#like it had fluff and angst

[eggbem]

Pb&j duo angst and fluff :)

Close-ups below

[kasagia]

Secret affairs

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x fem!grisha! reader Summary: Rumours and whispers are circulating in the Little Palace that General Kirigan has found himself a mysterious woman with whom he spends his nights. One morning Ivan learns that the rumours are true. Fedyor will not rest until he finds out who their Black General's new lover is—who is the one who makes him much less grumpy. Requested by: @drinix (I AM SOOOO SOOO SORRY THAT IT TOOK ME AGES! BUT I HOPE YOU WILL LIKE IT, HONYE!!! 🖤🖤🖤🖤) Taglist: @aoi-targaryen @chelseyyouraverageluigi @watersquirtpewpewboomm @summersummoner-pat Aleksander Morozova's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist

One morning, Aleksander sips his coffee and looks through the reports Ivan has just delivered to his desk. He has a meeting with his colonels in a few minutes, and he's struggling with his lack of sleep. At least this time, he has a better reason to stay up late than answering letters and planning new battle tactics.

He smiles, remembering the night he spent with you. He runs a hand over his jaw, trying to shake the thought of you beneath him. How you trembled at his every little touch, the sweet sounds you made as he struck your most sensitive spots with pinpoint precision, how wonderful you looked sprawled out on the bed, a clean, quivering mess as he tasted you to his liking…

"Forgive me, General, but I can't find your kefta." Ivan's voice snaps him out of his thoughts. Aleksander absentmindedly picks up the reports again, knowing full well that he has to read them before he goes to any meetings, and, ignoring Ivan a bit, mumbles under his breath, asking him to repeat what he just said. "I can't find your kefta, sir."

"My kefta?" Aleksander repeats, surprised. Ivan has never had any problems with this simple task before. Suddenly he remembers why his heartrender can't find his keft. "I must have left it at hers." Aleksander mutters under his breath, unaware that he is saying it so loudly that Ivan can hear him.

Heartrender frowns and stares at his general in shock as he casually takes his reports and heads to the main war room for a meeting.

As soon as Ivan enters the room, he meets the questioning gaze of his beloved. Feydor immediately notices how pale and nervous Ivan has become and that his heart is beating a little faster. He decides to ask him what happened. And a few hours later, Ivan confirms to Feydor the rumours that have been circulating in the Little Palace.

General Kirigan had a secret affair.

"I can't believe it! Him?" Alina's whisper reaches you as you sit down at the table right next to Fedyor.

"Who are we gossiping about? The healer who almost broke a bone in one of the Inferni yesterday while so-called healing?"

"No. Ivan couldn't find the general's kefta this morning. And when he told him, he mumbled that he must have left it at HERS. Do you understand? At HERS. HER. SHE. A WOMAN."

"Yes, Fedyor. I understood at first time when you said it." You laugh at his excitement about this new rumour.

"No you don't! You don't know what it means if you are not at least as interested and excited as me or Alina." Fedyor informs you in a very serious way.

You roll your eyes at his foolish behaviour and looks at Aleksander who is coming into the great hall. In his black kefta.

"No way! It must be someone from the Little Palace! Look at him, he is wearing it now! Someone had to give it to him." Fedyor whispers conspiratorially to the three of you, staring at the general.

You raise an eyebrow at him, amused when the man quickly feigns interest in his food as Aleksander's gaze falls on the three of you. He nods at you and leaves the room.

"Sorry, duties." You say and take an apple from the table. "Try not to interrogate everyone around you about the general's new beloved. She may get embarrassed or scared and leave him and he'll become a pain in our asses again." You tease him and leave him and Alina to discuss this new revelation.

You walk quickly through the hallway of the Little Palace, practically running after Aleksander. You burst into his war room and before you can say a word, his lips are on yours.

You moan softly, surprised by the suddenness of his kiss. You tangle your hands in his hair and hum against his mouth as he slips his tongue into your mouth, pinning you against the door. You’re breathless as he practically devours you, drinking in all your moans and whimpers of pleasure as his large, strong hands caress the cheeks of your ass.

"I was thinking about it since I left your side." He mumbles, pressing small kisses to your jaw. You sigh, digging your hands into the collar of his kefta and pushing him away from you with a heavy heart, but you have to get the message across to him before you get lost in each other again.

"You have to be more careful. Fedyor got something out of Ivan and knows you have a mistress."

"So you are my secret mistress now?" He asks, chuckling against your neck. You bite your lip as his beard teasingly grazes your neck, plump lips nipping at your skin.

"Call me that again and you will be comming back from my chamber to yours all naked." You growl, but your threat carries little fear as Aleksander begins to unbutton your own kefta.

"You wouldn't dare..." He mumbles against your skin and all you can do is tug on his hair in retaliation as he traces his marks across your collarbone and moves lower, approaching the valley between your breasts.

"So sure?" You gasp, trying your best to remain intimidate to him, but it is a challenge when his fingers work so smoothly in undressing you.

"Uh-huh." He mumbles and kisses you again, this time more forcefully than last time, making your legs buckle slightly. He holds you tightly by the waist and lifts you up, navigating through his room and laying you on his bed, which is filled with books.

"I... um... sorry. I should have cleaned up here." He mumbles to himself and throws the books to the floor in his haste. You laugh at him and grab his arm.

"I don't mind... besides it will be quite hard to explain why you suddenly clean your rooms without any suspicion about this new lover of yours." You tease him with a smirk, but he doesn't seem to share your good humour at all.

He's lost in thought, stroking your cheek with his thumb thoughtfully and not responding to your teasing, just staring at you sprawled beneath him, shadows slowly creeping out of his control and draping over the foot of the bed.

"Shouldn't we... make this official?" He asks, staring at you with those night-dark eyes of his. You shiver, surprised by his question.

You try to swallow the lump in your throat and control your slight panic attack as he continues to stare at you, waiting patiently waiting for your answer and searching your face carefully for any reaction.

"What for? That's... quite a comfortable... deal we are in. Besides, I don't want them to talk that I am your second-in-command just because I slept with you. And I thought you liked that our relationship is strictly private and well... not to anyone's eyes?"

"Yeah... yeah, I do. You probably are right. Having you in the darkness is much more entertaining than in the daylight."

You know from the way he frowns slightly that this isn't the answer he was expecting. But if anything, Aleksander is a pathological people-pleaser. So he doesn't say anything about his true feelings about the secrecy of your relationship and instead leans in for a kiss.

Which subconsciously makes you feel incredibly guilty.

"Come here... let me help you relax, moi soverenyi." You moan against his lips and straddle him, deciding that this afternoon you will serve your general.

But no matter how many kisses you press into his skin, how many marks you leave, or how many times you make him moan your name, you still feel a burning feeling of guilt inside.

You try with all your might to focus your attention solely on giving him as much pleasure as possible, but your thoughts involuntarily wander to his proposal. You weren't ready to show the two of you to the world yet. You weren't ready for the judgemental looks from others. You'd rather everything stay the way it was. Just you and Aleksander, your little secret, stole kisses and nights between each other's sheets.

You were completely happy with that. But as you can see, your Sasha wanted more.

And you weren't entirely sure if you could give it to him now.

You wake up blissfully aching. Aleksander's shadows float across his bedroom, obscuring the entire room, blocking out any sunlight. You turn your gaze to the man whose chest your head rests on.

You smile, watching the sleeping shadow summoner. It's rare to see him so... calm, rested. Unable to stop yourself, you run your hand along the line of his jaw and gently cup his bearded cheek. You stroke it with your thumb, drinking in his appearance, enjoying every tiny hickey you've left on him.

You lean down and kiss him sweetly, slowly, unhurriedly, enjoying the softness of his lips and the roughness of his beard. Kissing him had always been a surreal feeling for you. Sometimes you couldn't believe that you could actually press your lips against his and declare your claim to the most powerful Grisha that existed.

You feel him start to wake up as the kiss continues. He wraps his arms around you and holds you tightly by the waist, rolling you so you're straddling him as he kisses you passionately, hungrily. You sigh into his mouth, feeling his manhood press against you as if last night hadn't worn him out.

You run your hands over his chest and slowly settle yourself on him. You sigh as the head of his cock slowly opens your soaked walls. It feels so good and so damn full, as you settle yourself completely on him, as you become one. You bite your lip and hold your breath as he sits up, wrapping his arms around you tightly, digging his fingers into your back.

"Y/N..." He murmurs into your ear and kisses his lobe. You sigh, feeling him perfectly fill every little space of you.

"Morning." You gasp as he pushes you onto your back, hovering over you. He sucks hickies on your neck, mumbling quiet good mornings against your skin as he lazily thrusts into you.

You wriggle and moan beneath him, trying to press yourself as close to him as you can. There’s no space between you as he claims you with every thrust, destroying you for any other man. You sigh as he presses his lips to yours, kissing you possessively, stealing your breath with each deep, hard thrust into you.

He trails his kisses down your neck. His beard tickles your skin as he caresses your lips. You moan his name loudly as he suddenly sucks onto your breast.

He smiles evilly against your skin. Aleksander revels in the way you dig your nails into his shoulders as he works tirelessly to please you. He loved seeing you like this. Hair tousled against his black sheets, eyes closed from the rush of pleasure, mouth open in a quiet moan of his name when all you could think about was him. That was when you felt truly his. And it was a pleasant change for him to know that someone belonged to him, that he owned someone. It was just a shame he couldn't claim you in the sunlight as well.

A sudden movement in the war room makes you both freeze. Aleksander stares at his bedroom door and instinctively raises his shadows, causing them to wrap around the two of you defensively.

"General, we got a report from the west border with Fjerda..." Fedyor's voice trails off in the realization as the heartrender realizes he hears two heartbeats in Darkling's bedroom. Two fast heartbeats. "I... um... should I come later?"

"Preferably." Your lover responds, still on his guard.

You listen for Fedyor's footsteps and sigh in relief as he walks away. You laugh uncontrollably, which earns a soft chuckle from Aleksander. His heart heats up as he watches fondly as you laugh beneath him at the absurdity of the situation.

"Oh my dear saints. He's going to be so determined to find out who you're hiding under the sheets."

"Yes... probably." He replies. You frown thoughtfully, but you quickly distract yourself when he moves again. You moan, biting your lower lip and digging your fingers into his arm as he reaches deep, hitting that weak spot inside you that sends tingles throughout your body. "But you'll manage, right, milaya?"

You nodded, unable to utter any coherent sounds. He smiles pure evil and continues to pound into you at a punishing, rapid pace. You bite your lip, almost drawing blood as you try not to moan his name too loudly in the darkness of his chambers.

Yep... you definitely loved your stolen mornings with him.

A few hours later, you smile to yourself as you pack your things. Due to suspicious activity by the Fjerdans on the border, Aleksander decided to go and see for himself what was going on. You were supposed to be on the lookout for Morozova's stag.

Despite the sudden events of today, you couldn't just forget about the morning spent with him. The thought of it made you blush, and a smile appeared on your lips. Lost in thoughts about the shadow summoner, you didn't even register when Zoya entered your room with a packed backpack.

"Oh saints, you had sex!" You jump suddenly at her excited squeal and stare at her like a deer caught in the light of a hunter's torch.

"I beg you pardon?"

"You had sex! You're glowing, relaxed, and oh my, you're blushing like a teenager! Who's that? Do I know him? Handsome? What order is he from? Or maybe it is she?" She bombards you with excited questions. You hide your face in your hands, not wanting to watch her wicked smile as she settles on your bed, staring at you intently.

"I... have no idea what are you talking about."

Before you can somehow defend yourself from her accusations, you are interrupted by a knock on your door. Fedyor enters with his things, all excited, with Ivan hot on his heels.

"Y/N, you won't believe it! He really does have someone! You have to tell me if you saw anyone in the corridors leading to his quarters last night when you were leaving his chambers after the night briefing. Remember every detail, I need to know everything."

"Y/N had sex with some mysterious lover." Zoya briefs Fedyor before either of you can add anything to the man's long rant.

Ivan raises a surprised eyebrow at you, silently analysing the information in his head. You see the gears turning in his head, and as he connects the dots—as Alexander's closest confidant after you—he blushes. You shake your head slightly, staring at him as Fedyor and Zoya exchange gossip. He swallows and nods silently. You note it as a problem for later and turn your gaze to the two excitedly gossiping Grisha.

"I can't believe it! You too?! Who is it?! With your busy schedule with Kirigan, I didn't think I'd have time to find anyone, but here you are. Is it that handsome inferni? The one who's going on the mission with us and has been hanging around you for ages?"

"I… would prefer to keep my… boyfriend's privacy for now. It's a quite new thing, we're… testing if we're a good fit." You stammer, explaining yourself, knowing full well that you can't deny these two for long. They would have known the truth anyway. You're terrified of the moment when they realize that you and Aleksander are something more.

"Oh, I understand that perfectly. Ivan and I went through the same thing, right, honey?"

"Yeah..." Ivan mumbles thoughtfully and continues to stare at you in shock. However, Fedyor is too lost in his conspiracy theory to pay attention to his significant other's behavior. For which you silently thank the saints above.

Eventually, you all gather up and head for the stables. Zoya and Fedyor mumble something to each other in the front, and you and Ivan follow. You decide that this is a good time to approach him and ask for discretion.

"You know, don't you?" Ivan stares at you for a moment, then nods silently. You swallow hard, nervously playing with the sleeve of your kefta. “Listen… can we keep this between us? I… I doubt it’s a good idea to talk about all this now. He doesn't need to have such rumours running about us in the Little Palace."

Ivan nods at you, agreeing with your words. But you can see that something is bothering him. For a moment he grits his teeth in silence, but then he mumbles under his breath, barely audible.

"He seems… less tense. Less worried." You blush along with him. You clear your throat and turn your gaze to the walls of the corridors you pass, thinking of a… neutral response to his observation.

"I... I guess he is."

"I think… I want to say… it's good that he has you." You look at him in surprise, almost tripping on the exit steps as he says this. The blush deepens on your cheeks as you think about what he told you. "Everyone needs their own Fedyor."

You smile, seeing his gaze on his other half. And perhaps for the first time you see that they actually fit together, and Ivan is worthy of your best friend. You wonder involuntarily if Aleksander looks at you like that when you don't see...

"Yeah... I think you are right. Thank you, Ivan. You are a good friend. For both of us. Well, mostly to him." You say, referring to Aleksander. Ivan nods in silent agreement.

This strange harmony between you seems to be going strong. You are united by one goal. The good of your shadow summoner.

The four of you reach the stables. Alexei - the inferni, who as Fedyor mentioned was supposed to join your mission and had a crush on you quite openly, runs up to you quickly. But your eyes and attention are focused only on the general. Or rather, on the general and his sun summoner, as other Grishas maliciously called it.

Your blood boils, a strange feeling of jealousy hits you like a hunter's shotgun hits an animal, and you can't even do anything about it as Alina is clearly flirting with him. All you can do is stand there and try to swallow the bile of jealousy with dignity as Alina adjusts the collar of Aleksander's kefta. He somehow senses your burning gaze on him, but you quickly turn away and mount your horse without even waiting for his reaction.

He's lucky you're not official yet. And that it'll be hours before you can calm down before you can talk to him in private. But you're starting to understand why keeping your relationship a secret no longer works for the Black General. Especially when you see the way his jaw clenches when you laugh at some joke of Alexei's, causing the young inferni to give you lovey-dovey puppy eyes, to which you wink back.

You may have been cruel, but the knowledge that your lover was as jealous of you as you were of him calmed you down a bit and lifted your spirits. And if by any chance you made sure that Alina rode with you and away from Aleksander during the journey, that wasn't intentional at all. Not at all.

"So... Ivan knows." Aleksander comments as you lay in his tent, wrapped in his arms.

Ivan stood guard over your small camp while the rest slept. You decided to take the opportunity to sneak in on your shadow summoner to share the revelation. And maybe just a little to steal a few kisses and hugs from him.

"Indeed." You mumble, playing with his fingers that are slowly dripping shadows.

You bring one of his fingertips to your lips and press a small kiss there, which makes Aleksander's heart melt even more for you. He tightens his grip around you and presses a tender kiss to the top of your head before resting his bearded cheek on it with a small sigh.

"Well... sonner or later Fedyor will figure it out too. It's just the matter of time."

"Maybe... that's why I want to enjoy you in privacy for as long as I can." You prop yourself up on your elbow and lean in to steal a quick kiss. You pull away from him with a smile, but you frown, not finding any of the malice in his eyes that he would normally have at this gesture. Something was wrong.

"Y/N... Don't you think that's enough? We've been going around each other for a long time. I think the rest should know about us." A cold shiver runs through you at his words.

You try to control your heartbeat, but you know perfectly well that you are no longer able to hide your emotions from him so well. He knew you as well as you knew him.

He knew that you were not exactly keen on making your relationship public. That is why you cannot lie and pretend that it is not so. You have to convince him to change his mind somehow... but how?

"But it's so sexy to have you all to myself, a secret from everyone. Don't you love the thrill every time we sneak around each other for a kiss or something more?"

"I like that. But I don't like that I can't hold your hand outside the four walls of our chambers. I don't like that I can't go up to you and kiss you when you look so lovely after training with Fedyor or Zoya. I don't like that I have to watch others flirt with you and touch what's mine. I don't like that I can't make your cheeks blush in front of others. I don't like that I can't look at you for as long as I want without suspicion. I don't like that I can't play with your hair during particularly boring council meetings. I don't like that I have to hide the fact that I love you."

His confession hits you harder than any punch Baghra had ever given you during training. You swallow hard and kneel down next to him, watching him carefully as you try to process what he’d just told you.

"You... love me?"

"I do. And if it is not enough for you to make it public... I don't know if I can go on like this anymore. I don't know if I can keep my trembling hands from reaching for you in the light of day, not just in the darkness of night or my shadows. I need more. I need all of you, Y/N."

You stare at him, utterly shocked by his sudden confession. His words both overwhelm you and warm your heart, but it's not enough to quell the panic rising within you.

Because as much as you want to be his, as much as you want him to be yours, you know that the members of the Second Army won't look so... favourably on your romance. Besides the public opinion... you're afraid that once the thrill of excitement and mystery wears off, Aleksander's feelings for you will fade dramatically and he'll realise that you're not a good match at all and that Alina would be a better choice for him.

"I... it's hard for me... to give you an answer now." You mumble, watching anxiously as his brow furrows, face darkening as he retreats back into his shell and tries to hide his true emotions from you.

"I thought it should be easy. You either want me or not."

"I want you." You respond quickly, reaching out for his arm in panic and holding it in a tight, almost bruising grip. The desperation on your face makes Aleksander sigh with relief inside. You cared. That was for sure. So why do you hesitate for so long and postpone the inevitable?

"Then why do you insist on keeping us hidden?"

You don't answer. You know he'll think your uncertainty about his feelings is baseless and pointless. You think it's stupid. But you can't escape the overwhelming feeling that the moment your romance stops being a tightrope, his feelings for you will burn out like a candle. And you really wanted to keep him by your side.

Your silence, however, is not what he wants. Or something that could help you stop him. He nods silently and stands up from your makeshift bed of blankets.

"Where are you going?"

"Outside. I'll take guard duty for Ivan." He replies emotionlessly. You swallow nervously and sit up, following him with your eyes as he puts on his black coat as he is giving you a cold arm.

"Aleksander." You whisper with a pained tone in your voice. He stops for a moment and gives you a long, haunted look. He sighs and shakes his head at your silence and walks out of the tent, leaving you alone.

The lump in your throat grows and tears well up in your eyes. You close your eyelids and lift your head, taking a few calming breaths. You fucked this up. Not for the first time, but this time you really hoped you wouldn't get cold feet and that you'd somehow stifle that little voice in your head that had always questioned your worth.

Because you felt you weren't worthy of Aleksander. Yet for some twisted reason he thought you were perfect for him. Maybe this time you should take a chance and trust him? Trust that at the end of the day he'll decide you're enough and that you don't have to be a Sun Summoner to be his equal?

After a while, you stand up unsteadily and walk to the tent flap. You glance through it and freeze when you see Alina and Aleksander talking quietly by the fire. She says something to him and puts her hand on his shoulder, but instead of moving away from her touch, he seems to cling to her and answers her with one of those smiles that make your knees weak. You feel a painful stab in your heart. As if scalded, you jump away from the tent flap and lie back down in the pile of blankets.

You bury your nose in the material that has soaked in the scent of the Shadow Summoner and close your eyes as tears freely flow down your cheek and soak into the black fur. A hundred dark thoughts, doubts, and different scenarios in which Aleksander leaves you for Alina go through your head, and to be completely honest, you don't blame him. She was a real sun. How could you possibly compare to her? You were stupid and naive to think that he would stick to you when he could have her.

The only comfort you find is that at the end of your crying, when you had no more tears to shed and were only shaking uncontrollably, Alexander came back. He came back and practically silently laid down next to you. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close to his chest, burying his nose in your hair. He sighed quietly and ran his thumb over your waist, holding you so tightly as if you were the most important thing in his life, and he couldn't let you slip through his fingers.

You don't make a move, don't give any sign that you're awake. You spend the rest of the night half-awake as you try to memorize the way Aleksander holds you, the way he still wants to come back to your bed at night.

Because something tells you that this state of affairs won't last long.

"Just as I thought, you look adorable even after a week of horseback riding and searching for a group of Drüskelle." Alexei compliments you as you and Zoya return to camp after scouting. You let out an uncontrollable laugh at this, amused by the absurdity of his flirting, and join the group sitting around the campfire.

"It's a pity I can't say the same about you." You say spitefully and accept from Aleksander, who is sitting next to you, a stick with a fish that Fedyor and Alina had caught earlier. Aleksander takes another stick with a raw fish and starts roasting it again. Everyone else laughs at your remark, even Alexei.

"You'll see, one day I will melt your cold heart." You roll your eyes at this. Zoya, sitting next to you, hits your arm in amusement.

"Come on, Y/N. Tell us about this secret lover of yours. Maybe it will cool Alexei's ardor."

Fedyor perks up at Zoya's words and nods enthusiastically, while Aleksander, sitting next to you, tenses slightly. You see that his knuckles have been clenching around the stick since Alexei began his flirtation with you. You fear his further reaction to this conversation, which is heading in a rather dangerous direction.

"You have a lover?! Who beat me to it?" Everyone around you laughs at the exaggeratedly hurt tone of Inferni's voice and the way he dramatically aimed his fishing rod at you. You smile involuntarily and shake your head, trying your best to keep the blush from spreading to your cheeks.

"Thanks for your concern, or rather curiosity, but my lover and I would rather keep our privacy. Besides, I can't talk about him left and right without his consent."

"Maybe it wouldn't bother him at all?" Aleksander comments, not looking at you, instead focussing his attention on the fish in the fire. You feel an uncomfortable feeling in your chest when he won't even look at you. The bitter feeling of guilt resurfaces within you, and you wonder how the hell you're supposed to fix what you've broken.

"Exactly! I don't care what you want, I wanna meet this guy who is the best sex you've ever had!" Zoya comments, practically making you choke on your own saliva and freeze in embarrassment.

Everyone around the fire is laughing at this and asking you snide questions about your mystery lover's… prowess. You glance briefly at Alexander and almost punch him in the arm when a smug, dark smile appears on his face. And from the mischievous glint in his eyes, you know he'll only put the final nail in the coffin of your embarrassment.

"The best sex you've ever had, you say?" He asks, amused, raising an eyebrow at you. You bite your lower lip and slam your shoulder into his, almost causing him to lose his balance and fall over the log. He laughs at your feeble attempt at attacking him.

"Oh, piss off." You snap at him but he just reaches over and ruffles your hair with his hand. It's only the deafening silence around you that makes you realize you've done something… wrong.

Everyone stares at Aleksander in shock, as if waiting for him to yell at you for overstepping his bounds, but he doesn't. You see genuine shock and surprise on their faces. Before your general can say anything, you take over, trying to save the day.

"What? Haven't you ever seen two good friends banter?" You sneer at them and nod at their sticks. "Your food will burn if you sit there with your mouths open and stare at us much longer."

Somehow your words disenchant them. They go back to their usual joking, teasing demeanour, and the camp buzzes with their conversations again. You glance at Aleksander, and you can see from his face that he doesn't like the way you've handled this. You know this was the perfect opportunity to admit you're together, but after what you saw last night—the way he acted with Alina—you got too scared to tell them. If they all didn't know you were together, maybe his inevitable departure would hurt less?

You flinch as your secret lover sitting next to you suddenly takes the stick with the fish out of your hands.

"You'll burn it if you stay in your tangled thoughts any longer." He grumbles and takes the fish off the stick. You see he's completely abandoned his in favor of preparing your meal. You nod with a smile as he hands you a slice of bread and seasons the fish with the spices you brought with you.

Unconsciously to you, someone's eyes are watching the two of you closely.

Aleksander thrusts the food under your nose. You instinctively lean forward and bite into the offered sandwich, used to him feeding you, most often in the late hours of the night, when you both sit in the war room and spend time planning new tactics. You glance around quickly, but fortunately the others are too busy with themselves to notice. Or so you think.

"You're going to burn your own fish." You notice and take your food from him.

He's holding his stick back, and you decide to give him a bite of his before he gets his food. After all, he practically made you yours. You make sure no one notices and feed Alexander. He hums and brushes his lips against your fingertips before licking them teasingly. You sigh and punch him in the arm, to which he just grins wolfishly at you and winks.

You feel warm just from your playful exchange. And as the darkness grows deeper, you reach for Aleksander's hand and hold it tightly, shielding it with the hem of your coat. You smooth your thumb over the back of his hand, laughing at the stories Zoya tells. Aleksander seems much less tense, and a little satisfied, when you hold his hand tightly in yours.

And while you think no one has noticed, they have. Or at least one of them has.

At some point, Aleksander gives you his coat, insisting in a quiet conversation between you that you'll freeze and get sick if you don't take it and that he'll be fine because he's survived winters much worse than this one, and with much thinner clothing.

Your heart aches that he's had such an experience, but for the sake of peace, you take the black coat from him. You blush when he whispers that when he gets back, he'll make sure David makes you one that matches his, so everyone knows you're his.

And when he presses his lips to your forehead to check that your body temperature isn't too low for his liking, Fedyor awkwardly reveals that he's been watching you.

"Saints, Fedyor!" Alina squeaks in panic as the heartrender somehow loses his balance on the log and almost falls into the fire.

He hadn't leaned any closer to hear what you were whispering, and he hadn't nearly fallen into the fire in shock when he was the only one to notice their general's affectionate treatment of you. Not at all.

"Are you okay?" You ask him worriedly and kneel down next to him.

Fedyor swallows, trying hard not to show that he noticed the way Kirigan's gaze softens when he looks at you. He was such an idiot. How could he not have noticed that before?

"Yeah... yeah, I am fine. I should probably just go to sleep. Ivan?" Fedyor calls his beloved.

He helps him up and leads him to their tent. Before he can ask even one question about his well-being, Fedyor blurts out:

"Did you notice that Y/N and general are... very close?" Ivan at first seems not to react to his words. Fedyor only realises, through the very slight acceleration of his heartbeat, that perhaps his partner knows something more about... the unexpected connection between his best friend and the Black General. "Ivan... do you know what I think you know?"

"What do you think you know?" Ivan clears his throat awkwardly as they both enter their tent.

"Oh saints, you know right?! How long?! Was it that obvious?!"

Fedyor's mind flashes back to a million moments when your feelings for each other were painfully obvious. He remembers how Kirigan would let you playfully tease him, how he would always make sure you weren't overworking yourself and were eating the right amount of meals, and how he would look after your well-being. Hell, the general even delayed your trip to the fold because you were sick with a cold from your recent trip to Kertch! And he had behaved like a jilted, angry, resentful lover during those months! It was so painfully obvious that Kirigan was head over heels in love with you... but were you? Or was it just a passing fling? Fedyor had to know more.

"That's why we shouldn't get involved and let them decide for themselves… Fedyor, honey, where are you going?" Ivan asks confused as his other half runs out of the tent.

Fedyor throws a quick see you later over his shoulder and runs to your tent hoping to find you there so he can have a serious talk with you.

And fortunately he succeeds.

"You told Ivan, and you didn't tell me?! I am your best friend!" Fedyor shouts at the entrance to your tent. You stare at him, holding the report the falcon just delivered to you in your hands, as you are trying to understand what he means. You blush as you realise what he could be so angry about.

"I… since when did you…"

"Oh please. You've obviously been like this the whole time. I'm a fool for not making the connection. It's literally written all over his face that he loves you. What about you?" Fedyor sits on your blankets. Your palms are sweating and you put the reports on the ground, wondering how the hell you're going to get out of this situation now.

"I… it's complicated."

"Love is quite complicated. Maybe that's why you gave Alina a deadly look a few days ago when she was practicing her powers with the general? And you snapped at her, giving her a completely traumatic tantrum when she lost her sword?"

"I… it wasn't intentional and you know it." You mumble, blushing even more, but this time with embarrassment.

"It's a simple question Y/N. You either feel it or you don't. And from what I see, you probably also… reciprocate. Although it's clear that he fell much harder."

"You think?" You ask with a smirk, unable to help yourself at his comment. Fedyor nods and stands up. He walks over to the shadow and places his hands on your shoulders.

"Yes. And believe me, I don't blame him. If I didn't play for the same team, or didn't have similar tastes as you, it would be really hard for me not to fall in love with you."

"Yeah, I know. We'd be a great couple if you weren't gay." You laugh at him and pull him into a hug. "But don't tell Ivan or Kirigan that."

"Sure. We don't want to upset our grumps, do we?"

Your laughter is the first thing Aleksander hears as he approaches your tent. He opens the flap with one finger and sees you standing in Fedyor's arms, laughing. A cry of jealousy and a sudden need to take you in his arms and hide you from the other man pierce his mind for a moment, but he calms down, reminding himself that Fedyor... is no threat to him. At least not romantically.

"Can I interrupt?" He asks and goes inside. You step away from Fedyor and nod at him.

Fedyor nods at him and leaves, throwing you a mischievous wink over his shoulder. Alexander notices this and connects the dots rather quickly. He walks over to you and wraps his arms around your waist. He plants a kiss on your forehead, then rests his chin on your shoulder.

"So I guess he knows?"

His hot whisper against your ear makes you shiver. You burrow your face into his chest, nuzzling his neck as you wrap your arms around him in an equally tight embrace. Maybe Fedyor is right? Maybe when you know… you just know?

"Yeah... At this rate soon the entire Little Palace will know."

"Do you mind?" He asks uncertainly, expecting his words to hang in the air and for it to take you a while to respond with another excuse.

But you decide to bet on the truth. Show him all your cards and the same vulnerability he has for you. It was going to be everything or nothing and you knew you couldn't put it off for long. Not if you didn't want to lose him.

"Partly. I... I am afraid that once it will stop being a secret affair you will... loose your interest in me. I mean... look at me. I am not Alina." You laugh nervously and try to hide your face in his black kefta. Aleksander is not having that. He gently takes your middle and forces you to look into his dark, beautiful eyes.

"I don't want you to be Alina. I don't want you to be anything else but you, Y/N. I love you as you are. Heartrender, healer, sun summoner, inferni or whatever else, I don't care. I care about you. The way you make me feel. The way you hold me. The way you kiss me. I want you for what you really are. Not for the power you hold. Not for anything other than you."

You can barely hold back the tears in your eyes. Instead, you just nod and lean in to kiss him softly. You melt, as always, at the softness of his lips, the way he gently cups your cheeks in his hands and holds you like you're the most important thing in his life, like he can never afford to lose you. And you hope it stays that way forever.

"You damn manipulator how can I say no after that?" You gasp as the kiss ends and he rests his forehead against yours. He chuckles deeply and envelops you in the tight, warm, safe embrace of his arms.

"You can't." He mumbles against your temple and places a tender kiss there. "You are all mine. As I am yours, milaya."

And you have to say, his words have never felt more true, as he kisses you with a passion unlike any other men. You only hope that he secretly draws 'mine' on your skin for the rest of your life… not just in his shadows and the darkness of the night.

[lucabyte]

"So what's the weirdest possible first (second) impression Loop could make on the party in postcanon?" "Yeah, that, probably."

+ Bonus

theyre just standing there in direct party order while this happens. normal tuesday.

[illbegottenfaith]

...and a bruise underneath

you can't help becoming distant as your relationship with theo starts feeling like an open wound (theo nott x reader)

Part 1 | Part 2

a/n - idek what this is anymore 😭 but I will say writing this had me giggling and kicking my feet every five minutes 🙈🙈🤭 this fic may or may not have been inspired by how crap my magnesium intake is :( college resumes in like a week for me and I get very cranky on less than 6 hours of sleep (i am a very light sleeper!!!) chat am I cooked

tropes/warnings - angst, happy ending (yayyy), suggestive but not explicit content, fluff, theo being befuddled, bamboozled, astonished, even; wholesome bickering

word count - 2.2k

taglist (everyone who asked to be tagged for part 2!) - @justaproudperson @pumpkinchee @lorenzozurzolocanruinmylife @smithieandy @augiemyers79

Once Theo returned from his trip, you somehow managed to minimise the little time you spent together, making barely convincing, half-baked excuses whenever you could. Still, he never commented on it. Perhaps he would have if he actually cared. You weren't sure if you were shutting him out to punish him or yourself.

Still, even you couldn't get out of spending time with your boyfriend entirely, which was how the two of you ended up in your dorm on a Thursday afternoon, working through your homework. You were sitting propped up by your numerous cushions, proof-reading an essay while Theo leaned against on the bed posts at the foot of your bed, reading a Potions book to help with his project.

The two of you worked in silence, equally absorbed in your work - or so you assumed until you heard Theo close his book and set it aside. Without warning, he shifted towards you, and before you could flinch or put more distance between you, his arms were encircling your waist and his head was resting on your abdomen.

You froze. This was the closest he had been since before the trip. You weren't sure if you had even hugged him when he returned.

You shoved down the stab of amusement in your gut. Theo was hardly the playful kind, but every once in a while, when your schedules allowed for it, he would be in a good enough mood to fool around with you in a manner that did justice to the expression. The two of you could lose entire afternoons to whispered giggles, frisky hands, and smothering kisses. Even now, your hand twitched with the instinct to comb through his soft, silky curls.

But while you normally found it endearing, today it was irritating, because you were in a fight with him, albeit one-sided.

"What...are you doing?" you asked in a bored monotone.

He shifted his head like he was getting comfortable. "Taking a nap."

You refused to pull your eyes away from your essay when Theo failed to elaborate. "With me?"

Theo sighed, like he thought you were being purposely difficult. "Yes, you."

Too thrown off to keep up the act, you finally looked up, watching the tiny shadows his long eyelashes cast against his face tanned from one too many summer Quidditch practices. "Why?"

He cracked an eye open and smiled lazily at you, half-drowsy. It wasn't fair how seductive his perpetual bedroom eyes typically were, let alone when they were laced with actual exhaustion. Despite yourself, you felt a flicker of satisfaction over being the only one who got to see him like this - uninhibited and free.

The satisfaction didn't last long. Without any warning, Theo plucked your essay out of your hand, casting it aside as he sat up with a teasing glint in his eye.

"Why? Would you prefer I take a nap with Mattheo?"

He was so close, you were sure he could hear your heart racing. Your mouth went dry. Days of subtly dodging his kisses or making excuses to sit away from him had gone down the drain. The thing about Theo's gaze was that it carried an intensity that demanded answers and explanations. Even as your pulse flickered under his relentless stare, you rolled your eyes without any real heat. "No, of course n-"

Theo leaned in, backing you up against your headboard. Your hands clenched in your sheets restlessly, aching to reach out to him. You struggled to focus on the words coming out of his mouth, dizzy with the proximity. "Is this your way of getting me to sleep with my best friend?"

You could feel it - your face was fully scarlet by now. Honestly, how on earth were you meant to come off calm and collected with a face that gave you away at the drop of a hat?

You shivered as he ran a hand up the skin exposed by your top riding up. You finally caved, settling your hands on his collar. "You're a real comedian, you know that?" you muttered, trying and failing to play it cool as your hands slithered into his hair, dragging him closer.

Theo obliged, hovering over you, broad-shouldered, not half the mess you were underneath him. Not yet, at least. "Next you'll be telling me you want to watch, you little perv."

Your lips twisted into a poorly suppressed smile. "It's why you love me."

"Your voyeuristic tendencies?"

You hummed as his lips finally connected to your pulse. As one of his hands started creeping up your ribcage, you were starting to remember why you put up with him. "Exactly."

You didn't hear what he had to say after that, blissfully distracted by the exhilarating feeling of his skin on yours.

"Cara..." Theo sighed, his breath ghosting the shell of your ear.

"Hmm?"

All too frustratingly soon, he pulled his hands away. He pressed a lingering kiss to your temple. You fought the overwhelming urge to cry. Moments like these proved that he was soft and pliant underneath that rough exterior. As he leaned back, you tenderly brushed back a lock of hair falling in his eyes. Why couldn’t he love you the way you loved him?

"Do you want to tell me why you've been freezing me out?"

The giddy feeling in your stomach died almost immediately. Maybe he wasn't as oblivious as you had thought. Your teeth dug into your swollen bottom lip. You hadn't expected a confrontation, especially not half-naked, though you were beginning to realise it was an oversight on your part. The direct person that he was, Theo was never one for playing games or beating around the bush. You felt your head start to pound, suddenly feeling far too exposed in more ways than one. You distractedly started rebuttoning your shirt before he stopped you.

"Tesoro..." he prompted softly. You heard the firm message hidden in his tone - no more deflecting. You bit the inside of your cheek, gaze fixed on the strong, slender fingers covering yours. It was the closest you had gotten to holding hands.

You felt the absurd urge to laugh. It was laughable, wasn't it? How tragically ironic the whole thing was? You had liked that Theo was low maintenance, but somewhere along the way you decided that low maintenance wasn't enough for you.

You shook your head, finally accepting defeat. How long did you think you could keep up the charade? How long did you think you could tolerate this misery? Indefinitely? Of course not. As soon as you had watched him step off the carriage, still as fresh-faced and only a little quieter than usual, you had known - you were going to have to tell them, and after one awkward conversation, the two of you would part ways, and he would fade into obscurity over the years, only to be remembered as some guy you had dated when you hadn't known any better.

This was it. The beginning of the end.

"Why didn't you tell me about Katherine?"

You thought saying that would be much harder than it was. But then again, you had nothing to lose - not that you ever had anything to lose.

Theo raised his eyebrows slightly. "Ka-"

"Katherine Sawyer," you hissed. After weeks of avoiding bringing it up, it suddenly felt unbearable, having to wait one moment longer for the answer. "You know, the one you've been cosying up with every other night?"

"I only know one Katherine," Theo started irritably. "Just the one. And I haven't spoken to her since we wrapped up our Transfiguration project before I left for my trip. You remember, the one worth half our grade?"

"...oh." Oh, indeed.

"This isn't like you, Y/N," Theo pressed. "You've never cared about who I talk to. You've always trusted me."

The implication stung. "I don't care who you talk to," you protested. "I still trust you."

And it was true - you had only very briefly, if at all, entertained the idea of Theo having an affair. Even then, it was a notion borne of weeks of exhaustion from catering to your aconite's every little need. But it had been the spark for your brooding resentment.

"I just wish you had told me about her or mentioned her some time. It feels - " Your breath caught. "It felt like you were keeping secrets from me."

Theo's jaw ticked. He let out an exasperated sigh.

"Then why didn't you just ask me?"

You dropped your eyes.

"Dunno. Just...didn't want you to get mad."

His eyebrows disappeared into his hair.

"Didn't want me to get mad?" Theo echoed incredulously. "Honestly, L/N," he said sharply, looking more than a little peeved, "what did you think I was going to do?"

"I don't know," you wailed, closer to tears than ever, "break up with me?"

Theo opened his mouth to respond before closing it again. He furrowed his brow, mouthing indecipherable half-words as if trying very hard to wrap his head around what you were saying. Then, without warning, he pulled you close, wrapping his arms around you.

"Right," he finally said, with the air of someone washing their hands of some uselessly challenging task. You could barely focus on his words with the thrill running under your skin. Theo didn't mind being hugged - it was one of the frills he indulged you in - but he wasn't exactly the hugging type. "Next time something's bothering you, I want you to stop what you're doing and come find me."

You twisted your head out of his chest with some difficulty. "What if you're-"

"No - no exceptions," he continued, tightening his hold around you. "No letting it spiral into - whatever this was-"

"So," you interrupted shakily, "you're not breaking up with me?"

Theo glanced down at you, looking like he was going to have a coronary.

"No," he said, with some effort, staring at you like you'd grown a third head. "I'm not." He tilted his head, still squinting at you. "Are you sure you've been growing your aconite properly? It seems like it's been screwing with your head."

"Hey," you scowled, wriggling out of his grasp and giving him a dirty look. "I'll have you know Professor Sprout thinks my mandrakes are -"

But you never got to what Professor Sprout thought about your mandrakes, because you had spotted a familiar teasing glint in Theo's eye.

"About time you started taking it out on me," he laughed, blocking your spirited yet ineffective efforts in shoving him off your bed. You flopped onto your pillows once you gave up, flushed with bedraggled hair. Served you right for dating a 200-pound brute of a guy. "I was starting to think you were going to keep that all bottled up forever."

"Yeah?" you panted, embarrassingly out of breath. "Just you wait. I'm not...finished. It's going to be two more weeks of...of this...once I-"

"- catch your breath, darling?"

You glared at him. Theo could make anything sound salacious while looking perfectly innocent, a trait that was especially inconvenient during some of your shared lessons. You debated giving him the finger, but that would only further amuse him.

Besides, you were feeling very comfortable lying on your mountain of pillows and cushions. You closed your eyes for just a minute. "Dead man walking, Nott," you mumbled, pushing back the hair that had plastered to your forehead.

You opened your eyes when you felt him rest his head on your abdomen once again, his arms coming up around your hips.

"I'm serious about the nap, though," Theo said. "Jet lag is a bitch and Mattheo's going to take the piss out of me if I'm too tired to show up for practice."

You softly carded your fingers through his hair, your fingernails barely grazing his scalp. "Yeah, yeah, sure, you're sleepy. You're always sleepy." You tapped his face insistently as he already looked halfway to dozing off. "You realise that?"

"'M not," he mumbled out the corner of his mouth, relaxing under your touch. "It's the jet lag."

You rolled your eyes. "Yes, you are. All I have to do is get you to stop thinking for two minutes and you'll nod right off, jet-lagged or not. It's because you're always drinking that damn coffee at all hours of the night." Your hair-raking turned somewhat fastidious. "What's your magnesium intake like?"

Theo huffed. "You're so bossy, you know that?"

"Avocado, spinach, almonds, quinoa-"

"I eat plenty o-"

" - less coffee -"

"I like the taste!"

"You could always take decaf."

Theo choked, eyes flying open.

"You take that back."

You eyed him sternly but relented. He couldn't help his Italian roots. "Well, you still need enough magnesium to get a proper night's rest-"

Theo groaned, burying his face into your stomach once again.

"Enough with the magnesium." He sucked in a breath between his teeth, grumbling to himself. "Merlin, I forgot how bothersome you could be."

"It's not my fault you need someone to bully you into taking care of yourself," you retorted.

"Whatever," Theo muttered, and it was something so comfortingly familiar you couldn't hold back a smile.

"Honestly...you and your...fucking magnesium..."

[generalsdiary]

you brought your partner a flower bouquet. it isn’t something they often receive, and you felt a desire to change that. being a solemn, thoughtful person after thanking you they said;

“yes… it is sad that I’ll have to watch them die.” “they started dying the moment they were picked. kind of like humans, from the age of 25 their bodies officially begin to die.” upon hearing your words they look back at you, sharing a knowing look. “that is too short. I…” they clench their jaw for a moment. “humans have too short of a life span. we- I will find a way” soft, whispered words flowing between you two like a breeze on an early spring morning.

depending on the context behind their words, that perhaps brought you joy, that your loved one would go above and beyond to have as much time as possible with you. or it filled you with fear, knowing their history with such ways of life manipulation.

“no matter how much time we have, we will be alright. I cherish every moment I get with you. and once I’m gone-“

“please don’t say that.” their voice fell to a broken whisper. noticing the change in their body language, you moved closer, cupping their face, and matching their quiet tone you said, “let’s stay in the present. I’m right here, living and breathing. focus on me, on my heart,” you take their hand and place their palm on your chest. “on how it beats for you. for us.”

Dan Heng, Jingliu, Blade, Dan Feng, Neuvillette, Xiao, Wanderer, Scaramouche, Capitano

divider cr: @saradika

[ciy0]

i just thunk a thought so please bare with me

I’m thinking about how Mingyu is definitely the type of guy that’s drawn to someone who’s severely lacking in the love department or who might’ve been hurt deeply in the past. He doesn’t do it consciously, but he just starts to notice you. How sometimes you have this far away look in your eyes, or how you keep your head down when talking to others or god forbid he overhears you demeaning yourself disguised in jest. He so full of love I see him gravitating towards someone who’s cup it’s damn near on empty but trying their best to save every last drop and he just wants to pour everything thing he has into it and then some; till it’s overflowing.

He doesn’t even realize his initial interest blossoming into a full blown crush. He wants to be the shoulder you cry on, he wants to carry any burdens you have, he wants to see that smile that reaches your eyes be directed at him. He just wants you bursting at the seams from happiness but he’s a little selfish in the fact that he wants it to be by his hand.

He notices the little things and big things about you that may go unnoticed by others and finds himself worrying over you and rooting for you even before you both have a proper conversation. Wondering if you ate, if you had a good day today, if you enjoyed the new episode of that anime he overheard you liked (he started watching it too), if you slept well even though the most you’ve both uttered to each other was a simple pleasantry in passing and a bow.

His mind reels when you kindly pick up things people accidentally dropped or that one time you helped clean up the coffee he’d spilt on the floor without a word. Or even that time when you offered a staff member your umbrella on a rainy day saying you had two, just for him to see you drenched in the rain a couple blocks away as his driver took him home (once recovered from the shock he shot out of the car running back to where he saw you last but you were long gone). His heart clenched painfully when he heard the reason he hadn’t seen you around the week after that was because you had come down with a nasty cold. You give and give without ever expecting anything in return; without thinking you deserve anything in return. But who’s giving to you?

He finds his gaze wondering off in your direction during social gatherings. His own features softly morphing into a for-longing smile as he sees you enjoy yourself with your group of friends, hearing that rare burst of genuine laughter at whatever you guys were joking about. He cursed his cowardice, not being able to approach confidently like how he’d imagine in his head so many times. He had some mutual friends maybe that’d be a good place to start—

He was startled out of his reverie as Seungwan pointed out his goofy expression teasing “What’s got you so distracted lover boy?” Mingyu ops to just huff a smile in into his drink as he bashfully looked away.

You, it was you who had him like this

[just-nc-tea]

nine and three quarters pt. 2 ⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

⭑.ᐟ Roommate to Lovers - Park Sunghoon Recovery is never linear. You knew that. You just didn’t know what to do when all the progress you’ve made disappeared in days. So you do what you’ve always done. You pretend you're fine. And your new hot and cute roommate… pretends not to notice you're not. Only, he always notices. Sunghoon stated to take care of you in quiet ways—tea left by your side, dinner magically appearing, messes cleaned before you can see them. It isn’t until you’re back home, away from him, that it hits you: how far you’ve slipped, how much he’s held together without ever asking for thanks. And suddenly, all you want is to go back—to your couch, Sunghoons tea, the olympic figure skater who made it easier to breathe.

ᝰ genre. Figure skater!Sunghoon, college sports, angst, hurt/comfort, really SLOW burn, fluff, suggestive .ᐟ₊ ⊹ ᝰ warnings. Swearing, partying, consumption of alcohol, hospital visits, mentions of rape, mentions of date-rape-drugs, mentions of the police, panic attacks, eating disorder, psychologists PLEASE LET ME KNOW IF I FORGOT ANYTHING AND PLEASE TELL ME IN CASE I MISREPRESENTED SOMETHING .ᐟ₊ ⊹ ᝰ features. Mark, Johnny, Ten, Taeyong & Jungwoo from NCT, Woonyoung and Rei from IVE ᝰ word count. 25 k .ᐟ₊ ⊹ --⟢ PART 1 --⟢ PART 3

series masterlist ⭑.ᐟ ⤷ GET ADDED THE SERIES TAGLIST HERE ⁀➴༯ OR COMMENT 🏒 ⤷ GET ADDED MY PERMANENT TAGLIST HERE ⁀➴༯ OR COMMENT ✨

The microwave beeped, pulling you from your thoughts. The smell of Johnny’s mom’s seaweed soup wafted through the kitchen. You finally reheated it after sat in the freezer for days. You had actually taken it out of the freezer and poured a bowl this time. Small, but a bowl nonetheless. You stirred it absently, watching the steam curl upward. 

The opening credits of My Demon played on the TV, casting flickering blue light across Sunghoon’s face. You carried the bowl to the living room, where Sunghoon was already sprawled across the couch, one arm draped over the back cushions. He glanced up as you approached, his gaze dropping to the bowl in your hands. A slow grin spread across his lips. "Look at you, actually eating." You rolled your eyes, perched on the far edge of the couch. "Don’t make it weird. It's not my fault my stomach is stupid." Sunghoon chuckled, shifting to make more room. The couch was still too small, forcing your knees to brush against his as you settled in. The contact sent a jolt of warmth through you, but you focused on the soup, taking a careful sip. The first sip burned your tongue, but the familiar taste of home made your shoulders relax. It was... okay. Today, it didn't feel like swallowing rocks. On screen, Guwon brooded dramatically in the rain.

"I swear she will have to die. Or he will. A hundred percent." Sunghoon said, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth. You scoffed. "No way. They definitely will survive. There is no way that this will have a bad ending." Sunghoon nudged your knee with his. "You’re underestimating the power of bad drama physics." You huffed a laugh, relaxing slightly.  The moment Sunghoon shifted again, you became acutely aware of several problematic facts:  His knee was now wedged firmly against your thigh. The arm he'd stretched across the back cushions brushed against your shoulders. You could feel every exhale he made against your hair. "Um," you said intelligently, gripping your soup bowl.

Sunghoon seemed oblivious to your internal panic as he adjusted his position, his stupidly long legs bumping into the coffee table. "Damn couch," he muttered, knees bending at an unnatural angle. "Built for gnomes."

You stiffened as his movement made his thigh press more firmly against yours. The heat of it burned through your sweatpants. "Maybe if you didn't sit like a starfish–"

"Starfish?" He turned his head to look at you, and oh god, now his face was too close. You could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks. "I'm sitting normally. You're the one folded up like a lawn chair."

You became hyper-aware of how you were hunched over your soup, shoulders tense. "I'm trying to eat," you lied, staring fixedly at the TV.

Sunghoon shifted again, his arm accidentally brushing the back of your neck. You jerked forward so violently that soup sloshed over the rim.

"Shit–" He grabbed a napkin, dabbing at the spill on your knee before you could react. His fingers lingered a beat too long on the fabric. "You okay? You're all..."

"All what?"

"Twitchy." His brow furrowed. "Am I making you uncomfortable?"

Yes. No. You didn't know. The soup suddenly felt like a lead weight in your stomach. "It's just–" You gestured vaguely between your bodies. "You're. You know."

Sunghoon blinked. "Tall?"

"Everywhere," you blurted, then immediately wanted to evaporate.

A slow grin spread across his face. "Everywhere?"

"Shut up." You shoved at his shoulder, but he didn't budge. "I meant your limbs are invasive."

"Mmhm." He deliberately stretched his arm further behind you, his fingers now playing with the ends of your hair. "You know, most people would love to have longer legs."

You were pretty sure your face could power a nuclear reactor. "Most people don't think about long legs being a constitute public hazard."

He laughed, loud and sudden, and you felt it vibrate through where your shoulders were pressed together. The sound made something flutter in your chest.

He playfully tugged at a loose strand of your hair that had escaped your braid.

"My little sister used to make me braid her hair all the time. She would beg me to braid it before she went on the ice."

"Oh really?" you said and placed the now almost empty bowl onto the sofa table, trying to adjust your body in a way that wouldn't cause you or Sunghoon to have knees or elbows in places that knees and elbows were not supposed to be.

"Yeah. I bet I could still braid a banger braid. Even if it’s been like 7 years since Yeji last asked me.", he said and twirled the strand around his finger.

"Do... do you want to try if you still can?" you asked carefully and stared at the TV, pretending that you were interested in whatever Dodohee was doing just now, instead of hyper-focusing on Sunghoon’s fingers.

"Sure. If you will let me.", he cocked his head to the side. 

You hummed and moved to the floor to sit between his legs. "Go for it."

His fingers were careful as they unravelled your braid, combing through the tangles with surprising gentleness. You held your breath as they grazed the nape of your neck, the touch feather-light.

"Okay, Y/N," he murmured, dividing your hair into sections. "French or fishtail?"

"You know how to do a fishtail?"

"Y/N," he said, voice dripping with mock offense, “My sister was national junior champion three years running. My fingers have trained precision."

You snorted but stayed still as he began weaving the strands, his knuckles occasionally brushing your shoulders. The TV faded into background noise, replaced by the soft sound of his breathing and the occasional muttered curse when a strand slipped.

"My brother used to braid my hair when I was little," you admitted after a comfortable silence. "Before his military service."

Sunghoon's hands stilled for a beat before resuming. "Taeyong?"

"Yeah. He'd do it while I did homework." "That's cute," Sunghoon hummed. You sat in silence for a few minutes until Sunghoon's fingers trailed down the finished braid, smoothing the ends. "There. Not bad for a six-year hiatus, huh?"

You reached back to feel his handiwork, your fingers brushing against his. The braid was neat and tight without pulling. Better than you could do yourself.

"Showoff," you muttered, but you were smiling.

Sunghoon leaned around to see your face, his grin lopsided. "Admit it. You're impressed."

"Never."

He poked your side, making you squirm. "Liar." ──────────────────────── The drama played on, but Sunghoon hadn't processed a single word in the last twenty minutes. Not when his fingers were buried in your hair, tracing the braid he'd just finished like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever touched.

He should stop. Should pull his hand back, put some respectable distance between you. But you were leaning into his touch, your head tipping back just enough that his fingertips brushed the delicate skin behind your ear. 

"Sleepy?" he asked, voice lower than he intended.

You hummed in response, the sound vibrating through where your back pressed against his knees. Something dangerously warm unfurled in Sunghoon's chest. 

Before he could think better of it, he undid the braid with careful tugs, letting your hair spill loose over his hands. "Your hair's soft," he murmured, more to himself than to you. It was stupid, this compulsion to keep touching, to find excuses to let his fingers card through the strands again and again. But when you didn't pull away, he couldn't bring himself to stop.

"You're gonna put me to sleep," you mumbled, even as you nuzzled unconsciously into his palm.

"Good." His thumb traced the shell of your ear. "You look like you need it."

He had noticed, of course. How could he not? The shadows under your eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. The way your clothes hung just a little looser. The careful way you moved, like you were conserving energy. It made something primal in him ache - the need to fix, to protect, to wrap you in blankets and force-feed you until colour returned to your cheeks.

On screen, the female lead burst into dramatic tears. Sunghoon snorted. "This show is so bad."

"You picked it," you slurred, voice thick with drowsiness.

"Yeah, and I regret nothing." His fingers automatically started another braid. His little sister had made him practice for hours until he got it perfect. Back then, he'd complained. Now he was absurdly grateful for the excuse to keep his hands in your hair.

Your breathing deepened, your weight growing heavier against him. Sunghoon held himself perfectly still, terrified of disturbing you. The trust you placed in him - to touch you, to hold you up, to see you like this - was a gift he didn't know how to deserve.

When your exhales evened out into sleep, he finally allowed himself to look. Really look. At the way your lashes fanned across your cheeks, at the slight part of your lips, at the tension that had finally drained from your shoulders. 

"Y/N?" he whispered, knowing you wouldn't answer.

Carefully, so carefully, he resumed braiding your hair. Then unbraided it. Then started over. Again. And again. 

Outside, the rain picked up, tapping gentle rhythms against the window. The drama credits rolled, casting the room in shifting blue light. Sunghoon didn't move. Didn't dare. Not when you finally looked peaceful. 

So he stayed. Counting your breaths. Memorising the weight of you against him. And when his own eyes grew heavy, he let them fall shut - just for a moment - your hair still tangled between his fingers. ──────────────────────── The apartment was quiet, save for the sizzle of eggs in the pan and the soft hum of the coffee machine. Sunghoon moved through the kitchen with practised ease, flipping an omelette onto a plate. 

As he reached for the salt, his gaze wandered to the flowers by the window. The yellow chrysanthemums you’d bought the morning of the party were wilting. Their petals drooped, edges browned, stems slouching in the water. 

He’d noticed them days ago but assumed you would replace them. 

You always did. 

But it had been over a week and a half.

Sunghoon frowned, running a finger along a brittle petal. It crumbled at his touch.

When you fell asleep after your panic attack, Sunghoon went back to the kitchen. He picked up the flowers and put them in a spare mug because the vase was in pieces. He cleaned up the water and the glass. Then he stood there in the too-quiet dark, gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles ached.

He didn’t go back to his room that night. He slid under the covers beside you, listening to your breathing, counting the seconds between each inhale to make sure they didn’t stop.

Now, staring at the wilted flowers, Sunghoon felt that same helplessness claw at his ribs. The coffee machine beeped, jerking him back to the present. He poured two mugs out of habit—one black for himself, one with a splash of milk for you—before stopping short.

Right. You’d left early for your studio, muttering something about a deadline.

Sunghoon set your mug down too hard, sloshing coffee onto the counter. He wiped it up with a ragged sigh.

It had been more than two weeks since the party. Sixteen days since he caught your limp body, since he’d sat in a hospital chair waiting for you to wake up. Sixteen days of watching you pick at your food, of finding you asleep on the couch at 3 a.m.

Sunghoon grabbed his keys, shoving the dead chrysanthemums into the trash.  ──────────────────────── The bell above the door chimed too loudly when Sunghoon stepped inside, the scent of earth and flowers thick in the air. 

Now, standing in the middle of the shop, he froze. He really didn’t think about what to buy. Which flowers you liked. Which colors. 

There were too many.

Buckets upon buckets of flowers, colours screaming at him from every direction. Vibrant reds, blinding yellows, pinks so bright they hurt his eyes. His grip tightened on his keys. You never brought back anything like this. Your flowers were quiet. Soft. 

A throat cleared behind him.

The florist, a woman with silver-streaked hair and a smudge of dirt on her cheek, smiled at him, her pruning shears dangling from one hand. "Lost, sweetheart?"

Sunghoon swallowed. "I need flowers."

Her lips twitched. "Well, you’re in the right place." She gestured around them. "Anything in particular?"

He didn’t know. He hadn’t thought this far.

His eyes scanned over the flowers until they stopped on a bucket full of baby blue, pale pink and white flowers. They looked like something you would pick.

He pointed. "Those."

The florist hummed, pulling the bucket forward. "Good choice. These just came in." She plucked a few stems, holding them up. "Your girlfriend will love them."

Sunghoon’s face went hot. "Oh. Yeah." He coughed. "I mean—she’s not—we’re not—"

The florist laughed, wrapping the stems in paper before he could combust. "Relax, son. I was just joking." She tied the bundle with twine, then paused. "They’ll last longer if you trim the stems underwater."

He nodded and paid for the flowers. When he left the small shop, he decided not to rush to the bus stop to catch the next bus, but rather take his time to walk through the market.

He took a wrong turn somewhere.

The alley he was in now was narrow, cramped between two buildings, the cobblestones uneven under his shoes. He wasn’t really paying attention to where he was until a glint of blue caught his eye.

There, on a rickety table outside a cramped-looking store, sat a vase next to other miscellaneous items.

It was your vase. The one you broke. 

Or close enough. The same shape, the same curve at the neck. It had one deliberate gold seam running along its side.

Sunghoon reached out, fingertips hovering just above the glass.

"Kintsugi," a voice said. 

He jerked back. The shopkeeper, an old man with a cane, leaned in the doorway, grinning. "Means golden repair. You break something, you fix it with gold. Makes it stronger than before." He nodded at the vase. "That one’s seen a few drops."

Sunghoon ran his thumb over the flaw. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Me too. How much?” ──────────────────────── The ice had never felt so unforgiving.

Sunghoon dragged a hand down his face, his breath coming in sharp, visible puffs in the cold rink air. His skates scraped against the ice as he came to a stop, his body aching from yet another failed routine. The Olympic trials were creeping closer, and every session felt like he was regressing instead of improving.

All he felt was exhaustion.

He gripped the rink’s barrier and let his head drop forward. What’s the point? The thought slithered in, unwelcome but persistent. He was skating worse than he had in months. His jumps were off, his landings shaky. Every session felt like running in place.

Maybe he should just quit.

Not skating entirely, he could never give that up, but this relentless pursuit of the Olympics? The pressure, the scrutiny, the way his stomach twisted every time he imagined failing in front of millions? Disappointed not just his coach and parents, but the whole South Korean peninsula.

Maybe he should go back to skating for fun. Like he used to. Only attend University or school competitions. Something that came with less pressure.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it, pushing off the boards to attempt the jump again.

An hour later, he stepped into Jay, Heeseung and Jake’s apartment. The smell of spice and garlic hit him the moment he stepped inside. Jay was at the stove, stirring the pot with one hand and shoving Heeseung away with the other as he tried to steal a bite. Jake was setting the table, but he paused when he saw Sunghoon’s face.

“Damn,” Jake said, eyebrows rising. “You look like shit.”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He just collapsed into a chair, his body heavy with fatigue.

Heeseung whistled. “That bad, huh?”

Sunghoon dragged a hand through his hair. “I’m done. I’m so done.”

Jay turned off the stove. “With…?”

“Everything. The Olympics. Skating. All of it.” The words tumbled out before he could stop them. “I’m skating like shit, and no matter what I do, it’s not getting better. I feel like I should just quit. Honestly.”

A beat of silence.

Then Jake sighed, sliding into the seat across from him. “Yeah. I get that.”

Sunghoon looked up.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples. “NHL draft’s coming up, and I swear to god, if I hear one more scout say ‘potential’ like it’s a consolation prize, I’m gonna lose it.”

Heeseung and Jay, who have both been successfully drafted and will play for two rather big teams, just nodded solemnly.

"Do you really want to quit the tryouts?" Jay asked from his place in the kitchen. He was frowning at Sunghoon, "Maybe just try your best there, and if you don't get in, you can still say you gave your best and tried it. Don't let an opportunity like that just go by."

Sunghoon groaned and rubbed his face with his hands, "No. I don't. I just know that I won't get in, and it's frustrating. But maybe if I do well enough they consider me for the games in 4 years or something else. Whatever."

"Well. You did have fun up to like a few weeks ago, right?" Jay turned back to the Curry and continued stirring.

"Yeah.", Sunghoon grumbled.

"Well see. Maybe if all the pressure is gone it's fun again. If you already know you won't qualify, just have fun performing. I know you love doing that.", his friend hummed.

Sunghoon just nodded and was thankful for Jake when he switched the topic to tell them about his and his girlfriend’s exes. They married last year and invited Jake and his girlfriend just to taunt them, well, at least the groom did so. Y/N reconnected with some of her friends who are still kind of friends with the bride so now she has insider information on everything that is going on. 

Sunghoon’s phone buzzed.

He glanced at the screen.

Y/N Thank you for the flowers And the vase

His breath caught. He hadn’t expected a response at all.

Sunghoon No worries

He paused. Then, against his better judgment typed:

Sunghoon Did you eat today?

No immediate reply.

He set his phone down, trying to ignore the twist in his gut.

Heeseung eyed him. "Y/N?"

Sunghoon nodded, stirring his curry absently. "She thanked me for the flowers."

Jay raised an eyebrow. "You bought her flowers?"

"Yeah. After—" Sunghoon hesitated. "She had a panic attack after we came home from the hospital. A Really bad one. A vase broke during it, so I… replaced it and put new flowers inside."

The table went quiet.

Jake frowned. "Shit. Is she okay?"

Sunghoon’s grip tightened on his chopsticks. "I…don’t think so? She’s not eating. She’s not sleeping. I don’t—" His voice dropped. "I don’t know how to help her. Or if she even wants my help."

Heeseung leaned forward and frowned. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Sunghoon exhaled sharply. "It's not my thing to tell."

"Fuck.", Heeseung leaned back in his seat, "I am so sorry Sunghoon. I should never have invited her."

Sunghoon's chopsticks clattered against his bowl. "It's not your fault," he said. "No one could've known that bastard would spike her drink." His knuckles went white around his spoon. "Not you. Not me. Not even Y/N knew until—"

His phone buzzed.

Y/N I did a little today I still had some of my Imus soup

My stomach handeled that very well yesterday so I ate the rest today.

Sunghoon signed. "She ate like three spoons of soup."

Jay frowned. “She is not eating? Like… at all?”

Sunghoon shook his head. “Not enough. She picks at her food or says she’s not hungry. I don’t—” His voice cracked. “I don’t know what to do.”

Jake hesitated. "Have you… talked to her about it?"

Sunghoon stared at him. "What, just ‘hey, are you developing an eating disorder because a dickhead drugged you?’"

"No, idiot. Just—ask her how she’s feeling."

Sunghoon opened his mouth, then closed it.

His phone buzzed again.

Y/N The blue ones are my favorite

Sunghoon’s throat tightened.

He typed back slowly.

Sunghoon I’ll be home soon

"I cleaned up glass for forty minutes," he heard himself say, voice hollow. "She couldn't breath. When she calmed down enough she asked me to spend the night with her. Like sleep next to each other not with each other. She slept for fourteen hours."

Jay's eyebrows disappeared into his bangs. "You stayed the whole time?"

"Where else would I go?" Sunghoon countered.

Sunghoon's phone lit up.

Y/N Don't rush back  Have fun with the others Tell them I said hi

He stared at the message until the screen went dark.

Jake snatched the phone from his limp fingers. "Enough." His thumbs flew across the screen before Sunghoon could protest.

Sunghoon Too bad Already on my way Do you want chicken or pizza?

"You can't just—" "Watch me," Jake said, dodging Sunghoon's grab. 

Y/N Oh I ate already But thank you!

A beat. Then:

Y/N Maybe we can eat it tomorrow? For lunch? Could you bring the one with the garlic powder? From Mom's Touch?

Sunghoon's breath left him in a rush.

Jay clapped him on the back hard enough to sting. "See? It's not that bad. Maybe her stomach is really just upset. Now order enough for three days worth of leftovers." ──────────────────────── The apartment was dark when Sunghoon returned, the only light coming from the muted TV casting blue shadows across your curled-up form on the couch. Your eyes were closed, but the way your fingers twitched against the throw pillow told him you weren't asleep.

"I brought the chicken," he said, toeing off his shoes by the door. The scent of garlic and fried dough lingered in the takeout bag as he set it on the counter. "With extra powder, like you asked."

You hummed without opening your eyes. "How was training?"

Sunghoon hesitated. The frustration from earlier still coiled in his muscles, but the words came out softer than expected. "Shitty. Couldn't land anything." He shrugged. "Dinner was nice, though. Jay made curry."

"That sounds good." Your voice was light, but when you finally looked at him, your gaze was clearer than it had been in days. "Did you tell them I said hi?”

The question startled a laugh out of him. "Obviously. Jake claimed he wants to come back here with his girlfriend so she can enjoy our apartment as well." He nudged the coffee table with his knee. "You sure you don't want any chicken now? It's still hot."

You shook your head, pulling the pillow closer to your chest. "Tomorrow. I’m full." Sunghoon glanced toward the kitchen and noticed the rinsed-out plates in the sink you used for rice and the soup. 

He sank onto the couch beside you, careful to leave space. For a moment, there was only the sound of some variety show's laugh track and your steady breathing.

Then, almost shyly you asked: "Do you... want to watch My Demon?"

Sunghoon blinked.

"Yeah," he said, too quickly. "Yeah, I'd love that."

Your arm brushed against his, he didn't pull away.

And when you eventually slumped sideways, your temple coming to rest against his shoulder, he didn't mention it. ──────────────────────── The knock at your door was so light you almost missed it. You paused your sketching, charcoal smudged across your fingertips. "Yes?"

Sunghoon hovered in the doorway, shoulders hunched. His hands fidgeted with something behind his back. "I—I know you’re busy, but…" He held out a box of hair bleach, the plastic crinkling in his grip. "Could you… help me with this?"

You furrowed your brows: ”You want to… bleach your hair?"

He nodded, avoiding your eyes. "For the Try outs. I thought—" A pause. "I just wanted to try something different."

You wiped your hands on your jeans, hesitating. Your project wasn’t due until next week.

"Only if you have time," he added quickly, already stepping back. "It’s okay if—"

"I’ll do it," you blurted, interrupting him.

His head snapped up.

You swallowed, heat creeping up your neck. "J-just let me read the instructions first."

The bathroom felt too small with both of you in it. Sunghoon sat on the edge of the tub, your oversized paint smock draped over his shoulders. It swallowed him whole, the sleeves hanging past his fingertips. You bit your lip to keep from smiling. It was ridiculous. He looked ridiculous.

You squinted at the bleach instructions. "It says to do a strand test first—"

"Skip it."

"Sunghoon. This could melt your hair off."

He met your eyes in the mirror, deadpan. "Being bald would be good for aerodynamics."

You couldn’t help laughing out loud at that. Sunghoon’s shoulders relaxed .

"Are you sure about this?" you asked, watching while he wetted his hair under the faucet. The water darkened his strands to near-black, dripping onto the smock when he sat down on the kitchen chair you covered with multiple towels.

He hummed, eyes closed. "Yeah."

You mixed the bleach with trembling hands, the chemical smell stinging your nose. During the last few weeks you had more migraines then you usually had. It was probably the stress.

Sunghoon’s eyes flickered open. "You okay?"

"Y-yeah." You hesitated, the brush hovering. "It’s just… permanent."

A beat passed. Then, so quiet you almost missed it: "I know."

Something in his voice made your chest tighten. You started applying the bleach, working in small sections like the instructions said. His hair was softer than you expected beneath your fingers. It was a shame to destroy such beautiful hair with bleach. You were hoping that it would still be soft and fluffy afterwards. Whenever Sunghoon came from a shower, with his hair unstyled it made you envy having his hair. Yours has been thin and brittle for a few years now, no matter what you did, it wouldn’t grow much past your collarbones. Right now it was the longest it has been in a long time. Thanks to various scalp treatments, biotin capsules and a lot of hair care your hair could now be considered longer mid length. You would have to cut it again soon. 

Sunghoon let out a slow breath, his shoulders relaxing under your touch. "Feels nice," he murmured.

Your hands stilled above his head. "Does it hurt?"

"No." His voice was rough.

"You're sure about this?" you asked for the third time, carefully coating another section near his crown. The chemical smell burned your nose. "This isn't... reversible."

Sunghoon's shoulders lifted in a half-shrug, his back pressed against your knees where you sat behind him on the washing machine. Standing was exhausting. "Neither is fucking up my short program at trials next week." A pause. "At least this way, people will remember me for something."

Your hands stilled. "You... don't think you'll make it?"

The moment the words left your mouth, you regretted them. But Sunghoon just exhaled through his nose, tipping his head back slightly into your hands. "Not sure I want to anymore."

The admission hung in the air between you, heavier than the bleach fumes. You resumed your work, fingers moving methodically through his hair to hide their sudden tremor. 

"You're good though," you murmured before you could stop yourself. "Really good."

He huffed a laugh. "At jumping. Not at..." His voice dropped. "Whatever comes after. You just saw me on a good day."

The timer beeped, startling you both. As you reached to turn it off, Sunghoon unexpectedly leaned back, the full weight of his upper body coming to rest against your legs.

This close, you could feel the heat of him through his tank top and the coat against your thigh – the solid muscle of his shoulders pressing into your too-sharp kneecaps. You'd seen him shirtless once or twice in the hallway, but feeling his body against your own bony frame made your face warm. The contrast was embarrassing.

"Sorry," he muttered, though he didn't move away. "My back’s killing me."

You swallowed. "It's... fine."

An odd silence settled as you both stared at his reflection in the mirror. His dark roots slowly lightening to orange, your hesitant fingers still tangled in the strands, playing and spreading the bleach around. The intimacy of it prickled along your skin.

"You know," you said quietly, "if you quit... you could just skate for fun." 

Sunghoon's eyes met yours in the glass. "Yeah?"

The word came out softer than you intended. "Yeah. Maybe you could just go to easier competitions?"

He held your gaze for a long moment before his shoulders relaxed fully against you, his warmth seeping into your legs. "Maybe I will."

Your hands resumed their work almost unconsciously, massaging the bleach through his hair with more care than necessary. The silence now was comfortable, broken only by the drip of chemicals into the towel around his shoulders.

When the timer went off again, neither of you moved immediately.

"I should—" you started.

"Right," he said at the same time.

As you helped rinse the bleach out, his hair streaming gold between your fingers, you tried not to notice how natural it felt. His head tipped back into your hands, your knees bracketing his shoulders. He looked so beautiful even in a position and an angle that would make anyone else look ridiculous.

"Shit," Sunghoon breathed when he saw his reflection after you were done, water dripping down his neck. "I look insane."

You wrung out the towel, hiding your smile. "Kinda?"

The second round of bleach smelled even stronger than the first. You wrinkled your nose as you mixed the powder and developer in the little plastic bowl Sunghoon had scavenged from the kitchen. He sat on the edge of the bathtub, his hair already a brassy orange from the initial processing, strands sticking up in damp clumps where you’d rinsed it out.

"Your scalp is going to hate me," you murmured, carefully parting another section of his hair. The gloves made your fingers clumsy, but you tried to be gentle as you painted the bleach onto his roots. Paint was something you knew how to do. On paper and apparently on hair. The strands already felt a bit rougher against your fingers when you separated his hair before putting on gloves again. 

Sunghoon hummed, his shoulders relaxed under your touch. "Worth it."

You worked in silence for a while, the only sounds were the scrape of the brush against the bowl and the occasional drip of bleach onto the towel around his shoulders. The bathroom was warm, steam still clinging to the mirror from when you’d rinsed his hair earlier.

Then your stomach growled. Loudly.

You froze, the brush hovering mid-air. Heat rushed to your face.

Sunghoon tilted his head back just enough to peer up at you. "You hungry?"

"N-no," you said automatically, even as your stomach protested again. You focused on applying more bleach, willing him to drop it. You prayed he would. You wouldn’t know how to answer if he didn’t. Technically you knew how to. You just didn’t want to. 

The third round of bleach was turning Sunghoon’s hair white when your stomach betrayed you again. A loud, visceral growl that echoed in the tiled bathroom. Your hands froze mid-application, bleach dripping onto the towel around his shoulders.

Sunghoon’s reflection raised an eyebrow in the mirror. "We’re definitely getting food after this."

Heat exploded across your face. "I’m not—" Your voice cracked. "It’s just digestion. Doesn’t mean I’m hungry."

Sunghoon turned on the stool, forcing you to withdraw your bleach-stained gloves from his hair. His gaze dropped to your hands, then traveled up to the sharp angles of your wrists exposed by your rolled-up sleeves. When his eyes met yours again, something in his expression made you want to disappear.

"You’re shaking," he said quietly.

You balled your hands into fists, but the tremor persisted. "It’s the chemicals. I already had a headache–"

"Y/N." He said your name like a sigh.

Humiliation burned through you. You focused on peeling off the gloves just to avoid his gaze. "I'm fine"

He knew. He had to know. You knew that hiding it in front of Sunghoon would be hard. Mark, Jungwon, Taeyong or your parents would see it immediately. They knew the signs, knew what they would have to look for. Sunoo might also know already. 

Sunghoon stood abruptly, his newly blond hair catching the light. For a terrifying moment you thought he might hug you—but he just stepped around you to rummage in his duffel bag he put into the bathroom to throw it into the wash. The crinkle of a protein bar wrapper sounded like gunfire in the tense silence.

He held it out. "Here."

You stared it. The calorie count flashed in your mind before you could stop it. 280. Your throat closed up. Why did it even remember the number? Why did it start again? You were doing so good. It was so frustrating. You felt like screaming but instead you almost whispered: "I can’t."

Sunghoon didn’t withdraw his hand. "Why?"

The question hung between you. If you said it out loud, it would make it real. Make it real that it came back. That all of the work you put into a healthy relationship with food has vanished into thin air after your panic attack. Since the party. The stay in the hospital. 

Sunghoon exhaled sharply and tore the wrapper open himself. He broke the bar in half, crumbs scattering across the sink. "Just this much," he said, holding out the smaller piece. "Then I’ll shut up about it."

Your vision blurred. It wasn’t fair—how gentle he was being, how carefully he’d calculated this humiliation to be bearable. The smaller piece was maybe two bites. 70 calories. 

When you took it, your fingers brushed his palm. Sunghoon didn’t smile, but something in his posture relaxed.

The first bite tasted like sawdust. The second stuck in your throat. You chased it with water while Sunghoon pretended not to watch, fussing with his hair in the mirror.

"Okay?" he asked when you’d swallowed.

You nodded, even though your stomach churned with guilt. The protein bar sat like a lead weight inside you.

Sunghoon turned back to the mirror, examining his hair. "We should do one more round. Get it properly platinum."

The casual change of topic felt like mercy. You grabbed the bleach kit with too much enthusiasm, grateful for the distraction. But as you sectioned his hair again, your reflection in the mirror caught your eye—the sharp collar bones visible under your tank top, the hollows beneath your cheeks. You looked away quickly again. For the past few days you’ve been avoiding mirrors. After you realized what was happening. After you noticed your pants slipping down more and more. After you noticed what you were eating, how much you were eating. 

Sunghoon leaned back against your knees as you worked, his warmth seeping through your pants.  ──────────────────────── A few days later you were sitting in the front seat of Jake's car while the boys piled into the back. In the rearview mirror, you caught glimpses of them in the dark - Heeseung already asleep against the window, Jay scrolling through his phone, and Sunghoon with his hood pulled up, staring blankly at the passing streetlights.

No one spoke much. You weren't sure if it was the hour or because Sunghoon was in a really bad mood and no one wanted to make him even angrier. 

The past few days were hard on Sunghoon. He went to the rink at an ungodly hour and came back late into the night. You sometimes waited for him but most of the time you were too exhausted to do so. When he told his Coach he was thinking about his chances to get into the olympic team being so low he thought about quitting, he didn't react well at all and made Sunghoon train even harder. He claimed Sunghoon had the talent and the potential and he just had to use it.

The car hummed through the darkness, the only light coming from the dashboard and the occasional streetlamp that painted the inside in fleeting gold. In the rearview mirror, you watched Sunghoon’s reflection. His hood was shadowing his eyes, his jaw clenched tight enough that you could see the muscle twitching even in the dim light. 

A pothole jolted the car, making Heeseung slump further against the window. Jay reached over to adjust the beanie slipping off his forehead. You caught Sunghoon’s eye in the mirror for half a second before he looked away, his fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against his knee.

When you got to the arena, Sunghoon disappeared inside almost immediately. The car door slammed shut behind him before you'd even fully unbuckled your seatbelt. You watched through the windshield as he stalked toward the arena entrance, his skate bag slung over one shoulder. The boys tumbled out after him, stretching in the chilly morning air. During the past week the temperature dopped pretty suddenly and you had to start wearing jackets outside again.

"Hey! Hoon-ah!" Jay called after him, but Sunghoon either didn't hear or chose not to.

To everyone's surprise Sunghoon suddenly turned on his heel and marched back toward the car. He crushed each of the boys in quick, rough hugs. Jay first, then a sleepy Heeseung, then Jake who pretended to gag but hugged back just as hard.

Then he was standing in front of you.

The morning light caught the exhaustion under his eyes as he hesitated for half a second before pulling you in. His jacket smelled like his clean perfume he liked to use. You really liked it. "Thanks for coming," he muttered into your hair, so quiet you might have imagined it.

Before you could respond, he was gone again, the automatic doors swallowing him whole.

"Damn," Jake whistled. "He really is nervous."

You stood frozen. That was the first time he'd ever hugged you.

Jay nudged your elbow. "Come on, let's find our seats before the crowds hit. The other two are gonna get us some breakfast. Sunghoon gets some inside but we have to bring our own." ──────────────────────── The seats were better than you expected - close enough to see the skaters' expressions but high enough to view the entire rink. You had just settled in when Heeseung and Jake reappeared, their arms full with convenience food.

"Breakfast has been served," Jake announced, dropping into the seat beside you. He handed you a gimbap roll still warm from the microwave and an apple so shiny it reflected the arena lights.

Heeseung wordlessly passed you a diet banana milk, the condensation cool against your fingers. You stared at the small feast in your lap. More food than you had eaten in a single sitting in weeks.

"Thanks," you murmured, peeling back the gimbap wrapper with careful fingers. You weren’t really hungry, but you also didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

As the first skater took the ice, the others have already eaten more than half of their rolls, while you were still on your third piece. Gimbap was pretty solid against headache and wasn’t too harsh on your stomach, so you should eat some more. 

You realized pretty quickly that the others didn’t really know much more about skating than you did. Well generally skating itself they probably did, but not figure skating. They also seemed awed by the performances. You wished you brought your sketchbook to sketch some of what you were seeing. 

Three or four performances in Jake nudged your shoulder with his gently. 

“You should finish your roll. I don’t know when we will get the chance to get more food without missing anything.”

You smiled sheepishly and ate another piece. If you took breaks in between pieces it wasn’t as bad.

Then the announcer called Sunghoon's name for warm-ups, and your breath caught. He glided onto the ice, his dark costume contrasting with his white hair. 

He was right.

He was outstandingly beautiful with the white hair, or as he phrased it he looked ‘dope’.

You couldn’t tear your eyes away from his frame. Maybe you could sketch this from memory later. 

Sunghoon looked exhausted, the shadows under his eyes were visible even from the stands. He took his starting position. The opening chords of his music filled the arena, and for the first time all morning, he looked at peace, backlit by the rink lights, all sharp angles and effortless grace. You stopped breathing when he launched into his first jump.

It was perfect. Or at least in your eyes it was and considering the crowds clapping, it was a really good jump even in the eyes of a professional viewer. 

When he finished his performance you were all on the edge of your seats. Jake leaned back with a satisfied sign. “Oh man he fucking rocked that.”

Heeseung grinned from ear to ear. “Of course. Sunghoon strives for perfection. And he'll get it with whatever he does.”

Sunghoon skated past your section again and his eyes found yours. He was smiling. 

It was a bright and relieved smile.

You grinned back, your cheeks aching with it. ──────────────────────── Thirty minutes after Sunghoons performance you started to get tired and cold. You had gotten four hours of sleep last night and now that the adrenaline was gone you felt the exhaustion creep in together with the coldness of the rink. 

A warm weight suddenly dropped onto your shoulders. You startled, turning to find Heeseung just wearing a t-shirt. His blue hoodie being draped over your shoulders. “You’re blue,” he said simply.

You blinked. “I—what?”

“Your lips. They’re turning blue,” He nudged the hoodie closer. “Put it on.”

The fabric was still warm from his body as you pulled it on, the sleeves swallowing your hands whole. 

“Thank you,” you muttered.

On the ice, the first girl of the day finished her program to polite applause. The next skater was announced—Wonnie, in a cobalt-blue dress that made her skin glow.

She looked gorgeous in her cobalt-blue dress that made her skin glow.

Perfect.

She looked perfect. 

Every of her movement was polished to perfection. 

Her first spin sent her dark hair whipping in a perfect spiral, before settling back into place as if choreographed.

Each takeoff showed the lean muscle of her thighs through her tights. When she landed, her free leg extended in a picture-perfect line, not an ounce of unnecessary flesh jiggling beneath the sheer material. The sequins on her dress scattered light with every movement, drawing attention to how the fabric clung to her narrow waist before flaring over her hips.

A strand of hair had escaped her bun during the spin, curling artfully against her flushed cheek rather than sticking awkwardly to her forehead like yours always did.

You looked down at your own legs, the sharp angles of your knees protruding through your jeans. The sleeves of Heeseung's hoodie swallowed your hands whole when you curled them into fists.

When she finished her routine to what could be considered roaring applause from this crowd you saw how she and Sunghoon hugged each other enthusiastically in the athlete tunnel. They looked perfect together. 

Sunghoon and Woonie disappeared and ten minutes later both of them stood behind you.  ──────────────────────── The moment his blades left the ice after his final pose, Sunghoon knew.

Not just that he had skated well but that he’d done enough. The quad Salchow had been crisp, his step sequence sharp enough to make his coach nod approvingly from the boards. For the first time in weeks, the Olympic team didn’t feel like an impossible dream. 

Wonnie crashed into him the second he stepped into the athlete’s tunnel, her cobalt-blue dress fluttering around her like butterfly wings. “You bastard!” she laughed, squeezing his arms. “Saving your best for when it counts, huh?”

He grinned, breath still coming hard. “Had to remind you who taught you that toe loop combo.”

She swatted his shoulder before darting off to prepare for her own skate, leaving Sunghoon buzzing with adrenaline. The world felt brighter, sharper—the fluorescent lights less harsh, the ice smell less bitter. Even the judges’ scores (solid, not spectacular) couldn’t dampen his mood.

“Let’s go find the others,” Wonnie said when she returned after her own flawless performance, still glowing under the arena lights. Her friends were seated near his, and suddenly nothing sounded better than being surrounded by his friends.

The arena lights were blinding as Sunghoon followed Wonnie up the stairs to the spectator section, his skate guards clicking against concrete. Adrenaline still hummed in his veins from his performance, mixing with the giddy relief of having skated clean when it mattered most.

"There!" Wonnie pointed to their friends' section. Jake was already on his feet, arms raised in victory, while Heeseung and Jay flanked you—a small figure drowning in Heeseung's hoodie, offering them a tentative smile as they approached.

Jake reached him first, crushing him in a back-slapping hug. "You glorious bastard!"

Jay went next, his embrace quieter but no less firm. "Knew you had it," he murmured against Sunghoon's shoulder.

Heeseung fake-wiped tears before pulling him in. "I never doubted you for a second!"

Sunghoon laughed as the three of them immediately turned to smother Wonnie in even more enthusiastic hugs, her cobalt dress disappearing between their broad frames.

Sunghoon’s breath caught when you shyly stepped forward and kind of awkwardly, kind of endearingly wrapped him into a hug.

Your arms slid tentatively around his waist, your forehead brushing his collarbone for the briefest second before you pulled back. “You did really well,” you said, so softly only he could hear it.

Your ears were turning pink. Sunghoon's throat went dry.

"Thanks," he managed, returning the hug carefully. "Thank you for coming, Y/N."

When he handed you that ticket three days ago, he had half-expected you to decline. Who wanted to wake at 4AM to watch near-strangers compete? But you said yes and now here you were, wearing Heeseung’s hoodie and looking so so soft. He had to resist from smoothing over the few stray hair that loosened from your braid over the course of the day.

He dropped into the seat next to Heeseung as the next skater took the ice.

"She ate," Heeseung murmured under the applause.

Sunghoon blinked. "What?"

"Y/N. Half a gimbap roll. Some apple." Heeseung's voice was barely audible over the music. "Drank all her banana milk."

Something warm and fierce unfurled in Sunghoon’s chest. He chanced another glance at you. The dark circles under your eyes were more pronounced up close, your collarbones too sharp above the hoodie’s neckline. But there was color in your cheeks, and when you caught him staring, you didn’t flinch away, just tilted your head in question.

Before he could explain himself, Wonyoung draped herself over his shoulders, her chin digging into the top of his head. "I'm so fucking glad this is over. We're going clubbing on Saturday," she announced, stealing a handful of Heeseung's chips. "No excuses."

Sunghoon laughed at her, but his eyes flicked to you. You were still smiling but it looked a lot stiffer than just a few seconds ago. Fuck, he really didn't want you to go party again or anyone to be percise. No matter if it was you, Wonnie or any of the boys, he never wanted to be in the same situation he was in five weeks ago. Waiting and hoping for someone he loves platonically? likes? lives with? to be in a date rape induced coma.

He cleared his voice and interjected before Wonyoung could continue. "Yeah, but I won't drink. If this went as well as it felt like we might have individuals next week." 

Wonnie rolled her eyes. "Me neither, idiot. I just wanna dance." She turned to the others. "You're all coming, right?"

Everyone responded enthusiastically. His friends never let a good party go to waste. 

Jake said a exaggerated "Duh," Heeseung answered with "If Jay pays,". Jay quietly nodded. And then all eyes landed on you.

Sunghoon saw the way your fingers twisted in the hoodie strings, how your shoulders crept toward your ears. He leaned forward before you could answer. "Won, Liv is looking for you," he lied smoothly, nodding toward a few seats a few rows behind them. "She was waving like crazy when we walked up."

Wonnie sighed dramatically but untangled herself. "Fine, fine. I'll text you the details! I'm sure the others would love to join. Let's go eat out before the club!" She ruffled Sunghoon's hair before sauntering off, her skates clacking against the steps.

Sunghoon stretched his legs, the adrenaline from his performance finally ebbing away. "You guys have any food left? I'm starving."

You blinked down at the snack box in your lap. Three remaining apple slices were laying in there. "Just these," you said, holding it out. "But they're kinda sour."

He made a show of hesitating, hoping you would not insist on him eating the slices but eat them yourself instead. "I can't take your last ones, Y/N."

"My stomach hurts from the ones I already had," you admitted quietly, pressing the container into his hands before he could protest further. Sunghoons face did something he couldn't control but he didn't comment on your admission. He just nodded as he popped a slice into his mouth.

"Damn, you're right," he grimaced, chewing. "Who picked these, Heeseung?"

"Blame Jake," Heeseung said without looking up from his phone. "He chose looks over taste."

Jake gasped in mock offense, launching into a dramatic defense of his fruit-selection skills while you stifled a yawn against Heeseung's sleeve. 

The last of the sour apple slices dissolved on his tongue as Sunghoon stretched his legs. "Any more food? I’m still starving," he asked, though he’d already seen the empty snack containers.

You blinked down at the few pieces of the remaining kimbap roll in your lap before offering it to him. "Just this," you murmured. "But the filling’s kinda..."

"Spicy?" Sunghoon guessed, seeing the red paste in the filling. You have been avoiding spice recently. The big containe of gochujang you bought in the first week he moved in was still half full. You haven’t touched it in weeks.

You nodded, your nose scrunching in a way that made something in his chest tighten. "Stomach’s not happy with me."

He took it anyway, your fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact lasted half a second, but long enough for him to notice how cold your fingertips were despite the hoodie’s warmth. ──────────────────────── The car hummed through the darkened streets, the only light coming from passing streetlamps that painted the interior in fleeting gold. You curled deeper into the backseat, sandwiched between Jay’s solid warmth on your left and Sunghoon’s frame on your right. The exhaustion of the long day had settled into your bones, the adrenaline from the competition finally ebbing away.

Jay was already asleep, his head lolled against the window, soft snores escaping every few breaths. Up front, Heeseung focused on the road, his hands steady on the wheel, while Jake had his headphones in, nodding along to whatever music played.

“You looked happy out there,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb the others.

Sunghoon huffed a quiet laugh, his shoulder shifting slightly against yours. “Relieved, more like.” He tilted his head back against the seat, the streetlights catching the sharp line of his jaw. “But yeah. It felt good.”

You hummed and nodded tiredly, "I am glad. I am happy you tried even if you thought you wouldn't get far."

"I am glad too.", he answered and it was silent for a few seconds before you spoke up again.

"That second skater—the girl with the purple dress," you murmured, low enough that only Sunghoon could hear. "I wish I had my sketchbook. She looked so pretty in that long dress, even if she feel twice."

The streetlights flickered across his face as he turned toward you, close enough that you could see the faint glitter of leftover rink spray in his white hair. "Next competition," he said, voice rough with exhaustion but earnest, "bring it. If you want to come again, I mean."

You studied his profile, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the passing lights. "Yeah," you said softly. "Sure. Of course."

A quiet understanding settled over you both as the car crossed the Han River, its dark waters shimmering with reflected city lights. Jay snorted in his sleep, jolting slightly before slumping against the window again. The movement made you aware of how stiffly you'd been holding yourself to avoid crowding Sunghoon.

"Here," he murmured suddenly, lifting his arm slightly. "Just—" He demonstrated the awkward angle of trying to sit upright while sandwiched between you and Jay. "It's worse if we all lean back."

You hesitated for only a second before letting yourself lean into him, your temple coming to rest against the curve of his shoulder.

Sunghoon exhaled, relaxing into the seat properly now, his own shoulders finally resting fully against the backrest.

“Better?” he asked, his voice a low rumble you felt more than heard.

You hummed in response. The scent of your detergent—something clean and faintly citrusy—mixed with the lingering traces of ice rink and the fabric softener from Heeseung’s hoodie still draped over you. It was comforting, familiar in a way you couldn’t explain.

Sunghoon didn’t move or shift, even as the car hit a bump that jostled you slightly closer. His arm brushed against yours and his breathing slowly steadied.

You felt his head tilt slightly, resting against yours as he fell asleep. ──────────────────────── The elevator doors slid open to a wave of sound that made your skull pulse. Bass-heavy music vibrated through your apartment door before you even turned your key, mingling with overlapping voices and laughing. Your fingers trembled as you finally got the lock to turn. Whether from exhaustion or the migraine brewing behind your eyes, you couldn’t tell.

Twelve hours.

You’ve just spent twelve straight hours in the university studio, your back aching from hunching over architectural models. The coffee you’d chugged hours ago had long since worn off, leaving behind only a sour aftertaste and a stomach that rolled dangerously when you opened the front door. 

You knew Sunghoon was going to have friends over. He had asked you if it was okay if he had his boys, Wonyoung and a few of her friends over to pregame. Of course he could, it was his apartment as well. 

As you stepped inside you were second guessing that answer right now. Your nose was assaulted by an array of smells of food and alcohol. 

Sunghoon and his friends were all sitting around the sofa, Jake, Heeseung, Jay and a girl you didn’t know were playing a seemingly intense round of Mario Kart. Sunghoon was balancing three soda cans in one hand while using the other to take a shot with who you assumed was Wonyoungs friends. So much to he wouldn’t drink. But didn’t you say the same thing last time? 

His entire face lit up when he spotted you hovering in the doorway.

“Y/N!”

Sunghoon weaved his way towards you with that effortless grace he carried everywhere. Up close, you could see how excited he was. His eyes were almost sparkling.

“You look dead,” he announced, reaching for your overloaded backpack. His fingers brushed your shoulder as he slid it off, and even that slight contact sent an unwelcome shiver down your spine. “We saved you food! I got you some of the garlic powder chicken and the fried rice cakes from Mom’s touch! With extra powder, just how you—”

A particularly loud burst of laughter from the sofa made you flinch. The motion sent a fresh spike of pain through your temples, and suddenly the smell of  the food was overwhelming and nauseating. You pressed your lips together, willing your stomach to settle.

Sunghoon’s smile faltered. He leaned in, his voice dropping below the music’s roar. “Hey. You okay?”

“Migrane,” you managed, gripping the door frame for balance. Your vision swam slightly at the edges. “Just need to… lie down.”

Behind him, Jake's girlfriend appeared, her face flushed from alcohol. “Y/N! You’re coming out with us, right? We’re going to B1!” Her pout was picture-perfect, her lip gloss catching the light as she spoke. How did Sunghoon only have pretty friends? But then at the same time, pretty people attract pretty people, right?

The thought of a crowded club, of flashing lights, pounding music and the amount of hot and sweaty bodies pressing into yours made your stomach lurch violently.

“Migraine,” you gritted out again, already edging toward the hallway. “Next time.”

Sunghoon caught your wrist in a gentle but firm grasp. His thumb brushed your pulse point, his brows drawn together. “I’ll make you tea,” he murmured. “You should eat something when your head is feeling better. I bought new ginger tea. It’s in the–”

“Cabinet above the sink.” You forced a smile, slipping free of his grip. “You don’t have to Sunghoon. Have fun and be carefull.”

Escape was all you could think about. You made it three steps down the hall before the nausea crested, sending you stumbling into the bathroom. The door swung open to reveal Wonnie mid-mascara application, her reflection flawless in the fogged mirror.

“Oh, Y/N!” She turned, her head tilting in mild confusion. “You look awful.”

The words weren’t malicious, just observant. That made it worse. 

Up close, Wonnie was even more devastatingly pretty. Her skin was poreless under the harsh lights, her collarbones delicate rather than skeletal like yours. When she shifted, her cropped top rode up to reveal toned abs, the kind that came from disciplined training rather than starvation.

"Migraine," you muttered, brushing past her to grab your toothbrush.

Wonnie's perfectly shaped brows furrowed. "That's too bad." She leaned against the doorframe, watching as you fumbled with the toothpaste. "I would have loved it if you came along tonight. The others too. We wouldn’t have let anyone close to you, but I understand if you don’t want to come. "

Your hands stilled. The toothpaste tube slipped from your grip, hitting the sink with a plastic clatter. ”I-yeah,” you croaked out, “maybe next time.”

Wonnie either didn't notice or chose to ignore your reaction. "Anyway, feel better!" She flashed a smile before disappearing in a cloud of her perfume.

The door clicked shut, leaving you alone with your reflection. The girl in the mirror was a ghost—pale skin stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones, dark circles like bruises under bloodshot eyes. The sounds of laughter from the living room seemed to grow louder as you mechanically brushed your teeth, the mint doing little to combat the taste of bile.

By the time you emerged, the group was gathering by the door. Sunghoon lingered near the back, his gaze finding yours across the chaos almost immediately.

“I made you some tea. And the rest of the chicken is in a container in the fridge. Try to eat something before you go to bed,” he said, shrugging on his jacket. The others were already spilling into the hallway, but he hesitated, one hand on the doorframe. “Text if you need anything.”

The sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten.

“Have fun,” you whispered.

Then they were gone, the apartment plunging into sudden silence. It still smelled like food, alcohol and a mixture of perfumes that the others had sprayed on before leaving. 

You stood there for a long moment, swaying slightly on your feet. Your body felt both weightless and unbearably heavy as you trudged towards the kitchen to clean up whatever mess Sunghoon and his friends had left and to drink some of the tea Sunghoon made. Sunghoon shouldn’t have to worry about cleaning up tomorrow and should sleep in. He deserved it. 

 You also had to somehow eat something so you could take painkillers. 

After fifteen minutes have you opened the windows, cleaned the kitchen and living room, set a trash bag with the empty containers outside for sunghoon to carry downstairs and drank almost all of the tea. 

Your migraine was now a full-force storm behind your eyes so you just dropped onto the sofa after closing the windows and dimming the lights. There was a new episode of My demon today. You would just rewatch the episode with Sunghoon tomorrow.  ──────────────────────── The bass thrummed through Sunghoons ribs like a second heartbeat, the sticky air thick with sweat and perfume. Neon lights pulsed in erratic bursts, casting the writhing bodies on the dance floor in garish pinks and blues. He hated it here.

He shifted against the bar, fingers drumming on the condensation-slick glass of his untouched drink. The music was too loud, the crowd too close, the laughter too sharp. Every brush of a stranger’s elbow against his back sent a prickle of irritation down his spine. He should’ve stayed home.

Sunghoons jaw tightened.

The memory of you in the doorway flashed behind his eyes. How your fingers had dug into the frame for balance, how your face had gone pale.

He had known you had a deadline. Known you have been skipping meals again, that your headaches were more intense in the last few days. But he’d let Jake talk him into hosting, let Wonnie chatter about her plans for the evening and let his friends invade the apartment.

His teeth ground together. The club’s music morphed into a distorted screech, grating against his skull. He could be on the couch right now. Could’ve dimmed the lights, pulled up My Demon, watch you curl into the armrest you the way you did when the pain got bad. Could’ve made sure you actually ate instead of leaving you to nibble at cold chicken alone in the dark.

A drunk girl stumbled into his shoulder, giggling an apology he didn’t acknowledge.

What was he even doing here? Pretending he wasn’t itching to go back to his apartment? Pretending he didn’t feel like an asshole for coming here? For inviting his friends over when he knew you would have a deadline?

He checked his phone for the fifth time in ten minutes. No messages.

He hadn’t expected any. You wouldn’t text him. Not when you thought he was having fun.

Jake materialized beside him, shouting directly into his ear: “This place sucks! Let’s bail.”

Sunghoon didn’t need convincing. By 11:15, he’d extracted himself from the group and was striding toward the bus stop, the cool night air a relief against his overheated skin.

When he reached his apartment door an hour late, thanks to the million stops the night bus made from Hongdae to Sangdo, he was surprised to see a trash bag hanging from the apartment door handle, neatly tied, the weight of it pulling the plastic taut. Sunghoon blinked at it for a second, his brain slow to process.

He hadn’t taken the trash out.

Which meant...you did.

His fingers curled around the bag’s knot, the crinkle of plastic loud in the empty hallway.

Even though you had been pale and swaying on your feet earlier. Even though you had barely been able to keep your eyes open when he left.

His chest squeezed.

He carried it downstairs, the night air cool against his skin, and tried not to think about how you must’ve dragged yourself up to clean up his mess.

He exhaled hard through his nose and carried the bag downstairs, the weight of it heavier than it should’ve been.

Sunghoon turned the key as quietly as possible, easing the door open inch by inch. The apartment was dark, the only light the faint blue flicker of the TV from the living room. He toed off his shoes, stepping carefully over the threshold.

The air smelled faintly of citrus cleaner. 

He crept forward, peering into the living room.

There you were. A lump of blankets on the sofa, half-buried in fabric, one arm draped over your eyes and a cooling packet on your forehead. The TV cast shifting shadows over your face, paused on the title screen of My Demon.  You didn't even manage to watch longer than the intro?

Sunghoon’s throat went dry.

He should’ve been here. Should’ve stayed.

His eyes flicked to the kitchen. The counters were spotless. No trace of the takeout containers, no stray chopsticks, no sticky rings from glasses. Even the trash can had a fresh liner.

All of it—his mess—cleaned up by you, when you could barely keep your eyes open earlier.

His mug sat drying on the rack. The one he’d made your tea in.

Empty.

A stupid, warm feeling curled in his stomach.

You’d drunk all of it. Or at least he hoped you did so and didn't just toss it into the sink.

He was halfway to the couch—to wake you up, so you could go to bed and sleep in your own bed—when your voice cut through the quiet.

“Why are you home so early?”

Sunghoon nearly jumped out of his skin.

You were watching him, bleary-eyed but awake, the blanket slipping off your shoulder as you pushed yourself up on one elbow.

He swallowed. “Club was shit.”

You hummed. The TV’s glow caught the exhaustion still clinging to your face, the way you squinted at him like even the dim light hurt.

Sunghoon sank onto the couch beside you, his knee brushing yours. “You cleaned,” he said quietly.

“Mhm.”

“You didn’t have to.”

You turned your head just enough to look at him. “I know. But you would have to do it hungover tomorrow, and that’s worse than my migrane. I am used to it.”

He huffed, but his throat felt tight. “Still. You should’ve just slept.”

“I did,” you said, nodding toward the TV. “After.”

Sunghoon followed your gaze. The screen still displayed My Demon, paused right at the beginning.

“You waited,” he realized.

You didn’t answer. Just pulled the blanket over his legs too, your fingers brushing his knee.

“Play it,” you mumbled, already settling back against the cushions. “Before I fall asleep again.”

“Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay. Scoot over.”

You made a half-hearted attempt to shift, but the blankets had you trapped. Sunghoon huffed a laugh before wedging himself into the remaining space, his back pressed against the cushions, your legs now draped over his lap. It was awkward, too close and not close enough, the heat from your body seeping through the layers of fabric between you.

“Comfortable?” you teased, your voice still rough with sleep.

“Perfect,” he deadpanned, adjusting his arm to avoid elbowing you in the face.

You hit play.

Seven minutes in, you broke the silence. “How was it? The club.”

Sunghoon’s fingers drummed against your shin. “Loud. Wonnie spilled a drink on some guy’s shoes. The Dj played random european music because there were a lot of exchange students there.”

“Sounds eventful.”

“Boring,” he corrected. His thumb traced idle circles over the arch of your foot through the blanket. “I would have rather been here.”

"I don't want to be the reason why you aren't going out with your friends Sunghoon. I am an adult, I can be alone on a Friday evening. It's how its always been."

The admission hung between you. On screen, the demon said something sarcastic, but neither of you laughed.

Sunghoon’s hand stilled. “You should’ve told me you weren’t feeling well.”

“You had plans.”

“I would’ve stayed.”

The words came out sharper than he meant. You blinked at him and then you just sighed, your toes curling into his thigh. “Point taken.” 

Sunghoon swallowed. “Is it that bad that I would enjoy spending time with you, Guwon and Dodohee, here more than with the others in a warm, loud, stinky and sticky club?”

You snorted quietly. “You can just admit that you want to thirst over Song Kang with me. I don’t judge.”

Sunghoon slightly hit your ankle but didn’t deny what you said. He did enjoy watching Song Kang act, he was hot. 

You reversed the part the two of you missed and pressed start again. 

Sunghoon’s thumb paused it's absent tracing over your ankle and he broke the silence this time. "Did the tea help?"

You nodded against the cushion, the movement small. "Mm. I drank all of it. Thanks." The admission came softly. "I ate some of the chicken too."

His shoulders relaxed slightly. "Good." A beat. Then, quieter: "You get these often? The migraines?"

The demon on screen laughed sharply, masking your hesitation. "Not as much as I used to." You picked at a loose thread on the blanket. "They’re sort of…leftover. From when I wasn’t taking care of myself properly."

Sunghoon stilled. Taking care of yourself properly? Just like you were doing right now? Not eating, sleeping, overloading your schedule? His fingers tightened imperceptibly around your foot. "When was that?"

"High school." You shrugged, like it didn’t matter. "My body’s still mad at me, I guess."

Sunghoon exhaled slowly through his nose, his thumb resuming its gentle circles - this time against the jut of your ankle bone.

"Are you taking care of it now?," he asked quietly. 

Your toes curled slightly under his palm. "I’m trying to."

The TV flickered, casting shadows across his face as he studied you - the dark circles under your eyes, the way your collarbones stood out just a little too sharply. Something in his chest ached.

"Hey." He nudged your knee with his. "Next time you feel a migraine coming on–"

"I’ll tell you," you finished softly.

Sunghoon’s lips quirked. "Good."

You turned back to the drama and for a few minutes the only sounds in your apartment was the low murmuring from the TV. 

The demon heroine's voice trembled through the speakers: "You call this love? Real love doesn't make you question your worth."

Sunghoon felt your ankle tense slightly beneath his fingers as you asked, "Have you ever been in love?"

For a moment, neon lights and pounding bass flashed behind his eyes. He saw a girl in front of him, so lively it might have been real right now. Her chestnut hair smelled like vanilla. She was laughing brightly as she teased him about his terrible dancing, while she was dancing even worse. Taking his hand. Pulling him in. Kissing him. 

His thumb stilled against your ankle.

"There was someone," he admitted, voice softer than he intended. "Another skater. Not serious, but..." He swallowed, watching the TV's blue light play across your blanket-covered knees. "I could've loved her, I think."

He thought about how Soomin would tuck her hair behind her ears when nervous, how she'd bring him energy drinks before morning practices, how her mittened hands would brush against his when they walked home from the rink. The way his chest would tighten when she smiled at him, when they would giggle together like teenagers in love. They were teenagers in love, both of them just loving something else more than each other.

"I was seventeen," he continued, fingers tracing absent patterns on your socked foot. It were cute socks with small flowers on them. "Right before Junior Worlds. Every of my thought was about landing that damn triple axel." His mouth twisted. "By the time I was done with all that, she'd moved to Canada to train. She still lives there."

The confession tasted bittersweet. He wasn’t exactly heartbroken back then. He was somewhat glad that he couldn’t be distracted by her anymore so he could focus on school and skating. In the years after he had often asked himself what might have been if the two of them would have taken their eyes off of the ice for just a second. They would have been a nice couple. 

On screen, rain streaked down windows as the male lead walked away. You studied Sunghoon's profile in the flickering light. "Do you regret it?"

He shifted. "Sometimes. Not her specifically, just..." He gestured vaguely. "Being so single-minded. What I might have missed."

The admission surprised him. He'd never voiced that particular regret aloud - how he'd let routines and rotations come in between something so much more important. 

"What about you?" he asked. "Have you been in love?"

You smiled, but it didn't reach your eyes. "Not even close. I haven't even kissed someone."

"Never?" The question slipped out before he could stop it.

"Never." You plucked at the blanket's edge, the threadbare fabric catching on your fingernail. "I think, now and back then, that...if you can't love yourself properly, you shouldn't let someone else try. It wouldn't be fair to them."

Sunghoon's breath caught for a second as the pieces clicked together - your careful portions, the way you'd deflect compliments, the migraines born from "not taking care of yourself properly." Jake was right. Or well. Halfways? it did sound like you had an ed in highschool. Maybe the party triggered something and you were going back to that mindset? You weren’t eating like this before. He was sure of that.

His hand slid up to cradle your calf, fingers pressing gently into the muscle there. "That's..." He searched for words that wouldn't scare you off. "Really mature, actually."

You huffed a brittle laugh. "Or just really good at self-sabotage."

The joke fell flat between you. Sunghoon's grip tightened, his thumb finding the delicate hollow behind your knee. He thought of Soomin's easy confidence, the way she'd owned every inch of the ice and then of you, folding yourself smaller, quieter, as if trying to disappear into the couch cushions.

"Hey." His voice dropped, rough with unspoken emotion. "Knowing your limits isn't sabotage. It's..." He trailed off, suddenly aware of how close your faces were in the dim light, how your breath hitched when his fingers brushed that sensitive spot behind your knee.

On screen, the demon whispered something about second chances. Neither of you looked away.

Sunghoon's pulse thundered in his ears. He didn’t remember what he wanted to say so instead, his thumb traced slow circles on your skin. 

The episode played on. The blue glow of the TV painted the curve of your cheek, the nervous flutter of your lashes as you stared at where his hand still rested behind your knee. Sunghoon could feel the minute tremors running through you.

"You know," you said suddenly, voice barely above a whisper, "that first morning you made breakfast? When we had barely known each other for two weeks?"

Sunghoon's fingers stilled against your skin. He remembered, the burned pancakes, the way you'd hovered in the doorway like you weren't sure you were allowed to eat with him. "Yeah?"

"You put honey in my tea exactly how I like it." Your fingers twisted in the blanket. "I don't even remember telling you that."

His hand slid up to cradle your knee properly now, fingers pressing gently into the soft skin behind it. "You always put in two spoons," he murmured. "Every time you make yourself a cup. It wasn't hard to notice."

You ducked your head, but not before he saw the flush creeping up your neck. "Still. Most people don't pay attention like that."

The 'most people' lingered between you, heavy with everything it implied about what you expected from the world. Sunghoon's thumb traced idle circles on your inner thigh, the touch feather-light but deliberate.

"You're wrong, you know."

"About what?" you breathed.

"About not being loved." His fingers tightened slightly around your knee. "I think people have loved you in all the small ways you didn't let yourself see. The way the ajumma at the convenience store downstairs saves you the last vegetarian kimbap. The way Mark sends you like a million pictures a day. How Jungwoo just randomly orders stuff to our apartment because he remembers you talking about it and how Taeyong remembered to pack everything you might miss from home." He hesitated, then added softly, "How I memorized your tea preferences after seeing you make it just once."

A startled laugh escaped you, bright and unexpected in the dim room. "That's not love, Sunghoon. That's just...being decent."

"Isn't it?" His thumb brushed higher, just beneath the hem of your shorts. "What's love if not noticing? If not remembering?"

Your breath hitched. On screen, the credits began to roll, the music swelling dramatically. Neither of you moved until you shook your head and cleared your throat. “I’ll go to toilet for a second. Can you stop the episode?”

Sunghoon nodded. “Sure thing.”

He stretched out across the sofa the moment you disappeared down the hall, groaning as his spine popped. The cushions still held your warmth, the blanket carrying the faint scent of your shampoo as he flopped onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes. Just for a second. Just until you came back.

The apartment was quiet save for the hum of the fridge. Sunghoon let his muscles go lax. He was exhausted from the last week and from going to class and to that shitty club. His mind replayed your conversation. Of course he’d noticed. Somehow he noticed everything about you. 

He barely had time to roll onto his side before you reappeared, blinking down at him where he was sprawled out on the entire sofa.

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “I go to pee for three seconds and you steal my spot on the sofa? Pardon me, take over the whole sofa?”

Sunghoon grinned, shuffling closer to the backrest in exaggerated courtesy. “Plenty of room,” he lied, patting the sliver of space left in front of him. He was joking and about to sit up to let you get into your original position when you suddenly lifted the blanket he was laying on. 

And crawled in.

Every synapse in Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited as you settled against him, your back pressed to his chest, your hair tickling his nose. He froze, arm still suspended mid-air where he’d been about to “adjust” the pillows.

“This okay?” you murmured, already curling into the space he’d made.

Okay? His lungs forgot how to work. He didn’t know where to put his hands. Could he touch you? Would that be okay? Slowly, carefully, he let his arm drape over your waist.

“S’perfect,” he managed, voice rough.

You hummed reaching for the remote and starting the next episode. 

The last coherent thought Sunghoon had before sleep claimed him was that he’d never moving again—not even for morning practice, not even if the rink burned down. Not when you were laying here, all soft and trusting against his heartbeat. ──────────────────────── The disinfectant smell of the cleaner burned in your nose as you scrubbed at the same spot on Counter #3 for what felt like the hundredth time. Your fingers trembled slightly against the rag—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you had to press your palm flat against the surface to steady yourself.

Sunoo's hip-check nearly sent you stumbling into the popcorn machine. "Earth to Y/N," he sang, waving a bag of sour gummies in your face. The neon lights overhead made the candy look almost fluorescent. "You've been polishing that same spot for ten minutes."

You blinked, your thoughts snapping back into focus like a rubber band. "Sorry," you muttered, snatching the gummies from him and placing them back in their exact spot on the shelf—third row from the top, between the strawberry belts and the chocolate-covered almonds. "What did you say?"

Sunoo studied you, his usual playful grin fading into something more careful. "Are you okay? If you're feeling sick, I'm sure Taemin would let you go early."

The concern in his voice made your stomach twist. You forced a smile, the expression stretching uncomfortably across your face. "No, I'm just tired."

It wasn't entirely a lie. You were tired.

Sunoo leaned against the counter, the red of his uniform vest clashing horribly with his peach-blond hair. "You sure? You've been super quiet today."

You wiped your hands on your jeans and nodded. "I promise I'm fine. Don't worry."

But Sunoo's eyes flicked to your fingers. 

"Did you eat something nice on the weekend?" he asked, his voice deliberately light, like he wasn't digging for confirmation.

You blinked, your mind scrambling for an answer that wouldn't make him worry. Just the fact that you had to think about an answer worried you. "Huh? Oh—yeah. I had fried chicken with Sunghoon on Saturday."

Sunoo's shoulders relaxed slightly. "Moms Touch?"

"Yeah," you said, turning back to the counter to wipe down an already-clean spot. The motion was automatic, something to keep your hands busy. "He ordered it for me when he and his friends ordered the day before because they had that 1+1 offer."

Sunoo's lips twitched. 

"And then we fell asleep on the couch," you added absently.

The words slipped out before you could stop them, and Sunoo's jaw dropped. "Excuse me?"

You froze, the rag slipping from your fingers. Shit. You hadn't meant to say that. 

"It wasn't a big deal," you said quickly, your voice too high. "We were watching My Demon and I had a headache, so I kinda... leaned on him. Next thing I know, it's morning and—"

"—and you woke up in his arms," Sunoo finished, his voice pitching higher with every word. "Y/N. Y/N."

You groaned, pressing your forehead against the counter. "It's not like that."

"Oh, it's exactly like that," Sunoo said, grinning like he'd just won the lottery. "But we're circling back to that in a second. First—" He nudged your foot with his. "—you actually ate the chicken? Like, properly?"

Your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. Four pieces. Three radish slices. Two sips of yogurt drink. 

"I ate," you said, the words sharper than intended. You pressed your lips together and scrubbed a bit more aggressively. 

Sunoo didn't miss the way you didn't answer the question. 

"Y/N," he said softly.

"I'm fine," you insisted, forcing a laugh. "Sunghoon even remembered to order with extra garlic powder." 

Sunoo exhaled through his nose. He and Sunghoon were similar in a few aspects. They were obsessive. Insistent. Careful. And they noticed.

"You know," Sunoo said lightly, stealing a gummy worm from the display, "if you did want to talk about the whole 'waking up cuddled with Sunghoon' thing instead—"

You threw a handful of popcorn at him but took the offer for distraction. The popcorn kernels scattered across the counter, and Sunoo yelped as a few bounced off his forehead. You took a deep breath before continuing, fingers tapping nervously against the laminate.

"I came home Friday with the worst migraine," you started, keeping your voice low. "Sunghoon had friends over, and the apartment was... loud."

Sunoo nodded, uncharacteristically quiet as he listened.

You swallowed. "I barely made it to my room before almost throwing up. When they left for the club, I cleaned up. So he wouldn't have to deal with it hungover."

Sunoo's eyes softened. "Of course you did."

You ignored that. "I was on the couch watching – well i tried watching but i fell asleep – when he came back early. Said the club was 'shit.' They went to B1."

A grin tugged at Sunoo's lips. "Sounds about right."

"He sat with me," you continued, tracing a water ring on the counter. "At first it was normal—just watching the show. Then..." Your throat tightened. "I went to pee and he was sprawled out across the sofa. And I think he jokingly offered me to come lie down with him. But I was tired and…I don't know. I layed down. Like my backside to his front and shit. He put his hand around my waist. And then...I don't even remember falling asleep. Just woke up on Sunday with his arm around me."

Sunoo's eyebrows shot up. "And?"

"And nothing!" You threw your hands up. "He asked if I wanted breakfast, but it was lunchtime, so we ate the chicken. End of story."

Sunoo studied you for a long moment. "You left out the part where you told me you scarfed down the whole box alone, because you love that chicken."

Your breath caught.

"Y/N." His voice was gentle. "You're doing it again."

The concession stand suddenly felt too small, the air too thick. You focused on the popcorn machine's hum, the steady drip of the leaky soda fountain—anything but the concern in Sunoo's eyes.

"It's not like before," you whispered.

"Isn't it?"

You didn't answer. Sunoo was there when it happened the first time. He saw the signs back then. He did so now as well. This time he saw it quicker. You weren't trying to hide it, you didn’t even realize you were doing it again. You wished you could just ignore your head. Ignore the numbers, the nausea. But you couldn't and he knew.

Outside, the rain picked up, drumming against the cinema's roof.

Sunoo reached over, squeezing your hand. "He notices, you know. Sunghoon. From what you've told me he definitely did." He sighed.

You hated it. Hated how easily Sunghoon saw through you, how he'd nudged the takeout box closer when you set your chopsticks down too soon, how his eyes had lingered on your untouched plate just a second too long. You knew Sunghoon knew. He probably has for a while. Food was not in their packaging but in boxes or their packages were conveniently ripped open where the calorie label was printed on. He definitely knew after you more or less told him on Saturday. And yet, your vision blurred and the counter beneath your hands felt suddenly unsteady.

"Hey." Sunoo ducked his head to catch your gaze. "You know I'm saying this because–"

"I know," you cut him off, voice thick. "Just... not right now, okay?"

He studied you for another moment before nodding. "Okay."

The two of you kept working, you scrubbing the already clean counter and Sunoo refilling the stands for the sweets.

His silence was louder than the movie's playing quietly in the background. When you dared a glance at him, he was already looking at you. "Y/N. Sweetheart. Light of my life.", he said "do you think Sunghoon has a crush on you."

You almost choked on your own spit at the topic change. "Sunghoon has a what on whom?"

"A crush. On you.", Sunoo said, shrugging his shoulders

"What makes you think that?", you asked, trying to regain your composture. 

"Well everything you've told me so far? He replaced our favourite vase? He is clearly looking out for you even if you aren’t."

"That's just—"

"Don't say 'being a good friend,' I swear to god—"

"—observant," you finished weakly, making your way over to counter 4.  

"Look, even if—hypothetically—Sunghoon liked me, which he doesn't—" You ignored Sunoo's dramatic eye roll. "—we live together. It would be a disaster. I'd have to move out. Probably change my name. Flee the country—"

"Or," Sunoo interjected, following you and leaning onto the counter next to you, "you could admit you think he is cute."

"I don’t think he is cute.", you lied, shaking your head aggressively.

“Y/N Y/L/N. Don’t lie to me.”, he deadpanned. “ You do think he is cute. And I’ll tell you one thing, you beautiful disaster," he said, uncharacteristically serious. "If Park Sunghoon is out here memorizing your food preferences, you better believe he's noticed your eating behaviours too. "

Your throat tightened. “I know.” ──────────────────────── Rain drummed against Sunghoon's umbrella as he stepped into the little flower shop at the market. It smelled like damp earth and the mixture of flower scents. 

The ajumma running it glanced up from trimming rose stems, her face breaking into a smile when she recognized him. "Ah! My dear boy," she said, wiping her hands on her apron. "More flowers for your girlfriend?"

Sunghoon's ears burned as he ducked his head. "Ah, no—just my roommate. Y/N? She's, um. She comes here often."

The ajumma's eyebrows shot up. "Y/N?" She clicked her tongue, shaking her head. "I wondered where she'd gone. It's been weeks."

Something sharp twisted in Sunghoon's chest. He'd noticed too—the empty vase on your windowsill, gathering dust. The absence of your weekly ritual of trimming stems and humming to yourself as you arranged them. The apartment felt colder without your little touches of life.

He missed the flowers.

"She has been very busy recently," he said, running a finger along the edge of a daisy petal. "Do you have anything… cheery?"

The ajumma hummed, already reaching for a cluster of flowers that looked like colorful miniature sunflowers. "For Y/N?"

Sunghoon hesitated.

"These," the ajumma said, handing him a bundle of the orange mini sunflowers. Their centers were a deep, warm brown, their petals vibrant against the gray afternoon. "Like sunshine. Good for gloomy days."

Sunghoon nodded, his throat oddly tight. "She hasn’t been feeling the best lately."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. The ajumma paused, her shears hovering over a bundle of eucalyptus. "Ah," she said softly. "That's so sad to hear."

The ajumma wrapped the gerberas in brown paper, her movements deliberate. "You tell her Mrs. Park says hello and that she has to come by soon, mhm." She tied the bundle with twine, then added a sprig of something purple and feathery. "For luck."

Sunghoon paid, tucking the flowers under his jacket to shield them from the rain. As he turned to leave, the ajumma called after him:

"That girl—she always picks the flowers that are about to wilt. Says they deserve to be pretty for a little longer too. Take care of these ones."

Sunghoon stood frozen in the rain, the ajumma's words echoing in his chest like a second heartbeat. She always picks the ones about to wilt. You, who treated yourself like something temporary. Something only meant to be pretty in passing.

A drop of rain slid down his neck as he stared at the gerberas in his hands.

His grip tightened on the stems.

You deserve more than scraps, he thought, tucking them closer under his jacket as the rain thickened. ──────────────────────── Your phone lit up with Taeyong's caller ID - the ridiculous selca of him making fish lips flashing across the screen. A grin spread across your face as you swiped to answer.

"Oppa! I was just about to call you!" you chirped, tucking your legs beneath you on the couch. The late afternoon sun streamed through the balcony windows, warming your oversized sweater. You tugged your sleeves over your hands.

"Yah, you liar," Taeyong's voice crackled through the speaker, rich with amusement. "You haven't voluntarily called me since you stole my limited edition G-Dragon album in 2016."

You gasped dramatically. "First of all, I borrowed that. Second of all, I was fourteen!"

"And yet here we are, eight years later, and my collection is still incomplete," he fired back, but you could hear the smile in his voice. "Anyway - train tickets. Did you get the 9am or the 11am?"

Your fingers absently traced the edge of your laptop. "Eleven," you answered.

You'd actually been debating between the two all week - earlier meant more time with family, but later meant less time under scrutiny. "Less chance of me being a zombie when I arrive."

Taeyong snorted. "Please, you've been a morning person since you were in diapers. Remember when you used to wake me up at 5am to watch Saturday cartoons?"

The memory made you smile. "You always pretended to be annoyed but you'd make us those weird peanut butter and kimchi sandwiches."

"Hey! Those were gourmet!" His indignation was undercut by his own laughter. "Besides, you're one to talk - you put sugar in your jjigae until you were twelve."

You were mid-retort when the screen suddenly flickered to video call. Taeyong's face filled the display, his sharp features illuminated by the warm sun light. He blinked, then his expression softened.

"Oh." His voice went quiet. "Sorry. I didn't mean to click on FaceTime."

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the phone.

For a fleeting second, you considered hanging up. The angle wasn't flattering - the sunlight catching the hollows under your eyes, the way your sweater swallowed your frame. But then Taeyong smiled, genuine and warm, and something in your chest unclenched.

"No worries, Oppa," you murmured, smiling back.

He tilted his head, studying you. "You look tired."

You shrugged. "Uni. You know how it is."

"Mm." His gaze was knowing but gentle. "Well, Mom's got three kinds of kimchi waiting for you. And Dad ordered the expensive meat. He says he's going to make you the best samgyeopsal of your life."

Your stomach growled audibly at the mention of your father's famous grilled pork belly. Taeyong's eyes crinkled at the corners.

"Someone's excited," he teased.

"I haven't had real good samgyeopsal in months," you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. "Sunghoon tried to make it last week and it was... an experience. Our fire alarms definitely work."

Taeyong threw his head back laughing. "Please tell me you didn't burn down your apartment."

"Obviously." You grinned. "The kitchen just smells a bit weird."

The conversation flowed easily after that - Taeyong updating you on Johnny and his traveling plans for later in the year, you telling him about your art project, both of you debating which Chuseok games to play this year.

"Jungwoo is bringing that new board game he's obsessed with," Taeyong said, then smirked. "Which means we can team up against him like always."

You groaned. "Last time we did that he didn't speak to us for three days."

"Worth it." Taeyong's expression softened. "It's not the same without you, you know. The summer."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "I know. I've missed being home too."

A voice called Taeyong's name in the background. He glanced off-screen, then back at you. "Gotta run, bug." He paused, his dark eyes serious for a moment. "One week. Don't be late."

You mock-saluted. "Yes, sir."

The call ended, leaving you smiling at your darkened screen. Excitement bubbled in your chest. You were going home. Finally. Just the thought of home made you crave eating your moms food. You realized you could actually eat some of your moms food. You still had some kolddugi muchim in your freezer. With a swift movement that made you stop and drop back down onto the sofa until your vision came back you stood up. You really had to remember to take your vitamins. ──────────────────────── The kolddugi muchim stared back at you from the plate like it had personally wronged you.

You’d cooked it perfectly—tender squid glazed in spicy-sweet sauce, the edges caramelized just enough to crunch. It smelled like home. But now that it was in front of you, your stomach twisted like you’d swallowed rocks.

Just one bite.

Your chopsticks hovered over the plate, trembling slightly. The numbers flashed in your mind unbidden. You squeezed your eyes shut.

You wanted to eat. You missed eating.

But your body recoiled like the food was poison.

The front door opened.

Sunghoon froze in the doorway, skate bag dangling from his fingers. His gaze flicked from your hunched shoulders to the untouched plate, then back to your face.

He kicked off his shoes and shuffled into the kitchen. “Did you make kolddugi muchim?” He peered over your shoulder at the food. “You gonna glare it into submission or…?”

You scowled. “I’m thinking.”

“Ah. Deep culinary meditation. Got it.” He grabbed a water bottle from the fridge, his tone deliberately light.

“Need a taste tester? For scientific accuracy?”

You hesitated. Then nudged the plate toward him.

Sunghoon took a bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Hm.” Another bite. “Interesting.” A third. “Yep. Definitely–”

You swatted his arm. “What?”

“–needs more.” He stole your chopsticks, splitting the squid into two uneven portions. The smaller one, he pushed toward you. The larger, he drenched in extra sauce. “There. That’s more my style.”

You stared at the modest pile–five manageable pieces. Five. You could do five.

Sunghoon didn’t watch as you picked up your chopsticks. He just launched into a story about his friend’s disastrous new haircut, waving his hands animatedly.

The fifth bite of squid sat heavy in your stomach. You pressed your palm discreetly below your ribs, willing the cramp to fade as Sunghoon rambled on. His voice was warm and slightly raspy from hours of yelling at the rink. You loved how it dipped when he was trying not to laugh, how he'd gesture wildly with his chopsticks when the story got good. Right now, though, you could barely focus past the fire spreading through your gut.

"—and then the clippers apparently just slipped and now—" Sunghoon paused mid-sentence. His chopsticks hovered over his plate. "You okay?"

You swallowed hard. "Just... stomach doing stupid stuff." The admission came out quieter than you'd intended.

Sunghoon didn't react dramatically. Just set down his chopsticks with a soft clink. "Spice too much?"

You nodded, shame heating your cheeks. Two months ago, you could've eaten this entire plate without breaking a sweat. Now your body rebelled against what should've been comfort food. You hated it so much.

Without another word, Sunghoon pushed back from the table. You watched his retreating back—the way his shoulders moved under his thin t-shirt as he filled the kettle, the practiced ease of his hands as he rummaged through the tea cabinet while he continued telling you about the class he had after his morning training session.

The kettle whistled. Steam curled around Sunghoon's face as he poured, his brow furrowed in concentration. You traced the line of his jaw with your eyes—the sharp angle you'd once drawn in your sketchbook, the faint scar near his ear from a childhood skating accident. How many times had you sat like this, watching him move through the kichen? A thousand quiet moments folded into the creases of your memory.

"Here." Sunghoon set the steaming mug in front of you, the scent of ginger and honey wrapping around you like an embrace. "Drink slow."

Your fingers brushed his as you took it.

"Thanks," you murmured.

He didn't sit back down. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching you take the first sip. The tea was perfect—not too sweet, not too bitter. Exactly how you liked it.

"Better?" he asked after a moment.

The cramp had eased slightly.

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

Sunghoon’s fingers tapped an absent rhythm against his mug. “We should get bingsu next week someday. That place near campus.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “That sounds good.” ──────────────────────── You were sitting on top of your luggage when Mark found you, your knees pulled up to your chest and your hoodie swallowing your frame. The fabric smelled faintly of your detergent and Sunghoon's room refreshener—something crisp and clean—and you tugged the sleeves further over your hands, hiding the way your wrists had grown sharper over the past few months.

"Hey, brat," Mark called, his voice bright with excitement as he jogged toward you. "You better not have forgotten my—"

He stopped dead the moment you turned around.

You saw it happen in slow motion—the way his grin faltered, the way his eyes flickered over your face. His grip tightened on the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The bus terminal buzzed around you—people talking and laughing, suitcases rolling, announcements crackling over the speakers—but all you could hear was the blood rushing in your ears.

Mark's eyes traced your face, lingering on the hollows beneath your cheekbones, the way your collarbones jutted sharply above the neckline of the oversized hoodie. His expression darkened with each second, his initial joy draining away until only something raw and wounded remained.

"You look like shit," he said finally, his voice quiet.

You forced a laugh, standing up. "Thanks. I missed you too."

Mark didn't smile. He just stared at you, his jaw working.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

Then, abruptly, he grabbed the handle of your luggage. "Let's go," he muttered, yanking it toward the bus without waiting for you.

You scrambled to your feet, your legs wobbling slightly as you hurried after him. "Mark—"

You collapsed onto the seat next to him, folding yourself into the seat. The bus hummed to life, the engine vibrating under your feet as rain streaked the windows.

Mark didn't look at you.

Not when you adjusted your sleeves for the fifth time, not when you dug your nails into your palms to keep yourself from fidgeting. He just stared straight ahead, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his knee.

The silence was worse than the subway stairs.

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly too tight. Mark had been the one who struggled most when you first developed your eating disorder as a teen. Where your parents, Taeyong and Junwoo had reacted with immediate concern and research, Mark had just looked... lost. Mark had been the one who found you purging for the first time when you were fifteen. You remembered how the bathroom door had crashed open, how he'd gone deathly pale seeing you hunched over the toilet. He hadn't yelled - his voice had been terrifyingly quiet when he asked "What are you doing?". The way his hands shook as he pulled you up, the broken "Why?" whispered against your hair as he hugged you too tight. He had never understood, not really - but his pain had been so raw it scared you more than your own illness.

But this was the first time he'd seen you since you relapsed. Really seen you.

And his face had fallen.

Not in surprise. Not in anger. Just—sadness. A deep, quiet kind of sadness that made your stomach twist.

The bus rattled over a pothole, jostling you sideways. Your shoulder bumped into Mark's, and he stiffened.

"You could've just told me," he said finally, his voice low.

You froze.

"I called you," he continued, still not looking at you. "Every damn week. 'Hey, let's get dinner.' 'Hey, come over.' 'Hey, Mom's asking about you.' And you—" His breath hitched. "You cancelled every time."

You dug your nails deeper into your palms. 

You wanted to explain how you'd thought about calling him a hundred times, how you'd typed out texts only to delete them, terrified of seeing that helpless anger in his eyes again. How even now, sick all over again, your first instinct had been to protect him from it.

But the words wouldn't come.

Mark finally turned to you, his eyes red-rimmed. "Was this why?"

You couldn't answer.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus, Y/N. You think I wouldn't notice? You think I wouldn't care?"

The bus hissed to a stop, the doors groaning open. A family boarded, their laughter too loud in the tense silence.

You stared at your lap, at the way your jeans pooled around your knees. The memory of eighteen-year-old Mark sobbing "Please just eat something" while you stared at your untouched plate burned behind your eyes.

Mark leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "You don't get to do this," he muttered. "You don't get to disappear and act like I don't fucking care Y/N."

You curled in on yourself, your knees pressing into the seat in front of you.

"Mom kept asking if you were sick," he continued, staring straight ahead. "I kept telling her you were just busy. That you'd call when you could." A bitter laugh escaped him. "Guess I wasn't wrong."

The words landed like a blow.

You swallowed hard, your throat tight. "I'm handling it."

Mark finally turned to you, his eyes blazing. "Yeah? This is handling it?" His gaze raked over you, taking in the way your clothes hung loose, the way your hands trembled in your lap. "Jesus, Y/N. You look like a strong breeze could snap you in half."

You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, willing the tears not to fall.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly.

The question hung between you, heavy and unanswerable.

You looked down at your hands, at the way your fingers curled into fists. "I couldn't... watch you hurt like that again," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. "Last time it destroyed you."

Mark exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, well. You destroying yourself destroys me worse."

The silence that followed was thick.

You turned away as a tear escaped the corner of your eye, tracing a hot path down your cheek.

Mark saw it.

His expression crumpled.

"Ah, shit," he whispered, reaching for you.

And then, for the first time in months, you let him pull you into a hug.

His arms were warm. Familiar.

You buried your face in his shoulder, your breath hitching.

"We're fixing this," he murmured into your hair. “You’re going to be okay.” He said more to assure himself than you.

You didn't answer, but your fingers curled into the fabric of his jacket. ──────────────────────── The taxi ride from the bus terminal to your family’s home was silent. Mark sat beside you, his knee bouncing the entire way, fingers drumming against his thigh. You kept your gaze fixed out the window, watching the city blur into countryside, the weight of what awaited you settling heavy in your gut.

The moment the car pulled into the driveway, the front door flew open.

Your mother stood in the doorway, her apron dusted with flour, hands pressed to her mouth. Even from the car, you saw the way her eyes immediately welled up.

Jungwoo appeared behind her, his usual grin faltering for just a second before he recovered, waving exaggeratedly. “Finally! We were about to send a search party.”

Your stomach twisted—not from his words, but from the way his voice hitched ever so slightly when he saw you.

Mark yanked the car door open with more force than necessary. “Yeah, yeah, missed you too,” he muttered, already rounding the car to grab your luggage.

You stepped out slowly, legs unsteady. The scent of grilled meat and garlic hit you like a wave, thick, heavy, greasy. Your stomach recoiled.

Your mother was on you before you could take a second breath. Her hands fluttered over your face, your shoulders, your arms, like she was afraid you might dissolve under her touch. “My baby,” she kept whispering, her voice breaking. “My baby, my baby–”

You stood stiffly, letting her hold you, arms limp at your sides. Over her shoulder, you caught sight of your father in the doorway, his expression carefully neutral. Taeyong stood just behind him, arms crossed, but his usual sharp gaze softened when it landed on you.

Jungwoo was already talking, filling the silence before it could settle. “Okay, but seriously, did you walk here? Traffic wasn’t that bad.” He reached out like he was going to ruffle your hair, hesitated, then settled for poking your shoulder instead. “You look like you haven’t slept in a year.”

“Jungwoo,” Taeyong sighed, but there was no real scolding in it.“What? I’m just saying!” Jungwoo threw his hands up, grinning, but his eyes flickered over you too quickly, too carefully. ──────────────────────── Dinner was loud.

It was always loud.

Your father had grilled samgyeopsal. Thick slices of pork belly, the fat sizzling on the pan in the center of the table. The smell alone made your stomach turn, but you forced yourself to sit, to pick up your chopsticks, to pretend.

Jungwoo was mid-story from one of their evenings during the summer break, gesturing wildly with his utensils. “–so then the manager actually tried to kick us out, but Taeyong just–”

“You’re exaggerating,” Taeyong cut in, rolling his eyes, but he was smiling.

“Am not! Tell him, Dad!”

Your father chuckled, flipping another piece of meat. “I wasn’t there, but knowing you? Probably true.”

Your mother laughed, passing you a plate of ssam vegetables without comment. “Here, Y/N. The lettuce is fresh.”

You nodded, wrapping a small piece of meat, chewing slowly.

No one stared. No one pointed out how your hands shook.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Jungwoo’s jokes came just a little too fast, the way Taeyong’s usual teasing had an edge of something softer. You noticed the way your father slid the leanest cuts of meat toward you without a word, the way your mother “accidentally” nudged the banchan dishes you used to love closer to your side of the table.

Mark’s knee pressed against yours under the table.

“–and then Mark actually tripped over his own feet–” Jungwoo continued, grinning.

Mark groaned. “We agreed never to talk about that.”

“No, you agreed. I just nodded and lied.”

Laughter filled the room. You let it wash over you, let their voices drown out the static in your head.

You made it through half your plate before your stomach cramped violently. You set your chopsticks down carefully.

No one paused. No one looked.

Your mother reached for the kimchi, chatting about the neighbor’s new dog.

Jungwoo stole a piece of meat off Taeyong’s plate, yelping when Taeyong smacked his hand.

Your father hummed, flipping the last slice of pork belly.

"Okay, dessert time!" your mother announced suddenly, standing up.

Jungwoo perked up. "Finally. I’ve been waiting for this."

Taeyong smirked. "You’ve been waiting? You ate half the meat."

"And I’ll eat half the cake too."

Your mother returned from the kitchen with a small, simple vanilla cake, no frosting, just a light dusting of powdered sugar.

It was your cake. The one you used to love when you were younger, before things got complicated. Light, airy, easy to eat even when your stomach rebelled against everything else.

You looked around the table.

Jungwoo was watching you, his usual grin softer now. Taeyong took a sip of water, pretending not to notice your reaction. Your father busied himself with clearing the grill.

Your mother set the cake in front of you, her voice deliberately casual. "I thought you might like something sweet."

And that’s when it hit you.

The meal. The banchan. The way they’d all avoided commenting on how little you ate. The cake.

They’d planned this.

Not just dinner–all of it.

Every dish, every joke, every distraction. They’d orchestrated the entire evening so you wouldn’t feel pressured, so you wouldn’t feel watched.

So you’d feel safe. ──────────────────────── ​​The house was quiet when you crept through the apartment, the wooden floors cold beneath your bare feet. You had only meant to grab water but the hushed voices from the kitchen stopped you in the hallway.

"I just don’t get it." Jungwoo’s voice was thick, barely above a whisper. "Why wouldn’t she say anything?"

A chair creaked. "You think I know?" Mark shot back, but there was no real bite to it. Just exhaustion. "She didn’t tell me either."

"She didn’t tell anyone," Taeyong said quietly. 

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your hoodie, your breath shallow.

"It’s happening so much faster this time," Jungwoo muttered. "Last time it took months before she looked like—" He cut himself off, but you knew. Like this.

A heavy silence settled. Then Mark, his voice cracking: "I should’ve noticed."

"None of us did," Taeyong said.

"You knew," Jungwoo accused, though it lacked heat. "You saw her a week ago. You had to have—"

"And what was I supposed to do?" Taeyong’s chair scraped. "Force her? Yell at her? You think that fucking helps?"

Another pause. Then, softer: "No. But... fuck. I just thought we were past this."

Your chest caved in.

You didn’t hear the rest. You couldn’t.

You waited until you heard the soft snores from your parents’ room, until your brothers went to their rooms, until the glow under their door went dark. Then you slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind you with a quiet click.

For the first time in five years, you knelt on the cold tiles, trembling fingers shoved down your throat.

The relief was instant followed immediately by a wave of crushing shame.

Tears spilled hot down your cheeks as you gagged, your body revolting against itself. Between heaves, you thought of Jungwoo’s broken "I just thought we were past this." Of Mark’s guilt. Of Taeyong’s quiet helplessness.

You were doing this to them again.

The vomit burned coming up. It tasted a bit like the strawberry cake from dinner, which made you gag even harder. 

You were failing them again, you were hurting them again. No matter how much they loved you, you would always end up here, on your knees, betraying them in the worst way.

When it was over, you slumped against the bathtub, your forehead pressed to the cool porcelain. Your stomach ached. Your throat was raw. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You weren’t sure which was worse—the purging, or the realization that after everything, you didn’t change after all. 

You were still breaking their hearts.

You were still unable to stop.

Outside, the house was silent.

You wondered if they could hear you crying. ──────────────────────── The first light of dawn painted the sky in soft pinks and golds as you slipped out of the house, the screen door clicking shut behind you. The air was already warm, thick with the salt-scent of the sea, and the streets were quiet except for the occasional scooter rumbling past.

You walked the familiar path to your favorite beach. The sand was cool under your bare feet, the tide rolling in with a steady, soothing rhythm. You settled onto your usual bench—the one slightly hidden by a curve in the shoreline, where the tourists never wandered—and let the sun warm your skin.

For a while, there was nothing but the sound of the waves and the distant cry of seagulls.

"Y/N?"

You turned, startled. Johnny stood a few feet away, Dukoo’s leash in hand. He looked older, the lines around his eyes deeper, but his smile was the same as when yu first met him. His golden retriever wagged his tail furiously at the sight of you, straining against his harness.

Johnny looked just as surprised as you felt. "I didn’t expect to see you here," he admitted, letting Dukoo drag him closer. The dog immediately shoved his head into your lap, his wet nose bumping your hand until you scratched behind his ears.

You managed a weak smile. "I could say the same."

Johnny sat beside you, stretching his legs out in front of him. He didn’t ask why you were here at sunrise. Didn’t comment on the way your clothes hung off you or the shadows under your eyes. He just let the silence settle between you, the kind of quiet that had always made Johnny easy to be around.

Dukoo flopped onto your feet with a contented sigh.

After a while, Johnny spoke. "How are you doing?"

You stared at the horizon, where the sea met the sky in a blur of blue. You captured this view well when you painted it a bit ago. It was Sunghoons favourite painting in the flat.

"I think you know how I’m doing," you said finally, your voice bitter.

Johnny didn’t flinch. "Yeah," he admitted. "I do."

Another stretch of silence. The waves lapped at the shore. Dukoo snored lightly against your ankles.

"You seeing anyone?" Johnny asked.

You stiffened. "What?"

"Therapy," he clarified. "Are you in therapy?"

You let out a humorless laugh. "Oh. No."

Johnny nodded, like he’d expected that answer. "You remember Dr. Lee?"

Dr. Lee was your old therapist. You remembered sitting in that sterile office, kicking your feet too hard against the chair while Johnny waited outside. How always stoped for ice cream after, even when you refused to eat it.

"He’s still practicing?" you asked, voice thick.

"Has his own clinic now." Johnny's thumb rubbed over his promise ring. "He asks about you sometimes."

You'd been one of Dr. Lee's first patients, back when he was just starting out. Back when Johnny just finished his PhD and believed he could fix you through sheer willpower alone.

You picked at a loose thread on your skirt. 

Johnny glanced at you. "He’s good. You liked him, didn’t you?"

You shrugged. "He was nice."

Which, in therapy terms, was practically a glowing review.

"You should call him, when it gets bad." Johnny leaned back on the bench, letting the sun warm his face.

You didn’t answer.

Dukoo rolled onto his back, demanding belly rubs. You obliged, your fingers sinking into his soft fur.

"Taeyong’s worried," Johnny said after a while.

Your hand stilled. "I know."

"He’s not the only one."

You swallowed hard. The guilt sat heavy in your stomach, worse than any food ever could.

"I hated you," you said suddenly, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "When you'd make me get on the scale. When you'd watch me eat."

Johnny smiled a bitter smile. "I know."

A wave crashed against the shore, the sound loud in the silence between you.

"I hated it too," he admitted after a moment, his voice softer now. "Standing there, writing down numbers like they meant something. Watching you pick at food like it was poison." He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I used to wish I could just—magic it away. Like if I studied hard enough, if I became a good enough doctor, I could fix it. Cure you."

You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening in Dukoo’s fur.

"I know relapsing is part of it," he continued, staring at the horizon. "Logically, I get that. But fuck, Y/N—I still wish it wasn’t happening." His voice cracked just slightly. "I wish you didn’t have to fight this again."

The honesty in his words made your chest ache. Taeyong sitting on the bathroom floor with you at 3 AM, holding back your hair, helping you up when you were too weak to stand. Johnny bringing home nutrition textbooks, highlighting passages, determined to understand. The way they’d take turns sleeping in your room during the worst of it, just in case.

You had to look away.

Dukoo whined, pressing his warm weight against your legs.

"I purged last night," you whispered. "First time in five years."

Johnny went very still beside you.

"I don’t even know why it came back. I just started again," you continued, staring at the ocean. "Just… skipping meals. Then weighing myself more. Then–" Your throat closed. "Sunghoon noticed before I did. Started ripping calorie labels off everything." A wet laugh escaped you. "He thinks he’s subtle."

Johnny didn’t say anything. Just waited.

"I’m trying," you said finally, your voice breaking. "I really am."

Dukoo licked your wrist, his tail thumping softly against the sand.

You stared at the ocean, the waves rolling in and out. "That's the worst part," you admitted. "I know what to do. I know the meal plans, the coping strategies, all of it. But this time—" Your throat tightened. "This time is different."

Johnny turned to face you fully, his expression unreadable. "How?"

"Last time," you continued, "I just wanted to be skinny. I thought if I was thin enough, I'd finally be pretty. Happy. Enough." You dug your fingers into Dukoo's fur. "But now? I don't want this. I don't want to be a skeleton. I miss having curves. I miss not being freezing all the time. I miss my hair not falling out in clumps when I shower. I miss being able to think."

The words tumbled out now, raw and unfiltered. "I can't concentrate in lectures. I almost missed two deadlines last week because my brain just—shuts off. The migraines are constant. And I hate it. I hate all of it."

A tear slipped down your cheek. "But I still can't stop."

Johnny was quiet for a long moment, his gaze fixed on the horizon. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, measured. "You know what I remember most from back then?" He didn't wait for you to answer. "The day you ate half a bowl of kimchi jjigae without crying afterwards. You were so proud of yourself. And then you looked at me—really looked at me—and said, 'I think I forgot what hungry felt like.'"

Your breath hitched.

"That's what this illness does," he continued. "It doesn't just take your body. It takes your hunger, your joy, your ability to recognize what you need. And the worst part? It convinces you that you're doing it to yourself."

You wiped at your face roughly. "But I am. I'm the one who—"

"No." Johnny's voice was firm. "You're not. Just like you weren't the one who chose to get sick the first time. It's not a fucking choice, Y/N. It's an illness. And it lies to you."

The words landed like a punch to the chest.

"I feel so guilty," you whispered. "For worrying you all. For disappointing you. For making you go through this again."

Johnny exhaled sharply. "You think we're disappointed in you?" He shook his head. "We're scared. We're heartbroken. But not for us–for you. Because we love you, and watching someone you love suffer and not being able to fix it?" His voice cracked. "That's the worst feeling in the world."

You curled in on yourself, your arms wrapping around your middle. "I don't know how to stop," you admitted, so quiet it was almost lost to the sound of the waves.

"You don't have to know," Johnny said gently. "You just have to keep trying. And let us help you."

Dukoo whined, nudging your hand with his nose and you resumed petting him.

"I'm tired," you said after a while.

Johnny nodded. "I know."

"And scared."

"I know."

The sun climbed higher, painting the water gold. Somewhere down the beach, a child laughed.

"You're not alone in this," Johnny said quietly. "You never were."

After a long silence, Johnny checked his watch and sighed. "It's too early to call Ten now. But I will later–today." He met your eyes, his gaze firm. 

You opened your mouth to protest, but Johnny shook his head. "Ten never really celebrates Korean holidays anyway. You know how he is—he'll probably be grateful for the excuse to get out of his apartment." A small smirk tugged at his lips. "Last Chuseok, he texted me complaining about how bored he was. He'll come."

You swallowed hard, staring down at Dukoo’s golden fur between your fingers. The thought of seeing Ten, of sitting in his office with the ugly abstract paintings he refused to replace, made your chest tighten. But beneath the dread, there was something else. Something like relief.

"Okay," you whispered.

Johnny exhaled, his shoulder pressing against yours. "We’ll figure this out."

Dukoo rolled onto his back, paws in the air, demanding belly rubs again. The sky lightened slowly, the pale gold of dawn bleeding into blue. Somewhere down the beach, the first early risers were beginning to appear—fishermen checking their nets, an elderly couple walking hand in hand. ──────────────────────── The leather of Johnny’s desk chair was cool against your arms as you curled into yourself, knees pulled to your chest. Outside the window, the last streaks of sunset bled into dusk, painting the walls of his home office in watery gold. The room smelled like him. Like cedar and the faintest hint of coffee grounds.

A soft knock at the door.

You didn’t turn. “Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Ten stepped inside, shutting it quietly behind him. He was wearing one of his old college hoodies, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a steaming take out cup in each hand.

“Brought you tea,” he said, setting one on the desk near you. “Ginger-lemon. ”

You hummed but didn’t reach for it. The paper was probably warm under your fingertips, but the thought of lifting it made your arms feel heavy.

Ten settled into the armchair across from you, stretching his legs out. He didn’t speak right away. He just let the silence settle between you, the way he always did. The clock on the wall ticked. 

“Johnny said you wanted to talk,” Ten said finally.

You stiffened. “He made it sound like I asked you to be here.”

Ten raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t you?”

The question hung in the air.

You looked away.

Silence stretched. Ten waited. He’d always been good at that. Letting the quiet press until you cracked open just to fill it.

“I relapsed,” you said finally.

Ten didn’t react. Just nodded. “Tell me about it.”

So you did.

You told him about how you starte to skip meals. How food made you nauseus, the smell of it, sometimes even the thought of it. How your head still remembered the numbers so well and wouldn't shut up. How you purged yesterday.

Ten listened, his expression unreadable. When you finished, he leaned forward slightly. “What do you think triggered it?”

You laughed bitterly. “If I knew that, would you be here?”

Ten didn’t smile. “Try.”

You stared at the bookshelf behind him—at the framed photo Taeyong took of you and Johnny at the beach last summer, both of you sunburnt and grinning. “I don’t know. Stress, maybe. School. Life.”

“Mm.” Ten tapped his fingers against his knee. “When did it start?”

You hesitated. “A few months ago.”

“Anything special that happened a few months ago?”

Your chest tightened. “Nothing. Just-just normal stuff.”

Ten’s gaze sharpened. “Y/N.”

You exhaled sharply. “Fine. There was…an incident.”

Incident. Such a clean word for it.

Ten waited.

You swallowed. “I was at a party. Some guy…put drugs in my drink…” Your voice cracked. “I...Sunghoon and Sunoo called an ambulance after I fainted in the kitchen. Noting bad happened.”

Ten’s expression didn’t change, but his grip on his mug tightened. “And after?”

“I went home. It's not like something bad happened, right? People get blackout drunk often, right? I mean he didn't...touch me.” You picked at your sleeve. You actually couldn't remember if he touched you. “Then the skipping meals started. Then the scale. Then—”

Your fingers tightened around the arms of the chair. "But that's the thing - nothing even happened. Not really. I just overreacted. Sunghoon and Sunoo got there in time, I went to the hospital, end of story." You shook your head, frustration creeping into your voice. "The next day I had this stupid panic attack in the kitchen and Sunghoon had to talk me down for twenty minutes. That's it. That's all that happened."

Ten's gaze remained steady. "And how did that feel?"

"Embarrassing," you admitted immediately. "Sunghoon had to bring me to practice because he was scared of me being alone. I wasted hospital resources over..." You waved your hand vaguely. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Ten echoed.

"Well, nothing compared to what could have—" You cut yourself off, pressing your lips together.

Ten leaned forward slightly. "What could have happened?"

You exhaled sharply. "That's not the point. The point is, nothing did happen. So why am I..." Your voice dropped to a whisper. "Why is this happening now?"

The room felt too quiet suddenly. The ticking clock, the distant hum of the refrigerator - everything seemed amplified.

Ten studied you for a long moment before speaking. "Tell me about the panic attack with Sunghoon."

You shrugged, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. "It was dumb. I just... couldn't breathe all of a sudden. Sunghoon made me breath with him."

"And since then?"

"I don't know," you admitted, frustration creeping back in. "I just started noticing food differently. Like... if I could just control this one thing, then..." Your voice trailed off as the realization hit you mid-sentence.

Ten waited, letting the silence stretch.

You swallowed hard. "Oh." The word came out small.

The pieces were falling into place, and you didn't like the picture they formed. Your hands started trembling slightly. "But that doesn't make sense. Nothing bad actually happened to me."

Ten's voice was gentle but firm. "Your body doesn't know that."

"What?"

"When you were drugged, your nervous system went into survival mode. It doesn't care that Sunghoon intervened. It only knows that for those moments, you were in danger." He tapped his temple. "Up here, you knoiw you're safe. But in here—" He placed a hand over his chest. "Your body's still trying to protect you from what might have been."

You stared at your hands, the knuckles too prominent. "That's... not fair."

"No," Ten agreed softly. "It's not."

The clock ticked loudly in the silence. Somewhere downstairs, Dukoo barked once, his nails clicking against hardwood as he ran to greet someone, probably Taeyong, at the door.

You pressed your palms against your eyes. "So what? My brain just... made up this eating thing to cope with something that didn't even happen?"

"Not made up," Ten corrected. "Adapted. It's grabbing onto what it can control because that night, control was taken from you." He paused. "Doesn't matter that it stopped before the worst could happen. The threat was real enough."

A hysterical laugh bubbled up. "Some protection system. Starving myself over a maybe."

Ten didn't smile. "It's the only language your survival brain knows."

You let out a shaky breath, the truth settling heavily in your chest. This wasn't comforting. It wasn't reassuring.

It was terrifying.

The paper cup of tea had gone cold, the lemon scent fading into the evening air. You stared at the condensation rings it left on Johnny's desk, tracing them with your finger. Circles within circles. Like how one bad night kept rippling outward, touching everything.

"I keep thinking," you started, then stopped. Your throat felt tight. "If I had just been more careful—"

Ten shook his head before you could finish. "This isn't about what you should have done differently. This is about what was done to you. Someone did something horrible to you Y/N. Getting drugged is horrible. It’s scary. Just hearing about this makes me scared for you. Anyone would have a hard time dealing with this. I am so glad Sunghoon and Sunoo found you before it was too late."

The words landed strangely. You'd spent months minimizing it—it wasn't a big deal, nothing really happened, other people have it worse.

"But I—" Your voice cracked. "I don't even remember most of it. Just... waking up in the hospital with Sunoo crying over me." You swallowed hard. "Shouldn't I be over it by now?"

Ten set his own cup aside. "Trauma isn't about what you remember consciously. It's about what your body remembers." He tapped his chest again. "The panic attacks, the food stuff—that's your body's way of saying it's still working through what happened."

Downstairs, the faint sound of Johnny laughing at something drifted up. 

"So what do I do?" you whispered.

Ten leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "First, we stop comparing your pain to some imaginary threshold of 'bad enough.' What happened to you was violating. Full stop."

You blinked rapidly, surprised by the sudden burn in your eyes.

"Second," Ten continued gently, "we start helping your body feel safe again. That means regular meals, yes, but also..." He paused. "Have you told anyone? Besides Sunghoon and Sunoo?"

You shook your head, picking at the edge of the paper cup. "Mark was there. In the hospital. He called mom and dad and they told Yongie and Woo. But i didn’t tell him about the panic attack. Or that it came back. I didn't want to worry them. And like... what would I even say? 'Hey, remember that time nothing happened to me? I think its fucking me over.'"

Ten's expression softened. "Nothing didn't happen, Y/N. Someone drugged you. That's not nothing."

You realized you'd been holding your breath.

"Think about this," Ten said. "If it had been Sunoo, if someone had slipped something in his drink, would you tell him he was overreacting?"

The immediate "no" caught in your throat. You wouldn't. You'd be furious. You'd—

Oh.

Ten saw the realization dawn on your face. He nodded slowly. "Sometimes we need to imagine it happening to someone we love to understand how bad it really was."

A tear slipped down your cheek. Then another. You swiped at them angrily, but they kept coming.

Ten waited, giving you space. The clock ticked. Dukoo barked again downstairs. Finally, you took a shaky breath. "So where do we start?" Ten smiled—small, but genuine. "Where ever you need to. Maybe with telling Johnny and Taeyong everything. Maybe with just getting through tonight." He nodded to the cold tea. "Want me to get you a fresh cup? I am sure Johnny has some good teas." It was such a simple offer. Such a normal thing. For some reason, that made your chest ache and remind you of Sunghoon. You wished you could go home and curl onto the sofa watching My demon with him.

"Yeah," you whispered. "That'd be... yeah." "I'll be right back.” As Ten stood, the door creaked open slightly. Dukoo's golden head poked through, his tail thumping cautiously against the doorframe. You let out a wet laugh. "Oh, come here." The dog bounded over immediately, shoving his head into your lap with a whine. Ten paused at the door. “Y/N?" He waited until you looked up. "This is already progress."

As his footsteps faded down the stairs, you buried your hands in Dukoo's warm fur, breathing in his familiar dog smell. Outside, the last light of sunset had faded, leaving only the soft glow of streetlights through the window. ──────────────────────── Your apartment was quiet, but your pulse roared in your ears. You stood in front of the stove, hands steady despite the tremor in your breath. Ten’s voice played in your head—"Small, frequent meals. Balanced. No extremes."—but you ignored it. The nutrition plan Johnny had printed for you sat untouched on the fridge. They’d run tests, checked your levels, gave you meal plans and recipes. This much protein. This many carbs. This often. The butter sizzled violently when it hit the pan. You added twice the oil the recipe called for, watching it pool golden and thick. The scent of garlic should’ve made your mouth water. Instead, your throat tightened reflexively. No. You clenched your jaw. Not this time.

The noodles were a normal portion, more than Johnny recommended you to eat at the beginning and probably with too much seasoning for your stomach.  You drowned them in sauce until they shone. A sprinkle of cheese melted instantly on contact. A norma portion.  Normal.  You just wanted to be normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. You chewed slowly, forcing yourself to breathe through your nose.

Halfway through, your stomach cramped—not from hunger, but from the sheer volume of food it hadn’t had to handle in so long. You set your fork down, pressing a hand to your ribs. The urge to stop, to push the plate away, surged up like a reflex. But then you thought of Johnny’s face when he’d seen your bloodwork. The way Ten had said, "Your body doesn’t trust you right now. You have to show it you’re safe." You picked up the fork again. This is what normal people do, you told yourself. They eat until they’re full. They don’t measure every gram. The ice cream you ate afterwards was even worse. Your stomach cramped violently but you gripped the counter and breathed through it, finishing the whole bowl.

Then your body betrayed you. One second you were standing in the kitchen, the next you were on your knees, heaving into the toilet. The noodles came up still whole, the ice cream sour with bile. Tears streamed down your face as you gagged, your body rejecting what your mind had forced into it. When it was over, you slumped against the washing machine, trembling. The bathroom smelled like vomit and that stupid air freshener Sunghoon insisted on buying. But as you wiped your face with a shaking hand, something unexpected bubbled up—not guilt, not shame, but anger. This isn’t fair.

You’d done everything right. You’d eaten like a normal person. You hadn’t purge but just vomited. Why can't you just eat. You wanted to eat that stupid ice cream. Those three spoons of chocolate.

You dragged yourself to your feet, flushed the toilet, and watched the evidence swirl away. Tomorrow, you’d try again. ──────────────────────── You woke to sunlight stabbing through the curtains, your skull throbbing in time with your pulse. The clock read 2:37 PM. Shit. You’d meant to wake up early. To clean, to air out the apartment, to erase any trace of last night’s failure before Sunghoon came home. Three meals yesterday. Three. The number echoed in your aching head. You'd done everything right—ate the portions Ten recommended after you failed with noodles two days ago, kept it down even when your stomach rebelled—and now your body was punishing you for it anyway. Your stomach lurched as you sat up, a sour taste flooding your mouth.  You pressed a hand to your mouth, breathing hard through your nose. Don't. You know better. But your body didn't care. A dry heave wracked through you, your stomach contracting violently. Nothing came up—just bile, bitter at the back of your tongue.

The migraine pulsed behind your eyes as you stumbled to the bathroom. You splashed water on your face, the cold shock making you gasp. Your reflection looked haunted—dark circles, pale lips, hair sticking up in every direction. All you could think about was how you’d lost control. Three meals. Three full meals.  You stumbled to the bathroom, knees hitting the tiles hard. The urge to purge rose like a tide, your throat tightening reflexively. But nothing came up—just dry heaves, your body straining against nothing. You'd been so excited for Sunghoon to come home. Had carefully packed containers of your mom's kimchi, bought that stupid squid magnet from the Busan aquarium you went to with Johnny. You planned to stick it on the fridge with a silly doodle you drew on the bus ride back onto a random piece of paper. Now all you could think about was how you had finally done things right yesterday, and your body was still treating food like the enemy.

You slumped against the toilet, pressing your forehead to the cool porcelain. You wanted to throw up. Needed it, almost. But you couldn’t. You knew better. The front door open. "Y/N? I'm home!" Sunghoon's voice rang through the apartment. The familiar thud of his duffel bag hitting the floor. "Brought you mochi from that place you like—" The bathroom door was slightly ajar. One deep breath and he would smell the bile. One glance and he would see the way your hands braced against the toilet. Another dry heave threatened. You swallowed hard, tasting metal. Not now. Please not now. Sunghoon’s smiling face appeared in the crack of the doorway���sun-kissed from his trip to hawaii with his family, his stupidly perfect white hair slightly messy. His grin faltered the second he saw you.

"Whoa—" His hand shot out to steady himself against the doorframe. "Shit, are you sick?" You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand too fast. "No. Just—" Another dry heave threatened, your throat convulsing. You turned back to the toilet, gripping the edges until your knuckles turned white. "I’m just having a bad migrane." The lie hung pathetic between you. Sunghoon didn’t move. You could feel his eyes on the back of your neck, tracing the tense line of your shoulders. The silence stretched, broken only by the drip of the faucet and your own ragged breathing. You heaved again. Sunghoon’s palms settled on your shoulders, his thumbs pressing gently into the knots of tension there. "Breathe," he murmured, his voice low and steady. "Just breathe, yeah?" You wanted to shake him off. Wanted to snap that you were breathing, that you didn’t need coddling, that he should just go unpack his stupid bag and leave you alone. But then his fingers slid up to cradle the base of your skull, his touch feather-light as he massaged the spot where your migraine pulsed the hardest. A broken noise escaped you before you could stop it.

"Hey." His breath stirred your hair as he leaned closer. "I got your text about the kimchi. You didn’t have to—" Another heave cut him off. This time, when you gagged, Sunghoon’s hands moved and he brushed your hair out of your face, gently holding it in a ponytail. "It’s okay," he said, so quiet you almost didn’t hear. "Just let it out." You shook your head violently, tears pricking at your eyes. "Don’t say that. I’m not—" Your voice cracked. "I’m not doing that anymore." Sunghoon went still behind you. For one horrible second, you thought you’d said too much. Then his forehead dropped against the back of your shoulder, his exhale warm through your shirt. "Okay," he said simply. "Okay." His hands slid down to wrap around your wrists, his thumbs stroking over your racing pulse. "Then let’s get you some water. And maybe that mochi I brought. It’s the strawberry kind you like."

You closed your eyes.  Sunghoon pulled you away from the toilet and made you sit on the cold floor. You leaned back against the washing machine while Sunghoon went to the kitchen to get you some water. He came back carrying a bottle of water and sat down next to you.  Sunghoon opened the bottle and offered it to you. You took a sip and quietly thanked him before the two sat in silence for a few minutes.  "It started when I was fourteen.", the words tumbled from your mouth.

Sunghoon stayed quiet, but you felt him shift slightly. "I was...chubby." You swallowed hard, picking at a loose thread on your sweatpants. "Not even really fat, just—soft. I had round cheeks. Thighs that rubbed together when I walked. My skin was always dark from being outside too much." Your voice sounded strange to your own ears. "There was this girl in my class. Park Soomin. She was pretty. And petite. A nationally ranked figure skater, actually." Sunghoon went very still. You picked at a loose thread on your sweatpants. "We were partners for a science project. One day she grabbed my wrist and said—" The words stuck in your throat. "Wow, your arms are so thick. Do you even fit into normal uniforms?" A beat. Then Sunghoon made a wounded noise low in his throat.

"It wasn't even true." Your laugh came out broken. "Then a few days later my PE teacher made us all weigh ourselves in front of the class." Your throat tightened. "My number was higher than everyone else’s. The girl and her friends laughed. Someone called me whale." You could still hear it—the giggling, the way your face had burned as you’d stepped off the scale. "That night, I skipped dinner. Then breakfast. Then—" You shrugged, your knees pulling tighter to your chest. "It felt good, at first. Like I was finally in control. Like I was winning. If I was skinny they couldn't say shit about me anymore, right?" Sunghoon made a quiet, wounded noise in the back of his throat. His hands flexed like he wanted to reach for you, but he kept them pressed to his own knees. Your fingers drifted to your throat unconsciously. "I found forums. Learned how to make it look like I'd eaten. How to hide the throwing up." The admission hung between you. Sunghoon's breathing had gone shallow. "Mark walked in on me when I was fifteen." You stared at the toothpaste splatter on the baseboard. "He came home early from soccer practice and heard me in the bathroom. He–" A wet laugh escaped you. "He didn't even yell. Just stood there crying, asking why I was hurting myself." A tear plopped onto your knee.

"My parents were clueless until then." You wiped your nose with your sleeve. "They sent me to therapy. Put me on meal plans." The overhead light buzzed. Somewhere in the apartment, the fridge hummed to life. "Johnny and Ten turned into my personal doctors overnight. Both of them were fresh out of school." You wiped your nose with the back of your hand. "Meal plans, weigh-ins, fucking nutritional supplements. I hated it. Hated how they watched every bite, how they celebrated when I finished a whole bowl of rice like it was some fucking achievement." Sunghoon stayed silent, but his shoulder pressed more firmly against yours. "This time isn't even about being thin." You dug your nails into your palms. "It's about—" Your voice broke. "It's about subconscious control or something. After the party, after that guy—I couldn't control anything. Not my body, not what happened, nothing. But food? That was something I could fucking decide about." A sob clawed its way up your throat.

You finally risked a glance at Sunghoon. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his cheek. "And you—" Your voice broke. "You've known me three months and you're already stuck dealing with this mess. I am so sorry for—" Sunghoon moved suddenly, cupping your face in his hands. His palms were warm, his grip firm but gentle. "Look at me." When you didn't, he ducked his head to catch your gaze. "I don't care if it's been three months or three minutes," he said, voice rough. "You think I'd walk away from someone I—" He cut himself off, swallowing hard. "From someone important to me because things got hard?" You started shaking your head, but he held you steady. "That night at the party?" Sunghoon's thumbs brushed your cheekbones. "When I carried you to the ambulance, you know what I kept thinking? Thank god I was there. Not why me, not what a burden—just that I could be the one to keep you safe." A sob ripped from your throat. Sunghoon pulled you against his chest, tucking your face into his shoulder as you finally, finally broke. "I don't care if it's about weight or control or the fucking weather." His thumbs traced your shoulder blades. "You're not a burden. You're not weak. You're just—" His breath shuddered. "You're just someone who's been fighting for too long."

Sunghoon leaned his head against yours. "Let me help," he whispered. "Please." ──────────────────────── His heartbeat was steady under your ear. His arms tightened around you when you weakly nodded against his chest.  Sunghoon listened to your soft breathing as it filled the dim bedroom, your body curled into his. You felt so small like that. Fragile in a way that made his stomach knot. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, one hand moving absently through your hair, gentle and rhythmic. His throat tightened. Park Soomin. He knew that name. Knew the precise curve of her smile, the confident flick of her hair behind her ears before she stepped onto the ice. He could still hear the echo of her laugh at 5 AM across the rink, still feel the icy jolt of her hands pressed to his neck after practice. She used to do it just to make him yell. He'd kissed Soomin for the first time behind the equipment room when they were sixteen. Defended her when people whispered behind her back. Let her sharpness slide because her jumps were perfect and her fire made his heart race. He told himself that was just how brilliance came–razor-edged. Beautiful and cruel. Sunghoon adjusted his hold on you carefully, his palms grazing the angles of your shoulders. 

Purging. The word echoed in his head. He hadn’t realized you were doing this. He was pretty sure you hadn’t been like this before… right? He would have seen it. The image of a younger you, kneeling on bathroom tiles just like you did when he came home, your brother's horrified face in the doorway. If it had been Yeji he would’ve burned the whole world down. He still had Soomin’s number in his phone. He wanted to hit something. Scream. Fly to Soomin’s apartment and— A soft whimper from you snapped him back. You twitched in his arms, fingers brushing lightly against his chest. His breath caught. He brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead, thumb pausing on the pronounced ridge of your cheekbone.  His exhale was long. Anger wouldn’t help you now. All those little moments where he thought you were getting better—when you finished half a bowl of rice, when you ate that soup from Johnnys mom—did you…did you keep it in? He tightened his arms around you instinctively.

Three months ago, he thought you were just shy. A bit quiet. A little too thin, maybe, but nothing alarming. Now he could trace every rib through your shirt. Three months of watching you paint, listening to you rant about brutal professors and architecture deadlines, catching you hum off-key to your favorite songs. Somewhere in all of that, you stopped being just a roommate. You became you. The person whose laugh made his chest ache, whose sleepy grumbles made him smile, whose stubborn "I’m fine"s made him want to shake you and hold you in the same breath. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding together. You stirred, your nose nudging the base of his throat. Sunghoon froze, barely breathing. Then, your fingers curled into his shirt. “S’ghoon…?” Your voice was heavy with sleep, slurred at the edges. “Shh,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your forehead before he could second-guess it. “I’m here.” A broken little sound slipped from you as you burrowed closer. He closed his eyes, heart aching in places he didn’t know could hurt.

He shifted gently, sliding one arm under your knees, the other behind your back. You didn’t stir as he picked you up, head falling against his shoulder. You weighed almost nothing. His grip tightened without thinking. Your bedroom door creaked open at his push. Streetlight spilled across your sheets. A half-finished architectural sketch sat on your desk. He set you down as if you might break, hands lingering longer than necessary to make sure you were okay. But when he started to pull away— “No.” Your voice was a rasp now, but urgent. Your hand fisted in his shirt. “Stay.” He froze.

He should go. You were roommates. This wasn’t his place. It wasn’t right. “Please,” you whispered. He caved. “Okay.” The bed dipped as he laid beside you, leaving space. You moved toward him instantly, pressing your face into the curve of his shoulder with a sigh. Your knee moved over his thigh. Sunghoon stared at the ceiling, your scent curling in his nose, your breath warm on his neck. And for a second, a stupid, fleeting second, he felt happy. That you trusted him enough to tell him what was going on. That you wanted him to be close.  Then he remembered the retching. He clenched the sheets in his fist. Soomin had been his first love. Or whatever sixteen-year-old heartbreaks were. He cheered for her. Believed in her. Watched her fly to Canada  with a lump in his throat. And she’d been the one to make you feel ugly. She and her little minions. He bent toward you, barely brushing his lips against your hair. Outside, the city hummed. The clock ticked on. Your fingers slowly loosened their grip in sleep. ──────────────────────── Sunghoon’s heartbeat was steady beneath your cheek. You lay curled into his chest, your hand resting lightly against his ribs, feeling the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. You thought he’d fallen asleep. You almost hoped he was. He hadn’t spoken in a while, hadn’t moved. The room had gone still except for the hum of the city through your half-open window and the occasional creak of your bed frame as one of you adjusted. You shifted. His arm was around you, heavy and unmoving.

You stayed in this position for a long moment. Just breathing. You should’ve been spiraling. Should’ve been replaying every raw word, every breath of last night with shame crawling over your skin. But you were too tired for shame. Too tired for fear. And too… glad. Glad he was still here.  Glad he knew.  Really knew now. He probably did know before too. But telling him made you feel... better. Relived. So instead of panicking, you just listened to the soft thud of his heartbeat, felt the quiet hush of his breath under your palm “You know,” he said quietly, startling you, “when I was twelve, I broke my ankle two weeks before Nationals.” You didn’t lift your head. Just listened. “I couldn’t eat for days,” he continued, voice low and steady. “Thought if I just—” He made a small, sharp movement you could feel more than see, his muscles tensing under your palm. “If I controlled that, it would make up for everything else I couldn’t control.”

You blinked up at the ceiling. A slow, painful ache bloomed in your chest. “What changed?” you asked, your voice barely more than a whisper. There was a beat of silence. “My coach force-fed me kimchi jjigae,” he said. You felt a quiet huff of air from his nose—somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “And my mom cried. That sucked worse than the hunger.” You wanted to cry too. Sunghoon wasn’t supposed to understand this kind of thing. Not the gnawing emptiness. Not the counting. Not the bargaining, the guilt, the endless loop of maybe if I were smaller, quieter, prettier, then— Your heart cracked open in places you didn’t expect.

You hated that he had to feel that. That someone like him, someone so pretty and good, eve had to think that. You blinked back the sting in your eyes and shifted slightly, pulling the blanket tighter around you. “Tomorrow,” he said softly, “let’s get fried chicken. From Mom’s Touch. Let’s try the new flavor.” Your throat tightened. The tears stung again, hot and unspilled. You whispered, “Okay.” And when his pinky found yours beneath the blanket—light, tentative, warm—you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.

You were so grateful that he stayed. Even after knowing the ugliest parts of you. A while later he shifted slightly, his voice even quieter than before. “Are you hungry?” You froze. You didn’t know how to answer. Not immediately. You turned your head into his chest, let the quiet settle for a few seconds. Let yourself think.

Were you hungry? You weren’t sure. You know you should be hungry, you haven't eaten since yesterday evening, but that didn’t stay down. So technically your yogurt and banana you had for breakfast yesterday was the last “meal” you had. And after a long moment, you gave the smallest nod against his chest. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I think… I am.” He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “Okay,” he said softly. “Do you know what you feel like eating? Something you think you can keep down?” You hesitated, then pulled back just enough to look at him. “I have a list,” you said, your voice scratchy but steady. “Ten, my psychiatrist helped me put it together. And Johnny, too.” Sunghoon’s brows lifted slightly as he watched you.

“They talked to my doctors from when I was a teen. Helped me figure out meals that weren’t too much,” you continued. “ Like… one egg, some toast. Or rice with soft veggies. Fruit I like. They even made a stupid little calendar and color-coded it. Like back when I was a child. I even have little monkey stickers that I am supposed to put onto it.” Sunghoon smiled, so soft it barely touched his lips but warmed his entire face. “That sounds like they really care a lot. Those monkey stickers would be a great addition to our kitchen.” You huffed a tiny laugh. “I was supposed to try one of them yesterday but I… I threw up.I tried to eat a normal sized portion. But just felt like too much and i think it just was. My stomach was so upset. I know Johnny said to start small. Half-portions, even less if I need to. I know it’s not about doing it perfectly. Just… trying.” He nodded, brushing his thumb against your pinky, still tangled with his. “Then we’ll try,” he said gently. “Just a little. Whatever you can do today. And if it’s too much, we stop..”

You swallowed against the lump rising in your throat and nodded again. ──────────────────────── The kitchen was quiet except for the soft clatter of plates and the low hum of the fridge. The sky outside had gone dusky. Streetlights flickered to life one by one, casting golden lines across the countertop. Sunghoon stood at the stove, watching the water boil. He had rinsed the egg twice already. Peeled the cucumber slowly. Checked the cream cheese twice for mold.  Behind him, you moved like a ghost. It made his chest ache. You didn’t say much. Just pressed the lever on the toaster and waited. Your hoodie sleeves were pulled over your hands, fingers curling in and out of the fabric like you didn’t quite know what to do with them. Sunghoon turned down the burner.

“One egg for you,” he said quietly, “and three for me.” You glanced at him, a flicker of something close to amusement in your eyes. “Greedy.” “Hungry,” he corrected, giving you a small smile as he sliced through the cucumber. “Greedy would be me eating the rest of the egg, too.” He saw the ghost of a smile twitch at the corner of your mouth. That was something.  The toast popped, and you startled a little. Sunghoon slid the peeled egg, the cucumber slices, and the toast onto a plate and set it down in front of you. “Voilà,” he said softly. “Culinary masterpiece.”

You hesitated. Just for a second. Then you sat down. Sunghoon tried not to stare at you. He just took the seat across from you and started peeling his own eggs, letting the quiet settle between you. Every few seconds, he looked up. Not to check. Just to witness. You took a bite of toast. He didn’t let himself react. Then the egg. And finally, the cucumber, one thin slice at a time.

You didn’t talk. Neither did he. But when you pushed the plate away, eyes soft and shoulders just a little less tense, he felt something bloom in his chest that he didn’t have a name for. “You ate everything,” he said, voice low. You nodded. “Yeah.” His smiled, gentle and quiet “I’m really proud of you.” You blinked down at the table, lashes casting shadows against your cheeks. “Thanks.” Sunghoon picked at a bit of shell stuck to his second egg, heart thudding a little too hard for how calm everything looked. You had eaten. You were trying.

And God, he’d never wanted to hold someone so carefully in his life for eating a toast. ──────────────────────── After dinner, the apartment settled into a quiet lull. You padded to the couch while Sunghoon rinsed the plates. The finale of “My Demon” had dropped a new episode just the day before, and he didn’t even have to ask. You were already pulling up the streaming site by the time he sat down. You curled up in the corner of the couch like you always did, legs folded up against you, sleeves covering your hands again.  But five minutes into the episode, you stretched your legs out slowly… and draped them over his. Sunghoon didn’t move or say a thing. Just shifted slightly to give you more space and let one hand drift to your shin, his fingers tracing idle, feather-light patterns into your skin the way he always did. Somehow him sitting somewhere on the sofa and you laying down had become your usual position for watching TV.

He felt your breath stutter just a little the first time his thumb grazed over your ankle. But you didn’t pull away. The episode played on. After a good chunk of the first episode you asked, so quietly he almost missed it, “Do you… wanna lie down again? Like last time?” Sunghoon’s brain short-circuited for exactly one second. Lie down again. Like last time. With you in his arms and his heart threatening to break through his ribs. He kept his face neutral and just shrugged lightly. “Sure. If you want.”

You nodded and shuffled down, adjusting until you were stretched out on your side with your back pressed against his front, the two of you folded together like puzzle pieces. His arm slid naturally beneath your head, his other resting lightly at your waist. You didn’t say anything else. Just exhaled, soft and shaky, and settled. Sunghoon stared at the screen, but he wasn’t really watching anymore. He could feel the shape of you against him. The weight of your trust. The rhythm of your breath slowing as you got comfortable.  By the time the episode ended you were still there, unmoving, tucked under his chin. Sunghoon didn’t care about who of the two protagonists will die. He didn’t care about the other guy.

All he cared about was the girl in his arms. ──────────────────────── The episode rolled into its credits, soft music drifting through the room, and neither of you moved to reach for the remote. Your body was still nestled against his, back to chest, your fingers now loosely tangled with his where they rested against your stomach beneath the blanket. The glow from the TV painted your skin in flickering hues—blue, then gold, then back again. You were quiet for a long moment. You weren’t asleep. He could feel the way your breathing shifted. “Would you… would it be okay if we slept together tonight?” You hurried to add, “Not—not like that. Just. Sleeping. I don’t want to be alone. I just… I don’t think I can be.” His heart broke a little at the way your voice shook at the end. He leaned in, just slightly, his chin brushing the top of your head as he spoke.

“Of course,” he said gently. “You don’t even have to ask." You let out a breath then. Almost a laugh, almost a sob. Relief, he thought. Like maybe you’d been holding that question in for hours. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “Hey.” He gave your hand a tiny squeeze. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.” You nodded. He felt it against his chest. “I sleep better when someone is there,” you murmured. Sunghoon closed his eyes, just for a second.

“Then I’ll stay,” he said. “Every night you want me to.” You were quiet again.  Eventually, you moved. Stood slowly, blanket still wrapped around you like armor, and waited while he turned off the TV and followed you back toward your room. He didn’t say anything when you crawled into bed and left a space for him. Didn’t say anything when you curled instinctively into his side, your cheek finding the same spot over his heart where you'd rested before. But when your fingers brushed against his shirt and curled there—quiet and anchoring—he murmured, “Night, Y/N.” You whispered it back. And when your breathing evened out, Sunghoon stayed awake just a little longer. Not to watch you. Just to make sure the calm stayed, at least for tonight.

Thank you so much for reading! Lots of Love, Patty CONTINUE ON READING --⟢ PART 3 COMING SOON all feedback and reblogs is welcome ⭑.ᐟ ⤷ if you liked this you might also like the rest of this series ⭑.ᐟ

ᝰ taglist. @firstclassjaylee @enhaprettystars @vantxx95 @stormy1408 @fancypeacepersona @jaylvrsworld @xylatox @bluxjun @sumzysworld @outroherrr @50-husbands @ikeumina @softchannie @sirens-dreams @schmocolateschmchip @vviolynn @nishiimuraka @enhalxvr @ijustreallylike2read @enhastolemyheart @wintereals @planetmarlowe @baeeeeah @wonzzziezzzz @mochamvgz @lovtaesunu @makeme1cream @stars4jo @vviolynn @lylaloopsie @meimeiyh @motherscrustytoenailclippings @haerni

ᝰ an. AGAIN! A special mention and thanks to @xylatox for dealing with me and giving me advice! I am kinda sorry that this is split in three parts, but I wanted to adress Y/Ns ED properly. Recovery is never linear and it's okay to relapse and getting help is an important but very very hard step. If you are sturggling with an ED please know that you are perfect the way you are. Life is to precious to worry about number sall the time. Please take care yourself, Love Patty ₊ ⊹  

[dandelions4us]

no lube, no protection, all night, all day, from the kitchen floor to the toilet seat, from the dining table to the bedroom, from the bathroom sink to the shower, from the front porch to the balcony, vertically, horizontally, quadratic, exponential, logarithmic, while i gasp for air, scream and see the light, missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, upside down, on the floor, in the bed, on the couch, on a chair, being carried against the wall, outside, in a train, on a plane, in the car, on a motorcycle, the the bed of a truck, on a trampoline, in a bounce house, in the pool, bent over, in the basement, against the window, have the most toe curling, back arching, leg shaking, dick throbbing, fist clenching, ear ringing, mouth drooling, ass clenching, nose sniffling, eye watering, eye rolling, hip thrusting, earthquaking, sheet gripping, knuckles cracking, jaw dropping, hair pulling, teeth jitterbug, mind blogging, soul snatching, overstimulating, vile, sloppy, moan inducing, heart wrenching, spine tingling, back breaking, atrocious, gushy, creamy, beastly, lip biting, gravity defying, nail biting, sweaty, feet kicking, mind blowing, body shivering, orgasmic, bone breaking, world ending, black hole creating, universe destroying, devious, scrumptious, amazing, delightful, delectable, unbelievable, body numbing, bark worthy, can’t walk, head nodding, soul evaporating, volcano erupting, sweat rolling, voice cracking, trembling, sheets soaked, hair drenched, flabbergasting, lip locking, skin peeling, eyelash removing, eye widening, pussy popping, nail scratching, back cuts, spectacular, brain cell dissolving, hair ripping, show stopping, magnificent, unique, extraordinary, slendid, phenomenal, mouth foaming, heavenly, awakening, devils tango ever.

[sleepyvib-es]

tbh all i wanted from hoo was more developed friendships

[hitlikehammers]

Rockstar!Eddie Leaves What He Had With Steve Behind in Hawkins 💔 to Chase His Dreams 🎸

(so why is it that he’s back in Steve’s bed Hawkins every couple months for ‘very pressing reasons’ that are straining Steve’s heart honestly anything but? 🫤❤️‍🩹🥺)

NOTE: this was originally a fill from @eddiemunsonbingo AGES ago, and I’m only bringing it over here NOW because something for the @steddielovemonth is going to be posted soon that is a standalone in its universe, but also very much a sequel to it ♥️

Steve really does try not to think about it in terms of…time.

Maybe that’s foolish. It’s mostly denial. Lots of it isn’t reliable anyway: the score his body keeps isn’t accurate, war-time left over from too many near-misses with a fucking alternate dimension but the popping in his joints and the ringing in his ears and the white hair he pulled out of his scalp and stared blankly at in the sink for a good twenty minutes: those are real things, but they don’t chart the passage of days, of hours, months and fucking years with any real meaning.

It’s been four years. Roughly. Depending on what the start point is. Whether it’s that Spring Break. Whether it’s the first winter. Or the spring after, when Robin begged him to go with her—there’s still time. She still begs, because they still talk given the thread inside them stays tied unbreakable to one another, oblivious to miles between. Maybe it’s measuring from the graduations, the kids—only Erica’s left at Hawkins High, now, though Steve gets calls from the whole bunch of them, Eleven the most, which was maybe surprising, then it’s a good split between Dustin and Will, another surprise. Max calls enough but her calls are calls, with a weight most of the others lack. Lucas’s calls aren’t super frequent but always long, mostly because he talks around the point forever, whatever the point happens to be. Even Mike usually ends up on the other end of the line once a month. It’s…that could be where the time starts from.

Or it could be the summer, that first summer. The one that taught Steve what it was to have a heart just to fucking break it.

Could be that. Impossible to say.

(It’s been 3 years, 7 months, and 14 days. Steve had only counted in retrospect, in the wreckage left behind, because while he’d known there was a deadline in it, to it all, he’d thought he could be enough. That he could change a mind. He’d thought…

Foolish things. Bullshit. Didn’t matter. Could be any fucking date.)

But since the point's come up, and it’s front of Steve’s mind, his least favorite (most favorite) place to find it: he hadn’t expected it. Robin liked to say she saw the signs but. Steve hadn’t watched it happen in slow motion because there wasn’t a single goddamn slow thing about it. Which was…for whatever it was worth, Steve knew falling fast and hard and with everything he was had maybe failed him every time, thus far, but at least he knows that for him?

That means it’s real. He’s all in. He might not be met equal on the other side of the equation—hadn’t been yet, maybe wouldn’t be ever, but he wasn’t having any luck trying to fucking change that fact so, learning to work with what he had was the best he could do. And he had love. He’d never been able to name it to himself so far: not before, and certainly never since. But.

Figuring out the sexuality thing had been a not-bathroom-but-definitely-floor talk on the shitty Family Video carpet sometime around November of ‘85. Slow days, idle comments, and Robin’s suspiciously-but-reliably-gentle-when-the-need-was-dire hand to his shoulder to say no, no: actually wanting to kiss people of any gender wasn’t really…the default Steve had always expected it had to be. How could anyone look at, say, Harrison Ford and not think, oh yeah, I would at least suck his face?

Turned out probably at least half the people on the planet. As in the straight guys and the lesbians. Steve had spent the majority of three days on that disgusting fucking carpet, open to close, popping up to ask Robin if she was sure because what about—

She was sure. And eventually, through a couple of needs for deep breathing and a handful of assurances that it was okay to cry—he appreciated that, but he kept the crying to his room after these long-ass shifts and if Robin stayed for some of those times, that was because she was half his head, half his heart, and she knew what he was going to do sometimes before he did.

They did end up on the floor of his bathroom, a clean one for once, at one point. Maybe because they both held to tradition. Maybe because Steve had largely come to terms with the mindfuck of yet another piece of his world, his self unravelling and rewriting itself, and thought the vodka in his dad’s liquor cabinet was a good way to celebrate. The label was entirely in Russian and Robin had been practicing on hers, said she was pretty sure it was the good shit.

Sometimes you can drink enough of the best shit on an empty stomach, though, and still spew the whole of it up.

Steve sometimes does think he drinks his dad’s best liquor that way on purpose, though. Delightful going down and yeah, it sucks to chuck it up but. The idea that it’s ultimately wasted feels…right.

Anyway: Steve had settled with it all by New Year's, and while he’d hosted the rugrats who could only blabber about their latest campaign with their epic DM, and he’d kissed Robin when the clock turned, well. It felt like a new start, a fresh page.

Something that had the chance at being a good thing.

And nothing much happened in the two-and-a-half-months that followed save for finally catching a glimpse of the D&D god who ran their little club while he was idling in his car to pick up the shitheads, this legendary DM who did not make Steve jealous one tiny bit and who was cool and was edgy and was so fuckin’ cool, Steve, did we tell you got cool he is?! and Steve had said language as monotone as he could before he squinted as out came all the metal and the ink and he’d said your club president dude is Eddie goddamn Munson and he should have kept his mouth shut because the amount of talking that ensued left him with a headache the size of Montana; but.

That was really all that happened until about…mid-March.

Then Spring Break happened.

It could be argued Eddie and Steve grew close enough to pass the acquaintances benchmark, ended up as at least tentative friends on top of necessary battle mates as early as the Upside Down. Whatever reason Eddie gave, he jumped in after Steve. Whatever speech Steve landed on, he didn’t want Dustin orEddie hurt.

It could be argued Steve wasn’t paying attention and didn’t stop in time and landed in the land of Tentative Friends You Wouldn’t Mind Added Benefits With after the…at least after the way Eddie leaned in close and his lips we so red and he called Steve big boy and…

Yeah.

When Steve carries what may or may not be Eddie’s still fucking corpse out of the Upside Down—he can’t tell, every time he tries to check again his own heart's too loud, his own breaths too shaky—but by then, they’re family. Bound in blood. Steve would die for him, like the others. He won’t let him die, if he can fucking help it.

Between him and Max, Steve almost crashes, breaks. Steve’s there when Max’s fingers twitch and he laughs with tears in his eyes and hands over hands and tells her he loves her and he’s sorry and he’s there, tries to talk around the letter he opened and resealed without evidence because Steve knows some tricks too, okay, and her words had broken him but now he could live up to what she thought she was leaving behind, could make sure she had every goddamn thing she thought she was giving up in spades, to roll around in in abundance. He was going to take care of her, whatever she needed. Whatever it took.

Her lips had quirked and the doctors called coincidence, don’t get your hopes up but; Steve knew Max. That was all her.

And there were more tears, he let her fucking feel them; he fucking hoped she’d notice, and remember, and give him so much shit.

Eddie takes longer, pulls out of the woods enough to exhale a few days later, and the way Steve slips out to find the hospital chapel, the only goddamn place he won’t be found by anyone he knows, and bawls his goddamn eyes out?

It’s family, and it’s love because it’s family but…it’s been so quick. It’s been intense, and that probably speeds it along but…

Shit. Shit.

That’s when Steve knows he sets a new goddamn record for himself and falls hard and heavy and stupidin, like, a week and change. Jesus Christ.

It’s in the recovery that they build something though. Something that’s not trauma or terror or the threat of imminent death. Steve spends most of his hours between two hospital rooms listening to progress reports and taking notes and the kids gravitate toward Max—Dustin would have been the outlier but Steve knows he’s not ready, and so he gives his own updates just to his brother when he drives him home after visiting hours—but that means Steve’s Eddie’s most common conversation partner. They talk about bullshit. Steve defends a-ha to the last breath he has. Eddie’s rendered speechless for a second and then frantic when challenged to pick his favorite band. Again when it’s his favorite song, from his favorite band. And again when it’s his favorite song of any song, ever at all. Steve's heart swells in the watching. He’s foolish enough to bask in the glittering of Eddie’s eyes when Steve indulges in talking, scene by scene as guided by the master in the bed beside him, about what his opinions on Star Wars really were. And then guided by no one, just invited to share what his opinions are on the last movie he saw and loved: which was Weird Science, the last movie he watched in a theatre because he and Robin had gone to face their fear or some shit after Starcourt and it was easier than he’d expected. Eddie listens, and nods, and asks if they can rent it when he’s out, before making sure to add  but you should really have a new choice like, eight months later, man, you work at a video store.

Steve was mostly just focused on Eddie more than implying, of his own volition, that he wanted to have a movie night.

Eddie’s released before Max, largely for mobility reasons, so they both go to visit her now. Robin’s put on the night shift when they schedule their movie night and Steve immediately moves to reschedule but she says no, she’s seen it, make Eddie suffer this time. So it’s just them.

They sit closer than they have to, on the couch.

And it’s little things that build from there. Max’s physical therapy is a government secret, like some fancy space-age protocol that has real hopes to put her on her feet again so she needs a ride, and while they could take turns, Steve and Eddie just take turns as to which vehicle they hop into to drive her. They stay when she needs them—not when she asks because she’s Max and she never asks—but it ends up three days a week back and forth and during: together.

And a lot of nights, for a movie or a smoke or a nightmare or a pulled stitch before they’re all taken out: together.

And shifts where Steve doesn’t even bother to bring his own lunch because Eddie Munson, unpredictable and wholly forgetful super-super senior—who Nancy and Hopper and most of all Joyce convinced the School would be finishing his final senior year at home save for tests, and only that once he was cleared by his doctors—that Eddie Munson brought Steve something every single time he worked. A burger, a chili dog, chicken fucking nuggets. A PB&J clearly homemade and cut diagonal.

So yeah. It starts out how it does when Steve’s in trouble. But it builds like…Steve’s never known before.

They kiss in May. Maybe so that it’s not their first, and a total cliche, when Steve kisses him for graduation behind the bleachers.

The sleep together after graduation, high on the thrill of it, and that’s maybe a cliche but Steve could not give a shit less.

And then they're EddieandSteve, only to find out they have been for a while; and this is just something a little deeper, a little bit more.

In ways that mean everything.

Looking back, Steve knows Eddie never minced words about his plan to leave Hawkins in the fall. With a mixtape and a prayer if I have to, Stevie-boy, he’d said once even, and Steve had laughed.

He’d fucking laughed.

So he’d known.

But July bleeds into August and Steve…Steve’s in love, okay, for real in a way that he’s never felt before. Right in a way he’s never felt before. He kinda just…overlooks it. Because Eddie seems to be at least on the same wavelength. Touches him first, reaches for him first: wants him. Looks at him with not just desire or attraction but…something no one’s ever looked at Steve with before.

And so he hopes. More than hopes.

But when Eddie starts packing, Steve can’t breathe.

He buys a set of luggage and goes home to start the same, has half of his not-excessive possessions shoved in when he realizes:

He’s not invited. Eddie’s never asked him to come.

Looking back, he’s afraid he wasted too much of those last weeks. Scared of giving too much away, the hurt from so many sides and the heartache that’s already taking root, but also: the way he clings, but tries not to make it obvious.

Fuck; but of course it was gonna be obvious, and how much energy did he waste, how many opportunities slipped by, because Steve was trying not to give away that Eddie leaving—to get away from a town that hated him, to try and make a real go with his music, to be anywhere without Steve so he could live out the dreams that predated Steve, that Steve had no place in—to try not to give away that all of it; it’d fucking destroy him.

Steve doesn’t know, to this day, how he stood and let Eddie kiss him breathless out the driver-side window, how he waved until Eddie was out of sight. He doesn’t know.

Kind of like he doesn’t know how he fucking keeps doing it.

Eddie throws tapes to every radio station with Van Halen or other top-played bands written on the insert in sharpie like that gives nothing away, and sneaks a demo in every underpaid delivery boy’s hands to record executives as he drives to the West Coast, sends Steve postcards what seems like has to be every goddamn day, filled up with his rambling until there’s no space left, has to draw lines around Steve’s address to make it clear where the damn thing’s going lest it get confused. Like they’re SteveandEddie still. Like only…only the things that changed after graduation are gone.

Steve sobs after about a month of it all, grateful and resentful, hateful and still so goddamn full of love it’s sickening. Literally, it makes him feel nauseous. He…

He keeps every postcard.

When one of them comes to say some idiot in San Francisco accidentally played Corroded Coffin on what’s apparently an important station, and Eddie got a letter in response from one of the labels, he says he’s coming back for the boys, they need to be ready. Steve knows he’s not one of the boys, but.

Eddie wouldn’t have told Steve he was coming if it wouldn’t matter to Steve. And maybe Eddie wasn’t in love with him anymore, maybe never was in love with him.

But he’d be lying if he said he thought Eddie didn’t love him. In a different way. A…you-don’t-get-to-come-with-me-but-I’d-still-want-to-see-you-when-I-stop-back kind of way.

And Steve…Steve’s not a fucking monk or anything. But even Robin doesn’t try to push him when he finally just tells her what he feels, lovesick and pathetic as it is:

I gave everything I had to someone else, and it’d be different if I wanted to back, to give again, but…I don’t.

I don’t want it back, not from him. Not if any part of him, wants to keep any part of it.

And because she’s Robin, she knows he means something else when he says ‘it’. And because she’s Robin? She’d push if she thought it was worth it.

She just holds him, and that’s really the best thing he could ask for.

But it becomes a thing. The boys go with Eddie, and they record new shit to impress...whoever. And they do. They come back for Halloween, because Eddie loves it. The label’s dragging its feet, but they’re not deterred, they’re energized. They come back for Thanksgiving because Wayne loves it—except he doesn’t, Steve knows that, Wayne actually hates trying to make a bird and Eddie had lamented more than once that they ended up with lunchmeat cut into cubes one year when Wayne was particularly frustrated with the process. They go out East, and try a few studios in New York. They come back for Christmas.

Eddie spends most of his time with Steve. Steve doesn’t fucking fight that; wants it…like…

There’s nothing to compare how he wants it to. Nothing exists that fits.

Eddie spends most of the time that he spends with Steve, though?

In Steve’s bed.

And here’s the thing: Steve had a decent amount of experience to compare to, but once they’d fallen into a rhythm, got past the awkward bits, the learning curve? Sex with Eddie had been a goddamn revelation. Not just because he was a man—after he’d left, Steve had forced himself to try, and dispelled that possibility quick as hell—and now?

Now, it’s like they never stopped. Every fucking time, it’s like they never stopped.

Steve’s not surprised in the slightest that he remembers every give and tell of Eddie’s body—of course he goddamn does—but that Eddie doesn’t miss a beat in touching, sucking, licking, worshippingSteve’s? That’s insane. That’s…

Unexpected. Every time it’s unexpected and every time Steve’s shown he wasn’t forgotten when he probably should have been. Eddie’s building a life that doesn’t include him.

He’ll only get in the way.

But Steve is selfish and stubborn and maybe it’s often, like almost strangely so, but it’s only a week or two at a go so he tells himself he’s allowed. He tells himself that it felt like making love in the beginning because Steve was in love, and that it still feels exactly the same because Steve…Steve never stopped.

Steve is still just as goddamn in love.

So yeah. Steve sleeps with Eddie and it’s like…it’s like rationed air. He gets a regular taste and he gets to keep breathing.

And it’s okay. Probably more then. Because he gets Eddie—even a little bit. Even just in scraps. When he has Eddie?

He has him, even for moments that were never made to last.

It’s Easter, this time. The band put out their first record in January. It’s doing really well. Eddie’s over the moon. Someone called about a magazine cover for a publication in Cleveland that’s apparently kind of a big deal, Alt..something. Steve will buy every copy in a fucking 100-mile radius. 200 miles. 500—

It’s Easter. Eddie didn’t lament not celebrating it after Spring Break in ‘86 but he’s back every year now. And if it’s just…come to mean something, or maybe did then and circumstances won out against it? Steve will be here. Steve will be comfort and a reprieve or a hot as hell romp with a familiar body, Steve will…

Yeah. Steve will do whatever’s needed. Wanted. Anything.

Pathetic.

But so much better than nothing.

Case in point: they’re both naked, sweat mostly dried, sharing a joint and it’s comfortable. It’s quiet and gentle and put up against sitting alone on a weeknight, not with Eddie?

It’s heaven.

“So when’s the dream happening?”

Steve looks cross-eyed toward his lips; he hasn’t smoked this thing long enough to have heard wrong. He squints up at Eddie, whose chest he’s laid out on, confused. Offers him the smoke but he waves it away.

“The dream?” Steve asks finally, when Eddie doesn’t seem to want to answer on his own.

Eddie looks at him weird. Not weird for its own sake but like: like he’s staring into him, and then like he’s disbelieving, but then also like he’s seeing him for the first time.

That kind of weird.

“Getting the fuck out of here,” Eddie answers like it’s obvious. “White picket fence. Little nuggets.” He spreads his hands as wide as possible without tossing Steve from where he lies. “See the sights.”

And Steve’s response is immediate. Doesn’t even require a thought.

He laughs. Like, ugly-laughs.

“Man,” he shakes his head as he catches his breath, and passes the joint off this time with purpose, not an offer or a choice as he snorts a little; “that’s not the dream.”

When Eddie doesn’t grab the smoke, Steve finally looks up. Eddie…

Eddie looks like what Steve’s always struggled to understand the word ‘poleaxed’ to mean. He thinks it might be this.

He looks…like something stuck him through the gut. Slapped him silly across the face.

“What d’ya mean?” And it’s just three words, one that’s a cheat, and he says it slow enough to take an age.

Steve breathes out, and then, if he’s gonna be honest, and if he has to keep holding the damn thing anyway, decides to take another drag before speaking:

“Figured out what the dream was, inside the dream,” Steve says, wondering if he’ll get away with the vagary; knowing he won’t.

“All we see or seem?” Eddie jokes a little, but it falls flat, his tone eerily kinda…strained but hollow.

“I like poetry.” Steve smiles up at him, soft, and offers the joint again straight to Eddie’s lips. He takes it this time.

“It was about family. It was about stability, not,” Steve shakes his head, stops talking half-assed around the lungful he’s holding, and lets it out slow; “not in a place, fuck, not in a house, but,” a person he doesn’t say, but he hears it in his head; “it was about sharing it.”

And that's it. That’s the simplest, most straightforward truth. Steve doesn’t think there’s anything complicated, or offensive in it. Hard to swallow. Even if he’s come to terms with it. Is mostly at peace with it.

Which is why it’s weird, that Eddie feels suddenly rigid beneath him.

So Steve turns, and braces his hand on Eddie's chest for balance, and frowns when he doesn’t even have to push down to feel the way his heart’s a fucking riot.

“What?” Steve asks, gentle; Eddie’s face is a portrait of conflict, of distress and Steve can’t fucking figure out why, they just came like four times between them and are sharing some very nice Cali weed—they’re nestled close, they’re together, it’s…

Eddie’s quiet, his breath disconcertingly steady for how his pulse pounds, and then he breathes out slow before covering his face:

“I don’t think I can fuck this up any worse than I already have, so,” he mutters, dejected for reasons Steve can’t even guess, then he laughs, humorless, shakes his head:

“Let me try, I guess.”

Steve frowns, uncomprehending, until:

“I’ve been in love with you forever.”

Steve thinks the world stops. His heart does, at least. Suspended. Silent so he doesn’t miss a syllable.

“And I told myself,” Eddie bites at his lip, worries at the bottom swell; “end of that summer, from the very first, I said: don’t ask him to come with you, even if it breaks your heart,” and oh god, oh god after all this time: Steve doesn’t think he’s projecting to hear the genuinely broken heart in those words for just remembering.

“Don’t ask him to settle, you’re not even in the same universe of what he wants,” fuck, what lies Eddie’s saying; did he believe them? Has he always—“what he needs.”

But Eddie is everything he needs, always was, will always be—

“You’ll never have the picket fence. You can’t give him his nuggets. You should never be trusted to park a Winnebago.”

They could have had a shitty studio apartment. They could have had the kids in college. They could have run the BMW until it died, or sold it to put toward a better van for equipment. They could have—

“You’re selfish, Munson, you’re a rat fucking bastard but,” Eddie’s still going, heart still hammering under Steve’s touch even as Eddie swallows hard and fails to smile, looks ill with the attempt like it hurts to try: “you love him too much for that.”

Oh. Oh god.

“It didn’t break my heart, though,” Eddie clears his throat and glances away, to the ceiling, eyes too bright: oh fuck; “broke my goddamn soul,” and a tear falls, and Steve can’t help but wipe it away, and kiss the track. Even just once.

So he does.

“When I saw you again that first time back,” Eddie starts again, voice rougher and shakier as he reaches a hand for Steve’s. “I could have asked the boys to fly out, the execs offered, but,” and this time, the attempt to grin is more successful, like a weight’s lifted from it: “and you smiled at me, it felt like,” and when he shakes his head this time it’s for disbelief, but the kind that comes with awe; “and when we slotted back together like we’d never been apart, it was…”

Eddie’s voice trails, but it cracks at the end—Steve doesn’t know which does more to stop his words.

He’s grateful, relieved, when they come back. He’s powerless but to give when Eddie touches his cheek so gentle and breathes:

“And I had to tell myself again, and again,” he murmurs, stroking Steve’s skin like he’s precious: “you love him too much to take his dream away from him.”

“What did it matter?” Steve can’t help but ask, no malice in it, just the need to understand. “You had your dream, you have—“

They have a contract. They have an album climbing the charts. They’re not just on their way—they’re there. The only next step is to get bigger, and bigger, and—

“Dreams within dreams, wasn’t it?” Eddie murmurs close to Steve’s cheek, where maybe he’s pressing to be close, or maybe he’s hiding a little, so Steve strokes his hair because he can either way and relishes how Eddie leans, melts into it like always. “Inside the dream?”

Steve nods, more to encourage more words. More Eddie.

“Break my dream open and there’s you with me, every step,” Eddie whispers, his lips warm on Steve’s skin. “Break my heart open, same damn thing,” and that causes Steve to shudder, and his heart to pick up now, too. “Both just kinda crumble if you take out the center.”

Steve can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. Wants to. Doesn’t think they’re lies. It’s just, he…

“Those,” Steve tries to speak but his voice cracks; he clears his throat and kicks his lips while he tucks Eddie into his neck, under his chin: “those would be good lyrics.”

“No,” Eddie shakes his head and nuzzles Steve’s throat with the motion and this can’t be happening.

This can’t be happening, can it?

“No, those words were only ever meant just for you.”

And Eddie kisses the pulse point close to his mouth and holds there, like a sentry and a miser, and holy shit.

Holy shit.

“And I don’t know,” Eddie’s saying more, but it’s pitchy, thready, like he’s barely holding the words together at all; “I don’t know if it’s nostalgia, or convenience, or routine,” his voice breaks again and the sob’s in the word when it comes even if it’s not streaming down on his cheeks: “pity,” and no, no, not fucking ever, how—

“I was never your dream then, and I don’t even know if I can be your inside-dream now, and,” Eddie’s rambling, and he does that when he’s desperate, when he’s overwhelmed and overfull with feeling—and Steve knows that. Steve knows that about him.

Steve knows. Better than he knows himself, Steve still knows him.

“I just want the world for you,” Eddie whispers, stroking up and down Steve’s jaw; “my sweetheart. My sunshine,” he smiles so real and soft and Steve melts, like the heart in his chest starts spilling through his ribs, warm and liquid: “you deserve more than the world, more than fuckin’ me and I,” Eddie shakes his head again, more this time like he’s stopping himself, like it’s a defense mechanism and Steve reaches for his cheeks, broad palms on either side to hold him still because…he doesn’t want Eddie to stop.

Ever.

“Did I ruin it?” Eddie breathes, and barely at that, eyes so wide and swimming and oh, god; “did I—"

And Steve can’t help it. He can’t help but kiss him with all he’s got, even if it couldn’t be all Eddie’s worth in all the world. Steve can’t contain all that Eddie’s worth.

But he can give everything, because this is the man who already has it.

“What the hell was I supposed to be to a rockstar?” Steve tries to talk through his own tight throat, his own growing smile, his own threat of tears bubbling close to the surface. “How the fuck was I ever going to measure up, ever do anything but hold you back when you could have—“

“I come back to you, for you,” Eddie answers immediate; it’s not what Steve’s asking but he won’t lie and say he didn’t want to know, at least a little. “The handful of times I’ve tried,” Eddie shakes his head once now, definitive; “I have always left my everything with you.”

The idea that Steve’s spent all this time feeling empty, and hollow, and missing the best of himself where it lived in the man he loved—the idea he was wrong, that they both were so fucking wrong is…insanity.

“I had a bag half packed.”

Steve doesn’t need to explain further. The noise Eddie makes is pure pain.

“Baby,” he nearly croons, falls into Steve somehow closer, wraps him up tighter; “I wanted to kidnap you in the night.”

“I sobbed in my bed after you were out of sight.”

“I pulled over before the town sign, because I couldn’t see the goddamn road.”

And Steve…Steve doesn’t really have a decision to make about what he says next. What dream he wants; always has.

“I never got rid of the luggage.”

And Eddie hears everything he says in those words, because after everything, Eddie Munson knows him, and…yeah.

Steve’s been kissed in a lot of ways before. By this man in particular, even.

But this: if leaving broke Eddie’s soul, if somehow the lack of Steve somehow did that?

This is…this is the body meeting another body, heart to heart and tasting the way a soul slides back in place. It's Eddie’s hands in his hair like hell never let go and he’s happy about the idea; blissful for it, even. It’s—beyond anything Steve’s ever known. So: yeah.

It’s not a decision. It’s just a fucking given.

♥️

🎸also on ao3

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divider credit here

[sidethatyoudontknow]

In the middle of all this 457 chaos there's me that lowkey ships junho and the salesman/ the recruiter/ddakji guy or whatever you're calling him

I mean have you look at them, imagine the banter we could've got

Like there's junho, a detective who's been trying to find his brother only to be led up to a brutal kids game competition in some sketchy island and also finds out the person who controls the said game is his very own brother that he's been searching for a long time that is also a previous winner in the game

And then there's the salesman (some people call him ddakji or dak ho) who's been trained to kill, to see people that played the games is lower than him like a trash since he was a teenager probably, who doesn't even know the purpose of life anymore, a literal mess, a maniac. That's also probably the one that recruit junho's brother into playing the games(a theory not sure if that would makes sense)

Just imagine that, I could write a few headcanons if anyone interested

And yes yes I know they didn't even interacted once for SHIT(and the only time they ever see one another was when one of them already died and the one died never also see him or does he?)

[broareweabouttoviberightnow]

"Can you hold still?" Soda leans over Darry's stomach, puttin' his full weight into it, and Darry laughs. Soda shoots him an agitated little frown he doesn't mean at all and jabs him matter of factly in the stomach. "It's star day this is important."

Darry rolls his eyes but settles back down. "I can't help it." Soda leans sits back, spins the marker in his hand over his fingers. "I'm ticklish."

"Well, figure it out or I'm gonna sic Pony on you." Darry tips his head back 'n looks at Pony upside down. His youngest brother pulls out a more than passin' imitation of the Darry's glare. Though, he should be good at it. He's seen it nearly every day. Darry reaches up 'n baps him on the head 'n Pony cracks 'n laughs.

He's layin' on his back on the living room floor, Soda at his side and head restin' in Pony's lap. Soda brings the marker back against Darry's ribs and he does his best not to laugh. He only half succeeds until he glances down at Soda's tongue bit between his teeth 'n the furrowed brow he only gets when he's focusin'. It's not funny but glory he looks so much like when he was six 'n drawin' horses at the kitchen table with the concentration of Michael Angelo, Darry can't help but snort.

"Darry!" Soda opens his mouth in mock frustration 'n that just makes Darry laugh harder. "That's it. Pony. Sic 'em."

"Wait-!" Pony worms his hand down before Darry can bat it away 'n jabs him in the ribs. "OW! That's it, you're cut off." He fights to sit up but Soda 'n Pony both jump down on him, howlin' with laughter.

"Nuh uh, mister! I'm not done!" Pony presses both his palms down on Darry's shoulders 'n Darry humors him by pretendin' that it makes any difference in him gettin' up or not.

Soda puts his marker back down 'n Darry valently bites his lip 'n doesn't even squirm. He lasts forty-five seconds. "Soda-"

"Finished!" Soda presses the cap back on 'n tosses it to Pony who snatches it out of the air.

"Can I see?" Soda studies Darry's torso for a second 'n then nods happily. Darry grabs the shavin' mirror Soda offers him 'n admires the nonsensical lines connectin' the freckles dottin' his body from his stomach up to his neck. The ones all the Curtis' only got in summer. He smiles, runs a finger along the ink fondly. "Damn Soda! You went all out this year, huh! Care to, uh, explain?"

Soda grins at Pony and points to six freckles on his side. Darry tilts his head 'n furrows his brow. "One guess on this one." Oh, well that narrowed it down.

"That one Pony's?"

"Ding ding ding!" Whenever Soda drew constellations he always managed one for Pony, a horse, 'n one for himself, a pop bottle. If Darry squinted he could see it. He could also see a dog, cat, 'n just about any four-legged animal with a tail but he would keep that to himself.

"Where's yours, Soda?" Soda points to a sort of temple that started on his collarbone 'n ended on his shoulder. It takes Darry a moment longer but he can pick out the vague shape of the bottle.

"Alright, now the rest of 'em." Soda carefully explains each one, two more horses, naturally, a fish, Orion's belt, a wonky set of three dots along a rib, a lasso, 'n two little smilies. Darry carefully traces each one, more than a little impressed by how his brothers could take a handful of random dots 'n find so many little pictures.

"My turn!" Pony jabbed Darry in the side 'n took his place on the floor. He slaps nearly every pocket before he refinds the marker, handin' it over to Darry with a mischievous lil' grin to Soda.

He pulls his t-shirt straight over his head even though most of his freckles are clustered on his arms 'n face. He never picked up his brother's tendency to walk around all summer in no shirt. Dallas always made teased him for that. Glory, Pony's playin' modest 'n makin' the rest of us look like whores. 'N Two would always howl well if the shoe fits! 'N then duck out of Dallas' grip fast as he could. Only Soda 'n Darry knew the real reason. The kid didn't tan one bit. No siree, Pony burned.

He lays flat on the floor, eyes closed, Soda playin' with hair idly. Darry picks up Pony's arm 'n twists it, lookin' for anythin' that sticks out to him. Darry always did Pony's. Pony enjoyed just layin' there 'n Darry needed more time to study where the dots could become shapes. Pony would do Soda's since, out of all of them, the kid had an imagination that could spin 'n spin 'n spit out ideas 'n drawin's n' stories the fastest. 'N Soda had an incredibly short patience for not movin'.

"Hey, look." Soda brushes back Pony's bangs 'n gently traces a jagged line across his forehead. "Hand me that." Before Pony can swat his hand away Soda's connected the freckles from one temple to the other so they form a mountain range across his skin.

"Our little prince, huh." Pony opens one eye 'n glares down at Darry but his oldest brother is just lookin' at him with that fond little smile he gets.

"Oh c'mon." He wriggles around on the carpet 'n gets nothin' for his troubles but rugburn. "Hurry uppppp."

"You sound like me now, Pone." Soda ruffles his hair 'n Pony reaches up blindly with his free arm to swing at him.

"Well, maybe I'd be done faster if you'd stop wigglin'." They drift into a soft silence, Soda standin' up halfway through to cue up the Beatles' latest record, The White Album, which had been a joint birthday gift for Darry last month. Half of the gift had been them toleratin' Darry's affinity for that McCartney kid's weepy grandma songs.

"Alright, I think I'm done." Pony jolts up, grinnin' down at his arms.

"Lemme see, lemme see." Darry twists the mirror around so he can see the back of his biceps, pointin' out what was what.

"Look, this is Soda's." Darry's linked four freckles into an elongated diamond 'n penned in DX. Soda cracks up, twistin' Pony's arms so he can see better 'n forgettin' it's attached to the kid.

"You're a walkin' ad, kid! They should hire you!" Pony snatches his arm back 'n wrinkles his nose up.

"'N work with Steve? Yeah, hard pass." Soda howls 'n Pony tries 'n fails to look put out.

"Hey, this must be yours, Dar." Soda positions the mirror so Pony can better see the lopsided Superman logo on the back of his shoulder.

"Yup, but this one's my favorite." Down the hollow of Pony's throat 'n up under his jaw are three little stick figures all facin' different directions.

"Hey! That's us, right?" Darry ruffles his hair and drops a kiss to the freckle on his temple that makes up the end of his crown.

"Yup," He shoots Soda a grin 'n wiggles his eyebrows conspiratorially, "the shrimpy one is you."

"They're sticks! They all look the same!" Soda grabs him by the chin so he can get a better look.

"Nope, Darry's right." He nods solemnly. "The good lookin' on is me." Pony shoves him off 'n he lands on his ass. Darry hoots a laugh 'n manhandles Soda so his head is restin' on Darry's knee.

"See, Soda gets my creative vision." Soda peeks up at him, upside down, 'n cackles.

"Oh shut up." Pony snatches the marker from Darry 'n instantly goes to work. Soda starts squirmin' less than a minute in 'n Darry leans over 'n flips the TV on, an episode of Scooby-Doo is playin' 'n Soda grins 'n crains his neck to watch.

"You got our north star this year, Pepsi." Darry taps Soda on the tip of his nose where one single fair freckle stands out against his tan skin.

"No kiddin'? Pony's had it the last three years, the hog." Pony sticks his tongue out 'n goes back to drawin'.

The episode's not even half over before Pony nods, self-satisfied. "Alright, c'mere."

"Oh my God, Pony, why do we even try?" Pony's blushes, the tips of his ears goin' red.

"They're just doodles."

"Do I need to bring up Soda's horse?"

"Hey-!"

Pony's joined vast groups of freckles into three distinct shapes across Soda's chest 'n stomach. A horse, that looks far more identifiable than Soda's drawin', across his side, a record 'n the player on Soda's left ribs, a map of some of the actual constellations Pony would drag them outside on clear nights to point out over Soda's heart. Darry can pick out the big dipper, one of the triangles, 'n the bear.

"Wait, this one's my favorite." He points to two little hearts on each side of Soda's face made from four little freckles each.

Soda twists this way 'n that gigglin' between the horse 'n the freckles. "God, Pone, you missed your callin' as an artist."

"Damn straight!" Darry laughs 'n pulls both his kid brothers in tight for a hug. Pony whines but buries his head in Darry's chest beside Soda. "Well, I dunno about y'all but I'm hungry after all that."

Soda whoops already clamberin' off the floor 'n divin' for the keys before Darry can get to them. "Dairy Queen!"

Pony throws his shirt back on, carefully rollin' up the sleeves so Darry's Superman logo can still be seen. Darry reaches over 'n pulls him in for another hug.

"You sure you don't wanna wipe any of that off?" Pony gestures to the mess of marker 'n Darry laughs, brushin' Pony's hair back.

Soda's already climbed in the truck, shirt still off 'n Pony's drawin's on full display.

"Hell no! I got stars to show off."

[everythingspokenfor]

Part 3

─ ・┈ ・ ── ・┈ ・ ── ・┈ ・ ─

The new apartment was spacious, and quiet frankly beautiful. It had a large window facing the city, a decent sized kitchen with an attached balcony, a living room and 2 bedrooms.

Everything was here, all your stuff, packed in boxes, furniture delivered but waiting to be set up.

You were startled by the sound of bags ruffling in the kitchen, suddenly aware of the presence there. Haruki had been with you throughout the whole move, he had been the one to suggest you this apartment, he lives across the hall from you. He had known that you were looking for apartments for a while and suggested the vacant one in his building, although he originally wanted to suggest you move in with him, but that seemed too straight forward.

"I made katsudon, it probably isn't as good as the one you are used to having tho." He stated, gesturing towards the meal set up on the kitchen counter. You know he was indirectly referring to Bakugou's cooking but you brushed it off.

"I am just glad to have warm meal after a long day of work, Haruki, l am sure the food tastes amazing." You replied, walking towards him and taking a seat in front of him.

You both ate in silence, katsudon was good maybe not like the one at home but it was a different kind of good. Maybe it was the exhaustion weighing down your bones, or the ache of heartbreak still stinging.

"it was good." You picked up the emptied bowls and moved to the sink. Haruki hummed, tilting his head in confusion before following you.

"The food, I meant. It was good." You clarified, while staring the water and rinsing the dishes.

Haruki stood next to you, taking the soaped up dishes and running them through water. "I am glad, i didn't want you to feel lonely here. The apartment is far from main city but if it makes any better I am right next door." He said while leaning against the counter. You turned towards him only to see him already looking at you, he leaned in, before slowly pushing your hairs behind your ear. "I think this is it for today. I'll call it a night and deal with the rest of it tomorrow." You mumbled while stepping back, the proximity seemed a little less for your comfort.

"that's alright, I'll take my leave for today as well", sensing your discomfort he moved out of the kitchen and through the front door.

The silence was alot louder then you anticipated, the absence of another person suddenly causing your throat to constrict. You shock your head to clear up your thoughts and went to your room. The only thing set up was your bed, you laid down and picked up your phone.

Suki : I am sorry.

You put the phone back down, and turned over to sleep.

·····························

The loud knocking wasn't really how you were expecting to be woken up with. The clock read a time too early for you to be up considering you were on leave.

You stood up and went to the door, not really caring what you looked like hoping to deal with the nuisance and go back to bed. You swing the door open, only to see the cause of your heartbreak standing in front of you. Blond hair, more messy than usual, fidgety hands holding a white bad.

"you left me on seen" Bakugou barged in the apartment, not bothered by your disheveled appearance, having seen you in worse.

"Can I get an explanation?" you closed the door, moving into the living room, only to see him move smoothly around your kitchen. Suprisingly knowing where, what is without ever being here.

"it was shitty of me to leave that day, and even more shittier for me to apologise over text", he paused, before turning around and pulling 2 bottles of beer out of the bag. "So, I have come to apologise."

"And why do you know where what is in my kitchen?"

"you arranged your kitchen just like our was", he retorted," all plates, bowls and wine glasses in lower shelves because you used them more often" he looked smug, that did irritate you a little.

You let out a breath, before you looked over to what he had bought, katsudon, within bright orange and red containers that you had gifted him as a joke, 2 bottles of beer and fried onions, fucking fried onions because he knows you like to sprinkle it on savoury food.

"what do you want, Katsuki?", you questioned him, moving around him to grab a pair of chopsticks and starting to eat.

He looked at you silently, eating on the counter straight out of the plastic container, you looked tired, more than usual, bags under your eyes, nose red. He wonders when had it all started, he knows he broke your heart, heck he knows he is breaking it right now as well, you don't show it, you never do, always dealing with your suffering in silence.

"I came to apologise, I am the one that messed up, I get that you want to keep distance from be but why the whole squad?" He queried,"why did you leave the agency, you don't even hang out with the girls, Mina had been worrying alot you know?", he moved over to the cabinets and got out a glass, opening the freezer and filling it with ice pouring the beer from the bottle into it.

You remained silent, choosing to focus on katsudon.

"Don't choke on it, I know you hate confrontations, I don't need answers" he set the glass down next to you before continuing,"at least not right now".

"i didn't want to make things awkward with the squad," you finally spoke, taking a big gulp from the glass,"nobody really knows that I like you, and I really didn't want to cause a sense just because you got a girl."

"why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you confess?", He reasoned, fingers fidgeting, a nervous tick you know, he has.

You turned towards him and smiled, the kind of smile he hated because there were tears in your eyes, the ones that you only shed when you knew you were alone, when you knew that your grief wouldn't be shared. The kind of smile you gave when you told your truths.

"How long did it take for you to confess to her, Bakugou?", You asked him, there are still tears in your eyes, nose still red, you are no longer averting your eyes, but looking straight at him, your shoulders are still slumped. He doesn't know what made his heart ache more, the defeat in your eyes, your truth that you put out or the fact that you called him by his surname.

─ ・┈ ・ ── ・┈ ・ ── ・┈ ・ ─

[illbegottenfaith]

maybe stay here forever (inspired by packing it up by gracie abrams)

the holidays have you feeling sentimental over yours and theo's relationship (theo nott x reader)

a/n - 100 followers in a little over a month is very much insane for me, and like any other writer I rlly appreciate every interaction with my fics <3 also im trying to work on making mutuals (esp with other writers!) but man it does NOT help that im so incurably shy, anyways enjoy!!

tropes/warnings - tw descriptions of grief and anxiety, established relationship, domestic bliss, more angst than I anticipated, an outtake ft. petty!theo throwing down with a 13-year-old

word count - 2.6k

"Y/N! PHONE!”

You placed your butterbeer down with a thunk, weaving your way from your table to the telephone at the counter. Your friend Ivy handed it to you before disappearing into the crowd. You knew who it was even before pressing your ear to the receiver.

“This is highly illegal, as you very well know,” you said breathlessly. "Randy hates anyone using his phone."

“Relax. Ivy said he's gone into the back.”

Even through a telephone line, your boyfriend's voice gave you a giddy sort of thrill. Still, you glanced at the back door anxiously. “For now. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing. Just wanted to hear you sound deliciously panicky.”

“Unbelievable. I’m risking being banned from Hogsmeade’s only pub for nothing?”

“What’s the point of having a girlfriend,” Theo wanted to know, “if she won’t enable your illegal endeavours?”

You rolled your eyes. “So, did you manage a game between the four of you?”

“Eh. It was…something. I’m not sure if anyone would call it Quidditch, though.”

“Oh?”

“You should join us next time. The flying, screaming - you’d love it.”

"Rude." The one time Theo had managed to wheedle you into at least trying to play Quidditch with him and some of your friends had not ended very well for you. In your defense, heading straight for the ground sounded like a much safer option than waiting around to be hit by a Bludger.

“You’re still watching the back door, aren’t you?”

You stiffened, eyes sweeping across the crowded pub. He wasn’t here, was he? He did love messing with you. You shook yourself. Of course not, you were using the only telephone in the vicinity. “Am not,” you sniffed injuredly. "Anyway, what are you up to now?"

"I'm about to go down to the shops to run your errands. What did you need, again?"

"Butterbeer fla - are you writing this down?"

"No need, I'll remember."

You frowned. "Teddy, you always say that, and you always forget something."

"Not this time. Shoot."

You huffed. With how aggravating Theo could be, he was lucky he had such a pretty face. "Butterbeer flavoured popcorn, for the popcorn garlands. If they only have regular, don't bother, I have bags and bags of those. New Christmas lights, because one of the bulbs blew out. Wrapping paper, someone's bound to need it. Hm, what else...that disgusting peppermint tea you love - "

"I don't love peppermint tea. It's...it's not bad, that's all."

"Fibber. You cleaned us out last year."

"And I'll do it again if you keep throwing around these unlawful accusations."

You rolled your eyes. "Oh, listen - bring Mattheo along with you, will you?"

Having just broken up with his girlfriend, Matteo's Christmas plans fell through at the last minute. You couldn't help it was in your nature to worry. You heard the distant rustle of parchment crackle over the phone. Ah - ha, fibber indeed. "Alright, but for the last time, he's doing perfectly fine on his own." You heard him folding the list up. "He's a grown man, Y/N."

Your tone turned reproachful. "It's the holidays. No one should have to spend the holidays alone, remember?"

"Don't you have your own friends to fret over?"

"They're all going home. You only have yourself to blame for being within arm's reach, you know."

"If I'd known you were going to be this meddlesome I'd have stayed far, far away."

"Please. Like you could have resisted my charms."

You could imagine the teasing look he'd be giving you.

"Speaking of charms, how does a charm bracelet sound? Would you like that?"

You sighed. For some reason, you were having a particularly difficult time thinking of something to ask for this Christmas. You kept putting it off, and now it was less than two weeks away. Theo was doing his best to help, though it did get a bit grating when he'd point out every item in a shop one by one.

"I still don't know," you said helplessly. "Rain-check? Again?"

"Fine. But you don't have much time left." You heard him unfolding the list. "So, for today, butterbeer flavoured popcorn, Christmas lights, wrapping paper and peppermint tea?"

"Yep. Thanks, Teddy."

"Anything for you, doll." Theo cleared his throat and dropped his voice a couple of pitches.

"So what are the odds I can convince you to wear that green little number to tonight's party?"

You grinned at the pub counter flirtatiously. "I don't know. How badly do you want to see me in it?"

Theo groaned. "Going to make me beg for it, baby?"

"In a manner of speaking." You glanced back at the back door, just in case. "Haven't you learned? Sweet-talking will get you everywhere with me." Your eyes drifted to your table, where Ivy was impatiently waving you over. "Damn. I have to go. Ivy looks like she's about to have a coronary."

"Wearthedre-"

You wore the dress. You could be cruel, but not that cruel. It was a cosy sort of party, with friends and friends of friends milling around. You were sitting in Theo's lap on one of the couches, the two of you trying to talk over the music.

" - and so I said to Ivy, if he can't be bothered to even say hi when there's other people around, then that shows how little respect he has for you, and he'll only get worse the more you let him get away with it, and - and I'm rambling."

Theo's mouth quirked into that special smile he reserved just for you. "Only a little. It's very becoming, if that's what you're worried about."

"Yeah, right."

"It is, but only because it's coming from you."

You fiddled with Theo's hair, trying to fix a cowlick of his. "So what did you do today?"

"We got the popcorn, the tea, the wrapping paper. Matteo got a little too excited with the lights."

You raised your eyebrows. "Do tell."

"Mind you, he's never shopped for anything in his life. He has house elves for that."

"Kind of like you when we first met," you teased lightly.

"I don't think he was expecting so many options. He kept winding each type around his limbs to compare. I think the insulation was faulty on one of them so he got a mild electrical shock."

You gasped. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah, as far as I could tell. I think he kind of liked it, to be honest."

"Of course he did." You wrinkled your nose. "Then what did you do?"

"Freed him, obviously."

"And then?"

"Then we got the same lights we always do."

"And then?"

Theo shook his head, bemused, and tugged at a lock of your hair. "And then nothing. And then we left. And then I changed and came straight up to the party to find my nuisance of a girlfriend."

You laughed. Theo wasn't being particularly funny, but it was hot and your hair was sticking to the back of your neck and you were high off the thrill that came with being perfectly in sync with your favourite person. In short, you were too buzzed to care. You were flushed, either from the alcohol or the feel of Theo's hand steadily creeping up your thigh.

"I have some bad news, though."

You sat up and scowled. "What?"

"I couldn't get us out of my family's Christmas dinner."

You groaned. You had half a mind to drown Theo in what was left of your drink.

"C'mon, Y/N," he cajoled, "iwe'll only be there a couple of days. Tis the season of giving."

"Sure, I'll give them a push down the stairs."

Theo stifled a snort and plucked the drink out of your hand. "Okay, that's enough punch for you. Speaking of..." He glanced somewhere behind you, sitting up a little and, frustratingly, pulled his hand off your thigh. "The punch bowl might need refilling."

"Don't," you whined, dragging his hand back to where it was a moment ago. "Let Enzo do it. We don't get to see enough of each other as it is."

Theo sighed. "So you're just never going to let me leave?"

"I can't help it," you said, "I like the way you speak. I love hearing you talk." You rested your forehead against his, your eyes fluttering close. "Promise you'll never quit talking to me."

"Done," he murmured against your lips, a hand sliding to the small of your back.

Hours later, you felt yourself stirring. It was the middle of the night, long after the two of you had gone to bed. You regretfully peeled your eyes open, trying to figure out what had woken you up.

Theo was lying next to you. It took a few more blinks to see that he was breathing harder than normal, the moonlight filtering through the window casting a sickly pallor on his face. His breathing quickened till it bordered on hyperventilating, a restlessness spreading through his body as he uselessly clenched at the sheets.

The first night you had witnessed this, you had gone absolutely ballistic. You thought he was having a seizure. After an awkward conversation between a highly uncomfortable Theo and a panic-stricken you, you learned that it wasn't its first, or last, occurrence.

They weren't nightmares, exactly. If they were, Theo would forget them by the time he was shaken awake, and only the residual tremour in his limbs would be left. They were more akin to bouts of subconscious panic and despair surfacing from the recesses of his mind. Some nights, he recovered quickly, falling back to sleep in under an hour. Other nights, you'd hear him creep out of the room so as not to wake you while he whiled away the hours to dawn.

As hard as Theo tried, bless him, he struggled to put an explanation for these attacks into words. You guessed that it might have something to do with the sudden, unexpected departure of certain loved ones from his life after one mildly confusing fight. You had slipped out of bed early one morning, while Theo was still asleep, to get a headstart on your work for the day. A couple of hours later, when he found you in the Slytherin common room and immediately started going off on you, still in his pajamas, you found out how much waking up in an empty bed freaked Theo out.

Now, you shoved Theo hard on the shoulder. His eyes flew open, anxiously twitchy, as his breathing started slowing down. Still half-asleep, you snuggled up to him, pressing an ear to his chest. You could hear his heart pounding under his T-shirt. After a moment or so, once he'd recovered from the shock, he tentatively wrapped his arms around you.

You squeezed an arm around him as well. "'M here," you mumbled into his shirt. You could feel him taking deep breaths, forcing himself to calm down as he distractedly stroked your hair. Slowly, bit by bit, you felt him relax around you as you started to doze off. There the both of you stayed, a tangle of limbs, till the morning.

one year ago

You were sitting in the Astronomy Tower one chilly autumn night, having escaped from the party your friends had dragged you to. The holidays had just begun, and in the coming days, most people would be going home or carrying out their respective plans. Most people didn't include you. This year, more than anything, you wanted to be alone. Your friends assumed you were going home for the holidays, and your family assumed you were spending them with your friends at Hogwarts, and to be completely honest, you didn’t see the need to correct either of them.

You looked up, straining your ears as you heard disembodied footsteps approaching you. A minute later, Theodore Nott emerged from the shadows.

“Mind if I join you?”

You shook your head as Theo settled with his back against a pillar, stretching one overly-long leg towards you while bending the other. You had seen him at the party for the first fifteen minutes you were there. He looked delightfully comfortable in a loose, casual denim button-down. It felt a little odd to think of him as an acquaintance when you saw him nearly weekly while your other friends caught up. But at the same time, there was a tinge of awkwardness in the silence stretching out between the two of you. You weren’t even sure if he knew your name. Now, he was pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his jean pocket.

“Is it okay if I -?”

You shrugged wordlessly, still in a bit of a daze. As far as you could remember, you had never been in a one-on-one setting with Theo. It wasn’t that you avoided each other; it just never came to it. You had plenty of mutual friends acting as a buffer between you two.

All you knew about him was that your families’ tax brackets were far apart enough to mean you’d likely never see him again after Hogwarts. And after getting bruised and beaten by one too many failed relationships, you were kind of over trying to reach out or connect with new people.

And so Theodore's familial prestige was all you took note of. That, you thought as you watched him sigh in relief after the first drag of his cigarette, and his mildly concerning nicotine addiction.

You risked a sidelong glance at him to find him unabashedly looking right at you. But with him sitting perpendicular to you, you were in his direct eye line. Where else was he supposed to look? Literally anywhere else, you wished, as you returned his gaze with an awkward half-smile.

“So, Y/N,” Theo was saying, tapping ash off his cigarette. So he did know your name. You decided then that you were right - you had never been in such an intimate capacity with him before. After all, you weren’t one to forget someone saying your name like…like that. Like he harboured some secret fascination with it, from the way he let it linger on his tongue. “Any special holiday plans?”

You shook your head wordlessly. Theo gave a slight frown.

“You do speak, don’t you?”

You scoffed. “…yes. Obviously.” He’d seen you talk in front of him. Maybe not to him, but he knew you could speak perfectly fine. Your tongue currently feeling like cardboard was an entirely separate mystery.

“Going home?”

You hesitated. Theo was neither friend nor family, but for some inexplicable reason, that made it all the more difficult to lie to him. You blamed it on the smoke, it must have been making you nauseous. That, or his relentlessly demanding stare.

“I only ask because Ivy mentioned you were.”

You gave him a look, mildly peeved. If he already knew, what was he prodding around for? The cooler, more rational part of your mind pointed out that he might just have been trying to make polite conversation, and that a normal person who didn’t keep secrets like you wouldn’t be having this kind of a reaction.

“Yeah. I leave…soon.” Not for the holidays, though.

“That’s funny,” Theo continued pleasantly, “because I heard you mention to Matteo that you were staying here with the girls.”

You froze. Crap. How were you going to explain your way out of this one?

“So?” You couldn’t keep the defensive edge out of your voice. Maybe if you acted confident enough, he wouldn’t realise anything was amiss.

“So…you’re lying to someone.” He tapped his cigarette again, irritatingly casual, as if you were only discussing the weather.

“Why are you so interested in my holiday plans anyway?” you asked crossly, pulling your cardigan tighter around you as a chilly breeze started picking up.

Theo raised his eyebrows. He had the gall to look thrown off, as if he wasn’t the one pursuing the topic.

“People don’t normally lie about their holiday plans. You do realise that, right?”

Oddly enough, something in his tone made you feel embarrassed over being caught in a lie. Scratch that, it was embarrassing to have Theodore Nott catch you in a lie. What for, anyway? He was hardly the most honest person himself. Probably. You felt the back of your neck heat up. You desperately wished he would look away.

“What’s it to you?”

Theo opened his mouth before closing it again. He stewed in his thoughts for a minute while his jaw worked, as if he were trying to find the right words.

“You shouldn’t be alone on the holidays.”

You worried your bottom lip. Was this…concern?

“Maybe I want to be alone.”

“Do you?”

His otherwise dead eyes looked so inquisitive - so piercing yet unnervingly honest for someone as prone to manipulation as him. You couldn’t bring yourself to lie to those eyes. You dropped your gaze to where your fingers were fidgeting with the hem of your skirt.

“It’s complicated.”

“So explain.”

You laughed humourlessly. “They wouldn’t understand.”

You watched the shadows on the tower’s floor shift. You looked up to see Theo finishing off his cigarette as he moved to join you, looking out at the same Hogwarts grounds you were facing. It seemed to make it easier, this pseudo-confession, without the brunt of his needling stare.

Here was someone you didn’t feel the urge to explain yourself to. You felt…less alone. Like you finally had someone unequivocally on your side. It had been a long time since you felt that way.

Even with the slight distance between you, you could feel the body heat he radiated. You leaned towards him slightly, but you told yourself it was only because he was blocking the wind and you were sick of shivering. Perhaps you weren’t as subtle as you would have liked, because he stretched an arm around you, running his hand up and down your arm to warm you up as you sank into his heat gratefully. You didn’t have the heart to pull away. You didn’t want to pull away.

“You could explain it to me, you know.” Theo glanced down to where you were resting your head on his shoulder. “If you wanted.”

You toyed with the idea. So, basically, I’m sick of every relationship I’ve been in falling flat, and lately I’ve been feeling like even my friends don’t understand me, so you’ve caught me just as I’m giving up on it - love, that is, romantic or otherwise. You pulled a face. It sounded far too melodramatic even in your own head. Still, you tried.

“Have you ever felt like…giving up?” Theo’s brow furrowed even more. “No, not - I’m not suicidal. Just…when everything gets too exhausting, and reaching out just feels so…”

“Once.”

You hesitated. You weren’t expecting him to agree. Sympathise, maybe.

“After my mother died.”

“…oh.”

Could you sound any more stupid? But you couldn’t help it - in a group of friends who regularly made cracks at each other’s Death Eater fathers, Theo’s mother was a strictly off-limits topic.

"It was a couple of years back." Theo's voice sounded different now; blithe and almost aggressively neutral. "In front of me. I didn't realise until it was too late, but she was my best friend." He paused, idly tracing the lines on his palm, but you got the distinct impression that he was trying very hard to discuss something that was very difficult to talk about.

“I was -“ he broke off with a sharp bark of laughter that sounded as painful as it was unexpected. “I was angry, actually. Fucking livid. Angry at my dad, for being such a piece of shit. Angry at myself, for every time I thought I was too cool to spend time with her. Angry at her because…because it was too soon, and she was all I had. And she knew that.”

Theo had a white knuckle grip on the edge of the tower’s floor, looking dangerously close to trembling. Every ridge in his face stood taut with the ache of poorly healed emotional wounds. “She knew it. She fucking knew it.”

You placed a hand over his. He drummed his fingers restlessly against the floor, and you could feel the agitation seeping out of him as his breathing evened out.

“How did you get over it? The anger?”

Theo gave you a strange, almost pitying look.

“I’m angry nearly every day of my life, Y/N.”

He sighed and dropped his head, finally leaning into you as well, his hand drifting innocently along your arm as he talked, as if you were old friends. “But if Matteo and the others have drilled anything in my head over the years, it’s that isolating yourself is the real killer.”

Your fists were clenched tightly in your lap. It was almost comforting, seeing how your body language mirrored each other's. You didn't think you would ever feel ready to do it once more, letting yourself be susceptible to heartbreak or loss, in this lifetime or the next, but perhaps...perhaps you could manage. For him. You turned slightly, burying your face into his neck and closing your eyes.

“I suppose…I could try," you started in a small voice, partially muffled by Theo's shirt. You took a deep breath in. God, his neck smelled so good. "One last time."

“Of course you can,” Theo murmured, sounding unreasonably patient. “You’re stronger than this.”

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

You let him keep holding you for a little while longer, just until you warmed up to the idea The quiet felt nice. Theo felt nice, in every sense of the phrase.

“I’m starting to think you didn’t come here for just a smoke break.”

"Ivy might have mentioned something," he confessed. You bit back a smile. You should have guessed. "Your friends really care about you, you know. And you've really worried them."

The bitter taste of guilt hit your jaw. You idly traced the stitching of Theo's jean's pockets. Someone else also seemed rather worried, though you weren't about to point that out.

"Have I?"

"Afraid so. You're lucky you're so precious."

Theo tapped your nose, and for the first time that evening, you grinned. After weeks of wandering in a cloud of grief, the motion felt achingly familiar. Theo returned the smile, as if you couldn't help but amuse him.

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

He looked momentarily speechless again. You frowned. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think that you made him as nervous as he made you.

“Nothing,” he mumbled hastily. “Can we go back down? It’s freezing up here.”

present day

"Morning."

With some difficulty, you extracted yourself from Theo's embrace. You cleared your raspy throat as you stretched out your stiff limbs.

"H'llo."

Theo leaned down to give you a peck on the lips and you wrapped your arms around his neck. As he pulled back, your hands slid to his face, then down to his shoulders. You weren't entirely sure what you were looking for. "Better?"

"Yes." You saw the sleepy bliss fading from his face. "I'm sorry I woke you."

"You didn't," you lied. "I was up anyway."

Theo quirked an eyebrow interestedly. "What could a respectable girl like you be doing at three in the morning?"

You giggled softly and pulled him on top of you, and you thought he gave a rather appealing demonstration on what you might have been doing. A while later, you glanced at the clock, and saw that it was getting dangerously close to afternoon.

"We should probably get up."

"Mhm. You still need to decide what you want for Christmas, by the way."

Cold air rushed in as Theo rolled off of you, pulling his clothes on. You dragged yourself to the bathroom, still trying to figure out what to ask for. When you stepped out, feeling much more human, Theo was missing. You wandered into the empty common room where he had already set out two steaming mugs of that disgusting peppermint tea on one of the tables, complete with candy canes.

His eyebags are terrible as ever, and he's yawning, but he looks happy. Content. As content as you feel. And you think, this is all you want. For Theo to always get the cold side of his pillow, all the peppermint tea he could want, pleasant Hogsmeade trips...a real break, for once. For him to get everything that he asks for, and more.

bonus outtake

"Let's talk about something else. Anything else." Theo pulled you into his lap. "Like what an adorable elf you make."

You narrowed your eyes at him. "I'm not sneaking you into this year's gift donation drive."

"Why not?"

You should have known this was coming. "Listen, you got yourself banned last year."

"It wasn't even my fault. You didn't even hear how snarky that guy was being. 'Oh, where's your present?' Jackass."

"The jackass was 13, Theo."

He sniffed with an injured air. "It's not like I lied to him or something, you know."

"Again, for the last time, I cannot impress enough how incredibly inappropriate it is to point out one of the helper elves as your 'present' to a 13-year-old boy."

"But you were my present. I got to unwrap you and everything afterwards."

[temeyes]

i,, i don't know what possessed me,,

[shuastar]

Between Softened Silks and Gilded Thrones (KMG) - pt.1

masterlist; next

pairing: mingyu x reader

warnings: KIM MINGYU HIMSELF IS A WARNING; none for this chapter except for sexual jokes (only one!), death threats (um two?), childhood memories </3

a/n: FINNALY OMG when i tell you im so excited for this, i'm SO excited for this. if you think wonwoo's was hot...mingyu .... he's just so hot i can't. i'm like creaming (hahaha lol /jk!!) just kidding!!! anyways, have fun reading, and always, lmk if u wanna be on the taglist for this whoresssss (very kindly)!

y/n

“Students, please rise for the walking of our flags.” 

The dining hall, previously messily noisy with chatter and laughter, diluted to a quiet hush, a thick blanket that fell over the students, dressed sharply in their uniform. The back-most doors – double and oak – slammed open on its golden hinges, revealing five boys, the first and last holding the school’s standards and the middle three bearing the flags of Obella, Xiawei, and Estoran, arms straining under the weight of the heavy flags. 

From some corner of the dining hall, the music restarted in a mellow sort of canon that echoed through the ears of everyone sitting on the hard wooden chairs, pushed close to both the tables and each other. 

The Dean of Schools smiled, proudly watching as the three flag-bearers turned to their respective flag slots, letting the pole drop down into its holding. The BANG!s rang out in the quiet hall, effectively stopping the music. 

The five boys turned towards the rest of the students, the five now raised higher on the steps to the speaking platform. 

The Dean opened his arms. “Greetings! And welcome to another semester in the National Academy!” his voice boomed through. 

There was a slight beat of silence before students – after glancing around at others – broke out into hesitant applause that slowly built itself into a roaring ovation, including whoops and cheers. 

The Dean nodded approvingly. “Allow me the pleasure of introducing to you, your five Academy Standards of this semester,” he continued, “Please save applause till the end.” 

He was handed a tightly-bound scroll from another student, standing just off at the edge of the speaking platform. He cleared his throat before starting. 

“With the Academy’s golden standards, Jeong Jaehyun of Obella and Lee Seokmin of Obella!” The Dean let the scatterings of whoops and yells from the Obellan boys table die down before continuing. “With the National colors, Kim Mingyu for Obella,” here, the Dean was required to pause his announcement of the boys because the most ear-splitting, gut-wrenching screams and applause erupted from almost every corner of the dining hall, threatening to split the Dean’s smile wider, “Xu Minghao for Xiawei, and Kunpimook BamBam for Estoran!”

This time, there was no pause before the volcanic standing ovation the five boys received, all five of them almost keening at the attention (some more than others). 

You had the utter displeasure of selecting a seat too close to the manic Obellan girls who seemed to just about scream their lungs out when Mingyu turned to give them a fleeting glance. You grimaced as the screams felt ear-splitting. 

“He’s been a standard for the past two semesters. You would think they would get tired of screaming,” you sigh, slumping in your seat, dipping your spoon in and out of your congee that lay slowly turning colder by the minute. 

“Well, he is a prince,” Yuqi states, looking possibly even more bored than you as she slowly brought a leaf of bok choy up to her lips to nibble on discreetly as the Dean tried to hush the (manic) student body.  

“Still doesn’t make sense why they treat him like some world famous star,” you huffed. “He’s not even that cute.” 

Yuqi laughed at that, brushing her hair out of her face to look at you properly. Dimly, you heard the Dean announce for everyone to start eating. 

“You really don’t think he’s that cute?” Yuqi asked. 

“Of course not. Why? You think he’s cute? What strange taste in men you have, Qiqi.” 

Yuqi rolled her eyes, moving back to her plate of food, only to stifle a loud laugh when Mingyu pulled out a chair right behind you, sitting down in between his group of rowdy friends, slinging an arm around his new girl blessed enough to be able to run her hands down his chest for this week. 

You couldn’t help but let out a fake gag, face twisting into an expression your mother would kill you for. 

“Absolutely disgusting. And he still calls himself a prince,” you muttered, shaking your head, opting instead to turn back to a less grotesque image: your cold mushroom congee, char siu, and steamed bok choy. 

From next to you, you heard Yuqi laugh, choking slightly on her water. 

“Stop laughing! You know I’m right. He never takes anything seriously and just goes off flirting with half of the Academy–” 

You never got the opportunity to finish your sentence because at that moment, someone tapped your shoulder from the back, making you turn away from your untouched plate of food. 

“Wha-”

“-Is your default being miserable and hard to deal with?” 

You blinked, staring dead straight at Kim Mingyu who ever-so-slightly loomed over you even when sitting. When you realized what he had said, your lips curled up into the faintest mocking smile. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, did what I said hurt your little royal pride?” You taunt, huffing before turning back to your table. 

Mingyu grabbed your shoulder, forcefully turning you back to face him. You shoved his hand off of your blazer, eyes narrowing as he stared at you, now with the company of his friends. 

“What is your problem,” you snapped. 

“Y/n–” Yuqi started, only to be interrupted by Mingyu’s huff of taunting laughter. 

“What is my problem? What the hell is your problem? It’s the first day of the semester and–”

“-And you’re already out here pretending to be better than us–”

“-I can’t ever recall what I did for you to–”

“-What you did? How about what your country did? Can you recall that, your highness?” 

There was a hush that fell over your vicinity as you stood up, chair streaking across the floor. Mingyu looked like he wanted to stay something, except at Yuqi’s sharp look, you saw him slowly close his mouth and turn back to his table. As you walked out of the dining hall, back to its lively atmosphere, you glanced back, unexpectedly meeting Mingyu’s eyes as Seokmin, from his seat next to the flag bearer, whispered something in his ear that made him frown, muttering something back. 

“He’s just immature,” Yuqi mumbled as she turned to make you face forward, pushing you out of the dining hall and into the cold hallway.

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

The library was usually not this loud at five in the afternoon. 

Which is why you prided yourself when you arduously climbed the winding staircase in the law corner of the Greane Library to haul you and your miserably weighted bag up to the third floor study corners overlooking the Field. The third floor was notoriously known for being completely empty, save for the time when students on the War and Diplomatics track would come up to skim through the Diplomatic textbooks shoved to a corner of the bookshelves separating the study corners. 

You passed three study corners, all empty, to reach yours (well, not technically), the sunlight streaming through the stained glass windows, illuminating every ridge of the antique oak desk. Except-

“-Jihoon?” Your surprised voice echoed through the empty third floor, bouncing off of the old, dusty, cloth-backed books that were falling apart at the spines. Your bag thudded heavily on one of the chairs. 

A mop of black hair looked up, strands sticking up in the air. Dark circles crowned under tired eyes, drooping already as the warmth of the spring afternoon sun shone in, refracting colors. A hand rose in a bleak and heavy greeting before his forehead met the opened pages of his textbook with a loud THUMP, followed by a muffled groan. 

“I hate this place,” Jihoon complained, head rising. You had to force yourself to not laugh when he rose with a big red mark on the middle of his forehead. 

You pulled out a chair, soft against the carpeted floors, sitting down in front of him. “Finals? I thought Strategy and Politics only had an open discussion?” You opened your bag, taking out an ink well, fountain pen, textbook, and notebook. Your lamp clicked on automatically when you waved your hand in front of it. 

Jihoon nodded, closing his textbook with a massive sigh, sliding down his chair. “A three hour open discussion and a war strategy simulation on the Great War.”

“What Great War? Isn't there like five?”

“Exactly.”

Your hand stilled as you dipped your pen inside the ink pot. “So you don’t know what you’re going to get?” 

“It seems so.” 

You couldn’t help but laugh at how Jihoon’s face fell at every word he uttered, frown lines wrinkling his forehead and the space between his eyebrows. Although he was your year, you couldn’t help but feel bad for him as he picked up his carved-down pencil again, scribbling tired words onto his fat notebook. 

“You’re the smartest person I know. You’ll do amazing. I know it,” you consoled, capping your pen to instead dig through your bag. Your eyes brightened when your fingers brushed a cardboard box, decorated with a ribbon. With a flourish, you pulled the box out onto the table. Hesitant hands slowly pushed the box towards Jihoon’s drooping head. 

He looked up, a questioning sort of sound escaping his lips. 

You smiled, your hair tumbling over your shoulders. “A present.”

“For?”

“You. Consider it an effort of my toils.”

“Toils? You?” Jihoon let out a small laugh, but he pulled the box towards him when you teasingly reached for it back. He shook his head with a rare grin. “No need to get defensive. I’m just saying. A princess? Toiling?”

“Hey!” You huff, “I bought this out of the kindness of my heart when I went home yesterday.” 

Jihoon visibly perked up at those words, unwrapping the box with great care. The smile on his face grew when he lifted a box, opening it to find a pair of topaz cufflinks, delicate and studded with the small gem in a small circle around the main design. He gently placed the velvet box back inside the wrapping with a small sigh. 

“You didn’t have to, y/n,” he mumbled and you couldn’t help but giggle when he tried to cover his blushing ears. 

“It was nothing. Plus, don’t you remember when you brought me those candies from Obella? I think those were one of the best things I’ve ever eaten,” you laughed, returning to your schoolwork. 

Jihoon nodded pensively, tucking the present into his backpack. “Those are really good,” he hummed, then almost as an afterthought, he added, “They’re Mingyu’s favorites actu–” and then he suddenly stopped, lips pursed when he realized how your expression had suddenly fallen. He cleared his throat with a sheepish look. “Sorry.” 

You waved him away with a huff, dipping your pen back into the ink pot. “Don’t be like that. I’m not going to combust if I hear his name.”

Jihoon let out a snort of laughter. “Why do you hate him anyways? He’s a year younger than us.” 

“I don’t hate him,” was your automatic response. 

“Liar.” 

“I’m serious.”

“Okay fine. Why do you severely dislike him?”

You gave Jihoon a deadpan look. “He’s annoying.”

“That’s all?”

“And excessively flirty, seriously stupid, loud, obnoxious, happy-go-lucky, and the prince.” You said everything so matter-of-factly that Jihoon seemed to just stare at you, processing your words. 

After a beat of silence, “Isn’t happy-go-lucky something that’s good?” 

You rolled your eyes. “Shut up. You know what I mean.”

Jihoon shrugged, closing his notebooks and sliding them into his bag. “Why does him being the prince have to do with anything?” 

You clicked your tongue. “We’ve been over this. He’s the prince of Obella. I’m the princess of Xiawei.”

“I’m Obellan.” Jihoon gave you an eyebrow raise that you refused to acknowledge. 

“You’re different. You’re not annoying like everyone else,” you huffed, crossing your arms. 

Jihoon laughed, poking your puffed cheek with a quick finger, dancing out of your reach when you went to slap his hand away. “Whatever you say.” He stood up, slinging his bag over his shoulder and snatching his blazer from the seat next to him. “I’ll catch you later, yeah?” 

You smiled as you nodded. “See you later!” 

You returned Jihoon’s quick wave as he disappeared through the tombs of the Greane Library, messy black hair waving gently with every step. 

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

“I never imagined our first visit to be under these…” your brother trails off as the carriage wheels rumble over the cobblestone road of the Capital, “conditions.” 

You scoff at his words, fingers brushing away the strands of hair that had fallen into your paled face. You pluck off a stray hair from your red ruqun – a delicate silk hand-woven from the imperial tailor shop of Xiawei. “Neither did I.” 

When the carriage slows, the hushed chatter of voices leaking into the curtained windows of your gilded cage, your brows furrow, taking a gloved hand to gently peel away the velvet curtains. Your eyes squint as the blazing Obella sun, so different in its intensity than the warm comforting rays of the gardens of Xiawei. Even from within the guarded carriage, you can hear the whispers and the sharp glares of the crowd that is gathering around your slowing carriage. The horses whine as the driver clicks his tongue, trying to calm them as he waits for the palace guards to open the blasted iron gates.

Perhaps your face was slowly turning sour by the passing minute or perhaps you looked too ill-disposed because in the next second, Minghao pulls the curtain from your tight fingers, a loud scratch as he pulled the curtain shut and all evidence of Obella’s harsh rays disappeared with the crowded whispers and looks. 

You blink. “That was unnecessary,” you state, leaning back into your seat as the carriage lurches again, starting forward slower than before but still moving into what you and your younger brother presume is the castle – no, palace. 

Minghao just shrugs from his seat across you, face arranged into an expression, you guess, is in between grudging obedience and lamentable loathing. His posture is impossibly straight – almost rigid – against the cushioned seats of the carriage as you roll across the raised platform and into the grounds of the royal palace. 

You rattle along with the carriage as it makes its way around the loop of the palace courtyard, stopping haltingly with a neigh of the horses. 

“Are we–”

Minghao is effectively cut off by a sharp rap, followed by three more, against the doors of the carriage. 

You suck in a breath as you peek out the window, only to see the magnificent towering Obellan palace, gilded in gold and spires decorated with amethysts so big you could use them as formidable paper weights.

“We have arrived,” comes the muffled voice of the driver, drawling and so obviously bored with his decided task. 

When your younger brother raises his brow in question, you nod, letting him stand up, hunched, as he opens the door. 

The first sight you’re blinded with is people. Just row after row of people, all dressed in what Obella supposedly thinks is a great display of their wealth (or power, who knows). And in the very middle, three people – lined in a small triangle and glinting with what seems to be gold-hinted armor. 

Minghao steps off of the carriage, offering his hand up to you with a smile. You feel your expression soften at the sight of your brother, so starkly different amongst these Obellan nobles, forced to accompany you in this diplomatic envoy to the very country that had left yours in tatters. 

The only tell – rare, usually, to see from him – of his anxiety in this foreign place is his outstretched hand, pale at the fingertips and shaking as he awaits yours.

Your golden fengguan, chosen by Yuqi to accompany your gold-embroidered ruqun, feels so much heavier at that moment. 

Your fingertips meet the palm of Minghao’s hand and you duck, stepping out of the carriage and down the steps until your hanfu touches the cobblestone ground. Immediately, the whispers start again and Minghao visibly stiffens next to you, his arm robotically lowering when you tap his hand. 

The two of you stand, side by side, shoulder to shoulder, as the carriage whisks away behind you, leaving you bare to the nobles standing before you. A quick glance to your brother threatens to pull a laugh from your lips. 

His brows are furrowed in the same way as they would be if he was studying for his finals in the Academy and his bottom lip is pulled between his teeth. 

“Nervous?” you tease, mouth barely moving when you see the three-person welcome group start walking towards you when they realize you have no intention of moving. 

Minghao imperceptibly shakes his head. “No,” then, after a pause in a much more worried voice, “Should I be?” 

You smile, but you know it doesn’t reach your eyes. “Depends. Do you think we’ll be paraded around like war spoils or treated like delegated guests?” The question is infinitely rhetorical and it stills Minghao into a silence that is tenser than his usual presence.

The jarring footsteps grow louder against the cobblestones and you watch as the three stop in front of you and your brother. 

Closer now, you can see all three of their faces, glowing, almost, in the afternoon sun. And if this was any other time, you would have laughed, maybe run into two of their arms with the brightest smile on your face. But this situation seems too tilted to their side for you to feel any other emotion but betrayal. Pure flaming betrayal that simmers deep in your stomach. 

“Prince Minghao.” Kim Mingyu’s voice is echo-y across the courtyard and hushes any other voice down to silence. Then, he turns his heavy gaze to you, pinning you down where you stood. 

Mingyu seems to be, in every way, shape, and form, the same from his days in the Academy. Perhaps taller, more muscular, more handsome in the regal (disgusting) way (though you refuse to admit that fact). His gold-plated armor decorating his well-built figure glitters like a second sun, refracting and reflecting the golden rays. His shoulders are wide-set and he stands tall, proud, with his dark hair falling gently in his face, swaying with the currents of the light breeze that carries the scent of Obella’s spring flowers into your nose. 

“Princess Y/n.” His smirk is as sharp as the blade at his side, your name rolling off his tongue in a teasing jab. His voice is smooth, polished, and entirely too smug for your taste – like violently rubbing salt into a throbbing wound that has yet to scab over. 

Bitterly, you reply, “Prince,” and that one word alone leaves a sour aftertaste in your mouth. If your mother could see you right now, she would be rolling in her grave. The princess of Xiawei, greeting someone else in the place as an envoy-hostage. 

Minghao stutters in his bow when you don’t make any move to bend. 

Mingyu gives you the faintest tilt of the head, brows rising. 

“A little late, aren’t we?” Mingyu hums, arms crossing and causing the sunlight to bounce off of his royal crest and directly into your face. He grins at your misfortune and you’re almost one hundred percent sure he did that on purpose. 

“Yes, well,” your lips turn down, matching his head tilt, “even a princess can’t control carriage traffic, it seems.” 

Your words are clipped and cold. From behind Mingyu, Jihoon and Jeonghan, both classmates of yours at the Academy, stand awkwardly as Mingyu looks you up and down in what you assume is ill-fated interests. Both of them refuse to meet your eyes as if they know the real reason why you and your brother have been dragged here. 

“Your highness,” Minghao suddenly interrupts, extending an arm towards the glittering palace. His face is arranged into a haunting expression. “Shall we go inside? My sister doesn’t fare well after long carriage rides.” 

Almost as if his words are magic, you suddenly feel lightheaded, eyelids fluttering as you try to steady yourself. If anyone notices, they don’t comment. 

Mingyu gives a sideways glance at Jihoon, who nods curtly, before grinning, turning on his heels. “To the palace, then. I wouldn’t want our precious princess to go on bed rest her first day in Obella!” He gives you a cheeky little wink that makes you want to poke his eyeball out of its socket. But you refrain. If not for political decency and societal manners, then for your brother’s reputation. 

With gritted teeth, you reply with a curt, “Lead the way.” 

The walk to the entrance is deathly silent, save for Mingyu’s occasional hums of a random song. Somehow, the two of you ended up walking side by side, making you sandwiched between Minghao on the right and Mingyu on the left, with Jihoon and Jeonghan trailing behind, furiously whispering with each other (you pretend you don’t hear them). 

When you reach the giant double oak doors, the numerous guards littering the entranceway suddenly all let out a war-cry-esque yell of some kind before they salute Mingyu in what you assume is Obella’s salute. You can’t help but let your face wrinkle in displeasure. 

Mingyu salutes back and in that moment, a small part of you wonders how the prince – who used to be the lollygagging, effortlessly smart, playboy extraordinaire of the Academy – had transformed into the Crown Prince (apparently, you weren’t too sure), that you see in front of you, smiling warmly and bowing to the palace workers who line the entrance room of the palace. 

But that thought quickly vanishes when Mingyu leads you into the entrance hall because gilded statues, so great in size you know the workers had to haul them up from the antique dusty storage room, line the path into what you assume is the actual royal palace. 

When you sneak a glance to Minghao, he is already in awe, glancing around the chandelier-bejeweled ceilings and carpeted path, eyes wide and mouth just slightly open. 

He leans into you before whispering, “Do they always try this hard?”

A puff of laughter escapes your lips that has Mingyu’s head careening towards you and your brother in apt curiosity. 

“Do you remember the Obellan kids from the Academy? Of course, always.” 

You laugh again at Minghao’s awe-stricken nod, craning his head to try to see over the top of the winding staircases. 

Mingyu clears his throat but makes no move to stop your conversation, instead leading the way further into the palace. You chew on your bottom lip as you walk through the halls, paraded down another set of gilded statues. You can’t help but notice how Mingyu’s shoulders shift determinedly under his armor, broad and strong even under the dim chandelier lighting of the palace. That thought returns to you again, instead now you wonder how his presence changed into such a commanding aura suited for such a powerful Crown Prince. 

Though you would never admit out loud, of course. 

“Are you impressed?” comes Mingyu’s sudden voice. He glances down at you with a grin dancing on his lips. For a split second, you think he’s asking about himself.

You tilt your head. “Are you fishing for compliments?” 

Mingyu laughs. “So harsh.” 

“Someone needs to tone you down,” you mutter, not even missing a beat. From beside you, Minghao gives you a warning look that you refuse to acknowledge. 

Mingyu sighs, as if he’s content with your answer. “I missed you,” he hums. Your brows draw together and Minghao’s head snaps towards him. Then, almost as if Mingyu finally realized what he said, his eyes blow wide open, an awkward laugh escaping his lips. 

“God, not like that!” he defends, hands rising as he suddenly completely stops in the middle of a hallway. Behind the three of you, Jihoon and Jeonghan also slow, blinking confusedly at the two of you. Mingyu runs a hand through his hair while his head shakes furiously from side to side. “No, don’t ever take it like that! I just meant that I missed the Academy days! You know? When we used to– god, not like that – when we would fight and stuff! But not in like a–” 

You have to basically hold your breath to prevent your laughs from spilling out of your mouth, shoulders shaking as you try to remain composed. You hold your hand out, fingers splayed. “--I never took you for such an experimental person, your highness,” you say, managing the sentence without any laughter leaking out of your traitorous mouth.  

You hear Jihoon and Jeonghan (as well as Minghao) stifle their laughter at your words. 

Mingyu’s face is now aghast, his ears a blushing red as he goes to defend himself again. 

But you cleanly cut him off, “If you liked me when we were in the Academy, you could’ve just said.” You offer a mocking little smirk that sets Mingyu’s jaw out of its socket and Jeonghan almost dying in laughter. And you swear that if it weren’t for the situation, it would have felt like you were back in the Academy, glorifying yourself in the midst of Mingyu’s embarrassment. 

“It’s not like that!” Mingyu stutters, almost stumbling over his own feet when you turn away from him and walk down the hall. He grabs your upper arm – which earns him a well-timed glare from both you and your brother – before he walks in stride with you again, trying to rearrange his hair so that it lays neat. “I swear, Y/n,” he starts, and you try to ignore how easily your name flows from his tongue, as his eyes widen almost puppy-like and he shakes his head again, walking sideways, “it’s not like that! I just– it just came out wrong! Completely wrong! I’ve never liked you – not in the Academy, not after we graduated, and definitely not now. And I’ll–”

As he continues with his monologue of how much he apparently doesn’t like you, you can feel your irritation bubble in your stomach. 

“--Never! Never ever! Okay?” 

“I’m so glad you think of me as so unattractive you’ve never ever liked me,” you snap, jaw clenched as you try to walk faster down the hall. 

Mingyu just stupidly nods, sighing in what you think is relief, almost. If he hears your scoff of disbelief, he makes no note of it. 

Beside you, Minghao gapes at the two of you, eyes wide. 

“What?” you snap. 

He shakes his head. “No, no. I just–” he clears his throat, “Never knew you guys were this … close?” 

You make a face, disgust clearly, or you hope, written all over it. “Close? Us? If anything, the only thing being here reminds me of is how much I detested that man when I was younger.” 

Mingyu scoffs from next to you, but still opens the door into the private royal wing, letting you enter first (which you do, with the slightest upwards tilt of your chin). 

“I was so likeable in the Academy!” 

You roll your eyes, mouth curving into a displeasured frown. “Get over yourself. God, how is it that you haven’t changed at all?”

“I can say the same thing to you.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Is that all you have?”

“What, you want me to insult you?” 

“Well, I don’t know, can you? Because all I know is that the only insult you can come up with is–”

“--Can we please save this bitch fight for later?” 

You find yourself on the other side of Jihoon’s outstretched arm, with Mingyu across from you. Jihoon looks at you pleadingly in what you assume is code for back off please! So, you grudgingly step away, fixing your curled hair, huffing. 

Jihoon gives a pointed look to Mingyu who pouts in response, before turning back to you. 

“Your highnesses,” he starts, bowing curtly to both you and Minghao. “His majesty originally wanted to dine with the two of you, but due to some other matters, this plan has changed. He requests for His Highness to accompany me and Mage Yoon to the strategy room where his majesty will meet us. He has also told me to convey his wishes that your highness, Princess Y/n, be accompanied to her room by Prince Mingyu. There is a welcoming ball tomorrow night and his majesty has also requested your presence there, your highness.” 

Jihoon finishes with a deep-set bow. From over his lowered shoulder, you see, with something between elation and horrification, Mingyu’s thunder-shaken face, such sharp handsome features stuck in a weird expression. 

Minghao suddenly steps up, touch light on your arm. “Sir, I would prefer it if my sister and I didn't separate.” 

Jihoon glances at Jeonghan, who shrugs, before turning back to the two of you. “I apologize, your highness,” he murmurs, eyes flitting over to you. “I have been ordered by the King.” 

Minghao looks like he’s going to argue back so you intervene, patting your younger brother’s back. You gently shake your head. 

“No, it’s fine. I’ll do as the King wants,” you oblige, earning a worn, but thankful, smile from Jihoon. 

“Thank you, your highness.” Jihoon gives you one more bow before ushering Minghao (who looks completely unaccustomed to people ordering him around) towards the strategy room with Jeonghan, who gives you one last look before following. 

It leaves you, awkwardly standing, with Mingyu, who had, throughout the conversation, busied himself with gazing out the window like some love-stricken fool. He makes no move to turn back to you, which leaves you standing in the middle of the hall with aching legs because your hanfu is not meant for long-distance travel on foot. 

As you stare at his back and he stares out the window, oblivious (or you hope) to the three who had left, you can’t help but feel relieved that you are placed under Mingyu’s care. At least he was a recognizable face, even if the only memories of him you can think to recall involve you yelling at him or vice versa. 

Finally, Mingyu turns back to you, clearing his throat. His hands are clasped behind his back, trying to appear composed though the faint blush decorating the tips of his ears gives him away. “Well, Princess,” he says with exaggerated formality as he steps up to you. 

It’s unfair, really, how the sun perfectly halos around his form so that it forces you to think that you’re laying eyes upon one of heaven’s very own angels. His tan skin – so much more golden than your days in the Academy – glows, perfectly supplementing his golden armor (or perhaps his armor was supplementing his skin?), and his eyes are warm and teasing. When he stops right in front of you, it forces you to tilt your head up to look him in the eyes. 

When had he gotten this tall?

“Shall we? It seems fate has deemed us a perfect match for tonight.” His voice is light and teasing, almost purposefully airy so that it can slither through your cracks and make you laugh. 

You raise a brow, discreetly shuffling backwards to give yourself more space between his Mingyu-ness and your personal bubble. “More like the king has,” you mutter, trying to maintain your distaste. 

Mingyu just grins, offering his arm to you that you refuse. He shakes his head in faux disappointment, instead gesturing to you to follow. “Either way. I’m honored to be finally of service,” he hums. “Shall I carry you to your room or sing you a lullaby?” 

Your face drops into a look of utter disdain as you scoff. Sadly, your reaction seems to only fuel his amusement. “You and I both know you can’t sing for shit.” 

Mingyu gasps in horror. “I can sing!” He then slows his steps until he’s walking side by side to you. He leans down, face in yours. You will yourself to not pull back and instead keep walking (even though you can feel yourself heat up). 

“You’ve just never heard me actually sing,” Mingyu argues. 

You shrug. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.” 

Mingyu mutters something unintelligible and you’re not too interested in what he has to say, so you let him be, rolling your eyes when you see him pout. 

“You’re such a child,” you sigh, turning the corner with him. 

Glancing out the nearest window, you realize the sun has already half-set, basking your part of the palace in the prettiest shade of colors you’ve seen in the last couple months. 

It seems that Mingyu has seen your staring because he clears his throat, pulling you out of your thoughts. When you turn to look at him with a sheepish look, he’s much closer than you thought he would be, causing you to almost crash into his chest, limbs stiff and pulled towards your own chest. Mingyu’s large hands – warm – steady you, firm around your shoulders. 

“Woah,” he mumbles, “you okay?” 

His words act as cold water sprayed over you and you blink, jolting, almost as you scramble back, dusting off your ruqun and straightening your fengguan from where it sits on the top of your head. 

“Let’s go,” you sniff, turning towards a random end of a hallway. 

Mingyu stops you, hand around your arm. “Dumbass, it’s the other way.” 

You’re too busy trying to compose yourself that you just turn with his order, the insult not even registering properly. 

You follow Mingyu down the hall, cheeks dusted with a light pink, and you try not to be too embarrassed as you hold your head up. As the two of you continue down the hall, the silence that follows is weirdly comfortable and comforting. You can feel yourself relaxing as Mingyu hums a soft melody, glancing back every so often at you. You take the intervals of a forward-facing Mingyu to study him. It’s been at least ten years (maybe less) since the Academy. You graduated before he did and then right away entered Xiawei’s Courts, ultimately pulling you away from any Academy holdings or other events. If you are honest with yourself, you thought seeing Mingyu again wouldn’t be as conflicting as it seems to be right now. And as you stare at his broad shoulders and thick arms, you feel that there is an odd familiarity in the Crown Prince’s presence that you convince yourself you are better off not acknowledging. 

As you near what you presume is your chambers, there are guards loitering around the hallway, trying to play off what is so obviously an Obellan envoy-hostage game as some kind of “guards on break inside the palace.” This time, when the soldiers salute Mingyu, he looks a smidge uncomfortable, saluting back with less enthusiasm. 

“Knights?” you ask, voice light but you know it has an edge of bitterness to it. “Just for a helpless princess like me? If I knew better, I’d think you were holding me hostage or something,” you hum. You keep on walking, trying to gauge Mingyu’s reaction from your peripheral vision as you continue down the hall. 

Mingyu clears his throat, glancing towards one of the knights leaning against the wall. “It doesn’t hurt to have precautions,” he mumbles, and it surprises you to realize how little argument he has with your claims. And then you realize what he means. 

Of course they were holding you hostage. It’s not like you had expected anything other than this treatment when you were coming from Xiawei. But still, hearing it from the very person who had called upon you under the guise of diplomacy bubbled a pot of frustration, bitterness, and betrayal in your stomach. 

He stops in front of a set of double oak doors, handles a gleaming golden and manned by two guards who seem like they want to be doing anything but guard a foreign princess overnight. 

“Yuqi arrived before you did. She’s in her quarters next door,” Mingyu suddenly states, turning on his heels to face you. 

You raise a brow. “That’s,” you pause, eyes darting to the door just a few steps down the hall, “good to hear. She came fast,” you mumble, and your expression softens into one of tiniest gratitude towards Mingyu. 

Then, he snickers behind his hand covering his mouth. “That’s what I always say,” he chortles, laughing at his own joke like he just said the funniest thing to exist. 

And immediately, whatever gratitude or relief you had from his words disappears like it wasn’t there to begin with. You scoff, loud, pushing him to the side to wrench the door open, your eyes rolling. 

Mingyu stumbles to the side, laughter dying to be replaced with a mocking smirk. “What? Oh, right,” he clicks his tongue, “You wouldn’t know what that means. Princess Prim and Proper.” 

Halfway into your room, you glance over your shoulder at him and you hope your glare is heavy enough to pierce through his horribly thick skull (though quite handsome now). “Oh,” you sigh, “go fuck yourself, Crown Prince,” you snap. Your words echo in the hallway and it seems as though Mingyu hadn’t been expecting those words because the last thing you see when you slam your door shut behind you is Mingyu’s shocked face, the smirk diluted down to a surprised twitch of his lips, as if he didn’t know you could curse. 

You shake your head as you look around the room. 

“Fucking asshole,” you mutter to yourself as your eyes adjust to the darkness of the room, the only light being the roaring fireplace on the other end of the room. Just because you hadn’t been with anyone like he had, all prancing around in his half-buttoned Academy uniform with his arm draped over a new girl every week like he needed a new prey to satiate his ever-growing hunger. The audacity still embedded into the stupid stupid Crown Prince almost makes you gag at the prospect of being stuck under his care for the god-knows-how-long period of time you’re caged in Obella as a hostage (oops, envoy!). For all you know, he might just leave you out to die – starve and dehydrate in the royal gardens or something. And when Jun visits you and Minghao like he said he would, your older brother is going to find you dead in some random side-alley of the palace. 

God, the things you go through to–

Knock, knock. 

You exhale sharply, dragging a tied hand over your face before turning towards the door. The last thing you want to see, or deal with, is him. Again! So soon! But when you heave open the heavy oak door, the figure standing in front of you makes you just about cry in joy.

All you’re awarded with is a familiar scent of vanilla, a wave of curly light brown, and a blur of dark silk  before the door slams shut again. 

“I hate you,” Yuqi hisses, gripping your arms as she stares into you. “Do you know what I had to endure in this ghastly place?” 

Despite your exhaustion, you can’t help but bite back a loud laugh. “You already knew we were going to be sent up here.” 

“Yes,” Yuqi groans, throwing her head back, “but while you rode in with Minghao, that doesn’t mean I was prepared to sit in a carriage with Zhong Chenle of all people, while he waxed poetic about the ‘delicate political and economic balance of this arrangement’ and gawked at all the passing noblewomen.” Yuqi throws her hands up, shaking her head in disgust that looked a little too real to be fake. “I thought about throwing myself out thrice.” 

She has you almost choking in laughter, stepping aside to let her roam your room in relative peace. Yuqi gracefully takes on the silent offer, striding past you and frowning at the lavish Obellan style room before flopping dramatically onto the velvet divan, an arm draped over her eyes. 

“Hey,” you hum, hands slapping down onto her shoulders, “you think you have it bad? Now I’m here and he’s here and I’m forced to breathe the same air as the Crown Prince of–”

“--Your nightmares? Horrors? Terrors?” Yuqi groans, hands going to rest on yours, shaking your arms as she turns around, facing you properly. Her eyes are wide and she lets out a laugh of disbelief. “It’s actually tragic!” 

You roll your eyes, moving to pour yourself a cup of tea from the tray by the fireplace. “I wouldn’t go that far. He’s not horrible.” 

Yuqi gasps, hands flying to cover her mouth. “This wretched place has already tainted you so,” she cries, hands slapping her knees. 

You shoot her a dry look, sipping your tea. “I’ve been here for five hours, Qi.” 

“Exactly! Long enough, apparently, to lose your sense of reason!” She shudders dramatically. “What’s going to be next? You’ll start saying he smells nice?” 

Your face wrinkles into displeasure. “Ew no. He smells like sweat.” 

Yuqi blanches, “You smelled him?” 

“No!” You huff, “Of course that’s what he’s going to smell like, god, I don’t know! Stop asking questions!” 

“You hate him!”

You blink. “I never said that.”

Yuqi stands up abruptly, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “You just defended him! You–”

“--I never defended him!” you argue. 

“Well, you did subconsciously! What happened to Qiqi, I’d rather drink poison than be stuck in the same room as him?” Yuqi narrows her eyes, stalking over to where you were standing. She is quiet before she scoffs at your aghast, blinking face. “Stockholm syndrome,” she states, hands flying up, almost hitting your teacup out of your hands. “It’s happening. Already.”

You sigh, gently setting the delicate porcelain down before she actually hits it out of your hands, and pinch the bridge of your nose. “Yuqi, you’re being dramatic-”

“-No!” She collapses onto another sofa, fanning herself with a fan you didn’t even know she was holding. “I know you. I know how much you loathe him. How much you think he’s a horrible, wretched, useless little-”

“-Yuqi.” 

“Fine, fine. Either way, you’re telling me that you think he’s not horrible? God, please,” Yuqi scoffs, arms crossing over her chest, rustling the delicate navy blue silk of her robes, “you’re either lying to yourself or his princely Obellan cooties have already wormed their way inside your brain like a goddamn parasite.” 

You want to laugh, really, but the stringent way Yuqi stares you down has you weakly forcing out a snort. “Fine. I hate him. I think he’s horrible. Good?” 

Yuqi stares. “And smelly.” 

Now you really laugh. “Fine, yes. And smelly.” 

“Say it again.” 

“I hate him…” You trail off when the moon, shining so bright outside like a glittering silver platter catches your eyes. You don’t think you’ve seen it so big and round when you were back in Xiawei. Or maybe you didn’t have time to gaze out windows back home. Either way. When you take a step closer to the large french windows, suddenly, a scene, from just minutes ago, rapidly rewinds through your head. 

His chest, large warm hands firm around your shoulders, and the ever-so-slightly present glint of worry (disgusting) that shone in his eyes for a split second.

“Are you okay, y/n?” 

And you must be actually going insane because you feel heat creep up your neck and blush your cheeks and your lips finds themselves whispering a soft “...most of the time,” towards the window. 

It makes Yuqi gasp so loudly you jolt, almost jumping in the air. 

“Oh my god.” She clutches your wrist so quickly it almost gives you a whiplash. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone soft. Not for him.”

You scoff, backing away. “As if.” Your eyes, however, search for something else to look at.

“Come on, y/n, I know it’s been years but he’s still the same old mindless prince.” 

“I know, Yuqi.” 

“What did he say to you to deserve even a moment of hesitation?” 

“Yuqi, come on.”

“I’ll stab him. Actually. What did he say?”

“Yuqi.”

“This is a national crisis, y/n! If you’re wavering, then we’re all forever doomed to be chained to this wretched, wretched land with no silk!”

You shake your head, pushing her back onto the couch with a shove. “I hate him,” you insist. “Okay? He’s insufferable, arrogant, and the only thing I’ve realized today was that I’d rather bite my own tongue off than listen to him speak again.” 

Yuqi is quiet while she studies you meticulously, brown eyes tracing over your form as if she could read your aura or something. She finally sighs, slumping back onto the couch. “That’s better. You scared me for a second.” 

You don’t dignify her dramatics with a response, shaking your head as you turn towards a countertop to set your jewels on. 

“...But mark my words. If you ever hesitate again, know that I’m poisoning his wine.” 

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