#frost writing fluff again this is so not on brand for me | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ephemerlskies · 4 years

Text

of honey and cinnamon | jjk

⇢ pairing: jungkook x reader

⇢ genre: fluff, one shot, slice of life au, enemies to lovers, musician!jungkook

⇢ word count: 14k

⇢ warnings: explicit language, mentions of terminal illness, mentions of death, themes of grief, slight plot twist, a surprising consumption of sugar, enough cheesiness to last you a lifetime

⇢ summary: what makes a three-day train ride back to your hometown anything but dull and dreadfully long? the answer, and your salvation from a boring trip home, was being stuck in the same cart as jeon jungkook for the entire ride there. unknown to you, he would turn this mundane trip into an unexpected adventure.

♪ playlist: dream a little dream of me - ella fitzgerald, departure - joe hisaishi, a journey (a dream of flight) - joe hisaishi, longing for mother's return - satoshi takebe, the sixth station - joe hisaishi, a town with an ocean view - joe hisaishi, you're in love - joe hisaishi, one summer's day - joe hisaishi ♪

a/n: this was honestly one of my favorite fics to write! ever! it was heavily inspired by studio ghibli movies hence the playlist because i recently binged a bunch of ghibli films (and i do not regret it) so, i tried to replicate the vibes from the movies i watched as best as i could!! :)) i hope you lovely readers enjoy!

They tell you love takes time. If you are patient and attentive enough, it courses through your body easier than your own blood and sinks itself in each vessel and bone and cell. Love will melt into your heart until that is all it knows. And in tales where lovers make grand gestures, like slaying the dragon and giving the moon and the stars and the sky along with the world underneath it and bestowing true love's kiss, it takes an entire story to get to the part where they are in love.

Love takes time, and in that time, there is a series of sometimes likely, and sometimes unlikely, events woven delicately within each minute that leads to the moment you know, you are in love. Traditionally, love makes itself known. It is loud and beautiful and anything but hidden within the ordinary moments used to fill in the gaps between the bigger moments.

This story, your story, existed during the moments in between.

This train station had always emulated such an archaic ambiance. So much so that you believed you'd traveled back in time to when it was first built. Everything felt surreal, when you stepped on the train making a beeline to Cart 102, the floors felt like water; the surface tension clinging just strong enough to keep you afloat not without the occasional toss and turn. You swore it was just the rusted tracks that jostled you, but a part of you knew it was the water.

"Single rider?" The attendant stood at your cart's checkpoint, hand extended and waiting for your ticket.

"Yes, here." You handed him the paper, along with your baggage but kept the book for future entertainment and the pillow because you could tell the seats were no softer than wood.

"The train is fully occupied, so someone will be sharing your cart."

Perfect. If the world wants to do you a favor, just this once, then you hope that it sends you a quiet passenger. One that exchanges the customary 'hello' and 'goodbye' which is the extent of your interaction with them because you were tired in a way that sunk you into your zone of unsociability and on your way back home for the worst possible reason.

And the world did, in fact, do you a favor. It delivered Jungkook to Cart 102. But it just was not the favor you expected.

At first, you believed him to tick all your requirements for the ideal travel companion. Perfectly manicured company with a clear sense of boundaries. For one, he entered with a wall of silence that not only kept a greeting gated in but even the slightest acknowledgment that you were seated right across from him. It was so natural for him to ignore you that you had to glance down at your hand to check if you really were invisible.

He took his seat, stared out of the frost dusted window that reflected the sliding door that separated you and this man from the rest of the train and the world, and sighed. For a moment, he just stared and you thought it would get easier from here. But then he turned to you, and smiled.

"Hi, I'm Jungkook." It was a full smile, one that showed nearly every tooth, which reminded you of a rabbit. That paid enough respect for the previous shouldered entrance, and at first it was cute. Then, it made you feel guilty.

It was a smile you couldn't afford to return at the moment, so instead, you offered back a slightly upturned lip and a cordial nod.

"___." His hands looked strong like they had handled an array of heavy things and had the calluses to prove it. The way he sat made you feel a spark of something.

It was only a few seconds later when you realized that something was an unbridled annoyance. His legs were spread out, having you picturing the times he'd monopolize the space on a crowded bus. Jungkook was probably the type of man who was born with an entitlement that carried through to every part of his life, including the way he sat down on trains and pissed the living hell off of you.

"Like what you see?" Now you were pissed off for two reasons. The way he sat and the fact that you just got caught staring at him; his lap to be specific.

Soon, the two reasons doubled when your eyes returned to the smile on his face that didn't seem to have gone away. He was proud to catch you in the act, and most likely assumed your staring was due to an attraction so gripping that you couldn't help yourself but to stare at his crotch of all things.

"No, I was just..." Your words caught in your throat, because you weren't about to explain why his spread position on the seat had drawn an irritation from you thicker than the blood pulsing loudly through your body. You didn't want him to know you cared enough to be irritated in the first place, even if that meant letting him believe your staring was a form of unspoken flattery. "No."

"Okay, whatever you say, ___." It was the sarcasm this time, and the way he said your name that pissed you off. There was a seed inside you, ready to bury in your gut and grow just enough for you to rip his tongue from his mouth so he'd never have to say your name again.

"You'd think you didn't want to make the person you're about to spend three days on a train with angry, but maybe you're just that dumb." Insulting him gave you instant relief from the headache you knew was about to assume your forehead.

"Damn. Guess you're not the type to take a joke." Jungkook revealed his teeth one by one again, but you didn't describe it as a smile. A smile is something you thought to be beautiful, a physical expression of joy. No, what his face possessed was something sadistic. You were sure of it.

The way he carried himself and voiced his thoughts were more concentrated than arrogance. There was not a word in any language that could properly describe Jungkook. Nor was there a feeling that could render yours into something palpable. And the world had sealed you inside this cell marked Cart 102 with the person who was grainy and slick like quicksand, and just as deadly because you were sinking into him and every feeling he had provoked within the ten minutes you'd known him.

Jungkook was the first person you hated. Beyond every rude customer, every demanding boss, every high school bully, every cut tie, there was Jungkook who wore that heavy medallion of hatred around his neck like he was proud of it.

In all honesty, you thought he should wear it. He earned it. Everyone should know that you hated Jungkook and that it only took him a record-breaking ten minutes to attain the once unattained title.

You began to read your book, however 'read' didn't accurately describe what you were doing, which was staring blankly through the same words while collecting more reasons why you hated this man. It became an obsession of yours in a few short moments, because now you didn't just hate the way he sat and spoke and smiled. You hated how his breathing was somehow louder than the wheels grinding against the metal tracks or how whenever another train would pass by, he'd bring his face so close to the window you could see the warmth of his breath cling onto the glass and form a small, foggy patch.

You especially hated that you could quite literally feel his eyes on you, blistering your skin like the way a magnifying glass would redirect the sun's rays onto a target, which just so happened to be your face. Jungkook was unrelenting; as if he were trying to sear your skin with a permanent brand of his eyes.

Between the rhythmic flipping of the pages that you weren't reading, you were compelled to reprimand him for the staring. Maybe throwing his own words back into his face about 'liking what you see' would do your own vengeance justice. But that might indicate you were thinking of what he said to you this whole time.

"The weather looks so cold. It's practically raining." You moved only your eyes up from your book to study him.

He was looking out the window again, eyes chasing each speck of mist preluding the raindrops that were surely going to fall. It always rained at night.

"Looks like another thunderstorm." You packaged up the gasp that was about to burst from your chest.

For reasons you'd rather not share with a complete stranger you were hellbent on hating, you were terrified of thunder. Not lightning, but the loud crash that followed it. It was the last thing you wanted to experience while bottled up in a train with Jungkook.

"Excuse me." Your abrupt stance interrupted Jungkook's rain watching.

"Hey, where are you going?"

"None of your business." The slam of the sliding door echoed the anger you didn't express before as it snapped shut, fractionating the air you once shared with Jungkook.

You took a deep breath, the air outside felt cooler. The attendant was loyal to his assigned post, which was convenient for you.

"Sir, is there any way I can switch carts?"

"No, full train. And your ticket says Cart 102, so that's where you were meant to be." His eyes were sheltered by his hat, so there was no chance of pleading with your eyes if you couldn't even see his.

"Fine." It was a long shot, one that you didn't have the aim or trajectory for. You suppose he was right. Cart 102 was where you belonged for now. You just couldn't accept that Jungkook also belonged there with you.

Inside, the warm yellow light was beckoning you back in. Through the door, the brightness glimmered out until it was consumed by the dark hall where you stood. Jungkook was looking out of the window again with a rising and falling chest; you could hear his breathing even from behind the door or at least, you could imagine how it would sound.

"If we're going to share a cart, we could at least be friends." Jungkook's suggestion made him too human, too real for you to hate. You wanted to cling on to the idea that he was a horrible person, harboring more vices than the devil himself. But his voice was friendly sometimes, and his smile looked loving, occasionally, when he presented it to you.

"I don't see why we can't just be silent for the rest of the ride."

"Why are you going back home?" For a second, you were shocked enough to forget you were supposed to hate him. His gaze was calm and carried none of the worries yours had. You wondered, just for a second, about all the others who were on the receiving end of his gaze, and if they felt the way you felt when he looked at you. That look that distinguished him from anyone you had ever met.

You didn't want him to be right, because you didn't want the 'why' to be real. The tragedy, the only thing demanding enough to peel you away from your life away from home, should not have been the 'why' that put you on this train. But it was, and it made you angrier than he did.

"How do you know I'm going home?" You injected each word with a sharpness that you hoped would sting Jungkook.

"Well, are you going home?"

"Yes... are you?"

"No, just visiting." His eyes returned to the window, like a refrain in a poem. Always returning to look somewhere out into the beyond.

"Well, you should count yourself lucky." And you returned back to your refrain, pretending to read just so you wouldn't get caught staring at him and listing more reasons you hated Jungkook because that was easier than thinking of what was really bothering you.

"Lucky. Huh." You wanted to know what was so captivating on the other side of the window. What could have possibly supplied his eyes with something that was more interesting than the inside of this train? "Why are you going back home?"

"You already asked that."

"And you didn't answer me." Perhaps it was the stars, and he was tracking them in his mental inventory, examining until they were replicated along his memory the same way they were plotted across the sky. "Why are you going back home?"

"My mom. She's dying." Stars seemed to be a beautiful thing to keep your eyes occupied in a way your mind couldn't be, but you couldn't see past the thick fog and lack of light. "She's sick."

"I'm sorry to hear." His sincerity worked against all the animosity you'd cultivated for him.

How could he see the stars? You were going to ask, but you didn't want him to know what lied beyond the small beacon of light surrounding the train was lost to you, or rather you lost them. You wanted to hate him, so you didn't ask.

"I knew something bad must have happened to get someone like you to come home." That comment certainly suffocated any benefit of the doubt you were going to bestow upon him. Jungkook was arrogant and entitled, and in your most recent discovery, presumptuous and judgmental. Everything wrong with this world. No amount of dashing smiles and considerate questions could change that. You had to remember, you hated this man

"How dare you! How- How dare you assume something so rude!" The cloth of your pillowcase had almost worn through from how tight your fists were gripping them. You felt the fire burning through your nerves, soon about to combust and set Cart 102 ablaze. "I hate you."

It was two in the morning, or at least those were the numbers shining from your watch. The window offered the same pitch blackness that frustrated you, so you decided to give your legs some employment from sitting.

The hall of the train was nearly as dark as the outside; the overhead lights once drizzling down a soft glow were turned off. You wandered down the stretch of the medium but the further you walked, the thinner the walkway felt. Soon, the walls on either side of you were pressed against your shoulders so snugly, you had to turn your body to squeeze through.

"Having trouble?" You knew that voice; you hated that familiar inflections and conceit planted in each word he spoke.

"Can't you see I'm trying to walk?" Squinting proved to be obsolete while trying to see whatever destination was in the distance. "Why is everything so dark?"

"Because, you're not trying." If you could turn around, if these walls weren't beginning to smother your body to immobilization, then you would have run over to him and slapped the smile right off of his face. Because you were trying, you were trying to see this whole time but the dark had infested everywhere.

Unfortunately for you, the walls were connecting closer and closer, as if trying to move through you so they could reach each other and close altogether. But where would that leave you? When the gap was stitched shut, where would you be?

The walls were softer than you thought, but still forceful enough to steal all the air from your lungs leaving you a panicked mess lodged between these unkind walls. And the pressure wasn't enough to kill you, but it was just enough to leave you stuck and miserable.

"Jungkook, help me, I can't..."

Day One

Your dream was vivid enough to mislead you into thinking it was real. It wasn't until your eyes fluttered open, and consciousness spilled into your mind like a gentle breeze that you realized the nightmare was over. The window allowed a soft light into Cart 102, making you more thankful for the day than you had ever been in your entire life. You lifted your head from your pillow placed on the seat that you didn't recall placing there, and now that you think of it, you didn't remember falling asleep either.

You especially didn't remember covering yourself with this wool coat that smelled like the air after a bonfire had just finished browning marshmallows and dissolving wood.

"Someone's finally awake." Then it all came back to you. You wondered why everything felt so tranquil. It was a shame you couldn't enjoy the peace before the omen of annoyance, your special nickname for Jungkook, had returned.

"What time is it?" Your eyes were blinking away the sleep, and when that failed, your hands began to rub them until they were able to prop open fully.

"Eight-thirty. Here." He set down a Styrofoam cup of something hot enough for steam to escape through the open space of the lid. It smelled sweeter than coffee.

"What is it?" Your question came after you had already picked it up to furnish your hands with warmth and your nose with the delectable aroma leaking from this cup.

Jungkook’s smile was hidden behind his cup, already half empty, withholding an answer from you because he wanted to see if you would try it before you knew what it was.

"Don't worry, it's not poison." You figured it could be counted as retribution in the form of a nice pick-me-up for all the irritation he'd caused you, not to mention the fact that even in your dreams, he couldn't seem to leave you alone. No, Jungkook's presence was something that would slip through the realm of your sleep, the only place you thought you could escape him.

You sipped slowly, and the drink inside the cup made a quick and favorable acquaintance with your tongue. The contents were something you'd be able to identify separately, but when combined, they were delicious and elusive all at once.

"Wow, this is great!" The smile escaped faster than a spilled cup of water, and before you could clean the messy evidence of your gratitude, Jungkook returned the same smile, but his wasn't a spill; his smiles were never an accident, and you could almost resent him for it.

Almost.

"You like it, huh? Didn't take you to be a fan of sweet things." Both pairs of eyes were taken by the scenery just on the other side of the window decorated with streaks of the fallen dew drops.

His pride was untamed, and you assumed it was because Jungkook never took any action to dilute his own conceit. You liked to imagine how often Jungkook could arm himself with that smile, that laugh, which you were not too blind in your own despise to admit were both conventionally attractive assets of his, and everyone in a ten foot radius would fall into his hands. The world seemed to rest in his hands, and all he had to do was smile.

Not you, though. You were certain you had polished yourself with enough perspective so you wouldn’t be foolish enough to let something as shallow as a charming smile fracture your walls. Though, it was increasingly frustrating, verging on the point of catastrophe, how difficult it was to convince yourself of this and to ignore the image of his smile, sneaking its way to the forefront of your thoughts after brushing it off seconds before.

It was overcast, and the grey from the sky had permeated along the air below, yet it didn't puncture the vibrancy of the ever-extending grassy plains. They seemed to continue on forever, as if you walked out to the horizon it would take an eternity to find the end of the green landscape. The wind acted as music to which each blade of grass had been dancing an instinctive choreography.

And every so often, a patch of flowers would appear, perform its part, then disappear just as quickly.

For a moment, you wondered what Jungkook thought of the small bits of the world this window was displaying. Did he think it was just as beautiful as you did?

"It's honey, cinnamon, and milk. My mom used to make it for me when I was a kid." Though the view was timeless, you finally broke your gaze to look at Jungkook.

It was hard to imagine this man, the harbinger of almost every ounce of anger you have ever felt in your life, as a child who would drink milk with honey and cinnamon made by his mother. But then again Jungkook's face began to change, or at least the way you saw it morphed into something entirely different.

His bright eyes didn't look like they could be from this world. Not when they seemed to hold everything in his line of vision within them so warmly that it could spread magic over everything around him; like a fairy tale, but this magic rested in the two sockets of his eyes. Something so enigmatic made you want to snap at him just so he would look at you instead, and hold you in his eyes. As though to be held by his eyes would fix all your problems.

"Hm." You looked down at the cup, trying to savor each sip however ultimately failing since the honey melted in with the milk and perfectly heightened each flavor.

Without thinking, you wrapped the coffee-colored coat tighter around your body. It was blissful, sipping a cup of delight inside Cart 102, protected from the prickly wind of the winter while still being vended a view of its beauty. This train ride was almost perfect, if not for the (slightly less) bothersome burden that sat across from you.

"Looks good on you." He didn't have to specify he was referring to his jacket that was giving you comfort.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't-"

"Nah, keep it. You looked cold when you were asleep. You were shivering so much it basically sounded like you were begging for my jacket." Jungkook laughed softly.

Maybe two hours ago you would have been brimming with enough rage to rip his jacket off of you and throw it in his face because it sure sounded like he was pitying you or guilting you into a 'thank you' that you were too petty to relinquish. But now, in the morning that tamed you, stomach digesting a tasty drink given by none other than Jungkook, you let it slide.

Just this once, you thought.

"Well, that was very kind of you. And thank you for the drink, but I don't need some stranger doing me any favors."

"Wow, you sure are stubborn!" He laughed again, even though you had been nothing but uninviting of his advances, he just laughed.

"Am not." You muttered.

"Whatever you say." Just this once, you let him have the last word. Just this once.

One emptied cup of Jungkook's special later and you were energized enough to read, and hopefully retain the story rather than flipping mindlessly through the pages while you fueled your attention with rage.

Jungkook was busying himself, putting thought to paper. The quick ticks of his pencil against the wooden table was enough to earn him a passive-aggressive sigh from you, and you hoped he was perceptive enough to get the hint.

The ticks continued, even spaced out to a consistent pace as if he was beating a drum just to anger you. Your annoyance was once again brimming over, ready to spill into another display of it that consisted of a furrowed brow, a scowl, and a slew of incoherent retorts that had been brewing in your mind.

"Can't you write any quieter?" It hadn't measured up to all the clever insults you had loaded into your verbal weaponry, but it did the job to convey your frustration which obviously hadn't been communicated through your previous sigh.

"I'm not writing, actually! I'm trying to figure out the time signature for this piece. Three-six just isn't right." The pencil once tapping out a rhythm was now tucked between his teeth, and you could tell this was a habit of his from the various other tooth-shaped indents along the end of the pencil.

"Whatever, just... do it quietly."

"Quietly? This process is anything but quiet."

"Then try your very hardest."

"I'll try. Emphasis on try."

Though your eyes had reunited with your book, your curiosity pledged allegiance to what Jungkook was writing on his paper. It took an effortful battle between your urges and your restraint to finally ask him.

"What's a time signature?"

"Kind of like a rhythmic guide. For music. I'm a composer, and I'm hoping I can get this fellowship to work with professionals all around the world!" Jungkook's response came almost immediately after your question and his answer consisted of more information than you asked for, which meant this was something he was passionate about. Either that or he just loved talking about himself. It could have easily been both.

However, from the way his eyes held the world, they seemed to hold the music etched onto his paper the tightest. Like, if he were to let go then he would lose any and all purpose to hold on to anything else.

"You make music? Like songs on the radio and stuff?"

"No, not really. Songs for movies. I want to be a film composer."

"Oh. Is that why you're traveling? To study with a professional?" You surprised yourself more than him with that question.

"No... I, um. I wish that was the reason." Before asking him what his reason was, you stopped yourself from letting yet another question slip from your mouth.

Because you were supposed to hate him. Jungkook made everything difficult, even the notion of hating him was made to be a challenge. Asking him questions, learning about him, making the person in front of you turn into something with more dimensions than two was pointless when in a couple days, you'd leave this train and never see him again. Better to go back to hating him.

It wasn't as satisfying as before. Now that you've acquired some knowledge of who he was beyond an obnoxious seat hog and arrogance asshole, the reasons to hate him were beginning to be outweighed by all the other reasons to not hate him.

So far, you learned he was a musician. A passionate up and comer who gives strangers his jacket when they look cold, and shares a drink of milk and honey and cinnamon because it reminds him of his childhood. Someone who has made biting his pencil into a habit when he was working through a thought, who would often stare out windows and saw all the stars you couldn’t; someone who was quick to try to make friends with even the most emotionally withdrawn people.

Shortly after taking more time than planned on recounting all the things you learned about Jungkook, you felt indebted to him since he only knew two things about you.

You were stubborn and you had a sick mom. Or at least, you believed these were the only parts of yourself he picked up on. The rest were things he’d observed with an attentive eye of which you had not noticed had been studying your mannerisms in the same way you studied his.

When you left the cart abruptly after he mentioned the thunderstorm that was somehow delayed for tonight, he was correct to assume it was because you were afraid of the storm. Now, whether it was the thunder or lightning that rattled you so viciously you had to walk off your fear was yet to be discovered. Jungkook was confident he’d figure it out.

Or, how he watched you when you were sleeping in a way he wouldn’t describe as creepy since it was endearing to see you sleep. In fact, he was doing his best to ignore you, but your muffled groans had revealed to him you were the type to have the occasional nightmare. Again, the dream itself was something he was more than interested in discovering.

And your adorably executed performance of passive aggression didn’t evade him in the way you presumed it did. He heard the sigh and understood exactly what you were attempting to accomplish with that, but decided to act like your effort to shut him up wasn’t completely transparent. Mostly because he wanted you to ask him what he was doing.

Jungkook wasn’t ready to admit it yet, but he enjoyed the way you spoke, even if it was drenched in a thick layer of annoyance. For now, he decidedly stuck with finding innocuous ways to fall back into a conversation with you, to slowly but surely learn all that he could in this three-day train ride.

At half-past three, lunch had been served, consumed, and digested. Jungkook’s plate, however, was just short of being completely gone. Everything had been notably ravaged by him except for the pile of walnuts he picked out of his salad at the beginning of the meal.

“Not a fan of walnuts?” You convinced yourself this question came from a place that was starting to feel queasy from the silence that was more intoxicating than the small glass of complimentary wine you downed a little too quickly.

“Allergic. Nothing too serious, though. My throat gets itchy and sometimes I get a rash on my skin.” You made a mental note that Jungkook was allergic to walnuts, which you stored in the part of your brain that harbored knowledge that was completely useless to you yet you still reserved space for it to be memorized.

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, but it did come in handy when I was in class and didn’t want to be. I’d tell the teacher the cafeteria food had walnuts in it and I needed to go home and get my EpiPen before I died.” The list of things you knew about Jungkook continued to lengthen, and you couldn’t specify when it happened, but you began to enjoy every detail that made the list grow.

You wouldn’t have guessed it would take a single day for you to wish it would never stop growing. But then again, you didn’t realize this at the time.

“And that worked? Sounds like you had your luck laid out for you from the beginning.” Jungkook smiled at this, the same bunny-toothed smile from yesterday, but it felt much different to you now, as if you were one smile away from forgetting your once insistent hatred of Jungkook.

“Yeah, I guess so. What about you? What are your allergies?”

“Other than overly friendly weirdos on trains? Nothing.” It was the strangest reaction to feel proud, of all things, when you were rewarded by his laugh. It was softer than the wind rushing against the side of the train, however his laugh outperformed every other sound in the surrounding area until it was all your ears could focus on.

“Then it seems you’re the lucky one. No allergies. Free to eat whatever you want.” His eyes parceled between the sheet music in his hands and you. Though, it was difficult to pull them back down to his work since this was the first time he had your undivided attention that was not born from annoyance or repulsion to whatever he was doing.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’m free to eat whatever. I have standards.”

“Really?” It was his not-so-discreet way of trying to capture all the pieces of you that he could, but from your slow intake of air, it seems as though you weren’t entirely finished with talking to him either.

“Cilantro. It’s absolutely disgusting. And mushrooms. I can’t stand mushrooms.”

“I love mushrooms.” Of course, you do, you thought. He didn’t have to say it, but he most likely loved cilantro as well. And you were most definitely right.

“I suppose you love everything I hate?” Eye contact with Jungkook was more than you could handle ever since his mannerisms stopped annoying you and started intimidating you, so you found refuge in the scenery beyond the window. It never failed you during the day, but at night you would have to scavenge for something to stare at when Jungkook’s eyes were close to stealing your breath away.

“I suppose you hate everything I love.”

It took a careful eye to catch the subtle hints of emotion that even you were too distracted to notice. Jungkook’s eye was trained pretty well in observation of the hidden traces of even the most thoroughly subdued emotions. His eyes were so well versed in gathering the scarce evidence of emotions that it prompted him to ask his next question:

“What are you looking for?”

Now, your eyes were still averted by his, so you held on to the slowly fading daylight while you still could. But, sadly, the window was a distraction of sight, not sound, so you heard his question loud and clear and felt obligated to give him an answer. Even if your answer was pathetic.

“Just looking at the grass. It’s pretty.”

“I didn’t ask what you were looking at, I asked what you were looking for.”

Determining what emotion you let slip through the quiver in your lip was a task Jungkook wasn’t well equipped for just yet. In all fairness, he had only known you for a short while and he still felt disappointed in himself for not being able to know what he made you feel with that question.

“I don’t know.” You couldn’t help the stunned tone of your voice, but that was all that could fuel your words at the moment. “I guess… A distraction. It’s so beautiful out there.”

“Everything looks beautiful when you only have a small amount of time to admire it.” Whatever distraction you were looking for had certainly met your eyes and did its job since you had absolutely no clue he was staring right at you when he said that. That he was savoring the small amount of time he had to admire you.

Jungkook was right, which was a habit of his that he took unrestrained pride in; life was beautiful when you moved through it with such little time to spare. Though slamming your hand in a doorway was something you would sooner do than admitting he was right.

The fabric of time moved in a peculiar fashion when inside a train. You move so fast and yet, not at all, and it is as if there is a tear where the train moves through, and evades the grips of each minute that transports the future into the present and the present into the past. It felt this way the moment you stepped onto the train, so when you checked the time, it didn’t surprise you that it was already an hour before midnight.

The daytime had slowly melted away, carefully, the way ice shrunk inside a glass of water until it combined with its surroundings, and the plains of grass could only exist in your memory right now. The blackness of night consumed everything beyond your window once again, though there was the occasional streetlamp that provided a glimpse of everything you couldn’t see as of now.

What you couldn’t see was nowhere near as frightening as what you were about to hear.

The first flash of lightning felt like a warning. It took a few seconds for the wretched boom of thunder to follow, which was the interval of time you foolishly hoped it would, just this once, fail to accompany that streak of light. That perhaps this train moved quick enough to outrun the storm.

“___? Are you okay?”

You didn’t notice your hands had immediately cupped your ears until Jungkook’s voice was filtered through as a jumble of indiscernible noises.

“Sorry, I just…” Steadying your breath was a toll that required an upfront payment of all your attention, so your previously muted voice and steady tone had gone out of the metaphorical window, along with the rest of your response.

“So it’s the thunder.” Jungkook said softly to himself. It didn’t matter since your hands were being utilized as makeshift earplugs. They seemed to deflect every sound except for the thunder that punctured through your barrier effortlessly.

Before, Jungkook had this preconception of you. From the minute he stepped into Cart 102, he could tell you were the type to carry yourself steadily, the type that supplied their own assurance and isolated their emotions in the same way you isolated yourself. But here you were, hands clamped against your ears, eyes pressed shut and body shaking; this was a surplus of emotions you let seep through your walls. It was expressive enough for any dimwitted onlooker to know exactly what you were feeling: pure fear.

And Jungkook had always been adept to telltale signs of what was buried beneath the obvious emotions. He could tell you wanted to be distracted. You needed help.

It was easier to stifle one sense if you stifled them all at once. If you didn’t want to see, you had to plug your ears and hold your breath. And in this case, to block out the sound, you had to shut your eyes and numb the rest of your body in the slim chance that the thunder wouldn’t penetrate through your poorly constructed firewall.

Suddenly, you felt the space beside you sink lower which meant Jungkook had taken the liberty of invading your space at the worst possible time. It was difficult to focus on blocking out the sound when you could feel the side of his shoulder bump lightly against yours.

“___.” You shifted towards him slowly, waiting for his explanation of why he was on your side of the cart. “Can I touch you?”

You were past your wit's end, spending the last bits of your sanity trying to calm yourself from the second crash of thunder that made your body lift from the seat for a solid two seconds. All you could do was nod, and hope he wasn’t a serial killer that was about to strangle you to death in a moment of vulnerability.

He was working in your favor, just like when he wrapped you up in his coat and set that cup of milk in front of you, he moved in determination to comfort you. And if it weren’t for the dire circumstances, your pride would have refused the security of his arms that were carefully enveloping your body and eliminating the frigid space around you. You hadn’t realized how cold this train was until you were invited into Jungkook’s warmth. He had somehow silenced the storm, and all you had to do was let him.

The third blast of thunder pushed you deeper in his embrace, and you wrapped your arms around him tightly like the lifejacket he was that kept you from slipping below the surface of the angry ocean currents.

“If you couldn’t tell I-” Boom, “I hate thunder.” Your voice came out strained through the fear-induced filter lodged in your throat.

“No, actually, I couldn’t tell at all.” Nine out of ten of your thoughts were concentrated on the thunder, and that one exception was applied towards how annoyingly sarcastic Jungkook managed to be through thick and thin. It was impressive enough that he could subtract the fear even by a small fraction for you to laugh.

“You’re so-” Boom, “You’re insufferable.”

His laugh was noticed through the gentle bounce of his chest that rocked your head more than the actual sound of it. Soon, a hand came to run through your hair and with each stroke, he somehow removed your terror layer by layer until you were afforded with indifference to the storm simply because you were lulled into a half-sleep and were now too exhausted to care about the thunder.

“You’re okay. Everything is okay. You’re doing great. Breathe deep.” His chest smelled the same as his coat. A fire burning so brightly, sending the aromas of everything it consumed into the air.

Now your attention belonged to the warmth of his arms, and how he moved his hand through your hair with something deeper than kindness. It was selflessness because he too was scared and tired and in need of rest. Despite this, he used the last of his energy to ward off the threat of a second panic attack.

“Thank you.” You whispered into his chest, and it seemed as though it permeated through his flesh and ribs and absorbed straight into his heart from the way he held you even tighter.

The storm had settled, and the horrors of loud thunder were abandoned for quite some time now, but it felt too comfortable, too perfect for you to be anywhere else but here in his arms. So, what went unsaid was more than enough for him to retract any intention to return to his seat and instead hold you against his chest, where his heart would retain strength from being close to you.

You couldn’t tell if you had already slipped into a dream when you heard him singing softly, or if the melody of Dream a Little Dream of Me was actually being crafted by his voice so beautifully and fell into perfect synchronization with the rhythmic beat of his heart. Either way, you were thankful to bear witness to a sound that reduced the idea of thunder down to something that could never hurt you again, and instead made seeing all the stars the heavens could offer possible even through the darkest nights. You felt a well of tears moisten your cheeks.

In his arms, with his voice, you could see the stars.

Back in the dimmed hallway of the train, you could make out the outline of a figure standing in the distance, waiting for you. Waiting, but about to run out of time. You saw her slowly disappear the way wind would rustle the dying leaves off a tree in autumn. Slowly her body was wilting, disappearing, and the wind only picked up speed.

All you could think to do was run to her, your mother, the shell of a woman you had known and loved your whole life. Her frail body being stripped of flesh as easily as wind undresses a tree of its leaves until there is nothing but branch and bone.

The walls began to close again, and you knew you had to act faster. You had to push past the pressure of closing walls even if they were squeezing so tightly movement became impossible. All at once, the impossible became your burden to redesign into something possible, which was the only thing crushing your spirit more than these damn walls.

You were so close; you held your hand out and—

Day Two

Winter mornings always start the same. Your eyes began rediscovering sight before the rest of your senses flooded into function, then your stomach would get angry for digesting nothing but its own acid until you filled it. And just like yesterday, your pillow cushioned beneath your head on the seat and your body shielded from the rogue winter winds that snuck inside of your cart by the same bonfire scented coat.

“Rise and shine.” Jungkook said from behind the sheet music he was examining. He must have been stealing glances of you every five minutes or so to catch the moment you’d finally wake up.

“Time?” Part of you didn’t want to get up. Part of you, the more persuasive part, wanted to remain tucked under Jungkook’s coat and slip back into a light sleep. If it weren’t for the hot drink waiting for you on the table then you would have done just that.

“Nine. A little later than yesterday.” You sat up eventually, wrapping the coat around you, and for a moment life was comfortable on the train. So much so that you didn’t mind how your hair was in complete disarray.

Jungkook enjoyed seeing you this way. When you had first woken up and didn’t wear the usual veil of detachment from the rest of the world. Your guard had surrendered to your sleep ridden body. He guessed very few people saw you like this, natural and raw and untouched by the pressure to be presentable, and counted himself lucky, just like you would say, to be one of those few.

“Thanks, again.” You said softly into the warm cup between sips. “How much?”

“No. It's okay.”

“But-”

“Seriously! Don’t mention it.” He was firm, but that didn’t stop the gentle smile that crept its way back onto his face. You didn’t know what to say other than the thanks you had already said, so you just kept drinking. It was still just as delicious, but today familiarity was peppered into the milk among the honey and cinnamon which gave it that much more reason to love it.

“You get up this early every day?” You asked, because you were at a loss for words but felt less comfortable without hearing his voice to accompany the brisk, quiet morning.

“Usually I do. I like the morning. It feels like I have the world to myself before everyone else wakes up.” Charming. It was the last thing that came to mind when you would picture Jungkook. Now, however, it seemed to be the only characteristic that came to mind when you thought of him.

Sitting in front of you, half mindedly scribbling notes onto the staff and half his attention expended on sharing the small ways he saw the world, he was just charming. As easily as he once drove a blunt edge of annoyance into your chest, he erased every bit of evidence that he could ever be anything but charming.

“Sorry to steal the morning from you. I gotta wake up sometime.” You felt entirely unpracticed in the realm of light, friendly conversations, and that was evident from the way you wanted to gag at your own response to his. What you thought was a tasteless, almost pathetic attempt at banter was, to Jungkook, another reason to enjoy the morning.

“I’m glad it’s you that I have to share it with.” Jungkook certainly sat higher on the hierarchical scale of wit compared to you, but even that didn’t agitate you in the way it would have before. What was more shocking than that was the fact that you felt the muscles in your cheeks changing your flat lipped expression into a smile.

“Flattery gets you nowhere, Jungkook.” You responded that way only to save face. It was a habit of yours you didn’t realize you were doing until the words had already been deployed by your tongue.

“It seems to have gotten me a smile from you. Those are hard to come by.” You jerked your head quickly over to him, the same grin stained with smugness there to meet your surprised ‘o’ shaped mouth.

He was right again. Your smiles have always been punctuated lately, but you were too busy paddling through every distraction available to even notice.

“Very funny.” Your voice was low enough for Jungkook to nearly miss it. Once the soft tone of your voice delivered to his ears, he looked away from his sheet music to mine through your face like a cavern, searching for the hidden bits of the treasure-like emotions strewn in along the subtle details.

“What’s wrong?” It was a leap of faith, his question, a leap that sent him plummeting blindly into the depths of everything he craved to know about you.

“That thing you said the other day.” Your expression was unreadable to the whole world. But inside the train, the whole world rested just on the other side of the window. There was no reason to come off as impassive, cold, or unconcerned, to care so much about trying not to care. “About going home.”

“Mhm?” You waited to see if he had anything to say, anything to stall what was about to escape from your lips. You knew it wouldn’t take long for your thoughts to go rogue, especially when he made you smile like that.

“I’m angry.” He gave you a look that said ‘no shit’ without having to actually say it. It made you nervous, but still willing to go on. “You're right. I didn’t visit home ever until now. I thought I grew out of it. I thought I became someone too big to fit in a town so small and stuck in its way. But I was never too big, I don’t think I ever actually grew. Because when I got the call, after stupidly ignoring it a hundred times before, I felt like the same child. So scared of the idea of a world without their mother. So, yeah, I’m angry. I’m angry I could be arrogant and stupid enough to think I could live the rest of my life never looking back.”

Jungkook just watched you, with those eyes that held the world. His eyes were holding so much right now when they were looking at you. So much weight from a source he couldn’t define with his own intuition. So much weight, he couldn’t understand how you had been shouldering it on your own this whole time, if he couldn’t stand a few minutes holding it now.

“Going back home.” You scoffed. “It's not about looking back. It was never about that. I think returning to something familiar is almost just as scary as fleeing somewhere new. All your past mistakes and demons that you have to face…”

“Demons. Is that any way to talk about your mother?” It was his way, unique to Jungkook alone, to litter in a bit of lighthearted teasing even when he was supposed to be serious. As if he couldn’t stand to let the air in Cart 102 become too damp with sadness, as if his heart wouldn’t have been able to handle it.

“I made a mistake. I spent too much time away, and now the last way I’ll see her is weak and sick. That’s my demon. My mom was just unfortunate enough to be the arbiter of it.”

Jungkook wanted to tell you that if he could, he would take all your pain away and send it back into the universe to find someone else to harbor it. Someone who deserved to feel a loss so heavy, because he knew just by looking at you that you deserved none of it. But he held his overly romantic tongue for now in regards to easing you into him smoothly. Since he had come such a long way with you, making gentle strides to win your affection, it would be greedy of him to tarnish that by saying something as outrageous as that, even if that was truly how he felt.

“Come with me. I have an idea.” It would have been easy to refuse him, to swat his hand away and never speak to him again for the rest of the train ride. But what prevails after the wear and tear of expecting the worst and knowing the painful and permanent scars it will leave you is the trust of someone who turned scowls into smiles, who held his hand out to you and waited for you to take it kindly.

Those tales they tell about feeling sparks when you make contact with your soulmate were decidedly wrong. Wrong to you, because when you touched Jungkook’s hand, you felt those sparks nestling under your skin and learning its way through the rest of your body. Wrong, because Jungkook was no soulmate of yours, just an unlikely stranger you met on a train once.

And yet, you couldn’t help but wonder, you couldn’t help but hope he too felt these sparks that supposedly meant nothing.

Jungkook pulled you into the hallway, which was brighter than the way it looked in your dreams. At the end of the walkway, there was no ghost resembling your mother, and the walls weren’t closing in, and instead of pushing through alone, you had Jungkook holding your hand tightly, and graciously guiding you down.

“This way.” He whispered, and you mimicked the stealth in his voice through the way you muffled the sound of your feet hitting the train floor, which felt less like water and more like sand with him; soft yet solid sand.

You arrived at an unattended area of the train. The only hint of what Jungkook was up to was that grin. That grin was too playful to be a grimace, and too mischievous to be a smile. That grin that you hadn’t noticed you were looking forward to seeing, the same one you could sense you would miss when the train arrived at its destination. That when he grinned, you finally found the courage to return it. Needing no conditions or second guesses, you were just you, somehow smiling on the train that was taking you to your sick mother. And it was all because of him and his stupid, lovely grin.

“What are you doing? Are we supposed to even be here?”

“Shh, we’ll get caught.” He began to wriggle with the door handle until it opened.

“So we’re not supposed to be here! Jungkook, let’s go before we get kicked off!” To silence you, he simply held his hand up. You pouted your lip but did as he commanded.

Inside the door, there was a collection of all the food meant for purchasing. Your assumption was confirmed that Jungkook had no intention of paying for the bags of pretzels and packets of cookies he was stuffing into his pockets. Hands full with quite the assortment of foods, he looked to you and raised his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Come on, put these in your pockets! Hurry.” He held the food out towards you. There was no convincing him to put all the stolen goods back, and there was no convincing yourself to not go along with his sinfully sweet plan.

The fast-paced walk back to Cart 102 was the most exhilarating thirty-five seconds of your life. Jungkook looked all too calm, like spontaneity fell into his hands naturally or like it was a birthright, belonging to his life from the beginning. Life with Jungkook, even if the short span of time he’d claimed part of yours was fleeting, was the most excited and fearless you had ever felt.

Jungkook and you emptied the haul of food onto the table. For a second, they went untouched only for the two of you to admire your successfully pirated goods. Then, for the first time on the train you met eyes with Jungkook and laughed.

It was the sort of laugh that exercised muscles in your abdomen you weren’t aware that you had in the first place. The kind that began at the top of a hill, and with one push it was tumbling faster and faster, growing louder and wilder.

Jungkook was laughing too, a sound which could qualify as the only competitor to surpass the beauty of his singing. And whatever music he was scribing onto the paper would have to be beyond masterful to sound anything close to as immaculate as his laugh.

“I can’t believe we just committed grand larceny.” The words came out of your throat between fits of laughter, eyes now with an abundance of happy tears.

“Woah there, “‘grand”’ is a stretch. I like to think of it as unlawful borrowing.” The rest of the afternoon was spent with celebratory feasting of your unlawfully borrowed goods. Your favorite was the packs of chocolate mints, and Jungkook had cleverly avoided eating them when he noticed how much you liked them.

When dawn arrived, Cart 102 settled into a comfortable silence, now consisting of you reading your book tempered by a glance out of the window every few pages and Jungkook tapping his pencil against the wooden desk while marking up every blank space on his page. To anyone else, including the likes of you, the page was nothing but a jumble of incoherent scribbles. To Jungkook, it was his next masterpiece; the best idea he made tangible on paper and hopefully soon, audible when someone agreed to commission it.

“Done!”

His remark startled you, being that there had been no warrant for him to exclaim his progress with the music he was working on. You chuckled softly, closing your book and looking back to Jungkook.

“Done with what?”

“This song. I know this one will sell. I just know it! It’s perfect.” Jungkook’s passion was bursting past the seams of his body. “I just wish… I wish I had more time.”

“What does that mean?” Again, all he offered was the same grin, and that was all you needed in order to know he wouldn’t be dropping any more hints on the account of your curiosity.

“It means this train ride is ending tomorrow, and I’ll have too much on my plate to work on anything else. So this right here,” He held up the paper with the same tact one would for a pile of pure gold, “Is my last chance to get my work out there for a while.”

For reasons born from an unidentifiable place, you felt like crying. Last chance. It sounded serious. Something you weren’t ready to know and something he wasn't ready to tell. So, instead of pestering the answer out of him, you let him have his secrets. You let him have all the secrets he had somehow gotten out of you.

And somehow, you were okay with it. Just this once.

Jungkook said he was taking a quick nap. Quick must mean something entirely different where he was from since it lasted about three hours and counting. For someone who had nothing to do but sit on a train all day, he sure was tired. It would have concerned you had it not been for witnessing how much energy he exerted into writing his music, as if each tap of his pencil required the same amount of energy as running an entire mile.

You were looking out of the window, which looked like it had been coated with tar. The departing sun left no remnants of its light and the moon must have been situated on the opposite side of the train, so it was up to the stars to illuminate your view of the world. But, outside the train was dark. Dark, and almost pitch black.

The first few specks were thought to be a hallucination that bloomed from your own wishful thinking. But soon, there were more and more twinkling lights dusting the sky and that outshined any doubt you had before. The stars were so bright and glimmering clearer than you had ever seen. Only something so beautiful, something that ingrained itself into the grooves of your brain to keep forever, could elicit the gasp that came louder than expected.

“Woah.” It jolted Jungkook awake and you would have felt bad if he weren’t already supplied with three and a half hours of extra sleep.

“What?” His voice was hoarse from being unused for such a long interval.

“The stars! I can see them! They’re so bright, Jungkook. So bright.” The tears began to form in part from the lack of blinking and in part from how happy you were to see the stars. The same stars your mother was probably looking at and the same ceiling of glitter that loomed protectively over you and Jungkook. They were more than just constellations tonight; they were a celestial map navigating you back home and an astronomical assurance that everything would be okay. Even if the worst happened, everything would be okay.

“They are. They’ve been bright for a while. It took you long enough to notice.” Your smile was not yours to control anymore. It was a small price to pay considering you had a world full of stars to last you a lifetime.

“I guess I haven’t been trying as hard to see them as I thought I was.”

And you turned to him, which was the only thing besides the starlit arena above you and Jungkook and the train you’d rather be looking at right now.

“I can’t wait to go home. I miss it so much.” It was the first time you said it out loud, as well as the first time you were able to admit that to yourself.

“I’m glad you feel that way. You should feel that way.”

“Thank you.”

There were a plethora of reasons that prompted that thank you. Far too many reasons that were decidedly unfit for just a single thank you. So, you concluded that the thank you was for Jungkook; for becoming a part of your life. For every decision he made on this train that rearranged your feelings towards him into something pleasant. Something that felt warm and safe.

Tonight, the last thing you saw before slipping away into sleep was all the stars that weren't at your disposal before. Every silvery diamond brandished along the expanding sky was so mesmerizing, you wished you could imprint them into the backs of your eyelids when they eventually lulled you into a calm slumber. That and the memory of Jungkook’s rendition of Dream a Little Dream of Me set on repeat in your head.

This time, you weren't trapped in the confines of a dark train hallway. You were standing in the middle of a grassy field, laden with a diverse collection of wildflowers. The mellow green hues seemed to lift from the blades of grass, stretching into the air around you.

And your mother was there. She wasn’t being blown away by the wind. Just like the sturdy trunk of a tree, she stood with dignity and conviction at the top of the highest hill that provided a view of your hometown; it was the most beautiful you had ever seen her.

“Mom!” The way you were running felt more like gliding, or flying even, because you moved through the wind without a bit of resistance. Your body was frictionless and unstoppable. And when you finally fell into your mother’s arms, it was the most freeing feeling in the world.

“I’ve missed you so much. I thought you were going to leave me.” The blue sky that sealed you and your mom into the earth made a stunning partner for the fields of green underneath you.

“I’m always with you, darling.”

It was difficult to decide whether the sound of her voice or the sentiment behind it made you cry, so you decided not to decide at all, and instead, you simply let yourself cry. Everything was so beautiful, but still not complete.

“Mom, I feel like something’s missing.”

“There is.” She responded, but it wasn’t a question. Your mom was not your mom, just a figment herself cultivated by your own mind. She was one with you, and she knew exactly what was missing.

“Where do I find it?” Her hands cupped your cheeks, just like she would when you were young and crying over a scraped knee.

“You know, love. You know.”

The wind pulled a gentle melody from the spaces between the leaves. A melody you were quite familiar with and grew to love. It slowed, then everything was silent.

Day Three

Waking up came to you in a hurry, as if you shouldn’t spend another second living life through dreams because today was the last day on the train. The last day you’d spend with Jungkook, and possibly the last time you would ever see him.

It was uncharacteristic of you to feel this way. Disappointed at both yourself and your situation. You knew from the beginning that this was a temporary arrangement, and Jungkook was not a permanent fixture in your life. In fact, you used to be thankful for those circumstances because you hated Jungkook.

But, of course, you went ahead and let him in. You let him buy you tasty drinks, hold you during thunderstorms, and offer you a coat, a smile, a laugh when everything felt cold. You let him ripple currents of fun into your life, but that would be giving yourself too much credit, you suppose.

Because it was never a matter of allowing him to do any of this. He did all of those things, and more, all by himself.

What was even more uncharacteristic of you was greeting the early morning before Jungkook. He was sound asleep, with skin being lightly freckled by the glints of sunlight shimmering through the gaps in the clouds. The morning sun was always docile, kindly shedding light in a way that wouldn’t pull sweat from your skin like it did in the afternoon.

You liked the sight of him sleeping, mostly because it was one of the few moments of the day when he was completely silent, and those were rare.

“Better take this opportunity.” You whispered to yourself before getting up, covering Jungkook with the coat, and heading to the concession stand you had raided with Jungkook yesterday.

Wondering if the workers noticed the missing inventory, you idled by the counter before ordering but they all looked too tired to care to serve you let alone realize a quarter of the chocolate mint packs were taken.

“Hi, two warm milks with honey and cinnamon please.” The attendant seemed to appreciate how closely your voice was to a whisper. He sluggishly poured two steaming cups of milk and sleeved them before exchanging them for the money already placed onto the counter.

“Honey and cinnamon are over at the self-serving station.” You followed to where his finger was aimed towards and nodded politely with the two cups in each hand.

You didn’t know why, but imagining Jungkook making this drink himself, instead of ordering it premade, ranked this act as something more motivated than customary kindness. Because getting these drinks wasn’t simply walking to a stand, purchasing, and walking back to Cart 102. There was now an erroneous step you hadn’t accounted for. The act of making milk with honey and cinnamon.

As you scooped a spoonful of honey to mix into the creamy liquid, one of your mother’s many proverbs rang in your ears, as if she was standing right beside you saying it.

“When you make food for someone, it’s just another way to express that you love them!”

It froze you for a second. Recalling what she would say when you would throw together a meal for the pair of you when she was too tired to. She worked so hard as a single mother, so every shortcoming felt like a colossal failure, no matter how little it mattered to you. And she would always say that to you because ‘thank you’ just didn’t cut it.

This was the first thing you made for someone other than your mother and yourself. But, there’s no way it was because you loved him.

Just this once, you thought. Just this once I’ll make food for someone that I don’t love.

You were relieved to greet a still sleeping Jungkook when you returned to your cart. The cart you studied closer, because you were about to leave it and wanted to retain all the details that you could before it became a memory you would only visit when you were feeling reminiscent.

The beige walls, the small table where you would read and Jungkook would compose, the stiff leather seats that you had surprisingly gotten used to, and the large window that gave you a glimpse of the blurry world waiting for you.

Jungkook’s groan snapped you out of your trance. Before he regained full cognizance, you placed the cup in front of him so you’d be able to boast that you had woken up before him and had the morning all to yourself for a moment. That now you were the one sharing the world with him.

“What’s this?” He said groggily.

“You know.” You tried your best to mirror his smugness, the way he would sip his drink after sending a witty one-liner through the air like it was no big deal to him.

Before you became lost in the person you changed into with Jungkook, a person that felt more like a fun costume to wear when you didn’t feel like being yourself anymore, the more neurotic and controlling part of you fell back through when you remembered that the measurements of the ingredients might have been off.

Maybe you had gotten the drink entirely wrong, so your deed would shrivel down to a failed act of kindness. Nothing at all your mother would consider a gesture of love. And that was more frightening than any blast of thunder.

“It's delicious.” Jungkook said out of nowhere, almost as though he knew he was interrupting your thoughts. Breaking them down into a powder thinner than flour, so he could blow all your worries away with one puff of air. He wasn’t lying either, it was delicious.

You spent a gracious amount of time and energy avoiding the book you were meant to finish during this train ride. Instead, your efforts were fully consumed by the last person you thought would ever be the center of your attention. At least, you thought if he were going to be the focus of it, then it would have been because you were mentally berating him for reasons that didn’t bother you much at all anymore; in fact, they started becoming admirable.

“If you could run faster than a train, where would you go?” He asked.

“Paris. Or Italy. I'd just have to figure out how to run on water.” You earned a good laugh from Jungkook with that comment. And finally, you felt like you were beginning to find your niche in conversations, and it relied heavily on sarcasm.

“I’d love to see the day when ___ walks on water.”

“What about you? Where would you go?”

“I would make my legs take me straight to Carnegie Hall and force the organization to play one of my pieces.” Each word was formed by his tongue as if he had that response rehearsed a hundred times over. Jungkook knew exactly what he wanted, and given the chance, he would use any and every asset to get him there.

That alone was why you fell into something deeper than attraction. Why you began to take notice of things about him that weren’t of importance before. And why your intentions to observe how the world designed this man to be so stunningly unique was less cryptic than you’d hoped.

Maybe if you noticed how his white button-up was undone down to his sternum and tucked into the waistband of his slacks tastefully, then your heart would have taken a quicker pace long before now. If you noticed how his jet black hair was gentle and fluffy when it draped over his eyes, then you would have been frustrated with yourself sooner for not seizing the chance to introduce your fingers to its texture. And if you noticed how the ridges along his palm looked perfect to be held in, then you would have savored every second he held you the night of the storm. There was an astonishing number of details about Jungkook, about as many as the stars in the sky, that would have made you mountains more intimidated to even speak with him.

One of the attendants left all your observations of Jungkook scattered when she peaked her head through to give the two of you an update on your arrival.

“Looks like we’ll be getting in earlier than expected!” In theory, that was a blessing. You’d get to finally deboard the train and be with your mother. Though, you’d be lying if some piece of you wanted this train to continue west until there was no more land to travel on; and if you could, you would redistribute each part of this train to assemble a boat, so you could sail Jungkook across the seven seas. “Our arrival will be in twenty minutes! I hope you both enjoyed your trip.”

And if Jungkook felt the same way, he didn’t show it through his polite smile and nod at the attendant.

“We’ll be getting off soon.” He said to you, though you could tell it was his way of interrogating your thoughts on the matter.

“Time moved by so oddly on the train. I didn’t even notice it was already day three.” You paused and took one last glance out of the window. “Funny.”

"It's funny,” He began, and you settled into what you knew was about to be another piece of Jungkook's mind served in the form of his delicate words, “when you're inside a train you don't feel like you're moving. Even though you are, of course. You're moving faster than you would outside of a train. But we feel like we are still because we are moving with the train. When you're in a train, you are moving with time too, so it feels rushed and stagnant all at once. When you're not inside, time moves past you. It feels better to move with time, don’t you think? It feels like you could outrun it if you wanted to, or it feels like you will never run out of time at all. That you and time are equals. But soon, we'll have to get back onto the platform, and time will move past us again, and it’ll feel like we’re running out already."

“You’re right.” You finally admitted. “We’re running out of time.”

We’re running out of time— together, you wanted to say. However, courage and boldness was a currency you weren’t rich in. Unspoken desires and lost hopes were all you had left to tender.

“Yeah, I guess so. Hey, I-” He hesitated as well, because when you looked at him with such wishful eyes, it made what he had to say entirely too real and all too scary. “I really liked being your travel buddy.”

You could tell he was holding back too. That everything you wanted to say to him and everything he wanted to say to you wasn’t meant to be translated into words, that exchanging sentimental smiles was all you and he could afford. Instead, it was better to exist through the language of emotions, floating around the train, moving with time, and eventually, when you and Jungkook returned to the world, those emotions would remain with the train and travel beyond your destination.

That’s why you let them go. Sometimes, a train is only meant to be a train.

“Me too. Though, I have to admit I hated you at first.”

“I know.” He grinned as you etched the most accurate memory of it in your brain as you could.

His stance came unprecedented. The small radio tucked in his bag now sitting on the table, serenading an unfamiliar melody and overtaking the silent air inside Cart 102. Then, came his hand, extended to you just like he had yesterday. Only this time, you didn’t need to wonder what he wanted from you because you would give whatever he asked.

You took his hand, or rather you gave him yours, and followed his gentle tug until it led you to his body, pressing away all the space once separating the two of you. Jungkook’s hand followed the curve of your waist until it landed at the small of your back while you instinctively rested yours on his shoulder.

You and Jungkook swayed to the music until all those words about moving with time became real. The way he held you close had you immune to the passage of time. The soft brush of his breath against your cheek felt welcoming, and you would try your very best to remember the way existing felt when your skin was touching his. It was odd, dancing on a train with someone you didn’t know well enough to call a friend but weren’t estranged enough to call an acquaintance. Again, it felt like you were in between two walls, stuck, trying to out-think your way through a collapsing maze of judgement.

Though, no matter how odd it was, it stopped neither you nor Jungkook from holding onto each other for the last few moments available.

The train must have hit a rock, one you would like to thank because it knocked the two of you over until you had fallen into his lap, laughing so hard your bodies shook. You would have been uncomfortable in this compromising position if not for the sense of belonging fostered in the empty space in your chest while being in his arms.

Jungkook didn’t notice you were detangling your limbs from his until you were already gone, seated across from him in the same spot.

Once, he learned in science class of this phenomenon called ‘afterimage’, which is when your eyes get so accustomed to staring at one particular thing that when you look away, the thing stained your vision in the form of a silhouette, like an echo of something your eyes grew so comfortable seeing that it stayed with you, even when you looked away.

And he knew, even when the view of you sitting across from him in this train wasn’t there anymore, he would carry that afterimage of you, always echoing in his vision like a beautiful melody he couldn’t get out of his head. Not that he wanted to let go anyway

It was sour, the cruelty of letting go. When the train began to brake, it felt like a lifetime of agony. A bitter, unforgiving slap in the face courtesy of the confines of reality, stealing you away from the shelter of a train; a place that made it so easy to be swept up in something as dazzling and impossible as magic. You were onto important things, you knew this, but it was nice to live, even if it were just for a bit, inside something as magical as Cart 102, where you could count on a generous supply of warm coats, milk with honey and cinnamon, and Jungkook.

“Well, our stop is here. Hey, how about we share a cab? Why not save some money, right?” You could only nod, because speaking would have led to tears, which would have led to a failed explanation of why you were crying.

Jungkook hailed the yellow vehicle over, the opening of his shirt widened just an inch too much to let your mind wander.

“You’re going to the hospital, right?” He asked.

“Yeah, the only one in town.” You said, knowing the driver wouldn’t need any more specifics than that. This town was so small there were a lot of singular facilities that made the layout equally difficult to be crammed into and easy to memorize. One library, one park, one church, and one hospital.

As Jungkook went to give the driver your destinations, you packed up the luggage into the trunk. Not too long after, you were side by side in the back of a cab. All you could bring yourself to do was gaze out of the window and watch all the familiar scenes of your hometown pass by, each landmark dousing you with a strong presence of nostalgia.

No matter how sad parting ways with Jungkook was, it was good to be home.

The cab finally arrived at the hospital, and you got out not expecting the other person in the car to get out with you. Perhaps he was being polite and saying goodbye. You knew you would have done the same if his stop preceded yours.

The two of you stood in front of the entrance, gawking up at the tall building that was in desperate need of reconstruction. You turned your gaze over to Jungkook.

“Where to now, Mr. Jeon?” You asked, since this town was small enough, and you were fluent in every secret hiding spot it had to offer, you might be able to visit him if that wouldn’t come off as too invasive.

“I'm here.” He responded just as ambiguously and ever so matter-of-factly as always. This time, you demanded to know more.

“What? What do you mean?”

“It took a long time to find a doctor that specializes in my condition.” Jungkook finally turned to you, his eyes crowded by tears. “My heart is weak, ___. I came here to get better, and hopefully, I do. I'm going to be a famous composer one day, and I’ll need a strong heart to get me to that point.”

You felt angry at him again. For not telling you, because it felt less like keeping something from you and more like lying to you. For telling you, and making it sound like it wasn’t a big deal, that it wouldn’t break your heart into pieces weaker than his own.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It was the harsh snap he expected from you, but he was committed to keeping this a secret until he couldn’t because it was easier that way.

“I didn’t want to admit it. I’m scared, ___. Really scared. If I don't get better…”

“Well, you have to! Carnegie Hall is waiting for you and I didn’t waste my time getting to know you for nothing. So, you just go ahead and get better okay?” Your words were coated in anger but layered on top of something compassionate, sweet even. Sweeter than milk, honey, and cinnamon.

“I’ll try.” He grinned again, knowing it would satisfy you for the time being. Grinning, like a goodbye gift.

“You’re an idiot, Jungkook.”

Before you could lose the last word, you gripped your luggage in one hand, the pillow in the other, and made your way into the hospital, leading to what you knew would be countless nights spent at the side of a hospital bed, eating foods you’d rather not eat, and watching daytime cable while taking care of your mother.

What you didn’t know was that a good portion of those nights would be spent with someone else. Someone who resided in the west wing of the hospital.

Someone who would bring your hand to his heart, and ask you if it felt stronger, and you would always reply with ‘yes’, or ‘yes, you idiot’, even when you were terrified that one day your hand wouldn’t feel the tap of his heart against his chest. Someone who would sing to you in exchange for the times you would read to him. Someone who you would leave notes and small gifts for, his personal favorite being the packet of walnuts accompanied with a folded paper inscribed ‘for when you need to get out of class’. Someone who, when he would be having a particularly difficult night, you’d fall asleep holding hands with, and you’d wake him up with a warm cup of his signature beverage.

Someone you would inevitably begin to fall in love with.

A month later, one of two people you loved dearly would walk out with you through those hospital doors. That person was Jungkook. And the melancholy of losing your mother to the battle between her and her cancer would also follow you, and stay with you almost as long as Jungkook had.

A year later, you would return, hand in hand with Jungkook. Every two months. It was the promise you sealed onto your mother's gravestone that you would always return every two months. Even if the weather dispatched the most terrifying thunderstorms, or your work piled a stack of paperwork high enough to reach the sky, you’d still return home.

You and Jungkook placed a bundle of wildflowers you picked on the way to her grave, sitting at the top of a grassy highland, at the base of the granite stone. She was overlooking the world, with a perfect view of you; it made you feel safe that she was watching over you, and she was watching over Jungkook and his slowly recovering heart.

The weather was perfect. The sun blanketed everything beneath it with a generous warmth but didn't restrict the gentle breeze from tempering it. The leaves and grass moved with the wind, but your mother’s tombstone was strong and unmoving, losing no part of herself to the fluid motions of the spring air.

“I kind of like it here.” He said softly, adorning the view of the hilltop with you. It was the morning, and it didn’t feel like he was sharing the world with you anymore. It felt like it was yours to begin with, and he was just lucky enough to be allowed a part of it.

“Me too.” One hand was with Jungkook, and the other was with your mother.

“I think it would be a nice place to get married and raise our children. You know, after I become a world-renowned composer and all.” This would have shocked you if you had not been wishing to hear him confirm these dreams of yours for a while now. “Did that scare you? I didn’t mean to be too forward.”

“No, I think this would be the perfect place to live. Only if it's with you.” Because you knew, something was missing here without him. He made this hometown of yours finally complete in the wake of your mother’s passing.

When you kissed him, he tasted like honey. And he would have told you that you tasted like cinnamon.

It could never scare you, because you were in love.

You were in a debt of gratitude that was deeper than the ocean. There was so much you wanted to say to him.

The town is milk. It is up to you and me, Jungkook, to provide the ingredients that will liven this town of milk into something sweeter, something survivable, something that will continue to sustain a force as powerful as love. Without the honey and cinnamon, all you have is milk. It seems we are the perfect blend of the two to make this bitter place palatable when it hits our tongues. This town needs us together in the same way milk needs honey and cinnamon.

You didn’t say any of those words out loud. You didn’t need to. All you needed to say was:

“I love you.”

And all he needed to say was:

“I love you too.”

#bangtanarmynet #ficswithluv #btsgoldnet #bts fanfic #bts one shot #bts writing #bts fluff #bts x reader #jungkook fanfic #jungkook x reader #jungkook one shot #jungkook fluff #bts enemies to lovers #musician!jungkook #of honey and cinnamon #rubycoast

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sevlgi · 4 years

Text

don’t want to see you

requested: yes

group: blackpink

pairing: jennie x fem!reader

genre: angst, questionable fluff

contents: fashion designer!au, rough breakup

warnings: none

synopsis: After your terrible breakup 4 years ago, you’re the last person Jennie wants to see at her dream job.

a/n: I accidentally did 4 years instead of two but eh... I’m glad you enjoy my writing!

word count: 2.4k

“This is it, huh?”

Jennie laughs as Jisoo wipes a fake tear away, pouting as she opened her arms for a hug. “Stop pretending to be sad, unnie, you know you’re glad to be rid of me.”

“Never!” the older girl protests, arms wrapping around Jennie. Under the cold winter sky, Jisoo is a source of familiarity and warmth that’s all too hard to let go of. “But I am glad you got this position. It’s been your dream for such a long time, and you gave up your first opportunity for… her.”

As soon as the mention of you slipped out of her mouth, Jisoo winces; she knows that over 4 years after your breakup, Jennie’s still not over you, not in the slightest. The younger girl forces a smile, hitching her designer bag up her shoulder a bit as she detaches herself from her friend. “Yeah. Thanks for sending me off, I’m off to be a successful adult now.”

“Rude!” Jisoo calls out, hands on her hips but a smile beaming across her face. She hopes that Jennie isn’t too affected by her words, and that nothing spoils the day her friend has been looking forward to for years. “I’ll have you know I’m a perfectly successful actress!” She continues waving until she’s just a tiny dot, her younger friend passing through the building’s gate.

Even the air smells fancy, Jennie notes as she steps through the revolving doors. She’s glad she wore an expensive outfit, no matter how cold the skirt is-- name brands are practically glued onto every person in the building. Filtered sunlight shines off of silk scarves and glimmers over fine dresses, heels clicking on the glossy marble floors. Various colognes and perfumes mix in the air, and Jennie inhales with a grin. This is her new life, the one that she’s wanted and worked for ever since she was a child.

The elevator ride up is lonely, of course, but she recognizes the frosted glass door she passes through to reach the office of the man who interviewed her for the position in the first place. “Ms. Kim,” Taehyung greets her, his voice deep and gentle. “Good to see you.”

“You too, Mr. Kim,” Jennie bows politely. Despite the fact that she’s only a year younger than him, he’s interestingly intimidating. “Ah, I thought you said my partner would greet me today?”

Taehyung nods, hands fidgeting with the Gucci blazer he wears. “Yes, we decided your new partner yesterday. Y/N’s just a bit busy, though, so she sent me to greet you first. Come with me to the elevator, your studio’s on another floor.”

Y/N. Jennie’s blood runs cold at your name even as she scurries to keep up with the man’s long legs, memories of screaming and slamming doors suddenly fading into her mind. She does her best to shake it off, though; it’s not like you’re the only person ever with that name. The world doesn’t revolve around her, never mind her shitty relationship from years before. “Oh. I see.”

Professional chatter about work fills the elevator ride; Taehyung’s already a senior at the company and a prodigy with fashion. Honestly, he could be a model as well as a designer, Jennie thinks as he smiles politely, opening her new office door for her. “Please.”

To no surprise, the studio is gorgeous, with floor-to-ceiling windows and sparkling modern furniture. Gorgeous swaths of fabric are displayed on benches all over the room, golden mannequins draped with clothing. Jennie doesn’t stop an exhilarated gasp from escaping her lips as she reaches to touch one of the designs splayed out on the table, and she also doesn’t stop the horrified one when she recognizes the signature on the paper.

Just in time, Taehyung’s deep voice sounds behind her. “Y/N, glad you could make it.”

Jennie turns quickly to face the doorway, and her heart leaps up into her throat as a far too familiar face greets her.

You look a hundred times better than the last time Jennie saw you, she has to admit that. The fancy outfit, probably something you made yourself by the looks of it, suits you perfectly, and your makeup is probably professionally done.

At the sight of her, your jaw drops, though you recover quick enough that your shared supervising officer doesn’t have a reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary. “Hi. Y/N Y/L/N,” you introduce yourself as you stick a hand out to shake. “You must be Jennie Kim.”

“That’s me,” she breathes, still a bit horrorstruck at the sight of you. It’s so difficult to pretend not to know you when Jennie still remembers every inch of you; she almost shudders when she remembers the way your skin felt under her fingertips. “You’re my new partner?”

“Yep,” you nod, biting down on your lip. Jennie remembers that habit of yours; it got annoying sometimes, when you tasted of blood. “I am.”

Taehyung smiles, “Y/N, I expect you to take care of Ms. Kim. I think the two of you will get on well. For now, I’ll leave the two of you to become acquainted, and Jennie, take all the time you need to become comfortable. Please, ask me if you need anything.”

As soon as the elevator door closes again, Jennie relaxes and you go rigid. Her eyes widen as she hisses, “What’re you doing here? Since when are you a fashion designer, Y/N?”

“Oh, good to see you too,” you scoff, turning away and plopping into your desk chair. To her annoyance, you’ve already occupied the side of the room with the better lighting. “I see you’re just as rude as when we broke up, Jennie Kim. No tact or professionalism at all; how did you even get hired?”

“For my talent,” Jennie scowls, crossing her arms defensively. “And you really expect a hello after that disaster? Remember when you got me evicted from my apartment, and we fought for days in a row?”

You sigh and pinch the area between your eyebrows. “I told you time and time again, that wasn’t my fault. It’s just like you to blame me for your own failures, no wonder I got your dream position years before you did.”

An incredulous gasp escapes Jennie’s lips as she tosses her bag down on her desk. From the start, it was an insecurity of hers that you were more accomplished, more successful than her, and she still never expected you to throw it back in her face. “Real mature, Y/N. Did you really usurp my position just to spite me? How childish.”

“I didn’t usurp anything, Jennie.” Standing suddenly, you’re eye-to-eye with Jennie, and she can smell the familiar perfume you’ve always worn. Your eyes are narrowed in anger, nose scrunching in anger. “I have my own dreams too, aside of you, but you’ve never seen that. You’ve always seen me as an object, without my own capability of thought.”

“That-- that’s not true.” She curses herself for stuttering, drawing her chin up. You’re barely inches away from her face, nails digging into your biceps with your arms crossed. “You know what, Y/N? I hoped you changed in these past 4 years, and I hoped that we could stay civil, but you obviously have remained just as much of an asshole as you always were.”

Rounding her desk and sitting down in her chair with a huff, Jennie pulls her computer closer to her. It’s just her luck to see the person she never wanted to see again on her so-called perfect day.

Weeks pass without you and Jennie holding a real, full conversation; to be honest, she knows that any single word out of your mouth would sound rude and conniving, even if you didn’t mean it that way. You fight over the stupidest things- did Jennie take your stapler? Did you take hers? What about that nice sweater you left in the office overnight?

Suffice to say, it’s nothing less than miserable.

Jennie finds solace in Joohyun, who was the one to recommend her for the job. The older woman knows plenty about the disastrous breakup years ago, and is a perfect source of good advice.

“Are you sure you’re not still harboring feelings for her?”

Okay, maybe not-so-good advice.

Spluttering, Jennie coughs on the sandwich she was eating for lunch, Joohyun’s gentle taps on her shoulder not really helping. A few other coworkers stare as they pass by in the cafeteria. “What?”

The other woman shrugs, delicately sipping at a cup of coffee. “You’re obviously not over her, and she you, if you’re still fighting over stupid things. If you didn’t like her anymore and simply hated her, you’d just ignore her existence.”

Jennie scowls, patting at her lips. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. We were miserable in our relationship, Joohyun unnie, and she broke my heart.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t still love her.” The brunette sounds sage, as wise as the demure blue silk blazer she wears. “You need to have a good talk with her, without shouting or arguing. Get your feelings out in the open, no matter what they may be.”

The younger girl pouts, chewing contemplatively. It’s highly unlikely that you’ll ever agree to a talk with her, as hostile as you are. Maybe Jennie’ll just have to survive like this, arguing with her partner.

She can survive anything for her dream job.

Jennie stares in shock at the huge pieces of fabric missing from every single one of the 5 dresses she was working on, skirts and bodices alike ripped to shreds. “What. In the hell?”

She slams her coffee down on one of the desks, not caring of the brown liquid splatters all over the papers that just happen to be yours. Her eyes sweep the room, narrowing in rage when she finds all of your projects completely untouched.

“Holy shit,” she hears behind her, and swirls to find you standing in the doorway, mouth agape in shock. “Um, that’s an… innovative design?”

Lunging forward, Jennie’s hands connect with your chest, pushing you into the wall. “Did you do it?” she shouts, barely noticing that you flinch when she raises her voice. “I thought you were better than this!”

“I…” You’re lost for words, seeing the sheer anger in your ex-girlfriend’s eyes. “I didn’t! I swear! You have to believe me, Jennie, I wouldn’t stoop so low.”

Her forearm slams into your chest again; you wince, not at the pain, but just at how evil of a person you must be in her eyes. “I don’t.” Her voice is flat and cold as she seethes, “I get it if you hate me, but don’t sabotage me like this. You know better than anyone how important this job is to me.”

She lets go, stumbling back a bit as she stares at her hands. Your sound raw when you ask, “Is that what kind of a person you think I am? Jennie, I may have hurt you, but I’m not evil.”

The other girl bites her lip; some part of her wants to apologize, and another part of her- damn. Maybe Joohyun was right after all. “I don’t care. Stay away from me, Y/N. It doesn’t matter if we’re partners, I don’t want to see your face.”

“Ms. Kim?”

Taehyung knocks on the open door of the studio, stepping inside. His eyes widen at the sight of the fabric shreds that Jennie sweeps into a dustpan. “Ah.”

“Please, call me Jennie.” The girl bows and attempts at a professional smile, though she’s sure that anger still twitches in her eyebrow. “What can I do for you, Mr. Kim?”

“Taehyung, then,” he says kindly. “Someone reported that your designs were destroyed? I came to take a look and evaluate what should be done. This is much more serious than I thought it would be.”

Jennie frowns; she doesn’t believe that it wasn’t you, but she also isn’t the kind of person to be so petty as to ruin your career. “Yes. I’m not sure who did it, and I’d like to know who.”

Holding a shred of fabric between his forefinger and thumb, Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have any suspicions at all? Not… your partner, perhaps?”

“Why would you say that?” Jennie lowers her dustpan, schooling herself to look expressionless as she says, “Y/N is just my partner. I have no history with her whatsoever.”

Sighing, the tall man turns with his hands in her pockets. “Jennie, Y/N came clean as soon as Joohyun suggested you for the position. She told me that you two have… a past, and that she feels terrible about it. She requested you to become her new partner, actually.”

Silence falls between the two designers, Jennie stepping back as if to shield herself from information she doesn’t want to know. “What? You must be mistaken. If Y/N told you that she’s my ex, you must know that she hates me.”

Taehyung walks a bit closer, a soft smile on his face when. “Look, Jennie, I know her. She regrets hurting you, I promise, and she’d never want to sabotage you like this. You need to talk with her.”

His shoulder just barely brushes up against Jennie’s as he walks out, pausing at the door to reassure her, “We are reviewing security footage, though, and I promise we’ll have an answer for you soon.”

Once he’s gone, Jennie’s left alone, staring at the shredded remnants of her projects on her desk.

Can it really be that you don’t hate her?

Jennie stares at the bowing employee, Taehyung smiling cheerfully at his desk. You avoid her eyes, counting ceiling tiles where you sit. “This is him, Jennie. He sabotage you. Would you like to tell why?”

The employee looks almost scared as Jennie crosses her arms, eyes flicking to yours and Taehyung’s. “I… was jealous. I wanted to be Y/N’s new partner. I should’ve been the first choice, not someone random that a senior recommended!”

Even as he explains himself, Jennie can only find herself staring at you; when your eyes meet, Jennie’s struck by just how much she’s missed you in the past 4 years. A soft smile from you elicits a feeling she hasn’t known since you left her, a feeling other than heartbreak or anger.

Taehyung fires the employee on the spot, and Jennie feels like she’s in a daze the entire time. After being kicked out of the office so that Taehyung can work, she avoids meeting your eyes in the hallway. “So…”

“I hope you don’t still believe that it was me,” you interrupt, stepping a bit closer to Jennie. “I know I hurt you, Joohyun told me how heartbroken you were. I’ve changed since then, Jen.”

The nickname’s nostalgic, and Jennie is startled when she feels a tear pricking at her eye. “I… I know. I’m sorry for thinking it was you in the first place, I should’ve known.”

Your hand brushes under her chin, tilting Jennie’s face up so that she can meet your eyes. Your expression is soft, no longer guarded, and emotion pulls at the corner of your lips. “I don’t blame you. Breaking up with you was the worst decision of my life, Jen. If you’d let me, I’d like to make it right.”

“What, you want to be together again? It doesn’t work like that, Y/N.” The other girl wipes furiously at her eyes with her hand, not caring if her makeup smears. “You might regret it, but you really did hurt me.”

“Yeah. I did. And I’m not asking to be together again.” You inhale, the corners of your own eyes a little bit wet. “I’m asking for you to forgive me, with time. Give me a second chance, just let me become your friend again. That’s all I want.”

A second chance. Do you even deserve a second chance? Jennie wonders. After everything you did to her, do you deserve to be let in her heart again?

But as you search her eyes for an answer, suddenly so much older and wiser than she remembered you, Jennie knows.

Her hand reaches for yours, soft fingers curling around yours as she smiles, “I’ll try.”

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welllpthisishappening · 3 years

Text

Where the Love Light Gleams

Killian was going to kill his brother.

Which wasn’t very festive, but neither was being away from his girlfriend on Christmas Eve and this was all Liam’s fault. Or so he would claim. While rationalizing his current tendency to wallow, and stare at his phone and he’d spent far too much time on his phone that night.

Whatever, it was Christmas Eve. That was definitely a reasonable excuse.

---

Rating: Teen, with banter and friendship and kissing Word Count: 5.1 K AN: It’s me! Someone who can’t seem to write an MC to save her present life, but loves few things more than Christmas-type fluff and is therefore filling Christmas-type prompts again. Today’s comes from @shireness-says who is always wonderful about replying to these sort of things and requested:

"you had a business trip and i missed you so much that i kind of tore up the house in your absence like a dog with separation anxiety… sorry?" and “we’ve become the clingy newlyweds you always complained about. "

Both of which I almost legitimately filled. Just kind of—twisted. As is tradition. If you are so inclined to send a prompt from this very long list, you can pick one here, and I’ll do my best to write it before Christmas.

This one is also on Ao3 if that’s your jam, where I’ll be posting all of ‘em.

---

“Are you moping? It kind of looks like you’re moping.”

“Wow, such unparalleled observational skills. You should become a private investigator.”

Sticking her tongue out, Ariel made some sort of objection-type noise in the back of her throat, which probably would have made Killian smile in any other situation. On any other day. A day that wasn’t Christmas Eve.

When he was absolutely, positively moping.

It was a miracle he hadn’t frozen like this. That would have done irreparable damage to his spine, he was sure.

He wasn’t really sitting up very straight.

“There can’t possibly still be private investigators in the world,” Ariel challenged, brushing a wayward strand of hair away from her face and it was far too windy on the docks. If Killian didn’t get off the docks soon, he was going to scream.

Or mope for the rest of the holiday season. At least until the New Year. That seemed reasonable, honestly.

He was going to strangle Liam.

This was all his fault.

“You’re kidding me, right? What—what kind of world do you think we’re living in?” Ariel shrugged. “One that’s progressed past the need for private investigators, obviously. And I object to the notion that I would require any sort of PI-type skills to know that you’re being an absolute and complete, although also kind of understandable, idiot.”

“Those words don’t go together.” “What do people hire private investigators for, anyway?” “Loads of stuff.” “Give me one example.” He huffed, irritation rattling around his skull and mixing in with a begrudging appreciation because he knew Ariel felt bad and maybe he’d kick Liam too. “Missing kids.” “Yeesh, that’s awfully negative.” “What was that about accusing me of moping before? I’m playing to those accusations.” “Ok, but we already decided they were observations, so you don’t get to rename them now that you’re feeling particularly jerk-like.” “I’m here, aren’t I? Makes it seem less jerk-like.”

Another shrug. And a specific quirk of her lips that Killian was far too well-acquainted with. The muscles in his cheeks were almost starting to ache.

Presumably from holding them in this position for so long.

He was absolutely moping.

But he’d already been in Boston two days longer than he planned on, and none of this was really going according to plan. He’d checked his phone no less than forty-seven times in the last forty-five minutes. He hated that. Staring at that screen made him feel like a clingy freak, who couldn’t go more than a few minutes without talking to his girlfriend, and Killian had complained about those people enough times that his current tendency to do it made him despise himself just a bit.

And yet he couldn’t stop.

His thumbs flew across the keys, sending complaints and updates and smiling in spite of his own situation.

Like a psychopath. One who was quite obviously frustrated.

With several thousand things, it seemed — the most pressing of which was his distinct lack of festive nature, caused almost entirely by the issues with the expansion in Boston and adding another ship in Boston was supposed to be easy.

Until Eric got the flu, and it was understandably difficult to captain a sightseeing holiday cruise when you couldn’t actually stand up for more than two minutes at a time, and Killian couldn’t say no to his brother when they both had so much money tied up in this, and if Liam was going to fly in to make sure everything stayed the metaphorical course, then the least Killian could do was drive in from New York.

Or so Liam had told him. In no uncertain terms.

Except Liam had also brought Belle with him and that somehow seemed like cheating, and Killian should have asked Emma to come.

She had to work. He’d missed Mary Margaret and David’s Christmas Eve party.

Which normally wouldn’t have felt like the end of the world, partially because Mary Margaret’s fruitcake was notoriously awful, but this year it made Killian’s heart feel like it was fragmenting in his chest and Emma’s photos had gotten progressively more and more blurry as the night went on. Mary Margaret also notoriously bought a questionable number of Prosecco bottles for the Christmas Eve party.

“You are,” Ariel agreed, a string of words that caught Killian off guard when he was so deep in his own wallowing. “Which is super nice, but—” “—How can there be a but in this situation?” “There are several, actually, except the biggest one is how three different people on tonight’s cruise wanted to know why the first mate was so obviously distracted.” “They called me first mate?” “People think it’s funny to use nautical terms in real life.”

Slumping forward did not do anything to help the state of Killian’s spine, only managed to make sure his hair fluttered in front of his eyes when a salt-tinged breeze blew off the Harbor and he briefly wondered how dramatic he could get. He needed to exhale some more.

He needed to go home. “Anyway,” Ariel continued, “they wanted to know why the first mate was on his phone all the time, and if the first mate was available and—” “—I’m sorry, what?”

“You have a face, you know that right?” “Now you’re just saying words.”

If she kept sticking her tongue out at its current rate, it was going to get frost-bitten. “These are compliments, you’re an ass and I owe you just—a metric ton of rum, the good kind, for doing all of this.” “Giving me whiplash,” Killian muttered, but one side of his mouth tugged up despite his best efforts to remain as depressing as possible. Ariel’s eyes got brighter. Rivaled the lights still flickering along the railing of their very nice, very new, decidedly expensive multi-level ship, and it had only taken about fourteen seconds for Killian to make that one photo Emma had sent him his phone background.

That probably wasn’t weird.

“So, people wanted to know about you,” Ariel said, “and your previously discussed face, and rather than employee a PI because it’s not 1947—” “—Oddly specific.” “I will kill you.” “God bless us, everyone.” “Your very helpful and exceedingly sure of his own obnoxious brand of humor brother was very quick to inform all the interested parties that the first mate was distracted because he unfortunately wasn’t with his wife for Christmas.”

Ariel’s murder threat was not only out of place considering the date, it was pointless because he was going to guarantee he died all on his own. Killian nearly fell off the edge of the dock.

One of his knees buckled, gaping at his friend and business partner like she’d only recently grown a few extra heads. She didn’t shrug again. Smiled, in her best impression of a variety of fictional and overly confident cats, but her shoulders stayed frustratingly still and that was—

“Emma and I aren’t married,” Killian sputtered, not entirely stunned to find those particular words difficult to say in that order. Half a plan rattled around with the rest of the emotions circling his skull, and he hadn’t really acted on the plan, but he’d been pondering and considering for at least a few weeks before his phone had rung.

And that was only kind of a lie.

He’d been doing a lot more than pondering for much longer than a few weeks. Considering had flown out the imaginary window, like—as soon as he and Emma had moved in together.

Liam didn’t know any of that, though.

At least in theory.

Maybe strangling his brother was something of an overreaction.

He still wanted to go home, though.

“Liam knows that,” Ariel reasoned, “and I know that. And obviously you know that, but none of your on-water admirers know that, and you were playing your part very well.” “What?” “Glued to your phone, all night. Like a clingy newlywed.” “That’s ridiculous.” “Is it? Because while not technically true—” “—Or true at all,” Killian interrupted, and he wondered if he was getting used to the feel of his heart doing whatever it was doing, or he was just growing more melodramatic by the second. At some point in the last twelve minutes the idea of walking back to New York had become rather appealing.

“Well, whatever. It was a good excuse, and it’s not like it was one-sided texting and it’s kind of romantic. All things considered.” “What are all the things, exactly?” That shrug came with another smile — far too knowing for Killian’s liking, but he also knew Ariel wouldn’t go back on her rum-buying word, and he supposed there was something to be said for that. Especially if it was good rum. “If you’re going to play the part…” “Look who’s being a romantic now.” “I’ve spent most of the lead-up to Christmas trying to force-feed Pedialyte on my husband. Got to get my romance from somewhere and you’re like—Hallmark Channel ready.” “Probably couldn’t have as much alcohol, then.” “How many bottles of Prosecco do you think Mary Margaret bought this year?”

Tugging his phone out of his pocket, Killian scrolled back through the more than two dozen photos he’d been sent over the course of the night until he found the one he was looking for. Of a table covered in green-hued bottles with plastic champagne flutes that Mary Margaret must have bought in bulk and—

Ariel’s laugh hung in the air around them, louder than it probably should have been considering the time, but they were also by themselves and he was still kind of moping. So. The world could cope with their collective volume.

“Do you think she gets a discount for buying so many?” Killian shook his head. “If she doesn’t, she’s being robbed.” “Get the private investigators on the case.” “Challenge Liam to a comedic battle.” “Not if we’re calling it that,” Ariel argued, bumping her shoulder against Killian’s leg. And he wasn’t sure if he was actually smiling, but his lips were moving and his heart didn’t appear to be shattering quite as much anymore and he hoped Emma fell asleep.

On Mary Margaret and David’s couch.

They wouldn’t let her go home, he was sure.

He hadn't gotten a text in awhile.

He was less sure about the shadows moving towards them, though — because he’d been a little distracted when they docked, but he watched Liam and Belle get into their rental car and there was absolutely no reason for either one of them to be back on the docks, but anyone else showing up on the docks at eleven o’clock at night was probably a sign that Killian and Ariel were about to be robbed. In a far more literal sense than whatever happened with Mary Margaret and her plastic champagne flutes.

“You guys good?” Ariel asked, sounding more aware of what was going on than she should have been. Killian’s eyes narrowed.

That made it only slightly difficult to see the overall width of his brother’s answering smile.

Plus, it was dark out.

“Better,” Liam said, “she's an absolute natural.”

Scrunching her nose, Belle waved off the compliment. “Please, all I have to do is stand there and be helpful.” “Yeah, but that’s more than Killian was able to do today, so…” “He was distracted.” “And standing right here,” Killian muttered, although standing was a little generous. His left knee was still awful bent. In an unnatural sort of way. “Doesn’t that hurt?” Liam asked. Gesturing towards Killian’s posture, he tilted his head and that was even more judgmental than any of the words Ariel hadn’t bothered saying. “Can’t be good for your ACL or whatever.” Belle clicked her tongue. “Adding the whatever makes it sound less official, really.” “And we’re trying to be official,” Ariel chipped in, clamoring to her feet. By using the side of Killian’s jacket for leverage, tugging on fabric until she threatened to tear it and that also would have been impressive if it didn’t feel suspiciously like he was about to pass out.

She wrapped her arms around Killian’s middle.

That kind of helped, honestly.

He’d never admit to it.

“Official about what, exactly?” Killian asked. “What are you guys doing here?”

Liam’s smile got wider. “We could ask you the same question, but we’ve already claimed way too much of your time and—” “—Wait, what?” “Killian seriously,” Ariel sighed, “if you keep interrupting, we’re never going to get to the fun and passably romantic part of the plan.” “Oh, no it’s definitely more than passably romantic,” Belle argued.

“Depends on him, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, but he was glued to his phone and I’ve got at least twenty bucks on this happening before New Year’s Eve, so—” “—New Year’s Eve would be really romantic, actually!” “No, no, no,” Liam objected, voice rising on every repeat, “I’ve got Christmas morning, and that means he’s got to go now.” Not having anything to drink made it impossible for Killian to claim intoxication as a reason for the current spin rate of his head. Metaphorically, at least. Even so, he felt a little dizzy and slightly out of breath, trying very hard not to topple into the water.

There was no way he’d be able to disentangle himself from Ariel before he did that.

And then she’d get annoyed.

“What is going on?” Killian demanded, pausing between each word for emphasis. Liam’s lips disappeared. Behind his teeth.

While he failed spectacularly at containing his laugh. “We’re kicking you out,” Belle said simply, like that made sense and they hadn’t all but required his presence in Boston less than seventy-two hours earlier.

Killian blinked. Once, twice. Half a dozen times. Nothing changed. Ariel’s arms tightened, maybe — but Liam didn’t move, and Belle’s nose still had that scrunch-like effect, and the lights on their ship really did make it appropriately festive.

“And apologizing,” Ariel added. “We should make that more obvious.”

Blinking more was stupid.

Talking probably would have helped. But Killian’s tongue suddenly took up far too much space in his mouth, next to all the imaginary cotton balls that were impeding his ability to breathe and it could not have been healthy for so many body parts to consistently fail like that.

“This is really my fault,” Liam admitted, taking a step forward to clap Killian on the shoulder. His right knee bent that time. At least his reactions were symmetrical. “And I—well, I...I was so worried about the money and the party and—” “—We didn’t really think about your plans,” Belle finished. Opening his mouth, Killian genuinely could not come up with a word to describe whatever sound he made. Something between a scoff and that huff he was trying to accomplish before, but also drifting dangerously close to laughter borne of disbelief and his back actually had the gall to pop when he leaned forward.

“I don’t have plans.” “Please,” Ariel scoffed, “you have at least the hope for plans, and that’s nice in a way that deserves a better adjective and all that rum I promise.” Liam’s eyes widened. “How much rum are we talking?” “Enough that you stop spending so much time talking about the proper light to string ratio.” “What does that even mean?” Killian balked.

Shaking her head, Belle moved into his space as well. Both her hands landed on the front of his jacket, and Killian wasn’t exactly cold per se, but there was something inherently comforting about his sister-in-law’s smile and the way she always smelled a bit like vanilla.

As if she were just minutes away from baking something, at all times.

“Telling you to come here was a dick move,” Belle announced, Ariel’s head finding Killian’s shoulder when she started to cackle once more. They were all standing too close to each other. Someone was going to step on someone else’s foot. “And,” she continued, “Liam was right. This is totally his fault, but he’s running on like...no sleep, because we’re—” She grit her teeth, another unfinished sentence that frustrated Killian for about eight and half seconds. Before it all clicked at nine. “No, shit.” “Shit,” Belle confirmed, another smile and her left foot landed on Killian’s right when he pulled into a far-too-tight hug. Ariel had to move her arms. “Babies are expensive you see,” Liam said, “and we’d already funneled so much money into this, the party had to happen and I wasn’t sure if Belle was going to be able to come with me because—” “—They don’t tell you morning sickness lasts all day,” she grumbled. Killian’s laugh had an almost manic edge to it, suddenly happier than he thought he could be and that was more appropriate for the time. Of both the day and season.

“So,” Liam added, “I kind of lost my mind about Eric, and didn’t think about you or Emma or how stupid you’d be when you weren’t around Emma at Christmas because it’s so goddamn obvious what you’re planning.”

Heat rose in Killian’s cheeks, a questionably large inferno that suddenly flared to life in the pit of his stomach. “I haven’t totally decided.” “Yeah, well that’s dumb.” “Rife with opinions tonight, aren’t you?” “We’re kicking you out,” Belle repeated. “With our apologies that I wasn’t on the ship tonight because that shrimp appetizer smell made me want to die a little.” Ariel sighed. “Do all our statements have to be so violent? There should be more positivity to all of this.” “There will be if Killian can get me my twenty bucks.” “Why are you betting on this?” he asked, but the distinct lack of frustration in his voice was obvious even to him. Belle laughed. “Because calling you a newlywed was not nearly as unbelievable as it should have been, and if you get with the program you could probably have your rehearsal dinner on one of our very accommodating ships with an appetizer that does not include shrimp.” “I’m not really a huge fan of shellfish.” “See, the perfect plan.” An objection sat on the tip of Killian’s tongue — if only because he was decidedly stubborn and now a little worried about his brother’s expanding family, but his own family was not in Boston and he’d really like Emma to be his family. In an official sort of capacity.

“But what about—” “—No, absolutely not,” Belle cut in before Killian could finish, “that’s what we were doing. Going over the plans for tomorrow’s lunch cruise, and everything you were supposed to do, which I’m pretty confident I can do now, mostly because my husband is here and I won’t be tempted to text him the entire time.” “At least not much,” Liam quipped. The pinch between Killian’s eyebrows was going to stay there forever. If not longer. “And then I’ll also text you, at an appropriate time tomorrow, to apologize for being a massive Christmas bastard.” Hair hit Killian’s cheek. Not his. Distinctly red and smelling like shampoo she’d definitely spent far too much money on, Ariel’s hair blew around her when she threw her head back. With laughter. The catching sort, spreading like wildfire through their tiny group, until Belle had to wrap her arm around her middle to stay up, and Killian’s stomach ached just a bit and it took him a moment to realize he’d made another fire pun.

In his head. He needed to go home.

“Was Ariel a distraction?”

She kicked his ankle. “Rude, and yeah obviously. Liam is so goddamn overprotective with his unborn child, it’s disgusting.” “And nice,” Belle grinned.

Exhaling, Liam tugged on the back of his hair. A tell, and an apology without the words. Killian wanted the words. Even if it took a few extra minutes. “Seriously,” Liam said, “a Christmas bastard, which is not an excuse, but—I’m sorry. For the batard’ness, and bringing you here, and not explaining the reasons behind the bastard. And also for ruining your plans.” “I really have no plans,” Killian promised, but that fell a bit flat and he at least had rather specific wants. Of the desire-type variety.

“So fix that. Like as soon as possible.” “For my twenty bucks,” Belle said with another yank on Killian’s jacket. The poor jacket was not going to last much longer.

Ariel rolled her eyes. “She’s obsessed with the twenty bucks.” “Because your husband will have to pay it!” “Should you have bet with an invalid?” Killian asked, trying without much immediate success to take a step away from either one of them. “And what kind of Pedialyte flavor are you forcing?” “The purple kind.” “Blue’s definitely better.” Liam looked frustrated.

That felt like something of a victory. “Were you going to go, Killian? Or—” Kissing the top of Ariel’s hair and pulling Belle into one more hug, Killian flipped off his brother, muttered Merry Christmas, don’t sink the boat, and would never admit to running back towards his car. Or how quickly he drove home.

It took at least twenty-six minutes to find a parking spot.

Four blocks away.

Still, Killian assumed he was running on holiday-fueled adrenaline and something almost resembling romance and the distinct lack of anything in his pocket was a challenge he viewed as quirky more than anything else.

He bounded up the steps, nearly dropping his keys more than once before he managed to unlock the door only to be immediately hit in the face. With what felt suspiciously like garland.

And Killian hadn’t really planned on spending much time in their apartment, only thinking about a few hours of sleep before driving to Mary Margaret and David’s house on the Island because he might have come up with half a list of sweepingly romantic things to do, but he wasn’t a total jerk who would show up on someone else’s doorstep in the middle of the goddamn night, and it obviously did not make a single ounce of difference.

While he was being strangled with garland.

Blinking against the darkness of their living room, Killian’s brain couldn’t quite come to terms with what he was seeing. Like the ninth floor of the Herald Square Macy’s had exploded. Tinsel hung from what appeared to be actual ivy, pinned along the top of the wall with startling accuracy. Lights meant to resemble icicles reflected against every window pane, and there was an actual tree in the corner.

Every one of his inhales had a distinct pine-like scent to it, like he was standing in the middle of a forest, and Killian did not think they owned that many ornaments when he left.

They hadn’t owned any ornaments, so it was a rather easy number to remember.

A star was balanced precariously at the top of the tree, paper snowflakes dropping from the ceiling and—

Emma curled in the corner of the couch.

With at least four blankets covering her. She was a notorious blanket thief.

Mary Margaret hadn’t woken up either, twisted into the other end of the cushions, and Killian couldn’t fathom how they were comfortable, but he was also admittedly a little distracted by the desire of his lungs to keep providing oxygen to the rest of his body and David’s eyes were alarmingly wide.

“What are you doing here?” “I live here,” Killian hissed, swatting away the garland. Bits of it fell onto the top of his sneakers. “What are you doing here?” “Helping.” “What?” “Helping,” David said slowly, like Killian simply did not understand the word and not all the meaning behind it. “She—well, the decorations left something to be desired, and you know Mary Margaret. There’s a project, so she’s got to help and—” “—Wait, wait, wait, did Emma do all this?”

Waving both his hands in the air, David didn’t bother to say obviously when the movement made it so abundantly clear. Killian’s jaw dropped.

Something popped there as well. Which probably wasn’t what woke Emma up, but thinking that was almost nice in another way that deserve a better adjective, and the overall force of her smile as soon as her eyes landed on him made every bit of splintered heart still lingering in his chest knit itself back together.

Immediately.

“Should I be concerned that you’re deserting?” she asked, hooking her chin over the back of the couch. As if she’d been expecting this exact situation. Killian shook his head. “Nah, this is a wholly authorized shore leave.” David’s groan very likely hurt the inside of his throat.

“What happened here, Swan?” Pink immediately colored her expression, every one of her teeth obvious when she grit them. Mary Margaret must have been the soundest sleeper in the Universe. Or she’d had a questionable amount of Prosecco to drink that night. “Christmas?” That was as good a reason as any, honestly. Although that stubborn streak of his ran several nautical miles wide, and nearly tripping over the garland on his few steps towards the couch made Emma’s shoulders shake.

Killian knelt in front of her.

Step one accomplished, then.

“It’s super lame,” Emma warned, but Killian’s heart was doing more biologically impossible things and his eyes fluttered when she brushed his hair away from his forehead. “I just—well, you weren’t here, and that kind of ruined any of my festive-type feelings, which as we all know are shaky at best.” “Work in progress, love.” Her tongue sticking between her lips was not as annoying as Ariel’s had been. Killian figured that had something to do with the desire to kiss her. And not Ariel. Who would have smacked him at even the allusion to such a thing. “Well,” Emma mumbled, “the lack of appropriate holiday spirit reared its head like—as soon as you closed the door behind you, but then I went to the party and you kept texting me and—” “—I’m sorry, I was texting you? You were texting me!” “God,” David grumbled, dropping into the only chair left in the living room. There should have been more chairs in the living room. “It’s ridiculous, the pair of you.” Killian narrowed his eyes. Glaring was too difficult. “Why are you here?” “I told you, helping.” “He did,” Emma said. “Both him and Mary Margaret, really. I, ok—well, whoever was texting who, it doesn’t really matter. Just that Ruth thinks we’re married.” Of all the ways that sentence could have ended, Killian was loath to admit hearing that David’s mother believed the same lie Liam had been spouting to Boston tourists was not one of them.

“She does,” Emma continued, rushing over the words, “for some reason. But she kept saying how nice it was that a young couple like us was able to keep in touch when we weren’t together for the holidays and I was really kind of drunk, and even more upset that you weren’t going to be here, so my mind just kind of latched onto things and—” Pulling in a deep breath made her shoulders shift again, Killian’s eyes taking in every moment so he could commit them all to memory and the question was out of his mouth before he realized Emma was still talking. “Will you marry me?” “Do you want to get married?”

David fell out of the chair.

Slid, technically. Directly onto the floor and next to presents that were almost perfectly wrapped with color coordinated bows on each of them.

“What?” Killian breathed, Emma’s hand flying to her mouth. Left one, so that helped too actually. None of his fingers shook when he reached up, pulling that same hand down and kissing the bend of her knuckles. Tears clouded Emma’s eyes, falling on her cheeks faster than he could brush them away.

With his mouth. Killian tried all the same.

While ignoring the increasing volume of David’s rather uproarious laugh. He was texting someone. Probably Ariel, who very likely was requiring play-by-play. And had timed Killian’s drive home.

“That was kind of...this,” Emma explained, nodding towards the living room. “I—I wanted to decorate, and make it Christmas when you got back because...well, I blame the alcohol and your brother and—” “—That’s fair, honestly. Belle’s pregnant, by the way.” “No shit.” “Shit,” Killian confirmed, a repeat he’d share later. Once they got all this engagement business sorted out. “They’re pretty incredible decorations.” “Yeah, well flattery will get you everywhere.” Huffing out a breath, Emma’s head dropped to his, and that made it easier to get his fingers in her hair. “This made a lot of sense when I was drunker. But, uh—I needed to do something with all that energy and sudden holiday thoughts and I’ve got a lot of thoughts about your face, you know that?” Ariel was going to be insufferable.

Killian would make her buy some Moscato, too. That was Emma’s favorite. “Gave me something to do,” Emma added, “and then I figured you’d get home and there’d be some sweeping and we could do something about Ruth’s assumptions and I think we’d be really good at being married.” Kissing her was the only reasonable option. Even as David sounded like he was in physical pain.

Surging up, Killian’s mouth all but slammed into Emma’s, tilting his head so he got to that one, perfect angle that allowed his tongue to swipe across her lips and draw that even more perfect sound out of her, and he was only dimly aware of Mary Margaret waking up. The couch creaked when she moved.

Killian didn’t.

His fingers carded through Emma’s hair, only breaking apart to appease his lungs and the requirements of his body before kissing her again, and his knees kind of ached. Presumably from supporting most of their collective weight when Emma was kind of draped across him. “Don’t go in the bedroom, ok?” Humming against her only guaranteed David made another noise of protest, but it was nice that they’d helped decorate and Killian could only imagine how they’d gotten all that ivy on the wall.

“That’s, uh—” Emma leaned back, one of her eyes squeezed closed. “Where we put all the extra non-holiday stuff, and it’s kind of a disaster.”

“Tore up the apartment, like she had separation anxiety,” Mary Margaret slurred, and Killian refused to be held accountable for whatever his face did at that.

David rolled his whole head. Emma shrugged. He liked that one the best. “So, uh—” “Yeah,” Killian finished, before he could stop himself and any qualms either one of them had once had about clingy relationships or relationship qualifiers appeared to disappear before their eyes. Like frost on the window. Which was seasonally appropriate. “I think we’d be really good at marriage.” “Yeah?” “Yeah. Where’d you get the decorations from, though?” “You’re welcome,” Mary Margaret replied, sounding a bit more coherent and just as exhausted. That was fair. It was close to four in the morning.

Emma nodded. “Definite separation anxiety. So we should probably not do this again, and then you can help decorate.” “Deal,” Killian promised, and they didn’t bother waiting for an appropriate time to call Liam. Or Ariel, who crowded into the video call because, as she claimed, it was her living room and her twenty bucks and her shriek probably affected the structural integrity of her house.

The rum showed up two days later.

And made for a very good toast, as soon Killian slipped the ring onto Emma’s finger. They picked it out together.

#cs ff #captain swan #cs fic #captain swan fic #captain swan ff #festive fic a thon 2k20 #can't write an MC but can write 5K in like...four hours #naturally #enjoy this fluffy nonsense

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sheerfreesia007 · 4 years

Text

Fallin’ All In You (Pt. 59)

Title: Fallin’ All In You (Pt. 59)

Pairing: Agent Whiskey x Reader

Author: @sheerfreesia007

Words: 2,549

Warnings: Fluff

Tags: @synystersilenceinblacknwhite, @two-unbeatable-beaters, @randomness501, @sevvysaurus, @paryl, @talesfromtheguild, @secretsihideinside, @agingerindenial, @mrschiltoncat

Permanent Tag List: @paintballkid711, @fioccodineveautunnale

Author Notes: I apparently like writing about cake? I googled these combos so please don’t rage at me for this, I’m not a cake person. Just a cute little piece. The next few parts are going to be more Tequila geared as we move forward towards the wedding! I don’t know about this one. Feedback is always appreciated!

Gif Credit: Pinterest

“So Tequila is going to meet us there at the bakery?” Jack asked from the driver’s seat of the Bronco. You smiled softly as you nodded to him before reaching over and taking his right hand in your left. Your thumb ghosted over the top of his hand and you sighed softly. It had been a hectic couple of weeks; Jack had been assigned more and more missions while you were busy in the lab. Not to mention you any free time you had to yourself was used up with phone calls, emails and video calls to Tequila. Who had completely stepped up as your Man of Honor, and you couldn’t be more grateful for all of his help.

Since the wedding was going to be in Kentucky and you were stationed in New York you had asked Tequila to be your go between with the caterer, baker, DJ, and others. And Tequila had shined in this new role you had stuck him in. The last video call you had with he had shown you the wedding binder he had put together so that he could keep track of all of things that needed to be handled. Suffice it to say you were thoroughly impressed.

“Yeah, he had to finish up with some trainees this morning before the appointment.” You explained softly with a warm smile. Your frowned then and looked over to Jack again. “You’re okay with him being there right? I didn’t even think to ask you that.” You said guiltily.

“Darlin’, I’m okay with whatever you want. He’s your point of contact with all of the wedding stuff so he should be there. Besides I can’t really imagine this happening without him there anyway.” Jack said warmly as he chuckled to himself. You grinned nodding your head in agreement. It did feel like this was how it was always supposed to be. With both of the guys who meant the world to you at your side every step of the way.

The baker you and Jack had decided on was local and one of your favorites. You remembered when you had first introduced Jack to the delicious pastries and cakes that the small bakery produced. It had been back when you had been a brand new field agent and Tequila was celebrating his birthday. You had offered to go out and buy him a chocolate on chocolate birthday cake from the bakery that you enjoyed in town. Jack had been there at the little birthday celebration in the office and when you had presented the cake and cut him a piece he had come back over to you asking you what bakery you had used because he thought the cake was delicious.

Just as the two of you pulled into the parking lot for the bakery you saw Tequila leaning against the side of his own truck. Smiling you leaned over and pressed a kiss to Jack’s cheek with excitement making him chuckle at your antics. You then threw open your door and slipped out of the Bronco grinning over to Tequila who chuckled over at you as he shook his head.

“She’s in rare form ain’t she?” Tequila asked teasingly as Jack walked around the truck to the two of you.

“She’s exited for cake.” Jack said knowingly and you laughed softly as you slipped your arm around his.

“He ain’t wrong.” You said with a smirk making the two men laugh at you. You watched as Tequila pulled a binder from his truck and slipped it under his arm as you all began walking to the front entrance of the bakery.

“There’s the future Mr. and Mrs. Daniels!” called out a happy voice and your grin split your face wide. The excitement was bubbling up inside of you as you looked over to Shanna the owner. “How are y’all doin’?” she asked kindly as she nodded her head to you while she walked around the counter wiping her hands on her apron.

“We’re doing just fine Shanna.” You said as you moved to give her a warm hug. “This is my fiancé Jack. And my best friend Tequila.” You introduced the men to Shanna.

“Well it’s a pleasure to meet you two. She’s told me all about you.” Shanna said with a smirk as she shook first Jack’s hand and then Tequila’s.

“Hopefully only the good bits.” Tequila groused softly making everyone laugh softly and he narrowed his eyes over to you teasingly.

“Of course, of course. Well let’s get you all settled in the back and I’ll bring out the samples for you to try. How’s that sound?” she explained and you nodded along with her as your excitement began to build again.

“Sounds just fine.” Jack said warmly as he wrapped an arm low around your back his hand coming around your hip to grasp it tight. He pressed a kiss to your temple and began to usher you behind Shanna to the back room.

“So after our talk over the phone I’ve got five samples for you to try. And we can make it look however you want it to this is just to figure out the flavors and whether or not you’d like to do a traditional cake, cupcakes or both.” Shanna was explaining as the four of you came and sat around a rectangular metal table. You sat in between Jack and Tequila on one side and Shanna was on the other side where five small cakes were laid out on display. Tequila pulled out the binder he had brought in with him and you smiled softly at his attentiveness as he also pulled out a pen to begin writing things down.

“You’re really taking this whole Man of Honor thing seriously, huh?” Jack asked in an awed voice as he looked over at Tequila and his binder.

“Well yeah it’s you guys’ wedding and I’m supposed to be helping. This just makes it easier to keep track of everything.” Tequila explained easily. Jack nodded understanding Tequila’s job all too well. “Plus Cur works well when it’s all organized.” Tequila said knowingly as he smirks over at you.

“Oh don’t I know that.” Jack admitted perceptively with a shared smirk between the two men.

“Hey! There is nothing wrong with being organized.” You defended yourself easily scowling softly at both men.

“Yeah but Cur, you take it to the extreme.” Tequila teased back easily and you scoffed at him before turning back to Shanna.

“So what did you need to know Shanna?” you asked pointedly ignoring the men on either side of you.

“Well I’ve already got most of your wedding information. I’d like to know more about the look or theme of the wedding so that I can start getting some ideas on how to decorate the cake.” She said easily as she pulled out her own pad and pen. “But we can talk about that as we go through each cake.”

You watched as she slid over a chocolate covered cake and smiled nodding your head. She took out three plates and cut out three small pieces of cake for you, Jack and Tequila before handing out each plate.

“So for the first cake we’ve got dark chocolate cake with raspberry spread and a dark chocolate icing.” She explained as you all dug into the delicious tasting cake. The rich mixture of raspberry and dark chocolate burst onto your tongue and you hummed softly as you chewed. You weren’t much of a fan of dark chocolate but Shanna was a genius baker and you were thinking she might sway you over to love dark chocolate. “We can make these into cupcakes as well by doing a raspberry filling if that’s the route you’d like to go. Or just have it as a small wedding cake for you and Jack.”

“Remember though darlin’ my family has some allergies to chocolate and almonds.” Jack reminded you as he continued to eat his piece of cake. “This is delicious though.” He said nodding to Shanna.

“Why thank you. If you’re worried about allergies we could always do a mix of each different flavor combination as cupcakes.” Shanna said easily.

“I like the idea of a small wedding cake for Jack and I. And then cupcakes for the guests.” You said easily. “And that way if we like more than one cake we could have a mix of cupcakes. So that if anyone does have allergies they could have other options.” You reasoned softly as you set your fork aside feeling like you’d had enough of the dark chocolate cake. Jack looked over to you smiling tenderly with a kind look in his eye.

“You’re always thinking about others aren’t ya?” he asked softly and you blushed as his eyes turned a darker shade as he continued to gaze at you.

“Right well Shanna, why don’t we move on to the next cake before these two horn dogs go at each other.” Tequila said nodding over to Shanna. At his words you were quickly looking away from Jack with a bright blush on your cheeks and his low chuckle fluttered into your ears making you blush even more.

“So the next one is a lemon flavored cake with a cream cheese frosting. I wanted to know was what is your color theme for the wedding. Maybe we’d be able to work in some of the colors into the frosting or decorations on the cake.” Shanna said in explanation as dished up three more pieces of cake for you.

“The colors are navy blue, light gray and sunflower yellow.” You responded easily as you bit into the lemon cake. You tilted your head slightly before taking another bite. You didn’t think you’d like the lemon cake was oddly enough the combination of lemon and cream cheese worked really well together.

“And she’s going to have sunflowers as the table decorations.” Tequila supplied as he turned the binder over to show Shanna a picture of the flower arrangement that you had already picked out for the table bouquets.

“You know I think Memaw would like this one alright.” Jack said softly into your ear as he leaned close to you and continued eating his cake. You turned to look at him and thought about it silently.

“I think you’re right. It reminds me of her lemon poppy seed cake she makes.” You said agreeing with him. “So I think we should get this one as one of the cupcake options, what do you think?” you asked him softly.

“That sounds like a good idea darlin’. That way the guests can try each one and figure out which one they’d like.” He said nodding his head again as he finished his slice of cake. “I do enjoy that one though it’s really good.”

“Ok so this next one is a vanilla cake with a strawberry spread and a buttercream strawberry icing.” Shanna explained as she dished out the third cake.

“Oh I’m gonna enjoy this one.” Tequila said while he wiggled his eyebrows and you chuckled softly shaking your head.

“Didn’t pick you as a strawberry person.” Jack said thoughtfully as he took a bite of his cake and scrunched his nose up a little before setting his fork down.

“Oh yeah my parents used to have a huge strawberry garden in the backyard growing up. Would eat them off the plant before mom could come and pick them.” Tequila explained with a soft laugh. You grinned over to him as you watched him finish his whole plate.

“Ok so for the fourth option we’ve made a red velvet cake with cream cheese frosting.” Shanna explained as she continued to dish out the cake.

“So Shanna we’re having an outdoor wedding and evening reception on Jack’s property. Will that be a probably for the cake and cupcakes?” you asked curiously as you began to eat the red velvet cake.

“Not at all what we’ll do is about an hour before the reception we’ll drive to Jack’s place and store all of the cupcakes and cake at his ranch. We would just need to find some room in the fridge to keep them in.” Shanna explained easily.

“That’s not a problem. I’ve got a few game fridges that I can clean out before the wedding so that we have plenty of room.” Jack said easily with a shrug.

“Oh? What type of game do you store?” Shanna asked curiously.

“Mostly deer but every once in a while my dad and grandpa like to go Turkey hunting too.” Jack explained and Shanna nodded her head.

“My dad and brother like to go deer hunting too. They’ve been talking about going Moose hunting up in Canada one of these years but never manage to light a fire under their asses enough to actually get up there.” She said laughing softly. Once the three of you had finished your red velvet cakes she then took your plates and dished out the last cake to all of you. “So for the last cake we have an almond cake with an amaretto frosting.”

When you bit in the cake in front of you flavor burst on your tongue and tried to bite down the moan that crawled up your throat. Closing your eyes softly you silently savored the cake. The almond cake and amaretto frosting paired well with each other and made a delicious combination inside your mouth.

“So this is your favorite huh?” Jack asked softly in your ear as he leaned over to you and you smiled as you opened your eyes to look over to him.

“Oh yeah. This is delicious.” You gushed out and nodded your head eagerly. Shanna’s soft laughter rang through the room and she smiled proudly over at you. “What do you think of getting just a small 2 tier cake for us in the almond and amaretto. And then the lemon, strawberry and chocolate as cupcakes for the guests?” you asked Jack as you turned to watch his reaction to your proposal.

“I think that would be a good idea.” He said easily as he nodded his head at your words.

“Is that doable Shanna?” you asked turning back over to her and watched as she wrote down your choices and nodded her head.

“Of course and I’ve got your guest numbers so we’ll make it so they could have one of each if they wanted.” She said easily as she continued to write down on her pad of paper. You turned your head to look over at Tequila and saw that he was also writing down your choices in the binder. “Ok so I’ll get this all in writing in the contract and I’ll send it over to you and Tequila so that he’s got a copy. I would just need you to look it over and send me back a signed copy.” She said explained easily. You nodded your head and wrapped your arm around Jack’s arm and snuggled into his shoulder grinning.

“I can’t believe we just picked out our wedding cake.” You whispered happily to him and he looked over his shoulder at you before pressing a tender kiss to your lips.

“Better believe darlin’.” He said warmly.

#fallin' all in you #my writing #agent whiskey #agent whiskey x reader #kingsman the golden circle

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smearsyd · 3 years

Text

Day Again | Sehun | Part Three

Kim Haru knows loss. She knows what it means to miss someone, to find out what isolation looks like in the flesh. These things, she expects them and she patiently waits for the day she may wake up and greet them as griefs of the past.

What she does not expect, is the same grief reflected back in another’s face. She doesn’t expect to find solace through this person either, nor does she expect to cherish her days with him, rather than wait them away.

characters:

+ oh sehun (exo), you as kim haru (because names are important)

what to expect:

+ christmas + friends to lovers + fluff and romance

warnings:

+ mentions of death, grief + sensitive topics

length:

+ five parts + 30k plus total

read it here: (updating… stay tuned)

+ masterlist + part one + part two + part three

author’s note:

+ this was late merely because I was too lazy to update it oop

@i-peachesandstrawberries @itsmesa

if you want to be tagged, please reply to the masterlist!

Golden Hour

I held the slightly crinkled note in the palm of my hand, feet antsy in anticipation of those stormy eyes. My stomach fluttered at the memory and I tried to swallow it down, to pretend I was feeling nonsense, but the wings of his touch and those grey, grey eyes of his were too encompassing to let it pass.

My fingers traced the spot where his feather like kisses were branded into the crown of my head and my heart thumped against the cage of my chest in half-faltered beats as if it were still attempting to match tempo with his. Is it normal for your body to remember someone, to long for someone, when even your mind is still lagging in the words to comprehend your emotions?

His writing was soft and rounded, not at all like I would expect.

I’m sorry I have to leave…

Don’t go, I wanted to say at the parchment.

You are sleeping so peacefully. I don’t want to wake you, but I have to pick Jisung up from his friend’s house…

Wake me, I don’t care.

I’m glad we ran into each other once more…

So am I.

If you’re not busy, come next Sunday at 7. Jisung is having a party. He’d love to see you— so would I…

I wouldn’t miss it.

Call me sometime, okay. So, I can hear your voice.

Always.

A week had passed and yet, I hadn’t stopped reading his note as if I were reading it for the first time, discovering something new within myself as I overlooked it. Oppa would laugh at me if he knew the way I was feeling about his best friend. Or perhaps, maybe he always suspected, and I was the one who laughed it off.

The thought slipped away from me as I neared Sehun’s building, my ears perking at a familiar, short chuckle. His broad shoulders and tall frame took over the center of my eyes and I found myself walking faster, drawn like a hummingbird to its favorite nectar. He was unloading his truck, a fresh Christmas tree in tow; it was bigger than any I had ever seen, and the green thistles were cascading all around him like imitation snow.

I found myself calling out to him as he sat the tree down and closed the back of the pick-up. His head quickly turned in my direction, a bright smile lighting up the frosted bits of his nose and cheeks. We spotted one another and then he was taking the few large strides to my side and enveloping me tightly in his arms. I breathed him in, his usual scent of fresh pine and a vibrating greenness from the trees he handled coursing through my senses.

“Haru-ya,” he whispered into me. “You should have told me you were leaving, I would have come and gotten you, so you didn’t have to take the bus.”

I pulled back, taking in the pooling, content lightness of his stormy eyes in delight. “The walk was nice actually, and you were working anyways.” He was still wearing the thick, cargo jacket and sporting a black task belt filled with different equipment I knew nothing about. The title Environmental Field Specialist, Oh Sehun, was shining brightly on his chest.

“The walk was nicer than riding in a warm car with a handsome man?”

“A handsome man?” I pretended to look around, my eyebrows scrunching as I searched for such a culprit. “I’d have to find one first to know.”

Sehun tsked and I broke out into a light laugh, moving my hands to brush the snow and stiff thistle from his broad shoulders. “It was nice,” I stressed, “because I’m still getting use to the new neighborhood and I’ve found that there is lot to explore.”

Sehun let out a half-defeated-half-reprimanding sigh. “Still, call me next time,” he insisted, his fingers going to tuck a lock of my hair away. His touch was warm, and dare I say it, nicer than anything else.

I waved him off with a playful jest to my eyes anyway, taking a step away, but then he pulled me gently back, his stormy eyes suddenly serious. “Promise me, Haru. We can explore the neighborhood together if you want, just don’t go alone anymore.” He muttered gently, as if the thought of me walking alone in the cold pained him.

The air caught in my throat and I was struck silent by the pervasiveness of his demand, but regardless, a calming warmth spread through my body and I found myself nodding yes. His hand fully laced with mine, a thumb going delicately over the bend of my knuckles.

“C’mon,” he smiled, “Jisung and his friends are all inside.”

He pulled me up the stairs and into the small apartment he had always stayed in, the familiarity hitting me like a wall of cool, crystal water. The numbers 203 were gleaming in my mind as a photograph revisited countless times when he opened the door and led us inside. The first thing I remembered was the light.

Sehun always kept things so open and bright. Now, as the sun was setting, the apartment was basked in golden, beautiful light that illuminated the space and highlighted the blonde crown of Sehun’s locks in a halo of warmth. He looked lively then more than ever, a kind smile blooming on the quiet of his face and his fingers drumming lightly against mine as he watched me watching him.

The second thing I noticed was the homey kind of chaos that ensued around the space. Sehun’s small dog, Vivi, came running to my feet with a trail of whimpers following him, and in the living room, playful yells could be heard from the booming entertainment center.

“Hello,” I cooed, reaching down to pet an awfully vibrant Vivi, who was usually stuck up and only responded to Sehun. “Did you miss me? I missed you!” I patted his head and Sehun simply chuckled, looking fondly at the two of us before turning to call across the house for Jisung. Shortly after, Jisung came trotting out with six other boys in tow.

“Noona! You came!” He exclaimed, running over and embracing me in a quick hug. “I’ve missed you being over all the time.” I squeezed him tightly back, his young face twisting my heart. He looks exactly like Sehun did at that age— except somehow so much taller.

“I missed being here too.” I smiled, patting down his messy hair. “Are these friends from school?”

“We all play basketball together.” One of them said, sporting a boyish smile and kind eyes. “I’m Mark, the captain. It’s nice to meet you Noona.” He shook my hand and I couldn’t help but to return the smile.

The rest introduced themselves one by one. Renjun, the small one, and Jaemin, the oddly charismatic one, bickered about how Jisung is always forgetting his water bottle at home— to which Sehun glowered at. Chenle and Haechan, the loudest ones, were in a heated debate about something regarding the game they were playing. And lastly, Jeno, a mildly shy boy, shocked me by asking for a hug— something he apparently likes to do when greeting all new people. Sehun shook his shoulders at me as if to say it shocked him as well, but of course I gave him a hug.

Then they were back off to their game and it was just Sehun and I again. He nudged me before trailing off into the hallway that led to his room, throwing me an all grey look over his shoulder to make sure I was following. My feet shuffled after him, but all I could think about was my brother’s nasally kid voice always telling me I wasn’t allowed down there with them, that girls were a bore, especially little sisters, he would say.

Then Sehun would let me in anyway. I let the memory sit on my shoulders, its weight getting easier to hold.

Sehun’s room was just as I remembered it— well lived in and a little messy, but organized in his own fashion. The bedspread was still the same warm chocolate color and his walls were still the same shade of his light eyes, the ones he is flashing me now.

“The only thing that’s changed in here is you,” I remarked, touching the edge of his over-spilling bookshelf.

Sehun tilted his head in question, sitting back on his bed as he watched me lazily look through his room. “I’ve changed, really?” His hand was propped under his chin and his blonde hair was falling into his eyes. My fingers began to tingle in desire to run through the slightly knotted locks, to pull the strands through my digits and feel—

I blanked when an amused bend to his lips graced his angled face as he caught me staring. I turned away, pretending to look at the books so he couldn’t see the flush of color rushing to my face. “Yeah…” I almost coughed, “you look old now.”

Sehun snorted, throwing his head back. “Is that so?” He asked, a layer of husky playfulness coating his voice. “What exactly about me looks so old, huh?”

His laugh was contagious, and I found myself turning towards him. I neared his spot on the bed and he reached out to me, pulling me closer so I was standing over him and in between his legs. I pretended to inspect his face, drawing my eyes lightly over all of his features and following their movements with the pads of my small fingers. He let me, leaning gently into my touch as his hands rested on my hips.

“Your nose is longer,” I started with a short chuckle, tapping the bridge lightly. He raised a brow at me, but his eyes were sparkling. “And your face got quite bigger.”

“Seems like fair signs of aging,” he played along as I traced the outline of his face, coming to wrap his arms around my waist. We melted into one another, seemingly forgetting the painful circumstances that haunted us as our past became a point of comfort, of familiarity that propelled us together rather than pulled us apart. In the moment, there was just us two and nothing else mattered.

“Of course, there are so many wrinkles now too.” I finished with a smirk.

Sehun pretended to be offended. “Me? Having wrinkles? You must be blind.” He spilled out, reaching for my face to gently lower it to his. “Is there something wrong with your eyes?”

This time it was his turn as he looked over me, slightly prodding my skin and pinching the apples of my cheeks until I was giggling slightly under my breath. “Hmm,” he whispered with a crescent fall to his lips, his breath falling over me. “Nothing’s wrong here, they’re just as beautiful as ever.”

Somewhere along the way, we had ended up face to face. His nose was brushing against mine and all I could see was his stormy eyes gazing at me, the golden hue of the sunset filtering in through the window and surrounding us. I leaned into him and his warm hand settled on my cheek, pulling me closer as his—

The door slammed open and I jumped back. The two of us separated from shock, but at seeing that it was just Jisung’s form in the doorway, Sehun seemed to instinctively pull me closer again. It wasn’t until we really looked at Jisung, however, that we noticed his puffy red eyes and the blank look on his face as he stared down at his feet. He was holding his cellphone haphazardly in the palm of his hand, looking as if it were about to lose its grip and fall from his grasp at any second.

I went to ask what was surely on both of our minds, but Sehun beat me to it. “What happened?” He breathed out in building question.

Jisung took a slow, shuffled step forward before finally meeting Sehun’s gaze, a loose tear running down his small face. “Hyung—” he broke off, more tears falling freely.

Sehun stood up almost instantly, grabbing Jisung on the shoulders as he looked back and forth between him and the phone. “What’s wrong? Tell Hyung what happened.”

“M-mom called…” Jisung finally got out. Sehun’s face went blank, but his eyes darkened significantly. “She was trying to get me to meet her somewhere, b-but when I refused, she—” he choked, his face splotching in red. Sehun tried to calm him, one hand wiping tears away as the other patted his back. All I could do was stand helplessly, the image of them two weighing down the same image of my brother and I.

Jisung struggled. “—S-she got really mad and started yelling—”

Shh, Sehun soothed, his voice quivering slightly, but from the growing look in his eyes and the stiff posture building in his muscles, I could tell it was from anger. “You don’t have to say it.”

Sehun glanced over his shoulder and I froze from the pure intensity he was giving off, but his gaze softened as it landed on me. His eyes conveyed everything I needed to know in order to see that he wanted help. I quickly took the few steps over to them and Sehun maneuvered the phone from his grasp and stepped out once I had a hold on Jisung. His footsteps were booming as they walked from the room and through the front door, it slams behind him.

“Come here,” I breathed out, taking his hand. “Come sit down.”

“I hate crying.” Jisung sniffed, letting me pull him over to Sehun’s bed. He folded in half, rubbing his tears away with small fists as I patted his back lightly.

“There’s nothing wrong with crying.” I offered smally, not expecting his remark. “Noona cries all the time, so does your Hyung.”

Jisung looked up then, his red eyes watery and unbelieving. “Does he really?” He asked in a cracked voice.

“Of course. Everyone cries sometimes, there is absolutely nothing wrong with letting out your emotions and feeling whatever it is that you are feeling at this moment. Sometimes Sehun and I even cry together.”

Jisung’s face scrunched up, the tears slowly coming to a stop, but he didn’t say anything else or try to rub them away. We stayed silent until he had completely caught his breath, some healthy colors returning to his face.

“I don’t get it…” he trailed off, looking at the ground as if he was waiting for it to provide him with all of the answers to his questions. I found myself looking too, hoping in a sliver of chance that maybe it would. He let out a reserved huff, one that resonates the guttural exhale of what it means to be a young boy expected to handle everything like a grown man.

Men were pitiful like that, I’ve realized, stuck in a box that was their body, confined and betrayed by even their ability to express. I looked at him and was reminded of my own brother, a tightness surrounded my throat and my eyes began to burn. I set my hand atop his shoulder and tried to radiate every bit of support I could through my fingers and into the cool fabric of his red jersey.

Sehun entered then and the door creaked open as he pushed through the small wooden frame. He had to bend a little as to not hit his head, his large hand rested backwards onto his neck as he feverishly rubbed his blonde locks around. He looked tired as he made eye contact with me, the tired that is mental, the tired that rests in your bones. I knew this, for I too understood that unwarmable ache.

Pleasantries never worked, nor did your favorite movie on a Saturday night wrapped in pajamas that you deemed just right. You still clicked the TV remote off and let it sink back in, let the tired rest into your bones and whisper silence louder than any attempt to lighten yourself had ever spoken. I smiled at him, albeit a weak one, but it was genuine. He returned a soft gaze of his own, one that was so Sehun-like that I felt like no other gaze amounted to it. Stormy eyes blinked out a gentleness; a comfort that had always been there.

He rested next to Jisung and placed his hand in the same position as mine on his opposite shoulder, rocking his younger brother a bit before pulling him into his chest. My hand fell away and I closed them together in my lap, so I didn’t have to feel the absence of warmth.

The sight of brothers clinging together, always together, brought a tender image I felt connected to, yet so far distanced from that I found myself looking away, sniffing to acknowledge to myself that I was indeed real in this moment. Sehun stroked the top of Jisung’s identical blonde locks and looked down at him with a wiseness that he seemed to carry on his shoulders. It was the same look he would give my brother when they were growing up, and at times, would even give me.

It was a look he always had, even when he was young, and I, even younger. A soft smile of bitter sweetness glimpsed my face as I remembered.

“Halmeoni!” She cried with the anguish of tightened muddy fists and a tarnished dress, painted with the throes of play gone wrong. “Halmeoni!” She looked at the familiar, yet unfamiliar way in which strangers moved past her, their eyes reflecting the muddy remains of her dress.

“Whose child is that?” They whispered. “Who cares.” Another says.

Haru pushes past, suffocating within the bends of foot traffic and bike whistles, distant radios and patron chatter. Her eyes blur and she wails out in desperation just as someone grabs her arm tightly, pulling her to the side with the grip of heated intent.

“What’s the matter, my puppy, what happened? Where’s your brother at?” She recognized the sweet sigh of her grandmother’s voice. The distant, but firm smell of earthy mushrooms from their shop and the blue starch apron that was always wrapped around the bend of her wide hips. Haru collapsed against her side with huffs of pink lips exhaling the remainder of her stress and releasing the stares from cold, careless faces.

“Halmeoni, Oppa needs help!” She begged with tense eyes, taking fistfuls of that blue apron into her tiny palms. “He falled from the top, the top top Halmeoni! I-I told him to get up, to stop picking on me like you told me to do, b-but he won’t get up! Halmeoni,” she whined, tugging again, “Oppa won’t get up! Oppa won’t get up!”

“Oh, my puppy, my sweet Haru, what am I goin’ to do with you.” She clicked her tongue as her hand caressed the brown locks of Haru’s tangled hair and tucked them behind her ear.

“Dry them tears baby, here comes your Oppa now, and that handsome Oh Sehun boy beside him. Go on, look,” she coerced with a slight push, unfurrowing the small hands from her apron and giving them a loving pat. She reached down and pinched the soft flesh of Haru’s pink cheeks and Haru giggled, a tinkle of soft bells, before nodding her head and turning anxiously to find her Oppa.

She gasped once seeing them indeed coming up the road, her brother waving an arm in the air and Oh Sehun gazing on with that particular look of his. The grandmother simply chuckled before turning back around to tend to her rows of turnip roots, mushrooms, and other vegetables littered throughout the small shop.

Haru had a fresh set of crocodile tears falling down her face by the time she reached her brother and his best friend. She ran into his arms and he patted her head like older brothers do.

“Why you didn’t get up?” She accused, her fiery eyes demanding answers while sneakily running her gaze over her brother’s body, inspecting for wounds the size of watermelons she would beg her grandmother to cut into bite sizes during the summer months.

Her brother simply smiled. “I’m sorry, I was just catching my breath. Sehun will tell ya’, won’t you?” He nudged his best friend with a look of obligation, but Oh Sehun was already patting her small head with the same look of love her brother had given her.

“You don’t have to worry Haru-ya,” Sehun announced, his voice steady and warm. “I’ll take care of all the bad things before they happen, that way you won’t have to cry again.”

Haru dried her tears and held out her small pinkie finger as a response. “It not true if you don’t promise it.” Sehun laughed, but held his hand out, nonetheless. “And don’t forget to stamp it!” Their fingers pushed up against one another like walls of support and they both smiled, innocent, loving smiles.

A light hand fell against my knee and I blinked the memory away, looking at the large palm of Sehun’s warm hand as it rested against the dull material of my jeans. I had the urge to envelope that hand into my own, to hold onto it and force it to promise me like it did once ago to drive away all the bad things, to turn back time and make everything better again.

I wanted, in an unfair pleasure, to have Oppa back, to laugh with him and do normal things with him. I wanted to receive texts way after I had shut myself in my room, asking if I wanted ramen and if I wanted spicy or savory because he knew my answer would always be yes. I missed the constant chatter, the TV blaring as soon as I walked through the door because he constantly forgot to turn it off. I missed being loved, unconditionally, by one person who would always be there.

Was supposed to always be there.

It was unfair, but it isn’t a fairness I could change. And it isn’t a fairness Sehun could change either. He wasn’t ever able to, which in itself, is the most fitting, and yet unfitting thing to say about him.

I decided to hold his hand anyway. It felt nice in mine; it felt like it could warm my bones. He rubbed his thumb over the back of my knuckles and squeezed tightly. It was like he needed something to ground himself on— just as I held onto myself for reassurance, he reached out and held onto me. The grip, though warm and gentle, felt foreign, like the grip only knew how to comfort, not to receive.

It made me wonder, who was ever there for him?

Just as easily as he held on, he let go. And as if one was normally able to see warmth leave your body, I saw it leave his with a tremble of his fingers and a dullness of responsibility in his gaze.

“Listen,” he spoke clearly, pulling Jisung back to look him properly in the eyes. “There are going to be people in this world, no matter where you are, that will try to tell you how to feel about yourself. They’re going to tell you that what you feel isn’t real, that what you feel isn’t right. They will de-validate you every chance they get in order to validate themselves. Do you get what I mean?” He asked firmly, his stormy eyes searching intently for something I wasn’t even sure of.

Jisung sniffed, rubbing his nose on the back of his hand. I pushed a tissue from my pocket into his palm, to which he took absentmindedly. “I guess… I just don’t get why. Why would she call me after such a long time, call me close to Christmas,” he seemed to correct himself, his words like embers from a dying fire. “Why call to just tell me that she’s tired of trying and that I’m a lost cause? What does that even mean?”

Sehun sighed through his nose, his eyes fluttering shut for the smallest of moments before pulling Jisung back into a hug. He looked almost motherly then, as if he was willing to be, to do, whatever it took to protect Jisung. Protect, though, felt like a small word in light of what I felt Sehun would do for those around him. He was extraordinary in that way, selfless in the most self-driven way.

“She says those things because it is easier for her to believe that you are the problem instead of acknowledging that she is the problem. That’s where you have to know inside that what she says isn’t true, that everyone else doesn’t get to say who you are or what you are capable of being. You and only you get to decide that.

“It’s an awful lot to ask of one person, but I need to know that you understand that there is nothing wrong with you. Can you promise me that you won’t listen to her when she says things like that?”

It was Jisung’s turn to sigh this time, his though, was short and contemplative, it came from the head instead of the gut. “I promise... I guess.”

“You guess?” Sehun asked in the same way Oppa used to when I back talked him.

Jisung turned and looked at me instead of answering Sehun. It shocked me inside and my eyes widened, remembering that I was here too, not just watching from the outside, but actually a part of something important. Jisung pouted his lips out, but his eyes were suddenly dancing. I knew that look and for a few seconds, I felt light in anticipation.

“Noona,” he deadpanned in a very no-nonsense manner. I looked at him straight before he said rapidly in one breath. “Please-date-Hyung-already-he’s-an-inch-from-being-seventy-years-old-and-I-fear-that-you’re-his-last result-for-liveliness-I-mean-you-should-have–”

Sehun let out an indecipherable blurt of words, quickly reaching for Jisung’s mouth to stop him from continuing. Jisung’s laughter escaped through his palm, however, lightening the room with every outburst. “–shood’ve heen ‘em pashin’,” he struggled against Sehun, his eyes turned half-moons before finally freeing himself from his grip “–waiting for you to call!”

“Oo-okay,” Sehun ended, picking up a cackling Jisung by the arms and pulling him from the bed. Jisung gave me a few half attempts at winks over Sehun’s large body before Sehun covered his face with him palm and pushed him out the door. “Since you are so funny now, go be funny somewhere else.”

“Ahh Hyung,” Jisung whined, looking like the smallest fourteen-year old I had ever seen. I couldn’t help but laugh out loud as Sehun slammed the door in his face, completely unmoved by Jisung’s efforts. It was times like this that I remembered they were siblings, young siblings, before everything else. Maybe it was the most important thing to remember about them, yet the easiest forgotten.

Sehun waited patiently by the door until he heard the video game music cue backup and Jisung laugh at something one of the boys had said. His shoulders seemed to relax then and he finally turned away, coming back to the bed and plopping down beside me.

“I’m sorry,” he directed at me around a huffy laugh. His eyes were closed, and his cheeks were lightly dusted in petal-like pink. I thought he looked awfully cute then, and though a small part of me felt that feelings as such were too unfitting of our circumstances, another significantly disagreed.

“Don’t apologize,” I said as I fell onto my back beside him. “I’m just glad Jisung is feeling a little better. Your mom sounds…” I trailed off, not wanting to say anything to worsen the mood— although like an asshole, was resting on the tip of my tongue.

Sehun hummed in response, a low, guttural one that made my insides tingle and a soft shiver to run up the expanse of my back. A swirling haze of clouded grey was pooling in the depths of his eyes that felt endless as we sat still and breathed on another in. His eyes housed a lifetime of enduring, of letting it all in and swallowing it down one grain of salt at a time. A grain for every loss of innocence, a pinch for each disappointment, a spoonful for building regrets, and a handful of molding heartache— he was cooking inside, and it was bubbling up, over, and into the space he allowed me to exist in. There was only a small crack he hinged open to fit a hand through in hopes that someone would hold on.

He gazed on at me and I gazed back, as simple and completely un-simple as that.

“There were times that were good,” he furrowed his eyebrows as if it was hard to speak. “It wasn’t always this way, I guess. But still, you can say it, she is an asshole,” he smiled one of those not so happy smiles and I tried to return the favor, but the notion didn’t quite translate.

“When Jisung was born, I really thought they had changed. Dad came back from America and ran the business remotely, and Mom stopped—” he paused, and my insides broiled, but he knew I had known for a long while and so he settled on, “—the abuse.

“They love Jisung, they really do, even if they suck at being parents. But even so, they aren’t good to be around and there’s no way I can sit and let her do to Jisung what she did to me. Especially since Dad left and I am no longer the small, easily manipulated boy anymore. There is no one else but Jisung to take her anger out on.

“He misses her, though, I can see it when he looks at the other mothers at his school or comes back from his friend’s houses and talks about how kind their parents are.” He gulped as he looked into me with unsteady, dissolving ends. “Sometimes, I’m worried I am not enough.

“Am I doing the right thing Haru?” He whispered and the crack in his large wall grew a little more.

I felt overwhelmed in the moment, a wall of frost falling around us and encapsulating the sacks that held the soup of us inside. Sometimes, I’m worried I am not enough. Sometimes, I’m afraid to figure out what enough is.

Instinct, really, is what drove me to reach out for him, to stop the numbing and reach for the fire. To say it was anything else would be purely extrapolation. It was embedded in me to reach out, but for him, it was a new sensation, a bleeding of orange and yellow ink into the thin lines of his torn skin. He held on, though. And when our foreheads rested against one another’s, his body was left shaking and needy, dripping the salty exhaustion of boiling so much frost inside.

I spoke when he was warmed.

“I think that enough and right thing will never be a judgement I can make for you, maybe not even for myself. I can’t tell you what makes sense or why things are the way they are. Those are all things we have to come to ourselves, in our own time.” My hand reached out and gently grasped the side of his chiseled face. His skin was warm and soft, and he closed his eyes against my touch. “I can tell you that being here, right now, and feeling upset, afraid, doubting yourself, being unsure of the future, or anything else, is okay. Sehun, it’s okay to not know and it’s okay to not be okay.

“All we can do as people is feel everything there is to feel, soak it up and process it, but then we let it go. What we decide to do from there is exactly what we were meant to do— enough and right thing will never factor into that because you are simply you and your actions will only ever be yours.”

His eyes fluttered open, his long lashes bouncing with the weight of unshed tears— tears that I would guess hadn’t seen daylight in a long time. “Jisung loves you and he is protected, loved, and accepted unconditionally by you. Those are things that you, solely, provide for him with no guidance and no one asking you to do it. If enough exists, then you will always be enough for Jisung.

“And for me.” I added as an afterthought.

He took a while to say anything and I imagined he was soaking it in as he slowly evolved me into his grasp. His fingers became nimble petals, leaving light traces of growth on the small of my back and the soft of my arm as he bloomed all around me, sliding his tender rooted fingers into the locks of my hair. He breathed in my oxygen and I breathed in his grounding presence until we were buried into one another.

“You won’t leave me, right?” He asked in tightened fingers and pollinated yellows.

“No,” I promised. “And you won’t leave me?”

“I’m yours, Haru-ya, that’s never changed.” He planted a delicate kiss across the loam of my forehead and breathed out the words I knew I had wanted to hear for a long time. “And if it’s what you want, then we can be each other’s.”

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wonderfulworldofmichaelford · 4 years

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Is It Really THAT Bad?

Dr. Seuss is no stranger to cinematic adaptations, and even less of a stranger to animation. And whenever Seuss gets animated, you can typically expect good things, as opposed to when his work is live action, in which case you can expect…

Yeah…

Anyway, imagine the excitement people must have felt when the creative team behind Despicable Me and the writing team behind the underrated gem Horton Hears a Who got together to do a fresh new take on The Lorax! This was in Illumination’s heyday, before they ended up showcasing that they’re more interested in churning out cheap products for maximum profit, so there was plenty of hope that this could be good. Then came all the commercial tie-ins.

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Now, this alone shouldn’t be indicative of the final product. Maybe stuff like this is just a bunch of suits horribly missing the point of the original story! Maybe the actual film will be better! Well… while the film was no flop, and while it certainly got a better reception than most of the films I’ve talked about here, the film was derided by many for being an extremely shallow and lacking adaptation that adds unneeded junk to a story that didn’t need it in such a way that ultimately dilutes the message. It turns a story that operated on shades of gray and turned it into a cartoonish spectacle that would make even Captain Planet blush. Not helping was the rabid fanbase on Tumblr who shipped the Once-ler with… himself… or Jack Frost… forever tainting the film in the eyes of those on the internet.

Things got so bad eventually even the [REDACTED] Critic reviewed the film in his usual over-the-top, accentuate the negative style, and as some people still treat his word as gospel, this has most likely colored the perception of the film. So while it’s certainly not to the same level of infamy as the usual subjects of Is It Really THAT Bad? I still wanted to put this movie on here and ask one simple question:

How ba-ah-ah-ad can it be?

THE GOOD

So let me just get it out of the way: the movie’s villain song, “How Bad Can I Be,” legitimately is awesome and is frankly one of the best villain songs ever. No, I’m not kidding. It’s just a fun, rocking number with some neat visuals, and while it’s a shame the cut rock opera-esque “Biggering” is probably the better song, this one is definitely more fun and meme-worthy. Shake that bottom line!

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Now, the casting is, for the most part, pretty fantastic. Minor characters like the grandma played by Betty White are a lot of fun, but really, the main piece of awesome casting is Danny DeVito as the titular Seuss creation. DeVito as the Lorax is just so incredible, perfect, and inspired that it boggles the mind how anyone could possibly come up with such amazing casting.

As far as antagonizing forces in the film go, the Once-ler’s awful, vile family are enjoyable in a “love to hate” sort of way. While it’s certainly kind of iffy that they felt the need to give the Once-ler more of an excuse for his actions beyond just simple greed, it isn’t so bad that what they came up with was familial pressure. In fact, they’re actually much better at antagonists than O’Hare, the actual villain of the film, and the fact the movie give him so much focus despite having such fascinating characters that would have had a really great thematic purpose; hell, they should have been the rulers of Thneedville instead og O’Hare! There’s so much untapped potential with these, quite frankly, very interesting characters.

I guess I should say the Once-ler is a pretty decent character in and of himself, but he very much suffers from the same problem the Jim Carrey Grinch does – he’s a good, enjoyable character in his own right, but he’s not a very good Once-ler. In fact, he at points borders on “in name only” territory. Still, he does have a pretty solid arc, and that villain song slaps, so… I think he’s solid, and Ed Helms does a good job voicing him.

THE BAD

Jon Lajoie, while in character as his misogynistic moron rapper MC Vagina, said this:

When I first heard this lyric, I didn’t understand it… but his words were a prophecy, because that is, in all honesty, the plot of this film. Our flavorless protagonist Ted really just wants to get the Truffula trees back so he can get into the pants of the local smoking hot redhead hippie, Audrey. It gets to the point where Ted’s motivations are so boring and shallow that Audrey actually would have made a far more interesting and compelling protagonist, seeing as she already has an inexplicable knowledge of the trees and cares about nature. When they already changed so much in the story I don’t see why they couldn’t just make the protagonist a girl while they were at it. As it is, she barely has any presence and feels like a waste, which becomes all the more awful when you know she’s being played by a stunt casted Taylor Swift instead of an actual voice actor or even an actor period. At least Ted is Zac Efron, an actual actor, though he doesn’t do a particularly good job himself.

Then we have our villain, O’Hare. O’Hare has all the subtlety of a Captain Planet villain but none of the cheesy goodness and fun. Sure, Rob Riggle does some good delivery and gives O’Hare some memetastic moments, and sure, his selling of canned air is oddly prescient of things that happened in real life in India (though technically President Skroob Spaceballs beat him to the punch by a few decades) but it doesn’t really redeem O’Hare from being an excessively weak villain who is shoehorned into the plot solely to turn the story into a black and white morality tale. It… doesn’t work at all. What also doesn’t help is that O’Hare has an absolutely repugnant character design, looking like if Edna Mode got mangled by a sixteen wheeler and left in a ditch on the side of the road.

Finally, this movie just doesn’t really respect the story to any great degree. As mentioned above, it waters down a story that presented arguments from both sides and, while still ultimately showing the Once-ler to be wrong and shortsighted, did have him make some valid points. Here, the story is presented as there being a clear cut good and evil in a horrendously unsubtle and unpalatable way. Yes, we get that extreme deforestation and overuse of resources is bad, you don’t need to beat us over the head with it. It doesn’t help that the film also crams in a bunch of cringeworthy pop culture humor that really doesn’t add much to the story; say what you will about the anime scene from Horton, at least there was a bit of substance and reason for it. Having characters sing the Mission: Impossible theme is just making a reference for the sake of making a reference.

Is It Really THAT Bad?

So I’m gonna say that I don’t particularly find this movie to be good, per se. It’s very dumbed down and more than a little undermined by the various brand tie ins. It is a poorly executed black and white morality tale that was crafted from a very deep and engaging piece of children’s literature, and on that level, I don’t think this movie works even a little bit. Still, there’s some enjoyment that can be mined from this, particularly from some of the more so bad it’s good moments, as well as DeVito’s performance and some actual good moments of story and character. There’s some stuff to like here if you dig a bit, but really, I don’t think you really should have to do a deep dig into The Lorax to get some enjoyment.

Overall, I wouldn’t really say this movie is totally bad, but it’s definitely not good, either; it veers more into the territory of “so bad it’s good,” which is a shame but also kind of refreshing. It’s definitely an interesting film to talk about, and there are a few things about it that work, but ultimately it’s not enough to really raise the film to the level of the classic animated Seuss adaptations or even to the level of Horton. At its best, it’s okay, and at its worst, it actively undermines its own messages. I think the 6.4 it has is pretty fair… maybe a bit too fair, if I’m being honest. I’d give it something like a 5.7 or 5.8.

Again, it’s not the worst thing ever like some might tell you; hell, the adaptation of How the Grinch Stole Christmas Illumination would go on to make is probably a worse movie. But it still doesn’t really do anything that adds to the story its telling, and it ultimately comes off as saccharine, forgettable childish fluff. It’s really a harmless movie, but it’s still probably gonna grate on anyone who holds the original story in high esteem. The {REDACTED] Critic was a bit hyperbolic in his review, but I do think he was right in principle. This movie feels like a calculated, corporate adaptation meant to be as inoffensive and marketable as possible much like every Illumination film post-Despicable Me. And if there’s one thing The Lorax shouldn’t be, it’s “inoffensive and marketable.”

#Is it really that bad?#IIRTB #review #movie review #The Lorax #Dr. Seuss #animation #animated movie #Illumination

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guksauce · 4 years

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~TickledPink!~

Part Four

Pairing: Jjk x Reader Pregnant AU

Word Count: 3,028K

Rated: M

Book Warnings: Mentions of Sexual Assault, Mild Smut, Adult Language, Fluff City.

Author: @guksauce

Notes: Thank you to those who show this story and myself love 💖 PM me if you would like to be added to the Tag List 😊

Tag List: @jamkookies @jk97luv @1-in-abillion

Sweaters, t-shirts, rain jackets, coats. Chanel, Saint Laurent, Gucci, Giorgio Armani. You could have climbed the mountain of expensive clothes on Jimin’s bed to the God’s right now. “Let’s raid my closet!” He said. “It’ll be so fun!” He promised. And it was. Of course, it was! How could it not be when you were practically swimming in a sea of brands you’d never even seen with your own eyes before? As a single adult living in a run-down apartment in Sangdo-dong and making low wages at a crappy diner, just LOOKING at the clothes strung around Jimin’s bedroom was a dream.

“Here try this one. It’s too short for me now.” Honestly, you’re afraid you’ll ruin the high dollar fabric if you even so much as breath on it as he hands it to you. For a moment you just let it rest in your hands and stare at it, imagining it melting between your fingers before he notices you thinking too hard about trying it on. “Y/n. Its just a shirt.” He says, giggles accenting every syllable.

“This is NOT just a shirt Jimin. It’s a Gucci shirt. It probably costs more than my rent. I-I’m not even sure how to hold on to this, let alone wear it.” It’s so pretty, you try to persuade yourself, and you can imagine how the cotton would feel as it caresses your skin, but it’s entirely too much.

“Well I could help you if you want me to.” Winking, Jimin struts over to you, the jokingly seductive tone under his words making you both erupt into a fit of laughter before he even makes it all the way to you. Taking the shirt away, he replaces the home it claimed in your hands with his own and squeezes. “Forgive me if I’m overwhelming you. I just thought you would like some of the things I had.”

“No way! Don’t be sorry. I’m the one that should apologize, I’m being a brat. I do love these things. I’ve just never had anything so nice so I’m just wrapping my head around how…well…blessed I am.” You start, rolling the fabric between your thumb and forefinger. “It isn’t like I’ve never had anything nice but you’re just throwing nice things at me without asking for anything in return after I’ve made a rift in your family home. I’m beyond grateful to you and the others. But I’m also feeling wildly…undeserving.” Really you should probably stop while your head. You want to stop, not wanting to fill up Jimin’s time with your fears, but you can’t stop yourself. The glitter dancing in his eyes certainly doesn’t help how already approachable he is. “I know I probably sound like a broken record talking about how much trouble I’ve caused already and how guilty I feel but it truly makes me feel terrible for you and the others.” It doesn’t come as a surprise to Jimin that this is how you’re feeling. From the moment you stepped foot into the living room last night, he could see the guilt oozing out of you. He’s struck with a sharp desire to squeeze it out of you before it swallows you whole.

“I admire how honest you are.” He says, rubbing the backs of your hands with his thumbs. The action paired with his words finds you falling into his chest by how comforting he’s being. Chuckling, he wraps his arms around you and nuzzles his cheek into the top of your head. “Namjoon brought you to us because he thought you deserved to be taken care of. I don’t know why you’re here or how long you will be but I just…we just want to take care of you. That’s just who we are. You may not think you belong here, that you don’t have a place here, that you’ve ruined things but, none of that matters because…how would Joonie put it? You-You’ve planted a seed in all of us. Even Yoongi who may look like he doesn’t care but I can promise you he does.” He pauses as if trying to convince himself with his own statement. “There. Was that poetic enough?” He asks, making you huff out a soft laugh and nuzzle your face into his chest a little further.

“It was perfect.” You say, pulling back to look at him and he’s just as you imagined he would be, smiling like the angel he is, sparkling eyes and all.

“Wait until I show you my jewelry collection.” The atmosphere changes in an instant for the better and all over again you’re reminded of just how rich these boys are when Jimin, without skipping a beat, gallops over to a small wardrobe and swings the doors open. “And you thought the CLOTHES were expensive.”

Inside hangs rows and rows of silver, gold, and gem encrusted necklaces. Some are obviously Gucci and Chanel, their emblems clear as they glint in the light. Others you guess as being true Swarovski Crystal and handcrafted gems as they glitter beautifully. Beneath them lay tray after tray of rings both frosted with diamonds and engraved with initials and quotes. Jimin drenches himself in your reaction; mouth ajar and eyes twinkling. It makes him smile a smile you’d never seen him wear before as he drinks it all in and it makes you squeal at just how pretty his is. Who needs all this when you’ve got Park Jimin?

Seriously, forget the crystals.

Its quiet in the house now as you wander the halls, glancing proudly at plaques and awards hung in frames on the walls. In the minutes you’ve avoided sleep you’ve thought about having a bowl of cereal, running a bubble bath, and escaping back to Jimin’s room to force yourself to do something that resembles rest. Instead, your mind keeps picking out details of Jungkook’s affections from your new purple room; his fond smiles, the way he wiped the paint from your face, and the ever so pleasant way your name slides off his tongue.

“Y/n?” You turn to the voice growing from the other end of the hall and smile to try and contain the blush the thought of Jungkook had caused.

“Namjoon.” You sigh out, finding a comfort in his presence you didn’t know you needed. You hadn’t spoken to him since before the argument yesterday and quite frankly, you were uncertain of what to say to him. “Can’t sleep?” You asked, the question more of a statement as well as an answer.

“Nope. You know how I get when I start writing stuff. I can’t seem to stop until I’m absolutely drained.” Its dark in the long hallway, the only source of light bleeding out of an open closet at the end. It’s a flickering, dull, and harsh and it threatens to blind you the closer you get to it. But from here it illuminates half of Joon’s frame as if he were cast in moonlight. You think about telling him how pretty it makes his freshly dyed silver hair look but you are content watching it glitter as he stumbles down the hall to you.

“Ah yes. The ever-poetic workaholic. I’ll never let you live down falling asleep on my bed.” The memory brings a smile to both of your faces that shatters the tense air that surrounds you.

“I worked hard that day. Wouldn’t have been able to if it weren’t for you though.” He’s right.

That night the rain fell for the first time in months. The two of you had spent the entire day sheltered by the shade of the tallest tree in the neighborhood, trying desperately to escape the Sangdo-dong heat. Two sets of hands were sticky with popsicle juice, t-shirts dampened by beads of sweat as you lay flat on your backs searching for animal shapes between the leaves. By the time the breeze started to pick up, you’d found a whole heard of elephants, but Namjoon…was distant and silent.

“Jeez Namjoon. Can you shut the hell up for like three seconds?! Damn!” Finally, after an hour of lying there, his stoic features cracked into a smile that deepened his dimples.

“Shut up.” He teased and jabbed an elbow into your side, to which you feigned serious pain with dramatic ‘Ouch’s’.

“I can’t see them.” Namjoon’s dimples disappeared again, leaving behind a distressed expression.

“Can’t see what Joon?” At the time, the frown that settled on his lips didn’t break you as much as you think it should have.

“The shapes. The animals.” You don’t say anything, afraid you’ll break his carefully controlled emotions. “I feel like I’m losing my creativity Y/n. I see the leaves clear as day but the longer I look, the less they say.” It had been funny to hear him say that seeing as how poetic he had been. A giggle you don’t mean to let free, dribbles from your lips and he closes his eyes.

“And why, exactly, are you laughing at me?” He asks, defeat swimming in his deep voice.

“Because you’re an idiot.” You reply, lifting to face him on one of your elbows as he cracks open one of his eyes. The annoyance is written on his face in the form of heat flushed cheeks and a subtle grinding of teeth as he challenges you to say another word. You simply smile, looking away from him to the grass.

“I always love listening to your hardships most because its where you become the most cadenced.” You say matter-of-factly. His gaze softens, admiring how long your eyelashes are as they bat at your sun kissed cheeks every time you blink. Romance had never really been a part of your friendship, but sometimes when he knew you weren’t looking, he would indulge in your presence. The way you looked, the way your voice rose when you were excited, the way your lips only puckered when you were sad. You were precious to him. You ARE precious to him. But he always left things exactly as they were; respectfully just friends.

He turned his gaze back to the high terraces of foliage and repeated the word ‘cadenced’ in his mind. One by one, the ability he feared he’d lost bloomed all over again as the view above him began to shift and morph.

“I see it now.” As soon as the words left his lips, a single drop of rain fell between the leaves and splashed right on the tip of his nose. Rolls of thunder sounded from above, warning you both to leave.

“I think I’ve got two cups of coffee with our names on them waiting at my place if you want to come over?” Asking him to come over had become second nature. At this point in your lives as Seniors in high school, the reality of having to attend different universities made hanging out all but every day a priority.

“I don’t even know why you ask anymore. I’m coming over whether you want me to or not.” He teased, holding out a hand to you as he stood, helping you up. You only lived at the end of the street, but as the wind picked up and the rain came down harder, you could hear it sizzle on your skin as it drenched you both. Together, hand in hand, you ran as fast as you could to the porch of your childhood home. The heat died and the humidity rose but the laughter you shared made being soaked to the bone worth it. After changing into old pajamas and Namjoon into some of your dads lounge clothes, you both curled up on your bed. The power had since gone out, a couple candles on your nightside table being the only source of light in the room. The rain was loud and filled the silence as you watched Namjoon write viciously in his journal that had somehow survived in his backpack on your run home. Through the steam of your coffee you would steal glances at what he wrote, trying your best to give any input you deemed appropriate. But for the most part you just let him work, and work, and work until the lightning had subsided, leaving behind distant rolls of thunder and light rain that tapped gently at your bedroom window. When you’d returned from disposing of your mugs in the sink, you found Namjoon with his journal in his lap and his head tilted to the side, asleep. You’d thought about waking him to move him to a better position, but you were suddenly afraid that he would leave if you did. You wanted him to stay while it thundered, while his mind crawled with creativity. This was the way you enjoyed being with him most, so you’d crawled under the blankets beside him and laid your head on his stomach. And slept.

“I don’t think it had anything to do with me. You’ve always been talented, and it shows.” He shakes his head at your response and stands next to you with an arm wrapped around your shoulder as you both stare at the award framed on the wall.

“You never could just take a compliment.” The teasing easiness in his voice makes the muscles in your body relax and you lean into his side. “How are you holding up?” He asks as softly as he possibly can.

“As much as I want to leave so that I don’t come between you and your family anymore-.”

“Stop. You are my family as much as the rest of them.” Joon clutches both of your shoulders in his hands and turns you to face him, the crease between his eyebrows deep with reassurance as he speaks. The tiny mole right at the edge of his hairline highlights his features; so familiar and endearing as they glow still in the harsh light at the end of the hallway. As though he might shatter into a million pieces, you reach out and cup his cheeks to keep him held together.

“Joonie. Everything about being here makes me want to stay. The whole time I’ve been here I haven’t once thought about my apartment or my job or all my old stuff. Instead I’ve stood in a dark hallway with my best friend reminiscing about the day it rained, and he saw the shapes, talked endlessly with Jungkook, painted with Taehyung, and had a whole friggin montage with Jimin. Which, by the way, that boy has more clothes than I’ve ever had in my whole life. It’s alarming, but amazing.” Both of you erupt into small giggles, breathing a new life to the quiet hallway.

Carefully Namjoon reaches up and wraps his hand around your wrist, running through his words as quickly as he can. “And what about Yoongi? I know he said some hateful things, but I know for a fact he doesn’t mean them. I’m so sorry for the way he treated you.”

“Don’t. You’re the third person who’s told me that and I believe you. But Namjoon…what im trying to say is finally, after some time talking with the guys and just hanging out with them…I want to stay.” His palm warms your skin and his features soften, the worry he’d been feeling since bringing you home dissipating. He leans into your hand before pulling you into a hug, burying his face in your hair as he squeezes you. It’s a happy place he’s missed more than words can say, but he tries anyway.

“Good, because I wasn’t going to let you leave anyway. Call me selfish but I’ve really missed you and the thought of being able to hang out with you again like we used to, makes me feel feelings I thought I’d never remember.” You nuzzle your nose into his shoulder, reveling in the feeling of being close to your best friend again.

“Yeah well, you went and got all famous on me before I could get out of there.” Under you, Joon’s body stiffens. A lifetime of friendship made leaving you one of the hardest things he’d ever had to do. He remembered the morning of his drive to Seoul, a meeting with his new manager already arranged and set in stone before he even had time to think about it. The night before, he’d dolefully informed you of the situation and promised you countless times that he would come to visit as often as he could. But little did he know that being a part of BTS would take up all his time for the next 10 years of his life. Phone calls and video chats made up little for the way he had left you crying in your bedroom.

But you understood.

You always understood.

“If I could have taken you with me, I would have. I’m sorry for never coming to visit. I…I’m sorry for not being there for you.” His tone drops low as he rests his chin on top of your head. You know by the way he says it, what he means. How he feels. And you just shake your head and pull away from him far enough to lock eyes with him.

“There you go with that cadence again.” The sadness in his eyes turns to the taunt reflected in yours and he chuckles lightly with a pinch to your side.

“Shut up.” Though the years have passed and the two of you have been away from each other, the amount of love he feels for you has never faltered. Standing here with you curled up in his arms, a giant smirk peppering your lips, it alights a spark in him. You study his face for a moment, noticing a change in his demeanor that feels more like the past than the present. Though when he speaks again, the words come out like the lyrics he writes, genuine and prudent. And you realize…it’s a little bit of both.

“I see them again Y/n.” He says, gaze fixated on you and the way you gaze back as though he’s seeing you for the first time all over again, and smiles.

“The shapes.”

Part Three

Master List

Part Five

#jeongguk #writers #jungkook #jungkook fanfiction #bts fanfiction #bts namjoon #park jimin #jungkook x reader #y/n #jungkookfanfic #jungkookie #pregnant au #bts dads #daddy jungkook #bangtanscenery

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outroshooky · 4 years

Text

my pretty sleeper | ksj

⇢ genre: series; part two (ghost!au; person b crying and screaming that they’re sorry, believing they caused person a’s death. person a’s ghost at their side, helplessly trying to comfort and hold someone they can no longer touch, or speak to, anymore.) (angst, fluff)

⇢ pairing: kim seokjin x reader

⇢ word count: 5.8k

⇢ warnings: major character death (reader insert); blood mention. there are darker themes here, please read with caution.

⇢ a/n: thank you for all of the positive feedback on part one!! this is a bit angstier than what i usually write but nonetheless, i’m proud of it. i hope you enjoy this winter-y fic; thank you to oh ms. believer for inspiring me all these years later (in the bleak bahamian summer, no less).

part two of the verses and vibes series. part three will be uploaded on wednesday, january 29, 2020.

“the woods are lovely, dark and deep, but i have promises to keep, and miles to go before i sleep, and miles to go before i sleep.”

⤷ stopping by woods on a snowy evening; robert frost

Never in your life had you seen a more beautiful snowstorm.

Soft flakes drifted through boughs hanging like some great Gothic arches above you, a chapel of nature’s own wonderful creation. They swept past birds fluffed to fend against the bitter cold, settled around you in drifts like a miniature mountain landscape. Ahead you, the path stretched in peaceful calm, the white blanket an insulation for the sounds that leapt and tumbled with the puffs of wind exhaled from some indeterminable heaven. Somewhere to your left, a finch trilled a cheery tune, and the boysenberry vines rasped in scratchy reply.

It was the picture-perfect scene to accompany what would, under all usual circumstances, be a nicely brisk walk in the chill of winter.

Unfortunately, these are not, by any standards, usual circumstances.

The snow falls delicately around your hustling figure, bound against the cold in nothing but the simple dress of a commoner and the jacket of a noble of the highest degree. Your outfit is completely contradicting, but it is not like you have a choice in the matter.

Because as hard as you try to will a speck of snow to settle gently in the crook of your palm, it does nothing but continue its downward descent, rocking to and fro hither and there. It passes through the translucent aura that is your hand, your arm, your entire body.

Perhaps the statement about how never in your life had you seen a more beautiful snowstorm needed to be amended to how never in your afterlife had you seen a more wonderful blizzard.

It is ever surprising to you how, though you are no longer made of tangible matter, the whistle of wind through endlessly tall trees will never cease to send a shiver down your transparent spine. The chill rests on your shoulders, curls around your neck with chilled lips; you know it must be cold, but you can’t for the life of you actually feel it. When you tread on the freshly-covered path, hurrying along in your urgency, the untouched pure white remains… untouched. When you glance behind you at the ringing of bells, no footsteps imprint on the finely frosted earth.

The horse is a dappled stallion, wide-eyed and foaming at the bit, hooves prancing high to escape the tug of the fallen snow. The gentleman sits, hands loose on the reins, comfortable in the saddle. He's handsome, with a jaw cut like glass and deep almond eyes peering out from a woolen scarf tucked beneath the folds of his jacket. As he passes by, wrapped deep in fur to fend off the chill, you step to the side of the path out of pure habit. It would take no effort at all to simply continue on your way, letting horse and rider barrel straight through your unseen figure, but you’ve learned by now that animals have a better sense of the preternatural and decided to spare the horse (and gentleman) undue panic.

The rider’s eyes never waver from the path ahead, confident and illustrious in his goings. He is bold and dashing and incredibly handsome, and you notice, too late, the scrawled insignia etched into the leather of the saddle, as refined yet regal as the very stranger who claims it.

The symbol of the nobility burns a brilliant gold against the black tanned skin, and your throat constricts with the pain of remembrance.

Eyes as warm as the heat of summer sunshine; brow regal, fit for a king; tawny hair artfully sweeping across the breadth of his forehead; lips as plush as fat grapes in the fall; jaw as defined as a blade through wa-

The horse nickers, ridding snow from its hooves in dirt-flecked clumps, sending them straight through the aura of your petticoats.

You sigh, ruffling the folds of your dress, tucking tighter the corners of your jacket out of reflex. There are, you suppose, some benefits to being a ghost, but the complete and utter loneliness does tend to be a drawback.

Indeed, the complete and utter loneliness makes you question whether your mission is even worth it in the first place. Is it worth trying to reconcile things with a lover when they can't even see you, hear you, feel you? You could caress their cheek with the most loving of touches, and yet they would guess it to be nothing but a passing breeze. The curse of eternity is one spent in solitude, a soul left to wander the earth with a purpose unfinished, aptly never to be ended. You watch as the horseman canters on, and something clenches in the space where your heart once nested, like the wrens that call the castle battlements home.

No. No. You cannot allow yourself to think like this. You cannot allow yourself to doubt, to assume that for a moment love is not a powerful enough force to wrest the bounds of time and shatter the fettered chains. Love is a blade more powerful than any forged sword, a fire more passionate than any raging mountain blaze. With love, one can mold a landscape to their liking, shift the sands of what is known into a brand new reality, a dawn previously inconceivable to any and all.

The thought of him fills your mind; the gap in your chest mends. Every step you take is one step closer to him.

With every rise and fall of your boots, your boots seem to land in the tracks of the horse and rider, their figures now only a mere shadow against the backdrop of nature’s finest woodland cathedral.

The more you push on, the more memories seem to unconsciously surface in your mind. When you came to in that field, your mind was as untouched as the fallen snow. However, it took merely a wobbly rise to your feet for you to notice the massive jacket that hugged your frame, permanently welded to your aura whether you wanted it to be or not. Simply put, whatever you wore at the time of your death became your spirit’s regalia, and you often thanked the stars that you hadn’t decided to go riding in the buff that day. Not that you would in the first place.

With that jacket came the flood, as you called it. The waves of memories that lapped at the shores of your consciousness, their chaotic dances spilling foam into the crevices of your mind. They came back to you in one fell swoop, overwhelming in their sights and sensations and feelings, and you wondered how you could have, even if just for a brief moment, forgotten it all.

Eventually, the mouth of the forest opens to a broad, rutted dirt road, which has turned to mud with the advent of the blizzard. At the mouth sits a thatched roof shack, cheery with the ice that dangles precariously from the thickets of straw. Beyond it, fields of grain- sorghum and wheat and barley, their stalks cut low to the base. In a single breath, curling in on itself in the chilled air, your senses are flooded with thought and sound and breath.

“Catch me if you can!” Seokjin’s fingers slap at your shoulder, tagging you plain as day. He is barely thirteen, still gangly and slender with youth, but experienced eyes can see his frame beginning to thicken. There's delight in his eyes, a mirth that sparks double when he sees the fiery temper in your own.

“Seokjin!” You hiss. He's playing a game of chance, egging you on as his father pauses at the edge of the forest to speak with the farmer who came bounding out of the newly-built barn. One of the things you loved about the king was his flexibility, his genuine interest in the lives of his subjects. He was willing to lend an ear to all, and it brought him a certain respect, from the lowest beggar to the highest knight. With that in mind, you dared not cross him. “Not now!”

“Papa’s not looking!” He teases, skipping backwards when you swing outwards with a well-timed smack. “Catch me if you ca-an!”

“Seokjin!” You hiss again with vigor, a concerned glance over your shoulder. “You’re not about to get us both in trouble!”

“You won't get in trouble.” He’s breathless, riled in his own games while his father talks business just beyond the magnolia bushes. “You're with me.”

“Just because you're the prince does not mean that I won't be sent to the gallows for participating in one of your stunts. This is an official business trip and I am thirteen and as so it happens your maid and I kind of need this jo-”

Without hesitation, the young prince saunters closer, leans in, and taps your nose lightly with a single digit. “I said,” Seokjin breathes, voice nearly a whisper. “Catch me if you can.”

In one fluid motion you lunge forward, your index finger landing squarely in the middle of his forehead.

A smile breaks across his visage, radiant and mischievous, the grin of madmen. Or young boys. “Game on.”

You blink and the scene clears. The horses’ reins in your grasp evaporate, leaving you in front of a crumbling stone wall falling apart at the seams.

Peering closer, you realize the house has aged fast, too fast to be natural. The straw has grown thin in some places, the roof sagging inward, spine exhausted. The windows are grimy and cracked with age, and the foundation settles crooked into the soft earth. Beside the chimney, a rabbit twitches, darting into the brush at the inkling of eyes watching from afar. Something isn't right here, you think. Something is different from before.

You turn towards the horizon, the spires of the castle piercing the far-away arch of the sky, and continue on towards him.

He had never cared that you were only his maid.

You had been in his life as long as you could remember, and he had been in yours much the same. Your mother having been attendant to the queen meant that you inherited the duties for her royal child, born in the frigid chill of December a year and two months after you. From a young age you learned how to reorganize his endless closets and dressers, to attend him in a court of nobility, to keep a pitcher of cold water and a bottle of lavender on his bedside table every night. The fair-minded, fair-haired prince had never understood how you were any different to him- you thanked the stars his parents taught him humility from an early age- and as a result, he treated you much the same as he treated any of the other young boys in the court. You had never been “merely a maid” to him- you were a playmate, confidant, best friend, and later- much, much later- a lover. The only lover, in fact, that ever mattered to him.

He had had suitors from when he was as young as ten years old, coming to seek his hand in uniting their great kingdoms. They pranced about him in grand dresses of silk and lace, curtseying and bowing and placating themselves for his eyes. More than once, they’d nearly popped out of his head at how tight their bodices were. And yet, he never took one to be his bride- never even expressed interest in having one as his bride.

You secretly pondered if he was the stuff of legend, Ancient Greek myths that whispered of men coming together in ways that male and female could not. Meanwhile, as the years passed, you grew all the more closer to him, and he all the more closer to you. Often he'd tug a sewing needle out of your hand to insist that you go riding together, pulling you away from mending the jacket he’d torn the last time you went riding with him. He would beg you to visit him in the sparring circle to show you some new masterful combination he’d learned with sword and shield, even taking such liberties to teach you yourself some swordplay techniques. He would even take you down to the market to buy fresh vegetables for your grandmother, or new silks for a coat. It was clear that he cared about you deeply, deeper than he’d ever admit to himself for a long, long time.

Your journey continues on mile after mile; the closer you get to the center of the kingdom, the more broken down it all feels. Granted, it is the dead of winter, but the world seems to have fallen into disrepair along with it, lulled by the hypnosis of the cold into a weary, uneasy slumber. Cattle shuffle stiffly along their paddock fences; dry tufts of grass poke through the chilled mud. Civilians too hustle, wrapped in rags without splendor or hint of grace, trying their hardest to protect against the frosty bite. So much has changed in the brief time you've been gone, and for the first time, worry begins to gnaw at your thoughts with true voracity. It doesn't feel right, none of this does; but you know in the core of your being, that this, somehow, is home.

With every landmark you pass, a new memory washes over you, scent and sight and feeling. You make a left at the second crossroads and continue on at the third, but your mind flashes back to the times you went right and then left to the beekeepers’ fields, or left and then right to the carpenter’s shack. Every memory rekindles a bit of something in you, something that you can name only as humanity, and you swear the chill’s begun to set in a little colder than it was before. You are more alive now than ever, you think.

It is as if in the brief time you slumbered, the world aged a hundred years without you. The miles to the city walls pass quickly, but not without mention. The closer you get, the more decrepit it all feels- richly constructed halls now ground to sawdust, fields of grain and vegetables now plains of snow and ice. The walls themselves are in poor shape, the dull stones lacking the regal glory they once held, and you ache at the sight. Once the pride and joy of the kingdom, now a sad hallmark- if there was anything left of the kingdom to begin with.

A mere trickle of people flows on either side of the gate, a much, much slower stream from the constant push-pull of the tides you’re used to. Here, the roar was once chaos- a wave of crowds jostling in, a tide of jovial citizens pouring out in a flood of color and sound and energy. But the banners flutter threadbare, flapping without statement in the wind, as if they have fallen asleep at the helm, in the bleak of midwinter, in the midst of it all.

You crane your neck to see the guards as you approach, careful to keep your space from the few stragglers limping up the path along with you. In your youth, you knew every castle employee, every knight and guard and maid. Now, you squint till the nearest stern face comes into view, and realize, with a jolt of clarity, you don't recognize him at all.

His face is cold-cut, molded from a block of iron. His lips are pressed tightly together, back as straight as a ramrod, mouth as firm as an oak tree. He is completely unfamiliar to you, and for some reason, trepidation begins to roll a metaphorically thrilling drum beat in your stomach.

The fear, which had numbed to a gentle stream in the back of your conscious (if you could call it that), rose to a fever pitch.

Something was horribly, horribly wrong, and you were absolutely determined to find out what.

You had a feeling that this is what you were brought back for, to get to the bottom of this horrid stunt, to find out why everything you knew had been thrown off its axis in one fell swoop. It thrummed in your silent pulse, lofted like owls’ wings through the quiet of the forest. No was simply not an answer, and when a renewed sense of determination beat in the space where your heart would have been, you touched your chest with a sudden burst of fondness. Seokjin was close, so close. It would be like old times; together, you would solve this, bring closure to this plague of wintertime. And you, his wonderful bride, reunited with him as if no time had ever been wasted in between. Not to mention you were home, back in your city, the place you had labored to visit for days, weeks, even months since you’d awoken in that godforsaken wheat field with a royal riding jacket wrapped around your shoulders.

Unassumingly, the guard turns his head and stares straight at you, gaze blank, numbly focused.

You hold your breath for one moment, two.

He blinks, stark eyes staring right through you, and thumbs the rutted shaft of his spear. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from his own, and, with only a moment’s hesitation, stride unfailing into the heart of the kingdom.

Your walk to the castle, at the very top of the city, is seemingly the longest, most arduous part of your journey by far.

Everywhere you look, in every corner seems to be darkness and despair. Shapeless forms, nameless figures cluster around pathetic fires, which sputter and lick with the will of the wind. Dead leaves tumble down the cobblestones to embed themselves in snowbanks, piled up high, effective barriers against the frost for the unlucky souls with no other place to go. Doors are wrenched shut but rattle every now and then, the muted glow under their edges a telltale indicator of the separation between poor and poorer. You hasten to avoid those clusters around the fires, god forbid a careless sweep of your petticoat extinguishes what little hope they have left. You pause for a moment when you see a mother clutching a child to her chest, wishing not for the first time you could simply reach out and make her problems melt away. If anything, you’d only make her feel worse, the lofty draft of your fingertips an added stress upon her already narrow shoulders.

With every step you take, you can feel the individual consciousnesses trapped here crying out for you, flocking to you, a bright burning candle flame against a backdrop of nighttime. There are so many souls beneath the ground, you wonder if there was some sort of famine. Does Seokjin see any of this? Where has he been? The questions plague you one after the other, much like the howling spirits that crowd the back of your mind, individually vying for your attention. No, you reassure yourself. I know him. Seokjin must have the situation under control, or if not, he's working to get it under control. The kingdom will be saved; happily-ever-after is just out of your reach, soon within. It simply cannot be any other way.

The higher and higher you climb, the more desolate the path becomes. It is clear that the only people who trek up here nowadays are the guards on their shift rotations, but even then, you’ve noticed less and less the closer you get to the castle. We had plenty of guards; I don't understand why the sudden lack, you think to yourself. Sooner or later you will have your answer, though, because you find yourself at the base of the castle, and your mouth drops open in some sickened form of awe.

Ah yes, what's the name of that feeling?

Horror.

Your home has fallen into disrepair, a state of shambles that never would have been allowed in the days of your lifetime.

There are cracks and crevices that fracture the bones of the grand hall, splits and nicks in the wood from years of neglect. There once perched gargoyles and flowers and creations atop the limestone columns, so wonderfully sculpted that they seem to leap from their very material constraints into living, breathing figures. Now, only shattered fragments of the beasts remain, flower petals chipped away to fall hundreds of feet to the stiff dead stalks of grass below. A castle, once inhibited with beauty and life, now lies dormant, sleeping, decaying. A single piece of limestone, the wing of a butterfly, shears off, rebounding off the gutter to tumble to the dirt. From dust it is made, and to dust it shall return, but if you had a heart, you swear you would have felt it break.

Once again, it is the thought of him that keeps you moving, pushing on, except the fear is all-consuming now, a snarling dog snapping at the heels of your fantasy. You can barely think as you approach those great dark oaken doors, palm flat against the decaying planks as you pause, your eyes fluttering shut.

You still, readying yourself for this. This, the thing you have been waiting for, the only thing to keep you going, demanding that day after day you push on. Anticipation of it has pulsed in your veins for days, weeks; the closer you got, the more anxious and excited you became, but it is here now. It is here; there is nothing you can do to stop the hands of fate, for she brought you here to reunite you with him, Seokjin, the prince of your land but the king of your heart.

The toe of your boot eases into the splintering wood, and in one beat, your entire body passes through into the grand entrance hall.

For all of your preparation, however, nothing could possibly steel you for what lay on the other side of those doors.

The grand hall looked like it had been ransacked by an army.

The stone arches above your head no longer bore their weight proudly, but drooped with depression suggesting hopelessness. A flurry of activity buzzed around you, a servant even stepping through you by pure mistake, but it was not the kind of bustling, cheery frenzy you were used to. This was a quiet kind of frenzy much like silent fury, the calm before the storm. Footsteps resonated against the grand ceilings flaked with paint, yet there was no exchange of greetings, no playful step of the servant children. It was an atmosphere so foreign it may as well have been a completely different house, rather than the home you knew so well as your own.

The throne room is many paces away from the entrance hall, but with your internalized map of the castle, it took a few mere passes through walls (and a left, another left, and a right) to land you in the hall of kings, or the waiting room outside of the throne room. There is a layer of dust that sits upon the artifacts, the Staff of Arrn’och, among others, nearly broken in two in its display case. Everywhere you looked, it seemed, was desolation. God forbid what the throne room itself would look like.

With a sudden bang!, the doors at the far end of the room were thrown open, a ragged, hunched figure stumbling through the open gap. Male or female you could not discern, matted strings of hair shielding its twisted visage, but the sobs its lungs produced pierced you to the core. The pair of guards at the opposite end of the room strode forward, collecting the pathetic creature by the underarms and practically dragging it down the muddy rug. Although you could pass through whatever surface you pleased, your instinct urged you through the gap in the closing doors, and you managed to slip past just as they slammed shut behind you.

In front of you lay a dias, fifty feet in diameter, upon which two thrones of the same size sat, both lonely, one bare. While large windows perched over the dias, casting blocks of light across the stone floor, any natural light that managed to filter into the high-ceilinged hall was dulled by grit and grime. Torches flickered low in their sconces, doing their best to compensate, but instead casting shadows across the walls that seemed to flinch at the quickest intake of breath. Indeed, the throne room had suffered much in your absence; it was as if you stepped into a nightmarish equivalent of your past life.

It was too dark to see the face of the king as you approached, his profile framed by shadow as he argued with an attendant.

“-can’t turn down every citizen who wants to make an audience with you and has good reason to do so,” The attendant insisted, his tone desperate. “The people are starving, but they haven't lost hope! They're looking to you, Your Majest-”

“And why would they look to me?” The king snapped, voice gravelly, a thickness there that you’d never heard before. “What good have I been to them? Haven't they seen enough of me yet? Every day, a miserable existence, and they seek to know my counsel on matters such as one calf between them?”

“One calf, my king, would provide food for their children for three days,” the attendant murmured gently. “Your people need you now, more than ever.”

But the king seemed not to hear, dismissing the attendant with a flick of his hand. “I can't hear any more.”

The attendant hesitated just a fraction, but bowed respectfully. “As you wish.”

It was at this moment you realized there were only two thrones, not the three you had been expecting. Although the queen had passed many years before, they had always kept a throne in its place for her, in her honor. You wondered now at this- where was Seokjin’s throne?

The king, bowed over with the bridge of his nose pinched between two fingers, paid you no mind as you approached, dipping a respectful curtsy out of habit. He’d certainly gone grayer in these last few months, his shoulders having lost their proud touch, and he looked as if he was a completely different man, aging a hundred years in the mere two hundred hours it had taken you to get back to the place you so lovingly called home.

In your living days, you would not have dared step up the dias to look at the king eye-to-eye, god forbid he strike you down himself. But you were not alive, and these were desperate times, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

And so, with one fluid motion, you stepped atop the dias, skirt swirling around your ankles as you paused, waiting for something, but you did not know what.

The king lifted his head, and as your eyes met his, aged with the aches and pains of ruling, you felt as if someone had ripped the very carpet out from underneath your feet and cast you back to the underworld below.

Because these were not the clear eyes of the king, sparkling and gentle in their mirth. These were not the bright pupils that brought forth memories of afternoons spent on the lake, or crystal clear waterfalls that tumbled through mysterious glades.

No, these eyes were dark, once as rich as chocolate, but now as muddied as silt. Cataracts strung silky webs across the clag, weaving intricate patterns in the depths of emotion, rendering not only the viewer incapable of reading emotion, but the seer incapable of, well- doing just that. While crows’ feet stamped their corners and fine lines etched their lids, you would know those eyes even if you had seen them once in ten thousand years, for they stamped themselves onto your soul all that time ago, never to be undone by any mortal power.

“Seokjin?” You gasp, and at once, all of time seems to stand still.

For it is indeed Kim Seokjin who sits on the king’s throne, his beautiful features softened with age and the passage of time but still regal, ever unforgettable. He is enthrallingly handsome, but your heart aches evermore, because you have missed it all.

You have missed seeing the aches and pains of early, and then middle age set in. You have missed watching his child, the prince or princess (and surely more than one), stumble across the floor of the nursery for the first time. You have missed him sleeping in the early morning, worrying in the late evening; you have missed him in bed and in combat and all things in between. For it has been years, perhaps decades since your death, and in one horrifying moment, it clicks into perspective.

And then he tilts his head up at you and whispers your name, and it is as if every weight on your metaphysical shoulders has been lifted. “Is it really you?”

“Yes,” you warble; somehow tears streak your cheeks, pale in their sheen. “Yes, Seokjin, I'm so sorry; I'm here now, it's me-” you grab for his hand, but it passes right through, and he recoils at the draft. “I'm so fucking sorry.”

Flashes. A golden field, merry horses, a beautiful spring day. “Take my jacket, my darling. It will keep you warm.”

Hooves pounding, heart racing. The royal horses are afraid of practically nothing, their one fear far from your mind, unworthy of mention. Together you dash through the meadows, up and over hills and valleys. What you would give to run free with him forever.

“She's here,” Seokjin’s voice nearly breaks as he half-rises from his chair, extending an arm to brush his thumb along your cheek. “After so long waiting for my queen, she's finally here.”

“You can see me?” You beg for clarity, but alas, he does not reply.

You pause atop a hill crested with wildflowers, white and pink rivers that cascade down the landscape, tumbling, flowing unbridled and uninhibited. Seokjin is a mere few paces behind you, slowing to appreciate the beauty ahead of you.

“My lord?” The attendant steps forward

“Can you not see her?” Seokjin turns, gesturing to you. “She's right here. She's come back to me after so long,” and there's so much fondness, so much promise in his voice that you know, just know that things will be okay. You will right every wrong, fight every demon- “I have missed her dearly.”

“I've missed you too,” you choke. “With every bone in my body I have missed you; I have been walking for days, Seokjin, I'm so sorry-”

It is then that your horse nickers and tenses, rearing without warning and whinnying like the devil himself. He panics, lashing and whirling about, and you can only hold on for so long before you are thrown from his back like a rock from a slingshot.

Seokjin is screaming. You have never heard him scream like that before, a sound that seems to so purely channel fear and terror and anguish, all in one. He is a roaring fury, knife drawn from his belt, and he beheads the snake lying hidden in one fluid motion before dropping to his knees at your side. His shoulders shake as he weeps, cradling your body to his as your eyes roll back in your head and you cough, frame shuddering, barely conscious.

“Sire, there is nobody there,” The attendant says, as softly, carefully as he can.

“Don't leave me,” he’s sobbing, over and over. “This is all my fucking fault, I'm so sorry, so so sorry-”

“My love,” you whisper, fingers brushing the inside of his palm. It is all the strength you can muster. “I will have gone a thousand years, but to still find your eyes imprinted on the breath of my soul.”

He’s whimpering, blubbering, desperate, screaming for help. Screaming and screaming, but there is no one to stop the ceaseless flow of blood, and your final act of life is to stain the sleeves of his riding jacket crimson where it lies comfortable across the breadth of your shoulders.

“I have never forgotten you,” he exhales. “It has been sixty years and not one day have I gone without envisioning your face in my hands, beautiful.”

“I’ll fix this,” you promise, but it's starting to fall into place now, why everything around you is falling apart. “I'll help fix the kingdom if you would just tell me what's wrong, Seokjin. Please, I want to help. Tell me what I can do.”

“I have loved you perhaps too much,” his voice cracks, wobbles with ache. “I've neglected these people, our people. I say our people because you have always been my queen; I have never taken another; there is no one who is worthy of replacing you.”

“Perhaps you should retire for the night, my king. You've had a long and tiresome day,” The attendant tries to coax Seokjin, but he pays the servant no mind.

“You're here in this moment for a reason, my sweet. You're here and we will fix this, I promise you,” Seokjin is nearly begging, the urgency in his voice bleeding scarlet. He rushes forward towards you. “We will fix this together-”

“Seokjin, my love-” You rush towards him with the same intensity, but your hand passes through his chest, and suddenly you are staring up at him, and his eyes are blank, unseeing.

The attendant clears his throat. “Your Majesty, there is no one there, sir. It is merely a draft.”

“I want to help you,” you plead, fingers tracing his sternum, his ribs, his heart. “I'm here, Seokjin. I'm here, right in front of you; I'm here. Believe in me. Believe in us; believe in love as I have believed in love. Please.”

The once-legendary prince, now dishonorable king looks out over a barren, desolate throne room as a zephyr of cold brushes icy digits down his shoulder, along his chest. “Ah,” he utters, sounding exhausted all at once. “I believe you're right.” A small chuckle parses his lips. “What am I saying? Perhaps I shall retire for the night, yes.” He pauses. “Goodnight, Yoongi.”

“Goodnight, my lord.”

“Yoongi?”

“Yes, my king?”

“Start keeping the fire burning in the hearth. It's too drafty in this hall in the evenings.”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Sleep well.”

“You as well, my faithful servant.”

#bts #bts angst #bts fluff #kpop angst #kpop fluff #seokjin angst #seokjin fluff #kpop fanfiction #bts au #verses and vibes #outroshooky

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thesoftdumbass · 5 years

Text

sweet as can be (2)

detective Bucky Barnes x baker Reader

Word count: 1.7K

Warnings: none! fluff. un-beta’d

Summary: Bucky Barnes has no idea what to do for his daughter’s 12th birthday party. That is, until he meets you. (It’s party time!)

masterlist

part one

Saturday, Bucky makes sure to be up bright and early to get everything ready for the party. He deep-cleaned the house the night before, preparing to host family and a group of Becca’s friends that will stay afterward for a slumber party. While putting up the decorations for later, Bucky can’t help but be thankful for 2-day shipping. Glittery crescent moons, silver balloons, and a variety of pink and silver stars hang in a sweet representation of space that he hopes his little girl will love.

Bucky is hanging one of the last groupings of balloons after breakfast when he hears his phone ping with a text, checking it to see a message from an unfamiliar sender.

Unknown: Hi Bucky, this is Y/N from Brooklyn Bake Shop! I’m just letting you know that your cake can be picked up whenever you’re ready.

He smiles at the message, though he’s not really sure why.

Bucky: Sounds good! I’ll be there soon.

He puts his phone away, and can’t keep the excitement out of his voice when he calls for the kids to meet him downstairs. Three sets of footsteps make their way down the stairs of the brownstone, with varying degrees of interest.

When Becca makes it downstairs, her eyes light up, taking in the festive decorations in wonderment. “Daddy, did you do all this?”

“All for you, Peanut. Do you like it,” is his answer and suddenly she is flinging herself into her father’s arms for a hug while Jude and Wesley give their approval with oohs and ahhs.

Bex releases herself from her father’s grip, a bright smile showing on her face. “I love it!”

He smiles to himself, feeling a small bit of pride at being able to pull this off. “I’m so glad you do. Now, it’s time to go pick up your cake, and I thought you monsters would wanna come with?” Excited yells meet Bucky’s ears and that’s all it takes before all four of them are heading to the car and making the short trip to Brooklyn Bake Shop.

Sam’s voice calling your name pauses your actions and brings you out from your shared office where you’ve been doing paperwork. As you reach the front of the nearly empty shop you catch sight of /-the handsome detective-/ your new client from earlier in the week. You’d been expecting him, you had texted him once his order was ready, after all, but it still brought a smile to your face to see him again. Your eyes brighten when you catch sight of the blue-eyed, brown-haired children all gathered around him, his hand holding onto that of the smallest girl.

“Good afternoon, detective.”

“Good afternoon, Y/N,” he answers easily.

“These must be those little monsters you told me all about?” Your voice is teasing with an exaggerated playful expression on your face, the same you use with all the kids that come into the shop. You’re answered with a few small waves and a deep chuckle from their father. You turn your attention to the oldest of the group, addressing the birthday girl. “You must be Becca! I have something special for you in the back.”

She looks up to you, a hint of excitement showing in blue eyes that match her father’s. “Really?”

“Really,” you nod, eager to share your creation with its receiver, “I’ll get it for you real quick.”

You come out of the walk-in fridge in the kitchen carrying the package, bringing it around the counter and presenting it in front of Becca. She’s nearly bouncing in place, Bucky’s hands hovering in front of her eyes, wanting everyone to witness her full reaction.

“Ready,” you drawl out, teasingly.

“Ready!” Becca nearly shouts in excitement and you can sense her patience slowly thinning. You nod at Bucky who uncovers her eyes, and Becca can now see the delicious creation in front of her.

The three-tiered creation has alternating layers of chocolate and vanilla cake and raspberry filling, with a vanilla buttercream covering. The whole thing is a dark midnight blue, with constellations formed with a piping bag in white, the names accompanying alongside them. On top of the cake is your favorite part. Piped with a star tip, the golden and yellow hues of frosting form a large crescent moon that take up the majority of the flat surface.

Becca’s birthday cake is one of your favorites you’ve made recently, and you feel a touch of pride at the look on her face. She’s staring at the cake in your hands, her jaw dropped open and eyes wide in awe, and you can’t help the smile that forms on your lips. Making customers happy is one of your favorite things.

Looking at her father, you see a similar look of appreciation on his face as he watches the two of you. He looks down at his eldest daughter, hands now resting on her shoulders, as he asks “what do you think?”

You’re surprised to feel a pair of arms wrap around your waist from the side, careful not to jostle you as to not drop the cake you are still holding. Warmth fills you as you realize that Becca has wrapped you in a hug, her voice coming out a little muffled from her face pressed into your shoulder. “Thank you so much!”

“You’re welcome, sweetie!”

She leaves your side to give her father a thankful embrace, giving you the opportunity to sit the cake down on a nearby table. That thing is starting to get heavy.

You walk into the back and return with a small pastry box, four cupcakes nestled inside. When you hand the package to Bucky, he looks inside before raising an eyebrow at you questioningly.

“There was a little extra cake batter,” you say in explanation and he nods.

Jude, Wesley, and Becca sit at a table munching happily on cupcakes while you stand at the counter, boxing up the cake as Bucky settles the payment. It’s silent for a few seconds and when you look up again, he’s watching you with a strange look in his eyes, a crooked smile gracing his lips.

Self-consciousness makes an appearance and you shrink a little, your arms folding in on you. “What?” you ask timidly, hoping there isn’t something on your face.

“Nothing, nothing.” Bucky glances down to where he was filling out the check, before looking back up at you. “It’s just, you’ve really saved the day for me, and for Becca. I can’t thank you enough.”

Your shoulders relax hearing his words, and you are quick to assure him. “You don’t have to! This is my favorite part of what I do, I love getting to help people. That, and blasting music in the kitchen while I bake at night. Just ask Sam, it drives him crazy.”

Both of you giggle at that.

“Hey, save me a cupcake,” Bucky scolds lightly when he sees Wesley reaching for the last one, surprise taking over the little boy’s face as his hand stills mid-air. He smiles guiltily and sits back, leaving the last chocolate cupcake to sit in the box.

A few minutes later you take the cake out to the family’s vehicle, making sure to congratulate the birthday girl. Another order completed and payment received, another satisfied customer. This is normally the part where you take a moment to breathe and relax, to start fresh on other orders, so then why can’t you stop thinking about -him- them?

Chaos. Pandemonium. Lawlessness. All words that flit through Bucky Barnes’ mind as he observes the festivity happening around him.

Alright, he’s being just /a little bit/ dramatic, but the exhausted single-father part of his brain tends to hyperbolize everything. Maybe he’s been spending too much time around Steve...

The party is winding down, the only guests left are the kid’s friends that are staying the night, and Bucky’s ex and her new husband, Michael. Everything went off without a hitch, Bucky can say confidently. Or, at least, as well as an amateurely planned pre-teen’s birthday party can go.

Dot and Michael stand and make their way to where Bucky is standing in the kitchen, cleaning up and putting the food away. He pauses his actions when he sees them coming, a friendly smile taking over his face.

“We’re heading out, James. I thought I would say goodbye,” Dot speaks and puts an arm around Bucky in a familiar side-hug.

“I’m glad you guys could make it,” he replies. “It means a lot to the kids that we can all do these things together.”

“I’m glad, man. Thanks for inviting us.” Michael speaks up, giving a typical “man” handshake to their host.

“Everything was wonderful. The theme is perfect for Becca, you really raised the bar for the twins’ birthday in November. I might just have to negotiate for the name of the bakery that made that cake…”

A blissful expression takes over the redhead’s face as she closes her eyes. “Actually, I think I’ll take a slice of that home for later.”

Bucky just chuckles, reaching into the cupboard for a tupperware container. “Help yourself.”

Plastic container with an extra-large piece of vanilla and raspberry cake in hand, Michael and Dot are on their way after giving warm goodbyes to the kids. “I’ll be back on Monday to pick you guys up, okay?”

After hugging her mom and step-dad, Becca comes up to her father. Beckoning him closer with a curled index finger, Bucky is surprised to feel a chaste kiss on his cheek, his daughter wrinkling her nose at the feel of the scruff there.

“Thank you again for the party, Daddy. You’re the best!”

And then she’s off, in a sugar-induced rush, to join her friends and younger sibling in an energetic game of twister, all being captured with her brand-new Polaroid camera.

Watching the merriment happening all around him, Bucky can’t help but think of Y/N from Brooklyn Bake Shop. The baker had helped make his little girl’s party a hit.

Now he’ll have to think of some way to thank her.

It looks like I’ll be making another visit soon, Bucky thinks, and he can’t help the smile that lights up his face at the thought.

A/N: So here is part 2! I know it’s not as long as the first, but I didn’t want to add too much to this one and make it not fit. I think I’ll still write more for this, depending how inspiration hits me, so keep on the lookout for more! As always, thank you for reading, and I love you all 💙

If you’d like to be notified when I post something new, message me or send an ask and I’ll add you to my tag list!

permanent tags: @deanxfuckingadorablexwinchester @mad-girl-without-a-box @cd1242 @space-helen @izzy10718 @feelmyroarrrr @star-trekkin-across-theuniverse @vulcanaeris @killerbumblebee @kjs-s @starshiphufflebadger @goingknowherewastaken

marvel tags: @izzy10718 @shortbty14

story tags: @mylife-love-and-other-things

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #dad bucky barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes au #avengers #avengers fic #avengers fluff #avengers au #sweet as can be

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demolitiondarla · 5 years

Text

ice // b.b x reader

pairing: bucky barnes x mutant!reader

warnings: pain, angst if you squint, fluff

plot: being in a relationship with bucky and having ice powers

a/n: hello again i love this concept but i’m not very good at writing so here’s this rather long au

(gif from google images)

sitting up with a jolt, you woke up from a rather nasty dream. nothing out of the ordinary but nevertheless unpleasant. bucky gave a concerned ‘hmm?’ as your icy body moved away from his. you ran your fingers through your hair and mopped your crystallised brow. cold sweats are a mystery to anyone with ice abilities. the sweat only turns to ice and you begin to look like you’ve been kept in a freezer.

‘just a bad dream’ you whispered, slightly out of breath.

‘c’mere’ he mumbled pulling you back into his embrace. settling in between his warm, flesh arm and his cold, metal one under the covers. he kissed the top of your head and buried his chin in your frosty hair. it hadn’t always been like this.

you never thought in a million years that you would take comfort in someone whose like a walking furness, and vice versa. you were still learning to control your powers when steve first introduced you to bucky. you knew the basics about his past but all he knew was your name. when you first met, he was incredibly distant and seemed almost annoyed by you.

‘nice to meet you, bucky,’ you shook his hand, forgetting you hadn’t quite mastered the control in your fingertips yet. you sent a frost all the way up to his shoulder, his eyes widened as he quickly pulled his hand away from yours. ‘oh my god, i’m so sorry mr barnes i didn’t mean it, i-i can try and undo it i just need to concentrate-‘ you offered your hands.

‘NO, no. i’m sorry, no,’ he interrupted. ‘i’ll sort it out myself. i’m sorry’ he held his arm close to his chest and quickly walked away. you and steve watched him go, steve with a look of sympathy and you with an apologetic look of horror.

‘why did he apologise, he didn’t do anything wrong’ you looked up at steve, almost tearful.

‘if there’s one thing to know about bucky, it’s that he’s forever apologising for things beyond his control’

every other interaction with bucky from that point on, for a good few months, was incredibly awkward and included a lot of apologising. until steve’s birthday party came around. the dress code was red, white and blue. and because white and blue were your two most on-brand colours, you decided to switch it up and wear something red. you showed up in your red dress that was tight in all the right places and bucky couldn’t take his eyes off you. he wasn’t the only one, but for some unknown reason, he was the only one you cared about. you gave steve his gift and a friendly kiss on the cheek then headed to the bar. you weren’t in the mood to get drunk, you were still relatively new around here. you ordered a lemonade and discretely turned it into a slush. bucky watched you do so from across the room and chuckled under his breath. you noticed and smiled, air cheers-ing him. he slowly made his way over to the bar with his nearly empty beer bottle and ordered a fresh one.

‘you know, us super soldiers can’t get drunk, so you won’t be the only sober one here tonight’ he said just loud enough for you to hear over the music.

‘yeah, stark told me about that. sucks’ you added, having no idea what to say. he’d given you the cold shoulder for 3 months and now wants to engage in small talk?

‘hey, i’m sorry for being off with you since we met. the whole ice thing kinda threw me. cold things and i, don’t really get along’ he apologised, but this time with 10x more sorrow in his eyes than the usual passing apologies.

‘you really need to stop apologising, bucky. it’s my bad, i should have kept my hands to myself. i knew i didn’t have control over my touch and i knew you’d been in cyro. i didn’t mean to trigger you or anything. way to make a first impression’ you blushed, looking down into your frosty drink.

‘no,no-don’t apologise, you don’t have to, i’m sorry-‘ he started to stutter.

‘how about this,’ you smiled, looking up at his worrisome face. ‘we both stop apologising for everything. especially for things that we have no control over’ you put out your left hand for him to shake.

‘deal,’ he shook with his metal arm, realising your little trick. ‘clever’ he chuckled still shaking your hand, watching his arm condensate.

the two of you spent the whole party exchanging stories, compliments and tricks you could do with your powers, and tricks he could do with his arm. by the end of the night you had tons of embarrassing steve content and he had an emergency contact for if his refrigerator ever broke down. it didn’t get past steve and sam how well you two were hitting it off. they were nudging each other all night every time a flirty look or laugh was made.

the months after that night was some of the most pleasant of your life. you and bucky were friends. quite good friends, at that. joining the avengers, ironically, you never thought the winter soldier would end up being your closest friend in the facility. you had inside jokes, banter. to steve, bucky seemed almost completely like his old self again. bucky would never go back to actual normality. not after the things he “did” and things he’d seen. you didn’t really care, you loved the bucky you had.

the days that would really test your friendship with bucky were your down days. for some reason, people had this whole picture painted that being a mutant with ice powers was glamorous and the easiest power to have/deal with. that was far from the truth but you’d never admit that to anyone. you didn’t want people thinking you were ungrateful or sympathy seeking. not being able to cry, crystallising and occasionally passing out every time you were in an environment above 25 degrees, being too scared to properly embrace someone in fear that you’ll accidentally freeze their insides, never knowing what real warmth felt like. all these things would make you feel incredibly low, but you couldn’t cry. it physically hurt too much. the tears were sharp and would empale your eyes but the pain would only make you cry more. it was a horribly vicious circle. one day bucky was heading to the kitchen at around 3am for a glass of water, another sleepless night. he could hear muffled whimpers coming from your room. he knew the sound of pain like the back of his hand. concerned, he quickly strode to your door and knocked lightly a few times before going in. this is the first time he had ever been in your bedroom. nothing could have prepared him for the state you and the room were in. he found you hunched in the corner of your iced room, blue blood around your fingernails and iced shut eyes. all your furniture and walls were covered in a thick layer of ice, as if it was that was on purpose but he knew it wasn’t. you’d talked about how you live and he knew this wasn’t the way. your room made bucky’s stomach churn. it brought him all the way back to the loss of his arm, the years of living in russia, the years of training in the freezing cold, the cyrofreeze. he panicked for a moment but quickly focused back on your shaking body in the corner. you were almost completely blue.

‘it hurts’ was all you managed to get out through sobs.

‘shhh, it’s okay doll, it’s okay i’m here,’ he held you and you flinched at the intense heat. as his right hand embraced your shoulder, steam rose from the blue area. you flinched again at the new sensation. ‘i’m sorry, did that hurt?’ he asked trying to look into your eyes.

‘no, just not used to anyone touching me in this state’ your breathing started to get fast.

‘ok i have an idea, do you trust me?’ he noticed your panic.

‘yes’ you shivered, just wanting this to be over.

bucky took his right hand and placed it over your eyes. you winced at first, confused by the lack of pain. but feeling the sharp shards disappear, you leant into the touch. bucky slowly uncovered his hand when the steam calmed. you blinked a few times and looked up at bucky’s worried eyes and rosy cheeks. without thinking, you quickly took bucky into a full embrace. as steam rose off your blue skin, slowly turning back to its original colour, all your worries evaporated. selfishly, you didn’t think about how this hug would effect bucky. the only fact on your mind was the fact he’d just saved you from your personal hell, that in the past, you’d just had to wait out. sometimes it took days, but he just solved it in an instant. a drop of water crystallising on your hand snapped you out of your lovesick trance. you looked around and noticed your room was starting to defrost.

‘we should probably get out of here’ you broke away from bucky, pointing at the dripping icicles on the ceiling.

‘good call,’ he said, taking your hand. ‘what about all your stuff?’ he added, looking around confused.

‘doesn’t matter’ you replied, practically dragging him out of the ice box.

you made your way to the living room and just sat for a while.

‘i don’t get in that state too often so don’t worry, you won’t have to become my knight in shining armour every day’ you broke the silence.

‘i don’t mind’ he offered a small but warm smile.

‘it just all gets a bit too much sometimes, you know? i hate not being able to drink hot tea, go out in the baking sun, get intimate with people - sorry that’s probably too much’ you looked down into your glass of water.

‘you already forgotten our deal?’ bucky lifted your chin up with his fingers. you sighed in content. he made you feel so comfortable.

‘you know, the reason i was so, pun not intended, cold towards you isn’t because i’m afraid of the ice. it’s because i hate that i’m not. i want to hate the cold, i want it to make me uncomfortable, but it’s home. it’s all i know. and i hate it’ he confessed behind a sad smile. your heart broke into a million tiny pieces.

‘bucky...’

‘but you. you’ve given winter, ice, the cold a whole new meaning. over this past year, you’ve become this constant in my life. you bring so much joy to everyone here. even though you’re clearly hurting so much, you manage to have all this room in your heart for us’ bucky had never made this much eye contact with you before.

‘sounds awfully familiar, barnes,’ you grinned at his gorgeous eyes. he tilted his head like a confused puppy. ‘i don’t know where i’d be without you. honestly. breaking down your walls and getting to know you has been the biggest blessing in my life. i don’t want to scare you off but, what the hell i’m just gonna say it. i’m falling in love with you james. no one has ever had this much time for me before. i’m so lucky to have you,’ bucky had tears in his eyes. ‘oh please don’t start crying because then i’ll start and i don’t need to be going back there again’ you giggled swiping your thumbs under his eyes, his tears solidifying on your skin.

‘i love you too, doll’ he laughed into your hands, you stayed cradling his face for a moment, no ice leaving your hands. you both slowly leant in and planted a passionate kiss directly on the lips. you broke away and just stared at each other. you noticed the dark bags under his eyes and felt guilty.

‘bucky you need to sleep’ you pushed his hair back, still managing to control the ice.

‘so do you’ he stood suddenly and picked you up bridal style, carrying you to his bedroom. he laid you down and you couldn’t help but get nervous.

‘what if i freeze your bed. or you’ you crossed your arms and legs.

‘wouldn’t be the first time, darling. now go to sleep’ he mumbled, pulling you down. you smiled, snuggling into his chest. you really loved him.

that was the first night you spent in between bucky’s warm, flesh arm and his cold metal one. over time, you learned how to deal with your powers and he learned to deal with the things you couldn’t control. he took you to the beach for your birthday. you had to wear a coat made of ice packs that he had fashioned himself but that made it all the more special. it didn’t matter how many nightmares either of you had, having each other at the end of them made everything worth while.

#bucky barnes #marvel #mine #bucky barnes x reader #fanfiction #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #the winter soldier #captain america #sebastian stan #ca:cw #ca:tws #ca:tfa #winter solider x reader #steve rogers #angst #fluff

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kiruuuuu · 5 years

Text

Buck/Fuze oneshot (?) in which there’s a broken sink, almost a broken heart, and no broken bones (but only because Kapkan had no say in the matter). (Rating M, fluff/humour/very light angst/a little sexy, ~4.8k words) - written for @yovelie! Thank you so much for commissioning me, this was a blast to write ❤ Find my commission info here!

This has also been posted to AO3, and here’s a link 💞

Buck returns home to a dirt-streaked Fuze lying on the kitchen floor, soft curses in his mother tongue half swallowed by the cupboard into which he’s shoved most of his torso in order to either repair their sink or alternately turn the awfully cramped room into a questionably functional swimming pool. He’s so engrossed in his task that Buck dropping his bag of groceries onto the table makes him jump, hit his head and increase the volume of his swears.

“Is it broken again?”, the Canadian wants to know superfluously, but maybe striking up a conversation will distract Fuze from his imminent headache. A disgruntled noise is his reply. “The only thing missing from this being a Sims household at this point is the spontaneous combustion.”

He doesn’t need to see Fuze’s face to know he’s grinning: the torch he’s holding between his teeth slips slightly and lets him know of the Uzbek’s amusement. “Is craftsmanship in your home country as shoddy as here? You’d think most English plumbers were born with feet for hands.”

“Are you telling me it’s better in Russia? What about Maxim’s story about his uncle’s pipes exploding in the middle of summer?” Buck hasn’t yet started unpacking because he’s too caught up in the view before him – Fuze is wearing a grey wifebeater which is just as greasy as he is, and together with the loosely fitting sweatpants and naked feet he really is a sight to behold. For a moment, one of his arms comes into view, tan skin sweaty and melting Buck’s knees slowly but surely. Fuze’s solid body is distracting enough even without it being presented on a silver platter like this.

“You’re forgetting that he hails from a long line of dumbasses”, comes the murmured reply, making Buck snap out of his reverie with a laugh.

“Well, fortunately at least he fell far from the tree.” A prolonged silence. Buck grins. “Come on, are you really throwing your friends under the bus like this?”

“Don’t tell anyone. But yes, I heard a story of someone fixing their power line with a fork. To my knowledge, it’s holding up to this day.”

“If you start wrapping our sink in sellotape, I’m calling a professional”, Buck threatens and finally turns to the reusable bag, starting to put away the foodstuffs he bought. In the process, he has to step over Fuze several times and barely avoids getting tripped, lightly kicks him in this ass in retaliation and thinks he hears a chuckle. “Our kitchen is too fucking small.” It’s a complaint both of them have uttered many times before.

“I wouldn’t mind so much if its infrastructure wasn’t totally screwed up. And by the way, I’m covering this.”

“What, the shopping?” A grunt. “No, not this time. Most of it is for me anyway, you never have breakfast.” This conversation, too, is familiar and they repeat a variation so regularly for it to become annoying enough to warrant establishing a proper system – and yet they still haven’t done so. It’s as if fighting about who gets to pay for groceries is a game they both enjoy playing, even if the outcome is usually muddled and probably works out fifty-fifty in the long run but neither of them can really be sure. The rent, water, heating, all of it they split evenly but food remains a topic of debate.

“I asked you to get some of my vodka though.”

“Yes, but they didn’t have it.”

A disbelieving pause. “So you bought nothing?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, I got a different one.” Which cost noticeably more than Fuze’s favoured brand, but Buck is not about to tell him. Movement catches his attention and he interrupts his stocking of the fridge to look over to where Fuze is crawling out from under the sink: his hair is damp and sticking up, a dark streak dirtying his cheek and stubble visible, betraying a day off work. His own personal smell is triumphing over whatever cursed product he normally uses to mask it and it drives Buck wild, makes him forget whatever it is he was doing and instead stare at Fuze’s heavy, attractive and most of all masculine form.

Without even a single glance at Buck, Fuze unselfconsciously reaches for the bottle of clear liquid and reads the label, unhurried and unaware of the effect his naked, almost unnoticeably paler upper arms are having on Buck; he’s exuding a kind of energy to which Buck is painfully receptive. If anyone asked him a few years ago about his ideal domestic kind of wet dream, he’d have no answer, but now all he’d do is point at the man in front of him.

Fuze unceremoniously opens the bottle and takes a long swig and Buck nearly has to sit down because his brain is too preoccupied with the line of Fuze’s throat, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he swallows and the lack of care about arbitrary social norms to focus on ensuring his legs don’t buckle under him. Raw, unadulterated desire roars in his ears and deafens him, makes him miss Fuze’s verdict entirely.

When he receives no response, Fuze finally looks over and understands immediately what must be embarrassingly visible on Buck’s face as he smiles, lazy, self-satisfied, flattered. “Is it the undershirt?”, he wants to know, voice slipped an octave lower and of a decidedly more gravelly quality. Buck is starting to come apart at the seams.

“It’s the everything”, he replies hoarsely.

And he’s so, so grateful that the times when a concession like this would’ve left Fuze uncomfortable instead of smug are over. It was a few long months, filled with uncertainty and awkward silences, and he fought so hard to get to where they are now. To the point where Fuze’s grin turns predatory as he stalks towards Buck. He absent-mindedly closes the fridge door and steps back, pretends to retreat from Fuze’s advances until the windowsill digs uncomfortably into his back. He awkwardly puts down the yogurts he’s been holding, just in time to throw his arms around the Uzbek crowding into his personal space. A deep inhale muddles his mind further as Fuze’s smell is much more intense up close, his collarbone too inviting for him not to lick a broad stripe over the salty skin and hum contentedly at the taste.

Fuze seems happy with simply standing there, allowing Buck to lavish him with caresses, cover his skin in eager kisses and grope him unashamedly and this, too, is a success. “I need to buy a spare part down at the hardware store”, he mumbles into Buck’s hair and stretches into blunt hands exploring his torso under the wifebeater, fingers digging into his abs.

Buck nods, understands what he’s really saying and relents. Not now, is Fuze’s implication, but his body language adds: But I want it too, later. They kiss, languid and sloppy, the sharp tang of vodka unexpectedly welcome and helpful in grounding Buck. If there’s anything he’s learnt over the past year, it’s to give Fuze space when he demands it. “Then go”, he says softly and without reproach after they’ve separated. His want is transforming into deep adoration which leaves him just as breathless as his need did. Now and then, Fuze is in a mood and takes control, rides with abandon and clenched teeth, less vocal and quieter than normal but merciless. The look he shoots Buck before withdrawing lets him know that he is in one of these moods today, will refuse to let Buck do all the work for once.

“Otherwise the sink will never stop dripping”, Fuze adds with an indication to the opened bottle of alcohol, “and how else am I going to dispose of this swill?”

His laughter echoes in the hallway after he catches sight of Buck’s outraged expression, and half a minute later he’s gone, still without socks in his shoes and probably sporting a semi but he’s too practically-minded to worry about either of these things. It’s one of the reasons why Buck has become so enamoured with him: his efficiency and dislike of anything needlessly complicated or fancy resonate with Buck’s own views. They moved in together to save money, have worked out a system of who does which chores and stick to it religiously, and it’s functioning wonderfully.

Buck finishes his task while singing to himself, some catchy tune Frost was playing on her phone earlier, and realises not for the first time how happy he really is in their bubble. At work, the two of them generally hang around their own friends, but the rest of the time belongs to them and he feels like they’re putting it to good use. Daydreaming about what Fuze is going to let him do to him, the ringing phone registers almost too late.

And once the person on the other end has said a few words, he almost drops it, scrambles to leave immediately and while he does so, suddenly remembers once more how all of this started.

“You could’ve died.”

Buck is at his wit’s end and the mindless repetition of something he’s been told numerous times today into the cool space separating him from one of his colleagues-turned-reluctant-friend-recently-turned-nuisance isn’t helping in lightening his mood. He doesn’t know why Fuze insists on following him around without stating clearly what it is he wants – he already got an apology, a rundown of how and why the mission went sour and an admission that yes, he’s indeed right in his assessment. Buck could’ve died today. And inexplicably Fuze won’t leave him alone because of it.

“But I didn’t”, he replies patiently, gently rocking the canopy swing on which he’s perched. He hoped for a minute of peace, wanted to fiddle with his phone to calm down from the earlier excitement of a successful hostage rescue, wanted to enjoy the unusually cold Nevada night by himself.

“But you could’ve”, Fuze maintains stubbornly, not moving an inch from where he’s standing in the breeze, a shirt apparently warm enough for him. Even Buck has donned a light jacket. They’re outside their motel, the others congregating in different places.

“Sit down.”

He does. Carefully sinks onto the wooden bench a laughable distance away but at the very least gives in to Buck’s rhythm of back and forth, back and forth. They’ve begun interacting more as of late, Buck couldn’t even say what the catalyst was, and now that he’s become better at reading the Uzbek’s silences, his mild expressions, between the lines he utters, he’s appreciative of his uncomplicated company. Irritating him is easy and amusing, genuinely upsetting him hard, and entertaining him worthwhile – Buck prides himself in his ability to befriend anyone he sets his mind to, but with Fuze there was surprisingly little resistance. He’d even call his efforts reciprocal.

Right now, however, he’s being an idiot and Buck doesn’t know why. Something is on his mind and the only obvious explanation is the nearly botched mission. “We were successful. We did it. Why does it matter if I almost kicked the bucket?”

“I don’t know.” The lilting accent always becomes more forceful and pronounced when Fuze is troubled. “That’s the point. I don’t know.”

Buck frowns in confusion. “What do you -”

“I want to know why it bothers me so much.”

They stop. Wind carries over the echo of someone’s laughter though it sounds haunting rather than contagious. “I do consider you my friend”, Buck tries, “and I’d also be upset if you got hurt.”

“No.” The word is final, decisive. Fuze has thought about this, is getting angry that Buck doesn’t understand. “Sasha got hurt last time, Timur before that, it’s part of the job. They don’t do the same things.”

“The same things?”

“To me.”

He forgets how to breathe. Automatically, he nearly asks what do I do to you but they’ve reached a point where it’s obvious and he needs to decide: go down this path and gently coax it out of him or… or not. Squash his hope before it blossoms.

The Uzbek isn’t looking at him, has started swinging them slightly again, gaze on the folded fingers in his lap. His general determination wavers rarely and makes him seem sure of himself, but right now he looks helpless and frustrated. Probably dissatisfied with what he can’t control. Of all the people Buck knows, Fuze is the only one he’d call honourable – moral, yes, most of them are reputable too, but none of them track so meticulously what they owe others in order to repay them like he does, most of them do allow certain deviations from established rules where Fuze doesn’t for himself. Never has. In his heart, he carries around values which form the foundation of all his actions and interactions and he adheres to them.

And isn’t this the whole problem? The fact that Fuze himself is now deviating from one of his core beliefs? Doesn’t this explain his worried side glances, all the times he flinched when Buck accidentally touched him, the way he hovers around Buck like someone who fails to find the right words?

“Can I… touch you?”, Buck wants to know quietly and waits, reaches out when he receives no answer. Only reluctantly does Fuze surrender one of his hands, leaves it balled into a fist even as Buck strokes the back of it. It’s remarkably warm, a welcome source of heat in Buck’s palms and slowly, slowly he massages it to relax, uncurls Fuze’s fingers, interlaces them with his own and simply holds it. A small sun, just for him.

He knows Fuze is undyingly loyal. Accepting him is a responsibility Buck isn’t sure he can carry and so he asks: “Can I sleep on it?”

Fuze’s fingers twitch but he doesn’t pull them back. Concern is written on his face and he still hasn’t returned Buck’s gaze. “I didn’t – I wasn’t sure you’d consider -”

And he looks so lost that this is the moment that Buck knows: even if he goes to his room with the intent to mull it over, he’ll stay for five minutes at most before rushing out to knock on Fuze’s door. So he might as well not bother at all.

When Buck barges into the hospital room, Fuze’s scowl drowns out the sunshine with its ferocity. He’s sitting upright on his bed, a stained bandage wrapped around his head and a flustered nurse by his side who seems to have missed her vocation as overzealous talk show host who asks decidedly too many questions.

“Bastien, finally, please tell this woman that it’s perfectly normal for me not to know which weekday it is”, Fuze addresses him and doesn’t even try to hide his annoyance, much like the nurse next to him.

“We have odd working hours”, Buck reassures her. “Which date is it today?”

“25th of May.”

“Anything else you need to know?” The woman merely rolls her eyes and storms out of the room, leaving them alone and allowing Buck to breathe freely again. “Are you alright?”

“Some fucking idiot ran me over and gave me a goddamn concussion, of course I’m not alright”, Fuze spits back and reaches up to his wound, sighs when Buck catches his hand halfway. “I can’t see straight, I’ve got the worst headache of my life and I have absolutely no confidence that you’ll be able to repair the sink even if I gave you detailed instructions.”

This is when the last of Buck’s worry dissipates, accompanied by a genuine laugh. When he received the call about Fuze being in hospital, his insides twisted and he almost caused another accident on the way here, but seeing the irritated Uzbek and being met with his dry sarcasm is refreshingly heartening. “I’d probably find a way to set the kitchen on fire, you’re right.” They both know he’s more than capable of fixing it but it brings Fuze joy to tinker around in their flat and who is Buck to take this away from him?

They chat for a few more minutes, Fuze outlining how the accident happened and ranting a little more, much to Buck’s delight – he usually suffers in stoic silence, so him opening up and complaining is a good sign Buck welcomes. Still, whenever he expresses worry, Fuze waves him aside as he’s wont to do. Despite how far they’ve come, expression of feelings remains uncomfortable to him. He jokes about how he had to explain that all the dirt on his arms and clothing had nothing to do with how far he flew but rather a broken sink and Buck only narrowly resists running his fingertips over the still stained, pronounced muscles.

Eventually, he promises to dip back home to fetch a few things to do as Fuze is required to stay the night and Buck wants to ensure he doesn’t start dismantling the various devices in the room, as well as spare clothing and toiletries. He’s about to head out when a hand closes around his wrist and holds him back, even pulls a little.

Cautiously, Buck allows the other man to hug his waist while not moving his head too much, and gingerly cards his fingers through dark hair during the short embrace. Fuze isn’t generally very physically affectionate, but any and all reminders of their own mortality bring out his clingier side. Not that Buck is complaining.

“Thanks”, Fuze murmurs into his shirt and the Canadian is pretty sure it’s not only the spare clothes for which he’s grateful.

Much more relieved and with a secret smile on his lips, he leaves the room and is in the middle of making a mental list of things to bring when he comes across three familiar faces in the hospital’s lobby.

He stops dead in his tracks. The three Russians stare at him.

“… how is he?”, Glaz eventually asks.

Buck isn’t sure yet why they’re looking at him as if he’d insulted their grandmother but feels his pulse quickening nonetheless. Even singularly, they’re intimidating, and together they’re downright terrifying. “He’s alright. Are you going to visit him?”

“That’s why we’re here”, Tachanka’s voice booms, “but we were just told to clear our visit with Shuhrat’s husband.”

Oh. Oh no.

“Well”, says Buck, panicking internally. “A funny mistake to make, isn’t it?”

“Because apparently for right now, only visits by close family members or spouses are allowed”, Kapkan adds without missing a beat, glaring a hole into Buck’s skull, “but his husband is apparently fine.”

Maybe he can run. The exit is behind them, but if he dodges Kapkan, he can -

“Don’t even think about it”, Glaz advises him politely and Buck just accepts his fate.

“Las Vegas”, Kapkan repeats, deadpan, apparently still not understanding it the third time whereas Tachanka continues his full-belly laugh which already made him sit down on the floor. By now he’s wheezing and suffering from oxygen deprivation, judging by the colour of his face and the receptionist’s worried glances in their direction. Glaz looks like he’s not sure whether to facepalm or simply leave.

“Yes”, Buck sheepishly confirms for the third time. “You remember that we stayed behind to do some sightseeing for a few days?”

“I can only imagine the fucking sights you saw between his legs”, Tachanka croaks and starts coughing from laughing too much.

“Why in the world would you get married though?”

Glaz’ disbelief does nothing to lessen Buck’s embarrassment. “It seemed like a good idea at the time?”

“How the fuck did you convince him to go through with it?”

“Well, he was going through an intense phase of euphoria and unhindered self-expression.”

“Also, he was piss drunk”, Tachanka translates helpfully and Buck nods with a grimace.

“I’m going to gut you”, Kapkan hisses and alright, it seems the niceties are over now.

“To be fair, I was also piss drunk”, he attempts to defend himself and watches a little helplessly as the murderous glint in the Russian’s eyes does not disappear.

“And this entire time everyone thought you were roommates.” For some reason, Glaz sounds disappointed.

“You’re not wrong. It’s a more… permanent arrangement though.”

“Divorce him.” All eyes land on Kapkan whose stony expression nonetheless betrays his anger. “You have no idea what the fuck you’re doing, you’re not in love, you’re not planning to stay together for the rest of your lives. It was a mistake. Haven’t you thought of the possibility that he’s staying with you out of a sense of duty, and not because he wants to?”

Of course he has, and not only once – but this is a thought which he didn’t allow to penetrate their bubble filled with lazy evenings and rare cuddling and occasional hour-long conversations, a bubble Buck protected with all his might and which now has burst to leave behind… not much, really. Getting his fierce denial rubbed in his face by one of Fuze’s closest friends, by someone who knows him well and understands his motives, is disillusioning, produces a bad taste in his mouth. The thought of having bound Fuze to himself purely through a drunken mistake they made together is uncomfortable. Not an achievement about which he’ll ever brag.

“You’re acting like he doesn’t have a brain of his own”, Tachanka starts berating Kapkan after having gotten up with Glaz’ help, but Buck stops him with a shake of his head.

“No, it’s – I’ll talk this through with him.”

He doesn’t talk it through with Fuze. That evening, he takes stock of their odd friendship he hesitates to even call relationship and tries to look at it from an outsider’s viewpoint. They’ve never brought up their spontaneous wedding again, merely drifted towards each other until Fuze moved in as a logical next step, and while they’ve been opening up to each other, there’s no way Fuze would actively want for their marriage to last. It’s a miracle he even let it go this far.

Another irate call from Kapkan convinces him that there’s really only one conclusion to draw, one decision to make, and so with a heavy heart, he makes it.

Fuze returns home two days later, occasionally colliding with a door frame and complaining about the staff which kept him for much longer than necessary, doesn’t mention the perfectly functional sink and immediately starts his ritual of clumsily seducing Buck with a series of thinly-veiled innuendos and pretty obvious gestures. The second time he bends down to pick something up, marvellous contoured backside directed at a highly amused Buck, he nearly faceplants and so Buck drags him to bed once he’s regained his balance. He makes love to him more gently than usual and swallows all the little noises Fuze makes, worships his body as if this was the last time he’d get to do so, and ignores the possibility that it might be. They gaze into each other’s eyes as they come, Fuze biting his own lip with such a reverent expression that Buck is overcome with a sudden surge of emotion prompting him to wrap himself around the Uzbek when they go to sleep and keep him in his bed instead of letting him escape to his own room.

The next day, Buck receives mail.

“Much better”, he informs Frost with a distracted smile. “His vision is still a little messed up and he’s voiced his intent to off the guy who hit him several times, but his usual sunny disposition is making a comeback.”

“I’m glad to hear it”, his teammates beams. “You were very worried about him, I could tell.”

“Yeah”, he confirms and tries his best to concentrate on their conversation which is ultimately hopeless. When he left this morning, he placed the papers on the kitchen table, impossible to overlook, but he’s heard nothing from Fuze so far. “He’s – yeah. I’m always worried.”

This earns him a warm smile and for a moment he considers whether Frost knows just how true his words really are and in which emotion they’re rooted. “And he’s back at work already?”

“No, he’s meant to stay at home for at least -” And suddenly, someone slams a stack of papers onto his table, right next to his lunch, nearly giving him a heart attack with the loud, unexpected noise.

“What”, Fuze says and points accusingly at the offending sheets, “the fuck.”

At first Buck doesn’t recognise them because they’re in an extremely sorry state, a corner burnt off, most of them crumpled in some way and potato peels as well as egg shells pieces clinging to the top one wetly as if the stack had spent an undisclosed time in the garbage. It’s not hard to figure out who maltreated the papers this way because Fuze is seething, not to mention that he drove to the base purely to toss them under Buck’s nose. “Let’s talk about this privately, shall we?”, he suggests and gets up to appease the furious Uzbek, knowing how much he hates scenes of any kind – and a half-full canteen certainly is the worst place to discuss the matter at hand.

“No. I’m not signing this. The hell is wrong with you?”

People are looking now. “Listen, it’s for the best and you know it. We didn’t really know what we were doing back then and I don’t want to hold you back in the future. I don’t want there to be a sense of obligation or -”

“No”, Fuze repeats coldly.

Frost isn’t the only one who’s following Buck’s hushed whispers with interest. “Please, be reasonable. It’s insane and the sooner we rectify -”

“There’s only one thing I need to know”, Fuze interrupts him, standing tall, chest puffed up and eyes boring into Buck’s, civilian clothing out of place and the sole focus of everyone’s attention at this point. “I’m bad with words, but I understand actions. I only sleep in my bed because the way you move around at night drives me insane, but if you want me to share your bed, I will. I don’t touch you all the time because just being in the same room with you makes me happy so it’s enough for me, but if you want me to do it more, I will. I don’t talk about how I feel because I’m scared and I don’t want to drive you away, but I trust you, so if you want me to try and do it, I will. But I need to know whether I misunderstood your gestures or not.”

He’s hurt. Buck realises too late that it’s not Fuze’s pride which he wounded but his feelings, his trust. He thought he’d set Fuze free while Fuze interpreted it as being cast away. “It’s not about that”, he begins to explain but Fuze once again doesn’t let him finish.

“Do you want to divorce me?”, the Uzbek asks loudly in case anyone present hasn’t caught on yet.

Buck shakes his head without hesitation. It’s the last thing he wants, if he’s honest.

Rather unceremonially, Fuze grabs his collar and smashes their mouths together, Fuze still with his bandage and in casual clothes, Fuze who tried to destroy the divorce papers in several ways before accepting their reality, Fuze who hates scenes and grand gestures and public displays of any kind, who told Buck to keep their entanglement a secret and convinced him to lie – just kisses him right then and there.

It doesn’t last long but leaves Buck breathless still, gasping for air and possibly more because Fuze rarely initiates their kisses. “Then we’re not getting a fucking divorce, end of topic”, Fuze snarls, “and buy some eggs when work is over, we’re out.” He snatches the stack off the table, turns on his heel and dumps it in the bin on his way out.

Buck’s face is burning hotly and he feels three pairs of eyes glaring daggers into his back. He doesn’t meet any of them.

“What are you waiting for?”, Frost wants to know, not at all looking surprised. “Go after him and apologise.”

The catcall trailing after him as he hurries towards the door behind which Fuze just disappeared does nothing to quell his embarrassment but doesn’t change his resolve either. He really should address a few fundamental topics with Fuze which he’s been avoiding ever since that fateful deployment in Nevada, he supposes, but right now all he wants to do is kiss him until they’re both light-headed.

#rainbow six siege #buck #fuze #buck/fuze #fanfic #commissions #I've come to love these two so much #thank you again for the rarepair request #this healed my soul and cleansed my mind #watch as I obsess about them for a bit now

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antihero-writings · 5 years

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The Things We Say Aloud—Pandora Hearts Fic for Phmonth18 Rainsworth Trio Week—Prompt 2: Family (Full Fic)

Fic Title: The Things We Say Aloud

Fic Synopsis: The Rainsworth Trio has a tradition of midnight snowball fights. But what if this is Break’s last?

Notes: This is another fic I wrote last Christmas (for the prompt “Rain”), but I think will work well for Phmonth18. I think it works best for the Rainsworth Trio Prompt 2: Family. You don’t have to have read the previous Christmas fic to understand it, but they are supposed to take place in the same year, and there are a few connections/references between them. (The other one is called “In Plain Sight” and you can read it on this blog, and/or at I_prefer_the_term_antihero ‘s Ao3!)

Out of all the PH fics I’ve written so far, this is honestly probably my favorite. I would deeply appreciate it if you commented to let me know you enjoyed it!

I feel like the Rainsworth Trio–especially Sharon and Break–don’t really talk about Break’s death, even though they know it’s coming. I thought it would be interesting to explore how such a conversation would go, and almost made myself cry writing it!

Also, point of interest, a song that I think works really well for the section of this fic where Break is pondering if it will be his last Christmas is “Into the Open Air” from the Brave soundtrack.

P.S. This is a repost of an old fic!

Fic:

Rain pounded its tune on the roof. It was the kind of rain that swarms the air, making it misty, grey, and cold with the buzzing of a thousand tiny drops.

It wasn’t that he disliked the rain. There will always be something about the rain that’s soothing to people dealing with sorrow. But rain like this; that pounds, and pounds, and doesn’t dissipate, sometimes serves to extend the mistiness inside too. Though it could be a rest, a relief, people like him always pray for the sun to come back. For sunny days and summer light were something people like him, with red eyes, and a past full of sin, knew they didn’t deserve, but couldn’t help seeking all the same.

Xerxes Break walked through the hallway of the Rainsworth manor. He wore his turquoise and gold outfit, half of his white hair falling across his shoulder, the other, shorter side, messily added to the covering the bandages provided—bandages over the place where his left eye should have been, though it rarely bled anymore.

As he passed by one of the rooms, he saw Sharon. She looked so small, but so regal, sitting on the windowsill, with her back to the glass, now frosted with condensation. Her chestnut hair was pulled back with a ribbon, and she was wearing her little pink dress. The little girl was pouting, staring at the ground, her arms folded over her chest in the characteristic expression children wear when they don’t get their way.

He paused, resting his hand on the doorframe.

She lifted her head.

When she met his eyes, he remembered very quickly that was not in his skill set to comfort little girls.

When he glanced back, she was giving him a look that said Well? Aren’t you going to come comfort me?

He knew better than to disobey such a look. He took a deep breath and walked in, hopping up on the windowsill next to her.

Like the rain, it wasn’t that he disliked kids, he just didn’t know how to deal with them. When they cried and threw tantrums…in short, he didn’t know how to deal with emotion (well, strong ones anyways). He couldn’t help hoping that kids like her could stay happy, and innocent forever. Like he had hoped for his young mistress from another time, and seen it go so very wrong, then later heard, through his own interference, that he had made it go far worse. But children would have to get hurt, they would have to grow up, some day. And in turn, they would become the kinds of creatures who hurt, and caused pain, who even killed, and made excuses for it…creatures like himself.

Luckily, he found that Sharon was a much happier, much kinder, much stronger child than most.

When she didn’t speak—(he didn’t dare ask, for fear of making it worse)—he turned to look outside the window.

“Xerx-niisan,” she began at last, “Why is the sky crying?”

He turned back to her, raising an eyebrow. “Huh?”

They weren’t siblings; they weren’t even remotely related. But for some reason, the name fixed itself in her mouth, and nothing he did or said could change that.

She could be a little tyrant sometimes.

At his misunderstanding, she continued to pout, averting her eyes. Then she jerked back to look at him, (he flinched a little), and said in a high pitched voice, “It’s almost Christmas! Why is it raining? It should be snowing!”

“Oh,” he relaxed a little, contemplating his response, “Well…it’s not going to stop raining just because you want it to. Sometimes,” he gave a sardonic smile that was more painful than the frown that seemed fixed on his face, looking away into the rain, as if he would find answers reading the drops, “things…people…that should be happy, just can’t be. And no matter how much you want something…”

He trailed off, and when he turned back, he saw tears welling in her eyes.

Nice going, Xerxes, you barely have to open your mouth to make a little girl cry.

There they were, brimming to the surface: all those emotions he didn’t know what to do with. He could only sit there, waiting for her own brand of rain to start, wanting more than anything to escape, to not have to figure out the right words to fix her.

It was the crying he hated the most. Maybe it was because it reminded him too much of a certain day, long ago, of a certain girl…but the snow did fall that day…

Still, he wasn’t going to tell her that if she just wished hard enough, if she believed in hope, the-general-goodness-of-the-world-and-its-inhabitants, and maybe a little bit of magic, that the snow would fall, that she could change things. Wishes were dangerous things, and he didn’t suggest anyone make them. You never know who, or what, might be listening.

Fortunately, before the tears reached her cheeks, Sharon’s mother, Shelly Rainsworth, appeared at the doorway. She looked almost exactly like an older version of her daughter, the same chestnut hair, the same smile that shined with a light of its own.

Upon seeing the tearful look on her daughter’s face, she marched into the room, put her hands on her hips, and turned to Break.

“Xerxes,” she said his name like he really was Sharon’s brother, “what did you say to her?”

“Why do you assume it was my fault, Shelly-sama?” he muttered, sounding like the child she was calling out.

“Let’s just say you have a habit of stepping on people’s feelings.”

He sighed. “I was only telling her that it won’t start snowing simply because she wants it to.”

“It’s almost Christmas, mother!” Sharon said like she was pleading her case, the tears reappearing in her eyes.

Shelly smiled, shaking her head.

“What am I going to do with you two?” she crouched down in front of Sharon, and paused, contemplating her own question for a moment. “Tell you what, sweetie; I can’t promise it’ll start snowing because you want it to, but I can promise this:” she pushed her daughter’s tears away, “The moment it starts snowing—or, I suppose,” she interrupted herself, “the moment there’s enough snow on the ground, but no later!—we’ll go outside, and have a snowball fight. How does that sound?”

“Really?” Sharon raised her head, the sadness lifting a little.

“Even if I’m busy, or it starts snowing in the middle of the night,” Shelly elaborated, grinning, “No, especially, if it’s in the middle of the night,” she placed a finger on Sharon’s nose, at which the little girl giggled, “I’ll wake you up—or you me—then, while everyone else is asleep, we’ll run around the house in just our pajamas and coats, we’ll wake Xerxes—”

“What?!” Break blurted out.

“Yes, we’ll wake Xerxes,” she repeated smirking, “drag him outside—”

“Do I get a say in this?!”

“Nope,” she grinned mischievously, “Don’t think I’m letting you get out of this one.”

“Tch.” He looked away.

She walked calmly to the couch, picked up one of the pillows, as if she was going to fluff it, brought it over to them, and smacked him with it.

He growled, his red eye starting to blaze, like some caged beast.

She threw the pillow back onto the couch, sighing, saying seriously, “I don’t want you sitting here on this windowsill forever…I know, somewhere inside you, there’s someone…” she pondered it, then smiled, saying simply, “Someone who’s not afraid. You’re stronger than you think. Deep down, I think, these sorts of things that seem childish, like snowball fights, and tea-parties,” she smirked, “fun things, you actually enjoy.”

He looked away, as if knowing he could only disappoint her.

She added softly, placing a finger on his chin, making him look at her,

“We’ll see that smile someday, Xerxes Break.”

He stared at her as she took her fingers away, then he blinked, averting his eyes again. murmuring something about, “Really, Shelly-sama…I’d just ruin—”

“Sharon,” Shelly interrupted his mutterings, turning to her daughter, “Do you think Xerxes should sit here sulking, day in and day out, or do you think he should join our snowball fight?”

“Xerx-niisan should come with us!” she didn’t even take a breath before she answered.

He stared into the little girl’s eyes, so full of hope, no question, no hesitation, just…kindness, endless kindness.

Shelly smiled at her daughter, which turned into devious smirk when she looked at him.

“Checkmate.”

He bit his lip before jumping back down to the ground, muttering incoherently his displeasure, knowing once they were set, he couldn’t change their minds.

They could be tyrants sometimes.

Most people wouldn’t have gone near him, much less want him to be a part of something…well, fun. He knew what people said about him. It didn’t matter, it had been a long time since he had cared what other people thought, plus, he more than welcomed the lack of company. But, the thing is, he knew they were right; he was creepy, and dark, and very, very dangerous. So, he too, often wondered why they had taken him in, why they treated him like something worth saving, worth dragging out of bed for snowball fights, and tea-parties, rather than being sure, like rest of the world was—like he was—that he would just darken everything with any amount of light in it.

That’s what Children of Misfortune were for, right?

A little girl, who should have been more scared of him than anyone, who should’ve wanted him as far away from her and her snowball fights than anyone, could not only go near him, but fail to hesitate as she bounded up to this dark-and-dangerous man, looked into that blood-red eye, and asked him why the sky was crying, gave him flowers, and called him “brother.”

And that was worth more to him than he would ever dare admit aloud.

*****

It was from nightmares about knights, and blood, little girls, dolls, and names that he never mentioned, that Xerxes Break awoke from.

Breath and heartbeat weighed heavily on his chest. Once the memories faded enough for him to remember that, though it may have been real, it was not now, he gritted his teeth together, slamming his fist into the wall behind him. He didn’t care how much pain was pulsating through his hand.

If only it would take his mind off the throbbing in his empty eye socket.

If he had been a weaker man, perhaps he would have screamed, even cried, perhaps he would have whispered something pitifully to the sheets about not wanting to remember again, not wanting nightmares like this one to show their faces in his head. But he had already made a wish, and these nightmares were its descendants. He didn’t have the authority to dream anymore.

All he had was the anger and regret surging through his body, and nowhere for it to go, except make his past a weapon that shattered him just as much as it did his enemies, into glass shards, and cold bones, and bloodstained roles.

Still, there was some part of him that hoped after so many years they would have stopped haunting him. And sure, maybe it wasn’t every night, but they did come. Perhaps that’s why they call them ghosts; There were too many horrors to be reminded of, too many sins to feel guilty for, too little he could do to fix it, and the nightmares were all too eager for the task. One lifetime was not enough for them to let him forget.

They say ‘there’s no rest for the wicked’, and his mind was often cruel enough to remind him.

When he raised his gaze, he saw that the curtain was open just slightly, and something in the sliver of window flickered.

The Mad Hatter sighed, throwing his legs over the side of the bed.

It was awfully cold.

He stepped up to the window, gently pulling back the curtain, just enough so he could see.

He drew in a breath softly, his eye widening at the view:

It was snowing.

There was enough moonlight to see flakes falling upon the grounds—which were cloaked in white by now.

Like that time years ago, for the whole month, the only thing that fell from the clouds was rain, and finally, the sky decided that Christmas Eve was no time to be laying in bed, sleeping, or else dreaming about past follies.

“Well, Shelly-sama, what do you think?” he spoke softly to the merciful sky, “One last snowball fight?” he paused a moment, turning, leaning against the window, as if waiting for an answer to be whispered in his ear.

He stepped over to his wardrobe, throwing a coat over his pajamas, taking up some winter gloves, putting on socks and boots, and, as always, placing Emily on his shoulder (she wouldn’t want to miss this).

Lighting the candelabra on his nightstand, he ventured into the hallway, making his way toward Sharon’s bedroom.

Opening the door as quietly as he could, he walked in, setting the light on her nightstand.

Sharon was sleeping soundly on her curtained bed, her hair splayed all over the sheets, wrinkled in the night’s sleep, and she hugged her pillow.

He resisted the urge to laugh at her un-proper appearance.

Break sat on the side of her bed, by her head, saying quietly,

“Ojousama.”

She stirred in her sleep, muttering something indecipherable.

He gently ran his hand through her hair, saying louder, “Sharon.”

She blinked open fuchsia eyes to see her servant.

“Break,” she muttered his name softly.

Slowly, she sat up, yawning, looking around.

“Break, what’re you…?” she began, fatigue weighing down her words, then shook it away by shaking her head, “What are you doing in my room?! In the middle of the night! How dare you wake me up!”

He knew what was coming next: she grabbed one of the pillows, and he dodged it before she hit him with it. “Do you think you can just come in here as you please?!”

“Really, Ojousama,” he laughed, standing back up, “You think I’d risk injury without good reason?”

She folded her arms over her chest, pouting. He walked over to the window, throwing open the curtain, standing beside it.

“This better not be one of your pranks, Break,” she muttered, walking over to the window.

“Relax. When have I ever been that cruel?”

She glared at him, as if to say I-could-name-a-few-times, then turned to the window, surveying the landscape outside.

Her aggravated expression broke for widened eyes and a smile.

“Break!” she exclaimed, all grievance forgotten, grabbing his hands and spinning him around, “It’s snowing!!” she let go of him, and jumped up on the bed, repeating, “It’s snowing!! It’s snowing!!”

He smirked, folding his arms over his chest; No matter how old she really was, she still looked like that little kid to him.

“What do you say?” he helped her down from the bed, “One last snowball fight?”

“What are you talking about ‘one last’?” she grabbed the pillow and managed to catch him off guard this time. “You better not be talking about that again!”

She didn’t wait for him to respond as she dropped the pillow and ran over to her wardrobe, found a little coat to throw over her nightshirt, boots, and gloves, then handed him a ribbon to tie her hair back.

“Ready?” he tapped her on the shoulder when he had finished tying her hair.

She nodded, beaming.

They weren’t too far from Reim’s room when Break asked her to hold the candelabra, and stepped down the stairs to the front door.

“Where are you going?” she asked, “Reim’s room is this way.”

“This will only take a moment,” he grinned.

She put her hand on her hip, scowling at him as he ran out the front door. Quickly he returned, with the first snowball in his gloved hand.

“Break! Just what are you intending to do with that?!”

“You’ll see!” said Emily.

Sharon sighed, placing her head in her hand.

Reim stayed at the Rainsworth’s often enough that he had his own room (albeit, not a very fancy one). They quietly entered it to see the servant laying on a bed, much neater than either of theirs, facing away from them. His glasses, and some extra paperwork he just couldn’t leave at work, lay dormant on his nightstand.

Break tiptoed up to his friend, gently pulled back the collar of his shirt, and stuffed a snowball down the back of his shirt.

It was a moment before it took effect, but when it did, Reim skyrocketed out of bed, dancing around, until the snow fell onto the floor.

Break could barely contain his laughter.

He rested his hands on his knees panting. When he regained his bearings enough to figure out what had just happened, and saw Break laughing, he shouted,

“XERXES, YOU BASTARD!!”

Reim lunged at Break, at which the older man only needed to step out of the way, to make Reim trip onto the floor.

“Yes, a tired Reim-san, without his glasses, is definitely a match for me,” he remarked, leaning over him,

“A normal Reim-san isn’t exactly a match either!” Emily squeaked.

“Now, now Emily,” Break chided his doll playfully, “we mustn’t rub this sort of thing in people’s faces.”

“I’m gonna kill you,” Reim’s voice was muffled by the floor

Break laughed, “Is that so?”

“All in good fun!” Emily chirped.

“It’s not fun for me!” he retorted, sitting up, “How can your idea of fun be tormenting your best friend!” Reim got up off the floor and sat on his bed.

“Come now, Reim-san, ‘torment’ is a little harsh, don’t you think?”

“I meant what I said! I mean, who in their right mind thinks a good way to wake their friend up is to stuff freezing-cold snow—”

He interrupted himself, looking at each of them with question in his eyes. He repeated the word, “Snow…?”

Sharon and Break grinned at each other.

Break helped his friend up, saying, “And whoever said I was in my right mind? Didn’t you know? All the best people are mad.”

Reim rolled his eyes.

Sharon and Break stepped up to the window to unveil the answer to his question. Reim followed to inspect the view outside.

Then he looked at each of them, shaking his head and smiling. “Really, you two, after all these years…”

He trailed off, going over to his wardrobe to put on the winter clothes he kept there.

They barely had time to blow out the candles before Sharon grabbed both their hands and dragged them out into the moonlit hall.

They were like little kids trying to get a peek at Santa; bumbling down the hall, almost falling over each other, shushing each other, as they made their way through the manor, down the stairs, out the front door, into the cold grounds.

Even with their winter clothing, the cold still crept in. The snow muffled ordinary sounds, falling seamlessly, sparks of scattered moonlight gleaming off the flakes.

“So, we’ll—” Reim was interrupted by Break throwing a snowball at the back of his head.

“Oy! I was talking!” he whirled around.

“What’s there to talk about, Reim-san?” Break tossed another snowball up and down in his hand.

“I was simply—”

This time it was Sharon who threw the snowball at his face.

“Nice shot, Ojousama,” Break mentioned.

“Thank you,” she grinned, “You’re next, Xerx-niisan.”

“Alright, you two are going down,” Reim challenged.

“That’s more like,” Break smirked.

It didn’t make sense that three adults could have so much fun doing something so childish as playing in the snow. But between exploding snow and shouting, their laughter was what radiated like light from the scene. Maybe they forgot they weren’t children, they forgot that they had grown up things to do, responsibilities to attend to, and that the world was really comprised of blood and pain, and worthless names, not innocence and friendship.

The mad tea party, forever trapped in a moment, forgotten by time.

It was a while later when another voice broke through:

“Hey, what are you guys doing?”

They paused, turning to see Oz at one of the balconies.

“Our humblest apologies, Oz-sama!” Reim shouted back, bowing low, “We didn’t intend to be so loud!”

“No worries!” he yawned, “Are you…having a snowball fight?”

“That’s right, Oz-kun,” Break answered, “Would you like to join us?”

“Really?! You’ll let me?!”

“Sure,” he tossed a snowball up and down in his hand again, “but we certainly won’t be going easy on you!”

Oz beamed. “Hang on a sec! Lemme grab Gil and Alice!”

Not long afterwards, they heard the all-too-familiar sounds of Gilbert and Alice shouting, and they their annoyed faces appeared on the balcony.

“Why are you three having a snowball fight at 6:00 in the morning!” Gilbert yelled down to them.

“Oh? You scared you didn’t make the cut?” Break taunted . “Clown! Is this your doing?!” Alice demanded, “I’ll come down there and make you pay for waking me up!”

As Break spoke to them, Reim saw it as an opportunity to get his own revenge, and snuck up behind him. Break, of course, still heard him coming and, once again, tripped him, as he got close.

Break walked around him in a circle, grinning shaking his head, “You’re going to have to try harder than that to beat me.”

Reim gave an expression akin to Gilbert’s evil eye.

Break kicked some snow onto his head as he walked by, just to rub it his face (quite literally).

Oz, Gilbert, and Alice tumbled down the front steps, already laughing and yelling at each other before they even joined the fight.

“Well look who it is,” Break taunted, leaning over them, then Emily continued,

“The dumb bunny, the spoiled brat, and—” he didn’t get to finish, because the two lunged at him.

There weren’t really any teams, or way of keeping score—it was everyone against everyone else, though each of them had their own approach: Gilbert had a more meticulous method; creating a stash of snowballs, and walls to hide behind, (often getting hit in the building process). Oz was would sneak up on people, and took particular pleasure in knocking down, or stealing, Gil’s hard work, while Alice ran around pelting everyone in sight, holding a particular grudge against anyone who landed a hit on her (who were mostly Break and Oz).

Near the end of their fight, as Break snuck up on Sharon, just about to land a hit on her, he found himself falling, and was then somehow on the other side of the yard,

He paused to regain his bearings, and stood back up to his full height, quickly discerning what had happened.

“Is that really fair, Ojousama?” he called across the yard, knowing she had used her Chain.

She chuckled like it was a trivial offense, “Since when have you cared what’s fair Xerx-niisan?”

Well, she got me there.

It was at this moment he felt a rush of cold! against his neck, and tensed, resisting the urge to spill some choice words. He spun around to see that Reim had been waiting behind a nearby tree and, as he addressed his mistress, Reim had managed to get the perfect revenge.

Break pulled back his shirt to make sure the snow fell, scowling at his friend.

“Say it,” Reim folded his arms over his chest.

“What? That you got me?”

Reim’s expression was unmoving.

“I’ll say nothing of the sort, Reim-san,” he flicked his glasses, “After all, you merely copied me. You should be more creative next time.”

Reim’s fingers curled into fists, practically growling at him.

“I didn’t know we could use Chains!” Oz called, running up to them, having noticed Sharon’s expert use of Eques, (but not the following exchange between Break and Reim.)

“Seaweed-head! Release my limiter!” Alice shouted when she heard, “I want to smash the clowny bastard to smithereens!”

“Is that so?” Break called, “You really want to go down that path, Alice-kun?” Break smirked evilly, “My Mad Hatter would destroy you before Gilbert-kun even had the chance.”

“You wanna go, clown!” Alice hollered, and Gilbert had to hold her back to keep her from rushing at him with teeth and claws.

Reim looked worried, and Oz—wearing a similar expression—spoke in hushed tones, “No, Alice! You don’t want to go up against his Mad Hatter!”

“Try me, Manservant!”

“Break! No one wants to see you killing yourself over some stupid fight with some little girl!” Gilbert scolded.

“Oy! Who you callin’ ‘some little girl’?!” Alice snapped at Gilbert.

That seemed to return Reim to his senses,

“That’s right!” Reim scolded, “What did I tell you about being reckless with your powers?!”

“Always so tense, you two,” he walked up to Alice and ruffled her hair, “I’m only teasing.”

Alice broke free, and the fight resumed, though the others were glad to see neither managed to draw blood, and that it quickly returned to the antics of the snowy game.

And for one brief moment, Break forgot about everything else. About the nightmares, the regrets, and the answers he clung to so desperately as a reason to keep himself from falling further. And for one moment, he could see those flickering lights behind dark eyes, and he was happy he could feel the cold biting his skin, he was happy he could see their faces—rosy-cheeked, all smiles and laughs, even if they were yelling at him—for one precious flicker of a moment, he was happy to be alive.

That moment would end. The shadows would crawl back from the corners of his mind, the smiles would become fake again, the world would become a wax museum of happiness. Reasons that were just that, empty reasons; desire had left them behind in an alleyway long ago, for better, darker wishes. The pain would come back, and once again he’d convince himself, I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care about them. About what happens to me. The snow white chaos would return to tears too fast. But in this moment, it was okay. He was okay.

Sharon and Reim ran at him, but instead of getting out of the way, this time he let them bowl him over, the three of them collapsing in the snow.

Shock flitted across their faces, which broke for smiles.

He wanted to say he was sorry. He wanted to tell them over and over I love you both so very much. But he wasn’t the only one who knew that those words falling from Xerxes Break’s lips was all too close to admitting defeat. Because if he admitted he cared, then he wouldn’t be able to let them go when the end came. And he knew it would come all too soon. His lips wouldn’t dare betray him with such miserable words.

So they settled for a smile.

His real smile. Not the smirks and grins he gave away at a moment’s notice. The smile that was barely perceptible, but which, for them, captured within its folds more sunlight than anything else in their world.

Sharon and Reim glanced at each other, then smiled back at him, deciding not to sully the moment with words.

And, as soon as it came, the true smile was replaced with a smirk.

“You two really are gullible,” he put snow in their hair.

They jumped up, shouting his name, trying to rub it out, then quickly ran after him.

He couldn’t tell them the truth. He couldn’t tell them that he was thinking how this might be his last Christmas. He couldn’t tell them how he was wondering if they would still put his stocking on the mantelpiece when he was gone.

He didn’t get a chance to anyways, because it wasn’t long afterwards when beads of citrus and crimson light began tracing the navy sky.

They paused, panting, raising their eyes to look into the sunrise.

For a moment they stared silently at the art the morning made of daybreak, gentle smiles tracing their lips at the beauty.

Then Oz broke in, exclaiming,

“Merry Christmas, everyone!”

“Merry Christmas!” they answered, a little tiredly.

“What do you guys think?” Reim asked, “Ready to go inside?”

“Aww, but we were having so much fun!” Oz protested, trying to mask the fatigue in his voice.

“Easy for you to say, we’re exhausted!”

“To be fair, we were out here much longer than them,” Break panted, realizing just how tired he was. “Perhaps I have gotten old after all. If you youngin’s want to go on—” he flapped a shirt sleeve their direction.

“There he goes again calling himself old!”

Sharon broke in, “Don’t you want to open presents?”

“Presents?!” Oz repeated, like a dog who had seen a squirrel, glancing at Gilbert and Alice, his grin widening.

They began to make their way inside, still laughing and talking about the plays they each had made, and how they would eventually get each other back. As they walked back, instead of joining the conversation, Sharon gently tugged on the corner of Break’s coat, holding him back.

He turned to see that instead of the tired, but joy-full smile that had traced her face moments earlier, she was hanging her head low.

“Ojousama?” he asked worriedly, crouching down beside her, seeing tears begin to grace her cheeks.

The others noticed, and stopped too.

“Xerxes! What did you do?!” Reim demanded.

“Yeah, Break! How dare you make a girl cry on Christmas?!” Oz questioned, running up to her.

He rolled his eyes at them.

“I’m fine, everyone,” Sharon reassured them, giving a somewhat plastered smile, “I’ll just be a moment.”

They all glanced at each other, knowing something was clearly wrong.

“Are you sure?” Gilbert asked.

“Yeah, Sharon-chan, if you need something—”

“Yes. Please, go inside. Break and I will catch up with you.”

They glanced at each other.

“Alright, Sharon-chan. Just let us know if you need anything, okay?” Oz put a hand on her shoulder.

“Thank you, Oz-sama,” she smiled.

The others gave similar smiles back to her, then they gave Break a collective you-better-not-make-this-worse look before walking up the stairs into the manor.

“Sharon?” he asked softly.

No matter how many years went by, he still couldn’t handle the sight of a child in tears.

“Xerx-niisan,” he could tell she was fighting back against the tears, “What if… What if this is your last Christmas?”

He gasped; he didn’t expect her to be thinking about the same thing.

“What if…” she continued, breath taut, “What if we never get to have another snowball fight? What if…?”

“Well,” he rubbed his neck, looking away, “you and Reim can still—”

“Don’t act like everything will be the same when you’re gone!” she threw snow into his face.

He fell back onto his elbows, gently brushing it out of his hair. After a moment a laugh bubbled in his throat, and he put his hand on his face.

“What’s so funny?!” she demanded, scowling.

Obviously that was the wrong thing to do.

If only she had chosen someone else to comfort her; someone like Oz, who could read the situation, and chose his words carefully. Or Gilbert, who was sensitive enough to understand. Even Reim would be better, despite his rather unemotional, straightforward nature. But she had chosen him.

“It’s funny…to tell you the truth,” his voice became more serious, “It’s just…I was thinking about the same thing.”

Shock added to the concoction of hurt and yearning in her eyes.

“Y-You were?”

He looked at the ground and nodded ever so slightly.

“How dare you laugh at that?” she balled a fist in the snow, but the strength seemed to leave her.

She shook her head, tears fluttering back to her eyes, “You can’t…Xerx-niisan, you can’t! I…I don’t want to be alone!” she put her arms around him and fell onto him.

His eye was wide, his breath harsh and cold as he looked at the girl in his arms, forgetting for a less than a moment that she was not that little girl in a darkened room, surrounded by coffins.

He shook his head of the memory.

“You won’t be alone, you’ll have Reim, and Sheryl-sama, and—”

She lifted her head to scowl at him, as if to say must-I-repeat-what-I-said and he cleared his throat, changing his method of attack.

“Well, I won’t go down easy, that’s for sure. But, despite how it might seem,” he gently ran his finger along her cheek, giving that sad but true smile, and whispered, “I am not that strong.”

“You think you can talking about you dying all the time and I’ll just—?!” she tried to fight back, to be angry, but her words fell like the snow, and she murmured again, she let her head fall back onto his shoulder, and whispered back, “Xerx-niisan…”

He gently wrapped his own arms around her.

“I want to be there for you…” she murmured, “I don’t want you to do something stupid…You’re always running into fights without a second thought…” she sobbed for a moment before saying, “Maybe we could…maybe we could stop it? I-I could go into the fights with Eques…Oz-sama and Gilbert-sama—”

He pressed a kiss into her hair, and as she lifted her head off his shoulder to look at him with the wide and teary eyes of her younger self. The look in his eyes was enough to say I’m sorry, Sharon.

“It’s just like I told you, Ojousama,” he ran his fingers through her hair, and murmured into her ear, “No matter how much I may want it to, I can’t stop it from raining.”

She lifted her head off his shoulder to look at him.

“No matter how much we might want it to, we can make the snow fall. Our wishes can’t change things. Even if…” his words were blown by the wind into the stars.

She shook her head gently, murmuring that name.

“Just promise me you won’t make any illegal contracts to bring me back,” he laughed a little, which turned into a grimace, and she knew just how serious he was being.

She smiled for the first time since the conversation started. “I promise.”

For a moment they sat there, together, in a sort of limbo, watching as the sunrise turned into a light blue sky—a present sorrow caught between the earlier joy, wondering which emotion of the two would soon come. Moments were so finicky.

“I can’t promise I’ll have another Christmas, but we still have today. Let’s not waste it with talking about depressing things.”

She nodded, smiling.

He gently reached down and picked her up.

“Xerx-niisan!” she protested at first.

He touched her nose with his finger.

After a moment, as he took her inside, she rested her head against him sleepily, murmuring, “Xerx-niisan, I don’t want…I don’t want you to pretend you’re okay for my sake.”

His eye widened and he jerked his head to look at her.

“Don’t give me that look,” she responded, “I know you do it. You think I can’t handle it.”

He took a deep breath, “I’m fine, Ojousama,” he murmured, and smiled, “It’s Christmas, after all.”

She shook her head, “No you’re not!”

Once again he kissed her head gave her his real smile, “No, really, Sharon. I am. At least for today.”

The smile she returned was real too.

And that was worth far more to them than either of them needed to say aloud.

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i-prefer-the-term-antihero · 5 years

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The Things We Say Aloud—Pandora Hearts Fic for Rainsworth Trio Week—Prompt 2: Family (Full Fic)

Fic Title: The Things We Say Aloud

Fic Synopsis: The Rainsworth Trio has a tradition of midnight snowball fights. But what if this is Break’s last?

Notes: This is another fic I wrote last Christmas (for the prompt “Rain”), but I think will work well for Phmonth18. I think it works best for the Rainsworth Trio Prompt 2: Family. You don't have to have read the previous Christmas fic to understand it, but they are supposed to take place in the same year. (The other one is called “In Plain Sight” and you can read it here, or at I_prefer_the_term_antihero ‘s Ao3!)

Out of all the PH fics I've written so far, this is honestly probably my favorite. I would deeply appreciate it if you commented to let me know you enjoyed it!

I feel like the Rainsworth Trio--especially Sharon and Break--don't really talk about Break's death, even though they know it's coming. I thought it would be interesting to explore how such a conversation would go, and almost made myself cry writing it!

Also, point of interest, a song that I think works really well for the section of this fic where Break is pondering if it will be his last Christmas is "Into the Open Air" from the Brave soundtrack.