a/n: first fic on a new blog always gets me nervous omg... please f1 be nice to me I am just trying to feed the albonation. this fic has been in works since august of last year and was originally a kpop fic (eric sohn nation missed out :p), but it's very very personal to me and soso special, so please handle it with a lot of care. :) oh ALSO I am aware the "experimental method" of this is incorrect on a lot of levels I literally have a bachelors degree in psychology but lets just ignore it for the sake of this fic please xx

EPISODE 1: THE PILOT (JK WE NEED AT LEAST 8 EPISODES THIS WILL CONTINUE NO MATTER THE RESPONSE…)

“Hello dear listeners, hello professor Vowles,” Alex talks into the microphone in front of him after clearing his throat and pressing record, looking at you as if to give you the cue to say something as well.

“And professor Smith,” you add, lips close to the other microphone the male provided for you, skin almost brushing the metal tip of the device. You’ve never handled such a thing before, so you don’t really know how close you have to be to have your voice picked up by the machine, but you kind of feel like a rockstar right now, so you’re going to make the best of it while you’re at it.

“And we welcome you to the first ever episode of our podcast called The Y/N and Alex show,” the boy finishes, flashing you a grin at the end of the little introduction. 

Shaking your head at him, you sigh. “We are not calling it The Y/N and Alex show,” you argue.

“Do you have any better ideas?” 

“Well, I don’t, but–”

“Your opinion doesn’t really matter, then,” Alex shrugs, making you once again sigh at his antics. You haven’t even really started, yet you are already regretting even getting together with the boy to do this in the first place. It seems like it’s going to be rather difficult to complete your assignment with someone like Alex Albon.

“Okay, let’s at least redo the intro, then,” you mumble after pinching the skin in between your eyebrows, lost in thought.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why? You can’t just leave that in–”

“Watch me,” Alex grins. If you knew recording with him would be such a hassle, you wouldn’t agree to do this. He looked normal in his profile picture, though– oh how foolish you were… “All of this is staying in.”

“Why would it– you know what, let’s just proceed…”

After knowing Alex Albon for about a total of 25 minutes– of which you spent in his kitchen getting a glass of water and then in the dimly lit spaces of his bedroom right across the hall that he remade into a makeshift recording studio for your little podcast– you already learned that there is no use arguing with the stubborn guy. You just have to nod and accept that it’s his way or the highway– and since editing the whole podcast was his responsibility, you can’t really tell him what to do and what not to do when it comes to it.

“So, to anyone who doesn’t know– which might just be everyone, I think– let’s introduce ourselves. My name is Alex Albon, I am a freshman and I study communications. This is an assignment for my podcast making class, and I recruited miss Y/N over here to do it with me, because she promised to have a never-ending list of topics to talk about,” Alex says, looking over to you with the microphone close to his plush lips, as if signaling your turn to speak.

“And I am Y/N, studying psychology. I can’t really tell you what my assignment is about, because it would defeat the point of it, but I met Alex in the campus Facebook group begging for someone to do this with, and.. here we are.”

After getting your assignment description for social psychology– to try to replicate an existing experiment from the history of psychology to the best of your abilities– you chose to put Arthur Aron’s theory to the test. To anyone unaware of the man, he pretty much compiled a list of conversation topics to talk about that, supposedly, inevitably will make two people fall in love. 

And since you’re quite skeptical of love in general, you decided that this is the best thing to put to the test. You really needed this documented to the last detail and also needed someone that you didn’t know well– so there was no previous feelings or opinions involved– and so after joining the university Facebook group where students help each other with the most various things, you found a lost freshman asking if anyone wanted to help him with his assignment for a podcast class. 

It felt like a heureka moment. After turning up and actually doing it, though, not so much…

You don’t really know what you expected, to be fair. You didn’t stalk Alex, because you figured finding out something that would make you want to turn down the plan would be a disadvantage to you, since you needed to start on the assignment as soon as possible. However, after turning up to his apartment and finding a messy haired brunet smiling at you and excitedly waddling like a puppy into the flat he shares with a guy he introduced to you as Lando Norris, you can’t say you expected this– to record the said podcast in his room, at 10 in the evening– ‘for aesthetic purposes’, surrounded by only his bedsheets and a single microphone in hand.

You’re not disappointed. Maybe just a little… weirded out? No… That’s not the right word. Just a little taken aback, you suppose.

You note Alex’s state– loose gray sweatpants adorning his long legs and a cozy, big sweater hanging off his broad shoulders. You wore your best jeans and a pretty top, which might be a little excessive for something like this, you must admit, and make a mental note to get here dressed more casually the next time.

“Here we are,” Alex nods, agreeing with you. “So… before we start with whatever you have prepared, I was meaning to ask… how did you find the first week of university? Given we are both freshmen and all,” the male smiles, taking you off guard with his friendly question.

“Oh,” you start, humming. “It was alright, I guess. It’s kinda awkward in class, but my roommate seems nice enough, so that’s good.”

“Awkward?” Alex raises his eyebrows at you. “How come?”

“Well, you know,  since we don’t really know each other and all,” you say. “Everyone’s a little scared of each other, or something,” you joke, making the boy opposite of you smile.

“Wow… that’s weird, though,” Alex mumbles. “I already made like 5 friends, I think?”

“Because you seem to be extroverted,” you point out, having the boy roll his eyes at your comment– he seems to get that a lot.

“I have a lot of energy,” he nods. “People laugh at me because I make friends with everyone, like, up to the point where I was friends with my friend’s dad back in high school.”

“With his dad?”

“Yeah,” Alex laughs. “Shout out to Joe,” the boy mutters before continuing, “we fully went to see a tennis match together and everything, excluding my friend.”

“That’s wild…” you comment. “Poor guy.”

“I don’t think he minded… but you see what I mean? Maybe I should keep more to myself.”

“Maybe,” you nod, but instantly rebuke your own words. “But no, I find that to be a good thing. I always like it when an extrovert takes me under their wing, because I find making friends a little scary. Too bad I chose a major where everyone is an introvert, so I kinda have to make an effort myself or I’ll end up lonely.”

Alex nods, humming to the microphone to accompany his body language, since your podcast is not recorded and you two aren’t shown on camera. “You have to channel your inner extrovert.”

“I am actively doing it, dude,” you snicker, “it’s a little hard, but I’m trying.”

“I can see that,” he nods, grinning. “Not a lot of introverts would hop on a podcast with a random dude off Facebook, that’s for sure.”

You laugh, agreeing with his point. “Yeah,” you nod, “I don’t really know what came over me in that moment, but anything to get this assignment done, I guess.”

“And I’m sure you’ll do a good job on it,” Alex says, smiling. “Speaking of, do you wanna start with it? I promise not to look online or anywhere, as you mentioned– Mr Smith, I am a completely unaware subject of this experiment–”

“Don’t address him like that, gosh,” you shush him, the respect you have for your professor coating the words coming out of your mouth. 

“I don’t think he’s listening, Y/N.”

“Well, you never know!” you lick your lips, shaking your head at the boy in disbelief. Getting your phone out of your jeans back pocket, you open your notes app and scroll through the various documents, finding the list of questions you copied off the internet.

“Mr Smith, if you’re listening, send Y/N an email–”

“Shut it! I’m starting with the thing now, okay?” you hum, looking up at the boy opposite of you through your eyelashes, finding him nodding at you obediently with a soft smile playing with his features. Does he ever stop smiling? Does his facial muscles not hurt..? Weird.

“So, Mr Albon,” you clear your throat, “given the choice of anyone in the world, whom would you want as your dinner guest?”

“Interesting question,” Alex hums, pursing his lips a little against the microphone. “Dead or alive?” he asks for clarification.

“I guess either…?” you shrug, looking up from the phone screen again, giving him your full attention now that you asked the question.

“That made it harder to answer.”

“Why?”

“Because the selection is bigger now, duh,” Alex says, rolling his eyes at you jokingly. You sigh a little at that– teasingly, of course– before you watch the boy contemplate his answer, squinting his eyes a little, as if thinking about the response took way too much of his brain power.

“Who are you choosing out of?” you ask, curiosity getting the best out of you.

“I don’t know yet,” he says, pursing his lips a little. “What about you? Who would you choose?”

You hum. Before asking all those questions, you didn’t really prepare any answers– thinking that it would kind of defeat the whole purpose of the experiment. Your task was to be authentic, to fully test out your theory– being that Arthur Aron was wrong, and there is no way you can fall in love with someone just after asking them 36 simple questions. After seconds that, however, feel like eternity spent contemplating your answer, you start to think that maybe, you should’ve made up some answers before coming here to make it easier for the boy, though. 

“Maybe my grandpa,” you say, noticing the way the boy looks at you with raised brows, instantly wanting clarification. “He’s not here anymore, so… I think it would be nice to talk after so many years.”

The boy turns more serious at your answer, an understanding look flashing over his features. The aura around you two calms for a bit, the playfulness escaping the boy– adapting himself to the topic of conversation at hand instantly, trying to sense the boundaries. “How old were you when he passed?”

“Like… 11, I think?” you hum, nodding to yourself. “I miss him sometimes.”

“That’s understandable,” he says, “he must have meant a lot to you.”

“He did,” you agree, “he does.”

Alex offers you a sympathetic smile, humming to the mic. Careful not to ask something that would upset you, he lets you take charge of the conversation, listening. “Yeah, so… that would be my answer,” you conclude, not really ready to discuss anything more intimate with the boy just yet. “What about you? Who were you deciding on?”

“Oh,” the boy perks up, taking the hint and leaving the previous topic alone, “I was actually in between my friend George and Lando,” he says, making you instantly burst into laughter.

Furrowing his brows at you, a confused question drags itself out of Alex’s throat. “What?”

“It’s just… you asked if it’s anyone, dead or alive, and out of everyone in the whole world, all time, you chose your friends?” you say, shaking your head at him in disbelief. His response felt ridiculous– Alex Albon sure is a weird one.

“What’s so funny about that?” he asks, the expression of a confused puppy theatrically appearing on his face.

“I mean, it’s just funny to me that you chose someone that you can have lunch with at any time anyway, you know?” you clarify, shrugging. “I’d expect you to choose someone like… I don’t know… Michael Jackson, or something.”

Alex laughs at that, shaking his head at your argument. “Well, no. I don’t really know what I’d talk to Michael Jackson about, y’know?”

“I dunno,” you shrug. “I’m sure you’d think of something. You seem like quite the social butterfly.”

“I get that a lot,” he agrees. “But no, I’m serious. I’d probably pick George, if I had to choose. George, if you’re listening, you still owe me 20 quid,” Alex sing-songs to the mic, tone of voice cute and scolding, making you laugh at the ridiculous manner of the boy in front of you.

“Is this a friend from back home?” you ask, curious.

“Mhm,” he hums. “We met in elementary school. He’s my longest friend.”

“Is his dad Joe?” you joke.

Alex snorts. “No,” he shakes his head.

“Why didn’t you choose Joe?” you tease, making the boy in front of you laugh out, a gentle warmth caressing your heart at the sound. His laugh is pretty, you conclude– the type that makes you want to laugh with him. 

“Look, me and Joe didn’t have much in common except for tennis, if I’m being honest,” he says, grinning. 

“So you’d choose to have dinner with someone you already know well instead?” you ask, testing the boy.

“Well, yeah,” Alex shrugs, “do I get to choose the place as well?”

“Sure,” you nod, completely dumbfounded with the nature of the podcast host in front of you.

“I’d take George Russell to Subway. I am craving Subway and I know he hates it, so although I’d bring him to dinner with me, he would get nothing out of it, and I think that’s kinda funny.”

“You’d take him out just to spite him?”

“Something like that,” he nods. “That’s for the 20 quid he owes me,” Alex says, tone of voice serious, yet you know there is a hint of a joke behind his words.

Shaking your head at him, you let out a defeated sigh. “That’s– why would you even choose him, then?”

“I dunno,” Alex laughs, eyes settling sincerely at your face. “I think I’d choose George because I know the dinner would be pleasant. I always have things to talk about with him. I guess… I guess the person I’d like to spend my free time with the most would have to be my best friend, y’know?”

You nod, smiling. You must admit that although Alex’s response is unexpected, it’s sweet. It shows his character. 

Maybe having this podcast with him for the course of this semester wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

EPISODE 2: INFLUENCER ERA?? 

“Hello listeners,” Alex sings into the microphone, a soft melody making you laugh at the resemblance he has to old-school radio hosts, “or shall I say, listener?”

Snorting at his comment, you shake your head at him at the bluntness of his words. After the first episode of your podcast was posted on Soundcloud, Alex wasn’t very pleased with the response it got. Not only did none of his friends he made at university listen to it like he asked them to– not even the ones from the podcast class he is doing all of this for– but his friends from home didn’t either. The episode was stuck on one view, and that surely hurt the boy’s pride more than he’d like to admit. (Not to mention the single listen might have been from you. He sent you the link two days after the recording, and you clicked on it in curiosity only to click out when you cringed at hearing your own voice.)

“You’re surely salty about that, aren’t you?” you joke, eyes meeting with the boy in front of you. 

It’s Monday evening and you turned up to his apartment the same time as last week, meaning it’s close to midnight. You don’t complain much, since the quiet atmosphere of the dimly lit room provides just the perfect setting for the experiment and the recording itself, but after finishing up just after the clock strikes early morning, you can’t say you’re not at least a little sleepy.

Which is why you finally came to the recording dressed in your comfortable clothes– big sweater, fuzzy socks and all, sprawled out on the top of Alex’s duvet.

“Just a little bit. I wonder who the only listener is, though.”

“Your mum, maybe?”

“Was this a your mum joke, or are you actually suggesting it’s my mother?” Alex laughs, the sound resonating through the quiet apartment.

“No, just an actual suggestion,” you clarify, watching as the boy shakes his head at you.

“I actually think it’s my professor,” he says, “since he’s the only one that has to listen to it to grade me, y’know,” Alex notes, having you nod at his suggestion.

“Well, hello to Mr Vowles, then,” you say sweetly into the microphone, watching your co-host grin at the antics you’ve picked up from him since the last episode. “Wait, that’s a good segway into the next question I had prepared.”

“Oh, so we’re rawdogging it? Right away?” Alex asks, raising his eyebrows at you innocently.

“I don’t think you’re using that term correctly and I wish you would never use it again,” you hum, but continue with your speech nonetheless, not really giving him space to correct himself. “But yes, right away, because it fits. Would you like to be famous? Since the absence of views on our podcast is a problem to you, it seems,” you point out, watching the boy chew on the inside of his cheek– much like every time you ask him a question and he takes a moment to think about it.

“Yes and no,” he says, earning himself a sigh from you. Can he never give you a single normal answer?

“What does that even mean?” you mourn.

Alex Albon is surely something different. You’ve never met someone just like him– the way he thinks, the way he replies to your curious questions… You’re amused and entertained just by watching him dwell on your words– wanting to know more about him, about the way his brain works. Every answer he provides you is analytical, saying too much, providing you with a view of his brain, a sight of his inner thoughts.

“Well, I think I’d like to be like… medium-sized famous…? Like, I could still go out without a mass of people following me everywhere, but I get recognised like once every two weeks on the street, y’know.”

“So specific…”

“I’d love to be like a… niche influencer, or something,” he says. “They kinda have it easy, don’t you think?”

“You’re the one studying social media, not me,” you laugh, pointing out the obvious.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m saying it,” he hums, pursing his lips a little. “Only if more people and friends of mine listened to this podcast…” he ironically muses, making you snicker. “Maybe this would be the first step towards my stardom.”

“Medium-sized stardom.”

“Right,” he grins, nodding at you. “What about you? Would you want to be famous?

A hum slips its way past your lips, only a few seconds passing before you offer him your final response. You thought about this before, if you’re being honest, and although you would want to give him a more eloquent, more interesting answer, you have to be true to yourself.

“I don’t think I would,” you note. “I like attention, but I think it would be too pressuring for me.”

“Pressuring?” he asks, raising his eyebrows at you. He is always so patient with your answers, wanting to know what you have to say. It’s not every day you meet a person who truly engages in conversation with you– and doesn’t treat it like it’s an interview– and that has you appreciating Alex Albon’s efforts twice as much. 

Maybe this is why he has a lot of friends. It’s easy to warm up to him.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Like, everyone’s watching my every move and I can fuck up any minute, and everyone would know. I’m also quite a private person.”

“I can see that,” he notes, making you furrow your brows at him, confused.

“Huh?”

“I- Lando tried to stalk you on Instagram the other day– since he met you, and all– and he found nothing. You only have a profile picture,” he laughs, “so yeah, I’d expect this answer from you. You don’t seem to be the one to enjoy having many eyes on you.”

“Yeah,” you nod, agreeing with him. “Although, your roommate wanting to stalk me is mildly concerning. Maybe I should stop coming over…” you joke. (Or do you? It’s seriously quite weird…)

“Oh, Lando is harmless. He runs into poles on the street sometimes,” Alex jokes, wanting to reassure you. He knows you won’t stop coming– he turned his bedroom into a studio. A bad one, a cheap one, but it works, and you know that moving everything and making sure it works each time you want to record would be taxing.

You’ll just… avoid Lando Norris at all cost…

“Okay, well,” you hum, almost a little ironically. “I’ll try to make myself believe that.”

Alex laughs at that, scratching the back of his neck before continuing. “Okay, so we established that no listeners on this podcast is actually the ideal for you. What other questions do you have prepared for today?”

“Let’s see… the next one– since I have to do them in a specific order,” you say, listening to Alex hum in understatement, “says: before making a phone call, do you ever rehearse what you are going to say? Why?”

“I don’t,” Alex says, “but maybe I should, actually.”

“Hm? Why?”

“My friends say I talk too much,” he says, pursing his lips a little. “I guess I can be quite annoying sometimes.”

“Annoying?”

“Yeah,” Alex laughs, but somehow, you don’t think he really finds it funny. “Like, I’d start one thing, and then I move to another, and I ramble on and on, and I guess sometimes, it’s a little tiring.”

“I guess I could see that,” you hum, nodding. You don’t know Alex very well yet, but you’ve seen him get lost in his own train of thought before, his conversation taking you on trips you would’ve never expected to arrive to after hearing him say the first word of the sentence. “But for what it’s worth, I think that’s better than me– I always have to rehearse what I say, or else I don’t say anything. Especially during important phone calls.”

“Oh?” 

“Yeah. I used to… I used to have social anxiety, so…” you say, trailing off a little when the conversation once again moves to a more dangerous territory– which seems to happen a lot during the recordings. Curse you for choosing such an experiment to test. “Yeah, but… phone calls still scare me. I don’t really like doing them in the first place.”

“Interesting…” Alex says, acknowledging your words. “We’re kinda like two sides of the same coin, then,” he laughs, making light of the situation.

“I guess so,” you agree. “I think I’d prefer it if I was more like you, though.”

“And people around me would prefer it if I was more like you, so I guess the grass is always greener,” he points out, making you shake your head at his words.

“I don’t think I’d want you to talk less,” you note. “It’s easy to approach you when you’re talkative and energetic. People like you always made it… easier to be around, back when I had trouble with socializing, and all,” you hum, watching as Alex’s eyes glimmer a little in the dimly lit room, a gentle smile pressing its way towards his lips.

Shuffling in the sheets of his bed, changing his position from cross-legged sitting to more of a relaxed half-lay on the duvet, he locks his eyes with you in a newly found sincerity. “Well, then something like this,” he gestures around the room, the microphone momentarily leaving from in front of his lips, “must have been difficult for you to approach. Props to you for fighting it.”

You laugh softly at his words– even though they’re not funny. You're just trying to lighten the situation. “It’s gotten better in the last few years, definitely,” you admit, “but thank you.”

“Yeah, of course,” he hums, voice growing a little more quiet. The atmosphere shifts for a moment and you wonder if you have to just push through the silence by asking the next question off your list, but before you have a chance to, Alex speaks up again, beating you to it.

“Speaking of phone calls, though. Let me tell you about how my friend Pierre handles phone calls– I swear it’s so funny–” he starts, giggling a little at the thought of what he wants to share with you.

You find that talking with Alex is as easy as breathing. It’s comfortable, although new. He always has something to share, something to laugh about. He’s entertaining. He’s fun.

Maybe he should be a medium-famous podcast host. 

EPISODE 3: MY 13TH REASON 

“Hello listeners, multiple this time,” Alex announces to the microphone, tone of voice low and calm in the darkened room. “Welcome to another episode of The Y/N and Alex show.”

“Welcome,” you chime in, trying to mimic his tone– you think you’re starting to sound a little too alike to all those youtubers doing ASMR roleplay videos online, and so in fear of laughing at yourself and breaking the atmosphere of the podcast, you move on and talk casually from then on.

“Our listener count has gone up since the last episode,” Alex hums, raising his brows at you with what you assume is a sense of pride in his chest, making you snicker at the boy. Truth be told, you don’t really care about the numbers your little podcast does– after your respective assignments are done, it’s going to be over anyways– but it’s amusing to see the boy thriving in the attention, pointing finger guns at you when he announces that the last episode got ‘over 50 listeners’, as if the two of you were the next B-list celebrities of your town.

“On your way to stardom,” you say, “remember me when you’re famous.”

“We’re getting famous together, whether you like it or not,” Alex shrugs, “I think this podcast thing is really my kind of thing, y’know.”

“I don’t wanna get famous just because you are.”

“Sorry, I think that’s kind of… inevitable at this point…” he shrugs, faking guilt.

“I’ll just have a Britney moment then, or something,” you say, “so I can disappear from the face of Earth.”

Alex snickers, but then he seems to remember something, sighing. “Almost had a Britney moment today, to be fair.”

“Why?” you ask, laying back a little in his bed that you’ve been using as the podcast set-up for the last 3 weeks now. If you’re being completely honest, his mattress is kind of comfortable. If you weren’t so into the topics you’ve been talking about, you could very well fall asleep on it easily, without even trying.

Your co-host takes a sip from his water bottle before continuing, as if to keep you on your toes. “So, I just had the worst day ever, basically.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, genuinely feeling sorry for the boy, “why? We could’ve rescheduled if you weren’t feeling well.”

Alex pouts at you, as if taking your words of kindness to heart, before he sighs. “Nah, I’m fine,” he says, noting that he might have been a little over-dramatic. “But dude, it was rough. I slept through my alarm, obviously,” he starts, mentioning the problem he already talked to you about off-camera before, when you were waiting for him to set up the equipment last time. “And then I was late for class. Which meant my professor didn’t let me take my exam– for legal purposes, I won’t mention any names, but if you’re listening, you know who you are–”

“Alex–” you panic, cutting him off before he gets himself– or both of you– in trouble.

“So that meant I was already in a pissy mood, right? Then, I went to get lunch between classes and I realized my lunch card didn’t have any money on it.”

“You could’ve gone to the store and bought something to eat with cash, then,” you hum, but with the way Alex looks at you, you might’ve just said the most criminal thing to him.

“I didn’t have enough time! I had to run to class right after,” he says. “So that meant I was pissed and hungry, and failing my class. Then, I tripped and ripped my favorite jeans, because I absolutely ate shit in front of everyone walking down the stairs from my class.”

Your mouth falls agape from shock at the new information. The image of Alex Albon falling down the stairs is not one you should be laughing at, and so you try your hardest not to.

“It’s really not funny.”

“No, I know,” you agree, but the look on your face says otherwise.

“That’s not all, though.”

“It’s not?”

“No!” Alex yelps, as if to further prove that life absolutely hates him today. “So I walked through the campus with blood on my knees, like a toddler, and then when I finally got home with half the groceries I originally wanted to get at the store– because they either didn’t have them or they were too expensive–” you chuckle at that, “I found out that I didn’t have my keys on me, so I basically locked myself out of the apartment.”

“Oh my god,” you gasp, trying your hardest to give the boy a good reaction, to make him feel seen. “What did you do after?”

“Well, I tried calling Lando– my roommate, for those of you who don’t know– but he wouldn’t pick up, so I thought he was somewhere out, or something. So I asked around for him, to see if any of our other friends were with him, but I got nothing. So I just sat in front of our building for like, approximately two hours, while my phone battery was on 15% so I couldn’t even do anything, and then who do I see coming out of the building?” he asks, an ironical smile plastered onto his lips.

“No way. Don’t tell me–”

“Lando! Lando Fucking Norris going on a walk,” Alex says, pure fury mirroring his features. You’re convinced the boy mentally moved back in time to earlier this day and is reliving the moments, feeling the same emotions again. “So I just got ignored by my roommate for two hours as I locked myself out. That… that was my 13th reason.”

“That was vile.”

“Wasn’t it?” he grunts, shaking his head at the situation. “But I got over it now… kind of…”

“Totally, yeah,” you nod, agreeing with the boy despite knowing that he’s still mad at the poor boy living just behind the wall. It’s alright, though– you’d be mad too.

“How was your day, though?” Alex asks, switching the topic to give you more attention, not only wanting to talk about himself. 

Shrugging, you answer. “It was alright. Definitely not as eventful as yours, that’s for sure.”

“You’re the first one that didn’t call me overly-dramatic so far,” Alex says, and you swear there is a hint of appreciation in his tone.

“Because you’re not being overly-dramatic! Your feelings are valid,” you shrug, “besides, I would’ve wanted to off myself after all of these as well. Like, I’d be feeling like I am on God's least favorites list, or something.”

“Exactly!” Alex agrees. “I fully thought this was gonna be my last straw, but I figured that it’s not worth ending it all when I’m so close to reaching fame.”

“You’re so–”

“Anyways, what’s your topic of the day? What’s the burning question you have for us today?” he switches the topic, wanting to steer it away from his overly-confident speech.

“It’s kind of ironic, I’d say,” you laugh after reading it out in your laptop, making the boy look at you with raised eyebrows and glimmering eyes, a grin mirroring his features at your light composure. 

“What? Why?”

“It says: what would constitute a ‘perfect’ day for you?” you say, looking at him with weary eyes, voice trembling a little with the laughter you’re trying your hardest to control. It’s easy to laugh when you’re next to Alex, you’ve noticed. He isn’t only amusing whenever the recording is on, but also whenever the microphones are off and you chill for a bit in his bedroom after, talking to him about whatever comes to mind before you take off and walk home. He is down to earth and casual, and it’s making you feel perhaps the most comfortable you’ve ever felt around a man before. 

“The universe is really making fun of me today,” Alex hums, tone of voice serious. “Anyways, I’d say a perfect day would be if I woke up on my alarm, got to take my exam, didn’t eat shit in front of everyone, and my roommate would let me in to my own apartment–”

You burst out into laughter, falling over a little, invading Alex’s side of the bed. The boy watches you with glittering eyes, breaking into an amused chuckle as well. “Be serious for once!”

“Oh, I am serious! Any day but today would be perfect for me, at this point–”

“I’m not taking that as a real answer.”

“Tell me yours, then,” he says, waiting to hear you out again.

After a few seconds of careful consideration and humming to fill the silence, you decide on your answer. “I think a perfect day would be one that’s exciting,” you say, nodding to yourself. “Like, I love concerts, for example. Or travelling. I just… love to do stuff, y’know? Like, growing up I never thought I’d get to do those things, so when I do them, life feels so worth living.”

The boy opposite of you nods, humming with agreement. “Why didn’t you think you’d get to go to a concert or travel?”

“I thought they were just… childish dreams…? I never really had a chance to experience much growing up, since we didn’t have a lot of money, so now that I earn my own and get to travel to meet friends and go to concerts and see stuff, it’s really eye-opening,” you nod to yourself, explaining your train of thought. You don’t know how or why it happens, but you always allow yourself to get a little vulnerable with the answers to the questions on the list. 

Is it Alex’s effect, or do you just want to put the experiment to the best test?

“I’m glad you get to do all that, then,” he says– and it sounds like he means it. “I think you don’t really need every day to be perfect to have a good life. Like, I’d say you ideally need to have most days where you feel okay, and then days where, as you said, you feel like life is worth living– something exceptional that makes you appreciate it in the middle of the mundane things.”

“That’s a nice way to put it,” you agree, voice softening at his words.

Alex hums, chewing on the inside of his cheek for a second before he continues. “For me, I guess, a perfect day is one where I’m happy. Like, when I’m having fun with my friends, hanging out with them– as you said, maybe traveling, or just going out and playing padel,” he shrugs, “I enjoy free days like this a lot.”

“You play padel?” you ask, watching as he nods, humming.

“I’m not as good, though. I am much better at karting. I actually wanted to go pro with racing when I was a kid, but I don’t think… I just wasn’t really good enough,” he admits, a chuckle escaping his mouth at the sentence, trying to laugh it off to show that it doesn’t really bother him– or at least he tries to show that it doesn’t bother him as much as it seems.

“Well, what’s important is you love doing it,” you say.

“Yeah…” he agrees. “I actually haven’t raced in a while.”

“Oh?” you hum. “You should.”

“Wanna go race with me?” he asks, eyebrows rising. If you didn’t know him better– to, as a person who’s known him for barely a month, is a lot to say– you’d think he was just being polite, not really meaning his question. This is Alex Albon you’re talking to, though. You know he is sincere with his sentiments.

“I don’t even know how to drive,” you shake your head.

“I’ll teach you. You don’t even have to have a licence.”

“What if I run someone over?” you laugh. “How will you compensate for that?”

“I think it would be quite impossible for you to run someone over at the track, Y/N,” he giggles, shaking his head at you in disbelief. “I swear it’s fun! No murder involved. There’s a karting track like… 35 minutes away from the town. We could go some day.”

“I hate things I’m not instantly good at, so you better be a good teacher,” you say. You don’t even know why you’re agreeing to his proposal– you have a lot on your plate already, when it comes to assignments, and you also don’t really know the boy that well. 

You think it might be the loneliness talking. It’s been three weeks, and although you tried, you didn’t make any new friends in class. You’re starting to think it’s getting a bit too late for it– although the healthy side of your brain keeps telling you you’re just being over-dramatic.

“We’ll make it work,” he laughs, “as long as you don’t crash into me, I think we’re gonna be fine.”

“Well, you can never know. I’m clumsy.”

“That’s okay. You can pay the hospital bills with the huge check we will get from this podcast–”

“Okay, so we are moving on to the next question,” you cut the boy off, pretending to be tired of hearing him joke about the fame you’re getting. Both of you know it’s just irony, but only one of you finds it amusing enough to make countless jokes about it.

Alex laughs at your comedic timing, taking another sip of his water. “Okay…” he sighs. “What is it?”

“When did you last sing to yourself? To someone else?” you read out. When you look back up from your phone screen, the boy is staring at you, and when your eyes meet, he instantly retracts his gaze. You wonder if you have something on your face, but before you get a chance to ask him out loud, he cuts you off with his answer.

“You know what,” he starts, “I don’t really sing.”

“Not even in the shower?” you ask. “You look like the type to sing in the shower.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asks, furrowing his brows at you in concern. Was that a compliment, or the exact opposite?

“Oh, y’know,” you shrug, “I just– actually, I don’t know. It’s just the vibes.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Y/N,” your name rolls off his tongue. Something about the way he says it catches your attention, the sound replaying in your head, staying in your memory.

“Actually, no. That’s all I have to say on the matter.”

Alex sighs, shaking his head at you. “Okay, well, no. I don’t sing in the shower. You know who does, though?” he asks, voice already accusing, making you get the hint of who he’s going to talk about again.

“Is it–”

“Lando Norris, yes. My roommate. Actually, I think living with him in general is my 13th reason– he was singing so loud last night when he was showering that he woke me up from my well deserved nap. And he wouldn’t stop, the shit he is, can you believe that?” he scoffs, disbelief flashing over his sculpted features.

“Everyone sings in the–”

“I don’t care, shower quietly! Especially you, Lando. If you’re listening, sleep with one eye open at all times, I’m so serious right now,” he grunts.

You wonder if you can get banned on Soundcloud for hate speech and threatening. 

EPISODE 4: STARTING A MAKE A WISH PROJECT

The next time you’re recording, you realize your immense gratitude for the fact that your little podcast is audio only. Not because you’d be ashamed to put your face out there– it’s easy enough to look you up on Instagram, as you were proven before– but because it means you don’t have to show the whole university (or the 500 people who have turned up to listen to your last episode, which is still crazy to think about, by the way) your face when you’re at your lowest.

A little sick, incredibly tired and with dark circles adorning your eyes.

“Hello listeners,” Alex muses into the microphone, pressing one last look full of worry mixed with reassurance your way, “welcome to episode 4 of The Y/N and Alex Show. Tonight’s episode is going to be a little different, since my co-host is currently indisposed and shivering in my sheets, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.”

His comment makes you shy away from his gaze a little, now fully aware of the fact that not only are you really covered up with his sheets, the smell of his shower gel protruding your nose with all the force aloe vera and cucumber mixed with the smell of his laundry detergent can master, (which is already bad enough), you’re now also exposed to everyone listening that you made a nest for yourself in his bed.

Which isn’t bad, not at all. It just makes it seem much more intimate than your friendship really is.

“Hello,” you greet, voice hoarse and scratchy. 

After arriving at his apartment, you were already scolded by your co-host himself for worrying about a ‘stupid assignment’ in your current state, all followed by him forcing you to wear his fuzzy socks, making you hot tea and placing you under his sheets when he realized you were cold. In retrospect, Alex might’ve been right when he told you you should’ve stayed home and slept the cold out, but the idea of missing a week and then having to catch up on everything was too unbearable. 

That, and you also really wanted someone’s company. Alex just happened to be the easiest option.

“I’ll do most of the talking, if you aren’t feeling it?” 

“Shocker,” you muse ironically, still having enough energy in you to joke. When you try to giggle at your own teasing, you are hit with the immediate force of karma making you cough, almost spilling your ginger tea all over his freshly washed sheets.

“Or I can leave it up to you? If you find your lost voice somewhere along the way, that is,” he mocks you, full of irony– hinting at the obvious scratch of your voice.

“I’ll be fine,” you hum, “don’t worry.”

“I’ll have to edit your mic to be louder, you’re basically whispering.”

“Good thing that’s kind of your job,” you playfully kick him under the sheets.

You’re usually sitting on opposite sides of the bed– facing each other, each of you talking into your own microphone. This time, you’re nothing more than a blanket burrito at the head of his bed, the boy sitting cross-legged at your feet, sending you looks full of concern, but also playful reassurance. It’s a nice change– your back doesn’t hurt as much and you feel more relaxed, but still– you know this won’t pass next time you’re here, so you’re trying to enjoy it to the fullest.

“Okay, so,” he clears his throat, ignoring your jabbing comment, “what’s your recap of the days we haven’t seen each other? Have you been swimming in the Arctic, or…?”

“No,” you snicker, rolling your eyes at him. “I probably just didn’t dress warm enough when going to my morning lectures. And then it rained the day I forgot to bring an umbrella, so… here we are.”

“Should I text you the next time it rains? Since you seemingly don’t have the weather app,” he chuckles. “Can’t have my co-host dying. What would I talk about without your burning questions?”

“I’m sure you’ll find something.”

“Probably not as interesting as your topics, though,” he shrugs, grinning. “So, what do we got on our plate today?” he asks, pointing his chin towards your phone in your lap.

A moment of silence falls over the two of you, the only thing resonating through the dimly-lit room being your sniffles and the occasional shuffling of sheets when Alex moves in his place on the other side of the bed. After scrolling through your phone and landing onto the document you need, you clear your throat and present him with the next question. “Do you have a hunch about how you’ll die?” 

Your eyes meet as Alex looks for an answer in the depths of his brain, a softness behind them replaced with playful joking as he notes: “Well, I don’t know about me, but I think we both know what the cause of death will be for you.”

“Is it me forgetting my umbrella?”

“I don’t know how that’s deadly,” he laughs, “but I was hinting at your poor immune system. It looks like your worst enemy.”

“Oh, for sure,” you croak, agreeing with him. “Actually, you might not be that far off with that one.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. A very, very bad case of flu could definitely get me,” you joke. “That, or any other health issue you can think of, honestly. Heart problems run in the family, so it could very well be a heart attack.”

“Wait, really?” he asks, eyes widening in shock.

You nod in agreement, snickering. “My grandpa died of one. On mum’s side,” you hum, “my dad’s side? Both grandparents had them. And my uncle. My own father, fuck’s sake.” The more you continue, the more concerned Alex looks– bless him. “So, logically, I could be the next one.”

“Have you had that checked before? Like… your heart, I mean.”

Another nod. “They said it’s high blood rate, but they can’t do anything about it.”

“What? Why?” he asks, tone of voice so scared as if you were in the middle of a heart failure already, barely surviving in his bedsheets. 

“Well, they said my blood pressure is too low, so if they gave me pills for one issue, it would kinda cancel each other out,” you laugh, taking in Alex’s genuinely concerned, frightened expression. “What? Don’t act like I’m already dying. One more word and you’ll be calling 911, it seems.”

“I don’t see how you don’t find that fucking scary, man.”

“You learn to live with it,” you shrug, shaking your head at his overly-worried state. “What about you? Any health issues daring to take you out? Dementia running in the family? Cancer…”

“No, thank god,” he cuts you off before you have a chance to finish the list, seemingly not really in favor of thinking about all the possibilities. 

“You’re basically immortal, then,” you say, voice cracking a little due to the sickness. If Alex notices it, he doesn’t mention it– thankfully. You only hope he can fix it somehow in the postproduction.

“I actually almost died before, you know.”

“What?” Now is your chance to act bewildered.

“Got chased by a horse. My own horse, to be exact.”

“You have a horse?”

Alex nods, grinning. “Two of them. And a dog. And 13 cats.”

You just stare at him wordlessly, taking the new information in. “You have a whole ass petting ZOO!” you chirp, blinking away the surprise. “That’s fucking crazy.”

“It is,” he admits, laughing. “I barely remember all of their names.”

“Maybe that’s why your horse tried to kill you,” you joke, watching as Alex joins– his eyes crinkling into moon crescants, rosy cheeks on full display. Your heart skips a beat– damn the heart issues. Maybe you are going into cardiac arrest, who knows?

“Maybe,” he nods, “that, or it’s the horse just being a scaredy cat. It saw something in the bushes and bolted, I fell off its back, and then it circled around and almost bashed my head in with its leg.”

You stare at him in silence, mouth slightly ajar. You’re so glad he’s alive after that, a passing thought flashes in your brain, before you shake your head at him in disbelief. “That’s genuinely terrifying.”

“It is. I haven’t ridden a horse since.”

“Why do you have two of them, then?”

“It’s my family’s petting ZOO as much as it is mine,” he laughs, shrugging. “Can’t get rid of a horse my sister loves just because we’re scared of each other now.”

“Fair,” you hum. Noting the silence in between the two of you, you take it as your cue to read out the next question on your list. It’s not that the silence is uncomfortable– quite the opposite, really, it makes you unravel and sink deeper into his comfy sheets– but you don’t think his assignment would benefit much from sitting in the quiet. “Anyways. Next one says: Name three things you and your partner have in common.”

“Not yet, but we could have a Make a wish business,” Alex says.

Blinking in surprise, once again, but now due to the sheer randomness of Alex Albon’s answer– which, in 4 weeks, you should be used to the nature of his brain by now– you wait for him to explain, a mere confused comment escaping your lips. “I don’t think Make a wish is a business, Alex.”

“Okay, yeah, true,” he nods, snickering. “But, y’know. It makes sense– I have a petting ZOO back home, and you will end up deathly sick one day and you could apply for it. And then, you could say you want to pet a horse, and I’ll be like, I have the perfect solution for it–”

“I don’t have to be a Make a wish kid to pet a horse,” you say, laughter coating your words. “Or go to your house, if that’s your main aim–”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Alex laughs, shaking his head. “See? What do we have in common? Not much. I have a brilliant, creative brain, and you–”

“You’re insane, more like.”

“And you’re studying to deal with insane people. See? We kinda work.”

You must admit, the way his brain works is kind of endearing. It makes you audibly laugh out loud, completely forgetting about the ache in your bones or the sleep in your brain. “This isn’t how the question works, Alex!” you mourn, watching the brightly-eyed boy giggle to himself on the other side of the bed.

“Okay, okay,” he calms himself down, humming to himself. “Well, I dunno. I think we’re both kinda different. But that’s what makes this–” he gestures with his hands into the space around him, not specifying if it’s the podcast of the foundations of what seems to be a friendship, “work.”

You only hum, nodding.

“Maybe… hm. We’re both hard working and ambitious? That works. I mean, you turned up to do this even though you’re basically dying, so…”

“Yeah,” you agree.

“I think our humor is similar, though,” he says, locking his eyes with you. “There’s not many people that laugh at my jokes as much as you do.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks. Maybe you have a fever. “I’m easy to please.”

“Or maybe I’m just funny,” he shakes his head, chuckling. “And you as well, of course.”

“Okay, I won’t sell myself short. If you say so…”

“Unbelievable,” he scoffs. playfully rolling his eyes at you. “That’s three, no?”

“I’d say two, but I’ll count it as three for our sake.”

“Okay, boss,” he nods. “Do you have more?”

You hum, eyeing the next question. “If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?” 

Another hit of silence– this time spent with you two sharing a knowing look, an amused smile tugging on both of your lips as you propose the answer. “You’d get rid of that horse?”

“Definitely.”

“Knew it.”

A fit of laughter slips over you like a glove and you hold onto it like a grudge. Somewhere in the unconscious part of your brain, you acknowledge just how grateful you are to share those moments with Alex. To him, this might be just a simple assignment– talking with a random girl he met through Facebook because he has to– but to you, those moments are close to everything you wished for when you enrolled into university.

Friendship. Ease. Conversations shared in a quiet room, over the smell of ginger tea.

Comfort.

“In all seriousness, I don’t think… I don’t think I’d change anything. I look back on my childhood very fondly and I think my mum raised me with all the right values in mind.”

You nod, agreeing. “Well, from what I’ve seen, she’s done a decent job so far.”

Alex offers you a heavy look– only a short one, cut off too fast to what you’re used to from him. “And you? What about you?”

You scratch the back of your neck, shrugging. “I think… I think I would’ve done better with a bit more freedom, if you know what I mean? Like… I wasn’t really allowed to go places alone, or do much of anything, because my parents were really strict growing up– obviously, for all the right reasons, they were looking out for me– but I think if I would’ve been more reckless back then, I’d be less scared of everything now.”

“Like what, for example?”

“People, maybe?” you huff, snickering. “Like, it sounds funny, but I think if I was pushed more into talking with other kids, or just, allowed to hang out and drink in my teens, it would make stuff much easier for me at uni.”

Alex hums, listening to you.

“I find it hard to make friends, since I was a bit sheltered. Which, in return, makes me more reckless now, but it also makes intimacy hard, and it’s… yeah. I dunno. We’re getting too deep now,” you chuckle, eyeing Alex’s expression.

He offers you nothing more than understanding, a soft nod of his head. “We can leave it at that, if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” you shrug.

“But like, for what it’s worth, I think you’re doing pretty good at the ‘making friends’ part. I mean, I would know,” he says, tone of voice full of encouragement and silent empathy, making your heart swell with fondness and maybe a little bit of vulnerability.

“You’re just saying that to keep me on the pod.”

Alex shrugs, a smirk embedding his features. “You need this just as much as I do.”

And the truth is? He’s right– you do need this podcast just as much as he does– and not just for the obvious reasons.

EPISODE 5: US WHEN WE’RE IN A BRITISH BOYBAND MAKING THEIR MOST POPULAR SONG (STORY OF MY LIFE. HAHA. GET IT?)

By week five of working on your assignment, you’re already in your zone when you walk into Alex’s apartment, dressed up in comfortable clothes and with an energy drink in your hand to keep you through the night. You must admit that while you never really dreaded recording the podcast with him, the more you get to know him– both his quirks, flaws and differences– the more you look forward to spending the time with him, just conversing.

“Hello listeners, hello Y/N,” Alex says into the microphone as his long legs involuntarily tangle with yours, the newly found position from last week recurring after both of you realized it’s way more practical and comfortable, leaving both of you to record the podcast half-sitting, half-laying in his sheets instead of crouching over, cross-legged and all. “Welcome to the fifth episode of The Y/N and Alex show.”

“Hello, hello,” you hum, going with the easy flow of the conversation.

“Have you realized that even though you fought me on it at the start, you still let me keep the pod name?” he mentions, raising his brows at you in question.

“I don’t think I have a lot to say about the creative direction of the podcast, Alex,” you hum, “your grade depends on it, not mine.”

“Touché,” he nods, stretching a little in his place, tiredness already laying over him like a blanket. Your eyes take a glimpse of the sliver of tan skin peeking from below his shirt as he reaches his hands overhead, heat rising to your cheeks as you force yourself to peel the relentless focus away from it. “I just think the name’s really fitting.”

“It’s very… descriptive,” you agree.

“No false advertisement here,” he says. “You get exactly what you’re told you’re gonna get.”

“Exactly,” you hum. “Maybe it’s not so bad after all,” you joke. The reality is– you don’t think you could come up with a better name in the first place.

“Glad you agree,” Alex snickers. “Well, anyway. This is the time when I’d ask you how your week went, but uh, I don’t think I have to do that this time, since I know how it went.”

“You do,” you agree, “for everyone listening, me and Alex hung out outside of podcast duties for the first time last week.”

“We did,” Alex grins. “I took Y/N out to her first ever frat party.”

“And your first ever frat party.”

“Right. For anyone wondering, I am not in a frat. I would hate to be in a frat. But my roommate, Lando, knows people who know people, and suddenly, he’s DJ-ing Alpha Sigma’s party–”

“I don’t think Alpha Sigma was their name, Alex–”

“Well, that’s not the point. But I thought I’d share the experience with Y/N here. So tell us, how would you rate the experience on a scale of 1 to 10?”

Your brain flashes with the memories of the night, each one getting not only hazier as the night progresses, but also more painful to remember. See, it’s not every day you end up at a frat party– it’s also not every day you get to hang out with a new friend outside of the assignment duties. After learning that you and Alex have no problem with the flow of your conversation even outside of the walls of his dimly lit room, you decided to test your teamwork in a game or beer pong– with two other dudes named Carlos and Logan playing against the two of you.

Well, it’s safe to say that that part wasn’t your strongest suit. Alex had to walk you to your dorms, and while you’d argue you could walk just fine, your orientation skills were a bit off-set. Which is why he had to beg your dorm’s doorman to let him walk you to your room, too scared you’d end up lost and asleep somewhere in the hallway.

“A strong minus 2, I’d say,” you nod, embarrassment creeping up your cheeks.

“Dare to explain why?” he teases, a glint in his eye.

“No comment.”

“Alrighty, then,” he laughs, gesturing towards the phone in your lap. “Hit me with the questions, then.”

Glad that he dropped the topic, you reach for the device and scroll through the document, like you’ve done four times before already. It’s strange to think about how you’re already halfway done with the assignment– it feels like yesterday when you nervously messaged Alex on Facebook messenger, awaiting a positive reply. 

“Okay, so. Take four minutes and tell your partner your life story in as much detail as possible.” 

It’s Alex Albon you’re speaking to, though– you should’ve known he wouldn’t drop the topic of your drunk escapade that easily. 

“Do you maybe mind starting in reverse order? Like, latest events towards your birth?” he asks, earning himself a kick to his shin, making his laughter catch in his throat. “I’d really love to hear what you did on Friday night in detail–”

“Fuck you, dude,” you sigh, shaking your head with a defeated grin on your face.

“Hey! Don’t fucking swear, I’ll have to bleep it out.”

“Don’t fucking tell me not to fucking swear–”

“That’s gonna be a fine for breaking the policy.”

“Is that in our contract?” you ask, referring to the nonexistent piece of paper.

“Yes,” he nods, dead serious, “in the small ink at the very bottom of the page. I knew you wouldn’t read all of it…”

“I got tired after the part that said we can only record at 10pm because you play League of legends the rest of the day.”

Alex visibly cringes at the comment, shaking his head at you. “Okay, let’s stir away from exposing me to be a raging virgin in front of the whole class, thank you,” he mumbles, joking. “Let’s get back to the question.”

“Should I put a timer on?” you ask, already swiping through your apps to find the right one.

“Yeah, sure,” Alex nods, absent-mindedly pressing the microphone into his round cheek, squishing it and making him look like a hamster stashing his food. The sight is adorable, to say the least, making your heart clench with a newly found fondness for your co-host. “Who’s starting, though?”

Giving him no time to think, you press START on the timer app, counting 4 minutes. “You. Go!”

“Oh shit,” he swears, panic rising in his chest due to the time pressure. “Okay, so. I was born on March 23, which makes me an aries, I was told,” he adds the useless fact, “I grew up in Suffolk, alongside with my three sisters and a brother. My mum’s Thai, dad’s English. I did karting when I was little… My biggest role models were Michael Schumacher and Valentino Rossi, so… I really wanted to become an F1 driver. I was actually really good, to be honest, but then it didn’t end up happening and I went to high school… I graduated with decent grades, contrary to popular belief, and got into uni. And here we are, I guess.”

“You still have like, 3 more minutes to talk,” you state, nudging him with your foot. “This wasn’t detailed enough, I already knew all of this!”

“I don’t think my life story is that interesting,” he mourns, shrugging. “I dunno what else to tell you.”

“The question doesn’t say ‘Talk about the most interesting part of your life’, Alex. It just says ‘in detail’, so come on. I wanna know all the boring mundane stuff. How did you get your first cat?”

Alex grins at you, shaking his head at being asked. “We found her on the street. She was so small and so alone, and then it took me ages to convince my mum to keep her, but eventually, she complied. And then, turns out, she had 3 more siblings, we found them behind our shed– so we took them in as well. And since then, my mum turned from being okay with the idea of having cats into being obsessed with them, so she’d go volunteer at the shelter sometimes, and would come back with a new cat like, every other week. It’s crazy.” 

“That’s how parents always are,” you laugh. “What about the dog?”

“Oh, it’s a childhood dog. He was the first animal we ever got. Which is also why my mum was worried about the cats, y’know, like, what if he’s aggressive with them? But no, they’re absolute besties.”

“That’s so sweet,” you hum, nodding with a soft smile on your face. You can only imagine Alex with the rest of his petting ZOO– cuddled up with the cats, playing with the dog. He showed you a picture of some of them before, mentioning vague names you never really remembered, but now you’re wondering what he looks like with the animals, doting on them and talking to them in a baby voice.

Alex continues the life story himself, without needing to be asked this time. “And the horses, well, my uncle wanted to get rid of one, but my mum had an emotional attachment to it, so she brought it home. Then he tried to kill me and I was strongly advocating for the same idea my uncle had, but it was no use, I lost the battle,” he grins, “and then my mum got another one from the farm downtown, ‘cause they were selling it, and she said the first one must feel lonely. So now we have two.”

“That’s a crazy amount, still.”

“Yeah. It’s a pain in the ass to take care of when I visit back home, I’ll tell you that,” he nods. 

“At least they’re adorable,” you shrug.

“When they don’t bite, yes,” he grins, opening his mouth to say something else, but being cut off by the noise of your alarm going off in your lap, notifying you that four minutes have finally passed by and now it was your time to ramble on about your own experiences. “Your turn! Thank god.”

“Oh lord, oh jeez,” you sigh, watching as the boy reaches over and takes your phone into his hand and presses START on the timer, offering you a focused look, all ears. “So, I was born in April, which also makes me an aries, by the way. I had some health issues, so I only did one year of kindergarten, and then I joined school and was an absolute academic weapon,” you giggle, watching as Alex raises his brows at you in acknowledgement. “They called me a gifted kid, but that’s been slowly burning out as I enrolled in uni.”

“You’re selling yourself short.”

“No, it’s true. Had straight A’s even as I graduated from high school, but yeah. I’ve been slacking– which is fine, really, just something to mention. I was always a shy kid, spent most of my summer breaks and holidays at my grandma’s house with my brother, so I pretty much grew up in a village, you could say. Was feeding the chickens and gardening my whole summer, I’ll tell you that.”

“Child labor,” Alex jokes.

“I was paid in sweets, so it’s all good,” you giggle. “Yeah, I really don’t know what to say anymore. It was my dream to get into psychology, so I kinda went for it, even though my chances were low. Made it, enrolled, moved in with my roommate that I couldn’t be more different than– not a bad thing, I love you Laura, if you’re listening, it’s just… We don’t really have much in common. Then I got this assignment for my class, so I found this dumbass on Facebook–”

“You only have like, a minute and a half left, you’re sure you don’t wanna tell us about your Friday night instead?” 

“Oh, I’d love to. So, my podcast co-host got me drunk in a game of beer pong, no big deal. Maybe I danced and giggled a lot more than usual, but over-all, I had a good time. Until I got sick at the smell of a Red Bull can, but I won’t talk about that part more, or else this episode’s gonna need a emetophobia trigger warning.”

Alex laughs, shaking his head at you. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I should’ve looked after you better.”

“Well, that’s not really your job, but thanks,” you grin. “I’ll know better next time.”

“You’re trying to get into more frat parties?” Alex asks, turning off the alarm that’s gone off in the middle of you talking, ending the segment. He reaches towards you once more, fingers brushing yours when he hands you the telephone device.

“I’m not keen to go, but I also wouldn’t decline an invitation,” you shrug.

Alex takes the information in, nodding to himself. “Noted.”

His leg touches yours once more in encouragement, your digits swiping back into the document full of questions. “Okay. Next one… oh, this one’s deep. If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?”

A hum escapes your co-hosts throat, deep in thought. His eyes bear into yours with much intensity, almost daring you to not look away, but you do anyway– after a while, it gets too strong for you to engage in. “I think I’d like to care less.”

“Care less?” you ask, raising your brows at him.

“Mhm,” he nods, “like. About everything. Like, sometimes I anxiously overthink everything– what would happen if this and this, what I should’ve done differently, what I shouldn’t have done at all… About what other people think, I guess…?”

“Hm,” you muse, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Didn’t place you as a chronic overthinker.”

“Yeah,” he laughs, “I don’t really know when that happened.”

“Do you find anything that helps?”

Alex looks up to the ceiling, contemplating the answer. “Just… reassuring myself? Affirmations, I think you psych people call it. I just have to tell myself nothing is going on, and I’m fine, and all, and at the end of the day, no one cares and thinks about what I do just as much as I do.”

“Exactly,” you nod. “Everyone’s too worried about themselves to judge. And also, if they’re judging, they’re not worth your energy.”

“The right ones won’t judge,” he agrees.

“Yeah.”

“What about you?”

You avert eye contact as you speak the next words, perhaps too scared of the sudden vulnerability. It’s a very delicate thing to share, one that you rarely talk about. Telling Alex isn’t as hard as you’d think, the words daring, battling to drag out of your throat– making you forget about the people that might be listening. Something in you just wants to trust him with the information, to spill your guts out.

“It might sound funny, but… I think in general, I’d just like to be more likeable. Like, I don’t know what I’d have to change to achieve that, but I guess I’d love it if people warmed up to me more easily. I find that people don’t really like me at first when they meet me.”

“Oh?” he says. Not judging, not analysing– just surprised. “I wouldn’t have guessed that. I mean, from the people I know that have met you for the first time, everyone loved you instantly.”

You laugh airly, daring to look at him. The gaze he offers you breaks you and pieces you back together all at once, steady, easy. “You’re just saying that. They don’t know me.”

“And they already like you,” he follows. “I enjoyed your company instantly. I mean–  of course, you can’t be everyone’s person, that’s not how it works, but I wouldn’t say you’re not likeable. At all, actually.”

A sigh escapes your throat. You lick your lips, shrugging, lost in thought. The words spill out of your mouth before you have a chance to stop them, before you have a chance to retrack and rethink if it’s the right time to say them. “I guess… you know that saying, like, in a room full of people, I’d choose you? I don’t– I don’t think anyone would choose me. I’m not really anyone’s favorite.”

Your hands shake a bit, your soul flying all around the silent room, fragile, but looking for a place to make its home, searching. You fear letting it down again, you fear breaking it, now all your fault. You should’ve stayed quiet.

“That just means you’re not in the right room,” Alex says.

Your eyes meet. You let out a shaky breath. The words sink in deep, making it a little hard to take in any oxygen. Something inside of you clicks.

All your life, you’ve tried to change and fit into the dynamic, change yourself for the narrative. Tried a bunch of makeup, trying to cover up your face, your flaws. You tried to keep up, to be what the world always wanted you to be– but pretty isn’t pretty enough, and good is never the best.

Turns out, you never had to change yourself to feel loved. Maybe you had to change the room all along.

You don’t think Alex would choose you in a room full of people– hell, you haven’t known each other for too long– but something inside of you foolishly thinks that maybe, his eyes would land on you in passing for a bit before he makes a choice, before he makes a run towards the one that deserves it. 

Maybe you’d be at least considered.

Somehow, that feels like enough for now.

“Let’s move on,” you chuckle, trying to play it off. “Oh! A fun one. Is there something you’ve dreamt of doing for a long time? Why haven’t you done it?”

“Oh, easy. Bungee jumping.”

“Bungee jumping?” you gasp, shocked.

“Yeah. I think it would be fun. Why haven’t I done it? No opportunity to, honestly. Or money. I’m a broke university student,” Alex chuckles, making you shake your head.

“That’s crazy. I could never. Didn’t know you were an adrenaline junkie like that.”

“I literally wanted to be an F1 driver!” Alex laughs, making you join in. 

“Okay, yeah, fair. But this is something completely different! What if the rope fails?”

“Then I die being a badass,” Alex shrugs. “No, but I’d do it over water. Bigger chance of survival,” he notes.

“Crazy…” you whisper. 

“What would you say, then?”

You think for a bit, suddenly feeling silly. “I’ve always wanted to go to an amusement park. I love the rides, and all, so I think it would be fun.”

“And you call me an adrenaline junkie?”

“That’s something completely different. I am not actively jumping off a high place! I’m secured and stuff.”

“There’s zero to no logic in this statement,” Alex says, laughing. “Why haven’t you been to one before, though?”

“All my friends were always scared of the rides, so I had no one to bring with me. And I guess there was never one nearby, I dunno,” you shrug.

“There’s one close,” he says, raising his brows at you like it’s a challenge.

“Maybe one day.”

“One day,” Alex hums– but it sounds a bit ominous.

EPISODE 6: I CREATED Y/N’S FONDEST MEMORY (NO CLICKBAIT)

“Hello listeners,” Alex muses into the microphone, eyes watching you from under his eyelashes, making you swallow down the drink you’ve been sipping while he was setting up the equipment and pressing record, “welcome to episode 6– wow, we’re almost at the end already– of our humble, but flourishing podcast.”

“Have you considered getting into poetry before?” you tease, raising your brows at him in playfulness, referring to the way he says the introduction.

“No, actually. Have thought about narrating audio books, though. Reckon my voice is good for it?”

“Atmospheric,” you nod– and the thing is, you’re not even lying. There’s something about Alex’s voice that makes you believe you could listen to it all day– perhaps he could talk you to sleep. Or into jumping off a bridge, if he uses that sweet tone. It almost works like a siren’s call, if you’re being honest, and something about that makes you mildly concerned. Still, you can’t lie to him– he would be good at narrating audio books.

“Glad you agree. I was thinking of what genre it could be. Y’know, as much as I love children, I don’t think I could do all the funny voices in kids books. However, something like Twilight, or… I dunno, 50 shades, I could do great at.”

“Don’t make me imagine you reading smut out loud, Alex,” you grunt in disgust, making the boy laugh you in the face.

“Oh, don’t pretend you wouldn’t love it. Just imagine it, I could read that one line that goes–”

“We are swiftly moving on to the questions I have prepared for you today, thank you very much,” you yell into the microphone, desperate not to hear the dirty words from his mouth. If you did, you’re almost sure they’d repeat in your head like a mantra every night before going to sleep, and as much as you must admit that Alex Albon is an attractive male, this would be for all the wrong reasons.

He laughs at your outburst– maybe because he wasn’t actually going to say anything not safe for work, since he can’t recall a single line from that movie (since he didn’t read the book itself)– or because he just enjoys playing with you. Which one of those is true, you have a hard time telling– you’d rather not ask, though.

“Okay, let’s get right to it,” he nods.

“Lightning round!” you announce, startling the boy.

“I’m almost certain you said that’s not how this experiment works–”

“Shut up, I make the rules. Now tell me– what is your most treasured memory?”

Alex stares at you for a few seconds, seemingly lost in thought. You should be thinking of your own response, but there’s something captivating in the depth of his eyes, something wildly interesting in the softness of his forearms. It’s like he cursed you to watch him, and the sheer fact is mildly infuriating. The seconds of waiting stretch into tens, making you nudge the male with the sole of your foot to end your own misery.

“I don’t think you got what lightning round means, Alex. See, it’s called after the concept of lightning that strikes from the sky– it’s quick, fast, sudden. What you are doing, on the other hand, is quite the opposite–”

“I’d say visiting Thailand,” Alex cuts you off, finally offering you his response. “I’ve only been a few times, even though my extended family lives there, but the times I went were really the fondest. My mum was so happy, the culture is nice… yeah, just, great over-all,” he nods.

“Do you know the language?” you ask, suddenly curious.

Alex seems a bit guilty, shaking his head. “Not really,” he admits, voice wary, “I know a couple of words and phrases, and I could maybe understand half of what is said to me, but that’s it. Can’t really speak it.”

“That’s still good, though,” you say, tone of voice all encouraging, “better than nothing.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he hums, “but I wish I knew more Thai. I kinda wish my mum forced me to learn the language more, since it’s my heritage and all, but yeah. At the end of the day, I can only blame myself for not knowing.”

“Maybe you could try learning,” you say, “if you want to so badly, I’m sure even little progress would go a long way. There must be some online courses you could take.”

“True, true,” he nods, shrugging. “I guess I never really tried it, but I have to, at some point. What about you? What’s your most treasured memory?”

You press your head into your palm, tapping your finger onto your lips. You chew on your bottom lip as you search for a good answer, Alex’s voice not letting you think. “If you can’t think of anything, I have one moment we shared that surely has to be your most treasured memory.”

The moment the words escape his mouth, you have to grin at him, rolling your eyes. Of course he’d bring it up. 

“Don’t think of yourself so highly, Albon.”

“Come on, I basically made your biggest dream come true!” he says, a little bit offended. “That has to be something!”

“Okay, sure, I enjoyed it,” you nod, your face betraying you maybe more than it should, “but I wouldn’t say it’s the top one.”

Alex sighs, shaking his head. “Ungrateful,” he murmurs. “To the unaware listeners of this podcast, I did make Y/N’s dream come true– I took her to an amusement park. Me, her, Lando, Max and Oscar from politology went. She’s saying it’s not her top memory, but I have video proof of her smiling like, most of the day, so I call bullshit.”

“Video proof?” you ask, brows furrowed, a deep crease indenting in the middle of them.

“I wanted to record you being scared,” Alex defends himself, “y’know, for blackmail. But instead, I just have videos and pictures of you smiling and kicking your feet like a kid! Which is cute, yeah, but not enough to blackmail.”

Your brain goes short-circuit at the mention of Alex having videos and pictures of perhaps one of the best days of your semester. And at being called cute. Why? You’re not really aware why, but that’s besides the point. 

The point is, you did enjoy that day. Him and all his friends– even Oscar, the new guy– were all super nice to you and took turns getting on the rides with you. Alex even won a plushy and said you should keep it, because it’s too girly for his room– he even insisted after you said it would look great in the left corner of his bed, but after seeing how good it fits into your dorm (and how good it is to cuddle), you’re not really mad at it anymore. Lando shared his cotton candy with you. Max tried to make you scared with unnecessary comments about how the rides may be faulty before you got on– unsuccessfully. Over-all, you got to your dorm room with cheeks hurting from smiling too hard, and a huge teddy bear hanging off your hip like a child.

Still, you wouldn’t say this is your fondest memory.

“I’ll pretend it’s not creepy for the sake of this podcast.”

“I’ll send them over, I’m sure you’d love them for an Insta dump.”

“I actually wouldn’t! Thanks,” you smile, nodding in irony. (If he sends them, you’d consider it, though.)

“Okay, keep pretending you can think of something better than that day, then,” Alex shrugs, playing not interested as he twirls a loose thread on his hoodie around his finger.

You match his antics by twirling a loose strand of your hair, humming into the mic as you try to quickly think of something to say instead. You realize it’s you who said it’s lightning round, but after the trip down the memory lane of last week, it’s a little hard for you to battle the memory with something else.

Still, you say. “I think I’d say mine’s the time I saw my favorite band of all time live,” you admit. And truthfully, you’re not even lying. (The amusement park day might just take a place in the top 5, though.)

“Oh wow,” he says, “okay, I can’t fight you on that one. Who was that?”

“5 seconds of summer,” you say, holding back a nervous laugh as you brace to get judged for your choice of a favorite artist. You grew up with the 4 Australians, though, getting into their music at only 12 years old, so there’s something about them that makes their sheer existence a blessing to you.

“That’s cool,” Alex says, not a hint of belittlement in his voice– making you relax. You don’t know what you expected– for him to make fun of you? For him to bring your favorite thing down? That’s not like Alex Albon. “I can’t say I can recall a song by them, but that must’ve been magical.”

“They have that underwear song,” you say, “y’know, she looks so perfect standing there…” you sing– although a little out of tune– trying to make Alex remember.

He just stares at you a little confused, brows furrowed, trying to place it. “Hm… no. Send me the link for it on Spotify, I’ll listen to it later. I don’t think your cover is doing it justice,” he laughs. 

Your heart skips a beat.

And it means nothing– but to you, it’s everything, because no one has ever asked to listen to your favorite songs before.

“Sure you will,” you clear your throat, masking the erratic hammering of your chest.

“I will!” he insists. “I’ll even send a review.”

“If you rate it lower than a 7, I’m quitting this podcast early.”

“I’ll make sure to remember that.”

You laugh, shaking your head at his antics. “Alright. Next one. If you knew that in one year, you would die suddenly, would you change anything about the way you are now living and why?”

“The questions are just getting deeper and deeper,” Alex grunts, shifting a little in his position on the bed.

“I didn’t make them.”

“I know,” he nods, snickering, “I’m just saying.”

Another cloak of silence falls over the two of you as you think of your respective answers. You get lost in the way the orange hue of Alex’s lamp casts shadows over his face, gaze tangled up in the wrinkles of his loose shirt. Your eyes snap towards his Adam's apple when he swallows before he speaks, then they land on his chapped lips.

“I think I’d try to worry less about money,” he shrugs. “Like, if I’m dying in a year anyway, I’d just spend all my savings and try to complete my bucket list.”

“Oh, definitely,” you nod. “What’s on it?”

“A lot of travel, honestly,” he laughs, “Europe, Asia, maybe the east coast of America? I’d probably drop out of uni and go crazy with it. I’d buy everything in my Amazon wishlist too. Just… do everything I’ve been putting off as ‘one day’, y’know?”

“Would you get a tattoo?” you ask, referring to a common item in people’s bucket lists.

“Probably not,” he says, frowning. “I don’t think I’m one to get inked up.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t think I have anything of significance I’d want on my body forever.”

“Well, only for a year, I guess.”

“My body’s still my body, though,” he laughs, “even if I die, my corpse will have that tattoo, Y/N.”

“Yeah, but you’d be dead,” you shrug. “So you wouldn’t really care how it looks in the casket, you feel me?”

“True,” he admits, squinting his eyes at you. A hum escapes his throat as he licks his lips, nodding. “Maybe you convinced me.”

“See? You only live once, you gotta try it.”

“Sure, why not?” he grins. “So yours would be to get a tattoo?”

“Oh, big time,” you laugh. “It’s a part of the big one– I guess I’d take more risks.”

Alex offers you a look that shows he’s impressed with your answer, searching for more behind your simple words. You take it as an invitation to tell him, preparing to spill out your heart on the record once again, but welcoming the intimacy of the four walls he’s managed to create with just… listening.

“Like, I tend to overthink all my life choices, in a way. I’m like, ‘no, I can’t do that, because what if it goes really bad?’, you know? But like, in this scenario, I could just go ‘well, it won’t matter in a year anyway, so what’s the worst that could happen?’, and I’d just do everything, even if it’s scary.”

“You have any examples?” he asks, genuine interest in his tone.

Your eyes scan his features, your breathing hitching in your throat. 

“I…” you clear your throat, averting eye contact. “I dunno. Like, maybe speaking my mind more often? Taking more opportunities? Stuff like that.”

“You could just follow your own advice, though. Like, realistically, even if you’re not dead in a year, the thing still applies– it won’t matter in a year anyway.”

You blink at him, considering his words. There’s something eye-opening in them, something that was there all along, but you just refused to consider it. Alex has a way of showing you the best parts, in a way. He has a way of opening your eyes and your heart to new ways of thinking– ones that were within you already, you just didn’t really pay attention to them before.

There’s a risk at the tip of your tongue that is begging to be taken, begging to be released.

Still, when you avert your gaze from him, heat in your cheeks, you decide against it. It’s still too scary. Somehow, it feels like everything you have right now, and you’re not willing to lose it. What’s the worst that could happen? 

Many things.

“I guess you’re right, in a way.”

“I always am.”

EPISODE 7: SUGGEST A FAN NAME IN THE COMMENTS..?

“Hello showstoppers and welcome to the seventh episode of our humble podcast,” Alex muses into the microphone, making you look up from your lap where your phone is, locking it and offering him a pointed look.

“Showstoppers?” you ask, a little in disbelief. What’s that about?

“The fan name is a work in progress,” he says, matter-of-factly, shrugging. The comment makes you stop in your tracks, snickering as you propose the next question.

“Fan name?” you let out. “So you’re suggesting we have fans?” you laugh– because at this point, you have to– watching as Alex helplessly opens his mouth and closes it, all the words escaping him and running for the hills.

“Look,” he finally gets out, sounding both a little defeated and also a little hopeful at the same time, “all I’m saying is, our podcast gets like, 1k listens on a regular per episode now. We even got a comment on the last one, so I think it’s time to move on a bit further with our audience. Make it feel special, y’know.”

“A comment?” you gasp, suddenly on board. “What did it say?”

“Uh…” Alex mumbles, averting his gaze from you, scratching his neck. You know this is the part where he pretends he doesn’t remember, but the words are painfully clear in his head– and you start to worry that maybe it was a hate comment, and maybe your friend took it to his heart. His next words shock you, though, sending a wave of uncontrollable heat through your body. “It said ‘stop flirting and get a room, you’re making us feel single’, or something.”

Your own heartbeat rings in your ears, your stomach turning into liquid gold as you contemplate how to react to the accusation. You have to be quick to avert any suspicion– you’d hate for the whole world to think you’re into Alex when clearly, quite the opposite is true. “Ew,” you say, scrunching your nose in disgust, yet not really meeting Alex’s eyes, “stop saying disgusting things in the comments, guys.”

“Exactly,” Alex nods, tone of voice light– like he’s caught in a lie. Perhaps he’s uncomfortable with the people shipping you. You don’t really blame him– since they’re all wrong, and deeply parasocial. “I’d rather sit naked on a hot grill than to get a room with Y/N. Besides, we do have a room. My room. We’re in it, alone, right now, so…”

The nervous babble makes you take a deep breath in, his words not really making the situation better, but also not really making it worse. “Let’s just move on to our topics now,” you mumble, “since we addressed all the fan comments now.”

“Exactly. Let’s get to it.”

The movement of your fingers against your phone screen, the scroll down the document– it’s all familiar to you now, you do it so automatically. You note down the answers after every episode, so the document has been slightly growing in size since you started on it, but you soon get to the questions with no answers and read out the next one in the queue.

“Make three true ‘we’ statements each. For instance, ‘we are both in this room feeling…’” 

“We statements?” Now is Alex’s time to repeat the words after you, furrowing his brows in confusion. “That’s an odd question.”

“I literally gave you an example, Alex,” you point out, laughing at the male.

“I know, but it still doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes it does…?”

“Okay, go first, then?”

“Okay. So… we are both in this room recording a podcast. See? Easy,” you say, shrugging. Alex meets you with a deadpan stare, blinking at you in response. (Or question?)

“That’s a stupid answer,” he says, shaking his head in disapproval. “That’s like saying we both have hair. We are both breathing. We are both sitting down. That’s all? I made three.”

“Alex! Take it seriously!” you mourn, sighing at his childishness.

“But you didn’t even say a good one..? Why am I the bad guy?”

“Let me do better, then. We are both big fans of Cars the movie,” you say, smiling to yourself in satisfaction. “And I’ll do two more, since you didn’t like the first one.”

“Go ahead.”

“We are both night owls, even though we like our sleep,” you propose, watching as Alex nods in agreement, “and we are both excited for the winter break.”

“Okay, true.”

“Your turn.”

“I already finished my turn,” he says, playing with you.

“Alex!”

“Okay, fine. We are both hard workers,” he says, being met with a quiet mhm of approval from you. “We are both funny,” a questionable sound escapes your throat at that, “and we are both into cycling.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m into it, I just do it because it’s convenient,” you muse, making the boy agree with you.

“Okay, same. Did I do it right now?”

“I think so,” you nod, grinning to yourself. 

“Hit me with the next one, this was a bad question,” Alex complains, making you playfully shove him with your foot. He catches it and tugs you forward, playing with you as you move in your place on the bed– you didn’t know he was so strong before– making you gasp and send him a sharp glare. 

“Stop!” you grunt as he tickles the bottom of your foot, trying to escape him. Alex laughs at you, and even though his hands stop the attack, you’re left with your feet in his lap, laying there aimlessly as his hands rest on your ankles, locking in your new position.

“Go on,” he motions for you to continue with his chin, the shit-eating grin never leaving his features. A dimple appears on his cheek, one that you recognise whenever he’s laughing really hard or failing to keep it in, making your heart skip a beat, the memory of it engraving into the back of your eyelids without your permission. 

Swallowing down, you swiftly move on. 

“Complete this sentence: ‘I wish I had someone with whom I could share…’” you say, voicing even the ‘dot dot dot’, making Alex snicker.

A moment of silence passes, one that’s filled with a thoughtful Hmm by the man in front of you, both of you thinking of your respective answers. His fingers absent-mindedly tap against the bare skin of your ankles, accidentally matching your heartbeat, your teeth chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“You know what? I wish I had someone with whom I could share the mundane things with. Like, I can’t just text anyone hey, I just made lunch or wow I just saw the cutest dog on the street, y’know?”

“Why couldn’t you?” you ask, furrowing your brows at him.

“I don’t wanna be annoying,” he shrugs. “I don’t think any of my friends would appreciate hearing all this random information. But sometimes I just have the urge to share everything, even the boring bits, and it would be nice to have a person that would listen.”

“I wouldn’t say any of that is boring. I think it’s nice when someone experiences something and goes, wow, I should tell this person. I’d be honored to be thought of like that,” you say, daring yourself not to shy away from his direct eye contact, “like, you saw a cute dog on the street and your instant thought was to tell me? That’s amazing, in my opinion.”

“George didn’t appreciate it the last time I spammed him about something like that,” Alex laughs, “it’s like, everyone has their own lives and is busy with their own stuff, so I feel like this boring, mundane stuff doesn’t have to be shared all the time.”

“Well, George is a bad friend, then,” you joke. “He doesn’t appreciate the thought behind it.”

“So you wouldn’t find it annoying if someone texted you in the middle of the night about how much they’re craving the Burger king fries?” he asks, tone of voice light, not really believing.

“Well, I wouldn’t find it annoying. Just odd. Because who the fuck likes Burger king fries? They’re always soggy.”

“Take that back.”

“Never,” you shake your head. “I can listen to any mundane information you want to tell me, but I draw the line at Burger king fries being good. Keep that shit to yourself.”

“I’ll start texting you about it daily just to piss you off, then,” Alex grins, making you sigh.

“Please don’t. Keep it at cute dogs. Actually, take pictures of the dogs you’re talking about so I can see for myself. That’s a way better deal,” you suggest, making Alex smile at you and nod, something about the implication that you can be that person for him hanging in the air.

“Noted. What about you?”

Already knowing the answer even before you read the question out loud, you purse your lips and say it. “I wish I had someone I could share everything with. Kinda like what you said, but for me, I have a bad time talking about my feelings, and I think it stems from me not really trusting people that deeply. And I wish… I wish there was someone in my life that would be patient enough with me to build that trust, and to eventually make me open up again.”

“I’m sorry you feel this way,” Alex says, “but you’re right. Trust, on that level, at least, takes time to build.”

“Of course,” you nod. “But I also feel like people never really ask me about my feelings. Or when they do, they don’t wanna hear the real answer. It’s just… asking to ask, not for the realness of it,” you mumble. In the midst of the honest stare he gives you, there’s a sense of understanding that in a way, this is you opening up.

Somewhere along the way, your brain realized Alex doesn’t ask just because it’s expected of him. You internalized that he is safe, that he cares. Maybe it’s not in the real depthness of it, not in the obvious, vulnerable way, but this is you talking about your feelings. 

You have someone like that– or at least, partially. The realization makes you shy away from his gaze. You feel like he can see right through you, like he can see all the broken parts and doesn’t judge them, doesn’t pick them up, but guards you from the world as you hesitantly take them into your own hands and start slowly gluing them back together.

“Maybe more people care than you realize,” Alex says, tone of voice considerate, intimate. “I understand that there must’ve been people before that didn’t, and that’s why your brain tends to think this way, but I hope that you learn to let people in and shut your thoughts down when they try to tell you your friends don’t care.”

You’ve never been talked to like this before. No one has ever seen you and understood your stance. No one has ever voiced that your feelings are valid, even though your thoughts can sometimes get in the way. You never had to tell him anything, yet Alex gets it on a level you were scared to ever show someone.

You nod. You lick your lips, take a deep breath in. “Thank you,” you muse, your voice a little hoarse. You clear your throat, trying to get it back to normal. “I’ll try to remember that.”

EPISODE 8: THE VOICES..!!:!!@

“Hello listeners, hello Y/N,” Alex hums into the microphone after taking a sip of his energy drink, dark eye circles crowning his face. It’s a sight you don’t usually witness with your friend, which makes you a bit worried for him– you know Alex likes his sleep, and you also know he has a good enough sleep schedule to get his beloved sleep.

“Hello, Alex,” you greet, even though you’ve been at his flat for a bit now.

“Welcome to the last…? Episode of our show,” he says, eyeing you when he says the words, getting reassurance in his assumption. Alex only needed 8 episodes to get through his assignment, and you were at the end of yours as well, so really, there was no use in another part being recorded after this one.

“Yeah,” you hum, “kinda bittersweet, if you really think about it. It’s been eight weeks of us doing this every Monday,” you say, a pout appearing on your face. 

“It is kind of sad,” he agrees, “but then again, aren’t you happy you’re done with your assignment?” 

“I mean, kinda?” you shrug. “But I must admit you’ve made it really enjoyable for me to work on it,” you admit. The words escape you without thinking, almost like sincerity is second nature to you when you’re around Alex– to which he offers you a warm smile, one begging to unravel all the words you have in you left unsaid.

“That definitely goes both ways,” he hums. “Wouldn’t wanna do it with anyone else. But– before we get too sappy, speaking of assignments,” Alex rambles, not really leaving you a chance to react to his sentiments (which you’re truly happy about, since you think your nonchalant act would falter under his gaze), “how are you hanging on with the school load?”

Winter break is next week, which means you have to hand in all your assignments before you can go home for Christmas and enjoy the holidays (also read as: cry in front of the Christmas tree as you study for the finals waiting for you right after New Year’s). You’d be lying if you said you were enjoying the workload, and you’d also be a filthy liar if you said you were on time with all the deadlines you were given. So, to Alex’s question, you just offer a telling scowl.

“Yeah, not good,” you say, shaking your head. “I have two lab reports due like, yesterday, and I’m not even started on the essay I have to hand in at the end of this week,” you sigh, shaking your head at your poor time management. “You?”

“I’ve been pulling all-nighters for the last week to finish up on everything,” he grunts.

“I can see that,” you point out, examining his tired face. “You should get more sleep, Albono. The dark circles don’t suit you.”

“They really don’t, do they?” he mumbles, shaking his head. “Well, speaking of, I was gonna ask if you wanna stay over after this and work together.”

“Well, first of all, we don’t major in the same thing, so I don’t see how that’s beneficial,” you snicker, “and second of all, I just told you– you need some beauty sleep.”

“I thought mutual support would be enough help for both of us, but okay, I guess,” he acts playfully hurt, averting his gaze from you. “And when we get tired we can nap. It would be like, half-nighter. Sounds better?”

“Actually, no, it sounds fucking terrible.” 

“So you hate me?”

“No! I’d just prefer it if we both get some sleep and then we can meet up and study together later,” you offer, watching Alex as he contemplates on your idea.

“I have work after class this week,” he says, tone of voice barely louder than a whisper– a hint at wanting to pursue you, but also desperate truth in his words telling you that not only does he have no other time to work on his school things, he’d also hate to do it alone.

And so you cave in.

Of course you do.

“Fine,” you grunt. “But you get me Monster energy. You know I hate those Red Bulls you keep drinking, they both smell and taste like vomit.”

“I’ll run to the gas station for you,” he says, his expression forming into one of pure relief and gratitude.

“And they say romance is dead.”

“Romance isn’t dead, most men are just assholes.”

“Thank you,” you nod at him, watching as the male tugs his corners up into a grin.

“Well, now that we’re done publicly scheduling a study date, we can move on to the interesting part of the podcast,” Alex says, motioning for you to take your phone into your hand and scroll to the few questions you have left– which you do, all while trying to ignore the almost painful thumping of your heart at the word ‘date’ escaping his mouth in relation to you, even though you know it was unserious.

Clearing your throat and ensuring your voice doesn’t wobble as you speak, you cross your legs in your position on his bed, suddenly too aware of your surroundings– his scent hitting you with force every time you settle a little too deep into his sheets, the comfy hoodie he let you borrow when you shivered in the kitchen as he fetched you water (while complaining about Lando never putting the heating on), the fact that you are so far in his space, everywhere and all at once, and how you never once questioned just how comfortable you fit into it.

And you wish the next question would divert your attention from the sheer fact, but it does just the opposite– it makes you focus on all the details, all the small things that just make your knees weak, that make you think of him during long days and between classes, like friends do, naturally. 

“Tell your partner what you like about them,” you read out, cursing the list– couldn’t it be another question about something embarrassing? A casual question just thrown into the wind? “be very honest this time, saying things that you might not say to someone you’ve just met.”

“Oh wow,” Alex hums, snickering to himself, “a little ego boost. I like it.”

“Once again, I did not come up with these questions,” you defend yourself, hearing Alex laugh at your little bit.

“You wanna go first?” 

You lick your lips, examining his face– as if taking a longer look at him might make the words come out easier, make them jump out of your throat more smoothly. For a second, you contemplate shaking your head and waiting for him to be over with his turn, but you figure that there’s no use pushing back the inevitable, so you nod.

Taking a deep breath in, you purse your lips and then finally start speaking. “I guess… I guess what I like about you the most is just how much of a comforting presence you are. Like, we haven’t known each other for too long, but it feels like we’ve known each other for ages, because you’re so… open about everything, and you share a lot with me, and you have something about you that just makes me feel like I could tell you anything, and you would listen and understand,” you say, the truth just spilling out.

“I also adore your humor and your way with people, but I think those are the obvious ones. I mean, over-all, you’re just very chill, down to earth, easy to adore person, Alex, and I think that’s a gift not a lot of people have,” you mention, watching as the boy locks his gaze with you, something behind his orbs shifting, his cheeks dusting with rose pink.

“Well, thank you,” he hums, “I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before,” he admits, letting out a nervous laugh as he scratches the back of his neck.

“They don’t tell you, ‘cause your ego would be too big,” you joke, trying to diffuse the terribly intimate atmosphere your words managed to create.

“You just said I’m down to earth?”

“Yeah, all because of the people around you. Look at you now– now imagine if we all start complimenting you on a daily basis,” you laugh, watching as the boy shakes his head in disbelief.

“It would only make me feel more appreciated,” he says. 

“Well, I’d appreciate it if you started your turn now, Alex.”

The male sighs, the grin staying on his face only for a second longer before he continues on with the question, now his turn to spill his guts out. 

“Okay, so… what I like about you is how courageous you are– constantly battling what you said you struggle with, and doing it with so much grace. It makes me really proud of you, y’know? But like… I guess also how honest you are. I don’t second guess myself with you, or how you feel about me or things, and I think that’s a really good quality,” he says, catching you off-guard with the compliment. You, too, don’t think anyone’s ever appreciated this quality of yours. People never liked your bluntness or your blatant honesty and often mistook you for being rude, or too up in their business– when in reality, you just wanted to help.

“But I guess it’s the same thing you said for me, in a way I find myself really comfortable with you, because you are just a really caring person. You are really loyal and selfless when it comes to your loved ones, and I feel like they always know you have their back, and that’s wonderful,” he says, nodding his head at you. “Everyone would be blessed to have you in their room,” he finishes, the words hitting you like a truck.

It’s a mere reference to the conversation you had a couple of weeks ago– ‘I don’t think anyone would choose me in a room full of people’ ‘Well, then you aren’t in the right room.’– yet, it’s so much more than that. It’s him recognising your struggles, listening to you, and remembering it– all while showing you that there’s a different way of looking at things, that he sees you in a room full of people, and considers taking the walk over to you.

And the truth is, perhaps you’ve stood behind the doorstep of his room for a while now. And while you’ve been battling the thoughts asking whether anyone– whether he’d choose you out of everyone– the reality of the fact that if he sat in your room, you’d turn to him without hesitating slowly crept up on you, now fully catching up, not leaving you a chance to run away from it anymore.

“Wow,” you say, averting your gaze. Your heart suddenly feels too fragile– a muscle ready to be torn apart, sat naked in his palms. “Okay, sappy.”

“You’re the one to talk,” Alex mumbles, although his eyes don’t meet yours for a while, stuck to anything he can find in his room. He searches through it as if it’s foreign space, not one he’s lived in and memorized completely up to the point of knowing how to operate it blind. You mirror his actions– both of you too shy now to give each other full attention, even though you know how badly you’d want to just look at him and engrave his face into your system forever.

“Didn’t think you had such a way with words, Albono,” you try to joke through it all, feeling the familiar teasing kick to your side from him, an action worth more than a thousand words.

“They call me the modern Shakespeare.”

“Who is them in question?” you ask, snickering to yourself.

“Uhm…” he shrugs, scratching the back of his neck. 

“The voices?” you say, earning yourself a deadpan look followed by a fit of laughter that makes your heart jump and your dopamine spike, your lips tugging into the warmest of smiles that you don’t think you could contain, even if you tried.

“Continue on with the segment, or else the voices are gonna tell me to kick you out, or something,” he says, his nose still scrunched up in that very endearing way that you fear lately, making you avert your gaze with the annoying thoughts once again entering your mind.

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you bite back, but follow his orders.

When your eyes land on the last question, however, the answer to it is ready in your mind before you even have a chance to read it out loud. If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone? Why haven’t you told them yet?

In that moment, your eyes finally meet with Alex’s. This time, you can’t bring yourself to look away, too enchanted with his siren-like gaze, too focused on everything that makes him him. Your brain flashes with countless memories of you and him in this room across the hall and outside of it, your ears almost hearing the sound of his laughter, your heart squeezing on itself as if you’re living the moments again and again, relishing in the sunshine his arrival to your life has brought.

The answer is clear as day, although you’d never admit it out loud.

Because it’s silly– it’s embarrassing, humiliating, almost theatrically ironic. The one thing you were trying to prove wrong with this assignment has turned out to be true, meaning you failed at everything you thought about, and somehow, it feels like your whole life is shaking in its foundations. And it might sound funny, or like you’re making it a much bigger deal than it is, but the truth is– if you had anything to regret, it would be not telling Alex Albon that somewhere along the way, during those eight episodes, you managed to completely mess up your own assignment and have hopelessly, deeply fallen for him.

EPISODE 9: WINTER BREAK RECAP AND FINAL GOODBYES

A clear of his throat, the low light of his cozy room, a candle lit in the corner of the nightstand. There’s tea waiting for you right next to it, a microphone in your hand, and after a look he sends you that’s met with a reassuring nod, he turns on the recording.

“Hello everyone,” he says, tone of voice familiar, light, “now, I know we said that the last episode would be the last, since we didn’t need any more and Y/N ran out of questions, but we figured… we didn’t wanna just end without a proper goodbye. So, here’s what we call our special winter edition of the pod, recorded during exam season, so you… you can thank us for blessing you in a moment of need, even though we’re absolutely dying over here.”

“I feel like those might be the last words I’ll ever get to say and tonight, I’ll die in my sleep out of stress and exhaustion,” you mumble, shaking your head at the thought of the finals that are awaiting you when you wake up tomorrow, bright and early (although very exhausted. Both physically and mentally).

“Good thing we’re recording this, then,” Alex says, laughing, “so your family and friends know what your last words were.”

“Exactly,” you hum, “make sure to send it to them through email.”

“I’ll forward the link,” Alex nods. “Will your mum be able to work out Soundcloud?”

“I don’t think so,” you say, a hint of doubt in your voice. “Maybe try to send it as an audio file.”

Alex looks like he is seriously thinking about it for a moment, eyes squinted and the microphone once more pressed deep into his cheek, before he sighs and shrugs. “I’ll cross that bridge when we get there. I’ll figure it out.”

“Right,” you nod, laughing. “Well, anyway, since we have no questions prepared for today, let’s just start leisurely… How did your winter break go?”

“Oh, right. Let me start off by saying happy new year everyone,” Alex says, making a pause for you to join in and wish the listeners as well, “we didn’t think of wishing you all merry Christmas before we went on break, ‘cause we’re stupid, but I hope you all had amazing Christmas and got lots of amazing gifts, because we all know that’s what the holidays are really about.”

“Did you get lots of amazing gifts, Alex?” you ask, a grin already tugging on your face.

“I did,” he nods, not really paying attention to your suspicious look, completely ignoring what you’re trying to suggest he mentions. “I got socks, and I got a book– Subtle art of not giving a fuck, was it? My sister gave it to me. Uh… I also got a sweater and some lego. What about you?” he asks, smiling at you in irony– of course he knows what he’s doing.

“That’s all you got?” you ask, faking innocence.

“I think so, yeah.”

“Great, okay, well,” you shrug, trying to not seem offended at the fact that he doesn’t wanna tell anyone what you gave him for Christmas– which, just for the record, you believe was the greatest, most thoughtful gift Alex Albon has received in years. “Should I say mine then, or–”

“Okay, no, I’m just playing with you,” Alex says, nudging you with his foot, his hand squeezing on the flesh of your ankle in reassurance. “Dear listeners, Y/N…” he shakes his head in disbelief, an honest, warm grin playing with his features. “You wouldn’t believe it. My dear co-host here, she remembered me rambling all about how I wish I could’ve gone karting again, and how fun it was when I was younger, so she hit up all my friends– yes, even George Russell from back home, the stalker she is– and she brought them all to the indoor karting arena just like, 40? 45 minutes away from the campus?”

“Like, 42 I’d say.”

“Yeah, so she brought them all up here and set up a race. Paid for everything and everyone too– insane. Batshit crazy. I had so much fun.”

“Yeah?” you ask, beaming in your glory.

“I did. I loved it, like– I didn’t even win, by the way. I was second, and Y/N was last–”

“Hey!”

“And she was sulking so hard, being like ‘I paid for all this shit and I don’t even get a podium?” Alex imitates your voice, high-pitched and a little scratchy. “But no, to be honest, I’d be mad angry too. Like, you even got us trophies and everything, that’s crazy.”

“It took so long to plan, you can’t even imagine…” you sigh, recalling the endless texts in secret group chats, online orders and arrangements with people you haven’t even met before, but heard of from Alex’s talking. 

“No, it was, seriously… I loved it. Best gift I’ve ever gotten, honestly. Thank you,” he says, reaching over and shuffling in his sheets, arms stretched out to accommodate you in a warm hug. His arms around you feel familiar, they feel safe– like you’ve made a home in his hold, deemed it your own place and no one else's. The hug reminds you of the one he shared with you after he won second place in the race, childlike joy and happiness reeking off his shaking body. 

“You’re welcome,” you mumble, dragging a hand along his back. “Anything for my podcast co-host,” you half-joke, because in the back of your mind, you know there’s reality behind your claims. Maybe you would do anything for Alex Albon, if it was in your competence.

“But now I feel shitty because I got you such a bad gift,” he pouts after he finally breaks away from you, his cheeks rosy and expression full of regret.

“Why? I loved it,” you coo, remembering the bundle of things he got you– a simple gift-box containing chamomile tea (‘Because you always drink it at mine and you said it’s your favorite’), fuzzy socks with sausage dogs on them (‘Because you’re always cold and love sausage dogs.’ ‘How’d you know that?’ ‘They’re your lockscreen, Y/N.), a personalized build-a-bear that screams in Alex’s voice when you squeeze it (‘Just thought it would be funny…’), a mug that reads ‘Co-host of the #1 Podcast in the UK (don’t fact-check it)’, and a friendship bracelet he made himself (‘Because I know you’re sappy like that.’).

And you’re being serious– you did love it. It was made of all the smallest fragments of your friendship, crafted with care and attention. Sometimes, you accidentally sit on the bear and it screams, which scares you, but then makes you topple over with laughter– a sign of your mutual sense of humor that you’ve relied on so much over the past episodes of your podcast. The bracelet doesn’t come off your arm even when you shower and you drink the tea when you want to calm down– every single thing he’s gifted you went to good use, just a sign of how much your friend really managed to get to know you over the last couple of months.

“You’re just saying that.”

“No,” you shake your head, “I’m being real. Don’t downplay yourself, Albono.”

“Well, alright,” he says, sighing. “I’ll have to step up my game next year, though.”

“I mean, I don’t think you can outdo me, but sure.”

“I would kick you, but the truth is, I unfortunately agree with you, y’know?” Alex snickers, shaking his head at you. “Like, what do I do? Send you to space?”

“Oh, I’d hate that.”

“Well, you ruined the only possible thing that’s better than this, thank you very much, Y/N...”

“You’re saying it like you won the lottery,” you laugh. “Maybe you’re just easy to please.”

“It felt like I won the lottery,” he says, laughing in disbelief. “You don’t even know– you can’t even– fuck it, you wouldn’t understand. Anyways, can we now talk about what your mysterious assignment was?” he asks, cutting off his own train of thought, making you almost choke on your own spit at the curiosity.

Your breathing hitches, your eyebrows shooting up close to your hairline. The truth is, you should’ve expected Alex to ask– he was always very curious to know about your major and what you’re doing in your everyday life, and this was no different. Somehow, in your deepest fantasies, however, you imagined outrunning this conversation. You always desired to never have it, to never have to talk about it, even though you brought yourself into this in the first place and you have no one else to blame.

Still, you take a sip of your tea, nose filling with cinnamon. Swallowing down, you nod, tone of voice lighter than you’d expect it to come out. “Sure. Yeah.”

“So?” he asks, expecting. “What was it on? What was it about? Did you find out anything…? Was this all deep psychoanalysis of me, or…?”

The questions make you chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief. “No, not at all…” you snicker. “It was actually on the replication crisis,” you say, eyeing Alex as he nods at you, waiting for a proper explanation. “So, in like the 2010s, a lot of psychological data were proven to be false, or better said– couldn’t be replicated. So like, that means the scientists messed with the data, or didn’t do the stats right, or just, y’know, there used to be– and still is, to be fair– a big publication bias, so they just pretended their research went a certain way and got certain results, even though it didn’t. And people tried to replicate those, and found out they couldn’t get the same data and results, eventually finding out most of it was heavily unreliable.”

“Right.”

“So, our assignment was basically based on that, in which we had to choose a certain significant research and try to replicate the results to the best of our abilities with the resources available to us. Which, yeah, it won’t be the same as doing it in a lab, or like, with professionals, or anything, but it still kind of revolves around the same concept…”

“Mhm,” Alex nods, “so, what did you choose?”

“So,” you nervously clear your throat, scratching your neck, “in 1997, a man named Arthur Aron made an experiment on generating interpersonal closeness..? I probably sound insane.”

“No, go on,” Alex reassures you, his eye contact suddenly feeling over-bearing.

“So,” you sigh, dreading the conversation. “He made this experiment where he wrote down 36 questions that are meant to fabricate interpersonal closeness. Basically, they get more and more intimate– as I’m sure you’ve noticed– which generates a strong mutual connection,” you finish explaining.

“Right,” he nods. He waits, knowing there’s more to fill the silence on your end.

“Uhm… I was scared you’d know it, but I don’t think you’ve caught on– it’s kind of a famous one, this experiment. They often call it 36 questions to fall in love,” you say, your voice weavering, sweat suddenly forming in beads at your upper lip, making you hesitantly wipe it off with the back of your hand.

“Oh,” Alex lets out, tone of voice a mix of surprise and something else you can’t quite put your finger on. 

“Yeah.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence shared between the two of you, only filled by the sounds of you breathing. You don’t dare to meet his eye. You’re sure that whatever you two shared, whatever bond you managed to create, is now gone. Lost in the wind– because realistically, what were you thinking? 

In your defense, you didn’t expect to fall for Alex. You didn’t expect to even get close to him– that’s the main issue. You tried hard to prove to everyone that his experiment is bullshit, that the data can’t be replicated, and here you are– a fool, falling for your own trap. And now, Alex must think you’re a psychopath– that you tried to make him fall for you, that you tried to trip him into this. 

You open your mouth, ready to tell him your defense, ready to prove to him that you’re not a total weirdo, even though your confession might prove otherwise– when his hesitant words cut through the space, making you feel like you were just sat in the electric chair, a current washing over you.

“Did it work, then? Did you replicate it?”

“Well, obviously no,” you say, almost a little too quick.

Alex hums, a sound you can’t quite place, can’t quite explain to yourself. For a moment, you wish you could see his face– even though you’re too scared to face him, opting to just stare at the ceiling instead– to try to read it, to see in between the lines. Maybe you could sense what he was thinking, what he was feeling if you’d look into his eyes. Maybe you know him well enough to.

“So you’re saying we didn’t fall in love?” he says, almost tentatively.

“Well, no. ‘Cause it’s bullshit. The experiment, it’s bullshit. You can’t just make people fall in love by asking 36 simple questions,” you say, trying to get out of the conversation. For a moment, you believed your claims– it seemed far too easy. Far too obvious. You deemed it bullshit– it couldn’t have been true.

But you lived it. You lived through it, experienced it. Because the truth is, it’s way more than just the 36 questions– it’s also the intimacy it creates. The sincerity you facilitate. 

“Do you think it’s bullshit because you don’t believe it could work, or do you think it’s bullshit because you don’t believe it could work on us?” Alex asks, stealing the oxygen out of your lungs.

“I– Alex–”

“Do you think it’s bullshit because you don’t believe in it, or do you just not believe anyone could fall in love with you?” he doubles down, his words having the same impact as a punch to your gut would, leaving you speechless and chewing on your bottom lip.

You finally dare to look at him. His face is almost blank, but his eyes are soaring with something distant, yet strong enough to take away your breath and all the words from the tip of your tongue. “You don’t know what–”

“Because, yeah, on a certain degree, I agree with you,” Alex starts, offering you a gentle look, checking in with your current state. “Like, of course it’s not gonna be universal. I don’t think it’s gonna work on everyone, like, every single random pairing you could take from the street. But as you said, it promotes intimacy and sincerity, and I don’t think you could build that trust with just anyone.”

You swallow down, nodding. 

“But that being said, I think… I think it works on certain people. I’m not saying they lead to love, but they definitely help to that. So like, sure, it may be bullshit to some, but– I mean– I think I’d be lying if I said it didn’t work here,” he says, his tone a little hesitant, his lips lacking the usual playful smile, “on me, I mean.”

His words reach your ears, but you’re not quite certain they reach your brain. For a moment, you just stare at him– taking him fully in, trying to make sense of it all. 

You shake your head. “No.”

“No?” he asks, dumbfounded.

“No–”

“I mean– fuck,” he says, snickering. He looks up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “I… Well, it’s fine if you don’t feel the same. Just– just thought I’d tell you true info, so you have it right in your report–”

“Wait– Alex–”

“Maybe we can cut this part out of the episode, I don’t need my humiliation ritual to be public–”

“Oh my god, Alex, shut up for a sec,” you sigh, finally getting back a taste of the old Alex you know– the one that cracks jokes and makes you laugh, the one that doesn’t take anything too seriously– and it comforts you, bringing you back to your senses. “Jesus, I– I just didn’t expect to hear that. I– It’s… I thought you were gonna think I’m crazy and this whole thing was insane and I tried to trap you, or something–”

“Trap me?” he laughs, shaking his head. “Y/N, you’re saying it like you tried to trick me. And look, I know I’m handsome, but I also know that this… it was all real. A random 90s experiment doesn’t change any of it in my eyes.”

“Every time you call yourself handsome, I regret most of my life choices.”

“Bet you don’t regret doing the podcast with me,” he smiles cheekily, bringing back the usual warmth to your chest.

How could you have ever feared telling him?

This is Alex, after all. The first friend you made at university. The boy that brought you to his circle just because he knew you were lonely. Alex, your co-host that always intently listened and asked questions, the man that made you feel seen and always had something to say to your concerns and deepest doubts. Everything with him has been easy, like falling asleep and experiencing your most exciting dream. You fell for him slowly, then suddenly, all at once– and none of it has ever proved to be difficult, so why did you expect this conversation to go any different?

“Eh, someone had to do it,” you joke. 

You doubt any of this is staying in the episode– not after Alex throws the microphone to the far end of the bed and launches himself at you, attacking you with tickles. The giggles escaping you sound somewhere between joyful and like you’re dying, your arms faintly trying to get the male off so you can breathe.

His scent fills your nose, unarming you, the softness of his hair brushing against your cheek as he works his fingers on your lower stomach, tears filling your eyes. “Get off, Albon! You’re heavy!” 

“Take back what you said, then!”

“Never.”

“Okay,” he shrugs, only further strengthening his attack on you. Somehow, you manage to run your fingertips over the exposed skin off his stomach, where his shirt has raised up, making his composure falter enough for you to roll the both of you over and hold his arms above his head, encapsulated in a way that lets you know he surrendered, even though he would be able to get out of your hold with no issue, if he dared to try.

He is left breathless under you, eyes glimmering like the night sky, blown-out like last week’s fireworks. His lips are still outstretched in a soft grin, one you’d now call lovesick, and suddenly, you’re hit with the realization that’s bigger than you, exploding all around the room– you don’t know how you got so lucky.

“So you admit the old guy was right? What was his name again…”

“Aron,” you mumble, snickering.

“Aron’t you in love with me?” he asks, his laughter at his own joke almost swallowing the last words that come out of his mouth before you slap a hand over his lips, not wanting to hear more of his terrifying puns.

Not in a situation like this. “Oh, shut up.”

Alex mutters against your skin, glistening lips brushing against the inside of your palm. It’s an old one, but it does the job: “Make me,” he teases, having you break out into a grin.

He doesn’t have to ask you twice.

Now, you’re sure the part of the podcast where you lean in and capture his lips with yours– something you’ve wanted to do every time he rambled for too long in the past few episodes– is going to be cut out of the podcast. You’re also sure that it won’t ever be cut out of your memory. 

That, and all the things you’ve shared– an experiment, or not.

There will be much more experimenting to be done now– you hate how Alex’s inner voice has somehow infiltrated your mind.

You battle it away, focusing on the way he feels when he shifts under you, his palms covering your hips, steadying you in place. He holds you like you belong there, like there’s nowhere you’d rather be. And you believe him–

because you don’t have it in you to doubt him. 

There’s no doubt that out of everyone in this room, Sangyeon is the most skilled and most ripped person. That’s why he’s the trainer and the head of the club– he’s in charge of most things, including the schedules and the competitions. Everyone would lose by a mile if they were to have a sparring match with Sangyeon, that’s for sure. The more he watches the stranger standing in front of him, though, the more his interest peaks with every jab and uppercut they land the male’s way, eyebrows furrowing at the match.

Boxing isn’t all about muscles. One would think that having big biceps and a strong core is what is the most important in a match, but they could not be more wrong. Boxing is a sport that involves not only physical fitness, but also technical skill, endurance, speed, agility, strategy, and also mental toughness. 

While Lee Sangyeon is the stronger one in this match, the stranger in the ring with him is far ahead of him in the mental game and speed. It’s kind of admirable, really.

“What’s happening?” Hyunjae mutters to the younger one next to him, having the boy shake his head and heave out a sigh of awe. 

“That’s the new addition to our team,” Matthew replies, “Sangyeon’s sparring with them to see where they’re at.”

“Man, they’re really going at it,” Soonyoung snickers from the side, “that’s a whole another league, that is.”

And Hyunjae finds himself agreeing. His sharp eyes watch over the movements of the new boxer in the ring, his brain analyzing their movements, mind calculating their next steps. It’s hard to predict their strategy and the male finds himself growing more and more frustrated with the fact. Usually, he’s the top of the game. 

While Lee Hyunjae is not stronger than Sangyeon or Seungcheol, hell, maybe even Soonyoung, he is better than most at the mental toughness of it all. His strategy is unmatched and he can remain focused even in matches where it feels like he is losing at first, pulling himself up and using his speed and agility to bring his opponent down. It’s what he’s known for– it’s what his opponents usually fear when going against him, it’s what makes him win matches and what makes him known in the community. 

Comparing himself to the person right in front of him, though, he feels his ego falter just a little bit at the thought of them being close to his level. 

Eyes zeroing on Sangyeon and the next big thing in the local boxing community, Hyunjae watches as the leader takes an uppercut, making the male try to shake it off, his arms forming a cross in front of him, pausing the spar. “Okay, okay, I think that’s enough for the day,” he says, laughing to himself. 

He doesn’t seem defeated– just tired. Hyunjae takes note of that, keeping the fact in the depths of his brain for when he’s going to need it. 

Both of the fighters take off their headgear, the sound of the velcro on the gloves resonating through the gym as they slip them off their fists. Heavy breathing resonates through the place accompanied by the murmur of others. Hyunjae finds it hard to inject himself into the conversation, his mind still replaying the sparring match he just witnessed, all while his eyes stay glued to the new jewel, watching as they shake their hair out and wipe the sweat off their forehead with the back of their hand.

“Everyone, this is Y/N,” Sangyeon hollers, grinning. “They’re our newest member, welcome them into the team!” 

The gym hollers, making the new boxer grin. There’s something agitating, yet fascinating about them to Lee Hyunjae, yet he can’t figure out what it is, no matter how hard he tries. 

“You’re a tough one,” Changbin admits, gently slapping their upper arm, “it’s good to have you join us. My name’s Changbin, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” they nod, still a little out of breath. The rest of the team make sure to introduce themselves to the new boxer, each slipping out appreciative words of admiration towards their form and technique, to which they show gratitude in a simple, humble way. They must be used to praise, Hyunjae thinks. He makes sure to remember each detail.

Once they’re all done introducing themselves, the person turns towards him, eyebrows rising in question. The expression on their face is curious, almost a little inquisitive, and Hyunjae finds himself at a loss for words. 

“That’s Lee Hyunjae,” Sangyeon utters instead of the speechless boy, snickering, “he’s a little surprised, as you can see,” the older one jokes, a playful tone sent his way after the leader leans the stranger’s direction, speaking in confidence. “A cat got your tongue, Hyunjae?” 

“Sorry,” he hums, shaking his head, “my tongue’s completely fine.” 

Sangyeon laughs, eyeing the younger one. “Doesn’t seem like it. What is it, Hyunjae? Are you at a loss for words?” 

“My vocabulary’s perfectly fine,” he snickers.

The rest of the group laughs, finding the interaction amusing. There’s not a lot of instances in which Lee Hyunjae would be found silenced, so the energy shared in the gym is suggesting a clear fact that is soon uttered out of the leader’s mouth.

“What? Are you intimidated by the newbie?” 

And the truth is, Hyunjae would rather receive a knockout than to admit this out loud.

“Jab-cross,” Sangyeon calls, the pads in his hands ready to receive the impact of Hyunjae’s punches. 

His eyes are narrowed and jaw clenched as he strides forward and performs the basic combination, warming himself up before the more complicated ones come his way. Hyunjae throws a jab with his right hand, followed by a cross with his left one, before he performs a jab-jab-cross on the pads and waits for the next instruction.

“Jab-uppercut-cross,” Sangyeon calls out, tone of voice stern and focused, watching the boxer with fast, moving eyes.

Hyunjae’s fists come in contact with the pad again, following the short jab with an uppercut, switching to his left arm with a cross. The combinations are simple, ones he’s done many times before, but he finds amusement in the repetitive nature of it all. There is no opponent he has to study right now, no one countering him in his attacks– the pad takes all the impact and lets him practice the technicality of his motions, the physical side of the game he likes to play. It’s one thing to know how to calculate a counter-attack, another thing to know exactly how to perform it well. Those are two opposite things of the same spectrum, and if Lee Hyunjae was asked which one he prefers, he would be sure to announce he prefers an actual sparring much to the training– he knows it has to be done, though, so he never complains.

He moves through the simple combinations, head almost clear as the automatized motions flow from the executive areas of his brain towards the tug of his muscles, hitting the pads with much force, using up his strength. Double jab-cross. Cross-hook-cross. He knows the combinations by memory, yet he still follows the authoritative voice of his couch when he decides on which one to perform, obeying. 

Once the more advanced combinations come to play, Hyunjae finds himself more satisfied. It’s more difficult to follow those, but he likes to practice his accuracy. He enjoys the thrill it brings him, relishes in the way he manages to agilely jab and punch the pads Sangyeon’s holding up for him. It’s like a soft prelude to the mind game he likes to play when he is boxing in the ring– you have to be more precise, more in your head to do those well.

Jab-Cross-Uppercut-Hook. He finishes with the same hand he started with, breathing heavily as he hops a little in his place, making sure his stamina is on a good level. 

“Cross-hook-uppercut,” he hears, the order striking an automatic reaction in his brain. 

He uses his rear hand to throw a cross, followed by a hook with his lead hand and then an uppercut with his lead hand. Satisfaction runs through his veins at completing it successfully, watching as Sangyeon nods at him and takes off his pads and throws them to the corner of the gym mat. 

“That should be all for today,” he hums, “good job.”

Hyunjae heaves out a sigh as he takes off his gloves and reaches for the bars of the ring, trying to catch his breath. Only now does he notice you watching him with an examining gaze, a hint of a smirk playing with your features. It gets him intrigued as he wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, raising his eyebrows at you in question.

“Doing well, Lee,” you click your tongue, making the male snicker. He wasn’t aware that you were watching the whole time, and the newly found fact leaves him with a mix of emotions in his chest. Were you serious with your comment? Or did you not mean the sentiment?

Hyunjae finds that your training usually overlaps with his, or starts right before or after his does. That means that he sees you quite often in the gym– and he finds himself observing you from afar on more days than he’d welcome. Hyunjae watches you as you spar with whoever has training on the same day as you, taking notice of your technique and sharp movements. He finds himself eyeing you even when you’re done and taking a sip of your water, taking note of your good stamina. Everything about you is irritating to Hyunjae, and although he is not the most emotionally mature on most days, he recognises that the fact can only be written off as him feeling threatened. 

For the longest time, he’s been at the top of the game in the local boxing sphere. People feared him when he rolled up to competitions and fought against them, having his eyes set on the prize. It wasn’t easy to get to this level– and although he must admit that there’s no doubt that you worked just as hard– he would hate to leave this title go.

“Just getting started,” he huffs, reaching for his water bottle. Chugging down the liquid and wiping his sweat off, hanging the white towel around his neck like a scarf, he stares deeply into your eyes with challenge.

He takes notice of your lean composure, watching as you react to his remark with amusement. You seem nonchalant, perfectly humble and aware of your own abilities– he can’t be the only one sensing the tint of rivalry between the two of you, right? Or is it just his fragile ego speaking?

“We’ll see about that,” you laugh, “would love to spar with you one day, you seem like a fair opponent,” you muse, watching as the male chuckles, shrugging.

“What technique do you specialize in?” he finds himself asking.

“I’m more of a tactical one,” you shrug, “it’s more fun that way.”

Hyunjae finds himself agreeing– still, he doesn’t let his composure fall. Collecting his things, he spares you one last look before he leaves the gym and aims for the showers. “Me too. I guess I have another fly to squash,” he laughs. “See you around, newbie.”

There’s a special tradition in the White Tiger boxing club in which you try your hardest to welcome in the new addition to the team with a night out. Sangyeon always insists on paying, as the team captain, and although Hyunjae has a stable job (an office job 9-5 in sales that makes him hate being the working class twice as much as any other job would, he thinks), he always welcomes every opportunity for a free meal and a drink. 

The last time they all went out for drinks to the place just three streets away from the gym was when Matthew, the youngest one, joined. It was winter back then and they all had to sit around in their padded jackets because the heating in the restaurant broke, but Sangyeon still insists on going there every single time– Hyunjae bets there is a genetic connection between the boxing captain and the owner of the establishment. Either that, or he just doesn’t like changes and is too old-fashioned to try one of the new places in the town center– he can’t really explain the loyalty towards the restaurant in any other way.

Hyunjae thinks it’s fortunate that it’s the beginning of summer right as he trails with his teammates into the small restaurant– for it’s not cold enough for him to shiver or hot enough for him to sweat, since he doesn’t have high hopes for the AC in this place. Everyone gets seated around, talking loudly amongst themselves, and much to his surprise, the figure sitting across from him is the one of the sole reason for this gathering. You look at him with a tight smile adorning your face, showing him the awkwardness you feel in your bones at the seating arrangement, but you pay it no further attention as you reply to a question addressed to you from somewhere to your left– ‘A soju is fine,’ you note, cracking on your knuckles in what seems to be a nervous habit.

After Sangyeon recites the usual order to the nice, but elderly lady bringing in your drinks, plates are evenly distributed between everyone and everyone clinks their glasses together, starting up the evening shenanigans. Hyunjae has a general knowledge of everyone’s alcohol tolerance here, so he knows he doesn’t really have to worry about anyone– well, except for Soonyoung, but he trusts that his roommate Seungcheol can carry him home just fine.

“So, Y/N,” Sangyeon hums from the top of the table– sitting right where the captain should, “how did you get into boxing?” he asks.

Hyunjae watches as your eyebrows rise and you gulp down the alcohol, positioning the glass back at one of the small circular tables you’re sitting at before replying. “Oh,” you hum, “my dad was always really into boxing, so I guess I kind of… picked it up from him?” you answer, watching as the rest of the table acknowledges your answer with satisfied nods.

“So he taught you?” Changbin asks with much interest.

“I guess you could say that,” you chuckle, “after he retired from competing, he started coaching kids boxing, so one day, I just tried and it stuck with me.”

Not really including himself in the conversation, Hyunjae decides to grill the meat that gets brought to the table somewhere in the middle of the lively conversation. He takes the thongs into his hands and puts the raw bacon on the grill alongside with pork belly on the side, listening to it sizzle as a background noise to the dialogue. His eyes are trailed on his task as he hears Yunjin from next to him speak up, addressing her concerns to you.

“That must have been hard, no?” she says. “I mean, don’t take it in a bad way– my mother was a dancer so she wanted me to be one, so I tried, but… I wasn’t really good and I wasn’t really into it, so I quit, but my mother was devastated,” she clarifies, sipping on her drink.

“Oh, not at all,” you say, “I was really fortunate in the way that my dad never forced me into it. More than anything, he wanted me to have fun,” you smile sympathetically at your new teammate, “he always used to say I needed an outlet for all my inner rage,” you laugh.

“Tell me that,” Soonyoung hums from the corner of the table, having the rest of the commotion laugh. Many men have been a witness to his anger issues– not by being beaten up, no, (although Hyunjae once met his roommate from college, Seungkwan, who would have much to say even about their physical quarrels) just by watching him exist in their daily lives. Apart from high irritability, low patience and a big love for arguing, Soonyoung has a very colorful vocabulary…

“A lot of lives were saved when Kwon Soonyoung joined the boxing team and found an outlet for his pent-up emotion,” Theo sighs, nodding to himself.

“God forbid men join therapy,” Ningning chirps, but averts her eyes instantly when Soonyoung sends her a stern gaze– pretending she wasn’t the one who said the off-handed comment.

As the meat on the grill gets ready to be eaten, Hyunjae looks around and finds mostly everyone’s plates filled with food already. Hesitant at the realization that he might have taken too long to prepare the meal, his eyes fall on your empty plate right across him, taking him by surprise. Didn’t anyone offer you a serving yet? You’re the newbie– the center of attention, after all. Curse his teammates for being so inconsiderate…

Hand acting before his brain has a chance to register it, the tongs holding the pieces of meat move above your plate, dropping the delicious looking food into it. He doesn’t pay it much thought, but when you look at him with big eyes full of gratitude, offering him a ‘Thank you’, he finds himself growing bashful– averting his gaze, focusing on grilling more, so he himself too gets to eat.

“Everyone joining the tournament this year?” Sangyeon asks, a glass of soju mid-way to his lips. His eyes scan the rest of his team, forcing an answer out of them.

“It’s gonna be my first one,” Matthew grins, “of course I’m not passing up on that.”

“Noted,” the captain nods, eyes focused on a man to his right, “Seungcheol? Are you joining this year?”

“Aish, come on,” the older one grunts, “as if anyone has a chance of beating you. As long as you’re in my weight category, I’m not gonna waste my time on it.”

Sangyeon’s free hand comes in contact with the back of the older one’s neck, scolding him for the comments. “Shut up. Either join the tournament or get out of my team– I don’t need pussies in the lineup.”

The crowd cheers and laughs at that, poking fun at the annual spar between the two strongest. It’s a sight for an eye, truly, having everyone on the tips of their toes and in anticipation. Ever since Hyunjae joined the club, he’s seen the legendary match 4 times already– each time, Lee Sangyeon wins. However, Seungcheol is never too far behind. The whole team bets on who they think will win, and you’d be surprised how many people still believe in Choi Seungcheol’s abilities– one of those years, though, maybe he could finally win him and get the legacy.

“God, okay,” Seungcheol grunts, “but don’t cry when I finally beat you this year. I’ve been training hard, you see.”

“I’d like to see it, Seungcheolie,” Sangyeon sweetly replies, finally downing the drink in his hand.

Hyunjae’s eyes fall onto your figure when a question is addressed to you, Theo’s interest making you smile at the boy with kindness in your eyes. You seem so nice today– sweet and laid-back, nothing close to the fierce, confident persona you own up to in the boxing gym– and it throws Hyunjae a little off, making him question your whole composure. “Y/N, are you joining the tournament?”

“Mhm,” you hum, nodding, “I think so. It would be fun to try, since I’m new in the district.”

“Wait, that means you’ll be against Hyunjae, no?” Ningning perches up, pointing a finger towards the male.

“Yeah,” Sangyeon hums, “they’re in the same weight category.”

“I’ll cheer for you, Y/N-ie,” Matthew hums into your ear, confidentially, making Hyunjae roll his eyes and chuckle.

“Cheering won’t help,” he says– possibly one of the first words escaping his mouth the whole evening, “it’s all about skills. I haven’t lost in the last 4 years, so you should probably train hard, Y/N.”

Your eyes lock with his, a mischievous twinkle mirroring your gaze when you speak to him. “I think I have what it takes to beat you, Lee Hyunjae.”

“We’ll see on the competition,” he says, tonguing the inside of his cheek. He’s not so sure he likes to be riled up like this– his ego is admittedly a little too fragile, too easy to break– but there’s something burning in the pit of his stomach when you challenge him with your words, something similar to excitement. Maybe it’s the vision of victory that makes him feel this way– it must be it. It’s the only thing he ever really cared about.

The conversation slowly moves forward, the amount of drinks consumed and the level of drunkenness rising across the whole commotion. Hyunjae finds himself falling into humorous interactions with his teammates, listening eagerly to everyone’s stories. When you speak, he listens carefully– eyes forced onto your lips to make out the words inside of the busy restaurant, gazes locking right after, making his cheeks heat up and burn with a strange hint of embarrassment. He finds out that your favorite flavor of soju is peach (you’ve had a bottle and a half already), your favorite idol group is EXO (you scream their song out loud when it plays in the background of the restaurant), your favorite word is ‘totally’ (you use it often when you listen to somebody talk, showing your agreement with their point), you squint your eyes when you try to focus on something (that’s what you just did when you tried to make out what Theo was saying from the other side of the table), your laugh is very contagious (he learns that after you giggle at a joke, making him mirror the actions), and you get very, very tired after a few drinks (as shown by your current position, resting your forehead against the table).

Hyunjae notes down all of his new knowledge about you, storing the information in the depths of his brain. He’s sure he will need all of it one day, but in his current state– tipsy, but not yet that drunk– he realizes he doesn’t really know how he would use the sound of your laugh as a counter-attack in combat, and so he tries to stop thinking about remembering every little thing about you, or else he thinks he might actually go insane from the hypersensitivity of his senses towards your sheer presence.

“God,” Sangyeon hums as he stands up from the table, the bill already paid and the elderly lady bringing you refills the whole evening standing by the counter, seemingly ready to close for the night, “I remember when it was just me, Soonyoung, Seungcheol and Hyunjae here,” he says, sentimental, “oh how big we’ve grown…”

“I think it’s time to go home, grandpa,” Ningning snickers, patting the captain’s shoulder. It’s hard to stop him with his hearty talk when he starts, so it's best to cut it out at the very beginning, before he gets too immersed in it.

Sangyeon sighs, but nods at her comment, looking over the group. “Does everyone have a way to get home?”

“We called a taxi,” Yunjin nods, arm around Ningning’s shoulder.

“I’m gonna get this nuisance to his bed somehow,” Seungcheol points towards his roommate Soonyoung, currently hugging him around his waist, frowning to himself.

“Great. I’ll walk with the guys, since we live close… Hyunjae, will you walk Y/N home? They seem like they need it…” Sangyeon says, pointing towards your figure still laying on the table. Before Hyunjae has a chance to protest, or say anything against this brilliant idea, the rest of the group escapes the restaurant and goes their own ways, a ping of an incoming message reading out a strange address leaving Hyunjae with the responsibility of bringing you home safe tonight.

Tapping the top of your head, then limbs, Hyunjae tries hard to wake you up from your alcohol-induced slumber. You’re mostly unresponsive, not making much effort to look up from the depths of the dinner table, and after he meets eye with the visibly irritated lady waiting for him to leave, Hyunjae results in doing everything he can to drag your body outside of the fine establishment.

“Okay, then,” Hyunjae sighs, “let’s get you home. Wake up, won’t you?”

“I’m sleepy.”

“I can see that,” he agrees, scratching the back of his neck, “but you can sleep when you get home. Deal?”

“I’m too lazy.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, he reaches over to your body, hands slotted at your waist– oh how uncomfortable, how invasive of your space he feels right in this moment– he brings you up into an up-right position, eyes meeting with yours. “Come on,” he says, bringing you to your feet with another tug, “we’re going home.”

“Do you even know where I live?” 

“I do,” he nods.

“Stalker…”

“Sangyeon sent me the address,” Hyunjae sighs, throwing your arm around his shoulder and an apologetic smile towards the lady as he escapes the restaurant, an arm sneaking around your middle to support your weight.

It takes a lot of effort to get you to walk. Your feet are stumbling over themselves, your balance is thrown-off and Hyunjae thinks you’re falling asleep with how your eyes keep closing on themselves– so he tries to strike up conversation with you to keep you awake.

“Do you usually get this drunk?” he jokes, shaking his head at your antics. It’s been years since he had to carry someone home– it almost takes him back to his university days.

“No,” you peep, “I just… I’m not good with big crowds, so I needed something to make me less tense,” you say, having the male nod.

“I’m sorry you were left to take care of me,” you mourn, “I’m so embarrassed,” you say, shielding your face away from him, seemingly too shy to have him look at you.

Hyunjae finds himself chuckling. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he laughs, “it’s okay. As long as you had fun, it’s alright,” he says, and by some higher force taking a hold of his actions, he finds his hand cradling the top of your head, hiding it in the crook of his shoulder. 

“Did I ruin your night?” you ask.

“No,” he says, “I’d even dare to say you made it better, since I now have something to make fun of you for. It gives me the upper hand, y’know? Good to have that in the ring.”

He tries to move in the direction of your house again, slow but steady steps on the pavement. He finds you struggling, though, legs barely working and your composure falling, making the man fear for your safety. Are you sick? Are you going to puke?

After a few heartbeats of no movement pass by and Hyunjae finds himself yearning for the comfort of his bed, though, the worries are discarded. Taking you by your shoulders, he sighs to himself. “Get on my back, okay? I’ll carry you.”

With no complaints, you crawl on top of him, getting all comfortable. Hyunjae thanks god for his strength, and also chuckles at the irony– while he skipped working out tonight, carrying your dead weight on his back surely has to make up for it. 

It seems like boxing is not the only battle Lee Hyunjae will have to fight with you.

Lee Hyunjae finds both joy and the tiniest bit of irritability in the fact that his and yours training schedules mostly align. It means he gets to observe your skills and watch what you’re made of, which is useful for creating a good tactic when it comes to beating you in the tournament in a couple of weeks, but it also means that by constantly looking at you, he doesn’t get a chance to fully focus on his own self-improvement. 

You usually train with Sangyeon– as the captain and everyone’s go-to coach, he helps everyone with their short-comings– but sometimes, Hyunjae finds you going at one of the punching bags alone, stern eyes focused on the red object. Sometimes, he also finds you with one of the other members of the boxing club, you two holding up the pads to each other when Sangyeon is busy or not present– which is overall more fun, interactive, and better for training than a solo spar with an inanimate object– but today, he finds you in the gym alone, seemingly done with your session.

“Leaving already?” Hyunjae finds himself asking as you throw your towel on one of the benches, a stoic expression on your face. At his question, he finds you shrugging, pursing your lips together. 

“I was all alone in here, so I couldn’t really train with anyone,” you say, “there’s only so much you can practice in boxing alone,” you laugh, and the question escapes Hyunjae’s lips sooner than he manages to register it, sooner than he can stop himself from saying it.

“Do you wanna practice with me, then?” he asks, watching you get visibly shocked at the offer.

Still, you don’t turn him down as you nod and walk back over to the gym mats, gloves still adorning your hands. Hyunjae finds himself watching the movements of your muscles as you stretch your arms, eyes scanning the glistening skin. It’s hard to take his eyes off it, but he forces himself through it as he takes the pads into his hands and takes a stance next to your figure, not really guiding you through the training, but letting you pick the progressions and jabs as you like, altering between holding up the pads up and down, trying his best to stay tight in his place.

“Is it really good for you to help your opponent train?” you ask in between the combinations, a teasing grin taking place on your face.

“I don’t feel threatened,” he replies, earning another jab-cross-hook to the pad of his right hand. 

“Maybe you should,” you say, “a little birdie told me you are slacking lately.”

“Does the little birdie weigh [] pounds?” he jokes, trying to mask the fact that he is taken aback by your comment with humor– his favorite unhealthy coping mechanism– to reference the head of the team. “Because if so, he’s just trying to sabotage me.”

“Sabotage?” you snicker, able to add in your snarky comments in between the slow tempo you’re going at the combinations. “He just said you’re not as focused as you once used to be, that’s all,” you hum, “thought I’d tell you. I want a worthy opponent.”

“Oh, I’m worthy enough, don’t you worry,” he says while moving the boxing pad away from you before you get a chance to punch it, teasing you, “what I don’t manage to train in the gym, I make up for by carrying drunk weight home on my back.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Hyunjae finds you faltering– there is less strength in your punch and you don’t hit it right in the center like you’ve always done. When your eyes meet, your vision quickly alternates to a space somewhere behind his head, breaking the contact, and you lick your lips with the tip of your tongue in a nervous manner, coughing. 

“Well, you’re welcome, then,” you joke, “it’s not every day you have such weight-lifting heavy training, right?”

“I usually load my weights with less pounds, so I actually have to thank you for pushing my boundaries,” he hums at you and nods, only making you shrink further under his gaze. Hyunjae is enjoying the fact that he has an upper hand now– he’s loving it dearly.

“Any time,” you say, but the smile on your face disappears just as quickly as you fakely glued it on, stopping in your movements. “No, but seriously, dude, I’m so sorry. I swear I usually don’t take it this far and I’m deeply embarrassed, so like, it won’t happen again–”

“What are you two talking about?” a deep voice echoes through the gym, making both of you jump in surprise. The head of the team enters the room with a teasing grin on his face, ready to join Hyunjae as he trains– signalizing the end of your little improvised session. 

“Nothing,” you peep, looking at Hyunjae with a look full of anxiety. He takes the hint– not everyone has to know that too much alcohol disables your ability to walk. It’s your own little secret.

“Well, get over here, then,” Sangyeon calls Hyunjae, calling him over with a motion of his hand, “I have to leave in an hour, so we better get something in.”

“Got it, boss,” the man replies, taking the pads off his hands. He discards them to the floor and slowly waltzes towards the other side of the room, eyes still trained on your figure. This time, you don’t break eye contact– as if to see who can bear it longer, who can handle more– and before Hyunjae finally joins his trainor in the ring, he sends you a daring wink.

“Just call me again the next time you need a personal taxi, newbie.”

You salute him with two fingers. The bashful smile adorning your lips sends down a new wave of adrenaline through his veins.

It’s not like Hyunjae is painfully used to seeing the back of your head, not at all– but when he spots your lean figure standing in the aisle of the convenience store closest to his apartment building, aimlessly staring into the stash of alcoholic beverages in front of your eyes and taking multiple beer bottles into your hands and placing them into your cart, he can’t help but feel the rush of recognition hammer through his chest. Almost a little daringly, he walks up to you, startling you with his words as you jump in surprise– not really expecting to be interrupted in your evening shopping.

“Drinking alone on a Friday night? Come on, Y/L/N, that screams misery,” he chuckles, teasing you. Your shopping cart doesn’t contain anything else than the green glass of beer bottles and a block of cheese– so much for a nice dinner– and after you notice him eyeing you up and down, you bashfully avert your gaze from him back towards the wall.

“Who said I’m drinking alone?” you huff, your cheeks filling up with air and making you look like a puffer fish. Silly, Hyunjae thinks.

“I just assumed,” he shrugs, “doesn’t take much to get that from the look on your face, I’ll tell you that.”

“Yeah, right,” you roll your eyes, sighing at him. Hyunjae assumes you might find him annoying, but that doesn’t really stop him from chatting with you anyway. He wants to see just how far you’re willing to let him go– if you’re going to entertain him or tell him to fuck off, which, from the way you’re looking like you didn’t have the best week, might be the more possible option.

“So, I’m right?” he giggles, watching as you press your lips into a thin line, done being the target of his teasing.

“Does it matter?”

“Well, I was going to invite myself along– to spare you the embarrassment of drinking alone only, of course– but if you have some other company in mind, I won’t push it,” he says, surprised himself at the words spilling like a spell from between his lips. He doesn’t know why– just a few days ago, he made you his biggest enemy in his head– but there’s this magical shift pushing him towards you, making him yearn to get to know you better. You’re like a mystery he wants to solve, a treasure hunt he wants to keep following.

Maybe it’s machiavellistic of him– only wanting to be in your company so he can learn your quirks and habits, using them against you in combat. Yes, that must be it. No other reason.

The look on your face stays stone cold for a second, silently contemplating his invitation, before you heave out a sigh and agree, following him as he leads the way outside of the convenience store after paying. 

“Where are we even going?” you ask, watching as the male takes the plastic bag containing multiple bottles of beer into his hand from your hold, carrying the groceries. 

“My place.”

“Aren’t you going a little too fast? I’m not that easy, Lee,” you chirp, watching as the man averts his gaze from you and tries to laugh it off– you two are like a constant battle of push and pull, being the one teasing and being the one that is teased. It entertains Hyunjae, he enjoys how much you can match his energy– but he must admit that he much prefers being the one that has the upper hand in the conversation.

“I didn’t mean my actual flat, you perv,” he grunts, “I have free access to the roof, though. It's nice up there– I have an inkling you'd like it.”

You don’t question him further as you let him take you there. The two of you stumble up the stairs together– while dramatically heaving out exhausted breaths on top of the 7th floor, since Hyunjae’s apartment complex doesn’t have an elevator– and before you know it, you two are sitting at the roof cross-legged, knees slightly touching, backs resting against the wall. The bottles open with a satisfying sizzle and the town is illuminated with lampposts, making the whole place twinkle. Your eyes are big and soaring through space when Hyunjae sneaks a glance at you, a sense of serene pride taking place in his chest at your reaction.

“So, what’s gotten you in such a bad mood today?” he asks before he takes a sip of the beer, fingers trapping the green glass securely into his hold. 

A beat of silence passes by as you drink your own beverage, but Hyunjae can see the thoughts stringing in your head into full coherent sentences, searching for the correct words and tone. He doesn’t know how easy it is for you to open up, but if he gets the privilege of hearing what’s on your mind, he knows he will treasure it, lock it into a box in his chest and throw the key away, keeping the secret. It’s a decent thing to do, for sure, but he hopes he can get some weight off your shoulders.

“It’s just work, honestly,” you hum, shrugging. You try to mask away the issue by nonchalance– Lee Hyunjae sees right through you, though. He’s spent hours watching you during training, getting into your head and learning your every quirk– it would be impossible for him not to notice.

“What about it?” he pries more.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you sigh some more. “Well, you know I’m new in the town, yeah?” you note, not really waiting for him to answer. “I had to move because I was let off from my old job– I did something that was really fun and fulfilling, and I was pretty damn good at it– and then I couldn’t find anything back home.”

Hyunjae finds himself humming, showing that he’s listening to you. “You find it hard to adapt to the new city?”

“Not really, no,” you shake your head. “It’s just… My previous job was well-paid and interesting. Now, I’m working an office job that is unfulfilling and my coworkers are all a carbon copy of each other– with a stick up their ass and terribly, deathly boring. It takes away all my energy to work there.”

“I think that’s how work is for most people,” Hyunjae spills out, making you chuckle.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I didn’t realize what a privilege I had before I lost it.”

“That’s why you have to find things outside of work to fill in that void,” he notes, pointing a finger at you. “Like hanging out with your friends– which you seem to be charismatic enough to make lots of, contrary to your belief. Or going out, watching movies, hobbies, boxing… It’s what makes life worth living.”

“I guess so,” you agree.

Lee Hyunjae finds joy in the mundane things that life brings him. He enjoys making his coffee before work and sipping on it as he mentally prepares himself for the terribly boring and ego-crushing position of a salesman. He looks forward to jogging in the evening with music in his headphones, to podcasts playing in the background as he cooks dinner. He loves the presence of his friends and oh how much he adores going to the boxing gym multiple times a week to train– because this is something he’s finally good at and takes pride in, but also, because the company of others loving the same thing he does is perhaps the most comforting thing of it all. 

He wishes that you will soon find joy in the cycle of ordinary life. He hopes you too will soon feel like you belong somewhere– be it to the city, or to the boxing club.

“I work less now, though,” you suddenly speak up, finally looking at him with your big, honest eyes– now finding the positives in the situation, not afraid to face him when the distraught expression slips off your features. “So I have more time for myself. And I am really enjoying this new city too. And boxing. God, I’m happy I can finally box more again.”

“See, Soonyoung was right. It’s good for taking out rage after work. I would know,” Hyunjae notes, the laugh escaping your chest like a reward to the man.

“Does it help you to do better in combat?”

“Oh, definitely.”

You look at him with a different spark in your eye now– making Hyunjae sense that you no longer feel so down as you did just a few minutes ago– before you hum to yourself, nodding. “Well then, I hope I have a shitty day at work the day of the tournament,” you joke, “who knows, maybe taking my rage out on you will help me win,” you say.

Hyunjae snickers, averting his gaze from you. Heat fills the bottom of his stomach and tints his cheeks light pink. He can imagine other ways in which you could take your rage out on him– all physical, but he won’t mention them in order to save both of you some embarrassment. 

Focused eyes stare into his, narrowed and sharp. The sounds around him disappear as he pushes all his energy into the task at hand– which is beating you.

The rubbery smell of the gym hits his nose and makes him look at you like a lion would at its prey. Lee Hyunjae watches your every move, calculating every miniature movement of your muscle, eyes tracing your figure and calculating your next steps. Adrenaline fills his veins, fully letting him enjoy the spar– and although he always enjoys the sport, it’s been ages since he last liked his training as much as this one.

You throw a couple jabs at him– to keep him at a distance, to build your strategy up. Short, quick steps around the boxing ring drag you two into a dance of some sort, the push and pull of your calculated punches throwing you into a rhythm. Lee Hyunjae finds that the hours you spent practicing in the gym shaped you into a very skilled fighter– and although he knew that before, experiencing it on his own skin always makes you even more aware of the fact.

He tries to get under your skin. He tries to get into your head to see just what you’re planning. Usually, it’s really easy for him to read people in the match– after a few combinations, he knows how to follow their rhythm, he knows what to expect next. He knows how to prepare himself for what’s about to come, knowing what strategy to use with his opponent to get to victory. 

But after a few minutes of aimless punches that don’t really land right, careful jabs around the ring and stingy hooks to the side, Hyunjae finds that you’re not as easy to read as he would like you to be. 

He tries hard to focus on you. To read you to your depth, to have you all figured out. Every time it happens, though, you surprise him with something unexpected– a counter that sends him to a shock, a feint that he wrongly falls for, a parry that makes his blood boil in frustration. Suddenly, he feels like you can read minds. Like you are the one controlling the match, like you’re the one with the better ring generalship, like you’re the one that has the upper hand. He’s not used to this.

When you suggested that you two spar during practice before you go to the actual tournament– just to see where the both of you are standing, to find the parts you both have to improve– Hyunjae quickly jumped on the opportunity. He felt that it only had positives for him– he would beat you, make you less confident before the actual match, and he would also learn all your weak sides, prepared to use them against you in combat. But the longer the spar lasts, the more exhausted and tired he gets from the punches and the defense practices in his mind, the more negatives he sees in the situation.

He finds himself lacking. He notices his weak sides– how he can’t really counter well when you come at him from the left side. How he can’t really focus as much as he would like to, because the reality that it’s you who he is sparring with keeps resonating in his head, making him hyper-aware of everything about your sheer presence, in a way that keeps distracting him, though– not in a way that would help him in the slightest. He feels foolish. He feels embarrassed. He keeps wallowing in self-pity, and that’s even worse, he thinks, because he hasn’t even lost yet–

He watches your movements in slow motion– your arm muscles tightening as your hand moves from the bottom up, the red boxing gloves flashing in front of his eyes. His breathing hitches– you’re about to beat the shit out of him. One would think he had more than enough time to defend himself– to slip and have you meet the air instead. One would think that by watching you intensively from across the room when you practice, it would make it easier for him to know what your biggest strengths are.

Wrong. All wrong.

Before he has a chance to do anything, a strong uppercut meets his chin, making his teeth clash and his ears ring. His whole stance falters, his body taking a few steps back– a position a skilled, strong boxer would take advantage of, keeping up with their efforts into a knockout. This is only practice, though– and so when Lee Hyunjae looks back up at you with his pupils shaking and breathing heavily, you only result in dropping both your act and your gloves to the ground.

“Better luck next time, Lee,” you snicker, shrugging to yourself. “Maybe try getting out of your head a little. Focus more on the match,” you say.

The advice is a little back-handed. It’s okay, Hyunjae thinks– he deserves the belittlement.

If there’s one thing a group of 20-something year olds enjoy the most, it’s drinking and barbecue. Hyunjae thinks it’s the testing line of what it feels like to be in your early thirties– with beer bottles in your hand and acting like a proud father as you flip the steak on the grill, watching your children run around the grassy green garden. He loves it. Except there’s no children (or a prospect of someone to have them with), no garden (because owning a house in this economy feels like a distant miracle at this point), and no sun shining brightly down onto the crown of his head (which is the only thing he is truly grateful for). Instead, the children running around are replaced with the rest of his boxing team– mostly consisting of Soonyoung, Ningning, Theo, Yunjin and you, the garden is replaced by the beach, and it’s late evening outside of the beach house Seungcheol owns and frequently uses for summer getaways. 

Lee Hyunjae wasn’t exactly sure what he imagined when he was invited for a little retreat before the tournament. He isn’t really sure if he’s disappointed with what he sees or not.

One part of him despises the constant screaming– he thought a retreat meant getting to relax, not constantly worry about his teammates drowning in the sea from the amount of alcohol they’ve managed to mix with the beer– but the other part of him can’t help but smile at the view of everyone being so carefree and full of life.

That, and the view of you in swimwear. Who said that?

“The meat is going to get burned,” Changbin jokes, making Hyunjae jump in his place, almost hitting the younger boy with the tongs in his hands.

“No it’s not,” he mutters under his nose, making the boy chuckle. Hyunjae makes a mental note to avert his gaze from the sea and tune out the sound of your laughter. It must be the effect of the beer slowly getting to his brain, for sure– for there’s nothing interesting about it, nor does he enjoy hearing your constant screeching.

“You wanna join them? I can take over,” Seungcheol asks as he nears the two men, genuine curiosity matching his question. No matter where, he still takes it upon himself to be the leader, to make sure everyone in the group is satisfied. 

“It’s okay,” Hyunjae shakes his head, “the food’s ready soon anyway.”

To that, he hears the male whistle, making everyone pay attention to him. “Food’s ready! Gather up or there won’t be anything left to eat!”

That alone is enough to drag most of the group out of the chilly sea and to the bonfire, catching their towels and wrapping themselves up in the cotton fabric to dry themselves off. Hyunjae catches glimpses of their respective conversations– Soonyoung and Theo talking about the new guy Jiung from Theo’s class that Soonyoung met one day while playing basketball with both of them, and who they think would be a great addition to the team. Ningning and Yunjin talk about the fashion show that took place over the weekend, criticising how “Nobody fit the theme of the Met”, whatever that means– while Hyunjae tries his hardest to ignore any sign of you in fear of Changbin catching him in his act and making it out to be something that it’s not yet again.

Because you two are hardly friends. He could count the times you two have hung out on the fingers of one hand, and you still deeply irritate him whenever he sees a glimpse of you in the gym. The last thing he needs is everyone teasing him about something that’s definitely not there. And he knows Changbin– he knows he’s capable of blowing the whole thing way out of proportion.

All while trying to tune out the conversation you have with Matthew– he thinks he hears you shushing the poor youngster, but decides to not dwell on what it could mean– poor Hyunjae ignores all signs of threat. If there’s one thing you should know about being near the sea with friends that share one collective brain cell, it’s that you should always watch your back.

Which he doesn’t, of course. A big mistake.

All without him noticing, there are suddenly two strong hands around his ankles, lifting him up. Hyunjae throws away the metal tongs in his hands in panic, trying to steady himself on the ground and brace himself from falling, but before he has a chance to do so, another pair of arms– more gentle to touch, but still calloused– envelope his shoulders, lifting him into air like a little hammock.

A yelp drags itself out of his throat. His eyes register Seok Matthew giggling and running with him to the nearby sea, all while the scent of lemongrass mixed with sand fills his nose, alerting that the second pair of hands holding up the upper part of his body belong to no other than yourself. 

“Hey! Put me down!” he cries out, heart thumping in his chest. He so badly wants to run away, but he quickly realizes it’s close to impossible– damn you two and the similar weight category. 

“As you wish!” Matthew laughs, locking eyes with you as the three of you reach the shore. “1, 2, 3!” he counts, swinging the poor boy like he’s a tool on the playground. 

Matthew lets go off his feet and so do you– but as Hyunjae prepares to fall, a brilliant idea sparks in his mind. Holding onto your arms stronger, not letting go, he makes sure to drag you down with him, the two of you falling under the water. 

It’s not like you really care, he thinks– you were already wet and in your swimwear, opposite to the very dry and clothed himself– but the fear in your eyes as you fall into the sea with him in shock are enough to make Hyunjae satisfied. A hint of a scream drags out of your throat before you fall under the water, chest pressing into his.

Your bodies tangle themselves together in the cold salty liquid, your hands and legs swaddling around like you’re a little bird learning how to fly. Hyunjae finds this all too amusing (and so does Matthew that managed to escape the sabotage), his strong arms keeping you under the water. Every time you move away from him just the slightest, the male takes it upon himself to drag you back and under the water, laughing at you as you try to splash the salt into his eyes and get him back, palms aimlessly pushing down on his shoulders.

It’s a fair fight– much like in the ring– but it seems that Hyunjae’s more skilled underwater than you are. (And also less drunk– he thinks balance might be the issue here.)

“Fine!” you breathe heavily when your head is above, breathing oxygen, “I concede!" 

With that, Hyunjae lets you go, smirking at you in victory when you try to catch your breath, steading yourself with your hands on his shoulders. He watches your face from up close, the droplets of salty water dripping down your nose, catching himself from reaching out and wiping them off as if they were tears rolling down your cheeks. He stares at the curves of your features and the tan on your skin. Your eyes sparkle like fireworks and all the stars in the sky and he wonders how it’s possible to have the whole sea in your orbs, glistening and free, when the water floats all around you, spilled over and reckless, tangling your bodies. You don’t say a word, just let him study you, engrave your features into his memory, and only when Seungcheol screams at the both of you that there’s last pieces of meat left does he break himself out of his trance and realizes how foolish he is acting.

You must be a fucking siren, for all he knows.

He lets go off your waist– he wasn’t even aware he was steadying you, helping you to breathe– and walks towards the sandy shore. The rest of the group watches them all uninterested, but when he catches Changbin’s teasing smirk, he whips his head around and plays innocent.

Fuck.

“Make sure to report him to authorities,” you grunt as you get to the bonfire, taking another dry towel to drape around your shoulders, “this man just tried to kill me.”

“You started it!” he accuses you, his fiery eyes landing at your figure in amusement.

He hates the feeling of the wet fabric clinging to his skin, calloused hands reaching to the hem and ringling out the water all on Matthew’s feet, making the boy cringe and yelp in disgust as it mixes with the sand in his slippers. Then, he reaches for the fabric again and takes the article of clothing off, offering his wet skin to the moonlit sky. 

And your eyes, it seems, as Hyunjae catches himself staring at you sitting next to Soonyoung, catching you already staring at his toned stomach. A smirk reaches his lips before he has a chance to stop it, but before he can comment on it with an annoying remark, you beat his feelings of victory by reaching for the last steak.

“It seems like we’re all out of barbecue,” you shrug, faking a pout, “I think there’s some ramen in the house if you want it.”

Yeah, no. Hyunjae’s losing this battle. Truth be told, though, he doesn’t even know what he’s fighting.

Only a week goes by before Lee Hyunjae is met with the same eyes of the sea– now, though, they’re tainted with not much of the previous freedom he found in them, but with the waves hitting the shore– fierce, full of force. They stare into his orbs with none other than courage, narrowed and focused, making Hyunjae’s blood boil and goosebumps appear all over his body.

This is the final match of his weight category. If someone told him he would be competing against you for his final prize, he wouldn’t be surprised– you’re a worthy opponent and you proved yourself to be one many times before– so when it actually happens, there’s no shock roaring Hyunjae’s brain, just pure focus and need to win. 

Because he always needs to win. He has a winning streak no one’s dared to break for a long time, and now, more than any time before, he has this biting need at the tips of his fingertips and on the soles of his feet to beat you– to prove to himself that he has no weakness and you’re not the one to break his stride.

He moves with calculated steps. Every time you throw a jab at him, he dodges, making sure his head and neck are protected. His forehead breaks out in sweat, a sign of his limbs tiring out and his heartbeat quickening, but he forces himself to keep his mental checked in, his reflexes at maximum ability, and his breathing steady. 

He can’t lose. It would almost feel like losing his dignity. 

Not because he’d be losing to you, not at all– he can acknowledge your skillset. It’s because he’d be losing to the newbie. To the one that just joined the sphere, to the one no one is aware of. He’d be losing his reputation. He is far too prideful to let all the years he spent building it down the drain.

It’s the last round of the match. He can tell you trained well, prepared punctually for the match. Your punches are hard and targeted, your dodges fast and reactive. Both of you seem to be doing a good job at being a worthy opponent of the other, but Hyunjae admits he’s starting to get a little tired.

His breathing is more shallow, his legs start to cramp up. Your pace is unmistakable, fast and furious, and instead of guarding himself, Hyunjae finds himself clinching on to you. His arms block the movement of yours, giving himself more time to breathe and collect himself, time to pick up a new tactic. This can’t go on forever– the two of you playing a game of tag in the ring, neither of you falling beneath the strength of the other, keeping up perfectly. Hyunjae can’t lie, he feels a bit weaker than at the beginning of the match, but he is still focused on winning– and he is prepared to do so by any means.

He wants to win desperately. It’s not even about the money prize for him anymore. He is fighting like he is about to lose his dignity, even though that couldn’t be the case at all.

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath when he finds himself doing it again, stalling your momentum and giving himself time to recover. 

“Stop holding!” he hears the referee yell out to him, making him lose the grip he has on you and stare, awaiting your actions, like a deer in the headlights. 

That’s where you go in fully– a tangle of jabs and crosses and hooks are sent his way in a rehearsed choreography, having him struggle to catch up to your pace and keep dodging them all. Is this his age showing? Is he just nervous?

The desperation in him makes his blood boil, his hands slightly shake. This is not the time to let your stress get the best of you, but he can’t help but clinch you again, earning himself a fierce snicker through your teeth. He is aware he’s one foot in being deducted a point, but the desperation in him is stronger than anything he’s ever felt before. 

Only a few seconds pass before it happens– just like his worst fears predicted. Only a few seconds before the match ends, he feels himself getting separated from you, one hand of the referee raised in the air to signal that he’s been deducted a point.

He breathes heavily. The match ends. His pupils shakily scan the judges, waiting for them to count up all the points. Why did he have to foul when the victory could’ve been so close? Hyunjae wants to break his own neck in half.

The referee reads out what the judges have written down, nodding to himself as he comes back and gets ahold of both of their wrists, the pressure of his skin on Hyunjae’s feeling like scorched coal making blisters appear all over. He already knows that if he could’ve, he would be cracking his knuckles in a nervous manner right now, awaiting his ordeal.

“And the winner, by split decision,” the referee announces, voice resonating through the packed gym, “in the blue corner–”

Hyunjae barely hears the end of the sentence.

“You’re such a sore loser,” you say after entering the gym and finding Hyunjae tucked away in a silent corner, headphones covering his ears. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he had music blasting in them, helping him drown out your sheer presence, but over the last couple of months, you’ve grown quite familiar with his antics.

That’s why you know he was avoiding you. Has been since the day you beat him at the competition– since the day you completely ruined his reputation, stepped onto his dignity, and walked away happily without even giving it a second thought. Hyunjae has been avoiding you since the day you took his breath away with more than just your heavy punches, and he thinks he must do so until the day he dies.

“Will you ever talk to me again, or are we like, in enemy territory now?” you chuckle, seemingly trying to lighten up the mood.

A glare is sent your way, a heavy sigh escaping his chapped lips. “Can you drop it? I’m not in the mood.”

“So you’re still moping around–”

“Moping?” he scoffs, genuine disbelief coating his words. “Do you really not realize what happened last week? You beat me at my specialty, Y/N. You’re intriguing to say the least, but just know that you’ve made yourself my very powerful enemy.”

Only a second– even that feels like too much of a time– passes before you break out into a laugh, a true, amused giggle. You don’t know if the boy realizes just how dramatic, theatrical and absolutely batshit crazy he sounds, but by the look on his face– stoic, stone cold, brows furrowed and all– you’d guess the answer is not much.

“Hyunjae, we’re not in the newest episode of Star Wars, you don’t have to take it so seriously,” you muse, earning yourself a roll of his hazel eyes.

“Star Wars is a movie, it doesn’t have episodes,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact. When you pay enough attention, you notice the redness tinting the tips of his ears, only further proving to you that there was no more hurt in this fight than his ego.

You keep standing around, waiting for him to say his two cents– or waiting for him to fight you, demanding a rematch. You keep waiting for him to say that it wasn’t fair, that you’re the newbie and you’re not supposed to be winning the only thing he’s ever prided himself in, but none of it comes.

Probably because Hyunjae knows you deserve all the win and glory, forever and a day. And he’s happy you won, really– he just hates the fact that he lost, because it means he found his only true weakness when fighting.

You.

“Come on, Lee,” you nudge his sneaker with the tip of your foot, playfulness radiating off your figure. You don’t wanna keep fighting him anymore– and neither does he. Because yes, when you’re in the ring, you are his enemy, but outside of it, you’ve proved yourself to be quite a good friend to him. “Let’s practice together. Maybe you can learn all my weaknesses and beat me next time,” you grin.

Hyunjae looks up at you, looking like a child being scolded during recess for not wanting to play with the other kids at the playground. Your gaze radiates challenge, teasing, but also something familiar– something that makes his stomach squeeze in a familiar way, his fingertips buzz with excitement, almost as if he’d like to reach for you, feel your skin.

Another tired sigh escapes his lips before he stands up from his place on the floor, using your hand as a leverage. He likes the way your fingers fit into his, and just that is enough for him to not think twice before he speaks the next words.

“Can I take you out?”

A quiet hum leaves your lips, seemingly lost in thought. It makes Hyunjae’s heart skip a beat, worried that the answer would break all his deeply hidden feelings. 

“Depends on how hard you hit me, I guess.”

What?

Hyunjae stills. You look at him, deeply confused.

Now it’s his time to giggle.

“I meant, like, on a date.”

“Oh!” you muse, mouth hanging open in surprise. There’s something swirling behind your orbs– a hint of thought, mental calculation. You don’t seem appalled with the idea, though, so Hyunjae finds it in him to visibly relax. “Well, if you win against me today, I might think about it.”

That’s all it takes for Lee Hyunjae to put in the extra work– he thinks this must have been the best performance of his entire life. Not only was he fighting a battle not to kiss your face with his lips instead of an uppercut the whole entirety of the spar, he was also fighting not only the match, but for you.

Your attention.

Your validation.

Your accepting of the invitation.

And turns out, winning the competition wasn’t that important in the first place– because nothing could ever compare to the joy Lee Hyunjae feels when you falter under his longing gaze in the middle of the spar, leaving him to win over you. 

Or win you over?

Both work, he thinks. It gives him a little kick, a spike of adrenaline and something even sweeter tasting on his tongue.

There’s no doubt that out of everyone in this room, Sangyeon is the most skilled and most ripped person. That’s why he’s the trainer and the head of the club– he’s in charge of most things, including the schedules and the competitions. Everyone would lose by a mile if they were to have a sparring match with Sangyeon, that’s for sure. The more he watches the stranger standing in front of him, though, the more his interest peaks with every jab and uppercut they land the male’s way, eyebrows furrowing at the match.

Boxing isn’t all about muscles. One would think that having big biceps and a strong core is what is the most important in a match, but they could not be more wrong. Boxing is a sport that involves not only physical fitness, but also technical skill, endurance, speed, agility, strategy, and also mental toughness. 

While Lee Sangyeon is the stronger one in this match, the stranger in the ring with him is far ahead of him in the mental game and speed. It’s kind of admirable, really.

“What’s happening?” Hyunjae mutters to the younger one next to him, having the boy shake his head and heave out a sigh of awe. 

“That’s the new addition to our team,” Matthew replies, “Sangyeon’s sparring with them to see where they’re at.”

“Man, they’re really going at it,” Soonyoung snickers from the side, “that’s a whole another league, that is.”

And Hyunjae finds himself agreeing. His sharp eyes watch over the movements of the new boxer in the ring, his brain analyzing their movements, mind calculating their next steps. It’s hard to predict their strategy and the male finds himself growing more and more frustrated with the fact. Usually, he’s the top of the game. 

While Lee Hyunjae is not stronger than Sangyeon or Seungcheol, hell, maybe even Soonyoung, he is better than most at the mental toughness of it all. His strategy is unmatched and he can remain focused even in matches where it feels like he is losing at first, pulling himself up and using his speed and agility to bring his opponent down. It’s what he’s known for– it’s what his opponents usually fear when going against him, it’s what makes him win matches and what makes him known in the community. 

Comparing himself to the person right in front of him, though, he feels his ego falter just a little bit at the thought of them being close to his level. 

Eyes zeroing on Sangyeon and the next big thing in the local boxing community, Hyunjae watches as the leader takes an uppercut, making the male try to shake it off, his arms forming a cross in front of him, pausing the spar. “Okay, okay, I think that’s enough for the day,” he says, laughing to himself. 

He doesn’t seem defeated– just tired. Hyunjae takes note of that, keeping the fact in the depths of his brain for when he’s going to need it. 

Both of the fighters take off their headgear, the sound of the velcro on the gloves resonating through the gym as they slip them off their fists. Heavy breathing resonates through the place accompanied by the murmur of others. Hyunjae finds it hard to inject himself into the conversation, his mind still replaying the sparring match he just witnessed, all while his eyes stay glued to the new jewel, watching as they shake their hair out and wipe the sweat off their forehead with the back of their hand.

“Everyone, this is Y/N,” Sangyeon hollers, grinning. “They’re our newest member, welcome them into the team!” 

The gym hollers, making the new boxer grin. There’s something agitating, yet fascinating about them to Lee Hyunjae, yet he can’t figure out what it is, no matter how hard he tries. 

“You’re a tough one,” Changbin admits, gently slapping their upper arm, “it’s good to have you join us. My name’s Changbin, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you,” they nod, still a little out of breath. The rest of the team make sure to introduce themselves to the new boxer, each slipping out appreciative words of admiration towards their form and technique, to which they show gratitude in a simple, humble way. They must be used to praise, Hyunjae thinks. He makes sure to remember each detail.

Once they’re all done introducing themselves, the person turns towards him, eyebrows rising in question. The expression on their face is curious, almost a little inquisitive, and Hyunjae finds himself at a loss for words. 

“That’s Lee Hyunjae,” Sangyeon utters instead of the speechless boy, snickering, “he’s a little surprised, as you can see,” the older one jokes, a playful tone sent his way after the leader leans the stranger’s direction, speaking in confidence. “A cat got your tongue, Hyunjae?” 

“Sorry,” he hums, shaking his head, “my tongue’s completely fine.” 

Sangyeon laughs, eyeing the younger one. “Doesn’t seem like it. What is it, Hyunjae? Are you at a loss for words?” 

“My vocabulary’s perfectly fine,” he snickers.

The rest of the group laughs, finding the interaction amusing. There’s not a lot of instances in which Lee Hyunjae would be found silenced, so the energy shared in the gym is suggesting a clear fact that is soon uttered out of the leader’s mouth.

“What? Are you intimidated by the newbie?” 

And the truth is, Hyunjae would rather receive a knockout than to admit this out loud.

“Jab-cross,” Sangyeon calls, the pads in his hands ready to receive the impact of Hyunjae’s punches. 

His eyes are narrowed and jaw clenched as he strides forward and performs the basic combination, warming himself up before the more complicated ones come his way. Hyunjae throws a jab with his right hand, followed by a cross with his left one, before he performs a jab-jab-cross on the pads and waits for the next instruction.

“Jab-uppercut-cross,” Sangyeon calls out, tone of voice stern and focused, watching the boxer with fast, moving eyes.

Hyunjae’s fists come in contact with the pad again, following the short jab with an uppercut, switching to his left arm with a cross. The combinations are simple, ones he’s done many times before, but he finds amusement in the repetitive nature of it all. There is no opponent he has to study right now, no one countering him in his attacks– the pad takes all the impact and lets him practice the technicality of his motions, the physical side of the game he likes to play. It’s one thing to know how to calculate a counter-attack, another thing to know exactly how to perform it well. Those are two opposite things of the same spectrum, and if Lee Hyunjae was asked which one he prefers, he would be sure to announce he prefers an actual sparring much to the training– he knows it has to be done, though, so he never complains.

He moves through the simple combinations, head almost clear as the automatized motions flow from the executive areas of his brain towards the tug of his muscles, hitting the pads with much force, using up his strength. Double jab-cross. Cross-hook-cross. He knows the combinations by memory, yet he still follows the authoritative voice of his couch when he decides on which one to perform, obeying. 

Once the more advanced combinations come to play, Hyunjae finds himself more satisfied. It’s more difficult to follow those, but he likes to practice his accuracy. He enjoys the thrill it brings him, relishes in the way he manages to agilely jab and punch the pads Sangyeon’s holding up for him. It’s like a soft prelude to the mind game he likes to play when he is boxing in the ring– you have to be more precise, more in your head to do those well.

Jab-Cross-Uppercut-Hook. He finishes with the same hand he started with, breathing heavily as he hops a little in his place, making sure his stamina is on a good level. 

“Cross-hook-uppercut,” he hears, the order striking an automatic reaction in his brain. 

He uses his rear hand to throw a cross, followed by a hook with his lead hand and then an uppercut with his lead hand. Satisfaction runs through his veins at completing it successfully, watching as Sangyeon nods at him and takes off his pads and throws them to the corner of the gym mat. 

“That should be all for today,” he hums, “good job.”

Hyunjae heaves out a sigh as he takes off his gloves and reaches for the bars of the ring, trying to catch his breath. Only now does he notice you watching him with an examining gaze, a hint of a smirk playing with your features. It gets him intrigued as he wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, raising his eyebrows at you in question.

“Doing well, Lee,” you click your tongue, making the male snicker. He wasn’t aware that you were watching the whole time, and the newly found fact leaves him with a mix of emotions in his chest. Were you serious with your comment? Or did you not mean the sentiment?

Hyunjae finds that your training usually overlaps with his, or starts right before or after his does. That means that he sees you quite often in the gym– and he finds himself observing you from afar on more days than he’d welcome. Hyunjae watches you as you spar with whoever has training on the same day as you, taking notice of your technique and sharp movements. He finds himself eyeing you even when you’re done and taking a sip of your water, taking note of your good stamina. Everything about you is irritating to Hyunjae, and although he is not the most emotionally mature on most days, he recognises that the fact can only be written off as him feeling threatened. 

For the longest time, he’s been at the top of the game in the local boxing sphere. People feared him when he rolled up to competitions and fought against them, having his eyes set on the prize. It wasn’t easy to get to this level– and although he must admit that there’s no doubt that you worked just as hard– he would hate to leave this title go.

“Just getting started,” he huffs, reaching for his water bottle. Chugging down the liquid and wiping his sweat off, hanging the white towel around his neck like a scarf, he stares deeply into your eyes with challenge.

He takes notice of your lean composure, watching as you react to his remark with amusement. You seem nonchalant, perfectly humble and aware of your own abilities– he can’t be the only one sensing the tint of rivalry between the two of you, right? Or is it just his fragile ego speaking?

“We’ll see about that,” you laugh, “would love to spar with you one day, you seem like a fair opponent,” you muse, watching as the male chuckles, shrugging.

“What technique do you specialize in?” he finds himself asking.

“I’m more of a tactical one,” you shrug, “it’s more fun that way.”

Hyunjae finds himself agreeing– still, he doesn’t let his composure fall. Collecting his things, he spares you one last look before he leaves the gym and aims for the showers. “Me too. I guess I have another fly to squash,” he laughs. “See you around, newbie.”

There’s a special tradition in the White Tiger boxing club in which you try your hardest to welcome in the new addition to the team with a night out. Sangyeon always insists on paying, as the team captain, and although Hyunjae has a stable job (an office job 9-5 in sales that makes him hate being the working class twice as much as any other job would, he thinks), he always welcomes every opportunity for a free meal and a drink. 

The last time they all went out for drinks to the place just three streets away from the gym was when Matthew, the youngest one, joined. It was winter back then and they all had to sit around in their padded jackets because the heating in the restaurant broke, but Sangyeon still insists on going there every single time– Hyunjae bets there is a genetic connection between the boxing captain and the owner of the establishment. Either that, or he just doesn’t like changes and is too old-fashioned to try one of the new places in the town center– he can’t really explain the loyalty towards the restaurant in any other way.

Hyunjae thinks it’s fortunate that it’s the beginning of summer right as he trails with his teammates into the small restaurant– for it’s not cold enough for him to shiver or hot enough for him to sweat, since he doesn’t have high hopes for the AC in this place. Everyone gets seated around, talking loudly amongst themselves, and much to his surprise, the figure sitting across from him is the one of the sole reason for this gathering. You look at him with a tight smile adorning your face, showing him the awkwardness you feel in your bones at the seating arrangement, but you pay it no further attention as you reply to a question addressed to you from somewhere to your left– ‘A soju is fine,’ you note, cracking on your knuckles in what seems to be a nervous habit.

After Sangyeon recites the usual order to the nice, but elderly lady bringing in your drinks, plates are evenly distributed between everyone and everyone clinks their glasses together, starting up the evening shenanigans. Hyunjae has a general knowledge of everyone’s alcohol tolerance here, so he knows he doesn’t really have to worry about anyone– well, except for Soonyoung, but he trusts that his roommate Seungcheol can carry him home just fine.

“So, Y/N,” Sangyeon hums from the top of the table– sitting right where the captain should, “how did you get into boxing?” he asks.

Hyunjae watches as your eyebrows rise and you gulp down the alcohol, positioning the glass back at one of the small circular tables you’re sitting at before replying. “Oh,” you hum, “my dad was always really into boxing, so I guess I kind of… picked it up from him?” you answer, watching as the rest of the table acknowledges your answer with satisfied nods.

“So he taught you?” Changbin asks with much interest.

“I guess you could say that,” you chuckle, “after he retired from competing, he started coaching kids boxing, so one day, I just tried and it stuck with me.”

Not really including himself in the conversation, Hyunjae decides to grill the meat that gets brought to the table somewhere in the middle of the lively conversation. He takes the thongs into his hands and puts the raw bacon on the grill alongside with pork belly on the side, listening to it sizzle as a background noise to the dialogue. His eyes are trailed on his task as he hears Yunjin from next to him speak up, addressing her concerns to you.

“That must have been hard, no?” she says. “I mean, don’t take it in a bad way– my mother was a dancer so she wanted me to be one, so I tried, but… I wasn’t really good and I wasn’t really into it, so I quit, but my mother was devastated,” she clarifies, sipping on her drink.

“Oh, not at all,” you say, “I was really fortunate in the way that my dad never forced me into it. More than anything, he wanted me to have fun,” you smile sympathetically at your new teammate, “he always used to say I needed an outlet for all my inner rage,” you laugh.

“Tell me that,” Soonyoung hums from the corner of the table, having the rest of the commotion laugh. Many men have been a witness to his anger issues– not by being beaten up, no, (although Hyunjae once met his roommate from college, Seungkwan, who would have much to say even about their physical quarrels) just by watching him exist in their daily lives. Apart from high irritability, low patience and a big love for arguing, Soonyoung has a very colorful vocabulary…

“A lot of lives were saved when Kwon Soonyoung joined the boxing team and found an outlet for his pent-up emotion,” Theo sighs, nodding to himself.

“God forbid men join therapy,” Ningning chirps, but averts her eyes instantly when Soonyoung sends her a stern gaze– pretending she wasn’t the one who said the off-handed comment.

As the meat on the grill gets ready to be eaten, Hyunjae looks around and finds mostly everyone’s plates filled with food already. Hesitant at the realization that he might have taken too long to prepare the meal, his eyes fall on your empty plate right across him, taking him by surprise. Didn’t anyone offer you a serving yet? You’re the newbie– the center of attention, after all. Curse his teammates for being so inconsiderate…

Hand acting before his brain has a chance to register it, the tongs holding the pieces of meat move above your plate, dropping the delicious looking food into it. He doesn’t pay it much thought, but when you look at him with big eyes full of gratitude, offering him a ‘Thank you’, he finds himself growing bashful– averting his gaze, focusing on grilling more, so he himself too gets to eat.

“Everyone joining the tournament this year?” Sangyeon asks, a glass of soju mid-way to his lips. His eyes scan the rest of his team, forcing an answer out of them.

“It’s gonna be my first one,” Matthew grins, “of course I’m not passing up on that.”

“Noted,” the captain nods, eyes focused on a man to his right, “Seungcheol? Are you joining this year?”

“Aish, come on,” the older one grunts, “as if anyone has a chance of beating you. As long as you’re in my weight category, I’m not gonna waste my time on it.”

Sangyeon’s free hand comes in contact with the back of the older one’s neck, scolding him for the comments. “Shut up. Either join the tournament or get out of my team– I don’t need pussies in the lineup.”

The crowd cheers and laughs at that, poking fun at the annual spar between the two strongest. It’s a sight for an eye, truly, having everyone on the tips of their toes and in anticipation. Ever since Hyunjae joined the club, he’s seen the legendary match 4 times already– each time, Lee Sangyeon wins. However, Seungcheol is never too far behind. The whole team bets on who they think will win, and you’d be surprised how many people still believe in Choi Seungcheol’s abilities– one of those years, though, maybe he could finally win him and get the legacy.

“God, okay,” Seungcheol grunts, “but don’t cry when I finally beat you this year. I’ve been training hard, you see.”

“I’d like to see it, Seungcheolie,” Sangyeon sweetly replies, finally downing the drink in his hand.

Hyunjae’s eyes fall onto your figure when a question is addressed to you, Theo’s interest making you smile at the boy with kindness in your eyes. You seem so nice today– sweet and laid-back, nothing close to the fierce, confident persona you own up to in the boxing gym– and it throws Hyunjae a little off, making him question your whole composure. “Y/N, are you joining the tournament?”

“Mhm,” you hum, nodding, “I think so. It would be fun to try, since I’m new in the district.”

“Wait, that means you’ll be against Hyunjae, no?” Ningning perches up, pointing a finger towards the male.

“Yeah,” Sangyeon hums, “they’re in the same weight category.”

“I’ll cheer for you, Y/N-ie,” Matthew hums into your ear, confidentially, making Hyunjae roll his eyes and chuckle.

“Cheering won’t help,” he says– possibly one of the first words escaping his mouth the whole evening, “it’s all about skills. I haven’t lost in the last 4 years, so you should probably train hard, Y/N.”

Your eyes lock with his, a mischievous twinkle mirroring your gaze when you speak to him. “I think I have what it takes to beat you, Lee Hyunjae.”

“We’ll see on the competition,” he says, tonguing the inside of his cheek. He’s not so sure he likes to be riled up like this– his ego is admittedly a little too fragile, too easy to break– but there’s something burning in the pit of his stomach when you challenge him with your words, something similar to excitement. Maybe it’s the vision of victory that makes him feel this way– it must be it. It’s the only thing he ever really cared about.

The conversation slowly moves forward, the amount of drinks consumed and the level of drunkenness rising across the whole commotion. Hyunjae finds himself falling into humorous interactions with his teammates, listening eagerly to everyone’s stories. When you speak, he listens carefully– eyes forced onto your lips to make out the words inside of the busy restaurant, gazes locking right after, making his cheeks heat up and burn with a strange hint of embarrassment. He finds out that your favorite flavor of soju is peach (you’ve had a bottle and a half already), your favorite idol group is EXO (you scream their song out loud when it plays in the background of the restaurant), your favorite word is ‘totally’ (you use it often when you listen to somebody talk, showing your agreement with their point), you squint your eyes when you try to focus on something (that’s what you just did when you tried to make out what Theo was saying from the other side of the table), your laugh is very contagious (he learns that after you giggle at a joke, making him mirror the actions), and you get very, very tired after a few drinks (as shown by your current position, resting your forehead against the table).

Hyunjae notes down all of his new knowledge about you, storing the information in the depths of his brain. He’s sure he will need all of it one day, but in his current state– tipsy, but not yet that drunk– he realizes he doesn’t really know how he would use the sound of your laugh as a counter-attack in combat, and so he tries to stop thinking about remembering every little thing about you, or else he thinks he might actually go insane from the hypersensitivity of his senses towards your sheer presence.

“God,” Sangyeon hums as he stands up from the table, the bill already paid and the elderly lady bringing you refills the whole evening standing by the counter, seemingly ready to close for the night, “I remember when it was just me, Soonyoung, Seungcheol and Hyunjae here,” he says, sentimental, “oh how big we’ve grown…”

“I think it’s time to go home, grandpa,” Ningning snickers, patting the captain’s shoulder. It’s hard to stop him with his hearty talk when he starts, so it's best to cut it out at the very beginning, before he gets too immersed in it.

Sangyeon sighs, but nods at her comment, looking over the group. “Does everyone have a way to get home?”

“We called a taxi,” Yunjin nods, arm around Ningning’s shoulder.

“I’m gonna get this nuisance to his bed somehow,” Seungcheol points towards his roommate Soonyoung, currently hugging him around his waist, frowning to himself.

“Great. I’ll walk with the guys, since we live close… Hyunjae, will you walk Y/N home? They seem like they need it…” Sangyeon says, pointing towards your figure still laying on the table. Before Hyunjae has a chance to protest, or say anything against this brilliant idea, the rest of the group escapes the restaurant and goes their own ways, a ping of an incoming message reading out a strange address leaving Hyunjae with the responsibility of bringing you home safe tonight.

Tapping the top of your head, then limbs, Hyunjae tries hard to wake you up from your alcohol-induced slumber. You’re mostly unresponsive, not making much effort to look up from the depths of the dinner table, and after he meets eye with the visibly irritated lady waiting for him to leave, Hyunjae results in doing everything he can to drag your body outside of the fine establishment.

“Okay, then,” Hyunjae sighs, “let’s get you home. Wake up, won’t you?”

“I’m sleepy.”

“I can see that,” he agrees, scratching the back of his neck, “but you can sleep when you get home. Deal?”

“I’m too lazy.”

Shaking his head in disbelief, he reaches over to your body, hands slotted at your waist– oh how uncomfortable, how invasive of your space he feels right in this moment– he brings you up into an up-right position, eyes meeting with yours. “Come on,” he says, bringing you to your feet with another tug, “we’re going home.”

“Do you even know where I live?” 

“I do,” he nods.

“Stalker…”

“Sangyeon sent me the address,” Hyunjae sighs, throwing your arm around his shoulder and an apologetic smile towards the lady as he escapes the restaurant, an arm sneaking around your middle to support your weight.

It takes a lot of effort to get you to walk. Your feet are stumbling over themselves, your balance is thrown-off and Hyunjae thinks you’re falling asleep with how your eyes keep closing on themselves– so he tries to strike up conversation with you to keep you awake.

“Do you usually get this drunk?” he jokes, shaking his head at your antics. It’s been years since he had to carry someone home– it almost takes him back to his university days.

“No,” you peep, “I just… I’m not good with big crowds, so I needed something to make me less tense,” you say, having the male nod.

“I’m sorry you were left to take care of me,” you mourn, “I’m so embarrassed,” you say, shielding your face away from him, seemingly too shy to have him look at you.

Hyunjae finds himself chuckling. “Don’t be embarrassed,” he laughs, “it’s okay. As long as you had fun, it’s alright,” he says, and by some higher force taking a hold of his actions, he finds his hand cradling the top of your head, hiding it in the crook of his shoulder. 

“Did I ruin your night?” you ask.

“No,” he says, “I’d even dare to say you made it better, since I now have something to make fun of you for. It gives me the upper hand, y’know? Good to have that in the ring.”

He tries to move in the direction of your house again, slow but steady steps on the pavement. He finds you struggling, though, legs barely working and your composure falling, making the man fear for your safety. Are you sick? Are you going to puke?

After a few heartbeats of no movement pass by and Hyunjae finds himself yearning for the comfort of his bed, though, the worries are discarded. Taking you by your shoulders, he sighs to himself. “Get on my back, okay? I’ll carry you.”

With no complaints, you crawl on top of him, getting all comfortable. Hyunjae thanks god for his strength, and also chuckles at the irony– while he skipped working out tonight, carrying your dead weight on his back surely has to make up for it. 

It seems like boxing is not the only battle Lee Hyunjae will have to fight with you.

Lee Hyunjae finds both joy and the tiniest bit of irritability in the fact that his and yours training schedules mostly align. It means he gets to observe your skills and watch what you’re made of, which is useful for creating a good tactic when it comes to beating you in the tournament in a couple of weeks, but it also means that by constantly looking at you, he doesn’t get a chance to fully focus on his own self-improvement. 

You usually train with Sangyeon– as the captain and everyone’s go-to coach, he helps everyone with their short-comings– but sometimes, Hyunjae finds you going at one of the punching bags alone, stern eyes focused on the red object. Sometimes, he also finds you with one of the other members of the boxing club, you two holding up the pads to each other when Sangyeon is busy or not present– which is overall more fun, interactive, and better for training than a solo spar with an inanimate object– but today, he finds you in the gym alone, seemingly done with your session.

“Leaving already?” Hyunjae finds himself asking as you throw your towel on one of the benches, a stoic expression on your face. At his question, he finds you shrugging, pursing your lips together. 

“I was all alone in here, so I couldn’t really train with anyone,” you say, “there’s only so much you can practice in boxing alone,” you laugh, and the question escapes Hyunjae’s lips sooner than he manages to register it, sooner than he can stop himself from saying it.

“Do you wanna practice with me, then?” he asks, watching you get visibly shocked at the offer.

Still, you don’t turn him down as you nod and walk back over to the gym mats, gloves still adorning your hands. Hyunjae finds himself watching the movements of your muscles as you stretch your arms, eyes scanning the glistening skin. It’s hard to take his eyes off it, but he forces himself through it as he takes the pads into his hands and takes a stance next to your figure, not really guiding you through the training, but letting you pick the progressions and jabs as you like, altering between holding up the pads up and down, trying his best to stay tight in his place.

“Is it really good for you to help your opponent train?” you ask in between the combinations, a teasing grin taking place on your face.

“I don’t feel threatened,” he replies, earning another jab-cross-hook to the pad of his right hand. 

“Maybe you should,” you say, “a little birdie told me you are slacking lately.”

“Does the little birdie weigh [] pounds?” he jokes, trying to mask the fact that he is taken aback by your comment with humor– his favorite unhealthy coping mechanism– to reference the head of the team. “Because if so, he’s just trying to sabotage me.”

“Sabotage?” you snicker, able to add in your snarky comments in between the slow tempo you’re going at the combinations. “He just said you’re not as focused as you once used to be, that’s all,” you hum, “thought I’d tell you. I want a worthy opponent.”

“Oh, I’m worthy enough, don’t you worry,” he says while moving the boxing pad away from you before you get a chance to punch it, teasing you, “what I don’t manage to train in the gym, I make up for by carrying drunk weight home on my back.”

The moment the words leave his mouth, Hyunjae finds you faltering– there is less strength in your punch and you don’t hit it right in the center like you’ve always done. When your eyes meet, your vision quickly alternates to a space somewhere behind his head, breaking the contact, and you lick your lips with the tip of your tongue in a nervous manner, coughing. 

“Well, you’re welcome, then,” you joke, “it’s not every day you have such weight-lifting heavy training, right?”

“I usually load my weights with less pounds, so I actually have to thank you for pushing my boundaries,” he hums at you and nods, only making you shrink further under his gaze. Hyunjae is enjoying the fact that he has an upper hand now– he’s loving it dearly.

“Any time,” you say, but the smile on your face disappears just as quickly as you fakely glued it on, stopping in your movements. “No, but seriously, dude, I’m so sorry. I swear I usually don’t take it this far and I’m deeply embarrassed, so like, it won’t happen again–”

“What are you two talking about?” a deep voice echoes through the gym, making both of you jump in surprise. The head of the team enters the room with a teasing grin on his face, ready to join Hyunjae as he trains– signalizing the end of your little improvised session. 

“Nothing,” you peep, looking at Hyunjae with a look full of anxiety. He takes the hint– not everyone has to know that too much alcohol disables your ability to walk. It’s your own little secret.

“Well, get over here, then,” Sangyeon calls Hyunjae, calling him over with a motion of his hand, “I have to leave in an hour, so we better get something in.”

“Got it, boss,” the man replies, taking the pads off his hands. He discards them to the floor and slowly waltzes towards the other side of the room, eyes still trained on your figure. This time, you don’t break eye contact– as if to see who can bear it longer, who can handle more– and before Hyunjae finally joins his trainor in the ring, he sends you a daring wink.

“Just call me again the next time you need a personal taxi, newbie.”

You salute him with two fingers. The bashful smile adorning your lips sends down a new wave of adrenaline through his veins.

It’s not like Hyunjae is painfully used to seeing the back of your head, not at all– but when he spots your lean figure standing in the aisle of the convenience store closest to his apartment building, aimlessly staring into the stash of alcoholic beverages in front of your eyes and taking multiple beer bottles into your hands and placing them into your cart, he can’t help but feel the rush of recognition hammer through his chest. Almost a little daringly, he walks up to you, startling you with his words as you jump in surprise– not really expecting to be interrupted in your evening shopping.

“Drinking alone on a Friday night? Come on, Y/L/N, that screams misery,” he chuckles, teasing you. Your shopping cart doesn’t contain anything else than the green glass of beer bottles and a block of cheese– so much for a nice dinner– and after you notice him eyeing you up and down, you bashfully avert your gaze from him back towards the wall.

“Who said I’m drinking alone?” you huff, your cheeks filling up with air and making you look like a puffer fish. Silly, Hyunjae thinks.

“I just assumed,” he shrugs, “doesn’t take much to get that from the look on your face, I’ll tell you that.”

“Yeah, right,” you roll your eyes, sighing at him. Hyunjae assumes you might find him annoying, but that doesn’t really stop him from chatting with you anyway. He wants to see just how far you’re willing to let him go– if you’re going to entertain him or tell him to fuck off, which, from the way you’re looking like you didn’t have the best week, might be the more possible option.

“So, I’m right?” he giggles, watching as you press your lips into a thin line, done being the target of his teasing.

“Does it matter?”

“Well, I was going to invite myself along– to spare you the embarrassment of drinking alone only, of course– but if you have some other company in mind, I won’t push it,” he says, surprised himself at the words spilling like a spell from between his lips. He doesn’t know why– just a few days ago, he made you his biggest enemy in his head– but there’s this magical shift pushing him towards you, making him yearn to get to know you better. You’re like a mystery he wants to solve, a treasure hunt he wants to keep following.

Maybe it’s machiavellistic of him– only wanting to be in your company so he can learn your quirks and habits, using them against you in combat. Yes, that must be it. No other reason.

The look on your face stays stone cold for a second, silently contemplating his invitation, before you heave out a sigh and agree, following him as he leads the way outside of the convenience store after paying. 

“Where are we even going?” you ask, watching as the male takes the plastic bag containing multiple bottles of beer into his hand from your hold, carrying the groceries. 

“My place.”

“Aren’t you going a little too fast? I’m not that easy, Lee,” you chirp, watching as the man averts his gaze from you and tries to laugh it off– you two are like a constant battle of push and pull, being the one teasing and being the one that is teased. It entertains Hyunjae, he enjoys how much you can match his energy– but he must admit that he much prefers being the one that has the upper hand in the conversation.

“I didn’t mean my actual flat, you perv,” he grunts, “I have free access to the roof, though. It's nice up there– I have an inkling you'd like it.”

You don’t question him further as you let him take you there. The two of you stumble up the stairs together– while dramatically heaving out exhausted breaths on top of the 7th floor, since Hyunjae’s apartment complex doesn’t have an elevator– and before you know it, you two are sitting at the roof cross-legged, knees slightly touching, backs resting against the wall. The bottles open with a satisfying sizzle and the town is illuminated with lampposts, making the whole place twinkle. Your eyes are big and soaring through space when Hyunjae sneaks a glance at you, a sense of serene pride taking place in his chest at your reaction.

“So, what’s gotten you in such a bad mood today?” he asks before he takes a sip of the beer, fingers trapping the green glass securely into his hold. 

A beat of silence passes by as you drink your own beverage, but Hyunjae can see the thoughts stringing in your head into full coherent sentences, searching for the correct words and tone. He doesn’t know how easy it is for you to open up, but if he gets the privilege of hearing what’s on your mind, he knows he will treasure it, lock it into a box in his chest and throw the key away, keeping the secret. It’s a decent thing to do, for sure, but he hopes he can get some weight off your shoulders.

“It’s just work, honestly,” you hum, shrugging. You try to mask away the issue by nonchalance– Lee Hyunjae sees right through you, though. He’s spent hours watching you during training, getting into your head and learning your every quirk– it would be impossible for him not to notice.

“What about it?” he pries more.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you sigh some more. “Well, you know I’m new in the town, yeah?” you note, not really waiting for him to answer. “I had to move because I was let off from my old job– I did something that was really fun and fulfilling, and I was pretty damn good at it– and then I couldn’t find anything back home.”

Hyunjae finds himself humming, showing that he’s listening to you. “You find it hard to adapt to the new city?”

“Not really, no,” you shake your head. “It’s just… My previous job was well-paid and interesting. Now, I’m working an office job that is unfulfilling and my coworkers are all a carbon copy of each other– with a stick up their ass and terribly, deathly boring. It takes away all my energy to work there.”

“I think that’s how work is for most people,” Hyunjae spills out, making you chuckle.

“Yeah,” you nod. “I didn’t realize what a privilege I had before I lost it.”

“That’s why you have to find things outside of work to fill in that void,” he notes, pointing a finger at you. “Like hanging out with your friends– which you seem to be charismatic enough to make lots of, contrary to your belief. Or going out, watching movies, hobbies, boxing… It’s what makes life worth living.”

“I guess so,” you agree.

Lee Hyunjae finds joy in the mundane things that life brings him. He enjoys making his coffee before work and sipping on it as he mentally prepares himself for the terribly boring and ego-crushing position of a salesman. He looks forward to jogging in the evening with music in his headphones, to podcasts playing in the background as he cooks dinner. He loves the presence of his friends and oh how much he adores going to the boxing gym multiple times a week to train– because this is something he’s finally good at and takes pride in, but also, because the company of others loving the same thing he does is perhaps the most comforting thing of it all. 

He wishes that you will soon find joy in the cycle of ordinary life. He hopes you too will soon feel like you belong somewhere– be it to the city, or to the boxing club.

“I work less now, though,” you suddenly speak up, finally looking at him with your big, honest eyes– now finding the positives in the situation, not afraid to face him when the distraught expression slips off your features. “So I have more time for myself. And I am really enjoying this new city too. And boxing. God, I’m happy I can finally box more again.”

“See, Soonyoung was right. It’s good for taking out rage after work. I would know,” Hyunjae notes, the laugh escaping your chest like a reward to the man.

“Does it help you to do better in combat?”

“Oh, definitely.”

You look at him with a different spark in your eye now– making Hyunjae sense that you no longer feel so down as you did just a few minutes ago– before you hum to yourself, nodding. “Well then, I hope I have a shitty day at work the day of the tournament,” you joke, “who knows, maybe taking my rage out on you will help me win,” you say.

Hyunjae snickers, averting his gaze from you. Heat fills the bottom of his stomach and tints his cheeks light pink. He can imagine other ways in which you could take your rage out on him– all physical, but he won’t mention them in order to save both of you some embarrassment. 

Focused eyes stare into his, narrowed and sharp. The sounds around him disappear as he pushes all his energy into the task at hand– which is beating you.

The rubbery smell of the gym hits his nose and makes him look at you like a lion would at its prey. Lee Hyunjae watches your every move, calculating every miniature movement of your muscle, eyes tracing your figure and calculating your next steps. Adrenaline fills his veins, fully letting him enjoy the spar– and although he always enjoys the sport, it’s been ages since he last liked his training as much as this one.

You throw a couple jabs at him– to keep him at a distance, to build your strategy up. Short, quick steps around the boxing ring drag you two into a dance of some sort, the push and pull of your calculated punches throwing you into a rhythm. Lee Hyunjae finds that the hours you spent practicing in the gym shaped you into a very skilled fighter– and although he knew that before, experiencing it on his own skin always makes you even more aware of the fact.

He tries to get under your skin. He tries to get into your head to see just what you’re planning. Usually, it’s really easy for him to read people in the match– after a few combinations, he knows how to follow their rhythm, he knows what to expect next. He knows how to prepare himself for what’s about to come, knowing what strategy to use with his opponent to get to victory. 

But after a few minutes of aimless punches that don’t really land right, careful jabs around the ring and stingy hooks to the side, Hyunjae finds that you’re not as easy to read as he would like you to be. 

He tries hard to focus on you. To read you to your depth, to have you all figured out. Every time it happens, though, you surprise him with something unexpected– a counter that sends him to a shock, a feint that he wrongly falls for, a parry that makes his blood boil in frustration. Suddenly, he feels like you can read minds. Like you are the one controlling the match, like you’re the one with the better ring generalship, like you’re the one that has the upper hand. He’s not used to this.

When you suggested that you two spar during practice before you go to the actual tournament– just to see where the both of you are standing, to find the parts you both have to improve– Hyunjae quickly jumped on the opportunity. He felt that it only had positives for him– he would beat you, make you less confident before the actual match, and he would also learn all your weak sides, prepared to use them against you in combat. But the longer the spar lasts, the more exhausted and tired he gets from the punches and the defense practices in his mind, the more negatives he sees in the situation.

He finds himself lacking. He notices his weak sides– how he can’t really counter well when you come at him from the left side. How he can’t really focus as much as he would like to, because the reality that it’s you who he is sparring with keeps resonating in his head, making him hyper-aware of everything about your sheer presence, in a way that keeps distracting him, though– not in a way that would help him in the slightest. He feels foolish. He feels embarrassed. He keeps wallowing in self-pity, and that’s even worse, he thinks, because he hasn’t even lost yet–

He watches your movements in slow motion– your arm muscles tightening as your hand moves from the bottom up, the red boxing gloves flashing in front of his eyes. His breathing hitches– you’re about to beat the shit out of him. One would think he had more than enough time to defend himself– to slip and have you meet the air instead. One would think that by watching you intensively from across the room when you practice, it would make it easier for him to know what your biggest strengths are.

Wrong. All wrong.

Before he has a chance to do anything, a strong uppercut meets his chin, making his teeth clash and his ears ring. His whole stance falters, his body taking a few steps back– a position a skilled, strong boxer would take advantage of, keeping up with their efforts into a knockout. This is only practice, though– and so when Lee Hyunjae looks back up at you with his pupils shaking and breathing heavily, you only result in dropping both your act and your gloves to the ground.

“Better luck next time, Lee,” you snicker, shrugging to yourself. “Maybe try getting out of your head a little. Focus more on the match,” you say.

The advice is a little back-handed. It’s okay, Hyunjae thinks– he deserves the belittlement.

If there’s one thing a group of 20-something year olds enjoy the most, it’s drinking and barbecue. Hyunjae thinks it’s the testing line of what it feels like to be in your early thirties– with beer bottles in your hand and acting like a proud father as you flip the steak on the grill, watching your children run around the grassy green garden. He loves it. Except there’s no children (or a prospect of someone to have them with), no garden (because owning a house in this economy feels like a distant miracle at this point), and no sun shining brightly down onto the crown of his head (which is the only thing he is truly grateful for). Instead, the children running around are replaced with the rest of his boxing team– mostly consisting of Soonyoung, Ningning, Theo, Yunjin and you, the garden is replaced by the beach, and it’s late evening outside of the beach house Seungcheol owns and frequently uses for summer getaways. 

Lee Hyunjae wasn’t exactly sure what he imagined when he was invited for a little retreat before the tournament. He isn’t really sure if he’s disappointed with what he sees or not.

One part of him despises the constant screaming– he thought a retreat meant getting to relax, not constantly worry about his teammates drowning in the sea from the amount of alcohol they’ve managed to mix with the beer– but the other part of him can’t help but smile at the view of everyone being so carefree and full of life.

That, and the view of you in swimwear. Who said that?

“The meat is going to get burned,” Changbin jokes, making Hyunjae jump in his place, almost hitting the younger boy with the tongs in his hands.

“No it’s not,” he mutters under his nose, making the boy chuckle. Hyunjae makes a mental note to avert his gaze from the sea and tune out the sound of your laughter. It must be the effect of the beer slowly getting to his brain, for sure– for there’s nothing interesting about it, nor does he enjoy hearing your constant screeching.

“You wanna join them? I can take over,” Seungcheol asks as he nears the two men, genuine curiosity matching his question. No matter where, he still takes it upon himself to be the leader, to make sure everyone in the group is satisfied. 

“It’s okay,” Hyunjae shakes his head, “the food’s ready soon anyway.”

To that, he hears the male whistle, making everyone pay attention to him. “Food’s ready! Gather up or there won’t be anything left to eat!”

That alone is enough to drag most of the group out of the chilly sea and to the bonfire, catching their towels and wrapping themselves up in the cotton fabric to dry themselves off. Hyunjae catches glimpses of their respective conversations– Soonyoung and Theo talking about the new guy Jiung from Theo’s class that Soonyoung met one day while playing basketball with both of them, and who they think would be a great addition to the team. Ningning and Yunjin talk about the fashion show that took place over the weekend, criticising how “Nobody fit the theme of the Met”, whatever that means– while Hyunjae tries his hardest to ignore any sign of you in fear of Changbin catching him in his act and making it out to be something that it’s not yet again.

Because you two are hardly friends. He could count the times you two have hung out on the fingers of one hand, and you still deeply irritate him whenever he sees a glimpse of you in the gym. The last thing he needs is everyone teasing him about something that’s definitely not there. And he knows Changbin– he knows he’s capable of blowing the whole thing way out of proportion.

All while trying to tune out the conversation you have with Matthew– he thinks he hears you shushing the poor youngster, but decides to not dwell on what it could mean– poor Hyunjae ignores all signs of threat. If there’s one thing you should know about being near the sea with friends that share one collective brain cell, it’s that you should always watch your back.

Which he doesn’t, of course. A big mistake.

All without him noticing, there are suddenly two strong hands around his ankles, lifting him up. Hyunjae throws away the metal tongs in his hands in panic, trying to steady himself on the ground and brace himself from falling, but before he has a chance to do so, another pair of arms– more gentle to touch, but still calloused– envelope his shoulders, lifting him into air like a little hammock.

A yelp drags itself out of his throat. His eyes register Seok Matthew giggling and running with him to the nearby sea, all while the scent of lemongrass mixed with sand fills his nose, alerting that the second pair of hands holding up the upper part of his body belong to no other than yourself. 

“Hey! Put me down!” he cries out, heart thumping in his chest. He so badly wants to run away, but he quickly realizes it’s close to impossible– damn you two and the similar weight category. 

“As you wish!” Matthew laughs, locking eyes with you as the three of you reach the shore. “1, 2, 3!” he counts, swinging the poor boy like he’s a tool on the playground. 

Matthew lets go off his feet and so do you– but as Hyunjae prepares to fall, a brilliant idea sparks in his mind. Holding onto your arms stronger, not letting go, he makes sure to drag you down with him, the two of you falling under the water. 

It’s not like you really care, he thinks– you were already wet and in your swimwear, opposite to the very dry and clothed himself– but the fear in your eyes as you fall into the sea with him in shock are enough to make Hyunjae satisfied. A hint of a scream drags out of your throat before you fall under the water, chest pressing into his.

Your bodies tangle themselves together in the cold salty liquid, your hands and legs swaddling around like you’re a little bird learning how to fly. Hyunjae finds this all too amusing (and so does Matthew that managed to escape the sabotage), his strong arms keeping you under the water. Every time you move away from him just the slightest, the male takes it upon himself to drag you back and under the water, laughing at you as you try to splash the salt into his eyes and get him back, palms aimlessly pushing down on his shoulders.

It’s a fair fight– much like in the ring– but it seems that Hyunjae’s more skilled underwater than you are. (And also less drunk– he thinks balance might be the issue here.)

“Fine!” you breathe heavily when your head is above, breathing oxygen, “I concede!" 

With that, Hyunjae lets you go, smirking at you in victory when you try to catch your breath, steading yourself with your hands on his shoulders. He watches your face from up close, the droplets of salty water dripping down your nose, catching himself from reaching out and wiping them off as if they were tears rolling down your cheeks. He stares at the curves of your features and the tan on your skin. Your eyes sparkle like fireworks and all the stars in the sky and he wonders how it’s possible to have the whole sea in your orbs, glistening and free, when the water floats all around you, spilled over and reckless, tangling your bodies. You don’t say a word, just let him study you, engrave your features into his memory, and only when Seungcheol screams at the both of you that there’s last pieces of meat left does he break himself out of his trance and realizes how foolish he is acting.

You must be a fucking siren, for all he knows.

He lets go off your waist– he wasn’t even aware he was steadying you, helping you to breathe– and walks towards the sandy shore. The rest of the group watches them all uninterested, but when he catches Changbin’s teasing smirk, he whips his head around and plays innocent.

Fuck.

“Make sure to report him to authorities,” you grunt as you get to the bonfire, taking another dry towel to drape around your shoulders, “this man just tried to kill me.”

“You started it!” he accuses you, his fiery eyes landing at your figure in amusement.

He hates the feeling of the wet fabric clinging to his skin, calloused hands reaching to the hem and ringling out the water all on Matthew’s feet, making the boy cringe and yelp in disgust as it mixes with the sand in his slippers. Then, he reaches for the fabric again and takes the article of clothing off, offering his wet skin to the moonlit sky. 

And your eyes, it seems, as Hyunjae catches himself staring at you sitting next to Soonyoung, catching you already staring at his toned stomach. A smirk reaches his lips before he has a chance to stop it, but before he can comment on it with an annoying remark, you beat his feelings of victory by reaching for the last steak.

“It seems like we’re all out of barbecue,” you shrug, faking a pout, “I think there’s some ramen in the house if you want it.”

Yeah, no. Hyunjae’s losing this battle. Truth be told, though, he doesn’t even know what he’s fighting.

Only a week goes by before Lee Hyunjae is met with the same eyes of the sea– now, though, they’re tainted with not much of the previous freedom he found in them, but with the waves hitting the shore– fierce, full of force. They stare into his orbs with none other than courage, narrowed and focused, making Hyunjae’s blood boil and goosebumps appear all over his body.

This is the final match of his weight category. If someone told him he would be competing against you for his final prize, he wouldn’t be surprised– you’re a worthy opponent and you proved yourself to be one many times before– so when it actually happens, there’s no shock roaring Hyunjae’s brain, just pure focus and need to win. 

Because he always needs to win. He has a winning streak no one’s dared to break for a long time, and now, more than any time before, he has this biting need at the tips of his fingertips and on the soles of his feet to beat you– to prove to himself that he has no weakness and you’re not the one to break his stride.

He moves with calculated steps. Every time you throw a jab at him, he dodges, making sure his head and neck are protected. His forehead breaks out in sweat, a sign of his limbs tiring out and his heartbeat quickening, but he forces himself to keep his mental checked in, his reflexes at maximum ability, and his breathing steady. 

He can’t lose. It would almost feel like losing his dignity. 

Not because he’d be losing to you, not at all– he can acknowledge your skillset. It’s because he’d be losing to the newbie. To the one that just joined the sphere, to the one no one is aware of. He’d be losing his reputation. He is far too prideful to let all the years he spent building it down the drain.

It’s the last round of the match. He can tell you trained well, prepared punctually for the match. Your punches are hard and targeted, your dodges fast and reactive. Both of you seem to be doing a good job at being a worthy opponent of the other, but Hyunjae admits he’s starting to get a little tired.

His breathing is more shallow, his legs start to cramp up. Your pace is unmistakable, fast and furious, and instead of guarding himself, Hyunjae finds himself clinching on to you. His arms block the movement of yours, giving himself more time to breathe and collect himself, time to pick up a new tactic. This can’t go on forever– the two of you playing a game of tag in the ring, neither of you falling beneath the strength of the other, keeping up perfectly. Hyunjae can’t lie, he feels a bit weaker than at the beginning of the match, but he is still focused on winning– and he is prepared to do so by any means.

He wants to win desperately. It’s not even about the money prize for him anymore. He is fighting like he is about to lose his dignity, even though that couldn’t be the case at all.

“Fuck,” he swears under his breath when he finds himself doing it again, stalling your momentum and giving himself time to recover. 

“Stop holding!” he hears the referee yell out to him, making him lose the grip he has on you and stare, awaiting your actions, like a deer in the headlights. 

That’s where you go in fully– a tangle of jabs and crosses and hooks are sent his way in a rehearsed choreography, having him struggle to catch up to your pace and keep dodging them all. Is this his age showing? Is he just nervous?

The desperation in him makes his blood boil, his hands slightly shake. This is not the time to let your stress get the best of you, but he can’t help but clinch you again, earning himself a fierce snicker through your teeth. He is aware he’s one foot in being deducted a point, but the desperation in him is stronger than anything he’s ever felt before. 

Only a few seconds pass before it happens– just like his worst fears predicted. Only a few seconds before the match ends, he feels himself getting separated from you, one hand of the referee raised in the air to signal that he’s been deducted a point.

He breathes heavily. The match ends. His pupils shakily scan the judges, waiting for them to count up all the points. Why did he have to foul when the victory could’ve been so close? Hyunjae wants to break his own neck in half.

The referee reads out what the judges have written down, nodding to himself as he comes back and gets ahold of both of their wrists, the pressure of his skin on Hyunjae’s feeling like scorched coal making blisters appear all over. He already knows that if he could’ve, he would be cracking his knuckles in a nervous manner right now, awaiting his ordeal.

“And the winner, by split decision,” the referee announces, voice resonating through the packed gym, “in the blue corner–”

Hyunjae barely hears the end of the sentence.

“You’re such a sore loser,” you say after entering the gym and finding Hyunjae tucked away in a silent corner, headphones covering his ears. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he had music blasting in them, helping him drown out your sheer presence, but over the last couple of months, you’ve grown quite familiar with his antics.

That’s why you know he was avoiding you. Has been since the day you beat him at the competition– since the day you completely ruined his reputation, stepped onto his dignity, and walked away happily without even giving it a second thought. Hyunjae has been avoiding you since the day you took his breath away with more than just your heavy punches, and he thinks he must do so until the day he dies.

“Will you ever talk to me again, or are we like, in enemy territory now?” you chuckle, seemingly trying to lighten up the mood.

A glare is sent your way, a heavy sigh escaping his chapped lips. “Can you drop it? I’m not in the mood.”

“So you’re still moping around–”

“Moping?” he scoffs, genuine disbelief coating his words. “Do you really not realize what happened last week? You beat me at my specialty, Y/N. You’re intriguing to say the least, but just know that you’ve made yourself my very powerful enemy.”

Only a second– even that feels like too much of a time– passes before you break out into a laugh, a true, amused giggle. You don’t know if the boy realizes just how dramatic, theatrical and absolutely batshit crazy he sounds, but by the look on his face– stoic, stone cold, brows furrowed and all– you’d guess the answer is not much.

“Hyunjae, we’re not in the newest episode of Star Wars, you don’t have to take it so seriously,” you muse, earning yourself a roll of his hazel eyes.

“Star Wars is a movie, it doesn’t have episodes,” he mumbles, avoiding eye contact. When you pay enough attention, you notice the redness tinting the tips of his ears, only further proving to you that there was no more hurt in this fight than his ego.

You keep standing around, waiting for him to say his two cents– or waiting for him to fight you, demanding a rematch. You keep waiting for him to say that it wasn’t fair, that you’re the newbie and you’re not supposed to be winning the only thing he’s ever prided himself in, but none of it comes.

Probably because Hyunjae knows you deserve all the win and glory, forever and a day. And he’s happy you won, really– he just hates the fact that he lost, because it means he found his only true weakness when fighting.

You.

“Come on, Lee,” you nudge his sneaker with the tip of your foot, playfulness radiating off your figure. You don’t wanna keep fighting him anymore– and neither does he. Because yes, when you’re in the ring, you are his enemy, but outside of it, you’ve proved yourself to be quite a good friend to him. “Let’s practice together. Maybe you can learn all my weaknesses and beat me next time,” you grin.

Hyunjae looks up at you, looking like a child being scolded during recess for not wanting to play with the other kids at the playground. Your gaze radiates challenge, teasing, but also something familiar– something that makes his stomach squeeze in a familiar way, his fingertips buzz with excitement, almost as if he’d like to reach for you, feel your skin.

Another tired sigh escapes his lips before he stands up from his place on the floor, using your hand as a leverage. He likes the way your fingers fit into his, and just that is enough for him to not think twice before he speaks the next words.

“Can I take you out?”

A quiet hum leaves your lips, seemingly lost in thought. It makes Hyunjae’s heart skip a beat, worried that the answer would break all his deeply hidden feelings. 

“Depends on how hard you hit me, I guess.”

What?

Hyunjae stills. You look at him, deeply confused.

Now it’s his time to giggle.

“I meant, like, on a date.”

“Oh!” you muse, mouth hanging open in surprise. There’s something swirling behind your orbs– a hint of thought, mental calculation. You don’t seem appalled with the idea, though, so Hyunjae finds it in him to visibly relax. “Well, if you win against me today, I might think about it.”

That’s all it takes for Lee Hyunjae to put in the extra work– he thinks this must have been the best performance of his entire life. Not only was he fighting a battle not to kiss your face with his lips instead of an uppercut the whole entirety of the spar, he was also fighting not only the match, but for you.

Your attention.

Your validation.

Your accepting of the invitation.

And turns out, winning the competition wasn’t that important in the first place– because nothing could ever compare to the joy Lee Hyunjae feels when you falter under his longing gaze in the middle of the spar, leaving him to win over you. 

Or win you over?

Both work, he thinks. It gives him a little kick, a spike of adrenaline and something even sweeter tasting on his tongue.

And sure enough, Lee Juyeon’s minivan pulls up into your driveway only a few hours later, and the sound of the honking outside is enough for your older brother to aggressively drag you outside of the house, shutting the door behind you and hollering an angry “Bye mum!” to your mother. Your figure is handled with the least amount of care possible as you’re thrown towards the white van, the door opened and 5 heads already peeking out with expecting eyes, waiting for your brother’s arrival.

“My mum made my stupid sister go with me, so I hope we have space for one more,” Sunwoo huffs as he throws his bag into the trunk, slamming it with more force than was necessary (boy does he know how to throw a scene), an encouraging voice of none other than Juyeon– the driver himself– landing in your ear. 

“Sure, just hop in!”

With that, your feet finally unglue themselves off the ground and bring you into the vehicle. You’re familiar with his friends– since a scenario like this hasn’t happened for the first time and you had to spend your fair time with Sunwoo’s circle growing up, mainly because you never really had many friends yourself. You’re not close with any of them, though, and you’re sure you haven’t seen half of them for ages. 

Lee Juyeon is the responsible one of the group. You’re comfortable with the fact that he’s the driver, since you’re not entirely sure if you’d trust any of the other men in this space behind the wheel (you fear the day your brother gets a driver’s license. You'd bet a million dollars that he’ll die while driving recklessly one day). Next to him on the passenger’s seat is Choi Chanhee, his best friend, carrying a map in his hands and twirling it in all possible directions to get his friend on the right track. In the three-seat behind those two is Ju Haknyeon, Ji Changmin and your brother himself, and in the very back of the whole van, almost in the trunk, you’re sat next to Eric Sohn– your brother’s childhood best friend.

“Hi guys,” you offer a greeting to all of them, settling into the uncomfortable leather seat (that’s peeling off, just by the way), watching as the rest of the men pay you no mind and ignore your voice, falling into a comfortable conversation with each other.

Sighing, because this always happens– your brother gets too annoyed because he has to bring you with him all the time, and you imagine his friends aren’t fond of the fact either– you settle deeper into the seat and cross your hands on your chest, looking outside of the window. You can’t imagine enjoying your trip now, since you feel like you’re a nuisance, a child they have to take care of (yes, it embarrasses you just the tiniest bit, you have to admit. Although, you do enjoy getting out of the house from time to time), and the fact that your feelings were probably more than justified and also true has you pouting, an unsatisfied feeling weighing at your lungs.

“Hi,” a voice resonates from your side, the sight of a smiling Eric peering at you taking you off guard. You didn’t expect anyone to react to your greeting– not so delayed anyway– and the sight of your brother’s best friend carrying on in the conversation with you has you shocked beyond belief. “Excited?”

Finding yourself hum in agreement– how much you are still excited for the pool and for the sun, you’re not really sure– and although you are upset, something about his open and nice demeanor has you visibly relaxing, the sparkles inviting themselves back into your eyes. “I’ve never been to the beach,” you admit, seeing Eric gasp at you in surprise.

“Really?” he asks. “I go every year with my parents.”

“Well,” you hum, “you know how my mother is…” you sigh, chewing on the inside of your cheek. It’s easier to joke about it than to actually let the fact get to you– with your mother being the main news anchor, she is too busy to actually go on trips and form bonds with her own children sometimes. That’s why you spent most of your childhood at Eric’s family’s house in the first place– this is what made you the closest with Sunwoo’s same aged friend. His parents were nice enough to let you stay over and have sleepovers whenever your mum had to leave suddenly and take week-long trips abroad, or have emergency shifts during late evenings. 

Eric hums, sympathizing with you. “Well, at least you get to experience it now!”

“Yeah,” you awkwardly nod, playing with the hem of your jean shorts. It’s the shorts you made yourself by cutting the legs off your favorite pants after you grew out of them and they got too short, and they’re starting to look a little worn-out now. Maybe you should beg your mum to get you some new clothing.

The conversation between the boys grows in volume, doing nothing to help you to relax in the crowded vehicle. You can’t really find a place to fit yourself in and talk, the topics too unfamiliar for you and the feeling of not even being welcome in the discussion sitting heavy on your chest, when a finger bears itself to the flesh of your thigh, making you snap your head around to gape at the source of the contact. Eric looks at you with a boyish grin, sparkles evident in his eyes.

“Wanna see something?” he asks.

“Sure.”

The male digs around his backpack, hands searching through the contents of his bag for only a couple of seconds– since he’s the neat one, contrary to your messy brother– before he takes out a small gadget: a square with a little screen on top, a silver, circular button space sitting big in the very middle of the device. Eric throws the thing into your lap, smiling when you take it into your hands and examine it with curious eyes.

“Have you seen one before? My dad got it for me last week,” he boosts, satisfied with your reaction to it. 

Your mother’s job pays quite well– meaning that you usually have the latest gadgets, the latest trends– but if you’re being honest, you haven’t seen one of these in real life before. Yes, you caught a glimpse of an ad for it in the town center, on one of the big billboards while passing by to get to school in the morning, so you know that it’s an MP3 player, but still; this was your first time touching one and examining it in real life. 

“How does it work?” you ask, watching as the boy scoots from his seat to the middle one, so he is now sitting directly next to you, before he takes out wired headphones from the first department of his backpack and turns the little square over in his hands, finding where the jack goes.

“You put those in,” he says, plugging in the headphones, “and then you press this…” he explains, taking the device out of your hand and pushing on the power button for a few seconds, “and then it should play.”

Watching him with expecting eyes, the boy finally puts the MP3 player back into your hold. Then, his fingers swiftly put the respective earphones into your ears– like you’d do to a little kid that has no idea how they work, making you a little flushed at the action– and after that, you’re left with the sound of an unfamiliar song playing in your ears, making the sound of the chatter in the van completely tune out. Eric keeps on watching you, a sense of pride in his eyes as you nod at him, all excited with the new explory, before he takes one of the earphones out of your ear, grinning.

“Cool, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “The song is good,” you dumbly say, watching as the boy next to you pridefully nods at the compliment, resting his back against the car seat. 

“It’s the H.O.T album. My dad says they’re good,” he mumbles, moving the headphone he took from you and placing it into his ear, making you nod at him in acknowledgement. The action has your insides bubble with disappointment, thinking that the fun is over as you reach for the other earphone as well, offering it to the male.

Eric looks at you with a shocked pout, shaking his head. “No, we can share!” he says, pointing towards your ear. “If you want, of course.”

The action has you smiling, a shy nod escaping out of you as you reach and put the earphone back into your ear, letting yourself fall deeper into the car seat, listening to the song from Eric’s MP3 player. You’re grateful for his presence– he didn’t have to keep up a conversation with you. He could ignore you, just like the rest of his friend group always has. Maybe it was something about the two of you growing up together that always made the boy at least a bit more affectionate towards you than the rest.

You spend the car ride to the beach house with Eric leaning on your side, listening to music and his occasional blabbering about how his previous days went. 

Somehow, you're glad the seat beside him was the only vacant one when you arrived to the vehicle.

YOUR SEVENTH BIRTHDAY, 1989

You don't quite remember when you met Eric for the first time, if you’re being completely honest. The first memory you have of him is of your seventh birthday party, although you’re almost certain the boy’s been present at some point of your life before– at one point, you think you saw a picture of him and Sunwoo, two chubby toddlers, watching you as you laid on a blanket on the ground somewhere in your photo album. As far as you’re concerned, he may as well have been there when your mother brought you back from the hospital– although you think he must have been too young for that back then.

The first memory you have of Eric Sohn is the day you turned seven– a gloomy, sad day that in the moment, you prayed you wouldn’t have to remember in the first place.

It was already established that while your brother is the social butterfly, you don’t have a big friend group. Actually, you could count the number of your friends on one hand, and since the amount wasn’t as big, your mother allowed you to invite them all over to your house to celebrate your birthday with you. 

She baked a cake, she decorated the living room, hell, she even took a day off from work– something you deemed special, for it doesn’t happen often– and as you sat on the floor of your living room, the cake standing proud on the small coffee table, waiting for your friends to arrive, you hummed a song under your breath, the clock slowly passing the time you agreed for them to come over and celebrate.

At first, you didn’t mind it– everybody gets late sometimes, it’s okay. It was just a birthday party, and you had a lot of time. Not everything had to be set on schedule.

But the closer the clock moved to being one hour, than two after the time your friends were supposed to come, you grew worried. Your mother’s nervous pacing around the living room and her heavy sighs as she sat next to you on the floor, smiling at you in what you can only explain as sad way made you more and more anxious about the fact that you only had three friends, but all three of them seemed to not care enough to come celebrate your birthday with you. And as your mother finally took the final bow in the form of a soft hand on your inner thigh, her tone gentle as she called your name– “Y/N, I think we should light the candles,” you began to tear up.

You were supposed to eat the cake with your friends. You were supposed to hear them sing the birthday song to you. You were supposed to turn on the radio and dance around with your classmates, eat the sweets and unwrap the cheap, but heartfelt gifts they brought along with them to celebrate your birthday. 

But none of these scenarios were happening, and you felt incredibly, incredibly lonely and sad. Forgotten, if you will. Not cared for, definitely.

Hiding your face into your hands, you started to cry. This disappointment was too big for your small heart to take, and you no longer cared about the cake, the candles, the seaweed soup your mother cooked for you to celebrate, the gifts, or the party. All you wanted to do was hide in your room and never come out– something about the whole situation felt deeply embarrassing, and to this day, the moment before the whole day turned around still makes you feel a bit ashamed of yourself. 

Too busy crying, you didn’t notice your older brother watching you with big bambi eyes, a worried glance sent your way each time your sobs grew louder and louder. And maybe the boy only wanted to taste the cake (he’s been bugging your mum about it since the very morning, but he was always sent off with a scolding look telling him that he’ll get a slice when everyone arrives), but no matter what his true intentions were, his actions still managed to pull your seventh birthday party together in a way you never imagined.

The sound of the front door faintly resonated in your brain somewhere in the middle of your aimless sobbing, but you paid it no mind, thinking it was just Sunwoo going out to the yard to kick the ball. See, your older brother had never really known what to do when you cried growing up– it didn’t matter if he was the reason for your tears or if anyone else was. If he was the reason for your emotional outbursts, he tried to shut you up with his palm and get you to stop crying before his mother found out and gave him a scolding, but if someone else was, the small boy sometimes turned angry at the source. Kicking his classmate that once made a snarky comment about you and made you tear up or punching his friend when he was too harsh with you was all he knew to do in these situations, so he wasn’t the one to comfort you with words or hugs. It was only natural for him to escape in this situation.

You were brought to a state of shock and surprise when a hand landed on your shoulder, a familiar voice breaking you from your emotional turmoil.

“Why are you crying? We have to eat the cake!” you heard, your big, sad eyes meeting the small figure of the boy living next door, your brother nervously stepping from one side to the other right behind his best friend. “Can you light the candles, Mrs?” Eric politely asked your mum, pointing towards the cake waiting sadly at the coffee table, the figure of your mother leaving your side only shortly to get the matches from the kitchen and illuminate your face with the small flames.

Confusion mirrored your features as you watched your brother and his best friend sing the birthday song to you while your mum lit your candles, both boys clapping and dancing around, acting silly just to get a laugh from you. You didn't know how Eric got there, but you guessed there are some good sides to having him as your neighbor. The energetic boy did his best to brighten up your mood a bit, and when you blew out the candle, making a wish, Sunwoo even went as far as smashing your face into the cake to bring in the full birthday authenticity.

That got him a slap to the back of his head from your mother, as well as made you stand up from your position– no longer making you look like a disappointed bulk of pity– and chase him around the room, icing falling off your nose to the laminated floor. You got your revenge and smeared the chocolate all over his forehead (he let you chase him down only because it was your birthday and he really, really hated to see his sister cry, but he won’t ever tell you that) and as the three of you sat back down to the floor, watching your mother slice the cake and offer it to you on small white plates, you realized you suddenly weren't as sad anymore.

“What did you wish for?” Eric asked you, mouth full of cake and face messy with chocolate.

“I can’t tell you,” you hummed, eyebrows furrowed. “Then it won’t come true.”

“You probably wished for that doll you saw in the store the other day,” Sunwoo snickered as he swallowed, having you glare at him and send a sharp kick to his shin, unwatched by your mother (thankfully), as the boy fought you back, having no mercy.

Music suddenly filled the room as Eric stood up and put the radio on, his 9 year old brain smart enough to know how the device worked, his small figure dancing away to the songs playing on the single radio station you could play without carefully sorting out the antenna so it faced the north, and truly, you didn’t know how it happened, but it had you standing up and dancing around, exactly how you'd imagined doing with your friends from school.

The day wasn’t ruined– quite the opposite, really. It was one of your favorite birthday parties, and ever since then, Eric was invited to every single one you had after. And while Sunwoo may act like he doesn’t hate anything more in this world than having a younger sister, every time you feel like a burden to him, you remember this very afternoon.

You will never tell anyone what you wished for that day– but just to let everyone in on the secret, 

it was to somehow, just like Sunwoo, find someone like Eric for yourself as well. 

JUNE OF 1999

Standing at the side of the pool, eyes squinting from the inevitable force of the sun, you’re starting to regret your decision of coming along just a little. See, you usually don’t protest whenever Sunwoo aggressively drags you around and brings you everywhere he’s supposed to, because even though you love to see your brother angry (especially when you’re the reason behind the emotion), you’d also hate to see him miss out, but now, as the scorching hot sun is having no mercy on every exposed inch of skin– and believe me, there’s a lot of it, since you’re wearing your swimming trunks– and the sweat on your forehead is no longer culminating in beads, but rolling painfully slowly down your forehead, you do admit you’d be a little bit happier in the shade of your little room than here, watching the guys play volleyball in the comfort of the freezing cold pool.

And as the only female around the house, you settle with the patriarchy and bring out a small folding chair and a camping table alongside with a big, sharp knife, struggling to hoist up the giant watermelon you got in a grocery store on your way to the beach house, with the intention of cutting it and serving it to the guys later. Who knows, maybe they’ll like you a little more after that. 

The knife sinks into the thick green skin of the watermelon easily, and so as you accompany yourself with the excited (and not so excited screams coming from the losing side of the game– mainly your brother himself), you cut up the fruit into halves, then quarters, and as you stare at the moon crescents settled on the camping table, you decide to play nice and cut up the fruit into smaller triangles as well, to really get on everyone’s good side.

The yearning for male validation awakes in a woman pretty early on in life. It’s an inevitable misfortune.

“Told you Sunwoo’s all talk but no game!” you hear Haknyeon yell out as the game seemingly ends, the younger boy lunging at him in the pool, fighting him for the truthful words. Glancing at the commotion, you notice the guys slowly getting out of the pool, making you heave out in victory– you’re finally gonna have your turn in the pool. Well, if they don’t decide to occupy it again before you even get a chance to get in.

“Y/N! You cut up the watermelon?” Eric asks a very obvious question, walking up to you with beads of water all over his half-naked body. His dark hair is damply sitting against his forehead, making him look like a wet puppy, but as the male gets closer to you, he drags his palm through the locks and pushes them back, revealing his forehead– a sight sweet to your eyes, but you refuse to pay it much attention in the heat of the moment. It’s just the sun making you delirious as the idea of finding him attractive flashes through your brain, that’s all. 

“I did! Take one,” you smile, watching as the rest of the guys walk over to your little stand– while also obnoxiously swatting out water out of their hair like dogs, refusing to use towels like normal people– and finally, there it comes: appreciative smiles appear on their faces as they each take a piece, biting down on the fruit with delighted sighs.

Sunwoo walks up to you with a surprised look on his face, sighing as he messes with your hair. “If I knew you’d be our servant, I wouldn’t have even minded you going in the first place.”

“You do something nice for people and they jump on the chance to exploit you,” you hum, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s just like you, Kim Sunwoo.”

“No, that’s just me having older brother privileges.”

“I hope you choke on that, you know,” you bite at him, pointing towards the piece of sweet watermelon in his hands, the smile on his face turning bitter. There’s a satisfied look on your face when your brother does, indeed, choke on a watermelon seed a few seconds later– and they say dreams don’t come true.

“You didn’t have to,” you hear Eric speak up from the other side, your head turning to face the male, his features appreciative and warm. “Thank you,” he beams. There’s redness on the tip of his nose and his forehead, signaling his quickly approaching sunburn, and you can’t help but laugh out at his clueless, Rudolph the red nosed reindeer self. 

“What’s so funny?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows at you in question.

“Nothing,” you peep, “you just look like you forgot to use sunscreen,” you mumble, watching as the male gasps and touches his face, a horrified expression overtaking him when the skin under his fingertips burns to the touch. 

“I didn’t forget! It must have rubbed off in the pool,” he mourns, “I must look stupid!” 

“Only a little,” you tease, a grin overtaking your features. See, there’s something about the fact that you’ve known Eric for the entirety of your whole life that makes you more prone to teasing him– you’re familiar with your dynamics and just how far you can go, so his next actions startle you just the tiniest bit as the male looks sternly at you, throwing the half-eaten watermelon slice to the camping table. You thought you had the risks calculated– apparently, you didn't.

“What did you say?”

Examining his features, seeing no signs of anger– just the stoic, fakely-offended face of your brother’s childhood best friend– you shrug. “That you look a bit stupid with your face like that.”

“Oh, okay,” he nods, “you’re going down for that.”

“What do you mea–”

Your words are cut short when the male lunges at you, his arms enveloping your thighs and holding you up. The contact of his cold skin from the pool and your heated figure makes goosebumps appear all over your body, your hands instinctively reaching around him to support yourself as he walks closer to the pool– his intentions are suddenly painfully clear and you start to panic. 

“This will teach you to respect your elders,” Eric huffs, the turquoise surface of the water slowly coming into your point of view.

“Stop! Stop-stop-stop,” you squirm, kicking your feet and trying to take down the predator, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, alright?”

The male takes a halt for a split second– making you foolishly believe he’ll let you off– before he breaks out into a devilish grin and continues to walk to the edge of the pool. “Too late.”

“Eric!” you scream, the volume of your voice resonating through the whole beach, your heart thumping wild against your ribcage with the awaiting process. You’re not even sure what you’re scared of anymore– you can swim and you bet the water will feel nice against the scorching sun– but still, you’re absolutely terrified as the male has no mercy on you, carrying you steadily towards the water. “At least let me tie my hair first! You can dump me in after, I promise,” you mourn, trying to buy yourself more time.

“Alright,” he nods, waiting at the very edge of the pool, leaving you to take the purple scrunchie off your wrist and gather your hair together, preparing to tie it into a bun so it doesn’t get in your way when you’re in the pool. The hair tie is just at the tips of your fingertips, the first loop over the hair ready to be done, when a scream cuts out of your throat.

The feeling of falling suddenly overtakes your body, leaving you no time to prepare yourself for the impact of the cold water against your skin and all up in your nose, since you didn’t pluck it when you were dumped into the pool. The fall only lasts a split second until you’re below the water, the force of it resonating in your ears, and when you finally act on your instincts and stand up in the pool (it wasn’t even that deep in the first place, only reaching to your upper stomach), you cough out all the water and pray to gods you don’t throw up chlorine into the freshly cleaned pool. After you’re done catching your breath and getting oxygen into your lungs again, you do your best at getting all the hair out of your face. 

There is laughter landing into your ears as soon as you manage to get all the water out of them by leaning your head to the side and violently slapping each one, and when your eyes look up, you see an amused Eric Sohn bending over in his waist at your disheveled appearance. 

Grunting and pointing a finger to the criminal that almost made you drown, you huff out. “I’ll kill you! Just you watch.”

Your scrunchie nowhere to be found, forever lost somewhere outside of the beach house, you think, as it flew off your hand in the impact of the attack, shock makes your figure shake alongside of the coldness of the water, making you audibly sigh. 

Yes. You do regret coming along just a little.

JULY OF 1999

Somewhere along the way, Eric Sohn starts acting as if he’s your second older brother. Sure, you’ve known the male your whole entire life and he’s seen you grow up, but it took him 17 years of your life to come to a point where he gives you equal amount of attention whenever he’s over at your house than he does to your brother, and even asks Sunwoo if you’re coming along with them whenever they leave to hang out somewhere else. It’s a change that comes naturally and slowly, and you welcome it unknowingly– the revelation shocks you on a hot summer day, though, when the idea finally comes to you in full force.

You would even argue and say Eric acts more like your brother than your actual sibling does– he asks if you’ve eaten and listens to you when you talk (which Sunwoo never does, well, except from when he’s arguing with you). Eric even compliments your outfits sometimes and lets you borrow his MP3 player from time to time– Sunwoo would never share his things with you, no matter how hard you pleaded and threatened to tell your mum. Yes, your brother's an adult and you’re one year away from becoming one– you still resolve your conflicts through your only parent, though. Some things, you never grow out of.

“I wanna try using the skateboard now, Sunwoo,” you order sternly when the boy finally reaches your destination. You’ve been sitting on the sidewalk for quite some time now, since your brother and his friend decided that they’re gonna try out their new skateboards on the hottest day of the year. Your town doesn’t have fancy skateparks and ramps like the ones you’ve seen in the music videos on TV, so you don’t really know what initially made the two buy those things, but you do admit that even driving up and down the road in front of your house does seem a little fun– so much you’d love to try it.

“What a shame we all wish for things we can’t have,” he shrugs ironically, shaking his head at you from his position above. The male reaches down for his bag, taking out a water bottle and putting it against his plush lips, all while you glare at him from below, still seated in your initial position. Eric comes up to you two, squishing at the soft plastic bottle in Sunwoo’s hold, making the water splash your older brother in the face, leaving a winning grin to be shared between you and the shorter boy, an expression that makes you all warm on the inside. See, at least Eric always has your back.

“You can try mine, if you want,” the latter shrugs, offering you a smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “why not?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “I just didn’t expect you to offer, since as you saw, my dear brother just refused when I asked…” you mumble, standing up from the sidewalk and taking the skateboard into your hand. Eric offers it to you with an outstretched arm and watches as you put the board on the floor, squinting at it with much examination.

“Do you know how to ride it?” he asks.

“No,” you shake your head, “but I mean, if Sunwoo can do it, how hard can it really be?” you joke, seeing as the said boy glares at you, finally finishing his water and dropping the bottle to the ground. 

“I’ll remind you of that statement when you eat shit on the pavement,” he shushes you, rolling his eyes. 

Not paying more attention to the grumpy being that is your own brother, you relocate your attention back to the skateboard on the heated road. You’re lucky you live on a street where cars don’t often drive by, since your neighborhood is on the very edge of the town, so you don’t really fear being run over by a pickup truck. What you do worry about, though, is your lacking sense of balance, which you discovered when you learned how to ride the bike for the first time. While your brother was a professional in no time, it took you weeks to get it right, and so with the idea of riding a board that provides you zero sense of security, you get a bit worried for your own life.

Dragging your hair out of your face and aimlessly trying to tuck it behind your ears– there’s no use in trying though, as the strands slip out just as fast as they found their place– you keep staring at the board only a few centimeters away from your feet, mentally calculating your next move. There’s a noise of a backpack being opened and rustling around in the background of your miserable thoughts, and when you look up to see what’s going on, you notice Eric offering you a small, purple bundle of fabric. 

“What’s that?” you ask, even though the answer is clear as the day– you recognise your own scrunchie with no problem. You’re just surprised to see it in his hold. You thought it was forever buried somewhere in the beach house, since you weren’t able to find it after you got out of the pool, no matter how hard you tried.

“Oh,” he shrugs, amidst a little too nonchalantly, “I found it and figured it was yours, but I forgot to give it back to you then… it seems like you need it now, though,” he offers you an explanation, lips pressed into a thin line that slightly signifies a smile.

“Ah,” you gasp, nodding as you take the hair tie out of his outstretched palm, gathering your hair into a bun and tying it up on the crown of your head– the staring contest you’ve been having with the board is much clearer now, when you don’t have your messy strands in the way. The idea of Eric keeping your scrunchie after finding it at the beach house makes your stomach do a weird kind of turn– you guess it made you a bit weirded out, if you’re being honest.

“Want some help with that?” he asks, pointing towards his skateboard.

Nervous, cracking your knuckles as you meet his eyes– he looks a bit amused, but still genuine– you nod, admitting defeat. There’s no way you’re getting on top of that board without help and not falling down. It’s always better to be safe than to be sorry, and so when Eric laughs airly at your composure and takes a few steps closer towards you, you let the male lead you, finding comfort in his secure words and actions.

Eric offers you his arms to hold when you try to get on the skateboard. He is peering at you from under his eyelashes when you put one of your legs onto the wood, his grip on your forearm getting firmer when you try to get your other foot on as well– and you must admit that you suddenly don’t feel like you might die anymore when there’s someone holding you and standing by your side. 

“See? It’s not that hard,” Eric mumbles, his voice low and reassuring from the proximity. You notice your hands sweating a little when his palm envelopes yours– damn the sun and its unbearable heat making you embarrass yourself– but he doesn’t mention it as he firmly holds you and meets your eyes. “I’m gonna drag you around a bit so you get used to it before trying yourself,” he says before taking a few steps forward, preparing to be your own type of personal driver.

Having him instruct you and help you around makes you feel more comfortable on the board. Sunwoo would never do such a thing for you– he’d enjoy watching you fall down and break your neck and possibly die– so you’re more than happy to have someone in your life that takes care of you in ways your older brother refuses to. 

The skateboard moves forward a little, starting slow, but then picking up speed as Eric jogs a little, making you laugh at the action. He does not have to go above and beyond, but he still does– but you guess it’s good for him to let out his energy somewhere. After a while, he looks back at you and meets your eye with a warm gaze, making you nod at him reassuringly and hold up a thumb of the hand he’s not holding right now, signaling that you’re okay and enjoying yourself. That has the male let go of your hand and let you take the road with the laws of physics, moving forward by yourself with the force he created. 

It’s nice. It’s fun. 

Yes, you totally understand why Eric and Sunwoo wanted skateboards after seeing them on TV. Hell, you want one now.

“Try it yourself now!” Eric encourages you as the board naturally comes to a stop under you, and his smiling face is enough for you to take initiative and nod, relocating one foot off the wood and placing it on the floor, then kicking it and making yourself move on the simple vehicle.

A moment of surprise envelopes you like a warm hug when you manage to not fall off and keep your balance, the joy of it making you try to go faster on the board, kicking once, twice against the pavement with the sole of your old, beaten up shoe. “I’m doing it!” you yell, glancing back at Eric standing on the sidewalk, watching you with excited eyes. The male offers you a victorious holler, something that makes you break into a laugh, makes your confidence blossom in marvelous ways.

Confidence rises in you so much you try to take a U-turn and go back to your teacher– perhaps showing off that you really got the hang of it now, or something– but as you try to maneuver the board and turn right, there it comes: the moment where you realize that you were, once again, too overly-confident in your abilities that are, sadly, very poor. Your body sways from side to side, your poor balance laughs at you and points an accusing finger at your attempts, and, well, to put it frankly, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes and the moment plays in slow motion as you lose the board from below your feet– the wood flying somewhere to the opposite side of the road, not at all where you meant to go in the first place– and your body inevitably comes crashing to the ground.

Awaiting the hard pavement meeting your nose and breaking it, you brace yourself with palms outstretched in front of you, the last remains of self-perseverance entering the sane parts of your brain in what you think are the last seconds of your miserable life. Another moment of surprise greets you when your yelp is muffled against something soft and your hands don’t hit the hard pavement, your ears filled with a grunt that belongs to another human swiftly chiming in and catching you before you fall.

Firm hands hold your waist– the touch somehow familiar, enveloping you in a strange sense of deja vu– and even though your body goes limp in terror, the male has you back on your feet in no time, his palms on the exposed skin of your stomach. The realization has you burning up as you look up and meet Eric’s eyes, gasping at the closeness of his face to yours. 

“You okay over there?” he asks as you unconsciously study his face– you never noticed his nose looked this nice up close– before you wake out of it and nod urgently, breaking away from his hold. You’re not gonna try to calculate the effort he must have put in just to chime in and catch you from where he was standing in such a short moment, but something about the passing thought of it has you weak in your knees from gratefulness. 

“Uhm- yeah,” you nod, kicking the pavement with your stained shoes, “I just… miscalculated my skills, that’s all,” you sheepishly hum, hearing the boy snicker at your shaken-up composure.

Watching him take off and retrieve his skateboard from where it wandered off against the curb– much to his golden retriever energy– you sigh and prepare to go sit back on the sidewalk, having enough of new experiences from the shock still lingering in your fingertips. You take a glance down the road, seeing your older brother cruising on the street– when and how he got there, you truly have no idea– when you hear Eric, who seemingly has different ideas for your next actions, call at you from the middle of the pavement.

“Where are you going? Come back!” he asks, having you look at him in surprise, mouth agape and eyes big, staring at him. He now has the board under his shoulder, but puts it back on the road and points at it, shrugging to himself. “I’ll push you down the road, it’s gonna be fun!”

“Eric, I’m literally going to die–”

“No, you’re not. Come on, I promise,” he says, but still, he doesn’t have you convinced. Your feet move against your best conclusions, though, and when you come to a halt right in front of your companion, he offers you a boyish grin. “Sit down on it, that way you’re more balanced. I swear you’re not gonna fall off, okay? I got you.”

“You promise?”

“Yes,” he nods, determined.

“Pinky swear,” you mumble, holding up your pinky finger– all thoughts of seeming childish pushed to the side in the desperate moment– and the male in front of you shakes his head in disbelief, breaking into a laugh.

“Cute,” he huffs, “yeah, okay. Pinky swear,” he nods, interlacing your pinky with his and bumping his thumb against yours, the seal foolishly making you feel more secure as you follow his order and take a seat on the skateboard, your hands gripping the bottom of the wood so hard your knuckles turn white.

“Okay, ready? 3, 2, 1–” he chants as he pushes you, two steady hands coming in contact with your shoulder blades, force making you move on the board, wheels taking you down with gravity. The sound of Eric’s shoes hitting the pavement fills your ears as you go faster, and as you finally get to the part of the hill that takes a downwards slope, he offers you a final push, sending you down the road. 

Wind makes your hair fly back, your surroundings blurring as you yelp and scream, but you can’t say you’re not enjoying the ride. Eric was right– it was fun, you liked it, and something about the gesture had you all warm on the inside. The breeze has you cool down a little in the summer heat, and the board continues to move even as you pass your older brother standing at the bottom of the slope, away from your trajectory. 

Body relaxing when the skateboard finally slows down, you let out a heartfelt laughter. Turning back and seeing Eric jog down the road with a humongous grin on his face, you offer him two thumbs up above your head, watching as he returns the gesture and makes his way back to the two of you on the bottom of the small hill.

The truth is, this was the day you realized Eric Sohn has always found his way to make you feel included and safe. 

You can’t help but feel grateful.

AUGUST OF 1999

“Sunwoo, you have to tie a knot here and then– no, you dumbass, you’re doing it completely wrong,” you mourn as you watch your older brother with a mess of thread in his lap, a focused scowl on his face. There’s a fan standing across from you, blowing cold air into your face, but you still feel yourself grow heated with frustration as Sunwoo just can’t help but not understand the art of making friendship bracelets. It’s not like you’re forcing him to do them– he was the one that asked you to show him how to, muttering something about offering one to his classmate Yeji once he’s back in school– so in theory, he should be putting in effort, no? 

Or maybe he is. Maybe he’s just… incompetent.

“I don’t get it,” Sunwoo hums under his breath, sighing as he leans against the sofa in your living room, the two of you sitting on the floor accompanied by his best friend squinting at you from the opposite side, a comic book in the latter's hand. The myth of men not being able to multi-task is quickly thrown into the bin as you watch Eric pay equal amount of attention to the comic book and the dialogue between you and your brother, and when Sunwoo seems to give up on the art of making friendship bracelets, his best friend can’t help but laugh.

“You’re giving up already? This is how you want to get a girlfriend?” you poke your brother to his side and take the threads off his lap, examining the mess of a safety pin and meters of yarn, all knotted up and not coming along in the shape you taught him to at all.

“It’s not to get a girlfriend, I just-”

“Sure,” you roll your eyes, huffing as you roll his poor attempt at friendship bracelet into a ball and throw it to the corner of the room, making a mental note to pick it up and throw it to the bin later. “You know what, just give her this one and pretend you made it,” you mutter, taking a bracelet you'd already made to demonstrate in between your fingers and throw it into Sunwoo’s lap, the older one catching it and examining it under his nose.

“That looks pretty good,” he hums, making you snort at his appreciative comment. The bracelet is pink and red, the colors just screaming romance and cute energy, which is exactly what a girl needs to be swayed by your brother. You can’t really believe a bracelet will make her swoop into his arms, because truthfully, with your brother’s face and manners, every living thing is keeping a fair distance, but hey, it doesn’t hurt to try, does it? Maybe his classmate is… majorly blind? That might do it?

“Of course it looks good,” you scoff, “that’s because I made it,” you nod, averting your gaze towards your lap, threading your fingers through the yarn you attached to a safety pin on your sweatpants to keep the growing friendship bracelet in place. 

“Then why is the one you’re making right now so ugly?” Eric asks, pointing towards the creation. 

Glancing up at the male slowly, mentally throwing all different kinds of curses at him for daring to talk badly about your craft, you huff. “What do you mean, ugly?”

“The colors… they don’t… they don’t really go together,” Eric sheepishly admits, scratching the back of his neck, quickly averting his gaze from you and gluing it back into his comic book. You think that if he doesn’t stop being a smart-ass and throw jabs at your artistic choices, he’s gonna have to protect his comic book with his own body– and you bet he’d do that, because he borrowed it from the library. The fees for damage are high.

“That’s just… not true at all,” you muse, but groggily take a look at the creation once again, but now, thanks to the remark, seeing it in a completely different way. Shades of orange, brown and purple stare back at you amidst a little disappointedly, and as you thread the yarn and make a couple of knots to end the bracelet, you can’t help but feel a pout growing on your face from the realization. Eric might be right. It does look a little bad…

“Whatever. Your taste is just bad,” you snap as you finish off the craft piece, unclasping the safety pin and sliding the bracelet off the inside, freeing it from the hold. Eric laughs a little at your frustrated state– similarly to what you do when you manage to get Sunwoo upset– and with that, you sigh and put the bracelet on the coffee table.

“I’m going out to the store to get some chocolates,” you say as you stand up, goal clear in your mind, “have fun, losers.”

“You’re still collecting the stickers from these?” Sunwoo asks, a mischievous smile growing on his lips. The teasing is inevitable and coming very soon, and there’s nothing you can do about it– you’re fully aware, which only further makes you want to escape the situation more quickly. Rolling your eyes at your brother’s antics, you move towards the door. 

“Yes, Sunwoo, I am. They’re cute and make me happy, do you have a problem with that?” you point an accusing finger at the male, having him shrug, tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

“You’re such a kid,” he huffs, averting his gaze from you when he lands the comment, the jab coming straight at your fragile heart.

“Okay, then,” you note, “I’ll just have my pretty and cute bracelet back, and you can get your girlfriend something else-”

The male quickly regains his previous composure, swatting his hands in hurry just to make you halt in your sentence. His eyes are big and his mouth is a little agape in terror as he tries to save his ass, plea written all over his face. “I was just joking! Don’t be so petulant… go get your cute stickers, they’re so fun!”

Humming to yourself, your face is tugged up into a victorious smile. “That's what I thought. So, as I was saying, have fun, losers.”

“Wait!” Eric suddenly calls for you, making you turn on your heel in the middle of your escape, eyes peering at the male. “Don’t I get a bracelet too?”

The request catches you off guard. There’s a certain kind of spark in Eric Sohn’s eyes as he asks the question, and you can’t really place it in any category, but it has you nervously shrugging at the preposition. You’re not really sure why Eric would want a bracelet from you, but to avoid confrontation and also the weird leap of your heart surely leading you into cardiac arrest, you only shrug and move back inside of the living room, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you scan the surroundings, searching for something.

“Sure,” you nod, taking the ugly bracelet off the table and offering it to him, “you can have that one.”

You hold a staring contest with the older boy for a couple of seconds, his head undoubtedly swirling with arguments and comments about the apparel of the friendship bracelet, but he’s smart– he must know the survival of his beloved comic book must be at stake. So, he only nods and smiles at you, outstretching his hand to you and nudging his head in its direction.

“Okay,” he hums, “tie it for me?”

A second comes by– a heartbeat, really– in which you chew on your bottom lip and gasp at the request, but still, you nod and come closer, crouching down to be at his level and taking the thread into your fingers. You wrap the bracelet around his wrist, making sure to leave a bit of wiggle room before you tie a knot, bringing the ends together, all while feeling the eyes of Eric glued to your face, watching every micro expression flash through your unsettling composure.

When you’re done, making a move to hide your hands behind your back and standing up, your limbs bump into each other and send an unspoken sense of electricity all through your body. The sensation is so strange you don’t meet anyone’s eye before you leave the room, yelling out a goodbye as you hurriedly open the front door and run out to get fresh air (it’s August, though. The air is humid and only makes your head spin more).

You clear your throat before you take off to the grocery store. It's only when you're halfway there that you realize you'd forgotten to bring your wallet with you. It's okay, though– you take this chance to walk around, regaining your casualty.

You bet Eric will take the bracelet off in a matter of a week.

SEPTEMBER OF 1999

The leaves start turning orange and the weather a bit colder when you become hyper-aware of your shifting composure whenever Eric Sohn is around. The way you feel heat rushing to your cheeks whenever he calls you cutie, a nickname he’s had reserved for you since you two were little kids, the way you feel weak in your knees whenever he casually brings his arm around your shoulders or when he bends down to tie your shoelace in the middle of the sidewalk. You don’t really know what those sudden changes are, yet, you feel a bit embarrassed by them whenever they take place. You don’t think it’s normal to feel this way around your brother’s best friend, and the more you hang out with him, the more you wish you read less books as a child– because now, you’re also hyper-aware of the title those feelings may have. 

Still, it only comes to you on one September afternoon– you wake up from blissful unawareness and jolt with the quickly opening pit in your stomach at the strange revelation.

“Eric! Sunwoo isn’t home, though?” you mumble, confused as you notice the boy standing on your doorway, a plastic bag in his hand and a red Nike jacket enveloping his frame.

“I know, he said he’s hanging out with Juyeon hyung today,” he nods, “I brought you something, though,” he says, holding up the bag and making sure you get a chance to see it, offering you a boyish grin.

“Oh?” you gasp, furrowing your eyebrows at the male. When you do nothing to invite him inside, he does so himself– slightly nudging you in your side as he passes your figure and enters your house. He acts like he owns the place, and by the amount of time he’s spent in your home, you’d think he does– he doesn’t, though. The only thing he owns is just a lot of audacity.

The male takes off his shoes in the entryway and walks his way over to your room– a surprising act, considering he’s spent the least amount of time in this very place– and when he’s sure you’re following his every move, he empties the contents of the bag to the middle of your freshly made bed. Watching as approximately ten items fall out of the plastic, your eyes widen with surprise as you recognise your favorite chocolate– the mini bars with stickers inside, the ones you collect and stick into your journal and look at in the middle of the night, giggling to yourself and kicking your feet at the adorable pictures in your make-shift collect book.

“Woah,” you gasp when the male looks at you, seemingly awaiting your response, and when he gets the wished outcome, pride overtakes his features, shrugging to himself.

“My mum got some for free because she bought a lot of cabbage for kimchi yesterday,” he explains, “I thought of you when I saw them, so I bought you some more.”

“I- you-” you stutter, emotions too big for your own good swelling all inside your fragile, little self, hands running into your hair and tugging at the roots to wake yourself up from the dream. “You didn’t have to!”

“We got them anyway, and I know you like the stickers,” Eric shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, completely ignoring the fact that he said he bought you some more, your heart skipping a beat at the sentiment. Clearing your throat, you tentatively take a step closer to your bed, gathering a bar of chocolate into your hand and opening it, taking a bite.

“You can have the stickers if you give me some chocolate,” Eric says close to your ear, almost as if he was creating a masterplan, to which you eagerly nod and plop onto your bed, moving the bars of sweets into one pile. As you continue to munch on the first one, you unwrap the sticker and look at it, praying to yourself as if you were checking if your lottery ticket was worth any cent– hoping you get a sticker you don’t own yet.

The image of a cute panda would cheer anyone up even in their darkest moments– not you, though, as you mourn and sigh, disappointment clear in your features. 

“What?” Eric asks, eyes big pools of worry.

“I already got that one.”

“Ah,” he nods, seemingly understanding– much to your surprise, “well, we got 9 more tries, let’s get to eating.”

Wrappers are rustling in your bed sheets as you and Eric eat the concerning amount of chocolate, gathering the stickers in a little pile on top of your notebook, promising each other to not look at the stickers as you go and just make a grand reveal at the end. Eric’s full cheeks are a sight you enjoy, telling him he looks like a squirrel– to which he sends a light flick to your forehead, telling you you don’t look much different– and soon enough, the nine bars left disappear from your plain sight (you only had 3 and Eric ate the remaining 5. He’s a growing boy, though, so you understand. He needs to get his undying energy from somewhere.).

“Ready for the reveal?” you ask, locking your gaze with Eric.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

With that, you get to the pile of stickers in the middle of your bedsheets. Looking at the first one, there’s a happy squeal cutting out of your throat, the image of an adorable yellow duck warming you up with euphoria. 

“You don’t have that one yet?”

“I don’t,” you nod, “this is just perfect.”

Eric nods and watches you with a certain kind of warmth in his gaze as you open up your notebook and stick the newest addition to your little sticker farm– or a ZOO, however you wanna call it. The next sticker from the pile is added as well– a brown, big bear– and the next one too, the most adorable colorful parrot slapped to the corner of your page. 

The rest of your stickers are the ones you already own, though– a displeased look takes over your features at the knowledge, but still, you can’t help but beam at the fact that you have 3 new additions to your collection, and they were a gift from Eric Sohn himself. Someone who doesn’t make fun of your childish habit. Someone who feeds your little interest, watches you with excitement in his eyes as you indulge. Someone not like your brother. 

Someone you could never see the way you see your brother.

“What do you do with the duplicates?” Eric asks, pointing to the sad pile on the top of your notebook. His figure is closer to you now, since he wanted to watch you stick the animals into your notebook, his crossed legs almost pressed against yours on the small bed.

“Well, usually, I just throw them out,” you shrug, “but since you’re here…” you muse, the idea plopping into your head like the newest discovery you should probably patent, peeling the back of one of the dog stickers off and swiftly turning towards your companion, mischief sparkling in your eyes.

You put the sticker on his left cheek, making the boy jump. “Hey!”

Giggling, taking another one of the stickers and pressing it to the middle of his forehead, Eric starts to fight you, your bodies wrestling on the bed. You don’t think he puts much effort into getting you off him– that, or he’s insanely weak– and in no time, his face is adorned with all different kinds of animals, his hair messy from tussling in your bedsheets. The image has you laughing before you realize you’re basically straddling him on your bed, his big eyes gaping at you from below, his appearance enough to make something in your brain short-circuit and make you leap off him, clearing your throat.

Heat rushes into your cheeks as you take a seat next to him, playing with your fingers. You pray for anything to come and ease the awkwardness you caused, and sure enough, today must be your lucky day. “Hey, look here!” 

You call for the boy as you swiftly take your polaroid camera off your bedside table– the one that belonged to your dad, the one you fought with Sunwoo about, the one your mum said was yours because Sunwoo is too careless with his things to keep it safe– and snap a picture of the puppy-like boy, laughing at the fact that now, you have the image of him looking dumb and covered in stickers forever. Or at least until he doesn't take it away from you– which he attempts quickly.

“Hey!” he yelps again, huffing as he lunges at you, trying to take the picture out of your grasp as you drop the camera into your soft sheets. Your feet take you to the living room, navigating through furniture, and when you don’t hear footsteps follow you, you think you’re safe– Eric does have a lot of energy, but chasing you around gets tiring for him quickly when he knows you'll never let him win.

Entering your room once again, prepared to find him on your bed like before, you’re taken by surprise as a shutter sound goes off right after you open the door, a polaroid picture taken of your face making you temporarily blind at the flash.

“Eric!” you whine, hating that there’s a picture of you standing shocked at your doorway now forever in the universe– not really caring that the boy just got you back with the exact stunt you pulled on him just a few minutes ago. Before you get a chance to blink out the blind spots in your vision caused by the flash and run after him, though, you feel him gently press you out of the doorway and slip outside, the sound of the front door opening and closing after him resonating along his slowly disappearing, amused laughter.

Serves you right, doesn’t it? 

Sighing, you shake your head and take a seat on your bed, the picture of the boy still in between your fingertips. You only take a look at it when your vision comes back to normal, and as the image of Eric covered in stickers, hair messy and cheeks rosy below the animal print comes into your sight, the revelation arrives the same second a starstruck smile plays with your features.

And with that, you’re absolutely terrified. 

Throwing the polaroid picture onto the bedside table and lunging yourself into the sheets, you scream into your pillow and wish for the feelings to disappear– because in what world does a crush on your brother’s best friend ever come to a happy ending?

OCTOBER OF 1999

Once October hits, you find yourself home alone more often than you’d like. Sure, you don’t mind having some me time to read comic books or watch the TV uninterrupted in the living room, but still– alone turns lonely pretty quickly, and somehow, you start to regret the fact that you’ve been relying on your older brother and his friends for so long instead of making some connections on your own.

Sunwoo started to play soccer at school– something is telling you that he might go far if he keeps it up– and that’s why he’s been stuck at practice every single day, coming home late in the evening all tired, but happy, so you’re not really complaining. Eric works in the little bistro downtown now, since he wanted to make some money and not rely on the allowance Mrs. Sohn gives him every month, and it’s not like you were that close to begin with, but the fact that the boy is now too busy to meet you is making your spirit fall just the tiniest bit. And with your mother always being at work, you find yourself alone in your room, laying in your bed and staring at the ceiling. 

Sometimes, you journal. About anything and everything, really. You don’t really think you’re ever gonna read back the entries once you’re older, since they would just be a reminder of how miserable and boring your teenage years really were, and that’s why you allow yourself to be authentic. On most days, you write about your assignments for school. Sometimes you bad mouth a classmate or two– gossiping with the diary pages, because you don’t really have any human beings to do so in real life– and seldom, you allow yourself to get into topics that evoke the slightest bits of existential crisis in you.

Topics like college. Growing up. Your lack of hobbies and social interaction with the outer world. The newly found crush on Eric Sohn…

Okay, maybe you do write about the boy with brown hair and dark eyes a little too often. You can’t help it, though– when he’s not giving you any new interactions to dwell on, you have to just pick apart the old ones. You think it’s a natural reaction.

And that’s exactly what you’re doing one October afternoon, the lamp in your room on, since the evening comes faster when the weather is colder, as you’re laying in your bed and kicking your feet back and forth, chewing on the end of your pencil. The sound of your doorbell resonates through the house suddenly and startles you, making you jump awake from your delirious delusions.

Mentally going through the list of possible visitors you could have– because it can’t be your mother or your brother, since they never forget to carry their house keys– you’re lost, not really finding any fitting candidates. Furrowing your brows, lost in thought and frankly, a bit confused, you plant your socked feet onto the wooden floor and walk over to the front door just in time for the bell to ring again. Scratching the back of your neck in nerves, thinking of precautions you could take for your own safety– since your front door doesn’t have a peep hole and you don’t want to open the door to a complete stranger– you clear your throat and yell over the door.

“Who is it?” you ask.

“Delivery!” a voice calls through the door, making you huff. 

“I didn’t order any food?” you yell back, confused. “Sir, there’s another house behind ours, sometimes the mailmen get confused and we get their mail. Maybe try there?” 

“The address is right, though?” the voice calls again, and somehow, it sounds kind of familiar… no, it can’t be, you dumb goose. You’re just imagining things because you’ve spent the last 20 minutes writing about the curve of his nose into your diary.

“There must be a mistake-”

“Come on, Y/N, open the door,” the voice on the other side mourns, the mention of your name making you jump, completely startled. The tone the man says it in is sweet like honey, though, so familiar in your ears, that you mentally want to slap yourself– so you weren’t dreaming. It is him.

Dragging your hand through your hair to smooth it down, praying you look at least a little presentable– although in your stained sweatpants and the Pokémon shirt you inherited from Sunwoo when he grew out of it, you doubt that’s even possible– you open the door and try to offer Eric a warm smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Food delivery,” Eric shrugs, pointing with his thumb in the direction behind his back, where his bike undoubtedly stands up against your gate.

“Oh…. but I already told you I didn’t order anything,” you mumble, confused. Studying his face– because a girl can indulge when she has the opportunity, am I right? – you notice his hair has grown a little longer, falling into his eyes. You bet it’s hard for him to see, but you must admit it looks nice, and you almost tell him, before you catch yourself and break away from the sentiment. 

The male snickers. “I know, I was just joking,” he says, “I did bring you food, though.”

“Why?” you ask, confused when he bends over and picks up a plastic bag off the ground, a container of food inside, the warmth of the contents making condensation appear all over the red sack. 

“We made this by mistake and it was just gonna be thrown out if nobody took it,” he shrugs, “and I figured you haven’t eaten yet– or if you did, you just had those cold kimbap rolls from the store– and I wanted to get some warm food into your stomach.”

“Ah,” you gasp, nodding at the explanation. It does explain the source of the food really well, but truthfully, it explains nothing about the fact why Eric thought of bringing you the food instead of taking it home with himself– he’s a foodie if you’ve ever seen one. The idea of him worrying about if you were fed or not is equally as strange and interesting in your head– still, you clasp your hand around the bag and take it, the smell making you involuntarily hungry. “Thank you.”

Eric only nods at you, a smile beaming at his face. “Well,” he sighs, “I’d love to stay longer and hang out, but I’m still on the clock, so…” he mumbles, taking a hesitant step backwards towards his bike, eyes never breaking contact with yours.

“Oh, right,” you nod, “that’s okay. Have a fun day at work!” you muse, watching him as he grins and finally retrieves back his bike, opening up the gate to your property and escaping, waving at you as he gets on.

“I’ll see you soon!” he calls as he rides off, your eyes following him until his figure disappears behind a corner, your ears buzzing with excitement and your lower lip trapped between your teeth with the innocent promise.

Walking back into the house, you grin as you close the front door behind you and carry the food into the kitchen. You quickly get the containers out of the damp bag, putting them onto the wooden table, and gasp when you find a sticky note on the very top one, a messy handwriting scribbled in a rush, but stuck to the food with care.

Eat well and don’t skip meals, Y/N-ie!! – Eric x

Not being able to battle your smile anymore, you decide to open up the containers and stuff your mouth with the food instead– only to find your favorite dish inside, staring back at you in what seems to be a dream that’s too good to wake up from. 

And sure, you are delusional, but are you delusional enough to believe that this wasn’t all a coincidence? You’re not so sure.

Still, you eat the food with feet kicking back and forth as you sit in the silent kitchen, the empty house no longer feeling so lonely. When you’re done, you throw the trash out– everything but the sticky note, which you glue into your diary a few minutes later, hoping to keep the memory forever.

NOVEMBER OF 1999

The world around you is dark as you step outside of cram school, your eyes are tired and your skin is prickled with goosebumps in the chilly air. You despise going to cram school, but your mother told you you have to– since you didn’t have any athletic features that could get you far in life like Sunwoo, you had to be good at studying, or else you won’t get into university. There was a lot of work ahead of you, but since you didn’t really have anything else to do in the day, you didn’t protest and went anyway.

The days are usually very long and you get off very late, resulting in you being tired almost all the time. When you get home, you undress yourself and change into your sleep clothes and doze off until the morning, when you have to wake up and go to school again– it’s an exhausting cycle, but you know you have to endure it for your own sake.

Walking down the steps that lead out the cram school building, you stretch your body and huff, cursing at yourself for the fact that you didn’t bring a jacket– you forgot that evenings get really chilly, and frankly speaking, you didn’t have much time to think when you were rushing to get ready in the morning. You’ll just have to get through it, you think to yourself as you walk in the direction of your house– the last bus to your neighborhood already left an hour ago, when you were in the middle of revising division– your sneakers kicking the stray rocks below your feet as you tug the sleeves of your hoodie lower, desperately trying to feel more heat.

“Do you never watch where you’re going? That’s gonna get you in trouble one day, you know,” you hear a familiar voice say, the joking tone making your heart skip a few beats as you place the owner of the saccharine voice to its face. Looking up, slightly alarmed at being caught in such a distressed state, you gasp.

“I was… watching my step, I guess,” you shrug as you come into a halt in front of him, shivering both under Eric’s gaze and the cold weather at once. “What are you doing here? Deliveries?”

“I just got off,” he says, “so I figured I could stop by. Sunwoo said you’re going to cram school, I thought you might enjoy some company on your way home.”

Gaping at his explanation, you nod, completely startled. The idea of your brother talking about you in front of Eric, the boy you have a very embarrassing, very big crush on scares you, to say the least. See, it doesn’t really matter that the boy grew up with you, pretty much seeing you at your lowest whenever he was around over at your house when you were both just little kids– the image of Sunwoo telling Eric about finding you sobbing at your comic book (the scene got too sad, nobody can really blame you) or about how your favorite jeans ripped right before you had to go to school one morning is terrifying. You don’t really want him to know about these things. He may act like your brother sometimes, but you never really saw him in that light in the first place.

“Well, then,” you clear your throat, “it’s… it’s good to see you,” you say. Eric shows you his boyish grin as your lips utter out the words, and you can’t help but mirror it, your eyes locking with the male. As if you just took a step back, your eyes see him in a light you’ve never seen him before– as if this was your first time meeting your brother’s best friend– and something about the sentiment has your stomach feeling all uneasy, heat rushing to your face. His hair is styled in a way that tells you that he didn’t really style it (or if he did, it looked truly effortless in your eyes, so props to him), pushed back a little and revealing his forehead, a few of the strands carelessly falling into his eyes. His jawline is sharper than how it was when you first met the boy, and with the realization of a foolish teenage girl, you have to admit that Eric Sohn grew up to be a very attractive, attentive man.

“You’re cold?” he says, although the sentence sounds more like a statement rather than a question, before he shakes his head at your antics and heaves out a sigh. “You should’ve taken a jacket with you when you went, you know it gets cold in the evening,” he scolds you. In those times, he reminds you the most of your brother– because although you and Sunwoo act like you hate each other sometimes, you know the older male still cares about you. He just hates showing it, which translates in his scolding tone whenever you do something wrong or against his wishes. 

In those times, Eric reminds you the most of the way your brother treats you, and you somehow hate it. You despise the fact, because that means he must only see you as someone like his younger sister– he never had one, so maybe he just likes to compensate for it by taking care of you all the time. Maybe he feels responsible to do so because of Sunwoo. The thought makes you equally as nauseous– you’d never want him to hang out with you just because he feels like he has to. 

“I didn’t have time in the morning,” you grunt, rolling your eyes at him. You avert your gaze from the male, for it makes you slightly uncomfortable after your previous thoughts, so when the noise of a zipper being pulled down and the weight of fabric on your shoulders brings you back to reality, you snap your head around at him all alarmed. 

“What? Wear it,” he says, head shrugging towards the direction of his jacket on your figure. “You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t.”

Trying to wrestle out of the red material, you squirm in the hold of the windbreaker– Eric’s hands gripping each side of the jacket, as if predicting your next moves, making sure it stays on you and doesn’t fall down. His strong arms tug you closer to him to make your fight more difficult– and he’s successful with his efforts, because the proximity of him and his smell engulfs you and unarms you, heat rushing to your cheeks as you halt in your movements.

“Stop,” you mourn, “I don’t need it.”

“Yes you do,” he insists, “so stop being a baby about it and wear it.”

Staring into his eyes, as if to mentally tell him to stop what he’s doing– to stop how he’s treating you, how he’s making you all weak in your knees and sleepless at nights because of how much you think of him and hope he’s doing well each day, to stop being so gentle with you and taking care of you, because it brings all sorts of both doubts and delusions into your head– but he doesn’t back down. You’ve known him for quite some time, you should already be aware of just how stubborn he can be.

“Arms in,” he hums, holding on to the jacket and waiting for you to wear it properly. One thing about you– you can always admit your defeat. So, with a sigh, you put your arms through the sleeves of Eric’s red windbreaker, shrinking a little under his firm gaze. He looks at you with a look full of something you can’t decipher, and it’s all making you so, so insanely lost in the many thoughts and feelings swirling around your head, not helping your current state.

“I already have a brother, y’know,” you mumble in a moment of weakness, looking at your feet– your dirty white sneakers almost touching his from how close you are standing right now, “so you should stop treating me like one.”

A moment of silence overtakes you two, and you suddenly feel like you’ve done something wrong. Still, Eric’s hands are holding on to the sides of the opened jacket, keeping you close to him. “Hm?” 

Clearing your throat and shaking your head, you snicker to yourself. “Forget it.”

“No- I mean,” he blurts out, tone of voice a little nervous, “do you see me as your brother figure?” he asks, tone of voice more quiet now, more gentle.

Breathing in the crispy air, taking a moment before you reply, you shake your head in disapproval. “No,” you say, “no, I don’t. I- I don’t think I do,” you say, scared of what your answer will bring out of him. You don’t really know why, but at this moment, you feel insanely fragile– as if any bad move could make you break in his hands, waiting for him to glue you back together. 

Metaphorically, he does just that. “Good,” he nods, leaning down towards you, hands gripping the zipper of his jacket and zipping it together, making sure no cold can get to your bones as his fingers tug it up towards the very top, under your chin. “Because I’ve never seen you as my sister either.”

His answer once again startles you– but when you take a step back from the situation, you think it was in a good way. His hands grip your shoulders for a second as his eyes meet yours and he offers you a warm smile. “Come on, let’s get you home,” he says, tugging you towards the fence where you find his bike, his motions guiding you like a rag doll sucked out of all life.

“Hop in,” he motions towards the back of the bike, where the basket would usually be– Eric moved it towards the front, though, leaving enough room for you to sit at– and as you do, he takes a seat in front of you and looks back at you over his shoulder. “Hold on tight so you don’t fall.”

Like in a trance, your arms sneak around his middle– this was the first time you had this kind of physical touch with him, and just the thought of it makes you want to scream your throat out– before the male takes off on the bike, riding towards your neighborhood. With the cold wind slapping your face, you foolishly rest your cheek on his shoulder blade and close your eyes, enjoying the closeness of his body keeping you warm. 

If anyone asked you about the action, you’d tell them you were just tired.

DECEMBER OF 1999

Socked feet make their way through the room, the sound of footsteps resonating on the laminated floor, as the short male comes up to you with a bowl of potato chips in his right hand and a bottle of soda under his left arm. Eric Sohn sighs at you, shaking his head in disbelief, before he places the items onto the coffee table and takes a seat next to you on the floor, opening up the bottle and pouring the three of you drinks.

“Can’t believe I’m spending New Year’s Eve with you losers, of all people,” Eric snickers, having you roll your eyes at the male and grumpily furrow your eyebrows at his sentence.

“No one’s stopping you if you wanna go, y’know,” you grunt as you take the filled glass off the table, taking a sip of the sweet drink and sighing at him. If he’s gonna take a leap into the new year with you while making you annoyed, he may as well leave now and do whatever his initial plan was– once again, no one’s stopping him if that’s what he wants to do.

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “it would’ve been so much more fun if we all went to Juyeon hyung’s. Everyone’s there celebrating, but we’re stuck here in your room.” 

“Well, Eric,” your brother smiles ironically at him, shrugging to himself, “it’s not like it’s my fault you’re not over at Juyeon hyung’s right now. You chose to spend the new years here with me. My mother prohibited me from going there, not yours.”

The argument has the male shrug, his eyes averting your brother’s gaze once his comment gets a bit too honest and realistic. It’s true and he’s right– it’s not like Eric’s mum told him he can’t go celebrate with his friends, because she didn’t. Eric’s mum trusts him and wants him to have fun and do what all the kids his age are doing. Your mum, on the other hand, is making you and Sunwoo stay home for New Year’s Eve to celebrate with your family, because, as she quoted, New Year’s Eve the only time she gets time off work, and she wants to spend it with her kids– forget the fact that you’re currently sitting locked in your room with your friend, protesting the family time just because you can– and when Sunwoo told her she has to stop treating him like a little kid, she told him she has all the right to do so, because he is her kid. And that’s how the party he was supposed to attend with Eric (the party you foolishly thought you’re gonna have to tag along to, not hating the sentiment as much as before now) got canceled from your brother’s plans.

“Well,” Eric chews on the inside of his cheek, “I did it for you two. Be grateful.”

“Whatever,” you hum, “let’s turn on the TV. I bet there’s some variety show on.”

Eric heaves out a sigh as he reaches for the TV remote, clicking the power button and making the boxy device in front of you light up. Your mum got you a TV in your room when you complained about being too bored one November day, and although the box of entertainment didn’t really help like you imagined it to, you’re glad it’s of service at least today. Instead of the expected variety show, though, there’s news on– the face of the old announcer looking at you with a serious look on his face, the professional tone making chills run down your spine, for he reminds you a bit of your mother when she scolds you. You think that’s a common news announcer trait. 

“As the year 2000 approaches, computer programmers realize that computers might not interpret the 00 in the software as 2000, but 1900. The softwares currently running only use a two-digit code for the year, excluding the 19. The data was excluded because the data storage is costly and takes up too much space. Activities that were planned on a daily basis could be damaged or flawed,” the announcer says, making the three of you look at the screen with interest. Maybe it’s true that when you get older, you get more interested in news– you think it’s good to know what’s going on around you, although the topic discussed right now might not even concern you in the slightest.

“Banks, which calculate the interest rates on a daily basis, could face real problems. Interest rates are the amount of money a lender, such as a bank, charges a customer, such as an individual or business, for a loan. Instead of the rate of interest for one day, the computer could calculate a rate of interest for minus almost 100 years!” 

“Oops,” Eric lets out next to you, a reaction so far away from what a real adult would think of the situation. See, you are all just kids, after all.

“Centers of technology, such as power plants, are also threatened by this issue. Power plants depend on routine computer maintenance for safety checks, such as water pressure or radiation levels. Not having the correct date could throw off these calculations and possibly put nearby residents at risk,” the announcer continues, the information coming out of his mouth suddenly making you hyper aware of the reality you’re experiencing right now.

“Do we have a nuclear power plant nearby?” you ask in a hushed whisper, watching as the men next to you almost comically widen their eyes, shrugging.

“I’m not sure,” Sunwoo peeps.

“The worst of all, this software and hardware issue could cause such a big problem in nuclear energy facilities, where nuclear bombs and missiles could be set off, causing the world to go into utter chaos, or worse, an end,” the announcer concludes, the last word making you gasp in terror. 

“An end?” you chirp, sitting up straight in your seat as you look at the two men, now equally as terrified. There’s something in Sunwoo’s gaze that makes chills run down your spine, the reality crushing down on you with heavy measures. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have fought with mum. What if the last words the two of us exchanged before we die are the harsh words I had said yesterday?” your brother mourns, seeing as his best friend chews on his bottom lip, lost in thought.

“What did you say to your mum?”

“That- that I’ll never forgive her for ruining this for me,” he mumbles, his voice breaking at the end, “and… other things,” he adds, the hint of incoming panic making his best friend frantically wave his hands around and try to make your brother relax before he has to deal with the breakdown. If the world is ending, this is not how any of you want to go.

“It’s okay, don’t worry,” Eric says, clearing his throat and pointing to the TV, “look! The show is on, we should watch before the year ends,” he proposes, taking the remote into his hand and turning the volume up to hopefully drown out Sunwoo’s thoughts and have him focus on something else. And it works– noting that your brother has an attention span of a 5 year old– he can hardly remember what he was worrying about just 30 seconds ago.

Still, the thought keeps bouncing around your head like a child in a bouncy castle. The words of the news anchor keep repeating in your brain, making your ears ring as you look at Eric from the corner of your eye, watching his angelic face. Oh how you hate disturbing the peace now that you’ve all calmed down– but still, you can’t deal with the worries alone. Checking the clock hung above the TV, noticing there’s at least 5 minutes left before midnight, you clear your throat, feeling your whole body on fire.

“Do you really think the world is gonna end?” you ask, cracking your knuckles in a nervous manner. Looking at Eric, pupils shaking, you find your brother’s best friend seemingly lost in thought. The music of the variety show program serves you three as a background sound now, none of you paying attention to the TV anymore, instead, focusing on all the things you've done wrong in your life and how somehow, this feels like karma for all of it.

“I dunno,” Sunwoo shrugs, “I mean- they said it’s possible! It was on the news, and they wouldn’t lie on the news…” he nervously mumbles, scratching the back of his head. 

“That’s what’s worrying me,” you sigh, “we shouldn’t have turned on the TV.”

“It was your idea in the first place!”

“And I’ll carry the burden into my grave,” you admit, gulping as you press a forced smile onto your lips.

Momentarily looking back at the TV, you desperately want to keep the thought of the world being over out of your head before you spend your last minutes on this earth going crazy– but now that you started, you can’t keep thinking about it. “Man, the world can’t end yet. There’s so many things I haven’t tried yet! I’m too young to die!”

The men don't reply to that– you presume they’re too busy trying to find other things to occupy themselves with instead of the inevitable– which has you dissatisfied as you throw your body back into the sofa, heaving out a sigh. Seconds go by painfully slow but also painfully fast at the same time, given the circumstances, as you listen to the cheerful song playing in the background and nudge your friend into his upper arm with your pointer finger, feeling his arm encircle your shoulders and pull you closer to him. The contact of his fingers on your upper arm makes you squirm and break out into a smile, feeling a particular lightness in your stomach at the action, a sensation that has you in shock. 

“I’m gonna talk with mum before we die,” Sunwoo suddenly calls as he stands up from his seat on the floor, sighing to himself, “I can’t go with the thought of her being upset with me,” he sentimentally adds before he’s out of the door, rushing towards the living room.

The space falls into momentary silence now that your brother is gone, having you chew on your bottom lip with nerves. You think now is the time to beg for forgiveness with the higher forces– I'm sorry for not studying well. I'm sorry for being rude and ungrateful towards my mum. I'm sorry for being greedy– when the sound of Eric’s voice resonates through the place as he speaks up again, waking you up from the anxious slumber, the clock now striking 2 minutes before midnight. “What would you wanna do before you die?” he asks.

The question is simple. You presume he wants simple answers– things like getting into college, getting a good job and making a lot of money, growing old– but as you lean away from him and get back to your place on his left, your eyes locked with his, you’re left clueless. There are so many things you have yet to achieve, and the idea of not being able to pushes a burden to your chest, but at this very moment, you can’t really name one. 

Shrugging, you chew on the inside of your cheek as your eyes scan his face. His firm eye contact has you a bit flustered, making you shrivel in your seat, and as the sound of the TV morphs from the song into a countdown from 55, you’re overwhelmed with the thought that your friend is insanely pretty– and he always has been, you just hated admitting it to yourself for the past few months, despite still being fully aware– and that now, when the world ends, you’re dying unkissed and alone.

Well, not completely alone, since Eric’s here. And he’s always been here– your whole life, since you can remember, and he’s here now as well, even though he should’ve been at Juyeon’s house. As the clock strikes 30 seconds away from midnight, your eyes involuntarily travel down to his chapped lips, all air knocked out of your lungs, the thoughts in your brain picking up on speed the closer you come to the end.

You’re dying soon. You’re dying in 30- now 29 seconds, and you’ve never kissed anyone before. You’re dying before you get a chance to hold hands with someone and have a partner, and you’re dying before you get a chance to tell Eric how you feel about him. There’s 28 seconds left until the end and you’re just staring at him like a coward, because you don’t really let yourself indulge in the silly warmth of your heart whenever you’re around your friend, but god, you can at least admit it to yourself before you die.

And as the clock gets closer and closer to midnight, now only giving you 20 seconds before it all ends and a missile lands on the top of your house, blowing up the whole town and making you all disappear, Eric’s question repeats itself in your brain. What would you want to do before you die?

The answer is suddenly painfully clear as you take action– leaning towards the boy on your right, face closer to his than it’s ever been before, your eyes counting all his eyelashes and focusing on his surprised, yet unmoving face– and as you hear the countdown reach 15, you close your eyes and press your lips against his. 

The contact makes you weak in your knees as your hands reach to his face to steady him, your own firework show erupting in your stomach, and suddenly you’re completely content with dying tonight– because at least you’re with Eric, at least you did something. You kiss your friend with something close to an unsaid confession, your lips staying on his throughout the rest of the countdown, the taste of soda you’ve both been drinking the whole evening mixing in the contact of your skin. You’re not sure you’re even doing this right– again, you’ve never kissed anyone before– but it doesn’t matter to you much as you let go of your worries, aware of the fact that in a few seconds, nothing will matter anymore when neither of you are going to be around to say anything to each other after the kiss is over.

The countdown rings in your ears– coming down from 5 as you scoot yourself closer to Eric, 4 as you run the pads of your thumbs along his cheekbones, 3 as you still in your movements, 2 as you notice your knees bumping into each other on the ground and finally, 1 as you get ready to die, kissing your first and only love– when the sound of cheers and fireworks from the TV fills your ears instead, the world around you stilling and completely unchanged.

Your kiss started in 1999 and ended in 2000. Your love for him passed a century.

Eyes fluttering open and your mouth letting go of his, the image of the boy with his lips slightly parted, eyes closed and cheeks rosy comes to you in the yellow light of your room, making your heart fall down to your stomach. He looks absolutely angelic, his hair slightly messy and the fabric of his shirt a little disheveled in the front, and even though you’d love to indulge in your foolish desires and kiss him some more, you’re quickly taken aback with the noise of the door to your room opening and making you jump away from Eric, your brother appearing out of thin air in the presence of your room. It serves you like a weird kind of reality check, Eric’s eyes opening and looking at your brother, and even though you two haven’t been caught, the male clears his throat and bites down on his lower lip, looking almost guilty.

Oh no. What have you done?

Suddenly, you feel insanely silly.

JANUARY OF 2000

“You’ve been awfully quiet the whole day,” Sunwoo mumbles from beside you, his whole body engulfed in a pile of snow, “not that I care, but are you okay?”

“I thought you liked it when I don’t talk,” you mutter, playing with the frozen white all around you, seated on the red plastic sled at the top of the hill. You got tired after dragging it up from the bottom, and when you noticed that the rest of Sunwoo’s friends– Eric included– are still on their way up, you figured you could use up the time to relax and sit around for a while. It’s been quite some time since all of Sunwoo’s friends gathered to hang out at the same time, which made you surprised to see that your own brother invited you to tag along with them as they decided to go sledding on the second day of January, using up their break to best of their abilities. Which is also why you didn’t say no to the invitation– you thought sitting at home and moping around wouldn’t help you much.

“I do,” he says, nodding, “that’s why I’m asking what’s up– so I know what to do when I need to shut you up later,” Sunwoo hums, making you roll your eyes at the masked worry.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you scoff. “It’s nothing.”

“Sure,” he shrugs, “so you’re just going through puberty?” he teases, to which you take a handful of snow into your palm and lunge the white at him, satisfaction running through your veins when the snowball lands into his unsuspecting face, the male coughing and swatting his arms around to defend himself.

“Hey!” your brother screams at you once he gets the ice out of his eyes and his mouth, his body jumping into a standing position before he chases you around, the bubble of a laugh escaping your throat for the first time these days– they’re not wrong when they say malicious joy is the best kind of joy.

Running at the top of the hill, not really looking where you’re going– instead looking over your shoulder to see Sunwoo’s actions, preparing yourself to duck if he decides to turn your small quarrel into a snow fight– your legs get tangled with the red sled you left before you started a war with the angered man, a yelp cutting out of your throat as you get prepared to fall over and knock your teeth out.

Your body comes in contact with something half-firm, half-soft, and as your feet slip and the snow-covered ground disappears from below your legs, two arms wrap around your waist and steady you, making sure you don’t get hurt.

Turns out Eric Sohn is there to catch you every time you are about to eat shit. You hate this kind of deja vu.

As you open your eyes (that you had closed on instinct, not wanting to see your own death) once you’re sure you’re safe and sound, the world around you invites itself into your ears in an overwhelming noise. The laughter of Sunwoo’s friends– some hollering at your fall, some at the redness and last remains of snow covering your brother’s face– and the hushed arguments over who’s going down first– with Haknyeon screaming that he’s stealing Sunwoo’s (yours) sled and Juyeon following him. After all those happening in the matter of a few seconds,  you realize you’re left on the top of the hill alone with the male, terror shaking through your insides.

Clearing your throat and taking a step back from him, you tuck your hands into your pockets and avert your gaze from Eric. You two haven’t spoken since you decided to kiss him on New Year’s Eve, and with the awkward tension in the air, you don’t feel like doing so ever again in your whole entire life. 

“Thanks,” still, you hum.

Eric seems a little more light-hearted than you, shrugging as he replies to you. “Haven’t I told you to start watching where you’re going?”

“I’m not good with listening sometimes,” you mutter, huffing. Taking a look around yourself– noticing that there are no sleds left on the top of the hill, therefore, if you wanted to escape the situation, the only way down would be to roll around like a human version of a snowman, you once again admit your defeat, standing around nervously and shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

The silence is uncomfortable. It makes you want to dig a hole in the snow and bury yourself alive, to suffocate under the weight of the icy cold and never see Eric’s face again. You know that you ruined whatever friendship you had with the male– by being stupid and foolish, not really thinking about consequences (because there were supposed to be none and you were supposed to be dead), and the weight of the guilt makes you want to puke and hide away. 

Still, Eric comes out of his way to talk to you. Honestly, you’re kind of surprised– he should be disgusted with you. Realistically, he should be the one avoiding you, not the other way around.“They’re gonna take long to walk back up,” he notes, “wanna get hot chocolate with me?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you shake your head, not once breaking eye contact with the overwhelming white of the hill.

“Come on,” he sighs, “it’s just around the corner. They built a hot chocolate stand because they knew kids would come sledding here. Honestly, it’s an astute business tactic, but I promise the hot chocolate actually tastes nice,” he says, nudging you slightly with his arm, as if to make you look at him and change your mind.

“Thanks, but no,” you definitely say, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asks, tone of voice casual– as if it was the most normal thing in the world, as if nothing ever happened and he was genuinely curious about the reasoning behind your actions.

“I’m not, I just don’t really like hot chocolate,” you sheepishly mutter, trying hard to avoid the topic.

“So you are avoiding me,” he hums, as if it wasn’t obvious before– and not only because you’re a bad liar. Plus, you love hot chocolate. Somehow, you think Eric knows.

“Look, Eric,” you sigh, running your hand through your hair, “can’t you just drop it?”

“No,” he shrugs, shaking his head, “and that’s why we’re talking about the reason why you’re avoiding me over a cup of hot chocolate. Let’s go.”

His persistence is terribly overwhelming sometimes. You wonder how the male does it. “I already told you-”

“You owe me for the stickers and the meal and everything,” he corners you, and you know you can’t argue with that. He’s kind of right, you suppose– you never paid him back for all the chocolates or for the free meal he brought you that one evening. And that’s exactly why you find yourself sighing as you follow him, mentally preparing yourself for the talk.

You hate how he can always get his way. Walking up to the stand, you crack your knuckles in the pocket of your jacket, nervously coming up with possible arguments to tell him. I didn’t kiss you on purpose, it was an accident. I only did it to know how it feels. We are both supposed to be dead, it’s not my fault the world didn’t end like it was supposed to! Each sentence sounds more stupid than the previous one, and so with that, you shake your head, wiping the thoughts away, smiling at the elderly lady in the stand. You’re just gonna have to be honest, you figure. 

“Two hot chocolates, please.”

Rummaging through your pockets to find your wallet– you do owe Eric, so it’s only natural for you to pay– you’re caught off guard as the male next to you swiftly takes out his own and unzips it, preparing to pay for you. 

“I thought I owed you?” you mumble, hand reaching to tug at his forearm to stop him, to which Eric only grins at you and sighs.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to pay,” he says.

“I think that’s exactly what that means.”

“Just take it,” he huffs as he brings out a note from his wallet, the force making something else fly out and fall to the ground with it, having the boy swiftly crouch down and pick the item up, attempting to hide it before you get a chance to see. And now, you don’t have 20/20 vision, but you recognise your face when you see it– that, and you also recognize the small white sheet to be a polaroid picture, and as far as you’re aware, you’re the only one who has a camera in his circle.

The boy hands you the drink with red-tinted cheeks. The idea of him carrying a picture of you that he took back in September makes you flush as well, and when your gloved fingers accidentally meet as you take the cup from him, he forces out a laugh. “We can talk about that after you tell me why you’re avoiding me.”

His nonchalance has you relaxing only for a few seconds. The boy walks with you as you try to heat up your cold hands on the boiling surface of the cup, and when you see a bench a few meters away from you two, you instinctively take a seat.

“So?” he becomes you, eyebrows rising as he takes a sip from the melted sweetness.

Sighing, you try to come up with the best way to go around this. Do you apologize? Do you promise to never do it again– and you won’t, even though you want to so badly and his lips look surprisingly soft today? Furrowing your brows at the war in your head, you place the cup on the bench next to you and put your head into your hands, hiding away from him when you realize the only way to do this is to be completely, utterly honest.

“I’m just so embarrassed, Eric.”

The only noise meeting your eardrums in the moment is the faint yelling of the crowd sledding in the background, your companion remaining quiet for a bit. When he sees you won’t explain yourself, he goes ahead and asks the question. “Why?”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you?” you sigh, not believing his so casual composure.

“Maybe,” he laughs, the airy sound taking all breath away from your lungs.

Well, not all of it, since you have enough oxygen to go on a tangent, it seems. “Because I kissed you, goddamnit. And- and I don’t even know why I did it, honestly, I’ve never thought of kissing you before! It’s just- when I heard the world is ending, I realized I hadn’t had my first kiss yet, and that just felt like such a miserable way to die, and then you asked what I wanted to do before I die and I couldn’t think of anything else,” you say, progressively taking out your head from your hands and facing the male, big eyes staring into his soul. 

To your surprise, he doesn’t seem mad. Or disgusted. Or any of the reactions you expected, really. Eric stares at you with a soft, but amidst a little star-struck look in his eyes, and you’re suddenly painfully aware of every slight shift in his composure.

“Did you kiss me because you wanted to kiss me, or because you thought the world was gonna end?” he asks, awaiting your answer.

And if you’re being honest, 2 days after New Year’s Eve, you do admit the thought of the world actually ending sounds a bit stupid. Why did you even believe that theory? Why did they talk about it so seriously on the news? They tricked you into ruining your own life. 

But still, nothing can be done about it now. “Both,” you admit, shrugging, “I… I kissed you because I really didn’t want to die unkissed, but also… I wanted it to be you, y’know? Like… I thought we were really going to die, and so I thought kissing you might be a nice way to go. I really wanted to spend my last moments with you, I guess,” you sheepishly say, averting your gaze from the male.

Eric offers you his silence again after you’re done explaining. While you do admit you feel a little tense to hear what he has to say, you also realize you feel lighter now that it’s out in the universe and out of your system. A major weight was taken off your shoulders with the confession, and suddenly, you’re kind of glad that your friend was so assertive and insistent on talking about this– who knows how long you’d go before managing to face him. You think you could honestly go on… forever.

Taking a sip of the luscious liquid, you feel your body warm up once the anxiousness slips away from your bones. The boy next to you hums, making you face him with expecting eyes. “Then why were you avoiding me?”

Sighing, you shake your head. “I just told you. I’m starting to think you’re the one that’s bad at listening.”

“No,” he laughs, “that’s still you. Because if you were good at listening, you’d remember me telling you that I’ve never once seen you as my younger sister.”

Shrugging, kicking the pile of snow in front of you with the tip of your winter boots, you’re not quite following. “So?”

“So you should’ve realized that I’m not doing all of this,” he theatrically swings his arms around, “for nothing, you know?”

“All of what?”

“Taking care of you. Feeding you, helping you collect those stupid animal stickers, walking you home…” he mumbles, sighing. “Keeping your picture in my wallet,” he adds with a playful tone, making you smile.

“I thought you were just being a good friend,” you shrug.

“I don’t keep a picture of your brother on me at all times,” he says, tugging off his gloves. The sleeve of his jacket rides up a little as you watch him take his cup of hot chocolate off the bench, surprised (and flooded with warmth) to see the ugly friendship bracelet you made still adorning his wrist.

Grinning to yourself, excitement welcoming itself into the tips of your fingertips, you shrug. “So?” you mirror your own question from a little while ago, wanting him to say it to you instead of relying on your own brain– you think there’s still a possibility of you just being too delusional to see the reality for what it really is. You need to make sure you’re not imagining things.

“So,” he starts, sighing to himself as he turns a little in his seat to face you, “you should stop avoiding me, because I liked the kiss. And you. And we should probably do it again, because I didn’t get the chance to kiss you back the first time,” he says, once again taking all oxygen out of your lungs with the casualty of his preposition.

Locking his eyes with you, having you two staring at each other like two rays of sunshine warming up the cold January, he grins. “How does that sound?”

“Good,” you breathe out, “very good.”

The male takes it as an invitation as he scoots himself closer to you on the bench, his body turning a bit to face you. His free hand cups your cheek, leaning closer to lock his lips with you like he asked you to, your eyes fluttering close at the proximity, the fuzzy feeling in your stomach already expecting to kiss him again. The situation feels a little too idyllic to be real, though– you should’ve expected it to get ruined again.

Something cold and wet comes into contact with the side of your face, and when you sharply open your eyes, you see Eric staring at you with shock and terror in his eyes, the snow dripping down the side of his face as well. Whoever threw the snowball has good aim, you think– managing to target two people at once (even though your faces were that close to each other that it probably wasn’t even that hard), and before you get a chance to look around and see who cut off your kiss, there’s a scream coming from the left side of the two of you, the sound of feet quickly darting in the snow landing into your ears.

“Eric Sohn, what the fuck do you think you’re doing with my sister?” the voice hollers, and before you get a chance to react, the said male fastly stands up from the bench and runs to the other direction, laughter resonating all throughout the place as Sunwoo and his friends chase their shortest friend down.

Snow starts falling as you watch your brother tail his childhood friend, and with a foreign sense of warmth, you get reminded of the birthday wish you made while blowing out the candles on your seventh birthday.

And sure enough, Lee Juyeon’s minivan pulls up into your driveway only a few hours later, and the sound of the honking outside is enough for your older brother to aggressively drag you outside of the house, shutting the door behind you and hollering an angry “Bye mum!” to your mother. Your figure is handled with the least amount of care possible as you’re thrown towards the white van, the door opened and 5 heads already peeking out with expecting eyes, waiting for your brother’s arrival.

“My mum made my stupid sister go with me, so I hope we have space for one more,” Sunwoo huffs as he throws his bag into the trunk, slamming it with more force than was necessary (boy does he know how to throw a scene), an encouraging voice of none other than Juyeon– the driver himself– landing in your ear. 

“Sure, just hop in!”

With that, your feet finally unglue themselves off the ground and bring you into the vehicle. You’re familiar with his friends– since a scenario like this hasn’t happened for the first time and you had to spend your fair time with Sunwoo’s circle growing up, mainly because you never really had many friends yourself. You’re not close with any of them, though, and you’re sure you haven’t seen half of them for ages. 

Lee Juyeon is the responsible one of the group. You’re comfortable with the fact that he’s the driver, since you’re not entirely sure if you’d trust any of the other men in this space behind the wheel (you fear the day your brother gets a driver’s license. You'd bet a million dollars that he’ll die while driving recklessly one day). Next to him on the passenger’s seat is Choi Chanhee, his best friend, carrying a map in his hands and twirling it in all possible directions to get his friend on the right track. In the three-seat behind those two is Ju Haknyeon, Ji Changmin and your brother himself, and in the very back of the whole van, almost in the trunk, you’re sat next to Eric Sohn– your brother’s childhood best friend.

“Hi guys,” you offer a greeting to all of them, settling into the uncomfortable leather seat (that’s peeling off, just by the way), watching as the rest of the men pay you no mind and ignore your voice, falling into a comfortable conversation with each other.

Sighing, because this always happens– your brother gets too annoyed because he has to bring you with him all the time, and you imagine his friends aren’t fond of the fact either– you settle deeper into the seat and cross your hands on your chest, looking outside of the window. You can’t imagine enjoying your trip now, since you feel like you’re a nuisance, a child they have to take care of (yes, it embarrasses you just the tiniest bit, you have to admit. Although, you do enjoy getting out of the house from time to time), and the fact that your feelings were probably more than justified and also true has you pouting, an unsatisfied feeling weighing at your lungs.

“Hi,” a voice resonates from your side, the sight of a smiling Eric peering at you taking you off guard. You didn’t expect anyone to react to your greeting– not so delayed anyway– and the sight of your brother’s best friend carrying on in the conversation with you has you shocked beyond belief. “Excited?”

Finding yourself hum in agreement– how much you are still excited for the pool and for the sun, you’re not really sure– and although you are upset, something about his open and nice demeanor has you visibly relaxing, the sparkles inviting themselves back into your eyes. “I’ve never been to the beach,” you admit, seeing Eric gasp at you in surprise.

“Really?” he asks. “I go every year with my parents.”

“Well,” you hum, “you know how my mother is…” you sigh, chewing on the inside of your cheek. It’s easier to joke about it than to actually let the fact get to you– with your mother being the main news anchor, she is too busy to actually go on trips and form bonds with her own children sometimes. That’s why you spent most of your childhood at Eric’s family’s house in the first place– this is what made you the closest with Sunwoo’s same aged friend. His parents were nice enough to let you stay over and have sleepovers whenever your mum had to leave suddenly and take week-long trips abroad, or have emergency shifts during late evenings. 

Eric hums, sympathizing with you. “Well, at least you get to experience it now!”

“Yeah,” you awkwardly nod, playing with the hem of your jean shorts. It’s the shorts you made yourself by cutting the legs off your favorite pants after you grew out of them and they got too short, and they’re starting to look a little worn-out now. Maybe you should beg your mum to get you some new clothing.

The conversation between the boys grows in volume, doing nothing to help you to relax in the crowded vehicle. You can’t really find a place to fit yourself in and talk, the topics too unfamiliar for you and the feeling of not even being welcome in the discussion sitting heavy on your chest, when a finger bears itself to the flesh of your thigh, making you snap your head around to gape at the source of the contact. Eric looks at you with a boyish grin, sparkles evident in his eyes.

“Wanna see something?” he asks.

“Sure.”

The male digs around his backpack, hands searching through the contents of his bag for only a couple of seconds– since he’s the neat one, contrary to your messy brother– before he takes out a small gadget: a square with a little screen on top, a silver, circular button space sitting big in the very middle of the device. Eric throws the thing into your lap, smiling when you take it into your hands and examine it with curious eyes.

“Have you seen one before? My dad got it for me last week,” he boosts, satisfied with your reaction to it. 

Your mother’s job pays quite well– meaning that you usually have the latest gadgets, the latest trends– but if you’re being honest, you haven’t seen one of these in real life before. Yes, you caught a glimpse of an ad for it in the town center, on one of the big billboards while passing by to get to school in the morning, so you know that it’s an MP3 player, but still; this was your first time touching one and examining it in real life. 

“How does it work?” you ask, watching as the boy scoots from his seat to the middle one, so he is now sitting directly next to you, before he takes out wired headphones from the first department of his backpack and turns the little square over in his hands, finding where the jack goes.

“You put those in,” he says, plugging in the headphones, “and then you press this…” he explains, taking the device out of your hand and pushing on the power button for a few seconds, “and then it should play.”

Watching him with expecting eyes, the boy finally puts the MP3 player back into your hold. Then, his fingers swiftly put the respective earphones into your ears– like you’d do to a little kid that has no idea how they work, making you a little flushed at the action– and after that, you’re left with the sound of an unfamiliar song playing in your ears, making the sound of the chatter in the van completely tune out. Eric keeps on watching you, a sense of pride in his eyes as you nod at him, all excited with the new explory, before he takes one of the earphones out of your ear, grinning.

“Cool, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” you nod. “The song is good,” you dumbly say, watching as the boy next to you pridefully nods at the compliment, resting his back against the car seat. 

“It’s the H.O.T album. My dad says they’re good,” he mumbles, moving the headphone he took from you and placing it into his ear, making you nod at him in acknowledgement. The action has your insides bubble with disappointment, thinking that the fun is over as you reach for the other earphone as well, offering it to the male.

Eric looks at you with a shocked pout, shaking his head. “No, we can share!” he says, pointing towards your ear. “If you want, of course.”

The action has you smiling, a shy nod escaping out of you as you reach and put the earphone back into your ear, letting yourself fall deeper into the car seat, listening to the song from Eric’s MP3 player. You’re grateful for his presence– he didn’t have to keep up a conversation with you. He could ignore you, just like the rest of his friend group always has. Maybe it was something about the two of you growing up together that always made the boy at least a bit more affectionate towards you than the rest.

You spend the car ride to the beach house with Eric leaning on your side, listening to music and his occasional blabbering about how his previous days went. 

Somehow, you're glad the seat beside him was the only vacant one when you arrived to the vehicle.

YOUR SEVENTH BIRTHDAY, 1989

You don't quite remember when you met Eric for the first time, if you’re being completely honest. The first memory you have of him is of your seventh birthday party, although you’re almost certain the boy’s been present at some point of your life before– at one point, you think you saw a picture of him and Sunwoo, two chubby toddlers, watching you as you laid on a blanket on the ground somewhere in your photo album. As far as you’re concerned, he may as well have been there when your mother brought you back from the hospital– although you think he must have been too young for that back then.

The first memory you have of Eric Sohn is the day you turned seven– a gloomy, sad day that in the moment, you prayed you wouldn’t have to remember in the first place.

It was already established that while your brother is the social butterfly, you don’t have a big friend group. Actually, you could count the number of your friends on one hand, and since the amount wasn’t as big, your mother allowed you to invite them all over to your house to celebrate your birthday with you. 

She baked a cake, she decorated the living room, hell, she even took a day off from work– something you deemed special, for it doesn’t happen often– and as you sat on the floor of your living room, the cake standing proud on the small coffee table, waiting for your friends to arrive, you hummed a song under your breath, the clock slowly passing the time you agreed for them to come over and celebrate.

At first, you didn’t mind it– everybody gets late sometimes, it’s okay. It was just a birthday party, and you had a lot of time. Not everything had to be set on schedule.

But the closer the clock moved to being one hour, than two after the time your friends were supposed to come, you grew worried. Your mother’s nervous pacing around the living room and her heavy sighs as she sat next to you on the floor, smiling at you in what you can only explain as sad way made you more and more anxious about the fact that you only had three friends, but all three of them seemed to not care enough to come celebrate your birthday with you. And as your mother finally took the final bow in the form of a soft hand on your inner thigh, her tone gentle as she called your name– “Y/N, I think we should light the candles,” you began to tear up.

You were supposed to eat the cake with your friends. You were supposed to hear them sing the birthday song to you. You were supposed to turn on the radio and dance around with your classmates, eat the sweets and unwrap the cheap, but heartfelt gifts they brought along with them to celebrate your birthday. 

But none of these scenarios were happening, and you felt incredibly, incredibly lonely and sad. Forgotten, if you will. Not cared for, definitely.

Hiding your face into your hands, you started to cry. This disappointment was too big for your small heart to take, and you no longer cared about the cake, the candles, the seaweed soup your mother cooked for you to celebrate, the gifts, or the party. All you wanted to do was hide in your room and never come out– something about the whole situation felt deeply embarrassing, and to this day, the moment before the whole day turned around still makes you feel a bit ashamed of yourself. 

Too busy crying, you didn’t notice your older brother watching you with big bambi eyes, a worried glance sent your way each time your sobs grew louder and louder. And maybe the boy only wanted to taste the cake (he’s been bugging your mum about it since the very morning, but he was always sent off with a scolding look telling him that he’ll get a slice when everyone arrives), but no matter what his true intentions were, his actions still managed to pull your seventh birthday party together in a way you never imagined.

The sound of the front door faintly resonated in your brain somewhere in the middle of your aimless sobbing, but you paid it no mind, thinking it was just Sunwoo going out to the yard to kick the ball. See, your older brother had never really known what to do when you cried growing up– it didn’t matter if he was the reason for your tears or if anyone else was. If he was the reason for your emotional outbursts, he tried to shut you up with his palm and get you to stop crying before his mother found out and gave him a scolding, but if someone else was, the small boy sometimes turned angry at the source. Kicking his classmate that once made a snarky comment about you and made you tear up or punching his friend when he was too harsh with you was all he knew to do in these situations, so he wasn’t the one to comfort you with words or hugs. It was only natural for him to escape in this situation.

You were brought to a state of shock and surprise when a hand landed on your shoulder, a familiar voice breaking you from your emotional turmoil.

“Why are you crying? We have to eat the cake!” you heard, your big, sad eyes meeting the small figure of the boy living next door, your brother nervously stepping from one side to the other right behind his best friend. “Can you light the candles, Mrs?” Eric politely asked your mum, pointing towards the cake waiting sadly at the coffee table, the figure of your mother leaving your side only shortly to get the matches from the kitchen and illuminate your face with the small flames.

Confusion mirrored your features as you watched your brother and his best friend sing the birthday song to you while your mum lit your candles, both boys clapping and dancing around, acting silly just to get a laugh from you. You didn't know how Eric got there, but you guessed there are some good sides to having him as your neighbor. The energetic boy did his best to brighten up your mood a bit, and when you blew out the candle, making a wish, Sunwoo even went as far as smashing your face into the cake to bring in the full birthday authenticity.

That got him a slap to the back of his head from your mother, as well as made you stand up from your position– no longer making you look like a disappointed bulk of pity– and chase him around the room, icing falling off your nose to the laminated floor. You got your revenge and smeared the chocolate all over his forehead (he let you chase him down only because it was your birthday and he really, really hated to see his sister cry, but he won’t ever tell you that) and as the three of you sat back down to the floor, watching your mother slice the cake and offer it to you on small white plates, you realized you suddenly weren't as sad anymore.

“What did you wish for?” Eric asked you, mouth full of cake and face messy with chocolate.

“I can’t tell you,” you hummed, eyebrows furrowed. “Then it won’t come true.”

“You probably wished for that doll you saw in the store the other day,” Sunwoo snickered as he swallowed, having you glare at him and send a sharp kick to his shin, unwatched by your mother (thankfully), as the boy fought you back, having no mercy.

Music suddenly filled the room as Eric stood up and put the radio on, his 9 year old brain smart enough to know how the device worked, his small figure dancing away to the songs playing on the single radio station you could play without carefully sorting out the antenna so it faced the north, and truly, you didn’t know how it happened, but it had you standing up and dancing around, exactly how you'd imagined doing with your friends from school.

The day wasn’t ruined– quite the opposite, really. It was one of your favorite birthday parties, and ever since then, Eric was invited to every single one you had after. And while Sunwoo may act like he doesn’t hate anything more in this world than having a younger sister, every time you feel like a burden to him, you remember this very afternoon.

You will never tell anyone what you wished for that day– but just to let everyone in on the secret, 

it was to somehow, just like Sunwoo, find someone like Eric for yourself as well. 

JUNE OF 1999

Standing at the side of the pool, eyes squinting from the inevitable force of the sun, you’re starting to regret your decision of coming along just a little. See, you usually don’t protest whenever Sunwoo aggressively drags you around and brings you everywhere he’s supposed to, because even though you love to see your brother angry (especially when you’re the reason behind the emotion), you’d also hate to see him miss out, but now, as the scorching hot sun is having no mercy on every exposed inch of skin– and believe me, there’s a lot of it, since you’re wearing your swimming trunks– and the sweat on your forehead is no longer culminating in beads, but rolling painfully slowly down your forehead, you do admit you’d be a little bit happier in the shade of your little room than here, watching the guys play volleyball in the comfort of the freezing cold pool.

And as the only female around the house, you settle with the patriarchy and bring out a small folding chair and a camping table alongside with a big, sharp knife, struggling to hoist up the giant watermelon you got in a grocery store on your way to the beach house, with the intention of cutting it and serving it to the guys later. Who knows, maybe they’ll like you a little more after that. 

The knife sinks into the thick green skin of the watermelon easily, and so as you accompany yourself with the excited (and not so excited screams coming from the losing side of the game– mainly your brother himself), you cut up the fruit into halves, then quarters, and as you stare at the moon crescents settled on the camping table, you decide to play nice and cut up the fruit into smaller triangles as well, to really get on everyone’s good side.

The yearning for male validation awakes in a woman pretty early on in life. It’s an inevitable misfortune.

“Told you Sunwoo’s all talk but no game!” you hear Haknyeon yell out as the game seemingly ends, the younger boy lunging at him in the pool, fighting him for the truthful words. Glancing at the commotion, you notice the guys slowly getting out of the pool, making you heave out in victory– you’re finally gonna have your turn in the pool. Well, if they don’t decide to occupy it again before you even get a chance to get in.

“Y/N! You cut up the watermelon?” Eric asks a very obvious question, walking up to you with beads of water all over his half-naked body. His dark hair is damply sitting against his forehead, making him look like a wet puppy, but as the male gets closer to you, he drags his palm through the locks and pushes them back, revealing his forehead– a sight sweet to your eyes, but you refuse to pay it much attention in the heat of the moment. It’s just the sun making you delirious as the idea of finding him attractive flashes through your brain, that’s all. 

“I did! Take one,” you smile, watching as the rest of the guys walk over to your little stand– while also obnoxiously swatting out water out of their hair like dogs, refusing to use towels like normal people– and finally, there it comes: appreciative smiles appear on their faces as they each take a piece, biting down on the fruit with delighted sighs.

Sunwoo walks up to you with a surprised look on his face, sighing as he messes with your hair. “If I knew you’d be our servant, I wouldn’t have even minded you going in the first place.”

“You do something nice for people and they jump on the chance to exploit you,” you hum, shaking your head in disbelief. “That’s just like you, Kim Sunwoo.”

“No, that’s just me having older brother privileges.”

“I hope you choke on that, you know,” you bite at him, pointing towards the piece of sweet watermelon in his hands, the smile on his face turning bitter. There’s a satisfied look on your face when your brother does, indeed, choke on a watermelon seed a few seconds later– and they say dreams don’t come true.

“You didn’t have to,” you hear Eric speak up from the other side, your head turning to face the male, his features appreciative and warm. “Thank you,” he beams. There’s redness on the tip of his nose and his forehead, signaling his quickly approaching sunburn, and you can’t help but laugh out at his clueless, Rudolph the red nosed reindeer self. 

“What’s so funny?” he asks, furrowing his eyebrows at you in question.

“Nothing,” you peep, “you just look like you forgot to use sunscreen,” you mumble, watching as the male gasps and touches his face, a horrified expression overtaking him when the skin under his fingertips burns to the touch. 

“I didn’t forget! It must have rubbed off in the pool,” he mourns, “I must look stupid!” 

“Only a little,” you tease, a grin overtaking your features. See, there’s something about the fact that you’ve known Eric for the entirety of your whole life that makes you more prone to teasing him– you’re familiar with your dynamics and just how far you can go, so his next actions startle you just the tiniest bit as the male looks sternly at you, throwing the half-eaten watermelon slice to the camping table. You thought you had the risks calculated– apparently, you didn't.

“What did you say?”

Examining his features, seeing no signs of anger– just the stoic, fakely-offended face of your brother’s childhood best friend– you shrug. “That you look a bit stupid with your face like that.”

“Oh, okay,” he nods, “you’re going down for that.”

“What do you mea–”

Your words are cut short when the male lunges at you, his arms enveloping your thighs and holding you up. The contact of his cold skin from the pool and your heated figure makes goosebumps appear all over your body, your hands instinctively reaching around him to support yourself as he walks closer to the pool– his intentions are suddenly painfully clear and you start to panic. 

“This will teach you to respect your elders,” Eric huffs, the turquoise surface of the water slowly coming into your point of view.

“Stop! Stop-stop-stop,” you squirm, kicking your feet and trying to take down the predator, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, alright?”

The male takes a halt for a split second– making you foolishly believe he’ll let you off– before he breaks out into a devilish grin and continues to walk to the edge of the pool. “Too late.”

“Eric!” you scream, the volume of your voice resonating through the whole beach, your heart thumping wild against your ribcage with the awaiting process. You’re not even sure what you’re scared of anymore– you can swim and you bet the water will feel nice against the scorching sun– but still, you’re absolutely terrified as the male has no mercy on you, carrying you steadily towards the water. “At least let me tie my hair first! You can dump me in after, I promise,” you mourn, trying to buy yourself more time.

“Alright,” he nods, waiting at the very edge of the pool, leaving you to take the purple scrunchie off your wrist and gather your hair together, preparing to tie it into a bun so it doesn’t get in your way when you’re in the pool. The hair tie is just at the tips of your fingertips, the first loop over the hair ready to be done, when a scream cuts out of your throat.

The feeling of falling suddenly overtakes your body, leaving you no time to prepare yourself for the impact of the cold water against your skin and all up in your nose, since you didn’t pluck it when you were dumped into the pool. The fall only lasts a split second until you’re below the water, the force of it resonating in your ears, and when you finally act on your instincts and stand up in the pool (it wasn’t even that deep in the first place, only reaching to your upper stomach), you cough out all the water and pray to gods you don’t throw up chlorine into the freshly cleaned pool. After you’re done catching your breath and getting oxygen into your lungs again, you do your best at getting all the hair out of your face. 

There is laughter landing into your ears as soon as you manage to get all the water out of them by leaning your head to the side and violently slapping each one, and when your eyes look up, you see an amused Eric Sohn bending over in his waist at your disheveled appearance. 

Grunting and pointing a finger to the criminal that almost made you drown, you huff out. “I’ll kill you! Just you watch.”

Your scrunchie nowhere to be found, forever lost somewhere outside of the beach house, you think, as it flew off your hand in the impact of the attack, shock makes your figure shake alongside of the coldness of the water, making you audibly sigh. 

Yes. You do regret coming along just a little.

JULY OF 1999

Somewhere along the way, Eric Sohn starts acting as if he’s your second older brother. Sure, you’ve known the male your whole entire life and he’s seen you grow up, but it took him 17 years of your life to come to a point where he gives you equal amount of attention whenever he’s over at your house than he does to your brother, and even asks Sunwoo if you’re coming along with them whenever they leave to hang out somewhere else. It’s a change that comes naturally and slowly, and you welcome it unknowingly– the revelation shocks you on a hot summer day, though, when the idea finally comes to you in full force.

You would even argue and say Eric acts more like your brother than your actual sibling does– he asks if you’ve eaten and listens to you when you talk (which Sunwoo never does, well, except from when he’s arguing with you). Eric even compliments your outfits sometimes and lets you borrow his MP3 player from time to time– Sunwoo would never share his things with you, no matter how hard you pleaded and threatened to tell your mum. Yes, your brother's an adult and you’re one year away from becoming one– you still resolve your conflicts through your only parent, though. Some things, you never grow out of.

“I wanna try using the skateboard now, Sunwoo,” you order sternly when the boy finally reaches your destination. You’ve been sitting on the sidewalk for quite some time now, since your brother and his friend decided that they’re gonna try out their new skateboards on the hottest day of the year. Your town doesn’t have fancy skateparks and ramps like the ones you’ve seen in the music videos on TV, so you don’t really know what initially made the two buy those things, but you do admit that even driving up and down the road in front of your house does seem a little fun– so much you’d love to try it.

“What a shame we all wish for things we can’t have,” he shrugs ironically, shaking his head at you from his position above. The male reaches down for his bag, taking out a water bottle and putting it against his plush lips, all while you glare at him from below, still seated in your initial position. Eric comes up to you two, squishing at the soft plastic bottle in Sunwoo’s hold, making the water splash your older brother in the face, leaving a winning grin to be shared between you and the shorter boy, an expression that makes you all warm on the inside. See, at least Eric always has your back.

“You can try mine, if you want,” the latter shrugs, offering you a smile.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods, “why not?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug, “I just didn’t expect you to offer, since as you saw, my dear brother just refused when I asked…” you mumble, standing up from the sidewalk and taking the skateboard into your hand. Eric offers it to you with an outstretched arm and watches as you put the board on the floor, squinting at it with much examination.

“Do you know how to ride it?” he asks.

“No,” you shake your head, “but I mean, if Sunwoo can do it, how hard can it really be?” you joke, seeing as the said boy glares at you, finally finishing his water and dropping the bottle to the ground. 

“I’ll remind you of that statement when you eat shit on the pavement,” he shushes you, rolling his eyes. 

Not paying more attention to the grumpy being that is your own brother, you relocate your attention back to the skateboard on the heated road. You’re lucky you live on a street where cars don’t often drive by, since your neighborhood is on the very edge of the town, so you don’t really fear being run over by a pickup truck. What you do worry about, though, is your lacking sense of balance, which you discovered when you learned how to ride the bike for the first time. While your brother was a professional in no time, it took you weeks to get it right, and so with the idea of riding a board that provides you zero sense of security, you get a bit worried for your own life.

Dragging your hair out of your face and aimlessly trying to tuck it behind your ears– there’s no use in trying though, as the strands slip out just as fast as they found their place– you keep staring at the board only a few centimeters away from your feet, mentally calculating your next move. There’s a noise of a backpack being opened and rustling around in the background of your miserable thoughts, and when you look up to see what’s going on, you notice Eric offering you a small, purple bundle of fabric. 

“What’s that?” you ask, even though the answer is clear as the day– you recognise your own scrunchie with no problem. You’re just surprised to see it in his hold. You thought it was forever buried somewhere in the beach house, since you weren’t able to find it after you got out of the pool, no matter how hard you tried.

“Oh,” he shrugs, amidst a little too nonchalantly, “I found it and figured it was yours, but I forgot to give it back to you then… it seems like you need it now, though,” he offers you an explanation, lips pressed into a thin line that slightly signifies a smile.

“Ah,” you gasp, nodding as you take the hair tie out of his outstretched palm, gathering your hair into a bun and tying it up on the crown of your head– the staring contest you’ve been having with the board is much clearer now, when you don’t have your messy strands in the way. The idea of Eric keeping your scrunchie after finding it at the beach house makes your stomach do a weird kind of turn– you guess it made you a bit weirded out, if you’re being honest.

“Want some help with that?” he asks, pointing towards his skateboard.

Nervous, cracking your knuckles as you meet his eyes– he looks a bit amused, but still genuine– you nod, admitting defeat. There’s no way you’re getting on top of that board without help and not falling down. It’s always better to be safe than to be sorry, and so when Eric laughs airly at your composure and takes a few steps closer towards you, you let the male lead you, finding comfort in his secure words and actions.

Eric offers you his arms to hold when you try to get on the skateboard. He is peering at you from under his eyelashes when you put one of your legs onto the wood, his grip on your forearm getting firmer when you try to get your other foot on as well– and you must admit that you suddenly don’t feel like you might die anymore when there’s someone holding you and standing by your side. 

“See? It’s not that hard,” Eric mumbles, his voice low and reassuring from the proximity. You notice your hands sweating a little when his palm envelopes yours– damn the sun and its unbearable heat making you embarrass yourself– but he doesn’t mention it as he firmly holds you and meets your eyes. “I’m gonna drag you around a bit so you get used to it before trying yourself,” he says before taking a few steps forward, preparing to be your own type of personal driver.

Having him instruct you and help you around makes you feel more comfortable on the board. Sunwoo would never do such a thing for you– he’d enjoy watching you fall down and break your neck and possibly die– so you’re more than happy to have someone in your life that takes care of you in ways your older brother refuses to. 

The skateboard moves forward a little, starting slow, but then picking up speed as Eric jogs a little, making you laugh at the action. He does not have to go above and beyond, but he still does– but you guess it’s good for him to let out his energy somewhere. After a while, he looks back at you and meets your eye with a warm gaze, making you nod at him reassuringly and hold up a thumb of the hand he’s not holding right now, signaling that you’re okay and enjoying yourself. That has the male let go of your hand and let you take the road with the laws of physics, moving forward by yourself with the force he created. 

It’s nice. It’s fun. 

Yes, you totally understand why Eric and Sunwoo wanted skateboards after seeing them on TV. Hell, you want one now.

“Try it yourself now!” Eric encourages you as the board naturally comes to a stop under you, and his smiling face is enough for you to take initiative and nod, relocating one foot off the wood and placing it on the floor, then kicking it and making yourself move on the simple vehicle.

A moment of surprise envelopes you like a warm hug when you manage to not fall off and keep your balance, the joy of it making you try to go faster on the board, kicking once, twice against the pavement with the sole of your old, beaten up shoe. “I’m doing it!” you yell, glancing back at Eric standing on the sidewalk, watching you with excited eyes. The male offers you a victorious holler, something that makes you break into a laugh, makes your confidence blossom in marvelous ways.

Confidence rises in you so much you try to take a U-turn and go back to your teacher– perhaps showing off that you really got the hang of it now, or something– but as you try to maneuver the board and turn right, there it comes: the moment where you realize that you were, once again, too overly-confident in your abilities that are, sadly, very poor. Your body sways from side to side, your poor balance laughs at you and points an accusing finger at your attempts, and, well, to put it frankly, your whole life flashes in front of your eyes and the moment plays in slow motion as you lose the board from below your feet– the wood flying somewhere to the opposite side of the road, not at all where you meant to go in the first place– and your body inevitably comes crashing to the ground.

Awaiting the hard pavement meeting your nose and breaking it, you brace yourself with palms outstretched in front of you, the last remains of self-perseverance entering the sane parts of your brain in what you think are the last seconds of your miserable life. Another moment of surprise greets you when your yelp is muffled against something soft and your hands don’t hit the hard pavement, your ears filled with a grunt that belongs to another human swiftly chiming in and catching you before you fall.

Firm hands hold your waist– the touch somehow familiar, enveloping you in a strange sense of deja vu– and even though your body goes limp in terror, the male has you back on your feet in no time, his palms on the exposed skin of your stomach. The realization has you burning up as you look up and meet Eric’s eyes, gasping at the closeness of his face to yours. 

“You okay over there?” he asks as you unconsciously study his face– you never noticed his nose looked this nice up close– before you wake out of it and nod urgently, breaking away from his hold. You’re not gonna try to calculate the effort he must have put in just to chime in and catch you from where he was standing in such a short moment, but something about the passing thought of it has you weak in your knees from gratefulness. 

“Uhm- yeah,” you nod, kicking the pavement with your stained shoes, “I just… miscalculated my skills, that’s all,” you sheepishly hum, hearing the boy snicker at your shaken-up composure.

Watching him take off and retrieve his skateboard from where it wandered off against the curb– much to his golden retriever energy– you sigh and prepare to go sit back on the sidewalk, having enough of new experiences from the shock still lingering in your fingertips. You take a glance down the road, seeing your older brother cruising on the street– when and how he got there, you truly have no idea– when you hear Eric, who seemingly has different ideas for your next actions, call at you from the middle of the pavement.

“Where are you going? Come back!” he asks, having you look at him in surprise, mouth agape and eyes big, staring at him. He now has the board under his shoulder, but puts it back on the road and points at it, shrugging to himself. “I’ll push you down the road, it’s gonna be fun!”

“Eric, I’m literally going to die–”

“No, you’re not. Come on, I promise,” he says, but still, he doesn’t have you convinced. Your feet move against your best conclusions, though, and when you come to a halt right in front of your companion, he offers you a boyish grin. “Sit down on it, that way you’re more balanced. I swear you’re not gonna fall off, okay? I got you.”

“You promise?”

“Yes,” he nods, determined.

“Pinky swear,” you mumble, holding up your pinky finger– all thoughts of seeming childish pushed to the side in the desperate moment– and the male in front of you shakes his head in disbelief, breaking into a laugh.

“Cute,” he huffs, “yeah, okay. Pinky swear,” he nods, interlacing your pinky with his and bumping his thumb against yours, the seal foolishly making you feel more secure as you follow his order and take a seat on the skateboard, your hands gripping the bottom of the wood so hard your knuckles turn white.

“Okay, ready? 3, 2, 1–” he chants as he pushes you, two steady hands coming in contact with your shoulder blades, force making you move on the board, wheels taking you down with gravity. The sound of Eric’s shoes hitting the pavement fills your ears as you go faster, and as you finally get to the part of the hill that takes a downwards slope, he offers you a final push, sending you down the road. 

Wind makes your hair fly back, your surroundings blurring as you yelp and scream, but you can’t say you’re not enjoying the ride. Eric was right– it was fun, you liked it, and something about the gesture had you all warm on the inside. The breeze has you cool down a little in the summer heat, and the board continues to move even as you pass your older brother standing at the bottom of the slope, away from your trajectory. 

Body relaxing when the skateboard finally slows down, you let out a heartfelt laughter. Turning back and seeing Eric jog down the road with a humongous grin on his face, you offer him two thumbs up above your head, watching as he returns the gesture and makes his way back to the two of you on the bottom of the small hill.

The truth is, this was the day you realized Eric Sohn has always found his way to make you feel included and safe. 

You can’t help but feel grateful.

AUGUST OF 1999

“Sunwoo, you have to tie a knot here and then– no, you dumbass, you’re doing it completely wrong,” you mourn as you watch your older brother with a mess of thread in his lap, a focused scowl on his face. There’s a fan standing across from you, blowing cold air into your face, but you still feel yourself grow heated with frustration as Sunwoo just can’t help but not understand the art of making friendship bracelets. It’s not like you’re forcing him to do them– he was the one that asked you to show him how to, muttering something about offering one to his classmate Yeji once he’s back in school– so in theory, he should be putting in effort, no? 

Or maybe he is. Maybe he’s just… incompetent.

“I don’t get it,” Sunwoo hums under his breath, sighing as he leans against the sofa in your living room, the two of you sitting on the floor accompanied by his best friend squinting at you from the opposite side, a comic book in the latter's hand. The myth of men not being able to multi-task is quickly thrown into the bin as you watch Eric pay equal amount of attention to the comic book and the dialogue between you and your brother, and when Sunwoo seems to give up on the art of making friendship bracelets, his best friend can’t help but laugh.

“You’re giving up already? This is how you want to get a girlfriend?” you poke your brother to his side and take the threads off his lap, examining the mess of a safety pin and meters of yarn, all knotted up and not coming along in the shape you taught him to at all.

“It’s not to get a girlfriend, I just-”

“Sure,” you roll your eyes, huffing as you roll his poor attempt at friendship bracelet into a ball and throw it to the corner of the room, making a mental note to pick it up and throw it to the bin later. “You know what, just give her this one and pretend you made it,” you mutter, taking a bracelet you'd already made to demonstrate in between your fingers and throw it into Sunwoo’s lap, the older one catching it and examining it under his nose.

“That looks pretty good,” he hums, making you snort at his appreciative comment. The bracelet is pink and red, the colors just screaming romance and cute energy, which is exactly what a girl needs to be swayed by your brother. You can’t really believe a bracelet will make her swoop into his arms, because truthfully, with your brother’s face and manners, every living thing is keeping a fair distance, but hey, it doesn’t hurt to try, does it? Maybe his classmate is… majorly blind? That might do it?

“Of course it looks good,” you scoff, “that’s because I made it,” you nod, averting your gaze towards your lap, threading your fingers through the yarn you attached to a safety pin on your sweatpants to keep the growing friendship bracelet in place. 

“Then why is the one you’re making right now so ugly?” Eric asks, pointing towards the creation. 

Glancing up at the male slowly, mentally throwing all different kinds of curses at him for daring to talk badly about your craft, you huff. “What do you mean, ugly?”

“The colors… they don’t… they don’t really go together,” Eric sheepishly admits, scratching the back of his neck, quickly averting his gaze from you and gluing it back into his comic book. You think that if he doesn’t stop being a smart-ass and throw jabs at your artistic choices, he’s gonna have to protect his comic book with his own body– and you bet he’d do that, because he borrowed it from the library. The fees for damage are high.

“That’s just… not true at all,” you muse, but groggily take a look at the creation once again, but now, thanks to the remark, seeing it in a completely different way. Shades of orange, brown and purple stare back at you amidst a little disappointedly, and as you thread the yarn and make a couple of knots to end the bracelet, you can’t help but feel a pout growing on your face from the realization. Eric might be right. It does look a little bad…

“Whatever. Your taste is just bad,” you snap as you finish off the craft piece, unclasping the safety pin and sliding the bracelet off the inside, freeing it from the hold. Eric laughs a little at your frustrated state– similarly to what you do when you manage to get Sunwoo upset– and with that, you sigh and put the bracelet on the coffee table.

“I’m going out to the store to get some chocolates,” you say as you stand up, goal clear in your mind, “have fun, losers.”

“You’re still collecting the stickers from these?” Sunwoo asks, a mischievous smile growing on his lips. The teasing is inevitable and coming very soon, and there’s nothing you can do about it– you’re fully aware, which only further makes you want to escape the situation more quickly. Rolling your eyes at your brother’s antics, you move towards the door. 

“Yes, Sunwoo, I am. They’re cute and make me happy, do you have a problem with that?” you point an accusing finger at the male, having him shrug, tongue poking the inside of his cheek.

“You’re such a kid,” he huffs, averting his gaze from you when he lands the comment, the jab coming straight at your fragile heart.

“Okay, then,” you note, “I’ll just have my pretty and cute bracelet back, and you can get your girlfriend something else-”

The male quickly regains his previous composure, swatting his hands in hurry just to make you halt in your sentence. His eyes are big and his mouth is a little agape in terror as he tries to save his ass, plea written all over his face. “I was just joking! Don’t be so petulant… go get your cute stickers, they’re so fun!”

Humming to yourself, your face is tugged up into a victorious smile. “That's what I thought. So, as I was saying, have fun, losers.”

“Wait!” Eric suddenly calls for you, making you turn on your heel in the middle of your escape, eyes peering at the male. “Don’t I get a bracelet too?”

The request catches you off guard. There’s a certain kind of spark in Eric Sohn’s eyes as he asks the question, and you can’t really place it in any category, but it has you nervously shrugging at the preposition. You’re not really sure why Eric would want a bracelet from you, but to avoid confrontation and also the weird leap of your heart surely leading you into cardiac arrest, you only shrug and move back inside of the living room, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you scan the surroundings, searching for something.

“Sure,” you nod, taking the ugly bracelet off the table and offering it to him, “you can have that one.”

You hold a staring contest with the older boy for a couple of seconds, his head undoubtedly swirling with arguments and comments about the apparel of the friendship bracelet, but he’s smart– he must know the survival of his beloved comic book must be at stake. So, he only nods and smiles at you, outstretching his hand to you and nudging his head in its direction.

“Okay,” he hums, “tie it for me?”

A second comes by– a heartbeat, really– in which you chew on your bottom lip and gasp at the request, but still, you nod and come closer, crouching down to be at his level and taking the thread into your fingers. You wrap the bracelet around his wrist, making sure to leave a bit of wiggle room before you tie a knot, bringing the ends together, all while feeling the eyes of Eric glued to your face, watching every micro expression flash through your unsettling composure.

When you’re done, making a move to hide your hands behind your back and standing up, your limbs bump into each other and send an unspoken sense of electricity all through your body. The sensation is so strange you don’t meet anyone’s eye before you leave the room, yelling out a goodbye as you hurriedly open the front door and run out to get fresh air (it’s August, though. The air is humid and only makes your head spin more).

You clear your throat before you take off to the grocery store. It's only when you're halfway there that you realize you'd forgotten to bring your wallet with you. It's okay, though– you take this chance to walk around, regaining your casualty.

You bet Eric will take the bracelet off in a matter of a week.

SEPTEMBER OF 1999

The leaves start turning orange and the weather a bit colder when you become hyper-aware of your shifting composure whenever Eric Sohn is around. The way you feel heat rushing to your cheeks whenever he calls you cutie, a nickname he’s had reserved for you since you two were little kids, the way you feel weak in your knees whenever he casually brings his arm around your shoulders or when he bends down to tie your shoelace in the middle of the sidewalk. You don’t really know what those sudden changes are, yet, you feel a bit embarrassed by them whenever they take place. You don’t think it’s normal to feel this way around your brother’s best friend, and the more you hang out with him, the more you wish you read less books as a child– because now, you’re also hyper-aware of the title those feelings may have. 

Still, it only comes to you on one September afternoon– you wake up from blissful unawareness and jolt with the quickly opening pit in your stomach at the strange revelation.

“Eric! Sunwoo isn’t home, though?” you mumble, confused as you notice the boy standing on your doorway, a plastic bag in his hand and a red Nike jacket enveloping his frame.

“I know, he said he’s hanging out with Juyeon hyung today,” he nods, “I brought you something, though,” he says, holding up the bag and making sure you get a chance to see it, offering you a boyish grin.

“Oh?” you gasp, furrowing your eyebrows at the male. When you do nothing to invite him inside, he does so himself– slightly nudging you in your side as he passes your figure and enters your house. He acts like he owns the place, and by the amount of time he’s spent in your home, you’d think he does– he doesn’t, though. The only thing he owns is just a lot of audacity.

The male takes off his shoes in the entryway and walks his way over to your room– a surprising act, considering he’s spent the least amount of time in this very place– and when he’s sure you’re following his every move, he empties the contents of the bag to the middle of your freshly made bed. Watching as approximately ten items fall out of the plastic, your eyes widen with surprise as you recognise your favorite chocolate– the mini bars with stickers inside, the ones you collect and stick into your journal and look at in the middle of the night, giggling to yourself and kicking your feet at the adorable pictures in your make-shift collect book.

“Woah,” you gasp when the male looks at you, seemingly awaiting your response, and when he gets the wished outcome, pride overtakes his features, shrugging to himself.

“My mum got some for free because she bought a lot of cabbage for kimchi yesterday,” he explains, “I thought of you when I saw them, so I bought you some more.”

“I- you-” you stutter, emotions too big for your own good swelling all inside your fragile, little self, hands running into your hair and tugging at the roots to wake yourself up from the dream. “You didn’t have to!”

“We got them anyway, and I know you like the stickers,” Eric shrugs, scratching the back of his neck, completely ignoring the fact that he said he bought you some more, your heart skipping a beat at the sentiment. Clearing your throat, you tentatively take a step closer to your bed, gathering a bar of chocolate into your hand and opening it, taking a bite.

“You can have the stickers if you give me some chocolate,” Eric says close to your ear, almost as if he was creating a masterplan, to which you eagerly nod and plop onto your bed, moving the bars of sweets into one pile. As you continue to munch on the first one, you unwrap the sticker and look at it, praying to yourself as if you were checking if your lottery ticket was worth any cent– hoping you get a sticker you don’t own yet.

The image of a cute panda would cheer anyone up even in their darkest moments– not you, though, as you mourn and sigh, disappointment clear in your features. 

“What?” Eric asks, eyes big pools of worry.

“I already got that one.”

“Ah,” he nods, seemingly understanding– much to your surprise, “well, we got 9 more tries, let’s get to eating.”

Wrappers are rustling in your bed sheets as you and Eric eat the concerning amount of chocolate, gathering the stickers in a little pile on top of your notebook, promising each other to not look at the stickers as you go and just make a grand reveal at the end. Eric’s full cheeks are a sight you enjoy, telling him he looks like a squirrel– to which he sends a light flick to your forehead, telling you you don’t look much different– and soon enough, the nine bars left disappear from your plain sight (you only had 3 and Eric ate the remaining 5. He’s a growing boy, though, so you understand. He needs to get his undying energy from somewhere.).

“Ready for the reveal?” you ask, locking your gaze with Eric.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

With that, you get to the pile of stickers in the middle of your bedsheets. Looking at the first one, there’s a happy squeal cutting out of your throat, the image of an adorable yellow duck warming you up with euphoria. 

“You don’t have that one yet?”

“I don’t,” you nod, “this is just perfect.”

Eric nods and watches you with a certain kind of warmth in his gaze as you open up your notebook and stick the newest addition to your little sticker farm– or a ZOO, however you wanna call it. The next sticker from the pile is added as well– a brown, big bear– and the next one too, the most adorable colorful parrot slapped to the corner of your page. 

The rest of your stickers are the ones you already own, though– a displeased look takes over your features at the knowledge, but still, you can’t help but beam at the fact that you have 3 new additions to your collection, and they were a gift from Eric Sohn himself. Someone who doesn’t make fun of your childish habit. Someone who feeds your little interest, watches you with excitement in his eyes as you indulge. Someone not like your brother. 

Someone you could never see the way you see your brother.

“What do you do with the duplicates?” Eric asks, pointing to the sad pile on the top of your notebook. His figure is closer to you now, since he wanted to watch you stick the animals into your notebook, his crossed legs almost pressed against yours on the small bed.

“Well, usually, I just throw them out,” you shrug, “but since you’re here…” you muse, the idea plopping into your head like the newest discovery you should probably patent, peeling the back of one of the dog stickers off and swiftly turning towards your companion, mischief sparkling in your eyes.

You put the sticker on his left cheek, making the boy jump. “Hey!”

Giggling, taking another one of the stickers and pressing it to the middle of his forehead, Eric starts to fight you, your bodies wrestling on the bed. You don’t think he puts much effort into getting you off him– that, or he’s insanely weak– and in no time, his face is adorned with all different kinds of animals, his hair messy from tussling in your bedsheets. The image has you laughing before you realize you’re basically straddling him on your bed, his big eyes gaping at you from below, his appearance enough to make something in your brain short-circuit and make you leap off him, clearing your throat.

Heat rushes into your cheeks as you take a seat next to him, playing with your fingers. You pray for anything to come and ease the awkwardness you caused, and sure enough, today must be your lucky day. “Hey, look here!” 

You call for the boy as you swiftly take your polaroid camera off your bedside table– the one that belonged to your dad, the one you fought with Sunwoo about, the one your mum said was yours because Sunwoo is too careless with his things to keep it safe– and snap a picture of the puppy-like boy, laughing at the fact that now, you have the image of him looking dumb and covered in stickers forever. Or at least until he doesn't take it away from you– which he attempts quickly.

“Hey!” he yelps again, huffing as he lunges at you, trying to take the picture out of your grasp as you drop the camera into your soft sheets. Your feet take you to the living room, navigating through furniture, and when you don’t hear footsteps follow you, you think you’re safe– Eric does have a lot of energy, but chasing you around gets tiring for him quickly when he knows you'll never let him win.

Entering your room once again, prepared to find him on your bed like before, you’re taken by surprise as a shutter sound goes off right after you open the door, a polaroid picture taken of your face making you temporarily blind at the flash.

“Eric!” you whine, hating that there’s a picture of you standing shocked at your doorway now forever in the universe– not really caring that the boy just got you back with the exact stunt you pulled on him just a few minutes ago. Before you get a chance to blink out the blind spots in your vision caused by the flash and run after him, though, you feel him gently press you out of the doorway and slip outside, the sound of the front door opening and closing after him resonating along his slowly disappearing, amused laughter.

Serves you right, doesn’t it? 

Sighing, you shake your head and take a seat on your bed, the picture of the boy still in between your fingertips. You only take a look at it when your vision comes back to normal, and as the image of Eric covered in stickers, hair messy and cheeks rosy below the animal print comes into your sight, the revelation arrives the same second a starstruck smile plays with your features.

And with that, you’re absolutely terrified. 

Throwing the polaroid picture onto the bedside table and lunging yourself into the sheets, you scream into your pillow and wish for the feelings to disappear– because in what world does a crush on your brother’s best friend ever come to a happy ending?

OCTOBER OF 1999

Once October hits, you find yourself home alone more often than you’d like. Sure, you don’t mind having some me time to read comic books or watch the TV uninterrupted in the living room, but still– alone turns lonely pretty quickly, and somehow, you start to regret the fact that you’ve been relying on your older brother and his friends for so long instead of making some connections on your own.

Sunwoo started to play soccer at school– something is telling you that he might go far if he keeps it up– and that’s why he’s been stuck at practice every single day, coming home late in the evening all tired, but happy, so you’re not really complaining. Eric works in the little bistro downtown now, since he wanted to make some money and not rely on the allowance Mrs. Sohn gives him every month, and it’s not like you were that close to begin with, but the fact that the boy is now too busy to meet you is making your spirit fall just the tiniest bit. And with your mother always being at work, you find yourself alone in your room, laying in your bed and staring at the ceiling. 

Sometimes, you journal. About anything and everything, really. You don’t really think you’re ever gonna read back the entries once you’re older, since they would just be a reminder of how miserable and boring your teenage years really were, and that’s why you allow yourself to be authentic. On most days, you write about your assignments for school. Sometimes you bad mouth a classmate or two– gossiping with the diary pages, because you don’t really have any human beings to do so in real life– and seldom, you allow yourself to get into topics that evoke the slightest bits of existential crisis in you.

Topics like college. Growing up. Your lack of hobbies and social interaction with the outer world. The newly found crush on Eric Sohn…

Okay, maybe you do write about the boy with brown hair and dark eyes a little too often. You can’t help it, though– when he’s not giving you any new interactions to dwell on, you have to just pick apart the old ones. You think it’s a natural reaction.

And that’s exactly what you’re doing one October afternoon, the lamp in your room on, since the evening comes faster when the weather is colder, as you’re laying in your bed and kicking your feet back and forth, chewing on the end of your pencil. The sound of your doorbell resonates through the house suddenly and startles you, making you jump awake from your delirious delusions.

Mentally going through the list of possible visitors you could have– because it can’t be your mother or your brother, since they never forget to carry their house keys– you’re lost, not really finding any fitting candidates. Furrowing your brows, lost in thought and frankly, a bit confused, you plant your socked feet onto the wooden floor and walk over to the front door just in time for the bell to ring again. Scratching the back of your neck in nerves, thinking of precautions you could take for your own safety– since your front door doesn’t have a peep hole and you don’t want to open the door to a complete stranger– you clear your throat and yell over the door.

“Who is it?” you ask.

“Delivery!” a voice calls through the door, making you huff. 

“I didn’t order any food?” you yell back, confused. “Sir, there’s another house behind ours, sometimes the mailmen get confused and we get their mail. Maybe try there?” 

“The address is right, though?” the voice calls again, and somehow, it sounds kind of familiar… no, it can’t be, you dumb goose. You’re just imagining things because you’ve spent the last 20 minutes writing about the curve of his nose into your diary.

“There must be a mistake-”

“Come on, Y/N, open the door,” the voice on the other side mourns, the mention of your name making you jump, completely startled. The tone the man says it in is sweet like honey, though, so familiar in your ears, that you mentally want to slap yourself– so you weren’t dreaming. It is him.

Dragging your hand through your hair to smooth it down, praying you look at least a little presentable– although in your stained sweatpants and the Pokémon shirt you inherited from Sunwoo when he grew out of it, you doubt that’s even possible– you open the door and try to offer Eric a warm smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Food delivery,” Eric shrugs, pointing with his thumb in the direction behind his back, where his bike undoubtedly stands up against your gate.

“Oh…. but I already told you I didn’t order anything,” you mumble, confused. Studying his face– because a girl can indulge when she has the opportunity, am I right? – you notice his hair has grown a little longer, falling into his eyes. You bet it’s hard for him to see, but you must admit it looks nice, and you almost tell him, before you catch yourself and break away from the sentiment. 

The male snickers. “I know, I was just joking,” he says, “I did bring you food, though.”

“Why?” you ask, confused when he bends over and picks up a plastic bag off the ground, a container of food inside, the warmth of the contents making condensation appear all over the red sack. 

“We made this by mistake and it was just gonna be thrown out if nobody took it,” he shrugs, “and I figured you haven’t eaten yet– or if you did, you just had those cold kimbap rolls from the store– and I wanted to get some warm food into your stomach.”

“Ah,” you gasp, nodding at the explanation. It does explain the source of the food really well, but truthfully, it explains nothing about the fact why Eric thought of bringing you the food instead of taking it home with himself– he’s a foodie if you’ve ever seen one. The idea of him worrying about if you were fed or not is equally as strange and interesting in your head– still, you clasp your hand around the bag and take it, the smell making you involuntarily hungry. “Thank you.”

Eric only nods at you, a smile beaming at his face. “Well,” he sighs, “I’d love to stay longer and hang out, but I’m still on the clock, so…” he mumbles, taking a hesitant step backwards towards his bike, eyes never breaking contact with yours.

“Oh, right,” you nod, “that’s okay. Have a fun day at work!” you muse, watching him as he grins and finally retrieves back his bike, opening up the gate to your property and escaping, waving at you as he gets on.

“I’ll see you soon!” he calls as he rides off, your eyes following him until his figure disappears behind a corner, your ears buzzing with excitement and your lower lip trapped between your teeth with the innocent promise.

Walking back into the house, you grin as you close the front door behind you and carry the food into the kitchen. You quickly get the containers out of the damp bag, putting them onto the wooden table, and gasp when you find a sticky note on the very top one, a messy handwriting scribbled in a rush, but stuck to the food with care.

Eat well and don’t skip meals, Y/N-ie!! – Eric x

Not being able to battle your smile anymore, you decide to open up the containers and stuff your mouth with the food instead– only to find your favorite dish inside, staring back at you in what seems to be a dream that’s too good to wake up from. 

And sure, you are delusional, but are you delusional enough to believe that this wasn’t all a coincidence? You’re not so sure.

Still, you eat the food with feet kicking back and forth as you sit in the silent kitchen, the empty house no longer feeling so lonely. When you’re done, you throw the trash out– everything but the sticky note, which you glue into your diary a few minutes later, hoping to keep the memory forever.

NOVEMBER OF 1999

The world around you is dark as you step outside of cram school, your eyes are tired and your skin is prickled with goosebumps in the chilly air. You despise going to cram school, but your mother told you you have to– since you didn’t have any athletic features that could get you far in life like Sunwoo, you had to be good at studying, or else you won’t get into university. There was a lot of work ahead of you, but since you didn’t really have anything else to do in the day, you didn’t protest and went anyway.

The days are usually very long and you get off very late, resulting in you being tired almost all the time. When you get home, you undress yourself and change into your sleep clothes and doze off until the morning, when you have to wake up and go to school again– it’s an exhausting cycle, but you know you have to endure it for your own sake.

Walking down the steps that lead out the cram school building, you stretch your body and huff, cursing at yourself for the fact that you didn’t bring a jacket– you forgot that evenings get really chilly, and frankly speaking, you didn’t have much time to think when you were rushing to get ready in the morning. You’ll just have to get through it, you think to yourself as you walk in the direction of your house– the last bus to your neighborhood already left an hour ago, when you were in the middle of revising division– your sneakers kicking the stray rocks below your feet as you tug the sleeves of your hoodie lower, desperately trying to feel more heat.

“Do you never watch where you’re going? That’s gonna get you in trouble one day, you know,” you hear a familiar voice say, the joking tone making your heart skip a few beats as you place the owner of the saccharine voice to its face. Looking up, slightly alarmed at being caught in such a distressed state, you gasp.

“I was… watching my step, I guess,” you shrug as you come into a halt in front of him, shivering both under Eric’s gaze and the cold weather at once. “What are you doing here? Deliveries?”

“I just got off,” he says, “so I figured I could stop by. Sunwoo said you’re going to cram school, I thought you might enjoy some company on your way home.”

Gaping at his explanation, you nod, completely startled. The idea of your brother talking about you in front of Eric, the boy you have a very embarrassing, very big crush on scares you, to say the least. See, it doesn’t really matter that the boy grew up with you, pretty much seeing you at your lowest whenever he was around over at your house when you were both just little kids– the image of Sunwoo telling Eric about finding you sobbing at your comic book (the scene got too sad, nobody can really blame you) or about how your favorite jeans ripped right before you had to go to school one morning is terrifying. You don’t really want him to know about these things. He may act like your brother sometimes, but you never really saw him in that light in the first place.

“Well, then,” you clear your throat, “it’s… it’s good to see you,” you say. Eric shows you his boyish grin as your lips utter out the words, and you can’t help but mirror it, your eyes locking with the male. As if you just took a step back, your eyes see him in a light you’ve never seen him before– as if this was your first time meeting your brother’s best friend– and something about the sentiment has your stomach feeling all uneasy, heat rushing to your face. His hair is styled in a way that tells you that he didn’t really style it (or if he did, it looked truly effortless in your eyes, so props to him), pushed back a little and revealing his forehead, a few of the strands carelessly falling into his eyes. His jawline is sharper than how it was when you first met the boy, and with the realization of a foolish teenage girl, you have to admit that Eric Sohn grew up to be a very attractive, attentive man.

“You’re cold?” he says, although the sentence sounds more like a statement rather than a question, before he shakes his head at your antics and heaves out a sigh. “You should’ve taken a jacket with you when you went, you know it gets cold in the evening,” he scolds you. In those times, he reminds you the most of your brother– because although you and Sunwoo act like you hate each other sometimes, you know the older male still cares about you. He just hates showing it, which translates in his scolding tone whenever you do something wrong or against his wishes. 

In those times, Eric reminds you the most of the way your brother treats you, and you somehow hate it. You despise the fact, because that means he must only see you as someone like his younger sister– he never had one, so maybe he just likes to compensate for it by taking care of you all the time. Maybe he feels responsible to do so because of Sunwoo. The thought makes you equally as nauseous– you’d never want him to hang out with you just because he feels like he has to. 

“I didn’t have time in the morning,” you grunt, rolling your eyes at him. You avert your gaze from the male, for it makes you slightly uncomfortable after your previous thoughts, so when the noise of a zipper being pulled down and the weight of fabric on your shoulders brings you back to reality, you snap your head around at him all alarmed. 

“What? Wear it,” he says, head shrugging towards the direction of his jacket on your figure. “You’re gonna catch a cold if you don’t.”

Trying to wrestle out of the red material, you squirm in the hold of the windbreaker– Eric’s hands gripping each side of the jacket, as if predicting your next moves, making sure it stays on you and doesn’t fall down. His strong arms tug you closer to him to make your fight more difficult– and he’s successful with his efforts, because the proximity of him and his smell engulfs you and unarms you, heat rushing to your cheeks as you halt in your movements.

“Stop,” you mourn, “I don’t need it.”

“Yes you do,” he insists, “so stop being a baby about it and wear it.”

Staring into his eyes, as if to mentally tell him to stop what he’s doing– to stop how he’s treating you, how he’s making you all weak in your knees and sleepless at nights because of how much you think of him and hope he’s doing well each day, to stop being so gentle with you and taking care of you, because it brings all sorts of both doubts and delusions into your head– but he doesn’t back down. You’ve known him for quite some time, you should already be aware of just how stubborn he can be.

“Arms in,” he hums, holding on to the jacket and waiting for you to wear it properly. One thing about you– you can always admit your defeat. So, with a sigh, you put your arms through the sleeves of Eric’s red windbreaker, shrinking a little under his firm gaze. He looks at you with a look full of something you can’t decipher, and it’s all making you so, so insanely lost in the many thoughts and feelings swirling around your head, not helping your current state.

“I already have a brother, y’know,” you mumble in a moment of weakness, looking at your feet– your dirty white sneakers almost touching his from how close you are standing right now, “so you should stop treating me like one.”

A moment of silence overtakes you two, and you suddenly feel like you’ve done something wrong. Still, Eric’s hands are holding on to the sides of the opened jacket, keeping you close to him. “Hm?” 

Clearing your throat and shaking your head, you snicker to yourself. “Forget it.”

“No- I mean,” he blurts out, tone of voice a little nervous, “do you see me as your brother figure?” he asks, tone of voice more quiet now, more gentle.

Breathing in the crispy air, taking a moment before you reply, you shake your head in disapproval. “No,” you say, “no, I don’t. I- I don’t think I do,” you say, scared of what your answer will bring out of him. You don’t really know why, but at this moment, you feel insanely fragile– as if any bad move could make you break in his hands, waiting for him to glue you back together. 

Metaphorically, he does just that. “Good,” he nods, leaning down towards you, hands gripping the zipper of his jacket and zipping it together, making sure no cold can get to your bones as his fingers tug it up towards the very top, under your chin. “Because I’ve never seen you as my sister either.”

His answer once again startles you– but when you take a step back from the situation, you think it was in a good way. His hands grip your shoulders for a second as his eyes meet yours and he offers you a warm smile. “Come on, let’s get you home,” he says, tugging you towards the fence where you find his bike, his motions guiding you like a rag doll sucked out of all life.

“Hop in,” he motions towards the back of the bike, where the basket would usually be– Eric moved it towards the front, though, leaving enough room for you to sit at– and as you do, he takes a seat in front of you and looks back at you over his shoulder. “Hold on tight so you don’t fall.”

Like in a trance, your arms sneak around his middle– this was the first time you had this kind of physical touch with him, and just the thought of it makes you want to scream your throat out– before the male takes off on the bike, riding towards your neighborhood. With the cold wind slapping your face, you foolishly rest your cheek on his shoulder blade and close your eyes, enjoying the closeness of his body keeping you warm. 

If anyone asked you about the action, you’d tell them you were just tired.

DECEMBER OF 1999

Socked feet make their way through the room, the sound of footsteps resonating on the laminated floor, as the short male comes up to you with a bowl of potato chips in his right hand and a bottle of soda under his left arm. Eric Sohn sighs at you, shaking his head in disbelief, before he places the items onto the coffee table and takes a seat next to you on the floor, opening up the bottle and pouring the three of you drinks.

“Can’t believe I’m spending New Year’s Eve with you losers, of all people,” Eric snickers, having you roll your eyes at the male and grumpily furrow your eyebrows at his sentence.

“No one’s stopping you if you wanna go, y’know,” you grunt as you take the filled glass off the table, taking a sip of the sweet drink and sighing at him. If he’s gonna take a leap into the new year with you while making you annoyed, he may as well leave now and do whatever his initial plan was– once again, no one’s stopping him if that’s what he wants to do.

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, “it would’ve been so much more fun if we all went to Juyeon hyung’s. Everyone’s there celebrating, but we’re stuck here in your room.” 

“Well, Eric,” your brother smiles ironically at him, shrugging to himself, “it’s not like it’s my fault you’re not over at Juyeon hyung’s right now. You chose to spend the new years here with me. My mother prohibited me from going there, not yours.”

The argument has the male shrug, his eyes averting your brother’s gaze once his comment gets a bit too honest and realistic. It’s true and he’s right– it’s not like Eric’s mum told him he can’t go celebrate with his friends, because she didn’t. Eric’s mum trusts him and wants him to have fun and do what all the kids his age are doing. Your mum, on the other hand, is making you and Sunwoo stay home for New Year’s Eve to celebrate with your family, because, as she quoted, New Year’s Eve the only time she gets time off work, and she wants to spend it with her kids– forget the fact that you’re currently sitting locked in your room with your friend, protesting the family time just because you can– and when Sunwoo told her she has to stop treating him like a little kid, she told him she has all the right to do so, because he is her kid. And that’s how the party he was supposed to attend with Eric (the party you foolishly thought you’re gonna have to tag along to, not hating the sentiment as much as before now) got canceled from your brother’s plans.

“Well,” Eric chews on the inside of his cheek, “I did it for you two. Be grateful.”

“Whatever,” you hum, “let’s turn on the TV. I bet there’s some variety show on.”

Eric heaves out a sigh as he reaches for the TV remote, clicking the power button and making the boxy device in front of you light up. Your mum got you a TV in your room when you complained about being too bored one November day, and although the box of entertainment didn’t really help like you imagined it to, you’re glad it’s of service at least today. Instead of the expected variety show, though, there’s news on– the face of the old announcer looking at you with a serious look on his face, the professional tone making chills run down your spine, for he reminds you a bit of your mother when she scolds you. You think that’s a common news announcer trait. 

“As the year 2000 approaches, computer programmers realize that computers might not interpret the 00 in the software as 2000, but 1900. The softwares currently running only use a two-digit code for the year, excluding the 19. The data was excluded because the data storage is costly and takes up too much space. Activities that were planned on a daily basis could be damaged or flawed,” the announcer says, making the three of you look at the screen with interest. Maybe it’s true that when you get older, you get more interested in news– you think it’s good to know what’s going on around you, although the topic discussed right now might not even concern you in the slightest.

“Banks, which calculate the interest rates on a daily basis, could face real problems. Interest rates are the amount of money a lender, such as a bank, charges a customer, such as an individual or business, for a loan. Instead of the rate of interest for one day, the computer could calculate a rate of interest for minus almost 100 years!” 

“Oops,” Eric lets out next to you, a reaction so far away from what a real adult would think of the situation. See, you are all just kids, after all.

“Centers of technology, such as power plants, are also threatened by this issue. Power plants depend on routine computer maintenance for safety checks, such as water pressure or radiation levels. Not having the correct date could throw off these calculations and possibly put nearby residents at risk,” the announcer continues, the information coming out of his mouth suddenly making you hyper aware of the reality you’re experiencing right now.

“Do we have a nuclear power plant nearby?” you ask in a hushed whisper, watching as the men next to you almost comically widen their eyes, shrugging.

“I’m not sure,” Sunwoo peeps.

“The worst of all, this software and hardware issue could cause such a big problem in nuclear energy facilities, where nuclear bombs and missiles could be set off, causing the world to go into utter chaos, or worse, an end,” the announcer concludes, the last word making you gasp in terror. 

“An end?” you chirp, sitting up straight in your seat as you look at the two men, now equally as terrified. There’s something in Sunwoo’s gaze that makes chills run down your spine, the reality crushing down on you with heavy measures. 

“I knew I shouldn’t have fought with mum. What if the last words the two of us exchanged before we die are the harsh words I had said yesterday?” your brother mourns, seeing as his best friend chews on his bottom lip, lost in thought.

“What did you say to your mum?”

“That- that I’ll never forgive her for ruining this for me,” he mumbles, his voice breaking at the end, “and… other things,” he adds, the hint of incoming panic making his best friend frantically wave his hands around and try to make your brother relax before he has to deal with the breakdown. If the world is ending, this is not how any of you want to go.

“It’s okay, don’t worry,” Eric says, clearing his throat and pointing to the TV, “look! The show is on, we should watch before the year ends,” he proposes, taking the remote into his hand and turning the volume up to hopefully drown out Sunwoo’s thoughts and have him focus on something else. And it works– noting that your brother has an attention span of a 5 year old– he can hardly remember what he was worrying about just 30 seconds ago.

Still, the thought keeps bouncing around your head like a child in a bouncy castle. The words of the news anchor keep repeating in your brain, making your ears ring as you look at Eric from the corner of your eye, watching his angelic face. Oh how you hate disturbing the peace now that you’ve all calmed down– but still, you can’t deal with the worries alone. Checking the clock hung above the TV, noticing there’s at least 5 minutes left before midnight, you clear your throat, feeling your whole body on fire.

“Do you really think the world is gonna end?” you ask, cracking your knuckles in a nervous manner. Looking at Eric, pupils shaking, you find your brother’s best friend seemingly lost in thought. The music of the variety show program serves you three as a background sound now, none of you paying attention to the TV anymore, instead, focusing on all the things you've done wrong in your life and how somehow, this feels like karma for all of it.

“I dunno,” Sunwoo shrugs, “I mean- they said it’s possible! It was on the news, and they wouldn’t lie on the news…” he nervously mumbles, scratching the back of his head. 

“That’s what’s worrying me,” you sigh, “we shouldn’t have turned on the TV.”

“It was your idea in the first place!”

“And I’ll carry the burden into my grave,” you admit, gulping as you press a forced smile onto your lips.

Momentarily looking back at the TV, you desperately want to keep the thought of the world being over out of your head before you spend your last minutes on this earth going crazy– but now that you started, you can’t keep thinking about it. “Man, the world can’t end yet. There’s so many things I haven’t tried yet! I’m too young to die!”

The men don't reply to that– you presume they’re too busy trying to find other things to occupy themselves with instead of the inevitable– which has you dissatisfied as you throw your body back into the sofa, heaving out a sigh. Seconds go by painfully slow but also painfully fast at the same time, given the circumstances, as you listen to the cheerful song playing in the background and nudge your friend into his upper arm with your pointer finger, feeling his arm encircle your shoulders and pull you closer to him. The contact of his fingers on your upper arm makes you squirm and break out into a smile, feeling a particular lightness in your stomach at the action, a sensation that has you in shock. 

“I’m gonna talk with mum before we die,” Sunwoo suddenly calls as he stands up from his seat on the floor, sighing to himself, “I can’t go with the thought of her being upset with me,” he sentimentally adds before he’s out of the door, rushing towards the living room.

The space falls into momentary silence now that your brother is gone, having you chew on your bottom lip with nerves. You think now is the time to beg for forgiveness with the higher forces– I'm sorry for not studying well. I'm sorry for being rude and ungrateful towards my mum. I'm sorry for being greedy– when the sound of Eric’s voice resonates through the place as he speaks up again, waking you up from the anxious slumber, the clock now striking 2 minutes before midnight. “What would you wanna do before you die?” he asks.

The question is simple. You presume he wants simple answers– things like getting into college, getting a good job and making a lot of money, growing old– but as you lean away from him and get back to your place on his left, your eyes locked with his, you’re left clueless. There are so many things you have yet to achieve, and the idea of not being able to pushes a burden to your chest, but at this very moment, you can’t really name one. 

Shrugging, you chew on the inside of your cheek as your eyes scan his face. His firm eye contact has you a bit flustered, making you shrivel in your seat, and as the sound of the TV morphs from the song into a countdown from 55, you’re overwhelmed with the thought that your friend is insanely pretty– and he always has been, you just hated admitting it to yourself for the past few months, despite still being fully aware– and that now, when the world ends, you’re dying unkissed and alone.

Well, not completely alone, since Eric’s here. And he’s always been here– your whole life, since you can remember, and he’s here now as well, even though he should’ve been at Juyeon’s house. As the clock strikes 30 seconds away from midnight, your eyes involuntarily travel down to his chapped lips, all air knocked out of your lungs, the thoughts in your brain picking up on speed the closer you come to the end.

You’re dying soon. You’re dying in 30- now 29 seconds, and you’ve never kissed anyone before. You’re dying before you get a chance to hold hands with someone and have a partner, and you’re dying before you get a chance to tell Eric how you feel about him. There’s 28 seconds left until the end and you’re just staring at him like a coward, because you don’t really let yourself indulge in the silly warmth of your heart whenever you’re around your friend, but god, you can at least admit it to yourself before you die.

And as the clock gets closer and closer to midnight, now only giving you 20 seconds before it all ends and a missile lands on the top of your house, blowing up the whole town and making you all disappear, Eric’s question repeats itself in your brain. What would you want to do before you die?

The answer is suddenly painfully clear as you take action– leaning towards the boy on your right, face closer to his than it’s ever been before, your eyes counting all his eyelashes and focusing on his surprised, yet unmoving face– and as you hear the countdown reach 15, you close your eyes and press your lips against his. 

The contact makes you weak in your knees as your hands reach to his face to steady him, your own firework show erupting in your stomach, and suddenly you’re completely content with dying tonight– because at least you’re with Eric, at least you did something. You kiss your friend with something close to an unsaid confession, your lips staying on his throughout the rest of the countdown, the taste of soda you’ve both been drinking the whole evening mixing in the contact of your skin. You’re not sure you’re even doing this right– again, you’ve never kissed anyone before– but it doesn’t matter to you much as you let go of your worries, aware of the fact that in a few seconds, nothing will matter anymore when neither of you are going to be around to say anything to each other after the kiss is over.

The countdown rings in your ears– coming down from 5 as you scoot yourself closer to Eric, 4 as you run the pads of your thumbs along his cheekbones, 3 as you still in your movements, 2 as you notice your knees bumping into each other on the ground and finally, 1 as you get ready to die, kissing your first and only love– when the sound of cheers and fireworks from the TV fills your ears instead, the world around you stilling and completely unchanged.

Your kiss started in 1999 and ended in 2000. Your love for him passed a century.

Eyes fluttering open and your mouth letting go of his, the image of the boy with his lips slightly parted, eyes closed and cheeks rosy comes to you in the yellow light of your room, making your heart fall down to your stomach. He looks absolutely angelic, his hair slightly messy and the fabric of his shirt a little disheveled in the front, and even though you’d love to indulge in your foolish desires and kiss him some more, you’re quickly taken aback with the noise of the door to your room opening and making you jump away from Eric, your brother appearing out of thin air in the presence of your room. It serves you like a weird kind of reality check, Eric’s eyes opening and looking at your brother, and even though you two haven’t been caught, the male clears his throat and bites down on his lower lip, looking almost guilty.

Oh no. What have you done?

Suddenly, you feel insanely silly.

JANUARY OF 2000

“You’ve been awfully quiet the whole day,” Sunwoo mumbles from beside you, his whole body engulfed in a pile of snow, “not that I care, but are you okay?”

“I thought you liked it when I don’t talk,” you mutter, playing with the frozen white all around you, seated on the red plastic sled at the top of the hill. You got tired after dragging it up from the bottom, and when you noticed that the rest of Sunwoo’s friends– Eric included– are still on their way up, you figured you could use up the time to relax and sit around for a while. It’s been quite some time since all of Sunwoo’s friends gathered to hang out at the same time, which made you surprised to see that your own brother invited you to tag along with them as they decided to go sledding on the second day of January, using up their break to best of their abilities. Which is also why you didn’t say no to the invitation– you thought sitting at home and moping around wouldn’t help you much.

“I do,” he says, nodding, “that’s why I’m asking what’s up– so I know what to do when I need to shut you up later,” Sunwoo hums, making you roll your eyes at the masked worry.

Shaking your head in disbelief, you scoff. “It’s nothing.”

“Sure,” he shrugs, “so you’re just going through puberty?” he teases, to which you take a handful of snow into your palm and lunge the white at him, satisfaction running through your veins when the snowball lands into his unsuspecting face, the male coughing and swatting his arms around to defend himself.

“Hey!” your brother screams at you once he gets the ice out of his eyes and his mouth, his body jumping into a standing position before he chases you around, the bubble of a laugh escaping your throat for the first time these days– they’re not wrong when they say malicious joy is the best kind of joy.

Running at the top of the hill, not really looking where you’re going– instead looking over your shoulder to see Sunwoo’s actions, preparing yourself to duck if he decides to turn your small quarrel into a snow fight– your legs get tangled with the red sled you left before you started a war with the angered man, a yelp cutting out of your throat as you get prepared to fall over and knock your teeth out.

Your body comes in contact with something half-firm, half-soft, and as your feet slip and the snow-covered ground disappears from below your legs, two arms wrap around your waist and steady you, making sure you don’t get hurt.

Turns out Eric Sohn is there to catch you every time you are about to eat shit. You hate this kind of deja vu.

As you open your eyes (that you had closed on instinct, not wanting to see your own death) once you’re sure you’re safe and sound, the world around you invites itself into your ears in an overwhelming noise. The laughter of Sunwoo’s friends– some hollering at your fall, some at the redness and last remains of snow covering your brother’s face– and the hushed arguments over who’s going down first– with Haknyeon screaming that he’s stealing Sunwoo’s (yours) sled and Juyeon following him. After all those happening in the matter of a few seconds,  you realize you’re left on the top of the hill alone with the male, terror shaking through your insides.

Clearing your throat and taking a step back from him, you tuck your hands into your pockets and avert your gaze from Eric. You two haven’t spoken since you decided to kiss him on New Year’s Eve, and with the awkward tension in the air, you don’t feel like doing so ever again in your whole entire life. 

“Thanks,” still, you hum.

Eric seems a little more light-hearted than you, shrugging as he replies to you. “Haven’t I told you to start watching where you’re going?”

“I’m not good with listening sometimes,” you mutter, huffing. Taking a look around yourself– noticing that there are no sleds left on the top of the hill, therefore, if you wanted to escape the situation, the only way down would be to roll around like a human version of a snowman, you once again admit your defeat, standing around nervously and shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

The silence is uncomfortable. It makes you want to dig a hole in the snow and bury yourself alive, to suffocate under the weight of the icy cold and never see Eric’s face again. You know that you ruined whatever friendship you had with the male– by being stupid and foolish, not really thinking about consequences (because there were supposed to be none and you were supposed to be dead), and the weight of the guilt makes you want to puke and hide away. 

Still, Eric comes out of his way to talk to you. Honestly, you’re kind of surprised– he should be disgusted with you. Realistically, he should be the one avoiding you, not the other way around.“They’re gonna take long to walk back up,” he notes, “wanna get hot chocolate with me?”

“I’m good, thanks,” you shake your head, not once breaking eye contact with the overwhelming white of the hill.

“Come on,” he sighs, “it’s just around the corner. They built a hot chocolate stand because they knew kids would come sledding here. Honestly, it’s an astute business tactic, but I promise the hot chocolate actually tastes nice,” he says, nudging you slightly with his arm, as if to make you look at him and change your mind.

“Thanks, but no,” you definitely say, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Are you avoiding me?” he asks, tone of voice casual– as if it was the most normal thing in the world, as if nothing ever happened and he was genuinely curious about the reasoning behind your actions.

“I’m not, I just don’t really like hot chocolate,” you sheepishly mutter, trying hard to avoid the topic.

“So you are avoiding me,” he hums, as if it wasn’t obvious before– and not only because you’re a bad liar. Plus, you love hot chocolate. Somehow, you think Eric knows.

“Look, Eric,” you sigh, running your hand through your hair, “can’t you just drop it?”

“No,” he shrugs, shaking his head, “and that’s why we’re talking about the reason why you’re avoiding me over a cup of hot chocolate. Let’s go.”

His persistence is terribly overwhelming sometimes. You wonder how the male does it. “I already told you-”

“You owe me for the stickers and the meal and everything,” he corners you, and you know you can’t argue with that. He’s kind of right, you suppose– you never paid him back for all the chocolates or for the free meal he brought you that one evening. And that’s exactly why you find yourself sighing as you follow him, mentally preparing yourself for the talk.

You hate how he can always get his way. Walking up to the stand, you crack your knuckles in the pocket of your jacket, nervously coming up with possible arguments to tell him. I didn’t kiss you on purpose, it was an accident. I only did it to know how it feels. We are both supposed to be dead, it’s not my fault the world didn’t end like it was supposed to! Each sentence sounds more stupid than the previous one, and so with that, you shake your head, wiping the thoughts away, smiling at the elderly lady in the stand. You’re just gonna have to be honest, you figure. 

“Two hot chocolates, please.”

Rummaging through your pockets to find your wallet– you do owe Eric, so it’s only natural for you to pay– you’re caught off guard as the male next to you swiftly takes out his own and unzips it, preparing to pay for you. 

“I thought I owed you?” you mumble, hand reaching to tug at his forearm to stop him, to which Eric only grins at you and sighs.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean you have to pay,” he says.

“I think that’s exactly what that means.”

“Just take it,” he huffs as he brings out a note from his wallet, the force making something else fly out and fall to the ground with it, having the boy swiftly crouch down and pick the item up, attempting to hide it before you get a chance to see. And now, you don’t have 20/20 vision, but you recognise your face when you see it– that, and you also recognize the small white sheet to be a polaroid picture, and as far as you’re aware, you’re the only one who has a camera in his circle.

The boy hands you the drink with red-tinted cheeks. The idea of him carrying a picture of you that he took back in September makes you flush as well, and when your gloved fingers accidentally meet as you take the cup from him, he forces out a laugh. “We can talk about that after you tell me why you’re avoiding me.”

His nonchalance has you relaxing only for a few seconds. The boy walks with you as you try to heat up your cold hands on the boiling surface of the cup, and when you see a bench a few meters away from you two, you instinctively take a seat.

“So?” he becomes you, eyebrows rising as he takes a sip from the melted sweetness.

Sighing, you try to come up with the best way to go around this. Do you apologize? Do you promise to never do it again– and you won’t, even though you want to so badly and his lips look surprisingly soft today? Furrowing your brows at the war in your head, you place the cup on the bench next to you and put your head into your hands, hiding away from him when you realize the only way to do this is to be completely, utterly honest.

“I’m just so embarrassed, Eric.”

The only noise meeting your eardrums in the moment is the faint yelling of the crowd sledding in the background, your companion remaining quiet for a bit. When he sees you won’t explain yourself, he goes ahead and asks the question. “Why?”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you?” you sigh, not believing his so casual composure.

“Maybe,” he laughs, the airy sound taking all breath away from your lungs.

Well, not all of it, since you have enough oxygen to go on a tangent, it seems. “Because I kissed you, goddamnit. And- and I don’t even know why I did it, honestly, I’ve never thought of kissing you before! It’s just- when I heard the world is ending, I realized I hadn’t had my first kiss yet, and that just felt like such a miserable way to die, and then you asked what I wanted to do before I die and I couldn’t think of anything else,” you say, progressively taking out your head from your hands and facing the male, big eyes staring into his soul. 

To your surprise, he doesn’t seem mad. Or disgusted. Or any of the reactions you expected, really. Eric stares at you with a soft, but amidst a little star-struck look in his eyes, and you’re suddenly painfully aware of every slight shift in his composure.

“Did you kiss me because you wanted to kiss me, or because you thought the world was gonna end?” he asks, awaiting your answer.

And if you’re being honest, 2 days after New Year’s Eve, you do admit the thought of the world actually ending sounds a bit stupid. Why did you even believe that theory? Why did they talk about it so seriously on the news? They tricked you into ruining your own life. 

But still, nothing can be done about it now. “Both,” you admit, shrugging, “I… I kissed you because I really didn’t want to die unkissed, but also… I wanted it to be you, y’know? Like… I thought we were really going to die, and so I thought kissing you might be a nice way to go. I really wanted to spend my last moments with you, I guess,” you sheepishly say, averting your gaze from the male.

Eric offers you his silence again after you’re done explaining. While you do admit you feel a little tense to hear what he has to say, you also realize you feel lighter now that it’s out in the universe and out of your system. A major weight was taken off your shoulders with the confession, and suddenly, you’re kind of glad that your friend was so assertive and insistent on talking about this– who knows how long you’d go before managing to face him. You think you could honestly go on… forever.

Taking a sip of the luscious liquid, you feel your body warm up once the anxiousness slips away from your bones. The boy next to you hums, making you face him with expecting eyes. “Then why were you avoiding me?”

Sighing, you shake your head. “I just told you. I’m starting to think you’re the one that’s bad at listening.”

“No,” he laughs, “that’s still you. Because if you were good at listening, you’d remember me telling you that I’ve never once seen you as my younger sister.”

Shrugging, kicking the pile of snow in front of you with the tip of your winter boots, you’re not quite following. “So?”

“So you should’ve realized that I’m not doing all of this,” he theatrically swings his arms around, “for nothing, you know?”

“All of what?”

“Taking care of you. Feeding you, helping you collect those stupid animal stickers, walking you home…” he mumbles, sighing. “Keeping your picture in my wallet,” he adds with a playful tone, making you smile.

“I thought you were just being a good friend,” you shrug.

“I don’t keep a picture of your brother on me at all times,” he says, tugging off his gloves. The sleeve of his jacket rides up a little as you watch him take his cup of hot chocolate off the bench, surprised (and flooded with warmth) to see the ugly friendship bracelet you made still adorning his wrist.

Grinning to yourself, excitement welcoming itself into the tips of your fingertips, you shrug. “So?” you mirror your own question from a little while ago, wanting him to say it to you instead of relying on your own brain– you think there’s still a possibility of you just being too delusional to see the reality for what it really is. You need to make sure you’re not imagining things.

“So,” he starts, sighing to himself as he turns a little in his seat to face you, “you should stop avoiding me, because I liked the kiss. And you. And we should probably do it again, because I didn’t get the chance to kiss you back the first time,” he says, once again taking all oxygen out of your lungs with the casualty of his preposition.

Locking his eyes with you, having you two staring at each other like two rays of sunshine warming up the cold January, he grins. “How does that sound?”

“Good,” you breathe out, “very good.”

The male takes it as an invitation as he scoots himself closer to you on the bench, his body turning a bit to face you. His free hand cups your cheek, leaning closer to lock his lips with you like he asked you to, your eyes fluttering close at the proximity, the fuzzy feeling in your stomach already expecting to kiss him again. The situation feels a little too idyllic to be real, though– you should’ve expected it to get ruined again.

Something cold and wet comes into contact with the side of your face, and when you sharply open your eyes, you see Eric staring at you with shock and terror in his eyes, the snow dripping down the side of his face as well. Whoever threw the snowball has good aim, you think– managing to target two people at once (even though your faces were that close to each other that it probably wasn’t even that hard), and before you get a chance to look around and see who cut off your kiss, there’s a scream coming from the left side of the two of you, the sound of feet quickly darting in the snow landing into your ears.

“Eric Sohn, what the fuck do you think you’re doing with my sister?” the voice hollers, and before you get a chance to react, the said male fastly stands up from the bench and runs to the other direction, laughter resonating all throughout the place as Sunwoo and his friends chase their shortest friend down.

Snow starts falling as you watch your brother tail his childhood friend, and with a foreign sense of warmth, you get reminded of the birthday wish you made while blowing out the candles on your seventh birthday.

Everything about coming back to your hometown has made you feel unpleasantly nostalgic so far– the streets haven’t changed a bit, your childhood home still looks just the same, furniture unmoved, and the air is still as crisp, yet humid as it always was during late August. It’s only tonight that finally makes the weird bittersweetness turn into joy. You’re back home with everyone you’ve ever known, with everyone who’s made you into who you are today. You’re seeing all their faces for the first time in ages– and frankly, it does feel good. 

The satisfaction in your veins stays for a bit until a figure dressed in a suit comes into your point of view. It’s not like you’re seeing him for the first time tonight– he’s a big character, even when it comes to this wedding, so it’s hard to not notice him– but as his legs take him towards you in a wobbly nature, it dawns on you that now is maybe finally the time you get to talk to him. Don’t get me wrong– there are no hard feelings between the two of you (or at least you don’t have any, you’re not so sure about his side of the story). It’s just that seeing him dressed in a tux, tie now a little loose around his neck, the twinkle in his eye still present as back when you were both a lot younger, there’s still a strong aftertaste of your feelings towards him somewhere on the tip of your tongue. 

His walk is a little lopsided as he grins at you and takes a seat on the vacant chair next to yours, a huff of air escaping his lungs as his body relaxes, limbs falling freely down the sides of his chair. His cheeks are a little red and his hair a little messy– there’s only so much to explain his composure apart from all the dancing he’s done.

“So I see that you still can’t handle your liquor well even after all those years?” you joke, making the boy turn his head to face you, an amused twinkle appearing in his smile. 

His eyes are still the same chocolate orbs you know, still the same soft look adorning them whenever he feels particularly ecstatic. He shrugs, jolting his bottom lip out before he sighs to himself. “Well, it’s not every day you are the best man at your best friend’s and your sister’s wedding,” he muses, shrugging. 

Laughing at his remark, once again taking in the state of the room– Juyeon, Hyunjae and Haknyeon each dancing somewhere in the middle of the dance floor, MB!Y/N’s friends from university twirling her around in the right corner, Eric staring at the bride with a warm gaze in his eyes, sipping on a drink while resting against one of the tables, clearly taking a mental image to look at every time he feels the need to– it all feels kind of surreal. Who would’ve thought all those years ago that it would end like this?

Well, Eric Sohn, for starters. He confessed to everyone in his wedding speech that he knew he wanted to marry MB!Y/N the moment she kissed him on New Year’s Eve of 1999– him being this cheesy was only acceptable because it was his own wedding. In any other circumstance, Sunwoo wouldn’t be able to let his best friend live this down.

It’s not like you ever expected those two to break up– it just makes you a little in awe at how fast time is passing. “It’s kinda crazy, isn’t it?” you hum, squinting at the flood of people on the dance floor.

“It is,” Sunwoo hums, tonguing the inside of his cheek, “still can’t believe they’re dating. Hell, they’re getting married right now…” 

“You can’t believe your sister is dating your best friend?” you laugh, wiping the sweat that’s accumulated off your forehead, the mist appearing there both because of your reckless dancing and because of the unbearable heat of the August night.

“That, and also the other way around,” he hisses, “but I guess they’re both so insufferable that they go well together, so I don’t know why I’m still so surprised.”

Chuckling at his comment– you guess the bond he has with his sister is never to be changed, no matter how many years have passed– you watch as he shrugs off his suit jacket and throws it over the back of his chair, starting to roll up his sleeves to expose his forearms. Eyes following his motions, you clear your throat and force yourself to look back into his eyes when he asks you a question. “What about you, though? Are you enjoying yourself?”

“I am,” you nod, no hesitation, “it’s really nice to see all of you after so long. Plus, I’m having a lot of fun, so that’s a nice bonus." 

“I can see that,” he grins, “by the way you sat on my seat just now, and all–” 

“Oh god– I’m sorry,” you gasp, suddenly feeling a little silly. And here you thought he went up to you because he wanted to catch up… “I’ll move, if–”

The sound of Sunwoo’s hearty laugh lands into your ear– it’s just the same as it was back when you were both high schoolers, making your heart soar– before he shakes his head and urges you to stay with a motion of his hand, putting his large palm on your thigh to keep you from moving. “No, no, don’t be stupid,” he says, “I don’t mind. I was looking for you anyway, so you just made it easier for me by sitting here, actually.”

He was looking for you, resonates in your head, the familiar buzzing in your fingertips alerting you of the effect he has on you even tonight. God, maybe you were the one that had too much to drink…

“You were?” you ask, tone of voice light– not at all suspicious. 

Sunwoo nods, shrugging. “Well, I guess we have a lot of catching up to do,” he smiles, “don’t we?” 

Eyes meeting his, the contact feels electrifying to the point it makes your head spin when you look at him, taking in his glossy eyes and the flush of his cheeks. They’re less round than when you two were young, but his eyes still stay the same– big, round and tender.

He reminds you a lot of the time when you saw him drunk for the first time.

to. my first time getting drunk

April 1999

Havoc rings in his ears like jingle bells, the world around him spinning like he’s on a rollercoaster. His head feels like someone is installing a nail to the middle of his skull and when he looks around, Lee Donghyuck is staring at him with a glass bottle of soju in his hand, urging him to drink more.

Sunwoo doesn’t have it in him to do much else other than shake his head. It feels like he forgot all his vocabulary, not a single word coming out of his mouth or to the awake parts of his brain, watery eyes begging his classmate to not make him drink any more. 

What seemed like a good idea just a few moments ago– see, it’s prohibited to drink on school trips, but Kim Sunwoo is infamous for loving to break the rules– now seems like the worst idea of his whole entire life. He feels so sick he thinks he’s going to die of alcohol poisoning, but the laughter around keeps painfully reminding him that he hasn’t even had that much to drink in the first place. The amount of times he’s been called a lightweight this night is making his pride severely hurt, and even graciously intoxicated, he can’t bear the sting this is putting on his already hurt ego. 

“Come on, birthday boy! I’m sure you can handle one more,” Donghyuck urges, uncurling Sunwoo’s fist and placing the bottle into his grasp, making the poor boy wince and battle back tears. 

He knows he’s being embarrassing. The choice between not dying and not humiliating himself is rather a difficult one, but the moment he finally finishes the crossword puzzle in his brain and puts the glass opening against his lips, the bottle is thankfully taken out of his grasp and discarded somewhere where his eyes can’t reach.

“You’re done for the night, Kim Sunwoo,” you haul at him, shaking your head at the poor boy, “you’re done.”

Sunwoo wants to open his mouth and protest, maybe ask you what you mean, but the moment his lips unseal, he gets a sniff of the alcohol in the air and suddenly, he feels like throwing up. Your eyes lock with his, a pleading– maybe a warning– mirrors in Sunwoo’s gaze, and even though he’s so drunk he feels like he crossed dimensions, he applauds your ability to know just what he means by a single look into his eyes.

“Oh, Christ–” you curse, hurried steps moving to the corner of the room, swiftly grabbing the trash can and running back towards your friend sitting criss-cross applesauce on the floor. 

You make it just in time to catch the contains of Sunwoo’s stomach into the trash can, making the boy insanely grateful– he’s wearing the new shoes his mum got him for his birthday, and god knows he’d hate it if he ruined them the very first day he can show them off to his football friends.

The whole world disappears into the background as he throws up while making a mental promise to himself to never drink again. The only thing keeping him from losing it all is the feeling of your hand on his back, comforting rubs grounding him back to earth. Giggles fill his ears and he’s sure everyone’s laughing at him– even in his drunken state, he can recognise the shame filling his veins– but before he can open his mouth to argue with his classmates, the sound of your angry voice makes him seal his lips close and listen to the scolding you offer to his teammates for making him drink so much.

“You know he has a weak stomach, Donghyuck!” you huff and puff, your hand still drawing comforting circles to Sunwoo’s back as his head stays stuck in the bucket, not having enough energy to even straighten his spine. 

“It’s his birthday! Come on, don’t be so tight-arsed.”

“Well, do you want him to die on his day of birth? That’s not very cool of you,” you growl, the shuffle of your clothing and a pained “ow” escaping his friend’s lips hinting to Sunwoo that you just kicked the right wing to his shin. 

Deserved, Sunwoo thinks.

“Can somebody get Eric? I’m pretty sure he’s in Daehwi’s room with MB!Y/N, Minjeong and Jihoon,” you hum, waiting for anyone to follow your orders. 

Sunwoo blinks in and out of it, his consciousness giving up on him with the incredible pain in his temples. He feels incredibly grateful to have someone like you by his side not only now, but all the time. The two of you have gotten incredibly closer ever since he joined the football team– and with you being one of the cheerleaders, you’re always somehow around. Not that he’s complaining, of course. It seems like you are one of the more responsible ones in this room right now, and god knows Sunwoo needs a bit of guidance on his day to day ventures.

“Do you think you’ll be sick again?” you ask, voice soft in his ear. “Or can I take the trash can off you now?”

Sunwoo thinks for a bit, then he nods and lets go of the plastic bucket. He doesn’t know what happens to it after and nor does he care– it seems like the alcohol in his veins took away all his sense of object permanence. He can barely see anything in the yellow lights of the room (which makes him believe he is going blind from all the alcohol he’s had– don’t tell him it’s just his eyes getting hazy and confused with how much his head is spinning), but he’s sure he can feel you wiping his tear-stained cheeks (he wasn’t crying– his eyes were just watering) and pulling him closer to you when he threatens to fall over even in his seated position. Your hand comes up to play with his hair when you let him rest his head against your shoulder, your actions making him sleepy, eyes closing on themselves like a threat for him to fall asleep any second.

Something about the care, the loyal protectiveness you take over the boy makes his heart soften. He breaths in your scent, trying his hardest to focus on your presence and not the weird feeling in his stomach– although it’s settled a bit since he threw up, it’s still a little uneasy– and before he knows it, there’s a tap on his shoulder waking him up from the haze.

Sunwoo mourns, not really wanting to move from his position, too comfortable with your fingers threading through his hair– but much to his dismay, your soft voice appears in his ear, telling him he has to get up. “Can you walk on your own? We’re gonna get you back to your room,” you hum, your lips accidentally brushing against the shell of his ear, making everything in him light on fire. He’s not really sure if this is the effect alcohol has on you, but if it is, he’s certain he never wants to drink again.

“Sunwoo?” you call, the way you say his name suddenly all too angelic in his ears– but still not enough for him to answer. “Alright,” you sigh after the dreadful silence, taking charge of the situation, moving away from the boy and offering him your hands to hold on to as you try to get him on his feet, “I guess we’re gonna find out.”

His fingers intertwine with yours as he stares up at you, his vision blurry, but still sharp enough to make out your tired face. The sight is enough to make Sunwoo worry– is he being too much? Are you mad at him? Do you not want to be his friend anymore? – but before he has a chance to address any of those concerns, he’s being tugged up to his feet. Not ready for the weight of his own body, his knees buckle and refuse to work. There is a pair of hands clutching his arm automatically– yours– as another pair holds him up from behind by his waist. 

He’s not really sure who was his other savior, but by the silent curse heard from behind, he thinks he recognises Eric’s voice. 

“I know I shouldn’t have left him alone,” he hears his best friend say, voice full of frustration.

“You really shouldn’t have,” he hears you sigh, making the poor boy scowl.

It still feels like he can’t really speak, exhaustion taking a toll on him, but he follows the orders as you tell him to get on his best friend’s back– Eric’s crouching figure ready for the impact, waiting for the taller one to clutch onto him so he can carry him into the safety of their shared room. The operation has to be quick if they don’t want to be caught by their teachers while walking through the hall, and somehow, in the distant crevices of his brain, Sunwoo recognises that and he makes no battle to resist, doing exactly as he’s told.

“Man, you’re heavy,” he hears Eric huff under him as the poor boy carries him through the hall. “You’re gonna have a killer hangover tomorrow, dude…”

Sunwoo’s head rests against his friend’s shoulder, hands carelessly hanging around Eric’s neck. He tries to blink away the sleep, desiring to stay awake, when your concerned face appears in his vision and suddenly, he feels insanely guilty.

“I’m sorry,” the two words escape his mouth with no trouble– the first words to appear in his vocabulary after the few minutes of him being surprisingly mute– only to hear his friend chuckle.

“Well, you’re going to be dying from a headache tomorrow, not us,” Eric hums, “so I think you have to apologize to future you first.”

Sunwoo pouts, bangs falling into his eyes making him blink in a desperate try to get the stray hairs away, attempting to make eye contact with your side profile. “Are you mad at me?” he asks, voice a little groggy from all the screaming and drinking.

“What?” you ask, genuinely surprised to hear his question. Your face morphs into a confused expression, the one where a wrinkle appears in between your brows– and it takes everything in Sunwoo not to poke the little line with his pointer finger in utter endearance.

“Are you… mad…?” he asks again, watching as your face morphs into amusement.

“No,” you shake your head, a hint of a laugh in your tone. “Why?”

“You look grumpy.”

“I’m just worried,” you note.

“About?” Sunwoo asks, his intelligence morphing into a one of a 10-year old with the influence the alcohol has on him. 

“You,” you say, sighing and shaking your head as you move two steps in front of Eric and open the door to their room, closing it swiftly behind you and following the duo towards Sunwoo’s bed. 

The younger one drops the boy into the cushions of his bed with an exaggerated sigh (that might as well be real, for all we know– god knows you wouldn’t be able to carry Sunwoo on your own), and the comfort of the pillow around his head is enough to make Sunwoo’s eyes start closing again, sleep threatening to take over his consciousness.

There’s some noise interrupting his sleep, though, making the boy tear his tired eyes open to notice you walking through the room. Sunwoo finds Eric putting a glass of water onto his bedside table and watches as you put a trash can beside his bed, hushed whispers sent Eric’s way resonating in the quiet room. “Make sure that he sleeps on his side so if he throws up again, he doesn’t choke–”

“Y/N?” he calls your name, watching as you look at him with careful eyes.

“Hm?”

“Are you leaving?” he asks, maybe a little foolishly.

“Yes.”

The boy nods at your reaction, showing his acknowledgement. In the drunken state of his mind, he knows he doesn’t particularly want you to leave, but he’s also fairly certain, finding the rational thought in the sober part of his brain, that you have to leave, and so he lets it go. The drunken state of his mind wins, though, when the next sentence foolishly escapes his lips.

“Please don’t stop liking me after this,” he mumbles, words slurring.

“What?” you ask– confused because you either don’t fully comprehend what he’s trying to say, or because you truly just couldn’t hear what words escaped his mouth– but when you don’t get a clarification, you just nod at the boy, seemingly desperate to keep him happy tonight. “Okay, I won’t.”

“You won’t stop liking me?” he asks, a big pout playing with his features.

“No.”

“Okay.”

That seems to put his mind at ease– enough to make his brain finally turn off and lead him to sleep. He doesn’t really remember what he dreamt of that night, but the last memory he has of the night of his 18th birthday is that you promised to not stop liking him after seeing him a drunken mess, and how he so deeply wished you’ll continue to like him forever.

It hits him only a few months later that the thing he so desperately hoped for that night was that you’ll keep liking him even at his worst– that he didn’t drive you away and one day, maybe, you’ll like him more than just a friend.

to. my first detention

September 1999

Sunwoo was never the one to break the rules. 

Well, if you don’t count that one time he skipped class just because he got too bored of it in the middle of the lecture. And it wasn’t even that hard either– he just asked if he could go to the bathroom, and when he got the approval, he stood up and left, never returning. 

Or if you don’t count that one time he climbed up the ladder on the side of the school building with his friend Juyeon and had his lunch there. Or that one time he cheated on an exam and made a scene about it when accused of the act, leading the professor into letting him off just that one time. 

Sunwoo is usually too lazy to break the rules. Some days, paradoxically, his laziness is what leads him to break the rules. He can’t really help it, even if he tried.

The one time he does break the rules, expecting to be punished by his teacher for coming late to class, it’s not even his fault in the first place. Morning football practice ran late and he didn’t feel like rushing to change out of his practice clothing– see, the laziness is playing a part in this as well– so when he arrived into his Physics lecture, the clock was already 15 minutes after the bell rang for the first period.

Much to his surprise, his teacher didn’t even punish him. “Well, you’re an athlete, so it’s understandable,” he heard, making his lips stretch out into a subtle smile. If he knew that joining the football club would lead him to have such privileges, he would’ve done it a long time ago. 

How did he still end up in detention, you may ask? Well, that’s a funny question.

Your flushed face appears in the doorway of the classroom exactly 2 minutes after Sunwoo does, breathing heavily and wiping the sweat off your forehead with the back of your hand. Your hair tied up in a ponytail is loose now, stray hairs falling out to frame your face, your school uniform wrinkly, shirt not tucked in properly, as you spit out endless apologies to your teacher about being late for lecture.

“I’m really, really sorry about being late,” you bow, chewing on the inside of your cheek as you look around the classroom with apologetic eyes, “I had cheerleading practice and it ran a bit late, so I didn’t have enough time to–”

“Sit, Ms Y/L/N,” the teacher hums, “if you have time to do any other activities other than being in class, I’m sure you’ll have time to stay after class for detention, am I right?”

“Sir, I really–”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

Now, are you seeing the difference in the way you and Sunwoo were treated? That’s right. It may not look like it, because the young football player rarely puts effort into anything (other than the game), but when something angers him, it’s quite difficult for him to keep it in. 

And that’s exactly why his ass is currently sitting in one of the chairs of his classroom, legs spread wide as he looks around the silent room in boredom. Accusing his teacher for being sexist and holding to double standards wasn’t the best idea, but it was enough to get him into detention alongside you. 

His eyes get caught up with something– someone– sitting two desks in front of him, one to the right, scribbling their homework into their notebook. At least you are using up the detention time for important and useful things, he thinks. That won’t stop him from interrupting you in your task, though. Even better– it encourages him.

Tearing out a piece of paper from his notebook, Sunwoo fishes for a pen in one of his pockets, writing a short note that says: Wanna get ramen after this? before he crumbles the paper into a small ball. After watching the teacher for a few seconds, making sure that he’s not going to get caught, he throws the ball in your direction, aiming straight for your head.

He misses. Well, that’s why he plays football and not volleyball– he doesn’t have good aim when it comes to his hands– but nonetheless, the note ends up hitting your shoulder before it bounces off and falls to the ground.

Confused, you look around before you find Sunwoo staring at you, pointing towards the paper on the ground with a grin on his face. You sigh, sending a telepathic signal of ‘you’re acting like a child again,’ straight into his brain before you reach for the paper ball and take it into your hands, fingers uncurling the thin material and reading out the words he’s sent to you.

Only a few seconds pass before you throw the ball back to him– he catches it in his hands, earning an approving look from you at his strangely fast reflexes, making a sense of victory flow gracefully through his veins. A frown settles on his face when he reads out your reply, though.

can’t. I promised Aeri I’ll hang out with her later. we’re going for frozen yogurt.

Sunwoo furrows his brows. Oh how he hates to be denied. 

I can join!! i could use some froyo

You send a tired look to him over your shoulder when you receive the message, rolling your eyes at his comment. It’s obvious that Sunwoo can’t join– he knows it by the look in your eyes. Hell, he knew he wasn’t invited even before he asked– he just likes to see your frustration. Something about the way your face scrunches up, clicking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, amuses him in a way he can’t really describe.

you could’ve gotten yours instead of staying in detention. what was that about, by the way?? I’ve never seen anyone willingly do detention… you must be out of your mind

The message makes him chuckle, shaking his head in disbelief. His motives are clear– well, at least in his brain. If he stays in detention, he can see you for some more. Which means he can hang out with you more (or look at the back of your head from afar, whichever you grace him with on that particular day). And he wants to spend as much time with you as he can, well, because… because he just likes to do so. Why?

Don’t ask. He hasn’t thought it out that far yet.

I just like things to be fair. I came late too :(( 

He writes back instead. Fairness is the last thing he cares about if the world is in his favor. If the world is unfair to you, though– that’s another thing. 

weirdo.

You write back. The pen is already in his hand, ink getting hotter as he masters up a reply, when the loud voice of his teacher cuts through the classroom and announces that detention is over and they’re all dismissed. Something in Sunwoo’s stomach drops. 

Sighing, he puts the note back into his pocket (and will forget to throw it out. Then, he’ll find it there after a few days, unravel the ball and read over the letters with a smile. He won’t throw it out then either– he’ll crumble it back and keep it there until the paper wears out and forms into litter in the pocket of his pants). Gathering his things into his bag, he swings the backpack over one of his shoulders before catching up with you, already halfway out of the classroom. You seem to be in a rush to meet Aeri– he understands– but there’s still one more thing he needs to do.

Clearing his throat, Sunwoo approaches you from the back. “Hey!”

“Hi,” you hum, adjusting the bag on your shoulder. “Aeri’s waiting for me outside, so I gotta–”

“Wait, I– I have something for you,” he says, scratching the back of his neck. Why does he suddenly feel so nervous? The words his sister said to him yesterday keep resonating in his head, and although he knows it’s not true and he doesn’t see you in that way, his stomach churns and he clutches his hand into a fist by his side, a desperate act to ground himself.

“What?” you look at him, eyebrows furrowed, all confused. Sunwoo’s not the one to give gifts– sure, he pays for your meals sometimes, but that’s only because you share them and he comes to the logical conclusion that he eats more of the portion than you do anyways, so it’s only fair.

“Um… well, my sister… she was making those bracelets yesterday and she made me do it with her, because she’s really annoying when she wants to be,” he mumbles, fishing for the bracelet in the front pocket of his backpack, lying straight through his teeth. 

You stare at him with wide eyes, completely unreadable to Sunwoo. Well, he already said it, so he may as well just dig his hole even deeper. The yarn is soft under his touch when he twirls the bracelet in his fingertips, eyes focusing on the shades of red and pink, suddenly too afraid to face you and look you in the eyes. “And, uh… we made too many, so I brought you one, because… you’re my friend, and all,” he mumbles, chewing the inside of his cheek.

His sneakers are oh so interesting to look at in the few seconds he spends waiting for your reply. He feels like he’s in court, waiting for his ordeal– anxiety making him bounce on the tips of his feet, his other hand clutching the strap of his backpack for dear life. 

“Did you make that?” you ask, tone of voice genuinely appreciative.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. 

He did not.

“That’s– that’s really cute,” you gasp, making the boy finally look up. When he finds that the words are addressed to the bracelet his sister made, not his act of kindness, something inside of him gets irritated, but the little devil in his chest leaves just as fast when you meet his eye and take the yarn from his hands, examining the red and pink knots from a closer distance.

“Yeah,” he hums, not really knowing what to say.

“Can you tie it for me?” you ask, offering the bracelet back to the boy and smiling at him, waiting for him to circle it around your wrist and secure it to place with a knot. It’s a bit long, the ends sticking out to different directions, but Sunwoo admits that it does look quite nice against your skin, and that if he forgets about the fact that it was his sister who actually made the bracelet (even though he begged her to teach him for approximately two hours, going as far as bribing her with his snacks), he does feel quite proud of the gesture.

There’s something possessive about the bracelet, he thinks. It's like a sign to everyone that you have someone who cares about you enough to tie it around your wrist. It’s like saying hey, this is my best friend! No one else enjoys their company enough to make a bracelet to prove it, but me. It’s like a silent translation of the heart’s calling: this person is mine. They’re not allowed to take this off until I die.

Sunwoo feels a bit giddy as he watches you admire the yarn around your wrist. You sport the same expression as Eric did when he forced a bracelet out of his sister yesterday– eyes glimmering, the widest grin on your features. While he may be sure what the face meant when it came to his best friend (although he tries to close his eyes from the obvious crush he has on his sister), he’s not quite certain when it comes to you.

In his mind, you smile like this at everyone. You’re just that kind of person.

But oh does he wish you mirror Eric’s feelings on the matter. Oh does he hope you tell everyone he is the one who gave the bracelet to you– he hopes you boost in front of your friends, tell them just how much you like it.

…maybe his sister was right. 

Maybe the bracelet had a deeper intention.

August 2007

“So,” Sunwoo hums, taking a salty chip from the bowl settled in the middle of the table, looking over at you with a curious gaze, “how have you been?” he asks, chewing as he waits for you to answer.

It’s an easy question, one would think– and it’s true, it’s not the most difficult thing to answer. But considering the circumstances, the fact that you and Kim Sunwoo haven’t seen each other since you both graduated from high school, despite telling each other you’ll stay in contact and see each other whenever you have the chance to– it gets a little bit more difficult. It’s been 6 years, many things have changed, you had your fair share of good things happening to you as well as the bad. 

What do you tell Sunwoo, though– a friend you lost somewhere along the way, much like everyone? Well, you can’t really blame him for growing distant with you– although to this day, you don’t really know the reasoning. He was the first one to leave, and although you always wished him the best, nobody can really blame you for doing your part at flying out of your nest. Everyone has to experience the outside world before they can find their place in it, no? 

It’s not your fault that you weren’t as successful as you wanted to be… 

“Well, you know,” you shrug, “so and so. Many things happened, but I guess I’m doing fine,” you conclude, nodding to yourself.

The face Sunwoo offers you is one of concern. You recognise that this is not really what he wanted to hear– not really what he expected you to say. The both of you were always ambitious, shooting for the stars, so it would be nice to know that at least one of you finally chased down the dreams you’ve had since you were young.

“What about you?” you ask quickly, shielding yourself from more interrogation. “How did football go?” 

That has Sunwoo chuckling, averting his gaze. He takes a sip of the soda placed on his table before he turns to you again and answers the question, shrugging to himself. “Didn’t really go as I planned,” he says, nodding to himself. “Guess I lost many years on it, but oh well. Can’t really take it back now.”

“Don’t say that,” you hum, chewing on the inside of your cheek. The answer he offered you was not surprising to you– not that you didn’t believe in his abilities, not at all. It’s just that by now, if Sunwoo’s dreams came true, you’d be aware. You’d hear about him everywhere. You’d see him on the news, in the paper… It seems like your friend has disappeared out of the spotlight he always wanted even sooner than he could walk straight into the stardom. You wouldn’t say you were keeping tabs on him, no– you just cared enough to try to look for him in every place you could. “It wasn’t lost years. You did what you loved, and you tried your best.”

“I know,” he says, scrunching up his nose in an adorable manner before he sighs, “I’m just moping around. Besides, I quite like the life I’ve had since coming back home,” he admits.

“You do?” you ask, eyes glimmering in the lights. Something in you shifts– moves to a more comfortable place at the information. It’s strange that hearing that he’s doing fine still makes you feel at peace. It’s been years– you really shouldn’t care by now.

“I do,” he nods, “I work at Juyeon’s father’s bakery now. I didn’t really expect to like it, but there’s something charming about it, I’ll have you know,” Sunwoo says, taking another handful of chips into his hand before feeding them to himself, seemingly trying to chase down the tipsiness in his bloodstream.

That drags out a giggle out of you, shaking your head at the news. “I wouldn’t take you for a bakery kind of guy,” you say, “I can’t really imagine you in the kitchen.”

“Well, times change, Y/N-ie,” the nickname slips out between his lips like a punch to your gut, his teasing tone dragging nails to you in a weird sense of nostalgia, “I’m the best baker in town right now. People go crazy over my cinnamon rolls,” he nods, pointing a finger to you as if to prove his point.

“I find that hard to believe,” you squint at him, shaking your head in disbelief.

“You’ll have to come and find out,” he says, the sentence so casual that the contrast of his following statement has your heart drop a little, “well, if you’re… staying around for a bit, of course…”

Humming, watching as his eyes soften at the shift in your composure, you nod in agreement. “I’ll make sure to add that to my plan.”

Sunwoo nods in acknowledgement. Swallowing down the chips that were in his mouth, he dusts off his hands off the excess salt and licks his lips before speaking up again, seemingly collecting his thoughts. “So you’re staying around for a while?” he asks, a little bit cautious. 

He doesn’t really know how sensitive this topic is for you– you don’t even know if he’s aware of your previous whereabouts, if he knows where you left off to and why– but Sunwoo stays caring, no matter the amount of time you spent not talking, no matter the big canyon that slowly formed in between the two of you in the years of no contact. It’s something you’ve always appreciated about him. He liked joking around, but he always knew where the boundaries laid, always knew when the joke went too far. He tried hard to avoid poking around too much, but he always made sure to apologize if he realized he hurt someone’s feelings. He’s a spark of violent fire, but he’s also tamed like a fireplace when he wants to be– warm, comfortable. It’s easy to feel like it’s back in the old times when you’re around him. It’s easy to pretend neither of you ever really left.

“I am,” you nod. “Things… didn’t really work out for me either, y’know,” you chuckle, the dry kind that shows just how bitter you are about the matter. “I went to New York with the internship my aunt arranged for me in KBS, but I guess I just… wasn’t really good enough to keep full-time.”

“Don’t say that,” Sunwoo mirrors your previous statement, an honest attempt at comforting you.

“No, it’s okay,” you laugh, “I stayed abroad for a while, tried hard, but sometimes, it’s just not meant to be, y’know? So after I realized my jobs weren’t making me enough money for a decent living in the States, I came back home,” you say, mouth forming a pout as you speak– the kind that shows you’re lost in thought, making up a plan as you go, “I’ll help my parents out for a while and then look for something to do here, I think.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad,” Sunwoo says, offering you a soft smile. “I… I guess I’d say it’s good to have you back,” he admits, averting his gaze as he says the words, “ever since I came home, it felt like something was missing, so… anyways, you’ll figure it out, so don’t worry too much.”

“Thanks, Sunwoo,” you hum, pressing your lips into a tight smile, heart squeezing a little at his sincerity. It’s strange– it’s been years, having lived through countless different situations that were supposed to change the both of you, shift you into two completely different people– but somehow, Sunwoo still feels the same. Almost as if you two never left. Almost as if you two never drifted apart and instead spent your early twenties side-by-side, just like you always planned on doing.

The boy looks at you from the corner of his eye, a content smile spreading on his lips. You feel the atmosphere shifting, the situation tensing up a bit, and with the discomfort the image of him leaving you alone brings you, the words slip out of your lips with a bit too much ease.

“Would you want to… dance with me? I wanna see if you still remember what I taught you,” you grin, watching as the playful expression mirrors on your friend’s face, a nod eliciting from him that makes you quickly put your shoes back on and get ready for the dancefloor.

“Of course,” he hums, standing up swiftly and wiping his hands on the fabric of his pants before outstretching a hand for you, tone of voice sweet like honey, “my lady?”

to. my first dance

November 1999

“Who are you asking to the dance?” you question one afternoon, the two of you behind the closed doors of his room. There aren’t many times where Sunwoo gets to invite you over– mostly because he’s too shy to have someone around when his sister is home, and his sister isn’t known to have that many friends to hang out with– so the times where he finds you settled on top of the sheets of his bed, he treasures deeply.

“I dunno,” he mumbles, looking up at you from the comfort of his rug, shrugging, “I don’t really think I’m going, actually.”

“Oh?” you gasp, pouting at the boy. “Why not?”

“I don’t really have anyone to go with,” he says. What he really means is– you’re going with someone else. Sunwoo doesn’t really see himself dancing with anyone else but you– that’s just that kind of bond you two have in his mind. Your friendship is dear to Sunwoo, and the boy can’t think of anyone else he’d like to spend the evening with. 

When his sister argued with him with logical words, telling him that he treasures his friendship with Eric just the same, but wouldn’t invite him to the prom, he just scoffed at her. MB!Y/N doesn’t know anything. He doesn’t treasure Eric in the same way, no matter the fact that they pretty much grew up together. Some things just don’t feel the same way with Eric as they do with you. He feels closer to you, in a way.

“Well, that’s bullshit,” you scoff, shaking your head at your friend, “you’re handsome. And you play football, which is every girl’s dream. I bet anyone would go with you if you just asked,” you propose, pointing a finger at the boy, not really noticing the way he blinks at hearing the words ‘you’re handsome’ coming out of your mouth in regards to him. 

Do you find him handsome? Is that your subjective opinion or are you just objectively saying what you’ve heard in the cheerleader changing rooms? 

He’d like to know. Just out of curiosity.

Sunwoo scratches the back of his neck in nerves, now fully seated and facing you. It’s hard to meet your eye when he talks, his words coming out muffled. “I can’t dance anyway, so it would be no fun for everyone involved.”

And watching you dance with his classmate Shotaro would be no fun either. See, it would be easy for Sunwoo to be okay with the fact that you were going to the prom with someone older (which is practically impossible, since you’re both seniors, just for the record…). He would understand your point, then. It’s easy to be okay with defeat when your opponent has the upper hand, but when you put two men against each other that are hierarchically equal to each other, much like Sunwoo and Shotaro, the poor boy finds it hard to not feel as insecure in his position. 

But with Shotaro being the same age as him and the same amount of popular as him, Sunwoo can’t help but compare himself to his classmate. What does Shotaro have that Sunwoo doesn’t? Is it his smile? Should Sunwoo smile more…? 

It doesn’t really help his case that you’re going to the prom with the head of the dance team. Sunwoo can’t dance… Is it the fact that he can’t dance?

Or are you just going to the prom with Shotaro because he was the one to ask you to go? Sunwoo can’t help but wonder– would you have gone with him, had he the balls and asked you first? 

“What do you mean, you can’t dance?” you say, eyeing the male. 

“Just… never learned to, I guess,” Sunwoo shrugs, “but it doesn’t really matter, since I’m not going, so…”

“But you have to go,” you pout, putting the boy in a difficult position. He doesn’t know if you’re aware of the fact, but your pleading look does wonders to his decision making. He’d commit arson if you asked him to with those glimmers in your eyes. He’d kill for you. Or die for you. Both, depending on the situation. He’d do anything.

“Why?”

“It won’t be fun if you’re not there,” you say, sighing. Your face looks so genuine Sunwoo almost believes it. It makes his heart squeeze and contemplate his decision. “I know Donghyuck is gonna spike the punch, and there are gonna be fireworks,” you hum, chewing on the inside of your cheek, “and this is our senior prom, Sunwoo… you have to come.”

The words resonate in his brain, making him even more hesitant about his decision. This is your senior prom– the last dance of your high school years. The last opportunity for Sunwoo to enjoy this time with you and his friends, the last chance he gets at seeing you in a pretty gown, all dolled up and smiling from the sneaky sips of alcohol you’ll get with everyone outside of the school gym. The last opportunity for Sunwoo to dance with you, his best friend, and possibly the last time he’ll ever enjoy his evening with the rest of his football team before all of them have to study in order for them to take their CSAT.

Maybe you’re right. Maybe he should go. 

“I’ll think about it, I guess…” he mumbles, watching as your face morphs.

“You guess?” you scoff, glaring at him. “You’ll go or I’ll personally come to your house and drag you there by your hair, you get me, Kim Sunwoo?” you threaten him, having the boy laugh at your outburst. You’re really adorable when you tease him, Sunwoo thinks. 

“Got it, chief,” he says, offering you a playful look as he salutes and lays back down onto the carpet, eyes pressed to the ceiling. “Don’t expect me to dance, though, because I refuse to embarrass myself. I have quite the reputation to uphold, you see.”

Sunwoo hears you chuckle, the noise of his sheets tousling landing into his ears. Before he has a chance to look at you and see what you’re doing, his view of the white wall above is shielded with the sight of your face, hair framing your cheeks as you stare down at him and put out your hands, waiting for him to take them and get up to a seated position. 

“What?” he asks, genuinely confused.

“I’m gonna teach you, come on,” you call him with a motion of your hand, arms still outstretched and waiting.

“Huh?” he squints, watching as you roll your eyes in frustration.

“I’ll teach you how to dance, Sunwoo,” you snicker, watching as the boy slowly takes your hands and lets you drag him up from where he’s laying on his electric blue rug, “so you don’t embarrass yourself.”

That has Sunwoo stuttering, his figure freezing even when you manage to somehow make him stand up in the middle of his room. A million different exclamation marks appear all over his brain, warning him from the upcoming events, but he has no way of denying your proposition now, no matter how hard he tries. “No- it’s- you don’t have to, I’ll just-”

“Okay, so,” you say, dismissing all his previous attempts at stopping you from your quest, “first, you put your hand here,” you order.

The skin of your fingertips touches Sunwoo’s hand, making the boy’s heart stummer in his chest. You drag his palm towards your waist, placing it on the curve of your body. He swears he feels electricity flowing through the contact, warmth radiating off your skin even though it’s shielded by the fabric of your favorite shirt. He gulps as you put your hand on his shoulder, his eyes carefully following your movements, examining every slightest shift of your composure. 

“And then you hold my hand with your other hand,” you instruct, but move to do it yourself when the boy doesn’t seem to have it in him to reach for your palm himself. 

Your fingers interlock with his, making the boy chew on his bottom lip in a sudden flash of nerves. You’re standing so close he can smell your perfume, the scent making his head spin and feel lightheaded. If you made him turn in this moment, he’s sure he’d fall over, weak legs barely holding him up in your close proximity. 

“Sunwoo?” you ask, making the boy gulp before he hums in acknowledgement.

“You have to look into my eyes when you slow dance,” you laugh, the sound soft and airy, but enough to have his stomach feel all weird, like he’s about to throw up. Still, he forces himself to look into your eyes, instantly feeling like you’re hypnotizing him. (He’s convinced he’d jump out of his window right in this moment if you asked him to.)

“Okay,” he nods, standing still, maintaining eye contact. His body is stiff, muscles tense as you just stand there for a moment. Sunwoo battles his inner fight and doesn’t look at any other features of your face– he has a weird obsession with staring at your lips whenever you talk to him lately. He feels like a weirdo every time he catches himself doing it, so he tries to get rid of the bad habit as much as he can.

“Now, you just… kind of sway to the beat,” you say. The boy nods, but his body stays unmoving.

“There’s… there’s no music playing,” he gets out, watching as you chuckle, your lips stretching out into an adorable grin.

“Right,” you nod, sighing, “well, I’ll just… let me just…” you mumble before you start humming a tune– one that makes Sunwoo laugh from how ridiculous it sounds, the notes so unfamiliar to him he’s sure you’re making it up as you go. Before he knows it, you start moving, making him mirror your actions. 

It’s not as difficult as he thought it was, he thinks. You stare at him, all encouraging, as you sway from one foot to the other, nodding at him when you see that he’s following your lead well. Dancing with you suddenly feels like the easiest thing in the world, it feels like he was born to have you in his arms, in the middle of his room as you hum an unfamiliar song to him. He thinks going to the dance won’t be so bad– not if he gets to dance with you there for at least one more time.

“Doing well,” you smile, making the boy feel all warm on the inside. A feeling of victory flashes over him for a mere second. He beams in your considerate words, feels fuzzy under your warm gaze. He feels like he just won the lottery. It’s kind of silly, if he really thinks about it.

A boyish grin appears on his face, having Sunwoo shaking his head at how both ridiculous and over the moon he feels right now. The stream of hums coming out of your throat cuts off for a second as you talk to him with an instructing tone, a warm gaze pressed into his features. “So you can either do this, or you can…” the hand that was holding his suddenly untangles itself from between his fingertips (and Sunwoo’s momentarily glad, because his palm was getting quite sweaty– although he admits that it does feel empty now that you’re not holding it), before you place his other hand on your waist as well. 

Something about the pose makes Sunwoo feel strangely intimate, a little bit bashful under your gaze. It only intensifies when your hands go up and entangle behind his neck, bringing you two even closer than before. The proximity has him blushing, red cheeks bringing heat to his face. He prays you don’t mention it– he really doesn’t know if he would be able to talk himself out of this one.

“Or you can do it like this,” you say before you lead the boy again, bodies swaying to an imaginary rhythm. You’re not even humming this time, having Sunwoo follow your movements in complete silence, his aimless movements mirroring your own. He’s surprised he hasn’t stepped on your foot yet when you decide to quickly teach him how to waltz (while also mumbling something about this dance being performed with the previous hand placement). He follows your orders– step forward, close, then another step backwards– and before he knows it, you’re leading him into a gentle turn, rising and falling in a ¾ count.

He’s getting lost in your voice– the softest “1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3,” helping him to stay in rhythm– before he’s pulled out of his trance as he feels your fingers playing with the hair on his nape, entangling yourself into his black locks. The motion has him look back up to your eyes (that have been previously glued to your feet, making sure he’s not stepping on your socked limbs), surprised when he sees you staring at him with a sweet smile playing with your lips.

Halting your movements for a bit, you let out a giggle and take him by surprise when your hand reaches up towards his bangs, ruffling his hair as he still holds you around your waist, the two of you almost hugging in his room. “See? Not that hard. You’re a born natural.”

His heart feels like it skipped a beat, a weird sense of panic enclosing around his chest. He doesn’t know what it is, not really knowing how to name the feeling, but it has him nervously smiling and urging him to escape you– escape your touch, escape your scent, your voice and the way you smile at him like you may feel the slightest ounce of the things he does for you, but refuses to accept on most days.

Rushed movements make him break apart from your grasp, quick breathing making him feel like he might spiral. 

“Hey! We weren’t done yet!” you call after him when he runs towards the door of his room. 

Not looking around, the boy gulps and nervously calls back to you, facing the door. “I’ll be back! I just have to pee!”

The door to his bathroom closes behind him with a loud shut. The boy doesn’t aim for the toilet– instead, he walks over to the sink, turning on the tap and splashing his face with ice cold water. When he’s done, feeling a bit less heated up, he looks up and stares at his face in the mirror. He gives himself some time to collect his thoughts, to hopefully let go of his foolishness.

How many more times will he have to remind himself that he only sees you as a friend?

to. my first date

January 2000

The snow crunches under his sneakers and makes Sunwoo slip on the cold surface– no wonder his mother screamed at him for not wearing his winter shoes before he went out with his friends. He bets it would be way less difficult to walk in the whiteness of the ground if he had more grip in the soles of his shoes, but oh well– he’s not really good at making clever decisions half the time. Nobody can really be surprised.

Somewhere along the way between the moment he’s interrogated his sister about the reason for her bad mood and the moment where he purposefully let her with his best friend at the top of the hill with no way out (he had a hunch the two of them had some things to talk about, from both of their uneasy demeanours for the last day), he realizes he lost both his sister and his best friend, and while he’s quite certain Eric can find his way home just fine, Sunwoo shivers at the thought of not bringing his sister home to his mother. He’s not quite sure he’d survive that. 

The quest of finding you both begins the moment the friend group reaches the top of the hill. Given his sister’s impulsiveness, she could’ve ran away from home, and that’s not what he wants to deal with on such a pretty winter day.

Sunwoo finds his plan being successful the moment he reaches the hot chocolate stand. The victory he feels after finding his younger sister alive and healthy is quickly overshadowed with the sight of his best friend’s face close to hers, very clearly going in for a kiss. He thinks he has to do something before he is permanently scarred with the image of them two making out right in front of his eyes as he gathers some of the icy texture into his hands and makes a ball, aiming straight at the head of his best friend.

The snow hits the both of them, right in the middle where their faces are supposed to meet. It’s not quite where Sunwoo was aiming, but he figures it’s good enough– it stopped his sister and his friend in the act, and that’s all he really cares about at this moment.

“Eric Sohn, what the fuck do you think you’re doing with my sister?” Sunwoo hollers, watching as his childhood friend takes off and leaves his sister alone on the bench to watch the conflict. The rest of the group follows with laughter as Sunwoo gathers more snow, tailing Eric and making sure the boy is punished for whatever he’s been doing.

It’s not like he disapproves. Not at all, actually. He just thinks it’s fun to mess with him a little.

“I didn’t mean to! Hey!” Eric cries out over his shoulder, trying his best to escape the frostbite. Karma is not on his side as he trips over something and falls to the ground, efficiently helping Sunwoo and the rest of their circle to corner the poor youngest, snow hailed on his limp figure. 

One would think the group of them were making a snowman with how they’re rolling the poor boy around in the snow. Juyeon and Donghyuck make sure there’s not a hint of skin unhidden by the ice, making Eric mourn and kick around– he’s left helpless, though, outpowered and outnumbered by his peers. If anyone unknowing was watching the scene, Sunwoo is sure he’d be framed for bullying.

He thinks it’s quite deserved. Why? He’s not really sure why. He just has a hunch.

“Okay! Enough!” Eric mumbles, shaking his head when Donghyuck tries to fit snow into his mouth. “I’m sorry! It won’t happen again!” he says, eyes opening wide as MB!Y/N appears somewhere behind her older brother, a teasing pout settled on her face.

“It won’t?”

“MB!Y/N– I– Just help me..?” the boy pleads, making the rest of the group laugh and finally relax, easing the attack. Juyeon hums something about young love, making the rest of the guys roll their eyes on his unusual cheesiness, before Donghyuck taps his teammate’s shoulder, making sure he’s paying attention to him.

Sunwoo raises his eyebrows at him, waiting for what he has to say. “Look, isn’t that Y/N?”

There are a few ways to catch Sunwoo’s attention. First– you have to mention football. He could spend hours on the topic of who’s the best player– Ko Jongsoo or Ahn Junghwan? If anyone asked him to write an essay on it, he’s quite certain he’d do a great job explaining their techniques and goal statistics for numerous pages. Second– you have to mention food. He’s a big fan of junk food, but ever since his friend Juyeon introduced him to their family bakery, he’s been a big cinnamon roll enthusiast. And third– you have to mention Y/N. 

Just the mention of your name is enough for the boy to stand alert, suddenly all too knowing of his surroundings. He turns his head to look for you, catching sight of your figure dressed in your long coat, standing all alone at the bottom of the hill. There’s an almost bored-looking expression on your face, although Sunwoo thinks there’s a bit of disappointment behind your eyes, making a cloud shade your them and make them lose their usual glimmer. That alone has the boy frowning, and before Donghyuck can say anything more or try to gossip about your sudden arrival, Sunwoo takes off– trying his hardest not to slip on the snow in his sneakers as he runs down the hill and tries his hardest to get to you quickly.

“Y/N!” he calls for you, getting your attention. You turn to him with expecting eyes, watching as the boy runs towards you and does, indeed, slip on the snow.

He manages to save it. Doesn’t mean you didn’t see him falter, though. “Careful there,” you grin, making the boy mentally kick himself in the shin at being uncool in front of you.

Sunwoo glosses over the comment, ignoring the previous two seconds of his life. If he acts like he’s not embarrassed, it might as well come true. “What are you doing here? I thought you said you’re hanging out with someone else when I invited you on the phone today,” he says, curious to know why you changed your plans so suddenly.

There’s a hint of bitterness in your composure when you shrug, averting your gaze. “That fell through, and I didn’t wanna… I figured you’d be here, so I came…” you trail off, your half-assed explanation enough to bring the boy into an inner conflict– one part of him feels bad for you, his heart clenching when he takes notice of your stern gaze and the disappointed expression on your face, the other one foolishly happy that he got to see you today, that you went here looking for him.

“Oh,” he nods, not really sure if he should pray more information out of you. He tried to ask you about it when he called you this morning, twirling the landline on his finger nervously when he asked you if you wanted to go sledding with him and his friends. He even mentioned his sister tagging along to make sure you didn’t feel as awkward going– you wouldn’t be the only girl there! You’d get along with her well, he said, not really sure if he was lying or not. Either way, his sister does need her own friends… “Well–” he starts, not really sure where his own sentence is going, before you cut him off with a rushed out sentence, spoken so quickly Sunwoo barely registers it in that confused brain of his.

“Would you wanna go on a date with me?” you ask, eyes big as you stare into his. 

The question takes a few seconds to register in Sunwoo’s brain. He can physically feel the auditory waves entering his ears and converting themselves into electrical signals by the auditory system. The signals enter his left hemisphere– maybe he could point towards the area with his finger if you asked him to, the impact of the question so present in his mind– and then it decodes in the Wernicke’s area, slowly, but surely making more and more sense to him. The boy gulps at the invitation. He understands the question theoretically now, he’s registered it in his brain, but the practical implication of your preposition is still unclear– why in the hell would you ask him to go on a date with you?

“I…” he stutters, feeling heat rushing to his cheeks. He feels like a fool– he should’ve said yes a few seconds ago, when you first asked the question– but something inside of him is telling him that maybe his reaction is valid. No one expects their friend to randomly ask them out on the bottom of a snowy hill. Certainly not when he was 99% sure you liked someone else.

“Look, it’s- it’s good if you don’t want to, really, I just… I was supposed to go on a date with Shotaro today, but he never arrived, and I…” you nervously scratch your neck, once again averting your gaze from him, “I guess I was hoping you were in the mood to go out with me, since I got all ready and stuff…” you mumble, your tone of voice breaking something inside of him.

Oh. So you weren’t really asking him out. You just didn’t want to feel like a fool that got stood up. How stupid of Sunwoo to think you wanted to go on a date with him. The two of you were just friends, after all. Best friends.

And best friends are for cheering each other up. So despite feeling absolutely defeated, Sunwoo battles the weird feeling in his chest and puts on his best smile. “Of course! Don’t even mention it. Where… where did you wanna go?” he asks, watching as your face relaxes, shoulders falling back to their natural position.

“Are you in the mood for some ramen?” you ask, eyebrows rising in question.

“I’m always in the mood for some ramen,” he nods. He’s always in the mood for whatever you are.

“Great,” you nod, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

“Great.”

“So… let’s go,” you say, nodding to yourself as you walk away from the hill, having your best friend tailing you, following you towards the ramen place in the center of the town.

There’s a bit of an awkward silence hanging over you as the two of you escape the sledding area. Sunwoo doesn’t even pay his goodbyes to his friends and his sister, but he trusts that Eric can get her home safely when the time comes to head back. The boy mentally curses out Shotaro for standing you up– how does he dare to ask you out and never arrive? He doesn’t care about the possible circumstances of his classmate’s absence. All he cares about is the saddened look on your face and the unusual quietness enveloping your aura. 

“Should I go kick his ass?” he asks, trying his hardest to make you feel better.

“It’s okay, Sunwoo,” you shake your head in disapproval, eyes pressed to the ground.

“Are you sure?” he asks again, not satisfied with your answer. “I’m quite good at fighting, contrary to popular belief, but if things go wrong, I know my friends would have my back,” he says, playfully punching the air.

The little play consisting of him kicking and punching an imaginary figure goes on for a while until he’s satisfied– meaning: until you’re left laughing at his overly exaggerated movements and grunts, shaking your head in disbelief at his boyish antics. Taking his hand in yours to make him stop with the play-fighting, you drag your now interlocked fingers towards your coat pocket, hiding his cold hand in the thick fabric.

Sunwoo’s heart beats fast at that, making him believe it’s going to run out of his chest any minute now– or make him go into cardiac arrest, either or– as he grows speechless, looking at you with big, surprised eyes. You don’t seem to put much meaning to your gesture, going as far as gently caressing your thumb over the back of his palm, his frozen skin growing hot at the contact. 

He’s never held hands with you before– if he doesn’t count the amount of times you dragged him around when the both of you were late for the shared cheerleading and football practice on Tuesday afternoons– and so the intimacy of the act makes him feel strangely weak in his knees. It’s hard for him to take his eyes off you, almost looking like a deer in the headlights to anyone watching you two right now. Sniffling from the cold, you shrug.

“It’s okay,” you smile, sending him a quick glance, “I didn’t really like him like that anyway. It just… feels a bit disappointing to get stood up, that’s all,” you nod.

Sunwoo nods at that too, something in him shifting. You don’t like Shotaro like that? When was this piece of information when he really needed it? (For like the last month, every time he couldn’t fall asleep because the thought of you marrying his classmate at one point in the future haunted him too much and made him want to poke the dance club leader’s eyes out?)

“I get it,” he says, walking along with you. Every time he feels the eyes of someone on you two, he feels his chest filling up with an unfamiliar sense of pride. Something about being seen with you as you’re all dolled up and holding his hand in your coat pocket makes him all giddy on the inside– no matter if this is a real date or not.

Because screw it, Kim Sunwoo is tired of reminding himself that he’s supposed to only see you as a friend. Because he doesn’t.

“I’ve never been on a date before, though, so you have to teach me all about that too,” he hums, tonguing the inside of his cheek. 

That has a giggle escaping your throat, another shake of your head in disbelief at his words. He doesn’t know what’s so funny, but he decides that as long as you’re laughing, he’s fine with feeling the tiniest bit of humiliation. He’d do anything to make you happy, he thinks. It’s a feeling stronger than him and he doesn’t know how to make it go away– he decided to stop battling it a long time ago.

“Just be yourself, Sunwoo,” you say, “that’s already perfect enough.”

Perfect. Sunwoo’s cheeks grow hot at that. He’s happy that it’s cold out– maybe he could blame his blushing on the weather. The boy isn’t so sure you know about the effect your words have on him. He’s always thought of you as perfect– flawless, funny, friendly, smart, kind and… and beautiful– but the adjective doesn’t quite seem fitting when he looks at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t believe you could hold him to such standards. He’s nothing special. God, he knows he’s not good enough for you– still, he keeps wishing he could be. 

“You look really pretty, by the way,” he hears himself say, the words escaping his mouth before he has the chance to stop them. The tone of his voice is quite unnatural in his ears, softer than it usually is, and somehow, the comment makes you roll your eyes, which he finds to be an unnatural reaction.

“You don’t have to say that just because you’re on a date with me,” you hum, eyes not meeting his. (Which might be a good thing. Sunwoo would like to keep his feelings hidden for a bit longer, and he’s not so sure you wouldn’t recognise the tender inkling he has towards you in his longing gaze.)

“I’m not saying it because of that,” he mutters, voice quiet, yet honest. 

Watching the side of your face, eyes still glued at every feature of your profile, he knows he’s not lying. He finds you oh so pretty even in the faint hue of the winter sun, with your scarf pulled up to the middle of your chin and hair pinned up with a pretty, silky bow. He finds you nothing short of angelic. Perfect. It’s kind of silly, if he really thinks about it.

Still, he can’t help himself. To this day, he counts the afternoon he spent with you, eating ramen at your favorite place, to be the first date he’s ever gone on.

Somewhere in the corner of his soul, he begs you count it as real too.

August 2007

It’s only a couple of days later when you find yourself in front of Juyeon’s father’s bakery, nervously chewing on your bottom lip and gazing at the glass door. The sun is shining strongly down on your skin, making you feel like you’re going to get a sun stroke if you keep standing in the direct light for any longer, and with the pressure of both the weather and your own thoughts, you decide to stop wasting time and push the door open, entering the establishment.

Not really sure if you’re welcome– who knows, Sunwoo might have just been acting nice and civil for the sake of not ruining his sister’s wedding– you prepared a mental shopping list of things you wanted to get at the bakery. You hadn’t seen your parents in a long time, so you thought a few donuts might make them happy. If Sunwoo just treats you like any regular customer when you walk in, you’ll take it as your sign to act like one and let this whole thing go. 

Truth be told, you don’t even know why you’re so nervous. It’s not like you’re promising yourself something more from this… right? 

It’s not like you suddenly felt younger again when seeing him at the wedding. It’s not like the memories choked you up when you went to sleep that night, it’s not like the feelings you had for the young boy suddenly waved at you in greeting, reminding you of just how close the two of you were all those years ago. 

Not at all. Why would anyone even think that?

The ring above the door makes a sound as you walk in, your insides clenching in a weird mix of nerves and anxiety at encountering Kim Sunwoo again. The store is empty when you reach the counter, but you’re soon greeted by the sound of the staff door opening, a tall figure stumbling in with a tray of pastries, yelling out a quick: “I’ll be right there!”

And as you watch Sunwoo with his bangs sticking to his forehead, an apron tied tightly around his thin waist, you feel like he hasn’t aged a single day and you two are still the same teenagers that ran around your school in order to not miss practice. The boy looks up at you from below his eyelashes, a boyish grin taking over his features as he puts the hot tray down on the counter and throws the kitchen towel he’s been using to shield his skin from the heat to the side, greeting you.

“Y/N! It’s nice seeing you again,” he beams, wiping his hands on his apron, gaze gluing to yours and never leaving, capturing you in a sincere eye contact that you don’t have the heart to break.

“Hi, Sunwoo,” you chuckle, pressing your lips into an honest, yet a little bit awkward smile. “How’s it going?” you ask, desperate to keep the conversation going– afraid that if it dies down, you won’t be able to revive it ever again and you’ll just regret it forever. There’s a weird sense of urgency in you, like you have a time limit to figure everything out– like you have to act now, or everything you ever wanted might slip from between your fingertips– yet, the more you watch Sunwoo in the serene atmosphere of the sweet-smelling bakery, you notice yourself relaxing.

“Good! Better now that you’re here, actually, it’s been a slow day,” he muses, nodding to himself. “What about you? Can I get you anything?” he asks, eyebrows raising, round cheeks on full display as he stares at you with an expecting smile.

“I’m doing well,” you nod, humming, “really well… catching up with my parents, settling in and stuff… You know the deal,” you laugh. “I actually came to get some donuts for my parents, sort-of like a thank you gift for letting me stay until I figure out my own place and stuff,” you say, watching as Sunwoo urgently nods with acknowledgement.

“Say less, darling,” the nickname slips out from him a little too easily, a little too casually for the way it captures your heart. It has you nervously shifting from one foot to another, insides warming up with the impact of his fleeting gaze as he moves to get a box from under the counter, moving closer to the glass vitrine filled with the sweet pastry. “Your mum loves these ones,” he points towards the donuts coated with the pink glazing.

It’s kind of weird– how Sunwoo knows exactly what your mother likes, despite him not being around your house every other day like when the two of you were teenagers. It makes you realize that even though you moved away for years, the time here didn’t stop. Everyone moved on with their lives, everyone continued on as if nothing happened. And you can’t hold it against them– you guess you just hate the weird pit in your stomach that opens up with the realization that while Sunwoo knows which pastries your mum likes (most likely because she stops by to buy bread often, taking some treats with her for her and dad while she’s at it), you don’t.

You try hard not to show it on your face, though. Sunwoo continues to pack more donuts into the box, not really attempting to ask you for what you’d like– he just chooses himself, making sure you bring home the best ones of the bunch, the most delicious ones they carry. Letting him do his work, merely watching as he carefully moves the donuts from the vitrine to the box, you hear him continue on with the conversation.

“You came in on the right day,” Sunwoo hums, “Juyeon works tomorrow, so you wouldn’t be able to catch me if you went.”

Ignoring the fact that he sees right through you– sees that your intention was to see him, to have a way to visit him and attempt to rekindle whatever bond you had when you were young– you just chuckle. You can’t blame him for knowing you so well, despite not being around each other for so many years. When you were young and in love, you used to call him your soulmate, after all. You guess there’s always a hint of truth, even in the most lovesick fantasies. “Well, then I’m glad I went in today,” you admit.

Sunwoo smiles at that– the kind of smile you always loved at him, the one where he shows his teeth and his eyes crinkle up into moon crescents. Once he’s done packing your donuts, he puts the box on the counter, showing you his back just as fast when he turns around, seemingly grabbing something else as well. When he’s facing you again, there’s a sweet pastry in his hand, still warm.

“What’s that?” you ask when you notice him offering it to you, eyes peering into his.

“A cinnamon roll,” he says, waiting for you to take it into your hands, “I told you everyone goes crazy over my cinnamon rolls, so I wanna see if their magic works on you too.”

“Is this how you flirt with girls over here?” you chuckle, but take the bun into your hand nonetheless, taking a hesitant bite of the treat. The sweetness melts on your tongue, the warmth of the freshly-baked pastry enchanting you with its taste, something about its essence weirdly reminding you of home. 

“Haven’t tried it before,” he shrugs, “so tell me if it’s working,” he jokes, watching as you chew on the roll. 

“Well, is it any good?”

Humming in satisfaction, delight on the tip of your tongue as you swallow down the heavenly dough, you nod. “It’s to die for, Sunwoo.”

“Told you,” he shoots you a cheesy finger-gun, reminding you so much of your best friend from high school, before he turns and takes a paper bag from somewhere, talking to you as his back faces you again, “I’ll get you some more to take home with you. I bet they didn’t have those in the Big Apple.”

“If I knew I was missing out on these, I would have come back quicker,” you joke, watching as Sunwoo turns to you with an amused look on his face, seemingly enjoying the praise.

The eye contact unarms you again, your composure falling just the slightest. Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you clear your throat and reach for your wallet, ready to pay and leave so you can think about the interaction on your way home (and overthink every slightest detail, just like teenage you would after every fleeting touch young Sunwoo would send your way). “How much do I owe you?” you ask.

“Oh, it’s on the house,” he says, licking his lips, “consider it a… welcome gift, if you will,” he hums, offering you the box full of donuts and the paper bag consisting his infamous cinnamon rolls, your skin touching just the slightest when you take them from him, but still making electricity jolt through the nerve endings of your fingertips.

“No, Sunwoo, I really can’t-” you shake your head, but get caught off by him.

“Take them, please. You can pay me back some… other time?” he cautiously says, seemingly not really knowing if he’s still within your desired boundaries. 

“O-okay, then,” you nod, agreeing to the subtle invitation– the subtle promise to meet again, the hopeful question leading into something more. “Thank you, Sunwoo,” you hum, smiling as you turn towards the door and get prepared to walk out, giving both of you some time to think about what happened in the last few minutes.

As you open your mouth to say goodbye to him, hand landing on the doorknob, you hear him call after you once more.

“Oh and Y/N?” he says, a confident look suddenly overtaking his features. “I end here at 5, if you’d like to hang out after.”

Unknowingly, a grin appears on your features, the one that’s so strong you can’t really mask it no matter how hard you try– as you nod at him, the victorious feeling flowing through your veins maybe even a bit dangerous. Still, you don’t have it in you to turn the invitation down– you wouldn’t be able to even in your wildest dreams.

This is what you came here for, after all, isn’t it?

“Okay,” you agree. “So… I’ll see you later?”

“See you later,” he nods, teeth capturing his bottom lip. It’s kind of adorable. He couldn’t battle the smile threatening to pull at the corners of his mouth, no matter how hard he tried.

Maybe coming here– coming back home– was the best thing you could’ve done.

“Wanna come in?” Sunwoo asks. It’s a few hours later– you followed through with his invitation and waited for him in front of the bakery at 5:05 sharp, catching him after his shift. You two took a walk through the whole town, waltzing slowly through his neighborhood until you reached his childhood house. You remember far too many afternoons spent in the comfort of the walls, and although you think it would be nice to revisit those memories, you notice his mother’s car (is it still hers? You have no way of knowing.) in the driveway, and suddenly, you’re too shy to join him as he drops his stuff off in his house.

It’s like you’re a teenager again– except, you never had any problems meeting his mother before. She was a nice woman, although a little busy (you only heard Sunwoo complain about the fact a few times– mainly when he was feeling sentimental or particularly under the weather about something), and she always treated you very nicely. Almost like you were supposed to join the family one day. His sister once asked you if you’re gonna marry him, and you laughed at her back then– you were so young, you didn’t even think of having a wedding with Kim Sunwoo. The funniest thing was the timing: you weren’t even dating him at the time. Or planning to, really. Sure, you always imagined somehow spending the rest of your life with him, in one way or another, but the thought of marriage didn’t often cross your mind. Life is ironic, you think– MB!Y/N was the first one to have a wedding and here you are, retangling your life paths with her brother again. 

So no, you were never really scared or shy in front of his mother. Back then, things were different though. Simpler? You’d say they were definitely easier. You were more extroverted and open, more ambitious and less embarrassed of how your life turned out to be.

Also, you didn’t want to give her any ideas. It’s far too soon for that, you think. 

“No,” you shake your head, hesitating a little bit, “I’ll wait for you here,” you say, watching as he smiles at you and nods, walking inside of the house to drop off his things and change.

You two didn’t really have any plans for the rest of the evening. You told Sunwoo he could show you around town, tell you what changed and what stayed exactly the same, since he came home earlier than you– you bet it could be two or three years ago. He eagerly nodded, although noted that not much is different in your hometown and your walk could turn out pretty uneventful. No plans were set in stone, though.

Nervously shuffling from one foot to another, you decide to walk around the yard. Sunwoo’s house was always big– although it seemed more giant to you when you were a teenager. It’s a strange observation, since you didn’t really grow any more inches since you hit puberty. Your eyes study the flowers in front of the gate, the mowed grass, the big tree in the backyard. If you focus hard enough, you could almost see the two of you laying under it, letting the leaves shield you from the sun, both much younger and carefree than now. Sunwoo would show you pages of his favorite comic books and you’d play on your Tamagochi, making sure it doesn’t die in two days like his did when he first got it. When you turn to your right, you see the garden house you two– sometimes with his sister, sometimes with Eric, sometimes with both of them at once– spent many afternoons in.

There used to be an old, red sofa inside. There wasn’t much space, since it was filled with gardening supplies, Sunwoo’s and MB!Y/N’s old bikes, flower pots, packs of soil and all other things you could need for gardening, but it was fun to hide away from the sun in there and drink iced tea, talking about whatever came to your minds or solving nanogram puzzles in comfortable silence (or occasional sigh from Eric when he got stuck somewhere in the middle of his crosswords).

Your curiosity gets the best of you when you open the door, deciding to see if it’s still the same inside. Your eyes widen when you notice the garden house a little less packed than before– mainly because Sunwoo’s mother no longer does gardening in her free time and buys her vegetables on the market like your mum does, you presume– but instead, it’s full of all the things the childhood you knew so well.

Sunwoo’s old bike– red and a little rusty, but you bet it could still work. The rug they used to have in their dining room is now in the middle of the little garden house, stained with dirt. Next to the usual red sofa is a leather armchair that they used to have in their living room for a while, the dark brown fabric now worn out, chapped and peeling off. In the corner of the room, you find a box filled with various sports equipment– tennis rackets, a yellow tennis ball, a jumping rope, and lastly, a half-deflated football. The sight of it has you sighing a little, reminding you of Sunwoo’s composure when he told you about how he never got to pursue his childhood dream fully. 

Your eyes glaze towards his old skateboard, having you chuckle, the memories of him riding it down the hill in front of his house appearing in your mind. Sometimes, he would be there with his sister and his childhood friend Eric as well (that more often than not let MB!Y/N borrow the board, watching her with lovesick eyes instead of riding it himself), the young boy trying to teach himself tricks he saw on the TV.

“Do you think I still got it?” you suddenly hear Sunwoo ask from behind your shoulder, making you jump in surprise. The male laughs at your shocked face, shaking his head in disbelief at your easily shaken composure. 

“You scared me,” you breathe out, clutching your chest for good measure, to show him how much you really mean it– your heart was racing, and contrary to popular belief, the sight of him in casual attire (a gray hoodie, so similar to the one he used to wear in high school, baggy Adidas sweatpants covering his legs) wasn’t the reason for the little heart attack.

“So did you!” he exclaims. “I got outside and didn’t see you there, I thought you ran away for a second,” he hums.

“As if,” you mumble, “I walked all the way here, why would I leave so suddenly?”

“I dunno,” he shrugs, “you could’ve changed your mind, or something,” he says, his composure suddenly as boyish as when he was just a teenager, something in your heart softening. You guess he sometimes still carries some of the same insecurities he tried so hard to mask when he was young. Some things don’t really change, but you really wish at least this would’ve.

Smiling at him, you shake your head. “I don’t think you still got it, though,” you go back to reply to his initial question, pointing towards the skateboard.

“Well, who knows,” he peeps, “maybe I could do an Ollie, or something.”

“I really don’t think you could, Sunwoo,” you laugh softly, watching him regain his statement competitiveness.

“Wanna bet?”

“No,” you shake your head, “I don’t want you to break your bones, so let’s just say I believe you,” you giggle, watching as the boy mirrors your expression, his gaze softening. 

A short moment of silence overtakes you two as you sigh and look around the garden house, instinctively taking a seat on the red sofa covered in dust. You bet it’s been years since anyone’s sat on it, and you’re glad to be the one revisiting its comfort. It’s like solidifying your return– like the old piece of forgotten furniture in Sunwoo’s garden house is the spawn point of your childhood. “Doesn’t this make you nostalgic?” you ask, eyeing your companion.

“Well, I live here,” he shrugs, “so not as much as it makes you, I suppose. Having you here again makes it more nostalgic, though, I’ll give you that.”

His words have you overcome with something bittersweet. Seeing the town you love so much makes you almost regret you ever left. The rational side of your brain reminds you that you gained a lot of experience abroad, though, and so you settle with being just a little bit remorseful of your past self for being so overly-ambitious. 

“It’s weird,” you allow yourself to be vulnerable in front of him, the essence of him being your best friend– your first love, the first person you ever felt safe with– overtaking you in the moment of weakness, “it’s like everybody moved on, but I stayed here.”

“Well, not everybody moved on,” Sunwoo hums, referring to himself. “Juyeon stayed, too. Eric and MB!Y/N are moving only a few hours away… Haknyeon lives down the street now,” he points out, a poor attempt at making you feel better.

“Yeah… it’s just… I hoped I would do big things. I hoped we would both do big things,” you say, tone of voice quiet, your eyes avoiding him. It’s hard to keep eye contact with him when you share your struggles– at least that’s the way it always was when you were young. The look he offered you always made you feel so tender, so cared for that you wanted to burst out crying. In your age and state, you can’t afford to tear up in front of your ex-boyfriend anymore.

“Sometimes, things don’t work out the way we want them to,” Sunwoo says, tone of voice considerate. “And that’s fine. I wanted to be a star, and I’m not, but that’s okay, because hey… I’m happy anyway. I’m content. And I know that one day, you’ll be too. It just takes a bit of time.”

Snickering, you play with your fingers in your lap, legs plopping up and crossed, striking an almost defensive pose. “Were you… were you embarrassed when you came back?” you ask.

Sunwoo laughs, the sound so heartfelt it makes your insides squeeze. “Terribly. I mean, look at me in my mid-twenties, still living with my mother. Even back then, I felt like a failure. I felt like a disappointment, but… then I realized not everyone had the opportunities I had. Not everyone almost made it professional, you know, and that’s still something to be proud of.”

“I’m still living with my mother, but hey– she’s getting older and the house is big. MB!Y/N moved out, and I wouldn’t want my mum to get lonely… so I think I’m doing pretty well, given the circumstances,” he says. Pausing for a heartbeat, as if collecting his thoughts, he continues. “I think you should find the positives in your situation too. Not everyone got to live in New York... Work for the national TV… That’s still a huge achievement, and I think you should be proud of yourself for that.”

Rolling your eyes– although grateful to hear the words– you snicker. “It’s hard to do that right now…”

“I know,” he nods, smiling when you finally look at him. “It takes time. And until then, well, for what it’s worth, I’m really proud of you. And maybe… maybe you coming back home is how life’s supposed to go anyways.”

Biting down on your lower lip to stop yourself from tearing up– see, you knew you shouldn’t have looked the boy in the eyes during his little pep talk– there’s suddenly a weight leaving your shoulders, heart softening and growing more tender. Your wounds seem to sting a little less. It’s strange– even after so many years, he still knows just the words you need to hear.

“Yeah,” you nod, voice barely louder than a whisper, a soft smile playing with your lips, “maybe.”

to. my first kiss

March 2000

His eyes stay glued to the TV in your living room, the boy almost looking hypnotized as he focuses on the program running, furrowed brows and all, showing his utmost concentration. A sigh lands into his ears, but goes unnoticed when you enter the room, a scowl sitting on your face. “Sunwoo! I told you to watch the oven! What if the cookies burn?”

“Yeah…” he mumbles, not a single word coming out of your mouth truly registering in his brain.

“Sunwoo!” you grunt, but when you get no reply, you just choose to roll your eyes and walk into your kitchen yourself, opening the oven and making sure the cookies you two have been baking haven’t burned down into coal yet. Not long after, you plop on the sofa next to your best friend, tone of voice still showing a bit of frustration at his carelessness.

“You shit on Eric for watching those, but you’re just as bad,” you hum as you notice the kdrama going on in the TV. It’s one of the ones that hardly make any sense and each scene is overly-exaggerated and repeated at least twice to create impact, but Sunwoo finds himself living for the drama. Each argument has him examining the scene, mentally rooting for his favorite characters– and although he is busy with football practice nowadays, he doesn’t skip a single episode of Happy Together. 

It’s not as entertaining as the manga comics he borrows from Hyunjae’s father’s comic shop, but he figures that it’s good enough to pass some time… and indulge over.

“I think they’re gonna kiss,” he notes, pointing towards the screen.

“Oh, good point, Sherlock Holmes,” you sigh, shaking your head in disbelief. If there was something you’d expect out of your friend, it seemingly wasn’t his enjoyance of cheesy dramas that air in the afternoon hours of the week. 

And Sunwoo admits, he was never the one to enjoy romance. Hell, it was something he always made fun of when it came to his friend Eric– he was not the one to watch romantic comedies, he wasn’t the one to tell girls cheesy lines or bring them flowers on Valentine’s day. He does seem to be enjoying the laughable scenes rolling on the TV a little too much lately, though.

Maybe he should start hanging out with Eric less.

The scene slowly transforms into close-ups of the two main characters, showing them instinctively closing their eyes and leaning towards each other, eyes trained on each other’s lips. It doesn’t take much to predict the next actions, but Sunwoo still finds himself restless in his seat when they finally kiss, legs kicking up and a gasp escaping his mouth. One would think he won the lottery or was just greeted with the greatest surprise ever, with how he’s reacting. None of the two are true, though.

“Oh, wow,” you hum next to him, seemingly not really interested in the drama as much as your best friend is.

“You’re ruining it,” Sunwoo sighs, looking at you as you roll your eyes and settle deeper into the couch cushions. 

“Oh, sorry,” you note, but your composure stays a bit annoyed. 

Sunwoo watches the TV for some more– the scene of the two characters kissing stays on the screen, slowed-down and repeated, in the true 90s TV show fashion– before his eyes trail off the device and move towards you, glazing your side profile. He takes notice of your casual attire– you changed out of your school uniform in the time he was supposed to watch the cookies baking in the oven, and something in his stomach churns, making him blurt out the random question that so suddenly appears on the tip of his tongue.

“Have you ever kissed anyone before?” he asks, genuinely curious. He doesn’t even know why the response matters to him so much– he also doesn’t really know what reply he’d like to hear better, if he’s being honest– but now it’s out in the open and he can’t take it back.

“Hm?” you hum, snapping your head towards him. “Oh. Yeah, I guess…”

“You guess..?” Sunwoo repeats, furrowing his brows. How can one not be sure? 

“Well– yeah. It only happened once, though,” you shrug. It takes everything in Sunwoo to not ask who you kissed and when, or under what circumstances, and decide to despise that person until the day he dies. It’s not his business and he shouldn’t even care in the first place… He can’t say he’s disappointed in your answer– it’s your life and your decisions– but something inside of him screams that now, he can’t be your first no matter how hard he’d try. (It’s not like you’d want to kiss Sunwoo anyway, so he really doesn’t know why he’s making such a big deal about it.)

“What about you?” you ask, the question catching the poor boy off guard. He didn’t necessarily expect you to ask him back– so much to his title of Sherlock Holmes– and the reality that he can’t lie to you takes him out in full force as he bashfully stares out of the window.

“No,” he peeps, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

There’s something embarrassing about admitting to the girl you like that even at the ripe age of 19, you’ve never kissed anyone before. Shame creeps up his neck and adorns his cheeks after the simple word slips out of his mouth, eyes refusing to meet yours.

“Really?” you ask, and you sound genuinely surprised– there’s a hint of Sunwoo’s ego recovering, but he thinks the hit was too hard for him to ever recover.

“Yup,” he says, a popping sound heard as his lips voice out the last consonant, the view of him playing with his own fingers suddenly more interesting than anything else happening in your living room right at this moment.

“I thought– nevermind,” you hum, scratching the back of your neck, “why are you asking?”

“Just… just curious, I guess…?” he stummers, shrugging. 

A moment of silence overtakes you two– enough to make the boy instantly hate everything he’s ever said on the matter. If there could open up a hole in the ground right now to swallow him, he’d jump in with much enthusiasm. Why did he have to ask?

“Do you wanna try?” you suddenly propose, making the boy’s heart feel like it burst and threw him into a cardiac arrest. His hands start sweating, his cheeks tint red and it feels like all oxygen was suddenly sucked out of the living room, his lungs collapsing on themselves.

You seem to try to save the situation, noticing the utter shock on his face. “I mean– you don’t have to, but I… I wouldn’t mind, and it’s– I don’t know… if you wanted to practice with me, or something, I’d be down to…” you stutter, chewing on your bottom lip as you finish the little tangent, terror evident in your eyes.

Sunwoo feels like a little boy that just found his favorite gift under the Christmas tree. Like he found the most pricey toy there, the one he always wanted, and now that it’s there, he’s scared to actually play with it, because he doesn’t want to break it. Much like your friendship, he thinks. There’s too much to lose if he crosses this line, and he’s very much aware. 

But the offer seems tempting. Almost too tempting. God, he doesn’t think he could say no.

He may not be your first kiss, but you’re asking to be his. This sounds like a dream, if he really thinks about it.

“You know what? Just forget–”

“I’d– I’d like that…” he mumbles, trying really hard not to avert his gaze from you.

Your gaze softens, nodding your head. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees.

“Okay,” you nod again, moving a little closer to him. Your knees knock into the side of his thigh, your whole figure now facing him on the sofa as his legs still point forward to the TV. He keeps staring at you, a little nervous, but expectant. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do it just because–”

“I’m sure,” he cuts you off, watching as your face relaxes, a smile appearing on your lips at the next addition. “I want to.”

“Okay.”

You move impossibly closer, your crossed legs in contact with his clothed skin. He curses the thin fabric of the pants of his school uniform for making him feel every slightest flex of your muscles when you move, making his skin flare up and burn. He keeps staring at you, watching you as you lean closer to him, your faces now inches away from each other. Sunwoo finds himself focusing on every feature of your face, counting the eyelashes framing your eyes, glazing over the sparkles in your orbs. You stay close for a minute, unmoving. 

Eyes locking, Sunwoo finds himself gasping a little, breathing shuddering when he notices your gaze falling to his lips. Your breathing mixes, air meeting his face when you breathe out a minty breeze. His heart is already racing and you’re not even doing anything.

When he finds you finally moving towards him and notices your eyes shutting close, he mirrors your actions, but stays unmoving. After what feels like eternity, he feels something soft pressing to his lips, warmth spreading from that part of his face to the rest of his body. The contact of your lips with his is gentle, like you’re testing the waters, and although the feeling is unfamiliar, Sunwoo decides he doesn’t hate it.

The weird firework show in his stomach actually suggests that he’s quite enjoying it. Your lips break away from his for a bit, rewarding him with only a peck, and before the boy has the chance to think this is it and it’s over, you dive in for more and kiss him again, this time longer, more firmer.

Your hands come up to cradle his cheeks, holding him close. He feels himself burning up, his composure completely crumbling when he feels you smile against his lips. 

“You know you can kiss back, right?”

“Mhm,” he hums, opening his eyes to see you staring at him with a tender look.

“Try it,” you say, hands gently coming up to brush his bangs away from his face. If anyone was looking at the two of you now, Sunwoo thinks they’d conclude that you two were in love.

And maybe Sunwoo was, by the way he was looking up at you like you hung the stars on the sky. By the way he was staring at you with such a vulnerable look he feared you might see right through him, see right to his core and call him out on every unconfessed word hiding in his heart. He looks a little scared, a little tense, still, but his eyes don’t lie. They never do. There’s no one else that could make him feel the way you do.

“Okay,” he nods, moving in his position so he’s facing you, ready for more. 

He mirrors your previous motions, leaning towards your face. He wets his lips and closes his eyes when he’s sure he’s close enough to not miss your mouth, and after another deep breath in to calm his nerves, he presses against you. He feels you freezing under him, a momentary panic spreading all over his chest as he thinks he’s done something wrong, before he feels you kissing him back.

A whole other sensation takes over him when he feels your lips moving against his, his fingertips buzzing when he drags his hand up and moves your hair behind your shoulder, large hand resting on your jaw. He’s not sure if he’s doing this correctly– hell, he’s never done this before– but after you move a bit and entangle your hands behind his neck, pressing against him a bit more firmly, yet still tender and gentle like the first time, he recognises that somehow, it feels right, and he thinks that’s all evaluation he needs for now.

The need for oxygen makes him break away from you, breathing heavily as he opens his eyes and finds you resting your forehead against his, smiling. “Like that?” he asks, shamelessly staring at your wet lips, already yearning for more.

“Something like that,” you nod, giggling. “You still need more practice, though,” you suggest, making the boy frown.

“Was it that ba–”

Rolling your eyes at him, frustrated at the way he always needs everything spelled out for him, refusing to take a hint, you press your lips against his again, teeth clashing a little when Sunwoo picks up the pace and kisses you back. The TV is a mere white noise in the background now, everything around you two disappearing, all of Sunwoo’s senses focused on you and only you. He could get lost in the way you taste– like strawberry bubblegum you bought at the store on the corner of the street– and the way you feel against him– soft, tender, warm.

He feels like he could burst. He knows his hands are a bit sweaty, but he’s only half aware of the fact when his palms move to hold your cheeks, much like you did to him before, and your hands entangle in his hair, playing with the strands.

He could stay like this forever, blissfully unaware of the consequences of this act. He could kiss you over and over and over again, even if it meant he was still bad at it and needed more practice– he could get lost in your scent, in the tender way you hold him to you, in the way you keep smiling against his lips whenever he does something to surprise you: like get a little bolder and angle your head by your chin with his thumb, getting more comfortable.

He’s glad he’s sitting down, because he’s quite sure his knees are too weak to carry him right now. When you break away from him again, lips swollen and eyes blown-out, he thinks you might just be an angel. He’d love to engrave this image into his memories forever.

Although, he’s doubtful that he could ever forget about this. Or anything about you, really.

And even as you suddenly gasp, finally aware of the world around you, running to the kitchen and screaming: “Sunwoo! We forgot about the cookies!”,

he wonders just what more you could teach him about life. He’d follow you to the end of the world if you asked him to, holding your hand in his and not thinking twice. He’d bring you down a star, if you only so expressed you would like one. He’d do anything. 

You taught him what friendship is. You taught him what it means to care for someone. What it means to have someone special. You taught him how to drink (although by scolding him when he was hungover. He felt cared for even with your stern gaze). You taught him how to slow dance– even though you spent the prom with someone else. Just now, you taught him how to kiss.

And although you’re unaware, he’s quite certain that when he’s 19 years old, spending each of his days with you, although unaware, you taught him how to love someone too.

August 2007

You feel kind of silly, standing in front of the bakery as the sun sets over the horizon, the clock striking near 5 in the afternoon as you gnaw on your fingernails and hesitate a little before coming in. Pushing the door open and slipping inside, the male currently sweeping the floor looks over at you, a look of pleasant surprise sitting at his face and a sunny smile sent your way upon your arrival.

You don’t really know why you keep running back to him. The whole town reeks of familiarity to you, every corner and inch of each street filled with the essence of your childhood and your whole growing up. It’s not like you don’t have anything else to ground yourself back to, but somehow, your inner voice always keeps calling for Sunwoo. It’s weird– it’s been ages and you shouldn’t feel like this around someone who you haven’t even properly dated for that long, if you don’t count the few months before he left– but it’s something you can’t control, an essence you can’t hold back. 

“Y/N,” he calls for you, “what are you doing here?” he asks as he continues his routinal cleaning, putting the broom away behind the counter. 

It’s a stupid question. You bet he realizes it too, but you’re somehow glad he is taking initiative. This way, you don’t have to be the first one to spark the conversation. This way, you know you’re welcome. 

“Oh, well,” you shrug, “I’m… looking for you…?” you say, tone of voice suggesting that you’re hesitant, almost a little shy to admit it to yourself. 

Maybe you’re foolish for feeling this way. Because you know what all those things mean– you know what the lightness in your stomach is, what the giddy feeling resonating through you whenever the male smiles at you is. You know that thinking about someone constantly, more so before you sleep, isn’t an usual occurrence with someone you pay no attention to, with someone you don’t care about. You’ve been in love before– with the same man that’s standing right in front of you as well, funnily enough. You know what this all means.

But with how he’s inviting you in, letting you into his little bubble, you think it’s not as bad of a thing. He’s not pushing you away. He’s not building bridges. He’s the same way he was all those years ago, and you’d hate to find out that all of this wasn’t something more and was just him being nice.

“Well, that’s good to hear,” he chuckles, wiping his hands on the apron still tied around his waist. “I’m off in a few, though, so if you want anything from the bakery–”

“I’m not here for the food,” you laugh, dismissing him with a wave of your hand. The boldness is unusual for the present you– there’s a hint of your past shining through whenever you are with the boy, though. Maybe you like this sense of familiarity. Maybe you like to feel real again– maybe you like to feel like yourself. It’s hard to admit it, but you did lose your sense of identity after moving abroad. It’s hard to stay true to yourself with so many new people around and with so many expectations and responsibilities. The pressure changes you, and you now rely on Kim Sunwoo to bring you back to default– to where you’re supposed to be.

“Okay, then,” he nods, thankfully not making a big deal out of your desperate visit, “what would you like to do?” he asks, eyes sparkling under the lights when he looks at you. It’s like an open invitation– he gives you the chance to tell him how you’d like to spend your time with him. He did this a lot when you two were younger as well. It felt good to have someone that would make the effort to enjoy your hobbies with you– no matter how disinterested he could be in the matter.

“Hang out… I guess…?” you hum, shrugging. You didn’t really have anything planned. All you knew was that you wanted to be with him. It’s like the heart’s calling– you don’t know when your inner monologue got so cliche.

“Anything specific?” he asks.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you shake your head in disapproval. You fear that you disappointed him, let him down in some way– you came all the way here, after all. You could’ve made something up on the way, couldn’t you? But still– just like the Sunwoo you once knew, so lively and full of ideas– he just purses his lips for a second before speaking the suggestion into existence.

“Well… do you want to bake with me? Like the old times?” he says, sending you a look full of warm honey.

You wouldn’t say no to that invitation. You’d be crazy to do so.

The Kim Sunwoo you used to bake cookies with in the comfort of your kitchen back home wasn’t so skilled in making the dough like he is now. He wasn’t so good at knowing the recipe from memory, nor was he gifted with the kitchen appliances he has now, all professional and shiny, reserved just for the use of the bakery. You don’t really know if he even had the love for baking in him back then– you just know you two enjoyed your time together, and when you are young, that’s all you really cared about anyway. It didn’t matter that he let the cookies burn sometimes. It didn’t really matter that they didn’t turn out well on some days– all morphing into one big block, making you cut the dough into pieces so you could eat it when you accidentally added too much butter. 

He still looks the same, though. A few years older, but with the same boyish aura to him when he wipes dirty hands on his apron. All grown up now, but still with the same glint in his eye whenever he looks up at you in between your conversations. When you’re with him, you no longer feel the distance between who you are and who you used to be, the distance between you and him. It’s like the old days, but a little better.

Maybe you have more time now.

The two of you work on the cookie dough, enveloped in a comfortable conversation. “You have to add more sugar,” Sunwoo hums from next to you, watching as you work on the mixture.

“Isn’t it funny how I was the one always giving you directions when we baked together and now you’re the one ordering me around?” you laugh, taking the sugar from the counter and sprinkling more in, listening to the opinion of a professional.

“Well, my cookies don’t turn into one big blob of dough anymore,” he jokes, laughing. “Besides, it’s my job now, so you’d kind of expect me to be good at it.”

“You can’t be so sure of that…” you hum, shaking your head.

“Why? Do you have any experience with being bad at your job?” 

“Oh you bet I do,” you laugh, nodding. “I was an intern before, Sunwoo. A colleague of mine once tried to console me by saying being an intern means being bad at the job, so it wasn’t that big of a deal, but I still cried myself to sleep multiple nights,” you conclude, thinking back to your New York endeavors.

“That bad?” Sunwoo asks empathetically.

“Yeah. Mixed up everyone’s coffee order on my first day. When I was confronted about it, I tried to play it off by saying I don’t have a good memory…” you muse.

“Well, it’s hard to remember a lot of stuff at once, to be fair–”

“I was getting coffee for three people, Sunwoo. Objectively speaking, it shouldn’t be as hard…” you say, now thinking back to the events of your internship with more humor than embarrassment.

Sunwoo laughs at your story, shaking his head in disbelief. “Not worse than my teammate back in Boston. The first match of the season, he scored a goal against our own team. His reasoning? He used to play against the goalie back in high school, so he got confused.”

The boy takes over at making the dough once it’s the turn to add in the chocolate chips, glancing at you momentarily when you laugh at his anecdote. Watching him from the side, you heave out through your laughs. “That’s actually hilarious,” you get out, washing your hands in the sink. “What about some funny stories about yourself, though?”

“Don’t have any. I’m too perfect to humiliate myself like that,” he notes, pressing his lips together and raising his eyebrows at you in an ironic expression, nodding.

“Oh, as if–”

“How is it?” he asks you suddenly in the middle of the sentence, seemingly done with kneading the mixture. Sunwoo puts the cookie dough in front of your lips, waiting for you to taste it. You’d do it all the time when you were both teenagers, but back then, the gesture didn’t feel half as intimate as the mere image of it does now.

Locking eyes with the male, you hesitantly open your mouth and let him put the dough into it, tasting the sweetness on your tongue. Sunwoo’s eyes darken, as if he’s just realized what he’s done, the weight of the situation falling down on him as your tongue comes in contact with the skin of his fingertips. Gulping, he watches as you suck the tip of his digit into your mouth, getting all last remains of the sweetness off of it, something in the air shifting towards a direction you didn’t expect from tonight.

“Good,” you nod, licking your lips, “delicious.”

Seconds turn to what feels like eternities as you stop all motion and look into each other’s eyes, finding any hint of disapproval with the so obvious turn of events. His chocolate orbs peer into yours, making you ignite with something close to an urge you can’t control, his eyes anchoring themselves to the curve of your lips when you decide to let go of all anxiety and insecurities and just go for it. The cookie dough was sweet, but you’ve never tasted anything sweeter than Sunwoo’s lips. You might just have to refresh your mind, you think.

Leaning closer to him, your breathing mixing in the few centimeters left between your mouths, you relish in the déja vu this action brings you. It feels like yesterday, yet also centuries ago since you last kissed the male, and although you’re sure you enjoyed it back then, you wish you could’ve told the younger you to kiss him more often, more firmly, with more passion, maybe even sooner. For longer. 

Pressing your lips against his first, almost like always– since Kim Sunwoo was a bit shy with his kisses when you were both just high school seniors– your eyes shut close and everything around you disappears. You guess there’s something about baking that makes the two of you want to feed off each other’s lips– except this time, it’s not practice anymore. It’s not innocent, it’s not clueless. This time, it’s real, alive and passionate. You can’t say you hate the sentiment, the weird parallel your relationship has come to. It’s like you’re reliving your life again, but this time, you know how the story ends– you know how to fix the ending. How to keep him here.

Sunwoo’s more experienced than he was when you kissed him for the first time. He’s less shy and more bold, lips firmer against yours, but still careful and gentle. His hand comes up to cradle your jaw and position you so he has the best access to your mouth as he slips his tongue in, as if chasing down the taste of cookie dough he fed you just a few seconds ago, and although you liked to battle him when you were young, you let him win this time– you let him take you home, bring your mind to where it’s supposed to be.

Hands gripping the front of his shirt, but immediately going to circle around his neck when a particular movement of his makes you moan slightly into his mouth, you play with the hair on his nape and feel him shuddering under your movements, an automatic response that makes fondness spread over your chest. Everything about him is familiar to you– he still reacts the same way to your tender ministrations, he still smiles against your lips when you tangle your fingers through his hair and want to ground yourself in the touch. 

You know him like the palm of your hand. It’s easy to get lost in something you are so familiar with, in someone that was once your everything. It’s easy to indulge too much in something that was forcefully taken from you, to get right back where you left with him, because time and circumstances were never on your side.

A touch of his hand on the side of your neck, lips trailing down your mouth towards your jaw. The boldness, the urgency of his movements is enough to have you turn your back against the counter, his body pressed tightly against yours. His palms under the backside of your knees have you sitting up on the cold marble, his lips never breaking away from your skin. 

You’re enjoying the shift in the dynamic. You’re enchanted with the way he handles you, like he’s been starved of you for years, wanting to chase down all the time you spent away from each other. Breathing heavily, feeling his plush lips sucking down on the sweet spot under your ear, then trailing down the side until he reaches the juncture of your neck, an involuntary “God…” slips past your mouth.

“I missed you,” he says, words muffling against your skin, “I missed you so much, I felt like I was going crazy.”

The confession makes you dizzy, your whole body growing weak. It’s like he knows exactly what words you wanted to hear. It’s like he knows what haunted you all those years, what you kept asking the universe on sleepless nights over and over, praying for an answer. It’s like he knows exactly how to get you close to him, to have you completely let go of the past. 

“I missed your jokes,” he says, planting a kiss on your neck. “I missed your smile,” he presses another one a little more up, “I missed your laugh,” another kiss, now on your jaw. “I missed holding your hand,” a peck planted to the corner of your lips, “and I missed kissing you…” he trails off, pointing his attention back on your mouth, locking the two of you together again, as if kissing you was his new addiction and you were the drug.

Sunwoo’s hot hand creeps up your waist, fingers slipping under the thin fabric of your tank top. The contact makes you shiver in response, your bodies still as responsive to each other as back when you were 19, and when you tug at his bottom lip with your teeth and slip your tongue back into his mouth, you feel the boy tug at the right strap of your top, sliding it down your shoulder. You’re barely registering the bowl of dough to your right, the fact that you’re in the kitchen of Juyeon’s parent’s bakery, or the fact that you only just met the boy two weeks ago for the first time in years. All you focus on is him– his touch, his taste, the way he makes you feel. All you know is longing. The desire.

Before you have the chance to take anything further, the sound of the door opening makes you jump away from each other– your head almost hitting the top cabinets, had Sunwoo not instinctively put his hand there to shield you from the impact. Before you get a chance to register what’s happening, a familiar voice calls for you, their tone a little guilty and bashful. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt, or anything–” Juyeon peeps, clearing his throat. 

Glancing at Sunwoo, you see his cheeks redden at being caught by his older friend, yet his eyes still roll in annoyance at the interruption. You can’t help but try to hide your face into his shoulder– it’s not like you’re embarrassed of being with Sunwoo, you’re just embarrassed that it had to happen here, of all places.

“Well, you just did,” Sunwoo grunts, frustration coating his words.

“I’m just here to grab something,” Juyeon hums, almost racing through the room to get to the fridge on the other side of the kitchen, taking out a carton of milk from the inside and showing it to the two of you. “This is gonna go bad soon, so I’m taking it home to use it. Uhm.. anyways, well, don’t let me stop you in anything… bye!”

Neither of you greet the male back, instead sharing a meaningful, knowing look between each other. The view of your first boyfriend with his lips puffy, cheeks flushed and hair a little disheveled makes your senses go crazy, and although you’d like to continue what you started, you don’t think now is the right time or place.

Hopping off the counter, you smile. “So… where were we with the cookies?”

to. my first girlfriend

May 2000

Eyes trained on the ball, feet restless as he runs across the field to retrieve it and pass it to one of the shooters– either Donghyuck or Jinyoung, the more capable ones of the team– Sunwoo finds himself completely focused on the game. It’s one of the last matches of the season, and since he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to play his favorite sport again– he hasn’t received a verdict on the university applications he sent yet– the boy figures he should enjoy each game like it’s the last. Because who knows– one day, it may as well be, and if he’s not prepared for it, if he has any regrets, he knows he’ll take it harder than he’s supposed to.

Kim Sunwoo’s position in football is midfielder. While Eric once told him that it’s a loser position, since he’s not the shooter and he doesn’t score many goals (which is a lie– the boy had him know he scored his fair share despite his defensive position on the field), Sunwoo’s grown to love it. He’s the one that’s supposed to counter all attacks on his teammates. He’s the one that runs after the ball and passes it to the shooters, so technically, he’s the reason why any of them even have the opportunity to score. His position is as important as any other player's, and he takes pride in the compliments he gets from his coach whenever he does particularly well at a game. 

Sunwoo loves football. He’d say his first love is football, but something inside of him keeps telling him that that’s a lie (don’t ask him why. It’s a secret.). It’s the first game he’s ever been exceptionally good at, the first thing he could do for periods longer than a few weeks. He’s been playing with the ball since he was young, and although he never had a father to kick the football around with in his backyard, his sister was always happy to be included in anything he was into at the time– when she got older, she even got better at being his designated goalie, although less interested in the play itself. Sunwoo feels like he lets go of all worries when he plays. It’s good to have an escape, something to keep his mind occupied. He doesn’t have many things to worry about, but he finds that kicking the ball around, making strategies in his brain on how to get it to his teammates the fastest, is enough for him to get out both his frustration and get something nice out of it. He enjoys the thrill. He enjoys the excitement, the shared joy of the team whenever someone scores a goal. He is addicted to the ecstasy in his veins whenever his team wins.

It was easy to determine that if Sunwoo wanted to do anything for the rest of his life, it would be football. It’s what he enjoys, what he loves. It’s what he’s good at. 

It’s strange to imagine a time when he wouldn’t play football. He doesn’t even want to imagine it in the first place– it makes a chill run down his spine and an unsettling feeling churn in his stomach. In a perfect world, he’s always a football player.

Everyone keeps telling him he could easily make it professional, if he tried. 

Football is how he met most of his friends. It’s how he met Juyeon– he was the captain of the high school team when Sunwoo was a sophomore, and he found that hanging out with the older boy was easy and fun. It’s how he met Donghyuck and Jihoon (before the latter dropped out of the team after a few months). It’s how he met you. 

His coach always warned the players about dating the cheerleaders. For his coach, it wasn’t right to do so– it would throw off the dynamic of the game. “Nobody wants their ex to stare at them during their game!” the coach had said– not even thinking of the possibility of any of those teenage romances to last. Sunwoo only laughed back then. It wasn’t something he should be afraid of– he never liked anyone on the cheer team.

Until… until he did. Sunwoo met you on one sunny day, at your joint cheer-slash-football practice. You pointed out that the number on his jersey– 03– was your favorite, and the boy felt himself smile. Ever since then, he never wore any other number. He considered it to be his lucky charm. What started as friendship blossomed into something much more for the boy, and somehow, he can’t even remember when the feelings he had for you morphed into adoration. He doesn’t know when they shifted Into absolute enchantment, or Into a silly crush– he doesn’t know when he started seeing you in a light that was more romantic.

Wearing your favorite number on his back, Sunwoo runs towards the opposing player. There’s something akin to an angry face playing with the man’s features, and Sunwoo imagines it’s because of the very clear lead his team has on them. Sunwoo makes sure he doesn’t slip as he tackles the opposing player– he swears he heard someone call the shooter Jaechan– and as soon as he secures the ball, Sunwoo aims to forward it to his teammate.

The screams resonating all around him– although he tries hard to filter them out to focus on the game completely– suggest that it’s only a few moments before the game is over. It wouldn’t matter even if they didn’t score the goal, but something inside of Sunwoo’s heart leaps at the thought of winning with such a lead. The boyish excitement only grows when he watches Donghyuck retrieve the goal and run towards the goalpost, neon-orange sneakers shining through the green grass.

“Come on!” Sunwoo cheers, a hopeful spark lighting within him as the boy prepares to shoot, eyes quickly scanning the field.

And Lee Donghyuck almost never lets him down. Maybe that’s why he liked the boy so much in the first place– Sunwoo didn’t like players that dismissed the chance he won for them. He liked the skillful ones. The ones that knew what they were doing. (He also liked Donghyuck’s humor. He found himself grateful to have a friend so funny. He made even losing feel like it wasn’t such a big deal.) 

Choosing the golden shooter proved to be a good idea once again– Donghyuck, number 35, shoots for the goal and the ball gets in. Seconds after, the sound of a whistle is heard across the place, the game over with Sunwoo’s team winning 4:1.

Everyone cheers– yells from the audience are heard, excitement reeking through the air. The whole football team gathers around, sweaty bodies sticking together as they perform some sort of a cliche group hug, arms patting each other’s backs and complimenting each other’s play. 

The commotion dissolves shortly after. Sunwoo finds himself trying to catch his breath, eyes looking across the space for someone in particular. His heart leaps even harder when he finds you standing at the edge of the field in your cheer uniform, a big smile plastered on your face. Your eyes are glimmering as they meet with his. Your hair is a little tousled from the routine you just finished doing and there are smears and smudges on your cheeks from the face paint you used to symbolize the team’s colors– blue and gold. Over-all, you look ecstatic.

Sunwoo finds himself running over to you before he even registers that he’s going to do it. He’s like a fast, unguided missile, the goal of getting to you as fast as possible being the only thing resonating through his excited mind.

“Good jo-” you grunt as the boy finally gets to you, words cutting off when he (maybe a little harshly) puts his arms around your middle and picks you up, twirling you around. You screech a little into his ear and he finds himself laughing at your reaction. It’s like a runner's high– he feels like right now, he is capable of everything. 

“Okay! Okay! Put me down!” you laugh when you start to get a little dizzy. The boy complies, since he’s running out of strength to carry you anyways, and puts you back to your feet. His arms stay tightly wrapped around your body, though, locking you into a secure hug. 

“We won!” he cheers, the brightest grin settling to his lips as he announces the obvious. 

You beam at him, eyes soft and crinckled into little moon crescents, a dumbfounded smile playing with your features. “I know, Sherlock,” you dismiss him again with the teasing nickname, shaking your head in disbelief, “I was here. Cheering for you,” you say.

And sure, Sunwoo knows that by you, you don’t necessarily mean him in particular– more like cheering for the whole team, the whole 11 players on the field– but something about the sentiment makes his stomach feel all light and a slight blush spread over his glowing cheeks. You were here– cheering for him (and his team) – and although you’re here out of your own will, out of your own devotion to your hobby, he somehow feels grateful for your presence. You never miss a game. You went even when you caught the flu and felt too sick to do your cheer routine– you just sat on the bench and rooted for your best friend. (The team lost that match. Sunwoo felt a little bad for tugging you out of your bed for it.)

The boy studies your face for a while. You look perfectly content in his hold. You fit perfectly into his arms, he thinks– almost like you’re supposed to be there all the time. He should hug you more often, he decides. Sunwoo foolishly finds himself focusing onto your lips– he blames the shiny lipgloss you put on today– the words coming out of your mouth not quite registering in his brain. “As I was saying, good job! The whole team, but you especially. Don’t tell anyone, but I think you really shined in this game. I’m really prou–”

A single peck is pressed to your glossy, sticky lips, cutting you off in the middle of the sentence yet again. Sunwoo surprises himself with the gesture– he was always too shy to initiate something with you, too hesitant to even touch you sometimes– but the euphoria is still playing with his senses, clouding his brain. He doesn’t think of consequences.

He can’t control himself anymore. It’s been weeks since you two kissed for the first time– exactly 4 and a half weeks since you taught him how to do so– and since that afternoon, he found himself thinking about it every single day, every single minute, all. The. Time. You two haven’t spoken about it since, making the poor boy a little disappointed, but he respected your decision. He knew that you didn’t particularly reciprocate his feelings, but he still expected your dynamic to shift. At least a little bit. 

And although he should’ve been glad nothing changed and your friendship didn’t crumble because of a simple kiss, he found himself desiring to kiss you every time he saw your face. 

You peer at him with eyes wide open, mouth a little agape. Sunwoo doesn’t really know how to read your reaction– you didn’t look particularly happy, but you also didn’t push him away– and so in the moment of panic, he begins to backtrack, his arms untangling from your sides.

“I- I’m sorry if I overstepped any boundary, or if I–”

You’re not fans of letting each other finish their sentences today, it seems. Before Sunwoo gets a chance to put a bigger distance between the two of you, he watches as you get on your tippy-toes and press a tender kiss on his lips– more firmer than the one he dared to give you, a little bit longer, yet still sweetly short. There’s something soft and gentle in your gaze when you pull away and press another peck onto his face– the tip of his nose this time– and Sunwoo almost physically feels his knees turning into jello, his own celebratory firework show erupting in the pits of his stomach.

“So, as I was saying,” you hum, hugging the boy around his neck, “you did well. You looked good out there,” you peep, the sparks in your eyes making Sunwoo’s skin burn with their contact.

That day, you teach him that to be loved is to have someone sharing your achievements with. To be loved is to be adored, to be loved is to have someone watching you and cheering you on, to have someone to run to with good news.

Kim Sunwoo’s football team won the match, but the boy thinks that perhaps, that day, he won something even greater.

to. my first lover

August 2000

The admission papers arrive at his house the morning he’s supposed to sleep over at your house. Your parents decided to take a trip to your aunt’s place for two days, so you invite the boy into the comfort of your home for the weekend– as far as Sunwoo’s mother is concerned, he’s sleeping over at Juyeon’s. He doesn’t have the boy covering him, but he’s also sure his mother won’t try to check if he’s telling her the truth. He’s not banned from having a girlfriend– he just doesn’t want his mum to get any wrong ideas.

He finds the envelope in the mailbox when he comes home from school, and something in his stomach drops when he sees the american stamp on the top right corner of the white paper. He debates on opening it, but every time he hypes himself up enough to tear the top of the envelope off, a little anxious voice on his inside tells him to wait. 

Although reluctant to admit it to himself, Sunwoo is a little scared to see the result of his university application. Before he leaves for your house, he puts the envelope into the front pocket of his backpack and tries to forget about it. It works a bit better when he sees your face, hears your laugh– when he spends time with you and you two play the new board game you got from your cousin. Still, the weight of the envelope keeps bugging him in his mind no matter how hard he tries forgetting about it, and you finally notice (or finally bring it up after hours of ignoring his weird mood) when the two of you lay together in your bed in the evening, both facing the ceiling.

“Is everything alright?” you ask. 

“Hm?” Sunwoo hums, lost in thought. “Oh, yeah,” he nods, “don’t worry.”

You don’t seem convinced. Shuffling a little in your sheets, you turn towards him and move your body closer to his, your arm suddenly draping over his middle. A tender kiss is placed on his temple, almost making him crumble under the gentle care, and your voice earns a concerned kind of timbre when you speak to him. “You can tell me,” you hum, “boyfriends and girlfriends are supposed to tell each other things.”

Boyfriends and girlfriends. Sunwoo feels himself soften under the possessive title. It has been close to 4 months of you dating– starting with the winning match in April, progressing slowly through the summer break– but the fact that you’re his partner is still a little unbelievable to him. Sometimes, when he hears you call him your boyfriend, he still gets a little bashful. He still feels like he’s been told the greatest news of his life. 

Maybe it’s the nature of this sentiment that has him slowly unraveling to you. And maybe, it’s because he’d tell you anyways– you’d be the first to know. He was just waiting for the right time to bring it up.

“The reply to my university application came in the mail this morning…” he trails off, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

You plop up on your elbow, watching the boy from above. Eyes big, you peer into his face. “And?” you ask, an expecting gaze glazing his features.

“I… I don’t know,” he shrugs, “I was too scared to open it alone.”

“O-Oh,” you nod, furrowing your brows at him, “well, it’s okay to be scared. I believe in you, but even if it doesn’t go the way you wanted it to, I’m still proud of you for trying,” you say, a gentle tone of voice cooing at him, like the nature of the way you play with his hair, wanting to make the boy relax from his anxieties.

“I have the letter here with me,” he says, swallowing, “in my bag.”

“Do you want to open it together?” you ask, watching as the boy nods.

He’s getting off the bed in no time, wearing just sweatpants and a baggy shirt to sleep in, grabbing his bag from the corner of your room and unzipping the small compartment at the front. His fingers take the envelope out, legs walking him over back to your bed, your figure now sitting against the headboard. Sunwoo finds himself mirroring your position as his fingers turn the little white thing in his hold with much stumbling, preparing himself for whatever answer awaits him inside.

Glancing at you, seeing you looking at him with an encouraging expression on your face, Sunwoo takes a big breath in and out to calm his nerves before he tears the top open and takes out the expensive-feeling paper. Not stopping his actions anymore, knowing that if he takes another moment to himself, he won’t be able to read the letter, he unravels the note and lets his eyes skim over the words.

Before he even has a chance to register the sentences written down in the letter, before he can even let his mind accept the result he’s given– ‘we are pleased to announce that you were admitted to the athlete scholarship program…’– he feels a pair of arms wrapping around his shoulders, jolting him awake from his thoughts.

“You made it! Oh my god, you made it!” you cheer, excitement taking over your whole body as you shake the boy in your hold from side to side. The reality still isn’t quite settling in for him, so he just lets you do whatever you please– which includes all of the following: screaming incoherent words into his ear when you hug him closer to your chest, planting a kiss to his cheek and throwing your hands up into the air in a winning gesture. 

“You made it, Sunwoo,” you repeat, this time a little more collected.

Sunwoo finally allows himself to put the letter away and look into your eyes. “I made it,” he sighs, a soft smile playing with his features. 

“You did!” you nod, grinning back.

It’s strange. The first step towards Sunwoo’s dream is now complete. He got admitted to the university of his dreams– the one that’s good for athletes, the one that is supposed to shoot him towards stardom. He has the opportunity to take classes there and train with some of the best aspiring players in the whole world. He has the opportunity to move out of the country, live at dorms in Boston, and most importantly, he has everyone’s support. 

There’s nothing more a boy his age could want more. He has everything. His whole life ahead of him, only the brightest future waiting for him at the end– only if he keeps trying hard and improving. He’s happy. Don’t get him wrong– he really is. Somehow, though, it all feels a bit scary.

“What’s wrong? Aren’t you excited?” you ask, a pout taking over your once excited features. The amount of worries you have over Sunwoo gets bigger and bigger the older the two of you are. There are only so many things that can go wrong when you are a teenager, but now that you’re adulting, the list keeps getting longer.

“I am,” he nods, forcing a smile onto his lips.

“You don’t seem excited,” you argue.

“I am! I really am,” he says, trying to battle with himself.

“What is it?” 

“What is what?” 

“Come on, Sunwoo,” you sigh, “I can tell when something’s wrong. You don’t have to hide it from me, because I’ll know anyway. What is it?” you insist, staring the boy down with an examining look.

The boy sighs, shrugging to himself. “Well,” he starts, “the school is in America.”

“And?” you start, furrowing your eyebrows. “We knew that when you applied. Why is it such a problem now?” you ask, genuinely not grasping the whole situation.

Sunwoo chews on his cheek for a little while, plays with his fingers in his lap. A part of him is telling him that he both looks and seems foolish– because you’re right. It was his dream, he is excited, and this is good news. But still, there’s something he didn’t really think of when applying. Well, he did. He just thinks that the fact that him being accepted wasn’t really a realistic idea, no matter how hard he wished and prayed for it, so he didn’t have the need to think about it so seriously back then. Now it’s here, all real, and it’s a struggle he didn’t really grasp that he was going to have to go through.

“Well,” he starts again, still avoiding your eyes, “that means I have to move. And we won’t see each other for a while.”

There’s a heartbeat of silence following his confession– one in which he contemplates all possible reactions you might give him, some with truly catastrophic endings– but after what seems like eternities, he hears your soft, gentle voice. “Is that what’s making you so worried?” you ask.

“Kind of,” he nods, feeling his cheeks redden. You handle him with so much care– sometimes, he doesn’t know how to react.

“Awh,” you coo, taking his hand into yours, preventing him from picking at the skin of his cuticles until they bleed– an action he always does and you keep scolding him for. “Sunwoo, we knew about this when you applied. I am okay with you going away. Sure, it will suck, but it’s only for a little time, and I can come visit you there and you’ll show me around and stuff…”

Sunwoo presses a tight-lipped, hesitant smile to his lips. He feels reassured.

“And we’ll call, and it’s going to be fine, because this is good. This is good news, Sunwoo, and you’re gonna do great, and you’re gonna be a star, and I’ll be so, so proud of you,” you hum, voice tender and caring, doing your best at consoling the boy.

“I’m already so proud of you now, y’know?” you hum, squeezing his hand. “Everything will be alright, so don’t you worry.”

Sunwoo’s arms reach out to envelop you into a hug. He once again recognises how easily you fit into his arms, how perfectly you shape into his skin, and when he burrows his nose into your neck, breathing in your scent, he feels your lips reach into his hair, planting a soft kiss into it. Your words did more to the boy than only consult him– they gave him hope, they gave him joy, they made him feel like perhaps, this is not such a terrifying occurrence. And it really isn’t– it’s quite possibly the best thing that he’s ever achieved, and the circumstances of him leaving don’t seem as horrifying to him now. 

As long as he knows that you have his back, he thinks he can do anything. And what’s 3 years abroad against the 4 years he’s known you?

When you pull away, you press your lips against his, the contact making his muscles finally relax and his mind let go of all the worries. There’s suddenly nothing in the world that could make him falter, nothing that could make him worry or stress or fret or change his mind, because he has your support, and you’re here with him, promising him that you’ll always be right by his side, wherever he is.

Your mouth molds against his, the familiar motion of your lips against his still surprising him sometimes, still making him curious even after those months. He’s been dating you for some while, but he still likes to explore what makes you crumble under him, what makes you hum into the kiss, what makes you tug him closer to you– it’s a fun game to him, trying to figure you out completely. 

He still has some time, but it’s like he is trying to engrave those moments into his memory before he no longer can experience them first-hand as easily.

He goes out to explore again– his tongue gently inviting itself into your mouth with a swipe of your lower lip, relishing in the way your composure falters a little bit, letting him be in charge. You were always the more experienced one out of you two, so Sunwoo often shied away from being the one dominating intimate situations– afraid he’s not good enough, too inexperienced, too immature for you– but in the rare moments he does take the lead, your reactions give him a new source of confidence. 

His hand comes up to cradle your jaw, nose pressing against your cheek as he angles you so he has more access to your lips. Something about his ministrations makes you forget to breathe, breaking away from him in a search for much needed oxygen, but Sunwoo acts like he’s been starved of you, latching his lips to the trail from your mouth towards your neck, planting open-mouthed kisses to your soft skin. He faintly remembers the time you gave him a lovebite that one time you came over to his house to work on homework together, sucking and biting at his neck (and although he enjoyed seeing the possessive bruise on his skin whenever he saw himself in the mirror, he wore the strings of his hoodies tightly tied to his neck, shielding him from being teased by everyone– but mostly Eric). He tries to mirror your motions, recreating the action to the best of his abilities.

He hears you grunt, making him fear that he’s doing it wrong– a momentarily panic settling in his chest screaming at him that he hurt you– but the worries are quickly dismissed as you move impossibly closer to the boy, straddling his lap and threading your fingers through his hair, keeping him close. 

Humming under his touch, Sunwoo gets a kick from hearing the sounds coming out of your mouth. It’s like a reward– it’s like the praise he goes after his whole life, like validation of his actions being satisfactory for you. The pressure of your body against his lap makes him feel hot all over, sweaty hands holding you by your sides. Every slightest shift of your figure against his makes him shudder, composure faltering when you move in a way that has his breathing particularly quicken, a bundle of nerves forming in his stomach from the newly found hypersensitivity. There’s only so much fabric shielding the two of you from each other, and just the thought of it is slowly driving the boy crazy.

Pulling away from your neck, admiring the artwork he managed to portray on your skin, he feels you pulling him up to meet your lips again, heated, firm kisses shared in the silence of the room. He feels your hands resting on his abdomen, feeling him up for a moment before you sneak them under the hem of his shirt, dragging your nails against his skin. 

Sunwoo hears a sound escape his throat at the contact, making him instantly feel foolish– until he feels you smile against his lips, following your ministrations by mirroring his previous actions and kissing down his neck, finding all the spots that make him the most reactive– like the place under his ear, the juncture of his shoulder. You revisit all the places you’ve tested before and perfected your aim to make him efficiently crumble under you. Sunwoo finds himself losing the initial control he had over the situation, instead letting you take over and lead him, much like you’ve done in most areas of his life. He likes to be your follower. He likes to see where you want him, where you need him, he likes to comply. It’s more comfortable for him this way. It makes him swell with pride when he makes you happy.

Another shift of your hips against him has Sunwoo digging his fingers to your side, whole body feeling like it’s electrified under your touch. Placing a soft peck to the spot you’ve had your attention on, you mumble into his skin. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Sunwoo swallows, noticing you leaning your forehead against his tenderly, eyes meeting. 

“Are you sure?”

He nods. He’s never been more sure about anything in his life– he enjoys your company, he loves your touch, the way you make his every sense heighten, his heart beat quicker. Still, he feels a bit nervous at the prospected events. “I just– I’ve never done this before,” Sunwoo whispers the obvious, watching as you carefully observe him.

“Sweetheart,” you tenderly call, placing a soft peck to his lips. “That’s okay. Me neither, but we could… we could try and see where this leads us, if you’d like?”

The sweet pet name alone makes the boy let go of all his worries, of the stress and nerves he’s been holding on to for the past few weeks. You hold him like he’s going to break, and Sunwoo’s never felt so loved before. You reassure him that it’s going to be okay. You are there to remind him that life isn’t so hard, as long as you’re by his side.

“Okay,” he nods, smiling at you. 

“Okay,” you repeat, holding his face in your hands as you kiss him again– it may as well be for the thousandth time. Truth is, while he tried to keep up at first, Sunwoo lost count a long time ago.

Everything there is to know about love, Kim Sunwoo learned from you. You showed him the childlike playfulness during your dates. You taught him how to kiss, only to take advantage of his newly found skills and keep them all for yourself. You showed him what it is to share joys, dreams, but also worries together. You were his first crush, date, relationship– and now, his first lover.

In the comfort of your childhood bedroom, holding you closer than ever, Sunwoo dreams of eternity with you. He doesn’t realize what a foolish thought it might be. Somehow, he’s got a feeling that no matter what it is, you two will figure it out. You always do.

to. my first love

September 2000

Muscles sore and whole body heaving in pain, Sunwoo trails inside the small bungalow the university gave him as student accommodation, dropping his duffel bag to the floor. His face is pulled into a small frown as he enters the house and his roommate can’t help but notice. “Everything alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Sunwoo hums, nodding at the question. He has 3 assigned roommates– all male, all around his age. Sunwoo’s english isn’t bad, but it also isn’t that great either. He knew that this was going to be one of the main concerns of him moving out abroad, but he figured that the more you encounter the language, the more comfortable you get with it. Due to this, though, the two American boys he rooms with– their names are Josh and Sam– aren’t as close with him. Sunwoo doesn’t really blame them. It’s not like he tried to get close with them anyway. He talks much more with Mark, the one year older boy that’s also Korean, but has been living in the States for years now. The language barrier is nearly nonexistent there, and so he feels much more comfortable.

Not comfortable enough to vent to him about his problems, though. It’s good to share a laugh with Mark when they eat breakfast together in the kitchen, but he won’t go on and talk his ear off about his homesickness, for example. Sunwoo wouldn’t talk to him about the weird, unsettling feeling in his gut whenever he takes the bus or walks down the street, not recognising every face he encounters like he did back home, in his small town. He won’t tell Mark Lee about how much he misses Korea– he’s sure the boy has his own things to worry about. Besides, it’s not like Mark talks about personal stuff with him either. After four days of living here, he can’t say their relationship got to the level of going deep with their personal lives.

And so, Sunwoo walks up the stairs in silence, not giving Mark more information about his mood. Each step up hurts, since the training is twice as demanding as it used to be at home, making his muscles sore and his back hurt terribly from the stone hard mattress in the bed of his new home. He is willing to endure it, but he also has the terrific need to complain about it to anyone that would be willing to listen.

He should start writing a diary, he thinks as he stares up on the ceiling, chewing on the inside of his cheek. It sounds good enough to channel his feelings out into while also not being a bother to anyone else. Besides, he doesn’t want anyone to know that he’s having a hard time here in Boston. This was all his decision, his dream, and sometimes, things are going to get difficult. And that’s okay. Sunwoo just… feels like he lacks the support system he once had back home in Korea. Like someone took it from between his fingertips, forcefully kept it away from him, locked somewhere miles away. Maybe the person who did that to him was himself all along…

Which is why he doesn’t deserve to whine about the fact that he feels terribly lonely. He did this to himself. All him.

If he had a diary, he’d write about the terrible mattress first, he thinks. Then, the weird weather around here– it’s always hot, but not humid. It doesn’t rain as much. He kind of misses the rain. 

If he had a diary, he’d write about how he misses his old coach. The high school coach that always made sure the game was fun, yet productive. He misses his teammates as well. Their team never did big things, but he felt like they were some sort of a family. They knew each other well on the field. They had chemistry. They had fun.

He’d write about how he misses his annoying little sister. How he wishes she would appear in the doorway of his room and talked to him about the stickers she still collects, or dragged him to make another friendship bracelet together. How he feels bad for leaving her all alone back home, even though he was never the one to share his brotherly love for her so outwardly growing up. He feels a sort of appreciation for her that he didn’t quite understand when they were little. They are right when they say your sibling is your first best friend after all. 

He’d write about the second best friend he’s ever made, Eric. He’d write about how he longs for his presence, his encouraging words. His funny remarks, the pranks he’d pull on him. How he always appreciated him being just across the street, how he enjoyed growing up with him by his side.

He’d write about how much he misses you– perhaps the most out of everyone. There aren’t many words he could use to describe how much he wishes for your presence, and so he thinks the pages filled with sentences directed to you would be rather sparse, and it makes him kind of sad to think about. In his mind, you deserve novels written about you. You deserve love letters and poems and essays filled with every little detail of your existence. Maybe if Sunwoo loved you less, he would be able to talk about it more.

When his eyes go out of focus staring at the ceiling, Sunwoo decides to call you. It’s been 4 days since he arrived and he hasn’t spoken to you since you waved him off to the airport. His mother drove him and you couldn’t go to send him off at the gate, but Sunwoo almost thinks he prefers the fact that you only said goodbye to him in front of his house. It would be that much harder if he saw your face the last thing before boarding the plane. 

For the last four days, he’s been slowly settling in, taking in the new country and the new environment. He’d say he was just too busy to call, but that would be a lie.

He was just scared to hear your voice. Terribly.

What if you changed your mind? What if you no longer want to stay with him? What if it’s too hard to handle? And Sunwoo knows it’s hard– hell, it’s the most difficult thing he’s ever done– but all he wishes is for you to keep handling it well. To keep his heart in your hands gently, like you always have, sending him your energy.

He figures that if there’s one thing that can help his growing homesickness, it is to hear your voice. 

Sitting up from his bed and walking over to the bag he carried with him through the airport and kept with him on the plane, he scrambles through the item to find the piece of paper you forced into his hand on the driveway of his house. 

“We changed our landline yesterday, so call me on this number when you get there,” you said, pressing a kiss towards his cheek before you let him get into his mother’s car. Sunwoo promised to call back then– he hopes you don’t mind the delay. Maybe he could blame the timezones…

Hand thrusting into the front pocket of the bag, Sunwoo feels around and tries to fish out the little piece of paper. He’s 100% certain he put it there after he got into the car with his mum, making sure it’s safe and sound. He would hate to lose it– it was some sort of safety net for him. Something to fall back to, something to keep him above the water.

Panic settles in his chest when he doesn’t feel the soft piece of paper anywhere. The boy unzips all other compartments of the bag, turning it around, shaking out everything that’s inside. The phone number to your new landline has to be there somewhere in there. It needs to be.

When he doesn’t find it in his bag, he opens his closet. He throws everything out to the ground– his clothing, his shoes, the notebooks he bought for university– all in the search of the stupid, little, yet so important piece of paper. He searches through all his other bags. All pockets of his jeans, every centimeter of his folded clothing. All drawers of his desk, the whole floor, hell, he even crouches to check under his bed, blowing the dust bunnies out of reach, desperately hoping he could wish the paper into existence. He searches his bed. All possible parts where the landline number could be– some more unreasonable than others. Sunwoo feels like he is losing his mind.

The paper is nowhere in his room. It’s like it vanished. Was it really there at all? Did he dream that moment up?

Running down the stairs towards the landline, he takes the phone off the wall and punches in the numbers to your old landline, the pattern so familiar in his fingertips he couldn’t tell you the number if you asked, but he could recreate it with punching in the buttons in on any other phone in the world. He clenches his fist together, breathing more heavily as he listens in, praying for the universe to stop playing tricks on him and make you magically answer on the other side.

When the phone makes a dismissive sound, signaling that the number he called no longer exists, Sunwoo shuts the phone against the wall and takes it again, putting in your old number once more, like a summoning ritual. Maybe he put the numbers in wrong the first time… Maybe he made a mistake somewhere along the way…

When he gets the same response, he tries again. And again. And again. 

He can’t believe it. Tension settles into his shoulders, making him twirl the cord of the landline in between his fingers as a way to calm himself down, listening in to the dull noise on the other side telling him there’s nothing that can be done, nothing more that he can do. He doesn’t have the number, and somehow, although it sounds foolish, it feels like he lost you alongside it too. 

“Everything alright, man? You look–” Mark enters the room, peering at the boy with curious, worried eyes. It’s only now that Sunwoo realizes he is breathing heavily, fingers clammy on the cord, heart begging to run out of his chest to get all across the ocean to you. It’s only now that he realizes his cheeks are wet with tears, the solidification of his inner turmoil taking a physical form and appearing on his face, making him feel pathetic in front of the older boy.

Sunwoo once again puts the phone back to its original place, but this time, he doesn’t take it back and tries the useless old phone number again. Simply turning away from his roommate, he accepts his fate as he quickly puts on his shoes and slams the door shut after him, going out for a run.

Is this his punishment for waiting too long? Did the paper vanish out of his possession because he was deemed unworthy of hearing your voice? Should he have tried to look for the number earlier? Would this have prevented it?

It’s hard to run when your nose is stuffed and your breathing hitches with silenced sobs, he learns. Sunwoo doesn’t get as far as he would have liked, crumbling on a bench somewhere next to a playground, picking at the dry skin of his lips until they bleed and the irony taste on his tongue snaps him back into reality.

What was once his dream is starting to feel more like a nightmare. When he calls Eric two days after to ask him to get him your new landline number, he gets the news that you abruptly moved out to New York. 

September 2007

“If you really think about it, Y/N,” Sunwoo hums, making you shift your attention towards his serious-looking face, “we never really broke up in the first place.”

The boy is holding a bottle of cider in his hand, one of the four you got on your way to your tonight’s destination. Sunwoo rang the bell to your house a few minutes before 10 PM, and although you weren’t expecting to see him that day and you weren’t even looking as presentable as you’d like, you agreed to take a walk with him. Somehow, the two of you found yourselves climbing over the fence of your old high school, sneaking into the football field, figures settling on one of the benches of the tribune.

“Oh yeah,” you hum, lightness evident in your tone, “you just never called. What’s up with that, by the way?” you ask, snickering when you watch the male avert his gaze in a bashful manner, as if he was embarrassed to tell you his reasoning.

You take a sip of the apple cider, enjoying the sweet, fruity taste on your tongue, watching as the male contemplates his next response for a bit, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “I lost your new landline number,” he peeps, voice barely louder than a whisper.

His answer doesn’t register immediately in your brain. The words take a moment to string themselves together into a sentence, taking another few seconds before you understand the meaning of his confession. A soft laugh drags out of your throat, disbelief coating your very essence. “What?”

“Yeah,” he nods, scratching the back of his neck before looking back at you, eyes full of guilt and shame, “I… I lost the number you gave me, and when I called Eric to try to make him get me your new number, he told me you moved to New York, and I guess… I guess I took it as a sign…?” he says, shrugging.

“A sign of what?” you ask, genuinely surprised to hear his answer.

All this time, you thought he didn’t call because he didn’t want to. You thought he didn’t call because he was too busy, too tired to deal with anything else other than his career at the moment. He was trying his hardest and training every day, so you understood that he wouldn’t have time for you every day. When he didn’t call for so long, even after you moved to the States as well– you hoped he’d somehow try searching for your number even then, because in your mind, everything was possible– one day, you just… stopped waiting for him to call. You stopped hoping you would hear his voice on the other side of the line.

And you accepted it. He realized long distance relationships were too difficult to maintain, especially in that time and age, and he had too many of his own worries to take care of before focusing his attention somewhere else. You didn’t resent him, no. You longed for him, you missed him, but you never once hated him for the decision he made. You wished him well, all this time. 

“A sign that… that maybe we weren’t meant to be,” he hums, shrugging. “It sounds stupid, really, but…” he trails off, cutting himself off in the middle of the sentence.

Something about his confession makes you feel a bit lighter. Your shoulders feel like there’s no longer anything weighing them down. It’s not like you waited for an explanation all those years and when you finally got one, something in you shifted into a more comfortable position.

“For me, back then, you were the right person, wrong time. And I didn’t want to let you go, I really didn’t, it’s just… everything was already so hard and the world seemed to put so many obstacles in my way of contacting you, that I thought it was the universe telling me to drop it and let you go. So you could… so you could find someone else, I guess…” he finishes explaining. He averts his gaze from you, pointing it towards the empty field, as if scared to see your reaction to his blabbering. He takes another few sips of his cider, snickering. “It wasn’t fair of me to want you to wait for me either.”

So you could find someone else… You think back to all the times you went on dates after you concluded that your relationship with Sunwoo was over. You try to remember their faces, their mannerisms in such detail that you could only make up one of your previous lovers– the one sitting next to you right now– and you chuckle at your foolishness. Remembering how you kept comparing every new person in your life to the one that stole your heart first, remembering how you thought about him late at night, wondering where he is right now and how he’s doing. You used to look through the sports parts of newspapers, looking for his name somewhere, looking for his team name, but never seeing a glance of how he was doing. You wore the stupid friendship bracelet he gave you in your junior year around in New York, having people point it out and ask about it, all until it broke off by itself  one day and you reluctantly said goodbye to the sentiment. 

You dated around after losing contact with Sunwoo. You don’t really think you found someone else, though. 

“I wanted to wait for you, though,” you say, shuffling closer to the male on the bench, voice sincere. “It was my decision.”

“Well,” he chuckles, “life had other plans for us two.”

His sentence makes you think. A few days ago, it would make you sad. Embarrassed, even. Life had other plans for you two and they didn’t align with what you two have calculated during the summer break after your senior year. Sunwoo didn’t become a star. His football career never took off. He finished his degree and came back home, bitter and heartbroken. 

Your plans ended just as fast as you came up with them. Not going to university after high school, you were left with nothing to do. When the opportunity to take an internship for a news company in New York came to you so suddenly, you took it without thinking, trying to find your place in the big world ahead of you. You had no plan, but you think that maybe, some part of you wanted to get away from your hometown all along. You wanted to do big things, make everyone proud. Being a news anchor wasn’t even something you dreamed of when you were little, so you guess you weren't supposed to really feel that let down, but the defeat still stings.

Or, at least, it used to. You find that the failure doesn’t hurt as much anymore. 

Looking at the male next to you, you think you know the reason why. “It’s okay,” you say, shrugging, “we figured it out anyways, didn’t we?”

“Yeah,” Sunwoo sighs, looking at you with a soft smile playing with his lips. “I guess we did.”

The sound of cicadas hits your ears when you two fall into a comfortable silence. Healing old wounds was surely one of the items on your check list when you came back home, but you didn’t expect to get over things so quickly. You don’t think you would have been able to get over everything alone, though– and this makes you twice as grateful to still have Sunwoo by your side. A sense of nostalgia takes over you at the fact, but this time, it hits you with more fondness than longing for the old times.

“Remember how young we were? It’s like I still see you chasing the ball around the field when I focus hard enough,” you say, pointing ahead of you.

Sunwoo laughs, shaking his head at your antics. “Yeah. I almost see you leading the cheer practice in the back there,” he points, “in your cute cheer uniform, with the ridiculous pom poms in your hands–”

“Hey, don’t call them ridiculous,” you gasp, “they were my favorite part of the whole routine!”

“Oh, I could tell,” he laughs, poking fun at you. 

“Well, you must have liked the pom poms enough to stare at me during practice all the time,” you shrug, teasing the male back. The fact that Sunwoo had a crush on you long before you reciprocated the feelings wasn’t something you two explicitly talked about before, but you always deemed as clear as day. Or, at least, it was to everyone back then.

“I did not–” he gasps, making you gently shove him with your elbow.

“Come on, everybody used to say you had a crush on me back then,” you hum, “you were pretty obvious with it too.”

“You knew?” he looks at you, eyes big and surprised. Gears clearly running in his head, he tries to piece the information together, running through the memories now so distant, but still so clear.

“Girls always know,” you point out, shrugging. You take another sip of your cider, licking your lips after and speaking up again, tone of voice almost confidential. “I just acted like I didn’t. But then I realized I liked you back, so I was trying everything in my power to make you confess to me first. Which… took you long enough, young man,” you giggle, seeing the male shake his head at you in disapproval.

“You could’ve confessed first, if you were so confident,” he mutters, obviously a little gutted by the revelation.

“That would be below my level,” you nod, pressing your lips together into a straight line, “besides, it was fun watching you act all cute and clueless.”

“Don’t call me cute and clueless–”

“That’s what you were, though! Like the time when you got super drunk on your birthday and begged me not to leave–”

“I didn’t even like you back then!”

“Sure you didn’t.”

“I was in denial,” he furrows his brows theatrically, putting the empty glass bottle to the grass, “but I see that you had a lot of fun watching me suffer.”

“Fine, pretty boy,” you say, catching a glimpse of the boy momentarily shying away, presumably at the endearing nickname, his cheeks tinting pink even in the faint moonlight. “Would it make you feel better if I confessed first this time?”

“Huh?” the boy asks, lips parted, eyes a big, honest pool of honey.

Cute and clueless, you think.

The story comes full circle when you realize that this football field is perhaps what started it all. This is where you ran up to the new addition to the team, saying that your favorite number was on the back of his jersey. As the leader of the cheerleading team, you took it as your job to make every newbie feel welcomed– no matter if they were a fellow cheerleader or a football player. You didn’t expect for the boy to never stop wearing the number– although it was your favorite, it didn’t seem to be so important back then. (One day, you learned that Sunwoo kept the number on his jersey even after moving abroad. You read it in one of the sports magazines you foolishly flipped through in every kiosk you encountered and almost teared up in the busy store after.) 

This field is where you watched him play football every week. It’s where you both practiced, sending each other funny faces after the coach was mean to either of you for not being focused on your training. 

This is where Sunwoo found his passion– where he found his dream. This is the place that shifted the next couple of years of your life towards all sorts of directions. This is where he kissed you after winning a match, a gleeful confession slipping past his lips. This is where your relationship started, and metaphorically, also ended. The field that kept you apart is now a thousand miles away, but the one that brought you together is now right in front of you.

You guess it’s only right to use it for new beginnings.

“I think… I think I’m still in love with you, Sunwoo,” you start slowly, playing with your fingers in your lap, “well, I don’t know if my feelings for you ever ended… they could’ve, I mean, we were apart for so long… I just… all I know is that I don’t want us to be apart anymore, and I–”

Your words die on your tongue when the boy cuts you off with a kiss, the taste of apple cider mixing on your lips. The way he kisses you didn’t really change even after so many years, still swaying you with the familiarity of his loving. Still, even though you know the way he angles your jaw, the way he presses against you, the way he takes his sweet time, truly showing you how much he enjoys the act, you never grow tired of it. Something in you reacts the same way as when you were young. There’s still excitement, there’s still tender softness in your heart every time you kiss him.

His lips break apart from yours, a playful tint in his words when he speaks to you again. “Don’t try to take credit for it now,” he says, “because the last time I checked, we never really broke up in the first place, so you could say we were dating all along, all because I confessed back in–”

“God, you’re unbelievable,” you grunt.

“But you love me,” the boy says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Maybe it is.

“Always have,” you say, pressing a quick peck to his plush lips, “always will.”

The starlight glazes your cheekbones when you rest your forehead against his, as if to send him a telepathic message that is worth more than a thousand words. It’s hard to find the words to explain the mixture of your emotions right now, but when your memory washes up the encouraging monologue Sunwoo offered to you when you first arrived, you finally agree with his sentiment. Perhaps, one word could summarize it all– you feel truly content. 

“Come on, we deserve a little pizza for dinner!” your roommate, Izzy, shakes your arm as she clings to you on the sofa the way she always does when she wants you to do something. And although your dear flatmate isn’t usually the one to order in, much preferring to cook meals at home and save the leftovers for another day, you wouldn’t find her desperation for pizza as strange, if it wasn’t for the batting of her eyelashes and her pleading voice.

Surely, she doesn’t need the pizza that much, right?

“I’m not saying we don’t, I’m just saying I have leftover soup from yesterday that I have to eat tonight or else it’s gonna go bad,” you justify your protests, “but you can get one, if you want. I’m not stopping you,” you say, furrowing your eyebrows at the girl in confusion before reaching for the TV remote.

“Oh come oooon, Y/N,” she pressures, pouting at you in disappointment. More weight is put into your body as she clings to you, acting like a child throwing a tantrum. “You deserve to have delicious pizza for dinner today, because you finally bagged that internship! Isn’t that a reason to celebrate?”

“We can just pop the champagne, if you wanna celebrate–”

“Y/N, can we please just get the pizza tonight?” she turns serious for once, the smile disappearing off her face, replaced by a much more stoic expression. And see, that’s a little scary– desperation can make people do bad, bad things. You’d be a fool to turn down your flatmate’s request– you’d have to sleep with one eye open tonight…

“Okay, fine,” you grunt, shaking your head at her ridiculous antics, “from the usual place?” 

“NO!” the girl chimes, making you jump in your place on the sofa with the loudness of her voice. If she wants to scream, she should move further away from your ear, goddamn it. After sending her a look full of anger, she offers you an apologetic one before she reaches for her laptop resting on the coffee table in front of you, opening it and pressing in a new Google search. “There’s this place I found with Yizhuo after class one day,” she says, scrolling through the browser and finding the site of the place she wants to order from today, “and they make pretty good pizza. So just choose one and then I’ll put it through the online order.”

“They have online orders?” you hum, interested. “Twenty-first century, this is. Online shopping for pizza…” you snicker, shaking your head in disbelief. Maybe you’re getting old– and it’s not like you don’t enjoy the comfort this gives you, not at all, you just find it a little strange to order food over the internet. What happened to phone calls?

“Yes, grandma,” Izzy sighs, “that’s like, a normal thing, I fear.”

Rolling your eyes at her irony, you scan the menu before deciding on your usual– margherita, extra cheesy. After pointing your finger at the pizza of your choice, your roommate takes it upon herself to add the meal to her cart (while also adding one she likes as well) before she proceeds further with the order. Your eyes stay glued to her, interested in the way this whole thing works– because let’s be real, ordering a pizza without having social interaction is every introvert’s dream– and watch as she hesitantly clicks onto the “add a note to your order” section of the website.

Confusion fills your veins as you stare your roommate down. What more could she possibly need for this order? Does she not just want to eat? Does she need her pizza sliced in a special way, or does she want the pepperoni in the shape of a flower, or something? You really wouldn’t be surprised, with how peculiar Izzy could get sometimes, but still– wasn’t she the one mourning about how hungry she was just a few minutes ago? Surely, she would want her food to get here the fastest it can, with no additional requests that would take up too much time.

“Don’t say anything,” she mumbles as she starts typing, and finally, it all starts to make sense.

The desperation in her voice. The determination. The need to have a pizza tonight, right now. Because after reading out the words she’s written down, you realize that it was never about the pizza itself in the first place. Knowing Izzy, you should’ve known– after the months of sharing an apartment with her, you should’ve been able to predict her antics.

There, proud, black on white, shine five words saying: Send your cutest delivery boy :)

“Izzy what the fuck–”

“I told you not to say anything!” she cuts you off, clicking through the rest of the order hurriedly, as if worried you were going to make her delete her embarrassing request.

“Okay, miss, ‘I don’t chase no man!’, I see that you’re living up to your motto. What? You ate there with Yizhuo last week and saw a cute guy doing deliveries, so you thought you’d drag him to our house instead of asking for his number like a normal person?” you grunt, shaking your head at the lengths your roommate is willing to go to– while also making her own life twice as complicated as it needs to be.

“Well, pretty much, yeah,” she peeps as she closes the laptop after paying for your pizzas– you’re not paying her back, just for the record. Not after she just publicly embarrassed you by making that stupid request with your address attached. 

“Are you crazy?” you scoff. “Why didn’t you just talk to him back there?”

“He was busy!” she mourns. “Look, this is me shooting my shot. You’re getting a pizza out of it, so I don’t see the problem here.”

“The problem is you doing all of this when you could’ve literally just walked up to him last week and introduced yourself,” you say, watching your roommate physically crumble under your scolding, but truthful words.