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⎯ WHEN THE LIGHT FADES. (TEASER.) a Chris Bahng fiction
Christopher Bahng x implied! fem. reader
TROPE. monster! au, supernatural! au, best friends to lovers, angst, comfort, thriller, high stakes, suspense
WARNINGS. gory descriptions, murder, mentions of death, absence of parent, mention of demons/devil/witches/etc, traumatic events/memories, hallucinations, usage of weaponry, usage of religious symbols/rituals
WORD COUNT. estimated to be around 6k-10k words
AUG'S NOTES. i am so so thrilled to introduce this piece!! ever since beginning 'Supernatural' on Netflix, i knew channie would be the perfect fit for an au based upon the show<3 of course, with some of my twists and turns involved, i hope this story will become one you will enjoy :)
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. The town of Briar is tightly knit. Houses that multiple generations have lived within, a school with rickety fences, vines climbing up the windows, chalkboards still in use. To most, Briar was the epitome of boredom. Though, between you are your best friend, Chris, you know a different story. Because while many towns have their fair share of pest control against insects, it takes a special person—persons—to hunt down Briar’s own kind of pests: the Supernatural.
or alternatively :
When the light fades, I’ll simply hold your hand tighter.
It seems that from the start, humans have always had an innate curiosity toward the morbid. The unsettling, mysterious. Even the really, really gross.
But, y’know, each to their own.
Right?
The girl whose hair got in her face.
That was Christopher Bahng’s first impression of you, in actuality. Because while you thought you couldn’t look more epic in elementary school than standing by the playground, wind wisping through your hair, all he saw was a girl oddly okay with having hair whipped into her eyes, autumnal wind prickling at her skin.
“I heard that’s how you get pink-eye.”
If “no nonsense” needed a mascot, Chris would like to recommend you for the job.
“What, from wind?”
“No,” You mumble, breaking your nutella sandwich into two halves to share with him before pointing to Joon in the distance, furiously rubbing at his eyes after crying over a scraped knee. “Rubbing your eye.”
Ignorant to the nonsensical cock of his head, you nod matter-a-fact, legs swinging aimlessly from the playground bench.
Knowing a boy for a week meant you were pretty much best friends in the first grade—or that you liked him, but for you, that chance was far off. Instead, it signified a very, very lucky sharing of the yummiest lunch ever: yours.
That, and the half of a nutella sandwich that clings to his lips when he takes a bite, the chocolate remnants catching on his upper lip like a sad mustache.
Being as mature as you are, you laugh yourself silly at the sight. Chris, on the other hand, goes beet red.
All those years ago, you noticed for the first time how his ears flush pink when he’s embarrassed.
Something cute to hang onto later, perhaps.
Despite being older than you (by mere months), he trailed after you like a sad puppy throughout those primary school years. And middle school, and, subsequently, high school as well.
Except, not without some changes to the both of you.
Although you’d rather choke before ever admitting it, the once dopey-eyed, curly-headed boy had become… cooler.
Taller—a facet of this newness that pissed you off even now—a bit more muscular (a lot more muscular), with unchanging honeyed skin that warmed under the summer sun until a thin sheen of sweat decorated his forehead, caused droplets to run down his neck, dip below the neckline of a tank-top he’d don while fixing a friend’s car—
Just older. That’s all.
Unfortunately, everyone else in Levanter High wasn’t immune to the charm. And with a new chick on his arm just about every day, it’s almost impressive how the oblivious best friend of yours (an obliviousness you’re surprised has lasted this long) hasn’t gotten a girlfriend yet.
Blissfully ignorant to batting eyelashes and low-cut tops, apparently.
Moreover, he hasn’t even appeared interested in someone yet.
Though you have an inkling of knowledge towards the reason why. Because your years of friendship hadn’t just been video games at his place and meet-ups at Darcy’s Dairy for ice cream whilst walking home on hot afternoons, but hunting.
A reason why his dad wasn’t around anymore, a reason why, regardless of sitting across the classroom from him, you’re closer than ever.
Monsters, evil, whatever you want to call it.
Because while most worry about the come and go of deer season, every day in the quaint town of Briar was hunting season for you two.
Except, your eyes were focused upon a different kind of game.
Lurking in the shadows, responsible for the disappearances no one took the time to look into, the grisly murders deemed too coincidental to be anything but a suicide and disregarded in turn.
The gruesome, the gory. That was your sleepover, your hang-out after school.
Sure, it may be different than the average friendship, but to you and Chris, it was the ties that wove you together seamlessly into a knot unable to be loosened.
And until he located the thing that killed his father—something known to be supernatural—you’d be by his side.
An easy feat, if the perpetrator wasn’t a demon.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
A rightful complaint, you thought it to be, while Chris couldn’t help the snort of laughter in disbelief from behind you.
Of course, he relished in your frustration, exasperation. A mere add-on to your pattern of annoying each other maintained well over a decade.
In his case, the boy mainly savored the look you gave him, telling him all the thoughts swimming in that head of yours. Within the furrowed brows, the bottom lip tugged between your lips when you were thinking hard, concentrated.
Kinda cute, actually.
Clearing his throat and placing either hand on his hips helps dispel the matter to the back of his head.
“A hexbag, seriously?”
As for you, tugging a makeshift hexbag responsible for making random, curly pig tails spring up on the rears of plentiful Levanter high girls felt almost embarrassing. The fact it was shoved in a locker like some corny love note only amplified the mortification.
Because while Briar has its fair share of grueling supernatural forces, it also houses idiots manipulating said supernatural forces, oftentimes resulting in downright stupid moments like this.
Your guess? Some girl decided to act a fool and use what seemed to be a harmless book to target a hex onto a girl flirting with her boyfriend, unaware that witchcraft was not only real, but potent as well.
Talk about possessive, yeesh.
Even grosser, tiny animal bones litter into your hand as you shake out the bag, grumbling beneath your breath.
“Man, I always wondered what happened to Shark.”
Chris’s voice from over your shoulder earns a warning glare, hesitant to glance back down to the tiny bones.
“Shark” being your anatomy class hamster who mysteriously went missing a week ago.
Both the name and the disappearance are ironic, huh.
“How much you wanna bet it’s Delphine?” You wager, shifting your weight onto one leg. Chris, meanwhile, has no issue peering right over your shoulder–the manner in which he was practically breathing down your neck doing little to keep your swarming thoughts on track.
“The one that’s rumored to be sleeping with that preacher’s kid instead of Bryson?” He pipes in, earning your nod before your head snaps back to him in mild surprise.
“How do you know that? I thought you didn’t care to hear about the drama.”
There goes those pink ears, that innocent shrug used to brush off the truth written on his face.
And yet, after a bloody, rather traumatizing Wendigo hunt last week up in the mountains (the country being a hot spot of the Supernatural. Uninhabited and undisturbed), it felt nice to finally downsize into something almost childish.
Especially at the expense of this almost 177cm toddler, looking like he wants nothing more than to curl into a ball at the moment.
.
.
.
Of course, that entailed that you’d still handle the case maturely and seriously.
Right?
The post-it note on Delphine’s desk reading: “Witches in Salem were burned, y’know” (your writing), followed by a smaller, kinder, “He’s not worth it” (Chris’s doing after insisting you were too harsh) at the bottom proved otherwise.
Act stupid with dark magic, expect to be responded to stupidly.
Nevertheless, that ordeal was dealt with accordingly. And lo and behold, Delphine confessed in less than five minutes that it was merely a ploy to get back at a girl she believed had tempted her oh so pure boyfriend.
The throes of high school relationships.
Yikes.
Fortunately, Delphine was not the worst witch you had come across amid October’s impending cold, acting as a simple precursor paving way for worse ordeals to meander into days initially passing as normal.
You had yet to know just how worse it would be.
Whether for intentions dirty or innocent, the nurse’s office has acted as a hideaway for the vast majority of Levanter High. Going to visit friends, escaping Chemistry, making out with a boyfriend—a sight you’d unfortunately been witness to on too many occasions.
For you and Chris, the nurse’s office was used exactly as it should be used.
Except, with a bit of playful banter and too many bandaids for a meager knee-scrape.
“Your hair’s growing out.”
It also served as a soft point, a moment for a bit of weakness, vulnerability whilst mending wounds from earlier hunts.
This and his room in his old house served as central comfort spots. Warm lighting, oftentimes filled with the wafting aroma of a recently baked pie sifting through the cracks in the doorway where his mom would take to stress baking.
Desserts shared when you were younger, key parts of your heart still residing there as a second home.
Sleepy, hungry, hurting.
A good place to share feelings, be a little less irritable to each other.
“Mhm.”
Like now, where he doesn’t tug away from the gentle hand of yours smoothing through darkened strands of hair, overgrown. Instead, his Bluey band-aid covered face hangs, giving in to the weight of exhaustion.
The action is aimless, instinctive. Your thumb absentmindedly smoothing over his cheek, roaming from his forehead, smoothing over his furrowed brow and down the perfect curve of his nose in its descent.
Anyone else would say the action was fond.
You would agree, though never out loud.
“‘Can make up an excuse for being late to English,” You mumbled, lips quirking upward ever so slightly at the whiny groan he emitted, melting into your palm like an adventure-weary toddler.
You know this face, behavior.
Driving home from the fair when he falls asleep against your shoulder, sleepovers freshman year, his head buried into your chest despite being older than yourself.
A reliance born from only having each other, growing up under a guise of normalcy so far from the actual truth. Because monster-hunting had always been a part of Bahng’s life, blood. His father (and, in turn, his mother), Chris’s grandparents, and so on.
You were just added into that mix. Though, not intentionally.
In some ways, it felt sort of like fate. An odd, twisted, cruel fate that acted as a whirlpool, sucking in any unfortunate soul too close into the rip current of monsters, madness, and the supernatural.
Getting snatched into that whirlpool yourself hadn’t been a part of the plan.
You’d been eleven, oblivious. Sure, maybe shotguns, a devil’s-trap etched onto random walls of his house, and blades specific to different supernatural entities might have been weird to your average person, but to your underdeveloped mind, you likely imagined the collection as a weird hobby.
The night his dad was murdered, however, shifted the course of both your lives in a matter of minutes.
Chris was a victim, you a witness.
As a result, two aspects became apparent after the incident: Clay became a name never spoken of after the event, and Chris’s easy ability to trust others—and yours—was shattered.
A friend of his dad’s, Clay had been. Coming over for a simple dinner together after years on “business trips”.
Later you learned Clay was a hunter as well, tracking the same demon that both ended up possessing him and ravaging Chris’s father into ribbons while his mother was out of town.
Though you hadn’t known that, not until, while cozying up in your best friend’s room, excitedly waiting for your favorite TV program to flicker on the fuzzy television, the sound of glass shattering and a guttural scream echoed from the front of the house.
Black eyes.
A distinct memory, etched into your bones like an unwanted tattoo.
Inhuman, how what used to be Clay ripped its head towards your two, trembling frames, once brown eyes blinking into jet-black.
Yet, it didn’t kill either of you. Just a look, a vague murmur, and a quirk of its lip—as if amused, the sick bastard—before vanishing into thin air. Leaving a mangled body, a bloody mess of what used to be a living room, and your traumatized forms attempting to understand the slightest semblance of what had occurred.
To no avail, even now.
In the demon’s wake, however, it left a riddle neither of you had been able to answer for the last five years within that mutter.
Little were you aware how pivotal it would become.
⎯ WHEN THE LIGHT FADES. (TEASER.) a Chris Bahng fiction
Christopher Bahng x implied! fem. reader
TROPE. monster! au, supernatural! au, best friends to lovers, angst, comfort, thriller, high stakes, suspense
WARNINGS. gory descriptions, murder, mentions of death, absence of parent, mention of demons/devil/witches/etc, traumatic events/memories, hallucinations, usage of weaponry, usage of religious symbols/rituals
WORD COUNT. estimated to be around 6k-10k words
AUG'S NOTES. i am so so thrilled to introduce this piece!! ever since beginning 'Supernatural' on Netflix, i knew channie would be the perfect fit for an au based upon the show<3 of course, with some of my twists and turns involved, i hope this story will become one you will enjoy :)
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. The town of Briar is tightly knit. Houses that multiple generations have lived within, a school with rickety fences, vines climbing up the windows, chalkboards still in use. To most, Briar was the epitome of boredom. Though, between you are your best friend, Chris, you know a different story. Because while many towns have their fair share of pest control against insects, it takes a special person—persons—to hunt down Briar’s own kind of pests: the Supernatural.
or alternatively :
When the light fades, I’ll simply hold your hand tighter.
It seems that from the start, humans have always had an innate curiosity toward the morbid. The unsettling, mysterious. Even the really, really gross.
But, y’know, each to their own.
Right?
The girl whose hair got in her face.
That was Christopher Bahng’s first impression of you, in actuality. Because while you thought you couldn’t look more epic in elementary school than standing by the playground, wind wisping through your hair, all he saw was a girl oddly okay with having hair whipped into her eyes, autumnal wind prickling at her skin.
“I heard that’s how you get pink-eye.”
If “no nonsense” needed a mascot, Chris would like to recommend you for the job.
“What, from wind?”
“No,” You mumble, breaking your nutella sandwich into two halves to share with him before pointing to Joon in the distance, furiously rubbing at his eyes after crying over a scraped knee. “Rubbing your eye.”
Ignorant to the nonsensical cock of his head, you nod matter-a-fact, legs swinging aimlessly from the playground bench.
Knowing a boy for a week meant you were pretty much best friends in the first grade—or that you liked him, but for you, that chance was far off. Instead, it signified a very, very lucky sharing of the yummiest lunch ever: yours.
That, and the half of a nutella sandwich that clings to his lips when he takes a bite, the chocolate remnants catching on his upper lip like a sad mustache.
Being as mature as you are, you laugh yourself silly at the sight. Chris, on the other hand, goes beet red.
All those years ago, you noticed for the first time how his ears flush pink when he’s embarrassed.
Something cute to hang onto later, perhaps.
Despite being older than you (by mere months), he trailed after you like a sad puppy throughout those primary school years. And middle school, and, subsequently, high school as well.
Except, not without some changes to the both of you.
Although you’d rather choke before ever admitting it, the once dopey-eyed, curly-headed boy had become… cooler.
Taller—a facet of this newness that pissed you off even now—a bit more muscular (a lot more muscular), with unchanging honeyed skin that warmed under the summer sun until a thin sheen of sweat decorated his forehead, caused droplets to run down his neck, dip below the neckline of a tank-top he’d don while fixing a friend’s car—
Just older. That’s all.
Unfortunately, everyone else in Levanter High wasn’t immune to the charm. And with a new chick on his arm just about every day, it’s almost impressive how the oblivious best friend of yours (an obliviousness you’re surprised has lasted this long) hasn’t gotten a girlfriend yet.
Blissfully ignorant to batting eyelashes and low-cut tops, apparently.
Moreover, he hasn’t even appeared interested in someone yet.
Though you have an inkling of knowledge towards the reason why. Because your years of friendship hadn’t just been video games at his place and meet-ups at Darcy’s Dairy for ice cream whilst walking home on hot afternoons, but hunting.
A reason why his dad wasn’t around anymore, a reason why, regardless of sitting across the classroom from him, you’re closer than ever.
Monsters, evil, whatever you want to call it.
Because while most worry about the come and go of deer season, every day in the quaint town of Briar was hunting season for you two.
Except, your eyes were focused upon a different kind of game.
Lurking in the shadows, responsible for the disappearances no one took the time to look into, the grisly murders deemed too coincidental to be anything but a suicide and disregarded in turn.
The gruesome, the gory. That was your sleepover, your hang-out after school.
Sure, it may be different than the average friendship, but to you and Chris, it was the ties that wove you together seamlessly into a knot unable to be loosened.
And until he located the thing that killed his father—something known to be supernatural—you’d be by his side.
An easy feat, if the perpetrator wasn’t a demon.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
A rightful complaint, you thought it to be, while Chris couldn’t help the snort of laughter in disbelief from behind you.
Of course, he relished in your frustration, exasperation. A mere add-on to your pattern of annoying each other maintained well over a decade.
In his case, the boy mainly savored the look you gave him, telling him all the thoughts swimming in that head of yours. Within the furrowed brows, the bottom lip tugged between your lips when you were thinking hard, concentrated.
Kinda cute, actually.
Clearing his throat and placing either hand on his hips helps dispel the matter to the back of his head.
“A hexbag, seriously?”
As for you, tugging a makeshift hexbag responsible for making random, curly pig tails spring up on the rears of plentiful Levanter high girls felt almost embarrassing. The fact it was shoved in a locker like some corny love note only amplified the mortification.
Because while Briar has its fair share of grueling supernatural forces, it also houses idiots manipulating said supernatural forces, oftentimes resulting in downright stupid moments like this.
Your guess? Some girl decided to act a fool and use what seemed to be a harmless book to target a hex onto a girl flirting with her boyfriend, unaware that witchcraft was not only real, but potent as well.
Talk about possessive, yeesh.
Even grosser, tiny animal bones litter into your hand as you shake out the bag, grumbling beneath your breath.
“Man, I always wondered what happened to Shark.”
Chris’s voice from over your shoulder earns a warning glare, hesitant to glance back down to the tiny bones.
“Shark” being your anatomy class hamster who mysteriously went missing a week ago.
Both the name and the disappearance are ironic, huh.
“How much you wanna bet it’s Delphine?” You wager, shifting your weight onto one leg. Chris, meanwhile, has no issue peering right over your shoulder–the manner in which he was practically breathing down your neck doing little to keep your swarming thoughts on track.
“The one that’s rumored to be sleeping with that preacher’s kid instead of Bryson?” He pipes in, earning your nod before your head snaps back to him in mild surprise.
“How do you know that? I thought you didn’t care to hear about the drama.”
There goes those pink ears, that innocent shrug used to brush off the truth written on his face.
And yet, after a bloody, rather traumatizing Wendigo hunt last week up in the mountains (the country being a hot spot of the Supernatural. Uninhabited and undisturbed), it felt nice to finally downsize into something almost childish.
Especially at the expense of this almost 177cm toddler, looking like he wants nothing more than to curl into a ball at the moment.
.
.
.
Of course, that entailed that you’d still handle the case maturely and seriously.
Right?
The post-it note on Delphine’s desk reading: “Witches in Salem were burned, y’know” (your writing), followed by a smaller, kinder, “He’s not worth it” (Chris’s doing after insisting you were too harsh) at the bottom proved otherwise.
Act stupid with dark magic, expect to be responded to stupidly.
Nevertheless, that ordeal was dealt with accordingly. And lo and behold, Delphine confessed in less than five minutes that it was merely a ploy to get back at a girl she believed had tempted her oh so pure boyfriend.
The throes of high school relationships.
Yikes.
Fortunately, Delphine was not the worst witch you had come across amid October’s impending cold, acting as a simple precursor paving way for worse ordeals to meander into days initially passing as normal.
You had yet to know just how worse it would be.
Whether for intentions dirty or innocent, the nurse’s office has acted as a hideaway for the vast majority of Levanter High. Going to visit friends, escaping Chemistry, making out with a boyfriend—a sight you’d unfortunately been witness to on too many occasions.
For you and Chris, the nurse’s office was used exactly as it should be used.
Except, with a bit of playful banter and too many bandaids for a meager knee-scrape.
“Your hair’s growing out.”
It also served as a soft point, a moment for a bit of weakness, vulnerability whilst mending wounds from earlier hunts.
This and his room in his old house served as central comfort spots. Warm lighting, oftentimes filled with the wafting aroma of a recently baked pie sifting through the cracks in the doorway where his mom would take to stress baking.
Desserts shared when you were younger, key parts of your heart still residing there as a second home.
Sleepy, hungry, hurting.
A good place to share feelings, be a little less irritable to each other.
“Mhm.”
Like now, where he doesn’t tug away from the gentle hand of yours smoothing through darkened strands of hair, overgrown. Instead, his Bluey band-aid covered face hangs, giving in to the weight of exhaustion.
The action is aimless, instinctive. Your thumb absentmindedly smoothing over his cheek, roaming from his forehead, smoothing over his furrowed brow and down the perfect curve of his nose in its descent.
Anyone else would say the action was fond.
You would agree, though never out loud.
“‘Can make up an excuse for being late to English,” You mumbled, lips quirking upward ever so slightly at the whiny groan he emitted, melting into your palm like an adventure-weary toddler.
You know this face, behavior.
Driving home from the fair when he falls asleep against your shoulder, sleepovers freshman year, his head buried into your chest despite being older than yourself.
A reliance born from only having each other, growing up under a guise of normalcy so far from the actual truth. Because monster-hunting had always been a part of Bahng’s life, blood. His father (and, in turn, his mother), Chris’s grandparents, and so on.
You were just added into that mix. Though, not intentionally.
In some ways, it felt sort of like fate. An odd, twisted, cruel fate that acted as a whirlpool, sucking in any unfortunate soul too close into the rip current of monsters, madness, and the supernatural.
Getting snatched into that whirlpool yourself hadn’t been a part of the plan.
You’d been eleven, oblivious. Sure, maybe shotguns, a devil’s-trap etched onto random walls of his house, and blades specific to different supernatural entities might have been weird to your average person, but to your underdeveloped mind, you likely imagined the collection as a weird hobby.
The night his dad was murdered, however, shifted the course of both your lives in a matter of minutes.
Chris was a victim, you a witness.
As a result, two aspects became apparent after the incident: Clay became a name never spoken of after the event, and Chris’s easy ability to trust others—and yours—was shattered.
A friend of his dad’s, Clay had been. Coming over for a simple dinner together after years on “business trips”.
Later you learned Clay was a hunter as well, tracking the same demon that both ended up possessing him and ravaging Chris’s father into ribbons while his mother was out of town.
Though you hadn’t known that, not until, while cozying up in your best friend’s room, excitedly waiting for your favorite TV program to flicker on the fuzzy television, the sound of glass shattering and a guttural scream echoed from the front of the house.
Black eyes.
A distinct memory, etched into your bones like an unwanted tattoo.
Inhuman, how what used to be Clay ripped its head towards your two, trembling frames, once brown eyes blinking into jet-black.
Yet, it didn’t kill either of you. Just a look, a vague murmur, and a quirk of its lip—as if amused, the sick bastard—before vanishing into thin air. Leaving a mangled body, a bloody mess of what used to be a living room, and your traumatized forms attempting to understand the slightest semblance of what had occurred.
To no avail, even now.
In the demon’s wake, however, it left a riddle neither of you had been able to answer for the last five years within that mutter.
Little were you aware how pivotal it would become.
TROPE. so so fluffy, suggestive ending, mentions of sex
AUG'S NOTES. more of The Gunsman! Chris from “Korea’s Most Wanted” bc i know he’s a secret softie and deserves much love<3
Chris who, despite your continuous reprimanding, never complains when you scold his careless cuts and scratches.
From the moment he enters the doorway and pulls off the black vest tightly hugging his figure you’re all over him, checking every bare inch of skin for wounds.
And of course, your husband obliges, standing still whilst you poke and prod like his own personal doctor.
It’s not until your panicked checking is over that he gets the chance to actually see you, the chance to wrap you up his arms and lift you right up onto the countertop to admire that pretty face of yours.
Such a juxtaposition to his career with how gently he treats you, how soft and saccharine his kiss is to your cheek, then your forehead and back down to your lips—staying there for just a few minutes longer. Savoring.
“No,” you state rather firmly, grabbing his tie and dragging him in again. Clad in a tight white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
How could anyone resist when he was looking like that?
“No?” He chuckles, his angle looking up at you from your position on the counter allowing you to adore those cocoa brown eyes—unfairly cute as they blink, surveying your face, your lips.
Apparently it’s his turn to get his fair share, and you’re pulled into a passionate, too chaste kiss quickly replaced with the attention he gives to your neck, littering up your jawline.
“Missed you.” He’d whisper between pants, your hands finding purchase looping around his shoulders while he leaves marks on what, after the many wild moments in the bedroom, is his.
“Missed me?” You echo just as he’d done earlier with a grin, and by the time he’s ended up at your clavicle does he nod, head thumping there, right above your heart with an exasperated sigh.
Waiting in case he moves, your fingers carefully pry themselves from his shirt’s seams, retreating to lift his chin.
My word. The man who just left multiple hickeys on your neck has baby-cow eyes, literally baby-cow eyes.
“I’m sorry,” He murmurs, tone leached in exhaustion.
Your brows knit confusedly, concern crossing your expression.
“Sorry? Why would you be sorry, baby?”
He presses himself further into your touch, exhaling deeply.
“I work all the time, and when I come home I don’t even have the energy to satisfy you. And you take care of me and everything.”
This is the man that’s job requires violence?
“Chris, look at me.”
He complies instantly, and you find yourself melting even more.
“Yes, sex is great, but we don’t need to have sex to satisfy me. I love you, and I love to take care of you, and that’s what satisfies me. I don’t need something in return, alright?”
Carefully combing through his partially sweaty tresses, he takes a moment, thoughtfully licking his lips, then leaving a soft peck upon your nose before hoisting you up, an action that earns a surprised gasp.
“Guess I got some energy back, huh.” He giggles, and your playful slap after the soft smack he gives to your ass is returned with an even louder giggle on the way to the bedroom.
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🔪 — You can't fall in love with him, he can't fall in love with you—that would be apocalypse.
LEE FELIX is your new bodyguard, and you hate his guts. Growing up the Mafia's princess, daughter of the most ruthless mob boss in the world, you learned at a young age—all humans are expendable. Now you're 5,956 miles from home, landing in Seoul South Korea with your infuriatingly perfect bodyguard on a very important mission—figure out how your father's henchmen are going missing. Nothing makes sense. Who is making so many ruthless criminals disappear? The more you and Felix dig into the past, the more you seem to expose. There’s so many gaps in the story, dark secrets to be uncovered, and betrayals to lament. Nothing is as it seems when you’re chasing a ghost. Will you be able to keep it together, seeing felix every day for the next year? There's so much that could go wrong.
♟️ — paring・felix x reader // genres・mafia!au, bodyguard!au, enemies to lovers, forbidden love, humor, slow burn, found family, mystery!au, hurt and comfort, smut…maybe // words・6.4k // chapter warnings・ fights, blood, knives, alcohol, mentions of death, crime and people going missing, uhhh cursing, i think that's it!
a/n・yayyy guys we finally did it!! the first chapter of my long awaited bodyguard!felix fic is finally here!! I struggled so much trying to write this fic. I certainly couldn't have done it without the lovely @jeonginsleftcheek who was my biggest supporter from the very beginning and all the way through when I had a mental breakdown, an existential crisis, a small writing hiatus, changed the plot, then changed it back, then changed it again, and changed it again but she helped me through it all. I truly cannot thank you enough for all your help. I hope I did it justice. (ozzy i am so sorry ik you've already read this a/n a million times but i really do love you and i appreciate you sooo much!!) p.s another super big thank you to my lovely editor and best friend @petvlss there would be so many comma splices without her.
You're switching between attendees, twirling into suited men's arms, only to be handed off to elegantly dressed women, the length of their sparkly gowns catching on glassy heels. The opulent ballroom, with its vaulted fresco ceilings and marbled floors, sparkles beneath the light of diamond chandeliers dangling above your tilted head.
Without fail, you trip into a large man's chest, his gloved hand clasping your waist right before you fall. You only see half of his dazzling smile before the world transforms, a thousand stars bursting in your vision as he dips you down, holding you closely, carefully as though your skin were made of precious jewels. It is through the gentleness of a faceless man's fingers that you realize you haven't once, throughout the entire night, cracked a grin.
Cue the indicative signs: an explosive warmth blossoming in your chest, a blinding smile stretching across your lips, and suddenly, with debilitating intensity, a feeling like you are, for once, truly free.
You never get a chance to fully discern your feelings, not before the floor trembles, the dancers dissolving into darkness. The shadows circle around your ankles, gnarled faces clawing their way up your calves—terror coils underneath your ribs, pulling you apart from the inside out.
Hopelessly, desperately, you search for the man's solace, fingers tugging at the sleeves around his shoulders, and somehow, in the chaos of your actions, you find yourself settling the pad of your thumb just under his jawline. He doesn't pull away, God, you wish he did—the shadows don't give you enough time to process the consequences of your actions before they go for his throat instead.
They snare him by the jugular, wrenching him out of your grasp, slamming his back into the wall hard enough to make him crumple. The darkness blankets his limp figure, falling over his shattered spine.
Anguish tears through your chest, ripping out of your throat in the form of a guttural scream. You try to chase him—you always do, you never learn—you don't get two steps forward before the cherub fresco drips off the ceiling, reverting back to its original form.
Blood.
Angels weep crimson tears; deep red rivulets that crystallize into claws over fractured ceilings. You should have known your freedom was ill-fated from the beginning—thick, heavy blood slithers down your throat, coating the pads of your fingertips with the manifestation of a curse.
You never feel it. The sickening crack of your heart tearing from your ribs, struck straight through a fresco's crimson claw. They assure that the next time you look at the man, it will be your last.
So you remain, paralyzed in clouds of umbra, until you gather enough strength to lift your neck. Until your eyes find his crumpled body, overturned and limp.
Who is he? You're left to wonder. Why can I never see his face?
You never find the rest of the man's face.
It is far too covered in your blood.
“Aim for the jaw!” A voice calls out from outside the ring, though it’s echoed in the dark, empty room.
A fist flies past your face. You dodge it, swiveling on a heel and kicking your opponent straight in the jaw.
He stumbles, slamming against the ground with a sickening crack, blood trickling from his lips. Yeah, he was definitely down for the count.
You hang off the ring ropes, a single brow lifted. “You done?”
He narrows his eyes, red painting his scowl. “What the fuck do you think?”
You let out a chuckle, tossing him a towel, which only deepens both your laugh and his scowl when it smacks him straight in the face. He spits into the fabric. “You didn’t have to kick me that hard.”
“You’re right, I didn’t—” you slip from the boxing ring before squirting some water in your mouth. You wipe off the excess, a shit-eating grin on your lips when you wink, “—But where’s the fun in that?”
He rolls his eyes, but his lips twitch up—just slightly.
You’ve worked with him for three days short of two months, and in this time, you’ve gathered more than enough information on him. He’s practically harmless, figuring he’s a simple drug runner, and as a testament to his loyalty under your father, offered to aid in your training. He’s twenty-five, no kids or wife, with a strong jaw and cropped black hair. He has surprisingly strong punches, and his name is Alejandro Gomez, though he doesn’t know you’ve figured that out.
It’s a gift to know somebody's name. It’s a sign of trust, of loyalty, an unsaid promise that, if things go south, I won’t snitch.
Names are also a means for leverage.
You still don’t know your father's real name.
You’re in the middle of going over your performance with your instructor, Ji-yoo, when suddenly someone taps you on the shoulder and whispers something into your ear. “You’re needed in the study.”
Diego, you’ve grown familiar with his voice. He’s been your father’s bodyguard for years. He straightens, folding his hands behind his back and settling them atop his thick utility belt, his gaze set forward. You look up, brows furrowed. He gives you a small, clueless shrug.
“Right,” you mutter, annoyed, gathering your belongings and bidding your tutor a final goodbye. Diego doesn’t ever know anything; he simply does what he’s told. He opens the door for you and escorts you all the way to your father’s study.
“Come in,” A voice commands, following the rap of the bodyguards' knuckles. The sun breaks through a large skylight above him, casting a youthful glow across his otherwise opaque expression, hands folded atop his desk. He didn’t seem agitated, and you’ve been following orders, so you’re drawing a blank for what this meeting could be about. Diego pulls the double doors shut, taking his post outside.
It wasn’t often that he met with you, and you understood why; he’s a busy man, business and whatnot. Sure, he didn’t always have time for things like family dinners. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you. He did, contrary to popular belief. He protected you, providing you with as many tutors and Jiu Jitsu instructors as you needed. It was hard—hours and hours of constant training, but if that’s what it took to survive a world this dangerous, this cruel, then you were lucky to have a father like him watching over you.
“You needed me?”
“Sit down, Mija,” He doesn’t betray anything in his calm, leveled tone, extending a hand out to the velvet chair in front of him. You obey. Mija—a Spanish term of endearment meaning “my daughter”—reveals both his thick accent and Mexican heritage. He’s been calling you that for as long as you can remember.
“I’m not going to be here forever, you know.” That catches you off guard, “And one day, you’re going to need to take over my empire.”
You squirm, whispering, “I know.”
“You’ve proven yourself more than capable over these past few years.” His lips twitch, almost imperceptibly, but you notice it. It’s such a rare sight, it makes pride firework in your chest. “I’m proud of you.”
A smile threatens to split your face in two, but you bite it back, opting for a curt nod. “I appreciate it.
He doesn’t respond; instead, he places a single hand on your shoulder. The air shifts, something catching behind his eyes, a bit hesitant, but still deliberate when he finally says, “You deserve a more significant role, I’ve seen everything you can do, everything you’ve achieved.” This time it’s impossible to keep the grin off your cheeks, that is, until he finishes, “That’s why I’ve decided to send you to Korea.”
All good, fuzzy feelings screech to a deafening halt.
“Korea?” Suddenly, it feels like somebody's tossed you into the ice-cold Atlantic, duct-taped and wriggling.
A pause, and then he’s retracting his hand, giving a quick, dismissive wave. “We’ve run into some issues in Seoul. A loose end, if you will. It’s nothing we can’t handle, of course, but it’s never a loss to be cautious. It’s going to be an easy fix, I’m sure.”
“A fix? What am I fixing?” That makes him laugh, dark and humorless.
“You won’t be fixing anything. You will be finding the loose end, whoever that may be, and well, I’ll deal with all the rest.” There’s something sinister with the way he says that, a tone that sits in the pit of your gut like rotten milk. You know exactly what he does to loose ends.
“I need eyes on the inside, somebody smart, loyal, somebody I can trust. That somebody is you, Mija. It’s always been you.” It’s the first time since you’ve seen him that you aren’t looking into his eyes, chewing on your bottom lip. You shouldn’t be this unsure. It was all wrong; he is right. You were loyal. You deserved this role.
Then, why were you hesitating?
Something in your expression must betray your inner conflict because he’s cocking his head and purring, “What, do you not think you can handle it?”
You stay silent.
He sighs, giving a curt, disappointed shake of his head. “I thought you were ready, but if you don’t think you can handle it—”
“No!” You blurt out before those pesky thoughts can stop you. “No, you’re right. I’m ready, I can handle it.”
He nods, something flickering in his eyes. “I’ve already arranged everything. It won’t be a safe mission, but with Felix, you will be.”
Felix? He doesn’t give you enough time to wonder. He leans forward, pressing the sleek intercom button, “Diego, let Felix in.”
The double doors part, and a large black boot plants itself on the ground. A second later, the single most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life glides into the room, and your lips part.
He’s not the biggest man you’ve seen, but he makes up for that with muscle, packed underneath that tight, black uniform. He appears young, with delicate, pink lips and golden hair that falls just above his shoulders, slicked back with a few strands hanging over his forehead. A swarm of butterflies erupts in your stomach, much to your demise.
It doesn’t click quite yet, the role Felix plays, because all you can imagine is how nice it’s going to be sleeping next to him. And then, “Y/N, meet Felix—your new bodyguard.”
The butterflies die, burn, and drop into the pit of your stomach in a messy, blood-stained soup. You stiffen, out of all the recent revelations, this one makes you feel like you were going to die.
“Hello,” he says, respectfully bowing his head in greeting. He startles you with his deep voice, warm and accented. ”It’s nice to finally meet you.”
He smiles, soft and disarming in its kindness, for a second, you’re more terrified than anything, not of him, but for him. As quickly as it came, you stuff it deep inside of you, replacing it with a cold indifference. “You really think this is necessary? I mean, I haven’t had one of those since…” You can’t bear to say it, the mere memory makes a thick lump form in your throat.
He sighs, extending an arm out and grabbing a bottle of whiskey from his shelf, a cherry, and a cup. His lips form a hard line, voice lowering. “If you don’t make the same mistakes, you don’t have anything to worry about.” He lifts a sharp, polished blade from his pocket, gaze never wavering as he slices into the fruit. It bleeds into the crystal glass, red liquid staining his tanned fingers. “This time will be different. Correct?”
Slowly, the juice drips across the blade until it reaches the hilt. You swallow, breath slowing to a stop. He’s right—
You won’t make the same mistake again.
You meet his gaze, jaw tight. “Yes, sir.”
He seems pleased by that answer.
“You will be briefed on the plane,” your father says, tipping the liquid into his mouth. “For now, rest. I will send you a car tomorrow morning at eight. Felix, make sure she is ready by then.”
“You will be briefed on the plane,” your father says, reaching behind him and grabbing a bottle of whiskey. He pours it into a crystal glass, tipping it into his mouth. “For now, rest. I will send you a car tomorrow morning at ten. Felix, make sure she is ready by then.”
Felix gives him a curt nod. “Yes, sir.”
You’re scooting back before a cold, wet blade lands against your jaw. It smells like whiskey and blood. His voice drops to a whisper, shifting until it’s only you and him in the room.
“We’re family, Mija.” He tilts your chin up, and for a second, it feels like you’re looking at yourself. “There’s not a love stronger than that, and right now your family needs you. You wouldn’t wanna mess that up, would you?”
The mere idea makes goosebumps prickle up your arms. “No, of course not.”
He smiles, and for once, it actually reaches his eyes. “That’s my girl.”
Felix doesn’t dare look at you as you walk through the doors, sealing your fate.
You are so fucked.
“You’re not sleeping on the bed,” is the first thing you say when you walk into your bedroom, swiveling around.
“I’m glad we’re on the same page.” For whatever reason, you expected him to pick some kind of fight, comment on your pettiness, send you an eye-roll—something. But no, he’s utterly indifferent, leaning against the edge of your dresser and pulling off his velcroed gloves with a satisfying rip. Frustration bites underneath your eyelids.
You could really use a drink right now.
At that, you shoo him away from your dresser—also a secret mini bar—earning you a confused side-eye, before moving out of the way. You pull open a drawer, coming face-to-face with rows of glistening alcohol bottles. Felix sends you a mildly horrified look. “Are you of legal age to be drinking—”
“Are you of legal age to be working?” You smile, popping the lid off a whiskey bottle and drowning two shots’ worth of liquor down your throat.
“Hilarious.” He deadpans.
A cocky tilt of your head. “Most people think so.”
Silence.
With a small sigh, you collapse onto the bed, thick sheets ruffling underneath you as you take this valuable time and observe your new bodyguard. His gaze clouds as you take another sip of whiskey, a small divot forming in his forehead as momentarily, his movements stutter. He doesn’t seem to be a terrible person, per se. But that didn’t matter; the tension still clamped around your ribs all the same.
After a few more minutes of mindless studying, the alcohol finally hits your system, muscles loosening and anxiety floating up from your lopsided grin. This is the part you loved the most about being drunk, getting tipsy.
Felix must have noticed your drunken smile because no sooner do you express joy is he extending out a hand and crushing it. “I think that’s enough.”
“The blankets are in the hall closet. You can have this—” you ignore him, turning around to snatch a pillow from your bed and catapult it at his face. He catches it with a tick in his jaw and a single raised brow. That is a lot hotter than you are willing to admit. With a flustered cough, you continue. “Make your bed wherever, I don’t really care. I’m going to bed.” You punctuate your sentence with a final swig, but Felix gently wraps his fingers around your jaw, lifting your chin before the lips can touch the rim.
“I think that’s enough.” He repeats in that wicked deep voice of his, a flicker of warning in his gaze. Your heart does an elaborate salsa dance all the way to your throat. Oh, you were far too drunk for this.
You shakily hand the bottle to him.
With that, he smiles, dropping your face and locking up the bottle before turning back to you, innocently asking, “Where’d you say the blankets were, again?”
Your heart still hasn’t finished its lessons in salsa when you breathe, “In the closet.”
He nods before leaving the room and shutting the door behind him. You fall back against your mattress with a heavy, heavy breath. Was this what it was going to be like for the rest of your time together? Him demanding things from you in that sick, twisted voice of his. It’s unfair! He sounds like panties dropping! You literally can’t do this. Nope. Nada. Not happening. If he was going to order you around like you weren’t a full grown adult then he could at least be considerate and not sound like a bad (good) porno!! All that anxiety and pent-up energy comes out in the form of a frustrated cry, turning into your pillow and pummeling your fists into it like the mature adult you were.
Felix comes back in mid-throw, which, with your super-amazing reflexes, you still immediately, clearing your throat and taking said pillow in your hands to pretend to fluff it out.
He stops mid-step, letting out an amused laugh before tossing his blankets onto the ground. “Do I wanna know?”
Your cheeks flush dark red. “Do you wanna sleep in the hallway?”
He lifts his hands in a playful, placating stance before continuing to set up his makeshift bed. When he’s finished, you’ve already settled in, covers thrown over your shoulders. Bedsheets rustle as he turns, politely tapping your mattress. With an annoyed huff, you mutter, “What?”
It takes him a beat to respond. Though when he does, his soft, kind voice disarms you. “Goodnight.”
You don’t have it in you to respond.
The dream always begins the same.
It always ends the same, too.
Blood.
You awaken with a shout, jerking off your sweat-soaked mattress to grasp at your intact T-shirt. It’s only then, when you take a deep breath with your full, working lungs, that your heart takes the hint.
You’re alive.
The dull sound of a body shifting makes your nerves fire all over again, spine stiffening as you swivel around on your mattress in search of the sound. Blonde.
Felix.
He’s sleeping, lashes splayed across pale cheeks in such a way that he almost appears ethereal. Delicate. Mortal.
That’s when you’re hit with cold, sharp reality—a feeling that coils around you and pierces that sensitive spot inside your chest, forever bruised by your own consequences.
You can’t be here right now.
It hasn’t been more than four hours, so naturally, you’re still drunk. Vision swaying as you swing your legs off the bed and tiptoe out of the room, peeking back to find a still, hopefully sleeping, Felix.
Thankfully, the more you awaken, the more bubbly you feel, slipping back into the carefree, tipsy version of yourself. The house is silent and dark, hallways solely illuminated by dim, gilded lamps. They provide drops of light, sneaking further and further down the large, spiral staircase.
You have a single foot on the stairs when suddenly, a deep, raspy voice appears from thin air, startling you straight out of your skin. “Late night snack?”
You let out a high-pitched yelp, swiveling around to throat punch the intruder. Though you weren’t going far because the quick movement is enough to make you dizzy. Warm hands clasp over your shoulders, steadying you before you nosedive down the stairs.
That’s when you see him—those bright, innocent eyes and golden hair that seems to glow in the moonlight. For a second, you’re under a spell. He’s like really pretty.
Then you remember who he is.
“Your dad doesn’t like it when you’re out past 10.” He glances at his watch. “It’s 1:44 a.m.”
Good feelings gone.
“Are you just everywhere?” You grumble, fighting the slur that tangles on your tongue.
“Please, come back to bed. You’re going to be tired in the morning.” Felix says, restrained frustration stretching his voice thin.
Should you listen to him? Yeah, probably. Were you going to? Hell no.
So, like the mature adult you are, you stomp down the hallway in your fuzzy, pink, Hello-Kitty slippers.
Felix doesn’t bother trying to stop you, his sharp eyes trailing you as you continue this petulant temper tantrum. “Where are you going?”
Emotion wells up in your throat when you notice the exhaustion rasping his voice. For a split second, your movements stutter. This is ridiculous, you were fully aware of that, but you’re too stubborn to quit now. If he’s going to accompany you for the next…forever, he’s going to get the whole Y/N L/N package. Maybe, then it’ll all click.
He doesn’t belong here.
You’re stumbling nowhere, you can’t run away from him anyway, figuratively and literally. The turn you took leads to a dead end. You still walk anyway. “Not to Korea with you, that’s for sure!”
“Oh, what is your problem??” He retorts through gritted teeth, his exasperation only growing when you turn around and stick your tongue out. He sucks on his teeth, his own tongue pressed into his cheek. “Y’know what—”
It takes him three strides to catch up with you, two hands clasping over your hips, and a single movement for the carpet to be on the ceiling. You cry out, his shoulder digging into your stomach as he wraps his forearm around the backs of your knees. He can’t be serious. How dare he, manhandling you like this! You were ready to go full Jiu Jitsu on his ass, that is until something much more enticing catches your attention. His actual ass.
The realization dawns on you with a hiccup.
“Y’know I can’t be too mad at’cha, man, I do have an excellent view from down here.” The liquor must have rushed to your head because you feel a dire need to make Felix aware of his fabulous buttocks. Drunken giggles bubble up from your lips as you take in his ass in all its plump, round goodness. “Hey Felix, has anybody ever told you, you have a great butt?” You land a firm smack against it.
His back grows rigid, muscles rippling under your touch before he awkwardly clears his throat and pushes the bedroom door open.
“Okay, down you go.” His voice is tight, matching his movements as he cradles the back of your head and lays you on the mattress.
You expect him to respond with an irritated glare and a snide comment, but he doesn’t say anything; in fact, he doesn’t look at you at all. The darkness shadows his face, but when he steps into the moonlight, you see it. The red creeping across his cheeks.
You can’t stop the laughter that bursts from your throat. It’s not actually that funny, but right now, with how drunk you are—it’s the funniest shit you’ve ever witnessed. Felix’s face is painted in horror.
He’s blushing harder now, cherry creeping up his neck and staining the tips of his ears. “What? What’s so funny?!”
You’re writhing on the sheets, clutching your stomach as you gasp for breath. “Y-Your face is soooo red!”
Your comment does nothing to help his embarrassment.
His expression does nothing to help your laughter.
“Go to bed.” He demands, begrudgingly ducking into the makeshift ground-bed and throwing the covers over his face.
“I am going to have so much fun with you.” You giggle, tapping the crown of his covered head.
“Goodnight.” He huffs, defeated and muffled underneath the sheets. He hasn’t even been here a day and he’s already done with you.
You let out one final snicker before drifting back to sleep.
Santiago Reyes.
He’s the string that unraveled it all.
Who pulled it? That’s what’s important here.
You still haven’t figured it out.
Now, you’re down twelve hours on a private jet, six coffees, three grueling conversations with Felix—one of those being when he woke you up late, on purpose. That little prick. You’re still not over that. Two hangover-proof Tylonals, and one impending conversation with Minho.
Which brings you here, drowning in the sound of a ringing phone, impatiently waiting for him to answer.
Minho is your father's assistant…kind of. He’s pretty much a built in archivist, hacker, account, therapist, handyman and soon-to-be drinking buddy. If he would actually take up your offer. But alas, he likes the prospect of rotting away in a basement better than taking shots with you.
He’s probably got the right idea, but still. Ouch.
The phone picks up.
You let an audible, revealed sigh. “Oh, just the man—”
Minho blurts, “Yes, sir, she’s on the line.” before you can finish, a panicked tilt in his voice. Which is his way of saying “please, for the love of everything holy, don’t get me fired.”
“Y/N, are you there?” Your brows touch your hairline when you hear your father's voice filt through the speaker. You’ve spoken more to your father in the past 36 hours than you have in the past 36 days. Most conversations were translated through Minho, not with Minho. So, in conclusion, this is a trip.
“Yes…I’m here?”
“Good. Have you looked through the files yet?” He’s wasting no time, you see.
It takes a solid ten seconds to slam back down to earth, tongue dry and heavy as you blurt, “Oh, yeah! Yeah, I’ve looked through them! Um, gotten to all of them…specifically the Santiago file. That one has caught most of my interest.”
Minho speaks up, talking like the walking Wikipedia page he is: “Santiago Reyes, age 34 was the first to go missing, he disappeared June 14th 2020. He was last seen fleeing your hotel in California—Thanatos Tower. He both lived and operated there, often holding extravagant business parties there. The hotel was raided by the FBI 8 hours later.”
That catches you by surprise. The file never said anything about FBI. “The FBI raided one of our hotels? How did that happen?”
Your father's wrath is ill contained when he mutters, “That’s a good question. Thankfully, they didn’t find anything important. If they did we would’ve been rotting in prison years ago.”
Felix perks up, lifting his nose from his book and not-so-subtly eavesdrops.
“If everything started in LA, why are you sending me to Korea?” You ask softly, mindlessly flipping through the files again.
“Are you sure you read the files yet?” Your father scoffs, diminishingly.
Thankfully, he can’t see you because the way your cheeks turn bright red is downright pathetic. “Yeah, of course I did…I was just confused…sorry.”
Minho, being the God-send he is, quickly interjects. “Santiago is important, yes. But, most, or well, I should say, all, the other members were busted in Korea. Hence you being sent to Korea and not LA. I don’t believe these two cases are connected.”
“It wasn’t in his file, but I’m going to assume Santiago got busted as well.”
There’s silence on the other end. It stretches suspiciously long.
“Santiago is MIA.” Minho finally breaks the silence.
Felix makes a face. You glare at him. His eyes go wide, and he ducks back behind his book.
“Santiago is MIA? His home was raided by the FBI, but we don’t know where he is?”
More silence.
“Well…we have a theory...” Minho states awkwardly.
“Minho has a theory.” Your father interrupts.
“I think he’s dead.” Minho corrects, clearly trying to control his temper.
“I think he’s in prison. A secure facility, and due to the nature of his crimes and ties to the Mafia, his records are confidential. The other seventeen missing people were found in prison.” A clink is heard on the other end. Your father was definitely making himself a drink.
Wait. Eighteen.
You stack the manila folders up, counting and recounting before hesitantly saying, “I only have seven folders here.”
Felix, sitting across from you, tosses you a folder that magically fell into his lap. “Eight.” He whispers, looking guilty as hell.
You send him a deadly glare. “Eight.”
“Minho was only able to recover eight files before the KNPA found his leak; thankfully, he was able to erase his tracks before they could trace him.”
“So, we’re missing like half of the files?” You sigh, defeated and annoyed.
Minho grunts from the other end. “It’s better than nothing.”
“The rest, they’re just guessing games? How do you even know that—”
“Mija.” Your father's assertive tone seals your lips shut and forces you back on track.
“Here, it says: video evidence.” They can’t see you, but you still point at the file with your pen anyway. “What video evidence?”
“See, this is where it starts to get messy—” Minho starts.
“Like it wasn’t already messy.” You mutter under your breath. Felix breathes out a quiet laugh.
“All eighteen people are currently being held with video evidence. Though it never actually says what kind of video that is.”
“There’s nothing useful in these files. It’s just a whole bunch of basic information and vague terms.” You mutter frustrated, slamming the folders back onto the table. “We’re chasing a damn ghost.”
“That’s where I want you to start.” Your father speaks up, “Look into the evidence, see what they have against us. Once we know what they’ve got, we’ll know who gave it to them. I’ll be in touch.” Only you can hear the silent goodbye. “Minho, finish this off.” The line drops.
You both let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
It’s easy to talk to Minho, but around your father, it’s like doing ballet around broken glass.
You don’t waste any time, bidding your goodbyes and hanging up the call. Your plan was to open your computer and spend the next two hours digging into the evidence before landing. But you didn’t even get to your private server before the sound of Felix’s raspy voice interrupts you mid-click. He sinks into the seat beside you, now holding a mug of fresh coffee. “Y’know, I never caught your name.”
His statement sends ice-cold annoyance rushing through your body. Your shoulders stiffen. “Good.”
He stills mid-sip of his coffee, and you can already imagine the divit forming in his brow. “You don’t…want me to know your name?”
“You don’t need to know it.” You mutter bitterly, hoping he’ll finally take the hint, but no, of course he doesn’t.
His eyes burn into the side of your head. “What do you want me to call you then?”
Your voice is flat. “I’d rather you don’t talk to me at all.”
There’s a pause. He blinks. Once. Twice. Then he lets out a loud, exasperated snort, setting his cup into the holder and leaning back. His thighs spread apart, wide.
“Alright, princess.” The word slides off his tongue so easily, his voice dipping sinfully deep. Your brain quite literally buffers. Your fingers slip on the keyboard, and the computer flashes before darkening.
Oh no. Oh, no, no, no. No. He is not going to do this to you. And you are not going to get flustered because some guy in a suit and a sexy voice calls you a pet name. You hate it. Actually, it’s demeaning, mocking, if anything. You do not like him calling you that.
It takes you a solid ten seconds to convince yourself of that fact.
“Don’t call me that.” You bite and pray he doesn’t hear the wobble in your voice.
His lips twitch. “Then tell me your name.”
You squint at him and really think about it.
Theoretically, you could tell him your name. He probably already knows it, anyway. But this is Felix we’re talking about. The same man who woke you up an hour late and robbed you of your morning scone.
“No.” You say, stubbornly.
“Then, it’s settled, princess.” He smirks lazily. Your bodyguard is going to need a bodyguard if he doesn’t shut up in the next two seconds. Of course, he continues. “I overheard your conversation—”
“You mean eavesdropped?” You smile.
He chuckles, shaking his head at your pettiness. “Yeah, something like that.”
You let out a snort yourself, refreshing your computer screen. It buzzes and flashes white. You switch to the embedded private browser that Minho installed.
“You need working theories. Do you have any?” Felix finishes, scooting closer to you.
You stiffen.
The answer is no. You have no working theories.
Felix must sense your hesitation because he scoots closer, voice softening. “I can help, y’know…”
“I don’t need your help.” You snap a little too harshly.
Felix nods, scooting back to give you more space. “You’re right. You don’t need my help,” He pauses, and his voice lowers into something warmer, more patient. “But I want to help you. It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes.”
Being the daughter of a Mafia boss came with its own set of challenges, but there’s one that’s been tattooed into you since birth. The unabiding ideology that, simply because you are a woman, you’re expected to fail. People talked down to you, not directly. And never to your face.
But you noticed it in the subtext, reading between the lines just like your father taught you. They weren’t trying to help you.
They were trying to do what they thought you couldn’t.
And, just like they expect you to fail. You expect him to be just like all the others. It’s unfair. You realize that now.
He speaks with so much earnestness that something inside you softens. Guilt gnaws at your stomach as you bite your bottom lip.
He’s right. It wouldn’t hurt to have an extra set of eyes.
“Fine.” You sigh, sliding him the stack of files. His lips curve, and his eyes crinkle into little crescent moons.
He eagerly snatches the files. “You won’t regret it, I swear!”
“I better not.”
“What’s a ‘Discord?”
Felix peeks up from the home he’s made of mugshots and manila folders across from you. “Discord?”
You nod, cursor hovering over said link. It’s been a little over an hour now, and within that time—you haven’t actually found anything useful out—but you did discover an interesting website called Tumblr and now Discord. The power of the internet.
Felix’s brow crinkles, and he waddles out of the delicate paper trail he’s made to lean over your shoulder, eyes flicking across your computer before pulling away. “Oh yeah, Discord. It’s like a website for talking or whatever. A lot of gamers use it.”
Your brows shoot up. “Would avid podcast listeners use it?”
You’ve been grasping at straws at this point. You jumped from a few useless news articles covering the case—which pretty much just included information you already had—to some more personal blogs and external resources before finally discovering something minutely useful. A user under the name @spencerreidsslut (valid) wrote something about a Case Files episode covering the case. Which brings you here, talking to Felix and pondering clicking this suspicious link.
He cocks his head and clicks his tongue. “Theoretically, I guess they could. I don’t really know, though. I’ve only ever used it for gaming.”
You almost brush past it, but then it hits you.
You jerk your neck up. “You gamhjue?”
Felix’s eyes widen before he awkwardly clears his throat, a bashful blush flooding his cheeks. “Um, yeah…I do…”
You snicker, tapping the link. “Why am I not surprised?”
His blush deepens, and he shoots you an annoyed look. “Oh, be quiet.”
You were going to retort, but then the page loads. Lines of colorful messages pop up, most of them were small talk among friends and conversation about other episodes, until you reach around the time Ki-yoo, the first missing person, was arrested.
You scroll some more through people berateing Ki-yoo, some questionable jokes before something catches your eye.
You stop reading right there.
“Hey, Felix, I think I found something.” Wordlessly, he walks over to you, leaning over your shoulder once more. His eyes widen.
Without thinking, you click the link.
It feels like a lifetime of loading and shared panicked breaths as you imagine the amount of trouble you’d be in for allowing somebody to hack your computer before the screen fills with red.
A single pulsing triangle. You’ve been taken to Twitter. There’s nothing on the page. No comments. No likes. No retweets. Only a video.
Felix presses play for you, and nobody could have prepared you for the scene that unfolds before you.
Your blood freezes in your veins.
Ki-yoos in front of a camera. He scoots into a chair, hair looking sweat-caked and disheveled. He parts his lips, and your spine turns to stone because Ki-yoo didn’t get busted.
He turned himself in.
OMFG GUYS I DID IT!!! like 9 months later ive finally finished it...
if you wanna be tagged in the rest of the chapters please comment!!
⎯ what remains unspoken. ⟡ featuring christopher bahng
🪝 : Christopher Bahng x implied! fem. reader
TROPE. best friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, jealousy, angst, two idiots chasing their own tails believing their love is unrequited (ㅠㅠ), based in australia, summer! au, beachhouse! au
WORD COUNT. 8.3k words ☆ 32min read
WARNINGS. cursing, jealousy/shame, reader moves away, mentions of drunkenness, nondesc smut, a dirty dream? (nondesc), reader is said to wear makeup, mentions cheating
AUG'S NOTES. working myself through a writing block.. this fic has helped a lot :) thank you all for being patient with me thus far, i think writing for channie is like free therapy<3 please let me know what you think!!
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. Attached to the hip, you and Chris might as well have been twins in a past life. And yet, it’s always that tiny inkling, so many years where one of the two wants something more. So when you bring home a boyfriend one summer and both you and Chris begin drifting apart, you wonder if that denial will become something permanent.
or alternatively :
Until when do you stop pretending?
Among many things, Chris likes to think there was an “oh shit” moment to his life. One, exactly.
Over the years he tried pinpointing when that would be, what that would be.
And then you brought a boyfriend home. His home. To a beach house you two would occupy together. Making shadow puppets with your hands and running out to the beach in the early mornings.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Making sand castles, running into the water with your clothes on and running out giggling messes.
For two weeks every summer, always. Together.
Never with a plus one.
He debated upon subtly sizing up the guy or appearing overly friendly, but not an ounce of his face seemed to move. Steely.
Cold.
Chris was never cold, and he felt that pang in his chest—guilt—seeing you notice it. That miniature knit of your brow, the purse of your lips.
Did he know you like Chris did? Know when you were angry, or frustrated. What your favorite song was, or how you preferred your hair when you were focused?
He wanted to hate comparison, he used to hate comparison.
And now he’s hating himself for being too late, letting you slip from his grasp like sand between his fingers.
When you were once protagonists of a novel written with a happy ending, that love interest was now home to another.
And he was a bystander to a love story that was never his, watching you smile at someone else.
Someone that wasn’t him.
Breakfast is hellish, not to mention the sleeping arrangements. This boyfriend of yours in the guest bedroom, while he sleeps in his.
Alone. Without you, or your pretty hair, or your pretty eyes. Void of your warm body snuggled up to his, where you used to make silly jokes beneath covers and muffle laughter in turn.
A part of him wants to cry, wants to ask you what you two used to be. What was under the covers?
“Ah.. Chris..” The soft moan of yours, all those years back. Stupid, seventeen, single. A cursed pair of “S”’s he hadn’t realized would come to haunt him each time he closed his eyes.
What was your pretty sounds, his face between your thighs those five years back?
Was it all pretend? Exploration as friends?
No, you were smarter than that.
So he tells himself he was too late, and endures.
Because maybe, maybe they’ll be a plot twist one chapter. Where you fall for the side character.
No, no book ends like that.
It all started in an editing firm’s office.
Well, not literally, considering you hadn’t even been in your mother’s mind until Jessica Bahng—mother of a four-month old Chris Bahng—held back a poor woman’s hair while she belched into a toilet.
That poor woman being your mother, who found out she was pregnant that evening after work.
And through a few Saturday’s at the corner cafe and prolonged conversation by the office’s monitors, the two became the best of friends. Watching little Chris grow into a toddling one year old, and in the process welcoming you into the world nearly ten months later.
From there, almost every waking moment consisted of time together. Chris as the lanky teenager with his brown hair sweeping across a tanned forehead, and you, following after him each step he took at less than a year younger. Kindergarten, Primary School.
Although, in the midst of the friendship, your father had found a better job opportunity in Brisbane, a decent ten-hour drive from the Bahng household you’d found second home in.
Though, after plenty of crocodile tears and mumbled “I’ll miss you”’s tumbling from an eighth grade mouth too absorbed in worrying about the matter of leaving rather than the fact you’d likely visit every month, you departed, off to a city so different from the Sydney you had known of.
Even if it was Australia all the same.
And in turn, the annual summer visits began.
Summer before your freshman year of high school, where Chris finally got his braces off in his sophomore year and you soaked up every ounce of information given on surviving the first few days of school.
Then your own sophomore year, filled with feelings and discoveries and struggles unearthed you didn’t think could be experienced so vividly, expectations in need of fulfillment the board expected a sixteen year old to answer immediately.
What do you want to do with your life? Any plans for college? What about taking these extra classes? They look good on a résumé.
And simultaneously rip the ounces of childhood from your fingertips, but no school board puts that in the papers.
So the moment the car door opens after hellish voyaging to Sydney, you allow your lungs to inhale each ounce of salty air the Bahng family house offers, the childishness allowed for once amid crushing pressure.
It is a meager five minute walk to the lapsing shoreline after all, and the ocean keeps good secrets within the sand, washing away your footprints as to flush away traces of whatever happenings occurred there.
Yet, never truly forgotten. Instead, taken into the waters for little children to tell their mother of whom never believe the ocean spilled someone’s precious secrets.
“Chris.”
June eighteenth of your second year in high school, pajama-clad knees curl close into your body, lashes dusting open in the sparsely lit room to focus on him.
A dilation of the pupils, a hitch of the breath when he turns to you.
High school has changed Chris, but not in a foul manner. Blond curls, he’s exchanged from his usual russet locks. Round cheeks shifting in tandem with a sculptors hand, the marble of his skin a bit more toned, defined.
His jaw that clicks when he grows angered—not often, sometimes at his gaming system.
Thickened brows furrowing and knitting in concentration.
Though those eyes are the same, and always will be. No other will have eyes like his, and you know in any life, in any state of amnesia, they would be recognized.
An “aha” moment where a switch flips in your brain, formulating a mere sentence involuntarily.
I love this boy, and I hope for forever he’ll look back at me.
And for that, you’re selfish. But honest.
If Christopher was a stranger, a look into that gaze and you think you’d know him instantaneously.
How silly.
But just as you had spoken, you’re reminded that childishness was something found each time you visited this place regardless of your actions. You’d hold onto that.
“I don’t want to grow up.”
The bit of fat at his under-eyes cause his eyes to form into crescent moons when he smiles, wrinkles at the corner of thick lashes crinkling.
Chris has always liked the moon.
A warm hand of his reaches forward, cupping your cheek as if the first time.
You think you like this more.
“Then don’t.”
A stroke of his thumb, and you snort a laugh when the cold of your nose bumps against the digit.
“And when you want to go back to being sixteen, come to see me, okay?”
Little did you both know that the future had a way of testing just how long sixteen would last.
Until when do you stop pretending?
An explanation as to how you ended up with the curly blond’s lips pressed to your thighs doesn’t sit anywhere in sight, and in the quiet comfort of your bedroom, you let the thought slip by.
Yet, in the end, there’s as much of a pathetic excuse as expected.
That serves for a bit of background information first.
It was a mistake.
You were just teenagers.
But the stinging feeling in your heart, like the swelling of a thorn stuck between your rib cage, tells you that’s far from the truth.
For any infant it’s easy to placate an act, a theatre of behavior. For your stuffed animals as a doctor, for diving into the pool after the rings a mother would toss in beforehand, feigning the role of an experienced diver.
But there comes both a time and occasion to weave a lie, no less complete the loom as someone cognitive enough to understand a situation’s veracity.
When the mind is said to be “not fully developed” but each and every predicament feels like it matters on behalf of the world, when a sentence a year back pops itself from hiding, appearing at the forefront of your mind.
The true question.
Just how long can one stay sixteen?
Junior year, with eighteen lingering a hairsbreadth away for the both of you.
Junior year, where talk of pressures and intimacy lead to Chris being your first time.
And in turn, you were his.
Though that came a few minutes later. Something clumsy and unpracticed the both of you laughed at on continual occasion, enacted for the pure reason of curiosity, of trust.
While everyone gave themselves to strangers, you wanted to give yourself to someone adored, whom you didn’t believe for a second you’d regret.
But was that really the sole reason?
Curiosity?
Or love?
No. Nothing along those lines.
Or that’s what you told yourself those years, those moments. And although it’s supremely underestimated by that of adults, those prolonged stares, the upward quirk of his lips when he catches your eye from across the room is but a matter a babe could understand.
It has always been more, been a new road opened since you’d kissed him. The both of you simply headed the same route you always had.
Best friends, that’s all.
But to an astronaut, the earth has never been the limit, or they wouldn’t be an astronaut. And you were someone that loved Christopher Bahng, but hid behind a title the both of you knew was untrue.
Now it exists like a flash of the mind, swift and fast and almost unnoticed if not for the lingering feeling at your skin—an insatiable itch where his fingers had laid trace.
A soft nip to your inner thigh, his thumb resting just above your navel. His chin upon your lower belly when your events had come to a close, gazing up at you, unreadable.
No. Not unreadable, but one you didn’t want to read, look too far into and get hurt.
Was that it? A gnawing fear of getting hurt holding you back from the things you wanted?
His face lingering with traces of you, lips swollen and glossy and stretched into a smile you scorned to stare at.
“You’re.. gross.”
Maybe a “thank you” or a “that felt amazing” would’ve been the more appropriate response, but this was Chris, and to not speak your mind would break a vow instilled from the earliest of your elementary days.
He laughs, a squeaky sound of happiness you soak up like a sponge—absorbing, absorbing, taking in every ounce offered.
That you can trust in, place faith within.
In a future unknown, however, a part of you knows that the only way of freedom is to prepare for a pain that may come, and may not.
For there is never a guarantee love will be fatal, but all will pass someday.
To live without a taste of that freedom seems too awful to stay in your bubble.
All so scary, uncertain. The unpredictability can be overwhelming. Somewhere in between you hope he felt it too.
Love, that is.
Ah.
A kiss at your lips, and he tastes like you—something you’d shrink away with disgust at if not for his presence, the tender manner in which he eases your shirt back down, then his own adjusted over his head.
That night, you ate dinner and never spoke of it. Not a taboo topic, merely mutually understood. His parents out for a night, Hannah off staying late for an after school activity.
A kiss after washing dishes in the sink, a kiss when you flop onto the couch. After an uno match by the coffee table, where your competitiveness sparks into screaming matches, tackling him following not long after.
Your bodies like a whirlwind of motion, writhing with chortled laughter like squabbling infants.
Overtop of you he pauses, and your earlier feigned rage fades as quickly as it was provoked, chest warming at the chaste peck to your cheek, then the press of his lips you beckon closer, hands curling into the fabric of his tee, slipping down his back to trace the bumps of his spine.
One breath, two.
Warm, and it feels like you’re melting.
Fingernails usher the shirt upwards, his lower back beared, tanned from summer sun.
More.
You want more all over again.
“Chris!”
It’s Hannah’s voice, squeaky at age thirteen, that clears the steaminess instantly, clambering off each other so quickly your foot slams into his stomach, his hand shoving your face into the carpeted floor.
“I- I won in Uno! Fair and square!”
Not a great cover up, Chris, but the flushed nature of his ears, his cheeks, makes up for the stupid excuse.
From this prompts a sequence of events, of excuses and hiding, of denial and relapsing into what’s familiar.
But just as life is unpredictable, none of those thoughts plagued your mind yet.
Nothing had happened yet.
Then it happened, and you can’t come to recall how.
A party, freshman year of university. A guy, loud music, too many drinks.
He was a sweet soul, helping you back to your dorm when the world became a distant, fuzzy memory. Someway or another (you’re betting your roomie gave it to him), he snagged your number.
Because Saturday morning, 11am, you received a: “Feeling any better?” text you gazed at in horror—believing the random number to be some drunken one night stand—before being filled in.
Jae was his name. Jae Hyeong.
A student in your Wednesday lecture, passing by unknown, now becoming known.
You told Chris about him that summer, mumbled between bites of strawberries after a stop by the market in his dad’s old pick-up truck.
Rust clung to the sides, and you could never be certain the engine would start up again. But it was loved and cherished. So faith was placed in it anyway.
Expectedly, he just nodded his head, popping another sweet bite between plush lips.
The thing was, you told Chris about him without mentioning the dating factor.
Jae was funny, sweet. The first of your dates concluding with your stomach aching from laughter. And a cowardly part of you blames forgetfulness, while the other points directly at your heart.
Even when, staring into his eyes, all you see is Chris.
How cruel, and you want to hate yourself for dragging this boy along.
Scared.
Because at the moment, pursuing music was Chris’s dream, attending Uni at Sydney was that utmost goal he reached towards.
And you’d support him through it, even if you were left behind.
It wasn’t you, your mind berates.
It never was you.
So you’ll look away, deny the love you ache for. Jae deserves that, right? Not to be treated as some source of healing for you, a rebound for love unrequited.
Maybe the friendship of yours has clouded your judgement. It’s not love you harbor, but fondness.
A soul-sucking, gut-wrenching fondness that’s unequivocally love.
“I think you’d like him.”
Maybe this is your hopes of even ground. That if the both of them become somewhat-friends, your feelings will ease and you’ll realize this was all a fever-dream and you were truly in love with Jae.
All a dream.
“Will I?” Chris grunts in reply, both of your legs dangling from the truck bed’s edge.
He thinks you’re prettiest like this. A bit unkempt, no makeup, hair left to its own devices.
You. Wholly, unapologetically you.
Blemishes and smile lines just like his, bits of strawberry lingering by the corners of your lips he wants to kiss away, lap up with his tongue and take advantage of the quiet of the morning, the lack of townspeople awake to witness his greed.
Chris is greedy when it comes to you, he’ll admit it. He wants and wants and wants, and can’t ever seem to be satiated.
Whether it’s your kisses, your laughter, that sweet, mumbled moan when you’re feeling so good.
Shit. He’s in too deep.
To his core, Chris is a gentle man. He wouldn’t allow himself to be angry at you if it cost his life but, he’s also human. And humans feel jealousy.
It’s been a while since the thought occurred to him, since that biting pit began forming in his gut, gnashing their teeth at anything in sight.
“Is he good to you?” A quiet murmur, one that’s a bit reserved compared to his usual cheerfulness, optimistic tone. This is curious, observant. That kind of behavior when he wants to know more though remain subtle.
Plus, he argues with that frothing jealously. It’s not like he’s your boyfriend, right?
Then, as quickly as it came, the jealousy is gone, swept away in the crashing tides just a few miles from where you sit. Replaced with nervousness, worry.
It’s not like Chris can control you. You aren’t to be controlled, and it’d be cruel to keep you from your potential to begin with. He’s just the coward that can’t bring himself to confess.
And neither can you, but he doesn’t know that.
Two nervous messes, fretting over love they’ve shared long before anyone speaks up about it.
What remains unspoken.
Will your boyfriend be good to you? Treat you right? His head swims, grasping a strawberry hard enough that streams of juice slip down his wrist, droplets trickling onto the top of a muscular thigh.
And heaven forbid the guy breaks your heart. He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Chris and likely earn a beat down for the road.
But then comes the hopeful thought, the “what if” that lingers under his skin, buzzes at his fingertips as an index comes to loop a strand of hair behind your ear to better see you.
The bit of pride in the corner, nudging his shoulder as if it were you. A longtime friend.
I’ll treat you well.
Please let me be good to you.
Closing his eyes, the sad smile of yours after having failed your final exam resides there. Bittersweet, somber.
Would it be considered stages of grief if he had yet to lose someone?
No less, it feels as if you’re leaving him behind altogether.
“You alright?”
But for now, you’re by his side. It’s enough.
“Hm,” A nod, eyes remaining closed.
“The sun feels good today.”
It feels better with you.
Who knew how quickly good things go.
“Hi Berry!”
The summer before your junior year of Uni, and for a moment, standing in front of the Bahng household feels nostalgic in a way that makes your heart sink.
The rose-tinted glasses feel further away than ever. Peeling paint, cracks in the wood, creaking of the paneled floors you hadn’t noticed those summer’s before.
Things have changed, and you shudder to think you were the bringer of it.
The hand in yours whose last name isn’t Bahng, however, proves the point.
This summer, Jae came with you. Officially regarded as your boyfriend.
Thus far, there has been no greater feeling of dread and guilt in your gut than right now.
Dread in witnessing Chris’ reaction, guilt from the gnawing ache in your chest. Because no, by no means did you wish to treat Jae as a buffer, an anchor to love unrequited. Nonetheless, that certainly felt the case, more so the situation responsible for your guilt.
And maybe, just maybe, it was wordlessly understood. The manner you’d speak of Chris to Jae, that hidden longing unable to be shielded by a facade.
How cruel, a heart is. To love so shamelessly. Garner affection, but withhold a love solely reserved for one.
In need of mending, care you fail to give by yourself.
Berry, the beloved Chevalier King Charles Spaniel, helps calm such a maelstrom, if only for a short amount of time.
Before Chris walks down the stairs.
.
.
.
If fur had lined Chris’ back, it would be spiked in apprehension, aggression. Like a wolf, scruff ruffled in the presence of someone new.
A second-long overview tells him enough. Your hand in his, the way he trails after you as if some lovesick puppy.
The taste of bile in his throat makes him want to choke.
He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.
So childish, it all is. This harrowing sadness weighing on his chest, the jealousy.
“This is Jae, isn’t it?”
Ah, you should’ve known better.
Chris could always tell.
Yet, his eyes never leave yours. A mere flicker of attention to the newcomer until you’re bathed in the spotlight again, and the hair on your arms rises unnervingly.
“Yeah,” Swiftly clearing your throat, you feebly try at gathering your wits, granting Jae a smile you hope is reassuring.
“He’s.. my boyfriend.”
All at once, Chris feels his world crashing down on him.
“What happened?” He wanted to ask, forgetting you grew up, no longer that little girl seated beside him on the playground’s swings.
Because it’s already enough in recognizing it, but another in receiving clarification.
A slow inhale is breath into lungs he feels are already too full, straining to contain oxygen.
He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.
I lost you, whispers in his mind. Fragmented pieces of a puzzle.
There was a reason an extra pillow resided in the linen closet, or the My Little Pony toothbrush tossed in the mug his old swim-team sold as merch.
For you, and only you.
Never another.
Selfishly, he feels this casting has abruptly booted him from the main position, now rooted as a bystander in a set that isn’t even his.
Of course, Chris lacks the complete asshole gene, so a hasty handshake serves as greeting enough before he’s already reaching for the door.
“Eh? But we-“
“Guest bedroom is on your left. Y/N will show you. You two can sleep there or whatever- I’m going to surf.”
Just the partial asshole gene.
And he knows you can tell. Reading each other with the ease of a lover. Attentive, observant.
Nevertheless, your love is directed to someone else.
“He uh.. isn’t usually like this.”
A mumble on your part suffices in buffering the silence. That, followed by Jae’s cocked brow.
“Real friendly guy.”
Your lip tugs between your teeth, peering back at the boy from over your shoulder. Apparently, your expression of remorse fails to be hidden well.
“Hey, it’s alright,” Jae consoles, “I dealt with that one jerk of a roommate back in Brisbane for a whole semester, y’know? A bit of coldness is nothin’.”
Ignorance only feels good for so long. Bliss is never permanent.
If only you had understood that lesson, abided by it.
Yet, just like those years before, you turn your head the other direction and allow life to pass by without him in it, despite staying in the same home.
Despite him being everything to you, despite a love shared over countless years.
.
.
.
He’s irritable. Chris is. The subtle grit of his teeth you've come to recognize, the harsh grip he nearly crushes his fork in. Dinner had never felt so stifling, never when you were here.
All of a sudden, the household you had once found solace inside feels all too hot, a sweltering furnace where each extra beat of silence adds a degree to the thermometer.
Jessica Bahng’s cooking was incredible, as predicted, and conversation flowed effortlessly between you, her, and Jae—the boy charming without trying, his charisma winning over the woman after a mere two bites of food.
What wasn’t predictable was Chris’ quietness from across the table. Because each time he looks up, he finds himself seated in a theatre, watching what was pass by. Watching how you’d kiss Jae, hold his hand, laugh by his side.
Was that all it was? Him as a spectator?
The chip in the corner of his dinner plate held in hand verifies emotion unwilling to be shown on the surface.
He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t even acknowledge you.
Jerk.
You scoff, offering him a miniature scowl from the corner of your eye.
“So, how’d you meet Y/N? I forgot to ask last night,” Jessica insists, glancing from you to Jae in rapid succession.
Oh, great. The formalities.
“Well,” A pause on the younger boy’s end, sheepishly grinning. “It was actually at a party—“
“Pfft, yeah right,” Chris grunts beneath his breath in amusement, ramming his fork down into a piece of broccoli.
Acting like a child and he knows it, but no amount of maturity can seem to withhold the snide comments.
Either the other three didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. He’s fine with both.
“And yeah, I just remember her being so drunk and—“
“You wish,” The dyed blond mumbles once more to himself, shaking his head in quiet mirth.
Those words beckon attention, and Chris mutters an inaudible curse after the sharp kick his mother grants in warning.
That night, dinner concluded like usual. Cheerful on one end, quiet as a mouse on the other. Figuring out who belonged on which side came easy.
Except, Chris fails to remain silent this time around whilst attending to dish duty, lips drawing into a tight line witnessing Jae place his plate beside the sink.
Not in the sink, not even an offer to help wash. No, the bastard’s eyes are dead set on you, flickering from your eyes, lips, ass—
Dammit, he wants to sock the guy right about now.
However, he waits until you get upstairs to wash up for bed before speaking.
“Gonna give me a servant uniform too at this point?” The last of Chris’ mutters, and it seems Jae is done with staying silent as well.
“Alright, just what is your problem?”
“I don’t know, why can’t you be well-mannered as a guest? At least wash your own damn dish,” Chris growls back, the two’s eyes meeting in a vicious staring contest prior to his mother’s scolding, resulting in both boys on dish-duty.
Although it’s the words muttered in his ear when Jae leaves that nearly provokes every nerve in his body to crush the man’s face in with his fist.
“Whatever was between you two, forget it. She’s not yours anymore.”
Your face appearing from the top of the stairwell keeps his urge at bay, merely evident in the white-knuckled clenching of his fist, his form hasty to disappear outside the screen door.
Instinctively, sandal-clad feet taking him to the one place that lets him think.
The ocean.
It’s late, and high tides crash against the sandy shoreline. The squawking of seagulls has drawn to a close, the enormous light of the moon overhead a constant he finds comfort in.
Pattering of your footsteps, however, gather his focus instantaneously, wordless where your form curls by his side.
Another constant, just you and him.
Something to spite the change.
So much change, in fact, he feels like each bit of the youth he’s known is being swallowed up, consumed into newness he can’t accept.
But you still open doors fully in case monsters hide behind them, and he hasn’t changed the flavor of ice cream he buys from convenience stores since he was eight, so perhaps nothing has changed but exterior.
To be ignorant is to be blissful, a lesson continually presenting itself this summer. Neither happens to be involved in your predicament.
You’re first to break the silence. Always the more courageous one, albeit he’d never admit it.
“I shouldn’t have brought Jae here, I’m sorry.”
Your slow inhale.
“This is.. our place, I get it. I just thought—“
“No,” A shake of his head, second nature upon reading the startled look you give him.
“I mean,” He has to tilt his head to peek at your face, hidden between your knees like a child.
“It’s our place, you’re right but-.. If one day.. somebody comes along, then that’s..”
A begrudging acceptance, if that’s the word.
You look up at him and- ah, you’re so pretty. Chris stops to stare for a moment, his lips parted like an infant fixated on the cookie jar.
Hurried blinking and a swift breath dispel the prior awe.
“That’s okay. If “you” becomes you and someone else, then so be it.”
A small, wry smile. Though beneath, he feels as if he’s breaking.
“I wouldn’t be your best friend if I didn’t pester your boyfriend, or, y’know, future boyfriends. ‘S what I do for my favorite girl.”
He smiles, wanting to cry more than anything while playfully pinching your cheek.
Why can’t you be mine?
.
Ten minutes or so separate your conversation, but you pick up again as if you’d never stopped in the first place.
“Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I could just go back to being when we were kids again, y’know?”
“And what would you do if you were kids again?”
These words are slow, patient.
His reply ruins the peace, the begrudging acceptance you had built like a wall of defense, blocking feelings foaming at the mouth to climb from your throat, echoing in the night air.
“I’d never let you go.”
“I’m going to bed,” A mumble interrupts the quietness, your head weighing against his shoulder.
An anchor, in fear you’d be thrashed into the waves without return.
Chris has always been your buoy.
If only he could keep you afloat in your dreams, but you had yet to yearn for that just yet.
The small nod where he assures you he’d stay a bit longer serves as an untold: “good night” you offer a tight smile in response to, slipping past the creaking doorway and up to your shared bedroom.
Shared with Jae, not Chris.
And no, Jae wasn’t a buffer. A substitute until you could muster courage to confess, to shout the aches and pains and torment your messy love prompts.
More often than not, Jae has been a lighthouse, helping you venture through the fog of feelings muddling your mind, decisions.
Hell, you don’t know half of what you’re doing.
So many adult responsibilities are manageable, but love provides its own labyrinth no matter the age, never a mere math equation, a problem and solution.
But with loopholes, and heartbreak, and stupidity, and impulsiveness.
Confusion and sadness and guilt, these gut-wrenching feelings keeping someone up at night.
Like tonight, where your eyes stare daggers into the guest bedroom’s wall across from you. A wall lacking Chris’ swim posters, medals. The old nightlight still plugged into the outlet, once prominent galaxy patterns faded into nothingness.
There for the memories, it was.
Is that what you and Chris were now? A night light still plugged into the wall, left there like some somber source of recollection to look back on?
You hate how your stomach dips at the thought, the nausea building in your throat causing you to roll over, now face-to-face with a snoring Jae, limbs strung like a starfish across the mattress.
Luckily, sleep wasn’t too far away for you either, though it felt like an eternity before your consciousness fully dissipated.
“Oh… Oh my Go-“
Your arms lift above your head, reaching for something you don’t even know. Reprieve, possibly, amid the tingling of your body, the fuzziness of your head.
After months of dreamless nights, of course it’s a dirty dream.
Then an involuntary shift occurs through your body, hand extending towards the boy’s hair. And for a moment, it seems your dream-like vision flickers like a faulty lightbulb, because all you can see is Chris.
Somehow, you know it isn’t Chris, but Jae. Nevertheless, he’s the only face you can make out, the only form recognizable.
Although his name wasn’t explicitly uttered, the horror etching itself into your bones merely mouthing it has you reeling back into reality.
Not Chris’s bedroom, but your dorm room.
Not his chocolate irises meeting yours when you look down, the gentle reassurance in his warm palm, grasping the back of your thigh to offer a grounding squeeze.
This is Jae. This dream is in Brisbane. And Chris is a whole ten-hours away.
Your second day at the beach house, you wake in a cold sweat.
And right there, sixteen really did fade away.
“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”
Apparently, on a rather comical note, Jae had anticipated your form to be standing by the stove preparing breakfast, his sleep-ridden frame the last to wake up.
Mrs. Jessica had already busied herself driving Hannah to spend the summer with their grandparents, her own annual ritual.
Trust, he wasn’t all too pleased to find Chris there instead, the pan-wielding man granting your boyfriend a venomous stink-eye.
“Sorry, I don’t play housewife,” Your slumber-ridden mumble from the countertop’s stool beckons Chris’ slight snort, pointing the spatula to himself as if clarifying a: “That’s me, the housewife”.
That, paired with containing a huff of laughter watching your form peering into the fridge, hoping the next time you’d open it up a delectable dessert would be there.
To no avail, evident in your dejected grumble.
“Hey,” The curly blond scowls, his frown growing imperceptibly deeper when Jae presses a kiss to your cheek in greeting.
You don’t notice.
“Wait for breakfast, ‘m making omelette how you like. And uh.. I made some other stuff. You can have that, Jae.”
“Thanks,” Sarcasm drips from your boyfriend’s tone, rolling his eyes.
Still on the rocks.
Got it.
“Anytime,” Predictably, Chris feeds off the sarcasm, acting as nonchalant as ever while plating the food and murmuring reminders about waxing his surfboard in the garage.
Further grating Jae’s nerves in turn, you note.
A bigger bite of your omelette feebly manages to redirect the anxiety, the remnants of stringy cheese clinging to your upper lip.
“You’ve got something there.”
Your best friend’s hum rings aloud, reaching to brush the piece of food from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
And for a moment, a memory of the past flickers in your mind. The darkening of a room, now bright after only a second.
A memory. Not the dream last night.
His lips on yours, the quickening of breath, hands squeezing his clothing like a vice and—
“Thanks.”
The words surprise even you, not a forethought in sight.
And you also don’t notice the cock of Jae’s head, the utter “I dare you” spoken in Chris’ lifted brows, this sneering quirk of his lips offered as a war cry to the other boy before walking past without another word.
One look, and a war had begun.
“We should visit the zoo,” Jae mentions one Sunday while you’re painting your toenails and Chris is absorbed in some video on his phone.
“You seriously haven’t been to the Sydney Zoo?”
Conversations always end like this, and you’re tempted to ram your head into the nearest wall.
“I can’t believe you don’t know how to surf. You’re Australian, seriously.”
“Well I’m sorry I don’t live in my fancy beach house a convenient two minute walk from the beach.”
More bickering, bickering, bickering. Your skull wants to explode.
On an off-handed occasion, maybe they’ll behave tolerably in regards to one another.
That day was not today. Frankly speaking, tonight, where the only responsible person in the household, Jessica Bahng, had left on a work trip.
…You would admit, you also aren't immune to stupid decisions.
However, this stupid decision took the cake.
A competition, predictably, but not just mini golf or freestyle swimming; drinking.
From Asahi beer, apple-flavored soju and hard liquor, the whole assortment bedecked the coffee table, an already tipsy Christopher Bahng swaying across from you.
Sure, college paved the way for immaturity, but seriously. Seeing who could better handle their alcohol was just sad.
And trust, Chris looked about the epitome of sad (adorable, you forgot to mention) with his flushed cheeks and ears to the frustrated crease of his brows, pupils blown, eyes glossy where they fixate on a victorious Jae.
Who, in a prideful fashion, tips back another shot of soju with his own, less-tipsy hiccup prior to getting up and stretching his legs, hopefully gathering water in the process.
Nonetheless, Chris just spaces out, evidently inebriated thanks to the unfocused nature of his attention. Fleetingly, his gaze then roved on you, head tipping in a swoon-worthy fashion like some enamored first grader.
Little were you aware just how gorgeous you looked right now from the boy’s buzzed perspective, breath smelling of alcohol where he exhales short huffs, lips curving into this dumb-happy smile.
And— he passes out, thankfully already seated on the carpeted floor.
Though, leaving you and a grumpy Jae with the responsibility of lugging him onto the couch, letting sleep help sober him up until you (considering your boyfriend did everything in his power to avoid interaction with the blacked out Chris) took the role of coaxing sips of water into his mouth.
By midnight, all the glasses had been cleared, and you adjusted a blanket over Chris’s drunken, sleepy frame, Jae already preparing for bed upstairs.
“I love Berry.” A whisper, and you crane to catch the remnants of his words before he shifts beneath the blanket, dead silent for a minute or two.
Then he rolls over to face you, sporting a downright longing sort of look.
“.. I really love Berry.”
“You said that already, Chris.”
“Okay.”
And he rolls over like it was all a dream, pouty.
Too cute.
Your fond touch smooths coiling strands of hair from his forehead, sparing him a last glance prior to thumping up the stairs.
That night, lying sleepless in bed, you can’t help but wonder:
How much more of this? For both them and you. How much more competition until the calm facades crack, until your patience snaps?
The flames of a rivalry never seem to wane, each interaction adding gasoline to a heat almost unbearable.
Only a matter of time until someone pours in too much and ignites an inferno.
One week until your visit to Sydney comes to a close, and the two are still at each other’s throats.
Between mundane things like making dinner or cleaning to stupid competitions like who ran the fastest mile in junior high or who can stay underwater the longest (or the drinking competition, a notable contestant), this trip has started to feel like a babysitting gig instead of a vacation.
“Chris-“
“Christopher.” Chris corrects one evening, the snide reprimand earning Jae’s icy glare in return.
Currently seated by your side on the couch once occupied by the blond, Jae scoffs to himself, arm extending to drape over your shoulders.
Meanwhile, your attention remains solely on the nature channel, a bit dazed in exhaustion after a long day of swimming beneath the warm sun overhead.
What makes him bristle is the way Jae leans into your form, pressing a kiss to your temple whilst maintaining sole eye contact with the other man.
When your head turns, however, all is well.
This quieted, occasionally evident rivalry grates your nerves with no trace of resolve.
“Say,” An aimless hand taps against the side of the reclining chair your best friend sits within, a loose tee and sweatpants adorning his form.
And you’d be a fat liar to not admit glancing more than once at the way the fabric stretches over his torso when he shifts, squeezing against muscles unable to suitably fit.
Merely appreciative, you tell yourself.
“Why don’t we let dear old Jae pick Y/N’s favorite movie, hm?”
Such a mocking question, it is, and Chris spares no expense chucking the remote control in hand a little too hard at Jae, the man’s brows furrowing in silent irritation he refused to voice aloud.
Testing him.
Perhaps a time ago you’d mentioned your favorite movie to your boyfriend, though the topic wasn’t all too serious in your opinion.
For Jae, however, this was war, this unspeakable quiz verifying if he knew you better than Chris, knew the answer the other man knew like the back of his hand and then some.
You both know the champion title would always rest in Chris’s hands.
That you kept quiet about.
“What? Don’t tell me you don’t know her favorite movie.”
Cocky, Chris is.
And dammit, the tick of his jaw is unfairly attractive.
“It’s Tangled, now give me the remote and both of you grow up.”
It’s your turn to answer, having grown sick and tired of these childish taunts before snatching the remote from Jae’s grasp with a shared, scolding glower towards the both of them.
Comedically enough, they shrink like dejected puppies.
Fortunately, the movie helps distract you for a while, long enough that a nap becomes a decision not on your own accord—body slumping against Jae’s.
Unfortunately, Jae flipping Chris off from the couch and mouthing a “loser” beneath his breath escalates things to a level you don’t like to imagine.
Perhaps that’s the cause for either black eye decorating their face and Chris’s busted lip the next morning.
.
.
.
Trust, waking up to black and blue boys roaming the house was a sight hard not to laugh at.
“Did you guys.. fight?”
“Fight? I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got a black eye, Jae.”
By the time the last day rolls around, those arguments, petty behavior, childish games become something you want to hold onto, June and July drifting past too quickly for you to chase after.
And while you had some grasp of their fight three days ago, only half of it has been made knowledgeable.
Chris would like to keep it that way for a multitude of reasons.
The favorite movie of yours served as the gasoline, and you had foretold the inferno to come.
“It’s not my fault you can’t let go of something that was never yours!”
Chris shoves Jae’s suitcase in the back of your car harder than need be, the other boy’s words ringing in his head as if some dreaded deadline.
“She’s- she’s not something to be owned like an object! I don’t want to possess her, I want to love her! And my god if you could get that through your head I think things would become a lot easier for both of us!”
A worthy argument on his own part, Chris would argue.
“You know what needs to get through your head?” Chris recalls the events similar to replays in sports, nearly able to feel the anger that had been coursing through his veins when Jae retaliated.
Storming straight up in his face where they stood on the beach, the night sky as their audience.
“You lost your chance, Chris. Waited too fucking long to confess and now you’re acting like a little kid just ‘cause you didn’t have the balls to say something, get it?”
Jae spat his name like a cursed pseudonym, and a snort of satisfaction exhales from his frame envisioning the sucker-punch he gave the boy after that.
Followed by the clench of his fist, observing your laughter while talking with your boyfriend from afar.
Boyfriend.
Dammit.
Then the last part, before they both went tumbling into the sand in a mixture of fury-filled shouts and flying limbs.
“She’s not yours, Chris. Deal with it.”
His reply?
“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.”
Who knew such a day would come so soon.
Maybe you should’ve known better.
Or that’s what you try to explain to yourself using. Some sad excuse to make up for the scene witnessed just minutes earlier.
Six months, not even half a year, and two months after traveling to Sydney together.
Stopping at crappy restaurants during the boresome ride, cracking jokes, laughing until your bellies hurt. Kissing, sex.
Was it the whole tension with Chris? Your mind rationalizes, frantically searching for some reason, rhyme.
Trick question. There is no rhyme or reason in love.
Now, Jae professes all of it amounted to nothing while staying silent at the same time.
Him kissing another girl in front of your dormitory proved that.
Cheater.
And within the few minutes you bask in realization, you wish so terribly you could unleash that wrath on him. Scream in frustration or land similar punches the two battered each other with in Sydney.
Kick him in the shins, yell manically enough to scare the sadness out of your body.
But honestly, you just want to cry.
A sharp inhale, battling the sob threatening to run free with the beep of your phone’s keypad, serving as your only companion.
Until Chris picks up the call, and shit.
You break.
“What.. What was I thinking-“
It’s a job and a half sniffling up the cries, and for once, you feel embarrassed calling Chris crying—even with this being far from the first time.
Why involve someone else in your own problems?
Realistically, a part of you knew such a happening both could and, stupidly enough, would occur, knew this placated vision of peacefulness was a meager mask, acting as a film to the truth behind the blurry camera lens.
You can’t stay ignorant to him, and there isn’t a particle of happiness in unrequited pining, no matter trying to ease the pain with someone else who’ll eventually hurt you.
Fuck.
Because you love him. That’s all.
There, said and done.
In your mind, at least. But saying that aloud results in your tongue feeling like lead, results in more crying.
“Y/N,” His voice, and you feel the coldness in your fingertips warm up, as if wrapped in his embrace. A long, safe hug.
“Answer me two things.”
Your additionally embarrassing, whimpered sound of agreement affirms his offer.
“Was this Jae?”
No it was—
Yes. Honestly, truthfully, it was.
No more pretending, excuses. Sixteen was over.
“Mhm,” Wiping your snotty nose on the back of your hand, a miniscule amount of relief comes from leaning against the wall behind you.
“And do you want me there or just want to talk?” That lilt of his tone, tender.
He’s good at making you want to cry. Though never due to meanness.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, you calm your voice as much as possible.
“Here. Here, please.”
Then a realization.
“But you’re, like, ten hours awa-“
“That doesn’t matter. I’ll make it five. Right now, go back to your dorm, get some good takeout, and turn on Tangled, okay? Find something relaxing and don’t think about anything for a moment. I’ll be right there, alright?”
Longing lies in the way you press the phone to your cheek, savoring his voice like a soothing balm.
Let’s go back, let’s try this one more time.
First that time he asked you to prom in highschool, the second in his bedroom, allowing yourselves intimacy with each other for the first time.
You’ve never heard of a third chance before.
For him, you’re willing to try.
That said, Chris held tight to his word, the rattling truck of his a miracle in managing to get here—no less get here two hours earlier than most did on the drive to Brisbane from Sydney, alerting you from the comfort of your dorm’s bed with its puttering engine and creaking brakes.
Surprisingly, however, he doesn’t spare you a word whilst rushing past, seemingly having chosen perfect timing in rushing to the dorms where a rather unlucky Jae steps out.
You don’t think you’ve heard a more dreadful noise than the crunch of Jae’s nose beneath Chris’s fist, the force alone sending the boy bowling to the ground before he’s being picked up again by the collar, your best friend downright seething.
“What did I tell you, hm?” A growl, his arm poised for another blow you can’t bring yourself to watch.
“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.” Chris repeats, nothing but white-hot rage charging through his veins.
Jae, satisfyingly enough, looks terrified.
Good, Chris internally muses. Because simply pulling in, he saw all he needed to. The puffiness of your eyes, your shuddering sniffles.
And all of a sudden it feels like that time in second grade, where Chris and a few of his friends had gotten redemption on the kid who stole your favorite popsicle flavor purposefully.
And for you, you feel like you’re watching that missing-toothed, sunburnt boy stand up for you again.
“I think another black eye might compliment the nose,” He snarls, momentarily catching your gaze.
The subtle shake of your head dissipates every angry instinct simultaneously, deciding to harshly shove Jae back to the ground alternatively and, at last, gather you in his arms for a hug that felt long overdue.
Occasionally you come to think there are connections that reach deeper than love — being the connection of souls in the most intimate of moments. Being your fingertips threading through blond curls, kissing at his lips clumsily—unlearned.
Right now, this hug. Nosing into the scent of his detergent, finding comfort in the place you were meant to be in, the arms you weren’t meant to be held in.
It had always been unlearned, but it was Chris, so you didn’t mind.
Oh, you loved it.
Loved him.
A bloody-nosed Jae could wait, because the last hour of Tangled needed to be watched, and the curl of his fingers in yours coaxed you along without a chance of stopping.
.
.
.
Senior year and soon to be graduates. Grown up, maybe just physically.
“Chris.”
The words are nearly inaudible, drapes of the canopy bed sole privacy to the man lingering above you, blond curls just as you remembered, eyes that same, heart-stopping chocolate hue.
Your hands find themselves reaching up, tentative to touch warm skin. Golden.
Chris is always golden.
“Please hold me.”
And those arms that were always meant for you, lips kissing at your chin, pulls you into a rip current you had no intention of leaving.
Yours, his.
Messy, unlearned. Down to experience eventual problems.
⎯ what remains unspoken. ⟡ featuring christopher bahng
🪝 : Christopher Bahng x implied! fem. reader
TROPE. best friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, jealousy, angst, two idiots chasing their own tails believing their love is unrequited (ㅠㅠ), based in australia, summer! au, beachhouse! au
WORD COUNT. 8.3k words ☆ 32min read
WARNINGS. cursing, jealousy/shame, reader moves away, mentions of drunkenness, nondesc smut, a dirty dream? (nondesc), reader is said to wear makeup, mentions cheating
AUG'S NOTES. working myself through a writing block.. this fic has helped a lot :) thank you all for being patient with me thus far, i think writing for channie is like free therapy<3 please let me know what you think!!
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. Attached to the hip, you and Chris might as well have been twins in a past life. And yet, it’s always that tiny inkling, so many years where one of the two wants something more. So when you bring home a boyfriend one summer and both you and Chris begin drifting apart, you wonder if that denial will become something permanent.
or alternatively :
Until when do you stop pretending?
Among many things, Chris likes to think there was an “oh shit” moment to his life. One, exactly.
Over the years he tried pinpointing when that would be, what that would be.
And then you brought a boyfriend home. His home. To a beach house you two would occupy together. Making shadow puppets with your hands and running out to the beach in the early mornings.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Making sand castles, running into the water with your clothes on and running out giggling messes.
For two weeks every summer, always. Together.
Never with a plus one.
He debated upon subtly sizing up the guy or appearing overly friendly, but not an ounce of his face seemed to move. Steely.
Cold.
Chris was never cold, and he felt that pang in his chest—guilt—seeing you notice it. That miniature knit of your brow, the purse of your lips.
Did he know you like Chris did? Know when you were angry, or frustrated. What your favorite song was, or how you preferred your hair when you were focused?
He wanted to hate comparison, he used to hate comparison.
And now he’s hating himself for being too late, letting you slip from his grasp like sand between his fingers.
When you were once protagonists of a novel written with a happy ending, that love interest was now home to another.
And he was a bystander to a love story that was never his, watching you smile at someone else.
Someone that wasn’t him.
Breakfast is hellish, not to mention the sleeping arrangements. This boyfriend of yours in the guest bedroom, while he sleeps in his.
Alone. Without you, or your pretty hair, or your pretty eyes. Void of your warm body snuggled up to his, where you used to make silly jokes beneath covers and muffle laughter in turn.
A part of him wants to cry, wants to ask you what you two used to be. What was under the covers?
“Ah.. Chris..” The soft moan of yours, all those years back. Stupid, seventeen, single. A cursed pair of “S”’s he hadn’t realized would come to haunt him each time he closed his eyes.
What was your pretty sounds, his face between your thighs those five years back?
Was it all pretend? Exploration as friends?
No, you were smarter than that.
So he tells himself he was too late, and endures.
Because maybe, maybe they’ll be a plot twist one chapter. Where you fall for the side character.
No, no book ends like that.
It all started in an editing firm’s office.
Well, not literally, considering you hadn’t even been in your mother’s mind until Jessica Bahng—mother of a four-month old Chris Bahng—held back a poor woman’s hair while she belched into a toilet.
That poor woman being your mother, who found out she was pregnant that evening after work.
And through a few Saturday’s at the corner cafe and prolonged conversation by the office’s monitors, the two became the best of friends. Watching little Chris grow into a toddling one year old, and in the process welcoming you into the world nearly ten months later.
From there, almost every waking moment consisted of time together. Chris as the lanky teenager with his brown hair sweeping across a tanned forehead, and you, following after him each step he took at less than a year younger. Kindergarten, Primary School.
Although, in the midst of the friendship, your father had found a better job opportunity in Brisbane, a decent ten-hour drive from the Bahng household you’d found second home in.
Though, after plenty of crocodile tears and mumbled “I’ll miss you”’s tumbling from an eighth grade mouth too absorbed in worrying about the matter of leaving rather than the fact you’d likely visit every month, you departed, off to a city so different from the Sydney you had known of.
Even if it was Australia all the same.
And in turn, the annual summer visits began.
Summer before your freshman year of high school, where Chris finally got his braces off in his sophomore year and you soaked up every ounce of information given on surviving the first few days of school.
Then your own sophomore year, filled with feelings and discoveries and struggles unearthed you didn’t think could be experienced so vividly, expectations in need of fulfillment the board expected a sixteen year old to answer immediately.
What do you want to do with your life? Any plans for college? What about taking these extra classes? They look good on a résumé.
And simultaneously rip the ounces of childhood from your fingertips, but no school board puts that in the papers.
So the moment the car door opens after hellish voyaging to Sydney, you allow your lungs to inhale each ounce of salty air the Bahng family house offers, the childishness allowed for once amid crushing pressure.
It is a meager five minute walk to the lapsing shoreline after all, and the ocean keeps good secrets within the sand, washing away your footprints as to flush away traces of whatever happenings occurred there.
Yet, never truly forgotten. Instead, taken into the waters for little children to tell their mother of whom never believe the ocean spilled someone’s precious secrets.
“Chris.”
June eighteenth of your second year in high school, pajama-clad knees curl close into your body, lashes dusting open in the sparsely lit room to focus on him.
A dilation of the pupils, a hitch of the breath when he turns to you.
High school has changed Chris, but not in a foul manner. Blond curls, he’s exchanged from his usual russet locks. Round cheeks shifting in tandem with a sculptors hand, the marble of his skin a bit more toned, defined.
His jaw that clicks when he grows angered—not often, sometimes at his gaming system.
Thickened brows furrowing and knitting in concentration.
Though those eyes are the same, and always will be. No other will have eyes like his, and you know in any life, in any state of amnesia, they would be recognized.
An “aha” moment where a switch flips in your brain, formulating a mere sentence involuntarily.
I love this boy, and I hope for forever he’ll look back at me.
And for that, you’re selfish. But honest.
If Christopher was a stranger, a look into that gaze and you think you’d know him instantaneously.
How silly.
But just as you had spoken, you’re reminded that childishness was something found each time you visited this place regardless of your actions. You’d hold onto that.
“I don’t want to grow up.”
The bit of fat at his under-eyes cause his eyes to form into crescent moons when he smiles, wrinkles at the corner of thick lashes crinkling.
Chris has always liked the moon.
A warm hand of his reaches forward, cupping your cheek as if the first time.
You think you like this more.
“Then don’t.”
A stroke of his thumb, and you snort a laugh when the cold of your nose bumps against the digit.
“And when you want to go back to being sixteen, come to see me, okay?”
Little did you both know that the future had a way of testing just how long sixteen would last.
Until when do you stop pretending?
An explanation as to how you ended up with the curly blond’s lips pressed to your thighs doesn’t sit anywhere in sight, and in the quiet comfort of your bedroom, you let the thought slip by.
Yet, in the end, there’s as much of a pathetic excuse as expected.
That serves for a bit of background information first.
It was a mistake.
You were just teenagers.
But the stinging feeling in your heart, like the swelling of a thorn stuck between your rib cage, tells you that’s far from the truth.
For any infant it’s easy to placate an act, a theatre of behavior. For your stuffed animals as a doctor, for diving into the pool after the rings a mother would toss in beforehand, feigning the role of an experienced diver.
But there comes both a time and occasion to weave a lie, no less complete the loom as someone cognitive enough to understand a situation’s veracity.
When the mind is said to be “not fully developed” but each and every predicament feels like it matters on behalf of the world, when a sentence a year back pops itself from hiding, appearing at the forefront of your mind.
The true question.
Just how long can one stay sixteen?
Junior year, with eighteen lingering a hairsbreadth away for the both of you.
Junior year, where talk of pressures and intimacy lead to Chris being your first time.
And in turn, you were his.
Though that came a few minutes later. Something clumsy and unpracticed the both of you laughed at on continual occasion, enacted for the pure reason of curiosity, of trust.
While everyone gave themselves to strangers, you wanted to give yourself to someone adored, whom you didn’t believe for a second you’d regret.
But was that really the sole reason?
Curiosity?
Or love?
No. Nothing along those lines.
Or that’s what you told yourself those years, those moments. And although it’s supremely underestimated by that of adults, those prolonged stares, the upward quirk of his lips when he catches your eye from across the room is but a matter a babe could understand.
It has always been more, been a new road opened since you’d kissed him. The both of you simply headed the same route you always had.
Best friends, that’s all.
But to an astronaut, the earth has never been the limit, or they wouldn’t be an astronaut. And you were someone that loved Christopher Bahng, but hid behind a title the both of you knew was untrue.
Now it exists like a flash of the mind, swift and fast and almost unnoticed if not for the lingering feeling at your skin—an insatiable itch where his fingers had laid trace.
A soft nip to your inner thigh, his thumb resting just above your navel. His chin upon your lower belly when your events had come to a close, gazing up at you, unreadable.
No. Not unreadable, but one you didn’t want to read, look too far into and get hurt.
Was that it? A gnawing fear of getting hurt holding you back from the things you wanted?
His face lingering with traces of you, lips swollen and glossy and stretched into a smile you scorned to stare at.
“You’re.. gross.”
Maybe a “thank you” or a “that felt amazing” would’ve been the more appropriate response, but this was Chris, and to not speak your mind would break a vow instilled from the earliest of your elementary days.
He laughs, a squeaky sound of happiness you soak up like a sponge—absorbing, absorbing, taking in every ounce offered.
That you can trust in, place faith within.
In a future unknown, however, a part of you knows that the only way of freedom is to prepare for a pain that may come, and may not.
For there is never a guarantee love will be fatal, but all will pass someday.
To live without a taste of that freedom seems too awful to stay in your bubble.
All so scary, uncertain. The unpredictability can be overwhelming. Somewhere in between you hope he felt it too.
Love, that is.
Ah.
A kiss at your lips, and he tastes like you—something you’d shrink away with disgust at if not for his presence, the tender manner in which he eases your shirt back down, then his own adjusted over his head.
That night, you ate dinner and never spoke of it. Not a taboo topic, merely mutually understood. His parents out for a night, Hannah off staying late for an after school activity.
A kiss after washing dishes in the sink, a kiss when you flop onto the couch. After an uno match by the coffee table, where your competitiveness sparks into screaming matches, tackling him following not long after.
Your bodies like a whirlwind of motion, writhing with chortled laughter like squabbling infants.
Overtop of you he pauses, and your earlier feigned rage fades as quickly as it was provoked, chest warming at the chaste peck to your cheek, then the press of his lips you beckon closer, hands curling into the fabric of his tee, slipping down his back to trace the bumps of his spine.
One breath, two.
Warm, and it feels like you’re melting.
Fingernails usher the shirt upwards, his lower back beared, tanned from summer sun.
More.
You want more all over again.
“Chris!”
It’s Hannah’s voice, squeaky at age thirteen, that clears the steaminess instantly, clambering off each other so quickly your foot slams into his stomach, his hand shoving your face into the carpeted floor.
“I- I won in Uno! Fair and square!”
Not a great cover up, Chris, but the flushed nature of his ears, his cheeks, makes up for the stupid excuse.
From this prompts a sequence of events, of excuses and hiding, of denial and relapsing into what’s familiar.
But just as life is unpredictable, none of those thoughts plagued your mind yet.
Nothing had happened yet.
Then it happened, and you can’t come to recall how.
A party, freshman year of university. A guy, loud music, too many drinks.
He was a sweet soul, helping you back to your dorm when the world became a distant, fuzzy memory. Someway or another (you’re betting your roomie gave it to him), he snagged your number.
Because Saturday morning, 11am, you received a: “Feeling any better?” text you gazed at in horror—believing the random number to be some drunken one night stand—before being filled in.
Jae was his name. Jae Hyeong.
A student in your Wednesday lecture, passing by unknown, now becoming known.
You told Chris about him that summer, mumbled between bites of strawberries after a stop by the market in his dad’s old pick-up truck.
Rust clung to the sides, and you could never be certain the engine would start up again. But it was loved and cherished. So faith was placed in it anyway.
Expectedly, he just nodded his head, popping another sweet bite between plush lips.
The thing was, you told Chris about him without mentioning the dating factor.
Jae was funny, sweet. The first of your dates concluding with your stomach aching from laughter. And a cowardly part of you blames forgetfulness, while the other points directly at your heart.
Even when, staring into his eyes, all you see is Chris.
How cruel, and you want to hate yourself for dragging this boy along.
Scared.
Because at the moment, pursuing music was Chris’s dream, attending Uni at Sydney was that utmost goal he reached towards.
And you’d support him through it, even if you were left behind.
It wasn’t you, your mind berates.
It never was you.
So you’ll look away, deny the love you ache for. Jae deserves that, right? Not to be treated as some source of healing for you, a rebound for love unrequited.
Maybe the friendship of yours has clouded your judgement. It’s not love you harbor, but fondness.
A soul-sucking, gut-wrenching fondness that’s unequivocally love.
“I think you’d like him.”
Maybe this is your hopes of even ground. That if the both of them become somewhat-friends, your feelings will ease and you’ll realize this was all a fever-dream and you were truly in love with Jae.
All a dream.
“Will I?” Chris grunts in reply, both of your legs dangling from the truck bed’s edge.
He thinks you’re prettiest like this. A bit unkempt, no makeup, hair left to its own devices.
You. Wholly, unapologetically you.
Blemishes and smile lines just like his, bits of strawberry lingering by the corners of your lips he wants to kiss away, lap up with his tongue and take advantage of the quiet of the morning, the lack of townspeople awake to witness his greed.
Chris is greedy when it comes to you, he’ll admit it. He wants and wants and wants, and can’t ever seem to be satiated.
Whether it’s your kisses, your laughter, that sweet, mumbled moan when you’re feeling so good.
Shit. He’s in too deep.
To his core, Chris is a gentle man. He wouldn’t allow himself to be angry at you if it cost his life but, he’s also human. And humans feel jealousy.
It’s been a while since the thought occurred to him, since that biting pit began forming in his gut, gnashing their teeth at anything in sight.
“Is he good to you?” A quiet murmur, one that’s a bit reserved compared to his usual cheerfulness, optimistic tone. This is curious, observant. That kind of behavior when he wants to know more though remain subtle.
Plus, he argues with that frothing jealously. It’s not like he’s your boyfriend, right?
Then, as quickly as it came, the jealousy is gone, swept away in the crashing tides just a few miles from where you sit. Replaced with nervousness, worry.
It’s not like Chris can control you. You aren’t to be controlled, and it’d be cruel to keep you from your potential to begin with. He’s just the coward that can’t bring himself to confess.
And neither can you, but he doesn’t know that.
Two nervous messes, fretting over love they’ve shared long before anyone speaks up about it.
What remains unspoken.
Will your boyfriend be good to you? Treat you right? His head swims, grasping a strawberry hard enough that streams of juice slip down his wrist, droplets trickling onto the top of a muscular thigh.
And heaven forbid the guy breaks your heart. He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Chris and likely earn a beat down for the road.
But then comes the hopeful thought, the “what if” that lingers under his skin, buzzes at his fingertips as an index comes to loop a strand of hair behind your ear to better see you.
The bit of pride in the corner, nudging his shoulder as if it were you. A longtime friend.
I’ll treat you well.
Please let me be good to you.
Closing his eyes, the sad smile of yours after having failed your final exam resides there. Bittersweet, somber.
Would it be considered stages of grief if he had yet to lose someone?
No less, it feels as if you’re leaving him behind altogether.
“You alright?”
But for now, you’re by his side. It’s enough.
“Hm,” A nod, eyes remaining closed.
“The sun feels good today.”
It feels better with you.
Who knew how quickly good things go.
“Hi Berry!”
The summer before your junior year of Uni, and for a moment, standing in front of the Bahng household feels nostalgic in a way that makes your heart sink.
The rose-tinted glasses feel further away than ever. Peeling paint, cracks in the wood, creaking of the paneled floors you hadn’t noticed those summer’s before.
Things have changed, and you shudder to think you were the bringer of it.
The hand in yours whose last name isn’t Bahng, however, proves the point.
This summer, Jae came with you. Officially regarded as your boyfriend.
Thus far, there has been no greater feeling of dread and guilt in your gut than right now.
Dread in witnessing Chris’ reaction, guilt from the gnawing ache in your chest. Because no, by no means did you wish to treat Jae as a buffer, an anchor to love unrequited. Nonetheless, that certainly felt the case, more so the situation responsible for your guilt.
And maybe, just maybe, it was wordlessly understood. The manner you’d speak of Chris to Jae, that hidden longing unable to be shielded by a facade.
How cruel, a heart is. To love so shamelessly. Garner affection, but withhold a love solely reserved for one.
In need of mending, care you fail to give by yourself.
Berry, the beloved Chevalier King Charles Spaniel, helps calm such a maelstrom, if only for a short amount of time.
Before Chris walks down the stairs.
.
.
.
If fur had lined Chris’ back, it would be spiked in apprehension, aggression. Like a wolf, scruff ruffled in the presence of someone new.
A second-long overview tells him enough. Your hand in his, the way he trails after you as if some lovesick puppy.
The taste of bile in his throat makes him want to choke.
He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.
So childish, it all is. This harrowing sadness weighing on his chest, the jealousy.
“This is Jae, isn’t it?”
Ah, you should’ve known better.
Chris could always tell.
Yet, his eyes never leave yours. A mere flicker of attention to the newcomer until you’re bathed in the spotlight again, and the hair on your arms rises unnervingly.
“Yeah,” Swiftly clearing your throat, you feebly try at gathering your wits, granting Jae a smile you hope is reassuring.
“He’s.. my boyfriend.”
All at once, Chris feels his world crashing down on him.
“What happened?” He wanted to ask, forgetting you grew up, no longer that little girl seated beside him on the playground’s swings.
Because it’s already enough in recognizing it, but another in receiving clarification.
A slow inhale is breath into lungs he feels are already too full, straining to contain oxygen.
He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.
I lost you, whispers in his mind. Fragmented pieces of a puzzle.
There was a reason an extra pillow resided in the linen closet, or the My Little Pony toothbrush tossed in the mug his old swim-team sold as merch.
For you, and only you.
Never another.
Selfishly, he feels this casting has abruptly booted him from the main position, now rooted as a bystander in a set that isn’t even his.
Of course, Chris lacks the complete asshole gene, so a hasty handshake serves as greeting enough before he’s already reaching for the door.
“Eh? But we-“
“Guest bedroom is on your left. Y/N will show you. You two can sleep there or whatever- I’m going to surf.”
Just the partial asshole gene.
And he knows you can tell. Reading each other with the ease of a lover. Attentive, observant.
Nevertheless, your love is directed to someone else.
“He uh.. isn’t usually like this.”
A mumble on your part suffices in buffering the silence. That, followed by Jae’s cocked brow.
“Real friendly guy.”
Your lip tugs between your teeth, peering back at the boy from over your shoulder. Apparently, your expression of remorse fails to be hidden well.
“Hey, it’s alright,” Jae consoles, “I dealt with that one jerk of a roommate back in Brisbane for a whole semester, y’know? A bit of coldness is nothin’.”
Ignorance only feels good for so long. Bliss is never permanent.
If only you had understood that lesson, abided by it.
Yet, just like those years before, you turn your head the other direction and allow life to pass by without him in it, despite staying in the same home.
Despite him being everything to you, despite a love shared over countless years.
.
.
.
He’s irritable. Chris is. The subtle grit of his teeth you've come to recognize, the harsh grip he nearly crushes his fork in. Dinner had never felt so stifling, never when you were here.
All of a sudden, the household you had once found solace inside feels all too hot, a sweltering furnace where each extra beat of silence adds a degree to the thermometer.
Jessica Bahng’s cooking was incredible, as predicted, and conversation flowed effortlessly between you, her, and Jae—the boy charming without trying, his charisma winning over the woman after a mere two bites of food.
What wasn’t predictable was Chris’ quietness from across the table. Because each time he looks up, he finds himself seated in a theatre, watching what was pass by. Watching how you’d kiss Jae, hold his hand, laugh by his side.
Was that all it was? Him as a spectator?
The chip in the corner of his dinner plate held in hand verifies emotion unwilling to be shown on the surface.
He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t even acknowledge you.
Jerk.
You scoff, offering him a miniature scowl from the corner of your eye.
“So, how’d you meet Y/N? I forgot to ask last night,” Jessica insists, glancing from you to Jae in rapid succession.
Oh, great. The formalities.
“Well,” A pause on the younger boy’s end, sheepishly grinning. “It was actually at a party—“
“Pfft, yeah right,” Chris grunts beneath his breath in amusement, ramming his fork down into a piece of broccoli.
Acting like a child and he knows it, but no amount of maturity can seem to withhold the snide comments.
Either the other three didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. He’s fine with both.
“And yeah, I just remember her being so drunk and—“
“You wish,” The dyed blond mumbles once more to himself, shaking his head in quiet mirth.
Those words beckon attention, and Chris mutters an inaudible curse after the sharp kick his mother grants in warning.
That night, dinner concluded like usual. Cheerful on one end, quiet as a mouse on the other. Figuring out who belonged on which side came easy.
Except, Chris fails to remain silent this time around whilst attending to dish duty, lips drawing into a tight line witnessing Jae place his plate beside the sink.
Not in the sink, not even an offer to help wash. No, the bastard’s eyes are dead set on you, flickering from your eyes, lips, ass—
Dammit, he wants to sock the guy right about now.
However, he waits until you get upstairs to wash up for bed before speaking.
“Gonna give me a servant uniform too at this point?” The last of Chris’ mutters, and it seems Jae is done with staying silent as well.
“Alright, just what is your problem?”
“I don’t know, why can’t you be well-mannered as a guest? At least wash your own damn dish,” Chris growls back, the two’s eyes meeting in a vicious staring contest prior to his mother’s scolding, resulting in both boys on dish-duty.
Although it’s the words muttered in his ear when Jae leaves that nearly provokes every nerve in his body to crush the man’s face in with his fist.
“Whatever was between you two, forget it. She’s not yours anymore.”
Your face appearing from the top of the stairwell keeps his urge at bay, merely evident in the white-knuckled clenching of his fist, his form hasty to disappear outside the screen door.
Instinctively, sandal-clad feet taking him to the one place that lets him think.
The ocean.
It’s late, and high tides crash against the sandy shoreline. The squawking of seagulls has drawn to a close, the enormous light of the moon overhead a constant he finds comfort in.
Pattering of your footsteps, however, gather his focus instantaneously, wordless where your form curls by his side.
Another constant, just you and him.
Something to spite the change.
So much change, in fact, he feels like each bit of the youth he’s known is being swallowed up, consumed into newness he can’t accept.
But you still open doors fully in case monsters hide behind them, and he hasn’t changed the flavor of ice cream he buys from convenience stores since he was eight, so perhaps nothing has changed but exterior.
To be ignorant is to be blissful, a lesson continually presenting itself this summer. Neither happens to be involved in your predicament.
You’re first to break the silence. Always the more courageous one, albeit he’d never admit it.
“I shouldn’t have brought Jae here, I’m sorry.”
Your slow inhale.
“This is.. our place, I get it. I just thought—“
“No,” A shake of his head, second nature upon reading the startled look you give him.
“I mean,” He has to tilt his head to peek at your face, hidden between your knees like a child.
“It’s our place, you’re right but-.. If one day.. somebody comes along, then that’s..”
A begrudging acceptance, if that’s the word.
You look up at him and- ah, you’re so pretty. Chris stops to stare for a moment, his lips parted like an infant fixated on the cookie jar.
Hurried blinking and a swift breath dispel the prior awe.
“That’s okay. If “you” becomes you and someone else, then so be it.”
A small, wry smile. Though beneath, he feels as if he’s breaking.
“I wouldn’t be your best friend if I didn’t pester your boyfriend, or, y’know, future boyfriends. ‘S what I do for my favorite girl.”
He smiles, wanting to cry more than anything while playfully pinching your cheek.
Why can’t you be mine?
.
Ten minutes or so separate your conversation, but you pick up again as if you’d never stopped in the first place.
“Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I could just go back to being when we were kids again, y’know?”
“And what would you do if you were kids again?”
These words are slow, patient.
His reply ruins the peace, the begrudging acceptance you had built like a wall of defense, blocking feelings foaming at the mouth to climb from your throat, echoing in the night air.
“I’d never let you go.”
“I’m going to bed,” A mumble interrupts the quietness, your head weighing against his shoulder.
An anchor, in fear you’d be thrashed into the waves without return.
Chris has always been your buoy.
If only he could keep you afloat in your dreams, but you had yet to yearn for that just yet.
The small nod where he assures you he’d stay a bit longer serves as an untold: “good night” you offer a tight smile in response to, slipping past the creaking doorway and up to your shared bedroom.
Shared with Jae, not Chris.
And no, Jae wasn’t a buffer. A substitute until you could muster courage to confess, to shout the aches and pains and torment your messy love prompts.
More often than not, Jae has been a lighthouse, helping you venture through the fog of feelings muddling your mind, decisions.
Hell, you don’t know half of what you’re doing.
So many adult responsibilities are manageable, but love provides its own labyrinth no matter the age, never a mere math equation, a problem and solution.
But with loopholes, and heartbreak, and stupidity, and impulsiveness.
Confusion and sadness and guilt, these gut-wrenching feelings keeping someone up at night.
Like tonight, where your eyes stare daggers into the guest bedroom’s wall across from you. A wall lacking Chris’ swim posters, medals. The old nightlight still plugged into the outlet, once prominent galaxy patterns faded into nothingness.
There for the memories, it was.
Is that what you and Chris were now? A night light still plugged into the wall, left there like some somber source of recollection to look back on?
You hate how your stomach dips at the thought, the nausea building in your throat causing you to roll over, now face-to-face with a snoring Jae, limbs strung like a starfish across the mattress.
Luckily, sleep wasn’t too far away for you either, though it felt like an eternity before your consciousness fully dissipated.
“Oh… Oh my Go-“
Your arms lift above your head, reaching for something you don’t even know. Reprieve, possibly, amid the tingling of your body, the fuzziness of your head.
After months of dreamless nights, of course it’s a dirty dream.
Then an involuntary shift occurs through your body, hand extending towards the boy’s hair. And for a moment, it seems your dream-like vision flickers like a faulty lightbulb, because all you can see is Chris.
Somehow, you know it isn’t Chris, but Jae. Nevertheless, he’s the only face you can make out, the only form recognizable.
Although his name wasn’t explicitly uttered, the horror etching itself into your bones merely mouthing it has you reeling back into reality.
Not Chris’s bedroom, but your dorm room.
Not his chocolate irises meeting yours when you look down, the gentle reassurance in his warm palm, grasping the back of your thigh to offer a grounding squeeze.
This is Jae. This dream is in Brisbane. And Chris is a whole ten-hours away.
Your second day at the beach house, you wake in a cold sweat.
And right there, sixteen really did fade away.
“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”
Apparently, on a rather comical note, Jae had anticipated your form to be standing by the stove preparing breakfast, his sleep-ridden frame the last to wake up.
Mrs. Jessica had already busied herself driving Hannah to spend the summer with their grandparents, her own annual ritual.
Trust, he wasn’t all too pleased to find Chris there instead, the pan-wielding man granting your boyfriend a venomous stink-eye.
“Sorry, I don’t play housewife,” Your slumber-ridden mumble from the countertop’s stool beckons Chris’ slight snort, pointing the spatula to himself as if clarifying a: “That’s me, the housewife”.
That, paired with containing a huff of laughter watching your form peering into the fridge, hoping the next time you’d open it up a delectable dessert would be there.
To no avail, evident in your dejected grumble.
“Hey,” The curly blond scowls, his frown growing imperceptibly deeper when Jae presses a kiss to your cheek in greeting.
You don’t notice.
“Wait for breakfast, ‘m making omelette how you like. And uh.. I made some other stuff. You can have that, Jae.”
“Thanks,” Sarcasm drips from your boyfriend’s tone, rolling his eyes.
Still on the rocks.
Got it.
“Anytime,” Predictably, Chris feeds off the sarcasm, acting as nonchalant as ever while plating the food and murmuring reminders about waxing his surfboard in the garage.
Further grating Jae’s nerves in turn, you note.
A bigger bite of your omelette feebly manages to redirect the anxiety, the remnants of stringy cheese clinging to your upper lip.
“You’ve got something there.”
Your best friend’s hum rings aloud, reaching to brush the piece of food from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
And for a moment, a memory of the past flickers in your mind. The darkening of a room, now bright after only a second.
A memory. Not the dream last night.
His lips on yours, the quickening of breath, hands squeezing his clothing like a vice and—
“Thanks.”
The words surprise even you, not a forethought in sight.
And you also don’t notice the cock of Jae’s head, the utter “I dare you” spoken in Chris’ lifted brows, this sneering quirk of his lips offered as a war cry to the other boy before walking past without another word.
One look, and a war had begun.
“We should visit the zoo,” Jae mentions one Sunday while you’re painting your toenails and Chris is absorbed in some video on his phone.
“You seriously haven’t been to the Sydney Zoo?”
Conversations always end like this, and you’re tempted to ram your head into the nearest wall.
“I can’t believe you don’t know how to surf. You’re Australian, seriously.”
“Well I’m sorry I don’t live in my fancy beach house a convenient two minute walk from the beach.”
More bickering, bickering, bickering. Your skull wants to explode.
On an off-handed occasion, maybe they’ll behave tolerably in regards to one another.
That day was not today. Frankly speaking, tonight, where the only responsible person in the household, Jessica Bahng, had left on a work trip.
…You would admit, you also aren't immune to stupid decisions.
However, this stupid decision took the cake.
A competition, predictably, but not just mini golf or freestyle swimming; drinking.
From Asahi beer, apple-flavored soju and hard liquor, the whole assortment bedecked the coffee table, an already tipsy Christopher Bahng swaying across from you.
Sure, college paved the way for immaturity, but seriously. Seeing who could better handle their alcohol was just sad.
And trust, Chris looked about the epitome of sad (adorable, you forgot to mention) with his flushed cheeks and ears to the frustrated crease of his brows, pupils blown, eyes glossy where they fixate on a victorious Jae.
Who, in a prideful fashion, tips back another shot of soju with his own, less-tipsy hiccup prior to getting up and stretching his legs, hopefully gathering water in the process.
Nonetheless, Chris just spaces out, evidently inebriated thanks to the unfocused nature of his attention. Fleetingly, his gaze then roved on you, head tipping in a swoon-worthy fashion like some enamored first grader.
Little were you aware just how gorgeous you looked right now from the boy’s buzzed perspective, breath smelling of alcohol where he exhales short huffs, lips curving into this dumb-happy smile.
And— he passes out, thankfully already seated on the carpeted floor.
Though, leaving you and a grumpy Jae with the responsibility of lugging him onto the couch, letting sleep help sober him up until you (considering your boyfriend did everything in his power to avoid interaction with the blacked out Chris) took the role of coaxing sips of water into his mouth.
By midnight, all the glasses had been cleared, and you adjusted a blanket over Chris’s drunken, sleepy frame, Jae already preparing for bed upstairs.
“I love Berry.” A whisper, and you crane to catch the remnants of his words before he shifts beneath the blanket, dead silent for a minute or two.
Then he rolls over to face you, sporting a downright longing sort of look.
“.. I really love Berry.”
“You said that already, Chris.”
“Okay.”
And he rolls over like it was all a dream, pouty.
Too cute.
Your fond touch smooths coiling strands of hair from his forehead, sparing him a last glance prior to thumping up the stairs.
That night, lying sleepless in bed, you can’t help but wonder:
How much more of this? For both them and you. How much more competition until the calm facades crack, until your patience snaps?
The flames of a rivalry never seem to wane, each interaction adding gasoline to a heat almost unbearable.
Only a matter of time until someone pours in too much and ignites an inferno.
One week until your visit to Sydney comes to a close, and the two are still at each other’s throats.
Between mundane things like making dinner or cleaning to stupid competitions like who ran the fastest mile in junior high or who can stay underwater the longest (or the drinking competition, a notable contestant), this trip has started to feel like a babysitting gig instead of a vacation.
“Chris-“
“Christopher.” Chris corrects one evening, the snide reprimand earning Jae’s icy glare in return.
Currently seated by your side on the couch once occupied by the blond, Jae scoffs to himself, arm extending to drape over your shoulders.
Meanwhile, your attention remains solely on the nature channel, a bit dazed in exhaustion after a long day of swimming beneath the warm sun overhead.
What makes him bristle is the way Jae leans into your form, pressing a kiss to your temple whilst maintaining sole eye contact with the other man.
When your head turns, however, all is well.
This quieted, occasionally evident rivalry grates your nerves with no trace of resolve.
“Say,” An aimless hand taps against the side of the reclining chair your best friend sits within, a loose tee and sweatpants adorning his form.
And you’d be a fat liar to not admit glancing more than once at the way the fabric stretches over his torso when he shifts, squeezing against muscles unable to suitably fit.
Merely appreciative, you tell yourself.
“Why don’t we let dear old Jae pick Y/N’s favorite movie, hm?”
Such a mocking question, it is, and Chris spares no expense chucking the remote control in hand a little too hard at Jae, the man’s brows furrowing in silent irritation he refused to voice aloud.
Testing him.
Perhaps a time ago you’d mentioned your favorite movie to your boyfriend, though the topic wasn’t all too serious in your opinion.
For Jae, however, this was war, this unspeakable quiz verifying if he knew you better than Chris, knew the answer the other man knew like the back of his hand and then some.
You both know the champion title would always rest in Chris’s hands.
That you kept quiet about.
“What? Don’t tell me you don’t know her favorite movie.”
Cocky, Chris is.
And dammit, the tick of his jaw is unfairly attractive.
“It’s Tangled, now give me the remote and both of you grow up.”
It’s your turn to answer, having grown sick and tired of these childish taunts before snatching the remote from Jae’s grasp with a shared, scolding glower towards the both of them.
Comedically enough, they shrink like dejected puppies.
Fortunately, the movie helps distract you for a while, long enough that a nap becomes a decision not on your own accord—body slumping against Jae’s.
Unfortunately, Jae flipping Chris off from the couch and mouthing a “loser” beneath his breath escalates things to a level you don’t like to imagine.
Perhaps that’s the cause for either black eye decorating their face and Chris’s busted lip the next morning.
.
.
.
Trust, waking up to black and blue boys roaming the house was a sight hard not to laugh at.
“Did you guys.. fight?”
“Fight? I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got a black eye, Jae.”
By the time the last day rolls around, those arguments, petty behavior, childish games become something you want to hold onto, June and July drifting past too quickly for you to chase after.
And while you had some grasp of their fight three days ago, only half of it has been made knowledgeable.
Chris would like to keep it that way for a multitude of reasons.
The favorite movie of yours served as the gasoline, and you had foretold the inferno to come.
“It’s not my fault you can’t let go of something that was never yours!”
Chris shoves Jae’s suitcase in the back of your car harder than need be, the other boy’s words ringing in his head as if some dreaded deadline.
“She’s- she’s not something to be owned like an object! I don’t want to possess her, I want to love her! And my god if you could get that through your head I think things would become a lot easier for both of us!”
A worthy argument on his own part, Chris would argue.
“You know what needs to get through your head?” Chris recalls the events similar to replays in sports, nearly able to feel the anger that had been coursing through his veins when Jae retaliated.
Storming straight up in his face where they stood on the beach, the night sky as their audience.
“You lost your chance, Chris. Waited too fucking long to confess and now you’re acting like a little kid just ‘cause you didn’t have the balls to say something, get it?”
Jae spat his name like a cursed pseudonym, and a snort of satisfaction exhales from his frame envisioning the sucker-punch he gave the boy after that.
Followed by the clench of his fist, observing your laughter while talking with your boyfriend from afar.
Boyfriend.
Dammit.
Then the last part, before they both went tumbling into the sand in a mixture of fury-filled shouts and flying limbs.
“She’s not yours, Chris. Deal with it.”
His reply?
“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.”
Who knew such a day would come so soon.
Maybe you should’ve known better.
Or that’s what you try to explain to yourself using. Some sad excuse to make up for the scene witnessed just minutes earlier.
Six months, not even half a year, and two months after traveling to Sydney together.
Stopping at crappy restaurants during the boresome ride, cracking jokes, laughing until your bellies hurt. Kissing, sex.
Was it the whole tension with Chris? Your mind rationalizes, frantically searching for some reason, rhyme.
Trick question. There is no rhyme or reason in love.
Now, Jae professes all of it amounted to nothing while staying silent at the same time.
Him kissing another girl in front of your dormitory proved that.
Cheater.
And within the few minutes you bask in realization, you wish so terribly you could unleash that wrath on him. Scream in frustration or land similar punches the two battered each other with in Sydney.
Kick him in the shins, yell manically enough to scare the sadness out of your body.
But honestly, you just want to cry.
A sharp inhale, battling the sob threatening to run free with the beep of your phone’s keypad, serving as your only companion.
Until Chris picks up the call, and shit.
You break.
“What.. What was I thinking-“
It’s a job and a half sniffling up the cries, and for once, you feel embarrassed calling Chris crying—even with this being far from the first time.
Why involve someone else in your own problems?
Realistically, a part of you knew such a happening both could and, stupidly enough, would occur, knew this placated vision of peacefulness was a meager mask, acting as a film to the truth behind the blurry camera lens.
You can’t stay ignorant to him, and there isn’t a particle of happiness in unrequited pining, no matter trying to ease the pain with someone else who’ll eventually hurt you.
Fuck.
Because you love him. That’s all.
There, said and done.
In your mind, at least. But saying that aloud results in your tongue feeling like lead, results in more crying.
“Y/N,” His voice, and you feel the coldness in your fingertips warm up, as if wrapped in his embrace. A long, safe hug.
“Answer me two things.”
Your additionally embarrassing, whimpered sound of agreement affirms his offer.
“Was this Jae?”
No it was—
Yes. Honestly, truthfully, it was.
No more pretending, excuses. Sixteen was over.
“Mhm,” Wiping your snotty nose on the back of your hand, a miniscule amount of relief comes from leaning against the wall behind you.
“And do you want me there or just want to talk?” That lilt of his tone, tender.
He’s good at making you want to cry. Though never due to meanness.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, you calm your voice as much as possible.
“Here. Here, please.”
Then a realization.
“But you’re, like, ten hours awa-“
“That doesn’t matter. I’ll make it five. Right now, go back to your dorm, get some good takeout, and turn on Tangled, okay? Find something relaxing and don’t think about anything for a moment. I’ll be right there, alright?”
Longing lies in the way you press the phone to your cheek, savoring his voice like a soothing balm.
Let’s go back, let’s try this one more time.
First that time he asked you to prom in highschool, the second in his bedroom, allowing yourselves intimacy with each other for the first time.
You’ve never heard of a third chance before.
For him, you’re willing to try.
That said, Chris held tight to his word, the rattling truck of his a miracle in managing to get here—no less get here two hours earlier than most did on the drive to Brisbane from Sydney, alerting you from the comfort of your dorm’s bed with its puttering engine and creaking brakes.
Surprisingly, however, he doesn’t spare you a word whilst rushing past, seemingly having chosen perfect timing in rushing to the dorms where a rather unlucky Jae steps out.
You don’t think you’ve heard a more dreadful noise than the crunch of Jae’s nose beneath Chris’s fist, the force alone sending the boy bowling to the ground before he’s being picked up again by the collar, your best friend downright seething.
“What did I tell you, hm?” A growl, his arm poised for another blow you can’t bring yourself to watch.
“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.” Chris repeats, nothing but white-hot rage charging through his veins.
Jae, satisfyingly enough, looks terrified.
Good, Chris internally muses. Because simply pulling in, he saw all he needed to. The puffiness of your eyes, your shuddering sniffles.
And all of a sudden it feels like that time in second grade, where Chris and a few of his friends had gotten redemption on the kid who stole your favorite popsicle flavor purposefully.
And for you, you feel like you’re watching that missing-toothed, sunburnt boy stand up for you again.
“I think another black eye might compliment the nose,” He snarls, momentarily catching your gaze.
The subtle shake of your head dissipates every angry instinct simultaneously, deciding to harshly shove Jae back to the ground alternatively and, at last, gather you in his arms for a hug that felt long overdue.
Occasionally you come to think there are connections that reach deeper than love — being the connection of souls in the most intimate of moments. Being your fingertips threading through blond curls, kissing at his lips clumsily—unlearned.
Right now, this hug. Nosing into the scent of his detergent, finding comfort in the place you were meant to be in, the arms you weren’t meant to be held in.
It had always been unlearned, but it was Chris, so you didn’t mind.
Oh, you loved it.
Loved him.
A bloody-nosed Jae could wait, because the last hour of Tangled needed to be watched, and the curl of his fingers in yours coaxed you along without a chance of stopping.
.
.
.
Senior year and soon to be graduates. Grown up, maybe just physically.
“Chris.”
The words are nearly inaudible, drapes of the canopy bed sole privacy to the man lingering above you, blond curls just as you remembered, eyes that same, heart-stopping chocolate hue.
Your hands find themselves reaching up, tentative to touch warm skin. Golden.
Chris is always golden.
“Please hold me.”
And those arms that were always meant for you, lips kissing at your chin, pulls you into a rip current you had no intention of leaving.
Yours, his.
Messy, unlearned. Down to experience eventual problems.
TROPE. friends to lovers (not really lovers, more just strangers to friends), summerschool! au, reader is in student council as class prez
WORD COUNT. 12.6k words
PLAYLIST.
WARNINGS. cursing, very troubled childhoods, han lacks parental figures, minho’s mother passed, bullies, evidence of physical violence, mentions of depression & anxiety, just overall very angsty themes, healing, sadness, comfort comfort comfort — ALL OF THE ISSUES/TROUBLES OF CHARACTERS ARE 100% FICTION
AUG'S NOTES. i hope whatever you’re going through works out in the end, and that reading this very indulgent fic can help heal a part of you and get you through summertime sadness — inspiration for the fic came from this!
SYNOPSIS. It was never your intention to be the one in charge of a summer school class—a troubled summer school class, but here you were. Eight boys in this classroom, all with their individual stories and silenced opinions. And somehow, you can’t find it in yourself to give up on them.
or alternatively :
Eight kids, one purpose. Get them to be okay with one another — with themselves — by the end of the summer.
Eight kids, one purpose.
Get them to be okay with one another.
Although, you didn’t realize that yet. That your Class President position would throw you right into such a mess (or what you referred to it as the first time you got word).
We all have the things we hate. The things we say we “heavily dislike”. But in reality, we hate it. It incessantly grates our nerves, has our patience forming into a ticking pipe bomb, enough that sometimes, we explode. Say things we don’t mean, get angry, get mad.
The thing that sets these boys apart, according to the acknowledgements paper you were given, is that they don’t even try to be sweet, they don’t ask for forgiveness. Not towards one another, and most certainly not towards anything else.
Your job is just as you said. Get them to be okay with one another.
Catch? There’s a time limit.
Twelve weeks of summer school.
Twelve weeks for eight boys to, no, not be nice to each other, not be best friends (not even friends), but just to be okay with being in the same room, be within six feet of each other without tearing someone’s throat — or their own — out.
Is it simple? Absolutely not.
You want to try though, because up till now, everyone has given up on these boys. People that the school district have deemed always successful have pushed them aside, called them impossible.
You won’t be the next to give up.
Twenty chairs in the classroom, yet not two sit next to each other, spaced out by at least three chairs per person.
Your roster sits upon your desk, listing their names by alphabetical order.
(Sitting on the furthest end of the classroom) Bahng, Christopher - nickname: Chan
He’s a football player (god knows how), who, despite hardly showing up to practices and arriving to random games—is always responsible for their wins. In some way you’re sure that’s the only reason he hasn’t been kicked off.
Christopher’s an interesting case.
He’s got amazing grades and passes school without fail, but no one has any clue about his home situation or whether he even has a home or not. You’re told he’s extremely distant and closed off, sort of void to life. He was sent due to excessive absences.
2. (Planted dead front of the class) Han, Jisung
His record states he’s been sent to the counselor eleven times in the first two weeks of school for disruptions and inappropriate behavior. Jisung has an older brother who’s valedictorian, but they never speak to one another and don’t seem to have the best relationship. He’s said to be obnoxiously straight-forward and senseless, you wonder if it’s true.
3. (Nearest to the window on your right) Hwang, Hyunjin
Despite his popular facade, Hyunjin is regarded as the “troublesome face-card” by many deans and counselors alike. Students adore his looks, but he couldn’t butt heads more with Jisung, and they’re often sent out together. Hyunjin is believed to have a worrisome superiority complex according to the last counselor he’s been seen by.
4. (Opposite of Hyunjin across the classroom) Kim, Seungmin
Not much has been recorded as far as Seungmin goes. He’s apparently a huge instigator in lots of illegal activity surrounding campus, but no one’s certain. His last counselor claimed he stayed silent throughout his consultation and answered suspiciously vague for almost every question.
5. (A few seats behind Jisung) Lee, Felix
Both him and Christopher have been reported for vandalizing parts of the school in odd, incomprehensible words like “Miroh” and “Maze of Memories”. Some gossip that they’re secretly a part of an underground gang. But upon first glance, Felix looks harmle—
A hand raising grabs your attention. It’s Jisung, wearing a grin when you nod for him to speak.
“How much for a tit-pic, Teach?”
Everyone is silent, and you hear Hyunjin stifle a snicker in the distance.
So this is what they meant by inappropriate behavior.
The corner of your lips twitch slightly, but you successfully maintain an unnerved expression, instead, smiling back at him.
“Let’s not ask questions like that, alright?”
Jisung amusedly huffs, still eyeing you incredulously. Although, he doesn’t say any more, and you continue down the roster’s descriptions.
Lee Minho whose info is conspicuously sparse , Seo Changbin who lashes out randomly without clear conscience (some claim he’s bipolar, you think different), and Yang Jeongin remain, bio’s dotted in unspecified theft attempts, assumed messy family situations and brief mentions of mental illness that seems to a follow a similar pattern to the rest.
Stacking the papers upon your desk, you card eight sheets of notebook paper from the drawer, walking through rows of desks to pass each boy a slip.
All eyes are on you now, and your breathing feels excessively loud in the stifling quietness.
Lightly clapping your hands together in hopes of stirring some sort of sound in this stale air, you speak as fluidly and audibly as your voice will let you.
“Today’s assignment is simple. I want you to write everything about yourself.”
Confused brows lift, primarily from Minho.
“Whether it’s what you like to do, what you don’t like to do, your favorite things, your favorite places, books, movies.”
Another hand raises. Changbin, you remember his name.
“Yes?”
“We’re not in fifth fuckin’ grade.” He growls, words booming. That was another complaint: Changbin’s explosively unprovoked opinions.
Biting back the urge to snap back, you place both hands on the podium at the front of the class, essentially grounding yourself.
“Yes, well this is—“
Somebody grumbles an incoherent sentence, and Changbin is immediately on his feet, chair squealing, eyes wild with fury.
Second complaint: his flaming temper.
Grabbing a fistful of Chan’s shirt (presumably the one who muttered), he sizes up the taller boy, spitting wild curses.
Inhaling deeply, you approach them, withholding the instinct to wince at Changbin’s yelling.
“Changbin, please go back to your seat,” You usher, watching them never take their eyes off one another. Chan is eerily unmoved, though effortlessly intimidating nevertheless.
The former spins around, shoving the other boy off to the side and resorting to sizing you up now, chin lifted, gaze belittling.
One press and you’ll have assistance come in and help. You remind yourself, referring to the small red button residing in your pocket that sends a direct call to the other counselors.
What good will that do? Your first step is getting them to be okay with you, not to mention each other.
No. You can do this, you’ll be fine.
“Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” He spits, glaring as you back up the more he steps forward. That is till you stop and cause him to stop as well, leaving only a few centimeters separating your faces.
“Because,” You ease, shoving a finger into the center of his chest sternly. “I’m your teacher now, and you’re stuck with me. So deal with it.”
Tilting your head, you meet his eyes, hooded behind a veil of black hair.
“I’m sure a fifth grader could understand that, right?”
And with that, you point to his seat and spin on your heel, taking a seat and watching the boys, one by one, lower their heads and begin writing. Well, excluding Changbin, who’s hands stick by his sides, staring at you.
He chews his lip then turns around, shuffling back to his desk.
By the time the dismissal bell echoes, you would like to say you see light in the distance, but the endless tunnel ahead tells you you’re far from even beginning.
Glasses propped on the bridge of your nose, you sort through the papers, carefully observing each one.
It’s a Friday evening, meaning you’re given a meager two days to inhale as much information as possible for the approaching week.
There’s a variety of answers on the papers, from some stating only a song they like or others more of a list-type structure. Felix apparently bakes in his free time and has two sisters while Jeongin plays piano. Although, a certain paper in particular stands out to you.
Han’s.
Only his name is written, nothing else. You’re not sure if it’s a matter of his laziness or carelessness toward the assignment, but clear as day, dead center of his paper, is simply his name.
You at least anticipated some kind of response, like an offensive joke or something, but no. Just: Han Jisung.
Interesting.
A sudden buzzing redirects your attention. It’s from Chaeryoung, cheerily asking about how the first day went along with spilling details about her own day as well.
So far, things are going well. So far.
Not permanent. Just like how you haven’t permanently tamed the beast named Changbin.
And, although you hate such a mindset, realistically, it’s only a matter of time until something goes wrong.
“Chae,” You echo, the faint rustling of your papers sounding on your side of the line. She hums.
“What do you think about this one.”
A grunt of acknowledgement is heard.
You sidle to another sheet; Han’s will have to wait for another occasion.
“Hwang Hyunjin. Said to be trouble-some, argues a lot, apparent superiority complex.”
Although your senior, Chaeryoung has always been a helping hand—a soul to rely on through the rocky periods, your rocky periods.
“Hmm..” She considers, seeming to weigh the matter for a moment. “Have you seen his grades?”
Odd question.
“Straight A student according to his records.”
Impressive. Each quarter, top-scores.
Well, it makes sense for the superiority portion in the case he uses his grades to hang over others heads, but the rest is strange, making it unusual for him to behave so brashly.
Or, maybe it wasn’t unusual, but overlooked.
As if reading your mind, she utters the same words you’d planned to.
“Anxiety?”
Said in unison, you both burst into laughter. Her blindingly bright laugh sends warmth throughout your stomach, easing the droning headache building between your temples.
Hours you’ve spent glaring at the same papers, determined to locate something, anything as a way to help them. A problem to find a solution.
Yet, each case was different—personal to each boy in a sense you couldn’t assign an overall solution.
Instead, you pinpointed one case at a time.
Starting with Hwang Hyunjin.
However, his wasn’t an easy fix. As a high school student, it was virtually impossible to “fix” anxiety (if that was even the issue at hand at all).
Everyone had it in their system. Upcoming tests, pressure.
It was also impossible to really “fix” anybody generally, meaning, more or less, you had to find a way to help them want to help themselves.
With Hwang Hyunjin though, his, stated in the page’s description saying: Cares little to nothing about grades, wasn’t a testing anxiety of a sort, but maybe a tad bit deeper, barely visible without a sharper, clearer lense.
“Send me a pic of the sheet, can you?” She begins, startling the hypothesizing from your mind.
Again, an odd question, but you oblige, swiping off the calling tab to snap a quick picture.
A long silence situates itself between you, presumably Chaeryoung investigating his information.
Strangely, you feel like a detective. Climbing skyscrapers to find a solution to a problem nobody addressed until it became horridly powerful—possessing, now fallen in your hands to solve.
You refused to let their problems ruin them. And although becoming a illegitimate teacher wasn’t the plan for your senior year, you doubt you could back away at this point, not when you had already unearthed the treasure chest.
Last step was finding the key.
Well, detectives are equipped with a magnifying glass for a reason, right?
…
“… His drawings are pretty good?”
Then do you notice the doodles in the far corner of his introductory paper, a flower, a few butterflies, and a dog.. of a sort. Chihuahua-looking.
“C’mon Chaeryoung, take this seriously,” Lightly scolding, you sigh, wetting your lips whilst flipping to the back of the page.
It’s a quick script of things he enjoys, accounts from students he knows or that know him, overall containing an overview of his person.
Hyunjin gets in lots of arguments with Han Jisung.
You know that much.
Your finger slips down the page, scouring each sentence.
XXXX: Hyunjin likes drawing. I’ve seen him drawing at his desk before.
Baseless information, the doodles prove that—
Hold on.
“Chae, when you’re anxious, do you have a reliever? Like doing something, listening to something?”
She chuckles, clattering of dishes in the background causing you to cringe slightly.
“Dancing, you know this. I’m not going to Hanlim Art School for nothing.” Teasingly voiced, you frown, deciding not to egg on her sarcasm.
“Then do you think, where it says he gets in arguments a lot, he’s projecting that anxiety when arguing because he doesn’t have a reliever?”
She clicks her tongue.
“Could be. But we don’t really know Hyunjin, yeah? It could be something deeper Y/nnie. You can’t look surface level when it comes to these guys.”
You sigh, rolling back your shoulders.
“You’re right, but I’m still gonna try it. I need to get through to him that I want to help him somehow, so I might as well exhaust all my options.”
You can’t look surface level when it comes to these guys. A phrase truthful to its fullest extent.
“…Try what?”
Ah, you forgot to mention that part.
“Drawing. I’m gonna try convincing him to give it a chance.”
The stunned silence tells you she’s likely thinking you’re crazy, her only response a breath of disbelief.
You smile.
“I’m insane, I know.”
“No wonder we’re best friends.”
Staring daggers at the papers in front of you, you prop your feet on the desk, sorting through option after option on what you plan next for class.
In the midst of learning more about each boy’s papers though, you overhear something, a few key words.
Friday. Fair.
Aha.
The school’s annual summer fair, held as a congratulatory sort of event to celebrate moving onto a new year of school.
It’s decided. Friday, you’re taking them to the fair.
Mentally thanking whoever had brought it up outside the classroom, you’re quick in crumpling the additional papers, watching as one by one, the boys enter.
Hey, at least none of them are late.
…Not like they had a choice in that anyway.
And, through a rather painfully awkward second time teaching, the ice seems to be breaking little by little.
Any progress is good progress, you’ve deemed.
“Alright, before you’re dismissed, I wanna let you know we’re going to the fair Friday. Be there.” You hum, tapping the podium.
You swear there hasn’t been a more stifling pause in your life.
Though you’d been anticipating something adverse, this is a downright oddity.
“Uh.. what?” Han speaks up as you near the door. Morbidly quiet.
“All of you, meet me at the grounds at 7pm.”
Added into the deplorable silence, you glance over your shoulder whilst stepping into the hallway, face donning a mixture of curiosity and anticipation. “Okay, class dismissed.”
Beginning out the sliding door, the eruption of voices behind you cascade into a multitude of conversation, your clarification they had in fact heard and you weren’t discussing plans with a brick wall.
All you can do is hope they show up.
Class continues through the week, trying to get them to grow more comfortable with the atmosphere—their classmates, more specifically.
Of course, you earn your fair share of close calls and near incidents in those four days leading to Friday, but seeing the whole group turn up that fateful evening seems to make the ordeal worthwhile.
Quick to move your separate ways, you’re hasty in tagging along with Hyunjin, the boy unusually quiet as you fall into step to his right.
“So.. you draw?” You start, scorning the nervousness evident in your tone.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t interject, nor bite back something as his infograph had led you to believe.
“Yeah,” He sharply replies, eyes trained ahead, taking swift, motivated steps through heavily trodden grass.
It confuses you, in all honesty. Everything about this so-called ‘superiority complex’. From these few days you’ve seen him or interacted (though fleeting), not once has the man exhibited any form of arrogance nor shed of his assumed traits.
He’s shy, actually. Maybe you’re simply gracing surface level like Chaeryoung advised, but certain aspects could be seen in the black of night.
“Y’know, you’re pretty good.”
Despite his lack of response, you can feel his eyes dance to your face for a split second.
“‘Think you should try it. You’ve got potential, just saying,” You shrug, merely talking without reason nor inhibition.
“You think?”
It’s his voice breaking through your barrier of unrequited cordiality that stirs the air. A final, conversational pair of words after watching him play countless fairground games in quietness.
“I do,” You hum, nodding avidly while watching Hyunjin’s eyes flicker down to the ground below before back to yours, holding eye-contact.
In those moments, you decipher two things.
Hyunjin rivals the prettiest of paintings, and whatever earlier assumptions had been stuck to his tanned skin couldn’t be more wrong.
“Yo! If you’re just gonna stand there, move it!”
Changbin’s interjection successfully scares the living soul out of you and simultaneously wrecks your intense staring session.
Nevertheless, it’s hard even for you to explain how you ended up competing against the boisterous boy in ball toss, only that you find yourself wanting to tattoo the sight of Hyunjin laughing and Changbin shouting with defeat beneath your eyelids forever.
Granted a gift upon winning, you snag a snorlax plush amongst the scattered options hanging at the top of the booth, presenting it to the him with a smile.
“Huh?” Changbin grunts, head tilted, gazing at you as if you’ve spawned two heads.
“Take it, ‘s for you,” You urge, surveying the boy’s tentative touch against the plush’s soft fur with evident glee.
Still pouty, yes, but you take the sight of the stuffie held in his arms while the three of you walk back as a victory.
After a quick stop by a corn dog stand, you lean against the food truck’s side, wordless as Changbin and Hyunjin head off their own ways — the only trace of familiarity near you being someone clearing their throat.
Off to the side stands Chan, quietly sparing you not-so-sneaky glances, his hands stuffed in his black jogger’s pockets.
You cock your brows, head tipped as if silently asking: “What?”
“Waiting for you,” Is his reply, and it catches you off guard at the consideration in those syllables.
Not that you envisioned Chan as someone cold, but you certainly weren’t expecting him to wait for you while you ate.
Granting the boy a tiny smile of gratitude, you find yourself unconsciously gravitating his way, stuck in an orbital pattern of continuous voyage, indifferent to moving away.
“Chris is an interesting name,” You offer, aimlessly walking past endless booths, people.
“From Australia,” He speaks. Short and straight to the point, yet lacking any hostility.
“Yeah? Why’d you move?”
Ushering him on carefully, you manage to tiptoe a bit into foreign territory, navigating rows of traps and ambushes ahead.
“There’s nothing for me back there apart from my family.” His shoes, caked in mud, shuffle to a halt, gaze trained upward toward the constantly reeling Ferris Wheel.
Almost instantly, you can sense a shift in demeanor. It nearly makes your hair stand up on end, specifically upon seeing the hint of vulnerability shed across his face.
Maybe you’re seeing things.
“I’m just.. here. Like I work so hard for a something I’ll never have.”
His nose scrunches, beautifully glossy brown irises reflecting the blinking lights. Red, blue, green, yellow, all encompassed in those eyes.
No, this is all real.
The sight steels you a bit.
After a moment, you nudge his shoulder, his head finally turning to look at you.
“I don’t think I’m really the greatest to talk to when it comes to this but, Chan, you have to live without a purpose.”
You inhale deeply.
“Because if you keep trying to find a reason for everything-“
The shouting of an oh-so skillful interruption known as Changbin calling your name in the distance temporarily cuts you off.
“You’ll never be satisfied with a reality that won’t change unless you do, with this life.”
For Chan, no place like home only applied when he had a place to call home. As for now, he was a wanderer.
That, or inches from deluding himself into a comfortable, insufficient reality instead.
Making believe until something becomes real.
“Do you think it’ll be okay?”
His words catch you off guard, and you sort of stare for a moment, holding his gaze as if looking away means your demise.
For a second, you wonder if every boy’s eyes are this captivating.
Hyunjin, now Chan.
“I do,” You whisper, voice hardly audible amidst the bustling fairground.
His lips quirking into a smile serve as your indication he heard, and he reaches a hand up to gently sweep a strand of hair from your face behind your ear.
Again, unexpected, not disliked.
“Live on, yeah?” Chan hums, lifting his pinky for you to take with a mirrored grin, emotion buried within his dark chocolate pools for eyes you fear to unearth.
Maybe that’s something irrevocably agreed upon.
Live on.
It seems so, even when you regroup with an avidly boastful Changbin barking over who won at a rifle booth against him and Han. Agreed in the pinkies still intertwined behind your backs, in the shared smiles he gives you here and there as the night continues.
“Say, what is it with the both of you?”
Sidled between Han and Hyunjin on the walk back to campus, you find the question slipping from your lips before thinking.
Hyunjin grunts, and Han shrugs.
Children, you swear.
“Constantly biting at each other’s throats, yeah?” You huff, arms crossing.
Glancing over at Hyunjin after neither boy decides to respond, you raise a brow.
“As your teacher, I’m gonna assign something,” You begin, glaring at the tiny scoff Han resounds when you try using an authoritative tone.
“Next time you see each other, try to be nice.”
Another silence.
“I’m dead serious.”
“Y/N-“ Han starts, quickly silenced by your lifted hand.
“No buts. Do it, got it?” Firmly commanding, you leave no room for argument, the two responding as if it were the worst of punishments, wallowing in self pity.
Despite an onslaught of beginnings and continuations to newly opened books, you think the chapter where Hyunjin and Han sulk all the way back to campus takes the cake.
For now it does.
“I want someone to play me,” Han says, bringing the popsicle up to his lips.
The sun beats onto their skin, warm rays causing a scrunch to appear between his brows.
In an attempt at following your “get-along” suggestion, the two found themselves coincidentally running into each other at the nearby Supermarket after school, sparing cautious glances back and forth till someone broke the silence.
Like fate, drawn together in the ugliest of ways.
Han went first, a hesitant “hey” somehow leading to the two hunkering down on bamboo flooring with a conversation in tow.
It’s a start.
“Play you?” Hyunjin parrots, confused.
“Yeah,” He responds, fiddling with the name tag attached to his uniform. “They say nobody knows you better than yourself, but I dunno.. I feel like I don’t know anything about me. I’m an alien to myself.”
Jisung bunches up the wrapper, the crinkling sound rivaling screeching cicadas clinging to the trees overhead.
“I bet if I had an actor play me, I’d make a lot more sense.”
Somehow, out of all the things Han Jisung has said to him, this is the one thing Hyunjin can fully understand.
Understand that, despite living with yourself all your life, you’re still a novice even in your own body, in need of someone to tell you about yourself, an opposing point of view to help round out the sharp corners.
That’s it. The word to describe it, how Hyunjin found himself bound to art.
Your words replay in his mind on loop.
“Think you should try it. You’ve got potential.”
Understanding.
Art, in its most frustrating, brutally painful form, allows Hyunjin to understand. Himself, his wishes, life, despair. It’s his actor. An ideal perspective responsible for clearing his conscious, a contact lense to the eyes he hadn’t realized were blurry, half-open.
“What did you write on that paper about yourself?” Hyunjin ventured, beaming sunlight cast upon long fingers that peer from the balcony’s shade, highlighting cool toned veins in an almost transparent ray.
Coins cash into the vending machine, the dull cry of birds soaring to the sky in a flurry of wings echoing in his eardrums.
“The one Y/N handed out?”
Hyunjin hums.
“My name.”
The latter’s lips quirk into a clumsy smile.
Han Jisung, that’s all he wrote. How original of him.
Hyunjin watches an ant crawl atop a leaf, simultaneously swiping a droplet of water from the popsicle’s wrapper with his thumb.
He tests his words.
“I want,”
A pause.
“To add art now. To the paper, as my friend.”
Jisung purses his lips curiously, brows lifted.
However, he doesn’t pester.
“Art is your friend?”
Meeting the other boys gaze, Hyunjin finds himself, for the first time when looking at Han Jisung, smiling.
“Yeah, it is.”
. . .
“Heh. What a weirdo— YAH!”
Next Wednesday’s evening consists of a plethora of instances, some more notable to mention than others.
One, getting slammed to a wall by Changbin, and two, getting screamed at right after.
Though you weren’t aware of that yet, not when you looked up from your phone after school to see the boy storming toward you, and certainly not when you smiled, an action seeming to have provoked his hand to your collar, cornered against a wall without so much as a greeting.
“Changbin..?” You manage, slightly breathless at the impact, brows furrowed.
And instantly, listening to the words he spews, it feels as if all the progress you’d made at class—nevertheless the fair—dissolved into nothing.
Back to square one.
“Who do you think you are?” He spits, looking you up and down with a wrinkled nose. “What? You think you own the world ‘cause you’re doing something good? Helping ‘troubled’ kids?”
Before you can interject, his grip tightens on your shirt, shaking you angrily before stopping again, darks eyes burning with nothing but rage.
“We aren’t your confidence boost, Teach, so get out of your stupid headspace. We don’t need your help and never asked for it in the first place, so get lost.”
Changbin dips dangerously close to your face, venom dripping in his tone.
“Got it?”
Using as much force as you can muster, you ram your palm against his chest, effectively pushing him off of you before slamming against his shoulder and walking away.
Halfway down the street do you stop, not daring to look back at him.
“I don’t know what makes you think I’m doing this for a confidence boost, and I’m not going to try understanding. But that gives you no right to pick me apart like you know me!” You shout, continuing to head as far as you can from him, glaring ahead.
It’s fair he got that idea. Some random student infiltrating your summer all for the sake of what? Their future? Yours? What was this for anyway? Your position as Class President using this “summer school” to make you feel better about yourself, add more to a resume?
Plopping down at a bus stop a mile or so later, you pull your legs to your chest, rehearsing just what drove you into the mess anyway.
You want to help them. That’s it.
Repeating the phrase like a sacred oath, it isn’t until the burning sun’s waning scorch that you’re reminded of evening’s approach, begrudgingly lifting yourself off the now-sweaty seat.
Unbeknownst to you, Chan stood as a witness, watching either of you quarrel prior to parting, you disappearing elsewhere while Changbin remained in place, burning holes into the ground with a furious glower.
Hurriedly assessing what his first move should be (or if he should even move at all), he decides upon following you when the dark-haired boy stalks off.
“Y/n!”
The oddly familiar voice graces your senses when you look up, pausing just outside the bus stop, earbuds dangling from your pocket.
It’s Chan, still wearing his school uniform.
“Oh, hey Chan.” Slapping a hopefully convincing smile on, you allow him to occupy the space to your left as you head home, entertaining his occasional questions, sentences.
You’re glad it’s Chan though.
“Um, Chan?” You pique upon reaching your door, looking back at him, question inches from slipping off your tongue.
Has anything happened with Changbin lately?
“Yes?”
No, you can’t.
“Never mind, um, bye!” Brushing off the thought, you give him another tight smile, waving the boy off and slipping into your home with a loud sigh.
Outside, Chan tugs his lip between his teeth, watching you debate on your words. He knows what you wanted to ask, what so obviously sat heavy on your shoulders the entire way home.
Perhaps it’s his perception that’s gotten him this far.
Stuffing his hands into his pockets, he decides the next course of action would be locating the other half of this division.
Unfortunately for him, Chan has no idea where he could be. The likelihood he’s home is minuscule if his hunch is right, and so, the man wracks his head for any clues.
Abruptly, a past conversation hits him.
“Have you been there? The old train station below the tunnel?”
Chan, lips pursed as he tries recalling, shakes his head.
“I like that place, ‘helps me think.”
That’s it.
Racing off despite the darkness creeping across star-splattered sky, his legs carry him as fast as possible.
Dipping below the bridge, his skin prickles at the cold air. Minimal lighting apart from a few white beams paves a clear path to his desired individual, planted in the dead center of the platform.
“Binnie,” Chan calls.
Only he can get away with calling Changbin “Binnie”, a nickname grown into second nature as the two grew more accustomed these past two weeks.
The boy doesn’t budge, doesn’t reply. He stands there, chin down, hands firmly bunching his pants in a tight hold.
Yet, when he looks up after a lengthy pause, Chan watches his lip quiver, watches his shoulders shake senselessly as he gradually reaches his outstretched arms.
“I.. I keep hurting so many people and.. and…it’s so lonely, why is it so lonely?”
Without an utterance, he pushes Changbin’s head against his shoulder.
And they hug. They hug for a long, long time. Basking there, healing there.
Changbin cries.
There’s a lot to cry about, a lot of things he’s needed to cry about, things he couldn’t cry about before. But he does. Tonight, in this empty train station, Changbin cries in Chan’s arms, his friends arms.
Changbin’s first friend—who smoothes messy curls down in delicate strokes, holding him dearly close.
Chan isn’t oblivious, because in those particularly tender moments, one in specific taking place right after the fair, Changbin speaks words Chan had never heard before.
Problems. They told each other it all. Their secrets, struggles.
Changbin’s issues with his parents, Chan’s with his home-situation, his internal displacement.
“I know things are hard right now, but we’re going to get someplace better together, okay? We’re brothers.” Chan whispers, and his friend sniffles, nodding wordlessly.
Brothers.
Changbin is his brother now, and no blood needs to prove that. Because in times you don’t have that family, that connection, you make it yourself.
Seungmin:
Y/n, can you meet me at Gokseong Hill?
You groan picking up your phone, granted a mere thirty minutes of peace after your painful run-in with Changbin and an equally painful attempt at a conversation with Chan before your phone lights up.
Y/n:
Do you plan to murder me or something?
Seungmin:
I’m not as creative as Jisung, so no
You crack a smile.
Y/n:
I’ll be there
Fastening a jacket over your shoulders, you lock the door behind yourself, stuffing jingling keys into your pocket.
Hey, a bit of fresh air sounds tempting.
At the peak of the hill he sits, and it’s not until you follow his upward stare that you take in the stars overhead.
The slight altitude paves way to a more than incredible view. Countless galaxies right above your head, twinkling so brightly in the sky. Far from streetlights, from civilization.
Your staggered breathing hiking up here proves worthwhile now.
Wordlessly plopping down beside him, you lay back, admiring.
“Do you ever wanna scream?” Seungmin reaches his hand to the sky, allowing the dark blue and black hues to waltz in his grasp.
The twinkling wonder dappled above prohibit a full view of his facial expressions, but you have an idea of how wistfully he gazes into that atmospheric abyss. Aching.
You humorlessly chuckle.
Do I ever.
“When I first met Changbin, I wanted to scream every twenty seconds.”
Seungmin laughs. Pretty.
“Guys like that do that to you.”
He curls his fingers into a fist, arm remaining outstretched.
“Do it.”
“Hm?”
“Scream.”
He looks at you like you’re insane for a moment, then pauses, fingernails digging into the earthy soul beneath you before he screams.
Screams, louder and louder, so loud you’re surprised his lungs haven’t given up yet, surprised you haven’t laughed at how comical the entire thing is. His body practically lifts off the ground, eyes screwed shut.
Then he stops, catching his breath.
No comments nor laughter. Quiet.
Reaching out, you give his hand, dirty fingernails and all, an assuring squeeze.
I don’t know, but I care.
A silent utterance.
“Better?”
He nods.
You’re next, and this time, you’re first to laugh.
As the two week mark of class is pinned, you want to give yourself a pat on the back for managing - no less surviving till now.
So, it really makes you wonder how you ended up in such a predicament.
Han Jisung, someone you never anticipated to be beside you on your Saturday, resides in the drivers seat of your parent’s car, hands sweating up nothing short of an ocean without even starting the vehicle.
Well, you are aware of how this all began, but then again, your pride wants to be salvaged, if barely.
A bit of pleading on Han’s side about his parents nagging him and a pinch of your groggy mumbling at 9am to end up here, to be exact.
“Look… About what I said the first day.. I’m really sorry about that. I shouldn’t have asked that, it was rude and- ow!”
A hard flick delivered to the boy’s forehead has his face wrinkling up, an offended expression worn on chubby cheeks.
“Yes, it was rude, and I’ll ostracize you if you ever do it again. But I forgive you, you’re welcome,” You state, arms crossed.
Han’s sheepish nod seems to be the best reply you’ll get.
“Alright, now, shift the gear to drive.”
“…That’s ‘D’, right…?”
“You’re kidding.”
No, he wasn’t kidding, and a lesson that could’ve been an hour long turns into two and a half hours in no time.
Finally, by some miracle, you end up on the road, holding on the seat like a vice, the boy mirroring your panic with nervous jittering and random comments.
“Oh wait! Isn’t the Film Festival coming up-“
“FOCUS ON THE ROAD!”
Ah, he has the attention span of a squirrel, that too.
And if you aren’t doused in gray hairs after that you’d be surprised, Han looking just as frazzled, exiting the car with wobbly legs and wide, frazzled eyes.
From then on out, you decide teaching the boy how to drive would have to wait.
With July days away (a miracle, you’d like to say), you bury your nose into new assignments and exercises for the class, desperately gripping onto the bits and pieces of progress you’re making.
It’s meager, and certainly not sturdy, but you’ll take what you can get.
..Even if those hard silences are crippling.
A knock ushers you away from the barstool you perch on, cautiously peering from your front door’s tiny peephole.
Felix.
Upon opening in the door, you first notice his raw cheeks, eyes puffy and red.
He’d been crying, unmistakably.
You don’t move away when he walks forward and presses his face against your shoulder.
“Can I stay here? I don’t want to go home tonight.” The boy whispers, and you reach a tentative hand to pat his head.
“Of course.”
Clambering the teary boy inside, you spend a decent ten minutes helping him catch his breath and calm down a bit, not wanting to stress the poor thing out with questions.
Standing in your foyer, it’s his shaky voice piercing the air responsible for your head snapping up.
“Do you.. have brownie mix?”
.
.
.
“He was always the fearless kid,” Felix mutters, occupying himself with folding the batter in a bowl.
Interestingly enough, Felix is a stress baker, something of which you hadn’t realized until getting schooled on the correct ingredients to use for brownies.
The topic is Minho. Or, what Felix knew of him.
“I could never read him. I still can’t. I remember he saved this cat once and it bit him. I cried the whole way to the doctor’s office and he was the one who calmed me down instead.”
All you can do is laugh in reply, the blond sheepishly grinning.
Licking off some brownie mix, he hands you the other whisk where you lean against the counter.
Leaning forward to smear some of the sugary goodness on his cheek with a giggle, you adore the way his eyes light up, causing his freckles to almost glow.
If past-lives were real, you think Felix would’ve been a fairy.
“You knew Minho when you were younger?”
Felix nods.
“We met in seventh grade. Our mom’s were friends through work. Although, I don’t think he liked me very much.”
He shakes the bubbles from the cooking sheet, ensuring the edges of the pan were even. You slip past him to pre-heat the oven.
There’s a soft chuckle on his end, and it’s not until you turn around do you see the pikachu mitten he’s quite literally critiquing with his eyeballs.
Such expressive eyes, though they’re different than Minho and Seungmin.
While Minho has something like the atlantic ocean hidden deep behind those pupils, Seungmin is more of an open field.
Though Felix, he has stars.
So many stars, in fact, that they couldn’t possibly all fit, spreading to his face instead. Down his arms, his chest. Till all of a sudden the entire galaxy found its home in the boy standing in front of you.
“Hey, no judging,” You grin, scrutinizing his innocent shrug.
Snatching your precious oven-mit from his fingertips to load the pan in yourself, a gasp stirs when a pair of arms winds around your middle, his chin resting upon your shoulder as you close the door and set your timer.
“Thank you.”
“Hm? What for?” Stopping your movements, you allow the boy to snuggle closer.
“For reminding me of myself. I seem to get lost in other people sometimes and forget I’m here too.” At the last part of his sentence he laughs, rocking back and forth on his heels and causing you to rock with him.
Ten minutes or so you rock. Easy, comfortable.
Felix gives nice hugs. His clothes are sprinkled with a strange mixture of both brownies and chocolate chip remnants he’d snuck in without your knowledge.
Comfortable.
He’s a kid who never really got the chance to grow up. The one who was constantly told he’s so mature for his age, a phrase that eventually melded so far into his brain it became second nature, gum stuck to his shoe.
Because the kid that was so mature for his age was never asked if he needed help or if he was okay, everyone simply assumed. Even when the world came crashing down, Felix was fine. Just fine.
Until he wasn’t, and suddenly, Felix came crashing down with the world.
“..Do you like face-masks?”
You may not be able to fix his crumbling world, but you could give him some good memories to remember it by.
Which is how you found yourself roped in your bathroom, carefully applying the charcoal face mask onto his perfect skin, unblemished and definitely not deserving of the treatment. But, like you said, memories.
You should be off to bed, already prepping for the next morning, school. June 17th, officially seventeen days into summer school. Yet here you are, greedily shoving down brownies with a new companion, Lee Felix, on the couch while looking like utter idiots in face masks.
After seven episodes of Gilmore Girls does he wearily rise up, beckoning you with him to wash off your skincare madness only to make an equally weary trip straight back to the living room.
“Do you think Minho likes me?” Your baking partner whispers, his head resting upon your lap. Those unfairly long lashes begin to dust closed, the subtle flash of light emitted from your scented candle sending a golden gleam across the room.
“Mm.. I’m sure he does. I’m sure he likes you very much,” You assure, not needing a response from his fallen-asleep form, not expecting one anyway.
What occurred in the first place nor why he asked such questions wasn’t your business, but somewhere, a part of a you wanted to know. The cause of his pain, of all of their pain.
Hardest part of your evening was definitely attempting to slip him off your lap, luckily a success after four or five minutes.
Carefully propping a pillow behind his head and layering a blanket across his jacket-clad body, you sneakily turn off the TV, bidding the exhausted boy a hushed “good night” and placing a gentle peck to his forehead before turning off the porch light.
Laying in bed whilst your eyes resist closing, you find yourself hoping he’ll sleep well, hope this night is something he can look back on with a smile on his face.
Felix deserves that.
That morning, upon forgetting your alarm, either of you are scrambling from bed or, in Felix’s case, flopping from your couch with a loud thud!
“Minho lives pretty close,” Felix winds the straps of his backpack over his shoulders, glancing from side to side while observing the area. You follow suit, both clambering to rush out the door, jogging down the street hurriedly.
Seems the Minho kick is still here then, huh.
“But he might not be at school off and on because of his Grandma.”
The awaiting tip of your head calls for an explanation, and a light bulb seemed to bloom above him — obviously having realized something.
Either of you pause at a crosswalk.
“Didn’t I tell you?”
You shake your head, brows pinched.
Felix pokes his tongue into his cheek.
“Well, Minho’s mom died a bit back. He takes care of his Grandma now. After she passed he got really distant and we…” His tone dissolves, and you don’t interrupt, allowing the boy to speak his mind. “Haven’t talked since.”
Apparently, there’s a corner to this billion-piece jigsaw.
One, horrifically fateful paper lay taped down onto one desk far too many boys are trying to look at.
Levanter High Film Festival. Participants will make a 25 minute short film with cinematography and soundtrack themes made entirely by themselves.
“..And you want us to do this?” Jeongin mutters, skeptically scratching the bottom of his chin.
“Yep! We are!” You proudly announce, given quite a few confused glances in return.
As Jisung had taken the time to so kindly mention while nearly crashing the car, July, the month in which you’ve somehow made it to with this group, means the arrival of creative festivals — or, the school boards way of enhancing student participation.
“…A dawg?” Han snorts, Felix smacking his back in an attempt to quell his own laughter.
“A music birth giving machine,” Changbin offers.
“Ew, weird way to put it.”
“Shut it, Jisung.”
“Alright. Now, we’re gonna break off into departments, okay? We need director, maybe script writers? An idea of where we’re gonna film, song producers, and someone with a camera.” Murmuring with your lip tugging between your teeth, you tap your foot, the group cumulating into frenzied discourse, seemingly arranging themselves.
And, almost as fast as you blink, you’re pleasantly surprised to find no blood had been shed over positions.
Accordingly — with obvious inclusion in every position at some point — Chan, Changbin, and Han are working music, Seungmin is working on the script, Jeongin and Hyunjin are doubling as directors and camera-providing members, and Felix and Minho have been elected as the main characters.
You can’t help but find it rather interesting considering your prior knowledge of the situation. Their situation.
Felix’s longing, Minho’s loss.
The imperfect, perfect pair.
“What’s the name gonna be?” Jeongin piques, the eight of you squinting at his frame leant against the windowsill.
The boy hesitates.
“Like, our label?”
Equally confused stares.
In honorary mention of the esteemed ‘Film Festival’ introduced this summer, you decided, along with Han’s incredibly distracting tendencies, that you guys would be participating.
Then again, everyone is still getting used to being within six feet of each other, so being stuck in the old photography club room on a school night remains effortlessly uncomfortable.
And with the slow eye contact each of you exchange, a gradual cacophony of “Ohhh”’s.
“How about Boy’s Generation!” Jisung jumps in, earning a smack across the head from Hyunjin followed by loud whining whilst burying his head in Minho’s chest (of whom looks unbearably awkward) who tries to console.
Emphasis on the “tries” part.
“Maybe.. Lost Men?” Changbin suggests, quiet hums of agreement sounding from the remainder.
You choke back a laugh, which, doesn’t turn out to be as choked as you’d prefer by the glare you get in response.
“Lost Men? Are we sailors?” Stammering down your giggles the best you could manage, Seungmin clears his throat, attention quickly directing his way.
Seungmin has a habit, if that’s what you want to call it. He’s never outspoken, no, but he speaks, a lot. Minho is the same in that sense. Whether quiet mumbling or the illustrious expressions he makes, you’re confident the both of them could maintain a perfectly understandable conversation using just their eyes.
Sort of scary.
“Stray Kids?”
Five seconds later and Felix grumbles, interrupting everyone’s inner contemplation.
“Kind of fitting if you think about it.”
Minho grunts, voicing a question that extinguished the conversation beforehand.
“Well what happens when we aren’t astray anymore?”
And, although the foreboding tension sat heavy in the air, it was easy to tell he held no weight to his words.
Because regardless of what kind of conclusion they reached at some point, it was irrevocably known they’d always be stray. Searching, looking for something they weren’t sure existed.
No reply came. No one complained.
Chan typed up the label in the lower left corner of the doc, the laptop he’d taken from his bag propped on his lap.
You gave Minho a half-smile he sheepishly returned.
The more you thought about it, the more it matched. Not only searching, but paving. One way or another, the assumed nobodies were growing, developing into something unforgettable, if only to a few people.
You had no doubt more would remember their names in the future, but as for now, you stay as Chan, Minho, Changbin, Han, Felix, Seungmin, Jeongin, and Y/n, lodged in the school’s vacant club room, arranging ideas for the Film Festival.
Stray Kids.
You liked it.
The quiet rolling of his bike gears sits between you, familiarly nostalgic chirping of crickets heightening the darker the sky becomes, dusk plowing a runway through orange clouds.
Headed back from school, you happened to run into Minho, jogging to catch up with him in the midst of his departure.
“I like my life.”
Mid-chew on a sour gummy worm, you cease your gluttonous rampage in order to catch Minho’s hushed breath.
“Being alive is nice.”
And when he says that, he turns his head toward you, expression piquing a “don’t you think so?” type of question you struggle to answer.
Zoning in on the repetitive motion of his wheel, you wrack your brain.
“Yeah? It’s hard, but I would say it’s worth it.”
His brows raise, a barely visible, lopsided smile winding itself around his lips — chapped but still such a captivating pink hue.
All he has to do is hum, doing that habitual blinking thing he always does to know he agrees.
Minho is the small things, you configure.
He’s fixing the bulletin when a paper fell off and picking up Changbin’s Snorlax plushie when he almost forgets it. He’s reminding you to text him when you get home “just because”. He’s the little things nobodies notices, little things that show he cares.
Lee Minho is the small things, but he’s also so much too — so many stories, people, places. He’s heartbroken but he tries, pained but still swimming in a whirlpool of an ocean that flushes him from its tides.
Perhaps somebody could be his buoy, somebody who’d keep him afloat.
You have a hunch as to who that person might be.
Bike squealing to a stop, you clamber to catch pace, backing up a bit to notice what Minho points at.
A field.
“This would be a good place to film if it weren’t off limits.” He observes, either of you acknowledging the “No Trespassing” sign latched loosely onto a chain link fence.
Biting your lip, a small smirk finds itself upon your face.
“It’s not off limits if we can get in, right?”
Minho gives you an uncertain stare, quickly tampering into downright exasperation.
“Aren’t you supposed to be a good influence?”
You laugh at this, laying your bike down to hitch each hand into diamond-shaped openings and climb, sending your suspicious audience an expectant look.
“I’m meant to be a good learning experience, think of this as part of a the process. Now c’mon, climb. Let’s see what we’re working with.”
Half-heartedly, you’re joined in your risky pursuit, scaling up to the top before thumping down on the other side.
Minho, on the other hand, is a tad bit more skeptical, remaining at the fence’s peak, glaring down nervously.
Although, with lots of patience and encouragement, the anxious boy takes a leap of faith onto uncut grasses and stalking weeds.
Halfway into your adventure do clouds begin festering, setting the atmosphere in a gray haze the longer you brainstorm filming spots, whether that’s pointing out certain locations or deciding on specific scene placement.
“We could have Felix here, then I run in and find him?”
“Okay— what if we make it like a huge confrontation. You run in, confront him-“
Jutting of metal against another surface redirects your mid-sentence focus, gaze averting toward the sound.
Shit. Security.
“Hey you! What do you think you’re doing!?”
Momentary silence and either of you go bolting as fast as your legs will go.
“Quick!” You shriek, the sky dotted in strikes of lightning, alighting into a sudden electrified cauldron of clouds and rain.
Minho is right on your heels, jackets strung over your heads in a feeble attempt to divert some watery droplets from their rapid descent.
Not only the useless fear of getting soaked, but the lingering outline of an approaching flashlight in the distance and the thumping of footsteps from behind urge you onward, scaling the looming fence using slippery fingers and wild adrenaline.
Except, just as you edge over the top of the fence does your shirt get caught in the twisted wire, effectively preventing your movement (much to your panic) while Minho shouts below.
Luckily, in the nick of time do you manage to free yourself, having to lurch forward and simultaneously earn a stinging cut before racing to your bikes and speeding off.
Learning experience was certainly a word for it.
“So..” You start, lingering by Chan’s doorway.
According to a fretful, rain drenched Minho speaking to your equally drenched self, his place was the closest.
“What’s our excuse?” You mumble, Minho scoffing before shrugging off his jacket to hand to you, earning a curious tip of your head.
Wordlessly does he point to your now dampened white shirt, and you can’t help but smile at the realization.
Hm. What a gentleman.
Easing the fabric over your soaked shirt, you just finish buttoning to the bottom when Chan opens the door, cocking a brow.
“Who knew it actually rained cats and dogs?”
“You’re not funny.”
Stepping inside, you’re greeted with the chilling temperature, skin erupting into goosebumps as either of you awkwardly stand in the doorway, Chan disappearing into the other room only to return with two t-shirts.
“Bathrooms are on either side of the hall, you’ll find them,” He hums, and you give him a grateful smile before padding off to change, the sound of your squeaking steps making you cringe.
Chan’s old swim-team tee hangs loosely from your body upon stepping out, plopping down onto his couch with an exaggerated groan.
Behind you, Minho sits on an unoccupied chair, taking sips of water here and there.
“So…” The eldest of the group steps in the room, hesitant. “Care to tell me how-“
“No.” Minho bluntly speaks, and you cock a bemused brow at his forwardness.
“Got it,” Chan nods quickly, eyes zeroing in on you for a moment, honing a stare you can’t discern.
“Y/N?” He quietly asks where you lift from your spot.
“Wanna come with me for a minute?” He hums, and you curiously follow him into the kitchen, plopping on the counter he motions for you to sit on.
“Lift up your shirt,” He softly instructs, and you do a double take to make sure you heard him right.
“Huh?”
Nonplussed, he repeats himself, appearing completely unaffected despite such a request.
So slowly, nervously, you lift your shirt as he nonchalantly maneuvers antiseptic from a medical container, your brain registering the predicament as he dabs right below your chest, bottom lip held in his teeth while he works.
Your scratch from earlier on the fence.
Leave it to him to be the ever perceptive one.
Chan doesn’t budge, shy away, nor show any reaction to the newfound vulnerability. Your heart warms a bit at the sight.
He cares, and you’ve known that, but it’s just, it’s sweet. Really, truly sweet.
Immediately upon applying the antiseptic, you wince, your grip (which you noticed) on his arm tightening while he calmly hushed you, carefully placing a bandaid on top of the wound.
“If you don’t dress it properly you could get an infection.” Chan explains. “Tell me next time, okay?”
You nod as he rearranged his materials below the cabinet and ensured you’ve hopped off the countertop.
“Lix told me you used to be a restaurant’s chef in Hongdae, eh?”
At this, he looked up in surprise, chuckling lowly, lips situating themselves into a sheepish straight line.
“Lix?” He echoes, and you tilt your head, evidently confused as to what he’s asking.
“Mm nothin’, just not many people can call him Lix,” He explains, padding into the living room.
“Really? Am I just the lucky one?” Snickering to yourself, the man nudges your side with his own squeaky laugh as you enter into the living room.
“That’s.. a word for it.”
It’s hard to recall when the gears really began turning. Breaking from rusty shackles to rotate seamlessly.
Chan opening up and giving you a glimpse of the heartthrob of a personality beneath his once cold facade. Han and Hyunjin able to have a normal conversation, talking to Jeongin more and more about anything and everything.
Maybe it’s the familiarity, the routine that naturally mends. Like a new fridge you hadn’t realized you were so accustomed to until gone, until you look back at what was.
A part of you wants to give yourself a pat on the back as if you were the person responsible for this summer school’s progress. Though, you’re sure just about four hundred other things also left an imprint.
Late nights spent in the old club room. Arranging meetups for filming spots. Headaches from the sound of a power drill where props are put together. Endless repeats of the same scene everyone keeps messing up.
And all of a sudden, it hurts. Because this is one of those moments. Fleeting. Fleeting in the sense that—as you watch Chan and Seungmin burst out laughing when Changbin fails a prop test—never again in this entire world will there ever be another night like this.
Felix won’t accidentally spill his drink. Minho won’t throw a childish fit after he gets his twenty-fifth take wrong.
There won’t ever be another summer like this. A summer in your senior year of high school you really don’t want to forget right now, not if it costs it all to stay engrained in your mind.
“Alright. So..” Chan begins, the nine of you clambering to get a glance of his screen as he finishes the final touches.
“We’re finally done!”
It takes a whopping three weeks to finish filming and editing, the clamorous chorus of relief sounding in unison as your group’s unofficial (though wordlessly voted) leader, Chan, taps the save button one last time.
Your film covers the tale of two. Fated, yet, unable to ever meet. A constant tug of war of souls infinitely bound.
One steps north, the other makes five steps south. Pulled together like magnets even when worlds apart in all aspects, even when it seems they’re only given more reasons to avoid each other.
..Yes, you certainly thought of what Felix told you that bit ago.
No, you have been thinking about it.
When they filmed; those certain scenes where you’d watch them make eye contact. Oh to listen to the thoughts behind those eyes.
So leaden with emotion.
Longing.
A longing for what was, for what could’ve been.
To watch two people like that makes your ears ring. So much said in the hurried lines, the occasional eye-contact.
Listen, listen. You’ll miss it if you blink.
How gut-wrenching to be a witness to such tragedy you never were involved in. Perhaps that’s human empathy.
You inhale and exhale, but don’t count for how long. Watching the film on the that old projector sheet makes you wish you narrowed things down to the tee, scribbled them down in a notebook to recall for eternity.
Too fast, too fast. You’ll miss it if you breathe.
No, stay forever.
If only.
And perhaps that’s the best part.
Stray Kids places fourth place in the festival, and to be honest, you might as well have taken home first.
It sure felt like it.
Smiles and laughter. Congratulations and many thank you’s amidst a densely packed theatre room.
Though, something is missing. No, someone is missing. Because in the midst of a celebration intended for everyone, it suddenly comes to your attention a presence has gone awry.
Meeting Chan’s eyes, it appears he just realized as well.
Han.
.
.
.
“Jisung where the hell were yo—“
Having stormed through the oddly unlocked door like a madman, Chan stops, noticing how positively bruised the boy is, sharp cut veering across his nose, lip busted and bloody.
Hurriedly forcing his face between either of Chan’s hands, Han winces.
“Tell me everything.” The older of the two demands, eyes racing.
Quick to pull away, his mouth pulls taut. It’s quiet before Han kicks the cabinet, voice watery, breaking.
“Fuck!” He clutches his head, biting back the prospect of crying.
Dropping down to bury his head in his knees, he stifles a shaky exhale.
“..These guys from Class 3-B broke my bike, that’s why I couldn’t go.”
Ah.
There’s a stillness.
Then, quietly, Chan shuffles down beside Jisung, mirroring the way his knees sit close to his chest, back flush against the wooden cabinets below the sink.
“I just.. wish I was stronger,” Jisung hardly manages, words barely audible through a trembling bottom lip.
Sparing moments of silence, Chan’s jaw tightens, attention directed onto the tile floor.
“I’m quitting the football team.”
Jisung’s head snaps to the adjacent boy.
“But why? Football’s your forte. Plus, you kick ass every time your name gets called out onto the field.”
Chan ruffles the boys hair, giving him a tight smile.
“I have.. other priorities right now.” His voice shrinks, hand resting atop Jisung’s head, staring into those bottomless brown eyes.
He’s grateful no other questions were asked.
“Say,” He begins, his counterpart experimentally prodding his swollen eye, cringing back with a hiss.
“I can help you get stronger.”
Slowly, the younger’s head turns, brows raised as if asking: “really?”, to which Chan nods, a faint grin tugging at his lips.
‘Reach for me’, and Chan reaches.
Jisung oftentimes thought the boy foolish to trust so blindly, to pour so much into someone who could easily let you down.
Yet, seeing the fist his friend held out, he returns the fist bump with a feeble grin, head slumping onto the older boy’s shoulder.
This time, an exception has been made.
There were many weird circumstances in Minho’s life, but he certainly hadn’t anticipated this one.
“..What are you doing?” Minho inquires flatly, slowing his bike down whilst Han, dripping in sweat, jogs past, avidly motivated for a reason the bystander can’t quite understand on a Tuesday morning.
He planned to bike into town and buy extra soil for his grandmother’s garden, now finding himself unable to ignore this strange appearance.
“Conditioning! New year new me!”
Minho sends the boy a mildly disgusted, mildly annoyed expression in reply.
“It’s June.”
“Leave me be.”
His sarcastic brow returned with Han’s entertained giggle, the older boy finding it irritably hard to resist an approaching smile, pedaling to catch up to him.
How burdensome, Minho thinks.
“Is this about the Film Festival?”
Gliding past, Han’s eyes widen into saucers.
“Please don’t tell me Y/n’s mad I couldn’t show up, I’m scared she’ll beat me up or something on Monday.”
He grins at the sheepish plea.
“She’s not, trust me.”
“And why should I trust you?”
Minho shrugs. “Why not?”
“Fair,” Han deflates, stopping to catch his breath, balancing his hands on his knees.
The other boy, observing his exhaustion as he pushes on his brakes, grants him a side-eye, patting the back of his bike.
“Want a ride?”
Han, looking up with sweat wrecking his hair to stick up in wild directions, gradually nods, uttering a quiet “Feels like I’m cheating” as he climbs behind Minho, legs dangling off the side.
The ride is peaceful, rice fields flourishing, fields dappled with flowers of all sorts of hues on the way to town, breeze cooling down Han’s heated face, whipping his linen shirt in each gust.
Neither talk, simply enjoying the weather, the smells, the sounds.
Though, the enjoyment is quelled as soon as it began, Minho lugging a bag of soil atop where the younger boy had sat on the back of his bike—said boy lingering outside the gardening shop.
Door bells clanging overhead when he exits, Han gives him a questioning look as he works on tying the soil down.
“..Where am I gonna sit?” He questions aloud, and the devilish boy can’t help but wear an evil smile.
“You’re not,” He says matter-of-a-fact, swinging a leg over the seat, watching despair cross his friend’s face.
“New year new you, right? Good luck!”
Quickly racing off on his bike, Minho laughs at Han’s shouting while he disappears in the distance, knowing full well the silent-treatment he’ll receive later at school.
Oh the throes (and woes) of summer.
Meanwhile, you’re helping Chan hang laundry in his backyard, having reviewed more of an album him, Han, and Changbin have been working on after the festival.
The longer you listen, the more you find Chan has a knack for curating incredible music, enough that you find yourself leaning infinitely close to the old monitor of his, craning into each note the speaker procures.
“So I was thinking,” Chan clicks his tongue, hanging a t-shirt to the close pins. “What if we had a unit name? Han, Binnie and I?”
Processing his question in your mind, you purse your lips, wiping beading moisture from your forehead.
“What’d you have in mind?” You pique, giving the boy a sidelong glance, mischief evident on your face.
Mirroring your grin, he steps down from the stool, giving you a hand as you step from yours.
“3RACHA? Cause like.. we’re three and we’re hot like Sriracha?”
Instantly, you both burst out into giggles, smacking his shoulder at the sly phrasing.
“No no I’m kidding—“
“I like it!” You loudly interject, bringing the water bottle up to your lips.
Chan’s eyes bulge out of his skull, tilt in his head, a hint of surprise etched on sun kissed skin.
“Really?”
“Yeah! I like it! 3RACHA fits,” Elaborating with exaggerated hand gestures, the spectator has to bite back his smile, dimples nudging at his cheeks.
“I’ll let them know,” He raises his brows, giving you a small high five before officially collapsing on the grass, you following suit.
By the time your eyes open again, you can’t even recall what happened in the first place, trying to figure out why the sky is already pitch black, not to mention why you’re still lying in the grass.
Leave it to falling asleep to waste your day away.
Leaning over where you stretch your arms, Chan grins, extending a hand to help you up that you gratefully accept—granted an explanation as to how you ultimately fell asleep while he was mid conversation.
Waving him off upon noticing nighttime’s introduction, you begin back past school, crossing by the playing fields in the process.
And of course, lo and behold, Minho sits on the bleachers, watching an ongoing football practice while glancing down at his lap here and there, apparently writing something.
Seems today you’re running into everyone, huh?
Perks (and curses) of a small town.
Curiosity driving your feet toward him, you carefully jump up the steps, sitting beside him without word.
He obviously senses your presence but fails to speak up, simply letting you peek over his shoulder at his notes (to which you learned were for a class), occasionally striking conversation only to engulf in comfortable quietness once more.
“Hey Minho?” You inhale slowly, heel tapping again the metal bleacher plank below.
He grunts in acknowledgment.
“Do you think I’m doing a good job?”
The football coaches whistle blows alarmingly loud, causing either of you to involuntarily flinch.
Minho, lifting his head from his notebook, studies your face for a moment, from the way your nose perches to your parted lips, he analyzes.
Returning to your eyes, he blinks.
“I do. I mean, we all like you whether we admit it or not.”
The statement causes a smile to stretch your cheeks, turning to face him.
“Why?”
“Hm.. You actually treated us like human..? It’s like,” He scoffs, one brow twitching upward the longer he thinks. It’s the first time you noticed the small freckle seated atop his right nostril.
Charming.
“Everybody else seemed to think we were animals.”
Hearing him say that, it’s almost.. cruel. To think these boys simply needed a friend, a person to count on for a bit.
But they didn’t. They were deprived.
Yet, in a twisted way, it worked out. Because it led them to you.
“Well you’re doing it right.. I think.”
You shift your weight back onto your hands, humid air finally cooling into an even breeze.
“Thanks Min.”
“Mhm.”
You’ve grown accustomed to accepting good things never last. It’s one of the many things keeping your grip tight on anything you get ahold of.
Though, it strikes you nearly dizzy how quickly something so good turned sour.
As in, what was once near-conversation between Minho and Felix has now diminished into distanced glares and horrifically heavy silence like before.
Asking the more openly emotional of the two leads to nothing. No explanation, no reasoning. Just a shrug when you ask: “Hey, what’s up with you and Minho?”
More than ever with this group had you learned assumptions lead nowhere. But when assumptions are the sole thing to be made, you feel quite like you’re chasing your own tail in this predicament.
“Minho, you have to come to school. I’m responsible for your attendance.”
Amongst the week and a half the boy had been absent, you don’t plan to waste the opportunity for confrontation.
No, it isn’t your usual approach, but any softer and he’ll slip right through your fingertips like warmed butter.
Back facing you where he’d been routinely walking his bike behind his house, you stand firm, eyes trained to the cowlick embedded in his hair.
He doesn’t move, nor budge a single centimeter—voice cut and concise upon speaking.
“I’ve been busy.”
“You’ve been avoiding Felix.”
You can hear him inhale sharply, not daring to turn around.
“I know it isn’t my business, but there was this.. time Felix and I spoke. You two had a falling out again.. right?”
Prodding deeper into the wound, you can feel your heart constricting tighter and tighter in your chest.
“You’re right.” He whispers, tone low enough you crane to hear. “It isn’t your business.”
It’s your turn to suck in a quick breath.
“And.. it isn’t your place pretending like you know what my life is like. I… I’ll come back to school just-“
Ah. That hiccup. The shudder of his shoulders, the ache in his vocal cords.
“Let me deal with this by myself, alright?”
Who are you to disagree? Spoken seconds earlier, it isn’t your business nor your place shoving your nose into his life.
Synonymously, you don’t blame him. Blame his irritation, his evasiveness.
Whatever this is with Felix runs deeper. It takes but a single glance to dictate that conclusion. Minho’s loss, his hurt. Bottled up feelings bubbling over in their soda can.
When so much of you is battered, you hide, hide in fear that everything will be ripped from your fingertips — that horrid feeling of helplessness; forging grief continuing to wrack you numb.
Minho distanced himself to protect himself, but most importantly to protect them. To protect his friends, to protect Felix.
And yet, he forgot to install a safety net around his own perimeter.
Jittering hands frantically reaching for his bike’s handlebars, and you spectate wordlessly as abundant tears streak down his cheeks the moment a glimpse of his face is seen, fingernails furiously digging into the aged rubber.
“Minho.”
The boy shakes his head, sniffling senselessly before you step forward and grab his collar, lightly yanking him up, redirecting once castaway focus staring down to the cracked pavement below.
“Minho.”
Just then you notice his watery eyes and the heartbreaking, trembling frown adorning his features. Stifling tears.
Thumb carefully tracing his waterline to rid of those beading tears, he leans into your hand, face breaking a bit.
“Just.. please don’t deal with this alone, okay?”
Looking into someone’s eyes had never made you feel like you were dying until now. How can a soul carry such heavy heartache? Grieve so tirelessly even the eyes form as a window?
So broken, so beautiful.
We’re all the same, are we not?
.
.
.
Ten minutes later, seated upon the playing field’s bleachers familiar to the last time you encountered Minho, a comfortable silence answers any of the unspoken questions lingering in afternoon skies.
The boy beside you, puffy eyes and swollen skin, quietly delights in an ice cream bar, your own held between your lips in contemplation before utilizing your thumb and index to speak for a moment.
“I mean, I may dance around in my room to music, but that doesn’t mean I don’t cry in the shower at night. I’m still human, y’know?”
Curious feline eyes hang onto your words, enough of a beckon to go on.
“My days can be bright, my nights could be dark, there’s no limit to how you’re supposed to feel.”
Leaning forward, you tap his chest with your unoccupied hand.
“And there’s no need to try and reject something you want to feel. Otherwise, you suffocate.”
He tilts his head.
“It’s like.. hmm… if I hated the way I breathed—“
“You hate the way you breathe?” Minho interrupted, giving you an “are you stupid?” look you quickly shake your head at.
“No no, it’s an example,” You defend with a feigned scowl. “So if I hated the way I breathed, I can’t just hold my breath for too long or a pass out, right? You can’t let yourself get to a blackout point for the sake of others.”
The boy across from you sucks on the skin of his cheek, observing your extended pinkie before taking it in his own.
“Promise me you won’t get to that blackout point.”
Another promise.
Chan, now Minho.
Expression knit thoughtfully, Minho gradually nods, pressing your thumbs together before cracking an amused grin.
“Y’know, that was well-said.”
You chuckle, smacking his shoulder playfully. “I know right? I’m proud of that one.”
Of course he rolls his eyes in return, but you can see the remnant of a smile in the lifted corners of his mouth, the soft, flushed skin of his under eyes crinkling when he grins.
Ah. He’s beautiful, isn’t he?
On July 31th, your summer school class officially makes a close, and you and eight other boys graduate.
A miracle, maybe a fluke or some sort you made it out in one piece. A task proved possible after all—intentionally or unintentionally.
In the end, perhaps there wasn’t reason to stare at each sheet and pinpoint flaws.
No, Chris isn’t void of life. Hyunjin doesn’t have a superiority complex, and Jisung certainly isn’t senseless. Seungmin gets nervous ordering coffee and hasn’t participated in illegal activities a day in his life. Felix isn’t in an underground gang, and no one has stolen before.
There’s too many sides to a cube, so most stick to 2D squares. The complexity is shrunk so it’s easier to digest.
In the end, perhaps you forget it’s all so wondrous in a way, so intricate and raw. 3D.
Right before you graduated, Hyunjin gave you a painting he made. ‘A thank you for motivating me to add art as my friend’ he had told you.
Changbin still sleeps with his Snorlax plushie, and 3RACHA released their first album just yesterday.
Han finally got his license, Seungmin and Jeongin attend Sejong University as freshman, and Felix sells baked goods on Sundays while interning at a local bakery.
Minho volunteers at an animal shelter on the far side of town, he also took up dancing again.
He and Felix began talking again too.
In the end, perhaps it wasn’t a matter of you helping them, but for the all of you to understand that, in the grand scheme of things, you live on, just as you and Chan had promised.
There is no choice, no point, no break to the cycle.
It hurts, it burns, it breaks. You glue yourself together, even when the pieces shatter over and over. Shards draw blood, but a glued glass can still be useful, can still be worthy.
Bruised and battered, scraped and scorned, a connection lies within Stray Kids that sinks deeper than the anchor you planted in a sea of possibilty, a sea of what you thought was something one-sided, a sea you once believed you’d swim alone.
Maybe it’s discovery after discovery that keeps you close, or maybe it’s something deeper.
Nonetheless, your summer—a summer of hellish heartbreak and love reaping all bounds of repercussion—was one to remember.
⎯ what remains unspoken. ⟡ featuring christopher bahng
🪝 : Christopher Bahng x implied! fem. reader
TROPE. best friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, jealousy, angst, two idiots chasing their own tails believing their love is unrequited (ㅠㅠ), based in australia, summer! au, beachhouse! au
WORD COUNT. 8.3k words ☆ 32min read
WARNINGS. cursing, jealousy/shame, reader moves away, mentions of drunkenness, nondesc smut, a dirty dream? (nondesc), reader is said to wear makeup, mentions cheating
AUG'S NOTES. working myself through a writing block.. this fic has helped a lot :) thank you all for being patient with me thus far, i think writing for channie is like free therapy<3 please let me know what you think!!
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. Attached to the hip, you and Chris might as well have been twins in a past life. And yet, it’s always that tiny inkling, so many years where one of the two wants something more. So when you bring home a boyfriend one summer and both you and Chris begin drifting apart, you wonder if that denial will become something permanent.
or alternatively :
Until when do you stop pretending?
Among many things, Chris likes to think there was an “oh shit” moment to his life. One, exactly.
Over the years he tried pinpointing when that would be, what that would be.
And then you brought a boyfriend home. His home. To a beach house you two would occupy together. Making shadow puppets with your hands and running out to the beach in the early mornings.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Making sand castles, running into the water with your clothes on and running out giggling messes.
For two weeks every summer, always. Together.
Never with a plus one.
He debated upon subtly sizing up the guy or appearing overly friendly, but not an ounce of his face seemed to move. Steely.
Cold.
Chris was never cold, and he felt that pang in his chest—guilt—seeing you notice it. That miniature knit of your brow, the purse of your lips.
Did he know you like Chris did? Know when you were angry, or frustrated. What your favorite song was, or how you preferred your hair when you were focused?
He wanted to hate comparison, he used to hate comparison.
And now he’s hating himself for being too late, letting you slip from his grasp like sand between his fingers.
When you were once protagonists of a novel written with a happy ending, that love interest was now home to another.
And he was a bystander to a love story that was never his, watching you smile at someone else.
Someone that wasn’t him.
Breakfast is hellish, not to mention the sleeping arrangements. This boyfriend of yours in the guest bedroom, while he sleeps in his.
Alone. Without you, or your pretty hair, or your pretty eyes. Void of your warm body snuggled up to his, where you used to make silly jokes beneath covers and muffle laughter in turn.
A part of him wants to cry, wants to ask you what you two used to be. What was under the covers?
“Ah.. Chris..” The soft moan of yours, all those years back. Stupid, seventeen, single. A cursed pair of “S”’s he hadn’t realized would come to haunt him each time he closed his eyes.
What was your pretty sounds, his face between your thighs those five years back?
Was it all pretend? Exploration as friends?
No, you were smarter than that.
So he tells himself he was too late, and endures.
Because maybe, maybe they’ll be a plot twist one chapter. Where you fall for the side character.
No, no book ends like that.
It all started in an editing firm’s office.
Well, not literally, considering you hadn’t even been in your mother’s mind until Jessica Bahng—mother of a four-month old Chris Bahng—held back a poor woman’s hair while she belched into a toilet.
That poor woman being your mother, who found out she was pregnant that evening after work.
And through a few Saturday’s at the corner cafe and prolonged conversation by the office’s monitors, the two became the best of friends. Watching little Chris grow into a toddling one year old, and in the process welcoming you into the world nearly ten months later.
From there, almost every waking moment consisted of time together. Chris as the lanky teenager with his brown hair sweeping across a tanned forehead, and you, following after him each step he took at less than a year younger. Kindergarten, Primary School.
Although, in the midst of the friendship, your father had found a better job opportunity in Brisbane, a decent ten-hour drive from the Bahng household you’d found second home in.
Though, after plenty of crocodile tears and mumbled “I’ll miss you”’s tumbling from an eighth grade mouth too absorbed in worrying about the matter of leaving rather than the fact you’d likely visit every month, you departed, off to a city so different from the Sydney you had known of.
Even if it was Australia all the same.
And in turn, the annual summer visits began.
Summer before your freshman year of high school, where Chris finally got his braces off in his sophomore year and you soaked up every ounce of information given on surviving the first few days of school.
Then your own sophomore year, filled with feelings and discoveries and struggles unearthed you didn’t think could be experienced so vividly, expectations in need of fulfillment the board expected a sixteen year old to answer immediately.
What do you want to do with your life? Any plans for college? What about taking these extra classes? They look good on a résumé.
And simultaneously rip the ounces of childhood from your fingertips, but no school board puts that in the papers.
So the moment the car door opens after hellish voyaging to Sydney, you allow your lungs to inhale each ounce of salty air the Bahng family house offers, the childishness allowed for once amid crushing pressure.
It is a meager five minute walk to the lapsing shoreline after all, and the ocean keeps good secrets within the sand, washing away your footprints as to flush away traces of whatever happenings occurred there.
Yet, never truly forgotten. Instead, taken into the waters for little children to tell their mother of whom never believe the ocean spilled someone’s precious secrets.
“Chris.”
June eighteenth of your second year in high school, pajama-clad knees curl close into your body, lashes dusting open in the sparsely lit room to focus on him.
A dilation of the pupils, a hitch of the breath when he turns to you.
High school has changed Chris, but not in a foul manner. Blond curls, he’s exchanged from his usual russet locks. Round cheeks shifting in tandem with a sculptors hand, the marble of his skin a bit more toned, defined.
His jaw that clicks when he grows angered—not often, sometimes at his gaming system.
Thickened brows furrowing and knitting in concentration.
Though those eyes are the same, and always will be. No other will have eyes like his, and you know in any life, in any state of amnesia, they would be recognized.
An “aha” moment where a switch flips in your brain, formulating a mere sentence involuntarily.
I love this boy, and I hope for forever he’ll look back at me.
And for that, you’re selfish. But honest.
If Christopher was a stranger, a look into that gaze and you think you’d know him instantaneously.
How silly.
But just as you had spoken, you’re reminded that childishness was something found each time you visited this place regardless of your actions. You’d hold onto that.
“I don’t want to grow up.”
The bit of fat at his under-eyes cause his eyes to form into crescent moons when he smiles, wrinkles at the corner of thick lashes crinkling.
Chris has always liked the moon.
A warm hand of his reaches forward, cupping your cheek as if the first time.
You think you like this more.
“Then don’t.”
A stroke of his thumb, and you snort a laugh when the cold of your nose bumps against the digit.
“And when you want to go back to being sixteen, come to see me, okay?”
Little did you both know that the future had a way of testing just how long sixteen would last.
Until when do you stop pretending?
An explanation as to how you ended up with the curly blond’s lips pressed to your thighs doesn’t sit anywhere in sight, and in the quiet comfort of your bedroom, you let the thought slip by.
Yet, in the end, there’s as much of a pathetic excuse as expected.
That serves for a bit of background information first.
It was a mistake.
You were just teenagers.
But the stinging feeling in your heart, like the swelling of a thorn stuck between your rib cage, tells you that’s far from the truth.
For any infant it’s easy to placate an act, a theatre of behavior. For your stuffed animals as a doctor, for diving into the pool after the rings a mother would toss in beforehand, feigning the role of an experienced diver.
But there comes both a time and occasion to weave a lie, no less complete the loom as someone cognitive enough to understand a situation’s veracity.
When the mind is said to be “not fully developed” but each and every predicament feels like it matters on behalf of the world, when a sentence a year back pops itself from hiding, appearing at the forefront of your mind.
The true question.
Just how long can one stay sixteen?
Junior year, with eighteen lingering a hairsbreadth away for the both of you.
Junior year, where talk of pressures and intimacy lead to Chris being your first time.
And in turn, you were his.
Though that came a few minutes later. Something clumsy and unpracticed the both of you laughed at on continual occasion, enacted for the pure reason of curiosity, of trust.
While everyone gave themselves to strangers, you wanted to give yourself to someone adored, whom you didn’t believe for a second you’d regret.
But was that really the sole reason?
Curiosity?
Or love?
No. Nothing along those lines.
Or that’s what you told yourself those years, those moments. And although it’s supremely underestimated by that of adults, those prolonged stares, the upward quirk of his lips when he catches your eye from across the room is but a matter a babe could understand.
It has always been more, been a new road opened since you’d kissed him. The both of you simply headed the same route you always had.
Best friends, that’s all.
But to an astronaut, the earth has never been the limit, or they wouldn’t be an astronaut. And you were someone that loved Christopher Bahng, but hid behind a title the both of you knew was untrue.
Now it exists like a flash of the mind, swift and fast and almost unnoticed if not for the lingering feeling at your skin—an insatiable itch where his fingers had laid trace.
A soft nip to your inner thigh, his thumb resting just above your navel. His chin upon your lower belly when your events had come to a close, gazing up at you, unreadable.
No. Not unreadable, but one you didn’t want to read, look too far into and get hurt.
Was that it? A gnawing fear of getting hurt holding you back from the things you wanted?
His face lingering with traces of you, lips swollen and glossy and stretched into a smile you scorned to stare at.
“You’re.. gross.”
Maybe a “thank you” or a “that felt amazing” would’ve been the more appropriate response, but this was Chris, and to not speak your mind would break a vow instilled from the earliest of your elementary days.
He laughs, a squeaky sound of happiness you soak up like a sponge—absorbing, absorbing, taking in every ounce offered.
That you can trust in, place faith within.
In a future unknown, however, a part of you knows that the only way of freedom is to prepare for a pain that may come, and may not.
For there is never a guarantee love will be fatal, but all will pass someday.
To live without a taste of that freedom seems too awful to stay in your bubble.
All so scary, uncertain. The unpredictability can be overwhelming. Somewhere in between you hope he felt it too.
Love, that is.
Ah.
A kiss at your lips, and he tastes like you—something you’d shrink away with disgust at if not for his presence, the tender manner in which he eases your shirt back down, then his own adjusted over his head.
That night, you ate dinner and never spoke of it. Not a taboo topic, merely mutually understood. His parents out for a night, Hannah off staying late for an after school activity.
A kiss after washing dishes in the sink, a kiss when you flop onto the couch. After an uno match by the coffee table, where your competitiveness sparks into screaming matches, tackling him following not long after.
Your bodies like a whirlwind of motion, writhing with chortled laughter like squabbling infants.
Overtop of you he pauses, and your earlier feigned rage fades as quickly as it was provoked, chest warming at the chaste peck to your cheek, then the press of his lips you beckon closer, hands curling into the fabric of his tee, slipping down his back to trace the bumps of his spine.
One breath, two.
Warm, and it feels like you’re melting.
Fingernails usher the shirt upwards, his lower back beared, tanned from summer sun.
More.
You want more all over again.
“Chris!”
It’s Hannah’s voice, squeaky at age thirteen, that clears the steaminess instantly, clambering off each other so quickly your foot slams into his stomach, his hand shoving your face into the carpeted floor.
“I- I won in Uno! Fair and square!”
Not a great cover up, Chris, but the flushed nature of his ears, his cheeks, makes up for the stupid excuse.
From this prompts a sequence of events, of excuses and hiding, of denial and relapsing into what’s familiar.
But just as life is unpredictable, none of those thoughts plagued your mind yet.
Nothing had happened yet.
Then it happened, and you can’t come to recall how.
A party, freshman year of university. A guy, loud music, too many drinks.
He was a sweet soul, helping you back to your dorm when the world became a distant, fuzzy memory. Someway or another (you’re betting your roomie gave it to him), he snagged your number.
Because Saturday morning, 11am, you received a: “Feeling any better?” text you gazed at in horror—believing the random number to be some drunken one night stand—before being filled in.
Jae was his name. Jae Hyeong.
A student in your Wednesday lecture, passing by unknown, now becoming known.
You told Chris about him that summer, mumbled between bites of strawberries after a stop by the market in his dad’s old pick-up truck.
Rust clung to the sides, and you could never be certain the engine would start up again. But it was loved and cherished. So faith was placed in it anyway.
Expectedly, he just nodded his head, popping another sweet bite between plush lips.
The thing was, you told Chris about him without mentioning the dating factor.
Jae was funny, sweet. The first of your dates concluding with your stomach aching from laughter. And a cowardly part of you blames forgetfulness, while the other points directly at your heart.
Even when, staring into his eyes, all you see is Chris.
How cruel, and you want to hate yourself for dragging this boy along.
Scared.
Because at the moment, pursuing music was Chris’s dream, attending Uni at Sydney was that utmost goal he reached towards.
And you’d support him through it, even if you were left behind.
It wasn’t you, your mind berates.
It never was you.
So you’ll look away, deny the love you ache for. Jae deserves that, right? Not to be treated as some source of healing for you, a rebound for love unrequited.
Maybe the friendship of yours has clouded your judgement. It’s not love you harbor, but fondness.
A soul-sucking, gut-wrenching fondness that’s unequivocally love.
“I think you’d like him.”
Maybe this is your hopes of even ground. That if the both of them become somewhat-friends, your feelings will ease and you’ll realize this was all a fever-dream and you were truly in love with Jae.
All a dream.
“Will I?” Chris grunts in reply, both of your legs dangling from the truck bed’s edge.
He thinks you’re prettiest like this. A bit unkempt, no makeup, hair left to its own devices.
You. Wholly, unapologetically you.
Blemishes and smile lines just like his, bits of strawberry lingering by the corners of your lips he wants to kiss away, lap up with his tongue and take advantage of the quiet of the morning, the lack of townspeople awake to witness his greed.
Chris is greedy when it comes to you, he’ll admit it. He wants and wants and wants, and can’t ever seem to be satiated.
Whether it’s your kisses, your laughter, that sweet, mumbled moan when you’re feeling so good.
Shit. He’s in too deep.
To his core, Chris is a gentle man. He wouldn’t allow himself to be angry at you if it cost his life but, he’s also human. And humans feel jealousy.
It’s been a while since the thought occurred to him, since that biting pit began forming in his gut, gnashing their teeth at anything in sight.
“Is he good to you?” A quiet murmur, one that’s a bit reserved compared to his usual cheerfulness, optimistic tone. This is curious, observant. That kind of behavior when he wants to know more though remain subtle.
Plus, he argues with that frothing jealously. It’s not like he’s your boyfriend, right?
Then, as quickly as it came, the jealousy is gone, swept away in the crashing tides just a few miles from where you sit. Replaced with nervousness, worry.
It’s not like Chris can control you. You aren’t to be controlled, and it’d be cruel to keep you from your potential to begin with. He’s just the coward that can’t bring himself to confess.
And neither can you, but he doesn’t know that.
Two nervous messes, fretting over love they’ve shared long before anyone speaks up about it.
What remains unspoken.
Will your boyfriend be good to you? Treat you right? His head swims, grasping a strawberry hard enough that streams of juice slip down his wrist, droplets trickling onto the top of a muscular thigh.
And heaven forbid the guy breaks your heart. He wouldn’t hear the end of it from Chris and likely earn a beat down for the road.
But then comes the hopeful thought, the “what if” that lingers under his skin, buzzes at his fingertips as an index comes to loop a strand of hair behind your ear to better see you.
The bit of pride in the corner, nudging his shoulder as if it were you. A longtime friend.
I’ll treat you well.
Please let me be good to you.
Closing his eyes, the sad smile of yours after having failed your final exam resides there. Bittersweet, somber.
Would it be considered stages of grief if he had yet to lose someone?
No less, it feels as if you’re leaving him behind altogether.
“You alright?”
But for now, you’re by his side. It’s enough.
“Hm,” A nod, eyes remaining closed.
“The sun feels good today.”
It feels better with you.
Who knew how quickly good things go.
“Hi Berry!”
The summer before your junior year of Uni, and for a moment, standing in front of the Bahng household feels nostalgic in a way that makes your heart sink.
The rose-tinted glasses feel further away than ever. Peeling paint, cracks in the wood, creaking of the paneled floors you hadn’t noticed those summer’s before.
Things have changed, and you shudder to think you were the bringer of it.
The hand in yours whose last name isn’t Bahng, however, proves the point.
This summer, Jae came with you. Officially regarded as your boyfriend.
Thus far, there has been no greater feeling of dread and guilt in your gut than right now.
Dread in witnessing Chris’ reaction, guilt from the gnawing ache in your chest. Because no, by no means did you wish to treat Jae as a buffer, an anchor to love unrequited. Nonetheless, that certainly felt the case, more so the situation responsible for your guilt.
And maybe, just maybe, it was wordlessly understood. The manner you’d speak of Chris to Jae, that hidden longing unable to be shielded by a facade.
How cruel, a heart is. To love so shamelessly. Garner affection, but withhold a love solely reserved for one.
In need of mending, care you fail to give by yourself.
Berry, the beloved Chevalier King Charles Spaniel, helps calm such a maelstrom, if only for a short amount of time.
Before Chris walks down the stairs.
.
.
.
If fur had lined Chris’ back, it would be spiked in apprehension, aggression. Like a wolf, scruff ruffled in the presence of someone new.
A second-long overview tells him enough. Your hand in his, the way he trails after you as if some lovesick puppy.
The taste of bile in his throat makes him want to choke.
He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.
So childish, it all is. This harrowing sadness weighing on his chest, the jealousy.
“This is Jae, isn’t it?”
Ah, you should’ve known better.
Chris could always tell.
Yet, his eyes never leave yours. A mere flicker of attention to the newcomer until you’re bathed in the spotlight again, and the hair on your arms rises unnervingly.
“Yeah,” Swiftly clearing your throat, you feebly try at gathering your wits, granting Jae a smile you hope is reassuring.
“He’s.. my boyfriend.”
All at once, Chris feels his world crashing down on him.
“What happened?” He wanted to ask, forgetting you grew up, no longer that little girl seated beside him on the playground’s swings.
Because it’s already enough in recognizing it, but another in receiving clarification.
A slow inhale is breath into lungs he feels are already too full, straining to contain oxygen.
He missed his chance. Now it’s gone.
I lost you, whispers in his mind. Fragmented pieces of a puzzle.
There was a reason an extra pillow resided in the linen closet, or the My Little Pony toothbrush tossed in the mug his old swim-team sold as merch.
For you, and only you.
Never another.
Selfishly, he feels this casting has abruptly booted him from the main position, now rooted as a bystander in a set that isn’t even his.
Of course, Chris lacks the complete asshole gene, so a hasty handshake serves as greeting enough before he’s already reaching for the door.
“Eh? But we-“
“Guest bedroom is on your left. Y/N will show you. You two can sleep there or whatever- I’m going to surf.”
Just the partial asshole gene.
And he knows you can tell. Reading each other with the ease of a lover. Attentive, observant.
Nevertheless, your love is directed to someone else.
“He uh.. isn’t usually like this.”
A mumble on your part suffices in buffering the silence. That, followed by Jae’s cocked brow.
“Real friendly guy.”
Your lip tugs between your teeth, peering back at the boy from over your shoulder. Apparently, your expression of remorse fails to be hidden well.
“Hey, it’s alright,” Jae consoles, “I dealt with that one jerk of a roommate back in Brisbane for a whole semester, y’know? A bit of coldness is nothin’.”
Ignorance only feels good for so long. Bliss is never permanent.
If only you had understood that lesson, abided by it.
Yet, just like those years before, you turn your head the other direction and allow life to pass by without him in it, despite staying in the same home.
Despite him being everything to you, despite a love shared over countless years.
.
.
.
He’s irritable. Chris is. The subtle grit of his teeth you've come to recognize, the harsh grip he nearly crushes his fork in. Dinner had never felt so stifling, never when you were here.
All of a sudden, the household you had once found solace inside feels all too hot, a sweltering furnace where each extra beat of silence adds a degree to the thermometer.
Jessica Bahng’s cooking was incredible, as predicted, and conversation flowed effortlessly between you, her, and Jae—the boy charming without trying, his charisma winning over the woman after a mere two bites of food.
What wasn’t predictable was Chris’ quietness from across the table. Because each time he looks up, he finds himself seated in a theatre, watching what was pass by. Watching how you’d kiss Jae, hold his hand, laugh by his side.
Was that all it was? Him as a spectator?
The chip in the corner of his dinner plate held in hand verifies emotion unwilling to be shown on the surface.
He doesn’t meet your eyes, doesn’t even acknowledge you.
Jerk.
You scoff, offering him a miniature scowl from the corner of your eye.
“So, how’d you meet Y/N? I forgot to ask last night,” Jessica insists, glancing from you to Jae in rapid succession.
Oh, great. The formalities.
“Well,” A pause on the younger boy’s end, sheepishly grinning. “It was actually at a party—“
“Pfft, yeah right,” Chris grunts beneath his breath in amusement, ramming his fork down into a piece of broccoli.
Acting like a child and he knows it, but no amount of maturity can seem to withhold the snide comments.
Either the other three didn’t hear him or chose to ignore him. He’s fine with both.
“And yeah, I just remember her being so drunk and—“
“You wish,” The dyed blond mumbles once more to himself, shaking his head in quiet mirth.
Those words beckon attention, and Chris mutters an inaudible curse after the sharp kick his mother grants in warning.
That night, dinner concluded like usual. Cheerful on one end, quiet as a mouse on the other. Figuring out who belonged on which side came easy.
Except, Chris fails to remain silent this time around whilst attending to dish duty, lips drawing into a tight line witnessing Jae place his plate beside the sink.
Not in the sink, not even an offer to help wash. No, the bastard’s eyes are dead set on you, flickering from your eyes, lips, ass—
Dammit, he wants to sock the guy right about now.
However, he waits until you get upstairs to wash up for bed before speaking.
“Gonna give me a servant uniform too at this point?” The last of Chris’ mutters, and it seems Jae is done with staying silent as well.
“Alright, just what is your problem?”
“I don’t know, why can’t you be well-mannered as a guest? At least wash your own damn dish,” Chris growls back, the two’s eyes meeting in a vicious staring contest prior to his mother’s scolding, resulting in both boys on dish-duty.
Although it’s the words muttered in his ear when Jae leaves that nearly provokes every nerve in his body to crush the man’s face in with his fist.
“Whatever was between you two, forget it. She’s not yours anymore.”
Your face appearing from the top of the stairwell keeps his urge at bay, merely evident in the white-knuckled clenching of his fist, his form hasty to disappear outside the screen door.
Instinctively, sandal-clad feet taking him to the one place that lets him think.
The ocean.
It’s late, and high tides crash against the sandy shoreline. The squawking of seagulls has drawn to a close, the enormous light of the moon overhead a constant he finds comfort in.
Pattering of your footsteps, however, gather his focus instantaneously, wordless where your form curls by his side.
Another constant, just you and him.
Something to spite the change.
So much change, in fact, he feels like each bit of the youth he’s known is being swallowed up, consumed into newness he can’t accept.
But you still open doors fully in case monsters hide behind them, and he hasn’t changed the flavor of ice cream he buys from convenience stores since he was eight, so perhaps nothing has changed but exterior.
To be ignorant is to be blissful, a lesson continually presenting itself this summer. Neither happens to be involved in your predicament.
You’re first to break the silence. Always the more courageous one, albeit he’d never admit it.
“I shouldn’t have brought Jae here, I’m sorry.”
Your slow inhale.
“This is.. our place, I get it. I just thought—“
“No,” A shake of his head, second nature upon reading the startled look you give him.
“I mean,” He has to tilt his head to peek at your face, hidden between your knees like a child.
“It’s our place, you’re right but-.. If one day.. somebody comes along, then that’s..”
A begrudging acceptance, if that’s the word.
You look up at him and- ah, you’re so pretty. Chris stops to stare for a moment, his lips parted like an infant fixated on the cookie jar.
Hurried blinking and a swift breath dispel the prior awe.
“That’s okay. If “you” becomes you and someone else, then so be it.”
A small, wry smile. Though beneath, he feels as if he’s breaking.
“I wouldn’t be your best friend if I didn’t pester your boyfriend, or, y’know, future boyfriends. ‘S what I do for my favorite girl.”
He smiles, wanting to cry more than anything while playfully pinching your cheek.
Why can’t you be mine?
.
Ten minutes or so separate your conversation, but you pick up again as if you’d never stopped in the first place.
“Sometimes I think it’d be easier if I could just go back to being when we were kids again, y’know?”
“And what would you do if you were kids again?”
These words are slow, patient.
His reply ruins the peace, the begrudging acceptance you had built like a wall of defense, blocking feelings foaming at the mouth to climb from your throat, echoing in the night air.
“I’d never let you go.”
“I’m going to bed,” A mumble interrupts the quietness, your head weighing against his shoulder.
An anchor, in fear you’d be thrashed into the waves without return.
Chris has always been your buoy.
If only he could keep you afloat in your dreams, but you had yet to yearn for that just yet.
The small nod where he assures you he’d stay a bit longer serves as an untold: “good night” you offer a tight smile in response to, slipping past the creaking doorway and up to your shared bedroom.
Shared with Jae, not Chris.
And no, Jae wasn’t a buffer. A substitute until you could muster courage to confess, to shout the aches and pains and torment your messy love prompts.
More often than not, Jae has been a lighthouse, helping you venture through the fog of feelings muddling your mind, decisions.
Hell, you don’t know half of what you’re doing.
So many adult responsibilities are manageable, but love provides its own labyrinth no matter the age, never a mere math equation, a problem and solution.
But with loopholes, and heartbreak, and stupidity, and impulsiveness.
Confusion and sadness and guilt, these gut-wrenching feelings keeping someone up at night.
Like tonight, where your eyes stare daggers into the guest bedroom’s wall across from you. A wall lacking Chris’ swim posters, medals. The old nightlight still plugged into the outlet, once prominent galaxy patterns faded into nothingness.
There for the memories, it was.
Is that what you and Chris were now? A night light still plugged into the wall, left there like some somber source of recollection to look back on?
You hate how your stomach dips at the thought, the nausea building in your throat causing you to roll over, now face-to-face with a snoring Jae, limbs strung like a starfish across the mattress.
Luckily, sleep wasn’t too far away for you either, though it felt like an eternity before your consciousness fully dissipated.
“Oh… Oh my Go-“
Your arms lift above your head, reaching for something you don’t even know. Reprieve, possibly, amid the tingling of your body, the fuzziness of your head.
After months of dreamless nights, of course it’s a dirty dream.
Then an involuntary shift occurs through your body, hand extending towards the boy’s hair. And for a moment, it seems your dream-like vision flickers like a faulty lightbulb, because all you can see is Chris.
Somehow, you know it isn’t Chris, but Jae. Nevertheless, he’s the only face you can make out, the only form recognizable.
Although his name wasn’t explicitly uttered, the horror etching itself into your bones merely mouthing it has you reeling back into reality.
Not Chris’s bedroom, but your dorm room.
Not his chocolate irises meeting yours when you look down, the gentle reassurance in his warm palm, grasping the back of your thigh to offer a grounding squeeze.
This is Jae. This dream is in Brisbane. And Chris is a whole ten-hours away.
Your second day at the beach house, you wake in a cold sweat.
And right there, sixteen really did fade away.
“What’s cookin’ good lookin’?”
Apparently, on a rather comical note, Jae had anticipated your form to be standing by the stove preparing breakfast, his sleep-ridden frame the last to wake up.
Mrs. Jessica had already busied herself driving Hannah to spend the summer with their grandparents, her own annual ritual.
Trust, he wasn’t all too pleased to find Chris there instead, the pan-wielding man granting your boyfriend a venomous stink-eye.
“Sorry, I don’t play housewife,” Your slumber-ridden mumble from the countertop’s stool beckons Chris’ slight snort, pointing the spatula to himself as if clarifying a: “That’s me, the housewife”.
That, paired with containing a huff of laughter watching your form peering into the fridge, hoping the next time you’d open it up a delectable dessert would be there.
To no avail, evident in your dejected grumble.
“Hey,” The curly blond scowls, his frown growing imperceptibly deeper when Jae presses a kiss to your cheek in greeting.
You don’t notice.
“Wait for breakfast, ‘m making omelette how you like. And uh.. I made some other stuff. You can have that, Jae.”
“Thanks,” Sarcasm drips from your boyfriend’s tone, rolling his eyes.
Still on the rocks.
Got it.
“Anytime,” Predictably, Chris feeds off the sarcasm, acting as nonchalant as ever while plating the food and murmuring reminders about waxing his surfboard in the garage.
Further grating Jae’s nerves in turn, you note.
A bigger bite of your omelette feebly manages to redirect the anxiety, the remnants of stringy cheese clinging to your upper lip.
“You’ve got something there.”
Your best friend’s hum rings aloud, reaching to brush the piece of food from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.
And for a moment, a memory of the past flickers in your mind. The darkening of a room, now bright after only a second.
A memory. Not the dream last night.
His lips on yours, the quickening of breath, hands squeezing his clothing like a vice and—
“Thanks.”
The words surprise even you, not a forethought in sight.
And you also don’t notice the cock of Jae’s head, the utter “I dare you” spoken in Chris’ lifted brows, this sneering quirk of his lips offered as a war cry to the other boy before walking past without another word.
One look, and a war had begun.
“We should visit the zoo,” Jae mentions one Sunday while you’re painting your toenails and Chris is absorbed in some video on his phone.
“You seriously haven’t been to the Sydney Zoo?”
Conversations always end like this, and you’re tempted to ram your head into the nearest wall.
“I can’t believe you don’t know how to surf. You’re Australian, seriously.”
“Well I’m sorry I don’t live in my fancy beach house a convenient two minute walk from the beach.”
More bickering, bickering, bickering. Your skull wants to explode.
On an off-handed occasion, maybe they’ll behave tolerably in regards to one another.
That day was not today. Frankly speaking, tonight, where the only responsible person in the household, Jessica Bahng, had left on a work trip.
…You would admit, you also aren't immune to stupid decisions.
However, this stupid decision took the cake.
A competition, predictably, but not just mini golf or freestyle swimming; drinking.
From Asahi beer, apple-flavored soju and hard liquor, the whole assortment bedecked the coffee table, an already tipsy Christopher Bahng swaying across from you.
Sure, college paved the way for immaturity, but seriously. Seeing who could better handle their alcohol was just sad.
And trust, Chris looked about the epitome of sad (adorable, you forgot to mention) with his flushed cheeks and ears to the frustrated crease of his brows, pupils blown, eyes glossy where they fixate on a victorious Jae.
Who, in a prideful fashion, tips back another shot of soju with his own, less-tipsy hiccup prior to getting up and stretching his legs, hopefully gathering water in the process.
Nonetheless, Chris just spaces out, evidently inebriated thanks to the unfocused nature of his attention. Fleetingly, his gaze then roved on you, head tipping in a swoon-worthy fashion like some enamored first grader.
Little were you aware just how gorgeous you looked right now from the boy’s buzzed perspective, breath smelling of alcohol where he exhales short huffs, lips curving into this dumb-happy smile.
And— he passes out, thankfully already seated on the carpeted floor.
Though, leaving you and a grumpy Jae with the responsibility of lugging him onto the couch, letting sleep help sober him up until you (considering your boyfriend did everything in his power to avoid interaction with the blacked out Chris) took the role of coaxing sips of water into his mouth.
By midnight, all the glasses had been cleared, and you adjusted a blanket over Chris’s drunken, sleepy frame, Jae already preparing for bed upstairs.
“I love Berry.” A whisper, and you crane to catch the remnants of his words before he shifts beneath the blanket, dead silent for a minute or two.
Then he rolls over to face you, sporting a downright longing sort of look.
“.. I really love Berry.”
“You said that already, Chris.”
“Okay.”
And he rolls over like it was all a dream, pouty.
Too cute.
Your fond touch smooths coiling strands of hair from his forehead, sparing him a last glance prior to thumping up the stairs.
That night, lying sleepless in bed, you can’t help but wonder:
How much more of this? For both them and you. How much more competition until the calm facades crack, until your patience snaps?
The flames of a rivalry never seem to wane, each interaction adding gasoline to a heat almost unbearable.
Only a matter of time until someone pours in too much and ignites an inferno.
One week until your visit to Sydney comes to a close, and the two are still at each other’s throats.
Between mundane things like making dinner or cleaning to stupid competitions like who ran the fastest mile in junior high or who can stay underwater the longest (or the drinking competition, a notable contestant), this trip has started to feel like a babysitting gig instead of a vacation.
“Chris-“
“Christopher.” Chris corrects one evening, the snide reprimand earning Jae’s icy glare in return.
Currently seated by your side on the couch once occupied by the blond, Jae scoffs to himself, arm extending to drape over your shoulders.
Meanwhile, your attention remains solely on the nature channel, a bit dazed in exhaustion after a long day of swimming beneath the warm sun overhead.
What makes him bristle is the way Jae leans into your form, pressing a kiss to your temple whilst maintaining sole eye contact with the other man.
When your head turns, however, all is well.
This quieted, occasionally evident rivalry grates your nerves with no trace of resolve.
“Say,” An aimless hand taps against the side of the reclining chair your best friend sits within, a loose tee and sweatpants adorning his form.
And you’d be a fat liar to not admit glancing more than once at the way the fabric stretches over his torso when he shifts, squeezing against muscles unable to suitably fit.
Merely appreciative, you tell yourself.
“Why don’t we let dear old Jae pick Y/N’s favorite movie, hm?”
Such a mocking question, it is, and Chris spares no expense chucking the remote control in hand a little too hard at Jae, the man’s brows furrowing in silent irritation he refused to voice aloud.
Testing him.
Perhaps a time ago you’d mentioned your favorite movie to your boyfriend, though the topic wasn’t all too serious in your opinion.
For Jae, however, this was war, this unspeakable quiz verifying if he knew you better than Chris, knew the answer the other man knew like the back of his hand and then some.
You both know the champion title would always rest in Chris’s hands.
That you kept quiet about.
“What? Don’t tell me you don’t know her favorite movie.”
Cocky, Chris is.
And dammit, the tick of his jaw is unfairly attractive.
“It’s Tangled, now give me the remote and both of you grow up.”
It’s your turn to answer, having grown sick and tired of these childish taunts before snatching the remote from Jae’s grasp with a shared, scolding glower towards the both of them.
Comedically enough, they shrink like dejected puppies.
Fortunately, the movie helps distract you for a while, long enough that a nap becomes a decision not on your own accord—body slumping against Jae’s.
Unfortunately, Jae flipping Chris off from the couch and mouthing a “loser” beneath his breath escalates things to a level you don’t like to imagine.
Perhaps that’s the cause for either black eye decorating their face and Chris’s busted lip the next morning.
.
.
.
Trust, waking up to black and blue boys roaming the house was a sight hard not to laugh at.
“Did you guys.. fight?”
“Fight? I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got a black eye, Jae.”
By the time the last day rolls around, those arguments, petty behavior, childish games become something you want to hold onto, June and July drifting past too quickly for you to chase after.
And while you had some grasp of their fight three days ago, only half of it has been made knowledgeable.
Chris would like to keep it that way for a multitude of reasons.
The favorite movie of yours served as the gasoline, and you had foretold the inferno to come.
“It’s not my fault you can’t let go of something that was never yours!”
Chris shoves Jae’s suitcase in the back of your car harder than need be, the other boy’s words ringing in his head as if some dreaded deadline.
“She’s- she’s not something to be owned like an object! I don’t want to possess her, I want to love her! And my god if you could get that through your head I think things would become a lot easier for both of us!”
A worthy argument on his own part, Chris would argue.
“You know what needs to get through your head?” Chris recalls the events similar to replays in sports, nearly able to feel the anger that had been coursing through his veins when Jae retaliated.
Storming straight up in his face where they stood on the beach, the night sky as their audience.
“You lost your chance, Chris. Waited too fucking long to confess and now you’re acting like a little kid just ‘cause you didn’t have the balls to say something, get it?”
Jae spat his name like a cursed pseudonym, and a snort of satisfaction exhales from his frame envisioning the sucker-punch he gave the boy after that.
Followed by the clench of his fist, observing your laughter while talking with your boyfriend from afar.
Boyfriend.
Dammit.
Then the last part, before they both went tumbling into the sand in a mixture of fury-filled shouts and flying limbs.
“She’s not yours, Chris. Deal with it.”
His reply?
“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.”
Who knew such a day would come so soon.
Maybe you should’ve known better.
Or that’s what you try to explain to yourself using. Some sad excuse to make up for the scene witnessed just minutes earlier.
Six months, not even half a year, and two months after traveling to Sydney together.
Stopping at crappy restaurants during the boresome ride, cracking jokes, laughing until your bellies hurt. Kissing, sex.
Was it the whole tension with Chris? Your mind rationalizes, frantically searching for some reason, rhyme.
Trick question. There is no rhyme or reason in love.
Now, Jae professes all of it amounted to nothing while staying silent at the same time.
Him kissing another girl in front of your dormitory proved that.
Cheater.
And within the few minutes you bask in realization, you wish so terribly you could unleash that wrath on him. Scream in frustration or land similar punches the two battered each other with in Sydney.
Kick him in the shins, yell manically enough to scare the sadness out of your body.
But honestly, you just want to cry.
A sharp inhale, battling the sob threatening to run free with the beep of your phone’s keypad, serving as your only companion.
Until Chris picks up the call, and shit.
You break.
“What.. What was I thinking-“
It’s a job and a half sniffling up the cries, and for once, you feel embarrassed calling Chris crying—even with this being far from the first time.
Why involve someone else in your own problems?
Realistically, a part of you knew such a happening both could and, stupidly enough, would occur, knew this placated vision of peacefulness was a meager mask, acting as a film to the truth behind the blurry camera lens.
You can’t stay ignorant to him, and there isn’t a particle of happiness in unrequited pining, no matter trying to ease the pain with someone else who’ll eventually hurt you.
Fuck.
Because you love him. That’s all.
There, said and done.
In your mind, at least. But saying that aloud results in your tongue feeling like lead, results in more crying.
“Y/N,” His voice, and you feel the coldness in your fingertips warm up, as if wrapped in his embrace. A long, safe hug.
“Answer me two things.”
Your additionally embarrassing, whimpered sound of agreement affirms his offer.
“Was this Jae?”
No it was—
Yes. Honestly, truthfully, it was.
No more pretending, excuses. Sixteen was over.
“Mhm,” Wiping your snotty nose on the back of your hand, a miniscule amount of relief comes from leaning against the wall behind you.
“And do you want me there or just want to talk?” That lilt of his tone, tender.
He’s good at making you want to cry. Though never due to meanness.
Sucking in a shuddering breath, you calm your voice as much as possible.
“Here. Here, please.”
Then a realization.
“But you’re, like, ten hours awa-“
“That doesn’t matter. I’ll make it five. Right now, go back to your dorm, get some good takeout, and turn on Tangled, okay? Find something relaxing and don’t think about anything for a moment. I’ll be right there, alright?”
Longing lies in the way you press the phone to your cheek, savoring his voice like a soothing balm.
Let’s go back, let’s try this one more time.
First that time he asked you to prom in highschool, the second in his bedroom, allowing yourselves intimacy with each other for the first time.
You’ve never heard of a third chance before.
For him, you’re willing to try.
That said, Chris held tight to his word, the rattling truck of his a miracle in managing to get here—no less get here two hours earlier than most did on the drive to Brisbane from Sydney, alerting you from the comfort of your dorm’s bed with its puttering engine and creaking brakes.
Surprisingly, however, he doesn’t spare you a word whilst rushing past, seemingly having chosen perfect timing in rushing to the dorms where a rather unlucky Jae steps out.
You don’t think you’ve heard a more dreadful noise than the crunch of Jae’s nose beneath Chris’s fist, the force alone sending the boy bowling to the ground before he’s being picked up again by the collar, your best friend downright seething.
“What did I tell you, hm?” A growl, his arm poised for another blow you can’t bring yourself to watch.
“Hurt her, break her heart, and I’ll give you a matching black eye.” Chris repeats, nothing but white-hot rage charging through his veins.
Jae, satisfyingly enough, looks terrified.
Good, Chris internally muses. Because simply pulling in, he saw all he needed to. The puffiness of your eyes, your shuddering sniffles.
And all of a sudden it feels like that time in second grade, where Chris and a few of his friends had gotten redemption on the kid who stole your favorite popsicle flavor purposefully.
And for you, you feel like you’re watching that missing-toothed, sunburnt boy stand up for you again.
“I think another black eye might compliment the nose,” He snarls, momentarily catching your gaze.
The subtle shake of your head dissipates every angry instinct simultaneously, deciding to harshly shove Jae back to the ground alternatively and, at last, gather you in his arms for a hug that felt long overdue.
Occasionally you come to think there are connections that reach deeper than love — being the connection of souls in the most intimate of moments. Being your fingertips threading through blond curls, kissing at his lips clumsily—unlearned.
Right now, this hug. Nosing into the scent of his detergent, finding comfort in the place you were meant to be in, the arms you weren’t meant to be held in.
It had always been unlearned, but it was Chris, so you didn’t mind.
Oh, you loved it.
Loved him.
A bloody-nosed Jae could wait, because the last hour of Tangled needed to be watched, and the curl of his fingers in yours coaxed you along without a chance of stopping.
.
.
.
Senior year and soon to be graduates. Grown up, maybe just physically.
“Chris.”
The words are nearly inaudible, drapes of the canopy bed sole privacy to the man lingering above you, blond curls just as you remembered, eyes that same, heart-stopping chocolate hue.
Your hands find themselves reaching up, tentative to touch warm skin. Golden.
Chris is always golden.
“Please hold me.”
And those arms that were always meant for you, lips kissing at your chin, pulls you into a rip current you had no intention of leaving.
Yours, his.
Messy, unlearned. Down to experience eventual problems.
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⎯ what remains unspoken. (teaser) ⟡ featuring c. bahng
🪝 : Christopher Bahng x implied! fem. reader
TROPE. best friends to lovers, enemies to lovers, jealousy, angst, two idiots chasing their own tails believing their love is unrequited (ㅠㅠ), based in australia, summer! au, beachhouse! au
WORD COUNT. estimated to be around 4k-7k words
WARNINGS. cursing, jealousy/shame, reader moves away, mentions of drunkenness at a party, nondesc smut
AUG'S NOTES. my annual summer pieces are unearthing themselves as we speak and i’m so so so excited. i began this as a tiny snippet of thought while on the train :) who knew it’d be developed into a fic! although this is just a teaser, please let me know your thoughts!!
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. Attached to the hip, you and Chris might as well have been twins in a past life. And yet, it’s always that tiny inkling, so many years where one of the two wants something more. So when you bring home a boyfriend one summer and both you and Chris begin drifting apart, you wonder if that denial will become something permanent.
or alternatively :
Until when do you stop pretending?
Among many things, Chris likes to think there was an “oh shit” moment to his life. One, exactly.
Over the years he tried pinpointing when that would be, what that would be.
And then you brought a boyfriend home. His home. To a beach house you two would occupy together. Making shadow puppets with your hands and running out to the beach in the early mornings.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner. Making sand castles, running into the water with your clothes on and running out giggling messes.
For two weeks every summer, always. Together.
Never with a plus one.
He debated upon subtly sizing up the guy or appearing overly friendly, but not an ounce of his face seemed to move. Steely.
Cold.
Chris was never cold, and he felt that pang in his chest—guilt—seeing you notice it. That miniature knit of your brow, the purse of your lips.
Did he know you like Chris did? Know when you were angry, or frustrated. What your favorite song was, or how you preferred your hair when you were focused?
He wanted to hate comparison, he used to hate comparison.
And now he’s hating himself for being too late, letting you slip from his grasp like sand between his fingers.
When you were once protagonists of a novel written with a happy ending, that love interest was now home to another.
And he was a bystander to a love story that was never his, watching you smile at someone else.
Someone that wasn’t him.
Breakfast is hellish, not to mention the sleeping arrangements. This boyfriend of yours in the guest bedroom, while he sleeps in his.
Alone. Without you, or your pretty hair, or your pretty eyes. Void of your warm body snuggled up to his, where you used to make silly jokes beneath covers and muffle laughter in turn.
A part of him wants to cry, wants to ask you what you two used to be. What was under the covers?
“Ah.. Chris..” The soft moan of yours, all those years back. Stupid, seventeen, single. A cursed pair of “S”’s he hadn’t realized would come to haunt him each time he closed his eyes.
What was your pretty sounds, his face between your thighs those five years back?
Was it all pretend? Exploration as friends?
No, you were smarter than that.
So he tells himself he was too late, and endures.
Because maybe, maybe they’ll be a plot twist one chapter. Where you fall for the side character.
No, no book ends like that.
It all started in an editing firm’s office.
Well, not literally, considering you hadn’t even been in your mother’s mind until Jessica Bahng—mother of a four-month old Chris Bahng—held back a poor woman’s hair while she belched into a toilet.
That poor woman being your mother, who found out she was pregnant that evening after work.
And through a few Saturday’s at the corner cafe and prolonged conversation by the office’s monitors, the two became the best of friends. Watching little Chris grow into a toddling one year old, and in the process welcoming you into the world nearly ten months later.
From there, almost every waking moment consisted of time together. Chris as the lanky teenager with his brown hair sweeping across a tanned forehead, and you, following after him each step he took at less than a year younger. Kindergarten, Primary School.
Although, in the midst of the friendship, your father had found a better job opportunity in Brisbane, a decent ten-hour drive from the Bahng household you’d found second home in.
Though, after plenty of crocodile tears and mumbled “I’ll miss you”’s tumbling from an eighth grade mouth too absorbed in worrying about the matter of leaving rather than the fact you’d likely visit every month, you departed, off to a city so different from the Sydney you had known of.
Even if it was Australia all the same.
And in turn, the annual summer visits began.
Summer before your freshman year of high school, where Chris finally got his braces off in his sophomore year and you soaked up every ounce of information given on surviving the first few days of school.
Then your own sophomore year, filled with feelings and discoveries and struggles unearthed you didn’t think could be experienced so vividly, expectations in need of fulfillment the board expected a sixteen year old to answer immediately.
What do you want to do with your life? Any plans for college? What about taking these extra classes? They look good on a résumé.
And simultaneously rip the ounces of childhood from your fingertips, but no school board puts that in the papers.
So the moment the car door opens after hellish voyaging to Sydney, you allow your lungs to inhale each ounce of salty air the Bahng family house offers, the childishness allowed for once amid crushing pressure.
It is a meager five minute walk to the lapsing shoreline after all, and the ocean keeps good secrets within the sand, washing away your footprints as to flush away traces of whatever happenings occurred there.
Yet, never truly forgotten. Instead, taken into the waters for little children to tell their mother of whom never believe the ocean spilled someone’s precious secrets.
“Chris.”
June eighteenth of your second year in high school, pajama-clad knees curl close into your body, lashes dusting open in the sparsely lit room to focus on him.
A dilation of the pupils, a hitch of the breath when he turns to you.
High school has changed Chris, but not in a foul manner. Blond curls, he’s exchanged from his usual russet locks. Round cheeks shifting in tandem with a sculptors hand, the marble of his skin a bit more toned, defined.
His jaw that clicks when he grows angered—not often, sometimes at his gaming system.
Thickened brows furrowing and knitting in concentration.
Though those eyes are the same, and always will be. No other will have eyes like his, and you know in any life, in any state of amnesia, they would be recognized.
An “aha” moment where a switch flips in your brain, formulating a mere sentence involuntarily.
I love this boy, and I hope for forever he’ll look back at me.
And for that, you’re selfish. But honest.
If Christopher was a stranger, a look into that gaze and you think you’d know him instantaneously.
How silly.
But just as you had spoken, you’re reminded that childishness was something found each time you visited this place regardless of your actions. You’d hold onto that.
“I don’t want to grow up.”
The bit of fat at his under-eyes cause his eyes to form into crescent moons when he smiles, wrinkles at the corner of thick lashes crinkling.
Chris has always liked the moon.
A warm hand of his reaches forward, cupping your cheek as if the first time.
You think you like this more.
“Then don’t.”
A stroke of his thumb, and you snort a laugh when the cold of your nose bumps against the digit.
“And when you want to go back to being sixteen, come to see me, okay?”
Little did you both know that the future had a way of testing just how long sixteen would last.
🦌 : Greek god! Yang Jeongin x implied! fem. reader
TROPE. Greek mythology! au, Son (unofficial since Artemis swore to celibacy) of Artemis! au, mortal! reader au, slightly sheltered Jeongin (he’s so respectful i wanna cry), fluff fluff fluff, best friends to lovers, slight angst, so soft
WORD COUNT. 8.7k words ☆ 40min read
WARNINGS. usage of arrows, dubcon kiss, mention/heavily focused on greek gods/goddesses, mention of animal bones, inclusion of a venomous snake, playful fighting
AUG'S NOTES. this wait has been going on for too long! so glad to finally present this fic, it holds a whole lot of my heart in it :) pleas enjoy!!
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. Since you were a child, both tales and encounters with the children of the gods became a prevalent pattern in life. Friendship with Hermes’ son, those early morning by the water allowing interaction with Poseidon’s child. And yet, your intrigue upon hearing word of the unofficial offspring of Artemis, sired under her teachings and oaths in a forest most avoided drew you infinitely closer. So what happens when curiosity gets the best of you?
or alternatively :
How quickly one can turn from a stranger to a beloved.
“I— I forfeit!”
Shouts Han, smacking the skin of your thigh repeatedly for you to loosen your death-like grip around his head.
Either of you furiously tussle on the muddy ground of Sokcho’s eastern coastline as if routine, where utter delight in each of the messenger-to-be’s visits end in a few new bruises and a judgemental eyeball from your father when you trudge through the door.
With him being the son of Hermes, your daily visits from Han Jisung had been shortened to weekly once he became more and more occupied taking up his role as the messenger god’s offspring, so you truly give it your all each time his face comes into view.
Which usually means bowling the boy over the moment his winged-shoes touch ground.
Of course, all in good fun. You’ve known the kid since you were a child, listening with wonder as he explained all about his life in Olympus, his father, Hermes, his abilities.
Upon first glance he appears a normal, awkward teenager, but gold coloration swimming within his irises and superhuman reflexes, stamina, and speed, you knew better than to believe that.
Luckily, he gives you a fair fight whenever you spar, ensuring no foul play leads to unfair victories.
Meaning: you win, every time.
Breathing in a huge gasp, the both of you collapse onto sodden soil, chests heaving to replace expelled air. Of course, getting kicked in the stomach and returning the favor with a solid punch to his jaw didn’t help with that factor.
“Three… Three weeks,” You pant, the equally grimy back of your hand swiping strands of hair from a sweaty forehead.
Han mindlessly grunts from below you, body refusing to move even a mere centimeter.
“Yeah yeah, I get it. I’m nothing against you, rub it in.”
You croak a laugh at the sheer exasperation in his tone, accustomed to your feigned gloating antics.
“No– That’s not it Sungie, I just wanted to say.” Using your arms to hold you up while surveying the similarly battered man whose head rests on your stomach, you tip his chin upwards with a finger, forcing those irrevocably hypnotizing eyes to meet yours.
Never sunken, tired.
Han Jisung was a marvel.
And for a moment, he begins to think you’ve grown soft after these years.
“I still won.”
Nevermind.
Whining with dismay, he takes the hand you extend out to him upon standing, earning a playful smack to the shoulder whilst collecting the shoes so carelessly discarded up by the dunes.
Feet sinking into the warm sand below, you’re offered a moment to spare a glance back to the lapsing waters, tumbling over themselves with morning’s ferocious tides.
This is the only time you usually get to see him, and as if a mere memory, he’ll disappear all the same.
Townspeople were never fond of children of the gods. They spoke of mischief, ill-doing in response to their appearances.
A long-lived grudge, one from ancestor after ancestor. And yet, most chose to live ignorant to the swirling deities all around. Those more gracious sunny days when someone mentions Helios, or the subdued waves compared to that of merciless plunder ashore by Poseidon.
As a result, Han never stayed long, leading you to arrive by this peculiarly isolated portion of the beach at dawn for his quick stops before flying off.
You didn’t mind. It was worth it in the end.
Early wake-ups, that is.
Arriving randomly and becoming a part of you habitually. Like an old cut turning into a scar, commemorating happenings of the past.
It didn’t take your father long to grow curious over what his daughter rushed off to every day. And so, about a year ago, you told him. All about Han’s sudden presence, then developing into a friend–a best friend.
Fortunately, he wasn’t upset in the slightest. Initially disbelieving, perhaps, but not angry nor discontented.
In fact, the man seemed more interested than anything, asking you abundant questions about what he looked like, his features, aptitude.
You didn’t blame him, for it wasn’t every day news of an interaction with the ancient bloodline was spoken of.
Instead, you indulged in those child-like curiosities just as avidly as he inquired, resulting in frenzied conversation at the dinner table for a multitude of hours that night.
“Jisung!”
Having called his name after the harsh knock back into reality, you fish through your pockets before he leaves in recollection of something you’d been wanting to give him.
The boy’s face deadpans, obviously awaiting another one of your tricks.
“If you flick me off, I’m never coming back.”
Fretful shuffling dulls his mumble inaudible, merely humming in acknowledgment and successfully clutching the metal between your index and thumb after panicked searching.
A pin, like that attached to tote bags, jeans.
“For you to put on your bag, so you can think of me all the time.”
The wink of yours causes him to wrinkle his nose and stick out his tongue at you, and you can’t help your smile from growing bigger and bigger the longer he investigates the apparent pin you’ve placed in his palm.
“Is this… a pigeon?”
Out of all the birds you’ve been teaching him about in your realm, he had to pick the most pitiful one.
“No! We studied this one! It’s a hawk, y’know since you’re kind of like a bird?” Flapping your arms to sell the idea, he huffs in exasperation, nonetheless fitting the pin to his satchel overflowing with envelopes.
“Alright alright.” Laughing at the pout tugging at his lips, it’s almost instinctive when you press a sugary sweet kiss to his cheek, soaked up gleefully by Hermes’ son like always.
Han Jisung is very much adoring of your affection. Frankly, any affection overall.
“Think it’s about time you get going, delivery boy.”
Flying into your arms (both figuratively and literally), he places his own kiss to your opposing cheek, grinning that irritably charming grin ceaselessly worn.
Guessing what he’ll say next comes easily, but you still entertain the remark anyway.
“Now our kisses complete each other!” He predictably exclaims, beginning to levitate as the miniature wings on his sneakers beat tirelessly. “See you soon Y/N! Stay safe!!”
Waving in response while he drifts further and further into the atmosphere, you wait until his figure is officially gone to move, stepping toward the dock. This way, you can secure the best view of the sunrise peering above clouds without any interruptions.
Ideal.
Truthfully, it never irked you being a mortal amongst your assortment of acquaintances.
You enjoyed it, actually.
Freedom without responsibility to save from evil left you plenty of time to explore, to exist. Not that you didn’t respect them, but the experience seemed too tasking for your liking.
“Back again?”
Speaking of acquaintances.
More specifically speaking of Poseidon as a pair of calloused—though gentle—hands fasten around your calves dangling off the dock’s edge, dragged into the chilly depths below before you can reply by none other than Chan, or, using his birth name, Christopher Bahng.
Son of Poseidon.
Ironic.
Not to mention are there any daughters of the gods..? Jeesh.
Anyway.
You half expected him to tap your shoulder and say hello when hearing him approach from behind as he normally did, the creaking in the dock’s wooden panels enough indication your friend was present on most occasions.
Although unlike Han Jisung, Chris was sporadic in his visits. An old friend from school, he chose to keep his identity a secret, allowing the eccentric father of his to care for the seas while he led a human life teaching kids how to swim at your town’s aquatic center.
Upon finding you speaking to Han in his natural form, a year or so ago, the man eventually found ease in your company as well, comfortable revealing himself and oftentimes showing up to simply converse without turtle necks or high-collared swimsuits concealing the set of gills right below his ears.
In actuality, a part of you was happy he had to hide his gills—meaning that swoon-worthy mop of curly blond hair could grow out, curling behind his ears and furling into wild strands atop his head.
It didn’t take a genius to note how attractive Christopher Bahng was, and you certainly weren’t immune to the effect.
Careful grasp of your hips reminding you you’re safe, mere moments prevail before breaching the water’s surface, complaining about the cold while the bear of a man practically suffocates you in his arms, twisting side to side in a tight hug despite your ingenuine anger swallowed beneath laughter.
“Seriously, you can’t just do that! I might die of shock one day.”
“Well you’re definitely not that weak from how beat up poor Han looked,” He giggles, gliding with ease through chilled waters no matter your weight, courtesy of his bloodline (and whatever hell of a workout regime he followed).
About to retaliate, you pause, contemplating.
“Hey! You should’ve told me you were watching,” Stubbornly insistent, you allow the gentleman to lift you back onto the dock, his own gill-retaining form remaining in the water beneath your faux glare.
Something he grows sheepish in regards to before pointing to a blanket behind you.
So your near-drowning experience was pre-planned.
Jerk.
Although you don’t deny the goosebumps littering your arms and legs, hurriedly wrapping the warm fabric around yourself.
“Nah,” He smiles, fingers carding through unbearably endearing locks. “I wanted to see how it played out. You’ve improved a lot.”
Reaching his hand upward where you can return the fist-bump, you nod at the compliment, referring to the fact Chris taught you how to fight in the first place after your many losses against Han’s sneak attacks, something the latter still moped over to this day.
“Thanks to you,” You add, not missing the dimples dipping into his skin when he grins.
So. Very. Attractive.
Both turning to witness the fullness of today’s dawn, you can’t help but soak in the sight, carving each detail into your memory.
How lucky you are to get to see something this striking, the sky painted in innumerable streaks of warm hues.
“Say,” Redirecting his attention back to you, you balance your jaw on your hand, the pretty view provoking a bit of thinking.
“Are there any other god’s here? Or like, children of the gods?”
Assessing your question, Chris’s eyes surf his surroundings thoughtfully, wracking his mind for anyone he can think of.
“Hm,” A decisive grunt sounds where a tugs a plush bottom lip between his teeth. A sight as easy to get infatuated with as the sunrise.
“Han’s an exception since he pretty much drops by everywhere, and I’m over here because of the ocean and the location but uh… there might be? From what I’ve heard there’s likely at least one other here. You might have better luck asking Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin being the son of Eros, god of love.
Someone you’ve never met, but both Han and Chris relayed he’s the epitome of beauty.
Coming from them, that’s a feat.
You deflate.
“In Seoul?”
Yeah, no way you’re finding a way to Seoul for that. Bus fees, subway fees, coming up with an excuse to your dad? Not happening.
Chris, realizing the unrealistic circumstance, deflates along with you, expression apologetic that you hope to condole with a reassuring smile.
Noting the rate in which your clothes are drying thanks to the warmth of the sun’s rays, you gather your things, stalling when your friend—now drying off beside you—speaks up again.
“Ah, right! There is one! I’ve only met him a few times before at meetings and gatherings, but he’s the son of Artemis– well, not by birth but that’s a long story- and his name is… Jeong? Yin? No no, it’s Yang, Yang Jeongin! Yep, that’s the guy. He’s a little shy but a real cutie.”
Cringing back from the sly manner he nudges your shoulder, the high, mischievous lift of his brows indicate nothing but trouble.
If this is the mischief the townspeople mentioned, you’re starting to understand now.
Who knew the son of Poseidon was turning into a figment of Cupid?
Then again, you don’t think you’ve ever heard the name before.
Waving goodbye and thanking him for the help, your hike toward the road fills with nothing but wry banter and playful insults from the older one until dividing separate ways.
Him to the aquatic center to prep for class, you back home.
Routine.
Not-so-gracefully peeling frigid clothing from your body, the warm water of your showerhead after sneaking through quiet halls to the bathroom is greatly welcomed, mind racing while attempting to focus on sudsing shampoo into your scalp.
But when you close your eyes, reevaluation of past events and retrieval of a specific memory breach the forefront of your mind.
Yang Jeongin.
He’s giving you something to think about.
The Saturday market beckons superior business to any other day of the week, town square amassed in bustling vendors and the clink! of cash deposited into registers alike. As usual, the Bahng family hones the most fish sales (a matter the both of you chuckle at, with Poseidon’s family as the town’s greatest fishermen, ironically).
However, most locals, like yourself, steer clear of wandering customers, often relocating towards the outskirts in search of things to do.
As for today, you spend your time entertaining grandmothers with silly stories, one hand reaching to soothe the ache in your back from arduous strawberry picking.
February’s harvest is always abundant, Demeter’s grace within the plentiful yield.
“Alright alright, all I’m saying is keep your eye out, yeah? ‘Could be Hermes’ son delivering your daily mail, you never know?”
The sly smile tugging at your lips is met with conjoined hackling from the elderly crowd, dispelling your tales as nothing more than a jest—ignorant to the truthfulness of the statement.
And yet, having begun a decent distance from the group, your steps in dropping off the strawberries falls still, a sharp, barely perceptible silhouette rushing past rendering whatever earlier thoughts forgotten.
The forest.
No, you aren’t superstitious, but the near glow of eyes from those darkened shadows remains unmistakable.
Truth be told, most were advised not to enter these forests. Never had there been an outright reason, simply that it was dangerous and uncharted.
If uncharted, how could it be dangerous?
…Right?
Internally shrugging off your logically hesitant thoughts, you maneuver between haggard branches and hawthorn brambles, watching the surroundings forestry darken the further you venture, limiting visibility.
So green, so alive. As if a new world had opened the moment you stepped inside.
Or, in other words, a new domain.
Someone’s new domain.
The feeling is almost serene, hidden from the outside, lost amongst endless expanses of oak and fern in every direction.
No sign of the eyes.
Hm.
As a precaution, however, you leave an evident mess nearest to the entrance, not planning to go too far in order to make it back before nightfall.
Just.. curiosity, right? You’ll be out and back in no time.
The crackle beneath your shoes of twigs indicate an obvious inexperience towards exploration, each sound contributing to the lift of your head, quickened surveillance trying to take in each and every aspect.
Birds above, the skittering of animals in trees.
Most notably, no sight nor sound of another human, as if disproving your prior observation.
Just where were those eyes?
“..Hello?”
If there was, in fact, anything dangerous in this forest, you’ve certainly made yourself noticeable with the volume of your voice.
No response.
A part of you mentally berates the child-like wonder spurring you on, the yearning to discover any spectacle in close radius.
However, of the many things you’d like to quell, getting lost in your thoughts seems insistently stubborn.
It’s a sharp hiss, source easily detectable, that shakes you from the daydream-like headspace, watching the snake begin to lunge as if in slow motion.
A pit-viper.
This is what makes the forest dangerous.
A sharp gasp on your part, but yet to be faster.
Is this how it ends?
How pathetic.
What brings the air back into your lungs, nonetheless, isn’t the stinging sensation of a venomous bite, but the whizz of an arrow flying right past your cheek, landing in the dead-center of the reptile’s head and gluing it to the leafy underbrush below.
Attention immediately flickering over your shoulder does the oxygen escape your being for a second time, this occasion more awe-filled than terror-stricken.
Those eyes.
Like emeralds where they peer down at you, partially covered by a messy head of hair, tipped in silent inquisition. The savior of yours pays no mind in introduction, adjusting his quiver and bow into its coordinated position where he crouches on a branch, like that of a leopard surveying its next meal.
And although you don’t know how, his name comes to you in minutes, legs like jelly upon finally moving, placing distance between yourself and the now-deceased snake.
“Jeongin? Yang Jeongin?”
His head proceeds to wordlessly tilt, almost uncanny in the owl-like resemblance before he becomes a mere flash of motion again, appearing behind you and earning a choked inhale in return.
Perhaps mute?
Or maybe not a people person, who knows.
This forest doesn’t seem to have many visitors, anyway.
Yet, he pays you no mind, alternatively focused on retrieving the utilized arrow embedded in the snake’s skull before rising to his full height.
Tall, fits the description well enough.
Yeah. This guy isn’t human.
“Could.. Could I touch you?”
He speaks!
Though, the request was a bit strange despite the man honing a quieted, surprisingly kind voice.
Then it hits you. The familiarity with the name Artemis back during Chris’ introduction.
She’s of the many chastity goddesses, not to mention a hunting and a maiden goddess—meaning she never had children nor married, which explains the complication when Chris was explaining him a few days ago.
Seems you were too enthralled with the news of her son, not necessarily the origins.
Also explaining his hesitation when regarding you, as if you were a being he couldn’t dare lay eyes upon.
It made you want to laugh, honestly, imagining his stubborn goddess of a mother scolding the boy before you.
“Sure,” Comes your reply, observing as Jeongin investigates your arms, apparently searching for bites. He wears this blank expression, but you can see the curiosity hidden within dark, albeit gleaming eyes.
“You’re not smart.”
Oh, thanks.
“Huh?” Craning forward to ensure you heard him right, you’re once again met with a thoughtless face—one that doesn’t seem to understand what those words entail by the lack of guilt visible there.
Yet, it doesn’t seem he means poor. Nor that he understands the complexity of his words.
“The forest.” He waves his hand around, bringing awareness to the rustling in shrub patches and the sound of wings fanning in the distance. “Is not safe for you.”
You only nod, finding the manner in which he speaks to you sweet.
Not meaning to sound offensive, no, simply observant, informative.
His statements are blunt and quick, lacking emotionality but containing inklings of concern regardless.
This one hasn’t met many mortals, apparently.
“Why?” Pushing further into the topic, you bite back your cough of surprise, blinking rapidly when he links his finger with yours, thumb smoothing over the top of your hand like a caress of consolation.
“Soft,” Jeongin murmurs, oblivious to his actions as you come to understand what he’s talking about, pointing to his own hand opposing yours.
“Rough.”
Ah.
You get it now.
His way of saying you aren’t fit for the forest, considering your hands being soft compared to his own rough ones, an almost immature way of explanation that you find yourself charmed by.
Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to heed to it.
His warning, that is.
“But what if I don’t want to go?”
A quick blink, gaze fluttering down, then up, then back down.
Thinking face.
And he pouts. Pouts.
Maybe it’s because of his status, his divinity, how incredulously handsome he is.
Or maybe it’s just that you’re already smitten.
“Then.” He lets go of your hand, pinkies intertwined for a moment longer than necessary. “Stay close.”
Immediately after, Jeongin starts off, obviously anticipating you to follow him by the manner in which he glances behind him.
Somehow, he managed to miraculously end up in a tree, deemed supernatural with the ease in which the action was performed— a perfectly almond-shaped stare investigating your unmoving frame below.
“Afraid?”
More like surprised.
“No, you’re just.. different from anyone I’ve ever met before. This is different from anything I’ve ever done before.”
Sparing a few seconds to process your sentence, he wets his lips, maintaining a comfortably balanced squat.
“Who are the people you’ve met before?”
Just when he asks the question does the town lights in the distance flicker off, and you’re reminded of the minimal time you have to stay here.
“I..”
The words die on your tongue.
You don’t want to go. There’s so much you want to know, so many questions to ask.
“I’ll tell you all about it another time, but I have to go home now,” Reluctantly began, an index is pointed toward the direction you had come from. Or, more accurately, where you thought you came from.
Instead, your once lit path is shrouded in darkness, unable to see exactly where you’re headed, where you even entered initially.
“Home?” Again he tips his head, failing to help the responsible side of your mind force you home.
Cute.
Gosh, Chris wasn’t kidding.
“Yes, home. Outside of here, outside of the forest. Could you,” You internally debate, chewing your bottom lip in contemplation. “Could you take me there?”
Way to put the guy to work.
Save my life, now take me home, please.
Luckily, your brewing guilt is staunched as hastily as it rises with his mere nod. Perhaps you could add that to the assortment of reasons why you like him, honesty making for easy decisions, conversation.
Extending a hand for you to take, you dutifully keep pace wherever he leads, rather impressed at his awareness, watching his attention swivel left and right, assessing the sounds, sights.
He certainly belongs to the forest.
Occasionally he’ll stop, holding his arm out in front of you and fetching the wooden bow, firing it into the distance only for a chortled hiss to respond.
How does he see these things?
“How do you live here?” Thinking aloud, Jeongin hums in response, shaking his head.
“Not here. I live in the center, it’s much safer there.”
No, it must be the other way around. The forest belongs to him.
And with that, you continue onward till the fading glow of streetlights peeks through leaves and trees, a sign you’re close to home.
“Were you-“ More hesitation, inked in the hitch of your words, the glance over his shoulder. “Were you watching me?”
A foot before he reaches the edge does Jeongin stop, granting you another peek returned with a sheepish smile.
“I heard voices,” Comes his monotonous reply, hand reaching to gently smooth a bit of your hair between two fingers. “And I like this.”
Your hair, he ambiguously compliments.
I like your hair.
A part of you could have laughed at the hilarity, but instead, you merely grin like an idiot.
A happy idiot.
Your heart nearly stops when he tries returning the action, lips pulled awkwardly high, teeth bared like a feisty cat.
He’s trying to match your smile.
Jeongin is stupid cute.
Guess you can’t be mad at Chris anymore.
“Bye bye!” Shouted a ways away, one hand lifts to wave to a confused Jeongin who, once again, attempts to mimic you, something you’re placing in your hall of fame of favorite moments.
“Good.. bye.”
His own hand lifting in a makeshift wave remains the single memory left in your mind that night, cursing Hypnos for failing to drag you asleep, instead accursed to roll left to right sleeplessly until dawn allows some shut-eye in its early hours.
And when you close your eyes, the gleaming of emeralds dancing beneath your eyelids betrays all that lies in your mind.
“Jeongin! Jeongin!” Shouted from the edge of the forest, minutes pass squinting at dense foliage before a curious pair of eyes becomes noticeable within the greenery.
From familiarity comes something habitual, like with Han, now with Jeongin.
Daily visits, hoping to satiate your interest that never wanes.
That is, under the excuse you’ve gotten into hunting as an explanation to Han, Chris, and your father. Yet, the knowing glances from Chris says he already has an idea of the truth behind your story.
It’s not that you necessarily want to hide your association with Jeongin, but the minuscule thrill gained each step through dark underbrush feels as if some deep secret hides behind the trees, your secret, together.
Plus, the last thing you need on your head is a new target for Jisung’s jeering.
“I brought snacks, want to try some?”
Lifting the hand holding a plastic bag of goods, you shuffle closer towards the man, granted an ultimately confused stare at said bag.
Silent, but expressive enough you don’t require a word to understand his response prior to stepping into his territory.
Immediately, as if he were some treat-adoring puppy, he’s practically breathing down your neck to see inside the bag, chin resting upon your shoulder as you lift the contents, brows furrowed quizzically.
“Banana milk, Gimbap for us to share, and– Honey Butter chips,” You hum, lips curving into a breathless smile watching his fascinated expression simply heighten with each discovery.
“I… was thinking of Soju, but knowing your mother, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Soju?” He echoes, earning your nod as you glance back at where he props his head upon your shoulder.
“Hm,” A nod, reaching up to pat his cheek with a small huff of laughter.
Like a child, this one.
“Alcohol.”
His small hum of acknowledgment resounds, and you can’t help but choke on a giggle where he presses his nose into your shoulder, seemingly intent on smelling the fabric.
“Ocean,” Jeongin observes, swift to nod where he wordlessly slips from his place beside you, coaxed into your usual position whenever led to the center of the forest.
A few weeks back you mentioned your other “godly” friends, namely Chris. That, and the weekly visits to meet Jisung by those same shores, a matter he acknowledges with the dip of his head, taking position in front of you.
Usual position being his hand in yours, always going ahead to scout. …And those repeated glances that leave your heart stuttering in your chest.
Doting, in his silent way of doing things. Those times he’d save the last piece of bread you’d bring from the market solely for you, or listen intently when you’d speak, eyes never straying from yours.
The tiny crack of a smile tugging at his lips when you’ll tell him about some funny run-in with a grandmother, or the nearly innate sense of knowing he holds, able to detect your fatigue in ample time and beckon you to a carefully arranged bed of furs you find yourself napping in too many times to count.
No less, he was right that first time you met. The center of the forest is peaceful. A home hidden from the rest of the world.
Compliant streams sifting past aged pebbles, old stone pathways you can’t help but wonder the age of, and the grasses under your feet, soft like a blanket when the both of you flop down after venturing for hours.
Rainy days, when everything is dark and mysterious. And mornings, heat subdued beneath leafy branches.
Wolf and bear-skin, he’s informed the furs as, along with a fox-pelt, fasten over his arrow quiver to salvage throughout winter.
Skillful, in all manner of things. Utilizing his hunts as food, jewelry, or fertilizer for an ecosystem more abundant than ever imaginable, all seeming to flock around Jeongin like a forest prince.
A good title: Forest Prince.
Like now, where you sprawl on the forest floor, plastic bag ransacked of its contents that Jeongin investigates thoroughly, each item brought to his nose to smell.
Apparently either ignorant or immune to the twitter of a bird having taken perch on his shoulder.
“I’d say.. these things are kind of like Onigiri, but you’ve never had Onigiri, right? Ah, then it’s like.. seaweed, with rice and meat filling. This one has..”
Continuing on and on, consciously, you’d like to apologize for your neverending chatter, though at the moment, his acknowledging nods and patient gaze fixed your way with each bite you hold to his lips keeps you ignorant, savoring.
Because the thought strikes you how separated he’s been from the world despite residing mere miles from a mortal like yourself, and you don’t want to take advantage of it, take these interactions and teachings with that of the world outside of the forest for granted.
Not to mention the world inside the forest you learn more of each waking moment, almost well-versed enough to lead to the center of the forest yourself.
Of course, the sweet narrow of his eyes usually keeps the cocky offer at bay most days.
Most days.
After receiving his scolding glare upon getting ahead of yourself, the small furrow of his brows where he patches up your scraped knee, the cuts along your forearms from sharp shrubbery patches.
Learning, growing. You teach him, he teaches you.
An exchange the both of you have grown rather accustomed to, something looked forward to. Day after day, hour after hour. Like children, frolicking in the wooded expanse with an fervor unable to be quenched.
“Catch me!” You’d call from afar, watching his face alight, ignorant to the matter you were, in fact, his first friend (aside from plenty of forest acquaintances, such as the visiting robins).
And that, that smile curving at his lips became one only you could provoke. Saved just for you.
Clouds scatter the atmosphere, dousing Sokcho in an endless gradient of grays and blue, hinting at an incoming storm from the low rumble here and there.
However, your attention has long since been occupied. Located within the forest as if a second home, a focused gaze settles upon the scavenging rabbit scampering along fern-filled underbrush, each careful, apprehensive flicker of its tall ears keeping your breath bated.
“Elbow back.”
Concentration on the rabbit, and simultaneous acknowledgement to the man standing just behind you, pressed to your frame.
Easily would you have lost focus if not for the grounding hand grasping yours, helping steady your hold on the bow’s grip and ensuring a precisely crafted arrow balances upon the nocking point, aimed directly at the fluffy creature.
Today, Jeongin is teaching you how to wield his bow.
He’s also dangerously close to you, strands of inky hair tickling your cheek when he leans to murmur pointers in your ear, shifting so the toned bit of his chest presses to your back.
A skillful foot adjusts your own foot’s position, offering a small click of his tongue in assurance towards the clench of your teeth, straining to hold such a massive bow in waiting.
“Now.”
The words are a facet of relief, drawn elbow allowed rest, opposing eye closed for better focus opening to catch sight of your kill.
After weeks of practicing, it seems the rain brought in a meager portion of luck.
Thank you, Artemis, comes your internal thanks, scampering down after Jeongin towards the puncturing arrow, peering over his shoulder as he utters the ordinated eucharistia and gathers the animal to bring back.
And yet, halfway there, he pauses, peering over his shoulder back at you.
You’d like to think a ghost of a smile resided in his eyes, and the slight crinkle in the corners seems to further prove the assumption.
“You did well.”
Ah.
Like those moments by the fire, the quiet times he’ll be there when you awaken from your nap only to find him right there, staring down upon your form with what you’d scorn to call affection.
Getting your hand caught in the brambles, when his gentle thumb wipes away beading tears, smoothing to cup your cheek, shushing the slight sniffles too gently for your heart to bear.
And now, those prolonged irises, fixated upon you as if uttering a prayer.
Hm.
You want to kiss him.
Momentary, as risky as his earlier closeness back when hunting do you peek down, surveying the near perfect skin of his lips.
A russet brown upper lip seated atop the lighter pink of a dashing bottom lip, glossy from his tongue having rushed across seconds prior.
Quietly, you scold your struggle to swallow.
All the same, it appears you underestimated his aptitude for observation, falling into the learned pattern of rinse and repeat, ignore and move on, while trekking back to the forest’s center.
That, and the same manner his gaze flits to your lips too.
The first time you find yourself imprinting on him is during a regular conversation of yours, sharing strawberries, sparing words here and there between mouthfuls.
Expectantly, a joke comes spouting from your lips, one you watch with pride that earns the upward quirk of his lips in silent amusement, lightly smacking a hand across his leg as if laughing.
Well, what you do when you laugh, and it takes you a moment before you begin giggling(this time audible) yourself, unable to keep the bubbling sound from pouring out.
He’s adorable, in almost every way. Exhibiting your habits, mimicking your expressions like a curious babe.
The expectant manner he studies your expression, as if debating on whether or not that was the right reaction, or the way the slight plush of his cheeks causes his eyes to disappear while still learning to smile, searching your own smile as a blueprint.
He teaches you, you teach him.
Nevertheless, the hunting incident was never spoken of nor added to conversation. His eyes on your lips, yours on his, left forgotten.
A matter you were thankful for, no matter the temporary fix.
Something left unspoken, for as long as the silence would last.
.
.
.
Then again, veracity would poke itself from ignorance in due time, so you savored the quiet even more, kept your eyes clearly glued to his face and his face only.
Not his lips.
Certainly not.
Taken up activities to pull your mind from the temptation, the urge. Hunted more, learned simple skills in healing, tactics in fighting. Day after day, growing stronger, more well-versed with your surroundings, abilities.
Some days called for peaceful tasks, like finding the correct berries or leaves for herbal salves, detecting those of foul intent and the best way to dispose of them.
Others sweat-inducing, leaving you to heave for your breath and clamber back to your feet.
If Chris could teach and Hermes could bow to your fighting prowess, Jeongin could battle. Effortless in the manner his footsteps pound on grassy terrain, wielding a dagger as if a maestro—leading an orchestra to a haunting finale down to the depths of the Underworld.
And for once, you hate ever being cocky, inviting him to “try his hardest” despite remaining blindsided to the utter depths of Tartarus you feel your head being dipped into with each practiced swipe of his hand, sharpened dagger narrowly avoided for an eight time.
Trembling legs force yourself stable, the quiver of your thighs betraying the cruel, human need for rest, recuperation.
But no, determination beckons another outcome, lights a fire in your veins. Knowing of the sensible outcome being his victory, unwilling to back down.
Perhaps it was that fire, that anger and frustration when you glared at him from across the clearing that kindled his own bonfire, one crackling, with blue flames licking a smoky sky where a usually monotone expression seems to glow.
The potential of a god.
“Cut me,” He’d said an hour or so ago, towards the beginning of your sparring. Logically, you laughed off the offer regardless of his seriousness—for gods were immune to the inflicted agonies.
Right about now though, the offer is tempting. That, and the irritation with both yourself and him continues to take life, rooting itself into your chest like the enormous cypress in the forest’s center.
In a flash of will-power, your legs are rushing forward, each thump of your heartbeat divisible within your eardrums, battering against your ribcage as the Minotaur to his Knossos labyrinth.
The weapon of choice in hand, your own dagger, comes rushing outwards, knuckles a ghastly white with the tightness of your grip.
I move left, he’ll swerve below then back. Or right? Or—
The pivot of his left heel, and you know this movement, body reacting without thinking to counteract.
Slice!
“What..” Both heaving for air that seems too slow in entering your lungs, feeble words manage from your lips.
“What color does a god bleed, Jeongin?”
And looking up, you aren’t met with an Olympian’s wrath nor cry for vengeance, but a grin, toothy and amused. His grin of satisfaction, and you feel your breath catch in your throat, chest aching from the cough elicited in return.
Red. Red rivulets spill from the thin slice across his cheekbone, curving down the sculpted expanse of his neck and disappearing to stain his clothing.
His true smile, proud and satiated.
“Same color as you, we just don’t run out.”
Snide remark met with a short snort of yours, you find the camera of your mind shuttering, capturing this moment as one of a kind, a new side to the man you thought you knew all angles of.
Though it seems he is more than three-dimensional. Today proves that.
His thumb reaches to swipe at the stinging infliction, quieting your apology with a sidelong glance and noiselessly kneeling down in front of you, back facing the confused tip of your head.
“Get on.” Jeongin grunts, and you would have laughed if not for the worsening ache in your legs, the way your body feels of lead after much exertion, prompting no trace of protest where you flop atop his spine.
Silence, a common occurrence when with Jeongin. Never uncomfortable, especially not as you press your nose into his shoulder, inhaling that signature, earthy scent of petrichor, savor the warmth his body always seems to emit, the gentleness of his hands in supporting your thighs around his waist.
Not to mention the intermittent squeeze of his grasp upon your skin, as if to assure you of your approaching distance back “home”, or, what you now call your second home.
Like a sleeping spell enacted by the sweetest of voices, you’re asleep instantly, your last glimpse of life coming in the form of soft furs enveloping your body; kind, calloused hands cradling your cheeks for a moment longer before allowing solitude.
By the time your lashes dust remnants of slumber from view, the majority of your ailments: cut knees, arms, have been tended to, the nap providing ample recovery time.
And in front of you, a pile of plucked day-flowers and Jeongin’s hunched form, braiding the stems.
“Mmh..” The sleepy hum pulls his brow-knitted-concentration awry, and you’d like to cry watching the sharp narrow of his eyes soften simultaneously, arm extending to run a delicate palm over your forehead, brushing stray bits of hair from your eyes.
“I’m making bracelets,” An invitation in the lilt to his tone, the division of his pile towards you.
“Would you like to make some as well?”
Ah. He’s too much and never enough all at the same time.
Taking to braiding the twines as well speaks on your behalf, the afternoon’s quietness interrupted by a shrilling warbler and the wisp of wind rustling branches, swirling leaves into miniature tornadoes.
“Hm…” A bit of your humming breaks up the stillness, careful to avoid delicate petals amid the process. “My friends and I used to make these for our crushes, or just between friends, yeah?”
Across from you, Jeongin sits, his legs crossed, lips puffed in thought whilst slender fingers intertwine the three bits of vine together.
“..Crushes?”
The paling of his features upon peeking up at you indicate he certainly had no clue about the figurative meaning of “crushes”, and you have to pretend to cough to keep from snorting with giggles.
Day-flower bracelets and talk of crushes after nearly battling to the death, apparently.
“Like, um, people you like. Lots of people call them their crush,” Patient, no less, where the boy nods, his clumsy fingers growing acclimated to weaving the flowers along string, the delight evident in his expression after completing a bracelet a sight worth remembering.
What you hadn’t anticipated was being handed the bracelet once he finished it, speaking so matter-a-fact despite the words leaving parted lips.
“For my crush.”
Now it’s your turn to pale, white as a sheet.
Huh?
Then it hits you, slow to ease the finished bracelet over your wrist.
“Ah, I meant “like” as in, uh,” A pause, wracking your mind for a decent definition. “Are interested in, romantically.”
That usually indifferent gaze of his transforms into eyes wide as saucers, the nervous tightness of lips and redness of his ears making you want to squeal.
Cute.
It’s scary how often you think that about him, every little thing swoon-worthy.
“I apologize.”
No, no.
“No! I didn’t- you didn’t understand, Jeongin. ‘S okay, seriously.” Exhaling wearily, one hand lifts, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze of reassurance. “Thank you. I love the bracelet.”
“Good.” A small sigh you’d assume of relief slips from his lips, chortling to himself before returning an identical squeeze of your hand, falling into a shared cloak of silence.
Not awkward, however. Just quiet. Giving you time to lift your intertwined fingers and marvel at the fact you feel you’ve known him forever, not mere months.
The plentiful veins stretched across the pale back of his hand, so alternative to the sunlight seeming to blaze past the canopy’s leaves, able to sear your skin tan in a matter of days.
From a passerby’s point of view, perhaps he would appear normal, if only slightly.
You know better.
Unconsciously, your thumb smooths over the bumpy veins, behaving as if able to feel the rush of immortal blood through blue, green, and purple channels connecting to a perpetually beating heart.
“Same color as you, we just don’t run out.”
So why wait, when he’ll have eternity and you’ll have a lifetime?
“I think you’re becoming my crush.”
And other times, the truth would be announced before it could announce itself.
“I’m sorry if that’s confusing.”
His failure to flinch away calms your nerves, for now. Weakened courage, nonetheless, keeps your eyes averted.
“Similar to your hair,” A pause, your gaze flickering up to his as if to translate the expression prior to his reiteration, prior to the agreeing nod and two fingers fidgeting with a tress of your hair, just like the first time you met him in these woods.
“Similar to your hair, I like that too.”
And he goes back to bracelet-making, as if speaking about the weather and not returning feelings you once believed were one-sided.
So this is love.
Is it the truth that every tale of love leads to tragedy?
Orpheus’ madness leading to abandonment of his beloved Eurydice back into the Underworld, his true love never to be seen again but instead remembered in his laments, his lyre?
Or is it just a coincidence that the center of the forest is empty this time? That his quiver of arrows has gone amiss?
Hunting, maybe.
Then again, he’s always been first to detect you—the sweep of a bird or a rush of air indicating his impending arrival.
Today, stillness of the wind sends goosebumps littering up your arms, cupping your hands over your mouth to shout his name.
And no one replies.
Not a soul.
Jeongin may have grown more sly, more confident while in your company, but no such joke like this would be played, that you knew.
Which is why, in a panic, your feet thunder towards the closest confidant of yours other than the Forest Prince and a soon-to-be Messenger god, storming past nagging thorn patches pricking your wrists and off towards the tides.
“Chris!”
A sharp shout, the unevenness of your tone apparently evident, for Chris looks rather disgruntled, concerned where he pokes his head from the waters at the end of the dock.
An overreaction, possibly. However, an absence after nearly seven months of routine attendance can’t help but twist your gut the wrong way.
“Yes? Hello? What’s wrong, sweetheart? You hurt? Innie hurt?”
‘Innie’, his nickname for Jeongin that, in your normal state would have gathered a laugh.
This time excluded.
Quick hands fumble to gesture your discontentment, scrambling to unearth comprehensible sentences.
”I don’t- I don’t know where he is and- what if he’s hurt? Or maybe he’s in trouble with Artemis? Could I have gotten him in trouble? What if I never see him agai—“
“Y/N.”
Salvation in his grounding hands, human legs having sprouted without your acknowledgement to join you on the dock. Meanwhile, your frenzied disposition establishes ignorance to the water droplets clinging to his fingertips, mending the thorny cuts while trying to level the pound of your chest.
“Breathe with me, okay?”
Focusing your eyes on his lips isn’t something you haven’t done before, but this time it’s different. He’s steadying, a low tide receding the worries from your brain as you follow his breaths.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Another.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“First off, the most likely cause behind his disappearance would be his mother, we both know that, hm? If that’s the case, I have no doubt in a day or two he’ll be back. You know how I have my duties with m’ dad, yeah?”
Though, he’s faster than you in catching the telltale signs of your recurring worries, clicking his tongue as if scolding a student of his in his swim-class.
“And when Jisung stops by tomorrow, I’ll ask him to bother his dad about it, okay? Leave it to Hermes to hear every conversation in Olympus.”
His face lights up seeing your meager smile, index brushing your lashes of their bubbling tears.
“There’s that pretty smile.” A soft coo, and you playfully swat at his hands, the second-long eye-contact a wordless “thank you” he assures back with a wink, pulling you into a tight hug before separating.
“And don’t go worrying, alright? He’ll be back for the forest, sure, but he wouldn’t leave your side too, and I think we both know that.”
An affectionate pat to your cheek and he vanishes like an apparition, the splash of water a ways away his only source of detection and your last chance to scold his insinuations.
But, for all you know, he could be right.
Jeongin wouldn’t leave your side, and a part of you knew that from the start.
Nonetheless, while Chris badgered Jisung into asking his dad about Jeongin, you spent your days—four, exactly, since Jeongin had disappeared—scouring the forest.
No trace, and Chris was still waiting for updates come Jisung’s next return.
Pick some berries, hunt a bit, your mind hounded, futilely attempting to quell the emptiness, the lack of excitement without him by your side.
A dependence you used to dread ever having when it came to someone, now like second instinct, something craved when deprived of.
A week later, you’re first to the beach, the flutter of winged sandals barely drifting to a stop before you’re pouncing and leaving the poor boy choking on his words, letters of his satchel scattering about.
“Any-“ A choke on your own breath, eyes wide, grasping onto a waning hope like a person crazed. “Any news?”
“Yeah, lovebird, if you gave me time to land.”
Jisung is not amused, though he does give a tiny smirk intelligently kept silent, cautiously evading your wrath.
“The boyfriend of yours should be back by tomorrow. His mom’s—“
A clear of his throat, nervously glancing at the sky as if awaiting Zeus’ lightning bolt to strike him.
“Miss Artemis wants him to learn his hunting in Olympus, the kid said how he likes the forest better, blah blah, real cute. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Feigning sarcasm, you take your turn in surprising him for a second time with a hug, one Jisung begrudgingly mirrors after a grumbled insult.
“You uh.. You gonna invite me to the wedding or what?”
A smack against his shoulder brings back much-needed familiarity.
That, and the fleeting hope the face you’ve fallen for will come into view by tomorrow, that this nightmare you’ll awaken from.
.
.
.
The most anticipation you’ve ever felt for the next day usually came in the form of Christmas morning, once awaiting the presents, now awaiting a different sort of Holiday.
Him.
Hurried footsteps linger by the forest edge, hoping beryl irises may glimpse past the bushes, crinkle into a smile, his smile for you.
Foolish, it must seem. Treating his arrival like a set time, expecting his presence at the very crack of dawn.
But you’ll wait. Wait and wait.
What’s a day to the five you waited through?
Although, pacing and searching becomes a bit dull after four hours, and as the evening sun begins to fall, you feel a sense of dread like never before.
Hermes hears gossip, yes, but does that mean it’s always correct?
Damn it all.
“Jeongin!”
An angry shout to no one, nothing. A shout to the warblers once peeking down at the two of you, now soaring off in alarm.
“You jerk!”
A long time, truthfully.
.
“A what?”
Whipping around so fast you fear injury, you fear you might be hallucinating catch onto where he stands a few feet away, doused in the shadows of the looming cypress signature to the forest.
Real, breathing.
And.. who you just called a jerk.
Well, announced as a jerk to the whole forest.
So many questions, thoughts.
Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? Is there a forewarning when it comes to seeing your godly parents?
Most of all though, slipping through the fissures of confusion and awe, happiness lies.
Bright and brilliant and ah, you want to scream.
Who knew love was so exasperating, painful just seeing his face.
Relief, in its utmost form.
Running to him, it’d be downright embarrassing if not for the smile on your face, making your cheeks ache with its ceaselessness where your arms wrap around his in a tight hug.
“I’m sorry, I love you,” Is all that’s mumbled upon pulling back, and perhaps you ran upon the same wavelength in those few seconds, with his head tipping in perfect alignment with yours to welcome a slow, savoring kiss you want to spend forever in.
And, unfortunately separating, it appears your sensibility also returned, clearing your throat and synonymously scorning the heat of your cheeks, avoiding his fond gaze observing your face—painting it in his mind.
Tender thumbs smooth over your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours and dragging your attention back once more from previous fluster.
“I wouldn’t leave you, you know that. I wish I could’ve left a note but,” A chaste halt, chewing at his bottom lip. “I’m still memorizing the letters you taught me.”
Pausing again, he gathers his words.
“And I don’t know why you apologized,” He chuckled to himself, pressing too-short of a kiss to your lips and gathering you close by the loop of your day-flower bracelet, matching the one on his own wrist.
“Because I love you too, and this,” A tug at the bracelet, firm vines keeping from flimsiness. “This keeps us together.”
Another peck, and you fight the urge to giggle at his silliness, noses bumping.
“So whenever you feel alone,” A single tug at your wrist, at the dayflowers. “Just know I’m right beside you. Always.”
“He’ll be back for the forest, sure, but he wouldn’t leave your side too, and I think we both know that.”
In the end, Chris was right.
He wouldn’t leave your side, and that was a promise.
Summer, and blackberries laid out on a picnic blanket consist of your afternoon snack. That, and your curiosity over his obedience to Artemis’ chastity guidelines regarding your relationship—interested in whether he wished to follow in his mother’s footsteps.
“I will honor her oaths, but I am not obligated to follow them, hm?”
A sly lilt to his reply, perhaps in his words, maybe in the momentary shift of his attention from the bitten blackberry to you.
“And right now,”
The confidence in his words, the emotion, so opposed to the blank, indifferent precursor of his speech, courtesy of your influence.
Even more so when he leans forward, the soft exhale of satisfaction through his nose something you’d swoon having heard if not for his lips on yours, failing to finish his sentence for a moment.
Soft, unhurried where he drifts down, top teeth gently nibbling at the skin before ushering the plump of your bottom lip in his own lips.
“I want to kiss you. And I don’t think any force of Olympus could keep me from it.”
A summer afternoon, and Jeongin tastes like blackberries.
🦌 : Greek god! Yang Jeongin x implied! fem. reader
TROPE. Greek mythology! au, Son (unofficial since Artemis swore to celibacy) of Artemis! au, mortal! reader au, slightly sheltered Jeongin (he’s so respectful i wanna cry), fluff fluff fluff, best friends to lovers, slight angst, so soft
WORD COUNT. 8.7k words ☆ 40min read
WARNINGS. usage of arrows, dubcon kiss, mention/heavily focused on greek gods/goddesses, mention of animal bones, inclusion of a venomous snake, playful fighting
AUG'S NOTES. this wait has been going on for too long! so glad to finally present this fic, it holds a whole lot of my heart in it :) pleas enjoy!!
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. Since you were a child, both tales and encounters with the children of the gods became a prevalent pattern in life. Friendship with Hermes’ son, those early morning by the water allowing interaction with Poseidon’s child. And yet, your intrigue upon hearing word of the unofficial offspring of Artemis, sired under her teachings and oaths in a forest most avoided drew you infinitely closer. So what happens when curiosity gets the best of you?
or alternatively :
How quickly one can turn from a stranger to a beloved.
“I— I forfeit!”
Shouts Han, smacking the skin of your thigh repeatedly for you to loosen your death-like grip around his head.
Either of you furiously tussle on the muddy ground of Sokcho’s eastern coastline as if routine, where utter delight in each of the messenger-to-be’s visits end in a few new bruises and a judgemental eyeball from your father when you trudge through the door.
With him being the son of Hermes, your daily visits from Han Jisung had been shortened to weekly once he became more and more occupied taking up his role as the messenger god’s offspring, so you truly give it your all each time his face comes into view.
Which usually means bowling the boy over the moment his winged-shoes touch ground.
Of course, all in good fun. You’ve known the kid since you were a child, listening with wonder as he explained all about his life in Olympus, his father, Hermes, his abilities.
Upon first glance he appears a normal, awkward teenager, but gold coloration swimming within his irises and superhuman reflexes, stamina, and speed, you knew better than to believe that.
Luckily, he gives you a fair fight whenever you spar, ensuring no foul play leads to unfair victories.
Meaning: you win, every time.
Breathing in a huge gasp, the both of you collapse onto sodden soil, chests heaving to replace expelled air. Of course, getting kicked in the stomach and returning the favor with a solid punch to his jaw didn’t help with that factor.
“Three… Three weeks,” You pant, the equally grimy back of your hand swiping strands of hair from a sweaty forehead.
Han mindlessly grunts from below you, body refusing to move even a mere centimeter.
“Yeah yeah, I get it. I’m nothing against you, rub it in.”
You croak a laugh at the sheer exasperation in his tone, accustomed to your feigned gloating antics.
“No– That’s not it Sungie, I just wanted to say.” Using your arms to hold you up while surveying the similarly battered man whose head rests on your stomach, you tip his chin upwards with a finger, forcing those irrevocably hypnotizing eyes to meet yours.
Never sunken, tired.
Han Jisung was a marvel.
And for a moment, he begins to think you’ve grown soft after these years.
“I still won.”
Nevermind.
Whining with dismay, he takes the hand you extend out to him upon standing, earning a playful smack to the shoulder whilst collecting the shoes so carelessly discarded up by the dunes.
Feet sinking into the warm sand below, you’re offered a moment to spare a glance back to the lapsing waters, tumbling over themselves with morning’s ferocious tides.
This is the only time you usually get to see him, and as if a mere memory, he’ll disappear all the same.
Townspeople were never fond of children of the gods. They spoke of mischief, ill-doing in response to their appearances.
A long-lived grudge, one from ancestor after ancestor. And yet, most chose to live ignorant to the swirling deities all around. Those more gracious sunny days when someone mentions Helios, or the subdued waves compared to that of merciless plunder ashore by Poseidon.
As a result, Han never stayed long, leading you to arrive by this peculiarly isolated portion of the beach at dawn for his quick stops before flying off.
You didn’t mind. It was worth it in the end.
Early wake-ups, that is.
Arriving randomly and becoming a part of you habitually. Like an old cut turning into a scar, commemorating happenings of the past.
It didn’t take your father long to grow curious over what his daughter rushed off to every day. And so, about a year ago, you told him. All about Han’s sudden presence, then developing into a friend–a best friend.
Fortunately, he wasn’t upset in the slightest. Initially disbelieving, perhaps, but not angry nor discontented.
In fact, the man seemed more interested than anything, asking you abundant questions about what he looked like, his features, aptitude.
You didn’t blame him, for it wasn’t every day news of an interaction with the ancient bloodline was spoken of.
Instead, you indulged in those child-like curiosities just as avidly as he inquired, resulting in frenzied conversation at the dinner table for a multitude of hours that night.
“Jisung!”
Having called his name after the harsh knock back into reality, you fish through your pockets before he leaves in recollection of something you’d been wanting to give him.
The boy’s face deadpans, obviously awaiting another one of your tricks.
“If you flick me off, I’m never coming back.”
Fretful shuffling dulls his mumble inaudible, merely humming in acknowledgment and successfully clutching the metal between your index and thumb after panicked searching.
A pin, like that attached to tote bags, jeans.
“For you to put on your bag, so you can think of me all the time.”
The wink of yours causes him to wrinkle his nose and stick out his tongue at you, and you can’t help your smile from growing bigger and bigger the longer he investigates the apparent pin you’ve placed in his palm.
“Is this… a pigeon?”
Out of all the birds you’ve been teaching him about in your realm, he had to pick the most pitiful one.
“No! We studied this one! It’s a hawk, y’know since you’re kind of like a bird?” Flapping your arms to sell the idea, he huffs in exasperation, nonetheless fitting the pin to his satchel overflowing with envelopes.
“Alright alright.” Laughing at the pout tugging at his lips, it’s almost instinctive when you press a sugary sweet kiss to his cheek, soaked up gleefully by Hermes’ son like always.
Han Jisung is very much adoring of your affection. Frankly, any affection overall.
“Think it’s about time you get going, delivery boy.”
Flying into your arms (both figuratively and literally), he places his own kiss to your opposing cheek, grinning that irritably charming grin ceaselessly worn.
Guessing what he’ll say next comes easily, but you still entertain the remark anyway.
“Now our kisses complete each other!” He predictably exclaims, beginning to levitate as the miniature wings on his sneakers beat tirelessly. “See you soon Y/N! Stay safe!!”
Waving in response while he drifts further and further into the atmosphere, you wait until his figure is officially gone to move, stepping toward the dock. This way, you can secure the best view of the sunrise peering above clouds without any interruptions.
Ideal.
Truthfully, it never irked you being a mortal amongst your assortment of acquaintances.
You enjoyed it, actually.
Freedom without responsibility to save from evil left you plenty of time to explore, to exist. Not that you didn’t respect them, but the experience seemed too tasking for your liking.
“Back again?”
Speaking of acquaintances.
More specifically speaking of Poseidon as a pair of calloused—though gentle—hands fasten around your calves dangling off the dock’s edge, dragged into the chilly depths below before you can reply by none other than Chan, or, using his birth name, Christopher Bahng.
Son of Poseidon.
Ironic.
Not to mention are there any daughters of the gods..? Jeesh.
Anyway.
You half expected him to tap your shoulder and say hello when hearing him approach from behind as he normally did, the creaking in the dock’s wooden panels enough indication your friend was present on most occasions.
Although unlike Han Jisung, Chris was sporadic in his visits. An old friend from school, he chose to keep his identity a secret, allowing the eccentric father of his to care for the seas while he led a human life teaching kids how to swim at your town’s aquatic center.
Upon finding you speaking to Han in his natural form, a year or so ago, the man eventually found ease in your company as well, comfortable revealing himself and oftentimes showing up to simply converse without turtle necks or high-collared swimsuits concealing the set of gills right below his ears.
In actuality, a part of you was happy he had to hide his gills—meaning that swoon-worthy mop of curly blond hair could grow out, curling behind his ears and furling into wild strands atop his head.
It didn’t take a genius to note how attractive Christopher Bahng was, and you certainly weren’t immune to the effect.
Careful grasp of your hips reminding you you’re safe, mere moments prevail before breaching the water’s surface, complaining about the cold while the bear of a man practically suffocates you in his arms, twisting side to side in a tight hug despite your ingenuine anger swallowed beneath laughter.
“Seriously, you can’t just do that! I might die of shock one day.”
“Well you’re definitely not that weak from how beat up poor Han looked,” He giggles, gliding with ease through chilled waters no matter your weight, courtesy of his bloodline (and whatever hell of a workout regime he followed).
About to retaliate, you pause, contemplating.
“Hey! You should’ve told me you were watching,” Stubbornly insistent, you allow the gentleman to lift you back onto the dock, his own gill-retaining form remaining in the water beneath your faux glare.
Something he grows sheepish in regards to before pointing to a blanket behind you.
So your near-drowning experience was pre-planned.
Jerk.
Although you don’t deny the goosebumps littering your arms and legs, hurriedly wrapping the warm fabric around yourself.
“Nah,” He smiles, fingers carding through unbearably endearing locks. “I wanted to see how it played out. You’ve improved a lot.”
Reaching his hand upward where you can return the fist-bump, you nod at the compliment, referring to the fact Chris taught you how to fight in the first place after your many losses against Han’s sneak attacks, something the latter still moped over to this day.
“Thanks to you,” You add, not missing the dimples dipping into his skin when he grins.
So. Very. Attractive.
Both turning to witness the fullness of today’s dawn, you can’t help but soak in the sight, carving each detail into your memory.
How lucky you are to get to see something this striking, the sky painted in innumerable streaks of warm hues.
“Say,” Redirecting his attention back to you, you balance your jaw on your hand, the pretty view provoking a bit of thinking.
“Are there any other god’s here? Or like, children of the gods?”
Assessing your question, Chris’s eyes surf his surroundings thoughtfully, wracking his mind for anyone he can think of.
“Hm,” A decisive grunt sounds where a tugs a plush bottom lip between his teeth. A sight as easy to get infatuated with as the sunrise.
“Han’s an exception since he pretty much drops by everywhere, and I’m over here because of the ocean and the location but uh… there might be? From what I’ve heard there’s likely at least one other here. You might have better luck asking Hyunjin.”
Hyunjin being the son of Eros, god of love.
Someone you’ve never met, but both Han and Chris relayed he’s the epitome of beauty.
Coming from them, that’s a feat.
You deflate.
“In Seoul?”
Yeah, no way you’re finding a way to Seoul for that. Bus fees, subway fees, coming up with an excuse to your dad? Not happening.
Chris, realizing the unrealistic circumstance, deflates along with you, expression apologetic that you hope to condole with a reassuring smile.
Noting the rate in which your clothes are drying thanks to the warmth of the sun’s rays, you gather your things, stalling when your friend—now drying off beside you—speaks up again.
“Ah, right! There is one! I’ve only met him a few times before at meetings and gatherings, but he’s the son of Artemis– well, not by birth but that’s a long story- and his name is… Jeong? Yin? No no, it’s Yang, Yang Jeongin! Yep, that’s the guy. He’s a little shy but a real cutie.”
Cringing back from the sly manner he nudges your shoulder, the high, mischievous lift of his brows indicate nothing but trouble.
If this is the mischief the townspeople mentioned, you’re starting to understand now.
Who knew the son of Poseidon was turning into a figment of Cupid?
Then again, you don’t think you’ve ever heard the name before.
Waving goodbye and thanking him for the help, your hike toward the road fills with nothing but wry banter and playful insults from the older one until dividing separate ways.
Him to the aquatic center to prep for class, you back home.
Routine.
Not-so-gracefully peeling frigid clothing from your body, the warm water of your showerhead after sneaking through quiet halls to the bathroom is greatly welcomed, mind racing while attempting to focus on sudsing shampoo into your scalp.
But when you close your eyes, reevaluation of past events and retrieval of a specific memory breach the forefront of your mind.
Yang Jeongin.
He’s giving you something to think about.
The Saturday market beckons superior business to any other day of the week, town square amassed in bustling vendors and the clink! of cash deposited into registers alike. As usual, the Bahng family hones the most fish sales (a matter the both of you chuckle at, with Poseidon’s family as the town’s greatest fishermen, ironically).
However, most locals, like yourself, steer clear of wandering customers, often relocating towards the outskirts in search of things to do.
As for today, you spend your time entertaining grandmothers with silly stories, one hand reaching to soothe the ache in your back from arduous strawberry picking.
February’s harvest is always abundant, Demeter’s grace within the plentiful yield.
“Alright alright, all I’m saying is keep your eye out, yeah? ‘Could be Hermes’ son delivering your daily mail, you never know?”
The sly smile tugging at your lips is met with conjoined hackling from the elderly crowd, dispelling your tales as nothing more than a jest—ignorant to the truthfulness of the statement.
And yet, having begun a decent distance from the group, your steps in dropping off the strawberries falls still, a sharp, barely perceptible silhouette rushing past rendering whatever earlier thoughts forgotten.
The forest.
No, you aren’t superstitious, but the near glow of eyes from those darkened shadows remains unmistakable.
Truth be told, most were advised not to enter these forests. Never had there been an outright reason, simply that it was dangerous and uncharted.
If uncharted, how could it be dangerous?
…Right?
Internally shrugging off your logically hesitant thoughts, you maneuver between haggard branches and hawthorn brambles, watching the surroundings forestry darken the further you venture, limiting visibility.
So green, so alive. As if a new world had opened the moment you stepped inside.
Or, in other words, a new domain.
Someone’s new domain.
The feeling is almost serene, hidden from the outside, lost amongst endless expanses of oak and fern in every direction.
No sign of the eyes.
Hm.
As a precaution, however, you leave an evident mess nearest to the entrance, not planning to go too far in order to make it back before nightfall.
Just.. curiosity, right? You’ll be out and back in no time.
The crackle beneath your shoes of twigs indicate an obvious inexperience towards exploration, each sound contributing to the lift of your head, quickened surveillance trying to take in each and every aspect.
Birds above, the skittering of animals in trees.
Most notably, no sight nor sound of another human, as if disproving your prior observation.
Just where were those eyes?
“..Hello?”
If there was, in fact, anything dangerous in this forest, you’ve certainly made yourself noticeable with the volume of your voice.
No response.
A part of you mentally berates the child-like wonder spurring you on, the yearning to discover any spectacle in close radius.
However, of the many things you’d like to quell, getting lost in your thoughts seems insistently stubborn.
It’s a sharp hiss, source easily detectable, that shakes you from the daydream-like headspace, watching the snake begin to lunge as if in slow motion.
A pit-viper.
This is what makes the forest dangerous.
A sharp gasp on your part, but yet to be faster.
Is this how it ends?
How pathetic.
What brings the air back into your lungs, nonetheless, isn’t the stinging sensation of a venomous bite, but the whizz of an arrow flying right past your cheek, landing in the dead-center of the reptile’s head and gluing it to the leafy underbrush below.
Attention immediately flickering over your shoulder does the oxygen escape your being for a second time, this occasion more awe-filled than terror-stricken.
Those eyes.
Like emeralds where they peer down at you, partially covered by a messy head of hair, tipped in silent inquisition. The savior of yours pays no mind in introduction, adjusting his quiver and bow into its coordinated position where he crouches on a branch, like that of a leopard surveying its next meal.
And although you don’t know how, his name comes to you in minutes, legs like jelly upon finally moving, placing distance between yourself and the now-deceased snake.
“Jeongin? Yang Jeongin?”
His head proceeds to wordlessly tilt, almost uncanny in the owl-like resemblance before he becomes a mere flash of motion again, appearing behind you and earning a choked inhale in return.
Perhaps mute?
Or maybe not a people person, who knows.
This forest doesn’t seem to have many visitors, anyway.
Yet, he pays you no mind, alternatively focused on retrieving the utilized arrow embedded in the snake’s skull before rising to his full height.
Tall, fits the description well enough.
Yeah. This guy isn’t human.
“Could.. Could I touch you?”
He speaks!
Though, the request was a bit strange despite the man honing a quieted, surprisingly kind voice.
Then it hits you. The familiarity with the name Artemis back during Chris’ introduction.
She’s of the many chastity goddesses, not to mention a hunting and a maiden goddess—meaning she never had children nor married, which explains the complication when Chris was explaining him a few days ago.
Seems you were too enthralled with the news of her son, not necessarily the origins.
Also explaining his hesitation when regarding you, as if you were a being he couldn’t dare lay eyes upon.
It made you want to laugh, honestly, imagining his stubborn goddess of a mother scolding the boy before you.
“Sure,” Comes your reply, observing as Jeongin investigates your arms, apparently searching for bites. He wears this blank expression, but you can see the curiosity hidden within dark, albeit gleaming eyes.
“You’re not smart.”
Oh, thanks.
“Huh?” Craning forward to ensure you heard him right, you’re once again met with a thoughtless face—one that doesn’t seem to understand what those words entail by the lack of guilt visible there.
Yet, it doesn’t seem he means poor. Nor that he understands the complexity of his words.
“The forest.” He waves his hand around, bringing awareness to the rustling in shrub patches and the sound of wings fanning in the distance. “Is not safe for you.”
You only nod, finding the manner in which he speaks to you sweet.
Not meaning to sound offensive, no, simply observant, informative.
His statements are blunt and quick, lacking emotionality but containing inklings of concern regardless.
This one hasn’t met many mortals, apparently.
“Why?” Pushing further into the topic, you bite back your cough of surprise, blinking rapidly when he links his finger with yours, thumb smoothing over the top of your hand like a caress of consolation.
“Soft,” Jeongin murmurs, oblivious to his actions as you come to understand what he’s talking about, pointing to his own hand opposing yours.
“Rough.”
Ah.
You get it now.
His way of saying you aren’t fit for the forest, considering your hands being soft compared to his own rough ones, an almost immature way of explanation that you find yourself charmed by.
Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to heed to it.
His warning, that is.
“But what if I don’t want to go?”
A quick blink, gaze fluttering down, then up, then back down.
Thinking face.
And he pouts. Pouts.
Maybe it’s because of his status, his divinity, how incredulously handsome he is.
Or maybe it’s just that you’re already smitten.
“Then.” He lets go of your hand, pinkies intertwined for a moment longer than necessary. “Stay close.”
Immediately after, Jeongin starts off, obviously anticipating you to follow him by the manner in which he glances behind him.
Somehow, he managed to miraculously end up in a tree, deemed supernatural with the ease in which the action was performed— a perfectly almond-shaped stare investigating your unmoving frame below.
“Afraid?”
More like surprised.
“No, you’re just.. different from anyone I’ve ever met before. This is different from anything I’ve ever done before.”
Sparing a few seconds to process your sentence, he wets his lips, maintaining a comfortably balanced squat.
“Who are the people you’ve met before?”
Just when he asks the question does the town lights in the distance flicker off, and you’re reminded of the minimal time you have to stay here.
“I..”
The words die on your tongue.
You don’t want to go. There’s so much you want to know, so many questions to ask.
“I’ll tell you all about it another time, but I have to go home now,” Reluctantly began, an index is pointed toward the direction you had come from. Or, more accurately, where you thought you came from.
Instead, your once lit path is shrouded in darkness, unable to see exactly where you’re headed, where you even entered initially.
“Home?” Again he tips his head, failing to help the responsible side of your mind force you home.
Cute.
Gosh, Chris wasn’t kidding.
“Yes, home. Outside of here, outside of the forest. Could you,” You internally debate, chewing your bottom lip in contemplation. “Could you take me there?”
Way to put the guy to work.
Save my life, now take me home, please.
Luckily, your brewing guilt is staunched as hastily as it rises with his mere nod. Perhaps you could add that to the assortment of reasons why you like him, honesty making for easy decisions, conversation.
Extending a hand for you to take, you dutifully keep pace wherever he leads, rather impressed at his awareness, watching his attention swivel left and right, assessing the sounds, sights.
He certainly belongs to the forest.
Occasionally he’ll stop, holding his arm out in front of you and fetching the wooden bow, firing it into the distance only for a chortled hiss to respond.
How does he see these things?
“How do you live here?” Thinking aloud, Jeongin hums in response, shaking his head.
“Not here. I live in the center, it’s much safer there.”
No, it must be the other way around. The forest belongs to him.
And with that, you continue onward till the fading glow of streetlights peeks through leaves and trees, a sign you’re close to home.
“Were you-“ More hesitation, inked in the hitch of your words, the glance over his shoulder. “Were you watching me?”
A foot before he reaches the edge does Jeongin stop, granting you another peek returned with a sheepish smile.
“I heard voices,” Comes his monotonous reply, hand reaching to gently smooth a bit of your hair between two fingers. “And I like this.”
Your hair, he ambiguously compliments.
I like your hair.
A part of you could have laughed at the hilarity, but instead, you merely grin like an idiot.
A happy idiot.
Your heart nearly stops when he tries returning the action, lips pulled awkwardly high, teeth bared like a feisty cat.
He’s trying to match your smile.
Jeongin is stupid cute.
Guess you can’t be mad at Chris anymore.
“Bye bye!” Shouted a ways away, one hand lifts to wave to a confused Jeongin who, once again, attempts to mimic you, something you’re placing in your hall of fame of favorite moments.
“Good.. bye.”
His own hand lifting in a makeshift wave remains the single memory left in your mind that night, cursing Hypnos for failing to drag you asleep, instead accursed to roll left to right sleeplessly until dawn allows some shut-eye in its early hours.
And when you close your eyes, the gleaming of emeralds dancing beneath your eyelids betrays all that lies in your mind.
“Jeongin! Jeongin!” Shouted from the edge of the forest, minutes pass squinting at dense foliage before a curious pair of eyes becomes noticeable within the greenery.
From familiarity comes something habitual, like with Han, now with Jeongin.
Daily visits, hoping to satiate your interest that never wanes.
That is, under the excuse you’ve gotten into hunting as an explanation to Han, Chris, and your father. Yet, the knowing glances from Chris says he already has an idea of the truth behind your story.
It’s not that you necessarily want to hide your association with Jeongin, but the minuscule thrill gained each step through dark underbrush feels as if some deep secret hides behind the trees, your secret, together.
Plus, the last thing you need on your head is a new target for Jisung’s jeering.
“I brought snacks, want to try some?”
Lifting the hand holding a plastic bag of goods, you shuffle closer towards the man, granted an ultimately confused stare at said bag.
Silent, but expressive enough you don’t require a word to understand his response prior to stepping into his territory.
Immediately, as if he were some treat-adoring puppy, he’s practically breathing down your neck to see inside the bag, chin resting upon your shoulder as you lift the contents, brows furrowed quizzically.
“Banana milk, Gimbap for us to share, and– Honey Butter chips,” You hum, lips curving into a breathless smile watching his fascinated expression simply heighten with each discovery.
“I… was thinking of Soju, but knowing your mother, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Soju?” He echoes, earning your nod as you glance back at where he props his head upon your shoulder.
“Hm,” A nod, reaching up to pat his cheek with a small huff of laughter.
Like a child, this one.
“Alcohol.”
His small hum of acknowledgment resounds, and you can’t help but choke on a giggle where he presses his nose into your shoulder, seemingly intent on smelling the fabric.
“Ocean,” Jeongin observes, swift to nod where he wordlessly slips from his place beside you, coaxed into your usual position whenever led to the center of the forest.
A few weeks back you mentioned your other “godly” friends, namely Chris. That, and the weekly visits to meet Jisung by those same shores, a matter he acknowledges with the dip of his head, taking position in front of you.
Usual position being his hand in yours, always going ahead to scout. …And those repeated glances that leave your heart stuttering in your chest.
Doting, in his silent way of doing things. Those times he’d save the last piece of bread you’d bring from the market solely for you, or listen intently when you’d speak, eyes never straying from yours.
The tiny crack of a smile tugging at his lips when you’ll tell him about some funny run-in with a grandmother, or the nearly innate sense of knowing he holds, able to detect your fatigue in ample time and beckon you to a carefully arranged bed of furs you find yourself napping in too many times to count.
No less, he was right that first time you met. The center of the forest is peaceful. A home hidden from the rest of the world.
Compliant streams sifting past aged pebbles, old stone pathways you can’t help but wonder the age of, and the grasses under your feet, soft like a blanket when the both of you flop down after venturing for hours.
Rainy days, when everything is dark and mysterious. And mornings, heat subdued beneath leafy branches.
Wolf and bear-skin, he’s informed the furs as, along with a fox-pelt, fasten over his arrow quiver to salvage throughout winter.
Skillful, in all manner of things. Utilizing his hunts as food, jewelry, or fertilizer for an ecosystem more abundant than ever imaginable, all seeming to flock around Jeongin like a forest prince.
A good title: Forest Prince.
Like now, where you sprawl on the forest floor, plastic bag ransacked of its contents that Jeongin investigates thoroughly, each item brought to his nose to smell.
Apparently either ignorant or immune to the twitter of a bird having taken perch on his shoulder.
“I’d say.. these things are kind of like Onigiri, but you’ve never had Onigiri, right? Ah, then it’s like.. seaweed, with rice and meat filling. This one has..”
Continuing on and on, consciously, you’d like to apologize for your neverending chatter, though at the moment, his acknowledging nods and patient gaze fixed your way with each bite you hold to his lips keeps you ignorant, savoring.
Because the thought strikes you how separated he’s been from the world despite residing mere miles from a mortal like yourself, and you don’t want to take advantage of it, take these interactions and teachings with that of the world outside of the forest for granted.
Not to mention the world inside the forest you learn more of each waking moment, almost well-versed enough to lead to the center of the forest yourself.
Of course, the sweet narrow of his eyes usually keeps the cocky offer at bay most days.
Most days.
After receiving his scolding glare upon getting ahead of yourself, the small furrow of his brows where he patches up your scraped knee, the cuts along your forearms from sharp shrubbery patches.
Learning, growing. You teach him, he teaches you.
An exchange the both of you have grown rather accustomed to, something looked forward to. Day after day, hour after hour. Like children, frolicking in the wooded expanse with an fervor unable to be quenched.
“Catch me!” You’d call from afar, watching his face alight, ignorant to the matter you were, in fact, his first friend (aside from plenty of forest acquaintances, such as the visiting robins).
And that, that smile curving at his lips became one only you could provoke. Saved just for you.
Clouds scatter the atmosphere, dousing Sokcho in an endless gradient of grays and blue, hinting at an incoming storm from the low rumble here and there.
However, your attention has long since been occupied. Located within the forest as if a second home, a focused gaze settles upon the scavenging rabbit scampering along fern-filled underbrush, each careful, apprehensive flicker of its tall ears keeping your breath bated.
“Elbow back.”
Concentration on the rabbit, and simultaneous acknowledgement to the man standing just behind you, pressed to your frame.
Easily would you have lost focus if not for the grounding hand grasping yours, helping steady your hold on the bow’s grip and ensuring a precisely crafted arrow balances upon the nocking point, aimed directly at the fluffy creature.
Today, Jeongin is teaching you how to wield his bow.
He’s also dangerously close to you, strands of inky hair tickling your cheek when he leans to murmur pointers in your ear, shifting so the toned bit of his chest presses to your back.
A skillful foot adjusts your own foot’s position, offering a small click of his tongue in assurance towards the clench of your teeth, straining to hold such a massive bow in waiting.
“Now.”
The words are a facet of relief, drawn elbow allowed rest, opposing eye closed for better focus opening to catch sight of your kill.
After weeks of practicing, it seems the rain brought in a meager portion of luck.
Thank you, Artemis, comes your internal thanks, scampering down after Jeongin towards the puncturing arrow, peering over his shoulder as he utters the ordinated eucharistia and gathers the animal to bring back.
And yet, halfway there, he pauses, peering over his shoulder back at you.
You’d like to think a ghost of a smile resided in his eyes, and the slight crinkle in the corners seems to further prove the assumption.
“You did well.”
Ah.
Like those moments by the fire, the quiet times he’ll be there when you awaken from your nap only to find him right there, staring down upon your form with what you’d scorn to call affection.
Getting your hand caught in the brambles, when his gentle thumb wipes away beading tears, smoothing to cup your cheek, shushing the slight sniffles too gently for your heart to bear.
And now, those prolonged irises, fixated upon you as if uttering a prayer.
Hm.
You want to kiss him.
Momentary, as risky as his earlier closeness back when hunting do you peek down, surveying the near perfect skin of his lips.
A russet brown upper lip seated atop the lighter pink of a dashing bottom lip, glossy from his tongue having rushed across seconds prior.
Quietly, you scold your struggle to swallow.
All the same, it appears you underestimated his aptitude for observation, falling into the learned pattern of rinse and repeat, ignore and move on, while trekking back to the forest’s center.
That, and the same manner his gaze flits to your lips too.
The first time you find yourself imprinting on him is during a regular conversation of yours, sharing strawberries, sparing words here and there between mouthfuls.
Expectantly, a joke comes spouting from your lips, one you watch with pride that earns the upward quirk of his lips in silent amusement, lightly smacking a hand across his leg as if laughing.
Well, what you do when you laugh, and it takes you a moment before you begin giggling(this time audible) yourself, unable to keep the bubbling sound from pouring out.
He’s adorable, in almost every way. Exhibiting your habits, mimicking your expressions like a curious babe.
The expectant manner he studies your expression, as if debating on whether or not that was the right reaction, or the way the slight plush of his cheeks causes his eyes to disappear while still learning to smile, searching your own smile as a blueprint.
He teaches you, you teach him.
Nevertheless, the hunting incident was never spoken of nor added to conversation. His eyes on your lips, yours on his, left forgotten.
A matter you were thankful for, no matter the temporary fix.
Something left unspoken, for as long as the silence would last.
.
.
.
Then again, veracity would poke itself from ignorance in due time, so you savored the quiet even more, kept your eyes clearly glued to his face and his face only.
Not his lips.
Certainly not.
Taken up activities to pull your mind from the temptation, the urge. Hunted more, learned simple skills in healing, tactics in fighting. Day after day, growing stronger, more well-versed with your surroundings, abilities.
Some days called for peaceful tasks, like finding the correct berries or leaves for herbal salves, detecting those of foul intent and the best way to dispose of them.
Others sweat-inducing, leaving you to heave for your breath and clamber back to your feet.
If Chris could teach and Hermes could bow to your fighting prowess, Jeongin could battle. Effortless in the manner his footsteps pound on grassy terrain, wielding a dagger as if a maestro—leading an orchestra to a haunting finale down to the depths of the Underworld.
And for once, you hate ever being cocky, inviting him to “try his hardest” despite remaining blindsided to the utter depths of Tartarus you feel your head being dipped into with each practiced swipe of his hand, sharpened dagger narrowly avoided for an eight time.
Trembling legs force yourself stable, the quiver of your thighs betraying the cruel, human need for rest, recuperation.
But no, determination beckons another outcome, lights a fire in your veins. Knowing of the sensible outcome being his victory, unwilling to back down.
Perhaps it was that fire, that anger and frustration when you glared at him from across the clearing that kindled his own bonfire, one crackling, with blue flames licking a smoky sky where a usually monotone expression seems to glow.
The potential of a god.
“Cut me,” He’d said an hour or so ago, towards the beginning of your sparring. Logically, you laughed off the offer regardless of his seriousness—for gods were immune to the inflicted agonies.
Right about now though, the offer is tempting. That, and the irritation with both yourself and him continues to take life, rooting itself into your chest like the enormous cypress in the forest’s center.
In a flash of will-power, your legs are rushing forward, each thump of your heartbeat divisible within your eardrums, battering against your ribcage as the Minotaur to his Knossos labyrinth.
The weapon of choice in hand, your own dagger, comes rushing outwards, knuckles a ghastly white with the tightness of your grip.
I move left, he’ll swerve below then back. Or right? Or—
The pivot of his left heel, and you know this movement, body reacting without thinking to counteract.
Slice!
“What..” Both heaving for air that seems too slow in entering your lungs, feeble words manage from your lips.
“What color does a god bleed, Jeongin?”
And looking up, you aren’t met with an Olympian’s wrath nor cry for vengeance, but a grin, toothy and amused. His grin of satisfaction, and you feel your breath catch in your throat, chest aching from the cough elicited in return.
Red. Red rivulets spill from the thin slice across his cheekbone, curving down the sculpted expanse of his neck and disappearing to stain his clothing.
His true smile, proud and satiated.
“Same color as you, we just don’t run out.”
Snide remark met with a short snort of yours, you find the camera of your mind shuttering, capturing this moment as one of a kind, a new side to the man you thought you knew all angles of.
Though it seems he is more than three-dimensional. Today proves that.
His thumb reaches to swipe at the stinging infliction, quieting your apology with a sidelong glance and noiselessly kneeling down in front of you, back facing the confused tip of your head.
“Get on.” Jeongin grunts, and you would have laughed if not for the worsening ache in your legs, the way your body feels of lead after much exertion, prompting no trace of protest where you flop atop his spine.
Silence, a common occurrence when with Jeongin. Never uncomfortable, especially not as you press your nose into his shoulder, inhaling that signature, earthy scent of petrichor, savor the warmth his body always seems to emit, the gentleness of his hands in supporting your thighs around his waist.
Not to mention the intermittent squeeze of his grasp upon your skin, as if to assure you of your approaching distance back “home”, or, what you now call your second home.
Like a sleeping spell enacted by the sweetest of voices, you’re asleep instantly, your last glimpse of life coming in the form of soft furs enveloping your body; kind, calloused hands cradling your cheeks for a moment longer before allowing solitude.
By the time your lashes dust remnants of slumber from view, the majority of your ailments: cut knees, arms, have been tended to, the nap providing ample recovery time.
And in front of you, a pile of plucked day-flowers and Jeongin’s hunched form, braiding the stems.
“Mmh..” The sleepy hum pulls his brow-knitted-concentration awry, and you’d like to cry watching the sharp narrow of his eyes soften simultaneously, arm extending to run a delicate palm over your forehead, brushing stray bits of hair from your eyes.
“I’m making bracelets,” An invitation in the lilt to his tone, the division of his pile towards you.
“Would you like to make some as well?”
Ah. He’s too much and never enough all at the same time.
Taking to braiding the twines as well speaks on your behalf, the afternoon’s quietness interrupted by a shrilling warbler and the wisp of wind rustling branches, swirling leaves into miniature tornadoes.
“Hm…” A bit of your humming breaks up the stillness, careful to avoid delicate petals amid the process. “My friends and I used to make these for our crushes, or just between friends, yeah?”
Across from you, Jeongin sits, his legs crossed, lips puffed in thought whilst slender fingers intertwine the three bits of vine together.
“..Crushes?”
The paling of his features upon peeking up at you indicate he certainly had no clue about the figurative meaning of “crushes”, and you have to pretend to cough to keep from snorting with giggles.
Day-flower bracelets and talk of crushes after nearly battling to the death, apparently.
“Like, um, people you like. Lots of people call them their crush,” Patient, no less, where the boy nods, his clumsy fingers growing acclimated to weaving the flowers along string, the delight evident in his expression after completing a bracelet a sight worth remembering.
What you hadn’t anticipated was being handed the bracelet once he finished it, speaking so matter-a-fact despite the words leaving parted lips.
“For my crush.”
Now it’s your turn to pale, white as a sheet.
Huh?
Then it hits you, slow to ease the finished bracelet over your wrist.
“Ah, I meant “like” as in, uh,” A pause, wracking your mind for a decent definition. “Are interested in, romantically.”
That usually indifferent gaze of his transforms into eyes wide as saucers, the nervous tightness of lips and redness of his ears making you want to squeal.
Cute.
It’s scary how often you think that about him, every little thing swoon-worthy.
“I apologize.”
No, no.
“No! I didn’t- you didn’t understand, Jeongin. ‘S okay, seriously.” Exhaling wearily, one hand lifts, giving his hand an encouraging squeeze of reassurance. “Thank you. I love the bracelet.”
“Good.” A small sigh you’d assume of relief slips from his lips, chortling to himself before returning an identical squeeze of your hand, falling into a shared cloak of silence.
Not awkward, however. Just quiet. Giving you time to lift your intertwined fingers and marvel at the fact you feel you’ve known him forever, not mere months.
The plentiful veins stretched across the pale back of his hand, so alternative to the sunlight seeming to blaze past the canopy’s leaves, able to sear your skin tan in a matter of days.
From a passerby’s point of view, perhaps he would appear normal, if only slightly.
You know better.
Unconsciously, your thumb smooths over the bumpy veins, behaving as if able to feel the rush of immortal blood through blue, green, and purple channels connecting to a perpetually beating heart.
“Same color as you, we just don’t run out.”
So why wait, when he’ll have eternity and you’ll have a lifetime?
“I think you’re becoming my crush.”
And other times, the truth would be announced before it could announce itself.
“I’m sorry if that’s confusing.”
His failure to flinch away calms your nerves, for now. Weakened courage, nonetheless, keeps your eyes averted.
“Similar to your hair,” A pause, your gaze flickering up to his as if to translate the expression prior to his reiteration, prior to the agreeing nod and two fingers fidgeting with a tress of your hair, just like the first time you met him in these woods.
“Similar to your hair, I like that too.”
And he goes back to bracelet-making, as if speaking about the weather and not returning feelings you once believed were one-sided.
So this is love.
Is it the truth that every tale of love leads to tragedy?
Orpheus’ madness leading to abandonment of his beloved Eurydice back into the Underworld, his true love never to be seen again but instead remembered in his laments, his lyre?
Or is it just a coincidence that the center of the forest is empty this time? That his quiver of arrows has gone amiss?
Hunting, maybe.
Then again, he’s always been first to detect you—the sweep of a bird or a rush of air indicating his impending arrival.
Today, stillness of the wind sends goosebumps littering up your arms, cupping your hands over your mouth to shout his name.
And no one replies.
Not a soul.
Jeongin may have grown more sly, more confident while in your company, but no such joke like this would be played, that you knew.
Which is why, in a panic, your feet thunder towards the closest confidant of yours other than the Forest Prince and a soon-to-be Messenger god, storming past nagging thorn patches pricking your wrists and off towards the tides.
“Chris!”
A sharp shout, the unevenness of your tone apparently evident, for Chris looks rather disgruntled, concerned where he pokes his head from the waters at the end of the dock.
An overreaction, possibly. However, an absence after nearly seven months of routine attendance can’t help but twist your gut the wrong way.
“Yes? Hello? What’s wrong, sweetheart? You hurt? Innie hurt?”
‘Innie’, his nickname for Jeongin that, in your normal state would have gathered a laugh.
This time excluded.
Quick hands fumble to gesture your discontentment, scrambling to unearth comprehensible sentences.
”I don’t- I don’t know where he is and- what if he’s hurt? Or maybe he’s in trouble with Artemis? Could I have gotten him in trouble? What if I never see him agai—“
“Y/N.”
Salvation in his grounding hands, human legs having sprouted without your acknowledgement to join you on the dock. Meanwhile, your frenzied disposition establishes ignorance to the water droplets clinging to his fingertips, mending the thorny cuts while trying to level the pound of your chest.
“Breathe with me, okay?”
Focusing your eyes on his lips isn’t something you haven’t done before, but this time it’s different. He’s steadying, a low tide receding the worries from your brain as you follow his breaths.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Another.
Inhale.
Exhale.
“First off, the most likely cause behind his disappearance would be his mother, we both know that, hm? If that’s the case, I have no doubt in a day or two he’ll be back. You know how I have my duties with m’ dad, yeah?”
Though, he’s faster than you in catching the telltale signs of your recurring worries, clicking his tongue as if scolding a student of his in his swim-class.
“And when Jisung stops by tomorrow, I’ll ask him to bother his dad about it, okay? Leave it to Hermes to hear every conversation in Olympus.”
His face lights up seeing your meager smile, index brushing your lashes of their bubbling tears.
“There’s that pretty smile.” A soft coo, and you playfully swat at his hands, the second-long eye-contact a wordless “thank you” he assures back with a wink, pulling you into a tight hug before separating.
“And don’t go worrying, alright? He’ll be back for the forest, sure, but he wouldn’t leave your side too, and I think we both know that.”
An affectionate pat to your cheek and he vanishes like an apparition, the splash of water a ways away his only source of detection and your last chance to scold his insinuations.
But, for all you know, he could be right.
Jeongin wouldn’t leave your side, and a part of you knew that from the start.
Nonetheless, while Chris badgered Jisung into asking his dad about Jeongin, you spent your days—four, exactly, since Jeongin had disappeared—scouring the forest.
No trace, and Chris was still waiting for updates come Jisung’s next return.
Pick some berries, hunt a bit, your mind hounded, futilely attempting to quell the emptiness, the lack of excitement without him by your side.
A dependence you used to dread ever having when it came to someone, now like second instinct, something craved when deprived of.
A week later, you’re first to the beach, the flutter of winged sandals barely drifting to a stop before you’re pouncing and leaving the poor boy choking on his words, letters of his satchel scattering about.
“Any-“ A choke on your own breath, eyes wide, grasping onto a waning hope like a person crazed. “Any news?”
“Yeah, lovebird, if you gave me time to land.”
Jisung is not amused, though he does give a tiny smirk intelligently kept silent, cautiously evading your wrath.
“The boyfriend of yours should be back by tomorrow. His mom’s—“
A clear of his throat, nervously glancing at the sky as if awaiting Zeus’ lightning bolt to strike him.
“Miss Artemis wants him to learn his hunting in Olympus, the kid said how he likes the forest better, blah blah, real cute. He’ll be back tomorrow.”
Feigning sarcasm, you take your turn in surprising him for a second time with a hug, one Jisung begrudgingly mirrors after a grumbled insult.
“You uh.. You gonna invite me to the wedding or what?”
A smack against his shoulder brings back much-needed familiarity.
That, and the fleeting hope the face you’ve fallen for will come into view by tomorrow, that this nightmare you’ll awaken from.
.
.
.
The most anticipation you’ve ever felt for the next day usually came in the form of Christmas morning, once awaiting the presents, now awaiting a different sort of Holiday.
Him.
Hurried footsteps linger by the forest edge, hoping beryl irises may glimpse past the bushes, crinkle into a smile, his smile for you.
Foolish, it must seem. Treating his arrival like a set time, expecting his presence at the very crack of dawn.
But you’ll wait. Wait and wait.
What’s a day to the five you waited through?
Although, pacing and searching becomes a bit dull after four hours, and as the evening sun begins to fall, you feel a sense of dread like never before.
Hermes hears gossip, yes, but does that mean it’s always correct?
Damn it all.
“Jeongin!”
An angry shout to no one, nothing. A shout to the warblers once peeking down at the two of you, now soaring off in alarm.
“You jerk!”
A long time, truthfully.
.
“A what?”
Whipping around so fast you fear injury, you fear you might be hallucinating catch onto where he stands a few feet away, doused in the shadows of the looming cypress signature to the forest.
Real, breathing.
And.. who you just called a jerk.
Well, announced as a jerk to the whole forest.
So many questions, thoughts.
Why didn’t you tell me you were leaving? Is there a forewarning when it comes to seeing your godly parents?
Most of all though, slipping through the fissures of confusion and awe, happiness lies.
Bright and brilliant and ah, you want to scream.
Who knew love was so exasperating, painful just seeing his face.
Relief, in its utmost form.
Running to him, it’d be downright embarrassing if not for the smile on your face, making your cheeks ache with its ceaselessness where your arms wrap around his in a tight hug.
“I’m sorry, I love you,” Is all that’s mumbled upon pulling back, and perhaps you ran upon the same wavelength in those few seconds, with his head tipping in perfect alignment with yours to welcome a slow, savoring kiss you want to spend forever in.
And, unfortunately separating, it appears your sensibility also returned, clearing your throat and synonymously scorning the heat of your cheeks, avoiding his fond gaze observing your face—painting it in his mind.
Tender thumbs smooth over your cheeks, pressing his forehead to yours and dragging your attention back once more from previous fluster.
“I wouldn’t leave you, you know that. I wish I could’ve left a note but,” A chaste halt, chewing at his bottom lip. “I’m still memorizing the letters you taught me.”
Pausing again, he gathers his words.
“And I don’t know why you apologized,” He chuckled to himself, pressing too-short of a kiss to your lips and gathering you close by the loop of your day-flower bracelet, matching the one on his own wrist.
“Because I love you too, and this,” A tug at the bracelet, firm vines keeping from flimsiness. “This keeps us together.”
Another peck, and you fight the urge to giggle at his silliness, noses bumping.
“So whenever you feel alone,” A single tug at your wrist, at the dayflowers. “Just know I’m right beside you. Always.”
“He’ll be back for the forest, sure, but he wouldn’t leave your side too, and I think we both know that.”
In the end, Chris was right.
He wouldn’t leave your side, and that was a promise.
Summer, and blackberries laid out on a picnic blanket consist of your afternoon snack. That, and your curiosity over his obedience to Artemis’ chastity guidelines regarding your relationship—interested in whether he wished to follow in his mother’s footsteps.
“I will honor her oaths, but I am not obligated to follow them, hm?”
A sly lilt to his reply, perhaps in his words, maybe in the momentary shift of his attention from the bitten blackberry to you.
“And right now,”
The confidence in his words, the emotion, so opposed to the blank, indifferent precursor of his speech, courtesy of your influence.
Even more so when he leans forward, the soft exhale of satisfaction through his nose something you’d swoon having heard if not for his lips on yours, failing to finish his sentence for a moment.
Soft, unhurried where he drifts down, top teeth gently nibbling at the skin before ushering the plump of your bottom lip in his own lips.
“I want to kiss you. And I don’t think any force of Olympus could keep me from it.”
A summer afternoon, and Jeongin tastes like blackberries.
1: What’s your current bias line? (top 3): Seungmin, Chan, Felix lately tbh.
2: Who’s the one that made you Stan?
Changbin. Man caught my eye first and I had to know all about them lol.
3: What song was your first?
Hellavator!
4: What’s your current favorite song?
Currently I think JJAM probably?
5: What members personally resembles yours the most?
Genuinely a mixture of Minho and Chan.
6: If you had to pick a specific racha which would you choose?
Probably DanceRacha
7: What’s one attribute of the members do you like the most? (Example: Chans dimples)
I absolutely love Felix’s little fangs.
8: What’s your favorite album?
Tbh- hard ass question. I’d probably say. NoEasy or ATE
9: Do you have any albums?
Yes- I spent too much money on them. I’ve been collecting them for years now I think I have almost all of them?
10: How long have you been a stay?
Since before debut. I’ve been in this kpop shit for to long so when they came out I was already deep in this lol.
11: Who’s your favorite duo?
Bro- VocalRacha will always have a special place in my heart but also Minsung ofc
12: Favorite cover/solo songs:
Hyunjin and Han are the two that vibes with me the most. So honestly any of their solo stuff.
13: Favorite SKZOO?
PupM or FoxI.Ny
14: If you had a day with one member what would you wanna do with them?
My want to pick Chans brain and just listen to him is strong however, how id love to meet Lino’s cats.
15: Who’s your favorite singing voice?
Now I’m biased ok lol. Seungmin of course however Hyunjin is one I listen to a lot.
16: Who’s your favorite to watch dance?
Damn maybe Hyunjin is just my bias?😂 but I love watching him dance. His one on what choom? He did by himself is one of I watch almost everyday ngl.
17: Do you have a favorite SKZ Code?
Any that are like them just chilling and vlogging. The newest one with them in Australia is just mwah lol
18: Favorite MV?
Hmm Scars or JJAM tbh
19: Who do you think you’d be best friends with?
Chan maybe? I feel like I could get along with all of them though.
20: Let’s feed those delusions, Who are you picking for a date and what are you doing?
CAT CAFE WITH MINHO.
Tagging: @dwaekkicidal @moonchild9350 @jeonginsleftcheek @hyunjins-orange-slice-too @hyuniepies @biteyoubiteme @valkyriexo @doitforbangchan @seungminssangel @seung-mong @justsomekpopstuff @jehhskz and anyone else! I’ll definitely be looking at all of them🥹
Ohh thanks for the tag @seungfl0wer! This is so fun hehe 🤭
1. What’s your current bias line?
Hyunjin, Lee Know, Han!
2. Who’s the one that made you Stan?
My boy Hyunjin lol I fell in love with his dancing as a fellow dancer myself I felt like I could resonate with him and of course later on his looks lol
3. What song was your first?
Red lights 😂
4. What’s your current favorite song?
This is hard ha but I’d say DLC and I like it
5. What members personally resemble you the most?
Hmmm this is hard but I’d say Han and Hyunjin
6. If you had to pick a specific racha which would you choose?
Paboracha or dancracha
7. What’s one attribute of the members you like the most? (Example: Chan’s dimples)
I’d say Hyunjin’s laugh and Felix’s freckles
8. What’s your favorite album?
NoEasy and Maxident!
9. Do you have any albums?
Yes! So many omggg I have all of the Korean ones but I don’t have all the Japanese ones which I’m sad about but it’s ok haha
10. Have you been a concert?
Not yet…but I’m hoping that will change soon!
11. Who’s your favorite duo?
Definitely the sunshine twins or minsung hehe
12. Favorite cover/solo songs:
Anything by hyunjin 😂 and I loved their cover of Shinee’s Sherlock 😍
13. Favorite SKZOO?
Jineret and Lee Bit!
14. If you had a day with one member what would you wanna do with them?
lol definitely Hyunjin and it’s funny cause I kinda wrote a fic of my dream day(s) with him but definitely maybe a cafe, the aquarium would be cute and fun, and then just chill at home together 🤭
15. Who’s your favorite singing voice?
Oh man I’d say Seungmin or Lee Know
16. Who’s your favorite to watch dance?
Hyunjin and lee know lol
17. Do you have a favorite Skz code?
I’m trying to remember them all 😂 but probably the scientist one. I was dyingggg with that!
18. Favorite MV?
I can’t choose just one 😭😭 maybe your eyes cause I’m delulu as fuck lol and venom
19. Who do you think you’d be best friends with?
Probably Han, Felix, Hyunjin
20. Let’s feed those delusions, who are you picking for a date and what are you doing?
I’m so overwhelmed omggg but with Hyunjin ofc and I’d think we’d go to a museum, get some food, and end with a walk around the park/waterfront 🥹
New tags: @jehhskz @jeonginsleftcheek @dandelions-143 @lovscb97 @frehyun @hanniebaeee @moonlightndaydreams
Thanks for tagging me @seungfl0wer @jehhskz @moonchild9350 and @hanniebaeee 💖💖💖
1: What’s your current bias line?
HyunLix
2: Who’s the one that made you Stan?
Hyunjin, he was my first bias and his cute personality is what made me look into SKZ more.
3: What song was your first?
Hellevator, but I wasn't a Stay back then, just a casual listener and I stayed away from kpop for some time but then got back into it recently.
4: What’s your current favorite song?
Still not over Chk Chk Boom, also enjoying Giant and I always listen to Hyunjin's solo songs cause his voice brings me comfort.
5: What members personally resembles yours the most?
I'd say a good mix of Hyunlix, but some things I'm similar with Minho too.
6: If you had to pick a specific racha which would you choose?
Danceracha - my first bias line. And Aussieracha, I love them together.
7: What’s one attribute of the members do you like the most? (Example: Chans dimples)
Hands, any members hands, they all have pretty hands (can you guess what I'm into haha)
8: What’s your favorite album?
Oddinary, Skz-Replay, 5-star and Maxident.
9: Do you have any albums?
Sadly no - broke Stay here.
10: Have you been to a concert?
They never come anywhere close to me :( buying a ticket for the concert, the plane ticket and paying a place to stay would cost me 3 paychecks💀
11: Who’s your favorite duo?
ChanLix, Minsung, HyuniBini and sunshine twins.
12: Favorite cover/solo songs:
I love Hyunjin's, Jisung's and Chan's solo songs the most.
13: Favorite SKZOO?
jiniret, bbokari, puppym
14: If you had a day with one member what would you wanna do with them?
why can't i take them all on a nice vacation😭
15: Who’s your favorite singing voice?
Chan's, Lixie's and Seungmin's.
16: Who’s your favorite to watch dance?
Hyune and Minho
17: Do you have a favorite SKZ Code?
Okay so, the first two episodes with them playing in snow will always stay in my mind. I also loved Skz family, the sauna ones, any ep when they're traveling or enjoying some time out is fun too. I also loved the last one in Australia and can't wait for the rest of them, I know they'll def be my favorites.🥺
18: Favorite MV?
Jjam, FNF, S-Class, Your Eyes (yes delulu hehe), Venom and Maniac.
19: Who do you think you’d be best friends with?
Hmm I'd say the virgo line.
20: Let’s feed those delusions, Who are you picking for a date and what are you doing?
Hyunjin, picnic date on the beach and we watch the sunset together and later count the stars.🥹
This was so fun! Tagging: @frehyun @lixies-favorite-cookie @justa-potato @hyunebunx @hwanghyunjinismybae
What’s your current favorite song? — Eternity (Bangchan), DOODLE (Changbin), Mixtape: On Track, M.I.A.
What member(s) personally resemble you the most? — I think.. Channie?
If you had to pick a specific racha which would you choose? — 3racha (am i predictable or what)
What’s one attribute of the members you like the most? — Love the tiny beauty mark on Hannie’s cheek (or on the side of Leeknow’s nose too!)
What’s your favorite album? — NOEASY for sure
Do you have any albums? — Too many
Have you been to a concert? — Yes!! Melbourne was amazing! (last year, btw 🙂↕️)
Who’s your favorite duo? — BinChan for sure—-
Favorite cover/solo songs? — I mentioned some as my favorite songs, but “Miserable” by Han and “long for you” from Hyunjin destroy me
Favorite SKZOO? — FoxI.ny (did i spell that right? dunno) or wolfchan!
If you had a day with one member, what would you want to do with them? — always wanted to visit the beach with mr chan :)
Who’s your favorite singing voice? — Has to be Hannie, Seungmin, Channie or Leeknow! But I love them all, we all know that
Who’s your favorite to watch dance? — Leeknow or Hyunjin by far!
Do you have a favorite SKZCODE? — Likely Ep. 10-11, it’s comforting :)
Favorite M/V? — I’ve drawn most for Venom, but Surfin’ is too— cute
Who do you think you’d be best friends with? — Likely Chan, but I think Hannie’s a high contender, I laugh too easily
Who are you picking for a date and what are you doing? — (let’s mention I’d have a heart attack beforehand BUT) Coffee date with Han, I really just wanna geek out about tracks and have coffee and hear him speak english with his cute accent, you feel me?
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AUG'S NOTES. so glad to have finally completed this!! it’s been rotting in my drafts for weeks and i just had to write a happy ending for these two grandparents 🫶🏼
PLAYLIST.
SYNOPSIS. Life can be a mess, and with you and Minho as the only two singles in your office building, an impertinent Valentine’s day leaves no choice but to make a pact.
or alternatively :
If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.
Four years.
It’s been four years since you first met Lee Minho, working with him at the same company, becoming the best of friends. And yet, the same dread lay specially reserved for the same season.
The season of love, or, to most people, Valentine’s day.
.
.
.
Alarm set for 6:30AM. Work from 8:30AM to 4PM. Every day of the week, every year.
Initially, the experience was relatively enjoyable. It paid well, wasn’t too harsh on hours, and other coworkers minded their own business (at least in your case) without being a pain.
Then the loneliness set in.
It was subtle at first, a tiny pang in your heart when you returned home to a dark, cold apartment while others would be greeted by a pet, a loved one.
So when Lee Minho, a new member of the company assigned as your apprentice came along, you tend to think meeting him was, in a weird, spontaneous manner, meant to be.
And four years later, when he had grown from that apprentice-ship and became established as an employee, you still hold onto that “meant to be” philosophy.
Busied chatter fills the downstairs cafe, familiar faces alike brimming with conversation, breath coffee-stained.
Peering across the various assortment of tables, you spot him, two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual.
At this point, Minho has memorized your order by heart, arriving early after his daily stop by the nearby animal shelter (whose manager knew by heart). Most morning’s you’d await a picture of the newest addition to the feline section, a photo he proudly shows off like his own trophy.
You’re genuinely surprised his residence isn’t a constantly growing cat-kingdom.
“Looking forward to it?”
Brows furrowing, you sidle to his right and dish the warm beverage into your grasp.
“Looking forward to wha— wait wait don’t say it. I want to pretend it doesn’t exist.” Hurriedly waving your hands, Minho cracks a grin.
The cursed word in question being: Valentine’s day.
You can’t say you hate it. It never did anything to you, nor did it leave you heartbroken. To put it simply, the office over the first few weeks of February was a close-resembling spinoff to Singles Inferno except, much spicier and way too inappropriate in broad daylight.
Meaning, for the past five years (four joined by Minho), merely mentioning said season of love urges impending dread and deep frowns.
“All I’m gonna say is I would not want to be a doctor over Valentines,” You wince, sipping the warm drink with a squeamish face.
Minho sighs vehemently, propping an elbow against the computer cart behind him.
“I bet you could witness more vibrators in that hospital than in an Adam and Eve,” He grumbles, watchful eyes surveying the daily crowd occupying tables and chairs in the building’s downstairs café.
Slamming a fist to your chest to correct your breathing, your eyes practically bulge from your skull, evidently caught of guard.
Leave it to Minho to make you suffocate before your shift even begins.
8am is prime time for socialization—otherwise before Mrs. Song decides to unleash her wrath on newbies. She has good intentions, sure, but let’s just say most anyone was petrified upon first meeting her.
Luckily, your department with Hyeongmi, Minho, and Felix was secluded on the far side of the building, leaving you out of the woman’s hair, free to work as you please.
Yet, Mrs. Song wasn’t the problem, not when it came down to the month of February.
Your phone’s alarm signaling to start moving momentarily wards off the thought, and either of you begin toward the elevator, flat expressions describing the sinking feeling better than words.
Back at it, again.
Because by your lunch break, you can’t fathom entering the cafeteria, not if it costs you your life.
Everywhere you look someone is making out, confessing their love, or, worst you’ve seen it all day, genuinely fucking in the bathrooms.
Perhaps you’d send Minho a text you’re making an escape by eating in the office, invite him up for some solace.
Except, it seems he had the same idea.
Scrambling through the door, you enter at the same time, heaving sighs of exasperation upon securing much needed privacy.
Making prolonged eye contact, your thoughts come spilling out.
“If I witness another make-out in the stairwell I’m ending it all.”
“Boxes of chocolates are officially ruined for me now.”
Four years and it never gets old. Same old painful memories, same old excitement for the day to come and go. And it’s not like you hate the holiday itself, you two just.. heavily dislike the immense bucketloads of PDA and office hookups that come along with it.
Not-so-gracefully flopping down onto your chairs, you practically shovel food down, gladly accepting the few rolls of gimbap Minho places onto your plate.
Customary sharing. You give him some of your food, he gives you some of his.
In those brief minutes of silence do you get the opportunity to fully comprehend your own thoughts, prior to Minho clearing his throat.
“Drinks at my place?”
Your grown loudly in agreement.
Minho : Okay, I’m leaving, follow me in thirty minutes
Glancing up, you watch your counterpart lift his brows your way and call out his departure, sifting through the doorway, cross body bag thumping against jeans.
Hyeongmi was downstairs, which, as awful as it sounded, was great not having to endure her nosiness.
This was how you stayed unbothered. He’d leave, and thirty minutes later you would too in order to (for now) avoid Mrs. Song (and Hyeongmi’s) pestering.
It couldn’t have taken the clock longer to reach 4:30PM. So by the time the beloved minute hand struck 4:29 you practically lurched from your seat, almost tasting sweet freedom before a face showed up right before you slipped through the exit.
Hyeongmi’s face.
What she’s talking about you can’t seem to understand, mind trained on escaping and escaping alone.
“C’mon now, you two are the only two in this building without a date. It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!” Hyeongmi emphasizes, dizzying your head the longer she shakes your shoulders.
“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“
“Sorry Hyeongmi, I really have to go-“
Fastening your bag tigher across your body, you make a mad-dash as far away as possible, pretending to ignore the “use protection!” she shouted before the crisp evening breeze nipped your nose.
Use protection my butt, you grovel, ushering the scarf further above your chin as if to secure as much warmth possible.
She doesn’t know anything, not about how you took him under your wing as your apprentice the first year he joined, not about how much Minho loves cats, or how the keychain on that crossbody bag of his is a keychain you bought for him.
Simply placing it, she’s a person lead by the assumptions of others and adopting them as her own.
It irritates you.
Veering to your right, you thank his decision to house nearby, arriving at the foot of his porch after a mere ten-minute walk.
Delivering a few knocks on the townhome’s doorway, you note the paint chipping, colorful exterior worn from the sun’s rays.
Everything from the few cracks in the sidewalk to the relatively invisible stain of coffee on his doorknob lay memorized by frequency—his property second nature to you.
“Never have I hated being single this much,” You whine, slumping onto his couch after hurling your bag atop a hook in the foyer.
And despite the lack of response, you can tell Minho heard you. The faint, breathy chuckle enough evidence of his presence.
Perched on a chair he’d likely dragged from the kitchen, a feline companion occupies his lap, both comfortably relaxing on the patio, wine glass in hand.
Accordingly arranged on the countertop is another glass (you presume as yours), that you pour the vinegar-tinged substance into.
“I mean.” Slightly struggling to haul a neighboring chair to his side and simultaneously avoid splashing wine everywhere, you eventually find an equilibrium.
“It’s not like I asked to be single, I’m just too busy to consider a relationship, y’know?”
Minho absentmindedly hums, urging you to take a much-needed sip of the orchid-colored liquid.
Finally, you sigh out the last of your evening’s thoughts.
“..Hyeongmi caught me on the way out.”
Nor does this occasion need a reply either, the man’s suppressed giggle suitable enough.
“Mm.. I’ve got an idea.”
Carefully allowing the elongated glass to clink atop a translucent table, you cross and uncross your legs, welcoming the rustle of life around you into your eardrums, easing the cluttered space of your brain.
“Shoot.”
He clicks his tongue, gaze flitting to the emerging moon overhead.
“If we’re still single by twenty-five, we date each other.“
Making a surprised sound to yourself, you break into unadulterated laughter, about to call him hilarious before taking into account this is Minho you’re referring to, and the likelihood he’s joking on any matter is unlikely.
Sure it sounds cliché, but it’s Minho, why not?
…And perhaps that decision was made with a few glasses of wine in play.
“I’m in.” You grin, returning his outstretched hand by bumping your glasses before downing the remaining gulp, cheeks aglow, alcohol ridding your breath a distasteful stench.
Tipsy. Minho is charming normally, but especially when he’s tipsy.
He’s got this way of speaking that could get any unsuspecting girl reaching to unzip his pants in a second, sultry, half-lidded eyes drinking the person in front of him, talking like he has sugar lining his lips.
When Minho is tipsy, he’s tempting. You didn’t need four years to teach you that.
That, and the spare pajama set folded in his top drawer reserved solely for you on nights like this—too gone to go home.
Although, as you rise to your feet and head to the bathroom, pulling said silk pajama shirt over your head, Hyeongmi’s words reverberate again.
You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right?
Hm. Minho was always a recluse though. And with your history, obviously he’d have some liking for you.
It’s been four years, Y/n! You need to let loose!
Turning to stare at yourself in the mirror, you sulk, head hanging low.
What if you did something tonight? Something risky, something testing the limits this friendship borderlines. You’re both drunk, likely willing.
Then again, does Minho want this too? Did he ever intend to “let loose”?
Anxiety plagues you, hurriedly scurrying your pants over your legs and exiting to find Minho still seated in the same spot, appearing all the more tempting without having to do a thing.
You blame the alcohol.
Stamping forward as if you prepared a speech, you stop just behind his chair, mustering any ounce of liquid courage manageable.
“Minho.”
He grunts.
“You’re really pretty.”
Let loose. This is letting loose when it comes to Minho.
What, you thought you were gonna fuck? Yeah, that’s a funny one.
Winding himself around to see you, his lips wind into a sweet smile, urging you closer with a mere look before he reaches forward and taps your nose, dark eyes roaming your face.
“I’ve always thought you were pretty too.”
And perhaps, caught in a trance from his glittering stare, something did happen those four years you’ve been together after all.
You blame the alcohol.
The impulsive part about this “date at twenty-five” pact you had forgotten to consider was the fact both of you were twenty-four, meaning in less than a year whatever plan Lee Minho had stirred up after plenty glasses of wine would oil it’s gears into motion.
Thankfully Valentines comes and goes, and Summer creeps dangerously close, the longer hours of daylight and lingering sunshine enough to make every work-day feel extra laborious.
First day of summer, Minho texts you, asking if you want to join him on a walk.
Mind you, it’s 10AM in the morning, an hour you couldn’t fathom waking up at on the first day of summer.
You groan and flop back down, shutting off your phone and slamming the pillow over your head in a pitiful attempt at falling back asleep.
Only for your doorbell to ring twenty minutes later.
Over.
And over.
And over.
The urge to screech compels your barely-awake form, legs wobbling out of bed to feebly reach the doorway in a sleep-ridden haze.
Of course, lo and behold, Minho lies responsible, clad in running shoes, a pair of shorts, and a black nike zip-up.
He’s evidently pleased—whether from how disheveled you appear—or that he actually got you out of bed in the first place by the lingering smile tugging at his lips.
You hate to say it, but he’s annoyingly attractive, there’s no denying.
“Caught you at a bad time, hm?” He tips his head down to make eye-contact, peering through wild hair and lidded eyes at your half-alive self.
All you can manage out is a minuscule grunt, about to close the door before Minho jars his hand in, inviting himself inside much to your dismay.
Like instinct, he heads straight to your closet, surveying the chaos his insistent door-bell ringing caused before fetching a sweatshirt to pull over your head and a pair of socks from your drawer.
Though, as you wake up a tad bit more, you hurriedly keep him from putting your socks on for you as he bends down, shying away with an irritated whine.
“If this is what dating you is like I’m calling off the pact,” You mumble, stomping toward the door with Minho pushing you forwards without chance of escape.
He giggles, seeming to contain utmost glee witnessing your temper tantrum.
“Oh trust me sweetheart, the fun never ends.”
He’s hopeless too, apparently.
Lucky for you, your friend’s visits occurred sporadically, meaning the 10AM wake up calls weren’t a daily routine of headaches.
In contrast, summer passed by in a flash, and you were shoved head-first into a packed schedule for a second time as the autumn leaves shriveled into crisp browns and oranges.
Autumn was always welcomed. It meant the chilling cold was approaching, yes, but it also signified apple cider being added to the downstairs café menu and—on those especially chilly mornings—bundling your neck in the scarf Minho bought you last christmas.
As for him, he frequents pointed shoes and straight-legged pants, his fudge-colored hair perfectly complimented by pumpkin scented fragrances and dusky red backdrops.
Brisk mornings call for thinking. And as you walk, you come to the indefinite conclusion apple cider fits Minho. Sweet, but not saccharine. Warm to the touch, reminiscent with a charming aftertaste. A silhouette that comes and goes as it pleases, leaving soon enough for you to crave it back again.
Regarding summer, he was sort of like a beach day. A vacation in the midst of roaring deadlines, the comfortable lull of waves buzzing your mind into a hazy, salty escapade.
Although as December plucks each oak of its splendor, a call on Sunday morning truly marks the season of winter.
“..Y/n?” Minho murmurs, his voice groggy, hoarse. You make a sound of acknowledgment in response.
“I think I’m sick, can you drop off some meds at the door?”
Pressing your phone close to your ear, you debate on your desire to scold him, remind him each time he gets a winter cold he should dress warmer.
Of course, your lips stay shut (just like they always have for the past few years), and you reply with a “Be there soon, hang tight” before ending the call and gathering your belongings.
At the supermarket you check out seaweed soup, multivitamins, and allergy relief—things of which you hope will alleviate some of his symptoms.
Eternally grateful for the spare key you’d been given a while back, you enter the home, calling his name until an exasperated sign of life was heard (more like coughed) from the bedroom.
Inside lay Minho, a distressing array of tissues scattered in all directions, clustered beyond belief. His nose is soured pink from incessant stuffiness, lips cracked and dry. Dark circles sag beneath tired eyes, worn disposition evidence of his condition.
Quick on your feet, you scour the bathroom for a thermometer, the device’s loud beep signifying a blaring fever as you hover by his bedside.
Watching the bowl of instant soup spin aimless circles in the microwave, Minho’s call knocks you out of your daydream, worriedly padding to where he lays.
“Come here.”
You oblige, arriving to his right, about to ask the matter until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.
If you had been warm before, an entirely new definition to sweating has been reached at this point.
“You’re warm,” He whispers, rubbing his face against your hand like a needy cat wanting attention.
How unfair a human can be this round.
Practically bounding from the inside, you use the excuse of the microwave beeping to race off, hurriedly disappearing into the kitchen while remaining ignorant to the way Minho’s gaze follows you.
Returning with a soup platter meticulously carried between your tight grip, you sigh with relief upon sitting the steaming concoction down. Oh so slowly, a frown grows at your face upon noticing the expectant stare boring into your head.
“Yes?”
He juts out his bottom lip like a kicked puppy from your nonplussed tone, nudging the covers over himself till only those calculating eyes peek out.
“I’m not feeding you.”
Minho all but whimpers, and you suppress the urge to smother him with a pillow right then and there, hating how easily he sends goosebumps prickling the back of your neck, heat scalding your ears.
“No.”
“Y/n.”
You quite literally feel like the cruelest person in existence because why is he looking at you with that face, saying your name like that.
Grumbling beneath your breath, you begrudgingly collect a spoonful, bringing the utensil to his already pursed lips.
Spoonful by spoonful do you feed him as if he’s a dependent toddler, his satisfied hums earning a stern glare in return.
Only when he finishes eating do you get up, reprimanding him on taking his meds without much bite to your words.
“And don’t take too many of these, alright? If it gets really bad, call me again. Otherwise, try getting sleep.”
“Yes ma’am.”
And of course he has to be endearing.
Such a pain.
You’ll stop by tomorrow.
If Minho was the apple cider in autumn and beach days in the summer, he’s the prettiest of snowflakes in the midst of winter.
Memorable, fleeting. Melting in your touch.
The annual Christmas party the company hosts steadily approaches, your coworkers ringing your phone insistently with noticeable anticipation.
Though just like autumns chill, December soars past idly, reigning in a new year and a new digit added to twenty when asked your age.
Your winter premise only heightened the anxiety compiling in your gut, a feeling you hadn’t recognized until the following day—the first day back to work in January—dawned.
January 1st’s introduction means you’re both officially twenty-five, and you’re not sure if it’s the fact Minho hasn’t texted you yet or the valentines pact in itself setting you on edge.
What would it be like to date Minho? Would he kiss you, the same way male leads in K-dramas did? Hold you as you sleep, wish you goodbye with a kiss to your cheek?
The mere thought sends rivets of electricity blazing your fingertips, feeling like an utter fool for imagining such scenarios.
Now you’ve haunted yourself for worse, leaving only dread in tow.
Arriving at the office the first day back, you attempt at making yourself look as collected as possible, definitely not bothered.
Worse, the root of your troubles walks in unbothered as you’ve been trying to do for the past few hours, the room working in deplorable silence before a note wedges itself behind your keyboard, Minho slipping past in its wake.
It takes all your will-power to ignore the crumpled piece of paper as best as possible, your index itching to unravel whatever lay inside.
Noon is when you finally give in, lungs failing to produce air upon reading the contents, practically choking on nothing.
Come over to my place after work.
What is this, his way of declaring your pact officially in action? What if he calls it off, saying it was only a joke glasses of wine granted?
As Hyeongmi said before, everyone has the hots for him, so why don’t you? Why does the thought of him calling it off put you on edge?
Or maybe you do. Maybe you do have feelings for—
Woah. Stop there.
Luckily, your internal chess match went unnoticed, leaving only the buzzing of your ears and the ticking of the clock loud.
A certain fondness sat between either of you from the start, since becoming acquainted you’ve instantly clicked—sly remarks and playful teasing merely one more thing keeping you alive (minus coffee).
So when something crossing the border between friends and lovers arose, a sort of nervousness bubbled in your gut.
Minho was a shoulder to cry on for you, but was it like that?
You could rely and depend on each other whenever, but could those feelings ever turn into love?
Of course they could, and they likely would’ve if it weren’t for either of you being so work-oriented—making you even more worried.
Although, you can’t simply flee. You’re an adult.
..And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.
Never had you been hesitant to leave office until now, and trodding one foot in front of the other causes your legs to turn into jelly.
Minho probably isn’t this nervous. He’s probably in a great mood, treating the occasion like it’s just another casual day.
Never before was it difficult, whether difficult is referred to as placing a key in a doorway or walking inside, everything seems so.. eminent.
Like when you walk through this door, an entirely new side of Minho will show face. A romantic side of Minho.
Yet, there’s no rose petals lining the hallway, nor scented candles scattered here and there.
What is there to expect with dating in your twenties anyway?
Plus, Minho’s well, Minho. If he wanted to, he likely would’ve flat-out asked already.
Something you’re surprised about, however, is the triangular string decor swooping from the ceiling, the party hats by the sink, a single birthday candle placed in the center of a cupcake. Simple, perfect.
Although, the perfect factor came with the man responsible, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, bracing himself on the countertop with a particular glow in his irises—whether it be from the lit candle you aren’t sure—that sets your stomach into a garden of butterflies.
A surprise party. He threw you a surprise birthday party.
And it’s then as enter the kitchen, brain barely recognizing each advance forward, you realize it.
You really, really want to date him.
And you really, really don’t want to screw this up.
Staring at each other, you rise up on your toes to place a careful, feather-light peck on the smooth, flushed skin of his cheek.
Slowly, he turns his head, a conniving smirk revealing the outline of his teeth whilst investigating your breathlessness.
“Someone’s daring,” He mumured, cocking a brow amusedly.
You poke his side, groaning that he shouldn’t look too far into it before he nudges you, your frown returned with a subtle nod—directed at the forgotten cupcake.
“Well you already gave me a kiss, so wish for something else.”
“Choke,” You respond, but there’s still no bite to it. Some things never change.
Minho gently holds your hair back for you, allowing you to lean over and blow out the candle. No bite.
Your wish?
Let Minho and I go well. I like us.
Every bit of it was the truth.
Hopefully this wish of yours can come true.
Maybe.
Seated on the living room floor do you finally relax, your shoulders slumping down after hours of monstrous tension. Seems you’d forgotten he was your best friend before anything else.
“So.. how does this work?”
‘Work’ as in, the dating deadline’s here, what’s next?
He purses his lips—a habit of his—blinking rapidly.
“Like friends? Except we get the kissing and sex pass in between, right?”
You smack his shoulder. He smiles, childishly extending his pinky out to you.
Linking yours, you press the pad of your thumb against his. An unspoken gesture.
“Together?”
Through thick and thin. Your way, as it always was, always had been.
He has stars in his tawny-globes for eyes.
“Together.”
Minho’s hands are warm in the midst of frigid temperatures.
Spring isn’t too far off, but the bitter winds remain ceaseless and unrelenting, whipping your hair every which way, scattering a plethora of goosebumps along your skin.
Never had you held hands like this with someone before, nonetheless Minho, and yet, a connection lies inside the initial awkwardness. The silent assurance, whether it’s his thumb smoothing your palm or occasional squeezes, telling you he understands, that you’re not alone, or how he patiently waited by the door the entire time you were getting ready, claiming he didn’t want to dirty your place with his shoes.
It’s sort of revitalizing. Curious and inquisitive in his lingering touches, additional notes—reminders on your coffee cup, questions asking whether you want to stay over afterward, if he can give you a kiss on the cheek.
One in particular you recall:
I miss you. Scribbled in bleeding ink.
Your introduction as lovers had been a field day of trials and questions for the two of you, though when it came down to the public’s knowledge, you began debating on the “curiosity killed the cat” theory.
This morning, catching a glimpse of the company’s logo in the distance, you assign yourself as the cat. Too interested, now suffering the consequences.
Granted, you wouldn’t take back moving to relationship status, but it was a lot easier to brush off comments if you were Minho.
Hyeongmi being the main one responsible for said comments.
Morning passed by seamlessly, prioritizing work above all else, too busy typing away to for any interruptions.
..Until a midday conference.
Seated right next to each other, his fingers slowly thread with yours beneath the table, sending the man a perplexed (and slightly nervous) expression in response.
More so, the comforting casualness caused you to barely recognize Mrs. Song reaching below to fetch her fallen pen, a gasp of surprise stilling the conversation at her realization.
“Are you- Are you two holding—?”
Panicked, you smack his hand away, stomach plummeting.
Not expecting him to stubbornly grab your hand again, a miniature frown draws across his perfectly rose lips.
Pouting.
Lee Minho is pouting because you’re not letting him hold your hand.
Unbelievable.
If the situation could escalate further, the she-devil herself (Hyeongmi) throws her head down to spare a glimpse, allowing you to fully accept your demise. A demise that, one way or another, needed to happen.
This was simply an early death.
“You’re kidding! No way you guys are a thing?” The eccentric girl mouths the last words, eyebrows drawn to her hairline.
And just like that, your relationship with Minho ventured out of your pocket and into a brand new wilderness.
“So…what’s it like living everybody’s dream?”
Headed to the bathroom, Hyeongmi stops you, leaned over the mirror, carefully inspecting her plum-colored lipstick.
“What?” You pique, confusedly glancing between her and the empty stall you’re trying to nonchalantly slip into.
“I mean, the entire company’s talking about it. Tell me, are you guys actually official? Or is this all just for the attention? No offense, but-“
“I...”
Want to punch you in the face.
You keep it to yourself.
“I’m gonna go.”
Synonymously, both your bladder and your appetite completely disappeared.
Although, she doesn’t leave you alone.
You’re frantically searching for excuse after excuse, speed-walking and taking the stairs any chance available.
Unfortunately for you, she’s everywhere. At some point you’re certain a tracking device is hidden somewhere on your clothes.
Almost there. From silently pleading help with your eyes to legitimately hiding in your workplace, today couldn’t have been more of a joke.
Or so you thought.
“Y/n?”
“Yes, Hyeongmi?”
“With Minho,” She nervously fiddles with her earrings. “You don’t have to tell me but.. how’s the bedroom?”
Apparently, it can go lower.
Before you can respond to her shamelessness, a grip fastens on your shoulders, cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is.
Your beach day.
“Hyeongmi, you do realize that’s rude, yeah? Let’s not cross boundaries we shouldn’t cross, got it?”
All the while Minho smiles, this cloying, “I dare you” sort of attitude no one can argue with.
Averting her attention, she speedily raises up, humorlessly laughing off the tension while excusing herself from the room.
“You okay?” He whispers, breath ghosting over the shell of your ear, pressing a chaste kiss there.
Yeah, there’s no getting used to this.
“Yep,” You say, though there isn’t much sincerity it.
He knows.
“Wait for me here, let’s walk home together.”
Ah. You want to kiss him.
“Minho.”
He turns on his heel.
Kiss me.
You’re holding his collar now, the option on the tip of your tongue, his lips a hairbreadth from yours.
Close, closer.
No. Not yet.
Either way, what do you know about kissing? What if you screw up?
Not yet.
“..Okay.”
Your gaze flits down to his lips if only for a second. A small, cheeky grin adorning his face as he follows your movements.
It’s hard to focus when he leaves, because all you can think about is the possibilities. What if you had kissed him? Would he have kissed you back?
By the way looked at you, the logical response would be: yes. Most people don’t stare at someone like that without the intent to kiss them, right?
Though somehow, you can’t help but feel unprepared, a complete novice in this battlefield of love.
Where Minho took you afterward was a mystery, merely happy to be away from the confines of your desk—letting his eager hand guide you wherever he pleased.
Shielded beneath the shade of two trees, your destination, Yeouido Park, is a spectacle during the transition period of winter to spring. You’d oftentimes spend hours here, basking in the relief a break grants. A spectacle where you two first truly met.
“Alright, be honest with me.”
He spins you around till you’re face to face, carefully analyzing your facial expression.
“Are you really okay? After Hyeongmi said that, I couldn’t stop thinking..”
Oh. That careful crease in his eyebrows, sympathetic.
He’s breaking your heart.
You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.
“Of me?”
The words come out involuntarily, a step forward in the newness, paving light through the darkened abyss.
“Yeah..” He says, a little winded while doing so.
Minho cares, he always had, yet, it’s your first time hearing it aloud.
“Y/n.”
Blinking yourself back into reality, your face grows warm, not intending to deliberately space out right in front of him.
He leans forward, causing you to shrink back into your skin as a kiss is planted right atop your nose, the man wearing a satisfied grin.
“Hey- You can’t- It’s not Valentines yet—“
“And why would I wait until Valentine’s day?”
Another deeper red burns your cheeks, and you scorn the way he gets under your skin—a way that makes every insult dissolve like powder on your tongue.
He notices, but decides not to prod further, lightly bumping your hip with his own as a signal to follow.
“Tomorrow is the day, y’know,” You mumble, kicking rocks with the tip of your shoe.
“Are we gonna turn into those couples?” He asks, pretentiously puckering his lips, eyes squinted shut.
You burst out laughing.
“I would break up with you first, sorry Minho.” Said puckered lips transform into a playful scowl.
“What? No treat for valentines?”
Blinking babydoll eyes up at you, you wrinkle your nose, coming to recognize what “treat” he was implying.
Earlier you would’ve kissed instantly, but an inkling of stubbornness kept you from giving into him this time.
Sneaking behind you, he ducks down, voice low enough for only your ears to hear.
“Didn’t seem you were too against it earlier.”
And with that, he races off, entirely too happy with himself and not likely to live down your reaction. Because you can’t disagree.
Since when were Lee Minho’s lips so kissable?
Knock.
Knock.
Your attention strays from the mirror at the sound, wondering if it was simply a figment of your imagination only for the sound to ensue.
Knock. Knock.
Who would be at your door at this hour in the middle of the week?
There’s a name on your tongue, but you don’t contemplate any longer, tiptoeing to the doorway to peer through the peephole.
And the sight before you makes every ounce of suspicion worthwhile.
Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.
He’s staring at his shoes, bouncing back and forth on his heels nervously.
Lee Minho is nervous.
Wanting just to stand there and watch him rehearse, you finally give in after a third knock scares you out of your wits—hesitantly opening the door and trying to placate the most surprised expression possible.
His eyes round as saucers, you literally watch the gears in his head turn in real time, extending the flowers out to you.
“Happy valentines. These are uh, for you.”
And his ears are red.
You’re going to implode from how cute this is.
Attempting to stave down the alarming amount of happiness you’re experiencing, you hold the flowers in one hand, awaiting whatever lie behind his back.
Although, as the outline of a box of chocolates appears, so does… a shampoo bottle.
What.
Bathing in a long silence, you can’t help but wonder you’re genuinely hallucinating. Glancing from his face to the literal shampoo in hand, he mirrors you, confused for a reason you’re trying to figure out as well.
“Is that… a shampoo bottle?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you were running low the last time I came here.”
…
You’ve never received a valentine before, but this automatically took the cake.
Is it possible to fall in love after you’re given a shampoo bottle as a gift on valentines? Apparently so.
Nonetheless, work flashed past, barely able to register a thing between the many congratulations you received and the absence of Hyeongmi (assumed to be due to the brown-haired charmer beside you).
For now, you savor the freedom of the day, finally able to escape the pains of before and wallow in a new kind of excitement. Love.
Love delivered by Minho himself in the form of mini scraps he’s folded into hearts, slipping heart after heart onto your desk at any opportunity to the point you bump his leg beneath the table in warning.
He cheekily smirks in return, stupidly innocent face scheming with malice.
He’s getting an absolute kick out of this, and you hate to admit you enjoy it just as much.
As usual, you wait behind for him to catch up on your daily commute home—an activity you did long before any romantic feelings became involved.
That’s it. Minho’s pinpoint of romance.
Shampoo bottle, walks home, extra coffee, notes.
Minho doesn’t openly express his love, not unless he feels either adventurous or obligated. Instead, he studies. Your habits, the things you enjoy, your actions, preferences. That particular coffee order you liked, how you had ran out of shampoo.
Oh how you love him.
Though, rounding the sidewalk to your place, Minho grabs ahold of your wrist. In response, as soon as you turn your head, you’re mere centimeters from his face, simply standing there, proximity willing either of you not to move.
Initial words dying out, he slightly edges to the side, cocked in a way that has your mind racing.
Nose, cheek, but never lips.
No.
Your hands act before any other part of you, blocking his lips from yours.
“We-“
The look he’s giving you, shock.
You feel a hundred degrees hotter.
“We need to go inside,” You excuse yourself fast, the man tailing behind, grip still loosely attached to your wrist.
Quickly shutting the door behind you, it’s an immediate embarrassment flooding your frame that allows you to speak, words bursting outward in an uncontrollable cacophony.
“Minho I’m so sorry I have no idea what I was doing, I shouldn’t have done that, it was a stupid idea. I didn’t mean to offend you or anything-“
“Hey, slow down. I’m not going anywhere.”
His tone serves as the much needed breeze fanning your face, cooling you down enough to articulate sentences properly.
“I’m sorry, we’ve just never kissed on the lips and I feel like I’m gonna be horrible and kill the mood. This is stupid, I know, just.. bear with me please?”
His eyebrows furrow, forming together the equation piece by piece.
“You’ve.. You’ve never had your first kis—?”
You hush him furiously, slumping onto the couch dejectedly.
Yet, Minho doesn’t laugh nor pick fun regardless of how hilariously idiotic the occasion is. He’s quiet, concerned almost.
You add that to your long list of things you love about him.
Inhaling gradually, your focus flits to the window, collecting yourself, easing the frantic rush-hour traffic rampaging in your skull.
If you were one of those paper hearts he made, he’s pulling apart each careful fold in this very moment. Unraveling the layers till your bare self is exposed in all its anxiousness.
“I hate it. It feels like a part of that teenage youth everyone talks about is something I’ll never get to experience. I was too busy caring about school, and now I feel like I’ve missed out.”
Soaking in a quietness, you jump when he places a hand over yours, softly tracing the skin of your knuckles, glossy as he watches, carving each perfect aspect of you into memory.
“Well you may not be seventeen, but you’re never too old to learn to kiss.”
One hand cupping your jaw to garner your attention, you’re met with a glass-like visage.
Gentle.
“And I can teach you how.”
It’s always been business, you’ve always been business. Which is why, now confronting what feels to be the highest peak in your love life, you’re left a completely blank canvas. No rules, no instructions.
It’s terrifying.
“Min- Minho, I really haven’t done this before.”
You hastily pique, scooting backward in the cushions.
Curse the shakiness of your voice.
“If you don’t want to do this, tell me. We won’t.”
You quickly shake your head.
No, you want this, you’ve wanted this too badly to back out now.
“Then let’s take it slow, okay?”
It’s horrifically awkward at first, a tiny peck, then a bit longer till your arms creep over his shoulders, his fingers once holding your jaw steady now resting on your neck.
Best word to describe it? Messy.
“Breathe through your nose.”
“Minho— I’m suffocating here—“
You sputter back, quite literally heaving for breath.
Yes, it was otherworldly kissing him, and he was an insanely good kisser, but did this really require your lungs to practically burst?
“Are you teaching me how to give a blowjob or kiss?”
His smile transforms mischievously, a sneering laugh slipping past. You already know he’ll make a sly comment.
Minho winks. “We’ll get to that later.”
“I lost my urge to date you. Bye.”
“Noooo Y/n~” He whines profusely, warm hold on your waist beckoning another kiss filled with hushed giggles and incessant jeers from either party—ensuing a halfway unbuttoned shirt and quite possibly the most greedy ten minutes known to man.
Out of breath, he pulls back from your stomach, the ticklish feather-light kisses planted there earning a stifled giggle from you while he blinks upward, seeming to be focused on something.
“Minho?” You question, ignorant to how unbelievably obsessed with you he is, more than ever in this moment.
From your damp, sweaty skin to the few hairs stuck to your forehead. Your swollen lips, the way you laugh, your stomach dipping with the action. He doubts he’ll ever get tired of this.
Reaching forward as if caught in a trance, he tenderly tucks a piece of hair behind your ear, voice barely audible upon pressing his forehead against yours.
And in the seclusion of your living room, tangled up together on the sofa, it’s just the two of you existing in this world.
“I hope you know I really meant it when I said I thought you were pretty too.”
Ah. He remembers. All that time ago.
Of course he does.
Kissing you for a time you can’t remember, you begin to wonder if that birthday wish of yours had came true after all.
Your feelings for Minho had always existed somewhere inside of you. Your head, your heart. A tiny inkling into something more, a could be. Two individuals wishing, waiting to make a move.
— i love stories that center around this topic so much bc it is such a Real problem. oversharing much but it’s something i personally deal with myself and it’s honestly just so horrible. so i rly appreciate when stories center around the theme of loneliness sometimes
two identical cups in each hand, wearing that bemused expression as usual
— this is so kdrama coded idk i can just picture him with like a coat and a scarf, waiting for u and holding some cups UGHFHF so cute
— it’s funny to imagine the office being spicy and inappropriate I CANTTT i wouldn’t be able to take anyone seriously
— i also would not wanna be a doctor over valentines. i’ve heard the stories ….
— and minho putting rolls of gimbap on ur plate. guys i will always stand by sharing food as a form of love language
“You do realize everyone has the hots for him but that he only hangs out with you, right? I’m telling you, it’s a sign—“
— so real bc if i worked there and minho was single, i would also have the hots for him like let’s all be fr for one second guys
— YN BOUGHT THE KEYCHAIN FOR HIM i’m sorry my heart already hurts and i’m ltrly just in the first few paragraphs.
— i can picture him being especially more charming when he’s tipsy btw 😊😊😊 in his office wear too
“If this is what dating you is like, I’m calling off the pact.”
— guys i ship them
“until his fingers link with your own, bringing the back of your hand to his jaw, resting there.”
— yn is stronger than me bc i would’ve kissed him right then and there
— HE WANTS HER TO FEED HIM guys this minho is so endearing to me i think he’s my favorite
“your internal chess match went unnoticed.”
— i’m rly enjoying the way this is written. it feels like a romcom like now i want a MOVIEEE someone give me a movie version of this
And Minho will find you in a heartbeat if you decide to run.
— i’m loving this way too much i cannot stress enough how it feels like a romcom. the comedic timing and the word choice is immaculate
— sorry but the simple detail of his sleeves rolled up to his elbows is making me meowwww
— A SURPRISE BDAY PARTY 😭 wtf this is pissing me off now bc can they be like this irl. can men please take notes rn bc this minho is so perfect
Let Minho and I go well. I like us.
— guys i’m gonna start crying and i’m gonna start getting aggressive bc if this isn’t the cutest thing. cutest line. this is my favorite btw i’m claiming this line
— the smacking his hand scene bc they got caught holding hands under the table. someone tell me this fic wouldn’t be the perfect romcom. and then minho pouting bc you’re not letting him hold ur hand. I’M A GONER GUYS
cologne distinct enough you can tell exactly who it is
— HOW DOES IT FEEL TO LIVE MY DREAM
You realize now why everyone falls in love with him.
— yeah exactly
Minho, holding a bouquet of roses and things unknown behind his back, is reciting.
— he’s reciting 😭😭😭😭😭 he’d nervous and reciting and staring at his shoes. i’m so devastated rn and he gave her a shampoo bottle bc she was running low oh my god what in the DOMESTIC.
— minho studies as his form of romance … oh my god u are a genius
— IVE NEVER HAD MY FIRST KISS EITHER
And I can teach you how.
— this story just never stops flustering me. and the mention of him being a good kisser oh jesus and him being so gentle in teaching her too wtf
We’ll get to that later.
— 😊😊😊☺️☺️☺️☺️☺️😊no comment
— he remembers the pretty comment guys i’m shooting myself it’s final
august, you’ve outdone urself. this deserves 2 BILLION notes like this is perfect what the FUCKKK. i’m so sorry for my messy notes on this i was having a ride and the time of my life
sue’s final thoughts: how does it feel to live MY dream. this is actually my dream. like this is it. this is what i want. he is my dream man.