#korean coffee scene

[himbo-of-destiny]

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[chocosvt]

HER | part one.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 23.5k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, coke, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s! 

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

potentially triggering scenes within the fic are NOT MARKED in advance

the content is already quite mature, so pls heed the warnings!

bolded and italicized text implies characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts

everyone's patience and understanding has been endlessly appreciated! you have no idea ;_; i give you all shining stars 🌟

⇢ part two | part three | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

—MARCH 19TH.

“I have a relatively big favour to ask of you.”

 No. Wonwoo didn’t want anything to do with favours.

The fact that Seokmin had actively picked out his presence in the coffee shop like he was some shiny contortion of plastic had actually offended Wonwoo. He came here for two things: to not be bothered, which his friend knew, and to work on the book he was halfway through typing and had been halfway through typing for the past six months. Call it writer’s block, or an inspiration drought, or an absolutely depressing lack of drive—it had been hanging over the writer with an annoying persistence and it seemed that no number of lemony scones or cold coffees were going to make it vanish.

“Uh, Wonwoo?”

“Sorry… what?” He forced his gaze to shift from the blank page on his laptop to Seokmin’s apologetic, softly expressional face, slightly flushed from his time outdoors in the chilled March weather.

“I was just wondering if you’d be up for a favour—a pretty big one—and I know this is your special creativity spot, but she’s been like, breathing down my neck about it and I can’t put it off again.”

“Whose been breathing down your neck?”

At first, Seokmin didn’t say a word, or even make a sound. His lips twitched for a moment, but then he pressed them together and his chest visibly sucked in with a breath. God, Wonwoo hated the suspense and he hated Seokmin for interrupting him when he had been so stupidly close to putting a sentence down that he probably would have back-spaced in frustration a minute later.  

“Y’know…” he trailed off, “Her.”

Her.

No, not her, you.

But most people—if not everyone—referred to you by an alias that had seemed to stick so well the majority believed it actually was your name. When people said her they meant Her, and so in a confusing mess of finger-pointing they really meant you. Come to think of it, Wonwoo had no idea where the nickname even came from or who gave it to you or what it even meant.

And he was perfectly fine with never knowing.

“What?” Wonwoo deadpanned. “What on earth could she want to do with me? She doesn’t even know me.” He slid down in his chair, fingers pulling at his circle-lensed glasses so they tilted uncomfortably across his nose bridge. “Or, is this a joke?”

“Oh—no! Absolutely not!” His friend was insistent on proclaiming, vigorously shaking his head. “I’m being serious.”

“Why don’t I believe you then?”

“Okay, well, if you let me explain everything, it’ll all make sense. I said I know someone who writes really well—”

“Meaning me?”

“Yes, meaning you. And the only reason that was even brought up is because she wants to write a book.”

Wonwoo couldn’t help it. He laughed a very short disbelieving laugh that flashed a transient smile to his face as he readjusted his crooked glasses. You were the last person he would ever envision wanting to write a book. He then navigated the trackpad on his laptop, deciding to close the document simply titled, 01, that harboured the fleet of pages to his own current work in progress.

“Yeah,” Wonwoo disregarded, “sounds like bullshit.”

“I’m telling you the truth!” Seokmin exclaimed, gripping onto the metal back of the café chair like he was squeezing someone’s taunt shoulders. “She won’t tell me about what, okay? Just that she’s been thinking the idea for a while now. It’s not like I didn’t try to get details. But she refused—said the only person who can know is whoever’s going to help her. Look, y’have to understand, she was pestering me about it nonstop. And you’re my only writer friend!”

“Well, you’re about to have none.” He answered, reaching for his coffee cup but stopping it just short of his lips. “How serious is she about this, anyway?” Wonwoo sighed. “Do you know how much fucking time you need to dedicate to writing a book?”

He stomached a slow, somewhat grimacing sip as he tasted the coffee’s coldness, meanwhile Seokmin swallowed heavily, and at last pulled out the chair he’d been white-knuckling to take a seat.

“Yes, I’m aware it takes time. I know that. And she is serious or else I wouldn’t be here, bothering you. She takes everything seriously.” The boy began unbuttoning his sleek black jacket. “Really, who knows what’ll happen? Maybe you’ll meet her once and she’ll decide she can’t stand you, and then you’re off the hook for life.”

“Yeah, well have you ever considered what might happen if I can’t stand her? Are my feelings even being considered? Minutely?”

“Minutely, they are being considered.”

“Liar.”

It wasn’t that Wonwoo disliked you.

In actuality, you scared him more than anything. But to be associated with you was to be drawn into your life and caught like a firefly in a glass jelly jar. The proof was right in front of him—to Wonwoo’s eyes, Seokmin was basically your little mailman that scrambled around in hectic nature to do your bidding, because most tasks apparently weren’t worth the time or effort.

“I can’t believe you’re trying to rope me into this. You know I can hardly write my own shit, right?” Wonwoo said bitterly, wishing it was the opposite, “my mind is a desolate, blank canvas of fuck-all and if she thinks I’m writing it then she needs a reality check.”

“No, no—of course you won’t write it!” Seokmin reassured him with his big, opalescent smile. “Really, you’re just giving tips, maybe guiding her process, helping with the planning… you know, this could be facilitated so much easier if you spoke to Her yourself!”

“So, my nightmare?” Wonwoo huffed, shaking his leg.

In an instant, Seokmin had whipped out his phone, tapping around the screen quickly using his thin pointer finger.

“I’m just going to pull up her schedule. It’s always pretty packed, but more into the summer break, it thins out a little. “

Wonwoo exhaled, staring off into the warm, afternoon sunlight that hailed in through the windows, striking all the shimmering flecks and pieces of dust afloat in the café air. When he breathed in again, he could smell the luxurious coffees brewing in their rich and distinctive notes. It was such a beautiful day—still chilly as the snow outdoors began to thaw—but pleasant nonetheless.

“This is such a fucking waste.”

And Wonwoo spent it being miserable.

“No, it’ll be useful. Trust.” Seokmin chirped.

“You’re trying to dip me in your optimism gloss again.”

His friend smiled affectionately, tilting his head.

“This will be good. You’ve been a hermit since I’ve known you.”

“Yeah,” Wonwoo scoffed, “so you think it’s a good idea to shove me with the person I relate to least on the entire planet?”

“Really? The least? So, what you’re saying is, you relate more to serial killers? Or animal abusers? Or like, literal fasc—”

“Stop.”

“You want to do this. I can see it in your eyes. I’ll set you up.”

A part of Wonwoo knew there might be no wriggling out of the situation, especially with Seokmin sitting across from him, characteristically eager and brightly pushy as always, like a goddamn salesman. For now, it could be easier to let himself get cuffed.

“Can I at least have some time to think it over?”

“Uh… well… the thing is… the thing with that is—”

“You’ve cornered me?”

“I wouldn’t word it like that.”

“… Okay.” Wonwoo removed his glasses, shoved his knuckles tender but deep into his eye sockets, massaging through flashes of white as he came to accept a fate he didn’t know even existed in his astrology. “Just, I don’t know—fuck—schedule me in wherever.”

“Ha! It doesn’t exactly work like that.”

“I really don’t give a damn how it works, Seokmin.”

“Right,” his friend laughed nervously, “I promise that I’ll get back to you pronto. Sorry for the disturbance. And, uh, good luck.”

 “With what part?” Wonwoo grumbled, fixing his spectacles back on to clarify Seokmin’s sympathetic face, the light bouncing off his head of brassy hair like a disco ball. “My incapability to write a goddamn thing or the fact I have to help your perfectionist friend who’s probably going to chew me up and spit me out?”

 “Both parts.” Seokmin grinned. “It can only go up from here.”

Wonwoo had one very distinct memory of you: creative writing with Mr. T. It had been an elective class he took amongst all his compulsory maths, and at the time it was a much appreciated break when Wonwoo grew apathetically bored from looking at matrices and confidence intervals and equations that engulfed the length of his notebook. Professor T was late one day in the fall.

And that’s when Wonwoo remembered you walking in.

There was a sort of sharpness about your presence that pulled everyone’s spines straight. People tended to angle themselves away from you, though they did it subtly, feigning an adjustment in their seat or a plunge into their bookbag for something that wasn’t even there. Wonwoo lacked the words to describe you. To be honest, he most likely could if he put that infinitely expanding lexicon of his to work, but even then, he feared that everything would fall flat.

Some scruffy looking guy had made the mistake of sitting in your seat—someone who probably skipped most lectures and only happened to find himself near Gildan Hall purely by chance.

It was the seat squat in the middle of the small auditorium.

He remembered the hand propped on your hip as you sashayed up to him—you always sashayed places. Wonwoo found it funny, like there were paparazzi stuffed behind potted plants and vending machines waiting to spring out with their blinding flares, just to capture you picking up a half-empty bag of flavourless popcorn.

“Oh no. Oh no no no no no no no.”

“Hm?”

“Excuse me? Yes, hello. You—can you get up please?”

“Up...? Why?”

 “Who are you?”

  “I’m sorry… what’s this about?”

 “Are you a first-year or something? Never bothered going to class until now? All the moshing and beer pong and ending up in some random basement of a friend of a friend of a friend is done so you’re deciding to actually get your money’s worth? Well, let me tell you this—I’ve been showing up to class punctually, and this is my seat. I always sit here. It’s my unofficially-assigned-assigned seat, which seems to be a known fact to everyone in this room except for you. Everyone has one. Everyone knows you’re not supposed to sit in other people’s seats. I don't care who you are. You could be my own mother. You could be my best friend, even. President of the universe. That doesn't make it okay, 'cause it’s a respect thing. It's one of those assumed societal rules and you just fucking kicked dirt all over it.”

Whoever he was, he never came back to another lecture.

Since then, Wonwoo had dually made it his mission to never cross paths with you, look at you, or even so much as huff one single carbon-dioxide filled breath in your general direction, just in case that was some degree of unbeknownst personal law he might violate.

Seokmin had royally screwed it up for him.

What could you possibly want to write a book about, anyway?

—MARCH 26TH.

Wonwoo didn’t know how he was expected to find you in this gigantic mall. As he brushed through the streamlines of people, bumping their shoulders and mumbling the driest, most insincere apologies, he couldn’t stop looking at his phone. Seokmin had given him your number with the instruction that he could find you, here, on a busy Saturday afternoon. So far, Wonwoo had sent you four texts, none prompting a response or the grey-dotted bubble, even. Fuck, why did he agree to this? He couldn’t stop thinking it.

Why did he agree to help you, whom he was beginning to not even like, or want to be aquatinted with, write a book, when he’d been struggling to fill the same page of his own story for months?

Squeezing the phone tighter in his fingers, Wonwoo’s broad shoulder then smacked into someone else while he was busy steeping in his misfortune. It earned him a wildly disgusted look.

“Maybe watch where you’re going," the stranger grumbled, some man with an engrained scowl and big, bewildered eyes.

But Wonwoo ignored him.

He didn’t fucking care, and he was sick of wandering through this mall. It made him feel overstimulated, like his clothes were sticking to his skin differently, like the back of his head was swelling, and like all the smells in his nose were somehow making him warmer.

The stranger just stared at Wonwoo as he walked away.

Ding!

A text, but not from you—Seokmin, instead. Apparently, you were in some clothing store on the second floor. Wonwoo stepped onto the escalator, pressing himself into the barrier to make room for the especially speedy people who couldn’t simply stand and wait. He felt a random touch on the back of his head. Scrunching up the glasses on his nose and turning around, Wonwoo stared at the downward escalator, locking eyes with a pretty dark-haired girl he’d never seen before. She wiggled her fingers at him with a flirtatious smile, the scent of her perfume still lingering. Fresh roses, he thought.

He blinked at her once, twice, then turned back around.

Never in a million years.

It was funny, though.

Once Wonwoo stopped outside the clothing store you were supposedly inside, he felt the myriad of distractions and scents and noises dampen behind him. The irritability he couldn’t shake was slowly transforming into nerves. He’d never met you before, unless half-glances controlled by fear from across the small, basement auditorium that hosted creative writing counted.

Focusing on one breath, and then another, followed by a deep, self-soothing inhale, Wonwoo attempted to convince himself that he was in control, not the emotions quivering at his fingertips.

He cracked his neck and walked in.

After a minute or two of confused isle-pacing, Wonwoo rounded a corner, his eyes immediately fixating on a girl who was picking through a neatly assorted dress rack, her head tilted elegantly and her lipstick glimmering under the sterileness of the lights—you.

He gulped. Just suck it up.

She can’t be that bad. You can’t be that bad.

“Uh, sorry to bother you. I’m Wonwoo. I know we have a mutual friend in Seokmin. Lee Seokmin. He’s in one of your seminar classes or something, and, uh…. anyway. I believe I’m supposed to help you with a book you’re interested in writing… that’s what I was told, at the very least. And… I know we’ve never met but… um… I guess…” he trailed off upon noting your lack of acknowledgement.

Suddenly, he was taking a step back, letting you progress further along the clothing rack, your fingers hopping between each hanger and your eyes scanning their corresponding fabrics.

Wonwoo jerked on the inside with panic. He hated the situation already, though he somehow found the resounding courage, or perhaps, humility, to address you again, even if he’d rather die.

“So, I’m not sure if you—”

“Can you move, please? Over here or something? I want this dress.”

He kept his mouth shut in order to avoid spilling out any obtuse nonsense, instead watching with a nervous, analyzing gaze as you removed the hanger and shook out the purple, wine-coloured fabric, its sparkles rippling when you stroked your hand along it.

“Woah. This is too pretty.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat, unsure if you were speaking to him directly. You already had a bundle of dresses tossed over your arm. Why would you meet up with him when you were clearly busy?

“Hey, what did you say your name was?”

“Me?” He found himself echoing.

“No, the mannequin wearing that hideous plaid mini skirt. Of course I’m talking to you. Should I get you a q-tip or something?”

“No... I don't need a q-tip. It’s Wonwoo.”

“Wonwoo?” You exercised the name slowly on your tongue.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, well, just so you’re aware, it’s 11:35. You were supposed to meet me outside the boutique at 11:30. I can see you’re not very punctual, so that’s noted…” for a moment, you stood back, and the searing line of your gaze judgmentally raked him from top to bottom. “Anyway… you’ll have to assist me with some things now, thanks to your big delay. I got all bored waiting for you, so I decided to do a little self-indulgent shopping."

It could have been wiser to continue biting his tongue, but even Wonwoo, who had practically vowed to avoid you for all eternity  due to his fear, felt compelled to challenge your unorthodox logic.

“Big delay? I don’t mean to be rude, but I did take the bus to get here, and their timing is never right. I feel like five minutes is a reasonable time to wait. Not that I’m saying you’re impatient.”

“Well, here’s the thing…” your back turned to him as you took a few slow steps down the clothing rack, probing between the different, pricy materials for anything exuberant you might have missed. “That is what you said, isn’t it? That I’m impatient? I mean—jeez—why bother dancing around it when you can just say it?”

He watched you face him again, except he was keeping perfectly silent, clutching his hand into an anxious, balled fist.

“Well, I suspect you lack urgency, making you apathetic, so therefore you have no sense of initiative. I’m sure you’re already aware, anyway. I can be slow, too, with certain things. Like, when I’m icing a cake. Or painting my nails. But I don’t walk slow, ever. That’s for unmotivated, pointless people who will probably go nowhere in life.”

“… Pardon?”

“Hold this, please.”

Suddenly, you draped the wine-coloured dress over Wonwoo’s shoulder. And he left it there for a second, still gobsmacked, chest shuddering from the pressure of his pumping heart, and wondered how you were even a real person. Once you began walking elsewhere in the store, Wonwoo questioned a very understandable escape toward the exit, though, for some reason, he snapped from his stupor and quickly paced after you, now folding the dress more straightly over his arm. He realized he was too afraid to surrender.

“I’m supposed to help you write a book,” he stated, feeling his lungs dig deep for air, “Seokmin said you needed help.”

“Okay, I’m tired of holding these two. Here—” you again blanketed the dresses into his arms, “—please keep this olive one in good shape, no crinkles. I have yet to find this colour anywhere else.”

Swinging back around, you began heading toward the change rooms, your uncomfortably tall looking heels clicking with each step. Wonwoo stuttered, and he couldn’t stop doing it—just, absolutely baffled by you and your consuming sense of worth. He didn’t know what to say, he could only follow, producing bits and pieces of sentences that you were either ignoring or genuinely hadn’t heard in comparison to the monologues in your own head.

“At what point will we discuss why I’m here?”

Finally, he spat out something coherent.

You paused, and for a fleeting moment, flicked your very intense eyes up and down in an examination of Wonwoo, who felt like he was being intrusively picked apart under a microscope.

 He swallowed tautly, “I’m just wondering… that’s all.”

You pressed your wallet against the top of his shoulder, guiding him to sit down on the white leather stool placed just outside the fitting rooms. He sat, too, fighting the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his jeans—even worse, the dresses you’d dumped on him.

“Let’s talk after I try these on, ‘kay?”

There was something different about your voice. It fell lower, sweeter, and he shivered with the thought that you had quite possibly just hypnotized him. He looked up at you, nodding his head.

“Good. Everyone calls me Her, by the way.”

“I know.”

He held his breath as you reached out to take a dress, the wine-coloured one, which was more like a dark, nightly amethyst now that Wonwoo was observing the fabric up close. So, what the hell was he supposed to do? Just sit there, twiddling his thumbs and shaking his knee while you busied yourself with fitting into all those wildly sumptuous dresses? There was a plethora of other things he’d rather be doing—too many to name, in fact. But he wasn’t going to bother slithering away now, chiefly because you petrified him too much and he wasn’t in the mood to be further guilt-tripped by Seokmin.  

Throwing his head back, he blew out a tired huff and looked at the ceiling. Why the fuck was he doing this? He just couldn’t stop thinking it. What on earth could he possibly gain from being terrorized by your weird authority.

“Hey, I’ve been there, for sure.”

Wonwoo noticed an older man waltzing past him, probably in his early thirties or so, who’d spoken in a sympathetic tone. He seemed very polished and clean-cut, made apparent by his sleek suit, and as a university student who was routinely on the verge of going broke after most rents, Wonwoo knew money when he saw it.

“Pardon?”

The man stopped and smiled.

“Waiting for your girlfriend, aren’t you?”

“Oh, no. I’m just—”

He was interrupted by the squeak of the change room door.

“Be honest. How does this look?”

You had stepped out to examine your silhouette in the large, full-body mirrors against the wall, taking advantage of the heavier lighting to scrutinize every divot and ruffle that textured the amethyst dress. Wonwoo wasn’t sure what to say in the moment, and the man he was explaining himself to had wandered off into another aisle to answer a phone call. He watched your fingers pick and pull at the material so it could be readjusted in certain places, your bottom lip pursed as you angled your hips and tensed a leg to make a pose.

There were at least three other dresses strewn in his lap, and you were most definitely going to make him sit there and judge each one. Now, he could be honest. The dress was glittery yet sophisticated, something like a gloaming, purple-stained sky and its first emergent stars encapsulated into fabric, though he wasn’t completely sold on it. But he also wanted to leave the mall as quick as time would allow, so rather than being verbose, he shaved it down.

“It’s pretty, not great. I don’t really know.”

“Hmm…” you mumbled, keeping your eyes fixated on the mirror, “not great? What’s not great about it? The frilly parts?”

“Yeah, the frilly parts.”

God, he wanted to go home so bad. Warm tea would be nice right now. There were crinkle-cut fries in his freezer.

“Ugh, but I love the colour. I’m getting conflicted. Maybe I’ll toss it aside and think about it again later. Yeah, I’ll do that... okay, let me get the white one next. It’s a little short but I can make it work.”

 Wonwoo carefully pulled out the white outfit from the bottom of the pile and handed it off to you. The skirt was notably cropped.

Again, you strode back into the change room and softly clicked the door shut behind you. Wonwoo pulled out his phone almost immediately, navigating to his texts with Seokmin. His thumbs blasted against the screen, tapping out literary warfare that expanded into a decent sized paragraph Seokmin would most likely respond to with an apologetic smiley face. It might take a day or two for Wonwoo to cool off, but he always forgave him. Mr. Sunshine.

When he heard the door rattle, Wonwoo quickly hid his phone back in his pants pocket; however, he severely regretted that decision because holy fuck—that vinyl white skirt was indeed short and tight and the winding, crossed straps of the top were just maintaining your cleavage. He needed something to help avert his eyes because Wonwoo felt them itch with the urge to stare at your body despite how uncomfortable he was. The floor tiles—count the floor tiles, or count the lights—something, anything to distract his brain.

“Okay, this is like—if I bend over, I’m flashing someone.”

He prayed you wouldn’t ask him his thoughts.

“But like—okay, I can make this work, right? This has potential. If I stand really straight, and proper, and, just… pull this down a bit here—okay, fuck, that was too much. Don’t look for a second… don’t look…. don’t look… m’kay, fixed it.”

Wonwoo wanted to cradle his head in his hands. And, right when he swore that the situation couldn’t sink much lower, the wealthy, black-suit man returned from his phone call. He paused the second he saw you in the mirror, watching intensely as you fiddled with the vinyl and attempted to adjust the x-shaped top a little higher over your cleavage. Except he wasn’t exactly modest about his gaze. It was drinking you in like some sort of insatiable alcohol.

“This is tough,” you huffed, pressing your hands against your chest, “the top is super sexy. I love how open the back is. But it’s such little fabric considering the price. It sucks that I look so hot in it.”

Horrendously, Wonwoo noticed a jewel bracelet slip off your wrist onto the tiled floor. Even more horrendously, he watched in the tensest position possible as you began to bend over and grab it.

No. No, no, no, no way.

The last two dresses spilled in a silk and cotton heap off his lap, nearly tripping him during his rush toward you. He managed to cover your backside in the most heart-hammering nick of time, his hands accidentally brushing in static sparks against yours to help you pull the tight fabric back down your hips. Knowing the man was still watching in the mirror, Wonwoo clasped onto your arm and dragged you back toward the fitting room, his cheeks turned to rubies.

“Fuck, you need to be more careful,” he rasped, “the skirt is too short for you to bending over like that, alright?”

“I’m not leaving a gifted two-hundred-dollar bracelet on the fucking ground. Should I have just kicked it into the change room?”

“Gosh…” Wonwoo rubbed along his neck with tire and lowered his voice. “Bending over in a skirt that short, especially when there’s a fucking weirdo watching you, is not the best procedure.”

“So, it’s my fault he’s a creep?”

“Okay—that wasn’t what I—um—”

“Do you even like this outfit?” You deadpanned.

Wonwoo chuckled in disbelief, “I’m not answering that.”

“This is useless." Your eyes agitatedly rolled. “I’m changing.”

“Great, whatever. Do that.”

He gently pushed you further into the change room and closed the door with a smooth, loud shutter. His heart was still racing.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t let my girlfriend wear that either.”

“She’s not my girlfriend.” Wonwoo didn’t care that his tone was snappish and clearly tired as he collapsed back onto the stool, making a point to ignore the perverted bastard until he left.

“Wonwoo!” You called his name after a few minutes of silence from the fitting room, “please bring me the green one!”

He wanted to utterly vanish, have the building collapse and crush him in a pile of dust plumes and rubble. Sliding the dress through the small gap in the changeroom door, Wonwoo found himself pausing.

“Why don’t I just hand all these to you?”

“Because, I’m using the hangers in here for my clothes.”

“Why can’t you just pu—”

“Thank you!”

Impatiently, you nabbed the dress and shut the door.

However, that dress was the last one you tried on, and Wonwoo couldn’t have been any more relieved. Talking to you seemed like it might give him heartburn or a hemorrhage.

He thought the shiny colour of olive green suited you best.

The dress was silken and long, slightly form-fitting, with a slit cut far up the right thigh and thin spaghetti straps at the shoulders.

You picked the first three dresses to take home, and left the last shimmery one on the rack.

“We’re leaving now?” Wonwoo asked, cracking his fingers.

“Yes, after I pay. Don’t seem so eager.”

“With all due respect, this place isn't really my scene.”

“Your attitude isn't really my scene.” You swiftly corrected him.

He stood next to you at the counter, observing as you zipped open your small black wallet to pull out a credit card. If you were shopping at a store like this, you must be making bank. But Wonwoo was somewhat nosey, and when you set the card on the countertop, he glanced at its embossed name. It definitely wasn’t your name.

Kim Mingyu.

It was your boyfriend’s.

[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm ]: Goddammit Seokmin answer me

[ Wonwoo | 1:15 pm]: I’ve sent you at least ten texts

[ Wonwoo | 1:16 pm ]: Truly how do you do anything with this girl? I feel like she’s somewhat psychotic and you just fucking had to flash your sad mopey eyes at me in that café so I would break and help her write her book. I’m sitting here with dresses in my lap, pretty much acting as her unpaid personal assistant. Why the fuck is she asking me about dresses, anyway? Did you help her orchestrate this bullshit? I’m actually pissed at you. I want an entire paid lunch.

He wasn’t all that surprised you made him carry the matte silver shopping bag (with these twine handles that he absolutely hated because of how they suffocated around his fingers), and by a certain point, Wonwoo just didn’t give a damn any more. What little social battery he’d maintained since leaving his apartment had officially depleted, for he could feel it weighing in the plaza air around him like an imperceptible mist. Unfortunately, you weren’t lying about being a fast walker. He’d never seen someone stalk with such vigor.

It was nearly an endurance test to keep at your swaying hip, and the few times he fell behind, you would pause and beckon for him.

But Wonwoo discovered that even you needed to stop, to eat and drink like a normal human rather than the disguised cyborg he fleetingly speculated you were. Your touch was so abrupt—a hand had curled around his bicep and suddenly Wonwoo found himself being jerked into a café on the bottom floor of the mall. Of course, you had to pick the most expensive place to buy food in the entire fucking vicinity, and since Wonwoo was penny pinching at the moment, he opted to stand back and let you order.

But then he saw you flick open your wallet, waving Mingyu’s sleek yet flashy credit card between your fingers with blatant enticement.

“I can pay for you.”

He shook his head, muttering a careless, “no thanks.”

“Don't BS me. What do you want to eat?”

Wonwoo couldn’t stop staring at the credit card.

“What’s the limit on that thing?”

“Enough.”

“You haven’t burned through it already?”

“These openly snide comments you’re making aren’t appreciated, you know. Now, please give me an answer before I break off the temples to your glasses so I can use them to stir my drink.”

“… What?” Wonwoo mumbled, completely lost.

“Pick something!”

“Okay, fuck. I’ll just get a coffee, then.”

He took a step forward to examine the menu boards that the employees were wildly scuttling around underneath, browsing down their chalk-written cold brews until he picked one at random.

That was all Wonwoo asked for.

You bought a lemonade and some sandwich he didn’t catch the name of, toasted on panini bread. It felt amazing to sit down. Wonwoo let the silver bag slide completely off his arm and hit the floor, to which he could sense your gaze stinging over him in disapproval. He should have gotten a sandwich himself, but Wonwoo still wasn’t sure how he felt about using the money on your boyfriend’s credit card.

Wonwoo relaxed in his chair, angling a glance down at his phone that he kept below the table, checking for any Seokmin texts.

None. He was supposed to be Wonwoo’s stupid life preserver in this situation with you, and so far, he’d been left for dead. Taking a lengthy sip from his drink was the only way he could stomach it.

“You should put your phone on the table. Screen down.”

“For what reason?” Wonwoo responded in a dull tone, quickly checking his social media with impatient swipes of his thumb.

“So we can have a conversation.”

At that, he almost gagged, slapping down the coffee cup he’d just picked up.

“Now?” Wonwoo laughed, his deep voice reverberating louder than he intended around the café, “you want to talk now?”

“Uh, yes,” you answered, picking up one half of your sandwich and readying it before your mouth, “why is that shocking?”

“Because—you—ah, whatever.”

“You seem crabby. Is that your normal shtick or are you just hangry? Are you sure you don’t want anything to eat?”

He was in a worse mood than usual, but that could be blamed entirely on the mall and how exhausted it made him feel—everything about its environment sucked out his soul. It was most likely the reason he was even daring to act so impatient. You took another bite as you waited for him to answer, and the delicious crackling sound of the toasted bread managed to fissure something inside him.

“Your eyes tell all. Here’s the other half.” You offered.

Finally, he’d experienced his first flares of contentment that day, though he wasn’t expecting it to be from a panini sandwich with what he could taste to be lettuce, mayonnaise, tomato, and different types of melted cheese.

“Thanks.”

“Well, I’ll at least give us time to finish eating.”

[ Seokmin | 2:30pm ]: I can do one paid lunch :)

[ Seokmin | 2:30 pm ]: Her’s not psychotic she’s just uhh

[ Seokmin | 2:31 pm ]: She probs did it to mess with you 

[ Wonwoo | 2:37 pm ]: She thinks being 5 mins late warrants putting me through one of the worst experiences in my life.

[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Awwww

[ Seokmin | 2:37 pm ]: Who doesn’t like a little shopping??

[ Wonwoo | 2:39 pm ]: It wasn’t shopping it was torture. You owe me so much more than a fucking lunch.

—MARCH 29TH.

Unfortunately, Wonwoo never got the opportunity to discuss your book that Saturday. In the middle of eating, your phone buzzed with a brief call that had interrupted your peculiarly passionate rant on the different cup sizes at the movie theatre (Wonwoo had listened without saying anything, mostly because he dreaded the circumstances that may come from peeping a word when you were so fixated on explaining that ‘the medium is too much but the small is too little and they’re both obnoxiously priced’).

He then watched cluelessly as you launched up from the table, collecting every little belonging between your fingers, babbling about some wax appointment that had escaped you.

It was just that simple—you were gone.

In the beginning moments of your absence, Wonwoo had sat there without much inclination of what to do next.

He’d worried it was another test, and that he was supposed to dutifully follow you to said wax appointment and continue bending to your every endeavour with no retaliation throughout the day. He had also found the silence across from him unsettling, in a way.

Nonetheless, if you weren’t there, then Wonwoo figured he didn’t need to be there either. So he left, taking the fifty-six back to his apartment, and you hadn’t contacted him since.

Wonwoo actually knew his landlord quite well.

Her building was comprised of four apartments, which sat above her pottery shop on the ground floor. She wasn’t a very bothersome landlord and it was fairly easy to connect with her whenever something broke or caused problems.

When he first moved in three years ago, Wonwoo had ardently adored living there, constantly studying the shelves of shiny glazed vases in addition to the beautiful water colour paintings that were created by his landlord or her students. It had been an inspiration supernova in terms of his personal literature, and he was able to start writing his book. Though, at the time, Wonwoo hadn’t been living alone in his apartment, and it was an inescapable fact that the only reason he began writing his book was with the hope of eventually presenting it to his old girlfriend-slash-roommate.

Now, it was just him.

And as Wonwoo pushed up from his grave of rumpled bedsheets, feeling lethargic and empty, he tried concerningly hard to pinch those thoughts from his mind. It was nearly lunch. He knew damn well he shouldn’t have allowed himself to rot that long in bed, but the other half of himself, the self-sabotaging kind, just couldn’t be bothered to fucking care. Wonwoo reached for his glasses that lay half-opened on the nightstand, raking them onto his face while brushing the hair from his eyes. The first thing he properly saw was his tall, skinny, orange bottle of venlafaxine. No. He was ignoring it.

Wonwoo had been ignoring it for the past few months.

Whenever he got particularly sick of staring at the bottle, he’d shove it in his drawer, making sure to bury it deep under old, amply-scribbled notepads and inkless pens that he’d worn to the bone. At last getting up from the bed, Wonwoo experienced his entire body sway and he caught the room spinning at the distant edges of his peripheral. But he walked through it without a care in the world, utterly too used to the feeling of imminent nausea even without his medication. He decided on a shower, then dressing himself, one Poptart, a swig of water from the kitchen tap, and almost walked out the apartment door with the minty toothbrush still in his mouth.

After walking three blocks down from his apartment, Wonwoo stepped across the dead, spiky grass and into the lacklustre parking lot behind the bowling alley that always smelled like stale pizza.

He knew the vanilla Camry well enough to identify it—stalled smack and centre amongst the emptiness—the licence plate being chiselled into his head like his old locker combination from high school (16-12-24, because Wonwoo for some reason liked fixating on prehistoric details that were glaringly useless in his present).

Early two-thousands R&B was blasting from inside the outdated-looking car, though it was thankfully turned down once Wonwoo threw the door open and shimmied inside.

The odor permeated Wonwoo’s lungs in a heartbeat.

“I thought you were getting this dry-cleaned,” he sighed to his friend, Vernon, who was busy rifling through a backpack.

“Uh, didn’t happen. Didn’t wanna pay all that. M’gonna find someone else to do it that’s not taxin’ my ass. Air fresheners are all dried n’shit so you’re gonna have to deal. My bad, Glasses.”

Glasses. That nickname had always made Wonwoo huff a little half-chuckle, and almost instinctively, he pushed the glasses a bit higher back up his nose. He was introduced to Vernon at a New Year’s Eve party he was forced to attend back in December, though it had been difficult to speak with him because he was blitzed out of his fucking mind—not to mention the choking pain of ignoring the girl who had been sliding her hands along the divots of his shoulders and chest from behind, kissing at his neck.

But Vernon was branded in tattoos, and had all kinds of metal in his face, and was blessed with concupiscent, honey-burnish eyes magnetized every woman in the vicinity straight to him.

Somehow, Vernon had become Wonwoo’s plug in the mix.

“Now, what are you gettin’, Glasses? The usual quarter ounce, right?” Vernon’s tongue poked between his blistered lips as he dug a heavily-inked hand further into the backpack seated in his lap.

“Yeah, quarter ounce.”

“Oh, fuck yeah. Found it. This one.” Vernon exchanged the plastic-bagged ounces of weed with Wonwoo’s cash. “Gimme, gimme. I know it’s all here, but let me check… “ he flaked out the tinted bills with a satisfied head nod. “Prettier than a princess. You’re golden.”

“Did you just say princess?”

“Yeah. That’s what I said… what?”

“I’ve never heard that.”

“It’s not princess?”

“It’s picture, isn’t it? Prettier than a picture.”

“Really? Oh. That’s not how I remember—why the fuck are we even talkin’ about this? Doesn’t fuckin’ matter. Now, that’s gonna last you if you’re cute,” he said, throwing his notorious bag into the seat behind him, then tapping at his busted radio with a thick strip of tape across it, the next song rasping through the speakers, “don’t go crazy on it with your meds and shit. Do you still got enough papers?”

Wonwoo scoffed dryly at Vernon’s assumption while he hid the plastic bag within an inside pouch on his navy-blue jacket. A second later and his phone buzzed with a text message.

“Fuck the meds, honestly,” Wonwoo grunted, shifting his hips up in the seat to remove the phone from his back pocket.

Vernon itched his dark eyebrow. “Alright. Just askin’.”

Wonwoo opted to say nothing as he checked the text message without much expectation, and he was thankful that Vernon was the type to drop a subject easily. Instead his friend transitioned into a different conversation, something about another tattoo that he’d been debating, but in the kindest way possible, Wonwoo wasn’t listening to a goddamn word. You had texted him. Finally. For the first time. After three days of radio silence. And Wonwoo didn’t know why he’d suddenly exploded into such a fidgety, heart-pounding mess. You wanted to meet up again in order to discuss the book’s details.

“Who the fuck is that? Jesus Christ?”

“No,” Wonwoo laughed, clasping his right hand into an anxious fist, “um, I dunno. Just—Seokmin’s got me doing this thing with a friend of his. She’s trying to write a book and he kinda threw me into helping her. We’re supposed to meet up and talk about it.”

“Oh,” Vernon answered, leaning his elbow against the window and sweeping a hand through his black tresses, “do I know the chick?”

“Maybe?”

“She got any social media? An Instagram?”

“Yeah.”

“Ou, let me see.”

Wonwoo wasn’t following you. Then again, he was hardly following anyone. His Instagram had remained completely empty since his girlfriend left him, which had prompted Wonwoo to archive every single picture and delete all the ones that contained her, even the ones that captured mere traces of her in beaded bracelets and hair ties and white socks left on the carpet.

Wonwoo used Seokmin’s account to find you. Honestly, he hadn’t ever looked at your Instagram before. Without gleaning a single photo, Wonwoo thrust his phone at Vernon.

“Oh, yeah, I do know this chick,” Vernon chuckled, thumbing through your profile with a growing smirk, “Her, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Mm, yeah. Know her. Tried to fuck her. Didn’t work at all.”

Snapping his head to look at Vernon, Wonwoo gaped, “what?”

“Yeah, I mean—” Vernon adjusted himself in his seat, pulling up his knee to rest a tattoo-coated arm across it, “—ran into the chick at a party that some rich dude at your university threw. Sweet-talked her for a bit until I realized she had a stupid boyfriend. She told me a million different ways to kill myself. Yeah, she’s somethin’, for sure.”

“You’re lying.”

“Ha—a little. She didn’t tell me to kill myself,  just scolded me for about ten minutes. God, she was wired as fuck though. Her boyfriend—fuckin’, Mingyu, or whatever—he gets her coke. I’ve seen her take a line like it’s pixie dust, man. This was like, over a year ago, though. Dunno if she’s still that loopy. I don’t care. She’s pretty hot.”

Vernon then flashed him a picture from your account, a full body picture of you sprawled across sparkling white sand in a bikini, meanwhile Wonwoo could only stare at it with the blankest possible expression as his brain splattered with computing Vernon’s story.

“Is she still with him?” Vernon asked.

Wonwoo cleared his throat and sat with his spine rigid against the leather, nearly forgetting where he was and what he was doing.

“With who?”

“Lady Liberty. Mingyu.”

“Oh… yeah. They’re dating, still.”

“No fuckin’ way,” his friend lamented while he continuously plunged further into your pictures, thumb pressed to his chin, eyes glimmering, “you coulda flipped this book thing on its head and actually got some fuckin’ head, especially with that deep ass voice you got there. I know it’s gotta feel good. I mean, look at her lips—”

“You’re being gross as fuck,” Wonwoo groaned, swiping his phone back and stuffing it away, “get a girlfriend yourself, man.”

“I’m tryin’ to clean up my act a bit before I do that.”

“That’s definitely a work in progress, I’m assuming.”

“Asshole,” Vernon’s voice was gritty as he coughed into a fist, slipping his knee back under the steering wheel and proceeding to crank his stereo until the music was practically suffocating Wonwoo, “now get the fuck out. You’re not my only deal today. Sorry, Glasses.”

“Later.”

Wonwoo pushed open the door and stepped outside into the cold afternoon breeze. He sucked in a long, relieving breath. At times the fresh air disgusted him, especially when he cozied into one of his mental ruts and everything in the world seemed so grey it was soul-crushing, but Vernon’s car smelled like straight fucking cannabis.

Fresh air was heavenly.

“Don’t forget to text your girl!” Vernon laughed just before Wonwoo slammed the door shut to swallow up the melodic lyrics.

He wanted to make a snap comment before the boy drove off to his next endeavour, but he didn’t care enough to think of one.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: hey wonwoo, it’s her. I think we should finally settle a date to talk about this book thing. let me attach a pic of my schedule and you can pick any open slots

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]: 145_348.JPG

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:35 pm ]:  seokmin isn’t going to be our communicator anymore, so u can stop complaining to him about it

[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm ]: Okay, thanks.

[ Wonwoo | 1:45 pm]: I’ll take a look soon.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:45 pm ]: I’m excited to see you again

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: no likewise?!

[ Wonwoo | 1:50 pm ]: Likewise.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 1:50 pm ]: ugh. thx

—APRIL 1ST.

It was around six in the evening and Wonwoo was seated in the SRX building, the sky rolling with lambent, hazy-toned pastures of peach in the windows behind him. He had arrived about an hour ago, taking the staircase up to the third floor. It was much quieter there, making it easier for Wonwoo to endlessly stare with glazed, void eyes at his laptop screen and the cursed document he couldn’t finish. After tapping his fingernails in a bored, repetitious pattern against the shiny white table, he felt the urge to delete each and every paragraph as if he hadn’t poured months of earnest love into them.

You would be meeting him soon.

He could still remember looking at your schedule, pinching into the screen and examining all the different colour-coded blocks: dinner parties, SSA meetings, gym sessions, errands—how the fuck you managed to juggle those things and more left him marvelled yet terrified. You were pretty on point regarding your arrival time, to which Wonwoo could immediately identify you before even seeing your face due to the heel clicking and the sounds of tapping jewelry on your bag.

Emerging onto the floor with a very intense scowl and a notably crushing grip on your drink, you were to say the least, angry. Wonwoo gnawed slightly on his tongue as you sat down.

Your purse clunked like a cinderblock onto the table.

He watched you inhale a slow, shaky breath, raising your hand with the expansion of your chest in order to calm down.

 “I’m going to kill myself.”

Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, subtly trying to establish more distance between you. He flicked a glance at his laptop.

“Damn. Why is that?”

“Because of stupid, incompetent people.”

“Yeah?”

“I just—I don’t get it!” You laughed, though it wasn’t a particularly jovial sound and more than anything it seemed like you were going to start smashing glass. “I don’t get how people are unable to understand that we don’t do walk-ins unless one of the stylists are free—” you dug a hand into your purse, pulling out a straw, “—which in the salon’s case, is almost never! I tell them we can’t in my very sweet, established customer service voice: ‘I’m sorry, but the only way to receive a chair is to book online.'”

Wonwoo tilted his head, grinning a little.

“Blah, blah. I tell them the entire story in the kindest way I can, even though I want to grab them by their fucking neck and drag them over the counter to show them our website.” You slipped out your laptop next, accidentally dragging out a lanyard along with it that you agitatedly shoved back into the purse. “And then, they get all uptight and pissy when we can’t wriggle them in! Sorry, our makeup artists are busy! Working with people who made scheduled fucking appointments! The world doesn’t fucking revolve around you!”

You scraped the drink toward you, slamming the straw straight through the plastic film lid with such force that several people ended up turning their heads. After taking a long sip, you gulped and glared until they probably realized it was you and pretended not to care.

For a moment, Wonwoo didn’t know what to say, so he’d folded his arms instead. Considering that Wonwoo worked the late shift stocking shelves at the pharmacy department, your predicament sounded like an entirely new world to him.

“Ugh, I’m sorry to bring all this negativity with me,” you apologized, still exasperated, “I don’t need this fucking tea—I need straight vodka. I’m seriously frazzled.”

“Seriously frazzled?” Wonwoo repeated, finding your choice of words funny as he resumed leaning forward, arms still crossed.

“Very, seriously frazzled.”

“I’m sorry about your day.”

Again, you sighed deeply while removing your long, warm jacket to drape over the chair’s spine—it was a rather elegant reveal of the strapless pearl dress underneath, tinted by the evening light, peach-pink as it rained from the ceiling length windows and framed your body like you were some sort of resurrected angel. Tension at last started escaping your shoulders. Wonwoo quickly realized that he'd been staring, and his fingers curled into a nervous fist.

“You’re actually such a good listener.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat. “Um, thank you.”

“I like that you don’t interrupt me.”

Settling his elbows on the table and ruffling the back of his messy black locks, Wonwoo felt himself panic a little on the inside.

“Well,” he heaved in, “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I know," you chirped, posturing yourself confidently, “anyway, the book. We need to talk about it.”

“Table’s yours.”

Wonwoo’s knuckles pressed softly into his cheek while he waited for you to prepare your laptop. His own document was glowing at him, and he swore the emptiness of the page made the screen brighter (in the absolute worst, most mocking way).

“Okay, I’ve got my ideas and such pulled up.”

He expected you to continue and introduce the concept, but you had suddenly stopped, and Wonwoo thought you appeared almost smitten and somewhat timorous. It was strange, because from what he’d known and gauged so far, you were nothing akin to that.

“Well, promise that you won’t think it’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t even know what it is.”

“That’s why I want you to promise!”

Wonwoo pushed up his glasses and sighed, “I will need to be honest at some points you know, depending on what kind of help you want from me. Not that I’m going to be a straight-up dick.”

You scoured at him from over your laptop.

“Whatever.”

“I’ll promise if it makes you feel better.”

“Just—shut up." You wiggled your hand at him dismissively and proceeded to tug the laptop closer. “I don’t even care anymore.”

Once you spent a moment affirming the document to yourself, you looked up at him and smiled. “I’m going to write a book for Mingyu. Our fifth anniversary is coming up in the winter—it’s actually on Christmas Eve—the day he officially asked me to be his girlfriend. I just want to write him a little memoire thingy that tells our story. I want it to walk through the events of our lives, and how I remember them. First encounter, first date, first kiss, stuff like that. I’ve already collected some good memories to include. I have… somewhat of an outline? But my problem is the writing. I can spew nonsense from my mouth at a million miles an hour, but when I try to actually write? It’s crickets.”

You sat back, a hand poised thoughtfully at your cheek while one leg folded over the other. Wonwoo knew you were granting him the space to speak and at least offer a slice of his thoughts, yet, in that moment, he found himself to be drowning. He didn’t believe in fate or destiny or anything of the delusional like; however, hearing you explain the exact premise of a story that he had been successfully writing until a certain breakup—it had shaken him, and Wonwoo felt like the universe was smearing salt fresh into his unsewn wounds.

“So…” your head cocked to the side. “Can I at least an ‘okay’ or a head nod or some sign of life? Or are you just too disgusted?”

What could he say? What was he supposed to say?

Wonwoo was genuinely clueless on how to help you write a story that he’d been utterly failing at writing himself. And, sure, maybe Wonwoo should just give up completely. His ex-girlfriend had ripped out his heart without a single indication that it would happen, and then exited his life in the blink of an eye, disappearing so fucking abruptly that Wonwoo could have said she was a shadow that he imagined in pure lunacy. But he hadn’t dropped the story because there was this very stubborn, unwilling part of his being that could not move on from her—her, who had been his love, and breath, and bones.

He’d decided to finish the story as a manner of easing into closure. If that closure never came, then so be it.

“Are you seriously fucking ignoring me right now?”

His silence had promptly disturbed your peace, and now you were glaring at him with the beginning licks of fire and hell in your eyes.

“I don’t think I can help you.”

“What?” You pronounced sharply. “Are you kidding?”

“No, I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said while closing his laptop and sliding it back into his shoulder-sling bag, “I just—I’m not the right person to help you. I’m not, and you’ll have to take my word for it.”

“Seokmin told me you could write fucking anything. He made it out like you were some literature God with a golden quill. And—great, you’re just packing up fucking everything. Are you serious? Am I even allowed more of an explanation or are you gonna leave it at that? Wonwoo, you couldn’t have told me this at a worse time.”

“I didn’t plan for it to be like that.” He could hardly push the syllables up his diaphragm. “It can’t be me. I’m sorry.”

You didn’t lift a finger to stop him from leaving, though the wavelength of your incinerating stare was felt like a hot, melting scratch down his neck. This was terrible, he was terrible—Wonwoo already knew that about himself. He wanted to go home. He wanted to shut himself away in his room and sink straight through the sheets until he was swallowed. His anxiety was webbing around him. It was pulling him down into the soil and earth like he belonged there.

He truly hated this part of himself.

More than anything, he truly hated when other people saw it.

Especially people like you.

—APRIL 8TH.

Wonwoo didn’t think you would ever speak to him again, in person or over text message. In retrospect, he was fine with it. You were rather overwhelming and especially tiring for someone like Wonwoo who would be perfectly fine never seeing another human in his lifetime. Not to mention he was freed from helping you with your book, which he learned was a technical love letter to your boyfriend in addition to a romance he wanted a nonexistent part in. Going down that path once was already excruciating enough, and given his anxiety attack that saw him locked in a cold washroom stall last week, it was best you just forget about him. He assumed you already had, anyway.

After he stocked the last red bottle of sinus medicine onto the shelf, Wonwoo used his boxcutter to break down the cardboard package and fold it flat with the others he’d opened. It was time for his break, and then he would only have one more hour until the pharmacy section closed for the night. Once it hit ten o’clock, the store was automatically still and hardly anyone came in—minus the few student couples whom Wonwoo had to point in the direction of pregnancy tests or plan b. But it was a Tuesday night. He was at the bare minimum appeased he didn’t have to console a sobbing, snotty-nosed eighteen-year-old girl imploring for a First Response.

When he collapsed down at his favourite seat in the breakroom, Wonwoo pulled out his phone. He had sent Seokmin a text yesterday evening about going studying at the SRX building for their upcoming math midterm, though Seokmin had yet to respond and Wonwoo couldn’t evade wondering if you were pulling some strings behind the curtain.

He opened his bottle of juice and spent the remainder of his fifteen listening to music and jittering his knee.

Wonwoo took his earbuds with him back onto the floor, sneaking the wires under his shirt to pull out his collar. There were only a few boxes left on his cart that required stocking, and whatever didn’t fit would have to be scanned into storage. That shouldn't take long. Wonwoo could almost taste the crisp atmosphere of the night air and feel the gentle chilliness soon to ghost against his face.

However, halfway into shelving the cough drops there had been a polite tap on his shoulder, and Wonwoo wanted to wither up and lose his head right there on the tiles like a sundried rose.

He didn’t know who to expect when he turned around, pulling out a single earbud while the other continued to blast his music.  

“Oh, shit—I didn’t know you worked here.”

Fuck. He wanted to kill himself.

“Yeah, started a couple months ago, actually.”

Mingyu.

It’s not that Wonwoo didn’t like speaking with him, because they had definitely exchanged cordial conversations in the past, particularly when they both took that Probability Poker elective last semester and Wonwoo learned that Mingyu was a pretty decent bluffer. Unfortunately, Mingyu’s belief that he was a great bluffer was actually the one indication that he was indeed bluffing. It showed in his overly confident eyes before a twitch of the lips or a subtly shifted foot, meanwhile Wonwoo was able to sit there the entire time like he was an Easter Island statue incarnate.

Put simply, Wonwoo had always preferred to avoid Mingyu because he was your boyfriend, and per routine, he attempted to slip around most people that were associated with you.

“Cool.” Mingyu smiled and the flashes of his pointed teeth caught the light. “Stuff’s got switched around in here again.”

“New mods came out last week,” Wonwoo answered, placing the last cough drop box onto the shelf and facing it straight.

“Well, don’t know what the fuck that means,” his tone was brassy as he laughed, “I just came to ask where the plan b is now.”

 “Two aisles down, check the endcap.”

“Appreciate it, thanks—oh, condoms?”

“Next aisle.”

“Got it.”

“Just come get me when you’re done,” Wonwoo said, grabbing his boxcutter and running the blade along the taped seam of the cardboard to satisfyingly slice it open, “I’m the only one in pharmacy right now, so I have to ring you up.”

As soon as Mingyu disappeared around the corner, Wonwoo tossed the flattened cardboard onto his cart with the loudest, most life-draining sigh that could be harboured. He wasn’t the kind of person to cultivate those racing, panicky thoughts that consumed his brain like a merciless hurricane, rather it was typically one single thought that was an eternal black space to swallow him. But Wonwoo had to admit that seeing Mingyu had triggered something of the latter, and now he was feeling sick with the fact you possibly told Mingyu about his episode at the SRX building last week. To Wonwoo it had been the shackles of his anxiety, though it probably came across as a very ill-mannered, abrupt rejection from your perspective.

Mingyu didn’t take long picking out his items. It was clearly a run of the mill routine for him at this point—a mere grab and go.

At the register, Wonwoo mentally questioned why Mingyu had grabbed such a plethora of condoms. He didn’t mean to be vulgar in his thinking, but how often were you getting fucking railed?

Either that, or Mingyu preferred being well stocked.

Vernon would be bruising his knuckles on his steering wheel right now, considering how devotedly he attempted to seduce you.

As payment, Mingyu pulled out that godforsaken credit card that you had borrowed during the dress shopping. Wonwoo felt nauseous just looking at the damn thing. He swiped all of the items into a small plastic bag which he then handed to Mingyu with a notable impatience, wanting to whisk the boy out as quick as possible.

“G’night, man. Thanks for the help.”

“Night,” he answered in a deep, tired sigh, watching Mingyu’s head of thick and bouncy black hair disappear toward the aglow exit.

Well, clearly you weren’t wasting anytime thinking about him despite the dramatics pertaining to the situation last week, not even in the most marginal fraction. Mingyu must rail it out of you every night—not that Wonwoo would be surprised to learn such a thing considering the tall boy’s physique and your openly lascivious nature.

Well, good luck to you both, he supposed.

At least it was closing time.

Wonwoo had always suspected there was something ever so slightly off kilter about his body, especially in the way it reacted to certain situations and emotions. He knew it probably wasn’t the most mundane, ordinary act—locking himself in his aunt’s washroom the day of his sixteenth birthday, sliding down onto the cold, hard tiles, feeling his heart jolt, punch, and thump again his chest like a battering ram. There had been a pattern of rubber ducks on her eggshell blue shower curtain, and Wonwoo remembered counting them row by row, over and over, until his breath managed to steady.

Twenty-four ducks. He could still recall the number.

A doctor’s visit about three weeks later had granted him the diagnosis and a scribbled venlafaxine prescription. Wonwoo was already collecting his sweater off the tissue sheet bed, ready to leave.

In the beginning, he was strict about his medication. He organized them into pill cartridges and set alarms and always ate them with cooked, warm meals. Understandably, his habits dwindled every now and again, however, Wonwoo was quite pious to the routine for a good couple years. But then he met his most recent girlfriend in university. She was shy and reserved. All about the books.

Cute as buttons.

He fell in love.

And it was all such a rush of rose petals and sweet symphonies that Wonwoo became distracted from his healthy habits.

Of course, everything crashed and burned once she abandoned him. He capitulated in an instant, and the sight of the orange bottle made him paler than winter moonlight. It’s not like he wanted to suffer, or despise the way his body put him through a neural hell beyond his own control. The fact of the matter was that Wonwoo just couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take those stupid pills.

It was a mountain. Every. Single. Time.

And for the third time that week, Wonwoo found himself awake at an ungodly hour, rifling through the black lunchbox he kept in his closet with his glasses about to slip off the fine point of his nose.

He pulled out the baggie filled with the quarter-ounce, his silver grinder, and his rolling papers. Moving to his desk, Wonwoo clicked on the small overhead lamp to illuminate his space, in which he tapped some of the weed into his grinder and began twisting the lid until he was satisfied. He liked preparing joints to smoke on the roof. It wasn’t particularly hard to access, anyway. Right outside his bedroom window was a balcony with a short ladder attached to the brick, and once Wonwoo had discovered it, he made a habit of climbing up to spark his joints so that their pungent aroma could be carried away by the fresh winds usually stirred up at gloaming.

Honestly, it was the only thing he enjoyed.

Just before he slipped out the window, Wonwoo grabbed a pair of black jeans he’d worn earlier in the week, discovering the lighter he’d accidentally left in the back pocket.

The ladder shuddered slightly when Wonwoo gripped it, though if he were being candour, he didn’t care whatsoever if all the bolts suddenly loosened and he were to splatter against the sidewalk like an uncooked pancake. In fact, the fall probably wasn’t enough to kill him. Maybe a few broken bones and scrapes, some blood staining the street akin to little patterns of rain, bruises that signatured violets into his skin, but Wonwoo would still be painfully, vividly alive, enough to see the stars if the glasses didn’t snap off his face.

It was a colder night, so Wonwoo made sure to tuck on his beanie and huddle into his thicker-sized coat. He sat with one leg dangling over the building’s edge, feeling the wind whiplash against his back and crawl in these chilly, indecipherable whispers from his shoulders to his neck, almost tickling him, like it had missed him.

An orange flicker popped to life from the butane of his lighter, which he used to lightly singe the joint perched at his lips. Wonwoo then tilted his head back, blowing the cloud and its loose, airy curls straight into the sky’s deepest purples.

He loved being alone.

Even when his ex-girlfriend had moved in with him all those months ago, there was an unyielding part of him that hadn’t been ready to forfeit all his space and privacy.

But, over time, his love surmounted the sacrifice.

He would wake up to her sleeping face, and with thoughtful nudges, clear the hairs off her cheeks. He would spend an hour working on his homework or writing his story while waiting for her to stir so messily in the sheets that it became graceful. He would tease her with his cold hands as she boiled up tea in the kitchen, pinching at her hips with the utmost softness and giggling huskily into her neck when she would twist in the arms that bracketed her body against his chest. He would trap her between the counter, sunshine striking the room aglow in these nearly blinding seas of light, mouthing at her throat and tugging at her shorts and hitching his fingers so deep into her heat because all Wonwoo wanted to do was make her feel good.

Opening his eyes again, Wonwoo saw the stars rather than her face. The high was disseminating past his lungs and mingling with the pain that festered in his heart, concocting something that hurt so wonderfully, in all the right places, in all the right spots.

He was a fucking mess.

It wasn’t sustainable. But he didn’t care enough to fix himself.

 —APRIL 15TH.

Why did Wonwoo keep coming back to that café? The number of times he’d sat down with conviction that today would be fruitful—today, the eloquence would flow from his fingertips like perfectly pitched music notes and the symphony would read as beautiful and mellifluous as it sounded in his mind. Today, he was going to write.

Except, he accomplished nothing of the sort.

Repeatedly tapping his index finger against the space bar, he waited for the right adjective or phrase to leap out—to grasp him in a headlock even—whatever it took, Wonwoo was willing to sit there all afternoon until one fucking word conjured in the infinite blankness that was his imagination. He reached for his drink, only to take a sip of dry air that smelled like his earlier cocoa. Wonwoo realized the cup was empty. Had he wasted this much time already?

It pricked similarly to a bee sting. His passions felt impossible. A sigh upheaved from his chest and fingers curled into his hair, musing up the already disarrayed strands and slowly warping himself to look more and more like a mad scientist. Wonwoo removed his glasses and slumped back in the chair, rubbing at the reddish prints left on his nose. Writing had soaked itself in agony and he was going to remain in the storm of it until the bitter, ungratifying end.

‘Till death do us part.

 And then, something struck.

Though it wasn’t what Wonwoo had hoped for.

Literally—it was your hand hitting the glass of the café window, which had jerked Wonwoo out from his self-pitying.

He scrambled to fix his glasses back on, your face clarifying in an instant. You smiled at him with your glossed lips, and he didn’t like the nuance of your countenance one bit. Watching you enter the café was jarring and uncomfortable and his fist immediately clenched, his index nail picking at the ruined cuticle of his thumb. Two weeks ago—that was the last time you had spoken. At the SRX building.

“Hey!” You sounded friendly. “Can I sit here?”

“Well, uh—”

“Great, thank you.”

You pulled out the chair across from him, then set your bag delicately on the windowsill. Wonwoo watched with nervous, fluttering eyes as you smoothed out your cropped skirt before sitting down, ensuring it was tucked under yourself appropriately.

“How are you?”

Gulp.

“Fine.”

“Good. That’s really good. I’m glad.” Your nails drummed once against the table. “I actually didn’t plan on coming here, but I saw you as I was crossing the street, and I thought, ‘I should stop by and check in on him’ because, y’know, we haven’t been talking.”

Wonwoo furrowed his brow. “Do you always do that?”

“Do what?”

“Slap your hand against windows to get people’s attention.”

You swept something off the table with your palm, and this sunshine-like laugh turned your entire face to sweetness, but it wasn’t entirely earnest, and Wonwoo bit into his lip because you fucking terrified him. He caught your sparkling eye and wanted to melt.

“Did I scare you? I’m so sorry.”

“No, you’re good.”

“What are you working on?”

“A paper.”

Obviously, he was going to lie. Whether or not you could pick up on his lie was beyond Wonwoo’s control at that point. He didn’t know what you wanted, or why you were interrupting the flow of your very organized scheduling system to seemingly toy with him.

You didn’t respond to his paper comment. There was a thick silence between you despite the distant clattering of dishes, bubbling coffee machines, and conversations that coalesced into one big buzz.

Wonwoo bit the bullet.

“Something you want from me, yeah?”

“Not… exactly… I mean, after you left me at the SRX building, I wanted to get very angry about the whole situation. My day was terrible, and you responding to my idea with that sickly look on your face didn’t help. But I thought about it. You said no. I can’t ask anything more of you, y’know? I have to respect what you said.”

“Oh.” Wonwoo unclenched his fist, stretched out his long legs a bit more. “Yeah, sure. I get it. Thanks for understanding.”

“I just didn’t think my idea was that bad.”

“Well… no. It’s not bad. It’s not bad at all.”

A twitch to your lip suggested you didn’t believe him. Wanting to clear the air a bit, Wonwoo stopped slouching. He sat straighter and lowered the lid of his laptop, inviting the space between you.

His mouth opened, and then closed.

Fuck, just breathe you idiot—he cursed at himself.

You did that little head tilt thing, half-smiling at him, looking radiant underneath the café sunlight and so oddly patient with his tied-tongue that Wonwoo was miraculously able to find his words.

“There is nothing wrong with your idea. I made it seem like there was. I’m sorry. I just don’t want to help you write a romance story, for personal reasons that would be useless explaining. But you seem very confident in everything you do. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Hm, well, thank you for believing in me. Romance can be a touchy subject—I didn’t think of that, and I get it… I guess I felt more insecure about your reaction because writing is the one thing I can’t ace. I do need help with my story, even if I don’t want it. Well, it’s just the truth, isn’t it? There are some things I can’t do!”

You chuckled at yourself, and Wonwoo thought it to be actually endearing. All your hard edges softened in that moment.

“So, I haven’t made any progress in my story, which sucks because I’m operating by deadline—” reaching into your bag, you unveiled a small, compact mirror, using it to remove something invisible from your eyelash, “—do you have any writer friends that would help me?”

Wonwoo scratched his nose.

“Uh, with the book?”

“Yes.”

“None.”

“What?” The mirror snapped shut as you gagged at him. “How do you have no writer friends? Isn’t that your major? Literature? Do you even have friends that aren’t Seokmin?”

“I’m a math major for fucks sake.”

“You’re fucking joking, Wonwoo. Please, tell me it’s a joke.”

He leaned back, folding his arms and propping an ankle onto his knee. You were still gaping at him, and he wanted to smirk.

“What’s wrong with math?”

“Nothing. Math is… math,” you gritted, shoving the mirror back into your expensive-looking, gold-buckled bag, “but why math? Why straight math? I thought you wanted to be a writer.”

“Man, Seokmin really didn’t tell you fucking anything, did he?” Wonwoo chuckled. Or, maybe you had only heard the things you wanted to hear, which was what Wonwoo assumed.

“Like I have space in my brain to remember the multiverse of information that constantly comes out of his mouth.”

“So what is there space for then?”

“You're toeing a dangerous line.”

“Well, I like math and writing.”

"And what kind of papers would you be required to work on as a math major? Did you stumble across some quintessential theorem that nobody else really cares about except for you and all the other pocket-protector wearers out there? Or is this a Good Will Hunting scenario? Even better—are you waiting for someone to walk by behind you and see all that really complicated mumbo-jumbo on your screen and think to themselves, 'woah, this guy is really smart. He's working on a paper with numbers, and I only work on papers with words. Where did I go wrong in my life?' so you can develop some sort of alternative complex that writing just isn't giving you?"

Wonwoo cocked his head at you, perplexed.

“What the absolute fuck are you talking about?” He felt a laugh in his chest, but he pushed it down. Wonwoo had never met anyone like you before. “You made up everything you just said.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“I go on tangents. It’s just something I do.”

“Damn. I can tell.” Wonwoo rubbed at the corner of his eye and slipped the ankle off his knee, further spreading his legs. “You like hearing the sound of your own voice, yeah?”

He always hated when people bothered him at the café, especially when he was trying to write. Today, it was different.

“Well, that’s true.” You beamed at him so matter-of-factly, like it was obvious. “The most beautiful sound in the world, isn’t it?”

“Mm.”

“Thought so. Ugh, I just can’t believe you have no writer friends to hook me up with.” He watched you slouch forward, slapping your arms across the table. “I’ll have to go wait outside Gildan Hall and start ambushing all the smart-looking literature majors.”

Wonwoo found himself examining your perfect nail polish.

“Good luck with that.”

“Can you at least try to sound more sympathetic?”

“You don’t seem like a person who appreciates sympathy.”

“Pft. According to who? I like being comforted when the time is right, and you’re not being very comforting.” You groaned into the table.

“You like being comforted?” He scoffed.

Your head popped up, and you were pouting. “At certain times, yes. Most times, no. It’s a complicated system. No one’s really cared enough to learn it except for Mingyu, and that was by force, and I think even he hates it. But I’m not asking for the moon. Just a reasonably sized chunk of it. I have to be worth something, right?”

“What’s life without someone catering to your every whim at the drop of a hat, huh?” He couldn’t help but mutter with sarcasm.

“Yes, exactly! See—you read my mind.”

Wonwoo bit his tongue.

“Ugh, now where’s my stupid phone?”

It was in your purse. Immediately, your eyes lit up.

“Jesus Christ. I’m gonna be late to my electrolysis!”

Like a burst of lightning, you shot up from your seat and quickly fixed the cream-white purse back over your shoulder. It reminded him of that time at the mall. One second you were engrained into a tangent, and the next you were scrambling about, attempting to recover the lost time in your meticulous schedule.

“If you think of anyone, please text me!”

Wonwoo nodded his head.

Now, there was a vacant seat before him, left slightly tugged from the table due to your hectic departure. For a moment, he just sighed, feeling the breath emerge from somewhere so deep in his chest that it ached. That was the thing about you—in a confusing turmoil, you managed to fill him up when he felt empty, but then empty him once he felt full.

He didn’t know what kind of person you were.

But there was an odd thrill to it that Wonwoo couldn’t articulate.

—APRIL 18TH.

Sat with Seokmin at the boy’s dining room table, Wonwoo popped a purple grape into his mouth while flipping a pencil between his fingers. The two had been staring plainly at their last problem from the math homework, but the question was horribly long, and his handwriting had morphed from legible penmanship to the most slurred hieroglyphics. Wonwoo wanted to dump a ramen packet into some boiling water and call it a night. He’d devoured a whole stem of grapes. His head was pounding and his stomach growled for a meal.

“Oh! You see—this is what gets me every time!” Seokmin exclaimed, leaned over his scattered papers, shoulders hunched with strain, “I mess up one multiplication in a matrix, and it screws me all up! Now I have to go over—uh! My fucking pencil just snapped.”

“Good,” Wonwoo mumbled, pressing a hand along the groove of his stiff neck, cracking it, “take it as a sign to give up.”

“We’re so close.”

Scooting the chair back to stretch his legs, Wonwoo then snatched his phone off the table. It was nearly ten at night.

“I’m hungry, and I don’t care anymore.”

Seokmin sighed, “are you going to eat now?”

“Yeah. Any ramen left?”

“It’s in the box sitting on top of the fridge. Soup broth is in the cupboard beside the microwave. I think there’s some eggs, too.”

Wonwoo easily grabbed the noodle packet off the fridge. He asked his friend if he wanted a bowl as well, and Seokmin agreed, abandoning their math homework after his defeating pencil-snapping incident. While they waited for the water to start bubbling over the stovetop, Seokmin had joined Wonwoo in the kitchen, though he leaned against the counter, holding his phone six inches or so from his face. Wonwoo had never seen anyone text that fast.

Gosh—he didn’t even need to ask who it was.

Noticing a few smudges on his glasses, Wonwoo lowered them down to the hem of shirt, beginning to massage the marks away.

“Our math final is the twenty-eighth, right?” Seokmin asked.

“Should be, yeah.”

“Thanks. If it’s on the twenty-eighth then I can definitely go.”

Wonwoo slid the glasses back onto his nose.

“Go to what?

Taptaptaptap—Seokmin’s fingers were practically electric.

“Uh, this thing that Her is having… at her parents’ house… like… a big dinner party… I’m helping her plan it… just need to make sure… I’m free those days… there! Okay, all settled.”

At last, Seokmin had clicked off his phone and slid the device back into the pocket on his sweatpants. Wonwoo folded his arms, staring at his friend with a deeply furrowed yet confused brow.

He sucked in a helpless breath.

“I don’t get you, Seokmin.”

“What—why?”

A few hot droplets of water had leapt from the pot, slightly scalding Wonwoo’s arm. He promptly ripped open the ramen packet and submerged the noodle brick, poking at it with chopsticks.

Wonwoo cleared his throat, “are you obsessed with her?”

Seokmin laughed, sounding astounded.

“No, I’m not obsessed. I’m just helping. We’re friends.”

“Right.”

“You don’t believe me?”

Setting the chopsticks beside the stove, Wonwoo turned around again, habitually crossing his arms low along the chest.

“I guess I don’t understand what you get out of that relationship.” He admitted. “Why can’t she do shit herself?”

“Ha!—That’s an interesting question.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“No, it’s not that.” Seokmin lifted himself onto the kitchen counter, his head thumping back against the wooden cupboard. “I just wasn’t expecting you to ask that. And—I meant it’s interesting to see your interpretation of it. Like, my friendship with Her.”

Wonwoo nodded. He wasn’t going to coax anything out of his friend that he wasn’t already willing to say. In fact, Wonwoo had only begun talking to Seokmin back in the early, rainy days of September, since they ended up in the same discrete mathematics course and happened to choose seats right next to each other. Their bond had formed fairly quick, but they never really conversed about topics more intimate than school work and their own interests.

“I’m sorry,” Wonwoo said, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No, don’t apologize. I mean, I totally get why you’re curious.”

Seokmin glanced down at his knees, scratched his chin.

“Uh—well, what did you say, anyway? Why can’t her do shit herself? I mean, her life is super busy. Her mom’s a writer and editor for that popular fashion and beauty magazine you always see at all those glamour stores—Stunning Monthly—something like that. Her’s dad is this business tycoon guy. He works with my dad, actually. I’ve known Her since high school. Our families are close, so naturally we’ve spent a lot of time together. Her family picked up all their stuff and moved into Hillcrest on account of her dad needing to relocate for work.”

Wonwoo remained silent at the revelation, even though he was urged by curiosity to badger Seokmin with questions.

“But, uh—without all my non-essential rambling—the relationship with her parents is tumultuous. Who doesn't have a shaky relationship with their parents, though? A few lucky souls, probably. But they've set things up for her quite well, in my opinion. Her mom got her a job at the Milestone—that fancy beauty place down Bank Street? She has a makeup chair from time to time and works reception. She’s definitely gonna graduate Cum Laude with some big fancy scholarship. Not to mention the little power couple thing she’s got going on with Mingyu. She just tends to be…” Seokmin winced, massaging his shoulder, “she’s just a bit unpredictable. It would be way too easy for things to start falling all over the place. She’s a busy girl so I figure it’s nice to help her out. Keep things organized.”

Wonwoo bobbed his head, thinking.

“I guess I’m curious about the book thing. I mean, if everything is so perfectly laid out for her, and she’s so busy all the time…. why write a book? That takes months, extreme dedication, planning out the ass… it’s loving everything you’ve written and then hating it so atrociously… I don’t know,” he sighed, shrugging with confusion, “if I were her, writing a book would be the last thing on my mind.”

Folding his arms, Seokmin leaned back against the cupboards and agreed. “I know. But sometimes she just lurches onto random things out of nowhere. One year she practically turned her entire living room into a freakin’ art studio and I slipped on an open tube of paint on the floor—nearly popped out my tail bone. To be fair, her passion projects never last long. She never has the time, as you said… I know you’re not helping her anymore. She’ll probably drop it without help.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin answered, smiling, “just like that.”

For some reason, Wonwoo gritted his teeth. He would hate for you to discard the feat so readily, just because he couldn’t pitch in as initially planned. Yes, writing was not always a fruitful cherry blossom tree and sometimes chalking down one sentence was equivalent to a month of effort and squeezing out all the creative fibres in one’s brain, but there was so much worth and occulted beauty to it at the same time. It was the art of expression.

Wonwoo thought it was quite cruel to deprive oneself of the ability to express and articulate things as they coursed through the fragile skin and the warm veins, and chiefly, the heart.

“Anyway, maybe I didn’t really answer your question,” Seokmin laughed, “but, y’know, don’t worry too much about turning down the book. You’re right. She’s got more important things to focus on, as I was telling her over and over, and—oh! Fuck, the ramen’s bubbling!”

Wonwoo quickly twisted around as the water began spilling over the edge and sizzling like fried meat. He lifted the pot off the piping hot, orange element, to which Seokmin joined him, twisting the stove dial to a much lower heat. Blowing at the white froth, Wonwoo waited a precautionary minute before returning the pot.

Once dinner was ready, they gathered back at the dining table, entwining the noodles with their chopsticks and hardly allowing a second for the ramen to cool before they were shovelling in burning mouthful after mouthful. The bite in Wonwoo’s stomach was gradually appeased. He soon felt warm, and full, and less tempered.

“Seokmin.”

“Hm?” His friend glanced up from his phone.

“So…” Wonwoo leaned back in the chair, his fist clenched. “I guess what—from what I understand—if I don’t help Her, or if she doesn’t find someone who can, then the book just won’t happen ”

At his observation, Seokmin nodded, seeming unbothered.

“Uh, yeah. Pretty much.”

“That’s sad.”

“Hey, you two just aren’t destined for each other,” he replied, slurping his noodles, “you were right back at the café.”

Picking up the white and blue patterned bowl, Wonwoo prepared to drink the broth, feeling the delicious heat fan back against his face. Once he finished eating and helping Seokmin with the dishes, he planned to catch a late-night bus back to his apartment above the quaint pottery shop. He didn’t know if he would sleep or not.

Maybe, however, that would give him time to rethink some choices, even if he shouldn’t trust the musings his brain happened to curate past nine at night. Especially any musings concerning you.

[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: Sorry to message you this late.

[ Wonwoo | 11:45 pm ]: I’ll keep it brief: I’ve given your book idea some thought, and if the offer still stands, I’d like to help you write it. Though, I understand if you want someone else’s help.

[ Wonwoo | 11:50 pm ]: Goodnight.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: AHHHHHHHHHHH

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: good morninggg

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:35 am ]: no that’s so perfect

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: okay. OMG. there’s just so much we have to sort out. I’m trying not to overwhelm myself lol

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 6:37 am ]: thank u for giving it more thought. I’m excited to plan everything and see u again ofc :)

[ Wonwoo | 12:55 pm ]: Likewise.

—APRIL 24TH.

Since last November, Wonwoo hadn’t invited many guests to his apartment—not even his older brother, who had never stepped foot into the building after Wonwoo originally signed the lease. Seokmin visited once or twice, but everything was curt, and while there had been one time that Vernon slept overnight on the couch, it was hardly notable.

Knowing that you were going to be at his apartment in a few hours was a very daunting thought. Consequently, Wonwoo had done something he hadn’t properly completed in months: clean.

It wasn’t like he just threw out the garbage and wiped down the kitchen counter either. He legitimately cleaned, picking over his apartment with a fine-tooth comb, not allowing one coffee cup or coaster to seem even vaguely incongruous. He fluffed out the couch pillows and vacuumed the floors. He went through his entire room, tidying up piles of clothes on the floor and aligning every book on his shelf. For the first time in months, Wonwoo threw open his heavy curtains, pure sunlight engulfing the space in such a bright glare that his eyes stung and he hardly recognized his own bedroom. Most importantly, he remembered to hide the pill bottle in his nightstand.

After all the anxiety-driven cleaning was done, Wonwoo collapsed onto the couch and stared plainly at the ceiling, the reality of what he just accomplished beginning to sink into his pores.

What the fuck?

He doubted you would care even microscopically if his apartment wasn’t perfectly swept and polished and artistic like a photo from an interior design catalogue. But at the same time, it would have been impossible for him to leave it alone. The burst of productivity undoubtedly left Wonwoo rather hot and sweaty, so he opted to take a shower before you arrived. Standing beneath the cool water and taking slow, languid breaths helped ease his nerves.

And, for the first time in what he imaged to be—months, Wonwoo dried himself off with this feeling that everything was okay.

Not good. Definitely not great. But okay.

While he buttoned up a pair of blue jeans, Wonwoo heard his phone ding from his desk. Reaching over, he tapped the screen.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:05 pm ]: hi, I’m almost there

His chest fucking lurched.

Roughly jerking open his drawer, Wonwoo pulled out the first shirt he saw, tugging the white long-sleeve over his head before he wiggled his feet into a fresh pair of socks. Once Wonwoo found his glasses, he sat on the edge of his bed with his phone.

[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Okay.

[ Wonwoo | 12:08 pm ]: Would you like me to come down?

God—he felt like his stomach was going to collapse.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:08 pm ]: no that’s okay :)

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:09 pm ]: it’s really pretty down here

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm]: sorry I was looking at some of the pottery / painting stuff. it’s the staircase down the hall, right?

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:12 pm ]: unit 102?

[ Wonwoo | 12:12 pm ]: Yes.

He reminded himself to breathe. Calm and slow and lifting the pressure that dug so bluntly into his lungs. The webs began to burn away. It had been a narrow escape, but it was successful.

[ xxx-xxx-xxxx | 12:13 pm ]: heyy, I’m outside

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Wonwoo walked to the front door. His fingers brushed the knob in a flash of doubt, though his mind had already committed and now the door was pulled open and you were there, just as you said.

“Well, hello.”

He nodded at you, and then gestured for you to enter.

“Where should I take off my shoes?”

“There’s good,” Wonwoo answered, pointing to a textured mat in the corner that you proceeded to leave your simplistic heels on.

How absurd was this? Never in his life would Wonwoo imagine you at his apartment of all places—the one girl whom he adamantly tried to avoid because you were his gleaming opposite, and everything that you were, certain and in control, scared him. You were gazing around with your hands politely clasped together, ignited in the fulgurant sunlight, a small smile on your mouth.

“Wow, you’re very clean.”

Wonwoo stepped after you, maintaining a shy distance.

“It doesn’t normally look this neat,” he admitted, watching you readjust the strap of your tote bag, “I did clean for you.”

You turned to face him, and your laughter filled the space with a refreshing, long lost tone that made everything brighter. His fist clenched up anxiously and he knew his cheeks were pinkening.

“Um, cleaned or power-washed?”

He merely stared at you. Why couldn’t he fucking speak?

“Jeez, don’t look so afraid. I’m joking. And I obviously appreciate the effort.” You spun back around, continuing to walk past the coffee table and toward the kitchen. “It’s a lovely place, and it’s definitely got your personal touch. Oh—this is a cute mug.”

He breathed out, unfurling his hand and stretching his fingers until the air in his knuckles popped. You began wandering in the natural direction of the bedroom, and so Wonwoo followed, his eyes drifting up the jeans that hugged your legs and your sashaying hips, to back of your delicious-smelling hair. What was that scent, anyway?

Manuka honey?

But it was just a trivial glance, really.

Nothing meaningful.

“Is this your room?” You asked, stopping at the doorframe.

“It is.”

Biting your lip, you peaked inside and started to grin.

“Do you care if I go in?”

 “No.”

He tried not to crumble right there on the floor. Wonwoo’s room was his sanctuary, a fortress, something that barred out everyone but himself and granted him the freedom to do whatever he pleased (whether it was self-detrimental or not). The thought of others in his room was a gash in that perfect sanctuary, in which he could see the walls bleed out all their comfort and familiarity. His ex was the last person to be in his room, typically sprawled across the bed with a good novel in her hand.

It was a sour, sour reminder.

“Oh, and there’s the bookshelf,” you pointed out, “how fitting.” That penetrating gaze of yours roamed his desk and his bed and all his knickknacks in between. “Hey, why’s there a balcony outside?” You then asked, settling your hands onto the window frame and leaning out, the wind fluttering minimally through the layered curtains.

“Just a remodelling error,” Wonwoo explained, “it was supposed to be removed, I think. Never happened.”

Allured by curiosity, you leaned further out, examining the ladder that led up to the building’s roof. He looked at you again, specifically the arch in your back and the way your arms were planted so firm at the windowsill. He looked at the sunlight rippling on your cheek and your lips that appeared to sparkle, like you had kissed glitter.

“You definitely go up there, right?”

“Yeah.”

Half-shutting the window as to keep the breeze flowing, you chuckled. “I figured… so, I guess we should stop dawdling and get to the meat and potatoes. Is here a good spot? Or do you want to go back to the living room?”

“We’re in my room anyways,” Wonwoo commented, pulling out his desk chair and promptly sitting down, “so, why not.”

“Cool. Let me get my laptop.”

You slipped the tote bag off your arm and sat on the edge of his freshly made bed, being careful not to rumple the sheets.

“Okay!” Your hands echoed a series of soft claps. “I’m all ready now. I’ll try my best not to ramble—oh, and please, please don’t interrupt me until I’m done. I’m going to be very pissed if I lose my train of thought and I’d like this meeting to remain pleasant.”

Wonwoo nodded. “I know.”

You flashed him a brief smile.

“So, as you know, Mingyu and I’s fifth year anniversary is coming up in December. My gift to him is this so far nonexistent book. We’ve been through a lot as a couple, and as individuals, and I want the book to fully capture this journey we’ve been on and how much I… appreciate him. Also, I’m going to introduce a second, special element—” a hand plunged into your tote bag and suddenly a video camera was revealed, “—I want to record some of our brain sessions, and, like, our voyage of figuring this shit out. I like mementos. I hope that’s okay.”

“… Do I answer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Then, yeah. I’m okay with it.”

“Secondlyyy—” you lilted while scrolling a little ways down the notepad on your laptop, the video camera stuffed back into your flower-and-honeybee-patterned tote, “—there are a few places we’ll need to visit—not the actual places that Mingyu and I went to since we grew up nowhere near here—but places that more so have a strong resemblance to the ones in my memory. I feel like it will help me with visual aspects of the writing. I’m a very visual person. Y’know, setting up the scene and technical things like that. I like touching and feeling and seeing and breathing everything in. I want all my senses on fire, basically. Like… the way your lips feel after eating insanely hot noodles.”

“Yeah, that’s fine.”

Wonwoo didn’t really care. He just agreed.

“Lastly, I want to make a schedule for us. So, I’m kindly asking you to set up a schedule of your own—work shifts, doctor’s appointments, tests—the like, so I can incorporate them into my own hectic life and make us one colourful, super writing schedule.”

And then, with a big, winded sigh, you shut your laptop.

“That’s it. Done. Thoughts?”

Honestly, the entire premise didn’t sound all that terrible. He had braced himself for the worst, but you were unsurprisingly organized and had pinpointed all your desires quite clearly. Of course, he knew it was going to be sheer hell—flames up to his knees and desert sun beating on his skin like a hot skillet frying butter. You were structured and dedicated and Wonwoo was none of those things.

No doubt, Wonwoo would have to learn to deal with you.

You would either be his trigger or his pulse.

But, even worse, you would have to learn to deal with him.

“I’m just following your lead on this,” Wonwoo announced, lacklustre of much interest, resting his hands against his stomach while he rotated back and forth in the swivel chair, “whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. How soon do you want the schedule thing?”

“Like, as soon as possible.”

“Okay.”

“Do you really have no questions?”

Wonwoo scratched the side of his head.

“Uh, have you got anything written down yet?”

“Yes,” you propped open your laptop again, “an intro.”

“Oh, really?”

“Don’t question me. It was already difficult enough to write it, and I agonized over it for hours.” You pouted, slumping slightly.

He shifted up straighter in the desk chair.

“I’m sorry. I was just wondering. It’s good you started.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you. “Do I get to read it?”

Your feet crossed and twirled together. He didn’t think you had any nervous ticks, but that was something easy to pick up on.

“Um, not yet. Not until we officially start.”

“Okay.” He answered with a gentle voice, noticing your swaying feet still again and a bit of rigidity dissipate from your body.

Well, he didn’t really know what to do at this point. Wonwoo suspected you were constrained by more tasks for today and your time with him was limited. It’s not that you were sitting in an awkward, stifling silence, but he would rather occupy himself with something rather than nothing, because nothing left his heart to race.

“Are you hungry?” He asked.

Glancing up from the laptop, you shook your head. “I ate before I came here.”

“Are you going to be leaving soon?”

At that, your face crinkled with laughter. “Sick of me already?”

Wonwoo crossed his arms. “No. Just asking.”

“Well, I have a wax appointment soon. I’ll be leaving in ten minutes or so.” Finally, you looked up, and your eyes clicked with his in a way that made the fine hairs along his neck prickle coolly. “Does that answer your question?” A subtle grin pulled at your soft lips.

“It does, yes.”

“You don’t like having people in your room, do you?”

He huffed at the observation and delved a hand through his black hair, feeling the dampness slide against his fingers. “Not particularly.”

“You should have just said that.” Rising off his bed, you closed the laptop and shoved it back into the tote bag.

Wonwoo’s entire chest jerked. It felt like a ten-story drop.

“Are you leaving?”

“Mm, I don’t want to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding.”

Why did his throat close up just then? Why did his vocal cords abruptly feel so coarse and tight? Why was his heart hammering? He didn’t mean to project the wrong impression. He didn’t hate you in his room. It just felt misplaced, and new. Like picking up a puzzle piece from the box and attempting to jam it into a different puzzle.

“It’s fine. Seriously. I should be early, anyway.”

Wonwoo stood up, realizing he needed to breathe. “Um… would you like me to walk you down?”

You stopped on your way out, faced him with a pretty smile.

“That’s okay.”

But then you did something rather strange; your hand sank into his firm upper arm and suddenly you were leaning into him, so carelessly close that he could feel the fanning, light warmth of your breath against his neck. Wonwoo’s head started to spin, and he thought a cloud had enveloped the room because his vision fuzzed.

“Sorry,” you took a step back, removing your hand, “you just smell really good. Like an ocean or something. It reminds me of this beach in Puta Cana. But your hair’s all damp and fluffy so that’s probably why. That was weird. I’m sorry.” Again, you laughed.

Why the fuck did you do that? He was almost angry. But not at you. At himself. For reacting in such a giddy, stupid way. Your touch and breath had burned him and there was this sharp, cutting flare inside Wonwoo that didn’t want to let you leave.

“All good…” he mumbled, sounding groggy and slow.

“I’ll see myself out then. Bye!”

And with a final chirp, you left, the front door closing in the distance while he could only stand there, shuddering and strangely hot and beyond confused. Wonwoo moved to swing the heavy curtains shut, the entire room succumbing into its usual shadiness. He sat on the edge of his very neat bed, removed his glasses, and buckled over while rubbing his veiny, pale hands through his hair.

The feeling was so lost and suppressed to his memory.

Wonwoo didn’t even know what it was.

He was relieved you were gone, but he also wished that you were still there, leaning out his open window with the wind and sunshine in your face. It was a sight so sweet and equally intimate.

Who are you?

What are you doing in his meaningless life?

—APRIL 28TH.

Wonwoo had finished his math final with half an hour to generously spare, and now, he was sitting, bored, sketching his pencil against the last page of the thick packet. The professor wouldn’t care.

Hopefully.

On one hand, Wonwoo knew he  should really just stand up and hand the damn thing in, but on the other hand, he hated—no, abhorred being the first person to return a test, especially an exam at that. Wonwoo was pretty smart. He knew that about himself and he never bothered to maintain the guise he wasn’t. Still, Wonwoo wasn’t pretentious. If he had to wait until the final fucking minute to hand the packet in, solely to avoid being the first student up, then so be it.

Besides, there wasn’t anything too pressing that required his immediate attention—minus the pertinent schedule he was supposed to make and have sent to you approximately three days ago. You had called him last night, to which the phone crackled with a loud, static bark of his name as you admonished him for his lateness.

“I told you three days ago I wanted the schedule! Three days! I can’t believe this. What’s so hard about making a schedule? Beep boop, you press some buttons on your laptop and it’s done. It would take ten minutes tops! Ugh, I’m so done with you, Wonwoo. In fact, don’t call me back—don’t even text me until you have the schedule!”

And then the line had collapsed, leaving Wonwoo to stare rather expressionlessly at his phone screen, the boy huffing out a breath of tendrilled smoke while he relaxed on the apartment roof. That had been his first experience sat on the receiving end of your seasoned quips, and it left him with this very profound emptiness, like his insides had been scooped out and the shell of his body was nothing but a wooden nesting doll. It had been such a long time since he genuinely cared about disappointing someone. Wonwoo had grown far too complacent with the feeling of disappointing himself.

That would never motivate him to do anything.

But you were different. In the sense that Wonwoo mostly remained proactive out of fear you might bite his head off.

From somewhere near the back of the room, Wonwoo heard chair legs scraping, and he eagerly flexed his fingers while observing a girl with the slickest ponytail he’d ever seen march past him to the professor’s desk. She set her packet down. He thanked her. She left.

Jesus Christ. Finally.

“All finished, Wonwoo?” His professor mumbled in a tone that hardly escaped his own lips, glancing up at the boy expectantly.

Pushing up his glasses, Wonwoo nodded.

“I suppose it’s harder for you to sit there and wait than it is to write the actual exam, isn’t it?” The professor noted with an almost undetectable smirk as he slid the test packet inside a tan-coloured folder, to which Wonwoo turned January cold.

“I don’t know.” Wonwoo shrugged, pretending to feel unbothered when in reality his skin was slithering like a snake pit at the thought of being even marginally perceived. “Maybe.”

“You have a good summer, alright?”

“Thanks. You too.”

Wonwoo swept a quick glance over the classroom right before he left, noticing that Seokmin was sat beside the wall, one hand tangled tight into his black, ruffled tresses as his pencil scribbled all over the paper like he was writing pure nonsense. He probably was.

And Wonwoo meant that in a nice-this isn’t really your sweet spot, but you’ll manage nonetheless-way. After leaving the classroom, Wonwoo thought he might go home and plunge head first into his oasis of bedsheets and flat, foam pillows that he loved so much, and permit himself to decay until it was physically impossible to lie down any longer. But he decided against it at the last minute, turning up at the café instead with his shoulder-strung book bag and the timely urge for a scone. He then sat down at his favourite table.

Pulled out his laptop.

Opened the document he was at incessant war with.

The last scene he’d written was breakfast.

“Uh, okay. Orange juice… or orange juice?”

“Did you say orange juice?”

“I did.”

“So… chocolate milk?”

“Ha! Funny... is there any sort of correlation between being a complete nerd and making such well-woven jokes?”

“Not sure. But I’ll get back to you when I find out… thanks. Your tea is sitting on the island, by the way.”

“Thank you, Won. Oh—you even put it in my Woodstock mug!”

“Yes, why are you so surprised that I remember?”

“Because it’s always hidden at the back of our cupboard, behind ten other mugs that we certainly don’t need and all our plates. I mean, I guess it’s my fault. Half of them are from my mom.”

“It’s sweet.”

“It takes up too much space. But I can’t tell her no.”

“That, you’ve got to work on.”

“The Christmas thing isn’t happening anymore, if that helps. I think the thought of having to cram all my family into our living room for a night was what motivated me the most. My mom said she’ll send us poinsettias instead. I think that’s way easier.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yes. Believe it or not, I can assert myself. Sometimes.”

“No, no. I do believe you. I’m proud. Okay—bottoms up.”

“How’s the combination of venlafaxine and orange juice?”

“I don’t know. Juicy?”

“Better juicy than anxious?”

“You could say that.”

Right, back when Wonwoo actually had the willpower to make himself breakfast rather than slapping a mixed berry Poptart into the toaster or worse, nothing at all. Back when he could wake up before noon without feeling nauseous enough to curl into a ball and drape the sheets over his aching head. Back when he actually took his medicine. Her face beaming at him from across their table had always been like a glass of sunlight and citrus. She had been his own vitamin.

Wonwoo knew he wasn’t going to write. He was just going to stare and mope and ensnare himself in the pinwheel of memories that blew over him whenever he had the gall to reread his past literature.

The Woodstock mug. She’d taken that with her.  

He decided it was strange and sometimes irritating how love, broken or not, could suture itself into even the most mundane things. Orange juice was just that—juice—the carton he used to pick up and impetuously drop into his grocery cart every so often. Now, it wasn’t juice at all, but slow mornings, steaming tea kettles, and reading together on the couch with legs all tangled up until lunch time.

Now, Wonwoo couldn’t drink it at all.

Breaking the lemon raspberry scone in half, Wonwoo dropped a flaky piece into his mouth before it got too cold, and then proceeded to close the document. There was no way in hell he would write, and while he loved drowning in his own misery in order to snuff any glimpse of productivity more than the average individual, he thought it might be worthwhile to finally start that schedule.

[ Wonwoo | 8:20 pm ]: schedule.pdf

[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: thanks

[ Her | 8:56 pm ]: don’t piss me off again

—APRIL 30TH.

For an April morning, it was surprisingly bright. The sun was out in full and glistering warmth by the time Wonwoo stepped onto the sidewalk and began pacing down to the park, practically needing to squint the entire way. He almost hated it. Early mornings were not his friend, nor were the blades of light cutting across his glasses. But today was his first writing session with you and Wonwoo knew it was more than crucial that he was the furthest thing from tardy—it would be akin to willingly setting his hands inside a burning fire if not.

You agreed to meet at the park since it was roughly equal distance between Wonwoo’s apartment and some breakfast place you wanted to stop at. He thought it was uncharacteristically thoughtful of you to shoot him a text asking if he wanted anything, though Wonwoo declined nonetheless. It was damn near impossible for him to eat a bite of food until lunch time, hence his expression softening in confusion when he at last climbed into the passenger seat of your sleek silver car and was greeted by you passing him a cold tea.

“Am I… holding this for you?” He wondered, sitting still.

You shook your head. “No. It’s yours.”

“I didn’t ask for anything.”

“Yes, I realize that. I can read, thank you.”

Wonwoo wasn’t going to argue. He simply shut his mouth, clicked on his seatbelt, and set the tea into the cup holder. He then began looking around at your car’s interior. Everything was exceptionally clean and smelled sugary, like iced gingerbread.

The thing was, Wonwoo still wasn’t very sure how to talk to you, and most often there was the stiffest frog in his throat whenever he sat around you in silence for too long. Your thumbs were tapping against your phone at light speed. It reminded him of how Seokmin was texting you back at the boy’s apartment when they were studying for finals. Wonwoo couldn’t help but wonder if Seokmin was naturally more inclined to respond to you out of friendship or fear. Maybe even a pinch of both if that was possible. Another quiet minute passed by.

“Okay, fuck, sorry,” you suddenly spluttered at random, quickly slotting your phone into the GPS holder, “just some shit with my mom. Um, okay. Yeah. We can get going.”

“All good," Wonwoo answered.

“You know where we’re off to?”

“Vaguely. The track by Caldwell High School.”

He watched you flit him a smile. “That’s the place. I’ll explain more once we get there. And, by the way, I am expecting you to drink that tea. It’s not anything crazy. It’s oolong. Only a bit of caffeine.”

“I drink coffee, you know.”

“Yes, and it probably makes you jittery and insufferable.”

Wonwoo preferred not to comment.

The car ride wasn’t too long. Actually, Wonwoo did love a good car ride. He remembered the long trips he used to take with his family to the water park when he was a child, the sensation of the breeze blowing into his face and how different shades of green would scatter in through the windows as the sun hit the tree leaves like emeralds. There was something so limerent and sadly distant about the memory that Wonwoo felt his chest hurt. Even if he were to take that same road, and smell the same breeze, and see his skin glow with the same hues of the forest, he doubted it would feel the same.

His mouth had gone awfully dry. Wonwoo then reached for the cold tea sitting in the cup holder and took a sip, suddenly very appreciative that you had thought to get him something, anyway.

And while he couldn’t be too certain, Wonwoo wanted to think that maybe this would be a good memory, too.

After the half-hour long car ride, Wonwoo made sure to stretch when he stepped out into the empty parking lot. It was cloudier now, a bit more of a breeze to help counteract the warmth that remained in the air. You came around to join him, twisting out a cramp in your leg while adjusting the purse over your shoulder.

The walk to the track field wasn’t long, no more than a few minutes, and Wonwoo obediently trailed at your side until he witnessed the bleachers slowly coming into view. It resurfaced memories from his own high school days in PE, which Wonwoo had actually been quite successful at despite his distaste for sports and their atmosphere in general. He remembered liking kickball the best.

You sighed in a wistful tone while staring across the marked asphalt and fresh April grass. “All high school tracks look the same, don’t they?” Then, you carefully set your purse onto the bleachers.

Wonwoo rolled his shoulders, taking a more observant look around. It wasn’t strikingly different from the track at his high school.

“Sure. I guess.”

“I mean, there are some differences. We had ditches by our track. Come to think of it, I honestly believe they put them there for kids to hurl in from heat stroke or over-exertion… that’s what I did, anyway. It was right before I had to do triple jump. I hated it because you had to really build up speed. I didn’t want to run. So, even if I hadn’t thrown up from heat stroke, I probably would’ve made myself throw up some other way. Straight to the nurse. She gave me a popsicle.”

He glanced at you sideways. “Seriously?”

“Mmhm.”

“You’d rather throw up than hop, like, three times?”

“I said it was the running part I didn’t like.”

Wonwoo couldn’t imagine purposefully making himself upchuck in order to get out of something. If his anxiety was terrible enough, then he wouldn’t even have to worry about it, really.

That was its own mechanism of disaster.

“Running is eighty-percent of Activity Days," Wonwoo said.

You clicked your tongue at him. “Exactly. And I’d do anything to never run. I tried to sit in one time with the seventh graders. They were in their art block and they were doing painting under the trees; birdhouses or something. But their teacher kicked me out. And she didn’t even let me take the fucking birdhouse that I was painting.”

“The nerve,” Wonwoo answered, scratching his temple.

He proceeded to take a seat on the metal bench, rubbing his hands together. He still didn’t know how Mingyu fit into everything.

“So… what’s your plan, here?”

You sat next to him, folding one leg over your thigh and proceeding to reveal a journal that you had stuffed inside your expensive bag. The tips of your fingers skimmed through a few fluttering pages, until you stopped on one in particular that was ink-abused with cursive scribbles. Wonwoo assumed you did most of your planning on a laptop, hence his surprise to learn that you actually used a journal. He had a journal himself, though it hadn’t been touched in months. It mostly contained small poetic excerpts.

Next, you pulled out a pen.

“This is how I first ran into Mingyu. At my school’s track field. He was new and good at all the activities. I swear, his name spread like wildfire. Anyways, I haven’t figured out all the bits and bobs. I want to really soak in the feeling of—oh!” Suddenly, you grasped the journal back onto your lap, the pen hitting the paper in a cursive ribbon that Wonwoo could hardly read. “I just thought of a great line. His eyes, I wanted to soak in them, like an oasis.”

You stabbed the paper again to make a period.

“Not bad,” Wonwoo commented.

“Okay, here it is!” A black case was pulled from your purse, and once you unzipped it, Wonwoo realized it was the video camera that you had initially shown him at his apartment. “Okay, I want you to film some stuff. The field, obviously. I need it from different perspectives. It will help me with setting the scene later on.”

“Why do I have to film it?”

“Because, Seokmin told me you’re quite handy with film equipment stuff, and I don’t want to drop it. So just do it, please?”

Accepting the video camera from your hand, Wonwoo sighed in agreement. Flipping open the side-screen of the camera, Wonwoo began clicking some buttons and adjusting the focus. Luckily, he was familiar with the particular camcorder thanks to a film education course he’d taken outside of school.

While you busied yourself at the bleachers with starting up your laptop, Wonwoo began collecting footage, slowly panning the camera across the vast length of the gravel track and the grassy soccer fields situated beyond. He kept a concentrated eye on the side-screen to ensure the lighting wouldn’t change too drastically. A wind had picked up from over the forest, and he could see how the clouds were consequently being pushed along like herded sheep in the sky.

Once he brushed back the floppy, black hair that kept tickling his face, Wonwoo lowered the camera and turned to you.

“So, where else should I film?”

You were typing something, and didn’t bother looking up.

“Go across the field. Film from the other side.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“I have to go all the way over there?”

“Yes. Walk, crawl. Skip, hop. I don’t care. Just do it, please.”

“Jesus Christ,” he huffed out, feeling tired and yearning to go home, “I hate how seriously you’re taking this, y’know that?”

Your fingers continued blitzing against the keyboard.

“Nobody likes a complainer.”

Ironic, he thought, but obviously kept to himself.

There wasn’t a point in expecting any sympathy from you—that, he already knew—which engendered Wonwoo’s long, trudging walk from one side of the track to the other, the wind irritably blowing his grown-out locks over his glasses every time he attempted sweeping them back. Hoisting the camera back up, Wonwoo adjusted the side-screen and began his same ritual of steadily panning the camera along the landscape.

You appeared in the view, still sat on the bleachers, though nothing about your face or figure was too discernible. It felt like you were a background character in a painting, just a little glob of acrylic.

“All done?”

Finally, you had glanced up at him with a smile.

Wonwoo nodded. “Unless you need anything else filmed?”

“No, that should be enough. The track is most important.”

“Right.”

He tried giving back the camera.

“Actually, do you mind keeping it?”

“Um, okay. But how will you look at the footage?

“Dropbox. We’ll share one. Upload the clips there.”

Wonwoo plopped himself back down on the bench, fitting the camcorder into its black case. He pulled the zipper along the seam.

“How much longer do we need to be here?”

“Not that much. Just let me finish this paragraph.”

There was a dull pain throbbing at the front of his skull, edging down to his temples—across his nose bridge where his glasses pressed in more tightly than usual. He closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled a deep breath, trying to escape the feeling, the nausea, the chills that were beginning to seep up his neck as the wind blew turbulently against him. It would be embarrassing if this happened here, right in front of you. The hard lump had suddenly lurched forward in Wonwoo’s throat but he leaned his head down last minute and swallowed it despite the roughness. No, everything was okay.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Wonwoo opened his eyes, staring down at the trembling hands buried in his lap. Subtly, he pulled the sleeves of his cardigan over them. He assumed his face was reflecting a sheer, sickly opacity.

“Nothing.”

“Uh, sure. Now look me in the eyes and say that.”

Again, Wonwoo swallowed, but he managed nonetheless.

“Nothing’s wrong. I get headaches sometimes. That’s all.”

“… Oh. Well, I’m basically done here. I was gonna ask if you wanted to walk a lap around the track with me, but maybe we should just go home. I mean, how bad is it? Your headache?”

Yes, yes. Home. Wonwoo wanted to go home. He had only been away from his apartment for a solid two hours, and yet all his mind and body’s energy had completely drained. He felt dried out, withered, fragile as tempered glass. Going home sounded cosmic. 

“It’s getting better. I wouldn’t mind walking with you.”

“Oh! Cool. If it gets really bad, just tell me.” You then spent a minute collecting your belongings back into the cream purse.

Wonwoo immediately looked the other way, dragging a frustrated hand through his hair, mouthing a string of guttural curse words directed at his discombobulated head. Because what the hell was he doing? All his relief and peace had just suckled itself down an invisible drain. Why on earth did he agree? Why?

“I think this will help me, too," you said, having left the shiny bleachers behind, instead kicking the pebbles at your feet, “if we walk the entire track, then it’s like we did the four-hundred meter.”

“You’re supposed to run the four-hundred meter.”

“Well, I know that.”

“I’m surprised you hate running. I mean, you walk so fucking quickly sometimes.”

He heard you snort, clearly amused by his observation.

“It’s because I’ve mastered the art of sashaying. To have a perfect sashay, you can’t walk too slow, but you also can’t walk too fast. It’s like a strut. You need to have confidence while you do it. It lets people know that you’re serious and professional. I’m not dragging my feet, but I’m also not in a rush. It’s the perfect pace.”

Wonwoo sniffled and scrunched the glasses up his nose, continuing alongside you at a pace that was rather aimless.

“I didn’t realize there was a science behind sashaying.”

“Now you know,” you declared.

Wonwoo’s  upper lip quirked slightly, and a small grin appeared on his face, which was starting to dapple with colour.

“I don’t sashay, do I?”

At that, you laughed, “no, you amble.”

“Yeah, I’m an ambler… which basically means I’m an unmotivated, pointless person who will probably go nowhere in life.”

For a moment, you stopped walking, and you merely furrowed your brow at him while your forehead creased with thought. Wonwoo stopped as well. He raked back his fluttering, windswept hair and smirked, flashing his teeth. The behaviour was uncharacteristically snide and a bit of a dig at your bluntness, but he couldn’t help it.

“Don’t remember, huh?”

“No… but it sounds familiar.”

“You told me that, the day I met you—that people who walk slowly are unmotivated and pointless. Their life is a waste, basically.”

He noticed your eyes shift up toward the right, as though you were pulling the memory forward from the intricate files of your brain. And then you started to smile, and it made Wonwoo smile, too.

“Oh, I do believe I said that.” You started walking again, and he followed. “Ha! Wow, you’re right. I said that. I’m so funny. I mean, I was right. You only walk slow when you have nowhere to be.”

“I did have somewhere to be. I was going to meet you.”

“Well, then you just didn’t care.” He felt your elbow press shallowly into his rib. “See what I mean? Unmotivated and pointless. And, honestly, I would have taken your apathy as more of an insult if it wasn’t for the fact that you seem to treat most things like that.”

“So, I’m just supposed to accept that you’re calling me a loser? How do people normally react when you say things like that?”

“Things like what? They’re just my observations about the world. You are a person in this world. I was making an observation about you. Albeit, it came across strongly. But I don’t know. No one ever cared about being gentle or sugar-coating with me. Gives you tough skin, y’know? Metaphorically, of course! I always moisturize.”

 Wonwoo scoffed, smiling at your nonchalance. “The way you word things is honestly fascinating.”

“Psh. How do you even remember that?”

“I don’t know. Doesn’t seem that hard to remember. It was a pretty memorable, somewhat awful experience, to be fair.”

“Awful?” You retaliated in unprecedented disbelief, pushing into his arm until he allowed his tall frame to stumble. “Try again.”

“Interesting?” Wonwoo substituted, his heart thumping. 

Your eyes were narrowed at him, glimmering with a sharpness that made his fingers clench into anxious fists.

“… That’s a little better.”

He exhaled a soft breath of relief.

As you began nearing the full circle, Wonwoo realized his head had eased from its horrible aching and the chills dampening down his neck were gone. Everything didn’t feel as awful compared to before. He was still tired, and his energy was sputtering in tiny, dying sparks, but at least his desire to crawl under the earth and degrade to his bare bones had subsided into something less morose.

“I heard you were having a get together next week,” Wonwoo decided to ask, rounding the last bend in the track.

“Oh, the dinner party?”

“Yeah. Seokmin’s helping you plan it, right?”

“He is. Which I appreciate. My mom is usually the one in charge of everything, and she loathes it. But, I mean, when we try to help her, she just ends up fretting even more—says we’re basically getting in the way and ruining it. I don’t know. She’s such a snappy perfectionist. Seokmin can have fun dealing with that.”

Wonwoo almost made a thoughtless comment in response to your story—he’s probably had eons of practice with you—though the pieces connected just in time and his mouth sealed shut.

“Your dad can’t help either?” He questioned instead.

“Ha! No way. My dad helping is a recipe for fucking disaster if I’ve ever seen it. He’s painfully bad at decorating, can hardly be trusted to cook or invite anyone from the guest list. The most my mom allows him to do is set the table.” You then scoffed, shooting a pebble forward with the tip of your shoe. “I swear, he knows exactly how to push my mom’s buttons. The faster he does it, the quicker she kicks him out and he’s absolved of all chores. What a cheat, huh?”

“Hm, yeah… is Mingyu going?”

“Of course.” You smiled. “He always goes.”

At that point, you had circled back to the bleachers. Adjusting the bag strewn over your shoulder, you heaved out a longing sigh.

“Well, that’s four-hundred meters in the books.”

“Is it everything you hoped and dreamed it would be?”

You cackled, “not even close. I think I was right to avoid it.”

—MAY 3RD.

Wonwoo slid his pharmacy badge through the time-machine until he heard the beep. After an eight-hour shift, he was hungry and tired, but Wonwoo also knew the second that he got home, his urge to eat and desire to sleep would be gone. Instead, he would spend his midnight staring up at the ceiling, thinking. About anything and everything, and nothing at all. When the first cracks of dawn light would spill in from under his curtain, then he would close his eyes.

It was all very typical.

He stood outside the store, phone in hand, waiting for Vernon to pick him up because Wonwoo hadn’t felt like walking home despite the softness of the nighttime wind and the alabaster moon’s shining ambiance. The mirage was pretty and he enjoyed it, but his feet were too sore to inch him another step. Luckily, Vernon didn’t take long.

Luckily, he was the only one of Wonwoo’s few friends with a sleep schedule just as horridly fucked up as his. It was eleven at night, but on a weekday? The dead, empty street testified for him.

“Heyy, Glasses,” Vernon sang in his throaty voice as Wonwoo climbed into the passenger seat, “you look like a prostitute standin’ there, waitin’ for me to come get your ass. But a sophisticated one.”

The interior didn’t smell heavily of weed, he noted. Thank fucking god, Vernon had finally paid someone to dry clean it. Either that, or he took the initiative into his own hands.

“I highly doubt you have ever seen a prostitute in your entire life. And the fact you think they’d be standing outside a pharmacy at one of the quietest parts on this block attests to that.”

“God, I hate when you get all technical n’ shit. Such a stiff.”

“I’m tired.”

“Yeah, well. You’re always tired. N’ for the record, I have seen a prostitute, outside Room 319. It was a week before Christmas; she had this huge coat on, walkin’ up to people in her pink heels and this crazy eyeshadow that made her eyes pop. I bet she’s a nice girl.”

“Mhm. I bet she was.”

“Oh, you’re a cunt, yeah? You don’t believe me.”

“Does it matter?”

“I’ll take you one day. Room 319’s got a table with your name on it. They’ve got this one shot, the Stabilizer— it’ll put you down like a fuckin’ sick dog but it gets you the best drunk of your life. Maybe we’ll even run into Pink Heels lady. She’s our Halley’s Comet.”

“Halley’s Comet only comes once every seventy-five years. “

“You know what the fuck I meant.”

“Not interested.”

Vernon blinked at him for a moment in the dull light, and then he sighed, forfeiting. He placed the tip of the key in the ignition, but he quickly removed it as though he remembered something.

“Wait, I’ve gotta ask—how’s it going with Her?”

Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Wonwoo reached for the seatbelt and pulled it slowly across his chest, debating how intelligent of an idea it would be to entertain Vernon’s curiosity. But he could also understand the allure. You were like this enigmatic myth that people craved to know about, even if it frightened them.

Wonwoo’s head collapsed back against the seat.

“It’s going well.”

Vernon spat out a boisterous laugh, a hand slapping down on his knee. “Jesus Christ. You’re so dry, man. That’s it?”

“I mean, it’s true. We’ve started the book. Or, she has.”

“Okay, and?” Vernon attempted to engage him further.

“And, what?”

“What’s she like, obviously? Is she actually a fuckin’ psychopath? Is she normal? Can she walk on her hands? I dunno!”

Wonwoo rubbed underneath his glasses. He didn’t really want to talk about you when you weren’t there. It felt like a Bloody Mary situation, where you’d magically conjure in the backseat to sinch your cold hands around his neck and wrangle him limp and lifeless. But then there were Vernon’s shimmeringly prying eyes that just wouldn’t stop burning Wonwoo no matter how hard he bit his tongue.

“I have nothing to say. She’s cool.”

“Oh my fuckin’ God.” Vernon slacked back into his seat, clutching at his steering wheel. “You just don’t wanna talk about it… oh! Shit. I just remembered. She’s having a dinner party tonight, isn’t she? In Hill Crest. Or as I like to call it, Rich People Neighbourhood.”

“Yeah, that’s where her parents live… how do you know that?”

“Shit!” Vernon immediately shuffled up in his seat and delivered a hard smack into Wonwoo’s shoulder. “We should drive down and check it out! Right fuckin’ now!” He was lit up with excitement, even though Wonwoo considered it a terrible idea.

“No. Absolutely not. And answer my question.”

“Was sittin’ behind Seokmin at Solar Pop, he talks really loud, happened to overhear some things—doesn’t matter. I think we should go! C’mon, allow some spontaneity into your life! Why not?”

“What the fuck do you mean, why? It’s a family party. With some close friends, which—in case you haven’t noticed—neither of us are. You can’t fucking crash a family dinner party. Who does that? Not to mention the fact that it's eleven at night. They're probably washing up. Sending people home. By the time we get there, it's lights out."

“Aren’t you her friend?”

“No. I’m just someone who’s doing her a favour.”

“Favours are from friends.”

“We’re. Not. Friends.”

“Okay—fuck, Glasses. Fine. We won’t crash the stupid dinner party. But don’t you wanna go for a drive or something? I’m tellin’ you, the houses are insane. Last time I went down there, it was for a big fuckin’ party some dude at your university threw. I think I ran this by you already, when I talked about tryin’ to chat up Her. I stopped by with my old friend—y’know, Dots, the guy that died from the overdose and everything. That party was crazy. It was in a mansion.”

“Vernon,” Wonwoo had just finished massaging the throbs at his warm temples, “we are not going to Hill Crest.”

His friend swung his head in disapproval, making a tsking sound with his teeth. “Such a fuckin’ stiff.” He started the car. “It’s the fact I know you have jack shit to do tonight, or tomorrow.”

“I’m not gonna do some stalker drive-by on her house.”

“You don’t wanna do Room 319. You don’t wanna judge a bunch of richies sittin’ up in their ivory towers. I mean, it’s not like we’re eggin’ them or spray painting fuckin’ curse words on their eight-door garages. What do you wanna do?”

Wonwoo rolled down the window and leaned his face toward the moonlight, to which he could feel the wind brush up against his skin in feathery strokes, as though it were caressing him. He knew that Vernon meant in a general sense rather than in the heat of the moment. But in a general sense, Wonwoo would rather not be anywhere at all. He would rather do nothing, or even exist.

“Can you just take me home? Please?”

Vernon exhaled a defeated gust of breath and began to angle his tires away from the curb, the pharmacy lights pulled behind them.

“Yeah, ‘course. Mr. Boring.”

—01:49

Wonwoo hadn’t been able to fall asleep since Vernon dropped him off a couple hours ago. He’d anticipated that. Usually, Wonwoo wouldn’t do anything. He wouldn’t toss or turn, or pace circles around his bedroom, or count down from one-hundred, because even if he did, none of it would work. His mind would still be wide awake.

Hence Wonwoo’s decision to grab his phone. Staring at a lurid screen definitely wasn’t going to help, though he wasn’t trying to sleep, anyway. That conversation with Vernon was repeating in his head like a chattering bird, pushing him, pushing him, pushing him to find your Instagram and dig into your pictures because now Wonwoo was thinking of your dinner party and how vehemently you seemed to hate it. He saw that you had posted something quite recently, around the same time Wonwoo had left the pharmacy.

For a moment, his thumb hovered over the post.

He didn’t want to press it because he didn’t care.

Or, maybe he did.

There were multiple pictures in the set, and Wonwoo flicked through all of them. Some were of food, close-ups of your jewelry—you even included a picture with Seokmin. But then Wonwoo had settled on the last photo and something in his stomach convulsed.

He recognized the dress like a flash of light—the sapphire one with the glimmering detail that you had modelled for him at the expensive boutique in the mall. Of course, that arm hanging cheekily low around your hip belonged to your boyfriend, Mingyu. He had a champagne glass pressed to his lips, fitted in his black suit with his hair neatly combed and styled into place. The smugness in his face was stifling. Wonwoo rolled onto his stomach, his eyes refusing to drift from the picture for even an instant. He just kept staring.

Staring and thinking. Staring and thinking.

One minute spent staring at your smile.

The next minute at the low placement of Mingyu’s hand.

Another minute staring at your sparkling dress.

The next minute at Mingyu’s brutally cocky expression.

He would switch back and forth.

But Wonwoo didn’t really care. He was just bored.

And alone with his thoughts.

—END OF PART PART ONE.

NOTE! while i truly cherish & adore all comments, pls refrain from remarks such as "pls post part x" "i need part x" "when are you posting part x" while i do understand the sentiment, i find these comments very dismissive & kinda disrespectful! i don't prefer to post series fics and so i don't receive these often, but pls note that if you comment this i will delete the comment!

the fic itself is completely done, so all i have to do is get the parts ready for posting. however, bc this is the first part, i don't have a set posting schedule just yet. i think it will depend on roughly how long those who read the fic take to finish it! but i will be sure to make a post about it or include the schedule in part two once i figure it out!

again, thank u so much your ur patience :3

much luv!! 💕

[honeekyuu]

genius. [akaashi keiji x f!reader] chapter one.

>>You struggle to pay rent on your limited graduate student salary, and your worst enemy agrees to help you out.

or

You realize you need to find a partner for your faceless porn account, and Akaashi Keiji is the only man who meets all your requirements.<<

series status: [ongoing]

masterlist. || next.

a/n: this series is going to be the death of me. im currently writing ch. 2, and the first scene (the first scene!!! of 9!!!!!) is 10k words. i wrote a 10k smut scene. :)))) im actively dying. please enjoy chapter 1!!!

[feel free to buy me a cup of coffee!]

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

“ Shit, shit shit- ” You throw things all over the apartment, searching for your keys. The clock on the wall reads 10:55AM, flipping quickly to 10:56 and making you swear again. “ Fuck! Oh-” You snatch up your house keys with a victorious cheer and then immediately race for the door, your bag hauled over your shoulder on the way.

You turn the 30-minute bike ride to campus into 20 minutes, but that still gets you to the door of the Linguistics department by 11:15. You slam down on the elevator button repeatedly while you wait, glancing back at the rest of the lobby only when you hear someone call your name. It’s a student of yours, so you have to smile and wave back politely, even though all you want is to scream ‘ I’m so fucked! ’ into the void. 

The elevator doors open, and you treat the buttons on the inside panel with the same cruelty, choosing to text your frustrations to Bokuto while you wait to arrive on the 5th floor.

[11:16 AM]

You: FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK

Kou: OMG SAME

You: ?? whats wrong on your end

Kou: nothing why?

Kou: IS SOMETHING WRONG???

You snort, rolling your eyes.

You: late to my 11am

Kou: OH THE READING GROUP

Kou: which one is that??? Linguisticsomething of something something??

You: you know,,, there was no way to be wrong with that answer kou

Kou: :))))) 

You: it’s LEM

Kou: LINGUISTICS AND EXPERIMENTAL METHODS

Kou: RIGHT

Kou: oh wait isnt that the one akaashis in?????

You: thats why im fucked

Kou: oh im sure he wont say anything

Kou: SAY HI FOR ME

The elevator opens, so you shove your phone away and race down the hall to the lab room. You skid to a stop in front of the door, taking a calming breath before pushing into the room as quietly as possible. A few people glance up from the round table in the center with small smiles before returning to the presentation on the screen, but you know well enough that you’re not in clear.

“-f it’s true then that case gets valued where base-generated, rather than at the landing site after Movement, we should see that these forms are nominative-marked. However, clearly, we get accusa-” 

You take the seat closest to the door, and it creaks.

Akaashi Keiji’s eyes find yours.

You grimace openly at him, and he lifts an eyebrow, his finger still hovering over the example on the TV.

“Y/n. Would you like me to start over?”

You struggle not to roll your eyes at him, your face burning with embarrassment. “Of course not. Please, continue.”

“It might be helpful if I start over-”

“I don’t need the background on case valuation in Korean, Akaashi,” you snap. “We work on the same language.”

You watch his eyes harden. It’s only you that he looks at like that. He opens his mouth, but your advisor cuts in on your left.

“Okay, you two,” he says. “Let’s try not to kill each other today.”

You lean back in your chair, arms crossed, and meet Akaashi’s eyes evenly. He stares back blankly only a moment before returning to his presentation.

“So, we can see here that accusative-marked nominals are permitted, despite the prediction that only nominative is grammatical-” 

You let out a quiet breath, trying to pay attention to his presentation – because, no doubt, he’d put you on the spot about it soon – while also recovering from the adrenaline rush of getting here. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you extract it subtly, glancing at the screen. There are two alerts.

Bank Account Balance (Oct. 10); $562.95

Rent Notification: Rent and Utilities; Payment ($1018.00) Due Nov. 1

Your heart sinks, a lump forming in your throat, and you shove your phone away, returning to Akaashi’s presentation. A coffee cup from the nearby cafe slides into your periphery, and you turn to see your advisor pushing it toward you silently, his own cup in front of him. He doesn’t look at you, but he does crack a tired smile.

“ Drink, ” he whispers. “ You’ve had a hard couple days. ”

You smile and bring the cup to your lips, ignoring when Akaashi glances at it and then between you and your advisor. It’s your regular order, and you’re immensely glad that most of your advisor meetings happen at coffee shops. You make it through Akaashi’s presentation with little issue – unsurprisingly for the department’s Golden Boy, his work is flawless. You agree with every argument he makes, every flaw he finds in the analyses of previous work.

So when he says “ Any questions?” in that polite, soft-spoken way of his, you’re prepared for the very few questions asked to be nothing more than clarification. No one has any comments about his thinking or his analysis, and no one challenges him. Because Akaashi Keiji is always right. 

But you can also see that these questions don’t excite him. He answers each one nicely, nodding along and mumbling ‘ Yes, that’s right ’ or humming thoughtfully – as though he needs to think about it at all – and then shaking his head, clicking through his slide deck until he can point to something and correct someone’s thinking. But he looks a bit disappointed, like he’d been hoping for a bit more of a discussion. He even glances at your advisor hopefully – but your advisor is also his advisor, so why would he have any notes? He’s already pre-approved all of this.

Well, that’s what you get for being so smart, you think with a little bit of snark. Your advisor always preaches to the group that peer feedback creates room for improvement, but what’s Akaashi supposed to do when there’s no more room? He’s already the best.

He meets your eyes briefly, and you look away. You’re not going to give him what he wants.

“Okay, then,” he says after a moment, unplugging his laptop from the TV. “Thanks for listening – Y/n?” You pull your laptop from your bag, standing and rounding the table. You take the HDMI cord from him, slipping into the chair he’d occupied. He takes yours, careful not to touch your things. You sigh softly and then smile at the rest of your reading group.

“Hey, guys. Thanks for coming.” You gesture to the TV, your slide deck open. “So, if you were here for my most recent project, you know that I got some interesting results and will be broadening the scope in order to explore them for my dissertation.”

You launch into your presentation, the material so familiar to you that you don’t have to think about what to say. Your second major project had wrapped up last year, your name sitting on a journal article set to print at the end of the month. You’d gotten a number of reviewers asking similar questions, all related to the experimental results of one of your tasks, so you and your advisor had decided that, for the dissertation, you would be increasing the technical difficulty and redoing the experiment with new materials and a more rigorous theoretical analysis.

You present this to the group, outlining your idea and the changes you’d be making to the original project in order to answer the open questions left by your reviewers. By the end of your 20-minute slot, you’ve got most of the group nodding along in agreement.

Most of the group.

You do your best not to look at him, but you can still see Akaashi sitting there with his arms folded in his lap, his expression void of everything. His eyes skim your slides, unreactive, and you just know that you’re in for it.

“Okay-” you sigh, clapping your hands on your knees. “That’s it. Thoughts?”

Your advisor lifts his brows, a smile tugging at his lips, and you know he’s thinking the same thing.

Just the grilling of a lifetime incoming .

There’s silence for a while, everyone trying and failing not to look at Akaashi, because they know how this will go. And then his lips part, a soft breath taken.

“Can I… ask a few questions?” He starts gentle, the way he always does. He fools everyone into thinking he’s sweet and soft and careful, but you know better. You know that, if you were anyone else, he wouldn’t have started like that. He would have complimented their work first, noted the things he thought they’d done well.

You’ve never heard a compliment from Akaashi Keiji in the five years you’ve known him.

“Of course,” You sigh. Some snickers pass through the group.

“How do you know that this will tell you anything at all?”

He doesn’t hold back – you’ll give him that.

“Sorry?”

“If your results indicate a misalignment between the production of this ambiguous form and the comprehension of it, why are you using eye-tracking to test only comprehension? Where’s your production gone?”

You inhale slowly, flicking back through the slides. “Like I said before, there are two possibilities for why this form was over-produced and under-accepted by participants. Either they are operating within their grammar and just attaching an emphatic element to a different word, resulting in a homophone with the ambiguous form I’m interested in-” You flick through more slides. “Or they’re operating outside of their grammar, in which case there are discourse factors at play.” 

You meet his eyes with a tight smile, trying to remain polite. “Running an eye-tracking task with comprehension will let me see, in real time and without metalinguistic interference, if they accept this form in situations that should be ungrammatical. If they don’t, then these results are due to emphatic attachment and that’s that. If they do, then..” You shrug. “There’s more to be done. But my point is that production wouldn’t be necessary here. I have what I need.”

The group all shift their eyes from you to him in an instant, waiting for the tennis match to start. Akaashi only meets your gaze for a moment and then nods, and you feel mildly victorious at having won this interaction. But you swallow it down, because he’s opening his mouth again.

“And what about case?”

You almost roll your eyes. “What about it?”

“What analysis are you adopting?”

“I’m only using accusative-marked forms for this experiment,” you say. “The object of the embedded clause is the position I need. I’m not adopting competing analyses.”

“But there are other ways to mark case on these forms – as I’m sure you’re aware.” His gaze narrows at you when he says it, and you know he’s getting back at you now for your comment earlier. “What about those?”

“I’m not interested in them-”

“ Right ,” he bites. “I understand that. But what are the case alternations available?”

It takes a special kind of person to draw Akaashi Keiji’s patience short, and you’re happy to be that person every single time. You have to purse your lips not to smile, because there’s a little piece of you that finds it funny to draw out that twitch in his eyebrow that no one else claims to have ever seen.

“Genitive and nominative, and dative under restricted circumstances.”

He lifts his brows at you. “So pretty much all of them.”

You nod simply. “But using pretty much all of them means I’d have to change the structure of the sentence for each type. It’s not a simple swap.”

“Then do it.”

“Excuse me?” You lift your eyebrows in disbelief.

He shrugs. “Your results could be due to any of the things you’ve talked about. Or they could be due to this form being preferred with different case markers in different situations. You could be getting low acceptability because of the case, rather than what you’re interested in.”  

You just stare. “That’s, like, four dissertations, Akaashi.”

His eyes have flattened out again. “Then maybe you should have done it right the first time.”

“ Okay ,” your advisor says, clapping his hands. “Hour’s up. Let’s thank Keiji and Y/n for their time.”

Your eyes stay locked on Akaashi’s while the room clears out, both knowing that you’re not allowed to go anywhere. You get a couple ‘ good job ’s from the people leaving, but you can’t bring yourself to break eye contact first. In fact, it only serves to irritate you more – why is it only you that gets those reassuring comments? Why don’t people tell Akaashi that he’s doing well? Do they think you need it? Does everyone think you need it more than he does?

“Alright,” your advisor breathes, shutting the door again and turning toward you. “Oh-Come on, you two.”

You break first, dipping your head and turning to unplug your laptop from the TV. 

“That was good, both of you.” Your advisor cuts a glance at Akaashi as he sits. “A little harsh there, but-”

“Sorry,” He mumbles, immediately deferent. But you know he’s not apologizing to you, and that makes you finally roll your eyes.

“Okay, okay,” your advisor laughs, taking his coffee and sipping at it. “Let’s just finish this up so I can get away from all this hostility.”

The meeting ends quickly, the three of you just summarizing thoughts and future steps for each of your projects. Akaashi purses his lips when you speak about your plans, but he doesn’t push at you any further. 

Finally, you’re able to leave, so you gather your things quickly and bolt for the door. Unfortunately, your office is directly across from Akaashi’s, so the walk down the hall is spent with him on your heels.

“It’s not four dissertations, by the way,” he says as soon as your advisor’s out of earshot. “Just redesign your materials to include the case alternations, and you’ll get something interesting.”

You roll your eyes and shake your head, not stopping your march down the hall. “I’ve already designed the eye-tracking materials, Akaashi. It’ll take me weeks to redo them for case.”

“Then take the weeks ,” he argues, just as you’re both arriving to your respective doors. “Do you want to do it fast, or do you want to do it right?”

You whirl on him, your anger unfiltered now that you’re alone. “What would you know? You’ve never done the kind of research I have to do. You don’t know anything about psycholinguistics – you don’t know what goes into something like this. You just sit in your world of theory, without ever thinking about the practical applications. You might be right about everything all the time, Akaashi, but I’m the one who has to take those theories and do something with them.” 

He stares back emptily while you rant, and then he leans in close, his eyebrows lifting as his voice drops. “Are you really going to be okay not including the case alternations? Now that I’ve brought it up?” When you only sigh heatedly through your nose, glaring up at him, he shakes his head. “No. You’re not.” Then he turns to his office door, slotting the key in the lock while mumbling to you. “You’re a lot of things, Y/n, but you’re not lazy.”

You stare at his office door long after it’s been shut.

You really hate Akaashi Keiji.

–

“I dunno, Kou, I’m not sure what to do,” you sigh, running a finger along the rim of your coffee cup. It’s the same from earlier, because you don’t have the money to buy another and because drinking it slowly helps to stave off your hunger. You’d been too rushed for lunch before leaving home, but you know dinner’s only four hours away. You can last until then.

“Well-” Bokuto talks through a mouth full of food. “-is it gonna bug you to not do it?”

“ Yes ,” you admit a little grumpily. “Of course it is. But I don’t have the time – I wanted to have pilot data for the experiment by the end of October.”

“What would happen if you pushed it back a few weeks?” He asks loudly, spooning more food into his mouth before he’s even done eating the first mouthful.

“I don’t know. It would just push my whole timeline back, and I’d graduate later than expected, and I’m already losing my mind. I need a job , Kou – I can’t live on grad student wages much longer.”

“Yeah, I feel you,” he nods, pulling more food out of his backpack. “But at least you’re still splitting that nice apartment with your roommate! $500 a month is so nice.”

You stare down at your lukewarm coffee.

You haven’t exactly mentioned to him or your other friends that your roommate had moved out. She hadn’t left for anything negative – in fact, she’s a good friend of yours. The two of you had posted in the graduate students’ forum over the summer before your first year, each requesting roommates, and you’d paired up nicely. Your personalities had gone together well, and you’d stayed roommates the entirety of grad school. But she’d had to go home suddenly, which was fine for her because she’s finishing up her dissertation and doesn’t need to be on campus.

However, that does leave you without a roommate in the middle of the semester. There’s a fee for you to break your lease early, and it would overall be way more expensive for you to move out, especially in the middle of October. But paying over $1000 on your own, with your limited salary, is extremely difficult.

You’d looked for another roommate, but there aren’t any grad students without housing this late in the year – the only people you’d seen posting on the university Facebook page about housing had been undergrads, and you’re certainly not comfortable with that. So, you’d looked for extra jobs, but your student contract only allows you to be employed a certain amount, and you’d already reached the maximum. Your advisor had told you as much, shaking his head regretfully when you’d all but begged for extra hours in his lab. You’d even tried finding jobs outside of the university, but most of them had asked for a consistent work schedule and more hours than you can afford to give. 

Which might be why you’d decided to turn to making adult content online.

You’re not particularly attached to the idea of being a porn star, but you’d seen a video online talking about the amount of money that adult content creators can make even from a single video, and you’d made an account without giving yourself time to think about it. You’d taken all the necessary precautions – things like always editing out your face and the singular tattoo you have on the inside of your ankle, or never displaying your background in a way that would be recognizable to someone who knows you. You really don’t need anyone finding out about this, especially not your friends.

You’re not sure that Kuroo would really care – the chemistry student’s nosy, sure, but he’s a big proponent of leaving people to their lives. And you know that Bokuto would probably find it interesting, but he’s got an objectively big mouth and little social control, so it would be a risk to tell him. The only person you’re really worried will find out is Yachi – your closest friend, that sweet girl wouldn’t be likely to judge, but she certainly wouldn’t understand. She’d ask a lot of questions – ‘ why would you do something like that?’; ‘well, are you sure there aren’t other options?’; ‘i would rather move out if i were you’ . Yachi’s had a very straightforward way of thinking ever since you met her, and she’d be the most likely to tell you that pursuing this line of work is drastic and unnecessary. You’re not sure you’re emotionally strong enough to deal with that.

Especially since your new occupation isn’t exactly going well . You’ve only been at it a few weeks, and you’ve garnered a decent number of subscribers on your platform – 897, to be exact (you check every day; you’re desperate). But, in the month since your roommate’s left, you’ve hardly made $300, and, while $300 of extra income per month is certainly not insignificant, it’s not enough to pay your rent.

Which is why you’re sitting here now, lunchless and sipping pitifully at cold coffee. But at least you’re in good company, Bokuto’s presence always a weight off your shoulders.

“Hi, Bokuto.”

Here comes the weight, right back on your shoulders.

You look up from your cup, meeting Akaashi’s eyes. He scans you quickly but doesn’t greet you, only setting his lunch tray down on the table and taking the seat beside Bokuto. The silver-haired man looks between you with wide eyes.

“Aw, man! Did you guys fight at your reading group?!” He rubs at his stomach. “Don’t fight now, too. It’ll make my tummy hurt.”

You laugh weakly, turning away and surveying the crowded dining hall. “Of course not, Kou. You’re neutral ground.”

“What she said,” Akaashi says, carefully mixing his food with his chopsticks. He cuts a glance at your coffee cup. “Is that the same one from this morning?” He glances at the time on his phone. It’s already past 2:30.

You’re instantly defensive. “Yeah.”

He hears the edge in your tone, shaking his head with a breath of laughter while pulling noodles into his mouth. He chews and swallows before responding, ever the gentleman. “Didn’t bring lunch?”

“Forgot it at home.”

He points at the buffet line at the back of the dining hall. “Then buy something.”

“Trying to save money,” you say. You watch his eyebrows pull together in confusion, and you know why – the dining hall’s extremely cheap, usually only $8 or $9 for a fair lunch. The issue is that you don’t have $8 or $9. You don’t have rent money, so you don’t have lunch money.

Thankfully, though, he doesn’t say anything else about it, and you’re briefly appreciative that he’s respectful of your financial situation. You’re also appreciative that he doesn’t tip Bokuto off about it. The large man is tapping away on his phone while he chews loudly, so he’d barely heard the questions Akaashi had asked you. He looks up at the silence now, glancing between you. 

“What’d I miss?”

“Nothing. We were fighting,” Akaashi says. Today’s turning, shockingly, into a day of appreciating Akaashi Keiji.

“ No, ” Bokuto whines. “No fighting.”

A body slides into the spot beside yours, and another into the spot beside Akaashi.

“They fighting?” Kuroo asks, organizing his food on his tray. Tsukishima snorts across the table, mumbling ‘ aren’t they always? ’ quietly.

“We’re fine,” you laugh. “Trying not to make Kou’s tummy hurt.”

“Fair enough,” Kuroo says as he’s lifting a bite of food to his mouth. He stops, though, staring down at your cup. “Your tummy hurts, too, I guess.”

“I guess so,” you say, smiling and sipping at the now-gross coffee. He doesn’t say anything about it, only turning to ask Tsukishima about some ongoing drama in the history department. But he does slide his tray between the two of you while he talks, shoving his chopsticks into your hand and then leaning casually over to keep chatting to the blond, as though he’s merely asking you to hold them while he talks. You purse your lips, embarrassment warming your ears, but you pick at his tray anyway – just a bit of rice and a thin cut of spam balanced on his spoon. You take two bites and then slide the tray back, muttering ‘ thanks ’ under your breath.

You feel Akaashi’s eyes on you, but you refuse to meet them. Your phone buzzes in your back pocket, and you pull it into your lap.

[2:47 PM] New Comment on Your Video

Your eyes widen, and you lower the brightness and turn your back slightly to Kuroo. 

user6969 : pretty hot, would be hotter with someone fucking her tho

It already has ten likes. Your eye twitches, and you clear the notification quickly. You could never film with another person. You can’t . That defeats the whole purpose of keeping this anonymous. 

But what if that’s the thing keeping you from making money? From paying rent? At this point, would you rather bring someone else into this, or would you rather eat the cost of moving out?

But you can’t move. With breaking the lease and having to sign a new one – moving fees not included – you already don’t have enough money. There’s no way to get approved for a new place with such little money in your bank account. 

Should you sell feet pics? No, you can’t switch platforms or content at this point. You’d be starting from nothing in that case, and it’s no guarantee you’d do well there. Not that you’re really doing well with your current account, either.

Are you going to have to find a partner to film with?

“ Y/n .”

You jump, looking up. Akaashi’s staring back, standing behind Bokuto with his eyebrows raised and his tray in his hand. He looks a little annoyed.

“I’ve been calling your name.”

You blink. “Sorry. What is it?”

He lifts his brows impossibly further. “We have to go.”

You start, checking the time again. It’s 2:52. You have to go to the undergraduate class you’re TAing with him. “Oh, shit,” you mutter, standing with your bag. “We’re gonna be late.” You wave a cursory goodbye at the others, rushing to toss your coffee in the trash. 

You chase after Akaashi, cursing his long legs, and follow him across the quad to the lecture hall. You both slide past the doors just as your advisor’s clearing his throat to get the class’s attention. 

“ Now that our distinguished TAs have arrived, we can get started… ” he says into the microphone connected to the podium.

You follow Akaashi up the steps to the top row, managing to control the urge to roll your eyes at the number of undergrad girls watching longingly as Akaashi passes by. You sit with him in the back corner, huffing quietly and then hugging your bag to your stomach, because a low gurgle of hunger is creeping out. Akaashi snorts quietly, and you glare sideways at him. But he just reaches down into his bag, extracting a granola bar and offering it to you, his eyes still on the whiteboard at the front.

You grimace. “ I’m good, thanks, ” you whisper.

“ It’s going to annoy me, ” he says, jabbing the bar at you. You take it with a soft sigh, mumbling ‘ thanks ’ to him while you try to unwrap the plastic without being loud. You eat it quietly, deciding that it’s the least he can do for torturing you during LEM. And then you stuff the empty plastic in your bag before extracting your laptop, intending to take notes on your advisor’s lecture.

The screen is bright and noticeable when it opens to your most recently opened tab – thankfully not your porn account, which you’re always mindful to close before leaving home. But it is open to your bank’s website, still signed in and clearly displaying the meager $562.95 in your checking account.

You jump, rushing to lower the screen brightness and close out of the tab at the same time, and then you cut a glance at Akaashi. He’s not looking directly at your screen, but he’s certainly not looking at the whiteboard anymore. His eyes hover suspiciously in the space between your laptop and his, and he meets your eyes quickly before looking away when he realizes you’re watching him.

“ Sorry, ” he mumbles. “ Brightness caught my eye. ” 

“ Don’t say anything ,” is all you say. All that you’re willing to plead with him. He just lifts a brow and nods, saying nothing else as he refocuses his attention on the lecture. You sigh, pushing two frustrated fingers against your temple, because now Akaashi Keiji knows you’re broke and living way too far above your means.

–

You sit on your couch four days later, scrolling aimlessly through Tinder. You grimace as you swipe, unable to bring yourself to approve of any of the guys you’re seeing. There are obviously some good-looking ones, and even some extremely attractive ones, but every time you start to swipe right, you hesitate.

How crazy are you going to look, matching on a dating app with someone, only to ask them if they’d be willing to be your faceless porn partner?

You groan, throwing your phone down. You can’t believe you’ve even gotten to this point. Just this week, you’d sworn you would keep running your account alone. You’d sworn you wouldn’t let anyone else get involved with this, for your pride and for your anonymity.

That’s another reason you’re so unwilling to match with someone on Tinder. What if he ends up being a total weirdo? What if he leaks your name online or talks about you to his friends? Or-

Oh, God, what if he lies about his age and ends up being an undergrad? Even worse – an undergrad in your department ?

“ Ugh- ” You shudder, picking your phone back up. “No. No fucking way.” You quickly delete your account and the app, shaking your head. It’s too much of a risk, and you’re not even sure you could ever trust someone you don’t know to help you with something so private and sensitive.

Do I really have to find a partner?  

You pull your laptop from the table and open it, logging into your porn account and scrolling through the videos. You’d stuck to the same posting schedule since you’d started, maintaining consistency and posting every day over the last four weeks. It had definitely helped with your views, because the subscribers you do have know when to expect a new video. But, even this week alone, your view count has become stagnant and – in the case of the video you’d posted today – even gone down a few thousand hits.

You check the section for monetization, seeing you’d made an extra $16 dollars in the last four days. $16 dollars in four days. You might as well start selling your couch.

But if you can’t find a partner amongst the hundreds of men you don’t know, then it has to be someone you do know.

“Kuroo,” you sigh, leaning your head back against the couch. And then you shake your head. He’s the best choice – he’s private and minds his business. He would never be a risk for outting you. He’s also extremely attractive, and you have decent chemistry. But he’s also one of your closest friends, and you’re not even willing to tell him you do this for a living, for fear of something changing between you. You could never ask him to help you.

“Bokuto,” you move on, bobbing your head back and forth. He’s definitely the least likely to let anything change between you – he’d find it interesting, and he would never judge you. He’d also be more than willing to help, especially since this is for the purpose of paying your bills and not just something you do for fun on the side. He’s incredibly kind and motivated in that way… but still, it isn’t right. 

Not only does it feel a bit weird to imagine having sex with him, even for business, but it also wouldn’t be long before he accidentally lets something slip to someone. It would be unintentional, of course, but Bokuto Koutarou isn’t exactly known for his subtlety. Not to mention that you need someone who can’t be recognized on camera, even faceless, and Bokuto’s presence is so overwhelming that it would take no time at all for someone who knows him to pinpoint exactly who it is.

You shake your head, going through the mental list of every guy you’ve ever interacted with. You don’t really know Tsukishima, despite eating lunch with him most days and seeing him at almost every function, and you get the feeling he would laugh in your face if you ask. You think of guys you’d known in college and even some guys you’d met at the events that your friends have invited you to. You even pick up your phone and start scrolling through your contacts, really stretching the limits of your imagination.

None of them work.

“ Fuck ,” you groan, scrubbing at your brow. This isn’t going to work.

Your phone buzzes with a text, the message sliding into view before disappearing.

[9:48 PM]

Akaashi: i printed copies of the handout for discussion on monday

Akaashi: putting them in my mailbox so you can grab them before class

Akaashi: youll print the exams next week, right?

You stare at the messages as they come in.

Akaashi . 

His name drifts like a whisper through your mind, and you have to throw your phone on the table and stand, your eyes wide.

“No. No,” you say, rounding the couch and pacing behind it. “No, no, no.”

Not him. Anyone but him. You can barely stand him, and the idea of him knowing what you do to make rent is unfathomable. You can’t trust him with something like that-

But, he is trustworthy. He’d shown himself not even a week ago to be sensitive to your personal information and financial situation. He makes judgment calls that benefit you, even though he could be doing everything in his power to make your life hell. As annoying as he is – as rude as he can be, especially to you – he’s a decent human being. He’s private, he’s subtle, he’s quiet and keeps to himself, and-

And he’s average. A very good-looking man, yes, but overall a perfectly normal, average guy that would never be recognized.

“ No! ” You groan, starting to pace harder. “ No, no, no! ”

Your phone starts to ring on the table. You jump, staring at the screen.

You can see his name even from here. 

You approach it carefully, hands shaking as you reach for it. 

“H-Hello?”

“ Y/n, ” he says, his voice quiet but firm.

“Uh-” You laugh weakly. “Hi. What’s… up?”

“ I’m just checking you got my texts. I’m leaving the department now. ”

“You stayed there until 10 on a Saturday?”

“ I lost track of time. You got my texts, then? ”

“Yes,” you sigh. “Yeah, I got them. Thanks for printing.”

“ And you’ll-”

“Yep. I got the exams.”

There’s silence on the other end, followed by the quiet jingle of his office keys. “ Are you… You sound.. not great. Nervous. ”

It’s mortifying that he can hear that it in your voice. Why can he hear that in your voice?

“No, I’m good. Just-just busy. Stressed.”

“ Oh. Okay, then. ” He pauses a moment, and you wonder if he’s giving you time to say more. You don’t. Finally, he clears his throat. “‘ Kay. Bye. ” He hangs up before you can repeat it back to him.

A perfectly average, decent human being who’s private, subtle, quiet, and keeps to himself.

The only issue is that you hate each other.

Great.

–

You pace in front of his office door two days later, biting your nails while you think. Anxiety swoops low in your gut, over and over again while you imagine talking to him. Swelling and heaving when you imagine the look on his face, inevitably judgmental and maybe a little amused that you’d even thought to approach him.

God, you can’t do this.

“No,” you mumble, turning back toward your own door. You’ll find someone else.

The door opens behind you, and you jump, spinning around. Akaashi stares at you in exasperation, his glasses askew and his hair ruffled like he’s been pulling his fingers through it.

“Are you going to come in, or are you just going to stand outside all day?”

“Uh,” you stammer, shaking your head. “Uh, no. No, I didn’t-I don’t have anything-”

“Y/n,” he sighs. “You’ve been pacing out here for ten minutes. I’ve been watching your feet go back and forth in front of my door this whole time. It’s really fucking distracting – I’m trying to work.”

Your eyes go wide, because you’re not sure you’ve ever heard Akaashi swear before. He opens the door wider, beckoning you in with an impatient sweep of his arm. You find yourself stepping past the threshold, wringing your hands as you stand in the middle of the little room. He leaves the door cracked, slipping past you carefully and returning to his desk.

“What is it?” He sits and starts sorting through his papers, attention only partially on you. “Something about LING 303? I graded my section’s assignments already – do you need the answer key?”

You swallow, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. “No, I… I have an answer key, too.”

“Then?”

A large part of you wants to leave. He’s in a bad mood, and he’s clearly busy. You’re not sure this is the best time to bring up something this sensitive with him. But then again – when would you ever find the best time to talk to Akaashi Keiji about your secret porn account?

So, with a shaky breath, you return to the door, pushing it closed quietly and locking it.

“Uhm,” you start, turning slowly on the spot and facing him. “Can we talk?”

He’s got his eyes, wary now, on the doorknob where your hand rests, your thumb still over the lock that’s been pushed in. He blicks and flicks his gaze to yours, eyes narrowing when he sees the discomfort in your expression. 

“O…kay?” He sets his papers down and leans back in his seat, his attention yours now. “...What’s up?”

You make your way to the chair in front of his desk and perch in it uncertainly. “Okay. Is it okay if I say everything before you talk?” He just tilts his head, watching you intensely, and then he nods once. Whatever had been on his mind before is clearly gone, and you silently hope it hadn’t been some groundbreaking idea that you’ve just interrupted.

“So,” you start, heaving out a nervous sigh. “You saw my bank account the other day. Last week.” He nods again, and you rush into the speech you’d practiced all morning, not wanting him to think you’re just here to ask for money. That might be easier, honestly. But your courage might never come again, so you need to barrel through this now. “It’s been that way for about a month now. I live in a 2-bedroom apartment, and – when I had a roommate-” He squints now, because he’s certainly heard Bokuto talk about your roommate as though she still exists. “-my rent was only $500 a month.”

He opens his mouth to speak, thoughts very obviously swirling in that overactive brain of his, but he shuts it again, remembering he’d promised you silence. He nods, and you nod back.

“She moved out a month ago for personal reasons, and if I break the lease and move out, too, it would cost more than just continuing to live there on my own. And-” You throw your hands around while you talk, ramping up in intensity now that you’ve gotten started. “-I know that in the long run, it’s more cost-effective to eat the move-out fees and the cost of moving, but you saw my bank account. I don’t have any way of doing that right now.”

“You need a roommate,” is what he says, unable to stop himself. You sigh, shaking your head.

“I tried. The only people searching for housing this late in the semester are undergrads.” He grimaces, and you nod. “So that’s not an option.” You sigh again, trying to remember what to say next. “Uh-Oh, right-So-” You wring your hands in your lap. “My rent’s over $1000, and I obviously don’t have that. And I’ve tried looking for extra jobs and for extra hours around the department, but I’m at max hours, and there are no part-time jobs that are flexible with my research and teaching schedule.”

You sigh shakily, staring out the window behind his head. You stay that way for a minute, gathering your courage. Akaashi watches you carefully, tracking the slight changes in your expression and the defeat that crosses your face.

“Y/n?” he asks, his voice soft now, in that way that he speaks to everyone who’s not you.

“Sorry,” you laugh. “Nervous.” You clear your throat and ground yourself, looking him straight in the eye. “So, I had to turn to some… desperate measures.” His eyebrows lift with interest, and you think you see him lean in almost imperceptibly. “I… decided to start making… content -”

You watch understanding cross his face immediately – of course it does, he’s not the Golden Boy for nothing. His eyes go wide, and he inhales quietly, leaning back in his chair and letting out a long, drawn out breath that ends in a quiet ‘ oh, boy ’. You stop talking, just watching him nervously. He stares back a moment, his mouth opening and closing with thoughts unsaid as he considers how to respond.

“And it was your only option?”

“Probably not,” you laugh. The sound is watery, and your eyes are starting to sting. “But I couldn’t think of anything else at the time, and I haven’t figured out anything better since – anything short of asking someone for a $500 loan.”

“Okay,” he says simply. You meet his eyes, searching for judgment or thinly veiled disgust, or anything . But he just looks back at you, his face devoid of everything but concentration as he thinks. “So, why are you telling me this?”

You break eye contact, staring down at your lap. You’re sweating profusely, your stomach doing that terrible flipping. “It’s… not exactly going well .”

Silence, and then-

“Define ‘ not going well ’.”

You flick your eyes to meet his briefly, seeing that he’s staring at you with an intensity you’ve never seen before. When you make eye contact, he takes a breath.

“Y/n-”

“Someone-” You swallow. “I’ve only made $300 in the last four weeks, and my roommate helped me pay the October 1st rent because she felt bad for moving out so suddenly. I’m clearly desperate, Akaashi, because I’m not making the kind of money I need to be making, but there’s nothing else. And someone commented on a video that-” You break, rubbing at your brow and breathing hard. God, this is so difficult. You don’t know how to say it to him.

“You need a partner.”

You suck in a breath, your own watery, stinging eyes meeting his. He’s breathing a little harder now, and his expression’s not as guarded as it usually is. He’s tapping a finger nervously on his desk and blinking a lot.

“Why me?”

You fumble for an answer. “Uhm-Because-”

“Why not Kuroo?” He asks, his voice calm despite the increased tapping on his desk.

“‘m not sure our friendship would survive it. I care too much about him.”

He nods, clearly not offended by the implication that you’re willing to risk things with him . He’s not your friend and he knows that. The relationship between the two of you is delicate and tense, but it’s never entered the realm of care. Professional respect at most, outright hatred at worst. There’s nothing to risk by asking Akaashi Keiji to help, aside from the risk that he’ll make you feel bad or even that he’ll tell someone else. And it must mean something that you’re trusting him not to do those things.

“Bokuto?” he asks, jumping through all the same mental hoops that you had.

“There’s a million reasons it can’t be him,” you say, sighing tiredly. He narrows his eyes at you in suspicion, but he doesn’t push it. He just shakes his head slowly.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to do this with someone in the same department.” He considers something else, rolling his eyes slightly. “ And we have the same advisor. It’s too close. If something goes wrong…” He shakes his head again. “I don’t know, Y/n.”

“Right,” you say emptily. You’re already recalculating how often you can film and post solo content without losing too much sleep, the thought of selling feet pics popping up again. Anything to keep your mind off of the fact that talking to Akaashi had been a mistake – a waste of his time, and an exposure of yourself that had amounted to nothing. 

This had amounted to nothing, baring this piece of your life to him. How humiliating.

“Y/n,” he says gently. You don’t meet his eyes, just patting your pockets for your office keys.

“Okay, well – thanks for your time-”

“I won’t say anything, Y/n,” he tries. “About any of it. I promise.”

“Thanks,” you laugh. “Yeah, I would appreciate that. Sorry for wasting your time.” You stand quickly, spinning to the door.

“Y/n- Y/n- ” 

The sound of your name is muffled as you yank the door open and slam it closed behind you. You hear him sigh on the other side, a quiet ‘ fuck’ uttered in the stifling silence. Your phone buzzes in your pocket, and you plead for it to be Bokuto or Kuroo or Yachi.

Shockingly, it’s all three, sent to your group chat.

[2:26 PM]

Kou: LUNCH? TEN MINUTES?

Tetsu: bo we eat lunch at THE SAME TIME EVERY SINGLE DAY

Kou: IM JUST CHECKING, FUCK

Hitoka: i like that he reminds us, hehe

Kou: yeah, see??? Yachi’s forgetful!!!

Hitoka: hey now.

Kou: oops-

A small smile tugs at your lips as you drift down the hall to the grad student lounge to get your lunch. But, as you’re typing out that you’ll be down soon, another text comes in.

Akaashi: y/n i wont say anything

Akaashi: i swear

Your face burns with embarrassment. It’s damage control, plain and simple, and the fact that he feels the need to do that at all makes this whole situation worse. You can’t bring yourself to open the text or say anything else to him. It’s humiliating, knowing that Akaashi Keiji knows what you do for money now. That you’re not even good enough at it to make rent.

Akaashi doesn’t make it to lunch that day. You try your best to shrug uncaringly when Bokuto wonders aloud why he’s not there.

–

Keiji has never known what to make of you.

From the moment he’d met you – at the department orientation five years ago – he’d found you interesting, and not always necessarily in a good way. When you’d rattled off that list of research interests during your self-introduction, the one that had been unrealistically high-reaching and ambitious, he’d written you off as naive. When you’d made friends easily, your smile bright and your laugh loud and grating against his ears, he’d written you off as annoying.

And then you’d gone ahead and proven that that list wasn’t as high-reaching as he’d thought. Or maybe it was, and you’d just had a touch of insanity in your blood. You’d proven that you aren’t just ambitious – you’re successful. You’re smart – brilliant, even. And Keiji had found you interesting again, because he could never tell if you’d realized it. He still can’t.

You carry an intensity in your shoulders and eyes that he’s always caught off guard to see. You question the work of your peers with the kind of brutal honesty that should make you unpopular. It should make people hate you, the way you pick apart their ideas and results. But they never do. They never hate you, and he kind of hates that. 

Maybe it’s because you always seem so eager to learn. You don’t criticize when you question – you just question . You don’t tear anyone down – in fact, your questions only seem to build people up, to the point that you’re often stopped in the halls and asked for your opinion on methodological choices and theoretical connections. People seek you out, and you’re all too happy to help.

But with your own work, you’re suddenly unsure. Keiji bristles when he sees it, that uncertain tilt of your head when you talk. It’s almost impossible to notice, and he’s sure that, to everyone else, you’re just being humble, or a nervous public speaker, even. You’re knowledgeable about your work, you seem confident when you answer questions, and you accept criticism with grace, taking notes diligently when points come up that you hadn’t thought of.

But he sees it – that uncertainty in your own ability. And it pisses him off.

You are annoying, he’d decided after the first time he’d noticed that hesitant nature. It annoys him, because you work just as hard as he does – you’re just as smart as he is – and you can’t seem to see it. Or is it a ploy? Is it an act, a performative relatability that only he can see? 

You piss him off.

How can both of you be so brilliant, but you seem so much more likeable? How can people call him the Golden Boy and then be too afraid to approach him? You’re the Golden Girl, for fuck’s sake. Can’t they see it? Why are you so easy for people to talk to? Why do people tell you ‘ good job’ when you give presentations, and he’s never gotten so much as a pat on the shoulder? Why do people like you so much , and all he gets is polite smiles and nervous expressions? Why does his name float around the department in reverence, but it’s your name that people say when they want to get a second pair of eyes on their proposals, their chapters?

And why , for all that is good in the world, do you not realize it ?

That’s why he targets you. It’s like an itch he can’t reach — he just can’t help himself. He doesn’t offer you meaningless platitudes or careful language when he gives you feedback, because it’s not your favor he wants. What he wants is to push you. He wants to push you to your limit – bully you to it, if he has to. 

Because it’s your research that’s born of brilliance, the kind of brilliance that makes goosebumps rise on his skin. The kind that makes his spine straighten and his gut wrench with excitement. It’s your research – your mind – that he’s drawn to. He wants to see you succeed, because he wholeheartedly believes that you could change the field.

But you don’t see that. No one seems to see that, except him and, undoubtedly, your advisor. So, when he pushes you, he know it looks like a personal attack. He knows it looks to you like he dislikes you for no apparent reason, because you’re just trying your best and he’s the department genius that thinks you’re beneath him. He knows how it looks, and he makes not a single move to fix it – because he’s seen, more than once, how what you think he is and what you think he’s doing has moved you to do revolutionary things.

He’s seen you do remarkable things with just a little bit of hatred. 

So he keeps it up, because maybe he hates you just a little bit, too. Maybe his own work is as unquestionable as it is because he’s secretly begging you to question it, begging you to give him that focused look and that critical eye that always makes his breath hitch. But you never give him what he wants, so he doesn’t either. He doesn’t give you the softspoken voice or the gentle, polite demeanor that he gives everyone else, even though he can see you yearning for it. He won’t give you that, not until you realize what you are – a genius, just the same as him.

When you come to him on October 16th, opening your life to him in ways he hadn’t expected, he means every word he says to you. It shouldn’t be him – it would get messy, the two of you having sex. He knows you had to have thought this through already, that you would never have approached him unless he was the absolute last option available, but he can’t bring himself to say yes to you. He knows you need the money, and there’s a non-insignificant part of him that actually wants to say yes. That wants to help you, because, despite how he feels about you, he can recognize the severity of the situation. Of the look in your eye, desperate and scared.

But he can’t bring himself to do it, because he knows that this intricately built web of hate and respect that you’ve built together is incredibly fragile. That whatever you two have – whatever this thing is that can’t be called friendship or anything close to it – would collapse and change. Keiji doesn’t like change. 

So he watches, over the course of October 17th, 18th, and 19th, as you become more desperate. 

He catches you dissociating more than once during your shared reading group meetings, and you don’t even pull your laptop out during the syntax class you TA together. You avoid his eyes for the duration of the 17th, but you seem to forget about him entirely the rest of the days, your gaze distant and stressed. You check your phone more than once during class, and he doesn’t dare look, because he’s certain you’re looking at your porn account for views and comments.

He catches you chasing after your advisor after group meetings, and he realizes quickly that the man’s aware of your financial situation, because he only shrugs regretfully and leaves you in the hall, staring down at nothing. He catches you turning down Bokuto’s lunchtime offer to hit up a bar on the evening of the 18th, and then he glances into your office the morning of the 19th – you’re staring blankly at the journal article on your desk, not reading a single word, and Keiji begins to understand how this might impact your research.

He confirms it that afternoon, a cloudy Thursday just before lunch. He’s passing his advisor’s office on the way to the grad student lounge, a can of iced coffee waiting with his name on it – but he stops short when he hears your voice inside.

“ ...have to find another job, ” you say, your voice clearly stressed. “ There’s no way to get an advance on next month’s paycheck from the department? ”

The old man sighs loudly. “ I’ll see what I can do, but you know these things don’t usually work like that. And they take time. I think another job’s the only option at the moment. ”

“ Okay, ” you say. “ In that case, I’m not sure what to do about my research- ”

Keiji inhales sharply, pressing his ear to the door. You’re not postponing your experiment, are you? You can’t. He knows he told you to push it as much as necessary for the case marking issues, but he hadn’t meant for it to be like this . 

“ Take some time to focus on your personal situation ,” your advisor says. “ Find a part-time job with stable hours, and we’ll work your research around it. It might double the time needed- ”

Double?!

Keiji’s starts to shake his head. No, that’s not possible. You can’t.

“ Fuck ,” he whispers, stomping off down the hall, his coffee entirely forgotten. God, is this really going to be the thing that brings you down? Is it really going to be this ? 

He barrels into his office and starts to pace the length of it. He thinks through your situation in extreme detail, rubbing at his brow and sighing in frustration every time he has to turn and pace the other way down his office. 

Obviously, you’ve thought through every option, but he runs through them anyway, if only to confirm for himself that you really are left with no option except finding a job and delaying the progress of your research.

Well, there’s one option.

One option that wouldn’t require you to put your energy toward applying for jobs and training for some side gig you have no interest in. One option that doesn’t require you to lose sleep or miss class or drop out of optional reading groups due to having to work somewhere across town. One option that would probably get you immediate payout, which he knows is the reason you started in the first place.

He looks at the little flip calendar on his desk. October 19th. 12 days until your rent is due. How long would it take you to apply for jobs? Would they let you start right away? When would you get your first paycheck?

Is finding a part-time job even a solution anymore?

“ Fuck! ” He throws himself down in his chair. There’s a very large part of him – the majority, even  – that’s concerned about your research progress. It’s unwarranted, his dedication to work that’s not his own. But it’s not even about that – it’s the fact that he knows how this will tear at you. How it will eat you alive, not being able to work on your research. How agonizing it’ll be, seeing the rest of your cohort progress while you struggle to pay rent. Because you think like he thinks, whether you’d like to admit it or not.

Maybe that’s the smaller part of him, too. The part that wants to help you because it’s you . Because, as much as he dislikes and even hates you at times, he wants to fix this for you. He wants things to be okay for you, because you’re a person with a life – a person in his life – and you don’t deserve the kind of torment you’re currently experiencing. He doesn’t want to see you crushed by the stress.

Not when there’s something he can do about it.

–

Akaashi texts you that night.

You sit, hunched, at your dining table, frantically fixing your resumé and sending it off to different cafes, restaurants, and bars all over Tokyo. You’ve been applying all week – two places have already rejected you, saying they’re only hiring full-time workers, and one place has scheduled an interview with you, but it’s over a week away.

You’re staring intensely at your laptop, pushing down the continuous sense of dread by finding more and more places to apply. You barely notice when your phone buzzes next to you, and you pick it up without looking, thinking it’ll be one of your friends sending a meme to the group chat.

[7:59 PM]

Akaashi: i’ll do it.

You stare down at your phone, unseeing. Your ears start to buzz, and your vision goes blurry for a moment.

He’ll do it? He’ll-

You press call before you can think of anything. He picks up on the first ring.

“ Hello? ”

“You’ll do it?” Your eyes focus in on a scuff on your hardwood floors, latching onto it so you don’t have to look at anything else. “Really?”

“ Yeah. I’ll do it. ”

“Why?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end, and you eyebrows scrunch the longer it stretches on.

“ I could use a bit of extra money, too. Once you’re done paying rent. ”

It’s insultingly easy to spot that that’s bullshit, but you don’t press it. You can’t risk pressing this. Not when your solution – this miracle – is finally within reach.

“What about the other stuff?”

“ We’ll figure it out. I can draft up a contract and bring it by tomorrow, if that works for you. ”

“A contract?” You want to roll your eyes, because that’s incredibly Akaashi Keiji , but you also recognize that you hadn’t thought of that.

“ Are you in or not? ”

There’s no way in hell you’re passing this up.

“Yes-Sorry, I’m just… surprised. But, yes.”

“ Alright. Tomorrow afternoon? ”

“I’m free after 2.”

“ I’ll be there at 2:30. Send me your address. ”

“O…kay. Okay.”

You hear him swallow and shift on the other end, and then he mumbles, “ Okay. See you tomorrow. ”

You’re left with the dial tone, that scuff in the hardwood burned into your mind when you blink.

“Okay,” you say to no one.

The conversation had lasted 55 seconds.

–

He shows up at 2:29 on Friday, rapping three quick knocks on your door and scaring the shit out of you as you pace the living room nervously. You rush to get it, fixing your hair and clothes as you go and giving the room a cursory glance. You’re suddenly so nervous to exist in front of him, feeling your appearance and the cleanliness of your home under scrutiny even though he hasn’t seen either yet.

You pull the front door open, dragging your eyes up to meet his. He’s wearing a pair of black slacks and a tucked-in white button-down, the collar peeking through the top of the black sweater vest he’d fitted over it. His glasses, black and settled comfortably on the bridge of his nose, glint in the light and block you from seeing the look in his eye when you appear in front of him. And then he shifts his weight, and you see those deep blue eyes staring right into yours.

Akaashi adjusts his backpack on his shoulder. “Hi.”

You swallow hard. “Uh. Hi.” You step back quickly to let him in, and you try not to notice the subtle cologne he’s wearing when he brushes past you. Had he always worn cologne? “Thanks for coming.”

“Mhm,” he hums, slipping his sneakers off and setting them neatly to the side in your foyer. When he stands, you watch him cast his gaze across your living room and dining area, tucked into a corner by the kitchen. He steps into the living room, wandering slowly to the side of the couch while looking at the space. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to let this place go.”

High ceilings, lots of windows, and a small balcony. Hardwood floors and an open floorplan – the kitchen is visible past the island counter, two beams capping the ends of the bar to section the area off from the rest of the room. Your bedroom door is just past the couch, your roommate’s old room hidden down a narrow hallway with the bathroom. 

When you and your ex-roommate had found the place together, five years prior, rent had been cheaper and $500 hadn’t been considered a steal for a place like this. You’d managed to keep the landlord from raising the prices over the years, the two of you stellar tenants with not a single issue to note. That’s the only reason he’d let your roommate break her lease so suddenly – especially since you’d said you could take the entire thing over until you could find a new roommate.

Not that that new roommate would ever appear.

“Yeah,” you say, following Akaashi into the room and gesturing for him to sit. You move to the kitchen to get two glasses of water while he takes the corner and sets his backpack down at his feet. “I’ve made my home here. Would hate to start over, I guess.”

He looks around, eyeing all the decorations and furniture in the room. Your roommate had left you with the furniture, thankfully – this place would be barren otherwise. She’d even left her bed and the little couch in her room, reasoning that keeping the room furnished might encourage someone to move in. 

You’re not sure you’d ever tell her what you use that bed and couch for now, a conveniently placed “studio” right in your own home.

You join Akaashi on the couch, offering him the water and just nodding awkwardly when he thanks you for it. His fingers brush yours when he takes the glass, his attention still on the room, and you fight the blush that rises. There are a number of thoughts floating through your mind as you examine his fingers, but you shake your head to clear them, because technically no contracts have been signed, so you’re not allowed to think about how pretty his hands will look on camera.

“So…” you start. “What exactly did you have in mind for these contracts?”

He blinks, as though remembering why he’s here, and sets his glass down. “Right.” He rustles through his bag, extracting two sets of papers and handing one to you. “I… had to look up a template for this kind of contract-”

You snort despite yourself, because he’s blushing slightly at having to admit that he has no clue what he’s doing. He rolls his eyes but continues anyway. 

“I think it’s standard to just discuss expectations, boundaries, and-uh- preferences .” 

You flip the first page over, finding blank lines to fill in the terms of the agreement – and then a long checklist that spans about two more pages. It consists entirely of turn-ons, turn-offs, kinks (taboo or otherwise), and absolute non-negotiables. There’s another page with blank lines, the section titled ‘ Agreed Upon Consent System ’. 

You nod slowly. “You did your homework.”

“Did you forget who I am?”

You bark out a laugh, shaking your head as you look through the checklist again. “Sorry – is ‘Shibari ’ listed here because you know it, or because you expect that I might?”

He smothers a smile, but you catch the downward turn of his lips before it’s gone. “I didn’t want to make any assumptions.”

“Fair enough,” you sigh. And then you look at him. “And… you’re sure you’re okay with this?” When he just nods, meeting your eyes evenly, you watch him for a moment. “And you won’t, like, hold this over my head or something?”

His brows furrow for a moment before smoothing out. “No. Of course not.” You don’t respond, and he sighs. “I don’t benefit from hurting you, you know.”

You relax at that. You suppose that’s true – the two of you might not like each other, but it would be another level of messed up if Akaashi were to use this against you in any way..

“Okay. Sorry. I had to check.”

“Surprisingly, I’m above blackmail.”

You shake your head, wondering if he’d always been a little funny, or if this situation’s so ridiculous that you’re finding everything hilarious. “Okay, so – terms?”

He shifts his weight forward, leaning his elbows on his knee while he looks down at the first page of the contract. “I think payment’s the most important part right now.” You nod, watching as he retrieves a pen from his bag and clicks it a few times. “I was thinking… I take 20% of the cut for each video, but only when it wouldn’t prevent you from paying rent and bills?”

“How’d you decide on 20%?”

He shrugs. “I’m relatively comfortable financially, so I don’t need a large portion. And I don’t expect anything for the first few weeks, at least – not until your finances are settled.”

You watch the side of his face while he thinks – his lips pinch into a grimace and he shifts his head back and forth. He’d always been that way, from the beginning. He clicks his pen a few more times, and then he glances at you.

“Is that okay with you? I’m good for 10%, too.”

You shake your head right away. “No, of course not. 20% is completely reasonable.”

He nods, tapping his pen to the paper and writing out the agreement for payment. He sighs quietly. “Okay, next thing… What do you do for privacy?”

You take a breath. “I edit my face out of everything, and-” You stretch your foot out and lift your pant leg, displaying the small sunflower tattoo on the inside of your ankle. “-I edit that out, too.” You point down the hall. “I film in the spare bedroom, so that no one recognizes the stuff in my room. And I muffle some of the audio, so my voice isn’t easy to recognize. It would help, too, if we need to talk to each other.”

He nods, and then he starts to roll up the sleeve on his right arm. “Would it be hard to edit this out?” There’s a medium-sized tattoo on his forearm, a stretch of the moon cycles sketched in black across his skin.

“Oh, woah-” You scoot in on instinct, your fingers hovering over his milky skin. “When did you get this?”

“Last year, when I passed the Prelim.” His voice comes from over your head, quiet and low. You smile to yourself, examining the intricate line art. “I wanted to gift myself something.” You find it interesting to imagine Akaashi Keiji being nervous enough about passing the milestone between doctoral student and doctoral candidate, so much that he’d promised himself something if he were to pass.

“Pretty cool gift,” you mumble, your fingers tracing the air over his skin but never making contact. He lowers his arm, and you seem to realize only now how close you are. You meet his eyes quickly, seeing the silent amusement in his gaze, and you scoot back to your spot. “Sorry.”

He says nothing of it, just nodding down to his arm. “Can you edit it?”

You squint at the art. “I can try, but if you move your arms a lot, it might be easier to cover it with makeup. We can test it – film from the other side, lower the camera so your arm’s out of frame. That kind of thing.”

He nods, rolling his sleeve down again. You look away from his hands as he works, taking the moment instead to reflect on how business-like this conversation is. You’d expected more discomfort, given the circumstances. But you both treat it with detachment and only a few hiccups that can be recovered easily. It’s oddly easy, in a way that you can’t imagine with Bokuto or Kuroo – perhaps because of how much history you have with them, how much would be changing by entering into this kind of agreement together.

There’s nothing holding you and Akaashi together that would prevent you from doing business together in this way. It’s reassuring to realize that.

Akaashi buttons the cuff on his sleeve again and reaches for the pen, jotting down the terms of privacy. He glances at you briefly. “About who we can tell…”

Your heart jumps. “No one, preferably.”

“Right,” he says. “But if someone were to find out on accident, or if someone puts together that we’re having sex… what do we say?”

“Oh…” You tap your nails on your thigh. “Just that we’re hooking up?”

He nods. “That’s fine. I also think it’s fine if you decide to tell someone what we’re actually doing.” He cuts you short when you open your mouth to protest. “ I won’t tell anyone, because this isn’t my financial situation and this wasn’t my idea. This is your business, and I’m mindful of that. But I think it’s perfectly possible that you might end up wanting to tell someone, for whatever reason. And I think that’s your prerogative, so I don’t mind if you tell them that I’m part of it.” He takes a breath, smiling to himself when he considers something. “Uh, but – maybe don’t show them anything.”

“Oh, God, I would never,” you reassure him, shaking your head. “That’s a huge violation. And I don’t expect that I’ll want to tell anyone-”

“Still,” he argues. “It’s good to have the option. If you’re stressed or need a friend.”

“Well, what if you want to tell someone? What if you need a friend?”

His eyebrows tent in amusement, and he sighs. “How about we just agree to ask each other first? Whatever the reason.”

You take a breath. “Okay. I’m okay with that – reserving the right to say no?”

“Of course,” he says plainly, adding that to the terms.

You nod, sighing shakily. You feel an odd sense of trust with him – that he’s good for his word, because he’s, more often than not, honest to a fault.

“Anything… else?” you ask. “Before we get to the… technical parts?”

He snorts through his nose while he writes, and you’re reminded of the absurdity of the situation. “Yeah, just one more thing.” He purses his lips now, not meeting your eyes. “When was your last health visit?”

“Oh!” You blink rapidly, realizing what he’s asking. “Oh, I’m clean. I get a yearly health check, and I haven’t had sex in– I dunno, probably two or three years, so I’m good,” you ramble, laughing to yourself as you brush off his concern. Then you stop, because he’s looking at you like he’s fighting laughter himself, and you register what you’d said. That you’d just admitted to him that you haven’t gotten laid in three years . “Uh-”

He shakes his head. “Good to know. And it’s been at least a year for me, too.” He reaches into his bag, retrieving a sheet of paper. “But I brought this, in case you needed it-” He starts to hand it to you, and you piece together quickly that this is his health check. You take it, only glancing at the date to confirm that it was, in fact, done today.

“You went to the doctor today?”

He blinks. “I thought it would be best.”

You gape at him. “You didn’t have to do that. I would have believed you.” You glance around your living room. “I don’t even know where my sheet is- I went two months ago-”

“I don’t need to see it,” he says, shaking his head. “I believe you.”

“Dude! You can’t have all these weird, anti-double-standards.” You throw your hands up and hand him his health check back, and then you stand, moving to the file cabinet in the corner. “I’m finding that little fucker-”

“ Y/n ,” Akaashi laughs, and you pause, if only because you’ve never heard your name like that from him. He looks more visibly relaxed, too, now that you look at him properly. “It’s fine . If you want to find it, find it later.”

You sigh, staring him down a moment but returning to the couch nonetheless. He tries to hand you the health check again, but you brush it off with a grumble. “I don’t need your stupid health check, damn it.”

“I went through the trouble of getting it,” he argues, lifting his brows with a smug tilt of his head. You glare, snatching it from him but leaving it on the coffee table.

“What else, huh?” You bark, half-joking. “Got any other surprises for me?”

“No,” he says with a patient shake of his head, his lips tugging his smile away. “We can get to the technical part.”

You sigh, lifting your copy of the contract from the table and leafing through it. “So, I post every day on a consistent schedule. Obviously, I don’t want you to give up every evening of your week to film for the next day’s post, nor do I have the time.”

“And it would look weird – both of us becoming suddenly unavailable to see our friends every night,” he reasons, and you nod.

“Exactly. You have a life, and so do I. I usually batch all my content one night a week, and then I spend a few hours the next night editing everything and scheduling it to post.”

“You’ve really thought this through,” he comments quietly, also leafing through his contract. You warm, realizing it’s a compliment. 

“ Thanks ,” you mutter. “I’d hoped it would have yielded better results, but at least I have a consistent schedule now.” You return to your proposal. “I think filming partner content will take longer, naturally, but I don’t want us meeting every night, so how’s twice a week? Five or six hours each?”

He hums and nods right away. “Makes sense. And we can change the days every week, so we’re not both conveniently missing every single, say, Tuesday and Thursday.”

“Yeah, good point.” He writes it down, and you clear your throat. “And I don’t think we should kiss,” you suggest, your voice quiet.

“I agree.” He doesn’t think twice about it, just writing it on the next line, and relief fills you. You hadn’t been sure how to bring up to him the fact that you find kissing personal and intimate in a way that you aren’t comfortable experiencing with him. It would probably offend you if he were anyone else – the way he agrees immediately – but you know he’s only thinking about this as logically as you are.

You appreciate, for once, that you and Akaashi Keiji think so similarly.

“And,” you start, clapping your hands as you realize something suddenly. “As for protection-”

“Oh, yeah,” he says, reaching down into his bag. 

He drops a box of condoms on the table, size large.

You stare down at it dumbly. “Oh. Okay. That’s-” You’re not sure you’d ever expected to be in the know about the size of Akaashi’s-

“I was at the store and didn’t want to forget.”

“Oh. Yeah, that’s fine, it’s just-” You smile to yourself, a little embarrassed to know this. “Videos with condoms don’t really do as well as videos without.”

You feel his eyes on the side of your face. “I… did not know that,” he says. “But I can understand why.”

You swallow, handing the condoms back to him with an awkward grin. “I’m on the pill, is what I wanted to say.” You’re glad to see that the apples of his cheeks are becoming rosy.

“Got it,” he says, turning to put the box in his bag again. He scribbles ‘ birth control ’ haphazardly on the sheet, and you let out an accidental snicker. He shakes his head at it, and you catch the grin on his face just as he’s turning away.

“Uh,” you start, trying not to laugh again. “I was also thinking pet names might be necessary.”

“Oh, if we need to talk to each other,” he realizes, nodding. “Yeah. Do you have a preference?”

“I think that question might be better for you,” you muse. “I’m good with most things-”

“ Sweetheart ? Princess ? Pretty girl or baby girl ? Darling ?” he asks without thinking. You watch his mouth move, words you’d never expected from him just falling from his lips like nothing. 

“S-Sure. That’s all fine with me.”

“Okay,” he says. “I think for me… I mean, baby ’s fine. I’m not really into the… more stereotypical names.”

You tilt your head. “What, like daddy ?”

He grimaces. “Yeah, that’s not my thing-” He cuts a glance at you. “Sorry, if it’s yours.”

You smile wide now, utterly amused. “Can’t say it is. But – are you a dom, Akaashi? Or a sub.”

“Why?” he says, a single eyebrow lifting as his lips quirk in a grin. “Because I like to be called baby ?”

“I’m just curious,” you say, feigning a seriousness you simply don’t feel.

“Well, be curious in bed, not now.”

You laugh loudly, throwing your head back. “Yes, Sir.” His fingers twitch on his pen, and your eyebrows lift with interest. You lean forward. “ Sir ? Is that it?”

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“But you reacted when I said it-”

He rolls his eyes and starts to flip the page toward the checklist of preferences. “It’s not what you said, it’s how you said it.” 

“How’d I say it?”

He stands, glancing down the hall. “Like a brat.” Your smile drops, right along with your stomach. It flips violently, and your fingers start to tingle, but he barely gives you a second look. “Give me a tour of the spare bedroom? While we go through these.”

Your legs shake when you stand. “Sure.” You lead him down the hall, contract clutched in your hand and heart in your throat. You weren’t prepared to hear that from him.

You push the door open, letting him in. He wanders to the center of the room, turning in place. You’d put plain white sheets on the bed, the comforter a deep red color. The couch in the corner is covered in a pale green sheet, and there are a few throw pillows and blankets laid over the arm and back of it. There’s an empty desk in the corner, one that Akaashi eyes with an amused lift of his brow. 

“It’s nice in here,” he says blankly, his eyes still tracking the decor in the room. It’s all plain enough not to be recognizable, but the room is comfortable to be in. You’d put string lights all around the wall, your phone equipped with an app to change the colors whenever. You’ve got one tripod for your phone near the bed and another near the couch, and there’s a chest at the end of the bed. Akaashi taps it with his foot.

“Functional or just decoration?” Your harsh flush is his answer, and he reaches for the latch, pausing for permission once he’s got his fingers on it. You nod curtly, and he drops his contract and pen on the bed so he can crouch by the chest and lift the top with both hands.

He gives you no indication of his thoughts when he looks inside – it’s filled with sex toys, harnesses, props, and basically anything else you thought might be useful. Looking at it now, you’re certain it looks like you’re into a lot of interesting things, but he only glances at you for a second round of permission before he reaches in. He seems to understand that it’s one thing to look and another entirely to touch , but you give him that permission, too.

The first thing he extracts is a whip. “Have you ever used this?”

You smile emptily. “On myself, once. Wasn’t very fun. And I didn’t upload the video.”

He sets it back inside gently. “I prefer to use my hands, if that’s okay.”

“Oh.” You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to this. “Sure.”

He spends the next few minutes quietly pulling out a variety of dildos, butt plugs, and vibrators and laying them neatly on the bed, side by side. You grow warmer with each one, unsure what to do with this situation. He also retrieves a stretch of black cloth that you’d used once to blindfold yourself. It hadn’t gone as well as you’d hoped.

He stands with it now, tugging on it experimentally. “I like this.”

“Okay.”

He nods to the items on the bed. “I like all those, too-” He glances down and reaches into the chest again, setting a bottle of lube next to the vibrator on the end.

You approach him finally, standing beside him as you survey the collection. “Okay. Why?”

He picks up his contract, scanning the list and pointing to your bed as he speaks. “Guided masturbation.” He points to the dildos and the vibrators. He points next to the butt plugs. “Anal-”

“Oh, I’ve-” You fidget with your fingers. “I have yet to be successful with that.” He stares down at you in confusion, and then gestures to the fact that there are three of them on the bed, varying in size. You smile pitifully up at him. “I thought the issue was the size.”

“O…kay,” he says with a breath of laughter. “We don’t have to include anal-”

“No, I’m…” You chuckle to yourself. “I’m not opposed… obviously.”

There’s a long moment of eye contact, one where you become incredibly warm and his lips fight to tug into a smirk, but he eventually turns back to his contract. 

“Understood.”

You wonder how much longer this torture will last.

He moves to the couch, sighing quietly and clicking his pen again. You’re starting to get the idea that that’s a nervous tick. “Should we just go one at a time and say yes or no?”

“Okay. Sure.” You close the lid of the chest and sit on it, ignoring the pile of toys behind you. 

You spend the next ten minutes that way, voting on a list of kinks with Akaashi Keiji, as though you haven’t spent the last five years dreading every second with him. You learn that he’s into choking – giving and receiving – but that he prefers giving oral more than receiving it. You tell him that you like being tied up but that you’ve never tried it with a partner before, and then you admit to a slight oral fixation. He jokes dryly that you’d have to settle for his fingers in your mouth, in that case, and you bite back a warning that the oral fixation includes marking your partners up where others can see. He only lifts a brow and asks if he should check off ‘ exhibitionist ’, and you joke that your balcony isn’t visible from the street. You ask more certainly if he’s a dom, because it’s becoming obvious that he is, and he rolls his eyes and asks if you’re always this bratty.

The list goes on and on, and you’re surprised by how honest both of you are being. He checks ‘ dacryphilia ’, and you tell him with waning embarrassment that he can go ahead and check ‘ somnophilia ’ while he’s at it. Even things you’ve never tried but have been quietly interested in make the list, and you wonder if maybe it’s because this is a chance to try all those things without fear of judgment from the person you’re doing it with. There’s no pressure with Akaashi, because there’s no crushing fear that he’s going to find you strange or uncomfortable. 

He’d shrugged and nodded when you’d said the word somnophilia, for fuck’s sake. He utters the words ‘ temperature play’ , ‘ overstimulation ’, and ‘ ruined orgasm ’ with ease, and you rattle off ‘ edging ’, ‘ praise ’, and ‘ dirty talk ’ like it’s nothing. There’s nothing to worry about with him.

Eventually, he sighs, turning to the last page of the contract, which only has the ‘ Agreed Upon Consent System ’ section and lines for your signatures. “And… is it alright if I’m a little mean?”

You tilt your head at him, your embarrassment long forgotten. “Like, degradation? Calling me names?”

He hums and then shakes his head. “Not exactly.” He thinks for a moment. “More like… disinterest.”

“Oh.” You consider it. “I suppose that’s a kind of degradation.”

“I suppose it is.” He shifts. “Just worried, since you mentioned praise.”

You feel a little embarrassment now. “Well, is there a way to do both?”

His smile is surprised, and he ducks his head when he laughs. “Yeah, I think there might be. Disinterested praise.”

“Yeah, see? Just make sure not to smile at me when you say nice things,” you joke.

He shakes his head and then taps the paper. “What’s our consent system?”

You shrug. “I’m only really familiar with the color system.”

“Green, yellow, red?” he asks, already starting to write it down. You hum in agreement, and he holds the contract up when he’s done. “Okay. I’m ready to sign if you are.”

You leave your blank copy on the bed and hop off the chest, joining him on the couch. You watch as he signs his name and marks the date on one of the lines – he hands you the pen after, and you do the same, your name sitting neatly under his. 

“Okay,” you breathe, staring down at the paper with fresh eyes. He nods beside you, and then he turns his head. You feel his eyes on you, so you meet them, and he sticks his hand out to you.

“Let’s get you your rent money.”

You can’t help but laugh when you take his hand, shaking it firmly.

–

He texts you later that night, after you’ve had time to lie in your bed and process what’s just happened. 

You feel, weirdly enough, more comfortable with him – not completely, and certainly nothing of the friendly sort, but you feel like the afternoon hadn’t been that tense or difficult. It had mostly been awkward and a little funny, which is only to be expected in this situation. It makes you wonder, while you’re showering and making dinner, if maybe Akaashi’s not all that bad outside of an academic context.

Of course, things between you inside an academic context are so hostile that it had always bled over into whatever social interactions you’d been forced into by your mutual friends. You can’t imagine that those things will change anytime soon – it feels strange to picture Akaashi as anything but rude and torturous within the department, and you find that you’re not so enthused at the idea of him suddenly warming up to you. You like how things are between you. You like him just how he is, predictably annoying and cold.

So, when he texts you, you’re unsurprised that your guards go up.

[10:16 PM]

Akaashi: i need your account name + site

[10:18 PM]

Akaashi: please

You feel the floor drop out from under you, and you answer in a frenzy.

[10:19 PM]

You: no fucking way

Akaashi: ???????

Akaashi: i need to study before tomorrow??????

Yes, you’d agreed to spend the majority of the day tomorrow batching content for the week. But you have no idea why you hadn’t anticipated this. 

Aghast, you don’t bother typing, just jabbing down on the button to record a voice note.

“You need to study?! ” You say, exasperated. “My body’s all over that account! I’m doing a lot of things on that account! Naked things!”

You send it and wait, pacing the space around your bed. He sends a voice note back. You click play with a shaky thumb.

“ Are you insane?” he says, and you hear that he’s laughing at you. You swell with annoyance as he talks. “ Did you plan to have sex with me with all your clothes on? ” You roll your eyes, sitting at the edge of your bed. 

“Yeah, that was a stupid point,” you mumble to yourself.

“ I need to see what the general aesthetic of your account is, okay? To see how you film. ”

You press the microphone again to record. “Yeah, but this feels super unfair! You’ll have seen my whole body, and I won’t have seen yours – this is skewed!”

He texts back this time.

[10:23 PM]

Akaashi: oh, sorry. let me link you to my porn account, too, then.

Akaashi: are you hearing yourself???

You groan, throwing yourself back on your mattress. You know he’s right, but it’s terrifying to know that Akaashi will have seen you naked – more than naked, really – and you will have no clue what you’re walking into tomorrow. Still, you just flail on your bed a few times in protest before sighing and lifting your phone to your face.

[10:26 PM]

You: xxxvids .com

You: username tokyolovely

You throw your phone down and roll over to bury your face in the mattress, screaming into the comforter when your phone buzzes with his response.

Akaashi: … no comment.

You want to smack him.

Akaashi: and why couldnt you choose one of the big sites that everyone else posts on???

Akaashi: onlyfans?? pornhub even???

Akaashi: i swear to god if i get a virus from xxxvids .com

Akaashi: rent is not the only expense youll need to worry about

You definitely want to smack him.

–

Keiji throws his phone down on his desk, shaking his head with a sigh.

“What even is that?” he mumbles to himself, typing the site into his laptop. “ XXXVid- This is so stupid. Just use PornHub at that point.”

He’s accosted immediately by thumbnails of naked women and men with penises that just have to be cosmetically enlarged. He plugs his headphones in quickly, very much not needing any audio surprises from this site, and makes an account, rolling his eyes when he needs to come up with a username.

When he’s done, he types your name into the search bar.

“ Tokyo…lovely, ” he says as he types, and then his middle finger hovers over the Enter key. 

His goal really is just to look at how you’ve set up your account. He just wants to see the general tone of your channel. If you’re loud or quiet. If you’ve marketed yourself as one of those gentle, virginal girls or as a sex freak that makes a lot of noise. He needs to know these things, so he knows how to perform tomorrow. It’s logical. It makes sense.

But still, he sits here, finger hovering over the key while he contemplates it. He’d gone through the entire contract with you and revealed his deepest interests – previously experienced or otherwise. But this feels like a move he can’t take back. Once he does this, he will have seen your body, and that’s irreversible.

You agreed to this, you idiot.

He groans, jamming his finger down on the key before he can think further about it. The website buffers long enough that he wonders about that virus again, and then it loads.

Oh.

His heart jumps, and he finds himself looking away from his screen and glancing nervously around his living room, as though he doesn’t live completely alone. And then he looks back, met with the sight of your body.

He can only tell it’s you because he knows it’s you, and – looking at you in a set of black lingerie in the first thumbnail – this body looks like yours. The next thumbnail has you in a mismatched bra-panty pair, and, in the video after, you’re not wearing anything at all. He sucks in a breath, glancing away every few seconds while he scrolls, because it feels wrong to stare. He focuses on the titles, testing every ounce of his reading comprehension in this moment.

[Oct. 19] Shy Girl Fingers Herself to Orgasm

“Shy?” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Yeah, right.”

[Oct. 18] Virgin Sends Masturbation Video to Boyfriend

“Not a virgin,” he says. “No boyfriend.”

[Oct. 17] Girl Makes Herself Squirt on Friend’s Couch

“Not a friend’s cou-Wait.” He blinks. 

You can squirt ?

The room becomes noticeably warmer as he stares down at the little thumbnail of you curled up on the couch in your spare room. He’d intended to watch one video, just to see the extent of your editing, but he’d meant only to skim through it, skipping parts and examining the video from a purely analytic standpoint.

But… Well, if he’s going to watch one, anyway… 

He drags his mouse over it, about to click into it, when a pop-up banner appears from the left side of his screen.

TOKYOLOVELY IS ACTIVE NOW – SAY HI!

Keiji jumps, feeling as though he’s been caught doing something awful. And then he sighs heatedly and clicks on the banner, watching it open to an empty chat box.

[10:35 PM]

tokyohandsome: stop anxiously scrolling through your own videos

tokyolovely: YOU FUCK, YOU CHOSE THAT NAME ON PURPOSE

tokyohandsome: get offline, tokyolovely

tokyolovely: youre not allowed to watch the one of me with that dildo in doggy

Keiji blinks hard. The what ? Where you’re what ?

tokyohandsome: go to bed, youre driving me nuts

tokyohandsome: wait-

tokyohandsome: can you see which video i view????

tokyolovely: …. if i say yes will you exit this website

tokyohandsome: ill take that as a no.

tokyolovely: YOU HAVE TO TELL ME WHICH ONE YOU WATCH

tokyohandsome: goodnight, lovely <3 

tokyolovely: i hate you.

He laughs to himself, bright and hidden in his hand.

tokyohandsome: do you get paid for interacting with viewers in dms?

tokyolovely: yes.

tokyohandsome: do i decide how much they give you?

tokyolovely: … it’s a rating after i log off.

tokyohandsome: then you better say goodnight to me and log off, lovely <3

tokyolovely: ….. goodnight, handsome.

tokyohandsome: :((

tokyolovely: …. <3

tokyohandsome: :))

TOKYOLOVELY HAS LOGGED OFF

He sighs, pleased, and gives you a five-star rating like he’d always intended, closing the chat. He’s tempted to go looking for that video of you in doggy position, but he respects your hyper-specific request and returns to the video he’d originally seen. He clicks on it now, nerves a bit eased after that absurd interaction with you, and settles back in his chair.

The video starts with you in your underwear, touching yourself gently through the fabric. He watches with distant interest as you squeeze your breasts through your bra and then drop one hand to the spot between your thighs that’s currently hidden by how you’re curled up. You touch yourself vaguely, and he hears the beginnings of a moan, quiet in his headphones.

The sound grows the longer you continue, and he wonders if those moans sound faked because they’re obviously so or because he knows you. From the many years of hearing your voice – albeit never in this situation – he can’t imagine that this is what you would actually sound like if you were feeling good. He clicks his tongue, shaking his head as he watches you start to slide the panties down your thighs. 

He’s certain he can pull better sounds out of you than that.

He watches a few moments longer, genuinely critiquing the video and your performance, if only to gauge how he should act, too. 

But then you drop your panties on the couch beside you, sighing breathily, and move to unhook your bra. Keiji’s eyebrows lift as you slip the straps off, and suddenly he’s not thinking about things he plans to do differently as your business partner.

You prop your feet up on the couch and spread your legs, and he spreads his, too, unconsciously, eyes dropping to your exposed core. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips, and he shifts in his seat, his sweats becoming suspiciously tight. He watches you on his laptop screen – the way your fingertips swipe over your clit in two tight circles before dropping to your entrance – and he swallows, committing the motion to memory, because he’s here to study. To study .

He blinks hard, shifting again and ignoring the way his cock twitches in his pants and strains against the band. He watches you dip both fingers into your entrance before slipping out, and he has the torturous thought that your fingers look a lot smaller than his. You repeat the motion three or four times, working yourself open until you can fit both fingers up to the knuckles. 

You moan in Keiji’s ears, loud and a little gratuitous – but he moans back.

He palms himself through his sweats, watching you finger yourself. His breath hitches, and his stomach swirls with nerves, and he feels a wave of desire crash over him.

And then he hears your voice, in that note you’d sent him.

‘-feels super unfair – You’ll have seen my whole body, and I won’t have seen yours-’

He groans, throwing his head back against his chair briefly, and reaches for his phone before he can overthink.

“ Fuck it, ” he mumbles in a strained voice, opening the camera and propping his phone up against the stack of books on his desk. 

He presses record.

–

At 11pm, you get a text.

You’ve sat on your bed the last thirty minutes, scrolling through Twitter absentmindedly as you think about what Akaashi could be watching. You wonder if he’s actually watched anything, or if he’s just skimming the thumbnails and titles, or maybe if he’d just logged off right after you, satisfied with teasing you a little. 

You feel painfully vulnerable in your state of not knowing. You have no clue what you’re walking into tomorrow. At least before, you were partially comforted in that neither of you had seen the other naked, and also in that neither of you had been with someone else in at least a year. There had been an air of safety, knowing that you and Akaashi were on relatively equal ground.

You’re horribly underground, now.

So, when his first text comes through, the banner pulling down over the top of your screen, you think the worst.

[10:59 PM] 

Akaashi : [Video Attached]

What is that? What did he do? Did he record your videos on his phone? Is he commenting on them? At the very worst, he’s making fun of you, and at the very best, he’s offering you tips to improve your filming or editing. You really don’t know which you hate more.

But then his second text comes in, this banner replacing the last.

Akaashi: making it a little less unfair.

“ What? ” you mumble, brows furrowed as you click on the notification. Your phone jumps to the text thread, and you squint at the thumbnail of the video. It’s just him leaning toward the camera with a furrowed brow, seated at his desk in grey sweats and a white t-shirt, with his glasses perched on his nose and his hair slightly wet from what’s probably a recent shower. He’s got headphones in, and there’s something bright on his laptop screen.

It’s the glare in the corner of his glasses, a reflection of his laptop screen, that makes your heart leap.

You know that pale green sheet.

“What… the fuck …?” You bring the phone close to your face, too scared to press play . “Is that asshole live-reacting to my video?” With a trembling finger, your click on the video.

And you realize immediately what’s happening.

Akaashi settles back in his chair with a heated sigh, his tongue darting out as he watches his screen. It’s because he leaned back that you can see properly now – the tent in his pants, the hand he presses over the outline of his cock with a quiet sigh.

Your jaw drops. He’s-

His eyes track your movement on the screen, which you can now see clearly in the glare of his glasses, and his bottom lip catches between his teeth. He breathes hard, palming himself through his sweats as he watches your video. He glances once at his own camera, clearly nervous about recording this, but then his eyes widen and fly to his screen, whatever sound you’d just made in his headphones drawing his attention completely.

“ Oh, f- ” He purses his lips, and you feel yourself leaning in, wanting to hear what he’d been about to say. He blinks rapidly, eyes trained on one spot – you can see exactly which video it is now, and your heart jumps when you recognize the way your own body moves in the reflection of his glasses.

So that’s what he’s into.

You spend so long staring at the reflection in his glasses that you nearly miss the way he starts to move. You drop your eyes in time to catch him lifting his hips just enough to slide his sweats down to his thighs. He tucks one hand into his boxers, and you watch with parted lips as Akaashi Keiji’s eyes roll back into his head.

“ Fuck, ” he breathes, his head dropping back momentarily, and your mouth falls open more, your brain stunned into nothingness as you watch him masturbate to a video of you masturbating. As you realize that this isn’t just anyone watching one of your videos – liking one of your videos.

This is Akaashi Keiji.

Akaashi Keiji’s just given you the confirmation that you’re good at this, after so many weeks of feeling quite the opposite.

“Oh,” you breathe, the sticky heat of understanding washing over your skin. It worsens when he uses his free hand to tug his boxers down, making this ground feel suddenly a lot more equal.

Oh.

Akaashi keeps his eyes glued to his screen, and you catch a glimpse of your on-screen self coming more and more undone. You examine him closely while he watches it, too – his lips are swollen and wet from pursing and biting at them, and there’s a flush high on his cheeks and a hooded, hazy quality to his eyes that makes your stomach flip with nerves. His tongue darts out again, wetting his pink lips just as he’s parting them to sigh. 

Your eyes drop, watching how he slides his palm against his cock, slick with precum and making the most impolite, soft squelching sound whenever he flicks his wrist. Your thighs press together instinctively, a hard throb pulsing through your core when his hips jerk slightly. 

His breathing speeds up, as does the flick of his wrist, and you realize in the reflection that you must be starting to squirt. Akaashi grips the arm of his desk chair with his free hand and presses his lips together, his moan muffled but still audible. His hips jerk and stutter, and then his eyes roll back into his head again as he comes all over his hand and stomach, streaks of white painting the back of his hand and wrist.

His lips part in a gasp and a rough sigh as he’s coming down, and he slumps against his chair, breathing hard as he stares at nothing – the screen is dark in his glasses now. He drags his clean hand through his hair, tugging hard and breathing out a soft ‘ fuck ’. He breathes twice more, and then his eyes flick to his camera, as though he’s only just remembered it’s there.

He sees himself in the video and rolls his eyes immediately, a breathless laugh leaving him as he shakes his head and looks away.

“ Uh, ” he says, still laughing. He leans forward, reaching with his free hand for the phone, and shakes his head again. “ See you tomorrow, I guess.”

The video cuts there, leaving you with silence and a sudden, overwhelming attraction to Akaashi Keiji.

Oh.

[makingqueerhistory]

Nah Myung-won, 26, was a participant who identified zirself as an asexual -- meaning ze doesn’t feel sexually attracted to anyone, regardless of their gender. Nah said ze only realized zir sexual orientation after reading a news article published by a foreign news outlet, written in a foreign language. “There was a phase where everything was confusing,” Nah said. “All I wanted to do was to have coffee or watch movies with my romantic partners, while they obviously wanted other things. Things became clear when I finally got access to information on asexuality and there were other people like me.” Nah said asexual individuals often encounter ill-informed comments from both straight and queer individuals, many of which ze found to be violent. “I’ve heard things like, ‘you just have not met the right person,’ or ‘you should explore more to know for sure – maybe you are a lesbian,’” ze said. “So I thought it was important to be here, to challenge what is often defined as ‘normal,’ both in queer and straight communities.”

[sailorrhansol]

ok ok requesting a treat for all of us, honestly

sleep demon seungcheol. extra sprinkling of nasty if possible. i want you to out-zaddy you know who.

>:) ok smooch smooch have fun!!!! I LOVE HALIWEEEEEN

❀ Pairing: Incubus!Choi Seungcheol x afab reader

❀ Summary: You can’t seem to sleep, but the strange man in the bar that you can’t visiting promises he can help. 

❀ Word Count: 6,239

❀ Genre: Supernatural

❀ Type: Smut, PWP

❀ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

❀ Warnings: Mentions of insomnia including side effects like exhaustion, dysfunction, derealization, feeling out of it/in weird headspaces, time is not supposed to feel linear in this and it’s supposed to feel kind of liminal-space in places, reader is often confused/thoughts are a little scattered and feels out of it because of proximity to an entity, there are creepy vibes in this, Seungcheol doesn’t always appear the same/mentions of feeling like in danger or on edge around him instinctually, explicit language, sexually explicit content including unprotected vaginal sex, fingering, a lot of spit and cum, nipple play, reference to subspace or an adjacent, choking, oral (f. and m. receiving) multiple orgasms, biting and scratching, I wouldn’t categorize this as explicit dom/sub dynamics but there are power dynamics in some places, mean Seungcheol in spots, like very light humiliation if you squint in one section, overall just…. Weird ass vibes and reccouring scenes/reader not remembering things. 

❀ A/N: Hi Jolene Wolene Folene - thank you for requesting this thing that we totally didn’t talk about before I started Haliween and definitely maybe sort of giving me the outlet to write this weird little liminal space demon that I love doing so dearly. Pls enjoy spooky ooky kooky Cheol and his weird little obsession with reader :) 

❀ A/N 2: This fic is a part of my Haliween writing event that I’m hosting September - October. 

❀ Disclaimer: Disclaimer: All members of Seventeen are faces and name claims for stories. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios. Moreover, none of my works accurately reflect, represent or take a stance on the nuances of Korean culture, cities, people etc. Seventeen members are not Seventeen culturally, intellectually, physically, or representationally in my stories, and should be considered name and face stand-ins for made up characters.

Main Masterlist ❀ Tag List Request Form ❀ Ask ❀ Haliween

Nothing feels real. Your eyes burn as you stare at the computer screen, the letters and the buttons on your email becoming blurry as they swim out of focus. The dull sounds of your office feel as though they’re several rooms over, faint hums heard through walls of plaster. 

Pushing away from the desk, you head to the break room, in desperate need of coffee. You know drinking caffeine this late in the afternoon will only further exacerbate your insomnia, and yet you need it if you’re going to get through the next three hours at work.

You’ve hit the point in your endless nights of no sleep where everything feels off, like you’re experiencing things in the third person. You’re there but you don’t feel like it, navigating your day knowing that it’s you doing and saying things at work without really registering that you’re doing or saying those things. 

Coffee hisses from the machine into your cup. You stare at it, vision going unfocused again as the smell wafts up to you. Time passes. You stand and stare. 

Someone walks into the room, bringing you back to reality as you look over your shoulder and see your coworker come in to fill up their water bottle. They raise their brows at you as though to ask if you’re okay, and you grin, gesturing to the coffee like that’s some sort of answer.

Really, you’re not okay. You have ventured past the threshold of tired into something else entirely. Something that is lesser than, something base and nearly inhuman. 

Derealization. It’s a word your doctor had used when you described what it was like for you after so many nights without sleep, the disconnected feeling to the world around you. Even as you walk to your desk, it doesn’t feel real. You logically know that it is, that you exist in a specific time and space.

And yet… you remain buoyed in that space, totally untethered from everything around you. Floating. Lost. 

Back at your desk, the words on the computer screen blur again. Come into focus. You type and email. The keyboard makes sounds, but you don’t really register them. 

At some point, the day ends. 

-

A bright neon sign burns against the darkness of the alleyway. You blink rapidly, holding your hand in front of your eyes to block out some of the light. Looking around, you don’t see anyone else. The sound of the city is muted and far away, but you smell the burning of fuel and the smell of stagnant water under a dripping window air conditioning unit. 

You don’t remember walking here. You lower your hand as your eyes adjust to the burning pink above the door. Looking down at your clothes, you’re at least relieved to discover you put on jeans and a t-shirt before going out on an adventure out on the town.

Police sirens wail in the distance. You pull your phone out of your back pocket, thankful you brought it. 

“Fuck,” you swear, flashing the time. It’s 3:33 in the morning and you know immediately you’ve sleepwalked your way to this strange, unfamiliar alleyway. 

It’s a vicious circle: go days without sleep feeling like you’re a step away from death, or take just enough sleep medication to knock you out but make you sleepwalk. 

Shoving your phone in your pocket, you look back up at the neon sign, reading it for the first time. Hush. A shiver goes down your spine at the name, eyes flicking to the blue crescent moon attached to the pink cursive. 

There’s a magnetism about the sign. Your eyes dropdown to the door under it, a nondescript metal entrance to what you think is a bar. There’s nothing to indicate that it is a bar, just a gut feeling. Your gut feeling is also whispering at you to go inside, to open the door and step into the cool space of Hush. 

Licking your lips, you take one hesitant step forward. The tingling in your spine increases and you feel static in the air. Heart racing, you take another step. Then another. Before you realize it, you’re at the door with your hand on the knob, cool to the touch.

With a deep breath, you pull the door open and step inside. 

It’s even darker inside than the alleyway. Gentle piano music plays somewhere in the room and you swivel left and right, trying to gain your bearings as your eyes adjust. When they do, you see a very small room with a single piano in the corner, two booths, a bar at the back, and three stools pulled up to its counter.

A single person sits at the bar. You hesitate in the entrance, drinking in the stranger. It appears to be a man in a dark purple suit, his broad shoulders hunched over where he leans against the wooden bar top. You can’t make out much else beyond the wide shape of his shoulders and narrow taper of his waist, but you can see the crimson hair that glows like flame underneath the dull, flickering light above his head.

“You gonna stand there all night?” His voice is soft, a gentle pur. He turns his head to the side, his profile shadowed. “I don’t bite.” You hear the smirk in his voice when he tacks on, “Not often, anyway.” 

Carefully, you approach the bar. There doesn’t appear to be a bartender of any sort or anyone else in the bar, for that matter. You realize that there’s piano music but no pianist, but decide not to focus on it as you enter the man’s line of focus. 

When he looks at you, the world stops. It’s like stepping into a bubble, everything else ceasing to exist. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end and you feel your pulse hammer in your throat as you stare at him, unable to take your eyes off him.

He’s beautiful but it’s not that. His eyes are dark, but there is something more there. Something swimming in the depth of the darkness that you cannot place, something ancient and curious and awake. You feel pinned under his gaze, eyes darting to drink in the rest of his features: soft, pouty lips the color of berries, sharp jawline, thick, angular brows. 

Stunning. Dangerous. Alluring. 

“Hi,” he says, mouth stretching into a grin. His teeth aren’t sharp, but you have the distinct feeling that they should be. “You’re a pretty thing.” 

“Um, hi.”

“Can’t sleep?” 

“How can you tell?”

His grin spreads, wicked and cutting. “I have a feeling about those things.” His dark eyes drop to the seat next to him. “Have a seat. Maybe I can help.”

Tentatively, you sit down next to him. “You can help me sleep?” 

“What if I said I can?” 

Sitting next to him is oppressive. His presence weighs down on you, a physical entity that you can’t see. Static buzzes in your mind and your thoughts feel a little sticky, like just being close to him disrupts your frequency. 

He smells like jasmine, immediately soothing. You feel your eyes grow heavy as you blink a few times, settling on the stool as you angle yourself toward him. 

You’d misjudged his size when you walked in. He’d seemed broad when you first walked in, but you don’t think you fully understood the width of him. The weight of him. Or maybe it just feels that way when you look at him, your perception of him flickering like a bad TV signal. 

“Tell me about your sleep problems.”

You shrug. “They’re like any other sleep problems.”

“Not all sleep problems are the same, Pretty.” 

“I suppose that’s true. I don’t really know what causes them. I just… can’t fall asleep and then I start getting worried I won’t sleep, so it makes it worse. I want to sleep so bad but it’s like… wanting to sleep only makes it avoid me more.”

“Mmm. Sleep is a fickle thing, isn’t it?” 

“My doctors give me meds but the normal dose doesn’t work and the stronger dose… makes me walk around.” 

He pouts. “You poor, sweet thing.” 

Something about his sympathy makes you flush. You sulk, looking down at the countertop as you pick absently at the peeling varnish on the wood. “I know,” you murmur. “I just want to be normal.” 

“I can help. If you want it.” 

You glance at him. His eyes are dancing dangerously. Half of you screams yes while the other screams run. You’re only vaguely aware that you’re in a bar alone with a strange man who knows you’re sleep deprived. No one would help you if you screamed. You don’t know where you would run.

His dark eyes seem to read your thoughts and he laughs, shaking his head as he turns to pick up his drink from the bar. “I’m not that sort of creature.”

“How would you help me sleep?”

“Are you accepting my help?”

His question hangs in the air between the two of you. The piano music has stopped, but you don’t remember when it did. Overhead, the light still flickers. On. Off. On. Off. Onoffonoffonoff-

“You’re under no obligation to accept.” His voice is kind. Warm. Soft like your blankets, cozy like your bed. “You’re always free to make your own decision.” 

“I want help,” you agree slowly. “I really do.”

His red mouth curves into a smile and again, you’re struck by the thought that his teeth should be sharp. “Good. I’ll help you, Pretty.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“You can call me Seungcheol.” You give him your name and he tilts his head, drinking you in. “I know.” 

“How are you going to help me sleep?”

Seungcheol finishes his drink. You watch him swallow thickly, suddenly fascinated with the way his throat bobs as he does. The smell of jasmine is overwhelming as he leans in, stopping an inch away from you.

The static increases. You feel your blood buzz pleasantly. 

“Close your eyes for me,” Seungcheol murmurs, looking at you through silky lashes. “I promise everything will be okay.” 

For a moment, you stare at him, the air charged. He doesn’t hurry you along, content to study your face with that same uncanny darkness swimming in his eyes. 

Taking a deep breath, you do what Seungcheol says, and you close your eyes. 

-

Sunlight wakes you up. You roll over in your bed, squinting up at the window. Your blackout curtains are open, letting the morning beam in on where you’re tangled in your comforter and sheets. 

Sighing heavily, you close your eyes again, content to lay in the warm sun. Just as you start to drift to sleep again, you recall a pair of dark eyes and fiery hair. You jolt upright, heart hammering as you remember the exchange. 

Snatching your phone from your nightstand, you open your walking app to look at where the hell you went last night, but there’s nothing there. Frowning, you pull the sheets off your body. You’re in pajamas and fuzzy socks that you don’t remember putting on. 

Hauling yourself out of bed, you lean halfway into the laundry basket to claw through your clothing. None of the things you wore last night are there, so you go to your closet to wrench the doors open and search. 

The shirt from last night and the exact pair of jeans are hanging, completely unworn. Your frown deepens as your confusion rises. Turning away from the closet, you open your phone again and try to get any sort of sense of where you went last night, but there’s no text threads. No signs you used public transportation. Nothing in any of your tracking apps that indicate you left at all. 

“Was it a fucking dream?” you mutter to yourself, perplexed. 

Sitting down on your bed, you try to look up Hush on the internet. You can find nothing in your city that indicates a bar or establishment like the one you discovered Seungcheol in. You even try social media to look him up - Reddit, neighborhood pages, anything to try and find the stranger from last night.

It seems Hush and Seungcheol don’t exist.

And yet… you don’t remember going to sleep last night after he agreed to help you. And you feel rested today. 

Puzzled and a little freaked out, you give up your search. A dream is a dream, and you’re content that you finally feel a little less exhausted and a little more awake. You’ll take the win, getting up to start your day with a little bit of pep in your step. 

By midday, you’ve mostly forgotten about the bar and the man in it, only remembering those dark eyes and that red hair. 

-

Heat creeps up your spine. You nuzzle against the warmth behind you, the smell of jasmine coaxing you deeper into the embrace. You feel the vibration of laughter against your back, your nerves tingling as you feel feather-light fingers brush up your thighs. 

“Tired?” 

Immediately you know it’s Seungcheol’s deep voice, that same velvet purr whispered right in your ear. You shake your head no, suddenly not wanting to sleep at all. You press into him further, feeling the way his arms tighten around you as he chuckles, mouth pressing chastely against the spot under your ear. 

“Liar,” he teases. 

You pout. It might be true, but he could have the decency to pretend it’s not. You open your eyes and look up at him. His hair is like spilled blood in the dark of your room. The curtains are closed, blocking out all light from the moon and street, but your salt lamp still burns in the corner. 

Seungcheol looks like the devil in the low, orange light. He’s in a black t-shirt, which is somehow more deadly than the fine cut suit. Your stomach flutters and you squeeze your thighs shut when you realize his hands are brushing up and down your thighs, touch slow. 

“Thought you were a dream,” you mumble, words a little thick. “Thought you weren’t real.”

“Dreams can’t be real?” That makes you frown and he laughs, jostling you against his chest. His hands squeeze your thighs and you let out a breathy sound as he nudges you with his nose. “You don’t know anything about dreams, Pretty. Can I show you?” 

More than anything you want him to show you. Suddenly your desire for him outweighs any sort of sleepiness, your nerves sparking and coming to life as you nod helplessly against his chest, trying to lean as close as possible. 

“Needy,” he chides. He presses a wet kiss to your jawline and you preen, your head falling back against his shoulder. “I’ll go easy so you remember this time, alright?” 

“Cheol.” 

The nickname sounds familiar. Intimate. Like you’ve said it before - something tells you that you have said it before. You don’t remember where or when, but it’s with familiarity that you moan the nickname again as he nips at your neck, one hand drifting between your legs to pry them open. 

He murmurs praise against your ear when your legs drift apart, spreading to accommodate his seeking touch. You’re wearing shorts but it feels entirely too hot under the blankets pooled around your waist. You kick at them and whine, managing to get them down to your knees before he huffs and presses forward, temporarily bending you in half to toss them. 

When he settles back against your headboard, you follow him, turning your head to press your mouth to the corner of his. His lips twitch in a smirk, shifting to catch your mouth fully with his. 

Seungcheol kisses you like he knows how you like to be kissed - devouring, consuming, hungry. His tongue brushes against yours as he drinks you in as his hand presses between your leagues, applying pressure to your clothed cunt.

You whine into the kiss and he grins against your mouth. A line of spit connects your lips when you pull away panting, looking up at him through half-lidded eyes. His fingers circle your clit gently and your hips buck in his hold against the stimulation. 

“Not enough,” you whisper. You grip his wrist with one hand, the other gripping the sheets to bunch them in your fist. “Cheol, please.”

“Hush,” he scolds, biting your jaw. His free hand comes up to your neck, gripping you under your jaw to angle your mouth back to his. “Kiss me.” 

You melt in Seungcheol’s grip. His tongue tastes sweet, his grip on you making you dizzy. Your thighs squeeze around his wrist as he works you up, his touch teasing and not enough through layers of fabric. 

He knows it’s not enough, content to string you along until you’re writhing against him, back shifting against his chest as you squirm. His kisses drift from your mouth to your jaw, open-mouthed and spit-slicked as his tongue darts out to taste your skin while he goes. 

Seungheol’s grip on your chin slides down toward the base of your neck, his fingers pressed tight against your pulse. You can feel your heartbeat slamming in his grasp as he bends your head away from him, lips attaching to the softness of your throat. 

His name escapes your lips in a whisper. He hums a pleased sound, tongue dragging up your neck to your ear where he nibbles. “So good for me,” he whispers. “I’ll reward you.” 

You follow with an urgent nod, pleased when his hand slides down the waistband of your shorts and underwear. When his fingers brush against the flushed, sticky folds of your cunt, you keen loudly, unable to keep it together.

“So needy.” You can’t tell if it’s an insult or not the way he growls the word against your ear, grip on your throat tightening. “Need my help that bad, huh?” 

“Yes, god.”

“I am not god,” he grinds out, voice dark. For a second, the illusion shatters and you glance up at him. His eyes are endless, an ancient thing looking back at you. You freeze in his hold, a prey caught in a trap. Then he softens, pressing a kiss to your brow. “Tell me what you need, Pretty.” 

“Hands. Need your hands.” 

A bolt of pleasure goes through you when Seungcheol’s middle finger circles your clit. Your nails dig into his wrist, leaving little crescent moons behind. His ministrations are leisurely, giving you what you want but not as fast as you want it. 

That’s Seungcheol’s game. He’ll give you what you want, only when he feels like it. You feel a sense of deja vu, realizing that you���ve been here before. Snatches of memories flash through your mind. They pass through your grip like sand, none of them firm enough to grab onto. 

“Missed you,” you mumble. “Can’t sleep without you.”

“Ah, there it is.” 

Seungcheol is pleased with your recollection. You can tell when he relents his teasing touches, fingers drifting down to press a single digit into your heat. Your stomach flips when he does, relief sweeping through you as he shallowly fucks you with a single finger.

It’s not enough but it’s better. You shiver in his hold, going a little slack in his arms, hips twitching. He’s content to have you like this, working your cunt slowly, watching your reactions as your breathing catches and restarts. 

“Feel good?” 

“So good.” You can barely get the reply out, words faint. “Thank you.”

“Anything for you, Pretty.” 

His kiss is soft against your cheekbone, at odds with the grip he still has on your throat. You feel his hand like a comforting weight, loving the feel of it resting against your pulse. He doesn’t squeeze or choke you, content just to hold you against him. 

Seungcheol pulls his fingers out, the wet squelch obscene. “Take this shit off for me,” he tells you, pulling at your shorts. 

His heavy hand rests on your collarbone as your hands shoot to your shorts. Hooking your thumbs in them, you shimmy down, lifting your hips with his help to kick them down your thighs and legs to the floor. 

Cool air hits your heat as you settle against his chest again. He nestles against your neck, fingers resuming the task of peeling you apart as he sinks his pointer and ring finger into you. You clench around him, loving the stretch and the feeling of his fingers pressing against your g-spot as he slowly strokes you, breath hot against your ear. 

Being unable to remember your previous encounter with him feels cruel. Seungcheol knows exactly how to work you toward your high. The slick sound of his fingers between your legs accompanied with his lips pressed against your neck drives you insane. 

Unable to keep still, your hips come up off the bed to meet his hand. The hand not fucking you to insanity slides under your shirt. Heat trails his touch. He traces the curve of your breast and your breath stutters, catching in your throat. His nails scrape against sensitive skin, moving higher until he drags his touch over your nipple. 

The heel of Seungcheol’s hand presses firmly into your clit. You mewl, thrashing against him, closer and closer to your peak. His strokes turn harsh, finger-fucking you at a brutal pace while his other hand tweaks your nipple, the pleasure-sting making you quake. 

“Come on,” he urges, voice deep. Sharp teeth scrape against your throat. “Come for me, Pretty.” 

Everything turns to static as you clench around his fingers. You squeeze so tight he can barely continue stroking you through your peak. There’s a high-pitched ring in your ears as you pant through it, vaguely aware that Seungcheol is muttering something against your ear that you don’t understand. 

As your orgasm fades, so do you. The world becomes soft at the edges. You feel Seungcheol’s heartbeat against your back and smell jasmine, but you slowly drift away from him, barely able to catch his growl of remember me next time before you’re gone. 

-

Cold granite countertop digs into your knees. You barely register the pain, one hand pressed flat to the counter, the other reaching behind you to tangle in Seungcheol’s hair. Your hot breath skates across the surface, the cool stone not enough to combat the heat of your skin. 

Seungcheol’s face is pressed as far as he can go into your cunt, the flat of his tongue dragging from top to bottom. You’re nearly catatonic, eyes rolling behind your eyelids as he fucks you with his tongue. 

He grunts when your fingers tighten in his hair, holding him close as he sucks harshly at you. He’s loud as he eats you out, his hunger something more demonic and fiendish than you’re used to. You don’t care, pressing back into him as he mouths at you. 

His hands firmly pry you open, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. You can feel the bruising way he holds you, uncaring as he works you toward another high, so desperate for it that you’re begging. 

Begging for what, you don’t know. None of the words that fall from your mouth really make sense. You’re a rambling disaster under the mastery of his mouth, and as you tiptoe the line of your high, it feels like you’ll never unscramble your thoughts again.

You come again, feeling the way you flood his mouth. He doesn’t care, growling low in his throat as his mouth becomes more insistent, fingers pressing into you even harder. Something takes over him in that moment, his grip on you so fierce that you think you might break.

But you don’t. You never do. 

-

“Pretty,” Seungcheol murmurs, cocking his head to the side. Your mouth aches where it’s stretched harshly around his cock, spit leaking from the side of your lips. His thumb brushes across the spilled fluid, grinning as he leisurely pops it into his mouth and sucks. “Such a pretty thing, mouth full of cock.”

You hum around him eagerly, shifting back and forth on your knees. He’s got you on the floor of your bedroom in front of your bed, hands linked obediently behind your back while he stands in front of you. His stomach ripples as he flexes his hips forward, driving himself deeper into your mouth.

Your throat seizes around him again and you feel yourself gag. He pouts and pulls back, letting you gasp for breath. Your mouth is a mess of saliva and cum, wet and sore and battered. You don’t care, looking up at him with watery eyes and sticky lips.

“So important to me,” he whispers, nodding as though to assure you. Your stomach flips and you shuffle toward him eagerly, mouth open. “So perfect for me.” 

Instead of using words, you stick your tongue out, eager. Seungcheol grins and the room darkens. There is a buzz in the back of your mind that you can’t place, ignoring the feeling in favor of watching him slowly slide back in, letting your tongue scrape the bottom of his shaft.

Seungcheol sighs, tilting his head back as he sets a slow pace, using your mouth as he pleases. He’s beautiful like this, all tan skin, heaving chest, sweat sliding down his neck, red hair damp. His eyes are closed but his mouth is open, cherry lips parted sweetly to show his sharp little fangs as he pants. 

So pretty, you think. Even with teeth sharper than they should be.  

-

You’re standing in front of a bar named Hush. The pink neon burns bright against the gritty night, hurting your eyes. Turning around in a circle, you notice there’s no one else in the alleyway. There’s a certain charge to the air, a hum that you can’t place, but grows stronger when you turn to face the bar again. 

A single door sits under the sign, closed and waiting to be opened. Chewing your bottom lip, you stride toward the door, unsure what’s waiting for you on the other side. 

With a hard yank, you pull the door open and step into the darkness of the room beyond. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the single, flickering light over the bar, but once they do, you see it’s a tiny room. A single piano sits in the corner near two booths, and there’s only one bar top in the back, a few stools in front of it. 

A single man sits at the bar but he’s facing you, leaning back on his elbows as he drinks you in. He’s in a purple suit that would look ridiculous on anyone else, and his red hair is bright enough to light the night like a flame. 

He cocks his head to the side, a wicked smirk on his lips. “Hi,” he greets. “Can’t sleep?”

“How can you tell?” 

“I’m familiar with these things.” 

He looks like a devil. You can’t place your finger on what exactly about his face makes you think so. His eyes are dark as the depths of the ocean and when he smiles, you swear his teeth are sharp. “Need some help?” 

You do need help sleeping. The doctors can’t help you. Therapy doesn’t help you. Something tells you maybe this stranger can help you. 

“Please.”

“It would be my pleasure, Pretty.” 

-

“Seungcheol,” you gasp, hand flying to his wrist to grip him. “Fuck, holy shit.” 

Fuck is absolutely right. His hand tightens around your throat, placed just right to make it harder for you to breathe. Your thoughts swim as he fucks into you, his sweaty chest sliding against your back as his strokes grow harsher. 

Your knees slide on the bed under the strength of his thrusts. He growls at you to keep up and you whimper, flexing your thighs to remain upright as he drives his cock into you at a pace that sends you hurtling toward your peak. 

“So fucking difficult,” he grunts in your ear. His teeth nip your ear lobe and you whine, intoxicated by the smell of jasmine and the tightening knot in your stomach. “You’re always so difficult.” 

You don’t know what he means by that, but you don’t think it’s the first time you’ve heard something like that from him. Your thoughts turn to liquid you come around him though, feeling the way you grip his cock like a vice, seizing in his hold.

Everything turns to nothing. You can’t hear, see or feel anything but static. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but squeeze and squeeze and squeeze.

And then you're gasping for air, lungs burning as you gulp it down. Falling forward, you crash into the sheets and into complete darkness. 

-

“Why do you come and go so often?” 

Seungcheol lifts his head from the bed to turn and look at you. He’s still naked and covered in a sheen of sweat, crimson hair clinging to his forehead. He’s on his stomach laying opposite of you, his head by your feet. 

Something sparks in his eyes at your question, his heavy brows pulling together, cherry lips downturning. “I only come as often as you let me.” 

“What do you mean?”

His face twitches in what you think might be annoyance. “You have a complicated relationship with me.” 

“We have a relationship?” 

He snorts and turns away from you, resting his chin on his arms as he settles back down, closing his eyes. He reminds you of a cat - a particularly dangerous cat, you think. “I suppose. Most people couldn’t say they have a relationship with me, and yet I keep letting you invite me back.”

“Invite you?” 

“Hush. Stop asking questions.” 

“But I don’t… understand.” 

“Good,” he quips. “Because every time you do, you send me away only to invite me back in.” 

-

“Come on,” Seungcheol teases. “You wanted it, so do the work.” 

Your thighs ache. A pitiful sound leaves you as you nod, putting your hands on Seungcheol’s shoulders as you lift your hips, legs shaking. You’re exhausted and burned out, but the ache you need filled as you slowly slide up his cock drives you to keep going. 

Dropping back down in his lap, you feel sparks. Your movements are slow. Seungcheol’s hands are tucked behind his head where he leans back on your pillows, fathomless eyes watching you as you ride him, a little uncoordinated and weak from the exertion he’s put you through all evening.

“Cheol, my thighs,” you protest, instead trying to grind into him. He raises a brow and you pout. “Please.”

“No. Come on, Pretty, you can do it. You can fuck yourself on my cock and make yourself come. Come on.” 

“Cheol.”

“No. Do it yourself.” 

Gritting your teeth, you let your annoyance fuel you. Anger burns right alongside pleasure as you find the strength to do exactly as he tells you. Leveraging your hold on his shoulders, you continue to spear yourself on him at a steady pace and slowly, your anger is replaced with bliss.

Seungcheol feels incredible. He’s hard to take, stretching you to the max and at this position, he’s so deep that you swear you can feel him in your stomach. You keep going, nails biting into his skin and drawing blood but you don’t care. 

Fire burns in his eyes as he watches you. You stare right back, seething at the way he’s making you do it yourself, a little bit of humiliation stinging the edges of your pride. You can tell he thrives on this, satisfied that what you want outweighs any sort of desire to be stubborn.

Somehow, he always wins like this. Always manages to get you to do what he wants. He’s sneaky like that, knowing just what button to press to get you where he wants you. 

Sometimes you feel like you’re a puppet whose strings are connected to his fingertips. 

Either way, you manage to drive yourself to an orgasm, shuddering around him as you seat yourself fully in his lap, throbbing around him. He lets out a long groan, eyes fluttering shut as he struggles to keep his composure.

Leaning back against his knees, you catch your breath. He’s still painfully hard inside of you, and when his eyes open, you see his hunger isn’t sated. Your heart lips when he surges forward, fast as an adder. His mouth crashes into yours hungrily and you let him have you, eager at the flutter in your stomach as he shifts, altering the angle. 

“I’m not done,” he mutters, kisses turning into sharp bites. “So hush while I take what’s mine.” 

-

Something wakes you up from sleep. It’s too dark in your room to see, but your heart is hammering and your hands are quivering. Leaning toward your nightstand, you search for your phone. All you feel is cool wood, no device anywhere.

The dark is oppressive. You don’t remember your room being this dark, the blackout curtains serving as a good device to keep out the city and streetlights, but never so much that you feel swallowed whole. Lost. Devoured.

A tingle buzzes at the back of your neck. You freeze in bed, looking into the never ending darkness. Silence roars in your ears, the outside world completely removed. You can’t even hear your own pulse or breath, the quiet so heavy that panic starts to rise in your throat.

You can’t see but you know you’re not alone - can feel the solid press of something else in the room. 

Too afraid to make noise, you resume the search for your phone, fingers moving slowly across the top of your night stand. You can’t find it. 

Something presses into the mattress at the end of your bed. You feel the dip under its weight but can’t hear the creek of springs. You give up the search for your phone, snatching your hand to your chest and squeezing your eyes shut.

It’s a dream, you tell yourself. It’s a dream it’s a dream it’s a dream it’s- 

The thing in your room moves closer. A scream works its way up your throat where it gets stuck, lodged and unmoving. You squeeze your eyes shut harder, fireworks of color exploding behind your eyelids as you do. 

“I know you’re awake, Pretty.” The voice is so low you can barely make out the words. They scrape against you like claws. “You can’t keep doing this,” it says, almost a sigh in its voice. “You know what this is. What I am.” 

“Go away,” you whisper, voice weak. “Leave me alone.”

“Don’t do this again.” 

“Go away, Seungcheol.” 

There’s a low growl that you can feel as it vibrates the air. “As you wish.”

-

The neon sign above the door says Hush. It burns bright and pink against the night sky. You look around, unsure how you got here. Sighing, you pull out your phone to check the time. It’s 3:33 in the morning, which means you’re probably a victim of your sleep walking again. 

Sliding your phone back into your pocket, you look up at the sign again. There’s a little blue moon to accompany the pink cursive neon, and though you don’t think you’ve ever seen this bar before, there's a magnetism about it that draws you in. 

Curious, you walk up to the door and go in. The lights are dim and you have trouble seeing at first, but you can make out that there’s a piano in the corner, two booths and a small bar with some stools. A man sits at the bar, his back turned to you. 

“We’re closed,” he grumbles without turning to look at you. You frown, cocking your head as you drink him in. 

The purple suit he wears is an odd choice. His hair is the color of blood, slicked back and a surprisingly nice contrast to the bright color of his suit. A single light flickers above him, painting him in a gold hue.

“What is this place?” you ask, ignoring the fact that it’s closed. 

He doesn’t answer for a second. You think he’s going to ignore you, but finally he says, “Do you have trouble sleeping?” 

You’re surprised by the question. “Yes, actually.” 

“I can help.” 

“Really?” You step further into the bar, watching as he turns to look at you over his shoulder. He is painfully pretty, the kind of beauty that reminds you of old paintings of Lucifer. “How?” 

“Are you accepting my help?” 

Without hesitation you answer, “Yes.” 

His cherry red lips twitch and he shakes his head. Picking up his drink, he polishes it off before standing to turn you fully. The weight of his presence presses down on you like an invisible blanket, weighing you down.

“Of course you do.” He strides toward you and though your instincts tell you to run, something else tells you to stay. He looks down at you with a pair of eyes that threaten to swallow you whole if you let them. His lashes are silky and long, a delicate balance to his heavy gaze. “You always need me, right, Pretty?” 

You nod, a word - a name - buzzing on your tongue as he looms over you. “Please,” you whisper, thoughts a little cottony, a little dizzy. “Seungcheol.”

He grins, revealing sharp teeth. “Hush,” he murmurs. “You’re mine.” 

-

TAG LIST

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cherrylovescheol

@cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst

@thepoopdokyeomtouched @avochele @eoieopda @onlywon4u

@hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy

[he-is-lightning-in-a-bottle]

My God I Love This Show

I think I've rewatched that final breakroom scene from Jun & Jun episode 2 at least a dozen times since it first aired yesterday, and I need to rave about it in its own post rather than just tags.

That scene is... perfection.

First, for non-Korean speakers, it's important to note they've already dropped into banmal with each other in private (the most intimate and casual linguistic form of address). This establishes them as societal equals, despite their wildly different social positions as boss and employee. It was an intentional choice by Choi Jun at the end of episode 1, when he took off his glasses, leaned over the seated Lee Jun in his office and greeted him properly with "오랜만이야" (Long time no see.) The fact that he dropped into banmal here was likely a bigger clue to Lee Jun that they know each other intimately than the actual words Choi Jun chose.

So in the breakroom scene. (!!!) Choi Jun is radiating confident dom energy and Lee Jun is INTO IT. He begins by making sure Lee Jun wasn't hurt by scalding hot coffee and telling Lee Jun to take off his shirt. But then he does the most batshit dom thing ever and starts removing HIS OWN CLOTHES. He explains its because he has a spare shirt for himself and plans to dress Lee Jun in the shirt he's been wearing all day. Why? Because he has a scent kink! And he just says it out loud. He wants Lee Jun to smell like he's HIS.

He checks Lee Jun out like a starving man and asks, "would my size fit you?" WHICH IS THE WILDEST BLATANT SEXUAL INNUENDO and Lee Jun KNOWS its innuendo because he clutches his pearls with his hand over his heart and replies "don't people say you worry too much?" causing Choi Jun to call him cute. Lee Jun can't help but smile shyly at the compliment, and Choi Jun pounces, immediately switching gears and ordering him to hurry up and take off his shirt. Lee Jun asks "right here?" as if that's the only weird or concerning thing about being told to disrobe, so Choi Jun takes off his own vest. This man is doing everything in his power to both rattle and comfort his cute former idol childhood bestie, and I AM HOLDING MY BREATH FROM THE SEXUAL TENSION.

And then we get the first truly jaw-dropping scene. Choi Jun calls Lee Jun high maintenance (the Korean phrase is better translated as "You're a handful."). Lee Jun bristles and apologizes. Choi Jun steps closer and tells him he doesn't need to apologize; it's a compliment. He LIKES it when he needs to put his hands on someone to care for them and it makes them smell like him; it makes them feel like THEY ARE HIS. The collar caress!! The neck tie grab and pull!!! The audacity of starting to unbutton Lee Jun's shirt for him since he's taking too long!!!! MY HEAD EXPLODING.

Lee Jun freaks out a little and puts distance between them again, so they have another fun little conversation filled with innuendo about repaying favors American style, which Choi Jun says involves less clothing!

And then we get the second jaw-dropping scene right on the heels of the first. Choi Jun says Lee Jun has grown fiestier (he likes them feisty? just a guess), but that he's still "squishy" on the inside. Lee Jun is already looking 10 times more secure in this conversation, unhesitatingly flirting back through the entire next few dialog exchanges. The eye contact! THE MOST PERFECTLY EXECUTED WAIST GRAB!!

The "you can teach me!!!" The way Lee Jun takes that as permission to manhandle Choi Jun right back, grabbing his hands and moving him around like a marionette!!!!

THE NECK GRAB!!!!!

And that final last line from Choi Jun that sent me SCREAMING INTO MY PILLOWS:

Looking at the rolled up napkin in his hand, "Malleable is something soft..." and then looking at Lee Jun's lips like the very thirsty man he is, he finally makes eye-contact again and finishes with, "squishy is... something sexy?" Lee Jun gulps. Cut scene.

MY HEART CANNOT HANDLE HOW PERFECT THIS WAS. From the dialog to the body language to the eye-work to the kink exposure to the RIDICULOUSLY HOT EXPOSED FOREARMS ON CHOI JUN. I am in awe and Korea is FEEDING ME.

@absolutebl this seems like your jam

[stars-n-spice]

Bad Batch Food Headcanons:

Was having the meal of champions (soju, galbi, and buldak) and it got me thinking,,

So have this collection of random food headcanons:

Crosshair insists he can handle spicy food but he cannot. He's eating hot cheetos and he's fucking crying

Wrecker had to build up a tolerance for spice - he fucking LOVES spicy food ("It's like an explosion in my mouth!!") but couldn't handle it at first. Now he can handle buldak with half of the spice packet!

Hunter and Tech can handle their spice decently but Echo isn't too fond of spicy foods.

Like Wrecker, Omega built up a tolerance to spice, but also like Crosshair she's sensitive to it and will insist that she can handle her spice

Echo is a picky eater. That's like canon. He doesn't care that he's a grown man, he's ordering mac-n-cheese at the fancy restaurant. Deal with it.

Tech is another picky eater but he thrives off instant stuff like ramen or snacks like chips. Man can plow through a whole Costco-sized bag of tortilla chips in one sitting without realizing it.

Hunter has a stomach of steel, he'll eat anything and everything. It's only a matter of REMEMBERING to fucking eat. He'll stand up, nearly faint, then go, "What the hell?" and it's because he hasn't eaten since fucking yesterday.

No Crosshair, an ice coffee is NOT a suitable breakfast. How many times do we have to tell you? And aren't you fucking lactose intolerant???

Oh they love their dinosaur chicken nuggets though - especially Omega and Wrecker. They'll dunk them in ketchup and create a whole murder crime scene.

Omega LOVES soup. Any and all kinds! I think she'd really enjoy udon or 냉면 the most though. The slurp-ier the better!

I feel like Tech is a curry enjoyer. Indian curry, Thai curry, Japanese curry - he loves it all.

Rip Crosshair you would've loved flavored soju 😔

Rip Wrecker you would've loved Korean BBQ and all you can eat sushi

I don't think Hunter likes cold foods. His teeth are sensitive and they hurt when he eats cold stuff like ice cream (no I'm not projecting)

Crosshair likes mint ice cream. Echo likes rocky road. Wrecker enjoys strawberry or sherbert. Omega likes cookie dough. Tech likes caramel or coffee.

Ice cream is like the only kind of "dessert" that Crosshair likes (despite being lactose intolerant) - he doesn't really have a sweet tooth

WAIT CROSSHAIR WHEN I TELL YOU ABOUT BINGSU!!!

SPAM. SPAM. SPAM. Shut up they WOULD eat spam and idc what people say I fucking LOVE spam. Spam is the love of my life, they could never make me hate spam. I used to write parody love songs about spam as a kid. They would enjoy breakfasts of spam, rice, and eggs.

They'd devour the shit out of Mexican food. Like CMON-

Feel like Omega would like fiedo. And Echo too

Wrecker thinks breakfast burritos are godsend - he absolutely loves papas and chorizo

Y'know what would be funny? Echo being a picky eater yet LOVEING Mole. It's not for everyone (I personally like it) but he thinks it's good

Omega has a boba addiction. She has ro have it every week. Her favorites are Taro, Strawberry Matcha, and Honey Milk Tea

Only Hunter and Wrecker like boba; Echo, Crosshair, and Tech find the texture funny but they enjoy the drinks

I feel like Echo is a big bread eater. My sister reminds me a LOT of Echo and she absolutely ADORES bread (she's also a picky eater) - catch him at 85° or Paris Baguette

Hunter would love Soul Food and he also can work a grill

Rip Echo you would’ve loved soba and you would've loved 맥주

Tech actually secretly (not so secretly) has a sweet tooth - he really likes muffins and pies specifically

Omega and Wrecker record "Food Review" videos together

I have,, so many more ideas and whatnot but I'm leaving it here-

Ugh I just,,, I have so many foods I'd love to introduce them too-

[cr4yolaas]

mezzo forte — half return

track 4: the horse | masterlist | track 6: workaholic methodology

translation notes: nanay = mom; lola = grandma; ulam = a filipino dish that goes with rice; sinigang = a soupy dish containing meat, veggies, fish sauce, etc.

the air conditioning rattles inside the dining room, the noise serving as background noise to a scene that reminds hajime of home. an amalgamation of steamed bok choy, marinated pork belly, and acrid fish sauce wafts through the air. this week's ulam is sinigang. her favorite, he recalls.

the empty space beside the pair leaves a bitter taste of emptiness and longing on their tongues, but neither expresses it, nor are they aware of the other's parallel feelings. instead, they sit in comfortable silence while hajime's nanay spoons the soup into a serving bowl and his lola plates the freshly cooked rice, the scene reminiscent of childhood summers spent together under the blazing heat with the promise of good, hearty food.

billows of steam dance up, up, and up into the ceiling and drift away into nothingness, all while two chairs squeak against wood, alerting the table of the women's arrival. tooru thanks them for the meal excitedly. something is amiss.

"it's too hot to eat sinigang in this weather," his mother scolds, despite carefully pouring a spoonful of the soup into her own bowl of rice. "you should've asked me to cook something cooler. i would've been fine with cooking those korean cold noodles you always like."

"it's fine," her son responds earnestly. his words are slightly muffled from the bits of meat and veggies stuffed in his cheeks, a habit he hadn't grown out of since his youth. "it tastes good, anyways."

tooru's eyes light up with his own taste of the meal. "really good. it tastes really, really good. they don't have food like this in argentina, you know."

hajime's lola chuckles at his remark, her back flushed against her seat and her hands folded on her lap. "i'm sure you missed this," she remarks. something in her tone is airy yet playful. "hajime told me about your travels. have you found any lovers overseas? any romance?"

"oh, yes! it's good for you guys to find someone to settle with at your age," his mother chirps in, and the two men are choked with shock.

unease riddles itself into both of their bones. there's a truthful, honest answer that they're both capable of crafting in their heads. but if there is one thing they have in common, it's that they're stubborn. so, together (unknowingly), they push away their respective realities and opt for something vague. something that prances around the bushes of what they know to be factual.

the argentinian is the first to speak up. "i have a little bit of an interest in someone, but i don't think i plan on doing anything about it soon." there's an awkward chuckle tacked onto the end of his statement and a crack in his syllables, but he tries desperately not to think about it. he glances over at hajime in hopes that whatever his friend says will save them from the pressure.

"same for me. work's too busy these days, i can't focus on those things right now, nanay."

much to his demise, it doesn't save them, at all.

--

"...and we walked around the villages for quite a bit, talked to a few locals; it was fun. i think the scenery helped with my writing block."

the man across from her wears a corporate smile and it irks her, almost. he's not the ideal image of a manager. she'd envisioned something more friendly, something therapeutic, far from the person sitting on her couch writing down notes dutifully.

"that's good," he exclaims absentmindedly as he continues to jot down note after note after note. she wonders what he could possibly be writing about. her poor time management skills? her diminishing motivation and lack of individualism in a growing sea of competition? she doesn't want to imagine it.

he pauses for a moment. the notebook in his hands plops neatly onto the coffee table, and his hands settle onto his lap. it's too professional. too robotic. "have you considered going on tour?"

"sorry?"

"well, i was talking to your label, and they believed that it'd be a fitting time for you to do a tour around the country considering the rapid success of your most recent album." the man's stare burns laser-ignited holes into her flesh, as if he isn't asking her to consider the offer, but rather telling her to do it.

"but i thought they wanted me to begin working on a new album," she quips. there's a small edge of bitterness to her voice that leaks out against her will.

her manager, with all the neutrality and competence he can muster, chuckles softly at her concern. "of course, we already thought about that. we were wondering if you would like to try having a third party produce your instrumentals, in order to lessen the burden and ensure faster production. all you'd have to do while on tour is work on your lyrics and record. it's time efficient, and distributes all the responsibilities as opposed to you handling everything on your end."

she wants to laugh at him, but she knows it's improper and rude when all he's trying to do is maximize her profit -- the job that he was assigned to do. but she can't quite fight the twitch beneath her eye and the shifting of her weight in her disturbance. "look, i understand you're trying to help me, but-" her breath hitches. a tinge of anger bubbles up in her throat and she's scared it's going to make things worse. her hands grab at the fabric of her pants as if to restrain herself from unleashing something she doesn't quite mean. "i've been doing everything the same way every year -- i've composed every song, i've written every lyric, all the music videos are directed by me, and i don't get why you would think changing any of that would help."

anxiety crawls up the surface area of her spine and clings onto her. her manager is silent, evidently deep in thought, and his eyes drift away to the window. his hand smooths his hair away from his forehead, the action embedding some sort of fear into her that she knows is misplaced. "let's talk about this another time. i'll give you a while to consider the deal. i hope you can compose a clear and concise answer by then," he speaks, his tone far too formal for her liking. he excuses himself before she can respond, and before she can think about what he said, the door closes (nearly slams) shut behind her.

she can't help the small yet fleeting curse that spills from her lips, nor the sigh that escapes shortly after. irritation is a cruel and ugly feeling, she decides.

but the door squeaks open just as quickly as it was shut. footsteps -- heavy, loud, and slow -- approach the couch from behind. when she looks up, she's met with a pair of faces looking down at her.

"we brought drinks," tooru chirps out in an attempt to alleviate the friction coagulating in the air. "and food. from iwa's mom, of course."

the upturn of her lips is beyond her control. "i really need that," she breathes out. hajime shakes his head at the misery before him.

"what'd you do?"

"i didn't do anything. it's just more grievances from the industry. they want this, they want that; anything that'll grant them more money will do."

the two make themselves comfortable beside her, with the more lively of the duo on her right and her muse on her left. tooru pops open the bottle of soju unceremoniously while hajime pries open the tupperware lid on the table. the scene is welcoming and warm, a stark contrast to the cold monotony of her manager and the white-hot resentment simmering in her lungs. it feels right.

her eyes fall to the desktop at the side of the room and the haphazard arrangement of materials on her table (a leather notebook filled with vague compositions of soon-to-be-lyrics, the same pen she's been using since her second year of high school, an expensive microphone provided to her by her label that she needs to clean more often), and for the first time in a long while, she finds herself questioning the importance of her career. gone are the days of drafting cheesy songs in her bedroom and singing about the infatuation that seems to have altered her perception of the word permanently; she's become a cog to the machine and she only realizes it now. something in her aches.

hajime's stare follows hers, his cheeks puffed up with warm sinigang and rice. he questions the furrow in her brow and the displeasure in her gaze and finds his mind running back to the other night. the syrupy words and heartfelt verbiage clearly addressed to someone he may or may not know plague his mind, and he wonders if he'd find something similar in the notes sprawled across her desk.

tooru is silent. as opposed to his friends, whose eyes are cast to the same point, he's stuck watching them. the proximity of their legs, the coordination in their movement, the warmth that exudes from their combined presence; it all slowly chips away at whatever buried hope he'd carried with him from argentina to his home country.

it's a half return to normalcy. they're all bound together by long-time loyalty and care, but with the transfiguration of their hearts, it's different. there's a shift in the air attributed to maturation and growth. they don't want to acknowledge it.

♪ sorry if this is vague </3 i don't want to explain too in depth in fear of exposing too much plot but essentially this a moment where they realize that they can't really go back to normal (as in, the way they used to be as friends) with all of their changing lives and changing feelings

♪ i say this every time but i hope this chapter makes sense LOL its a lot less silly and more just a feeling of dread

♪ slightly based on half return by adrienne lenker (such a beautiful song)

♪ tooru definitely did gossip with hajime's mom and grandma while they were cooking. he loves listening to them rant about their annoying neighbors or lovesick coworkers

♪ i hc that hajime speaks in taglish (tagalog + english) on accident sometimes with yn and tooru but they've listened to his mom and lola talk enough that they understand

♪ i dont have much to say i just want to get to the next chapter already

taglist: @froyaoya @causenessus @guitarstringed-scars @yuminako @chemiru @sunnyskiezzzz @httpsivy @itsdragonius @theycallmenanamisgirl @wyrcan @19calicos @hunnies4bunnies @mawenskiblue @diorzs @loverlunaire @mfcherry @solaqes

[dropthedemiurge]

Boys Be Brave [EP.5] // Translation notes

I'm back with my - I guess?? - already weekly analysis of something Gaga subs might've missed in this show. Because apparently, the silly show got deeper and I'm staying here until the very end :D

First of all, I was curious and checked whether there is anything about Kiseob's illness, and there is! There are two diagnoses:

상세불명의 심실중격결손 상세불명의 심방중격결손 Unspecified Ventricular Septal Defect, Unspecified Atrial Septal Defect

I am not a doctor definitely, but quick googling told me it's a heart defect (also called as 'a hole in the heart') which can have symptoms of heart malfunctioning. Which would! Explain even more! Why Kiseob has wrist watch that always measures his pulse and why on several occasions he was wondering why his heart was beating so fast next to Jinwoo (well, one for obvious reasons and another one is this).

And it's something you have since birth so he's been dealing with medication his entire life. Which would also explain further - after the scene with his sister - why the urge to be a people pleaser is so serious and so ingrained in him.

Another interesting language detail I noticed in this scene. Kiseob says "That's why I just agree to anything" but it doesn't translate well to english, because the verb 좋아/좋아해 can mean "I like" (eating medicine) and "I like (the idea)/I agree". So first he started lying that yes, he likes taking medicine, and that transferred to him saying that yes, he likes this, he agrees with this (whatever that is, anything he is proposed with)

"I cannot like anyone, right?" "Why not? You're a bastard with a lot of money"

This phrase references all the previous phrases that other people used to describe Kiseob, but Balgeum doesn't sense the real problem of his friend because the phrasing is general, it can also mean 'I have no chance of loving someone', and that's why Balegum thinks it's just Kiseob having low self-esteem or something. And also to him having money = being able to love, letting himself confess and date the one he loves, so of course, that's his answer. Kiseob has a lot of money, why wouldn't he confess to Jinwoo if he likes him?

But Kiseob can't because he doesn't even know his own feelings, and everyone around tells him he doesn't have the ability to love someone.

"Giving me (toilet paper) as if I moved to a new house"

Now, I cannot be the only one thinking years ago why the hell Koreans give each other huge packages of toilet paper when they visit someone xD But this is also a cultural thing!

When your friends move to a new house, you are supposed to come with gifts and usually with very practical ones, like toilet paper (very common gift). Rich friends can give you coffee machines or humidifiers or something like that. In my country, when you visit friends (not moving houses but still), you usually bring some desserts or food to have with tea. So for some countries, toilet paper is a norm :D

Balgeum has been living in his small apartment for a long time but it's the first time Inho visits his house so he's giving it a gesture of respect (but still an awkward one).

[Interrupting my broadcast to scream about cuteness and awkwardness of Balgeum x Inho AAAAAHHHHH Now back to the schedule]

...No, we will definitely focus on scribbling over Jung Kiseob's name for 100th time, absolutely distracted from any historical knowledge going in the background ^^

Oh! By the way! I remember being surprised that, apparently, some people on social media were uncomfortable with Kiseob seemingly 'feminizing' himself to be likeable by Jinwoo. Let me tell you that no, Kiseob doesn't do that at all!

There is nothing truly that indicated that he wants to be a ideal girl for Jinwoo (who has non-gendered perfect type list as I mentioned in my previous translation notes post!). He doesn't even use typical school-girl aegyo on Jinwoo (aka acting cute), maybe a tiny bit but it's not typical and it's not usually in his language at all. He talks gently and softly a lot! But he doesn't add typical cuteness in the way he talks (like there's no pouting, mumbling words and ending sentences with -ung).

I talked about dress = one-piece = jumper suit being the same in Korean but Kiseob literally only follows what Jinwoo wrote about a person he likes (not girl). As I described it, "he's using loopholes in Jinwoo's specific list in a true himbo way" :D He doesn't really do anything girly and doesn't pretend to be a girl as I can sense.

And I don't think I need to clarify another time, but falling in love during first snow/first sight is one of Jinwoo's list. Which Kiseob already fulfilled but he doesn't know that, and he just saw Jinwoo being with Hyejin witnessing first snow, which was the last straw for him to admit his failure and give up pursuing Jinwoo.

By the way, Koreans really think the first snowfall is a romantic event, like there are saying you'll fall in love with/be happy dating with someone you'll be with during first snow^^ It comes up in many Kdramas.

[haedalkoo]

https://x.com/sevenrchive/status/1821454178461360347

Hii,

Here in the above conversation the official subtitles says "hyung you're great" or something but ppl said he says "I like you alot" so i was confused which one is true. I actually got reminded of it because there's other scene where jungkook says "when you came here you looked pretty" nd the official subtitles said "when you came here you were looking great" or you were great...

Hi! I think JK says 형이 참 좋다 which technically could be translated in two ways: you're so good (great) or I like you a lot. Usually the verb 좋다 is used to say something is good (when you agree with something, you say 좋다! or if you like something you could say 이거 너무 좋다 "this is really good.") 좋아하다 tends to have more of that "I like" meaning. 난 너를 좋아해 = I like you.

좋다 (1) uses 이/가 particle and 좋아하다 (2) uses 를/을. (1) means "to be likeable" while (2) means "to like". One is a descriptive verb, two is an action verb. So:

(1) 커피가 좋아: (This) coffee is nice

(2) 커피를 좋아해: I like coffee

I also took a look at Korean forums that tried to translate 참 좋다 into English and all of them use "great", I would say it's an informal expression to express something is really good. Still, 좋다 contains that meaning of "like" so JK could have meant I like you a lot. However, to me the convo read as it was translated: hyung, you're great! I love you! (= sorry I hung up on you lol ily ur the best don't be mad)

I haven't gotten the chance to see the Korean subtitles for when JK tells Jimin he looked pretty but I did hear a clear "이뻐" which means pretty. But my guy speaks too fast/slurred sometimes for me so I can't tell you for sure! 😭

Hope this helps!

[welcometothejianghu]

Welcome to another round of W2 Tells You What You Should See, where W2 (me) tries to sell you (you) on something you should be watching. Today's choice: 하이에나/Hyena.

Okay, I'm assuming I just convinced a lot of you by that poster alone. But just in case, here's a trailer along the same lines!

Hyena is a 2020 Korean drama about two lawyers who get into a relationship under false pretenses, end the relationship, and then still have to deal with one another in their professional lives, while also uncovering massive corruption in the halls of jurisprudence.

This is absolutely one of those shows where, if this is the kind of thing you like, this is a strong example of that kind of thing. You know the beats it's going to hit and the turns it's going to twist, so you're just here to watch the rest unfold. It's not really a courtroom drama; while there are court scenes, they're few and far-between. Most of it is about their lives outside of court: preparing for cases, negotiating power dynamics, and working for some shady-ass rich people alongside a cast of delightful supporting characters.

It's no great work of art, but it's a lot of fun, and it's surprisingly more complicated than it appears at first blush. It's also not a huge commitment, as shows go -- just your standard Korean block of sixteen hour-long episodes -- so here's a shortish set of five reasons I think you should give this a trial (get it? trial?) run.

1. Just fuck that pretty boy up

This show knows that women want one thing, and one thing only: Ju Jihoon in mild to moderate distress.

I love this tall drink of water in everything I've seen him in (just wait until the day I finish my rec for Kingdom!), and this is no exception. I imagine that the entire pitch for this show was, what if we put Ju Jihoon in sharp, well-tailored suits and have him menaced by a bunch of beautiful professional women 10-25 years older than he is? And the Netflix executives, in a startling moment of common sense, greenlit the heck out of that.

His character, Yoon Heejae, is a hotshot lawyer from a family of hotshot lawyers and judges who works for a hotshot law firm. He embodies that certain kind of cocky, toxic masculinity that makes you idly fantasize about getting his tie caught in the shredder so it strangles him. Over the course of the show, you get to see him taken down a peg time and again until he learns to be submissive to the right people, instead of to the wrong ones. And he's much, much happier that way! So yeah, if you enjoy seeing a beautiful man get that smug smile metaphorically and literally slapped right off his handsome mug, Hyena has you covered.

I had to replay the champagne scene like ten times, fuck. No, I'm not going to tell you what I mean by that. Watch the show!

2. The titular Hyena

The major disappointment I had with this show is that it did not bring up the one -- one! -- thing everybody knows about hyenas, which is that a lot of people think the females have penises. Because oh boy, Jung Geumja has the biggest dick in the show by a mile.

A lot of times when people say a female character is a disaster, they mean, tee hee, she spilled her coffee and accidentally said something she shouldn't have! Bitch, Jung Geumja said that shit on purpose.

She's an attorney who's willing to adopt some hella unethical tactics for her clients. She's got her goals, but good luck getting her to reveal what they are -- and good luck to her when it comes to achieving them, considering that she's a complete nobody who went to law school much later in life than all the other high-powered attorneys in the show did. That's okay, though! What she lacks in experience, she makes up for in balls-to-the-wall fearlessness.

I love how intentionally bad her aesthetic is. They give her awkward outfits and the worst possible haircut, to say nothing of her hideous cell phone necklace/lanyard/thing. She adopts a more professional demeanor partway through, but the second you let her off the respectability leash, the track suits and big clunky sneakers are back. The couple times she goes real femme, she looks like she's in bad drag. It's ugly-delicious.

Her actor, Kim Hyesoo, is a beautiful woman who looks very good in evening gowns and low-cut blouses. This show intentionally steers her hard in the other direction. It's a kind of protective coloration, Jung Geumja's way of telling all the other predators not to fuck with her, or she will fuck right back.

She's scrappy as hell, despite not actually being a physical fighter -- in fact, she gets the shit beat out of her a couple times. You don't get a whole lot of media where the female lead gets her face kicked in good and proper, or if you do, it's painted as a tragic, vulnerable moment. Jung Geumja slaps on a bandaid and gets right back out to the club the following night.

Her superpower is basically that she has no shame. You think ambulance-chasers are bad? She takes it to the next level.

You really don't see a lot of female characters like this! Sure, you get the Boss Bitch archetype in a lot of legal dramas, but she's always composed and dignified. Jung Geumja has no dignity. She's a sloppy bitch who makes pretty much no effort to leverage her feminine wiles in her day-to-day life (even though the show makes a point that there are men who'd be receptive to it if she did!). She's a nasty top who clearly loves to horrify dignified, presentable people with her yakuza lounge aesthetic.

You could maybe accuse Jung Geumja of being a Mary Sue, but she's, like, a middle-aged woman's Mary Sue. If your teen girl fantasies are all about how you're the most beautiful girl at prom and all the boys like you and you become independently wealthy at your dream job as an interior designer, then your middle-aged fantasies have become how you can look super-hot wearing whatever the fuck you want and still get respected by your colleagues for your extreme competency in your profession and also have handsome men with good jobs beating down your door no matter how much your hair looks like you scalped Paul McCartney c. 1964.

She's absolutely one of those characters where I'd hate her if I had to deal with her myself, but because she's fictional and can't hurt me, I support all her wrongs.

3. Everybody else!

As is the case with good legal dramas, the main lawyers are not the only lawyers! Instead, Hyena has a wonderful cast of supporting characters who become part of the legal eagle team.

They’re exactly the kind of charismatic background weirdos I’ve come to expect from Korean dramas. You’ve got the whole batch: the potential love rival, the secondary romance couple, the supportive nonthreatening bestie, the workplace misfits who are both extemely competent and completely underappreciated at their jobs, and the childhood-friend-turned-cop I couldn't find good promo pictures of for reasons prrrrrobably related to the actor's DUI arrest.

No matter how enjoyable a main romance is (and it is! see point 5!), it cannot sustain a whole sixteen-hour drama on its own. You need to mix it up and give your primary pair other party members to bounce off of! Hyena pulls together a good group of characters that are wacky enough to be entertaining, but (mostly) not so wacky you have to suspend your disbelief about how they got to where they are in life.

And they’ve also all got some interesting relationships to masculinity and/or femininity, which is pretty par for the course with how the show clearly enjoys…

4. Getting gender all up in your business

While it's not an overt, in-your-face theme, the status of women in Korean society is definitely at play in this story. The realm of law, politics, and buisness as depicted here is absolutely a man's world, where few women are allowed, and only in a very limited number of roles. Of course there are always wives/girlfriends and secretaries doing all the helper grunt work, but a token handful of ladies can be allowed into actual ranks of power ... sort of. They'll always be second best to their male peers and relatives, of course, but doesn't that gender diversity look nice in the company's annual report!

As mentioned earlier, Yoon Heejae starts out as a good ol' boy from a long line of good ol' boys, dick-measuring with the rest of them and shooting straight for the top. It's only when he's blindsided by soft power that he starts to re-evaluate what he's gotten himself into. Maybe being a good son is actually a racket! Maybe these squads of tie-wearing ass-kissers aren't actually that fun to be around at all! Maybe he's actually much better-suited to playing on the girls' team.

Meanwhile, Jung Geumja's "ruffian from the wrong side of the tracks" role is such a man's role, but she's definitely a woman inhabiting it. Hell, half the stuff she gets away with, she does because everyone's just so shocked to encounter a woman doing and saying these things. So she does weaponize gender expectations - just not in the way you might expect a woman in a romance-centered drama to.

In the aforementioned support squad, the male attorneys are all gender failures in one way or another, which is why they haven't advanced in their jobs the way their colleagues have. They cannot perform hard-drinking, ethics-ignoring, 90-hour-workweek masculinity to the standards of the high-powered suits who run their law firm. It's only Jung Geumja who, given the choice to assemble her own crew, can see that they have immense value beyond the very gendered expectations of their profession.

Meanwhile, Boon Hyunah, the only female attorney on their team, is great at both representing and subverting that Exceptional Woman femininity. I was cautious at first, because she was clearly introduced in a way that made her seem like she was going to wind up being the evil popular girl/rival bitch whose entire job was to prove by contrast that Jung Geumja is Not Like The Other Girls. Not so! They actually wind up good friends and trusted colleagues. Female solidarity is so much more fun than contrived romcom catfighting!

Maybe my favorite character in the whole show, though, is the littlest gender-nonconforming angel, professional soft butch Lee Jieun: Jung Geumja's eternally beleaguered secretary, sidekick, gofer, co-conspirator, caretaker, and only friend.

She's clearly taken her haircut notes from Jung Geumja, but instead of going the track suit route, she's dedicated herself to the tweed lifestyle. And I love that nobody ever tries to give her a makeover or make her feel bad for not being femme! She makes friends with the other, much girlier secretaries, who seem to welcome her into their group with no problems. She finishes the show as frumpy as she was when she started.

I was prepped for the drama to give her a male love interest to defuse her obvious lesbian vibes, but it does not! She does not even, to my recollection, express desire about anyone. She oohs and ahhs over flowers and other gestures of romantic interest that happen to other people, but not in a particularly jealous way. She ships Yoon Heejae and Jung Geumja, and that's what matters to her.

The entire reason I found this show in the first place is that it has a "sismance" tag on MyDramaList, presumably for the relationship between Jung Geumja and Lee Jieun. Their relationship is wonderful, but it's way more sis than 'mance. They're more like two sisters with a huge age gap, where the dweeby younger sister has dedicated herself to doing anything her cool older sister wants her to do, and the cool older sister has decided that having a minion is worth putting up with having to wrangle a dweeby younger sister.

This show is also very female-gazey. Not only does it gleefully ogle Yoon Heejae's long-legged frame pretty much every chance it gets, but it makes Jung Geumja gross-hot in a way that only a lesbian could love. And that makes the fact that she has not one but two handsome men fighting over her even better! This is a world where our gorgeous male lead has a choice between a conventionally attractive, professionally dressed, charming, dignified woman in her early twenties, and a fifty-year-old human tornado with a foul mouth and a bad haircut, and he goes straight for that cougar without even blinking. He wants her to step on him so hard.

And speaking of:

5. Law, Partners

This is a romance worth being into.

Sure, they're both real hot (at least, by my bisexual lesbian standards), but we all know by now that being hot separately doesn't always guarantee being hot together. Fortunately for this show, they very much are.

What makes this pairing so interesting is that this is a relationship between equals. They start out with huge power mismatches both ways, since he's socially her superior, while she's lying to him real hard. When they're finally at a point where they're on even footing, it's so good, especially since she's clearly on a trajectory to emerge as the senior partner in this relationship. They’re such a great team, in fact, that the kissy part of their dynamic becomes secondary by the end. Yeah, sure, they like one another -- but more importantly, they can finish one another’s closing arguments. When you're a middle-aged Mary Sue, that right there is some good fucking romance.

If you read my other rec posts, you know I'm very picky about my het. This is good het. Maybe not great het, but still very good. Solid 8/10. Their chemistry is strong. I can absolutely imagine her strap-on collection. He's like a foot taller, but we still know who's going down.

Into it?

Netflix made this one, so Netflix is where you're going to find it. This does mean, annoyingly, that a lot of the onscreen text doesn't get translated, and none of the English lines get captioned, both of which are incredibly bad practices. Come on, Netflix, you've got eleventy bajillion dollars, you can do better.

...Also, am I wrong about people knowing that other people think female hyenas have penises? Is this knowledge what I deserve for spending too much time studying the ancient world? Dammit.

Kick his ass, baby; I'll hold your track suit.

[chocosvt]

HER | part two.

✧✎ synopsis: wonwoo, a heartbroken and burnt out writer nearing the end of his math degree, wants nothing to do with the seemingly perfect, intimidating girl who has everyone under her thumb. you. unfortunately, his literary talent has got him shoved him between a rock and a hard place when you want to write a book and require his expertise. you two are the furthest from compatible. wonwoo can’t see this going well. at all.

pairing: wonwoo x fem!reader word count: 22.7k genres/tropes: writer!wonwoo, university!au, plug!vernon + boyfriend!mingyu as prominent side characters, SLOWBURN (i am not fucking around this is my slowest burn yet), relationship drama, soul searching, strong angst/hurt (i’m coming for the jugular), comfort, romance, smut, a smoothie of every emotion on earth.

(!) warnings: drug use (weed, cocaine, ecstasy), wonwoo has anxiety + anxiety attacks + fairly dark thoughts, prescribed medication, gambling, intense language, infidelity, throwing up.

✧✎ a/n: just some quick things i want to make apparent!

the fic is told from wonwoo’s pov, not the reader’s! 

all major timeline events are organized through chronological dates

any smut or potentially triggering scenes are NOT MARKED bc the content is already quite mature, so just plz be aware of that! 

bolded and italicized text implies the characters are conversing in korean, tho it doesn’t happen often!

the fic in its entirety is 140k, so it has been split into 6 parts.

updates: in terms of a posting schedule, i'm pre sure i'm just gonna post every saturday night ~12am EST (so technically sunday lol). taglist is included in the comment section since tumblr now has limit as to how many peeps are mentioned per post :p

thanks againnnn! 🌟

⇢ part one | part three | part four | part five | part six ⇢ soundtrack for those curious! ⇢ read at ur own pace! :)

—MAY 12TH.

Wonwoo was sat on his couch with your laptop glowing in front of him, one hand holding up his chin while the other scrolled slowly through your writing. Finally, you’d let him actually glean your work, and he was quite impressed with your natural skill. He supposed the biggest issue was the choppiness—your sentence structures were much like your racing tangents, and in some areas the writing lacked flow and a smooth continuality. But that sort of ability would just develop on its own as long as you were practicing.

For the most part, Wonwoo was leaving behind small notes and highlighting areas that you could revisit at a later time.

“Okay, I’m going to do a handstand.”

However, as Wonwoo had been combing through your work for the past half-hour, that left you with an apparent boredness which somehow translated into an acrobatics session in his living room.

“I’d really prefer you didn’t,” he answered through the fingers covering his mouth, his eyes trained with focus on the document.

“No, no. I used to be so good at them. Watch.”

Wonwoo was in the midst of typing a note when a small, circular embroidered pillow had suddenly struck the laptop, nearly forcing it shut. It was then that Wonwoo looked up with a long sigh, acknowledging the devious, shining smile that sprung to your face.

“Now that I have your attention—”

Wonwoo titled his head, folded his arms, and propped one foot onto the coffee table, somewhat like an exhausted parent who was being heckled by their child to watch the “special trick” they’d just learned. He was internally praying you actually were good at handstands, because that fragile pottery vase and the antique gold clock sitting on the fire mantel had never looked so breakable until now. A cool breeze slivered in through the open window as your arms began raising above your head, and he heard you inhale steadily.

“Go!” You then shouted, either in motivation or impatience aimed at yourself, loud enough to make Wonwoo flinch.

The next moment, you were basically flipped upside down, your socked feet sticking pointedly in the air while your hands stumbled about on the brown rug for a few seconds, attempting to find their place rooted in the fuzz. Wonwoo pursed his lip, impressed.

“See! Told you!”

“I mean, I never said you couldn’t.”

“Are you amazed?”

He watched with a slight bit of nervousness as you walked a few paces forward with your hands, though he kept his calm composure from the couch and dealt you about three dull claps.

“Cirque de Soleil is asking for you, actually.”

To Wonwoo’s utter relief, you collapsed back onto your feet, probably because the blood was gushing to your head and he’d rather not have you faint squarely on the face in his living room. You then sat on your knees for a moment, rubbing slowly at your scalp.

“I’m almost done,” Wonwoo reaffirmed, moving aside the stitched pillow you’d chucked at him earlier and reopening the laptop.

“Don’t let me rush you.”

He chuckled instantly. “You mean to tell me you’re not bored out of your mind? Why else would you be doing cartwheels.”

Finally, you got up from the rug.

“Um, it was a handstand,” you were hasty to correct him, now sinking into the seat beside Wonwoo on the couch with the circle pillow pulled onto your lap. “I could do a cartwheel, though.”

“Yeah, not in this house you’re not.”

“Not in this house you’re not.”

He merely smirked at your attempt to mimic him by employing a cartoonishly deep tone that you found very amusing, made evident by your prideful giggles close to his ear. Just as Wonwoo scrolled to the end of the document to type his last note, you were piqued with curiosity and leaned over his lap, grabbing at the screen to examine how far he’d come during your hour together.

“So, where are you at anyway?”

Wonwoo pressed himself back into the couch, immediately removing his hands from the keyboard. It felt like at the most random, unpredictable times you would swoop in so close to him, and he never quite knew how to react. Most times he would freeze, become stiff and hardly breathing, run his eyes in all different directions around the room because everything seemed easier when he pretended you didn’t exist.

He adjusted his glasses, cleared his throat.

“I’m basically done.”

“You are? Okay. Hm… it seems like you made a lotta notes.”

Wonwoo squirmed in his seat as though it were scratching him. You eventually pulled away, but your knee was now resting on the side of his thigh and you were sitting much closer than before—close enough that your shoulder was digging into his and he could sense your full, bright eyes burning a stare at his pink cheek.

“They’re mostly easy fixes…” he mumbled, refusing to look at you, instead scrolling impetuously through the document with jerks of his pointer and middle finger.  

“Well, what do you think of it?”

He paused, still staring at the laptop.

“Of what?”

“Wonwoo, my writing, obviously,” you said with a warm laugh and a soft breath that rushed over his neck in such a pleasurable, lightheaded way. “And look at me,” he heard you ask in a lower, more sincere voice, your fingers then ghosting along his tense jaw in a fleeting, sensitive touch as you guided his head gently in your direction, “I just want to know you’re telling the truth.”

He was accustomed to your eyes being filled with sparks and the readiness to pit the most sharp-tongued comment in history, and so Wonwoo was able to relax ever so slightly upon realizing how your gaze had become increasingly mellow, welcoming even.

“Well, you’re obviously good at it,” he managed to answer the question without his voice trembling, “just some pacing issues, mostly. You’ve got a bit of an issue with run-on sentences and closing up a scene. But you plan a lot, which is nice. I mean, you can only get better.”

An earnest smile picked its way across your face, framing your polished teeth and pushing up the apples of your cheeks. Wonwoo had to look away—sometimes it was too much—you were too much, and he refused to let himself drown beneath your intensity that he found purely terrifying. Your knee proceeded to pull from his thigh and you were now dragging your body off the couch, which meant that Wonwoo could safely exhale the breath he was holding. He wondered if you just wanted to hear the compliment, or if you were legitimately pleased with his praise.

You walked up to his fireplace mantel, examining the items left along the white, sparkling trim he’d spritzed clean of all dust.

“Did you make this?” Came your inquiry, a curious finger pointing toward the round-bottomed, thin-necked red vase.

Wonwoo shook his head.

“No, it was a welcome gift from the landlord.”

“She made it?”

“Yeah,” he hummed. “Didn’t I tell you? She owns the pottery business downstairs. Saskia. She immigrated here like, eighteen years ago, now. From Poland. I thought you might’ve run into her.”

Shaking your head, you turned back to the vase.

“I didn’t see her at all.”

“She was probably in her office.”

“How did she make all these little emblem thingies? Around the base? Like, this one’s got an elephant. This one is a fruit tree.”

Wonwoo squinted at the vase from his place on the couch. He hadn’t really examined it much, apart from when his landlord had thrust it into his hands while she welcomed him to the building. It never held any flowers, either—not even the brilliant ruby coloured poinsettias his ex-girlfriend's mother was supposed to send.

The relationship has disintegrated before it could ever happen.

“Fuck, don’t know. She has a bunch of little tools down there for more detailed work. Maybe a stamp. You’d have to ask her.”

“It’s really pretty.”

His brows furrowed. “Yeah? You like ceramics or something?”

You turned back to him, shrugging.

“I don’t know. I was just saying, it’s pretty.”

“It is. It’s very pretty.”

With a sigh, you climbed back onto the couch.

“Do you think you’re done editing?”

He picked up the laptop and set it down on the coffee table.

“I think so. For the day.”

“Perfect.” You smiled. “I’ll make time to read your notes tomorrow morning, if I can. Seems like there’s about eight-hundred.”

Wonwoo chuckled, “not eight-hundred. Try twenty.”

“Twenty?!” Your eyes bulged in shock as you gripped onto the embroidered pillow hugged back into your lap. “That’s so many!”

“What—twenty is somehow more than eight-hundred? What fucking planet are you living on where numeracy works like that?”

“Wonwoo, I have so much to do tomorrow!” You winced, tossing your head against the couch and slipping down the cushions.

“Okay, like what?”

“… Gosh… no, no. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter.”

“No, tell me. What have you got to do tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to tell.”

“Why not?” He murmured.

“If I talk about, then I’ll want to do it even less.” There was an empty sigh he heard from your chest as your arms curled tight around the pillow. “Besides, it’s squished all into my colour-coded block on the schedule. The pink one. I just—I don’t want to think about it.”

“Fair. I get that.”

“It’s complicated family stuff.”

Wonwoo huffed sympathetically. “I get that even more.”

“… So, we’re still good for Spring Street on Sunday?” You asked, staring up at Wonwoo from your sunken, defeated slump.

He nodded.

“I’ll be there if you are.”

—MAY 14TH.

The Spring Street Fair. It happened every single May, for three days straight, usually Friday to Sunday. In the daytime it was cheerier and more watered down for the children that came hand in hand with their parents, looking to feed the alpacas and ride those nauseating teacups and sob until exhaustion because they accidentally let go of their kitten-shaped balloon. However, at night, the fair had become a beacon for the older, rowdier university crowd.

Wonwoo never went despite all his recent years living in the city, but Vernon had, usually on accounts of “business” which really meant selling drugs for idiotic prices behind the Whirler or the Starship. You wanted to go, but hadn’t told Wonwoo the reason. He opted to assume it was another part of your story—maybe you ran into Mingyu at a similar fair when you were younger, and it was therefore very integral you go Spring Street tonight. It was the exact opposite of what Wonwoo typically appreciated doing on Sundays, and he knew for a fact he’d loathe it, every single part.

“No fuckin’ way!” Vernon’s voice exploded through the crackly static on Wonwoo’s phone as he stood in line for the fair, gazing over top everyone’s heads to gauge the ticket booth. “I can’t believe your loser ass actually crawled outta bed for that.”

Wonwoo scoffed, “yeah, it wasn’t my choice.”

“Then what for?”

“Her. She wanted to go. It’s for the book.”

He was supposed to meet you inside the fair. It was almost ten o’clock at night. The sky was beautifully clear, illuminated with pinpricks of starlight, and the air had once been crisp. Now, Wonwoo was beginning to smell sparked cannabis, and he assumed a likewise scent would follow him all damn night. The horrid, anxious process of standing in the mile long line was made palatable through his conversation with Vernon, who—shockingly—wasn’t even there.

“Ohh, the book, the book. Wait—she’s gonna write her book at the fuckin’ Spring Street Fair? How the fuck does that work?”

“No, it’s not like that,” Wonwoo chuckled. “It’s stuff about the settings, the environment; she uses it to help with her writing.”

“Hm, doesn’t make much sense to me, probably ‘cause I don’t like readin' or writin' or anything with books. But, damn, I’m jealous of you, Glasses. Do y’know how hard I tried to smooth talk my way into that girl’s pants? N’somehow, you can write good—”

“Write well, not good.”

“Oh, fuck you—write well—so she takes you everywhere like a little purse dog. When does that happen to me, yeah?”

The line started slowly pouring forward, and Wonwoo felt himself get dragged along. Probably another five minutes and he would be at the ticket booth, getting one of those neon bracelets circled around his wrist that were nearly impossible to rip off.

“Why didn’t you come?” Wonwoo asked.

Vernon groaned, “got into some bullshit with this guy who’s not payin’ up. I’m handlin’ it, though. If I can manage to get it all sorted, I’ll come later. It’s too fuckin’ easy selling those gummies to the first years, dude. Shit, it could be some Flintstone vitamins and they’re actin’ like Chicken Little. Cracks me the fuck up.”

Wonwoo cleared his throat, smiling. “You’re such a cunt.”

“Hey, hey, you are what you eat, okay? And, when you get inside or whatever, text me where you’re hangin’ so if I do come, I can see you for a bit. Dunno if your girlfriend will approve.”

The air began mottling with a thin, chalky smoke that drifted from somewhere down the crowded string of university students. Again, the line shuffled, and the congestion gradually broke up as more people were allowed into the fair. Wonwoo switched the phone to his other ear, getting his wallet ready.

“Don’t even start.”

“Start what? I said nothin’.” Vernon’s laughter was raspy and obviously laced with a smirk that Wonwoo could hear.

“Don’t be such a prick. She’s not my—”

Suddenly, Wonwoo’s phone began vibrating against his palm, and when he pulled it down an immediate lump conjured in his throat upon reading your name. His heart jolted, and it wasn’t until someone pushed hard on his back to urge him forward that he realized the line was once again ambling closer to the ticket booth.

Vernon sighed, “so, again, tell me where you’ll—”

“Shit—uh, gotta go. Talk to you later.”

A few remnants of Vernon’s miffed, guttural cursing managed to leak through the phone before Wonwoo could press to accept your call. In an instant, his friend was blipped away, and he heard your voice instead. He held back a cough from the astringent, cottonish air.

“Wonwoo, hello. I’m glad you picked up. So, where the hell are you? It’s nearly ten! Did you not get in line early?”

Wonwoo kept the phone secured between his shoulder and ear while he shimmied the coins out from his wallet.

“No, I did, promise. Just about to pay. Where are you?”

“When you get in, just follow the arrows. They're lit up with those blue lightbulbs. They go to the tavern. I’m having some drinks with my friends. Don’t worry. You won’t have to do much socializing.”

“Uh, okay,” Wonwoo answered, internally counting up the money in his hand until he was certain of the amount. “Mingyu’s there?”

“No. He always plays poker with his friends on Sunday.”

An unbeknownst pressure escaped his chest.

“Okay. I’m close to the front. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Sure. Don’t be late!”

“I know. Bye.”

Hanging up the phone, Wonwoo had just enough time to wriggle the device into his back pocket before handing the ticket booth clerk his coins. She dropped the cold change into his hand, then asked to see his wrist, where she proceeded to attach the bracelet with the words Spring Street Fair etched into the orange, plasticky-feeling paper.

Finally, he was let inside.

Blue arrows, blue arrows—that was all Wonwoo kept reiterating in his head like some religious hymn as he followed the glow throughout the fairgrounds, weaving his way between large groups of people that he gleefully didn’t recognize. Eventually, he saw the tavern you were referring to—an outdoor bar with picnic tables set up everywhere, beneath cheap little strings of warm, lambent lights.

Even with his glasses on, Wonwoo was still squinting as he walked between each table, attempting to discern your dolled-up face somewhere amongst the strangers sipping on their large mugs of alcohol, that was until he heard his name being called over the music rumbling from the bar’s horrible speakers. When he looked straight ahead, he saw you cutely waving him over. With each step he took, Wonwoo reminded himself to breathe, to loosen up, to stop clenching his fists so painfully tight as though he were going to split someone’s eyebrow. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Just breathe.

You stood up from the table to welcome him, and he felt your hand settle softly on his lower back. The touch was grounding.

“So, everyone, girls, if I could get your attention for just a moment despite the general impairment going on here—this is the mystery guy whose been helping me write. Wonwoo.”

God—he wanted to puke, all those big, curious, unabashed eyes soaking him in like freshly dipped watercolour to a cloth canvas. There was a cluster of high-pitched voices that repeated his name in a shrill, unison greeting. However, Wonwoo was unable to meet a single girl’s gaze, and so he opted to stare down at a paper plate on the table aligned with cinnamon-sprinkled churros.

Again, he wanted to throw up.

“So, of course, Wonwoo’s been the biggest help with everything,” you said, to which he could sense your nails subtly digging at him through his clothes, most likely a silent urge to say something so he didn’t seem so unprecedentedly stiff and metallic.

He cleared his throat.

“Uh, yeah. I’m just proofreading, really.” Wonwoo had to swallow. “Some tips here and there. But, she’s pretty good as is.”

“Is that your actual voice?”

His eyes darted to find who asked the question. She was toward the end of the picnic table, tucking a lock of short, coffee brown hair behind her ear. Before the girl was a gigantic and fluorescent pink drink, the glass resembling the shape of a fish bowl.

“… What do you mean?” Wonwoo replied.

She sat up on her knee, continuing to ogle him with those fixated but glazed chestnut eyes. Her mouth seemed to drag as though it was thawing when she spoke. Wonwoo could tell she was already well inebriated. There was no way that was her first drink.

“Your voice,” she repeated, “it’s so… deep.”

“Well… I don’t know. Puberty.”

His comment elicited some giggles from around the table, to which he could feel the cartilage in his ears burning.

“Wonwoo—” another girl then leaned forward with her head tilted up and a coy, drunk smile flittering on her mouth, “—I think it’s so, so great you’re helping Her write. I actually think it’s the sweetest, ever.” Her lashes were coated in smooth mascara and her eyelids were remarkably glimmery, drenched in an electric shade of blue that he couldn’t stop staring at. “Also, sorry, but you’re like, super gorge.”

“Super what?” He repeated, confused at her wording.

But she didn't seem interested in repeating herself, instead scooping the long and impressively silky black hair off her shoulder to spill down her pale back.

“Okay, okay, okay. We’ve all shared some impetuous conversation and we’ve all swooned over him now. Yippee. Unfortunately, we’ve gotta get going, friends.”

Wonwoo felt your hand land on his shoulder and gently tug him backward, away from the table. You then proceeded to grab the glass left at your seat, chugging the remaining alcohol until there was nothing but a melting block of ice cubes clicking at the bottom. While you wiped your mouth, you began aiming a finger at each girl.

“To make a long story short, that’s Princess, Clara, and Bells. Do you have any comments for them before we go?” The impatience in your tone was bleeding through with sheer apathy.

Wonwoo shrugged. “Uh, nice to meet everyone? I guess.”

“Short and efficient. How perfect. Okay, I’ll see you guys later, I think. Actually—probably not. So can someone eat my churros?”

Your arm curled around Wonwoo’s bicep as though to whisk him away as hurriedly as possible. Everyone left at the table began waving, and Wonwoo couldn’t even bring himself to force a fake, pleasant smile because he was still attempting to understand what all those comments even meant. You walked briskly until the poetic, firefly lights of the tavern were lost long behind in the distance, and when you finally paused, he had not a clue where he was standing—a busy centre with people mingling all around him, the wild whirring of carnival rides and chaotic, blinking hues strobing above his head.

When he looked down at you, he was surprised to see you were already staring back, and he could only hold the eye contact for no more than a few seconds or else his heart would skip a beat.

“Sorry about all that,” you said, rolling your shoulders, “I tried to be somewhat reasonable with my drinking for once. I can’t say the same for Clara and Bells. They guzzle cocktails like apple juice.”

“Bells is… the one with all that sparkly blue eyeshadow?”

“Oh—yeah. She loves sparkles. Glitter. Anything glimmery. She’s been like that ever since I’ve known her. Clara was the one who asked about your voice. She has a thing for guys with deep voices and you unfortunately fit the bill. And I’m sorry that Princess didn’t say anything. She kind of just looks and observes. Also I’m like ninety-eight percent sure she popped something in a porta-potty before we met up so she’s probably in a mental state of star-surfing. Anyway. You don’t have to worry about them, alright? It’s just us for tonight.”

 “Well, that’s… easy enough.”

“I’m not sure if we should stand here.”

“Hm?”

You then pointed to something behind Wonwoo, and when he turned his head, he felt a gust of wind from the gigantic, spinning ride that resembled a flying saucer in the nighttime sky. It was always beyond him why anyone would choose to strap themselves into a machine that terrifying. It made him sick just watching.

“If I get throw up on my head, I’m killing myself.”

“Okay, so let’s find somewhere else.”

As he began walking away in search of a quieter area, you grabbed onto the back of his clothes. Wonwoo raised his eyebrow.

“We have to hold hands, or have arms linked,” you said.

For some reason, Wonwoo presumed you were joking, and so he tilted his head at you with a questioning smile. But when your serious expression didn’t crack, he realized it wasn’t a joke at all.

“Oh… why?”

“Because—” you then took a step toward him and spoke matter-of-factly, like you were reading a rule book, “—it’s the buddy system. Always have someone at your side, and make sure you’re linked in some way. It’s too easy to get separated in places like this, otherwise. Have you never heard of that before?”

“I have,” Wonwoo answered, adjusting his glasses. “My—um, my hands are a little cold. I don’t have the best circulation.”

The truth was, Wonwoo didn’t want to hold your hand. He didn’t want to link arms with you. He didn’t want you pressed into his side all night. He didn’t want to have the scent of your hair under his nose or feel your ticklish breath against his neck each time you spoke.

But he didn’t have a good enough excuse to fight it.

“Oh my god, who cares,” you retorted. “And I have super sweaty hands. Like, uncomfortably warm. We'll balance out.”

 “Actually?”

“Yes! Is that a problem for you, sweetheart?”

Wonwoo quickly shook his head in response to your condescending tone. You then reached for his hand, which he offered up for your required holding, and chose to ignore the butterflies in the deep pit of his stomach when he realized how perfectly your fingers slotted with his. He followed your lead through the fair until you came outside a small lemonade booth. Wonwoo thought you would drop his hand, but you didn’t, and his knees felt like gelatine.

“I want another drink,” you told him.

He squinted at their options, which didn’t really consist of much. The prices were obviously insane—it was another reason he hated going to fairs. His wallet always got cleaned out.

“You’re going to have to use the washroom a lot.”

“Ugh,” you gritted in response, brushing some hair from your face, “I hate public washrooms. They’re so gross. Completely unsanitary. Awful maintenance. One time I was here and I walked into the washroom by the Mirror Hall and I swear, a freaking rat ran across the floor! I screamed bloody murder. I’d rather squat in the bush and risk getting, like, poison ivy. But the washrooms have mirrors obviously, and I like checking my makeup and stuff. I wish I could check now.”

“Right now? I mean, your makeup looks fine.”

Wonwoo saw your entire face freeze, and then begin to warp, as though he’d just said the most dreadful thing he could think of.

“Fine?” You glared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He started stumbling over his words, feeling his chest tighten.

“So, what you’re saying is that I look ugly? That my makeup looks bad? Because if you really thought it was ‘fine’ then you wouldn’t have said it looks ‘fine’ because everyone knows that word is a substitute for passable and passable is just a substitute for ugly!”

He opened his mouth, then instantly closed it.

“So what’s wrong with it? Are my under eyes creasing? Is my contour too dark? Is my lipstick smudged? Did it get on my teeth? Ugh, I knew I should have brought my compact!”

“No, no, no.” Wonwoo squeezed your hand, hoping that he could somehow undo the damage he had no intention of even inflicting in the first place. “Uh—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. You look—” he wasn’t sure he could say the compliment without shivering, but Wonwoo didn’t care in the moment, “—your makeup is beautifully done. There’s no creasing or smudging, there’s none of that."

You kept touching worrisomely at your face. “Are you sure?”           

“I promise.” Wonwoo confirmed, giving your hand another tight, reassuring squeeze that seemed to calm you down.

He had never seen someone switch gears that quickly. You could be perfectly amicable one second, and then break down into near hysteria the next, a slew of anxious thoughts running straight from your brain to your mouth like clockwork.

Wonwoo wondered how Mingyu dealt with such tangents all the time. The trait almost didn’t seem to fit your image.

The line moved forward another step.

“Are you going to drink anything?” You asked after a moment of silence, in a quieter voice. “I want to get the strawberry refresher.”

“Maybe.”

“What will you get?”

“I… don’t know. A regular lemonade?”

“No,” you shook your head, pointing toward the corner of the booth’s menu, “get the pina colada thing. I want to try it, too.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo agreed with a shrug as he retrieved his wallet, not really caring about what he drank. “I’ll pay for it. No worries.”

The longer Wonwoo was at the fair, the less he actually thought about why he was there, until the question leapt into his mind at random while he stood beside you, waiting for a seat on the dauntingly large Farris wheel. He removed the straw from his mouth, swallowing a gulp of his pina colada flavoured drink, and peered down at you. His hand was still interlinked with yours. You had finished the strawberry refresher in about five minutes.

Now, you were texting someone. He didn’t know if it was a friend from earlier or perhaps your boyfriend, but Wonwoo wasn’t a serious sleuth, so he opted to look away despite the natural urge that was pricking him. When you finally tucked the phone back into the small bag slung around your shoulder, Wonwoo lowered the plastic cup from his mouth, making sure to clear his throat.

“So, uh, why are we here, exactly?”

You sniffled. “What do y’mean?”

“Does the fair have anything to do with your writing? Is that why we’re riding the Farris wheel? Oh—speaking of which, I didn’t think to bring the camcorder, in case you wanted any footage.”

“Oh, no,” you said, waving a dismissive hand, “this has nothing to do with my book. We’re palate cleansing.”

“Palate cleansing?” He echoed.

“Yeah. It’s like, doing something different in between a routine, to keep yourself fresh. You always eat breakfast at home but today you skip it and go out for brunch. Y’know, shit like that.”

Wonwoo huffed in amusement. “You could have told me beforehand.”

“Uh, no—” your face scrunched up in clear disagreement, “—I couldn’t, because then you wouldn’t have gone. No offence, but you’re a hermit, Wonwoo. You don’t really like going anywhere or doing anything and you’re definitely one of those people who bores themselves into hating their own life because your stimuli is so limited. That’s why I didn’t tell. Again, no offence.”

“Oh.”

That was all he could string together in response—not even string together, because it was just one boring, monotone sound that basically got carried away in the chilly wind, tinted with the smell of buttery popcorn and weed. It sounded like something that was supposed to sting, but it didn’t really. Maybe he was growing more accustomed to your unprompted judgements on his personal life.

Suddenly Wonwoo had blinked and you two were next in line for the empty cart. The clerk pointed at Wonwoo’s drink.

“You can’t bring that with you,” he said.

Before Wonwoo could think to respond, you had already grabbed the cup from his hand, chucking it straight into the garbage.

“We’re not.”

Pulling on his hand, you guided him into the shaky cart, both of you squishing onto the cold, metal bench. It was quite literally the tamest ride in the entire fair, and yet Wonwoo was still feeling nervous about it—though, that was possibly the fact he was going to be sailed one-hundred feet into the satin black sky, left amongst the stars and the bright, shimmering halo of the moon with you and you alone. He was actually relieved you had tossed his drink, otherwise he might have dropped it due to the trembling in his fingers. It was easier to fiddle with them in order to disguise their shakiness.

“I guess I should have asked if you’re afraid of heights,” you said.

The cart jerked abruptly as the ride began to move and lift you two ever so gradually from the ground. Wonwoo peered over the edge for a brief moment to watch his distance grow from the people below, their jumbled mess of conversations fading in place of quiet.

“Uh, no. I’m okay with heights,” he finally answered.

He saw you glancing down as well, smiling to yourself.

Wonwoo wasn’t sure if he should attempt at conversation or just maintain the stillness between you. Usually, he couldn’t stand it, and the pressure to talk and fill the silence always tended to fail or squander something potentially enjoyable. But he supposed it was typically like that in a situation where two people weren’t the best acquainted—that’s why Wonwoo always quite liked Vernon, despite his rough, nonconformed edges and often vulgar way of speaking.

He was able to carry a conversation so naturally that the quieter moments never felt suffocating, instead falling exactly where they should, like puzzle pieces. But that was harder with you.

Maybe it was because you could be intimidating, unpredictable—Wonwoo was never truly relaxed around you because there was this intangible, looming worry that he needed to have the perfect responses and be the most perfect person. He found that perfect people only hung out with other perfect people and Wonwoo was certainly not that—perfect. You must have seen it by now. He was just as rough as Vernon no doubt, but in a different, hidden way that had to be dug into like an archeologist looking for broken bones.

The Ferris wheel slowed down, coming to a stop. You weren’t at the very top, though the air was notably cooler and much fresher. When he inhaled a long breath, it smelled purely of night and not overpriced, buttery fair food and burning weed. He noted that you stared straight ahead, at the crescent-shaped moon, which mirrored a backward stare with how squarely it sat in front of the ride. For once, Wonwoo wasn’t squirming, wriggling, stressing at the silence. When he spoke, he did it because he genuinely wanted to.

“How was your Saturday?”

“My Saturday?”

“Yeah. I saw the schedule. You had to run a bunch of errands with your mom. Looked like you were pretty keyed up.”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, I want to say I was overreacting the day before about how much I was dreading it. But then it fucking happened. And… I, uh… I realized I was exactly right. It was awful. I did get to your notes, though… yeah—I just—I squeezed them in between brunch with my mom’s friend who could talk herself to death and the excruciating car ride to the publisher’s office.”

“Mmhm.” Wonwoo smiled tenderly. “Did they help at all?”

“Yeah,” you breathed out, “a lot, actually… thank you.”

“I’m sorry your Saturday went so terribly.”

Huffing in response, you nibbled on your inner check.

“Yeah, well, it is what it is… I already knew it was gonna be a shit show. So, what is it that you write about, anyway? Because you seem like you know a whole lot. Seokmin says you let him read some of your poetry, but it was only like, two excerpts.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Wonwoo recalled the memory of Seokmin picking up his leather notebook when it fell out from his bag one day. He’d pestered him about the contents until Wonwoo succumbed and presented him with some lifeless, impatiently scribbled prose that he’d most likely jerked out on the bus or in between his lectures. Seokmin seemed to treat it like fine, prestigious gold, though Wonwoo knew it was the least personal of his work that he would never let another living soul on the planet breathe—not one scent of the ink or even the paper.

“So, you write poetry?”

“I started writing poetry, haikus and all that easy stuff. I developed the interest a lot more through high school. But I never sat down and tried writing anything like a novel until I... I started uni.”

“Yeah. Deciding to be a math major. I still don’t get it,” you sighed, fidgeting with some rings on your fingers. “But what do you even write about? Like, what’s your inspiration?”

Wonwoo paused, looking down at his knees.

“… Life.”

“Life?” You defeatedly slumped into the seat. “That’s the million dollar answer your intelligent brain chose to erect? It’s just that when I think about it, I’m letting you help me with my writing, but I’ve never even read a little smidgen of yours. How’s that fair?”

The higher the Farris Wheel climbed, the stronger the breeze blew, and Wonwoo could feel its tendrils lashing across his cheeks and parting through his hair. You huddled further into your jacket.

“Well, you took Seokmin’s word for it,” Wonwoo laughed.

Your eyes rolled, but you smiled gently. “I know.”

Suddenly, your hand had reached out, and you were pushing the floppy, black tresses off his forehead. Wonwoo’s fingers dug bluntly into his arms. You then angled yourself in the small cart, looking back at him, sculpting your gaze to each crest in his face.

“Why don’t you ever push your hair back?”

The question hit the dark, cold atmosphere like a sizzling ember and Wonwoo was afraid to even open his mouth because he was certain a dying squeak would come out. You continued to play around with the locks, earthing your fingers deep into its texture and attempting to style it despite the persistent, fluttering breeze.

“Um…”

“If you styled it like this—” you moved in closer, staring with so much focus at your nimble movements, “—yeah, like that. It shows off your forehead, gives you a bit of class. I mean, the wind’s messing it up. You don’t tend to do anything with your hair.”

“No.” Wonwoo swallowed, hard.

“Well, you should. Not all the time, obviously. And I’m not saying you look bad with it down—not at all. But you’ve got nice, smouldering features and they’re so much more… framed… when you show your forehead.” You collapsed back into the seat, and that tingly feeling he experienced when your fingers had been tugging and pulling was disseminating throughout his entire body. “I mean, look at how my friends reacted to you. I should apologize for that again, by the way. O-M-F-G, they see one hot guy, and they lose their grip.”

He nearly choked. “Hot?”

It didn’t sound right. Not at all.

“Well, what the fuck, Wonwoo? You’re not ugly.”

“Did you think that when you first saw me?”

You had folded your leg again as the Farris wheel came to another stop. This time, at the very top, at the centre of the night.

“Did I think what? That you’re not ugly?”

“Never mind,” Wonwoo grimaced, hearing the cart creek as you better positioned yourself to face him. “It’s pathetic like that.”

“No. I didn’t think you were ugly. Did you think I was ugly?”

Wonwoo wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of the question, but he smothered it down because he knew one little laugh might hit your ear the wrong way, and it would be flames, sputtering and spewing. Obviously, he didn’t think you were ugly—he never had, even before he ever spoke to you. But he wasn’t so shallow as to only regard someone’s physical appearance. You were still terrifying.

“I wouldn’t consider anyone ugly... and I wouldn’t ever use it to describe some aesthetically. But—I mean, I think people can become ugly through their personality, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah, like, if they’re rotten inside.”

“Mmhm.”

“I agree.”

“What was that word your friend Bells said?”

You shrugged, “which word?”

“She said something like, you’re super… I don’t know… super something.”

“Oh—” you sat up more in the cart, your back pressed against the uncomfortable corner, “—Bells said you were super gorge.”

“Meaning…”

“Meaning super gorgeous.” You made a big show of the rehashed compliment, parroting your friend's tone and swaying your shoulders.

“Oh… really?” Wonwoo shook his head. “I thought she was referring to gorge as in when you gorge yourself, from eating.”

“No,” you giggled at him, “it’s a short form, dumb-dumb.”

“Why make a short form out of that? Is it really that strenuous to say the word gorgeous? It’s only an extra syllable.”

“Okay, well, this isn’t the nineteen-twenties. We don’t all cross our T’s and dot our I’s. It reminds me of how you text.”

He furrowed his brow. “How do I text?”

Your eyes rolled frivolously. “I dunno. Like you’re typing to a business colleague or something. You’re so formal. When I think of you texting, I imagine it’s like someone using a typewriter. And that funny little ding sound it makes whenever you start a new line.”

“Oh.”

“What—no one’s ever told you that before? No way.”

“That I text like I’m using a fucking typewriter? No, actually. I can’t say I’ve heard that.”

“Well, it’s not a big deal. You’re just not very plugged into the internet, I suppose. Which is a good thing. It gives you prestige.”

At that, Wonwoo chuckled. “Does it?”

“Yes,” you smiled, eyes full of starlight, “and—just ignore Bells, okay? She was being kind of weird but that can be fully attributed to those three shots I told her not to take.”

“Hm.”

You continued to stare at him with a plotting smile.

“Hm what? What’s the matter?” The metal of the cart squeaked as you leaned forward, your voice suddenly lathered in mischief. “Did you think she was cute?” He heard your tone drop, and your low, smooth voice breathing hot against his ear. “Did you think about fucking her, Wonwoo?”

“No—what the fuck—not at all.” Quickly, he’d pushed you away and off his shoulder, to which you retreated into the corner with a giggle that should have made his skin crawl, but didn’t.

“Well, how would I know?” You answered, tilting your head and stretching out your arms high into the blackness, as though you were trying to reach for a star. “I never know, because you never look at me. It makes me think you just lied and you do think I’m ugly.”

Wonwoo glanced over the edge of the cart, at the almost nauseating distance between himself and the fairgrounds, covered with miniature, bustling people that seemed like breadcrumbs by comparison to their place in the sky. He didn’t want to sink into this conversation. Besides, how was he supposed to look at you when your fingers were just gliding through his hair and your lips were whispering close enough to brush up against his ear? How was he supposed to act composed? Normal?

“Hey, Wonwoo?” Your fingers snapped.

But he just kept thinking. Like he was cut from a separate cloth than you—the fabric of his universe wasn’t woven with yours and he could ruminate as much as he wanted to and it was impossible to hear your intrusions. Why couldn’t he look at you?

You intimidated him, yes. You scared him, double yes.

He already knew that. It couldn’t just be that.

“Wonwoo? God… you shut down over the simplest things.”

“I don’t know.”

You paused, staring him up and down, perplexed.

“What? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know why I can’t look at you.”

There was a lasting silence between you. Wonwoo felt like he might throw up for acknowledging the fact out loud, and his fist tightened in his lap as though to ground himself—to remember where he was and to breathe slowly, because having a panic attack on top of a stupid Ferris Wheel was the last place it should happen. He hadn’t even realized that you’d shifted closer, one leg curled beneath you while you spoke at the side of his head. But he didn’t hear you, couldn’t see you—there was a harsh void inside him that sounded like suctioning air and static. His fingernail was pressing so deeply into the flesh of his pale skin that it was beginning to faintly bleed.

And—all of a sudden—there were these hands cautiously gripping onto his face, pulling him toward you. He kept staring at the movement of your soft lips, focusing on their pronunciation until everything flooded back in one overwhelming whirl and it felt like being slammed by a freight train.

Wonwoo then grabbed onto your bare knee as a crutch. He didn’t mean to. But you didn’t seem to care.

“—everything okay? Wonwoo? Do I need to like, call someone? Because you look like you’re going to be sick.”

He heaved in a gaping breath, feeling how cold the midnight air was in the thinning atmosphere that encompassed him. It was soothing, akin to a hand massaging along his back.

“Wonwoo?” You repeated his name, sounding awfully scared.

Pulling off his glasses, he rubbed at his eyes. He blurrily saw you touch the spot on your knee where his hand had buried into.

“Sorry,” he then coughed through the heartbeat raspy in his throat, bringing the glasses back to his face, “I spaced out.”

“Spaced out?” You echoed. “That wasn’t spacing out.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

He thought you fight might it.

“Well…” you sighed, glancing around uncertainly, “are you okay? Is there someone you want to call? I don’t know.”

But you didn’t. Thank God.

“No, I’m—” he stopped, gulping back the words.

“… Yeah?” There was a softer intrigue in your cadence.

Wonwoo looked at you. Fully this time. He looked straight into your eyes that were like a glossy, moonlit ocean, detailed with swirling riptides of surprise and apprehensiveness, but also immense depth that seemed genuinely appreciative of his gesture.

“I’m fine.”

And then he watched you nod, smile, and in return study his cavern eyes with the same intensity and wonder. It was such a peculiar experience, staring at you, understanding a little more of your truth, your gentleness.

He didn’t feel as scared.

—MAY 16TH.

Wonwoo had been standing before the mirror in his washroom for the past half-hour or so, primarily just staring, examining, and pulling at the long, limp fronds of his hair. There was a point in his life when he legitimately put effort into styling it, and all his old hair products were still sitting in the cabinet. Though, his ex-girlfriend had tended to help him with it most days, because he found the strands were just too thick and stubborn to work with.

However, since the Spring Street Fair, Wonwoo hadn’t been able to shake those comments you made—about how nicely his face could be framed and the smouldering nature of his features. He would never think to describe himself that way as it seemed particularly pompous and kind of foolish, but hearing you say it was different. The thing was, Wonwoo had no idea where to start, and attempting to rummage his fingers through his hair just didn’t feel as stimulating or electric compared to your meticulous, sweet touch.

In the midst of opening his cabinet for a comb, Wonwoo heard his phone vibrate. He looked down at the sink, seeing the screen brighten with a text notification from Vernon.

[ Vernon | 12:54 pm ]: hey Glasses

[ Vernon | 12:54 pm ]: Solar Pop at 2?

Wonwoo thought about it for a moment, running his thumb down the spine of the comb to hear the little thwip. And then he sighed in decision, texting back a thumbs up. It’s not like he was working later, and as much as Wonwoo would love to believe that today might be the day he made actual progress on his own story, he knew it was just wishful thinking. In reality he’d waste ample time staring into the document, pondering all the scenes and emotions and nuances he could write rather than moving to write anything at all.

Besides, he hadn’t eaten yet today. The thought of a juicy, sauce-slathered, bun-toasted burger being his first meal prompted the boy’s face to sallow greenly with sickness, but the longer he stood in the washroom, combing and slicking and running styling balm through the black bird’s nest on his head, Wonwoo felt the hunger start to bite like an emaciated, starved dog. He left his apartment knowing he would be somewhat late, but Vernon was always later.

And while Wonwoo sat in one of the booths at Solar Pop, flicking the laminated menu back and forth despite knowing the exact order he was going to place, he thought about sending Vernon another text to ask where the hell he even was. Wonwoo could only sip his slippery glass of coke for so long until the waitress decided he was crazy and had been one-hundred percent stood up.

“Hey, fuck, I’m here.”

2:24 pm—that’s when Vernon finally arrived, sliding himself into the leather bench opposite to Wonwoo while tossing his big, metallic clump of keys onto the table. The boy then proceeded to shimmy off his black jacket, propping his elbows onto the table.

If Vernon ever pulled a tardy stunt like that with you, Wonwoo imagined his friend would probably get stuffed into one of those boxes for sawing people in half. Except it wouldn’t be magic.

“Did you get pulled over or something? Police raid? Traffic stop?” Wonwoo asked, now resting his menu down flat.

Vernon laughed, shaking his head. “Uh, no. Couldn’t find my fuckin’ car keys,” he spoke in a breathless voice. “Sorry ‘bout it.”

“Couldn’t find them?” Wonwoo almost scoffed at the excuse while his friend began scouring his way through the menu. “Dude, they’re the fucking size of a bowling ball. How could you lose them?”

“Okay, okay. Fuckin’ skin me alive, why don’t you?”

“You didn’t come from your place, I’m guessing.”

At that, Vernon began to grin, the metal on his pierced lip glinting underneath a ray of sunlight through the blinds. He was still occupied with choosing which burger he wanted. Wonwoo picked the same choice every time. Vernon always tried something different.

“No, I didn’t,” he rasped, flashing his sharp teeth and flipping the menu over, “but when Maleeha Rabia sends you a text at goddamn one in the morning of her tits, you don’t roll over n’ go to bed like some loser. Besides, my ecstasy was just sittin’ around and I had to use it one way or another. Anyway, doesn’t fuckin’ matter. I think I’ll get the Double Bacon Crunch Burger. Sounds good as hell.”

Finally, Vernon threw the menu down with conviction.

“Jesus Christ—” his copper-burnt eyes then flared open as he looked across the table at his friend, “—who the fuck are you?”

Wonwoo itched his nose. “Um, what?”

Vernon leaned forward, seeming captivated. “Uh, your fuckin’ hair? How’d you get it like that? It’s all brushed over and soft lookin’ and shit. I feel like I shouldn’t be sittin’ with you, Prince Charmin’.”

“I just put some balm in it, combed it around,” he answered, reaching for his drink. “Took me a humiliating amount of time.”

“Well, consider me starstruck. What’s made you do all that?”

Before Wonwoo could answer, the waitress returned to the table with her small notepad and shiny pen. Vernon pitched his order first, and Wonwoo followed, asking for the regular quarter-pounder with a side of hot crinkle-cut fries. Once she whisked the menus away and promised to grab Vernon’s root beer float, Wonwoo realized he still had to answer his friend’s question. He didn’t exactly want to tell the truth, because he knew Vernon would never let him hear the end of it, but Wonwoo also didn’t want to be too dishonest.

“Your face is doin’ that thing.”

“What thing?” Wonwoo answered, swallowing his sip of soda.

Vernon crossed his arms on the table, accenting the canvas of darkly-inked tattoos needled into his skin. He shook his head.

“It’s ‘cause of your little girlyfriend, isn’t it?”

Fuck. Wonwoo should have just opened his mouth straight away and spieled out some quick-witted lie. Now he would be painfully subject to Vernon’s unfiltered teasing. Leaning back in his seat, Wonwoo unearthed a miserable sigh at Vernon’s smirk.

“You’ve gotta drop that bullshit.”

“It’s true,” Vernon pressured.

“No, it’s not.”

As though to interpret Wonwoo’s steadfastness as a challenge, Vernon leaned further over the table, dropping his voice but still smiling devilishly through every word he mimicked between his teeth.

“Oh, Wonwoo, your hair looks so fucking sexy like that. It makes you look so perfect. You’re from my dreams. Please, just fuck me right here, right now so I can push my fingers through it ‘cause it’s so soft and silky and I’m basically in love with you.”

“Shut the fuck up. Please.”

“That was a good impression, though, wasn’t it?”

In the loud space of Wonwoo’s disgusted silence, the waitress placed Vernon’s drink onto the table and ensured the food would be coming soon. Vernon watched her walk away, back into the kitchen.

“Hey,” he then grinned in capitulating fashion, “take a stupid joke, alright? I know she’s not in love with you and she doesn’t wanna suck your dick—she’s got a fuckin’ boyfriend. If it makes you feel any better, I’m just projectin’ ‘cause you know I’m jealous.”

Wonwoo sucked in a sip from his coke, shaking his head.

“There’s nothing to be jealous of.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Vernon dismissed, poking his spoon at the near perfect scoop of vanilla ice cream afloat in the frosty mug, “but just so y’know, your mopey ass left me out to dry on Sunday night. Shoved me off the phone, didn’t respond to one of my texts. You’re lucky I even asked you t’hang today. Did she take your phone or something’?”

Shit. When Vernon said it like that, Wonwoo seemed like a terrible friend. Maybe he did deserve a deal of teasing. But at the same time, Wonwoo knew how easy it was for your attitude to flip and he hadn’t been at all interested in starting the night with hostility.

“Okay, fair.” He admitted, rolling up his sleeves.

“And?” Vernon raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“I’m sorry.”

“There you fuckin’ go. That’s all I wanted t’hear, Glasses.”

The truth was, Wonwoo actually quite enjoyed his time with you that night—despite the transient, bickering hiccups and his nearly faltering panic attack, he had fun. Actual fun. Of course, as soon as your ride ended on the Ferris wheel, you’d clutched onto his hand like a snake sinking in its fangs and dragged him throughout the entirety of the fair to find a washroom. Nonetheless, he really loved playing some carnival games with you, like skee ball and the water pistol. He was even able to win you a pink stuffed bear that you had carried close to the chest for the remainder of your time at the fair.

Wonwoo thought he could spend another night like that with you again. Just to get out of his apartment, to feel exhilaration in the pit of his stomach, to laugh until his lungs dried out, to hold your warm, comforting hand in his even when it became too clammy or inconvenient because otherwise you would scold him for letting go.

“Food’s on the way,” Vernon perked up like a child about to be served a slice of birthday cake as the waitress walked over with two full plates, “if you can’t finish yours, I’ll take it.”

“Yeah—how about you focus on chewing and not choking to death first,” Wonwoo sighed, watching his friend’s metaphorical tail wag.

Once she set the food down, inquiring about any refills, and left while flashing her perfected customer service smile, Vernon grabbed the burger with both his hands, taking a gigantic, succulent bite that somehow didn’t singe the roof of his mouth. Wonwoo winced, instead going for his crisped, golden fries.  

“Damn. You’re really that hungry?”

“I’m ravenous,” Vernon mumbled, picking up a few caramelized onions that fell onto his plate. “Dude, I woke up at noon in Maleeha’s bed. She was out cold. Nothin’ in her pantry but some stale fuckin’ Fruit Loops that I may have tried. I’m a grown ass man. I need a meal.”

“I’m glad you’re so proactive," Wonwoo answered, sinking his burning hot fry into the small side-bowl of ketchup.

It took them less than half an hour to clean their plates. Wonwoo tended to eat at a slower pace, with smaller, more savoury bites, while Vernon sloppily devoured his entire burger and gobbled down his fries with the occasional dipping into the root beer float’s ice cream. They scarcely talked in between, too focused on eating and drinking. Wonwoo pushed away his plate when he’d finished and proceeded to wipe off his salty, crumb-speckled fingers with a napkin, meanwhile Vernon took a moment to sink backward into the leather seat, placing a hand over his full, satiated stomach.

“Hey, do y’think they have any Life Savers?” He eventually piped up while sticking a toothpick into his mouth. “I want grape.”

Wonwoo scoffed, tossing the napkin onto his plate and taking out his phone. “Who the fuck likes grape?”

“Me, you smartass,” Vernon answered, turning backward in his seat and scanning the restaurant for any colourful candy bowls.

He couldn’t deny that he was hoping to see a text from you, but there was nothing, and his chest dropped. Wonwoo decided to open the schedule you had made, curious as to what you were even doing today—work until five o’clock, and then you were going out for supper with some friends at Terra Cotta.

He thought about texting you. His thumbs kept hovering above the keyboard in contemplation, even though he knew for certain he wouldn’t text anything. He would just stare and hope.

“Holy shit. Uh, oh my God. Wonwoo. I-I see—”

Vernon had suddenly reached a hand onto the table, slapping the lacquered wood a few times to garner his attention.

“What?” He mumbled in agitation, keeping his focus glued to the phone. “If you see the Life Savers just go up and take some. I swear, they’re not gonna fucking care you’re not twelve years old.”

“No, no, no, dumbass,” Vernon hissed, turning back around in the booth, his honey eyes glistering in oils of dread and panic. “Look, actually look. That’s Mingyu, isn’t it?”

Immediately, Wonwoo clicked off his phone, instead squinting into the distant corner of the restaurant where a notably tall, black-haired boy with tanned, amber skin had emerged from a doorway, standing in a somehow casual but imposing way that only be Mingyu.

It must be Mingyu, and that fact became glaringly obvious when Wonwoo made the unintentional, floundering mistake of staring straight into the boy’s wandering and earthen brown eyes.

“Oh my fuckin’ God, oh my fuckin’ God,” Vernon kept reiterating under his breath, bouncing his knee like an anxious student waiting for their test. “He definitely saw us. Or—he definitely saw you. This is so bad, man. I think he’s gonna rock me.”

“What?” Wonwoo whispered back harshly, attempting to float his gaze away from Mingyu in a casual manner. “For what reason?”

It seemed like Vernon almost wanted to gag at him. “Um—because of what fuckin’ happened between me n’ his girl! At that party? I told you about that shit, didn’t I?” He rasped from across the table, his bottom lip worried between biting teeth. “Dude, what if he tries to pull a fast one? You’re what—like six foot something? You have to help back me up. I can throw a pretty solid punch—even better when I’m shit-faced—but that might not be enough. Lady Liberty’s built like a brick.”

“Okay, you’re acting crazy,” Wonwoo uttered in disbelief. “I doubt he’s going to be anything but physical, especially in a public place. And, you said you didn’t know Her was in a relationship.”

“How the fuck do I know he knows that? Can’t exactly use my infectious charm on someone whose girlfriend I tried to rail.”

Vernon somehow dared to spare another rapid glance over his shoulder, only to shed an entire mould of colour from his complexion.

“He’s coming, he’s—”

“Shut up and relax,” Wonwoo mumbled. “I’m sure it’s nothing big—he’ll say a thing or two and be on his way. God, I’ll handle it.”

For some reason, Wonwoo thought he should be sinking into consternation a lot more than he actually was, but it’s not that his chest wasn’t thumping or his mind wasn’t spinning amuck with worry. It was more so that he was managing the whirlwind, as best he could, as much as he could manage. Mingyu wasn’t a complete stranger, and all their past interactions had been boringly cordial or even forgettable. Nonetheless, Wonwoo would still prefer to avoid the boy because that made his life simpler in the grand scheme of anxiety.

“Hey, Wonwoo,” Mingyu approached the table with a confident, leisurely stride, extending his large hand for Wonwoo to grab, exchanging a dap. “I almost didn’t recognize you for a sec.”

“All good,” Wonwoo answered, attempting a polite grin that felt much more sweltering on the inside than out. “How’ve you been?”

Mingyu shrugged, burying his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants while he gazed at the slitted curtains for a moment, pondering his reply. “Decent. Playing a lot of basketball. I don’t think I’ve seen you since I came to the pharmacy. You still there?”

“Still there.”

“Well, at least I haven’t had to come in for a fuckin’ pregnancy test yet. That’s good I suppose, yeah?” The boy chuckled, then tilting his head a certain way to crack a stiff spot in his neck.

“Aisle five if you ever need it.”

Mingyu responded with a smirk that perhaps lasted a second too long, and these slimming, analyzing eyes—a gaze that Wonwoo felt ripple in his gut. He chose to believe it was nothing dire, or else he would spiral right there on the spot and lose all fine-tuned control.

Meanwhile Vernon had been sitting quietly the entire time, most likely hoping he would remain in the dark, skulking shadows outside Wonwoo’s spotlight. But he must not have been hoping hard enough, because Mingyu proceeded to smile at him, again extending his hand for another dap, which Vernon yielded apprehensively.

“You’re a pretty recognizable guy, unfortunately,” Mingyu acknowledged with a husky laugh—a clear reference to the boy’s identifying tattoos and numerous facial piercings, “I think you deal to at least a third of my friends. It’s Vernon, right?”

“Mmhm. Yes sir.” To Vernon’s luck, he had a well-polished and gleaming smile that made it impossible for him to seem disingenuous, though Wonwoo knew he was wilting inside.

“I’m sorry about Dots.”

“Oh, uh. All good. It is what it is, y’know?”

Mingyu nodded.

“Hey—those tattoos are crazy good. Where’d you get them?”

Vernon looked across his arm. “Thanks. Mostly Liquid Impact—dude there that I call Funfetti ‘cause he eats Funfetti box cake all the time. Uh, but his actual name’s like, Axel or some white-boy shit like that. He’s done a majority of it. The others—man, I don’t know. Half the time I’m off my fuckin’ face and wake up with shit I never remember.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mingyu sniffed, running a hand through his long, shiny onyx locks of hair. “Guess you also don’t remember promising my girlfriend the best sex of her life, right?”

At that, Vernon looked straight to Wonwoo, and Wonwoo returned the enlarged, incinerating stare straight back, reading the split-second terror that swam like flopping fish in Vernon’s eyes. The atmosphere hit the ground with a palpable and ugly shatter.

“Yeah, um—about that—”

Mingyu then balanced backward on his foot for a moment, beginning to chuckle, sway his head, as though to dismiss the entire accusation in the same intense breadth it was mentioned.

“Nah, nah. I’m playing around,” the boy chuckled, rubbing at his nose. “You didn’t know she was taken. No hard feelings, yeah?”

Vernon immediately nodded his agreement, and the tension nailed into his broad shoulder line seemed to melt. “For sure. No hard feelings. I mean, she’s beautiful. Can’t even imagine what it’s like bein’ her boyfriend when you’ve got sluts like me around.”

Mingyu grinned, “no, you’re good. I know she gave you some attitude about it. Bit of a troublemaker herself. But, yeah. Water under the bridge.” The boy’s attention then turned back to Wonwoo, who was more than eager to somehow extinguish the conversation from you as a topic. “I know she’s hangs out with you right now.”

“Oh, yeah,” Wonwoo hummed, “the book thing.”

“She doesn’t like talking to me about it.”

“Well, don’t stress,” he answered, catching the sunlight that blitzed through the curtains and dipped like a gold paintbrush into the boy’s eyes, turning them to warm molasses, “she’ll show you the whole damn thing when it’s over and done with.”

Mingyu huffed, “I thought she’d have dropped it by now.”

“I don’t think she will. She’s pretty committed.”

“Hm.” He nodded simply in response, kissing his teeth.

Vernon folded his arms, leaning back into the leather seat with the toothpick again sitting in his mouth. “You got any plans for the summer, then? Doesn’t your pal always throw a huge party?”

“Yeah, actually. Doing it this year if we can manage. Seungcheol’s parents pretty much spend their entire summer bouncing around all the Great Lakes. We’re gonna do a co-hosting type deal and—shit, since you’re here, this is really good timing.” Mingyu then looked down at Vernon and lowered his gravelly voice. “I know what your main gig is. What about blow? You sell it?”

A slow but gradual, catlike grin trudged the edges of Vernon’s mouth, to which he pulled out his toothpick and set his elbows onto the table. “Look, can’t chop it up here, man. Ask one of your friends for my burner. I can get you to the ski slope, but it costs, obviously.”

“Nah, that’s fine. It’s just—my last plug fell through.”

“Tough.”

“Yeah. Okay, well, I should get going. I’ll follow up with you later. Do you care if Seungcheol knows the number, too?”

“No,” Vernon shrugged, planting the toothpick into the corner of his mouth and flicking it with his tongue, “just don’t go throwin’ it around. I could only get enough for a couple people, anyway.”

“All good. Okay—later, guys.”

Mingyu stepped away from the table with a wave and a flash of his pearled, charming smile, nothing but the mild scent of his fresh and expensive-smelling cologne to swirl through the now vacant space. In true espionage fashion, Wonwoo and Vernon both picked open the slots between the restaurant curtains, cautiously observing the boy’s stride into the parking lot and onto the sidewalk, where he at last disappeared into the warm, sunny afternoon.

Heaving a gigantic exhausted breath, Wonwoo took off his glasses and set them in his lap, massaging deep into his eye sockets.

“Y’know, he’s not that fuckin’ bad,” Vernon commented, “I mean, he scares the shit outta me, but that could have gone worse.”

"Jesus Christ—I can’t believe what I just watched.”

His friend laughed, banging his fist excitedly enough on the table to engender the silverware clattering on their plates. “Ha! I know, right? Dude—Seungcheol and Mingyu are the kingpins of that fuckin’ university you go to. They can cough up the big bucks for that shit. Just imagine the distribution pay I'm gonna get with them on my roster—actually, that couldn’t have gone better.”

“And where are you gonna get it?” Wonwoo pressured, at last settling his glasses back on, clarifying Vernon’s smudged, blurry face.

“Well, let me fuck around and work my magic.”

“I don’t want him to use you.”

“Pfft. I don’t give no fucks about being used,” Vernon cackled, wearing a self-indulgent, luminous smile and continuing to play around with the toothpick while he readied his wallet to pay. “You know what you should worry about, Glasses? Sweet talkin’ the fuck outta that dude’s girl and securin' yourself an invite. You probably don’t even need to try sweet talkin’—she obviously likes you.”

“No,” Wonwoo grumbled, “no way.”

“You don’t want to go?”

“Why would I want to go, dumbass? The last time I went to a party, I ran into you. They’re loud and suffocating. I’ll pass.” Wonwoo also pulled out his wallet, taking his card. “Besides, I get the sense Mingyu doesn’t trust me a whole lot. I’m not gonna stir the pot.”

Vernon shook his head. “You stir the pot every time you hang out with his girl to go write romantic poetry and run around, gigglin’ at Spring Street. N’yeah, exactly. You met me. I don’t get the fuss.”

“It’s nothing like that," Wonwoo answered in frustration.

“Yeah, yeah. You’re a Patron Saint. I just want my Life Saver.”

—MAY 19TH.

Wonwoo was going to your apartment today for the first time, and it had nearly killed him in the process.

His abhorrent sleep schedule hung over his head every single instance he woke up at lunchtime, the entirety of his mornings wasted to weathered heartbreak and its lasting, stained consequences. Needing to be at your apartment for ten had Wonwoo buckling his face into anguished hands the night before, wondering how he was going to pull off such a triumph without wishing for death.  

He did know one thing for certain—the sound of his alarm erupting into its timely, strident beeping made him instantly sick. In fact, the first thing Wonwoo did was half-stumble in complete bleariness out from his bed, dragging a white sheet along by his ankle as he burst into the washroom and hung his head over the toilet like he was sweating through a wicked hangover. But it wasn’t alcohol. It was months of bad, soul-stitched habit festered up in stomach bile and perhaps, a hatred for himself. It was his own fault, in a way.

And yet, when you texted him a half-hour later to reconfirm your address, Wonwoo replied with not the slightest hint that he was feeling pretty fucking terrible. The headache and shudders followed him down the street, onto the bus, and into the lobby of your notably opulent apartment complex. He felt rather incongruous amongst all the marble—the white trim, the clean, untainted air, even the breakfast table with dispensable lemon water and small, fruit-topped pastries that somehow made Wonwoo want to kill himself.

He looked down at his phone.

[ Her | 9:10 am ]: 717 thorton street, unit 61

[ Her | 9:45 am ]: are you almost here? :)

Wonwoo pressed the button to the elevator.

[ Wonwoo | 9:50 am ]: Yes. In the building.

His phone vibrated immediately with a text.

[ Her | 9:50 am ]: I’m so excited

The doors pulled apart. Wonwoo stepped aside for a couple who were leaving the elevator before he entered. Quickly, he clicked the button to close the doors, not wanting to share the space with anyone but himself and the headache throbbing at the forefront of his cranium. He sighed, glancing at his texts again to reply.

[ Wonwoo | 9:51 am ]: Do you have any Tylenol?

[ Her | 9:51 am ]: most def

[ Her | 9:51 am ]: what’s wrong?

[ Wonwoo | 9:52 am ]: Nothing much. Just a headache.

When he didn’t receive an immediate answer, he assumed you had put the phone down to search your medicine cabinet. Getting off the elevator, Wonwoo proceeded to find the correct apartment. He put his fist up to the door, and then, at the last second, stopped.

There it was again—the same melting pot of anxiety and butterflies that had bubbled up when you first visited his place.

He supposed the feelings never truly disappeared each time he would see you, and he was beginning to detest it. Why couldn’t his body just adapt? Get over it? What purpose did it serve to constantly remind him of his unkempt emotions? It was like the idea of you terrified him more than you as an actual person, because in person, he felt comfort, as crazy as it sounded. So why couldn’t his anxiety and security just complete that stupid sliver of a synapse for once?

Knock knock.

After a moment, the handle clicked, and the door to sumptuous unit 61 was pulled open. For the first time, Wonwoo saw your face without any makeup, and it sort of made him stutter in his words—not that he was shocked in abhorrence at the contrast, more so the vulnerability behind it, the fact you felt comfortable enough to shed your compulsion with always presenting a perfect, glamoured face. He was pleased to see you were in a fuzzy pair of pink shorts and a white, thin long-sleeve that were basically pyjamas.

Maybe it was weird to think, but you seemed more human.

“You made good timing. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks,” Wonwoo answered while stepping inside, toeing off his sneakers next to your plethora of shoes at the doormat.

“I would obviously say tour first, but I have your Tylenol sitting on the counter over here, for your headache. Can you dry swallow or do you need water?”

“Dry swallow?” Wonwoo laughed, following you toward the kitchen area. “Who the fuck dry swallows any sort of pill?”

“I don’t know! Personally, I don’t. But there are some freaks out there who do. I was actually testing you. And you passed.”

“Lucky me,” he sighed.

Taking a seat at one of stools displayed around the large, granite-surface island, Wonwoo waited for you to pour him some water. Obviously, the apartment was spacious, gorgeous—the large, white-fluffed rug in the centre of the living room was definitely suited to you, though he was surprised by the tall, lush potted plants aligned by the window panelling. He didn’t know you had a green thumb.

While placing down the water, you shifted closely into the seat beside him, and Wonwoo could smell the scent of strawberries on your skin. You let your chin press into the hammock made with your hands, watching as he set the pill on his tongue and gulped it down.

“So, is it really bad?”

Wonwoo turned the glass back and forth atop its coaster, deciding on whether or not he should tell the truth. It always tended to sting him when he lied, and so he turned to you, shrugging.

“I felt it when I woke up. But it’s manageable.”

“Oh, I get that sometimes.”

“It’s because of my repulsive sleep schedule, no doubt.”

You smiled at him, adjusting your leg under the island.

“Is that why you prefer afternoons all the time?”

“Pretty much. It’s a horrible habit. I’ll break it somehow, I’m sure. Just a stupid hump to get over. Anyway—” Wonwoo slung the laptop bag off his shoulder and onto the counter, “—your place looks pretty sweet. How are you? What’s the plan for today?”

“Well,” you hummed, slapping an arm down onto the reflective granite, “I’ve wrote some more this week. I’d love for you to proofread it. Maybe we can go out for lunch later, but you’d need to give me time to get ready. I mean, I did shower this morning…”

He watched you pause, and then swallow. "You don’t care, do you?”

“About what?” Wonwoo answered.

“Oh, well—never mind, then.”

“No, what is it? What don’t I care about?”

You started to grin, hiding half your face with a hand that slowly scraped across your cheek, as though to rub off any remaining lethargy from the morning light. Wonwoo waited for you to answer.

“… I look like a mole.”

He at last realized what you meant.

“No, you don’t.”

“I was just feeling lazy. I know, gasp, what an insane word to come from my mouth. But I’m glad you don’t care. I didn’t think you would, but I still wasn’t sure. At least your reaction wasn’t obvious. My chin is breaking out so please don’t stare at it, if you can help it.”

“Oh, well, you know, you look—” that one banished word almost slipped, but Wonwoo smoothly mended the break, “you—you have nothing to worry about. I get breakouts, too. It sucks, but it’s life.”

Your bare, soft face turned cheerful in a fawning smile.

“I know. I guess I'm just not very used to the feeling of people seeing me like this. Did you want to do lunch later?”

Wonwoo leaned back in the small seat, running his hands up his knees, knowing damn well he hadn’t eaten breakfast.

“Uh, I should probably start with like, cereal or something.”

“You didn’t eat?”

“No appetite.”

“I’ll fix you something. Unfortunately, no cereal. But I'll get some the next time Mingyu and I do groceries. So, what do you like best? Toast? Oatmeal? Scrambled eggs and toast? Orange juice? Bagel?”

At the mere mention of orange juice, his fist clenched. Attempting not to dwell so obviously, Wonwoo straightened up and smiled.

“I like toast.”

“That’s good. It’ll be easy on your stomach.”

Wonwoo watched you squeeze off the stool and open the fridge to pull out a plastic bag of bread. He watched you stand on your tiptoes to reach into the highest cupboard and grab a plate. He watched you pop open a jar of fresh raspberry jam and slot the bread into the toaster. He could watch you do anything, it seemed.

Anything at all.

It took Wonwoo about half an hour to eat his raspberry toast and skim through the newest additions to your document. You were getting more into the thick of your relationship with Mingyu—just as you’d warned—but Wonwoo was able to gloss most cloying paragraphs without too much bitterness or personal weight clouding his possible critiques. Wonwoo was still seated at the island, meanwhile you were lying face down on the plump-cushioned couch, an arm dangling off the side. In a morbid way, you looked very much dead if not for the shallow rising and dipping of your back.

“Done, for the most part.”

Your head perked up, and he was relieved to see you hadn’t fallen asleep or suffocated. “When will you add your notes?”

“After lunch. Is that okay?”

“Mmhm.”

“So…” Wonwoo slid down in the chair, reaching out his arms with a gigantic yawn, “you actually snuck into his basketball game?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, letting your chin snuggle into the blanket strewn underneath you, “I was obsessed with him. I couldn’t help it.”

“I wouldn’t expect your first date to be at the nature museum. The way you wrote about the butterfly exhibit was nice, though.”

“It was fun. Mingyu wasn’t the biggest fan, but I had always wanted to go. There was this huge skeleton of a blue whale, and sometimes the museum would play the whale’s ballad—” you flopped onto your back, staring up at the ceiling with a tender, ardent laugh as your fingers twirled the fluffy knots of the throw, “—it used to scare Mingyu so bad. He kept telling me he was gonna leave our date unless we went to another exhibit.”

“The sound can be pretty jarring if you’ve never heard it before, to be fair,” Wonwoo reasoned, now massaging down his legs.

Shoving your body to sit upright on the couch, you poked out your tongue at him, grinning, “don’t defend his loserness.”

He huffed in response, “my bad.”

“Should we do a tour now? I really want to show you my room. And if I keep lying on the couch, I’ll fall asleep.”

“Uh, sure. Do you want me to wash my plate?”

“No, no, it’s fine. Just leave it in the sink.”

After Wonwoo cleaned off the granite island, he came to join you in the living room, the white rug resembling what he imagined a cloud to feel like underneath his socked feet.

A thought had suddenly popped into his head.

“There’s a nature museum here, too.”

You grabbed the blanket, wearing it like a shawl around your shoulders. Wonwoo had never seen you so sleepy before.

“I know.”

“Have you ever gone?”

“No. Not at all. I did ask Mingyu once when we first came here for university. But I think he was still mortified from the whale thing. I dunno. Anyway, is that your round-about way of asking if I ever want to go? Because I would, to help with the story.”

Wonwoo scratched along his collarbone, heated with the itch of being blatantly exposed for his plotting. However, he hadn’t suggested the museum with the intention of employing it as a visual to sharpen up your scene-work. He was hoping to go just for the sake of it—like a palate cleanser, as you had previously mentioned.

But he obviously wasn’t going to articulate that.

“We can plan it more later,” he said.

The tour started in the living room, which Wonwoo had become well acquainted with throughout his half hour of sitting at the kitchen island, occasionally flicking his eyes toward the couch to ensure you were still alive. You explained that the pristine white rug was a housewarming gift from Mingyu’s parents when you first moved into the apartment, and he felt guilty for even stepping on it.

He decided to ask about the plants by the windows.

“Oh, I don’t actually look after those,” you answered, touching at one of the heavy and balmy-looking green leaves from a plant nearly as tall as you, “Seokmin comes over to water them and stuff, gives them special nutrient food—even sprays their leaves with this misty bottle thing. I tried giving them all to him, but he says he’s got no space at his apartment—which is total bull by the way.”

“Maybe he just wants an excuse to see you.”

“Yeah,” you scoffed, rolling your eyes, “doesn’t everyone?”

Wonwoo bit back a stupid little smile as he followed you into your bedroom—the place you seemed most enthralled for him to finally see. You twirled into the open space and threw the blanket off your shoulders, then whipping your hands into the air akin to a magician who’d just performed the most grandiose magic trick.

“Tada! Bedroom reveal!”

He pushed up his glasses, taking a good, solid look around at everything he could: the prestigious makeup vanity with the drawers left half-open, your dresser, lined with photographs of what he assumed to be friends, family, and Mingyu, the beaded, dangling chandelier, the ajar closet doors that revealed your unsurprising magnitude of outfits—skirts and dresses and professional blazers and lascivious things from threads of lace and silk. He finally looked to your beautiful bed, which you proceeded to flop onto.

“This is my favourite part,” you hummed.

Taking some further steps into the bedroom, Wonwoo began recognizing smaller details, though he couldn’t explain what he was feeling. He always thought a bedroom was such a personal, intimate space, like a treasure chest stuffed with memories and pieces of person’s essence that couldn’t be captured using words alone. To sit on someone’s bed, or sift through their drawers for a pen, or even grab a shirt from their closet—he felt it was all so… sacred. It was the reason he had such a hard time having others in his bedroom.

“The bed is your favourite?” He wondered.

“Yes,” you giggled, a glimmer flashing into your eyes like diamonds in the sun as you climbed onto your knees.

Before Wonwoo knew what was happening, you had clutched a hand into his shirt and jerked him toward the covers. He landed beside you, and his heart thrust with electricity.

“You could have just asked me to sit,” he chuckled, wiping some wrinkles off his shirt and adjusting his glasses.

“Nope.”

“Bed’s comfy.”

“Duh,” you sunk backward, smirking at him, “it’s a bed.”

“Hey, you should have seen the bed I had growing up in Changwon. My older brother and I, we hated it. Shit was like sleeping on a piece of cardboard. It didn’t get better for years.”

Propping your head onto a pillow, you continued to smile prettily at him with those entrancing eyes, and for a second, this piercing fear struck in the core of Wonwoo’s chest that he had just spoke about himself—actually spoke about himself—in a manner that screamed of vulnerability. He felt terror. Why did he do that?

“Hm. I guess I’m just spoiled, with my memory foam and all.”

At least you didn’t push into the topic. You were getting better at that, almost like you could interpret the subtle tweaks in his face or the stiffening of his bones. Wonwoo rested his elbows on his knees.

“Your room’s nice. It smells like you.”

He heard you giggle, “what? Like strawberries?”

Wonwoo pursed his lip, looked down at his fingers. “Yeah…”

For a moment, his eyes lingered unfaithfully on your exposed midriff, down to the fluffy hem of those pink lounge shorts. He squeezed his wrist tight, practically stopping his own blood flow, willing himself not to think anything unhinged that would simmer up to fuel his self-hatred later. The longer your head spent sinking into that plump pillow, the more your lids fluttered with sleep. As he continued to gaze about the room, he spotted the pink stuffed bear that he’d won you at the Spring Street Fair, sitting atop your bedside table.

“You’ve still got that?”

“Hm?” You pushed up onto your elbows, yawning. “Oh, yeah! ‘Course I still have her. It’s a perfect little memento from that night.”

“Well, I did go through a lot of effort to win it.”

“Oh, I’m aware... wanna know what I named her?”

“What?”

“Miss Priss.”

Honestly, Wonwoo was surprised you hadn’t stuffed it into your closet or abandoned the toy in some innocuous corner of your apartment. Instead the bear’s vibrant pink face and slightly lopsided eyes were staring him down, making him rerun Vernon’s words in his head: ‘you stir the pot every time you hang out with his girl to go write romantic poetry and run around, gigglin’ at Spring Street.’

Wonwoo immediately shoved the memory aside, letting the implications sizzle up and burn on the hot coals of his brain.

“Hm. Funny.”

You rolled your eyes.

Wonwoo tapped his wrist, thinking.

“So, uh, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but why don’t you live with Mingyu? I know he stays over some nights.”

Lifting yourself up with one arm, you shrugged, opting to stroke a hand along the blanket to smooth out some crinkles. “I don’t want to move in with anyone unless I’m engaged.”

“Actually?”

“Yeah. I mean, that's what I told my parents, at least. They used to really push for us to have an apartment together. Which makes sense. They freaking love him. I swear, more than me," you laughed, picking at your shirt. "I get it, too. Mingyu and I have pretty much been tied at the hip all these years. But we agreed that we wouldn't live together until things went to the next level. He does keep a lot of his stuff here for when he does stay over, and vice versa. He’s got an extra key and everything, his own nightstand, bathroom stuff.”

“And that’s for certain?”

You tilted your head. “What’s for certain?”

“The engagement thing. Or was it just to shake off your parents?”

“Well… I guess I mean it. Is that weird to you?”

“No,” Wonwoo said. “I personally haven't heard it plenty.”

“Yeah, most people are surprised to learn we don’t live together. I guess we really give off the impression that we're together in most things, if not everything. It's good to get a little space, though."

“Well, I understand it—wanting to have your own space. I mean, I think everyone should try living alone, just once if they have to. You learn more about yourself, I suppose.”

You cracked a smile at him. “What have you learned?”

Wonwoo chuckled, knowing all the things he could never say were tingling right on the tip of his tongue. “Well, I meant in a general sense. I wasn't exactly talking about myself.”

“Ha—you learned how to be a hermit.”

“I'm pretty sure I was always like that.”

“Yeah, but probably not that bad.”

“That bad?” He furrowed his dark brows at you, staring straight into your eyes that twinkled with challenge. “Meaning what?”

“Please, you would not leave that apartment if it wasn’t for your commitment to the book. Maybe for work, some groceries every now and then. Otherwise, your ass is not leaving.”

“Damn. Just call me a loser.”

“Fine,” you huffed, pushing up onto your knees, “loser.”

Wonwoo managed to hold the penetrating, spirited strength of your gaze, and he was proud of himself for doing so, even if his heart felt like it was going to leap into his throat. It was still difficult for him to be routinely engaged in eye contact, but he knew how much you appreciated it—the feeling of being listened to and experiencing someone’s dedication to presenting their full attention.

Since it was getting close to lunch time, Wonwoo figured you might want to start thinking of where to eat. He was getting notably hungry, and having to function off some toast coated thinly in raspberry jam wouldn’t be enough to power him throughout his proofreading. He pulled out his phone, wanting to check the time, and began sliding off your comfortable, warm bed.

“Did you want to—”

“Hey, wait, wait, wait—” Wonwoo felt your hand curl around his bicep in a firm grip and begin to pull him back down, “—before we get up and everything, I want to talk to you about something.”

Oh no.

His stomach writhed.

Wonwoo started praying it wasn’t about his and Vernon’s encounter with Mingyu at Solar Pop—not that anything particularly terrible or concerning had happened—but maybe Mingyu had mentioned something to you. Maybe he didn’t like Wonwoo and thought it was best you stop writing together, stop seeing each other.

His mind started quivering with a steadfast hurricane of awful thought and Wonwoo knew the flushed colour had most likely drained from his face as quickly as a popped balloon.

Your hand remained on his bicep, squeezing it.

“Why do you look so worried, already?” You chuckled in a quiet voice, rubbing his arm until Wonwoo visibly relaxed. “I haven’t even said anything yet. Unless, you think I should be worried, too.”

“No.” Wonwoo shook his head. “Just—never mind.”

“Hm, well, that’s kind of what I want to talk about.”

As your hand drifted off his arm, Wonwoo sat crossed-legged, narrowing his eyes at you in question. “What do you mean?”

The conversation began with a clunk of silence, to which you glanced down at the bed for a moment, clearly biting on your inner cheek in contemplation. Wonwoo desperately wanted you to spit it out. He hated when empty words hung so burdensomely in the air.

“Well… there’s no easy way to bring it up. And I’m not sure you’ll even want to talk about it with me, but I keep noticing it, again and again. I think it’s at least worth it to put it on the table. And, if it’s not my business, you can freely tell me to screw off.”

“Oh… okay.”

And then you were looking at him, not with any sort of accusation or anger or even disappointment. Somehow, Wonwoo knew what you were going to say, and he braced himself for it.

“Do you… do you have anxiety?”

Wonwoo said nothing. He wasn’t sure if it was an issue of not wanting to speak or being unable to.

You breathed out heavily in response.

“Okay, silence, I definitely saw that coming—but, um, I’m not stupid, you know? Your face just gets so pale, and I feel like I can see the heartbeat in your chest… and you always do that thing with your fist. Clenching it. It always looks so painful but you never seem to care and—anyway—I just… I can tell when it happens and it kind of bothers me that you try to like, shrug it off or call it ‘spacing out’ when it’s really clearly not. And, maybe that’s my fault.”

His gaze had shifted to lock with yours.

Again, you weren’t staring at him with any malice or dejection—he’d come to learn that your eyes were actually quite soft most of the time, soft but always glittering, like a handful of silk. Still, Wonwoo couldn’t yet find his words, which must have come across as remarkably shocking for someone who spent their whole life grabbing all the shiny bits of possible vernacular.

You sat up straighter, touching his knee.

“Is it my fault you don’t want to talk about it? Can I at least know that much?” There was an imploring desperation in your face.

Wonwoo at last cleared his throat.

“I don’t talk about it with anyone.”

“Okay, I get that. But, did I make you feel like you couldn’t bring it up? At all?” Your fingers dug a little harder into his knee, though Wonwoo knew you probably hadn’t realized it. “I just—I do want to know, actually. Because sometimes I let myself get in the way of being present for other people. But I care. I honestly do.”

He nodded, cracking his knuckles.

“I mean… I definitely wouldn’t have thought to bring it up with you. I guess I felt like, if I did, what would it accomplish? You might think I’m incapable or… I don’t know.” He shoved his hands underneath his glasses, rubbing at the indents on his nose. “As you can see, I’m not the best at talking about it. I don’t talk about it.”

You folded your legs in similar fashion to Wonwoo.

“Well… um… do you… is there anyone that could, like… I don’t know what I’m saying. I guess, are you coping alright, is what I’m asking. I really don’t mean to overstep. I swear.”

At that, he chuckled quite loudly. Your face twitched in surprise at his reaction, and the hand slipped off his knee.

“It really doesn’t matter. I just deal with it.”

No. He took nothing. He did nothing. Wonwoo just sat and suffered and felt no initiative to help himself. At that point, he really didn’t want to dissect the topic any further. He could sense the slithering under his skin, the way his body physically bristled like a perturbed cat at the thought of having to be any more open than what he'd already shared. The choices he made in his life weren’t important if he was going to end up back in the same slippery trench.

“Oh. Well, I hope you take care of yourself,” you said with a smile, giving his bicep another gentle squeeze. “That’s all.”

—JUNE 2ND.

About two weeks had passed since Wonwoo visited your apartment. Afterward, you had met up four times to continue writing and making small ventures to places that you deemed vital for developing your story. Wonwoo found himself enjoying most trips.

He remembered the ice cream shop. Apparently, it was the date where Mingyu had officially asked you to be his girlfriend. You had gotten their most popular strawberry cheesecake flavour while Wonwoo ordered mint chocolate chip, which was a rather boring but favourite classic of his. No doubt, you sat across from him on their outside patio the entire time, pitting remarks about how awful his choice was in lieu of writing anything down in your document. With every spoonful he ate, Wonwoo had to keep reminding you to stay focused, and eventually, his repetitious ordering worked.

"Did you actually come here to get any writing done or did you just want the ice cream? We're not palate-cleansing are we?"

"Why can't two things be true at once?"

“Can I see your laptop?”

“No—hey! Don’t try to grab it!”

“Why? Because you’ve written fuck all?”

"For your information, I have a bullet-point list going."

"Oh, yeah. A bullet-point list, hm?"

"Yes. It has all my major writing points. Point number one: Mingyu seats me down at the table. He's clearly nervous. We've only been in the shop for a minute or two and he won't stop brushing his hair behind his ears. Point number two: Mingyu grabs our ice cream from the counter. He gives me his flavour, rocky road, by accident, and then we awkwardly laugh and switch. Point number three: I remember thinking his nerves were endearing, and—"

"Okay, okay. I get it."

"Exactly. Let this be a lesson in poor assumption. Don't try to assume anything about me, Wonwoo. It's probably wrong."

And then there had been the journey to Mooney’s Bay, one of the most well-known beaches outside the city—probably because the lake actually looked a clean, salty blue and the soft sand wasn’t littered with drifting pieces of plastic. It had been the first place Wonwoo took his brother when he came to visit from his office in Korea, and the picture they had taken together with their pant legs cuffed up, standing knee deep in the water, was still pinned to the corkboard in Wonwoo’s bedroom. However, Wonwoo hadn’t been back to the beach since, until you dragged him there in an hour-long car ride. He had mostly looked out the window, thinking, as always.

You said that Mooney’s Bay reminded you of a cove from your hometown, a more clandestine one, where you and Mingyu used to splash around in the isolated, iridescent waters at night, laughing into the chilled breeze and coughing up all the liquid splatted into the other’s face. Wonwoo had used the video camera to record some footage of the beach per your request. By evening, most people had packed up their coolers and umbrellas and sun towels, granting him more freedom to film wider, panned shots. He remembered standing at the foam shoreline, feeling the sand squelch wetly under his bare feet, recording you wading further and deeper into the water that reflected like a bleeding, scarlet portrait of stained glass.

“It feels amazing! You should come in!”

“I can’t. It’ll ruin the camcorder.”

“So put it down! In the bag! There’s enough footage.”

“But the sun is setting behind you. It makes for a good shot.”

"So just hurry up! The water is the perfect temperature."

"But—"

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you.”

"Well, I don't know... I, uh—I can't swim."

"This isn't swimming, this is wading. Just go up to your knees. It's been a hot, long day. I think this will help get the scowl off your face."

“… Fine. At least give me a second to fix my pants.”

The third location, while not his favourite, had been an open bar that was conveniently placed a few streets over from his job at the pharmacy. Wonwoo had went there a number of times with Vernon in the past, usually after he finished a midterm or handed in some grating assignment, though Vernon tended to drink more than his body could sufficiently handle. By the end of the night, Wonwoo would most often find himself being a mediator between his tattooed, foul-mouthed friend and whatever blundering, equally drunk idiot he happened to be arguing with.

It was too much for his anxiety.

Nonetheless, he’d met you there after work despite the churning cauldron of memories that he harboured, unsurprised to find you seated at a small table swarmed with dewy drinks and shots that interested observers had sent over. Wonwoo felt each digging, plying stare that sculpted against his back as he sat beside you—he even choked down one of your retched tequila shots (while not the best idea), hoping it would mellow him out.

You never really explained why the bar was pertinent to your history with Mingyu—or, maybe you had, and Wonwoo was simply one flaming shot past coherent of properly digesting your words. He did, however, remember your entire, almost scientific explanation of why you liked wearing low-cut or heavily revealing tops at the bar, and Wonwoo had listened along as best he could manage, even when that floating sensation started hazing through his mind. At one point, this girl who Wonwoo had never encountered once in his life came up to him with a polite tap on his shoulder and an inquiring smile.

“Hey—sorry to intrude—and this may be a super dumb question, but you are guys together?”

“No, no. Not at all. I’ve got a boyfriend. He’s single.”

“Oh, perfect. I was just—I was sitting over there, in the corner with my friends, if you can see. Anyways—I said something dumb about how you were really good looking, and now I’ve been dared to come up and ask for your number. So, um, yeah…”

“No, I’m good. Thank you.”

“O-Oh. Wait… are you… being serious?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Sorry. This is really fucking embarrassing… uh, I guess I won’t linger then. Bye.”

“… Jeez… had a bit much to drink or something?”

“No—just don’t like giving out my number to strangers.”

“She was cute, though. Probably a fun one-night stand.”

“Then you have sex with her, yeah?”

“Ha! You’re so funny. When’s the last time you even had sex? I mean, you obviously pull. At least, I think you do…”

“I don’t remember. Months and months ago, I guess.”

“Wow! Zero play. I kind of respect it. I could never, though. So… actually, let me guess: you’re the type of person that can’t have sex without attachment? You need to be in love?”

“What’s it to you?”

“I’m just asking.”

“I don’t know.”

“God. You’re so fucking boring, Wonwoo.”

“Because I don’t go out of my way to find some pretty girl to have sex with every week, I’m boring? How does that make sense?”

“No, not that. I mean the fact you never really want to discuss anything about yourself. Honestly, sometimes talking to you is like pulling teeth, y’know? Anyway, move back a little. Backwards cap with the earrings has been staring on and off for the last ten minutes and I want one more free shot before I call it a night.”

The most recent place you had been together was the popular drive-in at Richmond’s Farm. Wonwoo knew that in the autumn months leading up to Halloween, the venue was turned into a haunted carnival with all the typical attractions: pumpkin patches, horror movie screenings, corn mazes, and masked, fake blood-spattered psychopaths chasing people around with a roaring chainsaw.

Seokmin, despite being quite weak-stomached and completely disastrous when it came to anything horror-related, had actually implored Wonwoo to go the year before after hearing the raves about their newest House of Nightmares, although Wonwoo declined in order to study for a test.

Really, there was no test.

Wonwoo just hadn’t been in the mood for losing all his hair and being crammed into pitch black, narrow corridors with a murderer promptly waiting around the corner. He hoped Seokmin wouldn’t ask him again this year—then his excuse would be obvious.

In the spring and summer, however, the farm mostly broadcast screenings at their drive-in theatre behind the maize field, and you had leaped at the opportunity to go because it was the perfect chance to relive one of your favourite dates with Mingyu. By your explanation, he’d taken you to see Crazy, Stupid, Love before you two had departed your hometown for university. But the drive-in obviously wasn’t playing that movie, and so you two had to settle for watching their only available screening, 500 Days of Summer.

Wonwoo hated that movie.

Of course, he hadn’t told you that.

Before the movie had started, Wonwoo helped you throw down a blanket into your trunk alongside some couch pillows that you grabbed from your apartment, creating a makeshift lounge in the rear of the car. Since the screening was late at night—and way past your typical good girl bedtime—you were worried about falling asleep halfway into the movie, though Wonwoo promised he would keep an eye on you to ensure you wouldn’t miss anything important.

Since it was too dark to film anything of quality on the camcorder, Wonwoo left you alone in the blanket-pillow trunk to scribble down any nostalgic, limerent sentiments while he grabbed some snacks. You had told him to get gummy bears, because you hated the way broken pieces of popcorn kernel shells would sliver between your teeth and dig into your gums, neither did you want a soft drink since it would be an abundance of sugar before bed, and it always resulted in a breakout the next morning. He was able to make it back to the car just before the screening started.

He remembered how strange it all seemed, sitting so close to you underneath the blanket, occasionally feeling your elbow dig into his arm or your knee bump his thigh, and the sharp blip it would cause in his pulse. Wonwoo remembered how often you complained about the temperature throughout the movie—first, it’s too hot, now, it’s too cold, you’re too close to me, you’re too far away and I’m cold again, I need the blanket, I don’t want the blanket—Wonwoo hadn’t realized a person’s body temperature could fluctuate that drastically. 

However, the worst part of that night happened about half an hour before the movie ended, just when Wonwoo was beginning to feel relieved about going home. You were getting sleepier by the minute, and Wonwoo could tell from the yawning every now and then, wanting desperately to rub at your eyes but refusing because it would smother the mascara into somewhat concerning, black whorls.

You had nudged his arm, and when he glanced over at your face, exhausted and half-illuminated under the watery, bright cast of light from the screen, you asked him in a quiet, dulcet voice: “is it okay if I rest my head on your shoulder for a few minutes?”

Wonwoo had wanted to say no—of course you can’t, because if you do, I will sit here stiff, and hardly breathing, and listening only to my own heartbeat. It will be the sole thing I’ll think about for the next three days no matter what I do to mask the memory. I’ll keep thinking about it until you burn out in my mind like a star.

But then Wonwoo had agreed instead.

He proceeded to clench his fist upon feeling the weight of your head sink softly to his shoulder. Your legs had been curled up underneath you, and your knees were then pressing flush against his leg. Every breath he inhaled was faintly tainted with the scent of your sweet, fragrant shampoo and it was fucking killing him.

“You’re so tense,” you had whispered in a giggle, “if it makes you uncomfortable, I don’t have to. It’s just because I’m tired.”

“No—” it had come out somewhat like a blurt, and Wonwoo just knew the tips of his ears were tingling red, “—it’s okay. I promise.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure… what?”

“Just wanted to look in your eyes when you said it.”

“Fuck, not that again.”

“I have to know!”

“Okay, that’s fine. Movie’s almost over, anyway. Just don’t fall asleep because then I really won’t know what to do.”

That had been four days ago.

Now, it was almost midnight. Wonwoo was sitting on the roof of his apartment with a messily rolled up blunt in his fingers—the second one he prepared, mostly out of impatience—drawing in a slow and deep breath that ghosted from his lips like wispy fog flowing down a shallow hill. He then coughed twice by his elbow, attempting to clear the stinging prickle that caught against his throat.

“You’re so fucking full of it,” Wonwoo laughed.

“No! I’m not.”

“You did not write thirty pages in a day.”

“Uh—actually, I did! And the fact you don’t believe me is a testament to your own wilted motivation. I am very motivated.”

He smiled at the sound of your voice crackling through his phone, which he’d been holding with the latter hand. Breathing in another hit, Wonwoo pulled at the sides of his black beanie, grinning through the thin cloud that was exhaled in a quick, neat puff.

“Okay, you wrote thirty pages. Didn’t have to fucking drag my career through the mud in doing so. I mean, I guess it’s a hobby.”

“For all I know, you’re the biggest poser that ever posed.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. I still don’t know what you write about.”

“I told you.”

“No—you fucking didn’t. You said something vague and ambiguous that could have meant literally anything. All I had to go off were some sing-songy praises from Seokmin.”

“I give you pretty good notes, though.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“So I must be decent.”

“I don’t even know why I bothered calling you. I was supposed to be in bed, like, an hour ago. You’re such a distraction.”

“Fuck,” Wonwoo laughed, tapping the warm blunt to knock off a clump of papery ash, “it’s been an hour already?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I don’t know why you called either.”

“To complain about that lady whose makeup I had to do today! She was horrible. God, were you not listening?!”

“No, no, I was. She told you the makeup she wanted, you said it wouldn’t suit her too well, and then she got all pissed off when it looked exactly how you said it would. That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh. Well… I just thought you should know about it.”

“Mmhm.”

Silence followed his velvet, almost teasing hum, but Wonwoo didn’t mind it, and he assumed you didn’t either. Your phone call had been completely out of the blue, only a few minutes after he’d climbed onto the roof and started sparking his lighter. An hour had already passed—Wonwoo couldn’t believe it. Time had never seemed so blurred and insignificant before, like tomorrow didn’t exist at all.

“I didn’t know you smoked.”

Wonwoo repositioned the phone in his hand.

“From time to time, yeah.”

“What strain?”

“Northern Lights.”

“I’ve never had that one. I mean, I’m not much of a stoner, and neither is Mingyu. I don’t like the way it feels in my throat—that dry, burning feeling. And I hate the cotton mouth afterward.”

“Shouldn’t be that bad if you’re inhaling it right.”

“Well, maybe you can teach me one day.”

He let the blunt hang from the corner of his mouth for a moment, a very fluttery-feeling smile taking shape. Not wanting you to hear that slight bit of giddiness in his tone, Wonwoo took another hit, holding the smoke in for longer than usual before exhaling.

“Do you, uh… do you still want to go to that museum?”

“Oh—the nature museum?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll have to do some poking around in my schedule. I have this stupid leadership council meeting for SSA that I have to go to.”

“That’s fine. Text me when you figure it out.”

“Okay… gosh, it’s really fucking late.”

“Yeah, you should get some sleep.”

“Are you pushing me off the phone? If anything, I should be the one pushing. You’re not doing anything to fix your terrible sleep schedule. And I certainly don’t want you to ruin mine.”

“That’s what I’m saying—you need to get some sleep.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“How did I say it?”

“Like you were pushing me off the phone!”

“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. How ‘bout this: I know how important structure is to you, and I am deeply concerned that this late night conversation we’re having may somewhat affect your sleep. And while I’ve thoroughly enjoyed talking to you and hearing your pretty voice through my shitty phone speaker, I think we should both go to bed.”

“That seems fair.”

“Great. So, goodnight then.”

“No! I want to be the first one to say goodnight.”

“Why?”

“Because, I say goodnight, then you say goodnight back, and then I get to be the one who hangs up first. It’s a courtesy thing.”

“Uh, okay then... I’m listening.”

“Goodnight!”

Wonwoo smiled. He smiled so fucking widely and brightly that he could feel the muscles in his face aching.

“Goodnight.”

—JUNE 7TH.

Since the quickest route to the nature museum was about half an hour from Wonwoo’s apartment, he suggested that you stop by around lunch time so that you two could make the walk together. It wasn’t too warm outside—the large smattering of clouds dotted in the sky and the typical city breeze helped to keep the temperature down.

“We’re not allowed to film in the museum,” you said from your seat at his small dinner table, “so don’t bother taking the camcorder, I guess. I’ll just try to soak up everything as best I can.”

Wonwoo was sat across from you, waiting for you to finish the heated-up carton box of creamy mushroom pasta that you’d raided out his freezer. He’d tried his best to eat beforehand as well, but the most he could stomach was some milk and cereal in addition a handful of blueberries. It was still better than his usual routine, which involved skipping any sort of meal post lunchtime.

“If you really needed to, I’m sure you could take a couple pictures,” Wonwoo answered, brushing a hand through his styled, pristine black hair that you had earlier littered with a flustering spiel of compliments. “I doubt the exhibits will be exactly the same, but if it's more so to capture the feeling, then it won’t matter much.”

You patted the corner of your mouth upon finishing the last few noodles left in the box, nodding your head in agreement.

“My journal’s in my bag. It should be fine.”

Wonwoo flipped over his phone to check the time.

“How was the SSA meeting yesterday?”

“Oh—I didn’t go.”

“Really?” Wonwoo asked while settling back in his chair, watching you toss the fork into the carton. “How come?”

“Because, it’s mostly pointless. We always sit there, in front of all those old, crusty men, trying to explain to them how we can improve the campus, the student experience, blah blah. And they act like they’re legitimately consuming our input, using phrases like: ‘oh, we hear you, we understand, we’re gonna try our hardest’—just for them to put, what? Another fucking seating area in the dining hall that no one asked for or cares about? It’s totally ridiculous.”

“Hm, yeah.”

“Anyways, I hate being on it. I hate going. I understand it looks good and whatnot, but it’s a huge waste of my time.”

Wonwoo picked up the pasta box, continuing to hum his agreement while taking it into the kitchen. He dropped the fork into the sink and folded up the cardboard to stuff into his recycling.

“It’s one meeting. A skip won’t kill you, or them.”

“That’s what I’m saying. Mingyu thinks I went, though. So, if you run into him or something and the topic fucking miraculously pops up—just don’t give anything away. It’s a little white lie.”

Coming back to the dining table, Wonwoo snatched up his wallet and shoved it into his back pocket, raising an eyebrow.

“Why wouldn’t you tell him?”

You pushed back in the chair, sighing heavily.

“He really thinks I should stick with it.”

Wonwoo didn’t say anything in response. He simply nodded, not wanting to hover on Mingyu as a conversation piece for too long, and waited for you to shoulder on your purse.

“Okay,” you then smiled, “let’s go look at some nature.”

Despite their boring, lacklustre reputation, Wonwoo had always enjoyed going to museums—art, history, science—he’d even been to a museum that delved into ancient coin minting and the development of currency. He supposed it was his appreciation for learning new information of his own free will, unlike the fast-paced, passion-draining, wringer system that was university. Furthermore, he was surprised that you would share his interest in the matter.

“Why wouldn’t I like museums?” You had stopped just before the acclaimed beetle species wall, aglow behind a glass sheet. “I wrote in my draft that Mingyu and I went to a nature museum, remember?”

“I know. I’m just surprised you have that much of an interest in them. Your life seems so upbeat. I didn’t think you would be into something that most people find fairly dry and anticlimactic.”

“Right.” Twirling back around, you continued walking down the corridor, your eyes tracing the organized arrangement of lustre-shelled beetles. “Because everyone else is too stupid and you’re the true upper echelon who actually possesses the mental capability required to appreciate something as seemingly trivial but totally enriching as…” you then paused at the glass, squinting to read the embossed label below an oblong-shaped beetle with an iridescent green shell, “… as the Chrysochroa Fulgidissima? I don’t know, something like that—also known as the Jewel Beetle. Its species is native to Japan and Korea. It’s a… woodboring beetle?”

“Why would I know?” Wonwoo laughed, coming to stand beside you and look at the plaque settled to the white background behind the display glass. “You’re the one reading it.”

“Ugh—doesn’t matter. I was going somewhere with my speech and now I forget… oh, yeah! So, you think you’re smarter than me?”

Placing a gentle hand on your lower back, Wonwoo urged you to keep walking forward in order to let the people faintly mumbling behind you examine the wall, who seemed much more interested.

“I never said that,” he answered softly.

“Okay—but, do you think you’re smarter?”

“In what sense?”

“Did you take the Frontiers evaluation for calculus?”

“Yes.”

“What’d you score?”

“9.8.”

“Shut the fuck up! No you didn’t.”

Wonwoo merely tapped the black-framed glasses further up his nose, smirking slightly, and began shaking his head while continuing down the exhibit. You hurried after him, remembering to lower your voice to match the collective quietness.

“Prove it,” you whispered.

“Go to prof Bradbrook’s office. My name’s on her wall.”

“I hate you.”

“Why? What did you score?”

“I’m obviously not going to say it now.”

Wonwoo still remembered the day his test score came back—he’d opened the envelope in Miss Bradbrook’s office, and while she sat across from him, practically squirming and jittering with anticipation, Wonwoo had glossed over the paper slip with the smallest, most low effort smile. He knew he was supposed to feel relieved in that moment—overjoyed probably—to realize his notable success and the upstanding conformation he was legitimately good at something. But in truth, he hadn’t really felt anything at all. He sort of just smiled. That was it. That was all he could muster.

And his life had mirrored that moment ever since. In the past, it would come and go. Yet, that day, it just stuck. The only time he ever experienced any glint or sparkle of happiness, it had come from his girlfriend—but even she couldn’t imbue much from him that day.

“Well, that’s not what I expected you to ask.”

You glanced over at him, adjusting the bag on your arm.

“Meaning?”

“There are different types of intelligence. I thought you meant, in a more general sense, am I smarter, or more knowledgeable. To be honest, I can’t say. I mean, I feel like I’ve experienced and seen a whole lot, but that’s just life’s illusion.”

“You won’t really know ‘til you’re on your death bed.”

Wonwoo returned your glance, squinching his brown eyes in a judgemental but innocuous way that gave bloom to his smile.

“Thanks.”

“I can’t help it. Museums make me think of death. I think it’s the really cold, still air. Especially in nature museums where they need to preserve things. Like, look at that fox. It’s a bit ominous.”

On the exhibit to his right, Wonwoo observed another display protected by glass. There was a fox, with a rusty, auburn coloured coat, poised atop a fake precipice of grass. Wonwoo knew what you meant—it was the eyes, like two leaf green beads, so immensely detailed but lifeless to an almost uncomfortable degree.

“I want to see the aquarium exhibit next,” you said, tugging twice at Wonwoo’s sleeve. “I heard it’s really dark in there.”

“Well, we can go take a look.”

“And we can eat afterward? There’s an atrium.”

“Sure.”

Wonwoo let your arm link with his, following the natural flow of museum-goers into the next exhibit, leaving behind the shiny, colourful wall of beetles and the auburn fox in its lonesome enclosure.

The aquarium exhibit was one of the most spacious in the entire museum, placed in a large, dome-topped room, with shadows creeping at every corner. There were some lights—deep, blue lights that rippled and wriggled across the floor, like waves patterned against ocean sand by the sun rays. He didn't know from where, but he could hear water sloshing, a very soft sound that led him to imagine the wet sand squelching under his toes.

You approached another display wall, filled with a school of lemon-yellow and azure coloured fish placed around vibrant, unique corals.

While you busied yourself with reading the informative plaque, Wonwoo spent his time taking a more in-depth inspection around the mystifying exhibit. He noted the stingrays and luminous jellyfish flocking above his head, held on near-invisible little wires that would occasionally glimmer if they twisted the perfect angle.

After a generously long venture throughout the room, reading all the plaques and pointing to different fish behind the glass just to comment, “I think that was in Finding Nemo,” you had wanted to sit down, spotting a bench positioned before an aquarium.

Wonwoo agreed, and you collapsed on the bench together.

There was a period of comfortable silence where you both watched the aquarium, meanwhile the dappling, blue pattern cast to the floor danced and flickered around at your still feet. The atmosphere seemed so vivid that Wonwoo was surprised the next breath he took wasn’t a mouthful of liquid and sea salt, or that his body wasn’t miraculously suspended and floating about in the echoey shadows.

And that’s when Wonwoo decided he liked the aquatic exhibit very much—more than all the others.

He looked down at the hands folded in his lap, specifically at the scarred, ruined cuticle belonging to his right thumb and how it had withstood years of his anxious scratching. Wonwoo then breathed out softly, feeling his heartbeat begin to pick up.

“Want to know something?” He asked.

You stared back at Wonwoo with an intrigued pique of your brow.

“Like what?”

“Well, first of all, we both took creative writing, you know.”

"Uh, okay," you sniffed, "sure."

"No, like, we took the course together. In the fall. Prof T?"

"Really?" You pinned him down in a non-believing stare. "Wait, you're talking about that basement auditorium, right? In Gildan Hall? It always smelt like old computers and dust bunnies?"

"That's the one."

Scoffing out some dry air, you leaned back.

"Woah. I don't think I ever saw you... did you go to each class?"

He nodded a few times. "Almost all. To be fair, I sat more in the back, off to the corner. I wasn't exactly thrusting myself into the limelight."

Folding one leg over your knee, you chuckled. "Sounds like you."

“I have this really specific memory from that class, when that random guy, whoever he was, sat in the seat you always took. Your so called unofficially-assigned-assigned-seat. And I remember that really tense feeling right before you walked in, because we all knew you were gonna chew him out for it. The way you marched straight up to him was already violating enough, and then you basically ruined his whole day.” Looking down at his hands again, Wonwoo smiled at recalling the memory. “You absolutely terrified me. I don’t even think you understand how much I wanted to avoid you.”

He caught your eyes, shimmering like the water-stained floor, with an emotion he couldn’t place.

“Actually?” Was all you said, hardly sounding surprised.

“Yeah.”

Your face began searching around the shadowed, sloshing exhibit for something unseen. He decided to let the silence settle like a thin sheet, instead listening to the tidal pushing and pulling. The soft sounds reminded him of being a child, wandering beaches into the late evening with his older brother during summer vacations, and picking up shells just to hear the ocean speaking inside them.

Aloud, you breathed in, shaking your foot.

“I can’t really remember what was going through my head that day. I know I’d had a fight with Mingyu before going to class, so I was feeling pretty amped up and short-fused. I knew I was going straight to another SSA meeting that I hardly cared about immediately after, and then I would work until the evening. I knew I would have to make dinner when I got home, even though I’d be downright exhausted, and the next morning, I’d have to wake up early to attend some bullshit press, social, interview breakfast thing for my mom’s new lifestyle magazine. Having that idiot sit in my favourite seat was probably just the straw that broke the camel’s back, I guess.”

“Hm,” Wonwoo hummed, suddenly experiencing a profound sympathy for you that he never imagined he would feel. “When you give it a bit more perspective, it doesn’t sound so…”

“Completely and utterly bitchy?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to use that word, but, sure.”

You grinned at him through the dusky rippling of auroras that flitted across the exhibit, seeming like you were under the sea—and he was, too, sitting side by side in the somehow peaceful depths of the chaotic whirlpool that had pulled you two together.

“I have a memory.”

“Okay,” Wonwoo returned your grin, “I want to hear it.”

“So, remember earlier how we were talking about the Frontiers evaluation for Bradbrook’s calculus class?”

“Mmhm.”

"So, after all the Frontiers scores came out, I'm not gonna lie—I really thought I had one of the better marks. It's not like I specifically trotted around, throwing out my grade to anyone passing by, but I was parading a little bit to my friends. And then, like, Clara or something, told me that there was this guy who almost got a ten. I asked her who, and she said she didn't know—just that she overheard some of the basketball guys talking about it.

I thought she was lying. I didn't say that, though. But I remember it was on my mind every night. Like, it was itching me so bad. I wanted to know who the fuck was smart enough to get a damn near perfect ten on Frontiers. Some of those problems are ridiculously hard. I started writing nonsense around A-block. They straight up give students problems that serious, esteemed mathematicians can't fucking solve. So, honestly... I was quite jealous of you... despite not even knowing who you were. I can't believe that was you, asshole."

Wonwoo cracked his knuckles, beginning to laugh at that intense but lighthearted glare you were sending his way. Of course, you mellowed everything out with a big smile he felt his heart skip a beat over. You had actually went to bed thinking about him.

Holy fuck.

Maybe not him in physicality. But in spirit.

That was close enough.

"I just did the study guide." He shrugged.

Your knee pushed into his. "Oh, yeah, the study guide. Jeez, why didn't I think of doing that? Let me go kill myself right now."

"Keep tabs on it for next time."

With a roll of the eyes, you laughed almost to scorn him.

“I hate people like you.”

And Wonwoo laughed back. “Meaning?”

“Things come to you so naturally. You don’t have to try.”

“Sure,” Wonwoo agreed, scratching his nose and proceeding to nudge up his glasses, “things like mathematics, numbers, problem solving, taking something whole apart and then looking at its pieces. I guess it does come to me naturally. I can’t complain. But there are also plenty of things that don’t. And… if I could, I’d probably trade all my stupid math and logic and puzzling for what I’m missing.”

You tilted your head, staring intently at Wonwoo through the blue sea between you, almost into his brain, it felt like.

“What are you missing?”

At first, Wonwoo didn’t respond. To answer your question meant an intimate exhumation of the flaws that he’d been willfully ignoring for the past year, if not his entire damn life. It meant at last turning over the round, flat rock that had been sitting at the foot of his wooden porch since childhood, and realizing the bottom was sculpted with the grittiest texture and wet with the thickest dirt. The rock was hiding long-legged spiders and ugly, skittering bugs and it would have probably been better to let the rock sit there, untouched, only facing the warm and comfortable glow of the sun.

Wonwoo didn’t want to turn the rock.

Not at all.

“A plethora of things, I’m sure.”

Squeezing onto your wrist, you smiled at him.

“I think I’m the opposite.”

“How so?”

He watched you inhale a long, slow breath, and then huff it all out through your nose. Wonwoo bumped his knee against yours.

“You don’t have to talk about anything you don’t want to.”

“No, no. It’s not like that…”

Looking up to the glowing aquarium, the dull light reflected back unto your face, and Wonwoo again saw the glisten in your eyes.

“I just feel…” for a moment, your chest stilled, “… I feel like I’m so much of everything that I just blend into nothing. You know, like when a child takes a whole bunch of paints and squirts them all together thinking it’s going to create this beautiful, never-before-seen new colour? But, instead, it’s just greyish-brownish, nothing.”

Your face turned back to him. Wonwoo watched you chew down on your bottom lip, meanwhile your eyes glazed aloof, off to the side, as though you were rummaging through so many different thoughts and experiences that it required your utmost mental focus.

“And—” you swallowed tightly, and it sounded so painfully dry with stinging emotion, “—I just don’t want people to see that I’m so much of nothing. I just find myself covering it all up.”

Were you going to cry? Wonwoo felt himself jolt inwardly with panic. He had never seen you cry and he had therefore never developed the best protocol to tackle such a situation. Some people preferred immediate comfort, others—a reassuring stroke on the back, maybe some uplifting monologue. Or, maybe, they didn’t want to be touched at all. They just desired the simple, thinking silence and all its clarity. He remembered you saying something about it—that you did like to be comforted, but only in very certain circumstances.

First, Wonwoo subtly wiped off his hand against his thigh, and then he took in the softest breath. Through the flickering, midnight blue mirage, Wonwoo reached for your hand. He settled his cold fingers inch by inch under yours, and, with a timid but gentle thumb, Wonwoo caressed in a slow path along your knuckles.

You glanced to him appreciatively, saying nothing, but squeezing his hand in return. He figured he’d done right.

Maybe more things came to him naturally than he thought.

Before leaving the nature museum, you and Wonwoo had stopped at their atrium as promised to get in a quick meal. While you poked a fork into your sad-looking salad, making small scribbles every now and then to the journal at your elbow, Wonwoo ate a grill-pressed sandwich and flicked through his phone. He was surprised to check the time and realize you had spent about three hours there—it felt so much shorter. Wonwoo hated how quickly each moment flew past when he was with you. It was always so bittersweet.

He had wanted to know what exactly you were penciling in the journal, though he never asked, knowing he would probably be proofreading it from your document later. Obviously, you were thinking about that particular date with Mingyu from years back in your life—that was the principal point in going to the museum. However, Wonwoo had chosen to regard it more as hanging out, not caring if that was a particularly delusional or untruthful choice.

After finishing your meals and tossing the plastic remnants into the recycling bins, Wonwoo looked outside the atrium’s towering glass wall to note how cloudy the sky had become. From the bright, eggshell turquoise in the afternoon, to an especially muted grey that seemed brewing and heavy with a downpour. You adjusted the bag over your shoulder and suddenly grimaced at the sight.

“Jeez, is it going to rain?”

“It could,” Wonwoo sighed. “It very possibly could.”

“I swear. I obsessively check the forecast in order to plan all my outfits around it. It never said it would rain!” You then threw the bottle of iced tea you’d been drinking into the garbage with an aggressive slam. “This shirt is a horrible choice. It will be stupidly see-through."

Wonwoo glanced around the atrium.

“There’s lots of empty tables. If we want to sit and wait it out, then I don’t think anyone would get mad. But, I mean, it’s up to you.”

“Why’s it up to me?”

“I don’t know. Just—if you don’t want to get your outfit all soaked. I’m sure if we left now, we could make good distance before it really started raining. I’m not opposed to getting a little wet. But I have no issue with staying here and letting the clouds go over.”

You folded your arms, and your head fell to the side. He’d seen that look before. It was your own patented prelude to disaster.

“I never said I was opposed to getting wet.”

He laughed. “Well, you certainly insinuated it.”

“Do you think I'm some sort of whiny little priss?”

"I think you named your bear Miss Priss."

"I think you're a smart ass. Take that smirk off your face. Now."

Wonwoo wanted to sigh, but he didn’t. He then thought about trying to tenderly explain his way out of it with his smooth words. As much as he would think he’d figured you out, there was still a part of him that was very confused by you and how to adjust to your behaviour.

This time, he decided he would do nothing.

“Okay. Let’s go, then.”

He reached out his hand for you to grab.

“As if,” you scoffed, walking around him toward the exit doorway, into the museum garden, “not after you just insulted me.”

Wonwoo could do nothing but laugh in response, because he had caught that faint smile on your face as you passed him, and the sweet beading in your eyes. He simply followed you out the doors.

During the walk back to his apartment, it had yet to rain at all, not even a typical, humid summer drizzle or the smallest bit of spitting. Maybe it was just way more cloudy than usual, or it was a concerning spread of city smog tainting the sky. It’s not like he wanted it to rain, anyway, though more so for your sake than his.

About a little more than halfway through the walk, however, you came to an abrupt stop outside a flower shop, and Wonwoo watched you lift a doubtful hand to your cheek and wipe something off it. Before you could say anything, Wonwoo felt a big, cold, wet drop smack just above his eyebrow and begin leaking down. He used the sleeve of his shirt to clean it up, only to experience another fat droplet strike a second later, right onto his glasses.

“You can’t be serious…” he heard you mumble.

Making the mistake of looking up, more and more droplets fell swiftly from the daunting, dark grey blanket strewn across the entire skylight. They began painting all over the sidewalk, the roadway, shaking down into the brilliant purple and white petunia pots outside the florist shop. And Wonwoo froze for a moment, because he honestly hadn’t expected to be caught in the rain, let alone the downpour it was unfortunately shaping up to be.

“Ow!” You winced sharply. “One just fucking hit my eyeball!”

“Shit—let’s hurry.” Wonwoo hid his phone. “My apartment’s only like, ten minutes away, less if we run really fast.”

“Run?!” You gawked at him. “I don’t run!”

“No, you fucking sashay, I get it.” In a matter of seconds, those intermittent raindrops had evolved into an unrelenting, bathing barrage. Wonwoo could feel his clothes beginning to dampen, and his glasses were streaming with water. He slapped his hand onto yours, jerking you forward despite your stiltedness. “And I’m so sorry but you’re going to have to sacrifice one part of your pretty fucking princess routine for just five minutes so we can get back to my place.”

“My pretty fucking wha—!”

Once Wonwoo’s fingers were clasped tight with yours, he started to run, and whether it was voluntary or not, you ran along with him, shouting something that he couldn’t quite hear over the rain that bounced in loud splatters against the sidewalk and the adrenaline echoing in his own ears. He could hardly see through the downpour, but he’d walked that path so many times that it almost wasn’t necessary. At one point, he’d stepped onto the street prematurely, and he heard the loud, startled honk from a car.

“Jesus Christ, Wonwoo!” You half-laughed, half-coughed, clutching onto his slippery hand even tighter, “I’d ideally like to live!”

“We’re almost there!” He chuckled back.

“I think I’m going to lose my fucking shoe!”

“I’ll buy you a new pair!”

Wonwoo didn’t stop, and you didn’t either. He was soaked to his bones, with thick, drizzling fronds of hair plastered to his forehead and the glasses nearly slipping from his nose—the scent of earthy but ashen rain all around him—and still Wonwoo kept running, a very blithe smile permanent to his mouth despite all his discomfort.

Upon reaching the entryway to the pottery shop, Wonwoo almost skidded completely past it since the sidewalk was so slick and pouring like an angry river. You slammed into his back, and it was then that your hands unintentionally separated. Instead, he felt your fingers flesh into the sopping cloth covering his shoulders.

“Be careful on the steps!” He shouted overtop a reverberating crack of thunder that shook from behind the grey sleet sky.

“If I slip, I’m pulling you down with me!”

Wonwoo was pleased to hear the equally bright smile that bled into your words, meanwhile your fingertips dug even deeper into his muscle. Once inside the shop, a gust of wind proceeded to blow the door shut, and all Wonwoo heard was hard rain against the glass.

—END OF PART TWO.

[candiceswans]

FREE CONTENT ; ( ❀ )  by clicking the source link, you will be redirected to my ko-fi shop. PAY WHAT YOU WANT! it will give you access to 560 gifs ( 268 x 150px ) of lim jiyeon in her role as park yeonjinin the glory (part 1). jiyeon is born on june 23, 1990. she was around 31-32 years old at the time of filming. she is korean, so please cast accordingly. [❗]  cw: flashing lights, suggestive scenes, kissing, smoking, food, drinking, mild violence, choking i made all of these gifs from scratch. kindly read the gif guidelines before use. please like and/or reblog to show your appreciation and support.  if you like my creations, consider buying me a coffee.  

[chiskz]

▶️ moments when skz almost put chichi up for adoption (stray kids funny moments)

♡𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭: @alyszaen , @smh-anon , @neohyxn , @stealanity , @alixnsuperstxr , @kimcheon-sa , @hafsa-hoofsa-heefs , @qtnoaly

《 ♡ 》

intro from author: i have long ago concluded that chichi being the lost child of the rest of the members deserves her own video, so here it is! the working title was "chichi making stray kids rethink their life decisions" lmao

🎬🎬🎬

skz-talker. Han and Seungmin are eating ordered pizza together in a hotel room and talking into the camera. The room door then opens without knocking, and Chichi walks in. All three stare at each other in silence, and Ichi, without breaking eye contact, slowly reaches for a slice of pizza.... And another. And another one after which she runs off, slamming her foot on the cabinet. Han lowers his eyebrows slowly.

HAN: She is impossible. Sometimes she doesn't eat for a few days and then steals whatever she can find.

🎬🎬🎬

skz-talker. some members talk into the camera. chichi stands in the background with Jeongin, who is drinking his coffee. Ichi, meanwhile, is drinking up whatever coffee the members have left on the table. Jeongin looks at her appraisingly, with one eyebrow raised, but doesn't react. When everyone returns to the table and sees the empty cups, Chichi is already gone, but Minho rolls up his sleeves and walks toward the exit to find her.

🎬🎬🎬

skz-talker. footage from behind the stage of one of the awards show. Han speaks into the camera and Chichi stands next to him, listening. after a while she gets a little bored and wants to sit on the table behind her. this table, however, turns out to be made of cheap plastic and cracks underneath her, causing her butt to get stuck in the table. Han immediately turns around and Ichi bursts out laughing, covering her face. Jisung tries to say something to her, but he himself starts laughing for so long that the editors made the cut.

In the next shot, Chan and Changbin try to take her out, but they succeed moderately, because they are also laughing.

HAN: Han reporter on the scene... Well, the rescue operation will take... much longer than expected. Over.

Minho enters the frame for a moment.

Lee Know: As of today, Stray Kids will be promoting with an eight-members lineup.

He smiles like :] emoji and makes a peace sign with his fingers.

CHICHI: I heard that! [editors' note: after all, it was the staff who helped her... you're welcome!]

🎬🎬🎬

variety show. stray kids play a word-guessing game with headphones on their ears. Hyunjin sits opposite Ichi and tries to tell her the words, Chichi doesn't guess a single one (those were the days when she wasn't that good at Korean yet), so she finally shouts:

CHICHI: TRY ENGLISH!

Hyunjin looks at her confused.

Hyunjin: I DON'T SPEAK ENGLISH!

CHICHI: AND I APPARENTLY DON'T SPEAK KOREAN!

Hyunjin: I CAN'T WORK WITH HER!

Hyunjin laughs loudly and pulls off his headphones, pretending to want to throw them away, and Chichi rolls out of her chair laughing.

🎬🎬🎬

VLIVE - Hyunjin, Seungmin, Chichi. Hyunjin reads the comments.

Hyunjin: Have you seen Chichi's photos on Instagram? That t-shirt looks familiar.

Hyunjin immediately looks at Chichi, and she hides behind Seungmin. He goes on Instagram.

Hyunjin: This is my t-shirt...

CHICHI: Do you have any proof?

Hyunjin: I should have a receipt somewhere...

CHICHI: For this particular t-shirt?

Hyunjin: I think so.

CHICHI: Until you find it you have no proof.

She sips her bubble tea. Hyunjin looks slowly into the camera. [author's note: he's so done with her]

🎬🎬🎬

YFNChichi! episode. Chichi holds the phone for a moment then puts it down.

CHICHI: So... recently we were abroad again, at a concert. I was doing some sightseeing, but got lost in the crowd.

She laughed briefly.

CHICHI: There wasn't much left before we left the hotel, but by some miracle I got back there alone with the GPS. But I didn't find anyone else... I thought I was going to cry. It turned out that for my tardiness they wanted to play a prank on me and everyone was waiting in cars a street away... I guess they really got fed up with me!

🎬🎬🎬

Jeongin solo vlive. Jeongin reads the comments for a while.

I.N: I.N, when will you post new photos on social media? Actually, I was supposed to upload something today. Chichi took pictures of me, Seungmin and Han in the city, but most of them came out so blurry.

He laughs, covering his face with hand for a moment.

I.N: Sometimes Chichi really makes me question all my life decisions...

🎬🎬🎬

STAY's video from one of the concerts. Chichi is standing next to Bang Chan, confetti is falling on the stage. Ichi catches it and every so often puts it behind his shirt. When she gets tired of this, she starts putting it in his hair. Chan turns his head slowly toward her, and she runs away with laughter.

🎬🎬🎬

Stray Kids Pajama Party Video. Chichi lies next to Seungmin while his eyes are closed.

CHICHI: Do penguins have knees?

Seungmin: I don't know, sleep.

CHICHI: Because overall, I don't think they need them... They do small clack clack and somehow walk, right?

Seungmin: I don't know, sleep.

CHICHI: Or they slide on their bellies, that's cool too.

Seungmin: I don't know. Sleep.

CHICHI: But if they don't have knees then maybe they don't have legs but just feet?

Seungmin: I don't know. Go to sleep.

CHICHI: And if Pinocchio says "my nose will grow now" will his nose grow or not? Well, because if he lied, his nose will grow, but if it grows it means he told the truth, and if he told the truth it shouldn't grow, right?

Seungmin: Park Ichi, for God's sake...

🎬🎬🎬

Stray Kids MV Behind The Stage. Chan is explaining something to the camera when Chichi appears in the background wearing a much too large Changbin's jacket. She trotts over to him and stares at him until he pays attention to her.

Bang Chan: Hm?

CHICHI: Mama Lino said it's my turn to have the camera.

Bang Chan: Mama Lino?

CHICHI: Yes.

Bang Chan: Is that what she said?

CHICHI: Yes.

Chan raises one eyebrow slowly and hands her the camera carefully, but Ichi drops it 0.0001 seconds after she catches it in her hands.

🎬🎬🎬

one of the group vlives. Felix is talking to the camera, and Chichi sitting between Jeongin and Han is dancing with her hands (as it turned out later, this was a spoiler for the Maniac choreography). When she realized this she opened her mouth wide and stopped, but Jeongin and Jisung had already figured it out. Innie covered her up, and Han pushed her behind the couch, pretending nothing had happened.

🎬🎬🎬

awards ceremony. Chan finishes his speech and now it's Chichi's turn to thank the fans in Japanese. She, however, instead of stepping up to the microphone she grabs the stand and tilts it and the microphone all the way toward her. Jeongin, Seungmin and Felix look at her confused, Hyunjin sends her a side eye, Chan is speechless, Changbin listens to her attentively, and Han and Minho turn their heads for a moment to contain their laughter.

《 ♡ 》

[hippiekiyay]

Wow, official english translation ruined one of my favourite smoker&tashigi moments.

Left: korean : Right: english

1) This is the VERY FIRST TIME Tashigi calls Smoker 'Smoker-san.'

Up until this moment, she called him 'Captain Smoker' just like other marines. She used official military title.

However, after his sincere encouragemnt— (If you're so frustrated that you cry, then get stronger!)— then she started to call him just 'Smoker-san'. Which only means that now she feels closer with him.

2) in the second text bubble, he says this as he calls her : Ohjo-san.

In this context, this should be translated as 'Hey, lady'. Or with some mischief, 'Hey, ma lady.' (The expression for 'Little lady' would be 'Ohjochan'.)

And his dialogue shows he is making light of the moment, being informal and friendly, unlike other times where he speaks quite bluntly and hot-temperedly. Smoker is trying to cheer her up while asking the condition of her leg. Not only that, he set the table and chairs, brew the coffee for both of them.......

Smoker believed in Tashigi and charged her with Arbana situation, and Tashigi knew that.

Though she felt powerless in front of how things had gone, Smoker was assured that his belief wasn't misplaced.

Alabasta was a huge step for both of them. Their bond and mutual respect remarkably grew, and this coffee scene is the evidence.

(Tashigi's more casual use of his name & Smoker's light-hearted joke and coffee for her.)

[sleeping-sirens]

hey nimi, i hope you’re well! i really loved the drabble you did “morning with haechan” and i was wondering if you could write a scenario with mark maybe teaching f reader how to speak korean + every time she gets it correct, he’ll reward her with a kiss or smth (i like to think mark would actually be really affectionate to his partner) 🥹 thank you <3 this was inspired by mark helping jaemin speak english, it was such a sweet scene, here’s the link: https://twitter.com/markclty/status/1640862192810569728?s=46&t=Tq9aSdZbZ4voR3kbqgerrw

가르쳐 줘 (teach me) 𖤐 lee mark

pairing : idol mark x f reader.

genre : lots of fluffffffff, domestic, established relationship.

summary : what the request said, and i also was inspired by his moment with jungwoo in their relay cam where each had to come up with a word that starts with what the previous word that’s been said ended with (idk if i explained that right but you can watch it here if you still haven’t 🥹).

word count : 2810 words.

warnings : mark whispering that’s my girl this is a huge warning😵‍💫 and maybe suggestive towards the end? other than that everything is just so cute and wholesome 😭🥹🫶🏼

a/n : hey anon! i hope you enjoyed this! sorry it took too long i was just trying to organize my thoughts as my brain is just rotting with heachan 😵‍💫 but i wanted to prioritize your request before i can proceed with writing my haechan thoughts down haha 😋 also i wanted to thank you for reading and enjoying my morning with haechan drabble that’s so sweet from you!!🫶🏼🥹 and i would be EXTREMELY happy if you could tell me what you think of this through an ask😭 i’d love to hear your opinion as i already did a request before this one and i’ve never gotten any feedback so i was a bit sad :(( anywayssss without further ado, please enjoy!!💘💞💕💖💗💓

masterlist

buy me a coffee🥹🫶🏼

the kitchen was quiet again after you turned off the water boiler. with the tea bags already tucked inside the two mugs on the counter, you poured the hot water and watched as it quickly changed its color, from clear to deep red. the steam created small clouds that kept disappearing into the air as you took your mug in both hands to warm your palms before placing it on a platter, followed by your boyfriend’s.

the gloomy weather outside made you feel calm and collected, and your body moved smoothly around the kitchen as you tried to cut some pieces of cake, along some strawberries and bananas for you and your boyfriend to munch on while chilling in the living room. it was a sunday, a rare day for mark to have some rest and just relax at home and you were so happy that you guys were going to spend some time together after ages of him being busy.

from the small distance separating the kitchen and the living room, you could hear him talking on the phone. you heard him say 엄마 (eomma) a few times, and you could easily understand that he was talking to his mother on the phone. other than that, you were quite clueless about what he was saying.

sometimes you’d feel so left out of his life, you wanted to be part of everything that made him be the person that he was today. mark never once made you feel a difference because of the language barrier, you guys communicate easily in english but sometimes you just wish you could understand more than just a few words of his mother tongue.

you bit your lip slightly as you gazed at him from your standing position in the kitchen. his voice was smooth, almost dripping with warm honey, the words sounding more gruff and slurred than usual, which signaled that he was indeed relaxed but also very tired that just one day of rest won’t be enough to make it up for all the work load that’s been on his shoulders.

your eyes softened on him, your tea long forgotten as you just relished in the sound of his small and sweet voice. he looked so cute curled up in the far side of the couch, head lying in the arm rest as his fingers raked mindlessly through his disheveled blue strands of hair.

his eyes would close for longer seconds and sometimes he would just opt for humming an answer instead of taking the time to formulate a coherent one. your heart swelled as you looked at him.

“my baby…” you sighed under your breath.

your gaze was lingering on him too long he felt it burning on his skin, which made him throw a look up in your direction. his tongue poked the corner of his mouth while a smile bloomed on his lips, his eyebrows jumped up his forehead into a questioning look, asking you if you were okay with a tilt of his face but you just smiled at him, shaking your head.

“tell her i said hi,” you whispered to him and he nodded in response, quickly translating your phrase into korean.

you were fascinated to say the least, you’ve always been. the way mark quickly switched from english to korean, or sometimes mixing both the languages in one phrase was effortlessly attractive to you.

at first you tried to learn the language secretly from him, thinking about surprising him with it in the future, but as you went on, your hopes have diminished as it got harder with every grammar lesson, and not to start talking about the vocabulary… mark knew that you started learning korean and everyday he would be so proud to be with someone like you, to be loved by someone like you.

the fact that you decided to sacrifice some time out of your day to learn the language that he grew up with, the language that linked him with his family and his roots, the language in which mark felt home made him fall even deeper in love with you. and he was always so happy to help you with it.

“i’ll never be enough for you,” you sniffled, letting go of the pencil you had between your fingers before hugging your knees closer to your chest.

when mark saw the effort you were making in learning his mother tongue, his heart swelled and grew larger inside his chest, that he wanted to physically grab it and put it back in its place.

“sweetheart, why haven’t you told me?” he scooted closer to your body that was sitting on the floor, pushing your notebook and pencil case aside and engulfing you in a warm embrace. “i could teach you,” his fingers gently rubbed your arm in a comforting manner. he made you feel so loved with just small and tender touches.

“you would?” you whispered, finally looking up at him.

mark wiped your tears with the back of his index finger, a love foolish smile illuminating his face. “of course i would. let me see your notebook, we’ll start with the basics.”

that was the conversation you guys had a few weeks ago and since then, mark has never stopped taking some time to help you learn the language little by little.

when the call with his mother ended, you grabbed the platter with the tea mugs, cake and cut up fruits and went to sit next to him on the couch.

“how’s your family?” you asked as you handed his tea mug over to him.

“thanks babe,” mark sat up straight and quickly took the cup from your hands, giving you a quick peck on the lips as a thank you before he answered your question. “they’re doing good, they’re on a vacation in gangwon right now.” he talked before taking a sip.

“really? it’s cold right now to be in a beach area,” you wondered, plopping a strawberry inside your mouth.

“exactly,” mark swallowed his cake bite, “their plan was to see the snow on the beach.” his eyes traveled up to give you an encouraging look, the words being something you knew the translation to them in korean.

you quickly understood your assignment. “해변에 눈 (haebyeon-ae noon),” you smiled as you answered confidently.

“good job, babe,” he scrunched his nose at you, following it by a bright smile. “let’s see if you can translate another word, how about that?”

“mark, this is supposed to be your rest day,” you laughed, leaning on his shoulder.

“i am resting,” he reassured, his hand reaching out to secure your head on his shoulder when you wanted to pull away from his body. this little action was enough to send your heart into a frenzy of heartbeats and butterflies.

“mmm,” mark hummed, the vibrations of his voice spreading throughout your body and making you feel at ease. “if you could tell me what we’re doing right now, in korean, i’ll reward you with something.”

“what would that be?” you asked, wittingly.

“the reward?”

you hummed as a yes.

“i’ll let you know when you give an answer, and it needs to be right.”

“mark,” you whined. “that’s unfair!”

“how would that be unfair babe,” mark laughed, his body rocking along yours. “i know you can do it, come on.”

“uhmm, right now we are…” you started thinking, the words coming inside your brain in english first. “drinking tea?”

“yes…in korean?” mark encouraged you to continue.

“지금…“

”ooooohhhhh,” mark reacted too quickly, rubbing your arm and tapping on it encouragingly, already being impressed by you translating one of the most basic words in korean. you were so proud and so happy that he easily made you feel so confident.

“차를 마셔요 (cha-reul masheoyeo)” you articulated slowly, still very much unsure of your translation skills.

“very good baby,” mark pecked your temple. “but what did we learn about actions that are currently happening in time? right now it’s like you said “we drink tea” but there’s a specific way to say “we’re drinking tea”, you remember?”

you hummed in question again. “마시고 있어요 (mashigo isseoyeo)?”

“very good job baby!” mark ruffled your hair and engulfed you in a big hug, pressing your face in his chest. he was very happy and excited that you got it right.

you were happy as well and you started giggling out of nowhere. “let’s do something else.”

“oooohhhh we’re confident now, are we?” he joked which made you slap his chest gently.

“you told me there was a reward, so i’m all in or nothing.”

“okay,” mark chuckled, scratching his chin. “how would you say that the weather is cold outside and you just wanna chill with your talented and handsome boyfriend?”

“that’s intermediate level mark, i’m still a beginner.”

“come on babe, i know you can do it.” he made you pull away from his chest and positioned you to be sitting in front of him on the couch. he stretched his legs in a way that you would be sitting between them before he wrapped them behind your back and pulled you closer to his body.

the heat raised to your ear at his swift movement and the proximity of his body made your heart beat like crazy. mark’s hands reached for your thighs and spread them so he could be positioned in the middle of them as well, before helping you wrap them around his waist.

inside your head, you just tried to control your breathing. your brain felt mushy, thoughts evaporating while your ears buzzed with exhilaration. your pupils dilated as you fixated mark’s face, your gaze zeroing on the mole on his face to avoid looking directly into his eyes.

“babe?” he tapped on your cheek and chuckled when he saw your flustered state. “you’re zoning out, there’s a reward remember?”

“yeah…yes! the reward,” you laughed nervously, wondering what the reward would be. you were already trembling and your heart was palpitating with mark’s face being so close to yours, you could feel his breath fanning over your skin.

“okay, let’s start with translating “the weather is cold outside” first, then we’ll go from there.” he guided you.

you nodded, clearing your throat. mark’s hands rubbed your knees, massaging all over the area to help you relax and concentrate but you were failing miserably as the only thing you could think of was how he was touching you.

you felt so bad ruining such a wholesome moment with your intrusive thoughts but you were just so in love with mark that every little touch still made you feel all giddy.

you bit your lip, inhaling deeply from your nose.

“don’t be nervous,” mark whispered, nodding his head to encourage you to speak.

“추워 (chuweo)…”

“come on babe, give me a full sentence.” he smiled but you just couldn’t get your brain to function properly, you could neither return the smile nor think of what to say. “what did we say about the weather? you learned this word not long ago.”

“i know it starts with an “N”…” you mumbled, your eyes looking everywhere.

“right!” he exclaimed, leaning in to give you a small kiss on the cheek. “here’s a small reward for remembering the start of the word.”

your heart was going to burst out of your chest at how kind and patient mark was with you. and you tried so hard to get the sentence right so you could see his proud smile blooming on his face again.

“날씨가 추워요 (nalssi-ga chuwoyeo)-“you stopped before he could react, “mark i don’t know how to say outside in korean,” you pouted, looking down at your fiddling fingers.

“it’s okay baby, you’re doing so good already.” he ruffled your hair again before noticing your fiddling fingers. he placed his palms on your hand in a calming manner. “in korean it’s okay to drop the word outside in a sentence, just saying the weather is cold (날씨가 추워요) is enough. but in case you want to use it in a sentence in the future, outside is 밖 (bakk). if you want to use it, you need to pair it with 에 (e) or 은 (eun), depends on the sentence.”

you listened carefully to his explanation, while playing with his fingers instead of fiddling with yours.

“so the full sentence would be 밖은 날씨가 추워요 (bakk-eun nalssoga chuwoyeo)?”

“exactly! good job baby,” mark clapped as he saw the relieved smile appear on your face. “now for the second part of the sentence.”

“what was it again? the second sentence?” you sheepishly asked, laughing nervously.

mark raised his eyebrow at you, a poor attempt at flirting with you and you laughed so hard at that. he started leaning closer to you, with his eyebrow still raised. you tried to stop him from getting closer by putting your hands on his shoulders, both of you laughing so hard at each other.

“mark what are you doing?” you asked through the fit of laughter that was going on between you. mark bit his lip, exaggerating his flirtatious action.

“maaaark,” you whined. “stop!” your stomach hurt from how hard you were laughing and he was laughing just as hard as you.

“okay okay,” he surrendered, raising his hands in defeat. “the sentence was “i just want to chill with my talented and handsome boyfriend” now come on.”

“is talented and handsome mandatory?” you laughed, rolling your eyes jokingly.

“of course! if you want to learn korean, you need to know the right words to compliment me with,” he tilted his head to the side, his long fringe draping over his round eyes, “or nah?” he whispered the last word, his voice going an octave deeper.

you cleared your throat. “right, of course, but i only know handsome in korean.”

“mmhm,” mark hummed, squinting his eyes. “that’s not bad already. you know what, skip talented, let’s leave it for a later session, how about that?”

you laughed at his attempts at flirting with you. he was just so cute and so effortlessly attractive with just acting boyish and love foolish. and you loved him just the way he was. you loved his nervousness and you loved the way he would stumble upon his own words sometimes. but most of all, you loved how he always made sure to show you how much he loved you and how much you meant to him. with his encouragement and kind words always warming your heart, you were certain that your heart was in good hands.

you loved him openly and without any restraints. never once being afraid of him breaking your heart. and you promised to be just as good with him as he was with you.

without realizing it, you leaned closer to his cheek where you placed a soft kiss on his skin. and he gave you a questioning look. “thank you for being patient with me mark.”

he smiled as a response. “of course babe.” he rubbed your hand with his thumb before nudging you to continue your assignment.

“okay, so… we said 밖은 날씨가 추워요, now we’re gonna say…잘 생긴 남자 친구와 (jalsaeng-in namjachingu-wa) chill…how do we say chill in korean?”

“just go with chill, that’s alright.” mark smiled.

“okay,” you nodded. “잘 생긴 남자 친구와 chill하고 싶어요 (jalsaeng-in namjachingu-wa chill-hago sipeoyo).”

“perfect!” mark smiled so bright, squeezing your cheeks between his palms until your lips pouted. “that’s my girl,” he whispered before leaning closer to you and kissing you softly on the lips.

your breath hitched inside your throat, and mark noticed it and tried to calm you down and help you get into the kiss by playing with the hair on your nape. he smiled into your lips when you started kissing him back, sneaking your hands around his waist. eagerly, mark brushed his hands down your back before clutching on your thighs and helping you sit on his lap, without breaking the kiss.

“you did so good today you deserve to be kissed until you lose your breath.” mark whispered, his soft breath numbing your puffy lips, making them feel tingly and itching for another kiss.

“is that my reward?” you breathlessly asked, wrapping your arms around his neck, your nose brushing over his.

“you don’t like it?” he looked up at you with hooded eyes. he looked worried, and you played with his neck to show him just how much you loved to be kissed by him.

“i love it!” you breathed out, finally crashing your lips on his, making him emit a low hum from his throat.

did someone say you prepared some cut up fruits for the both of you to enjoy on his rest day? those didn’t even compare to the plenty of kisses you guys were going to give each other.