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mattzerella-sticks · 4 years ago

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Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

“That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

“Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

“You wanna go to a gay bar?”

Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

“Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

“I don’t know,” Sam told him.

“You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

“Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

Dean nodded, “Like what?”

“Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

“I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

“Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

“Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

“I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

“No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

“To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

“Trevor?”

“Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

“I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

“My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

“You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

“I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

“He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

“Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

“And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

“Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

“Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

“What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

“Sure.”

“But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

“Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

“Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

“That won’t happen.”

“You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

“If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

“What if I don’t want a different fella?”

“Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

“No one does.”

“Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

What?

“What?”

“Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

“His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

“Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

“That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

“’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

“Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

“Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

“He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

“Why you wanna know?”

“Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

“You make a habit of this, then?”

“No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

“Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

“Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

“I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

“Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

“Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

“You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

“It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

“Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

“Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home. “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

“Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

“Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

“You’re a good brother.”

“I try my best.”

“Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

“That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

“No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

“Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

“I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

“But for this?” Dean asked.

“Definitely this.”

Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

“It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

“I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

“Are you sure?”

“I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

“Yeah.”

“Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

“Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

“It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

That isn’t what he wants.

Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

“Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

“…Thanks.”

“Good night, Dean.”

“Night, Cas.”

He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

No one speaks for half their journey.

They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

“Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

“Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

“Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

Look out for Sammy.

Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

“Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

They might have died.

“Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

“What?”

“I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

“Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 (650) 378-0914: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

#spn #supernatural #spn fanfic #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #destiel fanfic #deancas fanfic #sam winchester #sam winchester is an ally #john winchester #john winchester's a+ parenting #fuck john winchester #tw: internalized homophobia #tw: abusive parent #tw: garden-variety homophobia

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umbrellalad · 4 years ago

Text

An Excerpt from a Book I’ll Never Finish

The Galaxy and all it’s Stars

Why is quiet so hard to hear? Sitting in the quiet, listening and thinking and all I can hear is the static in my brain. No matter what I do I can’t turn it off. Even when I try to use it all the thoughts do is jam together, running into each other jumping around until all it’s caused is a headache. I try to sort them out, to figure out what it is the universe is trying to whisper in my ear, but all I hear is noise, noise, noise, until I have to just stop trying.

My thoughts are as vast and as jumbled as the universe itself, so you’d think we speak the same language, but I guess the two don’t mix, because all I can hear is static. My room reverberates with the stuff. A box full of echos only I can hear. Still, it’s better than outside, where all of my thoughts are trapped inside my own head. Outside they swirl in the wind, forming a cloud around my head. I have to reel them in, chain them up to keep them from running out. I don’t know why they’re so hard to control. Others don’t seem to have a problem with controlling their own heads. They walk around perfectly content with the way they’re thinking, the way they’re acting, the way they’re talking. To them the world is nothing but hopscotch for one to enjoy. For me the world is a tight-rope across a windy canyon. One wrong step and it all goes tumbling down, down, down.

I find comfort in the universe. With something so colossus and magnificent, how can anything I do possibly ruin it?

Still, at times it feels like the universe is shrinking in on me. Gravity increases and the galaxies collide in on themselves. Then I go to bed. Wake up. And the universe has begun expanding again.

Waking up today was easy. Summer had begun. I no longer had to worry about the load of homework or projects piling up while I sat in my room doing nothing.

I roll over and look at the clock at the side of my bed. It’s a retro rectangle of an alarm clock, because somehow turning the clock face into a rectangle made it more desirable then.

9:26. Not a bad time to wake up. Early enough that I haven’t wasted the day away, and late enough to feel like it’s too late to go back to bed.

So I get up. Whatever extensional crisis took it’s turn last night has retreated back into the basements of my brain. If it was a good day hopefully I wouldn’t have another one until at least four.

Downstairs my mom is cooking breakfast for my sisters and my brother. I can smell the bacon as I walk into the kitchen. What would be described as a peaceful, welcoming scene to wake up to is anything but. There’s not so much serenity and love in the air as there is simply hunger and tension.

My youngest sister Brielle is sitting at the table, smearing scrambled eggs on the table. Now with this behavior one would guess Bri is three? two? She’s ten. My theory is she doesn’t have that little voice in our heads that tells us our actions will have consequences. Or that she does have this voice, but only listens to it when the consequences include her. She knows that she could get up from the table right now, and Mom would go over and clean it up without a second thought.

The twins Adalyn and Asher are play fighting. A game that will without doubt turn into a real duel the moment one of them knocks their elbow the wrong way on the couch. They’re both 13. Old enough to know that actions have consequences, but still too young or too sociopathic to care.

My mom sees me first. She’s making more eggs for Adalyn and Asher along with frying bacon. “Morning sweetie, do you want anything?”

White Dwarf

A white dwarf, also called a degenerate dwarf, is a stellar core remnant composed mostly of electron-degenerate matter. A white dwarf is very dense: its mass is comparable to that of the Sun, while its volume is comparable to that of Earth. A white dwarf's faint luminosity comes from the emission of stored thermal energy; no fusion takes place in a white dwarf.[1] The nearest known white dwarf is Sirius B, at 8.6 light years, the smaller component of the Sirius binary star. There are currently thought to be eight white dwarfs among the hundred star systems nearest the Sun

My mom is a white dwarf. She was once a shining star, a radiant young woman, full of life, energy, and excitement. When she was young my mom would go on spontaneous adventures with her friends. They would go skydiving or cliff jumping or bar hopping or just go on a road trip to the middle of nowhere. I’ve seen pictures from back then. She looks so free, so unburdened. When Mom had kids that part of her life took a decline, and when my dad left it ended completely. No more time for spontaneity. No more opportunity for it either. Now she’s only a remnant of the woman she used to be, but she still manages to give off the same warmth.

I know she has a lot on her plate, so I try to stay out of her way most of the time. I do my best to be self-sufficient and try not to cause her too much worry.

I wish I could be more like she was, when she was a kid. I find it hard to even leave the house without planning it a day in advance. She would board a plane and fly to Italy without a second thought. My life consists of the same thing everyday, no changes, no excitement. Is it because I made it that way or is it the way it was made for me?

I say no, like I always say no. Not because I don’t want to accept her hospitality, but because I don’t want to add to her plate of things to do.

Nor do I want to partake in this mess we call a home life.

I grab a banana from a bowl on the table and sit on the opposite side of Bri. I look down at the egg she’s using to decorate the table. She stares at me challengingly.

I take a bite of my banana.

Adalyn and Asher’s voices rise. Someone hit someone else a little too hard.

Bri glares at me harder, increasing her pressure on the eggs.

Asher screams.

The banana feels tough in my throat.

The sizzling of the bacon rises.

Bri smooshes her eggs.

Adalyn yells.

My head hurts.

The scent of bacon gets thicker.

My heart picks up pace.

A cry.

A scolding.

A challenge.

A throbbing.

A yell.

I get out of my chair and go back upstairs.

My room is safe. In my room I don’t have to worry about screaming children or a messy home. The only things I have to worry about in my room are the things I create myself. Still challenging, but at least here I have a sense of control.

My headache lessens and my heart slows to its normal pace.

This house is like a prison. Everyday it feels like it’s closing in on me, tightening it’s hold on my life. There’s nowhere to go, no escape. It just drives me deeper and deeper into my own brain.

I’m sitting on the floor. I’ve found that sitting in places where one wouldn’t normally sit when there are chairs available, is calming. It gives me a fake sense of personality.

Looking up I examine the face looking back at me in the mirror. I inherited my mother’s thick blond hair. It falls past my shoulders in ringlets. Needing something to do, I part my hair and braid it into two plaits.

Full lips. Brown eyes. A freckled face. Heavy brows. A pointed nose. Thick lashes.

This is who I see in the mirror. It’s me. This is the body which my mind, my soul, my essence is encaptured. An infinity of possibilities, an infinity of features and these are the ones I’ve been graced with. An whole wide universe to choose from and this is where my soul settles.

Oh look there’s the existential crisis. In almost record time.

I sigh and fall back onto the carpet. Stare up at the ceiling. The quiet is nice.

A crash sounds from downstairs. More yelling.

A sudden urge strikes me. Like my chest will explode if I don’t do what it says.

I need to get out of this house.

I pull on my shoes from my closet and jog downstairs.

“I’m going to go on a walk,” I call to Mom.

She’s busy trying to talk Bri into eating some fruit with her eggs. She doesn’t hear me. I stand in the middle of the kitchen. I don’t see Adalyn, but Asher is sitting on the couch, looking very upset about the book he’s most likely being forced to read. No one sees me.

I’m used to being invisible. As soon as the first attempt to be seen goes unnoticed, all of the others just melt away.

I go out the front door, not bothering to take my phone with me. I don’t have to worry about getting texts. I was never really one for making friends anyways. Whenever I did find people to hang out with it always felt superficial, like they were just pretending to tolerate my company. Besides, I could never find the right thing to say. My mind wouldn’t go with the flow of their conversation, it would pick at each word, each voice inflection, each micro-expression. Trying to decipher the hidden meaning in every one of their simple sentences.

When I was 14 I had a friend named Blake. She was my first real friend. We had met at school when she said something funny in history and I laughed. She turned around and smiled at me and I smiled back. We exchanged numbers and then every night we would text for hours. We talked about school and the teachers we hated. She talked about the boys she had crushes on and I told her why they weren’t good enough for her. We traded music suggestions and talked about how Sherlock deserved a fifth season.

I would lay on my side in bed and smile in the glow of my phone screen. It was the best feeling in the world.

But then the spaces between her texts got longer. And I started to realize that the only nights we talked were the nights where I texted her. And then that feeling started to melt, to harden in my stomach. I worried that she felt obligated to text me back. What if she didn’t actually want to text me, and only did because she felt like she had to?

So I stopped texting her, and I waited for her to text me.

And the text never came.

A couple times after that she would say something like “Hey we haven’t talked in so long!” and I would reply “omg what’s up?” But it was just that. An obligation. She had gotten bored of me and after a while I began to wonder why it hadn’t happened sooner.

My feet slap against the hot concrete as I walk away from home. I don’t know exactly where I’m going, but it feels good to go. I keep walking until I find myself at the edge of the sidewalk. Trees, tall and proud, loom over me.

I step into their embrace. In the trees the air feels cooler and the light is muted. Sun shines in through gaps in the leaves, trickling over the stones and the roots. I go deeper into the woods and I feel the pressure in my head drop with each step. The world seems to sparkle and I find solace in the quiet beauty of it all. This is a place untarnished by whatever messes us humans decide to create.

Eventually, I find what would become my refuge. It was a large pile of massive stone blocks, shaped so that if there was a fourth side it would have been a square. But the fourth side must have fallen out, must have given way to nature, because all that remains are a few scattered blocks leading up to the top.

I like to think that it was once part of a grand castle, and that this structure was all that remained from that era we’ve romanticized so. But I live in the United States so that’s unlikely. I don’t know why it was built, or what it was meant to be, but now it stands in solitary, unbothered by whatever expectations were once put onto it.

Excited, I move towards the stones. It stands over four times taller than me, but still I climb. I crawl over the blocks and pull myself up until I stand at the top of the ruins. My heart clenches as I look down, but it’s not a completely bad thing. It’s… exhilarating. For the first time in a while I’m not stuck inside my own head. The thoughts that normally ping ponged around in my head had flown out. My mind was clear.

It was amazing.

I felt like I was alone, sitting on an island of time just waiting. I don’t know what I was waiting for, but I didn’t mind the rest. I laid down across the stones and looked up at the sky. It was framed by the trees, a perfect little viewing spot just for me.

I laid there for a long time. Watched as the clouds raced across the sky, eventually moving out entirely and leaving the sky open for the stars. It’s so funny how when we think of stars we think of tiny little dots sprinkled across the heavens, while in reality stars are massive, flaming orbs of heat and gas, so big we can’t even comprehend how big they really are. The sun is the closest star to Earth and we are so used to it that its mass settles slightly better in our tiny brains. But if you think, if you truly think about how immense stars, the galaxy, the universe is… Our brains aren’t big enough.

Proxima Centauri

Proxima Centauri is the closest star to our sun. It is a small, low mass star and is a member of the Alpha Centauri system. It is located 4.244 light-years away from the Sun in the southern constellation of Centaurus. This means that even if traveling at the speed of light was possible, it would still take 4.244 years to reach the star.

The second closest star in the entire universe, and at the height of technology right now it would take 73,000 years to get there. An amount of time past comprehension. We think that time is something we observe, but time will continue long after everything else is gone. The only thing we do is give time a little more meaning, a little more use. Time goes and goes and goes and goes every if there’s no one and nothing to observe it.

I don’t know how much time I spent laying on those ruins, but eventually I stood up, climbed down, and walked home.

Quietly pushing open the door I stepped inside. It’s moments like this I don’t mind being at home. When the house is silent everything seems a bit more bearable. The shadows give everything mystery, making each step a small adventure.

I tiptoe upstairs, making sure to step over that one stair that always groans. I peek into Mom’s room.

She’s asleep, sprawled out across the bed. She had probably thought that I was just in my room all day. I couldn’t blame her. It wouldn’t have been off brand.

There’s just a small part of me that wishes she would have stayed up so that we could have talked without the commotion of my siblings wrecking the house. But it’s unreasonable, it’s late and she’s tired.

I’m tired too. Closing the door to my room I fall onto my bed. My head is still clear from my little adventure.

It was a pretty good day.

#writing #writer #lgbtq #short story #wip #wip tag #new wip #writblr #free write #lgbt #top stories #story #stories #my story #mental health #read it i dare you #try it

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theeternalspace · 6 years ago

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walls that we repainted white 1/1

I had been in the Sanders Sides fandom for a little while before I started posting my own work. I read fanfics, I reblogged art. I even worked up the courage to speak to a few of you and made a wonderful friend in the form of @jittery-glittery

Thanks to her encouragement, a year ago today, I posted the first chapter of what would become the ongoing epic The Consequences of Sound. Without Flo, I don't think I would ever have posted a word. (Another chapter is going up later tonight)

I made more friends, I gradually started talking to other fanders and making friends like the awesome @i-will-physically-fight-you (who very kindly stepped in and let me break her heart while she checked my tenses for this ficlet) or the sweet and funny @romanticsanders. To name only a fraction of the lovely people I'm proud to know. I love you all and I wish I could list more but then this would be nothing but a list because I am so blessed.

I also want to talk to a whole lot more of you and maybe one day I'll work up the courage. Social anxiety is hard as we all know.

Anyway, I wanted to do something special to celebrate my one year anniversary writing as well as still a little stunned that it had been a year already.

So I give you angst! Terrible, terrible angst. This is part of a story I've wanted to write for a very long time now and is in fact from the middle of the plot. It would eventually have a happy ending but there isn't one here. If this gets a good response I will have to write the rest but I just needed to get this part out of my head right now.

You could also call this chapter one of a story with the history planned in flashbacks, should I continue it...

walls that we repainted white

Genre: Angst. Hurt, no comfort. Miscommunication to the max.

Word Count: 2.7k

Pairing: Virgil/Roman. Human Au.

Warnings: Past injuries, hospital mentions, miscommunication, possible brain trauma.

Story and tag list below the cut!

walls that we repainted white

The clock on the wall was ticking.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

So loud that for a moment it was all that Virgil could hear, the steady monotonous tone of tick, tick, tick. It was even louder than his own heartbeat and he tried to time his own breathing to the beat, tried to will his racing heart to calm down. He needed to be calm but the only problem was that it felt impossible to be calm right now.

Not with Roman in the room with him, the other man examining the dirty plates in his sink as though they were the most fascinating thing he had ever seen in his whole life. Virgil felt his skin crawl, able to imagine all the thoughts that had to be running through the redhead’s mind as he stared at the evidence of Virgil’s laziness, of his disgusting life habits. Virgil knew he should have cleaned up, housework was a good way of gently exercising without pushing himself too much because there was always a comfortable surface whenever he got tired. It was a good workout for his brain as well, something slightly more mentally taxing than a mere walk, could he remember where everything went, could he put it all away without breaking anything?

Virgil had gone for a walk instead, had ignored all the not so subtle advice of his doctors and wandered out in the middle of the day without his phone.

He could see it sitting on the counter next to the dishes. It lit up as though on command, a text from Patton flashing up on the screen. The brief moment of light was enough to show him that he had multiple texts and missed calls from various friends. There are a few from a number that had no name attached, but Virgil knew the number off by heart.

He might have deleted Roman's contact info from his phone, but he had never gotten around to actually blocking him completely. Perhaps some part of him had wanted to know if Roman would care, if he would try and contact him or if he would let the friendship wither and die now that he revealed himself as the fair weather friend Roman really was.

He should block him completely. If only it was that easy in real life, if only he could press a button and not have to deal with Roman, never have to look at his stupid smug beautiful face ever again. Never have to hear him sing or the musical way in which he said his name. In Roman’s voice, his name became almost magical, imbued with far more power than it really possessed. Virgil often felt as though he could have committed any wondrous feat with the energy of Roman saying his name.

Now Virgil never wanted to hear it again. Not his voice, not his name. He wanted to block and hide Roman from his own memory and never be confronted by the inconvenient truth of Roman ever again.

Snap him out of existence.

No, not that. Virgil didn't want Roman to stop existing. His brush with the blind fury of fate had given him a new appreciation for life in any form. No matter how spiteful he might feel towards other people - and spite still made up about eighty percent of his thoughts - he wouldn't wish even his worst enemy to go through what he had done.

None of that changed the fact that despite deleting his number and ignoring him, Roman hadn't taken the hint. Strange considering Roman had ignored him first.

Apparently Roman not only tried to call but also tracked him down. Question answered. It didn't settle him - in fact it did rather the opposite, it set him on edge, made him stand stiff and to attention, aches and pains creasing deeper into his body and soul. His body was still so broken, held together by tape, determination and spite.

Virgil was so tired. The clock was ticking. They were breathing, both of them rather heavily and Virgil knew why he was so worn out and lost for breath but he couldn't start to guess what Roman had been up to, in order to warrant such heavy breathing. It was almost as though the other man had been running around although there was no reason for him to do such a thing, especially in the middle of the day.

He shifted a little, the crutch handle feeling slick with sweat under his fingers. It had been warm in the sun, so warm and Virgil had perhaps pushed himself further than he should in his impatience to be normal again.

To be whole.

It was as though he had run a mile instead of a small walk around the block. Logan would be terribly disappointed in him, but at the same time Logan should have known better than to expect anything better from the mess of a person that Virgil was stuck being. He hated the weakness that ran through his mind and body. An invisible crack on his soul that was breaking him further and further apart to go with all the physical damage that the... incident had caused him.

All his fault. The incident, the sleep that followed, the damage that he had to carry around on his back for the foreseeable future. Possibly for the rest of his life and Virgil could at least appreciate that the doctor hadn’t beat around the bush, hadn’t tried to sugar coat the pill or wrap the truth up in lies. He had been honest, brutality so, and Virgil hadn’t told Patton about those conversations.

Or Roman, but then he had no intention of ever sharing that information with Roman. He had no intention of ever speaking to Roman again and yet - and yet here they were in his kitchen, staring at the remains of last night's meal on dirty plates that festered in his sink. Virgil wasn’t ready to tell Patton either, but that was because he knew Patton would cry, would hug him and be so supportive. He would break Virgil with his kindness and Virgil would let it happen. Anything to try and make Patton feel better, even if it ripped Virgil’s soul apart in the process.

Logan, he strongly suspected, knew. Logan who was too smart for his own good, who had seen charts and overheard snippets of conversation, who knew all the medical jargon. Logan who would never bring it up first because of all the emotions that swirled around the topic.

At least Virgil could always count on Logan to want to avoid anything with unpleasant feelings because he didn’t know how to properly express them. His friend had emotions, felt more deeply than he would ever willingly admit to, but right now, Virgil couldn’t help but feel selfishly glad that he struggled to share them because it meant he got to avoid talking about it for a little while longer. The diagnoses swam in his mind, the words thick and black behind his eyelids with every slow blink.

Possible brain damage.

Tick. Tick.

“Virgil.”

His name sounded as though it has been spoken underwater, distorted and distant. Some part of Virgil wasn’t even sure if he heard it. Maybe he had just imagined it. He imagined a lot of things lately, his brain slipping like a disconnected call, the handset just gently humming to nothing and nobody.

A low level static where all manner of things could lurk.

His whole body was aching, screaming out as if on fire and begging him to sit down, to take the weight off. Virgil didn’t move though. He couldn't, not while Roman was in the room with him, not while he had to remain strong. As soon as Roman left, Virgil could collapse, could give in to the pain. He was long overdue another dose of medication, something his body was only too keen on reminding him. Virgil didn't know how much longer he could remain on his feet. The blackness of unconsciousness was calling to him.

It wasn't fair. He had spent so much time unconscious, nothing but a body in a bed and now that he was finally awake, he wanted to do nothing but sleep. More time forever lost.

Humpty Dumpty had a big fall.

Virgil didn’t understand why Roman was here at all, why he had belatedly decided to care.

When they had first met, Virgil dismissed him as a vain, shallow excuse of a man, someone who cared only for the illusion of the moment, who was delighted by the splendour, by the fireworks and emotion but not the hard work that came with anything real. At the first sign of trouble, Virgil had expected Roman to fade into the background. To some extent, he had been confounded by his own expectations.

Once, in the early days of knowing Roman, Virgil had been ranting to Patton and described him as nothing more than a vain crack of words with no substance behind them.

Later, Virgil had been ashamed of that first opinion, at being so quick to judge him after so long of being judged himself.

Now it seemed as though he had been right all along. The moment things had gotten hard - really hard, in a way none of them could have predicted - Roman had bailed. As though he had been the one with a parachute and all of Virgil’s other friends had hit the ground in the form of an uncomfortable hospital chair.

Didn't he already know that all the king's horses and all the king's men had failed to slot him back into place? Sending the prince after they already failed seemed like a fools errand because there was nothing else to be done for either of them.

“Well? What do you want?” He snapped, feeling the rage rise so swiftly and Virgil didn't want to do this. He didn't want to stand here in his kitchen, he didn't want to pick a fight with someone he had once thought was his friend, who he had once hoped could be something more.

Then again, he hadn’t wanted to lose seven weeks of his life to a hospital bed so it seemed as if what he might want was nothing more than another dream to go with all the other lost ones.

Tick.

“Virgil,” Roman tried again, his face pinched and sharp. Idly, Virgil wondered if that was the face Roman pulled whenever he tasted citrus fruit. He had always claimed the taste of lemons or limes were too unpleasant for him, that the sharpness cut through any other flavour, overpowering and ruining it.

That should have been Virgil’s first clue that his daydreams were simply not to be.

He was nothing but sour, nothing but tart.

How could he have ever possibly thought he would fit into the sweet honeyed world that Roman inhabited?

They were two different beings and they might as well have belonged to two different races for all that they had in common. It had been a miracle, a wonder, that they had gotten along for as long as they had, that they had been able to be friends for a little while at least before the shards of what they had dared to try to be rained down on them.

Still, he always just assumed that the crash would be his fault. That Virgil would do or say something unforgivable because he was good at that after all.

He hadn't expected to be abandoned by Roman when he was at his weakest, that the moment he had opened up and risked his heart by telling him how he really felt. It hadn't been the way he had wanted to tell him or any of the various ways he had imagined finally working up the courage to confess but that still didn't explain why Roman had been so cruel about it, why he had turned coward and run when Virgil had admitted his feelings.

Maybe if he had done it in a more romantic way, Roman wouldn't have crushed his heart so casually. Virgil had never thought Roman would be the type to take an offered heart and stab it with a needle. He would have thought Roman would let him down gently if he ever told him. He had pictured Roman being sweet and charmed and flattered before regretfully telling Virgil that it was never going to work between them.

Virgil never entertained any real hope that Roman might have liked him back, he knew life was no fairy tale.

Nobody was going to fall in love with the urchin child in the corner, the scowling, angry boy who was lost. Nobody was going to rescue him from his tower, nobody was going to search a whole kingdom looking for him based on one fragment of himself that he had left behind.

And nobody was going to kiss him awake.

He was already awake, in a world he no longer understood. Awake. He needed to stay awake. Just a little longer. Virgil blinked, the world snapping back into focus. The clock on his wall was ticking.

Tick. Tick.

“-ied. I was looking all over for you.”

Roman looked at him after he finishes speaking as though he expects - as though he expects something. Exactly what, Virgil doesn’t know. An explanation? An apology? His words sounded as though he had said a lot, a whole speech and that was what Roman was good at after all. Saying all the right things to get what he wanted without worrying about the damage he left in his wake. He had smiled and said all the right things to Virgil, he had caught him hook, line and sinker.

Until eventually he was done playing with him and had tossed him back into the sea. Now the siren was back, and had Roman changed his mind? Decided he wanted to keep Virgil dancing to his tune for a little longer? Didn't he know that Virgil no longer knew how to dance?

Virgil was just so tired. Too tired to try and soften the blow for Roman, far too tired to come up with a nicer way to say what he was thinking. The words that he had heard slice into his heart and soul, cut open a wound that has never even started to heal. Virgil can't even start to piece together what Roman might have said before because all he can focus on is the hypocrisy of what little he heard.

Roman hadn't cared to find him when Virgil had been still and silent in his hospital bed. He hadn't cared when Virgil had needed him and more importantly when the others had needed him. It was one thing to abandon Virgil - he had been unconscious, blissfully oblivious to the betrayal. It was quite another to do the same to their friends, to leave Logan, Patton and Remy struggling to hold themselves together. If nothing else, Roman should have been there for them.

He lifted his head, mismatched eyes meeting Roman’s gaze, his own for once focused, sharp and boiling. The rage had to be visible because Virgil no longer cared about hiding it. There was a lot he didn't care about anymore, lost under misery and the rising pain of his injuries. Roman needed to leave, because Virgil really didn't know how much longer he could hold on and he was damned if he would pass out in front of him.

Roman flinched before he actually spoke, almost as though he could peer into all the broken pieces that made up Virgil's psyche and see the storm that was brewing there. He still looked worried, almost concerned for Virgil and that makes him want to laugh until he cried. It was far too late for Roman to be playing that role again. The clock on the wall was ticking, his life draining away in relentless little seconds.

Tick. Tick.

Tick.

“I’ve been sitting still for nearly two months Ro... how hard did you look?”

General Tag List;

Send a message if you would like to be added to my general fic tag list however, please, please be aware that I use my general tag list for snippets, abandoned ideas, deleted scenes etc as well as actual complete chapters so make sure that is what you want to see from me.

@jittery-glittery @applecannibal @cookiethedevil @i-will-physically-fight-you@jemthebookworm @4amanxiety @plaid-purple-patches

#sanders sides #fic #virgil sanders #roman sanders #human au #fiction #aca writes #a whole year #who would have thought it #walls that we repainted white #long post

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mirroredglitch · 7 years ago

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Simple Steps

“Simple Steps” A Saeran One-Shot Fic by glitchedmirrors

Fandom: Mystic Messenger Characters: Saeran, Saeyoung, MC Pairing: Some mild smatterings of Saeyoung x MC and Saeran x MC Rating: 14A - contains descriptions of an anxiety attack Word Count: 7,382 words Language: English

You can also read this on Ao3 HERE.

A/N: The inspiration for this came from an anxiety attack of my own. I don’t know how many people will actually want to read about such things, but, if anything, it helped me. Writing this was very therapeutic and I’m glad I got it all done. Especially since it kept sitting in the back of my head until I worked on it. Please note that the descriptions of what Saeran is going through are based entirely on my own anxiety attacks, and will not be accurate to everyone who deals with them.

Mint eyes scanned the room warily, Saeran’s breathing coming out in short, quick gasps as he tried to make sense of the world around him. He wasn’t even sure what had brought on this feeling of breathlessness, like the air around him was trying to choke the life out of him. But, it had brought him to his knees in the middle of the livingroom in the bunker. Saeran’s arms curled tightly around himself, as if trying to hold himself to reality. It was all he could do not to scream, not that he thought he could with how erratic his breathing was in this particular moment. What was he doing just before this? Saeran couldn’t remember, as the tv in the room wasn’t even on. It was rare for him to leave his room for very long, so he really couldn’t be sure what he was thinking before these feelings had settled in.

Unable to keep himself sitting up, Saeran allowed his body to slump onto the floor, curling in on himself further as his breathing hitched. If he had been in even a slightly better state of mind, Saeran probably would have wondered where his twin was. Although he still hated seeming weak in front of anyone, he knew that his brother of all people would likely be able to help him. But right now, those thoughts were gone. All the red-haired man could think of was how he felt like he was dying. His breathing being so rapid was causing his chest to hurt, and he could already feel the familiar sting of tears forming in his eyes. God, why did this hurt so much?

“Saeran? Where are you?” Saeyoung’s voice called out, and Saeran could easily hear the edge to it.

He wanted desperately to respond to his twin, but all that came out was a strangled sob. Footsteps sounded nearby, growing louder as Saeyoung came closer. Saeran watched as his brother’s feet and legs came into his view, and he wished he could look up to his twin’s face, but instead, his eyes closed tight, the tears that were welling there finally spilling over onto his cheeks.

“Shit. Saeran, are you okay?” his twin’s voice was calm, but Saeran could still hear the hint of worry embedded in his words. Why did this have to happen now? Saeyoung was finally backing off from being so clingy towards him after having rescued him from Mint Eye, and Saeran knew that this was just going to set things back again.

“No...” he’d manage to wheeze out in response, his breath hitching again. His delicate frame shook as he clutched tighter at his arms, fingernails digging into the flesh there. “No. Nonononononono-” It was all he could say, the word rushing from his mouth over and over again, sounding more and more desperate each time.

It didn’t take long for Saeyoung to figure out what was going on. His brother was having an anxiety attack, and a really bad one by the looks of it, just based on the way Saeran seemed to be immobilized on the floor. The older twin had dealt with them before, too. What were the things you had told him before? The different things that usually helped ground him to reality again? Golden eyes gazed down at Saeran, and anything that Saeyoung could remember immediately flew out of his head. It hurt him to see his twin in such a state, especially one that was far worse than Saeyoung could remember dealing with. Or maybe he had and he just didn’t know how it looked to those around him? Either way, Saeyoung knew that he couldn’t leave Saeran alone like this. He needed your help.

“Saeran, just stay here. I’m... I’m gonna go get MC. She’ll know what to do, okay?” his voice was getting higher and higher as his own anxiety rose. He wished desperately that he could be his brother’s grounding point, but, he knew that it was better to get your help than to try to do this on his own.

All Saeran could hear was the shuffle of his brother’s feet as he walked – no, ran – out of the room. The younger twin wasn’t sure how you could help. He still didn’t even really trust you despite the fact that you were living with him and his twin now. And he certainly didn’t want you seeing him in this state anyhow! Just the thought had his stomach clenching into knots, a wave of nausea hitting him now. Another sob and a small whimper would escape from him, and his body convulsed with the sobs that were starting up more heavily now.

It had been nearly a year since he had been rescued from Mint Eye, and many months since Saeyoung had gotten him out of the hospital. But, the thought of Mint Eye sent his mind reeling again. Whenever these attacks had hit him when he was there, he was met with punishment. More elixir being poured down his throat, sometimes so forcefully that he’d choke on it. Sometimes he’d even throw it back up. It had been awful. His stomach clenched again, and Saeran could swear he could feel the bile rising into the back of his throat. He’d swallow it back, clenching his eyes shut again. There was no way he was letting this get to him that badly. He needed to stop thinking about those days...

Thankfully, Saeran could hear his twin shouting something. He couldn’t quite make out the words, all sounds having begun to get hazy. Other than the faint shouting, all Saeran could hear was a ringing sound. His brain felt like static, and he couldn’t focus on anything anymore.

You had been dragged into the room by your boyfriend, not fully knowing what was going on. All Saeyoung had gotten out before dragging you in here was “Saeran”, so, you knew something must have happened to the other twin, but you couldn’t be sure what until you saw him. You let out a gasp as you saw him curled up on the floor, slight traces of blood on his arms and fingertips because he had dug his nails much deeper into his flesh than he realized. Seeing the state he was in, you doubt he could even feel the pain of it.

“MC, please help...” Saeyoung would plead, one of his hands gripping at your shirt. Looking over at him, you’d see the panic in his golden eyes. Your heart hurt seeing how worried your boyfriend looked. He was used to dealing with his own anxiety, seeing his brother like this must be causing him so much pain. You’d give him a gentle, reassuring smile. Of course you would help.

“Sh-show him the steps you showed me before, MC. I think he could really use them,” he’d whisper out, glancing down at his shaking twin.

You’d pull Saeyoung into a hug, and you could feel how much he was shaking as well. Leaning up slightly, you’d leave a gentle kiss on his forehead. “Of course. But first... Saeyoung, I’m sorry, but I need you to breathe and try to relax for a moment. I know you’re worried for Saeran, but, you freaking out is going to make his anxiety attack worse.” Saeyoung’s eyes widened at your words, and he felt a stabbing sensation in his heart. It hurt to hear, but, he knew you were right. “Step out for a moment if you need to, okay?”

Your boyfriend would sniffle slightly, and you could see the tears in his golden eyes, but, he’d nod in response. You’d place a gentle kiss on his lips and hugged him a little tighter to you, feeling him relax slightly as you did so. He’d be the one to pull away, though, looking you deep in the eyes. “O-okay. I can do that MC. Thank you. Just... please help him,” he’d say, closing his eyes as he awaited your response.

“Of course. You have my word,” you’d respond, kissing him again before turning your attention to his twin. Satisfied with your response, Saeyoung would slip away into another room, trying to focus on his breathing so that he could come back.

While he was out, you decided to sit on the floor, trying to bring yourself down to Saeran’s level, not wanting him to feel like you were looking down on him. Saeran opened his eyes, looking at you with a very clear amount of panic. Having gotten closer to him, you could hear how erratic his breathing was, and could see just how much he was shaking.

Saeran’s thoughts were racing, not really focusing on any one thing, however. When you sat down nearby, he instinctively flinched, almost as if he was was expecting something. But whatever that something was... it didn’t happen. Mint eyes opened, and they gazed up at you. He still couldn’t breathe, and he could still feel the tears that were currently rolling down his cheeks, but somehow... seeing you looking at him as calmly as you were, he could feel his heart rate calming, even if only a little bit. There was no pity in your eyes, only warmth and love. Not the same love he saw you look at his brother with, but, love nonetheless. Another sob would escape from him, and he found himself looking away. God, how could you look at him like this? How come you didn’t seem to think he was weak and pathetic for being like this? His hands released his arms and lifted to his head, tearing at his red hair.

You wanted desperately to reach out to Saeran, but chose not to. You knew if you touched him in any way, he was liable to retaliate, and you didn’t want to overwhelm him. Little did you know, he was desperate for you to hold him, for anyone to hold him. But, he refrained from vocalizing these thoughts, unable to get any words out at all.

“Saeran? I need you to try and sit up. Do you think you can do that for me?” you’d ask, still holding him in your gaze. He had to think for a moment. Could he do that? Could he sit up? Nodding slightly, Saeran would shift around. His arms felt weak as he lifted himself up, and he struggled for a moment, but, knowing you were there if something went wrong, he managed to sit up. He leaned his back against the nearby couch, and his arms wrapped around his knees, pulling them tight to his body.

“Good, Saeran... you’re already doing so good,” you’d say softly. There was still panic in Saeran’s mint eyes as he gazed back at you, but, it was a start. He stared at you expectantly, waiting to hear what you’d say next.

“Alright, this next part is going to be a bit harder, okay? But we’re doing this in steps,” you’d say. Saeran would nod again, his lips pursing as he waited.

“First off... I want you to name five things you can see. If you need to look around a bit, please do. There’s no rush.”

Saeran’s eyes closed for a moment as he took in a deeper breath, trying to steady himself. Opening his eyes again he’d turn his head to look around the room. For a livingroom it was pretty bare, honestly. But, it had more to it than he remembered from the livingroom in the home he and his twin had grown up in. Thinking of that home made his breath hitch and he was nearly gasping again, but, seeing your eyes gazing back at him when he turned to look at you helped him to steady his breathing. “I... I see your eyes. Not golden like Saeyoung’s. And not... mint... like mine. Your eyes are...” he’d stop himself for a moment, thinking, “very pretty.” He’d sigh as he said the words, a blush forming on his cheeks.

“Thank you Saeran. Now, what’s another thing you can see?” you’d say in response. You didn’t want to draw attention to the fact that he was clearly flustered, but, you did appreciate his compliment. He didn’t give them often, and especially not to you, and it made your heart swell with pride that he was opening up to you even in the smallest of ways. Though, you knew it was probably taking a lot out of him to allow you to see him in this state in the first place.

“Hmm... I... I can see the tv. It’s off right now, and I can see our reflections in it. But...” he’d hesitate, trying to find the right words. “Sometimes you and Saeyoung will get me to watch movies with you on it. I like the moments of peace it brings,” he’d whisper the last part, and you had to strain to hear him. But, you smiled at him in response.

“Keep going,” you’d urge. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see Saeyoung sneaking back into the room, his hair dishevelled, but, he had clearly calmed down.

“I can see Saeyoung’s glasses. The yellow and black of the frames look ridiculous, but... they’re still very Saeyoung,” Saeran would say with a nervous chuckle, turning his gaze towards his brother. Saeyoung flinched for a moment at his twin’s words, clearly not having expected them, and you could see the red that flushed his cheeks.

“I also see the painting of an orchid I did in therapy. I thought it looked terrible, but Saeyoung framed it and hung it up on the wall in here anyways,” Saeran would say, his tone pained as he fought back tears. His breathing sped up again, and both you and Saeyoung worried he was going to start hyperventilating again.

“I... I hung it up because you made it Saeran. And... MC insisted that it was important to have your influence in here, too,” Saeyoung would whisper. He’d sit down beside you then, leaning his head against your shoulder. You’d gently grab one of his hands in your own, circling a thumb over his skin in a comforting manner. You could tell that Saeyoung was still a little on edge.

“And...” Saeran stopped, his eyes trying to seek out another thing that he could say. Nothing else in this room seemed important enough in his eyes though, and that realization made him clutch tightly at his knees. He’d frown, leaning his head on his knees and sighing. He had been doing so well, and now here he went fucking up again. “I... I can’t. I can’t... can’tcan’tcan’t-” he’d start repeating, letting out a sob.

“Hey, no. You can, Saeran. I told you, you don’t need to rush yourself. I promise,” you’d say, deciding to reach out to him now, gently resting a hand on his head.

Saeran would flinch, hissing through clenched teeth as he looked at you in shock. For a brief moment, you thought you saw anger flashing in his eyes. But, quickly, that anger turned to sadness, and he allowed himself to lean into your touch, whimpering a little, his eyes closing again. You’d find yourself humming a little, just trying to stop the silence from getting too deafening. Saeyoung would smile and hum along with you, nuzzling into your shoulder as you did so. He loved when you did this, and he hoped that him joining in would coax Saeran into speaking again. And surprisingly, it seemed to work. Saeran would look at you and his twin again, eyes still showing the pain and anxiety he was feeling.

“I really can’t think of anything else...” he’d say, his breath catching in his throat.

“That’s okay, Saeran. The anxiety attack is probably muddling your thoughts a little right?” you’d ask, earning a nod in response. “I understand. Your doctor prescribed you Ativan, right? Do you want to try taking that? It might help you go through these steps a little more easily if you have that calming your nerves, too. It... it’ll make you sleepy later, but, if you’re willing to try it, it is an option.”

Saeran’s brows furrowed in confusion. “Wait, how do you know that?”

“I can answer that,” Saeyoung would say calmly, looking over at you for a moment before looking back at his twin. “MC struggles with anxiety, too. She has to take it sometimes to help herself,” he’d finish.

“Wait, really?” Saeran would say, undisguised shock in his voice.

“Yes, really,” you’d answer with a chuckle. “That’s why I want to help you, Saeran. I know how tough this is, I swear.”

“Th-then... okay. I’d... I’d like to try that,” he’d say, a little more confidence creeping into his voice as he tried to smile at you. The smile wouldn’t last long, however, as he thought of something. “I... I don’t think I can get up to get it though.”

Saeyoung would smile at his twin, pulling a bottle out of the pocket of his hoodie. “Don’t worry about it. I went and grabbed it for you while I was doing my breathing exercises. I, uhh... I had a feeling that MC would suggest it eventually,” he’d say, blushing hard as you beamed at him with pride.

You’d take the bottle out of his hand, popping off the cap and carefully shaking out a single pill into your hand before handing it to Saeran. “I don’t know if the doctor told you exactly how to take that, so, I’ll tell you now. Stick that under your tongue and let it dissolve. It’ll taste pretty gross if you get it on your tongue itself, but, it should start kicking in pretty quickly.”

Saeran followed your directions, sitting with his mouth closed for a few minutes as the three of you waited. You couldn’t help but giggle as Saeran made a face, obviously having shifted his tongue in a way that allowed the dissolving pill to end up there so he could taste it. “You were right, that was gross.”

“I know, I know. But, trust me, it’ll help,” you’d say, giggling again, earning you a small glare from Saeran.

Saeyoung would let out a small laugh watching you two, and Saeran couldn’t help but smile weakly at his brother. Saeyoung would beam right back, genuinely happy that he got even the smallest smile from his twin. “So, now that you’ve gotten that out of the way... You still need to say one last thing you can see, right?”

Saeran would tense up at his brother’s words, the panic in his eyes coming back. “Uh... yeah, I guess so...” he would whisper, leaning forward to rest his chin in one hand. His eyes would dart around the room, trying to think of something that he could focus on enough to talk about. And then he caught sight of the perfect thing, and he’d let out the smallest chuckle before pointing towards something behind you and Saeyoung. “That picture of the three of us. Saeyoung insisted we take it the day that you moved in MC.”

You heart skipped a beat at the thought, and you turned to look at the picture yourself. Saeyoung gave you a nervous glance, and you couldn’t help but wonder if the two of you were thinking the same thing. But before either of you could say anything, Saeran continued his train of thought. “I was... really scared about you moving in. I was still really reluctant about trusting Saeyoung, and the thought of you living with us, too... It wasn’t even that I didn’t trust you. It was moreso... I was worried about hurting you,” he’d finish, and you could see that he was struggling to breathe again. His eyebrows furrowed slightly, and you found yourself wondering if he had a headache with the look he was giving you, his eyes dark.

“W-why were you worried about that?” you’d ask, unable to stop the stutter.

“I... I don’t know if I can talk about that yet. There’s... still a lot I need to work out in my head. And I haven’t even talked to my therapist about this yet,” he’d say, and you could tell by the way his eyes darted around the room that he was looking for any way that he could escape.

Saeran found himself struggling against an unseen force. Maybe it was the talking about it, even vaguely, that had brought this presence on more strongly. He knew though that he needed to fight it, especially since he could feel his brain becoming static again. He needed more distractions from what he was feeling. “So... what’s the next step?”

“Oh! Right... After the five things you can see... try to list out four things you can touch,” you’d respond, smiling again. You could tell he was having a hard time of things, but, you were glad that he hadn’t run away, and seemed to be actively seeking out your help.

“Four things I can touch?”

“Yeah! You don’t need to go quite as into detail as you did for the things you could see if you don’t want. Although that was really good for you to do that! You’re doing so good with this, you know that?” you’d reassure him. You could see Saeyoung nodding in agreement out of your peripheral, smiling at his brother as well.

“Well... I guess the first thing is the couch. The feeling of it against my back right now is comforting. It’s... it’s keeping me sitting up, haaa-” he’d sigh out, clutching at his head for a moment. Everything going on was definitely giving him a headache.

“Good. That’s good. Go ahead and keep going Saeran,” Saeyoung was the one to speak this time.

Saeran would shoot his brother a pained smile, but, it was a smile nonetheless. “Right... Uhm... the second thing I can touch... is the floor. It’s cold to touch when I run my fingers across it. It contrasts the warmth I feel from the couch,” he’d continue, actually choosing to run one hand along the section of floor right beside him. You could tell that he was finding it important to touch everything as he worked through his thoughts.

“Am I... am I allowed to list the last two things together?” he’d suddenly ask, his head perking up as he gazed at you and his twin expectantly, his voice raising in pitch ever so slightly.

“If you’d like.”

“Then... the last two things I can touch... are you and Saeyoung,” he’d say, though the words were slightly muffled as he leaned his face into his knees.

“Is that your way of saying you’d like to hold our hands like we’re doing with one another?” Saeyoung would tease gently. You’d quickly elbow your boyfriend in the stomach, causing him to let out a little ‘oof’ before chuckling. It was true though, your fingers were twined together with his, having done so to keep yourselves calm as you helped Saeran with his anxiety.

“Ignore your brother. Would you like to hold our hands though? Because if that’s what you need right now, then that’s okay. And we won’t let you go until you’re ready,” you’d say, your voice gentle.

Saeran would look up at the two of you again, lifting his head slightly. He’d release his grip on his knees to hold his hands out to the two of you. “Please. I... I would really appreciate it,” he would mumble out, his face flushing red. He felt so uncomfortable asking this of you two, but, he needed it so badly. He just wanted to feel even a shred of the comfort you gave to Saeyoung. He wanted – no, needed – to feel that comfort, too. Both you and Saeyoung reached out your free hands in response, allowing him to thread his fingers with yours.

“Better?” you and Saeyoung would ask in unison.

“Yes, thank you,” Saeran would respond, smiling shyly at the two of you. However, it was then that he did something that neither you nor Saeyoung were expecting. Saeran shuffled closer to the two of you, releasing your hands again and pulling you both into a hug. His body shook as he held the two of you, helping you to realize even further just how terrified he truly was. All the two of you could do in response was hug him back, holding him tight. Your hand came up to stroke his hair gently, and you could hear him start sobbing into your shoulder. Saeyoung rested his chin on the top of his brother’s head, his arm still wrapped tightly around his brother’s middle.

Saeran clung to the two of you as if his life depended on it. The three of you sitting mostly in silence as he sobbed, though, it seemed as though he was beginning to calm. The warmth he felt from the two of you felt so nice, and Saeran could feel his muscles beginning to relax as he leaned more into the hug. He couldn’t help but wonder if it was okay to stay like this? If it was okay for him to be so clingy and needy. He hardly ever openly allowed Saeyoung to touch him, let alone hug him like this... But here he was, clinging desperately to you and his twin. He wasn’t sure if he could even remember a time where he felt as loved as he did now in the arms of you two. Actually, he was fairly certain he had never been held as tightly as this. At the very least, Saeran supposed he understood now why Saeyoung was so clingy, because this truly felt amazing.

Lifting his head up from your shoulder, Saeran would look at the two of you as if he wanted to say something. Taking a brief moment to collect his thoughts, the younger twin would take a slow, deep breath. “So... W-what’s the next step?” he’d finally ask. His face was flushed, and it was obvious he was trying to draw attention away from the physical affection that he was currently receiving.

You didn’t respond for a moment, humming quietly as you continued stroking Saeran’s hair. Your fingers were buried in his red locks, the tips just starting to massage his scalp. Mint eyes would widen in surprise at the sensation, and Saeran’s cheeks would deepen in colour. However, once the initial shock was gone, the younger twin found himself leaning further into your hand, his eyes beginning to drift closed. Saeyoung would let out a laugh, accidentally shaking his twin in the process. “Aw man, you’re stealing all the good head pets now? I’m jealous,” he would say, still laughing, a slight tone of mock hurt.

“Oh hush, Saeyoung. Let your brother enjoy this for a moment,” you’d chastise before returning to humming softly. Saeran made no comment in response to any of it, clearly too nervous about what was going on to make any sort of rebuttal towards his twin. You could see the panic in his eyes, and you wished you could get into his head to have any clue as to what he was thinking.

“Anyways, you said you wanted to know the next step, right?” you’d ask. Saeran would nod, diverting his gaze away from you for now.

“Three things you can hear,” Saeyoung would speak up, having remembered this one himself.

“Yes, that’s right. List three things you can hear,” you’d say, turning your head to smile at your boyfriend. Saeyoung would beam back at you for a moment before stealing a quick kiss from you, earning himself a giggle in response out of surprise.

“Your laugh,” Saeran would say suddenly, causing you and Saeyoung to look back to him, not having expected such a quick response. The younger twin would look you in the eyes then, and you could see so much admiration hidden there, just beyond his panic. “Y-your laugh...” he’d say again, hesitating for a moment when he realized you were looking at him now. “It’s one of the loveliest sounds I’ve ever heard. Not boisterous like Saeyoung’s, but, calm and gentle. And I... I r-really enjoy hearing it.”

You could feel the heat creeping into your cheeks. You had already been taken off guard once with Saeran’s earlier compliment about your eyes, and now he was complimenting your laugh? You found yourself amazed at all the progress your boyfriend’s twin was making tonight. You just wished it hadn’t taken the anxiety attack to get him to make this progress. “Th-thank you, Saeran. I really appreciate you saying that,” you’d respond, noticing that Saeran’s eyes seemed to light up when you did so.

“Y-you’re welcome, MC...” he’d stutter out, squeezing you and his brother tighter again. You’d both squeeze him back, and it was easy to tell that he was shaking less. Hearing you thank him for the compliment made his heart swell, and he found himself wanting to compliment you more. He wanted you to never let go, and continue praising him for his progress like you had been doing tonight. He couldn’t help but curse himself for not allowing you close before, but, it was too late to change how he had acted prior to now. He pushed the thought out of his head, knowing that you and Saeyoung likely wouldn’t want him beating himself up over it too much.

“I also... can hear my breathing. It’s quieter, and less rapid than it was before all this started. And... it’s not making me feel like I’m choking anymore,” he’d admit, gripping at you and Saeyoung a little tighter.

“Yes, you’re doing so good, Saeran,” you’d whisper. You leaned forward a bit and left a gentle kiss on the younger twin’s forehead. It was supposed to be an act of reassurance, but, Saeran flinched back and stared at you with a fear in his eyes that you hadn’t been expecting. Your heart twinged with pain and you realized you had probably made a mistake. Saeran was clearly distraught over it, but, he made no attempt to pull further away, as your fingers were still tangled in his hair. So, he was still close enough to touch.

Seeing the sadness in your eyes, Saeran realized he had reacted poorly. “Shit. I-I-I’m really sorry MC. I just... wasn’t... expecting you to do that,” he’d whisper, averting his gaze. Without thinking, he leaned against your hand again, allowing you to return to massaging his scalp. It felt so nice, and he wished desperately that this could happen more often. “I’ve only ever seen you do that with Saeyoung, so, it was kinda... hmmm...” he’d trail off, feeling embarrassed at how childish he was being.

“It’s okay, Saeran,” Saeyoung was the one to respond, giving his twin a gentle squeeze. “MC doesn’t kiss me just because we’re dating, you know. She doesn’t see it as a wholly intimate thing. Small kisses like that are one of the ways she shows appreciation and comfort,” he’d explain for you. You would nod in agreement. “She’s definitely done at least things like that to Zen and Yoosung, too.”

“Although, Saeyoung definitely gets the most kisses because we’re dating,” you’d say with a giggle. Saeyoung couldn’t help but blush, looking away from you sheepishly. “I’m really sorry if I startled you though, Saeran. I probably should have explained that before touching you so suddenly. Especially right now. I crossed over a boundary and I didn’t mean to.”

“Oh! No, no, no! It’s okay, MC... You... you didn’t do anything wrong,” Saeran would say in a hurry, clearly wanting to comfort you in return. “I.. actually kind of liked it. I’m sorry for pulling away.”

“Don’t be sorry, Saeran. But, if you liked it, then... here,” you’d say before pulling him closer to you again, your lips gently pressing to his forehead again. Saeran’s eyes would drift closed, and he’d let out a little hum of contentment at the feeling. When you pulled away again, Saeran would lean forwards, resting his head against your shoulder again.

“I... I know what the last thing I can hear is. Or at least... what I’d like it to be,” he would whisper, and you and Saeyoung had to strain to hear him. “You... you were humming earlier. I’d... really love if you could do that again, it was very relaxing.”

It was such a simple request, but one you were happy to oblige in. You would begin humming a soft tune, closing your eyes as you did so. Saeran would sink into the warmth of your and Saeyoung’s arms, feeling like he could stay here forever if he was allowed to do so. Continuing the song you were humming, you couldn’t help but think a little deeper about the way Saeran had asked.

It reminded you so much of a time before you and Saeyoung had managed to rescue his twin. Before the two of you even had gone to Mint Eye to confront him in the first place actually. You and Saeyoung had gotten onto the bed in Rika’s apartment, Saeyoung’s head in your lap as he drifted off from the exhaustion of the days prior to that moment. You were stroking his hair, much like you were currently doing with Saeran’s, and he had asked you to sing for him. To this day, you still had no idea what the redheaded hacker had been thinking by asking such a thing of you. But also like now, you had obliged. It was still one of your favourite memories of being with Saeyoung, and it made you happy to be thinking of it now. It was amusing to you how similar the twins could be to one another, and yet... they were still so vastly different, too.

“Are you ready for the next step, Saeran?” you’d ask, still humming a little when you weren’t speaking.

“Hmm?” Saeran would open his eyes to look at you, rubbing at them with one hand. You wondered if maybe he had drifted off to sleep for a moment. “Yeah, sure. Although I don’t know if I can get through them. I’m starting to feel really sleepy,” he’d explain, smiling sheepishly at you.

“That’s okay. I told you the Ativan would probably make you tired. Would you rather go lay down?” you’d ask. You’d glance over at Saeyoung for a moment, noticing that your boyfriend had also drifted off to sleep apparently. He was drooling on your other shoulder, and you had to stifle a giggle so as to not wake him.

Saeran would look over to his twin, laughing a little at the sight of him draped over you like he was. His arm was still wrapped around Saeran as well. Even if the younger twin wanted to get up, he was pretty sure he couldn’t. “No, it’s okay. I can wait. Go ahead and tell me what the next step is.”

“Two things you can smell. I understand if it’s a harder one to answer though.” A soft laugh would come from Saeran, shocking you. “I’d say that’s actually one of the easiest ones.”

“Oh? Go ahead and tell me what those two things are then,” you’d say with a smile, wanting to encourage Saeran to speak more.

“The first,” he’d start, holding up one finger as he did so, “is Saeyoung’s awful Honey Buddha Chip breath.” The two of you would laugh, shaking Saeyoung awake. He’d give the two of you a confused look for a moment, but ended up not caring enough to ask. Instead, the older twin would sleepily nuzzle back against you, closing his eyes again. Saeran would raise up a second finger then, obviously preparing to tell you more of his thoughts. “The second.. is that really nice vanilla scent that always seems to be on you.”

“Always?” you’d tease, prompting Saeran’s face to go bright red, matching his hair.

“Yes! Always! It drives me nuts...” his voice would raise as he answered you, throwing his hands up in the air. You’d chuckle at his response before pulling him close to you again, placing a kiss on each of his bright red cheeks. When you pulled away, Saeran immediately had his face in his hands, clearly trying to hide his embarrassment from you.

“And out comes the second Choimato,” you’d say matter-of-factly, sticking your tongue out at Saeran.

“Ch-choimato?!” Saeran would stutter out, his voice a small whine.

“Choi tomato,” Saeyoung would mumble out, opening one eye to look at his brother. “And she’s absolutely right. You are a Choimato right now.”

“I still don’t know what that is! You two are terrible,” Saeran would whimper, still trying desperately to hide his face. You’d giggle again, smiling brightly at the younger twin.

“It’s just a nickname I came up with for Saeyoung a while back. He was blushing just as hard as you are right now and I joked that he was a tomato because his face matched his hair. And then I sort of just blurted out ‘Choimato’... and the rest is history,” you’d explain, gently petting your boyfriend’s hair in the same way you were still doing to Saeran with your other hand.

“That is... absolutely ridiculous. Never call me that again,” Saeran would say, glaring at you. He wasn’t actually mad, he just didn’t appreciate the sudden teasing.

“Alright, alright. I’m sorry, Saeran,” you’d say, stifling another giggle. “How about I give you the last step then?”

Saeran wouldn’t respond, still glaring at you, though his gaze had definitely softened some. He waited expectantly for you to speak again, and sighed when it seemed like you weren’t going to. “Go ahead?” he’d finally prompt you. His cheeks weren’t quite as red anymore, but, he could feel they were still rather warm and he wanted literally anything else to focus on.

“One thing you can taste.” Somehow, those words have Saeran’s face bright red again. Probably because his first thought was something that he absolutely shouldn’t say, and especially not with his brother leaning on your shoulder. He couldn’t tell if Saeyoung was asleep again, but, Saeran could take no risks. His eyes wandered to stare at your lips. They looked so soft, and he wondered for a moment if they would taste like anything. The slight pout of them was so, so tempting. He would look up again, however, to see that you were looking right back at him. You gave him a confused look, one eyebrow raised curiously.

“Uhh... strawberry ice cream? It’s my favourite. We have some in the freezer right now,” the words would rush out of his mouth, and he hoped desperately that you wouldn’t question him further. But, of course, things could never go as he hoped they would.

“That’s not really what you wanted to say, was it?” you asked, your voice a whisper. You weren’t sure how he’d respond, but, you were unsurprised when he looked away from you, his mint eyes narrowing in frustration. He’d sigh again, raising one hand to rest against his forehead.

“No, of course not! But what I want to say, I can’t!” he’d shout, raising his hands again.

“Damn it, Saeran, just kiss her already,” Saeyoung would grumble, causing you both to jump slightly.

“Wh-what?” both you and Saeran would stutter out. Your faces heating up as you stared over at the older twin.

“It’s really obvious that’s what he wants to do. If it helps anything, I can understand why. You’ve been comforting him and helping him come down from that anxiety attack, if I were him I’d want to kiss you right about now, too,” your boyfriend would explain, leaning up again and rubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand.

“Saeyoung...” you’d start before he’d cut you off with a shake of his head.

“I love you both. And, while I’m not exactly keen on this... being a regular thing... I’m okay with him getting it out of his system if it helps. But, if you’re not okay with it, MC, then you of course have final say,” Saeyoung would say, giving you a quick peck on the lips himself.

Saeran would look away from you when you looked towards him, clearly not sure what to think of this situation. On the one hand, his brother was right. He desperately wanted to kiss you. On the other hand... “No. I’m not kissing your girlfriend, Saeyoung. Even if I want to, that doesn’t make it okay,” Saeran would hiss out. “Stop being a moron.”

You would let out a sigh, not totally sure how to respond to this whole situation. You weren’t even sure how you ended up in this situation in the first place. Saeran looked frustrated, and Saeyoung... Saeyoung looked very unsure of himself right now. “I may not think that a kiss on the forehead or a kiss on the cheek is intimate. But, what you’re implying right now? That is, Saeyoung. No. That’s not happening,” you’d say, your voice firm. You’d put a hand to your boyfriend’s face, forcing him to look at you. You’d lean your forehead against his and stare him right in his gorgeous, golden eyes. “I also know for a fact that that’s not what you want, anyways. So, please don’t try to force yourself to be okay with that. Got it?”

“O-okay...” he’d respond, clearly in shock over the force in your voice.

“Good, now... how about we all get to bed? While I’m not going to kiss your brother, I do think he deserves to be snuggled right about now. And, our bed is big enough for three anyways,” you’d suggest.

“Now that I can agree with.”

Saeran blushed hard again, but, made no attempt to dissuade you. Clearly, the two of you had made up your minds on that part of things, and, well... He wouldn’t say no to still being held by the two of you for a while. Before you all went to lay down though, you made a point of getting Saeran’s arms cleaned up. The rubbing alcohol being rubbed over the cuts his fingernails had made stung, and he flinched, but, he knew you were doing it so they wouldn’t get infected. You’d wrap some bandages around one arm, while Saeyoung wrapped the other. Saeran said nothing as the two of you worked, appreciating the care the two of you were showing him. “Thank you,” he’d whisper out, earning him a hug from you and his brother once the bandages were in place.

Once in the bedroom, you and Saeyoung made the decision that Saeran was to sleep between the two of you. That way, if his anxiety came back to any degree (which, you had a feeling it would when he woke up in a room other than his own), he could at the very least feel like he was safe with you two. It felt weird having your boyfriend’s twin in between the two of you, but, in the end, it just felt nice knowing that Saeran had made some progress today. You hoped that he’d remember the steps you walked him through if things got bad again, but, you also knew that you’d happily walk him through them again if he needed.

Saeran wasn’t sure how this all had ended up happening, but, when the three of you climbed into bed... he was happy to find himself nestled in between you and his brother. Both of you snuggled up against him, helping him to continue feeling that love that he felt from the two of you earlier. Sure, it wasn’t a kiss, but... it was something. With his anxiety attack forgotten about, Saeran allowed himself to enjoy this simple, quiet moment, and appreciate it for what it was. A simple step towards further recovery. If he had the two of you by his side, he could do anything.

The three of you would drift off to sleep quickly. You knew you’d all probably have to have a big long talk about what had happened in the morning, but, for now... all the three of you knew was the warmth of the others, and that’s all that was important.

#mystic messenger #mysmes #saeran choi #saeyoung choi #luciel choi #seven #707 #anxiety #anxiety attack #fanfic #written by me #small bits of fluff

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thatbangtanbloom · 8 years ago

Text

Bound || pjm v. jjk [2]

Bound

The Prologue | 1 | 2

Characters: Jungkook x Reader x Jimin

Categories: Angst, Fluff

AU(s): Soulmate!AU

Based loosely off of this soulmate au prompt and BTS’ Perfect Man Cover:

Where for whatever reason, your clock is stuck/frozen/it’s not counting down anymore but it hasn’t reached 00:00:00:00 yet and you’re freaking out because this hasn’t happened to anyone before.

Sypnosis: All your life, Park Jimin has been by your side and secretly had your name adorning his arm. Ideally, you would share the same fate until you find out that you’re destined to be someone else’s; Jeon Jungkook.

♡ ◇ ♡ ♡ ◇ ♡ ♡ ◇ ♡

Warmth is what you’re supposed to feel when you’re in the arms of your soulmate. Every broken part of you is supposed to be merged together by their mere touch. Your heart is supposed to beat twice as fast whenever you look in their eyes, but none of these things happened when you were in the arms of Jimin.

Quite frankly, it was the opposite.

With Jimin, you felt empty. Every ounce of you was torn apart with each caress from him. Your heart beat was steady whenever he pressed his lips against you. Everything was static with Jimin - but a part of you knew that the pain was worth much more than being with someone who barely knew.

Jimin knew all of this even if he could not feel it. In earnest, he wished that you would push him away and kick him out. He wished you would reject him because he knew that his love was the very thing that was killing you – but he also knew that you didn’t care.

Tonight was no different. Despite your attempts of trying to mask your sniffling, Jimin heard every one. He could also see the glint of your tears through the small fraction of moonlight that illuminated your face. He hated himself for making you feel this way – it wasn’t his fault but he felt that it was.

“I’m sorry.” Jimin whispers into your ear, his lips brushing against your ear. His grip on you tightens and you swear you feel the air being knocked right out of you. That was the thing that confused you – when Jimin did comforting acts (pity acts, if we’re being specific) you felt warm inside. Yet, when he did acts out of his romantic feeling (which was much more often), you were frozen. “I-I just wish it wasn’t like this."

You turn over to face him, your mouth falling ajar at the tears that beaded his eyes. His tear stained cheeks matched your own and you swore that you felt every fiber of your being soften. "It’s going to be okay, Jiminie.” A strain smile adorns his lips at the nickname.

“It’s not okay,” Jimin’s voice cracks, but he goes on. “You’re so selfless and going through this alone when you could be with someone who makes you feel so much better th-than this.” He swallows hard when you gingerly wipe the tear from his eyes. “I’m just so sorry and I wish-"

"I love you, Jimin.” You suddenly blurt, causing the brown eyed boy’s cheeks to flush. The words burned in your throat, but you swallowed them anyway. “You make me happy. I don’t care about who they say my soulmate is because I know it’s you. It’ll always be you.”

A soft chuckle feels the room the two of you shared. The melodious sound is permanently etched in your mind and it makes you smile in content. “Don’t say stuff like that, you know what that does to me.” He wraps his arm around your shoulders and pulls you closer. The close proximity makes you giggle softly at how fast Jimin’s mood can change.

“I know, that’s why I said it.” You joke softly, instantly forgetting the gaping hole that you feel in your heart. “Why are we like this?”

"Just go to bed, okay, jagi? You need to get as much rest as possible.“ Jimin sternly advises while tucking you deeper into the cover. Though he sounds slightly amused, you know that he means it a lot more than he should have too. Knowing of how weak you became after losing your soulmate clock, Jimin had taken it upon himself to be your primary caretaker. The idea of Jimin being so sweet to you heralded you to sleep.

Abrupt knocking in the middle of the night had led you to be awoken from your slumber with you in Jimin’s arms. It had been a supreme displeasure to you that someone would have the audacity to come to your loft at such an ungodly hour. The knocker must have been frantic because the knocks barely contained any milliseconds, let alone seconds between them. You quietly threw off your fluffy white comforter and tucked it around Jimin who instantly squirmed in his sleep due to the warmth disappearing beside him. A small smile falling on your face at his adorable actions.

"You’re so cute, Jimin.” You say once more so to yourself than to the boy peacefully sleeping in front of you. You turn on your heels, slipping on your slippers as you stretched wordlessly. Thousands of complaints rolling through your head as you thought of the unprofessionalism that was currently taking place with someone knocking at your door like that. “I’m coming!”

Upon hearing your voice, the person knocked harder, violently even. Boom after boom against your door caused a frown to fall upon your face.

"Oh, come on. I’m coming.“ You mumbled under your breath, leaning against your door to see through your peephole. You were met with the gaze of a boy who looked slightly older than you. His hair is tousled wildly, raven black with sweat rolling down his face. "Who is it?” Tiredly, you open up the door to catch a better look at the raven haired boy in front of you.

"Y/N,“ The boy’s voice rasps. He crashes into you, his arms wrapping around your hips to pull you close to him. His hand stroking your head, fingers slightly toying with your ponytail. "It’s you."

Instantly thinking of Jimin, you steal away from the raven haired boy. His eyes are beautiful, a soft and endearing brown. "Yes, I’m Y/N.” Your lungs are burning again, but you don’t know why. “Um, who are you?"

"Jeon Jungkook.” His response is short and sweet. His name sends a ripple through you. It sounds eerily familiar, but you’re certain that you’ve never heard before. “Your soulmate, didn’t you see it on your arm?” He gestures to his arm excitedly, proud even. His clock stopped at thirty-nine minutes and forty-eight seconds… and then there’s your name written in calligraphy against his gorgeous tan skin.

“Jagi,"A melodious voice rings from Jimin while you stand frozen under Jungkook’s once loving gaze, now a confused one written all over his face. "Jagiya, what’s wrong?” Jimin walks over before stopping in his tracks at the sight of Jungkook. The first thing that Jimin notices is the non-ticking clock on Jungkook’s arm and the name of his soulmate written in the strikingly similar cursive.

"Who is this?“ Jungkook narrows his eyes at the display in front of him. He advances towards you, but you take a step back. Your heart thumps loudly in your ears. A confused look on his face. "Y/N, who is this?”

"Park Jimin.“ Jimin speaks up. His orange hair falling over his eyes as he takes a step in front of me to look at the taller boy. "I don’t appreciate you coming to my girlfriend’s house in the middle of the night for no reason. I’m going to ask you to leave nicely, or we’re going to have a problem."

That was one of the effects of having a soulmate, the thought of another person being with that soulmate causes a chemical reaction in the brain and a definite form of possessiveness. Genetic modification at its finest.

"Your girlfriend?” Jungkook’s left breathless at the word. Brows creasing together at your figure before chewing on his bottom lip. “Well, she’s my soulmate. We’re meant to be together so you can leave now.” He bumps shoulders with Jimin aggressively before turning to you. “We have a lot of catching up–"

"That’s funny because she’s my soulmate too.” Jimin hastily replies while rolling up his shirt. The clock on his left bicep clearly showing a longer amount of time with eight years.

Jungkook chuckles over at Jimin. Jungkook didn’t want to fathom the thought of his soulmate having another, especially one for so long when he had searched for feverishly for you these last few days to ensure that you’d get the happy ending that was promised in that kindergarten classroom so long ago. A person having multiple soulmates was possible, but not common. The odds were less than half of one percent of the total population of Earth. How had you been one of the significant few to achieve this?

"Jungkook,“ Your voice is shaky and frail, but it’s the best that you can manage. "My soulmate clock broke.” You avert your eyes away from his, but by the change of his breathing, you know that what you said is anything but comforting. “I-I don’t know what this means for you, but it’s broken.”

Jimin clears his throat, causing the both of you to look at him. “Her clock broke about six months ago… We tried to get it fixed but the doctors didn’t know what to do about it.”

A gulp escapes Jungkook, his eyes darting from your arm back to Jimin. His brows narrowed. “Soulmate clocks just don’t break, Jimin.” Jungkook fully enunciated Jimin’s name. It was evident for Jungkook to think that Jimin had something to do with your clock suddenly breaking.

“Jimin and I were coming back from the movies late one night,” You feverishly defend Jimin, a common technique that you had known. “We stopped by the lake to talk about soulmates and then it just-” Months had passed, but you still were bothered by how eerily it happened.

With his arm looped in yours, he nodded quietly. His eyes absentmindedly darted to his left arm, where your name had been written beautifully in calligraphy since you two were nine. Times were much more simpler than, back when the only talks you two shared were about how you two feverishly stood up for each other to no end. That was back when he had to hide from you, wearing long sleeves on hot summer days in fear that you would be repulsed by him being your soulmate and you not his.

“You used to let me push you on the swing.” You giggled softly toward yourself. “You said we would get married and I’d be the breadwinner since I was better at school than you.”

Though Jimin was quite the talker, he had never been more quiet than this as he listened to you recollect your childhood together. Your view had been remarkably more rosy than his was.

"Well, yeah.“ Jimin finally joins, slipping his hand out of his peacoat to adjust his red beanie. "You said that I could follow my dream while you did all the hard work. Why would I turn that down?”

"That was not the proposition when I offered to married you.“ You exclaimed with a laugh, halting the two of you. "You said that you would stop saying that soul mates didn’t exist and that was that!”

Jimin turned to face you. Cheeks rosy from the coolness of Busan streets. “They don’t, Y/N. After all, would I have purposely been paired up with you?” He teased before taking two steps closer to you. His honey brown eyes stared back into yours.

With flushed cheeks, you took a step back before walking around him. “Jimin, stop joking.” You always had become uneasy when Jimin mentioned that you were his soulmate. It wasn’t that you were disgusted by the idea. You never could. After all, he had been who you had spent your entire adolescence with. What really scared you was how your cheeks flushed whenever he stared into your eyes or how your heart raced too fast for it to simply be platonic.

"Come on, jagi.“ He used his pet name for you. His arms looped around your waist as he hugged you from behind. A smile on his face as shrugged off his jacket to drape it around your shoulders. "Let’s get you back home, okay?”

When you had taken off Jimin’s coat to return back to him, you could still remember the scream that erupted from you. The way that you had crumpled to the ground in pain had been permanently etched into Jimin’s head.

Jungkook stood there in utter silence. The idea of you in pain coursed through his veins and it crippled him in thought. Had that been the reason why he hadn’t been himself the last few months? Was that the reason why he went hours without sleep and remained in the hospital for weeks on end?

"I-I couldn’t do anything for myself.“ You toyed with the sleeve of your shirt. ”-so Jimin took the initiative of taking care of me… Along the way, we grew closer than I thought possible.“ You didn’t realize at first how open you were being about being with Jimin, especially since the two of you had brushed over the topic of you two, but it clicked all at once.

Jungkook was your soulmate. He was destined by fate to be someone who could only be in love with you. He understood you better than you understood yourself, so that explained why you didn’t mind sharing your story with him. Before you knew it, Jungkook’s arms were around you. His lips pressing against your hair as he held you close. Your breathing hitched due to the sudden contact. "It’s okay… I’m here.” He softly adds.

Jimin stood stone still. He shifted uncomfortably as he watched Jungkook coddle his soulmate. It had been a scene he anticipated all his life, but why did it feel like a thousand knives in his chest? ♡ ◇ ♡ ♡ ◇ ♡ ♡ ◇ ♡

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