#forgot to add him in tagđŹ
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spare me if I missed any..and don't be chickens and use others ;)
edit: I think I meant Joyce when I included selfless deeds like the way she just goes off when her kid was in danger..(also for the ones who were sacrificed like Bob, Billy, Eddie which come to think of is not smthing that one would like)
#stranger things#stranger things s5#eleven hopper#mike wheeler#will byers#dustin henderson#lucas sinclair#max mayfield#jim hopper#joyce byers#jonathan byers#nancy wheeler#robin buckley#erica sinclair#eddie munson#billy hargrove#henry creel#jopper#jancy#stancy#mileven#forgot to add him in tagđŹ#steve harrington#you better get an so in next season stevie#not that it should define him or smthng still#wish I didn't had others as an option đââïž#lumax#also forgot this one
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Chapter 2 - Shooting lessons (II)
Fic summary: The second arc of my Armitage Hux x OC fanfic, âchocolate cookies and tarine teaâ, in which both need to deal with the mess they got into (and with each other, eh eh eh). Involves cookies that won't be eaten and tea that will get spilled. Same goes for certain feelings... they are going to be hungry ant thirsty ïżœïżœïżœïżœ
You can find the link to AO3 and other chapters on Tumblr in the pinned message on my dash, both for the first and second arc đ
Rating: Explicit. This is going to be very NSFW. So, Minors, do NOT read or interact. 18+. Family, friends and colleagues, please donât read this. :â-)
Tags & warnings: TRoS fix-it (kind of), Hux!lives, Hux doesnât like Kylo, Not a Redemption Arc, maybe a little bit, shameless fem!OC insert (there are cliches but entertaining ones imo), slow emotional burn, medium sexual burn, Enemies to Enemies With Benefits to Lovers, Hux is still a villain don't forget, Virgin Characters, masturbation against the door, pinv, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Awkward Sexual Situations, Past Child Abuse, dubious first kiss, Dom/sub Undertones, Mental Breakdown, Unprotected Sex, wet Hux, that deserves a tag/warning on its own, Minor Character Death
I will add tags as we proceed in the story, please let me know if I forgot one!
Taglist: @mylifeisactuallyamess, @morby and anyone whoâd like to join đ„°
A/N: Â Â Yessss itâs Hux turn now to be embarrassed đ by the stars I hope I did him justice. And this is not even the real deal. How do people even write this stuff?
Oh wait, I just did⊠somewhere in the next chapters đŹđ
(Don't get any wrong ideas, me publishing 2 chapters in 2 days is a unique thing đ Let me know if some parts are inconsistent - I reviewed this so many times and I am literally falling asleep on my desk. But publishing the previous chapter got me enthusiastic and now I'm doing things I might regret yolooooooooo)
This was different.Â
Once, when he was still a Lieutenant and reluctantly assigned to drill newcomers by Brendol, he instructed cadets on their first shooting lessons. He took the job seriously, but the mandatory physical contact was something he had liked to avoid as much as possible. Having his father oversee his progress didnât really help. The latter thought he could never do any good and ever since Sloane had bestowed the group of commandants' cadets from Arkanis on him, and made it clear the commandant had to convey his teaching techniques to him, tensions were⊠high.
Nonetheless, he made sure the new cadets were on the top rankings within the then already distributed First Order training curriculum, and tutoring these classes became a routine job.
This time, however, he felt that every little contact filled him with static electricity, although he was absolutely certain that was scientifically impossible. It made him lighter in his touch, doubtful, but also slightly longing to explore the strange responses their physical connection was making. He was slowly becoming aware that he was lingering just a bit too long on her hands, her arm, her shoulder, but he could not let go just yet. Seeing goosebumps form on her lower arm and the fact that he knew he was causing them, made him want to see which other effects he could have on her.
He gulped, all of a sudden conscious that the mysterious effect was starting to become bidirectional. His head felt light, caused by little sparks popping up in his brain, and his face felt like it was burning. Contradictory, goosebumps formed underneath his clothes. He became aware of how the fabric was rubbing his skin and he couldn't stop thinking about how it would be if it were her warm hands instead.
Hux took a sharp breath and tried to concentrate on the task at hand, forcing his eyebrows into a harsh furrow as much as possible in an effort to hide any other evidence apparent on his features.Â
âRemember this position. The stance of your arm will catch up the recoil. Now, try to aim and shoot,â he said sternly, hoping she didnât hear the slight raspiness of his voice.
The blush on his cheeks refused to subside though, as did the thoughts of exploring her exposed skin some more. So he hastily decided to create some distance between them, before he would do something he might regret.Â
Once he regained his wits somewhat, he slowly went to stand behind Miko, trying to march with a steady thread. He hoped she wouldnât turn around to check on him, because he suspected she could easily notice the result of his state of mind now.Â
Stars , this wasnât the first time she made him lose his cool like this. He hated it, how she threw him off balance, made him feel out of control.Â
Miko positioned the blaster as instructed and took a shot. The result wasnât good, but definitely better than the previous feeble attempt.Â
Looking at her stance, there was still some work to do. "Spread your legs a bit more" he added, very much aware that the instruction could be misinterpreted, given the light tremor intruding his spoken words. To his relief, she didnât say anything about it. Now that he thought about it, she hadn't looked his way nor spoken for a while now. He wasnât going to complain about that, thank the stars , but it was curious in comparison to her usual manners.Â
âAgain, watch your left arm. Compensate.â he instructed, still aware that his voice didn't sound as determined as it usually did. The distance he created slowly made him able to focus again, though. At least enough, so he wouldn't blurt out ridiculous things. Or worse, do something he might regret.Â
Again, again, again, he had to repeat for another 10 minutes, and she still wasnât able to hit the target - and he still wasnât able to let the unprofessional thoughts dissipate. The only thing he could do for now, was keep them at bay.Â
He sighed, thinking about her lack of precision. When a recruit performed this badly, he usually sent them away for maintenance personnel training or something similar. Sanitising duty if he was extra annoyed.
But now, he had to persevere, if only for his own good. On top of that, his mind was still betraying him. It was as if it was sending him little doses of impure ideas, while having to watch her bring up her arms to aim the blaster, the pose exposing her curves more than usual. He repeatedly dictated her to correct her stance, resulting in her pivoting her feet with her usual energetic attitude. The accompanying harsh movements made her butt move in ways he couldnât divert his gaze from, once he caught sight of it. Every little thing he noticed about her was making the shooting lessons even more of a challenge. But at least, the distance made it possible to subdue those thoughts enough to proceed with the exercise.
After another round of disheartening attempts, Miko hung down her shoulders and let out a frustrated moan, the raw noise bringing Armitage right back to his problematic thoughtlines, but this time much worse. He couldnât stop the rather lewd visualisation that the sound forcibly pushed into his head. He could feel his blood boiling, his cheeks furiously glowing, fingers tingling as if they've been deprived of blood circulation all the while and oh by the galaxy his pants were becoming tighterâŠ
Of all times, she turned around to face him now, as if she knew what he was going through after that groan of hers. In a haze of panic, Hux swiftly turned on his heels, towards the door, trying to hide the blush and other evidence in the less well lighted area of the loading bridge.Â
âShort breakâ, he almost whispered, before he left the small hangar space.
Armitage fled to his quarters, for the second time locking the door, leaning onto it. He was acutely aware of the dĂ©jĂ vu, and he knew back then the urge, the want, only increased after he had opened the door. Whenever she got close to him, it was as if his body had a mind on its own. Before, he was able to control himself, but what happened in the hangar was absolutely ludicrous. He needed to get her out of his system, so he could actually instruct her without thinking about trailing his hands over not only her hands and arms, but also her back, trace the muscles there that pull her shoulders back as a response to his fingers, map the bones of her clavicle, watch her throat gulp when he passes there with his thumb, then dipping down slowly, cupping and squeezing her breasts, seeing her shudder under his touch running downwards, working his fingers under the hem of her pants, pulling her closer by her belt andâŠ
Fuck. It was no use.
He was again standing there, up against the door, like a stupid horny lowlife, with a rock hard boner he could hang his greatcoat on. He felt foolish and worthless, not being able to keep his subconscious needs where they should remain: subconscious. Heâs a frigging officer of the First Order, he was able to withstand much more triggers than this, mentally taking note that he was taking over her horrible swearing habits as well. Seeing someone act so freely, without any emotional boundaries, was stirring up things deep inside him he couldn't bring to words yet. It was tearing down his carefully built up walls and he wasnât sure what to think about it.Â
But the dick was a serious issue. He still had to finish the training, to give their mission any chance of succeeding.
Frack. Â
He snapped open the neck clasp of his uniform and pulled the clothing open with a speed which could damage the material, but right now he couldnât care less. He clipped open his belt, making sure the thing didnât clatter on the floor and alarm her. For all he knew, she was standing right behind the door he was leaning onto. Oh by the maker ⊠he shouldnât have thought about that, an almost painful throb shooting through his cock, which made him lower his pants with a bit more care than the uncharacteristically frenzy he performed on his vest.Â
He took himself in his hand, shut his eyelids and debated whether or not he should do this. Itâs been a while, he usually pulls so many all-nighters, making him pass out on his blue sofa or in best case in his bed with the datapad on his lap.Â
But, by closing his eyes, his wretched imagination took over, taking him back to the hangar and the sounds she let out, suddenly turning into something much more explicit in his imaginary ears. Stars, he hated the fact that he couldnât control his thoughts from flowing freely, but it was no use - he couldnât stop the images from popping up.Â
A fraction of a second later, he heard the same indecent noise but the scenery was replaced with the one in which she was only in one of his towels. When she was looking for something to wear, a few days ago, bowing down. His towels, his shirt, his⊠he wanted her to be his to claimâŠÂ
He suddenly was standing mere inches from her flushed face, their breathâs mangling when she righted herselves and slowly leaned into him. He started peeling off the plush piece of fabric in his fabricated dream while he automatically started pumping himself, not aware of his ridiculous stance and the cold durasteel on his back. He was so far gone he wouldnât notice a star exploding.Â
Hux didnât think he still had a few brain cells left for producing imaginary scenarios like this, since he had tried to ignore them for so long.Â
But by taking the plunge, they made him dive so deep into his subconsciousness he wasnât even aware of what was up or down and by the gods of the galaxy he was yearning, yearning for a soft touch, to make her feel good and just feel something in return, feel worthy and content, for once in his life. To be in control of her pleasure, to make her whimper under his touch when he slowly traced her arms and shoulder, like he did in the hangar, her plump breasts, her buttcheeks, every detail of her skin. Just take in the effects he could have on her and feed on them. Greedily take the nape of her neck in his hands and pull her closer to taste her, pulling her legs up and press-
He shuddered, quickly imagining being buried deep down in her, the pressing of his hands on her hips and her neck leaving bruises, and pulling her impossibly closer on his spilling cock.
He opened his eyelids, the light of the room playing tricks on his retina because he squeezed his eyes close too hard. He only then realised his hands were sticky from his cum, coming down from a height he hadnât been on for a very long time.Â
Actually, if he thought about it, he couldnât have imagined it was ever like this. ThisâŠintense⊠real. Soft? His usual sexual fantasies were definitely not this emotionally loaded and soft. And took a while longer to reach its climax. This was ridiculously improvised.
Now that he was more or less thinking clearly, it made him feel sick.
He was still trying to catch his breath, pondering on why she was doing this to him. How was he going to be able to withstand these urges he never had to keep under control before?
Hux heard some rambling in the wardroom, snapping him out the leftovers of his trance. How long was he standing here against the door? She might start asking questions if I don't get my act together now . He stumbled to the sink, washed up quickly, hastily put on his clothes - hissing when he raked the bacta patch while pulling his pants up - and combed his hair. Then, he double checked his appearance in the mirror, wanting to make sure there was no evidence left of his previous state of distress.Â
He took a deep breath, put his head up high and took long strikes to the door. This time, he wouldnât allow himself to get distracted.
He just entered the wardroom and noticed Miko walking towards the cockpit, datapad and some rubbish in both hands.Â
What is she up to? Again? Â
Armitage followed her wake, both annoyed by her sudden and unauthorised action and curious what got into her head this time. When he arrived, that droid and she were doing something at the comm unit and didn't look at him entering.Â
"All set and done. You should be able to connect to my commlink now!â She exclaimed with a smile, signalling him that she did notice his arrival.
"The new identification code they provided us with is also installed. Your ship should be listed as a cargo vessel right now." She happily mentioned, after she placed her hands on her hips.
Hux sighed, glad a practical conversation might make him forget about what he just wanted to do to her, and replied: "Let's hope no one wants to actually check it out, because one glance from an enthusiastic republican will get us into trouble." Miko quickly turned her head towards him. âWe shouldâve painted the ship in a happy colour, youâre right. Like, bright orange.â she whispered in a secretive way.Â
He cocked his eyebrow, not sure what to do with her comment.Â
âKidding Hux, I donât have a death wish. Although I donât know if death at your hands would be worse than whatever weâre facing next.â she said smilingly, turning back to the controls.Â
Hux gulped and decided not to react to that comment. He was content to hear she didnât underestimate him, but he did just think about fucking her with his hands on her neck and now⊠he decided the weapons controls needed to be checked.Â
Any distraction would do.
After a short pause, she righted her back and said to him: âI'm done here. Up for round 2?âÂ
He harshly turned his attention to her, slightly confused and already sweating under his collar, the sentence having a completely different meaning in his ears. Before he could actually register what she was really talking about, she exclaimed âIâll be in the hangarâ and turned around with a slightly bubbly attitude.Â
He sighed again and followed her wake, keeping enough distance. He wasnât going to get tricked by his hormones twice.
The training session went on for another 30 standard minutes. Hux kept his distance and was able to find back his instructor mode, and even keep any unwanted distractions to a minimum. They kept going, until she was able to automatically pull, aim and shoot. Actually hitting a target was beneath any standards, but for the approaching rendezvous, just having the movement in her physical memory would have to suffice.Â
The proximity alarm went off, signalling their arrival. The duo stopped their activities. Miko holstered the blaster, put PC on her back, and followed in Huxâ shadow towards the cockpit.
A/N: Shields breaking, walls cracking⊠next time, maybe teeth colliding? Who knowsâŠ
#general hux x oc#armitage hux x oc#armitage hux smut#star wars fanfiction#generalginger#gingergeneral#lemonginger#general hux#armitage hux#star wars fic#sw fanfic#sw fic
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đđ€&đŠ©?
đ„°đ„°đ„°đ„°
Thank you for asking, friend! I'm sorry it took me about a week to actually answer. I forgot about it, then was too anxious about things to do it, and now I'm in the dumps. So going through my writing and trying to pick things, when I'm famously critical of it on a day I don't need that⊠was fun.
wip game of birds here
(this got long, so I'm putting it under a cut đŹ )
đïž a sweet quote (something sweet, fluffy! maybe it's cute or funny banter! or sappy wedding vows!)
Oh boy, I have a bunch of those, but I couldn't pick one. So I went with one in most need of editing. (This one was posted on tumblr over a year ago, IIRC.)
She gladly settled her head on his chest as Danny wrapped both arms around her, hugging her close. For so long, she had been chasing this kind of exquisite peace that being with him brought her. Perhaps she hadnât really known what it truly felt like then, but she couldnât imagine not having it there now. The sun would soon bathe the entire room in gold and barge in into their sleepy bliss. But until then, she was more than happy to lay in his arms and thank her lucky stars she had chosen to jump with him into the unknown. It might have been scary at first, but she knew she had made the right choice for herself after so many years of putting others first. And she wasnât going to let it go.
đ€ a mystery quote (take out the context, even censor the names if you want! let 'em guess!)
His heart was in the right place, even if she didnât fully agree with it, and he was a smart guy who needed to be more careful. There were plenty of reporters out there who would be tipped off, or worse, somehow stumble upon this scandal waiting to break. It was unfair that, in the wrong hands, this news could tarnish a much-needed good news day. If there was anything this town of vultures loved, it was a fall from grace they could feast on.
đŠ©dealer's choice (choose any quote at all! or the summary / ao3 tags thing! whatever! wild card!)
This is not the best thing, but I was looking for other quotes (there was a good fluffy candidate before this), but this made me laugh.
âDaniel James ConcannonâŠâ âC.J., you know perfectly well my middle name is Patrick.â âI know that,â she confirmed, âDaniel Patrick. Very Irish combination. Fits you.â âMy kneeâs starting to hurt,â he whined humorously. âIs this the time to tease me about my name?â
The WIPs these came from are: a Jan 22 ficlet inspired by a dino comic, the "5 to 6 am me time" I want to edit and add more to soon, and a silly fail of a proposal that I don't think would've happened, but the idea amused me. (I also considered bits from the Haunted by the notion sequel, but the ficlet is just tooth-rooting fluff.)
Thank you again! đ
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The Pedro of Awesomeness is getting a little lonely! (because I forgot about him.đŹ) So, I'm sending him on a tour of Tumblr.
Am tagging just a few people with their masterlist to start him off, then I'd love it if people could then tag others and their masterlists to keep him going.
@supernaturalgirl20 Masterlist
@prolix-yuy Masterlist
@scorpio-marionette Masterlist
@misspearly1 Masterlist
This is open for anyone to add to, just tag them, or yourself, below.
#the pedro of awesomeness#talented writers#supportive mutuals#masterlist recs#fic rec#pedro pascal character fanfiction
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You missed it because the author had a temporary black out and totally forgot to add the tag list... đŹSorry!
I'm glad you think they fit together, I really wanted someone who would match him well, support him but also not take any bullshit from him and at the same time be vulnerable and insecure in front of him when she takes such a giant leap.
Big Sky Country - ch. 7
Chapter 7 is here and so let's pick up where we left off; with Aisling dialing Frankie, hoping and praying he'll pick up.
Summery: Cowboy Frankie returns to New York to work things out with his 'maybe girlfriend' Eva. But he also makes a connection with another woman, who makes this lost cowboy feel welcome in her Brooklyn bar.
Series Master List
Warnings for the whole series can be found here
He hadnât heard the first couple of rings, his phone up on the porch while he stacked the last of the fire wood up against the wall. When it finally registered, he hurried back, slightly out of breath as he picked up the phone. The unknown number had stumped him for a second, hardly anyone called him, only Herb if it was an emergency, sometimes one of his old army buddies. He almost didnât answer, but then, on a whim, he did. And suddenly Aislingâs voice filled his ear as clear as if she was standing next to him on the porch.Â
She hadnât faded from his mind, and he didnât expect her to. He knew his mind too well by now, he knew sheâd always be someone he returned to in his thoughts. His âwhat ifâŠâ. But it didnât hurt as much as it had in the first month of being back. Away from New York, away from the noise of the city, and away from the guilt of what heâd done to Eva, his mind calmed down enough for him to sort his thoughts properly.Â
He knew he wouldâve fallen in love with Aisling, probably already had on some level. But he also knew he did the right thing when he left, he couldnât have stayed. And to try to fix his head by being with her wouldâve ended just as badly as it did with Eva. He wasnât going to place that responsibility on her, to keep his mind quiet. He needed to fix that himself, and then, maybe, heâd be ready for something new.Â
He missed her though, even though heâd counted that theyâd only met six times. And three of those times could hardly be called ideal circumstances. But she was lodged in his mind and he often found himself thinking how he wanted to show her something on the ranch, or out on the trail, a new foal or the spot where he always saw eagles hunting. But she wasnât here, and he had no way of contacting her. So he kept her in his mind and tried to be content with the little time heâd spent with her.
Until she called.Â
He recognized her voice the second she answered.Â
âHi Frankie, itâs Aisling,â she replied to his âHello?â âFrom the barâŠin Greenpoint.âÂ
His brain stalled for a second, catching up. He dropped his hand to the railing of the porch for support, and it took him a few seconds to respond. He heard her clear her throat, a nervous intake of breath as she shifted the phone in her hand, the microphone probably brushing against her hair.Â
Her hair.Â
Curling around her shoulder in the bed as she slept. Shining like bright copper in the sun at Smorgasbord just before her eyes turned hard as she looked at him and Eva. The thought of it snapped him back to the present.Â
âHi⊠Aisling,â he almost stuttered, âI didnât know it was your number.âÂ
âYeah, Iâm- Iâm sorry to call you out of the blueâŠI justâŠâÂ
He heard her exhale and shift on her feet again and the uncertainty in her voice made him want to reach out through phone lines and touch her, to reassure her. Heâd been hoping sheâd call for months and now she sounded like she didnât think heâd want to talk to her.Â
âItâs good to hear your voice,â he said, âIâve thought about you.â A lot, too much maybe, all the time, every night youâre on my mind.Â
âIâmâŠIâm at the bus stop, outside Big Sky,â she said and something grabbed his heart and forced it up into his throat.Â
âYouâre-youâreâŠhere?â He stuttered out the question, turning and yanking open the door to the cabin, the keys to his truck were just inside the door.Â
âYeah, andâŠand listen, I know, itâs weird, I shouldâve called you before, and I know, maybe, if you donât want toâŠbutâŠ.I justâŠâ she trailed off as he thumped down the stairs and took a few long strides to the truck.Â
âDonât say anything, Iâm on my way,â Frankie rushed out, not wanting her to think for a second that he didnât want her here. âItâll take me forty-five minutes to get there, thereâs a gas station across the road, you can wait there, just tell George Iâm coming to pick you up.â
âIâm already in the gas station,â Aisling said, turning and looking over at the twenty something man who was looking at his phone, âThank you, Frankie, IâŠâ she stopped, inhaled and listened to his truck rumble to life on the other end, âI know this is totally weird, but I just-âÂ
âDonât say anything,â Frankie interrupted her again, âIâm glad you came, fucking ecstatic actually, I canât wait to see you and we can talk on the drive back. Ok?âÂ
She smiled and he heard it in her voice when she replied, âOk.âÂ
Frankie was grateful for the lack of cops on the road into town, he was over the limit by a lot as he raced towards Big Sky. His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, nervous energy running through his system as he tried to sort through his mind the way heâd become accustomed too. He was nervous, he could easily admit that, nervous about seeing Aisling again, about her seeing him here, his tiny cabin, the old truck. What if she took one look at his life here and regretted everything? Heâd probably oversold his life in Montana when heâd shown her the photos. He loved it here, but that was him and his fucked up head. What is she, someone whoâs so used to the city, going to think about his small life here?Â
He wiped his hand against his jeans, fuck, I shouldâve changed those, his palms sweaty as he started seeing the lights from Big Sky. Nervous, but also so elated, there was a lightness in his heart he hadnât felt in a long time, even a little hopeful. And happy. Definitely happy, that was the biggest feeling, it sat in his chest like a warm glowing fire as he thought about seeing her again.Â
Soon.Â
Soon.Â
He pulled into the gas station ten minutes early and killed the engine, reaching for the door handle. But then he saw her through the big window, sitting at the counter, sipping from a take away mug. And he had to stop and take a moment, because she was there, only a few feet away, and he realized he hadnât really believed it until he saw her. Running a hand through her hair in a gesture he remembered almost too well, curls of copper red pushed back behind her ear, taking another sip from the coffee, and then she looked up and met his eyes.
He pushed open the door of his truck as she slipped off the stool and picked up her bag. If he couldâve picked any spot to meet her again, he wouldnât have picked halfway across the gas station asphalt at BIg Sky, but thatâs where it happened and as far as Frankie was concerned, it was perfect.Â
He couldnât fight the smile that took over his face as he walked towards her. Nervous, happy, hopeful, he felt like he floated over the dirty, oil stained ground as she smiled back at him.Â
âHi,â he said, and she reached up and touched the peak of his cap, the same Standard Oil Heating cap heâd worn in New York.Â
âHi, cowboy,â she replied, the smile widening on her face as she saw the dimple appear on his cheek and the way his soft brown eyes crinkled at the corners.Â
âI canât believe youâre here,â Frankie said, taking her in, her pale, tired face, the crumpled t-shirt with some stains on the side and hole by the neck, the hair escaping from a haphazard bun. Sheâd never looked more beautiful to him.Â
âIâm really sorry for just turning up like this, I shouldâve called you sooner but it was kinda a spur of the moment decision and-,â Aisling said, but Frankie shook his head, interrupting herÂ
âDonât be, Iâm happy youâre here, surprised, but really fucking happy.âÂ
She felt her shoulders sink as he held out his hand for her bag and she gave it to him with a small smile. He made her feel a bit better about just turning up, he looked happy, his warm smile made her heart melt and relieved some of the nerves.Â
âGet in the truck, itâs a bit of a drive back,â he said, opening the door and placing her duffel bag in the back seat before stepping back and gesturing for her to step forward, âAnd Iâm sorry about the messâŠâ he suddenly ducked down and grabbed a couple of water bottles and an old blanket from the seat, shoving it in the back too. âNot that many people ride in my truck these days,â he shrugged, giving her an apologetic look.Â
âI donât mind, Frankie, Iâm just relieved you picked up the phone,â Aisling replied and took his offered hand as she stepped up into the truck, âMy plan B was to find a motel but seeing the size of this place, Iâm not sure there is one?âÂ
âNot one you can walk too,â Frankie chuckled and closed the door, hurrying around to the driverâs side, âYouâre lucky I wasnât out on the trail though, with some guests. I couldâve been well out of reception.âÂ
âFuck, I didnât even think about that,â Aisling said as Frankie got in on the other side, âbut there were a lot of things I didnât think about,â she looked over at Frankie, he was twisting the key in the ignition, the old truck, very much what sheâd imagined him driving, rumbled to life. The interior smelled like motor oil and hay and the radio turned on to some old rock classics station, the whole thing felt so ridiculously domestic, so ordinary and soâŠsafe. Â
Suddenly she felt tears well up in her eyes, she was here, and so was he, heâd come to pick her up as if it was no bother and there hadnât just been three months of total silence between them. She was almost a complete stranger to him, and he to her, and sheâd yelled at him, told him how much heâd hurt her, and she hadnât even said goodbye. Still, after all that, heâd answered when she called, and heâd come, smiling at her across the gas station. The long hours on the bus, the emotions of the past few days, it all overcame her, and she couldnât stop the tears that started dripping down.Â
Frankie looked over at Aisling as she sniffed, and she hastily wiped a hand over her eyes and shook her head.Â
âIâm sorry, Frankie, justâŠcan we just go?â She looked away from him and out through the window at the dark prairie beyond the gas station and the main road, she could feel his hand on her arm, a gentle squeeze before he pulled back again.Â
âItâs ok, hermosa, itâs a long fucking journey on that bus, I should know. Letâs get you home, you can have a long, hot shower while I sort dinner,â Frankie put the truck into drive and glanced over at her again, âJust relax, youâre here now.âÂ
He sensed that there were a lot of things that theyâd need to talk about, he didnât know what had made her suddenly get on the bus. But he didnât care, having her sit next to him in his truck was enough, it felt right. Right in a way that he hadnât even realized heâd been missing.Â
They rode back together almost in silence, Frankie pointed out the few things that could still be seen in the gathering darkness.Â
âIf the moon was full, youâd see it, itâs so bright out here, no street lights,â he said, gesturing to the nearby mountain range. In the almost total darkness, with only a sliver of the new moon, Aisling could only vaguely make out the darker ridge against the western sky.Â
âIâve never been somewhere where there are no street lights,â she replied, the first thing sheâd said since theyâd left Big Sky behind and Frankie glanced over at her.Â
âCity slicker,â he smirked and she looked over at him. He was keeping his eyes on the road but his eyes were smiling.Â
âSure thing, cowboy,â she teased him, and he chuckled.Â
âLet me show you something, itâll either freak you out, or youâll love it,â he promised, and pulled the truck off the side of the road, killing the engine and the truck was thrown into darkness as Aisling gave him a nervous look.Â
âNo scary animals or creepy crawlies, Frankie,â she said and he chuckled.Â
âIâve seen those New York cockroaches, no bug out here comes even close.âÂ
He opened his door and came round to Aislingâs side, helping her step out onto the dusty verge.Â
âClose your eyes,â he said, âand listen.âÂ
She did as he said, his warm hand still on the small of her back as she listened to the sounds around her. The engine behind her was clicking gently as it cooled down, the metal creaked a little and she could hear Frankie breathe next to her.Â
She could hear Frankie breathe.Â
Suddenly the silence was deafening in her ears and she turned and looked at the man standing next to her, smiling as he saw the wonder on her face.Â
âItâs so quiet I can hear you breathe,â she whispered, and he nodded.Â
âHow does it make you feel?â he asked and she closed her eyes again, listening to the silence. Her heartbeat was a steady rhythm in her head, her own breath moved through her nose with a soft sound, Frankie shifted beside her and his jacket brushed against her hand with a low rustle.Â
âQuiet,â she whispered, âIt makes me feel quiet.âÂ
Frankie smiled and took her hand, âKeep your eyes closed, let me show you something else.âÂ
He led her to the back of the truck and helped her up on the flatbed. Together they laid back, Frankie guided her head down to the metal and then settled next to her.Â
âNow you can open your eyes,â he whispered, and she blinked them open and gasped at the sight above her. The night sky was glittering, rivaling the Manhattan skyline, bright stars, as many as the grains of sand on a beach, scattered across the black expanse, brighter than sheâd ever seen them before. She could sense Frankieâs eyes on her as she tried to take it all in, endless constellations, the faint light of suns millions of lightyears away, planets glimmering in different colors, the white hue of the milky way streaking across the southern sky.Â
âItâs beautiful,â she murmured, âIâve never seen so many stars in the sky before.âÂ
âTheyâre always there,â Frankie replied in a low voice, not wanting to disturb the silence, âyou just donât see them in the city, itâs not dark enough.âÂ
âCan you show me the constellations?â she asked and he nodded, taking her hand in his and pointing it upwards.Â
âThatâs Ursa Major, the Big Dipper,â Frankie said and moved her hand, tracing the outline of the great bear in the sky. âAnd Cassiopeia sits just over the Milky Way, and then Andromeda just below the W.â He moved their joined hands again, showing her all the stars he knew, the ones heâd used to navigate, a back up to all the modern tech theyâd carried on missions.Â
âAnd if youâre lost, just look for that one, the North Star,â he pointed to a bright star, larger than the others, high up in the northern part of the sky, âItâs always to the north, no matter where you are.âÂ
Aisling listened to his voice, not really taking in what he was saying, just looking at the stars and planets as he pointed them out. Her mind was on the moment, resting on the flatbed of Frankieâs truck, his long body stretched out next to hers, so close that their legs touched. It felt a little bit like a dream, heâd been on her mind so much, and now he was here, his warm hand wrapped around her cold fingers, as he moved their arms, the low pitch of his voice wrapping around her mind.Â
âAm I boring you?â he asked as he noticed her silence, letting their hands rest between them. When she didnât reply he looked over at her, her closed eyes and parted lips made him smile, she was fast asleep. With a little chuckle he pushed himself up on his side and gently touched her cheek.Â
âAisling, wake up,â he whispered, moving the back of his hand over her soft skin and she stirred, blinking awake again.Â
âI should probably get us back to the cabin,â Frankie smiled at her confused face, âItâll be cold sleeping in the truck without sleeping bags.âÂ
âIâm sorry,â Aisling mumbled, letting Frankie help her sit back up, âI was listening but I couldnât keep my eyes open.âÂ
âYouâre probably beat after the bus. I donât know about you, but I couldnât sleep for shit while I was on it. Câmere.âÂ
He held onto her waist as she slid off the flatbed and she looked up at him, her sleepy eyes smiling as he caught her.Â
âCan we come out here again sometime when Iâm not so tired?â she asked, âThe sky is amazing and I want to hear more about the constellations.âÂ
âYeah, of course, we can pack dinner, some sleeping bags and spend the whole night out here if you want to,â Frankie replied, helping her back into his truck, holding onto her hand.Â
âThat sounds amazing, thanks Frankie,â Aisling said and his soft, dark eyes were so gentle in the yellow light of the truckâs cabin, she felt the urge to kiss him. To wrap herself around him again and feel him hold her close to his solid frame. But she held herself back, not sure where they were yet, and Frankie just squeezed her hand before he let it go.
Aisling leaned her head on the window the rest of the way to the cabin, Frankie saw her eyes drifting shut as he glanced over and he had to wake her again when he finally pulled up in front of the house. He grabbed her bag and led her up the stairs, his hand in hers, pushing the door open, the lights were still on inside.Â
She followed Frankieâs lead and toed off her shoes as she came into the house and let her eyes drift around the space. He moved into the big open room and put her bag on the dark brown leather couch in front of the fireplace that took up a chunk of the back wall. When he turned back to her he wiped his hands down his thighs in a nervous gesture as he looked at the way she was examining the space.Â
âItâs not much, I know, but itâs just for me, and thatâs enough,â he said, âbut thereâs a guest room, Iâll get the bed made for you, Iâve just kinda been using it as storage, but the bedâs comfy,â he rambled and missed the way she smiled.Â
âItâs beautiful, Frankie, I love it,â Aisling said, moving over to the big fireplace and running her hand over the rough stone and the dark wood beams behind it. The whole place had a feeling of being lived in, a whole life in the way the old walls were colored by decades of wood smoke, the glass in the windows slightly warped, the floor creaking as she walked over it. And then Frankieâs things spread about, but all in their specific place. A thick, dark red quilt hanging over the arm of the couch, heavy gore-tex boots by the door, an assortment of what she assumed were âhorse thingsâ next to them, even a Stetson tossed onto the coffee table.Â
âYeah?â Frankie said, âYou sure? Itâs kinda a mess, I usually donât have company over,â he fussed over the couch, picking up a t-shirt and some dirty socks from the armrest.Â
âIt looks just like I pictured it from your photo,â she said, turning and smiling at him, âCan we light the fire? Iâve never been in a place with a real fireplace, only those fake decorative ones.â
âSure, Iâll light it,â Frankie replied, coming over to where she stood next to the fireplace, âDo you want to take a shower while I light it and start dinner? I was just going to heat up some chili Herbâs girlfriend made for me, we can eat in front of the fire if you want.âÂ
âThat sounds like the best plan ever, especially the shower part,â Aisling smiled and Frankie smiled in return.Â
âIâll show you the guest room and the shower, Iâm afraid thereâs no ensuite, just the one shared bathroom.âÂ
âWow, really roughing it, arenât you, Frankie,â she teased him, following his broad back down the hallway towards the bedrooms, âI shouldâve stayed with my ensuite master bathroom on the third floor of my mansion back in Greenpoint.âÂ
âDonât knock it, that was a great shower,â Frankie chuckled, and then immediately regretted his words. The image of the two of them together in her small shower wasnât what he needed in his head right now, heat crept up his neck as he tried to steer his mind away from it.Â
Aisling didnât reply, her mind had also drifted back to the same place as Frankie, and she swallowed thickly as he opened the door to the guest bedroom.Â
âOk, this is you,â Frankie coughed, scratching his head as he looked at what was really his storage space with a critical view, âIâŠuhâŠmight need to shift some things first, and I should really clean it outâŠâ He winced, the room was full of junk, bits and pieces he thought might come in handy around the ranch or the cabin. He should really store it all in one of the barns down on the ranch, but somehow heâd never gotten round to it. And every surface was covered by dust, the air in the room stale and lacking in oxygen.Â
âListen,â he said, turning to Aisling who was standing just behind him, âIâll sleep in here, or on the couch, you take my bed until Iâve sorted this out. I canât let you sleep in here.âÂ
Aisling wanted to tell him it was fine, that she couldnât kick him out of his bed, but the room really was a mess, the bed barely visible under all the knick knacks piled on top.Â
âI can sleep on the couch, Frankie, and Iâll help you sort this. Itâs my fault really, for turning up out of nowhere.âÂ
âHermosa, youâre not sleeping on my couch,â Frankie replied, sounding almost offended and the endearment slipped out of him before he could stop it, biting his tongue too late. To hide it, he shook his head and pointed to the door opposite, âThatâs the bathroom, Iâll get you a towel and then Iâll change the sheets on the bed, no arguments.âÂ
âFrankieâŠâÂ
âNo arguments,â he repeated, hurrying down the hall to his own bedroom before she could object again.Â
Aisling almost giggled out loud as his flustered face, he was different here, in a good way. Less wary of his surroundings, more comfortable and open, which made sense now that he was back in Montana which seemed to be so important to him. She liked this version of Frankie though, even more than the one sheâd seen in Brooklyn. Whatever had haunted him there, it seemed to have stayed in Greenpoint, along with his ex-girlfriend. But they needed to talk about what had happened in New York. She hadnât wanted to listen to him or his excuses three months ago, but three months of not being able to forget him had changed her mind. Now she wanted to know, to understand, so that they could move forward, if that was what he wanted too.
Aisling sighed, she was really hoping Frankie saw something similar, but she wasnât looking forward to the conversation, dreading what it would bring up for both of them. For now though, she just wanted a shower and some food before crashing in Frankieâs bed. She wasnât going to fight him for the couch, the bed sounded too tempting after sleeping sitting up for two days straight.Â
The bathroom was small but cozy, like the rest of the cabin. Frankie knocked on the door and handed her a towel before he showed her how to turn on the old shower. She took longer than she probably shouldâve, indulging in some of Frankieâs body wash and letting the hot water pour over her tired, stiff muscles. The shower smelled like him, the way she remembered him smelling when he first leaned over the bar counter and showed her the pictures of the cabin she was now in. On the vanity counter were some of his toiletries, neatly lined up. Heâd said the cabin was a mess but she couldnât see any of it, the towels in the bathroom hung straight on the rail, his toothbrush, toothpaste, hair brush and deodorant were in a row on the counter. He even had a pair of slippers parked underneath a terry cloth robe hanging by the door. Not a thing out of place. It made her smile while she dried her hair and changed into clean clothes, she could see his army background in the details. The messy spare bedroom was like his mind, the mess hidden behind the quiet, in control, exterior.Â
The smell of wood fire and food was starting to drift in from the rest of the cabin and her stomach grumbled as she left the bathroom.Â
âI hope I left you some hot water,â she told Frankieâs back as she made her way over to the kitchen part of the large open room and he turned around.Â
âNo problem, the tank is pretty big, and you needed it.âÂ
âAre you saying I smelled?â Aisling feigned offense as she stood next to him, looking into the pot he was stirring.Â
âAbsolutely, like an old bus, two thousand miles and the New York subway. Ouch!âÂ
He laughed and grabbed his arm in mock pain when she gave him a light slap for his teasing.Â
âI think itâs two and half thousand miles,â Aisling replied, âand I feel like every one of them is rolling around in my head.âÂ
âI remember the feeling,â Frankie said and handed her a beer, still cold from the fridge, âHere, grab this, and go sit down. Iâll be right there with dinner.âÂ
Aisling gratefully grabbed the bottle and found a cozy spot on the couch, stretching out and leaning back with a sigh. The fire was crackling, spreading its warmth and she felt drowsy again as she sipped on the beer.Â
Frankie came over with a tray, two bowls and bread on the side, and sat down next to her.Â
âThe bowl is hot, so be careful,â he said, putting it all down on the coffee table.Â
âNice beer,â Aisling said, sitting up straight again as she looked at the label, âis it local?âÂ
âYeah, small microbrewery in Missoula, Herb and I have been exploring as many local ones as we can get our hands on. And no one charges fourteen fifty for them.âÂ
He glanced over at her, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a cheeky grin as her tired brain caught on to what he meant.Â
âFuck off, Frankie,â she mock scowled at him, âthat beer was worth fourteen fifty, this one isnât.âÂ
âIâm offended, as a proud Montana transplant, Iâm offended!â Frankie put his hand on his chest and clutched an imaginary string of pearls around his neck in a gesture that made her snort as she scooted closer to the table. Heâd loaded the stew with toppings and she gratefully dug into it, relishing proper home made food after so long of bus snacks.Â
âMy compliments to Herbâs girlfriend, that was fucking delicous,â Aisling sighed, putting her bowl down after eating in silence.Â
âWant some more?â Frankie asked but Aisling shook her head.Â
âI could eat another three servings I think, but then my body might go into shock,â she replied and leaned back in the corner of the couch with the beer bottle.Â
Frankie glanced over at her and smiled, she was looking tired and drowsy, leaning her head against the back of the couch and her legs stretched out towards him. While he watched she returned his smile, her features softening before her face cracked in a big yawn.Â
âGo to bed, Aisling,â he chuckled, patting her leg, âIâll clean up, and tomorrow Iâll show you the ranch.âÂ
âAsh,â she said, smiling at him as she put her hand over his, âMy friends call me âAshâ.â She gave his fingers a squeeze and let go, pushing herself off the couch, âAnd yes, Iâll take that offer of not having to clean up and going to bed instead. Sorry about stealing yours, but you did offer.âÂ
âCatfish,â Frankie said, and he couldnât help grinning when she looked down at him in confusion, âMy friends call me âCatfishâ, or just âFishâ.âÂ
âThere must be a story there,â Aisling smiled back at him, âTell me in the morning, âFishâ.â She leaned down and kissed his cheek, âThanks for today.âÂ
Chapter 8
#frankie morales#pedro pascal character fanfiction#frankie morales fanfiction#frankie morales fluff#frankie morales fanfic
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Project Dream Girl | JHS
Pairings: Hobi x Reader
Rating: 18+ / Mature / Explicit
Synopsis: For all four years of high school, they watched Hobi watching you from afar, listening to him going on and on about how you smile, or the way you toss your hair. For one semester, they went through hell, scheming and planning ways to get Hobi anywhere in your magical orbit. But itâs only now, a decade later, during a visit home for Christmas, that youâve finally noticed him. Thereâs no doubt about it. Thereâs only one way for Hobi to win you once and for all. Itâs time to resurrect Project Dream Girl. But is it too late, now that Hobiâs engaged?
Word Count: ~35k | read on ao3
Genres, Content Warnings, & Themes: Christmas fic, childhood friends, childhood friends to lovers, fluff, pining, angst, slow burn, eventual smut (oral sex [m and f giving and receiving], edging, rough sex, unprotected sex, penetrative sex)
Authorâs Note: A late Christmas present for you all! Based on this incredible ask and the story that came with it! Really hope you enjoy this soft, precious Hobi, and that you all have a very happy holiday season! Submitted to @ficscafeâ âs #ficscafe holidays event!
Permanent Taglist (add yourself here): @purpleheartsfortaeââ @btseditsworldââ @greezeniniââ @missbickerbockerââ @dearbambideerââ @helenazbmrskaiââ @morti13ââ @skyys-universeââ @somewhereofftheglobeââ @imaginativedreamsââ @dreamamubarakââ @m-yg93â @elyteâ @awinkiesâ @yuugehn
Also Tagging: @dvalitaesâ @pinkleopard3 @holdingontomythoughtsâ and @xjoonchildxâ â hope itâs OK that I tagged you đŹ I ended up writing it after all, and I hope it makes you smile!
The drive in was as treacherous as ever, the threat of spinning out on black ice making the back of your neck cold and clammy, and forcing your fingernails into the pulp of your own palm as you gripped the steering wheel both out of fear, and as a buoy.
Itâs not just the winter storm aftermath thatâs got you frazzled, though. Five empty coffee cups are stacked into a cupholder meant for just two, and this is the second cupholderâs first day on the job. You have a latte every day, not an espresso for every hour on the road.Â
A shame, too. The road is usually such a good friend, spending all that time with you, preserving your honeymoon phase by still thrilling you with surprises at every turn. But its current, frosty demeanor is repugnant, especially as the uneasy, more-than-just-bitter-caffeine-hitting-your-stomach feeling that, for some reason, grows with every additional childhood landmark takes up more of your windshield.
Your legs were shaking when your darling parents threw their arms around you. âCold?â your mother asked. When you shook your head no, she asked, âTired?â
âLetâs let her settle in,â your father replied, smiling good-naturedly and patting your mother on the shoulder.
âJust need the bathroom,â you chuckled. âHad a lot to drink. Need to go to the store after that, though.â You feel the same zing in your brain that you felt when you remembered on the drive, when you scratched your arm and felt those weird bumps that seem to appear out of nowhere from time to time. âForgot lotion.â You feel another echoed zing, this one bringing along with it the experience of getting out of the car. You turn your calf to the side to show your parents the run. âAnd I got caught on the door. Need a new pair of stockings.âÂ
When your parents let you go, you scamper quickly to the first floor powder room, with the chip in the mirror from the time you accidentally bashed the ladder into the glass while you and your mother were repainting the walls.
âIs there anything I can pick up while Iâm there?â you call back to them, shifting your hip left to avoid the stair banister that you always knock your elbow on at some point, making sure you have full use of your icy cold fingers to undo the buttons on your trench coat.
âMaybe your dadâs blood pressure medication?â You softly snort at your motherâs sweetly hopeful lilt, just like eyelashes batting, as you reach the powder room and flip on the light switch.
âLetâs let her settle in!â your father repeats, as you close the door behind you and smile fondly about the man of so few words that heâll squeeze the juice out of each of them.Â
The sense of a sort of mission adds to your frazzled state by clouding your mind. Youâve typed the list on your phone, complete with checkboxes to click along the way. Still, as you whirl into the store where you got your first cashier job, you keep muttering to yourself: âLotion. Stockings. Pills. Lotion. Stockings. Pills.â
This is how you find yourself struggling to remember Hobiâs name while youâre at the pharmacy, waiting to pick up the last item on your list, standing in line behind Min Yoongi.
âItâs kinda short for Hoseok,â Yoongi explains.
âHoseok!â you exclaim, his smile beaming back into your mind. âOh my god! Thatâs right.â You mimic the voice you first heard it with. âHobi to us. His friends.âÂ
Yoongi brightens at your spot-on impression of him, and you smile happily as you bask in the glow.
âSo you do remember him,â he replies, as you nod.
âI remember your version of him,â you tease. âHobi this, and Hobi that.â Yoongiâs low purr comes so easily to you. âOh, uh, I donât know if you heard, but Hobi got dance captain in the musical this year. Heâs really good. You should come check it out.â You giggle in your own voice before returning to his. âHey, uh, did you see Hobi went to the tennis regionals and won? It was really cool. You could drive down to the finals with us if you want to watch.â
The corners of his mouth stretch down and out. âHa. Right.â
âAre you all back in town for the holidays?â you ask, still grinning.
Yoongi clears his throat before mirroring your grin. âYeah,â he says, âthough Hobi never really left.â He blinks a few times. Quite quickly. And he speaks in a sudden, uncharacteristic blast. As if he canât get the thought out fast enough. âIn fact, uh, we were all gonna get together at Hobiâs for dinner tonight! You should join us!â
You furrow your brow a little. The line shuffles forward, but youâve still got a little while before youâre served.
âOh, well⊠thatâs very kindâŠâÂ
You look down at the lotion and stockings that youâre holding with your over-confident hands, wishing you had a basketful of things to use to cobble some sort of excuse together.
âCâmon, itâll be, uh, fun,â Yoongi tries again, looking down at your hands with you.
Your gazes meet again when you look up.
âIsnât it a little last minute?â you ask.Â
âHobi tends to do things a little last minute,â Yoongi replies, though you arenât sure why heâs trying to hold in a laugh.
âWhat kind of dinner is this? Are there place settings and stuff?â you say clumsily. âI wasnât part of the plan, soââ
âYouâre always part of the plan,â Yoongi tells you.
Itâs your turn to blink quickly. âHuh?â
âWhat I meant is, uh, youâre always welcome to join us,â Yoongi says nervously, flinching when he notices the line moving forward.Â
âOh.â
Yoongi watches your face and realizes something. Something crucial. It had never occurred to him before, but maybe youâre unsure about the why. Why you should join them. So, as the next three people get their prescriptions filled, he lists out all the reasons.
âCâmon. Uh, all the guys will be there. We can take a trip down memory lane.â Then again, you so rarely accepted their invitations. Memory lane might be more of a dead end. âAnd we can catch each other up on life since then.â So many aspects to a dinner, Yoongi realizes. âThe food will be, uh⊠there will be lots of food.â Though you havenât really eaten much with them. âAnd we can make or bring different stuff, so let me know if you have any dietary restrictions or preferences.â What else could possibly keep you from dinner? âPlus, itâll be at Hobiâs house, so you donât have to worry about crowds or waiters or anything.âÂ
âJust Hobi and his friends,â you repeat, chuckling.
Your still sort-of-puzzled expression makes so much more sense to Yoongi now. It feels silly, making that realization here and now, next in line at the pharmacy. But, always quick to be fair, especially to himself, Yoongi remembers that all the other invitations were made a decade and change ago. When none of your brains were fully formed. When all Hobi had to guide him was his heart.
âI mean, weâre all friends,â Yoongi replies. âArenât we?â
Dinner with friends. How long has it been since you last had dinner with friends? How long has it been since you last had friends? Does it count if theyâre technically someone elseâs friends? Wait, is Yoongi your friend? How does their group work? If youâre friends with one, are you friends with them all? Was that how it always was?
âSure,â you say, smiling uneasily.
âCool! Let me give you the address,â Yoongi says quickly, before your obviously thinking-twice brain thinks too many more times.
The person in front of Yoongi leaves the line with their prescription and veers off into the aisle that now houses chips and dips but used to house simple office supplies and stationery back when you worked there.Â
âNext,â the tired pharmacy tech calls out, eyeing the gap between Yoongi and the counter.
âHang on,â Yoongi tells you, before whirling around and sorting out whatever heâs in line for.
Itâs a quick transaction, one that Yoongi mutters through as he pulls out his phone from his coat pocket and texts, chin wrinkling as he scrolls through his screen.
Yoongi grabs the small, white paper bag that the tech had placed on the counter, eyes still downcast and confusion still looming.
He looks up at you as you approach the counter.
The pharmacy techâs eyes dart from you to Yoongi. âSir, can you leave the counter?â the pharmacy tech asks him. âPatient privacy.â
âWhatâs your number?â Yoongi asks you.
Startled, the pharmacy tech continues, âSir, I just saidââ
âItâs OK,â you say. âItâs notâ Weâre justââ You point to Yoongi, and then to yourself, finger bouncing back and forth. âWeâre friends. Sorta.â You shake your head. âAnyway.âÂ
You turn to Yoongi and give him your number quickly, before turning back to the pharmacy tech and asking for your fatherâs medication.Â
Yoongiâs eyes glimmer with some recognition.
âHowâs he doing, by the way?â he asks, watching the pharmacy tech going to get your order. âYour father? He was in the hospital a few years ago, wasnât he?â
You smile, genuinely touched by his concern. âWe are friends, arenât we, Yoongles?â you ask fondly.
Yoongiâs chin unwrinkles as he juts it out proudly. Heâs seventeen all over again.
âHeâs doing well,â you say happily. âIt was a minor stroke, and his recovery went as well as it could have. Heâs doing better about taking things a little slower, though heâs as stubborn as ever.â You tilt your head. âHowâd you even know about his stroke?â As Yoongi presses something on his phone and then shoves it into his pocket, you hear a quiet ding! from inside of your purse. âNot like you had my number.â
âHobi told me, actually,â Yoongi says, his eyes widening. âHe visited him at the hospital.â
âWhat?â you ask, surprised.
âYeah,â Yoongi says, smiling. âAsk your father.â
You and Yoongi chat a little more as you move from the pharmacy to the general check-out area, your twin, introverted souls scanning and sacking the rest of your purchases in the otherwise empty self-service kiosks.
You walk outside and linger by the doors for a bit, checking your phone to make sure that the text you received was, indeed, Yoongiâs. The address sounds a little familiar. You wonder how many times youâd seen or heard it for it to be familiar. Youâve never actually been.
âSwing by around 8,â Yoongi tells you.
You smile. âSee you then.â
He throws up a wave and a smirk, as you get in your car and head home.
Once you disappear into the vanishing point on the horizon, Yoongi races to his car, throwing his new toothbrushes, toothpaste, floss, and vitamin D supplements into the passenger seat before summoning the council, blowing into the conch shell that is the camera-shaped icon in the top right corner of the group chat.Â
They assemble like they always do. Namjoon picking up on the first call, concerned that something terrible has happened. Jin complaining about being interrupted, when really, heâs excited for some attention. Hobi busting in with a shrill, âAAYYYYYYY!â that makes everybody grumble about how loud he is. Jimin smirking, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, ready for a mug of tea, and equally ready to leave if it isnât served piping hot. Taehyung checking himself out on his own screen while absent-mindedly greeting everyone. And Jungkook pouting about how the video call made his clan lose their round.
Voices overlap eagerly and heatedly, making Yoongi squinch his eyes and pull the screen away from so close to his face.
Still, despite the chaos, he doesnât miss a detail. He even remembers your preferred brand of lotion, and that the stockings that you bought were fishnets.Â
That sets off another explosion of voices, but Jiminâs voice slashes through, just as your car door slashed through your stockings and gave you a reason to come to the store in the first place.Â
âHey! Guys!â he exclaims. âWouldnât it be easier if we did this in person?â
âWe donât need to be doing anything at all!â Hobi butts in. âBecause, again, for the millionth time, Iâm engaged! To be married!â
âSo?â Yoongi moves his phone closer to his face again. âWhat about me?? I didnât listen to all your whining and simping, or embarass myself by asking all your Dream Girl questionsââ
Jin cackles, as everyone but Hobi and Yoongi soften fondly at the term. âAaah, Dream Girl!â
ââduring our group project work, only for you NOT to get closure on this!â
Hobi shakes his head sadly. âI canât keep doing this with you.â
Namjoonâs voice of reason lands the conversation back onto the ground. âHobiâs right. Weâre not kids anymore. Our decisions have consequences.â
Hobi echoes, âExactly.â
âAnd permanence,â Taehyung agrees.
Hobi smiles and chirps, âThank you!â
âSo you should take this opportunity for an out from your engagement to that mean, snooty, and, frankly, boring woman, and ask Dream Girl out,â Jin argues.
Hobiâs face disappears from the screen as his neck goes limp, unable to hold this conversation up anymore. âGuysââ
âWhy the long face?â Jungkook teases.Â
âDonât start with the horse jokes.â
âThought youâd be happy to see Dream Girl again.â
Hobiâs head sinks lower, completely out of frame.
âShe still look the same?â Jungkook asks in sing-song. âThat sweet, heart-shaped face?â He giggles. âShe still smell like bubble gum?â
Jimin laughs and, with a glint in his eye, adds, âShe still do that thing where she scratches her head and leans her neck before flipping her hair?â
They all mimic the motion, Jimin reveling in the feel of it, Jungkook focusing on getting it exactly accurate, Taehyung folding it into his own preening, Jin conveying the drama, Namjoon conveying the appeal, and all of them copying Hobiâs moaning, rabid reaction.
This time, Hobiâs empty screen instead moans, âSTOP!â
âSheâs still all that, and more,â Yoongi replies. âAnd sheâs here for a whole month.â
âA month?â Despite Hobiâs resolve and composure, a twinge in Hobiâs voice, and the shaking of Hobiâs barely perceptible cowlick in frame, indicates that heâs at least a little nervous, and suddenly so. He raises his head to rejoin the conversation. âWhat are you saying?â
âIâm not saying anything,â Yoongi says. âIâm asking.â He smirks. âIâm asking if Project Dream Girl is finally a go.â
âNo!â Hobi exclaims. âShut it down!â
Amongst murmurs, Yoongi replies, âHow quickly you forget.â He smirks. âThis is a democracy. We are seven. Let the people speak.â
Hobiâs voice keeps catching on his tonsils. âWhaâ Howâ Democraâ What do you mean byââ
âEveryone cast your votes now,â Jin says, Yoongiâs smirk spreading onto his face. âI vote Yea.â
âYea,â Jimin seconds with a wink right into the camera, intended for Hobiâs square, and seemingly hitting its target perfectly, given the way the corner of Hobiâs mouth angle down.
âYaaaaaay!â Jungkook echoes, which narrows Hobiâs eyes.
More of Hobiâs face disappears, but Yoongiâs lips part more and more happily with each additional âYeaâ, said in Namjoonâs rumbling warmth, and Taehyungâs whispery, floaty cloud.
âHobi?â Jin asks. âLast chance to change your vote.â
âNay!â Hobi desperately screeches, his face coming back to vivid, angry life.Â
âNeeeeiiiighhh!â Jungkook teases, making the rest of the boys laugh.
Hobi huffs through puffed cheeks and flapping lips, which doesnât help the annoyingly unshakeable comparison, as Jin cheerily proclaims, âThe Yeas have it!â
Everyone cheers.
But Jiminâs voice cuts through again, like a whistling kettle. âAlright, where do we start??â
Yoongi hums with such self-satisfaction. âTonight. I invited her to dinner.â
From the way Hobi clomps up the stairs to the attic, Yeong-ja can already tell that heâs upset. When she sees his phone jostling in his front t-shirt pocket, Yeong-ja knows that a video chat with the boys is what has upset him. But she still doesnât know why heâs entering the formal dining room while clutching the long, oak, dining table extender in his strained arms, and carefully setting it down in the corner â especially now that she has already finished arranging the napkins for five out of the eight place settings.
Yeong-jaâs voice always has a bit of an edge in it, but itâs particularly apparent when she asks, âWait. Why do you have that?âÂ
âSomeone else is coming to dinner,â he says.Â
He says it quietly.
Unnervingly quietly.
The edge in Yeong-jaâs voice gets just that much sharper, like one crisp rake of the knife across a diamond stone.Â
âWho?â she asks, shifting in her seat at the head of the table.
Hobi moves from one side of the table to the other, unlocking hidden latches as he goes.
The last time Hobiâs ever had to think of you feels so far away. And yet. He still knows. He still knows that there arenât enough words. There just canât be. There canât be enough words in any language, or all the languages, to sum up the reason why he is now sliding Yeong-jaâs perfect place settings to one end of the fancy dinner table. So, he goes for the bare acceptable minimum, which just happens to be, âSomeone Yoongi had a class with in high school.â
Yeong-ja eyes her festive, now-misaligned placemats, plates, silverware, and napkins.
âYeobo,â she says, âthe table already sat eight.â
âAnd now, itâs going to seat nine.â
Yeong-ja blinks at the odd number. âWell, technically, itâs going to seat ten. Are they at least bringing a date?â
Hobi simply shrugs, his back facing Yeong-ja as he walks over to the corner against which the table extender is resting. He guesses no, especially if Yoongi has started plotting, but hiding his face completely is his best bet in keeping secret the concern that he hadnât thought to ask Yoongi if you were bringing a date; his worry that if he asks Yoongi to ask you now, that you might bring one; and his ultimate fear that after all these years, heâs realized that he still doesnât want you to have one at all.
Hobi only looks dutiful as he turns around and sets the extender in the middle of the table.
The wooden plank locks into place with a bright, happy sound.
Yeong-ja frowns at it.Â
âWhat?â Hobi asks.
âDid the table always look like this?â Yeong-ja asks. âI donât remember it feeling too big when we bought it.â
Hobi reaches for the first of Yeong-jaâs place settings, talking through his thoughts.
âWell, weâre almost never in this room.âÂ
Hobi sets the golden charger plate down a little too roughly, making the porcelain plates on top, and the holly-decorated napkin ring, jostle and clang.
âAnd when we are in this room, itâs usually just when your parents are in town. Or the guys.â
Hobi sets the second golden charger plate down even more roughly, to where the napkin ring almost rolls off and onto the floor.
âIn fact, I wonder why we even bought this table when entertaining people is usually more trouble than itâs worth.â
Hobi reaches for a third place setting, but Yeong-ja stands quickly.
âLet me do that,â she interrupts, annoyed. âYouâll chip a plate if you keep going.â When Hobi moves to protest, she adds, âWhy donât you just go back to the attic and get the two spare chairs?â
Hobi sighs and heads back toward the attic.
ââŠYeobo?â
Hobi pauses, placing his hands on his hips before turning around to face her, hoping that by some miracle, his too soft heart hasnât crept onto his face.
âYeah?â
Yeong-ja tilts her head. âWhy are you so⊠mad⊠about it?â
Hobi relents, shoulders finally falling. âOh, yeobo. Iâm sorry. Iâm not mad.â He flashes her a smile. Something more recognizable. âJust⊠annoyed at the last minute addition.â
Heâs careful not to clomp up the stairs this time. Years together, and he still forgets that living with a person inevitably makes them a barometer. Eyes and ears that take in the atmosphere. That read things. Read you.
He shuffles into the attic and eyes the extra chairs, fit together like L-shaped Tetris pieces, balanced on each other like yin and yang. The upholstery is a little dusty, but when Hobi runs his hand over the fabric, he sees glimmers of gold that have dulled in the matching floral patterns of the chairs downstairs.Â
He looks around to see what else has been weirdly but perfectly preserved.
Heavy, ornate trunks hold Yeong-jaâs family heirlooms. Jewelry. Instruments. Her grandmotherâs wedding dress, received just earlier that month.
Hobi steers clear for now.
Simple boxes hold memories of his own, pushed farther back into the attic. Further back into time.
The same dust from the chairs collects at his knees as he rummages through his keepsakes. Vinyls. Trophies. Photo albums.
Yearbooks.
He plucks your high school classâs senior yearbook from the stack and chuckles softly as he flips through the pages, pausing longer on the ones that he dog-eared, and grinning to himself when he finds the reasons for those dog ears. Theyâre mostly photos of the guys. One of Yoongi mid-jump shot. One of Namjoon on stage with the debate team, a mic in his hand. Jimin and Taehyung playing ping pong. Jin and Jungkook wrestling. A group shot, with Hobi in the center, holding his tennis singles first place state trophy, its gleam slightly dimmer than his proud smile.
Hobi runs his fingers down the right edges of the pages, noticing that there is one more dog-eared page in the back.Â
Yeong-jaâs voice calls him back to the present. âYeobo!â
Hobi lingers on that folded corner, fingers teasing the bend. âYes?â
âYoongiâs here!â
You lift your knee a little to see how your new stockings look on you. Itâs a tighter pattern. Conservative. More herringbone than a true fishnet, actually. Your dress probably looks fine without them, but you hate having bare legs, especially in the winter.
When you step out of the en suite bathroom where your mother marked your height in the doorjamb until you were about fifteen, you find your mother standing there with the same light in her eyes.
You stumble backwards, nearly tripping over your unshoed heel. âEomma! You scared me!â
She rolls her eyes and uses her index finger to pick up the three hanger hooks that she had just set down on your bed.
âEomma!â
âYou havenât had time to unpack,â she observes, âso I pulled a couple of my old dressesââ
âEomma,â you chide, striding over to her and frowning.Â
âTheyâre not that old-fashioned!â she insists. âAnd itâs better than showing up to dinner in the same thing youâve been wearing for twelve hours straight.â
You sigh and take the first dress from her, holding up the hanger so that the neckline of the dress sits next to yours. Where her dress stops, your torso and legs keep going, and going, and going.
âIâm a full five inches taller than you!â
âYouâre overexaggerating.â
You gesture to the markings in the doorjamb. âCare to measure?â
A smile breaks through your motherâs determined face. âIâm just trying to help you look your best.â She cups your cheek lovingly as you tilt into her soft, warm palm. âYouâre such a star. Let yourself shine.â
You sigh and acknowledge that, yes, perhaps it would be better if you wore something that didnât reek of corporate life. But that doesnât change the fact that the three dresses that your mother pulled for you hang more like t-shirts on your frame.
âThen help me pick something out from my closet,â you say, taking your motherâs hand and dragging her over to the other end of the room.
You flip through some outfits and even consider a pantsuit that youâd forgotten about, one that you accidentally left the last time you were home. However, once your darling motherâs eyes settle on a gray cocktail dress with a silver, beaded belt, you know the search is over.
âI wish I still had my figure,â your mother sighs wistfully as you quickly slip out of your dress and into its replacement.
âEomma.â
âI know Iâve still got remnants of it somewhere in here.â She pokes and prods her softer curves, made rounder by family, love, and time. She smiles proudly at you once youâve reappeared through the dressâs neckline. âIâm glad youâve put your inheritance to good use, though.â
Before you walk back to your bathroom to have a look in the mirror, you place a kiss on your motherâs cheek.Â
She sits on the edge of your bed, giving you small tips here and there. Like that you should go with a berry lipstick rather than your usual dull maroon. And donât be shy about using the shimmery eyeshadows rather than the matte neutrals you usually dust on. Actually, there might also be a berry pump in the back of her closet that you can borrow.Â
âEomma, my feet are two sizes bigger than yours!â you call out to her, as you finish your eyeliner.
âMeet you downstairs!â she calls back.
As you make your way to the living room, stately black kitten heels defiantly in hand, your father smiles up at you from the couch.
âYou look great!â he exclaims, his remote control-holding arm lowering slightly.
âThanks, Appa,â you say, walking over to him and pressing a careful kiss to his temple.
You have a seat with him, on the other end of the couch, strapping yourself into your shoes before your mother can say anything.
âFancy.â Your father watches your fingers work the buckle. âWhere are you going again?â
âNot too far,â you say. âIâll probably walk.â You grin to yourself, thinking about how you used to walk the few miles to school.
âI can drive you if youâre tired,â your father offers.
âNo, I think the walk will do me some good,â you say. âAnd these shoes are better than high heels for walking.â
âAlright.â Your father smiles as you sigh and sit up, leaning back into the couch cushions. âWho are you seeing again?â
âSome guys I knew from high school,â you answer. And then Yoongiâs voice comes back to you, that low purr equal parts cautious and attention-grabbing as it delivers a small detail. âYou might still one of them, I think,â you say. âJung Hoseok?â
With lifting recognition, your fatherâs eyes alight, eyebrows tent, forehead wrinkles, hairline shifts back. âAh, yes! Hoseok! Heâs a kind person.â Your father leans forward and places his remote on the table. âHe visited me after I had my stroke.â
The word doesnât feel so heavy now. Not when your father can flip through channels to find his shows. Not when your father can offer to drive you. Not when your father is able to form complete sentences, with just a hint of a delay that only you and your mother notice. You almost miss his explanation because youâre too busy thanking whatever force it is thatâs out there that gave you this second chance. This extra time.
âHe came to visit me quite often, actually.â Your father smiles, and words interestingly start to flow out of him. âBrought some of his friends with him from time to time. It was nice to have people pass the time with. Gave Eomma a breather. Watched some games.â
You should be happy. But a lightning bolt of guilt threatens to rip your stomach from the inner wall of your skin.
âNow, donât pout,â your father says gently, reaching for your hand and squeezing it.Â
âI wouldâve flown home that night,â you tell him, like youâve told him over and over again in the days and months and years since.Â
âAnd lost your job?â Your father pats your hand as he releases it and leans back in his seat. âThen where would we be?â
Youâre glad that your generous paycheck was enough to keep your retired parents more than afloat. It kept the medical bills at bay, with plenty of buffer to spare. It kept the foreclosure sign from being hammered into your lawn. It also kept you from being able to see your father until months later, when the worst of it was over. But maybe it also kept you from falling apart after seeing him go through that worst bit. At least, thatâs what your father is saying to you. What your mother always reminds you. What you tell yourself.
âIâm glad you had some pleasant company,â you try, a tooth here and there peeking out from your pout.
Your father grins, coaxing the rest of them out from behind your lips.
âThere we go,â he says, eyes laughing. And then he stands suddenly, like he so beautifully and thankfully can. âI havenât seen Hoseok in a long, long while. Why donât you bring him something from my collection?â
As he scampers off, your mother shuffles down the stairs, taking some of the extra time youâve all been gifted for her right knee.
You join her near the bottom stair, which is just a little higher than the rest. You hold your hand out to help her.
âIâm fine,â she insists, hiding her right knee behind her left, as if that will solve anything. âYou were right about the heels. Theyâre too small for you. But look!â
She opens her palm to show you two rose earrings, stained the same deep berry as your somehow still intact lipstick.Â
âYou always borrowed these for picture days!â your mother chuckles, already brushing your hair back.
Her fingers are cold against the back of your ear. You roll your eyes as she replaces your standard gold studs. âEomma, itâs been so long since then.â
âWhisky should be good, right?â Your father reappears in your rolled eyesâ periphery, clutching a fancy bottle. âTake this with you.â
âOK, OK, Iâm not a doll, Iâm a human, thatâs enough accessorizing,â you say, as your motherâs hands fall away and threaten to re-fluff your hair one more time. âThank you for the earrings.â You turn to your father and take the bottle. âAnd thank you for the whisky. Iâm sure theyâll love it.â
âTell the boys hi,â your father says, as he and your mother move like one being toward the door to see you off.
âAnd sweetie!â your mother chirps, as you start down the porch steps.
You turn around and look up at them, face softly illuminated by the lamps that it took your father double the time to install because he screwed them in upside down by accident at first.
Your motherâs eyes glow in their light. âHave some fun,â she says, meaningfully.
âItâs uncanny.â Yoongi shakes his head a little. âShe looks exactly the same.â
âWe all look exactly the same,â Taehyung says lazily. âItâs only been a few years.â
âTen,â Namjoon corrects. âMore than.â
âSo whatâs ten years? Itâs not fifty,â Taehyung points out. âDid you think weâd all be gray by now? Have hip replacements? Weâre only in our 30s for godâs sake.â
âYou mightâve been blessed with a baby face, but we arenât all as lucky,â Hobi laments.
Jin and Jimin protest in chorus. âWho says??â
âDonât get all self-conscious now,â Jungkook replies, poking Hobiâs cheek before adjusting Hobiâs lapel. Jungkook smiles at the soft and expensive feel of Hobiâs plaid suit jacket, brown in hue and accented with lines of berry and navy, all placed on top of the white sweater he was originally wearing by itself. âYou look great, especially with that jacket on, and your face hasnât collected so much as a freckle.â
Hobi grins. âYou think so?â
Yeong-jaâs voice whips through the air, as loud in the living room as it is in the kitchen. âAlright, boys, itâs 8:02 and the table is set, but I donât see butts in those seats!âÂ
Yoongi scowls, meeting everyone elseâs similarly scowling eyes.
âDonât start,â Hobi warns in a whisper.
Another swell washes in. âBoys!!âÂ
âDoes she have to be soâŠâ Jungkook squinches his eyes, frowns, and wiggles around while keeping his upper body tight and restrained.
âI know,â Hobi replies, âbut sheââ
âAnd sheâs kindaâŠâ Jimin rolls his eyes like he rolls his head, dramatic and all-encompassing.
Hobi huffs. âShe can be, but we all have ourââ
âThen thereâs theâŠâ Jin widens his eyes and makes stabbing motions with an invisible knife in his pained fist.
A golden gowned Yeong-ja makes her fanciful way into the living room and misses Jinâs motions, instead startled at the sight of Hobi in his new outfit.Â
âYeobo! You changed after all!â she says, smiling fondly. âYou look pretty decent!â
Hobi blushes, and then he blushes at the fact that heâs not blushing for her.
âWhatâs this?â Yeong-ja asks, gesturing to the yearbook that Yoongi is flipping through.
âOh,â Hobi mutters, âuhââ
âFound it in the attic,â Yoongi pipes up, technically not a lie. âThought it might be fun to look through together.â
âIâve never seen you guys so excited to run into anyone from high school,â Yeong-ja comments, leaning on the back of the couch behind Hobi and circling her arms around him, resting her chin on his shoulder. âFrom the way you talk about it, high school seemed like a hellhole.â
âPretty familiar with hellholes?â Jin scoffs.
âYeah, theyâre like all your weird jokes,â Yeong-ja complains.Â
Before Jin can respond, Hobi takes Yeong-jaâs hand and kisses her wrist. âThanks for making dinner for all of us, yeobo.â He eyes each member of the gang pointedly. âIâm glad. We can. All spend. Some time. Over the holidays. Together.â
The gang begrudgingly gets his point.
âYeah, thanks for having us, Yeong-ja,â Yoongi mumbles.Â
âBeen a while,â Namjoon replies.
âMeans a lot,â Jimin adds.
âVery kind of you,â Taehyung admits.
âLooking forward to the meal,â Jungkook says.
âCanât wait to get into that roast,â Jin laughs uneasily, just in case Yeong-ja had seen his invisible knife.
Yeong-ja smiles happily, kissing Hobiâs head before standing up straight. âWell, if you all can keep the weird jokes to a minimum, and if your friend shows up sooner rather than later, Iâm sure tonightâs dinner will be wonderful.âÂ
Before the group starts up again, she eyes the yearbook in Yoongiâs curled fingers.
âShow me some pictures,â Yeong-ja replies, walking over to Yoongi.Â
âUh, have you not seen our yearbooks before?â Hobi asks, as Yoongi quickly shuffles to a page with a group shot.
âI donât think so,â Yeong-ja remarks, sitting on the arm of Yoongiâs chair. âIâve only seen your grad pics.â She frowns. âYou were so plastered.â
The guys start to laugh, as Yeong-ja yoink!s the yearbook out of Yoongiâs fingers, though heâs quick enough to catch the folded notebook pages that fall from the back cover.
He stashes them in his pocket as she smooths her hand over the page with the photo of Hobiâs tennis win. âAw,â Yeong-ja gushes. âLook at you. So happy.â
âSo proud,â Jungkook laughs. âSee how his chest is puffed out?â
âHe looks like a goofy peacock, gloating like that!â Yeong-ja jokes.
Jungkookâs smile settles into a thin line. âWell, I mean, he kinda just won state and broke a record doing it, soâŠâ
Yeong-ja flips to another page, one of Hobi leading Jimin and a whole squad of dancers in rehearsal. âYeobo, you look ridiculous in this picture!â she giggles. She peers down at the text accompanying the photo. âDance captain??â she questions. âThis must have been in an alternate universe!â
Jimin frowns. âThe musical actually won awards for dance that year,â he points out. âHobi choreographed the whole thing.â
âHe did?â Yeong-ja eyes Hobi, throws her head back, and laughs. âWe got kicked out of our dance class because of his two left feet!â
âMaybe he was tripping over yours,â Jimin grumbles.
Yeong-ja senses the slight, narrowing her eyes at Jimin and preparing something else to say, until Jin smirks and tells her, âTurn the page.â
Hobi realizes that Yeong-jaâs nearing the last dog-eared page of the book, and as the spine cracks a little wider, he knows itâs too late to tell her to stop.
âWait, which pictureâŠâÂ
Yeong-jaâs eyes fall to the picture in the center. A shot of Hobi handing you a carnation. Yeong-ja didnât know cameras could capture that soft look in Hobiâs eyes. And she didnât know that look could look so soft.
She finds herself growing softer as she looks at your face, so pleasant and happy.Â
Simple.
Simply drawing you in with how warm and inviting it is. Beautiful, yes. But more than that. Special in some way.
Even though she catches your name in the caption, she quietly asks, âWhoâs that?â
âThatâs whoâs coming to dinner,â Jin says, turning to Hobi with a smug grin.
Two polite knocks tap the door, and Taehyung jumps to his feet. âAh, sheâs here!â he says, striding over, the rest of the group at his heels, save for Hobi and Yeong-ja planted in their seats.
You laugh as the guys welcome you into the front room, handshakes turning into warm hugs as they greet you. Thankfully, you donât need many cues to help you remember, and itâs oddly satisfying at how quickly it all comes flooding back. Jin was always this funny. Yoongi was always this smooth. Namjoon was always this courteous. Jimin was always this giggly. Taehyung was always this charming. Jungkook was always this sweet. And they were all always this handsome.
âHobi and his fiancĂ©e Yeong-ja are in there.âÂ
As the swarm around you clears, Yoongi directs your gaze into the adjacent living room.
Hobi takes a breath and swivels around, clutching onto the back of the couch as an anchor.
You stand before him, backlit and sparkling, the silver of your belt just noticeable enough to match the silver in your eyes. So many questions bubble up to his lips. Wait, are you wearing those rose earrings you loved so much? Do you still wear them for special occasions? Hang on, hang on, maybe he should start with â how are you? Yes, how are you? How are things? How is life? Is it treating you well? He hopes itâs treating you well. And how exactly is it that you are standing here, now, in front of him, as if it werenât an absolute miracle?
âHi!â you greet happily.
Hobi stands, vocal cords gripped by an ocean of time.
Until Yeong-jaâs undercurrent moves her to rise and say, âYou look exactly the same.â
âWhat?â you laugh.
Hobi clears his throat. âThe same, like, uhââÂ
He walks over to Yeong-ja and takes the yearbook from her suddenly limp hands. âWe were reminiscing,â Hobi explains sheepishly, holding up the yearbook and wrapping his arm around Yeong-jaâs waist.Â
âWell, I mean, we all look the same,â you laugh. âWeâre only in our 30s.â You smile at the guys around you. âAnd youâre all as handsome as ever.â
Taehyung shares a gloating grin with the others.Â
Hobi leads Yeong-ja to the front room, where she finally attempts a smile. âAnyway, Iâm Yeong-ja,â she says, extending her hand. âLike Yoongi said, Iâm Hobiâs fiancĂ©e.â
Hobi firmly shoves the yearbook back into Yoongiâs hands.
âNice to meet you,â you say through Yeong-jaâs handshake, shivering in her ice-cold grip, and raising your eyebrows a little at the unexpected feeling. âIâmââ
âA little late,â Yeong-ja points out.
âOh, yes, Iâm sorry,â you say. âI got distracted on my walkâŠâ As you let go of Yeong-jaâs icicle for a hand and igloo blocks for words, the weight in your other hand suddenly feels heavier. âUm, but maybe this will make up for it?â You hold up your fatherâs gifted whisky and try a contrite grin.Â
âFuck, now weâve got ourselves a party!â Jin exclaims, taking the bottle and whirling over to the drink cart set up in the fancy dining room, with Jimin, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Namjoon whooping and celebrating along.
Yeong-ja scowls at Jinâs cursing. âIt wonât go with the meal, unfortunately,â she points out, redirecting her gaze at you. âIâve already picked out a great bottle of merlot.â
Yoongi stands next to you, frowning at Yeong-ja. âWhisky goes with everything,â he says. âAnd we all hate merlot.â
âWeâll have both, then. The merlot during, and the whisky after,â Hobi replies, squeezing Yeong-ja closer to his side and catching her gaze as she turns to him. âLove your eye for detail, yeobo,â he adds, giving her a smooch on the cheek.
Yeong-ja smiles, satisfied.Â
She turns back to you and sees Yoongi hovering at your side, a little like Hobi is hovering at hers. Her eyes linger on the yearbook in his hands. Her smile grows bigger. And she finally softens. âWell, hurry up now. Give me your coat so that we can get this so-called party started.â
âUh, thanks,â you say, quickly shrugging off your trench coat and offering it to Yeong-ja.
The hall lights catch the sparkles in the rest of the silver of your dress, and it seems like the room brightens in your glow.
Yeong-ja sours slightly, until she catches Yoongi biting his lip and staring at a politely smiling Hobi.
When she turns to the hall closet, and you follow, both of you miss how Yoongiâs bite turns into a smile, and Hobiâs smile turns into him chewing his lip as if that were his dinner.
Yeong-ja leads the rest of you into the formal dining room, smelling of food, and, overpoweringly, of cinnamon, from the tall, red candles sitting on the china display case in back. The table is, admittedly, impeccably set and adorably decorated. The roast looks delicious, accompanied by all the typical side dishes, potatoes and bread and other roots and carbs to help fill you up, and all sorts of salads to cut the fat and grease. There are even some banchan scattered in the mix, recipes no doubt passed down from previous generations, for a sense of familiarity and tradition.
âYeong-ja, this is wonderful,â you say, as you join the group, placing a hand on a chair at the end of the table.
âThanks,â Yeong-ja replies. âTook some time to prepare, but it turned out great!â She eyes your hand on the chair closest to you. âBut, uh, thatâs actually my seat.â
âWeâre really doing assigned seats,â Jimin says dully, pulling out the chair.
âCome sit here,â Yoongi replies quickly, gesturing for you to join him at the other side of the table.
âI think we were planning for you to sit in the middle,â Yeong-ja attempts, eyeing the hastily wrapped napkin just a little more wrinkled than the others, placed atop the table extender. She hasnât forgotten the comments about the merlot, and her frustrated glare has already caught Jungkook reaching for the wrong spoon to start. Her shoulders shift toward your intended spot, desperately hoping to keep things from going too far off the rails.
âThis is middle enough, right?â Yoongi asks, sitting one away from Hobi, and motioning for you to sit in the chair between them.
Hobi frowns at Yoongi, but Yeong-ja seems to soften at the look on Yoongiâs face. âThat works,â she says, suddenly smiling at Yoongi, who frowns at her in confusion.
You make your way toward Yoongi. âWell, uh, Yeong-ja, Hobi, and, well, Yoongi, I guess, thanks again for inviting meââ Yoongi nods as he pulls your chair out for you and helps you into your seat. âI didnât expect to have any plans while home for the holidays. Havenât really stayed in touch with anyone since graduation, so itâs a nice surprise to get to see you all.âÂ
You look back up to Yeong-ja, who is still standing and assessing everyoneâs movements at the table.
âYeong-ja, your dress is gorgeous,â you offer.
When she snaps her head up at the compliment, everyone else lets out little sighs of relief. âThanks!â she chirps. âI actually changed it after Hobi spilled some food on the other dress I had on. I told him to make sure to carry the serving platters at a perfect 90-degree angle, butââ
âMâlady,â Jin says, suddenly appearing at your side and handing you a glass of your fatherâs whisky.
âOh, thanks Jin,â you say, âbut I think we were going to have the merlotââ
âWe all hate merlot,â Jin repeats absent-mindedly, continuing to pour everyone glasses of whisky.
You catch Yeong-jaâs annoyed stare and insist, âIâd actually like to have some merlot, if thatâs OK?â
Jin nods quickly. âSure! But uh, hang onto this. For after.â He leans forward and whispers into your ear, âYouâre going to need it. Trust me.â He sets your glass of whisky down before reassuming his place at the drink cart.
After more shuffling and chatting, everyone finally gets seated at the table at 8:27, all of them (save you, Yeong-ja, and Hobi) stubbornly holding their full glasses of whisky.
Namjoon stands, and snapshots of a younger version of him start to come back to you. Instead of a brandy, he should have a mic in his hand.
âA toast,â he begins. âTo friendship, and to love.â
âTo friendship and love,â everyone echoes, though Hobi sounds a little stiff when he says it, and Yeong-ja stumbles over her words so badly that she bails on joining the cheer.
âOur gang rarely gets time together,â Namjoon pushes on.
âExcept for the group chat, and the daily video calls,â Yeong-ja snorts.
You smile brightly, but you nix the giggle as the rest of the gang furrow their brows at her.
âBut thankfully,â Namjoon goes on, as if uninterrupted, âweâre able to see each other now, and, in one happy surprise, even get to pick up where we left off.â He smiles at you, and you feel your heart grow. And then he looks at the group fondly. âComing home for the holidays always reminds me of the bond that we have. The home that tethers us. And the love that comes from friendship. The love that I hope continues to grow.âÂ
He smiles at Hobi, who just pushes his lips out.
âCheers to that!â Jimin exclaims, bringing his glass to his lips.
Everyone follows suit, though you and Hobi grimace a little at the bland taste of merlot on your tongues. He catches your eye for a moment, and you share smirks â his, thankful, and yours, understanding.Â
Always so understanding.
âLetâs dig in!â Yeong-ja calls. Her voice is a little strange. More like an instruction rather than an invitation.
The guys start to clamor for the side dishes, fighting over the bowls with the smallest portions.
âDoes anybody want to carve?â Yeong-ja asks expectantly. Her eyes fall to Jin. âWhat about you? You were so excited a second ago.â
Jin grunts unhappily.
âWhat, are you already too drunk to help?â she prods.
âNo,â he mumbles, getting up and taking the handle of the carving knife into his fingers, focusing on the roast so that he doesnât accidentally carve anything else.
He cuts the roast into perfect slices, so youâre not sure why heâs wincing. As everyone passes their plates to him, you notice that everyone else is wincing as well.
You brace yourself as you dig in.
Itâs worse than you hoped.
Though thereâs seemingly nothing for there to clash, the rawness of the roast does not mix well with the blandness of the merlot.
âMmmmmmm,â you force out, trying to use your teeth to separate raw meat from the little that is cooked.Â
âGood?â Yeong-ja asks the group happily.
Slight murmurs buzz around the table, which seem to please her for the moment. You reach for your napkin, but itâs too lovely for you to spit the raw meat into. Youâll have to chipmunk it, eyes quickly scanning for somewhere to deposit what you gather by the end of the meal.
Yoongi slips something into your hand under the table.
A sliver of paper towel.
You quickly fold the paper towel into your napkin, bring the napkin to your lips, and covertly spit everything out. You shoot a look of gratitude to Yoongi, one that he complements with a gummy smile, showing you that heâs done the same, and showing you the way forward as he spoons some potatoes onto your plate.
âSo, when was the last time you were home?â Yeong-ja asks, eyes wide open as she takes you both in.
âWell, I honestly havenât been back much since I left,â you answer. âAnd Iââ
âThat was graduation, right?â Yeong-ja asks, leaning forward in her seat.
âOh, yes,â you answer. âWhen I went to college, Iââ
âFunny, the guys havenât really mentioned you before,â Yeong-ja asks.
âJeez, Yeong-ja, didnât know you were so good at grilling,â Taehyung says flatly, making Jin snort-laugh into his brandy.
âItâs true, though,â Yeong-ja goes on, the zinger flying over her head. âYeobo found your senior yearbook when he was going out of his way to get the extra chairs for you out of the atticââ
Hobi closes his eyes and takes a calming breath.
ââbut I really only saw one picture of you anywhere near the guys.â She smiles, canines looking sharper, pupils looking narrower. âYeobo was giving you a flower?â
The bright red carnation pops into your mind, its stem carrying with it Yoongiâs name and a simple message: âThis flower is already dying. Down with capitalism.â
You laugh expecting to be the only one laughing, but brightening when the rest of the guys start to snicker.
As you turn to Yoongi fondly, you share, âYâknow, yours was the only carnation I ever got for Valentineâs Day.â
âNo shit?â Yoongi remarks, the rest of the guys just as befuddled as he is. âAs popular as you were?â
âPopular?â you cackle. âPlease. You were winning all the prizesââ Namjoonâs dimples are your prize for the compliment. âAwardsââ You smile at Jimin and Taehyung. âAnd trophies,â you finish, looking at Jin, Jungkook, Yoongi, and then, Hobi.
âAnd still, nobody knew who we were,â Hobi chases. âThey misspelled my name three different times in the yearbook. Class valedictorian, howeverââ
âWait, back up. Yoongi gave you the flower?â Yeong-ja actually looks happy when she speaks this time. And relieved. A bomb defused. Or even better. Hers is the smile that lips form when a bomb doesnât go off at all.Â
You move some raw meat around on your plate. âYoongi and I were in Economics together our senior year,â you explain. âWe didnât even really talk until we were put in the same group for our final project.â You look around at the group. âI didnât really hang out much with anyone, let alone you guys.â You smile. âIt was nice, getting to know you all a little. Made the end of senior year fun.â
The rest of the group piles on with more memories. Study periods spent chatting in whispers. Ping pong at the rec center. Volunteering at the animal shelter. All the basketball games and wrestling matches you started attending, now that you sort of had friends to cheer for.Â
âCatching Hobiâs breathtaking win at state was amazing,â you say.Â
âHobi was down sets in every match, until he would go on to rally,â Yoongi points out. He turns to Hobi and grins. âBut the final was the best rally of them all.â He turns to you. âYou got there a set before the winning shot, right?â
You sigh. âAh. I missed most of the matches that day because I had my tutoring job, but, oof, that final was a realââÂ
When you casually turn to Hobi, heâs somehow smiling softly at you from two points in time: here and now at this admittedly weird dinner, and from the center of the tennis court, as he drops his racquet, having just scored a beautiful ace that sliced through the night air like a falling star, the camera flashes accompanying it like more galaxies in the distance.Â
You always found it strange that his eyes chose to land on you to celebrate that amazing moment.Â
Strange, but⊠stirring.
âA real what?â Yeong-ja asks, furrowing her brow, and lowering her voice.
Sheâs clearly sensing danger of some sort, but you donât know what it is that youâre sensing. And you donât know what the guys are sensing either, as they watch you and Hobi awkwardly tumble back into the present.
âUm, a real nailbiter,â you say.Â
You lean back in your seat as Hobi leans back in his.Â
When did either of you lean forward?
âSo that carnation,â Yeong-ja circles back. âIt wasnât from yeobo?â
You look back over to Yoongi, whoâs rolling his eyes.
âI was just delivering them,â Hobi finally explains. âVolunteering with student council. The carnations were our school tradition for Valentineâs Day.â He looks over at Yoongi, whoâs now reaching for his whisky. His voice is quieter when he says, âI was just delivering Yoongiâs message.â
Yeong-ja finally sits back in her own seat. âHmm.â
As the raw roast dinner turns into a burnt pie and watery coffee dessert, Jin reaches for his fourth whisky. âThis is so good,â he announces to the table. âYou just had this on-hand?â
âOh!â you smile happily and fold your napkin carefully on your lap. âItâs actually from my fatherâs collection!â
Fond looks appear on the guysâ faces as they clamor for some updates, and youâre excited to report that heâs doing very, very well.
âHe remembers that you all visited him in the hospital,â you tell them. Your eyes land on Hobi again, like they so often have been doing as the night has progressed. âYou really cheered him up while he was there.âÂ
âThat man from a few years ago?â Yeong-ja asks, looking across the table at Hobi. âYou said he was a friend?â
âHe is a friend,â Hobi says happily.Â
âWell, heâd love to see you,â you say. âAll of you. It really took his mind off things. Heâs grateful for the time you spent with him.â You smile meaningfully. âAnd Iâm grateful.â
âHospitals can be pretty miserable places,â Hobi agrees. âTalking with him and your mother took my mind off of things, too.â
Yeong-jaâs lips thin even more as she mashes them together.
âSpeaking of which, I should go,â you say, sudden awareness creeping in, your stomach somehow feeling how much the time has shifted. âIâd like to catch my parents while theyâre still up. Say goodnight. Spend some time with them.â
âI can give you a ride!â Jin offers eagerly, though you suspect itâs less out of chivalry and more for the chance at an escape.
You chuckle. âAre you even able to drive?â You look at the rest of the group. âAre any of you able to drive?â
âGenerally? Yes. Tonight? WellâŠâ Jin says, looking over at an already asleep Jungkook and Taehyung.
âI liked walking anyway,â you say, glad that your scenery isnât chock-full of skyscrapers or bumper-to-bumper traffic or gaudy airport lounges. âThe air here feels good in my lungs.â
âA walk sounds nice,â Yoongi replies. âLetâs all walk with you.â
âDoes she need a whole procession?â Yeong-ja scoffs. âAnd of idiots, no less?â
âYou can stay,â Jimin says, somehow a little too directly, and still, given the hit, a little too nicely.
Yeong-ja huffs and stands. âNo, why donât you boys go escort our lovely guest home, and Iâll just put everything away by myself. Iâm more than used to it.â
Hobiâs sudden defense startles even her. âYeobo. We always offer to help you. With everything.â
You feel more than just the passing of time in your stomach. You feel a knot forming, and so do the rest of the guys, that strange air starting to seep back into the room.
Yeong-jaâs eyes narrow at Hobi. âYeah, but you and your stooges always do it wrong.â
âIf youâre gonna make such a big deal about it, then weâll stay and help clean up,â Hobi says firmly.
You, Jin, Jimin, and Yoongi start to stack your dishes, the piles uneven due to how full of food they still are.
âNo,â Yeong-ja says firmly. She turns to you. âSince weâve stolen so much time from you and your parents, why donât you go on and head home?â
Yoongi sighs and turns to you. âHere, why donât I walk withââ
Yeong-ja tucks her chair in, the arms knocking against the underside of the table. âHobi here can cool off by escorting her home,â she says, with venom. âYou can even say hi to your friend.â She stands. âIn fact, take the rest of the pie. And the rest of you, do your best to help me with these dishes without breaking anything. Taehyung, Jungkookââ She walks over and shakes them awake. âTime to clean up.â
Jin downs another swig of whisky as everyone starts following her orders.Â
As you stand, Yoongi secretly grabs your folded napkin from your lap and gives you a small smile. âPlease tell your father hi from all of us,â he requests. âWeâll try to see him while weâre in town.â
Nervous and apologetic smiles. Half-hearted thank-yous for dinner. And then, youâre left to walk into the front room alone, listening to the rest of the group snipe at each other as they clear the table.
Itâs a lot to take in, especially when paired with the look of annoyance on Hobiâs face, as he exits the kitchen with the pie tin and walks toward the closet for your coats.
He doesnât miss the look of consternation on your face, either. âFun hang,â he says sarcastically.
You chuckle, and with the warmest voice you can muster, you say, âAlways, with this group.â
Hobiâs hand lingers on the closet doorknob. You think you see a reflection of his smile.
He opens the closet and starts to sort through all the wool, leather, and fleece. Your idle eyes take in the front room, and you notice the yearbook on the hallway table.Â
You wonder where yours is.
Hobi startles you when he pops up at your side, offering both your trench coat and the pie tin.
You awkwardly go for the pie tin first, and then change your mind and go for the coat, until Hobi laughs at his own ineptness. âSorry, that wasâ I didnât mean toâ haha, umâ here!â
He extends the pie tin to you.
After you take it, you both look at your trench coat, still in Hobiâs hands.
âAnd, uh, here, let me,â he offers clumsily.
Your trench coat magically open, lining out, shoulders perfectly even with yours, fabric billowing out in one sweeping, matador-like motion. You smile to yourself as you think about Hobiâs graceful tennis serve. The fluidity to his dancing. Itâs something to appreciate. A person better with movements than with words.
âThanks,â you reply, turning your back to him and moving your hair over your shoulder.
He knows itâs a mistake the minute he offers, but he follows-through, helping you slip the coat on, smiling to himself as you place your free arm in one sleeve, and transfer the pie tin to free up the other. He watches the back of your exposed rose earring catch the light as you move. âI remember those,â he says quietly.
The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end.
You arenât sure why youâre blushing, but you feel your cheeks glow when you feel Hobi reach for your hair, gathering it to straighten your collar, and letting it fall back over your trench coat.
You turn around and face him.
âRemember what?â you ask, beaming unexpectedly.
âThose earrings,â he tells you, matching your smile watt for watt. âYou used to wear them for, like, special things.â
âHow did you know?â you ask, surprised.
Hobi smiles and bites his lip, as if eager to share a secret. He blinks a couple of times to think, and then he sees the yearbook you were just flipping through. He reaches over for it and turns to one of the first dog-eared pages. He points out the row that contains your senior picture, hair tucked behind your ears, both rose earrings on full display.
You click your teeth at the thought of your sweet mother as you run a finger over your picture.Â
And then you look up at him.
You linger.
âAh, my coat!â he says suddenly.
He turns around and walks back over to the closet.
And you choke down the strange question that you were going to ask.
Why that page was dog-eared, when his senior picture was on the page before it.
Hobi insists on carrying the pie tin after all, needing something in his hands to occupy himself. Thereâs no telling where they might be otherwise. In his pockets, sweating. Bumping against yours awkwardly as you walk. Yearning to grab your right in his left.
You clear his thoughts away for a moment when you ask, âYou guys get to see each other often?âÂ
âWe still talk all the time,â he starts, weirdly nervously, âbut everyoneâs always away and working.â
He shares the details that you thought youâd get over dinner. Namjoon you already know a little about, having seen him on political commentary shows while waiting to board flights. Hobiâs details for the others start to fill your fuzzy sketches with rich color. Jin can hold more than his fair share of whisky, with a sommelierâs palate like his. Jungkookâs perceptive eyes and freestyle wrestling career have led to a buzzing career in sports production. Taehyung can technically work from anywhere given the right setup, but he feels his best voice acting happens in his favorite booth at the studio. Jiminâs clothing boutique is getting ready to open a third location, and while the expansion is exciting, itâs also nerve-wracking. And Yoongi started his non-profit organization years ago, but itâs only now that he and his traveling troupe of traditional dancers and musicians have received the kind of grants and donations that allow them to share stories on a broad scale.Â
âThey always make it home for the holidays, though,â Hobi adds, smiling.
He takes the pie tin in his left hand and crouches a little to clear some snow-weighted branches, placing his right forearm over your head so that nothing falls on you.
You wonder what having that forearm around is like on a more regular basis. Would your stockings have ripped if, instead of you kicking it to hold it open, Hobi had been there to hold your car door open for you?
His right hand snaps back onto the pie tin. âEveryone was glad to see you,â he goes on.
âYeah?â you laugh.
âYeah,â Hobi admits, âYoongi mentioned the whole thing at the pharmacy in the group chat.â He looks at you thoughtfully. âHow does it feel to be home?â
âItâs strange,â you say, wondering if your brain is a little obsessed with that word tonight. âLikeâŠâ You look over to Hobi, unable to place him anywhere except this town. âWell, have you traveled much?â
âNot really.â He raises his eyebrows. âWe did go south to the coast to visit my parents earlier this year for a long weekend.â
âOK then,â you nod, âmaybe you know what I mean. How itâs kind of like youâre in a parallel universe.â You feel your new stockings on your legs. âNothing gets lost in translation, but their local brand names and store chains feel odd on your tongue when you say them.âÂ
âSame but different.â Hobi smiles. âParallel universes.â So thatâs where youâve been, he thinks. Exploring galaxies.
âWaitââ Your elbow juts out and taps his, and he feels confetti explode all around him. âWhere are your parents now?â
âOh, uh.â Hobi clears the squeak from his throat. âThey usually come back to the house for the holidays, but this year, theyâre overseas for a few months visiting my sister and her familyâŠâ Hobi sees in his mindâs eye Yeong-ja and Ji-woo louring at each other over a dinner not unlike the one youâve just had. âWe decided to chill here. Have a bit of a quiet holiday for a change.â He pushes his lips out again. âOr, at least, that was the plan.â
He shakes his head and lets the winter air wash out more of the brandy-fogged thoughts from his brain. When he does, he remembers something you said earlier, and it warms him more than the brandy did. Almost burns him. He had forgotten how simultaneously thrilling and exhausting it is to remember everything you say.
âAnyway, you just got in today?â He dares to turn to you. âYou said you got distracted on your way here?â
Your eyes grow with excitement, beautiful and happy. âYeah! Iâ I actually think itâs around this cornerâŠâ
You quicken your pace a little and look around the bend.Â
âThere!â
You point over to a mural painted on the side of an old brick store. It might have been a clothing store or a bookstore when you were growing up, but now, itâs probably something else.
Hobi smiles, watching you take it in. âWanna see it up close?â
The two of you look both ways to cross the street, even though the roads have long been empty for the evening. And you scamper over, even though the sidewalk is more ice than concrete during this time of year.Â
The mural depicts the main square of the town, including city hall, the smattering of surrounding restaurants and shops, and the sun rising brilliantly in the distance, bathing the town in purples, pinks, oranges, and yellows, so much like the scenes you saw on your peaceful, solitary, early morning walks to school.
âI hadnât seen this before,â you say, pressing a hand to the brick.
âItâs been a while since youâve been back,â Hobi remarks.
You glance over at him and grin.
âI mean, y-yâknow, like you said. And this mural has been here for a while, so, like, of course you havenât seen itâŠâ Hobi uneasily kicks at some snow, the toggles at the bottom of his coat bouncing.
The shell of him is a dapper, considerate gentleman, but so many of the boyish wisps of the younger Hobi you knew still seem to be there. His cheeks even puff up the same way when his lips pull together to grin happily at your warm gaze.
And his cheeks fall when yours suddenly do.
âYeah, Iâve⊠Iâve been a little overwhelmed at work,â you confess. âI couldnât even get home to see my father until months after his stroke. And I only stayed for a week.â You turn to Hobi. âI, uh, work in finance. I donât know if I said.â
âYou didnât really get the chance to,â Hobi says bitterly. His eyes grow shallow, and he takes a breath, letting the air, your air, fill his lungs. âBut you didnât have to, though. Your father bragged about you,â he laughs. âTo everyone in the hospital. To everyone in the town. He still does. Fancy schmancy Economics degree.â His cheeks puff up again, with your reflected starlight from all the galaxies youâve been visiting. âIs it really bragging when we all knew youâd go on to do such amazing things?â
You lower your eyes and kick at some snow yourself, the guilt starting to feel less like a weight on your shoulders and more like the townâs overly positive murmurs, hidden in their quick, surprised-to-see-you glances.Â
âWhatâs amazing?â you ask. âCrazy hours? No time with family? Itâs not as big of a deal as it sounds, believe me.â Your eyes settle back on Hobi. âLetâs talk more about you. What do you do?â You laugh nervously. âGod, that sounds so cringey. Iâm sorry. I canât believe I donât know.â
Hobi shrugs. âNot much to know. Just data entry. For the city.â He walks over to city hall on the mural, pointing to the west side. âMy office is somewhere in here.â He smiles. âBut I also volunteer on the community board. Weâre the ones who painted this mural, actually.â
âReally?â you ask brightly. You think of Hobi volunteering with the student council. Always helping. âWell, itâs absolutely gorgeous. You captured everything just the way I remembered it. It felt like a portal to the past. I couldnât stop staring.â
When you finally tear your eyes away, you find Hobi gazing at you.
Your eyes lock for a time.Â
Why do your lips feel tingly?Â
Maybe itâs because you feel like there are other things that Hobi wants to say.
What he chooses is, âWell, letâs get you home.â
The pie tin crinkles as Hobi grips it tighter and slowly starts back toward the path to your house.
You kind of wish heâd stay put.Â
Maybe thatâs the sort of thing you have to navigate when youâre with someone whoâs better with movements than with words.
Walking wordlessly with Hobi isnât terrible, though. Itâs been years, and you donât really know him all that well. Whatever you did know kind of eroded with time. Yet, thereâs a certain comfort that he brings. A comfort in somehow knowing. You donât care how he knows the path to your house. Youâre just thankful that he knows it, turning a blind eye when you momentarily doubt yourself on whether to go right or left at any given moment.
You see that your parents left the porch lights on for you, but you can tell that the TV is still on in the living room.
âGood thing,â you say to the blue and white shadows dancing on the window that you and your cousin broke when you were kicking the soccer ball around.
âHuh?â Hobi asks.
âI donât have my own set of keys,â you laugh. âItâs a good thing my parents are still awake.â
Hobi chuckles, watching you snake up the clear side of the walkway, covered by a short ledge jutting out from the roof, and climbing the porch steps.
He mimics your steps, but heâs perfectly happy standing in the ankle-deep snow, just before the bottom step.
You knock on the front door, polite even at your own home, and your parents are there in seconds, throwing it open and hugging you just like when you had first arrived into town.
Your fatherâs eyes catch Hobi just behind you.
âHey! Hoseok!â your father exclaims.
Hobi smiles and gives a little wave.
âCome up here,â you invite, extending your hand out.Â
Hobi waits for a moment, and then nods. Heâs never come this far before. He wants to remember every detail. How the wood of your porch steps feel under his feet. How much snow shakes off with his weight. How warm it must be inside your house, given the wave washing over him through the still-open front door. How your hands are never ice cold, even when theyâre reaching out to brush some snow that had fallen from the overhang of that ledge gutter and onto his neck.
âYou OK?â you laugh, as your mother extends her similarly warm hand as well.
âIâm fine,â he chuckles, as you both brush him off. His eyes find your fatherâs. âItâs good to see you again, sir.â
âGood to see you, too,â your father cheers, clapping a hand on Hobiâs shoulder.
Hobi is so overwhelmed that he just shoves the pie tin toward your father, who looks at you, amused, but confused.
âHobi was kind enough to walk me home and bring us some pie,â you explain, as your father accepts the gift.
âA thank you for the whisky,â Hobi replies, tasting some of it on his tongue.
âYou finish the whole bottle?â your father asks.
âMore or less,â Hobi admits, worried.Â
Your father turns to you and smiles. âGood!â
Hobi finally starts to relax when your mother takes the pie tin from your father and adds, âYouâll have to join us for dinner some time, then.âÂ
Both your and Hobiâs stomachs growl at the prospect of any dinner, though yours growls stronger, knowing how good of a cook she is.
Dinner reminds Hobi of duty, though, and it starts to call him back. âIâll let my fiancee know,â heâs sure to say.Â
âAre the boys still in town?â your father asks. âMaybe we can find a time before they leave? Open up another bottle in my collection?â Youâve never seen him so jovial.
âTheyâd absolutely love to see you.â Hobi extends his hand for a handshake, and he finds your fatherâs hands to be the warmest. He smiles happily. âIâll round them up.â He turns to your mother and smiles gratefully, keeping his eyes locked on hers as he nods toward you. âThanks for sparing her for a night.â
Your mother chuckles, charmed. âThanks for the pie. Weâll go put this inside,â she says, holding up the tin and placing a guiding hand on your fatherâs shoulder.
When left alone, you and Hobi lock eyes again. The cold is so bitter. You wonder if he feels it, too. Curious things, his eyes. Bright, yet sad.Â
Yours, too, Hobi thinks. The way you gravitated toward the mural and its sunnier, warmer days. He wonders what else mightâve tumbled out, had you both kept talking. Maybe that means leaving right there and then was for the better.
He holds out his hand. âThanks for coming,â he says. âIt was fun catching up.â
âIt was.â You tilt your head at Hobiâs hand. Instead of taking it, you look up at him and ask, âAm I gonna see you again?â The way it sounds coming out of your mouth. Youâre getting flustered. âI mean, the gang?â You feel yourself blushing. âBefore whatever my mother plans for dinner?â
Hobiâs hand slowly falls back to his side. âOh. Um, I donât know.â His lips wrinkle, and his teeth start chewing nimbly, as if stripping flesh from fishbone, needing to be delicate and careful lest he get cut. âThe community board has a lot of projects leading up to Christmas, so Iâll be sorta busy.â His eyes deepen as he tacks on, âBut itâd be cool if we did get to see each other again at some point.â
âCool,â you say, nodding. âUm, well⊠night.â
And then, you do the unexpected. The unthinkable.
You hug him.
You wrap your arms around him and actually hold him close to you.
And he holds you in return. Bodies pressed up against each other.Â
Strange.Â
Stirring.Â
You pull away, transformed.
But Hobi somehow looks the same. He looks the same as heâs always looked. And he looks at you the same way he did from the center of the tennis court. He looks at you the way heâs always looked at you.
âNight,â he says quietly.
He turns on his heel in one exquisite motion and heads down your porch steps, leaving the way you both came.
As you walk inside and close the door behind you, you stare at the empty hallway, hearing your parents digging into the apple pie, and then subsequently commenting disappointedly that itâs over-baked. Between their verdict and the clatter of their spoons in the sink, you take a moment to climb the stairs and look around your room and see more than just the new bedspread that your mother prepared for you, or the suitcase you dragged along with you. You see all the things that made it your room.Â
Including your senior yearbook.
You walk over to your bookshelf. You donât know what tells you to look at the inside of the back cover, but you do.
Taehyung told you to have a great summer. Jin signed his name in huge, looping letters. Jungkook drew your school mascot giving you the finger. Jimin signed his name and decorated it with little stars and silly, smiley faces. Namjoon wrote a long and touching message about how heartwarming and meaningful it is that you both got to share time together in this journey called life. And, given your choice of major, Yoongi drew a picture of Karl Marx frowning disapprovingly and telling you, âBoooooooâ.
But written there, in small, uneven handwriting, sitting like a whisper in the bottom corner, is a message from Hobi that reads, âWishing that all your dreams come true.â
Your parents call down for you, asking if you want any coffee.Â
But before you can answer, you mumble a quiet, simple, surprised, ââŠHuh.â
Just as Hobi is turning the second corner that completely hides your house from sight, staring down and following his ice-cold feet while whispering to himself, ââŠShit.â
Your motherâs smiling face greets you happily.Â
Too happily.
âDonât you love this bedspread?â she sighs. â400-count thread. And itâs bamboo!â
âEarly,â you croak, rolling over in bed and hiding from the sun. âLoud.â
âYou have a visitor,â she whispers, pulling your arm out from under the covers.
âTell them to come back later!â you groan, snapping your arm back inside. You all may still look relatively like your teenage selves, but hangovers in your 30s are a million times worse.
âHurry up!â your mother insists. âItâs one of the boys! That cute, shrewd, little one! Heâs been waiting!â
You try to make yourself as presentable as possible, tying your hair up as you waddle down the stairs and startle to find a catastrophic-looking Yoongi leaning in your front doorway.
âYou remembered?â you ask sleepily.
Yoongi tries not to lean too hard on the double meaning when he answers, âProject.â
You start to remember, too. During the last semester of your senior year, Yoongi spent a few Saturdays walking to your house, sitting at your kitchen table, and fighting you on every paragraph and slide in your Economics project, as he ate the taquitos and pizza bagels your mother would make for you.
âSaw your dad a minute ago,â Yoongi mumbles, his voice rumbling from his chest and scraping everything upwards along with it. As painful as it sounds for him to speak, his voice is still smooth and pleasant to your ears. âHe looks well.â
âMmhmm,â you say, offering a bit of a smile as you scratch your shoulder and open your mouth wide.
Yoongi squeezes his eyes shut at your ensuing yawn, the force of all of your tired muscles jam-packed into one fierce wall of sound. As you force the rest out in a breath through rounded lips, the top of the bridge of his nose crinkles.
Wincing, you whisper, âSorry.âÂ
âNope,â he winces. âMe. Iâm sorry. To wake you.â
When Yoongi opens his eyes again, you offer more of a smile, now that your face can handle it. âIâm happy to see you,â you reassure him. More of your thoughts threaten to spill out, but you grab them just before they leap off the tip of your tongue. Instead of asking how Hobi is, or where he is, or why heâs not there with him, you manage to say, âHad fun last night. Thanks for inviting me.â
Yoongiâs eyes give you a skeptical once over, a look that sends you right back into your classroom, when your teacher preached on the benefits of trickle-down economics.
âYou know why I invited you to that awkward as fuck dinner, right?â he asks.
Is that what this is? An attempt at an explanation of some sort? If an explanation is needed, it definitely doesnât need to come from Yoongi, and it certainly doesnât need to be delivered to you. âI mean,â you begin to point out, âitâs not your fault that dinner was awkward as fuck.â
âBut do you know why I invited you?â he asks. âAnd why it was awkward to begin with?â
You blink heavily to clear your eyes and get a better look at him. He leans forward a little, slumping around your wall, shoulders hunched and neck bending this way and that to see if your parents are around.Â
âReally,â Yoongi sighs as he straightens and mulls things over. âSo weâre doing this.â
Yoongi always was a master of intrigue.Â
âWhat are you talking about?â you ask.
He seems aggravated. âIâve got another invitation for you,â he says. âCome have breakfast with us at the diner by city hall. We were planning on just walking around town and shooting the shit.â Yoongi grimaces. âNurse our hangovers together.â
âOK,â you say, nodding your head at the prospect of bacon, bread, and Bloody Marys.Â
You reach for your trench coat on the hook and wrap it around you, fingers too sleepy or lazy to worry about buttons, clumsy fists saving them by tying your belt tight around your waist.
Youâre pretty sure Yoongiâs stride wasnât like this in high school. Was it always this fast? Aside from his time on the court, your memories of him contain more of a lackadaisical, almost comical, mosey. Yet, on this morning, flames might as well be melting the snow in Yoongiâs wake.
âCan weâ Can slow down?â you gently ask, your breath fogging, and your eyes squinting to keep the sunlight out.
âActually, can you speed up?â Yoongi asks, burdened.
You stop in your tracks, on the same part of the sidewalk where you liked to draw your hopscotch squares. âIâm sorry, are you annoyed with me?â You frown. âYou donât have to feel obligated to invite me to things just because we knew each other forever ago.â
Yoongi sighs and whirls around, marching back to you and huffing.
âYou mean youâre not just playing dumb given the circumstances?â he demands. âYou really donât know?â
âI donât know what I did to deserve whatever this is,â you challenge.
Yoongi slumps. He scratches his head. âAh, OK, Iâm sorry⊠Itâs just thatâŠâ
In all the time that it took to get to you that morning â the shower he took, the shave he had, the headache, and the groaning, and the stumbling over his friendsâ sleeping bodies, and the finding clothes to borrow, and the painful, cold walk to your house â Yoongi still hadnât decided whether he was going to tell you, but here it comes, thoughts spilling out of his mouth rather than yours.
âHobi was really glad to see you,â he says, in the softer voice that youâre more familiar with.Â
You stiffen at the mention of Hobiâs name. âWell, thatâs good,â you manage to squeak.Â
âNo, but he was, like, really glad to see you.â Yoongi watches as the muscles in your cheeks, where the yeonji gonji might go, tighten and dimple happily. âAnd it seems like you were really glad to see him, too.â
You take back the smile and force a frown.Â
Yoongi narrows his eyes back at you.
But then you surrender.
âMy mother said you were shrewd,â you admit.
Yoongiâs eyes stay narrow, but that smug smirk makes its first of what will likely be a million appearances for the day.
âAs are you,â he says. âSo forgive me for being so frustrated to find out that after all of these years, you have never so much as suspected that Hobi was, and still is, madly in love with you.â
Hobi sneaks his fingers behind his round, black frames and rubs his eyes in insistent circles. Everything is still way too blurry.
Jimin rolls his eyes and leans forward, snatching the glasses from their perch on Hobiâs nose. He pushes two, throaty, open-mouth breaths that condense on the lenses and starts wiping them down using the soft hem of a borrowed tennis team sweatshirt.Â
âAw, now my sweatshirt is gonna have stains on it,â Hobi groans.
Namjoon leans forward to reach for the cream and sugar at the end of the table, but the collision with Jungkookâs elbow spills syrup on both of their borrowed musical show shirts, remnants splashing onto the text denoting Hobiâs dance captain status on Namjoonâs version. Immediately after impact, Namjoon blinks at Jungkook, and then they blink at Hobi.
âWhy are you all even wearing my stuff??â Hobi complains, as Namjoon and Jungkook reach for napkins, and Hobi yanks off his baseball cap, scratching his head in annoyance before replacing it higher on the crown of his head. Presumably to vent more of the angry fumes.Â
âWe needed to change,â Taehyung says innocently, wide-eyed and soft-voiced, banana chocolate chip muffin bites clumped in his left cheek, and banana chocolate chip muffin crumbs falling onto the stitching of the borrowed Senior Class of 2006 shirt.
âSo you went into my attic?!â Hobi grunts with aggravation. âYou have clothes! At your houses!â
Jimin nods along, handing Hobi his glasses back. âYeah, and we crashed at your house, soââ
âWeâre getting distracted!â Jin snaps, rolling up the sleeves of Hobiâs student council hoodie and leaning forward. He meets Hobiâs eyes and furrows his brow. âTell us again what events youâre volunteering for so that we get the schedule exactly right.â
âI ask you every year if you want to volunteer, and you all always bail,â Hobi says.
Jimin pushes a plate of bacon towards him. âWe definitely want to help this year,â he says, with an earnest, knowing grin. âPromise.â
Hobi sighs, relenting at the smell of that crispy, applewood bacon, sourced ethically and locally from the nearby farm. âFine.â He reaches for a strip and chews on it as he talks. âItâs really just the three big ones that need the most volunteers: the winter carnival tonight, carol singing tomorrow for Christmas Eve, and the play on Christmas Day.â
Jimin looks like he immediately regrets being so earnest.
âWhat do you need us to do?â Namjoon asks, as Jungkook clumps their syrupy napkins together.
Hobi tilts his head toward the square outside, where people are already starting to set up. âWell, there are still a few carnival booths that donât have back-up support. We want two people at each station so that people can take breaks or manage bigger crowds. Especially for the hot chocolate booth.âÂ
âOK, so weâll manage the remaining booths,â Jin says, nodding. âWhat about the carol singing?â
âJust want more people to join,â Hobi says. âAll your usual standards. No practice or anything.â He smiles a little, just for himself. âWeâll be singing by the mural.â
âDone,â Jin continues. âAnd the play?â
âNeed people to be around to help out generally,â Hobi answers. âHand people props. Make sure kids donât fall off the stage.â He slumps a little. âSpread the word, so that thereâs actually an audience.â
âIs it The Twelve Days of Christmas?â Jungkook asks eagerly.
âItâs always The Twelve Days of Christmas,â Taehyung yawns.
Jungkook hums happily and wiggles side-to-side in his seat.Â
âWhereâs Yoongi?â Hobi wonders suddenly. âI donât want to rattle off all these details again just for him to put it to a vote.â
Jimin grins again, that same knowing smile. âOh, donât worry, Hobi. You know how good he is with plans.â
You usually like walking in complete silence, but youâve never walked in complete silence with someone before. Youâve only traveled a couple of miles, but you almost expect to look over and see your empty apartment rather than the diner edging into view.
Suddenly, you find yourself bursting with questions.
âLove?â
âLove.âÂ
Yoongi stares straight ahead, hearing Hobiâs voice listing every single thing that he loves about you. He echoes each sentence, starting with the little things, like how Hobi loves the way your smile widens first at your right cheek, and then at your left, and ending with the big things, like how Hobi wishes that youâd be a little looser. That, if youâd let your ultimately petty anxieties and frustrations go, maybe youâd feel lighter.
âH-he knows that about me?â you stutter.
âThereâs a power to his observations, isnât there?â Yoongi says with reverence.
You almost feel Hobiâs gaze on you now. Warming you. Protecting you from the odd arctic blast shuffling through the vent in your trench coat, or through the strands of Yoongiâs hair.
âBut why me?â you mumble.
Yoongi searches through the responses that heâd memorized over the years, from the high school admiration to the off-hand mentions of you throughout the years since. âBecause youâre his Dream Girl,â Yoongi finishes, simply shrugging.
How you could be anybodyâs Dream Girl is beyond you.
âHeâs in there?â you ask nervously. âRight now?â
Yoongi just nods, though you see that his smirk is still in full effect.
âHe told you how he felt?â
âI just gave you the CliffsNotes.â
Even with Yoongi rattling off the proof, you ask, âAnd he still feels this way?â
Yoongiâs head exaggeratedly rolls around with a furiatingly mocking circumference. âOh yeah.â
âHe told you that he still feels this way?â you clarify.
After years of clutch free-throws and three-pointers, Yoongiâs long been able to mask his flinches expertly, reincorporating them into the motion he wants, which at this point, is an elegant turn, as he faces you and walks backwards.
âCanât you tell?â he asks.Â
You finally let yourself smile, your heart filling and threatening to overflow. But the tap shuts off. Youâre the one who turns the knob.
âBut⊠itâs too late,â you say quietly. The strange energy with which Hobi sent you into the sky must dissipate somewhere, and you suspect that Yeong-ja isnât exactly welcoming the blast.
Yoongiâs eyes meet yours. âThis kind of thing is unshakeable. Iâve never seen someone more in love, and he just happens to be in love with you.â
You sigh. âWhatâs the point of bringing this all up now?â you ask, tamping down the erratic pulse in your veins. âThis is an impossible situation. I feel guilty even entertaining any sort of thought thatââ You shake your head. âI donât even want to talk about this anymore.â
As Yoongi swivels his hips to cross the main street with you, a self-assured âOKâ falls from his lips, which then form a grin. âBut Iâm telling you. I donât think this is the end of it.â
âYes, it is.â
âBet?â
âAgainst an economist?â
Yoongiâs nostrils flare. âScared to put your reputation on the line?â
You glower. âBet.â
âI guess weâll see, then.â Yoongi chuckles. âDream Girl.â
Eyes narrowing, you spit out, âYou know, my mother also calls you the little one.â
âNot little in the ways that count.â Yoongiâs confidence is magnificently enticing. âThatâs not all your mom said, though, is it?â
You roll your eyes.
Yoongi reaches out for the handle and holds the diner door open for you.Â
âGo on. What else does she say about me?â he teases.
You sigh, unable to help it. âThat youâre cute,â you mumble.
As you walk inside, he serves you a toothy, gummy grin, with a side of a winningly arched eyebrow.
You feel Hobiâs eyes on you as soon as you clear the booth wall by the entrance.
Hobiâs head swivels toward the group, and all of their heads lean into the center of the table.
âWhat is she doing here??â Hobi whispers. âIf Yeong-ja so much as sniffs her anywhere on meââ
âWho said sheâd be on you?â Jin teases, making Hobi turn scarlet. âBesides. After last night, we felt that we owed her a decent meal.â
You miss all of this as Yoongi chats with you, leading you to their favorite table.
âHave a seat. Anywhere you like,â Jimin offers, as Yoongi pulls out the two chairs closest to you, and you smile at the subtle dig.
âOh, thatâs OK,â you hesitate. âI donât mean to interrupt.â
âWe ordered for 8,â Taehyung insists, as Jungkook nods, his mouth full of pancakes. âAnd thereâs more coming.â
Jungkook tries to say something, bits of pancake fluff sticking out of his mouth.
You look at him, quizzically charmed.
âWe got one of everything,â Taehyung translates, as Jimin laughs softly and rubs the crown of Jungkookâs head with his hand.
As you take a seat next to Yoongi, you grin at the entire group, unable to tell whether youâre really seeing them, or flipping through more pictures from your yearbook. âHang on. Why are you all wearing Hobiâs high school stuff?â
Hobi has been gazing at you this entire time, a soft smile on his lips. When you turn to him for an answer, he looks startled.Â
âOh, uh,â he garbles, sitting up and blinking.
âSuffice to say weâre all still hungover,â Jin replies, nodding insistently at Hobi. âIn fact, Hobi was just asking why you were here.â Jin bites his lip and raises his eyebrows. âRight?â
âUh, y-yeah, I just was⊠well I was asking because I didnât expect you to see you here because, uhâŠâ Hobi looks at you so worriedly that you canât help but smile again. He settles into his body, knees no longer bouncing, speech no longer rushed. âI mean, we walked home kinda late. And we had all that whisky. So I thought you might want to sleep in.âÂ
He gazes at you, and you feel the whisky in your veins.Â
âDid you sleep OK?â he asks.
A hush falls over the group as they wait for your response.
You let yourself gaze back only for a moment when you say, âI did.â You look at the rest of the group to make sure you donât cross any boundaries. âI was basically out as soon as my head hit the pillow.â You yawn and push out the rest of your sentence. âThanks for inviting me to breakfast. Even though I didnât get the memo about the dress code.â
âAw, you look great,â Hobi says softly. âLike always.â
Your head automatically turns to him, and your lips automatically smile gratefully. âWell, thatâsâŠâÂ
You catch Yoongi wiggling his eyebrows at you in your periphery, and you crinkle your nose. âThatâs very nice of you to say, Hobi. But I definitely donât.â You laugh sheepishly. Self-deprecation is only making you cuter. âI havenât even showered yet! So gross!â
Your neck stretches out from your trench coatâs collar as you take your hair down, shaking it free, and back, away from the table.Â
âSee? So greasy!âÂ
You scratch your head and lean your neck to your left to give it a stretch before flipping your hair the other way to re-do your bun. The stretch feels so good that a little bit of a satisfied hum comes through your pressed lips.
The guys watch you with rapt attention.
And then they all slowly turn to Hobi, barely able to contain themselves.
Flushed, Hobi jumps to his feet, his knees hitting the underside of the table and rattling everyoneâs plates. âCool, well, Iâve gotta go!â he says suddenly, dragging his voice up from the floor with a struggle. âWe, uh, have a projectââ
The guys start snickering.
âA community project, uh meeting,â Hobi spits out.
âHobi just recruited us to volunteer at the winter carnival tonight,â Namjoon tells you. He grins evilly. âWould you wanna join us?â
The group falls over themselves, trying to get you to say yes, even starting to chant âYesâ, as Jungkook slowly choo-choo-trains a plate of blueberry waffles across the table toward you.
Laughing, and even though you catch Yoongiâs smug face again, you say, âUh⊠sure?â
Hobiâs eyes widen.
Thereâs a chance butterflies might escape as you look up at Hobi and open your mouth to ask, âWhat do you need volunteers for?â
Before Hobi can backpedal, Namjoon says, âWanna sling hot chocolate with me?â
Feeling safe knowing that youâll be with Namjoon all evening, you nod and say, âHot chocolate sounds perfect. Weâll be able to stay warm.â
Namjoon looks back at Hobi. âSo warm.â
âAlright, well, sort the rest of the booths out amongst yourself, and Iâll see you all tonight!â Hobi says quickly, shoving his hand into his back pocket. He pulls out some indeterminate amount of cash and hands it to Jin angrily.Â
Jinâs high-pitched giggles chase Hobi as he rushes out of the diner. As he arranges the bills into a neat stack in his hands, Jin turns back to you and says, âWell, looks like breakfast is on him. Wanna order anything else?â
âNo, I think Iâll just get some coffee to go,â you reply. âBring some back for my parents.â You turn to Namjoon. âIâll meet you at the stand tonight?â
Namjoon gives you a dimple, and you laugh softly.
Jungkook nudges the blueberry waffles even closer to you. You stare at it a little, and then look at the six grinning faces around you. You take one and laugh lightly.
You place your other hand on Yoongiâs shoulder as you stand. Your eyes say, Nice try.
His eyes keep saying, Weâll see.
You get up and walk to the counter to order your coffee.
Unbeknownst to you, the guys watch as you munch on your blueberry waffle and fall in line, and then, when theyâre absolutely sure youâre out of earshot, they crowd together, more of Hobiâs clothes getting sugar and coffee and syrup and butter on them.
âYou got the schedule?â Yoongi asks solemnly.
âCarnival tonight, carol singing tomorrow night, The Twelve Days of Christmas the night after that,â Jin answers.
Yoongi pulls out the piece of notebook paper that he was able to save the night before.Â
The piece of notebook paper that will hopefully save their Hobi.
âProject Dream Girl 2.0 has to right its predecessorsâ wrongs if we have any chance of success,â he states firmly.Â
âThe last plan was a semester long, and we failed. You really think we can do it in the next three days?â Taehyung asks.
âWeâve just gotta focus the energy,â Yoongi says. âAnd I think everyone can tell thereâs a lot of energy.â
The group murmurs in agreement as he unfolds the paper, their collective writing, and some of Jungkook and Jiminâs doodling, further bridging the gap in time.Â
Yoongi taps on the main three points of the first project. âObviously, the Valentineâs Day carnation thing was too subtle,â he says. âWe played it too safe, or maybe we were trying to be too clever, pretending the message was from me. This wonât work if we donât force more straightforward, direct interactions between Hobi and Dream Girl over there.â
They all glance your way, but youâre too busy finishing your waffle and catching up with the diner owner as you place and wait for your coffee order.
âWeâve gotta run interference,â Yoongi replies. âWe have to keep Yeong-ja away at all times.â
âUgh,â Jimin remarks. âAnnoying.â
âBut it makes sense,â Namjoon adds.
Yoongi moves onto the next bullet point. âJust asking her to attend the musical didnât work either. She only went to one show, and she kept getting accosted by all of our teachers asking her about her college plans. So weâve gotta make sure she stays engaged. Participates.â
âGot it,â Jungkook replies dutifully, as Taehyung crosses his arms and gives one, curt nod.
âWe got the closest with the tennis match. That one came down to bad timing,â Yoongi replies. He mumbles the next words with zero remorse. âThat tutoring job. Those stupid kids.â He takes a deep breath. âHobi clearly needs help moving things along. We can help give context to things. Direct the conversation a bit. Get him to express himself more.â Yoongi smiles at Jin. âWhat you did earlier. Getting him to talk. All that saccharine shit that came out after. That was masterful.â
As Jimin mimics you tossing your hair again, and Jungkook gazes at him with hearts in his eyes, everyone laughs, and Jin smiles proudly. But definitely not humbly.
âSo thatâs it? Thatâs why we failed? It all came down to a lack of focus, and poor timing?â Taehyung asks. âIsnât there anything else we can do?â
âProject Dream Girlâs biggest weakness wasnât the timeline, or the strategy,â Yoongi says. âIt was that Dream Girl wasnât in on it.â He smiles. âAnd now, she kinda is.â
The groupâs eyes find you again, starting to scoop up your three coffees, and turning to glance out the bay window, watching Hobi head toward city hall.
âWill they have hot toddies?â your father asks. âI like hot toddies. I even like the name. âToddiesâ?â He sniffs.Â
âYou just like the whisky,â your mother points out.
Your fatherâs train of thought keeps chugging. âLike, attractive, tiny guys named Todd?â
âHave you already had some today?â you ask from the backseat, making both of your parents laugh heartily.
Your father finds non-snow-covered-tree parking pretty easily, swooping into a spot not too far from the entrance to the carnival. They both get out of the car, but you frown and struggle with your door handle. âAppa!â you call out. âEomma!â You knock on the glass window. âThe child locks are on??â
âAh, sorry,â your father apologizes before they walk too far. He walks back to the driverâs side and opens the door, pressing the button on the panel that will free you.
You step out of the car, looking much more presentable, and comfortable, in your jeans, sweater, puffy coat, and boots, the added shimmer of your highlighter and eyeshadow making you pop against the night sky, dotted with winter stars, and all sorts of Christmas twinkle and tea lights.
âReally?â you ask with a pout. âThe child locks were still on when you dropped me off at school.â
Your father swings an arm around you and kisses the top of your head as the three of you head toward the carnival.
âAfter we get your hot toddy, weâd better get a head start on the food,â your mother replies excitedly, eyes widening. âMrs. Park said sheâd be making bungeo-ppang. And Mr. Gwanâs nearly perfected his new hodugwaja recipe.â
âHe still runs the bakery?â you ask.
Your mother nods and runs a tongue across her lips in anticipation. She turns to your father. âIf itâs as good as he was bragging about last week, I might leave you for him.â
âHell, I might leave you for him,â your father says, raising his eyebrows and licking his lips as well.
âWell, you two have fun,â you laugh. âIâm gonna go find Namjoon.â
âSave us some hot chocolate for later!â your mother calls to you, as your father lovingly pokes her stomach and wonders aloud whether or not theyâll even have room for it by then.
Itâs easy enough to navigate through the small crowd, and tall, broad, plaid button-upped and puffy-vested Namjoon isnât exactly hard to miss, even while sitting down and hunched over the table at the hot chocolate booth.Â
âHey,â you say, as you approach him.
He keeps his eyes on his laptop for a moment before scooting forward and pausing the video he is watching on his laptop. Turning to you and smiling happily, he says, âOh, hey!â He turns into mush. âYou look so pretty. Hobiâs gonna think so.â
You blush. âHuh?â
He stares at you with a goofy smile for a full minute before you slip your hands into the back pockets of your jeans, rise up on your tiptoes, look around awkwardly, and say, âSoooâŠâ
Namjoon startles and clears his throat. âSorry! So, uh, where are your parents?â
âWalking around and checking things out,â you answer. âGetting food.â
âTheyâd better get to Mr. Gwanâs first,â Namjoon remarks. âHeâs already about to run out, and the huge crowd hasnât even hit yet.â
âOh snap.â You pull your phone out from your coat pocket and text your mother quickly.Â
Luckily, she sends you a picture of her and your father in line, as Mr. Gwan happily prepares their order.
âTheyâve secured the bag,â you say, grinning and showing Namjoon the adorable photo.Â
As Namjoon takes your phone from you and gushes at your parents, you put your phone back in your pocket and look around. The booth is fully stocked with twin, large, professional, metal hot chocolate dispensers, whipped cream cans, and big bowls of marshmallows, graham cracker dust, candy canes and peppermint shavings, and other toppings.
âSeems like this was an easy enough setup,â you comment, as Namjoon hands you back your phone.
âI didnât do a thing, actually,â he admits. âAnd, apparently, all we have to do now is, uh⊠keep putting out cups, and make sure nobody steals anything, and, uhâŠâ He looks up at the sky. âUh⊠call the community board leader when we run out of hot chocolate, and⊠there was one more thing Jimin and I were supposed to doâŠâ
You smile, raising your eyebrows slightly. âYou OK there, Namjoon?â
âOh, yeah! Iâm goooood. I was just watching a movie. I thought we could watch something Christmas-y while working the booth.â
Itâs only then, when Namjoonâs eyes snap back to yours, that you see how red his eyes are. He leans into you urgently. âOK, also? Full disclosure: my sister and I got high before we came here.â His wide eyes blink just once. âPlease donât be mad.â
âMad?â You crack up laughing. âYou got anymore?â you ask, wiggling your eyebrows.
Namjoon scratches the back of his head. âAh, fuck, Iâm sorry. We smoked the entire blunt.âÂ
âAlright,â you joke, playfully rolling your eyes, âI wonât be mad if you save some for me next time.â
âYouâre so much cooler than Yeong-ja,â Namjoon sighs contentedly.
You let the weird comment hang in the air, dodging it as you walk around the table and take the seat next to him. âWell then, what are we watching?â you ask.Â
Namjoonâs eyes light up. âItâs a series called Extreme Engineering Catastrophes!â he says excitedly.
âVery Christmas-y,â you comment.
âWell, I was watching one of those cheesy holiday movies a little while ago, but I got kinda bored,â he admits.
You chuckle as Namjoon unpauses the video, turns up the volume, catches you up on the current catastrophe, and fills in the details with his own notes, providing historical background that led to all the mayhem. Political influence. Labor protests. Forced shortcuts.
And Namjoon finds it refreshing that you actually ask questions. Usually, the guys literally leave him to his own devices.
Youâre so absorbed that you donât realize how quiet your stand has grown until someone asks, âAre there more cups?â
You and Namjoon look up and see Jimin, in one of his red, signature boutique sweaters, staring at Namjoonâs forehead, and tapping the bare table.
âAh, right, more cups,â Namjoon says quickly.Â
âI think a shipment has just arrived,â Jimin tells him. âMaybe we can go, uh, get some.âÂ
âOh, Iâll go with you,â you offer.
âNo, Iâll go,â Namjoon says, standing. âThey might be heavy.â
You raise your eyebrows. âPaper cups?â
âCan you just hang out here in case anybody comes?â
âBut⊠there arenât any cups?â you point out.
âWe canât leave the booth unattended,â Namjoon dutifully recites. âIâll be right back!â
Jimin leans over and does something with some strands of your hair, slightly moving them out of your face, and gives you a little wave before grabbing Namjoon by the elbow and talking quickly into his ear, the two of them scampering off into the thickening crowd.
You furrow your brow and look around your stand. There are unopened boxes of extra graham crackers, candy canes, and whipped cream cans. So there must be other things there, too.
You reach for the tablecloth and lift it up to check.
There are four boxes of 500-count paper cups under the table.
âWhereâs Namjoon?âÂ
You look back up and see Hobi standing there, frowning.
âHe and Jimin went to go look for more cups, butâŠâÂ
You bend over, top half disappearing under the table, missing the way Hobiâs eyes widen at the sight of your ass poking out and wiggling. You remerge with an already-opened box, just half of one sleeve of cups having been used, and hold it up, confused.Â
ââŠTheyâre right here?â
âUgh,â Hobi sighs. âAnd Jimin was here, too? He went missing ages ago!âÂ
He pulls out his phone to post a warning in the group chat.
Hobi (7:42 PM): If your two assholes donât get back to your booths, Iâm going to kill you!Â
Taehyung (7:42 PM): Who are you talking to?
Yoongi (7:42 PM): Whichever one of us has two assholes.
Jin (7:42 PM): đ€Ł
âDammit!â Hobi exclaims suddenly. âThey promised they were going toâ All the booths are supposed toââÂ
Hobi runs through all the details he had covered that morning, anger starting to build in places of promises dismantled, an engineering disaster all its own.
But you soften him with one reassuring smile.
You rip open the rest of the sleeve of cups that you had pulled and start setting them out. At the sight of more cups, people start to head your way and make their own drinks.
âAll the booths are supposed to what?â you ask, fanning out the accompanying paper cup holders.
Hobi huffs. âAll the booths are supposed to have two people. Those idiots. I swear.â
You look at him, and for some reason, think of Yoongiâs smug grin.
Hobi sighs and joins you on the other side, grabbing another sleeve of cups and hastily setting them down.
âIâll just hang here until he gets back, I guess,â he mumbles, looking around for snippy community board officials.
âDonât let me keep you,â you insist.
âNo, IâŠâ Hobi trails off, when he sees your golden eyeshadow. âUm, I mean⊠I donât⊠I donât want to leave youâŠâ
You tilt your head, the light shimmering off of your lids as you move.
âAlone!â Hobi adds quickly. âI donât want to leave you alone.â
You stand next to each other. Hovering. Smiling. Watching as people make their hot chocolate. Some stick with marshmallows, while others reach for the whipped cream. Some dump in everything but. One empties their flask first.
When the crowd dissipates, you turn to Hobi curiously and grin. âHow do you make hot chocolate?â you ask.
Hobi rubs his eye behind his glasses, the top of his yellow beanie flitting back and forth. âMe?â
âYeah,â you say. âWhat kind of toppings do you like to put on?â
âIâm a purist,â Hobi says defiantly.Â
âWhat!â You shake your head. âNo. That wonât do.â
âOh, it wonât?â Hobi laughs.
âListen,â you say, reaching for two cups, âI get it.â You pour them three-fourths full, and then you center them between you. âI was a purist once. Didnât even like the milk chocolate mixes. Only made it with 80% cacao.â You reach for the whipped cream cans and spiral two perfect clouds on top. âBut thereâs nothing wrong with having a little fun every once in a while, right?â you ask innocently, giving Hobi a wink.
Hobi wonders what it would be like to be able to freeze a moment. Not just take a picture of one. Actually freeze a moment. He wishes he could make it happen right then, when your eyelids shut, and your tongue separates your teeth with that right-cheek-led smile.Â
Some people approach you and make their own cups as you talk.
You reach for one of the spoons in the peppermint shavings and sprinkle some into the whipped cream. Next comes the graham cracker dust, matching your golden eyes.
âNo marshmallows?â Hobi asks, laughing.
âWith the whipped cream?â you ask. âThat would be overkill. And marshmallows donât give a firm enough canvas to paint on.â
He laughs again, and you pick up the two colorful cups, handing one to him.
âShall we?â you ask, gesturing to the empty chairs behind you.
Hobi nods, and you both take your seats.
He eyes the laptop screen. Itâs paused on a shot of someone in glasses and a blazer, mid-sentence.Â
âWhat are you watching?â he asks.
âOh, this is Namjoonâs,â you reply.
âPlease donât tell me that itâs one of his documentaries,â Hobi says flatly.Â
âItâs about, like, bridge disasters?â you laugh, as you reach over and unpause the video.Â
âOK?â he chuckles. âOdd, but OK.â
âIt actually is kinda interesting,â you muse. âWe watched, like, five of these horrible accidents, and it always comes down to some design flaw, and, like, people taking shortcuts, or columns not being reinforced by steel or something.â
âHey, now. Spoilers.â
You giggle and turn back to the screen, as Hobi brings his cup of hot chocolate to his lips and steals one more glance at you.
âThe Almö bridge was supported by an arch, which, at the time, was the longest arch in the world,â the host narrates. Then, B-roll plays of a thin man wearing frameless glasses walking intently toward the camera while looking over his shoulder at a harbour.
âOoh, I bet this guy knows a ton about arches,â you joke, at the sight of him.
Hobi chokes into his hot chocolate, whipped cream dolloping on his chin, and peppermint shards and cocoa spilling out and onto his hoodie, threatening to widen to puddles when diagrams of arches show up all over the screen, as the thin man keeps making arches with his hands while talking.
âAhhh, Iâm sorry,â you laugh, reaching over to the coffee table for some napkins and leaning over to dab the droplets. âHaha, that was dumb.â
As you reach up to wipe his face, Hobi grins, just happily looking up at you, until you slowly realize what youâre doing.
âSorry,â you say again stiffly. You sit back and hand Hobi the napkin instead.
âYouâreâŠâ Hobi just watches you, bewildered by how simple it all is. âYouâre incredible.â
Usually, your chest is tight with anxiety. Hard deadlines, huge ledgers, and a revolving door of co-workers who are meaner and more inept than those that came before them. But now, your chest tightens due to warmth. A different kind of anxiety. The kind that tells you that youâre playing with fire.
âHobi,â you say, unsure. âI⊠I donât want to make things, like, weird, or anything, but⊠Iâve beenâŠâ
You clear your throat and take a breath.
âIâve beenââ
âIâve been looking for you!â
You feel your hot chocolate slosh around in your cup when you and Hobi, startled, whip around to find Yeong-ja dragging Namjoon and Jimin up to your both with her.
âYeobo!â she says through a grit-toothed smile. âDidnât you get my texts? Calls?â
âSorry, we were justâŠâ Hobi gestures to the rest of the crowd by the booth. âYâknow.â
From the look on her face, Yeong-ja doesnât know.Â
âWorking,â Hobi answers.
âThis is a self-service booth,â she points out. She glances at you before adding, âWhy are you even here? You said you were helping with the horse carriage rides.â
âItâs my fault,â Namjoon pipes up. âI was, uh, looking for cups.â
Yeong-ja points to the cups on the table. âThese cups?â
âWow,â Namjoon says, placing his hand on his chin. âIsnât it funny how the things we search for are often right in front of us, all along?â
Hobi scowls.
âSave it for the political pundits,â Yeong-ja says. âGod knows how you tend to go on and on and on.â
âBut we were having such a great conversation!â Jimin insists. âNamjoon did so great on that show!â Though Jimin slaps Namjoon on the back, Jimin is the one who winces. âAbsolutely riveting!âÂ
âWhat was the topic I was speaking on?â Namjoon asks dubiously.
Jimin ignores the question and pulls on his sweater. âAnd I was telling you both about how Iâm almost sold out of all my Christmas designsââ
âHonestly, Jimin, Iâm surprised youâre opening another location because those cheap sweaters look like they shrink in the wash,â Yeong-ja says quickly. She ignores Jiminâs death stare and whispered curses as she turns back to Hobi.
âMr. Gwan ran out of hodugwaja. I was waiting for you.â
âYeobo, I was working,â Hobi replies. âSpeaking of which, Jimin, can you please go back to the ring toss game? Jinâs starting to rig it so that nobody beats his high score.â
Jimin gladly takes the chance to scurry away.
âThis isnât work. Youâre volunteering to be here.â Yeong-ja eyes you. âEither way, Iâm sure youâve done enough to earn yourself a visit to the hot toddy stand, at least?â she asks, turning back to Hobi. âWeâll get just one. A virgin. To share.â Her eyebrows knit. âNo more alcohol for you. You looked like absolute shit this morning.â
Hobiâs eyes set into thin lines. âThen I guess Iâll stick with this hot chocolate.â
Yeong-ja looks apoplectic.
âRelax, Iâm going with you,â Hobi replies begrudgingly.Â
He rounds the table and joins Yeong-ja at his rightful place on her hip.
âNice to see you again,â she unnecessarily lies to you.
âCheers,â you say with a smirk, holding up your hot chocolate at eye-level.
She smiles too broadly before she whisks Hobi away. And Hobi sinks when he turns back and watches you making Namjoon his own serving of your perfect hot chocolate.Â
The only drink in the world that matters.
âWhatâs with you lately?â Yeong-ja asks.
But Hobi genuinely doesnât hear her. Heâs too busy thinking of his own question. And it hurts that he canât seem to answer it.Â
He just canât remember the last time he and Yeong-ja laughed together.
You set two cups of somehow still piping hot chocolate down on the kitchen table, next to a small bag of somehow still crispy hodugwaja.
The winter carnival always did work its magic, blanketing the town in an ultra-festive spirit.
âI had to hide those in my bra,â your mother giggles. Her eyes widen suddenly and seriously. âPeople were getting combative.â
âTell me about it,â you mumble as you slip off your jacket and hang it on the back of your chair.
âWe saw the rest of the boys,â your father tells you, as he washes his hands in the kitchen sink. âYoongi gave me a run for my money at the free throw game.â He moves to dry his hands on the towel hanging off the oven door. âBut we didnât see Hobi.âÂ
âHe was busy,â you choose to say, unsure if youâd be able to explain things even if you thought it was worth it to do so.
âHe does so much for this town,â your mother observes, joining you at the table. She opens the bag of hodugwaja as you push her marshmallow and graham cracker dusted hot chocolate towards her. âAlways volunteering. Making things nice. Making things better.â
âCheering people up,â your father adds, standing next to you for a moment and plucking his cup of hot chocolate from the table. You smile as you watch him drink. Heâs a purist, too.
Your father smiles back at you as he sips. He lowers the cup from his lips and says, âIf I may, he seems to cheer you up quite a bit.â
âHe does,â your mother laughs. âItâs nice, seeing you smile.â
You ignore the knot in your stomach that has continued to tangle since the previous evening, and you choose to focus on the entire reason youâre back home in the first place.
âHe cheers you up even more,â you say, as your father sits next to you, forgoing his seat at the head of the table. âYou really like those guys.â
âI do,â he laughs. âThey remind me of me and my friends.â
âIt was kind of them to visit you in the hospital,â you say. You lean forward and rest your head in your hands. âHobi just happened to know you were there?â
âHe said was there for some other appointment, and he said he recognized our name on the nursesâ station board,â your father answers. âHe knocked on the door to say hi. And then he just kept visiting after that. Just chit-chattinâ.â
âWhat kind of stuff did you talk about?â
âWell, mostly you,â your father begins. âYour work. How much youâve accomplished. How little youâve changed. How proud we are of you.â He beams. âHobi had so many questions about you. How you were doing. When youâd be back in town next.â And then he straightens, as he sets down his cup. âWait, you havenât talked about this with him?â
You shake your head. âNot in detail. We havenât talked since high school.â
âBut I gave him your number,â your father says.
âWhat?â
âI hope thatâs OK,â your father says, eyes growing.
âThatâs fine,â you reassure him. âBut⊠well, he never called.â
âHuh.â Your father shrugs. âWell, maybe he remembered that you were really busy. We told him about how lonely you found the city. How stressed you were. How hard youâve been working.â
âYou did?â you ask, a little embarrassed.
âHe seemed so concerned,â your mother interjects. âAlmost like he wanted to drive or fly up to see you.â
You melt.
âHe said all this at the hospital?â you ask.
âDo we have to keep talking about the hospital?â your father asks. âThis is supposed to be a happy time, and youâre supposed to be on vacation.â He grins. âSo, are you going to be hanging out with them more?â
Itâs probably best to drop it for now. âApparently,â you answer. âNamjoon said something about caroling tomorrow.â
âWonderful!â your mother sighs. âYou have such a beautiful voice, and itâs been so long since weâve gotten to hear you sing.â
âI just donât have a lot of green things,â you say, almost apologetically.
âGuess youâve missed two dress code memos, then,â Jimin jokes, smoothing the fabric at your waist.
Jiminâs flagship store brings more life to that little corner of town than the hardware store before it, or the arts and crafts store before that, and itâs bringing more life to you now. The emerald green dress that heâs picked out for you hugs your curves nicely. You particularly like how it accentuates your quirks, like your strong thighs and calves, and your broader shoulders. You think of all the dresses youâve had to squeeze into for work events in the past. How they felt more like cages rather than stages.
âThis is definitely the one,â Jimin anoints, taking your hand and slowly spinning you to show you off to Jin and Jungkook.
You canât help but peacock a little, with the way they all smile and gaze. Jungkook even raises his phone to snap a picture.
âMake sure it doesnât shrink in the wash,â Jin jokes from the nearby couch, wiggling his feet on the armrest as he lazily flips through a catalog.
âYou heard about that?â you ask.
âYeah. Ugh. What a bitch,â Jin says outright.
You gasp. âJin!â
âItâs true, though,â Jimin replies, eyes deepening as he relives the hit. âYeong-jaâs trash.â
âOK, I donât want this to turn into anything other than me getting something suitable to wear for this caroling thing,â you warn.
Jimin takes a few steps back, standing next to a texting Jungkook, checking your silhouette at different angles and in different light. âUnclench that tight ass. Yoongi already told us that he told you,â Jimin says, as if this whole Dream Girl revelation is nothing.
âStop complimenting me!â You wish you could stop your cheeks from blushing or your frantic eyes giving you away.
âAw, the green brightens a little when you do that!â Jimin giggles excitedly.
You step off the platform and away from the mirror. âThe dress was already fantastic enough to make the sale,â you say. âWhat do I owe you?â
âNothing,â Jimin says, chasing you, âand I mean it. But, hey, maybe you wear the dress to a work event next year? Drop my name to another name that couldââ He nudges his elbow into your side. ââmake some things happen?â
âYouâre incredible,â Jungkook says to Jimin, shaking his head and making you think of Hobiâs gentle, hot chocolate-covered words.
You hear two notification ding!s, and Jin and Jimin have to do everything in their power not to reach for their phones while youâre staring all three of them down.
Yoongiâs stories swim in your mind. âStop. Plotting.â You narrow your eyes. âI mean it.â
Jungkook just grins.
âShoes,â Jimin says suddenly, moving to the far wall to scavenge for the answer. âNo offense, Dream Girl, but those kitten heels are awful.â
âDonât call me that.â
âDo you even know their story?â Jin presses on.
âNo,â you say. âAnd I donât really want toââ
âThey met through Hobiâs sister,â Jin says. âThey were college friends.â
You frown. âWere?âÂ
Jin grins at your seeming interest.
âWhatever.â You dismissively wave him off. âJimin, you said something about shoes?â
âEver since they got serious, though, Ji-woo noticed that Hobi would change in little ways,â Jin shares. âHe got even quieter and shier. Including with us!â Jin eyes widen. âAnd you know heâs not like that with us.â
Jimin walks over to you with a pair of pointed toe black flats. âThereâs still a bit of a heel to them,â he explains, showing you the soles. âGives you more support.â
Youâre grateful for it as the four of you walk the seven or eight blocks over to the mural.Â
âJi-woo and Hobi donât even talk anymore,â Jin continues. âAnd itâs not because of any issue between the two of them. Yeong-ja just doesnât want Hobi to talk to anybody outside of her and their family.â He shakes his head. âYou see how thrilled she is whenever we come home,â he laments. âItâs this weird, insular, control thing.â
âIt all sounds very tough, but honestly, I just donât feel comfortable not hearing this from Hobi,â you say, adding quickly, before Jin can grin at you again, ânot that I need to hear it at all!â
âJust trying to break the ice a bit,â Jin offers. âGive you some, uh, context. Hobi wouldnât have had any other way to share it.â
You feel a pang in your gut and see Hobiâs smiling face, lit by the twinkle lights at the hot chocolate booth.
âBut he did,â you say sadly. âMy father gave Hobi my number, but he never called.â
The guys stop walking and turn to you, surrounding you with questioning faces.
âHe told me last night,â you say. âHe gave Hobi my number when Hobi went to visit him at the hospital.â
Jin, Jimin, and Jungkook exchange confused glances.
âWhat?â you ask.
Jinâs eyebrows crinkle slightly.Â
âThat was around the time they got engaged.â
âPlease,â Hobi begs.
âHmm?â Taehyung asks.
âJust⊠please donât?â Hobi asks.
âThought I was doing you a favor,â Taehyung says.
Hobi allows himself one more look at the picture that Jungkook snapped of you, not in the actual text of the group chat, but as the new group chat icon.
âSheâs like our little mascot,â Taehyung says affectionately, grinning at your face.Â
âYeong-jaâs gonna be here any minute,â Hobi whispers. âItâs all fun and games until Christmas is ruined.â
âSheâs ruined Christmas plenty enough,â Yoongi grumbles, as Namjoon nods along. âI mean, youâve been so miserable.â Yoongi looks into Hobiâs eyes, letting the project plans and everything else fall away for a moment. âWhy are you even fighting for her?â
Hobi is speechless. Not just because he canât come up with an answer right away. But because you, Jin, Jimin, and Jungkook are walking up to the mural, and he canât believe how little Jungkookâs camera was able to capture of you. How cruel it was to flatten you into two dimensions. How impossible it was to force you into a bubble as small as a lens. You shouldnât be measured in pixels. You can only be measured in the galaxies youâve traveled.
âHi,â you say, a little awkwardly.Â
Everyone chirps their excited greetings and fawning compliments.
And Hobi just smiles.
One of the community board leaders kicks things off by thanking all the volunteers. âLoving this sea of green!â they cheer in a happy, bright voice. âWe know you all are so busy with your own celebrations, so thank you for sharing your time for our little tradition.â
Itâs a sweet tradition, one you remember from childhood. Itâs very simple. The color scheme is a relatively new addition, but everything else is the same. Nothing too fancy. Just a group of people who like to sing, and some sheet music, speaker, and an old set of risers borrowed from the high school.Â
âIn about twenty minutes, the crowd is expected to start gathering. When they do, Iâll share a quick, holiday message, and then weâll kick things off. First up is Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, then Silver Bells, then Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and finally, Sleigh Ride,â the community board leader explains. âAll you need to do is sing and have fun!â
âSee?â Yoongi whispers over to Hobi. âSing and have fun.â
Hobi rolls his eyes.
âFor now, just hang tight and let any of the people in red know if youâd like some water or tea,â the community board leader adds. âWeâll warm up in a few minutes. Excited to get to sing with you all!â
As the group of carolers starts to mill about, Hobi leads you all to the risers.Â
Your group aims for the front middle, chatting aimlessly as you do. But every time you try to sit down, the guys shuffle around, jostling you a bit, or changing their minds about who they want to stand next to, until you and Hobi are surrounded by them, Yoongi and Jin pushing you side-by-side.
Hobi clears his throat nervously. âHi,â he whispers to you.
Your automatic smile is getting harder to fight. âHi.â Your words are getting harder to fight, too. âGreen really suits you. I like how it brings out the brown in your hair. Some of the brown in your eyes as well.â Your eyes widen too late. âUm, I mean, if thatâs OK to say.â
âYouâŠâ Hobi clears his throat again. âYou lookâŠâ
He doesnât know what is or isnât OK to say. He can barely say anything.
âGreat, as always?â you joke.
Hobi grins sheepishly.
âJimin did a great job on this design,â you say.Â
Hobi raises his eyebrows. âJimin?â
âYeah,â Jin chimes in. âWe were at his boutique, finding green things to wear.â He leans forward so that you can see him from Hobiâs other side. âWe were just talking about your parents, right? Your dad?â
âOh,â you say, feeling a little regretful. âUm, yes.â
âDid they enjoy the carnival?â Hobi asks hopefully. He starts talking too fast. âI asked Mr. Gwan to make sure to save your family some hodugwaja, since you hadnât been home for so long, and because your mother likes walnuts. I was wondering if your dad liked the hot toddies? Tried to suggest a whisky he might like, but I never found out if they went for it. Oh! And Iâm glad that they positioned the free throw game a little closer to the entrance like I asked, yâknow, so that he wouldnât have to walk all the way to the far end of the squareââ
Your heart fills with every tiny detail of how Hobi tried to make things nice. Make things better. For your parents.
For you.
âThey loved it,â you say. âReally.â
âGood.â He smiles, relieved. âGood.â He sighs, his breath forming a little cloud. âYour dad didnât get too tired?â
âNo,â you share. âActually, we all stayed up pretty late, just snacking and hanging out. He told me more about your, um, visit.â You glance at Hobi. âMore of what you, uh, talked about.â
Hobiâs mouth shrinks into a small circle. âOh?â
Sensing a shift in tone, Yoongi taps your upper arm with the corner of a bright red folder.
You look over and see that more people have joined you on the risers, and people are starting to pass out sheet music and lyrics.
Yoongi hands you the whole stack of folders.
âDonât you need one?â you ask.
âIâll be over there.â Yoongi motions to the keyboard off to the side.
âCool,â you say, grinning. âGiven your work, I shouldâve put two and two together.â
You take a red folder off the top of the stack before passing the stack to Hobi.
Your hands touch for a moment, and you kind of forget where you are.
But then you remember what you wanted to ask.
âYeah,â you pick up with Hobi, âhe mentioned something that I wanted to talk to you aboutââ
The community board leader starts to walk toward the front of the risers, and Yoongi jumps to his feet.
âI think weâre about to start warming up,â Yoongi says brightly. âSave those voices for the show, you two.â
Yoongi takes his place at the piano, and the community board leader invites you all to stand and sing the first few lines of each song to warm up.Â
Your group grins at Yoongi jauntily playing the start of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, his head twitching this way and that, and Jungkook sneaking a picture of him, much to the community board leaderâs dismay. But they canât do a thing about it, raising their arms to cue you into the song.
Itâs not long before you start the real thing. You search the growing crowd for your parents, nervous when you donât see them at the very beginning. But Hobi soothes you by tapping the back of his hand against yours and giving you a small smile.
As you sing, you and Hobi turn to each other in surprise.
His voice is pleasant and full, stronger than you thought it might be, given how soft-spoken heâs always been with you. He sings, low and simple, almost as if heâs always singing just underneath the surface. And he sees every single note through, crescendoing each phrase gently, and closing each phrase safely.
Your voice sounds easy and light. Like everything you do, it just seems so effortless, floating rather than resonating. But you work hard to sustain and support, mindful of your breaths and making sure that the lines sound more like full conversations rather than fragments. Regardless, each note has your undeniable sparkle.
It matches the sparkle in Hobiâs eyes when he hears you. The sparkle in your eyes when you see him.
And it matches the sparkle in your parentsâ eyes when they see or hear you do anything. They give you silly waves when you see them walk up to join the now very full crowd, and you happily wave back, the back of your hand grazing Hobiâs and making him chuckle through the last, âwonât you guide my sleigh tonightâ.
Everything mixes into a wonderfully spirited afternoon. You hear the silver bells. You feel the anticipation of Santa Clausâ arrival. And the wind on your face feels like air rushing past on the most invigorating sleigh ride of your life.
As your group breaks off to greet their parents, friends, and family members, you look over at Hobi and smile.
âThat was really nice,â you say.
âWe had a great turnout!â Hobi cheers excitedly. He points over to an elderly woman in a wheelchair, accompanied by someone in scrubs. âThatâs Mrs. Yoon. I was especially hoping to see her here. She really loves this tradition. She shows up every year, even with how hard it is for her to get out of bed.â He smiles at you. âWanna come say hi?â
You catch your parents speaking with Taehyung and the Kims before turning back to Hobi and saying, âSure.â
You follow him over to Mrs. Yoon, who smiles brightly once Hobi is close enough for her to see and recognize him.
âAh, Hoseok,â she says warmly. âAnother wonderful performance.â
âThanks, Mrs. Yoon,â he says. âYou enjoyed it?â
âYes!â she cheers. âIt really feels like Christmas Eve!â Her eyes fall to you. âYeong-ja?â she asks, adjusting her glasses. âYou look so great! I didnât even recognize you!â
You bite your lip as Hobi corrects her, even pointing your parents out in the crowd, though she most likely canât see that far. Her ears, however, perk up at the mention of your father.
âHow is he doing?â she asks.
You nod. âVery well. Thank you for asking.â
âGood.â Mrs. Yoon turns to Hobi. âIâm sorry that I, uh⊠Donât, uh, donât tell Yeong-ja I saidââ
âNo worries, Mrs. Yoon,â Hobi says, leaning down to hug her.
She pats his back and whispers something in Hobiâs ear that makes him blush fiercely red upon standing.
Her aide moves behind her and grips her wheelchair. âI think thatâs my cue,â Mrs. Yoon replies, making her aide chuckle. âMerry Christmas!
âMerry Christmas,â you and Hobi both greet, as she takes her leave.
You turn to Hobi. âSpeaking of, though,â you say, âwhere is Yeong-ja?â
Hobi shrugs. âI didnât see her. She wouldâve walked straight over to me if she were here.â He says that last part with a bit of an edge.
âWellâŠâ You take a deep breath. âWanna come say hi to my parents again? Check in with the Kims?â
âSure,â Hobi says. âIâm right behind you.â
You nod and linger for a moment, before walking toward the burst of laughter coming from your parents and the Kims.
Hobi pulls out his phone and checks for any missed calls or messages. When he sees none, he presses âYeoboâ in his contacts.
âEverything OK?â Yeong-ja asks.
âJust about to ask you the same question,â Hobi replies. âWhere are you?â
âAt home, getting ready.â
âGetting ready?â Hobi shakes his head. âThe show just finished.â
âHuh?â Thereâs a pause. âUgh, that motherfucker!â
âWhat??â
âJimin!â She sighs. âHe texted me that you were starting an hour late!â
The story behind Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer has grown on you over time. What started out as a simple tale with a hidden moral now feels like a reaffirmation of whatâs actually happening in your life. A message about amazing things being hidden in plain sight. And those amazing things being able to guide you.
After pouring your coffee, you look around the kitchen, and into the rest of the house, wondering how you can keep the Christmas cheer going.
The front door opens, and you see your father shuffling in with a snow shovel.
âAppa!â you exclaim. âDid you shovel the rest of the walkway?â
âWhat if people come to visit?â
âWho?â you ask quizzically. âAnd if it bothers you that much, we can get someone else to do it!â
âWho else would do it?â he asks, shaking snow off of his coat. âI meant to get to it earlier this morning, butââ
âWe can just walk under the ledge on the roof, like always!â you exclaim. âAnd you really shouldnât be putting your body under such physical stressââ
âThe stroke was years ago,â your father reassures you, âand Iâm fine now.â
âI know that.â You raise your eyebrows at him. âBut, please, donât do anything else for the rest of the day? Or tomorrow, either?â
âI wonât.â
âPromise?â
âI promise,â he chuckles. âJust pour me some coffee.â
You mix in two tablespoons of cream. No sugar. Exactly like he likes.
The mugs lead you into the living room, where your father is sitting back on the couch and turning on the TV. He smiles happily when you hand him his mug, and he finishes his long gulp with a satisfied, âAhhhhhhhh.â
âTastes good?â you ask.
âTastes even better when someone else makes it for you,â he jokes, going in for another sip.
You shake your head and take a sip of your own.Â
âWhereâs Eomma?â
âShe went out to get pineapple rings, and cherries.â He wiggles his eyebrows. âFor the ham she made. She said it looks too naked without the decoration.â
Now you understand the faint smell of brown sugar in the kitchen. You should have known. Ham is another Christmas Eve tradition that your family has never broken.
But you realize something else.
âWhy didnât we decorate this year?â you ask, looking around your living room. Your mind fills with childhood memories of knick-knacks and bobbles, Santas and angels and reindeer and snowmen, sprinkled through the entire house, and essentially t-shirt cannoned onto your gaudy, tall, technicolored Christmas tree.
âWe havenât decorated for a few years now,â your father admits. âEverythingâs up in the attic.â
You start to stand. âWell, why donât I bring some things down, andââ
âFor one day?â your father asks. âAll that mess? You told me not to do anything for the rest of the day, or tomorrow either.â
âIâm going to do it,â you clarify, setting your mug on the coffee table.
âNo, donât,â your father tells you. âEverythingâs so cluttered and disorganized. Letâs just keep our Christmas quiet and do presents after our ham dinner.â
You like that you open presents on Christmas Eve. You used to do it at midnight, a holdover from your motherâs familyâs traditions. But with your parents getting a little older, youâve adjusted that time. And with all of you getting a little older, your presents look less like huge boxes under the tree, and more like small, meaningful things. Tiny boxes of expensive trinkets. Cards with gift certificates and checks. Things easily sent by courier.
âI got you a necklace,â your father tells you.
You laugh. âAppa!â
âWhat?â he asks playfully.Â
You smile. âWell, I got you a watch.â
âOoh!â he squeals. âI canât wait to see it.â
âI got Eomma a scarf and a small clutch.â
âSmall clutch means big name,â he mentions, as you look at your feet and smile humbly. âI got her a diamond ring.â
You brighten and grin at your father. Heâs always had such wonderful taste in jewelry.
âI wonder what she got us,â you say.
You both pause for a moment.
âSilk tie,â your father guesses.
âShoes,â you guess. âEspecially after the stockings, and that whole kitten heels thing.â You sigh. âSheâs probably gotten me something dressy but practical. Maybe something I can wear when I have to give presentations at work.â
Your father nods. And then he gazes at you. You think there might be tears in his eyes.
âItâs really good to have you home,â he says
âYouâve had her number?â
Yoongi could throttle him.
âYouâve had her number this whole time?â
Yoongi could throttle him, or slap him, or punch him, but his hands are too busy gripping the handle of the dolly, keeping it steady while waiting for Hobi to finish unloading the last of the risers that they had folded up just the day before.
Hobi shoves the last of the folded up metal off the ramp and onto the wooden platform of the dolly with a thunk! and straightens, dusting his hands off, and then wiping his palms on the sides of his jeans.Â
He lazily holds the far side of the dolly handle and walks at Yoongiâs meandering pace, through the same double doors you started and ended four years of your life with. The sports trophies are still there. The banners from shows and events past hang in the alum hallway leading to the auditorium. On the stage, remnants of the criss-crossing tape Xs are still in the same spots where he did six back-to-back sautĂ© fouettĂ©s to crazed applause during the big number. Your eyes lit up when you saw him fly.
Yoongi stops on one of those Xs now, parking and locking the dolly in place.Â
âItâs been years, Hobi.â
âI know.â
âAnd weâre still having this goddamn conversation.â
Yoongi feels like the point lands harder when he blinks at Hobiâs chosen jacket for today: the letterman jacket that Yoongi had found in the attic.
Your high school even smells the same.
Thereâs a faint tinge of floor polish, a whisper of bleach, a waft of mechanical metal, and cold. Just cold.Â
âI made my choices.â
âI just donât understand them.â
âYou donât need to.â
They lift with their legs, which makes it a little harder for Yoongi to make sure the risers sit level, so Hobi crouches down a little.
âYour back.â
âItâs fine.ïżœïżœ
They set the risers down and click all the latches into position, the last one coinciding with a burst of laughter echoing from backstage.
Hobi looks over and sees the door to the ensemble room hanging open, kids giggling as they practice their lines with their teacher and some watchful, happy parents.
âCute.â
Yoongi frowns at him. âYou can understand why Iâm annoyed, right?âÂ
Hobi sits on the bottom step, and Yoongi joins him, both of them resting their elbows on their spread knees.
âLook, Yeong-ja and I have been arguing since the carnival,â Hobi says, exasperated. âI know Jimin said he got the times mixed up, butââ
âHe didnât,â Yoongi replies bluntly. âThat was just phase 2 of Project Dream Girl.â
Hobi buries his head in his hands. âYoongi.â
âDonât Yoongi me.â He glares at Hobi and shakes his head. Everything really is the same. âYou love her. Weâre getting you to her. I donât know why youâre so frustrated.â
Hobi nearly rips his hair out as he jumps to his feet. âIâm marrying her!â he exclaims. âDeal with it!â
âAre you telling me that, or yourself?â Yoongi challenges, watching Hobi pacing across the stage. âYou still havenât answered my questions. Why are you fighting for Yeong-ja? Why are you marrying her in the first place?â His eyes catch the light. âWhy didnât you call??â
âI did call!â Hobi booms. âI called, and I texted! For months! âHi, itâs Hoseok from high school! Saw your dad at the hospital!â âHobi again! Just reaching out to see if youâre OK!â âWanted to see if we could catch up!â âWhen are you in town next?ââ His arms stretch out to his sides. âNothing!â His wingspan is intimidating. Itâs a lot of nothing.
Yoongi narrows his eyes. âNothing?â
âNo response.â Hobi shakes his head. âNot one.â
Yoongi shakes his head. âThat doesnât seem right.â He looks up at Hobi. âThat doesnât sound like her.â
Hobi mutters, âYou would know better than I would.âÂ
Yoongiâs never seen a resentful Hobi before. Probably because thereâs nothing else in his life that he would feel resentful about.
Hobi comes to a stop, stage left. âSheâs clearly just being nice to me. Maybe for the holidays. Maybe so that she has something to do during her vacation. But not because she actually feels anything.â
A long, drawn-out sigh streams out of Yoongiâs mouth. âShe does.â
Hobi shakes his head. âI know youâre trying not to hurt my feelings, butââ
âI talked to her.â Yoongi blinks once. âI talked to her on our way to the diner. She knows. And after learning about the hospital⊠seeing how youâve been with her parents⊠how you are when youâre with herâŠâ Yoongi holds his gaze steady. âSheâs starting to have feelings for you, too.â
Hobi isnât sure what is happening. Yoongiâs face is getting fuzzy. Kind of melting. Gone. In fact, all lines, curves, and edges are gone. Everything is soft. Too soft.Â
âPlease stop with this Project Dream Girl nonsense,â Hobi pleads. âI have a shot at being with someone who cares enough to fight with me. Who cares enough to answer me back.â
âHobi.â Yoongi looks disappointed. âThatâs not what you think love is.â
âItâs the closest Iâll ever get.â
âBullshit.â Yoongi stands and walks over to Hobi slowly, his stride matching the length of each sentence. âWhy suggest the whisky?â he challenges. âWhy move the free throw game? The hodugwaja?â He points his toes at Hobiâs toes, facing him dead on. âAnd why do you think she keeps showing up?â
Hobi furrows his brow.
They both reach down to their pockets when their phones chirp and vibrate and learn that the guys are on their way to the school, the last of the props and costumes in tow.
âJust stop it,â Hobi says weakly. âGet it through your head. Itâs done. Iâm done.â
He walks to the edge of the stage and hops down, heading through the back doors to meet the guys.
Yoongi soon follows.
Silence is nice, but overrated. Like plain hot chocolate. Whistling is great. Humming is actually pretty fun. Singing, even better. Maybe itâs not so great when youâre just trying to ride the elevator or as youâre questioning whether your rideshare driver will safely get you to point B. But itâs wonderful when you need to add some decoration to a cozy, quiet home.
And Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer has a pretty catchy tune.
âEomma!â you call out as you swing your trench coat on. âAppa! Iâm heading over to the school! Iâll see you for lunch!â
âHave fun at the play!â your mother calls, as your father yells, âBe careful!â
Singing is pretty fun while driving as well, and youâre able to get through both Silver Bells, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and a lyrics-forgotten version of Sleigh Ride substituted with âdoo doo dooâs and âboop boop boopâs before parking next to the high school auditorium.
As soon as Taehyung sees you, he takes off running for your car.
âHey!â he greets you, panting a little, and sliding in a patch of ice next to your door.
âHi,â you chuckle, closing your door and pressing the lock, your car beeping the two final notes of Sleigh Ride in perfect time.Â
Taehyung grins, eyes crinkling in the corners. âMerry Christmas!â
âMerry Christmas,â you echo, following him back to the two large SUVs backed up into the small driveway leading to the hallway next to the auditorium. The trunk and back doors all hang open, with just a few boxes left to unload.
âHow was your haul?â he asks.
âPretty solid,â you admit, adjusting the pendant of your fatherâs gifted necklace in the notch between your barely-there collarbones. Feeling a little self-conscious at Taehyungâs impressed and approving gaze, you tear your hand away and ask, âWhat about yours?â
âLots of socks,â Taehyung says coolly. He shrugs, the knit cable on his frame shrugging along with him. âAnd sweaters.â
You arenât sure if his arms are as bulky as the sweater sleeves that puff out around him as he hands you a box of swan headdresses to bring inside, but when the box slips a little in your hold, you learn that they absolutely are.
âYou got it?â he chuckles.
âYeah,â you squeak, hoisting the box back up.
Taehyung canât help but notice your eyes scanning the hallway as you both walk, looking happy, but not happy enough, as you see Jungkook easily lifting two small bass drums, Jimin trying to hula-hoop all five of the gold rings, Jin cackling at him as he repositions the fake pear tree that heâs carrying on his back, Yoongi just on his phone and texting while sitting on a stool next to a papier-mache cow, and Namjoon desperately trying to collect all the pipes on three real bagpipes, discordant, deflated hums of failure seeping out of them.
âHeâs on the stage,â Taehyung whispers to you, as he hoists up his box of six tacky yard flamingos, spray-painted white. âTeaching the lords how to leap.â
Your heart does a little leap, imagining Hobi laughing and smiling in the spotlight, looking on as ten children in tights leap across in unison.
Your heart does a bigger leap, seeing Hobi trying to collect ten rascals running chaotically around the stage.
When he sees you, he stops what heâs doing, suddenly uncaring that one rascal is about to fall off the end.
âHobi!â you cry out, dropping the box and rushing over to him.
Both of you grab the kid in time, Hobi by the collar, and you by the waist of his pants. Once the kid regains his footing, he shakes you both off to give chase to the nine others.
âPLEASE! BE! CAREFUL!â Hobi yells out at them.
Hobiâs as-of-yet unheard stern voice, paired with his disapproving glare, seems to have scared the kids for the time being. They all clump together and quiet down, sitting in a blob and holding hands, settling down to play some kind of clapping game instead.Â
âThis isâ Iâmââ Hobi lets out a breath that he had been holding as he turns back to you. âThis is hell. Iâm in hell.â
âWhatever game theyâre playing now seems much safer,â you comment.
âNo,â Hobi says, eyes widening. âThis is how it started.â
The kids shift from their excitedly murmured rhyme into counting claps with loud shrieks, and then, two of them jump up, chasing each other around the circle as the other kids try to fill in the empty spots, making it harder for them to find a place to sit.
And then all of the kids end up running around again.
You laugh as you take a few steps back to the box of swan headdresses, collecting the ones that fell out and placing them back inside. You carry the box back to the edge of the stage, where Hobi is frowning and watching to make sure none of the kids die.
âWhere are their parents?â you laugh, as Hobi takes the box from you.
âSome are backstage, fixing some of the other kidsâ costumes. Most just dropped them off for a couple of hours of quiet until the play.â Hobi sighs. âI donât know why I signed up for this.â
âItâs nice that you did,â you reassure him.
You move to hop up onto the stage, but Hobi backs away.
âUh, Iâll go take these into the back room,â he says, holding up your box. âMind if you watch them for a little bit?â
Since youâve been home, youâve been basking so unabashedly in Hobiâs warmth. It makes this sudden gale feel downright icy.
âOh!â You nod. âUh, sure. Whatever you need.â
As you near the hour that the play is supposed to start, you keep trying to check in with Hobi, give him little, inviting smiles, or comment on tiny things, easier to talk about than the big feelings between the two of you. But all that ends up happening is Jungkook and Taehyung running back and forth between the hallway, or other rooms, with more props for you to hand to Hobi to bring backstage.
In fact, Taehyung and Jungkook give you more than a few more things to do, which eat up the quiet times in between. Glue gun some fallen gems back onto a skirt. Sew a sash into place. Attach more pears to the so-called pear tree.
Things seem to settle as the kids are rounded up and their parents reappear. Everyoneâs costumes are on, and secure. No one is running. Everyone is looking at Hobi, who is going through the list that todayâs community board leader had sent out, making sure that final checks are complete.
And then, the auditorium is suddenly full. Of more parents. More family. More friends.Â
You and your friends pack together in the wings, stage right, to give them room. And to finish your duties for the day.
âWe just have to send the kids out on their cues,â Hobi tells you, his face backlit by the soft, golden, stage lights.Â
âThatâs it?â Taehyung asks.
âYou need all seven of us to be here just to do that?â Jungkook echoes.Â
âThey need to stay in their groups,â Hobi explains. âWe need to make sure all the kids are ready to get out there when their group is called.â
âAlright, well, Jimin and I can keep them busy in the back room,â Taehyung replies. âJungkook and Jin can walk them backstage?â
âNamjoon and Yoongi can keep them quiet as they help them get through the wings,â Jungkook adds.
Yoongi turns to you and Hobi and grins. âAnd you two can send them off.â
Hobi shakes his head, his hair fluffing around him. âNo, uh, I can help wrangleââ
âYouâve been wrangling all morning,â Jimin laments piteously. âLet us help.â He smiles coyly. âWe want to help.â
âThen I canââ Hobiâs eyes find Jungkook and Jin. âI can help walk themââ
âYouâve been on your feet for hours,â Jin soothes, as Jungkook smirks.
âWhat if IââÂ
âWeâve got this,â Namjoon tells him, so solemn that he canât even spare a dimple.
Hobi meets Yoongiâs eyes. âSending the kids out means just sitting here,â Hobi says, eyes pleading. âYou could just sit there, on that stool, every now and then saying, âGoâ.â
âBut youâre the one with the checklist, and you know the program,â Yoongi says. He turns to you. âAnd the kids have seen you both. Theyâre familiar with you.â He turns back to Hobi, his smile growing bigger and wider. Almost creepily so. âSo, you two should stay here. Together.â
You turn to Hobi, slightly confused, but shrugging it off. âSounds like a plan.â
âIt does, doesnât it?â Yoongi retorts for some reason.
As the rest of the guys laugh, Hobi just sinks.
Watching from the wings gives you more chances to do more humming and singing along. The first part of the show is done by the high school drama club, who do a sweet rendition of Twas the Night Before Christmas. The second part of the play is done by the middle school chorus, who sing more Christmas carols. The last part of the play is done by the groups of elementary school kids, sweating and picking their noses, quickly running out of patience and/or interest.
The two most precocious children of the group, the ones hoping for stardom but probably more realistically destined for catalog modeling, play the two main characters in the song. A girl in a cute, sparkly dress, starts singing the lyrics, and a boy in a vest and pantaloons laughs and smiles, presenting each of the twelve gifts for each of the twelve days as they enter the stage, and shooting fond, hopelessly romantic gazes of admiration to the girl, his true love.
Youâre too busy watching and giggling at them when Yoongi leads the two kids in white tutus and turtledove wings to Hobi, whispering, âThat kid is doing a great impression of you.âÂ
You also miss Hobi slamming his elbow into Yoongiâs side.
Namjoon ushers in the next few groups, bringing you three kids wearing feathers and, questionably, French maid outfits; four kids wearing feathers and, weirdly, holding up four gigantic, 90s-style cell phones, and each of the five kids in golden onesies attempting to hula hoop those gold rings across the stage.
âJimin,â Hobi mutters under his breath, as the gold rings keep catching on their waists and slamming to the floor.
Yoongi reappears, still rubbing his aching side, when the groups start to get bigger.Â
And the rest of the group joins in on chaperoning when the groups get even bigger.
They snicker and banter backstage, poking and prodding, sometimes louder than the kids.
Itâs actually a better time than any of you had expected.
But Hobiâs favorite part of the day is watching you watch the kids.Â
You âawwâ at every single one of their adorable costumes, with their funny, punny plays on the lyrics. The stage lights catch on your beautiful new necklace, and so do the residual costume sparkles in your hair and cheeks, which wave and bubble as you laugh with the audience, louder and louder at each instance of the kids having to remember to jump up and act again when their groups are re-sung on every verse.Â
Heâs almost sad to give you the cue to send out the twelve drummers drumming.Â
But your laughter keeps him from frowning.
It takes all morning to get to this point, the final, adorable bow.Â
And yet, in a blink, the auditorium is empty again.
You and Hobi clean up the stage, collecting all the random props, odds, and ends and putting them into the designated black bins that the community board leaders have left for you, choosing to sort through them after the holidays are really over.Â
âHow cute was that one maid-a-milking?â you ask. âThe one on the stool? She really took her role so seriously!â
Hobi mimies squeezing the fake cowâs udders, the concentration on her face. When you laugh, he relaxes and says, âThe first girl sang her heart out, but I wouldnât be surprised if that maid goes on to be the next superstar. Such dedication to her craft.â
You both walk back to the wings, to the small side table where you had left your belongings.Â
âOh! I didnât ask,â you say suddenly, turning around to face Hobi.
Your nose collides with his chest as he bumps into you. He hadnât expected you to stop walking like that.Â
You laugh together, and he reaches out to rub your nose.
Just as quickly, he retracts his arm, looking a little nervous.
âUm,â you say, unsure if the freeze has thawed, âdid you have a good Christmas?â
Hobi tries not to look too sullen. âIt was fine.â He loves the way your lashes curl up and graze your upper lids. âBetter now.â He lets himself tumble into a smile, and sneaks a peek further down, at your collarbones. âLooks like you definitely did.â
You laugh a little, as you readjust your necklace. âFrom my father.â
âYouâre beautiful.â Hobi clenches. âI mean, itâs beautiful.â Hobi squeezes. âI meanâ Uh, well, did your p-parents come? To the play?âÂ
You brighten. Who wouldnât, in his floodlights? âI think they were skipping this one, but let me check,â you say, reaching for your phone in your trench coat.
You try not to freak out at the red dot alerting you to one missed call, and the words in your motherâs after-the-fact text message.
âThey went to the hospital,â you read robotically.Â
You lock eyes with Hobi.
âI-Iâve gotta go,â you say.
âIâll drive you,â Hobi says, reaching for his jacket, neatly folded and resting on the small side table.
âNo, thatâs OK, I have my car,â you say, already having put your trench coat on, and feeling for your keys. When they jingle, you lock eyes with Hobi again. For so many reasons, you do not want to go to the hospital at all.
âIâll check on you later,â Hobi says. âCall Yoongi if you need anything at all.â
You nod.
And then youâre off.
Your father was fine during your cherry, pineapple-y, ham dinner. You hadnât seen him or your mother that morning, but you heard them talking in their bedroom. Not about anything serious. Your mother even laughed after they called back to you.
The tinsel garland on the nurseâs station is already starting to fall apart.
You shout over the chaos for your fatherâs room number, and the charge nurse yells a number back at you.
You zip through the halls, picking up bits of data from placards on the wall and signs hanging from the ceiling.Â
Finally, you hear your motherâs soft laugh again, and you swing into the room where your father is lying in bed, looking just a little worse for the wear.
You choke back tears. âIs it another stroke?!â
âNo!â your mother sighs, rushing to your side and hugging you. âOh, sweetie. No. No, no.â
You bury your tears into her chest, trying to calm your heart down.
âEverythingâs fine,â she whispers. âItâs his arrhythmia. He felt like something was off, so we came in to check. They want to run some tests overnight to see whatâs going on. Thatâs all.â
You peek over her shoulder at your father, who is trying his best to keep it together, not because heâs in any discomfort, but because he canât stand seeing you fall apart.
You collect yourself quickly and walk over to him, stroking his hair.
âAppa?â
âDonât worry,â he says, reaching for your wrist and patting it.
âI told you to take it easy.â You shake your head. âI even made you coffee. Why did I make you coffee??â
âItâs a congenital thing,â your mother reminds you, from just over your shoulder. âIt just happens.â
You sigh. âWhy donât you two tell me these things?â You turn to your father and hug him gently, careful not to disturb any of the wires snaking out from his body. Your next sentence even comes out in a whimper. âWhy doesnât anyone tell me anything?â
âDidnât want to bother you,â your father says softly.
âItâs not a bother,â you explain to him. âItâs talking. Itâs basic communication.â You raise your eyebrows. âDonât you want me to know things?â
Funny what hospitals can do. He sees you at seven, and seventeen, and seventy. His voice sounds the same, young and old, all his years between his words. âI want you to live your life.â
âCanât we live it all together?â you ask. âThatâs why Iâm here.â
Your father takes a shaky breath. And thatâs when you realize what heâs been trying to tell you. What heâs been trying to say, in his way.Â
You watch him as he gathers his words. Heâs always so, so careful with them.
âI want you next to my hospital bed only when itâs really time,â he replies.
You watch him sadly. âBut how will we know?â you ask. âHow will we know if Iâm not here, every time?â
Your father watches as you straighten, your broad, strong shoulders evidently able to carry more than he thought. Your tears werenât weaknesses. Your tears were just expressions. You can handle the edge of the hospital bed at any time. For him.
âOK,â your father says. âOK.â He pats your elbow, and lets you hug him a little tighter.
âYouâre not in any pain?â you ask, wiping your tears away.
âA bit of tightness in my chest,â he says. Even this tiny admission is a huge leap forward. âBut no. No pain.â
âIâll be staying with him overnight,â your mother begins.
âMe too, then,â you say.
Your mother knew youâd interrupt her. âNo,â she says, as gently as she can. âGo home. Go relax. Maybe help us out by doing a bit of cleaning?â She strokes your hair and tries to soak up more of the worry thatâs painting your face. âThereâs no danger. Nothingâs wrong. Theyâre just observing him. Thatâs why weâre cozy in this private room, and not in the ER, or in surgery.â Her logical way of thinking helps you get back to baseline. âThey only let one visitor stay overnight, anyway,â she continues, âand if anything scary seems to be happening, Iâll call you right away. Not after the fact.â
You nod. âBut Iâll go home and get you toiletries. And a change of clothes. And food! Food for later.â You take a breath. âSomething good and healthy.â You eye your father. âWith vegetables.â
Your mother smiles, and your father pouts.Â
Hobi swings his legs so hard that the back of the SUV is bouncing up and down. His phone catches the sunlight every now and then, shooting rays into Yoongiâs eyes.
âJust call her,â Yoongi says, trying not to rub it in that youâre saved in Hobiâs phone as âDGâ.
The dig wouldnât land anyway. All Hobi can see are the unanswered text messages right-aligned on the screen.
âI donât want to disturb her,â Hobi mumbles. He looks so worried. âWhat if itâs bad?â
âThen you might not get a response,â Yoongi says. âBut this time, at least you'll know why.â
Hobi looks back down at the ghosts of rejection past.Â
âFair point.â
Jungkook feels like heâs about to tweak his shoulder, still twisted around and staring at the back of Hobiâs and Yoongiâs chattering heads.
âUh, kinda need to get going!â Jungkook calls out. âThese are due back to the community center soon!â
âAh, sorry Jungkook!â Hobi calls back, as he and Yoongi hop off the back of the car.
Yoongi reaches up to slam the trunk door down, slapping the back window twice, followed quickly by the sound of the gear shifting back, and Hobi clicking his teeth as he stares at his phone.
Jungkook, and then Jimin, back the two SUVs down the driveway, the rest of the gang in tow and fighting over the radio stations in both cars.
Yoongi and Hobi hang back, waiting for the last of the crowd to finish visiting with each other before locking everything up.
As Yoongi turns to wave goodbye to the guys, Hobi presses the call button and raises the phone to his ear.Â
Yoongi spins back around, eyes widening at the phone stuck to Hobiâs face. He sticks his hands in his coat pockets and raises his shoulders, lips being chewed behind the zippered-up top of his puffy coat.
Hobiâs eyes fall at the message. âThe number you have dialed is not in service.â
As Hobi brings the phone down to his side in defeat, Yoongiâs shoulders fall. He crinkles his nose and gathers his lips into a messy lump on the side of his face.
âHopefully itâs not too serious,â Yoongi says gently.
âHopefully itâs not serious at all,â Hobi says, frowning and putting his phone back into his pocket, and walking back toward the school. âShe probably just has bad service.â
But Yoongi's face is still crinkled. âBad service? At the hospital?â He tilts his head and jogs a little to catch up with Hobi, who is almost at the double doors. âDid it go straight to voicemail?â
âThe number you have dialed is not in service,â Hobi repeats.
Yoongi shakes his head and places a halting hand on Hobiâs shoulder. âHang on a sec.âÂ
Yoongi takes his phone out from his pocket, pulls up your texts, and calls you.Â
You pick up right away.Â
âHey, just checking in,â Yoongi explains. âHobi said your parents were at the hospital. Is everything alright?â
Yoongi holds Hobiâs curious stare as you explain what happened, which also explains something else.
âGlad to know heâs OK,â Yoongi responds. âCall us if you need anything. Hobiâs particularly worried. He said heâd check on you this evening.â
You tell him a warm thank you before hanging up.
Yoongiâs not just holding Hobiâs stare. Heâs grasping both of Hobiâs pupils with both of his fists.
âWhat number do you have saved for her?â Yoongi asks, going to your contact information.
Hobi pulls out his phone and compares it with Yoongiâs.
The last two digits in your phone number are switched in Hobiâs phone.
A group of kids jump suddenly when Hobi cries out, âI got the goddamn number wrong?!â The last of the crowd finally disperses as Hobi continues on. âHow could I have gotten the number wrong?? Her mother used her fatherâs phone to text it to me! I just copied and pasted andââ
âPull up the text,â Yoongi says urgently.
But Hobi canât find it.
âI donât get it?â Hobi asks, frowning. âI mean, I know it was years ago, but I donât really clear my inbox or anythingâŠâ
Yoongiâs shrewd eyes narrow.Â
âI think itâs time for you to talk to Yeong-ja.â
The door slams so hard that it rattles on its hinges.Â
âYeoââÂ
Hobi clears his throat.
âYeobââ
Hobi canât even bring himself to say it anymore. âWhere are you??â
âIn the laundry room!â she calls back, already annoyed.
Hobi marches into the laundry room, footsteps matching the slightly off-balanced dryerâs thud! thud! thud!s.
âLook, Iâm so sorry that I didnât come to the play,â Yeong-ja grumbles, âbut your friends took all your clothes out of the attic, and theyâre all sticky, so I figured I wouldââ
âYou went in my phone?â Hobi demands again. âYou went in my phone and deleted a text? Changed her number?!â
The entire drive home, Hobi felt the quicksand around him sucking him in, deeper and deeper. The fact that Yeong-ja looks caught just clinches it. Her face is the last, ugly, globbing gulp of the earth fading to black, pulling him out of the sky toward her evil, molten core, swallowing him alive.
Her arms fall slightly, and her lips disappear into her mouth.
This conversation will not save her.
This conversation is the first unraveling. The beginning of the end.
âYou know, at first, I thought all this was about Yoongi being interested in her. But then.âÂ
Yeong-ja shrugs.
âFine, Iâll explain,â she adds, her voice still so direct and commandeering despite.
âYouâd better!â Hobi exclaims, throwing his hands up into the air. But Hobi kind of already has some of the answers. She couldnât just delete your number altogether. All that would do is warrant another visit to your father. âHow did you evenââ She must know everything now, to go to these lengths. But where did she get the information? âWhat even made you think to do any of this?âÂ
âJi-woo.â
Hobi was expecting to hear your name at some point in this conversation, but the mention of his sister just breaks his heart even more.
The two wrinkles at Yeong-jaâs inner eyebrows form deep caverns, connecting to all the wrinkles on Yeong-jaâs face, from her forehead to her chin, an intricate cave system hiding years of secrets tunneling deeper and deeper.Â
âShe told me that you were in love with some girl. That when we went to visit Ji-woo and the baby, you noticed that her father was there. That he had given you her number. And that I might need to prepare myself. That even though we were finally dating, youâd never commit to me as long as you knew this girl was out there, somewhere. That she was your dream girl.â
Yeong-ja laughs. Laughs.
âAs if thereâs such a thing as a dream girl,â she spits.Â
And she goes on, laughing and spitting. Laughing and spitting all over Hobiâs broken heart. Laughing and spitting as if heâs the fool, when sheâs the one whoâs laughing and spitting. If heâs a fool, sheâs the reason he became one.Â
âThereâs just people, Hobi! And you and I were going down this road. A real relationship. You would have missed out on this real relationship if you kept your empty head in the stupid clouds!â
âWhat relationship? A relationship that sucked everything else up?â Hobi demands. âA relationship where all we do is fight, and then seethe, and then fight some more?âÂ
He bangs his fist down on the dryer, the sound louder than the thud!s emanating from inside and making Yeong-ja jump and back away.
âI havenât seen my sister in years! I barely talk to my parents!â
âI let you talk to those imbeciles,â Yeong-ja mutters, throwing more of Hobiâs sportswear into the open washer.
âLet me?!â Hobi echoes.
âYou were never going to call her!â Yeong-ja counters. âYou were going to hold onto this asinine dream girl bullshit, and I was going to, what? Wait around? Leave with nothing? After all that time I had invested in you? All that time that I took to make you mine? All that time that Iââ
âYEONG-JA!â Hobi cries out.
At the sound of her name, she finally stops. She finally comes down from whatever untouchable throne she believed she was on. Of course she looks this terrified, eyes so wide that they take up half of her face. No matter how much she braces for it, the impact will completely destroy everything.Â
Because when Hobi says it this time, he really means it. His voice is seven-men strong. His frame is reinforced with steel. He stands, looming, like the end.
âGet it through your head,â Hobi spits back. âItâs done. Iâm done.â
Though she tries to fight him off, Hobi gets hold of her left wrist.
But her engagement ring is gone.
âWhatââÂ
Hobi glares at her.
Yeong-ja stares at the pile of Hobiâs clothes. âItâ I-Iââ She looks at him helplessly. âIt mustâve gotten lost somewhere?â she tries, pulling her hand from his grip and starting to sort through his dirty high school laundry. Tears finally roll down her cheeks. âLet me justââ Sheâs never sounded so pitiful. âLet me just find it, and we can, uh, t-talk more aboutââ
âCall your parents,â Hobi says. âTell them youâre moving in.â He shoves his hand into his letterman jacket pocket and holds out his keys to her.Â
âLeave the ring, and take the car.â
Youâd never actually been in your attic. And your father was always the one responsible for all the physical chores around the house.Â
But with no one at home on Christmas Day, and nothing to do except wait, stuck with the knowledge that your father will likely need to rely on someone else to shovel the walkway or bring the Christmas decorations down from here on out, you decide to get some practice.
And your father had already shoveled the walkway.
Lugging everything down and putting the proper boxes in the right rooms was exhausting and terribly messy. You celebrated heartily when you realized that all there was left to do was decorate, until you made even more of a mess unpacking and assembling everything.Â
You sweep up the last of the mess and wonder if the extra dinner you bought needs to be reheated.
But you feel equally warm and full at the sights and sounds of your hard work on display.
Nat King Coleâs voice softly echoing through the house. The string of lights wrapping around the banister. The tchotchkes and doo-dads in, you think, their usual places. And the fully decorated tree, with an added nostalgic touch of some old ornaments you had made for your mother in elementary school. A popsicle stick framed photo of you. A googly-eyed Rudolph. A Santa that really just looks like red and white mangled clay.
Somethingâs missing, though.Â
âFuck,â you mutter, upon realization.
Youâll need to get the ladder back out from the shed. And youâll need to go back into the attic to find the star for the top of the Christmas tree.
For some reason, you think you hear your father call from downstairs.
âAppa?â you call back.
âUh, sorry! Itâs, uh⊠well, itâs Hobi?â
You bolt upright, luckily missing a beam that definitely would have knocked your father out.
âOne sec!â
You carefully tiptoe down the wobbly, not completely properly unfolded attic steps, and catch sight of Hobi in the middle of your living room, taking off his letterman jacket and looking around at your handiwork.
Youâre so, so happy to see him.
And heâs so happy to see you gazing like that at him for once.
He doesnât really know what to do with that attention.
âThe door was unlocked,â he says, pointing his thumb back. âI called a couple times, and then I knocked, butââ
âI needed the ladder,â you say, thoughts disorganized. âThe shed. Went outside.â
âWaitâŠâÂ
Hobi looks around, understanding, but furrowing his brow as he puts together the fresh feeling of the decorations with the sweaty strands of hair tucked behind your ears, and dust-covered sweats. âDid you just now do all of this? Alone?â He blinks. âWhere are your parents?â
âTheyâre staying the night for observation,â you reply. âEverythingâs fine, but I couldnât just sit here andâ andââ
You squeeze your eyes shut.
âCan I help?â Hobi asks, walking up to you, stopping at the bottom stair. âWhat can I do?â
You take a deep breath and smile. âSorry. Yes. I just wanted to give my parents something nice to see when they got home. Yâknow. Spruce up the place.â
Hobi chuckles, and you feel proud.
âIâm pretty much done,â you say, âbut I just need some help finding and placing the tree topper.â
âOK,â Hobi replies, looking at you expectantly.
You bask in his glow for a little while. Until you sayâÂ
âRight.â
You turn to climb the stairs.Â
âThe decorations are up here.â
You lead him to the hallway, and he smiles a little when he sees the door hanging down from the ceiling, the same flimsy steps leading upwards as the one in his own family home.
He climbs them so easily. Light on his feet. Never worrying that heâll fall.
You follow him and linger on the top step, watching Hobi rummaging around while carefully placing his weight on the right beams. Like your father knows how to.Â
âA gold star?â he asks.
You nod and smile. âYes!â
Hobi reaches into a box and pulls it out, grinning back at you when he sees you nodding.
You both head back downstairs, and Hobi watches as you shakily climb the ladder that youâve positioned by the tree. He holds the frame steady for you, arms ready to catch you if you fall.
âIs this you coming to check on me?â you ask with a grin, as you fix the top pine needles into a more natural and balanced arrangement.
Hobi shifts his weight, telling you with his body. But he also thinks through his words. He wants to be more purposeful with them. Like your father might.
âI know I said Iâd callâŠâ Hobi says. He wants to grab your ankles. Your calves. He could. Theyâre right there, in front of him. ââŠBut I wanted to see you.â
You pause.Â
âYou had all this time,â you say gently.
Youâre grateful that you have to look down at the ladder rungs. Holding Hobiâs stare when you say this might make it impossible to come out.
âWhy didnât you just tell me?âÂ
Hobi wants to explain everything. All the mix-ups that have led you down this path. But he knows that itâs not just about switched numbers and outside forces. Itâs also about how long he chose to wait. How long he chose to gaze at you from afar, when you have been more than within reach since the day he first saw you.
Hobi looks thoughtfully at the nearly-completed tree, gazing at the way youâve placed all the different bobbles and figurines. Like with everything else in life, thereâs no one right way to decorate a tree. But like with everything else in life, youâve somehow managed to find the perfect arrangement.Â
âYou see all of these ornaments?â Hobi asks, gesturing to your handiwork. He looks up at you, balancing carefully on the ladder. âDo you think these ornaments dare to talk to the star on top?â
You chuckle to yourself. âDo you think ornaments talk to each other?â
Hobi quiets the voice that the rocking horse nearest to him neigh!s at the playful elf smiling from two branches up. He thinks of Jungkook briefly. And then he smiles a little.
You turn in Hobiâs silence.
Hobi eyes the star hanging from your delicate fingers.
âHow do you talk to a dream?â he asks, gazing up at you. When you fail to answer, he continues with, âYou don't. You canât. You just revel in it. Bask in it. Thankful for the time you get with it. Hope that some of it stays with you for the rest of the day. Wish for longer.â
You place the star on the top of the tree, and then you climb back down the rungs before you respond. You want to look up at him when you say this.
âIâm not a dream girl,â you say. âIâm just me.â
Hobi shakes his head. âYou have no clue. All the games. All the chatter. Iâm even standing here, telling you, right now. And you still have no clue.â
You donât mean for tears to well up in your eyes. âDoes it even matter?â
But, suddenly, nothing matters. Nothing matters except the feel of Hobiâs hands in your hair. The feel of Hobiâs arms around you, less pulling you in, but reaching for you, as if trying to catch you. The feel of Hobi learning that youâre not going anywhere. That youâve always been here. And that feeling, that realization, amounting to one of the best kisses youâve ever had, his soft lips adorning you with years of nostalgic, pent-up, real, love.
You pull away. âItâs too late,â you say, feeling guilty and wretched.
âItâs not,â Hobi says desperately. âWe talked. Sheâs leaving.â
âSheâs leaving?â
âIt was more than just this,â Hobi tells you firmly. âEverything with her was off. Wrong.â He laces his fingers into yours. âBut not now.âÂ
You swerve his kiss, but Hobi takes it happily. Heâll take a lifetime of you swerving his kisses if it means getting to see the want in your eyes when you look back.Â
âAre you sure?â you ask, blinking back more tears.
âIâm sure,â he tells you. âAs sure as I am about you.â He smiles. âIt has always, always been you.â
He strokes the damp strands of hair tucked behind your right ear, their ends slightly tangled in the back of your rose earring. You feel the hair slip through the holes in the metal, bending your neck a little to the left to help it free. Your hair runs smooth through it, and through Hobiâs adoring fingers.
You look up at him, and you lean forward this time. You tiptoe. He holds you as you do it. And as you gently press a kiss to his cheek.
It slips down to a kiss on his lips.
And then youâre in it again.Â
This perfect world that Hobi created for you.
You take his hand and lead him upstairs.Â
He keeps his eyes on you as he pushes the underside of the attic door up, the steps folding automatically, and the latch catching as the thin wood flattens against the ceiling.Â
You lead him into your room, guiding him to your bed.
You wondered, upon learning about this little project, whether Hobi would be curious about your room. The posters that still hang. The picture frames that are collecting the same dust that you have on your sweater. The dried potpourri that your mother still insists on refreshing monthly, nestled in a tiny, light orange bowl on your dresser.
But right now, Hobiâs uninterested in everything else. Â
He just looks at you. Only sees you.
âCan I have a second?â you say, nervous, and sweating even more.
Hobi just nods, sitting there on your bed, so peaceful. All of his time is yours. It always has been.
You disappear into your bathroom. Strip off your clothes. Wash your face. Quickly brush your teeth. Contemplate reapplying your makeup, but settling for a natural look instead. You soap and rinse a washcloth to clear the little bit of sweat under your arms and on the back of your neck. Should you shower? Will you be sweating again soon, anyway?
You smirk at yourself at the thought.
But then you catch yourself in the mirror. You donât see the comfortable but cute, silk, floral bralette and light yellow panties that you had changed into after you got home for the evening.Â
All you see is you, too.
âEven more evidence that Iâm not a dream girl,â you sigh, as you leave your bathroom and try to forget the reflection that you saw in the mirror. âFlab. Freckles.â You glance at Hobi, whoâs just sitting on your bed, staring at your body, probably recalculating his decisions upon seeing all of your stretch marks and scars. âFaults.â
Hobi just keeps staring.
You take a shaky breath, and Hobi rushes to his feet, walking toward you, softly taking your hands. He kisses the back of them, and then starts to kiss up your right arm. You start to chew your lip when he approaches a particular patch of skin, small raised bumps that your lotion still canât seem to get rid of completely.Â
He doesnât kiss them. He kisses past them. They donât even register. Heâs just kissing you.
He kisses up your neck, not remarking on the small scar you have just under your chin. He finds your jaw and draws you in, taking more of your attention, bringing him into whatever world he always seems to be in when heâs with you. The world where his hands keep swimming, uncaring that you have some extra bits of you on your stomach, or around your bust line, not even noticing the small keloids on the backs of your shoulders, and easily finding your collarbones and caressing them with his fingers, and then his lips, even under the extra flesh. And, what some might call tiny patches of discoloration, what you call freckles, all over your body, Hobi sees stars.Â
Hobi doesnât understand how you can travel so many galaxies and not know this world.
The world where you are a dream girl.
His dream girl.
You feel his hands on your ass, and he grunts as he hugs you closer to him.Â
His lips flirt with your earlobe. âBeen wondering.â The shockwaves of excruciating angst echo from his mouth and into your ear. âCan IâŠâÂ
He runs a finger under the fabric of your panties, tracing the cleft of your left bottom cheek.
âCan I find out?â
You laugh softly as you tighten your arms around him, pressing your body into him.Â
He grunts again, slipping his hand under your panties and upwards, the fabric stretching and smoothing against you. He paws at you as he envelops you into an even deeper kiss, sucking up everything that he can taste, his entire body sucking you into him with the fervor of a hunger finally being satiated.
Walking backwards, Hobi leads you over to your bed, ankles hitting the bottom of your bedâs frame and prompting him to fall back. You climb on top of him and straddle him, your hands following as the backs of his arms slide against your duvet. You realize that his arms are still clothed with fabric, and then you lean back on your calves, kneeling on top of him, and smiling as he gazes up at you.
You tug on his sleeves, and he sits back up so that you can pull his sweater off of him, and then the shirt on underneath.Â
Cords of lithe muscle greet you, perfectly set on his proportioned frame. Itâs been years since Hobiâs really danced, but his graceful abs have stayed loyal and true. You run your hands over his chest, appreciating how heâs filled out. Lived more life. Become stronger, and yet, softer.Â
All for you.
Hobi laughs softly at your wide, curious eyes, shaming yourself for not having seen before. He forgives you, or perhaps, tells you that thereâs nothing to forgive, as he pulls you back into his kiss, like whipped cream and peppermint freshly mixed into hot cocoa. Sweet. Filling. Delicious.
You feel yourself starting to move your hips.
âHow do you like it, dream girl?â he whispers to you. He palms your breasts in his big, soft hands, fingers smooth on your silk bralette. âTell me.â He licks your left nipple, tongue wetting that silk, tracing you over and over again. âWanna give it to you. Want it to be perfect.â
âSurprise me,â you whisper. âLike you always do.â
He nods, nosing into your breast as he continues to lick and suck through silk, kissing across your chest to your other breast and doing the same.
Your hips mimic his tongueâs movements, swirling on his rising cock, wetness seeping through your stained, yellow panties, and making a mess on his pants.
He pulls the silk cup off of your right breast and smiles, letting his tongue dart out and catch your nipple, lips soon following and circling around it, perfect pressure, then too much pressure, then, increasingly, not enough.
While his mouth continues working, tasting, feasting, his hands clasp down on your hips, and he starts to move you back and forth, rolling your hips toward and then away from him, as he widens his legs to make room for himself. You moan, feeling him grow beneath you, jutting up into you more and more, separating your wet, sticky lips and starting to burrow deeper.
You propel forward on your knees, and Hobi arches back with you, his left arm swiftly sliding diagonally across your back, from your right hip bone toward your left shoulder blade, hand gripping you there before sliding back over and finding the base of your skull. He cradles you there, and you feel so secure in his hold that you start to move with more intention. You slide your body closer to his trunk, your entrance taking in more of his bulge, and your waking clit rubbing against those perfect abs.
Your hips switch to infinity signs, craving more and more pressure against your clit.Â
Hobi seems to know, like always just seems to know. His right hand rubs your left knee, and as he slides it up your thigh, you buck into him again. His thumb slides between you, finding your clit and moving in slow circles, giving you another tempo to match your pace and flow to, and, when added to his fingers massaging your scalp, and his tongue still caressing your nipple and breast, making your breaths heavier, and shaky.
His right knuckles start to press into you as he works his index finger into your pussy, aiming to roll your clit between its pad and the pad of his already soaking thumb. You whimper at the feel of him teasing you, his lips smiling into you as you move against him, and feeling his hot breath on your skin as he laughs softly at your squeaks and whines.Â
You need more. Hobi knows you need more.
But he doesnât know how badly you need it until you bend your neck to the side, arch back, push your chest out, shake your hair behind you, letting it tickle the hair on his arm, as you reach for the clasp of your bralette to undo it, all the while, letting out a long, low, needy moan.
âShit,â he grunts, pausing his movements to bring his hands up and pull the straps of your bralette down and off of you.
Once your bralette hits the floor, you grind deeper into his lap, driven by feeling more of Hobiâs jaw and lips and arms and rising cock against you. He keeps working no matter where you let your hands roam. You grab the back of his head with both hands, running your fingers through his soft hair. You let them hang around his neck. He doesnât get distracted, already used to having such focus with you. A man always on a mission. Particularly when it comes to you.
But when you clasp his shouldersâŠ
And you start to bounceâŠÂ
âFuck,â he hisses.
You find yourself nodding. You agree. The pressure. The tension. Not just now, but for the past few days. Years, for him. Itâs all leading somewhere. It has to happen.
âWe doing this?â he mumbles, eyes closed, eyebrows raised. âFor real?â
You place your hands on either side of his face, thumbs in the outer corners of his eyes, opening them up and directing his gaze. You look at him, fondly.Â
âFor real,â you whisper back, always so touched at how gentle he really is with you.
He grips you with his right forearm and stands. Picking you up is as easy as a dream. He unbuttons his jeans with his other hand, and he crouches a little to try and get the waist off of his hips.Â
Sensing the struggle, you place the soles of your feet on his jeans and try to slide them down, making Hobi laugh, and then hum in appreciation when it works.
He sits back down, and he shakes his pants and boxers down off of his ankles before reaching for your hips. He tosses you left and right, pulling your panties down. Down your thighs. Down your calves. And then, down onto the floor.
You climb off of him, and Hobi looks at you in confusion, wondering where youâre going. Itâs unparalleled by the sheer ecstasy he feels when you wrap your drooling mouth around his cock, looking up at him with eager-to-please eyes.
Hobi swims in your gaze as you let your tongue swim against him, broad and curving around his underside, stroking him as you move your head back and forth, teasing him to come hither. When he starts to pump, slow and easy, you go to work, gathering your hair behind you, and feeling him take the strands in his palm for you, so that you can use your mouth and both hands to make sure his entire shaft gets some piece of you.Â
He canât get enough.
He moans your name softly, telling you how good it feels with each hiss or click of his teeth. The way your nose brushes against his lower torso. The way you tilt your head down and bring your chest up, pulling his cock out with a kiss on his crown every time, before diving back in for another gulp. And the way you tongue every crevice underneath that crown, before taking one long lick down his shaft and sucking on his balls.
Doing it to Hobi does it to you. He sees how wet you are, dripping onto your bedroom carpet, unable to focus on anything except his cock.Â
He wants to focus on you, too.
Before another threat of losing it completely, he pulls you up and onto his lap, licking up the strands of your spit on your chin with his tongue, tasting himself on you and spitting in your mouth to try and find the taste of you again.
Your hips seek each other out again, as well.
You start with shallow strokes, wetting his head with your slick. Thereâs so much more coming.
Your knees press into your mattress, which starts to creak under your slight bounces.
Hobi searches for your lips. How he isnât tired given all the work heâd put in at your chest, you donât know. But he could do this forever. Travel and explore your body. Heâs so, so curious to see how right heâd gotten it.Â
The tip, slipping into you easily now, edges further and further into you, and youâre having more and more trouble keeping your neck still, your head a spinning top, circling around, only able to maintain any sense of control with Hobi, his heart, his body, his cock, your axis. Heâs grunting, trying not to lose it, holding as much back as he can, choosing instead to let you spin out of control.
Another stroke of your clit with those two, sopping wet fingers, and you do.
âWant you deeper,â you growl, before even the first waves leave you, feeling needy, and greedy, and unashamedly so.Â
Hobi nods and kisses you, sliding out of you with some reluctance, holding you close to him as he picks you up and places you on all fours on your mattress, a hand on you at all times as he lines up with you, worried that any time or space away from you will pry you from him yet again.
You low as he sinks back into you, flesh on fire, tissue twisting as he fits more of himself into you, halfway down his length. He forces his hips back, pushing only as far as your walls will let him for now, both of you hissing and moaning at the simultaneous pleasure and pain.Â
He grabs at your hips, grabbing past the extra as if it isnât extra. As if it was always meant to be there. As if you would be incomplete somehow without it.
A deep moan seeps out of him. And then, âSpread for me.âÂ
When you do, words fail him. Heâll get better at them with time. Or not.
He slowly pulls you back to him, more of him inside of you, waking you back up, shaking you back into action as you meet him halfway.
âMore,â you sigh over and over, as you start to roll your hips through your movements, aching to take more of him into you, âmore,â and aching worse at the fact that you canât just yet, âmore,â each of your sighs a plea to your body to give you what you fucking want.
If Hobiâs proved anything, itâs that patience is a virtue. Heâs perfectly content to watch you struggling around him, twitching and trying, because he, as he tells you, sees where youâre headed so clearly.
âI canât,â you whimper deliriously, though youâre certain youâve done this before. âFuck, why canât Iââ
âYou can,â he tells you in a whisper, bending down to kiss your back. âIâm here. Iâve got you.â
You whine and let your head hang until something, a tingle, or a shock, sent to you by the way Hobiâs cock buries into your folds at a low, forward angle, snaps your head back up, and you start to push back against him. Still not as deep as you want, but closer.
Hobi notices. He starts to pump into you, watching your hips move below him, nearly biting his bottom lip plumb off when you have the audacity to clench in an attempt to get you there.
You snap your hand to your clit, trying a finger, some of your fingers, all of your fingers, your palm, your wrist, desperate for that explosion to finally bloom around you the way you want.
Your body comes back to you with a suggestion, and you gladly take it, shivering as the second wave envelops you.
âCâmere,â Hobi mumbles, flipping you over and throwing your legs over his shoulders.
âOh god,â you whine. Youâre starting to just know, like he just knows. And itâs a dangerous thing, seeing the bigger picture with him.
His tongueâs perfect point aims with such precision, flicking your clit, slow, and then fast, and then faster, inside of his mouth as he cushions it with his lips, widening his mouth and groaning as he kisses your lips to cool you off, edging you, and making your walls throb.
âHobi,â you sigh, running your hand through his drenched locks. âHobi. Hobi.â
He knows youâre about to come, but he snaps back anyway.Â
You pout and moan his name over and over again, but he shakes his head.
âMmm. I know. But trust me.â
You squeeze your eyes tight, letting the tears fall, mourning the waves that never came.
But then he stands.
And he pulls your hips down to the edge of the mattress.
And youâre crying for a different reason.
It isnât that heâs too much, though he is thick, and longer than most of the others youâve known. Itâs really just coming down to timing. Getting to know him. Make space for him. Feel him.
And when you wait for that timing, it pays off.
He climbs on top of you and burrows, all of him now, into you, deeper and deeper, until you feel the base of his cock press against your flesh, his balls warmly resting against your skin, and then slapping as he picks up the pace.
âFuck, yes,â you sigh. âYes, yes, yes.â
This is what youâd been waiting all this time for. And it was more than worth the wait.
That fathomless stroke, long, and firm, so heated, and focused, and dangerous that with each pound, you worry that your ribcage might fall apart.
You let out a howling cry, eyes springing open with tears, Hobiâs sublime face blurry until you blink.
He reaches up and wipes your tears away with his thumb.
âStay with me, dream girl,â he whispers, as he leans down to kiss you.
You nod through your kiss. You want to tell him that from now on, you will always, always stay with him.
Deep, plodding strokes, spaced farther and farther apart, making you slide higher and higher up your mattress, the pressure mounting so tensely between each pump that you feel like youâre coming unhinged.Â
You both moan and grunt on each one, pitch rising higher and higher.
Until he murmurs. Strained. Breaking.
âCome.â
You let out a final moan as he empties into you, and your body shakes, none of your parts knowing where they want to go, spasming and flinching as indescribable pleasure blossoms across your bodies. He litters kisses all over you, grateful grunts, and reassuring words, telling you how good you did. How good it felt. How good you are.Â
How perfect.
When your heartbeat finally settles, you turn to Hobi, who has collapsed next to you. You manage a tired, satisfied smile when you find that he has been running his hand up and down his chest, eyes barely able to stay open.
Hobi finds it weird to dream about you, open his eyes, and then find you staring back at him.
âHungry?â you ask sweetly.
Hobi raises his eyes and looks far away. âA little.â But then he finds you again. âThe diner?â He frowns at the thought of the guysâ championesque smirks as the two of you stroll in. âMaybe not.â
You smile. âI bought some kimchi-bokkeum-bap yesterday. Never got around to eating it.â
âWhy not?â
âHad something else instead.â
âMmm.â Hobi hums and reaches for your hand, pulling it to him and kissing it. And then his eyebrows shoot up. âKimchi-bokkeum-bap kinda sounds perfect, actually.â And then he rolls into you. âBut not yet, please.â
You laugh as he scooches forward to kiss your shoulder.
âHow did you sleep?â you whisper.
âGood. Dreamt about you. In Jiminâs green dress.â The wrong image pops into his head. âI mean, the dress that Jiminââ He shakes his hair out his face. âUgh, you know what I mean. The dress you wore to the carol singing thing.â
He closes his eyes as you chuckle and turn your head back up to the ceiling. âSpeaking of,â you say softly, staring up at the popcorn pattern, âwhat did Mrs. Yoon whisper in your ear?â
âThat we made a nice couple.â Hobi raises his head a little to catch your eyes. âAnd, uh⊠she very graphically told me that⊠uh⊠we would also make nice babies.â
He buries his head back into your pillow.
âAre you seriously getting shy right now?â you laugh, charmed. âWe just fucked!â
âStill.â Hobiâs words are muffled by the pillow. But he keeps one eye on you.
âDo we really have a whole month of this?â he asks you.
You smile. Youâve already told him. And youâre about to tell him again. You want so much more.
Until you hear the front door open.
And your father really calls for you.
âShit!â you whisper, as both you and Hobi scramble out of your bed. And then, to your parents, you yell, âBe right down!â
âFuck, fuck, fuck,â Hobi mutters, getting dressed. He stares at you frantically. âW-where should Iâ?â
Your mother knocks on your door. âYou still sleepy? We brought home some breakfast!â
âDammit,â you whisper, pulling on the last bit of your right sweatpant leg. âFuck. Shit. Fuck. I think the only option is the window.â
âOK,â Hobi says, a glint of worry in his eye, though his voice is steady and strong, trying to psyche himself up for the drop. âThatâs fine. Thatâs fine.â
âSweetie?â your mother asks.
âThis is not fine!â you whine to Hobi.
âItâs fine. I promise.â Hobi means to kiss your cheek, but he kisses the tip of your nose in the crazed frenzy. âIâll call you later.â
You nod quickly, as Hobi reaches over and opens your window. He grimaces as he looks down at your front yard. And all that snow.
âSweetie? You OK?âÂ
As Hobi gets into position, you crouch a little and crack your door open, careful to hide him from view as he gets ready to jump. âEomma?â you ask.
She smiles happily at you. âGood morning.â She wedges her face through your door and gives you a kiss on the forehead. âSleep OK?â
âMmhmm!â you exclaim.
âOK, well, letâs go have some breakfast,â your mother tells you.Â
As you join her in the hall, you hear a quiet floof! from outside and below your window.
You walk down the stairs, arm in arm, though you keep looking back to your bedroom door.Â
âGood morning,â your father greets you, kissing your cheek.
âThese decorations, sweetie. They were a lovely, lovely surprise,â your mother adds from behind you, stroking your hair.
âI just wanted to make you smile,â you tell her. You turn back to your father. âHow are you feeling?â you ask, eyes wide, and heart thumping.
âGreat!â your father tells you. âEverything was fine, but theyâre going to make some adjustments to my medication.âÂ
He hugs you back, even tighter than you hug him.
âSo that means I can have an unhealthy breakfast,â your father surmises.Â
âWhatever, Appa.âÂ
âIs Hobi joining us?â he asks.
You freeze.
Your father pulls away, and you see your mother grinning just behind him, trying her best not to laugh. âWhereâs Hobi?â he asks, looking around.
âUh, Hobi??â you ask.
Your father points to the jacket draped across the couch back, JUNG clearly on display.
Your erratically beating heart stops and sinks into your lower intestines. âOh.â
âWhere is he?â your father repeats. âWe have tons of food!âÂ
You blink quickly at your father.
And then you rush outside, seeing Hobi still struggling to get up.
âHobi!â you call out to him, running into your yard, barefoot and barely dressed.
âWhat!â His eyes go as white as all the snow covering him when he sees you running to him, and then tackling him back down into the snow, laughing and kissing him.
âThey invited you in for breakfast,â you tell him warmly, voice purring in your chest, pressed against his.
âP-please tell me thereâs coffee,â Hobi chatters. âIâm c-cold.â
But you donât feel a thing.
All you feel is Hobi underneath you, tickling you, and then saying, âOK, no, but s-seriously, itâs so, s-so cold.â
You get to your feet and help him up, bringing him up the porch steps again.
Your mother frowns at you as she yanks him into the house, dusting him off and throwing him onto the couch in the living room. âWhat is wrong with you??â she exclaims. âYou let him jump out the window?!â
âI wasnât sure if I could haveââ You cough. âIf having, uh, a guest, would be OK?â you say awkwardly.
âJesus!â your mother mutters. She sighs and looks piteously at Hobi. âIâm getting you dry clothes and some blankets. I mean, for crying out loud.â
âT-T-Thank you,â Hobi chokes out.
You apologetically wrap Hobi up in his letterman jacket as your father laughs at the two of you.
âDid you think the no dating rule was still in effect or something?â he asks.
âThe child locks are still on in the car,â you mumble. You feel Hobiâs adoring eyes on you, and you smile back at him when you add, âAnd weâre still⊠figuring it out?â
âTook you long enough to get this far,â your father replies. âSweetie, ever since you got back into town, everyone in the town has been asking about you two. Especially that Mrs. Yoon.â He smiles. âIâll make you both some coffee,â your father says, walking into the kitchen. âAnd, Hobi, please, the least we could do for you is make good on that invite to dinner.â
He smiles at Hobi.
âStay.â
Hobi just grins back.
Once your father is out of earshot, you whisper anxiously, âOh god, this is a lot. Iâm sorry. You really donât have to feel obligated to stay.â
âAre you kidding?âÂ
Hobi, still shivering, turns to you and smiles.Â
âI finally get a real date with my dream girl, and you expect me to say no?â
You laugh and wrap Hobi up in your arms, covering him with your entire body, trying to warm him back up, as your collective teeth chatter through a warm, sweet kiss that makes up for a decade full of every single one heâs imagined.
Every single one youâve missed.
Easily setting the bar for all the ones to come.
#bts fanfiction#bts smut#bts fluff#bts angst#ficscafe#ficscafe holidays#ksmutclub#magicshopsgate#hobi fanfiction#hoseok fanfiction#j-hope fanfiction#hobi smut#hoseok smut#jhope smut#j-hope smut#hobi x you#hobi x reader#hobi x y/n#hoseok x reader#hoseok x you#hoseok x y/n#j-hope x reader#j-hope x y/n#j-hope x you#project dream girl
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Six Sentence Sunday
Happy Sunday, aka calm before the storm. (Getting boostered tomorrow and Iâm scared â but I will be... fine đŹ). Thank you @facewithoutheart and @bookish-bogwitch for the tag.
Iâm going back from Paradiso 3 to Paradiso 2, che col tuo lume mi levasti, since I forgot to add Martin Bunce to the character list on AO3. Thatâs been rectified. Itâs what he deserves! So to make it up to him, have a snippet of him breaking down.
âAnd look at the Lobâs list, Martin!â
Professor Bunce takes it all in. Heâs cross-referencing it himself, to check whether or not my mum and I got it right. We remain silent while professor Bunce checks it all out and I take this moment to eat pasta. (Of course I ordered food.)
âFuck a nine-toed troll, Lucy,â he mutters after a while.
And I am actually advancing in Hold on to that feeling, my Glee/CO crossover? Can you believe?
Kurt and Blaine walk back to Blaineâs dorm, since itâs the closest to Simon and Bazâs room. Kurtâs talking rapidly, constantly negating what just happened. There must be a logical explanation to this. Maybe Kurt and his parents got hit by a bus on their way to Dalton and this is all a dream.
âThat is more logical?â Blaine snorts, âIf you got hit by a bus, then why am I here?â
Hewwo @martsonmars @quizasvivamos @esperantoauthor @urban-sith @mostlymaudlin @captain-aralias @blurglesmurfklaine @20xbetterthanu @caramelcoffeeaddict @redheadgleek @wellbelesbian @esperantoauthor
#six sentence sunday#tagged in#look i dont wanna say too much#but when the storyline that involves professor bunce fell into place#i had an euphoric moment#i had actually already scrapped it#but then i found a way to add it to the vampire mixture#and i just wanted simon to have something to do#it's not perfect but it's there#also i love writing kurt as a cynic im sorry please forgive me kurt i love you
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i forgot to tag the actual relevant art tags im so fucking stupid i need to go to bed
getting my computer out to copy paste my tag bullshit in reblogs so i can actually tag it properly đ
(original tags under the cut) (warning for long and rambley and probably incomprehensible idk)
#hopefully itâs okay to tag you đŹđ#but idk i finally had the brainpower to start it and was like holy shit#start and finish#idk one of the things about qsmp when it was still going on and i was still paying attention that made me so :(((( was how little support#that q!slime had#like he kinda sorta had philza in a wow you should prolly not do that m8 but iâm not gonna stop you kinda way#(if i remember correctly(and only from charlieâs streams pov so could be different in memory and in philâs pov))#and then he had quackity as a support system like not a great one but iâd say they were friends#and then quackity got kidnapped lmao#and then he had q!wilbur for a week#who super didnât like gegg but DID like charlie and thatâs something#so he had like two (2) people (until baghera and him clicked)#like idk i feel like mf needed so much help and he never got it (fair) (he also didnât log in much and is jokey guy lmao so)#but like idk i remember really liking his interactions w etoiles cause etoiles is so fucking cool ??? holy shit ???? i miss seeing people#liveblogging him on the dash#and i really loved their dynamic but idk i guess i donât ship people a lot unless theyâre big ships im not used to rare pairs#but holy fuck the dynamic i love them#and please god help that slimey freak nobody else is going to do it and youâre stubborn enough to do it yourself#NEED to draw more qsmp members i didnât realize how few id drawn till my other dump of drawings#like iâve drawn bolas#+ bbh fit pac tubbo(and fred) quackity multiple times qwilbur forever has exactly one (1) tiny doodle#maxo i have one doodle but its the back of his head lmao#i keep trying to list bolas members again forgetting that i blanket covered them all w saying bolas#for eggs iâve drawn dapper as an egg#chayanne and tallulah as humanized/dragon hybrid deal and then thatâs it#i got fixated on genloss after that and got distracted#and then for purgatory the eggs werenât around so i wasnât doodling them then either#OH IVE DRAWN FLIPPA AND TĂLIN#like to the point where my phone knew to add the accent i guess#NOOOOO IM OUT OF TAGS PLEASE I DONT TALK TO ANYONE THIS IS ALL I HAVE NOOOOOOOMY TAGS MY TAGS
ANYWAY HERES STARCICLE
itâs not really explicitly shippy but thatâs what i was thinking about while i did it lmao so the energy is there
the flat color one i might do more w later idk
but i had a starcicle fic* by @mad-c1oud bookmarked since before the server imploded cause i saw a mutual recommend it and i finally sat down and read it like a week ago and omfg i miss qsmp and id never drawn etoiles before (havenât drawn many members tbh) and i had to rectify that immediately
*link below the cut :) âŹïž
>:]
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Chapter 2 - Shooting lessons (I)
Fic summary: The second arc of my Armitage Hux x OC fanfic, âchocolate cookies and tarine teaâ, in which both need to deal with the mess they got into (and each other, eh eh eh). Involves cookies that won't be eaten and tea that will get spilled. Same goes for certain feelings... they are going to be hungry ant thirsty đ
You can find the link to AO3 and other chapters on Tumblr in the pinned message on my dash, both for the first and second arc đ
Rating: Explicit. This is going to be very NSFW. So, Minors, do NOT read or interact. 18+. Family, friends and colleagues, please donât read this. :â-)
Tags & warnings: TRoS fix-it (kind of), Hux!lives, Hux doesnât like Kylo, Not a Redemption Arc, maybe a little bit, shameless fem!OC insert (there are cliches but entertaining ones imo), slow emotional burn, medium sexual burn, Enemies to Enemies With Benefits to Lovers, Hux is still a villain don't forget, Virgin Characters, masturbation against the door, pinv, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Awkward Sexual Situations, Past Child Abuse, dubious first kiss, Dom/sub Undertones, Mental Breakdown, Unprotected Sex, wet Hux, that deserves a tag/warning on its own, Minor Character Death
I will add tags as we proceed in the story, please let me know if I forgot one!
Taglist: @mylifeisactuallyamess, @morby and anyone whoâd like to join đ„°
A/N:   I swear I tried finishing the review this chapter so many times, but each time I got interrupted and I had to start over. Itâs a pity, because this is one of my favourite moments đŹ Short chapter this time, but Huxâs POV is next and hopefully soon đđđ
Miko stood still in the middle of the loading bridge. The available crates from the small hangar were positioned at the other end of the room, on which Hux had placed a few empty canisters. PC was impatiently patrolling the walls behind her, reflecting her restlessness and keeping an eye on her and Hux from the distance.
The latter had just given her some kind of weapon. She didnât like the feeling; it weighed so heavy, as did the power that came with it. She didnât want this responsibility, convinced that it could only make matters worse. But if things were going to get heated up out there, she didnât want to lose her life either. Especially not when she was doing this for this Worst Order criminal.
Armitage was now pacing around in the hangar with a steady tread. He started reciting a text he probably had said so many times before:Â
âThis is the SE-44C, itâs one of my personal choices. Itâs a lightweight blaster but still sturdy, and hasnât got a lot of recoil. Itâs easier to hide and carry with you than the standard trooperâs F-11D. Itâs less obvious and this customised version isnât white like the regulars, so it wonât draw attention.'
He walked towards her, back straight and head up, took the weapon on its barrel and coerced her to turn it sideways. The left flank was visible now and Miko noticed the different buttons and indents.Â
âThis is the safety pal." Hux pointed out and continued. "You remove it this way. Never forget to put it on when you put it back in your holster. This oneâs for the power. This is stun, this is full power. Try the mechanisms,â he instructed and gave control back to her. She nodded and tried to concentrate on memorising the functions. Changing the settings wasnât hard, but she suspected this was only the easy part of the course.
Hux walked away to the back, the heels of his boots making a clicking sound that resonated through the hangar. He then stopped and turned to stand behind her, paused to take a breath and put his hands behind his back.Â
âTry to aim.â he commanded.Â
Miko unexpectedly felt a strange chill climb up her spine. An involuntary shiver she was unable to stop.
Where did it originate from? She started to wonder. Out of her stubbornness towards him? She really didnât like getting orders like that, that was for certain. The whole authoritative strut had already almost made her eyes roll.
But, he was also standing really close to her and just out of her sight, and she somehow suddenly became aware of both their breathing. It was as if her senses were promptly heightened, because she was quite sure that hearing his breath should be impossible even from this close.Â
Not only that, the way he just spoke out loud⊠the overbearing speech combined with the rolling r and the slight crack in his voiceâŠÂ it was signalling those strange electric chills to her, a mirror of the ones she already experienced a few days ago.Â
Nothing good could come from those.
Miko gulped, looked at the crates and canisters again and tried to regain focus. She pulled up the blaster like she saw the troopers do, that time they were attempting to escape the Steadfast . But in all honesty, she had no idea what she was doing.Â
She heard Hux sigh from behind, letting her know he was still close by and still out of sight. And not content with this first feeble attempt.
Oh, I must really look like a total failure in his eyes already . The thought stung, she didn't want to let him down after he conceded in letting her go to the rendezvous point, and even making an effort to train her.
Realisation struck that somewhere deeply tucked away, she did want to get his appraisal and meet with his expectations, at least for a little bit. She hated the idea that she was looking for some form of validation from him, and she couldn't place why she wanted it in the first place.Â
Did she agree to these shooting lessons, just to be able to get out of the ship for a while? OrâŠ
Looking more inward, she wondered if this wasnât about something else than just being able to visit Taris.Â
Her self-secure demeanour has always only been a front and deep down, she knew that. Since the Steadfast up till now, that front had saved her from more trouble. But more than sometimes, she had been insecure and scared as kriffing hell . Getting some reassurance, even from Hux, would at least make her feel a bit better. Some positive feedback might actually help, to make her believe that she had some control over her integrity and what was going to happen.
Frack , she hoped her little weak moments hadn't shown yet. This Worst Order scum seemed to be able to make cracks in her shield and he definitely should not have all these troublesome effects on her. She wished he would never catch onto this subconscious need for praise and her other misplaced feelings. But the way he had treated her before, still made her indecisive about whether he was perceptive about others or not. How much of the little worrisome signals did he catch onto already?
Hux walked from her back to her side, taking the blaster in his right hand from above, while she was still holding it. When he tried to pull up the weapon, the tip of his gloves brushed her phalanges. Her mind went blank for a moment, before she realised he coerced her to heighten the weapon's position. After she silently complied, he took her hands and adjusted them finger by finger, each pull making her lose focus and even making her feel a bit dizzy.Â
The placement of her arm and at last her shoulder needed a correction too, his gloved hands expertly starting to execute the job and her feet involuntarily becoming more and more unstable.Â
The ex-general didnât give her a break though, and continued to adjust her posture through a very effective grip on her shoulder with his right hand, while pointing his left handâs index and middle finger at the dip of her back, straight on the knuckles of her spine. Gah, she could feel her skin flush and blinked her eyes in an effort to get out of the spell he placed her in.
After that, he let go, and she finally was able to breathe again. Miko abruptly felt very self conscious, once the initial shock response to his fingers had died out.Â
It took only a moment for him to concentrate on her hands and arms again, coercing her forearm up by putting his right hand under it, then continuing his path towards her upper arm.Â
In another effort to subdue the reverberations her body was having on his touch, Miko tried to breathe evenly and think clearly. Maybe, she needed to focus on what was actually happening and not on what she was feeling, she thought, while directing her gaze to his right hand. The whole point of standing here was to learn how to shoot, so she should pay attention to that and stop getting distracted.Â
From what she understood, he had been supervising training of those horrible first order troopers in the past, and what she observed now was a man who had done this kind of readjusting several times before. He was doing a routine job, correcting the way her fingers gripped the weapon, how she had to place her elbow a bit more to the outside.Â
But to her, this wasnât routine at all.Â
Both learning how to hold a blaster and a man touching her like this. Oh dank.
Becoming lightheaded again but still mesmerised by his gestures, she was now looking at the way his hands moved from her elbow over her upper arm, adding light pressure at the base. His touch was rather soft, she absently noticed, which she didnât expect after the last time they had made actual physical contact.Â
Now that she thought back to that encounter, those gloved hands making contact with the skin of her arms made her shiver again, and involuntarily made her wonder how they would feel on other parts of her body.Â
Goosebumps appeared on the visible parts of her lower arm and she promptly remembered how she thought he would be, from that time in the shower. Now though, she realised her assumptions were probably wrong, seeing how his fingers raked over her elbow right at this moment. Soft, but with purpose. Succeeding in making her change her stance with just the slightest pressure.Â
The strange chill she got before returned, but way worse.Â
She gulped when she realised that she wouldâve liked such physical contact even more. Oh kriffing mynocs , why did she allow those fantasies in the shower?Â
And why the frack was she reliving them now? How in the galaxy was she going to act normal around him now?
âRemember this position. The stance of your arm will catch up the recoil. Now, try to aim and shoot.â Hux said, and she quickly jerked her head up, feeling caught, and fairly certain that she had an obvious blush on her face.
Although it wasnât her intention to look at him - she wouldnât dare to do so this moment - her startling aligned her face with his. He seemed to be fully concentrating on her stance, a deep frown sporting his face and his eyes turned downwards. From up close, she could spot the smallest freckles⊠and a curious flush on his cheeks.Â
Oh.
A/N: Okay, I genuinely want to know if you appreciate all the thoughts and feelings being written out so elaborately⊠Initially I didn't write them down so detailed, but when I reviewed this and the previous chapters, I started reworkingâŠand reworking⊠and reworking⊠And in all honesty, I can't read this with a fresh mind anymore to decide if it's well balanced or just too much đ Your opinion counts! It might come in handy when I continue reviewing the next chapters đ
#armitage hux x oc#general hux x oc#star wars fanfiction#generalginger#gingergeneral#lemonginger#armitage hux#star wars fanfic#sw fanfic
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