#heroes of millennium au | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

sohnric · 8 months

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millennium bug – e. sohn

pairing: eric sohn x fem! reader

genre: 90s au, twenty-five twenty-one au, brother's best friend au, childhood friends au, fluff, slice of life, coming of age. older brother! sunwoo. essentially just eric being baek yijin. oct-nov scenes inspired by weak hero class 1. no plot just vibes im sorry

warnings: minimal swearing and thats all lol

word count: 19k

a/n: posting a fic for a new fandom is always so scary pls be nice to me deobiblr bc im literally abt to cry. also yes i am calling this a 2521 au bc the plot is so heavily inspired it might just be one. a special thank you goes out to @csenke for dragging me into stanning this group i am enjoying myself 🤞

there are some pros and cons to not having friends growing up. cons: you're always forced to tag along with your brother and his group wherever he goes. pros: his childhood best friend is kind of hot.

JUNE OF 1999

Being Kim Sunwoo’s younger sister is no bed of roses sometimes.

Sure, you get the occasional excitement of having him bring you rollerskating with you down the hill or the ever so rare moments of him defending you in front of your mother when you two have done something wrong (while never saying he was in on the bad act as well, of course), but more than often, you are met with his disgusted looks and insults whenever the two years older boy passes by your room and casually bangs at the door just to spite you.

His snarky looks are especially ones to remember. Maybe it’s because he offers them to you often– much like in this very moment, completely unprovoked, and completely not by your fault.

“But mum–”

“I already told you, Sunwoo,” your mother looks at him with a stern look in her eye, the one that makes chills run down your spine, “you can go if you take Y/N with you.”

“But nobody’s bringing their sister! Mum, come on–”

“Take it or leave it, young man.”

And see, your brother may be 19 years old, but he’s still in need of getting permission to leave the house if it includes an overnight stay. It’s an unspoken rule he always follows, since he’s usually granted the right to leave, but the result of his conversation was different than what he expected this time. And see, you may be just two years younger than him (one year left until you are an adult), but even though your mother is too busy to take care of you and entertain your slowly adultling self on most days because of her highly demanding job, she always makes sure that you don’t stay alone for long, and that’s exactly why (you realize, contrary to your brother) she insists on making you tag along on Sunwoo’s trip to the beach house with his friends.

The male grunts and turns on his heel, not giving your mother another response– and with this, you know she won. And that means you’ll have to pack your bag soon, because you know that there’s no way Sunwoo would miss going to the beach house with his friends– even if it meant making his little sister tag along.

And sure enough, Lee Juyeon’s minivan pulls up into your driveway only a few hours later, and the sound of the honking outside is enough for your older brother to aggressively drag you outside of the house, shutting the door behind you and hollering an angry “Bye mum!” to your mother. Your figure is handled with the least amount of care possible as you’re thrown towards the white van, the door opened and 5 heads already peeking out with expecting eyes, waiting for your brother’s arrival.

“My mum made my stupid sister go with me, so I hope we have space for one more,” Sunwoo huffs as he throws his bag into the trunk, slamming it with more force than was necessary (boy does he know how to throw a scene), an encouraging voice of none other than Juyeon– the driver himself– landing in your ear.

“Sure, just hop in!”

With that, your feet finally unglue themselves off the ground and bring you into the vehicle. You’re familiar with his friends– since a scenario like this hasn’t happened for the first time and you had to spend your fair time with Sunwoo’s circle growing up, mainly because you never really had many friends yourself. You’re not close with any of them, though, and you’re sure you haven’t seen half of them for ages.

Lee Juyeon is the responsible one of the group. You’re comfortable with the fact that he’s the driver, since you’re not entirely sure if you’d trust any of the other men in this space behind the wheel (you fear the day your brother gets a driver’s license. You'd bet a million dollars that he’ll die while driving recklessly one day). Next to him on the passenger’s seat is Choi Chanhee, his best friend, carrying a map in his hands and twirling it in all possible directions to get his friend on the right track. In the three-seat behind those two is Ju Haknyeon, Ji Changmin and your brother himself, and in the very back of the whole van, almost in the trunk, you’re sat next to Eric Sohn– your brother’s childhood best friend.

“Hi guys,” you offer a greeting to all of them, settling into the uncomfortable leather seat (that’s peeling off, just by the way), watching as the rest of the men pay you no mind and ignore your voice, falling into a comfortable conversation with each other.

Sighing, because this always happens– your brother gets too annoyed because he has to bring you with him all the time, and you imagine his friends aren’t fond of the fact either– you settle deeper into the seat and cross your hands on your chest, looking outside of the window. You can’t imagine enjoying your trip now, since you feel like you’re a nuisance, a child they have to take care of (yes, it embarrasses you just the tiniest bit, you have to admit. Although, you do enjoy getting out of the house from time to time), and the fact that your feelings were probably more than justified and also true has you pouting, an unsatisfied feeling weighing at your lungs.

“Hi,” a voice resonates from your side, the sight of a smiling Eric peering at you taking you off guard. You didn’t expect anyone to react to your greeting– not so delayed anyway– and the sight of your brother’s best friend carrying on in the conversation with you has you shocked beyond belief. “Excited?”

Finding yourself hum in agreement– how much you are still excited for the pool and for the sun, you’re not really sure– and although you are upset, something about his open and nice demeanor has you visibly relaxing, the sparkles inviting themselves back into your eyes. “I’ve never been to the beach,” you admit, seeing Eric gasp at you in surprise.

“Really?” he asks. “I go every year with my parents.”

“Well,” you hum, “you know how my mother is…” you sigh, chewing on the inside of your cheek. It’s easier to joke about it than to actually let the fact get to you– with your mother being the main news anchor, she is too busy to actually go on trips and form bonds with her own children sometimes. That’s why you spent most of your childhood at Eric’s family’s house in the first place– this is what made you the closest with Sunwoo’s same aged friend. His parents were nice enough to let you stay over and have sleepovers whenever your mum had to leave suddenly and take week-long trips abroad, or have emergency shifts during late evenings.

Eric hums, sympathizing with you. “Well, at least you get to experience it now!”

“Yeah,” you awkwardly nod, playing with the hem of your jean shorts. It’s the shorts you made yourself by cutting the legs off your favorite pants after you grew out of them and they got too short, and they’re starting to look a little worn-out now. Maybe you should beg your mum to get you some new clothing.

The conversation between the boys grows in volume, doing nothing to help you to relax in the crowded vehicle. You can’t really find a place to fit yourself in and talk, the topics too unfamiliar for you and the feeling of not even being welcome in the discussion sitting heavy on your chest, when a finger bears itself to the flesh of your thigh, making you snap your head around to gape at the source of the contact. Eric looks at you with a boyish grin, sparkles evident in his eyes.

“Wanna see something?” he asks.

“Sure.”

The male digs around his backpack, hands searching through the contents of his bag for only a couple of seconds– since he’s the neat one, contrary to your messy brother– before he takes out a small gadget: a square with a little screen on top, a silver, circular button space sitting big in the very middle of the device. Eric throws the thing into your lap, smiling when you take it into your hands and examine it with curious eyes.

“Have you seen one before? My dad got it for me last week,” he boosts, satisfied with your reaction to it.

Your mother’s job pays quite well– meaning that you usually have the latest gadgets, the latest trends– but if you’re being honest, you haven’t seen one of these in real life before. Yes, you caught a glimpse of an ad for it in the town center, on one of the big billboards while passing by to get to school in the morning, so you know that it’s an MP3 player, but still; this was your first time touching one and examining it in real life.

“How does it work?” you ask, watching as the boy scoots from his seat to the middle one, so he is now sitting directly next to you, before he takes out wired headphones from the first department of his backpack and turns the little square over in his hands, finding where the jack goes.

“You put those in,” he says, plugging in the headphones, “and then you press this…” he explains, taking the device out of your hand and pushing on the power button for a few seconds, “and then it should play.”

Watching him with expecting eyes, the boy finally puts the MP3 player back into your hold. Then, his fingers swiftly put the respective earphones into your ears– like you’d do to a little kid that has no idea how they work, making you a little flushed at the action– and after that, you’re left with the sound of an unfamiliar song playing in your ears, making the sound of the chatter in the van completely tune out. Eric keeps on watching you, a sense of pride in his eyes as you nod at him, all excited with the new explory, before he takes one of the earphones out of your ear, grinning.

“Cool, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “The song is good,” you dumbly say, watching as the boy next to you pridefully nods at the compliment, resting his back against the car seat.

“It’s the H.O.T album. My dad says they’re good,” he mumbles, moving the headphone he took from you and placing it into his ear, making you nod at him in acknowledgement. The action has your insides bubble with disappointment, thinking that the fun is over as you reach for the other earphone as well, offering it to the male.

Eric looks at you with a shocked pout, shaking his head. “No, we can share!” he says, pointing towards your ear. “If you want, of course.”

The action has you smiling, a shy nod escaping out of you as you reach and put the earphone back into your ear, letting yourself fall deeper into the car seat, listening to the song from Eric’s MP3 player. You’re grateful for his presence– he didn’t have to keep up a conversation with you. He could ignore you, just like the rest of his friend group always has. Maybe it was something about the two of you growing up together that always made the boy at least a bit more affectionate towards you than the rest.

You spend the car ride to the beach house with Eric leaning on your side, listening to music and his occasional blabbering about how his previous days went.

Somehow, you're glad the seat beside him was the only vacant one when you arrived to the vehicle.

YOUR SEVENTH BIRTHDAY, 1989

You don't quite remember when you met Eric for the first time, if you’re being completely honest. The first memory you have of him is of your seventh birthday party, although you’re almost certain the boy’s been present at some point of your life before– at one point, you think you saw a picture of him and Sunwoo, two chubby toddlers, watching you as you laid on a blanket on the ground somewhere in your photo album. As far as you’re concerned, he may as well have been there when your mother brought you back from the hospital– although you think he must have been too young for that back then.

The first memory you have of Eric Sohn is the day you turned seven– a gloomy, sad day that in the moment, you prayed you wouldn’t have to remember in the first place.

It was already established that while your brother is the social butterfly, you don’t have a big friend group. Actually, you could count the number of your friends on one hand, and since the amount wasn’t as big, your mother allowed you to invite them all over to your house to celebrate your birthday with you.

She baked a cake, she decorated the living room, hell, she even took a day off from work– something you deemed special, for it doesn’t happen often– and as you sat on the floor of your living room, the cake standing proud on the small coffee table, waiting for your friends to arrive, you hummed a song under your breath, the clock slowly passing the time you agreed for them to come over and celebrate.

At first, you didn’t mind it– everybody gets late sometimes, it’s okay. It was just a birthday party, and you had a lot of time. Not everything had to be set on schedule.

But the closer the clock moved to being one hour, than two after the time your friends were supposed to come, you grew worried. Your mother’s nervous pacing around the living room and her heavy sighs as she sat next to you on the floor, smiling at you in what you can only explain as sad way made you more and more anxious about the fact that you only had three friends, but all three of them seemed to not care enough to come celebrate your birthday with you. And as your mother finally took the final bow in the form of a soft hand on your inner thigh, her tone gentle as she called your name– “Y/N, I think we should light the candles,” you began to tear up.

You were supposed to eat the cake with your friends. You were supposed to hear them sing the birthday song to you. You were supposed to turn on the radio and dance around with your classmates, eat the sweets and unwrap the cheap, but heartfelt gifts they brought along with them to celebrate your birthday.

But none of these scenarios were happening, and you felt incredibly, incredibly lonely and sad. Forgotten, if you will. Not cared for, definitely.

Hiding your face into your hands, you started to cry. This disappointment was too big for your small heart to take, and you no longer cared about the cake, the candles, the seaweed soup your mother cooked for you to celebrate, the gifts, or the party. All you wanted to do was hide in your room and never come out– something about the whole situation felt deeply embarrassing, and to this day, the moment before the whole day turned around still makes you feel a bit ashamed of yourself.

Too busy crying, you didn’t notice your older brother watching you with big bambi eyes, a worried glance sent your way each time your sobs grew louder and louder. And maybe the boy only wanted to taste the cake (he’s been bugging your mum about it since the very morning, but he was always sent off with a scolding look telling him that he’ll get a slice when everyone arrives), but no matter what his true intentions were, his actions still managed to pull your seventh birthday party together in a way you never imagined.

The sound of the front door faintly resonated in your brain somewhere in the middle of your aimless sobbing, but you paid it no mind, thinking it was just Sunwoo going out to the yard to kick the ball. See, your older brother had never really known what to do when you cried growing up– it didn’t matter if he was the reason for your tears or if anyone else was. If he was the reason for your emotional outbursts, he tried to shut you up with his palm and get you to stop crying before his mother found out and gave him a scolding, but if someone else was, the small boy sometimes turned angry at the source. Kicking his classmate that once made a snarky comment about you and made you tear up or punching his friend when he was too harsh with you was all he knew to do in these situations, so he wasn’t the one to comfort you with words or hugs. It was only natural for him to escape in this situation.

You were brought to a state of shock and surprise when a hand landed on your shoulder, a familiar voice breaking you from your emotional turmoil.

“Why are you crying? We have to eat the cake!” you heard, your big, sad eyes meeting the small figure of the boy living next door, your brother nervously stepping from one side to the other right behind his best friend. “Can you light the candles, Mrs?” Eric politely asked your mum, pointing towards the cake waiting sadly at the coffee table, the figure of your mother leaving your side only shortly to get the matches from the kitchen and illuminate your face with the small flames.

Confusion mirrored your features as you watched your brother and his best friend sing the birthday song to you while your mum lit your candles, both boys clapping and dancing around, acting silly just to get a laugh from you. You didn't know how Eric got there, but you guessed there are some good sides to having him as your neighbor. The energetic boy did his best to brighten up your mood a bit, and when you blew out the candle, making a wish, Sunwoo even went as far as smashing your face into the cake to bring in the full birthday authenticity.

That got him a slap to the back of his head from your mother, as well as made you stand up from your position– no longer making you look like a disappointed bulk of pity– and chase him around the room, icing falling off your nose to the laminated floor. You got your revenge and smeared the chocolate all over his forehead (he let you chase him down only because it was your birthday and he really, really hated to see his sister cry, but he won’t ever tell you that) and as the three of you sat back down to the floor, watching your mother slice the cake and offer it to you on small white plates, you realized you suddenly weren't as sad anymore.

“What did you wish for?” Eric asked you, mouth full of cake and face messy with chocolate.

“I can’t tell you,” you hummed, eyebrows furrowed. “Then it won’t come true.”

“You probably wished for that doll you saw in the store the other day,” Sunwoo snickered as he swallowed, having you glare at him and send a sharp kick to his shin, unwatched by your mother (thankfully), as the boy fought you back, having no mercy.

Music suddenly filled the room as Eric stood up and put the radio on, his 9 year old brain smart enough to know how the device worked, his small figure dancing away to the songs playing on the single radio station you could play without carefully sorting out the antenna so it faced the north, and truly, you didn’t know how it happened, but it had you standing up and dancing around, exactly how you'd imagined doing with your friends from school.

The day wasn’t ruined– quite the opposite, really. It was one of your favorite birthday parties, and ever since then, Eric was invited to every single one you had after. And while Sunwoo may act like he doesn’t hate anything more in this world than having a younger sister, every time you feel like a burden to him, you remember this very afternoon.

You will never tell anyone what you wished for that day– but just to let everyone in on the secret,

it was to somehow, just like Sunwoo, find someone like Eric for yourself as well.

JUNE OF 1999

Standing at the side of the pool, eyes squinting from the inevitable force of the sun, you’re starting to regret your decision of coming along just a little. See, you usually don’t protest whenever Sunwoo aggressively drags you around and brings you everywhere he’s supposed to, because even though you love to see your brother angry (especially when you’re the reason behind the emotion), you’d also hate to see him miss out, but now, as the scorching hot sun is having no mercy on every exposed inch of skin– and believe me, there’s a lot of it, since you’re wearing your swimming trunks– and the sweat on your forehead is no longer culminating in beads, but rolling painfully slowly down your forehead, you do admit you’d be a little bit happier in the shade of your little room than here, watching the guys play volleyball in the comfort of the freezing cold pool.

And as the only female around the house, you settle with the patriarchy and bring out a small folding chair and a camping table alongside with a big, sharp knife, struggling to hoist up the giant watermelon you got in a grocery store on your way to the beach house, with the intention of cutting it and serving it to the guys later. Who knows, maybe they’ll like you a little more after that.

The knife sinks into the thick green skin of the watermelon easily, and so as you accompany yourself with the excited (and not so excited screams coming from the losing side of the game– mainly your brother himself), you cut up the fruit into halves, then quarters, and as you stare at the moon crescents settled on the camping table, you decide to play nice and cut up the fruit into smaller triangles as well, to really get on everyone’s good side.

The yearning for male validation awakes in a woman pretty early on in life. It’s an inevitable misfortune.

“Told you Sunwoo’s all talk but no game!” you hear Haknyeon yell out as the game seemingly ends, the younger boy lunging at him in the pool, fighting him for the truthful words. Glancing at the commotion, you notice the guys slowly getting out of the pool, making you heave out in victory– you’re finally gonna have your turn in the pool. Well, if they don’t decide to occupy it again before you even get a chance to get in.

“Y/N! You cut up the watermelon?” Eric asks a very obvious question, walking up to you with beads of water all over his half-naked body. His dark hair is damply sitting against his forehead, making him look like a wet puppy, but as the male gets closer to you, he drags his palm through the locks and pushes them back, revealing his forehead– a sight sweet to your eyes, but you refuse to pay it much attention in the heat of the moment. It’s just the sun making you delirious as the idea of finding him attractive flashes through your brain, that’s all.

“I did! Take one,” you smile, watching as the rest of the guys walk over to your little stand– while also obnoxiously swatting out water out of their hair like dogs, refusing to use towels like normal people– and finally, there it comes: appreciative smiles appear on their faces as they each take a piece, biting down on the fruit with delighted sighs.

Sunwoo walks up to you with a surprised look on his face, sighing as he messes with your hair. “If I knew you’d be our servant, I wouldn’t have even minded you going in the first place.”

“You do something nice for people and they jump on the chance to exploit you,” you hum, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s just like you, Kim Sunwoo.”

“No, that’s just me having older brother privileges.”

“I hope you choke on that, you know,” you bite at him, pointing towards the piece of sweet watermelon in his hands, the smile on his face turning bitter. There’s a satisfied look on your face when your brother does, indeed, choke on a watermelon seed a few seconds later– and they say dreams don’t come true.

“You didn’t have to,” you hear Eric speak up from the other side, your head turning to face the male, his features appreciative and warm. “Thank you,” he beams. There’s redness on the tip of his nose and his forehead, signaling his quickly approaching sunburn, and you can’t help but laugh out at his clueless, Rudolph the red nosed reindeer self.

“What’s so funny?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows at you in question.

“Nothing,” you peep, “you just look like you forgot to use sunscreen,” you mumble, watching as the male gasps and touches his face, a horrified expression overtaking him when the skin under his fingertips burns to the touch.

“I didn’t forget! It must have rubbed off in the pool,” he mourns, “I must look stupid!”

“Only a little,” you tease, a grin overtaking your features. See, there’s something about the fact that you’ve known Eric for the entirety of your whole life that makes you more prone to teasing him– you’re familiar with your dynamics and just how far you can go, so his next actions startle you just the tiniest bit as the male looks sternly at you, throwing the half-eaten watermelon slice to the camping table. You thought you had the risks calculated– apparently, you didn't.

“What did you say?”

Examining his features, seeing no signs of anger– just the stoic, fakely-offended face of your brother’s childhood best friend– you shrug. “That you look a bit stupid with your face like that.”

“Oh, okay,” he nods, “you’re going down for that.”

“What do you mea–”

Your words are cut short when the male lunges at you, his arms enveloping your thighs and holding you up. The contact of his cold skin from the pool and your heated figure makes goosebumps appear all over your body, your hands instinctively reaching around him to support yourself as he walks closer to the pool– his intentions are suddenly painfully clear and you start to panic.

“This will teach you to respect your elders,” Eric huffs, the turquoise surface of the water slowly coming into your point of view.

“Stop! Stop-stop-stop,” you squirm, kicking your feet and trying to take down the predator, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, alright?”

The male takes a halt for a split second– making you foolishly believe he’ll let you off– before he breaks out into a devilish grin and continues to walk to the edge of the pool. “Too late.”

“Eric!” you scream, the volume of your voice resonating through the whole beach, your heart thumping wild against your ribcage with the awaiting process. You’re not even sure what you’re scared of anymore– you can swim and you bet the water will feel nice against the scorching sun– but still, you’re absolutely terrified as the male has no mercy on you, carrying you steadily towards the water. “At least let me tie my hair first! You can dump me in after, I promise,” you mourn, trying to buy yourself more time.

“Alright,” he nods, waiting at the very edge of the pool, leaving you to take the purple scrunchie off your wrist and gather your hair together, preparing to tie it into a bun so it doesn’t get in your way when you’re in the pool. The hair tie is just at the tips of your fingertips, the first loop over the hair ready to be done, when a scream cuts out of your throat.

The feeling of falling suddenly overtakes your body, leaving you no time to prepare yourself for the impact of the cold water against your skin and all up in your nose, since you didn’t pluck it when you were dumped into the pool. The fall only lasts a split second until you’re below the water, the force of it resonating in your ears, and when you finally act on your instincts and stand up in the pool (it wasn’t even that deep in the first place, only reaching to your upper stomach), you cough out all the water and pray to gods you don’t throw up chlorine into the freshly cleaned pool. After you’re done catching your breath and getting oxygen into your lungs again, you do your best at getting all the hair out of your face.

There is laughter landing into your ears as soon as you manage to get all the water out of them by leaning your head to the side and violently slapping each one, and when your eyes look up, you see an amused Eric Sohn bending over in his waist at your disheveled appearance.

Grunting and pointing a finger to the criminal that almost made you drown, you huff out. “I’ll kill you! Just you watch.”

Your scrunchie nowhere to be found, forever lost somewhere outside of the beach house, you think, as it flew off your hand in the impact of the attack, shock makes your figure shake alongside of the coldness of the water, making you audibly sigh.

Yes. You do regret coming along just a little.

JULY OF 1999

Somewhere along the way, Eric Sohn starts acting as if he’s your second older brother. Sure, you’ve known the male your whole entire life and he’s seen you grow up, but it took him 17 years of your life to come to a point where he gives you equal amount of attention whenever he’s over at your house than he does to your brother, and even asks Sunwoo if you’re coming along with them whenever they leave to hang out somewhere else. It’s a change that comes naturally and slowly, and you welcome it unknowingly– the revelation shocks you on a hot summer day, though, when the idea finally comes to you in full force.

You would even argue and say Eric acts more like your brother than your actual sibling does– he asks if you’ve eaten and listens to you when you talk (which Sunwoo never does, well, except from when he’s arguing with you). Eric even compliments your outfits sometimes and lets you borrow his MP3 player from time to time– Sunwoo would never share his things with you, no matter how hard you pleaded and threatened to tell your mum. Yes, your brother's an adult and you’re one year away from becoming one– you still resolve your conflicts through your only parent, though. Some things, you never grow out of.

“I wanna try using the skateboard now, Sunwoo,” you order sternly when the boy finally reaches your destination. You’ve been sitting on the sidewalk for quite some time now, since your brother and his friend decided that they’re gonna try out their new skateboards on the hottest day of the year. Your town doesn’t have fancy skateparks and ramps like the ones you’ve seen in the music videos on TV, so you don’t really know what initially made the two buy those things, but you do admit that even driving up and down the road in front of your house does seem a little fun– so much you’d love to try it.

“What a shame we all wish for things we can’t have,” he shrugs ironically, shaking his head at you from his position above. The male reaches down for his bag, taking out a water bottle and putting it against his plush lips, all while you glare at him from below, still seated in your initial position. Eric comes up to you two, squishing at the soft plastic bottle in Sunwoo’s hold, making the water splash your older brother in the face, leaving a winning grin to be shared between you and the shorter boy, an expression that makes you all warm on the inside. See, at least Eric always has your back.

“You can try mine, if you want,” the latter shrugs, offering you a smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “why not?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “I just didn’t expect you to offer, since as you saw, my dear brother just refused when I asked…” you mumble, standing up from the sidewalk and taking the skateboard into your hand. Eric offers it to you with an outstretched arm and watches as you put the board on the floor, squinting at it with much examination.

“Do you know how to ride it?” he asks.

“No,” you shake your head, “but I mean, if Sunwoo can do it, how hard can it really be?” you joke, seeing as the said boy glares at you, finally finishing his water and dropping the bottle to the ground.

“I’ll remind you of that statement when you eat shit on the pavement,” he shushes you, rolling his eyes.

Not paying more attention to the grumpy being that is your own brother, you relocate your attention back to the skateboard on the heated road. You’re lucky you live on a street where cars don’t often drive by, since your neighborhood is on the very edge of the town, so you don’t really fear being run over by a pickup truck. What you do worry about, though, is your lacking sense of balance, which you discovered when you learned how to ride the bike for the first time. While your brother was a professional in no time, it took you weeks to get it right, and so with the idea of riding a board that provides you zero sense of security, you get a bit worried for your own life.

Dragging your hair out of your face and aimlessly trying to tuck it behind your ears– there’s no use in trying though, as the strands slip out just as fast as they found their place– you keep staring at the board only a few centimeters away from your feet, mentally calculating your next move. There’s a noise of a backpack being opened and rustling around in the background of your miserable thoughts, and when you look up to see what’s going on, you notice Eric offering you a small, purple bundle of fabric.

“What’s that?” you ask, even though the answer is clear as the day– you recognise your own scrunchie with no problem. You’re just surprised to see it in his hold. You thought it was forever buried somewhere in the beach house, since you weren’t able to find it after you got out of the pool, no matter how hard you tried.

“Oh,” he shrugs, amidst a little too nonchalantly, “I found it and figured it was yours, but I forgot to give it back to you then… it seems like you need it now, though,” he offers you an explanation, lips pressed into a thin line that slightly signifies a smile.

“Ah,” you gasp, nodding as you take the hair tie out of his outstretched palm, gathering your hair into a bun and tying it up on the crown of your head– the staring contest you’ve been having with the board is much clearer now, when you don’t have your messy strands in the way. The idea of Eric keeping your scrunchie after finding it at the beach house makes your stomach do a weird kind of turn– you guess it made you a bit weirded out, if you’re being honest.

“Want some help with that?” he asks, pointing towards his skateboard.

Nervous, cracking your knuckles as you meet his eyes– he looks a bit amused, but still genuine– you nod, admitting defeat. There’s no way you’re getting on top of that board without help and not falling down. It’s always better to be safe than to be sorry, and so when Eric laughs airly at your composure and takes a few steps closer towards you, you let the male lead you, finding comfort in his secure words and actions.

Eric offers you his arms to hold when you try to get on the skateboard. He is peering at you from under his eyelashes when you put one of your legs onto the wood, his grip on your forearm getting firmer when you try to get your other foot on as well– and you must admit that you suddenly don’t feel like you might die anymore when there’s someone holding you and standing by your side.

“See? It’s not that hard,” Eric mumbles, his voice low and reassuring from the proximity. You notice your hands sweating a little when his palm envelopes yours– damn the sun and its unbearable heat making you embarrass yourself– but he doesn’t mention it as he firmly holds you and meets your eyes. “I’m gonna drag you around a bit so you get used to it before trying yourself,” he says before taking a few steps forward, preparing to be your own type of personal driver.

Having him instruct you and help you around makes you feel more comfortable on the board. Sunwoo would never do such a thing for you– he’d enjoy watching you fall down and break your neck and possibly die– so you’re more than happy to have someone in your life that takes care of you in ways your older brother refuses to.

The skateboard moves forward a little, starting slow, but then picking up speed as Eric jogs a little, making you laugh at the action. He does not have to go above and beyond, but he still does– but you guess it’s good for him to let out his energy somewhere. After a while, he looks back at you and meets your eye with a warm gaze, making you nod at him reassuringly and hold up a thumb of the hand he’s not holding right now, signaling that you’re okay and enjoying yourself. That has the male let go of your hand and let you take the road with the laws of physics, moving forward by yourself with the force he created.

It’s nice. It’s fun.

Yes, you totally understand why Eric and Sunwoo wanted skateboards after seeing them on TV. Hell, you want one now.

“Try it yourself now!” Eric encourages you as the board naturally comes to a stop under you, and his smiling face is enough for you to take initiative and nod, relocating one foot off the wood and placing it on the floor, then kicking it and making yourself move on the simple vehicle.

A moment of surprise envelopes you like a warm hug when you manage to not fall off and keep your balance, the joy of it making you try to go faster on the board, kicking once, twice against the pavement with the sole of your old, beaten up shoe. “I’m doing it!” you yell, glancing back at Eric standing on the sidewalk, watching you with excited eyes. The male offers you a victorious holler, something that makes you break into a laugh, makes your confidence blossom in marvelous ways.

Confidence rises in you so much you try to take a U-turn and go back to your teacher– perhaps showing off that you really got the hang of it now, or something– but as you try to maneuver the board and turn right, there it comes: the moment where you realize that you were, once again, too overly-confident in your abilities that are, sadly, very poor. Your body sways from side to side, your poor balance laughs at you and points an accusing finger at your attempts, and, well, to put it frankly, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes and the moment plays in slow motion as you lose the board from below your feet– the wood flying somewhere to the opposite side of the road, not at all where you meant to go in the first place– and your body inevitably comes crashing to the ground.

Awaiting the hard pavement meeting your nose and breaking it, you brace yourself with palms outstretched in front of you, the last remains of self-perseverance entering the sane parts of your brain in what you think are the last seconds of your miserable life. Another moment of surprise greets you when your yelp is muffled against something soft and your hands don’t hit the hard pavement, your ears filled with a grunt that belongs to another human swiftly chiming in and catching you before you fall.

Firm hands hold your waist– the touch somehow familiar, enveloping you in a strange sense of deja vu– and even though your body goes limp in terror, the male has you back on your feet in no time, his palms on the exposed skin of your stomach. The realization has you burning up as you look up and meet Eric’s eyes, gasping at the closeness of his face to yours.

“You okay over there?” he asks as you unconsciously study his face– you never noticed his nose looked this nice up close– before you wake out of it and nod urgently, breaking away from his hold. You’re not gonna try to calculate the effort he must have put in just to chime in and catch you from where he was standing in such a short moment, but something about the passing thought of it has you weak in your knees from gratefulness.

“Uhm- yeah,” you nod, kicking the pavement with your stained shoes, “I just… miscalculated my skills, that’s all,” you sheepishly hum, hearing the boy snicker at your shaken-up composure.

Watching him take off and retrieve his skateboard from where it wandered off against the curb– much to his golden retriever energy– you sigh and prepare to go sit back on the sidewalk, having enough of new experiences from the shock still lingering in your fingertips. You take a glance down the road, seeing your older brother cruising on the street– when and how he got there, you truly have no idea– when you hear Eric, who seemingly has different ideas for your next actions, call at you from the middle of the pavement.

“Where are you going? Come back!” he asks, having you look at him in surprise, mouth agape and eyes big, staring at him. He now has the board under his shoulder, but puts it back on the road and points at it, shrugging to himself. “I’ll push you down the road, it’s gonna be fun!”

“Eric, I’m literally going to die–”

“No, you’re not. Come on, I promise,” he says, but still, he doesn’t have you convinced. Your feet move against your best conclusions, though, and when you come to a halt right in front of your companion, he offers you a boyish grin. “Sit down on it, that way you’re more balanced. I swear you’re not gonna fall off, okay? I got you.”

“You promise?”

“Yes,” he nods, determined.

“Pinky swear,” you mumble, holding up your pinky finger– all thoughts of seeming childish pushed to the side in the desperate moment– and the male in front of you shakes his head in disbelief, breaking into a laugh.

“Cute,” he huffs, “yeah, okay. Pinky swear,” he nods, interlacing your pinky with his and bumping his thumb against yours, the seal foolishly making you feel more secure as you follow his order and take a seat on the skateboard, your hands gripping the bottom of the wood so hard your knuckles turn white.

“Okay, ready? 3, 2, 1–” he chants as he pushes you, two steady hands coming in contact with your shoulder blades, force making you move on the board, wheels taking you down with gravity. The sound of Eric’s shoes hitting the pavement fills your ears as you go faster, and as you finally get to the part of the hill that takes a downwards slope, he offers you a final push, sending you down the road.

Wind makes your hair fly back, your surroundings blurring as you yelp and scream, but you can’t say you’re not enjoying the ride. Eric was right– it was fun, you liked it, and something about the gesture had you all warm on the inside. The breeze has you cool down a little in the summer heat, and the board continues to move even as you pass your older brother standing at the bottom of the slope, away from your trajectory.

Body relaxing when the skateboard finally slows down, you let out a heartfelt laughter. Turning back and seeing Eric jog down the road with a humongous grin on his face, you offer him two thumbs up above your head, watching as he returns the gesture and makes his way back to the two of you on the bottom of the small hill.

The truth is, this was the day you realized Eric Sohn has always found his way to make you feel included and safe.

You can’t help but feel grateful.

AUGUST OF 1999

“Sunwoo, you have to tie a knot here and then– no, you dumbass, you’re doing it completely wrong,” you mourn as you watch your older brother with a mess of thread in his lap, a focused scowl on his face. There’s a fan standing across from you, blowing cold air into your face, but you still feel yourself grow heated with frustration as Sunwoo just can’t help but not understand the art of making friendship bracelets. It’s not like you’re forcing him to do them– he was the one that asked you to show him how to, muttering something about offering one to his classmate Yeji once he’s back in school– so in theory, he should be putting in effort, no?

Or maybe he is. Maybe he’s just… incompetent.

“I don’t get it,” Sunwoo hums under his breath, sighing as he leans against the sofa in your living room, the two of you sitting on the floor accompanied by his best friend squinting at you from the opposite side, a comic book in the latter's hand. The myth of men not being able to multi-task is quickly thrown into the bin as you watch Eric pay equal amount of attention to the comic book and the dialogue between you and your brother, and when Sunwoo seems to give up on the art of making friendship bracelets, his best friend can’t help but laugh.

“You’re giving up already? This is how you want to get a girlfriend?” you poke your brother to his side and take the threads off his lap, examining the mess of a safety pin and meters of yarn, all knotted up and not coming along in the shape you taught him to at all.

“It’s not to get a girlfriend, I just-”

“Sure,” you roll your eyes, huffing as you roll his poor attempt at friendship bracelet into a ball and throw it to the corner of the room, making a mental note to pick it up and throw it to the bin later. “You know what, just give her this one and pretend you made it,” you mutter, taking a bracelet you'd already made to demonstrate in between your fingers and throw it into Sunwoo’s lap, the older one catching it and examining it under his nose.

“That looks pretty good,” he hums, making you snort at his appreciative comment. The bracelet is pink and red, the colors just screaming romance and cute energy, which is exactly what a girl needs to be swayed by your brother. You can’t really believe a bracelet will make her swoop into his arms, because truthfully, with your brother’s face and manners, every living thing is keeping a fair distance, but hey, it doesn’t hurt to try, does it? Maybe his classmate is… majorly blind? That might do it?

“Of course it looks good,” you scoff, “that’s because I made it,” you nod, averting your gaze towards your lap, threading your fingers through the yarn you attached to a safety pin on your sweatpants to keep the growing friendship bracelet in place.

“Then why is the one you’re making right now so ugly?” Eric asks, pointing towards the creation.

Glancing up at the male slowly, mentally throwing all different kinds of curses at him for daring to talk badly about your craft, you huff. “What do you mean, ugly?”

“The colors… they don’t… they don’t really go together,” Eric sheepishly admits, scratching the back of his neck, quickly averting his gaze from you and gluing it back into his comic book. You think that if he doesn’t stop being a smart-ass and throw jabs at your artistic choices, he’s gonna have to protect his comic book with his own body– and you bet he’d do that, because he borrowed it from the library. The fees for damage are high.

“That’s just… not true at all,” you muse, but groggily take a look at the creation once again, but now, thanks to the remark, seeing it in a completely different way. Shades of orange, brown and purple stare back at you amidst a little disappointedly, and as you thread the yarn and make a couple of knots to end the bracelet, you can’t help but feel a pout growing on your face from the realization. Eric might be right. It does look a little bad…

“Whatever. Your taste is just bad,” you snap as you finish off the craft piece, unclasping the safety pin and sliding the bracelet off the inside, freeing it from the hold. Eric laughs a little at your frustrated state– similarly to what you do when you manage to get Sunwoo upset– and with that, you sigh and put the bracelet on the coffee table.

“I’m going out to the store to get some chocolates,” you say as you stand up, goal clear in your mind, “have fun, losers.”

“You’re still collecting the stickers from these?” Sunwoo asks, a mischievous smile growing on his lips. The teasing is inevitable and coming very soon, and there’s nothing you can do about it– you’re fully aware, which only further makes you want to escape the situation more quickly. Rolling your eyes at your brother’s antics, you move towards the door.

“Yes, Sunwoo, I am. They’re cute and make me happy, do you have a problem with that?” you point an accusing finger at the male, having him shrug, tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

“You’re such a kid,” he huffs, averting his gaze from you when he lands the comment, the jab coming straight at your fragile heart.

“Okay, then,” you note, “I’ll just have my pretty and cute bracelet back, and you can get your girlfriend something else-”

The male quickly regains his previous composure, swatting his hands in hurry just to make you halt in your sentence. His eyes are big and his mouth is a little agape in terror as he tries to save his ass, plea written all over his face. “I was just joking! Don’t be so petulant… go get your cute stickers, they’re so fun!”

Humming to yourself, your face is tugged up into a victorious smile. “That's what I thought. So, as I was saying, have fun, losers.”

“Wait!” Eric suddenly calls for you, making you turn on your heel in the middle of your escape, eyes peering at the male. “Don’t I get a bracelet too?”

The request catches you off guard. There’s a certain kind of spark in Eric Sohn’s eyes as he asks the question, and you can’t really place it in any category, but it has you nervously shrugging at the preposition. You’re not really sure why Eric would want a bracelet from you, but to avoid confrontation and also the weird leap of your heart surely leading you into cardiac arrest, you only shrug and move back inside of the living room, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you scan the surroundings, searching for something.

“Sure,” you nod, taking the ugly bracelet off the table and offering it to him, “you can have that one.”

You hold a staring contest with the older boy for a couple of seconds, his head undoubtedly swirling with arguments and comments about the apparel of the friendship bracelet, but he’s smart– he must know the survival of his beloved comic book must be at stake. So, he only nods and smiles at you, outstretching his hand to you and nudging his head in its direction.

“Okay,” he hums, “tie it for me?”

A second comes by– a heartbeat, really– in which you chew on your bottom lip and gasp at the request, but still, you nod and come closer, crouching down to be at his level and taking the thread into your fingers. You wrap the bracelet around his wrist, making sure to leave a bit of wiggle room before you tie a knot, bringing the ends together, all while feeling the eyes of Eric glued to your face, watching every micro expression flash through your unsettling composure.

When you’re done, making a move to hide your hands behind your back and standing up, your limbs bump into each other and send an unspoken sense of electricity all through your body. The sensation is so strange you don’t meet anyone’s eye before you leave the room, yelling out a goodbye as you hurriedly open the front door and run out to get fresh air (it’s August, though. The air is humid and only makes your head spin more).

You clear your throat before you take off to the grocery store. It's only when you're halfway there that you realize you'd forgotten to bring your wallet with you. It's okay, though– you take this chance to walk around, regaining your casualty.

You bet Eric will take the bracelet off in a matter of a week.

SEPTEMBER OF 1999

The leaves start turning orange and the weather a bit colder when you become hyper-aware of your shifting composure whenever Eric Sohn is around. The way you feel heat rushing to your cheeks whenever he calls you cutie, a nickname he’s had reserved for you since you two were little kids, the way you feel weak in your knees whenever he casually brings his arm around your shoulders or when he bends down to tie your shoelace in the middle of the sidewalk. You don’t really know what those sudden changes are, yet, you feel a bit embarrassed by them whenever they take place. You don’t think it’s normal to feel this way around your brother’s best friend, and the more you hang out with him, the more you wish you read less books as a child– because now, you’re also hyper-aware of the title those feelings may have.

Still, it only comes to you on one September afternoon– you wake up from blissful unawareness and jolt with the quickly opening pit in your stomach at the strange revelation.

“Eric! Sunwoo isn’t home, though?” you mumble, confused as you notice the boy standing on your doorway, a plastic bag in his hand and a red Nike jacket enveloping his frame.

“I know, he said he’s hanging out with Juyeon hyung today,” he nods, “I brought you something, though,” he says, holding up the bag and making sure you get a chance to see it, offering you a boyish grin.

“Oh?” you gasp, furrowing your eyebrows at the male. When you do nothing to invite him inside, he does so himself– slightly nudging you in your side as he passes your figure and enters your house. He acts like he owns the place, and by the amount of time he’s spent in your home, you’d think he does– he doesn’t, though. The only thing he owns is just a lot of audacity.

The male takes off his shoes in the entryway and walks his way over to your room– a surprising act, considering he’s spent the least amount of time in this very place– and when he’s sure you’re following his every move, he empties the contents of the bag to the middle of your freshly made bed. Watching as approximately ten items fall out of the plastic, your eyes widen with surprise as you recognise your favorite chocolate– the mini bars with stickers inside, the ones you collect and stick into your journal and look at in the middle of the night, giggling to yourself and kicking your feet at the adorable pictures in your make-shift collect book.

“Woah,” you gasp when the male looks at you, seemingly awaiting your response, and when he gets the wished outcome, pride overtakes his features, shrugging to himself.

“My mum got some for free because she bought a lot of cabbage for kimchi yesterday,” he explains, “I thought of you when I saw them, so I bought you some more.”

“I- you-” you stutter, emotions too big for your own good swelling all inside your fragile, little self, hands running into your hair and tugging at the roots to wake yourself up from the dream. “You didn’t have to!”

“We got them anyway, and I know you like the stickers,” Eric shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, completely ignoring the fact that he said he bought you some more, your heart skipping a beat at the sentiment. Clearing your throat, you tentatively take a step closer to your bed, gathering a bar of chocolate into your hand and opening it, taking a bite.

“You can have the stickers if you give me some chocolate,” Eric says close to your ear, almost as if he was creating a masterplan, to which you eagerly nod and plop onto your bed, moving the bars of sweets into one pile. As you continue to munch on the first one, you unwrap the sticker and look at it, praying to yourself as if you were checking if your lottery ticket was worth any cent– hoping you get a sticker you don’t own yet.

The image of a cute panda would cheer anyone up even in their darkest moments– not you, though, as you mourn and sigh, disappointment clear in your features.

“What?” Eric asks, eyes big pools of worry.

“I already got that one.”

“Ah,” he nods, seemingly understanding– much to your surprise, “well, we got 9 more tries, let’s get to eating.”

Wrappers are rustling in your bed sheets as you and Eric eat the concerning amount of chocolate, gathering the stickers in a little pile on top of your notebook, promising each other to not look at the stickers as you go and just make a grand reveal at the end. Eric’s full cheeks are a sight you enjoy, telling him he looks like a squirrel– to which he sends a light flick to your forehead, telling you you don’t look much different– and soon enough, the nine bars left disappear from your plain sight (you only had 3 and Eric ate the remaining 5. He’s a growing boy, though, so you understand. He needs to get his undying energy from somewhere.).

“Ready for the reveal?” you ask, locking your gaze with Eric.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

With that, you get to the pile of stickers in the middle of your bedsheets. Looking at the first one, there’s a happy squeal cutting out of your throat, the image of an adorable yellow duck warming you up with euphoria.

“You don’t have that one yet?”

“I don’t,” you nod, “this is just perfect.”

Eric nods and watches you with a certain kind of warmth in his gaze as you open up your notebook and stick the newest addition to your little sticker farm– or a ZOO, however you wanna call it. The next sticker from the pile is added as well– a brown, big bear– and the next one too, the most adorable colorful parrot slapped to the corner of your page.

The rest of your stickers are the ones you already own, though– a displeased look takes over your features at the knowledge, but still, you can’t help but beam at the fact that you have 3 new additions to your collection, and they were a gift from Eric Sohn himself. Someone who doesn’t make fun of your childish habit. Someone who feeds your little interest, watches you with excitement in his eyes as you indulge. Someone not like your brother.

Someone you could never see the way you see your brother.

“What do you do with the duplicates?” Eric asks, pointing to the sad pile on the top of your notebook. His figure is closer to you now, since he wanted to watch you stick the animals into your notebook, his crossed legs almost pressed against yours on the small bed.

“Well, usually, I just throw them out,” you shrug, “but since you’re here…” you muse, the idea plopping into your head like the newest discovery you should probably patent, peeling the back of one of the dog stickers off and swiftly turning towards your companion, mischief sparkling in your eyes.

You put the sticker on his left cheek, making the boy jump. “Hey!”

Giggling, taking another one of the stickers and pressing it to the middle of his forehead, Eric starts to fight you, your bodies wrestling on the bed. You don’t think he puts much effort into getting you off him– that, or he’s insanely weak– and in no time, his face is adorned with all different kinds of animals, his hair messy from tussling in your bedsheets. The image has you laughing before you realize you’re basically straddling him on your bed, his big eyes gaping at you from below, his appearance enough to make something in your brain short-circuit and make you leap off him, clearing your throat.

Heat rushes into your cheeks as you take a seat next to him, playing with your fingers. You pray for anything to come and ease the awkwardness you caused, and sure enough, today must be your lucky day. “Hey, look here!”

You call for the boy as you swiftly take your polaroid camera off your bedside table– the one that belonged to your dad, the one you fought with Sunwoo about, the one your mum said was yours because Sunwoo is too careless with his things to keep it safe– and snap a picture of the puppy-like boy, laughing at the fact that now, you have the image of him looking dumb and covered in stickers forever. Or at least until he doesn't take it away from you– which he attempts quickly.

“Hey!” he yelps again, huffing as he lunges at you, trying to take the picture out of your grasp as you drop the camera into your soft sheets. Your feet take you to the living room, navigating through furniture, and when you don’t hear footsteps follow you, you think you’re safe– Eric does have a lot of energy, but chasing you around gets tiring for him quickly when he knows you'll never let him win.

Entering your room once again, prepared to find him on your bed like before, you’re taken by surprise as a shutter sound goes off right after you open the door, a polaroid picture taken of your face making you temporarily blind at the flash.

“Eric!” you whine, hating that there’s a picture of you standing shocked at your doorway now forever in the universe– not really caring that the boy just got you back with the exact stunt you pulled on him just a few minutes ago. Before you get a chance to blink out the blind spots in your vision caused by the flash and run after him, though, you feel him gently press you out of the doorway and slip outside, the sound of the front door opening and closing after him resonating along his slowly disappearing, amused laughter.

Serves you right, doesn’t it?

Sighing, you shake your head and take a seat on your bed, the picture of the boy still in between your fingertips. You only take a look at it when your vision comes back to normal, and as the image of Eric covered in stickers, hair messy and cheeks rosy below the animal print comes into your sight, the revelation arrives the same second a starstruck smile plays with your features.

And with that, you’re absolutely terrified.

Throwing the polaroid picture onto the bedside table and lunging yourself into the sheets, you scream into your pillow and wish for the feelings to disappear– because in what world does a crush on your brother’s best friend ever come to a happy ending?

OCTOBER OF 1999

Once October hits, you find yourself home alone more often than you’d like. Sure, you don’t mind having some me time to read comic books or watch the TV uninterrupted in the living room, but still– alone turns lonely pretty quickly, and somehow, you start to regret the fact that you’ve been relying on your older brother and his friends for so long instead of making some connections on your own.

Sunwoo started to play soccer at school– something is telling you that he might go far if he keeps it up– and that’s why he’s been stuck at practice every single day, coming home late in the evening all tired, but happy, so you’re not really complaining. Eric works in the little bistro downtown now, since he wanted to make some money and not rely on the allowance Mrs. Sohn gives him every month, and it’s not like you were that close to begin with, but the fact that the boy is now too busy to meet you is making your spirit fall just the tiniest bit. And with your mother always being at work, you find yourself alone in your room, laying in your bed and staring at the ceiling.

Sometimes, you journal. About anything and everything, really. You don’t really think you’re ever gonna read back the entries once you’re older, since they would just be a reminder of how miserable and boring your teenage years really were, and that’s why you allow yourself to be authentic. On most days, you write about your assignments for school. Sometimes you bad mouth a classmate or two– gossiping with the diary pages, because you don’t really have any human beings to do so in real life– and seldom, you allow yourself to get into topics that evoke the slightest bits of existential crisis in you.

Topics like college. Growing up. Your lack of hobbies and social interaction with the outer world. The newly found crush on Eric Sohn…

Okay, maybe you do write about the boy with brown hair and dark eyes a little too often. You can’t help it, though– when he’s not giving you any new interactions to dwell on, you have to just pick apart the old ones. You think it’s a natural reaction.

And that’s exactly what you’re doing one October afternoon, the lamp in your room on, since the evening comes faster when the weather is colder, as you’re laying in your bed and kicking your feet back and forth, chewing on the end of your pencil. The sound of your doorbell resonates through the house suddenly and startles you, making you jump awake from your delirious delusions.

Mentally going through the list of possible visitors you could have– because it can’t be your mother or your brother, since they never forget to carry their house keys– you’re lost, not really finding any fitting candidates. Furrowing your brows, lost in thought and frankly, a bit confused, you plant your socked feet onto the wooden floor and walk over to the front door just in time for the bell to ring again. Scratching the back of your neck in nerves, thinking of precautions you could take for your own safety– since your front door doesn’t have a peep hole and you don’t want to open the door to a complete stranger– you clear your throat and yell over the door.

“Who is it?” you ask.

“Delivery!” a voice calls through the door, making you huff.

“I didn’t order any food?” you yell back, confused. “Sir, there’s another house behind ours, sometimes the mailmen get confused and we get their mail. Maybe try there?”

“The address is right, though?” the voice calls again, and somehow, it sounds kind of familiar… no, it can’t be, you dumb goose. You’re just imagining things because you’ve spent the last 20 minutes writing about the curve of his nose into your diary.

“There must be a mistake-”

“Come on, Y/N, open the door,” the voice on the other side mourns, the mention of your name making you jump, completely startled. The tone the man says it in is sweet like honey, though, so familiar in your ears, that you mentally want to slap yourself– so you weren’t dreaming. It is him.

Dragging your hand through your hair to smooth it down, praying you look at least a little presentable– although in your stained sweatpants and the Pokémon shirt you inherited from Sunwoo when he grew out of it, you doubt that’s even possible– you open the door and try to offer Eric a warm smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Food delivery,” Eric shrugs, pointing with his thumb in the direction behind his back, where his bike undoubtedly stands up against your gate.

“Oh…. but I already told you I didn’t order anything,” you mumble, confused. Studying his face– because a girl can indulge when she has the opportunity, am I right? – you notice his hair has grown a little longer, falling into his eyes. You bet it’s hard for him to see, but you must admit it looks nice, and you almost tell him, before you catch yourself and break away from the sentiment.

The male snickers. “I know, I was just joking,” he says, “I did bring you food, though.”

“Why?” you ask, confused when he bends over and picks up a plastic bag off the ground, a container of food inside, the warmth of the contents making condensation appear all over the red sack.

“We made this by mistake and it was just gonna be thrown out if nobody took it,” he shrugs, “and I figured you haven’t eaten yet– or if you did, you just had those cold kimbap rolls from the store– and I wanted to get some warm food into your stomach.”

“Ah,” you gasp, nodding at the explanation. It does explain the source of the food really well, but truthfully, it explains nothing about the fact why Eric thought of bringing you the food instead of taking it home with himself– he’s a foodie if you’ve ever seen one. The idea of him worrying about if you were fed or not is equally as strange and interesting in your head– still, you clasp your hand around the bag and take it, the smell making you involuntarily hungry. “Thank you.”

Eric only nods at you, a smile beaming at his face. “Well,” he sighs, “I’d love to stay longer and hang out, but I’m still on the clock, so…” he mumbles, taking a hesitant step backwards towards his bike, eyes never breaking contact with yours.

“Oh, right,” you nod, “that’s okay. Have a fun day at work!” you muse, watching him as he grins and finally retrieves back his bike, opening up the gate to your property and escaping, waving at you as he gets on.

“I’ll see you soon!” he calls as he rides off, your eyes following him until his figure disappears behind a corner, your ears buzzing with excitement and your lower lip trapped between your teeth with the innocent promise.

Walking back into the house, you grin as you close the front door behind you and carry the food into the kitchen. You quickly get the containers out of the damp bag, putting them onto the wooden table, and gasp when you find a sticky note on the very top one, a messy handwriting scribbled in a rush, but stuck to the food with care.

Eat well and don’t skip meals, Y/N-ie!! – Eric x

Not being able to battle your smile anymore, you decide to open up the containers and stuff your mouth with the food instead– only to find your favorite dish inside, staring back at you in what seems to be a dream that’s too good to wake up from.

And sure, you are delusional, but are you delusional enough to believe that this wasn’t all a coincidence? You’re not so sure.

Still, you eat the food with feet kicking back and forth as you sit in the silent kitchen, the empty house no longer feeling so lonely. When you’re done, you throw the trash out– everything but the sticky note, which you glue into your diary a few minutes later, hoping to keep the memory forever.

NOVEMBER OF 1999

The world around you is dark as you step outside of cram school, your eyes are tired and your skin is prickled with goosebumps in the chilly air. You despise going to cram school, but your mother told you you have to– since you didn’t have any athletic features that could get you far in life like Sunwoo, you had to be good at studying, or else you won’t get into university. There was a lot of work ahead of you, but since you didn’t really have anything else to do in the day, you didn’t protest and went anyway.

The days are usually very long and you get off very late, resulting in you being tired almost all the time. When you get home, you undress yourself and change into your sleep clothes and doze off until the morning, when you have to wake up and go to school again– it’s an exhausting cycle, but you know you have to endure it for your own sake.

Walking down the steps that lead out the cram school building, you stretch your body and huff, cursing at yourself for the fact that you didn’t bring a jacket– you forgot that evenings get really chilly, and frankly speaking, you didn’t have much time to think when you were rushing to get ready in the morning. You’ll just have to get through it, you think to yourself as you walk in the direction of your house– the last bus to your neighborhood already left an hour ago, when you were in the middle of revising division– your sneakers kicking the stray rocks below your feet as you tug the sleeves of your hoodie lower, desperately trying to feel more heat.

“Do you never watch where you’re going? That’s gonna get you in trouble one day, you know,” you hear a familiar voice say, the joking tone making your heart skip a few beats as you place the owner of the saccharine voice to its face. Looking up, slightly alarmed at being caught in such a distressed state, you gasp.

“I was… watching my step, I guess,” you shrug as you come into a halt in front of him, shivering both under Eric’s gaze and the cold weather at once. “What are you doing here? Deliveries?”

“I just got off,” he says, “so I figured I could stop by. Sunwoo said you’re going to cram school, I thought you might enjoy some company on your way home.”

Gaping at his explanation, you nod, completely startled. The idea of your brother talking about you in front of Eric, the boy you have a very embarrassing, very big crush on scares you, to say the least. See, it doesn’t really matter that the boy grew up with you, pretty much seeing you at your lowest whenever he was around over at your house when you were both just little kids– the image of Sunwoo telling Eric about finding you sobbing at your comic book (the scene got too sad, nobody can really blame you) or about how your favorite jeans ripped right before you had to go to school one morning is terrifying. You don’t really want him to know about these things. He may act like your brother sometimes, but you never really saw him in that light in the first place.

“Well, then,” you clear your throat, “it’s… it’s good to see you,” you say. Eric shows you his boyish grin as your lips utter out the words, and you can’t help but mirror it, your eyes locking with the male. As if you just took a step back, your eyes see him in a light you’ve never seen him before– as if this was your first time meeting your brother’s best friend– and something about the sentiment has your stomach feeling all uneasy, heat rushing to your face. His hair is styled in a way that tells you that he didn’t really style it (or if he did, it looked truly effortless in your eyes, so props to him), pushed back a little and revealing his forehead, a few of the strands carelessly falling into his eyes. His jawline is sharper than how it was when you first met the boy, and with the realization of a foolish teenage girl, you have to admit that Eric Sohn grew up to be a very attractive, attentive man.

“You’re cold?” he says, although the sentence sounds more like a statement rather than a question, before he shakes his head at your antics and heaves out a sigh. “You should’ve taken a jacket with you when you went, you know it gets cold in the evening,” he scolds you. In those times, he reminds you the most of your brother– because although you and Sunwoo act like you hate each other sometimes, you know the older male still cares about you. He just hates showing it, which translates in his scolding tone whenever you do something wrong or against his wishes.

In those times, Eric reminds you the most of the way your brother treats you, and you somehow hate it. You despise the fact, because that means he must only see you as someone like his younger sister– he never had one, so maybe he just likes to compensate for it by taking care of you all the time. Maybe he feels responsible to do so because of Sunwoo. The thought makes you equally as nauseous– you’d never want him to hang out with you just because he feels like he has to.

“I didn’t have time in the morning,” you grunt, rolling your eyes at him. You avert your gaze from the male, for it makes you slightly uncomfortable after your previous thoughts, so when the noise of a zipper being pulled down and the weight of fabric on your shoulders brings you back to reality, you snap your head around at him all alarmed.

“What? Wear it,” he says, head shrugging towards the direction of his jacket on your figure. “You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t.”

Trying to wrestle out of the red material, you squirm in the hold of the windbreaker– Eric’s hands gripping each side of the jacket, as if predicting your next moves, making sure it stays on you and doesn’t fall down. His strong arms tug you closer to him to make your fight more difficult– and he’s successful with his efforts, because the proximity of him and his smell engulfs you and unarms you, heat rushing to your cheeks as you halt in your movements.

“Stop,” you mourn, “I don’t need it.”

“Yes you do,” he insists, “so stop being a baby about it and wear it.”

Staring into his eyes, as if to mentally tell him to stop what he’s doing– to stop how he’s treating you, how he’s making you all weak in your knees and sleepless at nights because of how much you think of him and hope he’s doing well each day, to stop being so gentle with you and taking care of you, because it brings all sorts of both doubts and delusions into your head– but he doesn’t back down. You’ve known him for quite some time, you should already be aware of just how stubborn he can be.

“Arms in,” he hums, holding on to the jacket and waiting for you to wear it properly. One thing about you– you can always admit your defeat. So, with a sigh, you put your arms through the sleeves of Eric’s red windbreaker, shrinking a little under his firm gaze. He looks at you with a look full of something you can’t decipher, and it’s all making you so, so insanely lost in the many thoughts and feelings swirling around your head, not helping your current state.

“I already have a brother, y’know,” you mumble in a moment of weakness, looking at your feet– your dirty white sneakers almost touching his from how close you are standing right now, “so you should stop treating me like one.”

A moment of silence overtakes you two, and you suddenly feel like you’ve done something wrong. Still, Eric’s hands are holding on to the sides of the opened jacket, keeping you close to him. “Hm?”

Clearing your throat and shaking your head, you snicker to yourself. “Forget it.”

“No- I mean,” he blurts out, tone of voice a little nervous, “do you see me as your brother figure?” he asks, tone of voice more quiet now, more gentle.

Breathing in the crispy air, taking a moment before you reply, you shake your head in disapproval. “No,” you say, “no, I don’t. I- I don’t think I do,” you say, scared of what your answer will bring out of him. You don’t really know why, but at this moment, you feel insanely fragile– as if any bad move could make you break in his hands, waiting for him to glue you back together.

Metaphorically, he does just that. “Good,” he nods, leaning down towards you, hands gripping the zipper of his jacket and zipping it together, making sure no cold can get to your bones as his fingers tug it up towards the very top, under your chin. “Because I’ve never seen you as my sister either.”

His answer once again startles you– but when you take a step back from the situation, you think it was in a good way. His hands grip your shoulders for a second as his eyes meet yours and he offers you a warm smile. “Come on, let’s get you home,” he says, tugging you towards the fence where you find his bike, his motions guiding you like a rag doll sucked out of all life.

“Hop in,” he motions towards the back of the bike, where the basket would usually be– Eric moved it towards the front, though, leaving enough room for you to sit at– and as you do, he takes a seat in front of you and looks back at you over his shoulder. “Hold on tight so you don’t fall.”

Like in a trance, your arms sneak around his middle– this was the first time you had this kind of physical touch with him, and just the thought of it makes you want to scream your throat out– before the male takes off on the bike, riding towards your neighborhood. With the cold wind slapping your face, you foolishly rest your cheek on his shoulder blade and close your eyes, enjoying the closeness of his body keeping you warm.

If anyone asked you about the action, you’d tell them you were just tired.

DECEMBER OF 1999

Socked feet make their way through the room, the sound of footsteps resonating on the laminated floor, as the short male comes up to you with a bowl of potato chips in his right hand and a bottle of soda under his left arm. Eric Sohn sighs at you, shaking his head in disbelief, before he places the items onto the coffee table and takes a seat next to you on the floor, opening up the bottle and pouring the three of you drinks.

“Can’t believe I’m spending New Year’s Eve with you losers, of all people,” Eric snickers, having you roll your eyes at the male and grumpily furrow your eyebrows at his sentence.

“No one’s stopping you if you wanna go, y’know,” you grunt as you take the filled glass off the table, taking a sip of the sweet drink and sighing at him. If he’s gonna take a leap into the new year with you while making you annoyed, he may as well leave now and do whatever his initial plan was– once again, no one’s stopping him if that’s what he wants to do.

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “it would’ve been so much more fun if we all went to Juyeon hyung’s. Everyone’s there celebrating, but we’re stuck here in your room.”

“Well, Eric,” your brother smiles ironically at him, shrugging to himself, “it’s not like it’s my fault you’re not over at Juyeon hyung’s right now. You chose to spend the new years here with me. My mother prohibited me from going there, not yours.”

The argument has the male shrug, his eyes averting your brother’s gaze once his comment gets a bit too honest and realistic. It’s true and he’s right– it’s not like Eric’s mum told him he can’t go celebrate with his friends, because she didn’t. Eric’s mum trusts him and wants him to have fun and do what all the kids his age are doing. Your mum, on the other hand, is making you and Sunwoo stay home for New Year’s Eve to celebrate with your family, because, as she quoted, New Year’s Eve the only time she gets time off work, and she wants to spend it with her kids– forget the fact that you’re currently sitting locked in your room with your friend, protesting the family time just because you can– and when Sunwoo told her she has to stop treating him like a little kid, she told him she has all the right to do so, because he is her kid. And that’s how the party he was supposed to attend with Eric (the party you foolishly thought you’re gonna have to tag along to, not hating the sentiment as much as before now) got canceled from your brother’s plans.

“Well,” Eric chews on the inside of his cheek, “I did it for you two. Be grateful.”

“Whatever,” you hum, “let’s turn on the TV. I bet there’s some variety show on.”

Eric heaves out a sigh as he reaches for the TV remote, clicking the power button and making the boxy device in front of you light up. Your mum got you a TV in your room when you complained about being too bored one November day, and although the box of entertainment didn’t really help like you imagined it to, you’re glad it’s of service at least today. Instead of the expected variety show, though, there’s news on– the face of the old announcer looking at you with a serious look on his face, the professional tone making chills run down your spine, for he reminds you a bit of your mother when she scolds you. You think that’s a common news announcer trait.

“As the year 2000 approaches, computer programmers realize that computers might not interpret the 00 in the software as 2000, but 1900. The softwares currently running only use a two-digit code for the year, excluding the 19. The data was excluded because the data storage is costly and takes up too much space. Activities that were planned on a daily basis could be damaged or flawed,” the announcer says, making the three of you look at the screen with interest. Maybe it’s true that when you get older, you get more interested in news– you think it’s good to know what’s going on around you, although the topic discussed right now might not even concern you in the slightest.

“Banks, which calculate the interest rates on a daily basis, could face real problems. Interest rates are the amount of money a lender, such as a bank, charges a customer, such as an individual or business, for a loan. Instead of the rate of interest for one day, the computer could calculate a rate of interest for minus almost 100 years!”

“Oops,” Eric lets out next to you, a reaction so far away from what a real adult would think of the situation. See, you are all just kids, after all.

“Centers of technology, such as power plants, are also threatened by this issue. Power plants depend on routine computer maintenance for safety checks, such as water pressure or radiation levels. Not having the correct date could throw off these calculations and possibly put nearby residents at risk,” the announcer continues, the information coming out of his mouth suddenly making you hyper aware of the reality you’re experiencing right now.

“Do we have a nuclear power plant nearby?” you ask in a hushed whisper, watching as the men next to you almost comically widen their eyes, shrugging.

“I’m not sure,” Sunwoo peeps.

“The worst of all, this software and hardware issue could cause such a big problem in nuclear energy facilities, where nuclear bombs and missiles could be set off, causing the world to go into utter chaos, or worse, an end,” the announcer concludes, the last word making you gasp in terror.

“An end?” you chirp, sitting up straight in your seat as you look at the two men, now equally as terrified. There’s something in Sunwoo’s gaze that makes chills run down your spine, the reality crushing down on you with heavy measures.

“I knew I shouldn’t have fought with mum. What if the last words the two of us exchanged before we die are the harsh words I had said yesterday?” your brother mourns, seeing as his best friend chews on his bottom lip, lost in thought.

“What did you say to your mum?”

“That- that I’ll never forgive her for ruining this for me,�� he mumbles, his voice breaking at the end, “and… other things,” he adds, the hint of incoming panic making his best friend frantically wave his hands around and try to make your brother relax before he has to deal with the breakdown. If the world is ending, this is not how any of you want to go.

“It’s okay, don’t worry,” Eric says, clearing his throat and pointing to the TV, “look! The show is on, we should watch before the year ends,” he proposes, taking the remote into his hand and turning the volume up to hopefully drown out Sunwoo’s thoughts and have him focus on something else. And it works– noting that your brother has an attention span of a 5 year old– he can hardly remember what he was worrying about just 30 seconds ago.

Still, the thought keeps bouncing around your head like a child in a bouncy castle. The words of the news anchor keep repeating in your brain, making your ears ring as you look at Eric from the corner of your eye, watching his angelic face. Oh how you hate disturbing the peace now that you’ve all calmed down– but still, you can’t deal with the worries alone. Checking the clock hung above the TV, noticing there’s at least 5 minutes left before midnight, you clear your throat, feeling your whole body on fire.

“Do you really think the world is gonna end?” you ask, cracking your knuckles in a nervous manner. Looking at Eric, pupils shaking, you find your brother’s best friend seemingly lost in thought. The music of the variety show program serves you three as a background sound now, none of you paying attention to the TV anymore, instead, focusing on all the things you've done wrong in your life and how somehow, this feels like karma for all of it.

“I dunno,” Sunwoo shrugs, “I mean- they said it’s possible! It was on the news, and they wouldn’t lie on the news…” he nervously mumbles, scratching the back of his head.

“That’s what’s worrying me,” you sigh, “we shouldn’t have turned on the TV.”

“It was your idea in the first place!”

“And I’ll carry the burden into my grave,” you admit, gulping as you press a forced smile onto your lips.

Momentarily looking back at the TV, you desperately want to keep the thought of the world being over out of your head before you spend your last minutes on this earth going crazy– but now that you started, you can’t keep thinking about it. “Man, the world can’t end yet. There’s so many things I haven’t tried yet! I’m too young to die!”

The men don't reply to that– you presume they’re too busy trying to find other things to occupy themselves with instead of the inevitable– which has you dissatisfied as you throw your body back into the sofa, heaving out a sigh. Seconds go by painfully slow but also painfully fast at the same time, given the circumstances, as you listen to the cheerful song playing in the background and nudge your friend into his upper arm with your pointer finger, feeling his arm encircle your shoulders and pull you closer to him. The contact of his fingers on your upper arm makes you squirm and break out into a smile, feeling a particular lightness in your stomach at the action, a sensation that has you in shock.

“I’m gonna talk with mum before we die,” Sunwoo suddenly calls as he stands up from his seat on the floor, sighing to himself, “I can’t go with the thought of her being upset with me,” he sentimentally adds before he’s out of the door, rushing towards the living room.

The space falls into momentary silence now that your brother is gone, having you chew on your bottom lip with nerves. You think now is the time to beg for forgiveness with the higher forces– I'm sorry for not studying well. I'm sorry for being rude and ungrateful towards my mum. I'm sorry for being greedy– when the sound of Eric’s voice resonates through the place as he speaks up again, waking you up from the anxious slumber, the clock now striking 2 minutes before midnight. “What would you wanna do before you die?” he asks.

The question is simple. You presume he wants simple answers– things like getting into college, getting a good job and making a lot of money, growing old– but as you lean away from him and get back to your place on his left, your eyes locked with his, you’re left clueless. There are so many things you have yet to achieve, and the idea of not being able to pushes a burden to your chest, but at this very moment, you can’t really name one.

Shrugging, you chew on the inside of your cheek as your eyes scan his face. His firm eye contact has you a bit flustered, making you shrivel in your seat, and as the sound of the TV morphs from the song into a countdown from 55, you’re overwhelmed with the thought that your friend is insanely pretty– and he always has been, you just hated admitting it to yourself for the past few months, despite still being fully aware– and that now, when the world ends, you’re dying unkissed and alone.

Well, not completely alone, since Eric’s here. And he’s always been here– your whole life, since you can remember, and he’s here now as well, even though he should’ve been at Juyeon’s house. As the clock strikes 30 seconds away from midnight, your eyes involuntarily travel down to his chapped lips, all air knocked out of your lungs, the thoughts in your brain picking up on speed the closer you come to the end.

You’re dying soon. You’re dying in 30- now 29 seconds, and you’ve never kissed anyone before. You’re dying before you get a chance to hold hands with someone and have a partner, and you’re dying before you get a chance to tell Eric how you feel about him. There’s 28 seconds left until the end and you’re just staring at him like a coward, because you don’t really let yourself indulge in the silly warmth of your heart whenever you’re around your friend, but god, you can at least admit it to yourself before you die.

And as the clock gets closer and closer to midnight, now only giving you 20 seconds before it all ends and a missile lands on the top of your house, blowing up the whole town and making you all disappear, Eric’s question repeats itself in your brain. What would you want to do before you die?

The answer is suddenly painfully clear as you take action– leaning towards the boy on your right, face closer to his than it’s ever been before, your eyes counting all his eyelashes and focusing on his surprised, yet unmoving face– and as you hear the countdown reach 15, you close your eyes and press your lips against his.

The contact makes you weak in your knees as your hands reach to his face to steady him, your own firework show erupting in your stomach, and suddenly you’re completely content with dying tonight– because at least you’re with Eric, at least you did something. You kiss your friend with something close to an unsaid confession, your lips staying on his throughout the rest of the countdown, the taste of soda you’ve both been drinking the whole evening mixing in the contact of your skin. You’re not sure you’re even doing this right– again, you’ve never kissed anyone before– but it doesn’t matter to you much as you let go of your worries, aware of the fact that in a few seconds, nothing will matter anymore when neither of you are going to be around to say anything to each other after the kiss is over.

The countdown rings in your ears– coming down from 5 as you scoot yourself closer to Eric, 4 as you run the pads of your thumbs along his cheekbones, 3 as you still in your movements, 2 as you notice your knees bumping into each other on the ground and finally, 1 as you get ready to die, kissing your first and only love– when the sound of cheers and fireworks from the TV fills your ears instead, the world around you stilling and completely unchanged.

Your kiss started in 1999 and ended in 2000. Your love for him passed a century.

Eyes fluttering open and your mouth letting go of his, the image of the boy with his lips slightly parted, eyes closed and cheeks rosy comes to you in the yellow light of your room, making your heart fall down to your stomach. He looks absolutely angelic, his hair slightly messy and the fabric of his shirt a little disheveled in the front, and even though you’d love to indulge in your foolish desires and kiss him some more, you’re quickly taken aback with the noise of the door to your room opening and making you jump away from Eric, your brother appearing out of thin air in the presence of your room. It serves you like a weird kind of reality check, Eric’s eyes opening and looking at your brother, and even though you two haven’t been caught, the male clears his throat and bites down on his lower lip, looking almost guilty.

Oh no. What have you done?

Suddenly, you feel insanely silly.

JANUARY OF 2000

“You’ve been awfully quiet the whole day,” Sunwoo mumbles from beside you, his whole body engulfed in a pile of snow, “not that I care, but are you okay?”

“I thought you liked it when I don’t talk,” you mutter, playing with the frozen white all around you, seated on the red plastic sled at the top of the hill. You got tired after dragging it up from the bottom, and when you noticed that the rest of Sunwoo’s friends– Eric included– are still on their way up, you figured you could use up the time to relax and sit around for a while. It’s been quite some time since all of Sunwoo’s friends gathered to hang out at the same time, which made you surprised to see that your own brother invited you to tag along with them as they decided to go sledding on the second day of January, using up their break to best of their abilities. Which is also why you didn’t say no to the invitation– you thought sitting at home and moping around wouldn’t help you much.

“I do,” he says, nodding, “that’s why I’m asking what’s up– so I know what to do when I need to shut you up later,” Sunwoo hums, making you roll your eyes at the masked worry.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you scoff. “It’s nothing.”

“Sure,” he shrugs, “so you’re just going through puberty?” he teases, to which you take a handful of snow into your palm and lunge the white at him, satisfaction running through your veins when the snowball lands into his unsuspecting face, the male coughing and swatting his arms around to defend himself.

“Hey!” your brother screams at you once he gets the ice out of his eyes and his mouth, his body jumping into a standing position before he chases you around, the bubble of a laugh escaping your throat for the first time these days– they’re not wrong when they say malicious joy is the best kind of joy.

Running at the top of the hill, not really looking where you’re going– instead looking over your shoulder to see Sunwoo’s actions, preparing yourself to duck if he decides to turn your small quarrel into a snow fight– your legs get tangled with the red sled you left before you started a war with the angered man, a yelp cutting out of your throat as you get prepared to fall over and knock your teeth out.

Your body comes in contact with something half-firm, half-soft, and as your feet slip and the snow-covered ground disappears from below your legs, two arms wrap around your waist and steady you, making sure you don’t get hurt.

Turns out Eric Sohn is there to catch you every time you are about to eat shit. You hate this kind of deja vu.

As you open your eyes (that you had closed on instinct, not wanting to see your own death) once you’re sure you’re safe and sound, the world around you invites itself into your ears in an overwhelming noise. The laughter of Sunwoo’s friends– some hollering at your fall, some at the redness and last remains of snow covering your brother’s face– and the hushed arguments over who’s going down first– with Haknyeon screaming that he’s stealing Sunwoo’s (yours) sled and Juyeon following him. After all those happening in the matter of a few seconds, you realize you’re left on the top of the hill alone with the male, terror shaking through your insides.

Clearing your throat and taking a step back from him, you tuck your hands into your pockets and avert your gaze from Eric. You two haven’t spoken since you decided to kiss him on New Year’s Eve, and with the awkward tension in the air, you don’t feel like doing so ever again in your whole entire life.

“Thanks,” still, you hum.

Eric seems a little more light-hearted than you, shrugging as he replies to you. “Haven’t I told you to start watching where you’re going?”

“I’m not good with listening sometimes,” you mutter, huffing. Taking a look around yourself– noticing that there are no sleds left on the top of the hill, therefore, if you wanted to escape the situation, the only way down would be to roll around like a human version of a snowman, you once again admit your defeat, standing around nervously and shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

The silence is uncomfortable. It makes you want to dig a hole in the snow and bury yourself alive, to suffocate under the weight of the icy cold and never see Eric’s face again. You know that you ruined whatever friendship you had with the male– by being stupid and foolish, not really thinking about consequences (because there were supposed to be none and you were supposed to be dead), and the weight of the guilt makes you want to puke and hide away.

Still, Eric comes out of his way to talk to you. Honestly, you’re kind of surprised– he should be disgusted with you. Realistically, he should be the one avoiding you, not the other way around.“They’re gonna take long to walk back up,” he notes, “wanna get hot chocolate with me?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you shake your head, not once breaking eye contact with the overwhelming white of the hill.

“Come on,” he sighs, “it’s just around the corner. They built a hot chocolate stand because they knew kids would come sledding here. Honestly, it’s an astute business tactic, but I promise the hot chocolate actually tastes nice,” he says, nudging you slightly with his arm, as if to make you look at him and change your mind.

“Thanks, but no,” you definitely say, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asks, tone of voice casual– as if it was the most normal thing in the world, as if nothing ever happened and he was genuinely curious about the reasoning behind your actions.

“I’m not, I just don’t really like hot chocolate,” you sheepishly mutter, trying hard to avoid the topic.

“So you are avoiding me,” he hums, as if it wasn’t obvious before– and not only because you’re a bad liar. Plus, you love hot chocolate. Somehow, you think Eric knows.

“Look, Eric,” you sigh, running your hand through your hair, “can’t you just drop it?”

“No,” he shrugs, shaking his head, “and that’s why we’re talking about the reason why you’re avoiding me over a cup of hot chocolate. Let’s go.”

His persistence is terribly overwhelming sometimes. You wonder how the male does it. “I already told you-”

“You owe me for the stickers and the meal and everything,” he corners you, and you know you can’t argue with that. He’s kind of right, you suppose– you never paid him back for all the chocolates or for the free meal he brought you that one evening. And that’s exactly why you find yourself sighing as you follow him, mentally preparing yourself for the talk.

You hate how he can always get his way. Walking up to the stand, you crack your knuckles in the pocket of your jacket, nervously coming up with possible arguments to tell him. I didn’t kiss you on purpose, it was an accident. I only did it to know how it feels. We are both supposed to be dead, it’s not my fault the world didn’t end like it was supposed to! Each sentence sounds more stupid than the previous one, and so with that, you shake your head, wiping the thoughts away, smiling at the elderly lady in the stand. You’re just gonna have to be honest, you figure.

“Two hot chocolates, please.”

Rummaging through your pockets to find your wallet– you do owe Eric, so it’s only natural for you to pay– you’re caught off guard as the male next to you swiftly takes out his own and unzips it, preparing to pay for you.

“I thought I owed you?” you mumble, hand reaching to tug at his forearm to stop him, to which Eric only grins at you and sighs.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to pay,” he says.

“I think that’s exactly what that means.”

“Just take it,” he huffs as he brings out a note from his wallet, the force making something else fly out and fall to the ground with it, having the boy swiftly crouch down and pick the item up, attempting to hide it before you get a chance to see. And now, you don’t have 20/20 vision, but you recognise your face when you see it– that, and you also recognize the small white sheet to be a polaroid picture, and as far as you’re aware, you’re the only one who has a camera in his circle.

The boy hands you the drink with red-tinted cheeks. The idea of him carrying a picture of you that he took back in September makes you flush as well, and when your gloved fingers accidentally meet as you take the cup from him, he forces out a laugh. “We can talk about that after you tell me why you’re avoiding me.”

His nonchalance has you relaxing only for a few seconds. The boy walks with you as you try to heat up your cold hands on the boiling surface of the cup, and when you see a bench a few meters away from you two, you instinctively take a seat.

“So?” he becomes you, eyebrows rising as he takes a sip from the melted sweetness.

Sighing, you try to come up with the best way to go around this. Do you apologize? Do you promise to never do it again– and you won’t, even though you want to so badly and his lips look surprisingly soft today? Furrowing your brows at the war in your head, you place the cup on the bench next to you and put your head into your hands, hiding away from him when you realize the only way to do this is to be completely, utterly honest.

“I’m just so embarrassed, Eric.”

The only noise meeting your eardrums in the moment is the faint yelling of the crowd sledding in the background, your companion remaining quiet for a bit. When he sees you won’t explain yourself, he goes ahead and asks the question. “Why?”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you?” you sigh, not believing his so casual composure.

“Maybe,” he laughs, the airy sound taking all breath away from your lungs.

Well, not all of it, since you have enough oxygen to go on a tangent, it seems. “Because I kissed you, goddamnit. And- and I don’t even know why I did it, honestly, I’ve never thought of kissing you before! It’s just- when I heard the world is ending, I realized I hadn’t had my first kiss yet, and that just felt like such a miserable way to die, and then you asked what I wanted to do before I die and I couldn’t think of anything else,” you say, progressively taking out your head from your hands and facing the male, big eyes staring into his soul.

To your surprise, he doesn’t seem mad. Or disgusted. Or any of the reactions you expected, really. Eric stares at you with a soft, but amidst a little star-struck look in his eyes, and you’re suddenly painfully aware of every slight shift in his composure.

“Did you kiss me because you wanted to kiss me, or because you thought the world was gonna end?” he asks, awaiting your answer.

And if you’re being honest, 2 days after New Year’s Eve, you do admit the thought of the world actually ending sounds a bit stupid. Why did you even believe that theory? Why did they talk about it so seriously on the news? They tricked you into ruining your own life.

But still, nothing can be done about it now. “Both,” you admit, shrugging, “I… I kissed you because I really didn’t want to die unkissed, but also… I wanted it to be you, y’know? Like… I thought we were really going to die, and so I thought kissing you might be a nice way to go. I really wanted to spend my last moments with you, I guess,” you sheepishly say, averting your gaze from the male.

Eric offers you his silence again after you’re done explaining. While you do admit you feel a little tense to hear what he has to say, you also realize you feel lighter now that it’s out in the universe and out of your system. A major weight was taken off your shoulders with the confession, and suddenly, you’re kind of glad that your friend was so assertive and insistent on talking about this– who knows how long you’d go before managing to face him. You think you could honestly go on… forever.

Taking a sip of the luscious liquid, you feel your body warm up once the anxiousness slips away from your bones. The boy next to you hums, making you face him with expecting eyes. “Then why were you avoiding me?”

Sighing, you shake your head. “I just told you. I’m starting to think you’re the one that’s bad at listening.”

“No,” he laughs, “that’s still you. Because if you were good at listening, you’d remember me telling you that I’ve never once seen you as my younger sister.”

Shrugging, kicking the pile of snow in front of you with the tip of your winter boots, you’re not quite following. “So?”

“So you should’ve realized that I’m not doing all of this,” he theatrically swings his arms around, “for nothing, you know?”

“All of what?”

“Taking care of you. Feeding you, helping you collect those stupid animal stickers, walking you home…” he mumbles, sighing. “Keeping your picture in my wallet,” he adds with a playful tone, making you smile.

“I thought you were just being a good friend,” you shrug.

“I don’t keep a picture of your brother on me at all times,” he says, tugging off his gloves. The sleeve of his jacket rides up a little as you watch him take his cup of hot chocolate off the bench, surprised (and flooded with warmth) to see the ugly friendship bracelet you made still adorning his wrist.

Grinning to yourself, excitement welcoming itself into the tips of your fingertips, you shrug. “So?” you mirror your own question from a little while ago, wanting him to say it to you instead of relying on your own brain– you think there’s still a possibility of you just being too delusional to see the reality for what it really is. You need to make sure you’re not imagining things.

“So,” he starts, sighing to himself as he turns a little in his seat to face you, “you should stop avoiding me, because I liked the kiss. And you. And we should probably do it again, because I didn’t get the chance to kiss you back the first time,” he says, once again taking all oxygen out of your lungs with the casualty of his preposition.

Locking his eyes with you, having you two staring at each other like two rays of sunshine warming up the cold January, he grins. “How does that sound?”

“Good,” you breathe out, “very good.”

The male takes it as an invitation as he scoots himself closer to you on the bench, his body turning a bit to face you. His free hand cups your cheek, leaning closer to lock his lips with you like he asked you to, your eyes fluttering close at the proximity, the fuzzy feeling in your stomach already expecting to kiss him again. The situation feels a little too idyllic to be real, though– you should’ve expected it to get ruined again.

Something cold and wet comes into contact with the side of your face, and when you sharply open your eyes, you see Eric staring at you with shock and terror in his eyes, the snow dripping down the side of his face as well. Whoever threw the snowball has good aim, you think– managing to target two people at once (even though your faces were that close to each other that it probably wasn’t even that hard), and before you get a chance to look around and see who cut off your kiss, there’s a scream coming from the left side of the two of you, the sound of feet quickly darting in the snow landing into your ears.

“Eric Sohn, what the fuck do you think you’re doing with my sister?” the voice hollers, and before you get a chance to react, the said male fastly stands up from the bench and runs to the other direction, laughter resonating all throughout the place as Sunwoo and his friends chase their shortest friend down.

Snow starts falling as you watch your brother tail his childhood friend, and with a foreign sense of warmth, you get reminded of the birthday wish you made while blowing out the candles on your seventh birthday.

You wished for someone just like Eric. You didn’t know the universe would be so kind to give you him instead.

#bjnet #the boyz #eric sohn #the boyz x reader #tbz x reader #tbz fluff #eric sohn fluff #eric fluff #eric x reader #eric sohn x reader #tbz scenario #tbz fic #the boyz scenario #the boyz fluff #the boyz imagines #sohn youngjae #youngjae x reader

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coralhoneyrose · 1 year

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Speak What Your Heart Wants You To - (m!Chrobin One-Shot)

Plot Synopsis: When Robin sacrificed himself to defeat Grima, Chrom never gave up hope that he would find him again. Now, reborn half a millennium later with no memories of his past life, Chrom may finally have his chance. Also known as: a Reincarnation AU in which Robin is a historian working as a museum curator, and Chrom has a *very* personal investment in learning more about the newest exhibit.

Originally posted on ao3 with f!Robin for Fire Emblem Awakening's 10th Anniversary. Tweaked to create an m!Chrobin version for anyone who prefers that iteration of the pairing.

Rating: Teen

Tags: Reincarnation, Modern AU, Flirting, Fluff, Humor

Words: 9,751

Chrom raises his coat collar to fend off the damp nipping at his skin. Along the streets, redbud trees and daffodils have conspired to coat the sidewalk in a thin crust of pollen, yet an uncharacteristic chill has sunk its teeth into Ylisstol—as if the city has forgotten that it’s already mid-spring. The hulking shadow cast by Ylisse’s National Heritage Museum does nothing to aid in chasing away the cold. Chrom waits against one of the granite pillars at its entrance, hands shoved deep in his pockets, removing them only to check his wristwatch for the fifth time in as many minutes.

When he first heard word of the new collection debuting at the museum, Chrom was ecstatic. ‘Ylisse’s Star-Crossed Lovers as You’ve Never Seen Them Before!’, the flier promised. He withdraws it from his pocket again, thumbs skimming over its many creases from all the folding and unfolding he has put it through. The collection boasts of newly uncovered love letters exchanged between Exalt Chrom and his husband, as well as their personal journal entries, and a never-before-seen sketch of the Exalt in his youth.

As far as Ylissean historical figures go, Chrom’s namesake is considered one of the greats. Remembered as both a fearsome general and progressive policy maker, artifacts detailing the Exalt's life would make for an interesting exhibit on those grounds alone. It is his love story, rather than his political achievements, however, that made him popular outside of academic circles.

Exalt Chrom and King Consort Robin’s relationship had all the makings of a beautiful tragedy—a chance meeting between fated enemies turned lovers; a desperate fight to save the world; a daring, heroic sacrifice; and the unfaltering hope they would one day meet again. The story is a favorite among the Ylissean people, and has been the subject of many modern retellings and theatrical performances in the centuries since. Chrom himself is enamored with the heart-rending mystery surrounding the two, though admittedly, his interests lay less with the ruler whose name he shares than with the brilliant tactician the man loved.

Chrom has never been able to put words to his interest in King Robin. The fascination is so out of line with his other interests, for things like fencing and swordplay—his passions have always been mired more in the physical than the academic. But something about Ylisse’s grandmaster is magnetic to him. His story plucks Chrom’s heartstrings and makes him ache—shoots him full of a sense of nostalgia for a life he never lived, where heroes fought dragons and maybe fell in love with them too.

It hadn’t been hard to learn all there was to know about the tactician: despite the king consort’s popularity, there was infuriatingly little known about his personal life. No portraits of him had survived, nor were there any known accounts of the time before he began serving the Shepherds. The majority of King Robin’s writing that had been uncovered was focused almost exclusively on military strategy, and while it was enough to prove him every bit deserving of his title as Ylisse’s High Deliverer, it did not divulge much about who he was as a person.

For that, one had to turn to cursory mentions of the tactician in documents written by his contemporaries, and as dissonant as their portrayals of him could be, Chrom had still read them all. Reports from Plegian and Valmese war generals portrayed the tactician as callous, cunning and ruthless…but the diaries of Ylisse’s Shepherds spoke of his sunny nature, his vibrant curiosity, and his quiet compassion. The accounts all seemed to be at odds with each other, a point which many historians found vexing. He was calculating, he was selfless. He was secretive, he was loyal. Amongst these myriad facades, who was the true Robin of Ylisse?

Personally, Chrom liked to believe that none of the records were more accurate than the others. People were complicated, he reasoned. Why couldn’t these writings be a window into the many masks worn by a man who once had the fate of the world resting on his shoulders? Facets of a jewel whose luster was only achieved through ruinous pressure. Ultimately, though, Chrom’s perception of the tactician is just one theory among many—with as much claim to credence as any other. There is no way to know what Robin was really like...or at least there hadn’t been, until now.

When the new exhibit was announced, it stoked Chrom's hope into a frothy and frenetic thing—ignited a livewire curiosity within him. The collection promised personal letters and journal entries written by the tactician himself, afterall. It was the first opportunity the public would have to get a glimpse into the workings of the king’s heart, rather than his mind.

And so Chrom had pre-ordered a ticket for the exhibit’s grand-opening. He arrived early, and had packed a lunch in his satchel so that he could stay until closing, dissecting every stroke of the man’s quill. After years of admiring the tactician, finally, finally, he would get to know him. He's irrationally excited to have the chance.

Ylisstol’s clock tower chimes, the toll of the brassy bell sending a flock of pigeons skittering into the sky and tugging his eyes from the flier still gripped in his hands. It’s 10 o’clock.

On the other side of the glass doors, a security guard strides forward and turns a key, and just like that, the museum is open. Immediately, Chrom pulls open the door and fumbles his way to the ticket check counter. He was not the only one awaiting the museum’s opening, and behind him, a thin crowd of eager patrons push their way forward as well.

With his entry granted, he scurries between the arrowed signs pointing in the direction of the featured exhibit. His shoes clack against the tile with each step, echoing enormously beneath the vaulted ceiling. Without the brisk outdoor air, his palms grow clammy, half from nerves and half from excitement. What if the letters wind up proving that the version of Robin he’s spent all these years building in his head isn’t what he was like at all?

…But what if he was even better?

Chrom rounds the final corner, only to freeze in the center of the archway leading into the display room, legs pinned in place. He blinks, scrunches his eyes closed, and blinks again.

There, centered on the exhibit wall for all eyes to see, hangs a highly detailed picture of his own naked body.

His first thought is that he must be asleep. He’s having that awful nightmare where you show up to work, or the gym, and realize you forgot to put on any clothing. With how long he’s been nervously anticipating this exhibit, it’s within the realm of possibility for it to serve as the setting in one of his dreams.

But no, that can’t be right, because the version of himself that came to the museum today is fully dressed. When he looks down at himself he can see his coat, his button down and his dark wash jeans. It’s just the Chrom in the picture on the wall that’s not wearing anything.

It’s a drawing, he realizes a moment later, as his mortified mind struggles to make sense of the scene before him. More specifically, it’s a black ink figure drawing, the parchment discolored with age. It portrays him completely bare and hoisting a set of scales into the air. The only saving grace the drawing offers is the ancient sword clutched in his other hand—placed at such an angle to conveniently block anything especially unsavory from view.

Chrom stumbles as more museum visitors arrive, pushing past him to make their way into the exhibit. Legs still jelly-like, he wobbles forward to get a closer look. A plaque inlaid beneath the poster reads:

‘Estimated date ~995, War recruitment poster depicting Chrom of Ylisse, then the nation’s Crown Prince and military general, posed with the exalted blade, Falchion, and a set of scales. The poster is believed to have been commissioned by his faithful knight, Sir Frederick, in an effort to raise troop morale and increase public support of the war effort.’

Chrom’s throat constricts as he risks another peek at the poster. It’s not a drawing of him at all, then, but of the exalt he was named after. He’s seen portraits of Exalt Chrom from later in his life, and has received many a comment or jest about the similarities in their appearance. But the picture before him goes beyond a mere resemblance; they don’t just look alike, they look the same. It’s uncanny. No matter how he looks at it, that’s his face—his body. He knows because he sees them in the mirror every morning when he wakes up and every night before bed. They look back at him in the reflection of every window he passes. The only difference as far as Chrom can tell is that his own arm doesn’t bear the brand of the exalt.

His ears catch the sound of snickering and when he glances to the side, he sees two women pointing between him and the poster, breathless giggles spilling from behind their hands. Chrom’s face burns as he turns away, retreating into the high collar of his coat like a turtle into its shell. He’s not just flattering himself into thinking there is a resemblance, then. Clearly the people around him can see it too.

Nerves still in a frenzy, Chrom moves to the side of the room where he is less likely to draw attention and tries to catch his breath. He came to the museum with the intention of paying the poster little mind, but ignoring it now feels next to impossible. He just wanted to spend a peaceful day pouring over King Robin’s writing! At this very moment, his journal and letters are here, being viewed by other museum patrons who cannot possibly be as passionate about him as Chrom is. And yet here he is, cowering in a corner—too embarrassed by a 500 year old drawing to enjoy them properly.

Chrom squares his shoulders and tries to silence his shrieking modesty. If he can just keep it together long enough to snap a few pictures of the writings on display, then he can find a spot in the museum far away from that drawing to read them over in peace. With newfound determination, he edges his way around the room in search of the written documents.

His pulse hiccups with the first parchment leaves he comes to, but calms again when he sees the sign off at the bottom: ‘With all my love, Chrom’ —a letter written to Robin, rather than by him. It will no doubt make for an interesting read later, but for the moment it’s not Chrom’s priority—he yearns to see the words Robin wove together himself.

The next letter on display proves to be much the same. As does the one after that…and after that. He nearly gasps in relief when he finally spies the king consort's crabbed print and angular quill strokes across the double pages of a decrepit journal. Hastily, Chrom snaps a picture and continues his tour around the exhibit’s perimeter in search of more.

Except that’s it. Everything else on display was written by the Exalt to his husband, rather than the other way around. Chrom loops through the exhibit a 2nd time to be sure, and then a third, ducking his head each time he passes the poster of Ylisse’s previous Crown Prince. But that’s all there is...just one journal entry, and no letters from Robin at all. His stomach tosses in disappointment.

Chrom thumbs the exhibit flier from his pocket again, running a nail beneath the text that proclaims that letters written by the famous lovers will be featured in the exhibit. Lovers plural. It doesn’t make sense—he’s certain the article he read detailing the initial discovery of the artifacts spoke of letters from the king consort as well. So where are they?

It’s possible that upon verification, those documents turned out to be illegitimate…but without a means of confirming that was the case, the question of why they’re not displayed is going to eat him alive. Someone must be able to tell him what happened to them.

Chrom’s eyes drift to the bottom of the flier, where a small line of print denotes the name of the museum staff member that curated the exhibit. He stifles a breathless chuckle, and wonders if it’s too fatalistic to believe the gods could be sending him a sign.

Their name is Robin.

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

Robin cracks his neck and stretches both arms overhead, chasing stiffness from his limbs. There are no windows in the museum’s archival room, and the fluorescent lighting is already starting to strain his eyes, but despite the complaints of his body, Robin’s mood couldn’t be more chipper.

It’s April 19th: the day marking the grand-opening of the new exhibit in Ylisse’s National Heritage Museum, and the first collection he has had the privilege to curate since receiving his promotion a few months prior. It had been a tremendous honor to be selected for the task by the museum board: the two lovers of Ylisse’s Golden Age were prominent in pop culture to this day, and any exhibit featuring them was likely to draw many visitors through their doors. He was flattered to have its curation entrusted to him.

And now the day that all his hard work culminated in had finally arrived. No more overtime hours and scrounging to meet deadlines: he’s validated all the documents, ensured the displays will keep them protected and pristine, and written all the tour guide scripts. All that is left is to soak up the public’s ensuing praise and relish the role he was able to play in bringing these writings to them.

It fills him with a bittersweet sort of pride. For so many months, those quill strokes and ink blots existed as a very private part of his life—known only to Robin and the ghosts of Exalt Chrom and his husband. Robin knows their words and their shape on the parchment like the veins that twist his body. He hopes that the people of Ylisse will love them as much as he has come to.

If he’s being completely honest, it is the poster of the Exalt whose presence in his office he will miss most. Robin is aware, intellectually, how ridiculous it is to harbor something akin to a crush on a deceased historical figure, but, well, he has eyes, doesn’t he? He can hardly be blamed for appreciating the Exalt’s assets. And Robin has spent enough time looking at that poster to know he has plenty.

Reading the man’s letters did nothing to efface those feelings, either. Gone was the stern, stoic facade the young king showed the rest of the world. Instead, the Exalt’s letters to his husband revealed a devotion that burned so ardently, one might think the quill strokes were char marks. His words to his lover were deeply intimate, but also surprising in their humor and levity. It was clear that for all the desperate passion they’d held for each other, their relationship had been built just as much on friendship. Robin can’t help but feel a little jealous.

Mostly, though, he is proud of his restoration efforts and of being able to bring a sample of the letters to the public. After so many years spent studying the reign of Exalt Chrom, having a personal hand in the exhibit has been nothing short of a dream.

A tap on Robin’s shoulder severs his line of thought. Miriel, another of the museum’s curators, stands beside his desk, adjusting her spectacles. Since Robin’s promotion, Miriel is no longer technically his superior, but the woman is still his senior, and Robin has yet to fully make the transition to thinking of her as a colleague rather than his boss.

“I’m afraid you’re not going to like this,” Miriel warns him, thin lips pressed into a tight line.

“Well, good morning to you too, Miriel,” Robin teases, unperturbed. “What exactly am I not going to like?”

“I’ve just received a call from the front desk,” Miriel tells him. “A man approached them saying he has concerns regarding the artifacts on display in the new collection. He asked to speak to you by name.”

“What?!” Robin rockets from his chair, and just like that all of his cheer is peeled away.

“But why?” he demands. “I’ve verified all the records; I’ve inspected every item a million times over. They’re authentic—everything checks out! What reason could he possibly have for us not to display them?”

“You needn’t tell me all of this,” Miriel assures him. “I’ve watched you prepare the exhibit myself—you’ve been exceedingly thorough. Whatever concerns this man has about the artifacts’ validity, I’m certain you’re more than equipped to address them.”

Robin purses his lips. Miriel’s praise is not easy to earn, and her endorsement of Robin’s competence soothes him considerably. It also twists the instinctive flood of worry he felt into annoyance instead.

“Why do I need to speak to him at all, then?” Robin counters. “It’s not my duty to entertain the doubts of every self-important ass who walks through our doors. And I don’t appreciate him casting doubt on my ability to do my job. Why should I give him the time of day?”

Miriel sighs. “Under normal circumstances, I’d be inclined to agree. Unfortunately, it would be imprudent for us to simply turn him away. His family is the museum’s top patron: thus, we’re obligated to at least make a perfunctory showing of listening to his complaints.”

Robin pauses a beat, surprised. “...This man is one of the Shepherds?” He mulls this over for a moment before deciding he’s unimpressed. “That just makes him a rich, self-important ass.”

“Philanthropic,” Miriel corrects pointedly. “Can I be secure in the assumption that I needn’t ask you to mind your language while meeting with such an esteemed guest?”

“I won’t be rude to him unprovoked,” Robin assures her blithely. Miriel raises an eyebrow, clearly aware of the danger lurking in that qualification.

“Hmm, right. Well, I shall leave you to gather whatever materials you may need in order to reassure this inquisitive patron of ours, but I would advise against keeping him waiting much longer. His is often the impatient sort.”

“Keeping him waiting?” Robin asks. Miriel nods.

“Upon hearing his name, the front desk took the liberty of sending him back.” She gestures towards the door leading out of the archival room and into the main hall. “He’s waiting out there now.”

“Shit,” Robin says, with feeling. Miriel’s responding smile is grimly sympathetic.

“Naga be with you,” she says, before picking her way to the back doorway and into one of the restoration workrooms further within.

Robin huffs out an incredulous laugh as he watches her go. Just his luck that one of the Shepherds would take issue with their newest exhibit. In all the years he’s worked there, he’s never heard of someone showing up unannounced and demanding to speak to a curator like this.

Grumbling, Robin rifles through the papers on his desk in search of the documentation he will need to prove the artifacts’ authenticity. Of course, now that the exhibit is open to the public, much of it has been filed away in the titanic archival shelving units.

With an impatient huff, Robin hauls a footstool over to the shelves to retrieve the file. He skims over the names printed on the lip of each folder, and of course the one he needs is nestled on the very top shelf. Even with the boost from the stool, he still can’t quite reach.

Robin curses his short stature under his breath before straining onto his tiptoes. If he’d been born just two inches taller this wouldn’t be a problem. With his arm extended as high as he can reach, his fingertips just manage to brush the manila folder’s edge.

“Aha! Got it!” he declares triumphantly, yanking it free.

The motion shifts his weight too suddenly. Robin feels the stepping stool wobble beneath him, and his stomach lurches as he tips backwards and loses his balance. At the last second, he careens his body to the side, avoiding a disastrous collision with the shelf behind him. Instead, his back thumps heavily against the dusty linoleum floor, the papers from the folder flying up in a flurry around him.

“Ow!” Robin groans, rubbing at the back of his skull. “Gods, ow!”

The metallic squeal of a door hinge tears across the room.

“Is everything alright?” a deep voice calls out. His stomach sinks: that has to be the man Miriel warned him about.

Dimly, Robin thinks that this is the very last position he would like to be found in by someone who already doubts his competence. He makes a valiant attempt to sit up, but the back of his head pounds, and all he manages is to groan again.

“Gods, are you hurt?!” the voice calls. Footsteps reverberate through the room and then a man pokes his head into Robin’s field of vision.

For a moment, he wonders if he hit his head harder than he realized and if he’s now having some sort of hallucination. How else is he meant to explain that he is staring up at a living, breathing version of the man on the poster? Because that’s him—it’s most certainly him. Robin knows because he spent the last several months staring at that face for hours every day...to validate the drawing’s authenticity, of course.

And yet he finds himself with the treasonous thought that the man before him is even more arresting than the drawing of the young exalt. The stark fluorescent lighting, which is supposed to be unflattering for everyone, drips angular shadows along the strong line of his jaw and the tendons of his neck—pools them in the cupid’s bow of his full lips. His hair is no longer the color of brittle parchment and sun-bleached pigment—it’s royal blue. And his eyes. They’re the azure of a midnight sky, riddled with stars—so bright and dark at once the room around him is tinged sepia by comparison.

“C-Chrom?” Robin asks, the name slipping out before his befuddled brain can think better of it.

“Oh! You—you know my name?” the man asks, sounding just as confused as Robin is.

“Uh…lucky guess,” he replies. The man’s lips pull up into a hesitant smile, and Robin forgets to breathe for a moment. That’s not something he’s ever seen the man on the poster do. It’s disarming. A moment later though, the man’s brows knit back together in concern, his smile sliding away.

“Are you alright down there?” he asks, and despite the pounding in Robin’s head and heart, he laughs a little at the absurdity of the question.

“Oh yeah, I’m great. I was just taking a nap.”

The man (who really is named Chrom, apparently) rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “I suppose that was probably a foolish thing to ask,” he admits with a chuckle. “Here, give me your hand.”

He offers his own to Robin as he speaks and Robin takes it, letting Chrom haul him to his feet.

For one blistering moment Robin is standing much too close to him—close enough to see Chrom’s individual eyelashes—and then he’s scrambling backwards, putting space between them. Chrom seems impossibly unphased by this accidental violation of his personal space, peering at Robin with a curious sort of concern.

“Should I call for a healer?” he offers.

“No, no, don’t worry about it. I should be fine,” Robin dismisses quickly. It’s embarrassing enough that this man found him fallen flat on his back without making more of an event of it by summoning a healer.

“Are you sure? If you were hurt, then you should really—”

“I appreciate the concern, but really, I’m okay. It’s just a little bump,” Robin assures him, and it’s true—already his thoughts are coming clearly again. He presses a finger to the back of his head experimentally and the spot is tender, but only dully so.

“Alright, if you’re certain…” Chrom smiles tentatively at him again. “Err, I’m sorry. You know my name, but I’m afraid I don’t know yours.”

Robin pauses. Telling him who he is will mean he has no escape from whatever criticism he’s here to saddle Robin with. But the man is already in the archival room—at this point Robin can’t see any means of getting out of the conversation anyway.

“...I’m Robin,” he says finally. Realization passes unfiltered across Chrom’s face.

“Ah, Robin! Then you must be—”

“The exhibit curator, yes. That’s me,” he replies. Robin crosses his arms and pops a hip, trying to regain the air of confidence he had before tumbling off the stepstool. “I’m told you have some sort of issue with the new collection? I can assure you, I validated every artifact on display myself, but if you don’t believe me, then I’m happy to show you the, uh…documentation.”

He loses steam towards the end when he realizes that the documents in question are scattered on the floor around him—a fairy ring of papers with the two of them standing at the center. When he looks back to Chrom, however, he’s surprised to see his cheeks have gone pink.

“No, no! That won’t be necessary—it’s not that sort of an issue at all! I think you have the wrong idea.”

Robin frowns. “Then you didn’t want one of the artifacts taken down?”

Oddly, this question also seems to embarrass him. It’s amusing watching how quickly Chrom’s expression shifts—every emotion written plainly across his face in real time.

“Err, well…I mean, truthfully, I do want one of them taken down. B-but that’s not what I’m here about!” he insists quickly. “I actually wanted to ask you about some of the artifacts that aren’t on display in the collection, i-if that’s alright.”

Robin sifts over his words, recalibrating. Chrom’s uncanny resemblance to the drawing on the poster has thrown him off balance, and this confrontation is not going how he anticipated it would. Then again, it probably wasn't feasible for Robin to have predicted that the complaining museum patron who wanted to speak with him would look just like the drawing of Ylisse’s very hot exalt from 500 years ago.

But he does, and since it seems like he’s not actually here to be an ass to Robin about his ability to do his job, the least he can do is hear him out.

“Alright, sure,” he allows. “I’ll answer your questions if I can.”

“Ah, thank you, Robin.” Chrom says his name like it’s the easiest thing in the world—like he’s said it a hundred times before. It’s insufferably charming.

He stoops to help retrieve the papers from the ground before continuing. “I was wondering if there were more letters in the collection than just what I saw in the exhibit. I thought I remembered the excavation report saying that letters written by the king consort had been discovered as well, but…” he trails off uncertainly.

“You’re right,” Robin acknowledges, kneeling to gather the papers with him. “There were more letters found than just the ones on display. Quite a number of them, actually. Written by both the Exalt and the King Consort.”

Chrom’s head whips up to face him. “Really? What became of them, then?” Breathless enthusiasm shimmers in his gaze, like he’s clinging to Robin’s every word. “Were you unable to authenticate them?”

“Ah…no,” he laughs, “they were legitimate. The museum board just didn’t feel they would be appropriate for the exhibit.”

Chrom’s face pinches up, puzzled. “I…I don’t understand. If they’re real, then why wouldn’t they be appropriate to display? What was wrong with them?”

“Nothing was wrong with them, exactly…” Robin says with a shrug. “They’re just much too risqué to display in a museum that families and children visit.”

A whole range of emotions flit across Chrom’s features.

“Gods, you’re—you’re being serious, aren’t you?” he sputters, flushed to his ears. Robin tamps down a fast-budding laugh. He almost can’t believe this grown man could look so horrified at the prospect of adult content existing in letters between lovers.

“Completely serious,” he assures Chrom, his voice as even as he can manage. “I mean, it’s not that surprising, is it? Most of the letters were written when the two were secretly engaged but forced to spend time apart for diplomatic work. They had to express all those pent-up feelings somewhere.”

Chrom considers this for a moment as he hands the papers he gathered back—some of his initial alarm seems to have faded, though his cheeks remain insistently pink.

“I suppose when you put it that way, it makes sense,” he admits. “Still, it’s a shame the letters couldn’t be displayed because of it.” In a mutter Robin isn’t sure he is meant to hear, Chrom adds, “…I rather wish the poster had received that fate, instead.”

Robin shifts his weight—fixes Chrom in a narrowed gaze.

“What’s wrong with the poster?” he asks, a bit defensively.

“W-well, it’s just so…revealing!” Chrom groans. “I’d think that wouldn’t be appropriate for families to see, either.”

Robin huffs out a laugh, recalling Chrom’s words from earlier. “So that’s the artifact you’d like to see taken down, then? Plenty of famous artwork and sculptures depict naked bodies. Honestly, this one is tame, comparatively—you can’t even see his genitals.”

“I—I know that!” Chrom protests quickly. “It’s just that it’s—w-well…it’s embarrassing for me.”

Robin snorts, disbelieving even as he begins to understand. “Embarrassing? You mean because you look like him?”

“Ah, so you can see it too, then!” Chrom says, as if this settles the matter.

“There’s a resemblance, sure,” Robin acknowledges, and if that’s the understatement of the century he’s not going to admit it. “But no matter how much you may look alike, it isn’t actually you. That poster is more than 500 years old. Something tells me you weren’t alive back then to pose for it.”

“But imagine for a moment that it was reversed,” Chrom presses. “If you walked into a museum and saw your own likeness up on the wall like that, wouldn’t you want it taken down?”

Robin mulls it over only a moment before answering. “Well, I do think I would be embarrassed at first, yes—”

“See?” Chrom declares, victoriously.

“—But ultimately, I would recognize that my embarrassment was unfounded and, frankly, ridiculous. And I certainly wouldn’t deprive the public of their right to view a priceless historic artifact solely to preserve my ego.”

Belatedly, Robin realizes he probably shouldn’t be so brusque to one of the museum’s top patrons while he’s on the job—even if everything he’s saying is true. But to his surprise, Chrom doesn't bluster or snap in response to his admonishment. Instead, his brows pull low in consideration.

“That’s—hmm,” he breaks off, shaking his head. “I…hadn’t thought about it that way, but perhaps you’re right. I suppose the way I’ve been approaching it is rather selfish.”

“Well, it’s an understandable initial reaction to have,” Robin allows. “But…yes, it is. So I’m glad you’re coming to see it my way.”

Chrom laughs, and it’s a low, rich rumble of a sound. “You don’t hesitate to speak your mind, do you, Robin?” he asks, a twinkle alight in his eyes.

“No, I don’t,” Robin acknowledges. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all. I’m much the same way, myself," Chrom says. "If anything, I find your directness refreshing.”

Robin raises a brow. “Don’t think you can flatter me into taking the poster down,” he warns. Chrom laughs a second time and Robin wonders if a sound can be addictive—marvels at how he can see himself chasing after the chance to hear it again.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Chrom assures him. “Truly, that wasn’t even the reason I asked to speak with you in the first place.”

“Ah, that’s right. We’ve gotten off track haven’t we?” Robin muses, remembering Chrom’s initial question. Now that Robin has his bearings about him again, he takes a moment to brush the dust from his fall off his shirt and trousers, laying the stack of papers on his desk before turning back to face Chrom with a more analytical eye.

Chrom is, in some ways, the type of person Robin would expect himself to hate.

Even if he didn’t know that Chrom was one of the Shepherds it would be easy to guess he comes from money. He wears simple, well-tailored clothes—the kind that don’t have to do anything flashy to stand out because the quality speaks for itself. And with a face that sculptors would clamber to cut from marble, it would be easy to assume he’s used to having everything in life handed to him. Yet there is nothing pompous or entitled about the way he carries himself. Instead, Chrom exudes an air of approachability. Everything about his posture is warm, and open, and reassuring. There is nothing but sincerity in the soft set of his eyes.

Robin doesn’t know what to make of it. He wants to know more.

“Tell me something, Chrom,” he says, and he’s surprised by how naturally the name slips from his lips. “What made you come asking about the rest of the letters in the first place? You implied you’d looked through the excavation report on them—that’s not exactly light reading. Are you a historian yourself?”

“A historian? Gods, no,” he chuckles. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be cut out for that at all. It’s really just the one era of Ylisse’s history that interests me. Not even the whole era. Just one historical figure.”

Robin nods in understanding. “Right, I suppose it’s natural to be curious about the person you were named after.”

“Err, no, actually,” he says, scratching his head. “I’m more interested in King Robin.”

Robin blinks at him. “The Exalt’s husband?”

“Well, he wasn’t just his husband, he was also an amazing strategist and—” he catches Robin’s bemused expression and immediately breaks off, “Err, sorry, of course you would already know all that.”

A laugh tumbles out of him. “I do, but it’s unusual to find someone so committed to singing the king consort’s praises—most people are a lot more interested in the Exalt. Information on King Robin is hard to come by, after all. And I suspect many people don’t care to try and take apart how complicated he was, either.”

“Then they’re missing out. The complications are what make him so interesting,” Chrom says, and Robin can see the way his whole body coils with excited energy—a magnetic sort of enthusiasm. “That’s why I was looking forward to this exhibit in the first place. Much of what we know about King Robin is so focused on his military tactics—and I like reading about those as well, but it’s not the same. I was hoping to finally have a chance to learn more about who he was as a person.” His eyes fall to his feet, a chink of vulnerability in his self-assured demeanor. “Er, sorry, I didn’t mean to ramble. Perhaps it’s odd for me to be so invested in it…”

Robin shakes his head. “You forget you’re speaking to a historian. That doesn’t sound odd to me.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Not at all,” he tells Chrom. “I think that’s what brings history to life, isn’t it? It’s one thing to think about these faceless dolls or toy soldiers acting out stories from our past. But it’s another to experience those stories when you feel like you know its players as people. It’s the little details—like that their favorite color was blue, and they had a bad habit of breaking training dummies—that’s what makes them real to us. And then you’re not just learning the story of a stranger, but a story about an old friend.”

Chrom beams at him. “That’s exactly what I mean. Though I couldn’t have said it so eloquently, myself.”

Robin considers him for a moment—his gentle smile, the earnesty burning in his impossibly blue eyes. At some point they must have gravitated nearer to each other without realizing it, because they’re standing much too close to each other for strangers. Yet Robin finds he has no desire at all to back away.

“...You know Chrom, you’re rather full of surprises,” he muses. “When my coworker told me that one of our patrons wanted to voice their concerns about the new exhibit, you were definitely not what I was expecting.”

Chrom grins at him roguishly. “No? What were you expecting?”

“Mmm, well—for you to be considerably more of an asshole, for one,” Robin says, and a laugh bursts its way out of Chrom in response.

Miriel’s voice surfaces in the back of Robin’s mind, nagging him about watching his language with their ‘esteemed patron’. He normally wouldn’t speak like this to a guest, or anyone he had just met for that matter. And yet somehow it feels like—

“W-well,” Chrom clears his throat. “I suppose I shouldn’t keep you from your work…”

“Oh. Right, of course,” Robin murmurs. “If I’ve answered all your questions then you’re welcome to be on your way.”

Chrom glances at the door, and Robin curses the corner of his heart that wistfully insists Chrom looks disappointed.

“Right. Well…I guess I’ll be going then,” he says. “I appreciate you taking the time to see me, and…I, uh, well…” He shifts back and forth on his feet, bites his lip, runs a hand through his hair—a bundle of directionless energy. “I really enjoyed talking with you, Robin,” he finally manages.

It’s the sound of his name in Chrom’s voice again that snaps his resolve into place.

“Do you want to read the letters?” he blurts out. Chrom’s fidgeting stills very suddenly.

“The—the letters?” he asks. “You mean…the ones that aren’t on display in the exhibit?”

“Yes, I—I can’t let you handle the real ones obviously, since they require special clearance, but I have scans of them that I can print out if—if that would interest you.” The offer spills from his lips before he can stop himself.

“You would really be willing to do that?” Chrom asks, unguarded awe in his voice. Robin nods, then barely suppresses a gasp when Chrom bridges the scarce space between them, clasping their hands together.

“Thank you,” Chrom says, smiling effusively. “You’ll have to let me make it up to you. I’m not sure how, exactly, but—”

Robin’s eyes dart to their joined hands. “You could buy me a coffee…” he offers.

At his words, unfettered surprise splashes across Chrom’s face and panic promptly ribbons around Robin. Maybe he was misreading Chrom’s cues—for all he knows Chrom’s already seeing someone. Or maybe he’s this friendly and physical with everyone he meets.

“Er, that is—only if you want to,” Robin adds quickly. “I won’t withhold the letters from you if you say no.”

“N-no!” Chrom exclaims, “I mean—yes! I do want to. I’d…like to spend more time with you,” he says, and it kicks Robin’s heart into a gallop. “Should we go now?”

Robin laughs incredulously. “I’m in the middle of a work shift right now,” he reminds him.

Chrom deflates. “Ah, that’s right."

“—But I have my lunch break in about an hour. If you don’t mind hanging around in the area until then, we could—”

“Yes!” he says, instantly brightening. “I can look around the museum in the meantime.”

“Okay,” Robin agrees, failing stupendously to stop a grin from splitting across his face. “I’ll meet you in the lobby, then?”

“Yes, I’ll—great! This is great,” Chrom says. He squeezes Robin’s hand before releasing it, tossing a smile his way as he moves to the door. “I’ll see you then!” Chrom assures him, and Robin pretends not to notice how Chrom almost trips over his own feet on his way out.

It’s only when the door has clicked firmly behind him that Robin allows himself to collapse into his desk chair, face in his hands, heart in his throat, and an embarrassingly high-pitched noise escaping from behind his lips.

۵ ۵ ۵ ۵ ۵

Chrom has never been a patient person, but he thinks this might be the longest hour of his life. He wanders around the first floor of the museum, hesitant to stray too far in case Robin arrives early. None of the exhibits he passes can hold his attention, though, and he soon gives up in favor of settling on the stone rim of a fountain in the atrium.

He intends to do a first pass through the journal entries he’d snapped pictures of earlier, but for the first time in his life, King Robin’s words can’t hold his interest either. Looking at them only makes him think of the Robin he just met. What are ink strokes, after all, when compared to the way this Robin’s eyes glimmered like fireflies, and lantern-light? How they had shimmered with his wisdom and wit?

And in an hour, they’re going to get coffee together.

‘No, he said I could buy him coffee…’ Chrom corrects himself, ‘and that means it’s a date, right?’ He hopes so, anyway.

Gods, he is out of his element.

Though Chrom is not a complete stranger to romantic feelings, he would hardly consider himself an expert on them, either. The crushes he’s harbored in the past were warm burbles of shiny, carbonated feelings. They sparked up, briefly made a mess of his chest, and eventually sputtered out again. They had never been like this—where he met someone and immediately felt like he’d injected stardust in his veins. Like he’d doused himself in wildfire and now every breath burned with it.

As far as he can tell, there is no reason for Robin to be affecting him so strongly, but nothing in his body seems to care about the lack of logic to it: Chrom walked into that archival room, and when he helped Robin to his feet, the earth’s axis shifted underneath him.

Ultimately, Chrom passes the time until Robin’s lunch break pacing and tossing coins into the fountain—wishing on every one that this day will end with the promise that he can see him again.

When the clocktower tolls the hour, Chrom pauses his pacing just in time to discern the staccato of footsteps from down the main hall. Robin emerges from around the corner, bundled in an unusual, violet coat and wearing a crystalline smile that could take Chrom apart.

“Hi again,” Robin greets him, and Chrom doesn’t even bother to conceal his eagerness as he bounds over to him. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting too long.”

“No, not at all!” Chrom assures him. Now that he’s near him, Chrom can see the rosiness to Robin’s cheeks—hear the breathlessness in his voice. His pulse flutters with the thought of Robin hurrying down the halls to find him—that he might have been looking forward to seeing Chrom again too.

Chrom half stumbles in an effort to get the door, and Robin offers a grateful grin as they make their way out into the crisp spring air. At the bottom of the steps, Robin lays a hand against his arm, gently leading him down the eastern-facing street.

“I take it you have somewhere in mind?” Chrom asks.

Robin nods. “There’s a café a few blocks over that I often stop at before work. I thought it would make for a nice destination, if you’re alright with a little walk.”

“Sounds good to me,” Chrom replies. Truthfully, he’d been too excited about the fact that he was going somewhere with Robin at all to have put much thought into the specifics of the location.

“Great!” says Robin, “The coffee is what I usually go there for, but they serve sandwiches too, if you’re hungry.”

“I actually packed a lunch, since I was planning to stay at the museum all day,” Chrom admits. “But I’d gladly go for something warm to drink.”

Robin’s eyes twinkle. “Packed a lunch, hm? And here I’m the one used to being the token, over-zealous history nerd.”

Chrom chuckles, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. “Ah, I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. I’m really not usually this enthusiastic about these sorts of things.”

“Right, I remember. Just the one historical figure from the one era,” Robin recites. “What sorts of things are you typically interested in then?”

So, Chrom tells him. About his love of fencing, and his interest in medieval weaponry (“That’s history too,” Robin teases), and the volunteer work he’s taken to doing with the local fire department. Normally, he’d feel self-conscious rambling so much about himself, but Robin interjects with questions and encouraging smiles that make the words melt off his tongue like warm honey.

With the arrival of afternoon, the high-hanging sun has smudged out much of the morning chill. Tulips and violets lining the sidewalks stretch skyward, their dew-kissed petals winking as they pass, and Chrom wonders at how in just a few hours, the flowers have learned to bloom so much brighter.

After a few more blocks, Robin lays a hand on Chrom’s arm again, beckoning him towards a homey-looking café. Windchimes tinkle as they push through the door.

“This is it!” he declares.

Chrom spends a breath looking the place over. The floors, walls, and furniture are all eclectic shades of burnished, warm wood. It’s cozy, and lush: hanging plants and clusters of succulents adorn every open corner and counter, as if someone changed their mind halfway through designing the café and thought to make it an arboretum, instead. The likeness to a greenhouse is furthered by the large, street-facing windows which allow sunlight to seep in, draping everything within the cafe in a cast of soft gold. It's not hard for him to imagine why Robin would like it here.

“Hey there, Robin!” A barista calls from behind the counter. He looks right at home among the plants, a mellow smile stretched wide across his face and his messy, dark green hair blending seamlessly with the canopy of leaves. “This isn’t the usual time we see you.”

“Hi, Stahl!” Robin waves. “Yeah, I’m here for my lunch break today.”

“Looks like you brought a friend too!” the barista observes, aiming his easy smile Chrom’s way.

“Ah, hello,” Chrom says, reaching across the counter to shake the man’s hand, “I’m Chrom.”

“I’m Stahl! Nice to meet you, Chrom,” Stahl says amicably. He shoots Robin an amused look. “Hey, Robin, isn’t Chrom the name of your favorite history guy? You know, the one you’re always gushing about being so charming and handso—”

“Ha ha, very funny Stahl,” Robin interjects, his voice suddenly sharp. “Now, are you going to take our orders or not?”

Stahl makes a placating gesture and gives a good-natured chuckle while Chrom glances between the two of them inquisitively. “Sure, sure,” he says, “What can I get for the two of you?”

Once they’ve secured their drinks and claimed a table, Robin hefts his satchel into his lap.

“Let me give these to you before I forget,” he says, removing a neatly bound stack of papers from within. “I laminated them so you could mark them up if you want—that’s what I always do when reading historical documents for the first time.”

Chrom leans close, breathless as his eyes skim over King Robin’s familiar handwriting on the first page. His fingers graze Robin’s as he hands them off, and it’s only when Chrom hears his sharp inhale of breath that he thinks to become self-conscious about it. Rather than jumping away, he intentionally lets his hand linger there, prolonging the contact a moment more.

“Thank you, Robin,” he murmurs. “I truly appreciate this, and I can’t wait to read them.”

“It’s no trouble, really,” Robin assures him. “They’ll all be published in academic journals eventually, but this way at least you won’t have to wait a few more months. You know, since you’re evidentially so eager to do some sordid reading.”

Chrom blinks at him, then down at the stack of laminated letters. He’d almost forgotten the reason they couldn’t be displayed in the first place. Red claws its way across his cheeks when he thinks of Robin printing out such passages specifically to give to him.

“Err, w-when I said I couldn’t wait to read them, I didn’t mean—! I-it’s not because they’re—” he breaks off, taking stock of Robin’s growing grin, an expression he’s all too familiar with, though he’s used to seeing it on the faces of his family members.

“You’re teasing me!” he accuses incredulously.

“Maybe a little bit,” Robin admits through budding laughter.

“I don’t believe it.” Chrom shakes his head, fighting off a sheepish smile. “Am I truly so easy to get a rise out of?”

“Oh, very much so,” Robin assures him, “it’s great fun watching you get so flustered.”

“Is it, now? Then how am I to know that you’re not exaggerating the content in these letters for the sake of teasing me as well?”

The Exalt and King Consort always struck him as fairly serious people, after all. Surely, they wouldn’t have written anything as embarrassing as Robin implied. Bent on proving as much to himself, Chrom’s eyes skim over the front page in the stack and settle upon a sentence at random.

‘I miss you with all that I am, my love. Come nightfall, my hands rove over my skin—a feeble attempt to mimic your tender ministrations, while I muffle my cries in— '

His head snaps back up to find Robin smirking at him, openly amused.

“…O-okay,” he stammers, “I stand corrected.”

“I tried to warn you!” Robin laughs. “Though, it’s not all so sensual, just…a lot of it. But there are plenty of passages in there that are more lighthearted, too. Here, let me show you one of my favorites.”

They pass the next half hour like that, huddled over the pages together, exchanging impressions and eventually meandering into other topics, as well. Talking with Robin is effortless—but even more than it’s easy, it’s enrapturing. Robin is brilliant and witty and opinionated. Chrom could spend a lifetime just listening to him share his thoughts on everything from coffee beans to the monarchy.

After what feels like only minutes, Robin glances at his watch, the laugh on his lips dampening.

“Gods, is it already that late?” he murmurs. “We’ll have to start heading back.”

“Already?” Chrom asks. He takes a sip of his coffee, hoping to hide the disappointed tilt of his mouth with the mug. He’s been so busy talking to Robin that it’s still largely untouched and only lukewarm.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Robin says. His eyes settle on Chrom’s mostly full mug as he deposits it again on the table. “Ah, did you not like your drink?”

“No, I did!” Chrom assures him quickly. “I just liked talking to you more.”

The words slipped out before he could think better of them, and for a horrible second, Robin’s face is blank aside from a bright brush. Then he breaks into a breathtaking grin.

“Well, then I guess we’ll just have to do this again sometime,” he says. Chrom feels almost lightheaded with relief. “Come on, let’s get going.”

Their easy banter from the café continues on the walk back to the museum, but it’s tinged with a heaviness that wasn’t there before. Chrom knows the return journey will be too short, just like every other stage of the outing has been. As they approach the steps that lead up to the museum doors, he tries to make sense of the near apocalyptic pounding of his pulse.

They’ve already spoken loosely of intentions to see each other again—that’s as much as he’d dared allow himself to hope for. Yet the thought of allowing Robin to walk away from him at all tangles his stomach in knots and shakes him to his bone marrow. It feels like a cataclysmic mistake.

The two of them dither at the bottom of the stairs, huddled close to keep from impeding the path of other passersby.

“…I suppose it’s probably about time for me to head back in,” Robin says, scuffing a boot against the ground. He looks almost as hesitant as Chrom feels.

“R-right, I suppose so,” he echoes, straining to keep his tone casual. “Thank you again for the letters, Robin. And—er, yes. Thank you.”

“Of course. I’m glad I could help,” he replies, offering a tremulous half smile. “…Well, I guess I’ll see you around, then. Goodbye, Chrom.”

Robin turns towards the museum door.

Something about the scene before Chrom—Robin’s face angled away; wind-tousled, white hair and a violet coat; the word ‘goodbye’ in his voice—it all sends a frantic panic lancing through him. Chrom can’t understand it; can’t understand why all of his instincts are warring so hard against letting the other man go. But before he can think better of it, he’s darting forward to catch Robin's hand.

“Robin, wait—!”

He freezes immediately, and turns back to Chrom, bearing no trace of surprise—like he’d been waiting for Chrom to stop him.

“Y-yes?” he prompts, and it’s hope, definitely hope, that colors his tone. “What is it, Chrom?”

“I—” Chrom’s thoughts spin and trip over themselves, clumsy in their desperation. “C-can I kiss you?” he blurts out.

Now Robin looks surprised. A flush crawls into his cheeks; his eyes widen into two perfect pools of gold. And gods, what if Chrom just ruined any chance he might have with him by rushing things? What if this scares him off? What if—

Robin laughs and steps closer. His hand dances up to trace the curve of Chrom’s cheek and his mind goes blissfully blank.

“I…wouldn’t usually do this,” Robin admits, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his unbearably enticing mouth.

“Neither would I,” Chrom breathes.

He stoops and softly presses their lips together, all the same.

It was just supposed to be a kiss. Just the fleeting meeting of lips to see him off.

It wasn’t supposed to be the ground opening beneath him and a split in Chrom’s mind that could swallow him whole. It wasn’t supposed to be the flood of a thousand memories—a whole lifetime pushing its way back into his bones.

But it is. Because he remembers.

He remembers plucking Robin from golden-green grasses—helping him to his feet beneath a brittle spring sky.

He remembers Robin’s sword at his side. Lightning in his eyes and at his fingertips. Shucking blood from his own blade and always, always knowing he’d be safe so long as Robin was the one watching his back.

He remembers quiet nights tangled in each other’s arms—and less quiet ones too, when the softness of their hands and mouths coaxed plaintive sighs from love-bitten throats.

He remembers their daughter swaddled tight against Robin’s chest. The blown-glass butterflies tinkling along to the lullaby Chrom would listen to him sing every night.

Chrom remembers everything.

He remembers Robin’s silhouette against the burning dawn—his outline flickering and turning to violet ashes in the wind. How he had clasped Robin’s hand to his heart and clung to it until there was nothing of him left to hold…

…And he remembers the 45 years of aching and searching and praying that followed.

“R-Robin!” Chrom gasps. That single word, his name, is the same one that he spoke earlier, but now it means something different. Now it means everything.

“C-Chrom?” he whispers, and Chrom can hear it in his voice—knows that Robin remembers too. “Chrom—is this—?”

“It’s real,” he assures him, “Gods…this is real.”

Relief and belonging and the feeling of being absolutely complete all surge up within him as he clutches Robin near, holds him to his heart, kisses his tear-tracks. “Robin,” his voice breaks, “my love.”

Robin croaks out a tear-choked laugh and flings his arms around Chrom’s neck.

It’s too much. A whole lifetime of loving and longing is coursing through him, and his legs buckle with it. They both sink to the ground, still wrapped up in each other—struggling to find space to breathe between the laughs and sobs and kisses.

“I never stopped looking,” Chrom tells him, pressing his lips to each of Robin’s fingertips in turn. “Robin, even in this life, I—I think I was still looking for you. I just didn’t know it.”

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting so long, my love,” he replies, and before Chrom can answer, Robin kisses him again, hard enough to make his head spin.

“It’s okay,” Chrom whispers, when Robin has finally freed his lips. The words are a promise to himself as much as to him. “Everything is okay now. I don’t know exactly what we’re meant to do from here, but I know we'll figure it out now that we’re together.” Chrom chuckles despite himself. “Gods…it turned out just how you said, didn’t it?”

“And how’s that?” Robin asks softly.

Chrom smiles at him, tirelessly tender. “We met again in a better life.”

Robin’s response is his lips sealed to Chrom’s again, the kiss salty with the taste of their tears. When they break apart, Robin leaves their foreheads pressed together, fingers tracing down Chrom’s cheek, re-learning the shape of him.

“I may have been right about that, but it seems I was wrong about what I said earlier today,” he admits with a grin. “That poster really was a drawing of you. No wonder you were so embarrassed.”

A laugh thunders through Chrom’s chest—he almost can’t believe the absurdity of it all. To think that ridiculous naked poster Frederick commissioned so many years ago would be what helped lead him back to his other half. That after decades of searching, and centuries apart, his knight’s misguided attempts at boosting troop morale would bring them together again. Though truthfully, Chrom supposes, it isn’t just the poster he has to thank for that. It’s also—

“Gods,” Chrom gasps in horror as realization dawns on him. “Oh gods, this is a disaster…"

“Chrom?” Robin tenses, hands clutching him tight. “You’re scaring me, what’s wrong?”

Chrom takes his hands tightly in his own, squeezing each of them as his face warps into a grimace.

“Robin…forget the poster,” he says. “We need to burn those letters.”

#Chrobin #m!chrobin #chrom x robin #chrom fire emblem #robin fire emblem #m!robin #fe13 #fe: awakening #ao3 fanfic #I didn't have anything new to post for Awakening's anniversary this year but #I'd been meaning to get around to gender swapping this one for a while so #here it finally is :)#It was also the first one-shot I ever wrote #And sorry in advance about tumblr's less than ideal formatting for longer fics #my fics #One-shot

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