gyublues

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love my pumpkin

scary my pumpkin

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Debate Night at CARATland 2023 Day 3: Eagle that can’t fly vs. Sparrow that can fly everywhere

Minghao: If we have wings, there’s no need to fly right? Like today, it’s raining. We can hold an umbrella. Jeonghan: We will be the umbrella for CARATs. Minghao: I can also give a bigger hug (with my wing).

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MINGYU ‘Eyes on you’ Music Video Behind the Scenes

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highlight medley : mingyu ✨

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girl who finally is going back to reading by finishing one book: now i'm going to read all the books in the world.

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every other paragraph had me gasping for air like i was drowning. needless to say, i am in awe.

from the vantage point of death

summary. when the lord of the dead meets the goddess of spring, all his plans are derailed. pairing. hades!choi seungcheol x f!persephone!reader genre/tags. fantasy/mythology, reverse hades and persephone au, bastardizing mythologies to form my version of it, unhinged mc (but we love her), NO STOCKHOLM SYNDROME, implied weirdo suitors, one crude joke, yearning, mdni (borderline nsfw ending) wc. 13.8k suggested listening. arsonist's lullabye, hozier // nfwmb, hozier // would that i, hozier // 난 (me), 에스쿱스 (s.coups) // me and my husband, mitski // dust to dust, the civil wars // my love will never die, hozier // work song, hozier

notes. sorry for the delay hnnng—it was a mix of bad timing (again) and overshooting the wordcount (again). not fully satisfied but this is probably the best i can manage atm. hades!csc is suprisingly pouty and morally upright. shoutout to hozier, my main sponsor for this videyow.

It is true what they say about whispers thriving in darkness.

Seungcheol hears them constantly, finds them woven into the fabric of the air, waiting to be unraveled. The whispers crawl in from the edge of his realm, carried by the rivers and into his ears. They keep him abreast of what is happening above ground, sometimes even more than the news Jeonghan would bring when he reports news from the Pantheon.

Some days, he tells himself it would not do to listen. The job of the King of the Underworld is endless; the dead do not stop dying. But listening to the whispers from elsewhere is the only way to distract him from the ones that plague his own mind; the curling, insidious darkness that is not the one he has made a home in, but rather one that threatens to consume him. So he finds the whispers, entertains the rumours that find the darkness. Seungcheol beckons them forward, pushing his own demons to the back of his mind. 

One of them is particularly persistent, sneaking past even the drapes of his chambers, the one place all the other whispers should not reach. It curls around him, flirts with the curve of his earlobe. The message is the same, every time it comes:

The Goddess of Spring is sick.

The first time he had heard it, he called Jeonghan immediately; as the God of Death, he was more in touch with its threads than even he. Despite the gold thread that marks one as immortal, the luster is slowly and surely fading. Both of them confirmed this, even as Jeonghan had mused that it did not make much sense. Seungcheol agreed.

There are precious few things that make immortals fall; for minor deities, it is almost always the lack of devotion, the slow death that comes with the fickle memory of mortals. Yet a goddess of spring would not have the same problem, even if she were not one of those graced to have a seat at the Pantheon. There are still temples undoubtedly to this Goddess’ name, incense and wine poured to honor the first sowing of seeds before the planting season.

The whisper soon reached his other trusted companions. It was Jisoo, the ferryman, who reported what he heard by the riverbank: by some mistake, the Goddess ingested mortal food, and the disease was now infecting her immortal blood.

The urge of duty beckons him, a voice in his ear reasoning that if a Goddess were indeed about to cross over to his realm, the least he could do was be the one to escort her there. He could ask her how this happened, if she were ready to speak to him, perhaps even bring her case to the High Palace to ask how the balance of the world were to be maintained.

Decided, he grabs his travelling robes.

For the first time in millennia, Seungcheol walks above ground. 

As expected, the Goddess of Spring’s domain is a lush garden, nothing but Life as far as the eye can see. He enters much more easily than expected; the wards have weakened concerningly so, even as the lingering magic in the air hint at their former strength. 

As he ventures in, the leaves sway to some invisible wind, a smidgen more alive-seeming than they would be in the mortal realm. Still, there is yellowing on some trees. Dead petals litter the floor, and he feels the crunch of leaves under his shoe as he moves forward—further pieces of evidence that point to the weakening of the Goddess’ magic.

“Goddess, are you here?” He calls.

In the distance, he hears a hacking cough. 

Seungcheol breaks into a jog, alarmed. He plucks at the threads of death that he senses, filtering them out until a single golden string remains, though its luster seems to dull with every minute that passes. He follows it forward.

“Goddess?”

“Here,” he finally hears a weak voice croak, and he turns, finding you sprawled on the floor, a few feet shy of what is evidently your bed. 

Seungcheol does not hesitate to lift you in his arms, walking up the steps you were collapsed on. Your breath escapes your mouth in reedy pants, eyes hazy as you gaze at him without recognition. His heart aches.

“Oh Goddess, how did this happen to you?” Seungcheol lowers you onto your bed, fluffing and adjusting the pillows the best he could. He finds a jug of water and a cup resting on a nearby table. Filling the cup, he helps you tilt it up your lips. “Here. Drink.” You take small sips, holding not the cup, but his hands as he feeds the water to you. He feels your fingers trembling. Once a small noise of protest leaves you at the water still falling past your lips, Seungcheol quickly sets the cup aside, swiping the droplets on your chin with his sleeve and easing you into a lying position. 

You close your eyes, breathing finally steady. Sorrow tugs at his heartstrings as he dabs at the sweat off your brow with a cloth he had conjured.

It has been many centuries since the last time an immortal crossed the River. He wonders if the Underworld would be to your taste, absent of Life as it is. Only the lands of the blessed are lush with any kind of greenery, as it is near enough to Life, housing souls getting ready for reincarnation.

Lost in his thoughts, he does not notice the string of death that guided him to you suddenly wink into brilliant gold and disappear.

The Goddess’ eyes snap open, and Seungcheol startles. All too quickly, he feels strong hands grasp at his forearms and push. He stumbles back, almost tripping over his robes, but before he is able to resist, he lands in the middle of what he realizes is a ritual circle. The runes around his feet burst into brilliant gold light, washing the world in their glow. Vines rapidly begin to sprout, curling, tangling, and twisting above and around him. From beyond the light, he hears a faint voice chanting. 

It is magic, but one entirely foreign to his eyes. 

Finally, the glow fades. That same force he sensed earlier seems to be binding him in place, making his limbs ten times heavier than normal. Seungcheol fights to stand, grasping at the structure in front of him to help himself up. A great tangle of vines surrounds him; despite their flimsy appearance, they refuse to break or wilt with any amount of magic he forces into them.

In fact, they only seem to grow stronger.

Confusion gives way to realization, and then dawning fury. He zeroes in on the woman on the other side of the cage. The haze in your eyes has disappeared, replaced with a sharp gaze and a triumphant smirk. Around you, the air crackles with power.

“Caught you.”

“Goddess,” Seungcheol begins, raising his hands, palms up. “I mean you no ill.”

Everything had happened so quickly that he could not get a good look at you. Now, he not only feels, but he sees. Your magic lingers in the air, a sharp crackle of citrus undercut by the heavy, warning weight of wood. When he first saw you, you had been seconds away from becoming another shade to bring to the Underworld. Now, power thrums from you everywhere, even on the thin skin under your eyelashes. Your robes almost seem to glow.

You approach his cage with a fluid, almost feline grace. He feels your eyes cataloguing him, taking in his garb and the stiff, straight-backed posture he carries himself with, even outside the throne room. “I had certainly many assumptions of whom my trap would attract, but even this is unexpected. Let us hear it then: what brings the Unseen One into my domain?”

“I had received word of your illness, goddess, and thought it a duty and courtesy to escort you to my realm.”

“Escort me into your realm? Duty? I’ve heard of dowries and courtesy, but never duty,” you muse. Your eyes remain ever-scrutinizing; he resists the urge to squirm. Has he been so out of touch with the Pantheon norms that he no longer knows how theoi treat each other? Heat rushes to his ears at your intent gaze. “It must be true that there is no love in the Underworld. Your attempts at wooing are unconventional, but ineffective.”

“Excuse me?”

“Certainly new,” you continue, almost to yourself. “Out of all the suitors sent my way, or the ones that would take advantage of the rumours I had spread, your approach is the most unique.”

“Have your plants overtaken your mind?” His mouth twists in derision. “I have told you; I am here only out of my duty.”

“Not a suitor then? Hm.”

“As there seems to have been a misunderstanding,” he sighs, already tired, “If My Lady would be so kind to release me, we can leave this all behind us.”

You stare at him, head tilted. After a moment, a small smile pulls at your features. “I think not.”

Disbelief floods him, and he cannot hold back the scowl that pulls over his features. Seungcheol’s eyes flash dangerously. “That was not a request, Goddess.” He expects you to give in; no being of the Pantheon can bear to be around Death for so long, much less a minor goddess.

Then you do something entirely unexpected; you throw your head back and laugh.

“My, you are interesting! I do not think you are in a position to make your demands in my domain.”

For fuck’s sake—he inhales through his teeth, biting back the anger that has been steadily rising with the length of his stay in this vined cage. He tries phasing into shadow—you could not keep him here if he could simply slip back to his realm—but more vines wrap around him, absorbing his magic, rendering it null. Your grin just stretches wider. 

“On what grounds do you keep me?” He hisses.

“First, as I said, you are interesting.” You shrug. “Second, perhaps your presence will ward off all the other suitors the Pantheon has been attempting to send my way. Third, my domain seems to react to you in interesting ways.” You look pointedly at his hand, the locus where his magic seems to be siphoning into your realm.

“My powers are those for the dead,” he informs you. “They will do nothing for Life, certainly nothing for the Goddess of Spring.”

“Well, we shall not know until we conduct some more investigation, no?” 

He tries a different tactic. “Goddess, you must let me return. The Underworld cannot be parted with its King.”

You wave a hand, dismissive. “Oh please. No one misses Death. Perhaps those poor souls will even be glad for their judgement to be postponed.” The thought seems to please you, as you release a satisfied little huff.  “It is settled. You are mine for the time being, Lord of the Dead.”

Seungcheol tried phasing into shadow again, only for the realm to absorb his magic. It seems that being held by a being that controlled Life, any magic relating to his return could not work. You had informed him, somewhat gleefully, that the wards of your realm have been refashioned to mimic a smokescreen—drawing from some of the magic that the realm had absorbed from him. It does not block visitors; rather, you boasted, it was a mix of concealment and compulsion charms to urge them to respect your privacy as you suffer through your malaise.

His magic, aside from this strange new affinity to life, is most prominently for keeping the barrier between his realm and the rest of the world intact. If you had borrowed from that…he is well and truly stuck.

It could be worse. He could have been captured with the intent of harming the Underworld, or weakening the barrier between the living and the dead. It could have been someone who demanded he give up his hound.

But he cannot call himself an oppressed prisoner. The heaviness of his limbs had quickly been resolved after a modification of the runes outside his prison. You also insisted on ensuring all his needs are met, including bedding, pillows, water—both for bathing and drinking—and food, which you have taken to cooking in front of him, to prove there is no poison.

He accepts the bedding and pillows, as well as the water; he pours the drinking water into the same basin he uses for his baths. But nothing passes his mouth. Seungcheol is not sure why you are putting in the effort; your kind need little food and rest, after all. He does not know how much time has passed, only that he is utterly miserable. He considered yelling, crying out for help, but no one would hear him. 

Meanwhile, he feels your realm draining away at his reserves. Vast as they are, even a drop of water against a rock eventually wears it down. He could only imagine what Jeonghan must be thinking now, at his prolonged and unplanned absence. Seungcheol grits his teeth, resisting the urge to lay down at the ever-creeping fatigue that grows as his magic wanes. He found out the hard way that the more of his body was in contact with your realm, the faster he would waste away. It is a battle to just stay awake.

“Your Grace!” He hears, and it feels vaguely far away. You are running to him, robes fluttering around you as you move, light-footed, across your realm. Seungcheol bites back a grimace, self-conscious of the way his draining magic must make him look paler and sicklier than usual. “Please hold onto a vine.”

At his refusal, you roll your eyes. “Let me try something, Your Grace. I think I know how to replenish your magic; I swear on your River that I mean no ill.”

Seungcheol’s distrustful stare does not cease, but he does relax his shoulders and hold out his right hand, palm facing up. Taking a deep breath, you wave a hand.

A thorn grows from where his hand is gripping the vine. Though ichor drips from his wrist down to his elbow, golden and oozing, Seungcheol refuses to flinch. Even as he bleeds, his palm is already beginning to heal, the tissue stitching itself around his wound and ejecting the thorn from his skin. Your focus is not on him though. As you watch, his blood is absorbed into the vine. 

Almost immediately, moss begins to grow under his hand. Flowers bloom at his feet from where the ichor drips onto the earth. Excited, you move a few steps closer, touching the new life now growing on your vines.

“This is…” he removes his hand from the vine, eyes flitting from between his now-healed hand and the vine he had held earlier, which now had not only moss, but flowers blooming from where his blood had touched the plant. He opens his mouth, but no words come.

“It worked,” you murmur, almost wondrously. “Ha! It cannot be true that your magic is only for the Dead.”

Seungcheol is stunned.

Certainly not an emotion he has ever felt very often, much less to this degree. You don’t seem to be done. Stepping forward, you clasp his hand in between yours. He startles, feeling the Life-magic from you rush into him. Slowly, he feels his reserves begin to return. When you let go, his magic has not fully returned to its full capacity, yet there is enough that he feels sufficiently energized.

“Spring,” you declare, looking at the astonished god, “is simply Life that follows after Death, after all. Wouldn’t you agree, Your Grace?”

“A clever trick,” he says eventually. “You have had your fun, then. Now release me.”

You just smile. “Actually, this little experiment has just proven an interesting point. You are not my prisoner, Your Grace. Though it would be a shame to let you go, I will not keep you here against your will. The Lord of the Dead must be busy, after all.”

The change in your script has him dizzy. “I am not your prisoner?”

“It would seem so. That is what my investigation says.” You shrug. “I made a mistake with my earlier oath to the River, and now I have to mean you no ill in everything. So I can no longer lie to you. Not that I have, ever, anyway.”

Seungcheol tugs at the vines, ignoring how they now curiously seem to sway into his touch. But even as they do, no matter what he tries, they do not break. “So release me, then.”

“Now, where is the fun in that? I have given you a clue on how to release yourself, did I not? Spring is Life that follows after Death. And I have replenished some of your reserves, since you do not wish to bother with my cooking.”

At his confused silence, you huff a little laugh. “Oh, Your Grace, what am I to do with you?”

Seungcheol tucks his irritation behind his teeth, exhaling long and slow. “You could release me.”

“I told you, Your Grace is no prisoner of mine. You can very easily break this cage if you wished to. That is no longer my problem.” You shrug. “I swear it on your River and my magic. But do send messages to the Underworld, should you feel your absence take even longer. My wards will accommodate the correspondence.”

Days pass. He does indeed end up sending messages to the Underworld. To Jeonghan, to be exact.

While concerned, the God of Death’s immediate reaction is one of amusement, even admiration. It does nothing to quell Seungcheol’s irritation, especially when Jeonghan points out that you were right, the River binds you to tell only the truth, and mean no ill. He is just unlucky that no ill is not the same as goodwill.

Meanwhile, Seungcheol watches as you tend to your gardens, conversing merrily with the spirits as you move around your domain. The spirits are curious of him too, yet he bats them away with impatient huffs and vaguely imperious commands to leave him alone. They do, but he feels faintly guilty for the way they seem to wilt as they drift away.

He still cannot claim to be an oppressed prisoner. You reminded him that he is not—and arguably has never been—the latter, and correctly guessed that releasing him from the cage after swearing that he can get out himself would hurt his pride. He is also not the former, as your constant providing of bedding, water, and food has continued. Seungcheol’s practice of accepting everything but the food has also continued. True enough to your claim, the lack of sustenance in your realm seems to be correlated to his dwindling reserves, though it seems his blood had satisfied your domain enough to be much slower in dwindling your reserves.

Still, nothing passes his mouth. After every meal, you wordlessly claim the untouched bowls of your cooking—whether stew, bread, meat, vegetables, or rice. Even the casket you had received from the God of Wine and deigned to share with him is refused, even as you remind him repeatedly that you cannot harm him.

At each refusal, your lips would purse tighter and tighter.

Finally, one night, you have had enough. Standing at the other side of his cage, you do not move to get his untouched dinner.

Instead, new vines wrap around his wrists and legs, pulling him forward to the edge of the cage. Seungcheol’s choked exclamation of surprise cuts itself short as you grab his robes from the other side. He has to slam his hands, bound as they are, against his cage to brace himself. Your face is a mask of barely-controlled fury.

“I remember telling you, Your Grace,” you snarl, “you are not my prisoner.” The air around him crackles with magic. The smell of grapefruit fills his nose—but incredibly bitter, as though the taste of its pith became a scent. Your face is twisted in anger, and dare he say hurt. “I swear a vow of no malice. I show you the potential of your power, and promise freedom is within your grasp. I offer you kindness. I allow you to send your correspondence in good faith, not knowing if you have actually been plotting your revenge against me. I give you food from my garden, and cook it in front of you!

“And you repay me with distrust,” you spit. “You refuse the fruits of Spring and her goddess’ labor. My Lord must know that only realms of the major theoi have enough latent magic to bind those who partake of its bounty. But if your strategy to free yourself is to anger me to oblivion, I will simply allow my realm to suck the magic out of you. The Lord of the Dead, my personal fertilizer. See if you like that.” Your voice cracks.

Any response boiling behind his throat dissipates at the sight of tears rimming your lashes. Weakly, he tries to rebut. “You cannot. You swore no ill will.”

“And yet you do not eat.” Suddenly, it seems the strings have been cut from your body, and you release his robes with nothing more than a half-hearted shove. Turning away, you pick up his untouched food. Despite your anger moments ago, you remain gentle with the bowl of cold stew.

Seungcheol watches, the weight in his chest growing, as you set it in front of your table and grab a spoon. With a wave of your hand, the stew is warm again, steam rising in gentle spirals from the bowl. The guilt he had felt spurning the innocently curious spirits is nothing compared to seeing the Goddess who had brought him to his knees fighting back her tears, spooning his dinner into her mouth.

“I did not know you could warm it again.” He speaks quietly, unable to raise his voice above a murmur.

“Why,” you reply dully. “Would you eat it if I did?”

Seungcheol does not reply, despite the apologies crawling up his throat. As you leave for your evening ablutions, he calls for you softly.

“Do not bother apologizing,” you reply, without stopping or turning back. “Just eat the food tomorrow.”

And so he does.

After another handful of days, a visitor arrives. 

“Erm, Lord Seungcheol?” He looks up, trying to place the voice. Your head pokes up from a hedge, vaguely panicked. A figure alights by the gazebo, where he had first found you. He recognizes the messenger god by the dark red hair and winged sandals on his feet. 

He is about to call out, but your hand closes into a fist quickly. The air clamp his lips shut, and silences the muffled shout that escapes his mouth. The god looks around, realizing Seungcheol is not there. Realizing this, the god slumps, calling a different name instead with a mix of exasperation and concern. Seungcheol tilts his head, wondering whose it is, until he sees your head snap to the god’s direction. 

With a jolt, he realizes he only knew your title—Goddess of Spring—but not your name. The messenger god begins to rant.

“I only just managed to sneak past the Lord Father’s nose—said you were not to be disturbed while the Lord of the Dead tended to your illness, but I had to see you, if only to confirm which rumours are true—what on earth happened to your wards, by the way, I had to ask a sprite for help in removing the soot—”

The god parts the curtain by your bed, and promptly swears. “Shit!”

Seungcheol watches, mildly bemused, as the god flutters from one nook to the next, looking more and more distressed as you are nowhere in sight. Any amusement he feels vanishes the moment the young god finds him, tending to a patch of plants a few feet away from your bed. Seungkwan trips as he stumbles backward in shock.

“L-Lord Seungcheol,” he stammers, stumbling to his feet. “I—Your Grace—”

“Seungkwan,” Seungcheol inclines his head with all the dignity he can muster.

“Seungkwan,” you finally call. He whips around, a noise of both agitation and relief escaping him when he catches sight of you.

“You! What in hell’s name are you doing out of bed?! Er,” he glances sheepishly at Seungcheol before turning back to you with a wide-eyed glare, expression clearly demanding you to explain.

“Surprise!” You chuckle feebly. “Whatever happened to ‘I am glad you are well’?”

“Last everyone has heard, the Lord of the Dead was preparing for your passage to the Underworld—” Seungkwan begins, before his expression morphs, the pieces coming together in his head in real time. He looks as though he is one revelation away from pulling his hair out. “Tell me Lord Seungcheol is not your prisoner and this is all in my head.”

“Lord Seungcheol is not my prisoner and this is all in your head,” you parrot obediently. 

“Is this why you were so sick? You were saving your magic for—for ransoming the God of the Underworld?”

“That is not why I—”

“You know everyone will realize he is missing, do you not? There are already whispers that the Underworld is without its King.” He waves his hands, emphasizing his words. Your voice remains genial.

“This is all harmless fun,” you wave a hand. 

Seungkwan’s eyes narrow. “Is it? The Underworld—”

“I have allowed correspondence between him and his comrades—”

“Some already think your illness is too convenient,” he warns. “You will not be able to hold this charade for long.”

You snort. “The fact that gossip of both my faked illness and impending death coexist speaks to the stupidity of the divine rumour mill.”

Exasperated with your blasé responses, Seungkwan turns to Seungcheol. Biting his lip, his fingers fidget at his staff. You just watch, eyebrow raised at the sudden change in demeanor. “My Lord, do you, erm, need help—that is, if you are held against your will—”

“I shall be free soon enough,” he says shortly. “The Underworld will not be long without me.”

“You will hurt his pride, ‘Kwan,” you interject, smothering a laugh. “He needs to free himself for his ego’s sake.” 

Seungcheol levels a glare at you, thoroughly unamused. You just raise an eyebrow, daring him to say otherwise. Seungkwan’s gaze flits between the two of you, cycling through numerous expressions of skepticism and concern.

Eventually, the god just sighs, running a hand again through his hair. The tension in Seungkwan’s shoulders returns; his sandals flutter restlessly, picking up on the unease of their master. “The Pantheon only knows that you have been wasting away from eating mortal food, and that there is something strange about the Underworld because of His Grace’s absence. The others may start putting the pieces together.”

Your gaze shifts from rage into something more calculating. “Let them, then. See if they can outsmart a goddess that outsmarted the Unseen One.”

Seungcheol does it again and again, slicing his hand and watching the growth from where his ichor drips on the earth. Since first time he tried it without you to interfere in any way, the same result were yielded. Yet there is no more understanding with this attempt than any other before it.

Frustrated, he looks at you. “My blood does not cause life, and nor does my magic. Millennia have proven this. Your garden must be an anomaly.”

From the other side of his cage, you huff, not looking up from your pruning. “You are not listening to me, Your Grace; I said Life follows after Death, not that Death causes Life. Perhaps, yes, your blood dripping onto mortal soil would yield different results. But this is my garden, the Heart of Spring. Life is constantly following after Death. An endless loop.”

“The ichor,” he tries. “The things Godly blood can do, even now, have never been fully known.”

“Your Grace, you say your magic is one of Death, yet not a single blade of grass has wilted in your footsteps,” you point out. “It is not just your blood that can bring Life, but your magic itself. I am the Spring that follows after Death. You carry the power of Death itself.”

“No, Death is Jeonghan,” Seungcheol murmurs absently.

Evidently, you had not been expecting that, as you pull up short and twist to face him, face contorted in surprise. “Jeonghan? Oh my. Do I have the wrong god?”

“No! No.” Seungcheol pauses, surprised at his own vehemence. Clearing his throat, he continues in a more subdued tone. “I am Lord of the Dead. Jeonghan is the God of Death, the Reaper.”

“Oh,” you wave a hand dismissively. “Spring does not come immediately after the reaping. My point stands. Spring is the Life that follows from Death. My realm has already been responding to you, gaining life from your power.”

Seungcheol has felt, since getting into this cage, the power draining from under his feet, as though the earth were a great straw drinking from his reserves. He had assumed it to be because of the runic circle at his feet. “Is this not you draining my power to keep me prisoner? You said so yourself.”

“I lied. Oh, don’t look so surprised,” you roll your eyes at his expression. “I swore to mean you no malice, not to speak the truth. Not at that point yet, anyway. It is true that your power is feeding mine, but that is not just mydoing. My domain has latent magic, though the runes augment it. It has been responding to yours, making more Life out of Death. Pushing your magic outward will only make it worse. And why do you think my magic flowed so easily into your reserves?” You give him a gaze that is both meaningful and exasperated.

A thought strikes him then, one so obvious now that Seungcheol wonders why it had not occurred to him earlier. He lays his hand back onto the vines in front of him. Instead of pushing, however, he pulls, bringing magic inward and back to himself. 

The realm responds in kind.

His prison’s vines begin to weaken under his touch, the tangled cords thinning until the braids barely hold together. Above him, the great ceiling of his cage falls as a wilted mess. Instinctively, Seungcheol lifts his hand, and the wilted stems disintegrate, falling around him like ash. The air smells distinctly earth-like.

He stands before you, dead leaves in his hair, more invigorated than he has been in a long, long time.

“Well, it took you long enough,” you rest your hands on your hips, utterly pleased with yourself. “Aren’t I a splendid teacher? I imagine if you do the same thing with your feet, you will no longer be so drained in my domain.”

“Of course,” Seungcheol murmurs to himself. “Death claims Life, not the other way around. It has been so long since I left the Underworld that I have forgotten.” 

Something in your expression softens. “Then remember with me. If it cannot be remembered, we shall find out more. You felt it, did you not? Our magics are drawn to each other.”

Seungcheol cannot deny that. Even now, with you a little more than an arm’s length away, he aches to have you closer, to feel again that rush of Life, as though he were perpetually being reborn.

“So, what will it be, Lord of the Dead? Will you find out with me?”

Seungcheol resists the yearning that claws at his chest, tamps down the yes that instinctively rises up his throat.

“What do you get out of this?”

“Hm?”

“It seems terribly altruistic for you,” he drawls. “My captor caging me purely for her amusement, and now that I have passed, I am offered to learn of magic I did not know I could wield.” He narrows his eyes at you. “What do you get out of this?”

You tilt your head at him, confused. “Do you think you are the only one benefiting from this arrangement? My realm has never been stronger. Our magic’s compatibility is a mutually beneficial arrangement.”

“And your suitors?”

“Your presence would certainly deter the rabble, but I imagine the rumours of your capture alone will set me up for a good few millennia of quiet.”

“What of my duties? No matter how capable my brothers are, the Underworld falters without its king.”

“Return to the Underworld if you must, Your Grace, but contract with me the period of your stay. I will swear on the River that it shall be upheld.”

You snap your fingers, and a gentle breeze flutters over him, rustling his hair and clothes off the dead leaves and bits of stem. And though he is free, longing clings to his ribs, the offer not just of power, butcompanionship, of a kind that is different from the one he shares with his brothers belowground. It was only when Seungkwan had arrived that he remembered the usual demeanor leveled at him—the immediate fear and distrust, the whispers that had pushed him toward seclusion in the first place. Outside of his brothers in the Underworld, you had been the only other one to not treat him this way.

For so long, the thought of Life had left a bitter taste in his mouth. Seungcheol had never held it in his hands, never felt the rush of a beating heart nor a sapling’s head breaking from the soil. Yet he experienced all of that, numerous times, in this garden, without feeling like a harbinger of despair. 

“Well? What say you, Your Grace?”

Much planning is needed. His comrades were more receptive to the idea than he expected; he could not help but feel a little betrayed at their willingness to shoo him off and insist on a so-called vacation, even if the pretense remained to be that he was tending to a goddess at her sickbed.

To Seungcheol’s chagrin, you insisted on tagging along to the Underworld, brushing aside his protests that nothing alive can enter his domain. 

“Death claims Life; I am telling you now, the Underworld will take a much bigger toll on a minor goddess compared to the Lord of the Dead in your garden.”

“How unfair. We are partners, are we not? For all you know I could use some Death magic myself. We will not know until I am there.” You bat your eyes playfully. “The Lord of the Dead must have enough power to save a minor goddess, no? Especially in his own domain.”

He pinches his nose, a headache beginning to form. Surely there are much better ways of ensuring he upholds your arrangement.

“Fine. Fine, but if your magic is dwindling, you tell me immediately.”

You bounce on your toes, excited. Excited! Seungcheol does not bother to think about the teasing that he is sure to receive. Once his brothers see him descend with a girl on his arm, much less one very much alive, he is never hearing the end of it.

True enough, the first to see them is Jisoo, on the edge of the riverbank. The twinkle in his eye bodes nothing good. “Oh? This is no dead goddess. Have you abducted her? I must remind you that I only ferry the dead. Unless you plan on finally taking a Queen.”

You merely smile. “Hello, ferryman.”

Jisoo smiles, eyes crinkled into crescents, charm dialed up much more than necessary. Seungcheol tamps down the grumble that crawls up his throat.

“Hello, Goddess. Blink twice if you need help.”

Seungcheol cannot help his scoff. “Oh, please. I am not holding her hostage. If anything, it was the other way around.”

“It is true.” You nod solemnly. “I would like passage, as the Lord of the Dead’s abductor. We are here to sort his affairs before he begins his contract in my domain.”

Jisoo blinks, taken aback. “My lady,” he begins, “As I mentioned earlier, I only ferry the dead. You are very much alive.”

“Even if I were the guest of your Lord?” He nods. “Hm. I suppose I could dip in the river, then?”

“Do not even joke about that,” Seungcheol snaps. “You will die. Anyone who bathes in the River, immortal or mortal, will die.”

“That is entirely the point.”

“The Pantheon will have my magic. Your mother will have my head. Poor Chan will be worse off, since it is his river you have chosen to bathe in.”

“Chan? Is that the name of your river deity?” Your eyes are alight with interest. “How fascinating.” Seungcheol rubs a palm against his forehead; the headache has taken over in earnest.

“Knowing the name of the river spirit will not help your case, my lady.” Jisoo gently pulls the conversation back. “I cannot let you cross.” You ponder the dilemma, crossing your arms and lifting a hand to your mouth in thought. 

“I have claimed to be on the brink of death before,” you muse, “Spring is…no, that will not work. Well then.” You turn to Jisoo, tilting your head. “Do you accept bribery, ferryman?”

Without missing a beat, he replies, “Certainly, if it came from a goddess as pretty as you.” 

Seungcheol chokes, looking at his friend with wide eyes. “Absolutely not—” In the blink of an eye, Jisoo’s smile shifts from charming to cheeky, and you respond with a bright grin of your own.

His protests are ignored. The familiar wildness of your magic tinges the air, and in your hands, three daisies emerge, their white and yellow colors a stark contrast to the blackish-brown mud of the riverbank. “For you, ferryman. Three is a magical number, after all.”

Jisoo’s expression is surprisingly soft as he accepts the flowers. “Oh. I have never received flowers before.”

“Never?” you frown. “That simply will not do.” With a deep inhale, your eyes scrunch shut. The scent of your magic grows stronger—the mix of florals and citrus already in the air is joined by the bite of wood, and something else, distinctly earth-like. Soil. A collection of flowers bloom where your hands are cupped: pink and purple roses, daisies, azaleas, and a whole slew of plants Seungcheol has seen before but cannot name. You tie the bouquet with a long piece of leaf, presenting it to him with a flourish.

“The daisies were my bribe, but this is a gift. What do you think, ferryman?”

Jisoo’s smile is the widest Seungcheol has seen in a while. “Come aboard, my lady.”

For the first time in a while, you are wrong; the Underworld is too much. You feel the magic rapidly draining from you, even as Seungcheol asks you to stay outside his bedchambers while he gathers his things. You bite your lips to force color back onto them.

As you wait, the presence of another makes itself known. Two others, you realize, turning to see a man—a god—and a dog-creature in his arms. The god tilts his head. 

“You must be the goddess Seungcheol was supposed to collect, then.” You hedge a guess.

“Jeonghan?”

The god’s eyebrows raise. “Indeed, lady.” 

The God of Death is intimidatingly beautiful. His magic pulses around him, eerily similar to the Lord of the Dead. Yet where you find solace in Seungcheol’s, even a sense of excitement, this man’s magic makes you vaguely uneasy, even as it has some synergy with your own.

Where Seungcheol reigns over the Dead already put to rest, Jeonghan’s domain is the reaping itself, the act of claiming. So close to Seungcheol’s, yet very far from yours.

He observes you, gaze knife-sharp. “If our Lord is to stay with you, I ask that you adjust your wards to let me in as well. He may need to communicate regularly with the Underworld.”

“Everyone is alright with this?” you ask, surprised. “I was prepared to fight for his temporary transfer.” The ferryman was one thing, especially since he could simply not grant you passage out, but his closest lieutenant agreeing so easily is unexpected.

“Our Seungcheollie needs a vacation,” Jeonghan waves a hand, deceptively dismissive, but his eyes burrow holes into your confidence. “And I trust his judgement, even if I have my own concerns.”

The dog in his arms barks, and Jeonghan’s tone shifts to a soothing coo. “Kkuma-ya, shh.” 

Tentatively, you reach a hand out, ignoring Jeonghan’s disapproving stare. Kkuma sniffs at your hand, pauses, and begins to lick with great aplomb. Jeonghan’s eyes widen slightly.

“I think she recognizes His Grace’s magic,” you murmur, a little embarrassed. Yet with every pass of Kkuma’s tongue on your fingers, you feel some magic return to you.

“Perhaps, but she only does that if she really likes you.”

“Or she senses my magic weakening. May I?” You hold out your hands, and Kkuma is quick to paw at Jeonghan’s arms, impatient. You accept Kkuma, giggling as she licks your cheek, still transferring magic to you.

Jeonghan’s gaze remains sharp, but considerably less cold. “You are not dead. But you are dying.”

“Indeed, it seems I miscalculated my entrance into his domain.”

“The living cannot stay,” he agrees. “I will tell Seungcheol to hurry.” Jeonghan excuses himself with a short bow.

“Your Goddess is growing weaker.”

Seungcheol starts, whipping around to see Jeonghan striding into his chambers. “What?”

“We spoke briefly outside. The Underworld is rejecting her presence.”

Seungcheol purses his lips, quickly packing the last of his essentials before lifting his bag over his shoulder. “She would have been less tired had she not made that huge bouquet for Jisoo.”

“He is quite endeared, by the way. Planted them by the riverside almost immediately, at the edge of the Isles. Chan likes them too.”

“And you?”

“Hm?” Jeonghan’s tone is too innocent. Seungcheol groans.

“Do not tell me you scared her.”

The God of Death shrugs, a little pout on his face as he reproaches him. “How little you think of me. I like her, actually. Finally a woman with a spine, though it is funny to know that you were her prisoner. How did you solve her puzzle?”

Seungcheol explains the direction of flow as the deciding factor, how claiming life was the answer and not pushing magic outward. “Though of course, you probably already know that, being around Life magic as often as you are,” he concludes.

Jeonghan listens, interested. “I have been told that our magic is similar. Perhaps—”

“I asked that too,” he interjects quickly. “She said something about Spring not coming right after the reaping.”

“Oh? Clever girl.” Jeonghan’s eyes gleam. Seungcheol points his finger at him, warning.

“Do not.”

“Goodness, how long have you known her? So protective already. I like her more and more.”

Absently, he runs a hand along the fine cloth of his pillowcase, already missing the luxury of his bedsheets. “I will not be away for long.”

“Of course.” Jeonghan inclines his head. As he leaves, his friend calls out from behind him, “Do try to have fun, though!”

It is decidedly not fun.

“Again.”

Seungcheol kneels down, brushing the tips of his fingers against the sapling. “Agh!” The little plant explodes with a wet pop, scattering little pieces of green on top of the dirt.

“Too much.”

Seungcheol looks up, meeting your eyes from where you stand, right across him. You tilt your head, holding his gaze before gesturing to the next sapling. He uses a single finger this time, focusing on letting out a steady stream of his power. The little plant blooms, briefly, until it too explodes.

“Too much, still.” Amusement colors your voice. “Trickle your magic in. Do not let it flow so strongly.”

“I am trickling it.” Frustrated, he curls his power inward, watching the little sapling wilt and then rot into the ground. Around him, the spirits titter, some small voices letting out soft squeaks of dismay. You tut.

“Your control over your magic is lacking, Your Grace. When was the last time you had to use your power like this?”

“I cannot look back on the day.” He grits his teeth. You merely hum in response, remaining where you are, arms crossed and leaning against a nearby tree bark. Your patience too, is much longer than his.

“It could be either your control or the size of your reserves. It could also be both. Though I suppose kings do not have to work to hone their magic if they can overpower others through sheer force.” He grits his teeth, glaring holes into your impassive stare. “Again.”

“Can you teach me?”

“Hm?” You look back, meeting his gaze. His eyes are fixed on the knife on your hand. Right now, there is rice bubbling by the fire, and you are readying an array of vegetables and meat to be mixed in with the freshly-cooked rice. It had always been just you cooking while he applied himself to continuous attempts at controlling his power.

“It seems remiss to leave you to hostess’ work,” he clarifies. At your blank stare, he feels the foreign sensation of heat rushing to his cheeks, and the urge to raise his shoulders and hunch them inward.

Eventually, you offer him the bowl of sliced cucumbers in your hand. Your eyes are clear of any judgement; the tension in his shoulders ease somewhat. “Here. Drizzle some oil, then a spoonful of the garlic and a pinch of salt.”

Eager for an easier task than honing his paltry control over his magic, Seungcheol accepts the bowl. You continue like this, him following your instructions until two steaming bowls of rice with overlaid meat and vegetables are laid before you. The cucumbers are in a separate dish, seasoned by him and with your guidance. You reach for one, popping into your mouth with a thoughtful hum.

He mirrors your movement, but makes a face almost immediately. He put too much salt. Nonplussed, you eat your third cucumber, shrugging even as he picks at his work. He gives you a skeptical frown, which you only respond to with a smile.

“You will learn.” No shred of doubt can be found in your voice.

Seungcheol does not respond. Instead, he digs into his rice, allowing warmth to fill him.

“Perhaps,” you begin, “we have been looking at this wrong.” You cup his hands between yours.

His magic sparks at your touch, and the power under your skin responds in kind. Seungcheol’s knuckles brush against your wrist, and he startles a little at the strength of your pulse. Almost immediately, a bud grows, fed not by soil, but your joint magic. In seconds, a fully-bloomed daffodil rests on his hand. He stares at the yellow petals, mouth parted in wonder.

“Concentrate on your magic, Your Grace. How does it feel?” You prompt him gently. Reluctant, he shakes off the awe, pursing his lips as he feels the flow of the magic. Seungcheol marvels at the feeling of it, how alive it feels to have your magics intertwine. It feels—

“Like dancing,” he murmurs, gazing down at your joined hands. Another daffodil has already begun to bloom.

“I see.” you murmur, gazing down at your hands, a soft smile on your features. Your fingers trace the ridges of his palm almost affectionately. Despite himself, Seungcheol revels in the touch; he is sure that even without your magic meeting and intertwining, his skin would tingle at the novelty of any kind of contact with Life. The flowers remain on his hands, but he feels the loss of warmth on his skin as you release him and step back. Your bare foot twists in the soil, and a sapling pops up from the ground. 

“Remember the feeling, Your Grace. Not pushing nor pulling, but dancing.” You gesture to the little stem popping from the ground. “Now try.”

He kneels down, resting his pinky on the little shoot. He exhales slowly, narrowing his world to the point where his finger touches Life. It grows a few inches, shedding its first, small leaves and allowing new, larger ones to grow. His success doesn’t last long, however, and the plant promptly pops into small pieces of greenery scattered around the dark soil. He twists his up head to you, eyes wide, lips pouted in dismay. You are already clapping delightedly. 

“Yes!” You clasp his hands again, excited. Despite himself, he revels in the touch; “That is much better than all the other attempts thus far! That is the answer, then. Life and Death dance together.” Magic buzzes under his skin, already reaching out to yours on instinct. You must feel it too, as the smell of flowers and citrus spikes in the air. At your feet, a small patch of bouvardia bursts into bright bloom.

Grinning, you just grasp his hands tighter.

Seungcheol yanks a few carrots out, wiping the soil away with a spare rag before laying them beside the other vegetables. They join the peppers and lettuce already filling the basket.

“You are different from what they say.” He looks up, meeting your eyes. You nestle a head of newly-harvested cabbage. “Gloomy, perhaps. But there is nothing cruel about you.”

“How magnanimous of you to say,” he responds dryly. You gesture to his part of the harvest. 

“I imagine this all must be very new.”

“It has been many millennia since I have been with Life this long,” he acknowledges. They are only distant memories, blurred and softened by the passage of time.

“What is the Underworld like?”

“Have you not seen my domain, goddess?”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Oh, but that was just your River and the Palace; it must be much more vast than that.”

“Nothing grows in my realm, except the lands of the blessed, which houses those shades to be reincarnated.” 

Your nose wrinkles as you try to imagine it. “No sunlight makes for a dreary place indeed. Truly nothing grows?”

“Well…” An idea occurs to him, and he places his hand on the soil, concentrating. Sure enough, the earth pushes up a fist-sized emerald onto his waiting palm. He presents it to you. Your eyes sparkle as you accept the gift, turning it this way and that, observing how the uncut jewel gleams as it reflects the sun. You turn back to him, inquisitive.

“Do these grow on your trees? Or do you just will them from the ground?”

“Oh! No, I merely—” Seungcheol clears his throat. He feels heat burn his ears red. “We have these, as well. It is not just an expanse of grey despair.”

You look at him curiously, likely catching the way he squirms under your gaze. Eventually, you just level him with a grin.

“I’d forgotten that the Lord of the Dead is also the God of Wealth. I would like to see this…jeweled garden of yours next time.” The emerald reflects a small, bright spot of green light on your cheek, like a little divine dimple. Somehow, he thinks he would not mind if you visit again.

Meals have quickly grown to be his favorite time. You are softer here, the less forgiving mask of researcher and instructor having been traded in favor of the genial goddess.

Today, he finally mastered his first dish—not merely balancing the seasoning ingredients like you had asked him with the cucumbers, but a full-blown, steaming bowl of stew. He did not expect to be filled with so much satisfaction at the smile that bloomed on your face at the first bite.

“This is perfect, Your Grace.”

He just nods, suddenly bashful, picking up his own spoon. As he eats, you watch him, particularly bright-eyed. There is something almost like wonder in your gaze—and he doesn’t know what to do with it. No one has ever looked at the Lord of the Dead with wonder, of all things.

Seungcheol is not quite sure what your duties are, only that you have not left your domain since your trip to the Underworld. Even while he was your captive, he had only seen you here. It is only when you flit around, uncharacteristically restless, that he even realizes you have obligations outside your realm.

“I received a message from Seungkwan yesterday,” you confess, catching his questioning look. “The mortals’ fields are suffering from my absence. Harvest is my mother’s domain, while Spring is mine; at this rate there will be little bounty.”

“You have been neglecting your duties.” His tone is more disapproval than a question.

“It would be strange for a sick goddess to be out and about, would it not?” Pointedly, you raise an eyebrow. “If I attend to them now, the gossip mill will grind anew. Not that the Pantheon is not already suspicious.”

Seungcheol glares at his feet. He hates those voices more than anything else. They were the reason he chose to sequester himself in his realm in the first place—the domain of the dead had always been regarded with fearful reverence, and Seungcheol had never bothered to contest those narratives. Even if it did mean the occasional offering from mortals who seem to think that more death will come if they do not worship, or worse, that he can have killed specific people if they bribe him with enough sheep.

“Will you be alright alone?”

He scoffs, shooing you away with a hand. “I am no blushing bride.” You look at him askance; something in your eyes tells him you are not persuaded by his act. Still, you sling your rucksack over your shoulder. 

Your disbelieving gaze shifts into something more teasing, though it seems slightly strained, as though you yourself are reluctant to leave your realm. Foolishly, he hopes that it is you being reluctant to leave him.

“Do not miss me too much, Your Grace.”

Idly, you weave gerberas and little chrysanthemums into a crown, inserting some daffodil blooms as you go. Once you are satisfied, you gesture at Seungcheol, and he hunches down, allowing you to nestle the crown on his head. It has become your routine between your return from your duties and the start of supper preparations, and always under the cherry tree that is your pride and joy—the first and largest thing you had grown with your combined powers.

“Your turn.” Against his will, Seungcheol feels heat creep up his ears and cheeks.

“It is poorly done, goddess—” You tut, cutting him off.

“I will be the judge of that.” Expectantly, you lower your head.

His own creation is much clumsier, the ranunculus drooping from where he left the weave loose in fear of the soft stems breaking. You had suggested he pair it with roses, so that the structure could be reinforced, but the romantic implication had flustered him too much.

He arranges it carefully, maneuvering the blooms to something a bit more dignified. When there is nothing more he can do to salvage it, he steps back, breath catching a little when you look up at him from where you are seated under the tree. Hastily, he looks away, praying that the flowers hide the red creeping up his ears.

Perhaps you don’t, as you waste no time, standing up and tugging his sleeve until you reach the edge of the pond. Looking down, you admire his work, turning your head this way and that, a delighted smile on your face.

Your reflection’s gaze shifts to him.

“The gerberas match your robes, Your Grace.”

“Seungcheol,” he corrects. “Please.” 

“Seungcheol,” you echo, even as your eyes briefly widen at his request. At the pointed raise of his eyebrow, you repeat yourself, amusement coloring your voice. “The gerberas match your robes, Seungcheol.”

He smiles, inclining his head. “So they do.”

The petals tickle his scalp, but he does not mind.

You tell him of your flowers—what each one means, and how to care for them, pointing out how sprites gravitate toward certain flowers depending on their tastes and even moods. He tells you of the rivers—it is not just the Styx, no matter how people like to just call it the River—and the fields, how each shade is assigned their place after they are tried before him and his Council. He tells you stories of Jeonghan and Jisoo, including how they came to be his comrades and closest friends in the Underworld. You are a better listener than he had expected.

It is a gentle existence.

Seungcheol should have known that it would not last forever.

A visitor arrives while you are away.

The thunder startles nearly all the sprites in the grove. For the first time in months, the patch of asters he had been trickling his power into explodes with a leafy pop, scattering bits of stem and purple petals into the air. Seungcheol scowls, recognizing the figure before him. King of the Pantheon he may be, but at the end of the day, his little brother remains to be a coward. And rude, to boot, swaggering in while the mistress of the realm is absent.

“Baby brother,” he acknowledges.

“It is true then,” he muses. “You are contracted to remain in her realm. She must be truly ill if even I cannot feel her presence.” 

Seungcheol does not bother to correct the assumption. He only says, “she is well enough to begin attending to part of her duties, but not to the extent of her full power.”

“Did she trick you into staying here?”

“She did not,” he replies shortly. 

“How…quaint. And clever, since the girl cannot be punished if it happens that you are here by your will.”

“My domain has remained functional in my absence, and I have attended to the concerns that have been brought to me by my comrades.”

“Indeed,” the thunder god muses. He begins to walk; Seungcheol notes the flowers trampled under his brother’s heavy footsteps, already planning how he will coax them back to life. “But what you did not anticipate was the frailty of the kingdom itself.”

“What?”

“Oh yes,” his brother seems pleased to have caught him off-guard. “It will take a while to set in, but your prolonged absence will crumble your kingdom, especially one so elaborate as yours. Your expansion projects will not hold for long, brother. The magic grows thin.”

Seungcheol grits his teeth, eyes flashing with warning. “We three have sworn an oath not to meddle in the realm affairs of another. I suggest you honor your part before the River forces that choice upon you. I will be conferring with my men on whether your observations are indeed true.”

The god before him just shrugs. “Do what you must. But do not think you can renew your contract here just because you could not heal her enough to bed her. Or even, heavens forbid, fell in love.”

Before he can reply, the god has left.

“Do you miss the Underworld?”

It has been just over three months since he had left. The Underworld is not just his domain; it is his home, the one he had ruled over for most of his existence. He chooses his words carefully. “I am needed there, just as the balance between the realms of Life and Death is needed for this world.”

“If you could,” your voice is quiet, “would you leave it?” There is the faintest tremble as the words leave you. You do not look up from the lake, eyes fixed on the still rippling surface. Your reflections remain distorted, even as he sets a gentle hand on your cheek, coaxing you to face him. He has gotten better at the flower crowns; the pink cherry blossoms resting above your brow, woven together with baby’s breath, is one of his favorite sights yet. 

“My place is there, dear Goddess, just as yours is here,” he reminds you softly. 

Even as your face is held to face him, your eyes dart away. The silence lasts entirely too long.

He bites back the urge to tell you of his conversation with his brother, and the one he had with Jeonghan right after—it is true that the Underworld, in a few months, will be in a precarious position. He cannot stay longer than what he had agreed to; he was just lucky that he did not have to breach your terms. The sunset paints the white flowers orange and your face golden. Perhaps it is for the best that there is no sun in the Underworld—the warmth will only make him remember you. 

Eventually, you sag, leaning into his touch with a sigh.

“Very well.” 

Not agreement, but acquiescence. He wonders which would have hurt more.

With every day that passes, your contract’s end creeps ever closer. You say as much, laying beside him under the cherry tree, watching the blossoms sway gently in the wind. The moon peeks from behind the flowers, pale and lovely.

“I would not mind if you visited every once in a while,” you admit. “It would be an honor to have some of the Lord of the Dead’s time, in between his busy functions as King.” 

“Consider it done,” he finally says. After a beat, his lips quirk upward into a faint smile. “And if you send my way any poor suitor that dared touch you, they will suffer Punishment tenfold,” he promises. You laugh, the sound soft against the night.

“I can handle my honor myself. Life can be much crueler than Death, Seungcheol. I have no qualms making fertilizer of lesser men.” Your grin turns into something wicked. “It is the only use I would have of their seed, after all.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land, but when it does, Seungcheol chokes on a startled laugh. You know you are toeing the line of what is acceptable banter with one of the Three Kings, but here, he is just your Seungcheol. You glance at him from the corner of your eye. While no sunlight in the Underworld is a shame, you think that it is equally a loss that no moon shines its glow over his domain; where the sun turns him golden and godly, night renders him achingly beautiful.

In the moonlight, he is almost just a man. 

“Well then,” he says, “if they are coming to my domain either way, you may find solace in the fact that there will be no love lost once they face judgement.”

You laugh again, though it sounds already wistful. 

“When Your Grace leaves, I shall keep that in mind.”

You try steal a glance, only to find that he is already looking at you. 

“We could marry,” he offers suddenly, breaking the silence. “You need not worry about suitors any longer.”

You blink at him for a moment, wondering how to respond to that. Even he does not seem to have expected the words that left his mouth. He does not seem drunk, either. For a moment, you both just stare at each other, the air charged with something that is beyond any magic.

Eventually, you exhale with an almost obnoxiously loud laugh. “You would make a fine God of Spring, Your Grace.”

Seungcheol just blinks, amused and lost in equal measures. “God of Spring? Not Queen of the Underworld?”

“I am no queen,” you brush the notion away, perhaps a little too quickly. “Me? On a throne? I would be more annoyance than ruler.” Seungcheol’s brow furrows. Instead of replying, responding to your bait, he regards you thoughtfully. You try not to fidget under the weight of his gaze. 

Surely this is alright; a non-serious offer must merit a non-serious response. Surely even he must know that the offer is absurd, even as your heart had jumped traitorously at his words. 

“For what it is worth,” he murmurs, entirely too sincere for a god whose domain is Death, “you would be a wonderful Queen.”

Tears prick at your eyes, and you look away abruptly, fighting back a sniffle. He is being entirely unfair. Blue camellias have already begun to bloom around you, encircling the entire tree. Hope is the realm of mortals, not of the gods. Or perhaps hope is the realm of love, and you had just been too foolish to dig yourself too deep into the soil. Now there are roots.

“You must marry for love, Your Grace, not for misplaced selflessness. Besides, we each have our own roles, do we not?”

Seungcheol gazes at the flowers, and then at you, a knowing look in his eyes even as your words betray the part of your heart that your realm had laid bare.

“Very well, dear Goddess,” he eventually murmurs. Your heart clenches painfully at his voice, so quietly defeated.

Not agreement, but acquiescence. You wonder which would have hurt more.

He leaves past the bloom of the cherry tree, just in time for the first batch of its fruits. The sprites flutter around him, distressed even as he attempts to make his goodbye. As you approach, they finally release him from their tittering.

“My realm will always be open to you, Your Grace.” He accepts your proffered basket of cherries with a quiet thank you, even as his body and magic screams in protest at the notion of leaving. Seungcheol feels torn in two—a part of him ready to return to the familiarity of his domain, and the other insisting that there is too much of home here for him to turn his back to it. 

There is a spot of dirt right by your cheek that he cannot seem to tear his gaze from. He thumbs it away, catching the hitch in your breath as his fingers ghost past your lips. 

It really cannot be helped. 

Seungcheol leans in, close, so close, feeling the magic thrum down to his bones. Still, he pauses, eyes flicking up from where they had been focused on your lips to ask this silent question. Instead of answering, you close the distance for him. He had meant for it to be sweet; a goodbye kiss, just one sip at the forbidden fruit before he was to part ways. He had hoped that he could have the kind of love that worked better at a distance.

He was a fool for thinking that could ever happen with you. 

You arch against him with a gasping moan, nipping at his lip with a vicious tenderness that prompts an answering groan. His hands grasp your hips, greedy, demanding, crushing you even harder against him. He had forgotten the wild goddess, the one who had first captured him by way of magic before even setting sights on his heart.

“Say my name,” he gasps.

“Seungcheol—Cheol—” He swallows your whimper into his mouth. 

Later, he will wonder how much of it was him, and how much was the magic that had burst to life when he kissed you. Later still, he will be reminded that there is no relevant distinction between the two in that moment. The smell of grapefruit lingers, faint, but notes of bergamot and blackcurrant, undercut by wood and patchouli, dominate the air.

“Follow me if you dare, goddess,” he whispers it against your lips, breath ragged.

“That is—” You break away with a gasp, your next words muffled by the second kiss he steals from your lips, “mm—entirely unfair. How am I to let you go now? There will be no other God of Spring but you.”

“It is the same for me,” he confesses. You close your eyes, burrowing yourself against his chest. Your hands grip at his robes. For a long moment, you do not speak. 

“How cruel of you to kiss me right as you are about to leave me behind.” He feels your shuddering inhale against his chest, the subtle hitch in your breath that could only come from a sob. It takes a few seconds before you release him, taking a step back. 

This has made him weak; it is what he would have said, months ago, before he understood what the humans in front of him must have felt when they begged on their knees in the name of love. Already blooming at your feet are patches of forget-me-nots and heliotropes, cruel reminders of what he is leaving behind.

“My tending to your malaise has ended, goddess. I have fulfilled my terms under the contract.”

You straighten, schooling your features into a stoic expression, even as tears linger at your eyelashes, and your lips are still swollen. Your voice is steady, almost steel-backed, as you end your River-sworn oath.

“I release you, Lord Seungcheol, from your contract, and attest that all terms have been fulfilled. I and my realm thank you for your help, Your Grace.”

As his body phases into shadow, right past the edge of your realm, you call his name, then five words that make his heart leap in hope despite himself. “And I accept your challenge.”

Jeonghan, uncharacteristically, refrains from teasing him about you, even when he had returned that day with red-rimmed eyes and a still slightly swollen lip.

Since your first encounter, there was a niggling thought at the back of his mind; that you are oriented toward some pursuit. You understood Life magic, applied yourself to it, sought more, and did not let even his position in the Underworld deter you from testing your hypotheses. In contrast, his knowledge of Death’s magic indeed rivals yours, but he has not once tried to expand it past what he already knew from millennia ruling his domain.

But if there is anyone who can solve that riddle, it would be you.

He tells himself this even as he immerses himself back into the monotony of being King, judging souls and plotting expansion projects as the need for more space grows. Hope is the realm of mortals, or, indeed, for places the sun touches. Yet he cannot help but hold onto it, amid his familiar darkness, calling on the warmth to keep the old voices at bay.

Moons later.

Seungcheol wakes by way of being hoisted up from his bed and slammed into the ground. He blinks his eyes open, groaning. If Seungkwan had enough strength to harm him, he would likely be in real trouble. As it is, the messenger god looms before him, looking more terrifying than he has ever been in all the time he has known him. Behind him are Jeonghan, Jisoo, and Chan, who all watch with varying degrees of horror and concern.

“Where is she?”

“Seungkwan, she is not—” Jisoo is there, pulling back at his robes, but Seungkwan holds fast, ignoring the God of Death. The caduceus floats dangerously near; he is not interested in finding out what he could do with it.

Amid all this mess, he still does not know what anyone is talking about. “What in the Fields is all this?”

Seungkwan’s lips pull back in a snarl. “Stop playing dumb, Your Grace,” he spits out the last word. 

“It is not Seungcheol’s fault,” Jeonghan interrupts firmly. His face is uncharacteristically grim. “He did not know of this.”

Dread begins to gnaw at him; there are precious few reasons why Seungkwan would be here, and even fewer things that would make him so angry. But it must be impossible—he parted ways with a challenge, but surely—

“She is dead?” He wrenches Seungkwan off him, breath coming out in harsh pants. “Impossible. I would have felt it.”

“Well she most definitely is not in her realm. No one has been able to reach her. There is only one other place she could be.”

Behind Seungkwan, Chan is shaking like a leaf. Seungcheol’s eyes move to him, and he shrinks under his gaze. He turns his head to look at Jeonghan and Jisoo. Jeonghan looks unsure, but defiant, while Jisoo averts his gaze, guilty.

“Where is she?” Fury and sorrow war over his heart.

“The throne room.” It is Jisoo who speaks. “She insisted that her first audience be with you.” Seungkwan turns his fury on him, already shouting something, but it is all mush in his ears. Seungcheol leaves them all, stumbling out of his bedchambers and breaking into a sprint.

“Took you long enough.” 

It’s a voice he never thought he’d hear, never so soon. Shock lances through him like a bold of lightning.

You are seated on his throne. Draped across it, more like, knees slung on one armrest and your back leaning against the other. The bowl of cherries he had been keeping beside his throne rests on your stomach. In place of your normal garments, you’re wearing a deep red robe, which shimmers like fine satin under the torchlight.

His magic sings in a way he never thought possible again. It is as though his dreams had decided to form his own version of temptation as punishment.

“What,” he croaks. “—are you doing?” 

“Sitting, of course.” 

“You are not supposed to be here.”

“No? You issued a challenge. I merely responded. You should know better than to underestimate me.” You tsk. “Jeonghan helped. Unlike your synergy with my domain, I needed to be reaped first. Death before spring, as it were. Then Chan and Joshua stepped in for the rebirth.”

You hold your hand up high, letting the sleeve of your robe drop, revealing your arm. Seungcheol inhales sharply. Spidery cracks run across your skin, pulsing gold with godly blood, but lined with mud. Looking more closely, he notices more about your appearance. The color of your irises is more faded than usual, almost translucent. A lock of hair from behind your ear is now brilliant white.

“You survived the River?” Seungcheol should have known that you would surprise him.

“Well, dear Chan planted Joshua’s flowers on his riverbank. Did you know?” Yes, he did; he visited them every day, tended to them as much as he could with the new wielding of his magic that he learned from you. “There was enough of myself for the River to recognize me. Enough in the soil to help me push the fragments of my spirit together.” 

Picking a cherry from the bowl, you hold it to the torchlight for inspection. A beat passes. You promptly pop the cherry into your mouth. 

Seungcheol lunges forward. “Stop—!” 

Your eyes narrow at the bowl of fruit as you chew thoughtfully. “Are these the cherries you stole from my orchard? I could have sworn they were a much better batch than this.” You pop the seed out onto your fingers. Red stains your lips as you lick the juices that spill from your mouth, thumb catching the drop that spills to your chin before your tongue flicks out to get that as well.

He almost falls to his knees then and there. 

Seungcheol watches, in panicked and confused desire, as you swing your legs from the armrest and stand, holding the bowl of cherries. There is a bulge on your cheek where the meat of the fruit remains. 

“It is such a shame,” you begin, his robe swishing down the steps as you descend, “that the Goddess of Spring’s illness, even with the Lord of the Dead’s tending, never did abate.”

The fabric moves like water over your body, flowing and dipping into curves he has been aching to touch for months. Stopping in front of him, you tug Seungcheol in by his robes, slotting your lips against his. He gasps, and you push the meat of the cherry into his open mouth, urging him to accept it. As the fruit lands on his tongue, you pull away, smirking when he chases your lips unconsciously. You run your tongue along the seam of your mouth, savoring his taste as you speak again.

“In his wisdom and compassion, he proclaims that the only way to preserve as much of her life as possible would be to stay with her for six months, as death is where Spring begins.” You pop another cherry in your mouth, maneuvering the fruit until another seed pops from your lips.

Seungcheol begins to see where this is going, his smile growing until his cheeks ache with the force of it. Oh, you glorious, glorious goddess.

“So the goddess blesses her fruit, mimicking the latent magic of his realm—” His mouth is already open as you lean your weight into him, accepting the fruit with a teasing nip at your bottom lip. Seungcheol revels in the way you whimper against him, in the knowledge that in matters of desire, you are evenly matched. He grasps your hips, pulling you toward him while walking you backwards. Your mouths part with a soft smack.

Hoarsely, you continue, “—And he eats six cherries to bind himself to her and her realm for half a year, as the God of Spring.”

You startle as your knees hit the edge of his throne, but he makes sure to ease you down gently. The remaining four kisses are a blur of lips, teeth, and tongue, and he swallows each pitted cherry right alongside your gasps and moans.

As the sixth passes his throat, he picks up the bowl before looking at you with a wicked smirk.

“But the Lord of the Dead, who also was her lover, could not bear to be away from her. So,” he waves a hand at the fruit, releasing your spell and allowing the latent magic of his realm to bind it to him, “he asks her, in turn, to rule with him in the Underworld for the remaining six months, as Death cannot exist without Life.”

Out of all reactions you could give, Seungcheol does not expect you to be quiet. There is something terribly vulnerable about your gaze, made all the more devastating by the slightly translucent quality of your irises. “Really?” you ask, voice small. As though you had not expected him to do this.

Seungcheol melts. “I am wholly yours, darling,” he whispers, resting his forehead against yours. He grasps your waist with both his hands, thumb tracing reverent circles on your stomach. “If you want to, stay with me too. Be my Queen. Or just be with me, as my love.”

You kiss him deeply, twisting your fingers in his hair, the cherries in his hands forgotten. “My King,” you murmur against his lips. “My God of Spring. My Seungcheol. You are all the same to me, I love you as you are.” He surges against you, crowding you against his royal seat, too busy reveling in the fact that you are here, in all your cunning and wild beauty.

It takes much longer than before, each cherry-bearing kiss dragging out much more than strictly necessary, but eventually twelve pits are scattered around you, even as your hands remain in his hair and his fingers dig bruises into your ribs.

When you finally pull away, the cracks on your skin are fully gone. Your eyes have returned to normal. The only thing that remains different is the lock of hair by your ear, so white it almost glows in the low light of the throne room. He runs his fingers through it gently, and you lean into his touch with a blissful sigh.

Seungcheol cups your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek. “How I have missed you, my darling.”

“None of that,” you murmur,  “Did I take too long?”

Later, you will face Seungkwan, hands clasped, and he will see the white streak in your hair and demand answers—later, you will talk of whether the story you had spun will be what is known, or if you will both come out with the whole truth—later, you will debate on what ritual he must fulfill for your realm to accept him—and later still, he and you will have to face the Pantheon, loath as you both are with their rules—

But that is later. Nothing could come before this—the magic the hums against his lips as he drags them across your skin, realizing he has time, so much of it, to learn, even as he has already loved you before he could keep you. And you have him, claimed him first, found a way for all the fragmented parts of him to fit, even if it meant reshaping your soul in the process.

There is only one response to that: Devotion. Completely. Utterly. You have always been entirely too lovely for him to know what to do with. But he has forever to try his damnedest.

Seungcheol leans his forehead against yours, finally content. “It does not matter. We are here now.”

“The way to see how beautiful life is, is from the vantage point of death.” — Ursula K. Le Guin

notes. quote is extremely out of context so if u read dispossessed dont come at me. with enough persuasion you may or may not have a) an nsfw epilogue throne sex, and/or b) a shorter but slightly more morally questionable version

[gyublues]

the gasp i let out… i knew it wouldn’t end well but i was too invested

like real people do ☢️ seungcheol x reader.

little is known about the apocalypse of 2017. a century later, archivists are now unveiling the relics they found from those who lived through that time.

★ seungcheol x reader.  ★ word count: 2.1k ★ genre: alternate universe: apocalypse, alternate universe: soulmates (the only way for your scars to disappear is when your soulmate kisses them goodbye), angst, romance. ★ warnings: major character death. depictions of death/violence, injuries/scars. established relationship; suggestive scenes but no real smut. set in a fictional apocalyptic world. doubling down on the angst warning; i cannot say with any certainty that this is a happy ending. ★ footnotes: this is part of my follower milestone event. viv gave me an inch (a request for angsty seungcheol) and, in turn, i am giving her a mile (a whole thing instead of just a ficlet). mahal kita, @heartepub! this will be the last hozier brainrot i offer you— for now. + much thanks to @gyubakeries and @tusswrites for beta reading! love you both to the end of the world. ❤️‍🩹

↻ ◁ || ▷ ↺ like real people do by hozier. apocalypse by cigarettes after sex. i know the end by phoebe bridgers. fourth of july by sufjan stevens. interlude: i’m not angry anymore by paramore. atlantis by seafret. end of beginning by djo. nobody’s soldier by hozier.

When the fish started dying, you did not think: This is how the world will end.

Why would you? The decimation of marine mammals and seabirds didn’t make the news. The misguided scientific breakthrough that triggered everything was kept under wraps.

It isn’t until much later, until the damage is irreparable and the Rapture is imminent, that you will realize it. 

The world as you know it is ending— but at least you have Seungcheol.

There’s some cruelty in the timing of it all. The two of you had just moved in with each other, coasting on the honeymoon phase of a long-term couple with a new thing to share. The paint on your apartment’s walls had yet to dry when the government declared a state of national emergency.

Dozens of other countries followed suit not long after, all blaming one thing or the other. Food crises. Social unrest. Cultural collapse. 

“This is crazy,” Seungcheol grumbles. 

The television is playing clips of a hurricane tearing through the Philippines. Extreme weather conditions, the reporters are saying. Due to the rise of CO₂ levels. 

You and Seungcheol are sprawled out on the floor, watching it unfold. The furniture store meant to deliver your couch has delayed shipment until further notice. 

Seungcheol has always been the sulky type, though the expression on his face nowadays has been less of his trademark pout and more of a serious frown. You can feel his growing agitation in the stiff way he holds you, in the set of his eyebrows. 

“It’s crazy,” you agree quietly, resting your hand on his knee in a bid to calm him a bit. “But it’ll pass.” 

Your touch seems to give some sort of reprieve. He rolls his shoulders. He unclenches his jaw. 

“It’ll pass,” he echoes, reaching out to intertwine your fingers. 

Neither of you knew just how wrong you could be. 

April 8, 2017 

Weird times. Cheol knows just how anxious I get when I’m cooped up, so he encouraged me to pick up journaling. I’m not sure how much this will help, but it’s worth a try. 

It’s been a month since everything has essentially gone on ‘lockdown’. The news says that all of this started because researchers wanted to regulate harmful algae. Their genetically engineered virus ended up infecting all algae, and now the majority of phytoplankton are just... dead. 

I don’t know what to write about. Terrible oxygen levels? Seafood costing a fortune? This ‘work from home’ system everyone is trying to figure out? 

I guess I should just write about the good stuff. That way, when I look back on these entries, I can remember something good.

Today, Cheol tried to fix a leaking faucet himself instead of calling for a plumber. We flooded the kitchen floor, and ended up wet from head to toe.

I cooked pasta, called mom and dad on Skype, and watched the latest episode of Santa Clarita Diet. 

Once everything opens up again, Cheol and I have to visit my parents. (And ‘get better screwdrivers’, he claims.) 

When Seungcheol first kissed you, you did not think: This man is my soulmate. 

It had been a clumsy, shy thing, traded way back when the two of you were high schoolers still stealing away from your eagle-eyed parents. Seungcheol liked to wax poetics about how it was perfect even though you know that first kiss was more a clash of teeth than anything. 

You don’t discover the truth of everything until a couple of years into dating. Seungcheol had gotten into playing basketball, and, one evening, you absentmindedly pressed your lips to a scar he had at the bend of his elbow. 

The mark smoothed out instantly. 

Seungcheol had giggled at the development before spending the rest of the night kissing every inch of your skin that he could reach— injured or not. You still think it’s one of your best memories as a couple. 

Kisses that healed scars. You hadn’t believed in the stories yourself until it had happened to you, until you realized how fortunate you were that your soulmate wasn’t halfway across the world or something. No, you had your soulmate, and he was more than willing to kiss away all your wounds. 

You had counted yourself as lucky. You still think you are, even now, as Seungcheol strokes your hair and holds you to his chest in the pitch black darkness of your apartment. 

His voice is quiet and small when he speaks up. “I’m sorry.” 

“What for?” you mutter back. 

“I’m sure this isn’t what you imagined,” he says. “For us moving in together and everything.” 

An amused snort escapes you. Of course that would be your boyfriend’s concern. There’s the rotational power outages and the merciless prices of goods due to inflation, but Seungcheol is worried about your expectations not being met. 

You shift in his hold. The days have been getting warmer and warmer, and the evenings are no exception. Seungcheol has taken to sleeping shirtless. You’re a couple of celsius away from doing the same. 

“It’s not your fault that we decided to move in together for the end times,” you say into the skin of his bare chest. 

He gives the small of your back a light thwack. “What have I said about the apocalypse jokes?” he chides lightly. 

You roll your eyes. He shouldn’t see it in the darkness, but he knows you all too well. “And don’t roll your eyes at me!”

His reprimand draws a short laugh from you. Even that feels like a monumental effort, like it's a waste of good air. 

Seungcheol doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about the two of you waking up in pools of your own sweat, doesn’t care that there are whole government newscasts on how to preserve oxygen in enclosed spaces. 

He holds you like a lifeline and kisses you until you’re breathless. 

“Cheol,” you whine against his mouth, the protest already at the tip of your tongue. The end is near; sex should be the last thing on your mind. 

But then Seungcheol’s fingers toy with the hem of your shirt, and he sounds so, so sweet when he mumbles, “Yes, soulmate?” 

That’s always gotten to you. 

“Unfair,” you groan as you work on shucking off your own clothes. “You’re so unfair.” 

In between giggles, he kisses every part of you. Again, and again, and again. 

June 15, 2017 

Cheol and I are on the run. 

He keeps telling me not to call it that because it supposedly makes us sound like criminals. I think it’s just funny, and God knows I need something to find humor in. 

As badly as I want to say “we have gone through worse before,” that would be a lie. We’re out of our apartment and trying to make our way to some place where there’s better air quality. In the meantime, we’re living out of his car. It’s so funny to me that I’ve started laughing until I’m crying. 

Anyway, the good stuff: Today’s sunset painted the sky purple. We snagged some still-cold cans of Sprite in an abandoned 7-Eleven. Cheol spotted a family of ducks crossing the road, pointed it out, and said “us, soon!”

Us, soon. It feels dangerous to hope, but that’s all I seem to do nowadays. That and being on the run. (Cheol made me strike out that last part, but whatever.) 

When Seungcheol finally admits to you that he is scared, you did not think: This means that things are much, much worse than I thought. 

Maybe because there were bigger concerns, like the car’s blinking fuel warning light and the scratches littering Seungcheol’s arms. Like the fool that he was, he had gone against your well-meaning advice to not look for help. 

He did not return unscathed. 

Your lips are pursed in a thin line as you rip open a Band-Aid. It’s one of the few that the two of you have left, and Seungcheol seems to remember the fact. He reaches out to stop you. 

“Hey, c’mon,” he urges, obviously trying to aim for levity. “You know there’s other ways we can fix me up, right?”

The frown that tugs at your lips shows that you’re still less-than-pleased at his little stunt. 

“Maybe if you didn’t head out in the first place,” you grumble. “We wouldn’t need any of this.” 

Seungcheol looks like he might push back, but seems to decide against it at the last minute. Instead, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and gives you a gentle tug. 

“It won’t happen again.” His tone is edged with remorse, enough to almost convince you. Almost. 

“No more playing hero?” you ask. 

A corner of his lip twitches upward. “No more playing hero,” he concedes before tugging at you again. 

You let him. You move closer into his space until you’re practically in his lap, until you’ve got a better view of the angry red cuts on his skin. 

Tentatively, you press chaste kisses to the injuries. Seungcheol’s hands find purchase at your waist and he tilts his head back, letting you work your magic. He’s quiet as your lips trace over each gash and wound, as you take away all the hurt with the ghost of a kiss. 

After a moment, he mumbles, “Is it bad that I want you right now?” 

“Seungcheol.” 

“Okay, okay.” A beat. “I want you all the time, actually.” 

“Shut up!”

The sound of his laughter fills the car. It’s enough to have you forgetting his murmured confession of fear, the vulnerability that he had tried so quickly to cover up with affection. For a moment, there is nothing else in the world except this, except you, except him. 

September 23, 2017

Is it weird to say that I’m starting to forget what it was like before all of this happened? Cheol is trying to assure me that it’s to be expected, that we’ll all be back to ‘normal’ soon, but I don’t even remember what normal is like anymore. 

I can’t forget. I don’t want to forget. And so here is a small list of things I took for granted: 

The first breeze that tells you winter is coming 

The kindness of people who don’t know you 

The smallest fish in the sea

Date nights with Cheol 

Clean water 

Breakfast

My parents

Cheol says there might be some biodomes ahead. Oxygen-regulated habitats. It sounds like something only the rich can afford. We don’t have a lot left between the two of us, and it’s getting harder to jump from building to building. 

But there’s something waiting for us on the other side— right? There has to be. 

May the best of my todays be the worst of my tomorrows. 

When the gunshot rang out, you did not think: This is it.

Seungcheol never gave you any reason to think that way. He had held your hand as you raided rundown grocery stores. He had positioned himself in front of you when there were stampedes. The world might have been ending, but he was with you.

He was with you even when the strangers you ran into started getting more aggressive. He was with you even when fights would break out over necessities like water and medicine. 

“People are dangerous when they're desperate,” he’d tell you softly— still his rational, kind self even when faced with the worst of mankind.

He was with you. He was kind. He was yours. 

Even when the bullet lodged itself right between his ribs. 

There is not much that you remember after that. 

The people dispersed. The cause of the fight— a can of chicken noodle soup, once your comfort food— lay forgotten on the floor.

The love of your life, staring unblinking at the sky.

When you sink to the ground, you’re moving purely on instinct. Your quivering lips press over his chest, over the red blossoming and staining his shirt. 

You kiss him. Again.

And again. 

And again. 

December 1, 2017

The kisses don’t work on bullet wounds. 

▸ Archivist’s note: The following entries are undated and some portions had been redacted/deemed untranscribable. We are led to believe that the author struggled to cope in the aftermath of their soulmate’s death. For posterity, we have still reprinted their final entries.

You’re so unfair. 

I still want you. 

Things I took for granted: ███████, you, ███████, youyouyou. 

What now? 

My love, it’s only a matter of ███████—

▸ Archivist’s note: Nothing follows.

This concludes our transcribed logs. The full collection can be viewed at the National Museum of Remembrance.

It is our deepest regret that the author is unnamed and that they cannot be properly credited. However, we know of two things with certainty. 

We know of a man named Seungcheol, and we know that he was loved. 

[gyublues]

2025 Carat Revival: Seventeen As... Week ➟ Seventeen As Tumblr Posts

[gyublues]

holy shit

Hello, Darling (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader

SUMMARY: Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you. 

WC: 21,558

AU: Supernatural, Friends to Lovers, Thriller

GENRE: Smut, Angst

RATING 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Under the cut

❀ A/N: This was an original request fill for my Haliween event on my first blog for @eoieopda. Thank you for letting me write you 20k+ of this Vernon :)

A/N 2: I AM NOT WRITING A PART 2 TO THIS ON PURPOSE. IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE AMBIGUOUS.

Reader Notes: This reader is never explicitly gendered as girl/she/her etc. so I have listed them as an afab reader.

MASTERLIST | ASK | PERMANENT TAG LIST

WARNINGS: Explicit language, recreational drinking and smoking, crude humor, some of the members of SVT are a bit of an asshole in this - it is not a reflection of how I think of them, mentions of occult practices, a NOT ACCURATE spirit summoning/ritual, mentions of a murder suicide case/event, mentions of murders, light mentions of blood, mentions of infidelity, catching someone in a sexual act (not the main couple), Vernon is a bit of an asshole at times, mentions of insecurities/confused feelings, I owe Chan and Mingyu an apology for how I wrote them, sexual tension, some angst, sexually explicit content including thigh riding, oral (f. receiving), nipple play, a lot of biting and scratching, choking/breath play, vaginal fingering, a lot of spit and cum mentioned, unprotected sex, references to sub space, Vernon takes a dom role but it is not explicitly established, Vernon gets a little bit possessive, calls reader a slut a total of one time, some light finger sucking, reader is at several points annoyed with the women in this fic which can come off a lil bitchy, general creepy scenes in woods and in some dark spooky places. 

ADDITIONAL WARNING: It is implied by the end of this fic that Vernon is possessed to some degree by a spirit in this. I make zero distinction as to whether it’s Vernon or the spirit calling the shots or if there is even a difference/distinction between the two, which poses the fair question of consent in parts of this that I do not address or provide nuance to. The lack of clarification is due to the POV of this fic being entirely from reader’s perspective and she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on until the very end, and thus we are unable to unpack to what degree this character is or is not himself. If that lack of nuance bothers you, that is valid but this is not the fic for you. 

Cool wind lifts the pages of your book, threatening to flip them over. You press your fingers flat to the page, fighting to keep them from flitting over and losing your place in the story. There’s not much daylight left in the sky as the afternoon dies to make way for the evening, but you’re eager to finish the chapter, craving to unravel the mystery you’ve been working your way through the past week. 

Atmospheric sounds play in your headphones as you read. Your legs are crossed, book in your lap as you sit on the concrete wall separating the quad from one of the sidewalks on campus. Now that there’s a chill in the air, you crave being outside, finding the opportunity to sit wherever you can on campus to crack open a book before the sunlight finally fades. 

Flipping the page, you only get a split second warning of the shout you hear through your headphones before something hits you in the back of the head. You yelp, dropping the book to the ground as your headphones clatter from your head to the grass from the impact. 

Scowling, you swivel around to see Mingyu jogging over, his hand over his mouth as apologies start pouring out of him. A flush creeps up your neck as he approaches, his friends and fellow fraternity brothers watching from afar. Some of them are bent over cackling, the others have their hands on their head, visibly stressed from hitting you with their football.

Again. 

“I am so sorry,” he pleads, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Seungcheol threw wide.” 

“Maybe play on a rec field, then?” You snap, sliding from the wall, picking up your headphones and book. You kick the football toward him, irritated. “There’s literally so many other places you can play. Don’t you have a yard at your little frat house?” 

“It’s being used for float building for the Halloween parade.”

“Convenient.” 

For the most part, Mingyu isn’t so bad. He’s a little loud and obnoxious, but he’s always nice and he does seem to mean it when he picks up the football and apologizes again. It’s more than a lot of his fraternity brothers would do, though it’s not much now that they’ve managed to hit you twice with the same ball. 

Someone like Mingyu wouldn’t even pay attention to you if it weren’t for Vernon, though. As Mingyu retreats, the reason you’re even friends with Mingyu appears on the sidewalk, coming toward you with his hands in his pockets, hood pulled up on his head and headphones on. He lifts his chin in greeting to Mingyu, but Vernon’s brown eyes focus on you, his true destination. 

Vernon pulls his hood and headphones down when he’s within a few feet, jerking his thumb at Mingyu. “What did he want?” 

“He was apologizing for hitting me with the football. Again.”

“Again?” 

“Yeah. They hit me earlier.”

Vernon hums, displeased. He doesn’t say much, instead turning to lean against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets again.

The last embers of sunlight hit his side profile, stunning you to momentarily silence. In a halo of fiery light, Vernon looks like a god. His light brown eyes turn burnished gold, reflecting the dying sun. His hair is spun copper, strands dancing in the breeze as he watches the world around him. 

Not for the first time, you think that you understand why Helen of Troy inspired a thousand ships to come after her. Vernon’s face is the kind of thing you’ve read about in all of your mythologies and folktales for your Occult Studies major, so beautiful that it can’t be real.  

If Vernon notices you staring, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes watch the other members of his fraternity play football, one of them crashing into someone on a lawn chair. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, wearing his second-hand embarrassment silently as he watches them apologize for the millionth time. 

Vernon is nothing like the rest of his fraternity. You’re still unsure why he even joined. It was something he had done his freshman year going into school, wanting to put himself out there and make friends. 

He certainly looks the part - he’s handsome and in shape from playing soccer in highschool, and he’s got good fashion sense for a college student. But he’s quiet and a little awkward, unsure how to navigate conversations with most people who aren’t in his immediate circle of friends and shy to an almost crippling point. 

It had taken Vernon seven weeks of being your lab partner before he finally spoke more than three sentences to you. For the longest time, you’d assumed it was because he thought you were beneath him. It wouldn’t have surprised you. Greek life on campus tended to stick with their own. 

Now, you know it was because he didn’t know what to say or how to start a conversation. You’d only managed to get him to talk to you when he noticed a song by Frank Ocean bleeding from your headphones, piquing his interest. 

Four years later, talking to Vernon is easy. Well, maybe not easy. You’ve got years of friendship between you now and you know what makes Vernon tick, but the butterflies you get when you’re around him and the way your heart swells when he does something so simple makes it a little harder. 

Like now, as day fades to evening and the world is awash in purple and gold, and he’s looking at the watercolor sky like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, completely unaware that while he’s in awe of the sky, you’re in awe of him. 

Vernon jerks forward, making you flinch. You have no idea what he’s doing until his hand is in front of you, smacking down the football that has been sent your direction again. You huff in frustration, watching as this time it’s Chan who jogs over to get it. 

“Are you all fucking serious?” You demand. He slows his approach, eyes darting to Vernon as though looking for help from his friend. Vernon says nothing, bending over to pick up the football and toss it to Chan. “I should shove that football up your ass.” 

“Maybe not the football,” Chan quips, catching it. He looks you up and down, head cocking to the side a little. His mouth lifts at the corner and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that makes you even angrier. “I’m open to other things, though?” 

“You’re so gross.”

“What? You’re hot when you’re mad.” 

“Go away, Chan!” You shriek, flustered and angry as you spin around to grab your things and storm off. You only get a few feet before realizing Vernon is still leaning on the wall. “Are you coming or not?”

He scrambles after you, nearly tripping over his own feet to catch up. Chan is snickering as he runs back toward where the others wait for him, yelling a trilling bye toward you and Vernon as you charge north toward the main campus parking lot. 

“He’s so annoying,” you gripe, shoving your book in your bag. Vernon hums, noncommittal. You glance at him. “Nothing more to add?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s cause they think you’re hot, Lovecraft.”

You smile at the nickname, fondness sweeping through you. He’d started calling you Lovecraft your freshman year after learning about your major, deciding that it just fit. You like it - at least coming from Vernon, who understood Occult Studies was more than just spooky and magic and the metaphysical. 

“They think anything with a set of tits and a hole to stick their dick in is hot. I’m sure a blowup doll would blow their fucking mind.” 

Vernon’s mouth twitches at that. “You’d hate Chan’s room.”

“Don’t give me that visual!” 

His laugh is warm. He bumps shoulders with yours, grinning at you as the two of you walk. You feel the telltale sign of your traitorous heart beating extra hard at his closeness, your gaze shooting to the floor as you try to hide any evidence of your feelings that might lurk on the surface of your expression. 

Thankfully, Vernon never seems to notice. You’re glad that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’re very good at hiding how you feel, but he is equally bad at picking up on it, totally oblivious to the long stares and the way you fumble over your words when he gets too close. 

Vernon has that effect on a lot of people. His proximity to being attractive has always outweighed his inability to make small talk among the female population on campus. The amount of times you’ve watched girls openly flirt with him and whisper about what it would take to get him to crack was insurmountable. 

Autumn wind kicks up leaves at your feet. Neither one of you says anything as you walk, simply content to be together. It’s one of your favorite things about him, never feeling pressure to perform or to have conversation. Being with Vernon is just… easy. Natural, even. 

The parking lot is slowly emptying as the rest of the late afternoon classes end. A few unlucky evening class students pull in, slamming their car doors and rushing off to their auditoriums. Vernon’s car is easy to find and you let yourself in, sliding into the passenger seat like it’s yours - it kind of is. 

“Pizza?” he asks, engine humming to life. 

“Please.” His lips twitch in a soft smile as he nods, flipping on the radio. You hum, leaning forward and turning up the volume. “I love this song.” 

Vernon’s smile increases as you lean back, the sounds of Emotional Oranges filling the car. He rolls the windows down once he’s on the road proper, cool wind kissing your skin. You pull your feet up onto the seat, leaning toward the window as the fading twilight brushes past you. 

Outside the car, the world smells like pine. You take a deep breath in, loving the way the October air feels just right. Fall is always your favorite time of year, and with the music playing in the background, wind in your hair and Vernon drumming on the wheel, you don’t think there could be anything better in the world. 

Sal’s Pizzeria glows against the dark, a beacon of hunger and hope against the night. The giant pizza slice on the roof blinks rapidly, the neon a little bit broken. Gold light glows through the windows as you climb out the car, gravel crunching beneath your feet. 

A bell chimes as the door opens and a group of students pour out, laughing and carrying boxes. Vernon catches the lip of the door and holds it open for you, gesturing you to enter first. The smell of bread and warm air hits you in the face, your lips curving as you tell the girl at the host stand two.

College students and local residents fill the restaurant. The hostess leads you to a booth in the corner, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you hop-slide your way in. She hands you the menus, her eyes lingering on Vernon as she does, lips twitching when she asks if there’s anything else you need. When he doesn’t answer, you shake your head, shooting her a thin-lipped smile. 

She’s hesitant to leave but she does, casting one last look over her shoulder as she heads back to the stand. You look at Vernon too, studying him. He’s none the wiser, brown eyes scanning the menu even though you know he’s going to order the same thing. 

When the server comes, Vernon does as expected: orders a diablo pizza with a side of fries. You shake your head a little, asking for the white feta pizza, handing over the sticky menus. When the server is gone, Vernon leans back in the seat, sipping his coke as he drinks you in, wordless. 

You kick your feet up on his side of the booth next to him and he lets you, patting your ankle fondly when he sets his drink down. He has no idea how torturous that alone is, the simple comfort of his familiar touch enough to send your eyes averting across the room, trying to control your breathing. 

“What are the favorites and least favorites this week?” he asks, balling up the paper his straw came in. 

Favorites and least favorites is a game you like to play with him. It’s not so much of a game as it is a routine where you tell him your favorite piece of material from your classes and your least favorite. Most people dismiss your major as too peculiar for interest. No one knows what you’re supposed to do with Occult Studies but it fascinates you.

And Vernon, who has always had a keen interest in the goings on in your classes and homework. 

“We’re in the psychology of the occult module.” He nods, eyes fixed on you. “Mostly covering the psychology of community as it relates to the occult. We have sections on covens, clans, actual cults, sects and more modern mass followings.” 

“Hmm. So like… Twitter stans.”

You smile a bit. “Something like that. We covered the maenads in class today. Ever heard of them?” He shakes his head and you lean forward, elbows on the table. “They were women in Ancient Greece devoted to the god Dionysus and they were believed to be possessed by the god. They were said to have wild parties in the woods with one another where they’d do all manner of sordid things, all while under the influence.” 

“A Friday night for Chan.”

“Exactly. A lot of historians call them crazy and speculate they were raving mad, but if I was a woman under the thumb of men in Ancient Greece…”

“Shit, I’d get fucking crazy in the woods with my friends too.”

“Exactly. It was more about reveling in female companionship and being unfettered from the male-dominated societal norms.” 

The arrival of your dinner interrupts the conversation. Both of you lean backward, making room for the hot plates and Vernon’s basket of fries. You slide your feet down from his side of the booth, leaning to grab the red pepper flakes from the corner of the table. He grabs salt, immediately dusting his fries.

“Ugh, you could have at least let me have some first.” He looks up at you through his lashes, brows raised. “They’re already salted, Vernon.”

“Not enough.”

“You know, if you were haunted or possessed you’d never want the salt.” He gives a questioning hum. “Salt is used in purification rituals. It’s believed spirits hate it because it’s used in banishing spells and rituals. It’s why a line of salt keeps them out.”

“Good thing I’m hungry, not haunted.” 

You snort, taking a piece of your pizza from the tray. “Speaking of haunted, are we going to your Halloween party this weekend?”

“My halloween party?”

“You are in the fraternity, Vernon. Yes, yours.” 

He makes a face and tears into his pizza. You shake your head as he lets out a sound, huffing and tilting his head backward as he tries to deal with the too-hot food in his mouth burning him. “Ya,” he says around the slice. “I guess so.” 

“What are you going to wear?” He raises a brow at you, swallowing down the hot bite. You pout, sagging in your seat. “Dude, you have to dress up. You can’t just go in a black shirt and a baseball hat.” 

“Why not?” You kick him under the table and he winces, ducking down to rub at his shin. “Shit, fine. Okay, what do I go as?”

You grin, picking up your appropriately cooled pizza. “Leave it to me.” 

-

“This makeup itches,” Vernon mutters, looking up at you through long lashes. You hush him, putting the finishing touches on the black line down his mouth. “Couldn’t I have gone as something easier?”

“What is easier than black jeans and a jacket you already own, huh? Stop talking, I’m gonna fuck up this line and this makeup is perfect so far.” 

It’s true. You’ve outdone yourself on turning Vernon’s face into a skull, taking inspiration from American Horror Story for the costume. Vernon is a low effort kind of person, so getting him into costume is a lot easier when all it requires are clothes he already owns and makeup that you have to do anyway. 

Stepping away from him, you admire your handy work. His eyes are painted black, hollowed out for the skull. His dark hair is slicked back, the perfect skeleton. He looks… good. Painfully good, which makes you nervous and turn away quickly, heart flipping. You’re not sure what it says about you that Vernon staring at you while painted as a deadly skeleton makes your heart race but… it does. 

“How do I look?”

“Terrifying,” you admit, turning back to him. “But good.” 

He grins and if it were anyone else but Vernon, you’d be terrified. Maybe you did a little too good of a job. 

“What are you again?”

“One of the witches from American Horror Story Coven. Close your eyes, I’m going to use setting spray.” 

Darkness blankets the sky by the time you’re both scrambling down the steps and into an Uber. The driver does a double take when they see Vernon, eyes watching nervously in the rearview as you give him the address. 

“That’s at a closed down gas station.”

“Yep,” you agree, leaning back into the seat.

The driver mutters something about fucking college kids and fucking holiday but otherwise says nothing about the questionable location. He doesn’t need to know that a mile from the abandoned gas station is also an abandoned farmhouse notorious for unsanctioned parties and being distinctly haunted. 

Haunted isn’t your favorite thing in the world. You didn’t like to mess with ghosts, despite your area of study. You were infinitely more interested in the intersectionality of occult studies and modern culture and society and less enthused about the idea of drinking stale beer from a foamy tap in the middle of a murder house. 

If the driver thinks there’s anything weird about other people being dropped off at the gas station - you’re sure he does - he says nothing, ignoring the two of you as you get out of the car and dive into the night air. Vernon is close behind as you take a few steps away from the car, eyeing the old gas station.

The windows have long since been broken and cracked, foggy with time. The stations are stripped of their labels and stickers, just white residue left behind and no pumps. A few people lounge around the building smoking, dressed in a variety of halloween costumes. 

Nervous, you look up at Vernon. His smile is small and he juts his chin toward the dirt road that leads through the woods. Nodding, you both fall into step, sand and gravel crunching beneath your feet as you go. Vernon recognizes a few people associated with his fraternity and others, throwing a casual wave or a nod as you pass by people.

Music echoes down the road. It’s a little less foreboding in the dark trees when you can hear Michael Jackson’s thriller coming down the way and the dull roar of voices. The bend in the road straightens out, the line of trees giving way to flat land. 

The farmhouse is pretty, even in old age. It’s two stories, glowing from within from all of the battery lanterns and lights being used to light the party. A generator roars somewhere behind the house, light flooding the yard where people mingle and crowd the kegs. 

A chill slithers down your spine as you enter the yard, the broken gate doing a poor job at keeping trespassers out. Even with the lighting, shadows dance as you navigate through people, the strange anxiety crawling up your throat worsening as you near the house. 

Vernon pulls the sleeve of your dress so that you’re closer to him, his fingers steady and calm as he leads you up the steps where you can clearly hear Mingyu’s howling laughter inside. 

Bright light fills the house. As do a crush of people and beer pong tables, the abandoned home turned into a raucous display of drinking and debauchery. If you weren’t so distracted by the wave of people pushing you into Vernon’s arm, you might be impressed at how much you could forget the farm home was abandoned because someone had been murdered here. 

“I need a drink,” Vernon announces, continuing to pull your arm after him as he plunges toward what used to be the kitchen.

It’s where you find Mingyu dressed as a lifeguard - and loudly yelling directions. He blows his whistle shrilly when he sees you and Vernon, pointing at the two of you and spitting the whistle out of his mouth to scream, “NOT WET ENOUGH!”

“What a weird way to offer drinks,” you mutter. Chan, who seems to be on lifeguard assistant duty - while dressed in a horrid felt dinosaur costume - scrambles to get you drinks, spilling rum as he tips it over into a cup. “No ice?” 

“There’s not a fridge,” he pouts, shoving the cup in your hand. His eyes drink you in. “Are you a hot goth or?” 

Instead of answering him, you roll your eyes and turn to Mingyu, who blows the whistle again. Both you and Vernon wince, the latter throwing back his drink to chug it all before thrusting the cup back at Chan. “That’s gonna get real tiring.” 

Mingyu comes around the corner of the old island countertop, pumping his fists in the air to the music rattling through the house. “Vernon you look fucking sick!” He and Vernon do the little hand-clap-to-half-hug men do. Mingyu turns to look at you, eyes dark. “Are you like, a hot goth?” 

Your smile is plastic as the whistle around Mingyu’s neck. “Sure.” 

Mingyu, dancing and moving toward the living room, reaches out to you. “Come dance with me! This song fucks.”

“Decidedly not!” 

“Go ahead, Lovecraft!” Vernon urges, pushing you toward the obnoxious lifeguard with a shit-eating grin as he imitates Mingyu’s voice. “This song fucks.” 

Before you can chastise him for egging his fraternity brother on, Mingyu has you sucked into the dancing crowd, throwing his hands in the air as he swivels his way through the crowd. You try to knock back as much of the lukewarm drink as you can, cringing at the burn of cheap rum and not-iced coke. 

Bodies pressed in. Mingyu is close to you, a hand going to your waist. You frown and look over your shoulder, eyes scanning for Vernon. You know he’s probably lingering on the edge of the crowd, watching you with a smirk over the rim of his cup as he watches Mingyu roll his hips toward you.

“Mingyu,” you snap, turning back to him when you don’t find Vernon. “It’s the Monster Mash, it doesn’t require grinding.” 

“I mean, if you wanna graveyard smash…”

“You’re all insufferable! All of you!”

Still, you sway back and forth, trying to stomach finishing the rest of your horrid drink. It takes an effort, but shaking your head at Mingyu and judging him silently gets you most of the way through it until Soonyoung - dressed in the same tiger costume from last year - crashes through the crowd into the pair of you, thrilled when he realizes who it is he has slammed into. 

“Hot goth!” he screams, pointing at your outfit. “Where is your other half?” 

You don’t have to ask what Soonyoung means and both the drink and the accusation have you flushing. You shrug a shoulder, eyes surveying the party. Before either of you can find Vernon, Joshua appears at Soonyoung’s side, leaning to his ear to murmur something. Soongyoung’s face lights up and he grins at you, grabbing you by the wrist to yank you through the crowd. 

“Hello?” you demand, pulling your wrist from his grip. “Have you heard of asking?”

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

“The last time I heard that was promptly followed by you showing me that stupid peach tattoo on your ass.”

“First of all, that tattoo is amazing.” He heads to the stairs, which you eye warily. “Second, Vernon is already upstairs, come on. You like weird ghost shit, you’ll like this.”

Without waiting for a reply, Soonyoung thunders up the stairs. You cringe, waiting for a foot to go through a dry plank and send him falling. It doesn’t happen, though. Tentatively, you creep up the stairs after him, eyes glued to each of the steps as you go. 

It’s colder upstairs, the windows in the rooms open to the elements. You shiver, looking down the hall to Soonyoung heading into a bedroom. You tentatively follow him, stopping at the threshold of the doorway to survey the people inside.

Vernon is one of them, back pressed to the wall near the window, his eyes focused on his boots in front of him, hands tucked into his pockets. A girl next to him dressed as Red Riding Hood is leaning close, speaking to him rapidly. Nothing on his face indicates he’s listening. Then again, his expression is hard to read while painted as a skull, mystifying and dark as you follow Soonyoung down the hall. 

Soonyoung goes straight toward a pile of things on the floor next to Seungcheol’s feet in the corner of the room. The president of Vernon’s fraternity pays Soonyoung no mind, eyes totally focused on the pretty fox in front of him, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

Suddenly, the room feels too intimate for you, like everyone is a couple tucked away. You have half a mind to go back downstairs when Vernon looks up at you, dark eyes zeroing in. His face is ten times more intense with the skull paint, pinning you to the spot. 

Everything dulls to the background for a second. You don’t dare breathe, too afraid to shatter the moment as he stares at you, unblinking. His eyes glitter in the darkness of the room, two amber pools reflecting the moonlight. 

Joshua enters the room behind you, shattering the spell as you step out of his way. You turn back to Vernon, clearing your throat. He pulls a hand from his pocket, beckoning you over. Mouth dry, you obey, skittering over toward him quickly as you observe the materials that Soonyoung is sifting through in the corner. Candles. Matches. Salt. A bell. 

“Soonyoung,” you say sharply, slowing your step. “Why do you have ritual materials?”

He looks up at you, his grin wide. “Told you that you’d like this.” 

“What is this?” You turn back to Vernon, who shrugs one shoulder. 

Hesitantly, you take the unoccupied space next to him, casting the girl at his side a cursory glance. She observes your costume. “Are you a hot goth?” 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, head thunking against the wall as you watch Soonyoung stand, materials in hand. Vernon coughs next to you, trying to cover his laugh. You glare at him sidelong and he says nothing, but his skeleton mouth is screwed up in a smirk. “What is he doing?”

“No clue.”

Soonyoung walks over to the bedroom door, looking down the hallway before shutting it. You fight a shiver, disliking how quiet the room becomes, cut off from the rest of the world. The window near you is the only source of light, and the only one shut on the second level of the abandoned home. 

“What time is it?” Soonyoung asks Joshua.

“11:45.” 

“Perfect.” Soonyoung spins, eyes falling on you. “Want to talk to a ghost?” 

All eyes turn to you in the room. You open and close your mouth, confused. “What?” 

“Do you want to talk to a ghost? Like someone who died?” 

Your eyes drift to the candle, bell and matches in Soonyoung’s hand. A tingle spreads over your skin and your spine stiffens. “Soonyoung that better not be to invite a spirit in.” 

His grin grows. “Come on, you are the ghost major or whatever. You should be thrilled to do this.”

“Occult Studies. And that doesn’t mean I fuck with the unknown or make a mockery of the dead. We’ve been over this.” 

“It’s basically the same thing, come on. You learn it all in class.” 

“No.” 

He pouts. “You’d be best at it, though. Rumor has it that when the veil is thinnest, you can talk to the spirit that haunts this house.” 

“The murderer? Or the murdered?” Soonyoung shrugs. “I doubt either would be very happy a bunch of drunk college kids are trying to bother them. My answer is no.” 

“Ugh. I was kind of counting on you doing it.” 

“Do it yourself.”

“I don’t study ghost shit!”

“Occult! Studies!”

“Ghost shit,” Soonyoung assures the room confidently.

“I’ll do it,” Vernon sighs, pushing off the wall. “Leave her alone.” 

Soonyoung’s eyes are alight as Vernon steps toward him. You reach out to grab his wrist, pulling him back. “Don’t.” 

“It’s fine.”

“Vernon.”

His eyes are soft when he looks at you. As soft as the terrifying makeup allows, anyway. “It’s fine, Lovecraft. Let me. He’ll stop asking.”

“I’m right here.”

“We know,” you and Vernon say in unison. You feel warm, chewing the inside of your cheek before nodding. You drop his wrist and turn to Soonyoung, eyes hard. “Give me that, you’ll do it wrong. Tell me what the mythos is.”

“What math? You need math?”

“The story, Soonyoung. What is the fucking story of this house?”

“Right. Apparently some dude murdered his girlfriend in here and then hung himself in that closet.” He points to a door you didn’t see when you walked in, dark and far away from the window. “Legend says at midnight, ring the bell three times and step into the closet with a candle. If the candle blows out, the spirit is with you. If it doesn’t, it didn’t work.” 

Grabbing the items from Soonyoung’s hand, you look at Vernon. “When you’re done, ring the bell three times again and say: Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.” 

“Thank you,” Vernon repeats gently, taking the bell from your hand. “I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Everyone else take candles,” you direct, voice rough with irritation. You glare at Soonyoung and Seungcheol in particular as you shove candles in their hands. “Stand in the four corners of the room. Did you bring sage, Soonyoung?”

“Bring what?”

“Of course not, why would you?” Everyone starts moving to the corner of the room, using matches to light their candles. The room feels unnaturally cold now, despite your long sleeves. Turning back to Vernon, you say, “It’s probably a stupid rumor.”

“Probably.”

“If your candle goes out, just ring the bell, say the words, and dismiss it.” 

“Right.” 

“You don’t have to do it, Vernon.”

His mouth kicks up at the corner. “I’m not worried, Lovecraft. You are.” 

Letting out a breath, you give a laugh that’s only half-there. You are nervous. You don’t like the idea of inviting a spirit into Vernon’s space, and though Soonyoung’s little ritual doesn’t really sound right, you’re not going to correct him. 

Still, you feel unsettled as you light your own candle and then Vernon’s. He cradles it in his hands as you escort him to the door. Tucked under your arm is the canister of salt. Crouching down, you pour the salt in a thick white light in front of the door, careful to ensure that there are no breaks and that it covers the entire entryway from corner to corner.

“Be careful when you step over it and when you open the door,” you instruct, standing up. The candle in your hand flickers unsteadily. “Don’t break the line. The idea is that if Soonyoung’s stupid summoning works, the spirit can’t get through the salt.”

“Banishing and all that,” Vernon recalls with a smile. Your heart flips. “I remember.” 

“Come on, you only have a minute!” Soonyoung calls eagerly. 

Shooting him a glare that silences him, you turn back to Vernon. “Ring the bell three times. Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Got it.” 

Unsettled you shuffle back from the door a little bit. You don’t go to a corner of the room like you’ve asked everyone else, unwilling to totally leave him by himself. Heart hammering, you hold your candle in front of you, cradling the warmth like a second heart. 

Vernon is unbothered. You can see it in the loose set of his shoulders and the way he sighs, already tired of Soonyoung’s antics. The party downstairs feels a million miles away as you watch Vernon stand in front of the closed closet door, looking up at it, unimpressed.

“It’s midnight,” Joshua whispers from the corner. 

Vernon doesn’t make any sound that he’s heard Joshua, but he lifts the little bell in his hand. It’s a hand bell, the wood grip worn and cracked. You wonder where Soonyoung got it from, having half a mind to ask him when the first clear ring of the bell disrupts your thoughts. 

The note sings through the air, your blood turning to ice in your veins. It feels like your pulse is throbbing in your neck as Vernon rings the bell hard a second time, the sound chasing the echo of the first. The third ring feels like a tremor in the air, warbling as Vernon quickly sets the bell on the floor, careful not to extinguish his candle flame. 

You hold your breath when he sets his hand on the doorknob. No one makes a sound as he twists it open. He pulls on the door and it comes away with a silent swing. The darkness on the other side is gaping, like there’s no back to the closet, just a wide hole of nothing. 

Vernon doesn’t seem to mind. He steps over the line of salt carefully until he’s in the middle of the closet, pivoting to face you. The orange flicker of his candle casts a haunting glow over his skull face. You swallow down a brief moment of fear before he winks and leans forward to pull the door shut.

For a long moment, there’s nothing. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, the thudthudthud so loud you swear everyone else in the room can hear it. No one moves, everyone fixated on the door. The silence is so piercing that your ears start to ring, the sound of the party completely unreachable over your mounting anxiety. 

“Well?” Soonyoung whispers somewhere behind you. “I guess it didn’t work.” 

Vernon begins pounding on the door. Someone screams behind you followed by a bunch of curses. You leap forward, heart in your throat as Vernon screams something unintelligible on the other side. You drop your candle, completely throwing caution to the wind as you grab the doorknob and twist. 

It doesn’t move.

“Vernon?” you ask, voice spiking with fear. “Let go of the doorknob, let me turn it. Vernon!”

The pounding doesn’t stop. He is screaming in a way you’ve never heard before, his fists rattling the door against the frame. You shriek his name back, yanking at the door frantically, your panic mounting as he screams and- 

When the door opens, you nearly fall backward with the force of it, stumbling over your feet. Soonyoung steadies you, to your surprise. You hadn’t realized he had left his corner of the room to help, his hand warm and firm. 

Vernon stands on the other side of the door, mouth pressed in a firm line. 

“You fucking asshole,” Soonyoung swears, throwing his unlit candle at Vernon. Vernon laughs, dodging it. “You fucking suck.”

“Yeah, well don’t ask me to do stupid shit.” Vernon steps out of the closet, eyes dropping to you. His mirth is edged with something sharp, a glint in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. “I was kidding.”

“You fucking asshole!” You screech at him, slamming your hands into his chest and knocking him back a little. He smirks and says nothing, letting you hit him a few times. “Why would you do that to me? What is wrong with you?” 

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you sound really fucking sorry.” Anger sours your mouth. Turns your words to poison. Your throat tightens up and you feel the telltale sign of tears, equal parts livid, embarrassed and offended that Vernon would do such a thing. “Fuck you, Vernon.”

Someone laughs awkwardly as you storm off. Vernon calls your name but you ignore him, bolting down the hall and down the stairs. The wood creaks uncertainty under your feet but you don’t care. You want to be anywhere but here, the hot lick of embarrassment burning your heels as you go. 

You blow past Chan on your way out, his bleary eyes following you. “Nooo,” he whines. “Hot goth, come back to me!”

“Shut up, Chan!” You scream, slamming down the steps as you go.

People nearly dive out of your way, swiveling to watch the wake of your wrath as you leave the party. You ignore them, not wanting anyone to see the hot tears that spill over as you hit the dirt road, boots crunching. 

It’s hard to tell what’s worse. The fact that Vernon had played a joke on you he knew you wouldn’t like, or the way you had panicked and lost all resolve to be the one in charge. Both feel awful, but the sting of Vernon’s joke is the sharper of the two, cutting you to the quick.

Vernon has never dared to do something like that in your entire friendship. You have no idea why he did it now. Was it because he had an audience? Was he drunk? Was he actually like the members of his fraternity he associated with? 

You had no idea, which only made things worse. Above anyone else, you thought you knew Vernon best. But perhaps, you didn’t know Vernon at all, which was far worse than any sort of haunted spirit you could imagine. 

-

The next morning, you don’t hear from Vernon. It makes your blood boil, a nasty feeling forming in the pit of your stomach as you put your phone on Do Not Disturb. You put on a big set of headphones, blaring music to keep you sane as you set about cleaning your apartment furiously. 

It’s an okay distraction. The lull of clinical cleaning is nice and the music soothes the sting that nips at your heels like an incessant hound. When you run out of things to clean, though, you’re forced to face the fact that it’s nearly evening and Vernon still hasn’t said anything to you.

You don’t want to text him first. Your pride is wounded from the night before and you’re shocked he hasn’t apologized - he should apologize. The silence only makes you angrier, and with nothing left to clean in your apartment, you decide to think of all the things you’re going to say to him when he does finally reach out to you. Because you’re not saying anything first. 

Vernon’s radio silence makes it nearly impossible to sleep. You toss and turn in bed, unable to get comfortable, checking your phone and social media. It’s difficult to remember the last time you went over twenty four hours without hearing from Vernon, and the realization forms a pit in your stomach.

Maybe the silence was good. Maybe you were too reliant on his friendship, the one constant that you had grown far too fond of. Maybe he was into that girl last night, making a show of you because he wanted to make her laugh or maybe he was just putting you in your place.

The insecurity wars with your logic that Vernon wouldn’t do that. He’s never had a history of that kind of behavior before, and though he might tease you on occasion, you have never been the butt of his jokes or the target of his humor. 

Jokes like that aren’t even Vernon’s style. He doesn’t like cruelty, and that’s what pretending to be screaming for help was. It was cruel, and strange and it hurt. 

What hurts more is the silence continuing into a second day. By the late afternoon, though, the hurt has morphed into something else. You sit on your couch, staring at the phone on your coffee table. Your pride was begging you not to text him, but your worry was starting to chip away at you. 

Heaving a sigh, you pick up the phone. The tap of your nails against the glass screen is loud in your quiet apartment, the final rays of sun melting through the blinds while a candle burns on the counter. 

[You 5:14 PM]: So are we not talking? 

Setting the phone down, you immediately start making dinner. It doesn’t matter that you’re too early. You’re nervous waiting for his text back, which makes you feel ridiculous. Then you feel ridiculous for feeling ridiculous, validating yourself that it is totally okay to have feelings and be nervous.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m exhausting.” 

By the time you’ve had dinner and watched a full episode of Alice in Borderland, Vernon has said nothing. Worry eats away at the lining of your stomach. You pause the show and pick up the phone again, dialing his number.

On the other side of the line, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. 

You hang up when you get the automated voicemail, frowning. It’s all strange, and a nagging feeling tugs at your nervous system but you can’t put your finger on it.

Just as you set the dishes in the sink, your phone starts to ping. You’re grateful no one can see you in your apartment as you lurch to the phone, picking it up and unlocking it to see if it’s Vernon. It isn’t, but your heart starts to thud when your group chats with other friends and classmates in projects flood with the same rumor over and over.

A dead body had been found on campus. 

Vernon doesn’t live on campus, but it doesn’t stop you from calling him again. And again. And again. When the voicemail turns on a fourth time, you seethe into the phone, fingers gripping it so hard it feels like it’ll break. “Call me back you fucking asshole! Someone died on campus and you’re not answering and I just need to know it’s not you. Fuck!” 

Time passes and you get so desperate you do the one thing you didn’t want to do unless it was dire circumstances. You hit dial and bring your phone up to your ear, pinching the bridge of your nose to prepare yourself for when Mingyu answers the phone. 

“Am I dreaming?” he says by way of greeting. “It was the life guard costume, right?” 

“Mingyu, it wasn’t a costume. You were shirtless with board shorts.” 

“But it worked, right?”

“Have you heard from Vernon?” 

“Nah, why?” 

“Like you haven’t seen him at all since the party?” 

“Mmm. I don’t think so.” There’s a muffled sound on the phone like he’s trying to cover it when he yells, “Chan, have you seen that fuck head Vernon?” You wait impatiently, holding the phone further from your ear as Minguy yells. “Chan hasn’t seen him either.” 

“Isn’t that weird? I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“Nah, I mean we never really see him. Usually he’s with you.”

“Right. And he isn’t with me, I haven’t seen him since the party.” 

“Well have you checked his apartment?” You hesitate. “Helloooo?”

“No.”

“Well. Do that. He’s probably sleeping or some shit, who knows.” 

“Great. You were so helpful,” you deadpan.

Mingyu sounds genuinely happy when he says, “I’m so glad!”

You hang up the phone before he can say anything else. 

Chewing your nail, you stare at the wall, mind racing.  Mingyu has a point that it’s normal for them to never see Vernon. He is usually with you, or he’s solitary. There is little in between. He also has a point that most of the time if you were looking for Vernon, you’d just swing by his apartment. 

The thought of seeing him again makes you want to curl in on yourself, but your concern weighs out. You get dressed and grab your keys, trying not to let your fear of what you might find there keep you from leaving. 

Opening the door to your apartment, you get one foot out the door and then slam directly into Vernon. You reel backward, eyebrows shooting up as he steadies you by the elbow, equally surprised to see you as though he wasn’t at your doorstep. 

“Easy there,” he greets, a half smile on his face.

Vernon looks totally normal. He definitely doesn’t look like he was murdered, and he’s dressed in his usual jeans, plain black shirt, and a backwards hat. For a second, you just stare at him, totally shocked and utterly relieved he isn’t dead.

Then, the anger comes. 

You slam a hand into his chest, cursing at him. “Where?” Slap. “Have?” Slap. “You?” Slap. “Been?” 

He takes the blows in stride. His chest is firm beneath your palm, heart beating steadily. Alive. And now that you’ve established he’s not dead, you feel so much anger ripple through you that you don’t let him answer before you’re pivoting on your foot and storming back into your apartment.

The sound of the door closing behind you followed by his shuffling as he takes his shoes off tells you he hasn’t left. A small part of you curls in satisfaction with the domesticity of his arrival, but it is blotted out by the hurt and rage at the surface of your emotions.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand. It isn’t as eloquent as your practiced rant, but it’s something. “You better explain yourself. And quickly.”

Vernon’s dark eyes connect with yours, simmering. You feel your heart lurch as he slinks over to the kitchen, never taking his gaze off you. The back of your neck tingles. Vernon never keeps this much eye contact and it’s both thrilling and unnerving. 

“I want to apologize,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low. You watch with trepidation as he reaches out to gather your hand in his. He folds your fingers under his, pulling your hand to his chest. Your breath quickens, pulse throbbing as he cradles your fist to his chest, his heartbeat steady. “I fucked up. I wanted to fuck with Soonyoung but I did it at the expense of you, and for that I’m deeply sorry.”

Warmth spreads from his hand to yours. You don’t know what to make of the apology - it’s so unlike him. Vernon has no problem apologizing when he’s wrong, but he’s usually not so confident, so well spoken. You stare and stare, that pitless gaze of his pinned on you. 

“I just…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “You really hurt my feelings, Vernon.” His hands tighten around yours and he tugs a little, pulling you closer. It’s harder to think when you’re this close, fingers wrapped in his. “You really scared me and then you vanished for nearly three days. Why did you do that?” 

“I wasn’t feeling well and I slept most of the days away. Honestly.”

“You weren’t feeling well?”

He gives you a look. “I see the skepticism. I’m serious, I just… wasn’t myself. I tried to rest and I didn’t hear my phone and I’m sorry. Really.”

Vernon’s apology settles around you like a weight. You watch him, contemplating what to do next. He doesn’t look ill, his gold skin as flawless as ever, his rosy lips tucked under his teeth as he watches you, waiting. His heart thuds under your palm, his thumb absently brushing back and forth over the top of your hand.

Breathing becomes difficult. Vernon isn’t overly affectionate, but the way he presses your hand to his chest now sends you down a dangerous path. The desire for him bubbles just below your surface and you’re terrified it’ll boil over, exposing everything you’ve ever thought about him.

“Alright,” you say softly, pulling your hand from his. He lets you. “Don’t ever do something like that to me again. It was scary and I felt stupid. And I thought you were dead.”

“Why?” 

Gesturing to the couch, the two of you plop down, seemingly back to normal. You’re still a little off kilter, but you report back to Vernon what your classmates had been saying. He grabs your remote and turns on the news, settling close enough to you that your thighs brush against one another. You shoot him a questioning look but he’s fixated on the TV, leaning forward to press his elbows into his knees.

The reporter on the news confirms the body of one of your fellow students had indeed been found on campus. Names and details were not yet available, but they were interviewing students about whether or not they felt safe on campus. By the second interview, Vernon was turning off the TV and leaning back.

“Freaky,” you murmur, tapping the arm of the couch. “Weird timing, right?”

“How so?”

“We just had a Halloween party in a weird murder house.”

Vernon goes silent. You turn to look at him, eyes searching. He stares at you, again the eye contact unsettling. Even though it feels like your Vernon sitting next to you, there is an edge to him that’s new. You don’t know what to do with it, shifting in your seat a little.

“Forget the murder house,” he says eventually, flicking his fingers in dismissal. “That party sucked and I’d rather forget it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyeing him as he looks out the window. You swear he’s agitated, but you can’t pinpoint why. “Me too.”

-

Someone sitting down roughly next to you draws your attention away from your essay, barely audibly over the sound of Current Blue playing through your headphones. You raise a brow as Vernon slings his belongings on the table unceremoniously, uncaring how loud he is in the library.

You glance around, seeing that he’s attracted the attention of a few people at nearby tables, some scowling, others blushing. When you turn your gaze back to him, you see his mouth moving as he divests his bag of its contents, but you can’t hear him. 

Pulling your headphones from your head, you ask, “What?” 

“Can you help me with my organic chem assignment?” 

“I hate chemistry.” 

His mouth twitches as he opens his laptop. “Right, but you’re good at it. You’re the smartest person in school.”

Again, something nags at your instincts. You can’t pinpoint it, examining Vernon more closely. He looks totally normal, dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket pulled over it. He’s without a hat today, his hair falling in messy strands over his brow as he sets up his area to study.

Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you, eyebrow raised. “What?” 

“You seem different.”

“Different how?” He types on his computer to start bringing up his chemistry homework. “Different as in going to fail organic chem without your help?” 

“Oh shut up. I’m obviously going to help you.” 

His mouth is wicked when he grins. “Good.” 

When Vernon looks up at you, the world stops a little. His gaze today is fathomless, dark eyes smooth like the surface of a lake with no end. You tip into that gaze, letting yourself drown in it for a moment. Normally, Vernon would break eye contact by now, easily distracted or unrealizing that he’s got you stuck on him. 

Now, he doesn’t do that. He looks right back at you. Heat crawls up your neck and your breaths quicken. For the first time since you’ve known him, Vernon looks at you like he knows everything inside your locked-tight heart. 

You lick your lips and his gaze dips to your mouth. Inside your chest, your hummingbird heart hammers, threatening to break free. The corner of Vernon’s mouth tilts upward as his eyes meet yours again, and you watch, completely frozen, as he leans toward you. 

Vernon is so close you can smell the spicy cologne on his skin. It’s heady and makes you dizzy, and you watch, totally lost as he wraps his hand around the leg of your chair and tugs hard. You yelp, startling a few people around you as he yanks your chair next to his, your thighs pressed together. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly at him, throwing an apologetic look at the people you’ve disturbed for a second time. 

“How are you going to help me from over there?”

“You could have asked me to move my chair.” 

The problem isn’t that he moved your chair. Not really. The problem is how close he is, leg pressed against yours and elbows touching as he shrugs and turns his computer screen toward you. The problem is how at ease he is with you nearly on top of him, his lazy smile making your thoughts tangle and your breath quicken. 

This Vernon is still the one you’re used to but there’s something about him that keeps you on edge. Keeps you looking at him when his hand brushes against yours to grab a pen, or when he leans back and puts his arm across the back of your chair, idly playing with the hood of your jacket.

It’s almost like he’s flirting, and you spend half the time stumbling through his homework, barely able to assist him in a meaningful way because you’re busy decoding the subtle touches and the light teasing. You feel yourself blush more and look the other way to collect yourself more in the hour you help him than you have your entire friendship, unsure what’s happening or how to handle it. 

Homework completed, Vernon stares off into the distance, his finger twisting in the string of your hoodie absently as you try to write the rest of your paper. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate like this, the intimacy more than you’re used to. 

“You’re very distracting today,” you comment as you reference a text to the right of your screen. “Are you aware of that?” 

He hums. “This is hardly a distraction. I could try harder, though.”

You cut a glance at him. He seems utterly serious, any sort of mirth nonexistent in his expression. There’s just that shadowed gaze, that spark of something right where you can’t reach it. You abruptly stand, surprising him as you knock his arm away from you and clear your throat. 

“I need a different text. It’s downstairs, though.” 

“I’ll come with you.” You raise your brows and he shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else to do.” 

“Sure.” 

Without another word, you pivot on your heel and nearly run for the far set of stairs that lead to the subterranean level of the library where all the old texts and books exist. Vernon follows you at a casual pace, still totally at ease despite the fact that you’re obviously unraveling.

You have no idea what his sudden interest in you is and it’s making you unspool, thoughts wild and racing as you reach the stairwell that leads down. 

Damp air greets you as you start down the steps and it smells like wet carpet. You cringe, hating every time you have to come here. It’s always poorly lit and damp, not at all what one would expect from a library trying to keep books from molding. But no one really comes down here anyway, only the history majors and people like you, who require weird books long retired from the main shelves.

It’s eerie in the old stacks. There are lamps above head casting a burnt orange glow over the green, shag carpet but otherwise it’s nearly impossible to see in the shadowy parts of the room. You certainly could never read a book down here. 

Vernon is silent behind you but you can feel him, his gaze burning into your back as you navigate toward the last set of rows. As you approach, you hear a sound, stopping you dead in your tracks. Vernon crashes into you, nearly knocking you over but his hands grab you, steadying you and holding you close to his chest. 

For the first time today, you’re able to ignore his nearness in favor of straining your ears for the sound you heard, a small whimper, perhaps. You hear it again, distinctly human. Your heart starts to pound as you remember that just the day before there was a body found on campus, mind racing with thoughts as you stand rooted to the spot, Vernon pressed against you.

Craning your head, you look up at him. His expression is unreadable as he looks at you through long lashes, face shadowed. There’s a soft bang, like someone knocking something over. He looks over your head and back at you, shrugging his shoulder as if to say your choice. 

Slowly, you move forward. Vernon keeps close, his heat radiating behind you like a furnace as you creep through the last few rows of shelving. As you near the third one, you stop and peer around the corner, eyes trying to adjust in the shitty lighting. 

What you see has you snapping back around the stack, mouth dropping open. Vernon, curious, leans around you to peer around the stack. He raises his brows and steps backward, mouth pressed in a firm line to conceal his laugh. 

In the next row over is a girl you vaguely recognize, naked from the waist down while someone who is very much not her boyfriend, pumps their fingers between her legs. Slapping Vernon’s chest you point toward the door, silently screaming at him to turn around and hightail it out of there. 

Vernon, for a second, bites his lower lip and wags his eyebrows at you, suggestive. You glare and shove his chest. He goes easily, grinning at you playfully as he turns on his heel and heads back up to the main floor. 

When you reach your table, you drop down in the chair, totally shocked. Vernon drops down next to you, laughing. “Listen, when the urge hits, I guess.”

“I guess,” you agree sharply, shaking your head. “That was not her boyfriend, though.”

“No shit?” 

“Yeah. She’s dating some dude in Sigma whatever.” 

Vernon’s gaze turns sharp and his eyes trail back toward the far side of the library, resting on the stairs. “Interesting.” 

“Not really. That seems to happen a lot among you Greek lifers.” 

“I would never do that.” The severity of his declaration has you looking up from your notebook. Vernon’s expression is cutting, his jaw flexing. “I would never participate in infidelity. Ever.” 

“I didn’t mean you, Vernon.” 

“I’m not like that.” 

You soften a little, guilt tugging at you. So often you remember that Vernon isn’t like a lot of the people around him and grouping him in is unfair and insensitive. 

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

He nods once, turning from you to pack up his stuff. Somehow, you can’t help but feel like you’ve said the wrong thing. 

-

“Oh shit,” Vernon mutters. You look up from where you’re flipping a grilled cheese in the pan. He holds his phone out to you from where he leans against his kitchen counter. “They found another body. Same MO or whatever as the first.” 

“No way?” 

Putting down the spatula, you grab his phone from him where he has the article pulled up. Sure enough, there’s been another murder on campus. Your eyes drink in the details, similar as before: student victim, stab wounds, message written on the wall. 

“What is the Hello Darling Murder?” you ask, more to yourself than Vernon. “It’s linked here as a reference to these being copycat murders.” He says nothing. You read out loud, “The Hello Darling Murder is a case of a murder suicide that happened in the same town in 1979. It was the town’s first violent domestic crime in years, and drew national media attention for the gruesome crime scene in which a message had been written on the wall in blood.” 

Vernon makes an amused sound. You look up at him sharply, staring. He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor with a mildly bemused expression. You kick him and he looks up at you. “What?”

“Why are you laughing? That’s not funny.”

“The way people sensationalize murder is weird.” 

“I mean, I agree. But what is funny?”

“It’s not funny as in funny ha ha,” he clarifies. “It’s funny stupid. The media is going to sensationalize this and turn it into an entire thing.” 

“Yeah, well. That’s their job.” 

Off put by his dark mirth, you turn back to the article, reading further. You skip over the old murder, more interested in the details of the two new ones. Your heart seizes in your chest when you see the name and picture of the second victim, stomach roiling. 

He sees your expression, pushing off the counter toward you, hands shooting your arms. “What? What’s wrong?” 

In any other scenario, you’d be overwhelmed by the sudden care and affection. Now, you just turn the phone toward him, showing him the photo. “It’s that girl from the library. Her name was Sidney. She’s the one I told you was cheating on her boyfriend.” 

Nothing registers in his face when he looks at the phone, his hands still resting on your arms lightly. He looks away from the screen and at you instead, a sharpness to his gaze that’s there so often you’re starting to grow used to it.

“You’re burning the grilled cheese, Lovecraft.” 

-

Mosquitos nip at your skin as you walk down the narrow path between trees. You slap your hand against your neck again, muttering under your breath. Vernon chuckles next to you, keeping his pace even as you struggle to step over a fallen tree branch. 

You hate the woods at night. It’s not your first time going to a bonfire deep in the woods off campus, but you don’t know why you keep coming back. Tripping over another branch, Vernon catches you by the arm and steadies you, stopping to make sure you’re okay before he lets go.

Scratch that. You do know why you keep coming back. For as long as you’ve been friends, you’ve been Vernon’s permanent plus one to all of his parties, formals and events, even if both of you hate going. It’s become a weird obligation to show up at things like this as a pair. 

They aren’t always terrible, you have to admit. When Mingyu isn’t absolutely hammered, he’s mostly tolerable to be around. Soonyoung isn’t bad either, though you’re still pissed off at him for the Halloween party incident, unwilling to talk to him. 

But nights like this where you have to trek out into the middle of the woods using your phone’s flashlight to navigate, you sort of loathe your unspoken oath to attend with Vernon. 

Instead of focusing on the distaste and the inherent anxiety the shadows of the trees give you, you let Vernon help you slide down a ditch and climb up the other side. His fingers are firm on your wrist, not quite holding your hand but keeping you connected. 

Your skin is warm and tingles when he lets go, deeming it safe enough to let you walk yourself. It’s easier to see now, too, the orange light of the massive bonfire casting a circle of orange glow that only grows as you near the party. 

Party is perhaps too strong of a word for it. There can’t be more than twenty people in the small clearing surrounding the roaring fire the Soonyoung tends to, foldable chairs and coolers arranged in a circle. Chan is trying to roast a marshmallow and failing, the white snack immediately catching fire and singing in the heat of the fire. 

Mingyu whistles when he sees you, catching your attention to wave you over to a pair of seats by him and Chan. You make your way there, navigating through groups of people clutching plastic cups and stepping over various sizes of coolers. 

The heat from Soonyoung’s inferno is nearly unbearable, making you cringe back as he adds something that cracks and pops, sending bits of orange ash floating toward the sky. 

“Jesus Christ, Soonyoung!” Seungcheol complains from his seat where a girl sits on his knee. “Enough, it’s fucking hot!” 

“Sorry,” Soonyoung answers, sheepish. 

Backing your chair away from the fire a little, you sit down and curl into the folding chair, accepting the drink Vernon hands you before moving his chair closer to yours and sitting down. A shiver ripples through you at the cool can in your hands. You crack the top and take a sip, trying to cool down from the blast of heat you’d taken while passing the fire.

Mingyu turns to you and Vernon as Chan pops a burned marshmallow in his mouth, the two of them immediately launching into discussions of the murders. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, listening as they recount the details in the news mixed with the rumors on campus. 

So far, two bodies have been discovered and linked together. The authorities don’t want to call it a serial killer, attempting to avoid a media craze and inspiring the killer to go on a spree, but denying the murders are connected is impossible.

You’re unsure what the victims have in common. The first had been a male senior who was in the business track, discovered by the dorms near the lake on campus. The second had been the girl you’d seen in the library in her apartment off campus, and Sidney had been in the education track and a junior. 

Neither of them were friends. You don’t go to a large university, but there are enough students that it’s normal to have a ton of people that you don’t know. From what anyone can tell, there was nothing the two victims had in common.

Except that they’d been murdered by someone who had left a bloody Hello Darling written at the crime scene.

A chill sweeps over you as Mingyu mentions the Hello Darling Murderer. It was the same story as before - a man had murdered his girlfriend in the 70s, a shocking and violent domestic crime that had unsettled the citizens and local university. He’d promptly killed himself after that, leaving only a bloody Hello Darling on the walls.

Authorities didn’t even know who the blood had belonged to - it took them so long to realize the couple was missing before they did a wellness check that by the time they investigated, they’d been dead a week. 

Vernon snorts at that and mutters something about the ineptitude of law enforcement. You cut your eyes at him. Though you agree, Vernon is usually the last person to make degrading comments - or comment at all really. 

Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you can’t help but sense that honed edge to him he has now. You’ve attributed it to him moving with more confidence, talking to people directly and making actual eye contact. You don’t know where the sudden swell in self-conviction has come from, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t look good on him.

Still, it’s got you a little uneasy, trying to adjust to this version of him. 

The topic shifts to football and you find yourself tuning everyone out, sipping your cider and staring at the fire as it warms your feet. More people arrive and drag chairs up. Someone hauls a few kegs into the firelight, cheers going around the fire.

Vernon stands and holds his hand up for your empty can. You give it to him wordlessly and he heads to get you a refresh, tossing the trash into one of the trash bins.

Turning to Mingyu as he goes, you ask quietly, “Has he seemed different to you lately?” 

“Who?”

“Steve Jobs,” you deadpan. “Vernon, obviously.”

“I don’t think so? He’s around a lot more lately and actually talks to us.” Mingyu pauses, thinking as he cocks his head to the side. “I mean, I guess that is kind of weird for him. He also actually goes to places with us now.” 

“Exactly what I mean.”

“Hey! We are friends, you know?” 

You hum uncertainty, your attention trailing back to Vernon. You observe him, noticing all the little details that are different. He stands a little bit straighter, inserts himself in conversations where he didn’t before.

Now, he stands near the keg, nodding along to something the girl next to him is saying. They’re standing close - you realize it’s the same girl from the Halloween party that had been talking to him, except this time, he’s talking back. 

Vernon leans in close to her and says something, making her laugh. He bites his lower lip a little, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Your stomach turns a little, eyes glued as he brushes her arm when he reaches for the cup that Joshua hands him. 

Turning away from them, you tune yourself into Chan’s conversation, needing a distraction. You try not to count the minutes until Vernon returns. When he does, the girl is with him. He drags a chair over so she can sit on the other side of him. 

It’s close, their knees touching when he sits and hands her the drink he was holding for her. He turns and holds out your drink to you, which sloshes a little when you snatch the cup from his hand. He arches his brows but you say nothing, taking a large gulp and turning your back on him to ask Chan about football instead. 

“You watch football?” Chan asks cryptically. 

“Sure. Go Green Bay Ravens.” 

He stares. “Packers. Green Bay Packers.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing with you. In fact, if you want to tell me what’s what more often-”

You scoff. “Shut up, Chan!”

Stuck between Vernon flirting with the girl next to him and Chan and Mingyu being - Chan and Mingyu - sours your mood. You try to lose yourself in your cup, going mute as you stare at the fire. Vernon hardly notices the shift in your mood, leaning in to the girl as they chat. 

You can’t help but notice everything about them. It’s impossible not to see the way she leans into him, bumping shoulders when she laughs. He lets her, watching her with a gaze you can only describe as hungry. The grip on your cup tightens as he knocks their knees together when he shifts in his chair, leaving it pressed against hers. 

It reminds you of the way he’d behaved in the library with you, brushing against you on purpose, making his words come out in a playful pur instead of what you’re used to, and seeing him do it with her now makes you snap. 

You stand abruptly, drawing the attention of Chan and Mingyu but not who you want. 

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Need company?” Chan offers. It seems genuine, but you give him a sharp no before you’re walking away, sticks snapping underneath your boots as you go. 

Chill air licks your face as you get further from the fire. There are plenty of people dispersed throughout the general area, some people pulled far away for intimate conversations, others pulled away to pass a joint in a circle, the pungent smell chasing you as you pass them. 

Away from the smoke and the noise, you feel like you can breathe a little more. You find a fallen tree, thick enough to sit on. You test your weight on it first before deciding it’s safe, swinging your leg to straddle it and look off into the dark trees.

There’s just enough light from the silver moon above your head and from the distant fire to feel safe. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you hug yourself and close your eyes, breathing in deep. The fire smoke isn’t strong here, the air clean and crisp.

Opening your eyes, you look at the sky. This far out in the country, you can see the stars. Out of habit, you start mapping out all the constellations you know, eyes tracing Orion the Hunter. You skip over to Andromeda, counting each star before moving to the east to spot Cassiopeia. 

It reminds you of the time you taught Vernon all the different constellations. He’d been a silent and attentive listener, watching as you’d pointed them all out while sitting on a bench at the park. You’ve caught him drawing them more than once in his chemistry notebooks, little dots of perfect constellations memorized. 

An ache you’re familiar with fills your chest. It’s the same ache you had when you realized you had feelings for him but didn’t want to tell him. The same ache you had when he’d hurt your feelings on Halloween. The same ache as when you’d seen him actually look back at someone who's interested in him, for once. 

Crying seems silly, but suddenly you have the urge to, throat twisting as you stare at the sky and try to puzzle out the direction your friendship has gone since that night. As you sit on the tree, a prickling sense of awareness creeps up your spine, tugging at you. 

Looking around, you see nothing. You can generally see in a good circumference, but the sudden instinct that something or someone is watching you drives you to get off the branch, hitting the ground with both feet to stride back toward the fire. 

As you go, your foot gets stuck in a tangle of tree roots again, making you stumble. You curse, bending down through squinted eyes to untangle your foot. Your fingers are a little cold and shaking, anxiety creeping up slowly as you pull the weeds and roots away from your shoe. 

Something snaps behind you. Your fingers freeze, head whipping around to look for the source of the noise. Again, you see nothing but your heart is hammering. You don’t dare to breathe, holding your breath as you strain your ears to hear anything else. There’s only crickets and an owl in the distance, no more snapping branches.

In that moment, it occurs to you that you’ve decided to wander out in the woods at night and alone after two recent murders. The stupidity of your actions land like a blow.

Turning back around, you wrench your shoe free and stand up, nearly colliding with Vernon who leans backward to avoid smacking into you as you shriek in surprise, stepping backward. Vernon’s hand darts out to grab you, catching you and tugging you forward into him before you can lose your balance fully.

Heart hammering, your fingers dig into his biceps, keeping yourself standing as you hiss, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? You’re wandering out in the middle of the woods while there is an active serial killer in town.” 

“Oh please, like you noticed.”

He frowns. You drop your hands and try to step away from him, eager to put some distance between you. Vernon’s grip on you tightens though, keeping you where you’re standing. “I’m here, I obviously noticed.” You snort derisively and his grip tightens a little. “Is there something you want to say?”

You open and close your mouth, scowling at him. He’s never so direct you’re unsure how to approach the question. So you try for a little bit of honesty. “I wasn’t having fun.” 

“Okay, so let’s leave.”

“You look like you were having fun.” 

Silence hangs in the air. Vernon’s face is indecipherable. Then, “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Your response is so fast that it even sounds practiced and hollow to you. It’s hard not to wince, hoping that as always, he doesn’t see through your cellophane defense. Vernon’s touch drops from your biceps to your wrist, delicate. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, instead staring at the buttons on his jean jacket. 

“I noticed you were gone.” His voice is gentle, a low purr. You dart a quick glance at him to see the intensity of his gaze. It makes you squirm, unsure how to respond. “I always notice when you’re gone.”

“Alright. Well.” 

“I notice everything about you.” 

The way he says it is a soft whisper. A promise, a suggestion. Again, it feels like Vernon has discovered your loose thread, tugging lightly on it. If he tugs again, you think you might unspool all the way, showing him everything you don’t want him to see. 

It feels like he wants to, and that’s what scares you more. That suddenly he’s looking at you like he wants to see past the veneer of your words, like he’s ready to look inside. You hear the double meaning. It’s so terrifying that you look away from him, ready to hide. 

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper. 

“I’m not. If you’re not having fun, let’s go home. I came here with you.” He tugs your wrist. “Come on. You can’t be walking around out here alone with a killer on the loose, Lovecraft. I’ll be forced to fight them off.” 

The tension fades. You let out a breath and laugh, looking at him skeptically. “Yeah? You’re going to fight for me?” 

His grip on your wrist tightens. You wonder if he can feel the speed of your pulse under his thumb, the way it hammers when he smirks. “Yeah, I am.” 

-

Sal’s Pizzeria isn’t your favorite place to do school work. It’s too loud and bright, the promise of food is way too distracting for you to focus for much longer than a few minutes at a time, and usually your fingers are too slippery with pizza grease to type properly. 

You only have a narrow window to finish writing your paper before going to the bar for Jihoon’s birthday. You barely know him, but he’s someone Vernon is decently close enough too that you feel obligated to attend. More importantly, you’re finally almost done with your paper you’ve been working on for two weeks, eager to celebrate hitting submit. 

“You know that dude who was killed first was a rotten cheater?” 

The girls sitting behind you catch your attention. Your brows knit together and you turn your head a fraction to eavesdrop, eyes unfocusing on the words on your screen. There are four of them behind you that you don’t recognize but assume go to the same school as you, based on the attire and the backpacks. 

“Yeah! Sam told me about that. Apparently he was sleeping around with a bunch of freshmen. Maybe his girlfriend found out and went all psycho killer on him?” 

“Ew, how scummy. But what’s with the hello darling message shit? Can you say weird?” 

“I know, right?” 

Their words give you pause. The first victim had been someone known for his infidelity too? Turning back to your screen, you pull up your web browser and type in Hello Darling Murderer to the search. The original murder from the 70s hadn’t given you much thought beyond assuming someone was being a copycat, but now you feel something nagging at you. Something you’re missing. 

All of the top stories are of the recent murders. You amend your search to the 70s and get older articles and links to podcasts covering the initial incident. Clicking on a story from a reputable journal, you start reading in detail about the first murder and his victim, skin prickling as you go.

As an Occult Studies major, a lot of people think you’re into murder mysteries. In truth, you’re not. They have little to do with what you study, and you’ve spent countless times telling people that occult and people obsessed with true crime are two totally different things. You have no idea why they’re lumped together so often, but on more than one occasion you’ve had to explain you’re not interested in serial killers or their stories.

Except now. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you unwind the story of Thomas Ellswater, who had apparently murdered his girlfriend at the time before promptly killing himself. The initial investigation hadn’t dug up much, assuming that it was a case of domestic violence gone as bad as it could. 

But the journalist who had written the story had other details. Accounts from family friends that detailed Elsswater’s girlfriend, Maya, unhappy with their relationship. One even insinuated that she had been cheating on him for a long time, though with who, they were unsure. 

Further down in the article, you stop. Read the paragraph again. Look at the picture of the house. A sickly chill coats your skin as you lean forward, taking in the details of the house. You’ve seen it before, though your memory of it at night surrounded by floodlights and full of drunk college students makes it almost unrecognizable when you see it on the screen. 

Thomas Ellswater lived in the same house that you’d partied in on Halloween night, where Vernon had played that horrible prank in the closet. Thomas or Maya had been the haunting spirit Soonyoung had been attempting to summon.

And now someone was killing in the same exact style.. 

The server bringing you two trays of pizzas and a basket of fries breaks you from your trance. You close the article, a sick feeling in your stomach as you try to piece together the puzzle. Was it just a spurned lover who was paying homage to someone who related? Or was it a serial killer poking fun at the MO?

Vernon crashing into the seat across from you startles you. He gives you a grin, eyeing the pizza in front of him and rubbing his hands together. Rolling your eyes, you grab the red pepper flakes and salt, passing the latter over to him. 

“So I learned something weird today,” you venture, pulling a slice of pizza from the tray. 

“Tell me,” he answers over a mouthful of pizza, once again burning himself. You roll your eyes, shaking your red pepper onto your slice. “What is going on in the world of occult today?”

“Actually, not occult.” He gives you an appraising look, popping some fries into his mouth. “What, no salt today?”

He pauses, looking at the basket of fries. “Nah, I need to cut back on the sodium.”

“Good idea. Anyway, it’s about the murders.” 

“Do tell.”

“The girls behind me said the first victim was known for cheating.” 

“It’s college. Apparently there is a lot of that.” 

“But remember that day we saw Sidney in the library? She was cheating too.” 

“Right.” He rips into his pizza, gaze sharp as he looks at you. “So this town is full of a bunch of lowlife fucking cheaters.”

You flinch at his vehemence, leaning back in your seat. Vernon drops his gaze, tearing into his slice in silence. “Sorry,” he says after swallowing. “I’m hungry.”

“Right. As I was saying, I looked up that Hello Darling Murder.” 

He pauses, gaze flicking to you. “And?”

“And it was ruled as a case of domestic violence gone wrong, but there were some people who think the Maya Caravalo was cheating on Thomas Ellswater, who killed her.” 

“I’m sure cheating is the leading cause of crimes of passion.”

“In the house that we were in on Halloween.” 

Vernon frowns. “Ah. Weird.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. You watch him as he chews on more pizza, shoving fries into his mouth on occasion too. He seems totally at ease - and more normal than he’s been in weeks. You watch, mildly disgusted at the way college men eat. 

“That’s all you have to say?” You ask. “Weird.”

“It is weird.” 

“Kind of an insane coincidence.” 

He becomes still, only his eyes moving as he settles his inky gaze on you. For a second, you can’t help but think he looks a bit like the cat who ate the canary, eyes glittering. “So tell me what theory is in that pretty head of yours, Lovecraft.” 

Ignoring the way your heart leaps at him calling you pretty, you sigh, picking at the wooden table with a thumb nail. “I don’t really have one. I just think someone came across the original murder and thought I could write that at my crime scenes. I don’t study criminology, I can’t figure out motivation.”

“You’re the smartest person in school, Lovecraft. Try.” 

“I guess… I don’t know. The new killer was probably cheated on recently, came across what happened in the 70s, and has been taking out their rage on other adulterers because they feel some sort of kinship with Thomas. Maybe like finishing his work or ridding the world of a common enemy.” 

Vernon hums. “Maybe so. Do you think they deserve it?” You look at him sharply, mouth downturning. “The victims. Do you think they deserve to be killed for their infidelity?” 

“I don’t know that anyone is deserving of murder.” You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Vernon’s face for any sign of what he’s thinking. He’s totally closed off, a blank canvas. “This is why I’m in Occult Studies and not law, Vernon.” 

He gives a wolfish grin. “Touche. Come on, eat your pizza. We have a bar to go get drunk at.” 

-

The bar in question is teeming with people. You’re immediately overwhelmed, squeezing your way between chairs, tables and people as you navigate to your group of friends. Vernon keeps you close, his arm encircling your waist as pulling you to him as you go. 

He either ignores or doesn’t notice the sharp look you give him. Instead, he’s focused on keeping the two of you attached, shouldering his way through the crowd, the press of his fingers on your hip dizzying and steadying at the same time. 

At the far back of the bar, an entire section of people associated with Vernon’s fraternity crowd from wall to wall. Vernon manages to get you onto a stool at the bar top, shouldering one of the pledges off the seat with a narrow-eyed look. You raise your brows at him and he winks, leaning his elbow on the bar top to order you both drinks.

Spinning to face him in the stool, you give him a quick once over. You’d been so engrossed in your murdery mystery findings at the pizzeria that you haven't really looked at him until now. He looks good, dressed simply in dark jeans and a dark, long sleeve shirt that shows how broad he is. Has he always been that broad? 

Vernon catches you staring. “What are you looking at?” 

“Nothing.” 

He grins, accepting drinks from the bartender and sliding one over to you. You burn under the full weight of his attention as he pops his straw into his mouth. “Tell me.” 

“You look nice tonight.”

“You look nice every night.”

“Oh shut up.” 

“What?” he laughs. “I mean it.” 

“Whatever.”

Spinning in the chair again, you place your back to the bar, facing the crowd to watch people. Vernon is content to stand next to you in silence, both of you sipping your drinks as you observe the people around you. Someone jostles him a little closer, his arm shifting to lay across the bartop along your back. 

Heat creeps into your cheeks and you try to remain breathing normally. Vernon leaves his arm there, pressed against you but not exactly wrapped around you. There is a distinct difference, but this is still new. Still confusing. 

People who recognize you both come up and say hi. You keep the conversation polite and short, especially when you see the girl who has lingered at the last two parties slink toward you, her eyes only for Vernon. 

“Hi,” she yells over the crowd, totally ignoring you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight!”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m friends with Jihoon.”

The girl opens and closes her mouth, lips pursed at that. You sense the serrated edged to Vernon’s words, casting a glance his direction. He’s not looking at her, eyes instead scanning the crowd. Uninterested. Even you know she didn’t literally mean she wasn’t expecting to see him - it was just a conversation starter. 

Using the opportunity to sip from your straw to hide your laughter, you have to admit you’re a little relieved to see Vernon missing social cues again. It’s more him, a Vernon that you're used to. Maybe a little meaner than usual, but this is closer. 

“Right,” the girl says. Her eyes flicker to you for the first time. “It’s his birthday, right?” 

“According to the giant sign in the corner and all the balloons, yes.” 

Okay, maybe it’s not entirely normal Vernon. Usually he isn’t so callous. In this case, you don’t mind, watching as she tries to puzzle out how to keep the conversation going. Vernon decides for you, turning from her to press his mouth close to your ear. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “I’m gonna greet Jihoon really quickly.” 

All you can manage is a breathy, “Alright.” 

Vernon finishes his drink and pushes off the bar, fingers dragging against you as he goes. He ignores the girl standing and watching, her eyes darting from you to him until he vanishes in the sea of bodies. Without Vernon there, she has nothing to do. She tilts her chin up, sucking up her pride and turns on her heel to walk a direction distinctly not the same way as Vernon.

Alone at the bar, you swivel in your seat to order you both another drink. You assume Vernon is drinking a whiskey coke, hoping that’s right as you flag down the bartender. While you wait, someone slips into the spot next to you. You turn, thinking Vernon’s already back only to find someone you definitely don’t know. 

“Sorry,” he shouts over the loud voices and music. “Did not mean to get in your personal space, this spot was way smaller than I thought it was.” 

“That’s okay! Getting a spot kind of sucks.”

“No kidding.” He grins at you, turning his attention back to trying to get anyone to take his drink order. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to notice me?” 

“About seven years.”

“Yikes. I’m Seokmin, by the way.” You give him your name and he grins. “What brings you to this shit hole ass bar?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday. You?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday indeed.”

A bartender finally comes over to take Seokmin’s order. He leans forward to shout over the crowd, his shoulder knocking into yours. You don’t mind - he’s nice. He looks over at you, a question on his face. “You like tequila?”

“No!”

“Let me rephrase - want a shot of tequila?” 

“She doesn’t.”

Vernon slides behind you, his palm pressed flat to your back. You startle, looking up at him in surprise. He isn’t looking at you, his eyes zeroed in on Seokmin. You slide Vernon’s drink toward him, eager to dispel the sudden tension thrumming through him.

“Whiskey and coke?”

He looks down, eyes rounding out a little as he softens. “Mhmm. Thank you.”

Drink in hand, Seokmin turns to you both and waves. “Y’all have a good night!”

When he’s gone, Vernon leans against the counter again, his tone flat as he says, “He was nice.”

“He was, but what do you sound bothered by ?”

“Maybe I am.” 

“Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. Instead of answering you, he picks up the lime in his drink and squeezes it, stirring it with his straw before taking a long pull straight from the rim of the glass. 

You nudge him. “I’m going to say this again: you’ve been different, lately.” 

“Different how.” 

“I don’t know. You talk more. You’re a lot more engaging. You’re a little…” 

“A little what?”

“Cockier?” He hims, eyes dropping down to your mouth. “Like that,” you point out, voice a little weaker. “You do that now, and you didn’t used to.”

“I always did. I’m just a little more obvious about it now.”

Tension crackles between the two of you. Your mouth feels dry as you watch him, reading the minute expressions of his face. Finally, when you can’t unpuzzle him, you say, “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell if you’re coming onto me or if it’s some sort of game to you.” That makes him frown as he sips his drink again. Your fear and frustration clash, wrestling for dominance. “It makes things confusing.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to clear things up.” 

You grip your glass, trying to keep your fingers from quaking. This moment feels like it’s all or nothing. Vernon puts it out on the table so easily, leaving the option to you. Either you can ask for clarity, or keep playing this new game of cat and mouse. But you have to decide. 

“I would appreciate it if you did,” you say eventually. 

Vernon nods and finishes the rest of the drink. He sets the glass down before he leans forward, hand going to the underside of your chin to lightly tip your face upward with his knuckle so he can press the world’s most gentle kiss to your mouth. 

You freeze. When he doesn’t pull away, lips soft and warm, you sigh into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut. He feels you relax, mouth curling in a smile against yours. He steps into your space without breaking the kiss, finding the space between your legs as his lips press firmer to yours. 

Vernon smells like his cologne and something distinctly him. It makes you dizzy, and the way he tastes like whiskey and lime makes the room spin. When he pulls away from him, you feel like you’re going to fall from the stool, leaning toward him. 

His hands grip your thighs, squeezing generously as he leans in and drags his mouth to your ear. “Does that clear things up?” 

“Actually, no?” 

His groan is throaty, turning into laughter as he buries his face in your neck. Your hands tentatively settle on his waist, a little hesitant. “I always said you were the smartest person at school, but maybe not.”

“Hey!” 

“Come home with me.” He feels your delay, laughing. “Come home with me because I like you. Is that clearer? Because I want you to come home with me, and I don’t want anyone else here.” 

Your heart goes bolting like a rabbit, running in circles. Vernon pulls away from you to study your face. You watch him for any sign that he’s kidding, that he doesn’t mean it. You find none. In its place, you only see honesty. Hunger. Fiery desire burning at the surface. 

“Really?” Your question is small. Vulnerable. “Do you mean that?”

“I do.” He tugs on your thighs. “I’m not playing games with you. Come home with me - I’ll prove I’m serious about you. You are what I want. I just had to be sure.” 

Lightheaded and heart slamming, you let Vernon pull you from the seat and lead you out of the bar. 

-

Vernon’s apartment on the north side of town is a place you’ve been a million times. You recognize all the cars in the parking lot, and you know exactly what building and floor belongs to him. You even recognize his neighbors come in mat that you’ve always hated. 

He catches you staring at it with distaste now, laughing as he shakes his head and inserts his keys. “You and that mat.”

One hand works the keys into the door while the other is stretched behind him, fingers linked with yours. Your hand is warm and your heart is still racing as he gets the door open, pulling you inside the dark of his home. 

“They could be inviting anything in,” you assert, a little breathless as he pulls you to his chest. He kicks the door shut, the frame rattling as it slams. “You should never have a doormat that just welcomes whatever shows up at your door inside. You could end up with a vampire in your home.”

“A vampire, huh?” Vernon ducks his head towards your neck, lips skimming your throat. Your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed as his teeth scrape against your pulse point. “Sounds scary.” 

“It is. There’s nothing to disprove that vampires exist.” 

Vernon bites down and you whine, melting into him. His laugh vibrates through his chest as his tongue presses to the bite mark, soothing the pain. His mouth closes over the spot and he sucks gently, sending a shiver through your body. 

“I promise the only thing biting you will be me.”

The full weight of his words hit you between the legs. You feel like putty in his hand as he navigates you to the island counter in his kitchen. He presses your back into it, careful not to jam you too harshly against the marble. 

Heat licks through your stomach as Vernon steals your lips in a kiss. It’s different from the gentle one he gave you at the bar. This one drinks you in, pries you open and lets you spill out into him, all the feelings and bottled thoughts you have free for the taking.

You get lost in him, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him close, fingers sliding through his hair. He moans and you respond, curling your fingers to scrape your nails against his scalp. His hips twitch forward, pinning you between him in the counter as he sucks your bottom lip harshly. 

“Be careful,” he warns, a hand drifting from your chin to your neck. He doesn’t wrap his fingers around your throat, but his hand rests there, heavy and wanting. “I’m trying to be gentle.” 

You steal a kiss, nipping his bottom lip sharply. “Don’t be.”

His resounding groan makes you dizzy. His kisses become rough and heated, using his tongue as much as his teeth. He presses you hard into the countertop now, the marble digging into your back as he nearly folds you in half with the weight of his body. 

It feels like the air has left the room. Vernon is the only thing you need to breathe in, fueled by the way his tongue licks into you, the gentle squeeze of his hand at the base of your throat. His fingers press against your pulse, not enough to cut off any airflow but enough to send a bolt of pleasure and thrill through you. 

“You have no idea,” Vernon pants, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to your jawline. “How long I’ve waited to do this. I could have had you this entire fucking time, but I held myself back.” 

His thumb presses under your jaw, angling your head to the side. With more access to your throat, he peppers you in bites and kisses, tongue soothing each sting. “I have wasted so much time,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Being a fucking coward.”

“Don’t say that,” you gasp as his other hand presses between your legs. The ache in your cunt is already throbbing, and he does nothing but make it worse by adding pressure but doing nothing more. “Please don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He pulls away from you. Before you can complain, he gives you a quick kiss, tugging you toward his room. “I shouldn’t have waited until I had a little… encouragement to do this. I’m going to give you everything you want, love.”

A quiver slithers down your spine at the shortened version of your nickname. The new endearment hits home when you see the way he looks at you, the want and desire more unrestrained than anything else you’ve ever seen on his expression. 

Hand in yours, he pulls you into the bedroom, spinning you to sit you down on the edge of his bed. You look up at him through your lashes, admiring the shape of his face and the way you can just barely see his freckles in the soft glow from the nightlight in his bathroom as he slots himself between your knees. 

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Vernon whispers, voice like velvet. He slides a finger under your chin, tilting your gaze even higher as he watches you, eyes blown. “I’m entirely devoted to you and you only. You know that, right?” 

Vernon’s thumb pulls at your bottom lip. You open your mouth on instinct and he growls low in his throat. He pushes his thumb past your swollen lips, pressing down on your tongue. You taste the lime from earlier and the hint of salt on his skin, closing your mouth as you suck gently. 

“Fuck,” he swears, thumb pressing harder. “You really have been a little slut for me this entire time, huh?” 

Hearing Vernon say it in that deep, whispered voice of his does something to you. There’s a note in his voice you’re unfamiliar with, a dangerous edge that you want to lean into and cut yourself on. So you nod, lashes fluttering as you bat them up at him. 

“Yeah, thought so.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging it spit-slicked down your chin. “Lay back on the bed for me, love.” 

You do so immediately, shuffling backward so that you can lean back. The sheets smell like him and you tilt your head to the side, nuzzling his comforter a little. You try to ground yourself, feeling a little staticky as he kneels on the bed, mattress dipping. 

Vernon plants a knee between your legs, leaning forward to cage you in with a hand on either side of your head. His kiss is all consuming, any sense of delicacy gone. You let him devour you, your hands pulling at his belt loops to bring him closer.

He’s not close enough, never close enough. 

Having him like this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. He’s familiar, the scent of him and the warmth of his skin and the little sounds he makes but he’s also entirely new. He is rougher than you imagined, sharper than you thought. He drags his blunt nails over your collarbone as he pulls your shirt away from your neck, giving his mouth access to litter your skin with kisses. 

Your hands slip under his shirt, curious as you press the pads of your fingers into his stomach. You feel the muscles flex and he hums low in his throat, enjoying your exploration as you slide your hands around the perfect taper of his waist to the small of his back. 

Vernon slides his knee higher, pressing it directly to your clothed cunt. You twitch against him, a questioning sound leaving your lips as you breathe in sharply. 

“Go ahead,” he mumbles against your chest, one pulling sharply at your shirt. You hear the seams rip and you don’t even care. “Take what you need, love.” 

The rawness of his words fucks you up. You do as he says, rolling your hips against his thigh for any sort of pressure and friction. It helps relieve the tension a little, but not nearly enough. Your breathing turns ragged as he harshly bites and kisses his way to your bra. 

Yanking hard, he rips the rest of your shirt. You let out a throaty laugh and he looks up at you, eyes like burning coals. “What’s so funny, hmm?”

“I did not expect you to be able to rip my shirt.” 

“Oh?”

The dangerous note in his voice makes your hips stutter and stop. He runs the tip of his tongue around the soft curve of your chest, watching you all the while and fuck. If you’d realized that this was the type of Vernon you’d get, maybe you’d have been braver sooner. Because this Vernon is something else, confident and cocky and ravenous. 

“Want me to rip this too?” He teases, teeth pulling at the cup of your bra. Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath, a little overwhelmed. “Say the word.”

“Maybe salvage some of my clothing, Vernon.”

“Fine. I will not salvage you, though.”

You believe him. Nothing about the way Vernon peels your bra off of you is gentle. Nothing about the way his hand cups your breast, squeezing before he lowers his mouth to give a generous suck to your nipple feels like he has your survival in mind. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you let Vernon have his way. It feels like he’s peeling you open layer by layer, plucking every string connected to your pleasure that he can find.

His mouth is a weapon, tongue lazily circling your pert nipple until you’re whining and squirming under him. He laughs and drags his tongue to the other side of your chest, licking his way to your peak to tease you further. 

“Shit,” you whisper, one hand leaving his back to tangle in his hair. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or pushing him closer - maybe both. “Vernon.”

His teeth scrape your nipple and you whine. He shuts you up by closing his mouth around you, sucking sharply. When he pulls away with a loud pop, you let out a shaky breath. 

“You can barely keep it together,” he observes. He placed closed mouth kisses on your stomach as he descends, pulling his knee from between your thighs. “What are you gonna do when I eat you out, huh?”

Flushed and embarrassed, you cover your face as his tongue licks the skin above your jeans. “Cat got your tongue, love?” 

“You - you’re - ugh!”

He chuckles, popping the button of your jeans. “I’m ugh?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Vernon tugs on your jeans. You try to lift your hips to help him, but your thighs are like jelly already, turning you useless. He coos at you, pressing a kiss to your hip gently. “I got you.” 

Unsure if he means about your inability to get out your fucking pants or he understand what you mean, you let him peel them down the rest of the way. His hands skate up your calves, squeezing and firm as he sinks to his knees on the floor. 

Bracing yourself, you brave a look between your legs where he presses your thighs open gently with his palms. Veronon’s eyes are on the apex of your thighs, entirely focused on where your underwear stick to your folds. He licks his lips, hand brushing up and down your thighs. 

His gaze flickers to you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. You feel overly exposed, naked from the waist up, cool air pebbling your spit-slicked chest. The weight of his gaze presses you down like a physical thing, but it’s comforting. Warm. Reassuring. 

The air is charged between you as he keeps watching you while he drags a hand up and between your legs. He presses a thumb between your folds and you whimper, feeling the way he prods at your aching entrance, only the thin fabric keeping him out.

“Are you always this wet for me?” he asks, thumb slowly dragging up the damp patch to your clit. He digs in sharply, pressing firm enough that your pleasure spikes and your hips pop off the bed. He hisses at you and smacks your thigh, making you lower your ass to the bed again. “Everytime we were together, did you get like this?” 

It takes effort to rasp, “Sometimes.”

Vernon hooks his thumb in the side of your pants, pulling. The fabric peels back achingly slow, cool air hitting your cunt and making you whine. He hums thoughtfully, placing the fabric to the side.

“Like what times?” he questions, blowing cool air against you. You thrash and he laughs, pinning you down by the hips. “I’m curious. Elaborate for me.” 

“Umm.” 

It’s the only word you can get out before he renders you speechless, the flat of his tongue sliding slowly up your pussy. You go boneless, breath stuck in your chest as his tongue lazily circles around your clit and drags back down. He repeats the motion, the slow-soft brush of his tongue driving you insane instantly. 

“You’re not elaborating,” Vernon notes. He presses a kiss that is far too sweet for the moment to your bundle of nerves. “I wanna know all the times you were with me where you felt like this. Go on.” 

“I don’t,” you breath catches when his tongue curls through your folds. He’s soft and slow as he licks you, a lazy smoothless to it that makes you see stars. “Know how to speak when you’re doing that.” 

“Should I stop?” 

“No.”

“Try,” he murmurs, dipping his tongue in your dripping entrance. “I want to know.” 

Fuck. Trying to pull together any coherent thoughts is like wading through thick water. You’re distracted by the way Vernon’s mouth closes on you, sucking gently. He takes his time, fingers pressed into the meat of your thighs as he keeps you open, enjoying you fully. 

“I - shit - I guess sometimes when we go out,” you manage. “I like when you wear your hat backwards.” 

He flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit, making you clench, toes curling. His mouth is wet and warm, closing around your throbbing bundle and sucking gently. Your hips lift but his grip is firm, keeping his mouth to you. 

When he pulls away, the suction is audible, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your pussy. “Taste so fucking good,” he whispers. You think it’s more to himself than you, his tongue carving through you again. “Tell me more.” 

“Halloween night. When you were in skull makeup.”

His tongue starts circling your clit again, the indirect stimulation driving you wild. Your hands tangle in the sheets, sweat slicking your skin as Vernon works to firmer motions. You realize he knows exactly how you like it, gentle to start, working you to firmer motions, a little hungrier. 

It makes him all the more lethal, the way he can just figure you out like that. “Yeah?” he asks, sucking harshly against you. “Wanted me to fuck you like that?” 

“God, yeah.”

“You should have asked. I’ll fuck you however you want.” 

“Didn’t think you liked me.” 

Vernon is too busy to answer, increasing the attention of his mouth. Your hands slide down to his, nails digging into the tops of his hands where he holds you. He lets go of your hips in favor of linking your fingers, pressing your clasped hands to the mattress. 

His name drips from your mouth, eyes falling shut as you sink into the pleasure deep in your stomach. He makes little sounds of pleasure, grunting and groaning as his mouth becomes more fervent. You feel yourself toeing the edge of an orgasm, so so so close.

He can tell too. He finds a harsh rhythm, pulling you closer and closer to your high with each sharp suck of his lips. You twist in his grip, fingers squeezing his so hard you think you might break his hands. You don’t, feeling your breath catch and hold as you come hard, thighs squeezing as you writhe on the bed.

You draw in a ragged breath, desperate for air as he kisses your cunt once. Twice. His slick mouth presses against your thighs, teeth dragging against soft flesh as he mouths his way to your knee. He gives you a moment, letting you pant against the sheets. 

Fabric sticks to your skin as you wiggle against the bed. He stands up, crawling up you again to find your mouth. You lean forward, catching him in an open-mouth kiss that is more tongue than anything, your taste heady in the heat of his mouth. 

“Turn over on your stomach for me,” he groans. His hands squeeze your side as he gives you room to follow his direction. You do, but not without his help, your orgasm making you a little clumsy. “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ll help you in a second.”

Instead of moving, you lay slumped on the bed, fully intending to let him do the work. You turn your head to watch him pull his shirt off, revealing firm, tan skin. Vernon is beautiful, the sleek lines of his body reminding you of a painting. He kicks off his jeans before shuffling back on the bed behind you, looking down and snorting.

“Didn’t want to move like I asked?” You shake your head. He pats your ass lightly. “Come on, darling. Help me get these panties off or I will rip them off.” 

Huffing, you do as he says. He does lend you his strength hauling you up by the arm as you lean up on your knees. The room is cold, making you shiver but he presses your back to his chest, mouth dusting kisses over your shoulders. 

Vernon’s fingers dance along your sides until he’s pulling your underwear the rest of the way down your thighs, helping you kick out of them. When he’s got you full naked, he presses your back to him, crowding your space as he angles your head to kiss you slowly. Fully. 

Behind you, his cock presses firmly into your ass. You push back against him, putting pressure against his shaft. He hisses, biting your shoulder harshly. 

“Careful,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Or I won’t be very nice.” 

“Want you, though.”

“You’ll have me when I say you can.” 

One of his hands slides up to your neck, gripping your throat lightly. He pauses, leaning to catch your gaze. His eyes are round and soft. Honest. Open. “This okay?” He questions gently. He gives a little squeeze to indicate what he means. You nod eagerly, reaching a hand to close around his, making him press harder. “Fuck you’re perfect.” 

You lean your head back against his chest as he holds you by the throat, one of your hands dropping to his elbow, the other reaching behind you to sink your fingers in his hair and tug. The sound he makes is feral, the hand he has placed on your waist dropping between your legs, fingers pressing between them. 

“Oh,” you squeak, feeling his deft tough on your clit. His movements are aided by your earlier release, fingers circling smoothly as he squeezes your throat, thumb pressed perfectly, to make it just a little harder to breathe. “Shit.” 

“Can you tell me a safe word? Not gonna go hard, just wanna know if it becomes too much.” 

“Maenad.” He snorts and you huff. “I just wrote an essay on them, don’t start.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Alright. Just please use it if it’s too much - any of it. If you can’t talk, pat my arm, alright? Just wanna do this right.” 

You nod, so in love with him it takes all of you to stop yourself from blurting it. 

Vernon shuffles behind you, letting you tilt forward a little. The hand between your legs leaves and he instead brings it behind you, prodding at your pussy with his fingers from behind. You let out a loud sound and you can almost feel his grin as he presses a finger into your heat. 

He’s slow at first, the same way he was with his mouth. He explores what you like, testing the way his fingers drag against your walls combined with different grip strengths on your throat. You feel light headed. The room spins as he finds a rhythm that draws the most noises from you, that makes you clench down on his finger the most. 

All of your weight is against the hand around your neck, barely able to hold yourself up as he presses another finger in. This time, his fingers prod right against that soft spot inside of you, making you see stars. He must realize he’s found it, because he starts finger fucking you in earnest. 

The grip on your throat loosens a little, careful not to keep you short of breath for too long as he works your cunt with his hand. His lips find your shoulder, peppering you with light kisses that are delicate and butterfly soft in comparison to the way his fingers fuck into you. 

“Vernon,” you whisper, only able to think of his name. “Vernon vernon vernon.”

“Doing so good, darling,” he whispers against your skin. He kisses his way to your ear, sucking the sensitive spot on your neck. “So fucking good for me.” 

His words hit below the belt. You shudder in his hold, letting him drive you toward another release. You never imagined Vernon to be talkative in bed, but he is, his voice like velvet. Just like that. Perfect for me. There you go, come on. 

Everything about him is perfect, driving you to mania. His grip on your throat tightens suddenly, sensing how close you are to your second peak. Your breath quickens until you can’t breathe, going mute against him as his fingers press hardly into that spot over and over and over.

A high-pitched ring winds in your ears. You hold and hold and hold and when Vernon lets go of your throat, a gust of air flooding your lungs, you shatter around his hand. You collapse backward against him, head knocking into his. You don’t even care, twitching and gasping against him as his hand stills. 

For a few moments, you just lean against him like that, sweaty and lost and in a dream. Slowly, you become aware of his pounding heart against your back and the slick between your thighs. Vernon’s mouth is pressed to your shoulder, waiting patiently as you blink a few times, the room swimming into view.

“Hi,” he murmurs, watching you with shadowy eyes.

“Hi,” you croak, voice rough.

“Good?”

“Very.” 

“Want to stop?”

“No. Unless you want to.”

His gaze darkens. “I don’t.” 

“I want more. I can take more.” 

He lifts his head and presses a sweet kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect for me. Do you know that?” 

Reverent hands help you lay back against the pillows. Vernon touches you like you’re something delicate - not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because you’re something important to him. Valuable. You see it in the way he looks down at you, taking a moment to drink you in. 

There’s something else there too. Something edged with a knife, a little wild. Covetous. There is something in the way Vernon grips your leg briefly, a language he’s trying to communicate to you with touch. 

Mine, it says. Mine and no one else's.

With hooded eyes, you watch him peel his briefs off. Your eyes shoot to where his cock hangs heavy, beads of precum dripping at his tip. You reach a hand up toward him but he shakes his head, careful as he shuffles toward you.

“Later,” he promises. “I like touching you.” 

“I want you to feel good.”

“You make me feel good. Seeing you unravel makes me feel good. I like seeing how much you enjoy me touching you.”

You can tell he means it. His lips are swollen and soft when he kisses you. You open your legs open for him, letting him settle between the softness of your thighs. Vernon runs the head of his cock through your messy fluids, earning a whine for you.

“Sensitive?” he asks against your lips, nose nudging yours. You nod and you feel him smile. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Want more.” 

“Greedy thing.” 

“I’m Your greedy thing.”

Your words have the desired effect. You feel a shiver ripple through him, Vernon’s grip on your leg turning to iron as he opens you up wider. He presses his cock into your entrance slowly, pausing just as the tip pops in. You throb around him, whispering his name - begging him to keep going. 

Vernon’s grin is sharp as he sinks in further, the slide tortuous and wonderful and so much as he finally finds home, hips pressed as far as he can go. He stays like that, tangling your tongue in a messy kiss as he sits there, fully seated in your heat. Your pussy spasms around him, pressed open to the max. 

“Feels so good,” he whispers, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m going to come embarrassingly fast.”

“So do it.” You wrap a leg around his waist, your hips tilting upward. Both of you moan at the angle change, so close to breaking. “I wanna see it.” 

Instead of answering, he nods. He drags his hips backward slowly before slamming back in. He punches the breath out of your lungs with each slide home, the stroke slow but deep. Your head falls to the side, breaths rasping as he sets a steady, slow pace. 

It feels good, your legs curling around him to keep you close, hands tangle in his hair to keep him tethered to you. His hair is damp with sweat, your fingers curled in the strands, tugging a little. He seems to like it, making a needy sound in his throat that has you grinning. 

“Mine,” Vernon whispers to you, words muffled by your neck. “You are only mine, darling. You will only ever be mine. You were made for me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you agree. 

His hips move faster, a little messier. You egg him on, legs squeeze, cunt spasming around him. He lets out a feral sound, driving himself further to his orgasm. He drags you with him, another swell reaching you. Vernon can tell, chasing it like a predator, pinning you down and slamming his cock into you until you’re melting around him again, vision blotted out. 

Vernon comes to the sound of his name on your lips. His movements become sloppy until he can’t go anymore, holding himself above you, trembling. Carefully, he drops next to you, pulling his cock free. You feel your joint fluids run down your leg, but you’re too tired to care. 

Reaching for him, your hand finds his chest. He wraps his fingers around yours, holding your palm to him, his heart thudding wildly under your touch.

“For you,” he mutters. “Only for you, darling.” 

You fall asleep like that, hand pressed to his chest.

-

Waking up in Vernon’s bed is not new to you. You’ve fallen asleep numerous times at his apartment or stayed the night after going out, but you’ve always had the bed to yourself, Vernon opting to take the couch. 

The bed is empty now, but still warm. You stretch as you roll over in his sheets, groaning as you feel the soreness between your legs and mostly everywhere else. Pressing your hand to your chest and shoulders, you feel all the tender places Vernon mapped his affection with tongue and teeth. It makes you smile fondly as you lay in bed alone for a minute, breathing in the scent of his room.

Slowly, you peel yourself from his bed. With an awkward waddle, you make it to the bathroom, flicking on the light. You shield your eyes at first, going about your morning routine and washing your face to try and feel human again. 

On your way out, something catches your eye. You frown, walking back toward his laundry hamper where you see brass glinting in the light. You reach for it, pulling the bell from the tangle of his clothes. It has an old wooden handle with cracks, a little hand bell used for-

Well. Used the night of halloween. You have no idea why Vernon still has it, the memory of that night like poison in your mouth. You toss it back into the hamper on top of another shirt that catches your eye. It’s one of his dark green t-shirts, but the collar is stained dark brown.

Curious, you pull it out, shaking the shirt out in front of you. It’s mostly unmarked, save for the spatter of something dark brown and dried. You run your finger around the edge of it, puzzled. It looks like dried blood, but you can’t recall any injuries he’s suffered recently. 

You take the shirt with you into his room, tossing it on his bed as you get dressed, stealing sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing the shirt again, you trail out toward the kitchen where Vernon is making breakfast, the smell of bacon crackling in the pan.

You grin, leaning against the doorframe for a second to watch him. He looks so at ease, flipping pieces of bacon while he sings to some seventies song you don’t know the name of. 

Pushing off the wall, you head toward him. He catches you in his peripheral, turning his head and smiling at you. “Hello, Darling.” 

The nickname gives you pause. You slow as you come around the corner of the counter, stopping completely as the endearment pricks you sharply on the back of your neck. Vernon goes back to flipping bacon, singing along a song you vaguely know, but don’t know why Vernon does. He’s never liked music from the 1970s, and-

Your ears start to ring. Several things occur to you at once. 

The memory of Vernon screaming and banging his fists against the door, begging for help. You’d been so afraid that you ripped the door open, crashing through the line of salt. 

Vernon, sharp and confident, the new edge to him as he interacts with people, a little harsher. A little darker.

Nah need to cut back on the sodium had said when you asked about the lack of salt on his fries.

The way he’d called you darling the night before, whispering it against your skin. 

70s music that Vernon has never listened to since you’ve known him.  

The bell sitting in the hamper used to call a spirit on Halloween. 

In the house that belonged to the Hello Darling Murderer.

Brown stains - like blood - on his shirt. 

Carefully, you learn toward the middle of the counter, watching Vernon like a prey skirts a predator. With trembling hands, you gently grab the salt from where it sits next to the pepper. You hold your breath, trying not to draw his attention as you unscrew the top of it, placing the metal lid on the shirt to keep it quiet. 

With as silent steps as you can manage, you cross to the other side of the kitchen where you’re out of his line of sight. Tipping the salt over, you pour it across the tile from counter to fridge, eyes darting between the barrier of white and the man standing in the kitchen humming. 

Your heart hammers. 

Your hands shake. 

Salt shaker empty, you set it on the counter and take a few steps back. It’s an unbroken line of salt, and though it doesn’t trap him in the kitchen, at least it’s there. 

Vernon turns around with the pan of bacon. He sees you and his humming stops, cocking his head to the side. He notices the empty salt shaker. Frowns. Looks at you. Looks at the ground where you’ve drawn a line of salt. 

For a second, he just stares at it. His eyes flick back up to you, warm and brown but narrowed. 

“Why is there salt all over my floor?” 

“Cross it.” 

“Huh?”

“Step over the line of salt.” 

Silence stretches between you. He remains standing in the kitchen, pan in hand, music playing in the background.

When Vernon doesn’t move, you can see everything so clearly. 

Vernon hadn’t been joking when he slammed his hands on the door begging for help on Halloween. A sick feeling roils in your stomach as you remember the panicked screams, the way his fists hammered the door. 

Your next words come out as a hiss. “Cross the line of salt, Vernon.”

He looks at the salt and purses his lips before sighing and setting the pan down on the stove. He tosses the rag from his shoulder and shakes his head, striding over to the white line you made against his tile. He stops in front of it, looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if to say really?

“Well, do it.”

Vernon looks down at the salt. Looks back up to you. Down at the salt. 

And then he laughs. 

“Fuck, you really are the smartest person in school.” He sighs heavily, a gaze darker than anything you’ve ever seen on his face as he stares at you. “You know I can’t cross that line of salt, darling.” 

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy @gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries @archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona @beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen @mingumis @kimsaerom

PLEASE NOTE: IF YOU DO NOT SEE YOUR TAG HERE, TUMBLR WOULD NOT LET TAG YOU AND YOU'VE BEEN REMOVED FROM THE TAG LIST.

[gyublues]

oh OH this is a gem.

catch you when i can (vernon x reader).

⤿ a five-part series charting vernon's relationship with you, an international rockstar.

𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 —

part one, the one with the origin story.

part two, the one where vernon tours in your city.

part three, the one where you go public.

part four, the one about fighting.

part five, the one where a choice has to be made.

ⓘ international rockstar!f!reader, long distance relationship, established relationship, use of pet names. fluff, angst. cussing.

annotations for the main verse.

𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒 —

vernonboxd ★ movie nights are sacred to you and vernon.

because/despite ★ one fine day, you find a list.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —

with love, kae ✎ i adore this verse so, so much that asks (i.e. drabbles, headcanons, smaus) for it will be perpetually open, regardless of whether or not my main requests are open. as always, this wouldn't have come to light without the anon who asked for it in the first place! i'm eternally indebted.

thank you for reading catch you when i can. <3

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[gyublues]

this hits me so damn much

Soundproof

Lee Chan x reader | part of the Lonely Hearts Cafe Collab hosted by @camandemstudios

word count: 9.2k

contains: band member!chan, high school!au, angst, fluff, neighbours to lovers, mentions of stress and overwhelming emotions, chan is emotionally constipated, mention of parents

synopsis: Noise has followed Lee Chan his entire life, at least that what it feels like to you since the day his family moved in next door. It goes from his yells and screams to his midday guitar riffs and drum solos, all somehow ending up in your parents garage for his audacious band practices. Noise has followed Lee Chan his entire life, but at some point, you fell in line too.

[a/n]: this one was. a ride. to say the least. this felt like I was going back to my roots, I was getting so much htwhfd vibes from this and it made me all emo. its not as plot heavy or extensive as I usually go but it was about time I wrote something for chan before they took my dinonara status away so plsplsplsplspls remember to reblog or send me an ask with your thots 🥹

ty to @highvern the yin to my yang or whatever they say about married couples for beta-ing this for me, to jewel @100vern and mr. jewel for helping me out with all the technical instrument bits, ily hehehe. and of course, the BIGGEST thank you to everyone that participated in this collab, we had 26 fics this time around (what! the! fuck!) and it was honestly so fun to interact with new and old writers and to watch them create fics <333 ily guys tysm and PLEASE check out the collab masterlist above for all the amazing fics!!!

masterlist

The day you met Lee Chan was a memory as vivid as yesterday. Mostly because it was the first time you heard a scream so blood curdling. It was enough to push you out of your seat where you were pouring over an impossible Kumon problem, hurtling towards a window looking over your front yard, interest piqued beyond the math problems on your desk. Tripping over your stuffed otter in haste, you threw the toy onto the bed with perfect aim before returning to your mission. 

Nose pressed against the cool glass, you find a giant moving truck right in front of your house. Well, half in front of yours, the tailend towards the house next door. The truck's compartment is wide open, and a million wrapped and boxed things lay on the pavement, leaving a trail that leads all the way into the open front door. Wrapped chairs and tables, what look like vases and bowls littered next to crudely labelled cardboard boxes. The chaos wasn’t quenching your interest though; the men that haul things from the truck to the ground are not the ones screaming, and neither is the woman that pops her head out to drag a box through the threshold and into the house. 

Your hands are on the glass too, trying to push yourself farther than your tippy toes to catch a better look at the newcomers. You nearly give up, about to drop back on your heels and go back to hunch over algebra, before you hear a loud yell. “Dad! DAD! Look!”

He’s sprinting so fast you hardly catch him, through the door, jumping down the steps of the porch, zigzagging through boxes and furniture and uncut grass as he hurtles towards the truck. The bright blue hoodie he’s donned makes it easier to keep up, but also the fact that he’s holding a giant object in his arms as he books it across the lawn. 

“Chan, be careful, you’ve barely had it for ten minutes!” someone yells, their voice muffled through the glass. He doesn’t seem to listen, crashing into his dad who receives his bone crushing hug with surprise. 

It’s a guitar. He’s holding a guitar. His father speaks, directed at the woman in the doorway, “I told you to wait for me!”

“He found it himself!” she defends, but her tone is light with amusement. It’s half drowned by the unending chorus of thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou from the boy who continues to balance his brand new guitar and the tight embrace that’s locked his dad’s arms at his own sides. 

A few hours later, there’s company at your door, the distinct sound of your mother greeting her guests pouring through to your bedroom. You instinctively press pause on your speakers, the static noise of One Direction halting abruptly as you eavesdrop. As though on cue, your mother called for you. 

At the door is a woman with a kind smile on her face, handing your mother a tray full of something covered in foil, all while she’s being ushered onto the couch. Behind her trail two boys, a taller and a shorter. 

“This is my daughter,” she introduces you to the crowd beckoning you forward. Shuffling your feet, you oblige. “This is Mrs. Lee and her sons.”

“This is Geon,” Mrs. Lee gestures towards the shorter one that’s more content behind his mothers legs. “And this is Chan. You might be the same age!”

“They’ve just moved in next door,” your mother informs, lifting her head to address Mrs. Lee. “You’re enrolling him in the local middle school right? Maybe you can show him around!”

It’d be hard to do that when the boy in question was more interested in the carpet below his socks. But you nod and give a tight smile regardless. With the adults seated, your mother has somehow pushed you into dragging a seemingly unwilling Chan to show him your room. Both of you oblige, mostly because you see his mother give him the look when he wouldn’t move from his spot. 

It’s torturously silent as you climb the steps, trying to think if you’ve left out something embarrassing in the open. Your stomach jolts, the giant pile of clothes fashioning itself in your eyelids, your training bra at the top of the clean pile. Suddenly, you’re bolting up the steps faster than Chan, making a beeline to shove the damn thing under the mound of clothes before he could walk in and see. Throwing the door open, you take a moment to address Chan walking up the last step, “Um, just in here.”

There it is, pink with Minnie Mouse plastered all over it. By the time it’s hidden, Chan is walking through the threshold and into your room. His eyes wander, taking in the blare of your space. He looks odd standing with his clothes that are all black down to his socks and his mop of hair, a void against the bright pinks and blues of your bedroom. The desk is against the window that overlooks the backyard, your curtains patterned a purple chevron. It’s clean for now, but your shelves are lined with textbooks and novels, a smaller corner for your CDs. The bed is still warm and ruffled from when you were lounging in it, your nightstand decorated with a star lamp and your pink CD player. 

“You can sit down,” you invite, giving the pile of clothes one last kick in its place next to your blue wardrobe. You migrate to the chair behind your desk, letting him take the edge of the bed. He still hasn’t said a word, and you wonder if this is the same person that was running and screaming outside just hours ago. Chan continues to observe the contaminants of your room, landing on your nightstand where your CD player is, the case for your One Direction CD right next to it. Reaching for it, he says his first words to you.

“Is this yours?” A dense question in hindsight, but you appreciated him filling the silence. You nod immediately, “I have more! I have them all, actually.” 

He puts the case back on your nightstand. The silence plunges itself into the space once more, and the pressure on your chest is near unbearable. “You can…you can borrow them if you like.” 

Chan looks startled, eyebrows raised as he registers the offer. “Oh, uh, I don’t…I don’t listen to One Direction. Or boy groups or girl groups or…pop.”

“Oh,” you falter, heat rising in your cheeks. Nothing was said outright, but you couldn’t shake the distinct feeling of being judged. 

“Do you play?” he asks. Cocking your head in confusion, you ask, “The CD player?”

“No, uh,” he points to under your desk, where there’s a pink plastic ukulele covered in multicolour glitter from a chaotic DIY, “that.”

“I try to.” Your cheeks burn. “Youtube videos are helpful sometimes. Do you?” 

It was a pointed question, brought forth from the fresh memory of his loud gift receiving earlier. “I play the ukulele but it’s not a lot of fun. I just got a new guitar for my birthday last week. I only got it today because we were moving and I wasn’t supposed to find it but I did. It’s a Fender Jazzmaster in Olympic White. My mom wanted me to get Surfer Green but it felt like a gir— anyway.”

“Why…don’t you like Surfer Green?” you ask, because it felt like the obvious follow up. 

He stares at you, mouth open slightly. “What I really wanted was the Fender Mustang but my mom said that was too expensive. Dad would’ve gotten it but they bought my brother a console so I had to comiprise…copm…comripise—”

“C-Compromise?” you suggest meekly. 

“Yeah.”

You frown a little, “Aren’t you happy with the one you got?”

“I like the Jazzmaster too, but holding those Mustangs just–just feels different in the stores,” he continues. “Kurt Cobain had a Mustang.”

“Who’s—”

“You don’t know Nirvana?” 

“Um—” you stutter, like you’d been asked a question you didn’t have an answer for in front of the entire class. 

“Right,” he deflates, eyes flitting to the empty One Direction case on the nightstand. 

You swallow, wiggling your toes to hold down the fort that was your pride. “Are—um…Are there no other famous people with…what you got?”

He ponders for a moment, face uncurling. “Bob Dylan had one…”

You breathe a sigh of relief, having at least heard the name before. “That means it’s still really good!”

“Yeah,” he nods, like he was having a genuine epiphany. “Yeah it is pretty good.”

“Good.”

“I still want the Mustang though,” he continues, and then adding with a mumble you hardly catch, “Why does Geon have to get a present on my birthday.”

Later on in the week, when you’re out at the mall with your friends, too sweet frappes and milkshakes in hand, your gaggle enters the music store. The others crowd around the laid out drumset, some walk to the functioning keyboards, you find yourself trailing to the salon style depiction of electric guitars mounted on the walls. Cold fingers wrapped around your mocha frappe, you read the signs on the different guitars, trying to find two specific ones to pause on. 

There it is. The placard calls it a Fender Player II Mustang in bold black font. It’s jet black, reflective in the glossy finish, complete with all the white accents and the wood piece at the top. Your hand, sweaty with condensation, reaches out to touch the smooth surface of the guitar, half mesmerised by the finish. You’re interrupted with a jarring, “Can I help you out?”

Retracting quickly, you turn to the salesperson stood before you, small smile on her face. “Uh—do you guys have this in surfer green?”

She furrows her brows, “Not the Mustangs. We have Jazzmasters in surfer green but they’re out of stock. Would you like to place an order?”

Sucking in a sharp breath, you’re quick with your, “No, thank you.” It’d be strange for a middle schooler to book something that expensive all by herself, let alone with a flock of friends. The lady smiles at you regardless, and you smile back, going to give the black beauty one last look before walking back over to your friends, where they attempt to play the intro to Shake It Off with very little success. 

You steal one last glance as you leave the store.

Remembering freshman year of high school is quite easy when you take into account all the time you spent locked in a bathroom stall crying. It began to make a little more sense after your first bleed, having something to attribute your feelings to when things in your 16 year old brain got rough, but you wouldn’t leave a particularly high rating on your high school years. 

It wasn’t all bad, though, especially when you were sitting in your homeroom class with neatly folded hands and a slightly jittery leg, watching all the people file into the room. You didn’t know if he’d be here, it wasn’t like you talked to him in middle school much, nor did you hear anything from your mother. You’d rather have died than ask, choosing to wait until you bumped into him — if you bumped into him. The manifestation made itself known as Lee Chan walked into the door of your homeroom class nearly fifteen minutes past reporting time. The teacher simply smiled with raised brows as he greeted him, not missing the leisurely way his backpack was strung on one shoulder paired with his blaring METALLICA t-shirt. His eyes sweep right past you as he makes his way to the very back of the class to find a seat in the last row. 

It’s difficult to not crane your neck to see him, hiding under the guise of a neck stretch as you turn your head. He’s slumped in his chair, face unreadable as he stares at the front of the class. He isn’t doing much, which is like always, but it’s enough for you to want to take another peek. You don’t, because your homeroom teacher has clapped his hands to get the attention of the now full room, ready to start the first day of high school. 

Did you like Chan? Or did you just like the way that he was? At 14, he seemed infinitely cooler than you, just like he did in middle school when he made his first impression in the resounding girlish brightness of your room, in front of your boyband CDs and glitter crafted ukulele that were all seemingly too juvenile for his tastes. You couldn’t put your finger on it, but you knew you wanted to be his friend, a feat that seemed significantly harder than it should be. 

Chan would never tag along with his mom or brother when they’d come to visit, and he’d always be cooped up in his room when it’d be you sitting with his brother in the living room of his home while your mothers conversed endlessly. It was the only reason you were that enthusiastic anyway, the possibility of seeing him and sparking a conversation that didn’t die down in half a minute. You’d been to Chan’s room only once, and hardly even at all. It was the summer before high school and your families were barbecuing in the backyard of Chan’s home, and you’d been tasked to run up and pull him out to come eat. He was the only one left in the house, who seemed to not respond when you knocked cautiously on the wood of his door. 

His door was a collage of him; posters of unresolved rock bands, loud DO NOT ENTER warnings and endless loud tearings of the sort. You spotted a pink unicorn sticker among the mess, and you were almost sure it was the workings of Geon, one that Chan was yet to spot. There was a muffled hum filtering through the door, and it sounded like the low strumming of a guitar. Chan was playing something, and you remember so clearly the way you stood there for seemingly ages trying to figure out what the tune was. It was worlds quieter than his usual loud guitar riffs that seemed to occur at the very reasonable times of 10 O’clock at night. It seems you were taking too long, because next you know, his mother was bounding up the steps to find you vacant outside his door. 

“Is he not answering?” she asks. “God, those stupid headphones, never should’ve bought them—CHAN!” She raps on the door with significant force. “LEE CHAN, get out of your cave, everyone’s waiting for you at the table!” 

The door swings open to reveal a severely disgruntled Chan, his headphones nowhere to be found. “What?”

“Poor girl’s been knocking for twenty minutes, have some decency and get downstairs,” she snaps. You were frozen in your spot, mouth gaping as you tried to say something. You’d only knocked once, and not very firmly either. Technically, this was your fault. His mother looked down at his shirt that depicted a very graphic skull paired with pyjama bottoms. “And change for goodness’ sake!”

With that, her expression changed so quickly it gave you whiplash. She gave you a smile and pulled you along with her back downstairs, pushing you to sit down at the dinner table as Chan emerged into the lawn a while later. He’d pulled a jumper over his shirt despite the pleasant weather, his sweatpants changed out. You noted how he shoved Geon out of his seat at the very end of the table, making him move to the only other seat available — next to you. Nobody noted the exchange, nobody batted an eye. They were always going at each other, this had only felt like another brotherly spat.

Even now, as you note the free seat next to you in your homeroom class, you know it was only because he didn’t see you when he walked in, and that he’d rather die than sit anywhere closer than the farthest bench, but you couldn’t help feeling what you felt. An ugly kind of stir, a pang of hurt. There was nothing close about you and Chan but your proximity, but when the universe’s recipe to bring everyone else in the world closer fails, it’s impossible to feel like there’s resistance somewhere, somehow. 

Getting in the car of Chan’s mother’s car, he takes the front seat and immediately pops in headphones on, while you talk about your day to his mom. Geon, having been picked up from his middle school first, is fast asleep in the seat next to you, leaving you as the only person she could talk to. You didn’t mind, Mrs. Lee was always nice, maybe even exceptionally nice to you. She did mention wanting a daughter at some point, but you appreciate that she’s putting you out of your self imposed silence. 

Freshman year was a lot; emotions, friends, grades, and the very existence of the fact that you were growing up through the thick of it all. But there was one thing that it wasn't, and that was Chan.

Senior year of high school, things become exponentially harder for you. 

It’s the first day back to school, this time without the nerves of freshman year. Three years into the game, you’d built a high school specific armour that served you well for most of your career. You were jogging out the door and into the morning chill, immediately looking for the white of Mrs. Lee’s SUV, only to find a silver sedan parked in front of your driveway. Halting in your steps, you looked over to find the car you’d been looking for still parked and stationary in the neighboring driveway, looking back to the unfamiliar car in front of you. 

The windows rolled down just as you were about to cross the lawn and knock on the neighbor’s doors, maybe Mrs. Lee was running late? But all you saw was Geon in the shotgun seat waving you over, and you catch the explicit sight of Chan at the driver’s seat. 

Oh.

As you slipped into the backseat, you remember the distinct feeling of unease. “I…I still thought your mom was dropping us off.” 

“Chan bought the car yesterday! But he had to promise mom to let you carpool with us—”

“Geon,” Chan grit quietly as he turned the corner out of the neighborhood. In true seventeen year old fashion, you felt your legs turn to jello. You’d hardly seen him over the summer, overheard talks from the adults that he was giving guitar lessons to younger kids; perhaps that was how he bought the car? But the gap in contact meant you had no idea just how deep his voice had gotten over the past months. You remember the uncomfortable lurch in your stomach, the way Geon ignored his brother and only continued to speak to you, but you were hardly listening over the roaring in your ears. “...a new CD booklet but it’s all his shitty rock music—”

“Language,” Chan hissed. Geon frowned, “I’m going into high school next year. I think I’m allowed to say shit.” He only turned back to you in a grin, “He just can’t accept that his music is shitty.”

“Get out of my car,” Chan said as he pulled up in front of Geon’s middle school.

Immediately, panic flooded in your system. Do you stay in the backseat? Do you move up front? Why didn’t you think of this before? Getting out of the car and moving up front felt like an exceedingly embarrassing task. Opening the door, closing it, the awkward run up to the front seat, not to mention the silence, were you supposed to talk to him—

“You can just jump over the console up front,” Chan turned to say to you, and you jump a little at the way he directly addresses you. 

“Uh, are you sure?” you asked, eyeing the way he moves his elbow out of the way so you’d have space to hop over. 

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” he assured, only half paying attention. Leaving your backpack in the back, you found yourself moving towards the centre console, swinging a leg over to bring the sole of your shoe directly on the front seat to push yourself over. You succeeded, dropping down with a thud. Chan had already begun driving as you grappled to find the seatbelt. 

The only thing you remember from that first drive with Chan alone was the way your brain felt like a broken record. 

“Geon.”

“Language.”

“Get out of my car.”

“You can just jump over the console up front.”

“Yeah, I don’t mind.” 

It was too much for all of seven minutes from Geon’s middle school to your high school, evident in the way you blurted out a quick “thanks, see you at 3” over your shoulder as you’d booked it into the building and out Chan’s vicinity. If he’d found it weird, he didn’t say a thing. 

This went on for the first few months of senior year, even having been promoted to shotgun at some point to make the ordeal easier, much to the annoyance of Geon who sat moping for most mornings and afternoons. Despite the fact, Chan never really spoke to you throughout the time, his only words coming in the form of snapping at Geon when he mildly annoyed him. But you had acquired his phone number, which ensued a chatbox of endless short sentence exchanges. 

[Chan 7:15 AM]: Come outside [You 7:15 AM]: Ok  [Chan 3:02 PM]: Come outside [You 3:03 PM]: Ok 

The turn didn't happen until tonight. It’s the first week of winter break, a bleak Friday night as you’re getting ready to reorganise your shelf of magazines. The room is filled with Taylor Swift filtering through your pink speakers, still in the same place on the nightstand as it was in middle school. The pile of magazine issues is taking over your floor, more than half of them covered in settled dust over the years, some just about ready to disintegrate at a touch. You’re more than focused on your task of separating the viable contenders to the ones that have had their run, when the distinct sound of the doorbell cuts through your music. A glance at the clock tells you it’s nearly 8 PM, too late for guests. Well, invited ones anyway.  

Soon, there’s a warble of high pitched conversation, one that urges you to shut your music off to ensue your usual eavesdropping. There isn’t much you can make out with your ear pressed to the door, and you have half a mind to move out and loiter in the hallway. You still can’t tell who it is, but when you hear the sound of the front door closing, you know it’s safe to wander out. 

“Who was that?” you ask your mother casually under the pretense of wanting an apple.

“Oh, it was Chan!” she responds. Your hand that’s rummaging through the fridge freezes. “Did you know he’s in a band? He wants to use the garage for band practice, asked so nicely I couldn’t say no.”

Emerging from the fridge with a deformed stick of cheese, you ask as evenly as possible, “Why—What’s wrong with his garage?”

“They’ve got an extra car now so one always needs to be inside to make space in the driveway. Something about his dad’s exercise machines too but I wasn’t listening, I didn’t have a problem with him using the space anyway.”

“But,” you start, but falter. “But the noise…”

“He said weekends in the late afternoons only, seems reasonable enough,” she says. This time, when she turns to you she has a strange look on her face, and you immediately know you’ve pried too much. 

“Well, I’m done for the day, keep your music down, will you? I’m taking an early night.” 

The irony isn’t beyond you, but when there’s someone at the door at 3 PM on Saturday, you know exactly who it is. 

You’ve been loitering downstairs all afternoon, bringing your homework to the open kitchen table under the guise of “wanting a change of scenery”. There’s no one around when you slowly slip off your stool, dropping your pen like you were immensely inconvenienced by the distraction, slugging towards the door to wrench it open. 

Chan is in a zip up today and dark washed jeans, but it’s blacker than a void all the same. His guitar case sits next to him as his hands remain pocketed. He registers you for a moment, “Hey. Is your mom around?”

“Uh—” you stutter. Looking back to see her rushing towards the door to greet Chan. 

“Oh, you’re here!” Immediately, she smacks at your arm to move you from the door, “Let him in, will you? It’s freezing outside.”

You grumble something under your breath that she doesn’t catch, letting Chan into your home as your mother starts listing things off. 

“Okay! I made sure the garage was clean, the floors are mopped and I’ve put up a heater in there in case it gets too cold. Just plug it into the socket near the garage door and it should work. Don’t worry about staying late, it’s not like you have to drive home!” Your mother laughs at her own joke with vigour, prompting Chan to break a smile of his own which you’re sure is out of nothing but politeness. But you can’t help the hitch in your threat as you see him smile, the breathy laugh he lets out to seal the deal. 

“I’ll be out with snacks once all your friends get here, feel free to get comfortable, you can leave all your fancy equipment in the garage too, no one really goes in there.”

“You didn’t have to do all that, really—” 

“Nonsense!” your mother exclaims, cutting Chan off. She finds you trailing behind her and pulls you in. “You’ve been handling drop off duties since middle school, I’m glad you’re giving me a chance to do something for you.”

You want to mumble something about Mrs. Lee being the one doing most of the picking up and dropping off in the past years, but choose not to as she shoos Chan into the garage to let him set up. You’re left alone in the opening of the living room as your mother ushers into the kitchen to start on the aforementioned snacks. Following her, you take a begrudged seat back at the island, picking up your deserted pen and scratching a nonexistent itch in your scalp as you stare blankly at the papers in front of you. There’s a giant bag of dino nuggets slammed on the island as your mother rushes about behind you, and you stare at them a little confused. 

“Um,” you attempt to start, turning to address her. “I don’t know if Chan or his bandmates are gonna appreciate dino nuggets as snacks.”

She frowns. “But I always made you dino nuggets when your friends came over. Orange or apple juice, string cheese, and cookies!”

Your eyes close as you remember the spread that was always expected, that your friends always liked. “That was a while ago, mom.”

“You haven’t had friends over in so long, I wouldn’t know what kids like at that age.”

Shoulders slouched, you mumble under your breath, “That’s ‘cause you won’t let me change my room.”

She catches it, still adamant that your bursts of bright pink, purple and blues were perfectly appropriate for you. “But you still like the same things!”

“Yeah but…I don’t have to be so loud about it,” you grumble slightly, trying your hardest to complain without complaining. 

“Well, tell me what they’d want then.”

You hadn’t planned to be too involved with the process, but the situation called for it if you were to save face somehow. You're in the middle of fighting with the oven when you hear the distinct tremor of testing cymbals and the deep, low sound of guitar notes. By the time you’re done helping out your mother, band practice is in full session, the muffled noise of cohesive music pouring through the walls as you let your mother plate up the food. You manage to replace the tray with the dotted spaceships to one that’s less assuming. 

“Alright, you can go ahead and get this to them, my load of laundry’s been sitting in the dryer for half an hour!”

Snapping your head up, you bug your eyes out at your mother. “W–What?”

“Go on, they’re probably waiting!” she yells over her shoulder as she rushes to her ever important stash of laundry. 

Later in life, you’ll think back to this very moment, and the very embarrassing way you snapped down to look at your outfit first and foremost. The heat rose to your cheeks even in the moment, having the sudden urge to change into your jeans. It was like the first day in Chan’s car all over again, the prospect of carrying the tray over to a garage full of boys who knew they were infinitely cooler than you was downright mortifying.  

You were old enough to realise the oddity of your behaviour, the way you seem to flare up like an ignition the moment Chan was anywhere near the vicinity of your thoughts. But when you’re sitting in the middle of a group of giggling, exhilarated friends, talking about all the ways their crushes make them swoon, it all seems so out of place. The lift of their smile, the cascade of their hair, the way they enunciate their words. There was always something to talk about when it came to the person with the glowing halo around their beings.

Did you like Chan? 

Liking Chan meant having something to talk about. He pays you no mind, takes no interest in anything that doesn’t directly concern him, hell, you can’t remember the last time you heard your name from his mouth. But when you think of his dark hair, dark clothes and equally dark demeanor, nothing comes to mind to back up why you seem to see the monochromed boy scintillating like he glows from within. It was just him. It was just Chan. 

Even now, as you timidly duck through the half shuttered garage opening, you feel yourself putting every ounce of strength you had to not drop the tray altogether. 

It’s mostly silent now, the slight sounds of tuning instruments the only thing occupying the surroundings. The garage is near unrecognisable, not that you’re in there alot anyway. It’s darker, only a single yellow lamp ignited in the corner, the half covered opening of the garage letting in the fading orange of sunlight. An entire drumset’s been shoved in the area, the seat occupied by one of Chan’s friends you recognise immediately, Hansol. A giant black box with knobs and wires you think is an amplifier, and two people with guitars, a ruby red and a shiny, lacquered black, fiddled around by Seugkwan and Yeonjun. You don’t see Chan immediately, but recognise the white guitar propped up against the mic stand. 

“Grub!” one of them yells, and that seems to push Chan out of his hunch in front of the sockets. 

“Um, my mom said to give this to you,” you say, placing the tray on the spare table in the corner. “I’ll just…have a good session.”

“Fanks!” Seungkwan muffles through a mouth full of hotdog, waving as you timidly leave. 

You remember hearing a chorus of thank yous as you’d left the garage, but as you sit back down at the kitchen island to ‘resume’ your homework, all you can think about is Chan’s own voice was mixed in with the crowd. 

You can’t tell, but when your mother walks in to dump a clean pile of laundry to fold on the couch, she asks you why you’re smiling.

Every Friday, Saturday and Sunday, you accustomed your afternoons to homework on the kitchen island sponsored by the background music pouring from the garage. You couldn’t recognise any of the songs they played to save your life, but when it was Chan’s turn at the mic, you found you didn’t really care what was being strummed out. 

It took you a couple weeks, but you soon found yourself positively launching at the snack tray anytime your mother made a move to go deliver them, having honed the skill of reminding her of another more pressing task she always seemed to have. It didn’t take long for the boys to start calling you all sorts of heavenly names, a perk of being the bearer of the food. 

Chan stuck to his small “thanks”, but it seemed to do mounds better for your mood than the other “angel”, “goddess”, or “your highness”s being thrown at you. 

Until, of course, it all came crashing down.

The band had continued to use the garage even as the semester had started, pouring all the way into the end of the spring semester. Finals were upon you like an agitated hive of wasps, graduation edging nearer and nearer as you hunched over homework and notes and assignments for real this time. Sleep was a commodity, as seen by the fifteen minute naps you pushed in every morning in the passenger seat as Chan drove you to school. Not very surprisingly, Chan seemed unphased. Band practices occurred like normal, but with much sorrow, you had to give up your snack runs to your mother when you realised you couldn’t afford the distraction. 

Noise cancelling headphones and the wood of your bedroom door, you try your darndest not to miss the few minutes of cheese and crackers you’d share with the band, the feeling of being included by people you didn’t think would bat an eye. It felt silly, when you realised they were also just high schoolers with different interests, the isolation having been a wall constructed in your consciousness alone. 

The only thing you can manage is a hi when you pass in the hallways, or a quick goodbye when you get into Chan’s car where they crowd. It isn’t until you’re walking home late from study group when it’s past dark that you have a chance, the sound of music still rumbling from the shuttered garage door. There’s a temporary slouch in your shoulders, and a mind that’s too tired, too sleepy, and frankly, too sick of your own bedroom. So you find yourself walking into the garage from the door on the inside of the house, soliciting a very exciting response.

“Oh? Has the snack goddess returned?” Yeonjun asks, in jest because you can see the empty tray of snacks already devoured and digested. 

“Hey,” you smile tightly. You don’t know if it’s because you’re near exhausted, but the prospect of looking at Chan feels like it would push you over the edge you’ve been teetering on for weeks. 

Suddenly, this seems like it was a bad idea. 

“What, missed us too much?” Hansol muses, and you immediately want to cry.

You can’t understand what’s going on, but suddenly, the buzz of being around Chan is doing worse than just flooding you with a manageable buzz.

The weather’s getting warmer, and he’s wearing a t-shirt that reveals a universally acceptable amount of skin, but it feels like a visual hook when your eyes glaze over his form.

And then there it is.

The upturn of the corners of his mouth, the cascade of his dark hair, the way he enunciated, “Geon’s been worried about you.”

Have you? Have you, Chan?

Not a thought about the fact that these were the most amount of words he’d said to you in years, not a thought about how he’s looking directly at you, or that he addressed you in a way that wasn’t passive or monosyllabic. 

It’s the strange sting of tears that takes you aback, the itch in your nose, the lump in your throat. “I’m fine.” You sound…watery. “Just wanted to check in. Have fun.”

Through the now shut door of the garage, you hear a voice through the wood. “Geon’s been worried about her? Fuck you, Chan, seriously.”

When you make it up to your bedroom, it’s just another punch to the gut. The purple of your curtains, the baby blue of your bedsheets, the glitter of that stupid ukulele you just can’t seem to throw away. 

The pink of your CD player.

It’s all too much. Too much in the tears that roll down your face, too much in the sound of your sniffles, too much in the ache in your temples.

Too much, but after the years where it all felt so unsure, you find through the blur of your tears the clear sign pointed directly at Chan. And the one that doesn’t point back at you.

Your feelings weren’t even remotely new, but the epiphany you’d just received certainly was. 

You’re perfectly aware of how thick the air was when you slipped into the passenger seat Monday morning, refusing to look at Chan and simply muttering a small “hey”. As always. You slip into your nap that was mostly just you pretending to screw your eyes tight shut, head leaned against the window. 

The car slows to stop, but you don’t hear the sound of the door opening from the backseat to signal Geon leaving. 

It’s silent for a few moments before Geon pipes up. “Did you make her mad?”

“What?” 

“You did something.”

“Are you getting out or not?”

There’s a small mumble of “Idiot” as opens the door to leave, slamming the door shut with a force that shakes the entire car. It forces you to open your eyes, but you hardly flutter them as you stretch your arms out like you just woke up. You watch as you pull into the final turn that leads to your school, only to find Chan turn…the other way?

He pulls over to the side as soon as he makes the turn, exiting the car before you can react or ask what he was doing. You only stare as he enters a tiny neon lighted coffee shop tucked into a corner on the elevated pavement. It irritates you for some reason, so you simply tuck your head back into your own shoulder and close your eyes. The car door opens, and you feel him pull out to take the other turn. 

You don’t open your eyes till he parks and you hear the pull of the handbrake. Not even looking over, you reach for your bag to leave the car, only to be stopped by Chan. 

There’s two plastic cups in the cup holders and a paper bag with a bright logo. Chan picks one of the cups up and makes to exit the car. “The coffee’s only half a shot so it’s not too stimulating. Sandwich should warm up by lunch.”

He’s already slammed the door of the driver’s side shut, leaving you in your seat utterly perplexed. You stare at the light brown liquid in the to go cup, the slight stains of oil on the paper bag, mind blank. 

Then the door opens again, Chan poking his head in again, “I have to lock the car.”

“Oh!” You scramble to grab everything, looking up sheepishly. “Thanks for this.”

“S’fine.” 

And then he’s gone again, leaving you a mess you’re increasingly failing to conceal.

It seems the universe is dead set on ensuring your final weeks in high school are anything but laced with peace. 

The exhaustion, lack of sleep and the constant strain of using your brain so much is making you irrational. Suddenly, everything Chan does feels like a signal. 

It was coffee and a sandwich, then it was letting you know he was okay with waiting for you an extra hour when you had meeting after school, calling you in the mornings instead of his usual brief text asking you to come outside. But then there were the sights you’d witness in school. He’d smile, talk, and laugh so loud you could hear him from across the hall, to boys and girls and teachers alike, like he was only odd around you. It’s giving you whiplash. It makes you wanna spin him around and ask him what on Earth you did wrong. Why he’s held such distaste for you since the day you two met all those years ago as kids. 

When you break down into tears in the middle of your Algebra final, your teacher only assumes it’s the stress of senior year getting to you, and it probably is. But you know there’s more to what’s happening to your emotions. 

The good thing is that was your last final, walking out of the doors of your high school, knowing you’d never have to think of the last few months of torture ever again. The doors aren’t nearly as flooded as you imagined the final day of high school would have them be, having been one of the last people to take the exam. A bleak end to a bleak year. 

That is, until you find the familiar silver sedan parked in the very front of the nearly empty parking lot. 

Chan did not have an Algebra exam today, he’d been done with school for a whole week, and you’d been taking the painstaking walk back home for your remaining days, as you had expected to do for your very last. 

He’s leaning against the driver’s side door outside in the near empty parking lot anyway, wearing a black hoodie despite the warm afternoon, his jeans a dark blue. 

Your knees weaken. Why was he here?

Taking slow steps down to the parking lot, Chan finally notices you approaching, straightening up as you grow closer. 

“Are you done?” he asks first, which is jarring enough that he piped up before you. 

“Did you have a final today?” you ask sharply

“Uh, no.” 

“Did you have work in the admin office?” you push. 

“No—”

“Then why are you here?” 

That seems to stump him, his eyes flitting to everywhere but you. “I just—I thought you might need a ride.”

It’s silent as you stare at him, disbelief engulfing you. Nothing was making sense, he doesn’t make sense. 

“Chan, I just—” you stop, feeling the tears pool into your eyes. “I just don’t get you.”

Chan notices the wobble in your voice, the glisten in your eyes as he finally, finally, brings his gaze up to yours to take in your face. His face is unreadable, as it always has been, and it only overwhelms you more. It seems you feel too much and he doesn’t at all. 

“I…Seungkwan said you weren’t doing too well during your exam—” Of course, Seungkwan was in the same room as you wrote your final, the blabbermouth never knowing when to stop. 

“And you came running? Why Chan?”

“I don’t know, I just thought—” You cut him off again, because it’s the same Chan over and over and over again. No intonation to his voice, not an emotion on his face. 

There was nothing left to keep you tethered anymore, and you hardly understood what you were saying as you had a meltdown right there in your school parking lot, tears rushing down your face like some dramatic soap opera. 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. And I don’t know if it’s in my head or if it’s true or if you think it’s funny, but I think I liked it better when you just acted like I didn’t exist. I fucking like you, Chan and I don’t know…fuck, I don’t know anything. I could handle it when you didn’t care, I could handle it when you seemed to want to be friends with the entire world but me, when you looked at me like I wasn’t worth a conversation. But please just, stop doing whatever it is you’re doing right now. I’m tired of being confused.”

The world disappears as you sniffle loudly, wiping your tears and the trickle from your nose with your sleeve, having no care of what you look or sound like anymore. Everything was overflowing, and you needed it out into the air before it poisoned you from the inside out. 

And despite it all, minutes tick by where there’s nothing but the sound of your own tears, not a single word from the boy who merely stands before you like a human punching bag, never punching back.

“Chan!” you voice. “You’re supposed to say something now.”

Looking up to his beautiful face, you only feel yourself bursting into a fresh set of tears. 

“You…” he starts slowly. “You like me?”

“That’s what I said, yes,” you grit. You have half a mind to swing your near empty bag at him, just to have something to do, to get a reaction out of him that wasn’t perpetually lukewarm. 

“Okay. Let’s go home.”

In that moment, you feel your first headway of clarity. Letting his response sink in. Okay. Let’s go home. That’s all he had to say.

You did go home, but it wasn’t in his car.

The days leading up to your graduation ceremony were headlined with staying away from your house as much as possible. The weekdays were for hogging your friends’ TVs and eating from their fridge as you left for home well past dark, the weekends were when you just wouldn’t return home at all, sleeping over  under the pretense of blowing off steam. Which was true, almost.

You hadn’t seen Chan since that day, the aftermath of the explosion taking over your mind as you did everything to distract yourself from the fact that things would never be the same. Despite it all, you couldn’t help but feel significantly lighter, like a world’s worth of burden had been lifted off your chest. There was nothing to hide anymore.

But you were aware you’d have to face the music today as you adjusted the strap of your nice shoes under your dress and gown, the hat placed on your done hair already slipping. You make a mental note to pin it better. 

It’s easy to let the thought slip away as you make your way to the stage to accept your diploma, the distinct cheers and flashes of a camera from your family in the crowd as you give out a genuine smile. For better or for worse, Chan accepts his while you’re in the process of getting back to your seat, so you don’t see him. 

The grass area is flooded with students and families taking pictures and shedding tears and overflowing with congratulations. Your own parents usher you into a million different poses for the camera; flowers, without flowers, diploma, without diploma, each parent and then both. 

The last one had you forcing a smile, because that’s when the Lee family joins you to take larger group pictures. Chan holds up the camera as you smile at the lens, attempting to forget what lay behind it. 

Then comes the bit you’d been dreading. It’s you, Chan and Geon pushed into frame, to which you manage to push Geon between you two as a saving grace. 

“Now one with just the grads!” Chan’s dad yells out as he ushers you two to get closer. 

You hesitate too outwardly, because Chan is immediately filling the gap and stepping in next to you, flowers in both your hands to occupy them. You were thankful for it, because you’d really be selling the fact that things weren’t okay if they saw how awkward your hands would’ve been. 

It’s easier to avoid him for the rest of the day, even during dinner where you chose to sit on the opposite end of the table from him. You can hardly see him as you eat, joining in on the conversation like normal. 

By the time you’re home and in bed, under your baby blue sheets dark under the lack of light, you half congratulate yourself for avoiding him as good as you did today. Nearly drifting off in contentment before you feel the distinct buzz of your phone. 

Pulling out your phone from under you, you tap the screen to check the notification. 

Your heart is in your throat.

[Chan 12:42 AM]: Can you meet me at the park

All you can do is stare at the digitized letters, blinking furiously like they’d disappear if you shook off the delusion. But all it does is pop up another.

[Chan 12:45 AM]: Please

Please. 

Why were you so simple? 

Getting out of bed, it’s all you can think about. Pulling a zip up over your shirt and shorts, you put on your slippers and leave the house as quietly as possible. 

The walk was hardly five minutes, but it was impossible to not think about what on earth Chan wanted to talk to you about. Scrolling up the chatbox, it was riddled with nothing but the same monotonous texts, this new one glaring like a sore thumb in the midst of your empty, nonexistent relationship. 

The only thing you can hear is the crunch of your own footsteps on the gravel and the thump of your own heartbeat as the park comes into view. All you can see is Chan’s face sitting on the bench waiting for you, his clothes so dark they disappear. There’s a single street light illuminating the area, like a spotlight to the irony of the moment. 

Chan gets up as he sees you. “I didn’t think you’d come. You didn’t answer my text.”

You’re keeping a good ways away from him, needing the space if you were to think clearly. “Why did you ask for me to come here?”

He swallows visibly, the gulp obvious in the way his throat bobs. He presses his lips together, whisker dimples too noticeable to you for comfort. “I just…”

And then you watch him put his hand into his pockets, fiddling around for something. He emerges with a folded piece of paper, wrinkled like it’d been scrunched up and smoothed back out again. You almost think he’s gonna hand it to you, till he unfolds it himself. 

“I’m not…please don’t laugh. I don’t know how to put this into words so I wrote it down. I’m gonna read it off of here, I know how lame this is but I know talking to you is more important. Just, please don’t laugh.”

Chan looks at you, directly at you, like he was waiting for confirmation. Your eyes trail over to the sheet in his hands, his grip on the paper. He almost looks like he’s shaking a little. You try to absorb what’s going on. The tailspin in your mind is the usual with the way it becomes when Chan is around. But through the buzz, you realize this is the first time he’s reaching out.

So you nod. He takes a breath, and begins to speak. 

“I wanted to say sorry for being an ass. I didn’t mean to hurt you by being distant or not talking to you, but I can’t lie and say I wasn’t behaving that way on purpose. When I met you in middle school, I was probably the biggest asshole I ever knew. I never realised it but after that conversation in the parking lot, I thought about how horrible I must’ve made you feel about the things you liked the first day we met. I don’t know why I would avoid you or make things awkward like I did, but it felt like I couldn’t face you without struggling to do it. I didn’t realise how much I liked you till we started practicing in your garage, when you’d show up and talk to the band. It looked like it was fun talking to you, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And then you disappeared, and I felt disappointed when it wasn’t you who walked in with the trays of snacks anymore. 

All of my friends noticed how I’d never talk to you, and they knew how I felt before I could come to terms with it. They pushed me to start…doing things to show you how I felt. But I don’t think I executed that very well. I didn’t realise how that was making you feel either. And it’s my fault because I just…I just don’t know how to talk to you. I hate that I can’t look you in the eye or the fact that I have to fucking…fucking write this down just so I can talk to you about it. I just wanted you to know that I’m sorry, and that…I do really like you. This doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to, but I’m trying to be better. I don’t know how to end this, but I hope I’m making sense.”

Chan lets his hands drop, his head following as he takes a long breath in and out. 

“Chan?” you start, voice shaky. He looks up to you, and you see the red that rims his eyes, the bite he has on his lower lip. “Can I hug you?” He answers you by moving forward himself, touching you for the first time as he places his hands on your upper arms tugging you towards him. You’re immediately hugging him, your arms coming around his torso in a tight hug. 

“Don’t think about it, Chan,” you whisper. “Stop thinking.”

Maybe he heeds, because you feel his arms coming around you properly, squeezing you tight. Your face is buried into his neck, breathing him in. You let out a small sob, letting your fingers dig into his back, molding into him. There’s less hesitation in his movements now, and it’s like you can feel the tension leaving him as he melts into your hold. 

Right there, in the middle of the park, it all feels so impossible. From the fact that Lee Chan just said he liked you, that he’s hugging you, or the feeling of his lips on your forehead as you slowly pull away. 

“That was brave of you,” you say, a hint of a smile on your face. 

He smiles too, and your heart swells. “Don’t praise me for talking.”

“I forgive you. Thank you for apologising,” you sigh. Staring up at his face, you do the same thing you’d done for so long at a distance. The lines of his eyes, the low slope of his nose, the deep corners of his mouth. Leaning up, you kiss him on the cheek. “We can figure out the rest together.”

Right at that moment, in the summer before college, freshly graduated and celebrating a close, there was more than one open waiting on the other side. There was an entire summer left to build on what you and Chan didn’t in the past years, and as you’d go to college to try and figure it out all over again, there’s comfort in the fact that you won’t be doing it alone this time. 

[gyublues]

i’m usually not an smau girlie but i loved this sm<3 every detail felt very heartfelt and well-done,, and even gyus dn on twt being ‘:]’ felt so cutesy to me..

not for sale (mingyu x reader).

⤿ a four-part series featuring celebrity!mingyu and small business owner!reader.

𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 —

💍 part one, or SELLING POINT.

your small business sees a sudden skyrocket in sales and your loyal customer 'k mg' might just be the one to blame.

💍 part two, or A STEAL.

mingyu tries to talk himself out of his crush on you. it doesn't really work.

💍 part three, or FOR WHAT IT'S WORTH.

you're presented with the opportunity of a lifetime, but you're on the fence about taking it.

💍 part four, or CLOSING THE DEAL.

mingyu is all in. are you?

ⓘ celebrity!mingyu, small business owner!reader, fluff, romance. cussing/swearing.

annotations for the main verse. (coming soon!)

𝐄𝐗𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐒 —

collateral ★ mingyu's not too happy about a new development in your business.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —

with love, kae ✎ @maplegyu and i lovingly call not for sale our middle child because, at any given moment, we have at least four kmg stories in the works 😆 i was in love with this plot the moment she made the req, and so there's not a single doubt in my mind: this one is all yours, maple.

thank you for reading not for sale. <3

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[gyublues]

oh so beautiful

the cities in which

summary. three lives are tied together across cities and oceans. in this life, and perhaps in others. ft. lee seokmin, chwe hansol, afab!fem!reader genre/tags. angst, fluff, romance, inspired by past lives (2023), "what if vernon never emigrated", copious wong kar wai mentions, one (1) glück poem mention, there's korean but you'd understand the convo even wo translation, unbeta'd and not proofread (mistakes my own) warnings. alcohol, two allusions to offscreen sex, no physical description of reader but she grew up in skorea and speaks korean wc. 10k 17k suggested listening. hey, that's no way to say goodbye, leonard cohen // quiet eyes, sharon van etten // paper houses, niall horan // when we were young, adele // stay, cat power // the view between villages, noah kahan

notes. a day late (crying) but happy birthday 218 bros! i followed a lot of the original (full credits to celine song and the writers for those parts), but deviated as well ! no photo borders for each small scene jump cos of the limit. korean dialogue is only italicized when all three of them are together. not fully happy so may return to it for edits, you have been warned.

ACT I: SEOKMIN

24 years ago

“Do a diamond next.”

You oblige him, yet the marker barely touches his skin before Seokmin snatches it out of your hand.

“Hey!” You whine.

“Don’t use red, that’s for rubies!” 

He hands you a pale blue marker, already uncapped, before resuming his former position, shoulder to shoulder with you. His forearm is nestled between both of yours, which are already covered in his doodles. Seokmin’s breath ghosts over your cheek as he leans in, observing. Unbothered, you carefully draw a crystal shape, adding sparkles around it for good measure. He giggles as the felt tip drags on his skin.

“Don’t move, you’ll ruin it!” You swat his back. He yelps.

“But it tickles!” You just grip his arm tighter as he whines and giggles.

It’s as easy as breathing to lean into his weight as he curls against you, laughter shaking his shoulders. The rest of the classroom fades away, nothing else being quite as important as the way your sides almost fully touch each other, despite sitting on separate chairs.

--

You first befriended Lee Seokmin on the margins of one of your mother’s bookclubs. Fellow skirt-clingers turned partners in crime. He told you he would often nag his mom to finish her book more quickly just so that he could come over sooner; what a revelation it was, then, that you could see each other outside of those chatter-filled meetings. More so when you found out you’d be going to the same elementary school.

It was an easy friendship, one filled with scabbed knees and marker-filled arms. The occasional covert homework-copying. He keeps two extra pencils with him in the same way you have an extra stash of pad paper (which unfortunately the rest of the class has become privy to). Your parents would scold you for the telephone bills because of the days you’d spend ours talking, as though you hadn’t just spent the whole day in school together.

In the years you were not in the same class, Seokmin would wait outside every day without fail, just to walk home together, until the fork in the road where he’d bid you goodbye with the same blinding grin. Sometimes, you’d buy hotteok wrapped in newspaper from the stands and laugh when the print transfers onto the fried dough. He tried some tteokbokki from the stall a few streets down, but forced you to finish it once he realized it was too spicy for him.

These were days when sunlight streamed, golden, through the windows of both your lives.

--

Boxes litter the floor of your home, some full, but most still half-empty. Sunlight filters in through the windows, skimming over cardboard and wood tile alike and casting a burnished-golden glow. From your father’s office, there are soft strains of music and the faint lingering smell of tobacco smoke. 

You look around. The posters have been taken down, separated into those you plan to bring and others you are either to throw or give away. Nothing else is on the once-messy desk save for the notebooks and pens needed for this week’s schoolwork. The walls are bare, the only reminder of the pictures you had being the faint tape marks and spots where the paint peeled off as you tried to remove them. Even your bed is absent of the plushies you used to have surrounding you, most of them already sealed and packed in one of the boxes outside. All that’s left is the bedsheet, so that you won’t be sleeping on a bare mattress.

Your room no longer seems your room.

--

“Darling.” You don’t look up from the book you’re reading.

“Hm?”

“Is there anyone in school you really like right now?”

You think about it. A smiling face emerges in your mind’s eye. The ghost of a weight presses against your side. 

“…Seokmin,” you decide.

“Lee Seokmin? Why?”

“He makes me laugh. I think I’ll marry him someday.”

“Really? Does he want to marry you too?”

“I think he does. Or he will if I tell him to, anyway.” You shrug.

Your mom mulls over this as she sorts the papers on her desk. On it are your immigration documents, including passports, birth certificates, and the family registry. You see the edge of your picture from where the passport lifts, not quite laying flat on the wood.

“Do you want to go on a date with him?”

You nod enthusiastically.

--

“Seokminnie.”

“Hm?” he peeks at you from behind the concrete block. You giggle, shoving his shoulder in a clear message of tag!before sprinting away. After a split second of shock, then realization, he lets out an indignant noise before giving chase. 

You evade him for a few breathless minutes before he eventually swipes his hand across your back. Shrieking, you shift your weight and lunge with your hand extended, which Seokmin swerves to avoid with a triumphant cry. Gleeful taunts echo across the space.

Your mothers have taken you both today to an unfamiliar place, one somewhat reminiscent of both a yard and fortress. There are large stone installations in the outdoor space, ones perfect for chasing each other around until you are out of breath from both running and laughing. Eventually, too tired to continue, you both lean against the twin stone faces, facing each other. Your eyes rove over Seokmin’s features, watching him do the same.

Though she did not say it outright, a little part of you senses that this date was part of a goodbye. She had warned you, as you all began to pack, that you might need to begin your goodbyes soon, lest dumping the surprise of your moving on your friends ends with you leaving on bad terms.

Your classmates, you did not mind; but Seokmin is your best friend. You know he would sulk and hold it against you to the ends of the earth if you could not even say goodbye. Yet a goodbye felt too real for a day that has been as light as a dream.

As you leave, the sun is just beginning to set; the car was a wash of orange and pink light moving across the seat. Leaning your body on Seokmin, you rest your head on his shoulder, and feel a responding weight on the top of your head. Fingers tangle with your own, slotting together as they had done a thousand times before. Like this, you drift further into dreams.

--

You break the news over recess. The marker hovers over his skin. Sighing, you remove the cap nocked on the top of the marker and closing it over the tip. Seokmin glances at you, confused.

“My family…we’re leaving.”

“Like, a trip?”

“No. Forever.”

“Forever? But…why?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug helplessly. “Mom and Dad said so.”

“Do you want to?”

And because you cannot be anything but kind with him, you try to play it off. “No. But,” you inject the truth this time, “I don’t hate Mom and Dad for deciding to leave. It could be fun.” Seokmin stares at you, his gaze unreadable. For the first time in what feels like forever, the air between you is tense

“Huh, you’re leaving?” A classmate interjects. 

The moment is broken; you look up, a little startled. It takes a moment to reply.

“Yeah. To America.” More people begin to crowd your space, and Seokmin untangles his arm from you. You glance at him. Seokmin’s face is a mask.

“Like, never coming back?” Another classmate asks. You turn your focus back to the growing crowd.

“Yeah.”

“But why?”

“Because Mom and Dad said so. Besides,” you puff your chest, “I want to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Can’t really do that here.”

Your classmates tilt their heads, completely clueless. Seokmin says nothing.

--

Today is your last day in Korea. Seokmin still hasn’t spoken to you.

As the clock strikes for dismissal, you wonder, for a split second, as you have these past few days, whether Seokmin would even want to walk home together. Each time you flounder, unsure, yet each time all he does is stand and look at you expectantly. Today is no different. Almost robotically, you sling your back and follow behind him. You leave together as always, and you wave at the classmates shouting their well-wishes with a smile.

There is a conspicuous distance between you as you trudge up the sloping roads. The silence stretches it even wider. Neither of you try to bridge it, not even as you reach the fork in the path where you part ways.

After a long moment, Seokmin whips around to face you. “Hey!” he says, voice loud. 

You turn, finding the tears shining at the corners of his eyes. A part of you, the one always helpless to his tears, bursts into life, surging painfully against your chest. The leaving never felt real until now.

“Seokminnie—” 

He gathers you in a hug, nothing like the gentle embraces you used to share, even as the contours of his body is familiar. He shoves you away, still roughly. 

Something opens up here. You gaze at each other from opposite sides of a chasm too wide to cross for two people so young. Seokmin stares at you hard, struggling to speak.

Eventually, he just slumps. “Bye,” he settles on, before walking away.

There is nothing to do but watch him leave.

--

12 years ago

You flick through the papers, skimming the notes you made from the feedback session on your latest screenplay draft. The desk is white and sparse, nothing like the gorgeous mahogany you remember of your mother’s study from your childhood. Overall, the dorm is just a generally unremarkable space, though it does its job of being a place for eating and sleeping in between your writing classes.

The comment about your lackluster desk makes it to your mother, on the phone as you prepare the takeout you had just bought from the Chinese place at the ground floor. She laughs.

“Yes, well, you should have the shitty desks before you have the nice ones, so you appreciate them more.” You laugh, nodding along as you open the still-hot pack of chow mein, tilting the water on the lid to flow into a napkin. Your mother carries the conversation along as you begin to eat.

“Have you tried looking up some of your old classmates on Facebook?”

“No? What’s up?”

“Do you remember Jiwon? She’s a lawyer now.”

An image of a girl tilting her head at your mention of the Oscars flashes across your mind. You swallow your mouthful before responding.

“Really? I never would have thought. We covered up for each other once when she forgot her homework and I peed my pants.”

“A forgetter and a bedwetter, making their way in different parts of the world, eh?” Your mother remarks, and you snort.

“Mm.” You unlock your computer, stretching your hands over your food to open Facebook and type her name. True enough, the first post on her profile is her brand-new photo as a passer of the bar exam. Other photos include her skincare routine, makeup preferences, and some club-hopping shenanigans. Just another normal girl in her 20s in Korea. 

You click on the search bar, pondering. “Ah, but Mom, who’s the boy again? The one I had a huge crush on.”

“Oh, we took you to Gwacheon, didn’t we? Hm…”

“Seokminnie,” you say, as your mother says, “Lee Seokmin.” You type his name into the search bar. A low sound of exclamation leaves your throat.

“Whoa, that’s crazy. He’s been looking for me.”

“What?”

“Yeah. He posted on Dad’s page.” 

Hello, the post reads. I am your daughter’s childhood friend. I’d like to get in touch with her. You click the name on the post, opening the page to his profile.

“Oh, wow,” you whisper.

Though older, you recognize his face immediately. The same sharp jaw and soft eyes. A smile that lights up his face. There’s just something ever-so-slightly different about his nose, but you chalk it up to either puberty or the all-too-common plastic surgery in Korea.

“Mom, I’ll call you back, okay?”

“Mm, okay.” You hang up. Clicking on the Message button, you tap your laptop, figuring out what to say. Eventually, you settle with: Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember me?

--

Up until this point, Seokmin thinks he’s lived quite an ordinary life. There is little that would sway him into thinking otherwise. Blearily, he blinks at his blaring alarm clock before slamming his hand on the snooze button. God-forbid there would ever be a night drinking with Soonyoung and Seungkwan that would not end with an awful hangover.

There is a vague memory, one of Soonyoung’s warbly comments after the third bottle of soju: Do you have a girlfriend? Who the hell…is messaging you at this time?

He opens his phone, scrolling through last night’s notifications. Seokminnie, it’s me, your Gwacheon date. Do you remember me? The message reads. He clicks on the profile, and is transported to the past.

“Whoa,” he smiles, even as his head is pounding, zooming in on the face in the profile. While it was true that he did his best to find you, asking through your old classmates and even finding your mom’s writing page on Facebook, the sheer lack of any good leads had chipped away at any hope of it going anywhere. A response, after all the searching, still seems unbelievable.

Somehow, your face is the same as he remembers, even as it is twelve years older.

“Seokmin-ah! Wake up!” His mother’s voice pulls him from his trance. He glances again at his phone. The same smile, though he notices now more softness in some places in the jaw and some sharpness in others.

Somewhat reluctantly, he rolls off the covers. Even now, his mother enforces a rule of no phones on the table.

From the dining room, the smell of spicy broth hits his nostrils. His mouth waters. There is already rice on the table. His mother carries a bowl of soup where Seokmin is already seated. Beside her, his father is handing out the chopsticks. He and his sister receive their pair with a quiet thank you.

“Thank you for the meal,” he murmurs. The metal clangs softly against the bowl as he scoops a spoonful of spicy broth and beansprouts into his mouth. With every bite, he feels his hangover slowly subside.

“Did you drink a lot last night?” His mother asks.

“Kinda? Soonyoung-hyung just got broken up with, though, so he drank the most.” His father chuckles quietly, commiserating. His sister squints at Seokmin.

“But you look happy today? Why?” He looks up, the smile frozen on his face.

“Aren’t I always a little happy?”

“Hm,” his mother regards him critically. “You are, more so than usual.”

“Ah.” He should know better than pretend his parents cannot read him. “I am,” he admits. “I think something amazing is about to happen.” He leaves it at that, playfully deflecting his family’s grilling, even as his sister threatens to stalk him to figure out the mystery.

--

The Skype seems to take forever to load. Seokmin drums his fingers on the touchpad, each tap coming faster than the last. Finally, it does, with an add friend? notification already blinking at him. He beams, accepting the add and pressing the video call button without delay.

As though from a dream, a familiar yet different face stares at him from the laptop. Seokmin can’t help the smile that blooms on his face.

“Whoa,” he says softly.

“Whoa,” the dream echoes, voice a little staticky, somehow both everything and nothing like he has imagined.

Seokmin chuckles, breathless. “Is that really you?”

“It’s me. And you?”

“Yeah, it’s me.”

He’s at a loss, and it seems you’re the same. Only your chuckles fill the sound of the call. Eventually, Seokmin says, “I can’t believe we’re meeting again like this.”

“I didn’t even know you were looking for me! Or that you remembered! I just looked you up by chance, and saw the message you left on my dad’s page.”

“Oh, well, it wasn’t by chance for me.” Seokmin scratches his cheek. “It just became a challenge, and the harder it got the more I wanted to be able to find you. You don’t go by your Korean name anymore.”

“Ah, yeah.”

“Huh…so that’s why it was so hard to find you…” he trails off as he catches sight of your face. You seem to be squinting at him. 

“Is your nose different?” You blurt, catching him off-guard. Hurriedly, you begin to explain, “it doesn’t look bad, don’t get me wrong, but it’s a little…more striking than I remembered.”

“Oh!” Heat flushes his cheeks, and Seokmin chuckles, surprised and flustered at the comment. “Yeah, I had an accident while in the military, and had to have a minor surgery on my nose. It’s okay, then?” He touches his nose self-consciously.

“Yeah, you look great,” you reply honestly.

With the heat not quite receding from his face, Seokmin changes the subject. “S-so, are you based in New York, now?”

“Yeah, I’m a writer here.”

“Oh, a little like your mother?”

“That’s right—” You seem to be saying something, but the Skype lags. Seokmin only catches the tail end of your words. “—hear me? Seokmin?”

“Hey, I can hear you now. Sorry, what were you saying?”

“Oh, I was just asking about what you’ve been up to.”

“Well, I finished military service a few years ago, nose and all.” You hum in acknowledgement. “I’m doing something a little related to your work, actually. Well, kind of?”

“What’s that?”

He begins to explain. “My parents wanted me to get an engineering degree, and I’m finishing that up, but I wanted to try some singing, so I auditioned for some small plays here and there.”

“Really? That’s exciting!” You seem to come to life then. “I don’t know much about engineering, but you’ve been trying out for musicals?”

“Yeah, nothing too intense since I’m doing it in between studying for the engineering exam, but it’s been fun.” He sings a quick tune from his latest audition, the smile bleeding into his voice as he sees your expression, full of wonder.

“That’s lovely, Seokminnie.”

The chatter lasts for hours. Seokmin glances at something above him and seems to realize something.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, “but I have to go to class soon.”

“No problem,” you respond, tamping down the disappointment. “I have to get started on my assignment and eat dinner, anyway.”

“Oh, you haven’t eaten yet? Isn’t it late?” He’d added your timezone in the world clock on his phone yesterday.

“Midnight,” you confirm.

“Huh?” Shocked, Seokmin splutters. “Go eat now! Jeez.”

“Okay, okay.”

Seokmin shifts, his stare at you softening into something familiar yet unreadable. At his continued staring, you raise an eyebrow.

“What?”

Seokmin scratches his cheek. “I don’t know if it’s weird to say.”

“It’s fine, what is it?”

He pauses, hesitating before he opens his mouth. “Is it strange to say I missed you?”

Your image softens. Pixelated as it is, Seokmin catches your eyes rove over his face, as though like him, you are cataloguing new features. Familiar, yet so different. “Of couse not, Seokminnie. I missed you too.”

A weight in him lifts, and Seokmin chuckles, soft and warm, relishing in the sound of soft laughter from his headphones. He should hang up now, but he hesitates. It seems you do too, until you huff a little laugh and offer a small wave. The movement is so achingly familiar that Seokmin’s chest clenches.

“Call later?”

He brightens. “Sure!”

--

“Hello?” The Skype opens to you rubbing your eyes.

“Don’t you only get up at like, 10AM?” Seokmin watches you, amused yet endeared.

“Mm,” you murmur sleepily. “But you said this is the only time that works for you.”

--

It becomes routine.

Good evening’s are replied with Good morning’s, calls connect over his commute while you eats dinner.

“Your Korean has gotten rusty,” Seokmin teases.

“Aish—I only get to speak Korean with you. Even my parents have gotten to using English more.”

“What’s that been like?”

“Hm?”

“Learning English, going to school…” he trails off. “It’s amazing that you’ve ended up pursuing directing in English too, of all things.” On the screen, your mouth parts in surprise.

“Oh, well…it’s been hard, of course, especially when you’re new. Different places, different food, different people. You have no choice but to go along with it, even if you don’t really belong.”

“Did you cry?”

“Sometimes,” you admit, briefly checking on something behind the screen before returning your focus to him. “Especially at first. But eventually I realized that no one really cared.” Despite your words, there is little sorrow on your face. Your expression is distant, reminiscing, as though time had sanded down the sadness into nostalgia.

“…I’m sorry,” he murmurs. He doesn’t really know what to say except for that.

You grin. “Ah, don’t be like that. It’s been a long time, and as you said, I’m even writing in English now.”

“That’s right. You even said you wanted to win the Nobel. How’s that going?”

“Nowadays, I’m interested in the Pulitzer.”

Seokmin cracks up, and you begin to laugh too. He smiles at the screen. “You’re the same.”

“Am I?”

“Yeah. Greedy.”

You level him with a glare that’s only partially offended. “You can’t go by life without wanting anything.”

“Yeah, but you want everything.”

“Nooo,” you drag it out, only half-denying, as Seokmin continues to laugh. 

--

Seokmin looks up the Pulitzer in between classes.

--

Seokminnie, I’m sorry! I had a bender and couldn’t wake up early enough. Did you wait long?

No no, it’s okay! How are you?

--

It takes longer than normal for the screen to load. The internet connection today isn’t the best. He isn’t quite sure if it’s his or yours that’s slow.

“Hello? Can you hear me?”

--

 Would you ever come to New York?

I don’t know.

--

How did your audition go this time?

Ah, I didn’t get in.

Oh, I’m sorry.

--

The screen does not load for a very long time. The call fails.

--

Would you ever come to Seoul again?

I don’t know.

--

“Look, you can see the skyline from here.” Seokmin flips the camera on his phone, showing the view from the top of the Wonder Ferris Wheel in Gyeonggi-do.

“Oh, it’s pretty.” You are silent for a moment. “Wish I were there.”

“I hope you can see it some time. Let’s go together.”

“I mis—” the sound cuts off. Seokmin stares at your image, frozen midsentence. In front of him, the sun sets over Seoul’s skyline. The lights blur and swim, ever so slightly. As do you, still unmoving.

Still, the view is beautiful. Heartbreakingly so.

--

Can we talk?

--

He senses something is off the moment he answers the call. Your expression is different. You fidget with the hem of your sweater offscreen. He checks the time on the world clock. 2AM.

“You aren’t asleep yet?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” you answer.

“You okay?”

“Mm. Of course.”

“What did you want to talk about?”

“Hypothetically…how long before you can come visit me in New York?”

Seokmin considers it, visualizing his calendar, the course program he’s in, along with his current responsibilities. “At least a year and a half. I’m studying for the PE exam, and I have to pass it to be an engineer, so…”

“No need to explain,” you cut him off, kind despite the firmness in your voice. “I also won’t be able to visit you soon. I’m apprenticing under a director here, and there’s a writing residency I’ll be joining soon, too. It’ll be at least a year until I can go to Seoul, assuming I even have the money.”

He closes his eyes at your next words, already anticipating them.

“I think…” you begin carefully. “We should stop talking to each other.”

“Why?”

“I just…I’m here now, not in Korea. I uprooted my life twice, first when my family moved to Toronto, and then now when I came to New York. I can’t keep living in the past; I can’t keep looking up flights to Seoul.

“And it’s not fair to you; you’re studying to be an engineer, and finding a life of your own…” you trail off. If anything, he tries to find solace in the heartbreak he hears mirrored in your voice. Solace, yet at the same time there is no small amount of guilt that he is drawing comfort in another’s pain.

“So you want to stop talking?”

“Just for a while.”

“I finally found you after twelve years…”

“You aren’t losing me, Seokminnie.” The gentleness in your voice feels like ruin. “It’s not for forever.

“Seokmin, please don’t hold a grudge,” you beg, speaking again as he does not reply. “We’ll be back talking before you know it.”

“No, I—you’re right,” he admits. It isn’t a platitude. He stares at his reviewers, stacked beside the laptop, the calendar with dates encircled in red pen. And yet he can’t help but want to cry. “It’s a good idea.” 

You look away. “I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be. We’re not dating or anything.”

“Yeah.” You stare at each other from across the Pacific—eleven thousand kilometers.

“Bye,” Seokmin whispers, already feeling the weight of the silence. He reaches a hand out, touching the screen. Inevitability does not lessen the heartbreak. Seokmin finds this out the second time, no longer too young to understand. 

You attempt to offer him a smile. “Talk to you soon, Seokminnie.”

“Yeah.”

He hangs up before the tears begin to fall.

ACT II: VERNON

6 months later

In the writing residency, only one other person is also from New York. Roughly your age, he extends his hand toward you, all thick eyebrows and finely-sculpted features. There is an echo of something in his face, features you would only really see in someone with mixed heritage.

“Hi, I’m Hansol Chwe,” he says. “But I usually go by Vernon.”

You shake his hand, replying in English with your name and a quick nice to meet you before switching to Korean. “반쪽 한국인인가요?”

There’s no recognition in his eyes, and you quickly realize your mistake. “Sorry, I can only understand tidbits. But that was Korean, right?”

“Oh, um. Yeah, I just asked if you are half-Korean. I just thought, with Hansol…”

“Yeah, third-gen. My father’s parents immigrated.”

“I see.” The embarrassment doesn’t quite abate, but Vernon confirming your hedge does make gratification ease it a little.

“Are you Korean? You talk like a native.”

“I grew up in Seoul before my parents moved.” You keep the chatter as you enter the cabin. He offers to help you with your bags, which you accept with a grateful smile.

To both of your pleasant surprise, your rooms are not so far away. He set down your bag outside the door labelled with your name. For a moment, the conversation stills, and you just stare at each other. After a beat, the corner of his lips quirks upward.

“See you around, then?”

“Yeah,” you smile. “See you, Vernon.”

--

There’s something wonderfully easy about being with Vernon, and you often find yourself gravitating toward him and his feedback as you go about the residency. You aren’t the only one; the lingering glances in his direction are obvious to any keen eye, though how much is for his acuity in commenting on syntax and how much is for the way he runs his fingers through his hair remains to be seen.

You feel those stares at the back of your head now.

“Kimchi with cream cheese?” 

Vernon’s mouth quirks upward at your incredulous voice. “Yeah.” 

“The most I’ve seen people do to tone down the spice was when my mom would wash the sauce off with a little bit of water when I was a kid. But cream cheese?”

“It’s like pink sauce, you know? Like you mix tomato with cream for penne ala vodka.”

“Yeah, but tomato and kimchi are two different things.”

“Hey,” he says in mock offense, “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it. Maybe there’s an Asian mart here somewhere and we can go on a grocery run.”

To be fair, it’s almost both your turn to take charge of cooking; the participants had all agreed to divvy up the tasks while you all were in the cabin, and you had both volunteered for Wednesday’s dinner. You frown, trying to imagine the taste before giving up.

(No, don’t buy that much, he advises you a few days later, walking through the imported goods aisle. The fridge will smell like kimchi for the rest of our stay. Just enough for the one meal.)

(Pairing kimchi and cream cheese together wasn’t bad, per se, but your idea of adding gochujang into the tomato-based pasta was a much bigger hit among the other writers. The kimchi itself was not as good as the one you could buy from the ahjumma across the street of your old home; but here, you allow grace. Some tastes that are more nostalgia than anything else.

You do, however, phone your family to ask for some kimchi to be sent to you after you’re back in the mainland.)

--

“Can’t sleep?” You nearly jump out of your skin from fright, swearing in a voice a little too loud for a 2AM sneak-out.

“What the fuck? Vernon is that you?” 

“Yeah.” He looks a little sheepish from his spot on the couch, laptop casting a dull glow on his face.

“Nearly gave me a heart attack, oh my god.”

“Sorry. But you too? Can’t sleep?”

“Mm.” You grab a glass and the juice carton from the fridge, pouring yourself a drink. “Thought I fixed my sleep schedule, but turns out it’s not that easy.”

“I’m watching Days of Being Wild, if you wanna join me.”

“Ooh, I’ve watched all of Wong Kar Wai’s movies, but I wouldn’t mind watching them again.” Intrigued, you approach him, going around the kitchen counter to settle on the couch. The screen is frozen at the scene where Maggie Cheung’s character is walking with the policeman. Vernon presses play, and you nurse your glass of juice as you watch the tangled lives of Leslie Cheung, Maggie Cheung, and Andy Lau play out across both Hong Kong and the Philippines. 

As the movie fades out with Tony Leung walking out the door, it’s just past three. You’re fighting back a yawn. Vernon closes the tab, turning to you curiously.

“Do you have a favorite? Wong Kar-Wai film, I mean.”

You try to think about it for a moment. “It’s been a while since I watched any of his work. But…right now, and this is gonna sound really basic,” you warn, “the first that comes to mind is In the Mood for Love.”

He huffs a little laugh. “That is basic, but I’m just as bad since I like Chungking Express the most.”

Your body chooses this moment to yawn again, inordinately long. Almost immediately, you cover your mouth, mortified. “Oh my god. That was not a commentary on Chungking Express.” At your expression, Vernon’s shoulders begin to shake, and he hunches over to muffle his chuckles. You swat his back. “Hey!”

He waves off your embarrassment, straightening. The corners of his mouth are still twitching upward. “No harm done. But,” he adds, “I do have Chungking Express and In the Mood for Love on my laptop. We can see whose favorite holds out better tomorrow night?”

His boyish smile is disarmingly charming, even more so in the low light. You grin back, feeling your heart flutter in a way that feels both familiar and new. “Deal.”

--

Of course, there are days when Vernon’s blunt honesty grates on your frayed nerve endings. 

Yesterday you had to explain again to your mom why you had lost touch with Seokmin—he’s taking the PE exam that you need for an engineer’s license, and I’m here pursuing my own dream, besides there’s nothing stopping us from talking again after we’re both settled with our lives—which she never quite understands. She and your father had, after all, been the type of people who stayed together amid individual tumults; in her opinion, the Pacific Ocean shouldn’t stand in the way of childhood friends. You begged to differ; it wasn’t just the Pacific that was the problem.

Today had you irritable, noise-sensitive, and frankly, not at your best.

“To be honest,” he says, flicking through your latest output, “I think you’re just not that good at handling soulmates. I don’t feel much of you in the writing.”

“Bold of you to say you know how I feel in writing.” Your reply is just shy of a bark. Vernon startles, his gaze snapping to you where it was roving again over his scribbled notes. His face jolts you back to yourself. You shove the irritation back behind your teeth.

“Sorry. It’s not been a good day.”

“Er, it’s fine.” His fingers pinch the pages, restless. “Do you want to write about something that feels out of a fairy tale? Or something more like real life?”

“I don’t know, and that’s the problem.” The story you crafted was about two childhood friends who were soulmates, yet one moved away before they could discover it. Time and distance had rendered them different people, yet as their souls recognized each other—even the jagged pieces fit together.

In Vernon’s reading, it seemed that there was a relationship forced between two characters with little chemistry. Which hit entirely too close to home.

“This isn’t my own advice, so take it with a grain of salt,” he starts slowly. “But the voice we find in our writing isn’t always the one we wanted to have. Like, even if, say, I wanted to sound like Garcia Marquez talking about love, sometimes it’s just gonna feel weird actually doing it. And when I find a certain style fits me, I get disappointed when I compare it to the voice I initially wish I had.”

“In this analogy, am I trying to be Garcia Marquez?”

“I guess? I’m not saying whatever style you do have, it’ll be bad,” he hurries to qualify, “it’s just that you don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be.”

You sit back, stunned a little at the sageness of his words. “Oh, wow, Vernon.”

He scratches his cheek, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “It’s not my advice, stop acting like I gave it. I read it from somewhere.”

Some old emotion stirs in you—hunger, competitiveness, desire—that old friend that carried you across fields and deserts in the name of continuous improvement. 

Despite no real incentive toward being the “best” in this residency, you are sharply reminded that this is a program where the bright gather. It would not do to half-ass anything. You remember what your mom had said, the first time you moved to Toronto: Some things must be set aside for new things to grow.

As you tap your pen on your little black notebook, a smile begins to bloom. “It’s great advice. Is it from a book?”

--

You stretch, the cushion of the couch shifting as you move your weight this way and that. On the table, the credits to Chungking Express play. Vernon pauses the roll of names before turning to you.

Apropos of nothing, he asks, “What was the biggest culture shock you had as a kid?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, silently asking if he’s going to explain why he raised that to you out of the blue. Vernon just looks at you, expectant. Deciding to humor him, you respond in kind, tilting your head. “Do you want a funny answer or a depressing one?”

He blinks. “Whichever you want to share, I guess?”

You lean aganst the headrest, focusing on some spot on the ceiling obscured by the darkness. “I don’t know how to decide what was biggest, but definitely the first one that comes to mind would be the lunchboxes.”

“Oh, like, packed lunch?”

“Yeah, or like, the food they’d have in the cafeteria. All the kids would call mine—”

“Stinky,” the both of you say in unison. You laugh, nostalgic. “Yeah. I was also pretty bad at English, back then, since the kind you learn in Korean school is different from the ones kids actually use. I remember only liking Math, just because numbers are the same whether you’re in Canada or Korea.”

Vernon’s eyes are soft as he regards you. “It must have been hard to make friends.” The words are simple, yet you feel the sincerity all the same. An understanding that comes with knowing what it means to be different, and living through it. You shift your head, turning to face him.

“I can’t imagine it’s been easy for you either,” you acknowledge.

“Mm. Kids could be particularly cruel.”

“Yeah, but I’m thankful all the same. I can’t imagine doing all the hellish cram school stuff just to get into SNU or something like that. And then work under a chaebol.” Perhaps it would be you in a different life, but in this one, the image feels like one from far away.

“You’re okay here? Not gonna fly somewhere else?” He references the ending of the movie. 

“I’ve had enough of travelling, to be honest.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” The stare he levels at you is weighted, the air charged with something you don’t want to name quite yet. You hold his gaze.

Eventually, the corner of his lips quirk in a smile. The air eases up, and you inhale, only then realizing you have been holding your breath the whole time.

“Okay, then.”

--

Despite the call with your mother having gone better this time, something weighs your bones down. It’s fortunate that the cabin is a short walk from the shore.

You leave your shoes on the dry part of the beach, folding the hem of your jeans up to just above your calves.

The saltwater laps at your bare ankles. It’s that magical hour between sunset and dusk, when blue washes the world in quiet melancholy. Your gaze is trained north, but it is not New York you’re thinking about. Home has been a concept—less a house with roots, more a nebulous idea that you could never quite hold, like water or dry sand. 

The first time you left home—with all its hotteok stands and sunlight-dappled mahogany desks, it was at the behest of your parents. The second time, it was a choice of your own: a leaving on your own terms. It was a whiplash of its own kind, one where you had to brave New York alone as a still-struggling college student. Home has always felt like something always just out of reach—is it something to find in the past, or is it waiting for you some place else?

Lost in thought, you murmur some lines of your favorite poem. Despite your finger bookmarking the page in the book in your hand, you know the words by heart.

“You ask the sea, what can you promise me…and it speaks the truth; it says erasure.”

On your lips is the taste of salt and loneliness.

--

Vernon looks up as you finally step into the living room, settling beside him.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” you sigh. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No worries,” Vernon says. His finger trails quickly over his laptop’s trackpad, rebooting it from when it had fallen asleep. He doesn’t comment on your slightly windswept appearance, but he does eye the thin, well-worn book you have with you. “Glück?” He asks, gesturing.

“Yeah.” He senses your melancholy, and leaves it at that.

As the movie plays, you dare to rest your head against his shoulder. He says nothing, but he wriggles a little, letting your weight rest more comfortably against him. Like this, you watch Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung yearn under the smeared lights of retro Hong Kong.

--

Vernon wonders if it was the tragedy that first drew him in. One so much like his, yet different in many ways.

It was the defiant tilt of your chin even as you remained open to the chatter around you; the intensity with which you approached your work; even the indecipherable array of micro-expressions that crossed your face when you first bit into the store-bought kimchi from the only Asian mart you had found in Montauk.

Most writers are tragic creatures; especially those who made it this far to make it a career. Vernon knows this. At the very least, there is something in their souls that could taint a page with words—either a hunger or too-muchness (or both) that needed some kind of release.

“I never got to ask,” he begins, “but I noticed in our conversations that you’d mention not just Korea, but Toronto too. You immigrated twice?”

“Pretty much,” you nod. First from Seoul to Toronto, then Toronto to New York. You explain this to Vernon, who shakes his head in amazement. Despite no longer having any reason to meet each other at the couch—the premise of watching Wong Kar-Wai behind you—you still, without fail, emerge from your room at some ungodly hour. And he’s always there, waiting. Vernon knows your routine, now: setting the electric kettle to boil before spooning some honey citron tea (from the jar that cost a ridiculous amount in the Asian mart, yet split the bill of nonetheless) into two mugs. Offering him the other while you settle beside him on the threadbare sofa.

“Is that what you meant when you had enough of travelling?”

“You remember that?”

He turns his head to look at you, confused. “Why wouldn’t I remember?”

You keep your gaze to the ceiling. “Didn’t expect you to, sorry. But yeah, that’s why. Does this have anything to do with Wong Kar-Wai?”

“Nah, just wanted to ask.”

“Okay.”

“Must have been lonely, huh?” 

You turn to him, tilting your head. The couch dips at your gesture. “Didn’t we have this conversation before?”

“Sure, but I didn’t know you immigrated twice. I was born here; technically I never immigrated at all. Everything I know of Korea is from my parents and grandparents.”

“Huh.” You mull that over. “Did you ever think that home was actually there, not here?”

“…Sometimes,” he eventually admits. “But it’s more imagination than reality. I’ll probably be too American there, just as I was too Korean here. Might even be worse since I don’t speak the language.”

You don’t offer an answer to that, but you do shift your body to lean into Vernon’s shoulder, a quiet gesture of comfort. Both of you settle yourselves in the silence until Vernon eventually speaks again.

“Immigrating twice, though…that’s a different kind of tough.”

“I guess. But I don’t regret it, on the whole. At least the second time, it was my choice.”

“Does that make it better?” He asks, genuinely curious. 

“I used to think so. Now…hm, it’s both better or worse. Canada does have better healthcare, though.” Vernon chuckles at that. “This time, I decided to leave, not my parents. I’d rather…I guess write my own story than live someone else’s out. Or have it written by someone else.”

He inhales, muscles in his jaw feathering as his mind conjures up the vivid memories of his childhood. Not quite fitting in. Big emotions, too big for a child’s small hands. Choices he had to carve out for himself. 

“I know what you mean,” he whispers.

Your reply is half a yawn. “Good.”

In this dream-like space between sleeping and waking, you nestle deeper into Vernon’s shoulder. Your head lolls, dropping softly onto his shoulder. You smell like the bergamot-scented body wash stocked in the bathrooms.

He closes his eyes, letting this moment sink into his memory.

(Eventually, he carries you to bed, leaving a message both on your bedside and through email—the only contact he has of you right now. Vernon waves off your embarrassed thank you the next morning, his fluster betrayed only by the red that lingers on the tips of his ears. Neither of you speak of it, even as you sit together again for that morning’s plenary.)

--

The last night in the cabin is marked by an especially voracious round of drinking in the gazebo. Empty bottles of beer and wine are scattered on the marble table, a wooden chopping board still adorned with the last few slices of ham and crackers.

“There’s this word in Korean,” you begin, swirling the last dregs of beer left in your bottle. “Inyeon. My dad first introduced me to the term. It’s like…fate, or providence, but specifically on the relationships between people. There’s a little of Buddhism and reincarnation in it.

“It’s inyeon when two strangers walk by and their clothes accidentally brush. Even then, it means there must have been something between them in their past lives. They say that if two people marry, there are eight thousand layers of inyeon over eight thousand lifetimes.

“Or, like…the cop with the pineapples and the undercover thief in Chungking Express, that’s Inyeon. Maggie Cheung and Tony Leung in In the Mood for Love, that’s also inyeon.” You make eye-contact with Vernon, who watches, amused, as you explain a Korean concept with Cantonese movies. A reference only he, out of everyone in this writers’ residence, would understand with special acuity.

Questions are thrown, and you answer, a little tipsy. Vernon coaxes you to let go of your now-empty bottle for a glass of water, which you readily take from his hand with a sort of smile you’d only make while drunk. Eventually, the conversation moves to different topics, until, either one-by-one or in groups, excuse themselves for bed.

It’s only the two of you now in the gazebo.

The water has made you a little more sober, and you allow yourself to indulge in the sight of Vernon under the outdoor string lights. The warmth paints his skin a soft gold. 

He’s watching you, too.

“I’ve been thinking about it, but both movies…you could say they both discuss loneliness in different ways.”

“Yeah. And they all had some kind of inyeon, but that didn’t mean they were meant to be. But ’s nice to think of a past life where they were. Not that they exist outside of the screen, though—I don’t know where I’m going with this,” you admit, cutting off your own ramble. Pointedly, you swallow a gulp of water, pointedly ignoring his amused stare.

The conversation tapers off, nothing but the distant sound of waves lapping at the sand. You swirl the glass of water in your hand, tongue moving with your thoughts again.

“Maybe… maybe you and I were somebody to each other in a past life.”

The air holds your words, suspends them for a moment in the silence. 

“Do you believe that?” Vernon asks eventually. He’s searching your face—cataloguing, perhaps, how drunk you are for those words to have tumbled out of your mouth.

“What?”

“That we knew each other in a past life?”

“What, because we’re here now—this night, in the same residency, in this gazebo?” You don’t know what’s so funny about what he said, but you can’t seem to stop giggling.

Vernon huffs that quiet laugh of his. “Isn’t this,” he gestures to the both of you, “inyeon, too?”

“My dad would think so.”

Vernon hums. “And you?”

“Me?” Under the table, your thighs brush. Your laugh stops, and you realize the weight of his gaze has never abated. You wonder if you’ll ever get used to the intensity of his attention. A part of you hopes you never do.

“What do you think?”

Alcohol loosens your lips enough to be brave. Or maybe just stupidly honest. “I’m not thinking about inyeon,” you confess. “I just want to kiss you.”

His eyelids flutter, those unfairly pretty lashes casting a subtle shadow across his skin. The upward quirk of his lips is a mix of smug and abashed. “Yeah?” 

(Tomorrow morning, you will chalk it up to lowered inhibitions: the sunlight will stream through curtains not drawn, the first thing that will tell you it is not your room you wake up in. The second thing will be the weight of an arm thrown across your waist; the third, a soft breath against your neck. Tomorrow, you will pretend you didn’t know better.

Tonight, though, you lean in, as close as you dare. A toe dipped into the sea. You catch the remnants of a haze over his eyes, the reminder that he’s also drunk, just more adept at hiding it.)

“Yeah,” you whisper. He seems to absorb this, quiet even as the sound of the waves is drowned by the blood rushing in your ears.

After a beat, Vernon closes the gap even further, head tilting, lips maddeningly parted…and then stops. His pause prompts a soft, impatient noise out of your throat, one that, based on the smirk that pulls up the corner of his mouth even higher, has not gone unnoticed.

Despite the relatively cool night, the air is heavy with promise.

Your tongue flicks out to wet your lips. His focus darts down, following the movement, before flicking back up to you, the question evident in his eyes. His restraint, even with alcohol in his system, is simultaneously maddening, thrilling, and endearing. You give a miniscule nod.

It’s a clumsy kiss, a bit too much teeth—both of you are evidently drunker than you’re trying to come across. Yet it’s enough for him to pull away with a soft hum before leaning in again, meeting your mouth with much more finesse and a hand cradling the back of your neck. You tangle one hand in his hair, feeling the thickness of it around your fingers. You’re not sure who presses closer, only that your world has narrowed into the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and his cologne. Him, him, him.

Not many words are exchanged after that.

(The clothes come off in the morning, not in the middle of the night, but that’s neither here nor there.) 

(The pretending lasted all but ten minutes.)

ACT III: YOU

Present day

The pedestrian streetlights blink green. From the other side of the street, the funny face you’re making at him dissolves as you begin to walk. Vernon’s still chuckling as he meets you halfway, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before walking together. 

As you reach the sidewalk, you press his usual coffee order into his hands. “Double shot sea salt latte to get you by today’s book signing.”

He grins. “Thanks.” Vernon swirls the cup before taking a sip, relishing in the cool drink amid the current heat.

“I’ll be late tonight,” you begin, apologetic. He looks up at you as you talk. “Rehearsals might run until after dinner. Your mom asked me to help her a while ago, though—she stocked our ref with the newest batch of grandma’s kimchi.”

“Right, it’s almost the production.” Vernon squeezes your hand, reassuring. You smile, before looking at his coffee and batting his arm.

“I bought you that to drink during your signing!”

“But the ice will dissolve by the time I get halfway through the line,” he protests. “Might as well have it while it’s not salty coffee water.”

You just roll your eyes, stopping as you arrive at the back entrance of the bookstore he’s holding the signing in. “Fine. But make sure to eat, okay?”

“I should be telling you that.”

“Oh, don’t worry, the director said she’ll be treating pizza tonight.” You check your watch. “I got to go. See you later!”

Vernon leans forward, pecking your lips even as you rummage your purse for your phone. You bat his arm again before waving as you jog away.

--

You trace mindless patterns on his arm, staring at the ceiling. Around you, the duvet is a mess, mostly because of his leg, thrown over yours, which rests on top of the covers. He doesn’t understand how you want to burrow under the covers after sex, but you insist that he just runs hotter than you.

“배고파요.” Vernon tests it on his lips, feeling the words.

“Mm. Me too.” 

“뭐 먹고 싶어요?” 

You ponder it before shrugging, turning to bury your face into Vernon’s neck. “Dunno,” you murmur sleepily into his skin. He shifts his one arm so he can better cradle your head. Your arm shakes off the covers to fiddle with his hair, still freshly cut into its current length. The sun peeks through your blinds, intent to ruin your intention to stay in bed this weekend.

After a few moments, you speak again. “I got it. Know what I want?”

“What?”

“Chicken wings.”

“Ohhh.” Vernon groans, even as he doesn’t move. His breath fans against the top of your head. “Genius. Holy shit.”

“Yeah?” You smile against his neck.

“Yeah. Brunch?”

“Yeah.”

--

“What’s on your mind?” You look up from your plate of wings. Something crosses your face, a mix of not-guilt and trepidation that makes Vernon pause from deboning the chicken in his hands.

“Do you remember I told you about Seokmin?”

Ah. “Is that this week?”

“Yeah.”

“Why is he coming here, again?” He resumes his task, popping the meat in his mouth after cleanly pulling out the two bones.

“Vacation, I think.”

Vernon just hums.

--

The restaurant smells like smoke, grease, and alcohol. Before them, the grill sizzles with both thick-cut and thin-cut pork. Seungkwan stirs the thin slices with a pair of metal tongs, letting the fat render so it unsticks from the metal.

Soonyoung picks a piece of the thicker pork off the grill, blowing into it. “Why are you going to New York, again?”

“Vacation,” Seokmin replies as he wraps meat, rice, and ssamjang into a piece of lettuce. “Sightseeing, eating, having fun…” He opens his mouth wide, shoving the wrapped meat into his mouth.

Seungkwan eyes him. “You’re not going there to see that girl, right?”

Mouth muffled with food, Seokmin asks, “Huh? Who?” Soonyoung scoffs.

“What do you mean, who? Her, y’know. Your first love? Seems convenient you’re going to New York just when you’ve broken up with your girlfriend.”

Seokmin just snorts, swallowing his food before giving a wry chuckle. “Hyung, she’s married.”

“Really?” Soonyoung seems genuinely surprised. “How long now?”

“Like…seven years? I think?”

Seungkwan ooh’s as he pours Seokmin and Soonyoung a drink. “She married early.”

“Mm.” They clink glasses. 

Seungkwan unlocks his phone, checking something before clicking his tongue. “Hyung.” His voice is a mix of amused and commiserating.

“Mm?” He holds up his phone.

“it’s gonna be raining the whole time you’re there.” Seokmin and Soonyoung stare at his phone, the weather app pulled up.

After a beat, Soonyoung begins to cackle, slapping Seokmin’s arm, who yelps as he barely saves his beer from spilling over the grill. “Ya!”

Soonyoung ignores him. “Aigo, you poor bastard!”

“No way. Really?” Seokmin squints at the screen, willing the forecast to change. Already, he feels a slump settling on his shoulders.

--

True enough, Seokmin makes a break for it after getting off the taxi and hurriedly retrieving his luggage from the trunk, dashing to the hotel he had booked for the next two nights. New York is miserably wet, and he feels self-conscious as his shoes squeak and drip rainwater onto the carpeted floor as he checks himself in. His English is not very good, but he does have Papago to help him stumble through the conversation with the receptionist. He receives his key card and room number.

Seokmin moves as fast as he can to the elevator, mindful of both his appearance and the need to get the wet cloths off him as soon as possible.

Finally, finally, he lugs his damp body and luggage into his empty room. There is a window overlooking the city, yet it is only grey with rain. Droplets cover the glass. Seokmin sighs, and shucks off his windbreaker, slipping into the bathroom to hang it and his other damp clothes.

It seems his plans of sightseeing would not be a go.

--

Unexpectedly, at around midnight, the rain stopped. The clear weather continued through the early morning, until this moment. Light flicks off the small puddles left on the pavement, and is reflected, serene, on the surface of the pool. Fresh off the bad weather, there are not much people around the garden.

Seokmin stands off to the side. Though the surroundings are quiet, his mind is awhirl with the significance of today. He finds himself fiddling with his fanny pack and rubbing the strap with his thumb and forefinger, regressing to his childhood habit.

Time passes painfully long; he is half-tempted to begin bouncing on the balls of his feet just to release more of the nervous energy plaguing his body. He doesn’t know how much that face would have changed, yet he trusts in himself enough to recognize both the face and the soul behind it.

“Seokmin!” He turns.

You appear from behind one of the trees, and Seokmin knows. You catch his gaze, and he sees the moment you also know. You begin to walk toward him, circling the edge of the pool. Seokmin is frozen. It feels like coming face to face with a ghost.

There are subtle differences—your style is a more comfortable mix between business and casual. The way you carry yourself is more relaxed, assured in a way that only ever comes when the weight of adulthood has nestled itself in one’s bones. You stop before him, seeming to be equally shocked. 

He feels you taking him in, too; suddenly, he’s hyper-conscious of the shirt he chose for today, the comfortable sweater and light-wash jeans a little too strange against the smarter, albeit dressed down look of your blouse. It’s not like you’re a couple trying to match, he chastises himself.

Seokmin stares at a person he has not seen in more than twenty years, and he watches you do the same.

The distance that stood between you at your first and second goodbye’s lingers, still not crossed. So much has changed, and he doesn’t know yet what remains the same. His body is hot, then cold. Every emotion overtakes him—shock, sadness, disbelief. Yet the one that settles most comfortably into the moment is simply relief. Seokmin exhales.

“Wow.” He chuckles softly.

“Wow,” you echo, your laugh breathless as it hangs in the air between you. You close the distance first, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug. Startled, Seokmin’s hands hang in the air before he relaxes. He should have expected this of you. His own arms encircle your waist, pulling you in. You smell faintly of soap and ink, nothing like the shampoo he remembered from when you were children. 

Twenty years.

The utter physicality of your presence is overwhelming.

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, mouth a little behind your ear. Your chin grazes against his shirt as you nod before stepping away. 

A beat passes, and you start to laugh.

After a moment, Seokmin joins in, not quite sure why you’re both laughing, but it’s definitely much better than crying. For now, he just lets the amazement at the situation wash over him. Eventually, the laughter settles, and fades. 

“I really don’t know what to say,” you murmur, smiling at him.

“I don’t, either,” he confesses. “What should I say? It’s just been so long. Like, twelve years?”

“Yeah, around that much.” You look around, suddenly noticing the relatively quiet park. “Shall we go, then?”

“Yeah,” Seokmin smiles. “Tour me around your city.” You fall into step beside him. He glances at you from the corner of his eye, still not quite believing it. That gaze remains, even as you usher him into the New York subway, eventually forced into sharing a pole to hold onto as the car crowds with passengers. You catch his gaze, and smile, the same mix of giddy, disbelieving, and shy.

It really is so good to see you.

--

You walk along Dumbo pier—like the flying elephant? Seokmin had asked, to which you nodded with a, Yeah, same spelling, but it’s actually an acronym—having just gotten off the R Train to Brooklyn Bridge Park. Seokmin’s eyes wander around, absorbing the New York scenery. You walk down a narrow, well-maintained path, the edges lush with shrubs. A faint breeze blows, rustling the leaves around you. This close, Seokmin can also here the river’s gentle murmurs.

There’s a silent sort of buffer between you, as though both of you were equally conscious of not wanting to be perceived as a couple. Occasionally, a ship horn blows, distant yet cutting.

“Before I got married,” you begin, “Vernon and I visited Korea.” 

Seokmin suppresses a wince; it’s the first time you mention your husband to him. “I know.”

“I emailed you, but you never replied.”

 “I’m sorry.” He saw it; he just couldn’t bring himself to respond. It was a good year before he could bear to delete the long email he had kept in his drafts—only for you to message him, four years later, just not for the reason he was expecting. But really, who could have seen that coming?

“It’s okay,” you reply eventually. Seokmin feels your eyes on him, considering. Your steps, slightly ahead for the past few minutes, slow down so you walk together. He keeps his eyes forward, trying not to fidget.

“I wanted to meet your girlfriend too, actually. Is she doing well?”

“Oh, we’re not…we’re not together right now.”

“What happened? You broke up?” You sound genuinely concerned.

“No, not really.” You find a spot by with a good view of the pier, gesturing for him to join you. Seokmin obliges, continuing, “We just need time to think, I guess. We’ve started talking about getting married.”

“Do you not want to get married?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’s holding you back? You love her, right?”

He stares at Manhattan, but his mind is hundreds of miles away. “I always thought if you get married, you have to be responsible. You have to have enough money, you know? She’s an only child; her parents will have high standards for her husband.”

“What does she think, though?”

“Oh, she’s more up for it than I am. But I just…thought things should be…more, you know?”

You tilt your head; he shifts, not expecting the sudden intensity in your gaze. There’s a light furrow in your brow. It strikes him, then, that he’s talking about this to someone already married. “Is it hard to get married if you don’t make tons of money?”

“At first we didn’t think so, but eventually we started thinking that way.” As the words leave his mouth, Seokmin feels the inextricable weight of age on his shoulders. You look away, equally quiet. The sun is already quite high up; in front of him the water glitters, beautifully clear. 

At the end of the path, apparently, is the edge of the riverbank. You’re much closer to the water now; if the wind was a gentle breeze a while ago, now it’s stronger, blowing against his hair. Seokmin pushes back the strands that fall against his eyes. 

“Do you want me to take a picture of you?” You ask suddenly.

“Oh, sure.” Seokmin stands by the railing.

It starts innocuous, at first. But a bit of the old theater flair takes over him, and he strikes a pose, flicking his wrist over his eye. You giggle, stepping out to a lunge so you could get more angles of him. At some point, he turns his back to the camera, jutting his hip out. You screech a little, doubling over even as you continue pressing the shutter button. After a few poses, you straighten and hand the phone to him, eyes bright with the remains of your laughter.

“You look good! Sorry if the camera shook while I was taking some of them, though.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “That’s fine, part of the memories.”

--

“Did you continue theater? After the last time we talked.”

“Not really, no. I stopped auditioning while studying for the PE, and just never tried again.”

“I see.”

The pier is lovely, the view even more so—the expanse of water juxtaposed by both the modern, urban feel of the buildings and the older, stately bridge. It’s just that there are couples everywhere—holding hands, whispering with their heads pressed together, one pair even full-on kissing in broad daylight. Seokmin subtly shifts his body away from the latter, trying to hide his discomfort.

He glances at you right as you crane your neck in the couple’s direction before quickly looking away. He gives you a look, which you return with a grimace. Even if neither of you are here on a date, the suffocating romance all around certainly makes it feel like one.

“Did you come here often with your husband?”

“Yeah, we lived nearby before moving to our current apartment. We dated here, though we’re not as bad as them.” Seokmin suppresses a laugh at your disgruntled expression. “Oh, and we fought here, too. A lot,” you add the last bit with a small smirk.

“Really? You fought?”

“Oh yeah, especially during the first year we married. We didn’t fuck around.”

Seokmin chuckles disbelievingly, floundering between concerned and amused. “Why’d you fight?”

“A lot of reasons,” you shrug, leaning against the railing. “It’s like…planting two trees in a pot. Our roots needed to find our place.”

Behind you, as the day grows darker, the carousel’s lights begin to turn on.

“Do your families get along?”

“Oh yeah, Vernon’s family loves that they have a whole bunch of people to speak Korean with. His grandma and my mom are quite close.”

“Oh, but does he speak Korean too?”

“Not as much; him and his sister don’t, and his mom is the American one—they know a few phrases, and he’s been practicing with me, but aside from that…” you trail off. Your gaze remains at the horizon. “He’s great at Hwa-Too, though.”

“Hwa-Too?!”

“Mm,” you turn, grinning at his surprise, pride shining in your eyes. “Beat my dad a few times, even.”

Seokmin whistles. “He’s not fucking around.”

“He’s not fucking around,” you agree, huffing a small laugh. Seokmin catches the way your eyes light up as you speak of your husband, gaze slightly distant, your lips curling up almost unconsciously. You turn to him. “Did you fight with your girlfriend too?”

“No.” You raise an eyebrow, disbelieving, until Seokmin relents. “Fine. Yes. Even though she’s not my girlfriend right now.”

“If you’re just as bad of a sulker—” you begin, “Never mind, I don’t want you upset at me.”

“Hey!” He whines. “I’m not that bad.” You just snort, nudging him lightly. He elbows you back, feigning a pout before the act cracks and he breaks into chuckles. 

When your laughter trails off to a comfortable end, you smile at him, the edges of your eyes crinkling slightly. The sky has painted New York pink, orange, and gold; Seokmin quietly admires a single golden ray that runs from your cheek down to your neck. “You should get married well.”

“You’re worrying about me?”

“Sure. Getting married is hard for idealistic people. Like you.”

“I’m not that old yet,” he retorts. “Let me worry about it when I’m past forty.”

You just smile, and huff a little laugh before returning your focus to the horizon. Your expression does not waver, still with that mysterious and distant affection, as though you were privy to something he has yet to understand. Perhaps you are. In silence, Seokmin watches you enjoy the sunset.

--

Seokmin and you sit on the steps by Jane’s carousel, the day’s walking finally felt the moment you eased yourselves down. Seokmin has his legs sprawled, long limbs stretching down the steps as he gazes up at the sky, now a stunning shade of twilight blue. Behind you, the playful music of the carousel plays on loop. The day has passed, and at this moment, there is no need to fill the silence with words.

The quiet stretches the twilight. Eventually, you turn to look at him. Seokmin meets your gaze, steady.

“Seokmin.”

“Hm?”

“Why did you look for me?”

His gaze turns curious, yet you remain quiet, waiting for him to respond.

“Twelve years ago?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you really want to know?” You nod. He looks directly at you, gaze intense yet open.

“I just wanted to see you one more time.” Seokmin pauses, seemingly gathering his thoughts. “You just left so suddenly, and I was pissed off, y’know? I thought of you, from time to time, while I was alone. You disappeared, and suddenly I found you again.”

Each word fuels the complex mix of emotion swirling in your chest, and you tamp down the expression that’s fighting to emerge on your face. You pinch your lips together.

“Sorry.” It’s all you can bring yourself to say without everything else spilling out.

“What are you sorry about?”

You exhale, quick and short. “Right. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” For that first time, at least—that immigration. Seokmin continues.

“I thought about you. During the military, even as I passed the PE…even when I realized I stopped pursuing acting seriously, I wondered if you’d be disappointed.” He laughs, self-deprecating.

Even before he finishes, you’re already shaking your head. “I would never judge you for that.” 

“We were babies back then,” you comment softly.

“I know,” he replies. “We were also babies when we met again twelve years ago.”

You tilt your head, considering him. Your eyes wander over his face, doing the same thing you’ve repeated throughout today: cataloguing the minute changes from the last time you saw him twelve years ago. Not much has changed with his face—he must have a solid skincare routine, possibly the fault of his girlfriend. His hair is more styled, though the breeze had tussled it somewhat. But he carries himself with a little more worldliness, even as his words are of the boy twelve years ago. Life had become a jacket he wore a little more familiarly around his shoulders.

“We aren’t babies anymore,” you murmur.

“Yeah.”

--

After dropping Seokmin off at his hotel, you return home.

From the living room, you hear the faint sound of Vernon’s latest game, and the clack of the buttons as he presses them rapidly. You shut the door quietly, toeing off your shoes and setting your bag on the hook by the entryway before you approach him. He’s already shifting, making space for you to squeeze yourself beside him on the loveseat, even as his eyes never leave the screen.

“Hi,” you mumble.

“Hi, love.” Onscreen, Vernon’s character is winning, little sound effects echoing around as he levels attack after attack at the level boss. You keep silent, choosing to talk once he’s done, but he speaks anyway. “How was it?”

“You were right.”

“I was?”

“He came to see me.”

Vernon glances at you quickly, catching the expression on your face: lips pursed, eyes a storm cloud of emotions. 

He pauses the game.

--

“It’s just crazy to see him be a grown-up man with a job and everything. And parts of it are so…Korean.” You dab a dollop of moisturizer on your cheeks, forehead, nose, and chin before rubbing it in with your fingers. “I mean, neither of us stayed with our parents once we started working. But he still lives with them. He’s not stoic, or conservative, or anything like that, but there are moments I feel like I’m talking to one of your grandparents.”

Behind you, sharing the small mirror, Vernon is patting on the last dregs of the toner you made him try. He stares at you through both your reflections. “Is he attractive?”

You squint a little at him, trying to parse what he’s saying through his question. Curiosity, perhaps, and some jealousy. Answering honestly, you reply, “sure, he’s handsome, and he smiles a lot. I mean at least one person has been attracted to him—his girlfriend. Or, not quite-ex.”

“Are you attracted to him?”

This time, you scrunch your face. “What? No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.” You face away from his reflection, turning to your husband. “He’s just this boy who I left, and who was just a face on my laptop for the longest time, and now he’s here. It’s just overwhelming, physically, I think. But no, I don’t think I’m attracted to him. I just missed him a lot. I missed Seoul.”

“Did he miss you?”

“He wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t.” You pause, contemplative. “I think he misses the twelve-year old me, who would tease him while he cries until he starts laughing instead. We were both crybabies, you know.”

“I didn’t know you were a crier.”

“Yeah. But I always tried to never cry when it was him crying. Not that it always worked.”

Vernon hums, expression unreadable as he crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. The air is tense as he opens and closes his mouth, figuring out what to say. After a long beat. He settles with, “When is he leaving?”

“Day after tomorrow.”

You sit beside him on the bed, tentative. “Are you mad?”

“No.”

“It feels like it.”

Vernon sighs, running his hand through short, choppy strands—not quite as buzzed as last month. “I don’t have a right to be mad.” 

Your brows furrow. “What? Of course you have the right to be mad.”

“That man flew thirteen hours to see you, I’m not about to say that you can’t see him or something. He’s your childhood sweetheart. And it’s not like you’d run away with him.” You laugh, loudly. Vernon seems to hesitate, swiveling to face you. He looks only half-joking. “Are you?”

Deadpan, you reply, “Sure, I’ll run away with my childhood sweetheart to go to Seoul and leave my entire life behind.” Vernon just raises an eyebrow. Exasperated, you continue, “You know me. I won’t skip rehearsals for a dude.”

You crawl into the bedsheets, lifting the corner of the duvet and wrapping it around you. You’re in your baggiest sleep shorts—the one you only wear when it’s your period. The edge of it peeks from under the comforter. Vernon looks at you for a long moment, gaze softening as you frown at him, still sitting down.

“I know.” The edges of his mouth pull up in a small smile. “I know you.”

--

Grumbling, you nose into Vernon’s neck. You know he’s awake. “If another truck honks at 2AM, I’m going to lose it.”

True enough, Vernon offers a sleepy chuckle, tilting his chin so you can nestle better against him. The room is dark, silent save for your breathing and the occasional noise from outside. The lights are off, but the lone streetlight visible from the window casts a dull glow over the duvet. 

Suddenly, he chuckles dryly.

“What?” you whisper.

“Just thinking how good of a story this is.”

“Seokmin and I?”

“Childhood sweethearts who reconnect twenty years later and realize they were meant for each other.”

You huff. “We’re not meant for each other.”

Vernon ignores you, continuing. “I’d be the fake Korean standing in the way of destiny.”

At that, you cackle, though it’s muffled by your position against his neck. “Shut up. Fake Korean?”

“We’re just sound so boring in comparison, I dunno. Met in a writer’s residency, flirted, watched a bunch of Wong Kar-Wai, slept together because we were both single. Then moving in together in New York to save rent. Until we decided to get married, but moved plans up so you could get your green card.”

“So romantic, when you put it like that,” you reply dryly.

“No, exactly, I’m the guy you leave when your ex-lover-slash-soulmate takes you away.”

“He’s neither of those things.”

Vernon’s hand comes up, creeping along your arm and tracing patterns on the back of your shirt. “What if you met someone else, someone who knew, maybe not Wong Kar-Wai, but Orson Welles? What if there was some other writer also from New York who knew the same movies, read the same books, and could correct you on your manuscripts and listen to you complain about rehearsals?”

“Mm. That’s not how life works.”

“Yeah, but still. Wouldn’t you be here with him? If you didn’t leave Korea, would you be with your childhood sweetheart?”

“Again, that’s not how life works.” You relent, though, and indulge him. It’s a rare moment where Vernon seems to be seeking solace in you, not the other way around. “This is my life. This is our life. Now. And we’re together.”

A beat passes. Something comes to mind, a memory from that first writing residency.

“Do you remember the first time I got mad at you? It was a bad day and you were giving feedback on that one horrible manuscript.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you remember what you said to me?” 

“…No?”

“I remember it word for word. ‘You don’t have to force your voice or story to fit into something it’s not trying to be,’ you said to me.” Even now, the advice makes you smile. He must feel it against his skin.

For a while, it’s silent—nothing but the low hum of the air con and his hand, playing with the fabric of your shirt. You feel his breath fan over the top of your head. “It’s just that you make my life so much bigger,” he murmurs, “and I don’t know if I do the same for you.”

“You do.” Shifting, you crane your neck, taking care not to bump against his chin. Your eyes meet his. “You’re forgetting the part where I love you.”

“I don’t forget it, I just have trouble believing it sometimes.”

You burrow into him insistently, throwing a leg over his hip. “I’ll do better then.” Vernon’s familiar huff of a laugh vibrates against your forehead.

“You already do enough.” He presses a kiss to the crown of your head.

He and you lay there, in comfortable silence. You listen to his heartbeat, steady against your ear. Vernon returns to tracing mindless patterns across your back.

“Did you know you only speak in Korean when you talk in your sleep?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. You never speak in English. You only dream in Korean.”

“I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

“Most times, I think it’s cute, but…I don’t know. Sometimes I get scared.”

“Why?”

Vernon’s chest caves slightly as he exhales. “You dream in a language that I can’t quite understand. I’m still trying, but I can’t help but think that I was supposed to understand this whole time.”

He leans back a little to stare at you, a small, bitter smile on his face. You reach a hand up, cupping his cheek. Vernon softens slightly, leaning into your touch as he continues.

“I think it’s part of why I’ve been trying harder to learn lately.”

“You want to understand me while I’m sleeping?”

“Yeah. Is it stupid?”

You smile a little. “No. Well maybe, since I’m pretty sure I’m just saying gibberish.” He hums.

“You know, what if there’s a life where you never left Korea, and I actually did immigrate the way my parents planned to when I was a toddler. Would we have met then? Still gotten married?”

“You mean inyeon? Who we are to each other in another life?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s a thought, for sure. But I chose you in this life. That’s what matters most to me.”

It’s quiet after that, Vernon absorbing your words in the way he always does, with that almost uncanny acuity. After a beat, he pulls you even closer, until there’s barely space between your bodies.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

--

Seokmin is already lined up for the ferry by the time you meet him.

“Hey!” You’re slightly breathless, having run to meet him upon getting his message. He beams, eyes turning into half-crescents.

“Hey! Did you get home safe last night?”

“I did, thanks. Sorry I’m late.” It seems more people took yesterday’s sunny weather as a cue that the past week’s rain finally passed; the train was more crowded than usual.

“Have you eaten yet?”

“No.”

Seokmin unslings one strap of his backpack, rummaging before brandishing out a bagel sandwich for you. “Here?”

You accept it, mouth parted in surprise. “For me?”

“Yeah.” You bite into it with a vengeance. Seokmin grins as you eat.

This early, people are just starting to file in; the queue progresses quickly. You both shuffle forward every few seconds. As the boarding point to the ferry grows closer, Seokmin turns to you.

“I forgot to ask you something yesterday.”

You swallow your current bite before answering. “What is it?”

“What prize do you want to win nowadays?”

“Hm?”

“Before you left, you wanted to win the Nobel. Twelve years ago, you said it was the Pulitzer. What about now?” Seokmin clarifies. You look at him, a little lost. Things like that haven’t been on your mind for a long time; you tell him this, a little abashed. He just shakes his head with a little smile.

“Try to think about it,” he encourages. “There must be something you want.”

“…A Tony?” You try, and he laughs.

“Still the same.”

“Greedy?”

“Greedy.”

--

Today is more suffocatingly romantic than yesterday. It’s bad enough that someone had offered to take a photo of both of you together, confused when you turned her down. You lean against the ferry railing, keeping a safe distance from Seokmin.

Under you, the water churns into white foam as the ferry route curves into the view of the Statue of Liberty. As the right angle approaches, you tap Seokmin’s shoulder.

“Here, I’ll take your picture.” He positions himself near the railing, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet. “A little to the left.”

When you return your phone to him, he raises it up with the front camera. “Selca?” Obliging, you sidle next to him before laughing at the screen.

“That’s too close!” You step back, pressing your back lightly against the railing. Seokmin snaps a few photos, each with a silly face that you match in turn. In one of them, you raise a hand, smiling, the ring on your hand briefly catching the sun. Behind you, Manhattan sprawls, gleaming in the morning light.

--

“Oh, pretty.” Seokmin taps your screen, flicking through your wedding photos. The ferry is now returning to Manhattan, and you’ve both taken to the empty seats near the middle row. Seokmin looks between the you beside him and the you in the photos. His brow furrows ever so slightly. ���You look young.”

“We were young,” you reminisce. “The wedding happened earlier than planned because of my green card.”

You smile, staring at the screen. Right now, it’s on a picture of you and Vernon, his hair not yet buzzed, frozen mid-laugh. You’re clutching your bouquet with one hand, his shoulder with the other. When he laughs, really laughs, Vernon’s face is almost elastic in its expressiveness; you had to insist on a copy of this photo, after Vernon’s embarrassment at the way his eyebrows looked comically curved. You don’t remember why you were laughing anymore, only that this was your favorite photo purely because of how unscripted it was.

Seokmin hums, continuing to scroll through your wedding photos.

--

Vernon fidgets with his phone, distracted. He had gotten your message about an hour ago; you were on the way home, bringing your friend after he had checked out from his hotel. Tonight was supposed to be a dinner with the three of you before Seokmin leaves for Korea on an early morning flight.

He had spent part of his afternoon cleaning, both itching to release nervous energy and wanting to make a good impression. It took him twice as long as usual to pick a shirt to wear, unsure of what kind of impression he wanted to give to this man, as his childhood sweetheart’s now-husband. Eventually, he settled with a clean button down tucked into jeans.

After what seems like forever, he hears the faint jangling of keys, and then the door opening.

“Vern?”

He stands, smoothing down his shirt. There, by the doorway, bathed in warm light, is you, greeting him with a soft smile. He relaxes, shoulders settling more comfortably. Turning, you gesture to someone. 

“들어와.” A figure ducks through the doorway, already toeing off his shoes. And it is here that Vernon meets him for the first time.

Seokmin is a tall man. You were right; he is handsome, in the way Asian men often are—youthful, more innocent than his other burly, White colleagues, who grow their beards and prefer to exude a more rugged appeal. As you stand there, together, both staring at him, you reassuring and Seokmin tentative, Vernon suddenly understands. This is a person from another life of the woman he loves. He and Vernon are connected, not just through heritage, but with their love for you. Simple as that.

Vernon smiles warmly. “안녕하세요. 만나서 반가워요.

Seokmin startles a little before smiling back, hesitant but bright. “Hello, it’s nice to meet you too,” he replies in stilted but clear English. They both laugh awkwardly. Seokmin glances at you. “그는 한국어를 잘한다.”

Vernon can understand that much. “아니, 아니요.” You just look at him at Seokmin’s pronouncement, smug. Vernon  “배고파? Hungry?”

“Um, yes.” As though on cue, his stomach rumbles. You and Vernon exchange a glance, amused. Vernon turns to him. “뭐 먹고 싶어요?”

“Uh…pizza!”

“Pizza? You like pizza?”

Seokmin nods. “Yes!”

Vernon steals a glance at you again, biting back a laugh. “Okay, then. Pizza it is.”

--

The three of you walk the streets of East Village. It is well into the evening, and the streets bustle with people checking out the hole-in-the-wall, indie restaurants that are scattered around. You and Vernon walk beside each other, while Seokmin keeps a polite but still friendly distance from your husband.

“So what did you guys do today?”

“The, uh…” Seokmin tilts his head, opening and closing his mouth to reply, brow furrowing. Instead, he just raises his hand, miming a torch.

“The Statue of Liberty,” you supply. Vernon’s brows lift in realization.

“You took the ferry?” You nod.

“It was, uh, nice,” Seokmin says. “Uh, beautiful view.”

“I’ve never been.” You and Seokmin, on either of his side, look at him, shocked for different reasons. Seokmin shifts his focus to you, still incredulous.

“야! Why haven’t you gone with your husband there yet?”

“I don’t—” you look at Vernon, surprised and more than a little guilty. “You’ve never been? We’ve never been?”

Vernon huffs a laugh at both of your exclamations. “Yeah, I’ve actually never been.”

You look at him, eyes wide, even as he levels a smirk at you, amused at your reaction.

--

The pizza was everything he dreamed New York pizza to be—thin, large in serving, and just the right mix of fat from the cheese and acidity from the tomatoes. Both you and your husband had remarked that this was one of the better places, at least as far as both your palates were concerned. Vernon taught him, you translating at some junctures, how to fold the slice before eating it, prefacing it by saying that neither of you would judge if he just opted to cut the slice with a knife before eating. Adamant, Seokmin insisted on “the New York way,” to both your amusement.

After dinner, the three of you relocated to a small, nearby speakeasy. Faux-incandescent bulbs cast a warm light over the space, and you took your seats at the counter. You sat in the middle, translating between the two of them.

“At twenty-four, I, um…” he tries to think of the word, but falls short. Seokmin mimes shooting a rifle, and both your eyes widen in recognition.

“군대?”

“Military service?” Both you and Vernon speak at the same time.

“Yes!” Seokmin looks at your husband, who understands the question in his eyes.

“I didn’t go, I chose US citizenship at eighteen.” Seokmin’s mouth parts in an o, nodding as the pieces click in his mind. Vernon addresses him. “How was it? Did you like it?” You translate for him your husband’s question. Seokmin bites back a sheepish smile.

“No.” You and Vernon laugh. “I got accident,” he adds.

“Really?” Your husband leans forward, intrigued. Seokmin points to his nose, and you gasp as the memory finally returns to you. He levels a quick grin at you, knowing why.

“My nose was, uh, broken. Needed surgery to fix.” Vernon nods. His face is wonderfully expressive as he absorbs this new information. 

Looking at his nose, then the rest of his face, he replies, “it looks good. Healed well.”

“Thank you.” Seokmin scratches his nose, the unconscious habit returning for a moment. “But, uh, military and work…same.”

“Same how?”

“You have, uh…boss.” Both you and Vernon release a chuckle. He turns to you, switching to Korean. “There’s overtime pay here, right?”

You nod. “Of course. Why? Don’t you have?” He shakes his head. You stare at him, incredulous, before turning to Vernon, who makes a similar face when he hears your translation. “There’s no overtime pay in Korea.” To Seokmin, you ask, switching back to Korean, “Really?”

Seokmin nods. “In Korea, you do all you boss’ work, then your own, then you can go home. And you don’t get paid well.”

“That’s shitty. And hard.” Seokmin nods, face comically down.

He tries his best to translate, catching Vernon’s expression—who seems to be doing his utmost best at keeping up with the limited Korean he knows, but not understanding the important bits. “Boss work first, then your work. End late, but um…bad salary? Cheap?”

“I see,” Vernon says, and levels him a grateful look. Seokmin smiles sympathetically, catching his gaze. They hold it for a moment too long, and Seokmin is the first to look away, suddenly feeling awkward. Despite tonight’s relatively smooth camaraderie, they remain strangers.

Seokmin instead turns to you, switching back to Korean, finding comfort in the way the syllables rest on his tongue.

“It was good that you immigrated.”

You smile, responding in kind. “I think so too.”

“Korea’s too small for someone like you. It can’t satisfy your greed.” Both of you laugh softly. Seokmin swirls the drink in his hand, the ice clinking against the glass.

“Thank you for introducing me to your husband. He seems to love you very much. And he’s been so nice to me.”

Your smile widens, enough for light crinkles to appear at the edges of your eyes. “Of course. I love that you get along.”

Seokmin downs his drink. Gazing at the leftover ice, he murmurs, a little drunk, “I didn’t know getting along with him would hurt this much.”

You stare at him, mouth parted. He turns to look at you, mouth quirked in a bitter, sardonic smile. Around you, the speakeasy’s noise fades into a dull buzz. Your body swivels a little, facing him more.

After a long beat, you simply reply, “Really?”

“Really.”

It’s probably pathetic of him, to be so open to you, risking your husband understanding a conversation about him, but he’s drunk, and it’s his last night with a person whom he’s only ever seen in increments of twelve years. For all he knows, twelve years later he may not be as lucky.

The silence is intolerably suffocating.

“When we stopped talking,” Seokmin starts, “Did you miss me?”

“Of course.”

“But you met your husband, then.”

“You met your girlfriend too,” you reply, a little too sharply. The air is tense. From behind him, Seokmin spies Vernon glance at your direction, noting the change in your tone. After a few seconds, he returns to his phone. The sight of him makes him scrunch his face. Are you really both being jealous while your husband is a few feet away?

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking away. Shame swirls in his stomach.

“It’s okay,” you reply quickly. “I’m sorry too.”

“I just…Being here with you gives me weird thoughts.”

“Like what?”

“Like, ‘I found my first love twelve years ago, should I have just not let her go?’” He barrels on, clocking from your expression that you wouldn’t know what to say in reply anyway. “‘What if I went to New York when you asked? Or if you had gone to Seoul when I asked? What if you never left? Would we have gotten married? Have kids? Would we have dated? Broken up?’ Things like that.”

For once, Seokmin is thankful for the alcohol loosening his tongue; if anything, he can say that he at least poured his heart out to you, the one thing he hadn’t been able to do before. He breathes in, shaky, pushing back tears.

“But what I learned coming here, is that you had to leave because you’re you. And the reason I liked you is because you’re you. And who you are is a person who leaves.”

You close your eyes at that.

After a long pause, you open them, gazing straight at Seokmin as you speak. There’s a small upward curve at the edge of your mouth, even as your eyes glisten, suspiciously shiny, under the warm light.

“The girl you remember doesn’t exist here,” you say softly.

“I know.”

“But she did exist. She’s not here in front of you, but that doesn’t mean she was never real. I left her behind in Seoul with you, more than twenty years ago.” The gentleness of your voice feels like some necessary ruination.

“I know. And though I was just twelve years old, I loved that girl.” His smile trembles as he says it, and so does yours as you try to return it with one of your own.

You huff, a little watery. “You psycho.” His laugh, too, is wet. Seokmin sniffles as discreetly as he can. You hand him a tissue, which he accepts with a soft thank you.

You begin to speak again, one finger swirling around the water that had dripped down onto the wooden surface of the table. “I think there was something between us in our past lives. There’s no other reason for us to be here, in this city, twelve years after we reconnected, another twelve years after I left. It’s just that we don’t have the inyeon to be that for each other in this life.”

“I think so too,” Seokmin replies softly. “What do you think we were? A general and a concubine?”

You scrunch your nose at the image, even as you huff, amused. “A political marriage,” you propose. “And we haaated each other.”

“Or maybe just a bird and the branch it landed on.” Seokmin swirls his glass, drinking at the bits of water from the melting ice. “Even your husband, you know? Maybe in another life, he was in Korea.”

“Maybe you met in the military.”

“Maybe we all were in the same train. Or a bus and we occupied one row of seats.” He must be a masochist, bringing even your husband into this discussion of who you could be to each other. “In this life, you and Vernon have the eight thousand layers of inyeon. To him, you’re someone who stays.”

Seokmin breaks his own heart with his words, yet his smile is open, flayed as it feels. You smile too. On your other side, Vernon has perked up again from where he was scrolling through his phone, hearing his name. You finally turn to look at him.

“Just talking about you.” He smiles, a little unsure.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile at your husband, eyes alight—the same glimmer that accompanies your smile every time he’d come up in your conversation. And just like that, Seokmin knows he is right on who you are to each other.

--

“I’m sorry we speak alone.” Vernon looks up at Seokmin, having just signed off on the bill. “We will stop.”

You’re off to the bathroom, but it’s taking longer than usual. Seokmin and Vernon had been sitting in silence for a handful of minutes, neither of them willing to begin the conversation until now.

“No, it’s fine, you both have a lot to catch up on.” Vernon swivels in his seat to face him, and laughs a little, shaking his head. “I never thought I’d be part of something like this.”

“Hm?” Seokmin tilts his head. Vernon gestures.

“Sitting with you.”

Seokmin understands, offering him a smile. His eyes are still rimmed slightly in red, and he hopes your husband does not notice.

“Do you know, um…inyeon?”

Vernon nods. “A bit of it, yes.”

Seokmin mirrors his earlier gesture. “You and I…We…”

“Yeah,” Vernon huffs a small laugh, “you and I are inyeon too.” He swirls his glass, the ice already fully melted. There’s a smudge of condensation left behind when he moves his glass. “Thank you for coming here. It was the right thing to do.”

For the second time, Seokmin feels his vision cloud over. He looks away quickly, blinking back the tears. He can’t help but betray himself to your husband, the one person whom he probably should not be giving such a display to. And when you are absent, to boot. But when he finally manages to pull himself back together, Vernon has returned his focus to the table, drawing patterns with the smudge of condensed water. He does not say anything else, even as you return with an apologetic remark about the long lines in the womens’ bathroom.

It strikes him, again, that even to him, your husband is kind.

--

Seokmin picks up his luggage, which he had left in your shared apartment. While he’s checking his things, and lacing up his shoes, you reach out, squeezing Vernon’s hand softly. He looks at you. 

“I’ll just walk him to his Uber.” The night had steadily grown colder, and in response, you threw on a cardigan.

“Okay.” Vernon squeezes back.

In front of him, Seokmin straightens, facing him before bowing a little. “Nice to meet you.”

“It was nice to meet you too.”

“Visit me in Korea.”

He offers Seokmin a half-smile. “Of course.” 

“I’ll be back,” you murmur. He and you exchange a glance.

Vernon nods. “Okay.” Your lips quirk up, and you release his hand, stepping back to reach for the knob. The hinges creak as you both step outside.

(For a moment, he’s terrified. Stay, he almost says.)

The door closes behind you softly. Vernon stands there, alone, staring at the door, allowing himself this moment of silence.

--

Seokmin’s Uber has a pickup point some ways away from your apartment. It’s just past one block before Seokmin stops, as per his phone’s instructions. You follow suit behind him.

“Will it be here soon?” You ask.

“Yeah. Two minutes.”

Neither of you speak after that. Silence stretches each second one hundred and twenty-times over, and he can do nothing but look at you, and have you look at him in return. He looks at this face, the one he’s only ever seen whenever time has already done more than a decade’s worth of work. He’s spent yesterday and today cataloguing your features; yet as he does it again, today, for the last time, he can’t help but be afraid he’ll forget the particulars of your face.

The Uber arrives, braking to a stop in front of you. Seokmin gathers you into a hug—a gentle one, like the many ones you’ve known before, the one he wished he gave you in that very first goodbye. You squeeze him back, tightly, face pressed against his shirt. It takes a while before he lets go, but when he does, you laugh softly at the wetness already glistening in his eyes, offering him a tissue you had kept from the bar in your pocket. He accepts it with a teary grin.

You watch as Seokmin loads his luggage into the trunk. He’s about to open the passenger door, when he turns. 

“Hey!”

Just like that, he’s twelve years old again. He’s twelve, and so are you. 

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

“What if this is already a past life, and we’re already something to each other in the next one?” He exhales. “Who do you think we are to each other then?” 

Silence. You offer him a small smile. “I don’t know.”

He returns it, heart miraculously light. “I don’t either. But see you then.” Seokmin folds this memory quietly into his heart, willing to himself that one day, the thought of you will no longer ache as much. And that even as the ache will be gone, the love will remain.

Seokmin enters the car, closing the door firmly behind him.

--

The walk back to your apartment is agonizing.

After the tenth step, you’ve rolled your cardigan sleeves up, tracing patterns on your arms. A heart. A rocket. A crystal. Each step feels like one further from a life you never realized you were still holding on to. Despite your attempts, you begin to cry after the thirty-second step.

You reach the front gate of your apartment at the two hundredth and eighteenth step, finding Vernon sitting at the steps, lost in his own world yet already waiting for you. He looks up as you approach. He opens the gate with one hand, stepping down until he stands in front of you.

There are no words needed. You fall into his arms, dissolving into tears. Vernon embraces you, gentle in all the right ways, quiet as you sob and sob and sob. 

Behind both of you, it is almost the beginning of dawn.

[…] I enter, without retreat or help from history, the days of no day, my earth of no earth, I re-enter the city in which I love you. And I never believed that the multitude of dreams and many words were vain.

— the city in which i love you, li-young lee

[gyublues]

MINGYU LALALI, 2024

[gyublues]

i experienced a whirlwind of emotions through this in incredible writing.

TO GROW LOVE (AND EAT IT TO THE CORE)

pairing: mingyu x gn!reader wc: 8.1k summary: your whole life, you've only wanted one thing. then you meet mingyu. suddenly you want too much, and you wish the summer never ended. notes: farmer!au, established relationship, angst/hurt/a little comfort

this is a birthday fic for my one and only cat @wuahae ! yes this is about half a year late but what can i say. all good things come with time. thank you for being so kind, funny, and thoughtful (and patient)! not a day goes by where i’m not thankful for our friendship :)

and a million thanks to hana @wqnwoos and jackie @97-liners for helping me with edits. literally you guys are insane writers and i will never stop looking up to you.

i. strawberries (the summer we were young)

When a strawberry is ripe, the seeds push out from the heart of the fruit, as if it's bursting from the inside out.

This is one of the few and only things you've learned by living in Seogwipo, where strawberry season comes like a supernova. The May sun, full and heavy, peels into summer, and the roadside farms open their doors, trying to catch stray vacationers from Jeju City on the other side of the island.

That being said, there are approximately two things to do here. One of them is farm. The other is pretend like you have a life, which is your childhood friend Yizhuo's favorite thing to do when she's back from university on summer break.

Today, this involved convincing her ritzy, too-good Seoul friends that they're missing out on this side of Jeju. (Missing out on what? You're not sure. Perhaps the chipped paint of the mural walls, or the endless flat-topped stretches of seagrass. Yizhuo isn't fooling anyone, but you've always liked stretching your legs out in the bed of her pick-up, even on the long drive to nowhere.)

Unsurprisingly, her friends quickly came to the same conclusion. Just one look at your local strawberry patch, with none of the glamour of the bloated tourist traps in the city, and they decided they'd rather spend the afternoon at the beach.

It was then, between the fragaria blooms, when you met Mingyu. He asked for your name, and the rest was history. Yizhuo and co. scattered like the grasping hands of an overripe dandelion and you learned that he was, one, the newly-graduated son of a pair of local farmers, and two, very, very attractive. Almost too much so, especially for a place like this.

Now he holds up a berry, a bright red murder between his fingers, and tells you to try it.

"You must be delusional if you think i'm taking food from a stranger," you laugh, perched on the fence bordering the field. It sprawls before you, melon stripes on the sunbaked ground.

"No, my name is Mingyu," he replies. "No idea who delusional is." His smile, all bright lip and snaggletooth, tears into the scarlet belly of a newly picked strawberry.

"We all know what happened to Persephone."

"Well, if the underworld was a strawberry patch, I wouldn't mind being stuck there for all of eternity."

"What're you picking all these for, anyway?" you ask, watching Mingyu struggle with his too-big straw hat between the vines. His woven basket bleeds over with little berries.

"Jam. I make it on the very first day of every summer."

"Why?"

"You ask a lot of questions for someone who trespassed on my farm. You're cute, but I won't let you off easy."

He laughs at how you balk, clearly red-handed. You're not sure how to tell him you don't think you were supposed to be here either. You don't do things like sit in the back of trucks, trespass, or talk to pretty farmer boys who take a fancy to you, but it's the summer before you graduate and you're not even sure how long you'll have to continue making bad decisions.

"Are you gonna take my first-born now?" you joke instead. The daylight runs down the rim of Mingyu's hat, trickles down his brow, and you wish you could pour the image of him into a jar and keep it forever.

"No, but I will invite you in for some fresh jam on toast. I baked a loaf this morning." and when you say nothing, he continues. "The strawberries are only good once a year. It's the best you'll ever have. Promise."

It's a whine and a half, and somehow you convince yourself this will be the last bad decision you'll make. You've been here long enough to know that good things don't come twice in Seogwipo, and he is unlikely to be an exception.

Yizhuo blows up your phone, you tie the gingham apron around Mingyu's tiny waist, and the basket turns to blood in the saucepan.

Mingyu is right. Love comes to you in that kitchen, high and red like the sun, and the jam never tastes as good as it does that summer.

ii. watermelon (hollowed out, like a magic trick)

"A good watermelon sounds like a heartbeat."

You watch Mingyu heave the fruit, small and striped, out of his grocery bag. It joins the array of egg sandwiches and banana milks you picked up from the store together earlier. (There should have been chocolate Pepero too, but you split the box on the walk).

You're on a picnic, sprawled out on the outcropping overlooking the water. The path up is basically right behind your house, but you had never cared to visit. It had always been the local makeout spot, a schlocky teen crawl for those with nothing better to do, and yet, with Mingyu stretched out beside you, it seems newer. More exciting.

You're still just friends, or at least that's what you told Yizhuo. But ever since you sat on Mingyu's kitchen counter and ate from his jam-covered spatula, you don't think you've gone a week without seeing him. It's been almost two months, which seems so long and yet not long enough—he makes it easy to be greedy.

"See?" He thumps the watermelon with the heel of his palm. "Try it."

You already went through this entire charade at the grocery store, right in front of all the local aunties, but you indulge him. There's little point to triple checking if it's still ripe, but you think he just likes hitting it.

"It sounds good," you say. "But how are we even gonna eat it? We don't have a knife."

"Watch this." Mingyu procures a coin from his pocket. "You didn't learn this in elementary school? I feel like everyone was doing it."

"Here?" you ask, incredulous.

"Yeah, here. I grew up here too, you know."

He holds the edge of the coin to the skin and slams his palm into it once more, so that it lodges itself into the rind, and begins dragging it around the fruit. You start to wonder if he bought the watermelon just to show you a party trick—not that you mind, though. The strain of his biceps peeks through his rolled up white tee, and you remember why he was able to stop you with just one look back when you first met.

"No way." The watermelon is so ripe, it bleeds around the incision. "I feel like I know everyone here. And I definitely would have remembered you."

"I was probably, like, two grades above you," he replies. "And my parents shipped me off to live with my cousins after elementary school. They said I should get out of Seogwipo and experience the real world."

"Good call. There's nothing here." You watch Mingyu spin the melon over to cut through the other side. The coin catches the sunlight, and it looks like gold. "I wish I left for university. The one here is so small."

"Really?" He pauses to show you his handiwork. The two melon halves roll over on their backs, their cut edge cruel and jagged. "Cool, huh?"

"Impressive," you say. "Honestly. I really didn't think that would work."

"I didn't either when I first saw someone do it. But I’ll try anything once," he replies, ripping open the packaging of the plastic spoon from the bag. "I can't believe you don't like it here."

"You do?"

"Yeah. A lot." He shoves the spoon in his mouth, and you watch the watermelon juice pool around his lips. "I missed home. The trees and the tall grass and the ocean. All the fruits. Everything. I learned to ride a bike, right down there by the water."

"Hm." He passes you the spoon. You don't want to hog it, so you carve out a piece bigger than you need. "Are you gonna work at the farm?"

"Maybe. Haven't decided yet," he says. "I think I want to be here, though. Maybe do something with food, but I want to be home."

"That's funny, because I think I’ve always wanted to live a different life. Or at least one somewhere else."

"You want to go to law school, right?"

"Yeah." Mingyu is right. The watermelon is all sugar, and you would almost feel guilty for eating it if it wasn't technically good for you. "I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer. It's something about the people watching, I think."

"That’s really cool," Mingyu says, mouth full but no less sincere. It's then that you notice your shoulders are almost touching, and your heart crawls back up to your mouth. "You know what you want. I admire that."

He makes it sound like a compliment, but you're sure it's a curse.

You think of your parents. There's a permanent wrinkle ironed into their foreheads, the paper crease of expectations and high standards. It's not that they didn't care, but their kind of care was a humbled sort, made heavy by a hard life. It didn't help that your big sister Seohyun went straight from Yonsei to work a big tech job in San Francisco and never once looked back.

But you can't blame any of them—wanting has always been a hereditary failing. Sometimes Yizhuo will catch you frowning at nothing, and then you remember that life isn't a performance and every day ends at the same time no matter how hard you work. But you don't know how to tell her that the only thing you can do sometimes is want, because otherwise you wouldn't really have much at all.

It seems like the exact opposite of how Mingyu lives—everything about him seems to pass like the seasons. Maybe that's why you can't seem to get enough of each other.

"Thank you. Really." You dig the spoon into your half of the melon. There isn't much left. "You're way too nice to me."

"It’s not hard to be," he laughs. "Maybe you're just too hard on yourself."

You're losing track of the distance between the two of you. You can almost feel the heat playing off his skin.

"Maybe."

It's then, under the veil of summer, where you meet Mingyu's gaze and, finally, things seem close to simple.

All you know are his eyes, heavy with sun, and then the slow, slow move of his lips against yours. He tastes like August, long and sweet, and for once you know what it's like to not only want, but to have, and to have again.

The ocean sings on the horizon, and the watermelon bellies weep.

iii. adzuki beans (or, the blood of a headless taiyaki)

Mingyu eats taiyaki headfirst because he says it hurts less.

"That makes no sense," you tell him, your pinkies linked. You never really liked holding hands, but yours fits so perfectly in Mingyu's and there's some girlish, childlike shine to it when you watch his finger search for yours after just a moment separated.

"What do you mean."

He breaks your gaze to eye a red bean taiyaki, like an unwilling predator sizing up their prey. It's the lamest, most embarrassing iteration of National Geographic you've ever seen, and yet you cannot find any fiber within yourself not deeply in love with the lion.

Fall is a forgiving place for your relationship to settle. You're now a senior at university and he's started his gap year. Gap implies he's in the middle of something, but in true Mingyu fashion, he leaves it up to fate, or chance, or something not nearly as kind (whim).

"Taiyaki isn't alive. And why would you want to pretend it is? Eating gummy bears would become an extinction event."

"It kind of is." He holds out the tail end of the taiyaki, the pastry almost explicitly flayed open, in front of you to eat. "Why does the Haribo bear have a face? Why do the gummy bears live in a gummy forest?"

"Great, so now I can’t even enjoy gummy bears without feeling like a serial killer?"

You dig your pointer into his shoulders, broad from all the time he spends on the farm. To think that his hands, big and weathered, were made to pick berries (and now wrap around your pinky finger) is bruising, if not ridiculously funny.

"It's a crime of passion. Gummy passion. Prosecute that."

He kisses your cheek and your heart almost squeezes into two.

The terrible thing about being with Mingyu is how seemingly endless his affection is. Now he's feeding you in public and buying the two of you matching socks (cat and dog, to be exact), although you'll admit it's a little charming, even if the neighbors do gossip.

He's sweet, too sweet, and his kisses stick to the back of your throat.

But you can't be fooled. There's an unsaid violence to the way Mingyu loves. (The meticulous spiral of the peel he carves when you ask for him to cut you an apple. The grind, decisive and cruel, of a knife against a cutting board. A pair of canines against your neck, your jaw.)

Even now, he bites the head off another unwitting taiyaki before stuffing it back in the bag.

"We're still splitsing, right?" he says, with perhaps 1% of his mouth available for speaking and the other 99% murder machine.

Splits, he always says before you share food. You never had the heart to tell him that it's in the same family as mines or sharesies or takebacks—silly childhood relics, ones that no one uses anymore because they don't mean anything.

This time, you don't hear him because you're thinking about the law school fair you went to before Mingyu picked you up. The future is so close, it scares you. A year from now, what ground would you be standing on? Would it smell like this—the peat, the thread-spool fields, the balm of the ocean? Would you still have Mingyu's finger wrapped round yours?

"Have you decided if you're staying at the farm?" you ask.

"Not really." He uses the back of his hand to wipe off his chin. "If my sister decides to take over, I’m actually kinda thinking of going to pastry school instead of getting a masters."

Mingyu had been toying with the idea for some time after you had talked about it on the outlook. It started off as a joke (September; a galette), then a what if (October; green tea mochi), and now it sits at a kinda.

"Kinda?"

The word gathers speed in the pachinko machine of your mind. You never liked being a kinda person. For Mingyu, it seems like a luxury of a word, but for you, it's really just another thing to hide behind. Kinda talented, kinda ambitious, kinda just there. You're always one foot in, one foot out of something better.

"Yeah, kinda. Why?"

"I dunno. What if we both end up leaving?"

"Maybe. You still want to, right?"

You would be lying if you said you didn't—it's what you always wanted. Seogwipo has been a sun-rot, too-small crutch for you, but you would also be lying if you said you weren't terrified that you'd eventually come back, limping like some doomed Icarus, unable to truly make it in the real world.

Then you think of the pockmarked farmland beside your home, lacy with the fall harvest. Even now, you can trace the endless blue of the coastline all the way there, cut through all the maybes and just let the sound of the ocean fold you into sleep like you were a child again. You wonder if Seohyun, all the way on the other side of the world, ever misses it.

"I’m not sure," you say, because, as much as you don't like it, it's the only answer you have.

"It's ok. You'll figure it out. You always do." He squeezes your cheeks together between his thumb and index, laughing at how they pillow out underneath his fingers. "Screw pastry school. I could come with you. Who else would keep you fed?"

Mingyu's complete and unfounded belief in you makes you feel something close to betrayal. How could he say any of that? With what proof? Only someone like Mingyu would be able to hold the wrinkled fruit of your unremarkable life between his palms and see something better than that. Maybe it's because he grew up on a farm. Either that, or he already cares for you too much, too painfully.

Secrets are easy to keep when they look like yours. At least here, in the pit of your stomach, you can keep count, take attendance of them, all your tittering, small anxieties. Some days it feels like your ribs are pressing out, but it's better than cutting everything loose to spill out over what little you do have control over.

You can handle a little pressure. You have to.

What concerns you is the hand Mingyu's got across your chest. With one look, he just might gut you. A twist of the heart-knife, and all those carefully wound insides carved out in an instant—maybe he'd pity you, but worse than that, he'd likely be disappointed.

For you, expectation has always stood taller than shame, and the idea that he sees something past you makes you want to run away.

"I could be a house husband," he says as easily as ever. "You'll be off saving the world, arguing with whoever, and I'll be there to run you a bath afterwards."

"Let's not get too ahead of ourselves," you reply, binding up the strange, hollow feeling in your stomach with a laugh.

There's a scared little girl hiding inside you, and whether Mingyu sees her or not hurts the same. A spade is a spade. You can only pretend so long.

You look at the taiyaki floating in their wax paper bag, blinded and wrought open by the same grin that now peels you down, and you're not hungry anymore.

iv. winter pears (rotten, outside your parents' house)

Mingyu's family loves Christmas.

You think it's because of the pear trees they have in the front yard. They stand bravely before the house, all emerald ash and wisdom in the December freeze. Run your palms over the knobs and it's like you can see into a sleepy visage of simpler days past. (Below its heart, carved: 1982, the year the farm was bought. Along the tangle of the roots: gyu waz here, in an unsure, childish scrawl.)  

Winter comes to the countryside crawling on its hands and knees. On days it doesn't snow, there's a mist, boggy and clingy. You've come to realize the cold is more of a threat than a promise, and so the pear trees still bear fruit; the silvery branches hang heavy, faithful.

The first day of December, Mingyu's parents had tasked the two of you with decorating the farmhouse, a duty you took very seriously. You wrapped Mingyu up in string lights and watched him blink in and out like your own personal firefly.

It wasn't until you watched the rafters, the barn doors, the joyous vault of the ceiling all glow, like a spectacular firework, that you finally started to understand why Mingyu was so into the holidays.

It was in the yellow blush of the string lights that you had your first pear from the tree, which Mingyu insisted was a holiday tradition. We make poached pears, he said, mid-bite. You simmer the pear in syrup until it gets so soft, you can cut into it with a fork. Just like butter.

That same night, he kissed you, mouth hot and trembling and tasting of honey, and pressed you against the bark so hard, you could feel the grit of its veins against your skin.

You think December became your favorite month, and pears your favorite fruit.

So much so, that for the entire month, you try to put away your worries about law school applications to celebrate with Mingyu and his family.

You learn his mom makes the best hot chocolate (a cinnamon stick and a dogged devotion to the whisk), and that Mingyu has no clue on God's green earth how to ice skate. (He careens right into your chest the first time. You spend the next hour with him attached to you like a backpack—he manages to find the most impractical ways to do anything, which you somehow admire the most). On Sundays, Yizhuo ditches her Seoul friends and instead accompanies you to the mall two towns over, where she watches you compare different ties and watches and collagen creams as you decide on gifts for his family. (Lilac is so last year, she'd say, stirring the straw of a watered-down milk tea.)

It's not until the weekend before Christmas when you realize just how serious things have gotten. Your feet understand the meander of the dirt path to the farmhouse, your bones the scent of the yellow-skinned apple, the faded wildflowers. Your palms crave the plush of the rug they have in front of the fireplace. Hell, you can't even eat soondubu without thinking of the kind Mingyu's dad makes, with extra anchovies and green onion.

You don't think about what this means. There are ten days left in December and love poured from a full cup never seems to run out.

"Please let me carry some of those," Mingyu wheedles. "Oh my god. I'm like the worst boyfriend in the world."

"No, you are not." you make your way up to his doorstep, taking care to one-two step over the stray roots of one of the pear trees. It's second nature to you by now. "The moment I hand you a box, you are gonna start trying to figure out what it is."

He harumphs and plucks the big one off the top anyway, the one he knows you can't reach. "I didn't even know you were getting us gifts. You didn't have to."

"It's the least I could do. Who shows up to a holiday dinner emptyhanded?" You stop at the front door. "And stop shaking it," you laugh, using the tip of your boot to nudge his shin.

"Okay. Okay," he says, saccharine, adoring, before grabbing the doorknob. "Ready? Are you nervous? You shouldn't be nervous, right? It's not fancy or anything, if you were worried about that."

And that's the thing that wedges itself between your ribs. Mingyu and his whole family are like this. They love and worry and love again; it presses deep into you, fills you, and overflows.

So here you are, standing in your nicest dress and balancing a stack of gifts you hope will amount to something, never enough but something, to repay the people who you feel have loved you more than you deserve. It's all you really have. You do your best, and yet you know when that door opens, it'll all be washed away in a high-tide flurry of hugs and laughter and the familiar press of Bobpul's wet nose against your leg. They're just those kinds of people—they would be just as happy if you didn't bring anything at all, and somehow that makes you feel even more guilty.

"No, no," you wave him off. "I’m fine. Excited."

When Mingyu opens the door, everything goes just as you expected. His sister takes your coat, your gifts are whisked away to the tree (Aji has already figured out which one is his), and his parents descend upon you in a choking swell of warmth and charity.

We baked some fresh bread for your parents (—Thank you so much, but you really shouldn't have.). You look so beautiful in that color (—No, no, you flatter me too much.). Mingyu better be taking good care of you (—He is. He really, really is.).

The kitchen is gauzy with cinnamon, anise. They must be making their famous poached pears, which Mingyu remarks on, just like clockwork.

Dinner passes the same way. It bubbles over with affection, and you feel swallowed by an impossible yearning. This—a full table and a hand to hold underneath it—did you deserve this? And could you keep it?

For an instant, you picture yourself, years later, at this same seat. Mingyu would be fussing over the rice cakes, his apron still gingham because it reminds him of the day you two met. His parents, grayer but no less happy, bickering over the shade of tinsel on the tree. And the dogs, coiled at your feet like they are now. The vision laps at your bones like you're a raft in a storm.

You're pulled back into the moment when Mingyu squeezes your hand, grounding and insistent. "Mom asked how school was going. I told her I think you're basically the smartest person I know, and I’m pretty sure you're getting into whatever law school you want."

Mingyu's parents laugh, and they cut through their pears.

"Oh, sorry," you say. "Um."

Clink. Knife meets flesh, meets porcelain. Your cheeks are hot. You wanted to talk about anything other than yourself tonight. Clink.

"The top programs are a reach, but it'd be nice." clink. "I just want to get in somewhere."

"They’re all so far away," Mingyu's mom remarks. "So grown up. Any school will be lucky to have you. You'll get into all of them."

Clink.

"Or maybe you can stay here." You watch the prongs of Mingyu's father's fork disappear into the pear. "Keep us old folk company."

"No, no, I think Mingyu should take notes and get off his lazy ass," his sister says, teasing. "Going back to the city will be good for him."

"So you can, what, burn down the kitchen again?" Mingyu grumbles, and the whole table seems to boil over with laughter.

"We’re kidding," his mom tells you. "No matter where you go, I’m sure you'll do great. We can even throw you a party at the end of the year. For graduating."

Clink. Clink.

There's a horrible uneasiness writhing around in your stomach. It's pear and syrup and clove and a blackness, an anxious, selfish one that sucks up all the generosity of the evening and turns it into shame.

Mingyu's mom is talking about throwing you a graduation party, something you didn't even think to do for yourself, and here you are, thinking about the shaking moment you open your rejection letters and the lonely path you'll draw on your way back home.

It's ok. They missed out, Mingyu would say, pouring you a consolation drink, and then it would be over. You'd go home and sit on your bed and the trifold piece of paper would go round and round your head like it was in a washing machine.

Your heart, an inventory of tasks and goals and tally marks. Things you've taken and things you've owed. It's a soft, boneless excuse. Be grateful. Give them that, at least.

Clink.

Dessert ends before you can tell his family not to get their hopes up. Mingyu's mom sends you off with your loaf of bread and a kiss on the cheek, and the moment is gone.

"Gyu," you call out on the steps in front of the house.

There are words at the seam of your lips. You want to tell him you're sorry for worrying so much. For making the whole dinner about you and then very possibly having nothing to show for it when it matters. For the heaviness in your chest. Your cowardice. But none of it comes out.

Instead you watch Mingyu pull at the leaves of a pear tree, watching the frost-filigree they get at the end of the season. He looks over his shoulder and smiles at you, as if he's on the hazy cover of a magazine. His eyes bend so wonderfully at the corners when he looks at you, and it breaks your heart.

"You had fun, right?" he asks. "My parents like you a lot, you know. I think they really do."

But that's the problem, you want to say. You all do, and I have no idea why.

Some of the pears are beginning to rot now. You watch one drop off the vine, and it caves to the pavement like it was made of nothing at all.

v. wild barley (grows like weeds)

In March, you play house.

Your parents leave on a two week trip to see relatives, and Mingyu takes it upon himself to make sure you survive.

It's a kind, blinding charade.

(7 am, breakfast. You usually don't even eat breakfast, but you wake up to doenjang and a smile, one that presses itself to yours until you're wearing it on the long walk to school.)

(4 pm, the stretch between lunch and dinner. You're muddling through another useless club meeting when Mingyu sends you a picture of him in your mom's apron, making kimchi. Kiss the chef, he texts you. You promise to, over and over and over.)

It's good until it isn't.

That isn't to say that it's Mingyu's fault. In fact, it's never really Mingyu's fault, and that's the worst thing about your relationship. Sometimes you wish he was worse just so there was someone else to blame.

(1 am, a fridge-cold glass of water and a hand on the column of your spine. Can't sleep? He asks. Just had a weird dream, you say.

It's a lie. You're a liar.

You miss your parents and the first wave of acceptance letters comes out in two days. You're not like him. Sleep has never been a cure for the exhaustion you're feeling, and you have no way of telling him that however warm the bed is won't fix that.)

It's on a Thursday afternoon when you open your mailbox and see the tiny, thin envelope that you've been expecting for the past week. You don't need to open it to know what it says, and yet you do it anyway.

The sun is white, a ghost in the spring sky. The ocean bleeds into the overcast, the curly barley stands tall around your feet, and you let the worst letter you've gotten in your life fall upon your shoulders, word by terrible word.

Then you close it, pinching the seam shut, and draw up your brave face. Nothing left to do but be brave. You're convinced you've used up all the sadness in your relationship—spend in pennies and the well still runs dry. Mingyu will cup your cheek and call you darling, pouring into your emptying basin, holey and broken.

You see him now through the kitchen window, Venus in his clamshell of a kitchen. Galbijjim day, he had said this morning. Now, he waves at you, glittery with recognition.

Your throat feels like crumpled paper.

Mingyu smiles at you, hazy through the glass. Your cheeks hurt and your mouth is paper mache, but you smile back anyway.

///

The letters come one after another.

You know what the envelopes hold and yet you keep opening them. The little folder you keep stashed in your bottom drawer gets fatter every passing day because you can't help but revisit your misery, almost as if you need to remind yourself it exists.

Mingyu is none the wiser. Today he decides he'll put off pastry school for one more year. "It doesn't feel like the right time," he says, rolling a log of burdock kimbap up. "You know what I mean?"

No, you don't. You never really do.

You do know, however, that it would feel really fucking bad that, come the end of the year, to have nothing. All your friends would be going somewhere—even Yizhuo opened her acceptance to an MFA program in Shanghai yesterday—and you would be here, still, feet firmly planted in the muddy Jeju dirt like they always had been.

"Hey, don't look so disappointed." he jokes. "Don't tell me you're already trying to get rid of me."

You're not, you really aren't. But part of you wonders if it's just a race to the bottom. If you got rid of him before he decided he wanted to get rid of you, maybe it would hurt a lot less. One less letter for the folder.

"Never. But imagine if you picked up a French accent at pastry school. Then I’d consider it. Maybe."

You watch his knife rock back and forth on the cutting board as he cuts the kimbap.

"Some for you. And more for me," he says, in what you can only describe as someone attempting to speak French when they've never heard it before. "Unless you want more, mon cherie."

He brings the plates to the table, his grin nothing short of dizzying.

"I’m irresistible, huh? Still wanna leave me now?"

"You're gonna have to try a little harder than that, I think."

The words roll off your tongue, easily, traitorously.

You watch the kimbap disappear off of Mingyu's plate.

Going, going, gone.

///

Seogwipo is always dark at night, only kept alive by the glow of the moonlit sea.

You can't sleep. Again. And so you sit out on the steps in front of your house, letting the twilight wrap around you like a blanket.

You got your last letter back earlier today. You held your breath and tore it open like you would a birthday card with money in it.

Waitlisted.

It was surely better than a rejection, but some naive, child-eyed part of you thought that if you had just closed your eyes and hoped hard enough, things would work out the way you had planned. Tragically, it wasn't enough this time. You wanted and wanted and you thought maybe that would mean you'd come close to deserving it.

Your parents called today. After managing to sideline the issue of basically the rest of your entire life, they had finally cut through your sad little charade. No good news yet, huh?

No, but—

It was always like that with you. No, but it's not as bad as you think. No, but give me a chance. No, but I’m trying. I've been trying.

You wish things didn't come out of you so complicated. That you could be like Seohyun, who could go through school with her eyes closed and still graduate at the top of her class. Instead, you parade around your little failures, trying to convince people it all could mean something only if they squinted. See? It isn't so bad.

You think you're past the point of crying about it. Your stomach hurts, you're cold, and most of all, you just want to go back to bed. Plus, although Mingyu sleeps like a log, you think he's developed a sixth sense for whenever you get up too early.

Time to be brave, you've been telling yourself, although you don't know who you're pretending for anymore.

So you nudge the front door open—it's so old, it wails if you come at it with any more force—and, to your surprise, see the light above the kitchen sink turned on.

It's not very bright, but it's enough to make out Mingyu's broad silhouette, back turned to you as he makes a cup of tea. He's humming one of his made-up songs.

"Mingyu?"

"There you are," he says, turning around. "Just came out to check on you. And make you some tea."

The kettle whizzes. Your gut twists.

You still haven't said anything to Mingyu. To manage your own disappointment was one thing—you don't think you could handle another person's. And yet when he stands there, Pororo mug between his huge hands, you feel as if you are holding a knife, big and guilty and bloody.

"I-I'm fine, Gyu. Honest." you watch his expression flicker, unreadable in the persimmon lamplight. "Sorry you had to come out. It's chilly out here."

"You know, you can tell me what's going on. I won't judge."

No, no, no. This is the last conversation you wanted to have, with the last person you wanted to have it with.

You feel feverish. You think your hands are shaking.

"Mingyu, I swear—"

"Whatever it is, we can fix it. I know we can."

That almost makes you want to laugh if you didn't want to cry so bad. Of fucking course he would say that. Mingyu, who treats life like it's the watermelon trick he showed you on the outlook, wants to put a bandaid on this whole thing, as if that could come close to fixing it.

He'd tell you to curl up on the couch with a bad movie while he orders takeout. Kiss you on the top of the head. It's ok, baby. Just another bad day for the person who has the worst luck in the world. Another lump of problems for him to try and make better. If he isn't sick of you now, he sure would be soon enough.

"It’s okay," you say, steeling your voice. "It really isn't a big deal. Let's just go back to sleep."

You try to walk away, but the hardness in Mingyu's eyes roots you down to the tile.

"Stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"Pushing me away," he swallows. "Like you always do. I know something's going on."

"I’m not, i just—"

"You just what? You can't help it?"

"No, I—"

"Because you like to know that you can? That you can say whatever and then watch me come back?" A fragmented, heavy silence thrums between you. He's looking at you like he's daring you to say something, anything. His gaze is black. "What am I good for if you can't tell me anything?"

There's that familiar, stinging pressure behind your eyes. You think you're crying, but you're not sure. Maybe you've been crying this whole time.

"Fine," you bite. Your blood feels like hot metal. "You really wanna know? I didn't get into law school. There. Happy now?"

Mingyu looks stung.

"W-why didn't you tell me?"

Because I thought you would stop loving me. I thought you would have finally had enough.

"Because it's not all about you, Mingyu."

The words, selfish and damning, burn your tongue. Mingyu is right. This is what you always do. You fuck up and then make everyone else hurt for it.

"I'm sorry," Mingyu says. His voice doesn't sound like his. Instead, the words seem to hang in the air, trembling and holding their breath, waiting for an apology you can't give yet. "I shouldn't have—"

"It's ok." You swallow hard, and it hurts. "Let's just go back to bed."

It's getting colder and colder. You think there's a little hole in your sock, right above the cat's whiskers.

Mingyu doesn't reach for you as he passes to get to the hallway. Maybe he doesn't know how to anymore.

The Pororo cup is left abandoned on the counter. You walk over and read the label on the tea bag—barley, because you have class tomorrow morning.

You pick it up, let the ceramic buzz between your hands with whatever warmth it has left, and hold it to your lips.

It's cold now, but all you can think to do is drink it. Erase all the evidence that tonight ever happened, and maybe it'll be nothing more than a bad dream in the morning.

There's honey at the bottom of the cup. It sears the back of your throat, but you drink until there's nothing left.

vi. the peach blossoms (without fail, bloom every August. I miss you.)

You broke up the next day.

Even now, you remember what happened. You had woken up early that morning to make your own breakfast because you couldn't allow Mingyu to give you any more of himself. Your hands could only hold, shatter, so much.

"Mingyu, I think we should...." You looked at the zigzags of jam on your toast, angry and uneven. "I think we should stop seeing each other. For now," you had added, as if that made anything better at all.

Somehow that seemed more merciful at the time. Really, you think it just showed your cowardice. If you were going to break his heart, you might as well have gone all the way the first time.

Maybe it was a good thing that Mingyu saw right through you. He always did.

"So that's it, huh? You're just gonna give up on us?"

"No, i just...need some time."

"How long?" he asked. "Be honest with me. Because you know I’ll wait."

"I don't know." You couldn't meet his gaze. His eyes reached and reached over that kitchen table and you denied him even that.

"Don't you always know?" he asked, pitifully, desperately. "Don't you want this to work?"

And you did. In fact, you don't think you had ever wanted anything more, and it was that that scared you. You had already lost law school—you couldn't let the only other thing in your life let you go. So you pulled the trigger first.

"We should just end things. I'm sorry. I can't give you what you need."

He packed his bag within the hour, and you think everything, from then on, froze inside you. You didn't move from your seat until your parents came home from the airport later that day and asked why there were two plates of toast still on the table.

You think you knew, someplace, inevitably, this would happen. You, who only knew hunger, had reached deep inside Mingyu and rooted out a love you didn't think you were worthy of having. And yet you still ate from the vine, bite after guilty bite, until you couldn't take any more. The only time he asked you for anything at all, you couldn't give it to him—such was the irony of your relationship.

Maybe you were doomed the moment the first strawberry hit your tongue, just like you had said, all that time ago.

About a month later, you got another letter in the mail. Chungnam National University Law School, it read. This one was fat, in one of those brown envelopes lined with bubble wrap. Somehow, miraculously, that position on the waitlist had turned into an acceptance. You held the package to your chest and cried, loud and with abandon, as if taking a deep breath after almost drowning.

Ironically, the first person you wanted to tell was Mingyu. But the good news you needed to save your relationship came too little, too late. Perhaps that meant it had no legs to stand on in the first place, but that didn't stop you from missing it. Instead, you told Yizhuo, and she drove you to Jeju City and treated you to dinner. "You should just call him," she had said. "Hey, don't look at me like that. He'd probably pick up on the first ring."

The city is swathed in August's crimson summer—peach season. The narrow streets are lined with peach trees, the fruits glowing like fat drops of sunlight. All you do these days is plan for your eventual move to Daejeon and the start of a life that seems newer and shinier than your own. But surrounded by the cicada song, the velvet treeline, the rain-soaked asphalt, somehow you think you're going to miss Seogwipo more than you think.

(Fickle, fickle heart. You always needed things to be taken away to really be able to appreciate them. Somehow, all that wanting had boiled down to something more satisfying, more filling.)

You wonder how Mingyu is. Now that you think about it, he seems just as much a part of Seogwipo as the farm he lives on. It was only last summer when you had first met him in the field, set on fire by the strawberry harvest. You think about him now, peddling around that ridiculous wicker basket to make jam. Maybe talking to another pretty girl, someone as naive, cruel as you had been.

Not long ago, you considered calling him to apologize, but that'd just be another thing to be selfish about. A little time and some warm weather, and I’m calling to finally wash my hands of you. That's what it would sound like, no matter what you said. Still, it didn't stop you from thinking of him, every flower, every season.

"You know, I always wanted to grow peach trees. But I think we've always been a pear kind of family."

Mingyu. If a voice could cut through air, it'd be his.

You whip around, half-believing you're hearing things. Certainly that would be easier, but you're learning that there are some things you can't run from.

And like a picture, Mingyu stands tall, golden, framed by the peach blossoms. Not a thing about him has changed. Not even the way he looks at you.

"Mingyu," you breathe. Unfortunately, none of the times you replayed your last conversation with him help you come up with something to say, because in none of them did you anticipate him coming back. "W-what are you doing here?"

"I live here, silly."

"No way," you reply, scrambling. "Crazy, because I live here too."

You both laugh nervously, a silly, bubbly thing, but you feel like you're going to throw up. It's only now that you realize you're kind of on the walk to his place. Seogwipo has never had places to hide.

"I...um." you try and disentangle the guilt from the nostalgia from the scent of the peaches and the warmth on his face. They all look the same. You missed him. "I got into law school. In Daejeon."

"I heard," he says. "Not surprised at all. I always knew you would."

"Thank you. I mean it." The cicadas buzz around you, as if they know they have an important silence to fill. "You're staying in town, right?"

"Actually, I decided to apply to culinary school. It finally felt right, you know? I'm leaving at the end of the summer, but it's just in Jeju City. I couldn't leave the island."

"Thank goodness. I don't know if you could tell, but I kind of always hoped you would. I don't think I’ve ever eaten better food." Your voice wobbles, but it gets there. "You'll do amazing."

Then time stretches and forces you to recognize, reckon with, the moment you're in. You wonder if he feels the same way you do—bruised, overripe. If there's still a space in his heart for you.

Deep breath. Life only gives you so many chances.

"Mingyu, I’m sorry. I'm sorry I couldn't make us work. You deserved better." Saying it feels like peeling the skin of your heart back. There's still a palpable distance between the two of you—you think that had always been there—but it feels more comfortable in a way it never did before.

"Don’t apologize," he says, easily, as he always does. Everything seems to flow off him like water, and you think that's the part of him you loved the most because it was the one thing you couldn't touch. "We loved each other. I think that much was true."

A jasmine breeze curls through the trees, sending the blossoms fluttering around you like ink in water. The very first time you met Mingyu, you thoughtthe image of him, haloed with the sunset, was the one you wanted to keep forever. And yet, somehow, you don't think you'll ever forget the way he looks right now.

"Will you ever come back to Seogwipo?" you ask.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing—you were always the one who wanted to get out of here." He grins, ear to ear. "Of course I'm coming back. There's nowhere I'd rather be."

"Yeah. I think I know what you mean."

The sea, the clay dirt, Mingyu. Even yourself, clumsy and care-worn. You think, somewhere along the line, you forgot how to love. But you're learning—one step at a time.

"Friends," you say. "Let's be friends. If you'll let me."

"Thought you would never ask. Gladly. Always." The space between you seizes, like it's holding in a breath. Maybe one day, you'll think of closing it once more, but you like where you stand now. You can admire him better from a distance, without your fingerprints all over him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, something he does before he gets ready to leave. But before he does—"I'll see you soon, okay? You better come back. Promise me."

For the first time, you see the honesty in his eyes and you really, truly believe him.

"Promise."

The Seogwipo sun is high and red in the sky when you wave Mingyu goodbye. It feels like you're coming to an end of a long summer, but you're not afraid. You watch the wind dance through the peach blossoms, their branches never searching, never wanting, and you finally feel as if you've arrived home.

[gyublues]

omg…

female ceo reader x tailor mingyu 1.1k words.

note: female reader (because the plot is based on how some men think women can't be taken seriously in higher up positions). this premise/idea is from The Duchess Deal by Tessa Dare. like pretty much all my fics, this is not a full story and more just a fun idea

[coincidence? I think yes] Letting out a guttural, defeated groan, you slump your head down on your keyboard. The keys press down, adding to the already incomprehensible email you were drafting to send to your personal assistant.

Seungkwan,

I need a husband.b,mfnhh7gy6untjjn 7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7nn7n7n

The first four words were stupid enough. Why should you need a husband? Just because your grandpa is a misogynistic prick?

7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7nn7n7n7n7n

And why should you need to get married of all things just so that he doesn't hand over "his" company -- that you practically resurrected from bankruptcy, by the way -- to your insipid cousin?

7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n77n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7

It's not like your cousin Yeongmin is married. He just happens to be the family's oldest male in your generation.

n7n7n7n7n7nn7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7n7

"Um--"

Seungkwan's voice makes you pop up, and you straighten your back to attempt to look put together even though it's arguable that Seungkwan is the only person who's ever seen you at your most bedraggled. He's probably the only person you'll ever let see you as anything beneath totally put together badass CEO who built themself up from almost nothing.

You smooth out your sleeves. "Yes?"

"There's a man at my desk," Seungkwan says, slightly confused. You're not sure why.

"Okay...?"

"Asking for you."

"Yes, Seungkwan." You nod, brows furrowing. "That's why people normally go to your desk."

His fingers toy with the end of his other arm's sleeve. "Yeah, but..."

"But?"

"He's wearing a wedding dress."

"Oh." You glance down at your computer screen, and the last words you typed-- well, on purpose.

I need a husband.

Weird.

"Do you, uh..." Seungkwan jerks his thumb towards the door he's only stepped halfway through. "...want me to send him away?"

"No, no." If a guy is coming to you in a wedding dress, he must want something. Badly. You've never heard of such a stunt, but you might as well hear him out. "Let him in."

Husband...man in a wedding dress... There's not that big of a difference, right?

Maybe you can offer him what he wants so badly. In exchange for something you want.

Seungkwan nods, still hesitant. "Alright, but you might want to put on some sunglasses."

You don't have time to ask him what the heck he means by that before he disappears out the door, and only seconds later, a blazing white fire barges in.

With all the floor-to-ceiling windows in your corner office, the afternoon sunlight is often a blessing. Right now, however, it bounces off approximately one million sequins, pearls, and crystals, and reflects so harshly into your poor eyeballs that you have to simultaneously raise your hand to cover your eyes and turn away.

"Oh my god." You may have just received snow blindness comparable to years of albedo exposure. "What the--"

"Miss CEO. Ma'am," Mr Say Yes to the Dress starts from behind the curtain of your fingers, voice loud, if a bit unsteady. "My name is Kim Mingyu, and I'm here to collect."

Lowering your hand just slightly, you allow yourself to see him from the shoulders up, which is lucky, since the dress seems to have a sleeveless sweetheart neckline.

Not bad. Broad, sculpted shoulders, a symmetrical face topped with fluffy black hair, something meek in his eyes -- despite having the gall to walk right into your office wearing the world's brightest hodgepodge of fabric and demand payment for... something.

"Collect?" you echo.

"Yes." He nods, and you see him shift to gesture towards the crinoline-filled skirt of the gown. "For the dress."

Instinctively, you look where he gestures, and you wince at the sparkles that stab your retinas. It's not that it's ugly. In fact, the handiwork must be incredible, if you know anything about anything. It's just so...much. Lace and pearls and sequins and rhinestones and floral embroidery.

"You must be mistaken. I never ordered--" You wave at the embodiment of Narnia's never ending winter. "--that."

"No, but Choi Yeori did."

Ah, now things are starting to make sense. You're closer to your cousin Yeori than you are her older brother Yeongmin, if only because you used to play murder mystery make-believe with her when you were nine and she was six. It's been a long time since those days, though. The only updates you get about Yeori's life now come from her public social media, and gossip columns. But there's one thing you know from both the past playtimes and the current Instagram stories.

Choi Yeori is a romantic. Always has been, always will be, you suspect.

From acting the femme fatale (as deadly as a six-year-old can be, which is surprisingly very) to the three engagement announcements she's since deleted from all her accounts, she likes to believe in stuff like love.

All the power to her, you say. Living in her beautiful world must be nice.

Well, except for when it's not so beautiful.

"Let me guess." You tilt your head at the boy-in-a-wonder. "The wedding's off."

Now that your hand is down, and your full attention is on him, Mingyu seems to shift uncomfortably under your gaze. His hands reach to pull the top of the dress higher over his pecs, since it's tailored to Yeori's exact size, not his.

He nods. "I spent countless hours on this dress--"

"I can see that." Otherwise he probably wouldn't be here.

"Everything is sewn by me, like she requested--"

"Of course." No machine could make something so ice queen from Sharkboy and Lavagirl-esque.

"And her payment was retroactively rescinded," he finished. "I can't get a hold of her, or any of her contacts, and I couldn't--"

"Find a single other person who would buy this amalgamation of sparkles, luxury, and fanfare?"

Frowning, Mingyu crosses his arms. "I couldn't think of who else to go to. I'm a one-man company. The cost of material on its own has almost put me in debt."

"Right, sorry." You roll your chair further under your desk and lean your elbows on the dark, lacquered surface. Your eyes glance once again over the dress. "But this could've been an email, you know."

He shrugs. "I got your attention, didn't I?"

You can't help but laugh. Yes, he's got you there.

Reaching into one of your drawers, you pull out your chequebook. "Right, well." You grab a pen and put it to paper. "What does my dear cousin owe you, Kim Mingyu?"

He rattles off the number, and you try not to sigh at it. Oh, Yeori... This time might really be too much.

You sign on the dotted line, and stand from your chair to round your desk. Walking up to him, you tear the single cheque from the book and hold it out.

"Here."

He's even more handsome up close, you note.

Just before his fingers can grip the expensive piece of paper, you jerk your hand back with a sharp bending of your elbow.

"Or," you say. "I could offer you even more than this."

Cautiously, Mingyu raises a brow. "Even more...?"

"You could take this money now--"

A moment happens where you curse in your head. You're acting cool and collected, but the idea bubbling in your mind is one of the most outlandish you've ever come up with. Are you really going to do this?

Mingyu eyes the cheque hungrily. That seals it. He needs money, and that's really the best thing you have to offer anyone, so why not someone with a pretty face?

You smile. "--or you could marry me."

[gyublues]

The Good Place (2016-2020) Pandemonium (S03E12)