999

during the pre-marriage sessions; recorded meetings in dull, grey rooms at the center of the golden circle, you had seemed like the perfect picture of the kind of woman soonyoung’s supposed to be with. agreeable, pretty, good genes. demure, but not without personality; nothing of that dead, distasteful glare that seems a genetic trait of people from the middle districts.

where you’d been reserved but susceptible during the interviews, you are now cold; eyes shimmering with visible disdain as soonyoung comes in during the quiet, soft yellow hours of the morning. there’s a layer of sweat hidden beneath his trained exterior, a smell of gasoline sticking to his fingers. he glances at the clock right above the entrance to the living room. 5.15 in the morning. he hadn’t expected you awake already, had thought he’d be able to slip inside unnoticed and wash the evidence of his illicit nightly adventures off before falling under your scrutiny.

you’re observant, he’s noticed; quick to pick up on his habits and his preferences. you make him breakfast, cook him dinners; coffee ready on the table every morning, even though he can tell that you despise it. that your fingers twitch with the want to dunk the hot liquid that you’re not allowed to drink yourself right in his face.

he wonders if you think he’s cheating; that his nightly escapades are of the sexual nature. ‘men are creatures of the flesh’, soonyoung’s father used to say. ‘if denied their right in the home, who can blame them for seeking satisfaction somewhere else?’. soonyoung thinks this was meant as a jab towards his mother, who meant that women had one job, and one job only. in any case, the idea never sat right with him. not even now, not even when you sleep fully clothed at the very edge of your shared bed.

and if you do think that’s what he’s doing; do you care? does the slight downwards pull of your lips come from the idea of him entangled with someone else during secret meetings in the night, or does it come from the disdain of the walls that surround you on every side like a lavish, pretty jail cell?

soonyoung can’t tell which option he’d prefer.

(he can’t even tell if any of them are preferable at all.)

____________________

the scariest thing about you, soonyoung finds, is how outspoken you are. he’d heard about it, of course; about the silver tongued rebels of the middle districts. he’d always questioned it; like, would they not be easy to spot, easy to pluck from the normal people and place in their proper places of gallows and cells? evidently, such a line of thought was too simple, too idealistic; here you are, right in front of him, speaking in tones that could only be described as vulgar, illegal.

this thought, soonyoung admits with reluctance, is strangely exciting.

“you smell like whisky,” you murmur when soonyoung comes home from meeting his three closest friends. drinking alcohol is frowned upon, for sure, but not illegal. not for him. still, he feels a sort of guilt tug at his spine. a magical power of yours, that; making him squirm and question everything he’s been so sure of before. you divert your gaze, stare out the window. your voice is nothing but a murmur when you open your mouth again; “must be nice.”

bitterness does not make itself scarce in your expression, nor in your tone, and soonyoung’s jaw tightens. “do you want some?”

he surprises himself by being completely serious. you twist your head back to look at him, watches as he produces a half full bottle of burning, brown liquid from the bag slung over his shoulder. looking for the signs of a test, no doubt; for any traces of challenge. you blink, surprised to find none, soonyoung supposes. he steps quickly over to the cabinet, finds two glasses there and sits himself down on the chair left of yours. you do not take your eyes off of him, not as he shifts to make himself comfortable, not as he pours the liquid into the two glasses.

the only sound in the room is that of whisky being poured, the only smell the strong stench of liquor. he’ll break this one law, he thinks, without giving it too much of a thought. you’ve already presented your cards, already complained and opposed, already made yourself vulnerable. he hopes, with a thud of his heart, that you won’t make him regret this lapse of judgement.

you hum, reach for the glass, twirl the liquid around in the clear glass. “might as well,” you relent at last. “maybe alcohol is what it takes to make this district survivable.”

soonyoung chokes on whisky.

“you’re quite bold,” he murmurs, not without reluctant admiration in his voice. “what’s to stop me from reporting you to the enforcers?”

you tilt your head, watch him with dangerous eyes. “ah,” you breathe, lean your head against the knuckles of your hand. “to the rebellious future enforcer choi seungcheol?” you tap your fingers against your cheekbone, lip curling into something not quite – but close, very close – a smile. amber liquid swirls around the glass, splashes against the rims in something that soonyoung can’t describe as anything but a show of power. “or to boo seungkwan, future brainwasher in command?”

it could be a coincidence that those are the names you choose to mention, of course, but there’s cleverness visible in the arch of your brows, and when you sit back upright in the chair, it’s with the intimidating, powerful aura of any high judge soonyoung has ever met. people used to say – at least people say that people used to say – that men went for women who reminded them of their mothers. of course, people don’t say it anymore; men do not go for women at all, they let the soulmate system choose for them. but in that moment, soonyoung thinks he understands what people used to mean.

“leverage,” you tell him, chug down the last bit of whisky in your glass, looks very little like the image of a ‘proper lady’ that soonyoung has grown up with. you put the glass down on the flat surface of the table, bring your hands up in front of your face, curl your fingers into a fist and flick your wrists in a gesture that soonyoung recognizes only because he’s done it himself countless times. “vroom vroom,” you add, as if he needs the audio to understand what you’re implying. a shiver climb soonyoung’s spine, makes his head tingle. “that’s why you’re not going to report me to the enforcers.”

he stares, throat thick with something that feels a hell of a lot like fear. it’s not something soonyoung feels particularly often, not since he lived with his parents. not since they shut down his dance studio and interrogated him for suspicions of rebellion. he hadn’t been one, then. sometimes he wonders if that was what did it. maybe he’ll ask what you think; you seem to be an expert on the subject of resistance.

“don’t look so shocked,” you murmur, tone a hair’s breadth from mockery. “you always smell like gasoline.”

____________________

“my mother wants to have us over for dinner,” he tells you, watches as you try to keep your emotions under wraps. soonyoung might not have known you for very long, might not actually know you very well at all despite your name tattooed at the top of his wrist, but he recognizes your tells, by now. a twitch at the edge of your lips, a quick, tense rise of your shoulders. to your credit, you do not break eye contact.

things have been… different, since the evening he shared his whisky with you. for one, soonyoung can’t quite help looking over his back when he leaves to ride his bike, can’t help the feeling that you’re always watching. and second, you’ve been far less hostile, though still as loud and assertive in your trash talk. he wouldn’t call it friendly, would hesitate even over ‘amicable’. but he feels it is a win, nonetheless. third, it happens again. it becomes a pattern. for weeks, soonyoung shares his whisky with you, until the bottle is empty and the distance returns.

he knows this, though; there is no mistaking the wave of absolute disgust that paints your otherwise pretty face at the mention of his mother.

he imagines what she must represent to you; a woman born in freedom, who willingly, gladly traded her — and in some small part, every other woman in palatium’s — rights away for a place in the new elite. soonyoung’s father was a nobody before; barely even worthy of living in the high district. soonyoung’s mother, on the other hand, created the soulmate method of marriages. for that, she’s allowed some small, secret perks. books, food, alcohol. clearance to the golden circle. except, soonyoung suspects, it’s not as secret as the elite might think.

“why are you staring at me?” you question at last, defiance blatant and on display in both your tone and your expression. “surely i, the subservient wife, have no say in matters like these.”

“you’re anything but subservient,” soonyoung mutters, mostly to himself. the glare you shoot him is enough to make the hairs on the back of his neck stand. he clears his throat. “i can make up an excuse,” he tells you; the reason he brought it up in the first place. a choice. soonyoung is starting to realize that even in his perpetual state of nodding his head and playing along, he’s taken his freedom for granted. “if you don’t want to go.”

you inhale through your nose, stare at soonyoung from your position by the kitchen counter. in truth, soonyoung had considered not even bringing the invite up, had considered just politely declining the offer and continue putting the inevitable encounter off. but then he’d remembered the bitter commentary you’d made during one of your illicit evenings of soft buzzes and heated almost-arguments; the biting comments about your lack of choices.

he kinda wishes he could have presented you with a better one.

“no,” you tell him, quieter than he expects. he never seems to quite get used to the few and far between moments where you don’t seem to get sick at the mere sight of him. “no, it’s fine,” you sigh, drag a hand through your hair, can’t seem to settle on somewhere to look. “let’s just get it over with.”

____________________

he catches you eyeing the bookcase in the hallway of his mother’s home; something that looks like a cross between envy and resignation ghosting over your features. he wouldn’t even have noticed, had he not been looking for it.

he hopes no one else notices.

“soonyoung, darling,” soonyoung mother enthuses, brings her arms around his neck to envelop him in a bone crushing hug. to the uninitiated onlooker, it must seem like a heartwarming reunion; a mother and a son together again. soonyoung knows better, though, has been on the receiving end of his mother’s overbearing affection enough times to know the truth behind it. soonyoung’s mother might not have a whole lot of power, despite her innovative ideas and her rows and rows of books, but she sure knows how to assert it.

the word for it used to be ‘matriarch’, he knows. of course, that word has disappeared into the box of forgotten things, just like ‘actress’ and ‘queen’.

“it’s good to see you again, my boy,” she goes on, pats soonyoung’s shoulders with long fingers, their nails painted red. a bold move, that, considering nail polish is supposed to be outlawed. then again, rules never seemed to work the same way for the people residing in the golden circle. “and your wife is here as well,” she says at last, notes your presence as one would make note of a new haircut, a new pair of shoes. specifically, a less favorable haircut. soonyoung clears his throat uncomfortably. you refuse to respond.

(it’s the start of a very slow, very painful dinner.)

soonyoung’s mother, despite her active role in the marriage, seems adamant in her blatant ignoring of your presence.

“how’s everything going so far?” she asks, eyes trained right on her son. soonyoung feels the need to hide, to fill his mouth with potatoes and steak and hinder himself from being able to talk.

“it’s going fine, mother,” he replies vaguely, cowers from her inquisitive glare. he glances instead to his right, where you’re picking at your own food, eyes fixed on your maltreated potato. soonyoung’s mother hums, as if that answer has something secret hidden between the words that only she understands.

“it’s been three months,” she goes on, swirls a glass of something that looks like red wine between her fingers. “can i expect grandchildren soon?”

never one for small talk, that woman.

soonyoung hears, somehow, how you stiffen in your chair, the very mention of children a sore, taboo subject between the two of you. you’ll talk, at length, about the unfairness of society and your distaste for the inner circle, but you tastefully avoid subjects that pertain to your marriage, or the expectations that come with it. a part of your newfound almost-amicable relationship, soonyoung suspects.

“only time will tell,” he murmurs, feels two sets of intimidating female gazes heavy on him. he takes a large gulp of his whisky.

she hums again. “she’s not getting any younger, you know. the true purpose of the woman is to provide the man with a child.”

soonyoung doesn’t dare looking over at you. he’s sure the expression he’d find there would be enough to make him sweat. he’s always known that his mother was a bit of an extremist, even as far as the elite goes. he knows his mother is the very definition of a true believer. somehow, these things had been much easier to ignore before. he opens his mouth – to agree? to protest? he doesn’t know – but his mother chooses that moment to address you, finally, directly.

“isn’t that right, dear?” she asks sweetly. the following silence feels sort of like a death sentence. soonyoung wants to intervene. he doesn’t.

“of course,” you reply, voice flat and submissive in a whole nother way than how he’s used to. your subservience has been a mockery, before, a sort of inside joke on soonyoung’s expense, a proof of your opposition. there’s nothing of that present now, and when he finally manages to force his gaze over to your seat, your face is deathly pale. you still have not touched your food, but you still have the distinct expression of someone with a bad taste in their mouth.

you do not speak again the rest of the night.

____________________

after the dinner at soonyoung’s mother’s, there’s a tangible, heavy silence hanging over the kwon jr. household. you won’t speak to him, not when he buys a new bottle of whisky and tries to lure you into the sitting room to join him, not when he starts dropping small hints about his adventures during the night.

not even when he wakes up extra early to try – and horribly fail at – making you breakfast do you say a word to him, though you do push him aside to try and salvage the burnt eggs stuck to the dark pan on the stove. soonyoung feels helpless, in a completely unfamiliar, overwhelming sort of way. he’s always seen himself as a pretty empathetic person, even when being empathetic was not a good thing to be. he buried it when he had to, but it was always there, tucked inside his ribcage.

he’s not sure ‘empathy’ is enough to adequately describe how he feels as he watches you flitter around the house like a ghost.

it seems to boil over inside of you, five days after the dinner. he returns from watching mingyu fight in the underground, the smell of gasoline and of cigarettes sticking to his clothing and tugging at his skin. he loosens his tie and slinks up the stairs towards the bedroom. he doesn’t expect you to be awake.

you twist your head around when he enters, look at him with the same dead sort of gaze that has been haunting him for days and days now. the familiar feeling that’s not quite empathy, that tastes an awful lot like guilt, tugs on his chest. he used to think you were very loud. maybe that’s just another one of those things he took for granted.

you rise from your side of the bed, dressed only in your pale, white nightgown, and take a few determined steps towards him. you grasp at the front of his shirt, fingers doing quick work of his top buttons. soonyoung panics at your sudden aggression, takes a rushed, clumsy step back, but you only follow, wordlessly, keep working on the buttons of his clothes.

“hold– hold on,” he stutters, tries to grasp at your hands. you only press further, until he’s backed up against the door, eyes focused on the shirt and on the skin revealed by every button you undo. “what the hell are you doing?” your head snaps up at that, gaze hard and mouth set in a thin line. soonyoung feels exposed, vulnerable, his heart beating wildly in his chest.

“my job,” you reply, with a voice that sounds both eerily like your own and someone else’s entirely. you grip at the fabric of his shirt, try to pull it off of his shoulders. soonyoung’s own fly up to wrap around your elbows to stop you. “a woman’s only purpose is to provide her husband with children, and all that.”

“i don’t–” soonyoung starts, doesn’t quite know how to continue the sentence. i don’t think that. i don’t want that. somehow he doesn’t think any of the options would be particularly soothing, despite his efforts. your fingernails dig into his clothes, make crescent moons along the skin of his chest. it looks like you can’t decide whether to cry or to scream.

“do you know what happens to women who refuses to sleep with their husbands?” you ask, a sort of pathetic, fragile stuntedness to your voice. your fingers are still tightly clutched at the front of his unbuttoned shirt. they shiver; in fear or anger, soonyoung doesn’t know. “they get sent to the lower districts, branded for being ‘barren’.” soonyoung circles his hands around your wrists, tries to pull your hands away. your grip at his clothes tighten, and you stare him right in the eyes. “of course, most of the time it won’t come to that, because men have the habit of taking what they want whether the woman want it or not.”

there’s no word for it anymore, but the old one, the one that starts with an r, still echoes in the back of soonyoung’s head. he feels sick, feels the impulse to push you away from him and run away. his throat feels thick, mouth full of ashes.

“that won’t happen to you here,” he says, voice kept stable only by the conviction with which he says it. he presses his thumbs into your skin. your head is bowed; in shame or in disbelief, soonyoung can’t know. “nothing you don’t want will happen as long as i’m here.” he lets go of your wrists and they fall limply to your side. he takes hold of your face, feels ridiculously bold for doing so, guides your face up so you can see how much he means what he’s saying. somehow, he feels more honest than he’s done ever before. “i swear i’ll do anything to make you happy.”

in the old time, the time when you married someone you loved rather than someone whose genes matched your own, they used to have these beautiful ceremonies. soonyoung remembers overhearing talks about them during meetings when he was a child. something he always was especially entranced by was the concept of ‘vows’, of promises to keep and to honor. they got scrapped for something far more technical, of course, but the idea was especially appealing to soonyoung. this one will have to do, he thinks. there’s not a lot more he can promise, considering the circumstances. your eyes are wet. he finds that he wants to press his lips to your forehead.

he doesn’t. instead, he says, “i’ll sleep on the couch tonight. please get some rest.” and he leaves the room. he hears a sob through the door, and he swears something inside him cracks painfully.

and that is why he ends up in front of his mother’s bookcase once again a mere week later.

____________________

“what’s this?” you ask when he puts the book down in front of you on the table. soonyoung feels strangely disconnected to his own body; almost as if he’s standing in the corner of the room, watching himself present you with the book. people have gone to jail for less than this; people have been hanged.

but then, he participates in illegal races at night, attends betting matches in the underground once a month. he tells himself that’s why despite the rush of fear coursing through his veins, soonyoung does not hesitate once to give you the worn paperback. “it’s a book,” he replies lamely; knows it’s a mistake as soon as the words fall out of his mouth.

“obviously,” you bite back, the exclamation almost more a hiss than a word. soonyoung knows better than to talk down to you, by now, but he finds that old habits are hard to break. and you’ve been tense ever since visiting his mother, too, much easier to anger. he wonders if you still hear her words in your head when you close your eyes. the thought makes him nauseous. “what am i supposed to do with it? fold paper cranes?”

soonyoung blinks, gaze falling down to where your fingers lie curled and interlaced with each other on the surface of the table. you have pretty hands, he notice; prettier than he would have expected from the middle district. “can you?” he looks back up at your face, finds you squinting in his direction as if you’re loathe to even look at him. “i mean–” he amends, clears his throat. sits down on the chair on your left, folds his hands. he can’t quite look you in the eyes. “you want to learn to read, don’t you?”

you blink; scrunch up your nose as if in disbelief and mouth pulled down in a very distinct frown. soonyoung thinks you might be trying to play down how true his assumption is, but the light dust of red that appears at your cheekbones give you away. soonyoung feels awkward, as if his mouth is full of syrup. “i’ll teach you,” he tries, desperately needs for you to react in any way at all. when you don’t, he swallows, breathes out heavily. “if you want?”

it seems as if you’re silent for an eternity; trust still non-existent and doubt still lingering in every corner of your shared home and in every line of your face. hesitant fingers reach out to touch the front of the book, almost as if you’re afraid of breaking it. there a small twitch at the edges of your lips that might be a smile.

“thank you,” you whisper, and something in soonyoung’s chest seems to bloom.

(it becomes a routine. soonyoung points out letters, pronunciations, coaches you through the longer words and sentences. sometimes you’ll make attempts at reading entire pages out loud, eager to learn and thirsty for knowledge. sometimes he’ll read to you in bed, almost too distracted by the new sort of closeness and the way your eyes flit over the pages to even know what he’s reading.

it’s just a simple novel; a story he’d been obligated to read multiple times in school, but you eat it up, entranced by every word. one night you fall asleep with your head against his shoulder. that night, he’s supposed to meet up with seungcheol, mingyu and seungkwan for a race.

he finds that he can’t quite get himself to move.)

____________________

you’re a quick learner. much quicker than soonyoung was, much more proficient than he could ever hope to be. he tries to tell himself that the sense of pride that comes with your impressive learning curve is an innocent thing. tries to tell himself that the way he leans back and focuses fully on your voice, on the way your fingers clutch at the coarseness of paper doesn’t have anything to do with the soft tingle in the pit of his stomach.

“they work so hard to maintain this intellectual high ground over the lower regions,” you rattle on, uncaring for the fact that soonyoung can’t keep up even if he tried. probably you could make anything and everything into an hour long rant, he thinks, but not without affection. “‘the poor can’t be smart, they lack the education’, ‘women can’t be equal, can’t have any substantial thoughts; they can’t even read!’” you run a finger along the spine of the book. when soonyoung follows your finger, he notices that it’s shaking. your words sounds an awful lot like what he used to learn to be treason when he was a child; but then soonyoung is starting to realize that you commit treason with every intake of breath, every twitch of your brow.

then maybe he’s a traitor, too, for being so engulfed, so committed; for the way he hangs on to your every word as if they were holy. he’s surprisingly okay with that thought.

“but the elite are the ones keeping education away from us,” your finger stops moving, and soonyoung forces his gaze up to your face, pauses at the pinkness of your cupid’s bow, at the arch of your nose. every day, he’s finding details in your face that he wants to jot down in his journal, commit eternally to memory.

“honestly,” he murmurs. “even without the education, you’re probably ten times smarter than me.” it’s easier now, to spill sacrilege from his lips, to disregard his teachings for these secret truths between a man and his wife. sometimes he has to look over his shoulder before saying them, too scared of a housekeeper peeping or an enforcer storming the doors. it’s more worth it each time he does it; genuine smiles painted on your features as a reward for his morsels of genuiness.

you hum quietly, something dangerous flickering in your eyes. “that’s actually a pretty popular theory.”

“that women are smarter than men?” soonyoung finds the claim far less outrageous now than he would have six months ago. it’s impossible to be as staunch and sure as men are supposed to be in their own superiority, when he is so overexposed to your brilliance.

“no,” you reply with a laugh. “that i’m smarter than you. specifically.”

a joke, soonyoung registers. like the ones his father used to tell at dinners and during house parties. though, kwon sr. used to prefer the jokes about sex traitors, about women in high positions. soonyoung’s mother’s lip used to be very tight during these loud retellings. soonyoung finds that he prefers your joke; one that’s private and that puts you on a pedestal rather than pushes you down, that makes you refer to him as a friend rather than someone you’re stuck with.

he also finds that he wants to kiss you. that feeling he buries.

____________________

“soonyoung,” you murmur one night, quietly and carefully from your side of the bed. the divide has gotten smaller, for sure, but there’s still something invisible and terrible that seems to keep you sleeping with your back against him, that keeps him from daring to reach out and touch your hair while you sleep. he opens one eye, peers at you while you twist around in the bed to face him. he can barely make out your silhouette in the darkness, but he still knows exactly what you must look like.

“what is it?” he prompts when you seem to be hesitating. you exhale, and he feels the air on his face, resists the urge to shiver.

“you said–” you pause, shift slightly on the bed. he thinks you’re embarrassed, somehow. “you said you’d do anything,” you don’t finish the sentence, don’t need to. maybe the word ‘happy’ is too foreign on your tongue. soonyoung’s skin tingles. “did you mean it?”

“yes,” he replies, doesn’t even stop for a second to reconsider. truths never used to fall out of him so easily before. nothing is quite like before, he feels, with a sort of terrifying warmth at the pit of his stomach. you must be gathering up the courage to ask for something, he realizes. “is there?” he asks. “something i can do?”

silence. for one, two, three– “take me out,” you whisper, almost reluctantly; as if you have to force the request out of your mouth. “on your bike.”

soonyoung sits up, and you follow; the bed jiggling under the sudden movements. his first thought is to refuse, to protest. too daring, too dangerous, too many risks. but as his eyes adjust to the darkness and he’s able to see your face more clearly he sees the uncertain, bare expression that lingers there, and he finds that refusal is an impossibility. so instead, he whispers back, “okay. now?” watches with delight as the tension leaves your body and is replaced by relief.

“please.”

(he holds your hand as he drags you after him to the garage where soonyoung and his friend keeps their bikes, can’t help looking back every so often to remind himself how your fingers intertwined looks. something scary, something amazing sizzles underneath his skin. he knows what it is, but somehow he can’t quite remember the name.)

he doesn’t take you to the underground where the nightly fights are held, nor does he show you the streets everyone use for races. somehow, he doesn’t think that’s what you’re really interested in, even with how much you’ve probed him about it. instead, he takes you to a secluded hill, his private, secret little spot. it’s not much; nothing really is anymore, but it’s more than the house, more than the dull, brown walls you’re used to staring at.

your neck cranes backwards as you take in the sight; bends so far back that soonyoung has to instinctively put a hand at your back to make sure you don’t fall over. the stars are bright, here; twinkling and clear and alive in a way that soonyoung haven’t been able to spot anywhere else. sometimes you’ll gasp, or inhale as if you haven’t been able to breathe for months, and when you turn to thank him, the shimmer of your eyes seem to outshine every star in the night sky.

(love, he realizes, as you’re holding onto him, arms wrapped securely around his torso as you head back to the garage. the feeling is called love.)

“soonyoung,” you call after him when you’re back in the house, stopping in the middle of the hallway. soonyoung swears he’ll never get used to how his name sounds in your voice. he turns around, takes note of the uncertain look in your eyes. “i’m–” you frown, take a step towards him. for a moment, you seem to weigh your options, to ponder how to go about whatever it is you’re trying to express. an inhale, an exhale. “ah, fuck it.” and then–

then your lips are on his, his face pulled forcefully to meet yours. your fingertips claw at his face, body pressing itself against him, and for a second soonyoung thinks his brain might have exploded. you tug at his face again, urge him to either respond or pull away.

soonyoung chooses the first option. he grabs your hips, digs his fingers into the fabric of your clothes and pull at your body as if he’d die without the contact. your mouth opens, tongue slipping out to lick at his mouth, and soonyoung groans, feels the vibrations of it through his whole body. he takes a few steps, presses you against the wall, and you bite down on his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. soonyoung can’t decide if the sensation is painful or pleasurable, he can’t remember his own last name. all he knows is that you rotate your hips, grinds against him in a way that makes him dizzy.

“upstairs,” you pant, and soonyoung takes the opportunity to explore your neck; bites and nibs at your skin and relishes in the reactions it gives him. your exhales are loud, shaky, and your fingers burrow into his shoulder in what seems more like a steadying action than anything else. “bed,” you add, as if you’ve forgotten how to construct proper sentences.

here, soonyoung falters. “you don’t have to–” he says, voice hoarse with something he can’t describe as anything but ‘lust’. another sin to add to the tally, he supposes. he pulls his head back, searching your face for anything to imply that you’re acting out of a sense of obligation. he finds your cheeks; reddened beyond anything he’s ever seen before. he finds your mouth; already swollen and hot pink against your skin. he finds your eyes; wild and alive and more than ever reminding him of the night full of stars.

he does not, however, see any doubt. still, he feels the need to reiterate; “i don’t expect anything.”

you laugh, at that, a breezy, easy thing that sounds almost like a symphony. you take his face between your hands, squish his cheeks and press a chaste, quick kiss to his lips.

“i know. i want to.”

and there’s something in the almost prideful way you say that, that you emphasize the word ‘want’, that makes soonyoung think he couldn’t ever deny you anything.

____________________

soonyoung stares. he leans on his arm, fingers splayed against soft linens and body cushioned by thick duvets. on the other side of the bed, you’re sleeping.

before – that is to say, before you realized that soonyoung was not your enemy, that he could even be your ally – you used to sleep with a body language so tight and rigid that soonyoung sometimes wondered if you ever actually slept at all. fully clothed in your heavy dresses and knotted corsets, arms stiff and legs curled at the very edge of the bed. it almost felt like sharing sleeping quarters with a heavy, big stone.

the sight that now greets him every morning before he has to leave to perform the mundane tasks that are expected of him, is something almost bizarrely opposite; something that makes his head spin even when he’s seen it time after time after time. your arms are stretched across the bed, reaching for the warmth of the space that soonyoung occupied mere minutes ago. sunlight puts an impossible sort of glow over your exposed skin and makes the back of soonyoung’s neck tingle. he reaches out, curls a lock of your hair around his finger.

a calculated mistake, so to speak. your eyes open. a slow, lazy action; even waking up has become a completely new, changed thing, unrecognizable in contrast to the eyes-wide-open, fully alerted way soonyoung has become accustomed to.

for a moment you just watch him, impassively; eyes barely open and fingers clutching at the white linens right by soonyoung’s thigh. you do not lean after his touch, nor away from it. this new, tentative closeness between you feels fragile at all times, and soonyoung worries, not for the first time, if he’s crossed a line.

“are you staring at me?” you ask, sleepiness tugging at your vocal chords. the sound makes soonyoung’s chest tighten with something he doesn’t quite recognize. it’s a warm, fuzzy feeling. the tip of soonyoung’s tongue tastes of the same illegal, dangerous thing that seems to surround everything involving you. soonyoung feels a surge of courage sizzling through his veins, lets his hand disappear fully into the mess of your hair. your eyes flutter close, a low rumble of a hum slipping past your lips.

“yes,” he admits, his thumb flitting along your cheekbone. your eyes open again, observe him carefully. soonyoung has known, probably ever since he started teaching you how to read, ever since you started letting your guard down and your mouth speak freely, that he is in love with you. he’d told you as much; that he’d do anything to ensure your happiness. he feels it now, though, harder and clearer than ever before in the pale sunlight and the soft glow that surrounds you both. it almost feels like peace, like freedom. “i love you.”

you inhale, raise your hand to glide along his thigh and reach for his burgunder tie. the silence feels overwhelming. and then you tug, almost forcefully enough to make soonyoung fall over you. he has to catch himself with his arms, cages you in between them, and your fingers reach, clutch at his face. he feels your breath over his mouth, and the anticipation is almost as deliriously wonderful as when your lips finally connect with his own.

the first kiss you shared, technically, was at your wedding. it was a standard procedure sort of thing; a nod back to other times where marriages were a free, voluntary thing. just the barest touch of lips against lips. you’d grimaced afterwards, and soonyoung had pretended not to noticed.

the second time– soonyoung can’t quite stop thinking about the second time. he finds that he struggles to put a name to it, to the rush of emotion and stress and confusion and relief, to the mess of it all. it had been a beginning, he now knows, though at the time he’d felt so overwhelmed that he’d thought it was an ending.

this; this lazy, casual press of lips, makes every nerve underneath soonyoung’s skin do somersaults. your arms wind around his neck, he lets himself fall against your body and against the softness of the bed, noses squished together and fingertips itching to touch. your own fingers move to ruffle his hair, to undo every attempt he’d made at making himself look presentable before leaving the house. he finds that he struggles to care.

“soonyoung,” you murmur, just a hair’s breadth away from him. he feels the vibrations of your voice through his entire body, shivers with the way his name sounds coming from your mouth. “i’m not–” here, you falter, and soonyoung’s throat feels constricted. you watch him, for a moment, fingers gliding along the skin of his face as if you’re trying to commit every line to memory. “i’m not bringing a child into this world.”

soonyoung’s breath stutters. even with the vagueness of the statement, the meaning is clear. he might have been the one to teach you how to read, but you’ve taught him how to read between the lines. hesitation twinkles in your eyes when soonyoung fails to immediately respond. he leans back in, presses his lips against yours; quickly, with an intake of breath. “i guess,” he murmurs, peppers your face with kisses. his hand clutches at the fabric of your shirt, right above your stomach.