in a heartbeat

“thanks, but i won’t.” not this time at least - he’s indebted to god knows how many people by now, negatives only increasing in his bank account by the minute for each time he’s caught outside with someone else. “i’m not that hungry,” is a blatant lie, guilt reminding him he can’t even really pay junha his dues for training all by itself. a burden he didn’t exactly ask for, yet did, yet - really didn’t. still did. fuck.

kiel sniffs when his eyes glaze over the menu, fingers tapping against his cheek. his shoulders feel drained, his chest heavy and stomach growling at the sight of all items in every single row, column, corner, side. the smell of the place definitely doesn’t help, a deep inhale coming through his nose half in despair, half to take it all in. the gulp that follows matches the latter sentiment. “why don’t you choose? you know, like. organize the whole meal.” he clears his throat. “surprise me.” i’ve never been here before anyway (…probably). “introduce me to what you think is best.” i trust you.

sorta.

you know that i’m not doing this— i mean, i’m doing this because we’re— 

because what, junha?

—friends?

he snorts. “organize the whole meal? really, kiel?” mockery is the form in which he pretends he doesn’t know what kiel is trying to do, and he wishes he could just blatantly tell him outright that no, things don’t work like that, you don’t form relationships based on who owes you what and what you owe people and cross them all off until you’re even. (not as if he’s master at keeping any of his relations alive, anyway, but still.) heck, he’s not sure why he does, but he’s doing this because he wants to. 

hence either way he orders six plates of samgyeopsal and four plates of bulgogi and two bowls of rice (along with two glasses of water since he doesn’t feel like dealing with a hangover or a drunk either of them for tonight, thank you very much). it doesn’t matter that they probably won’t be able to finish it; it doesn’t matter that it’s going to cost more than what junha usually eats in a day. they’re both here, and that’s probably just all that matters.

and so, they wait, and when the food comes, junha piles as many side dishes as possible onto kiel’s plate. “eat.” it’s a command, with little room for argument. 

it’s worth it, junha thinks. he’d do this a million times over just to see her happy.

(he’d asked her once: how do you find joy in things that are so little? how do you see the best in everyone even in the ugliest parts of them? it’s not possible. it’s not human.

and maybe that’s what makes rosé one of the best people he’s ever known.) 

he pulls her to his side as they maneuver through the crowd, only releasing her hand for a second when they find a bench and hands her the cotton candy to pull out the park map from his pocket. “what should we go on next?” junha squints at the tiny figures on the crinkled paper, before simply looking up at rosie, who’s paused halfway with the candy to her mouth. 

cute.

(but what he’s really curious about is,

see: choi junha. how do you love someone that’s so unlovable? how do you love someone who has nothing to love?)

for that, rosie is a saint. she must be, for no one ever looks twice at a boy who’s all hard lines and misguided actions, let alone take him into their arms and look at him like he’s the best fucking thing to ever happen to them. only her, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

( sms: my starlight 💫  ) they’re my name when you say it with a smile, oppa

( sms: my starlight 💫  ) ^ㅇ^ 

( 문자: special sunshine girl )

- um - okay, rosie - maybe i should do that more often then - what are u doing why are u so free to text me this 

( 문자: special sunshine girl / deleted )

( 문자: special sunshine girl ) 

it’s kiel’s turn to frown. “you have to act?” he chuckles genuinely under his breath, tongue in cheek when he finally allows himself to look back. “i mean, you know. not that i’m surprised.” a smirk next, retracted immediately when he sees the other’s not smiling at all.

“jesus, lighten up.”

he turns around completely, takes a few steps back to where junha stands. his hands fly up, sort of in the way he’s been taught if necessary for defense, settling on either side of his trainer’s face however. it’s not a tentative move, thumbs pressing gently into plush skin. he looks like a hamster, he thinks. “you’re not as hard as you think,” (every other word’s punctuated with a sink to his cheek) kiel tells him. “literally.” the corners of junha’s mouth go up unnaturally, don’t actually move all that much on their own without the help of his fingers. i’m not sure if you look better this way as opposed to when you frown. (that’s hypocritical to some extent.)

he spares a once-over, junha’s face now between his thumb and index, middle fingers. “we can talk about your tattoos and how much each one’s hurt.” maybe. a mindless offer, more out of curiosity than saying something just to say it by now. “how you could have afforded each damn one up to now.” kiel prods the other’s forehead when he says this, gives another half of a smile before turning on his heel and drawing his hand away.

“over some dumb samgyeopsal.”

my dude.

“there’s no need to get so fucking gross.”

he’s joking, of course (contrary to popular belief, the word actually does exist in his vocabulary), the usual gruffness of his words layered with something that sounds a lot like fondness. his lips immediately tug harshly downwards in resistance as kiel presses his fingers into his face—whatever he’d been expecting, it hadn’t been this. it’d be a surprise if he didn’t look like a complete idiot.

“stop!”

the way junha’s face is contorted muffles his words as he sputters in protest, and he smacks kiel’s arm away (admittedly a little harder than necessary), but in contrast to his actions, his mouth twitches with something other than a scowl for once. “yeah, whatever. bet you’d be too chicken to get one anyway. can we just go?” the words are foreign on his tongue, unfamiliar to the concept of a casual banter, but it’s comforting, in a sense. 

he could get used to this. 

grumble, grumble. he's already turning around before kiel can form a reply, fingers reaching out to switch off the lights. “they didn’t hurt, by the way.” 

samgyeopsal nearing midnight feels different, somehow. everything seems to be more. the stench of soju is more pungent in the air than usual, conversation in the enclosed space seemingly louder. a grimace finds its way onto junha’s features—not that he actually minds all this, but he’s never really been able to stand the way oil clings to his skin like film. 

they go along the lines of:

- hey, long time no talk (but who’s fault is that, really?) - have you been doing okay? a stupid question, better off unasked. - do you remember me? he’s almost impossible to forget, given the circumstances. next. - i hope life’s treating you well. but then again, does it ever? - it’s junha. let’s talk.

and of course, he goes ahead with the last.

jump to: 1:21PM.

he finds himself in a quaint cafe cozily tucked away in the corners of bustling seoul, the tap, tap, tap of his fingernails drumming against the mug in his hands.

this isn’t his scene. the fighting ring is—where he can convey feelings in the form of skin on skin instead of words that he’s never been good with in the first place. fighting? he can deal with. emotions? not so much. 

is this supposed to be an apology? somewhat. maybe.

junha’s never been one to apologise, though.

the seven years (give or take) of wear and tear on the both of them who’ve gone though god-knows-what were upheld with silence, and frankly, junha has no idea what to expect from their sudden reunion. the answer, oddly enough, is anti-climatic.

it takes a second for him to register the male that enters and sits across him as ryu taeho. the ryu taeho he supposedly used to know. (did you mean: a stranger?) 

most of all, junha doesn’t know how to feel. a mix of reliefguiltdreadpanic, perhaps.

so, he settles for a smile that barely conveys his feelings and stretches it thinly across his features—sticky and tight, a stark contrast to the thick unease that’s already settling between them. and god, he hopes he makes it out of this alive. words sit heavy on his tongue, a jumble of thoughts that never make it out into the open. it goes like, 

i’m sorry i’m sorry for leaving you when you needed me i’m sorry for not being there i’m sorry for not noticing i wish i could turn back time are you okay? i’m so glad you’re alive i’m so glad you’re here but what if what if what if, if we didn’t leave each other would any of this have happened?—

instead, he says, eyes dropping to his hands curled around the handle of the mug, “it’s been a while, taeho.”

i missed you. 

“do i,” kiel mimics quietly, “want to go for samgyeopsal?”

he thinks in monosyllabic words that mean something one way or another. if he agrees to it, well. pro: samgyeopsal. con? _________. and what would declining mean? samgyeopsal (the word) tastes good when it’s paid for, better if it’s on him. the real thing, best for free—a shameless admittance.

the monosyllable he opts for is “why?” when he walks past the door, past junha. sweat stings into a busted lip as he wipes his thumb over broken skin. “is this part two of your pity plan?” a cloth hangs over his shoulder to make up for the look he never spares, minimal effort in at least stopping in place to garner a response.

four, three, two, one are set and ready on the tip of his tongue for an answer he’s not even sure he’ll receive. just in case.

i need you to not be easy on me. (this would mean trying.)

i need you to not think we’re friends. (no one would win this argument. will.)

what the fuck do you think this is (not)? (that goes without saying. should.)

are you gonna cut the crap? (re: ………….)

pity plan? are you fucking kidding me?

insufferable.

he shouldn’t even grace such audacity with a reply. kiel is many things to him (or god knows what, really), but in times like this he’s just a fucking nuisance.

instead, he says, “sorry, but i’m not a charity organisation.” bites out the answer, tightens his grip on the strap. “thought i might as well just try out the thing where i act like a decent person for once, y'know?” is it really supposed to be this hard? “whatever, kiel. take it or leave it.” 

this is how it goes—for him at least, with a pride bigger than he’ll ever be able to handle and uneasy words that are tucked beneath his tongue, but there is a constant, silent plead that sounds a lot like just give this a chance.

( are you willing? because if you are, i am too. ) 

in this fine line that blurs between confusion and something akin to a (sort of) camaraderie, junha briefly wonders: what are we? 

there’s too much surface that’s been scoured to be strangers, too much knowledge to be acquaintances. friends? yeah, right.

CHOI JUNHA,

                        your pride will be your downfall.

there’s the familiar brush of air as knuckles barely graze his cheek, and the taunting smile he wears morphs into something uglier as he ducks away. “you weak or something, kiel?” a harsh laugh manages to slip its way between that and a quick jerk which goes along the lines of knee foot ankle, and junha watches in triumph ( or whatever little of it ) as he successfully hooks the other from under his legs. 

but there are no blaring alarms that signal the universal language of defeat. all there’s left with is a mess of blonde, sweat and bruises that lie in a heap at his feet. 

in other words, kiel han. 

tiredness falls over him, just like it does every time he works this hard. and yet, despite the effort that it takes him, he reaches out a hand amidst the rumble of heavy, uneven breaths—a nudge to get up, get up and keep going. 

or maybe, he can allow a break just this once. 

( he tells himself it’s not because he cares—a ridiculous thought—but more so because, well, he does care. )

“i went easy on you today.”

( a lie, but kiel doesn’t need to know that. he would have had to be blind—or made out of steel, really, to not have noticed. ) 

there’s a disapproving scowl on junha’s lips as he slips one, two gloves off. “well, let’s call it a night.” 

steps out of the ring, wipes off his sweat. tosses his things into his duffel bag. it’s almost routine by now, shady hours of sparring with kiel and the unmentioned intent to be better. it’s working, at least. 

only as he swings his bag over his shoulder and prepares to head out does he stop at the doorway, hesitant figure turning around almost as if it were an afterthought. it’s far from it, though. “do you,” he says slowly, “want to go for samgyeopsal? my treat.” 

not as if he cares, anyway.