#and the contrast between the bright white lab coat and the rest of the dark colors

[maccreadysbaby]

CRASH AND BURN™︎

fem!oc x preston garvey

in which a strange girl shows up in the commonwealth to tell the minutemen that an old enemy is rising up from the capital wasteland, and they’re not just coming for kicks and giggles. oh, and an unassuming second-in-command manages to catch her silver eye, even on the brink of war.

❝ if this is what it feels like to fall for you, garvey, i don’t want to stop until i crash and burn ❞

this is chapter six. full chapter masterlist can be found here.

TW: mentions of abuse, alcohol use, angst

❝ HONESTY ❞

Vault 62, DC, Capital Wasteland

Aug 7, 2288, 2100

— HEARTLEY AND SIMON SAT, HEARTS POUNDING IN THEIR RIBCAGES AS THE COURSERS POSITIONED IN THE CONFINEMENT ROOM STARED HOLES INTO THEIR HEADS. Confinement was pretty much exactly what Heartley imagined it to be. A large, metal room with steel-bar cages lining the walls. There were probably twelve, in total, but Simon and Heartley were the only inhabitants in there.

They were sitting on opposite ends of the same cold bench, in the same ten-by-ten cell. Their findings were still bouncing around in Heartley’s head. The fact that Riot had to be inside, that he beat up her mom (who never said a word), that Jericho supposedly had a manic episode he didn’t remember, (or didn’t want to talk about.) and that Tuesday and Scout went to confinement for beating up Scout’s bad excuse for a father.

Heartley let her long, coily red hair fall over her shoulders, mostly because it was cold in the deeper parts of the vault. Her jeans and blue shirt weren’t doing much good against that. Simon’s knee was bouncing vigorously, narrating the pat-pat-pat of the thoughts bouncing in her skull. She glanced over for only a moment, catching the way his hands gripped at the edge of the bench so hard his knuckles were turning almost as white as his lab coat.

She slid herself over, letting her shoulder collide with his and make him topple. “You sound like you’re trying to pedal a unicycle.”

He glanced up at her, dark eyes dancing across her features for a second before he looked down at his leg. “Sorry.” He stated simply, slowing it to a stop.

She glanced up at the two masked Coursers standing on either side of the door. Jackson Hannigan had disappeared between them, noting that he’d be back in a moment. That was over two hours ago.

She stole another glance toward Simon, noting his increasingly white knuckles. She reached down and tapped one of them with her pointer finger. “Ease up a little. We can’t be in that much trouble.”

“I’ve never been in confinement before,” He admitted quietly, peeling his hands from around the seat and pulling them into his lap.

“Neither have I,” Heartley replied.

“My dads gonna be so mad. Now I understand why Tuesday didn’t tell anyone,” Simon mumbled, rubbing his palms against his tan pants.

“He doesn’t have to know,” She stated quietly, shoving her hands under her armpits to fight the cold.

Simon shrugged, propping his elbows on his knees and resting his head in his hands. He let out a deep sigh. Heartley considered making an idle comment about how he was so similar to Tuesday, but decided against it and shivered instead.

“How long you think we’ll be stuck in here?” She muttered. “It’s freezing.”

Simon shifted next to her, and after a few silent moments, he draped his lab coat over her shoulders.

She snickered numbly, pulling the coat tighter around herself. “Good to know chivalry isn’t completely dead.” She muttered, poorly attempting to lighten the mood.

Simon chuckled through his nose, obviously tense and half-hearted. His light green flannel was now a bright contrast to the metal room, and as Heartley slid her arms into the sleeves of his lab coat, she started blending in. The sleeves were so long they covered her hands — something she was thankful for — and if she stood up, the coat would probably fall to her knees. On the left shoulder was the same flag and ‘E’ symbol her mother, Tuesday, and Dr. Jones’ lab coats dawned. The only difference was that his said his name, right below the symbol. Simon Jones.

“Thank you. For supporting my rebellious impulses and joining me on a journey to further tear apart our already half-dead reputations,” She muttered with a light chuckle. Simon snickered.

“Wouldn't wanna do it with anyone else,” He stated. “Okay… maybe Mercury.”

Heartley snorted, but their soft laughter only lasted a second before the door between the Coursers slid open, and Hannigan returned, with the exact person Heartley didn’t want to see trailing behind him.

Alec James. Her father. The Overseer.

Simon’s eyes reverted back to the floor as soon as he caught a glimpse of Alec’s shoes padding into the room. Heartley sucked in an annoyed breath, glancing off to the side. Did he have to be in all of their business?

“I’m gonna make this simple,” He huffed, stepping forward and scanning them with his vomit green eyes. His hair was a little disheveled, as though he’d been in bed, but his uniform was stark and perfect as always. “Tell me why you were in the security terminal, and I’ll let you out.”

Heartley fiddled with her fingers inside the sleeves of the lab coat so he couldn’t see them. “We were just looking to see if the door had been opened. So we’d know if Riot went outside. Honest.”

“And what did you find?”

She glanced at Simon, but his eyes didn’t lift to give her any support. She looked back at her father, and upon seeing his annoyed expression, shrugged. “That the vault hasn’t been opened since we got here. Why didn’t you just look at the terminal instead of tormenting my friends and I about it?”

Alec brushed a hand through his hair. “Inside or outside, he’s still missing, and you guys still know where he is.”

“Do you think we’d go breaking into security looking for answers if we knew where he was?” She huffed, crossing her arms. “We’re trying to come up with something to say to the burning question you tasked us with answering by the weekend. You know, the question we have zero answers to.”

Alec humphed, walking to the left, then to the right. “What did you read in the incident reports?”

Heartley stared at his white shoes as he walked, pushing all of the thoughts out of her mind, almost as if she could momentarily forget them. “N-not much. That… Chicago got busted for cigarettes. We didn’t click on anyone else’s before Hannigan found us.”

She saw Simon shift, acknowledging her lie, but he said nothing.

“You didn’t read anybody else’s? Are you sure?”

Heartley nodded. “Positive.”

“So, you don’t know what was in Riot or Scout’s reports?”

“I mean, I can’t just barf up information I don’t know. Something you clearly fail to understand,” She sassed, tapping her foot on the ground. “Can we get out of here now? It’s cold.”

Her estranged father scowled deeply at her, but she kept her face blank. He grunted and threw his hand out to the side.

“Hannigan, open the cell. If any information gets out about your crime or your findings, you’ll end up right back in here, do you understand me?” He stated, eyeing both of the kids sharply. When they both nodded, he turned, huffed, and left them in the custody of Hannigan.

He sighed, pulling out a good old fashioned key and shoving it in the barred door. “Since you’re both over eighteen and haven’t stayed in confinement for more than a day, your parents will not be notified.” He pulled open the door with a deafening squeal.

Heartley nodded as she and Simon rose from the bench. She saw Simon’s shoulders relax in her peripheral, and he let out a quiet breath. His lab coat fell to her knees, as predicted.

The walk back to the Atrium felt almost like a walk of shame, even though no one saw them. Confinement was isolated, but it was also through the door that led to the overseer’s office and reactor rooms, so no one really knew they were in confinement. But it didn’t stop them from knowing.

“We need to talk to everyone. Like, right now.” Heartley whispered as they entered the atrium. It was getting late and it was mostly empty, but with the information they had (and neglected to tell Alec), being loud wasn’t an option.

Simon scratched his head. “Okay. I’ll get Tuesday, Mercury, and Chicago, you get Markus, Jericho, and Scout?”

“Sounds good to me. Where are we going?”

“The closet?”

“Roger that,” She stated, and they took off toward the residential sector. They split directions, and Heartley headed toward Markus’ quarters.

Jogging down the hallway, she skidded to a stop in front of the door she knew too well, rapping her knuckles on it.

It only took a few moments for Markus’ aunt to open the door. Her floor-length floral dress and white flats paired with her long, black hair made her look extremely young — because she was. She was hardly breaching thirty with guardianship of a twenty-one year old.

“Heartley,” She smiled, light amber eyes smiling as well. “Everything okay?”

Heartley nodded. “Yeah, I just need to… steal Markus away for a bit.”

“Sure, I’ll grab him.”

The woman disappeared from the doorway, and after a few quiet moments, Markus appeared. He was dressed differently now, in tan pants and a blue button up. He left the room almost instinctively, closing the door behind him as his amber and green eyes bounced around the hallway and landed on her face. They then traveled down and took note of Simon’s lab coat that she was still wearing.

“What’s going on?” He questioned. Heartley gestured for him to follow, brushing her curls over her shoulder and starting back to the main hallway.

“Can’t talk about it in the open,” She replied vaguely. He followed closely behind her as they trotted down the halls.

“Are you okay?” He pressed.

Heartley nodded. “Yes, Markus, I’m fine.”

“Are you and Simon inviting me to your wedding?” He joked, stepping up to her side and tugging at the sleeve of the lab coat that hung down past her hands. She pulled it away from him and scowled.

“Markus,”

“Just asking. You’re being weird. Is it about Riot?” He continued as he matched his strides with hers.

“Say it a little louder, I don’t think the Russians heard you,” She muttered. He didn’t say anything more than a small ‘oh’ as he matched his strides with hers. They were silent until they stopped at Jericho’s door.

“What if his mom answers?” She questioned, glancing back at Markus. He shrugged.

“Run,”

“Great advice,” She huffed as she knocked lightly on the door. After a few moments, and a back and forth they could hear through the walls, the door opened, revealing Jericho.

Standing behind his mother.

A brief wave of panic flashed across his features, before he smiled sheepishly at them over her shoulder. His feathered hair and dark eyes were just as innocent as normal.

“Markus. Heartley. What is it that you need?” His mother, a plump woman in a yellow skirt and huge dark bun on her head, questioned. Her tone was caring but her expression wasn’t. In fact, she may’ve been trying to shoot lasers at them from her brown, nearly black eyes.

“Yes, Miss Avans, um…” Heartley started, glancing back at Jericho for help. He offered none.

“Shotgun wedding. Heartley’s getting married right now. He has to come, it’s mandatory,” Markus butted in, gesturing to the lab coat she was wearing. Heartley’s eyes widened, but only for a moment.

“Yeah. I… I’m sorry, I know Jericho isn’t really allowed around us anymore, but… I couldn’t imagine my wedding without my friends,” She nodded, lacing her fingers behind her back and flipping Markus off out of Jericho’s mother’s sight. “It’s all really sudden, and I know I should’ve asked you first, or given some heads up, but I didn’t really have any. I just know that I… want Jericho there with the rest of my friends as a testament to a phase of my life that is past, and there to welcome the new phase of my life with my… husband.”

Jericho nearly started laughing, but managed to stay silent as his mother leaned forward and squinted at the name on Heartley’s lab coat. “You’re marrying Simon Jones?”

She blinked. “Yeah. He’s like a…” She cleared her throat, trying to think of all the cheesy marriage things she’d heard throughout her life. “… A part of me I never knew was missing.”

She saw Markus bite his lip to suppress a smile in her peripheral. Jericho’s mother shifted on her feet, crossing her arms.

“Please, Miss Avans… just this once. I want him there for the best day… night of my life.”

The woman sucked in a breath, held it, and let it out. “Fine. Jericho, you can go. But no funny business.”

He nodded and pushed past his mother, who sloppily kissed him as he walked by. “And Heartley…”

The redhead glanced up at the woman as she backed out of the doorway.

“Congratulations. Simon is a good kid,”

And she shut the door.

They all stood and blinked for a moment, before Heartley piped up: “Markus, I’m gonna kill you.”

Jericho snickered as Markus scoffed. “You played along.”

“How was I supposed to brush off a shotgun wedding? She probably thinks I’m pregnant!” Heartley groaned, throwing her head back as they walked.

“May I ask what this is actually about? And why I’m not the best man? Or… maid of honor?” Jericho chimed in as they made their way onto the main residential hall.

“It’s about you-know-who,” Markus stated, nudging Jericho’s shoulder as they walked behind Heartley.

“Simon?” He asked. Heartley snickered from ahead of them.

Markus scoffed. “No, idiot. Riot.”

“Oh,”

Heartley rolled her eyes as they trailed down toward Scout’s room. They stopped short of the door, glancing at one another.

“You don’t want to talk to his dad, do ya?” Markus questioned. Heartley sighed, shaking her head.

“No,”

“It’s your lucky day, then,” A familiar voice came from behind them. The three of them pivoted on their heels, coming eye to eye with Scout. Despite his natural tan complexion, his cheeks and ears were burning red, and the paper bag concealing a bottle in his hand told them all the reason why. There was a spatter of blood on his left temple that had dried dripping down his face. His left eye was surrounded in a nasty bruise, and his lip was split. She heard Jericho mutter a curse.

Heartley felt her heart sink so far it hit the floor. She sucked in a breath, to say something, but nothing came out. Scout’s eyes narrowed as he looked back and forth between the three of them, propping his empty hand on his hip. “What’re ya starin’ for?”

“Uh, nothing,” Markus stated, and Heartley felt his hand land gently between her shoulder blades. She brushed him off, stepping forward.

“You’re… bleeding, Scout.” She stated quietly. She reached out to to take his head in her hand, but he recoiled away from her, stumbling back a few steps. She retracted her hand.

“I’m… I’m… okay.” He murmured, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking another swig of whatever vile substance was inside. Heartley found her eyes watering, quickly turning toward Markus and Jericho so he didn’t see.

But he did. “Why’re you cryin’, Heartley?”

“I’m not,” She stated, taking a deep breath and turning back around. Her heart tightened every time she took in his appearance again. “Can I… take you to the medbay and clean up your head? Please?”

He pondered for a minute, she’s flicking down to Simon’s lab coat. “You a doctor now?”

“Only if I have to be,” She muttered.

Scout sucked in a breath. “Yeah, sure, whatever. It hurts anyways.”

Heartley turned toward Jericho and Markus, glancing between them. “We’ll follow in a little bit. Have Simon go ahead and tell you if it takes a while.” She ordered.

“Okay,” Markus and Jericho stated at the same time. Heartley nodded and turned back to Scout.

“Alrighty, let’s get this show on the road,” She feigned a smile, walking past him toward the main hallway. He followed behind her slowly, and Markus and Jericho a few paces behind him.

“So, like, where’d you get that coat?” Scout asked as he trailed along behind her.

“It’s Simon’s,” She stated simply, stopping at the door that led to the atrium. She pointed at his bottle. “You can’t take that into the atrium.”

He humphed and set it right behind the lip of the door. “I’ll pick it up later.”

She nodded, glancing behind him at Markus and Jericho, who were turning the other way. She caught Jericho’s eye.

‘Throw it away,’ She mouthed, pointing at the bottle. He nodded.

“Who’re you talking to?”

“I didn’t say anything. C’mon.” She ordered, heading into the atrium with Scout on her tail. She made a bee-line for the medbay, heading inside without as much as a glance backwards. She waited for him to saunter through the door, then closed it behind him, and the blinds on the windows.

“Can you flick the lights on?” She asked as she made her way to the worktop Simon had been organizing earlier that night. The lights came on in response.

“Sit on a stretcher thing,” She continued. As she pulled a few drawers open and searched for what she needed, she heard one of the rolling stretchers roll across the floor a little, signaling that he’d obeyed.

She sifted through drawers until she found some alcohol wipes and butterfly stitches, turning on her heel to head to him. He was sitting innocently on one of the tall, rolling beds, swinging his feet back and forth.

“Have you been taking your addictiol at all?” She questioned, laying her wipes and stitches on the bed beside him.

“Yes,” He stated simply. She glanced up at him, steel gray eyes meeting his dark ones. He looked away.

“I’m not gonna scold you, y’know,” She continued simply. Scout sighed.

“No, I haven’t,” He stated, shaking his head. Heartley opened one of the alcohol wipes and unfolded it.

“I’m gonna touch your head, okay?”

“Mmkay,”

She gently tilted his head upward by his jawline and began dabbing at the blood on his forehead.

“Tuesday thinks he can just make me all better by throwing some addictol at me and giving me a lecture,” He scoffed, a smile tugging at his lips. “That’s not how you get someone to be… sober.”

“You’re talking pretty sober right now,” She stated, tilting his head to the side as she worked. He snorted.

“That’s because I’m good at holding my alcohol. It’s not the first time I’ve been drunk,” He snickered.

Heartley kept her lips in a line instead of letting herself frown. She said nothing, instead, started to clean the gnash on his temple.

“Owwww!” He exclaimed, flinching away from her. “That burns.”

“It’s alcohol. Of course it burns,” She murmured, waiting for him to return to his normal position to start cleaning again. She took a breath through her nose. “Tuesday wants to help, y’know. He just… isn’t good with stuff beyond logical reasoning and medicine.”

“Obviously. It’s like throwing a bandage at a kicked puppy and telling it not to be afraid of people anymore,”

Heartley sucked in a breath, putting a few of the butterfly stitches on the cut. She didn’t know if he meant to be that deep with his statement or not, but whichever he meant, it hurt a little.

Throwing bandages at a kicked puppy and telling it not to be afraid of people anymore.

Throwing addictol at an addict and telling them not to be in pain anymore.

“What would you rather him do?” She pressed gently. She watched his expression as she moved onto his split lip, weighing if she needed to take back the question or not. He fell into deep thought for a few moments, before he hummed.

“Listen,”

She fought the urge to clear her throat, cleaning up his lip. She decided she’d press the conversation a little further, because the alcohol was giving him an honest edge she didn’t want to waste. “And what would you say to him, if he took the time to listen?”

Scout sucked in a breath as she gathered the wipes and carried them to the trash.

“That I don’t do drugs or drink because it’s fun. It actually makes me feel pretty sick all the time, if we’re being honest,” He sighed, slumping forward slightly. “I do it to distract myself.”

Heartley sucked in a breath as she made her way back toward him. “Distract yourself from what?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. I didn’t get this black eye from tripping down the stairs,” He chuckled coldly, an empty sound, not bringing his eyes up to meet hers.

Heartley’s heart clenched. They’d all danced around the topic of Scout’s father for as long as they’d known him, including Scout. He didn’t want to talk about him, so they didn’t. But it wasn’t a secret to anyone his father was less a father and more a… live in douchebag.

She hummed in agreement, carrying the excess supplies back to the drawers and putting them back. She heard Scout stand.

“You’ll listen, won’t you, Heartley?” He asked, a sudden shift in his voice grabbing her attention. She glanced back at him, and he was pacing the floor. “Because I’m drunk and it makes me talk a lot.”

She snickered lightly, closing the drawers. “Of course I’ll listen to you, Scout. To whatever you wanna say.”

“I hate being like this,” He mumbled, propping himself against the wall. She turned and pushed herself onto the workbench she was just putting things inside. She didn’t say a word. “Being… I don’t know, a junkie. I don’t want to be like this.”

He stood up straight, pacing across the room again. Heartley followed him with her eyes.

“Everything hurts all the time. When I’m high, everything hurts, when I’m drunk, everything hurts, when I’m sober, everything hurts. Everything hurts,” He explained, turning and pacing again. “I’m so tired of being in pain. I got hooked on drugs and drink because I thought it would cover it up, and it did, for a bit, but now it just hurts straight through it.”

Heartley bit her lip, glancing at the floor, but she still stayed silent.

“Everything hurts…” He paused, grasping at the front of his black t-shirt as he turned away from her. He made a sound that sounded mysteriously like a mix of a gasp and a hiccup. “Everything hurts so bad.”

“Scout…” She muttered, but it was so quiet he didn’t hear her. He walked around for a few seconds more finally sliding down against the wall near the door. His one random hiccup ended up not being random at all, because now, he was sucking in sharp breaths every second, almost hyperventilating, and he wouldn’t stop grabbing at the front of his shirt.

Heartley pushed herself off of the workbench and made her way across the medbay toward him. He was breathing so raggedly he started to cough. “I’m so… so tired of… hurting. So tired of pain. So tired of… of him.”

She batted away the threat of tears in her eyes as she slid down the wall into the floor to his right.

“Hell, I can’t breathe.”

She scooted the tiniest bit closer. “Just take deep breaths. Try and fill up all the space in your lungs.”

“I can’t,” Scout coughed again, and now, tears were rolling down his face, but she couldn’t tell if he was crying or if it was from the coughing.

“Can I touch you?”

“Uh-huh,” He forced out through violent, heaving breaths. She reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder, gently, carefully.

“Close your eyes and focus on breathing,”

“Don’t…” He sucked in a breath. “-tell anyone about this. Please.”

“I won’t, Scout, just breathe,”

“I can’t!” He exclaimed, and it was then that the waterworks started. Heartley wasn’t sure if she liked it when he was drunk or not. He was honest, but honesty meant more pain for him. And she hated it when her friends were in pain. Sobs started shaking his body, making his breathing even worse.

“C’mere. I want you to hear me breathing,” She ordered, opening up her arms invitingly. Scout took the opportunity, turning and sinking into her arms like a toddler when they get their feelings hurt. He turned toward her, coiling up into a ball and wrapping his arms around her torso. She pulled her knees up to support him and let him lay there, holding his head close to her chest so he could hear her breathing, so he could hear her heartbeat.

She never hated his dad more than she did in that moment.

[maatryoshkaa]

young god | chapter 9

chapters: | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11| 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 |

word count: 5.6k

warnings: graphic descriptions of violence, frequent mentions of mental disorders, suicide, child abuse and trafficking, foul language

description: You confront Minho about his connections to the Miroh Heights Murders -- and something about you makes the quiet, cunning coroner finally agree to share his part of the story. As you remove the layers of his mask piece by piece, you’re finally given the first bitter taste of the darkness behind Han Jisung’s past. 

watch the trailer here!

09| CORONER’S CASE

Medical examiner Lee Minho leaned back in his chair, blinking slowly at the single cassette tape sitting on his desk. 

The moment he’d arrived at the scene of the crime, his eyes had caught the glint of black plastic a few feet away from the corpse, and he’d swiftly shoved it to the bottom of the evidence pile before the rest of his team had gotten close enough to see -- along with the bloodstained rock he’d found at the foot of the body. Sneaking it back out was easy enough: the rest of his team -- save for the driver -- had stayed behind to write statements for the officers. The van ride back to the hospital had been more than enough time for Minho to leisurely slip the plastic bags into his coat pocket before walking briskly up to his office.

The rock he’d rinsed with hydrogen peroxide and thrown into the pond, but the tape -- that was what had caught his attention. 

There was sure to be fingerprints, DNA evidence, maybe even incriminating voice recordings -- Minho’s gut twisted thinking of what would have happened had it fallen into the police’s hands.

There was only one problem.

It was blank.

The moment he had inserted it into the tape player, nothing but white noise sputtered out. The only fingerprints he’d found had been Yang Jeongin’s, and the cotton fibres stuck to its surface indicated it had been in the delivery boy’s hoodie pocket -- before it had fallen out, anyways, when the boy had received the blow to his head, and the impact had sent the stray tape skittering. 

Minho had seen the infamous delivery boy in passing -- glimpses through his car window, Minho turning out of the hospital and Yang Jeongin waiting to cross the street on his rusty bike. Come to think of it, he couldn’t remember a time when Jeongin didn’t have his earbuds in, listening and recording his tapes on-the-go.

If this tape was blank, Minho thought, then Jeongin had to have had the rest of them in his pocket.

And one of those tapes could have been recording that night.

Kicking his chair back and throwing on his lab coat, Minho flung open the door to his office, making his way to the elevators. Intensive Care Unit: Second Floor. He nearly flinched at the bright artificial light when the elevator doors opened again, shaking his head lightly before stepping out. Most of the staff were on their break, a single nurse filing paperwork inside the office. With a quick sideways glance, Minho headed for the cot in the corner, ducking under the privacy curtain. 

Sure enough, on the bed lay the delivery boy -- eyes still as a statue’s, his blond wisps of hair fanned out on the pillow like a dull halo. Someone had tucked the covers up to his chest. Another, taller boy seemed to have been keeping him company. He had fallen asleep, upper body sprawled across the foot of the mattress, back rising and falling gently. Hwang Hyunjin, Minho remembered vaguely, from flashes of the dark-haired boy’s terror-stricken face at the crime scene. He looked even worse now, dark circles ringing his closed eyes, and a pasty cheek pressed against the white linens.

Minho’s gaze flickered back to Jeongin, fingers beginning to tremble involuntarily. It was a simple task: check the boy’s pockets, dispose of any evidence found. If anybody asked, he had an ID and could pose as a doctor easily enough -- most people couldn’t tell the difference. Still, his body refused to move -- his feet suddenly felt rooted in place, hands stiff and frozen.

Keeping a wary eye on the sleeping Hwang Hyunjin, Minho sucked in a breath before gingerly prying the covers back. With a furtive glance behind him, he slowly slipped his hands into the baggy hoodie pocket, freezing when Hyunjin gave a drowsy groan and turned his head away. Heart pounding, Minho looked back down at Jeongin -- and his brow furrowed in confusion when his fingers felt nothing but gritty cotton and empty space. His empty grasps grew frantic. Impossible. The tapes. Where could they have gone? Were they still at the scene of the crime? Or, Minho felt a chill run down his spine, had someone already--

“What are you doing?”

Minho’s eyes snapped up, a cold sweat forming at the back of his neck when he turned and saw you standing at the curtain, eyes blazing with horrified confusion. “Y/N,” he managed, straightening and brushing his hands off on his lab coat. “What brings you here?”

His voice was as smooth and cool as you remembered it, eyes blinking slowly at you as you stepped between the coroner and Jeongin. “I should be asking you that,” you shot back, fighting to keep your voice steady. Something about Minho had always thrown you off -- his features were always chillingly emotionless, flat as a mask. The flash of surprise on his face when he’d seen you was already smoothing over, a small smile spreading on his lips instead.

“It seems like you have a lot to say,” Minho began carefully. “Would you like to talk in my office? I would hate to...disturb your friends.” With that, he let his eyes fall purposefully on the sleeping Hyunjin behind you.

You eyed him warily, the tense silence growing suffocating before you finally gave a terse nod. With a polite incline of his head, Minho lead you out of the ICU and into an open elevator. 

When the mirrored doors slid open again with a hiss, you followed him silently down a hallway and into a wider room. Tall windows spanned the walls, letting in washes of golden sunlight. A sliding door led to one of the hospital’s rooftop balconies. A single desk and chair sat in the corner -- all the shelves either held plants or dusty certificates, empty picture frames hanging from the walls. Nothing personal -- no family, no pets, no friends. It reminded you of Jisung’s room, you realised with a start, fists clenching.

Minho’s strides were brisk and long, and you nearly bumped into him when he came to a sudden halt and turned around to face you. “Would you like a coffee?” His fingers were already on the machine. When you blinked back at him, bewildered, he shrugged and filled two cups, handing you one.

“What…” It was like your tongue had turned to dust, all the thoughts and words you had burning in your head melted into an incoherent mess before his piercing gaze. “Tell me what’s going on.”

At this, the coroner smiled again, leaning back on his desk. “Nothing’s going on. What do you mean?”

You took a sip of the coffee -- the bitter taste made you wince, but at least your head felt clearer. “You’re the chief coroner -- chief medical examiner, whatever -- of the Miroh Heights Murders case.”

“Correct.”

“These crime scenes are known for being strange, violent -- some injuries couldn’t have been inflicted without murder weapons.”

Minho was studying you curiously, eyes unreadable as ever. “What are you trying to say?”

You swallowed hard, steadying yourself. “How is it, then, that a chief medical examiner can’t deduce a single piece of evidence from the most brutal murders Miroh Heights has ever seen?”

A weighted silence fell on the room, the dripping sound of the coffee machine matching your erratic heartbeat. After several long moments, Minho cleared his throat. “Did Detective Bang send you? I know he’s been stressed about the lack of evidence, but we’re still processi--”

“No one sent me,” you interrupted indignantly, struggling to keep your voice level. “You had your hand in Jeongin’s hoodie pocket just now, but you’re not -- you’re not a doctor. You were looking for someth--” your eyes fell on the blank tape on Minho’s desk, and your voice all but died in your throat. “Is--is that--is that one of Jeongin’s tapes?”

“Y/N,” Minho interjected, holding out a hand when you tried to reach for it -- but the exasperation in his tone only made you more agitated.

“No,” you shot back, “Minho, I heard -- I heard everything. What happened that night, I heard it in his tapes, Minho. It’s not some serial killer doing this, some psychopath. It was Jisung. Han Jisung.” Your eyes searched his face wildly, for what, you weren’t sure -- surprise? Anger? Fear? And yet all you found was the same still, pale face staring back at you; the same, horribly uneasy feeling stirring in your gut.  

Mouth dry, you finally managed to choke out, “Did you--know?”

The coroner’s silence confirmed your worst suspicions, and threw what little self-control and rational thought you had left out the window. “You’ve been helping him this entire time, then,” you said, the words bitter as poison in your mouth.

As you stared him down, Minho felt himself freeze -- your eyes were steady and demanding, and yet your cheeks were flushed with anguish and emotion. The stark contrast stunned the thoughts from his head, the lies from his tongue -- no one had ever dared challenge him like this before, no one had ever suspected the quiet, standoffish coroner. They were always put off by his cold demeanour, the mask he always put on to distance himself from the rest of the world. Only one other person had ever tried to break past this facade; only one other person could see past it.

Something about you reminded him of Han Jisung.

And that something was what made him slowly nod, despite a thousand raging rational thoughts in his mind telling him to lie like he always did, to cover it all up, to drive you out of his office no matter what the cost. 

The slight incline of Minho’s head felt like you had been punched in the gut. Clenching your fists again to keep them from trembling uncontrollably, you demanded, “Why are you helping him? No, why is he -- how did this begin?”

Minho turned his head away, chestnut eyes stormy. Just when you thought he had finally fallen silent for good, he let out a heavy sigh. 

“Do you want to go to the roof?” 

He jutted his chin towards a pair glass sliding doors. Confused, you nodded slowly, and followed him out onto the balcony. 

His office -- along with most other ones -- were at the top floor of the hospital, with a door leading out onto a rooftop garden. Minho stopped at the edge of the railing, flat eyes looking over the city. It really was a breathtaking view -- the Hospital was the tallest building on campus, and from its roof you could see the entire sprawl of the city until it reached the gates. There was the thick stretch of the Yellow Wood, the bustling streets that joined at the older part of town where Mia’s Diner and Young Wings Record Shop stood their ground. And, with a pang, your eyes found the winding alleyways you’d taken when Jisung had walked you home; you spotted the dark cluster of dormitories where -- just this morning -- you had found the first piece of a dark, ugly puzzle.

“You know everything, then?” Minho’s quiet voice shook you out of your thoughts, and you looked at him, surprised at the sudden lack of fight in his voice. Only moments ago, back in his office, he had seemed so prepared to deflect your questions and suspicions you had begun regretting coming to him in the first place. Now, though, his eyes were glassy, not looking at you -- it was like he was far, far away.

You were beginning to know that look very well.

Shaking your head, you stammered, “No. I mean -- I know it h-has to be him, I heard...there were so many signs, little things he told me, but I -- I just didn’t want to believe --” You took a shaky breath, squeezing your eyes shut. Stop rambling. Stay calm.

“Why come to me, then?” A dark look had sunk into Minho’s features when you turned to look at him. “If you already knew about what he was doing -- what I’m doing.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Aren’t you afraid, y/n?”

You stepped back instinctively, suddenly very aware of the cold metal railing pressing against your waist -- and of the empty rooftop, of the thirty stories that separated you from the busy streets below. 

Mouth dry, your eyes flickered apprehensively to the coffee in your hands, then back to Minho, who was watching you with an unfathomable gaze.

After a moment of suffocating silence, the coroner finally broke into a flat smile. “Relax.” He turned back towards the railing, tilting the coffee cup to his lips -- as nonchalantly as if you were simply making smalltalk. “I may clean up after murders, but I don’t enjoy causing them.”

You watched him warily, heart still thudding against your rib cage. “Then -- Jisung -- does he enjoy causing them?”

The coroner sighed again, shaking the coffee cup absently. “What has he told you?”

You racked your memory, straining to remember all the therapy sessions, your little dates that seemed like they were from eternities ago. “I--I know something happened to him -- when he was younger. During his childhood, something that left a mark on him after all these years. He said his family is -- they’re...gone.”

At this, Minho let out a short laugh devoid of any humour. “Gone? What do you think happened to his family?”

You threw up your hands in exasperation, a splash of hot coffee tipping onto your fingers. “I don’t know, Lee Minho, would you care to tell me?”

The coroner was silent for several moments, face strained as if all his thoughts were clashing violently in his head. “That part of his story isn’t mine to tell.” When you opened your mouth to protest, he continued, “What I can tell you begins from the moment my life grew tangled with his.” For the first time, Minho’s gaze was fixed on your own. “Only if you’re sure…that you want to know.”

Above you, the sky had darkened to a deep orange, clouds bleeding into a saturated sunset and casting looming shadows over the entire city. 

The golden hour washed everything it touched, and when you looked back at Minho, you suddenly realised why his presence had always seemed so...strange. Outlined in light for a fleeting moment, liquid golden eyes filled to the brim with heavy thoughts and repressed memories, Minho looked as if he were were fading away; as if his mind was forever trapped in another place, another time.

Although the darkness in Minho’s eyes was only a fraction of what Jisung’s held, you still found yourself helplessly rooted in place, as if you were peering into a bottomless abyss -- always too terrified to move closer, and yet too hypnotised to look away. But a small part of you supposed that maybe this was what had ultimately brought you to this very moment, what had lured you to the edge of the cliff -- and now, the only thing left to do was to take the final plunge.

You nodded as steadily as you could muster, and Minho turned back towards the edge of the railing. Bringing the coffee to his lips, his eyes glazed over with the fog of distant memories, and he began.

────────

The autumn Minho turned nine years old was a memorable one.

Many children his age would remember it as a time when the air was always crisp and smelled of candy apples, and the sun-bronzed streets were filled with the laughter of children diving through fiery fallen leaves.

Minho remembered it as the autumn his mother’s heart finally failed from the disease it had been fighting, the flatlining monitor ringing through his ears like the persistent drone of a cicada. He remembered it as the autumn he found his father dead on the bathroom floor, empty pill bottles clasped in his bloodless hands. Years of his mother’s treatment had buried them in debt until his father had finally lost his job, and, left alone in the world without his wife or his work, with nothing but a wide-eyed nine-year-old to feed, his father had chosen death.

It was around that time that Minho stopped seeing the world in colour.

Everything passed by him in blurs of grey: the social workers’ gaunt faces, shuffling him between foster homes, the endless paperwork filed for his parents’ sudden deaths.

 And then there was the orphanage -- or ‘children’s home’, as they called it: a tall, stone building with grey walls, white lights, surrounded by black trees. The students’ faces were grey and miserable. The nurses’ eyes were flat and colourless. 

Until Han Jisung. 

When the scrawny boy stumbled into the dormitories for the first time, he brought with him a wide-eyed wonder and life the other children hadn’t seen for years. He carried an old, beat-up camcorder wherever he went, the psychologist having given specific instructions never to confiscate it. This was hardly a problem, since the boy seldom used it. Despite this odd idiosyncrasy, the other children were attracted to Jisung like moths to a flame -- the young boy spoke thoughtfully and made clever jokes; he was a walking contradiction that was equal parts charming and clumsy. At times, he was a natural-born leader, able to command the attention of an entire classroom if he wanted. Perhaps this charisma was what had inevitably drawn Minho to the younger boy -- Minho, who had both parental figures ripped cruelly from his grasp; Minho, who had been blindly searching for a sense of family ever since, and had finally found it in this strange, charming boy.

But they say there are always two sides of the coin: a dark side to the moon, and the whispered rumours that followed Han Jisung wherever he and Minho went. 

Demon child. Pyromaniac. Father-killer.

Jisung’s face always twisted when Minho asked him about the rumours, or what his camcorder held -- and eventually, he stopped pressing altogether. After all, he had already lost his entire family -- he was willing to do anything to make sure Jisung wouldn’t abandon him, too. Perhaps this was how they became such inseparable friends -- and when Jisung began stealing matchsticks and coins from peoples’ pockets, Minho looked away. On nights when Jisung would ramble on and on about strange things -- life, and death; pain, and murder -- Minho stayed silent. And as Jisung’s dark, unfathomable looks slowly morphed into inexplicable, violent episodes, Minho did everything he could to cover his tracks.

Nothing, however, truly escalated until the year Jisung turned twelve, Minho thirteen. It was a dark time for Miroh Heights, a year filled with child trafficking cases and skyrocketing rates of depression. 

It happened one winter’s day, when Minho and Jisung had wandered too far into the town to find their way back. The sun had gone down, the city gates were closed, and the streets were barren and covered in sleet. 

Shivering, the two boys stumbled down winding alleyways, their empty stomachs growling louder and louder with each step. Even the families living in the slums had boarded up their doors in preparation for the winter, not a single living soul in sight.

Nothing, until--

“Are you hungry?” They jumped and looked up at the owner of the voice -- a gangly middle-aged man hunched behind the gates of an old house. He had on a wrinkled dress shirt and stained trousers, coal-black eyes ringed with red.

Minho nodded miserably as Jisung continued shivering uncontrollably, hands shoved into his pocket and gripping his camcorder.

The man’s mouth stretched into a wide, yellow-toothed smile. “Need to warm up and have a bite to eat, eh? Say--come on in, then, it’s warmer inside--wouldn’t hurt to sit down for a bit--”

Their feet and stomachs ached too much to protest. With a large hand on each boy’s shoulders, the man ushered them inside the rickety house -- all the while with an odd glint in his eyes that Minho was too tired to process. They had entered what seemed to be a basement, but a couple floorboards had been torn out, not a flicker of light coming from the broken lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. A rusted crowbar leaned on one cracked wall, the air as stale and cold as an icy breath.

“This way, then, c’mon,” the man growled gruffly, gesturing towards a darker corridor. Confused and growing more and more uncertain, Minho and Jisung’s steps ceased, the two children peering at the dirty shadows dubiously. 

Stomach twisting uneasily, Minho turned around to tell the man that they had changed their minds, that they should probably get going -- but all he saw was a flash of grey before something smashed straight into his face. 

Minho immediately crumpled to the ground, hot blood gushing into his mouth. He twisted his head and saw that the man had seized the crowbar when their backs were turned, hands shaking so hard bits of rust fell from the metal onto the stained ground. Through the haze of his own blood, the last thing he saw was the man swinging the bar at Jisung, the boy’s spine folding from the impact before sliding to the floor next to Minho. 

When Minho came to, his arms and legs were crudely bound with duct tape, cable ties biting into the skin of his wrists and ankles. His skull felt like it was on fire, joints pulsing violently with every heartbeat. He heard soft, laboured breathing, and turned with a start to see Jisung in a much worse predicament -- although the younger boy had been tied up like Minho, his entire face had been badly beaten: both eyes puffy and bruised, cheeks scratched up, and nose clotted with blood. 

Only years later did Minho learn that the man hadn’t beaten Jisung bloody for no reason -- it was because the scrawny boy had enjoyed putting up a fight.

They sat in a cramped storage room, rusted scraps of metal and slabs of crumbled brick digging into their legs beneath them. Before Minho could open his mouth to speak, the door creaked open. A crack of dirty yellow light illuminated the mousy-haired man standing in the doorway -- and when Minho’s gaze travelled downwards, he realised with a sick feeling that the man was holding a black shotgun.

“I’ll make this as quick ‘n’ painless as possible,” the man croaked, inching closer as Minho shrank back. His next words sounded almost as if he were mumbling them to himself. “This’ll be my revenge -- my revenge on ‘em all.”

Afterwards, they had learned that the man was one of many blue-collar workers who had been laid off that year. He’d had a history of mental instability, and losing his job -- along with his wife, who had deserted him upon finding out -- had solidified his crazed hatred towards the entire town. Minho had heard stories like these on the news -- people who would kidnap and kill their families or innocent strangers before committing suicide.

Minho felt Jisung suddenly shift beside him and a loud clang rang through the cramped space. Turning his head, Minho saw that he had been struggling against the restraints, and Jisung’s damned silver camcorder had slid out of his pocket. Immediately he looked back up at the man, a cold sweat forming at the back of his neck when he saw the man’s red eyes land on the device and pointer finger tighten on the gun.

Instead of pressing the trigger, though, the man grinned and scooped it up. He threw a sharp slap across Jisung’s face, who had shot up in protest and was trying to reach for his camcorder with both hands tied behind his back. Eyes glinting in a way that made Minho’s stomach flip, the man punched the faded ON button before pointing the camcorder at the boys.

“Ah, now this is jus’ perfect. The cops’ll love this, yes, they will.” He raised his eyebrows, tongue swiping over cracked lips. “Now, boy -- I want you to beg for your life -- go on.”

Jisung only stared back at the man, as if he hadn’t heard him at all. Confused, Minho’s eyes wandered down to Jisung’s hands behind his back -- and watched in muted horror when he saw that the boy had quietly picked up a piece of scrap metal and was pressing it against the cords around his wrists.

Minho’s heart skipped a beat as the man raised his gun, holding it up in front of Jisung’s face as if it were as harmless as a toy. “It’ll break ‘em when they see this. Two of their precious kids, killed for -- for no reason. Jus’ like how she -- how they left me to die -- for no. Fuckin’. Reason.”

Minho watched, eyes transfixed as Jisung’s fingers worked furiously behind his back, a small tear beginning to form in the bonds. Still, the younger boy said nothing, only watching the gun curiously, as if it were a small problem he was contemplating.

The man scowled, dropping into a squat before pressing the gun to Jisung’s forehead. “Beg for your life, you little brat. Beg, I sai--”

Everything happened in a flash. There was a small click, and Minho wasn’t sure if it was the trigger pulling or the cords finally snapping, but he saw Jisung’s hands break free and his entire body lunge forward, metal scrap flashing in his grasp. The man gave a yell of surprise and fumbled with the trigger -- and dropped the gun when Jisung drilled the metal straight into his throat. 

The pistol clattered and slid a few feet away from Jisung, but the boy made no move to grab it. Instead, his hands wrapped around a slab of cracked brick, and as the man raised his hands in a feeble attempt for mercy, throat gurgling in an unheard cry for help, Jisung slammed it downwards in one savage motion.

Again. And again. And again and again and again, until nothing but a bloody mass lay before the young boy, Minho frozen stiff with shock. Jisung’s back was turned, but a few times Minho caught a glimpse of his expression when he shook the blood off of his face. His eyes were impossibly wide, dark pools -- as if he weren’t even seeing the man at all, as if there was something else, much, much more horrible he was fighting against in his mind.

It was gruesome, and yet Minho couldn’t look away -- the boy looked like a fallen angel, wings torn out as he fed on a man three times his size. The camcorder had clattered a few feet away and was now crudely pointed towards the hellish scene, red recording light beeping like the eye of a demon.

Finally, the awful noise ceased, Jisung growing still. After a long moment, he turned around, and Minho flinched. His face and hair were dripping with flecks of blood, pupils slowly dilating and focusing like a broken camera. Lurching a bit, Jisung got to his feet, staggering over to him. Minho scrambled backwards, horrified as Jisung reached again for the scrap metal -- and felt the younger boy sever the ties around his wrists. Looking up, heart still hammering wildly in his throat, Minho felt his mouth go dry at the expression on Jisung’s face.

Eyes warm, features still, brow furrowed -- just like any young child’s would be. His voice came out small and vulnerable, and somehow, this chilled the older boy to the bone. 

“Minho? Can we go home, please?”

When the police arrived, the boys were swept up in shock blankets and hot tea, not a soul suspecting foul play. The man had always been known to be unstable, and his house was falling apart. The poor young boys, the tragic victims, had, luckily, fought back in self-defense, and one loose, falling brick had done the final blow. 

No one even noticed Jisung quietly slipping the bloody camcorder back into his pocket.

This was the version of the story revealed to the public, and the version Minho had wanted to believe -- but it was no use. Flashes of the incident -- the bloody, rusted crowbar, the man’s deranged smile, Jisung’s blood-covered, wide-eyed face -- haunted him, the smallest things sending him into a full-blown relapse. The school psychiatrist had diagnosed him with PTSD, but had done little else to treat it. It took years for Minho to stop waking up screaming from the nightmares -- they had seeped into his everyday life, lurking in dark corners, dirty alleyways, scrap metal and rusty crowbars.

But if that incident had been traumatic to Minho, it was the matchstick to the fuse for Jisung. He walked around like a nuclear bomb, ready to blow at any moment.

When Minho met Han Jisung, he was introduced to one more colour: red. 

The first ones seemed almost like accidents, really. A bloated body floating beneath the bridge. Another, bled-out and propped up in the back alley of a brothel. A fire in a home. Always people with dirty histories -- drug addicts, abusive partners, mistresses. People who wouldn’t be missed. 

Minho had wanted to believe they were accidents. Until Jisung began coming to him, eyes lost and blank, cheeks and hands stained with so, so much red. “I killed him, Minho -- I killed another one. And I--I felt good.”

And that was when Minho’s life took another turn he could never take back.

Watching Han Jisung kill was as hypnotizing as watching a wildfire blaze across a city -- and in that way, Minho supposed he was a bit of a pyromaniac, too. He spat out alibis when Jisung went missing on school nights, washed the blood from his hands, burned the stains from his clothes. And, when he was old enough, he began studying in forensic sciences.

It was sick and twisted, but Minho convinced himself it was for the boy’s own good -- his own release. Each time Jisung came back covered in blood, a small, desperate part of Minho hoped it would be the last -- that eventually, the boy would finally find his closure and stop. Until then, Minho would stay by his side -- whether it was out of obligation, fear, or something that ran much deeper, the coroner had stopped thinking about it years ago.

────────

You felt as if someone had yanked your head out of ice-cold water when Minho finally finished and fell silent oncemore. A rattling breath you hadn’t realised you were holding left your lungs, heartbeat thudding wildly in your throat as your pounding head tried to process all that he had said. “That...that incident, when you were kidnapped. I-is that what...made him like this? Is that why h-he--”

“No.” Minho shook his head. “The real reason -- goes much further back, before I first met him.” He sighed. “I told you. That one...isn’t my story to tell.”

You tried to open your mouth in protest, but nothing came out and you closed it again in defeat. Minho was right. At some point, you needed to find Jisung again. Finally, you stammered shakily, “I-I...I have to stop this. Stop him, help him, there has to be a way--”

“There is little you can do with people who don’t want to be helped, Y/N.”

His words sent a chill down your spine, and you sputtered, “Have you read the papers? They’re talking about a death penalty. We can’t -- I can’t just do nothing, they’ll find him, the last victim is still alive--”

“And what are you going to do? Kill him?” Minho smiled faintly, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. “Trust me, Y/N, I was in your position, once, too. You’re just like how I was.”

Your cheeks burned in indignation, mind spinning at how careless his voice seemed -- entirely rid of any worry or concern. Minho only sounded tired, as if he had given up. And maybe he had, years ago. You turned your body to face him, eyes narrowing. “No. That’s where you’re wrong. I’m not like you at all, Lee Minho.”

You saw him raise his eyebrows slightly in surprise, but you didn’t let him answer, turning instead and striding towards the door. Forcing yourself not to look back, you stormed through and slammed it shut with a heavy bang.

Minho stared after you, watching you swipe the blank tape off of his desk and disappear from his office. An odd, unfamiliar feeling was stirring in his chest, and it made him slightly dizzy. 

Was it hope?

It had been so long since he’d felt like there was hope.

He thought of your face, cheeks flushed with emotion, eyes blazing as you spoke defiantly back at him. In some ways, you really were like him -- you were such an open book. He’d known from the moment he glimpsed the expression on your face when you had come to him how much you genuinely cared about Jisung. You wore your heart on your sleeve, and that was why you were so kind, so vulnerable -- so easily hurt. Just like he had been, thirteen years ago.

But you were right -- in other ways, you weren’t like him at all.

You were stronger, braver than he had ever been, refusing to leave even after his endless subtle threats. You had risked your life, demanding to meet someone who could have -- no, would have, hurt you. The moment you had stood your ground against the railing, as if daring him to make a move, Minho had been at a loss for words. 

He could see why Han Jisung had fallen for you.

He raised his coffee cup to his lips but it was empty, the last bitter drop splashing onto the railing. His cloudy eyes were cast over the city -- Miroh Heights, the city he had loved and lost, the city that had always seemed too cold in the evenings. The sun had gone down and windows of neighbouring buildings and shops were lighting up one by one like fireflies.

There was something different about you.

And, knowing this, he felt something infinitely heavy lift ever so slightly off of his shoulders.

Maybe Han Jisung could be saved, after all.

[wincore]

archenemies | huang renjun

pairing: renjun x reader

words: 8.8k

genre: ‘bad boy’!au, fluff

warnings: language, some juvenile activities, huang “fight me” renjun, he’s way too aries for this to be good

a/n: move aside it’s my emotional support bad boy fic

There are people who are lucky and people who have met Huang Renjun. 

Every day is a reminder of all your mistakes, all the sins you’ve committed to have to deal with him. You’ve forgotten what began all the biting comments and burning quarrels, but you’re not going to lose to some quick-tempered punk. In all honesty, however, you’d prefer to never think of him again.

Huang Renjun is just a cog in the machine that controls your life and you’re going to best ignore him till someone upstairs decides to fix that machine. (You wish it were that easy.)

You eye the bruise on your knee with a sour taste in your mouth. It’s a darker shade of purple now, the blues mingling amidst only enhancing the size of it. You sigh heavily and crouch to retie your shoelaces. You’re going to have to slow down now, and not jump over the steps of a ragged staircase. There are few reasons to pass through the playground, when you can take a safer albeit longer way to the subway station.

It’s the shorter way, yes, but there’s more. Is it because of the lack of overenthusiastic students and the loud buzz? Is it because you can walk down the thick metal railing feeling free, arms stretched? Or perhaps, the most important of all—the illegal murals on the walls starting from your school. The art gets removed every time and not two weeks later, there’s a new one. If anything’s more cheerful in colour in this city, you’d gladly pay a pretty penny to see it.

You stand in front of the latest in the collection, eyes studying every stroke of paint. It’s a wolf, made with different colours of the rainbow and with a star gently held in its mouth. You swear its eyes move with the way they stare back at you, deep and alive. You wonder what this criminal artist sees in their head to create things so raw, so full of feeling. You’re always sad when they get painted over.

You take a picture of it on your phone to remember. Your first picture dates to about two years ago, when you accidentally stumbled into the backside of the school buildings. It was the mural of a trophy, more specifically the one your school awarded for academics each year. Except the trophy was made of branches intertwined far too loose and it held a rotting apple instead of a live golden one, greens faded to brown. The single piece of writing was in black—‘here lies our youth’. You had scoffed at it then. Undoubtedly, some sort of edgy loser had spilled ink on those walls. But you had to admit, the mural was unspeakably pretty and you took the picture for your own amusement.

The school, of course, had it removed at soon as they could but you still look at it on your phone once in a while. The look on your principal’s face was glorious when a new one showed up right beside the front gate. A withering rose with thorns made of silver, and a raccoon gazing at it with its head at a slight angle. It made no sense, of course. All of these have been abstract, almost hard to find meaning in but you felt a dash of impertinence in that piece of art. It was meant to piss them off.

And of course, the art continued blossoming. Over the months, they got better and better; every new piece held a different meaning. It became a sort of game for you, to find each work and photograph it before it was criticized by disgruntled police officers and hastily removed. Adults find no importance in these kinds of things; it’s too bright, too attention-seeking and too honest.

You tread carefully along the side of the street now, aware of your aching knee and curse yourself for being so frivolous in movement. Except you aren’t as careful as you think you are, and you bump rather harshly into a lean figure when you were looking elsewhere.

“Sorry! I really am,” the words tumble out of your mouth before you can recognize the boy. But when you do, you grimace, a familiar bitter taste on your tongue. “Renjun. Hi.”

Renjun glares at you as he massages the shoulder you had so carelessly rammed into. The white bones on his dark jacket sleeves and the skull on the back look painted, although you think Renjun couldn’t have made something remotely aesthetic. You await the biting comment he usually sends your way, but he quickly turns away after shooting you another scowl.

“Well, okay,” you tell yourself. “That’s new.”

If it wasn’t clear before, Huang Renjun isn’t the nicest of people you’ve met. With a flaring temper and sharp tongue, he’s on your list of people to avoid, but you cross paths quite literally way too many times. Of course, his entire group of friends is on your list of people to avoid, but it’s Renjun who seems to be fated to run into you every goddamn time. You’ve been assigned to do projects with him at least six times by some sort of treachery, and for all the years you’ve known him, his seat is almost always behind yours. It’s torturous, really. Renjun would be much more pleasant to face if he wasn’t glaring holes into the back of your head all the time.

You pull the vague memory of a shy new boy from middle school and shove it aside—no way can you relate the past and present. At school, he’s only a troubled student, not the type to sugar-coat words and with no restraint on words, he often pisses off people he shouldn’t be pissing off. Honesty is a good feature but not on people like him. Only the bravest of teachers take a liking to him, and the rest of the students are a little in awe of him. I wish I could be that honest, you’d heard one of your friends say. That way, I wouldn’t be afraid of the world. He was mistaken; there’s no one on earth born without fear. Needless to say, your peers like to romanticize him as some sort of cool, tough guy with mystery on his fingertips. You think he secretly likes the reputation. The only times Renjun’s softened is around his band of troublemakers.

You don’t trust reputations but you think Renjun is at least six times worse than what everyone thinks of him. (And you speak from experience.)

You have to admit, though, that you might be a little at fault here. You’ve accidentally spilled hydrochloric acid on him in the chemistry lab and smeared his neck with an obnoxious green in art before, but you don’t think that’s reason enough for Renjun to hate you. Regrettably, there are more cases of misfired actions and you’d rather not dwell on them.  

If luck has anything to do in the universe, it loves to mess with you when you’re around Renjun. It’s miraculously always him the victim, and you, an unwitting culprit. Bad luck doesn’t even begin to describe what has bound the two of you. At least, that’s how it began. It’s not like you’re trying to be annoying; the circumstances provide the paint for your already messy canvas and Renjun is left more and more pissed at you at the end of every encounter. You’d feel sorry for him if he weren’t such a prick.

The times you’re not accidentally messing with Renjun, he’s the one with offhanded comments that make your blood boil. You don’t know if it’s payback but it ends up with the two of you neck-deep in hatred for each other yet again. Sometimes, you enjoy the misery you unintentionally give him, like that one time the stray cat you were holding launched itself at Renjun and he ended up with more scratches than what was good (although, he isn’t exactly a stranger to injuries) and of course, the glorious times you were the cause of Renjun’s detention. Sometimes even those aren’t enough to shut his quick mouth and honestly, you’re giving up on ever having an actual conversation with him without being at each other’s throats.

You shake your head for thinking about him for this long. Any thought lasting longer than three minutes about Renjun is a curse.

“(name)!”

Chenle waves at you from a few metres away. It’s always good to see him and you smile; the kid’s a ball of positivity. It’s much better than running into Renjun anyway, for whom you’d have to grit your teeth and brace for another jab, trying not to start another bout of bickering with him. In fact, you find the contrast between Chenle (someone you’ve only ever talked with comfortably and an occasional angel) and Renjun (literally the Devil’s advocate) so sharp that you find it hard to believe they’re friends. The only thing they seem to have in common is living at the dorms, as non-native students.

“Hi!” Chenle greets you from a few feet away as he jogs up to you. “Have you seen Renjun?”

You furrow your eyebrows. You wonder why someone as nice as Chenle would follow around a mean grouch like Renjun.

“Yeah, I just passed him,” you answer, a little piqued by Chenle’s rapid flurry of expressions. Something’s obviously not right.

“Thanks,” he says with a slight bow before he takes off in the other direction.

Now, given your history of unfortunate circumstances with Renjun, you shouldn’t be following Chenle. You shouldn’t. But of course, you’d take this chance to snoop around on Renjun, just watch him speechless as he can’t come up with any response at all. Information, secrets—they give you the upper hand. You’re being petty, sure. It’s good for your health.

You follow the loud footsteps at a safe distance, starting to wonder if it’s worth it. You almost walk into Renjun’s view and scramble back behind the wall. He’s sitting on one of the swings while Chenle pants beside him, trying to catch his breath.

“I told you to stop following me around. You look like some lost puppy.” You hear Renjun click his tongue.

“You’re so mean,” Chenle says with a pout, “Wait, doesn’t that mean I’m cute? Like a puppy? Never mind, don’t you wanna know how far the investigation is going?”

“You don’t have to do that for me,” Renjun responds, looking down at his hands.

Chenle smiles, radiant as ever. “It’s no biggie!”

Renjun laughs, a sound foreign to you. “You’re acting like I said ‘thank you’.”

“Didn’t you?” Chenle grins. “Anyway, you have to be careful for the next week. They’re going to increase patrols near school.”

Renjun scoffs. “Like they’ll ever catch me.”

You narrow your eyes. From all the rumours you’ve heard, Renjun is no stranger to delinquency and other things illegal for high school students. But they’ve only been rumours. This is your chance to get some dirt on him, and you’re certainly not missing it.

Chenle presses his lips together, a flash of worry passing through him.

“Be careful anyway, okay?” he says.

Renjun snaps his head to the side, an annoyed sound leaving his lips. He looks nothing but bothered by the conversation.

“Don’t talk to me like that.”

You let out a breath, annoyed with how ungrateful Renjun is. Of course, you don’t expect better from a no-good sociopath, or whatever the hell he pretends to be. You never realized how twisted your ties with Renjun has been this far. You can paint no other picture except of a demon every time you think of him.

“Now scram,” Renjun huffs.

Chenle looks like a kicked puppy and you almost march over to Renjun to reproach him. There is nothing he does that doesn’t get on your nerves. But you maintain your position; it’s not worth wasting your time over.

The twitch of your foot, however, brings you to the boys’ attention. You retreat your head and look forward, your body getting still. Half of you is terrified of Renjun finding you and the other half simply doesn’t care, in fact wanting to shove some choice words at him in case he does find you.

As fate would have it, Renjun emerges from behind the wall and you hit your head back against it. Your heartbeat evens out quick and you face him, not wanting to look stupid. He’s pissed off—you can tell by the knitted brows and bitter twist of his lips.

“I knew you were annoying but eavesdropping?” Renjun rebukes, “Congratulations on getting to a whole new level of weirdo.”

Your ears turn red and you click your tongue. “Whatever.”

“You should stop being so interested in me. Seriously.”

“Me? Interested in you? If anything, you’re the one way too interested in me.”

“I’m not the one eavesdropping.” Renjun stands up straighter, fists clenched. Your cheeks colour.

“And I’m not the one picking fights every day at lunch.”

Your hostilities aren’t unknown to the school, who look partly afraid and partly entertained with your jabs and arguments. You’ve figured they’re more afraid of Renjun and his cold face than they’re afraid of your fights. If only they didn’t think he’s cooler than he actually is. You could roll your eyes.

“You guys sound like children,” Chenle butts in.

“Don’t interrupt me,” Renjun scowls.

“Don’t talk to him that way,” you warn.

“And who are you to tell me that?”

“A decent human being.”

“God, talking to you drains me of energy.” Renjun turns his head to the side, his frown never leaving.

“Looking at you drains me of energy,” you grumble.

With one last look of repugnance, you turn around to make your way back to where you were headed in the first place.

“I don’t know why you hang out with him, Chenle,” you say before you start walking off.

You can see Renjun tense up out of the corner of your eye. For a moment, you think he’ll yell an insult back at you but only the gentle breeze fills your surroundings. You like having the last word, but no part of this exchange was satisfying. You should’ve just gone your way.

The conversation you overheard leaves your mind as quickly as it entered. Soon, you’re on the subway home with a larger basket of reasons to avoid Huang Renjun.

As if high school wasn’t dull enough, being unable to skip class makes your sleepless body worse. The can of coffee you got at the vending machine offers no aid, and when you finally blink at the silhouette of escape, you seize it. You’ve never thought of skipping class as explicitly bad. It’s not good but neither is it an awful thing to do considering the condition of the present-day education system. You’d call it a necessary evil.

At least, that’s the excuse you use for yourself every time. You’ve only been caught once, and that’s because you fell asleep under the bleachers. Detention isn’t new, but it doesn’t put you in good books. You care for your future, and the inconvenience you cause others (unlike some others you know). It’s just that there are certain habits that you can’t help.

You’ve decided to be more careful, of course. You don’t want your mother getting any more upset with you nor do you want to spend more time at school through detention. There’s a prettier world outside these drudging walls.

Somehow, you sneak your way out to the back of the school building. The painting has been removed long since you first saw it, but the place has a sense of mystery to it. You’re drawn in, an optimistic explorer to lands that call. You shake yourself to prevent your imagination from wandering.

The weeds grow unkempt here, in the narrow gaps between walls and there’s messy graffiti (vaguely phallic and highly inappropriate) here and there. It’s not pretty but it’s fun walking through here, better than dozing off in class anyway.

The clicking sound grabs your attention. The thought of anyone else being here doesn’t make you very comfortable, but what could they do? There’s no way they’d land you in trouble without facing the same fate. You shrug and take slow, daunting steps towards the source. You might as well figure out who’s there.

You peek out from behind the concrete wall, only able to see a figure in a dark blue hoodie. Only a moment later, though, your eyes inevitably trail to the artwork on the wall.

It’s half done—without an outline or final touches. The strokes of paint make up what looks like a dragon skeleton, its wings spread out and a hollow look in its eyes. Even so, it’s funny to find it smiling. What stands out, though, is the burst of colour it’s made of. And without any prompt, you know it’s him—the mystery juvenile artist of your town. Why did he have to paint it here, where most people would never see it?

You step out from behind the wall, forgetting your hideout. It’s not like you’ll ever give away this artist’s identity, the only person who has the guts to make this place colourful. You’re about to call out when he turns and you freeze, your face morphing into disbelief.

“It’s you?!” you exclaim. This has to be a joke—what on earth is going on?

Renjun yelps at your appearance, dropping the spray can as he stumbles backward. He stands there horrified, eyes wider than usual and mouth apart in a stagnant pose.

“You’re following me again!” Renjun seems to have found words.

“I’m not following you, you dimwit,” you snapped. “I just happened to be here.”

“At least make up something more elaborate.” He takes a step towards you, still standing on the raised concrete between the walls.

You glare at him. “It’s true. I don’t care what you’re up to. But you’re the guy who’s been making these?”

You point to the painted wall, not wanting to believe a demon made something beautiful.

“And what if I am?” he snarls and steps off onto the ground in front of you. You’d be afraid of the look on his face, but you’ve seen it often.

“I could report you,” you say, almost smiling. You’ve wanted to see him squirm for a long time now.

You turn heel and walk inside, but Renjun runs after you, stopping only when you turn.

“What?” you ask, your smile smug.

He grabs your arm hastily before he pushes you against the wall, his hand gripping your shoulder too tight. There’s no doubt he’s learnt how to intimidate people. There are streaks of blue and yellow on the web of his thumb and parts of his wrists. The corridor is silent without lingering students, almost eerie without the buzz.

“Don’t you dare tell anyone.” He’s looking at you intensely, almost frantic. Of course, holding secrets takes courage.

You laugh, and he furrows his eyebrows, his frown deepening.

“What are you going to give me in return?”

Renjun scowls. He’s about to answer when you’re interrupted by a rather shrill yet familiar voice.

“No making out in the hallways!” your history teacher scolds. “I can’t believe you’re skipping class for this. I would say detention but I’m in a good mood. Jesus Christ, I know you’re young but there’s a time and place for everything.”

He leaves, his grumbling fading out soon but the two of you are frozen. You can see the red that’s flushed Renjun’s skin and you wonder if you look the same. His eyes are wide, his hand still in place against your shoulder. In his haste, Renjun had left no space between the two of you; in fact, if he were to dip his head a little lower, he’d have his lips brushing against yours.

Your cheeks flare up at the thought and you shove Renjun off you.

“That was- we weren’t- that didn’t happen,” you say quickly, your voice a pitch higher.

“That didn’t happen,” Renjun agrees, still flustered, the pink bathing his face and neck.

There’s an awkward silence before Renjun speaks again, a warning tone lacing his words.

“Don’t tell anyone.”

“You could add a ‘please’, at least.” The look on his face is way too enjoyable. You wait for him to realize you mean it and the look progresses into something even more fun.

“Don’t tell anyone…pl…uh, please.”

Renjun turns a few shades redder. Life just got far more splendid.

Renjun sighs enough times for Jaemin to take notice. The last thing he wants is for Jaemin to mother him but he needs some answer to his problem (you) too. He could kick the telephone pole beside him right now, but there’s no point in hurting himself. He slumps back against the wall.

“So did you finally ask (name) out? I heard rumours of you two…you know,” Jaemin grins, his tone more than teasing.

“Why the fuck would I ask (name) out?” Renjun tries his best to get his disgust across to Jaemin, though the warmth in his cheeks probably gives his embarrassment away.

“I mean, you’re always talking about them.”

“Because they make my life hell! And I’m not always talking about…them.”

Jaemin laughs and Renjun wants to kick him instead. Jeno breaks into a short laugh beside him but quickly recomposes himself at the glare Renjun sends his way. Have his friends always been this annoying? Donghyuck is thankfully absent and Yangyang’s probably hanging out at the bike garage. His friends like to add salt to cuts and wounds. And Renjun’s only used to the physical kind.

He sighs again, toning down the thoughts. If he thinks, he thinks of you and your ways of making him miserable. The smug look on your face had made Renjun want to set fire to something, preferably you.

“You guys don’t understand,” Renjun whines, “I literally got threatened to be reported to the police. By someone who hates me and will probably do it.”

Jaemin and Jeno exchange a look and it irks Renjun all the more.

“I don’t think it’s that serious,” Jeno says, “Or that (name) will do it.”

“Just talk it out,” Jaemin adds.

That’s nice and all but Renjun thinks they’ve completely missed the point. He’s dealing with the root of all his miseries and he sees no easy solution to this. For all he knows, you could be a demon launched directly from hell to make him pay for his crimes. Renjun shakes his head. He doesn’t want to think that way.

“Whatever,” Renjun sighs, “I’ll figure it out.”

It’s easier to get to solutions when it’s other people’s problems.

Jaemin wiggles his eyebrows and Renjun shoves him playfully, a smile falling into place.

You raise an eyebrow. You made a face when Renjun approached you as you left school but now that he’s piqued your interest, you relax against the wall. There’s no one around at this time in the park.

“You’re really making a deal?” You grin, hoping it gets on Renjun’s nerves.

“Yes,” he responds through clenched teeth. “Just don’t say something too outrageous.”

You press your finger to your lips, squinting your eyes to think. Renjun taps his foot impatiently and you almost consider whacking him across the head to stop the noise. There is no way you’d ever get along with him.

“Be my date for prom.”

“What?!” Renjun sputters.

You burst into a fit of laughter; the look on his face is far more enjoyable than anything you’ve seen so far this year. You like Renjun owing you.

“I’m kidding. I don’t have anything in mind,” you say, “I’ll let you know when I do.”

Renjun groans, drooping his shoulders. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re awful?”

“Multiple people actu—wait, I’m awful?! You’re the one with mean comments, little graffiti man.”

“Don’t call me that,” he snaps. “You’ve been making me miserable ever since I came here—oh, don’t make that face, it’s true!”

You cross your arms and try ignoring Renjun’s look of disdain. After a moment of hesitation, you sigh.

“I never meant to,” you say, voice softer.

Renjun blanks out for a moment and you use it to get back to the dilemma at hand.

“I won’t tell anyone,” you clarify, “But…you have to show me how you make the murals.”

Renjun frowns. “I don’t like that.”

“The alternative is agreeing to do whatever I say whenever I want till either of us dies.”

Renjun throws his head back, a sigh escaping his lips. “Fine. I’ll take you to the next place I work on. You better keep your end of the deal.”

“Of course.”

You smile. As much as you hate to believe the one person you admired for their creations turned out to be a demon, you’re curious. You might as well make the most of this situation while it lasts.

You won’t admit you lost sleep on a Friday night because you were excited to see Renjun spray paint a wall. It’s almost embarrassing, considering the history you have with him but you can’t deny what’s standing so clear in front you. The art you’ve saved in your precious folder in your gallery, its secrets will be laid open soon.

“You know, I heard this place is haunted,” you hum.

Renjun freezes in his path, and you almost bump into him. He turns around with distress across his face, eyebrows knit together.

“Don’t say that,” he says a little too quickly.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You’re afraid of ghosts?”

“No,” he starts, “Yes. A little bit. Whatever. This place is not haunted.”

You giggle. You didn’t expect Renjun of all people to have that look on his face. You know he’s not a tough guy (or, you refused to acknowledge he could be) but wouldn’t the school love to see him like this. He’s always come off as a little detached, uncaring of the world around him and he’s got scratches and bruises on him like he really doesn’t care which fight he’s picking. Of course the school got to talking about him—the foreign student with a mean temper and a rare smile. (“It gives him a rare charm! His laugh sounds so dreamy…” You rolled your eyes at your friends. “No. He’s just mean. And says mean things. You know. Like a mean person.”)

No one comes into this part of the subway station at night. The line is closed off during these hours, and you wonder how Renjun found out the hidden entrance. It's not easy to search over unchanging walls. The tunnel lights barely work, but the warm glow shoos away any unnerving feeling to leave empty spaces. It’s strange to not see platforms bustling with people; this one offering painted seats and large advertisements to no one now.

“What’re you going to make today?” you ask, making sure to not fall behind.

“Something simple,” he responds, taking the cans out of his satchel. “Maybe a remake of Starry Night.”

That does not classify as simple in your books, but you shrug, taking a seat by one of the tunnel walls.

Watching Renjun work is far different from staring at final products. The way his hands move in a fluid motion, the way he sprays the lines and curves with precision, the way he fills out the spaces with colour—you wish you could record all of it too. The clicking of the cans every time he shakes them is oddly satisfying, so are the full colours that transform the wall. His focus is trained and you maintain your silence, not wanting to break the encased time. You want to say you’re impressed, say it’s breath-taking to watch what he’s doing. But words don’t come easy at the cost of pride.

You tilt your head to focus on the large bruise-like mark on his hand. You thought it was paint, then a bruise but you can’t quite figure it out.

“What’s that?” you ask, tapping your own hand.

“A birthmark.” Renjun pauses momentarily to answer before turning back to his work.

You wonder how you never noticed that before. It’s like a little nebula, fitting for a boy who paints the sky with such adoration.

You don’t know how long you’ve been there but when you check your watch, time’s almost over. A little less than an hour left, you notify Renjun.

You never realized the importance of finishing touches. Neither did you ever think you’d find Van Gogh on subway walls.

An overused painting but there are Renjun’s touches to it—small tweaks in the colour and shape. There are still whirling clouds, bright stars and a sweet crescent moon. The village, though dark, somewhat adds meaning to the comfort of the lights from the houses. You shouldn’t forget why something was painted, Renjun had remarked as you were making your way here. This Starry Night holds no mourning, however.

“It’s lovely,” you say, finally. “I can’t believe you made this in a subway tunnel.”

Renjun looks up from organizing the spray cans back into the satchel. There’s a faint glow across his cheeks and he turns back to his bag quickly. His voice is unsteady when he speaks. “Thanks.”

You take your time searching for an angle with enough lighting to photograph it. Renjun looks at you dubiously at first but he steps aside with an indecipherable expression, his lips twitching at the corners.

The footsteps catch your attention. You share a look with Renjun, a cautious one when they get closer and you immediately move to stand near him.

“If that’s a police officer, I think we’re both going to jail,” you whisper.

“Or if it’s a ghost, I don’t think I’ll know what to do.”

“You seriously think it’s a ghost?!”

Renjun can’t answer for a figure comes into view, who most certainly belongs to higher authorities you’re not supposed to upset. Instead of saying anything, you share a look with Renjun and the two of you take off running. The adrenaline has already spiked into your veins as you follow your companion, who unquestionably knows his ways around these tunnels. You hear shouts from someone who’s most likely a patrolling guard but you keep running till an exit appears and you get out into the fresh summer air. You only feel the breeze for a moment before you have to break into a sprint again. You can tell dawn is on its way with the glint of the sky.

You can still hear trouble behind you as you leave the area and somewhere into your escape, Renjun takes a hold of your hand to keep you from tripping.

You reach the school dorms out of breath, sweat coating your skin and muscles throbbing. The two of you breathe heavily before a smile creeps onto your face and you laugh (or rather, wheeze) despite your lungs aching. Renjun looks at you incredulously and smiles back, the moment almost delicate. There’s a brief second when the two of you realize your hands are still clasped in each other’s and you let go with a start. You’ll brush this under the carpet too, of course.

“I hate running,” Renjun says in between huffs, bent over with his palms on his knees. “But the look on your face…I can’t stop thinking of it.”

Renjun breaks into laughter, the dimple on his cheek showing and making his features all the more pleasant.

You shake your head at him, deciding to let this one slide.

“I’ll treat you to breakfast at Red’s,” you say, unsure why you’re doing this. You don’t have to, but you feel like you should. It’s not every day you see the flicks of an artist’s wrists.

“Shouldn’t you get home? You live pretty far,” he says.

“It’s only a ten-minute subway ride,” you shrug, “How do you know I live far anyway? Does this mean you’re the one stalking me? Hm?”

“You’ve said you live far before, dumbass,” Renjun replies, his ears turning red.

You grin at him, hoping Red’s has opened for breakfast.

And just like that, you find you’ve both cast aside your differences. Everyone who knows you are in awe when you and Renjun simply shrug at the idea of being partners for a project. Only Jeno and Jaemin look smug when you laugh at what Renjun says, while Donghyuck and some of your friends leave teasing remarks. Your accidents have decreased by a decent amount and Renjun no longer glares holes into the back of your head in Calculus and Geography. In fact, you’ve been having civil conversations (save for light insults and jokes like between friends) and although something has changed, it doesn’t feel odd at all, like this was meant to be.

You don’t miss any opportunity to trail behind Renjun every time he comes up with something new to paint. It’s not like he keeps it secretive enough from you and although he acts annoyed, you think he’s glad to not venture into creepy, abandoned places alone. He’s a little bit of a coward, but a brave artist nonetheless. You’re lucky that more often than not, it’s a clean getaway (though Chenle’s snooping around the police station helps). Somewhere along the way, you shoved off your unnecessary hatred for Renjun. The night never ages when you’re together.

You sit atop the ledge of an apartment rooftop with Renjun beside you. There’s a bunch of obsolete items stashed around the small space—an old vending machine, partly broken flower vases, a rusted bicycle and more—some entertained by the overgrown vines cradling them. Renjun’s finished painting the floor of the roof, a sunflower field with vague meaning and a tiny Moomin hiding in between. This building will be gone soon and no one would find this one easily, yet he painted here. You don’t understand why he works on things that don’t last.

The building is too short for you to view the skyline; it’s quite dazzling to look at during night-time but it’s morning now. Thus, you only have the sky’s pink clouds and Renjun to keep your company interesting enough.

“I mean, come on. Don’t tell me you’ve never thought this way,” Renjun continues rambling, “If the universe doesn’t give a shit about you anyway—why shouldn’t you do whatever the hell you want? Our lives are too small when you compare it to stars and planets. And even they don’t matter in the end!”

“Optimistic nihilism is not an excuse to wreak havoc, Renjun,” you sigh. The breeze is finally picking up on the rooftop. Empty apartment buildings are hard to find these days. Of course, you’ve only learnt that because of Renjun.

Renjun rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you’re an angel, you know?”

You feign a shocked expression, hand flying over your heart. “But you’re the one in black, Mr. Huang Renjun. And I’m the one in a white sweatshirt, looking as angelic as I can be.”

Renjun drops his head to rest his cheek against his palm, the look of distaste across his face.

“You have no idea how miserable you made me all these years,” he huffs. “I remember when you dropped the pottery mud on me in sixth grade—you ruined my figurine and I never got to wear that shirt again!”

“Why do you remember what I did to you in sixth grade?”

“You expect me to forget tha—you don’t look very apologetic either.” He narrows his eyes at you.

“I swear I never meant to do any of that!” you defend, shaking your head profusely, “Maybe a little sometimes. But mostly never.”

Renjun breathes out, a defeated sigh tumbling out. He turns back to the sunflowers on the roof, a brief flash of respite passing his features. The following moments are coloured with silence and you lean back onto your arms. You can see the beautifully simple tattoo of Saturn on his left wrist peeking out of his sleeve. Renjun doesn’t like showing it to people often, and it’s not very easy to spot it either with his love for jackets and long sleeves. He said he wasn’t really thinking when he got it, just thought it was pretty. You think it’s just like him.

If you were to reach out right now, you could run your thumb over the ink, feel the skin. Your face turns warm. This is not supposed to be the feeling you get. You must not think the words, or you’ll accept them for reality.

You’ve started thinking this lately, but Renjun isn’t a bad person. He might be too honest for his own good but he has a strong sense of right and wrong, something your class is not wrong for admiring. He’s said he wants to be brave one of these passing days, (“I don’t want to run all the time. Just from the cops maybe. And anyone with a weapon.” “Glad to know you’re not going to jail any time soon.” “Don’t look so disappointed.”). You think he already is brave for being true to himself. He’s not always impulsive either, and he’s surprisingly kind often. He’s clever with his words, not just annoying. You realize you’ve seen only a shadow of him before. You feel guilty for having been so harsh.

“It’s funny,” he says, a small smile on his face, “People who know usually question me why I do this first. You haven’t questioned me yet.”

“Why do you do this?”

“I don’t know.” Renjun shrugs. “I just wanted to shove my feelings somewhere, I guess. You know. Choose your own sin, that kinda thing.”

“That’s nice,” you say, your smile mirroring his. “You don’t have to show off, Mr. Artist.”

Renjun laughs, his eyes twinkling with the stars. He doesn’t have to look like that. You look away for fear of delving deeper, something unknown gripping you. There’s an uncomfortable feeling choking you, its dark hands constricting around your neck. This isn’t good. You must not think the words, the feelings or they will become reality.

You get up suddenly.

“You think I can jump across to the opposite building?” It’s no use. The red must have started blossoming over your neck and ears already. No matter; you have to run away from this feeling somehow.

“What the fuck?”

“Treat me to ice-cream if I succeed,” you say, the adrenaline rushing in. Much better than whatever the hell had gripped you. The gap’s not that large; if you get enough momentum, you can leap onto the building’s ledge. You can run away.

Renjun stands up in haste.

“Did you get hit on the head?” He takes a step towards you. “Why the hell do you think this is a good idea?”

“Doesn’t hurt to try.”

Before you can step on the ledge, however, Renjun’s hand shoots to grip your wrist, the touch burning your skin.

“Don’t.”

Oh, you definitely know what this feeling is. You’re not sure what the outcome will be, especially when a mere touch to the wrist can bloom red all across your skin, free so many butterflies in your chest and stomach. You’re almost ashamed of yourself, yet a voice inside you is smug; it was bound to happen. Renjun pulls you down off the ledge and lets go.

“Oh, well. The last one to reach the ground treats ice-cream!” you declare before you rush to the door at lightning speed, and swing it open to exit. You don’t want your feelings written all over your face for him to read.

“No- what?! That’s cheating!” Renjun scrambles behind you, his voice full of annoyance, but a different kind than before. You wish it hadn’t changed, but you’re also not quite complaining.

Renjun hates this feeling more than he’s ever hated you. In fact, he can’t remember the feeling of hating you anymore. He wonders if it’s okay to have these thoughts about you.

Renjun spots your figure on the couch by yourself. Jaemin’s parties have two kinds of people—people drunk out of their minds and people only here by peer compulsion. He can’t say he’s ever seen you at parties before, maybe once or twice, not that he’s cared—he only wanted to avoid you then. He fidgets with the yellow sleeves of his sweatshirt; he doesn’t usually wear something this bright but he’ll blame you once more. He wishes you hadn’t been so elusive lately; a part of him feels weary without you and a part curses him for that.

Renjun’s heart leaps to his chest when he sits beside you, only to be greeted with a sweet smile and flushed cheeks. Stop looking at me like that, he wishes he could think the words into existence. There are scores of emotions tangled up inside him with no way to untie the multicoloured knots. It takes a while to calm his heartbeat, and even then, it’s unnatural.  He might as well tell you at this point—tell you that he likes you, that he’s wanted you more than he’s ever wanted anyone. He read somewhere that summer is a good time to let out your feelings although he can’t be sure of the credibility of the article.

You’ve always been a problem for him, this stupid, annoying problem he wanted to get rid of as soon as he could. And yet, you’ve given him the sweetest picture of all. He doesn’t usually play this game—in fact, he’s never done anything like this before. He feels embarrassed every time he drifts past his daydream, wanting you to kiss him, caress his cheek and run your fingers through his hair. These thoughts feel more illicit than anything he’s ever done. Renjun feels weak in the head when you tug at his sleeve.

“Hi,” you greet, still smiling. Renjun desperately wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that.

Just confess, the voice inside his head tells him. Get it out of your system.

“Hey.”

However, the words halt on his tongue. This is the voice he’s been saying no to ever since you looked at him with wonder, with stars tugging your smile by those subway walls.

He needs to swallow his pride to confess— but just what is he doing? This is not what was supposed to happen, this is not something he’d ever imagine a few months ago. He’s practised the words, but he can’t look you in the eye. He can’t tell you, oh no. It’s easier to run away.

You tilt your head, your gaze soft and Renjun feels a sigh leave his mouth.

“I like you,” he blurts out. “Yes. I, uh, l-like you. That’s what I meant to say- what I’ve been meaning to say. For a while.”

“Oh, thank you,” you say, “That’s very sweet of you.”

You burst into a fit of giggles. Renjun is only slightly baffled as he examines your condition. Out of all the ways he’d imagined you reacting to his confession, this was not one of them.

“Are you- are you drunk?!” he asks, the realization dawning upon him. You reek of alcohol, he finds with a sniff.

“What? No. Go back to being sweet. What were you saying again?”

Renjun places his face in his hands and groans. Not only did his horribly timed confession go unheard, but also he’ll undoubtedly have to carry your drunk ass back home. He definitely does not want your family finding him with you in this state.

“How much did you drink?” Renjun asks with a grimace, helping you up.

“Renjun. You’re adorable,” you say, wrapping your arms around his torso. He freezes immediately, resisting an urge to push you off him. This is strange, the feeling is strange. Renjun’s cheeks have risen a few degrees, his chest blooming with electricity and his ears will blow steam if he doesn’t do anything soon.

“We need to get you home,” he says, the syllables distinct.

“How could I go home?” you whine, wrapping your arms tighter around him.

Renjun resists another urge to smack you over the head. His heartbeat is frantic at this point, and he wants nothing more than the sweet relief of death to free himself from you. Besides alcohol, he can smell strawberries, possibly from your shampoo, and a dash of fabric softener. You’re warm and comfortable, annoyingly so. If you stay like this, he might not be able to bear the thought of you moving away from him.

Of course, Jeno has to find the two of you like this, your head in the crook of his neck and arms wrapped around him as his own balance you. In the middle of the living room, you look like young lovers who have forgotten the rest of the room, the world. There are people all around, yet no one cares.

Better Jeno than the others, Renjun thinks when he meets his friend’s eyes, although Jeno can be equally teasing.

“Help me get them home,” Renjun says, pulling you apart and holding you steady. You let out a complaint that he ignores.

“You could take them to the dorms,” Jeno offers. “It’s nearby.”

“What?!” Renjun didn’t realize his pitch could rise that high. “Can’t they…stay here?”

“The rooms are occupied. Besides, your roommate’s on vacation, right? You can take the top bunk,” Jeno suppresses an amused smile. Renjun hates him looking so smug.

“Okay,” he says, “I’ll…do…that.”

“Need help sneaking (name) in?” Jeno has a teasing lilt to his voice.

“No, I’m good,” Renjun responds quickly. Jeno won’t let him live, will he?

In the end, with much difficulty, Renjun actually manages to sneak you in and with even more difficulty, he gets you to sit on the bed.

“I like you like this,” you say with a laugh. “I wish you’d always be this nice. And loving. And nice. Everyone would love you more. Not as cool guy Renjun. But sweet guy Renjun. I love sweet guy Renjun.”

Renjun sighs heavily. “If I gave all my love away like that, do you think people would care about me for me?”

He shakes his head. There’s no way he’s having a coherent conversation with you right now.

“I would,” you respond, your voice meek.

Renjun ignores your answer; you must be too drunk to think right now. With a hurried goodbye, he turns off the lights and clutches his heart tighter to bed.

You clear your throat, trying desperately to distract yourself from certain memories of last night and the fact that you’re currently in the school dorms, likely in Renjun’s room.

The afternoon has bled well into wisps of the evening, and you look around more nervous than ever. You remember clinging onto Renjun a little too tight, your hands around his waist—it’s the first time you’ve touched him save for the occasional swatting at his hands or punches to the shoulder. What would the school think of you two warmed up so close to each other like that—what would Renjun think of your stupid drunk self holding on to him like that?

Or even worse, what if you said something? What if you let slip something important at a time when words don’t mean as much?

The door opens and you flinch, turning your head to find the object of your afflictions. Renjun blinks for a moment or two before he sits beside you. He’s wearing a thin jacket; it’s not cold outside but he prefers those anyway. There are a gash and a bruise on his cheek and you wonder which obviously larger and stronger opponent he pissed off again.

“I thought you’d never wake,” Renjun says, nodding to emphasize. “That’s my bed, by the way.”

“Who’d you get into a fight with?” You shift closer, narrowing your eyes.

Renjun sighs, making a face. “Some idiot. Why does that matter?”

“Hold that tongue of yours for once,” you chide.

He heaves a noise of annoyance. “What are you, my mom? I let you sleep here all of last night and most of today—and the first thing you do is complain. I could’ve left you at Jaemin’s house, you know?”

“See! That’s what I’m talking about—you have no control over what you say sometimes,” you state, an old feeling bubbling up. “You pick a fight with everyone.”

“No. Everyone picks a fight with me and they do that because they hate the truth.” He pauses to let his frown show in his eyes. “Are you telling me I shouldn’t tell people to stop being rude to waitresses or tell the other kids to stop whining about not doing anything? They know the truth too.”

“When will you realize there are things more important than the truth?” Your voice is louder already. But you don’t think you mean the words; they’re just cowardly, from a person too afraid to lay their feelings out in the open.

“So you’ve decided to be this way then,” he says, scowling already. This is an old scene alright.

“I’m just telling you what might help—God, never mind,” you say, standing up quickly, “This what I hate about you. You’re just- there are just so many things I hate about you.”

No, you don’t mean any of this but habits die slow.

Renjun looks up at you silently. The sunlight makes its way to his cheek, caressing it with golden hues. His hair brushes against his browbone, the sun apparent in the brownish loose strands. The gash on his cheek is unbecoming but if anything, it highlights the rosy hues of his lips and nose. You’ve never been this infuriated yet fascinated with someone before. Your hands twitch, head still clouded with unfamiliar thoughts and a hangover. You wish you hadn’t snuck a look at his lips.

“Go on then,” he whispers, eyes flickering down for barely a moment, “Tell me what you hate about me.”

Do you take the risk? You hold the fragile thread against your thumb, a small tug required to snap it off.

You pull him up by the lapels of his jacket into a kiss, his lips rough against yours. The force of your pull sends the two of you stumbling backward three steps before your lower back hits the side of the study desk. You hold your position, your shaking hands bunching up the cloth you tightly hold.

When he doesn't respond, you feel a tremor of panic—maybe you shouldn't have been so hasty, maybe you figured wrong. You pull away with a start, an apology popping up on your lips and warmth across your face. But in the brief stretch of a moment, Renjun slides one arm around your waist and the other against the table for balance, his torso relaxing as he pushes against your lips again to further the kiss.

When you pull away, Renjun’s face is a sweet shade of pink. He looks embarrassed for a moment before he furrows his eyebrows, lips curving to a frown.

“You shouldn’t go around crashing your lips onto other people’s,” he scolds.

Your face flushes hot and you stumble over words to excuse yourself.

“Sorry,” you say, “I should have asked.”

“You’re lucky I like you,” he mumbles. “You’re lucky I wanted to kiss you the moment I entered this room.”

You feel another rush of warmth to your cheeks. Renjun is no different, face splashed pink from his words and your actions.

Renjun dips his head and you press your lips against his in another kiss, this one much calmer as a promise, the feeling already getting familiar. Maybe fate had different plans all along and the two of you misunderstood. Or perhaps, you’ve fallen into something fate forgot to acknowledge, perhaps fate grew tired.

Renjun pulls away first, lips parting into an open smile. Your heart swells, all the contempt inside driven out.

“I was wrong,” you confess, “I was wrong about you- about a lot of things, actually.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same boat,” he says softly.

You bury your head against his neck again, the smell of summer wind and green tea hand cream wafting in. You can’t quite describe it but you’ve grown used it, the scent and the warmth. You’ve grown used to Renjun as a person now and not as the bane of your existence.

“You know, I actually wouldn’t mind,” Renjun says.

“What?”

“Going to prom with you.”

You laugh. He looks away bashfully, the dimple appearing once more and you know right then you’ve been wrong in cursing fate—this is a gift that took time, one you unwrapped late. He’s only occasionally timid, not looking to pick a fight and you want to cherish moments like these. You don’t have to say things to mean them with him; you don’t have to hold his hand to feel warmth. Whatever had been set up for you, the two of you have finished it and as your mother says, only once in a blue moon does fate betray its course.

[aelaer]

The Blood in My Veins (a serial)

Okay, so I will sometimes let prompts that interest me just sit for a bit and see if they remain in my head or not and yeah, Prompt #608 from @ironstrangeprompts (which I can't tag for some reason) wouldn't go away and I blame absolutely everyone who told me to do it for distracting me from the long multi-chapters I'm desperately trying to write this year. But in return you get Part One of a tumblr serial with absolutely no idea as to where it's going and no update schedule in mind. :P But it's supposed to get to the reveal in the prompt eventually. Promise. Speculation highly encouraged as that helps plot bunnies very much.

Prompt: Kidnapped to play doctor for a still unseen other prisoner; Stephen realizes there is only one person on the planet who would have palladium in their blood.

This is unbetaed; apologies for any errors.

Part 1 - How We Began

Stephen's thoughts were sluggish and his memory spotty as he began to wake up. Worse, he had a headache that was boring into his temples and made the idea of opening his eyes, never mind moving, sound like an absolutely terrible one.

Sound began to filter through the fog. Eventually he was able to distinguish some words within it.

"...waking up…"

"...pulse is still slow…"

"...considering what he was given…"

He recognized none of the voices. Through sheer stubbornness alone, Stephen ignored his pounding head and forced his heavy eyelids open, only to immediately close them again against the sharp brightness of the fluorescent lighting above him. He could not help but groan.

"Right, the lights," someone—female—said, and he felt a cloth placed over his eyes. "I'm afraid I can't do anything about the lights, but you'll adjust to them soon enough. I have some water for you when you're ready, too."

Some part of Stephen's brain registered that she had an English accent. The rest of the functioning part of his mind focused on speaking. "Who…" And that was all he could manage at the moment.

"My name's Doctor Summer Weston," she answered.

A doctor? Was he injured? He wet his lips and tried for more than one word. "My... injuries?" What had he been doing to get injured? How bad was it? How much morphine was running through his system?

He felt Doctor Weston's fingers on his radial pulse. (Why was she doing that? Where was the EKG?) "No injuries; your current headache and sensitivity to light are an after effect of the drug in your system. I think you're at the tail end of your symptoms, though."

That… made no sense in a number of ways. Stephen forced his eyes open once more, and the cloth over his eyes made the endeavor manageable this time. "What happened?"

He heard her exhale softly. "What is the last thing you remember?"

Stephen had to pause to think about it, which was both incredibly unusual and rather annoying. He frowned to himself as he concentrated. Was he at the hospital? No, he was off. He was… "Grocery shopping. I was at the store. I think I paid." Yes, he remembered paying. He had decided to walk the three blocks to and from the store and was heading back to his apartment. Beyond that point, his memory became fuzzy.

Doctor Weston didn't say anything about his answer and instead just said, "You need water. Do you think you can handle the light? If not, we can keep the towel on and I can help you up."

He didn't respond, but moved his arm up and pulled the cloth away from his eyes, squinting at the ugly rectangle panels above him. The other doctor helped him up into a sitting position and gave him a bottle of water, but Stephen was too busy staring at his surroundings. While he was on a medical bed, in front of him was a large room that could only be described as a biochemical lab. It had state-of-the-art equipment, much of it looking brand new, and working there was another man and two women all in lab coats. Against nearby walls away from the machinery were several other medical beds.

"Drink," Doctor Weston encouraged, and his parched throat more than anything had Stephen doing so.

"Where am I?" he asked, squinting at Doctor Summer Weston. She appeared somewhere between thirty and forty and currently wore her long brown hair in a messy bun. She was pale and looked tired, with dark bags under her grey eyes and thin lips bent downturned. She wasn't wearing any makeup, either, which was a look he knew on his female patients before surgery but usually not on female doctors (and a couple of non-women doctors, too).

"I don't know," she answered. "None of us do." 

Stephen's confusion (and alarm, though he wouldn't admit that yet) grew. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

She gave him a rueful smile. "There's really no easy way to break this: you've been kidnapped, just like the rest of us."

He stared at her in disbelief, half-wondering if he heard her right. His head was still pounding with his heartbeat and that made his hearing less clear, after all. "What?" was what he managed.

"Yeah." The lackluster smile returned. "So, are you an orthopedic surgeon or a neurosurgeon?"

"Neurosurgeon," he automatically answered, then stared at her. "How did you know?"

"The X-rays," was Doctor Weston's inexplicable answer. "I'll show you in a bit," she said as Stephen went to retort. "We should get introductions out of the way. Drink more water."

Stephen frowned at her, but his head was still complaining and for that reason alone he drank instead of demanding further answers that moment. At least the light was becoming more bearable.

In the meantime, Doctor Weston called to the others, "He's fully awake now. Take a break for introductions and water."

One of the women, who was in her mid-forties, he guessed, with thick straight black hair pulled back, and a rich coppery brown skin that appeared in tight and worried lines across her face, shifted in discomfort. She adjusted her narrow-rimmed glasses then looked over to the wall, and Stephen followed her gaze to see a camera in the corner. "How long have we been working?" she asked; she also had an English accent.

"About five hours," Doctor Weston said after looking at her watch. "You should be okay for a few minutes."

"I think so. I have to wait for the centrifuge to finish, anyway," said the third woman, and the tallest of the three women (though maybe it was her natural curly hair giving her extra height). Her white lab coat contrasted sharply against her rich umber skin under the bright fluorescent lights, and just like the others, she looked stressed and tired. She appeared somewhere about his age and was definitely American, with the slightest hint of a southern twang in her voice.

The final one in the room, a balding man with salt-and-pepper hair and perhaps in his mid-forties or early fifties, stepped forward from his work station first. His complexion was a flushed pink and he wore thick lenses, but they did nothing to hide his bright green irises. "How are you feeling?" He spoke with a heavy German accent.

Stephen grimaced. "I've been better," he answered as he was surrounded by the four of them.

"We know what it feels like," the African-American woman replied. "I'm Doctor Jada Ferguson. Hematologist, University of Texas MD Anderson Cancer Center, Houston."

"Doctor Meera Mahajan," said the other unnamed woman. "Pathologist with a specialty in cytopathology, from St Bartholomew's Hospital in London."

"I'm from London, too," Doctor Weston added. "Though from St Thomas' Hospital. Cardiothoracic surgeon."

"And I'm Doctor Steffen Baar," said the man. "I work as a pharmaceutical chemist for Bayer in Wuppertal, in western Germany."

Stephen wrapped his mind around this new information as they introduced themselves and started trying to connect the pieces of this (terrifying) puzzle together. After they finished speaking, he cleared his throat and said, "Doctor Stephen Strange. Neurosurgeon, Metro-General, New York."

Doctor Ferguson made an affirmative noise. "I read your latest publication not that long ago. It was fascinating."

"I've read yours as well," Stephen said, then looked at the others. "I've read publication papers from all of you within the last three years." And there was a reason he remembered their names; they were all brilliant studies and clearly experts in their specialties. Why the fucking hell were they all here?

His face must have reflected his thoughts, because Doctor Mahajan said, "Whoever brought us here wants us to work." She glanced over her shoulder, then added, "Which is apparent." She then opened her mouth, paused, then shut it.

Stephen frowned. "Work on what, exactly?"

Doctor Weston also looked over towards the camera, then said, "Our job is to keep an unknown patient alive. And you've been drafted."

Tagging @walkin-in-the-cosmos (though it’s not tagging right) and @queenofalotofdifferentworlds as requested in the original prompt post.

Full disclosure: In terms of writing I concentrate more on plot and worldbuilding and not really the development of romance. Whenever this serial ends, it'll likely end on an ambiguous, open ending to interpret the relationship's route to the reader's pleasure (what we once labeled "gen or pre-slash" stories, not sure if that's used anymore). It'll definitely not explore anything remotely sexual beyond your usual PG-13 innuendo (if that). So if that's not what you're looking for in this prompt fill you can ignore the rest of the series :)

But if the serial does interest you and you want to be tagged in the next post, I'm starting the clean slate with this first one. Just leave a comment expressing interest in being notified/tagged for the serial, though I'm afraid I have no planned update schedule.

[aiimaginesbts]

Beautiful Resemblance

A/N: A short fic written for Lucien’s birthday :)

Reader x Gavin

Genres: Fluff (PG-13?)

Word count: 3,539 words

Disclaimer/Copyright. Photo from Mr Love: Dream Date.

There’s a growing chill in the air with each passing day that keeps me on my toes. By the time I flip at the calendar on my desk and see the word ‘November’, anxiousness and excitement that have been building up for the past few weeks had hit me all at once. I can’t wait for that day to come. However, if I don’t finish the task I’ve set for myself in time, it will all be for naught.

Just a little over a week earlier, Lucien had unwittingly solved the problem that had been plaguing me since the end of autumn while we were walking down a shopping street together. “Look, isn’t that a figurine of that idol you’re friends with?”

“Huh?” Stopping in my tracks, I’d turned my attention towards the display in the store window that Lucien was pointing at. A small figurine, not much bigger than my hand, stood out amongst other dolls lined up to its right and left. “Oh, wow.” Wanting to take a closer look, I’d unthinkingly released Lucien’s hand to step closer to the glass window. It might have been small, but the details were all there – Kiro’s attention-grabbing blue eyes, the highlights in his blond hair, his bright smile, even his lean muscles – heat had crept up to my face as I’d remembered what a perfect physical specimen he was. It was like a mini-Kiro was right there in front of me. The thought of owning a tiny Kiro amused me to no end, and I’d giggled. “It really is the spitting image of Kiro!”

“Hmm.” Stepping beside me, Lucien had peered into the window, trying to see what I was seeing. “Does that mean you know his features well?”

“Huh? Oh…” Lucien’s sudden question had surprised me. I hadn’t thought of it that way. “I guess… We have worked together several times. Plus, he’s famous. You see him everywhere nowadays.”

“Really? But, if I’m not mistaken, we’ve worked together more, haven’t we?” Pressing further, Lucien had forced me to call forth the number of times he’d appeared on my show; Miracle Finder, and all the times we’d spent together working on planning it. “I’m quite sure that I’ve appeared on your show far more frequently than he has.”

“Yes, of course you have. You’re our guest expert, after all.” My gratitude for all his help had automatically brought a brilliant smile to my face.

“Then…” With one step forward, Lucien had brought himself mere inches away from me. As if that wasn’t enough to leave me all flustered, he’d taken back the hand that I’d let go earlier. “Do you remember my features as well as you know your idol friend’s?”

“Uh-huh,” I’d said stupidly, blinking up dazedly as he’d stared down at me. How was I supposed to think when his gorgeous face was so close to mine that I could feel his warm breath fanning over me? Summoning all my willpower to focus, I came up with an answer; “I can’t really say for sure when you’re right in front of me, Lucien. It’s only when I don’t see you that I can try to recall what I remember.”

“Fair enough.” It’d felt like I’d been released from a spell when Lucien had straightened back up, putting a bit of distance between us. He’d still held on to my hand, though. Not that I was complaining – the heat radiating from our point of contact was welcome in this cold weather. Yet I’d found myself thinking that I wouldn’t have minded it even if he’d held onto me on a hot, sunny day in summer. “Shall we go now?”

“Okay,” I’d given in to his gentle tugging, but as we’d walked off, I’d found myself glancing back towards the store for a final look at mini-Kiro. Even though I’d known all along how popular Kiro was, seeing such a merchandise still came as a nice surprise. Being friends with such an amazing star felt like a dream.

“Do you want to buy it?” Lucien had misinterpreted my attraction to the figurine, and his expression had fallen a little. It was almost as if he was pouting. My attention was drawn back to him instantly. This wasn’t an expression that I saw very often, if at all.

“No,” I’d clarified with a shake of my head. “It’s just mind-boggling that the person I personally know is a toy.”

Chuckling, Lucien had mused, “I wonder if collectors would agree to such a simple term as ‘toy’. But,” he’d smiled teasingly at me, all sulking gone now, “if there was a toy of you, I’d buy it immediately.”

Even though I’d laughed it off then, the thought had stayed with me long enough until I’d found the time to visit an arts and crafts shop two days after that. After explaining what I intended to make, one of the shop assistants had kindly taught me the basics that I’d need. Although I’d managed to buy all the things for the present that I want to make, I’d been so busy with work since that it’s only about half-finished now. The panic is starting to begin in earnest.

Looking at my phone as I hurry up to my apartment, I calculate that I only have less than a week to finish the present before Lucien’s birthday. The unfinished doll sitting on my coffee table is still rough in its development, with only the basic shape of a human, but without any discerning features. I suppose this is where I need to call on my powers of recollection, huh? Lucien’s question the other day about me remembering his features are called to mind, and I can’t help grinning to myself as I work on sewing the doll.

Fortuitously, Lucien is coming on set to shoot an episode of Miracle Finder the very next day. As he talks to the cameras, I find myself watching him intently, paying more attention to his fine features than I normally would. It’s no secret that Lucien is incredibly good-looking, but I’ve never given much thought to his defining attributes. His black hair is kept short and well-trimmed, in line with the rest of his appearance – Lucien has a very neat look. Without his loose, white lab coat, his sturdy build is more apparent underneath his crisp, black dress shirt and slacks. The dark colours contrast sharply with his fair skin, making him look far more noble than the average guy.

However, the feature that draws my attention immediately every time is, without a doubt, his perplexingly beautiful violet eyes. It’s not just the colour, though. There’s wisdom beyond his age hidden behind those vivid irises, so mysterious and intriguing that I can’t help wanting to stare into them for hours just to see if I can uncover what’s hidden within those depths. And yet whenever he smiles as he teases me, a little weight seems lifted from the heavy sadness that always lurks there. I’ve always wished that I can make him smile. Always. So that one day there will be no trace of that sorrow left behind.

Before I know it, shooting is wrapped up, and those eyes I’ve been watching for so long flick in my direction. Oops. Afraid that I’ve been caught in the act, I hurriedly look down at my notebook, although I have completely forgotten why it’s lying open in my lap.

“Is there something on my face?” A soft voice so close to my right ear that his breath ruffles my hair makes me jump in my seat. From the silence that follows – even my co-worker, Kiki’s excited, non-stop chattering comes to a pause – I know that the whole studio heard my startled yelp. Blood rushes to my cheeks immediately. Looking up at the source of my shock, the heat gathered in my face intensifies when I find myself almost nose to nose with Lucien, who’d bent down to whisper in my ear.

Seeing my astonished reaction elicits a low chuckle from him. It’s infuriatingly charming, because that’s what Lucien does to me. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you,” he apologises, although his sincerity isn’t all that convincing when he’s literally laughing in my face. I start to pull my face into an indignant pout, then stop when he continues, “It serves you right for staring at me all through the recording session. I could barely concentrate.”

That soft, beguiling grin of his is as nonchalant as ever, making me wonder if his words are really honest or just meant to tease me. On the other hand, regardless of my doubt, just the thought of him being distracted by me is enough to make me flustered. Oh, but I can’t tell him that I really was looking at him! “I was not staring at you!” Panic causes my denial to come out as an unconvincing, embarrassing shriek.

“Really?” Drawing up to his full height, Lucien rubs his chin thoughtfully. Knowing full well that he doesn’t believe me at all, I can’t look up at him. Instead, I give my attention to the notebook in my hand, even though I can’t make sense of anything that’s written on the white pages. “I could have sworn that I have holes from your eyes boring into me.”

“Even if that’s true, which it isn’t,” I ground out, aware of my imminent defeat but refusing to surrender, “You scared me out of my wits, so I’d say we’re even.”

“Indeed. Well, I suppose I’ll have to let you go this time,” he raises his arms in mock surrender, then stoops back down to whisper, “but I won’t go so easy on you next time.”

That titillating threat, blown into my ear like a delicious promise, sends shivers down my spine. Even though I’m at a loss for a comeback, I instinctively turn to face him, but Lucien is already walking away. Remembering that he’d said he still has some work to finish, I refrain from going after him. It’s already very gracious of him to spend his precious time recording my show. I shouldn’t bother him any further.

Fortunately, getting the recording for the next episode done gives me the time and motivation I need for the last spur of effort in finishing Lucien’s present. With the last stitching done to keep a purple button in place, I cut the thread and lean back to examine my handiwork. As far as homemade crafts go, it’s pretty good, even if I do say so myself. I’ve spent some time today to go pick up a small cake at the bakery after work, but I knew I’d have time to finish before midnight. Any weariness I may be feeling dissipates when I look at the doll and think about the man it represents.

And just in time, too. The clock hung on the wall opposite me shows that it’s ten minutes to midnight as I wrap the present with a soft, thin cloth and tie a ribbon at the top. That’s when it hits me; I’d completely forgotten to do the most important thing – ask Lucien if he’s free tonight!

Cursing my own carelessness, I jump off the sofa to get my phone. I was so absorbed in finishing the doll that I didn’t notice if there was that muted noise of the front door of the apartment next to mine closing or not, which would tell me that Lucien’s come home. Even my phone is still in my bag where it has been since I got back. Fishing the device out of my bag, I see that I have one missed call and two messages from the man himself.

“Are you home? I saw your lights are on.”

“Too busy to answer my call?”

Trying to calm myself down so I don’t give anything away, I call Lucien. “Hello?” After three rings, the familiar, comforting voice greets my ear.

“Hi. Sorry for the later response. I was a little distracted,” I say a little breathlessly. My eyes stray towards the clock again. Six minutes to midnight. “Is it okay for me to come over?”

“Now?” He asks, mild curiosity colouring his tone.

“Yes, if you don’t mind. If you’re busy, I won’t stay for very long.” I wished that he isn’t but I quickly add the last sentence anyway, afraid of being turned down.

There’s a short pause on the other end. “… Sure.” The answer prompts me to let out a breath I’m not aware I was holding. “You can stay as long as you want.”

Normally his last statement would be enough to send me into a tizzy, but I’m too pressed for time to put much thought into it. “Be there soon.” As soon as I hang up, I hurry to take the cake out of the fridge, already placed on a nice white plate. All that’s left is to light the candles. A few minutes later, I’m standing before Lucien’s door, wondering how to press his doorbell when I’m struggling to balance the cake and the present in my hands.

Just then, the door opens, revealing Lucien on the other side. “Oh! How did you know I’m here?”

“It’s easy to notice, since I’ve been waiting for you,” Lucien gives me another one of his easy smiles before he looks down at my offerings. “And what is this?”

Internally scolding myself for getting distracted, I burst into a Happy Birthday song. The corners of Lucien’s lips spread out further as he waits for me to finish. “Thank you. Would you like to come inside now?”

“Uh, yes.” Belatedly feeling foolish for singing in the corridor, I hurriedly follow him into his apartment. He closes the door behind me, but doesn’t go further into the house. Feeling awkward standing in the narrow entranceway, I ask, “Shouldn’t we go in?”

“We should,” Lucien agrees. “But before that…” Suddenly, he steps closer to me, prompting me to step back reflexively. There isn’t much space left behind me, so my back immediately hits the wall. Even though he rests a hand on the wall next to me so casually, the effect it has on me is world-shaking. Lifting my chin up, my heartbeat thunders in my ears as he leans down, moving closer and closer to me. “Perhaps I should blow the candles out before they go out on their own.”

“Oh. Right.” Stupid me and my overactive imagination! Trying to will the heat away from my face, I lift up the cake so Lucien can blow out the candles. The light in the entranceway isn’t on, and in the dimness of the small space lit only by the light from his living room, the flickering light from the candles bathes his face almost magically as he moves closer to them. With part of his face shielded by his falling bangs, what I can see of his face glows like an ethereal being. Then he takes a deep breath and releases it over the candles, extinguishing them all in a single exhale, and the moment is over, finally returning my senses to me.

Unaware of how captivated I was by him, Lucien moves away and invites me in. The desk he works at in the corner is littered with papers, but his coffee table remains neat and clear, giving me space to set down the cake and my gift. “Are you still working?”

“I just finished when you came,” he assures me. Although not entirely convinced that he’s telling me the truth, I don’t want to contest his statement. Just give me a chance to give this to him properly. I won’t disturb him for too long, I vow to myself.

“You shouldn’t be working on your birthday, you know.”

“Well, my birthday just started, so technically, I wasn’t.” Informing me of this so matter-of-factly is meant to rile me up, so I fight the urge to pout like I know he’s expecting. Sensing my infuriation anyway, Lucien’s lips perk up as he takes a seat next to me on the sofa. “Besides, now I have the best excuse to stop working and unwind. I can’t think of a better way to start my birthday and end my night than spending it with you.”

Sweet words like thick honey leaves me at a loss for words, and I turn away before he can see how affected I am by them. Correctly assuming that he can’t get a response from me – not anytime soon, anyway – he reaches out for the small bundle next to the cake. “Is this for me?”

“It’s a gift for your birthday,” I confirm with a nod. “It isn’t much, though.”

“No gift from you is too little.” Holding the present in his hands carefully as if it’s precious china, his eyes shine with something that I don’t remember ever seeing before. He looks… happy. Just seeing it lifts my spirits up to new heights. “Can I open it?”

“Go ahead.” As his long, elegant fingers tug at the purple ribbon, my heart starts racing again. For a different reason this time. Is it really good enough to be a present? Would such a clumsy, hand-made knick-knack be a good fit for someone as classy as Lucien? Will he hate it? Questions fly through my mind like a tornado as he unveils the present.

Once he pulls the ribbon, the white cloth that has been wrapping the gift falls away, revealing the doll. Lucien’s eyes widen as he takes it in. Well, at the very least, it seems like I’ve managed to surprise him. It isn’t very big – just about as tall as the tablet he uses at work – but in his large hands, it looks really tiny. Said hands pick it up and turn it over, observing my handiwork from every angle. I feel like my work is being put under careful inspection, and it’s making me really nervous. “It’s nothing special, it’s just a hand-made thing after all. Nowhere as detailed or impressive like the figurine we saw the other day…”

“Yet to me, it is the more precious and amazing than anything you can buy at a store,” Lucien finishes for me, cutting my self-depreciating babbling short. My spirits perk back up with his words. Does that mean he likes it, after all?

“I do. Judging from this, I suppose we can conclude that you do remember my features well,” he answers happily when I’ve mustered enough courage to ask. Then he sobers. “Although, there is just one problem.”

“What is it??” Once again, I start to panic, holding myself back just enough so that I don’t snatch the gift away from him to see what’s wrong with it. Is there a loose thread? Are the violet-button eyes lopsided? Is the pristine white lab coat it’s wearing stained?

Watching my barely-contained anxiousness, Lucien lets out a light, mirthful laugh. “If you remember our conversation from the other day, I said I’d like a doll of you, not of myself.”

“Oh.” For a moment, relief washes over me, before his words sinks in and draws out shyness instead. How could I make a doll of myself?! And especially as a present for him! I’m nowhere near that self-confident enough for that. Trying to wiggle my way out, I giggle nervously. “What would you want something like that for? So you can stick pins in it?”

“I would never do something so horrible to anything that looks as cute as you are,” he titters at the thought. “It’s simply so that I can bring you with me everywhere I go, and look at you all that I want. But since you wouldn’t make me one, you’ll just have to stay by my side. Always.” He shifts closer to me on the couch, until our knees are bumping into each other. My heart drums an erratic beat as he moves closer and closer, until our lips are just about to touch. Then he stops.

Having him stare at me with barely any space between us is making me squirm with anticipation and longing. After a few seconds, I can no longer bear it. “Um, Lucien…?”

“Hmm?” He’s so close that I can feel his very lips vibrating from the sound that he makes.

“Wha– what are you doing?” I whisper. It feels inappropriate to speak above the softest volume imaginable. At this distance, he can hear me breathe anyhow.

“Why, looking at you all I want, of course.” I can hear the trill of laughter in his answer, but I can’t think rationally enough to get mad at him for teasing me, much less come up with a witty retort. “Although… there is no way I can stop myself when you’re this close to me.”

Before I can ask him what he means, Lucien closes the infinitesimal gap between us, and anything I might have to say is lost in our kiss. Wrapped in his tender embrace, drowning in his gentle kisses, I don’t think I mind him looking at me all that much, after all. If this is how it’s going to be, I wish Lucien’s birthday would never end.

Thank you for reading! All feedback is welcome.

[bellsybuilds]

[Part 2 of the Truck Stops and Tribulations series (link)]

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The way home - chapter 2 (T rating and warnings will change)

Din Djarin, Paz Viz(s)la, Baby Yoda, Jack “Agent Whiskey” Daniels, Agent Ginger Ale (modern AU, all human, road trips, found family, family reunions)

---

Din just wants to keep this kid safe, but the effort is taking him cross-country and he's loathe to admit he can't do it alone. Paz is the trucker who rescues them one night, and is strangely happy to keep on helping them. Jack is the estranged, obnoxious brother Din likes to pretend he doesn't have, but beggars can't be choosers.

And Poppy is the up-and-coming drug mogul who will make them all reconsider their life choices.

Set pre-Kingsman: the Golden Circle.

Din expects a medical wing. A sterile clinic, at least. What he gets instead is a conference room.

He frowns at his brother, but Jack has been on the phone since meeting them at the boundary of Statesman’s grounds and waving them to follow through the side door of the imposing oaken gate.

It’s not that he distrusts his brother. He can hear Jack negotiating with someone for medical equipment and murmuring about discretion.

No, it’s Statesman itself.

The air of this organisation has always set him on edge: the estate is thickly steeped in a disingenuous veneer of Southern charm, glossy and flawless as the dark wood polish of every surface now gleaming back at them. Din can see how this place has clawed a foothold in his brother from the way Jack walks and talks. Even the way he smiles, mouth curving crooked when he doesn’t think others are watching but it’s snide, superior, and calculating.

Careful, Jack. Your colours are showing.

Jack didn’t always pass so easily as a Southern-born and bred son.

The chill of a memory slows Din in his step-- cold damp of a concrete bunker, gun heavy in hand.

“Only one of you can be chosen,” the voice had crackled with static over the speaker. “And only you three can decide who that will be.”

He closes his eyes, shivering hard. The memory slips like a damp shroud from his shoulders, bundled and thrown to the darker corners of his mind; too well-used over the years.

At least in the air force, they were upfront about who they were and what they were doing. Being an agent for Statesman would have required more subterfuge than Din was prepared to deal with. By contrast, Jack had embraced the opportunity to remake himself.

Once the conference room door clicks shut behind them, the child squirms on his back in its carrier, whining softly.

“Okay,” he hushes, swinging the pack off.

Jack has led them to a reception building that looks designed to receive visiting sponsors and exec reps. Din’s hackles rise. How is this supposed to help them and the kid?

A broad table dominates the conference room, leather chairs flanking its long sides. The moment Din sets the kid down on its polished surface, the little one rolls onto his belly, pulls up on stubby legs, eyes bright with mischief, and takes off running.

Din flinches, tense. “Catch him--!”

At the table's other end, Jack glances down from the call on his cell and offers a cautionary hand. He nods, tone distracted with the person on the other end of the line. “Yeah, I took them to meeting room three.”

The kid barrels into Jack's waiting arm with a happy squeal at the table’s edge.

Din huffs in relief.

Jack wheels him about and the kid sets off in a beeline back to Din, soft sneakers smacking the wood. Din receives him with a weary oomph-- not because the little one’s impact even registers (the kid is so small it’s like catching a bean bag), but when he sways with an exaggerated wince--

The kid gurgles with laughter, simple, unbridled joy. Small hands tug on the ends of his jacket. He looks up and up into Din’s face with an exhilarated giggle, smile impossibly wide, and Din is abruptly stung by the notion of a world where that smile is gone or the kid doesn’t instinctively run into his arms at the sight of him.

Blinking, his vision swims with an overlay of the child’s face slack with fear, eyes wide in confusion. Heavy doors closing on the sight.

Din’s chest tightens, rejecting the notion. Swallowing tightly, he pinches one of those round, dimpled cheeks and allows himself to smile. It’s going to be okay.

But wasn’t the kid whining from exhaustion a few short minutes ago? Maybe it was just the prospect of freedom. This is the most they let the child run in the last week. They haven’t enjoyed the luxury of too many truck stops or long walks.

Paz hovers by the closed door, large hands clenching and unclenching at his sides, mouth pursed in a tense line. Their eyes meet. Paz draws in a slow, heavy breath, and Din nods at the look in his eye. Hopefully this was the right choice.

Hopefully they can rest soon.

A careful knock raps on the door.

Jack hangs up his call, nodding at Paz to let them through. “That’s Ginger.”

The woman they find waiting on the other side of the door looks more like a doctor than a secret agent.

“Oh,” she breathes, eyes comically wide at the sight of Paz damn near filling the doorframe with his shoulders alone. She stumbles a half step back, hand rising to her throat. “J-Jack?”

Paz scans the length of her white lab coat and frowns at the steel clipboard clutched in her arms. “And what are you supposed to be?”

“Hell. Teach your guy some manners, Din.” Jack breezes past him and waves Paz back from the woman all but cowering on the threshold. “Quit hulking and admit my colleague, Vizla. Speed and discretion are of the essence. For the kid’s sake.”

The woman, Ginger, looks at Jack with alarm. “Kid?”

She is so petite Paz could likely blow her over with a growl. Din watches him study her with the same critical appraisal Jack had endured, searching for threats and opportunities, forming a summary in his mind. Din wonders if they arrive at a similar conclusion: scientist. Analyst, maybe. Unlikely to be a field agent.

“You didn’t say anything about a kid,” Ginger mutters at Jack, shoulders tense.

As if perking up at the subject of discussion, the kid coos in Din’s arms, legs kicking with delight. All that tired energy and nowhere to go. Din winces gently and narrowly avoids a tiny, flailing fist to the chin.

Ginger finally sees them. The moment her gaze settles on the toddler, her dark eyes grow large and round. Some of the tension leaves her shoulders. “O-oh.” Her voice has fallen soft. Her eyes lift to Din and she visibly startles. “Oh!” She squints, staring at him hard. “Wait.” She gapes at Jack, then Din, and to Jack again. A slim hand points at Din in accusation. “A brother? A twin brother? How did I not know this?”

Din catches the meaningful look Paz turns on him. It feels kind of judgy. Din spreads his hands in question.

What?

“You two really don’t talk about each other,” the tall man muses under his breath.

Din shrugs, head cocked. What was the big deal? Hadn’t they ever seen twins before?

Jack, meanwhile, is sweeping an arm out to usher Ginger quickly inside. “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me, honey. So much more to learn.” He grins, wide and shameless. Jack always thought he was so charming.

It’s testament to how well this woman must know him that her eyes roll hard with a thin groan, tugging a silver steel trolley after her. Paz pushes the glossy, oaken doors shut behind her.

“Just tell me you didn’t get his personality either. I can only deal with one of him,” Ginger says.

It takes a moment for Din to realise she’s addressing him. “Oh. I, uh… no, he’s….” He shakes himself out of the fog and inclines his head. “I’m Din.”

Ginger returns the gesture, a perfunctory smile finding her lips and disappearing just as swiftly. “Din Daniels?”

“Djarin,” he corrects. “Just call me ‘Din’.”

He’s not sure what it is about that statement that lights up her face with soft relief, but at least she doesn’t question why they don’t share a surname. Din is tired of telling the story. “Agent Ginger Ale. Call me ‘Ginger’. At your service.”

“Daniels says you all have experience with blood trackers,” Paz says.

Ginger twists around and regards the man studying the tools on her cart. She throws a hand out as though to ward off any risk of him touching her instruments. “And you are?” She looks less intimidated now; more bemused.

“Vizla,” he says, meeting her eye briefly. “Paz Vizla. I’m with him.”

Ginger follows his nod back to Din. “I see. Your bodyguard?”

“His ride,” Paz supplies, rounding her to get a better look at the tools.

On the cart’s other side, Jack snorts a laugh under his breath. For a moment, Din wonders why. When it clicks, he wishes it hadn’t. His brother will never grow up.

“Is that a temperature scanner?” Paz points at a device that looks like a barcode reader beside a series of electronic tablets and other items Din doesn’t recognise. Medical care was never his strong suit.

Ginger nods and they follow when she brings the cart to the end of the conference table. “Among other things. I understand someone is being traced, and... you want to get it out.”

“The kid,” Din gestures with him tucked against his chest, balanced in the curve of his elbow. The kid cranes back to peer at his face with a quizzical sound, a small hand reaching for the thin stubble on his chin. “They put a tracker in his blood. Not something just anyone can remove.”

Ginger glances between him and the child, gaze soft. “Who’s tracking him?”

“No one good,” Din says, eyeing the trolley critically. “Anything on there really up for the job?”

Ginger looks to Jack as though for permission. Whatever she’s seeking doesn’t come and she sighs, treating Din with a careful smile, almost apologetic. “That sounds… complicated.”

Hands deep in the pockets of his thick blue jacket, Jack closes the distance with that slow strut of his, expression thoughtful. The kid hums under the hypnotic brush of Jack’s fingers over his brow, back and forth. The kid’s large, dark eyes blink, eyelids growing heavy.

Din will need to learn that trick.

“Yeah.” Jack holds Ginger’s eye, an entire conversation passing between them. “It might be.”

Din waits for one of them to share. He doesn’t like the idea that Jack could be withholding anything where the child’s concerned.

“We’ll try our best.” Ginger offers a slender, gloved hand for the little one. “All right, Baby, let’s take a look at you.”

“Din.” Jack nods for him to follow to the room’s end, lifting a tablet from Ginger’s trolley. “Let’s make sure you’re not being tracked.”

“We’re not,” he says.

Jack stops and holds his gaze, eyes narrowing. “How do you know?”

“I’m sure,” Din asserts. “Just the kid.”

“All right.” Jack neither sounds nor looks convinced, but he doesn’t press the point, glancing at his tablet in hand with that condescending air that always made Din’s blood boil within a second. “Let’s check your devices then.”

Statesman has access to resources they don't. It would be foolish not to take advantage.

Huffing with a glance over his shoulder, Din catches Paz’s eye. He gestures to the kid. “Could you…. ?”

Paz nods, arms unweaving to take the child. The kid looks absolutely miniscule when it tucks into his elbow, head pillowing on his chest. The little one’s sleepy, curious expression lights up with dopey joy at the familiar face he now finds above him.

Paz smiles back, warm and amused.

“Din.”

He blinks, coming back to himself.

At the head of the table, Jack raises an eyebrow expectantly.

“Actually--” They all look to him, waiting. Din nods at Paz. “Yours, too. We should check.”

He sympathises with Paz’s uncertain frown, but eventually the man digs into his back pocket with his free hand and slaps the phone into Din’s waiting palm.

"I'd appreciate you not going where you don't need to," Paz says.

When Din reaches Jack at the room’s other end, his brother plugs Paz’s in first. A new dialogue pops up on the tablet before them and Din watches the file names and system messages stream past.

“I already checked. It’s clean,” Din says.

Jack hums in that sing-song patronising way of his; what other tune would he know? “Never hurt to be thorough.”

A heartbreaking cry splits the air, freezing Din’s blood in his veins. He whirls, looking for the source of danger. He finds only Ginger glancing helplessly between Paz and the little one desperately scrambling to curl into a tight ball, all but clawing at Paz in his attempt to climb under his jacket and the shelter of his arm.

Paz yelps, adjusting to save the child from dropping out of his hold.

"I haven't even touched him yet!" Ginger protests, expression contrite. "Oh, I'm sorry, baby... I don't like needles, either. But it's not that bad. I promise."

Despite the squirming protests, Paz shuffles the little one higher in his arms. The kid whimpers, shaking, hiding his face in his thick shoulder.

Din almost goes to him.

“Here. Let me,” Paz says, and Din stares as Ginger hands him the cannula.

Paz hums a strange, nonsense song, his touch dancing over the kid's exposed arms and legs to lightly poke and pinch with the cannula's blunt end, reducing the device to a toy, just another part in his game. He sways on the spot in a soothing rhythm. As they watch, the kid's whimpers fade to soft sniffles. His round face eventually surfaces from Paz’s shoulder, pout severe. Paz bops him on the forehead, then his nose. The kid’s face scrunches in a helpless giggle. He squirms, laughing, when Paz tickles his belly.

Paz has that look on his face: the one that makes his features soften and glow and, honestly, Din can relate. There’s nothing like being the sole focus of that child's smile.

With his distraction, Ginger successfully slides the cannula into the child’s arm held immobile and starts withdrawing blood samples for her tests.

Paz has done this before.

"So, what are you doing keeping a married man from his family?"

Din frowns at his brother, unsure he heard him right. What is Jack talking about?

"I saw his wedding ring," Jack keeps his voice low and even. A conspiratorial smirk curls his mouth. "Finally come down off your high horse?"

Din blinks, bewildered. Off his--?

"You slept with him yet?"

A disgusted bleat of offence escapes Din's throat before he can throttle it. His jaw clenches. "It's not like that."

Why is his brother so punchable? Not everyone tries to prove their prowess by seducing someone away from their partner.

Jack shrugs, appraising the big man holding the squirming kid still for Ginger's examination. "I mean, if you're not moving in on that--"

"You know, you don't have to fuck with every person you meet," Din rolls his eyes. "What about that medic of yours? You slept with her, too?"

Jack pulls an affronted face, shaking his head. "Ginger? She's ground support." A thoughtful look lights his eye and he catches Din with a suggestive leer. He leans in, elbowing his arm. "Might be just your type!"

Din all but shoves him off. His brother is infuriating. But this is not the time nor the place. No matter how bad a situation, Jack could always make it worse.

"Not everyone's looking for that," he snarls, snatching his phone back once he sees the progress bar of the scan complete.

Not everyone needs constant companionship. Jack would probably die if he didn't have staff to harass and someone new to warm his bed every week.

The two things weren't always mutually exclusive, either. Jack thrives on controlled chaos, but to Din from the outside, the whole thing is a stressful HR nightmare waiting to implode. He doesn't want any part of his brother's circus. He's known since they were quite young that they want different things in life.

Maybe one day Jack will accept that Din doesn't want or need a companion. Some people aren't meant for relationships.

They're just different, he and his brother.

Jack snickers and shakes his head. "Spiky as always, Din'ika."

Din glares at him, but despite his best efforts, his brother's words linger. Din has seen the wedding ring, too. And he has wondered who waits for Paz. Where is home. He's wondered why Paz hasn't agreed to offload Din and the kid at the next available opportunity so he can go back to them.

They have traveled together for a week. Din never sees him call anyone.

Din may not believe in relationships for himself, but he won't be the reason someone compromises their own.

It's occurred to him that maybe not all is well for Paz on the home front. Maybe Din and the kid are a convenient diversion for a time. And while Din isn't going to break up a home, he won't tell a stranger how to live their life, either.

They're grown men. They're all free to make their own mistakes.

///

“I’ll need some time to get the results,” Ginger had apologised, writing on small, white labels and carefully wrapping them round the vials before treating the kid with a gentle smile. “You did so well, sweetheart.”

The little one just pouted at her from the cradle of Paz’s elbow, the bright white cotton ball taped down over the needle site comically large in proportion to the arm it was bound to.

Jack glanced between Din and Paz, nodding. “All right. Might as well get you two settled for the night. Follow me.”

Once shown to their rooms, Jack had promised to come back after a few quick words with Ginger, so Din is surprised when he answers the knock at his door and finds Paz instead.

With hands in his pockets, ear bent like he'd been listening for the latch, Paz meets Din's eyes and smiles, rocking on his heels.

"Hey." Din frowns, searching him for a hint of his intentions.

"Hey,” Paz’s voice is quiet and his body language is… hesitant? What is he nervous about? “Thought I'd offer to look the room down. If you want."

Din blinks at him. “Really?”

Does Paz think they’re less safe behind these walls with their automated security and stationed patrols? Less safe than in his truck?

The man shrugs and his large shoulders crowd as though apologising for all the space he’s occupying. He spares a glance down the short, carpeted hall, warm lanterns in the walls. "I know it's your brother's place. But just. After the last week." Paz looks the closest to sheepish Din has seen in their time together. "Habit, you know."

It’s true. Din has noticed his nightly ritual of pacing the length of the truck. Din assumed it was to check for wear or damage as much as anything suspicious.

He didn’t expect that habit to follow them onto Statesman grounds. He is not sure how to deal with Paz like this and he feels at a loss. But if Din invites him in, does it mean Din himself distrusts Statesman that much? More importantly, does he have so little faith in Jack to keep them safe?

Glancing back into the room, a mischievous giggle draws his eye to the kid wriggling down into the pillows on the bed.

Maybe Paz just wants to say good night to the kid.

“I--” Din stalls and the absurdity of the offer must be starting to sink in because Paz kicks his heel at the carpet, and Din watches a shutter close behind his eyes.

"If you wanted. But. It's stupid. Never mind. G’night, Din." He starts to back up. Something about the way he ducks his head goodbye makes Din falter.

He’s not sure how or why the next words leave his mouth: “You want to come in? Say good night to him?”

It’s like watching that shutter pull back when Paz smiles, bashful and pleased. He doesn’t need to be so embarrassed about wanting to say good night, Din thinks, stepping back to let him past. The kid just has this effect on people. At least, the ones not shooting at them.

The door clicks shut and he hears Paz call, “Hey, kiddo, ready for bed?” but when he turns back, Paz is running his hands the length of the windowsill and then finding it has little risk of breach because it lacks a means to open, anyway. It’s not that kind of guest quarters.

Paz’s expression turns pensive in the dark reflection of the glass and he presses his palm flat, studying his knuckles. Din thinks he has little reason to worry. If only he knew that glass was bulletproof, as it was through most of Statesman. Paz heads into the bathroom to inspect further anyway.

“So, why does a distillery for one of the country’s biggest brands have advanced medical technology?” he calls, voice echoing on tile.

Sighing, Din reclines on the bed, careful not to lean too heavily on the pillow nest. Ankles crossing at the knee, he pulls out his phone and starts scanning the news.

“There are some questions we shouldn’t ask,” he says.

“We? I think you know the answer or we wouldn’t be here.” Paz emerges from the bathroom and clicks the lights off. His tone is skeptical. “But if you don’t want to share. That’s up to you.”

Din just frowns at his phone. No, he doesn’t.

To his credit, Paz drops it. His curiosity must be satisfied because he instead leans over the bed and burrows deep into the pillows beside him. Din grunts, jostled by the movement, and doesn’t bother looking up when Paz emerges with an armful of squealing child, crowing triumphantly.

Din snorts under his breath as the kid shrieks with laughter, held high overhead before he’s brought down and Paz blows a loud raspberry into his stomach. Din stares at the far wall and suffers in silence.

“Okay!” Paz declares in that exaggerated commander voice that for some reason delights the kid. “Lights out, no snacks after midnight, and be good for Din.”

“It’s nine o’clock,” Din says, swiping through the all points bulletin feed on his phone.

“No snacks after nine!”

“Don’t get him excited. He was just getting sleepy again.”

“Understood. Want me to put him down?”

Din sighs, finally looking up to find Paz dangling the kid upside down by his ankles over the pillow. It’s a hold more fit for game than precious cargo, but both Paz and the kid are watching, waiting with matching grins, and the kid beams at him with its tufty thick afro sticking out every which way.

He shrugs and shakes his head in resignation. “Sure.”

As Paz settles the kid with its blankets and bottle, a thought occurs to Din. “Are we still on schedule for your job?”

When Paz had rescued them outside that diner, he’d been on his own way to make a delivery. They’d spent the last week routing circles through the states to keep the hunters off their tail, but Din’s guilt insisted Paz not derail his life for them. The man had done him a favour, and he had a job to keep. Coincidentally, leading them straight to Kentucky. Reaching out to Jack had seemed like the natural next step.

“Drop off’s less than two hours away and max delivery time isn’t for another few days. We got time.”

Din frowns, lowering his phone to consider Paz’s back, bent over the baby seat. “But--”

“We got time,” Paz says, firm but gentle.

Din inwardly huffs, grinding his jaw. It's not his problem.

Paz brings the kid and its makeshift cradle over. Bundled in a nest of blankets, he settles him securely on the bed beside Din and borders him with pillows. Least likely place to fall. Safe and close. “You got the rest?”

“Yeah, I'm on it,” Din says, already opening the music app on his phone. They both glance in at the kid when the rush of wind and storms fills the air and, with a heavy blink, the little one looks over at Din. A small, pudgy arm lifts and Din takes the tiny hand that reaches for him, rubbing gently. He feels a smile tug at his mouth and glances at the cotton ball still taped to the kid’s forearm, evidence of his bravery. “You did good today, kid.”

“Beh.” The little one hangs onto his fingers even as his eyelids grow heavy.

“Sleep now, kid,” Din reassures him.

You’re safe here.

Din has to give it up to Paz for this trick with the soundtrack of rain and storms. Bedtime had only been a concept before he found them.

“I hope these people can help him,” Paz says, once the kid’s head has drooped to his pillow and his eyes have slid shut.

“Yeah,” Din sighs, studying that round face softened in sleep. “Me, too.”

He lets the thunderstorm continue to play, it was always safest to continue at least half an hour to ensure the kid was well and truly asleep.

At the next boom of thunder, Din realises Paz hasn’t moved from his place by the bedside. Looking up from the baby seat, Din meets his eye only to find Paz already watching him, expression thoughtful.

He frowns at that look. “Was there something else?”

Paz blinks, as though coming back to himself. “No. No, place looks--” He glances round the room. “Good.”

He’s still standing there, unmoving.

Din glances to the door; Paz seems to need the hint. “Jack will be back any minute.”

And finally, Paz is motivated into action. “Yeah, I’ll-- I’ll see you tomorrow. Good night, Din.”

Din turns back to his phone and the bulletin feed. He doesn’t watch Paz go, he needs to make sure the authorities haven’t been given any reason to look for them either.

“Lock it behind you,” Din calls after him when the man is at the door.

He only looks up once he hears the click of the latch close. Alone at last. Grunting under his breath, he glances back at the sleeping child.

“Yeah, he’s a strange one.”

///

“Hey.”

Standing before the door to his own room, Paz stops, key card at the lock. He raises an eyebrow as Jack strolls to an easy halt, sound of his steps swallowed by the copper-tinted carpet. The cowboy points to his brother’s door.

“You just come from here?”

Something about his tone chafes.

Paz glances between the light wood and Jack’s disapproving frown. “That a problem?”

Jack’s arm drops and swings at his side like a pendulum weighed by his disappointment. He shakes his head.

Does he think Paz would care about his opinion? Because he doesn’t.

Paz turns to face him straight on, hands finding his hips, head cocked. “You got something you want to say, I prefer we talk straight.”

“And are you?”

“What?”

Jack throws a hand up, gesturing at the length of him. “Straight?”

Paz blinks at him in disbelief. Well that’s just fucking rude. “And here I thought you Southerners were renowned for your manners.”

“You heard right.” Jack’s smile is cheshire smug and just as sharp. His eyes burn dark beneath the brim of his hat. “But that’s my little brother you’re messing with. My last remaining family. I’d be well pleased to show you the limits of our hospitality, if I learn you so much as think about crossing him.”

Well, that’s a surprise. Wouldn’t it be nice if this turned out a genuine display of concern?

Paz’s mouth shrugs and he keys his door open. It beeps affirmatively, light flashing green, and he pushes it open, greeted by darkness on the other side.

“That’s funny,” he mutters and flicks on the lights.

“What did you say?” Jack says, voice rising.

Pausing in the doorway, Paz smirks at him, lazy and wide. “From what I heard... only one you should be protecting him from -- is you.”

He shuts the door on the satisfying sight of Jack’s face darkening with anger, and chuckles quietly to himself. Paz didn’t even start swinging.

His aunt would be so proud.

Paz stops up short, the warm mirth at Jack’s expense fizzling down to a hushed ember at the thought of her. His aunt.

Staring at the dark face of the cellphone in his hand, Paz sighs. Double checks the door is locked behind him before he makes the call. Sinking down on the impeccably made bed, Paz palms his knee and waits, swallowing moisture down his throat.

With each ring, his chest tightens further, hot and difficult. The fifth ring is interrupted mid-tone and his heart leaps to his throat.

“Yes,” she answers, calm and controlled, with all the weight of the authority that used to inspire him with so little effort. Her voice, projected through great halls, could make every head turn and hail a reverent silence. When she spoke, Paz did not only hear her but all the voices that had come before and infused her with their wisdom.

She still has that effect on him. But now, instead of drawing his shoulders back with pride, Paz sweats at a single word.

“It’s me,” he says, glancing to the shuttered windows.

It’s stupid. He already checked them. Swept this entire room twice for surveillance, surprised to actually find none. Statesman were unexpectedly trusting of their guests. Jack was apparently the exception.

“Yes,” his aunt’s tone is unaffected. “I know.”

Paz takes a deep breath. Exhales slowly. “I’ve set the plant. They can start the trace now.”

“They have already begun.”

Of course. They would have been ready. They had been waiting far longer than Paz promised they would need to.

It hadn’t been easy to steer Din here.

“Good,” he says. “Let me know what you find.”

“And how are you? Still confident in your plan?”

His palm closes over his knee, kneading sweat into the worn denim. His eyes lift to the wall dividing his room from them - Din and that sweet kid on the other side.

Gaze dropping to his boots, his voice is steady. “I am. But I need a favour.”

She grunts in amusement. “Bold of you.”

He knows she’s right. He shouldn’t ask. He has no right to ask after the way he left. They are already doing him this favour, but they will also gain from his efforts. If everything goes as planned. Years of patience at last rewarded.

“Yes,” he says. “And maybe fortune will favour us once more.”

He can hear the smirk of approval in her voice, and it’s like the release of a vice around his chest when she agrees, “This is the way.”

“This is the way.”

<< previous chapter | next chapter >>

[soulofatiny]

No fear, I’m here...Ch.4: “Gremlin”

-warning(s): minor mentions of symptoms of anxiety

-word count: 4k

-a|n: here is the 4th chapter! there’s finally some signs of character development beginning and i’m super excited! i’m honestly a hoe for character development

happy reading!

Ch.5

masterlist

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“Goodnight, y/n.”

“Goodnight, Hongjoong.”

You finally opened the door to your guest bedroom, fighting off the unsettling feeling that resided deep within you as you entered. Shutting the door behind you, you clutched onto your chest along with the silky fabric of the dress. What was this uncomfortable sensation you were feeling? Were you ill? No, you’ve felt this way before in the past many years ago, the same displeasing nostalgia that has been haunting you throughout your lifetime. You felt your heart beating faster as your chest was getting tighter and tighter.

“Breathe…just breathe.”

You spoke these words often… even though breathing was supposed to be an automatic maneuver for the human body, you still felt the need to remind yourself as soon as you felt your heart rate picking up, restricting the space in your chest.

After inhaling and exhaling for a couple of minutes, the weighty pounding of your heart managed to subside as it gradually went back to its normal rate. Dropping the hand that was clutching onto your dress, you switched the light switch on as the brightness illuminated throughout the room, finally taking in your surroundings. The first thing that caught your attention besides the spacious room was the window that engulfed the farthest wall of the room completely. Something that was an ongoing theme for this entire mansion, large windows. Whoever designed this mansion must’ve admired the view that the world had to offer. You continued to trail your eyes, examining the room. A bed that was rather expansive in size laid on the center of the right wall. It was definitely way too big compared to what you were used to back in your small studio apartment. The floors had the same marble tiles that were used in the hallway and simplistic art was hanged on several areas of the wall. All in all, it was minimalistic and chic except for the sheer vast amount of space that differed from your usual lifestyle.

Suddenly, you were startled out of your thoughts as someone knocked on the door behind you. You peaked through the peephole on the door and saw Seonghwa standing there with a bag in his hand, patiently waiting for you to open the door.

What did he want…? You checked your forearms, making sure you still had your blades on you, the tip of the sharp weapon ready to make its appearance if necessary before you opened the door.

“Hey, y/n! I’m glad you’re still awake. I wanted to give you this,” he extended the arm that held the bag in front of you, “it’s a set of pajamas. I didn’t think you would want to sleep in what you were wearing now.”

You retracted the blades further back into your leather sleeves, seeing the coast was clear, and reached to grab the bag but something within you wanted to poke fun at him, “what’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?”

Seonghwa widened his eyes and waved his hands speedily, “Oh no! No, nothing’s wrong. It’s a really nice dress. I just wanted to make sure you were comforta–“

You chuckled quietly as he continued to banter and a blush began to spread across his cheeks. His cute behavior contrasted greatly from the flirtatious mature demeanor he portrayed back at Fellaz. You finally grabbed the bag from him, being content with teasing him, “I’m just kidding, Seonghwa. Thank you. I appreciate it,” you smiled up at him. Seonghwa smiled back, as the pink tint still briefly remained on his cheeks. “It’s no problem at all. Goodnight, y/n. I hope you’ll sleep well, yeah?”

“Yeah, you too. Goodnight, Seonghwa,” you replied as you both shared one last look at each other and closed the door. You changed into the pajamas that was given to you and head to bed, feeling the much needed rest hitting you deeply. As soon as you laid your head onto the soft fluffy pillow, sleep engulfed you entirely.

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

“Nana……Nana…….”

What’s going on?

“Nana…”

Who’s calling me..?

“Nana! Are you paying attention?”

You looked up to your new teacher, “Miss…”

“Professor! Just call me Professor. Now, come on! Let’s go meet your brother.”

You nodded and followed your Professor back out to the hallway. Her heels clacked loudly and you looked to notice that it was a peculiar color that contrasted from her white lab coat immensely. You tried to inspect it closer but still found it strange no matter how much you examined it.

“Professor…”

The taller woman looked down at you and brought her pen to her clipboard, getting ready to write something down, “Yes, Nana?”

“Your shoes…what color is it?”

She looked down at her shoes and nodded in understanding, “Ah, I see. They probably didn’t show you what ‘colors’ were back at the phase-one training, I’m assuming.”

You nodded, “Yes, but I am familiar with the vocabulary. Please teach me.”

Your teacher smiled widely at you, “Yes of course! My shoes are blue. For example, the ocean is usually portrayed by this color as well.”

“Blue…” you whispered to yourself as you looked at her heels, trying to memorize the newfound color you’ve learned.

The Professor finished jotting down her notes and looked back at you, “Yes, now come on. We’re almost there!”

You both continued to walk down the hallway until she stopped at one of the doors, “Set is in here. He should already know that you’re coming and he’ll fill you in on how things work around here, okay?”

She looked at you expectantly, awaiting your answer.

“Yes, thank you, Professor,” you bowed at the older woman.

“Great! I will see you around Nana!” At that, the professor walked away, the clacking of her heels growing quieter and quieter as the distance between the two of you increased.

You turned to the big metal door in front of you, reached for the knob, and entered.

You walked inside without making a single sound, something you grew in habit of during your phase one training. The room was average size with a bunk bed on the left corner of the room. On the bottom bunk, you saw a boy around your age that was laying down on his back, reading a book. He looked so absorbed in it that you bet he wouldn’t even notice you even if you made a sound. The book was covering his face from your point of view so you moved a little closer.

“You must be Nana,” the boy suddenly uttered without moving from his current position. 
“Y-Yes. You’re Set?” you mumbled softly.

The boy finally sat up, setting his book to the side, and answered, “Yeah, nice to finally meet you, Nana.”

You examined Set’s features. He had dark, slightly wavy locks that covered his forehead and had big brown eyes. But what caught your attention the most was the soft pink-hued birthmark that settled next to his left eye. You realized that you were staring for too long and looked down.

Set noticed your nervousness and reassured you, “You don’t have to be nervous. I know this is new, but we’ve been assigned as siblings so if you have any questions, don’t be afraid to ask.” Set smiled at you softly, hoping it would encourage you to be more comfortable but instead you were confused.

“Nervous..? Afraid…? Is this what I am feeling?” You questioned out loud but more towards for your own self. You were beginning to learn all types of emotions and label them to match your current feelings. Set knew that you wouldn’t understand at first. After all, he also went through the same exact thing when he first arrived at the phase-two institution.

“Yeah, that’s most likely what you’re feeling. It’s okay you’ll get used to it soon.”

You looked at the boy in front of you, “Set…how long have you been here?”

“Two years, so I was eight-years-old when I got here.”

Your eyes widened in shock, “How could anyone be able to finish all of their training at age eight?”

Set laughed at your reaction, “I’m only the third person who got here. I think the two before me came here at age seven.”

You whispered, “Wow,” again, more to yourself but Set still managed to hear it and continued, “I would’ve been able to graduate earlier but I sort of struggled with combat training. They actually let me graduate because my academic score was the highest they’ve ever received.”

You saw his cheesy grin and you knew he was proud of himself. Suddenly, your voice came out in a rhythm pattern without your control. Your eyes grew wide as you covered your mouth as Set laughed even harder, “You just laughed for the first time!”

You laughed again…you were laughing. You clutched onto your stomach, as you continued to laugh. You couldn’t really breathe as comfortably but you didn’t dislike the feeling.

You smiled wide, “Set! I think I like laughing!”

To that, Set stared at you for some time before replying, “I think I like it when you laugh too,” sharing your happiness.

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

You jumped awake.

The sunlight that entered from the large window reflected onto your newly opened eyes from resting. You brought your arm up, letting the sleeve of your pajamas cover your eyes so you could have your momentary darkness again. You knew it was roughly 7:00 am because you have an internal alarm clock that woke you up automatically every morning. You’ve always cursed this function, especially this morning since you dreamt about your first meeting with Set. It may have been a dream, but you knew deep inside that it was actually your memories.

Where could Set have gone…? Why isn’t he in your life anymore…? You truly wished you didn’t wake up so you could’ve continued your dream, desperate to find the answers to your many questions. 

“How could I have forgotten you…” your voice struggling to rasp out due to your dry throat. 

After debating if you should leave the guest bedroom, you eventually decided to so you could observe the mansion more. 

You swiftly exited out of the room without making a single sound, the same habit that stuck around with you since you were ten-years-old. 

The mansion was quiet, everyone was probably still asleep. Honestly, you didn’t know where to go or what you’re exactly looking for. You just needed to find something to report to your boss at least once a week. You kept walking, hoping that you’ll end up somewhere until a door you just passed by opened suddenly. 

“Y/n? You’re up already?”

You turned around to see the owner of the voice. It’s Jongho.

“Hey, Jongho. Yeah, I always wake up around this time. I wanted something to drink but I think I’m lost,” you silently hoped that you didn’t seem suspicious but Jongho chuckled, indicating that you’re probably safe. 

“Yeah, it’s a big place. I’ll show you where the kitchen is at.”

“Cool, thanks.” 

Jongho nodded and led you towards the way. You both walked in silence, maybe this was a good time for you to gather information. Just when you were about to speak, Jongho beat you to it instead, “Were you able to sleep well?” 

You nodded, you didn’t really know what to say about your rest. Sleeping is just…sleeping. Something that’s a necessity for the human body. 

“Are the others awake too?” you questioned, not knowing what to expect. 

Jongho laughed, “If you’re wondering if you have to see Yunho’s dumb face, then no. That guy doesn’t wake up until almost noon so you’re safe.” 

You stifled a chuckle, “Thank goodness… but what about the others? For real this time.” 

You both arrived at the kitchen. Jongho reached towards the refrigerator to grab a bottle of water for you before answering, “Hmm let’s see. Seonghwa, Yeosang, Hongjoong and Mingi are usually the first ones awake. Seonghwa goes to the market every morning and buys groceries to cook breakfast for us so he should be back anytime by now. Yeosang on the other hand, wakes up early but stays in his room until breakfast is ready. Hongjoong stays in his office to sort out missions and Mingi usually follows him to help him. Wooyoung actually sleeps even later than Yunho, usually past noon. No one really complains though because we save money on breakfast. And San, it really depends for him. He could either be sleeping the entire day away or wake up around this time like me to go work out in the training room. Which, I’m sure he must be waiting for me down at the basement.” 

As if on cue, Seonghwa enters the kitchen with his arms full of grocery bags. 

“Ah, see I was right,” Jongho nudged your arm lightly, “Morning, hyung. That’s a lot of bags you got there.” 

Seonghwa placed all of the bags on the island counter, slightly out of breath, “Morning, guys! There was a sale! Oh and y/n, I got some clothes that you can change into for when you go back to your place to pack your things.” 

You stood there astonished. This was not what you’ve expected from a crew of deadly members… Joking around is one thing but their lifestyles seemed…normal. 

Were they pulling an act so you won’t find out about their true selves? 

What were they hiding?

Seonghwa and Jongho exchanged eye contact, not knowing why you fell silent. “Y/n…are you okay?” Seonghwa asked as both he and Jongho looked ‘genuinely’ concerned. 

They must be good actors…

“Yeah, I’m alright. It’s just… you all seem really close and.. normal.” 

“It’s because we’re like family. No, we are family,” Jongho stated confidently. Hongjoong said the same exact thing last night. How could their leader and their maknae be able to sync so well together despite the major difference in levels of authority…? You truly couldn’t comprehend how it was possible. 

Seonghwa added on, “Y/n, we’re really close because we’ve all been through tough times together. We were lucky to be able to build that relationship to where it’s standing today. Hongjoong and I didn’t get along at all at first…but now I can’t imagine life without him.”

“Ew, hyung, sappy much?~” Jongho joked with his older member, earning him a smack on his nape.  

“Well, I really gotta go now. San is going to kill me. I’ll see you guys at breakfast!” Jongho fleed, leaving you and Seonghwa alone. 

With the absence of the maknae’s energetic presence, you and Seonghwa felt some sort of silence that was a little awkward but you both didn’t dislike it. 

“Can I help you make breakfast? It must be tough to cook for the entire group.”

Seonghwa smiled, appreciating your offer, “I love cooking since it’s a hobby of mine so I really don’t mind, but I would love the help! I’m thinking about making omelettes and french toast.”

You nodded, “Sounds goo-“

“What are you two doing here?”

Oh no…it’s that voice. His voice. You and Seonghwa both turned around, seeing that Yunho standing there. 

“Yunho! You woke up early today and you’re not half asleep either~” Seonghwa joked with his younger member but Yunho’s eyes remained on you. Seonghwa immediately felt the tension taking over the kitchen and continued, “Y/n is here to help me make breakfast! Isn’t that nice of her?” he emphasized every word of the last sentence, almost threatening Yunho to agree. You expected Yunho to say some sarcastic remark but you thought wrong.

“Sure. Can I help too?”

“What?” you and Seonghwa both blurted out at the same time. It would’ve been a comical moment but you two were seriously confused at his unexpected answer. 

“I want to help too. Make breakfast, that is.” 

You stayed silent, not knowing what to say this time but Seonghwa was quick to agree, almost too enthusiastically. 

“Great! Then Yunho, will you crack the eggs? Y/n you can begin cooking it on the frying pan when Yunho is done. I’ll work on the french toasts.” 

Yunho nodded, but you still stared at him. Honestly not knowing what he’s thinking. When Seonghwa turned to work on the toasts, Yunho moved to the counter where the eggs and the bowl were, ignoring your stare. Really, just what was he thinking? He didn’t even apologize for his rude remark last night. Seriously, this boy didn’t have a single drop of mannerism within him.

“Hey, gremlin. Are you going to help or are you going to keep staring?”

Oh no…you sensed the cheekiness in his voice.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer~” 

And there it was. Honestly, it was way too early to fight back. Yunho looked at you with a cocky grin, the stupid grin that you wanted to smack off of his face. Obviously content, he turned back to the bowl with an egg in his hand. You expected him to crack an egg like a normal person, but then you remembered that Yunho wasn’t normal and he smashed the egg on the corner of the bowl with full force, causing the egg shells to fly all over the counter and into the bowl. Even then, you decided to be nice and stayed quiet, giving Yunho a chance to redeem himself because after all, every single human being could crack an eg—

*CRACK*

You stared at Yunho, appalled. He broke the bowl….

You could tell Yunho was flustered by the way his shoulders tensed, “Don’t say a single wor-“

A laugh escaped from you, quick to cover your mouth but you still couldn’t help yourself as you continued to laugh despite doing your best to block it. Yunho watched you in shock as you laughed, arm propped against the counter for support. This was the first time he’s ever heard you laugh. Not the fake chuckles you let out occasionally that he really dislikes, but a true, authentic laugh. 

“Gremlin, you-“

“What’s going on?” Seonghwa bursts in observing the situation. He was about to ask what you were laughing about until his eyes laid on the broken bowl on the counter next to Yunho. 

“You broke my favorite bowl!” Seonghwa picked up the shards, clearly upset over his fine china. 

“Sorry, hyung. I’ll buy you a new one. Um...I’m gonna go before I break anything else.” Yunho walked out, leaving Seonghwa distressed and with you finally collecting yourself. 

When Yunho left the kitchen, he leaned against the wall of the hallway as his hand was covering his deeply flushed cheeks. 

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The members all began gathering at the dining table one by one, a tradition that they liked to at least attempt to keep, to eat breakfast together. According to Seonghwa, it didn’t always work out because some of the members slept in so you were surprised to see that everyone was present this morning, even Wooyoung who supposedly usually slept past noon. You made eye contact with Yeosang and he pulled the seat next to him and you sat down. 

“Hyung, I thought today was omelette day?” Wooyoung announced.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Seonghwa replied bluntly as Yunho twitched a little in his seat. Wooyoung nodded, happy even with just french toast, “Let’s dig in!”

Everyone hummed in agreement until Hongjoong stood up, a glass of orange juice in his hand, “Let’s make a toast to our new member, y/n!” The rest of the members collectively joined with their respective drinks of coffee, tea, and orange juice, all cheering. Wooyoung grabbed Yunho’s arm and lifted it for him along with his own drink, “Cheers!”

After the members finished eating and carried their plates to the sink, they all dispersed back to their individual activities or missions. You saw Hongjoong placing his plate into the sink so you walked up to him.

“Hey, Hongjoong. Can I go get my stuff at my place? It shouldn’t take long…”

“Of course,” he smiled at you until he spoke again, voice softer this time, “You don’t have to ask to go out, you know? I trust every single one of my members. I just expect them to stick with their responsibilities but other than that, they all have complete freedom. They’re not robots…”

You nodded, things were definitely different here. It’s strange how something fluttered in your stomach at the thought of that.

“Y/n, I’ll send someone that’s available to help you. Just wait at the entrance, okay?”

“Okay, thank you.”

“It’s no problem at all, y/n.”

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You’ve been waiting at the entrance for almost 20 minutes now… You were fixing to leave without any help until you heard him.

“Gremlin, where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

You turned to look at Yunho, of course…the help was him. 

“I’ve been waiting at the entrance like Hongjoong told me to for the past 20 minutes,” you hated wasting time more than anything.

“That’s the guest entrance. No one showed you the member’s entrance?”

“No…”

“Fine, I’ll show you,” Yunho reached to hold your wrist but you yanked it back a little too harsh to the point that it even surprised you. 

“It’s fine… let’s go,” you walked past him as he retracted his hand. 

The “member’s entrance” was actually a garage, you noted. Yunho opened the garage door and you were about to walk out until he stopped you, “What are you doing? We’re not walking there,” he tilted his head over to the cars that were aligned perfectly. Each car was spotless and looked brand new. It was luxurious and normal people definitely would’ve loved to ride the lavish cars but when you thought about having to get in the car, you suddenly felt nauseous. The negative memories of you being transported to different training institutions flashed across your mind, the only times you’ve ever ridden a car. 

Yunho noticed you not following him, “Gremlin, come on. The sooner we finish this the better-“

“I can’t.” 

“What?” Yunho turned back at you to complain but he noticed your complexion being paler than usual with a weary expression on your face. 

“Nothing, let’s go,” you swallowed your anxiousness, opened the door, and sat on the passenger’s side, buckling yourself in with shaky hands. 

‘Breathe…just breathe…You’re not going to another training base…’ you reminded yourself in your head. Yunho followed and switched the key in ignition. He drove out of the garage and head for your apartment, asking you directions every now and then as you mumbled back. 

Only ten more minutes to go until you reach there, it’ll be okay… 

Two minutes have passed and you were holding your breath at this point so Yunho wouldn’t notice your uneasy breathing. Little did you know, Yunho kept stealing glances at you, observing your condition. He suddenly swerved to the side of the road, putting the car in break and parked it. 

Fear began to creep up as you expected the worse. 

“W-What are you doin-“

“Get out.” 

He was going to try to kill you. Of course, he would. He hated you and now is the perfect opportunity to do so.

You got out, getting ready to fight for your life. But Yunho simply got out of the car, locked it, and placed the car keys in his pocket.

“Which way now?” he asked looking around everywhere and at everything except for you.  

“What?”

“Your place. Which way should we go?” he said as he looked down, finally connecting his eyes with yours. 

You meekly pointed at the direction, “Um...left.” 

Yunho began walking towards left without a second later, hands in his pocket.

“What about the car?” you asked.

“Leave it. We don’t need it.” 

You chased after him, struggling to keep up with his long legs, and confused as to why he would suddenly want to walk. 

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-e|n: my heart may or may not have fluttered while writing this... I hope you enjoyed this chapter! let me know what you think, thank you for reading :)

(p.s. the next chapter should be out soon since I’ve already written half of it...)

[the-redhead-who-writes]

His True Colours

“We finally get Jack’s green hair back! ...But what do we lose in return?”

Readers beware, you’re in for a scare! ...I’m only kidding. This is just a story idea I’ve been messing with! ‘Cause let’s face it: if Jack ever does dye his hair again, you know he’s gonna make a big deal out of it. So dorks, here’s a late-night spook/theory for you to enjoy!

Links: AO3

It’s been a few weeks since Jack returned from his “How Did We Get Here?” tour, the shows having gone down a smashing success. Those in attendance raved about the theatrics from the natural born showman, with everything from the audience interaction to the special effects working to create an unforgettable performance.

The fans that couldn’t make it to the shows contributed to the hype online, taking to social media and creating a tidal wave of incredible stories, edits, and art. The pieces ranged with everything from fluff to angst, starring Jack and all of the beloved Egos.

Jackieboyman fist bumping Spider-Man; Schneeplestein leering menacingly at the viewer, wielding a needle that definitely wasn’t regulation length; Chase with a variety of flower crowns. The works radiated with the passion and love the community held for both Jack and his characters.

And then, there was Anti.

Cryptic zalgo text littered every fans feed. The familiar lines of "D͏i͞d ̷yo͞u ̵miss̢ me̢?̧” and "You͘ s͢t̢o͝p͟ped pay̕in̛g̢ a͟tt͝eńtio͝ǹ!̡" were eerie reminders of the virus’s ever-lingering presence. The fandom was itching with pent-up fervour, as though Anti had somehow wormed his way under their very skin.

Poems, theories, art; he had it all. 

The only difference was something that the untrained eye might not notice.

It was now old news that Jack had dyed his once-green hair back to its natural brown shade after years of the trademark look. And yes, the fans were sad to see it go. Each Ego sported one of Jack’s varying shades of green. It had been around for the creation of Anti, Schneep, Marvin... everyone!

The community moved on though, deciding that even if Jack had his brown hair back, the Egos could still keep their signature shades.

Except for Anti.

After all, Anti was a virus who depended on Jack’s body to survive. He didn’t have his own, so he should share Jack’s traits, right? It might not have made perfect sense, but the community seemed to accept the general idea, as was evident with nearly every piece of Anti art mirroring Jack’s brown hair, with the rest of the Egos staying the same.

No harm done, it was just the fandom taking creative license.

Cut to another morning upload, where Jack has just posted a brand new “SepticArt” video, the theme being art related to the tour or that period of time while he was away.

He’s as upbeat as usual, excitedly chattering away about all of his favourite moments while pouring over dozens of brilliant submissions.

A few minutes into the video, Jack pulls up an edit of Anti on stage at one of his past shows. He makes a remark about its complexity, and how well done it is, before noting the caption at the bottom:

“A little Anti takeover from Jack’s show in Texas! Forgive the blurry edges, kinda new to this style. And tbh, I’m still not used to brown-haired Anti. Looks good, but I miss our green Glitch Boy. Wonder if we’ll get to see him again haha.“

Jack laughs, reflexively running a hand through the front of his messy hair that’s not tucked into his beanie.

“Yeah, I got that question a lot while I was on tour. And I’m not sure; I mean, never say never, but I’m pretty happy with my natural hair. It’s less of a pain in the ass to take care of, that’s for sure.”

His hand lingers in his fringe for just a second more before he thanks the artist and carries on.

This time it’s a Marvin picture; the Magician is skillfully shuffling a deck of playing cards, grinning. His neon green bangs hang messily over his signature cat mask.

Jack points out his love of the bold line use, though he pauses at the hair. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, but his smile is still as bright as ever.

Then there’s a sketch of Chase, who’s excitedly comparing a befuddled JJ to the box art of the Monopoly Man while they try to play said board game.

Jack chuckles, hand going to rub his throat absentmindedly.

A watercolour of Anti from the back, his dark hair a stark contrast silhouetted against the bright green background of a not-so-friendly looking Sam whose teeth glint with moisture.

Jack grips his mouse a bit tighter.

Schneeplestein happily writing a postcard on some tropical beach, lab coat and all, dark green roots visible under his hat.

Jack cracks his neck.

As the video carries on, there’s a distinct tension in the YouTuber: his body twitches imperceptibly; his hands clenching into fists before quickly loosening; he can’t stop touching his throat.

A newcomer to Jack’s channel might write this off as excitement, his energy getting the better of him. The more experienced members of his community, however, begin to feel nervous.

Still, Jack is as taken with his community’s artistic endeavours as always. The smile on his face proves that.

It’s wide, teeth bared for all to see.

The video is almost finished, with Jack coming to the last piece. He once again thanks everyone who participated, saying how he would be nothing without them.

The theorists release a breath. 

Everything was fine; just their typical overactive imaginations. Nothing to worry about.

With an eager grin, Jack pulls up the final entry. 

It’s a stunning digital drawing of a bathroom mirror taken from the YouTuber’s perspective as he stares at his reflection, clutching a porcelain sink.

It smirks back, smile unnaturally wide. He eyes Jack with a blackened gaze, eagerly assessing him for even a hint of weakness. Blood from several crude, deep cuts in his throat drips down into his shirt collar. The knife responsible lays in the sink, crimson coating the blade.

From the angle, you’d swear it was Anti looking back at himself, sickly pleased with his deranged handiwork. The tell is the gauges and Jack’s lack thereof; the man you’re seeing the perspective from is without them.

Jack stares at the drawing, his gaze transfixed. For a split-second, you think to refresh the video, believing it to have lagged. The music Robin added into the background is gone, and the webcam footage seems frozen...

And then he’s throwing his head back, laughing as he grips his sides.

“That’s a helluva drawing! God, do you see the detail?! Anti looks badass!”

He’s positively giddy, scanning every inch of the artwork with rapt enthusiasm. He begins to say something about the shading as he brings the picture out of fullscreen view. Then his laughter cuts off abruptly, smile tightening. He scrolls down to highlight the artist’s note:

“Those 20 hours were all worth it! Here’s my entry for Jack’s #SepticArt event; I call it “Two-Way Mirror”! I’m really happy with how it turned out, though I was a little worried about how I’d draw the differences for Anti’s reflection. With his brown hair, how can you even tell the two of them apart? 😆 Anyway, hope you guys like it!”

His expression becomes flat. He stares with an unwavering intensity that leaves goosebumps on your skin.

“...The same...?”

Jack mutters the phrase so quietly, it’s almost indecipherable.

“You really think... we’re the same?”

A hollow chuckle spews from his lips, and then it grows into a laugh; high-pitched and cold. In a blur, he slams his fist down onto his desk, and even off-screen, you can hear his keyboarding shattering. His lips are pulled back into a hideous snarl, a grotesque mask of fury.

“I’m nothing like him. N̞͔̤̤̺͖ͅOT̼̱̪̬̹͉H̗͝I̶̲̰̘̠̹N͉͚̖̤̳̻G͓͈̩̣͎̝͞.

The man’s eyes widen fearfully, seemingly at the sound of his own voice. His rage gives way to panic as he falls forward in his seat, clutching his head with a pained groan.

Jack’s body shudders, racked by waves of tremors as his knuckles strain white, nails digging into the arms of his chair. The camera feed is breaking apart, glitching between frames of Jack clawing at his forearms, his neck. His breathing is erratic, mumbles falling from his mouth - desperate, rambling pleas.

Then he’s still.

Too still.

Jack lets out a heavy breath, relieved - no, satisfied - before sitting up slowly. His beanie has been knocked off, his usual fluffy hair on full display.

All eyes are immediately on his neck and - oh... it’s untouched. For a moment, the viewers feel a spike of relief, hearts slamming into their throats. But then Jack opens his eyes, and their blood runs cold.

Black. Darker than any art or edit could even attempt to capture.

He sits back, almost lounging in Jack’s gaming chair, as he takes a deep breath in. Cracking his knuckles, he rolls his neck in a series of jerky moves before closing his eyes again. And in one smooth motion, he runs his hand through the front of Jack’s hair.

His fingers pass through the strands, adjusting the colour as it melts in. The brown lightens to blonde, then grows brighter. The green hue radiates with an unnatural sheen.

Stopping at the fringe, he lowers his hand to reveal the change; familiar, yet not. Wrong.

Anti opens his eyes, a wickedly pleased smirk playing across his lips as he leans toward the camera.

“Are͏ ya͝ ̡f́uck͞i̛n̛’ ̛ha͠p͞py͏ now̶?͝”

He giggles with twisted glee, hair falling into his eyes as he tips his head forward. Then he stops, and looks up through his bangs, glaring into the camera with a ferocity that dares anyone watching to defy him.

“Ỳou͡’̴ve͠ ͠had̷ yǫur ͢fun, bu̧t̢ d͡on’t fuc̕ki͞n̸’͟ ͝f̷orģet w̢ḩo ͠I ̷a͘m͢, w̢ḩat ͠I ̷a͘m͢. A̧n̸d thąt͠’s n̛oţ h̢im.͘”

The camera is shoved to the floor. The lens cracks, spider-webbing across the screen before it cuts to black. Echoing laughter grows distant as Anti walks away.

There is no second upload that day.

[jinxplosions]

character development, day 1

1.) Describe your character’s relationship with their mother or their father, or both. Was it good? Bad? Were they spoiled rotten, ignored? Do they still get along now, or no?

(I actually decided that instead of just answering the question, I’d write a one-shot, because I have an in-depth head canon for JInx’s parentage. 2k, implied suicide at the end and implied child abuse!)

Jinx doesn’t remember her birth name. It died with her father thirteen years ago.

She had never met her mother. The gossip surrounding her parents throughout her childhood was enough: Jinx’s mother was Piltoverian nobility, her father, a scientist led astray by love. The rumors stated that her father had been working on genetic enhancements in humans, and that he met her mother through his work.

Johnathan Klein Williams was a budding scientist, studying the effects of chemicals on the genetic makeup of humans. His ultimate goal was to cure the people of Zaun, a people who had been mutated and sickened by the waste pumped into their environment. He wanted to use his research to help people, to cure them of sickness, never to enable harm. But Cecilia Morticco wanted something different. Johnathan, despite his personal ethics, found her proposal fascinating. And so he began meeting her once every two weeks to discuss it.

Poor Johnathan fell hard. She was charming: beautiful, charismatic, and incredibly wealthy. And she loved him in return. His unfortunately low status — the son of Zaunite factory workers — despite his climb from the dark chasm, meant that they could never be together. Not when tied by the titanium binds of Piltoverian high society.

And God, he loved her. She was his Sun — everything amazing in the world was personified in his Cecilia. The smell of an open-air fruit market, the industrial beauty of Piltoverian architecture, golden overheard arches, the warmth of the sunlight on his Zaunite-pale skin. Everything, it seemed to him, revolved around Cecilia. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.

Eventually, through his love and desire for her happiness, he agreed to begin proper research on her proposal. He began in his lab in Piltover, working on it after his normal workday, here and there, in bits and pieces. He would update Cecilia on his progress every time he saw her, informing her of advancements and setbacks, enjoying the way he could entrance her when he spoke about it, the look on her face that was otherwise near impossible to keep.

After only a quarter of a year of his life being lived like this, happy with the woman he loved, his world was rocked to the core. Cecilia, a beautiful young woman of a noble house and seemingly available, became the focus of Piltoverian society. What suitor would catch her eye, marry her, and take over the Morticco household after the death of her father? Her parents began inviting every suitor over in turn, and Cecilia was eventually engaged and subsequently married to a man of another noble household.

Johnathan flew into a rage after this discovery. He fled back to Zaun, setting up a lab there and devoting all his time to research on Cecilia’s proposal, hoping that enough work would win him her hand. After a few weeks, Cecilia located him, traveling down to his lab in Zaun for visits, calming her distraught lover. 

Then came the fateful day.

—————————————————————————————————

“Johnathan?”

Cecilia gently pushed open the ajar lab door with her well-manicured hand. The inside of the lab was currently dimly lit, papers strewn across the steel tables, a single green lamp in the corner flickering. The cold lab had rock walls, as it was inset into the craggy cliffs of Zaun.

She stepped inside, shut the door behind her, leaving her in silence besides the soft hum of the centrifuge in the corner. She removed the hood of her roughly-woven cloak, her long blond hair reflecting the dim green lantern. There was a beam of bright, white light peeking out from behind the second door, and she slowly crept towards it. “Johnathan,” she called once more, a quaver in her voice this time.

She rapped on the door —one, two, three times— the clang of the metal echoing like thunder in the eerily silent room. She hesitated for a few moments before pushing it open as well.

Her eyes were blinded by the brightness of the lights, the white overheads blaring in contrast to the darkness of the room before. She scanned the room, left to right. An empty chair at a stark white desk, file cabinets upon file cabinets. And finally, in the corner, she spotted him. At the sight of his dark brown hair and sleeping face, all worry in her heart faded, and she was left with a smile on her face as she moved over to his resting chair.

“Johnathan, darling,” she called softly, bending over his sleeping form, caressing his cheek as she gently roused him from his dreams. “Johnathan, it’s your Cecilia, wake up love,” she said, as his eyes slowly blinked open. He looked at her, confused from the awakening. “Cecilia?” he questioned, rubbing his eyes from their drowsy state. 

Suddenly, his demeanor changed. “Cecilia!” he exclaimed, jumping out of his chair. Cecilia startled, shocked by the quick transition.

“Yes? What’s wrong?”

“Oh God Cecilia, nothing’s wrong, everything, in fact, is right for once, this is perfect, you’re going to be so excited,” he said, moving erratically between tables, searching his papers and charts. Cecilia stood deathly still, worried to the high heavens about his mental state, “Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?” she said timidly, observing his jerky movements. 

“Yes! Yes, I’m sure — oh, here it is — come — look!” he exclaimed, holding up a stack of papers as he moved towards her, a manic smile on his face. He moved to her side, flipping through the papers at sonic speeds. “I found it — the right combination, the right procedures — its possible, I did it, we can do it Cecile, we can make it happen,” he spluttered, setting the papers down on the table. He grabbed her by her shoulders. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“…are you saying what I think you are?” she replied slowly, hands gripping his pale wrists.

He looked her in her eyes, with the determined gleam she adored. “Yes, Cecilia. That’s exactly what I’m saying. We can do it. We can make your child — our child — superhuman. We can do it. I figured it out.”

Cecilia’s heart swelled with joy. She felt her eyes welling up, overcome with emotion. Her slender hands fell from Johnathan’s wrists, grabbing his jaw with unsuspected strength, her mouth meeting his in a forceful kiss, tears streaming down her rosy cheeks. Johnathan grasped the steel table for support, eyes wide open in surprise before falling closed, kissing the love of his life with equal passion.

They fell down into the chair he was sleeping in just minutes ago, the short, slender blonde straddling his lap. She quickly unbuttoned her cloak, allowing it to fall to the ground behind her, revealing and she bent back down, kissing his stubbly jaw while undoing the buttons on his lab coat, and then, his shirt. Johnathan inhaled, regaining his words, “Cecilia? What are you —“ she came up and kissed him on the mouth before going back down to his clavicle, “— what are you doing?”

She bent back again, undoing the buttons on the back of her velvet dress. “What do you think I’m doing?”

“But this is — this is our —“

“— Our first time together. I know.” She let her dress fall around her waist, and Johnathan lost all words.

That fateful night was the night Jinx was conceived.

————————————————————————————————

After that night, the treatment began. Every other week, she travelled down to Zaun, spread out on a table in her lover’s lab for the injections into the amniotic sac of their child. 

“He’s convinced it’s his, don’t worry,” she’d say, telling Johnathan of her new husband’s ignorance. He smiled at her, but burned with hatred and jealousy in his heart. But he kept it inside, administering her treatments without word of objection.

Towards the end of her pregnancy, on the day of the very last injection, Cecilia was unknowingly followed to the lab in Zaun. Her husband had grown suspicious, wondering with grim curiosity where his young, pregnant wife was disappearing to every two weeks. He donned an unsuspecting cloak and followed after her, through a Piltoverian market, into a hidden tunnel, down hundreds of stairs, and onto a five-foot wide ledge set away from the main city of Zaun. He followed the path, careful to avoid slipping and falling into the toxic water a hundred feet below. 

At the end of the dark path lied a single metal door set into the wall of rock. He opened the door as quietly as possible, and entered the room. Inside, was his wife, shutting her legs and turning to get off the table, helped by a man too close for his comfort.

The situation swiftly escalated. Cecilia was put on house arrest, and finally gave in to the growing love for her new husband and agreed to leave the child — a girl — with her father in Zaun. Johnathan was forbidden from entering Piltover, and suddenly found himself a single father, trapped in the slums of Zaun, unable to see the love of his life ever again.

—————————————————————————————————

“Papa?” A single fluorescent pink eye peeked into the lab. After a few seconds without an answer, a slip of a girl entered. She was small even for her young age of five, long blue hair in a single braid falling down her back. 

“Papa? It’s me,” she said quietly, walking over to the figure hunched over the desk. She tugged on his sleeve, and suddenly, her drastically aged father turned to her. It was rare that she came out to the lab to see him, even though it was their home. She never was home, not as long as she could help it.

But that night, the Piltover police were searching Zaun for a wanted criminal, and she was frightened into returning to her residence. 

“You,” her father sneered, his eyes red and breath reeking. She cringed and took a step back. “What are you doing here?”

“The police are in Zaun right now Papa… Ekko told me that I should go home,” she said quietly.

Johnathan snorted. “Ekko this, Ekko that… that boy is all you ever talk about.”

He extended a hand and the little girl flinched back, expecting worse than the hard poke to the chest he gave her. It made her stumble further backwards.

“You’re a little jinx, that’s what you are. All you bring is bad luck. Bad luck… misfortune… everything you love will leave you eventually. That Ekko boy too. Little jinx,” he murmured, laying his head down on his desk, “little jinx…”

She went into the back room for the night.

—————————————————————————————————

The blue-haired little girl’s father died just the next day. At dusk she had brought him bread she’d managed to steal from a market, but instead found him in the same place she had left him that morning, a puddle of corrosive chemicals eating away at his body on the floor. She had screamed, the image burning into her mind the same as the chemical stench burning her lungs. She dropped the bread and ran from the lab, slamming the door behind her.

She never returned to the lab after that day. She ran as far as she could before she fell over exhausted in an alleyway, lungs screaming at her from the effort it took to run so far and so fast. A jinx, he had called her, a jinx — and that became her mantra. She swore revenge against the mother that abandoned her and ruined her father, she swore that if her destiny was to bring bad luck everywhere she went, she’d do it good. She would be the beacon of chaos, she’d rain hell on the city that had cursed her from her conception.

She renamed herself, reclaiming her father’s cruel nickname. Her name was Jinx. And wreaking havoc was her game.