#and he has a bad case of resting melancholy face change my mind

[elfkissing]

[ID in alt text]

Episode 29 and we got through an argument with no ridiculously personal insults or death threats now that’s what I call progress!!!💛

[tangledstarlight]

i’ll say it with petals (you’ll ink it in my skin)

julie works at her families flower shop and luke works in the tattoo parlour next door. one time he plays his music a little too loud, one time julie decides to have a word.

it just a lil flower shop / tattoo artist au

i honestly had so much fun writing this one and it really truly did get away from me. i didn’t mean for it to be 11k words long, my bad. it also lowkey covers the ‘how do you passive aggressively say fuck you in flowers’ prompt, so the flower meanings are at the end. 

but anyway please enjoy!!!

also on ao3 (in source!)

trigger warnings! death mentions (julies mom), mild swearing, underage drinking (literally a single beer) needles.

When she was little Julie remembers always being excited to get to go to work with her mom at the flower shop. Because she liked to spend time with her mom, but also because Julie really loved all the flowers.

Walking into the shop when she was little always felt a little like walking into a magical world. Somewhere full of bright colours and loud scents and soft instrumental music always playing in the background. It felt a lot like home too.

With her mom singing and her tia laughing and Julie trying to join in with both. She remembers, when she was little, always pulling one of the tall chairs up to the counter, greeting customers with a gap toothed smile and asking in her best voice ‘what can I help you with today?’ but she’d a little bit of a lisp and the chair would wobble and the customer would smile politely but ring the bell for her mom or tia to come bustling out.

Walking into the shop still feels a little bit magical even now she’s nineteen and no longer full of childhood wonder, but it’s also tinged with a melancholy feeling that has her sitting at the front counter on one of the tall chairs and humming quietly to herself.

When Julie thinks back on her childhood now, it’s full of music and laughter and flowers. When she closes her eyes, when the shop is quiet and she’s alone in the backroom, she can almost hear her mom singing about flower names to her and hear tia talking away to a customer and her dad dropping by to kiss her hair and leave lunch. It used to hurt, and sometimes it still does, but mostly it just makes her smile.

Until the sound of heavy drums and a loud guitar breaks her peaceful afternoon.

Julie accidentally snaps the stem of the lily in her hand as she glares at the wall that connects their shop to the tattoo parlour next door. For the last two weekends this has been happening on and off. The music would start blaring at random points in the day and abruptly stop. Only to start again a little later on.

Now see, despite what people at her school might have said in senior year, Julie still loved music. She liked to play it just as loud as the next person, and she didn’t even mind whatever band it was that was playing. They had some very catchy riffs and melodies, from what she could hear.

But when your music echoed through the walls so loud that someone next door could hear the words, your music was too loud.

Putting the snapped lily down, Julie wipes her hands on her apron and glares a little more at the wall, like the person on the other side would be able to see her, when there’s no change she glances at the clock. Twelve o’clock. So much for having a quiet lunch break and watching an episode of Schitt’s Creek. The only silver lining was that the music didn’t normally last for long. Twenty minutes at most.

By one o’clock, when the music is still blasting and she’s starting to gain a headache and she’s started looking up obscure flowers that could mean ‘shut up’, Julie decides she needs to do something.

The tattoo parlour has been in business next door to Petal Pushers for the last six years and as far as Julie knows there’s never been any issues between them. (In fact, Julie knows that her mom had gotten her last tattoo there and that her tia often gave them leftover arrangements for their front window and four years ago, when the flower shop had undergone a rebrand, one of their artists had designed their logo.)

All she had to do was go next door and ask whoever it was to turn the volume down. Easy.

She finds herself waiting another half an hour, just in case, but she can still hear the crashing of drums and the pulsing bass.

So she slips her phone into her back pocket and picks up her keys, turns the sign on the door to ‘back in ten minutes!’ and walks the eight steps to the right, pushes open the door to Etched in Ink and is immediately attacked by music. There’s a more authentic feeling to it now she’s in the shop, something alive about it, but it might just be the volume and how she can see the bowl of lollies on the front desk actually vibrating.

“Hello?” Her voice gets lost in someone singing about time moving slowly as she steps further into the shop, eyes glancing around. She’s been in before –– she came when her mom got her tattoo and she’s dropped off flowers on occasion –– but it’s been a while. There’s some new art work on the walls she thinks, and band posters. Fingers tapping on the desk she shouts a hello again but isn’t surprised when it’s once again swallowed by the music

Rolling her eyes Julie steps around the desk and through to the main area of the shop where the music is impossibly louder, but there’s still no one around. Honestly, it would be so easy for someone to walk in and rob the place.

Her fingers walk along the arm arm of a chair as she walks through the space and towards a slightly ajar staff door at the back. Julie knocks, to be polite, but huffs out a breath when there’s still no response. Honestly, she can barely hear herself think in this place, let alone hear someone at the door.

Pushing it open, her mouth opens to reprimand whoever is inside but instead she’s left standing both thoughtless and speechless at the guy bouncing around the room.

He’s wearing black jeans and an orange beanie that contradict with the sleeveless band shirt covering his torso. Because that’s all it’s covering, and doing a poor job at that. Julie watches, a little transfixed, as his biceps flex, sleeve of tattoos dancing with the movement as he plays along with the guitar riff of the song on the electric in his hands.

Idly, in the back of her mind, she finally understands why the music had felt different when she stepped into the shop.

He nods his head in time with the music and the crashing of a cymbal, eyes shut tight and biting his bottom lip in concentration.

And okay, Julie knows she came over to yell at the asshole playing his music too loud and is now just gawking at him. But in her defence, she didn’t know he was going to be so hot.

Julie’s still standing in the doorway staring at him, her mind trying desperately to regain control, when he opens his eyes and looks right at her. His eyes widen a fraction in surprise, and she notices his fingers slip, just a little on the frets, before a smirk curls at the edges of his lips.

In mild horror and joy, Julie watches as he takes a step closer to her, fingers moving across the strings as he follows along with the song and stares right at her.

Swallowing, and trying to ignore how warm her cheeks suddenly feel, Julie crosses her arms over her chest and raises an eyebrow at him as the song finally seems to come to an end.

“I knocked!” She blurts out the second he hits pause on the cd player in the corner of the room and she resists the urge to move hair in front of her face when he looks at her with a single raised brow. “But it’s no surprise you couldn’t hear me over this racket,” she waves vauley to his guitar, careful to avoid eye contact with his arms.

“You work next door, right?” He asks, sitting on top of the table in the middle of the room, his feet resting on the chair while he rests his guitar on his lap, folding his arms on top, muscles flexing and oh god. She really needs to stop staring at his arms.

“Mhm,” she manages to get out along with a nod of her head, eyes darting up to his face. But from the look in his eyes Julie’s pretty sure she’s been caught staring.

“I’ve seen you around,” he pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and he smiles and Julie thinks that might be worse to look at then his arms. Fucking hell, “I’m uh Luke, by the way. Started here a few months ago.”

“Right,” this conversation was not going the way she anticipated. Pushing aside his employment history and his name –– though she is grateful to have it –– Julie clears her throat and pulls herself up a little straighter. “That’s great. I came to ask you to turn the music down. I can barely think next door.”

“You don’t like the songs?” There’s a slight pout on his lips that almost distracts her and has her saying she does like the songs.

Instead she shakes her head, “It’s not exactly the soundtrack I want when making a funeral arrangement.”

Honestly, she had been expecting him to nod in understanding, apologise for the loudness and promise to keep it down. She didn’t expect him to let out a laugh –– which was bright and clear and made his eyes crinkle in such a cute way that it totally distracted her from his biceps –– or lean towards her with a grin.

“Are you kidding!? A song about how life is short and you’ve got to live it like it’s now or never––” he sings the line and suddenly Julie is hit with the knowledge that the music she’s been hearing over the last few weeks is apparently his, ”Is the perfect soundtrack for a funeral arrangement. Also possibly christenings. But I don’t know if flowers are a thing for those.”

“Of course there’s –– No, no stop,” she closes her eyes, throwing her hands up before she really loses track of the conversation, “I’m not here to talk about flower arrangements. I just came to ask for you to please turn the music down,” she pauses, eyes darting to his arms and the guitar they’re resting on before pointing at the amp its plugging into, “And if you’re going to play, to do it at a 1, not a 10.”

“Even if I play something arrangement appropriate like You Raise Me Up?” Luke leans a little more forward, pushing himself to the edge of the table until his guitar is almost touching the back of the chair.

“Even if you played Danny Boy,” Julie doesn’t know when she’d copied him, tilting forward at the waist so they were almost eye level, but when she notices she can make out the details of the book inked into his skin she realises they’ve drifted closer. Cheeks warming, she stands up straighter and brushes her hands down her apron.

“Just–– keep it down. Please,” she turns to walk out the door but hesitates, turning to look at him over her shoulder, eyes firmly on his face, “If not for my sake then for your own. Anyone could walk in here and rob you, and you wouldn't hear a thing.”

“Hey wait! You didn’t tell me your name! Can’t spend the whole conversation staring at my arms and not give me something.”

Julie pauses, lets her eyes wander from his fingers resting on the neck of his guitar, up his inked forearms and biceps before landing on his face, quirking her lips a little, “Think of it as payment for disrupting my lunch.”

She’s halfway through the main room when she hears him stuttering out a laugh and calling after her again, and it takes all her willpower not to turn around.

Unfortunately that means she’s a blushing mess by the time she makes it back into her shop, shaking her head as she tries to stop smiling.

//

After their first encounter Luke doesn’t play his music too loud anymore, but Julie suddenly starts seeing him all the time anyway.

A Tuesday morning when she’s opening up, blinking back a yawn and fumbling with her keys and he’s wandering up with a wide grin and too chirpy hello. She’s fairly certain she grumbles something about daylight and needing coffee before dealing with him and an amused smile on his lips. (The next Tuesday when he’d strolled up he’d had a carrier with two take out cups and handed one to her without a word. Julie had stood stunned for a few seconds before her brain kicked in and she’d opened the door with a muttered thanks.)

A Thursday evening when she’s lugging a bag of garbage out to the bins at the back of the shop and Luke’s sitting on the old deck chair in his shop's yard, notebook open on his lap and pen tapping on his knee. He’d gotten up, pen tucked behind his ear and book stuffed in his back pocket, and come over to help her. After she’d said thank you they’d hesitated in each other's space and shared a smile before going their separate ways. (Later, Juile wrinkles her nose when she realises it’s the first time they’ve both smiled at each other and it had been next to the god damn bins.)

A Friday at lunch time when she’s bringing out a tray of flowers to give to the hearse driver parked on the street and Luke walks past humming the tune to Danny Boy under his breath, making her burst into a fit of giggles that makes him grin and the driver frown and her blush. (She sees him walking past again half an hour later and waits until she’s sure he’s inside before hitting play on their sound system, You Raise Me Up starts blasting through the shop and she grins to herself when she hears something hit their connecting wall.)

A Sunday afternoon when she’s collecting all the leftover bouquets from out front of the shop and Luke walks past her, hands in his pockets and guariar case slung over one shoulder. He pauses as she straightens up with a collection of rose bouquets in her arms, she raises an eyebrow at him and Juile could swear he blushes, but it’s probably a trick of the dying light. He’d given her a two finger salute, muttered something about having a good afternoon and then hurried away. (Julie had spent the last hour of her shift before closing thinking about the way the denim jacket he had been wearing did very little to hide the definition of his arms.)

So Julie’s used to seeing him around now.

To their little quips and shared coffees on Tuesday mornings and the way the ghost tattoo at the bottom of his bicep seems to dance whenever he shoots her a wave.

But she’s used to seeing him outside.

Never inside Petal Pushers surrounded by flowers or tilting his head as he listens to the softly playing music.

But on a Wednesday afternoon as she comes out of the back room when someone rings the bell on the counter she’s greeted by Luke doing just that. He’s got one hand pushed into the front pocket of her jeans while his other is idly tracing a pattern on the counter top, it’s only when she gets a little closer that she realises he’s tracing music notes.

“Hi, welcome to Petal Pushers. I’m Julie, how can I help you today?” The words leave her mouth before she can stop them, mind working on autopilot at the sight of a customer.

A slow smile spreads across Luke’s face as he looks down at her, his fingers stilling on the counter, “So you’re name’s Julie,” he says and Julie doesn’t think she’s ever heard anyone say her name like him. Like it’s the lyric to a song they’ve been trying to finish or a missing puzzle piece.

Letting out a sigh she gives him a nod, chewing on her bottom lip as she really looks at him. Over the last few weeks Julie has learned that he doesn’t work Wednesdays, that he has a real aversion to sleeves and when he knows no one is booked in for an appointment he uses the time to practice for his band. She’s also learnt that he bites his lip way too much for her health, has a tattoo on his ribs that she’s dying to fully see and that he rubs the back of his neck when he’s nervous.

Like he’s doing right now.

“It is. Did you just come in to finally find out or did you need some flowers?” She tilts head at him and smiles.

“I uh––” his hand is still rubbing at his neck and Julie watches his tongue run over his lips and she has to blink quickly to refocus her eyes when he starts talking, “I heard that flowers have different meanings, right?”

“Uh yeah,” she nods, still blinking, but more in confusion now. This isn’t quite what she thought the conversation was going to be.

“Okay cool. So um, how would you say fuck you in flowers?”

Julie blinks, opens her mouth to say something only to close it again. Huh. Really wasn’t what she expected him to ask.

“Well, do you want to say it subtly? Passive aggressive? Just a straight up fuck you?” Her mind is already thinking about possibilities and what they have in stock.

“Straight up fuck you,” he nods once before muttering, more to himself then her, “I don’t think Bobby would even understand subtly.”

Squinting for a moment, Julie knocks her knuckles on the counter top once before pushing away from it and starting to move around the shop. She picks out a few pink peonies and pale pink geraniums, she looks at the different carnations they have out, pursing her lips in thought.

“What exactly has this Bobby done? Dumped you for someone with better biceps?” She teases, glancing at him over her shoulder as she deliberates between the yellow and purple.

“I wish. That would have been better,” he sighs and Julie frowns at him, brows drawing together as she watches him tap on the counter. “He uh he used to be in my band? But he left because of ‘creative differences’, which was basically because he wanted us to sell out to the first big name label.”

He looks up at her, eyes wide and disgusted at the mere thought of it. And well, she understands that. From the little she’s heard of their band through the walls Julie’s fairly certain they don’t need to sell out to make it big. So she nods at him, tilting her head and hoping he gets that she understands.

“So he left and that was–– it was shit really because we’d all been friends for years. Me and the boys, we tried to keep in touch with him because he left the band but we didn’t think it meant we’d stop being friends, y’know?” Luke moves away from the counter now, wanders over to her and fingers the brushing gently over the petals of a rose as he frowns, “But he cut us off. Found out why yesterday.”

He pauses, fingers still moving over the rose and Julie takes the opportunity to pick out a few of the orange carnations, mentally deciding to fetch two sprigs of meadowsweet from the back when Luke starts talking again.

“He signed with some big shot label and has an album coming out in November. Seven out of the ten songs on it are mine,” as he says it he pulls a little to hard on the petal, tearing it in half, “Fuck, sorry.”

Julie waves away his apology, picking the damaged rose out and adding it to her arms. There’s a dull sort of roaring in her ears as she walks back to the counter, still trying to wrap her head around his story.

His friend had stolen his songs. Had stolen his songs and sold out.

She looks down at the flowers on the counter, stupidity and disappointment and uselessness and anger. Glancing up at Luke, who’s wandered back to the counter, hands pushing into his pockets and looking a little lost.

“He really stole your songs?” She asks gently. It’s been a long time since Julie played her own music, even longer since she wrote a full song, but she knows how much it would hurt her if someone ever stole them from her. Especially if that person had been her friend.

“Yeah,” Luke breaths, resting against the counter and shrugging at her.

“Okay then.”

Holding up one finger she hurries into the back room, picks up a roll of cellophane and the worst ribbons they have, two sprigs of meadowsweet and plucks a single orange lily from the bucket against the wall. Luke’s still leaning against the counter where she left him, staring at the collection of photos on the wall behind it. Most are just photos of their most popular bouquets but mixed between them are photos of her and her mom and her brother and her tia and her dad.

“Your aunt owns this place, right?” He asks casually. Too casually. Like he already knows the answer. Glancing up at him she hums, waiting to see where he’s going with it. “That’s cool. She brings us flowers for the front sometimes. Willie did your logo design, I think.”

Julie smiles at the mention of Willie, he’s a year older then her and had been working at Etched in Ink for the last four years, her mom had picked his design out she remembers. The rough sketched dahlia with music notes hidden in its petals and a rose in the centre. A combination of her moms and her tia’s favourite flowers and music that had always brought their family together.

“My mom said he really managed to capture our family business in it,” she chuckles, moving a carnation and adding one of the meadowood springs. Which might have been true, but Julie also knows they’d picked it because her mom only had a few months left and her tia wanted their new logo to still have something of her in it.

“He’s pretty good at doing that,” Luke agrees and the way he smiles at her lets Julie know that he knows about her mom. And she’s glad he doesn’t mention it, doesn’t try to offer any condolences. “He’s helping Reg re-do our bands logo.”

“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow though her eyes are still on the flowers. In go the peonies and geraniums, colours clashing.

“Sunset Curve. You should uh––” he hesitates for long enough that Julie looks up at him, at the faint blush on his cheeks and one hand at the back of his neck. “You should check us out. We’ve got a few videos on youtube. Or I could uh I could get you a copy of our demo.”

She looks at him for a heartbeat, at his pink cheeks and the way he’s biting his lip despite smiling and the blank space of skin on the underside of his arm. Julie gives him a half smile, eyebrows flicking up as she teases, “Okay, Sunset Swerve, right?”

“I’ll go back to playing our demo super loudly,” he tries to glare at her, but it's ruined by the way his lips stick out in a pout and the lock of hair falling across his forehead.

“Mhm, and I’ll just call the police with a noise complaint,” she grins at him.

“If you were gonna do that you’d have done it already,” he points out and yeah. He has a point there.

“Maybe,” she concedes looking back at the flowers and sticking the lily straight in the middle. No better way to say fuck you then with an orange lily. Without measuring she cuts off a length of the bright lime green ribbon and lays a section of cellophane on the counter top.

“That’s a terrible colour,” Luke points out mildly and when Julie flicks her eyes up she sees him grinning. She wraps two elastic bands around the flower stems and cuts them all down to the same size before laying them on the plastic wrap and rolling them together.

“Can you––” she gestures with her finger for Luke to hold the ribbon and cellophane in place while she ducks down to find a packet of flower food to attach. She might not like who the flowers are going to but that doesn’t mean the flowers should suffer the price. Tying the ribbon into a bow over Luke’s finger, she taps him lightly with her pinky to move it before pulling the loops tight.

“Do you want a card?” She asks, wondering which of their options would suit this type of bouquet best. Maybe just one of the plain yellow ones.

“Oh yeah. Can it say ‘Hey Bobby, fuck you’.”

Julie pauses with her pen hovering over the card, waiting to see if he’s going to add anything else.

“Just–– just that? Nothing more?” she looks up at him but Luke just shakes his head, nodding down to the card for her to finish. Shrugging she does, using her best cursive so he knows the sentiment is meant. She holds it up for Luke to inspect and when he grins she slots it into the flowers, stepping back a little to admire her creation.

It’s absolutely horrendous. It’s perfect.

“This is great,” Luke grins as his eyes roam across the flowers and Julie’s pretty sure he has no idea what any of them mean. But he’s definitely picked up on how awful it looks which seems to be good enough for him. “How much do I owe you?”

“Do you want them delivered?”

“Yeah that would be good,” he pulls his wallet out and Julie has to bite hard at her bottom lip to stop from laughing as she notices the chain attached to his belt.

“That’ll be $15,” she presses a few buttons on the cash machines screen, the card reader lighting up as she waits to see how he’ll be paying but Luke’s just frowning at her.

“That can’t be right. It says the orange and purples ones alone are like ten dollars.”

“Mhm, I’m only charging you for delivery,” she can tell he’s about to argue so she’s quick to speak, “As someone who once thought of herself as a musician, anyone who steals songs deserves worse than an ugly bouquet of flowers. Fifteen dollars Luke.”

There’s a different look in his eyes as he taps his card on the reader, something assessing. Like she’s just handed him another piece of a puzzle when he thought he’d completed it. Julie looks down at the card reader, ready to tear off his receipt so she doesn’t have to wonder what he’s seeing when he looks at her.

“They’ll go out this afternoon, be with Bobby by seven pm at the latest,” she says, pushing the post-it note with the address firmly onto the cellophane and gives Luke a smile.

“Thanks,” the smile he gives her in return is a lot softer than she’s used to from him. But she likes it. “I’ll uh, see you tomorrow?”

It’s a question, hesitant and careful. Almost like he’s worried she won't want to see him tomorrow. Which is silly. Seeing Luke, even briefly in passing, has quickly become her favourite part of the day. Not that she has any intention of letting him know that. That would be embarrassing.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Luke.”

“Bye. Julie,” and there’s her name again coming from his mouth that’s curving up into a smile. All she can do is wave awkwardly as he leaves.

A gasp of air leaves her lips as the door shuts behind him and she slumps forwards on the counter, nudging the flowers with her elbow, “Oh fuck.”

//

The saturday after the fuck you flowers Julie is handed an envelope by Victoria when she walks in for her shift at twelve o’clock. Julie gives her credit, she doesn’t start asking questions about ‘the puppy eyed boy’ until after she’s at least put her bag down.

“He all but pouted when I said you weren’t in yet, mija,” from the way Victoria wags her eyebrows Julie gets the feeling she might have ‘accidentally’ let slip when she was due in.

“I think that’s just his face tia. He made the same one when I said pizza was overrated.” Which was the wrong thing to say as Victoria’s eyes light up.

“And why were you talking about pizza?” She leans on the counter, handbag slipping down her shoulder at the movement.

“Because he mentioned he was getting pizza with his friends, that’s all. Nothing is going on between us, we’re just friends,” Julie tries to put as much stress on the word friends as she can. But Victoria just lets out a small hum, a knowing smile on her lips that Julie doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“If you say so Julie. Right, I’m off. See you for dinner tomorrow?” She pushes herself off from the counter, pushing up her bag and pointing one manicured hand at Julie.

“Papi’s making enchiladas, so there’s no need to bring anything.”

“Of course,” but they both know she’ll still bring something, perhaps a salad. Perhaps a whole meal. Victoria blows her a kiss and then turns in a flurry of skirts out of the door, leaving Julie shaking her head after her, a smile on her lips.

As soon as she’s sure that Victoria isn’t going to come bustling back in having forgotten something Julie unseals the envelope and pulls out a cd case with a post-it note stuck to the front. It takes her a while to work out what it says, but it’s easy enough to see the number scrawled at the bottom in a different handwriting.

It makes her smile, thinking about Luke writing the note and then asking one of his friends to write his number, like he wanted to make sure she could clearly read it. It almost makes her think he really wants to know her thoughts.

Making sure no one's about to come into the shop Julie slips into the back room and over to their sound system, taking out the cd of classical music and replacing it with the Sunset Curve demo. It doesn’t take her long to recognise the opening guitar riffs as the song that Luke had been playing along too when they’d first met, laughing a little to herself, she goes back to the front. Pulling one of the chairs over, she sits down and flips through the little leaflet that the cd came with.

Three faces looking out at her and one scribbled over in black sharpie. She’s going to hazard a guess that that’s Bobby. There’s writing underneath the photo and peering at it closer Julie sees that someone's someones written their names. Alex, Luke and Reggie. She shakes her head at the way he’s added his own name for her, just in case.

“Idiot,” she mutters fondly.

Luke doesn’t come back in, which is probably for the best because Julie keeps his demo playing for the rest of the day.

By the third play through she’s started to memorise the lyrics and by the fifth she’s adding in imaginary keys to parts of the songs and by the sixth she can harmonise along with them.

Around four, when she’s waving goodbye to a customer who came in asking for something blue she decides to take a break, turning the sign on the door as she presses Flynn’s name in her phone. She’s just turning the volume down on the sound system when her best friend answers.

“Okay, what’s the latest with Mr Arms?”

“He left me his demo and number, Flynn,” she whines, flopping down on the lumpy sofa, head hitting the wall softly.

“Is it bad?” Flynn asks and she can practically hear the frown in her voice. After the flower incident Julie had driven to Flynn’s dorm room and told her everything, and then they’d spent two hours looking through youtube for their videos. And they were good. Really good.

“No. It’s great. Amazing. Listen,” Julie pulls her phone away from her ear and hits the speaker button as the chorus of Late Last Night starts and she quietly sings along with Luke’s voice.

“Oh this is catchy,” she mutters, voice echoing through the room and Julie nods before remembering this is a phone call and her friend can’t see her.

“I know,” she groans, “Flynn. He’s hot, he plays guitar like a rockstar, he’s funny and helps me take out the garbage and his arms, Flynn. His arms!”

“I know babe. He’s got the arms of a greek god. You’ve told me,” there’s a teasing note in Flynn’s voice that just makes Julie groan again, slipping further down the sofa.

“What am I going to do?”

“Well, now hear me out, you could just text him. And ask him out.”

When she says it like that it sounds so simple. Julie frowns a little, absentmindedly nodding her head along with the outro to the song as she thinks about it. Texting him. Asking him out. Because what if he doesn’t like her like that? Sure they’ve been sort of flirting for a few weeks but he probably does that with everyone. With his face and personality, not to mention the whole band thing, he could get anyone he wanted, so why would he go for her?

“Okay Jules stop, I can practically hear you spiralling through the phone.”

“He might not even like me like that. He probably just wanted an opinion on his music,” she tries but it sounds weak even to her.

“Right, first of all you are hot. And anyone would be lucky to go out with you, more than lucky, they should be honoured that you’re even considering going out with them,” Julie laughs a little, but there’s no stopping Flynn when she’s on a roll, “Second the boy has taste if he’s asking for your opinion on his music because you have amazing taste. And third, they’re playing a show tonight at the Grange so meet me at mine at eight so I can judge your outfit.”

It takes Julie a moment to register what she’s said and then she’s blinking, pushing herself up on the sofa until she’s sitting up straight, “What? How do you know that?”

“They’re on twitter. And they really need some help on that front because there are so many typos,” Flynn trails off for a moment before her voice is back, “If it works out between you and Mr Arms I might consider offering them my services.”

“Isn’t the Grange a 21+ club?” She asks as her last argument but she already knows what Flynn is going to say. The fake ID in her purse is practically laughing at her.

“Fakes baby. Eight o’clock. Bring some of your dad's brownies.”

Julie doesn’t have a chance to think of any reasons why she can’t go before Flynn is saying “Love you bye!” and hanging up. She makes sure to carefully put the cd back in its case and slip it in her bag before locking up for the night, if they’re going to see them play Flynn should get to hear the whole demo.

//

The club is already busy when they show their ID’s to bouncers and wander in. Bodies press into each other on the dance floor in front of the stage, moving along to whatever the dj is playing so loudly it just sounds like bass to her. Flynn wraps a hand around her wrist and tugs her over to the bar, pushing through a group of boys around their age until they’re leaning on the counter.

“This place is smaller than I expected,” Julie shouts, shooting the bartender a smile as he puts down two beers in front of them and takes Flynn’s money.

“I guess unsigned bands can’t be picky,” Flynn grins at her as she picks up her drink and the two of them weave back through the crowd to one of the tables off to the side of the dance floor. There’s no chairs, but they don’t mind standing, “I wonder what time they’re on,” she taps the screen of her phone to check the time and Julie peers over as 9:32 flashes up.

Julie looks around, idly taking a swig of her drink as she watches a group of girls dance, laughing and giddy. The one downside to opting to take a year off before college is that she’s missing out on all this every week.

The sneaking into clubs and drunken dancing and shitty beer and new friends. Flynn always invites her when she goes out and she’s gone a few times, but it’s not the same. And anyway she’s meant to be using this year to decide what she wants to do. Who she wants to be. She’s pretty sure she’s not going to find it at the bottom of a bottle or on a sticky floor.

She pulls at the hemline of her black high waisted shorts, wiggling her hips a little as she tries to pull them down while trying to keep her lilac off shoulder crop top from riding up. It’s a delicate balance and she’s feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“Hey,” Flynn’s hand appears in her line of sight and Julie follows it up to her face where she’s peering at her through gold shimmering eyes, “You look amazing. Stop fussing.”

Julie blows out a breath, dropping her hands from her shorts and lifting her drink to her lips and drinking. Flynn’s growing smile is enough for Julie to try and relax. And then the DJ is pausing the music and announcing the last band of the night, there’s a loud cheer from the gathered crowd as the three members of Sunset Curve stroll onto the stage.

The dark haired bassist, Reggie, waves at the crowd as he checks his bass is plugged in, throwing a wink at someone in the front row with a grin. Alex seems to be looking for something in the crowd and finds it if the wide smile on his face is anything to go by. But Julie doesn’t really spare them much more than a sweeping glance as her eyes land on Luke.

Apparently the lack of sleeves extends to the stage, as does the beanie –– which makes zero sense and she will be teasing him about it if she doesn’t melt into a puddle of goo by the end of the night –– , but there’s an ease to the way he walks up to his mic, guitar strap across his body and plucking a pick out of his mouth. He grins at something Reggie says that none of them can hear, and his face lights up and Julie knows that whatever they’re about to see is going to be incredible.

“Hey, thanks for coming out tonight. We’re gonna kick this off with something from our upcoming EP. This is Now or Never.”

Luke nods at Reggie and Reggie nods at him and then they’re playing. She’d thought their demo was good, had thought their badly recorded covers on youtube were good, had even liked the little she’d heard through the walls three weeks ago, but hearing them live is another feeling altogether.

They’re better than good and amazing doesn’t feel strong enough. Their whole performance is high energy and makes you want to get up, to dance, to sing along. So they do.

Julie downs the rest of her drink and then clutches Flynn’s hand as she pulls them through the crowd until they’re in the middle of the floor. Bodies pushing in around them, all jumping and swaying and some even singing along when they know the words. She lets herself get lost in the music, in the feeling of the drums through the floor and how the bass line reverberates through her.

It’s when they start In Your Starlight that Luke’s eyes find her in the crowd.

She knows the moment he does because his eyes widen a little and his fingers slip, playing the wrong note as he stumbles a half step backwards. And then he’s smiling, eyes crinkling at the corners as he nods at her, tongue sticking out slightly between his teeth before he starts to sing. While looking directly at her.

Maybe it’s the alcohol in her system or Flynn’s pep talks have finally clicked in her head, but she doesn’t look away, she sings his song back to him. She liked to think the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks by the end of the song is because of that.

They close with a cover of Everybody Talks and when Luke raises an eyebrow at her and nods to the side of the floor where the booths are she doesn’t hesitate to nod with a grin.

“Thank you! We’re Sunset Curve!” Luke shouts into his mic, wiping sweat off his face as he grins out the crowd.

“Tell your friends!” Reggie chimes in, winking at someone and then they’re walking off the stage and Julie is pulling Flynn over to the booths. For a moment, she hesitates as she looks at them, not sure where to go because they’re all occupied. And then a familiar face is waving them over and Julie breaths out a sigh and a smile at the sight of Willie.

“Molina! I didn’t know you were coming!” He grins as Flynn slips into the booth first and Julie slides in after her.

“Sort of a last minute thing,” she laughs nervously, because now that she’s here and knows they’re about to come out she’s suddenly second guessing everything. “This is my best friend Flynn. Flynn, Willie, he works at Etched in Ink too.”

“Oh! You did the logo right?” Flynn asks and then they’re talking about designs and colours and how sometimes a simple line drawing is better. Julie’s half listening, trying to feign interest but her eyes keep going to the side door that she knows leads to backstage, waiting for it to open.

Somehow, despite constantly looking, she still misses them coming out because suddenly a pair of arms are around Willie’s neck and a blonde head is pressing a kiss into his cheek. Julie looks up to find Luke already grinning at her, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Hey,” she thinks he’d have probably whispered it if they weren’t in a crowded club that’s started blaring music again.

“Hi,” and she waves.

God, why did she just wave at him? Before she can do something else embarrassing, like hiding her face in her hands, an arm appears around Luke’s neck and Reggie’s face is next to his grinning from ear to ear.

“You must be Julie.” Something about the way he says her names makes her want to run, like she’s walked into a trap without realising it. Instead she nods hesitantly.

“That’s me. You must be Reggie,” she tries to imitate the way he said her name but she’s not sure it works, but Luke elbows his friend in the side and then he’s sliding into the empty space next to her.

“I’m Alex. Ignore Reg. What he meant to say was we’ve heard a lot about you,” Alex smiles at her and there’s a teasing sort of tone in his words that makes her think she’s missing out on a joke. But she focuses on the other bit of information and turns to look at Luke.

“Aw, you’ve been talking about me?” She nudges his knee with her own, only realising just how close they’re sitting after the fact.

Luke shrugs at her, but he’s smiling and there’s a flush to his face that could be left over from their performance but she doesn’t think so, “Course I have.”

The simple way he says it, accompanied by the unbroken eye contact is enough to make her blush.

“I’m Flynn by the way. Julie’s best friend,” Flynn cuts through, leaning on the table to look directly at Luke who finally looks away from her and there’s definitely a flush on his cheeks.

“Did you uh, like the show?” He asks, and it’s to the table, but he glances at her.

“You guys were awesome, as always,” Willie says, lifting his hands that have been linked with Alex’s since the three boys sat down and presses a kiss to the back of it.

“You were better than I expected you to be,” Flynn shrugs and Alex lets out a disgruntled sound as he looks at her which starts a debate on what she thought they were going to be like. But Julie isn’t paying much attention and neither is Luke, because he’s looking at her expectantly for her answer.

She considers for a moment, tilting her head as she looks up at him, “You were–– you were amazing up there. More than amazing but I don’t know the word to describe it. All of you, but–– I liked watching you the most. You’re–– spectacular.”

“Really?” His eyes are searching her face, as if he can tell just by looking at her if she’s lying, but she just nods her head at him and smiles, he nods his head a little, biting his lip as he smiles too.

“Though I do have question why the fuck you’re wearing a beanie.”

“I told you it was stupid!” Reggie shouts and his hand is reaching across the table to hover in front of Julie’s face, waiting for a high five. Luke shakes his head at her, but she grins and claps her hand to the bassists.

“I thought we were friends,” Luke whines, a hand over his heart as he pouts at her.

“The beanie is so stupid,” is all she says, giggling as he pouts more and pulls the hat off his head, hair sweaty and a mess and she tries really hard not to look at his arms as he runs his fingers through the brown locks. Biting her lip again as she looks away, her eyes catch Alex’s who shoots her a knowing grin and she’s suddenly very grateful for the low lighting as she blushes.

“You really liked the show, though?” Reggie asks, bringing them back to the original question.

“You guys were great,” she smiles at him and Alex, “I especially like the drum solo in Lakeside Reflection? And oh my god the way you go back and forth in the bridge for Late Last Night, is amazing. Have you ever thought about mixing up the order you come in on it?”

She glances over at Luke as she says it, and there’s a moment, where their eyes meet when he’s got this soft sort of look on his face, like she’s once again handed him another puzzle piece and then she blinks and it’s gone and he launches into talking about their songs.

Later, after Flynn has unlocked her dorm room and the two of them have collapsed on her bed giggling and exhausted, Julie pulls her phone out of her bag and finally texts the number she saved hours ago back in the shop.

Luke replies within seconds and Julie clutches her phone to her chest with a giddy smile as Flynn teases her for being in love. She doesn’t even know what to say to deny it.

//

They start texting a lot after that. Silly memes they see and questions about if modern rock is better than classic and do different coloured roses mean different things.

It feels –– and Julie hasn’t said it out loud but she thinks it an awful lot –– like they’ve become real friends. Which makes it so much more awkward as her stupid crush on him grows. Because now he’s more than just the hot guitarist next door that she occasionally talks to. Now he’s Luke, the hot guitarist from next door who she talks to every day and is her friend.

Flynn just laughs at her, insisting there’s really no issue here and that she should just ask him out already so that she can sort out their social media situation without seeming pushy. Julie pointed out she could just offer but Flynn has said that would be weird.

And okay so, logically, Julie knows that he probably does like her. They’d spent the whole night after his show pressed together in that booth, knees touching and talking about whatever came to mind and she’d finally gotten a chance to look at the tattoo on his side.

(The detailed heart and a gramophone horn and the music notes that she’d hummed out loud. She could swear his eyes dipped to her lips as she did so and Julie had almost reached out to trace the lines inked into his skin. Instead she’d looked at his arm, at the tattoos littering his skin and listened as he explained some of them to her. The story of his life, really. She’d started tracing the outline of the guitar on his forearm, the year when he’d first met Alex and Reggie inked at the base, when she’d started talking.

“My mom had tattoos. We were supposed to go and get one together when I turned eighteen,” she’d trailed her finger tips up the neck and over the scrap of cloth attached to it, vaguely noting the way he seemed to shiver, “We had the designs all picked out and I promised her I’d still get mine. But… I’ve been putting it off,” she’d smiled ruefully up at him then, nose wrinkling.

Luke had put his hand over hers on his arm, thumb gently running over the back of her hand as he’d said, “When you’re ready to do it, book it for a Saturday.”)

And he’d started lingering on Tuesdays when he passed her her coffee, to talk about their weekends and if they had busy days and if she wanted to come watch them rehearse on Wednesday and how Bobby had apparently tried to reach out after the flowers. None of them had responded because now the ball was in their court and when they got to initiate the cutting off it was better.

And if she looks at it all. The little moments and touches and smiles and lingering looks, Julie logically knows that he likes her. But there’s still a chance, small as it might be, that he doesn’t.

And it terrifies her.

Surprisingly, or really, unsurprisingly, reassurance comes in the form of a drummer and bassist strolling into the shop on Tuesday morning two weeks after she saw them play for the first time. Julie smiles at them, albeit a little awkwardly, closing her pen in her notebook as she takes in the coffee holder in Alex’s hands and the way Reggie looks around the place in wonder.

She hadn’t seen Luke this morning, though he’d sent a text to say he was sick and wouldn't be around, but that doesn’t explain why she has two members of Sunset Curve in her shop.

“Hey guys, you need anything?” she raises an eyebrow at them, folding her hands on top of her notebook.

“Nah, just here to drop this off for Luke,” Alex smiles at her, freeing the coffee cup and putting it down in front of her.

Julie blinks at it, mouth parting slightly before looking back at Alex confused and chokes out, “What?

“He said he brings you coffee on Tuesday mornings and asked us to do it today because he’s being all dramatic in bed over the flu,” he rolls his eyes, but there’s a fond sort of tone in his voice that does little to help her confusion.

“But he–– I don’t…” Julie trails off as she frowns at the coffee. Luke was sick and he was still worrying about her getting her coffee? She feels like the world is spinning on a different axis.

“Can you make me a yellow bouquet for under $20?” Reggie pulls her out of her spiral and she blinks up at the two of them, catching the tail end of the glare Alex shoots at him and the shrug Reggie gives in response. But it pulls her out and she blows out a breath, pushing thoughts of Luke to the side as she nods.

“Any flowers in particular?” She asks.

Half an hour later the boys leave, with Reggie clutching his little posey of various yellow flowers –– that cost over $20 but if she could change Luke only $15 on a $50 bouquet, she could make an exception for the happiest bassist she’d ever met –– and Alex sniffing the twelve roses he’d bought for Willie. But not before they’d both leaned on the counter as she tied a bow around the posey and Alex had stated, “Luke’s pretty dumb sometimes.”

Julie had fumbled the ribbon as she looked at them confused.

“What we mean is,” Reggie cut in “He’s our best friend, and the best song writer we know. But when it comes to his feelings and doing something with them, he’s dumb. And always pretty terrified.”

She’s still thinking about it an hour later as she sweeps up cuts and hums along with the radio. She taps her pen on her notebook as she looks down at the page she had been doodling on, and then throws it down to pick up her phone. It only takes a few minutes of googling for the number she needs and ten minutes later she’s got plans for next Saturday at one thirty.

//

“Julie,” Victoria’s voice cuts through her thoughts and she turns from where she’d been staring at a bucket of sunflowers to blink at her tia.

“Hm?”

“You’re going to be late mi ciel,” and she nodded to next door, eyebrows raised. Blinking, Julie glances at her phone to check the time and swears.

“Fuck. Right. I’ll um, I’ll come show you when it’s done,” she smiles at her aunt who smiles back, dropping one eye in a wink before she gets out the door.

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll see it tomorrow at dinner,” Victoria blows her kiss before the door shuts and then Julie is on the sidewalk and Etched in Ink is eight steps away. Blowing out a breath she pushes her phone into the back pocket of her dungarees and walks.

When she opens the door there’s music playing faintly in the background and she smiles at how different it is from the last time she was stood here. This time she recognises the Sunset Curve poster on the wall and shakes her head at Luke’s shameless promoting. Like last time there’s no one at the front desk as she walks up to it, leaning her hip on the edge as she tilts her head to try and hear for someone in the back.

“Hello?” she calls and then there’s something crashing to the ground and someone letting out a string of curses before Luke comes stumbling through the archway and up to the desk looking breathless.

“Hey!”

She’s not as taken off guard by the sleeveless shirts and curling hair and teasing smirk as she was last time, but it still takes all her willpower to not just stare at him. Especially as he leans his hands on the desk, muscles and tattoos on display. She’s starting to think he does that on purpose.

“I have an appointment,” she breathes, looking at him and they’re so close she thinks she could count his eyelashes if she had time. God she wanted time to count his eyelashes.

“I know, I saw,” he smiles softly at her as pushes off from the desk and gestures for her to walk into the main room, “I was just getting things set up. Come on.”

Luke guides her with a hand on the small of her back over to the area he’s got set up, wagging his brows a little as she sits down that makes her laugh. Julie looks at the collection of inks and needles and bottles on the little tables next to her chair, chewing on her lip with a growing sense of trepidation.

“So,” Luke plots himself down on the stool, feet on the bar as he spins to face her with a smile, “You got a design for me to follow?”

“Oh! Yeah, right,” she sits up to dig through the front pocket of her dungarees and pull out a sheet of plain paper that’s been folded and refolded too many times to count over the last three years, she hands it to Luke, suddenly nervous about what he’ll think.

Carefully, as if he knows how important it is, he unfolds the sheet of paper and smooths it out on the arm of her chair, biting his lip as he looks it over and quietly, she can hear him humming the notes to himself as he tries to work out what the song is.

“It’s um––” Julie clears her throat as Luke looks up at her, gesturing to the drawing and starts singing faintly, “You are my sunshine.”

Luke looks at her with wide eyes and an expression she can’t quite understand and looks back at the page, quick to fill the silence, “Mom was going to get ‘my only sunshine’ but–– it’s what she used to sing to me when I was little and wouldn’t go to sleep, and it’s the first song I learnt on piano so it’s y’know, sentimental I guess.”

He still hasn’t said anything and Julie’s starting to get worried she’s done something wrong when he blows out a breath and blinks at her, small smile on his lips, “It’s beautiful.”

Then he turns to the table, gathering supplies and pulling on gloves and when he turns back to her he seems to have gotten control over his emotions again and is grinning at her, antiseptic wipe in one hand and numbing gel in the other.

“Are we feeling brave?” He teases and Julie rolls her eyes at him, laying her arm flat on the arm rest, wrist up and flipping him the finger before relaxing them back down.

“Just start stabbing me in the arm with a little needle Patterson.”

“Ooh brave it is huh.”

Gently, he holds her wrist with one hand as he cleans her skin and doesn’t let go when he turns to throw it away and to pick up the tattoo gun. His fingers tap on her palm as he looks at her, raising an eyebrow, “You ready?”

“Yeah,” she blows out a breath and nods at him. But he still hesitates for a heartbeat, searching her eyes before he smiles gently and brings the gun down to her skin.

At the first stab of pain Julie hisses in a breath, fingers of her other hand gripping at the spare armrest and when Luke looks up at her she nods her head with a smile that’s almost a cringe, “I’m okay. Keep going.”

And he does.

After a while it doesn’t hurt quite so much, and she loosens her grip on the arm of the chair. She still hisses in a breath on occasion but it’s bearable, and she can sort of understand why people like getting tattoos. It doesn’t hurt that from this position she has a clear view of his bare arms and can stare at them shamelessly for as long as his head is bent over her wrist.

“Is that––” Julie lets out a laugh, eyes squinting as she tries to peer a little closer as the tattoo above his elbow, “Is that a hotdog?”

“Huh? Oh,” he looks up, blinking at her and then at his arm, joining in with her laugh as he shakes his head. “Yeah. Me and the boy got wicked bad food poisoning from some bad dogs when we were seventeen. Almost died.”

Julie blinks at him and tries really hard to stop her laughter, but it keeps bubbling past her lips, “So you got a tattoo to commemorate the time you nearly died?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs, grinning at her before going back to work.

They make idle chit chat for the rest of her tattoo, talking about music they love and films they want to see and how Willie’s been trying to teach Alex to skateboard for 2 years and can still barely stand on the thing.

“And you’re done,” the buzzing suddenly cuts off and it takes Julie a moment to get used to lack of it, blinking at Luke who’s nodding down at her arm.

Carefully, slowly, she lifts up her arm to inspect his work. Five lines spanning the width of her wrist with little music notes dotted along it and she hums the tune to herself, blinking back the tears that fill her eyes as she just looks at it.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers, biting her lip as she looks at him. “Thank you.”

Luke shakes his head, pulling the gloves off his hands and balling them up before throwing them into the bin and picks up a roll of plastic wrap, tearing off a length to spread on the arm of the chair, patting it for her to put her arm back down on, “Nah, all I did was basically trace your work.”

“No for––” she gestures with her free hand around them, trying to encompass everything of the last two months. For the coffees and the laughter and the music and the conversation. “So much,” is what she settles on, and just hopes he gets it.

When he’s finished wrapping her wrist he trails his fingers up to her hand, squeezes her fingers once and then stands up, and she hurries to follow, not wanting him to let go of her hand just yet. Julie follows him back to the front of the shop, their fingers still linked and she tries to listen to him talk about aftercare and which creams are best and what to avoid. But all she can really think about is the calluses on his fingers and how she wants to know what they’d feel like brushing across her lips.

So Julie pulls them to a stop before they reach the desk, blowing out a breath as she looks up at him. She’s just gotten her first tattoo and only cried at the end, she’s feeling brave. She can ask the hot guitarist out.

“I was wondering if um you maybe–– if you wanted too––” she stutters, brows furrowing a little as she tries to get the words out and Luke just smiles at her, which isn’t helping. “Stop doing that with your face, I’m trying to ask you something,” she mutters.

It just makes him smile wider, and his fingers are detangling themselves from hers and she honest to god lets out a small whine at the sudden loss of contact. Luke’s smile turns into a smirk as he hears it, tailing his fingers up her arm and over her shoulder and up her neck and suddenly he’s cupping her cheek and Julie thinks she’s forgotten how to breath.

“Jules,” he whispers, leaning towards her and she can feel his breath ghosting across her face as she lets out a noncommittal sound, “Can I kiss you?”

A breath rushes out of her and her hands skim up his biceps and around his neck, “God please do.”

And he does.

It’s soft, just a press of their lips against each other at first and then Luke brushes his thumb across the top of her cheek and she lets out a sigh, pulling him closer as he slips his tongue into her mouth.

There’s teeth nipping at lips and her fingers running through his hair and Luke chuckling at her whine of protest when his lips leave hers to trail across her jaw, down her neck where he sucks and she moans and he has the audacity to laugh again.

So she pokes her fingers into his sides, grinning triumphantly when he tries to wiggle away, scrunching his nose up as he looks down at her.

“That’s rude,” he mutters, but there’s no heat behind it and he presses a kiss into the corner of her mouth.

“Hm, I’m sure I can think of some way to make it up to you,” Julie purses her lips, pretending to be in thought before leaning up on her tiptoes to kiss him, slowly, drawing it out.

When they break apart this time they’re both a little breathless and smiling giddy smiles.

“What were you going to ask me?” he whispers, brushing his nose across hers as he tries to pull her closer and it takes Julie a moment to understand what he’s asking, her mind blank on anything that’s not Luke lips on her skin or his fingers trailering over her neck.

“Oh. Um I was going to ask if you wanted to get dinner. With me. Like a date,” she wrinkles her nose at how awkward the question comes out but Luke leans back a little to grin down at her.

“Julie Molina, are you asking me out?”

“Oh shut up, you kissed me first,” she grumbles, tilting her head forward to hide in his chest and Luke laughs, she can feel it rumble in his chest and it makes her giggle a little too.

“Yeah I did. Best decision I’ve made since playing my demo way too loud,” he sounds proud and he presses a kiss into the top of her head, “I’d love to go get dinner with you.”

“Hm,” Julie agrees, trying to hide her smile in his terribly pointless shirt. Honestly, she’s never been more glad that he played his music too loud, it was totally worth the headache she had for the rest of the afternoon.

“Hey Luke,” she pulls back a little to look up at him, and he raises an eyebrow at her.

“Yeah?”

“Did I ever tell you I have a thing for guitarists with tattoos?” She smiles innocently up at him and is rewarded with the same curling smiling on his lips from the first time they met.

[ flower meanings: - pink peonies: passive aggressive anger - pink geraniums: stupidity - dark purple carnations: disappointment - meadoweed: uselessness - orange lilies: hatred (if i got any of these wrong please let me know i got my information from google fghdj) ]

ao3 link

[ladyfloriographist]

Prompt: 13. “Can we just make a decision? Please?”

Pairing: Adam (Only Lovers Left Alive) x femme!voluptuous!Reader

Warnings: night drives to a video store, fluff-ish stuff, flirting, cursing (because it’s Adam), and would vamps love the idea of temperature play? I think they would

XXXX

“Oh, my God. Adam, stop. Pull over.”

Adam glances out your window for the briefest moment. “What is it?” his vaguely interested baritone drones.

“Look!” It’s an old video store, a movie rental place, a relic from a time gone by. “Please please—oh! We’re past it.” You sigh and slump back in your seat, staring out the window as the next-to-deserted moon-lit city rolls by.

Slowing to a stop before a red light, Adam looks to you. “Really?” he says, with the faintest smile—like he could humour you, if you were sweet about it.

You put your hand on his where it rests on the gearshift. The chill of his flesh is comforting, somehow, and he feels the same about your warmth. You run your thumb over the exposed back of his hand. “I haven’t seen one of them in so long. I didn’t even know they still existed. Will you take me, baby? Can we go?”

Ever so subtly, the corners of his mouth tug upward, like he’s trying to hold back a smile.

“Five minutes,” you attempt to persuade him further, “that’s all. And we could have a movie night!”

His brows raise, and you shuffle a little closer to him in your seat.

You adjust yourself, pushing your chest out and pressing your arms together to exaggerate your ample cleavage. Then, you drop your voice and murmur huskily, “You could watch me eat a choc-top—”

The traffic lights turn green.

“—feel my mouth get all cold.”

Adam tears his gaze from yours and throws a u-turn, spinning his old Jaguar around and following the road back the way you���d come.

He smiles slyly at you out of the corner of his eye as the engine rumbles down the desolate street, and you grin at him. No more words need be said.

Adam pulls into the carpark, and an old neon ‘open late’ sign flickers and flashes in the large window.

“Wow,” you whisper, ripping off your seat belt and stepping out of the car. “I can’t believe this place is still here. I thought they all closed a few years ago.”

Adam huffs a shallow laugh as he shuts and locks his door. “Time in a lost place is a funny old thing.”

You whip around to face him, and find him glaring at the old building with thinly veiled disgust. The large windows are a little grimy, and two nearby rubbish bins overflow with garbage. Inside, one of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling flickers, and another one is cracked and broken, illuminating nothing beneath it.

“Fuck’s sake…” Adam murmurs quietly.

You stretch your arm out to him. “Come on, grumpy.”

Slowly his gaze lands on yours, looking every bit the part of a sullen teenager.

“For me,” you beckon him closer, offering your hand. “We won’t be here long.”

Begrudgingly, Adam stalks towards you and slips his gloved palm into yours. “They’d better sell that fucking ice cream here,” he growls, slipping on his Oakley shades.

“I’m sure they will, baby,” you croon, smiling back at him as you push open the large glass door.

It’s stale inside, the damp and dust only just kept at bay by whirring air conditioning that churns out crisp, cold, recycled air.

You shiver a little, and Adam finds it delightful.

The young clerk behind the counter looks up, slightly surprised but mostly disinterested. “We close in ten,” they grumble.

“Midnight?” Adam questions, and the clerk nods, going back to their phone. He squeezes your hand and says, “Make it quick,” – but your attention is already elsewhere.

“How much for a slurpee?” you call to the sales clerk eagerly.

They look at you with a blank stare.

“Sorry,” you gesture at the machine, rotating crushed, watery ice artificially coloured a deep pinkish-red. “For a slushie?”

“Two-fifty for a small, four bucks for a large.”

You glance at Adam, smiling sweetly. “It’ll make my tongue red,” you murmur breathily.

Adam regards you with an intense, lingering stare.

“I’ll taste a little sweeter,” you whisper.

He looks deep into your eyes, and when he glimpses your lips his nostrils flare very, very subtly—but enough for you to know, your whispered words are affecting him.

After pleading and paying you and Adam find yourselves strolling into the paranormal and supernatural section.

You break from his palm to grab at one of the selection, and hold it up to his face.

“This,” you say emphatically, “this was so popular, babe.”

Adam tilts his head to the side as he scrutinises the cover. “’True… Blood’?” he says slowly, turning over the concept in his mind.

You nod. “It’s what the vamps drink. This manufactured kind of…” you search for the word, “synthetic blood.”

“Hm.”

“Based on books.” You hand the Blue-Ray to him and he peruses it further. “And HBO made it, so,” you wrap your lips around the clear plastic straw and suck more of the icy treat into your mouth.

You keep your eyes locked with his as you do, and Adam watches from behind his black sunglasses, rapt. You swallow and finish your sentence. “So, it’s very sexy.”

Adam looks set to lunge for you and tackle you to the musty, un-vacuumed carpet.

You think quickly, having bitten off more than you can chew and needing to pump the brakes on your teasing. “Here,” you grab the first thing you see and hand it to him, “another option.”

Adam takes the DVD case and his features soften. Gently, he trails the tips of two fingers over the cover art. “Vlad,” he murmurs, and his mouth breaks into a small, wistful smile.

Your gaze flicks back and forth from Adam to ‘Bram Stoker’s Dracula’ in quick succession. “You know Gary Oldman?” you squeak, incredulity lacing your voice and your features.

Adam smiles. He places the DVD back on the shelf. “By another name.”

You stare, gobsmacked, as Adam picks up another movie—continuing on as if no revelations have been divulged. His smooth forehead creases as he inspects the DVD and he flips the case over in his hand.

“Handsome,” he says softly. “Was this popular too?”

“’Twilight’?” you raise your brows. “Very.”

The furrow creasing Adam’s brow deepens, and he slides the movie back into its place on the shelf.

After a few more minutes of browsing, the clerk calls out from behind the counter, announcing to the pair of you that the store is closing.

You spin on your heel to face Adam. He’d been getting lost in small moments of nostalgia, disdain, and melancholy. Perhaps bringing him here was a bad idea.

“Come on, baby,” you take his hand in yours, “they’re closing. Pick one and let’s go.”

Adam grumbles an inaudible growl of a word and looks up from the DVD he’d been holding. He stares at the shelves, and clenches his jaw.

This isn’t good. “Can we just make a decision? Please?”

“Is this what you thought of me and my kind before we met?” Adam says in the dull, drole tone of someone particularly unimpressed. “That I could, fucking, sparkle and glimmer in the sunlight?” Unceremoniously he drops the movie back onto the shelf, and his lip subtly curls in distaste. “How terrible for you to realise the truth. Fuck, you must be bitterly disappointed.”

You cock your head to the side. Though you couldn’t possibly have foreseen Adam confronting his own undead immortality at a Blockbuster in the middle of the night, this was definitely a bad idea. Adam was dipping his toes in the cold, dark, rippling pool of vampiric existentialism and no, you will not try this again, lest he fall in.

The clerk calls out to you again, impatient and tired.

You switch tacts, trying on something that all men fall prey to, living or undead. “Well, the truth is stranger than fiction, my love.” You step closer to Adam, and place your palm on his chest. You step up on your tip toes, and let your hot breath fan over his neck. “And far more… seductive.”

Like dropping a cube of ice into warm water, the press of your hand thaws his surly mood.

Adam gazes at your face. “Look at you,” he purrs, eyeing how the crushed, syrup-laden ice has changed the colour of your tongue. “You look like…” he licks at his bottom lip, “you’re just like… my little strawberry.”

You smile. “A strawberry, hm?”

“Yes,” he murmurs darkly, backing you against the shelves.

“Hey! Hey—excuse me. Look, I’m locking up and I really need y’all to leave,” says a voice off in the distance.

“Well, come on then, baby,” you murmur with a soft, breathy voice, “take me home and eat me.”

Adam’s almost never moved faster.

XXXX

Come and let me know if you have a prompt you’d like me to write! There are some lists on my blog, and at this stage I’m happy to write for the Enola Holmes versions of Sherlock and Mycroft, and any Tom Hiddleston character b/c I’m in love xx

[ibijau]

part 10 of the Nomad Nie AU // On AO3

Huaisang has a surprise for his husband, who tries to surprise him in return

It took nearly another week after Cunzhi’s little adventure before the Nie finally arrived at their winter camp. The entire time, Nie Huaisang stuck close to his husband, in case Lan Xichen had developed a taste for confronting wolves unarmed and needed to be stopped. Lan Xichen was both amused and touched by this, and didn’t complain. 

He thought that Khan Mingjue too seemed rather entertained by this turn of events, and acted perhaps a little less angry toward him these days. When they arrived at the winter camp, Lan Xichen was bossed around by the Khan just the same way as everyone else as they rebuilt the gers, and he was trusted with helping Huaisang and a few others check whether any of the animals had sustained wounds during the long journey. He also was a little warmer when the three of them retired for the night, and constantly teased him about the wolf. This greatly annoyed Huaisang, which seemed to be the aim, but Lan Xichen found he rather enjoyed the Khan’s dry humour. It reminded him of Lan Wangji.

When they reached the place they would spend the winter, it took very little time to set everything up, at least in Lan Xichen’s opinion. In less than a day, there was a whole village standing, looking exactly as if it had always been there. The herds were then separated, which led to a few small disputes here and there. The Khan ordered his brother and Zonghui to take care of those if they could. As for himself, Mingjue was only giving the horses a chance to rest a little, and then he would head with a few men toward the other camp, to make sure that everything was alright with them.

Mingjue left early the next morning, just as Lan Xichen was starting to wake up. He groggily bid his brother-in-law a safe trip, then decided it was really too early to be up yet and tried to pull Huaisang back under the covers with him to cuddle for a while. Huaisang indulged him at first, but before long he was escaping to eat something, saying he had a busy day ahead. He was clearly very proud of having been tasked with helping settle any disputes that might have arisen due to the migration, and refused to let his brother down when Mingjue was finally trusting him with something.

Any hope Lan Xichen might still have had about a quiet morning together was fully ruined when Meng Yao came to check on them. Huaisang and Lan Xichen were still having breakfast, but invited him to sit with them if he wished and share their meal. Lan Xichen was delighted to see his friend, as always. So was Huaisang, though he still left before long, eager for this chance to prove how very useful and mature he could be.

“We’ll chat later,” Nie Huaisang said in Hanyu, his accent much better than it used to be. “Keep my husband company, Menyao. Make sure he does nothing stupid. No more wolves for him!”

Meng Yao laughed, and promised to keep an eye on Lan Xichen. Satisfied with this, Huaisang dropped a quick kiss on his husband’s forehead and hopped out of the ger. Lan Xichen watched him go, unable to refrain a fond smile as he passed some cheese to Meng Yao.

“Do you think he minds that we are friends?” Meng Yao asked as he took the food.

Lan Xichen shot him a surprised look. “Of course not. Why would he?”

Meng Yao appeared to hesitate, the way he sometimes did when he feared he had some unpleasant information to share. He stalled a moment, nibbling on his piece of cheese, before diving in.

“These barbarians can be rather possessive,” he explained. “And I am right in guessing you are still refusing him his marital rights, are you not?”

Lan Xichen nodded and looked away, heat rushing to his face. It really wasn’t a matter of refusing anything at this point, and just that the occasion for it couldn’t be found. With Nie Mingjue gone for a few days, Lan Xichen was hoping they’d seize their chance at last… but of course he couldn’t have said that to Meng Yao, it was too private a matter.

“Huaisang is much sweeter than the others,” Meng Yao said, “but even he could get jealous. Lan gongzi should keep that in mind, and tell me if I create problems for him.” He sighed, his expression pained. “Lan gongzi is dear to me, but I will distance myself if it is needed. I do not want to provoke Huaisang into anger.”

Lan Xichen laughed awkwardly, and drank to hide his embarrassment.

“It’s fine, it’s quite fine,” he said. “Huaisang doesn’t mind at all. You’re his friend too, in spite of his brother.”

Meng Yao looked unconvinced. “These people will turn on their friends over anything. Even among brothers there is strife sometimes. If Huaisang weren’t so indolent, he would probably have been killed a long while ago, just so he wouldn’t pose a threat to the Khan’s power. Their grandfather killed his own father for power, it runs in their blood. So please, be careful, and tell me if I can ever do anything for you. You’re the only true friend I have, I don’t want for any harm to come to you.”

The story of Huaisang’s grandfather wasn’t unknown to Lan Xichen. Huaisang had told it to him, not without some pride, because the murdered father had been a cruel man who abused people and animals alike. Mingjue, who had been with them in the ger, had added that an unjust Khan could not be allowed to rule, and he would expect the same if he took a turn for the worse.

It had disturbed Lan Xichen at first, that anyone could talk so lightly of killing one’s father, one’s superior. In the end, he figured that perhaps the Nie too had a version of the Mandate of Heaven at play, and that Huaisang’s great-grandfather had lost heaven’s favour with his misconduct.

“I’m glad Meng gongzi feels this way,” Lan Xichen said. “I also see you as a true friend. If you had not been here to help me, I don’t know what I would have done. And I hope you know that I would be happy to help you as well, should you ever require it.” He hesitated a moment, then added: “For example if there might be a way to mend things between you and the Khan…”

Meng Yao failed to contain a slight grimace, and shook his head.

“No, the chance for that has passed,” he sighed. “He hates me too much now, and is too ready to blame me for everything that goes wrong in the clan. I’m sure he blames me for what happened with Cunzhi too, wouldn’t you say?”

Lan Xichen, quite awkwardly, didn’t know what to answer. 

It wasn’t that Meng Yao had caused that situation on purpose, of course. Still, Lan Xichen had become quite convinced that Cunzhi had escaped his mother’s care and hidden this way specifically because he had been so upset at losing Meng Yao’s company, and somehow hoped that making his displeasure obvious enough would allow him to get his way. It was likely that Khan Mingjue had come to the same conclusion, but was less kind with regards to Meng Yao’s intentions in that situation.

“Misunderstandings have happened in the past,” Lan Xichen said at last. “They can be corrected. I’m sure there must be ways to let the Khan see that you’ve never had ill intentions, only bad luck.”

“You think too kindly of the Khan,” Meng Yao scoffed.

And you think too ill of him, Lan Xichen thought with some disappointment. 

Khan Mingjue could be somewhat unreasonable when worrying for his brother, but even in his dislike he wasn’t unjust. He treated Meng Yao coldly and refused to deal with him more than necessary, but he didn’t go out of his way to be cruel to him, nor did he allow for him to be treated poorly by others. Aside from Huaisang, nobody was forbidden from associating with him. Lan Xichen was certain that if both parties had only made a small effort, they could have reconciled and returned to the friendship Huaisang told him used to exist between them. At first he’d thought all the efforts would have to come from the Khan, but he now saw that Meng Yao too would have to be a little more forgiving.

It would take time, Lan Xichen knew, and no small amount of work. 

“It’s fine anyway,” Meng Yao insisted, chewing on the last of his cheese. “I’m only biding my time until I can go home. I know someday my father will return for me, just as you must hope your family will do. When my father comes to get me back, it won’t matter much what the Khan thinks of me.”

The barely restrained fierceness in Meng Yao’s voice surprised Lan Xichen. His friend rarely spoke of his father, or indeed of anything about his life before joining the Nie. Lan Xichen was under the impression he had perhaps been less well treated in their home country than he was among nomads. From some of the things he said, Lan Xichen suspected that Meng Yao was either the child of a concubine or a servant who had been noticed for his intelligence and given an education, but never treated as truly part of the family. If so, it was unlikely that his father would ever bother to attempt to buy him back from the Nie, not the way Lan Xichen thought his own family might attempt once they’d built enough of a fortune with this new trade route opened to them.

It wouldn’t be for a few years at best, but Lan Xichen was unsure what he’d do if this happened. Of course he missed his home and family no less than Meng Yao did, yet he wouldn’t want to leave Huaisang behind. But it might be a pointless question anyway. Meng Yao might hope for his father’s return, Lan Qiren might attempt to buy back his nephew, but Khan Mingjue probably wouldn’t want to let anyone go who knew too much about his people.

Overtaken by a mild melancholy, Lan Xichen changed the topic and quickly finished eating so Meng Yao and him could go out and take care of their chores. Busy hands helped him empty his mind, though his mood remained a little off all morning. It was only when he returned to the ger for lunch that he started feeling better again, knowing he would see Huaisang.

Just as he had hoped, Lan Xichen found himself smiling happily as he entered the ger and started preparing for lunch. That smile only widened when Huaisang finally joined him, holding a bowl of dumplings in one hand, and carrying a dark wooden box under his other arm. The dumplings were carefully set aside, and the box presented to Lan Xichen.

“It’s for you!” Huaisang announced. “A gift for my husband.”

Lan Xichen glanced at the box, then at Huaisang’s excited face.

“Where did you get this?”

“I made a trade with old Xianjun,” Huaisang explained, handing the box to his husband. “Foals for three of his mares from my best racing stallion in spring, and he gave me this. It’s a Han thing, right?”

Inspecting the box more closely confirmed it was of Han origin. Its style had a southern flair to it, and Lan Xichen wondered how it had arrived so far north. It wasn’t a luxurious box, a little rough here and there, but still beautiful and made with obvious care by a competent artisan, and seeing this trace from home tugged at his heart. To distract himself from this renewed melancholy Lan Xichen opened the box while Huaisang peered curiously over his shoulder.

Lan Xichen gasped.

“Is it bad?” Huaisang asked, a note of worry in his voice.

“It’s very good,” Lan Xichen replied, sitting down to more comfortably admire his present. “Why did they have this?”

Huaisang chuckled nervously. “Old Xianjun followed my father on a raid against Han people when he was young,” he admitted. “He traded away many things, kept a few. Nobody wanted this and he found it pretty, so he kept it. What is it?”

“The four treasures of the study,” Lan Xichen said, only to be met with a blank look. “Ah, hm. It is used to write things, like in my books?”

Among Lan Xichen’s few possessions when he arrived with the Nie had been two books he’d taken with him. A caprice, his uncle had called it when they were getting to leave home, telling him he wouldn’t have any use for poetry, nor for that short history treaty he’d picked up some weeks earlier and never made time to study. A few months later and he knew those books by heart, as did Meng Yao who had nearly cried from joy upon being allowed to borrow them. As for Huaisang, he showed little interest in the books themselves, but enjoyed having the poetry read to him and explained, and he liked also the few printed illustrations.

“You can make a book with this?” Huaisang asked, looking doubtful.

“If I had something to say. I could also paint something,” Lan Xichen suggested, guessing that might amuse his husband more. The paper was of good enough quality that its age hadn’t made it too fragile, and the ink still seemed good at well. The inkstone was intact, its square shape simple but elegant. Only the pair of brushes wasn’t perfectly to Lan Xichen’s liking, since they were clearly made for writing rather than painting, but their quality was good, and his skill wasn’t high enough that the wrong tool would really hinder him.

“Paint something for me!” Huaisang predictably demanded, eyeing the box’s content with more interest now.

“Gladly. What should I paint?”

Huaisang barely hesitated. “Something you would miss if you went home.”

Hearing this, Lan Xichen’s smile faltered. It seemed he really couldn’t avoid thinking of home that day. At the same time, this had the advantage of being an easy request to fulfil, because there was only one thing he could think of painting after being asked this.

“I will do that. But it has to be a surprise. You can’t look at it until it’s done, Huaisang.”

“But I want to see how you do it!”

“After this, I teach you how to paint,” Lan Xichen offered. There were about three dozen sheets of paper in the box, which didn’t feel like much, but it would be enough. He’d just have to ask his family to bring him more next time he saw them. “This one will be a gift for you, so you can’t see.”

Huaisang went from pouting to grinning in an instant. Lan Xichen took a moment more to admire his own gift, then closed the box and asked his husband about his morning. They sat down and ate together, chatting about this and that, making plans for the rest of the day. When they were done with food, Lan Xichen took his box and started carefully preparing some paper and ink. Huaisang watched with fascination the process of grinding ink, asking questions about it that Lan Xichen answered as well as he could. Once he started actually painting, Huaisang was chased away to the other side of the ger where he worked for a while with leather.

Lan Xichen found it quite nice to be together like this, each of them occupied with their own work, occasionally trading a few words, but mostly silent and focused on what they were doing. He had never expected that it would be so comfortable to be in someone else’s company this way, least of all under such circumstances, but it made him glad once more than Huaisang and him had been brought together. Fate had really found him a perfect partner.

All too soon though, this moment of peace was interrupted. Someone came to ask Huaisang to help them with a dispute regarding cattle, and Lan Xichen had his own chores to attend. They both put away their work and went out, knowing they would meet again for dinner.

When afternoon reached its end, Xichen returned to the ger and found it empty. After tidying a bit, he took this chance and went back to working on his painting. It was no masterpiece, not when he had never received the education to create great works and hadn't touched a brush in months, but Lan Xichen was still happy enough with his work. He was putting the finishing touches when Huaisang returned, dusted with snow that had started falling, and carrying again some food. 

"Can I see soon?" Huaisang asked, staring toward the sheet of paper but keeping his distance, as he'd been asked. 

The painting wasn’t quite done, there were a few details to add, but Huaisang’s barely contained curiosity was too adorable. Lan Xichen motioned for his husband to come closer, which Huaisang immediately obeyed, rushing to his side and dropping on his knees right next to him.

“Here it is,” Lan Xichen announced, revealing the painting and handing it to Huaisang.

Just as he had hoped, Huaisang’s initially excited expression quickly turned to astonishment as he discovered that on the paper was a portrait of himself, painted as faithfully as Lan Xichen’s skill would allow. Huaisang’s face took on a very sweet pinkish hue that grew more intense the longer he gazed at the portrait, while his eyes shone with emotion.

“Something you would miss,” he mumbled, tearing his eyes from the painting to look at Lan Xichen. “Really?”

“Really,” Xichen said, putting away his brush in its proper place, telling himself he would clean it in a moment. First, though, he needed to kiss his husband. Huaisang, seeing him lean closer, hurriedly set aside the painting and threw his arms around Lan Xichen’s neck.

It wasn’t rare these days for the two of them to get passionate while kissing, and like many times before, Huaisang quickly ended up straddling Lan Xichen’s lap as he licked into his mouth, his hands wandering under the layers of his husband’s clothes. Usually that was the moment Mingjue would pick to come home and glare at them, but… 

But Mingjue wasn’t there at all this time, and at this time of day nobody would come looking for them. So Lan Xichen let himself fall back on the carpeted ground, and looked up at Huaisang, still straddling him.

Huaisang let out a strangled noise, but didn’t move. “Do you want…”

Lan Xichen quickly nodded. However much it had once terrified him to be wanted by Huaisang, he’d more than made his peace with it, his desire now matching his husband’s. There was no one else in the world he could imagine wanting as much as he wanted Huaisang, no one he would trust as much.

That nod was all the invitation Huaisang needed. He leaned down to kiss Lan Xichen with renewed passion, clumsily trying to untie his husband’s clothes while Lan Xichen did the same for him.

It was, to put it mildly, a fun night for both of them.

[loveisblindfanfictionbka]

Love Is Blind: Chapter Twenty

Robyn sighed as she carefully made up the bed then plopped down to catch her breath. The kids were asleep but Chris was still up doing work for when he returned back to work. He had agreed that it was time for him to move back into their bedroom but she was really worried about whether that’s what he wanted to do. They hadn’t slept in the same bed in weeks and she was concerned whether it would be awkward for them.

“Babe, you up?” Chris called out as he made his way to their bedroom. Robyn turned towards the doorway just as he appeared, “hey you. How’s work going?”

“It’s going. You ok? I thought you’d be asleep by now.”

“I needed to change the bedding and stuff. You alright?”

“I’m good. I think I’m done for the night.”

“Oh. Just coming to say goodnight then?”

“I thought I was moving back in here unless plans have changed.”

“ Huh? No. I just didn’t- never mind.”

“You thought I changed my mind?”

“I didn’t think you were gonna do it anyway.”

Chris chuckled lightly as he walked over and sat down beside her, “I thought we were working on trusting each other.”

“We are. I just didn’t want to rush you into anything. It’s only been a week or so since we’ve started hashing things out.”

“We can hash things and still share a bedroom.”

“I know.”

Chris slipped his arm around her shoulder and hugged her close to him. Robyn kissed his chin before resting her head against his chest, “you drive me crazy but I love it.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“You still do. How was lunch with Mel?”

“It was good. I liked getting out of the house.”

“I’m glad. I’ve still been a little worried about you being isolated here.”

“I’m isolated for medical reasons and I’ve learned to accept that and adjust. My life is just gonna be different for a while, that’s all.”

“How’s the business going?”

“Good. Mel and I dropped in on the shelter while we were out. We hired another on-call doctor to help with the increased business but other than that not much has changed.”

“Beverly enjoying being the boss?”

“She’s always thought she was, now she just getting the pay too.”

Chris laughed, “gonna be hard to talk her down once you go back.”

“I think I’d let her stay vet director and just be the doctor for a change. I can’t handle the stress of patients and paperwork.”

“Oh, that sounds great.”

“If having a five minute argument with you had me passing out, I don’t think dealing with vendors and donors is gonna be too good for my health either.”

“Understandable. You sound a little winded, do you need your inhaler?”

“Please.”

Chris reached into the nightstand and handed the item to her. Robyn pumped on the trigger two times before inhaling deeply. She handed the inhaler back to Chris and he put it back in the drawer, “Sorry.”

“What you apologizing for?”

“I’m sure having to take care of a sick girlfriend, a toddler and a newborn wasn’t in your plans when we got back together.”

“No but it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“We’re being open here, you don’t have to say the ‘right’ thing.”

“I’m not. Listen, having you back in my life in general was not something I ever thought would happen. Being in a relationship with you and having a baby, double miracles in my book so I am happy to take on whatever I need to because this happened.”

“Don’t start making me be all mushy.”

Chris chuckled, “Don’t start crying or I might have to get your inhaler back out.”

Robyn laughed as she leaned into his chest, “I have a feeling I’m never gonna get rid of that thing.”

“There’s always room for things to get better. Do you feel like your legs are getting better?”

“Yea, I can stand a little longer so I guess the physical therapy is working. I still got months to go unfortunately.”

“What’s so unfortunate about it?”

“Us can’t do us things because I can’t physically handle it. I’m not trying to have a seizure while we fucking. Too weird.”

Chris laughed, “Robyn, the last thing I’m worried about is sex. As long as I can wake up to you, I’m good.”

“Here you go being all perfect again.”

“What would you like me to say, Babe?”

“I don’t know. Just stop being so good because it makes me wanna fuck you and I can’t.”

Chris kissed her temple as he wrapped his arms around her, “Woman, I love you so much, you know that?”

“I love you too. You’re really gonna stay in here with me tonight?”

“Tonight and every night after.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Whatever you need.”

Robyn smiled up at him, “stop being so sweet. Anyway, can you check my stitches for me?”

“Of course. Is the kit where I left it last?”

“Yea. I’ve been trying to keep it clean but I don’t know if I’ve been doing a good job because I can’t really see it.”

“That’s not an issue, Sweetie. You could’ve asked me to do this a long time ago, you know?’

“I was embarrassed. I still am but since we’re being open, I’m rolling with it right now.”

“I understand. Lay back.”

Chris went to the bathroom to wash his hands and grabbed the little medical kit out the bottom of the sink then went back into the bedroom. Robyn was lying on her back with her shirt pushed up to the underside of her breast. Chris sat the kit on the bed beside her then put on some latex gloves. Carefully he pressed around the sides and top of her belly then moved down towards the spot where the doctor’s had cut her open. He gently pressed against the closed wound, “can you feel that?”

“Yea, I can feel it.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No.”

“No stinging? No sharp pains?”

“None.”

He shined a small flashlight on the area for a second then grabbed a small jar of black/white ointment, “have you been putting this on?”

“Trying to. I don't know how much I’ve actually put on the stitches or just around it.”

“It looks pretty good to me. It doesn't hurt but you’re also not numb and there’s no smell to it. I think you’re good.”

“Ok. Thanks, Babe.”

“You’re welcome.”

He carefully put some ointment on the area before throwing his gloves in the trash and repacking the kit, “you got any other pains in your belly, not just near your stitches?”

“No. I’ve had some stiffness in my neck but that’s usually only in the morning.”

“Have you told your doctor?”

“I mentioned it but it wasn’t that bad really.”

“So you mentioned it but you downplayed it.”

“Kind of.”

“Robyn.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Sweetie, the fact you are still having so many aftereffects is concerning. Nothing is a small thing when it comes to that, ok?”

“I know. I just didn’t feel like having them poking me and sending me for a bunch of tests.”

“What else is bothering you?”

“I’m forgetting stuff more frequently.”

“Things or thoughts?”

“Thoughts. A lot of my memories are fuzzy or missing parts. Sometimes I can’t remember what I did for pockets of time.”

“Robyn, I think you’ve been having mini seizures.”

“What? No. I don’t shake or nothing.”

“Not all seizures require shaking though, the doctor told you that.”

“He did.”

“I think we really need to get you checked out.”

“In the morning, please. I really need to sleep.”

“Tomorrow morning we are going to the hospital, ok?”

“Ok. I promise to cooperate.”

“I don’t want to lose you not just after getting you back.”

Robyn gently palmed his face, “don’t get all melancholy on me. I’ll be fine.”

                                             ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Chris kissed the palm of Robyn’s hand as the doctor hooked her up to an EEG, “you ok?”

“I’m fine,” Robyn replied as she looked up at him, “you’re more nervous than I am.”

“You can tell?”

“Definitely can tell but I appreciate the concern, Baby.”

Chris turned to the doctor, “Will you be able to tell if she’s had any previous seizures?”

“We will attempt to use her last EEG and compare if there has been any changes. There’s no guarantee that we’ll see anything but if she’s been having them often, there should be some kind of abnormality,” Dr. Richardson replied as he carefully checked the placement of the nodes, “it doesn’t hurt a bit and should be over fairly soon.”

After a few minutes, they were sitting in a regular examination room as Dr. Richardson placed her EEG results up on a board beside him, “so, there is definite evidence of prior seizures. Have you ever felt stiff, unable to move, sort of like you're frozen in time?”

“Yes, a few times,” Robyn replied.

“You were having mini focal seizures. People often don’t categorize them as seizures because there’s not always shaking or twitching involved. When this begins to happen postpartum, the usual cause is eclampsia. They are also contributing to your respiratory issues as well.”

“Oh. Does it affect memory?”

“Yes, it does. We may need to change the anti-seizure medication you are currently using because it doesn’t seem to be working for you.”

“Do you know how long I’ll have this problem?”

“Usually it only goes on for about six weeks postpartum but seeing as yours has persisted beyond that, we don’t have a clear window on whether your body will completely return to normal.”

“So I’ll be on anti-seizure medication for the rest of my life probably?”

“That is a high possibility.”

“And the respiratory issues?”

“Your respiratory system is stronger than it was, so it seems to have rebounded well. I still want you to take it slow, minimize your stress and continue your physical therapy.’

“Does this happen often?”

“It is rare for a case to be this severe but it does happen. Unfortunately, there’s no definite explanation for why it develops or why it persists longer for some women than others. With monitoring and care, you should be relatively back to normal within a few more weeks outside of the need for medication.”

“Thank you.”

“Not a problem. You’ve been doing well so keep up the good work but please don’t hesitate in letting me know about any more symptoms, I can’t treat what I don’t know about.”

“I understand.”

“I’m going to write a prescription for a new medication. You are not to take it for a week, I want your system cleared of the last medication before you start this to minimize any complications. I don’t want to set back your progress.”

“Ok.”

“I will notate the date you are to start on the prescription bottle. After about a month, we’ll run a new batch of tests to see if it’s helped. In the meantime, if you have any more symptoms, that includes stiffness, numbness, an altered state of consciousness, inability to move your limbs, feeling like you're frozen, blackouts etc., return to the hospital. I don’t want you to ignore it and it becomes worse and possibly causes a stroke.”

“Yes, Dr. Richardson.”

“You can sit here for a few moments or go to the waiting room while I complete your chart and send your prescription.”

Chris shook the doctor’s hand before he left, closing the door behind him. Chris turned to Robyn, “how are you feeling?”

“Overwhelmed. I didn’t anticipate this after having our baby.”

“It’s a lot to take in but we’ll get through it especially now that we know what to expect going forward.”

“I just wanna go home and lay down.”

“You hungry?”

“No, I’m good.”

Chris helped her down off the table and to stand up straight, “you need your walker?”

“No, I think I can make it without it.”

Chris grabbed the portable walker and folded it up into itself while following Robyn’s slow gait out of the examination room. They sat in the waiting room for a few minutes before they were cleared to leave.

Chris watched as Robyn tucked her feet underneath herself as she sat in a chair on the front porch. The newly installed rocking chair helped as the weather got warmer and the kids wanted to be outside more. She carefully started to rock and Chris had to stop himself from going to her immediately. He knew she was still trying to come to terms with the doctor’s diagnosis. Having your miracle baby but developing serious health problems as the result of it is a lot for a person to handle. His therapist had cautioned him to let Robyn take her time to adjust to any new situation before he rushed in to talk to her about it. Everyone needs their space to think before trying to problem solve. He finished washing the cup he was holding when an idea came to him.

Robyn sighed as she brushed a tear off her face. She didn’t anticipate postpartum life being this hard. A few minutes passed when she heard a knock on the wall beside her. She looked up and Chris smiled at her, “Hey Babe.”

“Hey you. Mind some company? I got hot chocolate and sweet cake.”

Robyn giggled, “my favorite. I guess you can sit out here too.”

Chris set the tray down on the side table while he grabbed a chair from the other side of the porch to sit down.

“How you feeling, Baby?”

“I’m ok. Still wrapping my mind around my new body, I guess but I’m ok.”

“You know you don’t have to put on a front for me. I know this is hard and definitely not either of us anticipated when you got pregnant.”

“Definitely.”

“But you don’t have to suffer through this in silence. I’m here whenever you’re ready to talk.”

“I don’t know how we do this.”

“The same way we do anything else; we adjust, adapt and just do it. Unfortunately, there’s no prewritten playbook for this.”

“I know. It’s just- it’s overwhelming. How are you?”

“I’m good but I’m focused on you. I wish I could tell you I understand how it feels but I’m no woman and I have not given birth so I can’t possibly help in that aspect but I want to help you by making this easier for you to deal with.”

“I don’t know. I’m trying to adjust to the weight, the breathing, the walker, and the seizures all at once.”

“It’s a lot, Sweetheart. I know but you are the strongest woman I know. You’ve made it through so much that I have no doubt if we really give it our best shot, you’ll get through this. You’re not alone in this. Maybe we can approach this the same way we’ve approached getting back to center. One thing at time. Your health is way more important than the whole weight thing right now. Once we get your seizures under control which in turn assists with your breathing, we can worry about that.”

“I guess that would be best. I guess I’ll have to get used to being a size 14 for a while.”

“Which is not a bad thing.”

“You’re only saying that because my butt is bigger.”

Chris playing raised his brows at her and Robyn laughed, “Listen, intercourse may be out of the question for a while but my hands are not broke.”

“Oh my God, Christopher.”

“What? I’m just being honest. I can rub on you a little bit, it can’t hurt.”

“You’re such a troublemaker.”

“I love you.”

“I know. I love you too.”

Chris smiled and leaned over to kiss her lips, “you wanna go on a date with me?”

“We have the kids here.”

“I know. We’re not gonna leave the house but I wanna do something special for you.”

“How?”

“You let me worry about that. Just need a yes or no.”

“Uh yes.”

“Good.”

                                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Ok, are your eyes closed?”

Robyn chuckled, “does it matter? I have a blindfold on.”

“I’m just checking, Ms. Fenty-Brown,” Chris replied with a laugh, “it’s just a few more steps.”

“I don’t know why I have to be blindfolded, we’re at your house.”

“Our house. And I still want this to be a surprise. You been fussing for the last five minutes.”

“Because I’m anxious. Hurry up.”

Chris carefully guided her to the middle of the backyard before standing behind her and taking the blindfold off, “what you think?”

“Aww Babe, this is beautiful.”

Chris held her waist to keep her steady as she started to walk around. Decorative lanterns were placed inside and outside a large tent with the opening flaps pinned to stay open. Small lights were hung inside the cloth and metal structure as the all white pillows and palettes glowed underneath them.

“Can we go inside?”

“Yea, just hold onto my hand  and i’ll help you get down.”

Robyn kneeled carefully as she held onto Chris’s wrist then slowly crawled inside the tent, “this is so pretty.”

“You like it?” Chris replied as he sat beside her.

“I love it. It’s comfy and relaxing in here.”

“Good.”

“So what else you got up your sleeve?”

“What you mean?”

“I know you and I sense there’s something else going on here.”

“There’s no hidden agenda here, Robyn.”

“I didn’t say it was a hidden agenda, I just think you got something else planned.”

Chris smiled, “it’s not anything like you think, I promise.”

“Ok.”

Chris moved to close the flaps of the tent and shifted to press a button on  a small black box that was situated on a small table behind them. A lens popped up out the top of the box and began to project an image on the white flaps.

“Aww Babe, my favorite movie. This is so cute.”

“I wanted to get the usual movie stuff but I know you can’t eat any of it so...I got this,” Chris grabbed a tray and sat it between them, “so there’s some green tea with honey, some mini sweet cakes and cookies.”

Robyn did a little dance and Chris chuckled, “I’m guessing I did good.”

“You did perfect. I only find these cookies at the airport, where’d you get them?”

“You can order them in bulk online. I found them last week.”

“You even chilled the green tea. You remembered.”

“You’re the only person I know who drinks brewed green tea cold.”

“It just tastes better to me.”

“You ready to watch the movie?”

“Yes. Can you move closer?”

Chris furrowed his brow then moved the tray out the way and scooted closer. Robyn leaned down and put her head in his lap. She grabbed one of his hands to hold it as the movie began to play.  Chris leaned down and kissed her temple before whispering in her ear, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Baby.”

[bindi-the-skunk]

Son of Frankenstein

CHAPTER NINE: WHO AM I

"What did you all do!?" Robert called as he ran into the room and attempted to calm the other doctor down, who screamed as if he was being murdered.

"We did not do anything! He just started pitching a fit!" Miss Flowers defended, scowling a bit at the accusation.

Robert wanted to scream himself, with no doubt in his head that they dashed in here and shoved yet another blunt explanation bomb in his lap to deal with, and it was the final straw that broke the camels back into a fit of hysterics.

He had half a mind to deck every single one of them!

Henry felt as though there was a ringing in his ears that refused to stop...spots danced before his eyes, everything hurt as he thrashed, bones screaming as loudly as he was for it all to-just-stop, desperate to run but legs refusing to listen, just as broken as their owner's mind, his head pounding as if Hyde was tap dancing on it despite the fact the blond-haired hellion had gone scarily quiet.

Suddenly he was pressed against something sturdy and felt a soft pressure against his back, strong hands rubbing his back soothingly, hands that were obviously trying to be careful as to not cause the injured man any more pain as the smell of cinnamon and apples hit his nose.

"Do something useful and look in the cabinet for a mild sedative, I don't want to give it to him yet, just in case he calms down on his own, but I want it out just in case" Robert barely kept from snarling at the lodgers and was grateful when they slinked away to do as asked, looking properly guilty.

The chemist went limp in the other's hold like a puppet with the strings pulled clean out and left forgotten on the floor, and Robert checked a bit frantic for a pulse and calmed when there was a rapid but steady one under his fingertips.

Frankenstein watched the two, mild jealousy stirring in her gut at how easily her son relaxed in the grip of that little chipmunk and recoiled from her as if she bore fangs and a rattling tail, she knew it would be a bit of a chore getting him to see reason, but this was-

Then again, she had not exactly reacted well to things when she had been young either, Harry's skilled hand at caretaking and tending to her sickly body's whims had been part of what she loved about him, she had never, to him, been the one to inherit her family's title, she had just been a woman he loved, Victoria, now she was beloved by dozens of people breaking into the unknown and the one person who she should have been striving to get and give love to had been hurt by her actions.

Yet another whose personality had been soured because their life-giver chose to not consider the consequences...

Had she been too harsh? He was a grown man who did not need babying, he had given up far too much dignity in his circus for the 'normal' people, but he took pride in his work in alchemy.

What had she truly offered at this point besides being the one who spit him out? He got her tendency for melancholy and foul temper when pushed far enough, him hitting a nerve with her about Elizabeth had been a low blow, but she had not exactly had tact with him either and made several low blows herself.

Slut had been a harsh word...slave to the public might have been a bit more suited a phrase, in all honesty, she should not be surprised if the moment Henry became lucid again he threw the S-word at her since she and Harry had not been married before his conception.

Everything else was her Harry, gangly limbs that they magically never tripped over, the soft brown hair that was just slightly wavy, the eyes of passionate fire and smell of peppermint, perhaps that was another reason Victoria had been cruel on her arrival, angered that someone not only dared to try and sanitize mad science, but also who dared to look like someone she had loved and lost, like a specter trying to haunt her, striking out at his face the same way someone might attempt to destroy a bug on their window, buzzing in their ears and not allowing peace.

What did she hope to even get out of reaching out? Telling him, all of them, of her past?

A normal mother and son relationship? Ha! Victoria Frankenstein was far from a mother and she knew it! She did not do warm hugs and kisses, saying I love you's, and possessed no ability to cook, clean, or sew and her nose curled up at the idea of doing.

Ugh, but what possible harm could it do? Kill her faster? Climbing out a window and being grabbed by Creature had done her no lasting damage, cooking her own damn son something or giving him a peck on the head would not be the end of the world.

Now, where was the kitchen in this stupid building? --- Robert once again got the lodgers to leave the room as Henry started to become more aware, the freckle-faced man had no plans of telling him of his breakdown, if he remembered it, that was what happened, but he was not going to shove it back in his lovers face to re-live it.

Whining near the edge of the bed drew both their attention

Henry smiled tiredly at hearing the familiar sound "Zosi.."

Zosimos spun in circles beside the bed, whimpering till Robert scooped him up and settled him next to his master who hugged the pup close with his good arm and giggled when the grim licked at his face.

"I'm going to change the bandages again alright? Seems a few have..come loose" Robert said and was glad when he got a nod of consent and got to work replacing the bloodied or loose wrappings, trying his best to be gentle and feeling bad whenever he saw the other biting back a wince.

But it was the quick glances to the door that worried him the most.

"Don't worry about them, they won't bother you anymore" Robert tried to comfort but could tell that is not what the other wanted to hear.

"Robert, tell me honestly, does what...who...I am ....change how you feel about me? That I am a Frankenstein? The lodgers are all ...acting so...I don't want you to-"

A kiss cut him off

"I do not care if you are a Jekyll or a Frankenstein, all that matters is that you are my Henry, that is who you are, the others will see that too, they just have to get over the hero worship is all..." Robert chuckled cupping his lover's face, noting the still soaked cheeks.

"Like a child with a new toy..." Henry chuckled himself "I don't even know who I am anymore, the past few hours have just been...a blur of emotions I did not know I could feel"

"You are who you make yourself, it's your choice, not theirs," Robert said, feeling very much like those fortune cookies his mother used to bribe him with in order to get him to do his schoolwork, but also knowing that it was true, nothing he said would fix what happened, but, perhaps he could keep it from completely falling apart.

"Can I stay with you a few days? I know it is asking a lot, but I need to get out of ...here...for a while" Henry asked, perhaps stepping away from the society and all its madness would be able to bring a little clarity to his mind.

"Of course, just rest a while now, and I will make the arrangements,"

Had a bloody nose the past few days because of the change in seasons and just tonight I bought a new humidifier (the old one got ick all in it and would not register it had water in it) so hopefully it works ... Not sure if I should take my misery out on Henry or not...maybe save it for my serial!killer au I have planned...

[pi-cat000]

MSA time travel idea (part 38)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25  Lewis POV 3,  Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3, 29, Lewis POV 4, 31, ViVi POV 4 , 33, 34, Lewis POV 5, Mystery POV 2, Lewis POV 6

Part 39: here

...

VIVI POV

Vivi’s never spent much time in hospital or medical clinics- the perks of having a doctor for a father-and now she’s had the opportunity she can confirm that she hates it. She hates the off white walls, the artificial light, and faint smell of bleach. Hates how claustrophobic and stuffy the corridors feel despite having so little in them. Hates the stupid cheap picture prints of supposedly uplifting scenes spaced along the walls. Mostly, she hates how the nurses and orderlies rush around, always busy, while she’s stuck with only her thoughts for company.

"I just wish you’d told me something was wrong…or that something bad was happening. I would have helped…”

No response. Arthur maintains his silence. With both her friends unconscious, she’s had plenty of time to ruminate on the past few days, trying to fit together a version of events that made sense. Vivi slumps forward, tapping her foot to let out excess energy, leaning towards Arthur. He’s a chalky white colour and his hair is limp, spread across the pillow framing his equally pale face, but his expression is peaceful so that’s something.  It was better than seeing Arthur's face all twisted, grinning at Lewis like he wanted to rip his friend apart. It was better than seeing the panicked defeat  on his face moments before he lost consciousness and she was left sitting in two growing puddles of blood.

No.

She can't think about that. All she could do now is try and understand.  Upset, Vivi fiddles with her phone, flipping through applications, trying to distract herself from the silence and monotony. She deliberately ignores her growing collection of missed calls and texts from her family. The only two people she wants to hear from are in no position to contact her.

“Something was bothering you long before all this…” 

She pauses in her tapping, reaching forward so her hand ends up hovering over Arthur’s, uncertain.  Unfortunately, even when knowing about the body snatcher and Mystery’s kitsune form, she still doesn’t know why Arthur had started acting weird. All this crap and she’s still in the dark. 

“Was that asshole Micky threatening you?”

Lewis had mentioned Arthur getting into an altercation with the guy. Was that Micky’s motivation or had the body snatcher already been targeting Arthur before that? Sure, the creature had said it wasn’t involved in Arthur’s initial behaviour change, but she wasn’t about to just trust it.  

“When did you become such a convincing liar?” Silence follows her question and she switches her phone on and off, mind elsewhere.

‘Don’t you want to know why Arthur’s been acting so out of character?

Like someone’s flipped a switch on his personality

… not quite himself…’

The bastard parasite made it sound like Arthur had been possessed long before the it got involved. She physically shakes her head, trying to dislodge the taunt, resuming her restless tapping. Mystery had confirmed that Arthur was no longer possessed…and Arthur's eyes had been their usual golden colour right up until that night outside the diner.  He couldn’t have been possessed before that. Mystery would have mentioned it…right? 

“Maybe I’m just that gullible...”

Not like she has a great track record. That day,  when the weird behaviour had started, Lewis had picked up on it almost immediately but she’d just dismissed it as a mood swing. Her parents and dog had lied to her all her life and she was only now just figuring it out after having the truth shoved in her face. It stung. 

“I can’t even sniff out the truth when it’s right under my nose,” she mutters, glancing up at the clock hanging over a silent television set. It had been around this time yesterday that a nurse had come past, pressuring her to leave. The first thing she was doing when Arthur awoke was force him to sign her up as a medical proxy so she didn’t have to hang out in the 24/7 emergency waiting room until visiting hours recommenced.  

Disheartened, Vivi stands, making her way out of the room, scooping up the small pile of disposable coffee cups and food wrappers to dump in the trash on her way out. Both Lewis’s parents and been by to check on Arthur several times, bringing her cups of tea and snacks so she wouldn’t accidentally stave.

She hesitates at the door, glancing back at Arthur.

“I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”

She supposes she should be grateful that Arthur has a room all to himself and she doesn’t have to worry about disturbing other patients with her muttering. Lewis is sharing his room with three other people. That fact that those three other people were unconscious and unlikely to wake up didn't make it comfortable. She slinks down the hall, leaving Arthur behind. 

The door to Lewis’s room is dull grey like every other door in the place. It has been left open, allowing her to hover and peek into the room without being spotted by Lewis’s parents. Only his mom and sisters are present. They’re talking in lowered voices, impossible to make out against the general ambience of the hospital in the background. Gingerly, she backs up. He throat tightens. It doesn’t look like Lewis is awake and she didn’t want to bother the family. The small space around the bed was crowded enough.

“Vivi?”

She jumps at the second voice, twisting quickly and almost knocking two styrofoam cups of steaming liquid from Nicholas Pepper’s hands. Luckily, Lewis’s dad has the foresight to draw back a step.

She winces, pulling away from the door to cross her arms.

“Sorry…I’m a bit jumpy.”

Worry floods the older man’s face and she quickly moves to deflect the incoming question about her wellbeing.

“How’s Lewis?”

A long sigh.

“…Still comatose, but his brain activity is steadily increasing, which I’m told is a good sign, so there’s hope that he’ll wake up. We’re waiting for word on a proper recovery time-frame.”

“Oh.” She winces again, “That’s....”

What exactly is she supposed to say to that? She swallows, words suck.

“…better than yesterday…” Nicholas finishes her sentence for her with a reassuring smile.

She clears her throat, “Sorry I haven’t been by to see him sooner…it’s just…” Lewis had his whole family visiting in shifts and Arthur had no one. It definitely wasn't because seeing Lewis unconscious made her unbearably miserable.

“I’m sure Lewis would understand.”

Yeah, he would. Lewis was great like that. Vivi begins to retreat backwards. If she spends too much time thinking about Lewis she’ll get all teary again.

“We’ve decided temporarily rent an apartment not far from here.  It’s small, and a bit crowded, especially with the girls, but there’s always room for one more.”  

Vivi nods stiffly, continuing to shuffle backwards, moving around an unused monitor stand blocking part of the hallway. “Um, thanks but…I’ve got something to do…I need to check on Mystery…”

“I hope you’ve eaten more in the last 12 hours than that role I gave you at lunch.”

She grimaces. “I have…” There were vending machines right next to the emergency centre and a 24-hour coffee shop across the road. Nicholas gives her an evaluative stare, and Vivi is reminded that Lewis had have gotten his people skills from somewhere.

“We’ll probably be eating in about two hours, depending on how helpful the girls are feeling and what the general mood is,” A careful pause,  “I hope you’ll drop by at least.”

“I’ll think about it.”  

She turns in the opposite direction, hurrying away.

“I’ll text you the address…”

The hospital flashes by in a blur of pastel and she rushes past the ugly plastic chairs in the foyer near the reception desk. Outside the temperature is cooling but not uncomfortable. She quickly rubs her eyes, breathing in, focusing on the fresh unscented air. The heat is still radiating from the sun-soaked pavement means she barely needs Lewis’s oversized jacket to keep warm. A quick scan of the slowly emptying street has her spotting the recognisable shape of Mystery. The dog weaves around the scattered pedestrians, trotting in her direction. She stamps down her guilt, melancholy, and frustration to focus on the matter at hand.

/Vivi./ Mystery scans her and gives her a lopsided concerned squint. /You look…./

"Don't start..." She scowls, daring him to comment on her appearance.

/Hmmm…/ Mystery pauses, instead asking, /How are Arthur and Lewis?/

“No change…and Uncle Lance is still in the ICU in case you’re wondering,” she answers stiffly, trying to ignore the odd looks several pedestrians throw her way.  Hastily, she starts walking towards her truck and out of sight, holding her phone up so she doesn’t look like a complete loony talking to Mystery.

Mystery follows behind without prompting. She had parked in almost the same spot as last time so she wouldn’t have to worry about spending a fortune on parking tickets while she waits uselessly for hours on end.

/I see…I suppose the fact that no one is worse off is good news./

“No,” she retorts, spinning to glare at Mystery. “Good news is everyone waking up. Good news is Lewis not in a coma or Lance being released. None of this is good.”

/I only meant it was good that death is no longer imminent./ Mystery adds. In her mind, his sentence sounds carefully worded. He is eyeing her with something akin to care or concern. A couple walking past in business attire give alarmed looks upon the outburst.

“What?” She snaps at them. The busybodies continue past, giving her a wide berth. She watches them go before breathing out in frustration. All that time spent sitting silently in the hospital has given her a lot of restless energy.  

“Come on. We’ll talk in the truck.”

The rest on the short trip is spent in silence.

“What did you find out at the police station,” She asks once they're safely inside the truck cab, isolated from the general public. Mystery jumps in to sit beside her, eyeing her, one part concern one part thoughtful. Vivi leans across the seat to close the door and seal them inside.

/If you agree to rest and eat, I will tell you what I have found./

She scowls, frustration growing, “Are you trying to con me into a deal.”

/No. I am being completely transparent./ Mystery huffs, /As humans are unaffected by such dealings, this is purely a show of my goodwill./

“You’re doing this now?”

/Yes. You still harbour resentment towards me. Understandable. However, I would not form something as significant as an oath if I did not truly care about your wellbeing. Please./

Vivi glares some more but Mystery remains unmoved. Deals consisted of an offer, an amendment from the second party, then acceptance by the original offeror. It was a three-step process that humans weren’t supernaturally bound or required to follow, though it was poor form to break one. So...

“Fine…I’ll try and get a good night’s sleep and maybe eat. Happy?” She amends stubbornly, waiting to see if Mystery will accept the somewhat crappy revision. Mystery just snorts, amused and vaguely approving.

/Very well. I accept./

Mystery’s eyes flash ever so subtly and Vivi feels a tingle run up her arm. She exhales, rubbing her eyes. If there’s one thing she’s learnt over the past few days it’s that someone can both care and lie at the same time so she’ll take Mystery’s ‘goodwill’ with a grain of salt.

“So…What did you find out?” She repeats.

/As instructed, I spent the day, approximately nine hours, shadowing the human called Anderson around his place of work./

“And…”

/He appears busy, most of his time was spent sitting at a desk or in discussion with other humans, with topics ranging from various crimes in the city to social plans. The only mention of Arthur and Lance, referred to as the Kingsman casefile I believe, was a phone call confirming the existence of an abandoned vehicle removed from St Peter’s two-hour parking lot two nights ago. They plan to seize this vehicle as evidence for the case./ Mystery finishes his recount with a curious head tilt like he’s unsure whether the information is relevant. That makes two of them.  

“What does that have to do with anything,” She mutters. It had been two full days since their confrontation with the body snatcher at the Pepper’s diner and Lance’s admittance to the hospital so the vehicle had been abandoned the same day.

“You don’t think it’s Arthur’s van do you…did they mention what sort of vehicle it was?”

/No, that was not mentioned./

“If it is the van, then how did Arthur get to the diner?”

/These parasitic creatures are often limited to the capabilities of their hosts. It would have had to have used a form of human transport./

She crosses her arms, tapping her foot against the break-peddle, trying to fit the mysterious vehicle into her mental timeline of events.

First, the body snatcher arrives in Tempo in possession of Micky who threatens Arthur for some unknown reason, causing Arthur’s odd behaviour. Two weeks later, her, Lewis and Arthur leave Tempo on their road trip and the body snatcher attacks and possesses Lance the same night. Next, Lance is moved to the hospital in an ambulance before contacting Arthur. Arthur leaves her and Lewis, rushing to his Uncle’s side where the body snatcher is waiting to possess him. Once Arthur is possessed, the body snatcher attacks his Uncle and leaves the hospital, heading to the diner. Finally, her and Lewis arrive at the hospital just in time to save Lance.

There are lots of discrepancies in her timeline like: Where had the body snatcher come from? Micky had mentioned the old mines up west, was that related? Why attack Arthur? Surely this wasn’t all because Arthur had insulted his motorcycle? At what point had Micky been possessed? She and Lewis had arrived at the hospital several hours behind Arthur but were still in time to save Lance? 

These discrepances aside, she’s pretty confident that she has the barebones of a usable timeline.  If the vehicle referetd to by the police is Arthur’s van, then she might have to rethink things though.

“There isn’t anything else?” She asks again just to be sure.

/As I said, this human was busy with many activities and most of his work was completed electronically./

“Figures.” Aggravated, she takes a breath and tries to think logically. “Where’s the vehicle now?”

/That was not mentioned./

Well, this place wasn’t huge, how many car impounds could there be near the hospital? She pulls out her phone, connecting to the internet. There are two new missed calls from her dad and one from her mom. She ignores them.

“I got it. There are only two impounds nearish to the town centre. We’ll check the closest one first,” She pulls on her seatbelt, twisting so she can reverse safely out of the park. She’s definitely getting better at handling the small flatbed truck. When compared to driving in pitch black, rain pouring down and tears messing up her vision, this city driving was laughably easy.

/…and then will you rest?/

“Yeah, sure, after this.” At least this is something to occupy her mind. After spending the whole day circling through the same facts and replaying every scenario, it’s good to have something new think about.  

The first car compound is pretty small, with four of its six-car spots occupied and none containing Arthur’s van. A chain-link fence cordons it off from the footpath. It’s nothing special. There’s not even any barbed wire atop the fence.  Vivi makes sure she doesn’t park close enough to appear on any of the visible security cameras near the entrance. The two-story office building adjacent to the yard appears closed and Vivi eyes the darkened windows as she exits the truck, shoving her hands into her jacket pocket. The temperature has dropped in the last hour.

“Hey Mystery, your illusions, they, like, bend light or something right?” In the dim twilight, she doesn’t have to worry as much about appearing crazy when talking to Mystery. Not that there are many people around this area to notice her.

/They act as an intangible layer between myself and others./

She pauses to stare at Mystery, mulling over the description, “Remind me to teach you some real sciencey terminology because you’re explanations are kind of vague.” Arthur would help with that too…when he woke up…if he woke up.

“Do you think they’ll work on cameras?”

/I believe so. I had no problems while spying today and I saw multiple recording devices about the building./

“Good enough for me I guess. Can you stop people from seeing me while I climb over this?”

/Yes, but I will need to be quiet close to you. My range in this form is only five feet./

She picks him up, trying not to feel too uncomfortable. She has made a deliberate effort to keep a physical distance from Mystery and resist any inclination to pat or hold him. It just feels wrong. Weird. 

Awkwardly, she lets Mystery balance between her shoulder blades, freeing her arms to climb. “You’re not going to fall are you?” She’d never have trusted a dog to do this.

He shuffles about and she can feel his paws twitch as he adjusts his position in time with her movements.

/I will not fall./ He confirms. Once Mystery is secure, she heaves herself onto the fence and, when no one comes running out to stop her, scrambles the rest of the way up and over. Mystery hangs close to her legs as they walk across the lot and she has to concentrate so she doesn't accidentally trip over him.

None of the cars stand out, even upon closer inspection. She circles the small space and wonders what she is looking for. If Arthur were here, he’d probably know. Arthur actually paid attention to these sorts of details.

/This one has a familiar scent./ Mystery speaks as she carefully examines each vehicle in turn.

“You recognise the car? From where?” She re-examines it, but can’t find a match. It’s a pretty generic looking car, old, a bit run down. A standard vehicle for a town like Tempo so it could be anyone's.

/I am unsure. The scent is muddied with human chemicals./

If she had access to the police database she’d be able to search up its number plates. Exasperated, she walks forward to try the handle. The car is old enough not to have automated locks so it’s worth a shot.  She hesitates briefly to cover her hand with a sleeve so she doesn’t leave any fingerprints, wondering if she’s being too paranoid.

 It’s locked. What a shock. However, upon circling the car she finds one of the back windows half-open. Peering in, the interior is a mess with several old flannel shirts, take away containers and miscellaneous nik-nacks strewn about.

“Here.” She picks Mystery up from under the armpits, holding him out to the opening, “Can you smell anything else inside.”

The dog spends a moment breathing deeply, head moving around and positioning at different angles. Around them, wind rattles pits of discarded scrap metal, pushing around several empty plastic bags. The street lamps on the main road flicker on as the natural light dims.

/It is recognisable./ Mystery finally confirms, /I believe I may have come across this human at Arthur’s residence./

“…like a customer?”

/No. It is too distinct to be a customer. I would have had to have met this human several times to remember it./

“…But you don’t know who it is?”

/Unfortunately, I am not in the habit of cataloguing the smells of random humans./ Mystery responds, apologetic.

“This has to be the vehicle the police referred to…what are the odds of you recognising it if it isn’t?” Vivi mummers, glaring at the car again before retreating back over the fence. With the night quickly approaching there is not enough light to see any further details without pulling out her phone to use as its flashlight.

Back in the truck, she taps a finger on the dashboard, mulling over what she’s learnt. How many other people frequented Kingsman Mechanics that Mystery would have met more than once? Aside from her and Lewis’s families. 

“Lance had those two mechanic guys help out when Arthur was away or busy. I think their names where…Derrick….no…Darrel and Oliver or something. They’re the only ones who regularly visit the workshop. You think the car belongs to one of them?”

Mystery shrugs.  

They drive to the second car impound to do some more snooping. It’s the same as the first place, only this time Mystery doesn’t recognise any of the vehicles present. Stumped, Vivi finds herself back where she’d started, sitting and thinking, trying to come up within something that made sense. 

It wasn’t impossible that one of Lance’s employees had accompanied and/or driven Lance to the hospital on the day of the body snatcher’s first attack. If only she had their phone numbers, but no, she’d rarely talked to either of them. If Lewis were here, he would have had the numbers saved for sure. Lewis had everyone’s phone number. Lewis wasn’t here though. He was in a coma. Arthur was still unconscious. It was just her and random bits and pieces of information.

This is the same problem she’d run into when chasing after Arthur. Not enough information. She doesn’t know what to do and she doesn’t even have Lewis to distract her. Vivi grips her head, tasselling her hair, trying to hold back a sudden wave of panic. What if she’s too late again. What if she can’t figure this out in time. She’ll be too late to do anything and both Lewis and Arthur would suffer for it.

Why is she always one step behind?

/Vivi?/ A light prodding draws her attention. /You really should rest...It will make this investigation easier./

Mystery had his paw on her arm, eyes shining with more concern and emotion then she’s ever seen the dog openly display.

“I’m fine…” She pulls away and rubs her eyes, leaning back to stare at the roof, trying to regain composure. “It’s just…I’m always a step behind…If I knew more, if people would just tell me things... I’d be able to figure this out….” before something went terribly wrong, she adds silently.

“If I’d known more to begin with, I could have helped from the start.”  That’s what she’ll keep telling herself at least…

/The decision to withhold information would not have come from a place of malice…/ The soft-spoken reassurance only serves to reignite her resentment.

“So, just because they thought they were doing the right thing, it’s okay.” At this point, she’s not sure if she’s referring to her parents, Mystery or Arthur.

Mystery glances away, uncomfortable. Even now, she’s pretty sure Mystery’s holding back despite everything. She exhales again, trying to smother her emotions. She’d already run through this argument with Mystery and the whole thing is pointless. She can’t stop people lying to her. The only thing to do now was to be more aware of possible deception in the future.

“Say the car belonged to either Darrel or Oliver,” She pushes through her upset and back to the issue at hand. The more she thinks about the lies, the muddier her mind becomes, and the worse she feels. It’s better to just stay proactive and not obsess over everything people may or may not be keeping from her.

“Why just abandon it at the hospital? It can’t be a coincidence.”

She starts the engine, flipping on the heating to chase away the growing chill in the air.

/… where are we going?/

“Arthur’s van is still unaccounted for, meaning he probably drove it to the Pepper’s diner. If the cops haven’t found it then it’ll still be there somewhere.” She’s somewhat annoyed at herself  for not thinking to look for the van sooner. 

When Mystery shoots her a look of enquiry she elaborates, “Maybe there’ll be more of a clue regarding what happened in the van. If there is another person involved then that parasite-asshole might have killed or hurt them…It would explain the abandoned car and why the police care about it.”

It’s all speculation, but what else can she do at this point.

‘This is why leaving hosts alive backfires,’

The parasite bastard had said something like that right before getting Arthur shot …There were implications behind a statement like that. She hopes she’s wrong, the last thing she wants is for Arthur to get caught up in a murder investigation.

Mystery’s eyes darken and he lets off a low growl. /It is plausible…these creatures do take pride in spreading chaos. The one inhabiting Arthur was particularly…malicious./

She tightens her grip on the steering wheel.

Part 39: here

[dreamiesdotcom]

[11:27] Dating Lee Donghyuck is playing with fire, and everyone knows it. He's everything everyone wants — good grades, Soccer Team captain and handsome face. It's not hard to see why they like him so much, with his eyes a beautiful shade of brown, skin gracefully tanned and attractive proportions, he's quite a sight. Not to mention the positive vibes he radiates, his existence so bright you could only compare it to the Sun's and it still seems like an understatement — and with this, it's a given fact that the boy, or Haechan as he likes to go by, can get what and who he wants easily.

What makes being in love with him like playing with fire, though, isn't his popularity — it's his lack of interest in anyone who trips over their feet for him; you could fall for him for as long as you want but he would never reciprocate. Lee Donghyuck can get what he wants easily, but Lee Donghyuck doesn't like easy. What he likes, or more specifically, who he likes, to everyone's clear knowledge, is you.

Unfortunately, you happened to be the 'most dense, cold hearted, oblivious person to walk on this planet' according to his very own words, and Jaemin has to shake his head no, with a whispered "She just isn't interested, let her be, let her have her peace". Another unfortunate thing, though, is that listening is not a skill Donghyuck was given, and following advices is not something he's known for.

Just to add to the list of the boy's misfortune, you're absolutely willing to do everything to not have to cross paths with him because despite the rather flowery descriptions provided, you're not exactly fond of the boy — you hate him. You hate his guts, the cocky grin that never seems to disappear from his lips whenever he's looking at you, and the teasing from your schoolmates whenever they catch him flirting with you. You hate him, Lee Donghyuck, with every fibre of your being, passionately. Or so you want to believe.

But that isn't enough, apparently, because even if you're bursting with the will to avoid Lee Donghyuck, it proves you hard escape this situation when he's standing at the door of your classroom like he owns the school, "Hey, Y/N-ah, the professor said you can't leave without giving me a hug first. What's up?"

The room echoes with cheers, and it only makes the boy's grin wider. Some of your classmates nudge at you and others whine in jealousy — you cross your arms. The last thing you're about to give Haechan is satisfaction from getting a reaction out of you.

"What's down?" you roll your eyes at him. He's popular, isn't he? Why don't he just ask for a hug for someone else? Pretty sure half the University would trip over their feet rushing to him — why would he even ask you for a hug? "Literally, shut up."

"Why are you so mean to me?" he feigns hurt in his voice and you feel annoyed because the lingering stares only means more teasing you about this later. Somewhere behind Hyuck, you see Jaemin's apologetic eyes and the other boys' cheeky faces, "You were hanging out with my friends just as fine a while ago! I don't like feeling excluded, include me!"

"It's because they don't annoy me and they're pretty cool," you mentain a blank face despite being really pissed, "Unlike you."

He opens his mouth to make a comeback, but before he gets on your nerves, you roll your eyes and does the thing you do best — you run away from your problems, in this case, the problem being Lee Donghyuck.

The rest of the day wasn't anything interesting. Everything went pretty normal — you go home, eat dinner, finish up your homeworks earlier than expected, and you think of things. Okay. Maybe the last part was a bit out of the ordinary, but these days you find it easier to think about things more than just letting the thought slip off your mind.

Things change, people leave, families aren't perfect — you try to convince yourself, and it works. These thoughts are mostly suppressed in the back of your mind, preoccupied with whatever nonsense you have to accomplish, and you wanted to keep it that way.

It makes you heart hurt and you're not afraid to admit that you think it will never stop hurting. Time will heal it, you believe. Realistically, maybe not completely, but you're sure it will heal you to the point where the wound only hurts on the bad days, and you're gonna make sure to have less of those. You succeed, as you expected, keeping the thoughts to the very far back side of your mind until you eventually forget you have them.

But just because you do a good job keeping them away, it doesn't mean they're not there.

On times like this, silent and lonely, a huge house to yourself; when the house you're supposed to call home is empty besides you, your parents absent again, you're reminded of all the certain happy memories and the melancholy they bring; the people you'd rather not yearn for, and the feelings you'd rather keep burried, bottled up until they eventually get left behind, cold, forgotten. Just like they all did to you — just like he will once he gets what he wants, and that's the exact reason you wouldn't give him that.

You shake your head as soon as the words ring inside your head, closing your eyes and luring yourself to sleep to prevent yourself from dwelling on it. You wonder what tomorrow had to offer with a solemn expression, hoping to sleep soundly for tonight — you didn't.

Today was just as bad as the others, you narrate to yourself with a spent sigh, wondering how pitiful you look pinned against one of the book shelves with your nightmares towering over you, "Fancy seeing you here, sugar."

"Yeah. Can we not do that?", you try to push him to no avail, your eyes automatically searching for Jaemin so he could help you but the absence of his friends leaves you helpless. You try to look away, trying to distract yourself from the close proximity of your bodies and the lack of space in between your lips, "Is there any way I could unsubscribe from your life? If there's none, for the meantime, move."

"Say, mom wants to invite you for dinner tonight to say thanks because you know, you helped me with subject I'm struggling with," he says with a low voice, body unmoving, "Come over?"

The smile you lend him makes you look stronger than you feel, and the push you served him lacked in strength, "If your mom didn't tell me back then that you're indeed her son, I would have thought you're adopted because of your parents' kindness. I'm busy. Don't worry, I'll make sure to come over when you're not there."

"Oh? She's playing hard to get?" Hyuck says, still dangerously close and all of a sudden, you feel a sudden urge to wipe the grin he's sporting in his lips with your own, "I — like — that," he punctuates each word with a mocking tilt of his head and your fists shake.

Donghyuck's known for his bad boy reputation, and it's getting on your nerves now. The display on power he shows everyone, the teasing smirks tugging up his lips and the way he flirts — they don't matter, because you just see him as bad. Bad for your health, bad for your mind, bad for your heart. He's not the type who does crazy shit, offends laws and overall throws their lives away, no. He's the type that screams danger, walks on burning wires with a wicked grin on his face — one look at his eyes and you're gone, a taste of his lips and you'll want more. You don't like it.

Whether it was out of anger or just to stop yourself from doing something stupid, you didn't have the time to figure out because not even two whole seconds after the words left his mouth, you're doing the thing again — running away. Although it was not as simple as you made it seem. No, your life is never that simple and Donghyuck just never gives up — you learned that the hard way. For the rest of the afternoon, Donghyuck doesn't stop appearing in your line of view, popping up with the same words as the last.

You would say it angers you that he just won't back off, but that would be lying to yourself and you already lied to yourself a handful of times. To be true, you lived for it — you love the chase, and you notice. You notice the way his eyes linger on you every now and then, the heart fluttering smile he sends you when nobody is looking and the way it drives him crazy when you smile at everyone that is not him, playing the oblivious card to all his antics.

It's like a sick little game for you, and what's crazy is that you don't really want to win. A stronger emotion overpowers your coldness towards him — a feeling you're not yet ready to admit — making you want to give in, but also wanting him to earn it. You don't want the victory — you want to wrestle and lose. You want to feel his love and be overcome by it, you want to be in his arms but not willingly. You want a chase, you want him to play the game that you planned to lose, you want him to drive you wild until you have no choice but let him in. You want to see what he has under his sleeve. You don't want to defeat him — you want to challenge him. Never did you feel guilt.

There is a first to everything, as people say, and if the way something bubbled up your chest during dismissal when you saw Haechan's devastated face after Jaemin came up to you, all sweet smiles and gentle eyes, was something to hold onto, then it's most probably right. "I'm throwing a party later. Wanna come? I mean you always do… but since you know, were kinda friends now, I'd like you to come with us as our friend."

"Later?" you tilt your head to the side and smile, and you weren't even doing this to rile Donghyuck up but you lock eyes with him before grinning widely to Jaemin and the others behind him, "Sure, I don't have anything planned later, anyway."

"Thank God you agreed! I thought you wouldn't," Jaemin's smile was bright but it did not distract you from the sad glint in Haechan's eyes, "I'll make sure to have extra cherries for you, since you seem to love them."

"Oh babe, they're my favorite," you scrunch your nose up, and you watch Jaemin laugh before waving them bye with the words 'I'll see you guys later' and walking away. Once you're out from their sight, you lean to the nearest wall and clutch your constantly hurting chest — guilt is something you hate, and with the pain it brings you, it sure seems to hate you just as much, if not more.

The guilt is long forgotten later that night when Renjun shows up in front of your house by 8pm, making a comment about how nice your house is. You shrug at him, not really fond of the place but you still offer him a kind smile and tell him that he's free to come by whenever he wants, so as the other boys. The ride to Jaemin's house was surprisingly not long, the two of you live pretty close to each other. The whole time you were inside the car was fun, Renjun playfully complimenting you through insults and you two share a banter with the radio tuned down. By the time you arrive at the party, it's already in full swing and you see the rest, Jaemin and Jeno waiting for you and Renjun outside.

"Hey," Jaemin says before slinging an arm to your shoulders, "You look pretty, but I hope you're comfortable because those shoes like a pain in the ass."

"It is," you hum, "and it will be a pain in your ass if I kick you with it later because your party disappointed me."

Jeno just grunts beside you, Renjun following closely behind, and he clicks his tongue, "You get so bratty once you're comfortable with people, don't you?"

You only shrug, offering him a smile as they lead you to the drinks. As promised, Jaemin's left you a bowl of cherries for you to snack on, Renjun not leaving your side even when you insist he go alongside Jeno and Jaemin who are currently enjoying themselves. You already know how to spend your night — just like this, and Renjun assures you that it's totally fine to want to go to a party just because and not socialize, because that's exactly what he does too. You smile at his thoughtfulness, the gentle aura around the boys you never expected but is not unwelcomed, and you wonder if Hyuck is like this too.

Hyuck? Did you just call him Hyuck? You're not even that close!

You planned everything so clearly, you go to the party looking peachy, sit down with the bowl of cherries Jaemin gave you and maybe have a few shots — you had two, and that's enough, but boy, parties can drive you wild. That's the only excuse you have on why right now, you're in the middle of a circle with Lee Jeno, stuck in a game of Too Hot, pressed up against each other with hands behind your backs, "Wait, we have to do it here?"

"Well, how else are we supposed to know you're not touching each other if we're not watching you?" a girl from the circle says, and you remember her from your Math class. You shake your head, "No, I'm not kissing Jeno in front of you, perverts," your comment makes Jeno giggle, agreeing with you but you just roll your eyes when they all just shrug at you — you have to do it, just because you're Y/N and you're too stubborn to back down.

You sigh, offering Jeno a smile which he mirrors and makes a snarky remark about how you're probably gonna give up after five seconds. You roll your eyes playfully, "I'm not drunk enough for this," you say, wanting to grab a shot but before you can do so, Jeno is pulling you close to a kiss, and the last thing you remember was the cheers around you before you drown into it, mind focused on keeping your hands to yourself.

He tasted like the dessert Jaemin served, but there was no trace if alcohol in him nor Jaemin, you realized. You want to laugh at how ridiculous it was, them not even drinking when they were the ones who wanted to throw this party. Through the whole thing, you realized something. Jeno is soft spoken, all about eye smiles and cats but for the whole time you hanged out with them, you realized that Jeno is someone who possesses strong duality, and that's exactly what kissing him felt. He started soft and playfully, ever so often giggling with each other but it only takes a scream of 'you're supposed to make-out, not all that mushy shit' for him to dive in deeper and the moment you to dared to push your tongue out, you knew you were in for a ride, the smirk tugging on his lips proving that he's amused by your daring action.

Jeno is competitive, almost as competitive as you, you're willing to give him that, but letting someone overpower you without much struggle is not something you're known for, and you figure that you should find a way to make him lose after seven minutes passed and neither of you was near losing. You let a moan slip past your lips, Jeno's hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if on instinct and the two of you burst out laughing alongside the crowd. Somewhere along the blurs, they joke around about how cute Jeno is and the boy just laughs.

You go back to where Renjun is, finally done with the game of Too Hot and he shakes his head at you, showing you that he filmed the whole thing. It's probably not the best idea, but even if you only became friends a couple of months ago, you have been schoolmates with Renjun for so long and you know the boy is harmless. You just laugh at his antics, "Don't use that weirdly, Huang."

"Oh, believe me, I won't. I just want to show Jeno how pathetic that was," he laughs alongside you, shoulders shaking, "You're really wild. I never understood how people approach you when you're so quiet, but maybe they all already saw this side of you and now, I know."

"Yeah, at one point, they all did. And our school is not even that big, everyone knows everyone and I'm friends with them. Well, except…", you shrug instead of saying his name. Renjun nods in understanding, "And I'm not wild. I just do really bad things… and I do them very well."

Renjun almost choking on his laughter was the highlight of the night, and that says a lot because the people who played the game saw you and Jeno almost make out in the middle of the whole party. A half smile forms on your lips as you look around, bodies pressed against each other around you, Jaemin and Jeno stacking cups to build a tower on the side, everything surrounding you felt so close yet so far, soaked in red lights but all you could see is yellow.

And it dawns to you.

This is what cool people do. This is what you don't want to do. And so, with a smile and a kiss on the cheek, you left the boys behind at the party despite their offers of driving you home — you have no intentions to go home; you have no home to go to. What you have is a house, people who gave you life and deprived you of everything else that money can't buy.

You're out of it, walking carelessly without a clear destination. You had enough fun for tonight and it's time to be sad now. You walk, and walk, and walk with nothing and everything inside your head at once, unbothered by the horrors of the dark and humanity. You're out of it, maybe that's why you're in this situation. Your brain is foggy and messy and you're inside your nightmare's car, eyes occasionally meeting every now and then.

He didn't bring you to a romantic place up the hill, he doesn't drive you to a nice park, but he drives you up to a high place, to an abandoned building, led you to the rooftop and offered you the sight of the city of stars and the glistening city lights under your feet — the whole drive was silent, unlike the one you spent with Renjun, but it felt so nice to be silent for a while. It also feels nice that someone found you worthy enough to bring you to a place so dear to them.

Donghyuck seems warm outside the school — his thighs still clad in tight jeans, but instead of the leather, another shitty stereotype he goes along with, he's wearing a much more comfortable hoodie. Outside of the school, you needed to play no roles; Donghyuck is the soft person he is, and you're still his exact opposite.

"Why were you outside?", he breaks the silence, eyes locked to the view in front of you. Your shoulders shake, "I was from the party, and decided it's the perfect time to not be happy," you smirk, "You're probably mad that I went to Jaemin's party and lied to you, but I'm just not the family dinner kind of person. It's fine, you probably hate me right now."

"I don't. I was just curious," he shrugs and it takes you everything to stop yourself from cooing at the way his lips is forming a pout — he's your enemy, you remind yourself, but damn, the things he makes you wanna do, "Although I'm quite surprised. You don't leave parties unless they're over, so why now?"

"Things change." you simply say as if you weren't just thinking about the cruel ways you could leave him wanting more after a kiss, about the way you could treat him good, as if it's the most normal thing in the world, "I already got my fun, I got what I want. I figure I take my leave."

His expression remained lost, ever so subtly scrunching his brows and you laugh at the words that spurt out his mouth, "You, you're interesting."

"I know. That's why you like me, right? Don't try to look shocked now. Yes, I, Y/N, know that you, Donghyuck, is flirting with me more often than not," you roll your eyes at his pout.

"Can I ask a dumb question?", he mutters silently, eyes still not meeting yours and you had to hold a laugh, "Better than anyone I know, if you're wondering."

"You're always mean to me even if you're friends with my friends, and this is the longest conversation we had," he shakes his head, finally looking at you, "Why do you hate me so much?"

A bittersweet smile makes it's appearance on your face, nothing compared to his crestfallen one. You're out of it, you remind yourself again, and maybe that's why you're currently spitting out shit you'd most probably regret later, but you allow yourself to fall apart, the wall you built around to protect you disappearing slowly as a sad smile overcomes the bittersweet one, "I don't hate you. I just know what you want and I like the chase."

His face screamed confusion, and you know it would have been the best if you just let him be instead of providing him with answers — there are things that are better left unsaid, and you're sure that you're pretty sober and conscious, just stupid, "Why do you want the chase so much, then?"

Your lips dripped of sweets and honey as you spoke, a wistful look in your eyes as you stared down to the city lights under the building, "I want to feel wanted." A silence envelopes the two of you and you take it as a request to continue, "People have a tendency of leaving me when they get what they want. My parents stopped being parents when I could already live and take care of myself since they are confident they already have a child to take over the bussiness, and my best friend left when she already knew all my secrets. People stop looking for you when you're no longer interesting, when you no longer serve purpose to them, when they already got what they want. The chase is better than the end game."

Donghyuck makes a sound similar to being punched in the throat, and at that moment, he felt something fall — maybe his heart broke for you, maybe it fell deeper for you, maybe both. Eitherway, that night, the two of you was closer than ever, crying together, and at that moment, you were sure that everything is now changed with Lee Donghyuck.

Your life is a huge spiral of wrong decisions and thoughts, you prove when Monday comes in the form of Lee Haechan harshly pulling you out to a more secluded place, only some students around the corner, and his angry expression tells you that nothing really changed.

"Why the fuck were you kissing Lee Jeno?", you frown at his words, and you remember Renjun's text earlier that day about Donghyuck stealing his phone and most likely seeing the video. You knew it won't end well when he showed it to you, but nobody really is to blame here because why the fuck would Renjun think that a certain Lee would steal his phone? "Y/N, answer me!"

"Jesus, Lee Donghyuck! You can't just lose your temper like this when the slightest of inconvenience happens! You're not entitled of me!", you strip his hands of your wrist, "I kiss whoever I want. My body, my choice — and if you don't respect that, I'll make sure nobody finds yours, Lee."

He finally breathes, arms crossing and clearly annoyed, but his pout almost makes you want to apologize, "I really hate you."

"It was just a game, for the love of fuck," the profanities keep going out of your mouth out of annoyance, and you just want to end this now — possibly with your lips against his, "And in case you're wondering, I hate you too. Why are you even mad?!"

"Hey, what's happening?", Jaemin comes running, panting and moves in the middle of you and Donghyuck. Renjun and Jeno was behind him, the two moving to Hyuck, and the boy just whines, "Jeno! Why were you kissing her?"

"I just told you!"

"I'm not talking to you, Y/N!", he grits his teeth, "Jeno!"

"Why are you so bothered by it anyway?!", you yell loudly at him, annoyed because you're aware that people are starting to stare. Haechan snaps his head towards your direction, annoyed that you won't even let the others speak, "Because I like you, Y/N, and you just kissed Jeno!"

"Oh my God, Hyuck! Can't you just be Elsa and let it go? It's just a kiss — it's not like Jeno and I married behind your back? I literally have to watch you suck faces with people who confesses to you every day of the week, and you're losing your shit over me and Jeno kissing?", you roll your eyes. Now, people are actually staring, "So annoying. Why am I even in love with you?" you make a show of childishly stepping at his foot before walking away, leaving them and the people watching gaping, a hint of smile on your lips.

You walk towards the lone tree on the field, Donghyuck following shortly after, catching his breathe. Once he looks decent enough, he speaks, "W-was that a confession?"

"Eyes up here, loser." you say to him, and once he complies, you step on your toes to catch his lips in a chaste kiss, "You owe me a date, and thanks."

"What?" he says, dazed, and you take pity on the boy. For the first time in years, a soft expression creeps up your face, and you shrug as you speak, "Thank you. Just thank you."

Donghyuck's smile mirrors yours, and it feels like game over to you; there are two ways this would end, you break each other or together, the two of you goes for forevermore. Eitherway, loving Lee Donghyuck is art — there's no right way to do it, you just have to do what feels right. As your hands intertwine, you realize that by the end of the chase, you never really lost. You had Donghyuck, and that's enough to consider it as a win.

Loud cheers from behind Donghyuck erupts, the three boys laughing crazily and basically wheezing. Friends. Finally, they're your friends too, and as they tackle the two of you into a group hug, you felt something you never felt before.

It feels warm, it feels like you belong, it feels like purple. It feels like something you never felt — home. You're home. A place where you don't need to play shitty roles, a place where you can cry and smile and laugh freely, a place where you don't need to be interesting to be worthy. People usually are the happiest at home, and it never made sense to you until now. Maybe you thought wrong before, maybe the end game is better than the chase, and this is the reward for holding on that long. You could live like this. You want to live like this. Forever.

Forever and more.

[yeojaa]

SUGAR HIGH, chapter x. (w. JJK)

You're not entirely sure when it happened, though you'd come to terms with it. You'd counted the days, waiting for the inevitable. You'd truly thought you'd be okay, but by the broken, half-beating thing in your chest - you knew you'd never really been prepared.

alt summary.  You thought you’d known real love and maybe you had - it just wasn’t with who you thought.

pairing.  jeon jungkook.  mentions/involvement of ot7.

tags.  angst, break up, post-break up, comfort, OT7, slow burn, friendship, moving on, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, emotional baggage, fluff, canon compliant, jeon jungkook is bad at feelings, jeon jungkook is a good friend, jeon jungkook is a sweetheart.

rating.  general (for now?)

word count.  ~2000

chapter 10.  Nothing Like Us

"What if I'm not good enough?  What if this happens again and there's nothing I can do to stop it because it's not what I'm doing but what I'm not?  I can fix my mistakes but I can't change who I am."

"You redecorated," you muse once you've stepped into his studio, still speaking in English.  It's nice to practice even if you never use it anymore.  You never really found the need to after your few years abroad.  The most often was with Jungkook when he'd time to call you and practice, but now those days were few and far between.

Slipping the door shut behind you, you scrutinise the room curiously.  It's shades of white and cream, beige upholstery and inviting grey cushions that beckon you to sink your aching bones into them.  A little plant is nestled beside the door, planted neatly in a little black pot.  Two sweaters are folded on a seat, tags displaying exorbitant prices still attached.  There's a row of shelves against the closest wall that houses various books and figures, including a particular Bearbrick that catches your attention.  It's about six inches tall, as big as your palm, and decorated in a mosaic of orange.

"You still have it!"

The look Namjoon gives you is as if you'd grown a second head, sprouted the the appendage right from the base of your neck.  Why were you so surprised?  "Of course.  You designed it."  Reason enough because he's a sentimentalist as much as you are, holding onto knickknacks he's had for far too long.

You study the figurine closely, admiring your handiwork.  The swirls of colour form pieces of fruit, tiny oranges and peaches painted across the surface  joined by scrawled characters.  They were the lyrics to one of your favourite songs of theirs - Outro: Tear.  You'd cried the first time you'd heard it, brought to tears by words you hadn't expected.  The rap line always surprised you.

"Thank you, oppa."  You wonder if all of your gratitude could ever be conveyed in three simple words.  

He doesn't answer, simply dropping into his chair.  It's high-backed and black - you imagine one of the best money can be, considering how much time he must spend in it.  

"So, let's talk."  The words float over his head and back to you as he taps out his credentials, fingers flying across the sleek keyboard with ease.  Long fingers guide his mouse and he's scouring his library for something to put on the background.  He knows how music soothes you.  That's why you were so close.  Since the beginning, you'd spent hours listening to his demos, lending your voice to the symphony in his head. 

You both found reprieve in the melodies, drowning your sorrows in heavy beats.  Whereas music was his passion, his lifeblood, it guided yours - helped the creativity flow from your finger tips like water from a well. Music couldn't hurt you.  You could get lost in it for hours.

"Where do I start?"  You say derisively, without laughter or mirth.  You don't like how the question rolls of your tongue, acidic and frustrated.  You know it's your own emotions, ones that stir from their slumber at the first sound of piano keys.  You meet his open stare when he turns back to face you, hands clasped in his lap and expression intent.  He's like a doctor studying his patient.  "Really, Joonie?  Fools?"

The chuckle is indication enough that you don't get a say in songs tonight.  He wants you to feel something when Jungkook's dulcet tones join the harmony.

Before you begin, your legs are drawing to your chest, socked feet joining you on the couch.  It's like you're creating a physical wall when your arms wrap around your knees.  Your chin drops, bone digging into the soft muscle of your forearm.  You hum once or three times and exhale a sigh.  It's a stalling tactic but your companion isn't in a rush, your little movements only earning him a subtle shake of his head.

"You know we broke up."  There's no point clarifying who he is, because everyone knows.  And truthfully, you don't think you can speak his name, the mere thought of it a sinking stone in the pit of your stomach.  "I'm sad.  I'm really, really sad."  You don't realize you've transitioned back into Korean before you're spilling the entirety of your lovesick heart into your proverbial hands - or in this case, the cavern of your arms.  "And I'm scared, too.  Because I don't know what I did wrong or what I can do to keep the next person I fall in love with."  There's emotion welling behind your eyes before you can stop it.

It's such a silly thing.  Love. 

And yet it has you breaking beneath its weight, sobbing quietly for what seems like the hundredth time in not very long at all.

"What if I'm not good enough?  What if this happens again and there's nothing I can do to stop it because it's not what I'm doing but what I'm not?  I can fix my mistakes but I can't change who I am."  You're not entirely sure your words are intelligible due to the way they're streaming into your skin, caught in the current of your tears.  "I'm so scared I'll let him down."

"Who's 'him'?" 

The question catches you off guard, head whipping up with such speed that you grimace.  

"What?"  Leave it to Kim Namjoon to pick up on something you hadn't even meant to say.  Why couldn't he just be pretending to pay attention, like most people would?  Why did he have to be such a good person?

"You said you don't want to let him down.  Soomi-ya, who's 'him'?"  There's no demand for an answer, no intolerance or force in his reiterated words.  He's genuinely curious because he wants to work through this with you, no matter how awkward you suddenly feel.  He knows, if the roles were reversed, you'd be doing the same.  That's just who he was - a leader.

You're chewing on the inside of your cheek again, twisting your fingers until your knuckles are stark white and straining. 

Did you tell him? Would he tell Jungkook? 

If you were to stop and really think about it, you know the answer would be no.  Namjoon was like a vault - any secret you swore him to would go with him to his grave.  He'd have rather died before he betrayed the trust of someone who cared about.  But in the moment, you're second guessing, the silence stretching on longer than either of you expected.

He relents first, though only in part.  "You don't have to tell me," he begins, carefully, choosing his words like the fate of the world rests with him.  "But if he's a good guy, if he's anything like Jungkook--"  

What?

"--then it won't matter.  You'll be everything and more to him, I promise you that."  A hand has breached the divide, smooth warm palm resting heavily over yours.  It's a surprising act of skinship that has you leaning in, wholly focused on the words spilling from his lips.  "He'll always pick you.  You'll never have a doubt in your mind."

You're not sure whether he means your potential future soulmate or your best friend.  You don't dare ask for fear of breaking the illusion.  Because right now, it feels like Namjoon's speaking on the maknae's behalf. 

You know it isn't true but god, you wish it were.

"Okay," you finally breathe. 

"Where'd Soomi go?" 

The realization you aren't there comes like a freight train, catching him off-guard once he's dropped his headset onto the chair.  Had you left when he'd been engulfed in the high stress fantasy world?  He was sure you would've said goodbye.

Had he done something to mess up?

"I think she and Namjoon-hyung went to talk."  Jungkook's surprised by Taehyung's response.  They'd been playing together, lost in the chaos of Overwatch - or so he'd thought.  Why did it bother him that his hyung knew where you'd gone but he didn't?  Was that something he wanted to think about or would it have him locked in his own head, thinking about things he shouldn't be?

"I'll go get her," he states, about to move down the hall and only stopping when a hand catches his arm, fingers locking around the bones of his wrist and gently urging him back.  

"I think they need time."

Time?  For what?

He's frowning almost immediately, brows knitting together just as his hands do, socking together within the pouch of his hoodie.  With a huff, Jungkook drops unceremoniously into the nearest seat, nearly knocking the mouse from Taehyung's hand with the force of his movement.  He's suddenly uncharacteristically pouty - despite the fact that he'd just wrecked some strangers for the third time in a row.  The discontent radiates off him in waves, manifesting itself in the bouncing of his leg and the fisting of his tongue against his cheek. 

It's only when his foot kicks the other's chair for the third time that Taehyung reacts, tearing his headset off in annoyance.  He'd been thisclose to winning the last match, all his hopes going up in smoke when the younger's incessant movement had nudged his Mei into the line of fire.  

"Stop."  A command more than anything, baritone carrying with it reproach and disapproval.  He knew how complicated things were between you two but hell if it wasn't frustrating.  Truthfully, it had been nice when you'd been in a relationship, because there were no what-ifs, no potential for tension.  Things were normal, if not a little melancholy.

(Though, if they weren't like brothers and he was into smackdowns, Taehyung would've already asked you out - if only to force Jungkook into action.)

Displeasure simmers just before the surface, reflected in the depths of his stare, and the younger makes a concentrated effort not to scoff.  "I'm not doing anything," he grumbles as if he believes it, shoulders squaring beneath his baggy clothes.  Fingers flex against the swell of his biceps, digging into the muscle there as if that'll  sooth the resentment that courses through his veins.  He doesn't like this any more than Taehyung does - he's just bad at controlling his emotions.

"When are you going to tell her?"  Taehyung's settled back into his chair, back to the other as he speaks, already queueing up for another match without his DPS partner.  "The sooner you do it, the less time you'll spend feeling like this." 

The words are not unkind, but Jungkook bristles, pointedly turning his attention to his phone.  "I know that."  

"Then what are you waiting for?"  

"She just got out of a relationship."  It isn't the entire truth but it's close enough that he can speak the words without hesitation.  And I don't even know if she feels the same way. 

"So what?  You've known each other forever.  You don't think that trumps the ex-boyfriend thing?"

Jungkook hates the points that are being made, because they're the same ones he's pondered himself, in the quiet of his bedroom where he's safe from your infectious smile and intoxicating laughter.  He's mulled the possibility over time and time again, having nearly taken the plunge at least half a dozen times.  He could just never push himself off that ledge.  

If he lost you, he wasn't sure what he'd do.  It just wasn't worth it.  (Or so he'd say, before winding back up in this exact same spot.)

"Risk it for the biscuit."  The phrase sounds awkward coming from Taehyung, the strange English idiom having been stuck in his head since he'd heard it a few nights ago in-game.  He'd asked Namjoon about it, playing with the sound of the consonants and vowels before deciding it was his new favourite phrase.  "You can't be scared forever."

"I'm not scared!"  Now, Jungkook's just offended.  He'd weather storms with you - for you.  He wasn't a coward.  There were just so many variables to consider.  It didn't help he was, as his hyungs would put it, a sore loser.  Would he able to swallow his pride if you rejected him, whether kindly or without regard?  Would he resent you? 

God, he couldn't imagine that.  He'd hated your fights enough growing up, the spats stemming from two kids that grew up too fast and thought they knew everything.  When you'd had your first big blowout, he'd nearly driven himself sick with sadness.  You hadn't talked for nearly six weeks - the worst silence he'd ever experienced, so hollow it felt like his heart had been torn clean out of his chest by some sort of super massive blackhole.

"Then tell her."  And as if to bring the conversation to an end, Taehyung drags his headset over his ears, effectively blocking out the groan he knows is coming.  

notes.  i'm trying to expand my chapters a bit more by giving more detail where it's needed and painting clearer pictures.  please let me know what you think (or don't).  if you're reading this, I love you anyways.  <3

[rixxy8173571m3w1p3]

The Truths Found On Petram Viridios IV (3/?)

A/n: this is a long chapter. Hope you guys like it. In this chapter I referenced @hoodoo12 fic Inked

Read Part 1, Part 2

________

Chapter 3: Do You?

"Are you having a good time?" he wondered as you were picking at your meal, and drawing faces in it.

"It's been pleasant enough." you admitted; shifting in your seat to sit up properly. "You've certainly made it easy on me."

You appreciated how the time passed so easily with the chemist's want and eagerness for conversation. He was well-spoken, and nothing lacked but whether it was you or your wandering mind, you had the feeling of wanting to go home; to relax on Rick's couch and watch a silly movie, but the night would go on. Intrigued by your earlier statement, V'gha studied you for a moment, not so unlike the way Zeta-7 would. Flexing his thick fingers, and smirking as though he had found the secrets of the universe and not intending on sharing it, he rested his chin on his now clasped hands."Would you care to elaborate?"

"Sure. I believe it's because, despite our differences, you're not so bad. I was worried that you were going to be overly serious, but it's been fun chatting with you."

"Well," he started, "I hope you won't be offended by me saying this, but I thought you were going to be more Neanderthal."

"You know," you giggled. "I get that a lot."

It never occurred to you to expect anything to really happen right now, but through half-lidded eyes, there were flecks of melancholy along with another emotion you couldn't quite detect. It passed quickly as light amusement colored his voice. "Is self-deprecating humor common among your kind? It doesn't matter. You nonetheless contain an intellect that I can only describe as affable. Are all humans this way?"

"I don't know, I can't speak for my kind, but I can speak for myself. I think in my case," You considered with seriousness, trying to refrain from sharing too many details. "it's what happens when you live as I do; close to a mad genius who enjoys his work as much as his garden. No really," you paused, playing around with your cloth napkin. "it's nothing special. I wish I could give you a highly detailed explanation, but I don't consider myself much of an intellectual. I do learn something new everyday. I think that counts for something."

Nodding in agreement, he made an attempt to consume his meal of fried klema paste, but could only manage a small bite as he too gave up on trying to believe it was halfway edible. "If I would've been in my lab, I could've shown you a recipe for a formula that attracts insectoids large enough to feed a family for a month. Even the bitter, old, beetletoids would taste better than what we've been served tonight."

You had a feeling that the meals were chosen by a machine that couldn't determine what would be better; pleasing the taste buds or feeding the vitamin deficiencies; it seemed to be the latter.

"I'm sad to tell you that I don't eat insects or insectoids. Though," you smiled. "I appreciate the sentiment. Where I'm from, you either love them or despise them. There isn't much of an in-between. For my part, I admire them. Like, there's these cute little guy's called roly-polys. They kind of look like little pills and they hang out in dead leaves and stuff. Oh, and don't even get me started on iridescent insects. They're just so beautiful, like living jewels. Too bad I don't have an eloquent explanation to give you."

"Do you mean to say that insectoids or insects as you refer to them, are minuscule creatures where you're from? How fascinating. And stranger still," he gestured at your outfit. "I was just thinking that you appear somewhat iridescent yourself."

He must've been referring to the sequins on your dress which were mildly reflective and multichromatic. "That was the point," you joked readily. "to look as though I could fly away at any moment. At least that's the story I'm sticking with, but don't tell anyone I left my private jet at home."

"Well, it does suit you. Has anyone told you that?"

If he meant either your dress, attitude, or both, then Rick had but you weren't going to tell him that. "No, but thank you."

"Really," he insisted. "I mean it. I…..I can't help but feel as though I know you." Leaning slightly forward, though not so much that it would violate the law, and squinting, he wondered. "Are you sure we haven't met before?"

The multiverse thing was another classified subject on the infinite list of what you weren't allowed to talk about. For all you knew, he might've met another version of yourself or met you in passing in your travels with Rick. "No, we haven't. Maybe I remind you of someone."

Realization struck him, and he dug around in his pockets and pulled out a blank white card. Laying it out on the table, he pressed the corner of it, and it produced a hologram; it was a Salamandrian with vibrant coloring and stripes that made you wonder if they glowed in the dark. "That's why I've been perplexed. You remind me of her; an old colleague of mine."

"She's beautiful."

"Yes, I thought so too. We used to work in the same lab together and were close to a breakthrough which could've assisted with premature aging which my species are prone to, but it wasn't meant to be. We ran out of funding and while working on another project, she collapsed. Before I knew it, she succumbed to rapid aging. Cha'thxa was amiable like yourself and loved to joke around. I believe that's why we were good friends."

"It's always the good ones. I'm sorry."

Replacing the card back into his pocket, he sobered. "It's alright. That was half a lifetime ago, but it's odd how events can trigger these recollections. Thank you."

"For what?"

"For these interactions of ours. It made me feel youthful."

What? Now that couldn't be right. If it hadn't been such an odd thing for him to say, you wouldn't have given a second thought to how he had spoken and carried himself. Really, you thought he was younger than yourself. "How old are you exactly? You don't look mature."

Taking a long sip of his beverage, he admitted with amusement. "Let's just say that the equivalent in human years is roughly 64.322 years old."

"What? No way. I wouldn't have ever guessed, but it shows what I know."

Though you weren't an expert on reptiles either, so how could you have known?

"Would it have really mattered? The only difference it would have made was perhaps in the way you would've treated me. I don't enjoy being treated as though I'm feeble-minded and will collapse at any moment."

"I promise, I wouldn't have."

"If only it were that simple. I've done the same, except I did the opposite and discriminated against someone far younger than I was and believed them foolish, but now that I've seen more of the world, and have familiarized myself with the universe through my travels and mostly through my studies, I realize how wrong I was. These days, I intend to live out the rest of my life to the fullest and to not be ashamed of it. And keeping in mind with that," he paused, ruminating on what he was about to ask. He continued. "I hope this isn't presumptuous of me to ask, but I'd love to invite you to my home planet." And with that winning, sharp-toothed smile, he explained. "Warm bodies are now allowed to visit and I would love to show you my dwelling. I believe you'd enjoy the view of the river. You seem to be the type that would never tire of good company."

It was a shame that he was such a fascinating creature, for you two might've been able to be good friends in a different life. "I do enjoy good company and most likely I would love the river, but under my current circumstances, I'm sorry to say it probably wouldn't be a good idea."

Calmly, he wondered. "Is it because of that human we saw a few hours ago is your mate?"

"Yes," you answered without hesitation. "I would consider him so."

"Forgive me then, for I didn't know, but I should have come to that conclusion." he remarked sheepishly. "You reek of him and your hormones changed every time I asked you about him."

"Look," you sighed, feeling a little embarrassed at the series of events which led up to this. "it's alright. I think it's the guidelines of this event that prevent us from being in each other's presence, but even if it's a crime, I wish he was here. I'm sorry if I acted out of place otherwise."

Giving you a wink, V'gha rose and gently took your hand; not only was it against the law, but against his character. You were going to pull away, but he said in Rick's voice. "Terminate simulation."

______

You removed the headset you had forgotten you were wearing. "Oh no, did I mess up again? Would I have died of food poisoning? Dysentery? I swear this is harder than the Oregon Trail."

"N-no, you did alright." he said at first, thoughtfully tapping at charts across his multiple screens set up. "Every time you were presented with a-a challenge, you followed the protocols and procedures just as you were instructed, but it's when you depart the ship which has my calculations going all over th-the place. Gosh, I now realize that it - it doesn't matter which of the guests are assigned as your companion. There is a 33.682% chance that they'd take a romantic interest in you, while there's only a 7% chance of you taking interest in them."

"Ricky, what in the world are you talking about?" You were sure that all of it was simply meant to be a learning experience and that none of it was real. However, considering it was meant to be a realistic simulation, the possibility of romance was there, despite how minimal the chances were. "I thought the reason we were going through the simulation was so that I wouldn't jeopardize the mission. Am I to understand that you don't want me to go because you discovered there's a small chance that a guest or two might fall for me?"

He scratched the back of his neck, wary to meet your questioning gaze. "Gee, I wouldn't have phrased it th-that way. I just....I-I don't like it."

"Oh my goodness," you couldn't help but exclaim. "Rick, are you jealous?"

It was always surprising when he was for it happened so rarely, and when it did you were more flattered then concerned. You continued. "I thought these scenarios always end the same way. You know I only want to be with you, even at the risk of my life. Why these aliens would take an interest in me, I'll never know, but it's cool that the people I'm assigned to are fascinating characters. Doesn't it prove that I'm ready for this mission? I kept the sharing of valuable information to a minimum, and I got along with mostly everyone."

"Gee, I don't know. Y-you're almost ready. However," he pointed at his computer screen. "there are anomalies in some of the earlier models which are concerning. In scenario 3, 7, and 15, the chances of my extermination were 18.475% because I-I allowed myself to get distracted from the mission. In scenarios 17, 19, and 25, there's such a minuscule change that we can forget them altogether. Yet, in the last five scenarios, especially this last simulation, it jumped to 42% and I ended it before things w-would've gone sour. Golly, studying the patterns between them all taught me that you're attractive t-t-to multiple species."

"What can I say, must be my animal magnetism." you teased as you wiggled your eyes brows.

Thoroughly worried, he sighed. "It appears so."

"Come on Ricky," you softened. "I'm only kidding. Listen, why don't you disguise yourself as V'gha, while one of your robot clones handles the mission? Out of all of them, V'gha was one of the nicest. We can knock him out temporarily."

"That could work, but that's highly risky."

"How so?"

"Because staying alive means I-I can't do this."

Wrapping an arm about your waist, the beginnings of a smile were taking place. "For this, I'd get my arms chopped off. It's due t-to the fact that centuries ago a war broke out from a single incident that occurred b-between two rivals who fought for the love of a Milleannos grounds protector whose sole purpose was to guard and tend to the bud that would never bloom in their lifetime. So, this kind of behavior between us is a big no-no. At least as non-royals of Petram Viridios IV." And pressing a kiss to your temple, he chuckled. "I don't know what'd happen to me if I did that, but I-I wouldn't want to find out."

"Do the inhabitants of that planet learn their traditions through tall tales?"

"I-I don't know, but it doesn't seem that far-fetched. It's um - it's possible that over time, they've needed t-to learn sets of skills in order to survive in the once harsh terrain, but seeing how they were able to preserve their culture for hundreds of thousands of years, they must be doing something right. Still, knowing all this, I-I doubt I could keep my cool and stay away from you. Apparently, the simulations tell me the same thing."

"In that case," you softened. "I might have to remove myself from this mission. After all, I don't want you to think I'm trying to woo a few strangers."

"Boy, I-I didn't mean it t-t-to sound that way."

"Of course not, but you told me the truth. And you're entitled to it in some respects. Though, while you spoke of data and calculations, you didn't ask me how I felt. Why not dear? I'm not ashamed to tell you."

Yet, he seemed ashamed to ask. "Did - did you feel anything?"

Smoothing out the lines about his mouth and eyes with your fingers, you confessed. "I felt flattered by their attention, and their company wasn't that bad. I felt……well, like a person in society, who meets and meets dozens of people, and only really takes interest when the conversation is somewhat comfortable and familiar, but I wanted you there to enjoy it too. " Pointing towards the monitors, you continued." If you take a closer look at the data on my brain waves, changes of hormones, and heart rate, then you'll see where my mind and heart truly was. In nearly all of them, I saw parts of you. Not so much physically, but there were personality traits that were so much like your own, I almost didn't feel so lonely. Yet, I never stopped searching for you in them, and in the world around me, in silence, in smiles over knowings, and in reminiscences, hoping you would come and could be in my reach."

Resting his hand atop yours, he sighed. "Th-that explains a few things."

"Does it? I know you were watching as it played out. And don't think I didn't know what you did this time around. I know it was you on that stage, veiled, and far away. Was that also part of the simulation? It…it felt so real. Somehow our souls were closer then they'd ever been."

"I added the possibility of being asked t-to play the Tremen orb bush. When played, it does induce a trance-like state, but during that part of the simulation, I-I tried to keep you calm because y-you were in the beginning stages of a panic attack."

It must've been because of the claustrophobic feeling of being in a chamber. So you hadn't been alone. "Dear, did you hold me and keep me safe?"

"In a manner of speaking. Y-you weren't in any immediate danger, but I didn't want you to feel uncomfortable. So I - I moved my chair over, held your soft hands," he confessed shyly. "and talked to you for a little while. It must've helped for soon enough your vital signs were back to normal."

Yes, he was that sort of man; the kind who'd want to take care of you, and make sure you're alright; who'd give up a day in his garden to spend a dozen ensuring that within dreams you'd live to see another. What did you ever do to deserve him?

"I see. You know Rick, despite not bringing it up, I'm sorry that I had to pretend not to know you."

"That's okay."

He understood, way too easily did he understand. Digital planes with hundreds of foreign figures, blades of grass duplicated to fill in spaces, dreamland feelings which were wisps of real ones, he withstood them all. Slipping in and out of realities were preparations for the real tests which had and would continue to come your way. You admired his fortitude because till now he's dealt with the hardships incurred purposely and accidentally.

"Even if it was potentially part of the mission, and you knew I had to do it, it didn't feel good. How….how could I hide the fact that I have such a wonderful friend? You've been one of the dearest, closest friends that I've ever had."

Leaning down, he touched your forehead with his; releasing a breath you didn't know he had been holding. "El mayor - el mayor obstáculo para el amor es… es el temor s-secreto de no ser dignos de ser amados."

"But you are worthy." you reassured him.

"So I am." he accepted.

"Dear, in trying to protect what we have, lying was necessary. Yet, I don't want to pretend that we aren't anything. I love you too much to do that. I don't have any sign or mark of belonging to anyone, and that could've been one of the reasons there were misunderstandings. With V'gha and the others, I was only being friendly."

"I-I know."

"Even if you know, I'm still going to remind you." Resting a hand on his chest, his nervous heart seemed to dance. "Underneath my hand, lies the kind heart of an emotional, passionate genius, and I wouldn't trade that for anything in the world."

Holding you a fraction tighter, his breath ghosted your cheek. "Really?"

"Mhm."

"Can I-I tell you something?"

"Yeah?"

"Everyday with you is better than the last. If we lived on Venus," he chuckled. "our days would've been 5,832 hours long. That's th-the equivalent of 243 Earth days."

"That's a long time. Hmm," you sighed, relishing in the nearness of him; breathing in the scent which wafted off his sweater and labcoat. You thought to yourself, this is how it should always be. "I wish I could've been born sooner so you wouldn't have had to be lonely. If I could've done that much, I would've been able to repay you. Still, despite my disbelief about our relationship at times, it's one of the reasons I carry the necklace. You know, the one you had given me on that memorable day that you were…" you paused as you felt him sag into himself, pulling away from you slightly as though he were ashamed. You continued on. "on that day when those Guard Ricks came because you were needed on the citadel. I regret that I put you through so much stress that day, but I'm glad you don't resent me for it." Pulling out the necklace, you couldn't help but tear up a little. "I look at this beautiful gift every time I need to be reminded that you always believed in me, adored me, and was part of your world."

"Y-you're not part of it, you are my world."

"And you are mine. There's no way I'll ever forget you."

Though, there was a chance you could or that he could have your memories erased; there were things you weren't supposed to know, but did. There had been stranger cases before, and just in case, you had made copies of your memories. "Why, if you ever have to use that memory eraser thing on me or on yourself, I promise I'll remember for the both of us. So please," you urged, giving him a half-impatient, half-loving shake. "don't think that what we have is so easily broken, because I love you and believe in what we are together."

Neither of you spoke for a while after that, but he gave your hands a good squeeze when he came to a resolution. "What if….what if I gave you a sign?"

"I'd think of an Ace Of Base song," you lightly teased. "and then I'd wonder what you could mean."

Rubbing your back, he said above a whisper. "I mean t-t-t-to say, do you…..¿Quieres casarte?"

"What? Did you just…can you repeat that?"

"D-do you want to get married?"

Pulling away from him, you wondered. "Wait, is this real?"

He nodded. "Y-yes."

"And I'm not in a lotus-eater machine right?"

Smoothing out your hair, he confessed. "N-no, I hope not."

After spending days going through multiple simulations, it was easy to assume that everything wasn't real, and was still part of another simulation within a simulation. You pinched yourself and saw that everything was in place. It's not that you weren't happy, it was just that this was a surprise you hadn't been expecting. For his part, he studied you and found that he liked what he saw and pulled out a little box. "I had wanted the moment t-to be perfect, but I don't think that's possible. I can't…..I don't want to be without you anymore."

"I think I need to sit down for this."

Leading you over to the computer chair, you took a seat while he stood before you; antsy and ready to confess. "Mi corazón, I have wanted to do this for so long, but I - I was too afraid t-t-to ask. I think now, I finally can."

Removing his labcoat, and setting it down, he pushed up the sleeve of his sweater; displaying the tattoo he had gotten a few years ago; a single sunflower with such detail it almost looks three dimensional. If it weren’t for the curve of his arm, it would appear that he took the bloom, shrunk it down, and simply laid it on his inner forearm. "When I got this, I wanted something as beautiful as you with me, always, and - and sunflowers are your favorite. You told me they were the epitome of happiness."

You nodded. "My best memories are associated with them."

"I suppose that still holds true, so I'm going to put my faith in that. To explain, I would like to tell you a few things concerning happiness. Everyday I-I go to work, I look forward to the moment I get to see you when I return. Though, when I come home, and the house is quiet, it's easy to remember that I live alone. However, when I see that the pillows have been rearranged in a way I um - in a way I hadn't left them, or find a mug in the sink, or piles of books that hadn't been read yet, I know I'm not alone; that y-you've been here. Gosh," he sniffled, doing his best not to cry. "when I see your sleeping figure on the couch or in the hammock outside, I think to myself that I want this t-t-to be my life. T-to be our life. You're what's missing in th-the equation to my happiness. When I met you, it's like the sun finally came out and I could finally bloom. We might carry bits of - of happiness, but I-I feel incomplete without you by my side. And I think y-you feel the same."

Taking hold of your left hand, he kissed it and his voice was colored with happiness again. In earnest, he wondered. "So, my beautiful little sunflower, as far as getting married is concerned, do you - do you want to?"

Tbc

[koteosa]

🔥 Asrian and sharing a bed

I angsted all over this but uh, here you go friendo

ao3 link

In the dead of night, there were really only two reasons Julian would ever expect to hear a knock at his bedroom window. Either it was the rapid and tinking taps of Malak demanding to be let inside, or it was a very weak burglar attempting to break in and rob him blind. Or kill him in his sleep, perhaps, it wasn’t like he had very many valuables to begin with.

The sound clearly wasn’t the tapping of a bird’s beak, and it wasn’t very persistent or threatening, either. Rather, it was hesitant, a single knock followed several seconds later by three more, almost as quiet as the first. He holds a candle up to the window, but can’t find anything on the other side of it, and frowns. A prank, maybe?

His curiosity gets the better of him. Pulling his eyepatch back on, he sets the candle down on a table nearby, sliding the window up to take a peek outside. No one immediately jumps out to drive a dagger into his throat, so that was good. He almost doesn’t see anything worth noting at all; likely never would, if not for the way fluffy white hair and a bright orange vest stand out so plainly against the darkness of night. 

A murderer would have made more sense than this. Hell, the Count would have made more sense, showing up at his bedroom window at the witching hour, long after most people had gone to bed. There was no reason for Asra to be here.

Yet there he was, kneeling outside like he had already changed his mind about visiting, and was hoping Julian just wouldn’t see him.

Asra turns his head, and their eyes meet. Julian doesn’t like what he sees there, the ring of red in his tired lavender eyes, clothes haphazardly arranged about his body like he’d thrown them on in a hurry, hair tousled. The sight has Julian’s mind racing to figure out what happened; had he been attacked? Did someone die? Was someone about to die? Why wasn’t he at the palace, with his parents? Wouldn’t they be much higher on his list of people to run to?

The magician raises fluidly to his feet, lips parting to say something, but without having the right words. It doesn’t matter; Julian shoves the window up the rest of the way and frantically coaxes him inside. The urgency brings a look of surprise to Asra’s eyes, but he follows without question, climbing easily in through the window. Julian closes it behind him, not wanting to let the chill get in anymore than it already had.

Asra stands awkwardly in the center of the room, looking around at his surroundings. His hands are fidgeting, fingers curling and uncurling without his bag to hold onto. With his back turned, all Julian can see are the colorful swirls and patterns of his vest, hanging slightly off one shoulder.

“Is everything alright?” Julian asks, carrying the candleholder with him over to the hearth nearby, paying more attention to Asra than to what he’s doing with his hands. Somehow he manages to set the candle down on the mantle without setting the house on fire.

Rather than answer, Asra kneels down by the hearth, lighting a fire with his magic. It burns weakly, a bright blue that begins to shift colors as he teases it with a fresh log of wood. It begins to spread more after that.

Once that’s done, he raises to his feet, leaning back against the side of the fireplace. He crosses his arms over his waist, plainly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I showed up so late,” he says, eyes directed at the floorboards. “And without warning,” he adds, wincing slightly as he turns to stare at a nearby shelf.

“I don’t mind,” Julian replies honestly, still struggling to figure out why, exactly, the magician was here in the first place. “I'd… offer you some tea, but coffee’s all I’ve got, I’m afraid.”

Asra shakes his head. “That’s not why I’m here,” he says quietly.

“Well, I should hope not. This isn’t a cafe, it’s a clinic,” Julian jokes, hoping to see even the hint of a smile on Asra’s face, so tired and blank. He isn’t successful. Rather, it’s as though Asra hadn’t heard a single word, turning to him with an odd look he wasn’t used to seeing on the magician’s face. Actually, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen this, the melancholy in his eyes, brows creased and lips parted. It felt wrong, like he shouldn’t be allowed to see this. They weren’t anything to each other, were never truly anything to each other.

“I can’t sleep anymore,” Asra says, still speaking in low tones, like he was sick. A silver eye narrows down at him.

“I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

Asra scoffs humourlessly. “I know. I know,” he says, and reaches up to cover half his face, eyes falling closed with an exhausted sigh. Nodding slowly, Julian lifts the candle back up, glancing back towards his desk.

“I think I understand,” he says, gesturing towards the desk, where a wooden chair and matching stool were arranged around piles of books and parchment. They head over to it in silence, with Asra keeping his head down all the while.

After perching on the stool, Asra slumps against the nearest surface; the wall, in this case. It was as though he hadn’t the energy left to hold up his own body anymore. Surely it wasn’t that he felt safe and comfortable enough to do something like that around Julian. Certainly not.

“So,” Julian continues, filling the silence Asra left behind, “You want me to prescribe you something.”

A sarcastic smirk appears on Asra’s face as a bitter laugh parts his lips. “Spells work a lot better than any medicine you could give me, Ilya,” he says, in a rather smug way that has Julian wanting to argue that notion for the next four hours, but he holds back, instead focusing on the actual response.

Frowning, he says, “There’s no other treatment I can offer you, I’m afraid, and I have the chronic insomnia to prove it.”

“I know,” Asra sleepily mumbles, eyes languidly surveying a book laid out on Julian’s desk. “I know you do.”

Utterly lost, Julian asks, “Then, why come to a doctor’s office? Is there some other problem? Or do you need someone to talk to that isn’t your parents? I would have thought your apprentice would come before me.”

“I don’t want to talk about them,” Asra says, louder and clearer than anything else he’d said that night, with an odd crease of his brows that has Julian even more confused. Since when was he not utterly delighted by the mere concept of his apprentice? Were they fighting? Was that why he was here?

He couldn’t ask, not after Asra had very explicitly just stated that he didn’t want to talk about it. So, not talk about it they did.

“Right,” Julian says lamely. Not sure what else to say, lest he repeat himself yet again, he waits patiently for Asra to say something else, to explain himself. He looked on the verge of falling asleep on the spot, surely he couldn’t go on much longer.

It takes awhile for Asra to get the words out. It felt much longer for Julian, who wasn’t anywhere near as tired, despite the rather advanced hour. “I haven’t slept alone in years,” Asra says. “Not since…”

Sorrow fills his eyes, and he turns his head closer toward the wall, hiding half his face in the wallpaper.

“Before them, I shared a bed with my best friend. And before him it was my parents. But I’m far too old to climb into bed with them, and… I barely recognize them anymore. I don’t feel comfortable around them like I used to.”

Which left…

“Asra,” Julian says, with just enough disapproval in his voice for Asra to begin to curl in on himself in shame. He turns, looking for the window he came in from.

“This was a mistake,” Asra says, raising up off the stool. “I’m going back—”

A black, gloved hand reaches out, latching frantically onto Asra’s wrist. They both turn to it in shock, the impulsive action outside Julian’s control, yet it works to get him to ease back into his seat as he was before. Or an approximation of it, at least; he was far too tense now to do anything but sit there, stiff as a board.

Julian sighs. This was a bad idea.

“You should know,” he says, “I don’t sleep well at night. If you want to sleep now, which you look like you do, you’re going to have to use one of those spells on me. The tablets I keep in the clinic don’t work very well on me anymore.”

It takes a moment for his words to register, but when they do, Asra looks up at him in surprise. After the surprise fades, it’s almost like he doesn’t believe him, or doesn’t like the idea, despite it clearly being what he was after. His lips part like he has something to say, yet nothing ever comes out, and he just nods instead, staring down at the floor as usual.

This was going to be a really long night.

Beginning to tug some of his extra layers off, Julian raises to his feet, gesturing towards the bed in the corner of the room. It was large enough for two to fit comfortably inside, with a rich red quilt and matching pillows, plus sheer, black curtains pinned to the canopy overhead. Undressing in total silence, Asra leaves his extra clothing and boots by the window, while Julian changes properly, as he does—well, certainly not every night, considering most nights he just collapsed somewhere without planning and woke up in wrinkled clothing.

Dressed in black leggings and a pale blouse for sleeping in, he finds Asra hovering near the bed, waiting for him to make the first move. Those gold buttons on his pants did not look comfortable to lay on, nor did the beige shirt, but he clearly wasn’t comfortable taking them off, and Julian didn’t own a single thing that would fit on someone so much smaller than him. He decides not to comment on it.

“I presume you’ll want to sleep on the outside,” Julian says. Avoiding eye contact, Asra nods, shuffling a bit closer to the bed after Julian has climbed inside, pulling back the covers for him.

Asra lays facing him, while Julian tucks the covers up over the magician’s shoulders. Perhaps a little too dotingly, considering they weren’t even together, anymore—were never together, he reminds himself. A little embarrassed by his behavior, he goes to turn toward the wall, only to be stopped by a hand on his bicep, tugging lightly. Their eyes meet, and he catches something desperate in the magician’s gaze. The sight tugs at his heart strings a little too firmly.

But it’s quickly gone, as Asra leans in toward Julian’s neck, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the borderline deceased chill of Julian’s. His breath catches, unused to this kind of physical proximity from anyone, much less an old fling. Tawny hands remain clutching onto the front of his shirt, and he reciprocates, wrapping the magician up in his arms. It felt like the proper move to make, and judging by the way Asra moves closer, he’s not mistaken.

And he definitely wasn’t going to be able to fall asleep like this. His mind was too active, body too tense, heart too loud. At this rate, he’d spend all night and well into the morning pondering over what this meant, how and if this would change things between them. Did Asra want things to change between them? Did Julian want that? He’d meant to resolve himself to seeing them better as friends, and this was making all his efforts crash down around him. Having Asra so close was dangerous for his heart, pounding away in his chest as it was currently.

Oh god, did he notice? He must know, of course he knew, they were laying so close together, he had to notice.

Right as he’s starting to panic about that, he hears something that drags him forcefully out of his thoughts. A sharp breath, followed by the sound of sniffling. It’s then that he registers the shaking in Asra’s shoulders, and his rising panic finds a new source.

“Asra?” Pulling back slightly, he tries to get a better look at the magician’s face, but he curls in on himself, moving his hands to cover his face. Oh, no, no no… “What happened? Did something… Did I do something wrong? Why are you crying?”

This was new, and seemingly impossible, before tonight. Never once had he seen Asra crumble. He was quicker to anger than fear, or sadness, or generally anything vulnerable. Something had to have gone catastrophically wrong, Julian was sure of it.

But Asra doesn’t respond, and Julian doesn’t know how to react. He didn’t own the guidebook on Asra Alnazar, that was up to his apprentice, or his parents, or his friend, people he actually liked. They were barely even friends. After the investigation ended, he hadn’t seen fit to make many appearances outside the palace. They’d been out for drinks maybe twice, that was it. Julian didn’t even know what Asra’s parents’ names were!

“Do you want me to take you back to the palace? I’ll walk you home, up to your room, even, or… or maybe you don’t want me around, I’ll just show you to the door, then, you don’t have to use the window. Much more civilized, and we don’t have to talk about this ever again. I’ll wipe tonight from my memory completely—”

The feeling of Asra pressing closer, arms snaking around his back to cling tight enough for stubby nails to be felt digging into flesh shuts him up. Not knowing what else to do, Julian wraps him up in his arms, a hand against the back of his head. His hair was so soft—not the time.

“I don’t want to go back,” Asra says, his voice surprisingly steady for someone who was definitely crying, Julian could feel the moisture against his chest. “It’s not the same room, but it reminds me of…”

“…The plague,” Julian finishes. Asra nods, his fingers curling tighter. At the time, he never would have thought Asra was struggling with much of anything terribly tragic. He seemed fine, much better than someone who had lost his lover, or anyone, really, to an epidemic. It was in reflection, after he knew, that he realized it had all been fake. Sometimes he wondered if he actually knew who Asra really was, at all.

But it was no wonder he was here, and not at the palace. He wasn’t so sure he’d feel comfortable there either, not this soon after moving in. “I’m not sure if I can help you,” he says, curling his fingers into Asra’s hair. There’s a prolonged moment of silence, apart from the sound of Asra’s strained breaths struggling to find calm, before he speaks again.

“You’re right,” Asra says. “You can’t.” Julian wasn’t sure what he was expecting to hear, but… that stung. He wanted to help, he wanted more than anything right now to be able to help. If he could wave his hand and say some magic words and cure Asra’s heartbreak just like that, he would. But he can’t. And he’s a doctor, not a therapist. Hardly even a friend, for that matter.

Asra was right. He couldn’t do anything.

“Well,” Julian starts, struggling to keep the hurt out of his tone, “My door is always open for you, whenever you want me. Or the window, I suppose.”

Maybe that was too suggestive, but Asra had to know what he meant. And he meant… well, anything. Even that. Hell, Asra could show up to kill him and he probably wouldn’t be able to find it in him to be mad. If it helped him heal, then so be it. Vesuvia could find a newer, better doctor to take his place.

Asra continues to cry quietly, and Julian strokes his hair, longing to be of any use to him at all. He wishes he could see the magician’s face, gently wipe away his tears. That he could do better than this, maybe wrap him up in a warm blanket and bring him tea, to tell him everything was going to be alright. The palace would stop being so scary and someone would be there to warm his bed eventually, he was still young and probably the most beautiful person Julian had ever laid eyes on.

But Julian was terrified of screwing things up. Everything between them had been precarious from the start, and Julian had done enough fucking it all up before he’d even known how delicate what they had was. He couldn’t screw it up now, not like this. Asra needed him, even if only because no one else was available.

That was fine. He would do whatever he could, whatever Asra wanted. Whatever he asked for, and more.

Eventually Asra’s breathing begins to even out. The grip on Julian’s back grows slack, yet Julian’s arms only wind tighter. The slumbering magician doesn’t seem to notice; he was always such a heavy sleeper. To think he was having trouble falling asleep seemed unfathomable.

Stroking gently through Asra’s curls, Julian focuses on the sound of his gentle breaths. The rise and fall of his chest against Julian’s own, the warmth of his body, the woodsy smell of his hair… Tugging his lip between his teeth, Julian suppresses a sigh.

He was a fool to think his feelings for the magician would ever qualify as “just friends”.

[today-we-will-survive]

Spectrum

Moodboard made by me.

Taehyung x Reader

Genre: University!AU, Garage Band!AU, Soulmate!AU, Romance, Angst, Fluff

Warnings: bar fight (short mention of blood)

Word Count: 31K

A/N: This, like the first one in the series, is for my honey bunches, @dimpled-gukkie

I’m sorry you’re having a bad day, you think as you gently stroke the currently blue colored tattoo encircling your left ring finger. It’s been changing colors all day, staying within the blue and purple hued spectrum signifying that your soulmate—whoever they are, wherever they are—has been going between feeling bad and worse. You noticed it that morning when you woke up. That’s always the second thing you do when you open your eyes. Turn off your alarm, check your ring. Usually it’s somewhere in the red to green range meaning they’re in a good mood—or at least neutral, but not this morning. It seems to have started off a melancholy teal and gotten more purple from there, now tinted a bold indigo.

What’s going on? You wonder and pull your bottom lip into your mouth, your manicured brows furrowing a bit with concern.

The sound of your name being called has you jerking your head up off your desk, eyes shooting to the front of the room as everyone else’s focus on you.

“You still with me?” your professor asks and you feel your cheeks heat up as you slink lower in your chair, nodding your head just slightly enough to get him to continue his lecture.

Thankfully he does and you breathe a sigh of relief when you feel the dozens of other eyes fall away again. Sit up, pay attention, you think and straighten your spine so you’re sitting tall. You try to pay attention, try to listen to the lecture, but you can’t help the little inkling gnawing at the back of your brain and you glance down again at your tattoo. It’s turned a deep violet and you feel your heart sink. What’s going on?

Your apartment on the top floor of your building is outfitted with the plush trappings of the most luxurious kind. Only the best for the Princess of the Upper East Side. At least that’s what you overheard the movers say as they carried each carefully wrapped piece of furniture and decor up the weekend before you were to start your second year of college. Your mother was aghast when she heard that freshmen were required to live in the dorms on school grounds—even though you were given one of the more well-kept rooms in the best building. You’d tried to tell her it was fine and even went so far as to admit that you were excited to have a normal college experience, but of course, she wanted none of that, whisking you out to go apartment shopping the minute the last semester ended and then having it renovated and curated to her liking for the extent of the summer.

Now you’re well into fall quarter, doing homework at a marble and oak desk in this grand study in a ridiculously huge, extravagant apartment and you’ve never felt lonelier in your life. Your mother insisted you get the whole place to yourself because, “valuable things tend to disappear and end up in dirty pawn shops when you invite others to share your home with you.” You doubt she knows this from experience but rather from the years of having it drilled into her own head that if someone doesn’t have as much money as you, they will try to take yours. That’s why she insists that you only interact with others of your stature—or rather those closest to your stature since no one is actually at your level, right mom?

So when you hear your phone vibrate and see it skitter across the marble desk top, you know without looking that it’s one of three people. Kim Seokjin, a boy that seems to like the fact that his social standing puts him miles above the rest of the students he goes to school with a little too much, Min Yoongi, the only other person that seems to understand how absolutely ridiculous it is that as young people above the age of independence, your parents still somehow have complete control over every aspect of your lives, and Park Jennie, A-list socialite who throws the best parties and can get away with anything with a flash of that perfectly sweet smile, aka your best friend. And now when you pick up your phone, you’re met with that very smile. With a curl of your own lips, you hit “accept” and bring the phone to your ear.

“Hey J—”

You can’t pull it away from your poor ear fast enough to save it from the high pitched scream that comes hurtling at you through the speaker. For a split second you think something is horribly, horribly wrong with your friend, until the scream devolves into a fit of giggles.

“Doll!” she screeches, “You’ll never guess where I am!”

“Hopefully somewhere devoid of people since you probably just made anyone within a mile of you deaf.”

“I’m at Choi Marie’s trying on my birthday dress and it’s ah-mazing!” she continues completely ignoring your comment. “It seriously is so perfect—well, almost perfect. If I can convince Daddy to let me make the neckline a little lower and the bottom hem a little higher, then it’ll be perfect.”

You can’t help but shake your head. “Of course it will, J,” you chuckle. “Every eye will be on you.”

“It better be,” she says. “I’m not shelling out this much dough just to have someone upstage me at my own party.”

“No one would dare,” you say, shutting your laptop and leaning back in your chair. Your spine makes a satisfying crack.

“Oh! That reminds me,” Jennie says. “Your dress is here too.”

Now you quickly sit forward again. “My what? J, you didn’t. I was going to wear the dress I got in Milan last spring.”

“Of course I didn’t. Daddy did, ” she says then lets out a giggle. “Besides, my best friend isn’t going to be wearing some closet vagabond garb from last season. You should come now. It’s here for you to try on.”

She doesn’t have to tell you twice. With an excited squeal, you end the call and jump up from your desk, leaving your text books and laptop strewn all over its top. You know they’ll be in a neat pile when you return but you don’t want to think about that now as you grab your purse and keys and head out of your apartment.

“J, this is too much,” you say half an hour later when you’re looking at yourself in the full-length mirror at Choi Marie’s. A sequined, silvery blue dress hugs your every curve, ending midway down your calves. Jennie stands beside you playing with her own dress that would be the same as yours if not for the gold sequins, rhinestones and jewels and the fact that it’s, you know, much more…her. She hikes the hem of hers up to mid-thigh, showing off more of her pale legs and tilts her head in thought.

“Should I go shorter?” she asks still studying herself in the mirror.

You laugh. “You won’t have any dress left if you go shorter,” you say teasingly and Jennie sneers at your reflection. “Seriously, though, J. This is too much.” Your palms run down your stomach over the ridges of the blue/gray rhinestones. Then you catch sight of the dark band around your finger and your stomach sinks. You’d been so caught up in studying for your exams and then ogling this dress that you hadn’t noticed the band darken further from the violet it had been last time you checked.

“It’s really no big deal—” Jennie says, not noticing that you’re staring at your tattoo. “But if you really want to pay me back, there’s this Gucci choker I’ve been eying for a while and…” At last she catches on, watching you bring your hand up to your face and touch your knuckles to your lips, deep in thought.

“Moody boy at it again?” she asks though her eyes are sympathetic.

“It seems to be happening more often now,” you reply. “I wish I knew who he was or had a way to communicate with him, ya know? Just so I could try to make him feel better.”

“You have such a heart of gold, babe,” Jennie says putting her hands on your arms and giving you a squeeze. “Your boy is probably one of those hot brooding types.” Then she wiggles her own red-ringed finger. “Mine can’t seem to calm down.”

You smile in amusement. The only time your best friend’s soulmate tattoo isn’t a bright scarlet red—the happiest color—is when it’s tinged closer to green—signifying calmness—and that’s usually only in the morning and really late at night when any normal person would be sleeping.

Jennie lets out a growl as she tugs her dress up higher. “You’re gonna get James Dean and I’ll get Bozo the Clown on crack,” she mutters.

The laugh escapes before you can catch it and you slap a hand over your mouth to try to hide it but it’s no use. Jennie’s already dissolved into fits of laughter as well, clinging on to you to keep from toppling over in her four inch stilettos. The two of you look ridiculous in your sparkling dresses and heels, hair in disarray and faces red and shining with laughter. You’ve already forgotten about the dark ring encircling your finger or the meaning behind it.

The hard case of Kim Taehyung’s cell phone bites into the plaster of his dorm room wall before clattering to the carpeted floor below. He rakes his hands through his dark hair and lets out a heavy sigh, falling backward on his bed and bouncing on the mattress. Another rejection.

It seems that’s all he gets nowadays. No after no after no. For once, he’d like a yes. For once he wishes he had some good news for his bandmates. That they actually get to play the venue they’ve been trying to get into for months instead of the tiny clubs. Instead it’s no.

No, no and no.

Taehyung drags his hands down his face, the thick, gun-metal colored band encircling his left ring finger catching on his lip. He pulls his hands back and uses his thumb to lift the ring. An orange stripe stains the skin beneath and a pang of jealousy stabs at his chest.

At least one of us is having a good time, he thinks, then slips the ring back down over the tattoo. Out of sight, out of mind.

Friday night dinner with your parents has been a thing now since you went off to college two years ago. Your mother says it’s because they don’t want to lose touch with you, but really it means that, as long as you’re obligated to see them weekly, your dad is able to keep you on the path he’s had you on since you were little. You put up with it. In fact, you actually used to kind of like the idea of running the family business someday. You’ve dabbled in a few other things but somehow you always found yourself drawn back to your roots. And by this point you don’t know if it’s honestly by your own desire or by the mental tether your parents have you hooked on. Sure, you love business and the politics that go along with it, but would you if you hadn’t had the importance of it engrained in you?

More recently though, you’ve picked up art again. Particularly sketching and more particularly, designing gowns. You have a sketchbook half-filled with sketches of dresses, tucked into the back of the bottom drawer of your jewelry cabinet at the apartment—away from prying eyes which you know are there. It’s a dream you would never admit to out loud. Especially to your parents. They wouldn’t allow you to pursue it anyway.

“So how are classes going, Honey?”

You look up from your plate, having spent the beginning of dinner pushing a small mushroom around with your chopsticks. Now your eyes settle on your mother’s own from across the table. Quickly, you drop your utensils and let your hands fall into your lap under the table.

“Uh, my classes? They’re going alright,” you say and try to give a polite smile. You woke up this Friday morning and looked at your ring even before turning off your alarm to find it a slightly saddened turquoise. It still isn’t red or orange but it’s better than blue or purple…or black. It’s basically stayed that color all day. “I had an exam on Monday and we just got our results back.”

“And?” your mom asks lifting an eyebrow.

You shrug and look back down at your plate, already regretting mentioning it. “I did…okay.”

The sound of a glass hitting the clothed table top a little too hard has you looking up, this time at your father. “Just okay?” he asks.

Another shrug. “Yeah, I got a ninety six, but the test was harder than I thought it would be. I should have studied more.”

“A ninety six?” you mom gasps and brings a manicured hand up to the hollow of her throat. “There must be a mistake. My daughter does not get such mediocre grades.”

“No need to worry, Dear,” your father says. “I have a luncheon with the dean on Monday. I will talk to him then.”

“You don’t need to do that, Daddy,” you say quickly. “It was my own fault. I just need to study harder. That’s all.”

“No, no,” he says. “No daughter of mine is going to have such average grades attached to her name. To my name. Can you imagine what that would say about you? About our family? I’ve worked hard to get you the reputation you have and no company run by a woman with such average grades would be taken seriously. No, I will fix this. Don’t you worry.”

You breathe a sigh, trying to keep your tongue secured between your teeth until you no longer feel the urge to argue. Of course, your father still dreams of you one day taking his place as head of his company. He’s talked about it since you were eight when he finally accepted the fact that he wouldn’t be getting a son to pass the business down to. And of course, not once did he ask you if it was what you actually wanted to do.

At last you let your lips lift into a smile. “Of course, Daddy,” you say. “I will try harder from now on. I wouldn’t want to make you look bad.”

This seems like a satisfying enough answer and you see the tension physically lift from your mother’s shoulders as she smiles and picks her utensils back up to continue eating. She’s always been overdramatic, but then again, maybe the idea of her daughter not following the plans laid out for her exactly is as much of a disturbing thought as she’s ever experienced. That’s what happens when a person lives their life with everything served to them on a silver platter. And though you’ve been raised the same way, you’d like to think you have at least a slightly better grasp on reality.

“Well, I think that went well,” you say trying to match your father’s quick strides as the two of you exit the office building and make your way across the steady stream of foot traffic toward the sleek, black car waiting for you on the curb.

“Could have gone better,” he replies without looking at you then gives the driver a quick nod when he opens the door for him. You make your way around to the other side of the car after the driver and smile at him gratefully before climbing in and settling into the seat beside your father. He’s already preoccupied, typing a long email on his iPhone, his thumbs flying across the screen, so you just stare out your own window at the buildings and people as they go by at a snail’s pace. Traffic in the city is always terrible, no matter what time of day it is, but you don’t mind being caught up in it. It gives you time to think.

Lately, your father has been bringing you with him to meetings so you can observe and see the way he conducts business deals. You’ll admit, he knows what he’s doing. There were several moments where you thought maybe he was going to lose the deal but he’s very persuasive. Then again you already know that.

He’s always been very good at talking anyone into seeing things his way. It’s what’s kept him so successful. So steadfast, so dependable. You’ve always looked up to your father. Sure, he can be manipulative, but you have to admit, the man is dedicated. He’s worked hard all his life, all your life, to take care of his family, and somehow, he sees himself in you.

You should be honored.

Should be.

Yet you can’t help but feel trapped on this path. As if the walls lining it are too high and topped with barbed-wire. This is the path, not that you chose, but that has been chosen for you.

The car turns, now heading into the fashion district and you sit up a bit taller when windows displaying extravagant gowns and bags and the like begin to pass by. When you catch your reflection in the car window, you’re not surprised that your eyes are sparkling with delight. You wander down this street often, always hurrying home after a day of shopping with Jennie with newfound inspiration. A lot of these shopping trips end with you dropping your bags inside the front door of your apartment and running to grab your sketch pad from its hiding place and spending the rest of the evening designing. Even now, you’re itching to get home so you can sketch.

You wanted to get to the party early but of course your father wanted you to accompany him on a last minute deal at one of the nicer restaurants in town so now, not only are you late, but you’re frazzled and kind of full from the amount of bread you nervously stuffed into your face while you watched the business deal tensely go down. You used to love going to things like this with your dad, but now you dread them more than anything else. There’s this pressure that seems to start building in your chest the moment you walk into the room and see the client and it just keeps growing, crushing your ribs and making the whole place seem smaller than it is. Every little thing is a distraction as you try to focus on what’s going on because this is going to be you someday—as your father always points out—and now that you’re in college, the day he hands over the reigns feels like it’s looming on the horizon and getting closer every second.

You were already late by the time you made it back to your apartment so you didn’t even really have time to do more than grab your blue, sparkly dress and heels from Jennie and shove them into a big purse before rushing back out again to catch the car you’d called on the way there. Now you tumble around in the back of it, hastily trying to change in the confined space as the driver—who you’ve caught several times glancing back at you in the rearview mirror but you honestly don’t care at this point—weaves his way through city traffic and out toward the party venue.

If you’re the “Princess of the Upper East Side” then Jennie is princess of the whole city. The Parks own so much of it, there aren’t many streets left without a single property owned by them. And you can always tell which ones are theirs. Always the sleek, modern, black tinted glass ones that jut up the highest. Even now, a line of them block the sunset painted sky, making it much dimmer inside the car.

The driver makes a particularly sharp turn, throwing you across the seat with a squeal, your arm sticking up out of the neck hole of your sweater while you frantically paw at your earring that has caught in a loose string. At last you get it freed and yank the sweater completely off. Your hair goes everywhere, sticking to your skin that has become sweaty from your struggle and you quickly push it back from your face before grabbing Jennie’s dress out of your bag. It takes some maneuvering but somehow you manage to successfully shimmy the dress up your body and then pull your pencil skirt down and off. The driver has seen enough of you, he doesn’t need another peek.

You tug your second heel on just as the car pulls up to the front of the venue. You can already hear music pulsing from the mansion and feel the vibrations on the door when you open it and climb out into the driveway.

“Have a good evening, miss,” the driver says through the open passenger side window.

The memory of catching his glances in the rearview mirror a couple times gives you the urge to punch him but instead, you pass him a credit card and wait impatiently as he swipes it through his little reader on the dash. He hands you back the card and a small tablet for you to tip and sign on with a wink and you roll your eyes before handing it back to him and turning on your toe.

“What, no tip?” he calls teasingly.

“You got your tip already, buddy,” you call back and pull the straps of your purse up higher on your shoulder as you teeter up the steps toward the glowing neon entrance to the venue. That’s the last time you use a different car service than your usual one. Just before you push the door open, you card your fingers quickly through your mussed hair, take a deep breath to try and calm your still on edge nerves and then step inside.

The party planner has always gone all out for Jennie’s birthday parties, every year being pushed and pressured to make it bigger and better than the last. You’ve witnessed the frazzled brainstorming sessions. Watched the poor woman hurry from room to room with the Parks hot on her heels as she gave a play-by-play of the decor and entertainment. What would be where at what time. Color schemes, themes, food and drink options, everything. Even going so far as to import furniture and curtains and other lavish ornamentation from other countries just for the night. And the Parks just nod, not saying much, eyes roaming almost unfazed to wherever the planner points. You’d feel sorry for her if she wasn’t being paid so handsomely.

The Parks may be hard to please but they always make it worth while. You overheard the planner talking on the phone one day while you were there studying with Jennie, telling whoever was on the other end how after this whole fiasco was over, she was planning on taking the payment she’d receive from it and travel for a year. You wouldn’t be surprised if Jennie’s party was the only one she planned every year. Who needs to work the rest of the time when you can live off your earnings from the one high society event?

And high society it is.

The double doors open into a black and white tiled foyer, a crowd forming in front of the entrance to the actual party where two men dressed in brocaded suit vests and pants with beaded masks hiding the top halves of their faces stand, holding their white gloved hands out to take the invitations that will allow the partygoers entrance. The doors and staircase are hidden by curtains of shiny satin fabric and big can lights with pink filters sit in two of the corners, tinting the whole place magenta. Music pulses loudly from the other side of the beaded curtain that covers the doorway into the main party room, floating over the heads of the crowd and muffling any conversations being had.

You quickly stash your purse behind a curtain before pushing your way to the front of the crowd, many yelling complaints until they see who it is that is trying to squeeze past them. Then, of course, the annoyance turns to friendly greetings, overly friendly really since they all know that one ill word from you to Jennie would get them kicked out instantly.

By the time you make it to the front, you’re panting in the heat, a light coating of sweat causing your skin to shimmer. But still, you compose yourself, flashing a bright smile to the man guarding the entrance. He doesn’t even ask your name, both men giving you a bow of recognition—surely Jennie had shown them your picture so there’d be no trouble getting you in—and parting the curtain with wide swinging gestures, the real party becoming revealed to you. You give one more charming smile to each man before stepping through the curtain, entering onto a platform that looks down on the party.

The place is huge, magnificent and packed with people. Bolts of sheer fabric drape down from the center of the ceiling and attach to the walls creating a circus tent effect. A giant, sparkling chandelier hangs from the apex, the crystals glittering as they reflect the pink lights glowing through the material. To your surprise—though nothing should surprise you at this point—a woman suspends high above the crowd, limbs tangled into a white length of silk , rhinestones on her bodysuit catching the light as her body twists expertly. As you watch, two trapeze artists cut in front of her, swinging from hanging bars. One lets go of hers, curling into a speedy somersault before grasping onto the hands of the other as he hangs by his knees. Leave it to Jennie to turn her 21st birthday party into a literal circus.

On either side of the balcony you stand on, marble staircases descend to the party floor, two men flanking the banisters balancing silver trays holding flutes of pink sparkling champagne.

Your eyes scan the room below, searching for the birthday girl herself. Then you spot her, unsurprisingly in the center of the dance floor, her face bright, euphoric, arms up as she dances surrounded by the other elitist trust funders that make up her exclusive, though large, list of friends. Luckily for you, you’re at the top of this list.

Somehow she knows to shift her attention your way just then, locking eyes with you like a deer in the headlights for a split second before the recognition sets in. Then her face breaks out into a beaming smile and you see rather than hear her mouth form your name before she’s pushing through the crowd toward you

You meet her at the bottom of the stairs, her clammy hands grabbing onto yours so tightly they’ll surely bruise but you don’t care because now instead of observing the party, you’ve become a part of it, the music surrounding you rather than floating below you, the chandelier looming above you, looking even more magnificent than it did from where you stood on the balcony. The people, the music, the sweet, flowery smell—surely laced with something and pumped in to mask that of the sweaty bodies and, let’s face it, probably weed—creating an intoxicating atmosphere that can only ever be found at one of Park Jennie’s birthday parties.

“You’re late!” Jennie yells over the music, her scolding words contrasting the delirious tone of her shrill voice.

Even with the perfumed air, you can smell the alcohol on her breath. She’s always been a pre-gamer, knowing that she’s too uptight in her natural state and needs alcohol—and usually a little something extra, compliments of one Min Yoongi—to loosen up. Well, she’s definitely loosened up.

“I know, I’m sorry,” you yell back. “I had to sit in on a deal with my dad and it ran over!”

“Well, you’re here now and you look amazing!” she exclaims, though she should talk with the way her altered gold dress hugs her body so perfectly. “Come dance with me!” And then she’s tugging you after her, barely giving you time to snatch one of the champagne flutes off the tray before being swallowed up by the crowd.

You down the drink in three gulps and push it into another server’s hand just as Jennie drags you onto the dance floor. The tiles are lit from underneath, the lights pulsing with the beat of the music adding to the chaos that already surrounds you.

But you love the chaos.

With a life as structured and stifling as yours, these are the moments that keep you going. Jennie throws her arms around your neck, pulling you to her with a loud, drunken laugh and you feel your own laughter bubbling out of you, riding on the dizzying feel of the alcohol already coursing through your veins.

The two of you dance together for several songs until you’re a sweating, giggling mess, falling all over each other as you make your way toward the bar set up in the corner. Three bartenders decked out in the same brocade vests and masks as the servers scurry behind the counter, mixing and handing out drinks just barely slower than the people are ordering them. With it being an open bar, many people have taken up root at the counter, planning on spending the entire night getting absolutely wasted and trying to forget about the pressure they’re each under to continue to be the golden children their parents paint them to be. Trying to drown out the stress of being dragged down a path that was set for them before they were born. Taking up a business they have no interest in, marrying into families they despise, becoming people they don’t want to be. The only oases in this stifling dessert are the black cards with no charge limit that reside in most of their wallets and nights like this one.

“What’ll it be, Birthday Girl?” one of the bartenders yells to Jennie over the music.

She leans onto the bar coyly. “A black cherry martini please,” she says with a flirtatious bat of her eyelashes. “And one for my beautiful bestie here too.”

The bartender’s eyes flash over to you and you feel your cheeks heat up as you dip your head demurely. Jennie has always been so unabashedly over the top when it comes to interacting with the opposite sex while you’ve always been a bit more shy. It’s a perfect balance really. She brings out your wild side and you try to reign hers in. “Try” being the operative word.

It takes less than a minute to get your deep red drinks, Jennie grabbing both and handing you yours. With a smile, you tap the lip of your glass against hers.

“To you,” you say over the music.

“You know it!” she yells back before bringing her drink to her lips.

As Jennie takes a sip of her martini, her eyes travel past the rim of her glass and over your shoulder, settling on someone behind you. Immediately you sense an all too familiar, all too cocky presence.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Jennie,” a voice says. “You really know how to throw an extravagant party.” Now you spin around, your vision assaulted by none other than the most notorious playboy of the Upper East Side.

Kim Seokjin is one of those classically handsome men. The kind with the incredibly broad shoulders, chiseled jaw, sharp, intelligent eyes, and full, perfect lips. Unfortunately, he is very aware of the fact and uses it unabashedly to his advantage at all times. So constantly, in fact, it’s exhausting just to be around him for more than a few minutes. There’s only so much of Kim Seokjin’s flirtation you can take before you feel your self-respect begin to dwindle.

Even now you almost cringe as he dips his head at you, his eyes glinting as if to try and lure you in. No way, no how, never have, never will.

A blonde head bobs behind him and you manage to rip your eyes away from his stifling gaze to see his best friend, Min Yoongi perched on a bar stool, conversing lowly and suspiciously with a couple of girls. You watch with an eyebrow quirked as he opens his palm to reveal two small white pills, which the girls each take one of, and press onto their tongues. Ah yes, the boy may have been born into all the money he’ll ever need, but he’s a business man to a fault. A sketchy business man, but a business man nonetheless.

“Was that an actual compliment I just heard out of your mouth, Kim Seokjin?” Jennie asks from behind you and you turn your attention back to the boy. “Not even one snarky remark about how pink is such a classless color?”

“As long as there’s free booze, I wouldn’t care if you covered the walls in green and purple polka dots and made us all do the electric slide,” he says. “Besides, I kind of like pink. It’s…jovial.”

“Glad to hear you hold my taste to such a high esteem.”

Seokjin quirks a corner of his mouth, amused by this back and forth, it seems. “It is exactly what I would expect a Park Jennie party to be,” he says. “Magnificent. Extravagant. Fitting for only a queen such as yourself,” His eyes sparkle and you find yourself stepping back trying to make some room for his suffocating ego.

“The party favors are mini bottles of champagne,” Jennie says with a sharp jut of her chin. “Diamond encrusted, imported from one of the original vineyards in France.”

“Of course they are,” he purrs. Then raises his glass to his lips and throws his head back, draining the drink in one gulp. He drops the tumbler onto the bar, his one arm closing in on your best friend’s side and he sidles closer to her.

“Come dance with me,” he utters and you feel your stomach churn.

How is any actual human like this? How can anyone be fooled by this boy’s over the top charms? You’ve seen this song and dance between the two of them a million times. The seemingly ongoing feud between the two, their egos and self-absorption always clashing, yet you know the truth. You wish you didn’t, but—much to your chagrin—you are Jennie’s soundboard. Oh yes, you’ve heard all the details. The two make for an interesting pair, that’s for sure.

The fact that they aren’t soulmates doesn’t really matter to them. In fact, most people don’t even bother trying to find their soulmates until after college is over. Especially not those that already have their lives mapped out for them such as you and the rest of the kids on the Upper East Side. Having a pre-picked soulmate just means another thing you have no control over. And you along with the rest want to hold onto that tiny bit of freedom for just a little longer. Hence the almost vomit inducing scene unfolding in front of you.

Now you watch with a mixture of amusement and disgust as your best friend presses her unfinished drink into your hand before allowing herself to be led away, back onto the dance floor. If it were anyone else, you’d have stopped it before it could happen but you know your best friend better than anyone. Better than Kim Seokjin does, that’s for sure. Park Jennie doesn’t do anything she doesn’t want to do. She can hold her own.

You set her forgotten drink onto the bar top before leaning back against it and taking a sip of your own as you watch the party happen around you. Everywhere you look you see people enjoying themselves, whether that be dancing, drinking, pressed up against someone else or a mixture of all three. Parties are a staple of any trust fund kid’s social life. In fact, if you aren’t going to at least one a month, can you even call yourself an elite? But there’s something different about a Park Jennie party. As city royalty, it is well-known that she is on the shortest leash. Her family often graces the tabloids, articles about their newest properties, most recent lavish trips, societal events and parties being eaten up by the more common folk that wish they were them. Sure, from the outside, Jennie seems like a wild card. Someone who can do what she wants, get what she wants. But you know the truth. Underneath the flirty, confident, loud exterior, is a girl who just wants to hold onto her youth for as long as she can before her parents force her to grow up.

All this.

These bright colors and flashing lights and loud music, are all a facade. All just a distraction from responsibilities waiting for her on the ever impending horizon.

For weeks before the party, Jennie excitedly bragged about the fact that her dad had managed to get Bangtan to perform at it. The boy group is one of the biggest musical acts in the world right now which just goes to show how much power the Park family possesses.

Though now as you stand beside her, confusingly enough off to the side of the crowd that has accumulated in front of the curtained stage instead of at the forefront, you notice she doesn’t seem as thrilled as she should be. In fact, she seems anxious.

“Hey, what’s wrong, J?” you ask nudging her gently with your elbow. “Aren’t you excited to see Bangtan live?”

“I would be if we actually were seeing them live,” she replies shifting on her heels.

If you were confused before, you’re completely puzzled now. “What do you—?” The last bit of your question is drowned out when the crowd goes wild and you turn back toward the stage to see the curtain lifting. Of course, as soon as the band onstage is revealed to not be the worldwide sensation that is the seven member group, Bangtan, but a five piece band of musicians that look like they belong in someone’s garage instead of this luxe venue, the screaming dies down to almost silence.

“Helloooooooo Upper East Side!” the frontman yells into the mic before adjusting the backwards snapback on his head. You don’t know what’s worse, his obnoxiously loud voice or the glaring black tattoo of a lion’s head plastered across the side of his neck and throat. “I’m your hope, you’re my hope, I’m J-Hoooooooope!”

“Oh no,” Jennie groans as she presses her hands to her face in embarrassment.

“That’s Tae on drums, RM on bass, Kook and Jimin on guitar and together we are WAR OF HORMONE!”

With that last bit of an introduction, the drummer—Tae, apparently—raises his sticks in the air, inked arms catching the light, and strikes them together three times before bringing them down hard on the snare at the same time he hits the bass. The stage comes to life, the lights changing with every heavy beat and J-Hope leans into the mic to start the song off. To your surprise, it’s catchy, even with their gravely sing-song rapping and heavy sound and before long, the crowd of partiers is really starting to get into it. You watch in disbelief as these people—most of whom you’ve known since you were all in pre-prep school—begin jumping up and down, raising their arms above their heads and screaming back whenever one of the boys on stage hypes them up. It seems all of the members have singing parts, including the drummer, who cranes his neck to the left to reach the mic on a stand, expertly keeping the beat while singing the entire chorus with a deep, growly voice that causes goosebumps to raise on your skin even in the feverish room.

It isn’t until the song is over and the room bursts into applause that you finally snap out of your stupor and look to your best friend.

“Okay there has to be a story here,” you yell as the band starts in on a second song. “You can’t tell me they were your first choice.”

“Of course they weren’t my first choice,” Jennie yells back to you, though her eyes stay glued to the boys on stage. “They weren’t my choice at all.”

“Then who’s were they?” you ask now thoroughly confused.

Jennie crosses her arms over her chest and scrunches her nose in irritation. “Yeonjun’s,” she mutters.

Your head turns immediately to the corner closest to the bar where Jennie’s obnoxious little brother sits with his four equally obnoxious friends, all very underage and all clearly intoxicated.

Your mouth pulls up in disgust. “Since when does your little brother have any say in what music plays at your birthday party?”

“Since he threatened to tell Daddy that I was the one to put that scratch in the Mercedes. Apparently he’s hoping to get a chance to talk to them about joining”

“Yeonjun wants to join some greasy garage band? Ew.”

“Right?” Jennie asks with a scoff before turning back again to face the band. As she watches, her annoyed expression smooths out and a corner of her mouth curls. “Though, I don’t completely hate it.”

“Are you serious right now?” you shriek and look ahead at the stage again.

It seems she didn’t hear you and now she grabs your arm and bites her lip eagerly.

“Come on, let’s get closer to the stage,” she says and before you can argue, she drags you into the crowd.

Of course, they clear a path for the birthday girl and within seconds, you’re right at the front, nothing but these loud energetic boys before you. J-Hope jumps around on the stage, almost shoving the mic in his mouth, his leather pants catching the light, his white tank top sticking to his skin. His eyes fall to the pair of you as you enter his line of sight, dark irises sparkling when they settle on the person to your right. Oh no. You look over at Jennie to find her staring back, gaze locked intensely on the singer.

The song continues with the two of them never really looking away from each other, J-Hope staying in your vicinity of the stage, doing a little more to get some sort of rise out of your best friend, whether it’s a tilt of his head, a bit extra dancing or a wink. The two are so brazenly flirting with each other you suddenly feel like you’re intruding on a very private moment.

Focus on something else, you think and you let your eyes roam over the rest of the boys on the stage. They all look so out of place here covered in tattoos and piercings and tight ripped clothes, you feel like you’re at a completely different party than you were just twenty minutes ago. The bassist has a beanie pulled down over his hair, his teeth hooking on his lip ring as he bobs his head to the beat. The two guitarists face each other, the shorter with blue hair and much to your horror, a septum piercing, and the other taller—at least he has normal colored hair—with big black plugs in his lobes and tattoos trailing down the arm facing you. At last your gaze lands on the drummer and you suck in a sharp breath when you see that his own eyes are set on you.

His sweat-darkened hair sticks out in wet spikes, his inked up skin—dare you say—glistening as he drums. When he sees you staring, he cocks his head back, mouth spreading into a knowing smile before poking his tongue out. You quickly look away again, trying to ignore the way his stare makes your stomach flip. Suddenly you feel very thirsty.

“I’ll be right back,” you say quickly to Jennie, though she probably doesn’t hear you since she’s too busy drooling over the frontman of War of Hormone.

You push back through the crowd, this time wanting the least resistance but not getting it since you’re not being towed behind the birthday girl. But at last you break out of the back, your ears ringing from the screams and cheers that had surrounded you and now you find yourself right up against the bar—coincidentally right where you want to be. You rattle off the first drink that you can think of that you know will get that image of drummer boy’s smirk out of your head.

As you wait for your drink, you rest your elbows on the bar top and let your head sink into your hands, absolutely refusing to turn around. Even hidden by the crowd now, you can feel his stare burning a hole into the back of your skull. Out of the corner of your eye, you sense movement.

“So did Jennie lose a bet or is this a sad attempt at charity work?” Seokjin asks.

“Blackmail, actually,” you mutter then straighten up when the bartender sets your drink down in front of you.

“I don’t know what’s more painful,” Seokjin says leaning his back against the bar so he can spectate. “Hearing this sad excuse for music or watching my peers reduce themselves down to the neanderthals that would be so easily entertained by such garbage.”

You wish you could agree. You wish you could say that you don’t feel the strange, intriguing pull to join Jennie back up in front of the stage—despite the enticing drummer boy and that stupid smirk of his.

“Jennie seems to be enjoying it,” you say before bringing your drink up to your lips. You wince at the bitterness of the straight alcohol, remembering just why you don’t normally like drinks like this. Tae’s voice floats above the crowd and smashes into you like a shot canon ball and you immediately take another swig. Why is he affecting you so much?

It takes finishing your drink to realize Seokjin hasn’t said a word after your last remark and now you glance over at him, seeing his jaw become more visible as he grinds his teeth together. His eyes are focused on the stage, in particular, the frontman and his hand reaching down for Jennie’s.

Just then, the song ends and J-hope laughs breathlessly into the mic. “We’re gonna take a quick break,” he says, his statement punctuated by a short drum solo and then the room is filled with the screams of the crowd.

You shake your head, still in shock that this band is getting such a rise out of your peers. Maybe the air really is laced with something. With that thought in mind, you set your now empty glass back on the bar.

“I’m going to try to find Jennie again,” you say to Seokjin though from his lack of a response, you aren’t sure if he heard you. Whatever. Once again, you find yourself weaving through the crowd, back toward the stage, this time a rock growing bigger in your stomach with every step because all you can think about is the fact that that drummer is waiting for you.

Somehow, as luck would have it, the stage is empty by the time you get up there. At least mostly empty. The important thing is that the drummer is gone. You feel the rock in your gut begin to subside. That is, until your searching eyes land on Jennie and J-Hope at the corner of the stage, their faces unnaturally close for the two having just met, and what’s worse, he’s grasping her delicate hands in his. The fact that he’s dripping with sweat doesn’t seem to phase your best friend. In fact, she seems enamored. Odd.

Your gaze travels south from their faces to their clasped hands. It’s then that it all suddenly makes sense. In the pink tinged light, it’s hard to make out the colors of the soulmate marks encircling the ring fingers on their left hands, but there’s no mistaking the second band that has appeared above each one.

No way, you think. Jennie and this guy? Soulmates?

It’s the first day of the new semester and here you are, twenty minutes late and literally running across campus, your bag bouncing against your hip, your braid whipping out behind you. Why did you decide to wear your heeled boots today? Oh right, because they’re cute.

Now the sound of your heels hitting the tiled floor of the hallway echoes through the place. Luckily no one else is around because you are definitely a sight to see.

At last, you reach your class, stopping outside to smooth your hair back down and readjust your sweater before taking a deep breath and pushing the door open as quietly as you can. When you peek in, you realize the room is a lot smaller than you thought it would be. Instead of the theater style ones you’re used to, this one is much smaller. Instead of rows of seats, there are several long, skinny tables set up in a U shape, students filling the chairs along the outer perimeter of it. The professor stands at the center of the room and, unfortunately for you, is right in the middle of turning to face the students sitting in front of the door when you slip in.

“Ah, nice of you to finally join us,” she says with an unsympathetic smile.

“Sorry,” you utter and brush a stray strand of hair back out of your face. “I guess I overslept.”

“Well, you’re here now. Might as well join in on the fun.” Then the professor gestures to the only empty seat available, luckily right in front of you so you don’t have to make an even bigger fool of yourself having to navigate around the chairs and bags on the floor to the other side.

Without another word, you rush over and slink down into your chair, immediately bringing your hands up, cupping your face to shield the bright red that has blossomed in your cheeks.

You stay just like that, keeping your eyes glued to the professor as she goes on about a partner project that’s supposed to be due in two weeks. The person beside you shifts in their seat—you don’t even know what they or anyone else in the class looks like since you’re still too mortified to let your eyes move from the center of the room.

“You’ll do this project with the person sharing your table. After all, you’re all adults here and should be able to work well enough with any of your other classmates. On that note, please spend the rest of the time getting to know each other and discussing your project.”

You’re really hoping your partner knows what the two of you are supposed to be doing since you apparently missed that part. Now, you finally sit up, take a deep breath and turn to face them with the intention of asking what you’re supposed to be doing. But when your eyes lock on a pair very familiar to you, you feel the air freeze in your lungs. The last time you saw these eyes, they were glittering mischievously, adorning a face with an extremely flirtatious smirk on it that set your body on fire.

He leans his elbow on the table, his leather jacket—covered in brightly colored, painted designs and metal studs—creaking, the material pulling taut. You immediately picture what’s hiding under the leather, remembering those swirls of ink that ran up and down his arms.

“Fancy meeting you here,” he says turning so he can face you head on. You can’t help but wonder how it’s even possible for his speaking voice to be deeper than that growling/singing he did at Jennie’s party.

Finally, you shake your head hard to pull yourself out of your stupor. “You’re my partner?” you ask at last.

“Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

“Is this some sort of cosmic joke?”

“Fraid not, Sweetheart.” Then he reaches a hand out. “I’m Tae, by the way.” Your eyes fall to it, noting the thick silver band covering his soulmate tattoo.

Immediately, you glance down at your own hand, glimpsing the yellow tinted band for a second before you slip it down into your lap and clench it into a fist. You don’t want to touch him. All you can think about is the copious amount of sweat he was producing while drumming up on the stage last Saturday. He probably hasn’t even showered since then. Though, he does smell rather pleasant. Nice almost.

“I know,” you mutter then turn to look straight forward again, your other hand now joining the left in a tight fist on your lap.

“Ah,” Tae draws out as he leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest. “I knew I recognized you. You were at that crazy rich party last weekend.”

“So?”

“So you kinda just disappeared during our second song, didn’t you? Running late for a hair appointment?”

You can feel your cheeks begin to warm at the mention of the moment the two of you shared. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, now leaning down and trying to make yourself busy by digging through your bag for your laptop.

“I think you do, Princess,” he utters under his breath.

You straighten back up quickly. “What did you just call me?”

His smile widens at the fact that his words have gotten such a rise out of you. “You heard me.”

You grind your molars together as you glare back at him. There’s nothing you want more at the moment than to claw that stupid grin off his face but, one, you have a reputation to uphold, and two, he’s not worth the dirt you’d get under your nails from touching that surely grubby skin of his. You take a deep breath to calm your nerves. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me that.”

“Then what should I call you?” he asks amusedly.

“Nothing. I’d rather you not address me at all.”

“Well, that’s going to be kind of hard to do if we’re gonna be partners and all that.”

Your feel your heart drop into your stomach. Oh right. “Look,” you finally say with a heavy sigh. “Let’s just try and be civilized adults here so we can get this whole thing over with, alright?”

“Hey, you’re the one freaking out right now,” Tae says holding his hands up in mock defense. “I’m just the poor bystander.”

You sigh again. Is this going to become a regular thing or what? Just get ahold of yourself. Pretend that you are Daddy at one of his meetings. You straighten up again and push your braid back behind your shoulder before holding your hand out. “Partners?” you ask, trying so hard to keep your expression smooth even though all you can think about are the callouses on his palms.

Tae’s mouth pulls up into a grin reminiscent of the one you saw the other night at the party. “Partners,” he retorts then grasps your hand firmly in his larger one.

Immediately, you feel a searing pain slice across your ring finger and you wrench your hand back with a hiss. Tae seems to have felt the same thing because he rips his own hand back and starts clawing at his ring, trying to yank it off.

“What was that?” you gasp as you clutch your fist to your chest.

It takes only a second longer for you to get your answer when Tae pulls his ring off to reveal his violet colored soulmate tattoo. Another band has appeared just above it of the same color. Two bands now. Just like Jennie and J-Hope…oh no.

You uncurl your own fist slowly, your heart pounding in your ears as you unveil your soulmate tattoo. Two bands, though these are tinged orange.

Two. Bands.

“No way,” Tae says holding his hand up in front of his eyes, his astonished stare a complete contrast to the horror you feel. Both of you watch as the double rings on his finger start to change color, deepening to a solid black. Only then does he look at you and notice you frozen in shock.

“Princess, wait up!” Tae calls as he trails after you down the hall.

“I told you not to call me that!” You push quickly through the doors leading outside, shoving your fingers up into your hair. You just need to get out of here. Just need to think. Just need to figure out what you’re supposed to do with this.

“Then what am I supposed to call you?”

“Nothing,” you yell. “You call me nothing!”

“Well, that’s going to be a bit difficult since we’re soulmates and all,” Tae replies.

You whirl around causing him to skid to a stumbling halt to keep from crashing head long into you. “No!” you scream. “I absolutely refuse to be your soulmate. I’ll take whatever other hand I’m dealt. I’ll keep up my grades. I’ll take over my father’s company. I’ll give up whatever other dream I may have because there’s no point in arguing anyway, but this? This is NOT HAPPENING! We are NOT HAPPENING!” you scream. “Jennie’s life is already ruined thanks to your grubby bandmate and I refuse to end up like her.” Then you grab Tae’s wrist harshly and yank his hand up in front of your face. “So we’re going to ignore this,” you snarl before ripping his ring out of his other hand and jamming it down onto his finger to cover up the double bands. He yelps in pain and pulls his hand back. “We’ll do our project together,” you continue, “and when that’s done, you’re dropping the class and never speaking to me again, got it?”

Tae looks at you wide eyed for a second before at last letting out a humorless bark of a laugh. “Why do I have to be the one to drop the class?”

“Because it’ll reflect poorly on my record if I do it,” you say matter-of-factly as you brush back the hairs that have escaped your braid.

“Oh but the fact that it would also look bad on mine means nothing, right?”

Your eyes narrow. “Doesn’t it? I thought garage rats weren’t supposed to care about school. You know, stick it to the man and down with the establishment and all that.”

“You literally just met me and you think you know me so well,” Tae says quirking a dark eyebrow.

“Oh, I know your type very well,” you snarl. “You think following some dead-end dream like being a drummer in some emo band and having this ideology that you can do whatever you want without any consequences means you’re better than the rest of us that are actually working at trying to achieve something in this life. You think this is all a joke. That none of it matters cuz we’re all just going to die anyway, right?”

Tae takes a step toward you. “You don’t know me at all, Princess,” he says, his own eyes reducing to slits and causing your blood to run cold.

“And I don’t want to,” you say and mentally curse yourself for the way your voice shakes a bit.

Tae’s mouth curves into a smile. “You will. It’s fate after all,” he says then steps back again. “See you around, Princess.” Then he turns on the toe of his boot and starts to walk away.

“Screw you!” you yell after him. “And screw fate!”

Tae raises his arm in a wave. “Now you’re beginning to sound like me,” he calls back before disappearing around a bend in the path, leaving you fuming alone on the sidewalk.

“Is everything alright, Honey?”

Your fork clatters onto your plate and you jerk your head up to see both of your parents looking at you. Their eyes are bright with concern, leaning forward with anticipation as they wait for you to answer your father’s question.

What can you tell them? That you found your soulmate? That he’s some gross punk in a garage band? You’ve already had the pleasure of being there when they heard about Jennie. You can only imagine how quickly your mother would clutch at her pearls if she found out that her own daughter was going down the same path. Except you’re not going down that path. You’ll stay single for the rest of your life if you have to. You like your life. Or at least like it better than what it could be if you gave in to fate.

“Everything is great,” you say picking your fork back up and spearing a piece of chicken, “The new semester started yesterday and I’m really liking some of my classes.”

“Only some?” you father asks and your mother’s eyes dart between the two of you for a second.

You’re frozen with the piece of chicken halfway to your mouth for about five seconds as you try to come up with a good enough answer. “Well, some of them I really like and some of them I like just a little bit less.

“Just make sure you don’t focus all of your energy on your favorite classes. That’s no way to keep top marks,” he says though you can tell your answer satisfied him enough to keep the conversation going.

“Any fun plans this weekend?” you mom asks in an attempt to change the subject.

You finish chewing and dab at your mouth with your napkin. “Well…” Should you even tell them? “Tomorrow evening I’m having dinner with Jennie.”

At the mention of your best friend’s name, your mom chokes on her sip of wine and your father drops his hand heavily onto the table, causing the china atop it to shudder. No. No you definitely shouldn’t have told them.

“You’re still associating with that girl?” your father asks disgustedly.

“She’s been my best friend since we were toddlers, Daddy,” you say quietly. “Of course I’m still hanging out with her.”

“Her poor parents,” you mom interjects. “I can’t even imagine what they’re going through right now, watching her galavanting so shamelessly around with that lowlife. They must be heartbroken.” Yeah you’re sure your mom is so sympathetic. You still remember the way her eyes sparkled when she first heard the news. How she wasted no time gossiping with the other wives about how “dreadful” this whole occurrence is.

“They’re soulmates, Mom,” you say quietly.

Your father clears his throat angrily. “Don’t even get me started on how such a horrible thing like that could happen. The girl’s future is ruined,” he says. “There’s no way anyone would ever take her seriously after they see her with this boy. Now who’s going to take over the family business? Their son? Ha!”

“Jennie had so much going for her,” your mom says, her voice dripping with feigned sympathy. “Life can be so unforgiving.”

So can you, you think as you lower your head, your eyes falling to your left hand where it has stayed clenched into a fist in your lap all night. Now you uncurl your fingers, revealing a red double band. Even though you shouldn’t, you feel a sense of peace come over you just knowing that Tae is having a better night than you are.

Taehyung smashes his sticks down onto the snare before throwing an arm to the side to catch a symbol, ending the song with a resounding clash. The crowd goes nuts. The roar rising above the ringing and heavy beat of his heart in his ears as it pounds against his ribcage. His shoulders heave, his muscles ache and sweat slicks his skin, the bandana tied around his head already soaked. This is where he belongs. He’s never felt so alive.

“Thank you! We’ll be back in a hot second!” Hoseok yells above the noise

A hard rock song starts playing through the speakers and the audience begins to disperse, people fanning out in all directions of the small club.

Taehyung stands up, raising his arms above his head and arching his back, letting out a satisfied groan at the feel of his spine stretching out.

Jungkook is still holding his guitar, fiddling around with the pedals at his feet while Jimin has deflated, laying on his back, his own guitar still strapped to him, eyes closed, face shining with sweat.

“Dude, did you see the response on that last song?” Hoseok asks excitedly as he swipes the edge of his shirt against his own sweaty forehead. The fact that this boy can perform the way he does and still be a ball of energy has always baffled Taehyung. It's what makes him the perfect frontman, though, being able to keep the crowd hyped up even after several songs.

"Yeah, man, maybe we'll get a few album sales tonight," he says, slapping his sore hand against his leader's. And maybe buy a decent meal with the profit afterward.

Taehyung’s eyes scan the club, the space below him in constant movement…except for right by the door, where a boy stands completely still, eyes roving over the place, the corners of his mouth turned down in the slightest disgusted frown. Taehyung freezes.

“What’s he doing here?” he utters, very faintly recognizing the face from Park Jennie’s party. Judging by the way the boy is dressed, his shoes alone probably costing more than Taehyung’s drum set, he definitely doesn’t belong here. Not to mention Taehyung can feel from where he stands on the stage that the boy’s ego barely fits in the place. This is definitely one of your people. “I’ll be right back,” Taehyung says to no one in particular then heads off the stage.

“We’re going back on in five,” Hoseok calls after him.

Taehyung waves him off, eyes set on the boy by the entrance. As he nears him, their eyes lock and one corner of the boy’s mouth curls up into a haughty smirk. It makes Taehyung’s skin crawl and he grips his sticks tighter in one fist.

“You lost?” Taehyung asks when he finally reaches him.

“I wish,” the boy replies, his voice coming out dark and slippery like oil. “I’m here to talk to you, actually.”

Taehyung takes a surprised step back. “Me? How’d you know I’d be playing here?”

“I caught a whiff of mediocrity and followed the stench,” he says. “I’m Kim Seokjin.” Then his eyes dart down to Taehyung’s hand as if debating on whether he wants to shake it or not. At last he stuffs his own hands into the pockets of his slacks and meets the drummer’s eyes again. “And you are?”

“Not in the mood for pleasantries,” Taehyung says curtly.

"Alright then," Seokjin says. "I'll just cut to the chase. It seems our worlds colliding has been causing a rift throughout the city.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the downfall of Park Enterprises. Haven’t you heard?”

Taehyung lifts an eyebrow.

“It’s in all the papers,” Seokjin continues. “Big businesses have been ending their contracts with Park Enterprises because they’re worried the future owner of said company won’t be reliable.”

“Future owner? You’re talking about Jennie?”

“See, there’s something you commoners don’t understand about our kind,” Seokjin says stepping a bit closer. “There is a very meticulous system in place. One that keeps this city running. You can thank us for keeping the economy stable enough for lowlifes like you to fetter your life away banging your sticks on garbage can lids. And your frontman dragging Park Jennie down to your depths is the first step to making this whole empire crumble.”

“Sorry to hear your empire is so fragile,” Taehyung growls.

“It may be a fragile system, drummer boy, but don’t forget that people like you are at the bottom. So when the whole thing collapses, we may end up bruised but you’ll be the ones getting crushed.”

“Don’t get me wrong, Dude, I’m impressed by your little speech, there. Very Disney villain-esque. But why would I help someone like you?”

“It is in my best interest to know anything and everything that I can use to my advantage. And it is in your best interest to help me.”

“Why would I help you?”

“Because I had eyes and ears in the courtyard at school the other day. Eyes and ears that happened to witness an interesting interaction between you and one Princess of the Upper East Side. Didn’t seem to be going too well if you ask me.”

Taehyung shrugs. “About as well as I expected it to.”

“You care about her.”

“No I don’t,” he snaps which causes Seokjin’s smile to widen.

“All the more reason to want to keep this system in place then, right?”

Now Taehyung feels a fire begin to build in the pit of his stomach causing him to grit his teeth against the heat. “What do you want, Seokjin?” Taehyung asks, his hand gripping his drumsticks so hard it’s a surprise they don’t snap in half.

“I want you to convince your fellow Kurt Cobain wannabe that it would be better for Jennie if he cut ties with her completely.”

“How would that be better? They’re soulmates.”

“You have to look at the bigger picture here,” Seokjin says. “Which I know must be difficult since you all collectively share one braincell but try your hardest to see it from my perspective. And don’t forget who else would be hurt if Jennie were to continue to pursue the pathetic life she’s been offered.”

Your face floats to the forefront of Taehyung’s mind. His knuckles ache from how hard he’s clenching his drumsticks.

“Do you think she enjoys seeing her best friend throw her life away? Her happiness? Her security?”

Taehyung doesn’t respond.

“Do the right thing, drummer boy,” Seokjin says before stepping back. “It’s been a…pleasure.” Then he turns and saunters back out of the club, leaving Taehyung to watch after him.

You reach his dorm a little after eleven on Saturday morning, your fist making a sharp sound against the wood. He doesn't answer the first time around so you try again, letting out an annoyed huff at the fact that he’s making your knuckles ache. Your eyes fall to the thick silver band that now resides on your left ring finger. You don’t need anyone else knowing you found your soulmate, and after dinner last night, there’s no way your parents would be okay with who it is.

At last the door swings open, revealing a very tired, very messy-haired boy. Is that your heart fluttering in your chest at the way his lips jut forward in a sleepy pout? Or the way he brings up his hands to push the heels into his eyes? Your own gaze flits to the tattoo on his finger and you watch as it fades from an irritated teal to a lighter jade.

"Well aren't you bright-eyed and bushy tailed?" Tae utters, his voice even deeper than normal and raspy with sleep. The color of his ring lightens more to chartreuse and you quickly rip your focus from it as he rakes his hands down his face, at last meeting your eyes with his slitted ones.

"Uh, I thought we were getting together today to work on our project," you say shifting from one foot to the other. How dare he make you so flustered standing there looking adorable in his white long-sleeved shirt and striped pajama pants.

"Well sure but I figured you'd at least wait until the sun came up."

It's at this moment that you realize it's basically pitch dark in his dorm room. With a roll of your eyes, you push past him, walking straight over to the window and throw the thick, blackout curtain aside, flooding the room with sunlight. Tae cries out behind you and you turn around to see him once again with his palms pressed to his eyes.

"It's almost 11:30," you say. "Do you always sleep this late?"

"Later actually when annoying princesses aren't trying to blind me," he grumbles but then looks up at you again, arching his eyebrows high and blinking hard to try and get used to the glaring light.

"Look, I just want to get this over with, and that's going to take some cooperation on your part."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Tae says and stumbles over to his dresser, yanking a drawer open. "Anything for you, Princess."

You hate to admit it but you're kind of starting to like the way the nickname sounds coming from him. It's beginning to sound less degrading and more endearing. Like a pet name. Like something a soulmate would call the other…

You shake your head hard, clearing that completely unwelcome thought out of your mind and focusing once again on the present. That's when you notice that Tae's long sleeved shirt has somehow disappeared.

"Hey, what are you doing?" you ask, slapping a hand over your eyes.

"Getting dressed, what does it look like I'm doing?" Tae asks. "Do you want to work on this project or not?"

"Well, yes, but I wasn't expecting you to disrobe with me in the room."

Tae chuckles. "What kind of person says disrobe?"

"One that appreciates modesty, unlike other people," you reply, jutting your chin in the general direction you figure he stands. You don't know for sure though, because your hand is still plastered over your eyes. You hear him shuffling around, the sound of rustling material coming closer to you and suddenly you sense a presence directly in front of you. "Is it safe to look yet?"

"Yeah."

You pull your hand down from your face only to be met, yet again, with the sight of a bare torso, and a perfectly sculpted one at that.

"Ah, Tae!" you yell. "I thought you were getting dressed!"

"I am!" he replies then steps back to show you he's changed into a pair of black, ripped skinny jeans.

"Getting dressed means putting on a shirt too!" you snap.

Tae shakes his head teasingly. "Ah, so many rules for you prudes," he says before making his way back over to his dresser to find a shirt.

You don't cover your eyes this time. Instead, stealing a very long glance at the boy's naked upper half. Drumming must be a workout because how else could he have such defined back muscles? It's not even how toned he is though that mesmerizes you, but the magnificent inked wings sprawling across his shoulder blades and down the backs of his biceps. From where you stand you can't make out the tiny details of the ink that covers the rest of his arms, but that doesn't matter because you can't stop staring at those wings. They move so realistically as Tae digs around in his drawer, apparently looking for a specific shirt because why the heck else would he be taking this long?

At last, he turns around and you throw your gaze to the the right to make it seem like you were looking at something else the whole time instead of gawking. But of course, the blush in your cheeks gives you away and when you look at him again, his mouth is spread wide in a knowing smirk.

"So are you going to put your shirt on so we can get started or what?" you ask.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On whether you want me to or not."

"Of course I want you to," you scoff.  Tae's eyebrow quirks up at the same time his smile gets bigger. "Just put on your stupid shirt," you finally mutter then slump down into his desk chair, reluctantly turning your back on the captivating view to rummage through your bag.

At last he goes and sits on his bed, fully clothed much to your relief—though he's chosen a gray henley style shirt and has pushed the sleeves up to expose his forearms, which may not be as distracting but sure is keeping the heat trapped in your cheeks.

It also doesn't help that with his bed being right next to the desk, you're sitting literally a foot away from him. So close that at last you can see the details of those tattoos on his forearms. You can see that it's not just a chaotic mess of ink but a seemingly well thought out design. There's no pattern but it still makes sense, in a way. In the same way that the stars in the sky seem purposefully placed.

The ink on his arms tells a story of sorts. Melodic music staffs intertwine with vines of roses, swirling calligraphy melts into constellations and then into song lyrics. Wisps of smoke enshroud a sorrowful skull, the expert shading making it look so realistic you feel inclined to reach out and touch it.

"Princess?"

You break out of your trance, your head jerking upward so your eyes meet his. You almost expect the smirk to still be plastered on his face but instead his mouth is pressed into a thin line, his brow furrowed, eyes studying yours almost curiously.

"So are we going to get started or...?" he asks.

You sit up taller. "Oh, yeah, sorry," you say quickly then pull out your laptop from your bag.

You didn't really notice until just now that the top of his desk is completely cluttered with books and drumsticks and notepads and empty soda cans and you clutch your laptop protectively against your chest.

"How about we go somewhere else to figure this out?" you ask.

Tae looks from you to his desk and then back before getting up off the bed—swiping a pair of the many drumsticks in the room and his painted leather jacket—and heading for the door. He swings it open wide then turns to look at you again.

“You comin’, Princess?”

“Yeah,” you say breathlessly then quickly get up and follow after him.

For winter, it’s actually a really beautiful day today. The sky is a crisp blue, just a few fluffy clouds floating lazily overhead, and despite the fact that it’s January, it’s actually almost warm enough to be comfortable. You’ll admit it is a little brisk but the cold helps you concentrate. The constant taptaptaptaptaptap as a certain someone uses the hard cover of a book as a makeshift snare drum however is doing the exact opposite of what sitting outside was supposed to achieve for you.

You’ve been staring for several moments now, hoping he’ll look up from where his eyes rest unfocused on the grass, his bottom lip clutched between his teeth as his head moves to some imaginary song, but he continues to be lost in his own world.

“Tae?” you finally say and his forehead wrinkles as he snaps his head up to look at you in anticipation. “Could you stop?”

His irises dip again to look at the tips of his drumsticks where they rest against the book cover. “It’s helping me concentrate.”

“Well, it’s keeping me from concentrating.”

“Which is more important?”

“What do you think?” you ask.

Tae stops, arching his back to stretch it and letting out a dramatic sigh. “This isn’t working,” he says.

“I think you mean you aren’t working,” you correct earning an eye roll. But then, to your surprise, he stands up.

“I think we need a break,” he says then stuffs his drumsticks in his back pocket and holds a hand out to you. “Come on, Princess,” he says.

There’s really no use fighting it. After all, this is a partner project and, as of right now, your partner isn’t being very cooperative. With a sigh, you slap your hand into his and let him pull you up. “Alright, where are we going?” you ask, though you know he’s not going to just flat out answer you.

Unsurprisingly, Tae’s mouth lifts into a cute grin and he waggles his eyebrows. “You’ll see,” he says then tugs you by the hand that, oh yeah, you’re still holding, toward the student lot where your car is parked.

“What is this place?” you ask once the two of you have arrived and stepped over the threshold.

You almost stumble when Tae throws an arm over your shoulders and pulls you in close. Why does he have to smell so good? “This, Princess, is the home of the most mediocre food and beer you’ll ever have in your entire life.”

You look around incredulously. You feel like you’re looking at the small, dimly lit room through a haze of smoke, and maybe you are, though you can’t tell if it’s actual smoke you’re smelling or if the place hasn’t been cleaned in the last three decades. Either way, you’re almost glad you can’t make out the details for fear of what you might see if you look too closely.

What you can see, though, is an old, dark wood bar along one wall, a scattering of tables and booths taking up half the room while a couple old pool tables take up the other half, the green felt tops faded and one torn and patched with a gray strip of duct tape. A jukebox that looks like it’s literally been around since jukeboxes were actually a thing stands like an ancient guardian on the wall behind the tables, the tube lighting yellowed, the lights inside blinking pathetically like they’re about to burn out. Honestly, the whole place looks like it’s about to burn out.

“So, why are we here?” you finally ask.

“It’s one of my favorite places to hang out,” Tae says. “Besides, every Saturday before 5 pm is three dollar beers on tap.”

“They really encourage day drinking here, don’t they?”

“Hey, they get more money, we get cheaper beer. It’s really a win win.”

You can’t help the smile that tugs the corners of your mouth up and unfortunately, he just happens to witness it. “Pool?” he asks.

“Sure, why not?” you say exasperatedly. “It’s not like we have a project to work on or anything.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says, giving your shoulder a comforting squeeze before letting go and starting toward the tables.

The two of you play for a while—well, mostly it’s Tae playing and you watching, trying to figure out how the heck he’s able to make the ball go exactly where he wants it to when you can barely keep the tip of your stick from digging a hole in the felt.

“When are you gonna stop making a fool of yourself and let me teach you how to play?” he asks after your tenth time pocketing the cue ball.

You’re still bent over the side of the table, frozen holding the stick after watching yourself fail so miserably and now you let your head fall onto the felt. “Uh…maybe after a few beers?” you say into the table.

“On it,” Tae says quickly and then is gone and back with full pints before the blush has a chance to leave your cheeks.

You take yours with a grateful smile and take a sip. You’re used to fruitier drinks so the bitter, dark taste has you wincing, your face scrunching on one side as you try to force the gulp down your throat. You hear a garbled laugh and look over to see Tae already finishing his and setting the glass down a bit roughly on the edge of the pool table.

“What?” you ask once you’ve finally gotten the sip down.

“You drink beer like a princess, that’s all.”

That’s it. With a quick “Hail Mary”, you bring your glass back to your lips and tip your head back, trying very hard to ignore the taste and focus on just getting it down your throat. It takes you longer than it did Tae but at last you set your own glass down next to his—much more gently—and swipe the corners of your mouth with your fingers. “Okay,” you say trying to ignore the way the 24 ounces of beer you just guzzled make you feel—or is it his wide beaming smile? “Teach me how to play.”

His expression falls, mouth hanging open for a second before he catches himself. “You want me to teach you?”

“Yeah.”

“To play pool?”

“No, the saxophone.”

Tae rolls his eyes but the smile returns and he starts racking the balls back up in the center of the table. You watch as he does this, noting the way his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. The air around you starts to heat up and you shrug out of your jacket, setting it on the other pool table.

“Okay, come here,” Tae says standing at the head of the table with the cue stick.

You shuffle over, stumbling a bit, and take the stick from him, trying very hard to ignore the amused smirk on his face. Your stomach flips when he goes to stand behind you, his back pressing against your side as he adjusts your grip.

Get ahold of yourself. A garage rat shouldn’t be making your knees feel so weak. Shouldn’t be making your heart pound in your chest—which he can surely feel with how close he is to you.

“Okay,” he says under his breath. “You have to take your time lining up the shot. Got it?”

You let out a shaky sigh. “Yeah,” you say, though you honestly were paying more attention to the low rasp of his voice than his actual words.

His hands are warm resting over yours as he helps aim. “Okay, try that,” he says.

You take the shot and watch as the ball surges forward, barreling into the others and sending them spreading out across the table. Two actually make their way into the corner pocket and you feel a swell of pride.

“Nice!” Tae exclaims with an excited clap. “See? You’ll be a pro before you know it.”

“Thanks,” you say shifting the cue stick in your hands.

Tae’s eyes dart down to where you hold it.

“I noticed you started wearing a ring to cover up your tattoo,” he says and reaches out, his finger tapping the thick metal band encircling your own. You look down at it, your heart suddenly pulsing too loudly in your ears.

“Uh—yeah. I just…I don’t really know how to bring it up to anyone,” you stutter. “I figure this is just easier to…ignore it.”

“Right. Because once we’re done with this project, I’m dropping the class and we’ll never see each other again.”

“Right,” you say. “What about you? You wore that ring even before our tattoos changed.”

Tae looks down at the band on his own finger. “I just don’t like the idea of other people knowing what my soulmate is feeling. The world doesn’t need to know about your emotions unless you want them to.”

Okay, you weren’t expecting such a sweet answer. In fact, you have no idea how to respond to something like that. This boy is supposed to be some rough around the edges punk that doesn’t care about anyone or anything. So why is he looking at you now like nothing else matters? Change the subject fast.

“Oh hey, I like this song,” you say, tilting your head toward the old jukebox beside you.

Tae’s expression changes quickly, his own eyes shifting to the player and then back to you before he quirks an eyebrow. “You like this?”

“Sure I do.”

“I mean, I never would have pegged you for the type to like the classics. Classical maybe but—”

“Guess you don’t know as much about the Princess of the Upper East Side as you thought you did,” you say, hefting the cue stick in your hands and sauntering past him around to the other side of the table.

Tae smiles, fidgeting with his ring now. “Ah, I think I know quite a bit about your type,” he says and makes his way slowly around after you.

“My type?” you ask curiously. “Like what?”

Tae stops now just beside you and leans back against the table so he’s sitting on the edge. His eyes narrow as if he’s studying you and you feel your skin begin to crawl. Or maybe that’s just the beer. “Like how it’s a constant battle for you to stay on top.”

Now you narrow your own eyes. “What do you mean?”

Tae takes a deep breath, “It’s gotta be exhausting always being on high alert. Always trying to look and act the way the world wants you to. Never getting to relax. Never getting to stray from the path you’ve been placed on.” Then he leans in until his eyes are level with yours. “I think you’d give up anything to be able to do whatever you want. I bet you’d trade anything to be in the shoes of a loser like me.” He’s so close, you notice a small freckle on his bottom lip. “I bet you’d be happy, Princess. I bet you’d love your life then.”

“I do love my life,” you say though your tone isn’t very convincing.

Then he sits back a bit and the air leaves your lungs in a whoosh. “Which part of it?” he asks crossing his arms over his chest. “The people pleasing or the stifling of your dreams?”

You feel like he’s looking deep into your soul and you really don’t like that. But at the same time, you can’t help but lean into him. Because he seems to get it. How is it that someone so far on the other side of the spectrum could understand what you’re going through? And how could someone make that life sound so tempting?

“You wanna know what I really think, Princess?” he asks.

You nod, unable to think of a snarky response.

“I think you feel trapped in your perfect, high society life. I think you wish you could give it all up and follow your dreams like me.” Once more Tae leans into you, this time, his eyes searching yours as if the truth is scrawled across your irises. “What’s your dream, Princess?” he asks softly.

Even with the beer buzzing through you, the nerves causing your hands to shake, an overwhelming feeling of sadness hits you and you again find yourself feeling breathless. It knocks the wind out of you.

“It doesn’t matter,” you whisper and swallow thickly as you feel your throat beginning to close up.

Tae’s eyes dig deeper into yours. “Why?”

You inhale, trying to get yourself back under control. “Because dreams don’t get you anywhere.” The air seems to be warming up around you. Suddenly you feel too hot.

“But don’t you think they make this life worth living?” Tae asks, his breath fanning your face. Too hot. You can’t breathe.

“I have to go,” you say quickly, letting the cue stick drop to the floor as you create distance between you and your soulmate as quickly as you possible can.

You make it out to the parking lot, key fob in your hand when you feel a hand grip your shoulder and you whirl around to face him again.

“Why doesn’t it matter, Princess?” he asks sternly. “Why does your happiness mean less than whatever corporate dream your parents have for you? Why don’t you get to do what you want with this life? Huh?”

“Because it’s important to my father to follow in his footsteps.”

Tae lets out a humorless laugh and throws his hands up in the air. “But is it important to you?” he asks. “More important than your dreams and your passions? Do you really think that life is about pleasing everyone else even if it makes you miserable?”

“Just stop, Tae!” you yell and his mouth snaps shut, his jaw working as he grinds his teeth. “You can’t just waltz in and tell me to go against everything I’ve ever known. Just stop trying to change everything. You don’t understand what it’s like in my world.

Tae looks down at his feet, shoving his hands deep into his pockets before meeting your eyes again. They’re turned down in the corners. Sad suddenly. “Actually I do,” he mutters. “More than you know.”

Then he turns and heads back into the bar.

Taehyung lets out a frustrated growl and rips off the bandana wrapped around his head. It’s meant to keep his hair out of his eyes while he’s drumming but right now it’s just another irritation. It’s just he and Hoseok today in Hoseok’s garage, working on a new song. The band’s frontman is sitting cross-legged on the ground, his guitar across his lap and he’s bent over it, resting it in the hollow of his armpit as he writes messily on the notebook in front of him. The two have been at it for a little while now, Taehyung messing around on the drums trying to find a new hook while Hoseok has been figuring out the melody. Writing sessions have always been valuable to Taehyung. It’s given him the chance to let his creativity just flow until something amazing happened. And it usually did. Today, though, he can’t let go the way he usually does. Because your face haunts his thoughts.

“What’s eating you, man?” Hoseok finally asks, his brow furrowing in concern for his friend.

Taehyung shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “Everything’s just off today.” His eyes fall to Hoseok’s hand where it grips the neck of the guitar, specifically to the red double banded tattoo on his ring finger. The night Seokjin came into the club they were performing at enters his mind. The way that boy’s eyes sparkled so arrogantly makes the hairs on the back of Taehyung’s neck stand up even now. He stuck out like a sore thumb in that club surrounded by all those “commoners”. And he said he was a friend of Jennie’s. Of yours. It doesn’t make sense for two different worlds to be colliding the way they are.

“Hobi, how are you so chill with this whole thing?” Taehyung asks.

Hoseok’s eyes widen. “With what?”

“You and Jennie.”

At the mention of her name, his face softens and a shy smile plays on his lips. “I don’t know, man. It’s fate, right? Jennie’s my soulmate. I’m supposed to be with her.”

“But don’t you think it’s weird that you’d ended up with someone like that?” Taehyung asks pushing the bass pedal down a few times, eliciting a deep beat from the drum. “All designer clothes and tea parties and all that crap.”

Hoseok shrugs and puts his guitar aside. “I don’t know,” he says. “Classes are, like, a social construct. Fate is fate. You don’t argue with that.”

Yeah, tell that to her best friend.

“You’re the last person I would have thought to say those words, my dude,” Taehyung says with a shake of his head. “You’ll turn anything into an argument.”

Hoseok narrows his eyes. “No I don’t.”

Taehyung quirks an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth lifting into a knowing smirk.

“Shut up. Besides, the girl’s easy to love. She may give off that whole spoiled brat vibe but she’s nothing like that,” he continues and somehow his eyes suddenly seem to sparkle. “She’s really, like, deep and funny. And hot. And she likes listening to our music.”

“Oh good, our first groupie,” Taehyung says then hits his sticks against the drums and cymbals to emphasize the joke. Of course, this earns him a hit to the arm and a glare and he can’t help but laugh as he rubs the pain away from his bicep. His smile quickly drops though when he thinks of what Seokjin said the other night. About how you must feel about the whole thing. Sure his friend is happy and living the dream, but yours?

“Do you really think this is a good idea though?” Taehyung asks more seriously now. “I mean, maybe there was a mistake or something. We just don’t mix with those kinds of people.”

Hoseok stares at his friend, “I don’t think fate makes mistakes,” he says then holds up his hand and wiggles his fingers. “We’re connected, man. I’ve reached, like, nirvana or something. I feel enlightened.”

“Are you sure you’re not just high?”

Hoseok tilts his head back and scoffs. “High on love, maybe,” he jokes. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

He juts his chin toward Taehyung’s hand where it rests on his knee, fist clenched tightly around a drumstick. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. You found your soulmate too.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Taehyung mutters.

Hoseok reaches forward and smacks him again on the arm, eliciting a yelp. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what I’m talking about then. You can’t tell me you didn’t feel it.”

Taehyung reaches up to rub at the back of his sweaty neck. “Yeah, I felt something, alright,” he says remembering the burning pain when the second ring appeared that first day in class. And then the warmth that flooded his chest, spreading through him, and making his whole body tingle. He’s felt different ever since. Especially being near to you.

He pulls his lip into his mouth, clamping it between his teeth as he thinks about how holding you back at the bar made him feel. He felt at home with you in his arms. Felt whole. Felt good. And then how suddenly empty he was when you ran away from him. How adamant your eyes were that the two of you would never be together. Even if it was meant to be. Even if he has your jacket that you left at the bar sitting on his desk in his room. Your jacket that smells like you. “Yeah, I don’t know about her though,” he says. “I don’t think she wants me.”

“She’ll get there, man,” Hoseok says clapping his hand on Taehyung’s shoulder. His fingers dig in—not too hard, more reassuringly. Like it somehow punctuates his point. “No one can run from fate.”

Taehyung looks down at his mark. It’s been alternating between shades of blue now for a couple days and he knows the one on your finger is probably about the same. This is another reason he always wears his ring. Your mood can’t spoil his if he can’t see it. Though he never drums with his ring on anymore. He used to get bad blood blisters from it sliding around and pinching his skin. So now he’s forced to see it. Currently, it’s a bold, cobalt, which isn’t too bad compared to the navy it was earlier. But still.

He pushes his hand under his thigh—out of sight, out of mind—then takes a deep breath. “She made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to see me anymore,” he says.

“She obviously does,” Hoseok replies and when Taehyung looks up to meet his eyes, Hoseok gestures with his head back down to the drummer’s now hidden tattoo. Apparently he noticed its melancholy color. “So who is she, anyway?”

“Jennie’s best friend,” Taehyung says and then is completely taken by surprise when Hoseok lets out a laugh.

“Your soulmate is Miss Princess of the Upper East Side? Ha! And you were raggin’ on me about being paired up with someone like that,” he says the last few words in a mock deep tone. “Look at us losers stealing away our ladies from the evil dragon that is high society. Their parents must be shook, bro!”

Hoseok laughs again like this is the funniest thing he’s ever heard, and maybe it is. It’s still pretty crazy to Taehyung that he would end up with someone so the complete opposite of himself. And yet, there’s something in you that he recognizes. Something he noticed deep in your eyes when they were locked on his the other day at the bar. It was unmistakable.

A fire. An undeniable passion for…something. A passion that needs to be set free. He’s sure you’d be a different person, a person he knows is made for him in the same way he knows he’s made for you. He can see it in you because he saw it in himself. A dream trapped in the confines of a steel cage just aching to be let out.

And maybe he has the key.

You used to love these network brunches when you were younger. You loved dressing up and going to these beautiful outdoor venues with lavish spreads and pretty music and you'd run around with Jennie, fending off Seokjin and stealing the last bits of drinks to mix together into Frankensteinian concoctions of your own.

And then there were the times that your father had you shadowing him, following him around from person to person, you standing quietly to the side and watching him do what you hoped to do someday. You used to feel so important in your skirt and blazer and heels, especially when your father would introduce you to whoever he was talking to and they'd reach out and shake your hand. Even when you were little and had to reach up to grasp it, you still felt a sense of pride. And you knew your father did too.

You don't remember when you stopped liking going to these brunches. Perhaps it was when you hit puberty and started feeling less respected and more gawked at. Maybe it was when you started feeling like they were talking down to you, or when they didn't talk to you at all, only ever acknowledging you with a nod or an up and down stare. Or maybe it was just because you no longer wanted this to be your life. This wasn't your dream. Still isn't your dream. Your dream is hidden away in a drawer back at home.

So now you find yourself once again at one of those brunches. The food is still fine, though you've grown tired of the same thing time and time again. The music only ever reminds you of how much you hate being at things like this. How much you hate what it represents. A path with no outlets other than the one your parents have put there for you. Even the mimosas aren't doing enough to keep you distracted from the judging guests.

You hear their whispered conversations, about you, about Jennie and her "situation". Not to mention Jennie isn't here to be the comic relief, the only other people you'd call even remotely friends being Seokjin and Yoongi who are standing in a corner, sipping their own drinks, not even trying to network because they know people will respect them just because they're men.

It's all the same. It's all just standing quietly to the side, listening and observing, nodding every so often to make it seem like you're paying attention. It's stiff suits and too warm air, and sore cheeks from faking a polite smile. It's thick silver rings to cover double banded tattoos and thoughts of this boy. This boy that shouldn't be so deep in your head. But he's there, imprinted on your mind like his emotions are on your skin and now you wish more than anything, that you could peek under your ring and know how he's feeling. Especially after everything that happened the other day. You can almost hear his voice. Almost smell his cologne. Almost see his face, eyes roving over the room as he searches warily for you.

Wait.

"Tae?"

His painted leather jacket stands out against the formal attire as he slowly makes his way out into the courtyard.

"I'm sorry, please excuse me," you say quickly to the person your father is currently talking to then you nod at your father apologetically and cut across the room before he can protest.

As you near him, you see that Hoseok and Jungkook are flanking him, all three looking extremely uncomfortable. Even when Tae finally spots you, his eyes stay wide, stay nervous. As if he's a sheep making his way slowly through a pack of sleeping wolves.

"What are you doing here?" you ask as soon as you get to him.

"You left your jacket at the bar and Jennie told Hobi you were here," he explains then turns to Hoseok. "You didn't mention this was a frikin soiree."

Hoseok shrugs. "I didn't know, man. Jennie just said this was where she'd be."

You take your jacket out of Tae's hand and clutch it against you. "Okay, well, I have it now. Thanks. You can go."

Tae steps closer to you and you once again catch a whiff of his cologne. "Princess, we really need to talk."

"Well, I don't want to, Tae," you interrupt. You just need to get him out of here before—

"Ah, Honey, who are these...people?"

You wince, pursing your lips together as you turn to face your father. "Daddy, this is Tae and his friends."

Your father narrows his eyes at the boys and suddenly you feel the need to protect them with your life. "And he is?"

To your dismay, Tae steps forward. "I'm her—"

"Partner," you blurt out in a panic. "For a project. At school." Well that's not a lie, at least. "He was just returning my jacket I left at the...cafe we were at the other day.”

Tae stares at you, his expression unreadable and you look away quickly to see your father studying him as well. "Well, you have it back now," then he turns to Tae. "I appreciate you returning my daughter's coat but we are in the middle of a very important gathering, so if you could please be on your way."

"Yeah, no problem," Tae mutters then looks at you one more time before turning to leave.

"Kim Taehyung!"

You spin now to see one of the many guests with her eyes set on the boy behind you. When you turn around again, his stoic expression has transformed into one of horror.

"I can't believe it's really you!" the woman goes on, making her way over to you. "How long has it been now? Eight? Ten years? My, you've changed!"

You watch in a confused stupor as the woman steps past you and your father to put her arms around Tae. To your surprise, he looks much less confused, though much more horrified.

"I remember when you used to come to these events," the woman continues. "You were just a little thing, always wanting to be just like your father. Always so serious.“ Then she turns to you. "We all knew he was going to be successful when he grew up." Back to Tae now. "Such big shoes you were going to fill. I was so sorry to hear when you moved away. But you're back now!" That's when the lady seems to notice his pierced and inked up friends for the first time and her expression falls. She steps back now, looking Tae up and down, seemingly also finally noticing the way he's dressed. "Or...not?"

You feel like you haven't taken a breath the entire time this woman has been rambling on, your eyes fixed on Tae, watching him as he stands there with his lips slightly parted, eyes wide, whole body stiff.

"Ah, now I recognize you," your father says from over your shoulder and you look back at him. "Kim Songmin's son." Then his smile widens almost...maliciously. "You took a different path, it seems. How's that working out for you?"

A fiery glint passes through Tae's eyes. "Great."

"Daddy."

"You probably never knew him when you were children,” he says turning toward you. "We called Taehyung his father's shadow. He'd stay right on his heels, always wanting to be a part of the conversation. Such a good, respectable boy. Not sure what happened there."

"I grew a backbone," Tae snarls and you see J-Hope and Kook step closer, looking like they're ready to start something if Tae says the word.

Quickly, you step in front of your father, blocking Tae's view so he's forced to look at you. "What is he talking about, Tae?" you ask.

"Just what he said, Princess," Tae replies, his words burning you like hot coals. "I took a different path."

Then he turns away from you, starting toward the exit when he's blocked by the last person surely either of you want to see right now. The wolves have awakened, and now it's time to feast.

"Kim Taehyung, huh?" Seokjin asks, his own eyes glinting as if he's just been granted the keys to the city. “Just another trust fund kid like the rest of us."

Tae turns one last time, gaze finding home in yours, his eyes so downturned and sad that you feel your heart begin to sink.

"Tae," your voice comes out as nothing more than a whisper. Even if he does hear you, you don't know because he's turned away again to follow after his bandmates who have already disappeared through the gate. You watch him leave, feeling the finality of it and at that moment you feel your heart slip completely and shatter on the floor.

Taehyung doesn't come to class for the whole next week which sends you into a bit of a panic because A) you're supposed to be doing a project with him and B) he seems like the type that might fall to an unhealthy level of self-loathing if left to his own devices for very long.

You're so tempted to go to his dorm but something always stops you. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To cut all ties with him? Sure, it would have been nice to at least get the project done first but maybe this is for the best. Maybe now you can refocus on shadowing your father and preparing to take over his company. Now that there's no chance of meeting your soulmate down the line and dealing with the compromise of getting married and having a family, you can focus on the one thing for the rest of your life.

One thing.

Your one path.

You may never get the excitement that would've come from being with Tae for the rest of your life, but you'll have the stability. You'll have the promise of success. And that's what's important...right?

It’s hard, though not to think about him. To not check the tattoo under your ring every five minutes. You always hope it’ll be a little bit lighter, a little bit bluer as the days go by but it never changes, always a brutal black double line. You don’t know what’s worse, seeing the black lines on your own finger or knowing he probably sees a similar sight when he checks his own. If he even does. Or maybe his ring stays in place at all times because why would he care how you’re feeling? But then again, if you don’t want to be with him, why do you care so much?

“I don’t get it, J,” you say as your eyes fall to where your best friend’s hand rests on the table, the double bands around her ring finger tinted scarlet. “How are you so happy with everything that has happened?”

When you look up at her face, her own eyes are still resting on her tattoo, her mouth curled up into a thoughtful smile. “I know you can’t understand it, babe,” she says, “but I feel more free with Hoseok than I ever have in this life. I think this is the one thing that’s been mapped out for me that I actually want, you know?”

“Yeah, maybe,” you utter, your attention drawn to your glass now where a little bit of liquid still sits among the melting ice cubes. You went for a bit stronger of a drink this evening, knowing you were going to have to have this conversation with your best friend and absolutely dreading it. Not because you don’t want to associate with her anymore but because knowing that she so happily gave up the things she had for her soulmate just makes your guilt burrow that much deeper. Already you feel it drilling into your chest, making your heart ache.

“What about you?”

You look up to meet her gaze again. “Hmm?”

“Hobi told me about Tae,” she says, her eyes glittering. “Apparently the boy never stops talking about you.”

Great. Another stab of guilt punches the air out of your lungs. “Have you heard anything about him this week?” you ask, your voice weak from the crushing pain in your chest.

Jennie shakes her head, her smile faltering now that she can see how upset you really are. You tried hiding the anguish during dinner, though it was obvious to both of you that you’ve been quieter than usual.

Now you let out a heavy sigh and put your glass down on the table. “I’ve made my choice, Jennie,” you say bluntly. “This is what I want. I want to take over my father’s company and be successful and just not have to worry about not knowing what I’m doing for the rest of my life. I just want to stay on this path that they’ve laid out for me.”

“Is that really what you want or are you just afraid of disappointing your parents?” Jennie asks pointedly.

You let out a humorless chuckle. “Have you met my father?”

Jennie quirks an eyebrow. “Have you met mine?” You feel your own mouth lift to match her smirk. “Do you think I would have left that all behind if I didn’t think Hobi was worth it?” Then she takes a deep breath, looking around the room as if she sees something different than you do. Something magical. “Life is so much more beautiful now with him in it,” she says and you believe her. You don’t doubt for a second that she’s happier now than she ever was before. Even with everything she had, the clothes, the cars, the trips, nothing could quite make her eyes sparkle the way they do now.

You blink as your own eyes begin to burn and you swallow hard. “I’m just scared, J” you finally say and lick your lips as you feel your throat begin to close up.

Jennie reaches across to take your hand in hers. “I know, babe, but you deserve to love life too.” Her fingers pinch your silver ring and slowly slide it up your finger, revealing the double black lines that seem to have become permanent. “You both do.”

You stare down at the tattoo, everything bleeding together until you feel a tear land on the back of your hand. “I think I love him, J,” you whisper before looking up at your best friend.

“Then it doesn’t matter what other people want from you. This is your life, babe, and it’s the only one you get. And if you want Tae to be in it, then I suggest you go find him.” Then she sits back again, lifting a hand to motion to the waiter that she wants the check. “I got this, doll. Go get your man.”

With a quick swipe across your cheek, you push your ring back down over your finger and grab your purse off the back of your chair. “Thanks, J,” you say and get up. But instead of hurrying for the exit, you turn back to her again. “I’m sorry that everything happened the way it did. But I’m honestly really happy for you and Hoseok.”

A cool smile spreads across Jennie’s mouth and she crosses one leg over the other, draping an arm over the back of her chair and raising her glass. “See you on the other side,” she says then takes a sip of her wine and gives you a wink.

The bar is just as smoky and dusty as it was the first time you came here with Tae, though being a Thursday night, it’s much more crowded, the heat from all the bodies now being added to the mix. The hazy air is filled with the loud conversations and the cracking of billiard balls as they hit together, the underlying rock song coming from the jukebox just adding to the chaos.

You don’t want to be here, but you’ve already checked his dorm and, according to Jennie, he isn’t with his bandmates. This place is your last hope.

It isn’t big but it’s packed and you’re having a hard time focusing your eyes on the people in the room. Your heart sinks lower in your chest with each strange face.

Maybe this was a bad idea. He has to go back home eventually. You can just wait outside his dorm or something.

“Looking for someone, Princess?”

You turn around at the familiar nickname only to be met with an unfamiliar face.

The man is obviously hammered, leaning against his pool cue with most likely his full weight. “Don’t really see your kind here,” he slurs.

“Yeah I was just looking for someone,” you say and take a nervous step backward. The guy leans dangerously closer and you can’t tell if he’s about to fall or just being creepy. Probably both.

“Doesn’t seem to be here, does he?” the man asks and then chuckles to himself as if he made a joke. “Why don’t you come join me and my friends? We can teach you a thing or two.”

You look past him at the rest of the guys surrounding the table, each watching the exchange with amused faces. Only one of them seems to not really be enjoying this but of course, he has his head down, eyes glued to the floor. Such a coward.

“No thanks,” you say. “I know how to play pool just fine.” Of course that just brings back memories of the last time you were here. Taehyung’s body warm against your side, his hands covering yours, his breath on your ear as he spoke softly to you. You have to find him. “I should go,” you say then turn for the door.

Before you can take a full step, you feel a hand clamp down on your arm. “Awe come on, Princess, play with us.”

“She said she doesn’t want to.”

Now that voice you recognize.

You jerk your head to your right, eyes settling on the graffiti painted jacket before lifting to rest on Tae’s face. His hair hangs in his eyes and he looks beaten down, yet the way his fists clench at his sides tells you he’s ready to shed some blood.

“Hey, chill man, I was just seeing if she wanted to—”

“And she said she doesn’t,” Tae interrupts coming closer. “So how about you take your grubby paws off her, go back to your gaggle and leave her alone?”

The guy loosens his grip enough for you to wrench your arm away and he shakes his head. “Just wanted to hang out,” he mutters. “Guess the stuck up princess is too good for us lowly commoners.”

Before you have a chance to really understand what’s happening, the guy is on the floor, Taehyung above him with the guy’s shirt in one fist while the other connects again and again with his face. Barely seconds later, the rest of his posse jumps in, ripping Tae off of him. You stumble back, eyes wide, mouth open in shock, mind completely blank as you watch the chaos ensue. It’s a blur of bodies and fists and painted leather in the haze of smoke and before too long, other patrons have come to untangle the mess. You barely catch Tae as he’s thrown into you, his face bloodied and sweaty, eyes gleaming with anger and at first when he meets your stare, you’re afraid he might punch you, but then his expression falls and he stumbles a bit. You manage to finally snap out of your stupor in time to catch him around the waist before he can go over.

“Come on,” you say. “Let’s get you out of here.”

The cab ride back to your apartment is long and silent. Tae keeps his eyes glued to the window on his side of the car, his hand resting on the leather seat between the two of you. You, however, can’t look away from him. From his tangled hair—tips stringy with sweat, plastered down over his ears and his forehead—to his fist clenched so tightly on the seat that his knuckles are white making the bloodied scrapes all the more stark. You want to cover that hand with your own. You want to look into his eyes and tell him you love him. Tell him that everything has changed. That you don’t want this life you currently have. You want one with him. Instead, you’re silent, your confession caged behind your teeth, your heart aching because when you peeked under your ring a second ago, you saw that the lines were still black.

“Nothing more fitting for a princess than a palace,” Tae mutters once the two of you have gotten out of the cab in front of your apartment building.

With a sigh, you grip the sleeve of his jacket and pull him along behind you inside. The doorman gives you a curious look as you pass but you don’t say a word, knowing that it would take too much explaining and you just don’t have the time. Not to mention, you know he’s going to say something to your mother the next time she stops by—which is often—and the fewer details he knows, the better.

You drag Tae into the elevator and feel him watch as you press the button for the top floor. A small chuckle escapes him and you look over to find him now staring at the floor. He brings a hand up, touching his finger to his eyebrow and wincing before taking it away to look at the blood smearing the tip.

When the doors open again, you take his hand gently and tug him out of the elevator.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” you say and he meets your eyes this time, the change in his demeanor unmistakable when he notices the change in yours.

Without another word, he lets you pull him through the huge, empty space, the sounds of your shoes echoing against the white marble floor. You can only imagine the kind of tracks his black soled boots are probably making and the looks that will be on the faces of the maids that will have to clean them up tomorrow.

You lead him into the bathroom and he sits down on the edge of your jacuzzi tub while you get a washcloth damp. When you turn around again, you see he’s shrugged out of his jacket, now wearing just a white t-shirt and sitting too low on the edge of the tub.

“Come here,” you say, pulling him back toward the vanity and having him lean against the counter.

With trembling fingers, you brush his hair back off his forehead so you can more easily assess the damage. There’s too much blood to really be able to tell what’s what, but once you’ve wiped most of it away, you see a big cut across his cheekbone, and a shallower one slicing through one eyebrow. You set the rag down and pull a box of bandages out of the drawer next to you.

“What were you doing at the bar?” Tae finally asks, his voice hoarse after barely using it for so long.

You fidget with the bandages in the box, letting your fingernail fan across the edges before finally pulling one out. “I was looking for you,” you say then pull your lip into your mouth.

You don’t really want to look at him now. Not this close. You spent most of the cab ride trying to figure out what you were going to say to him and now that you’re here, you still don’t know. You want to ask about his past. You want to ask what happened. Why he left his family. You want to tell him how sorry you are. How much of an idiot you’ve been. But there are too many thoughts swirling around in your brain right now and he’s standing so extremely close to you and you’re terrified to meet his eyes.

“Why?” he asks.

At long last, you tear the package open and pull the bandage out before finally looking up. You refuse to look anywhere but at the cut on his cheek and use the rag to clean it a bit more, eliciting another wince and a sharp intake of breath from him.

“Sorry,” you utter before carefully taking his chin in your hand and tilting his head to the side so you can place the small white strip over the cut. You press the ends down gently with your thumb, noticing his jaw clenching and unclenching again under your fingers.

“Princess.”

Now your eyes dart up to meet his and the way his drill into yours causes you to drop your hands from his face and curl them into fists at your sides.

“Why were you looking for me?” he asks. “I thought you never wanted to see me again. I thought you were done with me.”

“I thought so too,” you say under your breath, more to yourself than to him and you close your eyes. This is what you wanted. You wanted a chance to tell him everything and now you have it. You inhale deeply. “I had dinner with Jennie tonight,” you say. “Before I came looking for you.”

“And?”

Another deep breath. “And she told me…that I deserve to love my life.” You wring the damp rag in your hands, looking down at it as you continue. “And I think I realized when I was with you at the bar the other day that I don’t love my life and I think when I realized that, it really scared me.” Now you lift your head again to look at Tae. His brows are furrowed, mouth set in a solemn line, eyes so focused on you, you feel like he can somehow see into your soul. Like he somehow knows what you want to say even before you say it. “This is all really scary for me, Tae,” you say shakily. “You don’t really realize what I’d be giving up.”

Tae’s mouth pulls up into a smirk. “Actually, I think I do,” he says.

“Oh right,” you laugh and for a moment you feel your nerves loosen. But then you tense right back up and swallow hard. “But what I think I’m trying to say is that…while I’m scared…I also don’t want to go down the path I’m on anymore. I don’t want to take over my father’s company. I don’t want to go to anymore of those stupid networking brunches. I don’t want to go to anymore parties where everyone only likes me because of my status. I’m sick of being fake happy. I want to love life, Tae.”

“And how are you going to do that?” he asks.

You feel heat begin to bloom in your chest, your heart hammering against your ribs. “By being with you, I think.”

Tae’s smile disappears, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip nervously as he begins to lean in. Just as you feel his lips brush yours, you pull back, putting a hand on his chest. “Wait, not right now. Not when you’re drunk.”

Tae tilts back again and raises an eyebrow. “I’m not drunk.”

“You just got in a bar fight, what do you mean you aren’t drunk?” you ask confused.

“I didn’t punch the guy cuz I was drunk, I punched him cuz he was being a douche bag.” Then he steps closer again, carefully putting his hands on the counter on either side of you, trapping you there against it. With your palm pressed to his chest, you can feel his heart hammering beneath his t-shirt. “The only way I’m not kissing you right now, Princess, is if you don’t want me to.”

You’ve never wanted anything in this life as much as you want him to kiss you right now.

“I want you to,” you say.

Several silent seconds pass between you before Tae lets out what you can only describe as a sigh of relief and then his lips are on yours. He kisses you hard, fervently as if his whole life has culminated to this moment. And maybe it has. Yours definitely has.

There’s no space between the two of you and it’s making it hard for you to breathe. But you don’t want to breathe, not if it means pulling away. Your head is swimming, your heartbeats pounding against each other as his mouth moves on yours but then you’re feeling too light-headed and  you pull back, resting your forehead against his.

“I love you, Tae,” you whisper before opening your eyes to look into his. “You know that?”

His lips are already reddening, his pupils large and he brings one hand out of your hair to rest against the side of your face. “I do now,” he says as his thumb draws gentle circles on your cheekbone. “And I love you. Ah, I really really love you, Princess.”

Your mind is reeling, heart racing and all you can think about is him. About this boy that has come into your life and changed everything. Nothing will ever be the same now and even as you pull his face back to yours so you can kiss him again, you can’t remember why you were scared in the first place. Any doubts you had before have vanished from your brain. You’d go anywhere with him. You’d live at the bottom of the ocean with this boy. Nothing scares you now.

You want to stay like this forever. Just stay right here watching him sleep beside you. His face is so peaceful, dark eyelashes fanned out across his cheekbones, lips slightly parted, his soft breaths coming out in a gentle hush. Even with the bandage and the cut on his eyebrow he looks amazing. He’s laying on his stomach, the golden expanse of his back spread out before you, the curve of his spine catching the light coming in through your window. His inked arms rest on the mattress on either side of his head, the wings on his back unfurled like he’s an angel in flight.

Your eyes focus on the hand on this side of him, the silver band on his ring finger shining dully. Slowly, you reach over, taking the ring between two of your fingers and pulling it up to his knuckle. Your mouth curls into a smile when red double lines come into view. You’ve never felt this happy. In fact, you’d bet his mark has never been red. How could you have not wanted this?

Looking past his hand again at his face, your eyes skim over his features and your hands itch to draw him. You’ve never wanted to sketch a person before but this boy is a work of art.

As quietly as you can, you slide out from beneath the sheets, grabbing his t-shirt up off the floor and slipping it on before making your way across the carpet and into your walk-in closet. The separate room is bigger than Tae’s dorm room. Twice the size, actually, with a giant glass-topped island in the middle containing your vast array of jewelry, sunglasses and the like. You make your way around it, trailing your finger along its top, unable to keep the smile off your face as you bring your other hand up to touch your neck, reminiscantly. You catch your reflection in one of the full-length mirrors as you pass it, noticing a collection of marks peppering your skin. Looks like you’ll be wearing a turtle neck sweater tonight when you go to your parents’ house for dinner. You feel a heaviness in your gut at the thought.

By the time you reach your jewelry cabinet, a rock has formed in your stomach. You felt so fearless wrapped in Tae’s arms. So bold, so daring, so lost in the freedom that you completely forgot about the life you currently live. You can already imagine the looks on their faces when they find out who your soulmate is. The disappointment, the rage, the horror. Surely, your mother loved watching the Parks go through the drama of having their own daughter come home with a loser but only because she knew it could never happen to her. She knew fate would never be so cruel and that her own daughter, being the level-headed, business-minded person you are and being on the very straight and narrow path you’re on, would never end up with someone like Jennie’s soulmate. Well, you’ve got news for her.

You sit down on the floor in front of your jewelry cabinet and pull the bottom drawer open. Rows of rings gleam back at you, the inset lights coming on the moment the drawer opens, now shining off the polished bands and inlayed stones. You pull the tray they reside in out of the drawer and reach far back into it until you feel the familiar hard cover of your sketchbook.

You’ve had this thing forever, the navy blue cover a bit worn on the corners from your habit of picking at them when you’re thinking. The pages flutter beneath your thumb as you fan through them, each of your designs flashing past in a blur before you reach the newest one. You pause to study it.

It’s a forest green gown, long and flowing with flowers cascading asymmetrically down the bodice. A dress that appeared in your mind one night in your half-sleep state so vividly you just had to wake up and sketch it out. Even as you drew it, you knew this one, like your others, would never be anything more than graphite and color on a page. You knew this would never be something to pursue, but just as dreams are a figment of your imagination, so was the idea of becoming a designer. But then you met Tae and now you realize that drumming, at one point, was just a stirring in his heart instead of something he actually thought he’d be able to do. Maybe…just maybe you’ll be able to see this dress come to life one day.

Fingers softly brush your hair off your shoulder and you close your eyes at the touch.

“You did that?” A voice asks, deep and gravely with sleep. “It’s incredible.”

You smile, reaching back to rest a hand against his thigh—now clad in his black boxers. “You sound surprised.”

“I guess I just never pegged you for the artsy type,” Tae says against your shoulder. His hair tickles the side of your face and you lean away, craning your neck back so you can see him. For a second, you’re dazzled at the sight of him, dark hair sticking up every which way, the lights from the open drawer making his eyes sparkle like gems.

“I bet if I saw you in your high society life, I wouldn’t think you could be a drummer.” The mention of his old life causes Tae’s eyes and smile to sink and immediately you squeeze his thigh and lean back into him in an attempt to cheer him back up again. “You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, Tae,” you say.

“No, it’s okay,” he says then takes your hand and brings it up to his mouth so he can brush your knuckles along his bottom lip thoughtfully. “I mean, if you’re my soulmate, you should probably know that stuff about me, right?” You shrug and the corners of his mouth curl up again. He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know,” he says. “I used to think I didn’t have any choices. My life was so structured and planned I’d accepted my fate and convinced myself that I actually wanted to take over my dad’s business. I’d see the way my parents interacted with each other and with their peers and it just all seemed so forced. Even as adults, no one seemed to be able to make their own decisions. They all looked so trapped, you know?”

You look down at the sketchbook in your lap. Oh yes, you know.

“I think one day I just sort of realized that this wasn’t what I wanted. I didn’t know what I wanted but I knew it wasn’t that. I think my parents were shocked when I told them I wouldn’t be pursuing their dream for me.” He takes a deep breath. “My dad wanted to disown me. Well, I mean, he basically did, but my mom convinced him not to. They still kicked me out, though. That’s how I met Hobi and the rest of the guys. And how I got into drumming.”

“So you didn’t have a dream when you cut ties?” you ask.

Tae shakes his head. “I mean, I guess my dream was just to not turn out like my dad.”

“I’d say you achieved that,” you say eliciting a chuckle from him.

“I think my biggest fear was becoming trapped in a life I didn’t want,” he says sitting up straighter and rolling his shoulders.

Though you can’t see it, you picture the wings across his back shifting with the motion. “Is that why you got those wings?” you finally ask.

Tae seems to have noticed you staring and he smirks. Heat reaches your ears. “I thought they were fitting,” he says at last. “Why? Do you like them?” Like them? You love them. They’re perfect. Beautiful. You only nod and his smile widens. “Good. They’re the only reminder of my past I’ll ever need.”

“Your past doesn’t mean as much to me as the present and future,” you say watching as he lifts your hand back to his mouth.

“It’s still a part of me though,” Tae says against your fingers. “One I hoped would stay in the past but I have a feeling it’s not going to since my soulmate is the Princess of the Upper East Side.”

You pull your bottom lip into your mouth and look down again at the sketchbook in your lap. For once that title doesn’t fill you with a sense of pride. In fact, you feel dread fill your chest at the thought of having to face your parents. Even if you’re able to keep this all secret tonight, it’ll come out eventually. Are you really ready to let this life you’ve always known slip out from under you? Are you ready to let it all crumble?

You look at Tae again. This boy has already been through it and though his life is nothing like it was before, though he no longer fits the mold of high society, he’s a better person for it. A more passionate person. A happier person. That’s what you want. And you know a life with Tae will cause you to grow into that person. But how can you become this new person if you try to keep it hidden?

You take a deep breath before turning around to face him. “Come with me tonight,” you say. “To my parents’ house.”

Tae’s eyes widen. “Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s got to come out eventually, right? Might as well get it over with.” Then you look down at your sketchbook again and your mouth lifts into a hopeful smile. “I’m ready to start my new life.”

Tae’s face splits into a beaming grin and he sets your sketchbook aside before reaching out for you. His fingers dig into your hips and he pulls you onto his lap, your knees resting on the floor on either side of him, your chest pressed against his as he hugs you. He’s so warm and even through the thin material of his t-shirt you’re wearing, you can feel his heart beating erratically. It’s obvious he’s nervous. You are too. You’ve never wanted to veer off the path laid out for you before. But now there’s nothing more in this life you want than to start over with him.

“I’ll be there,” he says, his shaky breath fanning across your face. Then he leans in to press a kiss to your lips. “Whatever you want, Princess.”

“You didn’t even try to cover these up?” you scold as you dab makeup onto the purpled skin at Tae’s throat. He only smirks down at you.

“Hey, I’m not the one that put them there. I was just letting you enjoy your handiwork.” Then he leans in to press a quick kiss to your nose before you can pull back. “Though I see you’ve taken a different approach.” His hand comes up and he pinches the high collar of your black turtle neck. “Looks good. Very Steve Jobs chic.”

“Come on, Tae,” you say with a sigh and finally meet his eyes. “This is serious. I don’t think you know just how big of a disaster this night is going to be.” His amused expression falls when he sees how solemn your own is.

Then he reaches up to cup your face in his hands. “Hey,” he says softly and you have to bite your lip to keep it from quivering as you feel the tears coming on. “We don’t have to do this. At least not tonight. How about you go without me? I can wait for you here and we can hang out when you get back.”

You shake your head, swallowing hard to clear the lump in your throat. “No, the sooner I get this over with the better,” you say. Then you meet his eyes again and give him a weak smile. “I want to do this.”

“Do you want me to change my shirt then?” he asks you.

His usual ripped jeans have been replaced with black skinny jeans, his painted leather jacket and white t-shirt switched out for a long sleeved, black button down printed with a white swirling design. The top few buttons are undone to expose his throat and collarbones. He looks incredible. “No, no, please no,” you say quickly.

Tae’s grin spreads wider, his teeth coming into view and he pulls you into him, hands cradling your face gently and by the time he pulls away, you feel like your feet are no longer on the ground. The two of you stand there on the sidewalk, foreheads resting against each other’s and you wish you could just stay like this instead of going to your parents house. But then the black car you called pulls up to the curb, giving a short honk and you pull away.

“Ready?” Tae asks with a gentle smile.

You take a deep breath. “Does it matter?” But you return the smile anyway because even though you’re dreading tonight, you’re excited for tomorrow when this is all over and you can move on.

“Okay, I take back everything I said about your apartment being a palace. This is a palace.”

“Oh, shut up,” you growl as you pull Tae down the driveway and toward your parents’ estate. Your heart hammers harder in your chest with every step closer to the front doors.

It’ll be okay.

Well, no actually it won’t be okay. Or maybe your parents will surprise you. Maybe the fact that he does come from money will make it easier for them to accept him. Maybe the initial shock will give you enough time to explain everything. Maybe it’ll work out. You’re their daughter after all. They’d want you to be happy, right?

…right?

You stand frozen now on the porch, Tae’s arm still tightly in your grasp. Your fingers ache but you can’t seem to loosen your grip. In fact, you clutch impossibly tighter to him until his bones are surely threatening to snap under the pressure.

“Princess.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you sure you’re ready to do this?”

You clench your teeth, grinding your molars together as you stare down at the door knob. Normally you have the driver come in through the front gates which alerts a maid that you are on your way, but this time you had the car drop the two of you off outside the gate and then used the separate locked entrance into the place so no one would be here to welcome you when you arrived. But that’s what you need. Time to collect yourself. Which may take a while since your insides feel like a jumbled mess of smashed bits. Pieces that will never be able to be brought back together. Maybe you’ll never be ready to do this. But you have to.

You let go of Tae’s wrist then slip your ring off your finger to expose the double bands. Right now they’re verging on indigo and you turn around to face Tae. While his expression is calm, you can still see a faint indent between his eyes. The ring on his own finger keeps you from seeing the color representing your emotions but you can bet his tattoo is darker than yours. You drop your ring into a hedge beside the porch and take a deep breath. No hiding now.

“Let’s do this,” you say softly then reach for the doorknob and in one swift motion, twist it and push it open.

You hear Tae swear under his breath when the two of you step inside and you turn around to find him looking around with wide eyes. It’s hard not to smile even with the big chunk of ice sitting in the pit of your stomach.

“Oh.”

You jump at the sudden noise and spin to find your mother standing in the doorway to the parlor.

“Honey, I didn’t hear you come in. Didn’t the maid meet you at the door?” she asks.

You shift nervously when her eyes pan over to Tae. “Uh, no sorry, Mom, we thought we’d, um, surprise you.” Then you step closer to Tae, a sudden desire to protect him coming over you and you link your arm with his. “Mom, this is Taehyung. He’s my, um…”

Your mother’s eyes fall to your hand where it rests on his arm, the double bands a sharp peacock blue against your skin and to your surprise, she lights up, a smile spreading across her lips before she clasps her own hands together.

“Welcome!” she says and rushes forward, “It is so nice to meet you, Taehyung.” Then she grasps his own palm in hers. “Oh, I just can’t wait to hear all about your meeting.”

“Uh, thanks, it’s nice to meet you too,” Tae says, his eyes darting to yours and you shrug. Your mom’s reaction was so unexpected, you don’t even know what to feel.

“Well, come on, let’s go into the parlor and I’ll make us some drinks,” your mother says as she pulls him out of your grasp and toward the doorway. “You seem like a bourbon type of man. My husband says you can always tell a good man by the type of liquor he drinks and you seem like the bourbon type, am I right?”

“Uh, sure, yeah, bourbon’s okay I think,” Tae says then looks over his shoulder helplessly at you before disappearing into the parlor.

You stand there, the amused smile stuck on your face even as your mind is reeling. What’s going on? Why is she so enthusiastic? Does she not know who this boy is? Your smile falls. Of course. That has to be it. Sure, your father recognized him at the network brunch but only from these events in the past. Your mother has never gone to one before so how would she know who Kim Taehyung is?

For a split second you thought that something miraculous had happened. You imagined a life with both Tae and your parents in it. Just for a second you imagined coming to Friday night dinners together. Visiting on holidays, possibly bringing kids someday. Maybe even having them be proud of you for pursuing whatever dream you decide to follow. But that shatters as quickly as it appears. Your father—as most Fridays—is working late at the office and it’s only a matter of time before he comes home. No, tonight is a ticking time bomb, counting down from an unknown number.

Taehyung shifts nervously beside you where the two of you sit on one of the couches in the parlor. Your mother is sitting on the couch on the other side of the coffee table, talking excitedly about whatever recent trip her and your father went on. It’s hard to focus when you’re stiff as a statue beside him, holding your glass so tightly he’s surprised the thing hasn’t shattered yet.

If only he could reassure you somehow. But what would he even say? It’ll be alright? It won’t be so bad? He knows both of those statements are lies. After all, your mother is only acting this way because she doesn’t know who Kim Taehyung is. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe it would have been better if you’d just come by yourself and broken the news gently.

Taehyung’s chest tightens when you suddenly lean into him and he reflexively puts his arm around your shoulder, clutching onto you tightly.

No, this is where he should be. You need him now more than ever.

You look at Taehyung, your eyes so filled with uneasiness, your mouth set in a solemn line. How can I fix this? He wishes you could read each other’s minds. His fingers wrap around yours where they clutch onto your glass and his thumb rubs over your knuckles.

Your mother lets out a sigh. “It’s so refreshing to see two young people in love,” she says. “You seem very happy.”

Taehyung looks at you again and gently pries one of your hands off your glass so he can bring it up to his lips. “I am,” he says and presses a kiss to your fingers. You smile and your body begins to relax against his.

“I am too, Mom,” you finally say. “Really really happy.” Then you lick your lips nervously and sit back up again. Here we go. “Mom, I have to tell you something before—”

“What’s this?”

All three of you jump to attention at the sound of your father’s voice and both you and Taehyung attempt to step in front of the other, causing you to stumble forward. The man didn’t seem very intimidating at Taehyung’s last encounter with him, but then again he had his boys backing him up. Not to mention he was thinking that would be the last time he’d ever see you again and he had nothing to lose by standing up to the guy. Now though, he’s here in the man’s home, your father’s eyes trained so intensely on him he can almost feel himself shrinking.

“Hi Daddy,” you say straightening your skirt quickly. “Uh, this is—”

“What is this washout doing here?” your father bites. His words hacking through Taehyung like a dull blade.

“Now Dear, Taehyung is a very nice boy and he loves our daughter,” your mother says putting a hand on his arm.

He pulls out of her grip and steps closer. Somehow Taehyung’s fingers have latched onto your wrist and pulled you behind him protectively as if the man’s anger has manifested into a charging beast and it’s headed straight for you. Even in this moment, the need to protect you is stronger than the paralyzing fear he feels as your father stands so close to him, staring him down.

“You,” he seethes only inches from Taehyung’s face, “made your choice and I will not have you dragging my daughter down to your miserable level.”

Taehyung licks his lips, his mind racing to pull together a coherent response even as the words cut him deep enough to make him feel like he’s bleeding out. But then before he can stop you, you step out from behind him again.

“And I made my choice, Daddy.” You look so small standing between them.

Your father’s eyes zero in on his new target, breaking the spell that had Taehyung frozen in place and suddenly he’s ready to take whatever bullet the man is about to send your way.

He lets out a loud, incredulous laugh. “And what choice is that?”

Instead of answering him right away, you turn your head and meet Taehyung’s stare. He can feel his heart seize in his chest. You look so sad. “I need you to leave for a minute,” you whisper.

Taehyung’s eyes grow wide and he can feel the panic wash over him suddenly. No no no no. He shakes his head in a silent plea but you look adamant and at last he gives in, dipping his chin once before stepping away from you, eyes passing over your mother and holding her own for a split second before he steps out of the parlor and back into the entryway. He stops on the other side of the wall and sinks to the floor, letting his head fall back against it.

He hears you take a deep breath before letting the words ride out on the exhale. “I’m not going to be taking over the business.”

“What do you mean, Honey?” your mother asks. She was inching her way toward the perimeter of the room when Taehyung passed her on his way out, surely trying to distance herself from the disaster, and with her being just on the other side of the wall, Taehyung can hear the way her voice shakes.

“I mean, I’ve decided to follow my dream instead. I want to become a designer.”

Taehyung scrambles to his feet again, eyes drilling into the plaster as if he could see through it if he tried hard enough. The room is silent and even from where he stands, he can feel the tension in the air, expanding and growing tighter until at last it snaps.

“You…stupid child,” your father growls.

Taehyung sucks in a sharp breath, spine going rigid.

“Dear,” your mother whispers.

“A designer? What absolute garbage is this?”

“I’ve wanted to do it ever since I was young,” you say. “Since before I started pursuing your business. It’s what I’ve always loved.”

Your father goes on, voice growing louder to overshadow your own, “Are you kidding me? Is this some sort of sick joke?”

“Dear, please stay calm,” your mother pleads, her voice so quiet she sounds like she’s miles away.

“I built this life for you! I work day in and day out for you to have these opportunities! I set up meetings around your schedule! I built connections for you! Opportunities I was never given! And you want to throw that all away so you can doodle on a notepad? And with that failure by your side?”

Taehyung braces his arms against the wall, grinding his forehead into the edge of the doorframe as he listens.

“He’s my soulmate, Daddy,” you say. The weakness in your voice has a searing heat tearing through Taehyung’s chest and he squeezes his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the pain.

“I don’t care if he’s your soulmate,” the man snarls. “He’s done this to you! Made you completely lose your mind! He’s turned my daughter into the very thing we detest in this family!”

Taehyung lets out a shaky breath, his fists clenching so hard the skin beneath his nails threatens to give. With a jerky movement, he rips his ring off and looks down with blurred vision at the bold, black bands encircling his finger.

This is all his fault. This whole night. The way your dad is yelling at you, tearing you apart while he’s out here, shielded from the flying shrapnel. It’s all because of him. You would have had a good life if he hadn’t busted into it. Would have gone on to be successful. The pride and joy of your parents. Would have lived happily, comfortably, independently. Would have had it all if not for him.

Just leave, Tae. Just disappear. Give her father time to forgive her because you know he will. She’ll hurt at first but it’ll be better this way. Let her live her life. Stop trying to rip everything away from her.

Taehyung pushes off the wall, reddened eyes fixed on the front door, heart hammering so loud it almost drowns out the absolute war raging on in the parlor. Almost. It would if not for the sheer volume of that man’s voice.

“That boy will never be a part of this family!”

Taehyung holds his breath, sight trained on the door handle as he waits for your response. And then it comes, in the most calm, cutting voice he’s ever heard.

“You’re right, Daddy,” you say. “He won’t be. Because I won’t be either.”

His eyes shift to his double bands again and he swears his brain is playing tricks on him. How else could he make sense of the sight before him? Of his ebony colored rings changing rapidly, growing lighter with each second, passing through every shade of purple and blue before finally settling on a light sea foam green. Only once the shifting has stopped does Taehyung finally look up, and when he does, he sees you standing in the doorway, mere feet from him. Your mouth lifts into a tired smile as you close the gap, taking his hand in your own and entwining your fingers together. The motion sends a soothing warmth up his arm, flowing like a summer wind through his veins, calming his erratic heart and causing the storm raging in his mind to cease. Now he lifts your clasped hands and looks at your own ring to find that the color has lightened as well to match his. He’s never felt so calm.

“How did you do that?” Taehyung utters under his breath.

You just smile wider in return, your thumb rubbing circles into his skin. “Let’s go home,” is all you say and then you lead him out the door and away from this house he’s pretty sure he’ll never step foot in again.

The ride back to your apartment had been a blur, the weight of what had just happened slowly beginning to settle over you again and by the time you reached your destination, you felt like you were suffocating under the pressure.

You’d pulled Tae after you into the elevator, not saying anything on the ride up and then tugging him into your place once you reached the top. You didn’t slow, stumbling toward your bedroom, kicking out of your shoes and then pulling your turtle neck and skirt off, letting them stay where they landed and Taehyung had looked at you confusedly as you started unbuttoning his shirt. But he let you tug it off of him and drop it at the foot of your bed too before wrapping your arms around his waist and falling down onto the mattress with him. You’d pulled your comforter up over your heads and at first he was still too confused as to what your intentions were. Not sure why you’d bared yourself and him halfway but then you crumpled into him, burying your face in his chest and began to cry. His arms immediately came up to cradle you to him, his skin smooth against yours, the contact bringing a comfort of its own that you so desperately needed.

You don’t know how long you cried but by the time the tears stopped, you felt like you were floating, your head so foggy and thick. The only thing tethering you to this life was Taehyung’s skin against your own and the feel of his heart beating beneath your palm.

Now you curl into him, let his arms enshroud you, keep you together because even though the tears have finished falling, you still feel like you’re breaking apart. Still feel like the world is disintegrating. And maybe it is. At least your world. Your old life. It needed to though, right? This was the only way to move on. The only option you were given anyway.

You sniff and Tae tightens his grip in response. His skin is warm against your own, comforting in its golden glow. A ray of sunshine peeking through your clouded thoughts. You haven’t spoken a word since the two of you left your parents’ house but every so often as the two of you have laid here beneath your blankets, Tae has whispered his love for you into your hair, punctuating his sentences with gentle kisses to your forehead, your cheeks, your nose. He places a small kiss to your lips then the doorbell rings.

Tae breaks the kiss first and you both wait in silence. A few seconds later, it sounds again, faintly from the other end of your apartment and you exhale heavily. “I’ll be right back,” you say, your voice hoarse from disuse and then, much to Tae’s dismay, you slip out from beneath the covers, grabbing your robe as you make your way out of the bedroom and back toward the elevator.

The intercom button beside it glows a soft white, signaling a call from the lobby. You press it and lean in. “Yeah, I’m here,” you say and wait for a response.

“Honey?”

“Mom?”

“Honey, can I please come up and talk to you?”

Your stomach does a flip. What is she doing here? You’re shocked into silence for several seconds before pressing the button down again. “Uh, yeah, sure,” you crack then quickly go and grab your clothes back off the floor, tugging them on and back in place just in time for the elevator to ding, the doors to open and your mother to step out.

You stand there in silence, watching as her eyes sweep the large room—a habit of hers you’ve grown very used to—before they finally land on you. Her hands grip the handles of her bag in front of her as if she doesn’t know what to do now that she’s standing before you.

“Does Daddy know you’re here?” you ask.

Your mother shakes her head, her lips pursed in a tight line. “After you left, he locked himself in his study and he hasn’t come back out. I figure he’ll stay in there for the rest of the night.”

You wrap your arms around your middle, feeling yourself shrinking inward and wishing you could go back to your room where Tae is, soft and warm and inviting. “Mom, I’m so sorry about tonight.”

“Well, it did come as a shock,” she says.

“I know. It was probably bad timing, especially with the Parks having just gone through all this with Jennie.”

Your mother scoffs causing you to lift your head again to look at her. “Oh believe me, this is nothing like the Parks.”

You furrow your brow. “What do you mean?”

With a sigh, your mother shifts on her feet, clutching her purse tighter in front of her. “Honey, I need you to understand something. As members of a higher class, we are held to higher standards.” You lower your eyes again, feeling the guilt constricting your lungs. “And of course, living in this society for as long as I have, it’s hard not to get caught up in the politics of it all. This is the path I was given. A life of dinner parties and gossip and business deals. And sometimes I forget that that’s my path, not yours.”

You tear your eyes from the tiles again to look at her.

“It’s easy to get caught up in the drama of another family’s affairs,” she continues. “But I never should have said the things I did about Jennie. I never should have made you feel like you couldn’t come to me. And that you couldn’t follow the path you’re meant to go down even if it’s not the same as the one your father and I had for you.”

“But Daddy seemed so upset,” you utter.

Your mother nods sadly. “You have to understand, Honey, that your father is a very stubborn man. The fact that he was training you to take over his business while not even knowing if this was what you were supposed to do has always been a struggle for him. He’s a lot less accepting of fate than I am,” she explains. “Which is why I’m here.”

She steps toward you now, reaching out with one hand to take hold of one of your own and smiles gently. “Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a photographer?”

Your eyes widen at this news and you shake your head.

“Before I met your father, I was set on traveling around the world, photographing people and places in such a light that no one had seen before. I developed my own style, even won some awards and had my photographs in magazines. When I met your father, I gave it all up to become a homemaker. And let me tell you, I don’t regret a single choice I made. Photography was a part of my childhood, a part of who I was before, but becoming your father’s wife and your mother was where I found myself. I could have continued to pursue it and perhaps I would have still found happiness.” Then she lifts her hand to place her palm against your cheek. “But I’ve been happiest in this life with you and your father. And the only thing that could make me happier is seeing my daughter happy.”

Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes and you blink hard, clamping down on your bottom lip to keep it from quivering. “Mom,” you crack.

“Your father will come around eventually,” she says. “But you need to follow your happiness, not his. And if that’s being with Taehyung and becoming a designer, then you follow that path, Sweetie.”

You can only nod vigorously, eyes so blurred you can no longer make out the details of her face. Now she pulls her hand back and opens her bag. “For the record, I’ve known you’ve loved fashion for a long time.” You wipe your hands over your eyes to clear them and suddenly her knowing smile comes back into focus and you look down to see what she pulled out of her bag. A pamphlet and an envelope. You take both carefully.

“How did you know?” you whisper as you trail your finger down the edge of the pamphlet.The words ESMOD Seoul are printed across the top.

“You used to keep yourself preoccupied during your father’s business dinners by drawing on your napkin,” she says.

You can’t help but smile at the memories. You hated going to those dinners when you were little. Your mom would always slip you a pen and you’d spend the hours of speeches and toasts and mingling just drawing outfits. Dresses you’d rather be wearing than whatever stiff one you’d been put in to come to the dinner. You always hated leaving your drawings behind to be thrown out by the restaurant staff but you knew there was no point in trying to take them home with you. As you got older, you realized how childish it is to doodle on napkins and started paying more attention to what was going on around you. Your father was so proud of you when you started showing more of an interest in his work.

“I remember the way you used to draw on those napkins at company dinners. I always hoped to save them but they’d be cleared away before I could take them.”

Now you look to the envelope, opening it with trembling fingers and pulling out a check with your name on the first line. Your eyes widen when you see the amount.

“What is this?” you ask looking up at your mother again.

Now it’s her eyes that begin to glass over and she smiles. “You’re very good, Honey,” your mom says. “I’ve been putting money away for you for a while. Just a little something to help get you started.”

“A little?” you screech, still gaping at the large number on the check.

Your mom’s smile widens. “You deserve to pursue your dream and be happy with Taehyung,” she says.

Before you can stop yourself, you throw your arms around her and bury your face into her neck. Finally letting go of your resolve, tears spill from your eyes and you begin to tremble. Your mother’s arms come up to wrap around your waist and though she’s smaller than you, she somehow manages to hold you, cradle you as if you’re still so small. Still her little girl.

“Thank you, Mom,” you whisper, your words muffled by the neck of her sweater. She’s always worn the same perfume, even when you were little and now you breathe her in. You were so sure earlier that you’d never get to again.

When you pull away at last, you can see tears staining her cheeks and she quickly wipes them away. “Your father will come around,” she says once she’s cleared her throat and regained her composure. “Just give him some time. And maybe a bit more before he and Taehyung can be in the same room again.”

You smile weakly and hold the pamphlet and check to your chest. “Right.”

“And let's keep getting together on Friday nights. You pick the restaurant, okay?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” you say with a nod.

Your mom studies you for a second longer before turning and stepping back into the elevator. When she turns around again, she tilts her head a bit, eyes focusing on your neck just below your jaw and just above the collar of your turtleneck. “Is that a hickey?”

Quickly, you slap your hand over the area, a deep blush warming your cheeks as you mentally curse yourself for not checking to make sure everything was still covered. Your mom shakes her head, corners of her mouth lifting upward just barely as if she’s trying and failing to conceal a smile and she reaches out to press the button to close the doors.

“See you next week, Honey,” she says.

“Bye Mom,” you crack, keeping one hand on your neck and using the one still clutching the papers to wave goodbye.

Once the doors close, you heave a heavy sigh and let both hands drop. Did that all really just happen? The pamphlet and check in your grip confirms it, even though now that she’s gone, you’re having a very hard time believing your mother was really just standing in front of you. Your heart pounds, your hands shake and your throat begins to close up again because, honestly, you have no idea what to feel right now. Excitement and fear for the future, heartbreak for the past. It’s all just too much and you find yourself sinking to your knees right there in front of the elevator.

“Princess?”

You don’t lift your head, even when you feel a pair of arms wrap around your shoulders, a pair of lips kiss your cheek, a voice whisper soothingly in your ear that everything is okay because he’s here now.

“Who was that?” he asks once you’ve calmed a bit.

“My mom,” you reply. Your voice is still so weak with disbelief. “She came to give me these.”

“A pamphlet?”

“For a design school,” you say then hold up the check. “And this.”

“Holy crap,” Tae utters when he sees the amount. “Looks like you have everything to get things going.” Then he pulls you to your feet, his eyes sparkling excitedly. “No time like the present, right?”

Suddenly you feel exhausted. “Tae, it’s almost one o’clock.”

“In the morning then,” he says. “Let’s get a good night’s sleep then start livin’ that dream.”

You can only smile as his own widens and you let him tug you back toward the bedroom.

The rain pours down in buckets, pelting the top of your black umbrella as you make your way down the sidewalk. You’ve always loved the rain. You love how the world is washed in a sudden filter of monochrome. The streets, the buildings, the sky, the people. Everything is black and white and gray and the same. No one is upper class or middle class or lower class. No one is better than anyone else. Everyone is the same.

The same until you turn off the sidewalk and into one of the many nicer apartment buildings lining this street. One look at the lobby and you’re plunged back into the life you’ve always known. The one you’re growing further away from every day.

With a quick shake of your umbrella, you close it, still fussing with the strap when the elevator dings and the doors open. You look up to meet a familiar pair of arrogant eyes. You’d sent a text earlier asking him to meet you in the lobby and in all honesty, you’re kind of surprised he actually decided to show up.

“Well well well,” Seokjin purrs as he saunters closer to you. “If it isn’t Mrs. Drummer Boy formerly known as the Princess of the Upper East Side. Where’s your boy toy? I thought the two of you were attached at the hip.”

“He’s getting ready for his set tonight,” you say carefully. “How are you doing, Seokjin?”

His eyes sparkle at your obvious attempt of trying to ignore his jab. “Living the good life. And,” his taunting smile widens, “how about you?”

You study him for a moment. The way he stands, the way he holds his head up just a bit more than you do, as if he’s now so much better than you with this new dream you’re following. Let him feel superior. You know the truth.

“Tae told me about you coming to visit him at one of his shows a while back,” you say and immediately you see him tense up.

Seokjin clears his throat and reaches up to adjust the scarf around his neck. “There’s a reason we’re the ones the rest of the world aspire to be,” he says. “There’s a reason this system is in place. We’re supposed to be doing our part to keep it upright.” Then he narrows his eyes at you. “And you and Jennie have an obligation just like the rest of us.”

You smile gently. “Everything happens the way it’s supposed to, Seokjin,” you say. “If our system is so fragile, maybe that’s a good indication that it wasn’t meant to be there in the first place. And besides, I’ve known you for a long time. You couldn’t care less about any of that.”

The boy shifts on his feet, eyes sweeping sideways to avoid making contact with yours. Still you go on.

“You’re so used to this game you and Jennie have been playing for so long and now that it’s over you don’t know what to do with yourself. I think you don’t like that you have no real control over your life. And that you have no control over who Jennie ends up with.”

“You don’t know anything,” he spits.

“I know you love her, Seokjin,” you say. “And I know the fact that you can’t have her is eating you up.”

He scoffs and adjusts his scarf again. “It wouldn’t be so bad if she wasn’t with such a lemon.” He tugs too hard on the scarf causing it to loosen a bit. “I thought she had more self-respect than that.”

“And I thought you had more self-respect than this,” you cut in. “I’ve never met another person as full of themselves as you are. So full of yourself you don’t even care that Jennie is genuinely happy with Hoseok. I’ve never seen her like this, Seokjin. I’d think if you really did love her, you’d want her to be happy. But maybe you care more about your own happiness.” You shake your head. “I shouldn’t be surprised.” Then you turn away, lifting the umbrella above your head again as you step back out into the rain.

“Wait.”

You face him again, seeing an expression that you’ve never seen before. Deep lines etch into his forehead, his brows pull together and his jaw is set in a hard line, as if he’s grinding his teeth together. He makes his way across the lobby, eyes never leaving the tiles until he’s at last standing right in front of you. Only then does he lift his head. He looks distraught. An absolute first. “Is she really happy?” he asks you quietly.

Your face softens. You can’t help feeling sympathetic for the boy. Someone who’s grown up the way both of you have, with a set of parents—and especially a father—that has kept him very firmly on the path they want him to be on. He’s been so curated to get what he wants, you can only hope that fate is more gentle with him. Though maybe the very thing he needs is a wake up call. One that you can only imagine would have an even more devastating affect on his family than yours did.

You almost wish Jennie was his soulmate. But only for a split second until you remember how laid back she seemed when you had dinner with her a while back. So calm, relieved almost, as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders and she could finally breathe. You smile again at the memory of the bright red bands on her ring finger.

“She is,” you finally say. “Happier than I’ve ever seen her before.”

Seokjin gives a curt nod, once again averting his eyes. “Then…I’m happy for her.”

You know that’s a lie but at least he’s trying to understand. Perhaps this is the beginning of a change in him. Then again, old habits die hard. Either way, you nod in return before once again, turning your back to him and making your way out into the rain.

Though the sky is gray and dark, though the people on the sidewalk around you are scurrying to get out of it, you can’t help but feel thankful for the rain. The symbolism seems fitting. Fitting enough that you close your umbrella back up and turn your face to the sky, letting the droplets fall on your skin, making everything feel new. New possibilities, new adventures, a new identity, a new start. No longer the Princess of the Upper Ease Side but a soon to be student at one of the best fashion design schools in the country, you start walking again, weaving your way through the current toward the fashion district, the need to sketch making your fingers tingle and your heart swell with inspiration.

Tae’s grip on the lapels of his jacket tightens as he pulls you impossibly close so he can kiss you.

“This looks good on you,” he says. “You should wear it all the time.”

You smile against his mouth. “But you look so good in it too,” you say.

“Then maybe we need to get you one of your own.”

“Deal.”

Tae chuckles against you. You want to stay here in this backstage hallway kissing him forever, want to feel smell his cologne and tell him you love him over and over but of course, good things must come to an end so others can start, right?

“Hey man, we gotta go on in a couple minutes.”

You break the kiss first, Tae obviously reluctant to with the way he still holds tightly onto the collar of the jacket, but both of you look up anyway to find Hoseok standing at the end, eyes shining amusedly at the sight before him.

“Or did you forget we have a freaking huge crowd tonight?”

Tae lets out an irritated sigh and Hoseok just laughs before disappearing back around the corner again. You’re about to suggest that you go and find Jennie but your soulmate doesn’t let you get a word in before crushing his lips to yours again.

“Tae,” you giggle against him. “Don’t you think you should get going?”

“Not yet,” he says then kisses you again. “My princess looks too good in my jacket to let her leave.”

“Should I take it off then?”

Tae pulls away, eyes serious. “Don’t you dare.”

You laugh again causing his face to soften. His mouth to stretch into a smile and he brings a hand up to cup your cheek as his eyes stare into yours. “Are you happy?” he asks you.

You press your forehead against his. “So happy,” you say. So so happy.

“Good. No one deserves happiness more than you, Princess.”

“You do,” you say then close the minuscule gap. “You deserve the world.”

“I don’t need it,” he says against your lips. “I have you.”

Kook leans into his mic and begins singing, his steady voice echoing through the place a cappella for two measures before fading to silence. Anticipation hangs heavy in the air just before he trails his hand down the neck of the guitar, cutting the silence short with a hard riff as Tae joins in on the drums. The audience goes nuts, suddenly jumping up and down to the music, the blue lights transforming the large crowd into a rippling ocean. You stand at the front of it beside Jennie, eyes fixed on Tae as he leans toward the mic. And then suddenly, his smooth, deep voice flows out of the speakers.

At first sight, I could recognize you

As if we were calling for each other

The DNA in my blood vessels tell me

That it’s you I was looking all over for

Maybe it’s the lyrics, maybe it’s the fact that he’s singing them directly to you as he drums, head tilted back, eyes hooded and shining, that sends a surge of electricity through your veins. An exciting warmth that branches out from your chest and down your arms and legs until your whole body is buzzing. A heat that causes you to shrug out of his jacket, mouth stretched wide in a euphoric smile.

You feel Jennie’s hand reach for yours and the two of you dance, holding on tight to each other while letting go of the worries and pressure of the past. Basking in your freedom.

You let the crowd move you, let the music move you, let the energy and the sound of the boy you love doing what he loves on the stage move you until you feel nothing but absolute joy. A joy you never thought you’d feel. A joy that makes you excited for the future. A future where you get to follow your dreams, follow your passions and have Tae by your side to encourage you through it. Of course, there will be hard times. The world can be cruel, especially to someone that has fallen so far by society’s standards. Maybe it’ll take a while before things go back to normal. Maybe things will never be perfect. Maybe you’ll never fully mend your relationship with your father, but you know one thing is for certain…

With a quick glance at your hand, you’re dazzled by the bold ruby color encircling your finger and your heart swells because you know that not only are you the cause of it but that Tae’s ring is the exact same color. If there’s anything in this world that you’ve ever been absolutely sure of, it’s how truly happy you are in this moment.

Tag List: @copenhagenspirit @taeandpuppies @melonkooky @eaonya @queenkenderella @im-a-percy @psychdreamwolf @mrsworldwidebeauty @hhhhwww7

[kingofdirtandnothing]

@polyfacetious big ass Christmas Drabble Extravagaza: Day Twenty Two

Aerith Gainsborough has a gift. And that gift is talking people into doing something that they don’t want to do and making it feel like it was their idea in the first place. That’s the only reason Geralt can find for the fact that he’s sitting in a coffee shop on a Friday night, listening to slam poetry and geeks on guitars. 

There isn’t even beer here. No spiked ciders or even Irish coffee. It’s a fucking travesty, and every time he builds himself up to say something about it, Geralt looks down at the tiny woman with a grip on his arm, and he swallows it. 

Damn those eyes. 

I can hear the cannons calling, as though across a dream- 

Geralt pulls his sour gaze away from the top of Aerith’s head when he hears the first strains of the song. This wasn’t some hipster strumming along with a woeful little play at a folk song. There was something haunting in that voice that was drawing Geralt in. 

The sight that greets him isn’t so bad either. 

The man perched on the edge of the stool, a guitar propped on his knee was gorgeous. The line of his stong neck was curved as he looked down at clever, graceful fingers plucking at the strings. Brown hair brushed against his forehead, and when the singer looks up, Geralt feels a jolt in his gut. 

Like the singer is looking right at him. 

Distantly, he hears Aerith tell him that Cloud was there, a pat to his arm before she disappeared into the eclectic crowd. And any other night, this would have been the moment that Geralt left his seat and got the hell out of here. 

But he’s pinned to the spot now, trapped beneath the stare of incredibly blue eyes and a voice that curled against the base of Geralt’s spine and laid down roots. 

The song is sad, too weighty to just be called melancholy. It casts a spell over the room, most of the idle chatter and clinking of flatware and dishes falling away to the sound of it. And when it ends on a low, aching note, Geralt is pulled from the spell of it by the eruption of applause around the room. 

The singer smiles, and it changes his whole face. Gone was the melancholy boy singing about lost loves. Unfortunately for Geralt, what was in his place was a disgustingly good looking man. Why did people have to be both talented, and good looking? It was unnatural. 

Geralt watches him step down from the stage, cradling his guitar in his hands like it was something special, until he could slide it back into the soft case he had for it, propped up against the back wall of the coffee shop, far enough away from the lights of the makeshift stage that he wasn’t drawing attention away from the next person on the stage. (Geralt isn’t sure if it’s a man or a woman who’s taken up the stage now. He’d have to be able to look away from the singer to do that.)

Any thought Geralt might have stifled about going up and saying something to the singer is lost when people start to crowd around him. “Jaskier!” That’s Magnus, who owns the place, who swans up to the singer, this Jaskier and embraces him warmly, kissing both of his cheeks. “One of these days darling, I’m going to get you to play a happy song.”

Jaskier smiles, nose crinkling. “Oh, you know me Mags. Art is pain, et cetera, et cetera.” Jaskier waves the words away as Magnus turns back to answer a question from someone else. There was still a gaggle of people around Jaskier, and Geralt turns his glare down towards the Earl Grey in a steaming mug in his hands. 

Stupid. What would he even do with a pretty little thing like that? (The back of his mind has a few vivid, sweat soaked suggestions. Geralt ignores those.) Nothing. It’s not like they’d have anything in common. It would be pointless to talk to him in the first place, and it would only end badly if he did. 

Geralt downs the rest of his tea in three long scalding gulps and puts the mug down on the table. There was no reason for him to stay now, Aerith just liked the company on her walk over, and Geralt liked glaring at idiots who thought they might want to talk to her. She had her blonde boy there now, and Aerith would decide if she wanted him to walk her home. Which meant it was time for Geralt to go. 

“I love the way you just sit in the corner and...brood.” The words startle Geralt from his thoughts, and he looks up to find himself face to face with those stained glass blue eyes. Damn, Jaskier was quiet on his feet. (Or Geralt wasn’t paying enough attention to his surroundings.)

“I’m here because a friend doesn’t like to walk at night alone.” He’s here, right now, because he couldn’t stop looking at the man in front of him. Now Geralt just has to convince them both that it’s a load of horse shit. 

“Good. Right. Yes.” Jaskier takes a seat from the row in front of Geralt’s and straddles it, because Geralt’s life isn’t hard enough right now. (And his life isn’t the only thing that’s hard, either.) “Well. No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance. Except you.” 

It shouldn’t be charming, the bastard going from group to group around the room to collect his praise for a song well done. And yet, here they are. 

“Come on.” It’s wheedling, Jaskier leaning the chair forward so that only two legs are still on the ground, his chin resting on his crossed arms. “You don’t want to keep a man with...bread in his pants waiting, now do you?”

Geralt knows better than to engage. He knows. And still the words leave his stupid mouth. “If that’s a metaphor, I don’t understand it.” 

Jaskier grins. “Oh no, I never joke about bread in my pants. Watch.” Geralt watches, because what the fuck else is a man supposed to do when he sees a twink wiggling on a chair to pull a flattened piece of pain au chocolat out of his pocket, still wrapped in the plastic wrap that Bilbo used for his treats. He waves the bread around and takes a hearty bite before he speaks again. “You must have some review for me. Three words or less.”

‘I want you’ are the first three words that come to mind. And as much as Geralt is starting to get the impression that it’s mutual, he’s not putting himself down that road. Fucking some out of towner was one thing, or the girls in the red light district. It was a means to an end, a way to scratch an itch. 

Fucking a local meant seeing them again. It meant feelings getting involved and everything getting messy. Geralt didn’t need anyone, and the last thing he wanted was someone needing him. “It’s not right.” There. Three words, and as polite a ‘fuck off’ as Geralt can manage. 

But the words don’t make Jaskier turn away. If anything, he leans in closer. Geralt subtly places the toe of his boot against the crossbar of Jaskier’s chair to keep it from dumping over forwards. Backwards, he couldn’t help with. “Ooh. Fun. Let me guess. Not a fan of love songs? Flowers? Go on, tell me.”

Bossy. Another thing that shouldn’t be charming but it was. Geralt watches him for a long beat, but the withering stare that seemed to drive people off in droves wasn’t doing a damn thing right about now. “It’s still a lie. Even if no one hears it, you’re still lying to yourself.” Geralt would know. He’s lied to himself more than he’s ever lied to anyone else. 

Jaskier, for some bizarre reason, lights up at the words. “Oh, a pedantic. This is so much better than my guess of repressed heterosexual.” Geralt scoffs, but he’s fighting a smile as he does it. Damn it all to hell. 

“I’m not repressed.” He’s not heterosexual, either. There were too many good looking people in this world to fuck to leave it just to one side or the other. His mother taught him to clean his plate when he was a boy. Geralt took that missive through all aspects of his life.

“You’re not? Well that’s good to know. You’re also very rumbly.” Jaskier gives him a thumbs up before he tears the smashed remains of his croissant in half and offers it out to Geralt. “If I lure you in with sweets, will you tell me your name?”

Geralt makes a low hum of a sound in his chest, to pretend like he was thinking about it. He plucks the piece of chocolate croissant from the cling wrap and pops it into his mouth. “No.” 

“No?” That earns him a bright huff of laughter from Jaskier. “You sir, are a scoundrel and a cad. If I have to lower myself to your nefarious levels to find out your name, then so be it.” Jaskier leans back in his chair and calls across the room. “Oy! Magnus!” There’s a moment before Magnus turns away from a customer, brow raised. “You know his name?”

The entire fucking room is staring at them now. Geralt has never been the kind of man to shrink away, but he’s not a big fan of attention. There are too many eyes on him right now, including Magnus Bane’s bright eyes. God help him if Magnus mentions they’ve fucked. 

But surprisingly, Magnus doesn’t call back across the room. He just sends Bilbo’s little brunette assistant over, who grins at the both of them and hands Jaskier a napkin. Jaskier snaps it open, the way you would a newspaper, and hums. “Well well well. It seems you’ve been outmanuevered, my dear….Geralt.”

It’s been awhile since he’s heard his name pronounced correctly. The Mediterranien influence was strong here. They were far from his part of Europe. But he should have known a man named Jaskier would at least be within spitting distance of the parts of the world that Geralt grew up in. 

“Oh no.” Geralt’s delivery is flat, as is his expression. “I’ve been found out.”

And he’s never going to admit how much he enjoys the peal of laughter it gets him. Damn it all to hell. “It’s true.” Jaskier nods along solemnly, and Geralt can feel the weight of the chair against his toe. Jaskier would be flat on his face if Geralt wasn’t holding the chair in place. “I’m a master spy. James Bond often calls me for tips. But don’t blame me for his blasphemous taste in martinis. That’s all Jim.”

Jim. Geralt rolls his eyes, but it doesn’t do a fucking thing to deter the pretty little singer staring him down with those blue eyes. 

Geralt was in trouble. 

“I also taught him how to pick up beautiful, dangerous people.” Geralt wouldn’t consider himself dangerous, but the size of his arms tended to put that idea into people’s heads. 

Geralt cocks a brow at him. “When are you going to show me that?”

Jaskier holds a hand to his chest, leaning far back in the other direction. Geralt has to shift his foot quickly behind the cross bar to the chair to keep it from going over backwards. “Oh ho ho, the pretty boy has a sharp tongue! You wound me, sir.”

Fuck it. 

Geralt uses his foot on the chair to tip Jaskier back towards him, and he’s rewarded with a yelp. He catches the back of the chair with his hand, knuckles brushing against Jaskier’s forearm as he does. Leaning in himself, the next few words are only for the beautiful disaster in front of him. 

“I can show you what else this tongue can do.”

[goliath-de-senfina-sango]

Ordering Family Ties

AO3

Coming down from his high was somewhat embarrassing, considering he did so still wrapped around Tucker and muttering in some weird ghost language that humans couldn’t hear.  Finding out that he’d told Dash off on camera, and that it had been posted to Viewtube was less embarrassing - though he wasn’t sure how happy he was with the public knowing he’d gotten high since he clearly hadn’t informed anyone that it was accidental.  Intoxication gave him divination powers, apparently, because Sidney Poindexter was very soon finding Danny in his own backyard and thanking him for reuniting him with his brother, and also remarking that he was apparently their great-nephew.  Danny didn’t realize he’d patted Sidney on the back and waved him off until he was gone. Heading inside, Danny found his father in the cursed items vault - which he really needed to probably clear out before something activated - and cleared his throat.  Dad looked up from where he was studying a creepy-looking doll that Danny could see a dull ectoplasmic glow inside of if he tilted his head just so to the left.  “Dad, are we related to the Poindexter family by any chance?”

“Absolutely are, Danno!”  Dad set the doll down and clapped a hand over Danny’s shoulder.  “Your grandmother and her brothers Nicolai and Sidney lived here.  The place had some bad memories after Sidney’s … violent death.”  If it was bad enough that Jack Fenton himself tried to figure out how best to phrase it, Danny didn’t wanna know.  It wasn’t his place to go asking around about another ghost’s cause of death anyway.  “Mom and uncle Nicolai moved out as soon as they could. Uncle Nic was pretty good with technology - even inspired me to start inventing!  He had an accident though.” Dad looked oddly melancholy for a moment and gave Danny’s shoulder a squeeze.  “Why do you ask?”

“Do you have pictures of either of them?”  This was important and Danny couldn’t approach this too recklessly.

The orange giant shrugged.  “Probably in the shed.  I’ll look for em and we can reminisce about them together!”  Dad patted Danny’s back a couple times and Danny gave him a thumbs up, heading back up the stairs as soon as he could.

“Thanks, Dad!”  When he got to his room, Danny huffed and leaned against the door.  “Talking with Dad about ghosts, family, and morality will have to wait till he actually gets to the scrapbooks or something.  That’s fine.  What to do about this weirdness until then?”  For a long few moments, Danny paced in the air of his room, doing his best to exercise his powers while in human form in case he ever needed to use them like that.  And then it hit him, the realization that he could rub his relationships to the ghosts in their faces. Or at least one of them in particular.

Dropping down to his desk, Danny grabbed a notebook, found a pencil, and got to writing.

The Infinite Realms was an expansive void of metaphysical energy and pandimensional pseudo-matter that went on in every direction, including ones that human minds were incapable of perceiving and the recently deceased struggled to make sense of due to the human brain template their soul initially worked with.  It had, however, rather solid topography as far as Danny could tell.  His own map of the place - the 2-dimensional one that only accounted for horizontal movement - was rather reliable after all this time exploring it when he felt it was safe to do so.  So, it took about no time at all to find Walker’s prison and slip in.  Considering that Walker himself was also among the relatively recently dead who didn’t do well with thinking beyond 3 dimensions, Danny found his moments of temporary slip and sliding along consciousness and through the countless dimensions available to him for movement the perfect method of sneaking past all the guards into said prison.  The walls were constructed simply, and all Danny really had to do was move along one of Earth’s dimensional axis more than the rest.

When he found Walker’s office and the warden himself absent, Danny took a seat in the man’s chair and slid into this lair’s particular scope of reality.  It didn’t take long for Walker to return, by which time Danny had found that replicating the thing he’d apparently done where he made constructs out of ectoplasm besides shields was endlessly easier done in the Infinite Realms than it was on Earth.  Probably the ectoplasm everywhere.  “Boy what in tarnation are you doing in my office and in my chair?”

“Sitting, waiting, lounging, doing art.”  Danny dismissed the tesseract he’d made, hoping it didn’t draw Boxy’s attention.  He drew his arms up onto the desk and grinned at the skeletal warden, letting the accent his Mom sometimes let slip through come out full force.  “Ya see, James Lamont, I came across a rather interesting thought.”

Walker crossed the room in less than a second, Danny ducking out of the way of his fist by half a hair.  He flew up to the ceiling and chuckled.  “How the hell did you learn that name, delinquent?”

“Oh my ma, Madeline Paige Walker Fenton, told me about you.”  The warden froze, gawking at him, and Danny pulled out a journal of his.  “Anyways, I had a thought.  You get on me about violating rules of yours that probably don’t even genuinely apply because between Clockwork and the Observants and Dora, I struggle to believe that you have any real authority beyond your prison and the ghosts that you can manage to arrest on nonsense violations of rules constantly changing on your merest whim.  Yet, you come into my town and fail to acknowledge my rules or the rules of the town known as laws.”  Walker was glaring again now, eyes burning bright.  Danny clucked his tongue.  “Quite a misstep for a lawman such as yourself, gramps.”

“There aren’t any laws that I broke, Daniel, and I promise you I have plenty enough authority.  That comes from power, boy, in this world and the living one.”

“Power grated by all the people that give it to you.  On both sides.”  Danny rolled his eyes.  “And overshadowing a bunch of people while invading the town to capture one of its citizens is definitely illegal.  Regardless, unlike you I’m not gonna be too harsh about someone violating rules they didn’t know were there.”  Danny tossed the book at Walker’s face, only pouting a little bit when he caught it.  “Violation of those rules will result in being stuck in the thermos for increments of time that increase with every offense.  Huh.  Take that Lancer, I’ve got a wide vocabulary.”

“You still owe me 2,000 years in this prison, Daniel, and I-”

“Never call me that, you haven’t earned it family or not,” Danny said with a cheerful grin and brilliant blue glow at his fingertips.  “Also, Aunt Alicia and Mom miss you. They didn’t say as much but I could tell.  I’m good with emotions.  Bye, Grandpa!”  Danny flashed some finger guns and slid entirely out of sync with Walker’s prison.  He could still hear the screams of rage, but he was already on his way to go visit Frostbite by the time he was any semblance of tangible to Walker.  “Being friends with a scientist ghost has the best perks.”

[wordsturnintostories]

show me your rosettes, baby (g)

summary: The world tour is over and the Bangtan Boys finally get their well-deserved break. When Namjoon suddenly can’t find Jimin anywhere, things take an unexpected and pretty unbelievable turn. “Kim Namjoon!” “Hyung. How common is it for people to turn into cats?”

word count: 27.8k (strap in, guys) note: wow sorry for not uploading here. i uploaded on ao3 but forgot to put it on my tumblr blog. which probably doesn’t matter... unless there are still people reading this fic on here. If that’s you, have fun.  ✨ warnings: graphic depictions of blood and wounds

masterlist | moodboard masterlist

[ prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight ]

When Namjoon exits Bang Sihyuk’s office, head heavy and heart low, the coolness of the hallway air is the first thing he notices. It’s a refreshing change to the tension that had lingered in the office and kind of added an uncomfortable pressure to every breath, to every thought. The second thing he notices is that Yoongi is sitting on the leather couch, on his phone while holding up Jimin against his neck. The little cat sleeps comfortably. Even from over here, Namjoon can see the little belly rising and falling with every breath.

“Hyung,” he whispers, not wanting to disrupt the sacred peace.

Yoongi looks up from his phone and scoots to the side so Namjoon can sit comfortably beside him. Jimin’s tail flicks once but the kitty just sniffles and sighs against Yoongi’s throat.

“He sleeps so well,” Namjoon comments.

“Fell asleep right away. Such a cute little baby. Even with paint all over his fur.”

It’s a hidden question and Yoongi’s natural way of asking for what had happened when he doesn’t want to accuse or cast blame or make anyone feel bad. When Namjoon just hangs his head low, he’s got his answer.

“Do you think we’ll get it out?”

“Am I Min Yoongi or not?”

Okay. It’ll all be okay, hyung will take care of it. Yoongi is good at repairing things, has fixed almost as many things as Namjoon has broken - which is a lot, needless to say, and not even half of it has been captured on camera.

“So, what did Pdnim say?” “He said that we can’t tell the members about this.”

When Yoongi doesn’t say anything in return, fingers quietly curling up into a fist on his lap, Namjoon doesn’t need words to understand the storm inside his hyung.

“Not ever?” “Just for a while.”

“Well,” Yoongi snorts, “good luck with that. You’re shit at keeping secrets.”

“Hyung. I always do my best-“

“You always blurt out secret stuff. You’re the worst out of all of us.”

“That’s not true.”

Yoongi turns to look into his eyes, looking highly unimpressed. It’s a little unsettling how much it resembles Jimin’s look from this morning, when Namjoon’s elbow had accidentally pushed over Jimin’s little bowl of tuna right after he had filled it up. It’s pure disbelief and annoyance in one glance.

“Okay,” he admits, “maybe it is true.”

Satisfied, Yoongi sits back, checking in on Jimin gently and brushing his fingers through the fluffy fur, which earns him the sleepy beginnings of a purr.

“In any case,” he begins, “we don’t have to worry about keeping secrets if Jimin doesn’t turn back soon anyway.”

And yes, that’s a good point. And strangely, it’s got Namjoon thinking. In the beginning of this, he’d hoped for Jimin to turn back as fast as possible but now? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he’d stay a cat for a bit longer, just long enough for the members to find out (because Pdnim had only made him promise to not tell the members, and not to hide Jimin from them) and then turn back so they are able to prepare for the comeback. Yes, that would be perfect, even if he can’t imagine how it must feel to be a cat for Jimin.

“Anyway, I’ll be in the studio,” Yoongi says and just gets up without even waiting. “Slow Rabbit-hyung sent me my beats back, so I’ll work on that. Don’t worry about getting take out, I’ll cook tonight. Just text me when you and Sejin-hyung are done shopping.”

“Kay, hyung. Thank you.”

“Don’t forget the rubbing alcohol.”

Namjoon signs that he understands and sits back, rubbing his face. He really wishes he could be as stoic as Yoongi. Sure, the guy has a hot whirlwind of emotions on the inside, emotions that tear deeper into his heart tissue than he lets on, but just the fact that Jimin has been able to fall asleep on his chest is a huge testament to the calmness he radiates. Namjoon knows that he will probably never acquire that level of calm that Yoongi has. Most of the time, his fingers and brain and motor skills just don’t… line up and that resulting clumsiness flows into his aura and disrupts every inch of serenity he could even build up. Maybe that’s why Jimin loves to be scooped up by Yoongi. Why he rests so peacefully in Yoongi’s arms instead of wiggling around like he does in Namjoon’s.

Finally, Sejin comes out of the office as well.

“Ready to go?”

After their first couple of hours of treading through a couple of stores and ticking off a couple of items from Sejin’s list (even the rubbing alcohol), Namjoon feels like he’s swallowed a stone. Worry presses into his belly like an unremovable weight, inducing a stomach ache and a wandering mind. There’s so many things going through Namjoon’s mind that he doesn’t even pay attention, just strolling after Sejin, careful enough to not get lost but otherwise unresponsive to the world. He’s got sunglasses on, a good enough disguise to avoid showing people the storm in his eyes. They walk and walk and by the time they finally sit back in Sejin’s car, two shopping bags in the trunk, and drive on, Namjoon has created and dismissed a good six plans of action that seemed perfect at first and then turned out to be either impossible or unrealistic. He really doesn’t know what to do and coming back to his first issue - not being allowed to tell the members - almost drives his mind into overdrive.

How on earth does Pdnim expect me to take care of Jimin when I have to hide his secret identity? Because in the end, Namjoon is convinced that that’s exactly what it is - Jimin turning into a baby leopard for days counts as having a secret identity. And Yoongi was right - Namjoon is terrible at keeping secrets from the public. From the members? Even worse. Multiple scenarios run through his mind. He spills the tea in all of them. It’s just not- Namjoon just can’t imagine living with Jimin and practically raising him, experiencing the highs and lows of a developing character, of a developing person, celebrating first successes and mourning losses together and then not telling the members. It’s almost like the universe had heard Namjoon’s wish for a child of his own - and then given him a child he can’t show to his members. In some way, it’s ridiculous because he knows with all his being that he would have never managed to raise any of the maknaes without Jin or Hobi. The only relief is that Yoongi knows. Pragmatic Yoongi who can do anything he tries. That’s the only relief, Namjoon thinks.

All this rumbling discomfort inside his head makes Namjoon want to focus on something else, something outside of himself. He doesn’t want to acknowledge the ugly feeling of being alone - I am not alone. I will never be alone. It might take some time to dismantle all the lies that pop up in his head every now and then but not giving them the attention they cry out for is a first step. Namjoon’s fingertips tingle on the car window’s cold, wet glass.

Outside, Seoul has been dipped into an agitated grey glow that’s certainly thanks to the white clouds above, not a precious white, not a clean white either. It’s an old, used up white that reminds Namjoon of old carpets in need of thorough cleaning. Only a few seconds later, the thick clouds can’t hold their ugliness anymore and spill over with thick drops. It’s comforting, to see another thing burst out of their normal state - Namjoon feels the heavy rhythm of the water on the car and the relating echo in his soul. I wish I could spill over so carelessly too. But he can’t, he promised, so he just turns his consciousness back to the hazy grey of the world behind the window and sighs.

The more he focuses on the rain, the way that less and less people walk the streets, the thrum that tunes out everything else, the more he’s drawn to his memories with his members, almost as if the melancholy outside had snuck inside his head and drawn out memories of comfort.

Namjoon sees Taehyung sitting on his bed in their shared room. Yeontan lies halfway draped over his lap, napping with big hands carding through his fur softly. Outside, it is raining, inside, it is quiet that day.

“I want to write a song about the rain,” Taehyung says in a hushed tone, never taking his eyes off the window.

“What do you want to write?” 

Namjoon loves this about the younger boy - he can never really pinpoint what’s going on in Taehyung’s mind - Taehyung’s mind is a beautiful maze of creativity and emotions. Just inspiring - like listening to a new song for the first time and falling in love with it because it connects to something inside of you so deeply that not listening to it makes you feel like something is missing in your soul.

“The way rain falls - we think it’s sad because it’s water and water has so many purposes,” Taehyung pauses, “in summer, we play with it. We see it in the ocean, we drink it. But when it rains, the drops are reduced to falling, only falling helplessly. The fall must feel endless, the way we have nightmares of falling sometimes. Maybe that’s why people think rain is sad.”

Namjoon hums, trying not to let the intense amazement at those philosophical thoughts ruin their serene atmosphere.

“Do you want it to be a sad song?”

“No,” Taehyung says, “it should be comforting. Because water lives in a circle and falling means nothing if you know that your home is in the clouds, above the world and that you’ll always find your way back home. If you know this, even hitting the ground is not scary anymore. Rain is not sad - it’s a reminder that everything will be alright. Rain means don’t worry, you’ll be okay soon.”

Namjoon feels his heart swelling even now, even here in the car, as they drive through the streets of Seoul, passing taxis, business people, students and everyone else. No one knows this, no one else has shared this  moment with Taehyung, no one else thinks about rain just the same way. Not yet, anyway, not until the song has been finished. Namjoon loves these secrets that they have, these secrets and songs that are theirs to guard until it’s time to entrust them to the world. Not just once, he’s drawn strength from them. And now too, it makes him smile fondly. I love my members. I’d do anything for them. I can do this, too. Hitting the ground is okay, no matter how much it hurts. I will always find back home. Fighting, Namjoon.

Beside him, Sejin smiles. They pull up to the pet store.

Now, Namjoon is ready to stroll through pet store aisles with a pout on his lips and his shoulders hanging low, mind absently digging through his list of issues and his spiderweb of possible solutions. He is prepared to pick between red and blue and pink and green cat toys (which is stupid because cats are probably color-blind like dogs, right?) and to look for the fluffy stick-thingy Yoongi had mentioned. He’s ready to ask store employees for help when he can’t find litter boxes after half an hour of searching and yet suspecting that he’s run past them at least five times.

There’s one employee who’s keeping an eye on him (Namjoon can feel the gaze on his skin and wonders whether he’s starting to develop some sort of clairvoyant powers now that Jimin turned into a leopard) and whether it’s because she recognized him or whether he’s a suspicious customer, running through the same aisle five times, looking around helplessly and not even having one product in his hands despite having been in the store for half an hour now (yeah, that’s probably it). In the back of his mind, he still tries to figure out why in the world he would ever say yes when Sihyuk asked him if he would be okay on his own because he wanted to get something for his own dog as well. Sweat rolls down his back when his eyes go up and the employee has moved to stand directly in front of him.

“Hello, customer-ssi,” she greets, sweetly but with a flat tone, “how may I help you?”

“I, uh, I’m looking for uh, cat toys. For my cat.”

A shudder of as if that needed elaborating, Namjoon runs through Namjoon’s head and he knows that if Yoongi was standing next to him right now, he would facepalm and move away, stew in second-hand embarrassment from a safe distance. He smiles when the employee giggles softly and likes to think that just maybe, his stupid reply may have been a tiny spark of light in her boring work day, something to laugh about. It’s nice.

“Okay, the cat section is here,” she leads him over to another aisle that - no kidding - Namjoon didn’t even see before. Despite the big sign overhead. Am I blind- “you were standing in the mixed aisle before, so you’ll probably have better chances finding what you want here.”

He blushes, because this is really embarrassing, and thanks her with a nod. She probably thinks that he’s cute, or handsome, or whatever the nation thinks about him nowadays, but then he dares to look at her eyes and realizes that no, that’s not it, she probably thinks he’s a poor customer who doesn’t have a clue about anything because then she has mercy on him, yes, that’s a recognizable spark in her eyes that Seokjin also has when dealing with the mess Namjoon is and makes, and she asks, “Have you filled out the questionnaire yet?”

And see, that’s another thing that makes Namjoon feel so damn clueless. How was he supposed to know there was a questionnaire? Does every customer here fill it out? Or just the helpless idols?

“Questionnaire?”

“Yes, well. You look a little-“ she pauses, has to pick her words carefully because he is a customer and she doesn’t want to upset him (but the way she smiles like she’s giggling inside really lessens the punch) “-like this is your first time buying stuff for your cat. The questionnaire might help you figure out what type of cat yours is.”

Oh. There’s different types of cats?

“No, I haven’t.”

“Haven’t filled out the questionnaire or haven’t bought cat necessities?” (For your cat, Namjoon’s brain adds, just to taunt him. He winces.)

“Neither.”

“Oh, no worries,” that sounds cheerful, “I can help you, if you’d like.”

He nods graciously, genuinely thankful for her help although he’d usually insist on solitary shopping. Normally, people recognize him too quickly and the rest of his shopping trip turns into a race (it really feels like that sometimes) to get through the store without causing too much of a mass revolt in the streets (although in Korea it’s better than in other places). The woman - her name tag says Lee Kyungmi in an elegant font - pulls out a sheet of paper from somewhere and leads him to a quiet corner with two armchairs that are so fancy that for the first time in the whole half an hour he’s been here, Namjoon realizes how high-end the store actually is. Of course Sejin wouldn’t just take him to any store - they had to go to the frickin’ best because well, customer service, right? Confidentiality. Anonymity. Quality. Like so many other instances in his life, Namjoon is grateful for Sejin’s clear head.

“Let’s start here,” Kyungmi and points to the first question. “Have you shopped with us before?”

He ticks the box for “No”. Back when his family adopted Rapmon, they had bought all the stuff for her in some store in Ilsan and when he says they, he means mostly his mother and his sister.

“Tick the type of animal you’re shopping for.” He ticks cat and moves on. “How old is your pet?” And that’s where it gets complicated for the first time but Namjoon pulls through diligently and writes, “a few months.” Because while it’s difficult to guess and it’s not like he can just ask anyone to find out Jimin’s age let alone ask Jimin himself, Namjoon has seen documentaries about leopards and Jimin is definitely not a one year old leopard yet. Thank God. “What’s your pet’s breed?”

Well. That answer takes a while but Namjoon doesn’t want to look any more incompetent in front of the staff who is so kind to order them both a coffee from the store’s café further in the back. Namjoon is aware that he clearly can’t write leopard, so he settles for mixed breed. Mixed. Leopard and human.

“Does your pet spend most of its time inside or outside?”

And like that, Namjoon spends a good twenty minutes on answering all the questions on his pet’s fur, the living environment, the food (he improvises a little because yeah, of course he’s feeding Jimin only cat food from the can, of course, he’d never let him have stuff from the table) etc etc until he stops at the end of the page, smiling like he’s just won an award because finishing the questionnaire really feels that way. Until he lifts the paper. And sees the back. More questions.

“There’s a back!? How much do you want to know about my, uh, pet? Isn’t this like a pet tinder?”

Kyungmi laughs more, visibly unable to contain her bright laughter that seems a little out of place in this reverently quiet store (which is not that different from most high-end stores Namjoon’s visited) and Namjoon’s heart blooms when he thinks about the fact that he can make people laugh like that even without his music and rap and stage presence. Even on his own, without the members next to him.

“This is definitely not pet tinder, we’ve got a register for that in the back for registered pets. The next questions will be about your pet’s character. Whether it’s energetic or calm or a little diva. This information helps us to find the perfect toys and equipment for your pet and also, mix some customized food for the little one.”

Namjoon is stunned. If Jimin even knew the lengths I go for him today… Namjoon is glad that they moved to the chairs. They are comfortable, like lounge chairs in waiting rooms in the backstage areas of broadcasting stations. Chairs to fall asleep in. He can see Sejin strolling somewhere through the aisles, probably making use of the situation to buy stuff for his children’s pets as well.

“What is your pet’s favorite activity?” Jimin had enjoyed chasing that frog - hunting?

“What sets your pet apart from others?” He’s not actually a pet- its cuteness?

“Does it enjoy cuddling? Does it have a favorite person?” Yes, yes, yes. Definitely. He loves all his hyungs. - Do pets even have hyungs?

“Does it tolerate other people or pets in its territory?” Loves people, loves pets.

“How does it react in critical situations, e.g. when it’s taken to the vet?” …

Namjoon huffs. All the questions make sense but he can’t help but feel like the helplessly falling rain drops on their way into the sewers. There’s only so much to know about kitty Jimin after three days and his mind doesn’t seem to understand that the questionnaire definitely only wants answers about cat Jimin. Ah, this is difficult. He’s not sure whether Jimin has ever been to the vet even as a human (and suddenly, his mind can’t stop thinking about the possibility of having to take leopard Jimin to the vet for an examination - and all the shit human Jimin will give him for it afterwards). He groans and maybe that’s a sign for Kyungmi to start speaking.

“If you can’t or don’t want to fill out everything, that’s fine too. I’ll do my best to help you nonetheless.”

When he hands the questionnaire over and she’s read the answers, Kyungmi gets up and starts walking towards the cat section. Namjoon does his best to keep up and follow. Like the competent store staff she seems to be, Kyungmi grabs products with sure eyes and quick hands and puts them all into a basket while she explains.

“First of all, keeping a pet is both a great decision and a huge responsibility and we are proud of you for adopting your cat”, welp, Namjoon thinks, I’m living a lie, but then again, it does sort of feel like he adopted Jimin - just maybe in a different way, 7 years ago… “besides food, you need a variety of items to make your pet feel at home and cared for. Since your cat spends a lot of time inside and outside, you’ll need to brush its fur not only to clean it but also to check for ticks and other little insects that could be hidden underneath. Now, you wrote that your cat is a short-hair breed, so this is our shampoo segment for short fur. We recommend this one, this is a scent-free shampoo from a brand that only produces vegan and pet-friendly stuff. If you would like to check out this product line over here, we can surely find-“

The first package in Namjoon’s hands says “all fur types” on the front in red, big letters. Namjoon can’t help but wonder - is it really for all fur types? Would those shampoo companies develop their shampoo for wild cats too? Do wild cats have the same fur as small domestic cats? Namjoon isn’t bold enough to ask. But am I really the only person with this issue? In his head, Namjoon browses through all his contacts. Sadly, all the people he knows either have no pets or have never mentioned any pets and there are no shifters Namjoon knows other than Jimin. Suddenly, a thought pops up. I have seen wild cats before - at the zoo! Surely zoo employees would know which fur products are adequate for leopards, right? But... do we know anyone at the zoo? If not, can we just call them and ask? Is that a normal question? Do they have a hotline for desperate pet owners? It sounds… unlikely but Namjoon reminds himself that he’s an independent rain drop falling helplessly that only needs to find its way back home. He calls Yoongi.

“Namjoon? You alright?”

Yoongi sounds sleepy. Yoongi would never be bothered to worry about falling from the clouds. Namjoon excuses himself from Kyungmi and walks a few steps away. He whispers.

“Hyung, do we anyone who works at the zoo?”

“Why are you whispering? Also, I don’t know? Why are you asking?”

“It’s…”, the words I’m overwhelmed by the amount of cat shampoo in this shop and you were the first person I thought to call because I don’t think there’s an actual zoo hotline I could call for help sound a bit ridiculous, so Namjoon figures he’ll solve this problem on his own. “Ah, no, it’s nothing. Sorry for calling, hyung.”

“No, I just don’t understand… but maybe ask Tae? He’s the people expert.”

“Thanks, Hyung! Sleep well.”

“I’m not sleeping.”

His voice is raspy, deep. A little purr comes through the phone and Namjoon can just picture it - Yoongi on his sofa, head on a pillow, Jimin on his chest. Napping. He ends the call. A new image pops up in his mind - isn’t there some YouTube channel Jimin and Jungkook watch sometimes? Some guy who takes care of lions and leopards? Something like that? A… Dan Richard? Just Richard? Suddenly, Namjoon wishes he’d paid a little more attention to his dongsaeng’s YouTube interests. Maybe I’ll look this Richard guy up and ask for help. He thinks he remembers that Jungkook had once exclaimed that the guy was famous and that he would love to visit that place one day - that he would love to just meet the lions too, play with them. Jungkook is a thrill-seeker. He’s crazy. But now, Namjoon smiles. I’ll definitely text him. Later.

Kyungmi still smiles politely when he turns back to her and carries on with her informative rant about shampoo.

Namjoon feels like his arm is ready to fall off after having carried his little basket of cat stuff for only ten minutes. Kyungmi is still giving him a lecture on how to measure his darling pet’s temperature (revelation of the day - one does not simply take the temperature in the cat’s mouth, no) when his eyes flick to the toys just a few shelves further. To be honest, Namjoon has never ever in his life imagined to stick a thermometer any place other than Jimin’s ears or mouth and he figures he shouldn’t start now, so he starts slinking away slowly, step by step. It’s unsettling how guilty he feels for ignoring Kyungmi’s speech - why do I feel so guilty?

But the toys are beckoning him over like nothing else in this store and then, he’s standing in front of them. He’s happy, somehow, and thinks that if he were an Animal Crossing character, he would start having sparkles or flowers around his head right now, blushing and swaying on his feet. Sejin sends him a thumbs up from where he’s sitting in the lounge chairs from before, two fancy paper bags at his feet.

Wow, there’s so much variation, Namjoon thinks, surprised that people have come up with so many things just to entertain their pets. Kyungmi comes up next to him, still cheerful, still in her element and not seeming like she’s mad at him for escaping her waterfall-like explanation speeches.

“I would recommend a chewing toy of some sort,” she says, pointing at some boxes. “You wrote that he’s only a few months old, so he might still be teething.”

“Yeah, he chews on our fingers a lot,” Namjoon agrees and grabs a little heart shaped pillow that looks good to bite into. For cats. It resembles Tata a little bit but probably not enough to make Jimin feel guilty for chewing it up.

“Is this good?”

“Depends,” Kyungmi says and brings out something from the aisle on the opposite site, “does your cat get distracted easily?”

“Sometimes?”

Jimin generally has a good concentration span. But when other people are around, it sure is easier for him to get distracted. The burdens of a people-oriented mind.

“Well, we always recommend toys with safe seams, adequate texturing, organic materials and a high fun factor for your cat. Of course it should also be washable, with all the slobber and dirt it will encounter. Are you looking for a toy with catnip or without?”

Catnip? Namjoon has heard of it. Of course. Who hasn’t seen those cat videos on YouTube with cats going crazy after taking a whiff of catnip? Usually, they roll around in it and then nap the high off, which seems harmless. But he’s not sure whether that’s a good idea. Isn’t catnip like a drug for cats? If so, the agency probably won’t allow it. Also, Namjoon really doesn’t want to drug Jimin.

“Without, please.”

“Are you sure? It does help to create a bigger and longer interest for a toy. Not all cats like it, but most do. But if you want, we can find other toys that are interesting for your cat.”

Namjoon nods and together, they decide on a couple of hand-sewn mice with dangling twisted rope tails for Jimin to chase. The eyes are sewn on to prevent swallowing. The mice almost look too cute to buy and the thought of finding them wet and chewn out on the sofa makes Namjoon wrinkle his nose in disgust but then his mind wanders to the little picked apart frog Jimin had killed in their backyard and that’s enough motivation to buy them all. Kyungmi hands him another chew toy that has some floss material on it and she explains that it not only helps with dental hygiene but that it is also supposed to lessen bad breath. We definitely need that, Namjoon thinks, quietly to himself, because every pet’s breath stinks. That’s just a universal fact. Sorry, Jimin.

“Do you want it in blue or pink?”

Honestly, after all the running around, the two quickly filling shopping bags that weigh down his arms and the relentless chatter from Kyungmi, this simple question sinks the ship. As much as Namjoon enjoys picking stuff for his dongsaengs, he’s tired. Does it matter? Does the color really matter? He doesn’t know whether future human Jimin would be offended by his choices when it comes down to colors but he does know that Jimin is particular about style. Kitten Jimin however is a completely different story that Namjoon actually doesn’t know anything about. He might have a completely different taste from his human counterpart. The only thing Namjoon knows is that Seokjin once bought a hat for Jimin that the dancer thought was completely hideous. The next time he saw it was in Hoseok’s section of their shared wardrobe. Up to this day, Jimin hasn’t worn it even once.

“We also have them in yellow, green and black, if you think he’d like those better,” Kyungmi adds, not even aware of the trouble she’s causing. No, Namjoon does not know if Jimin would like those better because Jimin is not Jungkook and not Yoongi and will therefore not sympathize with the black toy by default.

For a second, Namjoon tries to put himself in Jimin’s shoes. These toys are gonna stay with him for a while. What if he doesn’t like them and we have to keep them until we are in Seoul the next time? Even if we order stuff, if we are on the road, we won’t get them delivered and Jimin will have to make do with these. Namjoon thinks back to his old phone case that was an accidental and careless order, and remembers how annoying it is to look at something every day if you don’t like it. No, he’ll do the best he can to make sure Jimin likes his cat toys.

He freezes. His eyes wander down to the shopping bags he’s already holding. Will Jimin like the other things I have picked? A wave of uncertainty rushes through him and he’s tempted to just push it all back into Kyungmi’s arms, leave the store and come back with Jimin once he’s shifted back so he can choose everything himself. But he is aware of how that would look. Kyungmi is still waiting for his answer and the headache that’s building is not helping at all. So, Namjoon is ready to take extreme measures. He pulls his phone out and dials Yoongi’s number. It takes three tries to get him on the line but for his dongsaengs, Namjoon has learned persistence.

“What is it now?”

“Hyung, which color do you think the, uh, the cat would like best when it comes to toys?”

Namjoon only realizes now that they should have maybe come up with a codename for Jimin. Just in case he’d ever need to talk about his kitty alter ego in front of other people who are not supposed to know. Perhaps Yoongi realizes the same thing. Perhaps Yoongi doesn’t care. His incredulous answer on the other side is a little… unhelpful.

“What are you asking me? Am I a cat? Just bring anything, Namjoon-ah. I don’t care about the color as long as Jiminie doesn’t tear my flesh and bones apart. He might look harmless but I swear he’ll be a beast later.”

“You’re so dramatic, hyung.”

“I’m truthful. He keeps chewing up my fingers.”

“Okay, but… do you think,” Namjoon turns away from Kyungmi and whispers, just to make sure, “do you think he’d like something more, uh, Chanel, or, like a cat bed from Versace? Because this store is high-end but if he doesn’t like it-“

Yoongi just huffs on the line and Namjoon feels a heavy weight in his chest. How am I supposed to take care of Jimin if I don’t know what Jimin wants? How could I know? How can any of us know? Maybe there are specific brands that are popular with shifters? Should I call Jackson? But no, Jackson is probably sleeping right now, if he’s in Europe. Namjoon whines.

“Hyung…”

“Namjoon-ah. Don’t lose your mind over this. Just bring anything and we’ll all be happy.”

“But what if- what if he doesn’t like it?”

Namjoon can’t help it. He doesn’t want Jimin to be disappointed in his hyungs when he shifts back. He wants Jimin to feel safe and loved and honored to be taken care of by his hyungs.

“Then we’ll return it. Keep the receipt, Namjoon, and don’t worry. Just buy the basics and if he wants additional things, we’ll order them, okay?”

“Okay, hyung.”

Something crashes. Yoongi groans.

“Okay. I have to wipe up a mess. See you later, Joon.”

“See you,” Namjoon mumbles, a tiny bit reassured. Rain means don’t worry, you’ll be okay. He turns back to Kyungmi, who has once again waited politely. He lifts the bags on his arms.

“My hyung said to just buy the basics.”

“I think we’ve got everything then. Would you like to pay?”

“Oh, just one more thing. I need something, uh, like a stick for cats? Hyung said it’s important.”

“A stick? For chewing on?”

“No, for playing.”

To be honest, Namjoon has no idea what this specifc toy looks like. He’s just grateful when Kyungmi leads him to a special section. The toys look like… fishing rods. For cats.

“I think this is what you meant.”

“Are these… fishing rods?”

Kyungmi laughs. “I guess you could call them fishing rods.”

“I thought cats fish with their paws.”

“Oh no, they are for the cats.”

Namjoon doesn’t... understand? It’s like his brain is frozen. The concept is just so weird. Why would cats need fishing rods?

“Oh, you mean for the owners to fish the cat?”

“Yes, kind of. You hold the stick and the cat chases after it. You see this fluffy part at the end, right? It will awaken your kitty’s natural hunting instincts.”

Namjoon gasps. Awaken their natural hunting instincts? Do I want that?

“Isn’t that… dangerous?”

“On the opposite, it’s essential.”

The image of a leopard on a prowl inside their apartment makes Namjoon feel a little different. It’s essential, he tells himself. Kyungmi is the expert. Don’t worry. It’s essential.

“Okay, I’ll take a few.”

“Very good. I would have recommended taking more than one anyway, in case the cat breaks it.”

Namjoon nods, smiling. Right. In case the cat breaks it.

“Would you like to pay now?”

“Sure.”

Sinking into Sejin’s car seat feels like a welcome break from running a marathon. Namjoon thinks he should have maybe not put on dress shoes but sneakers this morning. But he couldn’t have known the day would take such a turn, so this is how it is. They drive for a while before Namjoon realizes that this is not the way home. It seems like they are driving away from Gangnam, not towards it.

“Hyung, where are we going now?”

“Well, you expressed that you wanted to go somewhere serene and calming, so I’m taking you somewhere you can relax.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Yes you did. You sighed, checked your phone, scrolled to Jin’s contact, looked at it while we stopped and waited at three different street lights, then you sighed again, shut your phone off and stared into the distance. You’re an easy read.”

Namjoon is speechless, blushes at how Sejin chuckles and wriggles his fingers in his lap.

“Thank you, hyung,” is what he presses out, almost quieter then he wants, thanks to the heavy blanket of emotions falling over his mind.

“Also,” Sejin adds, “you always look for quiet places to figure out your troubles. That’s you. And I said I’d support you, so this is the first responder emergency aid you get.” A chuckle rips free from Namjoon’s chest and he leans back comfortably.

Like before, a sweet rumble runs through the car once Namjoon’s mind finds the peace to concentrate on it. It’s soothing, like a little lullaby as the city’s shapes fly past the window. The only difference to this morning are the empty backseat where Jimin’s, no, Yeontan’s travel box had stood, and the slight worry that pulls both Namjoon’s brows and shoulders down. Worry for Jimin that is completely unnecessary since Jimin is safety entrusted to Yoongi. Yoongi who has a way with words, a way with trivia knowledge and a way with cats, as it seems.

Namjoon is aware - as aware as everyone else in the band - of the fan’s obsession with Lil’ Meow Meow, and he sometimes he wonders whether it affects Yoongi. Whether his feelings towards the nickname are positive or indifferent, or whether is ever pops up in Yoongi’s head at random times. Whether his friends ever tease him about it like Jackson teases Namjoon about being the Dad of the group. There is only this way of wondering because Namjoon doesn’t feel confident to ask Yoongi about it - its a peculiar thing, this theme of Yoongi as a cat - and somehow, Namjoon feels like asking about it would make him sound… suspicious. Like maybe asking about it could make it sound like he’s accepted it and he isn’t sure what Yoongi will think. Because Namjoon never thinks that his best friend acts or looks like a cat. Never. He’s never scrolled through a so-called Yoongi and Cats thread on twitter. (What’s a twitter? Never heard of it. Can you eat that?)

Namjoon wonders if people would still call Yoongi a cat if they found out about Jimin. Or if they would draw sketches and write (actually tear-inducingly) good stories about kitty hyung Yoongi and baby kitty Jimin. Well, he wouldn’t ever get to know.

Because ARMY wouldn’t find out.

Because not even the members would.

Namjoon sighs and turns his eyes back to the rain outside.

When Namjoon first moves to actually register the outside world passing by instead of gazing outside with dead eyes, he realizes with a start that Sejin has either lied or misunderstood the words “serene, calming place”. The manager drives their car onto the parking lot of a restaurant that looks oddly familiar, like a faraway memory of an uncle you’ve seen once and just shortly but who has left a lasting impression by sneaking you a piece of cake or something. 

We’ve been here before, Namjoon realizes, for lunch. He remembers how the news of BTS’s presence here had sort of blown up the restaurant’s little circle of regular guests and made it into countless online reviews that in the end boosted the restaurant’s ratings and even led to a well-deserved renovation. That had been during their era of first wins, first apartment moves and first everythings in the spotlight and if he didn’t know better, Namjoon would say that their present had been hammering against the egg shell of their past even then, that their success had already been a firm knot in their lines of fate back then. But that is bullshit, just the way success by hard work to the bones could never be replaced by success gained by just looking pretty, and Namjoon smiles fondly, almost feeling a sense of touching connectedness to the place. Almost as if this little restaurant has grown up with them. As if it understood their troubles. Maybe “serene” and “calming” fit just right.

Vague memories start to creep back right then, vague memories of a tired maknae surrounded by even more tired hyungs, everyone eating with aching thighs, aching calves, aching everythings, and greasy food that did everything it promised on the photos on the menu. Namjoon remembers the rides there and back, remembers the sleepy faces, the happy snapshots in between, reasons to celebrate their togetherness, and even a distant voice mentioning that a relative of Sejin worked here. It must be meaningful for hyung to come here too. Over the entrance, a big white sign says Geum-wol in brushed golden hangul. Golden month. In the sun, the letters look piercingly bright.

“We’re going to eat?”

“If you want to.”

“I’m not very hungry yet. But I think I could use some food. Some soul food.”

“I promise you won’t regret it. They changed their menu along with their remodeling a couple of years ago.”

A shiny glimmer sparks from Sejin’s eyes and Namjoon has to work on holding back a giggle. It’s the same, really, it’s exactly the same as Jin-hyung’s I-see-food glimmer. “I’m sure I’ll love it if you do, hyung.”

From years of shared meals, boring breaks in between recording sessions at broadcasting stations and backstage eating sessions, the whole band knows their staff members. There’s not much that actually goes past them when it happens in the same room. Fourteen eyes see a lot of things, even things people wouldn’t think they would notice. They know which types of snack to bring to bribe a specific staff member and they know that Sejin generally has good taste (all of their tastebuds have evolved, Seokjin always insists, along with the success of their company).

Upon entering the restaurant, Namjoon feels like he’s stepping into someone’s living room. A fancy, warm and welcoming living room. It has a lush arrangement of plants, clearly well-loved and well-cared for and fantastically arranged (Namjoon spots that little cactus on the windowsill covered in tiny drops of water that sparkle in the sunlight like royal jewelry and just knows that he is in love). The painted linens and calligraphed drawings lead his surprised mind to the Joseon era, eagerly lapping up his memories from tv shows and stories and books and bundling them all together in this spot where an attentive waitress in a fancy outfit leads them to a table.

“They did a great job with the remodeling,” Namjoon says, unable to tear his eyes off the golden decor that doesn’t look cheap and the beautifully arranged sets on the low table. Even the pillow underneath his bottom is an invitation to relax.

“I love it here,” Sejin nods, smile wide. “It feels like coming home and going on an adventure at the same time.”

Yes, Namjoon thinks, feeling the blood in his veins stir a little. An adventure but also home.

“Hyung, what’s home to you? Seoul or Ilsan?”

It’s a difficult question. If Namjoon wasn’t so close to their manager, it might even be a rude question and he would possibly not be bold enough to ask anything else for the rest of their meal here. Sejin just thinks.

“It’s possible for a person to have more than one home, you know? At least that’s what I think.”

Of course, Namjoon can empathize with that. He’s got a big heart home in the members and then another, with his blood-related family.

“So, home is where my wife and children are, but home is also with you guys. I miss you when I go home, can you believe it?”

Namjoon chuckles.

“Of course. We’re the best, so sweet and so nice and so cute - I’d miss me too if I wasn’t here.”

“Oh, shut up. Jin’s ego is rubbing off on you.”

They both laugh until the waitress returns to take their orders and even then, the glimmer in their eyes doesn’t disappear.

Namjoon’s chest feels warm. Maybe we don’t need to eat here anymore. Maybe this conversation was enough comfort already.

It takes a while for the food to come through the restaurant’s kitchen doors that are hidden behind a noble dark-wood door decoration. Everything here looks noble in a way, Namjoon notices, but not without losing the effect of feeling gently familiar, almost loving. That kind of atmosphere is something Namjoon hasn’t even experienced in noble restaurants before, so he sinks into his fluffy seat cushion, letting himself enjoy the treat thoroughly. Because it is a treat - a feast for the weary-hearted that can’t go home to their families, either because they have to stay here or because the family is not at home. The green plants in the genuinely ancient looking pots (some have gold-plated rims, some are glazed, some are engraved or painted with artful poetry and all of them are twitter-worthy) offer silent comfort, sometimes swishing their arms, sometimes just staying rooted in the fresh dark earth and reminding every onlooker about altruism, virtues like endurance and quiet resilience.

When the food arrives, Namjoon kind of feels sated in a non-physical way. His heart doesn’t seem so heavy like before. It’s like someone has gently kneeled at the edge of his heart to shake up the stiff earth in it. It’s nice. Paired with the soothing voice of Sejin, the type of questions he asks now and then (all of them optimistic, in a distracting way “I heard from Yoongi that you wanted to look for a new bed, did you already find something you’d like?” and “Will you publish your new mixtape soon? My kids listen to mono to fall asleep but my wife said that at this point, she could probably perform it live.”) and together with the delicious food in front of his nose, Namjoon almost feels like he’s escaped to another world. Another world where he isn’t famous, where he isn’t living this life but some other version of it, where all his decisions had been different but led him to this little restaurant nonetheless, and there he is, sitting at the axis point where all the versions of him flow together into this one moment. It’s magical, like glowing dust floating in the air, like the first flakes of snow landing on your face. The light of the sun slides past the beautiful gold-ornamented silk curtains of the restaurant, revealing a gorgeous view on the side of Achasan Mountain that’s lushly green thanks to the trees on it. It’s basically an invitation to dream, to imagine, and Namjoon’s eyes can’t really get enough of it.

“Hyung, have you ever had a secret that you were so afraid to tell that you lied to keep it?”

Sejin sighs into his spoon of rice.

“You know what I think about lying,” he starts and Namjoon nods. Lying means breaking trust, Namjoon-ah. Never lie to your members. During their entire time together, he can’t remember ever seeing Sejin lie. “I usually don’t keep secrets either. Not bad ones, at least. But there was one.”

“Was it bad that you lied back then?”

“Yes, the consequences were bad but the worst thing was that I didn’t say the truth. Even though I apologized, the regret stays with me and every time I look at that person, I feel it again.”

“Hyung, I don’t want to feel that way towards the members.”

“Then don’t lie.”

“Do you think it will be that easy?”

“I honestly don’t know what I think it will be like with Jimin. Maybe you are lucky and the members are back before he shifts back so they can see for themselves. Didn’t you send something to the group chat already?”

“How do you know?”

“Jungkookie sent me a text asking if we got him a surprise pet. He sounded very hopeful. He even used the heart-eye emoji.”

“Oh no. What did you answer?”

“I wrote ‘Ask your hyungs.’ Nothing else. That was before you called me to come back here.”

Namjoon groans and figures that Jungkook will have to wait. No new pets for a while, sorry Jungkook.

“I don’t think I’m ready to be a cat owner.”

Sejin huffs, amused. “The universe thinks you are.”

“Well, I don’t think so and that’s what counts. Even the maknaes would be better at handling a cat than me.”

“That’s not true. Jungkook - I swear, this kid doesn’t have any sense of self-preservation, so I don’t even want to think about what he’d do with Jimin. Tae… well. He’d probably slide into depression without Jimin to talk to so let’s not think about that. I think we can agree there’s no one better than Hoseok to deal with such a thing if he doesn’t freak out about it but you follow close behind, just after Yoongi and Seokjin.“

“Hyung, that was a shitty argument.”

“At the same time,” Sejin says with a look that says I wasn’t done, “Kook loves Jimin to death and would do anything to make him feel better. Taehyung has studied up on dogs and dog training for half a year before adopting Yeontan. Imagine how much more he’ll do for his soulmate.”

The look Sejin gives him is serious and even when they are brought drinks and the girl from before leaves again, the serious expression does not leave Sejin’s eyes.

“Hyung, just think logically for a second. Jiminie is a tiny fragile cat baby, a rare leopard cub and I am a helpless clumsy idiot who can’t even take care of himself. How do we match well in your eyes?”

“You don’t need to match. Honestly, other than Jimin being smaller than usual and not being able to speak, there’s no difference to living together as usual. You take care of him and he looks up to you. You shouldn’t worry so much.”

He starts chuckling a second later when he realizes the unintentional pun. Namjoon frowns.

“I disagree. This morning I almost squished Jimin between the fridge and the fridge door. It’s not exactly safe for him to be around me. He’s too curious and I’m just clumsy. Did you see the printer ink in his fur?”

“It’s not a big deal, Namjoon.”

“Besides, Yoongi takes care of him way better than me.”

“Allow yourself room for improvement and learning.”

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt him.”

“So be more careful. You haven’t killed any of your band mates yet, so I don’t think it will happen any time soon.”

“Yeah, but they have all been human and with a fully functioning human mind for the past seven years. They know how to dodge the danger.”

“Animals have pretty good instincts, too. I think Jimin won’t need help to dodge your accidents once he’s out of his toddler phase. And don’t forget that all of you can take care of Jimin in different ways, each of you plays their own role. It will all be fine.”

The food arrives and is daunting enough to drag Namjoon’s rumbling thoughts away from his hardships. There’s soup, there’s rice, there’s vegetables and meat, and it’s beautifully arranged and beautifully steamy and just the scent could throw a man off his horse in desperate hunger. It’s heaven. At the first spoon of soup, Namjoon understands why Sejin brought him here. Comfort spreads in his tummy like a sweet melody. He sighs, almost tearing up over simple Korean soul food.

“Thank you, hyung.”

Sejin’s smile is kind.

“You know we love you like you’re our own children, right? Sihyuk-hyung and I. Of course, seeing my own children being born was different but you are my family too. We always want the best for you, we want you to go forward with boldness and integrity.”

“You’re doing well, hyung.”

Of course it’s a little strange to think of their CEO and their manager as parental figures in general but after sharing his life with them for the last decade, Namjoon figures his own parents wouldn’t even be mad if he suddenly called any of them appa by accident. He smiles when he remembers all the times a sleepy Jungkook has called other people appa without even noticing. It had always resulted in a hand carding through his hair, a warm “aigoo, our sleepy maknae, are you warm enough?” and lovely feelings of family.

“Namjoon-ah, what if this is an opportunity?”

“What do you mean? An opportunity how?”

“We haven’t heard of shapeshifters before Jimin turned into one, right?”

“I haven’t. It truly feels like a mind-blowing discovery. Only that it’s not a discovery exactly because apparently, shapeshifters have existed all the time.”

“But it means that they must be hiding in society. Why?”

Namjoon pauses. Why are they hiding? In the end, he supposes shifters - supernaturals in general -  are like every other human being.

“Afraid of discrimination? Racism? I don’t know, hyung. I’m still hung up on how I didn’t know about this although one of my best friends has literally been a hybrid his entire life.”

“A hybrid? What the heck is a hybrid? And who’s a hybrid?”

Oh. Right.

“Uh, well. It’s more like Spiderman… more permanent? More all the time? I don’t know, I’m bad at explaining this.”

“Spiderman is a hybrid? Wow, I never thought about it this way.”

“No, I mean, yeah, I guess? But hybrids are people with animal features? I think? Like, a tail or animal ears?”

“Like in anime?”

“Basically. I don’t know too much about it but it seems to be that way.”

“Wow. That must be really difficult to hide.”

“I’m sure it is.”

How does Jackson hide it? Now that Namjoon thinks about it, he has seen Jackson without a cap on his head or loose pants to shove the tail in before and not seen any animal features. How is that possible? He then realizes that Jackson’s managers and company must know. They must have the editors photoshop his animal features out on every photo, even every video. Wow. That must be such a huge effort. And expensive. What a hassle it must be for stage appearances, interviews and even just walking freely on the street. All of the sudden, Namjoon feels grateful Jimin isn’t a hybrid. The company wouldn’t have been able to pay so much money to edit every shot of him so extensively back then. They wouldn’t have accepted him.

“So, hybrids are different from shapeshifters, right?”

“Yes, hybrids can’t turn into animals.”

They eat in silence for a few minutes, letting the new information and thoughts sink in along with the food. Namjoon realizes he’s both a little grateful and a bit bummed that Jimin didn’t turn into a hybrid. It would have been impossible to hide from the members then. He wouldn’t have to tell them anything, they could all figure it out, Jimin wouldn’t turn into some animal that can’t speak, he would just be a normal human being with some extra parts and that would be it. They could deal with it so much more easily - probably. But Namjoon reminds himself that that line of thought is just based on assumptions. There’s probably no perfect option between those two if you’re a performer.

“Do…do you think the members are going to figure it out themselves?”

“I think they’re all smart enough to.”

“So… just a maybe?”

“I can’t tell the future, Namjoon-ah.”

“I know, I just… I just don’t want to be alone with this.”

“Are you?”

“I guess I’m not but… I’m just so glad that we are seven members. Because we share our lives, our feelings and our fears all the time. That’s where we all draw our strength from. Keeping a secret like this from the members… I don’t want to break their trust. Isn’t it my responsibility to tell them about this? This is such a huge change and it’s not fair to just… I don’t think this is right, hyung.”

“If a secret becomes a prison, it doesn’t deserve to be kept, Namjoon. You’re too precious to cut yourself down just to please someone else.”

“Hyung, are you telling me… to tell someone?”

“I’m telling you to do the right thing. If you know the right thing is to tell the members and you take action, you will have to bear the consequences. I’m never for disobeying authority - especially PDnim because I know he tries to do the best for all of us - but if you feel burdened and like you have to mute yourself to keep your promise, then it’s not worth it. You should definitely talk to PDnim. I’m sure that he will understand. Maybe not today, though. Give him a night to think about it all. He might have not seemed surprised but it’s a huge change for him too. It’s a given that any impulsive decisions may need revision.”

“He should have been prepared for this day, especially if he knew about Jimin from the beginning.”

“Yeah, I agree. I think this decision just shows that PDnim is just human too. He made a mistake, just like you have in the past and still do. Also, ‘doing the right thing’ looks different through every person’s eyes so who knows how we would have decided to do things in his place.”

“I know.”

“Everyone needs room for learning. Do you still trust PDnim?”

“Of course. I know he will fight for us no matter what.”

“Then I don’t think you need to worry about the members.”

Namjoon nods and goes back to his food, forcing himself to just stop thinking about this issue. I’m not doing myself a favor if I overthink this. So he focuses on the food that’s before him. It’s really delicious, coating his tongue and all the tastebuds on it - but he can’t help but notice the taste of disappointment mixing in. What do I need? What am I looking for? Is it just support? Do I want pity? Advice? He chews, lets his eyes wander over all the other restaurant guests. Some seem happy, some are engrossed in the food or their friends. They all seem free of worry, even if just for the moment. I want my worries taken away. To be reassured.

“Hyung, can I call Jin-hyung?”

“Sure, go ahead.”

“Would you be mad at me if I told him?”

“Namjoon-ah. Do what you feel is right. You know I respect you.”

“Thank you, hyung.”

“Why do you want to tell Jin specifically?”

“Well, he’s the oldest so I guess he should know. Also, realistically speaking, Taehyungie and Jiminie are like, actual soulmates so I guess Tae would either figure it all out on his own or Jimin would tell him. Hobi is Jimin’s roommate so he can’t avoid noticing any significant changes about Jimin. And Kookie - Kookie is pretty observant about Jimin too whenever he doesn’t give him heart eyes. No, I think telling Jin-hyung makes the most sense. He feels responsible for the maknaes so I think he’d be the most upset about not being told - not because he’d feel left out but because he couldn’t have cared for Jimin the way he needs it.”

“You’re a good leader, Namjoon-ah. I’m proud of you.”

“Don’t make me blush, hyung. It’s just… strategy.”

“Mhm,” Sejin says, cheerfully winking.

Namjoon groans and rolls his eyes at the enthusiastic chuckling behind him. He finds a free table in a calmer part of the restaurant and takes out his phone. The window next to him comes with a good view on the wooden slope of a hill just behind the end of the parking lot.

For a moment, Namjoon tries to sort of soak up the freshness and calm from outside to reenergize himself for this serious talk with Jin. The green of the trees pulses with life, like a painting so fresh and excessive that the colors threaten to run down the canvas in a semblance of invigoration, and he sincerely wishes the city would look like that more often. Although the air outside is still hazy from the rain before, everything spreads out in a vivid picture in front of Namjoon. So beautiful.

The phone rings four times before Jin picks up. His voice is super groggy.

“Hello? Joon, that you?”

“Hi hyung,” Namjoon says softly, grateful for his hyung’s voice against his ear. So close, almost warm. “Where are you right now?”

“In bed.”

There’s rustling, probably blankets and pillows. Namjoon checks the time. It’s 2 pm. Typical Jin. No worries at all. “You won’t believe it, we’re at Kookie’s parents’ place and we stayed up late yesterday to play games with Kook’s brother. So I’m in the guest room and guess what?”

“What?”

“It’s the middle of the night, a light falls on my bed and I think it’s a ghost but it’s Kook standing in the doorway. Says he feels lonely without his hyungs so he comes to sleep with me instead of in his own bed. He’s been clinging to me like a monkey-“

There’s a deep groan of annoyance in the background and suddenly, slapping sounds.

“Are you fighting?”

Yelling, more rustling, the thump of a body hitting the floor. Namjoon can’t help but grin at the image of his bickering brothers even if he goes unheard. This normality feels good. This being together feels good. There’s laughter in the background, so loud and explosive Namjoon basically feels it spilling out of his phone. When he looks around to apologize for disrupting other restaurant guests, no one even looks his way. Jin laughs.

“Sorry, Namjoon-ah, there’s a noisy teenager next to me. You know how they get. Where were we?”

“Hyung, we didn’t even start talking…”

“Ah, right. Well, why are you calling? Is everything alright?”

“Um, define alright.”

Seokjin pauses. Namjoon knows he understands and he can already sense Jin’s answer coming.

“I can come back earlier, you know. It’s not a problem for me.”

“No, hyung, it’s fine. Sejin-hyung and I are dealing with everything, so it’s all good, I just wanted to tell you an imp-“

“Sejin-hyung is there!? He was on vacation! What happened, you little punk? There’s no way everything’s alright if you had to call Sejin-hyung!“

Oops, Namjoon’s brain helpfully provides. He clenches his jaw as Seokjin rambles on in the background, about how he’s gonna pack his suitcase and come right back and about Jimin and his sickness and everything - Namjoon feels his head ache.

“Namjoon-ah?”

Namjoon can’t focus. It’s as if something draws his gaze away from the creamy white tablecloth and the golden decorations and outside the window. They land on a little violet spot by the parked cars - a moving spot. It moves around a black car. Sejin’s car. The man wearing the violet - it’s a modern violet durumagi, a noble-looking Hanbok overcoat - is walking around Sejin’s car, looking inside. Namjoon freezes, doesn’t hear the restaurant, doesn’t hear Jin’s voice. Is that a stalker? Did he recognize our car? The man circles the car as if he expects a BTS member to sit inside of it and Namjoon feels a little sick. I hope he won’t come- the man looks at him. Their eyes meet. Time stops for a horrifying moment. Namjoon’s blood freezes, the trees pulse along with his heart, moving in on him with force. Like a fly in a spider’s net, he feels caught. He can’t move even if the eyes pierce through him as if they see into his soul or even beyond. Namjoon’s breath falters and he gasps when Sejin’s hand suddenly lands on his shoulder. He grasps it, needs the warmth to ground himself, to come back, to calm his soul. To find his sanity, possibly.

“Hey, sorry, it’s just me. Are you okay?”

Namjoon nods numbly, realizes that Jin is still on the phone, repeating his name.

“Jin-hyung?”

“Thank God you’re still there. What happened? You scared me.”

“I’ll call you back later, hyung. Don’t worry, okay? Sorry.”

When he hangs up and puts his phone back on the table with shaky hands, the man in the durumagi outside in the parking lot is gone.

“Are you alright? You look… you’re trembling.”

“Hyung, did you see the man outside? Just now?”

“The man?”

“He stood by your car. I think it might have been a stalker, hyung. Can we leave? I don’t feel safe.”

Sejin gives him an immediate reaction and Namjoon feels grateful for his hyung and manager who always takes him seriously if need be.

“Of course.”

“Hyung, he was so scary. He looked right at me.”

“I’ll ask if we can leave through the back. Come on.”

“Thank you.”

Together, they walk up to the waiter’s area. Namjoon doesn’t hear the conversation between Sejin and the kind waitress from before, only sees her eyes widening from the corner of his eye while he trains his gaze on the entrance of the restaurant. Just when he thinks he spots a a hunch of violet, Sejin’s hand on his lower back pushes him forward and he’s led through a door, they wait for a while, something rustles and a key clicks. Then, fresh air, a quick walk, Sejin’s car. When Sejin’s door closes and the motor turns on and the car starts rumbling, Namjoon feels the ice in his stomach start to melt. He can only start breathing again when they are off the parking lot.

“I’m sorry this happened,” Sejin says quietly. “I wanted you to have a great time.”

“Not your fault, hyung. People do what they want.”

“Yeah.”

The engine starts and Sejin begins to pull out of the parking lot. Namjoon keeps an eye on the area behind them just to see if the man in the violet durumagi appears again. Nothing. He sinks into his seat as they drive further away.

“I’ll take you to the perfect place. You’ll love it.”

“Okay.”

“It’s one of my favorite places in Seoul but you won’t expect it because I’ve never taken you there and you normally don’t ever go there.”

Namjoon feels numb. Sejin’s words kind of go through his ears but don’t find his brain. It’s been a while since something like this happened. He realizes that he’s holding a plastic bag in his hands, on his lap. Warmth seeps into his thighs.

“Are these…?”

“They insisted on giving us food for compensation.”

“It wasn't their fault.”

“They wished you and the members health and strength for the upcoming promotions, too.”

Namjoon nods, feeling tired. He puts his head against the window, lets his eyes jump from color to color, finding a home in the blur and allows himself to drift off.

“Wake up, we’re here.”

It’s a car wash street, the kind where you throw some coins into a coin slot, then park your car inside the washing tunnel and run out as fast as you can as soon as the lights turn on and the brushes come to life and the water starts to spray. Namjoon is not sure whether that’s really the so highly praised destination Sejin planned to go to to relax and be comforted or if he just decided to make a joke. (Or clean the car, for some reason.) On the other hand, it puts a check behind all the characteristics of the mystery location Sejin had revealed. A place you wouldn’t expect? check. A place you never go to? Check. Check, check, check. Now, Namjoon wouldn’t necessarily say that car wash street would be a place he’d ever want to be at, but if he knows anything after traveling half the world with his band mates and staff, it’s that it’s not the places you visit that count but the people you visit there with. So he smiles, allowing some childish giddiness to build up in his stomach at the surprise that Sejin has for him. Whatever it is.

“Let’s go, hyung. Show me what you had in mind.”

Sejin smiles and drives a little closer to the washing street. They wait until the car in front of them is done, which takes exactly one run-through of Zion T’s Eat on the radio and then, Sejin pays and slowly drives forward until the display in front of them tells them to stop.

“Do we run now, hyung?”

Namjoon feels a bit of adrenaline rush into his limbs when Sejin doesn’t look like he intends to move. And then the big big brushes around them begin to stir and Namjoon’s mind is telling him that it’s almost too late and that he should run now if he wants to make it out dry and Sejin just chuckles.

“Stay inside, relax. It’s time for the playlist,” he says and picks something on the car’s display. Soft music trails through the speakers, turned all the way up because the washing street is loud, Jimin’s voice singing Promise as angelically as possible and when the first drops of water hit the car, Namjoon’s heart stops for a second. It’s so nice, this calm feeling of safety that engulfs him when he watches more and more drops of water running down the windows. The warmth that’s in the car, even with the motor off and the lullaby fading. They are practically embedded in the music. It’s just a blessed togetherness with a friend he likes spending time with, a friend who comes up with the wildest ideas to give him comfort and a good time.

And even when the water hitting the car is less than a rain shower and more like a thrumming thunderstorm, Namjoon’s heart still jumps around with giddy leaps for the simple, childish sensation of being surrounded by water but not getting wet. Sejin also seems to have a good time, looking outside the windows with a fond smile and gently tapping the steering wheel with his fingers, matching the soft beats of Blue Side.

“Let’s finish eating,” he suggests then and really, that’s the only way to make this - whatever this is - better.

The paper bags around their little boxes rustle when they unwrap the food and with a warm fuzzy feeling, Namjoon realizes that this moment is special for Sejin too. Usually, the manager would not let anyone eat in his car (a habit from his time taking care of their official business cars), so this is clearly an exception he made for Namjoon.

“This is the coolest thing I’ve done in a long while,” Namjoon says after a few bites and feels like he should maybe pick up his old habit of writing a diary again. He doesn’t want to forget this.

“Let’s take a selfie, hyung.”

They do, and even after finishing their lunch, after watching the big brushes make way for smaller brushes to foam and shake their car, and after five more songs, the car wash street is still not done.

“Hyung, what kind of washing program did you buy? Will we be out before dinnertime?”

“Only the best for you,” Sejin grins. “You’re enjoying yourself, right? If not, we’ll go through again. This playlist is longer than you might think.”

“I am enjoying myself.”

“Good. I really wanted to distract you from everything. Are you relaxed?”

“Very.”

The moment is perfect, warm and content. As if it was meant to be. Namjoon feels his anxiety and all the stress of the day wash off along with the film of dirt on the car. It flows out of his line of vision and his soul is considerably lighter. Maybe we should do this more often.

“This is one of my favorite spots in the city,” Sejin reveals and checks the digital clock on the display, “and you’ll see why soon.”

The brushes recede to the sides of the tunnel and make way for the blow driers. It doesn’t take long for the display outside to start blinking again to signal that the ride is over soon. Sejin starts the motor and when the blinking display rises up, slowly revealing the exit before them, Sejin smiles.

“Look.”

Namjoon doesn’t immediately understand what Sejin wants him to see - but then it hits. The display rises up to reveal the horizon. The car street is built upon a little hill and from here, they can look down on a lower part of Seoul, gleaming in the golden light of the falling sun. It looks like an explosion of light, framed by the walls of the cr wash tunnel. It’s glorious, breathtaking even and Namjoon just stills, afraid to ruin the view with irrelevant thoughts. This is perfect. Just perfect.

The light reflects off the rain water that’s still lingering on the skyscraper’s plateau rooftops, the endless glass walls and even the airplanes taking off in the distance like rising diamonds. The massiveness of it all, the way it surrounds everything, the way it creates this feeling of being a witness of a majestic spectacle takes Namjoon’s breath away. Golden light floods the sky. The Han River looks like a serpent on fire. And this is just a goodbye for one night, so ordinary, almost meaningless. So beautiful.

Namjoon gasps. A fleck of violet moves in the corner of his eye.

“Also,” Taehyung’s soft voice sounds like a melody after the long, thoughtful break of silence in their room. Yeontan yawns and shakes his fur, looking fluffy. “Even if hitting the ground is painful and seems like it will break you apart, you’ll see that that’s exactly what it takes to create a rainbow. Being shattered can be beautiful too - if you keep letting the light shine through you. It will all be okay. That’s the comfort I want to give.”

And then the moment is gone, Namjoon doesn’t know how he got here, only that he feels floaty one moment, almost like he’s being pushed out of his body. It’s comparable to being lifted out of your seat the moment your plane lands and stutters along the landing strip. The next moment, he’s being shoved back in, feeling very weighty for second, like he somehow doesn’t really fit in his body. All of that happens at the same time with Sejin driving forward to exit the car wash, a white flash blinding Namjoon so strongly that he has to close his eyes lest they lose sight forever, and him wondering whether this is the famous light at the end of the tunnel that everyone’s talking about. Whether this is the end. He opens his eyes when the gleaming brightness recedes behind his eyelids, or rather, when he can’t see the the tiny veins in his eyelids anymore.

The sight before him takes his breath away. Where the car’s coachwork, the car wash brushes and sponges surrounded him before, thick trees now form an uneven circle around him and create a clearing. Namjoon sits in the middle of it, on the grass, hands in his lap, jacket softly flapping in the mild breeze. He can’t help but wonder how he got here, whether this is a dream, whether he just fell asleep after leaving the restaurant. When he reaches out to touch the grass, to just see if it’s real, he gasps. It’s very real and incredibly soft, softer than the grass in the little garden on top of BigHit’s office building. Little flowers sway under the sparkly rays of sun that manage to make their way through the treetops and birds hop around the branches of the trees while chirping animately. A butterfly lands on his knee and Namjoon is careful to stay still. After a few moments of taking rest, it flies off and Namjoon adores the tiny creature that had been so bold to land on him. Being so used to the city’s sharp edges and spaces devoid of color, being in nature always feels a little unreal, like something out of a dream. Not being able to recall how he got here just adds to the strange feeling.

Desperate to push the worrying second cycle of thoughts of where am I, what happened and what the heck away and keep his calm, Namjoon closes his eyes. He takes a deep breath, tells himself not to worry, and deliberately tastes the forest air as it streams through his nose and across his tongue. He wills his heartbeat down, eager to drown in the serenity around him, even if there might be bigger issues at hand. It takes a few minutes to lose the fear, the confusion and the anxiety, but when he does, his body becomes light, almost like he’s floating.

Namjoon feels… embedded. Embedded in nature to a ridiculous degree, to an extent that he doesn’t normally experience in a forest, not even when he’s fully Namjooning, as the other members call it. It’s an amalgamated feeling, every inch of the woods around him part of the sensation. Everything pulses, everything vibrates, from the strands of grass brushing against his ankles to the bugs crawling over myriads of swaying leaves. And Namjoon finds himself in the center of it - not as the center, just interwoven into the net of reality, just a tiny, belatedly added piece in this complex throng of life pulses that flare up as soon as he inhales and settle when he exhales. He could lose himself in the pleasant buzzing that could be all around him just as well as it could be him, his cells, his body thrumming with life. He just knows he could lose himself in this too easily and too fast, there’s this little whirl of energy nudging him deep inside his mind, asking him silently whether he would like to stay here a little while longer, longer inside the whirlwind, if he would like to go deeper, deeper, deeper. And Namjoon isn’t afraid even if it seems a daunting invitation. He’s too overwhelmed to react, busy listening to the trees sway, the birds flap their wings, the clouds pass by. The calmness mixes with a sense of belonging, a belonging he still doesn’t feel all the way in their new apartment. This is a perfect place, he thinks.

He feels embedded, knows that this is a rare moment and that it’s a privilege to be here and experience this miracle melody of life. There’s only one other moment that feels like this - when the stage lift pushes him above the stage, the beat driving his blood forward and thousands of fans melting into him, when their screams align with his rap. Embedded. Namjoon wonders if he’s dreaming, if this rush he feels is just a product of his memories ganging up on him in his sleep.

Something rustles behind him and Namjoon turns around slowly. He finds that the shopping bags from the pet store have followed him into the woods. Only the shopping bags that had been his. What the heck? If I’m here and the shopping bags are too, shouldn’t Sejin be here as well? Is this some kind of… time travel or teleportation stuff? What is going on? His breath hitches as a new thought hits him. What if - what if someone took me here?

He watches one of the bags topple. There’s no wind. Suddenly, a little brown paw - hand? - appears behind the brown paper and Namjoon has to hold back a coo. A little animal with slightly wet fur rolls out of the paper bag, sniffing it. It looks like an otter. The only other time Namjoon has seen real otters was when he’d visited the zoo in Seoul with the members and back then, the otters had been in a water enclosure. This otter is not overly fluffy but the black twitching nose makes up for it in cuteness; Namjoon raises his hands to his mouth to not let out any sounds. And fails. Immediately, the otter looks up, big brown eyes staring at the strange invader in the clearing. Apparently, Namjoon doesn’t categorize as a threat, because the otter goes back to exploring the bag right away, squeaking and sniffling around. There’s more rustling and from his angle, Namjoon can only see a little sleek tail peeking out from the paper bag’s opening. Then, the otter seems to have found something of interest because it backs out, dragging the little twisted rope Namjoon had bought for Jimin.

Jimin. A tiny ripple of shock rocks through Namjoon. His eyes widen. He had almost forgotten. He might have almost sat here for the rest of the day, getting lost in the beauty of the woods and forgetting about his day - about all the drama - and what he had wanted to do. Is this an enchanted forest? It’s so… peaceful. He looks around, scans the area. Trees everywhere, the ground in between covered in lush grass, flowers and fallen leaves. In the distance, something glitters every now and then, and Namjoon realizes that the constant soft swishing sound in the air must come from a little pond or river. Somehow, now that he thinks about it, that same freshness carries in the air and it’s almost like Namjoon can feel the fresh water swirl in his lungs in a peaceful, refreshing way. It’s all he could dream of when he imagines a peaceful retreat. To be honest, he would love to come here with the members.

Suddenly, the otter startles with a squeak and flees when Namjoon stands up and wipes down his slightly wet jeans. When his eyes follow the cute animal, he stiffens. There’s a wolf standing just a couple of meters away. It’s big and grey, definitely a grown wolf. It takes one quick look to realize just how huge it is. It reaches up to Namjoon’s chest if he were to stand up - and it’s watching him intently. The gaze is so strong that Namjoon feels a lot like he’s been caught. Caught in the wolf’s territory. He doesn’t dare to move even as his heart pounds and his head tells him to run.

Namjoon knows, logically, that a wolf is a big predator with a tendency to be territorial and the ability to kill an adult without much effort. He knows that he should logically be afraid of it, maybe afraid enough to pee his pants, but it’s so damn hard to be afraid here in this warm-colored, sun kissed spot of forest that, in its essence, is so pure, so good. It reminds him of good things, of relaxation. Of home. Maybe it’s also because of the way the forest just buzzes on inside his mind as if the wolf hadn’t appeared, as if there was no reason to worry, no reason to stop the bubbly melody because the wolf simply wasn’t dangerous. Maybe it’s because of the knowledge that the forest has some kind of conscience and possibly an ability to judge between good and evil, or maybe just that the way the forest breathed and pulsed around him reminded Namjoon of all the books he’d read in his childhood. Books that had taught him about principles, about the order of things even if those books consisted of fictional characters and places. It somehow instilled trust in Namjoon, a trust that he thinks he had already extended towards the forest. The forest had accepted it from him. And now, the forest was offering it in return. He looks up to find that the wolf us mustering him still, probably not used to visitors on its terrain but it’s not a malevolent look. There’s no growling, no claws, no fangs or even the kind of bristling he’s usually get to see each time Monie met another dog she didn’t like, so Namjoon concludes that the wolf is just curious.

“Hi,” he says lamely, “I hope I’m not intruding. I don’t know where I am but I’ll leave if you want me to.”

Namjoon doesn’t know why he’s talking to an animal but he knows that animals do assess people and pick up on their mood and intentions based on their voices, so he just speaks. It feels natural, the forest’s buzzing picks up and little sparks appear in the melody, almost as if it was amused by their interaction.

He almost doesn’t flinch when a black wet nose prods his thighs, his shins and his hands. He doesn’t flinch when the wolf locks eyes with him and feelings of both being utterly vulnerable and fully accepted shoot through him like electric shocks. He feels - like he’s meeting one of his best friends. A quiet but wise friend, maybe a little like Yoongi.

Without a sound, the wolf turns and starts walking. A breathless Namjoon stands in his spot as if the ground under his two feel was holy. He stays until the wolf throws a look over its shoulder. Does it want me to follow?

Walking with a wolf, Namjoon comes to find out, is a very different feeling than walking with your own dog. Definitely. The wolf doesn’t stop a hundred times to sniff at every flower, every stone and every shrub to see if someone else has peed on it. The wolf also doesn’t feel the need to pee on all these things himself or pull on a leash to find more things that have been peed on. No, the wolf walks through the forest like it’s his kingdom revolving around him. Like he owns every centimeter of the land. Quietly. With pride and honor. The wolf oozes self-expression on a higher level, shows off its independent thinking and self-determined capabilities. Namjoon likes it. They stop at a pond. At first glance, it looks like any other pond or lake Namjoon has seen before. There’s clear, calm water surrounded by a shore packed with reeds and all kinds of water plants. He spots frogs on the wet earth and even a few fish in the water. The surface shows him his face, plain and normal, like any other mirror in the world would show. Perhaps its the soft water noises or just the visual of water that calls up feelings of thirst - Namjoon wants to lean down and scoop up some water in his hands but when the wolf next to him doesn’t make any move towards the water, almost as if he’s wary of it, Namjoon becomes suspicious.

“Is it drinkable?”

The wolf’s eyes aren’t focused on the water and instead scan the area. Maybe this isn’t a resting place. Maybe he’s patrolling the territory? Is this the outer edge maybe? Even if they just remain standing for a few minutes, a this deep sense of fateful belonging is in the air, almost like honey dripping down tree bark. The air is sweet and thick and Namjoon’s hand flies to his chest. Breathing becomes more difficult with time and he throws a worried glance at the wolf who remains stoic. Are we… supposed to die here? What is this? It almost feels like a relief of tension when the wolf suddenly shakes its fur. But not only that, it walks towards Namjoon and only then can he see the eyes of the wolf - dark, black has replaced the kind amber glow from before. What is happening? The wolf doesn’t seem any more threatening than before, just nudges Namjoon’s arm until he holds it up. What does it want?

A swoosh of air, then a dark body tunes out the light of the sun. Namjoon yelps when claws tear through his shirt and into the bare skin of his lower arm that suddenly has to carry a heavy weight. When he has gathered enough courage to open his eyes, he comes face to face with a raven. It’s black and sleek, gaze so piercing it almost hurts physically. It stares at Namjoon without blinking. What is it with these animals here? In a strange way, their eye contact is comfortable like a conversation between friends, with a certain familiarity, but the intensity of it just shatters that comfort completely. He’s captivated by the raven’s eyes. In the depths of his mind, he understands that his soul lays bare, that he’s practically naked before this creature. Every dream, every doubt, every fear, they all turn and twist inside of him, coming alive under the scrutiny of the attentive gaze. When he feels his body tense and shiver, physically unable to withstand the tension, Namjoon looks away.

His eyes fall on the pond, now mysteriously dark, reflecting the faraway blinking of stars. Is it night already? How long have I been here? The starlight shimmers like diamonds on the water whenever it moves. The sway of light almost seems melodic, almost audible. When he sees his image in the calm surface, it's... different than before. He sees himself and definitely recognizes himself but somehow, it's not what he normally looks like in a mirror. Namjoon thinks that it might just be the ethereal glow the moon and the stars cast on the pond but then, he sees something else in his eyes, a different kind of glow. Something that he's never seen before. If someone asked him to put this into a song, he has no idea what the lyrics could be. It's almost otherworldly. A few steps away, the wolf sits, watching the pond’s hypnotic view.

The raven walks a few steps closer towards Namjoon, gaze burning into the side of his head.

“What do you want, raven?”

Namjoon feels his lips move on their own.

“Reality,” the raven croaks. “Fragile. Guard it.”

It flies off with a whoosh and Namjoon follows the bird until it has passed the top of the trees. Maybe I would know where I was if I could fly. I could go home.

Before he has time to think about the raven, leaves rustle behind him. When Namjoon’s head turns toward the sound, he expects to see some other animal, or maybe that the otter has followed them. What he gets instead is a colorful burst of color on a tiny body. He blinks.

“Oh, Jiminie! Is that you?”

The cub just taps forward, head bobbing with every step as if it had become too heavy after wandering for so long. When it finally reaches his feet, it plops down into the grass with an exhausted chuffing sound. Namjoon can see its flank moving up and down with the cub’s breaths.

“How did you get here, baby?”

Did he really walk here all the way from the company building by himself? Perhaps the question would be easier to answer if he knew where exactly here is. He looks around, has never felt so disappointed by the sight of trees everywhere, then sits down in the grass.

“Did hyung take you here? Is hyung around, Jiminie? Did you get lost looking for me?”

The leopard cub’s fur is warm and damp under his fingers and he can’t help but scoop the little one up. He still doesn’t answer, doesn’t show signs of understanding and Namjoon figures that’s just the way it is. Jimin immediately snuggles deeper into the embrace, seeking the comfort and shelter and Namjoon holds his fingers out when the leopard’s little black nose starts snuffling around. Jimin doesn’t settle for his fingers and noses along Namjoon’s shirt until the human recalls the image of the baby cat snuggling into Yoongi’s neck. Is he looking for bare skin? With curiosity, Namjoon opens the upper button and exposes a collarbone. The leopard’s tail wiggles with excitement as the cub finds familiar scents on Namjoon’s skin. He squirms, blue eyes opening to sparkle as they find Namjoon’s face. He yips and yaps and makes little high-pitched noises that have Namjoon chuckling.

“Hey there,” he laughs, “hi baby. Hi. Yeah, hi. It’s me, yeah.”

When the cat calms down, lulled into safety by the warmth and scent and the familiar voice, Namjoon smiles. “Should we go looking for hyung?”

He holds his breath when the wolf steps closer, just reaching down to sniff the cub throroughly. The big head is almost leaning against Namjoon’s chest and he can smell the typical scent of dog and woods on the big animal. Jimin squeaks when the big nose rubs over his fur instead of fingers and his tail shakes but he’s brave, enduring the bigger animal’s curiosity. Namjoon is aware that this whole thing is absolutely ridiculous. It doesn’t make sense at all that he teleported into the woods slash got abandoned with amnesia, that he follows a wolf and that Jimin just appears out of nowhere. He feels like he’s missing more than one piece of information.

I only remember sitting in the car with hyung and the next moment… I was here in the woods. Or did I wake up? Did I fall asleep? Is this a dream? Was I unconscious and maybe… Sejin-hyung took me here? Was maybe the car wash a dream and this is where he wanted to go? But if Jimin is here - doesn’t that mean that someone came looking for me? Like, I was missing and they decided to search for me and Suga-hyung and Jimin came close and they just lost Jimin but he ended up finding me? He freezes. What if this is a magic forest and I lost track of time and weeks have passed? What if all the members are back and looking for me too? It’s all confusing and every speculation Namjoon comes up with feels incomplete and unsatisfying. Whatever, he tells himself, we’ll find Suga-hyung and he can explain everything that’s going on.

The wolf seems to be satisfied with smelling Jimin, so it just walks off as if there’s nothing more to stay here for, warm amber eyes and serene personality. They walk for what feels like an hour, thinking hard, dodging trees, passing caves (some are decorated with lanterns, some are not), another pond. Jimin falls asleep quickly in Namjoon’s arms. At this point, Namjoon has decided that he’s either a) hallucinating, b) on drugs and hallucinating, c) having the weirdest dream of his life or d) trapped in a children’s fairy tale for some disturbing reason. He’s decided that all the things that have happened don’t really makes sense and that even the wolf seems too… much like a book character to be real. He notices a few scars on the wolf’s flank and on his legs and figures that the wolf must have fought with some other animal to get them but they don’t look vicious. Somehow, they look like they are meant to be there, like the wolf is aware of them and carrying them with a certain pride. This wolf is the kind of animal that would be given a series of touching children’s movies, leading a lost human through the woods on a powerful journey to - just to where? That’s the thing Namjoon has been trying to wrap his head around for the last half an hour. It doesn’t come to him.

A growl leaves the wolf’s throat when Namjoon walks into it and makes him retract his earlier thoughts about the wolf. Makes him realize that this is still a wild animal despite the calm appearance and that the wild animal has stopped walking and also warned him to not run into it again. To keep his distance. To respect its boundaries. When Namjoon looks away from the sleek grey body against the knee-high ferns and wild flowers growing everywhere, he automatically freezes. A stunning light-brown stag is grazing in front of them, all alone and almost glowing in the sunlight slipping through the treetops. It owns a majestic pair of antlers - majestic in both size and form, covered by the fine sort of fur that make them look soft like velvet. When it looks up, Namjoon stumbles a step back, tiny in front of the huge animal. Even breathing - breathing feels like a mercy in front of this animal, like he’s only able to breathe because he’s been allowed to. Namjoon thinks he prefers the wolf as a walking companion - until the deer’s deep brown eyes focus on him and Namjoon’s world begins to spin.

Like magic, pieces of memories start to flit through his mind, recollections of old days and new days, of forgotten moments and forlorn ideas. A youthful looking Jin appears in front of his inner eye, dressed in crappy t-shirts that they would all laugh about fondly now. Memory-Jin shoos Namjoon out of their crappy little makeshift kitchen after letting him wash cabbage and resumes cooking for the members. A hard-faced Yoongi who is stuck with writer’s block for a whole week, a depressed Yoongi in front of a tauntingly empty fridge. Hoseok, holding a pair of smelly sneakers (his sole pair at the time) to his chest as he packs his bags quickly before they leave for some tv program shooting. Jimin, Taehyung and Jungkook, all crying quietly under one shared blankets on Chuseok, Christmas and New Year’s because it’s the third year in a row that they can’t visit their families to spend the holidays with them. The way every hyung’s heart breaks at the sound that their thin apartment walls can’t block. A hundred memories flash by, too fast to really stick but not fast enough to not make emotion swell like a tsunami wave. He’s on his knees, he notices though wet eyes, Jimin no longer in his arms. Namjoon just wishes the stag would stop looking at him. In this beautiful place, it doesn’t seem fitting to think about all these memories again - all the bad, painful memories buried underneath the glory of the payoff, of the success, the luxuries.

But the stag doesn’t. Instead, it comes closer and closer until its warm breath falls on Namjoon’s chest and collarbones and it feels like the overflow of memories will burst Namjoon’s heart. The big deer musters him like it can feel all of this too, like these are all pieces of a shared photo album, like the stag cherishes them deeply. The warm nudge of its snout against his cheek feels like a whole embrace and Namjoon shudders. In a weird, cathartic way, he wishes he could just burst.

Suddenly, a shock goes through the stag. It jumps away in fright, letting Namjoon fall to the ground.

“What’s going on?”

To his right, he sees the wolf, poised and full of tension, looking somewhere between the trees and nudging Jimin under its belly. Namjoon can’t see anything. Jimin’s ears point to the same direction as the wolf’s ears. What did they hear?

“Dokkaebi,” the raven croaks from one of the trees. It must have come back when I saw my memories. It croons, “don’t cry, moonchild, don’t cry. It’s fate, don’t cry.”

Namjoon can’t wrap his head around the ominous words. He knows what a Dokkaebi is, obviously, but the rests sounds like it’s some fantasy novel- prophecy type shit. He really hopes that nothing bad will happen. Dokkaebis are good, aren’t they?

The wolf and the stag apparently believe that something bad will happen because the wolf looks even more tense than before, fangs peeking out and eyes wary. The stag walks around to keep an eye on all of their surroundings, hooves scratching up the ground every now and then. Neither makes Namjoon’s racing heart calm down. What’s happening? Should we hide?

“Listen, Namjoon-ah,” the wolf interrupts his self-talk, “I’m sorry to say this but we can’t really do much against a Dokkaebi. You need to remembers this: This is your Essence, your bokjil. Nothing can happen here if you don’t let it. Do you understand?”

He pauses, eyes dark. Namjoon’s head is full of confusion. What the hell is my Essence? Why does it feel like we’re seconds away from going into battle?

“You-you can talk as well?”

“Do you understand?”

“No,” he presses out between tight lips, feeling immensely frustrated by now. In a way, he feels in awe of the wolf’s wise eyes and he doesn’t want to fling all his sorrows on the elegant creature but it just bubbles out of him. “No, I don’t understand anything! From the beginning till now I have not understood one damn thing this whole day. I don’t know how I got here, I don’t know how to find my hyungs, I don’t know why I can understand you-“

The wolf growls. Namjoon’s mouth snaps shut immediately.

“This is not the time for whining, pup. Clear your head. Remember, we are here and we will help you as much as we can but there’s a damn Dokkaebi on his way to see you and that’s not good news. Dokkaebis are powerful tricksters. Don’t believe everything you see. I don’t know what he’s here for but he’ll try to get into your head. Don’t agree to anything he propos-“

“How rude, wolf. Don’t judge a whole species for a few individuals’ actions,” a new voice speaks and Namjoon doesn’t want to look but he has to. His eyes widen. Violet durumagi. That’s the Dokkaebi!?

“You! You’re the stalker from before!”

The guy frowns and lets out an indignant huff. He notices the wolf softly biting Jimin’s neck and carrying the cub a little further away, obviously not wanting him to be anywhere near the stranger.

“Stalker!? I’m not a stalker. Do you really think I’d be chasing you all over Seoul for my own entertainment? I’m not crazy. I get paid for this, thank you very much.”

It’s Namjoon’s turn to frown because that… is not less concerning in any way.

“Paid? Are you a paparazzi then?”

“Are you kidding? I was sent by the MMA committee.”

The MMA? What do the Melon Music Awards want now? Is this just a misunderstanding?

“Then why are you coming to me? Just call our CEO. He always helps if there is something wrong about the logistics or the shows.”

The man furrows his eyebrows.

“Are you an idiot? What shows are you talking about?”

Okay, rude, Namjoon thinks. Every word this guy says is just plain rude and he has to remind himself to remain calm and collected, to not show any insecurity. It certainly doesn’t make sense for anyone from the MMA’s to come to the artists themselves to ask them about anything - that’s solely the management team’s task. So Namjoon remains wary of this guy. After all, the animals had also fled from the clearing and animals’ instincts are seldom wrong.

“I’m talking about our next show in December? I mean, it’s still a really long time until then, but if you’re already planning, I can just call PDnim and we can figure out-“

“We already talked to your PDnim and scheduled a meeting. That was this morning.”

“Okay, hold on. What does MMA stand for?”

“Magistrate of Magical Affairs, of course. I’m your case worker and I need to ask you a few questions about Park Jimin and his environment that I hope you will answer truthfully. Of course, our AMI already collected quite an amount of data but like any other UI, she’s not perfect.”

That hope sounds more like a threat. The wolf growls.

”Let’s sit down, Namjoon-ssi.”

A dark mahogany table materializes out of nowhere, joined by two chairs, one on either side of it. Namjoon sits down, not ready to have a conversation about all this stuff again. He just wants to go home. I hope they are not freaking out about me. Jimin’s legs and his tail twitch as he sits, looking to Namjoon from between the wolf and the stag. He already wonders how he’s going to explain everything that happened to Jimin when he finally shifts back.

“I suppose that’s Park Jimin.”

“Yes.”

Papers appear on the table. They look like official forms. Upside down, Namjoon can’t read much of it. Before the Dokkaebi can start asking stuff, a thought shoots through Namjoon’s mind.

“Alright, first question. Who is Park Jimin living with right now?”

“With me and five other guys.”

“Does he have close contact to his parents? Does he see them often? Do they come over?”

“No, that’s not possible. They talk to each other on the phone, though.”

The Dokkaebi writes something down. He remembers his conversation with PDnim and hopes that it’s not a bad thing that Jimin doesn’t get to see his parents much even though he has a feeling that it is.

“Since when has Park Jimin been living with you?”

“We moved together in 2012.”

“I see. Are there children in your household?”

Namjoon almost says Yes but then realizes that officially, Jungkook is not a child anymore. Neither is Seokjin. So he says, “No. We’re all adults. Responsible adults.”

The other man raises a brow but ticks a box on the paper.

Namjoon almost chokes.

“Have any of you ever had a cat?”

“Not that I know of. One of the members grew up on a farm, so I suppose there were cats around. Does that count?”

“If you would guess in percent, how much time of the day do you spend at home?”

Namjoon sinks a bit deeper in his chair. Be honest, he tells himself. Honestly always wins in the long run.

“10? 10 percent of the day, maybe 15 if we’re lucky?”

“That’s a very low percentage.”

“Our schedule is very busy currently.”

“Will that change in the foreseeable future?”

“I don’t think so.”

“You do realize that even though cats can be left at home, they do need a lot of stimulation and effort, yes? Especially when they are so young.”

“I want to take him along to work.”

“That is… ambitious. Is your workplace a cat-friendly environment?”

Not… really. The studio maybe. An arena full of people? Jimin would stay backstage. Tannie had managed. Namjoon nods confidently.

“We could make it one.”

That sounds more like a question than a statement and Namjoon hopes that it won’t come across as insecurity. Because he knows that PDnim would do anything to enable Jimin to live his life normally with the others wherever he goes - despite his handicap.

“That’s not enough. According to the first and the fourth book of the MMA’s additions to the Civil Code, the Magistrate is legally required to assign a qualified caregiver with every Type-3 shapeshifter or hybrid if their parents or further relatives are either absent or physically, mentally or otherwise unable to raise the child in all aspects. This is the law. You know, most people are happy to hear that someone else helps them with raising a shifter.”

“Most people don’t value what they have until it’s too late.”

“Do you even know what raising a shifter means? What happens when a shifter like your friend grows up, when his instincts tell him to hunt and kill? What do you do then?”

“I will do whatever I can.”

“And that’s what they all think. Until their shifter child kills the pet. By accident. Until their child attacks the neighbor, a sibling, the parents themselves. That’s what the training is for. They need to be taught how to live from the youngest age possible.”

“And you think I can’t do that?”

“I’m just offering you the best options available.”

“But you don’t get to say what’s best for a person you don’t even know. Yes, maybe I don’t have much experience with shifters, but-“

“Exactly, you don’t. The magistrate has done this since mid-Joseon times so I think we do know pretty well what’s best for your shifter friend.”

“That’s bullshit. That logic only applies if you think that this is a task on your schedule. But this is about a person. Park Jimin is a person. And you don’t even get one thing to say about what’s best for him. Firstly, you have never even met him before, let alone asked him about what he thinks about this.”

“And you have? How, if he’s been like this for days now.”

“I have not but I will as soon as he shifts back. Until then, I will decide in his place, but I will never undermine his autonomy as a human person like you just did. Secondly, if you boast about the Magistrate taking care so well of every shifter and hybrid in the country, how come the Magistrate didn’t have Jimin or even his parents in the registry until now? Shouldn’t you have known about him?”

“Well, we didn’t- I mean, before AMI alerted us, there were no signs-“

“I don’t trust you. Jimin shifted and suddenly, you barge into our lives, saying Jimin should come with you every time he shifts. Maybe there is a reason Jimin wasn’t in your registry. Maybe his parents didn’t trust you either. Either way, I can’t consent to your proposition.”

“It’s not a proposition.”

“Without my consent, it’s nothing at all.”

“Tell me, Namjoon-ssi, have you met other shifters or even hybrids so far?”

Namjoon thinks that he must have, if so many people of the community hide their real identities. He must have walked past so many shifters and hybrids on the sidewalk, brushed past their shoulders, bumped into them in an elevator, in a crowd, anywhere. But he doesn’t remember just because he didn’t know back then. There’s just one hybrid he remembers. Jackson.

“Yeah, I have.”

“Did they seem animalistic?”

Just as always, Jackson had been friendly and sociable, with open laughter and a warm hug. Had he not revealed his dog ears and his silver tail, Namjoon would have probably never found out about his hidden identity despite being his best friend. From the corner of his eyes, he sees something moving.

“No. He seemed - just like I knew him. Human.”

“He did, didn’t he? He must have gone through proper training by either his parents or a mentor. Shifters and hybrids can’t afford to be found out and ostracized, so they train to overcome their instincts. Their instincts are overwhelming when they are young and they need to learn how to act like humans.”

That’s messed up, Namjoon thinks, but figures that it’s necessary to survive without trouble in the cruel human world. He sees Jimin waddling over to him.

“Do you understand what might happen to Jimin if he doesn’t receive training? How it could harm not just the people around him but him, too?”

It’s a fair point, Namjoon has to admit. He can’t imagine how Jimin would feel and think of himself if he killed someone or something else. If he even hurt someone just because he couldn’t control himself. Suddenly, Namjoon remembers his first months (scratch that, make it years) in dancing, how his limbs weren’t graceful, his movements weren’t controlled. Of course, seeing it on Hobi or Jimin was clear and the idea of replicating it exactly was simple, but whenever he tired, he couldn’t do it even if he could envision it perfectly. Until a certain point, his limbs were flapping around and it was impossible to make them cooperate. Is that what it would be like for Jimin? Namjoon knows how much Jimin hates losing control. This would be his worst nightmare, probably.

The Dokkaebi seems to take his silence for doubt or hesitance, apparently, because before Jimin can reach Namjoon’s chair, the man reaches for the cub and holds it up by the neck. Without any warning, he shoves two fingers into the cub’s mouth. Taken by surprise, Jimin squirms and tries to wiggle out of the firm grasp but the man just continues to pry his little jaws open.

“See these fangs? They’re made for meat, specifically for tearing into it.”

Jimin whines so loudly that Namjoon has to really contain himself. He can’t bear to see his brother being treated like that. His knuckles are white with the force of his fists. The Dokkaebi just goes on.

“It’s is still young but once he’s grown these jaws will be strong enough to drag a fully grown antelope up a tree.”

“Let go,” Namjoon says, “he doesn’t like it.”

The Dokkaebi shrugs, the golden emblems of his durumagi gleaming in the sun.

“It doesn’t like me, I don’t like it. It’s mutual loathing. What I care about is what it likes. Did you know that feral predators don’t discriminate? Any living creature becomes meat, even humans.”

I don’t like you either, Namjoon thinks grimly. Jimin really struggles, tiny paws pushing against the hands holding him, head twisting this direction and the other. He can’t get away and hisses. Namjoon leans over the table.

“Let him go. He’s still a person and he deserves respect.”

The Dokkaebi’s eyes sparkle darkly as if he had just waited for Namjoon to say that. He lets go of the kitten’s jaw but keeps holding it firmly, hand moving to Jimin’s neck to paralyze him. His voice is deep and daunting.

“And will he still deserve respect when he’s grown and turned into a wild beast just because you’re too sentimental to send him away to train?”

Filled with anger, Namjoon glares at the man in Hanbok. But his eyes are drawn somewhere else. The mahogany table disappears, the chairs disappear, Namjoon plops on his butt, while the Dokkaebi just takes a few steps back. Something shimmers in the air beside the Dokkaebi, almost like a fire’s flying sparks being drawn into one shape. Namjoon gasps when it takes form - a fully grown leopard materializes right in front of him. Its massive body looks huge in comparison to Jimin’s kitten body, it would tower over him were the little one on the ground. Even though the leopard only reaches the Dokkaebi’s bellybutton at most, its presence is overwhelming. As if the whole forest vibrates in simultaneous fear and awe of this one creature, as if it feels the low buzzing of danger joining the life-filled and cheerful pulsing of the woods. Namjoon’s back thumps against rough bark and he realizes he’s been walking backwards. The moment the leopard takes its first breath, the forest’s melody collapses. Namjoon almost chokes at the sudden disarray, the jumbled notes clashing into each other like cars on the wrong side of the street. They seem jagged and lost like they can’t remember their tempo, their placement or even their key and instead, they jump around and create chaos. It reminds Namjoon of a drowning person who is making the most dreadful noises humanly possible before realizing there is no saving because the screams for help are swallowed by the waves all around. It’s ugly and raw and if Namjoon would be sent a melody like this for a song, he wouldn’t even try to fix it.

His stomach drops and his blood freezes, suddenly unable to maintain a steady flow as his heart begins to pound heavily, The blood rush in his ears does nothing to drown out the low tones of danger building up with every step the leopard takes forward. While he frantically weighs the probability of success of running and simultaneously takes careful steps backwards, the notes how much darker the forest looks now. At first, he doesn’t think it could be due to the new predator whose own threatening melody intimidates the forest into a frantic arrhythmia - the sunlight still flickers through the treetops - but then the leopard steps into the center of the clearing. There’s a dark aura around the cat - an inverted glow, as if it was drawing all the light from the atmosphere and keeping it locked away in itself.

Namjoon breathes heavily already, without having run an inch. The adult leopard stands still, steadily breathing, chest moving, ears twitching to capture every sound, tail resting low. He looks like a sharp dog waiting for a command. Namjoon really wishes that none would be given, that they could just keep their distance and be fine. Don’t move, he thinks. And then, at one twitch of the Dokkaebi’s eyebrows, the leopard takes another step.

“Will you still think that a beast like this should be given respect? When it discovers that it’s born to be a hunter? A killer?”

Namjoon’s eyes widen when his eyes meet the leopard’s, when the amber lights in them go dark like the darkness swallowing up a long forgotten candle’s last flame.

“When it realizes that fresh meat is better than whatever crap they mix together in those pet stores?”

The grass is silent under the leopard’s paws. Its muscles move elegantly under the beautiful rosetted fur of the vicious cat. The perfect killing machine, a documentary narrator had explained Stealthy, skillful and merciless. Namjoon’s heart pounds frantically. He thinks of running. His mind short-circuits. He runs.

Almost immediately, a body knocks into him, brutally pressing him into the ground. Everything goes dark with the collision. Namjoon groans, has difficulty estimating the degree of his injury. All he feels is pain. When he opens his eyes again, the leopard bares his fangs right in front of his face. He’s trapped. Trapped underneath the perfect killing machine. All the dead prey he’s seen in the documentaries flashes by his eyes. He whimpers, can’t believe he’ll just become another piece of prey. Leopards mostly go for the throat. They paralyze their prey with a forceful bite, then go for the kill. Namjoon’s hands go for his throat in a feeble attempt to shield it. He’s not sure if it’s smart or even any protection at all.

“When they discover that they crave the taste of blood?”

Blood. Namjoon weakly realizes the there’s blood dripping from the leopard’s jaw and snout. He chokes, feels his body spasm against his will. When the leopard leans in, face coming closer and closer, Namjoon’s hands shoot out to hold him away, to press the cat’s face away. Fear drives a stake into his heart when dark red drops roll down his wrists, his arms. His entire hands are covered in blood, so much blood that it can’t possibly come from the cat’s fur. Am I bleeding? Tentatively, Namjoon feels around his throat again. It’s wet, everything is wet. Blood in massive amounts. He shudders, fighting the way his lungs constrict and burn. A flash-like memory pushes its way into Namjoon’s inner eye like a cold slithering tendril before he can defend himself from the intrusion. Images flash. From a third perspective, he watches himself on the ground and the leopard caging him in. He watches the leopard’s furious lunge and the way its jaw closes around his throat, the way blood blubbers forth as if he were a fresh spring coming to life. The leopard bites until the flesh is bloody and raw, an open wound. The precursor to a powerful death. The leopard growls and Namjoon is ripped out of the vision which he understands to be the Dokkaebi’s point of view.

“Do you still think a beast like that deserves respect when the first victim dies? When they bleed out in your arms?”

Namjoon can’t stop choking violently, can’t breathe, can’t focus. The leopard still or perhaps again has its massive fangs in his flesh like a vice grip, unrelenting and unbeatable and Namjoon’s vision blurs a little. With the blood loss comes freezing coldness. Panic sets in slowly but sinks deeper with every moment. Am I really dying? Am I dying? Again, the leopard rams its fangs into Namjoon’s throat, rattling his entire body. When his head lolls to the side, grey fur moves in front of his eyes. He hears a voice. Dokkaebis are powerful tricksters. Don’t believe everything you see. This is your Essence, your bokjil. Nothing can happen here if you don’t let it. Do you understand?

Is this… an illusion? As Namjoon tries to push the leopard off, his hands drive deep into the fur. The cat pulls off, growling like hell. There’s a long moment the leopard and the boy stare into each other’s eyes. Namjoon feels his own heartbeat pulse through his open flesh in hot, painful surges. Thump, thump, thump. Then - realization. He stares at his fingers, then at the wild cat. His hands are buried deep into the fur, so deep he can feel the outline of bone against his skin. The cat’s chest is pressed against his as it presses him into the ground. And yet. No heartbeat. The leopard has no heartbeat. It’s an illusion. The knowledge explodes like a bomb inside Namjoon’s mind, inside his body.

“You’re not real,” he gasps, almost laughing in relief. As if he’s opened the door to a dark room, clarity and light flood everything. The blur in his vision disappears, all the pain just vanishes in one go, so quickly that Namjoon almost feels floaty. The pressure on his throat disappears, Namjoon can think straight. Even the leopard disappears like it was never there. He feels his throat. No blood, just smooth skin. The sensation is surreal after being caught in the the cruel illusion. Namjoon sits up. He’s exhausted even if he’s fine. I want to go home, he thinks.

When his eyes fall on the Dokkaebi holding a whimpering Jimin down, he swallows. You can do this. This is not about you. This is about Jimin, and you’ll do anything you can to protect him. He trusts you. This Dokkaebi is just trying to intimidate me. The wolf right next to him, radiating a comforting warmth. I am not alone.

“I said, let go of Jimin.”

The cub starts running as soon as the hands leave his fur and he tucks into Namjoon immediately.

“Shhhh,” he whispers, rubbing the little one’s head, “it’s alright. I’m here, I’m okay, see? Shhhhh.”

He lets Jimin sniff around as much as he wants, the cub desperate to be comforted by a familiar scent.

“I will respect Jimin no matter what happens. I will respect his wishes and not decide over his head. Every person needs to be respected, everyone. Lack of respect and love are what turns people into psychos, not lack of training. Not even shifters.”

“I don’t think you understand. If you don’t choose for him today, I am authorized to take Park Jimin in custody until his trial ends. The mere fact that he’s lived as an unregistered shifter for so long needs to be investigated. After that, he will be sent to the Academy either way.”

“And how is that respecting his human rights?”

The Dokkaebi smiles.

“But he’s not human, is he? Human rights don’t apply to him, smartass. He’s a shifter. It’s time for you to understand what that means.”

That’s a crass way of saying it but it really hits Namjoon. That can’t be true… right?

“So… we need to find a trainer for him to be able to keep him?”

“We as the MMA offer classes at our very own Academy to guarantee professional supervision and a guided training period. Since you are VIP clients, we would only charge you half the tuition fees and make sure Jimin receives upgraded treatment there.”

“There?”

“The closest Academy campus is located outside of Seoul, in the mountains and woods of Gapyeong-gun.”

“What! Why is it so far away?”

Gapyeong-gun isn’t too far outside of Seoul but it’s difficult to get there by car. Public transport is even worse. Namjoon knows it means they wouldn’t be able to see Jimin much anymore - driving to school, being there for class and driving home in the afternoon would already take more than half of the day. He’s gonna miss early dance practice, vocal training and a lot of interviews, Namjoon thinks.

“With over 500 students of all kinds of genetic denominations, it’s slightly difficult to find a fitting environment to meet every student’s needs in Seoul, Namjoon-ssi. The Academy is in the woods to grant space, freedom and anonymity.”

“I see… but we can’t drive up there every time Jimin has class.”

“Oh, I think there might be a misunderstanding… the Academy is similar to a boarding school. He would stay there for his entire study period.”

That means - we won’t see Jimin at all? Or just a couple of days per semester? On the weekends? Assuming the Academy even allows students to receive visitors.

“No. Jimin can’t just leave for a semester. Do they have online classes?”

“Online classes are not practical, Namjoon-ssi. Young shifters require hands-on training, not theoretical teaching.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“Is there no way one of those mentors would come to us to train Jimin?”

“Unfortunately, they are always short on staff so that won’t be an option. Unless you find a private tutor with a Caregiver and Mentoring Certificate, Jimin will have to attend school like anyone else.”

From some corner of his mind, Namjoon hears Bang Sihyuk’s voice. No one can know.

“That’s not an option,” Namjoon says. “On so many levels.”

“It’s the law.”

Namjoon breathes. He doesn’t know what he expected from the day when he put his feet on the carpet by his bed for the first time this morning, but it wasn’t this. The Dokkaebi’s eyes bore into Namjoon’s face, he can feel it.

“Are you perhaps… suggesting I break the law?”

The atrocity of the phrase makes Namjoon’s head snap up.

“Of course not,” he snaps, then, calmer, because he’s not a snappy person and he reminds himself of all the people he represents, “of course not.”

I will not allow scandals, Bang PD had once said. If any of you see any of the others or even a staff member do something illegal or even consider doing something illegal, we’re gonna have a long talk. I know you boys by heart. You’re kind, hardworking and talented. I will do anything in my power to support you but I will never enable people to abuse their position.

“You had me worried there, Namjoon-ssi. For a second.”

“I’m just saying that there are two things that cannot happen no matter how we turn it. Jimin can’t go to the Academy. And he can’t go without training. We need to find another solution. I trust you to find a different way.”

It’s this point that Namjoon fears. Because he has no idea about the MMA’s bureaucracy, about the rules or the law. He doesn’t want to engage in illegal activities. But he can’t not leave everything up to fate or luck either, and this is where he needs the Dokkaebi’s honest help.

“Well, there are other ways…”

“Which are?”

“Expensive ways.”

He hopes it doesn’t involve corruption but he feels like a gangster with his next words.

“Money is not an issue.”

“Money!? Are you really offering me money? That’s a weak currency.”

“Real estate?”

“Do I look like I need real estate?”

“What then? Business shares?”

“I’m not greedy.”

“Well, what is it?

“You know, some creatures thirst to feed on your emotions, your dreams, even your blood. They love the taste of a conflicted soul. But I am not that cruel. I wouldn’t even dare to suggest such crude things-“

“Get to the point. What do you want?”

“Your soul.”

The forests still before the Dokkaebi’s lips press closed. As if under a spell, even the clouds draw together and the menacing darkness in the Dokkaebi’s eyes falls over the clearing. Namjoon shivers, feeling cold, feeling tiny, feeling empty. For the first time of his life, he understands that he’s sharing a table with a predator. From this distance, running won’t make a difference, not when the forest obeys the powerful man in Hanbok; begging won’t change a thing, not when Namjoon’s chair’s armrests are chilling and rough like a cage’s bars. No, Namjoon has only his words and he knows he needs to put them in the perfect order to find the one way to get out of this situation unharmed. From the corner of his eye, he notices the deer and the wolf, helpless onlookers by the misguided force of his own lips. They look sad, fur no longer shiny in this low light, heads no longer held high in this awful suffocating silence. As if their souls had been drawn out of them with the threat of Namjoon’s loss.

“The way I see this,” Namjoon reiterates, slowly, praying to breathe life back into the forest with his warm voice. There’s still hope, he reassures himself. I have many words. Words are my playground. No reason to despair yet. “It’s a bargain, yes? We will bargain.”

“I am not a monster,” the Dokkaebi says. Namjoon can’t tell whether that’s supposed to reassure him. He takes it as an affirmation when the man waves his hand, signaling him to start.

“First of all, what do you want my soul for?“

“Is that really your biggest concern?”

“Of course. I will not agree to anything if I don’t know what will happen to my soul. Let’s be honest to each other.”

“Honest, hm?”

All books and films and stories aside, there’s not many occasions Namjoon has heard people even mention their soul or anything related to it. There’s no way of knowing what a soul means in this world of super natural creatures, the value it has, if it’s different for the different creatures. What you can do with a soul. So yes, even if he has to argue and talk his mouth off for hours, he insists on knowing every little detail he can get. He is aware, of course, that any information the Dokkaebi shares could be a lie, but Namjoon has seen liars before, knows some signs of it. Knows he won’t let others do just anything to him.

The Dokkaebi’s face pulls into a smile that so… heavy that Namjoon isn’t sure what to make of it. From the dark look in the man’s eyes, the gaze that he directs at his own hands, he dares to believe that smile is not meant for him.

“Do you know how people turn into Dokkaebis?”

Namjoon has to reign in his mind to not think about the tv show and instead rake his memories for old tales that he may have been told by his grandmother or other elderly from his neighborhood when he was young. All the Korean books he’s read in his youth. Nothing helpful pops up.

“I’m not sure… you die with a sword in your chest?”

The wooden table aches with the forceful slam of the Dokkaebi’s hand. Namjoon flinches, pants, hopes to never see anyone scowl at him again like that.

“Do I look like frickin’ Gong Yoo!? Frickin’ Koreans - has this entire nation watched that show!?”

A bead of sweat trails down Namjoon’s neck. He fiddles with the ring on his finger, shrugging.

“It was a good show. Funny, too.”

“Nothing about being a Dokkaebi is funny. It’s a curse,” the Dokkaebi growls as he tugs his durumagi sleeve back into place. “Just like this atrocity.”

Honestly, there’s not many Hanboks Namjoon has seen in real life with authentic golden emblems sewn into it - the kind that a king would wear in a drama. This durumagi must have either belonged to royalty before (but it doesn’t look very old) or been exclusively tailored for this man because there’s no way that he could have gotten this in a normal Hanbok store. It kind of reminds Namjoon of their 2017 MAMA outfits. This must have been expensive, too. Too expensive for a random foreigner with no regards for Korean culture to spend money on. Why did he get a Hanbok overcoat like this if he doesn’t even like it?

“Cruel of God to put me into this for all eternity, isn’t it? The garb I was butchered in.”

As if a hole is torn into reality, Namjoon’s strained but collected vision is directed towards the Dokkaebi’s stomach where blood starts to flow into the fine fabric with shocking vigor. Namjoon almost stumbles backwards in his seat, the chair creaking as he leans back, his mind telling him to get away, get away. Even the scent of blood is out to shock him. It stings in his nose, as if to show him how real it is. No wound is visible behind the slashed textile but Namjoon is sure that he wouldn’t be able to look at it anyway. This is already crass enough. Jimin seems to smell the blood too, raising his head and sniffling the air. Namjoon does his best to placate him with kind caresses and a slight push for him to stay down, to lie back down and sleep.

“Ugly, isn’t it?”

He should have notices the teasing tone of the Dokkaebi. Should have noticed, well, everything around the blood. Should have noticed. Because when he looks at the Dokkaebi’s face, another layer of reality has been torn away. He feels bile force its way up his throat, feels terror claw into him. In the chair across the table sits the body of a young man, shape and visage so unrecognizable it might have been a different person altogether. A cold breeze rushes through the trees around them, shaking the powerless leaves around as it likes.

The disgusting taste of bile reaches Namjoon’s mouth and he shudders, swallows, presses his eyes shut, swallows and swallows until there’s enough spit to wash everything away for a second or two. He dares to look up, look back at the Dokkaebi. His face is - not a face. It resembles a farming ground that has been plowed thoroughly - deeply, brutally, with force. The flesh of his cheeks just hangs off his face in tatters, like shredded wet tapestry that’s supposed to be removed and clings to the wall pathetically, his left cheekbone sticking out like crushed wood good for nothing but to feed a fire, and there’s blood everywhere between the swollen flesh, the torn nose, the ripped off eyebrow as if it was the only thing holding the disfigured pieces together. The only thing that’s sort of intact are the eyes - eyes that have not lost the piercing ire that’s following Namjoon’s pupils as they wander across the massacrous sight, almost like guard dogs making sure he won’t dare misstep even once. By the time Namjoon even locates the Dokkaebi’s throat between the wet, bloated flesh and the sharp pricks of white that had held the man’s jaw in place once, there are tears streaming down his cheeks. He shuts his eyes, praying that this face will not become the center of his nightmares for the rest of his life. When the Dokkaebi leans his face into his hand, which is also torn apart, flesh swelling between deep bite marks, joints hanging off the bone loosely, there’s an ugly squishing sound. Namjoon really wants to vomit. Jimin squeaks, terror in the high-pitched sound. The tiny cub thrashes in Namjoon’s hold but his hands feel numb, can’t hold the cat. It falls off the chair, squeaks some more, and runs.

“Please,” he begs, “please stop.”

“Did you know,” the Dokkaebi says, jaw crunching while he speaks, “that a supernatural’s powers never work on themselves?”

“No,” he croaks.

“Never, Namjoon-ssi. So I can hide this from you and the entire world but never from my own eyes.”

“Why did you have to show me?”

“Look at me again.”

“No, I don’t want to.”

“Look at me again. I will answer your questions.”

By now, mind occupied by the intensity of disgust and just overall sickness, Namjoon doesn’t even know what kinds of questions he’s asked before or if he still wants them answered. Raising his eyes back onto the horrifying sight takes more than a few seconds of encouraging and reassuring himself. He whimpers when the sticky red of the blood and the gruesome white have not vanished, but follows the Dokkaebi’s finger. Namjoon can’t help but pull up his shoulders, wishing he’d be somewhere else, wishing he could just go back to his normal life when the man in Hanbok puts his fingers into the flesh by his throat. He chokes, gags, isn’t sure who the sound is coming from, and looks at the wolf and the deer. The wolf is low on the ground, nuzzling something in between his paws that Namjoon identifies as a trembling little cat cub. Only the stag looks back, eyes deep and full of sympathy. Please get me out of here, Namjoon begs but jumps when the Dokkaebi’s loud voice demands his attention.

“LOOK AT ME!”

He does. Shivers.

“Do you see this?”

Between the two fingers that sort of… pull a more punctual wound open, something white shows up. At first, Namjoon suspects it to be bone but then, the Dokkaebi’s fingers dig deep enough to show the actual bone and it’s clear that the white piece is not a part of it.

“It’s a fang,” the Dokkaebi says, his own teeth showing. When he rips it out of his throat and throws it away, it takes only a few seconds to lodge itself in the open wound again. He looks at it in disgust. “This is the sword in my chest.”

“Great,” Namjoon groans, “I’ve seen it. Now make it go away.”

“Can you imagine the one thing that’s worse than all of this?”

“What is it?”

Namjoon feels sick. Sick to his stomach, sick to his bones. Sick like even vomiting won’t bring relief. Sick like he hasn’t felt sick since the beginning of his life. Sick like he won’t recover till the end of his life if this doesn’t end soon.

“The fact that all I remember from my life as a human is my death - the way a pack of wolves tore into me, clawed me apart until I became this. That I am forced to watch myself die every single night. Becoming a Dokkaebi is a punishment.”

The Dokkaebi pauses, must have found mercy in some hidden, unharmed corner of his body, and lets some sort of magic cover his face until he looks like a normal human being again. For some reason, it doesn’t loosen the icy grip the vision of his face has on Namjoon’s heart. He knows what he sees but his heart doesn’t follow up on it, not when it knows what’s underneath the mask. When the blood stains disappear from the Hanbok, Namjoon and the whole forest take a deep breath, like the last second of winter’s chokehold has passed and everything dares to hope for new life.

“I can’t heal or even become free until I find these beasts and kill them. I may seem powerful to you but I am not a war hero. My illusions will not be enough to trick a powerful Alpha - not when there’s a whole pack of wolves following him. They've all had a taste of my blood, what do you think will happen if I try to kill their Alpha?”

Namjoon’s head is still reeling. He doesn’t really want to talk anymore. If at least one of the members were here. Yoongi, perhaps. Or maybe just the wolf and the stag. Anyone. Comfort. He pulls himself together and speaks, even if his voice is trembling.

“So you collect souls. To become more powerful.”

“Sort of, yes.”

“And what happens to the person who sells their soul?”

“It depends on the contract they make.”

“Contract?”

A new piece of paper appears on the table, flat between them, innocently white against the dark wood and Namjoon feels his heart pound quickly at the sight of it; as if it knew what kind of paper it is. He remembers all the times he’s been standing on a tower in the pool, ten meters above the ground, then letting himself fall into the water below. His body feels the same rush of losing control, sitting in this chair but looking at the paper and Namjoon needs a second to gather control over his mind again. When he takes a second look, the paper doesn’t call forth adrenaline and memories and his ears pop open to hear the sounds of the forest. The Dokkaebi speaks first.

“This contract specifies our deal - I receive your soul for three months in return for letting Park Jimin live with you instead of taking him to the Academy.”

“And how can I be sure that it’s only for three months and that you won’t be taking my soul and do whatever you want with it for all eternity?”

“Think of it as a Netflix subscription… if your free trial is up, the subscription ends.”

Namjoon frowns. “…that’s not how Netflix works... Do you even watch tv?”

“Why would I not be watching tv? There’s lots of good shows…. How To Get Away With Murder, and-“

“Anyway,” Namjoon says, “what happens to me in those three months? What does it mean for me if you have my soul?”

“I don’t need your memories, your emotions or any of that. I merely need your soul’s strength, the horsepower of your soul so to say. In those months, you will probably not be very productive and drift in your thoughts a lot - your mind will automatically drift to me and what I’m doing. But you’ll live normally.”

“That’s not enough then,” Namjoon says. He isn’t sure if that’s too bold to say but he knows that they had agreed to bargain and bargain he will. An idea pops up. “My soul is worth much more than that.”

He seems to have hit the nail on the head because the Dokkaebi frowns.

“I’m in the international business. An absence for three months will result in million-dollar losses. Nowadays, the world doesn’t really run without me. But what’s most important, I have a family to take care of and a leopard shifter brother I need to raise - I want more in exchange.”

“What do you want?”

“How sure can I be that the mentor you pick is good for Jimin and that our CEO will even accept that person?”

“Are you challenging me?”

“No. I’m saying, every mentor must have undergone training themselves. You mentioned a license?”

“There are classes to train mentors and caregivers.”

“Good. Enroll Min Yoongi and me. We’ll do the classes, we’ll take the exam, whatever. We’ll take care of Jimin.”

From the expressions of the Dokkaebi, it’s not discernible how much it is that Namjoon is asking for but from the long silence, Namjoon gathers that it must be a big deal. Whether it’s about sneaking them into the system or breaking the law, he doesn’t care. These are the conditions. I will do whatever I can to make Jimin live the best life possible.

“The class takes three years of teaching. I can’t keep the officials’ eyes away from you for that long.”

“Well, do we have to be present or do we just need to pass the exam?”

“You need to pass the exam.”

“When is the next one?”

“I’m not sure. In five months? I think the exams take place semi-annually.”

“Great, put us on that list. We’ll be there. We’ll pass it.”

The Dokkaebi huffs and rolls his eyes.

“Humans are so stupid. Look, you don’t really think you can learn the stuff from three years of class in five months, do you? Especially when you’re just human.”

“Give me a guidance counsellor then. Something like a tutor.”

“What?”

“Someone to tutor Min Yoongi and me. Someone with experience, a person who’s taken the classes before.”

“I-that’s- you’re asking for a lot, Namjoon-ssi.”

“My soul is worth a lot.”

The forest sings around them as if nothing bad could ever happen here and with every chirp of the birds, Namjoon feels something in his blood surging, like a connection. Almost as if he can feel the grass growing, stretching towards the sky and bathing in the sunlight. By the side, the deer and wolf sit. They look more relaxed than before and Namjoon likes to think it’s because he’s taken control of the situation. The Dokkaebi’s eyes are calculating but also… curious.

“I’ve never met a human who actually knows the value of their soul.”

Namjoon is not Seokjin, so he doesn't think it's the right time to fling in some cheesy pun or snarky comment like, of course, my soul's just as handsome as my face.

“So, what happens to my soul if you die fighting those wolves?”

“Good question. I guess you’d have to hire someone to find it for you.”

“Find it???”

“I suppose so. I’ll make sure your guidance counsellor slash tutor will be able to find your lost soul in case I die. If I can even die. Otherwise, I’ll just bring it back to you.”

“That’s not reassuring at all! What if someone else finds it first? Someone bad?”

“We could always bind it to an object? Something small, something you can keep on your body?”

Namjoon thinks about all those EarPods he’s lost. He shivers at the mental image of his soul falling through some sewer on the street.

“Maybe not too small?”

“I won’t need your soul anytime soon anyway, so we’ll find an adequate object until then. When I need it, I’ll notify you. That all?”

Namjoon looks at the paper and finds that every word has been recorded on the paper in fine calligraphy. It looks like an old Hangul script that he find in museums. It makes him wonder how magic works, how many kinds of magic there are and if it’s anything like he would imagine. If people could really use magic for good, just like Tata with his little ray gun.

“So you want to use my soul to execute revenge.”

“I want to find the people who killed me and make them pay, yes.”

“How about you bring them to the police?”

He should have seen it coming but somehow, he didn’t. The Dokkaebi gets up faster than Namjoon can even register and slams his hand on the table. His eyes are angry, his whole body tense.

“You think they would even care!? No one cares, no one cares for a punished soul! And even if, I don’t think it’s your business how I deal with my stuff.”

“I think it is, considering that it’s my soul you’re taking. I don’t want it to be used for violence.”

“But you want your little brother to stay with you, don’t you?”

Of course Namjoon does. Also, besides wanting Jimin to stay with the group, there’s also a couple of rules Namjoon can’t ignore. No one can know, PDnim had said specifically. We need to keep him safe, Yoongi had pointed out. Even if Jimin wanted to go, Namjoon’s hands would be tied.

“Jimin can’t go,” he says simply, hoping that he won’t have to explain. It’s enough reason. The Dokkaebi nods, as if his reason is the same. Enough.

“Then you can’t care about what I use your soul for. This is the deal. Take it or Jimin will have to go.”

A wave of uncertainty rushes through Namjoon. What can I say to make him reconsider violent behavior? It’s natural in the world to use violence for violence, Namjoon knows that and can’t help but feel disappointed at the realization that it’s no different for the supernatural world. But still, even if that’s the natural way, there’s another path that’s worth taking - Namjoon knows this especially.

“There’s no freedom in-“, he wants to say but the words are stuck in his throat. A cold shiver crawls up his legs like a horde of insects scrambling over each other between his bare skin and his clothing. He looks around, feeling as though time stands still. Everything is still as it was a second ago, the Dokkaebi, the mahogany desk, the wolf, the stag, the trees. But it’s all silent as if someone had turned the birds, the trees and even the frogs off. As if the whole forest is holding its breath for something major to happen. The sunlight still falls through the treetops but it flickers, dipping the clearing in an unsteady light, never quite passing warmth to Namjoon even when it brushes over him. What is going on?

He notices something stirring from the corner of his eyes. When he turns, the wolf and the stag are moving, moving around something. The wolf nudges something, licks and nuzzles his snout into a lump, a naked human body on the grass. The body moves, lifts its blonde head. Jimin? Namjoon is holding his breath along with the forest. It takes minutes but finally, the boy moves more, sits up, encouraged by the wolf that moves around Jimin in gentle steps, tail wagging slowly. When Jimin rubs his eyes like he’s just woken up from sleep, Namjoon can’t help but smile fondly. Jimin shifted back. The Dokkaebi makes a surprised noise by his side but Namjoon ignores him, standing up and walking towards Jimin, who has also found his way up. Their footsteps towards each other echo, hitting grass, little rocks and flowers. Namjoon thinks they echo from within his chest. His racing heart pumps blood through his ears. He sighs in relief when a hand touches his shoulder, closes his eyes for a last time before he lets himself be convinced that this is real. When he opens his eyes, he gasps, even if the image before him is not new. Jimin really stands in front of him, hair in disorganized strands as if he’d run, eyes big and tears wetting his entire face. He’s crying, sobbing and something is wrong with the image of his younger brother but Namjoon can’t figure out what, so he tries to touch Jimin. The skin is familiar and warm and the touch makes the younger shake even worse. Sunshine turns into rainy clouds over their heads.

“Hyung,” Jimin gasps, voice broken and small. His breath brushes over the goosebumps on Namjoon’s skin in fast little waves. Too fast.

“Jiminie, you shifted,” Namjoon rushes to smile warmly, grabbing the boy’s shoulders, “you changed back. How did you do that?”

Jimin looks around, eyes wild as he searches the area around them. For what, Namjoon doesn’t know but the fear in Jimin’s face makes his heart break. He wills his big hands to calm and to quickly wipe Jimin’s cheeks like Taehyung and Seokjin always do to calm him. Jimin whimpers and lets himself be drawn against Namjoon’s chest. Normally, he wouldn’t really do this, but Jimin shaking like a leaf definitely isn’t normal. His little chest is falling and rising too fast and Namjoon feels like he’s holding a delicate bird in his arms. Drops of rain start falling, start trailing long paths over Jimin’s bare skin.

“What’s happening, Jimin-ah? Tell hyung what’s going on, hm?”

What is going on inside his head? Are there side effects to shifting? Is he in pain? Does he remember anything?

Jimin smells good where his hair is right underneath Namjoon’s nose. It’s reassuring to see him back in human form of course but right now Namjoon dares to think that maybe Jimin has shifted back at the wrong time. What if the Dokkaebi will try to take advantage of him? When he’s this vulnerable? What if he just takes him and I can’t do anything? Namjoon is careful, trying not to overwhelm Jimin but he finally has the opportunity to get the answer he’s been dying to hear ever since Jimin found him in the woods.

“Jimin-ah, is Suga-hyung here too? Did you come here with Suga-hyung?”

“Hyung,” Jimin breathes, voice fragile, threatening to break while new tears flow out of his beautiful beautiful eyes, “hyung, will you really send me away?”

The forest’s melody dies down into an ugly silence. No buzzing, no life. Namjoon’s heart shatters. Shatters like it’s just a thin slice of glass not meant to withstand anything. He feels the shock crawling into his own face, driving tears into his own eyes. A whisper of betrayal hangs in the air and Namjoon swallows heavily. Before he can say anything, Jimin grabs his arms. Pleading.

“Hyung, please no. Please, please don’t send me away. I would never - I, please, please, I want to stay with you. I love you all so much, I can’t-”

He cries, cries like he hasn’t since a long time ago, since he was younger and more fragile in his spirit, too dependent to reassure himself. Big tears roll over his cheeks, big tears like fat raindrops falling after a forest fire and Namjoon is reminded of that one time he’d found Jimin in the shower, under the running water where he had been for three hours until everyone started looking for him. The water had washed the tears away of course but the redness in Jimin’s eyes and the way he’d curled up on the floor instead of standing had given it all away. In the end, Hoseok had helped him to breathe while Taehyung had patted him dry and given him little kisses on his forehead. Jimin didn’t sleep that night, confiding hoarsely in Taehyung, and had seemed better afterwards but never spoke of it again. The next day, Namjoon was informed of the death threats that had been announced against Jimin and Jungkook and the concerts PDnim had canceled because of it.

“Jimin, I-“

“Please tell me you won’t give me away because I’m different now. You said- you said you’d always love me.”

The tears are real, they slide down from Jimin’s cheeks onto Namjoon’s hands, warmly but clinging onto their skin desperately as if afraid of falling. Namjoon’s heart pounds, strains, tries to escape his chest and engulf Jimin’s to make him feel protected, secure and loved.

“That’s,” Namjoon’s voice breaks, “that’s never gonna happen, Jiminie. We won’t send you away. We’ll never send you away, okay? You’re our brother, you can decide what you want and we’ll always be here for you. We love you so much, you’re our Jiminie.”

Under Namjoon’s hands, Jimin’s tears are wiped off and when he looks at his dongsaeng again, the deep sadness is replaced by glimmers of hope. A pout is on Jimin’s warm lips as he mumbles, “promise?”

“I promise.”

The way Jimin’s face lights up like the golden sun breaking forth from behind the clouds is everything. If he was any more sentimental, Namjoon would probably really believe Jimin was an angel. But there’s something… unsettling in the way Jimin’s beautiful eyes start looking glassy. Glassy if there’s some sad part of him that can’t believe Namjoon’s promise.

“But would you… would you really sell your soul for me?”

Namjoon breathes, feels lightheaded, feels the air rushing inside his lungs, rushing in, rushing out. Feels peace in the rush. Wants to give the same peace to Jimin. The tender love Jimin always gives but never expects to be given in return.

“Jiminie, it’s because of my soul that I can serve you and the members. I will fight for you with all that I am but I don’t know if I can give my soul away and still-”

It’s difficult to say this and to see the hope in his dongsaeng’s eyes flicker and turn into new tears. Jimin presses his eyes shut, a bitter smile on his lips.

“I trust you, hyung. If you want me to suffer, I will. You’re my leader. I will always follow you. You’re my home, you know that, right?”

“I know-“ Namjoon’s voice completely breaks. This is the worst he’s ever felt towards Jimin even if the younger is smiling at him, he knows that not doing it would make him think that he betrayed Jimin forever. In the rain, it looks as if Jimin’s whole body is crying violently. With a start, Namjoon knows. I have to protect him in any way I can. If it’s this sacrifice, that’s life. It will all turn out well. It always does.

“Oh, Jiminie. You’re my home, too. We will never send you away.”

For a second, he becomes a witness of the sunrise that’s Jimin’s smile. It swells along with the crescendo of the forest, swells into a warmth that soaks into Namjoon’s body. It's so beautiful, almost like it can make up for all the shit and all the disgustingness his day had brought. Namjoon wraps his arms around Jimin, letting his nose get buried in Jimin's neck, just the way he knows Jimin likes to be hugged. And then it happens. With an ice-cold start, Namjoon realizes that something about this is wrong. He realizes what has been bothering him at the back of his mind for their entire conversation. Why the chill on his legs had never gone away. He hadn’t felt Jimin’s heartbeat. Even with his fingers digging into Jimin’s cheeks, into Jimin’s shoulders and while holding his head against his chest by the neck, Namjoon hadn’t felt Jimin’s heartbeat pulsing under the delicate skin. Just like the leopard - the illusion of the leopard. Within seconds, Jimin dissolves like a ruined reflection in a lake - and Namjoon looks straight into the dark, gleaming eyes of the Dokkaebi. The Dokkaebi who is holding a whining leopard cub in his arms. The only weak comfort are the red stripes on his hands that look suspiciously like claw marks.

“How heartwarming. Now, let's move on.”

Namjoon gasps like he’s resurfacing after a long dive. He holds his chest but can’t find the hurting spot. It aches from deep down, hollow. Around him, the rain is back and crashing down. The initial peace is nowhere to be found. An illusion. It was - it was another trick. Namjoon slides off the chair, can’t hold himself, sinks to his knees, gasping for air. It takes more than a minute to come back to his senses, the nausea overwhelming. The forest’s song has turned into a mess, an arrhythmical clashing of dissonant sounds.

“How- how did you do that?”

“Hmmm, I didn’t do anything. Your imagination is really powerful, all it needed was a tiny push. Now, if you’d sign here and here… You have come to a decision, have you not?”

Namjoon’s heart pounds furiously and he starts to believe that people saying “follow your heart” clearly haven’t ever stood before decisions like this. One side of his conscious knows that the Dokkaebi is a supernatural being and that there’s no way he could ever take this guy on but the other side of his mind tells him that every creature has a weakness and that a trickster can be defeated through a trick. But there’s no real way to tell whether he can even win this game or not - other than trying. His hands are shaking so he puts them into the wolf’s fur. The touch ignites a prickling sensation, almost like little lights crawling into his hands to give courage and strength. And if this is the last thing I try, I have to do it. For Jimin.

“I-I made my decision.”

“And which is it?”

“I decide not to tell you. You didn’t tell me I had to tell you what it is, you only said that I needed to decide.”

The twitch in the Dokkaebi’s eyes gives it all away - it’s a valid loophole and the Dokkaebi has not expected Namjoon to find it.

“That’s unacceptable, you can’t-“

“In fact, I can. This is my Essence, my bokjil, isn’t it? Nothing can happen here if I don’t allow it. I could just go back and report you.”

Namjoon feels like there’s hot courage boiling in every vein. The wolf nudges his cheek in silent praise. It feels like victory. Until the Dokkaebi laughs.

“Oh, Namjoon-ssi, how do think you got here in the first place?”

Namjoon hates the patronizing tone.

“Do you really think you’re so great that you can transport your physical body into your soul’s landscape yourself? And how do you think you will get out of it without my help? Do you want to wander your own soul for the rest of your life and never go back?”

Everything shatters. Shatters like it’s final and there’s no saving left for this mess. Shatters like the melody is irreparable, useless.

“Give me Jimin first,” Namjoon croaks.

“Sign first. I will give him to you right after.”

“You have been tricking me left and right. How do you expect me to believe you say the truth?”

The Dokkaebi laughs.

“Hm, I see we have a bit of a misunderstanding here. You see, I haven’t lied to you. Tricks and lies are really two different things. Lying means intentionally misleading someone. A trick is just a suggestion. If you fall for it, that's your bad. Also, I do have some honor. I’m not a liar. I always keep my word.”

Namjoon shudders, feeling empty, feeling defeated. His shoulders sag, his chest hurts. I just want to go home. Thunder shakes the sky and lighting crashes down when the pen in his hand scratches over the rough paper. The ground beneath his feet turns to mud with the myriads of water drops catapulting against it. Everything is wet, the uncomfortable sort of wet that you’re not prepared for even with an umbrella and a rain jacket. The drops are invasive, driving straight through Namjoon’s clothes and pressing obnoxiously against his skin. It’s unrealistic and illogical but Namjoon fears that they might dig through his skin and pierce his organs if he doesn’t get out of here soon.

The Dokkaebi smiles when Namjoon puts the pen down. The mahogany desk disappears behind a new veil of rain and Namjoon feels unprotected with nothing firm between the Dokkaebi and him. He sighs in relief when Jimin’s wet snout, wet fur, wet body touches his fingers, when the little one mewls in his arms.

“It’s alright, baby. I’m here. It’s alright.”

“I believe we’re done here. It was a pleasure to meet you, Namjoon-ssi.”

He should be glad it’s all over, should be glad this weird meeting is coming to an end and he will go home and all but all that’s left on Namjoon’s mind is the feeling that he’s missing something. That he’s been tricked beyond simple illusions, bereaved of answers, options, freedom, god knows what else.

“Wait,” he says, barely able to keep his eyes open in the strong rain, “why me? Out of the millions of souls in Seoul, why did you pick mine?”

He notices a grey figure moving through the rain. Wolf? The Dokkaebi seems to notice it too but instead of being intimidated by the animal that could tear him apart any second, he speaks calmly.

“As I said before. Each beast has its own preferences.”

He’s gone in the blink of an eye, the dark glint in his eyes and the wicked smirk on his lips the last things Namjoon sees. He smiles weakly, finally able to breathe now that the menace is gone. He looks down at Jimin in his arms, finally safe. In a gesture meant to calm the shivering cub, Namjoon lets his fingers move through the cub’s fur as tenderly as he can, careful not to pull on the strands of hair the printer ink still glues together. Jimin purrs when Namjoon rubs his neck. And then - Namjoon freezes, nausea swelling up like a roaring tsunami. There’s no pulse. A dark wave pushes over him, making him numb and deaf, making him drown in himself. The leopard baby falls apart in his hands. Instead of the forest’s melody, there’s laughter. Namjoon falls to his knees. He vomits. Namjoon sits in the rain, unmoving and alone, only the wolf by his side, silently spending warmth. The rain drops sting.

“How do you want the song to sound?”

Namjoon has a few ideas already, here between the softness of the pillows and the gentle curls of Taehyung’s permed brown hair and the hazy glow outside the windows where rain keeps running down the glass tirelessly. On the windowsill, a scented candle flickers, spreading its cozy wooden scent. It’s most likely a gift from Jimin and therefore a treasured reminder of something special for Taehyung.

“It should sound like tearing your heart out violently. Like crying, too. Because our tears are just like raindrops,” Namjoon sees Taehyung staring into the distance, face grim as little wet streaks trail down his cheeks and drip off his jaw, “without the pain, there is no need for comfort. Even if you’re not scared of it anymore, being broken still has to hurt. It hurts every time.”

Namjoon kneels in a familiar living room, shaking, dripping, gasping. There’s a puddle of water at his knees, slowly sinking into the carpet. His head spins and he’s nauseous, as if his whole body rhythms and sensory systems have all been overloaded and violated. He still feels the stinging pricks of rain drill into him. Even the comforting and familiar scent of Yoongi’s cooking is not enough to calm him down. He’s home, yes, but he can’t stop shaking. Is this… what going insane feels like?

The only sense of relief comes when a small rumbling distracts him from all the noise in his head. A tiny body of violently colorful fur rolls around on a blanket on the sofa to his left. The kitty rumbles, its paws kneading the air while it sleeps. Namjoon doesn’t dare to believe it, inherently afraid to fall for another cruel trick. Slowly, he leans over to put a hand on Jimin’s chest. Thump, thump, thump. Peace. Glorious peace spreads in Namjoon’s chest. It’s real. This time, it’s really real. It seeps through his entire body and Namjoon relaxes, tears streaming down his cheeks. Jimin is fine. Jimin will be fine. I made my decision. It will be alright.

“Namjoon!?”

He flinches when something crashes against the floor. A cup of tea stains Yoongi’s white slippers, the shards in a circle around him like he’s standing in a bomb’s impact crater. When Namjoon lifts his hand to wave, his wet clothes feel gross and heavy. Yoongi frowns. One look at Jimin, the paper bag that stands next to the sofa and Namjoon realizes something he hasn’t even thought of while in the woods.

“Namjoon-ah. Are you alright? Were were you? Sejin-hyung said-”

Yoongi’s eyes follow his, the genuine concern put on pause when he understands that Namjoon is focused on something else. When their eyes meet again, Namjoon can literally see his hyung’s thoughts.

“Don’t say it, hyung-“

“Where are they?”

Namjoon grimaces.

He forgot the shopping bags in the woods.

masterlist | moodboard masterlist

[ prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight ] tags: @xmagicxshopx, @taeshuworld, @justanemptydream, @hoodmeup, @gingerpeachtae (wanna join? send me an ask!) ✨

[clinioelerrante]

To be fainthearted…

That a student of Hogwarts was prowling the corridors of the castle in the wee hours of the morning was not uncommon.

The fact that this student belonged to Gryffindor House was even less so.

That such a student had hair that was red as hellfire could almost be considered normal.

The fact that this particular student was mumbling curses and oaths about a certain frizzy-haired which, it had been part of the regular school scene for more than 4 years.

But for such a student, at the height of Dolores Umbridge's reign of terror, to wander aimlessly, alone, under a disillusioning spell, with the marauder's map in hand and risking exemplary punishment or even expulsion from school, was decidedly atypical.

“A fucking wart? Mmm-hmm. A fucking wart and a fucking teaspoon?...” He mumbled as he took long strides through the corridors, almost oblivious to everything else. “My arse!”

Everything had started after the DA meeting. Cho Chang had accosted Harry in room of requirement while the rest of the group had dispersed. Hermione and he had gone to Gryffindor common room at and were having a relaxed conversation until she insisted that he complete his task while she wrote a letter. Hermione's parchment was already over the edge of the table and hanging dangerously close to the floor, when Harry came through the hole behind the portrait.

It had been perfectly obvious that something had happened. While one could not say that Harry had arrived with a completely dumb face, it was no less true that he was the closest thing to the face of someone who had been struck by a stunning spell.

With Harry’s apparent inability to explain what had happened, Hermione had taken the initiative in the conversation until he blew up the cauldron:

“Have you kissed?”

Wait... What? Harry would have kissed Cho or maybe it was Cho who kissed Harry? After the initial surprise, he was enthusiastic about his friend and wished he did it.

Of course! He'd been aware of Hurry’s crush on Cho since last year. One would have to be blind not to see him with that deer's eyes accompanied by a slight drooling every time Cho entered the scene! But following the usual pattern of shitty luck in Harry Potter's life that was the time when the bird was dating Cedric Diggory.

The memory of the partner killed by Peter Pettigrew overshadowed Ron's memories. Cedric was a good guy and his end had been unexpected, unjust and one more to add to the long list of Wormtail's coward crimes. Top of them, the betrayal of Harry's parents: Lily and James Potter.

“You filthy rat!" he swore. “If I had known, I personally would have left you alone with Crookshanks in a nice little room without a single hole in its walls and an undisturbed spell on the door.

The point was that Harry was still attached to Cho, if not more so, and it seemed that she had begun to notice Harry. There was no doubt that he had turned out to be a brilliant teacher in the DA meetings, added to his perpetual challenge to the pink toad and the legendary fight at the quidditch pitch had contributed enormously, to increase his sex appeal according to some whispered comments that he had heard between the women of the DA and some boys.

Ron wished with all his heart that, “For once!”, Harry's bad luck changed and like any normal teenager, he could live a normal life enjoying the intimate affection of a hot girl who she like him, although in his opinion ...a Tornado fan was not good enough for Harry. . . One flash of a long red hair burst into his mind making him shake his head to free himself from such disturbing vision.

But as usual, Harry hadn't had any luck with it either.

Instead of the first-time nervous or inexperienced teenager's kiss, it had resulted in little more than a disaster that had trapped Harry in the pit of insecurity in his ability to kiss properly a girl and later, with Hermione's invaluable assistance and her detailed talk about Cho Chang's state of emotional turmoil, he guessed in Harry, the doubt about the appropriateness of attempting any kind of relationship with such an emotionally damaged girl and, knowing Harry's legendary hero complex, he would be able to give up the girl if he thought it was sparing him any further pain. A massive Dragon’s dung in Ron's opinion, so he had used his best weapon to pull Harry out of his stupefaction and keep him from falling into his usual melancholy self-isolation; a joke:

“No one can feel so many things at once. It would explode!”

Ron doubted that anyone could explode because of it. If himself hadn't exploded with everything that's happened in the last year, it would be strange if someone else did. “Okay. Maybe Neville would go into a coma or pass out, but I don't think so. Dealing with Mrs. Longbottom for so many years had given him much more courage than many would give him credit for.”

In any case, Hermione's words had unleashed an emotional storm inside Ron, and the problem was that he saw no way to refute the logical sequence of events that had been linked together and seemed to form the links of a chain that wrapped around his neck.

Harry was diligent, brilliant, and handsome, he was not. Harry would have deserved to be prefect of Gryffindor, he didn't. Harry was extraordinary in Quidditch, he wasn't. . . “But Victor fucking pumpkin head Krum  is too. So rich. Could be richer as Harry even and. . . . and I'm sure he's experienced enough to know how to kiss a woman properly and. . . Oh God! How does Hermione know Harry is a good kisser and who has she been able to compare him to. . . ?”

He couldn't help it. His mind was filled with the slow motion image of Hermione kissing Krum torridly, trapping his ridiculously short hair between her thin fingers and taking his lips as if from them she extracted the air she needed to breathe, while one of his hands remained on her delicate waist and the other slowly ascended from her hip to caress her entire chest, provoking a lustful moan in her.

Ron felt the periphery of his vision turn red and his fists instinctively clenched so tightly that he felt his own nails sink into his flesh. He felt the need to rip the bastard's head off and when he looked up to face him, his mind was filled with Harry's gaze as he kissed Hermione passionately.

A familiar black claw wrapped around Ron's heart and squeezed it empty until it was breathless. He had never felt such pain or such overwhelming despair. Without being able to avoid it, from the depths of his being, a cry of impotence burst out, which ascended through his throat and escaped from him like the roar of the mortally wounded lion that intends to take his killer away with his last breath. . .

“Who's there? Don't try to escape. Inquisitorial Squad, with me!”

Ron cursed himself. He was so overwhelmed by the pain his own mind had generated that he had forgotten about bloody Umbridge and its band of mangy snakes patrolling the school corridors. Without thinking too much, he rushed to the double-leafed doors in front of him and entered.

“Professor Umbridge. Here!”

Blood seemed to be boiling in Ronald Weasley's veins. He'd recognize that voice anywhere. It was like the Malfoy and Weasley families had some sort of bond in destiny that would inevitably lead them to confront each other. The bloody bouncing ferret was on the other side of the door blocking the exit and calling for the great inquisitor to fall on him. Ron could hardly have imagined the satisfaction it would cause the flathead to discover that the student who violated the curfew was a Weasley and, among them, Harry Potter's best friend, no less! Nothing would make him happier than to witness another humiliation by Ronald Weasley. He was in these thoughts when another, much more disturbing, one made its way into his mind.

Umbridge! This would be like an early Christmas present for her. She would take advantage of the fact that it was him to provoke Harry and that would give her the perfect excuse to expel him.

Shit! You bloody fool couldn't have held back yourself, he thought to himself. No wonder Hermione can't see you as anything but a good-for-nothing. . . Hermione! Oh my God! If neither Harry or I are here, the ferret and the fucking toad are going to torment her to death. They're going to beat her and provoke her mercilessly until she quits or explodes and they can finally expel her. This would kill her. Shit, shit, shit, I'm the biggest asshole on the face of the earth. . .

“Grand Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge here". The voice of the disgusting toad was heard on the other side of the door. “I order you to leave that room.”

Ron, not breathing, stood three feet from the door waiting for the fatal decay.

“There's nothing to be afraid of"; he said with false sweetness. “All of us here are friends and we care about the safety of the students at the school. The Ministry only wants the best for all the magical children in the UK...” Ron thought that sounded suspiciously similar to a certain muggle story Hermione had once told him about a witch, one stupid girl and a poisoned apple...

“I'm absolutely sure is not your fault"; and this time there seemed to be some poison in her voice. “No doubt you'd be following the horrible example of Mr. Potter and his friends about how much fun it is to walk around the castle at this hour, but they don't have the good breeding of those born into completely magical families". She said scornfully, “And they can't understand how dangerous it can be to prowl around the castle at these hours, without the supervision of someone fully versed in the ins and outs of true magic society”. Ron swore he heard a chuckle from the silver ferret. “I'm begging you to come out. I promise that you will only receive one warning and we will accompany you to your common room so that you can rest until tomorrow's class”.

That's not what you've been saying publicly so far, you bloody cow. Always promising magic world perfectly safe thanks to the ministry and your “beloved” Fudge, old hag, he thought, trembling with anger. SHE knows more about the magic world, its traditions and its miseries than you will ever know in your entire fucking life. In an ideal world, you wouldn't even be worthy of breathing the same air that she breathes.  Instinctively, his magic channelled all his anger into his own hand that seemed to sizzle, longing to meet the wand that waited expectantly in his back pocket.

“Very well”, this time Umbridge's voice was definitely loaded with contempt. “I understand that if you are unable to understand the delicate complexities of the magical world and my desire to ensure your safety is because you have not had the proper education in your born-home. Nothing that a proper punishment can't solve, so, you´ll understand your place”.

This did it. Ron took three steps behind leaving its good fifteen feet with the door.

This sadist thinks it's not pureblood who is here and she's going to take advantage of it to make an example of it. His hand finally met his wand that seemed to emit a buzz of satisfaction to his contact. She will be stunned when she sees that the marauder is one of the “twenty-eight sacred". He thought this one with really loathe, like if bitter gall touched his lips at the memory. If I were anyone else I might be able to escape from this by sounding sorry, but being who I am, she's going to take advantage of it to go against both of them and if she doesn't go against Hermione, Draco will. For a moment a smile escaped his lips as he thought of what Hermione would do to Draco if he openly fought against her while remembering the superb punch the ferret had received in third year. But Malfoy will never attack her openly. He would seek a moment of solitude and would be accompanied by his two gorillas and possibly some Slytherin Deatheater apprentice and, God knows! What they would be capable of doing to her.

As his last smile died on his face, his wand was raised in his arm in a duelling position. Ron knew his fate was already decided. He knew that with him expelled, he would no longer be able to protect Harry and Hermione within the walls of Hogwarts, but nothing would stop him from defending them outside or making a last stand inside. When he confronted Umbridge and her henchmen, he would make his argument clear by giving them a hell of a wand, to make them understand that, just in the moment any of them tried to harm any of their friends, there would be no place under the sun where they could hide from him. So that miserable crew on the other side of the door would get the message and refrain from really drastic actions against his two friends.

Being Ron under age, he would not end up in Azkaban, and the fact that this stinking band knew that he would be free to show up at Hogsmeade from time to time would help reinforce the message. That would give Dumbledore and McGonagall time to regain control of the school and protect both of them. The image of a knight being taken by the queen on a gigantic chessboard gave him a crooked smile meanwhile he faced, wand in hand, his fate. Checkmate, pal.

“Alohomora!”

Alohowhat? What in  the h. . .; Ron didn't have time to complete the question that popped into his mind while his frown frowned in shock when he heard the spell on the other side of the door. But, if the door's not locked, why are they. . . ? For the second time, the idea died in his mind as he watched as the doorknob seemed to turn repeatedly in the attempt of someone trying to open the door, apparently in vain.

“ALOHOMORA!” It was heard again from the other side.” What's wrong with the damn door?” Again the voice of Umbridge was heard, this time in an unmistakable tone of irritation, as the doorknob was shaken more and more violently without the door giving way by a single millimetre.

-Get out of the way! This time there was real rage in the voice of the great inquisitor. On the other side of the door, Ron heard her to perform, one after the other, no less than 10 different spells trying to unlock the door and the paroxysmal movement of the doorknob had also given way to the incensed knocking of the door, as if in a primary resource and having failed magic, brute force was being used to force entry. It was then that he realized that his wand seemed to be emitting a dull buzzing sound that made her hand tremble.

“That's enough! I'm sure this is a joke of that brazen poltergeist”. Ron smiled. The toad's voice sounded more like a big walrus's breathing down from too much exercise. “Sure. He must have let out the scream and bewitched the door so that it could not be opened"; she continued, between gasping and panting.

“But professor”, Ron shuddered again at the sound of Malfoy's voice and to realize that his wand was shaking more intensely. “We've known Peeves since the first year, and that's certainly not his voice, nor is this the style of his jokes. He tends to be cruder and coarser by throwing stink bombs or buckets of ice water on the backs of the students. . .” The ferret's peroration was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a slap on the back of his neck particularly hard.

 “Stupid”. Umbridge's voice sounded particularly annoying. “Do you dare to discuss a teacher's judgment? I tell you that all this is the work of that nasty spirit and, if all of you had been properly versed in the magical arts, you would have realized it right away as well”. Ron could not help but have a panting laugh. The toad had just beaten the insufferable presumptuous, frustrated by her inability to open the door and, trying to avoid looking bad in front of her acolytes, she had diverted attention and blame onto the asshole. My word. He would have gladly paid two months' pay for being able to see the ferret's face.

“This only proves the ministry right. The quality of teaching in this place has tragically declined and it is imperative that the ministry take control of it in order to instruct the young wizards and witches in the mastery of their skills. “With me!” It was heard like a whimper and then, the unmistakable tapping of a few steps away.

Ron stood waiting for an invisible trap to fall on him; meanwhile, his wand continued vibrating in his hand, though ever more faintly, until it stopped completely. He remained motionless and almost breathless for a few more minutes, hoping to believe in his good fortune and that he really had escaped from a more than complicated situation. Finally, he decided it was time to take a chance and averted his eyes from the door and consulted the marauder's map. He couldn't believe it! On the map it could clearly read “Ronald Weasley”, but on the other side of the door the map did not reflect the presence of anyone. Even in his surroundings there doesn't seem to be a soul.

Now or never, pal; he said to himself in encouragement and then, he set about turning the doorknob which. As before, it pivoted on its axis smoothly and pulled it, the door to stay locked.

“Shit”, he mumbled, but refrained from further attempts. In a sad irony, it seemed that the same mystery that had saved his freckled arse was keeping him prisoner of the room. “Well", he closed his eyes and as he concentrated he muttered. “Whatever it is, I really appreciate you helping me out, but I'd really like to get out, get to my room and forget about tonight. I swear I've learned the fucking lesson not to wander around the castle after curfew, or at least, not to be such an asshole as to scream in the hallway after curfew”. He looked at the door again and tried to open it, and again this one remained unmoved.

“Bloody hell!” This time the tone of his voice was noticeably louder.  He turned in frustration on himself and looking up at the ceiling dropped himself over the door and, leaned on the back of his head as it tapped repeatedly against the wood in an attempt to alleviate his disappointment.

“Okay! It's all right. If the price I have to pay for escaping the damn pink toad is to spend the night in this room, I'll gladly take it. Tomorrow someone will come, open the door, cast the disillusioning spell on me, sneak out and I'll manage to find a way to justify my. . .

He jumped upright as he opened his eyes wide, realizing that he had no idea where he was! It had all happened so quickly and unexpectedly that all he could remember was walking through the door that was closest to him at the time. Once the surprise was over, he began to inspect the room, hoping to recognize it.

“I should've known better”. The sad whisper escaped his lips as if it were the sigh of a condemned man whose last chance for freedom is slipping away.

The shelves followed one another in countless rows . . . “Well, surely not countless. I'll bet Hermione knows “exactly"; the number of them, as well as the number of every damn book inside each and every one of them"; he moaned.

Still, he had to admit. Empty of students, under the twilight of the moonlight filtering through the large windows, the Hogwarts Library was magnificent. Magnificent and intimidating.

“As always, she is able to see things at first sight, which takes the rest of us years"; he sighed. “No wonder I am not even able to keep up with her thoughts when that adorable head of her gets going”. And that was precisely what was bothering him most at this time and had led him to wander aimlessly through the school corridors. That with all her brilliance, all her knowledge, all her fucking logic, she wouldn't have been able to see everything that was bubbling up inside him. . .

Ron had not been aware at first, but gradually he became aware of the presence of candlelight behind some library shelves. Initially he feared that it might be because of the presence of another person in the library, whether it was a student, a teacher or, at worst, Filch and his mangy cat. So he remained quiet, but since the light seemed to be steady, no noise was heard, and the memory that the marauder's map had shown no one in the vicinity, he ventured quietly behind the bookshelf to find out what it was.

It didn't take him long to discover that it was one of the candlesticks that supplied light to the library users, but what was really curious was that it was the only candlestick that seemed to burn in the whole library. He approached it with the aim of extinguishing the candles when they went out by themselves while at the other end of the shelf the candles of another candleholder began to burn expontaneously.

Having grown up in the magic world, these kinds of situations were no surprise to him. They were fascinating, no doubt, but not at all a complete surprise.

He had long known that in one way or another, every wizard, every witch, had left the magical sight of his existence on the world. He knew many examples of them:

The essences of the four founders who died long ago, in the sorting hat. Those of his twin uncles Gideon and Fabian also killed in the first war against Voldemort, in the house clock. The Marauder’s Map, with the essence of James Potter, and his friends. Even, according to Harry's story, who-you-know-who left part of him in the diary that possessed Ginny in her first year.

With more than a thousand years of existence, it was practically impossible to know how many wizards and witches walked, studied and lived among these old stones, and each one of them left his own mark. Some would leave a barely perceptible trace, but others performed such intense episodes of magic that the traces they left behind, seemed to have a will of their own.

The hat was left with the mission of continuing to sort the students by the time the founders were gone.

The house clock, to know the status of each family member and to be able to come to their aid if necessary.

The map conspired so that the big troublemakers could keep up their mischief at school and, the diary, somehow, tried to bring Voldemort back.

This last thought plunged her spirit back into sadness and melancholy bringing back the thoughts that had made her leaves the safety of the tower of Gryffindor:

Is that really all she thinks of me? Does she really think I don't know what Cho Chang is feeling?

Like answering that question, another group of candles went out to be immediately replaced.

I can't really blame her, can I? I've never been good at expressing myself, let alone how I feel, but then again, how could I? How do you tell the most wonderful woman in the world that you're crazy for her? That you regret terribly to be a clumsy, mindless, worthless lout. Which you know you don't deserve her. That you know that you shouldn't even notice me but that you can't help but love her more than my own family, more than Harry, more than the blood that runs through my veins, more than my life itself and that knowing and feeling all that is eating me up inside. How do you tell her you feel all this and more, ‘only’, because you love her?

Ron feels that dull pain in his chest again. A veil of tears struggles to leave his eyes as he rolls his shirt sleeve over them to prevent his vision from becoming blurred, and it is when he refocuses them that he sees it. The candlestick he approaches is no longer extinguished, but seems to beat as if prompting him to approach it, and as he does so, the booklet seems to slowly separate from the rest of his companions on the shelf, prompting him to pick it up.

When Ron takes it, he feels comforting warmth in his fingers, like if the worn book is meant to convey a feeling of friendship and comfort, like if it is telling him in a mute way that everything will be all right after all. A feeling that brings back memories of the day he got his wand. Not his brother's, but his real wand.

“What do you got for me, buddy?”

There's tenderness in Ron's whisper. Any of those familiar with Hogwarts' worst-kept secret would think that the redhead is pouring out in that act and onto an object so intrinsically linked to the image of his beloved, all the love and all the delicacy that he seems unable to show her as a victim of his own inferiority complex, while unwittingly moving towards Hermione's favourite place in the library.

It's magic.

It's part of the magic that resides in every corner of Hogwarts. It is the magic trace that perhaps a long time ago, someone left to help a heart desperate to find an answer to its silent prayer and, just like it should have been long ago, when the mortified Ronald Weasley opens the book, a magic wind stirs the pages of the book showing him one of them in particular, like the old friend who gives you good advice. That's why Ron reads. He reads with such intensity that his eyes devour the words written centuries ago and as he does so his gaze gets wet. Each line is like a balm on the wounds of his tormented heart while a bright smile appears on his face. Now, Ron knows.

And when he looks up, his heart is not only filled with love for the frizzy-haired know-it-all witch, but with infinite gratitude.

Gratitude for whoever put the book on the shelf at Muggle Studies. Gratitude for the wizard or witch whose essence left such a deep mark on the old magic of the school, that it reacted to his agony and gratitude to the one who wrote the words he has just read. Words that today give him the knowledge of knowing that he is not alone, that he has never been alone. That before him, millions of men and women, wizards and witches, magicians and muggles have experienced the same feelings, confusion and agony as him, with the fortune that some of them have been so daring, so privileged in their intelligence and endowed with the gift as to be able to express them in words, and guided simply by their instinct, Ron look for parchment and quill as he begins to copy furiously. . .

Hermione Granger seemed to be sleepwalking after leaving Professor McGonagall's office. The accumulation of events that had occurred in the last few hours that she had referred, to still seemed to be getting through to her.

Mr. Weasley had been attacked in the Ministry by Voldemort's snake! And he had only escaped death because of the early warning that Harry had given.

When she woke up this morning, she was surprised not to find Harry or any of the Weasleys in the dining room, which had led to an unpleasant feeling on her chest, but what had set off all her alarms was the story from Ron and Harry's roommates. She had immediately rushed to the teachers' table, when a simple gesture from McGonagall had instructed her that this was neither the place nor the time. Something that was confirmed moments later, with the appearance of Professor Umbridge demanding to know the whereabouts of the Weasley brothers.

In her mind, she could recreate the scene as if she had been there. She was about to bet that at this moment, Harry would be oblivious to the fact that he was the one who allowed Mr. Weasley with his warning. What's more, she would bet one of her O.W.L.s marks that at this same moment Harry would be blaming himself for what happened, convinced that Arthur had been attacked simply because he was the father of his best friend and so, he would be ruminating that feeling inside himself without letting anyone penetrate the shell of isolation he would have built around him, preventing anyone from making him see the absurdity of his reasoning.

Along with this feeling, her other concern was to imagine the state of Mr. Weasley and how the rest of the family would be passing the hours.

She could imagine their reactions and the visceral fear they must have felt in their hearts, when they were woken up in the middle of the night to inform them that, their father, was struggling between life and death, the victim of a Voldemort attack.

She imagined Mrs. Weasley tried to appear strong and confident so his family wouldn't break up. To the twins, whose jokes for once could not insulate them from the merciless reality of war. To Ginny in whose mind she'd be spending her ordeal in the Chamber of Secrets, to. . .

“Ron!” The moan escaped from between her lips and her whole mind was focused on him.

Hermione knew of the particular connection between Mr. Weasley and his youngest son. That one that not only covered the physical aspects that he also shared with his brother Bill, but also on other much deeper levels.

She knew that his father, in an effort to raise a progeny that seemed to have been gifted with a stomach that was as voracious as a black hole, had been forced not to devote as much time to it as he would have liked, and so, Ron had been raised basically by his mother, Percy and the twins. . .

"If the way they are used to behaving with him could be called raising," she snorted under her breath as she thought, how much of Ron's insecure and explosive personality was the responsibility of that pair of troublemakers. The point was, when Mr. Weasley was partially relieved of that burden after the emancipation of the two older sons, he had tried to make up for that loss of attention by devoting more of his scarce free time, and had taken him to watch his first quidditch match with the Cannons, from which the redhead's eternal love for the lousy team, emerged.

But Hermione had found many other similarities. Both were brave, though they tried to avoid direct confrontation, noting in common  to evil or any temptation to try to abuse any situation of privilege, nevertheless they were fierce when it came to defending what they understood to be right.

Immersed in her thoughts, her legs led her to her sanctuary, that corner of the library that took her away from the usual hustle and bustle and allowed her to concentrate on her readings and the writing of her complex essays. The same corner whose window overlooked the quidditch pitch, from which, she furtively observed the training sessions of Gryffindor's team or, perhaps it would be better to say, the developments of one of the team's newest members.

As the smile insinuated itself on her face, Hermione could not help but reflect on how extraordinarily complex it was to understand Ronald Weasley.

Ron, sighed to herself.  She really couldn't understand him! There seemed to be two of them and they alternated with each other in an unpredictable way.

Ron was loyal to a fault, but sometimes he seemed a little jealous of Harry's reputation. Most of the time he behaved like an insensitive fool and yet sometimes he surprised her with gestures of infinite tenderness. She could have the funniest talk with him and tell him all the places she planned to travel when she finished school, but it was mentioning Bulgaria and Ron seemed to turn into a manticore.

When he flew over the grounds of The Burrow, he seemed to be in perfect communion with his broom. She had been surprised to discover that sometimes the twins had suddenly thrown some quaffles at him and he would alter his flight to intercept them with an almost feline grace, but it was flying over the school pitch and he becoming into a nervous mess of hands and feet struggling to hold onto his broom, with an unsettling shade of green on his face.

For the most of the people, Ron was what could be defined like a lazy who was always behind in his schoolwork and unable to perform a spell correctly during class, but, the day after she helped him complete his homework or gave him a practical demonstration on it, he seemed to be able to perform it almost perfectly and, not even then!  He seems to have a consistent line of behaviour at this point. Ron didn't seem to have the slightest interest in learning basic glamour spells, how transfiguring a rat into a chalice or making a potion to cure warts, and yet, he was perfectly capable during DA’s training, of transfiguring a cushion of The Room of Requirement into a solid block of solid stone to ward off a spell cast by Harry, while he counter-attacking him by throwing impedimenta spell that caused Harry to retreat ten yards.

And in spite of all that crazy, absurd, unrealistic and incomprehensible double personality she loved him. Oh my God, how she loved him! She couldn't understand it, but it was the truth and she knew it wasn't a young girl's crush, it was something else. She could see his faults and the weaknesses of his personality that he should try to correct, such as insecurity in himself and eternal self-comparison with his brothers and in spite of everything. . . there it was. The blurred sketch of the formidable man he was destined to become just by trying it from the bottom of her heart. A man who would make any woman's heart tremble like, he already did her own.

She was deep in thought about the irritating redhead when she discovered a parchment note carelessly folded in front of the seat she used to occupy in the library.

She opened it out of curiosity, recognizing the sloppy handwriting of the object of her tribulations as she began to read it. . .

"So, what's a teaspoon?"

As they moved along the lines of the writing, her eyes widened meanwhile one of her hands went over her chest in an unconscious attempt to calm the rampant galloping of her heart that seemed to have gone mad with the careless lines of writing.

“...To seem happy, sad, haughty, understated,

emboldened, fugitive, exasperated...”

It seemed that the world had been turned upside down and where once there was a mindless lout with the same sensitivity as a teaspoon, now there was someone who had been able to correctly interpret the verses her mind was slipping on. But that was inconceivable to Ron.

He... he really can't have been able to show me this, she thought as she began to reread thinking that she was being part of some kind of joke or enchantment the twins had left behind. A joke or a spell that should perhaps be called cruel because of all it was doing to feel  to her.

  To be fainthearted, to be bold, possessed, abrasive, tender, open, isolated, spirited, dying, dead, invigorated, loyal, treacherous, venturesome, repressed.

Not to find, without your lover, rest. To seem happy, sad, haughty, understated, emboldened, fugitive, exasperated, satisfied, offended, doubt-obsessed.

To face away from disillusionment, to swallow venom like liqueur, and quell all thoughts of gain, embracing discontent;

to believe a heaven lies within a hell, to give your soul to disillusionment; that’s love, as all who’ve tasted know too well.

 “Ro... Ron!” The exclamation escaped like a whisper from her lips while her legs seemed to waver when she completed the last line. . .

“I do”

Hermione dropped into the chair at the impending failure of her legs to hold her as the crying made its way through her chest to replace her breath with an incoherent set of hiccups and sobs meanwhile  she pressed the parchment  to her chest.

No. Ron Weasley was not the callous wart she had said, nor was the imbecile with the emotional range of a teaspoon. No, Ron was just a normal teenager in constant confusion because of the tide of hormones circulating in his blood, the emotional overload of facing feelings whose intensity she herself knew very well, the recognition of the darkness that was approaching, and right now, the boy who feared for his father's life and who would put under a thick shell all the pain and all the terror that his heart harboured for, with  an apparent indifference to avoid further anguish to his family during these times of tribulation, just as he did in the second year, when he went into the forbidden forest with Harry.

But, above all, Ron was her friend. The friend who needed her now more than ever, and as she began to write a letter to her parents explaining why she couldn't stay with them for the Christmas break, she couldn't help but notice the tremor in her hand and how her knuckles went white clutching her quill when one simple question seeped into her head:

Who- the hell- had taught Ronald Bilius Weasley what love was?

 Notes: My infinite and sincere thanks and affection to @headcanonsandmore. Without their help, it would have been impossible for me to write this text in understandable English.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/25219924/chapters/61129561

I would like to say, the inspiration for this work came after having a delicious chat with the author of the fic "Books" by @fightfortherightsofhouseelves ( You can find her work here in AO3).

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14771213

Obviously, the reference poem is not mine. I wish! The author is the Spanish poet Lope de Vega. Possibly the quill who has best expressed the feelings of love through its verses in universal poetry. The English translation was done by David Rosenthal.