lamourche
7 posts
Evie | mostly bts | 18+ only | masterlist
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Hi friends,Â
Iâm going to try writing BTS drabbles again. Â My new blog is @anotherbtswriter. I left pretty suddenly last year, but I was in a bad place. Â It was a good time to sort some things out. Â Come find me over there if you want! Â My lamourche fics are still on ao3 under that name if you are looking for those. Â I will probably just post new stuff at the new blog. Hope everyone reading this is doing well! Take care of yourselves!
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BTS is taking a hiatus, and I think I should to - itâs been a long time since Iâve been inspired to write anything. Life is taking me in a different direction, and Iâm going to follow where it leads. Thank you for reading and commenting on my stories. It has made a huge, positive impact on my life.
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to everyone whoâs ever said something kind about my work: you help me get through the day. thank you.
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We Float | JHS
Pairing: Hoseok/Reader
Genre/au: Massage Therapist Hoseok
Tags: Agoraphobia, Sad Backstories, Angst with Happy Ending, Freeformish, y/n discusses an emotionally abusive relationship she was in before the story starts, hopefully not as depressing as these tags make it seem.
Words: 9791
a/n: Last year I was listening to too much PJ Harvey and wrote this fic. It is a little self-indulgent but what ff isnât?
Summary:
Might as well get this over with. You sigh and raise your hand to knock, steeling yourself for patchouli and shell necklaces. The door opens. A face peers out at you. Thereâs no beard, no long shaggy hair. For a moment, you wish he did walk around shirtless. Heâs handsome. Heâs taller than you, with brown hair that almost falls into his eyes and undercut on the sides. Warm brown eyes and a cute nose. Itâs fucking cute his nose. Heâs wearing cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and white crocs. Well, thatâs better. Heâs still handsome and his kind eyes make you want to confess some prior sin, but itâs easy to scowl at a guy in white crocs.
x
x
Big Exit
You shiver, raising your eyes to the darkening summer sky. The afternoon heat no longer lingers after work.
Hitching your massive bag laden with your ancient laptop and your study guides higher on your shoulder, a sharp, sudden pain spreads from the base of your skull to your shoulder-blades. You grind your teeth to stop yourself from making a sound like a dying pig.
If this doesnât work, you are royally fucked.
You walk down the uneven cement steps leading from the sidewalk to the basement apartment.
Of course, this guy, a massage therapist who works out of his home, has potted plants surrounding the front door. Each looks carefully tended as if small birds land at sunrise for an early morning chit-chat. Of course there are vines grasping at the brick wall. They strive for what little sunlight reaches the narrow entry. Of course soothing music floats out the open window covered by a shear, purple-ish scarf.
This guy probably has a beard and walks around shirtless. He's going to talk at you about auras and chakras.
As if to scold you for your unkind thoughts, your neck seizes. Cursing under your breath, you reach the door. You just stand there, not knocking.
The problem is, the doctor is talking about surgeryâexpensive, many weeks of recovery with no paycheckâsurgery. The muscle relaxants are so tempting and the pharmacy so willing to call your doctor for a refill (which she permits again and again), that you know itâs time to give them up. They work too well. They leave you too content in your tiny pre-furnished apartment by the freeway with your suitcases still packed, as if there were someplace else to go.
You spend those evenings in a daze watching dramas on your phone. The next thing you know the sunâs gone down, and you havenât eaten. You canât fall asleep, either. No longer in pain but unable to turn off the thoughts that wander and float in your brain, like the cars that whoosh past. You donât even mind that you canât sleep, youâre too content to just exist without excruciating pain. In the morning, too many cups of coffee do little to revive you.
It doesnât bother you, is the problem. The fact that you canât always remember where you left your wallet or if you left your apartment unlocked. Youâre too content to exist in a fog.
So, a weekly massage in a basement apartment with a guy that probably calls everyone "buddy" and likes to talk about how Burning Man has become too corporate is worth it, right? Itâs worth not having surgery. Itâs worth not taking the pills.
Might as well get this over with. You sigh and raise your hand to knock, steeling yourself for patchouli and shell necklaces.
The door opens.
A face peers out at you. There is no beard, no long shaggy hair. For a moment, you wish he did walk around shirtless. Heâs handsome. Heâs taller than you, with brown hair that almost falls into his eyes and undercut on the sides. Warm brown eyes and a cute nose. Itâs fucking cute his nose. Heâs wearing cargo shorts, a Hawaiian shirt and white crocs.
Well, thatâs better. Heâs still handsome and his kind eyes make you want to confess some prior sin, but itâs easy to scowl at a guy in white crocs.
Itâs the fucking easiest, actually. This makes you feel better for some reason.
But instead of welcoming you or asking you for your sign or talking about how your aura needs work, he looks around you to the street. He gives you a tight smile.
"Iâm here for the five oâclock appointment," you say, hoping to move things along. You want to get this over with.
"Can you get that for me?" He looks disgruntled, as if you are somehow blocking his way, which you kind of are, you guess.
"Seriously?" You say, before you can stop yourself. "You want me to get your that box for you?"
He stands a little taller. "Is it really that hard?"
"No, but⌠whatever."
You turn around, neck twinging, to walk back up the steps to pick up the brown box. He doesnât even say thank you.
Turning back to the front door, you pause on the stoop. If it wasnât for the surgery, if it wasnât for waking up in constant pain or mind-numbing delirium, you wouldâve left the moment you saw the purple window covering and the potted plants.
But it took two buses to get here from work, and itâs going to take another one to get home, so you might as well get it over with. You follow him through the doorway.
Itâs like entering another world.
The small basement apartment is inviting with mismatched, comfortable furniture that looks cozy. Each and every thing has its place. Colorful boxes and woven baskets are tucked here and there. Bookshelves and a couch sit to the left of the door, with a kitchen beyond. A small square table squats in front of the narrow sink and counters. Thereâs a half refrigerator and a miniature oven. Itâs a bit like a large-sized play kitchen.
On the right is a curtain behind which you can see the massage table and a small end table with a pitcher of water. Just beyond is a short corridor leading back to where the bedroom and bathroom must be.
He moves to the kitchen, pulling a kettle off the stove. "Rose hip or sage?"
You neglect to roll your eyes, so youâre proud of your maturity. "Whatever," you say, wondering how long youâre going to have to talk to this guy.
He doesnât answer, just raises an eyebrow. He pours the tea, sets two mugs on the table and sits down.
"You should put down that bag before you fall over."
You drop the bag to the floor, but your body feels odd without it. As if the extra weight is needed to force your body in the unnatural position it now thinks is normal. It now thinks is living.
"How long have been in pain?"
You sit down, trying to think of an answer.
"The insurance company sent over your paperwork." He explains, continuing to sip his tea.
"About a year," you answer.
Itâs been longer, but you donât want to admit it. You donât want to admit that the first time you took the steroids and were pain free, you cried great big sobs of relief and joy. Itâs been a year since you started treating the pain. The pain began long before.
He narrows his eyes at you. You resist the urge to look down, taking refuge in a sip of tea. It tastes like boiled grass water more or less, and you try to hide your disgust.
"Likes coffee," he mutters. He busies himself with your paperwork.
You wonder whatâs written in thereâprobablyâhas no one to drive her home after surgery, has no emergency contact name.
"Well, I think I can help you." He sighs, looking you up and down.
"Great, thanks. Otherwise, what am I doing here?"
He crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Iâm not sure exactly, with that attitude."
"Can we get on with this? Some of us have real jobs and I need you to fix me up so I can do mine."
Instead of moving things along, he leans back in his chair. "Iâm surprised your doctor hasnât recommended surgery and rehab."
"She has."
"What are you doing here, then?"
"Iâm not sure."
"As long as weâre on the same page."
"The rehab is helping, but I donât want the surgery. Also, insurance is paying for you even though I donât go for all this."
"All this," he says, voice even harder.
You wave your hand dismissively at his apartment.
"What the fuâ" He slaps a hand over his mouth before.
Oh god, you just made the man with kind eyes swear at you.
"Iâm sorry." He stands, pushing back his chair. "That was completely unprofessional."
You stand, wincing from the pain in your lower back. "Itâs okay. I was unprofessional, too."
He huffs a laugh. "But youâre a paying customer."
"Not really, insurance, remember?" You follow him to the curtain. "You can be as mean to me as you want."
"Well, maybe we should start over. Iâm Jung Hoseok. Iâm a massage therapist and usually I donât swear at people."
His smile brightens his whole face. You want to capture it, put it in your pocket for when you need it. See, you donât even need pills for the weird thoughts.
"Iâm y/n l/n." There really isnât much more to say.
He pulls back the curtain. There is a massage table, a faded colorful rug underneath and low music playing on the stereo. Moving in an efficient, graceful manner, he lowers the thick sheet,
"Iâm guessing even after the steroids and muscle relaxants youâre still fairly tense, so I wonât do anything too deep." He pauses, looking you up and down, hands on hips. "Undress to your level of comfort, but I recommend taking off your bra as it will make working on your neck and shoulders easier. Itâs definitely up to you, though. Put your things on the chair over there."
You glance around.
"Just let me know when youâre ready. Take your time. Itâs important to be as relaxed as possible."
He leaves shaking his head. You are certain heâs already figured out that youâve never been relaxed, ever. Not even before this new city, new job and new life.
You undress, folding your pants and blouse neatly on the chair and hanging your suit jacket on the hook. After a battle of nerves, you take off your bra folding it and setting it under your pile of clothes. You leave your underwear on, black but nothing fancy.
As you climb on to the table, a feeling hits you so harshly, you fumble and clutch at the sheets.
Itâs nothing profound. Itâs nothing earthshattering. Itâs perfectly ordinary, like you.
You just wish you werenât so ugly, is the thing. You would even settle for not pretty or not that bad or not a face people forget as soon as they see it. You donât think about your body that often, no one sees it much, not even you, really. You donât pay much attention to it. It just gets you places and lately it just hurts. But all of sudden you dream of it, a you with glowing skin and perfect hair and bright eyes.
You wish your arms didnât have burns from all those summers spent working in kitchens. Your fingers on your right hand have those scars from when you fell into the rotating fan droning back and forth all summer in the house where you grew up. You wish your knees and legs werenât scarred from a childhood spent scrambling over rocks and climbing up trees and falling into haystacks, a kind of courage you canât even remember having, you canât even hope to reclaim. It makes you feel older than your twenty-five years. Like a patchwork cobbled together, as if you were a repaired stuffed animal with obvious stitching and a floppy ear thatâs the wrong size. You wish could tear off the outer covering and reveal something new and beautiful underneath, a new you to go with your new life. Youâre always a before picture, but not an after.
You sigh, shaking your head.
This guy has seen more bodies than a bartender at a strip club. Heâs handsome and relaxed and probably has a girlfriend or a boyfriend whoâs kind and has a nice laugh and takes him to brunch and they hold hands across the table. You sort of hate this person whoever they are.
You need to stop this foolishness. It's been so long since you talked to anyone who wasnât a bus driver or a co-worker asking your name for the fifth time that youâre getting weirder than normal. You get under the covers, face in the cradle as instructed and wait.
"Uh, are you ready?"
"Yes, shit, sorry," you call, looking behind you.
He opens the curtain, looking down at your body, like a mechanic assessing a car that needs repairs. You might as well be the robot you feel you are. You put your face back in the cradle and squeeze your eyes shut.
"Iâm guessing you donât want any scents."
"Oh fuck no."
He huffs in quiet laughter, moving around you gracefully you imagine.
"Letâs start with some deep breaths," he says, as he lays the sheet over your body. You only met him half an hour ago, but you can already picture him looking down at you, hands on hips and shaking his head at your poor body that you have somehow let get into this state.
He starts by laying his warm hand on your back putting just enough pressure for you to feel your body respond by sinking into the table. You hate how your body responds to his instructions as if you were an instrument to be tuned. He takes a deep breath and you follow, annoyed, wondering why you didnât just have the surgery rather than lying on this manâs table in his basement apartment. He instructs you to breathe again. You hold back a snide comment that your body knows how to breathe. It is one of the few things itâs been doing successfully on its own. This is an hour and two bus rides you will never get back. What the fuck are you doing here?
An hour later, you donât wonder anymore.
He drags his fingertips one last time over your temples, and you stop yourself from arching back as if to chase the feeling. He pats the bed gently, one hand on either side of your face.
"All done." He says softly. He stands from the stool behind the massage table.
You open your eyes and look up at the ceiling above you. He busies himself at the counter. You hear him squeezing water from a towel and walking the length of the massage table. He places a warm towel on your feet. You donât flinch, you donât startle, you donât do anything but exhale and wonder if you really knew how to breathe before you met him. You canât remember the last time anyone touched your feet. Has anyone ever? How are you so relaxed about this?
He's giving you some thoughtful instruction, but you canât quite follow.
Your body feels inhabited. You donât feel like a ghost hovering just outside your body, always watching, always criticizing, always berating you for your actions. It's like a kind of reverse exorcism where instead of removing a demonic presence from your body he has instead inhabited it with an angelic one. One that is like you, but not you, because sheâs not reminding you of all the fuck-ups in your life.
Your limbs donât feel like robot arms that you have to think about. Your mind is clear. You arenât thinking about anything. You donât remember feeling this relaxed maybe ever. Is this what normal people feel like? If your life was a musical, you would burst into song. Jung Hoseok would dance with you around his apartment, maybe on top of the table. Goddamn, you feel better than you have in ages. For the first time in a long time you want something, you want to feel like this always.
He moves around you, talking about drinking water and taking it easy the rest of the evening. He places a hand on your thigh. Itâs not intimate. Heâs just reminding you that heâs there. "Take your time," he says. "Donât get up too quickly."
You donât speak, worried about breaking the spell. It is so fragile, and it is so newly obtained you want to cherish it like the gift it is. You want to be this person in a bubble untouched by the outside world. You donât want obtrusive thoughts coming in and taking this from you.
Shutting the curtain closed behind him, Hoseok leaves the small area. You can hear him moving in the kitchen.
You roll onto your side slowly, feeling sad that you have to put on clothes. You blink a few times. You can do this. You can put your clothes back on and walk outside. The feeling will stay for a bit, wonât it?
Your hair is in a braid, but now strands are falling every which way. Youâre sure you will look like a fool in your work clothes. As if seeing your crumpled black suit for the first time, you wonder when you ever bought such a thing. It is the ugliest fucking polyester suit you have ever seen in your life. You donât want to put your bra back on, but you figure it is a three-block walk to your bus stop and a half hour bus ride to your apartment, so you probably need to put it on, as much as you donât want to. Youâre not even sure you could carry off not wearing a bra even in the right kind of clothes. You put on your sensible heels. Youâre wondering what clothes you could wear without a bra. Is that a thing you could do? Youâre about to ask Hoseok but quickly reign yourself in. The filter keeping such tight control over your thoughts has been loosened. You might really break out into song.
When you step out from beside the curtain, Hoseok doesnât say anything, just hands you a glass of water. He looks down at you critically. "Do you want to stay for a bit?"
You shake your head. All of a sudden going home and unpacking sounds like a good idea. A little bit of work, and it would be done.
"Thank you," you say, handing him the glass of water and smiling at him. Your face feels odd with the sensation. "I havenât felt this good in I donât know how long."
His whole face brightens into a smile that can only be described as blinding, but in a good way. He grasps the glass of water to his chest with both hands.
"Really? Iâm so glad."
"Really," you answer, moving to pick up your bag.
He looks at you critically. "Can you get a back pack or cross body bag. Iâm in pain just looking at you. Why do you carry all that stuff on your back?"
You shrug. Youâve never really thought of it.
He raises his eyebrows. "Well, I guess it will give me some job security."
You move to the door. "So next week, same time same place?"
"Iâll be here," he says, smile dimming.
"Thank you, really. I just⌠thank you." You arenât sure how to express exactly what it means. He smiles and nods and closes the door behind you.
The sun has set in the meantime, and the autumn chill in the air is strong, but you arenât cold. You canât remember the last time you werenât cold.
That weekend you unpack all the suitcases in your apartment, even buying a few dishes and some silverware. The apartment is still uglyâwith terrible corporate furniture that looks like it fell off a truck and the freeway is your only soundtrackâbut you have a book on the shelf and a mug in the kitchen and its yours, whatever the hell this place is.
The Mess We're In.
So thatâs how it starts, and then it continues. Every Friday you show up on his doorstep at five oâclock.
The thing is, it works. Every week you feel less like a person trapped in a robot body. You had long ago started limiting your movements, like an old woman nervous of falling. You didnât realize the way in which your body had become encased. Every Friday, a little of the hardened shell molts. You start to think of Hoseok's apartment as a kind of magical place. A place where a little of you comes back with each visit. Your bag seems to lighten with every block that you walk from the bus stop to his small, narrow door.
You remember that you like broccoli but not peas. You remember your favorite song and listen to it over and over again, the words reverberating in your brain as you try to go about your day. You remember that you like to go to the movies. When you have a few extra dollars, you go to a Sunday matinee. Alone of course, but youâre out of your apartment. Youâve showered and put on clothes and you are existing in the world. You remember that you like bookstores. You see a copy of one of your favorite books in a store window, and you start to cry. The tears come so suddenly that passersby give you a wide arc. So you arenât exactly normal, but youâre feeling things again. Even as odd and confusing as they are.
You donât really talk to anyone unless itâs the barista at the coffee shop or the guy that checks out books at the library. But itâs something. Every Friday Hoseok performs some kind of magical spell and a little of you comes back, more and more the curse that youâve been living under, is lifted.
He doesnât talk to you when you are on the table. After the first few attempts, he quickly realizes that you donât want to chat when he is working on you, but before and after though, that becomes much less awkward.
Hoseok knows the names of things, you realize. When you tell him you like the flowers growing in the pot on the stoop, he tells you they are crocuses. He knows the words for the parts of your body that he slowly unwinds. The words wash over you as he mutters them above you like an incantation.
You donât know the words for anything. You know spreadsheets and data. The work is all engrossing. You like having your corner of the world organized in neat boxes. Itâs satisfying to get it done, to find a problem and fix it. But at the end of the day you look up and you realize you havenât spoken to anyone.
Now that Hoseok knows you better, he doesnât hesitate to tell you when you are doing something incorrectly, when your posture is slumped, when your body is trying to return to its former hardened shape. He can tell how many hours of overtime youâve worked by the way you walk down the steps to his apartment.
Sometimes on a Sunday, you take the bus to his neighborhood. You want to hate it. All the attractive people with bikes with wicker baskets and artisanal cheese and cut flowers. You go and wander like a tourist in this part of town, because your neighborhood isnât really a neighborhood as much as it is a freeway off-ramp. The only other person who lives there without a car is the homeless guy with the shopping cart. There isnât much to wander among. Just your apartment building and a fast food place and a church in an industrial building and a business park that looks like it houses Ponzi schemes.
You have long ago stopped pretending you arenât looking for him. He loves all these places, you think, and his house is filled with books and flowers and fresh food. He is like the healthiest human you have ever met. You want to run into him, talk to him outside of his apartment, do something normal to prove to him you are a normal person.
You arenât, though. You can pretend for a while but thatâs all it is. One day after work you sit on the bench at the bus stop and just donât⌠move. You donât stand when your bus arrives. Before you know it three hours have gone by. So you arenât normal yet, but you're remembering how to pretend to be a person so thatâs something.
If it wasnât for your appointments with Hoseok then your lack of human interaction would be particularly troubling. But itâs a start. A new job, a new apartment. It takes a while, doesnât it?
Hoseok on the other hand, always has people visiting, friends arriving for dinner after your appointment.
One Friday, two months after you started, the cold weather is starting to grip the city. It is windy and raining and depressing and you just want it to be over. You want sun.
Someone is leaving Hoseokâs apartment when you arrive. The man carefully shuts the door behind him. The single bulb beside the door gives a harsh light. The blond man is tall and broad-shouldered. Wearing a dark pea coat, he looks regal almost. He is literally one of the most attractive people you have ever seen in real life. Seokjin, you think. Youâve met him before. When you had lingered drinking water after your appointment. Hoseok had been trying to think of different teas you would like and asked you questions about your particularly unhealthy diet, trying to get you to improve it.
"You pick that up for him?"
You nod. Most of his friends donât speak to you. They look at you like youâre just a customer, and thatâs the way it should be. Thatâs all you are.
"Youâre his Friday regular?"
"Yes."
He looks at you closely, narrowing his eyes.
You feel uncertain under his gaze, as if you are being assessed, graded and falling short. "Is everything okay?"
"Itâs been a year. Almost to the day."
Your confusion must show on your face.
"He hasnât told you?"
You shake your head.
Seokjin sighs. "Be easy on him tonight. I told him to cancel, but he didnât want to miss your appointment."
With that, Seokjin moves around you. The chill in the air is harsher now. You wish you had one of Hoseokâs thick, black parkas that hang by the door to put on. You brush your hair out of your face. The wind stings. If it was important for him to keep the appointment, then you should do your part too. You pause on the doorstep. What would you have done if he had canceled? Even if it is human interaction that youâre paying for, even if it doesnât mean anything beyond his kindness to any client, these Friday afternoons are the only thing keeping you sane. If he had canceled, you would have been lost. You donât know whatâs going on, but youâre thankful. You wonder if he knowsâthat this is the only human interaction you have, and you pay for it and you know you should feel like a failure, and you also know you donât care, because itâs helping.
You knock on the door softly.
"Itâs open," he calls from the kitchen.
You enter the apartment to see him sweeping. He's wearing a worn-out t-shirt and sweats. He doesn't look bad. He never looks bad, but he looks like he just woke upâno, he looks like he hasn't slept.
A chair stands in the middle of the kitchen, the small table moved to the side. He must have just had his hair cut. Itâs a little too short and it looks a little too severe on him, like a school boy on the first day of school. Suddenly you wished you knew more about him. Heâs good at deflecting questions, always moving the conversation away from himself. You donât know anything about him other than heâs a massage therapist and knows the names for plants and flowers and he has given you a gift you canât ever repay.
You wonder if he has a boyfriend or girlfriend and, in that moment, you canât help but be jealous of anyone who knows him, truly knows him. All the feelings youâve tried to push down rise suddenly to the surface. Because whoever that person is, they should be here making him feel better and fussing over his hair and making him tea and giving him a hot meal. Whatever it is you imagine significant others do, that person should be here doing it. Itâs clear that he isnât himself. His expression is tense, and he doesnât put the broom away or the small table back in the middle of the room. There are dirty dishes in the sink. You glance about. Books on the coffee table, clean towels on the couch waiting to be folded. Whatâs going on?
"No tea tonight," he says, in a voice that seems to be admitting defeat. Youâre about to offer to make it, but the look on his face stops you. His mouth is set in a firm line.
You nod and put the package on the book shelf where he likes it.
Without another word, you move to the other room. Tonight, the familiar ritual of undressing and moving under the sheets is a comfort when everything else feels so odd. This is an alternate universe Hoseok. You wish you knew how to get your Hoseok back. You canât be the most relaxed person in this apartment because that would mean something was terribly wrong with the universe. You still canât touch your toes. You still take the muscle relaxants when you canât sleep. You arenât normal and if you are the most normal one here then something is hopelessly lost, and you can't begin to know how to get it back.
He doesnât fuss over your sheet and ask you about your week like he usually does. Heâs quiet, moving around the room without a sound so you start a little when he puts his hand on your back. He begins with the breaths, but heâs rushed and shallow.
What should you say? If only you were a person capable of the basics of human interaction, then you would know what to do, but you arenât, so you do nothing. You lie there and try to find that center, that feeling that has never escaped you every time when youâve been here in the past. You go through the motions, trying to relax. The fact that he doesnât call you on it, is all you need to know that something is wrong.
You turn over at the halfway point. As usual, he starts with your hands. There is something so incredibly intimate about the way his fingers work on your palm. Last week you are pretty sure you groaned out loud. There are certainly other areas of your body more intimate, but there is something so tender and so sweet about it, it makes you ache a little.
You force your hand not to curl up and hold his, as much as you want to. It wouldnât be appropriate, and you would never want to make him feel uncomfortable.
Hoseok pauses and for a moment you can feel his breath on your palm. It is warm and stuttering and it surprises you. Is he truly that close and youâve never noticed?
But then you fell a small subtle splash, like a tear you think. Not like a tear, but an actual tear.
This, even you canât ignore. You open your eyes and Hoseok is leaning against the table, slumped and sad and so involved with his thoughts he doesnât even notice you stirring.
"Hoseok," you whisper.
He sits up suddenly, as if just remembering you are there. You gather the sheet around you as he drops your right hand. You move to sit up. "Are you okay?"
He wipes his eyes and looks at you, so sad you want to give him a hug, but you are naked under the sheet and it wouldnât be right.
"Can I help?"
He shakes his head, wiping his eyes. "I should have canceled." He looks down at you, taking in your sheet as it gathers around your legs and covers your body. "Iâm sorry, I wonât charge you." With that he stands and leaves.
Oh god, surely you could have helped him. Surely any other person on the planet would be more helpful at this moment. But youâre the only one here, so you might as well do what you can.
You dress quickly. Hopping on one foot, trying to put on your shoes and pushing back the curtain, you think, what would a normal person do. What would a character in a television show do? They go out and drink beer and eat food, donât they?
Well, why not take a chance, without even knowing where he is in the apartment you start talking.
"Listen, are you okay? Clearly you arenât okay, but can I help? Do you want to get some food? I donât know what youâre going through but I could buy you a drink. I mean I never see you out of this apartment. Letâs go to a bar and you can have a drink and you can tell me what's wrong."
The entire time you're trying to put on your boots, hopping around and he's just starting at you. His back to the kitchen counter as if you had cornered him there.
"You want to go?" you ask, the question lingering.
He glances at you and the fear in his eyes is palpable. He just stares at the door and back at you.
You look at him and look at the door and back again at him.
You are the biggest fucking idiot on the planet.
"Oh god, you donât go out do you? Thatâs why I get the packages and your friends bring you food and I am such an idiot."
He waves his hand. "I didnât want you to know, which is stupid because you had to find out sometime."
"Does it take most people two months?"
"No," he admits while trying and failing to hide a tired laugh.
"Iâm so sorry. I didnât realize, and your friend saidâ"
"What did he say?"
"Just that it was almost a year since."
"Yeah." He finally moves off the counter. He looks so tired. He looks like he is going to fall asleep right there in the kitchen.
"You should rest."
He moves in a daze. It is painful to see him this way. Not light on his feet, not smiling. You used to think his laugh was annoying and now you would give anything to have it back. He's always telling stories of funny things his friends have done and you used to hate it because you have no friends.
You realize maybe you donât have friends because in addition to not knowing how to be a normal person, youâre kind of an assholeâso focused on your own pain, you willfully ignore anyone elseâs.
He sits on the couch. You hesitate. Instead of sitting next to him you hand him the blanket and sit on the worn leather chair.
"The last time I went to restaurant there was an incident." He looks up at you, pleading with you to understand.
"Oh god, of course," you say. It was before you moved here, but it was in all the papers. You open your mouth to ask questions, but what is there to ask. You canât help him, and you canât know what he's going through. Even if you were better at any of this, you canât fix people. If you have only learned one lesson in life, it's that you canât fix other people.
"It started slowly. I didnât want to be in crowds and then I didnât want to be at work. I've always had clients here, and it just became easier not to leave. I had a panic attack in a movie theater a few months after. After that, I never really left the apartment. It wasnât a choice really, not a conscious one anyway. It just became my life.
"It was easy to switch my practice to my apartment. It happened slowly. A switch got flipped and I canât flip it back." He looks at you. "Youâre the first friend Iâve made since it happened. I used to have a lot more friends."
"Iâm pretty sure you have a lot of friends. I mean, Iâm sure they're still your friends even if you havenât seen them."
He laughs.
"Can I make you some tea?"
"I wonât even make you drink some."
"Thank you."
Youâre glad to busy yourself. You move the table back to its place and do the dishes while the water heats. Having watched Hoseok so many times, you know what to do. By the time you bring the pot and the cup to the coffee table, he looks as if he's going to fall asleep.
"I donât know how to help you."
"Iâm your first agoraphobe."
"Youâre my first friend in a long time."
He has never asked about what brought you to this city for a boring job where you know no one. His hands have never stuttered over the scars on your body. You wish you could thank him for that, but you donât know how.
You bite your lip. "I donât want to say the wrong thing. I mean, Iâve already said the wrong thing, so I guess it canât get worse."
"You know that cafĂŠ on 3rd."
You know exactly the place he is thinking of. You always look for him there. "Yeah, I go there every Sunday. I pretend to do the crossword, but mostly I look a dumb stuff on my phone."
"I miss that place," he says, as he leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. "They still have the scones?"
"Yes, and they have these cinnamon rolls that make you think you can see god." Maybe there is something you can do. "Do you want me to bring you some?"
He winces. "Iâm tired of friends bringing me things."
"Oh, look Iâm there every Sunday morning. I wonât bring you anything, I promise, but if you ever want to join me there you can. Iâm not great at human interaction though, so you're going to have to teach me how."
"I havenât left this tiny apartment in almost a year."
"I know, but your social skills are obviously better than mine."
He laughs and puts his head on the arm of the sofa, stretching out.
"Do you want to call someone? Is there someone that can come over?"
He turns his head to look at you. "You know, youâre doing okay at this being a person thing."
You hand him his phone. He calls a friend while you do some more dishes and wipe down the counters.
Hoseok is asleep when Yoongi arrives. Youâve put on your coat. Your bag is packed at your feet. You feel like an interloper, a spy without a mission.
"Youâre his Friday regular?" he asks.
"Yeah."
He looks at you accusingly as if the state of his friend is somehow your fault.
"I didnât know."
"Jesus, how did you not know?" He shakes his head. You leave as he sits on the leather chair you just vacated, head in his hands, staring at his sleeping friend.
Winter hangs in the air. The steps up to the sidewalk seem particularly steep tonight, and you grip the railing like a mountain climber holding a fixed rope on a frozen slope.
When you get to your bus stop instead of standing under the shelter, you continue walking.
If only magic were real, you think. Youâve paid the price, certainly, to be owed some fearsome power. Youâve paid the price in scars and terrible boyfriends and missed meals and lost hours waiting for buses that never came.
But instead of something useful in exchange, the universe gave you suffocating armor that almost destroyed you before Hoseok began to dismantle it in his gentle way.
Youâve always kind of been an asshole. It helped you get out of that farm house you grew up in, and it helped you get away from a bad situation, but it would be better if you could make the world suffer for what it's done to him. It should. You would happily deal out punishments like a vengeance demon.
By the time you get home, your feet are bleeding and your body aches. You donât know why you decided to punish yourself for the universeâs misdeed, but at least someone is paying. It just isnât any of the people who fucking deserve to pay.
Hoseok doesnât come to the cafĂŠ on Sunday. The tea you ordered gets cold, but thatâs okay because tea can't really solve anything.
The next Friday he looks at you under his lashes. You donât mention it.
Slowly the magic comes back. Heâs himself again. Whatever it is that happens that makes you leave his apartment feeling like a ghost that is re-inhabiting its body, returns.
Every Sunday you order a pot of tea and a cup of coffee and he never comes, and you never mention it.
Beautiful Feeling
Spring is about to break but winter is holding on.
You drink tea on this Friday night, because there is a first time for everything. Hoseok tells you about the meal heâs cooking tonight for his friends. He moves around the kitchen, his movements graceful and fluid.
"Did you used to dance?"
"Yes." A shadow falls over his face.
You realize youâve done it again. "You should teach me, because I canât dance."
"Everyone can dance."
You shake your head.
He moves the small table to the side of the kitchen.
"Come here," he says. He has that note in his voice. The one that tells you when you are slouching, or when you are lying about how late you worked.
You move toward the kitchen and step up to him, feeling once again like a fool. He puts a hand on your waist and moves you toward him. He shifts your hips as your body is once again in robot mode, and you try not to blush. He has seen almost every inch of your body more or less, but standing in his kitchen like this is surprisingly intimate.
"You need to relax."
"Do you know who are talking to?"
"I know, I know." He mutters. "I thought you had made more progress."
Oh. Your eyes glaze over as you try to keep your composure. Youâre not sure why such an offhand comment hurts so much.
He takes his finger and puts it under your chin, directing your gaze to him. "Iâm sorry," he says, searching your face. "Donât look down, look at me."
Thereâs no music, and you are in his tiny kitchen. Instead of counting off, he does this babababa thing, and you start to slowly move with him.
You realize that he wasnât just a dancer, he used to teach. You donât say anything, just enjoying the look of concentration on his face. This is must be what he looks like when he is working. When you start counting under your breath, he canât hide his smile. You spend the entire time apologizing for stepping on his toes. At a certain point he canât hold back his laughter when you move in the entirely wrong direction. He is supporting you with a hand on your back, directing your movements and whispering encouragement between smiles. But he seems happy, you think, and that's enough for you.
At one point, he spins you around and catches you in a dip. He stares down at you with a smile. You can feel his warm breath from the exertion. You have a momentary vision of him leaning down to kiss you. You can picture it so clearly, the feeling of his lips on yours, breathing in the same air, hands gently pulling you to him.
He jerks you up and immediately drops your hand, taking a step back.
"We should get started," he says, moving to the back of the apartment where he always goes while you change.
You shake off the mood quickly. Heâs right. Youâve wasted too much time already, and you try not to think of his breath on your skin or the way he smelled of vanilla while he held you in his arms. It's just been so long since youâve been with anyone, not since you moved here. You're making a big deal out of nothing. You strip off your clothes, leaving them in a pile. You forget to tie up your hair, but you just want it to be over. You want to be back to when things were normal.
You call to tell him when you are ready, and he comes in and everything is normal. Normal, normal, normal. Before you can stop them, the thoughts float in your head. What would it be like to wake up with him, lazy morning and loose limbs? What would it feel like if he held your hand, like he really wanted to? You try to rein in your thoughts.
Then he is touching you, the familiar routine starting, and you try to distract yourself. But this time every pressure, every movement seems filled with longing. You donât know what to do with yourself.
Your body is betraying you once again. It wants. It has come out of whatever hard shell it had been living in since leaving your old life and deciding to craft a new one with just a few hundred dollars and your bare hands. Now it wants so much. It wants to feel this warm and happy all the time. It wants to have someone touch you in a way that feels like love, like this does.
Your body is confused. Itâs confused these hours with real affection, with real tenderness. It doesnât know any better. Itâs just starved. It doesnât know not to fall in love with this feeling. It doesnât know that you donât get to fall in love with him. It doesnât know that he doesnât love you back. Your heart hates you because it isnât real. No one as kind as him would ever fall in love with you. Now your heart and your body hate you for it. They want to be at peace. For the first time in a long time, maybe in forever, that you've felt at peace, is here. And its' not real.
By the time the massage is almost over, when he is running his fingertips over your temple, you can't help the emotions rising to the surface and the tears that fall.
When it starts you canât stop. Hoseok pauses, he hands stuttering, confused. You bring your hand up to your mouth as if that will stop the gulping sobs that are threatening to start at any moment.
You keep your eyes twisted shut wondering when he will leave you alone to your strange humiliating episode. But he doesnât, of course. Instead he moves around to the side of the table, calling your name softly. He doesnât say to stop or its going to be okay. He just keeps repeating over and over again that heâs here. Iâm here he keeps saying and you want to push him away, but he has gathered you up in his arms. He has buried his face in your hair, and you can feel the gentle nuzzling of his cheek against your hair. It is so sweet you might die. He is sitting on the massage table, holding you in his arms. If only this could be real, you think. Thatâs the problem, you started wanting too much and now you canât stop.
Iâm sorry you keep saying and he keeps saying donât be.
You open your eyes, suddenly aware of your nakedness under the sheet and the awkwardness of this position. You want to cling to him like this until he has peeled the sheet from your body and touched your skin again, but this time for real. You canât stop the visions in your head of what it would be like to be with him.
You pull back. You need to get yourself together.
He's looking down at you, eyes intense. He bites his lip and his grip around your waist tightens. "Y/n" he breathes.
It comes out like a prayer. You're thinking that you may finally fucking get what you want, when the front door opens, and god knows how many of his friends walk in the apartment.
Hoseok screams and almost drops you, and you cling to the sheet. Oh god, nothing about this is funny or sexy. It is just incredibly humiliating. He over corrects and yelping, almost falls backwards on the floor. Thank god, the curtain is still pulled.
"What the fuck, Hoseok. You need to stop screaming." Someone calls.
"Uh, just finishing up."
"You have a client back there?".
"Uh, yeah." He lets go of you slowly as if worried that you will fall if left to your own. You nod, and he nods back. The two of you just continue to stare at each other like fools.
"I should get dressed."
"I need to make dinner."
"Cool. Good talk."
You move off the table still wrapping the sheet around you in a poor attempt at dignity and gesture for him to leave.
"Right, okay. We good?" He winces.
"Leave, Hoseok."
He moves into the other room, careful to shut the curtain behind him. You put on your clothes hopeful that nothing is backwards or out of place. What do you have to be embarrassed about, you think? You got a massage then cried like a total oddball and then he comforted you and looked like he wanted to kiss you. Thatâs all. Normal, normal, normal.
You push the curtain aside a little too forcefully. The hooks dangle ominously. Seven pairs of eyes stare at you and you want nothing more to get out of there.
"Iâll be going. Thank you."
Hoseok glances at you. Seokjin narrows his eyes and you donât miss the This Is The One I Told You About glance he exchanges with the boys arrayed around the apartment. You donât want to know if that is a good or bad thing. Hoseok wipes his hands on his apron and walks over to show you out. Youâre sure your eyes are still red, and your hair is a wild, and this whole thing could not be more humiliating.
"Youâll be okay?"
"Yes."
"Youâll text me when you get home?"
"Yes."
"Okay then."
Please let me go your eyes must be pleading. He seems at war with himself wanting to ask what happened.
"Are you really okay?"
"It's nothing."
He shakes his head at you, disappointed in your answer. But he can't ask you to explain, not here, not like this.
He lets you go with a final nod of his head.
This Is Love
It's Sunday, two days later. You take the bus to Hoseok's neighborhood like you always do. The routine is comforting. It's cold, but spring is trying to find its way. The sun is making its presence felt. It's trying so hard to bring warmth and heat. It will be okay, you think. He's kind, and he won't think less of you because of your mini breakdown that was probably long overdue.
Your steps take you to Hoseok's apartment. You want to make sure it hasn't disappeared like in a fairy story. Sometimes you think the buildings on the other side will have swallowed it up, and it won't have been real. You imagined the whole thing just to get you through the last six months.
Your steps falter as you cross the street in front of his apartment.
He's there.
He's sitting on the stoop, eyes closed. You can see his chest heave. His hands grip the rail as he sits on the top step as if heâs just run a marathon. There's sweat on his brow, and his muscles are tense. The sun's rays make his skin glow, as if his inner kindness made manifest.
"Oh fuck," you say. "Holy shit."
He smiles.
"You did it."
He nods, his hands don't loosen their grip. He blinks his eyes open, dazed and a little lost he looks, as if waking from a pleasant dream, so handsome and sweet. You're so proud of him you could burse.
"Do you want to join me?"
"Sure, yeah, thanks." You squeeze in next to him. It's uncomfortable and cold on the uneven step, but you could stay there for hours if he wanted.
"Come here often?" he jokes.
Oh God. "Iâm not stalking you or anything weird." Your face heats. You need to improvise. "I shop at the co-op."
He laughs. "You eat a lot of artisanal cheeses?"
"I go for the artisanal mayo."
"Does that place still smell like weed and old vegetables?"
"Yes, it's so gross."
He smiles.
You donât know what to say or do. How can you talk to him when heâs out of his apartment? "So do you have any plans the rest of the day?"
He laughs so hard his eyes water. "I havenât left my apartment in almost a year, so Iâm not sure."
Goddamn, you are such a fucking moron.
"You really are terrible at this, arenât you?"
You nod, afraid to talk for what might come out of your mouth.
"I thought it might be me. Because I havenât made new friends in a while, but it is really you, isnât it?"
"It really fucking is. I wasnât lying when I said I donât have any friends."
You can see the question on his face.
"Itâs not very exciting."
"I was thinking maybe you were an assassin on the run from the government." He bites his lip. "What happened to you?"
"It's incredibly ordinary."
"Not a princess with amnesia?"
"No, but how would I know?'
He laughs. "Not in witness protection?"
You smile and shake your head. "How much have you thought about this?"
"I've thought about this a lot. You're pretty mysterious."
"I guess being angry and uncommunicative has its perks."
He removes a hand from the handrail, slowly carefully, his elegant fingers moving to clasp your hands, and it is so sweet and so intimate to be with him like this, squished on the step. It is the first time he's touched you in a deliberate way, a way like he wants to.
"Tell me."
You take a deep breath. You arenât sure how to say it. Youâve never put it into words. "I was in a relationship. Everyone told me how lucky I was, everyone told me how I should be grateful. 'He wants to be with you even though you're not pretty, even though you say those odd things.' Everyone said it."
Hoseok shakes his head and grips your hand tighter.
"I was grateful. I was so grateful I didn't notice when it was easier to have him decide where we went and what we ate and what we should do. I was grateful and quiet. Then it stopped hurting when he told me I was dumb or when he laughed at me for wearing the wrong thing. I thought this was progress, you know, that it didn't hurt. But then it all stopped, all the feelings. I was suffocating."
Telling the story now, it feels like a story that happened to someone else. First the first time maybe ever, you think, I survived, not why didn't I leave sooner.
"One day after work I came home and with the last of my energy, I packed my suitcase. I got on a bus and I came here and I found a job and a place to live."
"You're very brave," he says, solemnly. It is a relief to hear him say it, and you are starting to believe it too.
"The thing is, I thought it was over. I thought I had won, but there were still ghosts to battle, you know."
He wipes the tears from your cheeks. "Do you think we could hang out sometime and not cry?"
"Itâs because of you, you know."
"What?" he asks.
"Iâve never even said, thank you."
"You say thank you every week." He says, gently scolding.
"But not for the real reason, not for the way Iâm slowly becoming a person again."
"I havenât said it either."
You look up at him. "What could you have to thank me for?"
"Everyone has been really nice to me since everything happened." He shrugged. "But you⌠weren't. Youâre the first person who didn't know, who didn't treat me like I'm dying of a nameless disease. It was obvious you had been through some kind of war and survived, and every week you were just yourself, and it was wonderful. I mean, you're the first person I got annoyed with since this whole thing happened. You really need to take better care of yourself."
"I'm socially inept and kind of an asshole, so we've got that going for us."
He laughs. "I think I should tell you, I have a crush on you."
"Oh, thank god." You cringe. "I mean, me too. I'm terrible at this."
He laughs, and it sounds like he doesn't mind.
"Though that isn't very professional," you mock scold.
"Those sounds you make on the table aren't very professional."
"I can't help it," you admit. "Honestly, I tried."
"I like it." He pauses. "The thing is⌠I still have bad days sometimes, not often, but I'm not even sure I can take you out on a date."
"Iâm terrible at dates. You're not missing much."
He cups your cheek and even in the cold, his hand is warm. "Y/n, Iâm getting better, but I might never be fixed."
He says it like it matters, as if you could ever find fault with him. He looks worried, searching your eyes. You do the only thing you can think of, you wipe the tears from under his eyes and kiss his cheek. He hums and leans his forehead against yours.
"Me neither," you say, gripping the strings of his hoodie as if he might float away. "But this is the best Iâve felt in a long time."
"Me too." He has a small, hopeful smile on his face when he pulls back, running his thumb over your cheek. "Can we sit for a while?"
You nod, and he puts an arm around you. His body is warm, protecting you from the cold and brittle wind. Tucked into his chest, you watch as he closes his eyes and raises his face to the sun.
a/n: thank you for reading. i really wanted the ending to be hopeful, and Iâm praying that it is. I wanted to write a story about how love canât fix you, but give you strength to make your life better.
#hoseok x reader#hobi x reader#jhope x reader#jung hoseok x reader#bts scenarios#hoseok angst#hobi angs#jhope angst#jung hoseok angst
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ââThe trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.ââ
â Ursula K. Le Guin
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Reem Acra Fall 2018
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I need this version of Spring day @ BIGHIT PT.1Â
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