#midas writes

You take a moment to appreciate it now, as you stop in the middle of the concrete stairs that lead up to your parents’ house. The same house you’d grown up in, where you’d sometimes sit and stare for hours out the window at the rest of the town below you. When you look around you it feels as though nothing has changed despite the years. It’s comforting.

You take a moment to appreciate it now, as you stop in the middle of the concrete stairs that lead up to your parents’ house. The same house you’d grown up in, where you’d sometimes sit and stare for hours out the window at the rest of the town below you. When you look around you it feels as though nothing has changed despite the years. It’s comforting.

You take a moment to appreciate it now, as you stop in the middle of the concrete stairs that lead up to your parents’ house. The same house you’d grown up in, where you’d sometimes sit and stare for hours out the window at the rest of the town below you. When you look around you it feels as though nothing has changed despite the years. It’s comforting.

You hadn’t planned to do much in the holidays other than sit at home and binge read whilst you had the time, so when your mom rang you a few nights ago telling you that it would be nice if you came home for Christmas you’d thought to yourself ‘sure, why not?’. You hadn’t packed much- just light luggage, knowing that most of your belongings would still be at home, untouched.

As for Milo, your neighbour had offered to look after him while you were gone. You’d been so tempted to bring him with you knowing how much your dad would adore him, but your mom was insanely allergic to cats. You still feel guilty, especially when you remember the look on his face when you’d handed him to your neighbour before you left. He was quite offended, to say the least. You sigh, dropping your bag on the porch to ring the doorbell. You’re sure he’ll forgive you if you bring him some treats when you return. (Hopefully)

The scent of freshly baked cookies wafts towards you from the kitchen as you catch up with them. It’s nice to be home.

-

Later that night, after having dinner with your parents (you hadn’t realised just how much you’d missed home cooked meals) and relaxing in front of the tv for a while, you make you way up to your room. Your childhood bedroom, exactly as you’d left it. You’d long grown out of your wannabe-skater girl phase but had left all the posters and band albums up anyway. Your desk was still littered with old books and drawings- albeit it was slightly neater since your mom couldn’t help but clean up just a little whilst you were gone.

Ironically, the room is much larger than the one back in your apartment, which is why it feels so strange every time you take in all the things of your past that are scattered around you. Memoirs from days you treasure, simply objects like an old pair of headphones that you can’t bear to part with. Your polaroids are still strung up on the wall above your bed, some of the best pictures missing as you’d taken them with you when you’d left, just to keep them close. In most of them you are smiling, arms thrown around your best friend as if the moment would never end. He smiles back at you in others, from across the space where your other friends squeeze in for the picture.

You take one of the polaroids from its place, turning it over in your hands. It’s a picture from when both yours and Doyoung’s family had insisted on a joint trip to the beach. You’d stayed at a beach house close to the pier, and you’ll always remember it as one of the bet times of your life. Doyoung had forced you down to the beach every evening and the two of you would sit for hours, laughing as the sun went down until it was just the two of you under stars, the sea your only companion. You smile fondly, looking at the back of the polaroid where you’d scribbled the date in awfully messy handwriting. Both your signatures were signed at the bottom, an infinity sign in between your names.

You go about the rest of the evening settling in, unpacking your clothes and hanging them up in the closet, placing your toothbrush in the bathroom along with your toothpaste. It’s like moving in all over again, except this time, into a place well-engraved in your soul. You know where everything is already, know exactly which doors lead to what room. It’s second nature to fluff the pillows and place one on your right, because you’ve always disliked the cold air that drafts upwards from the small space between your bed and the bedside drawer.

It also feels natural when your eyes flit towards the window when you finally sit down, expecting someone to be in the room directly across yours. When you were younger it had always seemed cool to you that Doyoung’s room was next to yours, only separated by the space between the houses. It meant you could talk to each other for hours after you’d come home from hanging out at the park, sitting in the window and watching out over the town together. It was comforting- to be able to wave over at the room across yours and see him waving back, like routine.

When you do so now, you expect nothing but the drawn curtains and darkness that indicate no one is there. A part of you is slightly disappointed, but really, what could you expect? Doyoung no longer lives at home. Just like you, he’d moved out a long time ago in order to pursue his career. You sigh to yourself before turning around to switch on the fairy lights above your head. They flicker dimly in exhaustion as if they don’t really know how to function after being left alone for so long. As you toss and turn to get comfortable on your weak mattress, you make a mental note to visit the Kims when you get a chance.

-

The rest of your first week at home goes by in blur of preparing for Christmas and visiting old friends and neighbours. On one of the days your dad had insisted on taking you along with him to choose a Christmas tree- which ended up being too big for the room and bending slightly at the top where the tree meets the ceiling. Your mom hadn’t been pleased, but your dad refused to take it back. ‘It adds a little quirk!’ was his choice of reasoning. Your mom had also roped you into helping her try out new cookie recipes, and who were you to resist being her certified taste tester? All too soon, you’d settled back into your old life, one filled with homecooked meals every evening and a warmth that you’d never find elsewhere.

It's one of these nights that you notice something odd. The day had been nothing short of hectic, with your aunty and uncle arriving to spend Christmas as a last minute addition and spending the day with them around town. By the time you’d gone up to your room for the night you wanted nothing more than to flop down on your bed and drift off. Your mattress, though it still made your back ache, had never looked so inviting. The moonlight was slightly too bright to sleep with, so you shuffle over to the window to draw the curtains shut. As you do, your eyes catch movement from outside. It appears that the room across your window is no longer empty. A soft, yellowy glow peeks out from between the curtains, encasing it in light as a figure moves about behind it. You’re quick to stomp out the hope that rises inside you like candlelight, yanking the curtains shut and moving away. It’s probably just his mother, you tell yourself. Even so, you spend the rest of the evening stealing glances over at the window where the room continues to stay dimly lit, you heart thudding a little harder than usual.

-

‘Oh, hand me those, I’ll set the table.’

You called to your aunty, who smiled gratefully and passing the plates to you before making her way into the kitchen to help your mom with the dinner.

You hadn’t expected Christmas day to roll around so quickly but here you were now, getting ready for dinner. Decorations littered the room- courtesy of your dad who’d decided to go all out with the tinsel this year. The entire room was encased in Christmas spirit, soft white glows from the fairy lights that hung from the ceiling spilling over the furniture and into the kitchen, where your uncle cracked jokes about your aunties’ misshapen cookie decorations. Despite the comfort you’d already been feeling since being back home, you felt at ease now, surrounded by the earthly smell of mistletoe and pine, fire crackling in the fireplace behind you.

With the table set, you turn to the kitchen to start bringing out the food when the doorbell sounds from down the hallway. Before you can move to go answer, your mom pokes her head out from the kitchen.

‘Ah I forgot to tell you y/n, I invited the Kims over too. That must be them now.’ Your confusion ebbs away as she speaks before being displaced with an eagerness. You hadn’t seen your neighbours in quite some time, with them being away the week you arrived. You’d been meaning to pay them a visit, but the thought had slipped your mind once your aunty and uncle had arrived.

‘Y/n, the door!’ Oh, right. The doorbell rings again as you rush to answer it, smoothing down your hair and wiping your palms on your sweater as you do. You’re oddly nervous to see Doyoung’s parents again after so long, you realise with a start as your hand turns the knob. The door swings open quite harshly when you do, and for a moment you’re met with nothing but icy wind that you wish you’d been better prepared for.

‘Mr and Mrs Kim! It’s so great to see you, come on in!’ Is what you begin to say, but when your vision clears and your eyes fall upon a lone figure, the words die in your mouth. It feels as though someone has just pulled the rug from beneath your feet, leaving you falling to the ground dumbfounded. Suddenly, everything around you seems to dissipate, fizzling into white noise. Your mouth feels sticky, as if your brain is trying to function but it’s lost control of your limbs.

‘Hi, y/n,’ says Doyoung, cheeks pink from the frost and dark hair tousled from the wind that flickers between the two of you as you stand there, silent in front of him.

‘Merry Christmas.’

You give him no response, to which he smiles sort of awkwardly and scratches his head. Something wet pricks the corners of your eyes and it takes a moment to realise that they're tears. You hurry to wipe them away with your sleeve and force yourself to get it together. The start of a mumbled sentence tumbles out of your mouth before you’re cut off by your mom coming up from down the hallway. She nudges you slightly to the side, enthusiastically greeting Doyoung and his parents, who seem to have made their way up the front path sometime after you’d opened the door. Doyoung’s mom sweeps you in for a hug and you’re momentarily consumed by the scent of her perfume, flowery and as familiar to you as the lines of your own palm. You’re grateful for the chaos that arises as your mother ushers the everyone into the dining room to greet the rest of your family, although you can’t help the lump that forms in your throat when you hear your dad heartily welcome Doyoung back.

Dinner goes by in a blur of festivities and laughter, with the success of your mom’s Christmas cooking raising everyone’s spirits. Your parents are eager to catch up with the lives of your neighbours, who animatedly describe all sorts of excited stories from the two week trip to Jeju island that they’d just returned from. Mrs Kim turns to you every so often, asking you about life in the city. Chatting with her feels easy, her soothing voice easing you into steady conversation. You find yourself wanting to babble on about everything you’ve learnt whilst living in Seoul, feeling comfortable in your little zone with her.

As you eat, consumed by the lively atmosphere and the heat of candlelit décor, you can’t help but feel a little uneasy. When your dad launches into a story about a fishing trip gone wrong that has the whole table erupting in bouts of laughter, you barely catch a word he says. Instead, your eyes flit back and forth to the person sitting across from you. Doyoung, looking as though he never left, settles back in his seat as he catches your dad’s warm smile. He smiles back of course, and your stomach does a flip at the sight. That same bunny toothed smile that you’d grown up seeing, one that you hadn’t seen in years.

He makes conversation with your uncle, and you analyse him like he's a stranger you’ve never met before. From the jet black colour of his natural hair to the pale blue sweater that lifts slightly every time he shifts, making you turn away with a faint blush. On the surface he’s still every bit the boy you knew, so why do you feel so uneasy? Your eyes perk up when your mom asks him about his career, and you try to appear indifferent as he recounts the story of his audition, and where he is now. You feel a strange sense of pride when he mentions the upcoming album his band will be releasing, but your smile fades when he catches your eye.

It's like the universe wants to mock you, because your mom notices the exchange and points out how heart-warming it is to see the two of you together in one room after so long. Doyoung- ever the charmer, smiles warmly at her before praising her cooking. As she gushes over his politeness and how much she’s missed having him around he glances back at you. You pretend not to notice, instead taking big gulps of water to ease the pit forming at the bottom of your stomach. In doing so, you fail to notice the way hurt flashes across his face.

-

Once everybody has had too much to eat and begin to help clear the table, you decide you could use some fresh air. After weaselling your way out of doing the dishes- your aunty ushers you out of the kitchen upon seeing the redness of your cheeks – you wrap a thick scarf around your neck and make your way out onto the porch.

Outside the moon has risen high, yet it’s light is only one of many. From where your house is perched on the hill you can see out across the entire town, where Christmas lights glitter and shine in almost every house, illuminating the streets all the way down to the river. Thick snow covers the town in a crystalline blanket- undisturbed and so, so breath taking. Despite the frost that is slowly seeping through your sweater and settling into your bones, you feel as though you could fall asleep here, sat on the creaky old swing on your porch and gazing over the town as festivities carry on through the night.

After a moment, your attention is caught by the sound of giggling. You turn your head to see children rushing out of a house a few doors down, eager to play in the fresh snow before anyone else. You watch as the two little kids hurry back to the front door where their mother stands, swaddling them in thick coats and hats before once again running off to scoop up snow in their gloved hands. Seeing them wrapped up all snug reminds you of your own outdoor clothing- or lack thereof. As you begin to get up to reluctantly make your way inside, you feel something cover your back. When you look up, Doyoung is adjusting a jacket to cloak your shoulders before settling down on the swing next to you.

‘You seemed cold. I figured you’d need to wrap up if you were going to stay out longer.’ He says, scratching his head as he looks away. You note that he seems to be avoiding your gaze, the same way you’d been doing at dinner.

‘Thank you, Doyoung.’ You say warmly, and it’s when he looks to you with slightly wide eyes that you realise it’s the first thing you’ve said to him all evening. The realisation has you chewing at your lip as you turn, once again looking over the town. Why were you making this awkward? After all, you had been the one to miss him all these years so why now, when he’s finally next to you, are you clamming up? Before you can spiral off into your own cloud of thought, you hear Doyoung clear his throat. His lips move as if to speak, but he says nothing. You watch as he hesitates and taking pity on him, decide to break the silence.

‘My mom really enjoyed having you guys over.’ You smile as you recall her excitement at dinner earlier. ‘She’s been going on about wanting to do Christmas together ‘like we used to’ ever since I arrived.’ Doyoung laughs softly in surprise, and you can feel his gaze on you as he does. The heat of it makes you tingle, spreading over your face and warming you up more than the jacket on your shoulders. ‘I’ve missed her cooking, if I’m being honest. Store bought ramen four days a week just isn’t the same as home cooked meals.’

The mention of ramen reminds you of his life as an idol, and you bite back the questions that flood your mind. You want so desperately to ask him everything you’d been thinking since he left, but you can hear the hesitation in his voice as he speaks; and it’s enough to make you stand still. The two of you are tip toeing around the words you really want to say. And even though it’s slightly uncomfortable, you’ve never been good at handling these situations and you’re all too aware of how close you are sat on this swing, you don’t want to run away. Not when you’ve finally been given a chance to patch up the confused hole in your heart.

‘It’s…. it’s nice having you back.’ You say, mustering all your courage to look him in the eye as you do. And you mean it, even though you’ve been acting like it isn’t. Seeing him again after all this time and having dinner with him and his family just like you did many times as a child, it’s nice.

A soft blush rises on his cheeks at your words, so faint you could hardly see it if you weren’t now gazing at him so intently. Your eyes flit over his face as he coughs into the back of hand before replying.

‘It’s nice being back,’ he pauses, weighing his next words carefully.

‘I’ve missed you. Deeply.’

The sincerity in his voice catches you off guard. In all your time after he left, you’d never considered that he might feel the same way about the way you fell apart. At your silence, Doyoung finally raises his eyes to meet your own. And as you watch him, watch the way the Christmas lights reflect like stars in his gaze that ignites you with a sentimental warmth you’ll never find in anyone else, you decide that the rest of your questions can wait.

‘I’ve missed you too, doie’ His ears perk up at the sound of his nickname, and all hesitation seeps out of him like snow under a morning sun. For the first time that night, you feel whole. He reaches up to adjust the jacket on you once again and when he’s done, his hand settles on the small of your back instead of pulling away.

It wasn’t that you knew where it was, not by sight anyway, but you still remembered the steps. You let your memory guide you throughout the woods, half surprised they hadn’t been burnt down by now. As quickly as you could without Iran losing you or with your crutches giving out on you, you tried to make your way.

It had to be near here somewhere.

—

The eighth of October, nineteen-eighty, is when your relations with him improve again. You hadn’t wanted them to thaw in the first place, but you could not control all your government decided or saw as right—you just listened to them. You just didn’t think it made sense to distance yourself from that important of an ally.

It was not like you could find allies in your fellow Arab nations, really, either. Reaching out to foreigners was your best call here. What was the point of aligning yourself with your kind if they only brought your people strife? Playing a puppet again? Stupid thought.

Moscow is where you are requested (and requested is a light word, but you were never one to disobey your actual leaders) to accompany your leaders to, to finalise this treaty. The Union will be there, too, they said, try to be pleasant.

He is holding something, some small box, when you spot him as you enter and wave at him. He does not wave back, but he offers you a glance and places the box on the table.

The meeting is all you could expect of it: talking over points, laying out details, writing down things. Nothing in particular stands out in it, until you are dismissed at least.

“Could I have a moment of your time?” he asks when the time comes, and you agree with a healthy amount of wariness. You’d taken a liking to the man in the past forty years of cooperation, but you couldn’t help but be skeptical of your allies nonetheless—especially one as young and ambitious as Soviet is.

He gives you the box the moment the room is emptied, tells you to open it. You do. A present, then? Strange, but you weren’t going to just turn him down.

In it sits an eyepatch. Black cloth with a single, green star atop it. It matches with Soviet’s, and one of those kids’ he had separated from the other.

“Huh,” is your response, but you couldn’t force the smile that rose back down, “Thank you.”

Later, he helps you with getting the bandages you usually use as eye covering off and cleaning out the wound slash gaping hole slash empty socket that once held your eye, then assists with actually getting the patch on.

It looks nice, you think. He gives you a thumbs-up when you ask him; it looks a bit comical with how stoic he still looks as he responds

—

You could hear Iran tapping the shovel against the exposed roots of a tree behind you as you tried your damnedest to remember what direction you were meant to go in to arrive there. It would have been incredibly awkward to claim you knew exactly where this thing was and then get lost.

Eventually, you decide that heading north is the most correct option. You continue in the same direction you were going already.

—

Soviet has a lot more connections than you do, you quickly realise the longer you are affiliated with him. It is most apparent when you are invited to an event that was apparently reserved for the Second World.

You are pretty sure you have seen at least one nation from every single continent, barring Antarctica, and yet you are somehow his only pair of eyes and ears in the Middle East.

Notably, you feel disconnected from the rest present. You suppose that is your own fault for distancing yourself from most of your kin. Eh, not like they would accept you right now, not most of them.

The only people you know here are Soviet himself and the few that had made independent efforts to become acquintances with you (though, the latter was mostly just Korea).

In the evening, you are invited to a walk with Soviet, and you gladly accept. After all, it would be rude not to when he was hosting all of you for this time, would it not?

It is a cold, late-autumn day. Nearing winter. There are small, thin sheets of snow where you walk. You don’t get to see that very often.

He says that he expected you to fare worse under such vastly different conditions. He speaks in Arabic, or his accented, mispronounced-here-and-there version of it.

You respond to him in Russian, your own knowledge of his language equally challenged as his of yours, that your home doesn’t have insulation; it’s easy to deal with it when you have to spend your winters like that back home

The conversations continue from there, drifting from topic to topic, with each of you speaking one another’s language and offering corrections when especially egregious mistakes are made.

You arrive back in your country a day or two later, and are glad to be closer allies—friends, you dare say—with him.

You should’ve probably asked him why he knew Arabic, but with the way he was, he probably would’ve only asked you why you knew Russian.

—

“And you’re sure that you know where it’s buried?” Iran asked as he helped you get back up from where you had collapsed.

You did not speak Farsi, and he did not speak Arabic. It was almost ironic for Russian to be one of the languages you had in common.

“Yes, I am. Shut up," you responded. You were close, you could tell. How, you didn’t know, but you knew you were getting closer.

—

It’s eerily quiet. No one wants to be the first to speak here. Nineteen-ninety-two, January second, is when Soviet’s funeral takes place. You doubt that his body is actually inside the casket. Does he even have a corpse?

The thought isn’t one you want to have here, amidst the crowd. Citizens, human ones, and nations like you alike are present. Some look more upset than others do, some look like the only reason they aren’t openly celebrating is because they’re in public.

You whisper a prayer to him under your breath. Soviet didn’t believe in a God, but you did, do. You get a side-eye from the person to your left, someone you do not recognise and could care less for. They are bearing a flag you don’t recognise off the top of your head, so they are unimportant to you.

You stay longer than strictly necessary, unsure of when these customs—unlike yours—ended officially. The funeral only lasts a day, hardly that, even. It is odd to you, especially for someone so important.

When you come back home, it’s like a wall of emotion you didn’t even know existed came crumbling down on you. So that was the last of your friend, huh?

A few days later, you discard of the eyepatch and instead leave it to detoriarate over time in a desk drawer you would not look at if you got the chance to. You return to bandages to cover that half of your face, only with a crudely drawn star atop them this time around. It’s silly, but commemorative enough for you.

—

Iran shouted at you to duck a second later than he should’ve, and you end up whacking your head against a particularly low-hanging branch of a tree. You really should’ve brought your walking stick with you, instead of depending on blind (hah.) muscle memory.

You offered him—his general vicinity—a glare that was entirely useless considering your blindfold. You hoped he got the memo anyway.

—

You can see the writing on the wall, you are not stupid. You are not unaware of your people’s turmoil. I t acts like a parasite, how could you be?

A combined anguish, an anger and a sense of mourning you hope is displaced, all of it boils under your skin, bubbling and popping and threatening to escape any moment, to come to a point where your people could not keep a lid on their ideas and follow in their neighbours’ footsteps.

It is inevitable. You are not unaware. They believe you are, but the crows had started circling long ago and you have kept a silence about you when it came to it.

Your allies are closer to you now. This does not matter in the present. Iraq and Iran and Palestine will not save you from a fate of near-death and sickness and collapse, they will not just like Russia and Venezuela and Korea will not.

You wished you had more time, at least, to prepare.

You dig in your pocket for the worn eyepatch, extracted from the drawer hours ago, when you had began your departure for this forest. So far from your home, it had to be safe, didn’t it? You hope it stays in-tact as you stuff it into as secure a container as you could find on short notice.

It is just over midnight, the moon shines on you like she knows of all your misdeeds and your sins and how you have mistreated your people in favour of an unjust ruler. You deny the notion vehemently, peer up at her with defiance unlike that you can muster around the people you hate.

You dig your shovel into the earth, drive it in again and again and again like you are burying a body you came across and not one of your stupidest, most sentimental possessions that you have not touched in since nineteen-ninety-two. It is the late two-thousands now.

Dirt stains the inside of your nails and your palms and your trousers as you kneel down on the bare earth, depositing the triply-checked secure box into it. You heave in air as you force yourself back to your feet rather than collapsing here, or in the grave.

You pour the dirt back over it, praying for a thousand different protections over it as you smooth down the mound that forms. You do your best to make it look like untouched ground.

You will not be safe from the violence that is coming, the unrest, but it will be, and for tonight, you think that is enough. Just for tonight, that is enough, you think as you begin the long trek to your own house.

—

The only good thing about being unable to see was the fact that you could get Iran to do this one thing for you, you thought, listening to the crunch of metal being shoved harder than was needed between dirt.

After a handful of minutes of waiting around, circling around the same tree six times, he announced that he had found something as a sound distinctly unlike dirt was heard from where he had dug it in.

You made haste to get over to where he was standing, crouching beside him to feel into the cavity now present there. You had forgotten just how deep you had buried this thing, but that mattered little as your fingers found purchase on the container—edge of it, anyway—and latched on.

You dug it out with your bare hands now, Iran standing off to the side and watching. You thought your hands were shakier than normal, but whether that was a result of finally getting this thing back, or exertion that wasn’t exactly healthy for you to commit to in this state, or something else, was entirely unknown to you.

You opened it without thinking much for it, getting it into your hands at least. It had been so long since you had gotten your hands on it. Iran piped up with a “Didn’t think it was real,” somewhere behind you.

You traced your thumb over where the star was embroidered, the one that wasn’t scarred enough that you would’ve hardly made out the bumps from them. One of the threads was loose. You felt over the string. Also worn.

Huh. That was a bad feeling. You’d let it get too ruined, one of the few gifts you actually cared for getting (and one of the few, in general, that you had even gotten). How time flies, or something. It made you upset, why did it mae you upset?

Iran placed a hand over yours before you could too in your head about it. “You sure that thing’s even wearable?” he questioned, the sorry state of it probably even more evident to him than to you. He didn’t sound genuine in his asking, so you didn’t bother with responding.

A beat of silence passed before he shifted to put an arm under yours, hoisting you up suddenly and getting you to nearly drop the patch in your surprise.

“Come on, we’re going home," was all Iran said to you, helping you in getting your crutches from where you had discarded of them in favour of digging like a dog. You didn’t respond, only nodding with your lips pressed into a thin line as you pocketed the eyepatch.

You followed him this time around, he seemed to remember the way back. Your mind conjured up the image of Soviet’s ghost watching over the two of you, like some guardian demon. You mentioned it to Iran and earned a laugh from him. That improved your mood slightly.

Like now, for instance- as you stand at the corner of a bustling street somewhere in the depths of Seoul, waiting as a kind-faced street vendor to prepares your tteokbokki. Around you, the world spares no time for anyone. People brush past as they go about their afternoons, hoping to get home before the first snow fall of the year. It’s only the beginning of December, yet the weather forecasts predict light snow in the city any day now.

Like now, for instance- as you stand at the corner of a bustling street somewhere in the depths of Seoul, waiting as a kind-faced street vendor to prepares your tteokbokki. Around you, the world spares no time for anyone. People brush past as they go about their afternoons, hoping to get home before the first snow fall of the year. It’s only the beginning of December, yet the weather forecasts predict light snow in the city any day now.

Like now, for instance- as you stand at the corner of a bustling street somewhere in the depths of Seoul, waiting as a kind-faced street vendor to prepares your tteokbokki. Around you, the world spares no time for anyone. People brush past as they go about their afternoons, hoping to get home before the first snow fall of the year. It’s only the beginning of December, yet the weather forecasts predict light snow in the city any day now.

If anyone was excited for it, it was you.

Standing where you are, with the inviting smell of food wafting towards you as you watch couples interlocking hands and children tug their coats on a little tighter, you’re reminded of what winter was like as a little girl in your hometown. Sitting cross legged by the fireplace with a mug of warm milk and gazing out of the window, where white begins to dust the fence in your yard. You always loved the snow, especially when you had your best friend with you to play in it.

-

‘Y/n, get away from the window and drink your milk please’.

Your mom looks at you in exasperation as you turn to her with pleading eyes. You’d been told countless times to sit down, but her words hardly registered in your mind.

‘Mom please PLEASE, just five minutes? I want to play now before the snow goes away!’.

‘That’s not how snow works, dummy. Sit down, you’re splashing milk on my sweater.’

‘I do too.’ God, you think to yourself, does he always have to be so snooty?

‘Fine. Wanna have a competition?’

‘Sure, why not? It’s not like you’re going to win’.

Doyoung lifts his empty mug in the air as if to show off, rushing to place it in the sink. When your mom ruffles his hair in praise and turns back to the oven, he sticks his tongue out at you. Then, to go the extra mile, he wiggles his fingers on his nose. You’re positively fuming, determined to wipe the smugness off his face.

Which is how you end up in your back garden only ten minutes later, wrapped up warm in your padded coats and woolly scarves. The two of you don matching hats, pink and orange with bear ears that Doyoung’s mom had bought last Christmas. You stand across him in the middle of the yard where the snow has piled up most, as if you’re about to win a fight (which in your eyes, you technically are).

Doyoung’s eyes glint, a cheeky smile spreading across his face that has you scrunching your nose. He may be your best friend, the nerdy boy next door who’s attached to your hip, but right now he’s your enemy; and you’re about to take him down with your epic sculpting skills.

‘Ready, set, GO!!’

Only thirty minutes has passed when the two of you collapse on the ground, out of breath as if you’d just run a marathon instead of building snowmen. The snow has almost slowed to a stop by now, and what’s left of it in your garden has turned brown and muddy from your footprints that litter the ground. Your nose is red and your ears are positively frozen, but none of that matters. Besides you Doyoung sniffles and then huffs as you use his shoulder to push yourself up.

‘I think.. I think we should call it a draw’ You chew your lip as you look between the two snowmen or rather, Doyoung’s snowman and your sad excuse of a pile of snow. Perhaps you’d overestimated yourself. Your comment makes Doyoung shoot up from where he’d been becoming one with the ground next to you, moving forward to shove his finger in your face in protest.

‘Nuh uh! I clearly won. Yours isn’t even standing up. Look, the nose is falling already!’ You can’t help but stare in defeat as the carrot you’d snatched from the kitchen slides slowly down the side of your snowman’s face before plopping to the ground. It’s really quite a sorry sight. In your defence, it honestly wasn’t a fair game. Doyoung’s snow had to have been different to yours, since yours kept melting in your hands.

As you try to think of another excuse of how you should definitely just call it a draw so you won’t have to admit you sucked, you hear a menacing giggle from behind you. A beat too late, you turn around just as Doyoung launches a tiny, dirt filled snowball right at your nose. For a moment you can only huff in disbelief, feeling whatever warmth was left in your face disappear from your body. Across you, Doyoung presses a hand to his mouth to suppress his laughter only to fail and flop to the ground in giggles. He thinks he’s won, of course. You wipe the snow off your face and flash him the evilest grin you can muster.

‘Oh it is SO on.’

-

You chuckle softly to yourself as you recall the remainder of that day. After another hour of screaming and chasing each other around the yard the two of you had ended up huddled around the fireplace trying not to look as though you’d succumbed to the cold. You still remember quite fondly, how the very next day neither of you could get out of bed. It’s safe to say your mom was VERY annoyed- yet not at all surprised. Your thoughts linger on Doyoung for a moment longer, but you’re shaken out of your reverie by a sweet voice.

‘Here’s your tteokbeokki dear, eat well!’ You smile warmly at the old lady, gratefully accepting the white polystyrene box and moving to the side. You consider finding a bench somewhere to eat but when you look around and find the streets getting busier by the second, decide to head on home instead.

By the time you reach you apartment the weather has turned so frosty that if you look down at your feet and realis some of your toes had gone missing, you’re positive you’d hardly feel a difference. Still, the bitter coldness of the outside air only makes the warmth of your home more inviting. Flicking the lights on as you come inside, you're thankful for turning the heating on before leaving earlier. The heat of the apartment wraps you in an embrace, tugging you away from the frost. Soft orange hues spill out over your front room, cozy and inviting in contrast to outside.

You’re just placing the now-cold tteokbeokki into a bowl to heat up when your cat makes himself known in your presence, sneaking up from behind you to curl around your ankles.

‘Milo, you wanna share with me?’ You say teasingly, looking down at the black mop of fur nestled between your feet. He stares up at you with a look that can only be translated to ‘you think I won’t snatch the bowl out of your hands? Try me’. Despite this he moves out of your way when you shift to take your meal into the living room.

It’s evenings like this that you like the most. Calm ones, when you have a sliver of time to yourself; to sit on the couch in front of the tv, relaxing as you eat or watch the city view from your window. It’s even better in the winter because the apartment is toasty, and you have the luxury of watching snow fall outside whilst you snuggle up with a blanket and occasionally Milo in your lap- he’s not much of a cuddler. There’s beauty you think, in being able to sit back and exist purely as an observer, appreciating everything in the comfort of your own zone.

The silence is what you crave- so why does it feel like something is missing?

You heave a deep sigh as you shovel the rest of your food into your mouth, not bothering to acknowledge the way Milo stares at you in disgust.

Although it’s hard to admit aloud, you can’t deny that you’re quite lonely. You screw your eyes shut at the thought, feeling a tinge of sadness in your chest. Moving away from your hometown to the city to study hadn’t been easy, especially for someone as easily emotionally attached as you. But you’d like to think you’ve done well for yourself; you’ve started to go out more with the people you’ve met in the time you’ve spent here and have grown close to a handful of people who you’ve made valuable memories with. You may have a decent social life and enough things in the city to entice you but still, there’s a hole in your heart that yearns to be filled. One that perhaps only a certain person could fill, but you shake away the thought of that now.

Doyoung may have been your best friend back home, but life and time had drifted you apart. Fate had separate paths for two of you, because while you decided to continue to university after school, Doyoung decided to chase his own dreams- and his dreams were worlds apart from yours. Maybe it still hurt that your friendship hadn’t been strong enough to keep you together despite your different ambitions, but you can only hope the best for him, wherever he may be now. It's past time for you to move on.

He’s well on his way to his sixth bottle of soju, and Jaehyun’s pretty sure the bartender serving him thinks he’s homeless. Either that, or he looks a lot more like a loser than he already feels. Which is great, really- the pitiful stares coming his way are exactly what he needs right now.

He’s well on his way to his sixth bottle of soju, and Jaehyun’s pretty sure the bartender serving him thinks he’s homeless. Either that, or he looks a lot more like a loser than he already feels. Which is great, really- the pitiful stares coming his way are exactly what he needs right now.

He’s well on his way to his sixth bottle of soju, and Jaehyun’s pretty sure the bartender serving him thinks he’s homeless. Either that, or he looks a lot more like a loser than he already feels. Which is great, really- the pitiful stares coming his way are exactly what he needs right now.

On his way here, the wind had been frosty enough to leave the tips of his fingers blue, short puffy clouds escaping his mouth in rings as he hurried into the cozy bar. When he looks out the window now though, Jaehyun’s met with his own rosy cheeked reflection in the steamed up glass, the sky outside pitchy and visibly less frigid.

He snorts when he notices the redness of his ears, pulling his beanie down a little further as if hiding them will make him look less strung out.

It isn’t like him to drink so early in the evening, especially not alone. And on the nights he does feel like being embarrassingly drunk, there’s usually a six foot lightweight who accompanies him. But Johnny isn’t here tonight- no, the older male will be with the other members, enjoying his weekend off like Jaehyun knows he should be doing.

He should be wrestling Yuta for the better seat on the couch for movie night, or beating Mark’s ass in cod- but tonight he’s in no mood to do any of that. The tender ache of alcohol-stained air seeks him out and claim his mind for the evening, leaving no room for others to occupy him.

Jaehyun’s given up trying to explain the way he feels when he gets like this. To put it simply, every now and then an ugly feeling begins to take root in his mind. It takes the shape of a monster, wretched and unforgiving and clamps two slimy hands over Jaehyun’s logical side, forcing him into a corner. If he lets it (which he usually does), the monster snuffs out the self esteem he’s been working so carefully to build up, and uproots it whole.

And when it’s done destroying him from the inside out, all Jaehyun’s left with is a never ending cycle of pity- and the urge to be utterly and wholly alone.

He doesn’t know when this monster first appeared, or why it keeps returning so insistently despite his best efforts to mangle it down and out his system. And since there doesn’t seem to be a way to stop it, Jaehyun throws back a shot and calls for another bottle, ignoring the way the bartender’s eyebrows pull together in concern.

He has no obligation to be responsible today, he tells himself. The mock consolation washes over him as he tunes into his surroundings like radio, static fizzling out his ears.

Behind him, a couple chatter away, adding to the lustre in the air around them with hearty laughter. As bile starts to rise in his throat, he stares down into the chipped oak counter in the hopes that the hyper-fixation will numb his mind.

It’s ridiculous, really. The need people feel to thrust their balanced relationships in his face, unknowingly forcing him to see the cracks in his own. At one point he stopped blaming others for the way he fails time and time again to keep the people around him satisfied, but the gaping realisation of his own destructive nature isn’t one he finds easy to accept.

Another shot. The bartender murmurs something to his colleague. Jaehyun thinks they’re going to kick him out soon.

Now that he thinks about it, it might’ve been easier to stay at home, away from the eyes of nosy strangers. Locked away in his shared room, since Johnny won’t be home to mind if the air reeks of alcohol, or bottles start to clutter up the floor. It might’ve been easier- but Jaehyun knows it wouldn’t be. Not when he’d be surrounded by his members, all probing him to tell us what’s wrong, Jaehyun-ah. we just want to help.

Jaehyun isn’t childish. Irresponsible maybe, but he knows it’s wrong to push people away when they only want what’s best for him- and that’s exactly it. The last thing he needs right now is to feel cared for. Appreciated, as if he matters. He can’t possibly accept that sort of attention- not when his lungs burn with the desperate need to be better.

These days Jaehyun isn’t sure whether he needs solidarity or a slap across the face, and the uncertainty is crushing his bones like a weight too intangible to be released.

So instead, he’ll keep convincing himself that he deserves to be here like this. Wasting away in the corner of a bar, somewhere tucked into a corner of the city where everything and everyone ignores him. A place where in essence, he is nothing more than the brittle leaves under pedestrians footsteps, and is free to drink til he can’t remember his own name.

Under this garish yellow bulb light, he doesn’t have to pretend to be what everyone expects him to be- emotionally grown, with the full mental capacity to deal with his problems like a regular adult. That’s not who he is- or who he’ll ever be. When you take that adult from the picture, and replace it with a rusty spring, too tightly coiled and shaking at all its tension points- that’s what Jaehyun is, he thinks.

As he wallows, the familiar white light of his phone flashes from where it lies slammed down on the counter, the glare illuminating his face. He briefly acknowledges the slew of worried texts from a certain someone before shoving his phone into his pocket, deep into a vastness where it can’t bother him.

Or so he thinks. Not a moment later, a jerky vibration racks his body, the action making him choke on his shot. He wheezes for air, banging a fist against his chest to clear his windpipes and assure the bartender that he isn’t finally kicking the bucket, when a warm palm brushes against the frame of his back. It pats once, twice, and continue to rub in soothing circles as a figure takes the rickety seat next to his.

‘It’s rude to ignore someone right in front of them y’know.’ Comes a voice, lightly teasing and laced with apprehension. Jaehyun looks up to find two wary eyes gazing down at him, and swallows down the guilt that suddenly claws at his throat.

‘You didn’t,’ he coughs, ‘You didn’t have to come looking for me. You shouldn’t have.’ he mumbles, breaking the contact by turning his face to the ceiling.

Silently, he hopes the flickering light above him will be enough to blind him temporarily. The look on Taeyong’s face as he does is one he knows too well, and fuck, that just isn’t what he needs to see right now.

‘How could I not? You left without telling me where you were off to, and you’ve been screening all my calls.’ Jaehyun snorts at that, sarcasm dripping from his tone when he fires back, ‘I didn’t realise I needed your permission to go out.’ He brushes off the hurt that flashes evidently across Taeyong’s face at that, emptying his shot glass once more and turning to refill it.

He expects the older male to sigh, maybe roll his eyes and turn away- to leave him to brood. Instead, gentle fingers clasp his wrist and tug them away from the bottle, an insistence in his grip that beg Jaehyun to just wait.

‘Don’t be so harsh Jaehyun-ah.’ There’s a rasp in his voice that hints at lack of sleep. ‘I’m not asking you to treat me like a therapist. All I want is to know if you’re okay. Which you’re not, I can see that.’ The older male sighs. His voice drops to a low murmur that has Jaehyun unconsciously leaning forward to catch.

‘Not being okay doesn’t mean you have to be alone.’

There’s a subtle desperation in Taeyong’s voice that makes his insides churn, although he can’t be sure it’s not the alcohol getting ready to leave his system. The latter means well- Jaehyun knows this. And he knows that deep down, he craves the intimacy that comes with having company like this. He just isn’t sure where to go from here.

So he sits up a little, turns to face Taeyong better and meets his gaze properly for the first time tonight. The pair of eyes across his swim with a medley of deeply troubled emotions as he watches, weighing his thoughts carefully.

Despite the distance between them, Jaehyun is vastly aware of Taeyong’s bated breath- the unsteady rise and fall of his chest as he tunes out the background. When he speaks, his voice is coarse and heavy; a sign that he should push the bottle away where it sits just out of reach of his itching fingertips.

He takes a deep inhale. The rush of air is slightly dizzying.

‘I’m so tired, hyung.’ The words come with a distant taste of soju, souring the tip of his tongue. Taeyong stays quiet, but his gaze holds all the encouragement Jaehyun needs to continue.

‘You know what the worst part is? After all this time, I still don’t know how to get better.’

Admitting it feels like defeat, except the gaping chasm that opens up inside him is almost instantly patched over by the tender hands that reach out to cover his own sweaty palms.

‘Thank you,’ he hears. Looking up, Jaehyun finds that Taeyong is smiling ever so slightly, the corners of his eyes starting to crinkle. Yet there’s no malice, no teasing that he detects in the way the older male squeezes Jaehyun’s hand that’s still grasped gently in his own.

‘Thank you for telling me how you feel.’

And that’s all there is to it. Nothing else comes after, and Jaehyun doesn’t find himself sat through a lecture on how all this could have been avoided had he just been more open sooner. Instead, Taeyong loops an arm around his shoulder and helps him up, holding him steady as he teeters on his feet like a new born deer. He helps pay the tab, and thanks the bartender- who looks like he’s been on the verge of hyperventilating the entire evening- as they leave.

When they stand together under glistening streetlights and the warping rush of midnight air, the silence that fills the space between them is comfortable.

On the drive home, Taeyong calls the others to let them know not to wait up and that they’re on their way. The sentiment in the action is unspoken, but Jaehyun appreciates it all the same. He’s not sure he has the energy to explain himself to everyone tonight- and Taeyong makes sure he doesn’t have to.

He’s like that, Taeyong.

After all these years of knowing each other, the older male seems to be able to read him like the back of his palm. Forever treating Jaehyun as his maknae, Taeyong has a knack for being able to patch him up in a way he can never. He’s never forced into doing anything he doesn’t want to; instead, he’s guided out of his comfort zone one step at a time, a familiar toothy smile reminding him he’s not alone.

Jaehyun knows that he can be a little difficult sometimes, but the knowledge that he will never be abandoned is rooted in his soul. It just takes a while to remember it. Over time he’ll come to be able to deal with things a little more independently, but right now he’ll accept the help he’s being given.

The car ride home is peaceful, and Jaehyun finds himself drifting in and out of consciousness to the sound of a muffled radio station and the steady breathing beside him. The seat of his belt nestles a little awkwardly against his cheek as he tries to settle in. As he does, the weight of Taeyong’s puffy jacket makes itself known across his lap.

He starts to feel a little bad for dozing off like this, knowing Taeyong will have to haul his ass out the car when they arrive, so he rubs his eyes in an attempt to stay up. Except when he looks up he finds the older male laughing softly at his wear expression. A firm hand makes its way to the top of Jaehyun’s head, gently pressing him down until he’s snug against a toned shoulder.

‘Sleep, Jaehyun-ah. It’s okay.’

It’s hard to resist when Taeyong’s tone is raspy and hushed like that. Like his words are a secret, strictly for his ears only. So he gives in, shifting until he’s comfortable, and lets his eyes fall shut under the silvery wisps of moonlight that slip through the window.

when it whistles through the air, it carries the tune of a million love songs, heaven laced among the clouds;

when it whistles through the air, it carries the tune of a million love songs, heaven laced among the clouds;

when it whistles through the air, it carries the tune of a million love songs, heaven laced among the clouds;

and pierces the victim’s heart in a sugary sweet kiss, rose buds blossoming in the very fabric of their skin. it is said that such a light encases them that it tans the surface of their face, and the warmth is ecstasy. a hypnotic addition, leaving them desperate for even another drop of such a sweet and tender embrace.

many people have claimed witness to a different sort of enchantment, however.

and yet it is this very arrow, the one of pain and sorrow that struck her- an unassuming beauty. a deity’s sunken eyes of tar watched from a distance, expecting to see anguish, fear even. and though there was a hindrance, a falter in his movements as he continued to monitor, he was sure; it would only be a matter of seconds before she keeled over and submit herself to fate.

but she did not falter; did she not keel. those brutish waves resisted to seep into her bones and replace the warmth running through her blood with the expected chill. her eyes, glassy as they were, did not fall shut. and though he waited expectantly, he heard no frightened begs for mercy.

but she did not falter; did she not keel. those brutish waves resisted to seep into her bones and replace the warmth running through her blood with the expected chill. her eyes, glassy as they were, did not fall shut. and though he waited expectantly, he heard no frightened begs for mercy.

all beauty is derived from pain, is what the humans tell themselves.

as such, not even cupid could have predicted that an arrow forged of steel and the cries for retribution, could cultivate a love so strong, that the beauty would catch his eyes in the clouds above and her gaze would glitter with the truest of red, the purest of enchantment. her mortal eyes, though blind to the deities as any human should be, found his own and held it firm. he could all but hear the cogs turning in her head, the confusion fading into- what it was, he couldn’t quite place himself.

how could a mere human have him rooted to his spot? why was it that those same sunken eyes, once dull with boredom, felt alive with pure and raw energy, when he was incapable of feeling such intensely?

and yet could feel her heartbeat, a strange connection drawing them closer, a sharp tug from both ends, winding round his arms and binding her soul to his own. those lips, cracked and pale by human affliction, parting to allow the softest gasp, a remedy gracing his ears. she too, could feel him now.

a thrumming energy flowing through the very threads of her memories, weaving itself into her past, present and future. she noticed him in every window of her dreams- unable to recall when he had appeared. perhaps he had been there all along; this peculiar being. he could not possibly be human- for radiant light seeped through the fabric of his clothes, every detail on his face meticulously painted: an enthralling composition. she recognised those slanted eyes, flecked with honey gold with the ability to bring her to her knees- she was enraptured by the mere sight of him.

she knew nothing of him- but she knew she was his; and would forever be his.

it was a strange happening, yet he could not summon the courage to undo the silver knots that bound them and set free her fragile soul to the mortal realm. against all odds he yearned for her, in the same heart he did not possess.

oh, how this tale would be told for centuries to come,

-

Bounce

Bounce

Bounce

Slam!

'That one was totally off. If I did that on the court I could’ve cost us the entire game’ he mumbled to himself, brows furrowed in frustration.

It was past ten in the evening, and although practice had finished an hour ago, Kageyama was still in the gym practising by himself. Even Hinata, who usually stayed behind with him (because ‘there’s no way I’m letting you get better than me Kageyama!!’) had called it a night and left with the rest of the team. Which meant the raven haired boy was utterly alone, unless for the family of crows that had nested themselves somewhere in the roof above counted as company.

It was pitch black outside, a cool breeze drafting in from the open doors as he continued to throw ball after ball after ball. How long had he been practising that same technique? He couldn’t be sure. The only thing he knew was that he was starting to get tired, if the way his arms were beginning to strain harder every time he set a ball was anything to go by. The gym lights were starting to blind him, heat beating down on him like ruthless rays of artificial sunlight.

Yesterday had marked the end of an exhausting exam week for him and the team, and Kageyama knew that he should take a rest after a weeks worth of all nighters- but it wasn’t that simple.

See, everyone had their way of coping with stress. Some people, like Hinata and Nishinoya, liked to go for long runs in the mountains. Others like Enoshita, liked to listen to music in solitude with nothing but their own thoughts to disturb them. Asahi san had even recommended knitting once.

Kageyama Tobio, however, coped by pushing himself to the point of passing out from sheer bodily incapability. His team mates had scolded him for putting himself at such risk many times, only to be brushed off by him with a cold shoulder. They wouldn’t understand, he told himself. This wasn’t anything new for him.

He'd been gambling his health to deal with problems since he was old enough to experience true stress.

And though it usually only ended with him being in bed for a week with a burning temperature and sore limbs, it was enough to allow him to pretend he’d resolved whatever he was struggling with. Plus, he didn’t have the luxury of being able to dump his cargo load of trauma onto another person like others did. There was no one by his side to provide him comfort and support.

Bounce

Bounce

Bounce

Sla-

‘Tobio kun?’

Or maybe there was.

Kageyama looked up in confusion to find the culprit of his failed set standing in the doorway. ‘Y/n Chan?’ He murmured, rubbing his eyes to make sure he wasn’t seeing things.

Sure enough, you were standing before him, only an arms length away. You were dressed in clothes too thin to be worn outside, which he assumed were probably your pajamas. By the way you were clutching your jacket to you’re chest he could tell how cold you were.

But why were you here such late at night with no good reason?

‘Tobio Kun, really? I thought we talked about this. You shouldn’t overwork yourself so much. I’ve been ringing you over and over to see where you are, and when you weren’t picking up I figured I’d find you here, doing the exact opposite of looking after yourself. I was hoping you’d prove me wrong’.

Of course. Only you would leave the comfort of your room just to come searching for him. Only you would worry about him without really needing to. Kageyama felt a pang of guilt when he saw the distressed look on your face as you walked towards him, ball in hand.

‘Tobio-kun, your face is burning up and you’re drenched in sweat! How are you still standing?’ The raven haired boy could only swallow the dryness in his throat as he allowed you to guide him to a bench and sit him down.

His wary eyes followed your face as you fussed over him, handing him a bottle of ice cold water and gently patting at his face and neck with a damp cloth. He listened to you silently as you continued to ramble to yourself.

‘Honestly, I don’t know why I even bother reminding you. It’s not like you ever listen to me anyways. Your health should be your number one concern too, not mine. I mean what if something were to happen to you, huh? What if you fell ill just before a game and had to sit out? You'd be left feeling dejected and annoyed at yourself, not to mention how disappointed the team would feel not having you on the court with them! Tobio-kun, you have GOT to-‘

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m sorry. For making you worry so often’. He watched as your eyes softened, glinting with something deeper than concern.

‘Oh, Tobio-kun’ your voice was softer than he’d ever heard it, laced with a tone of sympathy that made his stomach turn. He hated being looked at with pity, but somehow your unwavering stare made him feel almost...safe?

You heaved a sigh and gently took his face in both your hands, watching his eyes flutter and widen at the contact. ‘You don’t need to apologise. You know I’m only scolding you because I care. And it’s because I care that I keep coming to find you, no matter how many times you ignore my warning. I just wish you understood that I’m here for you. You don’t need to deal with whatever’s going on in your head alone. Not anymore’.

The last two words tugged hard at his heartstrings, and he felt his composure begin to crumble. The tall boy slumped forward into your arms taking you by surprise, letting his head fall into the crook of your neck. For a moment you froze up, before shaking yourself out of your stupor and cautiously wrapping your arms around his back.

‘I don't want to push you away. I’m just not used to this’ he mumbled quietly, shying further away from your warm gaze. ‘This?’ You asked, slightly confused. ‘Having...somebody. Somebody to talk to. A person that’s always willing to listen to me.’

You tightened your arms around him slightly, unbeknownst to the way a blush formed on his cheeks as you did. Despite his inner protests, he allowed himself to bask in your warmth in your hold. ‘Well then you better get used to it. I don’t plan on leaving anytime soon.

And for the very first time, Kageyama felt like he could accept the sincerity in your words.

‘Come on, let’s get you home’

-

It didn’t take much of your perception to realise that Kageyama wanted you to stay by his side for longer, which is how the two of you winded up at your doorstep.

‘My parents will be home in a while, so we should probably get upstairs before they do’. Kageyama had only been to your house a handful of times but nothing changed the overwhelming sense of comfort that washed over him every time he did. He trailed after you as you led him to your room, taking in his surroundings as he went. When you opened the door to your room he noticed how your desk light had been left on, sketchbooks and pencils scattered across the table. He realised that you must have been studying before you came to find him, and suddenly felt even guiltier for troubling you.

However, your words from earlier that evening rang in his head. ‘It’s because I care’. Kageyama didn’t feel like he deserved your care. ‘

Tobio-kun? You okay?’. Your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he shook his head when he realised you had been tidying up your room as he spaced out in the doorway. He blushed two shades darker, finally stepping inside and closing the door.

He'd rarely been in your room- the few times he'd come over you'd either forced him to watch horror movies with you downstairs or taken him into the garden to laze about in the afternoon sunlight. Everything about your room was organised and homely, from the lilac colour of your curtains to the movie posters and polaroids plastered on your walls.

He recognised himself in a few of them, from times when you’d joined the team for celebratory meals after a successful match. He couldn’t help but smile softly to himself in pride for being deemed worthy of being part of your collection.

‘You should smile more often, you know’. Kageyama whipped his head round to see you perched on your bed, pillow clutched to your chest and a teasing grin on your face. He found the sight more endearing than he should have.

You patted the spot beside you, beckoning him over to join you. It was only then that he realised that the two of you would be sharing the bed, and his face grew impossibly redder at the thought. Still, it was much too late to go home now. He was already stifling a heavy yawn as he crossed the room to clamber onto the bed, tiredness finally taking its toll on him.

The two of you shuffled around to get comfortable before you switched off the desk light, engulfing the room in complete darkness save for the silvery moonlight peeking through the blinds. He heard you turn to face him and squinted, trying to make out your own eyes in front of him.

When he finally did meet your eyes, he could immediately tell that you wanted to say something. If there was one thing you were exceptionally great at, it was letting him find his words in his own time. Giving him the space to collect his thoughts so that he could then share them with you, little by little.

Truth is, Kageyama didn’t really know what was wrong this time. He simply felt like he wasn’t performing at his best. Like he was losing himself and couldn’t quite grasp the reigns in time to keep himself steady. And that was his biggest fear of all; falling to the deepest of failure only to find himself rooted there for good.

‘It’s okay to feel like you’re struggling to keep up with everyone around you’.

There it was. You could read him like a book, even when you couldn’t see his face to study his expressions. ‘

..What if- what if it stays like that though? If everyone continues to get better and I only hold them back? What if I become a-‘

‘You’re not a burden Tobio-kun, if that’s what you’re getting at. Especially not to your teammates. They have their struggles too, you know. Sometimes, they might think they’re holding you back. But that doesn’t stop them from giving their all, and most importantly, from trusting that you and the others will take care of them. That’s what a team is, Tobio-kun. You hold each other up when things are hard, and together you grow stronger. All it takes is having a little faith that they’ve got your back. And they do. We all do.’

In that moment, Kageyama wished he could reach over and switch on the light, just to be able to see your face while you spoke. He'd never felt such an intense genuineness in your words as now, and all he wanted was for you to be able to see in his eyes how much he appreciated it.

He couldn’t help the single tear that slipped from his eyes and onto the pillow beneath his head before he sniffed and wiped at them. There was a slight shuffling noise as you oved closer in the darkness, letting the sound of your soft breathing fill the silence that fell after you spoke.

‘Y/n Chan’ ‘Hmm?’ Kageyama inhaled deeply, the scent of your fading perfume calming his thudding heartbeat.

‘...Thankyou’.

Through the slight moonlight that slipped into the room the raven haired boy could see the hint of a smile spread across your face, which he found himself unconsciously mirroring.