#I KNOW ITS MR PRESIDENT BUT I NEEDED TO WORK IN THE PROMPT SOMEHOW | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

wincore · 4 years ago

Text

atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of.

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low.

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours.

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget.

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore.

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume.

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type.

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises. If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts.

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself.

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life.

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask.

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it.

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it.

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily.

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year.

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately.

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one.

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt.

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover.

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours.

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth.

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words.

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table.

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad.

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back.

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing.

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters.

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs.

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.”

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can.

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off.

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating.

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know.

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young.

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.”

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling.

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung.

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses.

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention.

Inviting him somewhere.

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure.

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more.

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter?

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him.

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.”

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.”

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.”

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts.

You’re disappointing.

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose.

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps.

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask.

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you.

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue.

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.”

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you.

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families.

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe.

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard.

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them.

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out.

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure.

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up.

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt.

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder.

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart.

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it.

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him.

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak.

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time.

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional.

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love.

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved.

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding.

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either.

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple.

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action.

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t.

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days.

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.”

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by.

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers.

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever.

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout.

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

��That’s exactly what I did!”

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?”

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this.

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose.

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond.

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—”

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder.

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him.

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too.

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again.

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling.

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you.

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care.

“Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there.

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes.

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally.

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer.

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand.

2K notes · View notes

alpacaparkaseok · 4 years ago

Text

Ivy

➣ Pairing: apprentice!Jungkook x reader, art curator!Hoseok x reader

➣ Premise: You’ve been promised to Jung Hoseok for twelve years. You’ve never wanted anything else. Until now. (inspired by the song “Ivy” by Taylor Swift)

➣ Genre: arranged marriage au, angsty with some fluff, SFW

➣ warnings/tags: it’s a bit angsty, the reader is technically promised to someone else so it’s a little messy, general EmOTioNS, a bit intense/stalkerish but not too bad?? some fun fluff and banter as well, but Hoseok might kill a man and Jungkook will go down fighting

➣ word count: 12.2k *yeah, I know. this sucker is like 3 times longer than it was meant to be*

➣ a/n: this was a commission by @delacyrose224 for Army for AAPI! Thank you so much for requesting this awesome prompt, I literally had too much fun writing this. I swear, I could’ve made a whole series out of this. You guys, check out ways to get involved in this awesome cause by clicking the link!

The person staring back at you in the mirror is not you. Of that, you are certain. There’s no way you could ever pull this off – the silken layers, ivory making your skin glow with a dew-like complexion…

You voice as much. “I don’t even recognize myself.”

“Isn’t that kind of the point?”

Whirling around in a flurry of skirts and soft-to-the-touch fabric, you spot your betrothed lingering in the doorway.

“Hoseok!”

He chuckles, the sound making the corners of your lips tug upward. Taking in the sight before him, you can’t help but notice the way he chews on the inside of his cheek. Hoseok takes one hesitant step forward, crossing his arms.

“You should’ve seen me earlier,” he croons, voice always sounding like he’s a breath away from laughter. “I thought my dad had somehow teleported into the mirror.”

You wince. “Does this mean we’ve grown up?”

“Unfortunately.”

Twelve years of waiting for this. How have they already passed?

“You know,” Hoseok begins, dropping your gaze in favor of stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I haven’t even properly proposed to you, yet.”

“You should probably get on it.”

“Mmm.”

“Aren’t we getting married in April?”

He frowns. “Yeah, mid-April I think. It’s barely November, though. So there’s no pressure, right?”

You almost burst out laughing at his simple question. No pressure? Pressure has been your constant companion these past twelve years.

What else were you supposed to feel? Trying telling a thirteen year old that they’re already promised to somebody and then tell them “Oh, but no pressure.” Of course, they made sure to drop that little piece of pointless comfort after they mentioned who you had been promised to.

Jung Hoseok.

Three years your senior, he had seemed larger-than-life when you first met less than a year after learning of your pre-determined commitment to him. He’d been kind, that was your first thought. A little strange, a little loud at times. For your teenage self, that was fine.

Then things began to change. It was a rare occasion that you ever saw Hoseok; the two of you lived in different cities. However you distinctly remember one occasion in which you had unintentionally bumped into him while in search of your parents at their giant headquarters located in Busan.

It was easy to get lost in that building – you still can picture all the different nooks and crannies where different works of art were stored. The more valuable ones were of course under lock and key, however there were plenty of show rooms that you managed to get lost in.

You had done just that, taking a detour through the preservation room where several workers could be seen on the other side of the glass cleaning a timeless piece that had just been flown in from Austria. Once you realized where you were, you turned to leave. However, something caught your eye that made you hesitate.

There was Hoseok, perched on the edge of a stool as he leaned over the artwork. There was nothing particularly flashy about him that day, something you weren’t used to. In all your time of knowing him (four years at that point), you had never seen him in something other than formal wear. If it wasn’t some sort of suit or dress shirt, it was a sweater vest that he somehow managed to pull off.

This time, he was disguised in a white lab coat, holding a Loup to his eye in an effort to analyze the fine details of the painting. His brown hair was a little mussed, his knee bouncing up and down in the only outward show of excitement he portrayed.

One of the workers began speaking, the details of their conversation muted to your ears due to the glass separating you from them. However, you watched as Hoseok listened with almost terrifying focus before turning back to the painting and delicately taking a brush to the frame. No doubt dusting off some invisible smudge.

You had been frozen for a long moment, completely unfamiliar with this man. The Hoseok you knew was jovial and quick to laughter. He made you smile and roll your eyes. He put you at ease.

This man, with his precise flicks of the wrist and unwavering focus, was a force of nature.

You realized then, at the age of seventeen that while you were promised to this man, you did not know him at all. There was so much more hiding behind that heart-shaped smile.

And now, at twenty-five, you are no closer to knowing him than you were before. You’ve never known anyone else quite so talented at wielding smiles with the same deftness as a sniper hiding on a rooftop.

“No pressure?” You scoff, wiggling an eyebrow at your intended sniper. “That means I can’t gain any weight from here to April! That’s impossible with the holidays coming up!”

Hoseok bursts out laughing, clapping at your comment as though you’ve just completed a stand-up routine. “That’s a good point,” he sighs, making a contented sound. “I’ll have to ask my tailor to let out my suit a bit in the spring.”

You fidget on the pedestal, glancing back at the mirror over your shoulder. Your gown is breathtaking, there’s no denying it. It’s just…overwhelming.

“Well,” Hoseok begins to back out of the room, “You look beautiful. Sorry for snooping around, but I couldn’t resist.”

You straighten up at his comment, preening a bit. Over the years, you’ve come to realize that Hoseok’s compliments are not given lightly.

“Thank you.”

He shrugs. “It’s true.” He turns on his heel and strides out the door, calling over his shoulder, “We’ll fly out first thing in the morning.”

Piano Concerto No. 4 in G, from Beethoven’s Opera 58 echoes off the domed ceiling, bouncing through the air and enveloping you in a cocoon of music. Without your realizing, your right foot bounces out the rhythm as you crane your neck to get a better look at your work.

“C’mon, David,” you groan, sparing the renowned sculpture a glare. “You’re not making this easy on me.”

“I wasn’t aware that sculptures got vasectomies.”

You jolt, nearly tipping off of your step stool before two warm hands grasp your shoulders. Sputtering and spewing, you spin around to see just who you need to direct your cursing at.

“Who are you?” You fume as the person in question removes their hands from you and takes a timid step back.

“Jeon Jungkook, m-ma’am.”

“Is that name supposed to mean something to me?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen even more, something you didn’t think he was capable of doing. Chowing down on his bottom lip, he gives you a small shake of his head.

“Then tell me who you are to me, not your name.” You inwardly grimace at your snappy tone, but you’ll apologize later.

“Oh, I…uh, I’m the apprentice?” When you don’t immediately get a look of understanding on your face, Jungkook presses on. “Mr. Jung’s apprentice, ma’am.”

Ah, that checks out.

Hoseok’s father would be stepping down as the East-Asia representative on the international board of Art and Artifacts (basically the equivalent of the U.N. in art terms), leaving a spot open for Hoseok to ascend the ranks.

“Why haven’t I met you before? Haven’t you been around for a while?”

In order to complete the apprenticeship, Jungkook would need at least three years of working alongside Hoseok. Learning the ins and outs of being the curator of some of the biggest art collections and galleries in the world.

“Yes ma’am, I have.”

“Ok, Jungkook,” you stand up and stretch, gaining some sort of sick satisfaction from the way he scampers back a bit more to give you space. “Two things. First, I’m not ‘ma’am’. Just speak to me casually, ok?”

There’s a flash of surprise in his eyes, but he nods. “And the second thing?”

Turning point to the David in all his glory, you smirk over your shoulder. “Don’t sneak up on me when I’m working. David here nearly lost his balls because you startled me.”

Cheeks flushed pink, Jungkook sputters out something resembling a “y-yes, I won’t do it again” before dropping his gaze to the floor. Chuckling to yourself, you resume your position before the sculpture, meticulously layering on a protective substance to the David’s nether regions.

You and Hoseok had been called over to Italy in order to make preparations for the upcoming art show. It was to be the first of its kind --- never before had these timeless artworks been on display like this. Royalty, presidents, dignitaries of every kind mixed with world-class celebrities would be present.

As a precaution you were going through and applying a protective but clear substance to more fragile parts of the artworks. Today, the David was the lucky one.

“So, Jungkook,” you hum, completely undeterred by the strange position you were in at the moment. “What brings you over to my side of the museum today? Shouldn’t you be off with Hoseok, planning for the event?”

“Ah, well…Mr. Jung said you might need a hand. I volunteered to assist you with whatever you need.”

You blink. Hoseok had always been completely content to leave you to your work. It was a silent agreement you have: you let him do his thing, and he doesn’t interfere with your stuff.

“Huh.” You smooth out the final touches, leaning back a bit. “Interesting. So what, you’re just hanging out with me for the rest of the day?”

“Yep. For the rest of the week, actually.”

David stares off into the distance, ever stoic. You swear you can see a bit of a confused glint in his eye as the sculpture listens in on your conversation. It’s always just been you and the artwork. So what’s this with Hoseok sending Jungkook over? Is he just trying to be kind and help you out?

Probably. There’s no need to assume anything else. You just think…

Well, despite trusting you, you would think he’d send someone less attractive to help you with your work. Is this some sort of trust exercise he’s pulling on you before he proposes? Or does he just not care enough to think about the possible repercussions of his actions?

“Doesn’t he care at least a little bit?” You think aloud, frowning up at David.

“What was that?”

“Oh,” you swivel around to give Jungkook an apologetic smile. “Nothing. Do me a favor?” Jungkook nods. “Take a look at this for me, see if the extra layer is noticeable at all.”

Getting up to move out of his way, you can’t help the grin that breaks out as Jungkook flushes a bit when he gets up close and personal with the David. Despite his obvious embarrassment though, he meticulously checks ever angle.

“I can’t tell at all,” he finally responds, straightening up. “You’re amazing.”

You blink. “Oh. Er…thanks.”

“So, where to next?”

“We look like those ancient plague doctors,” Jungkook jokes, hanging you a bottle of clear liquid before you can even ask for it. “You know, like with the big beaks and stuff?”

You snort, which in turn fogs up the inside of your suit. Waiting a moment for it to clear up, you glance back at Hoseok’s apprentice.

He has a point. The two of you look slightly ridiculous, in your full body Hazmat suits that are necessary to inspect these ancient papyrus scrolls. They’re falling apart already, no need for you to contaminate them with something as feeble as a sigh. Once you’re finished working on them, they’ll be placed in thick Plexiglas cases which will keep them safe from the outside world.

“We’re missing the beaks, though.”

Jungkook hums, watching you carefully as you smooth out the scroll. “I bet we could roll these up and use them as beaks.”

“Not funny.”

“Worth a shot.”

Rolling your eyes again; something you’ve become prone to doing in the past 24 hours you’ve known Jungkook, you set to work.

It’s only quiet for so long before Jungkook speaks up again. He does so quietly, making good on his promise not to startle you anymore. “No Beethoven today?”

You give a slight shake of your head, hardly daring to blink while applying the syrupy liquid to the bottom corner of the document. The slightest mess up would result in having to scrape it off before it dries, which is something you don’t want to have to try. Not when a single nick to the papyrus equals game over.

Letting out a sigh of relief once you’ve completed that section, you sit back and stretch. “No,” you groan out mid-yawn. “It felt like a Tchaikovsky kind of day. Don’t know why.”

“Hmm.”

“Ok, we need to wait…” you glance at the clock on the wall. “About an hour to let that completely set in before flipping it and working on the other side.”

“Great, let’s grab some lunch.”

You blink, watching Jungkook as he shoots to his feet and heads toward the door. “I was going to suggest we get started on the next exhibit-”

“Food first,” Jungkook chimes, leaving no room for argument as your stomach rumbles at the thought of lunch. “We’re literally in Italy, food always comes first.”

Well, he has a point.

You make a point of locating Hoseok before heading out for food, eventually finding him in a grand corridor surrounded by staff. Wherever Hoseok is, there’s constant motion. People flitting about, running errands and trying to keep everything moving in a timely fashion.

As the two of you became closer work partners over the past few years, it’s become a familiar sight. It helps, finding Hoseok is usually fairly easy. Today proves no different.

“Hoseok!” You wave him down, offering a smile to the surrounding staff that recognize you. The man in question is nudged by his assistant, Joshua.

“Hey!” Hoseok breaks away from the group and jogs over to where you stand beside a column. He nods at Jungkook, smiling warmly. “What’re you two up to? I thought you were working the papyrus today.”

“We have an hour before we can move on to the next thing, so we’re grabbing lunch. Wanna come?”

“Oh,” the look of surprise on his face gives you cause to wonder when the last time you invited him to do something with you was. “That sounds…really nice, actually. Give me a minute?”

Your heart stumbles as it pick up in speed, something you weren’t anticipating. “Yeah, sure. We’ll wait right here.”

“Great, thanks.”

With that, he scurries back over to the throng. Jungkook leans over to you, elbow nudging your arm.

“What?”

“How long do you think they’ll last before calling him?” Jungkook muses, an amused smile on his face.

You can’t help but laugh, knowing full well that it won’t be long. “I’d say…thirty minutes?”

“Really? I’ll give them forty.”

“You’re too generous.”

“Aren’t you being too hard on them?”

Your eyes slide over to Jungkook, arching a brow. “No. So what are we betting?”

Jungkook breathes through his teeth, taking in your determined expression. “Hmmm…money or something else?”

“Not money, that’s too boring.”

“Ok, ok.” Crossing his arms, Jungkook sways from side to side as he thinks. Slowly, his eyes drag across your face, trying to see something that’s beneath the surface. “If you lose, you have to be my date to the gala.”

“W-what?!” You choke on your spit, staring up at Jungkook like he just grew a second head. “I can’t- why would you-”

He tilts his head to one side, clearly enjoying your shock. “Hurry, make your bet. What happens if you win?”

“Jungkook, I’m literally marrying Hoseok in a few months, I can’t just go as someone else’s date!”

“Don’t worry,” he winks, only furthering your embarrassment, “I’ve it all planned out. Now, hurry up. He’s heading back.”

Indeed, Hoseok is clapping Joshua on the shoulder and turning this way. Chewing furiously on the inside of your cheek, you blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. “Ok, well if I win then you have to leave me alone for the rest of the week!”

There’s a hint of worry that streaks across Jungkook’s features, but it’s covered up a few seconds later as he thrusts out his hand to shake on it. “Deal.”

With the way he grins down at you, you can’t help but feel like this was a stupid thing to bet on.

You’re wedged into a booth not long after, sitting shoulder to shoulder with Hoseok. Jungkook takes the spot across from you two, never missing a beat in his conversation with your betrothed.

“The guest list has been finalized,” Hoseok is saying, smiling warmly at the server that drops off some menus. You don’t miss the way she ogles your companions, shrugging it off. It’s become a common occurrence. You’re not blind to their looks.

“It wasn’t finished before?” You ask, frowning. Hoseok passes a menu to you, leaning in a bit closer. It’s unnecessary, but the way he lets his leg rest against yours has a rush shooting through you.

So…this is a new development.

“No,” Jungkook answers for him. “Well, we thought it was, but then the curator here wanted to invite some more political officials. Has it been a mess trying to rearrange?”

“Yeah, but everyone pulled their weight.”

“That’s good to hear.”

It’s relatively quiet as you all look over your menus, bouncing ideas off of each other for what they should get. After you’ve placed your orders, Hoseok nudges you.

“Your mother called me last night.”

Your eyes widen. “She did?”

Both men chuckle at your obvious worry. “Yes, she did. We had a nice chat. Why do you look so concerned?”

Perhaps it has something to do with the last conversation you had with your mother. It took place about three weeks ago, when she’d come up to Seoul for a visit. The visit had been pleasant enough; you’d gone to dinner and talked about things back home. She’d actually approved of your apartment, despite the eclectic feel to it.

It has almost been too normal. You should’ve known that it was only a matter of time before something happened.

You were busy putting your leftovers from the restaurant in the fridge, your mother hovering in the doorway to the kitchen with a pensive look on her face.

“Have you ever had…doubts?”

“Doubts?” Your voice was muffled from the odd angle, but you peeked out around the door of the fridge with a questioning look. “About what?”

Your mother shrugged, keeping her eyes trained on the door of the fridge and its decorative magnets. “About Hoseok.”

You immediately stood, closing the door with a dull thud. “What?”

“I just…your wedding is coming up, he’s probably going to propose within the next couple of months – for heaven’s sake, you have your dress fitting coming up in just a couple of weeks, isn’t that right?”

“Mom,” you voice was stern. “What is this about? You’re scaring me.”

At your confession your mother finally met your eyes. “Oh, sweetie, I didn’t mean to worry you so much. But I can’t help but wonder, you know? We’ve never really talked about it-”

“There was never anything to talk about!” You sigh, exasperated. “All I’ve known is that I’m going to end up with Hoseok, and that’s that! He’s a nice man, hardworking, and we make a good team.”

“I know, darling. I know.” She hesitated before stepping forward, coming to place a loving hand on your cheek. “I just want you to know that you get to make this decision. Even though it may not have always felt like it. There is…more. Out there, for you.”

More?

“Just, uh…” you shake your head, trying to clear your mind of those thoughts rolling around your head. “Wanted to make sure she didn’t share any embarrassing information about me.”

This makes both men chuckle, Jungkook leaning forward with eager eyes. “Like what? Do tell.”

You blush at his undivided attention, groaning and slipping down further in your seat. Hopefully neither of them notice your pink cheeks, something tells you that Jungkook would never let you live it down.

The fact that you don’t know how Hoseok would react has you even more on edge.

Hoseok grins at you as you sit up again, reaching around your shoulders to pull you close. “Aw, you probably don’t have any embarrassing stories. We all already know that you’re perfect.”

You blink, staring up at your betrothed as his smile softens. He’s never spoken to you like this. First sending extra help in the form of Jungkook, then dropping everything to go to lunch, now this?

Before your mind can run with the idea blooming in your chest, your server appears with your food. Her eyes instantly zone in on you and Hoseok, something registering in her eyes as she offers you a warm smile. Then, she turns her full attention on Jungkook. Practically eating him alive as she sets his food down in front of him.

“Your hair is so long,” she muses. “I’ve never seen anyone able to pull off hair like that…what’s your secret?”

Jungkook, who you assumed would preen in the attention, hardly glances the girl’s way. His eyes rest on where Hoseok’s hand ghosts over your shoulder, slow in its retreat. Jungkook keeps a neutral expression, although his eyes shoot up to yours in a way that has you pinned to the back of the booth.

It’s over just as quickly as it began, Jungkook grinning down at his food and mumbling, “No secret. Just good genes.” He doesn’t wait another second before diving into his food. You snort at his reply, Hoseok just shaking his head before beginning to eat in a more meticulous manner. If he noticed the strange exchange that just passed between you and Jungkook, he doesn’t say anything.

Or maybe it was all in your head. Maybe that protective coating you applied to the papyrus earlier today has gone straight to your head, addling your brain.

The food is delicious, as expected. The three of you fall into an easy conversation, revolving mainly around work. You notice that Jungkook keeps checking his phone, but you ignore it.

That is, until he offers you a smug smile before focusing his attention on Hoseok.

“So, for this gala…we’re meant to bring a plus one, right?”

Hoseok nods. “Yep.”

“Who’re you taking?”

Hoseok laughs, taking a long sip of his drink. “Who? I don’t know, I feel like I should maybe take the woman I’m marrying in a few months.” He shoots you a friendly wink, but you can’t completely return his light-hearted nature. Has it already been forty minutes? But still, there’s been no call…

“Oh,” a familiar ringtone cuts through the air, and Hoseok grabs his phone from his pocket, frowning at the screen. “It’s Joshua. I’ll just step outside for a moment.”

Hoseok is too busy sliding out of the booth to notice the way your jaw drops. The second he’s out of sight, you turn an accusatory glare toward Jungkook. “What was that? Did you seriously tell them to call-”

“Before you castrate me, I’d like to defend myself. Can I do that?”

“And then I can castrate you?”

Jungkook visibly swallows. “I only meant it hypothetically, but…just listen.” When you angrily wave for him to continue, the smug smile from earlier reappears on his face. “I have this all under control. But, from where I’m sitting, I won our little bet. So I have a question for you.”

“I’m not going with you, Hoseok is taking me!”

Pushing his tongue against his cheek, Jungkook sits back and observes you for a moment. “Don’t be so sure about that, sweetheart. Now, what color of dress are you wearing to this thing?”

You do your best to ignore Jungkook for the rest of the day. Hoseok chats happily with you on the walk back to the museum, occasionally finding a way to let his hand graze yours. It’s enough to keep you distracted from Jungkook’s complacent expression which is usually directed in your direction.

Parting from Hoseok is like parting with a security blanket, and he looks to be particularly pleased with the way you run your hand down his arm before bidding him goodbye. Jungkook huffs a breath, which goes unnoticed by your betrothed as he heads into the building where countless workers wait for him.

“I’m still waiting on an answer,” Jungkook chides a few moments later. You’re desperately trying to outpace him, annoyed when he easily keeps up.

“You’re not getting one and we’re not going together.”

“Didn’t I tell you that I’d take care of it? Everything. Even Hoseok.” You stop in your tracks when Jungkook jumps in front of the doors, opening one up with a flourish.

“Jungkook.”

“Yes, darling?” It’s infuriating how much you react to the pet name, your reddening cheeks giving you away instantly.

“Stop.”

Jungkook blinks, straightening up a bit as you sweep past him and head inside. When he’s silent the entire walk to the papyrus lab, you let out a sigh of relief. Never mind the fact that there’s a dull disappointment blooming in your chest. For a moment, it was nice to think of what a night at Jungkook’s side could be like.

It would certainly be different than what you’re used to with Hoseok. Not that you two often spend occasions like this together, it’s more of a formality than anything. The first few minutes are always a dream: Hoseok can’t take his eyes off of you and gets flustered. He’s a perfect gentleman, and even goes so far as to hold you close to him when entering the event.

However, it only takes a few minutes before he’s swept off in one direction and you the other. Collogues, board members, and possible buyers of the rare artwork on display keep you two busy and apart for the entirety of the night.

You make to step into the prep room, ready to get back into your hazmat suit and start on the other side of the papyrus scrolls. The moment you step in, however, the thought of being stuck in such a small space with Jungkook nearly makes your lightheaded. Focus is paramount in your line of work, and Jungkook counts as a distraction.

“Would you go around to the sculptures we worked on yesterday and make sure they’re doing ok?” You glance over your shoulder to see Jungkook freeze in the doorway. “I, uh…I never know how they’re going to respond to the added layer.”

Jungkook has lost all of his previous swagger, simply giving you a curt nod before turning to walk away. You can’t help but watch as he briskly heads down the hallways, running his hands through his hair before fisting them at the nape.

You jump a little as the door closes, lost in your thoughts. Rushing back to you are your mother’s words.

“There is…more. Out there, for you.”

The words settle for a moment before you snort, chuckling to yourself before putting one leg in the hazmat suit. “They’re both hot. So what?”

Two more days pass in a similar fashion. Jungkook is always waiting for you at the entrance to the museum, resembling an eager puppy before you shut him down with a stern look.

Last night you spent a ridiculous amount of time coming up with errands you could send him on that wouldn’t seem too suspicious. For the most part it’s worked; you’ve been working alone for most of the day, and Jungkook hasn’t seemed too keen to intrude.

A part of you feels a bit bad for shutting him out so much, but you really have no reason to let him in. Especially not when he was so set on taking you to the gala when you’re very clearly promised to another.

“Does he have something against Hoseok?”

Your question is directed to your current project, The Incoronation of the Virgin, by Jacopo di Cione. Of course, the virgin humbly sitting with a crown on her head pays you no mind, but you carry on anyway.

“But then again, why would he? He’s getting his job, isn’t he?” You sit back, lightly dusting at the finer details of the mural. “Oh, maybe he’s angry at me.”

“Why would I be angry at you?”

You gasp as you stumble back, losing your footing from where you were on a stepping stool. You gasp louder (if that’s possible) when two sturdy hands grab your waist, firmly keeping you in place.

“Steady?”

“Why do you keep sneaking up on me?” You seethe, stepping down and out of Jungkook’s grasp. “Did I ask you to finish cleaning the bottles we used yesterday?”

“I finished that.”

“And what about sweeping the work area?”

“Done.”

“What about-”

“Done,” Jungkook looks like he’s considering taking another step, but stays put. “I finished everything. Now would you quit sending me away?”

You give him a long look, noting the way his cheeks burn under your gaze. After a moment you sigh. “Yeah, fine.”

Jungkook perks up instantly, and a second later you find him glued to your side. He gazes up at the panel you’ve been working on, his mouth dropping of its own accord.

“Wow, it’s beautiful.”

“Mmhm.” You head back up the step stool, getting back to work while Jungkook holds it steady. He admires the artwork, leaving you in relative peace.

“How did you get into this stuff?” He asks from the other end of the painting. You arch a brow before furrowing it, trying to come up with a reasonable answer.

“I…well, this is what my family does.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I guess they tend to lean more toward the buying and selling of artwork. From my teen years I’ve always gravitated more toward the conservation of artwork.”

“Why’s that?” The fact that he sounds genuinely interested throws you off, making you pause as you meet his curious gaze. There’s no malice in his eyes, not a hint of the annoying pride from two days prior. Just genuine interest.

It gives you a falling sensation, which has you clinging to the stool until it passes.

“It’s quiet. Peaceful, for the most part.”

“But it’s stressful, too?”

The beginnings of a smile curl at your lips. “Yes, that too.”

A companionable silence falls between the two of you after that, allowing for you to work quickly and efficiently. Once you’re satisfied with the panel, you find Jungkook ready to hold the stool steady while you get down.

“What about you?” The question falls from your lips before you really understand what you’re asking.

“Me?”

“Yeah. Why did you decide to become an apprentice? It’s a long apprenticeship. And last I checked, curating isn’t exactly a hot trend.”

Jungkook scrunches his nose in a way that has you wondering if what you just said was somehow absolutely adorable. He certainly thinks it was.

“Well, there are a number of reasons.” He glances sidelong at you as you gather your things to head back to the storage space. “But mainly because it felt right.”

You frown. “That’s your reason?” Jungkook nods, amusement glittering in his eyes. “What happens when you wake up and it doesn’t feel right anymore?”

“Why? Do you know the feeling?”

Suddenly you know that you’re no longer talking about career choices. It’s only confirmed when Jungkook slows to a stop, hoisting up the bucket of supplies and facing you.

“I- no, I love my job-”

“Haven’t you ever wondered, though?” Now it’s practically impossible to decipher what exactly is going on behind Jungkook’s bright eyes, his long brown hair falling into his face. “There’s more out there, you know. Why do you stay?”

For some reason, you’re frozen in place. A deer in the headlights, probably reading way too much into this conversation.

“S-stay?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook takes a small step forward, as though afraid of scaring you off. “After all this time, you’re still here. Why?”

Your breath is caught in your throat. “I…” The world stops spinning as Jungkook tilts his head to one side, eyes swallowing you whole as they trace the outline of your lips. Despite not laying a single finger on you, your skin blazes as though he were physically reaching out.

With a step back, you glare at the floor before taking a steeling breath. “The retirement plan’s great. Hard to pass up on.”

The sound of your footsteps echo off the walls, listening for Jungkook to follow after you.

He doesn’t.

“So, about the gala.” Hoseok stands in the doorway to your hotel room, tie long gone and top button loosed. It’s a rare sight, and yet it never fails to be one of your favorites. “I have a weird proposition for you.”

You kick off your shoes, not bothering with decency as you fall back on your bed with a groan. “Shoot.”

“Jungkook has this really prestigious cousin that’s connected to the royal family-”

“Royal family?” You sit up, frowning at Hoseok.

“Yeah, like the British one? I think so, at least. Anyway, I don’t remember how she’s connected but it’s a big deal. And apparently she asked for me to escort her at the gala.”

If blood could run cold, yours is pushing freezing. “Huh. Is that so.”

Hoseok gives you an apologetic smile. “I know it’s weird and that’s why I came to you, I don’t want to hurt you-”

“I’ll just go by myself, it’s fine.”

“No, no. You’re not going alone. Jungkook already offered to take you.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, resolve withering at the sight of Hoseok’s tentative hope. You wonder if he would really back down if you asked to go with him. To let Jungkook’s schmoozing cousin find a different date.

“Just say the word,” Hoseok offers with a fading smile. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

For some reason, your ears expect to hear the word darling at the end of that sentence. But they don’t, and you know exactly where you can go for that.

More, huh?

“That’s fine, Hoseok. Really. What’s one night?”

Hoseok rushes forward with glee, wrapping you in his arms for a second before backing away and heading toward the door. “You’re amazing, you know that? Absolutely amazing. The guests are going to be in awe of your work.”

The guests are, unsurprisingly, oblivious to your meticulous work.

You’re not complaining, they’re not meant to notice it. Your work is behind the scenes, whereas Hoseok’s work is visible everywhere.

His handywork acts as a constant reminder of him, keeping you on edge as you trail up the flower-studded stairs that are already overflowing with guests. A few give you odd looks as you walk alone, but most are too preoccupied with their own problems to care much for yours.

You don’t know how he did it, but Jungkook managed to get you all to himself after all. The thought had left an uneasy feeling in the pit of your stomach all day yesterday at work, hardly bothering to exchange more than a few words with the man in question. It seemed like he had almost anticipated this, content to leave you be. It was when he asked what time he should pick you up that you looked at him, angry at the fact that you immediately admired his outfit of choice. It suited him, which shouldn’t have come as such a surprise.

“I’ll meet you there,” you had responded firmly, hopefully leaving no room for argument. “Wait for me beside the entrance.”

It was bad enough that you were going without your betrothed; that another woman was going to be hanging off his arm all night. The last thing you wanted was to create an equally flashy arrival with his apprentice. You were by no means the most popular guests in attendance tonight, but the guarantee of countless cameras had you refraining from taking any chances.

Now, as you make your way to the entrance, you try to not look too eager. Jungkook is nowhere to be found yet, making you frown, but movement catches your attention in the corner of your eye.

Stepping from the shadows is Jungkook, looking like he was made for this event. The first thing you notice about him is the wistful smile he gives you, which you return before your mind catches up with what’s going on.

He looks…immaculate. Not over-the-top, he’s wearing a fairly standard black suit with a thin black tie. Nothing too flashy, but it might as well be an original piece with the way he wears it. His hair has been carefully styled, so unlike the careless mop you’ve seen throughout this week.

Jungkook moves toward you like a man on a mission while you remain at the top of the stairs, hardly daring to breathe.

“Hello,” he mutters, coming to a stop before you. “You look…stunning. Absolutely stunning.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, perhaps already knowing that your tongue has turned leaden in his presence. Jungkook offers you his arm, which you graciously take. Hopefully he doesn’t pay too much attention to the way you’re gripping his forearm for dear life.

The two of you sweep inside, gaining easy access as you’re well acquainted with the staff. As you pass a long, tall mirror that’s flanked by sphinxes, you can’t help but glance over.

You do look stunning.

The red gown you wear isn’t too revealing, not too flashy, but calls attention to you just the same. No matter where you are tonight, Hoseok will be able to find you with ease. The thought fills you with a sick sort of satisfaction. He’ll see you, but he’ll see who’s arm you’re on, as well.

With Jungkook by your side, you’re a force of nature. The two of you are no longer walking, rather prowling the premises as you make your way toward the ballroom. A few stragglers that are trying to get a peek at the closed off exhibits notice your keen eye and scamper off.

It’s a new sensation to you, watching those people flee from before you as though you were an enemy soldier on a mission. Perhaps it has something to do with the way Jungkook appears to be smoldering beside you, emitting a dangerous aura that you never realized he could give off. For a brief moment, the silly boy you’ve been actively avoiding this week has vanished. In his wake stands a man with a purpose, the successor to the famed Jung Hoseok, and a legitimate contender amongst art dealers.

“I’m not used to this,” you mutter as Jungkook continues in his path. His steps are timed perfectly to your own, and you wonder if that’s a mere coincidence or if he’s currently keeping count in his head.

“Used to what?” Even his voice has turned to a dangerous rasp, smoky eyes sliding over to observe you.

“People respecting personal space. Usual they all flock to Hoseok the second he walks in the door.”

The corner of his lips pull up in a smirk. “And which do you prefer?”

You sigh. “Are you seriously turning this into a competition?”

You’re almost to the ballroom, but you let out a surprised sound when you veer off course into a deserted corridor just above the stairs that lead down into the ballroom. You realize that he’s taking you across a small overlook which shows the ballroom, a flurry of suits and dresses writhing before you on the level below. It’s a mesmerizing sight, and upon instinct you seek out Hoseok.

Jungkook notices your search, pausing to allow you to look around a bit more. He studies your side profile carefully. “Is that such a bad thing?” It takes you a moment to realize that he’s referring to the competition.

There’s Hoseok, sure enough he’s weaving in and out of the crowd. People smile and clap him on the back, making space for him and his companion to get through.

Jungkook’s cousin, Margaret, stays close behind your betrothed. She even goes so far as to hold onto his hand, offering him a shy smile when he looks back at her questioningly. However, he does nothing to shake her off.

“Yes,” you answer. Then, “He never took me along with him.”

“You mean at events like these?” Jungkook stands beside you at the railing, eyes instantly finding the “he” you’re referring to. “I know. You two usually go your separate ways.”

The nonchalant manner with which he comments this has you turning to face him, confusion clear on your face. “How could you know that?”

Jungkook frowns, popping his knuckles as he refuses to look at you. “Isn’t it pretty common knowledge? You two are both prominent members of the art community that hardly have time for each other. The rest is fairly simple to figure out.”

You step to the side, granting yourself enough space to glare up at the man.

“Fairly simple? Jungkook, I don’t know why you think you can make assumptions about my relationship with Hoseok, but there’s no need to do so. You’re right, we’re both busy. But we’re happy. Why do you seem so intent on making me second guess that? Why is everything a competition with you?”

You’re surprised when Jungkook doesn’t step down like he usually does. Instead he straightens up, leaning in a bit closer while his eyes bore into your own. You swallow, pressing your nails into the palm of your hand when his gaze tracks the movement of your throat.

“Calling it a competition might be a bit crass,” Jungkook mutters, voice coming out much softer than you anticipated. “But I guess you can say that. Sure, it’s a competition. As of right now, there are no clear winners.”

“But what are you two competing for?” You ask, exasperated. “There’s no need to go after Hoseok, Jungkook. You’re getting his position in just a few months, you’ll have the same influence he does now. I don’t understand. Why go to such great lengths? Are you trying to usurp him or something?”

Jungkook finds a way to step impossibly closer, one hand gripping the railing while the other finds your hand. “Which would you deem more valuable: your hand in marriage or your heart?”

Dangerous, this is dangerous, your heart chides. Despite the warning, you can’t help but sneer and step impossibly closer. There’s a spark of anger deep within you, and if it wasn’t for your current predicament you would stop for a moment and wonder when the last time you felt such an intense emotion was, but you press on.

“I wasn’t aware that I had to choose,” you seethe. You swallow a gasp as Jungkook leans in, nose nearly bumping against yours.

You can see whole galaxies in those eyes of his. Glinting and shining under the light of the chandelier, stars begging for you to come dance. What would happen if you danced under his stars? Something tells you that you don’t want to find out.

“That’s not an answer,” Jungkook breathes out.

“I’m sorry, what that not good enough for you?”

He blinks, an amused smirk painting his features. “You’re angry. Good.”

“Good?” You sputter out, taking a small step back and finding it infinitely easier to breathe now that there’s some distance between you two. “You wanted me to be angry?”

Shrugging, Jungkook rolls his neck from side to side, looking casual as ever. As though you weren’t just about to bite his nose off if he were to say one more stupid thing.

“Anger is an emotion. I count that as a win. Now,” he extends his hand out with a flourish, “shall we dance?”

“No.”

“I’d rethink that answer if I were you, darling.” Jungkook makes a point of looking out over the railing, and your eyes unwillingly follow his line of sight.

There’s Hoseok, spinning Margaret around and around. His smile is wide, and you can hear his laughter from up here.

He has no idea that you’re up here fighting for your marriage, does he?

Again, that anger is stoked until it’s steadily consuming you. With a huff that sounds more akin to a grown, you take Jungkook’s hand.

“One. Dance.”

One turns into two, and two turns to four. The music lilts and does almost all the work, Jungkook picking up the slack as he moves your through the songs. You can hardly tell where one ends and another begins, all you know is two things.

1. You’re still angry, however it’s being steadily replaced by confusion.

2. Hoseok and Margaret stopped dancing a while ago, and they currently stand off to the side trying to make it look like they’re not watching you.

“Your cousin appears to be very concerned about you,” you pant, the dancing finally taking its toll. Jungkook glances sidelong, chuckling darkly.

“That’s probably because she’s not my cousin and I told her she would only have to stay for an hour or so.”

If Jungkook’s hand at your back wasn’t propelling you forward, you’re sure you would’ve stopped dead in your tracks.

“What?”

There’s a twinkle of amusement in those galaxy-filled eyes of his. “She is connected to the royal family; I’ll give her that much. But she’s not my cousin. Just an old friend helping out with a favor.”

You’re not sure if you should laugh or cry.

After a moment, you settle for easing out of Jungkook’s grasp with the excuse to use the restroom. The sound of your heels on the marble floor is drowned out as the live band pick up a lively tune, causing a new rush of people to the dance floor. Somehow you manage to weave your way toward the hallway where you think you remember seeing a restroom sign, unaware of someone hot on your heels.

You’re reaching out for the door when you feel a hand at your elbow. It stops you mid-step, pulling you in an entirely different direction. Gasping, you whirl about to see Hoseok with a grim expression. He doesn’t utter a word, marching the two of you toward a dark corner.

“Hoseok, you scared me!” You whisper-shout, entirely unsure of why you’re whispering in the first place. Perhaps it has something to do with the secluded area he’s led you to, not a single soul in sight.

Once you’ve turned the corner, Hoseok presses your back against the wall, peeking around the corner toward the faint light of the festivities. The sound of trombones and cellos echo around the corridor, making you feel like you’re experiencing a memory rather than living this moment in real time.

When Hoseok turns back to face you, you note the way his hair is mussed. You immediately begin to smooth it out with a frown. He’s usually so meticulous about his hair during events like this.

His eyes soften a bit at your ministrations, but his face is still flushed. “Are you enjoying yourself tonight?”

“I- no…?”

“That’s odd,” Hoseok tilts his head to one side, eyes pinning you to the wall better than his hands. “You certainly look like you are.”

You blink. “I do?”

He lets out a choked laugh, the sound seeming so at odds with his typical demeanor. “Are you that oblivious? The way you’ve been staring at him all night certainly makes it seem like you’re drinking in every moment.”

“S-staring? At who?”

“Jungkook!” You flinch a little when Hoseok raises his voice, but he doesn’t notice as he pinches his eyes shut. “Just…be a little more cautious, ok?”

“I…”

When you’re silent, Hoseok opens his eyes. He lets out a shaky breath, head bobbing to one side in a habit which you’d always found endearing. Now, though, it’s as good as a death sentence as he steps a little closer. Slowly, so slowly you want to scream, his eyes dip down to your lips.

“No,” he mutters to himself, so quietly that you wonder if he doesn’t realize that he’s speaking his thoughts aloud. “Not here.”

Pushing back from the wall, Hoseok steps away and leaves you with a lingering stare before he’s disappearing around the corner. Your ears strain to listen to his retreating steps, but they’re quickly overtaken by the music and chatter of the crowd.

“What just happened?” You whisper to yourself. After a moment, you ease out of the corridor, scurrying toward the bathroom. Flinging open the stall, you stare down at the toilet wondering if you’re about to retch. With the way your stomach is churning, it’s definitely a possibility.

You emerge from the stall a moment later, feeling no better than when you went in. If only you could splash some water on your face, that would probably help clear up your head. However, you’ve still got a few hours ahead of you. The event is nowhere near ending.

The door swings open as you brace yourself against the sink, and you look up in the mirror to see who just walked in behind you. Margaret pauses for a second as she meets your eyes, the door drifting shut at her back.

“I was hoping you were still in here,” she drawls, her posh accent instantly making you want to stand up straight.

“Well, here I am.”

You wince; your voice sounds horrible. Like you’ve been screaming for hours, when you haven’t hardly said a word in the past hour. No, according to Hoseok you’ve been too busy staring.

Margaret chuckles, coming to the sink beside you and running the faucet. “Look, I’ll make this quick. Jungkook has been waiting around for you for long enough, and to be frank I’m sick of hearing about it. If I were you, I’d make up my mind sooner rather than later.”

You’re sick of asking questions, but it appears that that’s all you have for tonight. “What?” You stare at Margaret, who looks almost other-worldly in her deep blue gown. “I just met Jungkook this week, I think you’re mistaken.”

“You just- what?”

It’s nice to see that someone else looks a little confused for once. You thought you were the only one out of the loop, but judging by the look on Margaret’s face, she’s just joined the club.

“Like I said,” you say, leaning one hip against the sink. “I just met Jungkook a few days ago. Hoseok sent him over to assist me in getting everything ready for the gala.”

“But he said…” Margaret shakes her head, focusing in on you once again. “Don’t tell him I said anything to you, alright?”

Before you even have a chance to answer, Margaret is sweeping out the door and leaving you behind in a stunned stupor. Slowly, you turn to face the mirror again. Then, to your eternal horror, a toilet flushes.

Out ambles Scarlett Johansson, who shoots you a grin before promptly washing her hands. “Trouble in paradise?”

You snort, in disbelief. “Yeah. Yeah, you could say that.”

It takes a while to find Jungkook, but then again that may be because you aren’t actually looking for him. No, you’re just floating around the venue in a daze when you hear his voice coming from a parlor to your right. Only a couple of dim lamps illuminate the interior, but you don’t bother to get a closer look as you recognize the other voice.

Margaret.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Jungkook? You just met her this week? You made it sound like you’ve been pining over her for years-”

“That’s because I have!” Jungkook hisses, the sound slithering out into the hallway. “I have, but she’s always just out of reach…”

“And what, you thought tonight would do the trick? Kook…look, you know I love you, but this is idiocy. She’s practically engaged to Jung Hoseok-”

“Jung Hoseok doesn’t know what he has, he’s never understood! I am the only one that really gets it, Margaret.”

“Yeah, well just because you get it Jungkook doesn’t mean you get her.”

There’s shuffling inside the room, causing you to back away into a dark corner to remain unseen. After a moment, Jungkook’s voice rings out again. This time, it’s a bit ragged, almost letting you taste the desperation in his tone.

“Margaret, please. I just- I just need time. Please, just give me more time.”

A pause, followed by a heavy sigh. “Fine. I hate you.”

“Love you, too.”

You’ve just managed to scamper around the corner when the door open and a little light floods out into the dim hallway. The sound of heels walking in the opposite direction of your hiding spot alerts you to Margaret’s retreat, making you wonder what exactly she has planned in order to allot Jungkook more time.

Once a couple of minutes that feel like eternity pass, you sneak out around the corner. Heart pounding and palms sweaty, you stare up at the ceiling as though you’ll find an answer there.

What are you even doing?

Before the answer comes you’re schooling your features into cool indifference and walking slowly toward the open door. It’s easy enough to spot Jungkook in the parlor, sitting with his head in his hands on the chaise.

You rap on the door, leaning against the doorframe as Jungkook’s head shoots up. The panic at your appearance doesn’t go unnoticed by you, but you pretend you haven’t noticed.

“I leave for two seconds and suddenly you’re sulking in an abandoned room?” You chide. “You much be more attached to me than I thought.”

Jungkook’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. I was just taking a breather. We danced a lot, didn’t we?”

“True.” You stare at him from across the room, thinking back on Margaret’s words. Jungkook has been waiting around for you for long enough. “Tell me, Jungkook,” you stride inside, taking up the seat opposite him. “How come I never ran into you before this week? You’ve been around Hoseok for nearly three years at this point, haven’t you?”

Jungkook nods, his wide eyes completely disintegrating the dangerous persona he radiated earlier. “Yeah, almost three years. We’ve…crossed paths a few times, I think.”

You frown. “We have?”

“Only a handful of times,” Jungkook quickly reassures you, and the fact that he doesn’t want you to feel bad about not remembering him has you only growing more confused. Didn’t you just hate him half an hour ago? “We never spoke much.”

“Oh.”

Words – none of which amount to full sentences – rattle around your brain as you strive to come up with something more to say. Your brain is breaking down, information overload finally getting the best of you.

“Should we go back?” Jungkook asks in a small voice. Who even is the man, to change demeanors so quickly? “There’s still a lot of dancing left to do.” He adds a wink in at the end, regaining a bit of his swagger with every word.

Suddenly the memory of Hoseok’s conflicted face comes back to you, and you scramble to your feet. “No! Uh, I mean…” you look around the room but find nothing to help you. “I need to be more careful. I’ve been careless enough tonight.”

Jungkook frowns, almost getting on his feet. “What’s wrong? Did…did Hoseok say something to you?” When you don’t respond, Jungkook lets out a dry laugh. “Of course he did. Let me guess, he grabbed you as soon as you left my side, right? Jealous little-”

“Jungkook!” You gasp, stalking out of the room as he follows close behind. “He just wanted to protect our image, that’s all.”

“Ha! Really, that’s all? Sweetheart, has anyone ever told you just how oblivious you can be?”

“Ugh, just when I was starting to hate you less.”

“I’m serious! Sure, he might have said something about being careful, for your reputations. But that’s all just a cover-up! Can’t you see?”

The ballroom is just up ahead, and you make a beeline for it. “I see just fine, thank you very much. However, I wish I could’ve seen just how horrible tonight would be with you! I would have never agreed to that stupid bet!”

Speeding up, Jungkook jogs up in front of you to block your path. You step to your right, which he mimics. To the left, and again, he’s there to stop you.

“Let me through!”

Jungkook glares down at you, a fire blazing in his eyes. It reminds you of a dying star, some sort of supernova exploding in those galaxy irises. “No.”

“No?” You push against his chest, scowling when he doesn’t budge. “Jungkook, I’m too tired to play this game. Move aside.”

“Dance with me.”

He says it with such seriousness that you almost agree. “I already said that I can’t.”

“Please.” Bottom lip disappearing between his teeth, Jungkook’s shoulders slump. “C’mon, we’ll go where no one can see us.”

“That sounds like a terrible idea.”

Chuckling half-heartedly, Jungkook extends a hand. “I have plenty of them, trust me.”

What started as one bad idea has turned into multiple.

Jungkook took you outside to some lonely balcony that wraps around the building. The doors are thrust open, allowing for some light as he takes you in his arms.

The music drifts up to where you sway, and you wonder how Jungkook even found this spot. It’s not far from the ballroom, but certainly not a common spot for people to wander off to. You ask him as much.

“I stumbled upon it when you sent me on all those dumb errands,” he explains, smiling lazily at you.

You chuckle, stifling a gasp as Jungkook spins you around. Once you’re nestled safely in his arms, you grin up at him. “I knew those would come in handy.”

It feels like whiplash, going through so many emotions tonight. You were set on loathing Jungkook for the rest of eternity until he managed to snag one of the chocolate fountains from the kitchens and bring it out here. A platter of strawberries sits off to the side, begging to be dipped and eaten.

“Strawberry?” Jungkook questions quietly, already reaching for one. You hum in confirmation.

A second later Jungkook is dipping it with an absurd amount of chocolate and bringing it to your lips. Your cheeks flush, but you tentatively open your mouth, awaiting the delicious-

“Hey!” You swat at Jungkook when he bops your nose with the strawberry, covering you in chocolate. He laughs merrily, throwing his head back at the stars before focusing on you.

“You look adorable,” he coos. “Here, eat.” Again he prods the strawberry at your lips, catching your hand in his as you go to clean off your nose. “Eat, I’ll get the chocolate off your nose in just a second. Patience.”

You roll your eyes, but allow him to feed the strawberry to you. At the first crunch and flood of sweet flavor, you close your eyes and ball up your fists into his suit jacket.

“Ah, so good.”

When you open your eyes again, Jungkook is frozen before you. His eyes alight on your lips, tongue wetting his own, following the way you lick up the extra chocolate. Then he looks at your nose, a forgotten smile on his face.

“Here,” he mumbles, reaching out to swipe the bit of chocolate from your nose. Without a second’s hesitation he brings it to his lips and devours it.

All is quiet. The music sounds more distant that ever, the dull chatter of tonight’s guests hardly registering in your brain as Jungkook’s eyes never leave your own.

Something stirs deep within you, something that goes much deeper than attraction or desire. Something stronger than the anger you felt earlier sparks in the pit of your chest, making you shiver.

The spot where Jungkook touched your nose tingles, and you wonder for a moment if it somehow looks different now. His touch lingers, the feeling sprouting something entirely new.

Jungkook continues to sway with you, the movement as singular as breathing. When he opens his mouth to whisper something to you, you can’t help but listen to every syllable that falls from his lips.

“I…I want you to feel when you’re with me,” he whispers. “I’m not picky. It can be any emotion. But I’ve seen you, how you are with him.” You flinch at the mention of Hoseok, but Jungkook holds you tighter and pushes through. “You’re empty around him. You play the game easily enough, but there’s nothing behind those words. I want you to feel.”

“Jungkook…”

“I know. I know how I sound. But this is all I have to give you, and I thought that if I could just get you to feel something again, it might be worth it.”

You find yourself drawing closer to him, some sort of unknown gravity pulling you together like a moon caught in his orbit. That’s what you are, aren’t you? Completely helpless, thrown into someone’s orbit and hoping that they notice you. Hasn’t that the way it’s always been, ever since you first laid eyes on Hoseok?

But Jungkook notices you. You know, just from the way his eyes widen as though trying to take more of you in, you know that you’re all he sees. He’s blinded, for some reason or another. Blinded by you, enthralled by your silent suffering and digging ceaselessly for a way out. There’s no doubt in your mind at this moment that he’d carry you far away from here if you just said the word.

How your hands wound up clinging to the nape of his neck, you’re not sure. Just as surprising is the painful tone of your voice as you cry out, "Jungkook, this is no way to live."

His hands are at your back, pressing you closer and closer. "I will live like this for as long as you want, darling.”

“Like what?” Are those tears rushing to your eyes? Too many emotions in such a short amount of time, you can’t keep up. It’s been so long since you’ve felt anything so intense. When was the last time? Perhaps there never was a time such as this. “Hiding away from everyone? Looking over your shoulder every second of every day, wondering when it’ll all fall apart?”

“I can live off of these stolen moments,” Jungkook whispers in awe, gently wiping away your tears. “I’ve been doing that for years. But I don’t know what you want, darling. Tell me what you want.”

“Jungkook,” you wriggle in his grasp, suddenly needing to get away, to breathe, “Jungkook, he’ll find out- we can’t do this. What even is this? I can’t…I don’t even know you!”

He lets you go, allowing you walk toward the edge of the balcony as you greedily gulp down air. After a moment, he speaks up.

“You’re feeling again, aren’t you?”

It’s a silly question. It sounds like he’s addressing a child, but it hits a little too close to home.

Feelings, thoughts, desperation and something deep and exciting courses through you. Yes. Yes, you’re feeling. “Yes. But who says I can’t feel with him?”

Jungkook is silent for a moment. “Who says it can’t be me, instead?” He strides toward you, your heart hammering as he gently cups your cheeks. Stars must cry because his eyes are shiny with tears. Gently, so gently your knees nearly buckle, he caresses your cheek with his thumb.

Smiling sadly, Jungkook whispers, “I love you.” He takes a shaky breath. “I always have. From afar, so I don’t know if that counts in your book. I loved you before we shared a conversation. I loved you the second I first overheard you talking to that unnamed painting on the third floor of the gallery back home. You know the one, don’t you?”

You’re not sure he fully expects an answer as he leans closer, which is all the better as you’re completely unable to provide him with one.

“I love you,” he repeats, wide eyes dropping to your lips. “I will love you if I never see you again, and I will love you if I wake up to you every morning.”

As his lips first graze your own, you remember him.

Countless times, that how often you’ve seen him. Passed him in the hallway of the gallery, trailing behind a busy Hoseok. Offering you a shy, sweet smile which you immediately assumed was meant for someone else.

He seemed to good, too kind for you.

But here he is, lips pressed gently to yours with a promise hanging in the air.

He asks for nothing in return.

When he finally pulls away, you gaze up at him with teary eyes. “Why?”

He knows what you’re asking. Why would he bare his heart and soul to you when he knows you’re promised to another? When you’ve never acknowledged his existence before?

Jungkook shrugs, then leans in for a short peck. He pulls back, allowing you to see the stars in his eyes.

“You deserved to hear it, at least once.”

Two Months Later

You have not heard those three words since, and you wonder if you ever will again. Glancing at Hoseok who peers down into the glass case, you don’t think you will. Hoseok will never love you.

He has you. He always has, you’ve been a constant in his life. What’s there to love about convenience?

He’s saying something to the jeweler, but the words are muffled. That’s how it’s been recently. People talk so much, but you hardly hear a thing. They so rarely say anything that matters.

Jungkook has been gone, still working to replace Hoseok, but off on business trips that you know aren’t necessary. Last you heard, Hoseok had sent him off to Mongolia on a wild goose chase for some long-lost painting. Chances are he wouldn’t be back for months.

Staring at the rings below you, you know that by then, it’ll be too late.

Hoseok is planning on proposing soon. You’re not exactly sure when, but it’ll be within a few weeks now. Perhaps sooner, you can’t tell.

When you leave the jeweler’s, Hoseok’s hand finds yours. He gives it a soft squeeze, but you can’t find quite enough strength to reciprocate the feeling.

He doesn’t comment on it.

In fact, the two of you hardly exchange two words until much later that evening when you dine together. It’s in his parent’s mansion, one of several. This is the one you’re meant to inherit upon getting married. The dining room is a bit too dark for your liking, but under the current circumstances, you bask in the shadows.

Hoseok is late to dinner. An uncommon thing, but you brush it off, quietly greeting him as he takes up his place across from you. When he doesn’t respond, you look up.

He’s already staring at you, but that’s not what sends a chill through your bones.

He’s looking at you with that sniper-like concentration that you only saw once before. It’s terrifying to be on the other side of that gaze; something you had hoped to never encounter.

“What’s wrong?” You mean to sound more caring, but the question comes out flat. Hoseok chews on his lip before releasing it.

He’s kissed you since the gala. He did as soon as the two of you boarded the plane, away from prying eyes.

It had been rushed and desperate, and you’d been shocked into stepping back, breaking the kiss sooner than he intended.

You’d stepped back and bumped into Jungkook, who gently caught you. Hoseok merely smiled warmly and explained that he thought you two were alone. Jungkook didn’t say a word.

Hoseok holds up a letter, unfolding it. “You received a letter today,” he responds. “Would you like me to read it to you?”

You frown, reaching out a hand but he’s too far away. “No, I’ll read it later-”

“My darling, I only just now found a post office that sends international letters. I apologize from the bottom of my heart, I hope you didn’t think I’d forgotten you.” Hoseok peeks at you from over the letter, arching an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me you enjoyed pet names. Let’s see what else my apprentice has to say, shall we?”

“Hoseok-”

“Hold that thought,” Hoseok pulls a candle that burns in the center of the table closer to him, hovering the letter just above the flame. “Let’s continue. Something tells me that we’re just getting to the good part.”

“I hope this letter finds you before the wedding, although I can’t be sure. This post office looks a little sketchy, but it’s my best bet. Love, I told you once that I could live off of stolen moments. I can, I do. But I’m tired of begged and borrowed time at your side. Once was not enough.”

“How sweet. I never realized he had such a way with words.” Hoseok sighs wistfully, making you shudder.

“Run away with me, darling. Meet me in Italy, at the gallery. Come up with any excuse you possibly can – just find me. I’ll try to do my best to find a way out of this place, and I’ll wait for you every day. From open to close, I’ll be there. If you don’t come by the end of April, I’ll know that you decided to go forward with the marriage and I wish you all the happiness in the world. Just don’t forget: I love you. Wow, that was beautiful, wasn’t it? Who knew Jungkook was such a poet?”

Hoseok sighs again, meeting your horrified gaze. In one swift movement, he lets the bottom corner of the letter catch the flame. Smoke curls into the air, and you scramble to your feet.

“Hoseok!” You lunge for the letter, knocking over the candle in the process. With a shriek, you watch as the candle drops to the rug and catches fire. Rushing over, you begin to stomp out the flames.

“Let it burn,” Hoseok mumbles, still staring at the burning letter in his hands. “I always wanted to burn this house to the ground. It seems fitting to do so now.”

“You’ve lost your mind!” You shout, turning toward him once the rug is extinguished and snapping the letter from his hands. The flames bite as your fingertips, the letter unsalvageable. Hissing, you throw it into the fireplace.

“You know what?” Hoseok rises to his feet. “I think I will burn it down. Maybe move into one of those cramped apartments in the city. What do you think?”

“Hoseok, you’re not thinking straight. Let’s talk about this.”

His smile is melancholy, but for a moment his eyes clear up and you catch a glimpse of the Hoseok you’ve known for twelve years.

“Don’t you have packing to do?” With a shrug he adds, “I won’t tell if you don’t.”

“I-“ you stop mid-step. A series of choices flash before your eyes, but all you can see if Hoseok and the out he’s offering you.

Perhaps he wants to get out of this as much as you do.

As you pound up the stairs and begin to throw anything you can find into your bag, you realize that you may never know. You never did get to know the real Hoseok. His thoughts and inner feelings have remained a mystery to you.

When you rush out the door a few minutes later, Hoseok is already leaning against his car. There’s another car parked beside it, and he tosses you the keys. There are no parting words, no longing stares as he marches forward and strikes a match against the side of the house. Without fanfare, he tosses the flame inside the mansion. You watch with unabashed awe as he strides back to his car and hops in. There’s a small bag in the back, certainly not enough to hold his precious belongings.

Hoseok gives you a curt nod, tearing out of the driveway.

You’re gone before the sound of sirens cuts through the air.

The Accademia Gallery is packed today, more so than you’ve ever seen it before. Of course, the main attraction is The David. Tourists crowd around, trying to find the best angle to take a photo, grinning widely.

All of them except for one, who stares up at the sculpture with a keen eye. His dark brown hair is shorter than it was a few months ago when he stood in a similar position.

“Jungkook!”

Somehow, amidst the din of the crowd, he hears you. The stars in his eyes are bright as he turns around, acting as a beacon as you push through the crowd. They gleam and sparkle, rivaled only by the wide smile that overtakes his features. Those eyes, so dangerous yet so lovely. They invite you to get lost in them, to dance under Jungkook’s galaxy.

This time, you think you will.

main masterlist || Help support me? ko-fi

this was a wild ride, lemme tell ya

taglist: @baepsaetay @dreamcatcherjiah @kookie-vuitton @thecaffeinatedscribbles @moon-write @fangirl125reader @heishichoulevi @knjkitten @sacha-cff @vik7797 @eusticenatalie @hesmyphenominiall @miriamxsworld @kayahay @secretlycrazyhummingbird @marianeamine @hqtetsurou @protontippens @beginwithamin @limiworld @jeonyoongi-jimin @buttvi

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unmaskedagain · 5 years ago

Text

Raise yourselves up (We’re done)

Two prompts in one; let’s do this. I tweaked the ideas a bit though.

It was Bustier who broke the news to Marinette and Chloe, and she did it once again the most inappropriate fashion, “-And so the class feels it would be best if both of you were excluded from the class trip at the end of the year.” She finished. The class was just about to let out and she told the two girls in front of them all.

There were mean snickers and smug looks from the other students. The ones who just avoid the girls’ gazes; Adrien, Juleka, and Rose. The three had decided to stay out of it and just side with the majority. Marinette and Chloe had become best friends after Lila had gotten her hooks into class the year before. She turned all of Marinette’s dearest friends to ex-friends and turned them into bullies. That was fine with Marinette. She was done with two-faced people; done with turn-coats, and cowards. Marinette didn’t need them. Or want them. Chloe at least had the guts to stand on her own two feet and for what she believed in. It was a new year and a new Marinette.

Neither blond nor bluenette blinked.

“That’s fine,” Marinette shrugged. “It will be a relief not to have to fundraise for the trip.”

Chloe smirked, “Ditto. A trip to New York City, completely unfunded by the school, is going to be a lot to pay for.”

“They’ll have plenty of time though,” Marinette hummed. “A little less than a year.” The two girls cast them cool looks, “Good luck!” They chimed as the bell rang.

No one understood why they didn’t react the way they thought. Alya had expected tears from Marinette. Rage from Chloe. Then apologies and promises to do better. In fact, they all did. But they didn’t get it. Instead, they were left wondering why the two girls laughed their way out of the classroom.

It would take them months to realize.

Both girls knew though. Chloe always managed to convince her parents to fund thirty percent of whatever grand trip the class took every year. Marinette managed to put together enough amazing fundraisers to raise sixty percent of the funds needed. Everyone else in class only ever managed to pull together the last ten percent. Barely.

The next day the brand new World Travelers’ Club announced their formation and invited anyone to join. A few members of the class perked up until they heard Marinette and Chloe were the presidents. Instead, the class bashed the club and joked it was the girls’ lame attempt at making friends.

That was the last they heard of the club.

To the rest of the students of Bustier’s class’s credit, they attempted right away to start fundraising plans. However, no one in the class knew just when they should start and no one had any unique ideas; they only had a car cash fundraiser, the usual bake sale, maybe a raffle. Standard stuff they were sure would work. After Marinette, the former class president, and resident bully as far as they were concerned, always started off with those. Never realizing that she only started out with them at the very beginning of the year, and never stopped there. Nor did they realize just how much planning went into each event.

The class's first event was a car wash in November. It was a poor idea, as the weather had begun to take a turn for the worst and barely any cars showed up. They hosted it at the school figuring people would want to help out school children. Nino played music. And all the friends had a blast. But the kids made a total of 143 dollars a days’ worth of work. They vowed their next fundraiser would be better.

During the two months, Marinette and Chloe and the rest of the World Travelers’ club; Kagami, Claude, Aurore, Marc, Luka, Ondine, and a bunch of other students who always wanted to see the world fundraised like crazy. They decided that their class trip would be to six different places; Los Angeles, Star City, Central City, Metropolis, Gotham, and finally New York City. It would be a tour. They would spend two weeks in each city, touring and visiting, before moving on to the next. Each city had its own highlights and hotels that need to be arranged and paid for. Marinette did the math; they would need to raise a little less than $35,000 to pay for everything. She made it an even $40,000 to be safe.

Marinette set up a go fund me page an hour later. It wouldn’t be easy but Marinette knew they could do it if they worked hard and fast. (She only half-heartedly glared at Chloe when two grand mysteriously was donated to the club’s go-fund-me five minutes after she announced it the class. She did glare when Jagged and Clara both gave five grand each to their favorite designer and faux-niece. But stopped when Kagami said her mother was also donating $3,000 to the club.)

A week after the club’s formation, they had their first fundraiser. A car wash. Marinette knew it was best to get that one done as soon as possible while the summer heat was still around. It went great. They had it at a local park. Chloe played music off her phone. During the event, they sold ice cream and other cold sweets. Ondine had the great idea of selling full water balloons to children so they could run around. Marc sold quick funny Caricatures of customers. They raised a total of $2752, minus the two hundred for expenses that Chloe and Mariette fronted themselves.

The second fundraiser Bustier’s class held was a bake sale. It was in the middle of December and more or less a last-minute idea. Alya spearheaded the event, remembering how much money they pulled in from the last bake sale. She had the smart idea of doing it during a pep rally. Only to remember at the last minute that Marinette usually supplied all the best goods freely given from the bakery. Or made them herself. It didn’t take a genius to know that Alya nor any of the class would be welcome in the bakery based on the cold looks Tom and Sabine had given Alya last time she went in with her mother. So Alya declared all the kids would make their own goods.

…Four people got food poisoning; one of them was Kim. Most of the baked goods were dry and hard and virtually unappealing. Rose’s sugar cookies sold well but mostly because they were one of the few things that tasted and looked good. The class made a total of 128 bucks. They were lucky they weren’t sued.

The World Travelers’ club’s second fundraiser was actually a pool party at Chloe’s. She had led the entire event. The weather was still hot. They got Luka and his new band My Shadow’s Wonderland to play; Kitty section had sadly broken up due to Lila’s schemes months before. The club members sold tickets to get in. They also sold food: hot dogs, hamburgers, veggie burgers, ice cream, and funnel cakes. Kagami sold Balloon which caused her friends to do double-takes. Because Kagami knew how to make balloon animals, what in the world? Marinette and Marc did face paint and temp tattoos. Nearly everyone from school showed up. Even Bustier’s class, though they hadn’t seemed to realize The World travelers’ club was hosting. They earned a total of $3101. Marinette had long since learned the greatest trick of the fundraiser; don’t let make it obvious it’s a fundraiser. Make it fun and people would come.

Their third fundraiser happened two weeks later just at the beginning of October. It was Claude’s idea and he called it; “Can you Arcade it?” No laughed but he thought it was hilarious. They had got permission to use the gym to set up a video Gamers’ paradise. He got this idea when he heard the old arcade had finally shut down after Mr. and Mrs. Gladstone had opted to retire. He got the couple to donate the old game machine for a day to help them out. Claude only had to babysit their pet Parakeet for two weeks while they were out of town. Old arcade games line the walls. New games with TV borrowed from the club members were set up with the new game systems. They sold food and anything they thought a gamer would want. Aurore somehow got the local Taco Bell to sponsor the event so ever twenty minutes or so they had a deal with commercial playing in the background. This fundraiser attracted most parents with younger children; though a good percent was just nostalgic dads who ended up playing the games as much as the kids. $1700 was earned; most of it in quarters.

Their next fundraiser happened at the end of October and it was a haunted house; or rather a haunted school. They teamed up with a few other clubs to put the event together. They didn’t earn that much money; $300 after it was split between the clubs. However, all the kids had a ton of fun.

When November hit, and the weather turned cold, and everyone wanted everything pumpkin spice. (And Bustier’s class first fundraiser was about to happen) Marinette held did her bake sale. She with the help of the other members of the club made all the sweets; for once she didn’t have to get her parents to donate the baked goods. In additional, Marinette and the gang sold handmade little dolls of Ladybug and Chat Noir and the new miraculous heroes that had replaced the last team. The dolls were a big hit. Such a hit that Chloe got the idea of marketing them online for a much better price. The fundraiser earned about $600 bucks which weren’t bad.

Chloe and Marinette started selling the dolls for $10 bucks each plus shipping and handling. Chloe and Marinette made the dolls. The others took care of the shipping part. The

dolls only cost 2 bucks to make, as they were mostly yarn, so they profited 8. Chloe said that was how the business made money.

By the time December hit, they were had raised more half of their overall target goal.

During the fundraisers, each kid used their own influence via social media to get people to go their Go-Fund-me page. Luka and his band, all of who members of the club anyway, used Youtube and Instagram to promote their bands also asked fans to make a donation. Aurore used her Ladybug site Bugout to ask her fans. Ondine did swim training videos did the same. Marc who did drawing tutorial asked too. They didn’t get a lot from; a dollar here, three there, maybe a five if they were lucky but every bit count.

Their next fundraiser was a raffle in one of the empty unsure ballrooms of Chloe’s hotel, and it happened not long before Christmas break. This was spearheaded by Aurore. The strategy was sound; most people were still rushing to get presents. All they have to do was bid on the item they want. She got local businesses to donate. A fancy dinner from one restaurant, a bouquet of roses, expensive perfumes, a massage chair; a bunch of gift cards of various stores. Chloe got her dad to donate two items a spa day and a luxury Spa weekend. Marc offered art lessons. He also auctioned off some of his portraits. Ondine offered swim lessons. Aurore got offered a meet-and-greet with Ladybug, who even showed up to make an appearance. Kagami offered sword fighting lessons. Luka offers guitar lessons. His bandmate, Naomi, offered drum lessons. Another girl, Bridgette offered piano lessons. Marinette offered her usually big-ticket item; a custom design by MDC. The night was a hit. Once again, Marinette’s item was one of the highest bid items of the night. All in all, the kids brought in a total of $4728.

January came and Bustier’s class decided it was time for another fundraiser. Just as the World’s traveler’s club decided it was time for a break. Though they still sold the dolls; which had brought in $1800 since they had started selling them; Ladybug and her crew apparent had fans all over the world. This meant by the time February hit, they had just over $10,000 left to raise and five months to do it. They would leave at the beginning of June. They already paid for all of their plane tickets and paid for their hotel rooms. All their tours booked and paid for. All reservations made. And then reconfirmed by a rather stern Chloe. Passports were bought.

Bustier’s fundraiser idea was once again headed by Alya, the new class president after Lila decline the role as she would be far too busy. Alya decided a raffle would be perfect. The one they did the year before had been amazing. Again, Alya forgot that Marinette and Chloe handled nearly everything which was why it was such a big hit. Alya had to use the school gym.

“It’s not like I’d ask Chloe,” Alya huffed to her boyfriend. “I’m just glad I won’t have to deal with her or Marinette on our trip.”

“You said it, babe,” Nino leaned back in his desk. “No need for that kind of drama.”

The raffle was their most successful fundraiser so far much to Alya smug face when Marinette and Chloe walked into class on Monday. All the kids in the class participated and offered their own talents for use; offering lessons or gift cards from their parents' businesses. Their biggest hit was a picture and an autograph from Adrien Agreste.

“We raised over a thousand dollars,” Alya crossed her arms. A satisfied look on her face. She had worked hard. They had all worked hard. “Beat that!”

Marinette and Chloe shared a look before they literally fell to the ground laughing. “I can’t!” Chloe gasped for air. “I can’t breathe!”

Marinette struggled to contain herself, “This! I!” She couldn’t even get out the words. She was laughing so hard.

They didn’t even bother to pay the glares they received any attention. It was just too funny.

For the rest of the week, it was the running joke between them. Every now and then, the other students in the class would “Beat that!” And laughter from the back of the room.

February came and the kids decided in anticipation for Valentine ’s Day. They would do a Date Auction. It was Ondine’s idea and it was a huge success. Surprising considering it, it was supposed to be simple and easy and something to get them back into the fundraiser's mood after a month's breath. Most of the kids now had a strong online following and become popular among the youth of Paris for their awesome parties. So when word spread that the World Travelers’ Club was doing a date auction; a lot of students from school showed up. A lot of students from other schools showed up. One girl traveled from England specifically for Luka.

Marinette, followed by Chloe, Then Luka, then Kagami, then Aurore was the highest auctioned date of the night. Claude and Felix were both a little put out. Marc didn’t mind. Mostly because of the best looking guy at the auction bid on him.

All in all, they raised $2100.

The next fundraiser was in March. The spring warm weather had hit in full. Flowers were blooming. The fundraiser was a carnival Luka planned. Everyone set up carnival booths and games and fun prizes. Live music. They had it in on the school soccer field. A lot of parents with their kids showed up, looking for a family-friendly event to enjoy. Total they raised $2421.

Marinette’s dolls brought in an additional $900. Then it was official they only needed 5,000 more.

Bustier’s class tried another fundraiser; a dance party in the school gymnasium; hosted by Nino. They sold tickets to get in, snacks and drinks. They put off filers everywhere and did everything they could to promote the event. They made $750 dollars. And were proud.

In April, the World travelers’ club did another bake sale and another car wash and a ping pong tournament was a really big hit for some reason. By the end of April, they had met their goals. All loose ends tied up. All the tickets bought. Permissions slip signed. Four teachers, who were more than excited to volunteer to spend near all-expense-paid vacation in the most popular cities in the world, would be chaperoning. They were done.

By the first Monday of May, Chloe and Marinette breathed a sigh a relief as the stress had finally left their shoulders. The only thing they had to worry about was packing, and they had a month to do it.

The two girls once again arrived to see the smug grins of the classmates' faces. Bustier’s class had been fundraisers like crazy so much so that even the teacher was looking over her students proudly.

“We’ve raised $5,829,” Lila announced. The Italian girl looked smug as she had done al the work. “Fundraising was hard but we did what we had to.”

“Way better then we did under the last class president,” Alya hissed.

Marinette and Chloe looked at each other again. It was Chloe who spoke, “So you’re not going to New York?”

The question caught everyone off guard.

“What?” Alya hissed. “Of course we’re going to New York!”

Marinette sighed, “No, WE” She pointed between her and Chloe, “And the World Traveler’s club is going to New York and a bunch of other places. We raised over $40,000.” Most of the students turned green.

“$40- $40,000,” Nino stuttered. “What? how?”

“We worked hard, like we always,” Chloe flipped her hair. “That was our goal since September. Its how much it would cost to pay for the entire trip. For every member and required chaperones to go. Why? What was your goal?”

It went quiet. Alya spoke next, “Goal?”

Again, Chloe and Marinette

“Goal,” Marinette nodded. “The amount you needed to fund the entire trip to New York?”

“We didn’t have a goal,” Rose answered.

The two girls stared at them.

“What airline are you using?” Chloe asked. “How much do the tickets cost?”

No answer.

“What hotel are you staying at?”

No answer.

“Did you get your passports yet?”

Nothing.

“Have you made any reservations?” Marinette asked. “Any down payments?” No answered. Just pale faces.

Chloe just shook her head, “Did you at least get approval from the school board to clear the trip?”

“We need them to approve it?” Kim asked. “Why it’s our trip?”

“Safety and legal concerns,” Marinette said slowly. “It takes weeks to get approved. Permissions slips have to be signed and turned in. Chaperones found.”

“Miss Bustier’s our chaperone,” Mylene said brightly, and the teacher nodded eagerly.

Marinette fought the urge to scoff. Bustier couldn’t chaperone a ping pong tournament. “Fine but with a class this size, you need at least two more. Maybe three.”

Chloe crossed her arms, “How were you getting to New York? What were your plans? Did you book any tours? What were you going to do in New York?”

No one said a word.

Marinette smirked, “Good on you, I guess. You must have some killer fundraising ideas with only a month and a half until summer break.” She sighed. “I couldn’t do it myself. Way too much stress. The World Traveler’s club was killing ourselves since September to get everything done.”

“September,” Rose gasped. “Really.” She deflated. “We didn’t start till November, and the car wash was pretty bad.” There were nods.

“Yep,” Chloe said. “I think we did about fifteen or more fundraisers. Little ones and big ones. How many did you guys do?”

Nino frowned, “Five.”

“We worked really hard, though!” Alix slammed her fist on the desk. “Nothing worked.”

Marinette and Chloe shared another look.

“Shame,” Marinette said as they glided to their seats.

“Last year, the class did so well,” Chloe smirked. “Wonder what changed?”

“Nothing!” Alya shouted. “We did the same thing we do every year. Bake Sale, car wash, Raffle, Dance Party; everything!

There were nods.

“It’s not fair!”

“We didn’t do anything wrong.”

There more shouts and complaints.

Bustier calmed everyone down, “Now class, let’s not give up hope. Our trip last year was a success. And I know we can pull it off again. What did we do then that we aren’t doing now?”

The class went silent as they thought up what they were doing wrong. Surprisingly, it was Juleka who answered, “Marinette did most of the organizing,” She whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear; one of the few brave things she did all year. “Her and Chloe come up with all the fundraiser ideas and they plan them out too. They always did; every year.”

“This year they didn’t,” Rose frowned.

And just like that, it was like that, it was like a balloon burst inside the students.

“They always plan the best fundraisers,” Kim frowned. “And we always met our goals.”

Lila glared. She didn’t think that when she convinced the class to kick the girls off the trip that they’d be getting rid of anyone who did any real work. However, the glare quickly turned into a frown with a few crocodile tears, “Then we didn’t they help us? We needed them obviously.”

Before any of the other students could direct their anger to the girls at their betrayal, Nino shrugged, “Because we told them they couldn’t come with us, remember? So they didn’t help out. They told us they wouldn’t. Why should they? It wasn’t their trip.”

Frustration and rage built inside Alya. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. The class should’ve been headed to a glamorous trip to New York, with Marinette and Chloe left to suffer alone in Paris wishing they had been invited. Where was justice?

“I bet you're happy!” Alya growled at her ex-friend. “Our trip is ruined thanks to you.”

Marinette smirked, “No. I didn’t do anything. I was and am in no way involved with your class trip. Just like you wanted.”

“You could’ve helped us!” Alix yelled.

“Why?” Chloe asked.

Silence.

“You made it clear we couldn’t go to New York with you,” Chloe said. “Why would we help you? It’s not like we’re friends with you.”

Angry eyes and red faces filled the classroom. No one wanted to admit that they got themselves into trouble.

Alya had to be held back in her chair by Nino, “You could’ve warned me how hard being class president was. Or what we needed to do to go on the trip. But you didn’t care about us. You don’t think about us at all.”

Marinette leaned back in her seat, an easy smile on her face, with frost in her eyes, “Sweetie, I haven’t thought any of you for months.”

Before anyone could say anything else. Bustier decided to try to take control again, “Marinette, Chloe; there must be something you can do. Maybe the class can tag along on your trip.”

Hopeful expressions overtook the students' faces.

Both girls looked at the teacher like she was stupid.

“Even if that was possible,” Chloe narrowed her eyes. “And it’s not. We had everything booked for months, reservations made. How will they pay for it? We only raised enough for the World Travelers’ Club.”

It was Adrien who answered, “Can’t you do something?” He said with hopeful eyes. “Our friends are really looking forward to it.”

“No.” Marinette snapped. “They are not my friends. And even if they were, it would take another 40 grand to get everyone in class on the trip. There’s no time to get that type of cash. Even if there was, it would still be weeks to get School board approval. The World Travelers’ leave on the first. There’s nothing to do.”

“We’re not risking our trip for yours,” Chloe and Marinette chimed together, looking very much like the Ice Queens the students had called them behind their backs.

That was that. Alya and the other students would shoot glares at the two girls, and make mean comments for the next month; mostly about them being selfish. The girls didn’t pay them any mind. Lila tried to join the World Travelers’ club at the last minute, only to be unanimously told to come back in September. Damocles, at the urgency of Lila and Alya, tried to intervene and stop the trip the ground, it wouldn’t be safe. Boy, was he surprised when the school board called him into a meet to speak about his future employment and the rampant bullying and oversight that had been going on in the school.

Bustier’s class ended up going to Disney World Paris for the weekend, before the end of May. And posted tons of videos, most of which had comments about getting away from bullies and the drama of the class.

The World Travelers’ Club left on schedule on June 1st. They would return for two months.

The pictures they posted was the talk of the school. Which was saying something since the school wasn’t even in session. The first pictures were of the grand hotels they stayed at, the amazing strange American food they ate. Carne Asada fries, yum!

In Los Angelus, the club toured Warner Brothers studios and ran into the cast of the new Star Trek movies. They attended the world premiere of the Joss Weadon Superhero movie. They got all the classic tourist pictures of Los Angeles. Though Marinette and Chloe, when they had explored by themselves, ended up running into the Rock and had a picture of themselves hanging from his biceps as he posed.

Their next stop was Star City. They toured the local museum, toured Queen Industries, met Oliver Queen himself. Then they even got to meet the Green Arrow.

Alya nearly broke her phone when she saw Aurore and the superhero.

After that, the Club went to Central city where they visited Star Labs. It was Aurore’s idea. It was the most meta-filled city in the world; known for the most outrageous heroes and rogues in the world.

It didn’t take long for the club to run into the flash, in this case, he was fighting against Captain Cold, Heatwave, and the rest of the rogues.

The fight wasn’t favoring either side. But the class watched eagerly from where they stood on the sidewalk.

They had to duck quickly when Captain cold was blasted into the wall next to them.

Leonard Snart was surprised when a young girl helped him up. He looked and saw a bunch of kids standing there, torn between watching him and watching the fight.

“Are you okay, Mr. Cold?” She asked, with a heavy French accent, her blue eyes big with worry.

“…Fine, kid,” He answered. “Shouldn’t you lot being running off.”

The bluenette and the blond girl next to her shared a look.

“Can we get a picture?” The Bluenette asked.

Leonard Snart paused, “…Sure.” There was, in fact, a first time for everything.

The kids cheered. And each one started scrambled with their phones to get their picture. It wasn’t long before Heatwave showed up to see what was wrong, only to be pulled in by a push blond to take pictures as well.

That was when the flash Showed up but Aurore quickly pulled him into an interview. Slowly but surely, the rogues and the team flash found themselves entertaining and signing autographs for a bunch of French kids; answering all their questions and telling stories.

Later when Aurore and the rest posted their pictures, and the interview with the Flash and his rogues, Alya did break her phone. As far as she was concerned life was fair.

In metropolis, They met Superman, Supergirl, Krypton (the former superboy), and the new Superboy. Superman had heard from the other league members of the French class touring different cities and how great they were.

They toured the Daily Planet and Aurore got one on one time with Lois Lane. They got to see LexCorp and had a tour given by Lex Luthor himself. Lex had heard about the class from Queen and Wells, the CEOs of Star Labs and Queen industries, and decided one-up his competition in any way he could

Then the kids' wen to Gotham. The pictures from that trip made half the kids in Bustiers’ class cry. The best pictures were of Marinette sitting in the Batmobile; Batman looking stern next to her. The ones of the club with Bruce Wayne and his kids were pretty epic too.

Finally, their lasts destination was New York City. And the kids saw everything. They did the entire tourist thing; The statue of liberty, times Square, New York Times. Everything. However, the highlight was the tour of Stark Tower/Industries; led by Tony Stark, with Pepper to manage him. Because Tony Stark didn’t get one-upped by Lex Luthor or Bruce Wayne. Then the kids took a surprise trip to the Avengers compound.

Marinette and Chloe decided walking into the training room only to see Captain America, Thor, and Bucky Barnes working out with their shirts off was the best part of the entire trip.

Pictures and videos were taken of each member of the club holding various Avenger weapons. Chloe refused to admit her hand trembled when she was given over Captain America’s shield.

The funniest video was supposed to be each member of the World Travels’ club struggling to pick up Thor’s hammer. It was pretty funny. Until Marinette lift it like it weighed nothing. Mouths dropped. The Avengers were stunned. Who was this small bluenette worthy of Thor’s hammer?

Then Thor shouted that Marinette would come to Asgard with him.

Then Tony had to tell Thor that he couldn’t kidnap kids.

To which Thor said, “What about Peter? Where did he come from?”

“I’m his mentor,” Tony groaned.

Thor nodded, “Then I shall be the girl’s mentor. The Captain shall train young Chloe. Natasha will have Kagami as they are suited for each other; mostly because they strike fear in hearts everyone. Pepper will get Aurore; as they were meant to rule. Hawkeye will get Claude. The Soldier of Winter will get young Luka. You shall have Peter. The rest will be divided among the rest of the avengers. There. All done.”

A moment of silence, and then Tony yelled, “That’s not how this works.”

It was all on video.

It went viral in an hour.

Marinette had to portal back to Paris to deal with several different Akumas several different times; most were just about jealousy.

When the kids returned to Paris. They wasted no time relaying the stories of their adventures.

When September came and school started. Marinette and Chloe once again walked into class together, with smiles on their faces, only to meet glum looks on the students' faces. They paid no mind as they headed back to their seats in the back.

Before class could begin, Rose approached them, a hopeful smile on her face, “Marinette, Chloe; we were hoping you’d come with us on your next trip.” Her smile widened “And Marinette, maybe you’d like to be class president again.”

None of the other students looked happy at the idea but all of them could admit that the World Travelers’ club had been amazing. And if they ever wanted another great trip, they had no choice but to deal with the Ice Queens.

Marinette and Chloe shared a look and then shot the class cold smirks, “No!”

“We’ll be far too busy,” Chloe smiled, coolness in her tone. “We decided we can no longer want to go on any more class trips. With you.”

“The World Travelers’ club takes a lot of work,” Marinette added.

“Good Luck though,” The two girls chimed together. “You have plenty of time to fundraise though.”

“A little less than a year,” Chloe said. “Our club starts planning in about two weeks. We’ll start fundraising right after. We’re thinking about Japan. Luckily this trip won’t be as expensive as our last.”

“Good luck with your trip though,” Marinette leaned back in her seat. “Who knows? If your lucky, it’ll be as fun as your last one. We know you worked so hard. Earned over $5,000 right?”

“Beat that!” Chloe added.

Then both girls burst into laughter.

Marinette wiped her eyes, “Besides you don’t want us there on your trip.”

“Too much Drama, right?” Chloe offered.

The bell rang. And the class’ resident ice queens sat in back with smiles on their faces and ice in their eyes.

#ml salt #ml salt fic #Marinette deserves better #marinette dupen chang #chloe bourgeois #chloe deserves better #class salt #adrien salt

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everlarkficexchange · 4 years ago

Text

A Simple Choice

Written by: @justajjfan

Beta’d by: @sunsetsrmydreams

Prompt 83: Katniss is whipped instead of Gale in Catching Fire, Peeta’s the one who’s there to take care of her after. [submitted by anonymous].

Prompt 116: Peeta braids Katniss’ hair to soothe her. [submitted by anonymous]

Rating: Mature

Warning: Mention of whipping. Use of coarse language.

A/N: This is it…the very last chapter! Thank you to @everlarkficexchange - @javistg and @xerxia31 ; the 2 anons ; @sunsetsrmydreams and to all you lovely readers! 😘

~~~

Chapter 7 + Epilogue

Taking it as a reassuring sign we’ve reached our destination, my ears prick up to the sound of engines humming and people shouting at Gale to hurry. I’m further reassured when the terrain changes from dirt and tall grasses to black steel.

This must be our ride.

Gale runs onto the steel ramp just as it begins to close and sets me down onto a cold steel seat a little further into the belly of the craft.

“Peeta!”

I look around frantically to the sound of Katniss’ voice calling out my name and see her on the opposite side trying to free herself from the restraints of her own seat as two armed soldiers on either side try to convince her to stay seated.

“Katniss!” I shout back, awkwardly pulling myself up on my good leg only to feel Gale’s heavy hand on my shoulder pushing me back down.

“Strap yourself in. We’re about to take off,” Gale informs me.

Ooompff. I don’t have time to protest as Katniss pushes Gale out of her way and launches herself at me. I grab her tightly in my arms breathing in her scent as she peppers kisses over every inch of my face.

“My stupid leg…it wouldn’t work—” I try to explain but she continues to kiss me and I can feel the wetness from her tears on my cheeks.

“I thought I lost you,” she chokes between each word.

“Shshsh, I’m here now,” I say in a hushed tone, holding her tightly in my arms, “if Gale hadn’t shown up when he did, I would have missed our ride,” I tell her. “He saved me Katniss,” I say, lifting her chin to look at me. “Gale brought me back to you.”

Katniss lets out a shaky laugh and I flick my eyes to the side to where Gale now sits buckled to his seat, his head lowered. She kisses my lips sweetly before slowly turning to Gale, “Thank you,” she says in an almost whisper but Gale hears it and lifts his head to look at her and nods, a brief smile appearing on his face.

“The star-crossed lovers reunion can wait until we get to District 13,” Haymitch announces and I hadn’t even noticed he was sitting across from me.

“Thirteen?”

“You heard me. Welcome to the revolution lovebirds. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of questions and I’ll explain everything but for now buckle up, it’s going to be a bumpy ride.” We do as he says and Katniss takes the empty seat next to me holding onto my hand tightly.

As the hovercraft begins its assent, I take a moment to look around my surroundings and see most of the seats are filled with people from our district…survivors just like us.

At first estimate, I count in my head at least 200 hundred people. Amongst the small crowd, I’m surprised to see peacekeeper Darius who sits next to his look-a-like, both obviously happy to see the other and the resemblance is unquestionable. Brothers.

Haymitch begins his story by telling us about how he first joined the rebel underground after President Snow killed his family, his contact with District 13 after rebel spies discovered a plot to reap the surviving Victors for the quarter quell and how this planned attack was about freeing Panem from President Snow’s sadistic rule once and for all.

I scan my eyes further along the craft after Haymitch was done talking, hoping to find my own brothers. My breath hitches when I lock onto a small group of people unmistakably Merchant. Madge Undersee is the first person I recognise followed by a shell-shocked Delly Cartwright who has her arm wrapped protectively around her younger brother seated beside her.

But they’re not there.

“They could’ve made it out somehow,” Katniss says hopefully, noticing my gaze.

“Yeah…maybe,” I answer, kissing the top of her head softly. But deep down I know the probability is next to zero.

***

We gawk in amazement as our hovercraft lands safely in District 13. An impenetrable fortress made of concrete and steel strategically built deep underground.

Once the steel ramp of the hovercraft lowers and locks securely, a flurry of uniformed officials welcome us not as refugees but as new soldiers of District 13…a title I’m not sure I like.

We are quickly ushered towards a ‘clearance team’ waiting to check everyone, giving those who need medical attention priority. Hardly considering myself a medical priority, I’m nonetheless placed on a steel gurney and wheeled into a curtained partition of their hospital emergency room and assessed.

Katniss refuses to leave my side the whole time and holds onto my hand tightly insisting she can be checked just fine next to me, a fierce look in her eyes silently warning no one try and challenge her.

To my relief…no one does.

Temporary repairs are made on my prosthetic leg by a robotics technician and even though my gait is somewhat compromised, I’m grateful I can at least walk unaided. I’m to report to someone called Beetee tomorrow morning for further evaluation on my leg with the view of a more advanced replacement and think to myself maybe life here in Thirteen won’t be so bad.

Medically cleared, we are moved on to another team who measure us from head to toe before handing out a parcel each containing a set of clean clothes, shoes according to our size and a package labelled ‘personal hygiene’.

With parcels in hand, compartment allocation is next and my heart starts to sink knowing I’ll have to spend my nights in this place without Katniss.

“There she is!”

We both turn around to see Mrs Everdeen rushing towards us with Katniss’ sister in tow wearing the brightest of smiles. Katniss immediately locks Primrose in a loving embrace, ignoring her mother altogether.

“Gale told us you were here,” her mother says, brushing off her daughter’s cold welcome. “I was so worried Katniss. You shouldn’t have runaway like that,” she adds.

Katniss steps away and reaches her hand out for me to hold, “you gave me sleep syrup to stop me from going back for Peeta.”

“You almost scratched poor Gale’s eye out. It was the only way to calm you,” Mrs Everdeen says in her defence. Katniss doesn’t respond but I can see how much she resented being drugged. A feeling I know only too well.

“I’m glad to see you are safe Peeta,” Mrs Everdeen turns to me and says genuinely, breaking a moment of uncomfortable silence.

Katniss huffs but I smile and thank Mrs Everdeen just as an officer orders us to line up and register our details for allotted compartments.

“There’s no need for my daughter to register, she’s been assigned to the Everdeen family compartment; Katniss Everdeen; Level 32; Room 234a,” Mrs Everdeen informs the District 13 officer.

“No, I’m going to register with Peeta.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs Everdeen responds. “Peeta will need to reg—”

Katniss doesn’t wait for her mother to finish her sentence and leads me to the registry desk in the middle of the processing room.

“Name…age…occupation…marital status?” the registry officer asks robotically, not bothering to look up and stares at the small screen on his device waiting to key in my answer.

“Peeta Mellark…17…baker…s—”

“Married.” Katniss answers the last question for me and squeezes my hand. I turn my head, mouth gaped open in surprise but I don’t say anything and play along with the ruse.

The officer raises his head from his device and looks at Katniss, “and you would be..?”

“Katniss Mellark…17…hunter…wife of Peeta Mellark. We’re married…to each other,” she gestures, pointing her finger between the two of us. The officer darts his eyes suspiciously from me to Katniss.

Holding in an anxious breath, I feel Katniss’ grip on my hand tighten but the officer eventually lowers his gaze and types in the information, allowing us to breathe a collective sigh of relief.

I hear a shocked gasp behind us which could only have come from Mrs Everdeen but I don’t dare turn my head to look. Primrose on the other hand, rushes over to hug me first then Katniss and whispers something in her ear causing Katniss to blush.

“That’s not true! She’s too young to be married,” Mrs Everdeen informs the officer who raises his head and huffs in frustration.

“I usually keep my noise out of people’s business but I’ll make an exception in this case,” Haymitch says, appearing out of nowhere accompanied by an older soldier and by the looks of his uniform, he’s someone of high-ranking importance.

“Sweetheart and the boy technically became of age the moment they became Victors.”

Shock covers Mrs Everdeen’s face, “but she’s only been gone for 2 days and Twelve’s traditions state—”

“There is no District 12!” Haymitch exclaims. “What matters is the here and now and if they say they toasted then it’s good enough for me, he announces. “Young love, Lily…have you’ve forgotten what that’s like?”

Mrs Everdeen swallows hard and looks across to Katniss and me as her eyes begin to glisten, “no…I haven’t forgotten.” she replies softly.

“We don’t know what the future holds for any us and these two have been through a lot. They deserve a little happiness…don’t you think?” Haymitch questions. Mrs Everdeen ponders his words before eventually nodding in agreement. “Now what do you say we leave the newlyweds to themselves while we enjoy a hot cup of tea in the dining room,” he suggests.

Mrs Everdeen agrees and before she leaves, insists Katniss accompany her to the medical clinic in the morning and another blush appears on Katniss’ face but she relents.

“Congratulations Mr and Mrs Mellark. Enjoy your honeymoon,” Haymitch says, giving us a sly wink before he and his friend, who introduces himself as General Maximus Jackson, escort Mrs Everdeen and Prim to the dining room.

The sound of someone clearing their throat startles us both, “so…you two married or what?” the frustrated officer asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Married!” Katniss replies without pause.

The officer then looks to me for confirmation, “married,” I tell him swallowing hard and hoping the blush on my own face doesn’t give anything away.

***

Stepping into our compartment, we take a look around and see it adequately furnished with a large bunk bed, a chest of draws; a small closet and an equally small bathroom but it’s nothing to complain about.

We haven’t said a word to each other since we were given our compartment passcode. But the burning question I want to ask Katniss must wait, both of us agreeing to shower before settling in.

Although brief, the warm spray of water felt good on my skin and I quickly changed into the clothes marked ‘bed clothing’ from my parcel. When I slide the bathroom door open, Katniss is sitting on the bunk bed dressed in her District Thirteen issued pyjamas, her hair slightly damp from her shower.

Katniss raises her head to see me looking at her and I’m mesmerised by the beautiful sight before me. “Will you braid my hair Peeta?” she asks softly, offering her hairbrush to me.

My breath hitches as she leans her head back and sighs in contentment when my hands whisper over her neck and sweep the dark mane to trail down her back. I begin to brush her hair, carefully working through the knots and snags caused by our harrowing race for safety. Katniss hums as I continue until the brush moves through smoothly.

I reverently run my fingers through the long locks before dividing them into sections then gently braiding them together. I’m struck by the intimacy of the moment, bringing my question bubbling to the surface.

“Why did you lie to your mother about us being married?”

Katniss straightens her back and turns around looking deep into my eyes, “I didn’t. You baked the bread and I asked you and you agreed…remember?”

With my forehead creased in deep thought it takes only a few seconds to understand what Katniss is saying and there’s no hiding the huge smile forming on my lips, “yes.”

“I know I’m not good with words but it was the same bread you gave me all those years ago and it was perfect,” Katniss says. “You’re not taking it back are you Peeta? You do want me as your wife…don’t you?”

My hands instinctively cup her cheeks, “Katniss Everdeen, a life with you has been my fantasy for as long as I can remember. I’ve dreamt of asking you to toast with me,” I start to explain. “I’ve wanted to say so many things to you, solemnly vow to honour and keep you safe for the rest of my life, then take you in my arms and show you how much I love you,” I say, feeling heat slowly creeping up my neck as the warmth rushes to my groin.

She steps away and I immediately begin to worry I’ve said too much. Katniss searches through the pocket of her father’s hunting jacket hanging over a chair and brings the napkin she grabbed earlier today and unfolds it onto the bunk.

There in front of my eyes is the untouched triangle-shaped piece of toast and I have to wonder how it wasn’t confiscated when we were being checked over.

Katniss smiles, the same blush appearing on her face, “it’s Katniss Mellark now but you can ask me to toast with you again if you want and the answer will be the same,” she tells me. “You can say all those words you’ve dreamt telling me…then when you’re done husband, you can show me how much you love me.”

…and so I do.

~~~

Epilogue

Katniss

My eyes are closed but there’s a sense of comfort and mellowness blossoming inside of me as I take in a deep breath to enjoy the familiar scent I’ve come to love.

In my relaxed state, it takes some effort to force my eyelids to open and when I do, my eyes focus on the edge of the bank as a paddle of ducks swim lazily across my father’s lake.

Gone are the electrified fences. The curfews. The peacekeepers. The fear.

This was the first place I took Peeta to see after the war had ended. So many lives were lost during our fight for freedom but for now, there is peace. So, we rebuilt our towns and our families and we vowed to honour the dead by living well.

As I take in the peaceful surroundings, the smell of freshly baked bread invades my senses and all thoughts of death and destruction is forgotten when I feel a pair of warm, muscled arms wrap around my rather large and protruding stomach.

Bringing a child into this world was something I told myself I would never experience and the idea of new life growing inside of me should seem utterly terrifying. Yet as my hand rests on top of his, waiting for our little one to let us know she’s awake, what I’m feeling right now has nothing to do with fear.

I lean back into his loving embrace and instinctively tilt my head to the side allowing him full access. The moment his lips start to trail kisses down my neck, an enticing shiver courses through my body and I hum my approval with great fervour.

“We don’t have to be afraid anymore,” he whispers softly.

“No, we don’t have to be afraid,” I whisper back, as we stop to watch his favourite colour slowly disappear below the horizon.

The End

#Springtime Edition 2020 #justajjfan #prompt 83 #prompt 116 #submission

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mercurygray · 6 years ago

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Mercy Street? I'm a little one-track right now. Alternately, A Discovery of Witches - what's another major even in world history Matthew's been through?

So, I took this prompt and kind of squished it with another post - I think it was from @begins-with-an-absence-of-desire - about a Downton crossover and said, Interwar Oxford and vampires on shooting weekends. That’s a thing we need.

Sometimes his mother could be infuriating.

Matthew had finally settled into his new rooms at Oxford, one more pale, anxious face among all the other pale, anxious faces, and what had Ysabeau done but come barreling in fresh from Paris like some over-zealous society mother hen to drag him away to the country.

He knew she didn’t approve of his experiments, nor did his father - but if Baldwin could brood in Threadneedle Street buying and selling the world, and Verin swan through the backstreet cabarets of Berlin, and Stasia sit in state somewhere in Shanghai presiding like an empress over a string of gambling houses and opium dens, then he was entitled to something to call his own, and if it was too staid for his parents - well, that was just too bad.

This would be his…fourth? fifth? time at Oxford - a new degree, a new college, new people and new ideas to explore. This time would be easier, after a fashion - so many of the new men were already older, coming out of the army to finish degrees that the war had pushing into a waiting room. They came with a sense of comradeship already built, their proving under fire forging links far stronger than ties of school colors and cricket games ever had. And if they assumed that he had passed the war as they had, what was the harm in that? He had been a soldier, more than once, for England and for France; he knew something of mud, and blood, and death, and he knew what it was like to do things that terrified you, that you’d never thought yourself capable of doing.

It would have been simpler to move back into Woodstock, but there was something about being in the thick of the university that comforted him, grounded him to his work. At Woodstock, he remembered being a spy, a courtier, a poet. In Oxford, he was a scientist, an examiner of puzzles, a fellow sufferer on the wheel of academia.

Except, of course, for this weekend, when he would have to play the handsome, available son for whatever bored daughters of England’s aristocracy had come along for a shooting weekend.

Was his mother bored? Had she done this to spite him? Was this payback for abandoning her (her words, not his) during the war? Or simply one more effort to get him to abandon his research? Matthew didn’t truly know, but if several centuries had taught him nothing else, it was pointless to argue with Ysabeau de Clermont.

Whatever the reason, the matriarch of the Clermont clan was, at present, looking very pleased with herself in the backseat of the saloon car conveying them up to whatever country estate they were meant to be visiting this weekend.

“You haven’t asked where we’re going.” She sounded a little put out, but Matthew would be damned before he gave her the satisfaction.

“One English country house is much like another.”

“It’ll be fun,” his mother said with a smile, nudging his knee with her own. “You’re too serious these days, Matthew - you need a little color in your life.”

Ah, color. Cecelia had been colorful, and how had that ended? Debutante found dead in Seine; foul play suspected. Matthew hardly trusted himself any more where color was concerned. Let Stasia have her exiled White Russian princes to fuel the family gossip and let him have a quiet, uncomplicated, colorless life in Oxford.

Well, if this was the price for a few months’ peace, he’d pay it - a few days to shoot, and ride, and pay pretty compliments, and then he could go back to his lab and his books.

They drove for an hour or two down roads that had been set down around the time of the Conquest and only macadamed to suit current taste, making a turn into an old and well-maintained park, the road opening up for a moment on the long park in front, the house crowning a small hill.

Ysabeau smiled, their destination in sight. “Ah, Godwit.”

Godwit Park was not really what it claimed to be, its pedigree just as complicated as that of the family that lived within, built 17th century in the Jacobean, remodeled 18th century in Free Gothic, appended, added on, gardens redone, redecorated by the wife of the 14th holder of the title, until the thing being presented was as far from the original as its creator had intended. It was, for Matthew, a painful artistic exercise, coming back to a place that he had known and loved in its first incarnation only to see the things that gave him joy taken away, the ghosts of well-carved cornices and chimney pieces lingering only in his memory. Not to mention the actual ghosts - most homes in England had at least two or three - which naturally flocked to creatures like moths to candles.

It had not always been thus - he could remember a time when every self-respecting noble house in England had at least one witch on staff, a housekeeper or nursemaid who managed these things along with other small domestic concerns. Alas, those days were long gone, fallen prey to Victorian respectability and universal education. There was less magic left in England, now, and less creatures to remember it.

And Matthew was old enough to remember, at least, the days when the park had taken its name and the first Lord Belhurst had declared that he would only have people of ‘good wit’ at his table. There had been dancing in the hall, and great quantities of wine, and toasts had been drunk to Charles and his pretty, witty Nell. Yes, that had been a party -and this weekend would be very, very different.

Here was the drive, and here the front door, servants assembled in black and white, and here was the lady of the house to welcome them. “Isabelle!”

“Louisa!” They kissed in the continental manner, like two old schoolfriends, though that was hardly how they knew each other. (There was something about charity work for French refugees, and tea dances, and Claridges.) “You remember Matthew, I hope.”

Lady Belhurst looked him over with an assessing eye. “I feel like every time I see you, Mr. Clairmont, you get taller. Isabelle tells me you’re at Oxford, studying!”

Matthew silently remembered a time when no one sent to Oxford (including young Lord Belhurst, son of the house’s builder) had actually studied, and smiled. “One has to keep busy somehow.”

“Well, I am glad you’ve made time for us,” Louisa said. “We’re only a small party this weekend, just twelve, and I had such a time making up my numbers. None of Freddie’s friends could get away and when Isabelle said she would bring you it was such a blessing. I think Lydia’s through here.”

There was no time to see what changes the family had wrought in the intervening years - Matthew caught a glimpse of the young Lord Belhurst with his dogs at his feet in a heavy gilded frame, a flash of the young Lady Belhurst, his wife, in full court array down another corridor. (Her hair always smelled of chamomile, to keep its color; Charles had given her those pearls, and she’d gambled them away for - but it hardly mattered now.)

There were two women sitting in the drawing room enjoying their tea. Lydia Belhurst was built in the family pattern, with a generous face and a jolly smile that would have looked well under Cavalier curls, but the woman sitting with her was a different creature entirely, all fine lines and flashing eyes and cultivated coldness, her beauty of an older stamp, dark where Lydia’s was light. She did not seem the kind of woman who would greet a friend as Lydia did, rising quickly from her seat and coming to embrace him.

“Oh, Matthew! Mama said you might come. Has she told you you’ve saved the numbers?”

“I’m in danger of having that be how I’m introduced all weekend,” he quipped, and Lydia laughed. But was that anger he had seen on the other woman’s face? Disdain, perhaps?

“I’ll try hard not to say it again, then. Do you know Lady Mary Crawley? Her people are up in Yorkshire - the Earls of Grantham. Mary, this is Matthew Clairmont - one of Freddie’s friends.”

Again that flash of unease! “A pleasure.” A slim, elegant hand was offered, delivering a handshake that meant business. Power seemed to crackle around her shoulders, but Lady Mary Crawley was no witch - only a woman used to getting what she wanted. A dark dress and a wedding ring told him everything he needed to know - widowed, doubtless. Some well-meaning relative had dispatched her in the same way that Ysabeau had dragged him along. Well, there was a kinship to be had there.

What on earth was that damnable smile of Lydia’s? She looked like a cat who’d gotten into the cream. But there was no time to ask - her attention was quickly drawn out the window. “Good heavens, is that the Seatons? I thought they wouldn’t be here for ages! There’s tea here, Matthew, if you’d like some - must dash!”

And, just like that, she was gone, leaving the two of them alone. Mary watched Lydia leave and sighed. “I wish they wouldn’t be so damn obvious about it.” She turned to Matthew and gave a thin, belabored smile, the kind that is generally sick of playing games and having to give such smiles. “I’ll apologize now, Mr. Clairmont, and spare you the effort - I’m afraid Lady Belhurst’s romantic plotting won’t come to anything.” He tried to look politely confused. “I’ve been listening to Lydia extol your considerable virtues for the last half-hour and now she has - conveniently - left us alone.”

Ah. Yes, that rather explained it. “I appreciate the honesty - but Lady Belhurst’s plotting wouldn’t have come to anything from my end, either. At the moment I’m rather married to my work.”

“Oh?” She looked interested at that - a welcome changes from her usual round, then. Mary Crawley was used to being an object of universal desire. (As she would be, if she were beautiful, titled, and - were the Earls of Grantham rich? He couldn’t remember.)

“I’m down at Oxford. University College - Chemistry.”

She looked him over, making some small sound of amusement. “Funny, you don’t look at all like an academic.”

Was that a challenge? “Why, what should an academic look like?”

“Well, I don’t know…thinner and less …rigorous. And you’re missing a pair of glasses and a…a general air of derangement.”

There was something about the way she said rigorous that sparked something - this was a woman well-used to managing her desires, a common enough type for women of her class. A physical attraction was to mean little to her, the primary prize a man’s wealth and his station. But if she was a widow, she’d presumably made the first marriage that her family had so desired - which meant she was now free to do as she wished in the matter of her second. So you find me attractive, Mary Crawley, and you’d rather you didn’t - because that would make brushing me off just that much easier. Well.

“I’m so sorry, I seem to have left all of those in my other trunk. I can go and come back wearing something more suitable, if you’d rather.” A smile - genuine, this time. Why did that feel like victory? Why did he care? “So,” he asked, bending down to pour himself a cup of tea and settling into the sofa. “What shall we do to encourage their plots?”

Are Mary and Matthew going to re-invent fake dating for their shooting weekend? Probably, because…that would be entertaining to me. Why not set this at Downton? I liked the idea of being in a sort of ‘neutral’ territory.

I can’t remember right now the name of the other woman Matthew fell in love with, after Eleanor - was it Celine? Cecelia? It started with a C.

On a side note, I’m totally in love with the idea of Matthew having a kind of kinship with this generation of the shell-shocked officer class.

#all the crossovers #a discovery of witches #downton abbey #all the interwar dramas

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rebuildhq · 7 years ago

Photo

Do not fall prey to the false belief that mastery and domination are synonymous with power.

The demons had caused the perfect amount of chaos throughout Battleworld, and they successfully hushed the voices that Doom needed silenced. In a world with powerless people whose opinions changed the second a journalist or a politician voiced an opinion with zealous, asserting control was necessary. The demons did that with subtlety, no one suspected that their president was capable of such feats, and Doom intended to keep it that way. As long as his demons were patrolling the streets, ensuring silence, and that all curiosity was crushed, his rule would never be questioned.

Abraxas, the commander of his demon legion, had made its way into the Empire State Building without being seen, once again proving their value. Doom had initially been concerned when he discovered the demons outside of Battleworld’s borders, but after witnessing their finesse in battle and how… complicit they were once bested, Doom was grateful to have such an army at his disposal, and it was seemingly endless. “Abraxas,” he greeted coolly, rising from his chair. “Are things going according to our plan?”

Abraxas was cut up, obviously having been in many fights recently, though Doom had ordered him to remain out of sight. It was mildly concerning, he wanted the commander of demons to be a surprise to the heroes in New York. He was the most proficient in battle, and judging by his grasp of the English language, by far the most intelligent. “There has been an inconvenience,” Abraxas said, his voice low and gravelly.

“Do go on,” Doom replied shortly. He had planned for most foreseeable issues, assuming the citizens were still terrified, afraid to question their beloved President too much.

“The border was breached,” Abraxas said, straightening his posture. “My demons believe it was Doctor Strange that managed to pass the shielding you placed around Battleworld. He saw the wasteland, and the demons outside of it.”

Displeased, Doctor Doom tilted his head, and his jaw noticeably tightened. “I assume your demons took care of Doctor Strange?”

“No, we were unable to kill him.”

If Abraxas believed that his candidness would spare him from Doom’s wrath, he was mistaken, and with a flick of his wrist, the demon was in shackles. “I am very sorry to hear of your failure,” he said lowly. “Until your demons manage to kill Doctor Strange and whoever he has spoken to, I will be keeping you here.” Without Abraxas, the demons would never be clever enough to spare themselves from the situation at hand.

Without further comment, Doom exited his office, and immediately sought out his secretary of defence. Although the man was unaware of who Doom truly was, he had chosen his staff carefully. Alexis Chamberlain was a ferocious woman with a thirst for blood, and more importantly, she was brilliant.

“Mrs. Chamberlain, I was just informed of a very… serious issue,” Doom said slowly, attempting to convey the proper level of concern.

Alexis turned around, taking a deep breath, and wordlessly turned on the TV.

On the display was J. Jonah Jameson himself, looking frantic. “What my reporter, Rebecca Colley, wrote in the Daily Bugle this morning was one hundred percent true. We are no longer on Earth. The Sorcerer Supreme, a rather decent man shockingly, himself saw it! I also sent one of my best photographers out there -- completely optional, of course -- and we now have images that prove what Doctor Strange said.” Without warning, the images flashed on the screen, showing a completely barren wasteland filled with hundreds of demons. As J. Jonah Jameson was put back on the screen, he continued, “Rebecca is one of my best journalists. This story needed to be reported, and with confidence and pride, the Daily Bugle backs her claims.”

The newscaster was shown then, and with a solemn look on his face, he said, “There you have it, folks. New York is no longer on Earth, and while we don’t know what this means for us, we do ask that the public does not panic. The demons had been attacking people when provoked, and we’re sure that riots or protests of any kind would only escalate the situation.” He sighed deeply before saying, “We expect that the Empire State Building will report shortly. Thank you, and stay safe out there, New York. We’re not alone.”

As the news report ended, Alexis turned the TV off, looking furious. “What the hell have you done, President Doom?” she demanded coldly.

“You have reason to suspect that I was somehow involved in this?”

“I saw the demon fly into your window, and all I have to say is this: I will ensure that New York stays under our control. I will support you.”

Alexis’s statement didn’t surprise Doom in the slightest. She was a power hungry woman, and that was precisely how she had found her position at his side. With a cruel smile, Doom nodded. “I planned for the public to have this revelation, Alexis. I suggest that we intensify demon patrols, assure the public that the demons have no intention of hurting them, and if anyone looks too deeply at our potential involvement, I am aware of some… very subtle demons, assassins essentially, that can make the attacks look very... human.”

Alexis raised her eyebrows and asked, “How would they make it look human?”

“By magic, of course,” Doom replied. He had worked relentlessly on a spell that would allow the demons to blend in with the public, inspired by the Skrulls themselves. Although they did not take on a human form, they were no longer noticeable to the naked eye, almost invisible.

“And the heroes?”

With a conniving smile, Doom said, “They will be the first to meet my new demons.”

---------------------------------

Hours later, President Doom appeared in the press room of the Empire State Building, looking sorrowful but confident. “I would like to take a moment to confirm that New York City is no longer on Earth. Only our city was affected by this mysterious phenomena, the rest of the state is… missing. We are currently unsure where we are in the galaxy, but we will be reaching out the most brilliant scientists currently available to us to investigate the matter deeply.” He paused deliberately, allowing that information to settle in the public’s mind. “We are also unsure how this could have possibly happened, but we suspect the Skrull Invasion may be one of the potential causes. We will look into future possibilities and update the public as these theories are confirmed or disproven.”

Before the press could begin questioning him, Doom silently rose a hand in command to stay silent. “I will not be taking questions at this time. However, I would like to assure the public that you are all safe. The demons have not been attacking us at random, only when provoked, and myself and the security I have available truly believe that we are better off working in compliance with the demons while stranded with millions of them. I implore you all to please follow the rules we are implementing effective immediately.” Once again, Doom paused before continuing. “We are now under martial law. Curfew will be at 11 PM, anyone that has not registered under the Accords must inform the registered superheroes what their powers are, although they are under no obligation to sign. We simply want a concise list. Similarly, any citizens with firearms without a permit must sign a list detailing what they own, and they may be seized. Lastly, we ask that citizens do not publicly speak out about our situation as we believe it may aggravate the demons.”

As they broached the elephant in the room so to speak, Doom observed the reporters’ eyes widen expectedly, hungry for information. “On the topic of the demons, the government has no reason to believe that we are in any immediate danger as I stated before. As long as we are complicit, we will survive this and return to Earth. Thank you, and stay safe, New York City.” With that, Doom exited the podium, leaving the reporters to shout questions at him mercilessly.

---------------------------------

When he returned to his office, Alexis and Abraxas were waiting patiently for him, and Doom released Abraxas from his spell. Without looking at the demon, he said, “Bring your best soldiers to me. I will perform the spell on them, and the assassins with be seeking out immediate threats, heroes and civilian alike.”

Abraxas bent his head forward and said, “Yes, sir.”

WHAT’S HAPPENED:

Doctor Stephen Strange has discovered that New York City was transported to another world, and possibly another dimension (though no one is aware that this is Battleworld specifically). That solo has been published HERE.

The public is now aware that they are surrounded by millions of demons on the outskirts of New York City.

Doctor Doom, working with his Secretary of State, Alexis Chamberlain, has retaliated by enforcing martial law which includes your characters now being asked to list their possible superpowers and weaponry -- guns and similar weapons may be confiscated. There is now a curfew of 11 PM. They have also been asked not to speak about the situation.

More importantly, Doctor Doom has worked out a spell that allows demons to blend in with the public and they have orders to eliminate immediate threats, primarily superheroes and important politicians/journalists. While they will not look human, they will be mostly invisible.

PROMPTS:

Character A and Character B will not remain silent about the revelation in New York City. They choose to publicly speak out about it either on the news or with the help of a journalist. This results in a demon attack, and the immediate shutdown of whatever network/newspaper they were attempting to use.

One of the demons that have been disguised to ‘blend in’ have been ordered to attack Character A. Character B is in their vicinity depending on the connection and immediately rushes in to help. This fight would be dangerous, the demon(s) is/are invisible for the most part.

Character A and Character B are reacting to the President’s martial law order. Are they upset? Do they agree? Are they angry?

Character A has not registered while Character B has. As Doom stated, they do not have to sign the Accords, but they are now required to list their powers. Character A is doing so with the registered Character B. How do they react to this, and what caused them to agree with the government? (Reminder: we have a list of the Registered superheroes HERE so you know who to plot with easily!)

#rebuildplotdrop

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thranduilsperkybutt · 8 years ago

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Office Supplies and Love

Gif Source

Pairings: Dean Winchester Smith/Reader; Sam Wesson makes an appearance but isn’t paired

Warnings: Fluff; Dean Smith being cute and lovable; The reader’s uncertainty and cold feet

Word Count: 3,932 words

Reader Gender: Female

Author: Meg

Summary: Dean Smith has just gotten promoted to VP of Sales and Marketing for Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc. and you, his on the low office fling and secretary, get him a customized pen as a congratulatory gift. He winds up confessing how he really feels about you, but are you ready for that? ((Had to give Dean Smith from 4x17 It’s a Terrible Life some love.))

A/N: I didn’t mean for it to be so long but the more I thought about Dean Smith the more I had the feels and the more I wrote! Oops! I’ve never entered a challenge before but I had so much fun writing this, so I hope everyone likes it. This is for Mimi’s Romcom Fluff Challenge from Say Anything prompt #59: She gave me a pen. I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen. @deansdirtylittlesecretsblog

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Things just kept going the right way for Dean as of late. He had completed that cleanse of his and lost a few pounds as a result. Sales were up in his division, which always reflected well upon his management at work. Of course, there was his unexpected promotion from Director to Vice President of Sales and Marketing. Then, there was tonight. To top off this perfect month he’d been having, the other corporate bigwigs of Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc. had announced the company was to host a business party to congratulate him on this new position. The suggestion had apparently been that of Mr. Adler’s, and no one ever argued with Mr. Adler that Dean knew of.

It could be said Dean was in a good mood tonight. He had no reason not to be after all the good news he’d gotten. Hell, even his hair had parted perfectly on the first try when he got ready for the function earlier in the evening. The suit he chose to wear was a little dressier than the usual, but still professional enough for a party hosted by his company. Even though the party was officially in his and the company’s honor, it was unofficially just as much to keep the morale of the other employees up and give him a chance to soothe the wounds of the coworkers that he’d beat out of the promoted position.

The invitation had been extended to everyone who worked in the company, from his department to the higher-ups. Even the tech guys had been invited, so he wasn’t surprised when he exited his car at the venue to almost immediately run into familiar faces upon entering.

“Hey, congratulations, Dean,” Sam Wesson offers his hand and Dean shakes it, but Dean’s real attention was on the phone in his other hand’s grip.

“Thanks, man. I really couldn’t do anything without the whole team, you know,” Dean politely smiles, thinking he’d be able to keep the fact that he was scanning the crowd subtle enough.

“Looking for someone?” Sam catches on, causing Dean’s eyes to snap back to the taller man’s as his lips part slightly at having been caught.

“Oh, well, yeah,” his admission comes out sheepishly, but Dean manages to keep a professional façade as he elaborates, “my… secretary said she’d be here.”

“Ah, part of that team of yours you’ve been shucking all the praise onto, huh? You should take some credit for yourself. After all, you’re the one with the promotion,” Sam reminds with a joking smile before he gives him a friendly pat on the shoulder, ultimately leaving him with, “I’ll let you find your secretary, but, hey, we should get together later.”

“Sure thing. Catch up with you later, Sam.”

Dean doesn’t know why he finds it so surprising every time he manages to keep himself professional when it came to you. Truth was, the title of secretary hardly defined you properly at this point. The two of you had been involved in more than a professional sense for the last four months now and it still shocked him just how easy it was to keep that detail private from his coworkers and friends.

The secrecy had added a spark to the relationship that hadn’t been present in any of his relationships prior to the one he had with you. There wasn’t any denying the fact that the power dynamic was a fantasy of his, but in the end Dean had gotten together with you not because your being his secretary was a turn-on, but because you were you.

As he moved further into the party he was stopped and congratulated by several other coworkers along the way, but the whole time he was keeping his eye out for you. He’d checked his phone several times already, even sending you a text asking if he’d beat you there, but hadn’t gotten any kind of response in return.

Just before Dean can reach the bar area to scan for you, Mr. Adler stops him with a deceptively strong hand on his shoulder, “There’s the man of the hour! How’s our newest VP of Sales and Marketing?”

“Mister Adler, it’s good to see you, sir,” Dean smiles, hoping it would hide the annoyance at his interruption.

It’s convincing enough, apparently, because Mr. Adler gives him a laugh so short it makes Dean wonder if it’s fake, “I’m expecting great things from you, Dean. Great things!” After that Dean somewhat drifts in and out of the conversation. He’d learned from his interaction with Sam and was successfully more subtle when his eyes occasionally darted to the crowd surrounding him and Mr. Adler in vain, never catching a glimpse of you. Mr. Adler finally ends the mostly one-sided conversation save for a few effortless responses from Dean with the same tight grin he’d started it with, “Go on and enjoy the party, Dean. After all, all of this is for you.”

Dean reflexively returns the handshake he’s offered, “Already am, sir.”

When a server passes by, he takes two champagnes. He wished they were offering something stronger, but if he didn’t find you in his next sweep of the room both of the drinks were going to wind up being for him. Just when he’s about to give up his search of the venue, he finds himself in a more secluded area away from the thick of the party. Aside from Dean, this room was otherwise empty he realizes as he steps further into it.

“Dean,” he hears like music to his ears, causing him to turn in search of the source of the call of his name, finding you under the arch he’d just walked through. Dean’s raised brows dissolve into a less stressed and happier look at the sight of you. The corners of his mouth quirk upwards into the first genuine smile he’d probably given all night, just for you.

“Was beginning to think you’d ditched me,” Dean begins, offering you the drink that you take with a small giggle as you shake your head. “I looked all over and didn’t see you. I can barely get through the workday without you, so I was beginning to panic when I thought I’d have to schmooze my way through tonight on my own.”

“I’m not that cruel, Dean,” you hum as you take a sip. Dean finally notices the small box you were holding in the same hand you held a clutch that matched your dress. It was a dark and professional looking box, wrapped with a single green ribbon that alerted him to the fact it was a present. Your eyes follow his to your hand and you raise the box to offer it to him, “I was a little late because I had to pick this up first. I know you’ve probably heard this a thousand times already, but congratulations on the promotion.”

Taking it, Dean chuckles, “You didn’t have to. You do enough for me already.”

“Just open it!” when he glances up, he sees the excitement at the prospect of him potentially liking your gift in your eyes. That’s reason enough for him to pull the ribbon free of its knot and lift the top off the box that fit easily in his hand.

“Woah, sweet,” Dean breathes at what he finds, “A MontBlanc? This is an amazing pen, (Y/N).”

“Figured you’d need something to sign ‘Dean Smith, Vice President of Sales and Marketing’ with,” you announce, taking another sip of your drink as your eyes flick from his eyes to the gift you’d given and back again. You studied him, gauging how much he liked it by the expression he wore.

Dean’s lips were parted in surprise, his brows raised as he lifted the pen from it’s sleek box. It’s weighted in his hands just as any luxury pen should feel and he already knows it’s going to write beautifully just by the packaging and reputation a MontBlanc had. It’s not until his thumb runs over the opposite side of its smooth surface that Dean feels the indentions there.

“You had it engraved?” Dean glances up at you after his eyes find his name in a beautiful font etched into the rollerball as if it were meant to be there all along.

You were biting your lip in anticipation at him, “Do you like it, Dean?”

“Like it? I love it! It’s just what I needed,” Dean laughs, placing the pen back into the box as he takes a step towards you, eyes focused on your lips as he questions, “Where would I be without you?”

“Hmm,” you pretend to think as his hand finds your arm, smoothing downy your skin until his fingers intertwine with your own, “good thing you don’t have to worry about that.”

When he kisses you it’s familiar yet foreign at the same time. The rational part of your mind knew that you’d kissed Dean before plenty a time, but somehow each time felt different. Each time was as if you were kissing him for the first time all over again. He was gentle yet firm against you, pressing into you and keeping control of the kiss with ease as his neck bent to allow his lips to come to your height. Dean was probably the best kisser you could think of and you really weren’t surprised of that fact. Even if you didn’t have first-hand testimony to give, you could have guess that because Dean just looked like he’d be a good kisser.

The chatter and music of the party seemed to dim in the distance as your ears focused more on Dean’s breaths and the sound of his lips against your own. The fabric of his suit is thick and soft against your fingers when you grip the collar to pull him against you the rest of the way until you were chest-to-chest. You knew better than to give into the temptation to run your fingers through his hair and mess up his part, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a struggle to resist.

Dean tasted of the few sips of champagne he’d had along with the peppermint he’d had before that hadn’t been completely washed away with the drink. He smelled of a cologne that was slightly more rugged than someone would think would fit a man like him, but it somehow fit perfectly all the same. You didn’t think you’d ever get enough of those small details about him.

Over the last four months neither of you had defined what you were to each other aside from your professional standings as the boss and his secretary. You didn’t mind that, really, because you were living in the moment. You hadn’t been looking for a serious relationship when you’d gotten involved with Mr. Smith. At the time, you’d in all honestly only been worried about what he could do with that mouth that was now moving against yours all these months after that very first encounter. You didn’t know what you were doing or what you were together, but none of that really mattered. You’d never looked at him and wondered, 'What are we?' with any sort of desire for an answer. All you did know was that right here, right now at this moment in your life you wanted him because you were having fun doing it.

That’s what you were thinking when you gripped the lapels of his suit, breathing against him fluidly as you kissed him back just as passionately as he was kissing you. God, did I already say you loved kissing him? You were entranced with how his lips nipped and sucked against your own. Dean didn’t use too much tongue like some of your previous boyfriends did, more of an occasional tease with it than anything else. The brunt of the effort of the kiss was taken on by those plump lips of his. Lips that, were they situated on anyone else’s face would perhaps look feminine, but framed by Dean’s jaw and the slight shadow of stubble that fought back against its daily shave, only served to make him look even more tempting than he already did.

Dean pulls away suddenly but keeps you against him by his hands on your waist and in your own, respectively. The look that furrowed his brow was more intense than you think you’d seen before as he captured your eyes with purpose. It was almost akin to one of those looks you’d seen him get whenever he was deciding on some important change to be implemented in the department, brows furrowed until that little dent appeared between them and his lips slightly parted in thought. Then, he said it. Words heavy with honesty and fueled by the expectation of reciprocation as that was all they had ever been met with before. Words that Dean had heard frequently from his parents, Bob and Ellen, and his sister, Jo, along with a few of his past loves that he lost along the way. Words that, now, Dean was saying to you in such a heartfelt way that it honestly, deep down, scared you a little bit.

“I love you.”

“What,” you hear yourself reply blandly as if in a daze, more stunned than anything else as you still process his words. Your heart skipped a beat, your breath caught, and you were certain for a split, terrifying second that you were having a heart attack.

As quickly as that second passed and the next came, you realized you weren't.

“I’m in love with you, (Y/N),” Dean repeats, tilting his head slightly as he looks to you for a response in a similar vein to the confession he’d just made. The first flicker of worry showing in his eyes at your hesitation.

Dean was in love. With you?

“Why?” you can’t help the single word from slipping from you in a genuine confusion, earning a stunned look from Dean as he opens and closes his mouth for a moment.

“Huh?” is all he can manage, the initial romance of his confession slowly fading from the air the longer you didn’t repeat his words back to him.

“We’ve only been together for four months,” you begin, pulling away just enough that his hand falls from your waist but keeps your grip, “How can you possibly know that you love me? We aren’t even public, Dean. We don’t even know what ‘we’ are!”

You knew that look that he was giving you now. It was the one he had when he was problem-solving. When he was spurting out new ideas for the company that could have it working a hundred times better than it was. Maximizing profit.

Problem was, you weren’t some problem Dean could solve in that moment. You were a girl standing in front of him and asking him how he could possibly know he loved you right now. In fact, you were the first girl to ever have asked Dean why.

“I know, baby,” Dean assures, reaching up to grip you by your biceps as his thumbs rub against you gently, not serving to settle you any despite their efforts. “I know I love you. Believe me. Have I ever lied to you before?”

“If you don’t know the reasons why, how do you know for sure?” you shoot back, pulling back fully this time as you try to compose yourself. Give yourself a moment to catch your breath and not break down right here as the terror of his confession and what it meant seeped into your skin. You needed to leave. Right now. “I think--- I need to go home. Goodnight, Dean.”

“What? Wait,” he goes after you, but you’re already out of his reach as you quickly escape towards the party. By the time he catches up, you’re in the middle of it, surrounded by people you knew from work with no intention of stopping. He grabs some of their attention when he calls your name, “(Y/N), wait!”

Only you don’t stop and Dean knows he can’t follow you as you exit the party. He was the guest of honor and still hadn’t given any sort of speech that was still expected later in the evening. Dean is left wide-eyed and open-mouthed as he watches you disappear through the doors that people were still entering from, his chest feeling heavy as he wondered if he’d just messed things up with you by moving too fast.

He finds himself wandering over the bar, sitting the pen’s box in front of him as he finally nursed that stronger drink he’d wanted earlier.

Dean doesn’t even really notice Sam settling into the seat beside him until he asks, “Did you find your secretary?”

Dean glances towards him out of the corner of his eye, a deep frown on his face as he dwells further on the events of the night, “Yeah, I did.” He debates for a split second if he wanted to elaborate to this tech guy, but something about Sam was inviting to him. For some reason, Dean wanted to open up to Sam, “I seriously think I screwed things up, Sam.”

A flash of realization shows on Sam’s face, “Ah, so you and your secretary are...”

“Yeah,” Dean takes a swig of his drink, leaning back in his chair as he reaches forward to finger the box in thought. “Or, at least, we were. I don’t know if she feels the same about me anymore.”

“What’s that?” Sam asks, nodding towards the box.

“It’s a pen. She gave me a pen,” a scoff comes from Dean, “I gave her my heart, she gave me a pen.”

“Alright, that’s it,” Sam sighs, taking the drink from Dean, ignoring the surprised glare it gets him, “you’re going after her. If you feel that strongly about her, than this party shouldn't matter at all. Mr. Adler and the other suits can handle tonight without you. Just say you got sick or something.”

“I can’t just ditch this! This is my life, Sam,” Dean protests, but even when he says it it feels wrong. Off.

“Can you accept that this could possibly be a life without the girl you supposedly love, then? Because if you can, I don't know if you can say it’s really love you’re feeling,” Sam shoots back, giving Dean a look that somehow seems familiar even though he knew the tech guy hadn’t ever given it to him before. “Just something to think about.”

There was a logical side of Dean that hesitates for a moment. A side of him that was worried about the implications leaving would have on his job, but that side of him wasn’t loud enough at the moment. Dean gives a nod and swipes the box off the bartop, knowing he had to do what Sam was suggesting in order to feel right about himself tomorrow morning.

“You’re right, Sammy. I’m going after her.”

“Yeah, don’t call me that,” Sam chuckles. “Good luck, Dean.”

“Thanks. I’ll need it.”

Dean finds himself tapping his foot as he waited impatiently on the valet to pull his car around. The butterflies in his stomach weren’t going away any time soon as he thought back to how you’d reacted after he had told you how he felt. You had asked him why did he love you? Dean had the time it took to drive to your place to collect those reasons into words that he hadn’t been able to articulate on the spot.

But as he knocked on your door, he knew that any words he could possibly say would still be inadequate to the feelings he had for you, even though you’d only been together for the span of four months.

“(Y/N), baby? Come on open the door,” Dean calls as he knocks again, resting his forehead on the wood of the door until he hears you unlock it. It swings open and he’s caught by your wary eyes.

You hadn’t yet changed out of your dress, but Dean’s tie was a little looser around his neck than it had been at the party, “Dean, I---”

“You want to know how I know I love you, right?” he interrupts and you see the flicker of fear in his eyes for a moment, probably afraid you’d close the door on him. Dean takes a shaky breath when you don’t reply, “It’s that feeling in my gut, alright. Unlike anything I’ve ever felt--- it makes the feelings that I had for anyone before you seem childish in comparison. Hell, I left the party because of how I feel about you, (Y/N). So what if Mr. Adler chews me out tomorrow? Not even my job matters if I mess this up with you.”

You swallow dryly, leaning out of the doorway as you ask, “Do you want to do this out here, or do you want to come in?”

“Yes, please,” he huffs, moving past you and into the house. His hand goes to the back of his neck as he rubs it nervously for a second.

“So, you really love me, Dean? It’s not just some four-letter-word to you?” watching him cautiously, you lean on the closed door. You couldn’t help but be skeptical. After all, things were going so fast between you and the way you felt for him scared you. You were afraid of getting your heart broken and the more you dwelled on his confession, the more you realized you were dangerously vulnerable. You couldn’t admit it out loud, not until you were certain.

“Some four-letter-word? (Y/N), does that sound like me? I wouldn’t play like this with you. I love you and I mean it,” Dean steps towards you and you find yourself cornered between him and your door. “You’re so thoughtful all the time. So damn thorough that honestly it can make me angry when you pick up on little things that I don’t want you to notice, but it’s what makes you great at your job. I can’t go on without you. If you don’t love me, too, I can accept that, but if you’re worried I’m playing you, that’s not me.” His hand comes up to your jaw, cupping it as he gives you a crooked smile, searching your eyes for an answer, “If I have to say it a thousand more times before you’ll believe me, I will. I love you.”

Your hands find his hips as you inch up on your toes to brush your lips against his gently. He pushes back into your kiss until you rock back onto the pads of your feet, kissing you smoothly against the door to your home. You could feel the box of your present to him in his front pocket, but the mild discomfort only sits in the back of your mind. Dean’s ‘I love you’ played over and over in your mind and from this kiss, you know he’s telling the truth.

You part from him with his taste still on your tongue, your smile wide as you giggle in happiness, “If you want to say it a thousand more times, I won’t complain. I love you, too, Dean.”

Dean lets out a relieved breath before grinning at you, “You had me scared for a while, there, you know that right? You sure do have a way of keeping me on my toes, (Y/N).” He bends to kiss the side of your mouth before he pecks your cheek, “See? There’s another reason I love you.”

#mimi's romcom fluff challenge #dean smith fanfic #dean winchester fanfic #supernatural fanfic #supernatural female reader insert #fanfiction #Fanfic by me #author meg #newstuff female reader insert

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shadowolf19 · 6 years ago

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[Fic] I Can’t Do Anything Now That You’re Gone

Words: 3918 Fandom: Marvel Sub-fandom: Earth 616 Genre: Angst, Dramatic, Introspective Pairing: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark Rating: M Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Death, Missing Moments, One Shot, Notes: First fill for my Stony Bingo card (prompt “hurt/comfort”) which is on at cap_ironman (and will be until the end of the month). It's set right after Civil War ends and basically during Captain America: The Death Of The Dream in which Cap gets shot. Had to tinker a bit about him dying during the ambulance ride for obvious narrative purposes but it's explained in the fic anyway. My friend @jetblackfeeling also asked me to write something angst with a major character death so I combined the two since we have it in canon thanks to Civil War. This is for him <3

His phone rings once again. It has barely stopped since this morning, and it’s only 11am. This is going to be a hell of a long day.

“Mr. Stark?”

“What now?”

“There’s been a shooting, sir.”

He sighs deeply. He doesn’t have time for this.

“So what? Look who’s available and—“

“It’s Captain America, sir.”

At first Tony doesn’t think he has heard it right. It can’t be. It’s Steve, come on.

“What do you mean, Captain America?”

“He’s been shot, sir. On his way to the federal courthouse.”

Suddenly his ears start ringing. He squeezes his eyes as if to push that noise away, but he knows it’s only in his mind. He takes a deep breath before answering, a desperate attempt to steady his shaky voice.

“Who’s with him?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t told.”

“Do you know where are they taking him?”

“Mercy Hospital, sir.”

He hangs up without even thanking him. His head is aching but is nothing compared to the sting of dull pain he feels in the left part of his chest.

∞

It takes a while, but eventually his brain starts gearing up again whilst a helicopter is flying him to the hospital. With the sniper still at large, possibly ready to strike again, he decides the only smart thing to do is to let the world believe the person who did it… succeeded. He can’t bring himself to say the exact words out loud, even if he really should. Because doing it would mean entertaining, even just as a mere possibility, that idea, and sorry, he’s not doing it, not now, not ever. Steve is Steve, right? He’s America’s one and only super soldier. He’s been around for nearly a century. A stupid and insignificant human mercenary is not going to do much damage now, is it? What a nonsense. Time I get to the hospital he’s gonna be up and wanting to be escorted to the courthouse again. Yeah, that’s what going to happen. He knows it. But he’s going to make sure that Steve is well rested and looked after for at least a couple of days before he lets him out of the doctors’ sight again, no matter how hard Roger will try and protest. That will also give them the chance to catch the perpetrator and make sure they don’t see the light of day ever again. He might even try and push for the death penalty. Sure, Washington doesn’t have it anymore, but hey, special occasions call for special measures, right? That’ll teach all those bastards a lesson, so they’ll think it over before h—

“Sir? We’re here.”

The pilot’s voice sounds so remote to his ears that for a moment he doesn’t understand where it’s coming from; he gives a little pat on her shoulder as a thank you, then steps out of the helicopter and follows the agent greeting him inside, where they’re joined by the hospital’s head physician.

“How bad?” he asks, even if he doesn’t want to hear it, not one bit. Not before he sees him, at least.

“He’s suffered severe damage to his c—“

“In English, thank you.”

They stop in front of Steve’s room, and the doctor steps in front of him, giving a deep and penetrating stare that makes the whole of Tony’s body grow limp in a second, so much so that he has to lean a hand against the wall to stay on his feet.

“The truth, sir?”

“Do you think I’ve got time for anything else?”

“If he was a regular guy, he wouldn’t even have made it to the hospital.”

“But he’s not now, is he?”

“No, but sir, you have to un—“

“Is he conscious?”

“Not right now, we had to sedate him. Sir, if I may…”

“I’m going in. You.” He gestures to the agent who was trying real hard to blend in with the wallpaper, obviously without succeeding. “Make sure this whole floor is free, I don’t want anyone else around, okay? Have I made myself clear?”

“Yessir” the guy replies, giving him an unnecessary military salute for all good measure.

“Hey, you can’t just do t—“ the doctor protests, looking at him as if he was insane. Which he probably is, right now. How could I not be?

“I can, and I’m doing it. If you don’t like it, you can take it up to my superior. He’s the President of the United States.” he replies tersely, and ignoring the expression of disbelief on the other man’s face, he opens the door and gets inside the room, closing the door behind himself and locking it.

There’s a perforating smell of dirt and blood in the air, the light is dimmed and the only sound he hears is the blip of the cardio machine recording Steve’s heart rate. So slow and sporadic that you could think it’s not working at all. Tony takes a deep breath and gets near the bed, his throat growing tighter with each step forward that he takes. The blood from the wounds – how many he’s terrified of actually counting – has irremediably stained the blue and white parts of his uniform, so that now it’s only different shades of red. You’re gonna need a brand new one, Captain. Tony desperately wants to throw up, not only the three cups of coffee he’s drank today so far, but possibly his own soul too, or what there is left of it. Probably not a lot, after all that’s happened recently.

“My god, Steve…” he whines, fighting back some unwanted wetness that has been gathering in his eyes.

There’s a chair by the bed on which he lets himself slide down onto, staying like that for whole minutes, silent and still, unable to do anything else except for staring at Steve. At the fucking mess he himself has contributed to create.

Slowly, as if it had a brain of its own, one of his hands slips gently on the other man’s, leaning on it and crossing their fingers together. Tony looks at them as if he was truly mesmerized at what has just happened, and at the same moment he blinks, letting a couple of tears run down freely against his cheeks. He brings Steve’s hand on his lips to leave a kiss on its back, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths to calm himself down, to at least restore some of his composure. Or trying to.

“C-Careful to not let… Sharon s-see you…” a voice – his voice – says all of a sudden, and Tony has to really keep himself from screaming out loud now. He ventures a look at Steve, trying to smile despite it all but falling short in his attempt. He snuffles then, quick to hide any trace that could spur the rumors that he is indeed, after all, irremediably human. Tony can’t allow that to happen, not today, not in the nearby future. Not when there are so many things to discuss and settle; not when he’s the only one both the public and the government can rely upon. As if.

“Hey old man… You gave everyone quite the scare out there…” he replies, his lips still against Steve’s hand, as if keeping it there would actually help things to get better, his wounds to heal.

“W-Who?”

“Still no clue, but we’ll get them. We always do.”

Steve puts the oxygen mask back on his mouth and closes his eyes, but lets his hand being held by Tony, who seems unable to move from that position. Or to find some meaningful words to say.

And it’s not because he doesn’t know what he would like to say, on the contrary. There are so many damn things he only wishes he could express out loud, but they all seem… wrong somehow. ‘I’m sorry’ would be the first one obviously, because that’s always how you’re supposed to start, right? And don’t get him wrong, he is sorry, of course he is, even if this is not his fault, not really, but the point is, he should have said it earlier, when there was still time to contain the situation. Now, it would sound like something you say just because, and that’s not really how he operates.

Next, he would probably say that he wants to sneak Steve out of the country somehow, because when he got the call earlier today he felt his heart crumble and like the most powerful alarm in the world had just woke him up from some sort of hypnosis, and now both the world and his own life are a mess and the only solution he can think of is making him disappear for a while so that he has time to work everything else out. But Steve would protest and spit some patriotic bullshit out of his mouth, which is not a discussion he’s willing to have right now, not when the other man is in these critical conditions. So that’s another pass.

Then he would probably beg him for forgiveness, which is not the same as apologizing, because while the latter would be professional, the former is… personal. It wouldn’t be Iron Man or the Director of SHIELD going back on his steps; it would be Tony Stark asking Steve Rogers for a second chance, a do-over, a chance of redemption for all the mistakes he’s made regarding them, all of these years. He could probably lead with this, now that he’s thinking about it.

He takes a look around the room to see if there are any cameras recording; it appears to be none, so he’s about to open his mouth and pour his heart out when Steve beats him to it.

“Why… didn’t we s-stop… before it got this… bad, Tony?”

Hearing his name slurred out in such pain hurts his heart more than the truth contained in his other words does. He turns to look at Steve, kissing his hand again, and runs his fingers through his short, blonde hair now sticky on the account of sweat and blood, sighing before answering: “Because at the end of the day, we were both foolish enough to believe the other would come around. And when neither of us did, we were just too damn proud to admit it wasn’t worth it.”

Steve tries to smile, but it’s so tiny and fragile that Tony has to look away: “We are… a couple of i-idiots, you… you know that, right?”

“That’s the understatement of the century, Cap.”

Steve’s smile grows a bit now and it becomes lighter, giving Tony the smallest flicker of hope in his heart; he stands up and heads to the sink nearby, fishing a handkerchief from his pocket and letting some cold water on it before going back to his seat. He moves the chair closer to the bed and then carefully and gently starts cleaning up Steve’s face, trying to be as delicate as he possibly can.

“Tony…”

“Shut up and let me do this. I can’t stand looking at you covered in your own blood like this. I’m gonna fire all of the nurses in this dump of a hospital, I swear to god…”

Steve sighs but doesn’t add anything else, mostly because he doesn’t have the energy to argue, but also because he seems to enjoy the other man’s dedication, or at least that’s what Tony hopes.

It takes some time – and a couple more of handkerchiefs – but eventually he manages to get all the crusty blood off Steve’s face. He knows it does nothing for the wounds, nevertheless he thinks it makes him more… himself, and maybe that could help him on a psychological level. He has no clue really, but at this point it doesn’t really matter to him. And maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks on him, but when Steve talks again, his voice sounds somewhat stronger.

“What… are we gonna do now?”

There it is, the question he has been thinking about nonstop for the past few hours. He knows what his ideal solution would be (“Fancy a holiday, Steve? I’d visit during weekends!”), but alas, that’s not even worth bringing up, he already knows what the reply would be. So he goes for the third down his list, the more practical and – in certain aspects – legal.

“I’ve already contacted the best defense lawyer in the US, he’s studying the case as we speak. You won’t be charged. It’s gonna be a tough and maybe lengthy process, but you’re not going to be in jail for any of it. And eventually, you’ll win.”

“You can’t… know that for sure…” Steve replies, smiling softly nevertheless. Tony’s heart skips a beat.

“Oh believe me, you will.” he says, adding a small wink that was begging him to come out.

Steve shakes his head to himself, and Tony knows in any other occasion he would be protesting, claiming that it’s not fair, that he doesn’t want special treatment or anything of the likes, that he can’t just fluttering his money around to make problems go away.

For sure Steve is about to reply something along those lines as he lifts up the oxygen mask from his mouth and pulls it on the side, but this time is Tony who beats him to it, leaning his lips on his and leaving a small kiss on them, closing his eyes and staying there, unable to let them (or him) go. Much to his surprise, not only Steve doesn’t turn his face away, but he even returns the kiss, one of his hands leaning against Tony’s unshaved cheek.

As his mouth receives a taste of metallic blood and artificial air, Tony’s defenses start to quietly crumble down, and before he knows it he’s crying silent tears that drip on Steve’s face as if they were sharing a secret bond that no words could ever manage to fully describe. They kiss again, and this time when their mouths part Steve is actually smiling in what seems like the first real time in a long while.

“Never thought… I’d see you cry, Shellhead” he whispers, and Tony wants so desperately to laugh it off and tease him and act normally because he knows that’s what Steve needs right now. But he can’t, no matter how much his brain is screaming at him, it’s his heart the one in control at the moment. All he manages is sobbing out loud, turning away as hearing his own grotesque wails, muttering a “For fuck’s sake” under his breath, embarrassed and guilty and ashamed. He stands up and rubs his eyes, swallowing hard, trying to stop. He hates himself.

When he manages to stop, eventually, he sits back down, shaking his head as much to himself as at Steve, not knowing how to follow up on his remark. Once again, the other man is the one breaking the silence, quite remarkable if you think he’s the one fighting for his life.

“Tony?”

“I… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”

But Steve shakes slightly his head and painfully stretches a hand out to catch Tony’s: “Do you still love me?”

Tony blinks, and for the second time today he thinks he hasn’t heard the words right. He didn’t just ask me that, did he? He lifts his gaze on Steve, finding a dead-ass stance in his blue eyes now. He actually did.

“I’ve never stopped…” he mumbles, the simplicity of his words the only way to express such pure feelings. And although is so terrified of hearing the answer, he has to ask the question back: “Do you?”

“I’ve never… stopped.”

They smile at each other, and for a moment it’s like nothing has happened between them and they’re not in a stinky and cold hospital room where one of their lives is hanging by a thread. For a moment they are back at the mansion, sitting next to each other on the sofa in front of the TV, waiting for everyone else to go to sleep so they can cuddle and kiss and make love to forget about fighting criminals and evil masterminds and feel wholesome again. Then Steve starts coughing, his heart rate slightly increases and so does the blip on the monitor, and the moment passes but Tony doesn’t want to let it go, because the reality they live in now sucks and it could even get worse just with a snap of fingers.

He stands up, sits on the edge of the bed and before Steve can say anything to try and stop him he’s lying down next to him with slow and delicate movements, trying not to brush against his wounded body. When he sees the other man lifting up the mask again, he pushes it gently down and shakes his head.

“Not a word. You need to rest, and I don’t want to let you go.”

Steve mouths a ‘thank you’ before closing his eyes, and Tony leaves a kiss on his cheek, grateful for not having to provide further explanation. He wouldn’t have wanted to say that he’s so scared of seeing him slipping away right in front of his eyes that he figured, if he just held him tight, Death wouldn’t manage to steal him away from him. And not because he believes he’s invincible or what – if today proved anything is that nobody really is, at the end of the day – but because don’t they say that love conquers all? Soppy as it is, Tony hopes with everything he’s got that it’s true. The alternative is too terrifying for him to even think about it.

∞

Although it hadn’t been his intention, he ends up falling asleep a few hours after Steve, swiftly dozing off in an unconscious sleepiness, the result of too many nights spent awake since this crisis started. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out, but it’s the incessant and frantic blip of the monitor that eventually wakes him up, immediately followed by the deep panic that quickly gathers control of his body.

“Steve?” he says tentatively, and when there’s no reply his instincts click in and make him jump out of the bed to hurry to the door. He unlocks it and starts screaming, a desperate howl echoing in the empty hallway: “Help! Someone help!”

The head physician comes running towards him straightaway, and Tony realizes that the machine must be connected to a computer in the doctors’ lounge.

“Did anything happen?”

“I-I don’t know, I… fell asleep” he replies, feeling stupid and useless and guilty whilst his heart is racing way too fast.

“Okay… Stay here” the doctor tells him, hurrying inside.

But Tony has no intention of obeying, so he follows the stream of nurses in the room, standing aside as to not obstruct their maneuvers. Steve, please… You can’t do this to me… I need you to be with me, look what happens when we’re not together. Steve…

There are too many people in the room now, too many noises all around the bed, not enough space. Tony feels like he’s suffocating. He can’t spot Steve anymore under all those white coats and that makes everything ten times worse. Then the heart rate machine grows silent, the voices louder and Tony’s ears start ringing as if someone was dragging their sharp fingernails across a smooth surface. He only manages to hear random words: “Cardiac arrest”, “ECG” and “paddles”, followed by ever increasing numbers shouted in the air. He covers his face to try and filter at least some of the noise out, but with little result; soon enough, his own body goes into safe mode and he just stays there, not able to think or move, for god knows how long.

It’s only when the head physician starts shaking him by his arms that he opens his eyes again, regaining a sense of himself and his surroundings.

“I’m sorry, sir. I did the best I could” the doctor tells him in a low voice of one who has been delivering bad news for far too long. When he looks beyond him Tony sees a procession of nurses silently making their way out of the room. He knows what’s happened, it really doesn’t take a genius to figure it out, but all the same, he needs to ask, he needs to hear it.

“What do you mean, you’re ‘sorry’? What’s going on?”

“Steve Rogers… Captain America is dead, sir.”

“No. That can’t be.” He moves past the doctor and approaches the bed. Steve is still there, his body warm to the touch. “How long have you tried CPR for?”

“More than enough. Five minutes and counting.”

“Do ten, for fuck’s sake! He’s a super soldier, don’t you know that?!”

The doctor gives him a comforting smile followed by an amicable pat on his back: “I’ll give you a moment.”

Tony nods and holds his breath as if he was underwater until the man leaves the room and closes the door behind; the silence explodes between the walls and inside of him, and all he can do is dropping on his knees, shaking as he begins to sob and cry as quietly as he can.

∞

Ten minutes go by before he is eventually able to pull himself together and leave Steve’s side, shambling his feet outside the room, his eyes red and swollen, feeling old and weary. The head physician stops talking to a nurse as soon as he sees him and approaches him, looking at him. Tony doesn’t return his gaze, fixed on the pavement.

“What do we do now, sir?”

“I’ll give instructions to collect… We need…” words just keep escaping him, he doesn’t know how to do this, he doesn’t know if he can do this. This is too much. “He can’t… stay here. I’ll make arrangements. I’ll let you know as soon as I have a plan. In the meantime… four agents will guard the room, nobody in or out except for you. As of now, this whole building is in lockdown. All of the other patients’ visits are suspended for the time being. I hope you understand.”

The doctor nods, and Tony is relieved that he doesn’t have to fight about this. “What about… family? Did he have a partner?”

His partner was there when he died, he thinks, but of course he can’t say it out loud. “I’ll take care of that too.” he sighs, and there’s enough fatigue and anguish in those words for the man in front of him to take his leave.

He had me, and I let him down. We could have talked it out, but we decided to fight instead. All of these years together, and still we let something come between us.

Tony shakes his head and snuffles, having to fight another wave of tears from coming out. There will be no more evenings on the sofa, no more fighting side by side, no more sneaking out in the middle of the night to go sleep in the other’s bed. Steve is gone, and Tony is partially responsible for that, and the guilt is going to eat him alive, he can feel it already.

I was his partner, he was my soulmate and I was his home. But we never told anyone, and now he’s gone, and I’ll just be the guy whom everyone will blame for it.

Steve Rogers is dead, and I think I am too.

#SteveTony #Stony Fic #Stony #steve x tony #Steve Rogers #Tony Stark #My Fic

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