#bringing back livejournal-esque drabbles in honor of wayv’s throwback era

[pannpann0]

you’re the one that I got

xiaoyang, < 500 words, rated T

vague high school au, inspired by no one but you/no one but you + invincible track mv (stream besties), purely #vibes

“Everyone thinks I got in a fight.” Yangyang grins, shameless. He clearly thinks the lingering bruises look cool.

Dejun rolls his eyes, steadying Yangyang’s cast in his grip, across his knees. “Everyone thinks you got the shit beat out of you.”

“I fought back.” A shrug in Yangyang’s voice, a toothy smile pointed to the sky. Dejun’s too deep in concentration to humor him further. He’s tracing a long Sharpie line around the curves of get well messages scribbled along the length of Yangyang’s forearm, crammed by the stiff crook of his elbow, down to Guanheng’s giant H.A.G.S splattered multicolor in the center.

He breaks off the line from there— a new one shoots off to Yangyang’s wrist, somewhere where Kun’s admonishing scribble would be, somewhere in the world he is, instead. Another rounds down right beneath Yangyang’s wrist, where Ten’s neat block letters would rest. From there, he could probably draw out lines from any which way, to new points that will branch again like ink bleeding on the plaster, Yangyang’s veins underneath. Wherever the two of them are right now, it probably beats sitting back home here in the old stomping grounds, but Dejun thinks they would enjoy it here today, at least. After class, light rain, cool concrete, a clean earth scent. Yangyang’s shaggy hair splayed out on the makeshift sleeping bag beside Dejun, like a wild orange dandelion. Sicheng’s line stops right at the edge of the cast, where fading scars Yangyang’s knuckles peek out under.

Soon enough, Yangyang’s own line will shoot off somewhere, now that he’s realized something beyond abandoned buildings nestled in overgrown grass. Dejun’s has his own ready to form, pooled in the tip of his pen. There’s no actual space left to map its path.

“Man, you’re kinda fucking my shit up.” Yangyang’s head lifts to the side, inspecting Dejun’s handiwork. He lifts his arm, so Dejun’s grasp can slip down his slender fingers.

Yangyang never asks for anything directly. He pushed every classmates’ well wishes to the corners of his cast to make room for Dejun’s own whims. He curls those fingers inwards then, so Dejun won’t let go. And he would not ask Dejun to follow where he goes, every one of Dejun’s secrets and dreams and half-formed thoughts heavy in the pocket of his uniform joggers.

He needs someone to connect his line halfway instead, for Dejun to look into his eyes, and press his lips on Yangyang’s scars, his joints, the tips of his fingers, where x marks the spot.