Always have, Always will ft Park Minju
word count: 3.5k words
A/N: Part of @prael Minju challenge over on Fanprose. Feel free to follow along there, but don't worry—I'll still be posting here!
Tags: fluff
She watches you. Out in the hallway, peeking through the window. Watches the way you casually sit on your desk, leg propped on your chair. The way you throw your head back when you laugh, loud enough that it echoes down the hallway. She watches your forearms flex as you shove someone’s shoulder, his protests drowned out by your grin.
Park Minju has always liked to watch this classroom, liked to watch you. Bassist for the school band. The one everyone gravitated towards without quite knowing why. She does—has watched you long enough to. All the girls have a crush on you, and she’s no exception. But she has one advantage over the others.
She feels a shove at her back—pressed against the wall by the newly arriving girls that came to watch you. The air is suffocating. Shoulders press against hers on both sides, blocking her view. Someone has too much perfume on, and she can’t breathe properly.
You turn to the commotion outside the classroom, and you see her, surrounded on all sides. Your smile drops slightly, worry etched across your face.
“Minju!” She looks up, face red, and sees you, waving, unhurried, as if the crowd behind her doesn’t exist. And just like that, everyone backs away. She takes two deep breaths, smooths her cardigan and skirt before entering the classroom. The noise from the hallway fades behind her. In here, she can hear your voice clearly now, the low rumble of your laugh she’d recognise anywhere.
She ignores the weight of stares she’s learned to walk through like they’re nothing.
See, the one advantage she has over the others is that she’s known you all her life.
“What are you doing here?”
She scowls at the voice before she even sees who it belongs to, her nose scrunching in irritation. She already knows.
The one disadvantage she has is that you are her brother’s best friend.
----
It isn’t unusual to find yourself in their home. It’s practically your second home. Their parents always welcome you, always invite you to stay the night.
It’s even less unusual to find yourself in their kitchen.
You roll your sleeves up as you drop three packets of noodles into the pot of boiling water, stirring slightly, waiting for it to soften before adding the rest of the ingredients: the soup packets, spring onions, maybe a bit of cheese.
Once done, you pour them into three separate bowls, one of them has a bit more than the others, before placing them on the dining table. You move again, this time to grab empty glasses and a jug of water.
“Why does she get the bigger one?”
You pour her water first, not looking up at your friend before answering. “Make more yourself if you’re that hungry.” You turn to face her. “Eat up.”
You’re already turning back to the table, moving to sit down, missing the way Minju’s cheek tinge bright pink, and the way she softly slaps herself as if that would help calm her down.
(It doesn’t)
She stares at you as you talk to her brother, wishing it was her instead. But what would she say? What could she say? Every conversation with you has been surface level. No deep discussions, no confessions, nothing beyond ‘how are you?’ and ‘good.’ and it’s all your fault. The way you maintain eye contact, how you patiently wait for her to get her words out, even when her throat closes up or her mind goes blank staring back at you.
It’s infuriating that you affect her so much, annoying that you have no clue about it either.
She watches as you become more animated telling a story. The way your arms start flailing around or the way every time you smile, your dimples come out. Her eyes travel to your neck, gazes as your adam’s apple bobs with every slurp of noodles.
Some soup splashes onto you, and she’s already half out of her seat, ready to get a tissue. Except, you’re wearing an apron. How could she forget you’re wearing an apron. And not just any apron. The apron her mom bought her when she had that fleeting dream of becoming a chef.
(That lasted two months)
“… don’t understand why we have to study! My brain hurts…”
That caught Minju’s attention.
“What are you guys talking about?”
“Your brother’s being an idiot again.” You sigh as you take another bite of your ramyeon.
“When am I going to ever need,” he stares at the title of the worksheet, “the Pythagorean theorem in my life?”
You ignore his whining, turning to face Minju.
“What about you? Does your dream involve finding the length of one side of a triangle?”
She hesitates before answering quietly. “N—no… I want to be an idol…”
You hear laughter. Her brother.
“You? An idol? Don’t you have to be an E? How can you be an idol when you’re an extreme I?” Her brother asks between fits of laughter.
You watch her look down at her hands, wringing. She slowly slides down the chair, face red in embarrassment.
You smack her brother on the head before looking back at her, ignoring his cries.
“I think you’d be a great idol.”
Minju’s eyes grow wide looking at you, already sitting up. “R—really?”
You nod. “I do. You should audition.” You’re already back to your noodles, mouth over the bowl before you continue. “You already have one fan in me.”
You turn back to her, and you smile that smile, dimples prominent, eyes in crescent shapes, head tilted ever so slightly, noodles hanging out.
If it was possible, Minju’s face would be even redder than it is. Her heart pounds hard against her chest. It feels loud, like you could hear it if you try hard enough. She smiles, and nods. “Th—thank you.”
You hold her gaze for longer than necessary. There’s something about the way she looks at you—like you promised her the world instead of believing in her. It makes your chest feel weird. Warm.
You look away first, back to your noodles, before you do something stupid like keep staring.
Later that night, you’re crashing at their place as you always do. The room is dark except for the light from the lamp post peeking through and from your phone. The floor is hard against your back, but warm. You’re scrolling through your phone when you hear rustling from the bed above.
Your best friend.
He sits up and turns to you, doesn’t say anything for a minute.
“You know she’s going to audition now,” he finally says. “After what you said.”
You don’t look at him, eyes trained on the phone but not absorbing anything. “And she should. I wasn’t lying when I said that.”
“She’s always wanted to audition. You were just the final push she needed.”
You hum, thumb frozen on your phone. You don’t know why that makes your chest tight.
He stays quiet for a long time, long enough that you crane your neck up to face him. “You’re good to her, you know. A better brother than I could ever be. Walking her home and shit. Just… don’t give her hope.”
You don’t know what he means. Or maybe you do, and you just don’t want to think about it.
“I… won’t,” you say.
He stares at you, looking for any lie. When he doesn’t, he lies back down, turning to face away from you. “Good.”
You stare at the ceiling for a long time after that. Don’t give her hope. But why not? You liked how she looked at you from across the table, eyes wide and bright that they’re practically burned into the back of your eyelids.
You close your eyes and sigh heavily, willing yourself to sleep.
----
You lean against the railing outside the studio, checking the time on your phone every few minutes. You exhale loudly, jumping at every sound. She should be out by now.
Ever since she told you her dream, she’s committed to it, taking vocal lessons, dance lessons, anything that could improve her chances of being cast. And you’ve been there every step of the way. Making sure she doesn’t burn out or that she gets home safely despite protesting numerous time that she doesn’t need a babysitter.
What can you say? You want to be here. Always have. The worrying is just an excuse you tell yourself.
You see someone coming down the stairs. Minju. One hand holding tightly on the handrail, the other trying, and failing to keep hold of the duffel bag on her shoulders.
You move quickly, avoiding people walking in front of you, taking the bag from her before she has time to protest.
“You’re here again? I told you, you don’t need to keep coming to these.”
You throw the duffel bag over your shoulder, walking out the building, arms brushing against each other every now and then. “You’d miss me if I didn’t come.”
You look down at her, smiling but she doesn’t meet your eyes. Instead, she’s staring at her shoes, scuffing them slightly against the pavement. You tilt your head to look closer. Her cheeks are red, likely from the audition.
She must be tired.
You scan around the place, your eyes finding a small bakery nearby. You take her hand, dragging her to it. You don’t look back, don’t see the flush across her cheeks or the way her eyes widen in panic.
“Wh—what are you doing?”
“I finally found it. The bakery I wanted to try out. Come on!”
You pull her arm until she’s standing in front of you. Your hand is gently on the small of her back, guiding her inside.
She sucks in a breath, and holds it there as she enters the bakery. Only when you’ve found them a seat and you walked off to the counter does she finally exhale. Where your hand was, it feels like it’s on fire.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. Messages from friends asking her how the audition went, and that they should go out for a meal after. Her hand starts shaking, typing out the message.
Sorry. Can’t make it.
She’s lying. She knows it but it doesn’t stop her from typing. Because you’re here, and she can still feel your hand on her back, and she can’t stop the smile creeping on her face.
“Here. I got you something sweet,” you point to a chocolate croissant before pointing to a salted bread roll, “or if you prefer something savoury.”
“Thanks.” She looks up at you. “Are you not having any?”
You shake your head, a warm smile still on your face. “I’ll try it next time.”
Minju moves to grab the croissant, tearing it in half before doing the same to the bread roll, pushing both halves towards you.
You let out a soft chuckle before digging in. She didn’t ask if you wanted any. Just knew. Split them both apart without thinking, like it was the most natural thing in the world.
When did she start doing these things for you? When did you start noticing?
You open your mouth—to say what, you’re not sure. Thank you feels too small. You didn’t have to do that feels like a lie, because part of you expected her to. You’ve been wanting these small acts of kindness from her for longer than you can remember.
“How was the audition?” you ask instead.
She tells you everything. The nervous looks from the other auditionees, to the way she nailed the singing audition but messed up on the dancing one. You can’t stop watching her. How her hands move when she talks, the way she continues to talk with her mouth full. She’s so immersed in her story, she’s forgotten to be self-conscious. You’ve never seen her like this with anyone else. Not her brother, or her parents.
You don’t want her to stop. Ever.
At one point, her voice tapers off, aware that you haven’t said anything in a while, but when you ask a question, her eyes light up, and she becomes animated again, talking through mouthfuls.
You can’t help the laugh that escapes.
She stops mid-sentence, swallowing roughly around the croissant. “Why are you laughing?”
You wave a hand, taking a drink of water. “Nothing. It’s just… I’ve never seen you talk so much,” you look at her face, and the way her eyes concentrate on you. “It’s nice.”
Her ears go bright red, heart fluttering from your compliment. She smiles softly at the plate in front of you both.
And then, for a second, she hates you for it.
Hates how easy it is for you to say things like that—it’s nice—like it doesn’t cost you anything. Like you don’t know what those words do to her. How she’ll replay them every night before bed, on the bus, during study sessions, and every time she needs to remember what it feels like being seen by you.
You smile too. You can’t help it. Making her blush, it does something to you that you’re not ready to name yet.
The anger dissolves as quickly as it came. Because you don’t know. How could you? She’s never told you. And never will.
After finishing, you both get up to leave. The doorbell chimes softly as you both exit, side by side, your arm around her shoulders as you guide her through the busy night crowd.
You don’t notice the way she stiffens at the contact. At the way she relaxes against you.
Eventually, you both make it to the bus stop, sitting underneath the shelter. You look up at the timing board. 2 minutes.
“You don’t have to wait with me. You live in the opposite direction.”
You don’t look at her, instead watch as cars drive by, as people get off and on a bus. “So? I want to.”
The words come out easier than they should. More honest than you meant them to be. You glance at her. She’s staring at her shoes, but you catch her small smile before she hides it.
You’re doing it again. Making her heart race. She has to remind herself to not read too much into the way you said ‘I want to’ like it meant something more, that she can never be more than your best friend’s sister. But the way you’re looking at her right now… maybe it does mean something. Just the thought makes her dizzy.
The bus arrives soon after, and you’re walking in after her, scanning your card on the reader before sitting beside her. The bus is practically empty at this time, a couple of people are scattered around, earphones in or exhausted enough to fall asleep. You look towards Minju sat by the window, looking outside, and you’re able to get a glimpse of her reflection. Her hair carefully framing her face before she tucks them behind her ear, her lips slightly parted, her breathing fogging up the glass.
Cute.
The thought surprises you, but it’s there and you can’t take it back. You’ve thought it before—about puppies, about kids, the way she’d scrunch her nose when her brother annoyed her. But this feels different.
This feels like you’re actually seeing her.
Like you’ve been seeing her for a while now and you just didn’t want to admit it.
The bus lurches forward, the brake applied hard and sudden. Immediately, your hand moves, rests against her stomach, keeping her in the seat. “Are you okay?”
Her hand takes yours, gripping your fingers tightly. “Y—yeah.”
She doesn’t hear the driver’s apology or the complaints from the other passengers. She only feels your hand in hers, and how your fingers are calloused from touching the bass strings. You pull back, and she’s reluctant to let you go. Her fingers slip from yours slowly, and you feel the loss of contact more than you should.
You flex your hand in your lap, still tingling from the contact. You can still feel the warmth of her palm, the way her fingers tightened around yours like she was afraid to let go.
You didn’t want to let go either.
The ride to her place is long, to the point you find yourself yawning every few minutes. You turn to face Minju, only to notice her head swaying from side to side. She’s fighting to stay awake, trying to keep her eyes wide and open, only for them to close a minute later.
Who wouldn’t be exhausted after a day of school followed by singing and dancing in front of scouts in the hope of being chosen.
Her head falls dangerously close to the window, but before she could hit it, you move your hand. You shield her from the impact, gently pushing her head in the opposite direction, towards your shoulder.
She falls onto it with a gentle thud, losing the fight against sleep. You stay still, keeping her there, and making sure she doesn’t wake up. You get a whiff of her hair. Citrus. Nice. You hear her snore too, soft, barely audible unless you’re right next to her. She wrinkles her nose a few times and you can’t help smile at how adorable she is.
You feel the exact moment she fully relaxes against you—the weight of her head settling heavier, her breathing evening out, the tension leaving her shoulders. She trusts you enough to fall asleep on you. The thought does something to your head that you don’t have words for. You don’t move. Don’t shift your shoulders when it starts aching. Don’t reach for your phone when it begins buzzing against your thigh. You just sit there, barely breathing, like if you stay still, you can make this last forever.
Before you know it, the streets around suddenly become familiar. How long have you been staring at her?
Long enough to memorise the way her eyelashes rest against her cheeks. Long enough that you know she breathes through her mouth when she’s in a deep sleep, and that she scrunches her nose every two minutes. Long enough that the idea of moving—of waking her and pulling away—feels like you’re punishing yourself.
You don’t want this bus ride to end.
That thought should scare you more than it does.
You press a finger on her arm, gently enough to wake her but not enough to hurt her. “Hey, we’re almost at the stop.” You watch as her eyes flutter open, and the soft mewling sound she makes as she stretches her arms above her head, smacking her lips together a couple of times.
You lean forward, pressing the stop button before standing, grabbing her bag and her arm, guiding her to the exit.
The walk back to her home is slow, languid. She’s too tired to walk any faster, too tired to make conversation. But you stay by her side, matching her pace. Only now do you notice the bags under her eyes, under the light of the lamp posts, and how she slowly drifts into your path.
You smile, letting her lean on you the rest of the way. She fits against your side like she belongs there. Like this is something you’ve done a thousand times before, and you could keep doing it and never tire from it.
When you’re just outside her home, you gently place the duffel bag on her shoulder. She’s swaying slightly, exhausted, and you steady her with a hand on her arm.
“Go in. I’ll wait until you go inside.”
She nods, but doesn’t move. Just looks up at you, eyes soft and half-lidded from exhaustion. Her head softly falls onto your chest, and almost immediately, she stands straight, blinking a couple times. Your hand still has a hold on her arm. You should let go.
You don’t.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For walking me home. For… everything.”
“Minju—” You don’t know what you were going to say. Don’t know if you should say it.
She smiles. Small and understanding. Like she knew exactly what you were going to say.
“Good night,” she whispers.
You reluctantly let go. Watch her walk to her door. She turns back, just before she goes inside, and the way she looks at you makes your chest tight.
You lift your hand. A small wave. She waves back, and even in the dark you can see she’s smiling.
She enters without another word, and you watch as the door closes, standing there longer than you should, staring at the space where she was. You replay the way she looked at you, like she was waiting, hoping for you to say something. Like she’d wait no matter how long it took.
You walk back to the bus stop. Hear it coming from a distance.
You’re smiling when you board. Still smiling when you get home.
