୨୧

failure is unacceptable. a dancer who stumbles is a disgrace. a dancer who hesitates is an insult. a dancer who fails to meet the standard is not a dancer at all. there is no room for weakness, no patience for imperfection.

perfection is not a goal; it is a requirement. those who cannot achieve it must leave. those who refuse to push themselves must be pushed out. a dancer must be weightless, effortless, untouchable. anything less is embarrassing.

yoongi does not tolerate embarrassment.

yoongi’s own professional career had come to an end after he married his then-dance partner. a publicity stunt. he told the public it was love. in reality, he knocked her up.

marriage ruined him. not because he cared for her, but because it made him weak. a dancer with responsibilities is a dancer with distractions. a dancer with distractions is useless. his technique wavered. his endurance declined. he could still move, still command a stage, but not the way he once did. not the way he demanded of himself.

so he quit. before the critics could say what he already knew. before his name became synonymous with failure. he stepped off the stage, off the floor, and into a new role. teaching. training. breaking others down before they could break themselves.

perfection had slipped through his fingers. he would make sure it never slipped through anyone else’s.

yoongi thinks maybe that’s why he’s so fascinated with you.

the deer in headlights type, never congregating with the rest of the class. always hiding off in a corner, practicing your technique, watching yoongi teach with wide eyes and parted lips.

you weren’t what yoongi envisioned when he thought of a dancer, but yet he still finds a bit of himself reflected within you.

yoongi doesn’t like contradictions, but you are one. unpolished, hesitant, yet relentless in your pursuit of something just out of reach. he sees it in the way you move—tight shoulders, shaky landings, the kind of stiffness that comes from fear rather than lack of ability.

but he also sees the way you watch. the way you dissect every movement, every correction, as if memorizing them will make up for what your body refuses to do.

it reminds him of himself. not the him that graced stages with effortless control, but the him that came before. the one who pushed through bleeding feet and bruised ribs because stopping was never an option. the one who wanted, desperately, to be more.

and maybe that’s why he hasn’t told you to leave.

because every time he looks at you, he wonders if you’ll prove him wrong.

yoongi doesn’t hand out second chances. he doesn’t waste time on lost causes. but with you, he hesitates.

you’re not the best in the class. you’re not even close. your turns lack precision, your extensions lack confidence, and your footwork is just a little too slow. but you don’t quit. you stay late, repeating the same movements long after the others have left. you take his critiques without flinching, without excuses, nodding like each correction is a gift rather than a condemnation.

it’s infuriating.

because you should have broken by now. you should have crumbled under the weight of his expectations like so many before you. but you don’t.

and worse—yoongi keeps watching.

he watches the way your fingers twitch at your sides, the way your lips press together when you concentrate, the way your chest rises and falls after a particularly grueling sequence. he watches, and against his better judgment, against everything he’s ever believed, he starts to wonder,

maybe perfection isn’t the only thing that matters.

yoongi tells himself he’s only watching to see you fail.

he’s waiting for the moment your body gives in, when your knees buckle, when your spirit breaks. waiting for proof that you are not built for this.

but you don’t break. you hesitate. you misstep. you waver. but you never stop.

and tonight is no different.

the studio is empty. the others have gone home, but you remain. the stereo hums softly in the background, a melody on repeat. your body is sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, but still you move. still you repeat the same pirouette, over and over, despite the way your feet drag, despite the way your balance tips just slightly off-center.

yoongi leans against the doorway, arms crossed. he should say something. he should tell you to go home, to rest, to stop embarrassing yourself. but he doesn’t.

because you don’t stop. because you reset, shoulders squared, expression set with the kind of determination he recognizes all too well.

“again,” he says, and the word startles you.

you snap your head toward him, wide-eyed, breathless. you hadn’t noticed him standing there.

“again,” he repeats, voice flat.

you swallow, nod, and try again. the turn is cleaner this time, but not perfect.

yoongi clicks his tongue. steps forward. “your weight’s too far back.”

you nod, adjusting.

“again.” you move.

“slower.” you move again.

“shoulders down.” again.

“tighter core.”

again.

the corrections come steadily, and you take each one without question. no complaint. no frustration. just quiet determination, just that same look in your eyes like you’ll do this a thousand times if that’s what it takes.

yoongi hates that he admires it. hates that, for a moment, he forgets he’s supposed to be waiting for you to fail.

but then you land, breath ragged, body trembling, and your ankle wobbles just slightly as you step out of the turn.

yoongi exhales sharply. “not good enough.” you nod. “again.”

he steps closer. lifts his hand to your waist, fingers barely grazing the fabric of your leotard.

“here,” he mutters, adjusting you.

you don’t flinch. don’t shy away. you just nod, taking the correction, resetting your stance, waiting for him to tell you to move.

yoongi swallows.

“again.”

your muscles are trembling. your breath is uneven. the sweat at your temples glistens under the fluorescent lights. you should be done for the night. your body is telling you to stop.

but you don’t.

you hold your position, weight balanced, chin high, waiting for his command.

yoongi’s fingers still hover near your waist, heat bleeding through the fabric of your leotard. his grip firms, just barely, just enough for you to feel it.

“breathe,” he murmurs.

you inhale sharply. exhale just as slow.

his touch lingers for a fraction too long before he pulls away, arms folding over his chest, eyes still fixed on you with that sharp, assessing gaze.

“again.”

you turn.

it’s not perfect, but it’s better. more control. more precision. the kind of improvement that takes weeks, months—but you’re doing it in real time, right in front of him.

it’s infuriating. it’s mesmerizing.

you land, step out, lift your chin to meet his eyes. waiting. always waiting.

yoongi drags his tongue along the inside of his cheek, considering you. his silence stretches, tension thick and heavy in the air between you.

you shift on your feet, just slightly. “was that—”

“not good enough,” he says, too fast, too sharp.

your jaw tenses. not in frustration, not in defeat, but in determination. “again.”

you nod. reset. push off into another turn.

his eyes don’t leave you.

they follow the line of your neck, the extension of your arms, the curve of your spine as you chase something just out of reach.

something that he’s not sure he wants you to find. something that feels dangerously close to the thing he lost.

you land. stumble—barely, just the smallest misstep—but yoongi sees it.

he exhales. “not—”

“again.” you cut him off. voice steady. gaze unwavering.

yoongi stills. his fingers twitch at his sides. his pulse kicks up, just slightly.

“again,” he says, and this time, his voice is quieter, rougher.

you turn again.

the exhaustion is showing now. in the way your shoulders tighten, in the fraction-of-a-second delay in your landing. you recover quickly, but yoongi sees it. he sees everything.

he should have stopped you earlier. no, he should have walked away, let you run yourself into the ground like all the others who thought sheer willpower was enough.

but you are not like the others, and that is the problem.

your foot barely skims the floor as you step out, chest rising and falling too fast, but you lift your chin like you’re waiting for another command.

yoongi doesn’t give it. his voice is low when he speaks. steady. final. “stop.”

your brows twitch. “but—”

“stop,” he repeats, sharper this time.

your mouth closes. your body stills, but he can see it—how your fingers twitch, how your jaw locks like you want to argue, like you want to prove you have more to give.

yoongi steps forward before you can, closing the space between you. not enough to touch, but enough that you have to tilt your head to meet his eyes.

he studies you in silence.

your heaving chest. your trembling hands. your sweat-damp hair sticking to your forehead. your eyes, wide and waiting, like he holds an answer you don’t even know to ask for.

his fingers flex at his sides. his voice drops lower.

“what are you hoping to find here?”

your brows pull together.

yoongi watches the way your lips part, the way your breath catches, but no answer comes.

not because you won’t say it. because you don’t know.

his jaw ticks.

“what is it?” he presses, quiet, deliberate. “what are you chasing?”

you blink at him, doe-eyed and breathless, utterly lost in a question you don’t understand.

yoongi exhales, slow and measured, and something sharp tugs behind his ribs. damn you.

your lips part, but no answer comes right away.

yoongi watches the way your throat bobs, the way your fingers tighten at your sides. he sees the way your mind turns, searching, sifting through words that won’t come.

then, “…i came to dance.”

your voice is quiet. steady, but unsure. yoongi’s head tilts, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.

“is that what you think this is?”

your brows furrow. you don’t understand the question.

he steps closer. enough that you feel it. the weight of his presence. the intensity of his stare.

“you work harder than anyone else in this room.” his voice is low, deliberate. “you stay after class. you take every correction like it’s scripture. you push yourself past exhaustion, past pain, past reason.”

a pause, and his gaze sharpens. “is that dancing?”

you swallow. shift on your feet. “it’s improving.”

yoongi scoffs. “it’s punishment.” your breath catches. his head tilts. “why?”

you blink, confused.

“why are you doing this?” he presses, voice quiet but insistent. “why are you breaking yourself over this floor?”

your lips part, but again, no answer comes.

yoongi watches you, silent. waiting. but you have nothing to give him. because you don’t know. not really. not yet.

his jaw tightens. “go home.”

your breath stutters. “but—”

“go home,” he repeats, sharper this time.

you don’t argue. you don’t even move right away, just stand there, lips pressed together, shoulders squared like you’re waiting for something.

yoongi exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “you don’t even know what you want,” he mutters. “come back when you do.”

then he turns, walking away before you can say anything else.

before he can make the mistake of watching you any longer.

…

the studio hums with quiet energy. soft chatter drifts through the air, punctuated by the occasional laugh, the scuff of shoes against the floor. the mirrors reflect fragments of conversation—fluttering hands, shifting expressions, the restless excitement that always comes before something big.

competition is in three weeks. the lineup is being finalized today.

you press deeper into your stretch, hands curling around the barre as your muscles lengthen, warm and pliant beneath the studio lights. someone says your name. you blink, slow to register.

"—think you made it?"

the question barely reaches you, muffled beneath the weight of your own thoughts.

yoongi hasn't said a word. the others have been called aside, one by one. quiet discussions. nods of approval. a hand on the shoulder, a murmured correction, a final piece of advice. but not you. not yet.

"earth to dreamer girl, hello?" a gentle nudge against your side. you startle, lifting your head to find hana watching you with a knowing smile. "you've been staring at the same spot on the floor for, like, five minutes."

you blink. had you? "i was just—" you trail off, unsure how to finish. worrying? hoping? waiting?

"spacing out?" hana supplies, amused.

you exhale, stretching deeper, letting the barre steady you. "something like that."

across the room, yoongi stands near the stereo, arms crossed, gaze unreadable. you don't look away fast enough. his eyes flick to yours, and your breath catches. he holds the stare for a second too long.

then—gone. turned away. dismissed, like he hadn't been looking at all.

your chest tightens.

hana nudges you again. "you good?"

you force a smile, shifting to the other leg, fingers tightening around the wood beneath your palms. "yeah," you say. "just tired."

the lie tastes strange. yoongi still hasn't called your name.

you know you shouldn’t be surprised when you don’t make the lineup.

you’re not the best. not even close. you’ve known that since the first day you stepped into this studio, since the first time you saw yourself in the mirror and realized how much further you had to go.

still, disappointment lingers like a bruise beneath the surface.

the names are read aloud, one by one. each confirmation met with small smiles, whispered relief, barely contained excitement. you keep stretching, keep your focus on the steady push and pull of your muscles, the grounding press of the barre beneath your fingertips.

you don’t flinch when your name isn’t called.

but you do notice the way yoongi doesn’t look at you.

not once.

when it’s over, the tension in the room shifts, conversation blooming around you. a handful of students rush to check the posted list, as if seeing their name in print will make it feel real. others linger, exchanging quiet reassurances, half-hearted shrugs.

you stay where you are.

you don’t need to check. you already know. the barre is cool beneath your hands. the mirrors reflect a version of you that looks smaller than you feel.

not chosen. not ready. not good enough.

the thought settles heavy in your chest, but you swallow it down. straighten your spine. roll out your shoulders.

you knew this would happen. you just didn’t think it would feel like this.

ballet has always been your passion. not just a hobby, not just something you do—it’s who you are. it’s written into your blood, stitched into your very being. your mother was a dancer. your grandmother, too. it was never a question of if you would dance, only how well. how far. how much you were willing to suffer for it.

and you are willing.

you always have been.

the late nights, the early mornings, the blisters on your heels and the ache in your spine—none of it has ever been enough to make you stop. you push through. you always push through. because this isn’t just movement, just music, just art. it’s you.

but if it’s you, then what does it mean when you’re not chosen?

you keep your expression smooth, composed, the way you’ve been taught. disappointment is a luxury, and weakness is a flaw. so you exhale, steady, and press deeper into your stretch, pretending your stomach isn’t twisting in knots. pretending you don’t care.

someone places a hand on your shoulder. hana, again.

"hey," she says, softer now. "you okay?"

you nod. "yeah."

she doesn’t believe you. you can tell by the way her fingers linger, by the careful tilt of her head, but she doesn’t press.

"for what it’s worth," she says, "i think you should’ve made it."

you force a small smile. "thanks."

it doesn’t matter, but it’s kind of her to say.

yoongi walks past then, clipboard in hand, not sparing you a glance.

you should be used to it by now—the cold detachment, the sharp critiques, the way he only seems to see you when you’re failing. but something about today feels different. he saw you looking. he saw you waiting.

and he said nothing.

your throat tightens. you force yourself to exhale, force yourself to move. if you stop, you’ll start thinking, and thinking is dangerous. so you stretch. you push deeper, harder, until the tension in your muscles drowns out everything else. because if you can’t be good enough, you can at least be strong.

…

yoongi doesn't think about his first performance often.

he had been the best. that was undeniable. the best. the strongest, the sharpest, the most disciplined. they had known it, too. his instructors, his peers. he had trained longer, pushed harder, sacrificed more.

so they gave him the solo. his first. his moment. the one he had earned.

the stage was too big. or maybe he was too small.

yoongi had never felt that way before. not in class, not in rehearsals, not in the grueling late nights spent perfecting each movement until they felt more natural than breathing.

"he’s ready," his instructors had said. "give him the solo."

he had been proud. he had been ready.

but then the lights came up. the music started. and his body—his reliable, trained, disciplined body—betrayed him. it wasn’t even a spectacular kind of failure. no dramatic fall, no gasps from the audience, no catastrophe worth remembering.

just a hesitation, a delay.

a single second of doubt, and suddenly, nothing felt right.

he moved, but he wasn’t in it. he was thinking too much, feeling too little. the steps were there, but the soul was gone. his rhythm, his breath, his fire—it all slipped through his fingers like water, draining into the too-bright lights, the silent, waiting crowd.

and he knew. they knew.

by the time the final note rang out, by the time he held his finishing pose, chest heaving, limbs locked stiff, the failure had already taken root.

the applause came, but it was polite. obligatory. his instructor’s eyes were careful. measured.

and yoongi? yoongi was shattered.

he stepped off that stage and felt something inside him fracture. he spent weeks trying to fix it. trying to tell himself that he could come back from this. because if he could fail once, he could fail again.

when yoongi looks at you, he sees himself on that stage.

sees the hesitation, the misstep, the brief second where your mind runs faster than your body can keep up. he sees the doubt in your eyes before you force it down, the way your fingers twitch like you’re trying to reset, like if you just try again, it’ll be right this time.

he sees it because he knows it. because he’s lived it.

because he remembers the way doubt had cracked through him like a fault line, how it had unraveled everything he thought he was. and he’s not going to let you go through that.

that’s why your name isn’t on the lineup. he made that decision himself.

it wasn’t because you weren’t good enough—at least, not in the way you think. it wasn’t because he didn’t see the way you fought for every inch of progress, the way you stayed long after the others had gone, drilling corrections into your body until your limbs trembled with exhaustion. it wasn’t even because he doubted you.

it was because you doubted yourself.

and if he put you on that stage like this—raw, unsteady, still unsure of what you were chasing—he knew exactly what would happen. he knew, because it had happened to him.

you would hesitate. maybe only for a second. maybe the audience wouldn’t even notice. but you would. you would feel it, that flicker of uncertainty, and it would stay with you long after the music stopped. and it would ruin you.

yoongi turns away from the mirror, jaw tight. he’s not going to let you make that mistake. he won’t let you walk into failure the way he did.

but the part he won’t admit—the part he keeps buried deep beneath discipline and detachment—is that he’s not sure if he did it for you, or if he did it for himself.

yoongi tells himself it doesn’t matter. whether it was for you or for himself—the outcome is the same.

he left your name off the lineup, and you will not step on that stage. not this time. not when you’re still hesitating, still searching, still too raw to understand what it means to be watched by an audience that doesn’t forgive. but that doesn’t stop him from watching you now.

doesn’t stop the way his eyes track the curve of your spine as you stretch at the barre, the way your fingers flex against the wood, gripping tighter than necessary.

he knows that feeling. knows the sick knot in your stomach, the heavy press of inadequacy, the way disappointment settles into your bones like a weight you can’t shake.

but he also knows that this will not end you, because he didn’t let it end him.

yoongi had faltered once—only once.

and after that, he had rebuilt himself from the ground up. trained harder, pushed further, carved the hesitation out of his bones and replaced it with something unshakable. he never lost control again. and it had paid off.

he had danced. for years, for stages larger than he had ever imagined. his name became something worth knowing, his movements something worth watching. he had been the dancer people whispered about, the one critics praised, the one who made it look effortless, untouchable, divine.

he became the dancer they expected him to be. the name on every program, the body every choreographer wanted, the standard that no one else could reach.

but he never forgot. not the hesitation. not the way doubt had curled in his gut, a sickness that never fully went away. he carried it through every performance, buried beneath perfect form, flawless execution, standing ovations that never quite drowned it out.

until he had nothing left to prove. until his body wasn’t his own anymore—claimed by muscle memory and years of discipline, by a career that demanded everything and gave nothing back. until the decision wasn’t his to make anymore.

his fingers flex against the clipboard.

his office is filled with reminders of what came after—awards gathering dust, old photos of a younger version of himself, caught mid-air in effortless grace. and next to them, the only thing that ever mattered more than dance.

a little girl with his eyes and her mother’s smile. his daughter.

the only thing he refuses to push the way he was pushed. the only one he swore he would never let step foot inside a studio. because yoongi knows what it costs. he knows what it takes. and he doesn’t want that life for her.

his grip tightens, clipboard pressing into his palm. he doesn’t want that life for you, either.

he turns before he can think too hard about it, before his own hesitation can get the best of him.

“go home.” the words cut through the quiet like a blade, sharp and unforgiving.

you flinch. just slightly, just enough for yoongi to see, but you don’t move.

your hands are still locked around the bar, your body still tense with everything you refuse to say. your eyes flick to his, searching, questioning—hoping, maybe, for something that won’t come. his jaw tightens. his patience wears thin. “i said—”

“one more time.”

your voice isn’t desperate. it isn’t pleading. it’s steady. resolved. like this isn’t a request, but a necessity. like if you don’t try again, if you don’t get it right, something inside of you will unravel.

yoongi exhales, irritation threading through the space between you. “fine.” he steps back. watches. waits.

you take position. inhale, exhale. push off into the turn. for a moment, you almost have it. but then—your foot lands wrong. your weight shifts, just slightly, just enough to send you stumbling a half-step forward.

when you land, you brace yourself for impact. another sharp "wrong!" another correction, another demand to do it again.

but it doesn’t come.

instead, yoongi exhales. not quite a sigh, but close. and then, “how long are you going to do this for?”

you blink, shoulders heaving with each breath. “what?”

he tilts his head slightly, arms crossed now, expression unreadable. “how long are you going to keep deceiving yourself?”

your stomach tightens. “deceiving myself?”

yoongi nods, slow, deliberate. “into thinking you can become something great when you can’t even be decent.”

the words land like a punch to the gut.

you swallow against the sting, forcing your shoulders back, forcing the lump in your throat to dissolve before it can settle. “okay,” you say, voice thin, stretched tight. “again.”

yoongi exhales, slow, measured, like he expected that response. like it doesn’t matter what you say, because it won’t change what he already knows.

he shakes his head. “no.”

the finality in his voice makes your stomach drop.

“yoongi—”

“no.” sharper this time. colder. “this isn’t effort. this is delusion.”

you flinch before you can stop yourself.

he sees it. of course, he does. nothing gets past him, least of all weakness.

“you think if you just try hard enough, it’ll fix what’s missing,” he continues, like he’s dissecting you piece by piece, peeling back the layers of you until there’s nothing left. “but no amount of time, no amount of repetition is going to change the fact that you don’t have it.”

the room feels impossibly still.

your pulse roars in your ears, drowning out the faint hum of the stereo, the quiet rustle of movement from the other side of the studio. you don’t have it.

the words settle deep, carving into the softest parts of you, filling the spaces where hope once lived.

you don’t move, you don’t speak. you just stand there, hands still clenched at your sides, throat tight with something you refuse to name. yoongi doesn’t look away. doesn’t soften. doesn’t take it back.

because he won’t. because he never does.

“go home,” he says again, and this time, it isn’t an order. it’s a dismissal. a final, undeniable truth.

you hesitate. then, you turn, and you walk out.

yoongi doesn’t expect you to listen. you never have before. but the next day, when the studio fills with the usual pre-class chatter, you’re not there.

or the day after that.

and the day after that.

at first, it doesn’t bother him. dancers quit all the time. they hit a wall and realize they don’t have what it takes, or they get tired of breaking themselves over something that will never love them back. it’s better this way. he tells himself that.

he tells himself he did you a favor, that he saved you from chasing something you were never going to catch. that he spared you the pain of failing on a bigger stage, in front of people who wouldn’t be as kind as he was.

but then a week passes. then two. and it still feels wrong. not because you’re gone, but because you left. no goodbyes. no final attempt to prove him wrong. just—nothing.

yoongi watches the students go through their drills, each movement precise, practiced, executed with control. it should be satisfying, but all he sees is empty space where you should be.

all he hears is your voice, steady and strained—“okay. again.”

his own words echo back at him, cold and final. “go home.”

and for the first time in years, yoongi wonders if he made a mistake.

…

you spend the next few months drifting.

studio to studio, class to class. searching.

at first, you tell yourself it’s just temporary. just until you find the right place, the right teacher. someone who sees your effort and doesn’t call it delusion. someone who doesn’t look at you like you’re wasting their time. but no matter where you go, it’s all the same.

the corrections come, but they don’t cut as deep. the critiques are there, but they lack the weight of expectation. you’re just another student, another face in a sea of bodies, blending into the rhythm of the room. and it should be easier, but it’s not.

because no one expects anything from you. no one pushes you past exhaustion, no one demands you do it again and again until your legs threaten to give out. no one watches you like they’re waiting for you to prove them wrong.

and you hate it, because it means you could disappear and no one would notice.

you stretch at the barre, movements mechanical, thoughtless. the instructor calls out adjustments, but they barely register. your mind is elsewhere, stuck in a studio you haven’t stepped into for months. stuck in a space where you were seen, where someone had noticed, even if it was only to tell you that you would never be enough.

your new instructor is decent enough.

critiques where it matters, kindness where it doesn’t. never cruel, never condescending. he watches, corrects, refines. doesn’t waste words but doesn’t withhold them either.

it’s different.

so when he offers one-on-one guidance to help with your stiffness, you take it.

“it’s not uncommon,” he tells you the first time, watching your movements with careful precision. “it’s a trained response. tension where there shouldn’t be. your body is trying to look right instead of move right.”

he calls it stiff spine syndrome. not a real condition, just something he came up with, but it sticks. makes you laugh the first time you hear it. but he’s right. you’ve spent so much time trying to appear like a dancer—chest lifted, chin high, shoulders set—that you’ve forgotten how to actually be one.

so you stop.

you stop worrying about how your body looks and start thinking about how it should move. where to place your foot. the angle of your plié. the balance of your pirouette. the way momentum carries you instead of fighting against you.

and yet the doubt lingers.

because good isn’t great. because great isn’t perfect. because no matter how much you improve, there’s still a voice in the back of your mind whispering, not enough, not enough, not enough.

because you can’t forget the way yoongi looked at you that night. like you were wasting your time. like you were wasting his.

you tell yourself it doesn’t matter. that he doesn’t matter. that you’ve outgrown his sharp words and sharper judgments, that the sting of rejection has faded into something dull and unimportant.

but sometimes, in the quiet moments—stretching alone after class, catching your reflection in the mirror—you wonder. would he still say the same things now? would he still see nothing but flaws? would he watch you with that same cold detachment, waiting for you to fail?

or would he finally see something else? something worth watching? something worth believing in?

you shake the thought from your head before it can take root. because it doesn’t matter. because you don’t care what he thinks.

you don’t.

the studio sticks.

six months pass. six months of steady improvement, of repetition, of drilling corrections into muscle memory until movement is second nature. you still think about it too much, still chase perfection with every pointed toe and lifted arm, but you don’t watch yourself in the mirror the same way anymore. you’re learning to feel it instead.

you just don’t feel them.

the other girls drift around you like petals caught in a breeze. you don’t reach for them. don’t let yourself be swept up in their current. they tried, in the beginning. smiles exchanged in passing, hands offered after difficult routines. invitations to coffee after class, to study together, to talk. olive branches extended over and over, waiting to be taken.

you never did, so now, they don’t try.

they chatter before class, perched on barres and stretching lazy limbs, giggling over inside jokes you were never part of. you watch them as you always have. detached, distant, a silent observer in a world you don’t belong to.

and then you lower your gaze, focus on your own movements, and keep stretching.

it was annoying in the beginning. every single time you walked into that studio, someone asked about him.

“wait, you studied with yoongi?”

“is it true you were one of his students?”

“why’d you leave? did something happen?”

it’s the one thing you genuinely disliked about your new instructor. he’d mentioned it casually in your first session, proud to have been associated with the name, and somehow, it became a topic of fascination for everyone.

the girls crowded around you after the first class, eyes wide, voices rising in excitement. they wanted stories, wanted to know everything, wanted to ask questions they thought you’d easily answer.

but you didn’t want to.

you didn’t want to think about him, about the cold dismissal, about the way you almost broke in front of him. you didn’t want to relive the rejection. didn’t want to admit you were technically kicked out of his class, that you didn’t fail by your own standards, but by his.

so you just nodded, forced smiles, and deflected. “it just didn’t work out,” you’d say, voice flat, eyes not meeting theirs.

and they’d accept that, but the questions never stopped.

it was easier when they gave up. easier to focus on the work, on the motions that felt solid beneath your feet. easier to keep your head down and forget everything that had come before.

because when you thought of yoongi, even just for a second, everything would tighten. your chest. your throat. your limbs. everything would go cold and still, as if his shadow still hovered just out of reach, waiting for you to fail again.

…

the company’s yearly show is approaching, and the studio is buzzing with the hum of anticipation.

the girls are all a little giddy, nervously chatting about their costumes, their routines, the possibility of making the spotlight. the instructor is focused, eyes sharp as he watches each of you, making adjustments where necessary, always pushing for more.

you’ve been here long enough now that you’ve learned how to keep your focus on the work. keep your head down, keep your body moving, and avoid the clutter of idle chatter.

but then he corners you after class. “you’re still hesitant,” he says, voice measured, eyes searching yours. “still not quite there.”

you don’t argue. you know what he means. you’ve felt it yourself. the tightness, the tension you can’t seem to shake, the hesitation that lingers in every pirouette, every leap, every simple tendu. it’s frustrating, but it’s there.

he takes a breath, eyes never leaving yours. “i’m giving you a solo.”

your heart lurches, breath catching in your throat. a solo?

he continues, “it’ll give you the confidence you need. give you something to focus on. something to prove to yourself.”

you nod, but you don’t know if you can believe it. in that moment, something tightens in your chest. something twists and pulls, and you feel the weight of it like a burden on your shoulders. the solo is supposed to help, right? it’s supposed to be your chance to show everyone, to prove to yourself that you’ve earned a place in this.

but instead, it feels like a trap. everything you practice feels wrong. every plié is too shallow, every jump too stiff, every turn wobbles like it's bound to fall apart the moment you push off the floor. you spend hours at the barre, your feet aching, your body exhausted, but nothing changes. you try to make sense of the moves, break them down, but it feels like there’s no foundation to build on. everything slips through your fingers like sand, no matter how hard you grip.

the performance isn't for another twelve weeks, but it doesn't feel long enough. twelve weeks sounds like nothing when every day feels like a battle just to make a single movement feel right. you keep looking in the mirror, hoping to see some progress, but all you see is the same person—hesitant, stiff, clumsy.

it feels like being back at where you started all over.

and you hate it. you hate that the more you try, the worse it gets. you hate that you can't shake this feeling in the pit of your stomach, that familiar doubt that creeps in and makes everything seem out of reach. it's like every step forward is met with two steps back. you can’t escape it.

you watch the other girls glide across the studio, their movements fluid and effortless, and you wonder if they ever feel like this. wonder if they ever felt like they were suffocating under the weight of their own expectations. you wonder how they make it look so easy, how they glide through everything with such ease, while you can't seem to make it through a single routine without stumbling.

and then you remember what yoongi said. "you don’t have it."

you swallow hard, pushing the thought down, but it lingers, whispering in the back of your mind. maybe he was right. maybe this isn’t for you.

but then, you breathe. again.

you pull yourself up from the barre, take a deep breath, and try again.

…

yoongi stands in the driveway, hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket, the cold air biting at his skin. his car sits idle in front of the house, its engine purring softly in the quiet afternoon. the small house, too familiar, almost feels like a memory from someone else’s life.

he’s here to pick up aera.

he hears the faint sound of footsteps from inside and then the door creaks open. his daughter’s small figure appears in the doorway, her pigtails bouncing with every step she takes as she runs towards him, her pudgy cheeks flushed from the warmth inside. she’s all smiles, her tiny frame barely reaching his waist as she throws her arms around him with the kind of enthusiasm only a five-year-old can muster.

“daddy!” she squeals, giggling as he scoops her up effortlessly, her little hands clutching his jacket.

“hey, aera,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to her cheek, feeling the soft weight of her in his arms. it’s a moment of peace, one that makes the world feel a little less heavy.

but before he can turn and head to the car, he hears the door behind him click open again. his ex-wife steps out onto the porch, her expression unreadable. her long hair is tied back in a messy bun, a few strands falling loosely around her face. the lines around her eyes have deepened since the last time he saw her, but there’s still a hint of familiarity there.

“yoongi,” she says, voice tight, like she’s already rehearsed whatever’s coming. “can i talk to you for a second?”

yoongi doesn’t even get the chance to nod before she’s already walking toward him, her gaze flicking to aera before turning back to him.

“it’s about aera,” she starts, lowering her voice so her daughter doesn’t overhear. “she’s been getting really into ballet lately. buying ballerina toys, putting on little performances around the house. i’ve been thinking… maybe we should let her try it. get her into some classes.”

yoongi's chest tightens at the mention of ballet. it always does.

“she watches barbie in the nutcracker on repeat,” his ex-wife continues, a soft smile creeping onto her face as she watches aera run back into the house to kiss her toys goodbye after yoongi puts her down. “it’s her favorite movie. she’s so taken with it. it’s… sweet, you know? she really looks up to those ballerinas. shouldn’t we encourage it?”

yoongi’s hand clenches around the handle of the car door, a flicker of unease rolling through him. “no,” he says sharply, before he can even stop himself.

his ex-wife blinks at him, taken aback by the suddenness of his response. "what do you mean, 'no'?"

yoongi forces himself to breathe evenly, but his gaze never wavers. “ballet’s not a game, and it’s not a toy.”

“yoongi—”

he shakes his head, cutting her off before she can say anything else. “you don’t get it,” he mutters, the words rough. “you don’t understand what ballet really is. it ruins people. it eats them alive, bit by bit. we gave everything to it. and what do we have left? nothing.”

his voice cracks at the end, but he pushes through, refusing to let her see how much it all still hurts. “i sacrificed everything for it. and for what? a title? applause? the fleeting sense of being 'great'? it’s a lie. a fucking lie.”

he takes a step back, eyes hardening as he runs a hand through his hair, trying to regain some control. “i’m not going to let aera live that life. she deserves something more than the hell we lived through. we both know what happens when you push yourself too far for something that will never love you back. i don’t want her to feel that. i don’t want her to throw away everything she is just to be good enough for some judge, or for some fucking stage.”

he glances back at the door where aera stands, now holding a stuffed animal in her hands, the picture of innocence. aera doesn’t know what ballet means yet. she doesn’t know how hard it can tear you apart. and he plans to keep it that way.

“we didn’t get to have a choice. but she will,” he says, the weight of it all finally crashing over him. “she’ll have a chance to find something that makes her whole. not ballet.”

there’s a long pause, a silence that feels like it could swallow them both. his ex-wife’s eyes soften, just a little, but her gaze never wavers. she doesn’t agree, but she doesn’t argue, either. for once.

yoongi exhales, a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and nods stiffly. “i’m not saying this to hurt her. i’m saying it because i love her. and i don’t want her to go through the same shit we did. she deserves better.”

yoongi’s ex-wife watches him for a moment, then speaks, her tone softer but firm. “at least take her to a show, yoongi. she’s still a little girl, she doesn’t understand the weight of it all yet. it might be nice for her to see something beautiful before you shut the door completely.”

“i’ll consider it,” he says, his voice flat, giving nothing away. the words feel like a compromise he’s not sure he’s ready to make.

aera, unaware of the tension between her parents, comes running toward him, her pigtails bouncing with every step. “daddy!” she squeals, her pudgy arms reaching out for him, dropping the toys in her arms, and he can’t help but soften at the sight. she’s so small, so innocent, so full of joy. the weight of everything he’s just said seems to fade for a moment, and all that matters is her.

yoongi bends down, lifting her effortlessly into his arms. she giggles as he spins her around, her little hands clutching at his shirt.

“ready to go, princess?” he asks, trying to smile, but it’s strained. she nods eagerly, and he turns toward the car, his mind still buzzing with the conversation.

his ex-wife watches them go, but doesn’t stop him. there’s nothing more to say, not now.

…

the day of the performance arrives too quickly. it’s a blur of rehearsals, last-minute costume adjustments, and the hum of nervous energy in the studio. you wake up early, too early, your stomach tied in knots as if you’ve been holding your breath for weeks. the finality of it all feels suffocating, and you can’t help but wonder if you’ll choke when it matters most.

backstage is chaos. the dressing rooms are filled with girls in their costumes, applying last touches of makeup, adjusting tutus, and talking in excited, high-pitched voices. everyone is ready. everyone but you.

you move slowly, almost as if in a dream. your fingers tremble as you adjust your own costume, tugging at the fabric, straightening the hem. the mirror in front of you reflects a version of yourself that you can barely recognize—a girl so determined to succeed that she’s forgotten how to enjoy the beauty of movement.

it’s easy to get lost in the noise of it all, the last-minute chatter of the girls who all seem so sure, so certain. they ask if you’re ready, and you can’t even find it in yourself to answer. what could you say? you don’t know if you’re ready. you haven’t felt ready in months.

a soft voice pulls you from your thoughts. “you’ll do fine.”

you turn, surprised to see your instructor standing beside you. his face is neutral, but there’s something in his eyes—something you don’t quite understand. he looks at you like he sees everything you’ve been through, like he knows the weight you’ve been carrying.

“you’ve got this,” he says again, his voice steady. “just remember what we’ve been working on. you’re here because you deserve to be. don’t forget that.”

you nod, not trusting yourself to speak. it’s hard to believe him, but you want to. you want to.

the curtain calls. you can hear the faint murmur of the audience beyond, the buzz of anticipation. your stomach tightens even more, like a knot that won’t untangle. you’ve done this before. you’ve practiced. you’ve worked, pushed yourself until your body felt like it might break.

but tonight, there’s something different. tonight, everything feels too heavy. the spotlight that’s waiting to fall on you feels like it’s going to burn you alive.

“it’s time,” your instructor says, placing a hand on your shoulder. it’s a small gesture, but it somehow grounds you.

the music starts in the distance, and you step forward, your legs like lead beneath you. you feel the eyes of your classmates on you as you take your place in the wings. hear their whispered words, encouragement or something else—you can’t tell. your heart is hammering in your chest, your palms slick with sweat.

the curtain rises.

you step onto the stage.

and for a moment, it all goes silent.

you hear only your breath, feel the sweat trickling down your spine, the overwhelming rush of adrenaline. the music swells, and you begin to move, the steps fluid but distant, like someone else’s body is controlling your own.

plie, relevé, pirouette.

it’s all a blur, like the world has slowed down just for you to feel every single mistake. your mind races, trying to keep up, but it’s like everything you’ve worked on, everything you’ve learned, is slipping away from you in real time.

you can see the audience, their faces a blur in the dark. you try to focus, but the weight of their eyes, the pressure, it builds and builds until you feel like you’re suffocating.

don’t make a mistake.

it’s perfect. it has to be perfect.

you breathe through the pain, pushing it to the back of your mind. there’s a stutter in your steps—a brief, unnoticeable hesitation—but it doesn’t throw you off. you keep going.

the final pirouette feels like it lasts forever, the world spinning faster than your body can keep up, but you land clean, just as you’ve done a thousand times before. a sharp exhale, the sound of your breath louder than the music now, but you don’t care.

the final note of the music lingers in the air like a prayer, and for just a moment, the world goes silent. it’s as if everything is suspended in time. you stand there, still as stone, trying to regain your breath, your composure, but it doesn’t come easily. your vision blurs from the tears you’ve been holding back, makeup smudged down your cheeks, but you don’t wipe them away. there’s no time. you’ve already wasted enough.

you’re shaking by the time the applause begins, your knees threatening to give out. but you force yourself to hold it together, even as your body feels like it might break. your chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, and you hear the cheers, the claps, but they sound distant, muffled. like they belong to someone else.

you try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. you bow, head down, avoiding the gaze of the audience. you’ve made it through, despite everything.

it’s done.

you’ve done it. but your body doesn’t believe you. it aches with every movement, and your vision is blurry with tears, makeup smudged from the effort of keeping them at bay. you don’t know when they started, but it doesn’t matter now. you bow, stiff, but graceful, and then—when the curtain falls and the lights go down, you collapse backstage. you don’t know if you’re crying because it’s over or because it’s never going to be enough.

…

yoongi sits in the darkened theater, a small, warm bundle nestled beside him, her tiny fingers gripping the edge of the seat. aera’s excitement is palpable, her eyes wide with the kind of wonder only a child can have, her gaze flickering to the stage, to the dancers, to the costumes.

her little feet swing back and forth, too small to touch the floor, but she’s bouncing in her seat nonetheless. it’s hard not to smile at how easily she lets herself be swept away by the magic of it all, how easily she believes in it.

the curtain rises, and the show begins.

he watches with the quiet detachment of someone who has done this a thousand times before—seen the same routines, the same carefully practiced movements, the same fleeting brilliance of a stage too big for the people standing on it.

and then you step into the light, and yoongi stills. he hasn’t seen you dance since that night. since he told you to go home, but here you are, under the glow of the spotlight, standing center stage.

aera shifts beside him, whispering, “daddy, she’s pretty.”

he's caught between revelling in how ethereal you look and tearing his eyes way, because as much as he sees you he sees himself.

the way you hold your breath before the first note, the stiffness in your shoulders, the way your fingers twitch before you move. it’s all too familiar. he knows exactly what’s happening in your head, the way your body is running on instinct while your mind fights to keep up.

he watches the first few steps, precise, controlled, but there’s something off. something restrained. he sees the way your foot falters, the way you swallow back something he knows too well. fear.

his jaw tightens.

the audience won’t notice it, but he does.

because he’s been where you are. standing in the center of the world, feeling like it’s caving in around you. yoongi watches, but he doesn’t breathe.

it’s all a blur. he knows it is. for you, for him. the music swells, the movements become sharper, but there’s no joy in it. just control. just the need to be perfect.

he sees it in your eyes, in the way you force yourself through every step, in the way your body is betraying you despite everything.

and suddenly, yoongi is nineteen again, back on that stage, his own breath caught in his throat, his own feet heavy, his own mind screaming at him to fix it, fix it, fix it—

but it’s too late.

your final pirouette is clean. your landing is strong. the audience doesn’t know what’s missing. but he does, because it’s the same thing that was missing in him.

the final note rings out, and yoongi grips the edge of his seat. he watches you disappear backstage, and he knows, without seeing, what’s about to happen.

the moment the lights go out, you will break, just like he did.

the applause is still ringing in his ears when yoongi leans down toward aera, his voice steady despite the tightness in his chest.

“do you want to meet the pretty ballerinas?”

her eyes go wide, round as full moons, and she nods so quickly her pigtails bounce. “yes! can we really?”

“yeah,” he murmurs, forcing a small smile. “we can.”

getting backstage isn’t an issue for him. it never has been. a few words to the right people, a flash of familiarity, and doors open.

the dressing rooms are buzzing with post-performance energy, dancers peeling off costumes, slipping into sneakers, chattering in the way performers do when the adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off.

yoongi spots the instructor easily. standing near the doorway, arms crossed, looking over the girls with a quiet sort of pride. he doesn’t waste time.

“take care of her,” yoongi says, shifting aera toward him.

the instructor blinks, startled. “what?”

“just for a second.”

aera looks up at him, pouting. “where are you going, daddy?”

yoongi crouches down, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “i’ll be right back, okay? stay with him.”

she nods, still bouncing in excitement, already distracted by the swirl of costumed dancers around her, and he turns without another word.

finding you isn’t hard.

he follows the path away from the dressing rooms, down the quieter halls where the lights aren’t as bright, where the chaos doesn’t reach, and he hears it. the sharp, uneven sound of breath being pulled too fast, too shallow.

his feet move before he can think, before he can wonder what the hell he’s even doing, before he can remind himself that this isn’t his problem.

but it is. because he knows what it sounds like when someone is falling apart in the dark, and a part of him can't help but feel like it's his fault.

yoongi follows the sound, his pulse steady but quick, but he doesn’t stop.

his hand finds the edge of a door—a storage room tucked away in the back hallway, where the extra sets, unused costumes, and forgotten props are kept. it’s quiet here, removed from the noise, and the celebration happening just a few rooms over.

he pushes it open.

you’re curled in the corner, back pressed against the wall, knees drawn up, hands gripping your sides like you’re trying to hold yourself together. your breath comes too fast, too shallow, ragged little gasps that don’t seem to fill your lungs.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t wait for you to notice him. in one stride, he’s in front of you, crouching down, pulling you into his arms.

your body tenses instantly, stiff against his, but he doesn’t let go. one arm wraps firm around your back, the other slides up to cradle the back of your head, pressing your face against his chest.

he feels the way your breath stutters, breaking apart, the way your shoulders shake.

"breathe," he murmurs, low and steady.

your fingers dig into his shirt. "i can’t," you whisper, voice barely there, too raw, too thin.

"yes, you can," he says, his own voice quieter now, threading something softer through the spaces between his words. "you're okay. just breathe."

you shake your head against him, gasping, but yoongi just holds you tighter, anchoring you against something solid. his heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek, firm and unwavering, slowly, yours begins to match it.

yoongi stays quiet.

the weight of you against him is something he wasn’t prepared for, the way your breath slowly evens out, the way your fingers stay curled into his shirt like you don’t want to let go. the tremble in your shoulders has faded, but you’re still holding yourself too tightly, waiting for something to break.

he exhales, slow and steady. he shouldn’t be here. shouldn’t be doing this. shouldn’t be letting himself get caught up in something that was never supposed to matter.

but when you finally pull in a full breath, when you finally exhale without it hitching on the way out, he knows he can’t leave. not yet.

"you did good," he says, low, barely more than a murmur against your hair.

you go stiff.

he feels it instantly. the sharp inhale, the way your hands freeze against his chest, the way every muscle in your body locks up like you’re bracing for impact.

yoongi’s jaw tightens.

of course.

he’s spent so long tearing you down, so long picking apart every mistake, every flaw, every hesitation, that the idea of praise feels foreign to you. you don’t know how to hold it, how to believe it.

it’s his fault.

his grip firms, just slightly, just enough for you to feel it. "i mean it," he says, voice steady, leaving no room for doubt. "you were good."

you don’t move. don’t speak. but he feels the way your hands tighten in his shirt, just for a second. and then slowly, cautiously, you lean into him again.

yoongi lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

his arms stay around you, his fingers pressing lightly against your back. he doesn’t move. doesn’t push you away. for the first time in a long time, he just stays.

…

yoongi didn’t ask if you wanted to go home, he just made the decision.

you weren’t in a space where you could be alone, and he wasn’t about to let you sit in some empty apartment, staring at the walls until the weight of everything crushed you. so when he told you to get in the car, you didn’t argue. you just nodded, silent and tired, and slid into the backseat.

aera, on the other hand, is buzzing with energy.

she’d gasped when she saw you backstage, bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes wide with awe. "you were so pretty," she had squealed, tugging at the hem of your sleeve. "like a real princess!"

now, she’s still riding that excitement, strapped into her car seat in the back, swinging her feet, chattering a mile a minute.

"did you see, daddy?" she asks, turning her big round eyes on him like she already knows the answer. "did you see how pretty she looked?"

yoongi glances at the rearview mirror.

you’re sitting with your head resting against the window, still distant, still quiet, but there’s something softer in your expression now. something looser. aera’s energy is infectious, and despite everything, the corners of your lips are twitching up. not quite a full smile, but close.

his grip on the steering wheel relaxes.

aera gasps dramatically, evidently not pleased with the lack of response. "right, daddy?" she presses, insistent, demanding. "didn’t she look like a princess?"

yoongi’s eyes flicker back to the mirror.

he takes in the image of the two of you. his daughter, all bright-eyed and full of admiration, and you, still exhausted, still fragile, but letting yourself soak in the warmth of her happiness. and then, before he can think too hard about it, he smiles.

small. barely there. but real.

"yeah," he murmurs, voice quiet, almost lost beneath the hum of the engine. "she did."

aera beams, and in the mirror, yoongi sees you look at him. sees the way your lips part, just slightly, the way your eyes flicker with something unreadable.

but he doesn’t say anything else. he just drives.

after maybe a half hour, yoongi pulls into the driveway, kills the engine, and exhales. aera is already half-asleep in the backseat, her earlier excitement finally catching up to her and her head lolling slightly to the side.

you don’t move right away. you just sit there, staring at your hands in your lap. yoongi doesn’t rush you.

instead, he gets out, rounds the car, and unbuckles aera from her seat. she stirs, murmuring something incoherent before snuggling into his shoulder, arms wrapping lazily around his neck. he shifts her weight easily, the motion practiced.

he glances at you through the open door. "come on."

you nod, slow, and follow him inside.

the house is warm, dimly lit with the kind of lighting that makes everything feel softer. yoongi moves through it with quiet efficiency, heading straight for the kitchen.

"sit," he says, tilting his head toward the couch as he passes.

you don’t argue. you lower yourself onto the cushions, pulling your knees up, arms wrapped loosely around them. the exhaustion is finally settling in, heavy and consuming, but you don’t close your eyes. you just watch as yoongi moves through the kitchen, the low hum of the stovetop filling the space.

he doesn’t ask if you want it. doesn’t ask if you need it. just fixes the cup of warm milk, sliding it across the table toward you without a word before turning to take aera upstairs.

she clings to him even in her sleep, tiny fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. he murmurs something quiet and tucks her in, brushing a hand over her forehead before slipping back out.

when he returns downstairs, you’re still in the same spot.

the cup is in your hands, half-drank, the steam still faintly curling from the surface. you’re staring at it, fingers curled loosely around the ceramic, expression unreadable.

yoongi leans against the doorway, crossing his arms. "have you been eating?"

you hum, noncommittal.

his brow twitches. "enough?"

another hum.

yoongi exhales through his nose, pushing off the wall. he moves toward you, and before you can react, he plucks the cup from your hands, tilting it slightly to check how much you’ve actually had.

"this doesn’t count," he mutters, setting it down on the coffee table.

your lips press together, but you don’t argue. you just curl into yourself a little more, pulling the sleeves of your sweater over your hands.

yoongi watches you, quiet, weighing his next words.

he’s never been good at this part. the part where he’s supposed to be gentle. the part where he has to figure out what to say to someone who’s unraveling at the edges.

but he also knows what it looks like when someone stops taking care of themselves, and he’s not going to ignore it.

yoongi doesn’t sit. he just stands there, arms crossed, eyes fixed on you like he’s trying to read something that isn’t on the surface.

"what are you looking for?"

you exhale sharply through your nose, rolling your eyes as you sink further into the couch. "not in the mood for your condescending bullshit, yoongi."

his jaw tightens. "i’m serious."

you shake your head, tired and uninterested. "i don’t want to do this right now."

"too bad." his voice is steady. firm, but not cruel. it’s just the truth.

he shifts, crouching slightly so he’s more level with you, trying to catch your eyes. but you keep your gaze fixed on the half-empty cup of milk on the table, fingers picking at a loose thread on your sleeve.

"what are you trying to achieve?" he asks again, quieter now. "is it fame?"

you don’t answer.

"recognition?"

your throat bobs, but you stay silent.

his eyes narrow slightly. "approval?"

something in your expression flickers, too quick for him to catch, but it’s there.

yoongi exhales, sitting back slightly, studying you. "you work harder than anyone in any studio," he murmurs. "but you don’t even know why."

your hands curl into fists. "fuck off, yoongi."

"no," he says simply. "i won’t."

your head snaps toward him, irritation flashing in your eyes, but yoongi doesn’t back down. doesn’t look away.

"you think if you just push hard enough, it’ll fix whatever’s missing," he continues, voice low and even. "but it won’t."

you clench your jaw.

you shift in your seat, fingers tightening around the fabric of your sleeves, nails pressing into your palms. your chest feels tight, too like something is pressing down on you from the inside out.

"i don’t know," you say finally, voice flat, detached. "i don’t know what i want."

yoongi exhales, long and slow, running a hand over his face. "yeah," he mutters, leaning back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like it might hold some kind of answer. "that’s what i was afraid of."

you frown. "what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

he drops his gaze back to you, and something in his expression shifts into something softer, something almost tired. "it means you’re chasing something blind," he says. "and that kind of thing breaks people."

you swallow, something uneasy curling in your stomach. "so what?" your voice is quieter now. "you think i should just stop?"

yoongi watches you, gaze unreadable. then, "no. but i think you need to figure out what the hell you’re actually chasing before you run yourself into the ground."

he waits, but you don’t say anything. don’t argue, don’t deflect, don’t even roll your eyes at him. you just sit there, quiet, staring at the empty space in front of you.

he exhales, shifting back onto his feet. “finish your milk.” without waiting for a response, he turns and disappears down the hall.

his bedroom is dim, the air cool from disuse. he doesn’t spend much time in here, just enough to sleep when aera is with him, just enough to exist between responsibilities. his feet carry him to the closet before he can think too hard about what he’s doing, about the fact that he’s digging through things that haven’t been touched in years.

the box is in the back, shoved beneath old sheets and things he never got around to throwing away. he pulls it out, dusts off the top with the back of his hand, and flips it open.

clothes.

soft, worn, remnants of a life that doesn’t belong to him anymore. she’d left them behind without a second thought, and he’d never bothered to get rid of them. not for sentimental reasons—he’s not that kind of person—but because it never felt urgent. out of sight, out of mind.

he walks back downstairs, clothes folded neatly in his hands, and finds you exactly where he left you. the empty cup is on the table now, but your posture hasn’t changed. you don’t look up when he steps into the room.

he drops the clothes onto the cushion beside you. “there’s a spare bedroom upstairs,” he says, voice even. “you can sleep there.”

you don’t react, but your fingers twitch slightly where they rest on your lap.

yoongi exhales through his nose, tilting his head slightly as he studies you. then, after a beat, his voice dips, words dry but edged with something sharp.

“sleep,” he says. “remember how to do that?”

your head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing, and for the first time in the past hour, you actually look alive.

yoongi smirks, just slightly, and you don’t say anything. but you do grab the clothes, and you go upstairs.

…

yoongi doesn’t sleep that night.

he tries. he goes through the motions—washes his face, changes into a shirt that doesn’t smell like the day, lays down on sheets that are clean but too cold, too still—but his mind won’t stop. not with you upstairs.

he hears every movement. the soft creak of the guest bed as you shift your weight. the shuffle of fabric. the occasional sigh. you’re not sleeping either.

he stares at the ceiling.

thinks about your face. the way it twisted, just slightly, when he told you you didn’t have it. the way you looked at him after the performance—eyes raw, lined with something too close to hope. he hates hope. it’s always the thing that kills you.

he turns onto his side, closes his eyes. but he can still see you.

the tremble in your hands. the tightness in your voice. the silence that followed his praise like you didn’t know what to do with it. because you didn’t. because he taught you not to.

his jaw clenches. he exhales through his nose and sits up, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes.

maybe he was wrong. not about your dancing. not about the hesitation. not even about the choice to leave your name off the lineup. that decision still stands. but maybe he was wrong about what it meant.

he told himself it was mercy. restraint. a kindness, even. keeping you from the stage before it swallowed you whole. but maybe that was just another excuse. maybe it wasn’t about protecting you at all. maybe it was about protecting himself.

because if you went out there and shattered, he’d have to watch it happen. he’d have to feel it, again, that old, familiar ache in the chest, the one that never really healed. and if you didn’t—if you danced well, if you proved him wrong—then what? then he’d have to admit you were more than what he thought. more than the unfinished version of himself he projected onto you.

yoongi scrubs a hand down his face and stands. his feet carry him down the hall, past aera’s closed door, to the one at the end.

yours.

his hand hovers near the knob. he doesn’t knock. doesn’t open it. just stands there, in the soft dark, heart too loud in the quiet. he can hear your breathing. it’s not even, not deep enough to be sleep. he should leave. go back to bed. let the silence smother the things neither of you are ready to say. but instead, he speaks.

"i meant it," he says, voice low. "what i said earlier. you were good."

a beat of silence. then, your voice, quiet through the door.

"you didn’t clap."

yoongi blinks. the corner of his mouth twitches—more grimace than smile. "i don’t clap for potential," he says.

another pause.

"but i stayed," he adds, softer. "i stayed the whole time."

there’s no answer. he doesn’t need one. he just turns, heads back down the hall, and this time—when he lies down—he sleeps. not deeply, but enough.

…

by the time the morning comes, there’s a dull thudding in your head and your eyes feel annoyingly dry. every one of your joints ache, and you lay in the tangle of sheets for a minute to try and convince yourself to get up and go.

you don’t want to overstay your welcome. you’re hardly as shifted as you were last night, although you’re twice as tired, but you can barely keep your eyes open long enough to even figure out where your clothes from last night ended up.

eventually, after willing yourself up and out of bed, you find your top draped over the back of a chair, tights balled up on the floor nearby, and you slip them on slowly, limbs sluggish and uncoordinated. everything feels out of sync, like you haven’t quite settled back into your own body yet.

the floorboards creak outside the room. light footsteps—quiet, careful. aera, probably. or maybe yoongi.

you pause, halfway through tying your hair up. part of you wants to stay tucked away here, wrapped in the silence and the cotton weight of borrowed clothes. part of you doesn’t want to be seen like this—wrung out, fraying at the edges, all your sharp corners sanded down to something you don’t recognize.

but the footsteps retreat, and the moment passes.

you finish getting dressed.

you don’t check the mirror. you already know what you look like—drained, raw. you feel it, too.

you crack the door open, just enough to peer into the hallway. the light is soft, the house still hushed with early morning quiet. you step out, bare feet sinking into the rug, and make your way down the hall, slowly. hesitant.

you find yoongi in the kitchen.

he’s standing by the stove, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other absently flipping something in a pan. the radio hums low in the background—some old jazz station, all brass and static.

he doesn’t look up when you step in, but you know he hears you. you see it in the way his posture shifts, the way his head tilts just slightly like he’s already bracing for whatever you might say.

you hover near the edge of the doorway, fingers curled loosely around the hem of your sleeve. "thanks for letting me stay."

yoongi nods once, slow. "wasn’t gonna let you walk out like that."

his voice is quiet. not clipped. not warm, either—just there, even. steady. like it’s something solid to hold on to, if you need it.

you step further into the room. the floor’s cool under your feet, the smell of coffee and something slightly burnt curling in the air. "i could’ve gotten a cab," you say, though it sounds weak even to you.

yoongi doesn’t turn around. "yeah. but you didn’t."

“didn’t feel like i had much of a choice,” you murmur, half to yourself.

yoongi hums, a soft scoff that passes for agreement. “you didn’t.”

he finally glances over his shoulder, just long enough for your eyes to meet. there’s no apology there, but there’s no bite either. just that same steady neutrality he wears when he’s not sure how much to offer.

“you looked like hell,” he adds, turning back to the stove. “figured i’d rather deal with your attitude than read about you passing out in some alley.”

you snort under your breath, but it doesn’t quite reach your chest. “charming.”

he shrugs, plating the food without ceremony. “you know what i mean.”

you do. too well, actually.

he slides a plate across the counter toward you. eggs, toast, something that smells suspiciously like margarine instead of butter. you blink at it, a little surprised. he notices.

“you still eat, right?” he asks, dry.

“occasionally,” you mutter, pulling the plate closer.

yoongi leans against the counter across from you, arms crossed. he doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his eyes on you. not in the judging way—not like rehearsal, not like stage notes or critiques—but in that quiet, unnerving way he watches when he’s trying to piece something together.

“you slept?” he asks eventually.

you nod, chewing slowly. “a little.”

he doesn’t press. just lets the silence settle again, comfortable in a way that makes you uneasy. like he’s letting you exist without needing a performance.

you clear your throat. “thanks. for… this. for everything.”

he tilts his head. shrugs. “don’t make it a habit.” but his voice is softer than the words.

aera’s laughter drifts faintly from upstairs—muffled, light, the sound of a cartoon playing on low volume. it’s grounding, filling the spaces neither of you know how to.

yoongi watches you eat for a while before he takes a sip of his coffee, setting the mug down with a quiet clink. “she’ll be up for hours if that show’s on,” he mutters.

you hum, noncommittal. your fork scrapes gently against the plate.

“you don’t have to rush out,” he says after a beat. “she’ll want to say goodbye.”

“i wasn’t planning to,” you reply softly. your voice is steadier now, but still careful, afraid the wrong word might break whatever fragile peace is sitting between you.

yoongi nods. doesn’t push.

the morning light slips through the blinds, pale and thin, brushing over the kitchen counter and catching the faint streaks of flour dusted across it—remnants of aera’s attempt at “helping” with pancakes last weekend. yoongi knows he should clean it, but he doesn’t.

you set the fork down and look at him finally. “why do you do that?”

yoongi raises a brow. “do what?”

“pretend you don’t care when you clearly do.”

the corner of his mouth twitches. “bad habit.”

you huff out a small laugh—barely there, but real. the sound flickers through the quiet like something living.

yoongi drains what’s left of his coffee and leans back against the counter, watching as you gather your things, moving with a kind of exhaustion he recognizes all too well.

you glance at him, eyes softer now, something almost like warmth flickering behind them. “thanks again, yoongi. i’ll say bye to aera and see myself out.”

he nods once, casual, as if you’re just another student. but when you turn toward the stairs, he says quietly, “make sure to take care of yourself.”

you pause, just for a moment, before murmuring, “you too.”

he doesn’t reply. doesn’t even watch you go when you reemerge from upstairs and let yourself out, the echo of your footsteps fading down the hall until the house is quiet again.

the radio hums. the pan still smokes faintly on the stove.

and yoongi, standing there in the stillness of it all, realizes he’s never hated silence more than he does right now.

...

the past comes to yoongi in flashes now, alarmingly frequent since you left. no rhythm to it, no sequence. just noise.

yoongi’s sitting at the kitchen table, tea cooling beside him, the television volume low enough to be forgotten. he hasn’t eaten yet—he never does right away—but the untouched food stares back at him all the same. he doesn’t remember when he stopped feeling hungry, too deep in his own head.

a mirror, cracked at the edge, too many reflections of the same boy with bruised knees and trembling hands.

a competition, crowd roaring. lights burning white through sweat, his name called, his smile fixed too tight.

a rehearsal room, teacher shouting counts, the smack of a stick against the floor, the echo of again, again, again.

a stage rehearsal, his wife, then-partner, laughing off a stumble; him pretending not to see the mistake. pretending it didn’t matter.

he’d been good. frighteningly so. the kind of good that eats people alive if they don’t know when to stop. eat less, dance more, fix the turn, hold the line. it had always been a loop. one that never ended, even now.

he doesn’t notice the sound at first, small footsteps padding across the floor followed by the creak of a chair leg dragged out. doesn’t realise until aera taps his knee.

“daddy?”

yoongi blinks, pulled back too fast, breath catching. her face is tilted up at him, eyes wide and soft, a little toothpaste still at the corner of her mouth.

“you didn’t eat,” she says, voice matter-of-fact. “you said breakfast first, remember?”

he glances down. the tea’s gone cold, the toast untouched. his stomach feels hollow in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

“right,” he murmurs. “sorry, bug.”

aera hums, swinging her legs against the chair. “it’s okay,” she says, bright and forgiving. “you can eat now.”

yoongi smiles faintly, small and tired. he picks up the toast and takes a bite that tastes like nothing.

the past quiets, just for a moment. the noise settles. but even as he chews, he can still see it behind his eyes. mirrors and lights and the shape of you under the same relentless glow.

you.

yoongi couldn't stop thinking about you.

not the way you looked that night, though he remembers it anyway—the faint shimmer of sweat along your hairline, the way your voice cracked on i can’t before you broke.

no, it isn’t that. it’s everything after. the quiet that followed, the space you left behind in his apartment, the echo of your shoes against the floor that nothing else seems able to fill.

you had a way of getting under his skin without even trying. too stubborn, too earnest, too unpolished for your own good. he’d told himself you were a project once. something to fix, to sharpen, to make worthy of the stage. but that lie doesn’t hold anymore.

it wasn’t just that you reminded him of himself. it was worse than that. you reminded him of what he’d lost. hunger, fear, need. the ache that used to keep him alive.

yoongi turns the mug in his hands, tracing the ring of condensation left on the table. aera’s humming quietly beside him now, feeding bits of crust to her doll, content in her own small world.

he should be grateful for the quiet, but all he can think about is how you’d fill it. the scrape of your shoes, your breath counting under your own.

it’s been weeks, but the thought of you still catches him off guard. sometimes when he locks up the studio, when the floor smells of sweat and chalk and his own exhaustion, he swears he hears your voice again—steady and worn thin, saying okay. again.

yoongi presses his thumb against the mug’s rim. his reflection wavers in the surface of the tea, shifting.

he wonders what you’re doing now. if you’re still dancing. if you still think of him when you hear the music start. the thought makes his chest tighten, sharp and unfamiliar.

he tells himself it’s just curiosity. but even he doesn’t believe it.

...

a month passes quietly. mornings begin with stretches that no longer ache the way they used to. your body moves easier now, less out of desperation and more out of memory. your breath catches less, your mind wanders more.

you don’t shut people out anymore.

it started small. a shared water bottle in between sets, walking to the convenience store after practice because no one wanted to go home yet. the edges softened over time; you stopped being the quiet girl in the corner.

you still push hard, still stay late when the others leave. but you let them linger beside you now. corrections come from more than one voice. hands brush yours at the barre. the world feels less solitary.

sometimes, when you see your reflection between turns, you barely recognize yourself. not because you’ve changed, but because you’ve stopped hiding in the version that only hurt.

and, more often than you’d like to admit, you find yourself thinking about yoongi.

not in the same way you used to, the way that kept you awake replaying every word and every look, every silence that stretched too long.

it’s different now, quieter. he slips into your thoughts between rehearsals, in the pause between counts, in the turn that lands clean when it never used to. you’ll hear a correction that sounds almost like his voice, and for a second, you forget he’s not here.

sometimes you wonder if he meant what he said that night. you were good. the words circle in your head whenever you’re too tired to keep going. you don’t know if it was kindness or truth. you know even less which one you would prefer.

truth would mean that somewhere inside all that discipline and exhaustion, there was still something worth saving, something he saw in you that you couldn’t.

and kindness meant yoongi cared enough to lie to you, to lie for you. that even if you were never going to be what he thought perfection was, he still wanted you to believe you could be.

the memory of his voice has thinned over the weeks, but it hasn’t left. sometimes, when you’re packing up after class, when the others have gone and the lights buzz low, it’s there again. breathe, quiet and steady, the same way he said it before.

you do.

and then you move again, slower this time, letting the air fill you, letting the movement carry you until your chest stops hurting.

you don’t think you’ll ever stop hearing him completely. maybe you don’t want to.

you tell yourself it’s not about him. not really. it’s about the question that’s been sitting at the back of your throat for months—if you can actually do this. if all the work, all the ache, means something more than chasing some family legacy pipe dream.

you wait until you know the building’s quiet and the last sound of footsteps fades down the hall. the door to yoongi’s studio is still the same heavy oak, still creaks when you push it open. you shouldn’t know that, but you do. you remember the schedule like a second heartbeat: who stays late, who locks up, when it’s empty enough to slip in unseen.

the air smells the same. dust and resin and old wood polish. the mirrors catch your reflection in pieces. you leave your bag by the wall and stretch. there’s comfort in the ritual that belongs to no one but you.

but before you can start, the floorboards creak.

“you shouldn’t be here.”

his voice hasn’t changed. calm, low, threaded with something that used to make your stomach twist. now it only tightens your chest.

you straighten slowly. “i needed to ask you something.”

he crosses his arms, stays where he is. “it couldn’t wait for class?”

“i don’t take your class anymore.”

that earns the smallest pause. then, “right.”

silence stretches between you, familiar and heavy. you force yourself to meet his eyes.

“i want to go professional,” you say. the words sound steadier than you expect. “i need to know if i can.”

his gaze flickers—somewhere between recognition and restraint. “you want my approval?”

you shake your head. “no. i want the truth.”

he exhales, the sound almost a laugh, but not quite. “you’re still looking for that.”

“i’m still dancing for it,” you answer, quiet.

yoongi doesn’t reply right away. his jaw works. the clock ticks in the corner.

then, softer, “show me.”

and even though you didn’t come here to prove anything—not to him, not anymore—you step into position anyway.

yoongi doesn’t move closer. he just nods toward the floor, toward the open space between you, and says, “start from the top.”

his voice is quiet, but it carries, the same way it always did when he wanted precision. he doesn’t tell you what routine, but you already know. the first one. the one he drilled into you until it lived beneath your skin.

your feet find their place before you can think about it. the old music isn’t playing, but you hear it anyway. his voice fills the silence instead.

“one.” your heel presses down, the shift of weight familiar. “two.” your arms lift, fingers curving just enough. “three, four.” turn, breath catching. “five.” extend. hold. “six, seven, eight.” the movement settles, steady, practiced.

he counts through the first round with that same even tone, never rushing, never softening. the rhythm of him pulls you back to the beginning—the mirrors, the exhaustion, the way you used to watch his reflection instead of your own.

you move cleaner now, sharper, every landing grounded. it isn’t perfect, but it’s yours. when the sequence ends, you reset without waiting for him to speak.

he doesn’t count this time, he just watches. arms still crossed, lips pressed together, eyes fixed on every shift of your body. you can feel the weight of it as you move.

your breathing stays even through the third turn, then the fourth. your feet remember where the doubt used to live and step past it.

when the last note fades in your head, you stop. no bow, no flourish. just stillness.

the silence that follows is heavy, but not cold.

yoongi’s arms fall to his sides. his voice, when it comes, is lower than before. “again.”

but there’s no bite in it this time. only something that sounds almost like belief.

yoongi steps forward, the soft drag of his shoes against the floor catching your attention before his voice does.

“if you want to go professional,” he says, stopping just behind you, “you’ll have to do pas de deux. you’ll have to learn to move with someone else.”

you nod once, the sound of your own breathing suddenly too loud in the space between you.

his hand finds your wris. —not a pull, just a correction. “not just beside them. with them.” he turns it slightly, until your palm opens, fingers unfurling into the shape he wants. “it’s not about control. it’s about surrendering your body to the music. to the piece.”

he guides your arm upward, slow, deliberate, tracing the movement through the air. the air shifts with it. “you can’t just make it look right,” he murmurs, his breath grazing the back of your neck. “you have to feel it.”

your throat tightens. “i am.”

“no,” he says quietly. “you’re executing it. that’s not the same thing.”

his other hand settles at your waist, firm but not demanding. your muscles tense under his touch, the instinct to correct your posture kicking in, but he doesn’t let you. “stop thinking about how it looks.”

he steps closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth of him through your clothes. “just move.”

you do. or try to. he guides you through the pattern, his hand tracing the line of your spine, his voice barely audible. “breathe. let it move through you. it’s not the precision that makes it beautiful—it’s what’s underneath it.”

you exhale, and something loosens. the edge between movement and thought blurs. your body answers his without hesitation now, and yoongi smiles softly.

“that’s it,” he says, almost under his breath. “don’t force it. let it happen.”

the world narrows to rhythm and pulse. his hand finds your shoulder, guiding the turn, his other steadying you as you fall back into him, weight shared. you can feel his breath against your temple, the slight tremor in your own chest as the movement finds its ending.

you don’t speak when it’s over. neither does he.

he just stays behind you, hand still at your waist, voice low enough that it barely reaches you.

“that,” he says, “is what you were missing.”

then, quieter, “now do it again.”

you lose track of time.

it starts as practice—measured, deliberate, steps counted beneath breath—but it doesn’t stay that way. the longer you move, the less you hear the numbers. his voice fades from commands into rhythm, and then from rhythm into something almost musical.

yoongi stays close. every adjustment is a whisper against your skin, the heat of his hand guiding you through balance and momentum. when you falter, he doesn’t stop you. he steadies you with the weight of his palm and murmurs, “try again,” softer each time.

you stop watching yourself in the mirror. it’s only him now, the sound of his breath and the subtle scrape of his shoes as he moves with you. there’s no separation between his steps and yours, no sense of who’s leading. he shifts and you follow, you shift and he catches you.

when he finally does stop, your body comes to rest against his, both of you breathing hard and the silence around you alive with everything you can’t name.

your lungs are still trying to find their rhythm again. sweat cools on your skin, the air sharp when you inhale. yoongi hasn’t stepped away yet. his hand is still there, barely touching your side, a silent anchor.

“so?” your voice comes out rougher than you mean it to. “professional?”

the word hangs in the air, fragile.

yoongi’s eyes lift to meet yours in the reflection of the mirror. for a long moment, he doesn’t answer. his breathing slows first, his hand drops away second.

“that depends,” he says finally.

you turn toward him. “on what?”

“on whether you can keep dancing like that when no one’s here to tell you how.” his gaze is steady, too steady. “you felt it tonight. the difference.”

you nod, small, unsure.

“if you can hold onto that,” he continues, quieter now, “then yes. you can go professional.”

“but if you go through with it,” he says, tone soft but heavy, “you need to understand what you’re asking for.”

you frown. “i just asked if i could—”

“—and i’m answering,” he cuts in, not harsh, just certain. “you can. you’ve got the discipline. the control. but it’s not enough to survive it.”

you wait.

“you’ll stop sleeping,” he continues, steady. “you’ll forget how to eat without guilt. you’ll wake up every day knowing that someone younger, hungrier, more desperate is already trying to take your place. and that won’t scare you—it’ll drive you. you’ll measure every part of yourself against perfection until you can’t see where you end and the work begins.”

his eyes meet yours, unreadable. “and when that happens, you’ll lose track of who you are when you’re not dancing. everything else—friends, rest, joy—it all fades. you’ll start thinking the pain means you’re doing it right.”

the words sink deep, and still, your body doesn’t move.

he takes a step closer. “so before you decide,” he says quietly, “you need to answer one thing.”

his voice drops to almost a whisper.

“who are you without ballet?”

you can’t answer. you open your mouth, but nothing comes out—only breath, quick and uneven, still waiting for an answer that doesn’t exist yet.

yoongi exhales through his nose, shoulders drawing back like the weight of what he wants to say is heavier than the air between you. “i can’t watch you do that to yourself,” he says. “i’ve seen what it turns people into. what it turned me into.”

“then what are you?” you ask quietly. “outside of all this. if you’re not a dancer anymore, what’s left?”

yoongi’s eyes lift. there’s no hesitation in the answer. “being a father.” his gaze softens, just barely. “that’s what’s left. that’s what saved me.”

you nod, unsure what to do with the ache that rises in your throat. there’s no jealousy in it, no envy. just the quiet understanding that he’s talking about a version of himself you’ll never meet, a life that doesn’t orbit around the studio, the mirrors, the endless pursuit of perfect.

you move before you even know it.

one second, you’re watching him—his posture, his stillness, the way his voice had softened around that word father—and the next, you’re closing the space between you.

his eyes widen when you reach him. just a flicker, a flash of surprise that doesn’t have time to turn into anything else before your hand catches the front of his shirt and your mouth finds his.

yoongi goes still. his breath catches, chest unmoving against yours. you feel the hesitation before the control slips, before the smallest sound leaves his throat and his hand comes up. not to pull you closer, not to push you away, just to hold you there.

when you finally pull back, you’re both still caught in the same space, breaths uneven and your eyes locked. you don’t apologize, don’t explain.

you just whisper, “i’m sorry,” though even you aren’t sure what for.

yoongi exhales, slow. “don’t be,” he says, voice low, careful. “just… don’t mistake this for what it isn’t.”

your throat tightens. “and what is it, then?”

he looks away, jaw tense. “a moment,” he says quietly. “nothing more.”

but neither of you move.

your breath trembles as you look at him. he’s still too close, eyes dark under the studio lights, something unreadable flickering behind them.

“let’s stay in the moment,” you whisper.

the words barely leave your lips before you lean in again, slower this time, more deliberate. you give him the chance to stop it. he doesn’t.

yoongi exhales once, sharp through his nose, and then he’s kissing you back.

it isn’t gentle, but it isn’t rough either. it’s controlled, the same way he dances, years of restraint bleeding into every movement of your lips. his hand comes up to the back of your neck, guiding you closer, his thumb brushing just beneath your jaw.

you gasp, just once, and that’s all it takes. he pushes forward, lips catching yours harder this time, his body pressing yours back until your spine meets the mirror.

yoongi kisses you like he’s trying to commit it to memory.

not just the shape of your mouth or the rhythm of your breath, but the weight of you under his hands, the way you tremble when he deepens it, how your fingers clutch the fabric at his chest like you're afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

he pulls back just far enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. your noses brush, breaths mingling, uneven.

his voice comes low. wrecked.

“this shouldn’t be happening.”

you nod. “i know.”

and then his mouth is on yours again, rougher this time. less controlled. his hand slides down your spine, grounding you, pulling you closer as he kisses you like something’s broken loose in him. you open to it, to him. and in the moment, there’s no past, no next step, no curtain call.

There were t-minus three hours until her childhood wrapped up. Three hours left before she crossed the stage, obtained her diploma and went on about her life. A life that would be sending her to New Hampshire to attend Dartmouth University. It wasn't like she hadn't known for a while that it was on its way, that it was even in the cards, acceptance letters had pooled in like water over the last six months.

Still, the idea of leaving Hawkins behind and starting college was nothing in comparison to the reality that in one more day she'd be packing all her boxes into the back of a moving truck and hitting the road. Saying goodbye to her old bedroom, to the things that had made her who she was for the last seventeen years.

Top of the World by Carpenters was spilling from her radio, compliments of Robin, who'd arrived back in Hawkins for the kids' their graduation. And she sat laid out on her bed, her outfit for graduation and the bright orange gown and cap were hung up by her closet. Her eyes were stuck on the ceiling, memories she couldn't run from playing behind her eyes every time she so much as blinked.

It had been eighteen months, a long time in some respects - not long enough in others. Eighteen months of what many deemed as normalcy, no more military - no more demos - no more supernatural bull crap. They'd returned to their lives, back to school - extracurriculars as if the last four years had just been an eerie figment of their imagination. But she knew that it hadn't been. It was real and she felt like she was the only one who felt the weight.

Robin, Nancy, Jonathan had all left. College had taken them in separate directions. Steve became a coach - baseball, which in hindsight made perfect sense. And he was halfway through a Bachelor's to teach - which made even more fucking sense. Hop was Chief of Police again, it had taken some convincing, but the fact remained Hawkins, whilst unaware knew there was more to the story than just an earthquake.

That stability brought Hopper and Joyce and by proximity Will into a better situation. No longer across town from one another - the Byers were no longer squeezing into spaces that were much too tight at the Wheeler's place. They were a family - Will had a dad that was worth a shit and she was happy for him, all of them. They fit, they made sense.

Lucas and Max were nauseatingly in love. And though she often made little quips about how obsessed they were with one another, she knew it was more than earned. She didn't know where life would take them - if they'd go to school or just enjoy a year of peace before they decided, but there was no real rush. Max was back and she was better - it had taken her a year to get out of that chair, and she needed glasses now because her eyes had never quite fully recovered, but Lucas was there - through it all. Even more in love than before it seemed.

And she loved that for them, because Lucas had been her friend since at the latest the second grade. And Max was her friend - her best friend. So though there was this gaping hole in her chest and this ache in her gut over what had went down that day, she swallowed that and kept a smile. She acted normal, she "moved on" and lived her life.

Because the last thing anyone needed was someone blaming them for being able to. How could she take it out on them that she was still stuck, still down in the Upside Down in her head?

She couldn't, so she didn't. She shut up and kept it all to herself. It was why she was currently rotting in bed instead of seizing the day. It was why she hadn't told her friends about Dartmouth, it was why she hadn't said anything about leaving so soon. Campus would be shut down for three months, which should have meant that she'd be around - that they'd all be around to celebrate their last summer together.

But it hurt too much, so like a coward she planned to run.

"[YOUR NAME], answer the phone! It's for you! It's Max!" and the sound of her younger sister - the familiar crack in her voice as she hollered makes something in her chest clench. She's slow to move, slow to pull herself out of her spiraling head until finally she does, she gets up and shuffles from her bedroom and down the hall, down the stairs and to the landline. "Took you long enough, I've been calling you for fifteen minutes." she snips and she holds out the phone like it's such a burden.

"Don't be dramatic." [ YOUR NAME ] clips back, taking the phone from the twelve year old before bringing up to her ear. "Max?" she says quietly, leaning against the counter as the solace of her bedroom is split in two from her space in the kitchen. Her siblings, running around - her parents trying to wrangle them. The oven permeating the house with the smell of what would likely be lunch after the ceremony.

Her extended family, the ones who'd flown in like bats out of hell were fussing over minute details, some watching tv, the women cooing over old photospreads from back when she was just a little girl, a baby really.

"Hey, I'm glad you picked up." and Max's tone is featherlight, like somehow amidst the false pretenses and fake smiles she knew that her friend was a ticking time bomb, something unfairly delicate. "You've been like a ghost these days-" and she knows it's meant to be a joke, just Max being Max, but she doesn't laugh. Instead her hold on the phone tightens hard enough that it has the palms of her hands singing.

"What is it, Max?" and she wasn't usually impatient, no- out of the entire party most of them would come together and agree that [YOUR NAME] was usually anything but. She wasn't a push over by any means, but she was level headed - she kept things together. She for lack of better words had been a fine glue that had been stitching them together for as long as they'd allowed her to.

And in the last few months, though quietly, that stitching had begun to fray. Which was why Max was even calling - why she'd mentioned it - why there was a feeling of dread in the outer corners of her mind. Because they'd all noticed it - how she'd clung so tight, kept her composure when it happened and then over time slowly started fading away. They didn't talk about it, mostly because how could they?

You couldn't address something if you weren't even 100% sure it even existed. And [YOUR NAME] had always been the best deflector.

Hands down.

"I just-" and Max exhales into the receiver. "Lucas wanted to know if you were riding with?" she offers, hopeful that she'd accept it and they'd cram into that stupid beamer Lucas had gotten from his parents at seventeen that he and Steve Harrington wouldn't shut up about. "It'd be kind of fun, right? Like old times?" and no, it wasn't Max's fault that all her turns of phrase today were sending [YOUR NAME] deeper and deeper down her spiral. Because saying things like old times as if anything had been the same since 1986 was laughable.

"Uh, no." definite, unwavering. "I think I'm just gonna go on my own. Lots of driving in my future, might as well get a head start, right?" and it was as close to light hearted as she'd been in a while, except Max doesn't laugh.

"Yeah, I guess so, but you've got all summer to practice driving."

Friends Don't Lie was a stupid ass saying. She'd always thought that, because by and by the truth chipped away at what was once so sacred. All people did was lie. They lied about their feelings, they lied about moving on, about how life gets better, and how hurt doesn't last forever. They lied about boyfriends and the depths of their feelings for friends and enemies alike. And they certainly lied about leaving for school.

Or maybe that was just her.

"Yeah, I guess so, but I just think it'd be better if I came on my own." she pivots and her eyes drift to the clock, time slowly ticking downward, pushing her closer to the bitter end. There's a beat, a moment of too tense silence on the phone, Max not replying and [YOUR NAME] doing something just shy of disassociating.

"Is everything okay?" Max finally asks and it feels heavy, like she'd been wanting to ask it for a while. "Cause you know you can talk to me-"

"I don't really need to talk, but I do have to go. I'll see you at the ceremony, Max." and with that she's slamming the phone down with a harsh clang. About three seconds pass where she debates calling back, Max didn't deserve her misguided aggravation. It wasn't Max's fault she was spinning and it wasn't anyone else's fault that she was lying. She weaves through the much too packed house, all fake smiles and knowing head nods as varying relatives offered early congratulations.

She shuts the door to her bedroom, not in a slam but softly. She wanted to be invisible for just a bit longer. Though instead of going back to bed rot she walks towards her desk - it was mostly cleaned up by now, all her favorite knick knacks and posters, pictures and memories all stuffed into a box by the door so when she packed it all up she could replicate it at school. 28 damn hours away.

Her graduation speech is still out, along with some old sticky notes and a picture of the party. All of them. She's already crying before she can stop it, dragging her shoulder across her cheek in a quick swipe to keep the tears from spilling further. It's not an easy feat, because with every swipe more tears replace it until finally she's settling down into the chair and picking up the frame, fingers slowly brushing over the photograph.

Her. Mike. Lucas. Dustin. Max. Will. and El.

Photos like that were rare and now they were obsolete. Because El was gone, despite everything. Despite how they'd won. How they'd taken down Vecna, defeated the Mind Flayer like true heroes, she was gone. She didn't want to blame El - she couldn't ever possibly blame her, not for this. But the fact remained that her absence was a chasm. One she was still struggling to cross even eighteen months later.

No one would know the depths of her bravery, how again and again she'd put herself on the line for the sake of this town. How she'd loved her friends so fiercely, protected them, bled and cried for them - and in the end sacrificed her hope for something better for them. Flashes of the night, her horrible ending often plagued her. She'd heard again and again that it wasn't her fault - that El didn't blame her and she couldn't blame herself, but it wasn't that simple.

She remembered bits and pieces of Dimension X. How her particular bond with Eleven and Will and her acting role as after school TA with the younger kids had got her roped up into the madness. And boy was it not any fun being on the other side of it. She had been used to for years being part of the planning and saving the day - but now here she was an extra factor - a piece to a puzzle that even now made no sense.

And El had saved her and it'd cost so much. Too much in her opinion.

But it was like everyone else had managed to make it okay in their minds. There weren't any more pauses in the air - or the feeling that came from something being missing. It was like there was no scar, no scab, nothing but the lapse of time. She had wondered why she hadn't gotten over it yet, why it'd been so long and she was still so damn stuck. But the fact of the matter was, she knew why.

She just didn't want to accept it.

She wipes at her face, knowing full well the hell she'd be in for if she got ready for graduation with swollen eyes and tear streaks. Four years to most wasn't much - but in the same breath it was like a lifetime and whether she went on without ever realizing it, the fact remained that [YOUR NAME] had been in more ways than once changed immensely because she'd had a friend like El.

El, who without saying much seemed to always know just enough. That never judged her or brushed her off. Who'd brighten like a streetlight when [YOUR NAME] would come through the doors of Hopper's cabin and stay put until Hopper lost his mind. They'd been great friends, best friends. And now everything just felt so heavy. Was it fair for her to move on? To leave Hawkins and be happy? To grow old and fall in love, have a family and push the nightmare from her mind?

She doesn't have time to ponder on that, because her mother is knocking on the door. "Sweetheart, start getting ready! I want to get some pictures of you in your cap and gown!" and there's a squeal to her words, genuine excitement. Her mother was more or less ignorant to the Upside Down. Her father too, they'd been separated - out of the loop for good reason. It kept them safe, unharmed.

But sometimes she wished she'd talked to them, because maybe they'd understand her heartache - her grief - and her guilt. And they could help her understand it too.

"Alright!" she hollers back and she hears the click clack of her mother's pumps hitting the hardwood as she trails away. Already dressed and ready to go, likely the picture of peaking 90s beauty.

[YOUR NAME] stands slow, heading towards her closet where her outfit hung. A satin slip dress, for her mother's sake in ivory like she was going to a goddamn wedding. The only solace came from the fact that it didn't touch the ground and instead stopped above her knees. It doesn't take long to shower and change and allow her mother to touch up her hot press and do her makeup. She looked so grown by the end of it. All traces of the young girl she clung to wiped away in a second.

You look so beautiful. Different variations of it filled her ears from the second she'd put on her shoes and walked down the stairs. And it's easy to go through the motions too, slip on her gown with the big green words SALUTATORIAN down one side and smile in the photos. Shoulders back, head up, eyes bright like today was a good day. Because it was, it had to be. Because it was the last day.

And then before long she's heading out the door with a kiss to her mother's cheek, reminding her father that they have to get there early if they want good seats. The drive to Hawkins High School is one without much thought - no music, no whistling or humming. Just the quiet pass of the neighborhood she'd grown up in, the sounds of the street as Hawkins pressed on. Business as usual - though many cars and yards had placards congratulating the graduating class on their achievement.

Dustin's the first face she sees once she's parked, keys in one hand and her cap in the other. "[YOUR NICKNAME]!" and he says it like it's the first time he's seen her in forever and maybe before it would be odd, but the fact of the matter was Max hadn't been entirely off when she'd mentioned that she'd been a bit of a ghost. Still, she tightens her grip on the cap, plastering that same phony ass smile on her face and meeting Dustin halfway to hug him as if she'd never see him again.

"Can you believe we're actually here?" it's the first question he asks when they pull back, hands steady on each other's arms as they smile like dopes and stay so damn close. "Fucking graduation, are you kidding me?" and he breathes like it's hitting him square in the chest.

"I know. I feel like just yesterday we were kids and now-" and she trails off, smile faltering just slightly.

"We're not kids anymore." he supplements and it's cliche, but it's the truth, because they hadn't... and they hadn't been in a long time. Still, she doesn't know where to go from that, so instead she just hugs him again, because this was Dustin. Dustin, who had always been around - who had never judged her for anything. Not her big personality or her self assuredness or the fact she had been in love with their best friend for years and had never said anything like a coward.

He hugs her though, because of course he does. She's sure if it wasn't for Principal Higgins calling for his 'top two' the hug likely would've continued. Still, they're parting with a shared laugh, the kind that fills the space but never turns stale or awkward. And then Dustin is holding out an arm saying something dorky like 'After you, my lady!" and she's accepting it and falling back into this space of being okay, even for a second. Transported back to a time when they were much smaller.

When grief was something far from her, far from both of them.

Still, the moment of normal vanishes just as quickly as it arrives the second the field starts to fill with people. Parents, siblings, extended relatives and a sea of empty chairs waiting to be filled by the class of 1989. When the Graduation March begins, she stands to her feet in between Dustin and other faculty as the students file onto the field before finding their seats. Her eyes catch Lucas first, like clockwork and he smiles despite the crack in the party she was responsible for.

It only serves to make her feel worse, because much like with Dustin, it was hard to play tough once they were in her face - or in Lucas' case, just in her general vicinity. She clasps her hands in front of her as they settle into their seats, her stomach twisting at the thought of speaking As Salutatorian it was her responsibility to give the opening remarks and Dustin, as Valedictorian would close the ceremony once everyone got their diplomas.

Before long Principal Higgins walks to the podium with a rehearsed ease. "Good Afternoon, everyone, and welcome to the graduation ceremony for the class of '89." he benedicts. The crowd erupts into applause, most of them already checked out and [YOUR NAME] couldn't blame them. So much rested on the other side of this day. Principal Higging continues with his speech, spewing a load of crap she's sure he's said at every graduation since he'd started.

And then he's introducing her and before she realizes it she's walking to the podium. Her steps are slow, like she was being held down by something. Maybe she was, metaphorically. The microphone spits out feedback once she's close, her breath echoing through the speaker as she takes a step back and swallows the sudden need to vomit.

Her hands feel clammy all of a sudden and everything she'd written goes right out her head. She breathes deep, eyes skimming the crowd and she feels like she's swallowed a tack when she spots Mike.

Michael Wheeler, who she'd been crushing hard on since the fifth grade. Mike, who she'd in the same breath been avoiding for about four months. Not in the intentional ways, just in the quiet ways. Mostly because he'd be the hardest to say goodbye to, but pre-existing distance seemed to always make the wound of saying goodbye forever hurt so much less. She can see Hop heading back towards the bleachers. She sees his mom embrace him once and then again.

And then Principal Higgins is hissing at her to speak so she does.

"Um-" and she clears her throat, blinking once, twice, a third time. "Good Afternoon." she greets again. "I got to be honest, I don't know how often I dreamed about standing here." and then she snorts, looking over her shoulder - "But usually in those dreams I was in Henderson's spot and deep down I still feel like we were neck in neck as far as grade point averages go." she jokes, the most light-hearted that she'd been in a while. And it garners genuine laughter, which is a win.

Her heart settles just slightly.

"But, um- I just wanted to say: you're going to hear a lot of congratulations today. Some who are just saying it because it's polite, some who are saying it because they never got the chance to be in this position, and some who don't really give a damn either way." and she shuffles from foot to foot. "So I figured we'd start this off right by you hearing it from someone who was on the ground with you."

She keeps her eyes on the podium, her nerves spiking back up. "Congratulations, we did it. We accomplished something that was twelve years in the making, one of the first major early milestones of our lives. High School is not forever, though at times it really can feel that way." and she licks over her drying lips. "Like- never-ending."

She taps her fingers against the podium, eyes finally skimming across the crowd again and she smiles faintly when her eyes catch Will. "But in reality, High School is just a moment in time - it's a blip - a tiny compilation of moments that down the line won't feel as long. In your thirties, forties, and fifties you'll have experienced so much life so many moments that you might even struggle to remember all of this - at least in the same capacity." she continues.

"And one day you'll wake up and you'll have been out of high school a lot longer than you were ever in it and believe it or not you'll miss it." and she hates that she already knows she's about to cry. But she's certainly not the only one. "Every single last one of you completed the ultimate act of commitment. You committed to putting in the work, to pushing yourselves, to finishing what began when you started your freshman year and in spite of how hard it was, you did it. Be proud of that."

"Most of you guys know me." she begins, shoulders squaring. "Mostly because throughout high school I could never sit down long enough to just become an island." she starts slow, hands shaking as she looks down at the podium. "Cheer, Robotics Club, Honor Society, Student Council, Debate club - and wow the more I list these out the more I realize I never shut the hell up-" and at that the audience laughs, another win.

"My point is that High School is the start, the beginning of the rest of our lives and despite the parts that make it hard - the heartaches - the challenges - there's so much good that comes out of being able to look back and see that you did it. That against all odds you did this. High School is not the end, not by a long shot - there is so much life to be lived. So much more on the other side of this. So whether you made it through with As or Ds, take this and run with it, make a choice to live."

"Wherever your future takes you, however far or close - choose to live. To take every day as the chance to expound on what you've already started. You've made it this far, what else is there to do but to keep trucking? To keep racking up successes, because you owe it to yourselves to be proud of the life you live. You owe it to yourselves to take a life that you want for yourselves, a life you deserve to live."

The amount of misty eyed students and parents isn't lost on her, and it's precisely why she doesn't wipe her tears. "I thought about a lot while I dreamed up this speech. I thought about the uncertainty of freshman year, how things felt so different and so much scarier than Elementary and Middle School. Not knowing the hacks of how to make getting through this easier - like not carrying all your books to class at once. Or not using the bathroom by the gym because it's always fucked - even when it's not." she tsks and the other graduates all laugh.

"I thought about Sophomore year - being on the other side of the panic. Watching the new Freshman come in and not being so scared anymore. Friendships in the most unlikely forums being built because all of us were just so glad that we weren't the fucking new kids anymore."

And some of the kids, the clear representations of these words look at each other with watery smiles.

"I thought about junior year - being an upperclassmen, those privileges, the trips - the parties - the later curfews - the parties - the relationships that really stuck. The cars we all suddenly could drive, which was madness because Hawkins Traffic is bullshit." and then she winces, when she realizes how much she's begun to curse.

"And then I thought about Senior year and how it felt like being a freshman all over again. Three years down and yet so much we still didn't know. So much more expectation waiting behind every choice we made. And how quickly it flew by, all these moments we fantasize about since we're small. Homecoming, Prom, Senior Ditch Day, Grad Parade, cramming for exams and being elated when you looked around and saw that so many of the people you started high school with are leaving alongside you." and her eyes catch Max, who's bleary eyed.

And it hits her close then, how royally fucked up her decision to waste her last few months with her friends being distant was.

"No one ever likes saying goodbye - and this one it's a big one." and she huffs out a laugh. "The one thing I hate the most about saying goodbye is how uncertain it makes you feel. How do you approach saying goodbye when they're all so different, right? Some are for a day, some are for a week - some months and years, but some - and those seem to be the ones that sting the most - are the goodbyes that last forever." she wipes her face.

"Forever in itself is hard to wrap my head around - because it's like - hey, I'm never going to see you again, and that's it." and she scoffs. "Feels so incomplete, right? And that's what goodbyes are - they are incomplete and you can never guess how long they'll last - how meaningful the dynamic will be once it's out of your grasp. But that's life sometimes. Some of us are gonna leave after today and never look back and that's okay-" [YOUR NAME] says with a nod.

"But don't forget this - don't let the bad stuff harden you so much that you forget the good in between. So to my fellow graduates, today, whilst the end of your high school careers is the opportunity for the beginning of the rest of your lives. Don't waste it." and she sniffles, "Uh, with that class of '89, onwards and upwards! Congratulations!"

The rest of the ceremony goes by quickly, though the fact remained she'd zoned out the second she'd gotten her diploma in her hand. Still, Dustin's speech pulled her out of her head and despite the aghast expression of the faculty and Principal Higgins, she'd cheered him on just like the rest of them, and once the confetti started - the die was cast.

"You're a mad man, you're an absolute mad man!" it was Mike's first words once he, Lucas, and Will had made it over to her and Dustin, his hands landing on the boy's shoulders as the boys bum rush into a group hug. Despite her best attempts to stay out of it, she'd become dog piled before she could help it. Once the madness had calmed down and the weight of the day had settled - she found herself walking in step with Mike. Stacey Albright had invited them to a party, and while it was clear she was interested in Dustin, Mike had other plans.

More nostaglic plans.

Now, they were heading towards her car, her heels in his hand as they tried with all their might to get away from their mothers before they had them pose for any more photos. "It was a good speech." he says out of nowhere, her eyes jumping to him in surprise. "Your- your speech - your opening speech. It was good." he reiterates as her body relaxes, but only slightly. She smiles, awkward but appreciative.

"Thanks." and silence befalls them.

It was in moments like this where the cracks seemed to show. They used to not be so awkward, but now it was like the second they were alone they forgot how long they'd been friends - how close they used to be. "Uh, hey, can we talk?" he finally says as the silent stretches longer. [YOUR NAME] turns her body to face him and nods.

"Sure, yeah - of course." and tripping up over her words around him was new, an unpleasant side effect of so much.

"We're friends, right? B-Best friends, we're best friends aren't we?" he asks and her eyebrows press inward, posture stiffening at such a loaded question.

"Of course, Mike." she says - confusion evident all on her face, he was holding her heels for her like he did when they were younger and she was tired of trying to look so grown up in her heels. He never complained about it - never. He just did it, did whatever she asked without much pushback because that was the sort of friend he was. He stares at her then, not like he doesn't believe her, but like something heavy was sitting on his chest that he wanted to.

"Good." he finally replies, his shoulders relaxing. "I don't want that to change." he says truthfully, a surprise but she doesn't know why it is. It shouldn't be. They'd always been just that.

"It won't." she tries in a reassuring manner, and he doesn't look convinced.

"I just mean- everything you said about goodbyes." he starts off unsure, "I just want you to know that even if that's us, if we're the forever goodbye, you can still look back and think of us - of me - as part of the good times." he explains loosely and her expression slackens just slightly.

"Why would we be the forever sort of goodbye?" she asks quietly.

He offers her a knowing look that makes her chest tighten. "Just- just hypothetically speaking." he offers and she's not so convinced. "I just- things have been different lately, I know that, and things aren't gonna be the same as they used to be, I see that now." and he turns until he's fully facing her too. "But in spite of that I want to be part of that good for you. All of us, the party - everyone." he says plainly.

Her nose twitches, a breathy huff leaving her as her eyes well up. "You are, Mike, of course you are." she says in something just shy of a duh tone. And he looks like he wants to say more and something in his eyes tells her that he knows, that he knows she's leaving - that tonight was it, despite all they'd planned - all they'd hoped for one final summer. But he never says anything - he never blows her up and makes her face it. Instead he just smiles, and with a watery smile of his own he keeps walking towards her car.

☆☆☆☆☆☆★

The night goes on, the group of six find themselves in the Wheeler Basement once again, playing DND like old times. The stakes high and all of their nerves shot from what felt like an inevitable defeat. They were an hour over when they said they'd be done, and Mike was well into the game. All of their characters had been knocked off, save for her and Will. And as the campaign, their last for what felt like a while trickled to an end, the group found themselves cheering at their victory.

The Mage of St. Markovia bein summoned to save them from the clutches of Strahd von Zarovich. For the first time, in a long time - [YOUR NAME] feels lighter, her laughter was real and there was a lightness to her countenance she hadn't felt in a long long time.

"The misty gloom that shrouds the village of Barovia evaporates, and you are met with cheers from the townsfolk." Mike closes up the game, their focus shifting back to him like oral scripture. "In honor of your courage and bravery, they give you medals, and you are all awarded 1,000 pieces of gold each. Flush with wealth and honor you live out the rest of your lives in comfort and happiness." Mike continues. "The end."

"Great Campaign." Lucas cheers as the group offer applause.

"Good campaign, buddy!

"Great campaign!"

The boys all reiterate as [YOUR NAME] who had her knees curled up to her chin looks to Max, who was shaking her head in denial. "Wait, wait, wait. Hold on. That's it?" she demands in disbelief. "comfort and happiness? Could you be more trite?" she tsks as Lucas and [YOUR NAME] share a look of surprise. "I thought you were some kind of master storyteller or something." Max adds as the group all look to Mike to see his reply to her dig at his abilities.

Mike though, doesn't take the bait. He laughs, though his face falls in such a fast precession that it changes the feel of the room. His lips twist to the side for a moment, eyes falling on Max. "Well, it is true." he starts off softly. "The comfort and happiness part. But happiness can be found in many places." Mike continues. "The Knight and the Zoomer, they retire from battle, and they settle down in a small village."

And something about it feels so definite, so much bigger than the game that [YOUR NAME] doesn't find a hint of surprise in her when she starts to tear up. Mostly because Mike had always been a good storyteller and one thing about it, when he said it - in many ways it often came true. "With each passing day, their love grows stronger." Lucas looks to Max, and she's tearing up, chin wobbly as she smiles over at him. He takes her hand in his and it feels like an acceptance.

"The bard, craving knowledge makes his way to the Mage's Guild of Enclave." Mike says as he looks over at Dustin. "Where he spends his days in their vast library. Though deeply devoted to his studies... he still makes time for the occasional adventure." and as he says it the room seems to settle as reality hits. Things were changing - they always would, and times like these, moments of just them - here - safe in this basement that had held them and their adventures for years would dwindle. Farther and fewer in between.

"As for Will the Wise, he travels far and long to the bustling city of Vallaki. It's overwhelming at first. So very different from the village where he spent his youth. But it isn't long before he finds his place there and with that deep happiness and acceptance."

He turns to [YOUR NAME] then, his features softening in a way she'd never seen them before. "And the fighter, well she gets a new start," he exhales as she lets out an almost worry filled - albeit sheepish laugh - "After years of protecting her friends, she, no longer scared of the unknown finds a new path in a land far away. A different path, where she can do and be all the things she'd maybe been too scared to do and be before." he begins and it feels like a gut punch.

"Knowing that her friends are safe now is a thought she carries with her as she moves onto the next adventure - searching for knowledge and new experiences. It's there that she's able to live, really live. She takes a piece of her friends with her and she keeps them close to her heart though they're now spread far and wide. She finds a place there. A better place where no burdens and guilt and sorrow can follow her. There, she experiences all the things she'd always hoped for but had never allowed before." he continues, voice still soft.

"And though time presses on and her new life keeps her from her old one, she knows that in spite of the distance, that nothing would diminish the love she has for her friends and the love they have for her too. She becomes a creator of great things, using her skills to build and to invent to fill the world with something intangible. Something only she can give it." and she has to look away when a full sob threatens to break through.

The entire table - save for Mike - is holding back tears, tears that only continue when he tells them what becomes of The Storyteller and the Mage. 'The Mage you saw die was not real. She was an illusion' he'd said, and the entire room shifted with the weight. "Where did she go?" Max had asked.

"No one knows. No one will ever know... but I'd-I'd like to imagine that she'd in a beautiful land, somewhere far away." he explains truthfully. [YOUR NAME] brushes away her tears and finds that she wants to believe it too. So she will.

"How do we know it's true?"

"We don't. Not for sure. But I choose to believe that it is."

The moment settles and for a moment, they all just sit there. Teary eyed and ruminating on a hope that El made it out and lived. That she found peace, that she was alive and okay.

After a moment, [YOUR NAME] swipes at her face, eyes more than swollen as she stands up with a start. "Um, I have something for you guys." she says as she goes to her bag. Digging through it she pulls out envelopes. Walking back to the table she sits again and passes them out - each with their name written in her handwriting with a doodle in the space around it. "And, uh - before you all freak this is not a Flayed situation-" she says with an awkward laugh that they all match.

She clears her throat, "I just-" and she inhales. "I've been beating myself up all day." she admits. "I just woke up, really angry about everything. Graduation, moving on - us-" and she motions to the group. "Saying goodbye, going from this to something else. Something less important." and she's crying again.

"But it wasn't until graduation that I realized that I hadn't helped that - that I was part of that problem. I was adding onto it, giving space for us to drift apart." and she exhales shakily. "And I really don't want to drift apart."

"We'll never drift apart." Will tries to reassure and she shakes her head.

"Yes, we will." she denies. "Not on purpose - never on purpose - because we love each other too much, but over time life will change and the truth is things are going to be different and I was scared and I thought that maybe if I pushed you all away that I could avoid the hard part. The saying goodbye part. But I was wrong and I don't want to leave tonight knowing that I won't be here tomorrow." and she wipes her face again.

"Uh, I got into Dartmouth." she finally admits and she huffs. Though instead of some sort of anger, surprise, shock - she sees her friends staring back at her as if they'd known all along - as if they'd expected this. "I leave tomorrow afternoon." she adds much quieter, hands wringing as she looks down at her lap.

"I know, I was so selfish and I got everyone's hopes up thinking we'd have summer and I guess I just- I was scared. I'm still scared. I just- I thought we'd have more time and now goodbye is literally right here-" and before she can say anymore she's being met with a hug. And it was such a corny habit her friends had, a dogpile, a group hug that seemed to always make her melt. First it's Max, then Will, then Dustin, Lucas, and the hug is the sort that feels like everything would be alright.

"Goodbye or not, it won't be forever." Lucas is the first to say anything. "Not for us. We've been friends forever and a little bit of distance won't change that."

"Yeah, we'll always be friends. It doesn't matter how it looks."

"It doesn't matter how far we all go. We're always gonna be friends - whether you're in Hawkins or at Dartmouth." Max mutters plainly. "We don't just give up on each other because of some distance. Will things be different? Yes, but we've dealt with a lot more than just college-"

And the boys, save for Mike, all voice their agreement. And despite it all, she finds her eyes on Michael, who was sitting at the table - face such a blank canvas. He was good at that, keeping his composure amidst all chaos. Still, when they lock eyes, he doesn't look at her like he's angry or upset - and she feels the weight dissipate.

Go figure.

"Guys! What's going on? The lasagna's getting cold." Karen's voice calls down the steps, all six kids turning to look at the top of the basement.

"Yeah, we just finished. We'll be right up!" and the moment fizzles - back to reality. They all clear away their tears, sniffling and trying to garner a semblance of their self control back. One by one they set the group sets their binders up, taking their letters from her in their hands, save for [YOUR NAME] who stays there seated on the floor. Max leaves first, then Lucas, Dustin, and Will - leaving only her and Mike down in the basement. He stands but doesn't rush her.

"So earlier, when you asked about goodbyes... you knew?" she asks quietly, and he turns to her, holding her binder out to her with a nod.

"It wasn't exactly like your family was on the same page about keeping it a secret." he admits. "Your mom told my mom, who assumed I knew." he continues as she grasps the binder. At that she blows a breath, of course. "You didn't have to hide it." he tells her gently enough.

"I thought I was doing something wrong." she admits sleeve dragging over her nose. "I still do, deep down. It doesn't feel fair - just moving on - going about our lives as if everything's normal." she grips the binder tightly.

"Maybe it won't ever feel fair." he admits. "I don't think it will, but that's the thing about caring about someone. Loving someone." he reiterates. "I don't think you stop just because they're gone. I think it's about how you carry them, what comes after the loss." he adds with a deep inhale. "And just because things change doesn't mean how you feel about them does. It doesn't mean they matter less or that the feelings they brought you are gone." he says solemnly.

"Is this for me or for yourself?" she asks quietly.

"Maybe both." he replies with a purse of his lips. "You didn't have to hide it." he says again, "I really wish you hadn't."

At that she nods in understanding. "I'm sorry I did. I wasted so much time. I tried really hard to make it hurt less, but-" and her hand comes up to her chest. "Being alone only made it hurt more - not having El - not having you-" and then she falters. "Any of you... it was just like - like no matter how hard I tried to accept that she had decided, all I could think about was failing her. I should've done more, planned more, been smarter. Figured out how to guarantee her safety. But I didn't."

And Mike understood the feeling, because he'd been feeling it tenfold.

"I get it now." she says as she wipes at her face. "It's not my fault and I put a lot of pressure on myself - carried a lot of guilt about anything happening to any of you. Even to my own detriment." and she snorts. "And maybe that's how we ended up in this situation - me trying to save the day - and needing to be saved." she shrugs with a dry laugh.

"But, you know what. I do believe that she made it out." she says, though her chin trembles and her eyes water all over again despite her efforts. "And she's happy." and she shrugs at her face again to clear the tears. With that she stands and sets her binder up on the shelf.

MAX. LUCAS. DUSTIN. WILL. [YOUR NAME].

She brushes her fingers over the spine, sniffling slightly as she soaks it in. Who knew when she'd be in this basement again. Mike was still planted in his previous spot, eyes locked on her when she turns around to look at him. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Yeah, of course." he agrees as he stands, moving to place his .

"The storyteller." she says quietly. "I don't know if I'm okay with his ending." she admits quietly.

"What's wrong with it?"

"N-Nothing's wrong with it. I just- I want to know what else there is." she admits as she wraps her arms around herself. "I know he writes about the adventures of his friends - the mage - everything... the adventures they faced ... but does he ever see them again once they part ways? Does he get a happy ending outside of just... self-inflicted solitude? Telling the stories for everyone else but never having any more of his own?"

Mike falters by the shelf, setting his binder down beside hers. In truth, he had no real answer for that. Who could really say?

He pivots to look at her slightly. "I'd like to believe so." he says quietly. "Someday." he agrees lowly. "After sharing all he could about the people that mattered most to him, he was able to find something new to live for." and [YOUR NAME] nods slowly and before she can help it she's crossing the basement towards him and they're hugging. And it had never been more clear that this was goodbye.

"I think I'd like to believe that too."

☆☆☆☆☆☆★

[ DEAR, YOUR NAME ]

When the letter came she hadn't expected it, eighteen months had passed and her Junior year of College was on the horizon. Despite her fears, the party hadn't changed much. Yes, the distance between them was wide - their schedules packed and their lives filling with new friends, new stories to share and new hobbies to fill up their time - but they'd made it back for holidays and for big milestones. Like Lucas and Max not so surprisingly getting engaged - or Steve getting the first of his nuggets with Kristen.

They spent a lot of time sending letters. In Dustin's words it felt so medieval, which for the party made perfect sense. The only thing amidst this was the fact that this particular letter was different. Something from Mike, and not one of the generic ones he'd sent them all with the goofy little cartoons. Still, despite her complaints she had a drawer full of letters from them, her friends.

She had new friends now, had even dated around a bit. She was on track to making the Dean's list and had successfully infiltrated college level robotics. Her roommate was nice and she'd found a mentor amidst the chaos - there were no more fears of the unknown, no more missions to save the world and she was growing to learn that that was okay. Life could be sweet like this too, and it was.

Still, the second her roommate passes her the envelope with a look and a quiet murmur of "I didn't read it-", she finds herself glued to her bed, opening it up and being met with a few things. [ A. a tiny little photo of Mike, his hair was different, curlier almost. He looked so much more grown up now too, cheekbones sharper and face devoid of any trace fof childhood ], B. a sheet of looseleaf paper, the letter itself. and [ C. a picture of the two of them from back in the sixth grade.

She sets the photos aside, picking up the letter in slight confusion.

[ YOUR NAME ],

I read your letter the day you left. Believe it or not, I cried even though I didn't want to. There was a lot more I wanted to say, but I couldn't find the words and maybe back then that was a good thing. Maybe it was too soon, maybe it still is, but I figured better early than never at all.

I wouldn't say this is the someday we talked about that day, there's still so much I want to do - a lot that I have to say about Hawkins, and the Party, and El, and so much I have to say about you. But you planted a seed of hope back then and I thought you should know that.

I still think about it all everyday. The Upside Down, El, how it all ended. But, I also think about how you said you were scared to tell me us goodbye - how you didn't want things to change and how being alone made it worse? Not having any of us around to lean on. I feel that way too sometimes. Especially here, I have new friends. They're actually pretty great, but none like you guys. Definitely none like you.

I guess I just want to say that I miss you and I'm bummed we missed each other the last time we were on break. One of these days, it'd be kind of cool to see you in action; I hear Dartmouth has a killer robotics program and their best student's from some hellhole town in Indiana. Sounds kind of familiar ;)

I have break in a few months, I always just go back home or stay in my dorm while everyone else leaves - sometimes going back to Hawkins feels a little bit like digging into a wound. But, I thought maybe this time it wouldn't be so bad to try something new. I drive now ( I know, I know, crazy, right? ) And New Hampshire's only like a few hours from here. Would it be crazy to come your way?

I don't know - I guess I just want to see you. I like your new hair by the way. It's so different from before, but it fits you. You've always been pretty, but I'm glad you are realizing it too. You asked me once if the Storyteller gets a happy ending - I didn't know what you really meant then and then I read your letter and it made sense.

There's a lot you never told me before you left. I understand why though and I'm not mad about it. But I think this is part of getting to my 'someday'. On graduation day you asked why we'd be a forever sort of goodbye. I thought that was what you wanted - but I was wrong. It's not what I want either.

Anyway, this is getting kind of long. I'll end it here. Hopefully I can see you soon. Maybe things could be different and even if they can't, we'd still be best friends, always.

Love, Mike.

But who could blame a girl for wanting the days where she wasn’t tormented by another being that she had failed, let down everyone she loved and the mere existence of her was at the expense of someone else, someone more innocent and had life behind her eyes. 

You’d prefer to say that Hawkins was like living in hell than go down the wormhole of suppressed feelings. And the fact that you couldn’t leave this mess of a town due to the military quarantining you and everyone you wished to avoid, validates your statement that Hawkins had it out for you.

Everyone suffered in the spring of 1986, the group was severed and discovered that everything they thought they knew about the Upside Down was wrong; everything they had already fought was just the beginning.

Over time, everyone moved on. Distanced themselves from the reality they lived out 18 months ago and focused on the now, how they could save Hawkins after Vecna had fulfilled his promise.

But it’s harder to move on when it should’ve been you lying in Hawkins Hospital, heart monitor steady and face pale, your body still as the doctor insisted you were in a coma. You should’ve been sick of the stench of the hospital, annoying everyone that came to visit you as you showed no signs of waking up anytime soon. 

It should’ve been your walkman resting on the bedside table, headphones draped loosely around your neck after everyone got fed up of hearing the same song on repeat, binning out the boombox and preferring to have the music reserved for your ears only.

But it wasn’t you. In some twisted reality you called normality, Max Mayfield was the one who suffered the fate that was designed for you.

You visited her often, not only because you babysitted her throughout her childhood and made it known to everyone that she was your favourite of the group, but because your endless guilt forced you to sit in the chair beside her bed, staring at the reminder that you had failed; and everyone around you was too nice to say it to your face.

In the time that you had held Max’s hand with your own clammy palm, you had grown accustomed to seeing Lucas almost every day and muttering the same mantra to his hopeless face: “I’m sorry. I did everything I could.”

And Lucas would interrupt you every time, “Don’t ever be sorry. I’m glad you’re here.”

At least someone could put a soft smile on your face as Hawkins crumbles around you.

You wished you could confide in him but he was still a kid battling with his own issues, high school still relevant as he tried to keep the town from falling apart, the love of his life was unconscious and his best friend had changed severely within the 18 months, much like the rest of you.

One name rang around your mind as you searched for an output, someone you wished you could let in and not feel so alone. But whatever friendship or connection you had with Steve Harrington was in the past, and it seemed adamant to stay there.

Oh, Steve Harrington. The man you would go to for anything, whether that was fighting inter-dimensional creatures or dragging someone along to the movie you had been dying to watch and knew you could convince him with the promise of paying for him; although he would never let you, he preferred to enjoy your company.

You remembered the way he refused to let go of your hand as you ventured below Starcourt Mall and how he promised he would keep you safe as you sat back to back, mind running a million thoughts as you dreaded what the Russians would do to you.

How could you forget when you sat on the bathroom floor, sandwiched in the stalls between Steve and Robin as their words were prompted by the ‘truth serum’. And how Steve admitted that he had fallen in love with someone else after Nancy Wheeler.

Of course, his admission was cut short by Dustin barging into the bathrooms, his posture reeking of stress and urgency, enough to get the three of you on your feet and any further words trapped behind the burning walls of Starcourt Mall.

Then as Vecna forced his way into your lives and targeted you and Max, you felt your sanity snatched out from under your feet and Steve’s hands to support you as you convinced yourself you were losing your mind.

He used to have your walkman and favourite song tucked into the backpack Dustin carried everywhere, refusing to let you leave the house or out of his sight without it in touching distance. You’d tell him that it was manifesting a bad outcome, but he’d scoff and say, “I don’t care. As long as you’re safe.”

To say you were fond of Steve Harrington was an understatement. You had been harbouring a crush on him for a while now, but who didn’t? 

How could you not fall for Steve “The Hair” Harrington?

Steve with his perfect hair and handsome face, with a laugh you could recognise anywhere. Perhaps it was the way he looked at you that made it easy to become enamoured with him, how his eyes would soften whenever you spoke up and how even in the darkest times, he would cup your face and make sure the only thing you saw was him.

You could feel the ghost of his hand brush against the small of your back whenever you stood alone in the group as they discussed the crawls, reminding you of the man that now stood on the opposite side of the room to you and how he used to be your anchor back to reality.

You were told good things never last, but you never put Steve Harrington into the category of things you could lose.

You found yourself pushing him away the second Max closed her eyes and they never reopened. The last words Steve spoke directly to you were reassurances whispered into your hair, his arms wrapped around your frame as your body shook from hearing the final chime of the clock, confirming your fears that Max had been cursed one final time.

You shut yourself out from everyone. It was expected, but no one made the effort to drag your past self back to the surface, leaving her drowning in the sorrow that the spring of 86’ provided.

You understood that it shouldn’t be you standing here listening to the group relay ideas for the crawl, it should’ve been a redhead tucked under Lucas’ arm who mocked any stupid ideas that Mike would throw out.

To remove yourself from the equation was easier than accepting that the past cannot be changed.

If your lack of inclusion in the group was the closest you could reach to the fate that was written under your name, then it was what you would conform to. No matter how much it hurts to feel pitying eyes on your form.

"𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐋, 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊𝐒 really promising.” Steve sighed as his flashlight scaled the walls of the lab, falling behind Dustin’s hurried steps.

How you found yourself in the Upside Down’s version of Hawkins Lab with Steve, Nancy, Jonathan and Dustin and tensions high was a question you wished you could say was unanswered. But after driving Steve’s precious beamer into a wall and following Dustin’s throw-in-the-dark idea, your day had already decided to suck.

“We’re in the lobby.” Dustin huffed. If you thought you were outward with your uncomfortable situation with Steve, Dustin made sure he won that argument. 

You walked beside Nancy as she furrowed her brows at the surroundings, “And… where are we going exactly?” She tilted her head.

“Right. Like, what is it we’re looking for?” Jonathan asked as he looked at Dustin. “You’ve all seen Return of the Jedi?” Dustin said.

You stumbled to a stop as your heart clenched uncomfortably. You were the one who introduced the franchise to Steve. When he secured his job at Family Video beside you and Robin, you made sure he knew some recent films and found yourselves brushing shoulders on movie nights and watching his brows screw up as he tried to understand the plot.

You felt a pair of eyes burning into the side of your face. “The one with the teddy bears?” Steve mumbled.

“Ewoks.” You and Dustin said in unison, “Yeah, it’s the best one.” Steve responded.

Nancy raised her eyebrows, “Is it?” Dustin scoffed, “No, but every child loves it, so tracks.” You pressed your lips together to prevent a small smile from appearing on your face. Nancy’s eyes flickered to you and noticed, her eyes softening as she watched a glimpse of your past self slip out.

“In the film, if you recall,” Dustin stepped forwards, “the rebels need to destroy a second Death Star, but it’s surrounded by a protective energy shield, which is created by a shield generator.”

“Yeah, cool. Thanks for the summary of a movie we’ve all seen.” Steve’s voice echoed around the lifeless lobby. Of course he remembered the film, despite watching it to satisfy you only, he understood the context to some extent.

“It could be relevant, Steve.” You cleared your throat, eyes glancing his way as he turned around to face you, his expression unreadable.

Dustin nodded in your direction, “Thank you!” He gestured to you before continuing his analogy, “Look, I think this circular flesh wall is Vecna’s version of an energy shield, except it’s not sci-fi.”

“It’s supernatural, created by Vecna’s dark magic. And this dark magic shield is what’s preventing us from reaching him and saving Holly.” You crossed your arms over your chest as the group huddled around Dustin. “But if my math is correct, the generator for the shield has to be in this lab.” He finished.

Jonathan stood between you and Steve, “So if we find this dark magic shield generator…” Even hearing the words come out of someone else’s mouth felt strange, you couldn’t believe you had been roped into this again.

Dustin nodded, “We destroy the wall.” You fiddled with your flashlight, “Find Vecna.”

“Save Holly.” Nancy finished your sentence, her sister being at the forefront of her mind.

“Medals for all.” You offered Dustin a tight smile as his sarcastic enthusiasm had you wanting to find this shield generator as soon as possible, needing to breathe after being suffocated in the uncomfortable tension.

Steve placed his hands on his hips, “And it looks like what?”

“How would you expect me to know that?” Dustin rolled his eyes and turned his back on the group. You let out an exasperated sigh and rubbed your face with your hands, squeezing your eyes shut and hoping that when they reopen, it’ll all be some sick illusion.

Steve scoffed as he watched the tension build in your shoulders, “If you’re gonna complain then you should just leave now. This wasn’t exactly our ideal location.” 

You lifted your head and realised Steve’s annoyance was directed at you. Your face screwed up with confusion and your eyes darted between Nancy and Jonathan, “I’m not complaining. Where’d you get that from?”

Steve opened his mouth to retort but Nancy took a step forward to follow in Dustin’s trail, “We don’t have time for this.” She ordered and nodded for you to follow, not seeing her shoot Steve a disappointed gaze.

Jonathan cleared his throat to diffuse the tension, leaving Steve behind the pack and eyes trained on the back of the person he used to call his best friend. 

Dustin shouldered the door open and you suppressed a groan when you made eye contact with two flights of stairs. “Up or down?” You asked.

“I say both. Search in two teams. Cover more ground.” Nancy concluded, keeping a tight grip on her bag thrown over her shoulder.

Steve nodded beside you, ignoring the way your shoulders touched in the tight space, “Yeah, that’s cool with me, but can we just switch the teams up?”

Your jaw clenched as you remembered all the times everyone would assume you and Steve were paired together in these situations. You suspected that he would want distance from you but to hear it out loud and under unfortunate circumstances made you want to bash your head into the wall.

“Nance, you and me to go up?” Nancy’s head snapped towards the brunette, her eyes wide, “Oh, I mean…” She shook her head.

“Are you serious?” Jonathan scoffed. You almost laughed at being situated in the middle of Steve and Jonathan as they battled it out for who could be more ‘macho’, as you and Nancy liked to call it.

“Us three,” Steve gestured at you and Dustin, “We need some space.”

Jonathan shrugged, “Fine. How about me and you? Then her and Nance?” You raised your brows, suddenly on board with the pairing options.

“I think we need some space too.” Steve shut down your ideal groups rather quickly.

“So everyone but Nancy. That’s just… It’s convenient.” Jonathan’s voice dropped as he glanced over at you staring at the floor, “I don’t get it. What are you trying to prove to her?” He jutted his thumb out in your direction.

You widened your eyes, “Me?” Steve closed his eyes and shook his head, “This has nothing to do with her.”

“How about this?” You raised your voice, hand rubbing your temple as their bickering started to give you a headache, “I’ll go alone. Three groups will be more beneficial.” 

You lifted your flashlight and went to take a step in the other direction, but Nancy’s hand tugging you on the back of your shirt sent you stumbling back and crashing into Steve’s chest.

“You’re not going alone.” Nancy said firmly, refusing to let you out of anyone's sight. 

You readjusted your footing and brushed your clothing as you leaned out of Steve’s touch, “Of course you wanted to go alone.” You heard him mutter under his breath.

Before you could respond, Nancy cut you off. “Hey, we don’t have time for this. Let’s just keep it simple, stick to the usual teams.” She shot you an apologetic look.

“Nance, please--” You groaned as Steve and Dustin offered her the same pleas, “I can’t--”

“End of discussion.” She raised her voice, her feet taking her up the stairs and avoiding the three frustrated looks directed at her. Jonathan patted you on the shoulder and whispered an apology under his breath as he brushed past you and followed Nancy, leaving Steve and Dustin to sigh in the wake.

Steve sighed and looked over at Dustin, “Awesome.” He said sarcastically. Dustin raised his brows and dragged his feet down the extensive amount of steps.

Steve turned to you and you looked up at him. You could recall the days when his eyes would soften when they met your own, a smile gracing his flushed face and hands raised to fix his hair, desperate to constantly look his best whenever you saw him.

Now those eyes felt like a void, you couldn’t decipher what he was feeling. “Just awesome.” He repeated and barged your shoulder slightly as he passed you.

You took a deep breath and rolled your shoulders, easing the tension and headache that was brewing. You reminded yourself that this was for the greater of Hawkins because if it was up to you, you would have sprinted out of the lab at the first chance than explore with your ex-best friend and the kid that hates his guts.

With each step you took, you felt the throbbing pain in your head get worse. It wasn’t unusual to get migraines with the stress you found yourself under constantly, but this one felt different. 

It felt familiar.

The pain caused you to feel lightheaded, tripping on the last step and forcing a hand out on the wall to catch your fall. You clenched your teeth together and pressed the heel of your hand against your temple.

Steve heard heavy footsteps behind him and turned around, the beam of his flashlight shining right in your face, “You alright?” He asked, voice teetering on edge of concern.

You nodded and stuck a hand out to block the light shining at you, “Yeah, I’m good.” You lied through your teeth, pushing through the ache to follow Dustin who led the pair of you.

Steve nodded slowly and retracted his flashlight, “Okay, that was too many stairs.” He joked weakly, trying to diffuse the worry that flooded his body.

Dustin, unaware of the torment you were experiencing behind him, quoted, “Treasures are always hidden in the deepest depths of the dungeon.”

“What is it, a treasure or a magic shield generator? Keep your metaphors straight, dude.” Steve said as he turned his back on you.

You sighed, “Analogy.” You whispered to yourself, correcting his statement but lacking the care to fight with him once again.

Steve and Dustin strode forward, pushing on the double doors to reveal a room designed for kids. Rainbows were painted on the floors and walls and games were scattered all over the floor.

“Did not expect to find a daycare in this hellhole.” Steve felt his heart rate pick up at the dystopian room, “That’s a perk.”

You entered the room and leaned your back against the wall, eyes squeezing shut as it felt like someone was toying with your brain, prodding at it until you cracked. You didn’t even notice begin to leave the room until his frustration boiled over.

“While I search the rest of the basement, why don’t you stay here and play with your balls?” He chucked the object back at Steve, “Perfect, yeah.” Steve clenched his jaw.

The pair bickered back and forth before Dustin left with a scowl on his face. You leaned over to watch his figure retreating and turned to Steve who hoisted himself up to sit on one of the desks.

You interrupted the silence, “So I take it you two don’t get along anymore.” You crossed your arms over your chest and pushed yourself to stand upright.

Steve scoffed, “What would you know? You haven’t been here.”

Your movement halted, “I’ve been here.” You squinted at him as he rested his elbows on his knees.

“You’ve been here,” Steve gestured to your figure, “But here,” He tapped the side of his head, tongue wedged between his teeth in frustration, “You’re somewhere else. And you have been for the last 18 months.”

Your breathing shallowed, “That’s called grief, Steve. We all go through it.” 

“But what are you grieving? That’s what I don’t get.” He snapped, eyes meeting your own as you shrunk under his hard gaze.

“Max.” Her name felt wrong on the tip of her tongue. You refused to say it for months after she was admitted into hospital, the reminder of the redhead had you wanting to hurl on the floor of the lab.

Steve let out a loud laugh, “You’re grieving someone that’s not even dead! What are the chances that Max wakes up during all of this? Pretty damn high if you ask me.” He ran his hand through his hair and watched your face screw up in sheer disgust at his words.

Steve licked his lips, “You know, I think you secretly wanted this.”

You felt your heart stop in your chest, “What?” 

You watched the brunette nod, “I think you’ve been spiralling for a while now and used this whole Max and Vecna situation as an excuse. You were barely affected during the curse and now you’ve decided to make it everyone else’s problem.” The difference is, you were affected. And Steve knew it.

Who was the one who held you as you recalled your first vision, hands shaking and kisses peppered along your hairline. The same man who basically told you that you had it easy that spring, that you’re living off the thrill of being cursed a handful of times.

You turned your back on him, “I’m not doing this right now.” You heard him shout as you pushed the double doors open, “Shutting me out once again!”

You hurried out the room, not baring to stand the sight of his face again. You feel a bile rise in the back of your throat, the noises of the dormant lab suffocate you, and the throbbing pain between your skull intensifies.

You hadn’t noticed anything was wrong until you saw a drop of red stain your sweater. Your head snapped down and tugged at the material to gain a closer look.

Your eyes widened and you lifted your hand to touch under your nose. Retracting your hand, you saw that the tips of your fingers were painted red.

“Shit.” You cursed and tugged the sleeves of your sweater over your hands, wiping the blood that streamed from your nose onto the material. 

You furrowed your brows as you racked your brain for the last time your nose decided to spontaneously bleed. It was so out of the ordinary that you couldn’t remember. 

A light behind a door caught your eye. It looked out of place, like whatever was behind it was not meant to be there. Your feet carried you towards it before your brain comprehend what was going on.

Just as you placed the palm of your hand against the door, inches away from pushing it open, you heard a loud crash from the room you were previously in.

Your mind running a million different worst case scenarios, you sprinted towards the noise. As you got closer, you heard familiar yells and curses, the sound of items cluttering to the floor made your heart pick up.

Skidding around the corner, you stumbled into the room panting. Your eyes locked onto Steve as he sat up, groaning in pain, “You know what, man? I’m done.” He slowly clambered to his feet, ignoring your worried gaze.

“I’m done!” He shouted and barged against your shoulder as you stood in the doorway, eyes flickering between a beaten Dustin on the floor and Steve who had a fresh bruise forming on his cheek.

Putting two and two together, you tugged Steve back by gripping onto his jacket, “What the fuck just happened?” You raised your voice, on the heels of Steve as he tried to shake off your hold.

“None of your business.” His voice broke as he refused to spare Dustin a second glance, hearing his voice echo down the hallways, “You dumb, fake asshole!”

You let out an exasperated sigh and swallowed your nerves, “I think it’s my business when you scare the shit out of me!” You yanked him to a stop and he looked past you, “Is that a bruise?”

Your fingers gently brushed the underside of Steve’s jaw before he slapped your hand away, “No--” “Did you get in a fight?” You furrowed your brows.

Steve placed his hands on your shoulders, “Can you stop?” His eyes locked onto the blood staining the sleeve of your sweater, furrowing his brows as he wondered when you had gotten hurt.

Through your concern, you failed to hear him, “Tell me what the hell happened--” “God! You’re so ungrateful!” Steve yelled and you flinched slightly at the tone of voice, one he had never used on you before.

You squinted up at him, “Ungrateful?” You voiced your offence as your hands dropped from tending to his recent wounds, and his own dropped off your shoulders, finding home in gripping his jeans.

Steve bit down on his bottom lip as if what was spewing out of his mouth was the filtered half, “You’re standing here and breathing just fine by yourself! But guess who isn’t?”

Your breath hitched as your mind went to Max who lay still, hooked up to anything the hospital could find to classify her condition to be a coma, “Where are you going with this?” Your voice wavered.

“I’m saying that Max would’ve been grateful.” Steve’s response was enough to sever any chance of redeeming what you had. You could barely recognise the man standing in front of you, the one so overcome with anger that he wouldn’t understand the severity of his words until moments later.

You took a deep breath, “And I’m saying that you’re being a dick.”

“You got lucky that spring and you know it.” You took a step back from him, “You’re being mean, Steve.”

Steve looked down and huffed out a laugh, “And we’ve been telling you this whole time, ‘It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have done anything.’” You felt tears prickle at your eyes, “In my opinion, I think you could’ve done more--” “Shut up!” You shouted and shoved him in the chest. “And if you hadn't left Max alone that night…”

Tears blurred your vision, “Are you saying that it should’ve been me?”

The silence should’ve been your answer. You should’ve left the second Steve didn’t immediately shut down the ludicrous statement. But your heart yearned to know the truth, to know what he had really thought about you since that night; if everything between you was simply a wrinkle in time, something that was never meant to exist but would ultimately be crushed by the harsh reality.

“Your interpretation. Not mine.” Steve mumbled.

You felt like you had been doused with cold water. It turns out Steve Harrington was the same man he was all those years ago. And to confirm your worst fears, to admit that he’d been lying to you the entire time you thought you could be falling in love with him; this was definitely the worst moment in your entire life.

You nodded weakly, a forced smile etched across your face, “And I’m the one who’s changed, right?”

Your words hit Steve like a truck, and if you disappearing out of his sight with tears cascading down your cheeks didn’t hurt enough, then the realisation of his words did.

𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐘, 𝐉𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐍, 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 and Dustin had all found each other after. They were hunched over the book Dustin had found before he could warn Nancy to not shoot whatever force they located in the sky.

Nancy chewed on the skin around her thumb, “No sign of her?” 

Dustin shook his head after peering around a corner, “I haven’t seen her since…” His voice trailed off as he remembered his fight with Steve, regret forming in the pit of his stomach as a bruise formed on his friend’s cheek.

Steve looked like he could throw up any second. His face was pale and his hair was matted. He hadn’t seen you since he had said the words he wished he could forget, the way he had spoken to you and the way your face crumbled.

He didn’t mean any of it. Not one word.

He wishes to never relive the feeling he felt when he watched you walk away from him, and how he rounded the corner to meet Nancy and Jonathan and you were beside them.

You were alone in the lab. And it was all Steve’s fault.

His ever present guilt was cut off but a guttural scream outside the lab. Nancy rose to her feet immediately and gasped, “What was that?”

Jonathan copied her movement, “What was what?”

Silence fell over the group as they listened in, “Holly.” Nancy whispered and dropped the items in her hand, sprinting towards the door with Jonathan hot on her tail.

Dustin made a move to follow them but Steve grabbed him by the arm, “Holly. She’s out of Vecna’s reach.” His chest tightened.

Dustin furrowed his brows, “What do you mean?”

“There’s 12 kids. If Holly’s out…” Steve muttered and Dustin’s eyes widened in realisation.

“Who’s in?” Dustin’s voice wavered and watched Steve’s eyes dart around the room.

Steve knew who Vecna was targeting the second his suspicions were confirmed. He remembered the blood staining the sleeve of your sweater, the headaches that made you feel dizzy and the way you looked uncomfortable the second you found yourself in the Upside Down.

You were Vecna’s next target and Steve Harrington had no idea where you were.

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