more an air of resignation to it.

You drop your head in your hands, feeling flustered and embarrassed.

“Wow everyone really knows, huh?”

“You’re not exactly subtle.”

Maybe your friends were right; maybe you need to take a breather. Maybe this summer away from him is a good thing.

“So… Namjoon Kim, how long have we ‘known’ each other?” You question, quotation marks and everything.

“Well…” He trails off, thinking about it for a second before answering, scratching his head as he seems to be wracking his brain for the exact information. “Taehyung introduced us during one of the first dorms get-together, so I'd say as long as you’ve known Taehyung.”

You groan, pulling on one of the displayed shower curtains, hiding your face behind, doing your best impression of an ostrich burying its head in the sand.

“I’m a horrible person.” You state to no one.

“To be fair though, I was not on the same floor as you guys, so we probably didn’t see much of each other.”

God, he’s such a good person, trying to make sure you don’t feel bad with yourself for basically ignoring him for two whole years. It literally took him moving in with you to notice him. You peek from behind the curtain, not ready to come out completely.

“I feel horrible, I’m really sorry I didn't mean to ignore you for two fucking years.”

“You’re good, y/n, I understand. Actually I think that you-.” He says, but cuts himself short, mouth slamming shut.

“You think that I...?” You ask, curiously, eyebrows going up.

“No, nothing. It’s nothing.” He answers, but it’s hurried, the look on his face borderline frantic. He doubles up on the fiddling with the slippers, the price tag close to coming off with the way he’s tugging on it.

‘Curiosity killed the cat’ they say, but you’ve never listened to that; when you feel like something is being hid from you, you’re like a starving shark smelling blood. You can’t let go, you need to know what’s putting Namjoon in this state; what he was about to say about you.

“Namjoon, it’s ok, you can tell me.” You try to go for a reassuring smile, but the look in your eyes must give you away because it only serves to make Namjoon look more worried.

“I- I think that.” He clears his throat, looking around nervously. “I think that you’re holding the ugliest shower curtain I’ve ever seen.”

You frown, looking down at the aforementioned curtain you're currently still half hiding behind.

It’s truly atrocious; it’s a solid ugly grey color, the top part bare of anything, but starting from the middle, the bottom part is layers of ruffles over ruffles, hemmed by some white lace. It’s truly horrifying; very hard to look at.

“Namjoon.” You say, and his eyes finally settle on you.

“Namjoon, if you don’t tell me what you were going to say I'm making you buy this truly horrifyingly ugly curtain.”

There’s a look of pure unadulterated horror passing through his eyes, before he composes himself, looking perfectly neutral.

“It’s your bathroom, I'll buy whatever you want.” He says, voice void of infliction, and you smirk, pleased.

“Amazing, I’m so grateful you’re willing to spend seventy bucks on this curtain.”

“Seventy bucks?!” He exclaims, choking on air. You know he’s a student; students are usually poor. Simple math.

“Or… you could tell me what you were going to say, and I can settle for this beautiful plain white curtain,-” You entice, coming out of hiding to grab the other curtain on the display, stretching it out and showing it off as if you were in an infomercial. “yours for only…” You pause, checking the price tag, “ $9,99.”

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. After a moment of silence, he mutters something so quickly you can’t catch any of it.

“Come again?” You ask, turning on your heels to hug the monstrous grey ruffle disaster to yourself in a threatening manner.

“I said…” He looks about ready to take a bite out of the slipper to avoid your questioning. “ I think that you’re- I think that- It’s cute.” He stammers.

Of all the things, you were not expecting that.

“What?”

“I think it’s cute, ok? I think that you’re cute for focusing all your attention on him like that.”

You’re shocked and confused. This is not the words usually used by your friends to describe your relationship with Taehyung.

“It’s like the rest of the world around you fades away when you’re with him or you think of him, and I wish-...I wish I had someone who liked me that much too.” He finishes, the tip of his ears burning scarlet.

You take him in at that moment, this broad and tall human, with the nicest set of dimples, the soft eyes hidden behind his glasses, the overall grand-father look that he somehow rocks; The way he’s so big yet he’s got this whole gentle vibe going on; how he’s so involuntarily destructive but he also has this calm aura surrounding him.

Suddenly, you’re kind of glad Taehyung is not around. You probably would never have noticed Namjoon if he hadn’t left. It’s only been 24 hours but you already know Namjoon is the kind of person you want to befriend. And he seems to want to befriend you too, so maybe, this summer won’t be so bad.

This summer is terrible.

You get a text from your boss first thing in the morning asking you to come in early, someone else having called in sick. Your bus shows up late, making you late, and you barely have time to catch a breath before Karen, the manager, is on you, lecturing you for your tardiness. Yes, maybe you’re often late, but you can’t really help it if mother nature skipped you when handing out punctuality.

You’re barely clocked in when you’re handed some cleaning tool, a customer having made a mess with some jam pots, meaning this is going to be a sticky disaster. Then you get screamed at because some prick disagrees with the pricing of a jar of pickles, as if that had anything to do with you; You hate pickles.

It just gets dumber from there on, and when the end of your shift comes around, you can’t wait to just be back home, with nothing to do but finally watch the finale of Hannah Brown’s season and maybe stuff your face with whatever you got from the grocery haul you did yesterday.

You wonder if Namjoon is cooking anything; a part of you hopes that he isn’t, worried for the state of the kitchen; another part of you would definitely be pleasantly surprised. As long as there’s no more garlic on the horizon.

It’s kind of weird how this is technically day 3 of you being roommates and you’re already used to his presence. Of course there’s still some awkward moments, but they never last too long.

Namjoon is such a sweetheart, and there’s a part of you that is mad for basically depriving yourself of his friendship for so long. Another part is happy that you did so, or his arrival in your life wouldn’t be the perfect distraction from Taehyung abandoning you. Not that you consider him a distraction, but he’s definitely distracting.

When he’s not falling in showers, he’s singing in them, apparently. Completely off tune, his voice not the most graceful, but still very, very endearing. A shame that you had to rush to go to work while he was having his very own concert, or you would probably have gotten out your phone to gather some blackmail materials.

There’s also his possible inability to cook anything other than pasta; it’s been three days but you’ve already seen him cook some kind of spaghetti at least thrice.

You’re not the most accomplished cook, but you can manage. You have a feeling that next to Namjoon though, you probably look like a professional Michelin decorated Chef. You’re thinking about taking over mealtime when you’re home, maybe assigning him the sous-chef role. A risk that you’re willing to take so you don’t have to see what would probably be a hurt expression at being completely dismissed from the kitchen.

There’s also his ankles. He’s got such pretty ankles, you’re kind of jealous. They’re all dainty and pretty, which is not what a man probably wants to hear when talking about his body, so you’ve decided to keep this compliment to yourself.

You’re not sure exactly what he does during his day. So far you’ve observed that he spends a lot of time in sweatpants, on his computer, earphones cutting him off from the world. He had spent a few hours on the couch yesterday, a focused look on his face as he was clearly working on something, but you didn't want to bother him to ask him what he was doing.

You get home, sighing deeply as you finally take off your shoes after nine hours of standing. It’s dinner time, your stomach is growling, there doesn’t seem to be any action in the kitchen, and you don’t have the strength or patience to cook anything right now, so you grab your phone, pulling up the UberEat app.

You plop down onto the couch, bouncing slightly before properly melting into it, but you can't fall asleep now, you’re on a food-oriented mission.

You’re about to pull up the page of your favorite pizza place when something in your peripheral vision catches your eyes.

It’s Namjoon’s laptop, open on the side table, earphone hanging from the side; The screen light is dim, but you can easily recognize the face on the paused screen.

It’s John Paul Jones.

You can’t believe your eyes, and you’re so shocked, you don’t hear the bathroom door open. You jostle when Namjoon appears in a flash, slamming the laptop shut, looking particularly distraught.

“You did not just see that.” He says, hand still on his laptop, frozen in position.

“I sure fucking did.” You exclaim, eyes sparkling. This is the best thing ever. “You’re watching The bachelorette. Alone. Because this is something you actually enjoy.”

“Please don’t tell anyone.” He whines, dropping into a low squat, wiping his face down with one hand. “I swear I’m a feminist.”

“You’re a romantic, you love love.”

Namjoon groans.

“That’s why you don’t judge me for my crush. You’ve seen worse.” You marvel, and he looks up shyly at your tone.

“You don’t have to worry, I won’t tell anyone...” You linger on the pause for a moment, keeping him guessing. “As long as you promise to do your marathon with me.”

He frowns for a second, searching your face for the teasing or ‘just joking’ that he thinks is coming. But it’s not.

“You’re...a fan of The Bachelor franchise?” he wonders aloud, and you laugh out loud at the bemusement on his face.

“If by fan you mean slowly but surely making my way through all the seasons, all the series, all the content I can, then yes, I would say that I’m a fan.”

There’s a shy smile growing on his face, his dimple going the deepest you’ve ever seen them so far in your three days of co-existing. You’re on the verge of popping out a ruler and verifying once and for all how deep those really are.

“Then yes, Y/N, I will accept your offer of being your bachelor buddy.” He chuckles.

There seems to be a lot of marathons on this summer’s horizon, and you love the idea.

Going to sleep at 5 am is never a good decision, but when it’s because you were binge-watching Bachelor in Paradise with your new bachelor buddy, then you can forgive yourself.

You step out of your room, yawning, at the same time as Namjoon does.

“Hey” You greet him, to which he answers with a small wave, squinty eyes avoiding the light.

“Hungry?” You ask, scratching your head as you make your way to the kitchen, Namjoon following behind.

“Ravenous” He croaks, morning voice ten tones deeper. But it’s not affecting you. Not at all.

You open the fridge to browse the content, pulling out some milk to make yourself some cereal, going to sit at the table so you can both eat and scroll through your phone comfortably.

Namjoon sits on the other side, buttering up some toast with an impressive amount of Nutella; but you’re not judging, being an ex Nutella-addict yourself.

You pull up your text like you’ve been doing for the past few days, checking if you received any messages that your phone failed to notify you about, sighing when you still have no answer from Taehyung. You would worry, except there hasn’t been any newsworthy event about planes or Korea or anything; you’ve been following the news just to be sure.

You peek at Namjoon, who’s staring blankly into his slice of bread with the air of someone who didn’t get enough sleep. You clear your throat lightly to get his attention.

He raises unfocused eyes on you, and you have to bite back a coo at how adorably soft he looks, with his soft brown hair a mess, eyes still half-open, a light stubble slightly apparent, and his mouth hanging slack.

“Did you...did Taehyung send you a text or something? Since he left?”

It takes Namjoon a second to register the question, frowning for a split second before shaking his head.

“He hasn’t, but I wouldn’t worry. His family would have reached out if he hadn’t made it safely.”

“Hmm good point.” You nod, going back to your cereal. You’re slowly coming to terms with the fact that Taehyung seems to have completely forgotten about you. It hurts like a bitch, but it’s getting bearable. You’re not sure how it’s going to be between the two of you once he comes back from his summer spent chasing his internet girlfriend, leaving you in the dust. You’ll definitely feel awkward around him, at least for the first few weeks. You’ll have to have a talk with him, maybe ask for an apology. So many of the plans you made together are now definitely not happening.

“Y/N?”

“Hm?”

“The other day you said that you always plan stuff factoring in Taehyung’s interest and choices, and that kind of bothered me.” Namjoon mumbles, looking suddenly very awake but also very shy.

“Aw, don’t be bothered. In a way it’s kind of my fault you know. I could easily just do my own things, but I choose to plan around him because I want to spend time with him…” You pause, wince. “It’s kind of sad now that I’m putting it this way.”

“I know that he considers you his best friend, though, and relationships, even platonic ones, go both ways.”

You smile into your cereal, pushing them around the milk.

“I appreciate you defending my honor, Namjoon.” You tease lightly, a warm feeling spreading through your chest.

“Actually I was wondering-,” He cuts himself off, scratching his head, before carrying on, “I was wondering, is there something you’ve always wanted to do? But you haven’t since it’s not something Taehyung would appreciate?”

The question takes you by surprise, and you wrack your brain, trying to think of something.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to do a road trip to the future birthplace of Captain Kirk in Iowa, but Taehyung’s not really into SciFi, so I never brought it up.”

Namjoon’s face is the one of someone who was not expecting this answer at all, and he stares at you for a long moment, something akin to wonder sparkling in his eyes.

“You like Star Trek.” He marvels, shaking his head like he can’t believe it. “How are you so perfect.”

You freeze, he freezes; everyone freezes.

“Wait, what did you just say?”

“Erhm, well, hum,-” He stammers incoherently, face growing red, before finally getting control of his tongue again. “I mean, your cinematic taste; they’re perfect. How is your cinematic taste so perfect? I just woke up, my brain is still half asleep.” He laughs, but it sounds forced, and you take pity over him.

“Sure.” You answer, dragging on the syllable. ”Anyway, that’s what I would do. I’ve always wanted to visit there, and I’ve always wanted to do a road trip, so, yeah.”

Namjoon looks grateful that you’re not insisting, taking a big swing from his glass of milk, and you’re scared that he’s going to choke and splurt milk all over the table and you for a second. Knowing his track record when nervous, it wouldn't surprise you, but he manages to keep it all in without incident.

It’s been a while since you’ve practiced your reanimation techniques and Heimlich maneuver, and you make a note to review some videos, just in case. You have a feeling that living with Namjoon is stressful

“The reason I’m asking is, well, I’ve got nothing planned this summer, and I would love to try new things. I know we’re basically strangers at this point, but, if you want we could, you know, do some stuff together. Like, I would love doing a road trip to Captain Kirk’s future Birthplace. Only if you want! I don’t want to impose myself either. If you want to save that for friends you know better, it’s perfectly fine. I’m just saying, like, I’m open to doing stuff with you. Like, I think we get along well and,- Now I’m just rambling.”

You giggle, finding this whole thing quite endearing. You’re tempted to torture him a little, but you decide to take pity on him; it’s morning after all.

“Namjoon.”

“Yes.”

“I would love to go on that road trip with you.” You state simply, and your words take a moment to register, but he gives you a beaming smile, the dimples making yet another noticed apparition. The joy is short-lived though, a frown making its way on his face.

“There’s just one thing; I don’t drive.”

You snort, extending your hand to tap lightly on his, comforting.

“It’s a good thing if you ask me.”

“...Do you?” He asks tentatively.

“Yeah baby,” You exclaim, pulling out your best southern accent. “I'm a licensed driver and everything. ‘Haven’t drove into a wall since 2016.”

“That's not as reassuring as you think it is.”

“Are you questioning my driving abilities?” You ask, leaning forward in a threatening manner.

“...No.” He gulps.

“Then let’s set a date!”

There’s a new air of excitement taking over the kitchen, the prospect of a road trip making you feel giddy like a child going to Disneyland.

“Wait, where would you get the car?”

“I can pull some strings.” You shrug with a taunting eyebrow raise, aiming for mysterious. There’s a certain someone who owes you one, and this is the perfect occasion for him to pay his due.

Before Namjoon can question you further, someone starts knocking on the door incessantly. You turn questioning eyes to Namjoon, who mirrors the look, and he stands up, hurrying to the door as the onslaught doesn't seem to be stopping.

There’s a flurry of movement as whoever is on the other side of the door jumps into Namjoon’s arms, sending him swaying back from the weight. There’s confusion and shock on Namjoon’s face, and you quickly understand why.

“Tae?!”

#btswriterscollective #btsboulangerie #bangtanarmynet #ficswithluv #bangtanhq #magicshopnet #bangtanscenery #btswritersnet #plotsofpastel #bangtanscenerycollab #armysource #Bangtanidx

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johnny-and-dora · 4 years

Text

kiss in the kitchen like it’s a dancefloor

46. “i caught the bouquet” requested by the loml sara @macperalta!!! used a harry styles lyric just for you bb 💐💕

read on ao3 -

Jake wouldn’t call himself a domestic god, per-say.

He supposes that his best efforts to haphazardly fold laundry qualify him for at least a bronze in the boyfriend category, although he anxiously suspects he’s somehow done it wrong. The silverware that he’s laid out all fancy and the pizza he’s shoved in the oven in anticipation of Amy’s arrival should score him some hefty bonus points, though. And the fact that he even attempted to vacuum earlier means he must be eligible for some sort of domesticity award at least.

(The celebratory domestic bagel he ate afterwards may have resulted in him getting crumbs all over the carpet again, but it’s the thought that really counts.)

So maybe he’s not quite god-level yet – really, he’s only doing the bare minimum of what’s expected of a functioning adult/good boyfriend/super sexy roommate. But he’s kept their apartment relatively clean in Amy’s two-day absence. He even remembered to use coasters and where she keeps the fabric softener. In short, he is the champion of total domestic bliss.

Jake grins as he pours two glasses of red wine and fist pumps at not spilling a drop on Amy’s favourite fancy tablecloth, knowing that she’ll be home in a matter of minutes and find a nice, non-takeout candlelit dinner waiting for her. He steps back to admire his handiwork – there’s even a full salad bowl, which he has no intention of eating from – and smiles, content. He’s totally marriage material.

As if on cue, he hears Amy’s key in the lock. She barely has time to kick off her shoes before he’s practically tackling her, revelling in the sweet sound and feel of her laugh buzzing against her lips as she melts into his embrace.

“Hey, babe.” She says sweetly, a knowing and loving glint in her eye. “Did you miss me?”

“Maybe a little.” Amy rolls her eyes, but then her gaze leaves his and lands on their dining room table, just visible over his shoulder. When they unfurl from each other her expression has gone all soft and he can’t help but feel some scattered embers of pride start to flicker and spark, putting his nerves at ease.

(After all this time, he still worries about being too much sometimes – but any fear or doubt usually crumbles when he looks to her and realises he must be doing something right.)

“What’s all this?”

“Dinner.” He says, a little shy, rocking back and forwards on his heels slightly. “I thought you deserved something nice after the drive from Jersey.”

“Oh, this is perfect.” She leans up on the balls of her feet to kiss him – for all his love of her sensible work boots and her strappy heels, he’d hide them all to spend more time savouring their height difference. “Thank you, Jake.”

“It’s no big deal. How was the wedding?” He asks as they move to the kitchen and he hands her a glass of wine. She hums in content, leaning back against the counter.

“It was beautiful. Almost beautiful enough to distract me from my entire extended family asking probing questions about my love life.” She teases, reaching out to playfully poke his shoulder.

“Sorry,” Jake says gingerly, feeling a sting of disappointment at the thought of leaving her at the latest Santiago wedding without a date. He had actually really been looking forward to meeting the rest of Amy’s brothers and a whole swarm of other relatives, but an ill-timed new lead and a crucial stakeout had put a wrench in that plan at the last minute.

“It’s not your fault, babe. You know I would have cancelled if it had been me. Besides, I showed them some cute pictures of us and that shut them up. My aunt thinks you’re adorable.”

“Oh, well I’ll have to give her a call.”

“I also…might have…caught the bouquet.” She says sheepishly, her gaze hooded and apprehensive. It takes a second for his brain to hurry up and realise what that means, and his heart does a funny thing where it trips up on itself. Sort of like mentally slipping on a banana peel.

The whole weird who’s getting married next thing. Which isn’t a problem, actually – if anything it works in his favour, because the plan absolutely is for them to get married. He would propose here and now if he’d found the right ring yet (Gina has been unsurprisingly unhelpful in all four of the jewellery places they’ve visited so far) and if he didn’t have the beginnings of a really dope proposal plan that he really wants to pull off.

“Oh, really?” He has this irrational fear that his voice might have jumped up two octaves, but thankfully it remains even enough, yet still making it very clear that he’s trying to remain as casual as possible.

“Yep. In front of my entire extended family. Who then proceeded to give me embarrassing knowing looks for the rest of the evening.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Oh, it was the best.”

They share a grin, but it’s still hanging in the air. Amy’s still looking at him in that shy, uncertain way, as if she doesn’t already know that she’s the love of his life, and that absolutely won’t do at all.

“Well, you know what that means.”

“…I do?”

“Yep. You better get the binder started now.” His heart is in his mouth as he’s saying it, because it’s not a proposal but it’s a hey I’d love to get married someday soon and that’s only slightly less terrifying. He feels like he should be holding some flowers at least, or else anything else but a dishcloth.

But he’s smiling, smiling, and then her eyes get this glowing shiny quality as she smiles back that just really makes Jake want to kiss her, so he does. And it doesn’t feel scary at all, giving some voice to the visions he’s had of Amy with a ring on her finger he’s been having since late April.

It just makes him feel even more like the champion of domestic bliss when he’s crowding her up against the kitchen island he thoroughly dusted earlier and he knows he wants this forever.

“I may or may not have possibly made some vague wedding-related outlines on the flight home.”

“That’s so hot.”

The oven timer goes off before they can get into any specifics, which is good because the whole of Brooklyn can probably hear Amy’s stomach growling, and because he’s about two seconds away from keeling over with joy if they talk about their hypothetical wedding any longer.

It’s not like he ever really doubted that the feeling wasn’t mutual. But knowing that Amy’s thought about it, that she has a vague outline somewhere just as he has a few plans and ideas hastily typed at 3am on his phone, knowing that she wants to be married to him someday – it’s a warmth, a security, a rare kind of love that he can’t quite put into words.

It doesn’t come up again for the rest of the evening. Instead, they clink their wine glasses together and dance while they do the dishes and make-out on the couch until it’s time for bed. Amy laughs while Jake regales tales of Charles bringing an actual portable cheeseboard to their stakeout, and Jake listens as she fills him in on the latest scandalous Santiago family gossip, gasping in the all the right places.

It’s not until he’s staring up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep to crash over him that he even remembers the subject coming up – quietly, tentatively, he listens out in the quiet, still darkness of their bedroom to see if Amy’s still awake.

“Hey, Ames?”

“Mmm?”

“You…you know that I’m all in, right? Like this is it, for me. You and me. I mean you probably already knew that, I just wanted to double-check because of what we talked about before, and I thought-“

“I do know.” She says softly, a soothing balm to his thundering heart. “And you should know that it’s the same for me.”

“Cool.” He says, a little breathless, easily overwhelmed. “I love you. And hey, I promise not to miss our wedding for a stupid stakeout with Charles and his obscure cheeses.”

“That’s all I ask.” She says mock-seriously, shifting closer to him as he laughs and knows that he is truly home whenever she is beside him.

That night, Jake falls asleep with a smile on his face, content with knowing that he may not be a domestic god, but Amy still wants to marry him, so that’s got to count for something.

He’s always valued her opinion more than anyone else’s anyway.

#b99 #b99 fic #peraltiago #jake x amy #brooklyn 99 #happy anniversary to these nerds #god i love them #shut up sian #my writing

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terreisa · 4 years

Text

Love Down the Line: Chapter 3

The last thing Indie musician Emma Swan needs is a gigantic wrench thrown in the workings of her biggest tour to date weeks before its launch. When her backing guitarist that caused the problem says she has the perfect solution Emma is skeptical but left with little choice but to accept. Unfortunately she isn't really prepared for said solution to be former Rock Star and leading man of Emma's teenage fantasies, Killian Jones. With no other options and a month of performing across the country ahead of her Emma just hopes she doesn't come to regret letting Killian onto her stage and into her life.

Ch 1, Ch 2, AO3 ~*CS*~

Portland, Maine- April 17th

Emma was lost in thought as she idly tapped at the rehearsal room’s piano keys, filling the space with a jumble of unmelodic notes. She knew she needed to take a break and eat something, like everyone else was but she couldn’t. There was something off about their last few run throughs and she was determined to figure it out.

One thing that wasn’t off was how well Killian Jones had enmeshed himself into the group in just one week. He had bonded with Will over growing up in England leading to inside jokes and references that had the two of them snickering away between songs. With Tink all he’d had to do was make one praising comment about the book she was reading and it looked like he was going to be in her good graces for the rest of time. As for her, well, the never ending verbal sparring matches were almost as fun as playing her music with him was.

They sounded good. Of course, there were still little idiosyncrasies and timing issues that needed to be worked out but Emma knew that by the time they hit the road everything would be running smoothly. What had been a pleasant surprise was how Killian seemed totally at ease playing second fiddle, as it were. She had seen him play live multiple times and knew exactly what a talent he was, and also how grand a showman.

The first couple of rehearsals after he’d joined them she’d waited warily for his ego to make an appearance. She had been certain that he would have been like too many of the men she’d met: unable to help making suggestions on how to play her own songs or offering advice she hadn’t asked for or needed. It had happened so often in her early days of playing paid gigs that Will had taken it upon himself to run interference after she’d had enough one night and given a guy a black eye. As the week had gone on without a single belittling comment from him in their emails, texts, or during rehearsals she’d reluctantly accepted that he actually seemed content to follow her lead and let her shine, despite her admittedly more limited skills

She idly let herself fall into the familiar chords of her song Snowdrops and Buttercups as she tried to suss out what was bothering her. It was the ballad that she’d picked to play towards the middle of her set, meant to give the others a little rest mid-show and her the chance to highlight her piano playing. The song was good, they were planning on releasing it mid-tour as the third single from the album but there was something a little off about it that had her coming back to it, trying to figure out why it wasn’t sounding how she wanted. She closed her eyes and played through the chorus again and then again, trying to hear what it was she was feeling.

“Did you have lessons?”

She smiled to herself at Killian’s question, only mildly startled by his voice. The answer was in the bio of her official website and on her Wikipedia page but it was nice to know he hadn’t researched her. Or at least was pretending that he hadn’t.

“On and off depending on the family I was with,” she said, not pausing in her playing though she moved on from the chorus, “Didn’t exactly make me a great player but a lot of practice and YouTube helped with that. I’ll never play Beethoven, that's for sure. Do you play?”

“Strictly guitar for me,” he said with a chuckle. “Though I do know Chopsticks and that one song from Big.”

She laughed, stopping her playing and turned towards him, “Your party trick I’m guessing?”

“Nah, my party trick involves a pair of handcuffs and my sparkling wit.”

He waggled his brows at her causing her to snort and shake her head. He was a flirt, it oozed out of his every pore, and the worst part was it seemed to be a default setting with him. It only made her feel off kilter and more resolved to not let herself get caught up in it, no matter how much her teenage self was obsessing over every syllable he uttered.

“The party usually ends when the cops show up Jones, but then again I’ve never been to the same kind of parties you have,” she said with a grin.

It faded as Killian grew somber.

“Aye, I suppose you’re right. Frightful things they are.”

With horror Emma remembered that the accident that had shattered his life into pieces had been after one of those kinds of parties. She turned back to the piano, embarrassed and a little ashamed of herself. After a moment’s thought she began playing what she hoped was a sufficient enough apology.

It was Killian’s turn to snort, “I’m Still Standing, love? Bit on the nose wouldn’t you say?”

“Figured it couldn’t hurt,” she said quietly, letting her hands fall still.

Silence settled over the room like an itchy blanket. She tried to keep from fidgeting, still feeling like she’d upset him despite his genial smile. Unable to take the quiet even though it had only been less than a minute she began playing again, deciding to speak through the music.

“I’ve noticed you’ve got quite the repertoire of classic rock in that head of yours,” he said, seemingly impressed. “First eighties Elton John, then seventies Billy Joel? Plus all those songs you tortured me with during my audition. Are you an audiophile as well? Do you have multiple copies of your favorite albums in their various forms?”

“Seems to me you’re the audiophile,” she pointed out, continuing to play. “I just happened to have worked at the diner that Ruby’s grandma owns and she refuses to put anything on the jukebox that was released later than nineteen seventy nine. The songs are considered classics for a reason, you know.”

“I’m well aware, seeing as I’ve learned to play my fair share of them. May I?” He motioned to the piano bench. She nodded and slid over, “And the eighties Elton John?”

“An attempt at saying sorry for putting my foot in my mouth,” she said, giving him an apologetic look. “It’s easier to do it with a song than actually saying the words. I am sorry though. Didn’t think.”

“There’s no need to apologize when I took no offense, lo- er, lass-” he reached up and scratched behind his ear, “Truth is, I’d rather endure the teasing than having people continue to tiptoe around me. Playing with a steady group of people has helped with that.”

“Well if you were expecting tact and manners from Will you were going to be disappointed from the start,” she said sardonically as she seamlessly transitioned from Billy Joel back to the song she’d been playing when he’d shown up. “And Tink isn’t much better, just a little more… cheery about it. Plus you’re friends with Ruby so you’ve kinda hit the jackpot with people not going to coddle you or whatever.”

“And you?”

“Pft, the nicest thing anyone’s said about getting to know me is that I’m prickly but in a good way. Ask Ruby about how long it took me to agree to go to one of the bonfire parties the popular kids at school threw.”

Killian hummed, “I wouldn’t say you’re prickly, Swan, just a bit guarded. No fault in that.”

She stopped playing, stunned by his comment. Truth was she didn’t have many friends outside her bandmates and a select few people back in Storybrooke. None of them had understood her so completely or so easily. With a little jolt of surprise she realized she already thought of him as a friend.

“So is that how you met Ruby, at her grandmother’s diner?” he continued, somehow not noticing she was having a revelation beside him.

“Uh, sort of,” she said with a little shake of her head, turning to face him, “I needed money and Granny’s was the only place willing to hire me. It’s not exactly easy to get a job in a small town when you’re already pinned as the school troublemaker even though you’ve only been there for a month. Ruby was in a couple of my classes and put in a good word for me.”

“Have you been playing together all this time?” He asked, genuine curiosity lighting up his eyes.

“No-” she winced, not used to telling her life story when most people she’d met lately were already aware of it from interviews or reading it online, “I hadn’t been playing much when I got moved to Storybrooke.”

“Got moved?”

She tilted her head at him, narrowing her eyes, “Really? You haven’t already read all this?”

His shoulders slumped and when he looked at her his gaze was troubled but clear, “Swan, I, more so than most, know what it’s like when people think they know everything about you because of what they’ve seen or read. I try to avoid the fodder as much for my own sake as for others. I’d rather learn about someone the old fashioned way: through conversation.”

“Oh-” she relaxed before tensing up again in embarrassment, “I, uh, should probably tell you that I know a lot about you from the, uh, fodder.”

To her surprise he laughed, “Not to flaunt the size of my ego but I’m not surprised. I don’t think there’s anyone, especially in our line of business, that doesn’t know my life’s story. Made for quite a few headlines for a while there.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, apologizing for so much more than what she already knew about his life.

“Bah-” he waved his hand in dismissal, “No need for that. It is what it is. So, you hadn’t been playing…”

“So, if uh, it wasn’t clear before I was a foster kid. I was moved around a lot, mostly in Boston, a few years in the midwest. Some of the families had pianos or a neighbor that did and a lot of times they gave lessons for extra income. A couple of them taught me because I wanted to learn and I was considered part of the family, at least for a little while. It was nice, learning that way, but it never lasted,” she said with a sigh, giving him a half-hearted shrug.

“Best way to learn is from someone who loves doing it,” he murmured, his gaze intent.

“Yeah, well by the time I got to Storybrooke I was sixteen and hadn’t lived somewhere with a piano for almost five years. So, of course, the group home I was placed in was run by big believers in the arts and creativity in keeping kids out of trouble. They had all kinds of art supplies, ran a little community theater, and, surprise surprise, owned almost every instrument you could think of-” she felt herself frown and gave him a shrug, “I still don’t know how they knew but the Nolans showed me their piano the second I stepped into their house. I thought I was only going to be there temporarily, I’d already been at three other homes in the six months before I landed there, and thought I would jinx it if I let myself get attached to playing piano again. Unfortunately while the Nolans weren’t strict about much you had to do something creative, even if it was just drawing stick figures in a composition notebook. Which I did, by the way, for almost six months.”

Killian laughed, a rich sound that carried into his words, “Those I’d love to see.”

“Never,” she grinned, “That notebook will never see the light of day since it also has my first attempts at songwriting in it.”

“Ah,” he nodded wisely, “So after six months you finally ended up back behind the piano then?”

“Nope. I picked up a guitar. David, Mr. Nolan, would play almost every night after dinner and it seemed easy enough to learn.”

Emma could feel the heat rising in her cheeks. That was only a small part of the reason she’d decided to learn how to play the guitar. The real reason was sitting next to her, listening to her talk with rapt attention.

“It was months before Ruby found out I played and then a few more before I finally caved and started bringing a guitar to the bonfires. By then I was back at the piano and had a few attempts at songs in that notebook. I, uh, stopped again for a while-” she paused, not wanting to get into why exactly she’d stopped, not when it was the worst thing that had happened to her and while she had only reluctantly realized that he was becoming a friend. She took a breath and gave him what she hoped was a convincing smile, “Ruby had picked it up by then too. We’d play together at bonfires and picnics but she never got as serious about it as I did. She’s the one that convinced me to try out some open mic nights.”

“And the rest is history?” He asked gently.

“More or less,” she answered, feeling much steadier. “When I finally got to the point of needing a backing band she was the first one I called.”

“And then Will and Tink?”

“Tink was brought in by the label and I’d met Will at an open mic night where he drunkenly read terrible poems about his ex and tried to steal my wallet,” she said nonchalantly, though she was glad to move onto safer topics. “I broke his nose and he found me the next day wondering if I was interested in a drum player.”

“In a personal or a professional manner?” Killian asked with a raised brow.

“Ew, as if I’d ever want to sleep with Will. Gross,” she said with a scrunched nose. “He’d seen me at other mic nights and figured I’d be going places and wanted to get in on it. He was the second person I called. From there the rest is history.”

“Not much different from my own beginnings, though we were discovered at a pub we’d been playing at for a few months and already had a few EPs recorded,” he smiled wistfully, “We were also called the Jolly Rogers then.”

“Why did the name get changed? I mean, you guys didn’t change your sound or anyone in the band or anything.”

“Aha, Ruby said you were a fan but didn’t say how much!” Killian crowed, as if he’d discovered a cache of hidden treasure. “Those EP’s weren’t even released stateside and I’ve never authorized them for streaming. You’ve got a little pirate in you, don’t you Swan?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She quipped back despite her complete and utter embarrassment at having seemingly given away how big of a fan of his she was.

“Perhaps I would,” he said softly, his gaze somehow just as soft.

She was saved from having to come up with some kind of reply as Will burst into the room practically yelling into his phone with Tink trailing behind rolling her eyes at him. Killian smoothly rose from the piano bench but paused, pressing his finger down on one of the higher keys. When she looked up at him he was watching her carefully.

“What?” She asked, beginning to feel self conscious.

“You should move Snowdrops and Buttercups to later in the show. It’s a good song but drags down the show where it’s placed now. Bite of Iron is a better fit for the lineup as it stands. Granted, it is a bit older but I believe it’s a fan favorite? Something to consider, anyway.”

He gave her a hesitant smile, hitting the note one more time before moving towards his guitar. She sat unmoving, wanting to be mad that he felt he could mess around with the lineup she’d spent weeks perfecting but she couldn’t. Not when he’d figured out what had been bothering her and offered up a pretty good solution without being condescending. She only wished the song that he had suggested hadn’t been the one that was the hardest for her to play.

Unfortunately she also knew it would absolutely fit in perfectly with the flow of sound and feeling of that section of the show. It would also get a huge response from the crowd because as much as it was a fan favorite she’d never played it live before. Looking at Killian, where he was absently picking at his guitar as Will talked a mile a minute at him, she thought that if he could get back to playing in front of an audience after what he’d been through then she could get through one measly song.

Taking a deep breath she spun around on the bench and addressed the room, “Hey, guys, I’ve got some changes I want to make to the lineup.”

#captain swan #captain swan ff #captain swan fan fic #captain swan fanfiction #captain swan fan fiction #cs ff #ouat ff #my writing

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jeonggukingdom · 4 years

Text

splinters of love • day XXVI [pjm]

pairing ⟶ park jimin x fem!Reader

summary ⟶ a collection of drabbles (one for each day of April) based on prompts by an online prompts’ generator site. Specifically ⟶ • day XXVI ↳ in which you and Jimin find each other again after years apart and he promises to never let you go again.

genre ⟶ angst, a tiny tiny bit of smut

rating ⟶ 18+

word count ⟶ 2.189 words

warnings ⟶ allusions to sex towards the end of the drabble, cheating, heartbreak, hard-hitting confrontation between past lovers.

series masterlist ⟶ here (links on mobile may not work, if you’re looking for all the works in this series, you can click on the “!splintersoflove” tag and you’ll find them all there!)

There are some days where you wake up and you know by instinct something is going to happen.

It’s a sensation deep in the guts that follows you whole day long and usually, it is pretty accurate.

This morning you wake up with that sensation of unease that always leaves a foul taste in your mouth, tightens your insides so much it is hard to even gulp down food and store it there and makes you so hyper-aware of your surroundings that every muscle ends up being tense for the entire day.

You are walking down the street to grab some dinner at the convenience store and retreat in the safety of your home when it finally happens.

At first, you don’t notice him.

Eyes glued to the ground and mind rattled with thoughts—most of which work-related—you would barely notice a celebrity even if you were to bump into one let alone someone you would have never expected to be there even in a million years.

“_______?”

The sound of your name is what startles you out of your thoughts.

Your eyebrows furrow, your eyebrows knit together as you slowly lift your gaze up.

Dread and fear are furiously dancing together inside your heart while your mind tries to make sense of what your guts are telling you.

You would recognise that voice amongst thousands. It’s the voice that haunted you for the past two years, filled all of your dreams and thoughts ever since you heard it for the very last time.

But it’s impossible. He can’t be here and even if he were… he wouldn’t talk to you. No.

But your eyes finally land on the man standing before you and in an instant, you are breathless.

Park Jimin.

His dark chocolate eyes are warm and as beautiful as you’d remember them to be. You follow the line of his nose, focus on his plump and rosy lips, on the little smile that tugs them to the side.

He is as beautiful as ever, painfully so.

His hair is blonde now, a stark contrast to the raven mop you were used to. He is mesmerising in his new angel-like persona and you find your eyes glued on him, no matter how much you try to pull them away, fix them on anything else that is not him.

You fear he might just be the fruit of your own imagination, the final evidence that you’ve completely lost your mind and there is no hope for you now.

“Jimin?” Your voice is small, barely above a whisper and it seems to shake him, make him uncomfortable.

How many times have you said that name before, whispered it over and over again in the despair of the aftermath of your break up? Maybe some of that agony still lingers in it to this day. Or maybe it’s your eyes and the way they already shine with tears and anguish.

He diverts his gaze first and your heart turns small in your chest. Does he regret calling your name now? Probably.

You do wonder, though, why did he even bother. He broke your heart two years ago, left you for another woman he loved more than you and never looked back so why… why would he?

Your thoughts halt as he opens his mouth again and the dulcet tone of his voice brings warmth to your entire being.

“How are you?” It’s a simple question but it elicits a bitter laugh out of you. You’d love to ask him why does he even care but you don’t dare to. Pathetic as it may be, you don’t want this moment to end already.

“You’ve lost a lot of weight,” he adds when you don’t retort anything and you can almost make out a hint of guilt in his voice.

“What are you doing here?” You decide to respond because, really, you need an answer because your heart is going all crazy in your chest and your mind is getting funny and dangerous thoughts that shouldn’t be there at all.

He knows this place is around your house, he knows you come here frequently because you always did, even when you were together.

You haven’t seen him in two years. Not a single glimpse of him and now, all of a sudden, he happens to be here?

It looks almost as if he was hoping to run into you.

No. No. You can not think like that. No.

“I…” Jimin grimaces, fixes his eyes on his shoes for a second before lifting his gaze back up to your face, “I was hoping we could talk, actually.”

The fact that you were right does not settle your heart a single bit in fact, it sends your entire system into overdrive. Should you grasp that hope you’re starting to feel, keep it close and hang on to it to the very last second or should you let it go before it’s too late, before you’re left alone and broken once more?

“Why?”

Jimin sighs, shakes his head and dares a few steps towards you until you can almost feel the heat emanating from his body caressing your own.

Your breath hitches.

“Can we do this somewhere more… private?”

You would say no, that out here in the streets is perfectly fine but you can’t bring yourself to say it. Instead, you walk him to your apartment.

It’s stupid, you know it is. You should not let him rekindle with those familiar four walls, you should not spark up the memories of him being inside here to have them haunt you once more when he leaves.

Yet you do it all. You welcome him back in, you offer him a cup of coffee and in a few minutes, you are sitting at the table in your kitchen looking at each other in perfect silence.

“Were you looking for me?” You ask, eyes pointedly fixed on your cup so not to let your gaze linger too long on his beautiful and alluring face.

“Yes.”

“Why? Is there something you need from me?”

Jimin takes in a sharp breath and you sense him fidgeting on his seat as he stares down at you.

“I realise we didn’t end things on a good note but do you really think that low of me?”

You’d like to say no but the truth is that you don’t know. He cheated on you, lied to you and then broke your heart and never looked back so why should you expect something different from him now?

“What do you want, Jimin?” Your voice trembles as your eyes fill with tears. The moment your gaze fixes on him, you are doomed.

The tears come pouring down and you don’t even bother to hide them, pull them away with your fingers and pretend they never happened.

Jimin’s gaze falls on his lap, a deep sigh escaping his parted lips. He looks… defeated and guilty and the sight shouldn’t pain you but it does.

A part of you wants to kick him out of your life once and for all yet another one wants to cling onto him until he promises to never disappear ever again.

“I’m sorry… for everything.” He lifts his gaze back on you and you are surprised to see his eyes glistening with tears. The remorse shines like stars in his eyes and it makes you feel even more complicated.

“I realise I don’t deserve forgiveness but I really regret how I ended things, how I acted before then even and all I did afterwards.”

He gulps down heavily, heaves out another sigh as if every word he is speaking him hurts him more than he is letting you see.

“It didn’t take me long to realise I made the biggest mistake of my life, you know?”

Your eyebrows furrow together, your knuckles turning white around your cup of coffee.

“I wanted to call you or even come here and beg you to take me back but I was so ashamed… Me and Natalie broke up after two months.”

Even the sound of her name on his mouth makes you want to throw up. All the hurt from that time comes rushing back down and you feel like you’re going to choke on it all over again.

You can’t do this, you can’t do this, you can’t do this.

You want to run away. Run away from him, from what he’s telling you, from whatever this is.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

“Because I… I never stopped thinking about you.”

“Please, Jimin… you have no right to do this to me again, please.” Your heart is bare before him as it always was but he had crushed it once so he could it again, over and over even if he only wanted to and that is why you are begging him not to. You are sure you can’t do it all over again.

“I-I know but…” he trails off, his hands grasping tight the table between the two of you and you realise how hard he is trying not to cut your distance short, place those hands around your frame and pull you into a hug.

“Why now? If you broke up with her immediately then why are you here now? It’s been two years, Jimin.”

“I know it’s selfish, ok? I know I don’t have any right and I’m glad you even gave me the opportunity to talk to you it’s just that… I still love you.”

His words break you apart.

You are crying before him, sobbing with the wrenching pain that takes you over completely.

You have been trying to forget him all this time and failing. You have tormented yourself for two years and now he is here to tell you it was all for nothing? That he still loved you like the very first day? Like you loved him still?

You can’t stand it.

His arms are around you and you try to push him away, you yell at him to let you go, you punch his chest and he lets you do it all, he takes it all while silently crying before you, head hung in shame.

You can’t stand this either.

“You broke my heart.” You whimper out and he nods his head, apologizes over and over again until your tears dry and your body relaxes in his familiar embrace.

“I know I don’t deserve you but please give me another chance, please.”

Why do you want to say yes so badly? Why don’t you have at least an ounce of respect for yourself or at least some self-preservation instinct?

“I will never let you go ever again.”

His whisper is full of promises and you’d love to believe him just like that but how can you? You are simply too scared, too hurt, too scarred by your past.

“Don’t do this to me, Jimin. Don’t tell me you love me, don’t tell me you made a mistake, don’t tell me you won’t ever let go of me again if you don’t mean it… Please don’t do this to me, I beg you.”

“But I do mean it, ________. I mean it with all my heart and I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it to you if you’ll let me.”

You should kick him out and forget this ever happened but when his hands grasp your face and you look into his eyes again and see nothing but love and sincerity in them, you simply can’t.

And when he leans forward and you think you should push him away, you don’t and instead, you let him kiss you.

You let his lips mark yours, embrace them as they used to. You let his tongue dance with yours, you let his fingers grasp your frame, caress your skin and take over every single inch of you.

In an instant, you are his again and it doesn’t matter how much you scream to yourself that it is wrong, that you’ll regret it, that you shouldn’t be doing any of this you just can’t push him away.

Your fingers grab his hair, tug on it until he is whimpering in what you know to be pleasure and you pull him harder into you, force your bodies to press against each other until nothing stands between them, not even the fine air.

He undresses you in the kitchen and you let him, he kisses every inch of you and you let him and when he makes love to you, you scream his name over and over again not caring a single bit of who might hear you.

You are his. You always were and in the morning, when you wake up inside his embrace you start believing that maybe he is yours too, again.

You let yourself hope and maybe it’s a mistake in the long run but right now, you are the happiest you’ve been since he closed that door behind his back and you would not trade this with any other thing in the entire world.

#ficswithluv #btsghostie #bangtanhq #jimin smut #jimin angst #bts angst #bts smut #jimin x reader #bts x reader #bts ff #bts imagine #bts scenario #bts react #!splintersoflove

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moonlightflower21 · 5 years

Text

Wrong direction

A/N: this was inspired by a song, written at 12:25 am. been feeling kinda all over the place, so i wrote this and it may have mistakes in it. hope you enjoy, anyway <3

this is complete angst, by the way :")

You stood as the tears that you tried to hold back, painted your cheeks with broken sobs passing your lips. Your back leaned against the wall, knowing full well your knees would have collapsed underneath you if you continued to stand unaided. It felt like you couldn't breathe, your lungs seemingly filling with air but nothing reached them. Your vision were blurred with tears, continually dripping down your cheeks at a steady pace. You knew your head would hurt later on but at least it would provide something else to focus on when your heart felt like it was being stabbed.

This wasn't your boyfriend, you refused to believe that Raphael was this... cold. This heartless. Yet he stood opposite you, with a bored expression making no effort to console you or try to justify his actions. His arms crossed over his chest, with a leg leaning up against the wall as April stood behind him, staring at you and him warily. You wanted to strangle her, it was a miracle you hadn't wrapped your fingers around her pretty little throat.

"What's going on?" She asked, stroking Raph's bicep comfortingly as her eyes stared at you up and down in a demeaning manner. "Nothin', Y/N is goin' off on one" he chuckled, finally making eye contact at you. Your brows had raised high, your own arms crossed over your chest to mirror his posture. The anger you built up leading to this moment burst and you were unable to reel it back in.

"Fuck you, Raphael. Fuck you" taking a step back, you shook your head at him in shock. A lone tear leaked from your eye, your heart felt like it had been ripped out of your chest and been stomped on multiple times at once without a pause. The smirk he had on almost faltered immediately, seeing you cry like that. In pain, caused by him.

"What's going on, guys?" Mikey smiled entering his room to grab something but then it disappeared as he saw your tears dropped from your cheeks and falling to the floor. He shot his brother a confused look when he didn't do anything to help you. "Y/N! What's wrong??" He gasped, coming to your side and you shook your head, letting out a soft sigh trying to not sob here.

"Nothing, I got reminded why I should have left your brother that night. You weren't worth the effort at all" you looked straight at Raphael when you some, hoping your words would cut his heart as his actions had done to you. And it had done, watching pain flicker through those irises you had grown to love but now hated with every passing second.

"Wha..." Mikey's eyes widened in the slightest when he caught sight of what happened. He looked to his brother in disbelief, blinking at April who stood next to his side. "Why are ya-" Raph started angrily but got cut off promptly after. You had enough, now it was your turn to talk.

"Shut up, I'm not done!" You hissed, holding your palm out. While your heart may have felt like it was being twisted in all sorts of directions your brain kept a clear path and direction which you were thankful for. His brow arched ever so slightly but he didn't interrupt.

"You know what the worst part about all of this?? I can't hate you physically. I hate what you did to me. I hate that I spent countless hours of my time, gave you my heart, gave you my time and for what?? For you to cheat on me with her??" You pointed angrily to April, fingers curling in a tight fist. Taking a breath, you composed yourself as best as you could. But it was hard given the circumstances. The amount of time you spend with him and the memories shared. You hated to think that, while they meant so much to you, he was probably thinking of April during it all.

"Mikey, could you give us some privacy?" You looked at him and gave a tired smile. Your eyes were red and your cheeks were puffy slightly. You looked so hurt, he hadn't seen you look so defeated. He gave you a hug, patting your back comfortingly before giving you one of his signature smiles. They were needed but they didn't quite reach your heart. He nodded, ignoring Raphael and looking at April.

"Let's go, that's the least you could do" you were surprised when you heard him speak in that angry tone, he specially reserved for enemies.

"But I-" "I'm not hear to listen to you. Get lost" Mikey barked out, opening the door and watching her reluctantly leave Raph's side. Raphael watched them both leave hearing the door close afterwards, and finally looked at you. So many emotions ran through your eyes, it was hard to pinpoint an exact one.

"You're happy. I guess I wasn't the one for you. But why? Why did you have to do this?" You asked, breathing out to calm your nerves so you didn't feel so overwhelmed at him. He didn't respond and you faked a laugh, sitting down on the bed.

"So the silent treatment? You hurt me, goodness knows for how long and you still stay silent? You knew what this would do to me, still you provide not an answer. You're a coward, Raphael. That's all you are" "Watch it, Y/N!" He snapped, glaring at you and you shook your head, watching how angry he turned. Normally you'd be a little cautious, but not today. Not after this.

"Can't take it?? That's how I'm feeling now Raphael! Why the fuck did you cheat on me?? Why the fuck did you hurt me like this??" You cried out, throwing your hands angrily in the air in emphasis.

"I-I don't know! It wasn't supposed to happen-" "Don't tell me that bullshit, just stop" you harshly wiped the tears that stained your cheeks while looking at him. The pain he caused you would stay with you for the longest time.

"I always stayed loyal to you, even when you weren't here. Even when I could have dated someone else, I chose not to. Where was your loyalty? Where was the honour in lying to me?" You asked, looking at the ground before meeting his gaze and he couldn't look at you. He chose to stare at the floor, knowing that meeting your eyes would make guilt overrun his stomach and he refused to break down in front of you.

"You can't answer, like always. My heart was in your hand and you played with it so easily. As if it meant nothing. But I guess that's exactly what it meant. I meant nothing to you. I was crazy to think you loved me-"

"I do!" "Then why the fuck am I crying. Why am I sitting here asking you, why the fuck you cheated?!" You yelled, standing up once more. "But you won't fucking answer me! That's the least I deserve, don't I?? An answer??" You snapped, coming closer to him. But not a sound from his side, and you scoffed turning around.

"I just, all this time I could have found someone that loved me instead of staying with someone who didn't" "You don't understand, Y/N! I loved you, I always did and I'm sorry-"

"Oh, I understand very well. You cheated and there's nothing else to it. People who love each other don't cheat on them. I loved you, did I cheat?" You shouted, not caring that probably the whole lair could hear you. The last sentence made your voice tremble, bring you back to the reality that he cheated. He really, actyally cheated. He fucked another woman in his bed and didn't even think how you'd be affected by it? Even when he made promises to you that he wouldn't. Even after all this, he went ahead and did it.

"What did you think Raphael? That you apologise and I'll run to you?? I'm breaking up and I don't ever want to see your face again" you picked up your bag from the ground, opening the door and turning your head to spare him one last glance before you left his life forever. You realised how hard it would be, without him. Because he taught you what love felt like, what happiness was. And you hated and loved him for that same reason.

"You weren't worth it, in the slightest. Have fun with April, hope you feel exactly what I'm going through. Bye, jerk" you smiled, slamming his door shut before taking in a shaky breath. You turned, leaving the lair before giving a glare to April. You didn't listen to the calls of the other turtles, knowing that the more you stayed in the lair the more your heart would continue to shatter and the more you would break.

It's so gut-wrenching, falling in the wrong direction.

#tmnt x reader #tmnt x reader fanfic #tmnt 2014/16 #tmnt 2016 x reader #tmnt raph #tmnt raphael x reader sad angst #tmnt x reader angst #tmnt raphael x reader #tmnt raphael

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hangfiretales · 4 years

Text

I found one of my short stories from a few years ago and was trying to figure out what needed to be polished up. And after spending the last few months complaining about the difficulty I have with using present tense, I discovered (with unfailing irony) that this story needed to be written in the present tense, of course.

*************************************

Anatomy of the Heart

‘That you, pet?’

‘Yes, Nan.’ Who else has a key? I add, but only in my head. She's pretty old. I can afford to be indulgent.

I shut the front door, and the dusty quiet of home and cats and autumn collapses onto me.

The lounge room curtains are closed against the afternoon sun but I can see her, sunk in her chair and dressed in something purple and polyester. Reading, of course, eyeball-deep in a comfortable romantic cliché of unbuttoned shirts and thrusting. There’s always thrusting.

‘Library day, Nan?' I bend and kiss her hair, close enough to smell talcum powder and spearmint.

‘Narelle had a stack ordered in for me.’ She half-closes the book to glance at the front cover. ‘I think I've had this one before, with the duke. He’s got a limp. That's alright, mind, I don't remember all of it so it's like new.’

It might have something to do with a certain sameness of plot amongst her chosen genre, but I say nothing.

‘Long day, pet?’

And it has been, actually, so I tell her; enough to get a bit of sympathy, not enough to bore her.

I’m rewarded with a pat on the arm and a clucking sound.

‘Fancy him saying all that when you've spent so much time on it. Bloody professor should give you marks for effort, is what I think. Tea?’

And at my nod she straightens in slow motion and patters to the kitchen.

I follow her to the bench. ‘Unfortunately, it doesn't work like that. I wish it did. I put in more effort looking busy than anyone I know.’

Nan acknowledges my attempt at humour with a nod but I know she doesn’t think of me as the funny one. That's always been my brother's gig.

I open the fridge and get the milk out while Nan conveys sugar from jar to mug. One spoon. Two spoons. Pause. Another little bit of a spoon.

‘I still don't know why you have to get a degree just to read books,’ she says. ‘Why can't you just read them on your own?’ She sniffs twice; once at the education system and once at the milk carton in her hand. She pours it.

‘There's reading and then there's- like a deep critical understanding.’

But Nan shakes her head. ‘If you're not enjoying it, what's the point.’ A statement, not a question. ‘I've read hundreds of books. Thousands, probably, and nobody ever asked me to get a degree first. Waste of time with your degrees for reading, and degrees for making video games, and music and what-not. Here you go, pet, carry those out. I'll get biscuits.’

I take the brimming mugs back out to the lounge room and set them down on the coffee table. My usual seat’s piled up with The Last Cowboy and his horny friends so I sit down on the orange couch. At least one cushion stirs and becomes a cat.

‘Don't sit on Valerie, she doesn't want your bum on her head.’ Nan puts a tray down next to our mugs: biscuits from a home-brand cream assortment; a jam-jar lid, for discarded teabags; two tea spoons. One’s a sundae spoon, actually, longer and handier for stirring a tall mug. I reach.

Nan bagses it smoothly.

‘Sit here. Sit in your spot, love. Move those things-’

I put the stack of books at my feet.

‘And how is Alex going?’

Which is the real question, isn't it, even when she leaves it unasked. The endless questions, filling in her days with thrusting dukes and shirtless cowboys and endless curiosity over other people's boyfriends.

‘Yeah, well, he's- yeah. No, he's good.’

She gives me a look. And harrumphs. ‘What you need is a real man. One who treats you properly and makes a bit of an effort with himself.’

‘Like Jack the Excessively Groomed Cowboy?’ I pick him up and read the back cover. ‘Sorry, Chuck the cowboy. The brooding rancher next door is about to change Gillian's quiet life forever. Can she tame his wild bachelor's heart? Blah de blah.’

‘Don't you be a snob. There's nothing like a good romance to pick you up.’

I put it down. ‘It's a bit different from the novel I'm reading for this assignment.’ I say it more breezily than I should.

‘Oh? Go on then. What’s your one about?’

‘Well.’ I sit back. ‘There's this girl who's in rehab for her broken back and her father is being blackmailed. He's a drug dealer. It's Danish. It’s-’

‘Any romance?’

‘She falls in love with her boyfriend's brother, who's a detective, and she-’

‘Ah, torn between two men. Any sexy bits?’

‘Uh, kind of.’ Thinking quickly, because it's tricky to explain the Scandinavian Noir context of the nude ice-fishing scene. ‘Just, you know, frustrated but not going anywhere.’

‘Hmm. Mine sounds better.’

‘Chuck the Impossibly Tanned? Or this one, the Duke of--’ I check-- ‘Really? Notchester?’

I flip it open. ‘Sheba arched her back luxuriously as the Duke ran lascivious fingers down her flushed throat towards the boundless promise of her bountiful breasts.’ She's going all out, this-- Mirabelle Thorne? That's a terrible pen-name.’

‘I've had a few of hers. She does nice historical ones with lords and that.’

‘Aha, look at this bit. Thrusting with gasping impatience between her yada yada. Thrusting, I told you.’

Nan looks at me, waiting. I haven’t told her.

So I tell her.

She raises a sparsely pencilled eyebrow. ‘You judge the whole lot on one bleeding word? Snob.’

‘I'm not a snob.’

‘Snob.’

‘Don't say that, romances just aren't my thing.’

‘Well, what does that say about you? Can't appreciate the budding love of two young people.’

‘Two or possibly more young people. This one has a heart-wrenching choice between the man who adores her and the man who desires her. One of them's a doctor. Oh. Anatomy of the Heart. I see. And the other one's-- really? An alpaca breeder. What kind of a choice is that?’

‘The doctor's job is to be the rich bastard and the other one's her true love.’ Nan glares over her mug.

‘No, actually, I think the doctor’s poor. The alpaca breeder's fairly well-off.’ I’m skimming through it.

‘Well, that's probably true. You seen what they're charging for an alpaca cardigan? Bleeding rip-off merchants.’

‘She shivered at the memory of his efficient fingers. Efficient--'

‘What you need to do is, you need to sit your Alex down with a couple of nice romances and give him an idea of what you want. Give him a role model. Young lads these days don't have any role models, all these single mums and feefo workers.’

She might have meant FIFO. Which may or may not have been a snipe at both my brother and my mother in one handy package.

‘Who says I want this?’ I look down at the cover artwork, which shows both the devilishly rumpled doctor and the rosy-cheeked alpaca man. Which one has the efficient fingers?

I put the book down. ‘Thanks for the tea, Nan. I'd better get a move on with this assignment. Do you want me to cook dinner tonight?’

Nan finds her place in The Duke of Notchester, picking up the story mid-kiss. ‘No thanks, pet. We've got some spaghetti bol left from last night. If leftovers aren't beneath you.’

‘Sounds fine.’

I take the last chocolate cream biscuit when I leave.

When I come out of my room later to get my reheated spaghetti, I’m not that much further along with my work. I’m still replaying Dr Chase's critique of my draft: unfocused and derivative, showing only a surface understanding of the criteria required.

Yeah, well.

Nan’s watching some cooking show on TV; a wok full of hot prawns and a posh summery voice.

I contemplate the gap between the dinners we all tell each other we're eating and the actual dinner, the one in my hands.

And take the plate back to my desk to eat.

It isn't a desk, it's a card table in the corner, below the clock and the Johnny Cash calendar. I've wasted plenty of time on this assignment already. It’s time to get serious.

I contemplate the gap between the romances that we read and the actual boyfriend, who’s totally committed babe but just super busy right now.

Does the novel's idiosyncratic narrative style add interest to the text, or is it a distracting literary conceit? 1200 words. Use examples.

I go back to the kitchen for a biscuit. All the chocolate creams are gone.

Nan’s watching something about celebrities eating cockroaches.

When I get back to my desk I discover that the assignment still hasn't written itself.

Twenty-four and a half minutes or so later, I find myself chewing on my pen and I’m swearing because it's an expensive one-- I bought it for myself in the hope that it will inspire me to write better. Or more. Or more better. I can't tell if it's worked yet, but the pen’s starting to look ratty.

She shivered at the memory of his efficient fingers. Was his mind elsewhere, as he performed with admirable though robotic fervour?

I go back out to the lounge, which is empty of either cats or Nans. I find Anatomy of the Heart sitting on top of Holiday in Heaven and open it somewhere in the middle.

He watched her through narrowed eyes. Does he find her as one-dimensional as we do? She raised her face, lips parted in surprise, closer to him than--

‘Pet?’

‘What?

Nan’s calling from the kitchen.

‘Tea?’

‘No, thanks.’

I go back to my room. The book is still in my hands.

This one wasn't written by Mirabelle Thorne, I don't have to check the cover to know that.

I check the cover.

April Winter. There’s a definite touch of dryness to her humour; the pseudonym, the title. Or is it a him? It could be. It could be anyone. I've heard a few tales of prestigious authors who churn out romances to stay busy while they wait to get famous. Or to pay bills, between critically acclaimed works that nobody wants.

I sit down again and open it. It’s a romance, yes. The strong-willed city girl who thinks she’s in love with the wealthy country-boy alpaca farmer until she meets the handsome, serious, magnetic, penniless local doctor. Small town. Impossible choice. Whatever. The plot’s predictable and the woman isn't worth the Chapter Eight punch-up over her.

But there’s something about it. Something sly, indefinable. The alpaca man is so smug, and the woman so exhaustingly feisty- when the doctor finally wins her, the town rejoices but I am left uneasy. The doctor has a coolness, a detachment. Even as he's declaring his love to her in the moonlit garden behind the old pub he's keeping something back. He's playing a game.

I wonder if a sequel would unravel this, but of course: romance novels don't have sequels. She gets her man and there's no more to say.

I get out my phone and do an internet search for April Winter, author. Anatomy of the Heart is her only book. Maybe she has other pseudonyms. Other names, under which she slips strange and unsettling love stories into the world. Or is it a he?

The clock says eighteen past two in the morning.

I pick up my pen and begin to write 1200 words on the gap between the type of text that makes a writer look intellectual and the actual books that keep you sitting up reading at your card table, far into the night.

I use examples.

*************************************************

#original writing #original work #short story #anatomy of the heart #writerblr

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cuthian · 4 years

Text

Dancing in the Rain Chapter Three

Next Chapter, darlings.

Things are going to happen and happen faster from hereon out. Please keep checking the tags, and if you have any concerns, please shoot me a message!

Eternal thanks to @juuls for putting up with me.

Love, Annaelle

Chapter Three

PROJECT PHOENIX PHASE 1 PROGRESS REPORT

REPORT OF MEDICAL EXAMINATION OF TEST SUBJECT

NAME BARNES, REBECCA AGE 23 RACE CAUCASIAN SEX FEMALE

DATE OF FIRST INJECTION APRIL 20, 2008

DATE OF EXAMINATION MAY 26, 2008 EXAMINED BY ELISA SINCLAIR

CONDITION OF THE SUBJECT BEFORE FIRST INJECTION (DAY 0) EYES BLUE HAIR BROWN WEIGHT 67 KG LENGTH 173 CM

CONDITION OF THE SUBJECT AFTER FIRST INJECTION (DAY 38)

EYES BLUE HAIR BROWN WEIGHT 70 KG LENGTH 176 CM

MARKS AND WOUNDS (HEALING FACTOR)

—LAST INFLICTED INJURIES 48 HOURS AGO—

THREE BROKEN RIBS IN REMODELING STAGE OF HEALING (HEALING STAGE WEEK 6) – INDICATION OF ACCELERATED HEALING IN MINOR FORM

CLEAN BREAK IN FEMUR OF LEFT LEG (HEALING STAGE WEEK 3) – INDICATION OF ACCELERATED HEALING IN MINOR FORM

ONE DEEP PENETRATIVE WOUND ON UPPER ARM IN PROLIFERATIVE STAGE OF HEALING – FURTHER INDICATOR OF ACCELERATED HEALING IN MINOR FORM

SEVERAL MINOR PENETRATIVE WOUNDS ACROSS UPPER TORSO AND LEGS IN PROLIFERATIVE STAGE OF HEALING – FURTHER INDICATOR OF ACCELERATED HEALING IN MINOR FORM

CHAFE WOUNDS ON ANKLES AND WRISTS IN VARIOUS STAGES OF HEALING – FURTHER INDICATOR OF ACCELERATED HEALING IN MINOR FORM

RECOMMENDATIONS FOR FURTHER EXPERIMENTATION

SUBJECT IS SUITABLE TO PROCEED TO PHASE TWO OF PROJECT PHOENIX

MOVE SUBJECT TO SECONDARY BASE FOR INTERACTION WITH THE WINTER SOLDIER AND FURTHER CONDITIONING

DATE MAY 26, 2008 SIGNATURE ELISA SINCLAIR

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Tony Stark’s Personal Lab, Avengers Tower, Manhattan, New York, United States of America

30 April 2016Steve

Steve sat on a chair in the far corner of Tony’s lab, arms wrapped around his torso as he watched the others file into the lab. They’d spent most of the night combing through the data J.A.R.V.I.S. had collected and had, together, decided that it was in everyone’s best interest to call in the rest of the team to share what they’d found.

What they’d possibly found.

Steve understood why Tony… why Wanda thought that the terrorist group they’d been chasing might be Hydra. He saw the same patterns they did, he saw the kind of brutal effectiveness and zealotry that he’d only seen during the war in Hydra, and he saw.

He saw what Wanda meant when she had described her and Pietro’s experience with them, when she had talked about how they’d been meant to become tools to shape the coming century, to sow chaos so humanity would see they needed a strong hand to guide them. It sounded like things Schmidt would have said, like justifications Zola would have spouted for his sick human experiments—

He understood.

That didn’t mean he agreed.

There was nearly no direct evidence, nothing that pointed towards Hydra directly—no double salutes, no glowing blue weapons or secret bases with scarily advanced technology—nothing but rumors of misconduct, suspicious disappearances and something that, he had to admit, didn’t really add up with anything else.

Still, it was hard to believe that Hydra could’ve survived all this time—

That all he’d done would’ve been in vain.

“Why’re we here, Tony?” Becca asked when she walked in, rubbing her hand lightly over her belly. Thor followed her closely, waiting until she had taken a seat to press in behind her, letting her lean back against him. Natasha and Wanda were still sitting on one of the lab tables, leaning against each other tiredly, and Pietro was bouncing on his toes beside them.

Bruce and Tony were both wandering around the lab, tinkering and chatting distractedly.

“We should wait for Sharon, shouldn’t we?” said Tony questioningly, dropping the wrench he had been waving around for the last thirty minutes. “I mean, we’ve agreed to start trusting her, right? She’s gonna be our Becca for at least six months, she should be brought into the loop, shouldn’t she?”

Becca shook her head. “Sharon’s pretty sick, she’s not gonna be in today. Sore throat, ugly coughing, stuff like that. Brock called this morning, said he’s gonna take her to a doctor and let us know.” She leaned back into Thor again and winced a little, rubbing her hand over the side of her stomach where, Steve assumed, the baby had delivered a particularly hard kick.

“Okay,” Tony said. Then, “I have doctors on retainer for my staff. She could come here.”

“I’ll be sure to pass it along,” Becca said dryly. “Now why are we here?”

Tony heaved a sigh and spun on his heel, gesturing wildly at Steve, and Steve couldn’t help but smile, despite the grave subject. He pushed up, off his chair, and leaned against the table Nat and Wanda were sitting on. “We found something,” he said. “Well… Wanda and Nat found something.”

“Full disclosure,” Natasha said slowly, “We’re not a hundred percent sure, but…”

“We think Hydra might not be as dead and gone as we thought after all,” Tony blurted—again, Christ, Tony—before wincing and clapping his hand over his mouth again, like he had the previous night when he’d told Steve.

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away as a deafening silence rang in the lab.

“I—what?!” Becca sputtered, eyes wide.

Thor leaned forward. “This is a very serious claim,” he said calmly, although his forehead was creased with concern. “Steven has told me much about these foes. If they are truly undefeated…” He did not finish, but he didn’t need to—the implication of Hydra’s return hung heavy in the air.

“We never knew what they were called,” Pietro said, and Wanda shook her head. “All we knew was that they lied to us,” she said, rubbing her fingers over the scars Steve knew lay hidden beneath her long sleeves. “They took many like us; willing, young… foolish. Others…” She bit her lip and chanced a glance at Steve. “Perhaps not so willing.”

“Regardless,” Steve said, and he hated that his voice was hoarse and unsteady. “We’re not sure that it’s Hydra, but we’re sure it’s something. And it goes up high. What we’ve found indirectly implicates senators, actors, ambassadors… even the World Security Council. We already knew this was bigger than them trying to frame Sharon, but…”

He sighed.

“This is much bigger than we anticipated.”

J.A.R.V.I.S. helpfully projected digital copies of the files they’d managed to collect in front of the others, and Steve watched as everyone began to sift through the collected documents and articles in there, every single one of them paling significantly as they did.

Steve knew the feeling.

Bruce looked faintly green around the edges, and Steve would be more concerned about him potentially hulking out if he didn’t have more faith in Bruce’s self-control. “What are we going to do?” Bruce choked. “What can we do?”

“Steve,” Becca said slowly, trembling fingers hovering over the digital file, “Why is my—the—why am I in here?”

“There seems to have been more to the attack that took out your squad than we thought,” Tony answered for him, voice gentle as he approached his godsister. His voice and expression were haunted. “There’s been a lot of suspicious activity around there since then too, and it just keeps happening. And…” He hesitated, looking to Steve helplessly.

Steve sighed and moved towards Becca, settling on the seat beside her and taking one of her hands in his. “We found files, detailing… detailing torture and experimentation that sounds a lot like what was done to you while Al ’Qaeda had you.”

Becca looked downright nauseated. “So you think it was Hydra?” she choked. “That they experimented on me?”

“No,” Steve said, shaking his head. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I just know that there might’ve been more to it than we originally thought. Than you might’ve thought.”

Becca swallowed thickly.

Thor rested a hand on her shoulder, rubbing a thumb over the tense line of her shoulder soothingly. Becca didn’t relax, per se, but she did exhale roughly. “Okay,” she said quietly. “So what else do we have? What are we doing? What’s our next step?”

“We need more intel,” Natasha said simply. “Steve got an invitation to a gala in a few days where a lot of the potentially incriminated ambassadors will be. We’re especially looking to talk to Julien Beckers,” she pulled up a picture of a sandy-haired man in a suit and a tie and continued, “the Belgian Minister of Foreign Affairs. He’s implicated in a lot of shady stuff, and apparently loose-lipped when plied with enough alcohol.”

Bruce frowned. “That seems like a pretty poor quality for someone involved with shady stuff.”

Tony nodded vigorously and pointed at Bruce. “And that’s why he doesn’t drink at public functions. The trick will be to get him drunk without him knowing, without arousing his suspicions.”

Bruce nodded. “That’s easy enough to arrange. All we need to do is sneak someone into the serving staff and make sure there’s some kind of undetectable drugging agent in his drink.” He frowned. “It’d probably help if someone was distracting him too.”

Natasha nodded. “Which is where Steve comes in,” she said. “And…” she looked towards Becca. “You, if you and Thor feel comfortable with it.”

Becca blinked. “Me?” she said, pointing at herself quizzically. “But I’m pregnant.”

“Yes,” Natasha nodded. “Which is why no one would suspect us of actually running an op if you’re there. No self-respecting first world country would put their visibly, famously pregnant agent on an active op in the field.”

“With good reason,” Thor said, frowning severely.

“She wouldn’t be in danger,” Steve put in immediately. “I’d be with her the entire time, and we’re just going to a party to talk to someone.” He looked at Thor seriously, imploringly. “I’d never put her in danger, Thor. Either of them.”

“She is right here,” Becca said impatiently. “And I can speak for myself.”

Steve abruptly looked at his best friend and winced. He had been out of sorts since Tony had told him about… about all of this, and so busy trying to figure this out that he’d just… forgotten Becca was sitting right in front of him and wasn’t going to let anyone—even Thor—tell her what to do.

“Sorry,” he said shortly. “I’m sorry. If you think you’re up for it, I could use your help.”

Becca looked at him intently, and he just barely managed not to squirm beneath her gaze before she asked, quietly, “And… you’re sure it’s safe? That nothing will happen?”

“As sure as we can be,” he nodded. “And Clint will be right with us, he can get to us faster than anyone should something go wrong.”

Natasha nodded intently, and Becca looked a little more reassured by that.

She looked up at Thor, questioning, and Steve looked away abruptly.

He’d… he’d been able to communicate with Bucky by just looking at him too, and he… while he was doing good, he still wasn’t great at watching someone else have what he’d lost.

“I’ll do it,” Becca said.

Steve swallowed thickly and nodded. “Okay.” He looked up at Tony. “Well. What’s next?”

Tony clapped his hands gleefully. “Shopping!”

------------

INTERNAL MEMO “The Thule Society Future Debates: Results and Actions”

SESSION NOVEMBER 1991 VOLUME 1

COUNCIL OF REPRESENTATIVES OF CONTINENTAL FACTIONS

Monday, November 30, 1991

ASIA

The dissolution of the U.S.S.R. seems imminent. Local chapters of the Society have prepared for all eventualities and are imprinting new codes and failsafes into each of the Widows to ensure the continued longevity of the program.

EUROPE

The Society has gained foothold in Belgium after the general elections – traditional Christian parties and Socialist parties have lost significant amounts of seats in the House of Representatives to Society sponsored party Vlaams Blok.

Society partners are now hopeful to continue to gain access to several international agencies through their now established foothold in Belgian parliament.

AFRICA

Society groups have successfully destabilised government in Somalia and are currently feeding into the established chaos to continue spreading civil war into the surrounding nations.

NORTH AMERICA

The North American Society has learned of a potential opportunity to obtain the serum needed to proceed with Project Phoenix, provided a suitable genetic match for the Soldier can be obtained.

Recalibration and conditioning of the Soldier has been successful thus far – the Soldier will be sent to eliminate all targets and retrieve the serum. The Soldier’s new handler has assured the North American Society the incident from ’79 will not be repeated.

If proved successful, further responsibilities will be assigned.

Common Floor of the Avengers Tower, Manhattan, New York City, U.S.A.

3 p.m., 2

April 2016Steve

“I hate this,” Steve said glumly, staring down at himself with all the air of a defeated man.

Becca snorted a laugh from her seat at the vanity, where Natasha was doing something complicated to her hair. She was already fully dressed, the one-shoulder dark blue gown she’d picked achieving the exact effect they were hoping for—she looked soft and unthreatening, but had a gun strapped to her thigh and a knife to her ankle, and Steve was pretty sure he’d heard Natasha mention something about narcotics hidden in the pearls in her necklace. “Don’t be dramatic,” she said, rolling her eyes at him in the mirror. “I’ve seen you wear much worse than a bespoke suit, Rogers.”

Steve pouted. “It’s just so…” He ran his hands down the soft fabric of the waistcoat. “Fancy. Expensive. I think this suit cost enough to have fed Bucky’s entire family for a month when we were kids.”

Becca shook her head at him and Tony, who had just entered the room, barked a laugh. “Far be it for me to break your socialist little heart, Cap,” he joked, “but you’ll stand out more if you’re less fancy.”

Steve glowered at him but accepted his fate and sat on the large pouf to tie his ridiculously shiny, dark leather shoes. Thor, who had been mostly silent through the entire process, chuckled at Steve’s reticence and pronounced, “I think you look rather dashing, my friend. Shame you could not be adorned in the Aesir formal wear I had fashioned for you, but… This will do.” Steve wrinkled his nose and Thor laughed, clapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder companionably. “You cut an impressive figure, and you will do very well to escort my Rebecca to the gala tonight.”

Becca beamed at him from where she sat on her stool, Natasha’s hands still buried in her hair, twisting it onto the top of her head in a complicated mess of intricate braids and loose curls.

Steve grinned lightly and shook his head. He thought he may actually have felt more comfortable in the formal wear Thor had fashioned for each of the Avengers—he was far more used to standing out due to ostentatious and unconventional clothing than due to well-tailored and hideously expensive clothing—but he’d been outvoted.

“Plus, it’ll be a great opportunity to listen in on what Julien Beckers has to say,” Tony pointed out. “If he really is in with Hydra—or whatever it is,” he conceded when Steve made a protesting noise, “he might slip up if we get him drunk enough.”

“What if he switches to Dutch when he’s drunk though?” Steve pointed out reasonably. “I know a little, but mostly curse words and directions.”

Tony snorted derisively and waved his hand lightly. “J.A.R.V.I.S. is programmed into the comms units, so he’ll provide translations if you need any.” He frowned at Steve and added, “I can’t believe you thought I didn’t think of that. I’m hurt, Steven, hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Steve waved his hand dismissively and slipped into his suit jacket. He moved to stand in front of the full-length mirror and looked at himself, rubbing his fingers over the light stubble that he’d uncertainly not shaved today. Natasha had insisted, said it made him look less threatening, less All-American goody-two-shoes, and Steve had long since learned not to question her.

He looked… polished. Older.

Not like himself at all.

Becca sidled up next to him, her dress falling over the swell of her belly in smooth, soft folds of dark blue fabric, hair piled on her head in a mess of braids and curls, and she leaned against him playfully, linking their arms together and grinning at him in the mirror.

“We look good, Rogers,” she grinned. “We’re gonna nail this bastard.”

Steve smiled tightly. “Absolutely,” he agreed.

She was right. All they had to do was get in, get some guy drunk, and get back out.

Easy peasy.

They had this.

------------

CBS News (@CBSNews) 2 min.

BREAKING: Fire Breaks Out at The Liberty Warehouse in Brooklyn, leaving dozens of guests of the Schliemann Fundraiser Gala outside in the cold! Follow developments here: cbsn.ws/5Ght67

------------

The Liberty Warehouse, Red Hook, Brooklyn, New York City, U.S.A.

9:47p.m., 2 April 2016Steve

The fire alarm was still blaring by the time first responders arrived and began ushering frightened, drenched guests dressed in expensive—and now ruined—silks and satins away from the terrace, out into the street and towards the awaiting ambulances. Most were clustered together in little groups, whispering frantically, pointing their phones at the broken glass on the sidewalk and the smoke billowing out from the windows nearest to the second-floor balcony.

Steve stood amidst the chaos and blinked, confused—unsure about what had happened.

Everything—everything had gone so fast.

One minute, he had been dancing with Beckers’ date, trying very hard not to tread on her toes, while Becca chatted happily with the man and plied him with specially developed alcohol provided by Clint, and the and the next, the fire alarm had been pulled, water was spritzing everywhere and he had lost Becca in the urgent throng of people.

He couldn’t see Clint either, but he knew the archer could take care of himself, even though he was somewhat of a human dumpster fire most of the time.

He frowned a little as he moved through the crowd of gossiping partygoers, glancing left and right to try to find Becca. His suit was uncomfortably wet, chafing against his skin as he walked—even his socks were wet—and he really just wanted to find Becca so he could call Happy to take them back to the Tower.

He wasn’t worried about her or about them getting separated—it made some sense.

When the alarm went off, he’d been on the dance floor and had gotten swept out the west fire exit with a group of others who’d been on the dance floor, while he presumed the people at the bar had been led out of the north exit.

He just needed to find someone who knew where the groups of evacuees that had been at the bar had been sent, so that he could find Becca.

The loud blaring of the fire alarm, coupled with the ringing sirens of emergency services, were loud enough to drown out anything Clint or Becca might’ve tried to say to him over the comms, and there’d been something about the building that interfered with their connection in the first place, so he couldn’t even call her, anyway.

A little annoyed, he pulled his phone from his pocket. He exhaled in relief when he noticed he had full bars, and he could text her despite whatever was blocking their comms; although he didn’t expect a response immediately—her phone was in her purse, and Steve wasn’t sure if she’d have thought to grab it off the bar when they were being ushered outside.

‘Nothing’s wrong,’ he told himself sternly as he walked around the building slowly, coming across several more groups of guests, none of which contained Becca. ‘She’ll be somewhere around the corner, chatting up Beckers like nothing’s wrong.’

Besides, he reasoned, it wasn’t like she’d activated any of the distress signals Tony had built into her bracelet, earrings, or shoes.

There was probably a really good reason he hadn’t found her yet.

Maybe she was running around the building trying to find him.

Maybe she’d been taken into an ambulance because she was pregnant, to be checked for smoke inhalation, to make sure everything was okay.

He’d find her.

He rounded another corner and breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted Beckers, facing Steve and talking to a woman with messy dark hair and a long, one-shoulder dress, who stood with her back to Steve.

Becca.

He exhaled sharply in relief and rushed forward, grasping at the woman’s shoulder and turning her around. “Becca,” he said in a rush, “I’ve been looking everywhere—”

He stopped short as the woman, who was taller than Becca, now that he looked closer, and very much not pregnant, blinked at him in surprise. “Sorry,” he said in an exhale, letting go of her immediately. “I thought you were…” He turned to Beckers, who was also regarding him with wide eyes, and demanded, “You were talking to my friend, earlier, before the alarm. Have you seen her? Did she come outside with you?”

“I can’t say that I have,” Beckers replied, looking convincingly puzzled. “She went to the bathroom shortly before the alarm went off, said something about the baby standing on her bladder. I didn’t see her again. Perhaps she is with another group?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, breathless, dread coiling in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah, probably.”

He turned away and looked around, feeling a little helpless when he still didn’t see her. His hands were trembling a little as he pulled out his phone again.

The message he’d sent to Becca was still unread.

“Fuck,” he said softly, before thumbing through his contacts until he found the one labelled ‘Sugar Daddy’—Tony thought he was funny—and pressed call.

“Spangles,” Tony crowed when he picked up. “What’s going on? Leave it up to you to ruin a perfectly good party by setting the building on fire, honestl—”

“Tony,” Steve interrupted impatiently. “Look, I’m—I’m probably overreacting. It’s pretty chaotic out here, but can you… Can you just have J.A.R.V.I.S. ping Becca’s tracker? I can’t find her, and… God, maybe we’re both trying to find each other and keep missing each other, but—for my peace of mind, can you just—”

“Yeah,” Tony said, and Steve could tell he was trying to sound calm. “Yeah, I got this.”

It only took a few seconds, but in those few seconds, the blaring fire alarm finally cut out, and Steve’s ears were ringing in the silence, his own breath absurdly loud in his ears, before Tony said, “Cap… Steve. Her trackers are all offline.”

The bottom of his stomach fell away.

There wasn’t a way to accidentally disable the subdermal trackers—they had to be cut out and smashed.

“Call in everyone,” he told Tony automatically, unthinkingly, swerving around to survey the crowd again, trying to see if Clint—probably still in disguise—was among them. “I’ll get Clint, we'll canvas the building and the streets, then get back to the Tower ASAP. Maybe she’s just… just around somewhere, or in the building still.”

“Steve,” Tony said, voice low and distressed, and Steve’s stomach twisted.

“I know,” he said shortly. “I know. Get the others.”

“Yeah,” Tony said shakily. “Yeah.”

He hung up and Steve looked around again. How the hell had this night gone so wrong so fast? And who the hell would want to kidnap Becca, of all people, at a gala with a guest list filled with foreign dignitaries and New York’s rich and famous?

And, Steve swallowed thickly, what would they do to her?

--------------------------------

Start from the beginning:

In Hell We Stand By You:

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

Never Feel Alone:

(1) (2)

Decisions: (1)

Dancing with a Limp:

(1) (2)

Chances:

(1)

Starting Over:

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8)

Dancing in the Rain:

(1) (2)

Or read it HERE on AO3 :D Find the next chapter HERE on Tumblr :)

#stucky #Stucky fanfic #Bucky barnes #Steve rogers #Thor #Rebecca Barnes #avengers family #Lisa writes #dancing in the rain #IHWSBY sequel #my writing

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kagehinataboke · 5 years

Text

only time will tell - chapter 2

High school is not what Todoroki expected. Of course, he didn’t really know what to expect—but it certainly wasn’t this. The instant he steps past the school gate, there’s the sound of yelling. A crowd is gathered up ahead. It's rather obvious, upon first glance, that a fight is going on.

Todoroki knows he should probably avoid it, but curiosity gets the better of him and he edges his way into the crowd. Before he can make it through, a teacher comes sprinting over to break up the scuffle. Dang it. He was kind of looking forward to seeing a real high school fight.

With a sigh, Todoroki adjusts his bag and heads for the school’s front doors, doing his best to ignore the staring. He can’t exactly wear a disguise to school, so people have started recognizing him already. Girls are chattering loudly among themselves, and even a few guys are noticeably staring at him. So much for keeping a low profile on his first day.

“You there!”

Todoroki jumps at the sudden exclamation. He barely has a second to mentally prepare himself before the loud stranger is upon him. He’s got unruly red hair and a huge smile that makes Todoroki a bit nervous. Does this guy recognize him?

“Can I… help you?”

“Aren’t you the new transfer student? Todoroki? Our homeroom teacher asked me to come find you. I’m Kirishima Ejirou.” The redhead holds out a hand, which Todoroki discovers is very callused when he shakes it. “You can follow me.”

Todoroki nods silently, feeling a bit winded by Kirishima’s rapid-fire speech. High school is certainly very energetic so far. Not that he doesn’t like it. It’s more interesting than modeling shoots and online classes, at least. And there’s still the chance that Katsuki will be here somewhere, even if they’re not in the same class.

Ah, Kirishima is saying something. Todoroki hasn’t been paying attention. It’s probably fine: he doesn’t seem to be expecting a response. It sounds like he’s been talking about the school. If it’s anything important, the teacher will reiterate it later.

“Kirishima, what took you so long?” The homeroom teacher opens the classroom’s sliding door right as Kirishima is reaching for it, almost as if he could sense their arrival.

He’s tall, dark-haired, has dark circles under his eyes, and is—strangely enough—wearing a scarf even though it’s April. Todoroki supposes he isn’t one to judge based on appearances: he always gets weird looks for his hair and his eyes—although the latter is something he has no control over.

“It was hard to find him,” Kirishima says in reply to the teacher’s question. “We’re here now, Aizawa-sensei.”

“Fine.” The man, Aizawa, jerks his thumb at Kirishima. “Take your seat. And you”—a thumb jerk at Todoroki this time—“you can introduce yourself to the class.”

Todoroki nods and finally steps into the classroom, slipping into a quick and shallow bow. “Hello. My name is Todoroki Shouto.”

There’s an instant shockwave of excited chatter among the students, mostly from the female population. While Aizawa is giving the ‘treat your classmate kindly’ spiel, Todoroki takes quick stock of the room.

It isn’t a shocking moment: Todoroki was hoping they would be in the same class, after all. No, it isn’t shocking. But the moment Todoroki sees him, something in the air changes. Something shifts; twists; almost breaks apart. The spring breeze blowing through the open classroom window seems to make time pass more slowly for the span of several seconds.

It’s been ten years, but Todoroki would recognize him anywhere. He’s obviously grown-up: his hair is black now, and there’s numerous piercings decorating his ears. But his dark eyes and sharp bones and distracted frown are exactly the same as when they were children.

“Katsuki?” Todoroki mutters before he can think it through.

The classroom chatter dies off in an instant, replaced by dead silence. Everyone slowly turns to stare at Katsuki, whose face cycles through a million different expressions before finally settling on cold nonchalance.

“Who the fuck are you?”

It throws Todoroki off for a second, and then Aizawa intervenes. His voice is an exasperated sigh: he has no idea of the importance of the moment that just transpired. “Bakugou, language. How many times do we have to have this talk? Todoroki, you can take a seat over there.”

And just like that, everything is moving again. But at the same time, life seems to have come to a standstill.

* * * * * *

“Is it really true you’re a model, Todoroki-kun?”

“I’m sure it is! He’s definitely handsome enough.”

“And I think I’ve seen him in magazines before. So is it true?”

Todoroki holds back a grimace. He’s used to this kind of attention from girls, but right now he doesn’t have the time nor patience to deal with it. Katsuki stormed off as soon as the lunch bell rang, and Todoroki needs to find him. He has to get to the bottom of what happened earlier. Does Katsuki not recognize him?

“I’m sorry, girls, but I have something else I need to do right now.” He tries for a sheepish smile. That always seems to melt girls like ice cream on hot pavement. “Do any of you happen to know where Ka— I mean… where Bakugou is?”

The girls’ smiles instantly turn sour. “Bakugou, the delinquent? You shouldn’t hang around with him, Todoroki-kun.”

“Yeah,” one of the other girls agrees. “He’s got a really bad reputation. I heard he got into a fight with third years from another school. He’s just bad news.”

“He dropped something earlier and I’d like to return it to him.” Todoroki turns the charming smile up a notch, bowing his head for good measure. “Please, if you have any idea where he is, could you tell me?”

The smile never fails. The girls, although still disdainful, tell him that he can find Katsuki on the school roof. He’s a bit apprehensive about going there, but he doesn’t have much of a choice, does he? His one goal was to find and make up with Katsuki, so he’s got to talk to him, despite how much he may have changed.

Todoroki finds the stairwell that goes to the rooftop after some trial and error, but he doesn’t make it far.

Someone slams against the wall in about three seconds flat. “What the fuck was that back there, bastard?!”

“I don’t understand why you’re angry.” Todoroki meets Katsuki’s furious gaze without making an attempt to push him away. At least they’re finally talking. “You pretended not to know me. Why?”

“Why?” Katsuki mocks. “Why the hell do you think, asshole? You're going to ruin my reputation.”

“Reputation?” Todoroki repeats in utter confusion. “I still don’t get it.”

“Moron.” Katsuki slams him against the wall once more before releasing his now wrinkled uniform collar. “Fuck, you’re so damn dense. You really haven’t changed at all.”

Todoroki adjusts his shirt, eyeing Katsuki warily. “You‘ve definitely changed. You seem like you hate me.” Not that he wasn’t expecting this outcome, but it still stings a bit.

“Maybe I do hate you.” Katsuki’s fists clench at his sides, as if he wants to hit him. He probably does. “You just left ten years ago, asshole. Disappeared into thin fucking air. You didn’t even tell me where you were going. Now what, you expect me to welcome you back with open arms? Are you delusional?”

“You don’t understand,” Todoroki tries, but Katsuki isn’t listening to him. He always gets defensive when he’s upset. At least, he did when they were kids.

“Stay away from me, asshole.” Katsuki slips his hands in his pockets, turning to give Todoroki a withering glare. “Don’t talk to me. Don’t call me by my first name again, either. In fact, it’s better if you just pretend you never met me.”

He slams through the door, and Todoroki takes a moment to recollect himself. Then he follows him, because he doesn’t have to listen to a word Katsuki says when he hasn’t even given him the chance to explain. Todoroki is a bit annoyed that he was written off so easily. Katsuki has no idea what he's been through in the last ten years.

Then again, they’re both different people now, aren’t they? Katsuki could’ve been through something equally as bad. But when it comes down to it, Todoroki still needs to clarify things. He can try, at least.

However, Katsuki isn’t heading back to class. He’s leaving school—or, at least, he’s about to. Someone appears at the gate to stop him, but the man doesn’t look like a teacher. He’s wearing a dark sweatshirt with the hood pulled up, and underneath it, his neck is covered in scars.

Todoroki pauses behind a tree nearby, just barely within earshot of their conversation.

“What the hell are you doing here, psycho? I told you I’d beat the shit out of you if you showed your face to me again.”

Katsuki certainly talks like a delinquent. Maybe what those girls were saying earlier is true.

“Skipping class again?” The stranger’s voice is deep and raspy, as if he has a bad cold. “You’re such a bad student.”

“Fuck you.” Katsuki’s scowl grows deeper. “Get the hell out of my way, Shigaraki, or I’ll put you in a fucking body bag.”

The man, Shigaraki, pauses. Todoroki stiffens when he lifts his head, and a pair of unnerving gray eyes seem to meet his gaze for half a second. Katsuki’s head also tilts to look back, but Todoroki is sure neither of them could possibly see him. But then why…

“I’ll go,” Shigaraki says, finally looking away. “I’ll try to avoid you, too. But I can’t promise you won’t see me around again.” He waves his fingers and disappears.

Todoroki finally relaxes, but not for long. Someone grabs him by the shoulder and wrenches him away from his hiding spot. “What do you think you’re doing?”

It’s Katsuki, of course. He’s glaring at him, fingers tightening against Todoroki’s shoulder with each word. “I told you to stay away from me literally five minutes ago.”

“But you wouldn’t listen to me,” Todoroki stresses, knocking Katsuki’s hand off his shoulder. He’s growing annoyed now. Apparently, Katsuki actually hasn’t grown up very much. “I deserve a chance to explain. You have no idea what happened—“

“You’re right,” Katsuki interrupts, “and I don’t care. We’re not friends anymore, get it? We’re strangers, so just stay the fuck away from me.”

* * * * * *

“Why are you making that face?”

“What face?” Todoroki asks, immediately frowning a second later. Dammit. Fuyumi is too good at picking up on his emotions, no matter how hard he tries to hide them. “Okay, fine: I’m having problems with… someone at school.”

“Already?” Fuyumi sets down her chopsticks. “How can they not like you if you’ve known them for a day?”

Todoroki shifts. He doesn’t want to tell her it’s Katsuki and make her worry. “Well… this person... doesn’t seem to like me all that much.” He fidgets with the edge of the tablecloth. “They told me to stay away from them. Does that mean they hate me?”

Fuyumi shakes her head, tapping her nails against the tabletop. “No, Shou. They probably just got the wrong idea about you.”

Her fingers still. “And maybe this person is going through something. You have no way of knowing. They could be hesitant to open up to others.”

Todoroki frowns. “So... he— I mean... this person doesn’t hate me? I just need to keep trying?”

“That’s what I would do.” Fuyumi pats him on the shoulder. “Never give up on what you want, Shouto.” She starts eating again, her moment of sisterly wisdom passing. “Other than that, how was your first day?”

“Fine. The classes are very simple.” Todoroki glances out the window behind Fuyumi. It started to rain a while ago, and it seems like it won’t get lighter anytime soon. “By the way, I ordered some clothes earlier, and they should be here sometime during the day tomorrow.”

“Really?” Fuyumi sighs into her miso soup. “I suppose I shouldn’t say anything about it. Did you end up talking to your agent yet?”

Todoroki flinches. This is another topic he doesn’t want to talk about. He wishes he hadn’t told her about it, but it’s too late for regrets now.

“...Not exactly. I haven’t gotten the chance.”

“You should consider doing it soon, before she schedules you for even more photo shoots. Don’t you have three this week?”

Todoroki grimaces into his bowl of soba. “Yes. It’s fine, Fuyumi. I can handle it. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.”

She gets up from the table, eyeing him disbelievingly. “Whatever you say. Hurry and finish eating.”

It figures she wouldn’t believe him. He has some trouble believing himself, actually. He hasn’t gotten up the courage to stick it to his agent despite trying for months, and now he has Katsuki to deal with. Todoroki’s head is spinning just thinking about it.

How is he supposed to make Katsuki like him again? He wouldn’t even give him a chance to explain himself earlier, and he’s changed so much. Comparing him to how he used to be is like comparing night and day. Like Fuyumi said, maybe something happened to him, too. But if that’s Not true, Todoroki wants Katsuki to open up about it. Why is he being so cold?

Maybe persistence is key. Katsuki always had a hard time saying no to him when they were kids. If Todoroki tries hard enough, he’s sure he can win Katsuki back over again.

Geez. Life was supposed to be simpler here in Hosu City, and it’s turning out to be anything but simple.

previous | next

#calla.txt #my writing #tdbk #todobaku #bnha

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the-black-dragons-den · 4 years

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Hello! How're things going with you these days? Hope it's going alright

Hi! I’ve been meaning to respond to this for days but I also wanted to take this as an opportunity to just kind of, elaborate on my life because it’s been kind of crazy! I am so sorry for turning this into a novel about myself because a simple “I’m doing better, thanks!” probably would have sufficed to answer, but I also needed to get this all out!

Also you know you are one of my favorite mutuals, I adore your blog, and your presence on my tumblr feed always makes me smile! Thank you for checking in with me, that’s super sweet of you!

TLDR; My mental health is a daily struggle but I’m taking real steps to take care of myself. My financial situation has dramatically improved, I didn’t catch Coronavirus, and in general things are looking up! I’m also trying to decide what the heck to do with my life - seek a better job now or go back to school to train to get a better job.

Here’s the long version!

At the end of last year, my fiance and I both quit our jobs due to a SUPER toxic work environment. That lead to a very long and stressful battle to win my unemployment benefits from that employer (but I did win eventually!) That whole thing was really hard on my mental health, but worth it in the end. Even with that, we basically blew through all of our very meager year-long savings (that was intended to go toward my fiance’s much needed dental work) for rent and groceries, right around the 2019 holidays so that was a really hard time. We both found jobs (mine part-time and his first one temporary and his current one full-time and awesome) but we still spent the first couple months of this year going to the food bank every week and barely making rent. We’ve been in hard times like that before but having to spend ALL of our savings was gut-wrenching.

So, roughly 3 weeks after my fiance got his new awesome job, Coronavirus became a big threat in our area and he was immediately laid off. Luckily, he was guaranteed his job back, and was able to get unemployment during that time. I’m still on unemployment while I’m working this part-time job, but more on that later. Anyway, that means we both received the extra pandemic benefits with our unemployment payments.

My job now is merchandising, which means that I work for a company that’s contracted by stores in the area, and I go to those stores and do things like setting displays, compliance scanning, etc. Honestly, so few people who don’t work as merchandisers know the job even exists, but I promise that a bunch of the displays at your local stores are not put there or stocked by store employees. It’s part-time, I work independently and for the most part don’t have to interact with a ton of people (which is really helpful for my anxiety). So, all in all, not a bad job for me, especially while I try to figure out what’s next.--

---Anyway, I didn’t stop working at all during the pandemic, which was good for our finances but again, hard on my mental health. (This is kind of whiny but it was incredibly wearing that I was an essential worker, but I watched other essential workers get raises and hazard pay and an outflow of support, and because people don’t know merchandisers are a thing, no one really thought to thank or support us, or give us more money.) I actually took on several more stores during April and May to cover for coworkers. I really am grateful to have had a job but let me tell you, being out there in the pool of stress exuding from everyone’s pores every day for hours at a time really wound my brain up.

However! Despite the mental health struggle that, let’s be honest, is impossible to avoid with my pre-existing conditions and the state of the world, things are looking up! Between unemployment benefits, the stimulus, my fiance’s severance, and his return to work and subsequent promotion and raise (SO PROUD OF HIM!), we are financially more steady now than... we ever have been. We’re slowly getting his dental work taken care of, which we’ve been trying to do for nearly four years. We’re never worried about rent, we have money saved, and OH OH OH, I am now 82% paid on my debt!!! I racked up credit card debt several years ago when we were very broke (buying groceries and necessities no less) and have been paying it for 3 years now, and I’ve actually made real progress! I have a “good” credit score! That feels amazing! My fiance even accidentally dropped and shattered his phone, and we were able to order a new (still relatively inexpensive) one that night, without having to sacrifice grocery money or anything which was awesome (especialyl because he needs his phone for work).

Additionally, I recently ask my job if I could cut back on hours because I was getting so burnt out and I needed to do this for my mental health. Between my fiance and I, I’m the driver so I have to make time for errands, and because he works full time (and a decent bit of overtime), I try to handle as much of the household chores as I can. But that altogether with work and making sure we can both get to needed appointments and stuff is A LOT to handle. And because he’s making good money now, I can actually take this step back from work, cut back on my hours, and we’re not super hurting for money because of it. We’ve never had a time together when we haven’t been calculating our hours day by day, trying to get more work time at any opportunity, scraping for every cent we earned. This is so amazing and different.

So I’ve cut back on my hours for the sake of my mental health. I’ve downloaded a mood-tracking app to try to get more insight into my patterns, moods and behaviors. I’ve made time for relaxation - long hot baths are my thing. I’m almost debt-free which is a huge weight off my shoulders. I just... want to be able to get out of bed most mornings without having a mental breakdown, that’s the first goal. It’s a struggle, but it’s a goal!

I’m also trying to make time to decide what to do with my life. I completed 2 years of college but never finished. I’ve only ever worked kind of crappy entry-level jobs. I really struggle with customer interaction (super wearing on me, makes me miserable) and I’d love to find a career where that’s limited, but I’m not sure if that means I’ll need to go back to school. My parents are also pushing me to make sure I seek a career in a field that pays well and is growing, which is logical, but has already made them discourage me out of the idea of being a paralegal, which I was really interested in... I’d like to go back to school but I really need a path before I make that decision. None of my passions (make-up, music, or being a paralegal apparently) are really things I could make a financially lucrative career out of, unless I had the dedication and talent of much healthier person, mentally. I’d like to be a forensic analyst maybe, but my parents are trying to talk me out of that one too. My dad has always wanted me to be an architect but I am not adept with math and I don’t want to design boring office buildings. In the meantime, it’s really hard to find a job that I get into without a degree, that allows me that minimal interaction with people and actually pays decently well. So I’m struggling but now I have time to actually think about it and figure it out, which is awesome.

LASTLY, I promise ---- I have nothing but support in my heart for the BLM movement, and I have been horrified by the actions of local and national police forces, and deeply proud of some of my peers who have been going to protests daily, helping speak out against the horrors being committed upon the colored communities in our country. I have not had the ability to participate in any protests, but I can’t explain the deep emotional grief that I feel over the unjust deaths, the tear gas and rubber bullets, the plowing down of innocent people. Videos of brutality make me ache with despair but I share them because I’m so fearful that if the wrong people come out on top in this situation, these videos and records of what was done to the American people will be destroyed. Though I am lucky to be surrounded by peers who share my feelings, these events have definitely strained my already tenuous relationship with my very conservative parents, and feeling so alienated from them has brought up a lot of childhood pain. However, as a very sheltered white female, I understand that my grief and despair cannot compare to the grief of black, brown, and other non-white communities during this time.

In conclusion, 2020 has been a real shit year so far but I’m standing here fighting back with every fiber of my being to make life better for me and my fiance, to get on top of my mental health, and to figure out what I’m doing with my life now!

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everlarkficexchange · 5 years

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A Father Figure

Written by: @wingletblackbird

Prompt 44: Their love was forbidden in more ways than the obvious one (older!Peeta). Their love conquers all even with revelations that destroys other person relationships. AU. Toast babies for extra cookies. [submitted by @animekpopxx]

Betaed by: @jroseley

Warnings: Minor references to pedophilia, although there is none present in this story.

Rating: General. (If you’ve read the Hunger Games you can read this. lol)

A/N: This submission has four chapters and a little over 17k words. I have one more chapter and an epilogue, (with the extra-kudos toastbabies), left to write. However, I also have a couple other EFE fics to work on before the deadline, so I’m submitting this now. Hopefully I can compete this fic by April 7th, but if not, I should be able to finish it in the next month or two. I hope you enjoy it.

Chapter One: Guardian Angel

I have never felt lower in my life, never felt more desperate. You’d think it would be the day Dad died, but that was just the harbinger of ill tide. It’s amazing how quickly things change. You never see it coming, like a sucker punch, every plan you ever had, every thought you took for granted, gone with the ash. When Daddy died it was so hard to understand. The words, Daddy died. Daddy died. Daddy’s dead. echoed all through my head, bouncing around the walls of my skull, mere sounds which garnered no understanding. I remember holding Prim tight, like I might lose her too, and Momma held both of us as we all cried and cried. I remember nuzzling my head into my mother’s breast and breathing her scent in, comforted. At least we had each other. I clung to her, our only rock left, our refuge. The next morning came, and Momma wouldn’t get up. It was like thinking you were holding onto driftwood in a flood, only to realise it’s sinking metal. Your refuge is torn from you, was never a refuge at all. You flail, and choke on water, can’t even make a noise. There’s no air, only panic, and terror, such terror. It imprisons you like prey lured to a dead end, rushing this way and that, trying to bolt; the terror and panic in their eyes…my eyes…crippling them. Desperation. You swim or die. I tried to swim, while holding Prim above the powerful waves. It’s so hard to manage even yourself against the tide. So here I am, soaked to the bone, drowning, and the icy rain falling is still warmer than the chill in my soul, the desperate ache in my ribcage, as I scrounge for scraps in the garbage bins in town, but there is nothing. I am nothing. The mines took all of us.

A raw, wrenching cry rises up in me. I keel over with it. There’s no food. We’re done. I failed. It’s like I can feel the severing of my life’s thread. I am dead. Soon everyone will know it. I’m only eleven, so close to tesserae, but I have no energy and no hope. The merchant’s trash was my last shot, but there’s not even trash for me. My knees buckle, but I can’t stay here, so I crawl through the mud to the meagre refuge of an apple tree by the bakery. I bet I look like those stragglers that lie down and die in the meadow. It’s a beautiful place to die. Maybe I’d go too if I had the energy. This apple tree will have to do. If only it had fruit.

I sit here under it, too raw for tears, as the water drenches me, and my fingers and lips turn blue. I don’t dare look at the bakery. The smell of it is cruel enough, to look and see inside the warmth, the light, and the food–all the food, mountains of food–not for me, would be too much. It would be the final confirmation I am nothing, will never be anything, locked out, not worthy to even eat the scraps. No one cares about Katniss Everdeen; no one cares about the Everdeens at all. All the people Momma healed, and all the people Daddy stood up for, worked with, not one of them had a care to return the favour. No one. It hurts. I close my eyes, unable to get up and face my sister with her hollow cheeks, and cracked lips. Does she even understand how bad it is? Gentle Prim who still cleans Daddy’s shaving mirror everyday like that’ll somehow bring him home? Maybe they’ll send me to the Home, but hopefully I’ll die long before I have to face the failure embodied in a broken Prim. I was supposed to protect her.

I’ve almost passed out from the hunger, fallen asleep from the cold, when I hear slushy footprints walking towards me. It’s probably peacekeepers, or maybe the baker is running me off, or someone’s going to drag me to the Community Home. I muster the energy to open my eyes, and turn my head over expecting to see a cruel face, a harsh twist of sneering lips, instead I am greeted with a smile. It is a gentle, kind smile. Not the kind that is fake, or is so peppy it ignores reality, or is just really forced, but the kind that comes at the end of a hard day when there’s really no joy to be had, except you see someone you love…and you smile. I can’t imagine why this man’d be smiling at me like that. I feel nervous.

He kneels next to me in the mud, ruining his slacks. The rain is drenching him now too, plastering his blonde hair to his head, but he doesn’t seem to care. He looks to be about mid-twenties, fair with blue eyes, like most people in town. He looks healthy, nothing like me. I just want to know what he wants. Get this over with.

“You’re Katniss, right?” The man, Mr. Mellark I suppose, looks at me earnestly, and he seems sincere, concerned. How does he know my name? I tense and I nod vaguely.

“Jack Everdeen’s daughter?”

I nod again, and tears fill my eyes at the words, at what seems like the compassion behind them, at the recognition, the gentleness… at Daddy. His eyes seem unbearably tender. He sighs.

“I’m sorry about your Dad. He was a good friend of mine.” He shakes his head. “I should have visited, but…I didn’t want to make things worse for you.”

What he means by that, I couldn’t say.

“How do you mean?” He hesitates a moment, and I worry he won’t answer, but he meets my tentative gaze.

“I used to trade with him, bread for squirrels and the like. He was a good man. I liked him. We talked sometimes.”

Yes, that makes sense. It would have been around the entire district if some townie walked up to our house. He’s right; it probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. I’d wonder what everyone else’s excuse was, but talking to someone, anyone at all, who seems to care is warming me in spite of myself.

“Here.” He pulls a package out from under his jacket, and presses it into my hands. It’s bread, I realise: Three loaves. The tears overflow. I am overwhelmed, shocked. No one just gives food away in Twelve. I look up for a catch, but he just smiles sadly. “For your father’s sake,” he says. I can accept that.

With a sudden spurt of energy, I lean over, grasp him in a quick hug, mutter, “Thank you,” and dash off back home. I think I hear him say, “Anytime,” with remarkable sincerity, but I’m not sure. Either way, his kindness is unparalleled.

When I wake up the next morning the world feels different, warmer, not quite so hopeless, not quite so alone. It’s like Mr. Mellark’s kindness has stayed with me, penetrated me. Still, I know something is going to have to change. I can’t just keep reacting, hoping for more people like Mr. Mellark, (if they even exist). My pride won’t take it anyway. You don’t sit back and let people hand you stuff. You work for it. In the back of my mind, I take pride in the words Mr. Mellark said, how he identified me: You’re Jack Everdeen’s daughter. I am, I think, and Daddy wouldn’t want me to quit, lie down in the dirt. When I spy a dandelion on my way to school, I know how we’ll survive. The spring truly returns to my step. I look back at Prim who’s trailing behind me, holding my hand, and smile.

It takes some time, of course, to be sure I know all the edible plants off by heart, to know where and when to find them without Daddy watching over my shoulder, but soon the woods are

my refuge. I find food there, sustenance, comfort. As the seasons change, I spend hours upon hours in the summer practicing my shooting, making more arrows, storing food for winter. Between my poaching and my tesserae, we are managing. Prim brings my mother out into the sun more, and the return of meat to the house slowly seems to rouse her from her stupor. Prim gives her some kind of medicine that’s supposed to help. I guess it works. Momma’s not the same, but it’ll do. She’s functional. Prim is thrilled. Hugging Mom over and over, and smiling, like she’s back from the dead, which she may as well be. Me though, I hug mom stiffly, once, but I don’t know what else to do when she looks at me with sad eyes. The damage is done. I can no longer rely on her. Things have changed. They’ll never go back. Where’s the use in pretending? Her arms are no longer my refuge. There are the woods for that. That will have to be enough. It’s not that I hate her. It’s just that I can’t pretend to be younger than I was forced to grow to be. I don’t fit that niche anymore. I won’t nuzzle into her a chest again. I can’t need her, don’t know how to trust her. I’m glad Prim is happy. I keep my thoughts to myself.

It is about five or six months after the incident with Mr. Mellark that I see him again. We, Gale, a boy I became poaching allies with over the last month, and I, have excitedly hauled up our first ever deer into the butcher’s, and are just leaving with the cash. I’ve never seen so much before, I can only imagine what more I would’ve gotten if the doe had been intact. Even better, I now know I can trade with the butcher for currency if I need to, so it’s a good day when Mr. Mellark walks out from the back room.

“Hi, Katniss,” he greets cheerfully. “Aunt Rooba just told me about that deer you and your buddy shot down.” He nods at Gale as he says this. “If you ever get a squirrel, feel free to come down to the bakery, or better yet, actually, just come to my place.” He rattles off an address I quickly try to memorise. “My brother’s not too keen on trading.” He winks, pats me firmly on the shoulder, says he’s glad to see I’m doing better, acknowledges Gale politely, and heads back to the bakery. He’s humming a cheery tune. All in all, it’s a short exchange, but I feel a sense of pride go through me that he didn’t make a mistake in giving me that bread. You’re Jack Everdeen’s daughter. I can get him that squirrel.

Gale doesn’t look nearly so pleased I notice as we head back to the Seam. His brow is furrowed, and his fists are buried so deep into his pockets they seem to bow his body forward. His breathing is strained.

“What’s your problem?” I ask, probably more defensively than I needed to.

“He is my problem.” Gale huffs, and there’s no doubt to whom he’s referring. “It’s sick. His type. Worse than Cray.”

“Worse than Cray?” I am utterly confused. Cray gives desperate women a pittance to warm his bed. How could Mr. Mellark ever be compared to such an odious man?

“Haven’t you heard, Catnip?”

“Heard what?” I’m getting mad now. Gale can be patronising at the best of times. It’s clear he thinks I’m just some little kid he had better put up with. Gale stops in is tracks, and pivots around to look at me intently. His rage matches mine.

“They say he gives out food to starving kids, but in return he expects them to…stay over…at his place. You get what I mean? They say that’s why he’s never married. He has preferences.”

Unfortunately, I know what he’s hinting at, and it taints the memory of Mr. Mellark giving me that bread right when I most needed it. Is this why he wants me to come to his place? Is he really worse than Cray? Does he expect something? It’s hard to believe. His smile, his warmth, had seemed so genuine. Now I worry I’ve been played for a fool.

“I get what you mean, but we trade with Cray too, and I’m not going to turn my nose up at a bargain that could help my family. Besides, my dad used to trade with him. He can’t be all that bad.”

Gale shakes his head like I’m so naive, and it pisses me off. He presses forward against the cold wind. “Suit yourself, Catnip. I just don’t like it. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“I won’t!” I snarl. He’s reaching to touch a part of me that is far to vulnerable for such callous exposure. We part ways quickly after splitting our haul. My good mood killed.

The next morning I rise before dawn and shoot a squirrel determined to know the truth for myself. I am absolutely dwarfed in my father’s leather hunting jacket I insist on wearing, no matter how pathetic it seems. I stomp into town gripping the handle of my knife in my pocket. I doubt I’ll need it, but still, I feel uptight. I draw in a quick breathe to fortify myself, and knock on the door.

“Katniss!” Mr. Mellark exclaims looking thrilled to see me, his eyebrows comically risen on his forehead. “Wow! You came faster than I could have hoped. Why don’t you come in?” He opens the door wider and gestures grandly for me to enter. “I’ll just get something for you.” I’m tempted to say I’ll wait, but it seems rather rude to a man who has been so seemingly kind.

His house is bright. I wonder if he’s decorated it himself. There are beautiful pictures, sketches, and paintings on the walls. Most look like they could be from Twelve. But some look like the scribbles of children which feels makes me feel like I’ve swallowed stones. He leads me into the kitchen and I can see breakfast is on the table. I have interrupted him, as well as two children I’m pretty sure are from the Community Home who are sitting there. I almost throw up.

“How many squirrels have you got me? And how would you prefer I pay? Bread or coin?” He asks. I try to shake myself out of my horror. “Katniss?”

“Umm…Just the one squirrel, and, um, bread, please.” I am utterly unable to take my eyes off of the children in front of me. They look about five and six. I think I really might puke.

Peeta just nods agreeably and goes to a bread box at the counter where he pulls out a loaf of sourdough which he places neatly in a paper bag and hands over at me.

“Katniss?” He asks again. I must really look bad.

“Yes, I’m fine.” I panic. “I just…I’m not used to being up this early.” He chuckles at that.

“Yes, the early mornings are hard to get used to.” He glances over at the children who are shyly pretending not to look at us. “You two done?” His voice is jovial.

“Yes, Mr. Peeta.” The young boy mutters, and grabs the hand of the little girl I assume must be his sister. Peeta looks back at me, because somehow I haven’t been able to move myself out of there as quickly as possible. “I don’t suppose you mind walking them back to the Home? I’m running a bit late.”

“Yes, of course.” I seize my chance, and grab the boy’s hand, and he pulls his younger sister behind him. I nod goodbye to Mr. Mellark, and dash out the door.

Watching them though, they seem shy, but not…harmed in anyway, and I wonder if I’m overreacting. Mr. Mellark didn’t seem horrible, hadn’t propositioned me for anything, but then again not everyone who is awful looks like it. Yet I find it hard to believe though that my Dad would have traded with someone who was a pedophile. Cray is awful, but to use children…

“Do you like Mr. Mellark?”

“Uh, huh.” It’s the girl that answers. “He’s nice. He lets us eat until we’re full sometimes, and if someone stole our place, he gives us a bed.”

“Does he ever…hurt you? Make you do…funny things?” How am I really supposed to phrase it? Does Mr. Mellark fondle you? Give you food and a roof over your head in exchange for satisfying his sexual perversions? I can’t even begin the process of saying it out loud.

“No.” The boy stops walking and stares forcefully up at me. He seems intently serious, more than his age should be. “There are a lot of people like that, but not Mr. Mellark. He’s really nice.”

“Sometimes he bakes cookies with us!” The little girl pipes in. The boy sighs at her optimism, and when his Seam grey eyes properly meet my own, I see an abject loss of innocence. I wonder what he’s seen. I wonder what he’s been through.

“I know what you’re really asking, but he’s not like that, and don’t ever let noone say otherwise.”

After that he won’t say another word, but his sister rambles on and on, about how Mr. Mellark had tucked her in at night, and told her a bedtime story, and how it was so warm, and they actually had enough blankets for once. I feel incredibly relieved, and also guilty for even doubting him: The Kind Man With the Bread.

I take to trading with Mr. Mellark–Peeta, he insists I can call him–about once a week or so. I keep an eye on him at other times too, and as the weeks pass I notice a variety of regular children who frequent his property. Mostly they are children from the Community Home, but there are others who are from truly broken homes who stay over at Mr. Mellark’s when they need a warm roof over their heads. The most he’ll ever ask is that they make their bed, or help him with breakfast. There’s a sixteen year old called Jude, Peeta’s known since he was about eleven, who runs errands for him. Peeta’s never even asked. Jude just looks up to him that much, or owes him that much, I suppose. Peeta’s become every stray’s older brother and father. I see him playing soccer with them in the backyard, or teaching them chess on the porch. Once he bought a young girl a new dress she was desperately in need of, and she proudly twirled it for me. I can easily see how he got such a terrible reputation. No one is going to think well of some Townie who hangs around with Seam children, giving them food and warmth, especially ones who are impoverished even by our standards. No one gives away food here, especially crossing the class lines. Clearly there has to be something salacious. No one’s that nice. Peeta is though, and he’s made a pariah for it.

“Why do you do it?” I ask him one morning when he invites me in. It’s one of those rare mornings he offers to have breakfast with me and the Home kids aren’t there too. Maybe that’s why it’s also the first time I accept.

“Do what?” He seems genuinely confused.

“Help all those kids. Most people wouldn’t. And you must know what they say about you.”

He laughs at this, and shakes his head.

“Oh yeah, I know what they say. I didn’t plan it, you know.”

“I didn’t think you did.” I mutter a bit annoyed at the idea that he might be laughing at me, but he just tugs on my braid good-naturedly and I feel my ire melt a bit.

“It happened sort of gradually, I guess.” He shrugs and spoons up a bit more oatmeal. “I noticed that there were a lot of kids digging around the trash cans. Mom hated it, used to run them off, but I felt bad. Children were starving, and she would go and yell at them,and threaten to call the White Shirts, and I’d give food we had to the pigs.” He’s not laughing now. He’s looking far-off like he’s playing out a distant, painful memory in his head. “So I started to leave food out for them, and when I got older, got a place of my own–anything to get away from Mom, to be honest–I noticed a young boy on the street. It was winter, bitter cold, I knew he probably wouldn’t wake up again if he fell asleep out there, so I brought him in. That was Jude. He was the first. It all snowballed from there. They kept coming, I’d see them on the street, locked out of the Home, and I couldn’t turn them away. We’re supposed to protect children, take care of them, not hit them, not watch them starve and freeze to death” His words drag me back to when I was the one starving and freezing, and I am so lost in the echoes of despair and gratitude, I almost miss the words he whispers next. “Or get thrown into arenas.”

“Is that why you never married?” The reference to the Games draws the question from my lips before I even have time to think. Having already decided myself never to love or marry for precisely that reason, if no other, I find myself quite sympathetic.

“No, not really. I’m just picky.” He picks up his bowl and mine and goes to the sink where he starts washing them up. I stand and grab a towel to help dry. “In town, a lot of people marry for advantage. Oldest son inherits, others apprentice out, often marry the daughter inheriting another business, so on and so forth. My parents have a marriage like that.” I look at his profile and see a tensing in his jaw, and I can tell this topic is difficult for him. “They don’t like each other very much, and mother’s bitterness spills over everywhere. I swore that would never be me, even if it meant the mines.”

“But it didn’t?” This seems intrinsically important to me. I would not want to see Peeta in the mines. I wouldn’t want to see anyone in the mines, but Peeta is the nicest man in my life now that Daddy’s gone, and that makes the image ten times worse.

“No, Ryen hated the bakery so much he apprenticed out to become a blacksmith, so I didn’t have to worry too much. The bakery can support both me and my brother. Still, to be on the safe side, it would’ve been good for me to marry well. I just never met any woman who I thought I could be happy with. They either don’t approve of me or what I do, or we have nothing in common, or I’m not attracted to them, or as the youngest and least financially secure son, they want nothing to do with me.”

“I’m sorry.” I say, and I am, because even though I never want to marry and never want to have kids, I am sad that such a nice man seems so alone. He flicks water up at me clearly unencumbered by such thoughts.

“Don’t look so gloomy, Miss Sunshine,” he teases. “Do I look unhappy to you?”

“No.” He drags a smile out of me, and gives me a loaf of bread to trade as I leave, telling me to drop by “anytime,”. The little girl I met when I first traded with him, I’ve learned her name is Sarai, runs up and gives him a hug.

“Morning, Little Angel!” he greets, and I realise Mr. Mellark never needed to be a husband to be a father. When I hug Prim in my arms that night, I realise I’m not much different there.

After our conversation that day, I do try to drop by every once in awhile. I tell myself it’s to make sure he’s okay. The truth is when I have my bad days, just walking by his house makes me feel better, reminds me that in the crushing grinder of life, there are people who will care. Someone who’ll listen. I’ve noticed I have an unfortunate weakness for kind people, but it is New Years Eve that ruins me.

I go to visit Peeta and wish him a Happy New Year when he invites me in saying he has a present for me. Inside there seems to be a little party going on. There is music playing, and I glance into the living room to see Peeta has clearly tried to bring some holiday cheer into his kids’ lives, but it is not the living room he takes me too. He takes me to some kind of office or studio where he presents me with a picture frame deliberately turned upside down. I turn it over and there is a beautiful painting of my father. The expression captured is perfect. The woods look incredibly real. His eyes are shining as brightly as they did in life. I realise Peeta must have painted this, must have made all the pictures around here. I’m impressed at his talent but that is lost behind the well of emotions which have broken through the dam I have built around them. Mom looks at the picture of Dad all the time, but I haven’t been able to bear looking at his visage since the day he died. Now he is here in front of me. Tears stream down my cheeks. I don’t know how it happened, but Peeta’s arms are around me as I sob and sob and sob. I’ve been trying to be brave so long, I haven’t really cried.

“Shh. Shh,” he whispers as he rubs my back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

I shudder and gasp as I try to find the words. I settle for shaking my head and snuggle deeper into his chest as his arms encircle me. I haven’t been held like this since the day my father died, and I feel safe. I feel small, not like a bug about to be crushed under your foot small, small like a chick under their mother’s wing. The thought makes me shake and cry harder. I’ve missed this. I’ve needed this.

“It’s perfect, Peeta. Thank you.”

I pull away reluctantly and through watery eyes I see blue eyes meet mine. Something flops and rises in my chest; I know now, I will never be able to claw this man out of my heart, the guardian angel my father sent from beyond the grave.

Chapter Two: Loneliness

About a year and a half later, not long after I turn fourteen, I discover Peeta has ambitions far beyond what I’m sure anyone else could have imagined. As always, I don’t see it coming. Not much has changed over the year and a half so much as it has grown. Gale trades with Peeta too now, although his disdain for anyone from Town remains uncomfortably evident. I drop by sometimes for breakfast or supper, bringing trophies from the woods like berries, or wild onions, here and there, so Peeta doesn’t feel like I’m using him. I share parts of my life. It’s nice, to have someone to talk to outside of school or hunting. Madge and I don’t really talk much. Gale and I are only just learning to. And it is this undeniable passage of time that spurs the conversation I never saw coming.

“I have a proposition for you, Katniss, now it’s spring.”

I have to swallow quickly before answering.

“What sort of proposition?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind taking some of your time in the woods to look for some sizeable flood banks, or moist valleys, you know, places water accumulates, and the soil looks good?”

I’m so surprised by the nature of his question my spoon is left suspended in the air.

“Why?”

He places his palms flat on the table in front of him, and draws himself up for what looks like a discussion he’s going to feel passionate about.

“Jude’s aging out of the Reaping this year.”

I nod.

“And I obviously don’t want him going down the mines.”

I nod again because I have no idea where he’s going with this.

“I also rather hate the tesserae system, and how dependent we are on the Capitol for rations in general.”

Oh, this is getting dangerous. I swallow.

“Everyone in Town depends on the Capitol for supplies to continue their trade–that’s a huge part of the reason no one from the Seam can buy from us, the prices are too high–and it’s also what keeps us Town-folk at their mercy. It divides us completely, and still I know people starve everyday.”

“Your point,” I say tilting my chin down for a stern look, because this topic of conversation is dangerous, and while I would expect it from Gale and his rants, I am not expecting it from Peeta, who prefers to talk about homework, or my relationships with my family, or other safer topics of conversation a man in his mid to late twenties might ask a young girl he looks out for.

“My point is that I want to change that if I can. I’ve been planning this for years, actually. I want to see if maybe we can farm in the woods. Get our flour from our own sources. Then we could open a bakery at the Hob, and sell at prices people can afford, cut out the middleman. It might help a lot. Of course, no one from the Seam is going to want to buy from me, and while I think if the alternative were tesserae or starve, most would, I thought maybe Jude could do it? And that way I don’t have to worry about him either.”

“You’re crazy.” The way I say it though sounds nothing short of awestruck. “You really could hang for this.”

He gives this about a second’s thought which either proves he’s not thinking this through, or he’s thought this through so much he’s already made up his mind. Knowing him, both could somehow be true at the same time.

“I could, but I’m one person. Children starve to death everyday.”

“What about the children you’re already responsible for?” I note even as I am saying it that technically Peeta isn’t responsible for them. The Home is. The Capitol is. The District is. But they are so inadequate, Peeta has stepped in.

“I know. I know. It is a risk. It’s a gamble. I just don’t see any other option I can live with in clear conscience. This is way bigger than that, and no matter what I do, there are risks we face.”

I can’t say he’s wrong, and who am I to argue with him when I risk my life everyday to feed Prim? I could hang for it, be shot for it, and if that happens, what’ll happen to Prim? But if I don’t she might starve and still die, or take tesserae and be that much more likely to die. It’s like Peeta said. It’s a gamble. It’s a risk.

“What’s in it for me?”

I don’t mean to sound callous, but business is business, and this is risky business. Peeta doesn’t seem to mind. A wide smile returns to his face. In truth it annoys me at times he seems to find my stern-negotiating-face adorable. I don’t want to be associated with adorable. I am not adorable. Regardless, he agrees to pay me a certain amount to find the land for him, and if they succeed in growing anything, he’ll give me enough grain to match my monthly tesserae rations. While it won’t mean I’ll be able to stop taking out tessera, since I split everything with Gale, it will mean decreasing the number of times I have to put my name in each year. I probably would have agreed to this scheme anyway, but there’s no way I could turn down a deal like that.

As it turns out, Peeta really has put a lot of thought into this farming scheme. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps it’s part of being a bakeer–the way he gets up at three every morning and methodically kneads dough–but deliberateness permeates his being. Peeta is as steady and solid as the earth he means to till. He’s been stockpiling barrels, and building airtight containers to store flour in. He’s been looking into long-term storage. He has a contact in Eleven, (how I dare not ask), who got him corn and wheat seed. He asked his blacksmith brother to make him several hoes, (and laments he couldn’t find a domesticated horse or ox even if it were possible to bring such a creature past the fence), and has even made arrangements with the Goat Man to shovel his manure which Peeta plans to use as fertiliser. Never has it been more obvious to me what a planner Peeta is. Since I usually react to things and don’t generally think past tomorrow, it’s rather mind-boggling to see the lengths to which one man can scheme. Peeta has even grilled Greasy Sae on what she can remember from before the Dark Days about farming in the area. Peeta’s decided to plant corn in the spring and summer, and then wheat in the fall and winter. Who knew wheat just sort of stayed packed under the snow and waited to be harvested come spring? I didn’t. Now I do.

Peeta has this way of talking about things that keeps you interested. Like when he talked about why he convinced his Aunt to give him chickens. I didn’t know gluten is what made bread stick together, and any flour he might get from corn, or even acorns, would need something else to make it stick. Hence, the eggs which he got from his Aunt, the butcher, who can occasionally get animals into the district. That’s just the tip of the iceberg. I have little particular interest in the making of bread, and I had no idea there was so much to the subject of flour, oil, sugar, water, and yeast, but there is, and I listen, because he is interesting. Peeta asked if he was boring me, and I told him he wasn’t, but it wasn’t really because what he was saying was interesting, but his eyes lit up, and his arms gestured, and his humour was on point. His entire countenance took on such an animated, light-giving quality, I’d dare anyone to not have been absorbed. It seemed too important to him. Peeta has tendency to wrap you up in his enthusiasm, and make you smile in spite of yourself. It’s infectious. I almost hate him for it.

He is truly pouring his all into this crazy scheme. He only works part-time at the bakery now. The rest of the day he is out in the woods, by the river, in the valley, hoeing the land. He’s crazy. He is. There’s no other word. It’s insanity. I worry all the time wild animals are going to savage him, but he carries several knives, and he has a hoe, and I’ve taught him how to scale a tree fast, (which was hilarious because he’s stocky and definitely wasn’t made to scale trees, so much as haul them home for fuel), so I tell myself he’ll be fine. For the first two weeks though, come schools end, I race into the woods to make sure he’s okay. He teases me when he notices.

“Worried about me?” He chortles.

I roll my eyes as he tugs my braid and splashes me with river water. I pretend I don’t care. I can sort of see the humour of a girl who barely reaches up to his chest crouching in trees to keep an eye on him, but it’s harder to not get aggravated when Prim joins in the teasing.

“It’s alright,” she says one day when I meet her after school to tell her where I’m going. “I’d run into the woods with Peeta too.” I immediately tell her off as she giggles. She is ten; I don’t know where she gets all this from. I point out that Mr. Mellark will be thirty come November, but she keeps laughing and later has mom tell a story about how her first crush was on the carpenter who was an older guy too. I huff and storm outside. Don’t they know why I worry? What Peeta has done for us, and still does for us? Of course, I’m worried. Of course I keep tabs on him. Maybe it’s just that I know nothing good stays. It’s nothing to do with crushes on older, stronger men. The problem is they’ve got me so worked up, I question every natural observation I have that Peeta’s arms are strong, and look good when they flex, or the way his shirt sticks to his skin when he sweats, or the way his hair shines gold when the light hits it just right. It’s normal to see these things when you look at someone. It doesn’t mean anything, but I head home when my keeping tabs on him results in me seeing him strip off his shirt and pour cool water over his head. There were many trails of water to follow over his chest, droplets that cascaded down him and dazzled in the sun, and he didn’t know I was there so it wasn’t fair.

On weekends, and everyday come summer, the rest of Peeta’s pseudo-family join him. There is Jude, who is the oldest, and Jet who I know from various conversations over the last year is seventeen, and lives with his mom who is an alcoholic. Then there is Colleen and her brother Cole, who are fourteen and twelve. They were orphaned in the blast that killed my father. Finally, there are the babies of this group, Sarai and her brother Elliot, who were the first of Peeta’s foster kids I met. They don’t help much with the plowing, but they’re up bright and early every morning when the time comes for planting the seeds. I dare say it keeps them out of trouble. I help out too when I can, which always earns me a huge smile from Peeta that makes it hard to maintain eye contact with him. I refuse any form of payment pointing out that this is an investment for me too. Truth is, I just wanted to. Seeing them all work so hard tugs my heartstrings. Contrary to popular belief, I do have them. The corn grows fast, and high, and waves in the wind.

It sometimes takes me time to find where they are working since Peeta has divided the farming land into sections. He hopes that’ll reduce the likelihood of damage to his crop than if they’re all in one place, and of the Capitol clueing into what’s going on with the two or three acres or so of land they’re farming. I have to say I agree. It was only a few months previously Gale and I had seen two people fleeing the Capitol only to be captured by hovercraft. I hadn’t told anyone but Peeta. Prim I couldn’t tell for fear of worrying her, and the same went with my mother. I don’t want to risk her checking out again, but Peeta, he is the one person in the world today I would say I trust unconditionally. That’s why I told him about the cabin by the lake my father brought me, in case he wants to fix that up to store grain in. He seemed terribly touched I’d told him, and I was glad he’d understood what it meant to me. Sometimes I go to the lake and see the work done and while it saddens me that this place is no longer my own, I am glad that my knowledge, my life, might now sustain others. (You’re Jack Everdeen’s daughter.)

Gale cautions me about getting too involved in all this.

“It’ll be great if it works out, Catnip, but if it doesn’t, don’t go wasting your time with it. We’ve got our own mouths to feed.” I hate he has a point, and reluctantly agree. It doesn’t end there though. Another time he points out, “And don’t go giving away our trade secrets either. We don’t need that kind of competition.”

Again I agree with him, but a bakery isn’t going to compete with us, and I’ve known starvation too well not to help when I can, especially when I know what help has meant to me, and even more so when it is the person who helped me when I most needed it.

“Stupid Townie,” Gale mutters. “If he wants to help out, fine, but the woods are ours. He’s stepping in where he doesn’t belong, trying to take advantage of us, thinks we can’t do better, but what else is new?”

I get where Gale is coming from. I really do. We’ve been at the backdoors of people who will give us a pittance for our work, because they know we can’t really say no, especially when the law is on their side. It’s frustrating to say the very, very least, but I resent even more the notion that Peeta Mellark is like that when he is the one out here sweating under a hot sun, and working so hard I know I saw blood on the handle of his hoe. I also know that blood is there because he gave Jet his own gloves, and never let on a hint to his own pain. Peeta is staking a lot on this venture. I tell Gale so, and before I know it we’re in a flaming row. I generally try to avoid rows with Gale, or wait until we’re done hunting. They scare off the game, but I can’t help myself this time. There is a lot of huffing, arm-waving, and finger-pointing, and Gale calls me a naive child, again, and eventually we just stop unable to reach an accord. He’s only two years older, I wish he’d stop acting uppity. The truth is, I should have seen this coming. I’ve been called a halfie a few times, and that’s one of the kinder words out there. It doesn’t matter how much my mother does as a healer in the Seam, and I am proud of her for that if nothing else, she is still from Town, and people still skirt around her. It’s no different for Peeta. Gale is sceptical. He always will be, I think. It exhausts me.

It works though. The corn grows, is harvested, dehydrated, and stored to be ground into cornmeal. I take Sarai and Elliot through the woods with massive buckets to get acorns to supplement that as well. One Sunday in October, Peeta invites me to join in a celebration in the woods. I am told I can bring my mother and Prim if I want to, but something in me hesitates and I seek them out alone. When I arrive I find a massive bonfire, and Jet playing something on some kind of wooden instrument. There are some cookies to snack on, and everyone is milling and dancing about the flames. I stop in the shadow of a tree just to watch them as the night grows darker. It’s strange this group of people. Seam colouring aside, they don’t look like a family, and Peeta doesn’t even have that. Jet is the only one that has anything merchant to him, blue eyes, because he’s the product of some Townie looking for fun without responsibility. Jude is lean and thin faced, but Jet is circular and short. Colleen and Cole look related of course, but their hair is blunt and straight, as are their noses. Then the youngest, Sarai and Eliot, well they have an impish look to them, even as serious as Eliot can be. Peeta sticks out like a sore thumb. Yet there is a harmony to this group, a joy, and a hope that unites them as they join hands and spin around and laugh together. They seem bound by something beyond anything I’ve experienced before. It makes something in me ache. I want to join in, but it feels dangerous to do so. I am not a part of this, and celebrating something scares me in a way I don’t fully understand. It seems risky, even as I wish it.

“Katniss!” Elliot has spotted me. “Come on!” He runs forward and pulls me in. Jude hands me a cookie. It’s delicious, and I can’t help but smile. Soon Sarai who had been enjoying a piggy-back ride by Colleen runs over to get me to dance with her, and her joy drags all of us in as we spin and spin around. Half way through a twirl I lose my balance and Peeta catches me. All I notice is his warmth, his strong arms and chest, and then his blue eyes and his smile, and I forget to breathe. The urge to move forward is so overwhelming I shove him away.

“I-I’m sorry. It’s getting late. My family’ll worry.”

“Of course,” Peeta nods, apparently finding nothing the matter with my reaction. I suppose maybe I’m just that awkward. “Give them my regards.”

“Yeah, sure.”

I turn away to hug the youngest one’s goodbye and dash off trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling that my mother and Prim were right.

I avoid him after that. It’s stupid, because it’s not like he’d care, but I don’t know how to act. I trade with him as always, but insist that with winter here, I’m needed elsewhere so I don’t stay. Peeta looks concerned, but I brush him off and he lets it go. I encourage Gale to trade there more often. Gale notices and asks if Peeta has done anything wrong, but he really hasn’t. Gale doesn’t believe me, of course, but he lets it go for which I’m grateful.

I am, however, kept up to date on everything that’s happening in Peeta’s life by Colleen. For whatever reason she has decided we are friends now we’ve been to a bonfire together. I discovered this when she decided to sit with Madge and I and lunch. I don’t discourage it though, it wouldn’t be particularly nice, and I also know Colleen, like me, doesn’t have many friends. Still, she’s a chatterbox which is an odd change since I think Madge and I are friends-of-a-sort, because we both don’t like to talk. Colleen isn’t shallow though, and her conversation does cover things that are at least relevant or interesting. I don’t think I could’ve bourne a gossip. Funnily enough, the injection of a talker to our group seems to have done Madge and I a bit of good allowing us to actually acknowledge that we are, in fact, friends. She drags us both to her house to teach us to play the piano, which is a huge laugh to say the least, and she talks us into bringing her to the woods. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything besides hunt and trade and work, I never realised how much I missed it. Short of some joking with Prim, or family time at New Years, I haven’t just had fun since my father died. It fills me with a deep ache in my heart. My father and I used to spend time together just singing with the mockingjays. Sometimes, he would seat me on his lap and teach me to sing in harmony with him. Silly songs. Folk songs. Love songs. I learned them all, and now waching Madge laugh as Colleen fudges up her part of Heart and Soul, I almost feel I could cry. For the first time, it doesn’t feel quite so much like death and loss, but life and growth. The cracking of a shell I’m out-growing. I’ve never considered that new life comes in to the world to us with pain, so much as I have fixated on the losing of it.

Gale and I stop trading with Peeta as of November. We split the grain he gives us between our families, and go straight to the new bakery in the Seam if we need bread. Greasy Sae has partnered with it to give it even more legitimacy, if such is a concern in a black market, and it is gaining popularity quickly. I am told there was a problem with the other bakery at the Hob. The system worked where children could sell there tesserae grain for coin, and that grain would be milled down and baked and sold at the Hob. Before Peeta, that was the best most people could hope for for a bakery in the Seam. With Jude selling now, fewer people were buying tesserae bread, or even having to sell as much tesserae grain for coin. Jude and Jet had almost come to blows with the other baker, I think his name was Mr. Salter, before people came to break it up before the Peacekeepers were forced to actually remember they were on duty. Peeta sorted it out by arranging to pay the Salter family help him mill down his grain, since it’s hard for them to farm, bake, and mill, all by themselves, and now they’ve settled into a reluctant sort of truce. Jude has not been condemned to the mines.

But death comes anyway. It’s unstoppable. Colleen looks sombre come February.

“Did something happen?” Madge asks, concerned.

“Peeta’s mother died.”

None of us say much after that, but after pacing around the woods guilty, I visit Peeta for the first time in four months. When he answers the door he looks dreadfully exhausted. His eyes have a haunted quality to them, and his hair seems simultaneously lank and uncombed. There is stubble where he is usually so clean shaven.

“Hey, Katniss.” He mumbles and motions for me to enter.

“I, um, heard about your mother.” I offer tentatively as I place several squirrels on the table for him.

He sits down and sighs with weariness that is soul-deep.

“Yeah, it’s no surprise really. She’s been sick for awhile, and had stroke a few years back besides.”

I hadn’t known that she was sick. I should’ve known that. Guilt is rising steadily in me, as Peeta emotionally runs his hand through his hair which waves in a way that makes it clear he’s been doing that a lot today. I have never seen him sit with such a slump in his shoulders before. Not knowing what else to do, I decide to cook the squirrel. I remember how hard it can be to move when you lose a parent, how simple tasks can seem monumental. I’m not a brilliant cook; I’ve never had much opportunity to learn, but I think I can handle a stew. Something about the smell seems to wake Peeta up and he enters the kitchen as the stew is bubbling.

“Thank you.”

I just nod. Saying “You’re welcome,” seems trite somehow. This was the least that should be expected. I have been a poor friend to him.

“I didn’t expect it to be so hard,” he continues as he sits down, his voice has this hollow quality to it. “She and I were never close. I was her disgrace…but now that she’s gone. I guess, I don’t know, there’s no way to ever make it right. Not that it was ever going to be made right, of course. Ever. So what’s the use in–” he waves half-heartedly with his hand, unable to articulate himself for once. All I do is hand him over a bowl of soup. You can’t go wrong with feeding someone, right? I pass him a spoon, and I can tell something’s wrong by the way he stares at it, turning it back and forth before his eyes like it is the key to some kind of puzzle. He drops the spoon and covers his face with his hands. His sobs are mostly soundless, but I can tell they are there by the shaking of his shoulders. They wrack his whole body.

After a time, I hesitantly place a hand on his shoulder, and start to rub his back. This seems to help a little. I’m half tempted to sing to him, like I would to Prim, but he’s a grown man and that feels strange so I restrain myself. It hurts to see him like this. I’ve never really registered how alone he is. He’s here, in this house, alone, even though he has a father, two married brothers, and several nieces and nephews. It is I who comforts him. I can feel my heart swell with the absurd need to cradle and protect a man so many years my senior. When he calms, he gently places a large, warm hand over my small one, and smiles. I smile gently back.

“Sorry to do that in front of you.”

“It’s fine.”

“Thanks for the soup. It helps. The kids’ll be in soon, and then I’ve got to go meet with my brothers and Dad about the arrangements.”

“If you ever need anything, please just…let me know.” I say the words earnestly and hesitantly, because I’ve never considered before that I could be of any real help to Peeta Mellark. His face lights a slight amount anyway, and he seems more like himself. He tugs my braid lightly and musses my hair and says he’ll bear that in mind. The gesture squeezes my heart in a way that pains. I know what I’ve always known, that he sees me as a cute kid, the daughter of a good friend, but it’s better that way I think as I walk home. There’s no reason that should hurt me. If I ever had to be attracted to anybody, best to be attracted to someone way beyond me. Peeta is older, from Town. It could never work. He’d never notice me, so I have nothing to fear. I can, however, be a partner to him, and more than just in trade. Gale and I share the burdens of having to help support our households. It makes things easier. I can do the same with Peeta, and bringing him some of Prim’s old clothes for Sarai is a good start, because no one deserves to shoulder the burdens of a family alone. I mean to bridge that gap however I can.

Chapter Three: Artless

“Why art?” I remember asking Peeta shortly after I’d first started trading with him.

“What do you mean why art?”

“I mean…no offence…but, isn’t it a waste of time, even money?”

Peeta took his time in giving me a response. It was something I always appreciated about him. He never belittled me, and spoke to me with respect. When he answered he was still sort of staring into space.

“You can starve physically, but your soul can starve too. You can survive, but have no reason to live. Art feeds the soul.” He pauses and looks over at me. “You know how when you’re tired you can sit down and not want to get up again? You can. But you don’t. You can give up.” Immediately I am brought back to the apple tree where I had sat lost, weak, and weary. I could have gotten up, as I proved when Peeta gave me the bread, but before the hope he gave me, I wouldn’t have believed I could at all. I had no defense. “Art gives rise to hope, and validation of pain. It’s important, Katniss.”

I nodded, content to never bring the topic up again, but after a lull in the conversation I thought was over, Peeta added one final thought. “Your father used to sing all the time. I always loved to draw, but I dare say he taught me the power of it.”

I still haven’t truly sang since my father died, not to anyone other than Prim. I once stood at the edge of the lake my father brought me, not long after that talk with Peeta, and considered opening my mouth and letting the song that flooded to the back of my teeth pour out, but when I saw the mockingjays, I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sing and know they would take up the call and sing it again, and again after me for who knew how long. I knew singing again without my father would crack through some barrier that dammed the grief in me, and if I started, would I stop? And how could I bear the mockingjays carrying my pain onward and onward and onward, magnifying it for all to hear? I am too small for that. Too weak. So I don’t sing.

It hadn’t stopped someone else from their own brand.

It was In the spring, shortly before my sixteenth birthday, that I first noticed it. Graffiti on buildings depicting the faces of fallen tributes, or supporting the miners, or deriding the excesses of the Capitol. I’d never seen anything like it before. We usually try to forget the Reaping exists during the rest of the year, not like we ever do of course, but we tuck our heads down and move on. I’ve never seen anyone calling attention to it before, honouring those we’ve lost. I’m not sure how I feel about it, but Gale loves it, of course.

He thinks it’s great to stir people up, take down the Capitol. I want to point out that it’s useless if we’re all by ourselves, one tiny district, but know from experience he won’t listen. He says it would be great if some Townie got reaped so maybe they’d fight alongside us. In truth, I never dreamed he’d get his wish.

I am a mess the 74th games. It is Prim’s first time, and even though the odds are most in your favour the first time, somehow it feels like the worst. I jerkily lead her up to the counter where peacekeepers are taking blood for their records, and guide her through the process. I hardly even noticed when they prick my finger. When I tell her I will find her immediately after the ceremony is done, I know I am reassuring her as much as myself. I love Prim like I love myself…more actually.

Colleen is waiting for me in the area for sixteen year olds and she grasps my hand tightly. I know she is as worried for Cole as I am for Prim, but she’s been through this a couple of times already. I’m not used to this kind of fear. I squeeze her hand back in solidarity and appreciation. She offers me a tight smile I can’t bring myself to return. I stare fruitlessly at the bowl and beg it will not call my name, not Prim’s name, or Madge’s, or Colleen’s, or Cole’s, or Gale’s, and muse that in spite of my best efforts, I care far too much. I don’t want it to be anyone, but I can’t stop that, so I must protect my own. There is a tension in the air, as Effie Trinket quickly reads the name more intent on maintaining her tenuous grasp on her wig then appreciating what she’s doing.

“Flouer Mellark!”

And a fifteen year old girl from Town is reaped: Peeta’s niece.

Colleen and I exchange looks. I can read in her eyes what must be in my own. Was the Reaping punitive? It must be even worse for her, because Mellark is her last name now too. Peeta had adopted them all a few months ago when Jude’s Bakery took off. Colleen grabs my hand even tighter, so much so I fear the circulation must be cut off, but I do the same to her. WIll it be Peeta’s nephew, or will it be Cole, who is the only other boy Peeta cares about who might be eligible? Or if it is about trading in the Hob, what is it’s Gale? My breathing loosens when it’s a boy from the Seam, Terrence Carter–but it’s still horrifying to see it is a twelve year old boy. Twelve year olds are seldom Reaped, but when they are, they come from the very back of the crowd, a longer walk, a longer torment, as if the Capitol wants to rub it in our faces what they do.

Tears are streaming down Colleen’s face now, and the moment we are cleared to leave she runs to find her brother, as I run to find Prim. I clutch her in my arms, breath her scent in, run my fingers through her hair. I need to know she is here, real, in my arms.

“Oh, Katniss,” she sobs, “how awful.” I can only imagine how this felt to her. I had tried to comfort her, comfort myself, saying her name was only in there once, but so had Terrence’s been. Besides, she knows who the Mellark’s are and that drives it home too. No one is safe. How can anyone choose to go through this?

“Hush, Little Duck,” I say as I pull away and tuck in her shirt again. “How about we bring them some strawberries?”

She nods and wipes her tears with the back of her hands. Mom is here now and she hugs Prim too and squeezes my shoulder with her free hand, a teary-eyed smile on her lips.

Gale is waiting at the edge of the crowd, and I motion to my mother and Prim to go on home first. I give him a hug, the first we’ve ever shared.

“Congratulations.” I whisper, trying to remind myself to also be grateful I’ll never have to worry about him being Reaped again.

“Yeah, it’s great,” he says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Maybe he’s thinking about Rory who will be eligible next year. I know I am. “Who’d have thought it’d be someone from Town? Maybe now they’ll know what it’s like.”

“Don’t joke like that Gale.” I glare at him. He doesn’t comment on it.

“So,” he puts his hands in his pockets, and rocks back and forth on his heels, “I was wondering if you’d like to celebrate with me?”

“Celebrate?”

“Yeah, everyone who’s aged out this year. We’re all meeting in the meadow. You want to come?”

There’s an urgency in his eyes, and a nervousness in his tone that make me think this must be more important than I realise, but my mind is at the Mellark house, so I don’t think too much when I reply.

“Of course, I’ll be there. I’ll meet you after dinner.”

“Great!” His eyes light up, and his smile is wider than I’ve seen in ages, and I am happy for him, so I try not to let my distractedness show as he walks me home and prattles on inanely. I nod and hum at appropriate intervals, a practice I am well-versed in given my conversational skills are nil at the best of times.

When I knock on the door with the basket of strawberries in my hand, it is Jet who opens the door for me. He motions me in, and I don’t comment on the shadows under his eyes. Inside, Sarai is softly sobbing in Colleen’s arms; Cole, next to her, has his eyes closed and is leaning on her shoulder. Eliot is stiff as board on the sofa. Jet sits down next to them, and rests the strawberries on the table. No one eats them.

“Is he still at the Justice Building?”

“Yeah,” Jet’s voice breaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “Jude and his wife’s with him. Or were. Family didn’t want the Seam there.” He sighs and rests his chin on his clasped hands.

I stand there awkwardly until the door bursts open. My heart falls when it is Jude and Maria not Peeta.

“He’ll be here in five minutes.” Jude explains awkwardly.

“How bad was it?”

“His brother punched him across the jaw.”

“Shit.” Jet groans.

“Language!” Colleen reprimands him pulling Sarai in closer. He ignores her and goes up to thump Jude on the back in masculine affirmation. Maria announces she’s going to make dinner and courteously thanks me for the strawberries. I feel out of place as Jude flops down next to Jet. I’m the only one standing, but this isn’t my house, and I doubt it would be polite to sit. Maybe I should go, but I don’t feel I can do that until I see Peeta.

He walks in not long after, and already there is the beginnings of a nasty bruise on his left eye. His movements are slowed; his exhaustion is evident.

“Dad,” Sarai rushes over to him, and he kneels to the floor to grasp her in a tight hug. He closes his eyes so tightly I think he must be hiding tears. As the others gather around, I slip out the door feeling like a voyeur.

I almost don’t remember I agreed to go to Gale’s celebration, but halfway through washing the dishes after a silent post-Reaping meal, I head off to the meadow.

Gale is already there. A few people are playing some upbeat songs, and I can tell the Ripper’s liquor has already started to be passed around the large crowd of eighteen year olds.

“Catnip!” Gale waves me over, and introduces me to his friends, Thom, Bristel, Jason, and Axel. “You all know who Katniss is, of course.” He gestures towards me proudly, but all can think is that of course they know who I am. I know my reputation. The surly, halfie, criminal who can kill you from a distance. Daughter of the the Townie healer, with the sister with the fair features. Other. Alien. Jack Everdeen’s daughter.

I am deeply uncertain why Gale wants me here. I am useless with conversation, and I don’t know anyone here. Gale and I spend time together in the woods, but we’ve never done much outside of that. But then I realise maybe that’s the point. I won’t be able to see Gale terribly much after he enters the mines. He’ll only be free on Sundays, so I try to put my best foot forward which I think he appreciates.

I don’t know how well I do, there’s only so much one can say about the weather, the seasons, and the coal. It’s an unwritten rule not to talk about the Reaping, but I still I detect a general sentiment that “at least it’s a Townie this time,” and “now they’ll know what it feels like” which makes me uncomfortable in it’s callousness. They’re all just children. I dance a few dances, and almost have fun, as much as one can at theses sorts of things where you’re never told what you have to do, and what’s expected of you, which leaves someone like me hanging awkwardly wondering how many gaffes they make a second. The only comfort I have is that initially, I can follow Gale’s lead as he drags me around everywhere to introduce me. Once I exhaust my sparse reserves of small talk I cautiously retreat to a corner while Gale takes swigs out of one of the several bottles of white liquor making its rounds. I wonder how long I’m obliged to stay here before I can go home politely. It has been a taxing day and all I want to do is sleep.

As it gets colder and darker, I wrap my arms around myself and realise I forgot to grab a sweater before heading out. My Reaping dress is thin and short-sleeved. I decide I’m just going to go home when Gale notices my discomfort and slips his jacket around me saying he’ll walk me back. Behind him some boys who notice the interaction jeer and wolf-whistle. I’d shoot them a glare, but I am honestly too tired to care. We are just up at my doorstep when Gale grabs my arm.

“Listen, Catnip, we’re both older now, and I’ll be in the mines soon.”

I wearily lift my eyes up to his to hear him out when he grabs my cheeks and pulls my face up to kiss me. I can smell the liquor on him. I am so shocked it takes me a moment to respond. I shove him away with both hands and run inside, trying to ignore the dismayed look on his face. I feel like the ground is rocking under me, and I fall to the ground once I am inside. I wrap my arms around my knees and finally, finally give into my tears. How could he kiss me like that, when he knows how I feel about it, without even asking, and on a day like today when I see what could be all my worst fears realised?

Prim is a sleep, but Momma comes to the front door. She must hear my crying.

“Oh, Katniss,” she whispers sympathetically, and wraps her arms around me soothingly rocking me into her chest. It’s been years since I’ve allowed her to hold me like this, not since Dad died, and it turns a key in my chest that makes me sob all the harder. Somehow it feels good. Momma plants a kiss on my head.

I drop Gale’s jacket on the Hawthorne’s doorsept early the next morning, and go squirrel hunting. Gale, fortunately, is not there. He’s probably still hungover. I work quickly, and soon I am at Peeta’s with fresh meat.

“It’s not to trade.” I murmur when he opens the door. He nods me in and says I don’t have to do that. I already brought them strawberries. I decide to pretend I didn’t hear him since I don’t know what to say.

“The kids are still asleep then?”

“Yeah.”

“It is still quite early.”

“It is.”

The stuntedness is more than I can take, so I address the obvious issue.

“You’re eye looks bad. Is it true your brother hit you?”

“Yes. It is.” He looks away at the kitchen. “Do you want breakfast?”

“Sure.” But I know he’s trying to change the subject.

“Did your brother think it was punitive?”

“Yeah.” His back is to me at the stove so all I can see are clenched muscles and slumped shoulders.

“Do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. They could’ve reaped any of my children if they wanted to do that. Not my nieces. It could just be a coincidence, or maybe they just didn’t want to be too obvious. I don’t know.” He sighs and his hands still. “Either way it doesn’t matter. Over this last year, fewer people than ever have had to take tesserae, which means the odds were less in favour of the Merchants than ever. So either way….I suppose you could argue it’s my fault.”

I frown, uncertain which side to take. “Are you going to stop?”

“No,” he shakes his head firmly. It’s the strongest gesture he’s made since I arrived. “I knew the risks when I started this. More people starve everyday then are reaped every year. The bakery helps with that. I just never expected to have to face the consequences so…soon.” He’s gripping the edge of the counter so tightly now that I can see his knuckles whiten. I can’t help myself. I go up and wrap my arms around him, and he reciprocates. We stand there for a few moments until he extracts himself murmuring a thank you.

“So, how are things for you?” He finally asks, and I grant him the reprieve. There’s nothing more to say in any case. Sorry doesn’t change a damn thing.

“Gale kissed me.” I blurt out. Against my will I scan his face for a reaction. I don’t know what I was hoping for, but all I get out of him is raised eyebrows.

“And you didn’t like it?”

“No!” I cross my arms. “I’ve told him time and again I don’t want marriage or kids. I told him yesterday morning before he even tried. What’s wrong with him?”

Peeta chuckles which contrasts to the stain of grief that remains on his face. I hate him for laughing at my plight.

“He’s an eighteen year old boy, Katniss. He’s just survived his last Reaping. He’s got his whole life ahead of him, and he wants to share it with a remarkable woman. He overstepped his bounds. It’s not the end of the world.”

“I’m not remarkable.” I grumble. Peeta places a hand on my shoulder and turns me to face him directly.

“Yes, you are.” I pretend I can’t feel myself blush under his stare.

“I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you.” He reassures me touching my cheek in a friendly manner. “Tell Gale how you feel, and if he’s as good a friend as you say he is, then he’ll come around, and accept it.”

“I just hate all the presumptions!” I hate that I’m whining too, but it is so annoying. “Everyone assumes we’re together. I never thought he would just assume too! And now I’m getting older, and the mines are looming, all everyone seems to talk about is boys and marriage.”

“I suppose they figure partnership makes it more bearable.”

“Not me.” I scowl. He laughs lightly.

“Don’t worry about it. Look at me!” He says as he flips eggs that have been frying in the pan too long. “I’ve never married, and I’m doing just fine.” I crook my lips at that one.

“You’ve adopted a bunch of kids and have a terrible reputation.”

“True!” He taps my nose with his index finger. “So don’t be like me.” Then the glint leaves his eyes, and he remembers what happened yesterday. I reach out and grasp his hand. We stay like that a long while as the eggs cool to rubber.

Gale and I don’t talk again until the day after the bloodbath. It’s clear he’s been avoiding me. When we finally meet up again in the woods I rail at him for kissing me and not even having the guts to face me afterward. I hadn’t appreciated splitting my haul with a man who wasn’t there. He at least has the decency to pretend to look ashamed, but I know he isn’t because he says it was just because he had a bit too much to drink, and had originally planned to “ease me into it.” Whatever the Hell that means. I’m not known for being fickle.

“I know you don’t like the idea, Katniss, but I also know you hate the mines. They might turn a blind eye to you poaching, but only if you’re working too. What are you going to say when you turn eighteen? Are you going to go down the mines?”

“I could say I’m a healer like mom!”

He laughs. “Yeah, like that’s going to work.”

“It might!”

“Never mind. Let’s just get on with it.”

I hate that he’s probably right, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t like being talked down too like that. It is a very tense hunt.

Flouer Mellark dies in the bloodbath. Peeta leaves the bakery in Town.

Every time I got to trade in Town I can feel the resentment. I can feel the glares at me, even worse than usual for being from the Seam. I can also feel anger towards the Capitol though. It’s palpable. The Mellarks, Peeta aside, are a respected family here. Meanwhile, at the Hob, Sae starts up a fund to sponsor Terrence. He is killed by the Careers on the fourth day.

No one knows what to do with the coin. We hadn’t had a chance to send it in yet, and Sae hadn’t exactly been keeping records of who gave what. It is Jude who suggests they send it to Rue. When we see there isn’t quite enough yet to get her something decent, he convinces Peeta to ask for donations in Town. I am deeply sceptical, but Peeta rallies his few friends and so angry are the people in Town at the Careers and the Capitol, they donate, and we send Rue some bread. When she receives the bread that is obviously not from her District and thanks us, and everyone in the crowd cheers. I notice the Peacekeepers grip their weapons tighter. I notice Gale is grinning.

We all root for Rue to win, and she lasts longer than I think any twelve year old has before, but she dies when the Careers smoke her out of the tree she hides in. Her death is cruel, painful, sadistic, and brutal. Everyone looks traumatised for weeks. Mockingjays with Rue’s face are found in alleyways making everyone stew. I don’t know if it’s one artists or several that grafiti the District, but they stir us up. Our only consolation is that for once someone from an outlying District wins, someone we actually like: Thresh. If you can call it a consolation when it is a rallying point. There is a curling in my stomach that tells me I need to ask Peeta a few pointed questions, but I decide it’s better not to know.

Chapter Four: Catching Fire

Summer break begins soon after the Games end, and I don’t see much of the Mellarks. All of them disappear into the woods from dawn until dusk to harvest the wheat. I keep an eye on them intermittently between my own prolific hunting. Summer is when you store up for Winter. Everytime I see them, they are hard at work. Jet and Peeta do the scything. Colleen and Cole bundle, and the youngest two rake. That’s just the beginning of course; they also have to thresh and winnow what they’ve gathered. After that, they’ll have to prepare the land to plant the corn. Whenever I catch them working, I invariably think of Thresh, and how skills like this had helped him survive. He knew how to handle a scythe; he knew how to survive in the forest of grain they provided for him. I wonder if the Gamemakers had planned to have an outlier win this year, to keep things from being too boring. It seemed a bit of an advantage for anyone with farming experience, like people from Eleven raised in fields of grain. I wonder if they’re regretting it.

Thresh has been a difficult victor to say the least. His shout, “For Rue!” when he made his last kill has been taken by the District as something of a rallying cry. I’ve seen the phrase graffitied everywhere. During his victor interview, much like his tribute interview, he really made Caesar work for every word. There was seething resentment in him, and tears that shone hatred in his eyes when he saw Rue die. He made it clear he thought anyone who participated or enjoyed that kind of thing was monstrous. It didn’t matter how much the Capitol tried to edit his interview. There really was no salvaging it. I worry all the time about the consequences for him, but so far he’s still around. I can’t imagine what the Victory Tour will be like.

Gale is thrilled by what he’s seen. Ever since he’s started down the mines, he’s been even more of a ticking bomb than ever. Resentment spills out of his every pore. He was made for more than back-breaking minework in unsafe conditions for which he gets a pittance.

“Don’t you see, Catnip! This proves that the other Districts feel the same way we do!”

“Maybe they do, Gale, but we’re all still trapped by fences.” I wish he would be rational. “Do you even know how you’d communicate with them? Let alone ally with them?”

“Thresh is coming here on the tour, isn’t he? We can get him a message then.”

“How? How are you going to get close enough to him?”

He rolls his eyes at me. “All we need is a signal. Someone to shout from the crowd we support him.”

“And get us all killed.”

“They can’t kill all of us, Catnip. Where would they get their coal?”

“Didn’t save Thirteen.” I point out cynically.

“Look, we’re all on camera. Maybe they’ll edit it out in post-production, but maybe other Districts will see what we did too.” He looks down at me in frustration. “I don’t know why you’re fighting me on this, Katniss.”

“I’m not! But there’s no point in having this rebellion if it doesn’t work. I’m not risking my life, let along my sister’s and mother’s on some fool’s scheme!” My chest rises and falls with each rapid breath. “When I’m sure you’ve thought this through, maybe I’ll consider joining.” He internalises this. His eyes are watching me in a manner that is calculating, and, for once, I can’t fathom what’s in the recesses of his mind. Do I know him as well as I think?

“Alright, Catnip. I will. I’ll give you a plan. It’s simple. We get to Thresh. He gets word out to the other districts, other victors, maybe. We make bows, weapons, grab the tools from the mines, take the Peacekeepers. The miners are angry, Katniss. We’d do it. If we can coordinate that with the other districts, we could take the Capitol.”

“They. Have. Bombs. Gale!” I spit through gritted teeth.

“We have a victor who is an ally in the Capitol.”

“And?”

“Maybe he can cripple them somehow.”

“It’s a bit much to hope.”

“All at once, maybe, but if we plan this over a few years. It could work.”

It might. I reluctantly concede to that. We spend the rest of out time in the woods in silence, but I can tell from the distant look in his eyes that Gale is scheming. Right before we leave, he shocks me with that he says.

“Your friend, Madge, the mayor’s daughter.”

“What of her?” I ask cautiously. Gale’s never liked her.

“She’ll be at the banquet when Thresh comes here, won’t she? She could get a message to him, discreetly. Could you talk to her about it?”

I muse over it a bit, but Madge has mentioned her Aunt Maysilee a few times. I know she has a rebellious spirit in her, it’s evident if only in who she choose to befriend. And, in truth, as careful as I’ve learned to be, I want to end these Hunger Games. I want to rebel. I tell Gale I’ll talk to her about it. Something this simple is small, not likely to hurt anyone, but could have impact.

I broach the subject with Madge when she joins me gathering in the woods. She looks intrigued.

“I’ll need to be able to tell him what kind of support to expect.” She muses. “You’ll need to know how many miners are involved, how far they’re willing to go, but, yes, I’ll certainly do it. Actually,” she adds hesitantly, but I see pride in her eyes as she raises them to mine. “My family has been rebels for ages.” Then she bites her lip, before adding something that confounds me. “Just tell Gale to be careful about running his mouth in the mines. New shafts should be fine, but I’m pretty sure the Capitol bugs them to make sure there isn’t anything treasonous that might translate into action. I can’t be sure, but I��ve heard it speculated that that’s why there was that accident years ago. The one your father died in.”

“You mean…?” Could it be possible? My father poached. He was hardly a law-abiding citizen, but I had never considered he might have been a rebel in the revolutionary sense. I suppose it could explain the lack of support we received afterwards. I still don’t doubt it was because my father’s marriage was so unpopular, because everyone was too wrapped up to care, but now there might be another reason as well.

“Yeah.” Madge nods. “I don’t know much, but my aunt and your mother were friends. I think that’s what got your mother into it, when she saw Aunt Maysilee die.”

My mother, a rebel? I can hardly imagine it, but then again, she did leave everything she’d ever known to marry me father. She’d been brave once, rebellious. I feel a stirring of desire to know her again burning up inside me warring with the urge to keep her at a distance to protect myself. A war that has been going on in earmest since she held me after Gale kissed me.

I’m going to have to talk to her.

“Yes, it’s true.”

“Seriously?” She says it so casually. Yes, it’s true. I feel my mind spinning, but at the same time it’s like it’s falling into place, being screwed on right, because it makes a bizarre sort of sense.

“You were rebels?”

“Yes,” my mother nods again. She sips her tea before she elaborates. We’re both sitting at the kitchen table. Prim is out with a friend. Despite the fact that we are talking about Dad, or perhaps because of it, Momma seems more animated than ever. “I grew up thinking, if not nasty things, than superior things about the Seam.” She explains. “I never imagined I would ever visit here, let alone live here. But one day, your father showed up, asking to trade meat for antibiotics. A boy had been horribly whipped, and needed help. My father refused him, but I admired his courage in coming there. There was something shining in his eyes. It was well-known that my family believed in doing business only with those who had the coin. Your father went on about how the young boy was the only child left to a widowed woman. Something about the entire scene touched me, so I followed your father out. I got him the medication. That started everything.”

“You said you met when he came to trade plants with you?”

“I did. The whippings back then were terrible. After Haymitch won, new peacekeepers were brought in, and the punishments were absolutely barbaric. My parents said we shouldn’t help; the people involved were criminal, and it would only cause trouble. The truth is, I wanted to cause trouble. I watched my best friend die a horrific death on live television. Haymitch tried to help her; they were allies. I thanked him for that once.” She quiets as she becomes lost in a distant memory. She shakes herself out of it. “I was angry at the Capitol for what they’d done, and I was sixteen so sneaking out to heal the backs of those who were whipped for defying them seemed a terribly grand idea.” I can see it now. My mother, before grief diminished her, sneaking out to help those in need. I’m proud of her, I realise. “I told your father I couldn’t help him with Capitol-grade medicines again, so I looked through the Plant Book, and told him which herbs to gather. I suppose I realised interacting with all these Seam families that they weren’t so different, the depth of the unfairness. It’s not often someone from Town is Reaped, but now that I knew how devastating it was…I couldn’t imagine what it must be like to face that all the time.” She shrugs, takes another sip of her tea, and concludes. “So that’s how I fell in love with your father, and, yes, eventually, we joined organised rebellion.”

“I don’t know what to say.” I mumble. I twist my head trying to process what I’ve just heard. Momma reaches out to grasp my hand.

“It was nothing I meant to hide from you,” she says softly, “but first you were too young, and then…”

“And then…” I conclude, knowing exactly what she means.

“When Jack died, I feared it was my fault,” she whispers. “Did I get him killed?”

For the first time in years, I go up and wrap my arms around my mother. I love you, I think to myself, because I do. My mother has never turned anyone away, has always healed everybody, and I know, once she came back, she did all she knew how to do for us. Slowly, haltingly, those words cross my lips, and as we cry together, our tears intermingle.

Afterwards she lifts a trembling hand and wipes my tears away.

“I understand why you’re so reticent to have children, you know.” She says tremulously. “Your father and I waited years to have you, until things were safer. I knew better than most do how to avoid a pregnancy. But, sweetheart, I never regretted marrying your father, or having you and your sister. There’s things I wish I’d done differently, but I’ve never regretted it. And if I hadn’t done it, I know I would have always wondered, and that would have been worse. I don’t know what happened between you and Gale, but if he isn’t for you, then he isn’t. I rejected men too, but if you’re afraid…be honest, and consider if it’s worth the risk. I’d never take back what I had with your father for the pain of his loss. And you’re not alone, not like before. Prim and I will stand by you, if nothing else.” She closes her eyes and I touch her hand, the one that wiped my tears. “If you do want to talk to me about that, Katniss, I can listen.” Then she moves to wash up the dishes, and I help her dry. Momma’s like me that way. She says what she has to say, but she’s not wordy. The silence between us communicates what we cannot. It is not shards of ice that let in a chill wind, but a warm chord that hums between us.

I warn Gale about talking in the mines, and about what Madge says, and it fires him up. In light of what I now know, I also try to corner Peeta to talk to him, but even past the harvesting and planting season, he’s hard to find. When I come over with some clothes Prim has outgrown, Colleen greets me at the door, and encourages Sarai to try them on. As she excitedly does, Colleen confides in me that Peeta has been distant ever since the Games. He throws himself into his work, and barely surfaces at the end of the day. He’s gone early in the morning.

“It’s true,” Sarai confirms as she gathers up the clothes that don’t fit her anymore. They’ll likely one day be Posy’s. “He doesn’t tell stories like he used to.” Colleen brushed back her little sister’s hair comfortingly and something rends in my chest.

I go home and stew for hours before marching into the woods to find Peeta. He’s there, sure enough, and I storm up to him hissing at him to come talk to me.

“What do you think you’re doing?” I reprimand as soon as we are out of Jet’s earshot.

“Farming.” He replies blandly, although I detect shock in his eyes at my dressing down. I suppose it’s true I’ve never dared talk to him like this, then again, have I ever had to?

“I’ve barely seen a peep of you in weeks,” which hurt more than I want to admit, “and now I have to hear from Colleen and Sarai that you’ve been all checked out?” I fight the tears forming in my eyes, because it brings back uncomfortable memories. “I’m not your daughter, and even I haven’t appreciated not being able to talk to you, how do you think they feel?”

“I’m sorry.” He stammers. “I-”

“I really don’t care.” I throw my hands up in the air. “Just stop. Do better.”

I storm off, but he follows me, and grabs me by the left forearm twisting me around.

“I am sorry,” he speaks earnestly. “I hadn’t realised I was hurting you or them. I just…I don’t know. Whenever I’m upset, I work.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I have ever since I was a boy, kneading bread is a good way to work out anger. It’s always worked before, and it means things get done that…appease people, I guess.” He shakes his head. “It doesn’t work now though. I hurt all the time. It never goes away, and now Maria’s pregnant, and-

“Maria’s pregnant?!”

“Yes. And I can’t help wondering what’s going to happen, and if maybe I’ve screwed up, and my brother won’t look me in the eye, or talk to me, or accept anything from me, and then I go home, and wonder if I haven’t condemned every single one of them. I just…” He looks skyward and blinks rapidly. I know he’s trying not to cry, and I don’t know what to say.

“Is it true you’re part of the rebellion?” I blurt out instead. He looks gobsmacked again. It seems to be a day for it.

“Yes. Did you figure out from the art?”

“Partially,” I admit, “but Mom told me today about how she and Daddy were in with the rebels, and you said you knew him, and you said he taught you about art. You said he used to sing. It reminded me of the Hanging Tree, and how he used to sing that, but Momma would tell him to be careful. So, I just wondered if…”

“If that’s how we met?”

I nod.

“No. We met because he traded with me, but he was the one who brought me into the Rebellion. I felt like I had to get involved.”

“Why?”

“Because of Jude, I suppose, and the others when they came. So many children starving, I can’t feed them all. Even with the new bakery, I can’t feed them all. Then, I realised I was a father, and how could I be a good father, if I turned a blind eye to something threatening my kids?” He sighs and looks deflated. “My mom used to hit me. My dad did nothing. The Games are worse than being hit, and I couldn’t do nothing the way he did.” He shrugs his shoulders. “That’s how I got in.”

“Just tell them that then.” I say. “They’ll understand that you’re fighting for them. You’re all in too deep now.”

“Do you think they’ll forgive me?” He whispers, and in the curling of his torso I can see what it had cost him to admit this. The family he was born into turned against him. Does he expect the one he created will as well?

“I wouldn’t worry about it. I forgave.” I pause. “And I’m not always good at that.”

He smiles. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

He laughs. “Yelling at me. I guess, I needed it.”

I lean up on my tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek and head home.

Rebellious sentiment spreads quickly. The idea of trying to make contact with other districts proves popular, and while not everyone is willing to join in actively now, they do say that if the Districts unite, they’ll fight. Our district is small so we’ll need a lot of the population to fight, but with the addition of Peeta’s farming, there’s more self-sufficiency, and that means more people who see hope. Which means there’s a shot. I tell Madge everything and she dutifully promises to relay the information. Gale’s ambitious and he hopes that maybe if they show something on camera, it’ll get through during the mandatory viewing, reach more than just Eleven. I don’t know who organises it, or how it’s decided, but when the Victory Tour finally comes, a recording goes off during Thresh’s clearly scripted speech of Rue’s four note tune, and someone shouts For Rue! And gets carted off. Thresh nods in solidarity. We are all put under curfew.

Regardless, Madge is able to get her message to him, and Thresh tells her District Eleven had an uprising after Rue’s death, and are chomping at the bit for freedom. And having been on Tour, he can confirm that other Districts are angry too. Word is quickly spread through the mines, and soon people are whistling various four note tunes in solidarity.

Gale is extremely eager.

“Don’t you see, Catnip!” He exclaims. “It’s closer than ever!” He crows in the woods, and I let him. In spite of myself, I am excited too. “Maybe a couple more years, and we’ll have them. We’ll have them.” I smile at his enthusiasm, even if I think it’s a bit premature. “And what about us, Catnip?” He turns around and looks at me with shining eyes.

“What about us?” I hedge. All the delight in his exclamations dies.

“I know you’re worried about having kids, Katniss, but if we built a whole, new, better world, it would be different.” He says it so hopefully, almost confidently that I can’t bring myself to crush him. Besides, I don’t know if he’s wrong. Without the Games, with access to food and Capitol-grade medicine, I really wouldn’t object to having kids, but the idea of opening my heart like that hurts. I do consider it though, I already care about Gale, care about a lot of people, maybe there’s no stopping it. Momma’s right too, we aren’t nearly so helpless now. So I say,

“Maybe I can be different.”

And maybe I can, but when I dare to dream, since I’m dreaming anyway, I dream of blonde hair and blue eyes. Even though I know it’s as likely to happen as pigs flying.

It’s Peeta who first tells me about Thirteen. It is Madge who confirms it. It’s a game-changer really. Weapons are an issue for us. We don’t have a whole lot to fight with. Knowing someone could supply us with arms helps. If every district, or even of most districts, can take their Peacekeepers, we’ll have a shot at the Capitol. It’s sensitive knowledge though, and not something we can blast around which makes recruitment difficult. I don’t do much of any of it, but Gale rales in the mines, and Peeta is working on it in Town with a friend. I provide a listening ear to them both. One thing everyone is nervous about, riled up about, is the upcoming Quarter Quell, and both Gale and Peeta are using that to their advantage.

But Winter is difficult, even more so than usual. Most people become so intent on heating their homes, and overcoming illness, we know we’ll have to wait until spring to really start the conversation up again.

Eliot drags home another girl from the Community Home. She’s three years old, adorable, and her name is Crystal. She’s recently orphaned. After a couple months, she’s one of the many who fall ill. She’s still far from the last. Mom and Prim are gone all hours of the day and night for weeks trying to keep on top of it all, but there’s not much they can do. It drags on and on. There’s speculation it’s punishment, biological warfare from the Capitol, but we don’t know and it doesn’t matter. Either way, it changes nothing of our reality. I spend a lot of time at the Mellarks for support. Crystal coughs and sputters and tries to breath. We feed her as best we are able, and hold her head over steam to help her breath. We try to bring her fever down, and soothe her cough. Nothing works. Finally, I hold her and sing. It’s all I can do. Peeta stands in the doorway as she falls asleep. I see tears stream down his face.

She is in the ground come March.

“This is why I don’t want kids.” I mutter to Prim as we both cry in bed.

“That’s stupid,” she mumbles. “You cared about Crystal; she wasn’t yours. If you stop caring, I don’t think you’ll like yourself very much.”

I don’t know how to answer her, but I still feel a bit validated in my opinion when there is the Reading of the Card for the Quarter Quell.

“As a reminder that they only endangered their most vulnerable by rebelling, this years tributes will be Reaped from only the twelve year old population.”

My mother gasps. Prim cries. I stare.

Gale storms up to me and tells me to meet at the Mellarks for an emergency meeting. There I see Gale and Thom, a couple of other miners I know by sight and not name, and Peeta and his friend Melissa Donner. I gather these must be various cell leaders.

“We need to start the uprisings in May, before the Reaping.” Gale starts off the conversation, “People are furious about this. It’s perfect timing. They want to stomp us down, but we’ll rise up.” The conversation spirals from there. People are only just starting to recover from the harsh winter; we don’t have the numbers yet. It’s hard to organise a community of thousands. That’s why next year was more feasible. Just because Twelve was ready, didn’t mean all the other Districts were and so on. I agree to wait and Gale glares at me, but I don’t see and alternative.

Things don’t really fall apart until Gale and Peeta get into an argument. Peeta makes a reference to offering the Peacekeepers the choice to surrender, and Gale says it would endanger lives.

“Not all the Peacekeepers are bad, Gale.” He points out. I think of Darius and agree.

“If the White Shirts want to join us, that’s fine by me.” Gale growls back. “But I’m not giving them another opportunity to get one over on me.” He is met by enthusiastic agreement. “It’s Us v. Them.”

“How are they going to know to side with us, if we don’t offer them a chance?” I can see by the tenseness around Peeta’s eyes that he is angry, but his voice is carefully modulated and even. “We shouldn’t kill without mercy.”

“It’s war. Sacrifices have to be made. They’ll shoot with us or against us. That’s their choice, but I’m not taking any kind of risk that loses this for us. Anyone who sides with the Capitol is the enemy.”

“I’m so grateful to know, Gale, that anyone who even looks like something you don’t like is the enemy. It’s a wonder you’ll talk to us Townies at all. But, of course, it’s because you get something out of it, allies. I wonder what you’ll do when being allies with the Capitol benefits you more than not.”

Gale swings a punch and the meeting is quickly ended as we break the two men up.

“Are you alright?” I ask Peeta as he sits back down. He seems to need more from me than Gale.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You didn’t seem to be at your best.”

“I think Dad’s sick.” He whispers and I walk over and hug him tightly where he sits. “It’s no surprise. Dad’s getting on anyway. He’s almost sixty. It was really only a matter of time.” Releasing my hold a bit, I card my fingers through his curls trying to soothe him. When I’m done I caress my hand down his jaw. He stops my hand and looks up at me. There’s a focus in his gaze that’s raw, even new, and I immediately become aware of how close he is, how fast my heart is beating, and how my breath started for just a second. I don’t know who does it. I think I do it. But it’s the easiest thing in the world to press my lips to his. Slowly, oh, so slowly, our lips move, part in a gasp of pleasure, so light and tentative, like dragging your finger against a flower petal. Then closer, I press closer, feeling his hands on my hips. I change the angle of my head, and he bursts away. Footsteps pad down the stairs.

“Dad, is it over? Is everything okay?” Cole sidles up to us rubbing at his eyes, and we burst apart.

“It’s fine, son.” He ruffles the boy’s hair. He bounces his eyes past me, and I know we won’t be talking about this today. “Just a disagreement in method. You should be in bed.”

I take that as my cue and awkwardly say my goodbyes.

Peeta doesn’t meet my eyes at the door, and I wonder if I’ve ruined everything.

TBC….

#Springtime Edition 2019 #submission #wingletblackbird #animekpopxx #prompt 44

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theheartchoice · 5 years

Text

Lonely Is The Word

teen | 2k | canonverse s6 | ao3

for @profoundnet's bi-weekly Bot Stat challenge. prompt issued: April 30th 2019

Dean needs a beer. Cas is listening to angel radio. S̸a̵m̴ ̸i̶s̵ ̸f̵i̵n̵e̷.̸ ̷E̵v̵e̵r̵y̶t̵h̷i̴n̸g̴ ̵i̶s̵ ̷j̵u̶s̶t̵ ̷f̸i̴n̶e̷..̴.

Sam knows about his soulless gap year and Bobby's having a hard time trusting the resurrected version. Even without monsters, their lives are still a shitshow. Add in warring Angels and friggin' Purgatory-seeking Dragons and Dean just needs a second to breathe.

Dean only leaves because Sam is safe. No safer place than Bobby's. He just needs an hour or two to wrap his mind around things.

With Baby back to rights he drives 'til the sun dips below the wheatgrass horizon, no destination set in stone but half tempted to find a bar just south of the border. It's the best combo there is to clear his head: just the open road, whatever's on tap wherever he pulls up, and the right kind of company for just long enough to sate this desire to scream his lungs out - at crappy circumstance, at the Winchester family curse, at his own bad choices.

He just wanted his brother back, is that so bad? Sam didn't deserve to be left behind - not in that place; no one does. He shudders to think how Alastair's torture might pale in comparison to Lucifer's. For Sam to go through that again - to re-discover whatever's left of him? Forget calling in Death for a quick-fix favour, because even Dean knows some things can't be fixed, can't be undone, unseen.

Dean lives with his memories from the pit every day. Avoids 'em, as much as it's possible to do so without some magic mind-block, but he's changed forever because of 'em. And Sam might not've been the one dealing out damnation, but if time works in a similar way down there then he was Lucifer's chew toy for over a century. And if that doesn't shake anyone to their foundations just to think about then they're either a lunatic or a goddamn liar.

Cas spelled out Dean's fear in no uncertain terms: Let me tell you what his soul felt like when I touched it: like it had been skinned alive.

But was he right? Had Dean doomed Sam to a fate worse than death by trying to do the right thing? Trying to save him?

If you wanted to kill your brother you should have done it outright.

Sam's fine - for now. But how long before his wall crumbles into Hellfire? The structural integrity's already been compromised, and no matter what Sam promised, Dean knows his brother: if Sam wants to right his own alleged wrongs then he'll do it and nevermind the cost to himself.

And while Dean holds fast that whatever Samdroid did while his soul was MIA isn't on Sam, Bobby's less convinced. Just to throw another wrench in the gears of the 'better life' that was 'spose to finally be possible after the Apocalypse was averted. Not that that was really ever gonna happen.

No Armageddon, but the tradeoff was Sam jumping into the pit. Sam gets resurrected, but his soul gets left behind. Dean gets a taste of the Apple Pie life, but hunting is his bread and butter. There's a civil war up in the clouds because (as everyone well-knows) Angels are dicks. And as if the self-crowned king of Hell trying to rip a hole between dimensions wasn't enough, apparently that little adventure is now on some dragon-dude's bucket list.

Crazy as it sounds, Dean kinda misses the ol' days. Y'know, when all they had to do was take down a couple of overzealous Archangels. They've got shit stacking up on so many spinnin' plates right now it's impossible to tell which one's gonna be the first to topple and shatter, that crap raining down on 'em in a mess of blood and pain and one gruesome smear of trouble after another - and it'll soil a bunch of innocent people too, if they're not careful.

Knowing their luck it probably won't be just the one plate, either.

But when it comes to this sorta thing all they can really do is.. wait n' see. Try to be ready to divert whatever mountain of crap avalanches at them - or try to outrun it, sidewind it before the risk catches up with them and the goddamn consequences bury them alive.

Some small-town city limits come into view just as the clouded night kisses down the last of twilight. Dean knows this place. He can get what he needs here, on a lucky night. Hell, two out of three ain't bad. Booze? Check. Distance? Check. Company?.. Guess he'll have to wait and see.

He'd kinda like some answers, too. Some goddamn direction to point himself in when he hits the road again. And there is a certain someone who might be able to help with that - or might not. But whatever the case, Dean wouldn't turn his company away. Maybe what he needs right now, more than anything, is a friend.

Baby slows to a stop in the vacant lot across the street from the bar, Black Sabbath cutting out with the purr of her engine.

"Hey, Cas.." And where the hell does he go from here? Honesty, or a passable lie? Maybe somewhere in between. "I know you think what I did for Sam was the wrong call, and.." Yeah.. okay. "..honestly, I dunno. I dunno if what I did is gonna make things better or worse in the long run. All I know is that I had to, man - I had to." There's really no more to it than that. Except maybe just, "I could really use a friend, right about now." Reckless little brother, uncle who lied to him for a year; seems he can't really go wrong seeking the advice of his Angelic best friend, right? Even if he has been out of sorts since their little reunion. Better than the alternatives at least, even if there is a year of space between them now.

Dean'd be lying if he said he didn't wonder what Cas got up to during that year. Caught himself before shooting off a prayer more than once. Maybe just to check in, maybe to brainstorm ways to save Sam. His spirit - already struggling to dry off from the shitstorm of their lives - was dampened to learn that Cas wasn't the one who saved Sam from The Cage - or tried to. Cas did try though, so maybe that's somethin'.

In the time it would take for Heaven and Hell to play out the last few bars of track seven and most of the closing number, Dean sits alone in the driver's seat, headlights lighting the way to nowhere, waiting.

Turns out to be just another mistake in a long line of dumbass mistakes, another mark on the board for his tally of bad choices. Baby purrs back to life half only half a minute before she's put to sleep again and Dean's stalking away into the bar.

"—Castiel?" Rachel's voice pulls him back before his wings denote a telltale stretch - still a reflex he must wilfully deny. "Is something wrong?"

Yes. "No, I was just.. listening."

Her eyes harden, and Castiel has been made accustomed to that look over the last mortal year as she nods. "Raphael's soldiers think blocking our channels with their rhetoric will hinder our efforts, but his numbers are not what ours are. And they can't affect our communications for much longer."

Of course. It is a tactic only effective in the short-term, for the amount of energy required to interfere would significantly drain the Angels pervading the etheric communicative transference.

She proceeds to inform him of their recent losses in battle along with how many of Raphael's soldiers were presumably wounded or killed.

Castiel dreads such knowledge perhaps most of all; knowing the extent of Angelic grace being spilled in a war that would not be waging if not for his actions, his choices alone. The only reprieve he finds from the guilt is in the belief that Raphael would have spilled more - and destroyed the Earth, as well - if Castiel and his brothers and sisters had not taken up arms against him.

He manages a tight-lipped smile, something enough to satisfy that he understands. "Have we any more news of the missing weapons?"

"Not yet."

"Then I suggest you get back to it."

In the very least, being the Commander of garrisons affords him seniority, and with it the propensity to not have to explain himself further.

She takes her leave, and once he feels her grace reach an adequate distance in the aether, in her absence, he takes flight.

The familiar silhouette of one 1967 Chevrolet Impala is almost indistinguishable from the night sky, if not for the gleam of street-lamps off the polished metal belying an impression of the sun.

The moon is hidden tonight, as are the multitudinous stars of this galaxy - a favourite among many Angels throughout the eons. However, given the events of recent times, Castiel suspects he may be one of few Angels who prefer it over other galactic creations primarily for its housing of one particular solar system, which bears one particular planet, upon which a very special species makes its home.

Dean is gone.

The bar seems his likely destination, and if Castiel concentrates, allowing his Grace to reach out and survey the atmosphere.. yes. He can feel him near: warm and alive, though not at peace. He has never known what it is to feel Dean at peace in the mortal realm. There was a singular moment - fleeting and seeming so long ago, now - when his Grace touched Dean's soul raw and exposed; it seized his fear, incentivised Dean to feel safe, to trust in Castiel's intentions.

It was something akin to peace, perhaps relief. At the time, Castiel had thought it might be resignation to God's plan. But as he came to know Dean, he came to interpret that feeling as something intensely personal and not at all connected to The Grand Plan.

Perhaps, once Castiel completes his mission, once he stops Raphael and prevents the Apocalypse for all good, Dean will know peace. He deserves that much. He deserves much more.

The inside of the Impala is cool. Not as cold as the night air outside, but enough that Dean wouldn't be comfortable if he were to emerge from the bar this instant. Castiel places a hand on the dashboard, and while the engine remains silent, the interior comes alive in light and sound and air-ventilated warmth.

The music is not familiar, despite having listened through much of Dean's collection during his time with the Winchesters. Over the past year Castiel has not regretted safeguarding Dean's chance for peace, his life away from supernatural beings and the chaos and destruction they wrought. Although, he will admit to a certain discernible ache for their foregone time together; on the road within this now-familiar vehicle, or in whatever capacity Dean would have allowed, in any way that he might have needed Castiel's help.

The war in Heaven is not going well, despite Rachel's assurances. Without weapons at their disposal, Raphael's forces will soon diminish their own and all will suffer because of Castiel's failing. Which is precisely why he cannot fail.

Castiel always knew the chance of defeating an Archangel on his own was impossible, and therefore anything that could afford him victory in this war - to end the graceshed, to save Humanity, and the Earth, and Heaven from itself - then he must take it.

But even against all reason, all dangers considered, there are times when Castiel, too, does want for a friend.

For one friend, in particular.

..been higher than stardust

I've been seen upon the sun

I used to count in millions then

But now I only count in one

Come on, join the traveler

If you got nowhere to go

Hang your head and take my hand

It's the only road I know..

If only Castiel could pray to Dean.

..Yeah, Lonely is the word

Got to be the saddest song I ever heard..

But the want of a friend is selfish, dangerous.

Drawing Dean into the skirmish of Angels would further remove him from any chance at peace. And that, Castiel decides, is not worth the win. Even if Dean wants to help, he cannot allow it. He must keep Dean safe, and far away from the destructive reach of Heaven's current state.

..Yeah, Lonely is the name

Maybe life's a losing game.

18 notes · View notes

jimlingss · 6 years

Text

Head Over Heels to Hell

➜ Words: 27.5k

➜ Genres: 80% Fluff, 20% Angst, Childhood friends To Enemies To Lovers!AU (it’s a roller coaster), Reverse Soulmate!AU, Historical!AU (kind of)

➜ Summary: Some people are destined to never have a soulmate. You are one of the few. Instead, you have something much different - a parasite set out to destroy and ruin your life no matter where you run to.

➜ Warnings: Mention of death and a shit ton of other things - I promise it's not too angsty but still tread carefully. Implied smut & slight historical inaccuracies.

➜ Notes: My god, I wrote this back in April. But honestly, I’m so fucking proud of it. This is probably my most favourite Hoseok story I’ve written up to date. Dare I say, it might even be masterpiece level. Anyways, I’ve been super excited to share this. Enjoy!

Cr.

Each person born is destined for one or perhaps several, fated to fall in love with their other half or a fragment of themselves. Whether it be a whirlwind of romance rendezvous, a heated passion pressed between sheets or a comforting presence by your side that makes a home a true home - each individual has a chance to make their heart feel full, their soul fulfilled and the void feeling that lingered while they travelled through life on their own disappears.

You, however, are not so fortunate of an individual.

“A few folks in the world don’t have a soulmate.” The old woman sighs while looking out from her porch. You sip on your juice box, swaying from side to side on your toes next to the rocking chair. “I can see it in your eyes, dear. A bachelorette. You’ll be alone for your entire life and the next to come.”

You quirk your head to one side. “What’s a bachelorette?”

You can’t comprehend what your grandmother is saying. She’s using such complicated words that your dad hasn’t taught you yet but you aren’t very concerned with it either. Any second now, your mom will emerge from the kitchen with ants on a log and you’ve made sure you finished your breakfast this morning to be able to eat them. Also, your mom says your grandmother is old and her mind isn’t as sharp as it used to be, whatever that meant.

Did that mean she was crazy? If she’s crazy then that’s not good. But maybe crazy is fun and exciting. Oh! That little doggy that wanders around the yard is also fun and exciting. Speaking of which, where is it?

“It means you won’t be able to experience love.”

Your grandmother snaps your attention momentarily back into focus. You peel your eyes away from the verdant green lawn to the wrinkles surrounding her experience yet tired eyes. “At least, you can experience it but nowhere near the amount that soulmates would feel. Instead of a soulmate, you have something much different, Y/N.”

“What is it?”

For once, the sorrow and pity laced in her features has melted off. The old lady smiles at you and pets your head lightly. “You’ll find out someday.”

Without fully understanding the weight of her words, there will come a day when you look back and regret not taking heed of the warning.

Fate decides to begin smiling down at you at four years old.

Barely able to walk on your own two feet without wobbling, your mother sends you off to preschool with a bright knapsack and brand-new shoes. You aren’t aghast to be without her but more so, bewildered that there are so many miniature humans like you in the confines of such a small space. “Y/N?”

Your name being called has you flopping your head to the ceiling where a young lady with an apron tied around her waist is grinning. “You’re Y/N, right? Welcome to our little Buttercup Daycare!” The teacher squats down to meet your height. “We’re just having a little playtime now before all the kids get here and we do some crafts together. Is there something you’d like to play with?”

It’s then that you confirm you quite like this lady. She’s very nice and pretty.

Your tiny arm raises, finger moving from your fist to point at the pink princess castle in the corner. She smiles and ushers you over. “Great choice! Do you like princesses?” You nod at her question, and she hums, watching as you open the door and study the plastic building. “You know, Emily really likes to play with princesses too! She would be a great friend. I should go get her.”

No. No. No. You don’t want a friend. You want to play with the teacher- “Oh…”

Before you were able to turn around and voice your opinion, the lady has disappeared in the sea of children. You whip your head around, standing on the tips of your toes to catch sight of her but the struggle is fruitless.

Suddenly, it hits you hard. Your mother is gone. Your father is at work. The teacher is nowhere in sight and all these rambunctious strangers are scaring you. They’re shouting, screaming, running, giggling - it’s sheer madness.

With the blind courage of a four-year old, you bravely step into the crowd, yelping when a stranger bumps into you, whimpering when a block is thrown at your foot, crying softly as someone steps on your shoes. It’s no wonder that you get pushed aside so easily when even a gust of wind could knock you off your feet. But this time, it isn’t a mere nudge.

Like a swift current, a stream of children running indoors when they’re not supposed to, accidentally collides into your little body, shoving you aside and you're pushed to the ground. A shock ripples throughout your frame, knees bruised, palms met with the rough carpet. You’re absolutely stunned, unable to grasp what just happened but in the delayed second, as pain shoots up your bones, you break out into horrific and heart wrenching sobs.

“Owie…”

“Stop crying.” In the midst of the chaos, you rub your eyes with your little fists, lifting your chin to meet the tall shadow looming over you. The stranger wears no smile, oddly familiar in a way you can’t understand and his cold gaze doesn’t make you waver or scared. Instead, your eyes follow his command, halting the tears that were falling like raindrops. “Only babies cry. You’re not a baby.”

The boy should be the same age as you. Should because no child should have such a fixated stare and serious expression. There are only a few inklings that show his youth, the pitch black hair that looks more like a ruffled cloud, strands poking out in every direction, the low height and stature that may be smaller than your own body and the navy green overalls splattered with colours that are not supposed to belong there.

“Stand up.”

He holds his hand out to you, palm facing upwards. You sniffle for a moment, letting the remaining salt water drip down your cheeks and then your arm reaches out.

Your hand clasps his and the boy lifts you off your feet.

“My name is Y/N.” You smile at him happily, giggling when he tries to shake off your grip but fails to do so. You fear if you’ll let him go, your new friend will disappear into the pandemonium. “What’s your name?”

“Hoseok.” He sighs when he realizes that you’re going to stick around him now. But he decides you both might as well do something together. “You wanna paint?”

You loll your head, following his finger that’s pointed to the round table with the green stools and brushes laying on the watercolour sets. Hoseok patiently waits for your answer and you give another toothy smile, letting your dress twirl when you look at him again. “Okay!”

Four-years old is when you meet Jung Hoseok at preschool and you become stuck to his side like gum, declaring him as your best friend while discovering his enjoyment for painting; how he marks up white printer paper until it’s drenched in vivid hues, scribbling with brushes until all the brush hairs has fallen off. Even if he doesn’t want to admit it, you’re his greatest friend!

“Paint me! Paint me!”

“No.” He ignores your crestfallen expression. “Don’t wanna.”

It’s too difficult to hold back the sadness and you can’t help but cry, “Why?”

The boy huffs out, turning away from you until you face his backside. “Cause I said so.”

It’s not like he doesn’t want to. Hoseok would paint you if he could. But there’s not really a colour in the watercolour set that could be used to show how brightly your eyes shine.

Plus, he knows he’s not that good. It would be mean to make you ugly. Especially when you’re far from it in reality.

Fate’s smile never ceases its smile. Even when years pass and you’re slowly getting a better grip on yourself, it seems like life has always shown you a better side of itself. Well...for the most part at least...

“Y/N, why are you disrupting class again?” The teacher at the front slaps down her whiteboard marker on the metal ledge, exhaling and giving you a hardened glare. “Do we need to have another chat outside?”

You wince from the sharp tone, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as the class of thirty students have turned around to stare at you. “I’m sorry.” You sink lower in your desk seat. “I-I can’t find my writing journal. I think someone stole it…”

The teacher scoffs. “Well does it look like we’re writing, right now? We’re doing social studies, so please, sit up straight and open your textbook to page one hundred seventy-four. Now. Please.”

Everyone turns back to the notes on the board and you downcast your head, trying your best to pay attention but to no avail. To the side, a friend offers some consolation through a warm smile, though before she can lean over and whisper to you, the teacher gives the both of you the stink eye. The old woman’s voice drones on and on about the geography of the world, explaining a worksheet and what shade to use when colouring the countries in.

As an eight-year old, third grade was the worst.

Not only was the teacher mean to you, the classes were boring and you didn’t have that many friends. Most of the girls didn’t like you very much since you didn’t like to play with dolls anymore and you weren’t that interested in discussing crushes or soulmates. You liked to write but they thought that was boring. Friends or no friends, it was fine by you. But it was still kind of lonely.

“I still can’t find my journal.”

The teacher, sitting at her desk, looks up at you with her reading spectacles perched on the tip of her nose. “Well that’s what happens when you’re too irresponsible with your belongings, Y/N. You should learn how to be more organized.”

“But I left it inside my desk in the corner like always!” While defending yourself, your voice moves up a pitch, and she seems to get annoyed from the sound. “It’s not fair! I think someone took it!”

“Don’t be ridiculous! The door’s always locked.” She sighs, exhausted from having to reason with an illogical child. “Stop blaming other people for your mistakes, Y/N. If it’s lost, then it’s lost because of you. You’ll just have to re-do all the assignments and entries I gave.”

“But-”

“I don’t tolerate any back talk. Now go outside like you’re supposed to. The bell doesn’t ring for another twenty minutes.” The woman doesn’t offer any more chances as she turns back to her stack of papers, thirty booklets full of worksheets that were handed in and had to be marked by the end of the week.

You open your mouth to retort but a staggering breath leaves instead. Your shoulders droop with defeat and you force yourself to drag your feet out of the classroom, frame quivering with sobs threatening to break through your throat. The hallway grows blurry in your vision, clouded with tears but you clench your fist, nails digging into your skin, repressing the urge to cry.

“Y/N?”

You slowly turn around at the familiar voice and quickly, you wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie. “Hey, Hoseok. What’s up?”

“Nothin’. Are you okay?” He steps forward, meeting you halfway and you meekly nod.

“Ms. Choi is a mean witch so it’s whatever.”

Hoseok laughs and you find your lips upturning at the sound.

One of the biggest reasons third grade completely sucks is because Hoseok isn’t your best friend anymore. Actually, he hadn’t really been your friend since two years ago when you entered first grade. It seemed like in your school, girls hung out with girls and the boys would do their own thing. As much as you disliked it, you couldn’t do much when your friends pulled you away to the other side of the playground where the park benches were and Hoseok was off at the field playing soccer with his other classmates.

You can’t actually remember the last time you talked to Hoseok. Anytime when you did, whether it be during class or outside, your peers would ask you if you liked him or if you’re dating or if he’s your soulmate. You don’t even know what any of that means.

(Also, there’s the whole rumour that you can catch germs from boys but you don’t think that’s right).

“Did you find your journal?”

“No.” You whimper, downcasting your head at the reminder and afraid that you’ll really begin to start crying. It would be so humiliating to do it in front of him - you’d never return to school again. “I think it’s lost.”

“It isn’t.” He smiles and reveals what’s hidden behind his back, unbending both his arms and thrusting it out in front of you. A gasp spills from your lips and your doe eyes dilate from the recognizable bright green cover. “I found it in the lost and found.”

You grasp at the notebook, taking it into your hands, feeling the metal coil beneath your fingertips and the wrinkled pages full of erasing, scribbling and doodles. “Thank you.” You choke out words of gratitude, grinning so widely that your cheeks might burst and your eyes well up with happiness. “Thank you. I-I thought it was gone forever. I thought it was stolen.”

“By Seokjin, right?” He smiles when you nod. “Yeah, I think he stole my pencil too. I lent him a sharper once and it was gone by the end of the day. No one believes us when we tattle on him.”

“You’re the best, Hobi!” It’s a nickname that you haven’t said in a while, and he’s about to mumble something back but you smother him in a tight hug. Hoseok pretends he’s being choked to death, making hacking sounds and muttering your name but you don’t let up. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Yeah, sure.” He uses all his strength to rip your arms away from his neck, prying it off in a hurried pace before someone else sees. His breath steadies and he glares at you. But you remain smiling at him, and he scratches the back of his neck, sighing. “I hope it’s okay but I read some of it.”

“What?” Your eyes enlarge. “You did?!”

“Yeah.” Hoseok shrugs. “It’s actually not bad but you suck at spelling.” You smile sheepishly at him, acknowledging your bad marks in every spelling pop quiz. “I could fix it for you if you want me to.”

“Nah, it’s okay.” You don’t want to bother him anymore than you already have. It’s already made you happy enough to have your journal back and to hear that your writing is pretty good; technically he said ‘not bad’ but you’re taking it is a compliment. “Thanks though.”

The boy in his green plain shirt and trousers is beginning to say something but a hall monitor strides down the hall and whips his head over at the sight of you. “Hey! Aren’t you kids supposed to be outside for recess?!”

You and Hoseok exchange a startled look before you both book it out the doors together.

At twelve, fate begins to show its ugly side. Technically not as much as your ugly side.

It’s painful to admit but you look like the ‘before’ shot of those cosmetic surgery advertisements - bad skin, pimpled face, gawky glasses, braces, awkwardly cut hair, limbs too long — the whole nine yards and more.

It also doesn’t help that you feel like everyone else looks like they came straight out of a magazine, blown out hair, flawless features, a perfect smile and trendy clothing. So, it’s probably not all in your mind that people are staring and talking behind your back when you walk to your locker or to go to class. Why did puberty have to fuck you up so badly?

“What are you talking about?” Your friend rests against the washroom counter. “You’re so pretty Y/N. You just don’t see it.”

The reflection in the mirror says otherwise.

You look over at her with an unimpressed expression. A lump lodges in your throat when you detect pity in her gaze but you ignore it. “Thanks but I feel really horrible. My skin is itchy and I feel bloated and this is probably too TMI, but my bowel movements haven’t been great.”

“You’re fineeee.” She emphasizes, flicking a piece of dirt from under her nails. “Trust me when I say it’s a lot worse in your head. No one cares, you know. They’re all too concerned about themselves anyways. But it’ll get better, Y/N. Chin up.”

“...Thanks.”

It’s not like you wanted all these insecurities. It just happened to knock on your door, barge inside without a warning and now you constantly feel bad about yourself no matter where you go. The world would be a lot better if it were socially acceptable to wear a plastic bag over your head.

“I better get back to Mr. Jeon’s math class before he freaks out and sends someone to go look for me.” She checks her phone once and then pats you on the back, standing back on both feet. “See you at lunch, Y/N.”

“Yeah, see ya.”

The moment your friend walks out the washroom door, you look back at the silver mirror with a long sigh. No matter what you do, how much foundation or concealer you pack onto your face, it doesn’t help anything. You can either look like a peasant girl or a clown - you’re not sure what’s worse.

You reach deep into your hoodie pocket, a sleek surface meeting your fingertips and you hesitantly pull the small object out. It’s a lipstick that you smuggled from your mother’s makeup bag this morning. The pink bullet is soft and pretty in hue but you’re aware the moment it meets your mouth, it’ll look like a child trying to play dress-up.

“All or nothing.”

You murmur to yourself using some encouraging clichés and then, your hand lifts to dab on the colour. With the lightest touch and your pinky smearing the product, you pop your lips, taking a step back to look at yourself. And wow.

For once, you don’t feel like a roach emerging from the back of a dumpster.

You throw open the door, strutting down the hall. Despite no one being around, you feel like a glorious supermodel and the paparazzi are hidden in the corner, your idol waiting with a bouquet of red roses at the end of the aisle, an epic soundtrack playing to each of your steps. Maybe this is it. Maybe this is all you needed to be rich and pretty. Maybe he’ll finally look at y-

“Y/N?”

You whirl yourself around, heart stuttering inside your chest. “H-hey Hoseok. What are you doing?”

The teenager is in a green sweatshirt, baggy jeans and breaking school rules by wearing a snapback hat indoors. He puts down his phone, stuffing the device and his earphones into his pocket and shrugs. “Bathroom.”

You smile, covering your mouth with your hand. “You’re not skipping class, are you?”

“Nah.” His hands dig around his clothing and he hums. “Do you have some change I can borrow? I need to buy something at the vending machine and I think I forgot my wallet at home.”

“Oh, no problem.” You reach into your own pocket before taking out the tiny pink pouch that your aunt gave to you for your birthday. It takes a second until you take out a five dollar bill, lifting it up and into his palm. Your fingertips accidentally brush against his skin and you withdraw your limb like the movement burns you. Hoseok gives you a strange look but dismisses it.

“I-I don’t have change, just this but you can keep it. You don’t have to pay it back to me.”

The boy appears stunned and he furrows his brows. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear but realizing that it reveals more of your imperfect complexion, you downcast your head. Hoseok’s stare was becoming too intense anyways. “It’s fine.”

“Are you going back to class?” he asks and you nod. “We can go together then.”

“Don’t you need to use the washroom?”

“It’s fine. I’ll walk you back.”

“O-okay then.” It’s terribly awkward and you loathe yourself on having such inept social skills. If it were anyone else, they’d probably be able to find another topic of conversation and switch over smoothly, destroying the tense silence but alas, you are only a twelve-year old who has no such natural talent. “How are you? We haven’t talked in a while. What kind of classes do you have?”

The subject that you do bring up makes you cringe inside.

Who even wants to talk about school in their free time?!

Hoseok seems to get an inkling of your inner turmoil since he rips his eyes away from the profile of your face to the end of the corridor, smiling to himself discreetly. “Y/N, we literally have the same classes together. We see each other everyday.”

“Right.” You recoil, cheeks becoming warm with embarrassment. “Well, we might see each other, but we don’t really talk. You’re always sitting in the back of the classroom.”

“And you’re sitting in the front.” The adolescent beside you laughs. “Who knew Y/N would one day become the smartest student?”

“I-I’m not. Plus, I’m sure you get better grades than I do.” It was true, anytime the teacher asked you to hand back tests or quizzes, you snuck a peek at the grade marked in the corner of the page and for every single one, he either got a hundred or close to it. Most of your peers didn’t know but you did. “You’re the smarter one here, I suck at math and science and-.....Hoseok? Is there something wrong?”

His eyes are fixated on your mouth. “No. You just have a little of pink right there.”

He points to your cupid’s bow and you reach up, flustered and perplexed that he noticed the makeup you put on. You wonder if it’s bad or if it makes you even uglier than before. “Where?”

“Almost. To the left a bit.”

“Here?”

“To the right. Up. No. Go down a bit. Here, let me do it.” Hoseok pulls you in with a gentle hand on your shoulder and his thumb on his other hand raises to your lips, rubbing away the colour. The touch is feather-light but from the mere proximity, you’re absolutely stunned at what’s happening. Your eyes enlarge, heartbeat pounding in your ears and your mouth fills with cotton.

Whether he’s actually dense, or he knows the effect you get from him, he doesn’t make any comments. After a moment, Hoseok pulls away. “There. It looks pretty nice, by the way.”

“T-thanks.” The pair of you walk the rest of the way in silence. It’s only when you’ve reached the classroom door that you notice he’s a few meters behind you, lingering and glancing at the ceiling. “Are you not coming in?”

He hitches his thumb to the other end. “I have to grab something at my locker so you should go in first.”

“Okay.” You watch his backside disappear slowly, counting each step the boy takes that increases the distance and leaves you farther away from him. Since when did he become so tall? You’re not sure but all you know is that there’s a feeling inside your chest, depriving from an unknown source and you inhale a breath, taking the leap of courage.

“Wait. Hoseok.”

He turns. “Hmm?”

Perhaps it is destiny that has given you the bravery that you’ve lacked for so many years.

“I’m sorry for not talking to you more. Sometimes it’s difficult since you’re friends with those guys and I’m-”

You have no one. You’re not pretty. You can’t socialize well. You’re literally the most boring person on this planet. And you harbour a huge fat crush that inhibits you from making any interaction towards him.

“We’re both in different circles.” Hoseok finishes your sentence and you laugh stiffly. That too. Yet, despite your self-consciousness and metal self-deprecation, he laughs happily and it alleviates the mood. “No, I get that. Don’t worry about it.”

“I just think we should talk more. I kind of...miss….you…” You’re mumbling at this point, volume becoming quieter and quieter until it’s a squeak. You don’t even know what the hell you’re saying and your face is on fire. It doesn't help that Hoseok's gazing at you so intently without speaking a single word.

“...that’s all.” To save yourself from further embarrassment, you quickly turn to the door, hand grabbing the door, ready to twist your wrist and enter inside.

Except, you never get the chance.

“Wait. Y/N.” Your old childhood friend has his hand wrapped around your wrist and if steam wasn’t leaving your ears before, now it is. “I lied.”

“What?”

“I didn’t forget my wallet. I don’t even need to buy anything in the vending machine.” He diverts his eyes, avoiding your stare and frown of confusion. “The rest of class made a mess, and then they ditched to go to the cafeteria. If you go back, you’ll get in trouble for sure.”

Even with the delayed response from your end, you can only manage one single syllable. “What?”

“I’m sorry for lying.” After his stupid classmates had ran wild, throwing paint all over the walls, flipping over tables and desks when the substitute teacher had walked out of the room, they all grabbed their bags and spirited away. The first person Hoseok thought about was you.

You had left to go to the washroom, unaware of what was unfolding and instead of leaving with his friends, he wandered around till he found you. A sick, twisted part of him was curious to see how stupid and gullible you are - he wasn’t disappointed either. You believed him so easily, he didn’t even need to try. But what Hoseok failed to calculate was his own guilt and his weakness.

You.

“You can hate me if you want to, that doesn’t matter.” He reaches to grab the five dollar bill, and he slaps it back into your hands. “And you can snitch to the principal but don’t go back in.”

“Hoseok.” A smile slips on your lips and you become sheepish. “I don’t hate you. Far from it actually. Just...I could never hate you. You’re still my friend.” Hoseok’s fingers still wrapped around yours, preventing you from entering the horrific classroom and the dollar bill in your other hand proves it so. “So, let’s go?”

Your friend smiles, releasing his grip and grateful that you don’t want to kick his ass. “Last one to the vending machines has to buy!”

A gasp sounds from your mouth when he takes off running and you laugh, shouting after him and probably disturbing all the other classes going on. “Hey! That’s so not fair!”

The class drones on and on. It’s absolutely unbearable. Heads are bobbing up and down, trying to stay awake while some have given up all together, sleeping on their desks with their heads rested in their folded arms. The teacher doesn’t seem to care, continuing with her lesson as it was planned.

“Soulmates are a very peculiar phenomenon in our modern society today and many scientists have yet to discover the reason as to why since it isn’t very biologically efficient. It doesn’t seem like genetics or family history play a huge part, sometimes soulmates are outright opposites while other times they are very similar to each other. It may just be a psychological occurrence.”

“All they have been able to conclude thus far is when soulmates meet, both parties experience a euphoria of emotions, each of them enhanced and the effects are very similar to some type of drugs out there. The love and passion are like none other. Typically, there are two types of soulmates that people can have. One, there is literally only one person that is your soulmate. Two, there are several people living in the world that could be your soulmate. It differs with each individual and again, no one knows the answer yet. Perhaps someday we'll know.”

The only person actually listening is some guy at the front of the class. He raises his hand and the teacher calls upon him. “What about people who don’t have either?”

“Ah...yes...those folks are...rare and far in between.” The teacher wears a melancholic expression, seemingly a bit uncomfortable with the topic. “People without soulmates can find companionship, but they most likely end up alone, in this life and the next and the next….”

She concludes with- “it’s unfortunate.”

Your forehead nearly smacks against the wooden surface of the desk as you’re lulled to sleep but your neck snaps back before you can hurt yourself. Fuck. You rub your eyes, screaming inside your head out of pure boredom. Then, an idea flickers inside your brain and you lean over to your friend sitting beside you in the other row.

“Hey, I’ll make a bet with you.” At your voice, she perks her head up, eyes sparkling in interest. “Bet Mr. Min won’t visit Ms. Kang today. Five bucks, what do you think?”

She smirks. “You’re on.”

Lo and behold, the familiar blonde headed teacher sticks his head through the door, thankfully interrupting class and cracking a few jokes while shocking sleeping students awake with his cheerful voice. As Ms. Kang flirts with the chemistry teacher, your friend giggles while you pull out a crisp bill, handing it to her.

“Okay, you win this time.” You sulk, looking back into your barren pocket.

“I’ll bet you one more time.” Your friend grins, starting to have fun since class began. “If Mr. Min doesn’t stay for more than ten minutes, I’ll give you your five dollars back and an additional ten. But if he does stay for over ten minutes, I get ten bucks from you.”

You contemplate the options, weighing each reward and consequence. It sounded appealing, not only would you get your money back but even more? Plus, Ms. Kang was actually teaching a full lesson today and there was a test tomorrow. Surely, he would leave, so she could continue addressing the class. You smirk at your newfound confidence. “You’re on.”

In the next twelve minutes, you hand over more money.

Your friend laughs her head off, clutching onto your stomach and you can only sigh from your multiple defeats. Another classmate turns around and asks what the two of you are up to.

“We’re making bets.” Your friend wipes away the tears that have welled up. “Y/N keeps losing.”

“Ooh count me in.”

Someone else who was eavesdropping swivels around. “Me too.”

The teacher is still chatting away with Mr. Min at the front of the classroom with a group of students while the rest of you wait in boredom. There’s nothing like an entertaining game with monetary prizes to liven up an atmosphere. “Who wants to bet that she’ll forget to hand out homework?”

“Let’s bet to see if this paper airplane can go outside the window and into the classroom across from us.”

“Bet that I can’t sneak out without anyone else noticing.”

By the end of the hour and by the time the lunch bell has rung, your wallet is completely empty and everyone else has left to go eat. As you collect your belongings, stuffing markers and pens back into the pencil case, grabbing your notebooks and slinging your backpack around one shoulder, you can only hope that time will move quicker.

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, hey Hobi.” You smile, watching him grab his water bottle that he accidentally left near his chair at the back. “I’m fucking broke, that’s what.”

He opens the door and you both walk out together. “You shouldn’t keep making bets with people if you’re always losing. Your gambling skills suck.”

You exhale, having too many regrets and fearing what your dad will say when you ask him for a second allowance this week. The money from your summer part-time job was gone as well and all you can think of doing is sobbing on your knees, pleading about your penniless lifestyle. “I thought I could win my money back.”

“Never go to a casino, you idiot.” Hoseok stops by his locker and throws his biology textbook inside. He closes it and walks diagonally down the hall to your own locker where you grab your gym bag for your next class after the bell. “You’d end up wasting your life savings away and you’d be living under a bridge.”

“Isn’t that where we’re all heading anyway?”

He laughs and swings his arm around your shoulder, pulling you close as you two accompany each other in synchronized steps. It’s a familiar gesture and you’re no longer flustered from being in a close proximity from Hoseok. The infatuation that plagued you during your preteen years has long disappeared.

High School was a whole nother game, people dating more seriously and futures on the horizon. You couldn’t be very bothered to crush over an old friend when you were more preoccupied with getting into the university you wanted.

“Why are you glaring at me?”

“I’m not.”

At this age, you thought Hoseok would reach his own ugly phase. Puberty tended to affect boys in later years but even at sixteen, the bastard is still decent looking. While you grew more into your skin, learnt to become comfortable in your body and appreciate your flaws for what they are, you expected him to go through a similar thing that you did back then. Yet, never in a day of his life did Hoseok have awkward limbs or bad skin or an awful haircut. Rather, his rounded cheeks were becoming chiseled, his jawline sharper and his hair gelled into a neat fashion.

And for you, rather than admiring his handsome looks, you’re goddamn jealous of his genetics and beautiful face. Why did fate have to be such an unfair bitch?

“You spent your lunch money, didn’t you?”

On cue, your stomach grumbles and you give him a surprised look. “How did you know?”

“Cause you don’t have any control.” Hoseok reaches over, pinching your cheek and you slap his hand away, cringing at the thought of his dirty fingers clogging your pores and giving you acne. “I’ll buy you lunch.”

You halt on your toes. He turns around.

“Wait. Really?!”

The boy smiles, his grin loosely resembling a heart shape. His eyes crinkle slightly and a bubbling laughter spills from his mouth. “Yeah, but you owe me big time.”

“When don’t I?” You smile, catching up to him and giving him a good old noogie. “You’re the best.”

His smile becomes sheepish, and he gazes at you for a long moment, savouring in your touch and presence. “I know.”

There was something strange about you. From the moment he had met you a decade ago and held out his hand, he always felt a tugging feeling in his chest, as if you were familiar, and he knew you from somewhere else, from somewhere far away. But you weren’t his soulmate.

Such a thing was impossible for Jung Hoseok.

The world revolves around the concept of soulmates.

You didn’t realize it until you became much older and you stepped out from the small schools that you went to, the same classes and circle of friends that shuffled together from one year to the next. College was a time when your world expanded ten folds, where you couldn’t recognize three quarters of your classmates, where campus made you lost every single day.

It also opened to your eyes to the obsession that people had with soulmates; how some folks were absolute consumed with it, going out to bars to talk to strangers, testing to see if they were a kindred soul, having date after date, entering camps and exclusive clubs to seek out their match, downloading special apps on phones to search for their true love.

One of the few questions that you were asked quite frequently was: ‘have you found the one yet?’

Your answer didn’t matter as much as the pitying expressions, the words of consolation of ‘you’ll find one soon’ and how people told their own stories of how they accidentally ran into the person they were meant to be with, and they knew instantly at that second. They always said that no matter where you went, where you’d go off to, your soulmate would end up finding you.

That’s how fate is supposed to work.

Except it worked much differently for you- “I’m never going to find my soulmate, am I?”

“What?” Your dad puts down his spoon, startled and taken back. The dinner table is silenced. “Who told you that?”

“Some people just take a bit of time.” Your mom smiles to soothe your nonsensical worries. “I know it took me years to run into your dad.”

You sigh, recalling the memory like it's imprinted to the back of your hand. “Grandma told me I'd be single for my entire life and the next.”

“Dear…your grandmother was very ill before she died. She just didn't know what she was saying. Don't let it get to you.”

“She told me that a long time before she passed away.” You look at your parents for an extended moment, holding your breath in your lungs. You're an adult now and you have a right to know the truth. “You guys know it, right? Can you please not lie to me?”

“Don't give up hope, you hear me?” Your mother lectures, tone becoming stern and unyielding for any retorts or comments. “I don't care what the doctors, nurses and psychologists say or even what your grandma told you. You’ll meet the one.”

She says it with such certainty, like she's declaring the sun will rise again. “And when you do, you’ll know instantly.”

You've heard it a million times before, the way your friends have described it, you've even seen it with your own eyes. It's supposed to be a burst of electricity, where the heart stops and the breath gets caught. The universe is supposed to shine in brighter hues, becoming vibrant and louder; happiness will become euphoria and love will become a deepening and familiar companion.

The gaping hole that individuals never knew existed will be filled. They will no longer walk alone. They'll feel whole. It's everything that Hollywood movies show except it's real. It's perfect. It's a rose-coloured world.

And all you can do is roll your eyes each and every time you hear it.

Some people are born without soulmates. There’s no rhyme or reason. It has nothing to do with the way you were brought up, the environment factors or your genetic material. Like some people are innately extroverted or introverted. There’s nothing you can do about it and that thought hurts you even more.

Your world isn’t rose but a green-coloured world.

“Wait! Wait for me! Please!”

Despite your arm waving in the air, heaving breaths shouting through the sky, the bus pulls away from the curb, signalling into the lane. “Fuck!” Your arm tightens around the strap of your bag and you pick up your speed, racing with all your might. “Stop!”

The heavy rain beats down on top of your head, rattling the inside of your skull. The surroundings have turned into a shade of grey, vision clouded with water droplets clinging onto your lashes, each step splattering puddles onto your pants. But it doesn’t matter that you’re being drenched as if you stepped into the shower. You’re late for class.

If you miss this bus then you’re done for.

“I’m here! I’m here!”

Right where you’re mere meters from the bus’ door, your foot juts out for another leap but you miscalculate your environment and your front toes collide onto the metal pole bus sign.

“OW! FUCKING SHIT!”

Pain shoots up your spine and you’re forced to stumble, crouching over and clutching onto your dirtied shoe. The passersby with their umbrellas or under the bus shelter don’t bat a single eyelash and you are alone, under the rain, putting pressure on your wound. It feels like you’ve just broken your foot or a toenail was ripped off, that it’s bleeding in your sock. To top off the agony, like a cherry thrown on top of a sundae, the bus merges and drives off, disappearing in the distant fog.

“Are you kidding me?!” You sob out to the crying sky, knocking your head back and letting your stubbed toes pulsate and throb inside your shoe.

You don’t have an umbrella. Your phone is dead. There’s no way you can contact an Uber. Thus, all you can do is limp your way to school in the pouring storm, looking at the roads every so often for a taxi. Fortunately, fate isn’t such a nasty bitch when you catch a yellow vehicle driving down the street. Unfortunately, the taxi doesn’t see you in time and it drives past, too close to the gutter.

The sewer water splashes like an ocean wave crashing on the shore and if you weren’t drenched before, now you’re soaking wet, drowning in rainwater and sewage.

“Y/N?”

A familiar and warm presence appears behind you. Their umbrella drapes over your head, shielding you away from the cold droplets and it patters on the green canopy instead. Instead of bursting into tears like you felt you should, a smile graces your lips. You’ve never been more thankful to have this person around and in your life.

No matter where you go, he’s always able to find you.

“Are you alright?”

“I’ve been having the shittiest day, Hobi. Literally the worst.” You turn around with a massive pout, sulking at your situation and cringing at how your textbooks and laptop in your bag are probably wet as well. “But what are you doing here?”

He hitches his thumb to the black car parked by the curb. “I was driving past and I thought I saw you. I stopped to make sure. Aren’t you going to be late for class though? Get in my car, I can drive you to school.”

“A-are you sure? I mean, I’m soaking right now and I can just keep walking-”

“It’s fine, Y/N.” He grins, patting your head to placate your worries, and he wraps his arm around your shoulder to support you to the toasty vehicle. His other hand is holding the handle of the umbrella, and he tilts it to cover you completely, letting the rain drizzle on his left side. Your old friend doesn’t seem that concerned about getting drenched and momentarily, the pain in your foot has alleviated. “I have class anyways. We’re going to the same place.”

Before getting into the car, you shift your head to gaze into his softened, brown irises.

Regardless of what troubles you face, the struggles that present itself, Jung Hoseok is always around the corner. He’s your truest friend, the one who has stood by you for the longest time and the man makes your heart sing soothing lullabies. Maybe you’ll never have a soulmate but at least you have him.

“Thank you.”

He grins and you’ve sincerely never felt more gratitude.

Falling in love with Hoseok is a complete accident.

Sure, it might’ve been predictable to everyone else since all the cliché romance books and movies always depict childhood friends becoming lovers, unrequited loves and harboured crushes becoming reciprocated, happily ever afters emerging from the horizons. You just never knew it was going to happen to you.

You might’ve been massively infatuated with Hoseok years ago but you thought you grew out of that phase. At the end of the day, he’s a good friend; someone who watched you pick your nose in preschool, when you shit yourself in kindergarten because you couldn’t control your bowels yet, the time he witnessed when you called your teacher ‘mom’. He’s been through it all, thick and thin, disgusting and all the rancid memories. Your family knows his, mothers that have become friends themselves and fathers buddies. Hoseok was supposed to be a brother to you.

But lo and behold, you had to catch feelings.

Fate was a cunning asshole.

“Sorry for getting your car all wet. I was sitting in class dripping everywhere.” You wring out a bundle of your hair, the damp strands clinging to your neck in an uncomfortable fashion.

Hoseok, from across the table, wriggles his brows up and down. “Oh, I don’t mind if you’re wet at all.”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, playfully scoffing at the innuendo. Brushing it off, you set aside your laptop to look at your friend. “Thanks though. I think I would’ve been screwed if I had to walk.”

“Jung Hoseok here to save the day again!” He gives a blazing smile, pretending to be a superhero as he does the superman pose. You laugh, and he lowers his fist, expression melting into a warmer smile. “But is your foot okay? You were limping.”

You’re surprised that he noticed but you nod. “Yeah, it’s fine.”

The library is deathly quiet on a Friday at nine o’ clock. There are only a few people sitting around and assistants shelving books. At twenty-one, it isn’t uncommon for your peers to be out at a frat house or crashing a venue around campus, getting wasted and grinding up on each other, maybe meeting ‘the one’ out on the dance floor or at the bar. Hoseok has especially made a name for himself in the years at college, dating around and being the life of the party.

It’s not necessarily a bad thing but you’ve felt slightly alienated from him since you weren’t big on the whole partying thing. You’d much prefer to curl up on a couch, binging on Netflix and chewing on snacks in the comfort of your own home.

“Why are you here? Weren’t you invited to any parties?”

“Nah, I don’t feel like it. Why would I want to go to one when you’re sitting right here.” His greasy remark has you huffing out tiredly, and he giggles. “Plus, who would drive you home?”

“I can take public transit, you know. It runs until twelve.” You don’t want to be a burden to Hoseok or make him babysit you like a little sister or a pet. If he’s here for the wrong reasons, it would hurt even more than if you were alone. “And aren’t you seeing Yoonji right now? You should probably be out with her instead of me.”

“No, I’m not seeing her.” He resists the urge to pull on your puffed out cheeks. Hoseok leans his chin in his propped up hand, savouring your sulking expression. “I’m single actually, have been for a long time now. And also, if I hear that you got murdered on your way home or if you slipped on some water and broke a hip, my mom would never be able to forgive me. She’ll burn my entire manga collection and probably run me over with her car.”

“Of course your mom would.” You stick out your tongue, intentionally ignoring what he said about not dating anyone. “She loves me a lot more than she loves you.”

“Somehow, I don’t doubt that.” The man lazily flips through his textbook, barely skimming the pages and not reading correctly like how he should be. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hmm?”

“Have you been seeing anyone?”

Your head perks up from the document on your laptop and you give the most unimpressed expression, arousing laughter from the male. “Do you think I have? No one can love me - I’m unlovable.”

That and you don’t have a soulmate.

“That’s not true. I love you.”

What. No. Wait. He probably means it in a brotherly-friendship kind of way.

“Righttttt...” You bob your head up and down, narrowing your eyes and forcing yourself to dispel away all your delusional thoughts. “Well, I love you too.”

“Okay, great.” He looks up from his textbook. “We should go on a date then.”

“.....” There’s a pause. He waits patiently with a smile. You stare at him. “What?!”

“It’s really convenient.” He quirks his head to the side, mischief glimmering in his orbs. “I love you, you love me. It works out. So, we should go on a date...unless you don’t want to.”

“....I-I do but where is this coming from, Hoseok?” You lower your pitch, leaning closer as if someone from the ten tables over could hear. The situation unravelling before you is so sudden that you fail to wrap your brain around it.

“What do you mean ‘where is this coming from’?” The male gives you a look. “Hasn’t it been obvious? I’ve liked you for years! And wow, I can’t believe you’re making me expose myself to you when you haven’t even bought me dinner yet.”

He throws his arms over his chest, appearing vandalized but you’re in no mood for jokes.

“B-but...but…” All those signs that you convinced yourself weren’t signs are actually signs?

The endeared gazes, the overly affectionate physical contact, the lingering touches, the smiles and late night texts were all indications. Your mind is reeling from memories for the past decade, wondering if this or that was evidence for his hidden feelings. It feels surreal, like a dream.

You fear if you wake up from it, reality and fate will be much crueler.

“You don’t need to feel pressured, Y/N.” Hoseok stares down at his textbook, avoiding your eyes and becoming embarrassed about finally declaring his feelings openly to you. His voice is quiet but you can hear each word, carrying a weight that bears sincerity in each syllable.

“You can say no if you want to, and we can go back to being friends. I just...I never knew if the feelings were mutual and the timing was always off. I tried to date other people but it...didn’t work out.”

He takes a deep breath, put on the spot and pressured not to mess up. You’re an important person in his life and the last thing he wants is to scare you off forever.

“What about your soulmate?”

It’s the first thing that crosses your mind, a concern that is unbearable and one you can’t erase away. What’s the point of creating something more if he’ll meet his soulmate later on. You’ll be left in the dust, alone, forced to face the memories of ‘what happened but could never last’.

But Jung Hoseok, being the person that he is, always manages to make your anxieties disappear.

“You don’t have to worry about something like that.”

It’s too simple of an answer. Yet, like the fool that you are, you trust in him. “Okay. Let’s go on a date then.”

A grin spreads across his face, one that swells his cheeks and heart. “Right now.”

You flinch when he suddenly slaps his textbook closed and you follow along, packing away your laptop and pens. Luckily, no one was really around to be angry over the disturbances the pair of you were making. “Right now?”

Hoseok smiles. “Last one out the library has to pay.”

Fate is too kind - and you realize so when you become aware that you were never alone.

“You’re on.”

Each person born is destined for one or perhaps several. They’re fated to fall in love with their other half, a kindred spirit or soul, or a fragment of themselves. The love could be a whirlwind of romance rendezvous, a heated passion pressed between sheets or a comforting presence that makes home a true home. Each individual has a chance to make their heart feel full, their soul fulfilled and any loneliness is dispelled away.

You have Jung Hoseok.

He’s a friend and companion, a partner that you cherish. While one date becomes two and three and five until you’ve lost count, all you know is that soulmate or not, you wouldn’t mind spending the rest of your days with him.

“That movie was really good, like did you see the part where he came out of the space shuttle to confront her on the planet Neptune? Like wow, I thought he was going to die for sure but he risked his life for her. And then-”

“Hoseok.” You stop in the parking lot of the theaters, twisting on your ankle to look at him.

A sweet smile is still on his mouth, and he quirks his head to the side. “Yes?”

“Can I kiss you?”

The boy’s taken back and he laughs. “Where did that come from?”

“I was thinking about it the whole day today.” You play with the hem of your sweater, diverting your attention elsewhere while you murmur softly, “We’ve been on so many dates, but we haven’t really done anything aside from holding hands…..”

Albeit it was strange to date such a good friend, you still longed to get closer to him.

Hoseok throws back his head like he’s in pain, and he whines. “I was going to kiss you later before you left but you beat me to it.” He pouts in defeat and then steps closer, cupping your cheeks in his palms with a softened smile. “Of course you can kiss me, Y/N. You don’t really need to ask.”

Your eyes flutter shut and his close. Together, you move closer inch by inch until you can feel his lips on yours. A smile moves across your face, and he presses harder, tilting his head while you throw your arms around his neck. It’s nice but kind of awkward. The movement is foreign to you, though the pleasant tingles melt any tension in your muscles.

Hoseok deepens the kiss, making a muffled sound leave your throat, and he savours your taste on his tongue. But suddenly, one moment you feel pleasure and the next, your head begins to throb.

You don’t pull away, too addicted to his kiss. Then, there’s a burst of electricity.

The flare rushes to your fingertips, heart stuttering, breath choking you. Underneath your eyelids, the universe halts and then begins to revolve again, faster, louder until it’s deafening and shining in such bright hues that it’s blinding. The happiness that rings through your bones becomes euphoria and love slaps you across the cheek.

Maybe this is what people described when they meet your soulmate. But no. It’s much different from that.

You are not so fortunate of an individual.

An onslaught of memories, versions of yourself across centuries, comes barging through the door in screams. They shout and screech, begging to know as to what the hell you’re doing. The thumping of your head becomes white noise. You pull away from Hoseok like he burns you.

The boy is as startled as you are, eyes wide, staggering back until he collapses on the concrete ground.

“I-I remember…”

You stare at him in sheer horror. “Fuck you.”

Fate has never once smiled at you, it was cackling. Fate was never kind either, it was absolutely vicious. And instead of a soulmate, you have something much different. Jung Hoseok is a parasite that transcends time, destined to run each path that you take. He is an enemy.

You’ve finally woken up from the dream.

[16th Century]

A gentle knock on the door wakes you from your slumber.

You sit up amidst the silk sheets and the hinges of the massive wooden door creaks. A servant maid peeks her head through the gap and the light from the hallway sheds into the darkened room. “Good morning, your royal highness.”

“Is there a cause for your disturbance?”

The tone of your voice rings above the high ceilings and the girl noticeably winces. She keeps her head downcasted. “Yo-your highness, the artisan has arrived.”

“Is that so?” You hum a thoughtful note before snapping back at her, “then what are you waiting for? Help me prepare.”

Immediately she enters and draws the heavy curtains away from the window. Sunshine meets your eyes and you find a smile emerging on your lips. She guides you off the bed, helping you splash your face with a cloth, combing your hair back and pinning it up with green ribbons and ropes of pearls. The lace corset is tied tightly around your abdomen, restricting your breathing but you endure it as you study the dress in the mirror. It’s a rather simple dress, a natural waistline and floor length, flowy sleeves and skirt, the jade fabric decorated with golden colours.

“I think this is perfect, don’t you?”

You twirl in front a few times and the maid smiles. “Yes, your highness. You look marvelous.”

Upon being satisfied with her response, you address your servant one last time. “Do not utter a word to the king that I am meeting the painter, understood? If he asks of my presence, tell him I am in the study quarters.”

“Yes, your highness.”

The gardens are far away, across towers and courtyards, but you make it there in less than five minutes while hitching your clothing up by the fistful, running in the most unsophisticated manner that would surely cause scoldings from your mother. Yet, you continue on your way nevertheless.

It’s only a strong gust of wind and an accidental misstep causes you to stumble. You are pushed to the ground, colliding onto the verdant grass, a shock rippling through your body. Immediately, you are shamed. Your knees are bruised, your gown soiled and palms stained with dirt. In the delayed second, as pain shoots up your bones, your bottom lip trembles, threatening to break out into sobs.

“Do not cry, your highness.”

You lift your chin and a tall shadow looms over you. The man wears no smile, an emerald circular cloak draped over his shoulders and an embroidered shirt underneath. His gaze is not cold but intense, yet, it does not make you waver or scared. Instead, your eyes follow his command, halting the tears that were to fall like raindrops.

“Only infants shed such heart wrenching tears.” A soft smile appears across his lips, a fixated stare on your flushing visage but the serious man is the same age as you. His pitch black hair is more like a ruffled cloud, strands poking out in every direction and some paint has splattered on the skin of his cheek. “And I fear it would ruin your beauty.”

He holds his hand out to you, palm facing upwards. You sniffle for a moment and then your arm reaches out, fingers clasping his and the male lifts you off your feet. The touch is soothing and light, causing your heart to soar inside your chest.

“Don’t be foolish. I’ve never shed tears before you, understood?”

You dust off your dress and he grins.

“Yes, your highness.”

The man tries to loosen his grip on your hand but fails to do so when you grasp at him tighter, lacing your fingers through his and not allowing him to let go. A snort of air leaves his nose, and he accepts the new position, guiding you deeper into the royal gardens with bushes of foreign flowers and tall trees lining the cobblestone paths, the scent of florals wafting through the air.

Farther into the quaint and private place, a canvas is set around vivid oil paints and brushes. He has begun to recreate the image of the blooming orchards and you study the artwork that has yet to be completed.

“My father has commissioned you as the royal painter but why have you not painted me?”

Your dress twirls when you look at him again. Jung Hoseok, the man who creates another world with brilliant hues, passionately brushing strokes along the canvas, has been by your side for months and here he is once more, smiling at you.

“I cannot, your highness.” He lowers his head. “I fear that there is no paint I could use that would show how brightly your eyes shine.”

You spin around to face the bushes, cheeks flaming with each praise. “Please, you flatter me too much, painter.”

“Ah, but my words are too true, your highness.” He paces around and you lock your gaze upon his. “My skills would be no match to the reality of your beauty.”

You sigh, longing to have the man closer. Each second and minute that passes feels too short.

“Painter, I fear my lonely soul enjoys your companionship too much. It’s a shame that you were not born of a royal lineage. My father would never allow such a partnership. He would rather let this kingdom crumble than to give my hand to a commoner.”

“I understand your woes too clearly, your highness.” He takes three delicate strides to meet you in the middle of the grassy area, chest pressed upon chest and his fingers lightly skimming over your blooming cheeks. If anyone from the court were to catch you in such a position, the painter’s life would be at risk, but he seems to pay no mind to such thing.

“And although I hunger to clutch your hand to my chest, embrace your being, declare you as mine and taste those lips with my own, we are but star crossed lovers.” He exhales, sorrow dripping from his honeyed eyes. “Fate is not so kind to folk like us.”

You turn away from him in despair, staring up at the cerulean sky and wondering if the Heavens could ever grant you mercy in the name of love. “Eventually, I will be wedded off to somewhere far. The thought makes my heart ache in agony.”

Your voice breaks and you plead with him. “Painter, would it be so shameful for me to ask you for a single kiss?”

“Of course not, your highness.” He caresses your face and you melt within the touch. Your eyes shut and he leans in closer. “It is my duty to fulfill your wishes.”

The kiss is the gentlest of touches, lips pressed upon lips, a bittersweet taste that cannot be savoured, a salty hint caused by your teardrop, the deepest of yearnings and aches for more.

Why must fate be so cruel?

It is of the midnight hour when the maid comes barging into your room unwarranted without even a single knock. It startles you to the point where you spring up from your silk bed sheets, gasping and ready to reprimand her but the maid’s wheezes and the distant shouting stops you from doing so.

You climb out of your bed, taking a robe and covering up your sleeping attire. “What is the matter with you? Speak!”

“R-rebels have stormed the castle,” she weeps, grabbing onto your arm and falling to the ground, kneeling on the floor, crying and sobbing with all her might.

The shock is delayed. “Pardon?!”

The young girl shakes her head, trying to regain composure amidst the mournful grieving. “T-they have captured your m-mother a-and your father has been executed.” You stagger backwards, and she crawls to you, gripping the hem of your dress. “Run, princess.”

She screams- “Run before they catch you!”

There’s not a single thing in your hands but your life as you flee the castle walls. The rebels are shouting together, holding torches and capturing any royal member as they scour each room and rip apart all the walls. The knights have fallen, advisors and servants alike being severed of their heads. Blood pours down the courtyard and a couple of paces away from the forest, a misstep causes you to collide against the cobblestone, a cry befalling of your mouth, skin scraped and blood trickling from the wounds.

A tall shadow looms over you. You lift your chin. The man wears no smile. His gaze is cold.

You smile, sighing of relief and thankful that the painter is here with you. Perhaps, you can flee together and finally live the life that you’ve always wanted. Except, he does not lift out his hand to pick you off your feet, he bends his knees, squatting down and quirking his head as he stares at you.

“H-hoseok, what is going on?” You begin to waver from the sharp intensity of his eyes. Any trace of warmth has disappeared, and he seems more amused that you have fallen than worried. “P-Please tell me. I’m s-so scared.”

Tears seep down your cheeks like raindrops. He doesn’t tell you to stop crying.

Hoseok smirks. The corner of his lip tugs in a menacing way and his fingers reach out to hold your chin. He leans in, placing a small kiss on the corner of your mouth, and then he parts, admiring the confused expression marring your visage. “Oh princess, you are too innocent for your own good.”

Your voice does not come out strong but weak. “E-explain yourself.”

“All of this couldn’t have succeeded without your efforts.” He gestures behind him to the castle, your precious home, that was now being set on fire. Screams of the maids and dukes ricochets to your ears, and he doesn’t allow you to cover them up or cower away.

Hoseok forces you to watch the scorching flames.

“Not only did you advocate me to the king and allowed me into the castle but you fell in love with me as well and offered yourself fully. Such a foolish yet endearing character.” He shoves you away and stands, dusting his hands off and watching you pathetically cry.

“And you were right. Your father would’ve been so shameful to have a daughter like you who helped overthrow the kingdom. Too bad he’s already dead.”

You can’t wrap your mind around it. All of this is too absurd. Surely, it must be a dream. Hoseok would never treat you this way. He would never betray your trust. You love him.

“W-what?”

“Do you still not understand?” He looks over to the symbol sewn on his clothing, the green mark of the rebels. Your stomach turns and vomit threatens to crawl up your throat. You claw at your skin, teeth gritted and jaw clenched.

“Y-you...you liar.” You spit at him, each heavy syllable oozing of venom. “You wretched bastard.”

Hoseok tips his head back and chuckles. “There is no use in sprouting such vulgarities, Y/N. A revolutionary is needed for the people. They are suffering in ways you will never know. Your ignorance is too great. Life isn’t generous outside of your castle of silks.”

The betrayal is too much for your heart to bear.

No amount of rage or sadness, fury or anguish could display the turmoil sewn into your soul, the heartbreak that shatters inside your chest. Jung Hoseok hovers above your small frame. He stares down at you. “But because you demonstrated such benevolence to me and made my job so simple, I will give you ten seconds. Run or the rebels will slaughter you without mercy.”

Your fragile body hauls itself upwards and despite the screams of your bones, the faintness in your head that swirls the world around, you falter down the hill, racing into the forest. You abandon your people, your family and home, the love that you held onto. You will never forget.

And you will never forgive.

Jung Hoseok laughs and gazes at your form. It reminds him of a little sheep running away from a pack of wolves. He muses that it was truly a shame; a shame that you weren’t part of the rebels and merely destined to be star-crossed lovers with him.

For the rest of your life, you live in the dirty alleyways as a peasant, scraping after other’s leftovers, bugs crawling in your hair and biting your skin, teeth rotting and clothes tattered up. You sob until you can no longer afford to expel water from your body and the short days of your life consists of recalling your warm family and the beautiful life you once had.

When you die, the last thing you think about is Jung Hoseok and your undying wrath.

[17th Century]

“Where is my notebook?”

You’re scouring in the tiny room, searching among the stacks of parchment, quills and bottles of blackened ink, tugging up your wrinkled olive dress. You pull up the smooth narrow sleeves, wincing at the troublesome lace cuffs and you tug on the strings of the small bodice for more breathing space. As you scour your belongings, the bun that was tied to the back of your head begins to loosen and clusters of curls framing your face tickles your nose. The sweat at your forehead slicks down your face and your appearance becomes disheveled in your franticness.

“My notebook….notebook.” You gasp underneath your breath, standing straight again. “Was it stolen?!”

There’s a knock and a short laugh. “Did you lose something again?”

A man in a white linen shirt, dark trousers and a navy coat stands at the doorway, hands held behind his back as he watches you fumble about. “Yes, it’s going to be the end of me, Hoseok, if I can’t find it.”

“Well, lucky for you-” He takes a few steps forward and reveals what’s hidden behind his back, unbending both arms and presenting it out in front of you. Another gasp spills from your lips and your eyes widen from the familiar leather bound notebook. “-I found it.”

You grasp at the pages, taking it into your hands and feeling the wrinkled pages full of scribbles and doodles made in ink. You choke out the words of gratitude, grinning so widely that your cheeks might burst and your eyes well up with happiness. “Thank you.”

“Thank you. I-I thought it was lost forever.”

The man opens his mouth to reply but you smother him in a tight embrace. Hoseok wheezes, making coughing sounds from the pressure of your arms, and he even mutters your name after a minute but you don’t let go of him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“You’re very welcome, Y/N.” He gently moves your arms from his back. “But you should let go of me.”

If someone were to see, surely rumours would spread like wildfire. Folks in the village were already whispering of how he came and went inside your abode for hours on end and until the sun went down; a gesture such as an embrace would certainly be scandalous and soil your name.

You comply, loosening your grip, and he slides away from you with a rather striking smile. “You ought to be more organized, Y/N. At this rate, you’d lose your head and I’d have to go looking for it.”

A grin sneaks up your mouth. “That’s why I have you.”

The man exhales, continuing on the other subject as you move away. “I hope you do not mind but on my way here, I’ve read the latest entries.”

“And?” You settle yourself down in the wooden chair facing the windows, preparing a new bottle of ink to begin the next story. “What did you think?”

“As usual, there was nothing amiss, quite good actually. Just, your spelling was horrible, Y/N.”

“I know I’m rubbish at spelling.” You mutter underneath your breath, preoccupied with scribbling something down. After a moment, you sheepishly smile at him. “But that’s why I’m paying you to be my editor. If I were good at it, I wouldn’t need you.”

“Oh, don't be ridiculous.” He jests in a playful tone, “you will always need me. What would you do if I was not around to remind you to eat once in a while and bathe? You'd be sitting in your own filth and rotting away in this home.”

The two of you laugh together, admitting that he is not at all false.

You were withdrawn, living on the secluded outskirts of the town. Not many folks desired to be acquainted with you since men frequently belittled your skills and women would rather discuss child rearing and gossip about the marriages taking place. You preferred to write and most considered that a bore and not an occupation at all. You like to beg to differ but that didn't mean you were free from loneliness.

It was Hoseok that provided companionship, filling in the positions of what friends would. With his presence by your side, you no longer cared about the rude folks who would mutter behind your back. He is the reason you keep striving forward.

“Speaking of which, I haven't seen you in a week’s time. What have you been working on as of late?”

“It's a new story and a strange one but I cannot find it in me to shake it off.” Your eyes are blazing like sunlight. He considers the passion ignited within you is a very peculiar yet attractive trait of yours. “It's something I call ‘soulmates’.”

His brows furrow. “What is that?”

“It’s a kindred spirit in which upon meeting, there is a spark of..uh...lighting.” Your hands whip in grand gestures and you pace around the room in equal strides. “The primary character just knows that they will end up with that person and together, they will lead their lives until the next and next one. A person can have one soulmate or several, each a part of themselves that makes them whole. It is a kind of true love, an authentic companionship, a mate that matches your soul if you will.”

“Perhaps I shall call the story ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’.” You whirl back around to face your editor. “What do you think?”

The man hums. “I think you don’t have enough sleep and your head is up in the clouds again.”

You sigh, stomping your foot once. “Must you kid around? I am sincerely ecstatic about the idea.”

“I am only teasing you.” He smiles in a soft manner. “I think the idea is brilliant. If it is you who comes up with it, it always is.”

“I know.” Your cheeks heat from his compliments and you inhale a lungful. “It’s a shame that not many people will hear about it. What did they say at the printing press?”

Hoseok grimaces, hesitating on the subject and hoping that you wouldn’t have asked. But you urge him to go on and tell him that your feelings will be spared.

“Seokjin won’t allow you. He doesn’t believe a woman has anything worthy to say.”

“Of course. It’s always the same issue.” You’re defeated and at a loss of what to utter. “I know my writing isn’t horrible, especially with your help, dare I say it’s quite good. But in the world we live in, no one wants to hear what a woman would say, much less what a woman would write.”

Hoseok gazes upon the profile of your visage. The efforts of your labour are evident in the way darkened circles mark the underside of your eye, the natural flush that kisses upon your nose. You are tired and it hurts him to see you this way. “Do you want people to read your work?”

“Yes, more than anything.” You look outside the window, lost in a trance of a land that would offer a lady like you more opportunities. It’s a silly thought but a prevalent one. “I never cared for recognition or fame. I just want my work to be out there in the world.”

There is a silence that hangs heavily in the air.

“Y/N.”

“Don’t feel the need to comfort me. I am aware that there is no use in contemplating such ridiculousness. My time is better spent putting my active imagination to better use.” You meekly smile, grabbing a new sheet of parchment. A thought brushes across your mind that perhaps if you wedded to someone of importance, your tales can be spread into different civilizations.

But you have no interest in letting someone take your hand in marriage. Most men would rather you bear children for them than write all day in a room. You’d be better off remaining on your lonesome. But perhaps Hoseok would want to...no...such a foolish thought.

You have an inkling that you will remain unmarried for the rest of your days.

The end of your quill is dipped in black ink, preparing to begin another story and you scowl at Hoseok who remains impassive, staring at you at such an intense fixation. “Get back to work before I shake my spear through you!”

He jumps like his trousers are on fire. “Yes, madam.”

And the man laughs at your glare.

A few weeks have passed since Hoseok has bid you farewell, being excused from his duties to travel to his ill mother in another village. You were awaiting for his return but you’re finally drawn out of your home by the excessive noise at the town square.

“What is going on?”

A chubby lady with a rounded womb, ready to burst with a new child, chuckles happily and takes your hand. “Your editor, Y/N. Who knew he would be such a literary scholar?”

“P-pardon me?”

A new declaration is posted on the wooden board and everyone swarms, despite most being illiterate. The lady who caught wind of news repeats it to you. “Jung Hoseok has been commissioned by the state as the official writer. His play titled as ‘A Midsummer Night's’ Dream caught the eye of the Minister and now he’s published his work under the name of Shakespeare.”

“E-....excuse me?!”

You feel faint.

“Oh, it’s so wonderful, Y/N.” The woman is ignorant to your bubbling wrath. “You should really give his work a try!”

“That...bastard!” A handful of village folk turn around in shock at your curse and even the lady is taken back, letting go of you and gasping at your barbaric demeanor. But you pay no mind.

You are too enraged of the lies, the deception, the deceit. Upon racing back home, you discover copies of your work all stolen, ripped away from your hands and name, forged and ransacked.

And cursing out his name, damning him to the deepest parts of hell, does nothing to sedate the madness of resentments. You will loathe the name of Jung Hoseok until the day you die.

Years later, when Hoseok returns, he receives news from the villagers. Not long after he had left, you suffered under a violent illness and died. He weeps alone as he reads your last written work, ink bled on old pages, a story of enemies and vengeance.

[18th Century]

The hot sun beams down and sweat slicks down your forehead, coating your skin in a sticky sheen and mixing with the grime on your cheek, the dust clinging to your hair. You are weak from hunger but it’s a familiar feeling that strangely reminds you that you are alive.

After working since dawn, you take a moment’s rest, blunt sickle in your hand, eyes bleary from the continuous labour. But what catches your sight is the lady of the house walking on the stone path, viewing all the workers and peasants wading through the endless fields.

“She’s so beautiful.” You sigh in a dreamy manner, following her graceful figure glide by, her cream coloured silk hat matching with the gorgeous gown. Lady Jungha has always been a beauty since birth, powdered skin and rosy cheeks. She is an exquisite phantom, a fictitious being that’s pulled out straight from books. “If only I could look like her.”

“Why are you so concerned with nonsense beauty?” Your friend stands straight, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “Hurry up and focus plowing the wheat fields or else we’ll have nothing to eat!”

You downcast your head, griping a few words before exhaustion envelops your frame and you keep quiet, concentrating on your duties of a farmer.

It’s only until the sun is beginning to dip across the horizon that you’re free from the grueling labour. Every part of your body aches as the day before and you only get a single loaf of bread to chew on, cowering beside your friend with a tiny fire that provides warmth inside the brick shack.

“Y/N, could you fetch a pail of water?” Your friend rinses her face, shuddering from the coldness of the liquid. “We’re all out.”

“Must it be me?” You sit up from your straw mat, peeking out the window and watching how the sun has fully disappeared. There is no doubt that in ten minutes time, the sky will be black and the moon will rise.

“I beg of you.” She falls to the ground, suffering from a fever that’s been persisting for the past days. When you pleaded to the lord of the house to let her rest, he didn’t allow such a thing. Your heart only cries when you watch her in this much agony. “I’m not feeling well.”

“If you must.” You nod, tucking a tattered blanket over her body. “I’ll be back soon.”

The metal pail clanks as you rush down the dirt path to the well. You try to make it as fast as you can before it becomes completely dark and the nipping chills might lead you to sickness as well.

But on your way there, with your head facing the dirt, on pure coincidence and on accident, you bump into the body of another person. “I’m so sorry-”

“Um, pardon me.” He speaks in a sweet voice and you’re drawn upwards, looking the man in his eyes. His natural dark hair is parted to the side with a dab of hair wax, wearing a moss coloured suit; a silk cravat, coat and waistcoat to match. His breech, stockings and shoes are dignified, crisp clothes that show his wealth. “I apologize to interrupt you on your way but may I ask what household is this?”

You glance over to the grand home towering high in the sky. “Why, this is the Jeon Household. Jeon Jungkook is the lord of the manor and of the land. Who may you be?”

The man grins. “My name is Jung Hoseok, a traveller scholar.”

“A scholar?” You smile, easing into the discourse. “That is rather impressive.”

“Yes, well, I’ve retired to become a tutor and I’ve just arrived in this part of the country yesterday.” Hoseok takes a moment to admire the endless fields of the countryside and the peacefulness that lasts for acres upon acres. “I am afraid I lost my way.”

You lift one hand to gesture to the path. “The road to the small village is this way and when you arrive at the riverside, leave to the right. There should be an inn there where you can stay at.”

“Thank you.” He dips his head and before you can bid farewell, he steps forward. “Would it be unmannerly for me to ask you of your name?”

There’s a second of hesitation, one where you lower yourself, facing the ground. It is shameful for someone like you to be speaking to someone like him, dashing looks and of higher status. You wish it were different but by your battered attire, you cannot lie. “I am L/N Y/N, a lowly servant and farmer to the Jeon Household.”

However, the man is undeterred by your status and your soft whispers.

“You are quite the beauty, Lady Y/N, if you do allow me to say. And...a bit familiar.” He gazes at you with a slight frown and finally rips away his eyes once you’ve blushed. Hoseok clears his throat in several harsh coughs. “Thank you for helping me this fine evening.”

That night, you are unable to catch a single wink of sleep. Your mind is consumed by one single man.

The sun is falling once more. The wheat fields are tangling with each other, dancing to the warm breeze of the evening, birds chirping their songs before sundown. The fresh scent of the ground follows with the dirtied clothing on your body and you tear off your apron, neckerchief and white linen cap.

“Where are you going?” Your friend watches you, chewing on her stale bread and bemused by your franticness. “Are you not going to eat?”

“I will be back soon enough.” You re-lace your stays to hug your frame tighter, dusting off the deep emerald fabric of your petticoat. It’s a shame that you cannot afford a powdered wig or powder for your skin but you make do with what you have, pinching your cheeks for a rosy complexion, brushing your hair to the back of your head and decorating it with a few flowers you had pulled from the side of the path.

“Why are you trying so hard to look beautiful? You are aware that no one pays no mind, especially to us peasants? They’re all too concerned about themselves to look at us.”

You know that your friend does not lie.

No matter what you do, the reflection in the mirror mocks your efforts. Your skin is itchy and of a sickly colour, burnt from being in the sun, the foul stench of labouring in the fields all day follows even after bathing, fingernails blackened from the dirt, the lack of food make your cheeks hollow and bones frail. A pitying gaze from your friend causes you to look away.

There’s nothing you can do, no amount of colour, pinching or flowers could make you look anything more than ugly. You can either look like the peasant girl that you were born to be or a pathetic court jester - you’re not sure which is worse.

Yet, you hold your head up high.

“You don’t understand. I-I’ve met someone.”

Your friend lowers her bread and stares. “You met someone?”

“Last night and I can’t help but feel like,” a hopeless sigh spills from your lips, “like he may be my soulmate.”

Such a concept as soulmates is something that came from a famous book that you heard about once. The writer was a marvelous one, plays and street performances coming from the story and even to this day, countless philosophers are debating the idea that each person may belong to another or select few, created by the so-called ‘fate’.

“Oh, Y/N. You are too naive.”

You smile at her. “Believe in what I say, I have a good feeling about this man.”

Before she is able to ask more questions, you have already left. As fortune may have it, tracing the steps of yesterday, a familiar man stands near the path, admiring the beauty of the endless fields. He turns around at the sound of your huffs and smiles.

“Is this a coincidence or done on purpose?” He waits patiently for an answer and recognizing how you are flustered by the question, he grins. “I do hope it is the latter for I was also hoping to see you again.”

Your cheeks flush and a smile holds itself on your face. “Your desire is mutual.”

The dusk light fills the sky and you pace alongside him, strolling together aimlessly without a place in mind. Simply, you are enjoying his company. “Have you always worked here?”

“Yes, my parents were also servants for the Jeon Household. It was in my place to continue their duties.” You study the side of his face, chiseled jaw, sharp nose and all, before realizing the rudeness of your actions. “And you? Were you always a traveling scholar?”

“Ah no, well, I am a tutor now.” He chooses each word carefully and his utterance of the words are gentle. “I am in search of a suitable job. Do you know if there is anyone in the Jeon Household in need of a tutor?”

“Well, the lord of the house is very educated already.” You’ve always known that lord Jeon has been kind to you and your parents. There were many stories that surrounded him. “He is old and unfortunately a widow. He does have one daughter, however. The lady of the household, Jungah. She’s only nineteen years of age and very beautiful.”

“Oh.” Hoseok stops to feel the breeze kiss upon his cheeks. It cards through his locks and you watch while in an enamoured state. “Is the lady of the household betrothed?”

“Not that I know of. Perhaps the lady will need a tutor. I-...” You lower your head, trying to remember your place in the world as a lowly servant. “I could arrange a meeting for you if you wish.”

“That would be splendid, Y/N. Thank you.” He beams like the sunshine itself and you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. But upon realizing that it reveals more of your imperfect complexion, you downcast your head. Hoseok’s gaze was becoming too intense as well. He muses, “You really would be more suited to a bustling town.”

“A town?”

“The world has changed, Y/N!” He throws open his arms as if he welcomes the entire universe inside of them. “It’s developed. Such things as working for a lord of the land and barely having enough to eat, people are no longer living in such ways. More and more are leaving the countryside to work at these factories. You can buy food, a warm house, anything you want.”

He faces you. “It’s wonderful, really. You wouldn’t believe it. You have to see it with your own eyes, Y/N.”

You smile at his riveting energy but your expression turns to sorrow. “I can’t just leave. They own me here.”

“I can help you.” Hoseok declares to the rising moon. “I can help you get away from this farm.”

You gasp, stepping forward. “R-really?”

“Yes, I have a friend who sells cattle. All you must do is lay on the barrow and let yourself be taken to the border. It’s never been more possible.” His eyes twinkle, brighter than the stars setting above your heads. “All my friend needs in order to agree is ten golden coins.”

“T-ten?” You reach for your pocket that is weightless. They don’t give you earnings for your work - the food is already the pay. “All I have is four.”

The man hums in contemplation. “Well, you can give me the four now and when you come up with the other six, I’ll let him know.” You scour your dress to reach inside the pocket, collecting your entire wealth into your hands. “It’s for a better life, Y/N. I want you to be happy.”

“Thank you.” Your fingers brush against the skin of his palm, letting the golden coins drop into his hand and a strange emotion tugs inside your chest.

After bidding farewell with the tutor, you watch his backside disappear slowly, counting each step the man takes that increases the distance and leaves him farther away from you.

Eventually, in three days time, you catch the gracious lady on her morning walk, and she finds interest in the man you describe. Hoseok expresses his gratitude as another meeting is arranged for him to address the lord of the house and it doesn't take long for him to be hired as the official tutor for Lady Jungha.

You find that the pair of them, Hoseok and Lady Jungha, have taken a liking to each other, often smiling and glancing while strolling at dawn. But your friend insists that your mind is merely running wild again and such a relationship would be scandalous to the Jeon name. For reasons you are too shy to admit, you hope it is true.

Each evening, you stroll together with Hoseok, mindlessly speaking and letting time trickle away without a notice. You see him frequently, especially since he now lives on the land as well. And the feelings within your being are only festering day by day.

Except, one night, you cannot sleep well.

“Where are you going?”

Your friend lifts her head as you shuffle on outwear, brushing back your hair and leaving it unkempt. “I’ll be back soon. I need to make sure of something.”

Today, as you waited on the same path, Hoseok never showed up.

As improper and rude as it may be, you sneak into the manor like a shadow, slipping through the familiar corridors and hallways, past empty rooms and studies. Surely, if you were to be caught, you would be punished; perhaps days of food taken away from you or you would be forced to work the entire field during the night. But you cannot shake off the worry that plagues your mind.

It’s not like Jung Hoseok breaks his word. He is a man of dignity and respect-

“Hhmpph...mmp-h…” A muffled whine causes you to halt and you turn to the lady’s room, the door slightly parted and enough for you to peek inside. “Wait...w-wait.”

There are two shadows on the bed and you narrow your eyes, barely able to see with the moonlight coming through the glass windows. But you recognize the voice immediately. “What’s the matter?”

“M-my father,” Lady Jungha pants a breath, laid down beneath the man, “if he finds out about us, I’m scared of what he would do to you.”

“My lady, are you not aware I would readily endanger my own well-being for you?” He places a kiss on her lips, the sound of smacking skin echoing in the quiet room. Your heart drops. “Your beauty is unadulterated, the most magnificent in the land. You are but a fragile flower and your mind of absolute brilliance. Never have I had such a student. No one compares to you.”

He strips of his shirt, allowing the fabric to flutter to the ground. His large, coarse hands slink up the lady’s legs, pushing up her silk nightgown until it pools high above her chest. He removes her undergarments and you spin around, back hitting against the wall, teeth sinking into your bottom lip and breaking the skin.

“Let me reward you. Let me take care of you.” His voice is soft and sweet, dripping of luscious honey and you fear that you will spew the little contents in your stomach out. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

There are more groans and whines, kisses pressed and skin slapping on skin. The vulgarities and lewd sounds sends a warm wash over your body and you swallow hard, finding it difficult to walk away. “Okay, take me, Hoseok.” The young lady giggles quietly. “I allow you to defile my innocence.”

Your hand covers your mouth to hide the breaking sob and you run as saltwater clouds the surroundings.

“Is there something the matter?” Your friend shifts over the straw mat, shaken from her slumber and your sudden appearance.

“I’m well. Thank you.” You face the dirtied wall, holding your palm to your lips, weeping into your hands until the exhaustion of your labour from the day has taken hold of your mind.

The sunlight does not seem bright anymore.

The hard work and plowing of the fields offers a sense of odd fulfillment. The repetitive motions and slick sweat sticking to your face brings you down from the clouds to the ground. You remember who you are: a lowly servant who will never be anything more.

“I believe I will take the hand of Lady Jungha in the days to come.” Hoseok tells you one evening as you both have stopped to stare out at the endless countryside. You’ve learnt to find sorrow within these walks now.

“Is that so?” You offer a kind smile, sincerely ecstatic for the man. Despite his mere status, he is a good match for the lady of the house. They are both of beauty and dashing looks.

“If it were not for you and your efforts, I would not be standing here today.” Hoseok grins, hands behind his back and spine tall. “One day, when I become the lord of the land, I will set you free.”

You bow your head. “Then it would be my absolute honour, Lord Hoseok.”

The man grins at the new title and your heart aches as you watch him stride away, increasing the distance and disappearing away from you.

True to his word, in a month, he has taken Lady Jungha’s hand. It happens too quickly for you to fully understand, the wedding coming and going within a blink, and you simply focus on working the fields, having enough to eat after each day, working hard to obtain six more coins.

In due time, the strolls with the man diminish until there is nothing left. Yet, what surprises you is the sudden illness of Lord Jungkook and his succumb to the mysterious disease. It is overnight that Jung Hoseok becomes the main land owner and master of the household.

“Wake up! Wake up, peasants!” Horrific metal is rattled on metal, shocking you out of slumber and you awake, rubbing at bleary eyes. Your friend is in a similar state of confusion, exchanging a glance at you before she gets up, grabbing a cloak to cover her nightgown.

“How dare you intrude into a lady’s quarters?” You gasp at the men who barge and kick down all the doors of the little huts. The stranger simply laughs at your scoldings and roughly grabs your arm, hauling you outside against your will and throwing you to the dirt. You yelp and your friend comes rushing to your aid, covering you with your own cloak.

“Take all their belongings!” The men shout and the other servants are torn away from each other, children, women and men alike. “Rip down everything!”

You watch as they scour your tiny room for the little things that you have, a pot of water and straw mat, perhaps a stack of wheat in the corner. You stagger to your feet and a familiar figure stands by the side of the road, gazing out at the wide countryside.

“Lord Hoseok, I plead with you to tell me what is happening.” Behind him, your friends and their families are screaming, homes torn apart and fires flickering your shadows on the ground. “Why are you treating these poor servants this way?”

“Oh, Y/N.” There is something strange about the man. His kindness and benevolence has long left his soul and his smile frightens you. “I am selling the land.”

“Selling the land?! What-?” You are befuddled and baffled. “Does Lady Jungha know about this?!”

The corner of his mouth lifts, and he locks his eyes with yours. “The lady is bedridden in grief from her father’s death. She cannot sleep or eat and is no longer a wife to me. I have plans to send her to an asylum to get better.”

“P-pardon me? T-that cannot be true!” You shake your head until it rattles and you can’t see straight. “That must be false! I have to see her for myself-”

Hoseok clutches your wrist in his hand. “You will do no such thing.”

A sick, twisted part of him was once curious to see how foolish and easily persuaded you are. He isn’t disappointed. You believe him so easily that he does not need to put forth effort. It nearly spoils the fun and amusement for him to trick you. You almost awaken a sense of guilt within him. Almost.

It strikes you like a slap and your eyes widen. “You are not a scholar nor a tutor are you?”

“And you realize so too late.” He lets go, applauding for the little wit you have left. “I lied.”

Your stomach churns. You feel sick. “Who are you?”

“A swindler who was once a peasant like you.” His gaze softens a mere tad. “I never once harboured feelings for the lady of the house, I was only trying to gain wealth. You can hate me if you want to, that does not matter.”

“You are the truest demon that I have met,” you spit out in rage, “and hell has opened its doors for you.”

He leans his head to one side, chuckling and laughing at the sudden insults. “Are you really so naive, Y/N? Are you not tired of licking the shoes of people who are of higher status? But I must say, if it were not for you, my scheme would have never succeeded. And for that, I thank you.”

Hoseok reaches into his pocket, taking a single coin, one that you had given him, and he slaps it back into your hands, closing your palm so you can keep it safe.

You shake with wrath, your entire frame rattling and knees threatening to buckle to the dirt. With the little strength you have left, you throw the coin as far as you can into the fields. Hoseok chuckles again and you prepare to launch over, maul his face with your dirtied fingernails. But his men grab your arms too soon, restraining your limbs and forcing you to kneel.

“I-I hate you! I spite you! Damn you, Jung Hoseok! Damn you!”

“What do you want me to do with this girl?”

“Take her and sell her for the best price.” Hoseok waves his hand, dismissing his men and bidding you a final farewell. “She is rather valuable.”

You’re thrown into a wooden cage, trapped and hanging onto the bars as the horse drags you elsewhere. You scream and shout but the man does not spare a single glance. You watch his backside disappear slowly, cursing each stride he takes that increases the distance and leaves you farther away from him.

[19th Century]

“Are you looking for something?” A rounded woman emerges from the back of her market stand, sweeping your frame up and down to guess the wealth you have.

You’re in a fitted linen shirt and dark green woolen skirt, belt wrapped around the natural waist of the simple ensemble and bonnet decorating your pinned up chignon hair. You look like a well-off peasant, not a customer who could pay for much, but it is a fairly good front since you’re actually penniless.

“No, I’m just looking for now.” You smile softly and the woman huffs out in annoyance, spinning around to address some other folks who have gathered on the other side. As her back is turned, your fingertips run against the selection of green flower brooches, the gems sparkling in the sunlight.

You slip one into your sleeve and walk away.

The women wandering about the market are adorning full, bell-shaped skirt dresses, petticoats with frilled hems, hair in tight curls framing their face and maybe a long time ago, you would be envious of such beautiful clothing but it does not concern you anymore. There’s much more important business to attend to.

The bustle of the crowded streets and children running at your feet is suffocating and you make a left at the alleyway, sliding the brooch from out your pocket and attaching it on the woolen shawl draped on your shoulders. It looks much better this way. You’re ready.

Another left, another right, going deeper and deeper into the dirty alleyways that run with rats and of the poor pleading for money - eventually, you make it to the pine painted door, a dingy and discreet place in the corner that already smells of tobacco from the outside.

You kick down the door. The chaos inside stops.

“Men!” You smirk at their confused expressions. “Your real competition is here.”

As a woman, it may be ungenteel to hike up your dress, put your boot on the table and shoot dice while hollering and screaming with the opposite sex but why should you feel ashamed when you are dominating and winning all bets?

“I’ll bet one more time.” Your opponent, Min Yoongi, slaps down a hefty sack of golden coins. The others cheer, the entire room having all gathered around your table and watching the dark horse snaring victory after victory. “If the dice makes it even, I get my earnings back but if it makes it odd, I will give you the rest of this.”

You contemplate the choice, weighing the reward and consequences. It sounds appealing, especially when everyone is howling for you to take the deal. In the end, you smirk at the newfound confidence. “You’re on.”

The dice is thrown. Each person holds their breath.

In the next twelve minutes, you’ve completely ransacked the place dry of their money. And you laugh your head off, clutching onto your stomach and cackling while the others can only sigh at their humiliating, multiple defeats.

“Where did a woman like you learn how to gamble?” Yoongi sips from his glass of rum, eyes studying you carefully.

“Ah.” You smile at him. “But there is your mistake. Woman or man, ‘tis true they are different but not so much. You would be a fool not to look at me as your equal opponent.”

You’ve seen things that others would faint at; held a gun within your hands, fired shots into the sky, sailed seas with pirates until you found a home here. Yoongi grins. “A fool I am indeed.”

“Hey!” A piercing interruption at the back causes all heads to turn. The bulky man watching from earlier is holding the dice within his hands, frown decorating his ugly face and rotting teeth. “This dice is fake! It’s not ours!”

At once, all necks crane towards you.

They stare. The large men, brawny arms and thighs, bruises lining their skin, red fists and faces becoming scarlet begin to take slow steps forward. Yoongi has his eyes widened, mouth drawing open. You sheepishly smile. And…

You make a run for it.

“Get back here!” They dive over wooden tables and stools, tripping and falling, glasses of rum and cigars abandoned, thrown onto the ground. By then, you’ve already yanked open the door, being chased down the alleyway. “She’s a swindler!”

“A cheat!”

The horde of men races after you but are no match for your agile legs and speed. You even laugh to further mock them, dashing through the dark alleyways, past the poor and rats, clutters of rubbish and dirtied children. It’s like a peasant parade, a grand crowd following after in shouts and screams and you are their gracious leader.

“I prefer con artist!”

You make it to the main street again, knocking over stands and throwing over tables to slow down the angry men. Women scream, men exhale in surprise, children darting away from your form. They trip and stumble, pushing their way through the mass of people. “Give back our money!”

“Sorry but no thanks!” You hold up a heavy sack of coins above your head with a tinkling laugh, shaking the coins inside to further taunt them. “I need this more than you!”

The police squadron has noticed the ruckus in the area and has begun running after the ruffians, blowing their whistles and commanding them to stop. You hope they catch the criminals so that you may be spared but if they’re caught, you would be too. People like you are never caught.

The whistles are blown. “In the name of the royal family, halt immediately criminals!”

The men continue to run after you. “Kill her!”

“That’s a bit severe, is it not?!” You’re out of breath, painting and heaving for air.

You know you won’t last long now. Hence, there’s no other choice but to turn the corner into another street and immediately, in the empty area, you place yourself into another narrow alleyway. “Where did that whore go?!”

You gasp in offense, muttering quietly, “I am not a whore.”

The incoherent grumblings quickly turns into a scream when someone suddenly seizes you, their hand yanking your arm but the sound is muffled as a palm is clasped over your mouth and you’re pressed against someone’s firm chest. You pull away from the stranger.

He smirks. “Caught you.”

You shove his fingers off of your body, snatching the collar of his fine coat and hauling the man deeper into the shadowed depths of the alleyway. “Jung Hoseok-” You push him to the wall. “-What are you doing here?! How?!”

The man looks off to the other end that is lit by the sunlight, the unsuspecting thugs rushing past and officers following their tails. “I see you haven’t shaken off your gambling habits.” The son of the loan shark corners you with his larger body. “You still owe my family many loans.”

“Damn you.” Your teeth grit. “Fine, be as it may, take me to your debtors’ prison.”

“Good. It would be best if you follow me-”

In an instant, your shoes have twisted upon the gravel and your heel meets the dirt as you lob your body to the left, ready to take down the alley for yet another chase. But you fail to consider Jung Hoseok’s own agile skills, and he grabs your waist before you’re able to dash.

“Must you always run?”

The hot breath tickles against the shell of your ear and you scowl, curses to be spewed on your tongue, but he spins you around and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

You scream. “Put me down, bastard! I am a lady!”

“You aren’t.” He rudely smacks your ass, sending a jolt up your spine and you’re silenced in bafflement. The man makes his way on the opposite road of the chaos, into a quieter place with fewer folks wandering about. “And if you do not follow me, I will throw you to those rancid men. Would you like that better?”

“I despise you.”

Hoseok smiles, satisfied to see your more compliant behaviour. You decide that you’ll allow him to continue carrying you this way. You’re tired anyhow, legs sore from the race and at the end of the day, he is wasting away his own energy by hauling you there.

“You shouldn’t keep making bets with people if you choose to con them. One day, you’ll be beaten to death.”

You scoff loudly. “I am going to win in order to pay all my debts back, foolish man.”

“Gambling never works, haven’t you learnt? You’d end up wasting your entire life savings away and living by the city’s sewers.”

“Isn’t that where we’re all heading anyway?” You rest your hand on your cheek, propping your elbow on his broad backside. There are people staring at you, couples cowering away in disdain. You wonder if they’re soulmates.

Soulmates - the idea that a kindred soul has been fixed for each individual are not only in stories anymore but in real lives. Folks have supposedly begin recognizing an odd burst when they meet their other half. It’s a ridiculous phenomenon. You couldn’t care less about soulmates. What matters is wealth.

Wealth would help you, free you, give you a better tomorrow. You’ve lived this entire life alone and it is no doubt that for the rest of it, you will continue to be by yourself. There is no one trustworthy - it took you too long of a time to learn that.

“I’m not naive anymore.”

“Good.” He laughs, finally setting you down on the property, swinging his arm around your shoulder and pulling you close as he guides you inside the building, down the familiar halls. You shove his limb off with an ugly scowl, and he smiles. You accompany each other in synchronized steps, the surroundings too familiar for your liking.

Jung Hoseok is a man with short, black, tousled hair. He wears a double-breasted frock coat and long trousers, a luxurious attire considering the family he comes from. You hate it even more that he is a rather dapper young fellow.

“This is for your own benefit, Y/N. You don’t even have any money for food. At least if you stay at this place, I can bring you some bread to eat and you have warm shelter.”

You step inside the cell, and he locks the door with a brass key.

“This place is cold and horrid,” you cry out. “There are rats and fleas everywhere! You think I could stay here?! You’d be leaving me to die!”

He smiles at you through the gaps of the metal bars. The stone floorings and walls barricade you in. “I will bring you a blanket and you can make do.”

You spit with all the fury and rage festered in your soul, “Do not act like you care for me!”

“Don’t mistake my pity for generosity then.”

“Damn you, Jung Hoseok.” You grip the cold bars that trap you, screaming after his retreating form. “I loathe you with every last breath in my body!”

He turns from a little way, figure engulfed in the darkness of the hall. “If it helps, I share my own hatred for you. You make my job a lot harder than need be.” A small smile holds on his face and you see it all too well. “Just sit down and begin separating the strands of rope in the basket. Enough of it and in a few years, you might be released.”

You curse him to hell and back.

The sunlight coming from the barred window is always hot in the hour of twelve. You’ve noticed this before a ways back but thought nothing much of it. Today, it makes all the difference.

You’ve collected the leaves and grass from the corners of the cell, cringing and sobbing out when you accidentally brushed your hand in rat feces, a dead rat and maggots eating at the decaying flesh. But alas, after wiping your fingers on your tattered clothing, you continued on your quest.

It took a while to break the wooden basket and carve out something decent but you managed with the little fork Hoseok gave you to eat. It’s all thanks to him that you can do this.

“Come on now.” You murmur, rubbing the two wooden sticks against each other on top of the pile of grass, leaves and rope. There’s a puff of smoke and sweat builds at your forehead as you work your arms back and forth. “I beg of you…”

The sunlight helps to ignite the tiny flame and a smirk spreads into your cheeks.

You nurse the fire as quietly and quickly as you can, throwing the bundles and bundles of rope that was prepared for you to separate into the light. As the fire crackles, meeting the height of your waist, you take the stool, standing on top of it and you throw yourself over the tiny ledge.

Using the motion, you kick the bars of the window loose and you throw your legs out. The height of the drop is survivable. But before you can make your escape, pattering footsteps echo through the hall. “Y/N?!”

Hoseok stands back from your cell in dreaded horror. “Bloody hell, you started a fire?!”

“A good distraction, eh?” You smirk at his glare. It was always within the con rule book to create distractions and delay the enemy. “I suppose this would be a good time to bid you adieu.”

He calls your name over and over again, gripping the iron bars that separate the two of you.

“You know no matter where you go, I will find you?!”

“Aww, if you were not an enemy, that would almost sound romantic.” You give him a flying kiss, lips smacking against your palm and gestured out to him. He frowns and you give a wink, a cheerful giggle as well. “Goodbye, Jung Hoseok.”

“Y/N!”

And you slip out the window, right out of his grasps, running as fast as you can.

[20th Century]

Even as the threat of war breathes down your neck, threatening to grab hold of your lungs and smother you in all its horror, soulmates still run rampant through the streets, slaughtering each sliver of hope you have left, strangling the happy life that you want so desperately.

“You haven't found…” Your friend leans close as if sharing a secret. “...‘the one’?”

The world revolved around the idea of soulmates. It hit civilization like a ship’s cannon, sudden and full of impact. Now, it was all girls could giggle about and boys could fantasize. Folks would be absolutely consumed with it, parents pairing their children and friends’ together and hoping for that burst of electricity that could only be shared between kindred souls.

One of the questions you were asked insistently was: ‘have you found the one yet?’. Your answer didn’t matter as much as the pitying expressions, the words of consolation of ‘you’ll find one soon’ and how people told you their own story. They always said that no matter where you went, where you’d go off to, your soulmate would end up finding you. That’s how the scientists and teachers, old philosophers and stories, the newspapers said it.

That’s how fate is.

“What if I just don’t have a soulmate?”

You exhale a breath towards the sky and your friend looks at you in astonishment. “Who told you that? Plus, no scientist has said such thing yet. Everyone has a soulmate! Some people just take a bit of time, Y/N. You’ll find someone soon, I just know it.”

She says it with such certainty, as if declaring the sun will rise again. “And when you do, you’ll know instantly.”

You’ve heard it a million times before, the way your friends have described it, you’ve seen it with your own eyes. Yet, your own faith and hope are dwindled.

“Isn’t there more to life than finding your soulmate, getting married and having children?”

You’re not sure where this is all coming from but perhaps it is the resentments of your universe, how your parents have constantly shoved the ideas of romance and matrimony down your throat since you were a child. When you look around, women are glowing from pregnancies or branded with a ring on their finger.

“What if I want to go to university instead?”

“Are you ill?” She nibbles on her bread. “Why are you speaking such nonsense? Y/N, this is the Great Depression and I know your own family is well off but people don’t even have enough to eat.” Your friend shakes her head, scoffing at the ridiculousness of your words. “School...and for women? What kind of place would ever accept that?”

You don’t respond. She sighs.

“Y/N, don’t you want happiness and to feel loved? We don’t have many choices other than those things. So, keep your chin up and don’t give up on the idea of soulmates just yet.”

It’s a rose-coloured world. Everyone sees the universe in blazing shades, laughing and grinning even at such a poor time. They see the glass as half-full, each failure an opportunity to learn, pouring of optimism. They beam with love and happiness, holding hands and sharing kisses.

Yet, you don’t feel like you are flushing with rose. You are green. A monster of envy.

The heavy rain beats down on top of your head, rattling the inside of your skull. The surroundings have turned into a shade of grey, vision clouded with water droplets clinging onto your lashes. Each step you take splatters puddles onto your house dress, a kelly-coloured, floral, cotton hand-me-down from your mother.

You’re drenched from head to toe, squealing before taking shelter under a closed flower shop.

You don’t notice the person who you’re caught in the rain with, the individual that was already there and lifting their hand out to catch the droplets, staring up at the clouds and considering how much longer the storm will take. “Looks like it won’t stop anytime soon, eh?”

Your body jumps in shock but soon eases from the warm and familiar presence beside you.

“Jung H-Hoseok.” You blink at him, managing a slight smile out of politeness. “What a surprise.”

The man is a notorious playboy, someone you’ve seen sucking face in alleyways with other girls, feeling them up right in public, especially Yoonji from three houses down your parents’. Your own mother has told you to stay away from men like him. They’re nothing but trouble.

“Are you alright?” He gives a sly grin, taking a step closer to you and his body radiates the heat your own skin craves. If someone were to see now, they’d immediately become suspicious and in this small town with gossip being the main activity, your mother would know about it instantly.

Luckily, no one’s around and the streets are empty.

“I’m perfectly fine, just soaked from the rain.”

Hoseok smirks. He’s a cunning fellow, a known looker too. His white shirt is rolled to his sleeves, veins popping from his forearm and you know that any lady in this town would be swooning to be in this position but you don’t dare look at him. You focus on the street.

“It’s been awhile since we chatted, Y/N.”

“Well, I’d rather not.”

“Why?” He tips his head to the side, staring at you with the utmost concentration that you nearly begin to break a sweat.

You finally look at him, twisting on your ankle to frown. “Would Min Yoonji like it if she knew you were trying to flirt with me right now?”

“Darling, no one ever said anything about flirting.” He’s amused and that makes you angrier. “But if you want me to, then I can.”

“You. Are. Ridiculous.”

“And you are beautiful.”

“You!” Your mouth has filled with cotton, cheeks heating up by the second and it would be an understatement to say that you’re flustered. How is it that he can get under your skin so quickly and break down your barriers; you’ll never know the answer. “Ugh!”

“Have I stolen those words out of your pretty lips? Or should I kiss ‘em to make sure they’re okay?”

You scoff, crossing your arms as if it’s for extra protection. “Now I know why my mother told me to stay from the likes of you!”

“Why?” His grin spreads into his cheeks, and he leans down to meet your eyes. “Because I make you excited, because I’m dangerous, and she’d rather have you settle down with someone plain and boring like that idiot down the street, Taehyung? Kid doesn’t even know what sex is.”

You narrow your eyes, spitting out the syllables like it’s your only arsenal left against his suave attacks, “because you toy with women’s hearts and throw them after you’re done.”

“I would never throw you away.” He answers without missing a beat, leaning against the glass window and studying your frame carefully. “I’ve always liked you, you know. You’re different from the rest of ‘em.”

“H-How so?” Your interest is piqued, and he realizes it, cockily smirking yet again.

“You’re not a simple one. You’re a challenge and I like that.”

There’s a familiar feeling about the man and it puts you on edge. Though you must admit, it is exhilarating to be speaking to him and simply considering all the scandalous acts you could do together in secret. “So once I become easy, you’ll be done with me?”

“Never.” He shakes his head. “You might know me as a heartbreaker but Y/N, sweetheart, I’m a changed man.”

Your brow lifts. “Oh?”

Hoseok sighs with exhaustion. “The war is coming. Everyone says it ain’t, but we all know it’s coming. Before I’m drafted to go out to the field and die, I’d like to open my heart once and love someone completely.” He stares at you once more. “And if it’s you, I think I can do it.”

You’re filled with bafflement again. “I...you…”

“At least give me a chance, Y/N.” The rain pitter patters against the green awning of the florist’s shop, the scent of the fresh earth fills your senses and you feel overwhelmed with a sense of peace. More so, Hoseok’s pleading twitches your fingers and melts the barrier around your vulnerable heart. “Let me take you out on a date. What do you say?”

It’s the first thing you think of. You whisper it in a gentle voice.

“What about your soulmate?”

“That’s not a problem.” He smiles, looking out at the street that still pours. “Don’t have one, never will. I’m a free soul.”

“Huh.” You giggle, having never heard such a thing aside from it coming out of your own mouth. “Soulmate-less people do exist after all, don’t they?”

“They sure do. And once people figure it out, there’s gonna be nothing but pity for folks like me.”

He can already feel your skin on his, a simple brush of the shoulders but it leaves him aching. Hoseok wonders what those lips taste like, sweet or of crisp citrus, how soft your mouth would feel on his, what it would be like to swallow your pants and make you the happiest woman on this damn forsaken planet.

“You mean folk like us.” You bring him out from his daydream, and he realizes that it’s better to be in reality since you’re here by his side, in the flesh and beautifully smiling. “I don’t have a soulmate either. I can tell. It’s something in me that says so.”

“Yeah…” He gazes at you, amazed at how true your words are. He really hasn’t met anyone like you, who knew him better than he did, who felt the things that he did, someone to share sadness with. “I’ve never met anyone where I’ve felt a burst of electricity. For all I know, my world has always been bright colours and all that sort.”

“Hmm…” You look at him, locking your eyes into his fixed stare. “You know, you feel real familiar, Jung Hoseok. Maybe we’ve met before this life.”

The man grins. “That’s the kind of line I used to use when I was trying to flirt with somebody.”

You nudge him, brushing your shoulder against his again. “Maybe I am trying to flirt.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Yes, you may.”

His lips touch yours until he caresses the back of your neck, holding you close until your chest is pressed against his and his frame shelters you. Candy - he grins when he finally figures out the sweet taste, and he chases the flavour of your velvet lips until a gentle whine leaves your throat.

Although there is no burst of electricity, your heart doesn’t stop and your breath doesn’t get caught, all you know is that you’re happy. And this is enough for you.

Falling in love with Hoseok is a complete accident.

You don’t mean to be head over heels for the man, certainly don’t mean for him to take your heart and kiss you senseless until your limbs feel of butter. When your parents scold your ears off, you resolve to break the relationship but somehow, you run back into his arms like a fool. He takes you and comforts you like a man has never done before. You don’t mean to smile so brightly when he calls you beautiful. You don’t mean to be so weak that you feel marrying him wouldn’t be so bad. You don’t mean any of these things but Hoseok was always a cunning one.

Maybe it is a mistake but the best one you’ve ever made.

“This is my old babe.” Hoseok slaps her trunk lightly. “Someone threw ‘er away and I told my pop I’d fix her up and I did it. I gotta admit, I love her to death.”

“More than me?’

“Maybe.” He teases and chuckles when you roll your eyes. There’s nothing special, at least not in your eyes, but when you lay a finger, your boyfriend inhales sharply. “Careful now. This is a Cadillac Sixty Special.”

You give him an unimpressed expression, hands on your hips and head quirked to one side. “I’m starting to really believe you love a car more than me.”

“I’m just joking, babe.” Hoseok leans over and plants a soft kiss on your mouth. Before you can pout, he opens the backseat door and ushers you inside. “For m’lady.”

You get in, and he follows soon after, shutting it and the pair of you stare out the empty road.

There’s a long pause. “This it?”

“What do you mean?” He gasps. “This is the best view you could get! This car’s the best!”

You sigh again and Hoseok laughs, leaning over and draping his arm over you, pulling you close and you rest your head on his shoulder. “I’m just kidding around. I know a view that’s much better than this.”

“And what’s that?” To answer your question, his other hand begins to skim on your thigh, fingertips tracing your skin, getting higher and higher and shifting your cotton dress up until your underwear peeks out. You grab his wrist, looking around and whispering in hushes, “What are you thinking?! We’re out in broad daylight in your parent’s driveway!”

“No one’s around, honey. C’mon…” He noses at your hair and it’s not like you don’t want this. You do very much, perhaps more than him but you’re also afraid of what would happen if Mrs. Kim, the next door neighbor, decides to walk her little puppy and faints when she sees what’s going on.

Finally, after some contemplation, you grab Hoseok’s face, pressing your mouth against his until he smiles into the kiss. “You better make this worth my while, Jung.”

His pupils are blown out, lips swollen and ready to devour you in the backseat of his used car. “Oh, I will.”

At the very least, he cares about you enough to be okay with staining the leather.

Regardless of what troubles you face - your parents’ disapproval, the looming presence of the war, your own worries and anxieties about the relationship - Jung Hoseok is constantly around the corner. No matter where you go, he’s always able to find you. The man makes your heart sing soothing lullabies and maybe you’ll never have a soulmate but at least you have him.

“Jung Hoseok here to save the beautiful m’lady.”

There’s a blazing smile written across his features and you laugh, causing him to melt into a warmer smile. He jogs up to you, draping a coat over your shoulders to defend you against the slight nipping breeze. The pair of you are taking a walk around his neighborhood, an odd pastime but one you insisted on.

“Are you okay?”

You secure the warm fabric over your exposed skin, savouring his scent that is lingering on each stitch of the wool fabric. “I’m fine. Why?”

Hoseok wiggles his brows in a suggestive manner. “Because you were limping the other day.”

You scoff. “And that was because of who?”

Your boyfriend giggles sweetly, draping his arm over your shoulder and pulling you close into his chest. You ease from the gesture, the nervousness temporarily rolling off your shoulders. As the both of you pass a minty coloured mailbox, you finally break the silence.

“Hey, have you been getting your mail lately?”

“Every Sunday as usual. Why?” He is amused at the strange question, turning to look at you but already having an inkling on what the whole gist is about. “Are you worried about the war?”

You hide your face, diverting your eyes and your voice is soft, barely on the edge of breaking. “You know they already told Namjoon and Jimin? Those two are leaving next week, packing all their bags, saying goodbye to their loved ones and family members and...and-”

“Hey. Hey now. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing.” He gently boinks your head with his, smiling and placing a kiss on the crown. “They’re older than I am and my brother hasn’t even been called yet. There’s no way they’ll call me first. Plus if I did go, I’d have Namjoon and Jimin and my brother to look out for me.”

“But what if-”

“No what if’s. Don’t wanna hear it.” He sulks with a pout, letting go of you and instead, catching your hand within his. He holds it tight, lacing your fingers together and you smile at him sadly.

“Are you scared?”

“Nope.” He punctuates the syllable and shakes his head. “What’s there to be afraid of? I’m not afraid.”

You squeeze his hand. “It’s okay if you are. I would be.”

“Why are you suddenly asking me all these questions?” He stops in front of his house, holding you close and staring at your expression. “What’s going on in that little pretty head of yours that has you worrying so much?”

Hoseok knows you too well at this point. Your cheeks flush and you stare at the ground. “There is something. And, I’m scared of what you’re gonna say when you know.”

“Scared of what I'm gonna say?” He laughs and kisses your cheek. “Darling, there’s nothing for you to be afraid of. Don’t you know that I’m fearless?”

You lift your brow in an incredulous manner. “Really?”

“Except for spiders, I don’t fight things that’s got more than six legs,” he teases and then becomes serious, “but enough of the jokes, what’s wrong?”

“I...we’re….” You hesitate, stuttering and an absolute mess. Maybe it’s foolish but you trust this man with all your heart and you love him so. Hence, you take a deep breath, bracing yourself before the storm comes. “We’re gonna have a baby.”

“What.”

“I’m pregnant?” You nervously laugh, swinging your held hands and staring at your shoes. “I don’t know how long it’s been but I haven’t been feeling well lately and I haven’t had my...cycle in a while. All the signs, I got them.”

“Oh wow.” He exhales a lungful, looking off into the distance without an expression. Hoseok is in a state of disbelief, unable to wrap his mind around it, and he repeats you a few times, “We’re gonna have a baby. A baby.”

“Yep…” You study him carefully, having not expected much but the lack of communication was no less than being put on a tightrope, holding your breath and on the brink of anticipation. “What do you think?”

“That’s….I’m….I’m going to go...for a bit..”

“What?!” Out of all the possible reactions, this had to hurt the most - there was no reaction. “You’re leaving?!”

“I just have to.” He begins to back away, getting to his vehicle that’s parked at the side. “I gotta get some air. See you.”

“Wait!” You run after him, shouting with all your might as he gets into his little precious car. “Jung Hoseok!” He ignores you completely, putting the keys into the ignition and starting the engine while you bang on the window. “Hoseok! We’re going to talk about this!”

Despite your fist pounding against the window, heaving breaths shouting through the sky, he pulls away from the curb and goes into reverse. “Hoseok- Fuck! OW FUCKING SHIT!”

As he was backing up, he mercilessly runs over your foot.

Pain shoots up your spine and you’re forced to stumble, crouching over and clutching onto your squashed, dirty shoe. You attempt to rip your limb away from under the rubber tire but the force is too much. It feels like you’ve broken your foot or a toenail was ripped off, that it’s bleeding in your tattered nylon sock. It swells and screams. To top off the agony, like a cherry thrown on top of a sundae, he finally drives his car off, freeing your extremity, disappearing in the distant fog and abandoning you on the side of the road.

“Are you kidding me?!” You sob out to the sky, knocking your head back and letting your broken foot pulsate and throb inside your poor sandal. “HOSEOK!”

You should’ve known better.

At the first sign of commitment, he had ran for the hills and was never seen again. You were lied to. You were betrayed. It didn’t matter if you loved him until your heart ached and it didn’t matter if you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him. You should’ve listened - to others and to your own instinct. The familiar feeling about the man that put you on edge was a warning.

Jung Hoseok is never there when you truly need him.

When you knock on his door, his mother tells you he is not there. When you hear that he has been sent a letter, he is not there. When you wait for a final goodbye, he is not there. When you search for him desperately at the train station before he is sent to the war, he is not there.

When your foot heals, he is not there.

When you lose the baby, he is not there.

When you cry until it hurts, he is not there.

When you find out that he has died in the midst of the battlefield, he is truly gone forever.

“I’m sorry.”

His comrade lowers his head, hat held in his hand, teardrops dripping on your front doorstep. “W-we couldn’t even get his dog tags. He’s gone, Y/N. Hoseok is dead.”

Jung Hoseok never comes back.

He never gets to face your wrath, your revenge, your anger or heartbreak. He could never marry you if he wanted to, hold you in his arms and apologize a thousand times, try again to raise a child and to kiss your lips on days when you’re tired. He is not there to grow old with you.

And you have never been angrier.

“Who said you could leave, Jung Hoseok?!”

You screech it to the sobbing sky, embracing the cold and harsh rain drilling on your skull. It drenches you, anchoring you to the ground and you ignore the dirt that splashes against your black dress, walking further and further out to the field.

“You were supposed to go down on your knees and beg for my fucking forgiveness!” You shriek until your throat is raw, crying it out until you’re not sure what is teardrops or raindrops. It aches everywhere and he isn’t here. He isn’t here. Hoseok isn’t here anymore. “You were supposed to cry when you found out the baby’s gone! Bastard. You are a fucking bastard! You know that?!”

No matter where you go, Hoseok is always able to find you. But why does he never show up when you need him the most?

“You threw me away! You left me alone like everyone said you would! I resent you!” Your voice gives out, a mere whimper that no one can hear against the thundering sky. “I resent being in love with you. You were supposed to stay with me, goddammit!”

The rain is ugly. It reminds you of the day you kissed him.

“When I meet you again, I swear I’ll never forget the things you’ve done to me. All of it.” You’re not done with Hoseok, far from it. You still have to grab him by the collar, curse and scream and swear at him until he apologizes. You never got to kiss him one last time, embrace him, stare at his face until it’s imprinted into your mind. You didn’t get to say goodbye yet.

Although the rain can’t, the Heavens can hear the oath you vow.

“I’ll never forget you,” you breathe, “or so help me god!”

[Present Day]

You live in fear.

Regardless of where you are, you’re constantly on edge. You look over your shoulder, running from one city to another, frightened when you catch a tall figure with tousled black hair. It’s been years since you’ve been like this but it seems like you’re still suffering without him around.

“So, we’re just going to trim half an inch of your hair.”

You smile in the mirror as the hairdresser positions her silver scissors. “Yes, please.”

But as you catch a person entering the salon, chiseled jaw and sharp nose, dark locks and great height, you flinch and cower. The lady screams, “hold still!”.

Though, it’s too late.

Your head ends up with a horrendous bob haircut. And it wasn’t who you thought it was either. The man was a stranger.

On another particular day, while making it to your work and gripping an umbrella over your head as it drizzles, across the road and past the fog, you catch a familiar person. Of course as any sane individual would, you scream and try to book it the other way. Unfortunately, your heel ends up getting caught in the cracks of the sidewalk and you collide with a random pedestrian, twisting your ankle in the process as you face-plant.

Once again, the person you saw was a stranger.

“Have you found your soulmate yet, Y/N?”

Your colleague quirks her head to the side, fingers laced together with her husband’s. You down your glass of wine, ordering another from the bar and you look her dead in her eyes.

“Don’t have one.”

She doesn’t ask anymore questions.

If you knew what your grandmother had told you all those years ago, if you knew even before this life and all the others, you would’ve stayed the fuck away from any name of Jung Hoseok.

You don’t have a soulmate. Far from it. But no longer are you dripping in envy, a green monster to the love surrounding the universe. You’re just trying to survive.

You don’t have a soulmate, though, you’re not completely free either...no...you have something much, much different and much worse. You have a destructive parasite, destined to ruin each path that you take and cause you sadness, pain, anger. You have something that is guaranteed to lie to you, betray your trust, to hurt you in ways where you’re unable to stand back up again.

Jung Hoseok is your destined enemy.

“Why couldn’t anyone else go?” You grumble incoherently underneath your breath, eyes shut tight and head leaning against the cold window. “Dammit, dammit.”

“Welcome aboard on flight W560 and thank you for flying on our airlines today. Please make sure your belt is on when the plane takes off and prepares to land. There will be a light above-”

The white noise and engine whirling in the back adds to your thumping headache and anxiousness. You try to drown out the noise, ears ringing and motion sickness teasing you as the airplane begins to roll on the taxiway to the runway. At the very least, you were in business class and there were relatively nice seats, a lot of legroom as well. Luckily, you’re also able to miss the long-winded instructions and the entire takeoff when you fall asleep for about an hour.

It’s only when your shoulder brushes with the stranger beside you that you’re gently coaxed to consciousness. It’s warm. You can’t remember the last time you had such a nice nap. And your lids flutter, slowly opening your eyes. You meet someone beside you and your lips fall. Your heart stops.

You scream.

“Shush!” Hoseok reaches over to clamp a hand over your mouth but you flinch. A flash of hurt crosses his features, and he withdraws his hands, pressing his finger to his own mouth to signal you to be quiet instead. “Stop it, Y/N!”

You continue to scream, startling and scaring all the surrounding passengers. You cower away from Hoseok, drawing your limbs together and nearly falling out of your seat like you’re afraid his touch will burn you. From the close proximity, you feel suffocated. You are smothered.

For years, you’ve been running. Ever since you knew about the past, you’ve avoided him like the plague. It must be a consequence from fate now that you’re literally boxed in a long rectangle in the sky. But if he’s here...that means something horrible is bound to happen.

Oh god...you’re going to die, aren’t you?

“The plane’s gonna fall!”

You shout in hysterics, crying so hard that you can’t see straight. The flight attendants have gathered in the commotion, trying to understand what’s happened and the reason for the sudden distressed outburst. “We’re going to crash and burn! It’s going to fall!”

The people around gasp, murmuring and panicking from your proclamation of the aircraft plunging into the ocean below.

The attendants rush to pacify you. “We need you to remain calm. Take a deep breath.”

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” You shake uncontrollably, hugging your own body and weeping to the point where your chest hurts. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die! Please!”

“The plane won’t fall, Miss L/N.” A flight attendant calls your name once they’ve learnt it and someone kneels in front of you. “There’s just a little bit of turbulence which is caused by strong winds. You’re going to be perfectly fine! We’re going to land in a half an hour! Would you like to walk to the front and take a breather?”

The comforting voices of the attendant and the others in the background calming the passengers around drown out of your ears. You’re still weeping, for all the centuries, all the lives you lived, for fear and hatred, for pain and sadness. Because Jung Hoseok is here.

He’s finally here when you don’t want him to be.

“I-I…”

You want to switch seats. You want to get away from the man beside you. You want an escape.

But you also know that as long as he’s on this aircraft, the possibility of it tumbling downwards to crash and burn are all the same. It doesn’t matter how close he is to you or the distance down to the millimeter. As long as he is around, you’re not safe.

“Y/N.” It’s a soft and sweet voice, an intimate timbre that rattles inside your skull and pulls you away from your blinded fit. The tears in your eyes fall, no longer clouding the surroundings. The pace of your heart thumps to a regular rhythm, breath steadying with each rise and fall of your chest.

Your eyes have locked with his. Hoseok gazes at you, having lost the details of your features from his memory and restoring all the changes that have happened over the lost years of your lives together. The man seems to hesitate before he lifts his hand, putting it on top of yours.

This time, you don’t flinch.

His thumb runs along your skin. “We’re going to be okay. Nothing’s going to happen. I swear to you. So, please, trust in me this one time.”

There’s a pause.

The flight attendant takes a sigh of relief when you’re no longer ballistic. They look between you and the man, recognizing that the pair of you must’ve had some kind of prior relationship. And they decide to stand back, somewhere nearby in case you need assistance but enough to give you space to relax.

“W-Why are you here?”

“I’m going on a business trip.” He tries to explain himself, looking down at his lap. It’s been too long since you’ve last spoken to one another. “I work at an insurance company now.”

You snort. He looks up and you provide the explanation before he can ask. “That’s ironic considering you ran over my foot.”

Hoseok’s eyes widen. “I did?”

It makes you sick. You don’t want to think about the past.

Your head leans against the window and you cross your arms, looking out at the white clouds instead of his face. There’s a chance you might punch him in the jaw and you’d certainly be detained if you did such a thing. “You just happened to sit next to me?”

“It was a coincidence.” His voice moves up a pitch in defense. “I swear, I didn’t plan this out. I don’t even know that you were going to be on this flight. You can check my ticket! I’m supposed to sit here! When I got here, I saw you asleep, so I just sat down.”

Of course, it was a coincidence. Fate is such a bitch.

Hoseok inhales a deep breath. “Y/N, I don’t even know what you’ve been doing for the past few years.”

“Good.” You mirthlessly smile and it doesn’t reach your dead eyes. “If there’s one thing I’m doing right, it’s not letting you know where the hell I am and not knowing where the hell you are. I need you to stay away from me. As far as fucking possible.”

“I want to talk.”

“I don’t.”

The last time you saw Hoseok was at the parking lot of the theaters back in university. The last time was when you kissed him, remembered and left running. In the midst, he was stunned, hand reaching out to your retreating form and pain struck in his chest and on his face.

You had begun to run since then and it’s been nearly a decade. True to the doctor’s diagnosis and your own grandmother’s words, you didn’t have a soulmate. Everyone around you had gotten married or became engaged to their kindred spirit while you wandered the planet alone.

But you didn’t care. As long as you were away from him, you didn’t want anything else.

“I still love y-”

“Be...be quiet.” It physically pains you to speak to Hoseok. “I beg of you. Before I get another anxiety attack, I need you to stop and pretend that you’re invisible. Don’t move. Don’t talk. Don’t breathe.”

You shut your eyes tight, unable to see his expression. “But I need you to listen to me.”

“I don’t want to listen, alright?!” You’ve been traumatized, the grief clinging onto each of your bones and you feel tears well up in your eyes again. Each time you look at Hoseok, the faces of your previous self shows and you recall history; the smother flames engulfing your home, illness plaguing you as the quill trembles in your hand, standing naked on a stage while a man sells you to a crowd, being beaten to a pulp and running….running...running.

And the most painful of all memories: being abandoned after knowing love.

“I’m scared of you. You scare me shitless. Every single time I’ve met you, you messed me up somehow so please!”

Fortunately for you, Hoseok complies with your wishes. For the rest of the flight, you don’t hear a single peep out of his mouth and once the plane has landed, you hurl yourself out as fast as possible.

You never once look behind.

“When are you going back to work?”

Your mother asks as she sets breakfast down at the table and your father discards the newspaper. Maybe it was taking it one step too far but now that you knew Hoseok was living somewhere in the city, you couldn’t risk going back. If you encountered him once, chances were high that he would keep coming back and back into your life.

You couldn’t return. At least not until you figured where to run off to next.

“Not sure yet. I saved a lot of vacation days up so maybe I’ll stick around for two weeks.”

Presently, you were hidden in the secluded outskirts of your grandmother’s old house. Technically, it’s your parents’ since they moved into the quiet and quaint place for their retirement years. It’s a home for you too and it’s been a long time since you’ve visited.

“Well alright then.” Your mother seems appeased by the answer and you dig into the toast. She hesitates, exchanging a look with your father and you can recall why you haven’t been back in so long. “Have you found your soulmate yet?”

“Nope.”

“Y/N, sweetie, are you even trying to look?”

“No.” By being as clear-cut and simple, you hope they won’t ask anymore. “I’d rather not.”

“But how will you ever find them?”

You fill your mouth up before pointing your fork to the pair of them, narrowing your eyes. “Didn’t you say that if they’re my soulmate, I’ll meet them anyway?”

Your father nods in agreeance. “But it doesn’t help to look for ‘em, y’know. Makes the process faster.”

Your mother hums and you can already tell the gears inside her head are beginning to turn. She considers everyone that she knows, friends of relatives, children of friends, anyone who you might know. “What about that boy that you were friends with during preschool? He went to the same schools as you all the way to college too, right? What was his name?”

Before you can stop her, she says it. “Jung Hoseok!”

You choke on your orange juice, coughing and heaving. Your mother’s eyes are twinkling, and she grins with your father. “That would make sense, huh? Together since you were children?! And I spoke to his mother a month back. He hasn’t met anyone either, right? Maybe you two are soulmates.”

“That’s impossible.”

Literally — Hoseok is the opposite of your soulmate. If your parents knew that he was your enemy, destined to cause you suffering and chaos, they’d never mention him again. Maybe they’d voodoo him and throw salt all over their doorstep too. But you can’t break the news and cause them heartache. You can’t bear to say it and let them know that their only child not only will end up alone in this life and the next, but they have someone out in the world that will cause them endless pain.

“Plus,” you add, “don’t soulmates recognize each other upon meeting?”

Your mother’s brow furrows, realizing that you’re right but your father taps his chin, not ready to give up on the idea. “I’ve been reading lately and the T.V. says there’s a lot of things that go into soulmates so who knows, maybe it’s just a late blooming relationship.”

You hold back a laugh. “I seriously doubt it.”

“Don’t give up hope, L/N Y/N. You hear me?” Your mother lectures, tone becoming stern and unyielding. “You’ll meet the one someday. Maybe tomorrow or the next day. You always do and there’s nothing you can do to run away from it!”

Christ...you can only hope she’s wrong.

The field was verdant in hue, the mint walls of your bedroom and soft beryl flowers haunted you. Green was the colour of your envy, of the luck that you didn’t have, of your greed for love and companionship. But it was also the shade of the serene nature that surrounded you, the symbol of healing and of hope. Hope that would certainly hurt you in the end.

More importantly, the colour reminded you of him. And you couldn’t bring yourself to hate it.

“Y/N! There’s someone here for you!” Your mother’s call has you stumbling down the stairs in confusion. There wasn’t anyone that you knew around these parts and- “It’s been so long! We were actually talking about you earlier. Oh, speaking of which, you haven’t met your soulmate yet, right, Hoseok?”

You freeze. Your mother moves aside. The man is standing in front of your doorway with a sheepish smile, one that conveys too many apologies at once.

He’s a hundred years too late.

“What are you doing here?”

“I just thought we should talk.”

“Now, Y/N.” Your mother butts in. “Be nice to our guest! It’s been so long since I’ve seen him as well. Hoseok, dear, would you like to go in for a drink of coffee or tea? You can stay for as long as you’d like-”

“No.” You stride past her, grabbing onto his sleeve and dragging him away. “We’re talking outside.”

It hurts. It pains you beyond belief. You never thought you had to face him again. Yet, here you are. No matter where you go, he’s always able to find you. And it drives you crazy in the worst ways.

“How did you even find me here?”

You’re tapping your foot, arms crossed, completely unimpressed with his presence. On the other hand, Hoseok is meekly smiling at you, taking in the quiet surroundings of the field. It reminds him of an era that was long ago where it was more tranquil, and he was by your side, taking aimless strolls to waste the evening away.

“You took me here in the first grade and then again in ninth and twelve. You might not remember but we grew up together.” He watches you carefully. “In this life. Not the other ones. In this one, we were friends long before anything else happened.”

“Used to be.” You correct. “We used to be friends.”

There’s a silence.

“Why are you even here, Hoseok?” You break the summer birds’ song, interrupting the sun’s fall from the horizon. “Is it to apologize so you can feel better about yourself? Do you want to try to move on? Well guess what, you’re too late. You’re lifetimes and lifetimes too late.”

He takes a moment to decide his words. “I hate that you’re afraid of me.”

You laugh without an inch of happiness. “I think it’s for good reason, don’t you?”

“I still care about you. I love you, Y/N.”

You spin on your heel, having absolutely none of it. It takes all the strength in your muscles to begin to walk away from him. Hoseok inhales a breath and for once, the roles are reversed.

He watches your backside disappear slowly, counting each step you take that increases the distance and leaves him farther away from you.

He takes the leap of courage before you’re gone.

“In the sixteenth century,” he screams and you stop, “I didn’t betray you because I wanted to. It was the plan from the start. The people were suffering and the kingdom needed to be overthrown. The painter...I...still loved you very much.”

The bandage around the wound is ripped straight off. It hasn't healed. It stings.

“When you wrote all those books in the seventeenth, I just wanted to help you and get your work out there in the world. I...I came back and I didn’t know you had d-...d...died.”

Hoseok almost begins to cry. His nails sink into his clothing. His head drops to the floor. It hits you like a bullet train - you weren’t the only one who was tortured.

You turn around to face him.

“In the eighteenth, I was a fucking douchebag, I know. But I had suffered so much as a peasant. I wanted a better life for myself. It...It wasn’t my intention to make you suffer too.”

You call his name, and he ignores you, continuing onwards.

“The nineteenth.” Hoseok smiles past saltwater eyes. “It was better for you not to gamble. I would have fed you, given you a warm home, and I was going to release you after a year. And maybe, maybe you would have stayed if I asked you to.”

You step closer to the boy and you wait for the reasons of the years that hurt you the most.

“In the twentieth — I’m sorry.”

Jung Hoseok, like all you had hoped for, collapses onto his knees. He faces the dirt, tears dripping like raindrops. “I was a coward. I was too afraid of everything.”

Your shadow looms over him. He grabs onto the hem of your sweater, anchoring him down to the ground, and he begs for your forgiveness. It’s pathetic, the way he sobs but you don’t feel a single morsel of satisfaction like you thought you would. It aches. Everywhere.

“You didn’t say goodbye to me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

Your arms stay by your side and you look down at him.

“I lost the baby.”

Hoseok cries harder. “I’m sorry.”

“I waited for you.”

He continues to apologize, each one full of sincerity and anguish. “I’m sorry.”

“You were supposed to stay with me.”

“I’m sorry.”

Your hand lifts. You hold Hoseok close to you, carding your fingers through the familiar black locks. It’s been the same pigment for all the centuries you’ve known each other for.

“Every single day, I waited for you to come back and you never did.”

His tears stain the fabric of your clothes. “I’m sorry.”

“You were never there when I needed you the most.”

He stands himself back up onto wobbling legs, on a face drenched with tears, with a heart weak and overwhelmed. “B-but I’m here now.” He wipes his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and you linger in the close proximity, yearning to be closer yet keeping the distance.

“I’m scared that the longer I spend with you, the worse the outcome will be in the end.”

“I’m sorry.” He shouldn’t apologize. This time, it isn’t his fault. “I just...I can’t leave you. I can’t do it. In all the lives we’ve shared together, I’ve loved you in each one. But I never fought hard enough. I never fought hard enough for you.”

“That doesn’t change the fact that you scare me.” You lock your eyes with him. “I’m scared of what will happen later on, if you’ll end up causing me more grief, if I somehow die in a tragic death and never live peacefully or happily. How many more times do we have to keep living like that before we learn that it’s better to stay apart?”

“But it’s not up for fate to decide for me!” He shouts it with resentments of the past, of the hand of destiny and his own choices that have led you to become so petrified of him and to be so broken. “I don’t fucking care about destiny or about soulmates or whatever the hell we are! Enemies?! I don’t care!”

You scream back, “How can you not care?!”

“Fate doesn’t control me.” He’s out of breath and your eyes widen. “And as long as I’m breathing, I’ll make sure I’ll continue to atone for my mistakes. I’ll make sure you’re the happiest woman alive.”

“How can you be so sure?” You ask him, pleading for an answer, gazing into his eyes. “How can you be so sure of yourself? Of us?”

“Because I love you. I love you,” Hoseok repeats. “And maybe that’s not enough. Maybe it’s not enough to beat whatever’s been predetermined for us. Maybe it’s not enough to restore your trust in me. But I love you. And I can’t walk away from us. I’ll try as many times as I need to. I will fight for as many centuries as I need to. All I know is that I want to be with you....in this life and the next.”

“You’re stupid.” You shake your head. “You’re stupid for believing that we can beat fate but maybe I’m more stupid...for always fucking believing in you.”

One moment you’re shouting at each other and the next you’re tearfully laughing.

Maybe he’s wrong. Maybe you’ll end up suffering again and again, back on the endless loop of hardships and heartbreak. Maybe it’s dumb of you to think that you can beat fate at its own game. You’ve been hurt enough times. How much more can you handle and how many more times will it take for you to learn? Jung Hoseok is your destined enemy after all.

But maybe he’s right.

Maybe you have more control of your life than you thought. Maybe it isn’t up to destiny or some unseen source. At the end, your existence wouldn’t be worth anything if you keep on running away. A peaceful life but an unhappy one isn’t what you want.

You love Hoseok. In this life. In the last ones. You always have.

All you need is a leap of courage and to fight hard for what you want.

“Then let’s fight together.” You wrap your arms around him, staring at him until it’s imprinted into your mind, embracing his body and kissing his lips once - fulfilling all your wishes from the previous life. “You can make my life as much of a hell as you want. Just don’t leave.”

“I won’t.” He pulls you close, arms around your shoulders and holding you tightly. Hoseok breathes in your familiar scent, crying and endlessly grateful for your existence. He does all the things he should’ve done. And he keeps you close.

You giggle, melting into the hug. “I still love you.”

Although your love is not a burst of electricity, where the heart stops and the breath gets caught - the universe doesn’t suddenly shine in brighter hues, becoming vibrant and louder - this love is yours.

“I love you too.”

It is yours. A constant work in progress, a construction of hard effort and bruised hands, of tired and relentless struggle but it’s one that you fight for. And it’s one that you know, you’ll be proud of in the end.

“Now stop crying and come inside.” You tease him, stroking his hair and patting his back. “I think my mom and dad are watching from the window.” He nods and sniffles and you laugh.

This man was once a painter and editor, a swindler and a loan shark, a soldier as well. But now, the boy is your old friend and someone you cherish with every part of your being.

Instead of looking behind, you focus on the horizon and your fingers lace together with his. “Stay with me for a while?”

Hoseok grins. “Always.”

No matter where you go, he’s always able to find you.

And now he’s here when you need the most.

#bts fanfic #hoseok fanfic #hoseok fluff #bts fluff #bts scenario #hoseok scenario #'insert more tags that the popular kids use these days'#FINALLY I GET TO SHARE THIS STORY #IT'S BEEN SITTING IN MY FILES FOR TOO LONG #/SLAMS DESK/#im excited

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