#funny enough I was drawing in the cafe when the author asked me if I was an artist

[bowlersandtophats]

I recently illustrated a children’s book cover for a new local author. Rory & Babb: The Whispering Wave by Kelley Counts

Available on Amazon in physical format and digitally on Kindle

[sugarstainzz]

Send this to a stay! Have them describe themselves and see who their followers would “Ship” them with in the group!

i had no clue if this was supposed to be a physical desc. or a personality one, so i just kinda went with both?? or like my aura?? idek what i'm like tbh so this was kinda hard. don't do me wrong, stay <3

- my hair is a super big part of me looking like myself. it’s super thick and long and curly and i spend a lot of time taking care of it  - i go through a lot of sunscreen because i refuse to wear hats in the sun - i want to collect smiskis but i’m too broke rn ㅠㅠ - i talk to myself all day every day. 80% of the time i’m muttering to myself about something- i just narrate my day at this point - i love cute things. key chains, plushies, stationary, kpop albums, aesthetic spotify playlists, cutesy cafes. they make my heart explode - i cackle when i laugh. i can’t hide that i find something funny i practically scream  - i have more than a slight addiction to caffeine and sugar - literally i have the biggest sweet tooth it’s causing me issues - i love sleeping on other people. they’re warm and comfortable and if i lie still on a guy for a minute too long i’m out like a light  - i have a really pouty face. if anything annoys me i have this dumb frown on my face and i can't hide it. it's gonna get me in trouble at work - i go on friend dates all the time. best way to spend my days off tbh  - i don’t work out but i play volleyball at open gyms and i think that count - jellyfish 💕  - sharks 💕💕 - my end goal for my career is being a really well-off author. i love drawing and writing (duh) and webtoon’s only getting bigger and bigger so i may as well  karaoke + hot pot + boba or sago = perfect date  - ironically i’m really shy abt sex or even the fact that i’m attracted to people. i don’t think i’ve ever been brave enough to initiate a kiss with someone  - i cook for people to show that i care about them. i’m bad at words but you literally can’t deny that i brought you japchae or lemon bars or something - i literally go into cardiac arrest when someone i’m attracted to does something. something like leaning over a table or rolling their sleeves up can make my head spin for hours - i like sitting on my fire escape at night and watch the clouds. i live in an area with a ton of light pollution so they turn purple in the dark. it’s nice

sorry if this wasn't the vibe. i thought this was a super cute ask tho and wanted to include things that i think make me the person i am

-sugar🤍

[n0stalgicv0id]

Does that mean you looked for my message first thing in the morning ?? How sweet 🍓

I wasnt a big fan of literature myself or… I was, I don’t really have much recollection of my childhood if I’m being honest. Lolita is such a misunderstood book and the publishers don’t make it any better with they hyper sexualized covers of little girls, it truly disgusts me- It’s funny you mentioned this book because I talked about it the other day,, I know how vicious children can be, especially if they’ve been raised to think that difference is a synonym of enemy. I really hope she’s doing better today, she sounds like an extraordinary person ! To get inspired is to construct one’s self so, I’m glad you crossed paths with someone like her !

That book you’re reading sounds lovely ! I’ll try to look into it, I’m always looking for new things to read ! It makes me so happy to find a fellow Emily Brönte lover- Jane Eyre was great, certainly, but Emily’s art is much more tortuous and daring than her sister’s work which I always greatly appreciated 🍓 And you like Edgar Allan Poe and Oscar Wilde on top of that ? I have read the Picture of Dorian Gray in both English and French more than five times already, maybe I’m a bit obsessed 😭 I also was lucky enough to find one of the first editions in a small library once ! It was also really cheap, I couldn’t believe I was able to get my hands on such a treasured item for so cheap !!

I feel like my letters just get longer and longer haha !! That’s very interesting to know, you seem to have quite the entourage ! What do you study exactly ? I hope you enjoy the music I recommended to you 🍓 I’m currently sitting at a cafe before class, rethinking my entire life because I slipped on the hallway tiles, broke my umbrella and almost stabbed my eye with it then spent 15 minutes looking for my keys under the rain afterwards- Talk about being a clown really-

I Hope you slept well ! 🍓

When I get up I always check if someone sent me something but I usually reply after some hours, I enjoy to take care of myself and then come back ahah. I’m foolish I know.

I completely agree about recent book covers of Lolita, the first time I got that book I was so embarrassed of seeing such sexual acts. I immediately understood why all copies are still closed in plastic. The thing that makes me sad is the fact that this book is extremely infamous but it’s a piece of work in so many senses. I loved the writing style and the moments of how Lolita/Dolores was described by the protagonist. It's scandalous, grotesque, and it's a story that even today some people can relate to some extent. Isn't it the exact reason of why this book is still iconic and actual? Nabukov's intent was well portrayed. I hated it from the core. Oscar Wilde was such an iconic dandy and loved all his writings, really. The profundis have a special place in my heart. I never read an author so similar to me in so many ways and I feel less lonely in this ocean of my how struggles, blackouts. I’m jealous of the fact that you managed to get a 1st edition of the picture of Dorian Gray. Just how you even managed to do that? THAT’S INSANE. You basically have a saint grail in your collection. If you have some pictures I’d appreciate to see them very much.

Don’t worry if you write too much, I prefer to get long asks more than anything else. I’m in fact into penpalling. I’m a bit old fashioned, yes, it’s such an amazing hobby to freeze the brain. I’m studying game concept art. At first I liked it but I’m quite antisocial and talking to people isn’t exactly my forte, but I’m trying to improve and at least I can still work despite not being a talker. But at least I can submit my art assignment and receive opinions on it without too much trouble. I can’t wait to finish. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy what I’m doing but I don’t particularly enjoy to work in the art industry. I prefer to draw for myself when I have time - never. At the moment I just came back at home, I was out and managed to read a bit and now I’m trying to sort out what to take with me for the trip. Sending good luck to you, you definitely need some! Sorry but I laughed reading that you broke your umbrella. I hope you managed to find a new one. One day someone stole mine when I was in a comic shop. I have bad luck.

[bored-storyteller]

Thank you dear Anon for your request! Also because, I had already started writing a possible sequel on my own, your request arrives perfectly!

Note: I imagined these events after the one-shot you find here. In any case there are only subtle references.

35- Tokyo Ghoul- Uta x human!Reader (pt. 2)

"Beyond the Mask"

Uta sees you there, curled up in the chair in front of the table like a wet little bird, despite the fact that you are now wearing his warm clothes, which fall softly on your frightened figure. He doesn't mind lending it to you, on the contrary, he tried to find something that wasn't too extravagant, coming out with a heavy black sweatshirt and wide gray pants. He thought that this clothing could help you put yourself at ease, but he also understands that being wrapped in his clothes for you doesn't have to be so reassuring. You probably accepted this only to avoid being immersed in the nauseating humidity of the body fluids that stick to your skin.

He can't tell if your following him was a sign of courage or fear. You didn't say anything, and the few words you whispered were kind; you also thanked him. It almost seems like you are straining to try to be calm, but it's the small, meaningless gestures that betray you. Earlier you insisted that he be the first to shower and change, although it would have been more logical for you to go first; yet perhaps for you that was a way to get the killer monster out of sight, or at least partially forget it.

Uta is unable to understand you right now, nor does he really pretend to, he is already grateful enough that you are intelligent enough to understand that it would be almost suicidal to return to your home in the condition you were in, especially after what it happened.

No, he doesn't pretend to understand you, but to understand himself a little more, yes. Uta is a labyrinth, with a thousand streets inside, which intersect and cancel each other out. A thousand paradoxical streets where after a turning point you can find someone completely different than the person you met. Yet all those roads are authentic and sincere, in their sweetness or in their violence.

He is aware of this, it is clear to him, but as the owner of his soul he should know how to pull the strings, understand what is happening inside. Yet he doesn't know now, or he can't really explain it.

He feels sadness, a deep sadness to see you so small and afraid. He would like to hope your snuggling up to him in that alley was dictated by mutual trust and not despair, but he doesn't even know if you're aware of that. He doesn't really want you to be scared of him, but at the same time he sees no way to stop it.

He also feels angry with you. Because deep down he knows that you are unconsciously judging him. The same fear you evidently feel makes him angry. He didn't eat you, right? So why do you have to be so scared in front of him? It was you who ran into his arms, wasn't it?

Yet he still can't tell you that, because you are doing absolutely nothing threatening towards him. You simply indulge him timidly, tremblingly accepting his care that will never be able to reassure you.

Maybe you've never really felt as confident in him as Uta hoped. Being in his house, first naked in his bathroom and now in his clothes maybe it wouldn't have been pleasant for you even if he had been human, let alone now with all the terror you've accumulated… after what you saw.

Uta is the author and accomplice of things that you would consider horrible, it is his nature, he is not able to change, he needs that to feel alive.

But you also make him feel alive. He likes that cordial, playful confidence that you take with him, the one that remains within limits, but which somehow transmitted the affection of a kind heart; like that time, when you playfully smeared his nose with red paint with the brush you were using. You apologized right away, but you laughed happily and enjoyed watching him, and Uta liked it, so much that he returned the favor with some yellow color.

You are spontaneous, and he likes it, even if now this spontaneity of yours is pulling you away from him, even though you try to pretend it isn't.

In the end, he really wants to take care of you. But how can he do it? He can't even really offer you anything other than a cup of bitter coffee.

He looks for a moment at his own reflection in the dark drink, so indistinct and blurry, before placing the cup on the shelf in front of you slowly.

You look at him suddenly, as if you have just woken up. Uta smiles kindly at you: he has always been kind to you. You smile at him too, but he could swear that you only do it to please him, for fear of a negative reaction from him.

He would really like to sit in front of you, so he can talk as you do every time you meet in the coffee shop, but he instead leans against the wall with his back, a wall quite far from your warmth and your presence. He too has a hot cup in his tattooed hands, but he doesn't really want coffee; maybe he just hoped that if he drank something familiar to you - something that didn't speak your language before he was devoured - you would trust again.

You take a sip, probably more out of politeness than out of desire, and your expression turns into a small involuntary pout as you perceive the bitterness of the coffee on your tongue.

Uta would find it funny if it weren't for the whole situation.

"I'm sorry…" his quiet voice of him draws your attention to himself. He doesn't really know what he's apologizing for. "I have no ... sugar ..."

The relaxed musicality of his voice is slightly cracked by uncertainty.

He has no sugar to console you, no regular sugar at least. It's already strange that he got the coffee. He never really welcomes real guests, only customers, now that he thinks about it; there are rare times when he really has to welcome someone outside of his "business", generally speaking.

You do not answer immediately, your gaze cannot help wandering over his figure, his body, his chest and his abdomen.

He smooths his baggy black sweater, as if to make you realize he's noticing your eyes, and then take a sip from his cup.

"Don't worry, it's okay ..." you assure "in the end ... I like to try new things ..."

Are you talking about sugar?

Your voice is a twitter that leaves him with vague hope. Are you trying to tell him something?

He's not really afraid of you going around talking, you told him you wouldn't and he knows you won't. You are not that different from Renji in this.

You turn the cup over in your fingers, looking at that dark liquid, and then turn to him again.

"Don't ... want to sit down?"

You ask him shyly, as if you feared rejection, but you asked him anyway.

You amaze him, of course. That is a little melancholy surprise, your calling him close, your giving him a little illusion of closeness.

But do you really want him there?

With a nod he slowly approaches, as if he is approaching a wounded animal - or prey - and he slowly sits in front of you.

The cups of coffee that nobody wants look at each other, placed in front, close together, like when you happen to meet at the end of the day in the cafe. It was a good time for Uta, he enjoyed pretending that there were no Ghouls and Humans, silenced his hunger so attracted to you and focused on the pleasure of your presence as if you were no different.

But now the charade is over, you two are not alike, and for some reason it hurts him.

Your gaze rests docile on his face, and he smiles lightly.

He is beautiful, you really think so. In a way, those red and black eyes are the only ones that fit him. Uta is not of an objective beauty, he must like him, and you really like him.

"You know..." your murmur puts him on alert "I ... I hear the news but ... it's hard to think that it could happen to you, when you hear about ghouls ..."

"It didn't happen to you."

His calm voice stops you immediately, and despite his flat tone makes you feel accused. He didn't hurt you, you can't say he's your turn. If anything, he is the turn of your tormentor.

"I ... no ... I meant that I had never thought of meeting one ..."

You justify shy, and he realizes he scared you. You're probably thinking that the first misstep you take will automatically become his next meal.

His lips press in a thin line, while he looks at you calmly.

"We are not that rare, you know ..."

He informs you, understanding that you would never speak if he remained silent.

There were ghouls even more integrated into human society than he. You were kind of his exception to him, his regular break from his violent life, even though he still had other human connections.

"Do you want to eat me?"

The question comes out suddenly, interrupting any flow of thought. It is less insecure than you thought, but deep down you both know that that's the core of it all.

He looks you straight in the eye, without giving in to the gaze and somehow gluing your pupils into his.

He could tell you that if he had wanted he would have done it already, he could say many things, yet he doesn't want to lie, he owes you and you owe it to him.

"It would be nice."

His voice is kind of calming despite the harshness of those words. As scary as they are, you don't react, and let him talk again.

"But it would also be extremely sad for me."

His tattooed fingers twirl around the slowly cooling cup, and you wonder if his heart has started beating a little faster, like yours, despite his mute expression.

"As tempting as eating you may be ... it would be very sad not to see you again."

A spark suddenly lights up in your eyes, it's so beautiful and bright that Uta opens his lips slightly in amazement, seeing that little light in you, so unexpectedly. He can't say if it is the hope of being able to live still that ignited it or that unspoken admission of affection, but that's okay with him.

"Would you be sad, Uta?"

You ask with a voice covered with expectations. He does not know how it happened, but it seems that your focus has shifted to something else, so suddenly.

Your cheeks just blush, and you smile as you look down at your hands. That smile isn't for him, it's for you. Uta wasn't hoping to see you smile again, yet there you were, wrapped in his baggy clothes smiling genuinely, as if you had suddenly forgotten the fear.

Your fingers intertwine in front of the cup, and your face doesn't dare lift up on him, but this time it's not fear that stops you.

“A Ghoul… sure, I had to know. In fact, in the end I knew it. Being a human would have been too trivial for you. "

Take another sip of coffee, and this time you commit yourself to putting up with the bitterness, even if you don't quite succeed.

Uta allows himself a slight amused smile.

"Oh yes?"

His is a rhetorical question that you just nod.

He drinks too, plunging both of you into a less heavy silence, but which still lingers in Uta's mind doubts that he would like to silence.

"Now where will you go?"

He is used to those he cares about disappearing far away. It wouldn't be new to see you walk away from him, he's not really hoping to be able to hold you back, despite what you said. Life simply changes people, and with them the world, he is aware of it, as he is aware of the fact that after this night the world between you two has changed, and as always you will be the one to change with it, while he will remain there, immobile.

"Do you want ... I have to go home?"

You ask confused, glancing towards the door. Night out scares you, you prefer the wolf's lair more than the dark and unpredictable shadows of the dark hours.

You didn't understand what he meant, how could you? Yet somehow Uta expected you to do it, he expected you to tell him this was goodbye. Yeah, is this goodbye?

"No, you don't have to go home if you don't want to ..."

It's hard to ask you to stay, to really stay. It is difficult to ask you to stay with him, because if you refused it would be a defeat, if you felt forced you would no longer be you.

“So you can't eat the food? Normal food I say ... so the idea of inviting you to lunch is out of the question. "

Your words break the melancholy in his mind again. He looks at you, his head slightly bent towards his right shoulder:

"Did you want to invite me to lunch?"

You wonder if it's really that surprising that you had such an idea. Should you be ashamed of it? Maybe this is inappropriate for him?

"I wanted. I mean, I've thought about it. It seemed nice to me. "

It seemed nice to you. You were cute, Uta often thought that. Here it is again, your gentle affection; it would have been a problem to refuse you if you really asked him to share lunch. He had never gotten used to pretending to eat human food, even though he tolerated smells quite well by now.

“Anyway, that's a kind thought of you. Thank you."

Without the glasses, his expression is even more gentle. It seems paradoxical, compared to the figure of him, but still, Uta is so unique.

"Not very kind if it kills you."

You mutter to yourself, looking away in embarrassment. In fact, now that you really know he's a ghoul a lot of your talk may no longer make sense.

"No ..." you hear him chuckle slightly, lightly and yet amused "we don't die so easily unfortunately for you ... I'd end up feeling extremely bad."

Suddenly the argument between you lightens up without either of you really noticing. He feels it, almost palpable, the boulder in his chest becoming light at the sound of curiosity that colors your voice as you confirm that you understand: it is the same curiosity as when you ask him questions about his masks, the colors he uses or his tattoos, he clearly recognizes it, which has now almost become part of both of you.

"I have so much to ask you, Uta" you admit, smiling at him fondly "but for now, thank you for everything you've done."

His nonexistent brows go up, looking at you as if he's asking if you were serious. But you did, sure, he knew.

"Thanks to you for bringing me dinner downstairs."

Uta doesn't mince words, he never did, and it was something you loved. He was always contemptuous and edgy in his calm and delicacy of him, it was a humor all of him, no one could ever look like Uta.

He makes you laugh, despite the macabre implied, and he's happy. He feels lighter, freer, and this seems to apply to you too.

One of his laboriously painted hands moves towards your face. He doesn't even notice, it's a gesture dictated by instinct, from his heart. Only when he's about to touch your cheek does he freeze, dumbfounded as to what to do, wondering in his head what the hell he was doing, why he did it.

He fears to see you retract at his touch, fears to see you hide and still does not understand why he fears so much the rejection of a human, a human who should be food and who instead twists his stomach with just a look.

He tries to retreat first, before it's late, but your hands stop him.

His fingers are now squeezed between yours, tenderly, as you tenderly bring them to your face. The hand that presses on his back is warmer than his skin, but the one that squeezes his palm has frozen fingertips, he feels them pinch against his skin. In yet another gesture of care for you, his fingers close on yours, to warm them.

And while you hold him he holds you, you hold both of you, and he knows you don't know him, that you haven't seen the dark side of him yet nor does he know if he will ever have the courage to show it to you, but for now that's okay .

Now he's no longer alone in his charade with you. You are no longer his audience, you are the actor who responds to his sentences in front of that cruel world. But luckily now, behind the scenes, his mask is no longer needed.

"I promise I'll take you for a better coffee tomorrow."

"I accept with great pleasure."

[ephemerlskies]

the eighth hour | ot7

⇢ pairing: hoseok x reader

[other members - namjoon, seokjin, and jimin]

⇢ genre: (long ass) one-shot, angst, partial fluff, thebreakfastclub!au, highschool!au, badboy!hoseok + fosterchild!hoseok, jock!jimin, nerd!namjoon, and seokjin as just your classic seokjin, childhoodfriends!au, friends to enemies to lovers

⇢ word count: 38.1k

⇢ warnings: explicit language, underage marijuana usage, mentions of alcohol, mentions of sex, themes of bullying, themes of depression/anxiety, mentions of mental abuse, cliché high school tropes, mutual pining (as always), homophobic themes, mentions of physical violence, mentions of explicit pictures

⇢ summary: who would have guessed that five separate events could converge into one shared Saturday detention? what emerged as an even bigger, yet pleasing surprise was the bonds that could form despite the contractual bindings of the high school cliques that you, jimin, namjoon, seokjin, and hoseok were assigned to.

♪ playlist: apple juice - jessie reyez • around - niki • ivy - frank ocean • friends - bts • dont you (forget about me - simple minds ♪

a/n: holy shit this was super fun to write!!! i was going to make this a series but instead i just impulse wrote this as a super long one shot. anyway i hope you enjoy! <3 also the playlist really does match the ~vibes~ so i hope y'all give it a listen :)

8:00 - 10:00

You blamed timing. It had been the only scapegoat to somewhat reconcile your seething frustration, though there was always that part of you that scorned your own poorly executed decisions. Maybe if you hadn’t stopped to say hi and discuss something as unimportant as the temperament of the weather with your teacher in passing, or if you didn’t skip your semi-weekly coffee, or if you hadn’t spent as much time inspecting the new flyers pinned onto the bulletin board then you could have avoided this conundrum. Timing, however, was completely out of your control, making it ideal to place blame on. That and the troublesome deviant who had you being held accountable for actions that were not of your own doing. 

Jung Hoseok. Your once childhood best friend turned bitter and drifted towards a life of immorality and mild misdemeanors due to his series of unexplained personal calamities. 

Even the nonverbal idea of his name had triggered aggressive animosity in you. Well, it felt like hatred; the burn in your chest whenever you thought of him felt like hatred, but you never dug deep enough to figure it out. 

It was shocking that you could feel this despise with such severity, but Hoseok had that particular quality about him that seemed to make anything possible, though you could never quite place what that quality was. And of course, your path intersected with his at the exact wrong time and the exact wrong place. That particular quality had drawn a treacherous curiosity to influence you to linger a few seconds too long, another poor decision of yours. To top it off, the exact wrong person had caught you in this perfectly timed and unfortunate situation and convicted you on the grounds of guilt by association to land you a Saturday detention. Mulling over these consecutive misdirections was punishment enough to drag you miserably through the rest of the week; the detention waiting for you at the end of it was simply the cherry on top.

 Apprehensive questions had always been your mom’s go-to tick when it came to you. The car ride to school had been flushed with them being that this was your first detention, let alone run-in with authority, in your entire academic career and your annoyance to her queries was more fuel added to the already monstrous fire of regret. This had produced some odd concoction of eagerness to escape this interrogation. Though you had no real desire to start this long day, your mom’s questions were the closest to giving a reason to that.

Your mother pulled up two blocks away from the library where you would be jailed for the next eight hours, and she packed in a few more questions to delay your departure. You and she sat in the car, marinating in the discomfort, waiting for the minutes to tick by until eight o’clock arrived. Your mother looked to you with pity and guilt as if she were delivering you to a slaughterhouse, not aiding to relieve the guilt of your own harbor.

“It’s just detention, Mom. It’s fine.” And you wished you believed it as much as you wanted her to. 

“Did I remember to pack the apple?” 

“Yes.”

“And the water bottle isn’t leaking anymore, right?” Her worried voice and demeanor had not been subtle in the slightest for this question had been asked about eight minutes ago in this same car ride.

“No, mom.” The bite in your response had warned her to relent her questions. 

“Okay, I’ll see you at four.”

“I’ll see you.”

“I love you, ___.”

“Love you.”

Stepping out of that car, finally escaping from the perpetual, suffocating questions had you identifying the crisp Winter air as a comfort. The fog decorating the school’s roof and treetops looked like it wouldn’t recede. It was abhorrent, not being able to get a glimpse of the sun before an epoch of detention stole your last few seconds of freedom. 

Your deep inhalations had formed a few puffs of clouds mixing with the surrounding fog, and you began to prepare entry into the penitentiary that others called the library. Your heart had been pounding from the momentum of frustration with your mom’s doting. However, it hadn’t ceased even when you parted ways because of the dread of facing Jung Hoseok once again. 

If the thought of his name was enough to send you into a hurricane-like rage, you couldn’t imagine what type of disastrous storm awaited you being confined with him for the next eight hours. 

The walk down these couple of blocks was paced intentionally to stall the beginning of this tortuous Saturday. Your strides had slowed substantially as they carried you down the halls of your high school, past the bulletin boards that hammered more guilt upon remembering that was one of the fatal mistakes that led you here, then past the school’s cafe that drilled the regret even deeper in your bones. 

As you approached the doors to the library, you gripped the cold handle until it grew warm from your hand. A bit of time to breathe, compose and mask your nerves granted you half an ounce of dignity needed to open the door and step through the threshold. You walked over to the two rows of three desks and exchanged a cordial glance with the school’s renown football star, Park Jimin, seated at the front right table, in a manner that disguised your guilt with indifference. Then, you settled in the seat at the table behind his, finding this the optimal place to draw the least amount of attention.

The quiet boy sitting in the back of the rows had reacted with a noticeable surprise to see your face in this setting. He looked as embarrassed to be here as you felt, however, while you refused to show it, he draped it on his expression with little to no restraint. Both of you did not bother with the formality of a nod or smile, but a simple acknowledgment for the lack of proper acquaintance. 

Though you had never had a personal interaction with him, you still knew his name to be Kim Namjoon and that he was characterized by everyone who knew him as the nerdiest kid in school. Quite a cliché, though you had no reason to think he was anything beyond that since his rounded eyeglasses and turtleneck sweater certainly upheld the truth in that stereotype.  

The remnants of your intruded sleep felt heavy in your eyes which numbed your endurance to stay awake. Soon after the bothersome exhaustion almost conquered you into a sleep, a disarrayed body had fumbled through the doors snapping the heads of you, Jimin, and Namjoon towards him. He stood in front of the door, glancing back to it as if he were considering a swift escape from the concerned glares and embarrassment of the scene he had just made. And though there had only been three others to witness the progression of him rattling the handles, pushing against it with just enough force to unbalance him, and then nearly tripping into the eyes of his peers, it had been just enough to elicit a sizable amount of anxiety.

“Sorry, the door um…” He gestured towards it then towards the handle, then after bringing that same hand to his head to itch away his nervousness, “the door was jammed.”

None of you sitting in that book-filled jail cell cared, much less wanted to know the reason he barged in to interrupt the silence, but the way he fumbled through his words had been far too interesting and entirely ineffective in dismissing the unwanted attention. 

Jimin had found this particularly amusing as he choked down a few laughs as not to raze the other boy’s ego completely, but his efforts had just drawn more awareness that he was laughing at him. The lanky figure with red-tinted ears and cheeks scuttled with a low hanging head to the front table, next to the one Jimin was seated at, without another word as to avoid further demoting his dignity.

Dignity was a funny thing to everyone in the library. It was handled differently by each body during this Saturday detention. Some were trying to protect it, some had paid no mind to tend to it, some (you) were trying to pretend it was undisturbed, and one had felt the weight of his diminishing dignity as no heavier than a feather.

This one, the same one that tormented you with his mere existence, had shoved the door out of his way in a manner of excitement. He strutted through the room to suggest he had some sort of twisted pride to be here and that his dignity fluctuated from the various looks of disgust, annoyance, confusion, and attraction. 

Hoseok didn’t offer you more than a glance, although the scan of his eyes could hardly be counted as any sort of acknowledgment. In fact, he glared longer at Namjoon who had done everything in his power to surrender any dominance, already in scarce supply, and appear meek to avoid an altercation with Hoseok. 

The other boy, Kim Seokjin, who had previously made a fool of himself, waved at Hoseok expecting to make a quick friend through his naive opportunism. Hoseok responded by lurching forward with his fist raised level with his shoulder in an advancement of hostility. Despite Hoseok being about ten feet away from him and in no realistic position to actually hit him, Seokjin flinched. His juvenile bullying proved to be ineptly humorous to everyone else in the library, except Seokjin who successfully lodged himself deeper in embarrassment.

For some reason, you were agitated that everyone else’s presence but your own was enough to earn his attention. It was beyond reason to want this man’s eyes to meet yours, and yet when it failed to do so, there was an unmistakable disappointment sitting in the place where you wanted Hoseok to look. 

You knew it stemmed from the unsatisfied hope that he wouldn’t act like he didn’t know you once, that maybe he’d let the guarded past seep through and guide his eyes to rest on you gently, as they often used to do. But what did that matter? You hated him.

There was some shame that followed how you counted yourself lucky that he sat at the desk right behind you, giving you a perfect trajectory to shoot him a snide look. You hoped it would arouse guilt that he had been the reason you were here and that he couldn’t even present the decency of proper eye contact, though he most likely found it flattering from the way his lower lip slid between his teeth and a twisted grin formed. The quick avert of his wandering eyes had replaced the heat rising in your body with more disappointment.

“Hey, tool.” The voice behind you passed over your head to the target sitting in front of you. Jimin turned back to assure Hoseok was audacious enough to call him that name, “Yeah, I’m talking to you.”

“What do you want, dickhead?” Jimin had been over this conversation before it even began, but he still played into Hoseok’s little game. He too had succumbed to that particular quality of Hoseok’s that had many people wanting to argue with him. Nowadays, it seemed to be the only way to get a bit of his attention. 

“Ooh, dickhead.” Hoseok’s low scoff had interrupted him momentarily, and the toss of his feet on top of the desk and lean in his chair drained a bit of suspenseful tension into the air, “Those are big boy words. Someone’s been drinking their big boy juice!” His voice was caked in a sharp taunt that had Jimin’s fists contracting into themselves, leaving crescent-shaped dents in his palms from his fingernails.

“What’s your problem, dude? Just leave me alone. I didn’t even say anything to you.” Turning his body to face away was not nearly enough to evade Hoseok’s mission of infuriating Jimin just for the hell of it. 

The boy, layered in a black leather jacket over a red flannel, mounted the desk and jumped onto yours then Jimin’s with a racket of stomps that echoed between the shelves of books. You looked over to the spot on your table where his foot landed, grimacing at the dirt residue of his shoe print and the whiff of nicotine Hoseok left in his wake. Your attention, along with Namjoon’s and Seokjin’s, was soon shifting over to Hoseok who slumped into the chair beside Jimin, all in deep anticipation of what the delinquent would do next. 

Your focus was trained on his fingers that pushed through his hair, exposing his forehead, and if you weren’t so invested in his interaction with Jimin, you might have noticed the pesky butterflies flitting around your stomach. 

“Can I help you?” Jimin didn’t give Hoseok the satisfaction of another turned head, making Hoseok greedy and frustrated with Jimin’s passive protest.

“I just wanna know…” The glance he shot to you sent shivers through your body, but you knew there was some mischief in this look, “You and princess over there are fucking?”

“What the hell?” These words had escaped from your mouth before you had the chance to fully construct a more dignified response. Jimin looked to you in attempts to apologize on behalf of Hoseok’s foul tongue. Seokjin’s ears had grown into a much deeper red upon hearing these obscenities and Namjoon’s eyes had widened almost as large as his jaw-dropped mouth.

“What the fuck is wrong with you? I don’t even know ___ like that.” Hoseok sat on the desk to face you with a smirk of such arrogance that it riled a combative sneer from your face. 

“So, you’re telling me, you’ve never slipped him the tongue, ___? I swear I could cut the sexual tension with a knife.” 

“You’re delusional.” Jimin cut in.

“Maybe. I couldn’t be as delusional as you, being concussed probably a hundred times from rolling around in the grass with your football friends.” 

“As if a loser like you knows anything about me or my friends!” 

“You like rolling around with your brain-dead guy friends?”

“What did you say?” What Hoseok was alluding to hadn’t been a reference to what Jimin perceived it as, though it had gashed against a rather sensitive spot. More so a personal, secretive spot and Jimin sewed his lips shut in fear to push Hoseok any further.

“Shut up, Hoseok! Everyone stop acknowledging him. He just wants attention.” Though what you had said was true, and everyone surely agreed on that, Hoseok had drawn in each of you and had you all completely wrapped around his finger in minutes. 

You seemed to be spooled around it the tightest as your eyes were now at war against his piercing glare. A small ten seconds grew into eternity when you were under his gaze and the canopy of memories it seemed to hold, and when it was torn away from you there was a sense of relief and exhilaration tilling through you. 

Hoseok would never admit to it, but your eyes had almost faltered his own, almost moved him to an obedience that would have him sitting down at his desk and shutting up. There was a bloated discomfort with his recollection of your power over him, especially uncomfortable with the fact that the years of distance hadn’t diminished it in the slightest. Nor had it given him the time to muster a tolerance against your gleaming eyes. This pushed him to look towards the nerdish boy sitting in the back.

“What about you, nerd? Ever gotten down and dirty? I’m sure you haven’t but maybe ___ could help you out with that.” Namjoon was stiff except for his hands that had been quivering the moment Hoseok began directing his torments towards him. Maybe it wasn’t the hollow comments that had angered you, but the fact that he still wouldn’t find the nobility in himself to face you when he disgraced your name in such explicit ways. Or the fact that each time he failed to meet your eyes, you only felt yourself wrapping tighter around his finger.

“You’re an ass, Hoseok.” Jimin muttered under his breath because part of him was too afraid to address him with full confidence. 

“Jealous, meathead?” 

“Didn’t you hear ___? No one cares for the bullshit that comes out of your mouth.”

 “Yeah, that’s the point. If no one cares, then I can say whatever the hell I want.”

Someone did care, not that he had the mind or attention span to notice how even in hatred, you felt natural to be at his side again. Or rather, in between the crossfires of Hoseok and Jimin’s deafening stare-off. The letterman jacket covering Jimin’s torso had instigated Hoseok to flick the flap of his collar against Jimin’s cheek. He was swift to knock Hoseok’s hand and now his anger gave him the motive to speak louder. 

“Don’t start with me again, asshole.” 

Hoseok performed a fake shudder in the face of the confidence born in Jimin’s tone. The two have now risen to their feet and inches away from their noses brushing against each other. Jimin’s hands had repositioned into the same fists of enragement while Hoseok called Jimin’s aggression and raised him with his arms folding across his chest. Seokjin’s nails were being fervently trimmed by his teeth and Namjoon shifted to the edge of his seat. It was clear neither of their prideful masculinities would allow for them to subside from this standoff. Who would make the first move, however, had yet to be unraveled and thrilled everyone to oblivion in the dimly lit library.

Again, your eyes couldn’t be ripped from Hoseok and how his white tank top had clung against his heaving chest. The way his cocked eyebrow and ego had the strength of a crazed hurricane, one that swept you up in its winds with no trace of mercy. Still, there was nothing that could peel your eyes away from him, not even the rampant air currents thrashing through the library. Your focus had nearly distracted you from displaying your shameful affinity towards his arrogance and intimidation. Internally, you were sure you would have been salivating profusely with the way your mouth hung open. On the outside, you only stared, leaving the rest of what that meant up to Hoseok’s imagination. 

Has it really been long enough to note that his shoulders broadened and his jawline sharpened?

Timing played its incessant role as the overly suspicious Vice Principal Donald Dickson walked in, ridding the library of what could have resulted in bruised eyes and busted knuckles. Jimin and Hoseok sat down upon hearing the tick of the door handle, before the supervisor fully walked through the door and set his eyes on this group of expectant students. A beat of silence clung onto the space between the five of you, now six including the Vice Principal, and Dickson took in the sights of what he perceived were cowardice troublemakers sitting in the desks before him.

“Hello, everyone. You’re here today because you did something wrong. A wrong that needs to be punished. And what better way to do that than wasting away your Saturday?” 

His words had been spoken from an embittered tongue, eager to thread more guilt into each one of you. Truly the only thing more distasteful than his mustard colored tie paired with a navy blue collared shirt was his arrogance. In seconds, he squeezed the excess space between the five students, cramming you all, almost unwillingly, into a team against him. The surplus of space, flushed out by his own demean, drifted him further away. He stepped closer to the desk, specifically to the leather-coated boy slouched in his chair and leaned forward intending to tempt Hoseok into picking a fight with him. 

“Welcome back, Hoseok.” 

Dickson's arrogance began to singe the air, making the space smell rancid as if something had been rotting in this library for months.

“Good to be back, buddy!” His sarcastic chide sat horribly with Dickson, feeling this pet name as a challenge to his authority. And if something as trivial as the word ‘buddy’ stung him so, he couldn’t have been less prepared for the comment about to spill from Hoseok’s mouth, “How ‘bout we go for dinner after this, Donald? Oh, actually never mind. Looks like you’ve been eating enough for the both of us.” 

Normally, his empty insults would have passed through Dickson’s head but he had been in a bad mood today. The heckling had sent him right over the edge and gave him the opportunity to take his frustrations out on Hoseok.

“It’s Mr. Dickson to you. And you just earned yourself another Saturday detention.” Said with the slam of his hand against the table. All but Hoseok jumped from the slap that reverberated through the halls. The underlying tactic to put his foot down, or rather his hand down, lost its effect on the one person it was meant for; Hoseok saw this as a reciprocated challenge and was always up for a way to reclaim his domain.

“Don’t be stingy, how ‘bout another one?” Doing the exact opposite of what Dickens wanted, testing his power even more, though to Hoseok his power was nothing more than a pathetic hunger for any sort of authority, something missing from his life outside of work. If bossing around children was the only outlet to feed this obsession, Hoseok saw to it to make this worth his while.

“Fine! You got one!” 

“Can’t wait to see you again, babe.”

“That's it! All your Saturdays for the rest of the month are gonna be spent here, with me. You happy now?”

“Over the moon.” 

“Hoseok, stop it.” Even though your plea had been a whisper, it was loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. Hoseok snuck a glance to your disapproving face. You’d been surprised to meet his unworried expression, despite arguing with Dickson and sacrificing all his Saturdays for the sake of knocking the vice principal down a few steps on the hierarchical ladder. His attention to you was stolen by Jimin.

“Dude, what are you doing?” Jimin had his head facing down in compliance as if he were setting an example for Hoseok. Just minutes ago, they were at each other’s throats, but Dickson had this vulgarity in his threats that excelled in earning him the title as the most hateable person known to humankind, of a much higher rank than Hoseok, and that forged some unspoken solidarity between all of you. If it hadn’t been for Dickson, Jimin and Hoseok would have broken into an all-out brawl. Instead, it smoothed the dynamic between the two boys to a shielding defense of one another.

“Shut it, Park. Or you’ll get one too.” 

It took everything in your willpower to not scoff at Dickson’s insolence. You, personally, had quite a bone to pick with him as he was the exact wrong person that caught you, withheld the opportunity to explain yourself, and unjustly held you responsible for simply being in the vicinity of the crime scene. As much as you hated Hoseok, there had been nothing so compelling of your hatred than Dickson.

“Now, each of you will write an essay.” All five mouths groaned in response to this, “Yeah, yeah. You’ll write an essay whether you like it or not. You will sit here for eight hours, not say a word, not move unless it's to write your essay, and not even think about trying to leave.”

“What if we have to go to the bathroom?” This was a genuine question masked with innocence, however it doubled as a ploy for Namjoon to aggravate Dickson.

“Well, you’ll hold it!”

“Mr. Dickson, you’re definitely supposed to let us go to the bathroom.” You added.

“Even prisoners get to go to the bathroom.” A comparison laid out by Hoseok, quite fitting as Dickson seemed to treat you all lower than the dirt lodged between the ridges of his shoes. 

“You don’t tell me what I can or can’t do!” Dickson grew red in the face, a sight for the sore eyes of the five prisoners in this library.

“So, you expect us to hold it all day?” Jimin tossed his own objection in this dispute. 

“I expect you to do what I say, or do you three want to join your little friend next Saturday?” Dickson didn’t hold his tongue or restrain the volume of his voice that was barking this unreasonable demand. The wag of his fingers was as if he had truly asserted any real or respectable power over the five of you. Seokjin released the chuckle that had been brewing in his chest ever since Dickson began spouting his hollow threats. 

“Something funny, kid?” 

Yes, you’re making an ass of yourself, you thought.

“Nope just… thought of something that happened earlier today. Like, way earlier today, uh, a joke! It was funny, so…” Now you were all at the mercy of Dickson’s comical attempt to have students worship him. 

Jimin’s head had buried deeper towards his chest to mask the tears forming from holding his laughter behind his teeth, while Namjoon utilized the cover of his hand to fence in his. You and Hoseok had been trading off with noiseless snickers that exhaled as huffs of breath when Dickson had turned his back to check the time.

“It is eight thirty-two. You punks have a good six and a half hours until four comes, so I suggest you take the time to work on your essays. If you don’t finish, you’ll be back here next week to do just that. You’re going to write about what you did wrong, and why it was wrong, along with a long, thoughtful apology for what you did.” Dickson paced back and forth in the front of the desks with the sets of eyes, minus Hoseok’s, following his body. Two things stood with a backless stance in yet another empty threat of Dickson’s. One, there were not any grounds for Dickson to mandate another Saturday detention if the five of you didn’t finish an unrequired essay. Hoseok had the pleasure of pointing out Dickson’s other incorrect claim.

“Seven.” 

“What?” One could see the steam pouring from his ears and nostrils as he halted as if Hoseok’s retort acted as a hurdle placed in his path.

“We have seven and a half hours until four.”

“That’s what I said.” 

Jimin’s eyes had rolled back at Dickson’s inability to ever admit he was wrong, a trait only painting him into a bigger joke. You shook your head softly because the stillness you were trying to maintain was too overwhelming to handle, and this seemed to ease the second-hand embarrassment raging through you each time Dickson opened his mouth.

“No, you definitely said six. You said ‘you punks have a good six and a half hours until four’. Then Hoseok said ‘seven’ and then you said ‘what’ and then he said ‘we have seven and a half hours until four’ and then you sa-”

“Enough!” Dickson exclaimed.

Seokjin spoke innocently to give a correction to Dickson. His shallow grasp of social cues often had his well-intentioned actions trilling off his tongue with a sting to Dickson’s pride. Though, nothing had done more harm to Dickson’s pride than the prance of his half delusional authority before the eyes of those who had their own reasons for being stuck here. None, however, had been as lewd as the tyrannical reasons that drove Dickson here. 

“Watch your tone, kid.”

“Who else heard Dickson say six?” Hoseok asked after raising his hand high, followed by Jimin, Namjoon and you casting your concurring votes. Seokjin’s slow uplift of his hand was soon diverted to play off his affirmation as scratching his head. Hoseok’s smirk bloomed from the majority’s favor with him, and the one effortful but ultimately silenced support of Seokjin. 

“Looks like the Is have it!”

“Whatever! I’ll be back to check on you all in a couple hours. No moving from your seats. No talking.” He felt the slight of each of your hands, depleting his once esteemed title of vice principal to a speck of dust that did nothing more than agitate the noses of unimpressed students. The stiffness in all your muscles began to deteriorate from Dickson’s reluctant retreat, having you loosening the clench of your jaw. Watching Dickson wrangle the handle of the broken door before a gruff exit had assisted in soothing your nerves.

Not long after he left, not even a few seconds after the door closed, Hoseok felt an itch for not-so-civil disobedience and scratched a sweet relief to that by walking over to Namjoon, who had been scribbling on the paper that should have been filled with the assigned essay. He snagged the paper from the pencil once being grazed against it and jerked his hand away to evade Namjoon’s attempt at retrieving the stolen item. 

Everyone else’s attention had been forthcoming, and all found the contents of Namjoon’s paper much more worthy of their time than the essay was. Hoseok took a second for his own inspection as his lips curved to a quiet grin. Before Namjoon got the chance to explain it, Hoseok cruised along to the front of the room to behold to the rest of you the picture etched onto the paper.

“It looks like we got an artist on our hands.” Though it was heavy with teasing, there had been a cloaked adoration in Hoseok’s word. It was almost as if he were showing Namjoon’s talent off through the guise of badgering. You hadn’t known the man before you in the same way you knew him as a child, yet you still picked up on this through the lilt of his voice. 

It dawned on you then; no matter how many years past and how the roads of change diverted you in life-altering directions, there would always be a piece of the inner child in you. Small and fainter than the drop of a pin, but still there. You saw the kind child that Hoseok used to be still rummaging around deep within, trying to find its way to the surface.

Hoseok took notice of your perceptive glare that had differed from the others; your eyes always whispered something more that made him equal parts elusive towards you and troubled that maybe you’d been able to crack open his once impenetrable veil. The crusted formation of his toughened skin soaked in your eyes, making it softer and easier to see through. 

“Is that-” Your eyes squinted to focus on the detailing of the drawing, “Is that me?” The simultaneous glares of everyone onto Namjoon had caused a slight perspiration to fog the lens of his glasses. 

It was unmistakable, the face and shadowing were a near perfect imitation of yours, but the sharpness of each line exuded a striking tenacity quite the opposite of the demure front you upheld. A tenacity that felt indicative of a desperation for something; to Namjoon, it was clear in your eyes there had been a facet in your life missing which left you feeling robbed. This tore through you like lightning, leaving you to discover the source of what had been robbed of you. 

“Looks like I was wrong. The sexual tension wasn’t between meathead and ___, but bookworm and ___.” The blush on your cheeks wasn’t nearly as red as Namjoon’s entire face. “My sincerest apologies, please tell us how you and ___ fell in love. I wanna know every little detail.” 

He’d considered various routes of excuses, such as the picture wasn’t of you, or that maybe he’d absentmindedly sketched your features simply because you were in the same room but there would be no avail in either. He knew Hoseok wouldn’t accept that, backing him against the wall of shared curiosity between the other four, so Namjoon resolved that telling the truth was far more becoming of him than protecting the last of his dignity.

“To be fair, I drew almost everyone in the room.” He slipped a few papers from underneath his notebook, accompanied by an exasperated sigh, all depicting his own interpretation on his peers sitting before him. Each one held some unfeigned element of you all, not of intention though also not of coincidence, that drained the multiple facades to ineffectiveness until they were completely impotent. Everyone had gathered around Namjoon’s desk looking for their own picture, and neither Jimin nor Seokjin were prepared to face theirs.

“Yo, this is sick!” Jimin had his portrait between his fingers, eyes scaling the led sketch that accentuated his more flattering features. It was pleasing in the beginning but as he examined with more scrutiny that feeling had been sullied into fear. There had been a glint of worry in the eyes of Jimin’s drawing that had his once excited smile fading into a humbled concern of the growing nuances this small detail suggested. Jimin was just glad everyone else was concentrated on their own portrait so no one would be able to see this unsettling vulnerability strewn into the drawing.

Seokjin’s was a rather accurate paradigm of his eccentric expressions and attitude. To his surprise, this was given a more favorable look to what most people thought were awkward tendencies; it had become the focal point of the portrait as if there had been some unadulterated goodness in his heart that Namjoon seemed to be the only one to see. And below that surface of the painting, there was a tired expression bleeding through the excited one. All at once, his burdens seemed lucid and bare within the positivity intended to circumvent those exact burdens.

“I didn’t know you drew.” Jimin broke the silence with what he believed to be a keen observation. Namjoon found it quite daunting of him to act like this had been some revelation that the rest of you shared. 

“Well, you never asked. In fact, I don’t think we’ve ever had a conversation.” There had been an edge ruminating within the words Namjoon spoke that blew through the air and raised a few hairs on Jimin’s neck.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that we’ve been in art class together all year and my art has just now caught you by surprise.” The accusations in his tone shriveled Jimin into a corner of odd mortification for his ignorance of those who didn’t run in his circle. What made matters worse was there could be no proper objection to what Namjoon said, as he looked around to each of your faces trying to recount any memorable interaction with you all. It would be more fitting to call the rest of you strangers than acquaintances, let alone schoolmates, and least of all friends.

“I-” All words had been brushed to a place unworthy of being verbalized. 

“Meathead has better things to attend to than talking to us lowlifes, Namjoon.” Hoseok cut off Jimin’s already lost train of thought. 

You and the four others were now positioned in a circle, though some sitting on the floor and others finding a seat on top of the desks, you were all in this circle, together. The outside world had given you all the freedom to choose who you talked to, what kinds of people you associated with. Perhaps too much freedom that amounted in severed connections and missed opportunities to meet those who might serve as beneficial to your life. However in this room, in the crowded library which held that freedom from you all and granted you an even better gift of contingency, there had been an irresistible gravitation to seek entertainment through each other and learn what would have gone unlearned if not for the five different mishaps that led the five individuals to this room.

“I never said you were a lowlife!”

“Oh, but you were thinking it. Admit it.”

“Are you ever going to stop talking?”

“Are you ever going to stop using the entire bottle of Axe body spray or do you want us to lose our sense of smell?” Namjoon and Seokjin were more humored by this comment than you had been. Not because you didn’t find it funny, and it was all too true to foster any denial from Jimin and anyone in a ten foot radius of the boy, but because you kept busy wondering how the transition of the once sweet-tongued Hoseok had developed him to acquire such a thirst for belittlement. Or perhaps, why he had undergone this caustic transformation.

“Oh, like you’d ever be caught with me or Jimin at one of your parties with all your hoodlum friends.” You shot him this retort aspiring to sour his praise from the two other boys.

“You wanna party with me, sweetness? I think I can arrange that.” It was surprising, the sarcastic offer, and it suggested that he wasn't the one who initiated the drift of your friendship. That had struck some chord with you because you were certain it was all his doing, and subsequently cleared your tongue of a witty retort that would shut him up. He shifted from his crossed legged pose to dangle his legs from the end of the table that sat behind where your back had been. The tip of his foot had nudged against your shoulder blade in a tease to which you hastily swat his dark boot away.

“Fuck off, Hoseok.”

“You’re the one who brought it up! Don’t be shy, I’d love to see you get plastered with me and my, as you call it, hoodlum friends.” He had been a few more light kicks away from you landing your hand against the side of his cheek. To his luck, your resolve had kept your hands folded in your lap.

“In your dreams.”

“I’d party with you!” Seokjin’s idealism had interrupted your exchange with Hoseok as his eyes, now raked with astonishment, moved to the boy sitting diagonally from himself.

“I'm sorry, did you say something?” Hoseok asked. Jimin’s fingers pinched the bridge of his nose while you had surrendered to the foot still digging into your upper back to turn towards Seokjin as well.

“Um, just that I’d hang out with you.” A bit of regret had a stutter leaking through his words.

“I wouldn't want to interrupt your bible study with my hoodlum parties.” Thickly layered sarcasm was just another social cue Seokjin was wholesomely unaware of, or perhaps he’d caught onto Hoseok’s aim to insult but didn’t care about it as much as you and the others had.

“I’m not even religious and I can handle parties! I’ve been to lots of parties.” He had fooled no one in the library with that statement. Seokjin’s volume had tapered off towards the end, filling the quiet of his voice with even more regret. There was a force out of his control that had him spewing the first thoughts that popped into his head through an unfiltered mouth.

“Bud, you are the human embodiment of an unwanted boner. Stiff? Yes. Annoying? Check! Something no one wants at their parties let alone in their pants? One hundred percent.” The rest of you, but mostly Jimin, had given up on taking the high road. This was made obvious to Seokjin and Hoseok through the contagious laughter afflicting the three of you, and even Seokjin couldn’t resist the smile tugging at the ends of his lips.

“Hey Hoseok, come look.” Namjoon’s beckon was said seconds before a few more taps of his pencil against the paper. It wasn't in his nature to call out to someone like Hoseok, but the need for him to face his painting had given his words the momentum to be spoken.

His approach had been a bit too unsuspecting; he didn’t think to craft a strong guard for seeing his portrait that he’d been waiting for. That had been a grave mistake. 

Hoseok stared at the page as if he had seen a ghost. Though it was not one of an unfamiliar face, the apparition had been the mirror image of him. With the glide of his pencil, Namjoon haunted the man with the impenetrable veil to a state of uncharacteristic lethargy. You were sitting right behind him, giving you the perfect vantage point to witness the picture of a man being stripped from his conceit. In the drawing, he was crying. This had nearly gone unnoticed from the obstruction of your vision by his shoulder. 

Nearly, but it was the first detail that caught your eye. It was eerily familiar, like Deja-vu. Even if the others were to see it, they wouldn’t have distinguished how this had illustrated a portrayal awfully close to the innocence of a younger Hoseok, of which only you had been acquainted with, and he immediately crumpled it to a ball before you were able to collect any more of the details to your memory. 

“What kind of shit are you trying to pull, huh?” His demanding question stripped the lighthearted atmosphere from the room. The cuff of Namjoon’s turtleneck joined the shriveled paper in his hand as Hoseok yanked him to a weak stand and an even weaker defense. 

Jimin compensated for Namjoon’s frailty with a firm grasp on both of Hoseok’s arms followed by pulling him away to stop what could have been a brutal beating. The paper had fallen from Hoseok’s hand which went unseen because he was struggling to free himself from Jimin’s strong grasp, which was cultivated through his athleticism.

“Bro, calm down!”

“Hoseok, stop being like that!” Your voice had his scowl now directing towards you, still maintaining the weathered clutch on your heart. There was no ambiguity in fear. One thing often scarce in Hoseok's eyes, but you saw it then. You knew his anger wasn’t of shallow disliking to the picture, but what it exposed of him that he was trying so desperately to mask.

Seokjin had taken it upon himself to see what triggered the fumed reaction from Hoseok by picking up the paper and stretching out the wrinkles enough for proper inspection. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion as to why Hoseok would waste his temper on something as trivial as a few fictitious tears. With one more thrust of Hoseok’s shoulder, he escaped Jimin’s distracted hold and swiped the paper from Seokjin before anyone else had the chance to see it.

Hoseok wished you hadn’t seen it, as well as the other boy. The troubling fear in the painting, and how it reflected that particular quality onto him, though in an entirely new light. He wished it were gentler, the reflection; he wished it didn’t cut deep enough to carry a brutalizing truth. He wished it wasn't a reflection at all, that instead it was a misjudgment or an oversight. And he had no idea you saw past what Seokjin saw as just penciled tears on a paper. His shields of iron and skin were in no position to stand against your eyes. 

They never were.

“What the fuck are you looking at, freak?” 

“Hobi, don’t call him that.”

And with the utterance of the long-abandoned nickname, Hobi, it had sparked a sequence of memories to rattle through Hoseok’s mind. He was collapsing into himself, into the memories of you and your voice possessing exclusivity to the nickname that held a sentiment of which he’d almost forgotten. The scenes had tranquilized his boiling fury to a light simmer. Such nostalgia had that effect on his mind, as well as expelling the surroundings of the library from each of his senses and replacing them with sweet, untouched memories. 

The fragrance of fresh linen and lemon crowded his nose, the same way it would when he would walk into the comfort of your home. Long ago, when his arrival required no invitation, but was an expected, weekly affair. And during tough times, it grew in frequency. 

His nose would grow to associate the smells of linen and lemon with your home of pure safety, then into the arms of your mother whose delight had gone almost unmatched when she saw him. However, it never surmounted the ripples of joy you would feel when you were greeted with his arrival, and you believed you would never have to miss that feeling. This scent sailed him into the tragically estranged feeling of safety, now a malicious craving for it to return pooled in his chest; missing the feeling of safety he once had with you almost hurt more than the actual absence of it.

Though he wondered if it truly was the nickname ‘Hobi’ that swept him in a melancholic reminiscence, or the stark smell of fresh linen and lemon invading his nose. He wondered why it was that no other person had ever made him remember such insignificant details of his past that were too good to hold onto. He wondered if it really were the nostalgic scents and nickname, rather than the person who they reminded him of; all the good, safe things that left with you and your budding friendship. 

The muffled voices of those around him were just enough to crack through the tent of reminiscence.

“It’s okay to cry, Hoseok. We all know you just act tough but inside you care about what others think just as much as the rest of us.” That comment had been restitution for Hoseok’s previous jab at Jimin’s body spray misusage.

“Yeah, I cry all the time! Just the other day-” Seokjin chimed with agility from the quickly fading regret.

“Please stop talking. Please don’t make me punch you.” Jimin’s interruptive threat crammed back the thoughtless anecdote about to spill from Seokjin’s mouth.

“Wait, I’d actually like to see that. Seokjin, keep going.” To Namjoon, the idea of a boyish fight between the two sounded far more entertaining than whatever story Jimin had stopped Seokjin from sharing. “Why are you so afraid of crying anyway?”

“Yeah why?”

“Tell us, Hoseok.”

Consecutive questions such as these held a violence equivalent to assault in Hoseok's mind. He’d been cornered, his eyes that once couldn't bear to rest on you before now seemed to plead with yours for a salve from these bombardments. And you couldn’t tell if you hated him or the fact that with one look, he had winded you tighter around his finger.

“Hoseok is just mad because he cried during Marley and Me.” You said, quick to scavenge for a decent distraction. Your memory of watching this movie with him about ten years ago had been far too riveting to keep to yourself. 

In fact, you rationed it positively selfish to hoard something as enthralling as Jung Hoseok crying real tears, not like the ones on Namjoon’s drawing. And part of you, part of him too, knew this was done in favor of Hoseok to misdirect the rest of them from the actual root of his anger. Exploring the soul-bearing secrets he kept hidden beneath his thick skin was a venture overwhelmed by terror and discomfort. You felt this through that look glazing his eyes, and figured the Marley and Me incident was a worthy sacrifice to protect something far too fragile to tread on. The four of you were now swimming through a lake of laughter as Hoseok tried to suppress his annoyance, and especially his gratefulness to what you had done for him.

It began then, the struggle. He found the constant maintenance of keeping his skin intact over his heart forfeiting to your offer of kindness. As much as he tried to press the skin back onto himself, it would shed almost a bit too easily.

“What kind of heartless monster doesn’t cry at a dying dog? You’re all insufferable.” Hoseok stood up, turning away from the belly-aching giggles still erupting from you and the other three, “And I was eight years old. And ___ cried harder.” His trudge to the back of the room, away from the commotion of the drawings, was gorged in a strange distrust.

There was the possibility he had spilled one too many secrets with his long, catatonic silence after the way you called him that name. How you all had established a comfort to open yourselves to a partially amiable conversation together and that Hoseok felt like he was the one standing on the outside looking in. 

Thus, leaving Hoseok feeling betrayed, distrustful, and fumbling over where to place the blame. 

With himself, the full-fledged outing of his feelings that were ripped from his chest by his own hand without the consent of his mind. It felt unlawful, like he was unwillingly breaking his own rules. Or perhaps blame lied with the people who took one look at his leather jacket and paid zero caution when shedding a few layers of the deceitful front of his skin. What was left was the outer shell, the once impenetrable veil lying on the floor, and a man without his protective skin, open and raw and sensitive, though scared of vulnerability above all else. 

The rest of you followed suit to return to your empty chairs, ignoring how the air was damp with a complex rigidity that none of you felt equipped to handle. No one, least of all you, had been sure of what to do with the discomfort that sterilized the air with nothing but the sounds of five syncopated breaths, longing for some release of this silent torture.

You were sure of two things. 

First, you hated Hoseok and he showed his reciprocation of that through the flipped middle finger when you braved a glance back to him. Second, you concluded that the reasons pillaring your hatred for him had changed within two of the eight hours in this library. It was astounding, torn between being impressive and pathetic the way he’d roped you back into the sentiment of the young, inseparable children residing in the darker caverns of your hearts. 

The younger you that handed him a tissue and a shoulder to lean on, a gift of nothing close to judgement, when you had seen him crying at that sad movie. The younger him that in many ways held a strapping debt over your head for rescuing you from numerous bullies throughout elementary and middle school and a long spell of loneliness from your lack of friends in your younger years. The two mellow hearted friends attached at the hip, and the heart, that skipped along the steps of life as if misery and loneliness were nightmares lived out by those who didn’t have a person like Hoseok in their lives. They were locked away for quite some time and remained that way due to the abundance of freedom that this library had suspended. 

Because in the library, you couldn't run or hide.

Hoseok was sure of one thing, and one thing only. It was far clearer than the tainted air of the library along with the fogged arena of the outside world, and brighter than the way your eyes still outshined the shadow of his own pain; the irrefutability was beyond the depths of the ocean. 

His heart had been broken, pulverized to a dust, for far too long and it was because of how dearly he missed you and the safety that accompanied you. 

If you looked closely, you could see past his skin to his bones and all the secrets and scars carved in them.

 10:00 - 12:00

Timing. What you thought was an incarnation of the devil itself, seemed to torture you through today like it had a personal agenda against you. The five students and their endurance of boredom had been eroded from the minutes that felt like hours and the confiscated cell phones leaving you all to the devices of screenless misery. 

The silence continued stalking the air, still just as heavy and nuanced as before. You wondered why the quiet didn’t feel all that quiet. In turn, it was nothing less than an earthy rumble at this point, like the ground was ready to shake and knock every book from the shelves around you. Every time your eyes would meet with another one of your peers, they’d be instantly veered with a quick glance towards the ceiling or down at the blank papers sitting on the desks before them. Hoseok fell asleep long before you had the chance to read the hints of his mind that were lightly seasoned in his eyes, that seemed to have a way of avoiding you today. 

Still without some of his skin, and now the loss of his dignity joined. Because of that, he was tired and needed to sleep. It had more or less been Hoseok’s melodramatic efforts to recoup for the loss that put him in a moped mood; you not being in his life was the little secret that fringed his heart far worse than Namjoon’s portrait.

Maybe if you would have let him know that yours and the others’ dignities had been left at the broken door of the library then he wouldn’t be as mortified. At the time, you didn’t feel like it had been your job to do so which was retrospectively an all too uncompassionate choice. A bad choice. Far worse than the ones you made to lead you to detention.

Seokjin and Jimin had been tossing crumpled pieces of binder paper and shooting them in the trash can with high spirits, the heavy boredom of detention being cut through by their makeshift basketball game.

“That's fifteen.” A gloat followed Jimin’s victorious fist shaking but soon to be shut down by Namjoon.

“No, that was fourteen.” He held the paper where two sets of tallies were marked side by side under the initials J and S.

“What? I was counting too and that was fifteen!”

“Ha! Read it and weep.” Seokjin teased.

“Jin, shut up! You've made like three.”

Namjoon checked the paper and confirmed Jimin’s rebuttal with a thumbs up. Your resting head on the palm of your hand shook with laughter at the scowl plastered across the boy's face, which had made a habit of blushing a bright red in regret of his comments. 

Seokjin said nothing to this, instead proceeded to crumple four more pieces of paper now encased in his hand.

“Well now it's gonna be seven.” He had made this claim a bit too soon after the sling of his arm amounted to all four paper balls bouncing off the rim of the trash can and scattering onto the floor. Having all three of you laugh broke the fourth boy’s slumber, but he went about it calm. Hoseok’s eyes opened, quiet and slow, and none of you noticed he had regained his consciousness.

Dickson’s return had hushed the last bit of laughter along with the surprising enjoyment circulating through the third hour of detention. This time, Dickson was mindful of your collective vendetta against him which was why he had been armored with even more aggression than the last time. The mix of you four riding off the delights of playing with the little entertainment made available and Dickson’s heavily loaded disdain would make for quite a reactive outcome. There had been a lewd displeasure of finding littered papers along the floor adding to his frustration.

“Which one of you imbeciles were tossing around paper balls when you should have been writing your essays?” The unresponsive silence pushed him over the edge of annoyance, “Well?” 

His earth-shattering holler had fully awoken Hoseok who joined the unconcerned teens in this noiseless stare off. A yell or a whisper wouldn’t have made a difference by the means of intimidation since none of you could take seriously a man who missed the step of re-zipping his fly after going to the bathroom. The five of you were urged to point it out, though none of you felt the need to bury him even lower in all of your regards; he did that quite adequately and consistently on his own.

“We all just really want to do well on our essays! What you call paper balls were the triumphant efforts of remorseful students, sir.” Any resistance to Hoseok’s humorous antagonizations towards Dickson were depleted by the second round of his arrival. Namjoon demonstrated his agreeance with a snide head nod joined by Jimin who also nodded some proof to Hoseok’s lie.

“Really? Is that true, Seokjin?” 

“Yes, we all just want to better ourselves, sir.” Singling the evidently weakest willed student did not go over the way Dickson had hoped. He stood by Hoseok’s lie even if he couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with Dickson. There had been some unknown element of surprise that had Seokjin just a few steps ahead of Dickson and a few steps behind the rest of you. Still, he was far ahead of Dickson, whose temper seemed to be strained.

“What about you ___, any thoughts?” He asked you this as if there was any evidence for his disbelief. And he was right of course, to be disbelieving, but the derogation of his voice did render his correct assumptions as nothing short of foolish dictatorship. Again, there was space. It was the five of you, a dividing space, and then Dickson. 

Space is meant to be empty, or it is not space at all, and Dickson’s unwelcomed invasion into it had made him the target of five unrelenting students.

“My English teacher says writing multiple drafts before turning in the final product is a clear-cut way to do well on essays.” Your eyes weren't level with his. They had been glancing back and forth from the desk to the unzipped fly of his pants that were now unfortunately a foot too close in your peripherals. Provided you had nothing to lose, maybe another one of your Saturdays, but even that seemed to be worth pointing the zip, or lack thereof, of his pants. “Sir, your fly is down.”

He hastily corrected this and his authority had been running too thin from the jabs sent his way, diluting any call to action he made into a watered down whine. It wasn't enough to spread over himself or each of you, making his second retreat taking place faster than the one before. On his way out, he tossed three out of four of the papers in the trash and kept one to inspect. There was no draft of an essay written on the paper, and for once he was right and it felt awful. 

You would have felt bad, but no one could empathize with his fatal arrogance.

“You kids are a piece of work. I don't get paid enough for this shit. You better be done with these essays by the end or I swear.” And he didn’t finish whatever he was about to say before walking out of the library, hurried and belittled. Jimin was, of course, the first one to burst through the silence with giggles and the sound had doubled, tripled, and so on until all of you had been absorbed in a fit of laughter. Even Hoseok released a smirky chuckle, and felt attuned with you, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Jimin. 

For lack of skin, one could assume. Or maybe he genuinely liked the way he felt around you and those who were on this team that was too diverse to give a definite label.

“___, I can’t believe you actually said it. God, I was going to but I thought he would have cried.” Jimin pushed out this appraisal through gasping for air. 

“I couldn’t help it. It was right in front of my face! I think I have to go wash my eyes out.” You were rubbing your temples to massage away the increasing disgust upon picturing it.

“If anything, I thought Seokjin would’ve been the one to do it.” Namjoon said, keeping busy with another illustration.

“Nah, ___ handled that perfectly.” Jimin managed to level his breath by now.

“I wonder if your bite is as big as your bark.” Hoseok said, just to get another one of those annoyed glares, which seemed to be the only way he knew how to get your attention now. His affluence of communicating, especially to you, has been sloping off to quite elementary levels. Still, he did what he could.

“You wanna find out?” Your voice insinuating you wouldn't falter to his bereavements. Your eyes looked back to the smirk of satisfaction painted over his face, boiling a bit of frustration in your chest. Mostly, frustration with yourself for finding your eyes trailing along the length of his admittedly handsome face. Frustrated that, no matter how insufferable he was, you were undeniably attracted to him which made you struggle to suppress your own smile.

“Guys, look.” Namjoon held up a stick figure sketch of Dickson. It wasn’t nearly eligible to be considered a sophisticated piece or technically accurate to Dickson’s appearance. Though the elementary style of it had a stronger sense of accuracy than any proper portrait of Dickson would have. The grimace of the stick-figured Dickson and the detailed pants that included a dropped fly upstaged whatever ornate cross-hatched or contoured lines that had been applied to the four of your drawings. 

“You have a talent, you gotta give me some lessons sometime.” It felt like Jimin meant more of this. Perhaps he had been referring to what Namjoon had said before. As if he were realizing his range of friends left Jimin destitute in the terms of social circles and in some way, Namjoon had been entirely unique from anyone he’d ever met. He didn’t want to be another cart in a train of unexpanded minds due to a case of the status quo. 

Namjoon was alluring, to put it simply. Outside of his long undisturbed comfort zone.

“Well, you haven’t seen my art skills. I like to call myself the Van Gogh of our high school.” Seokjin did nothing but embarrass himself, but it had a normalcy you and the rest had grown used to. Now it was not just expected of him but looked forward to. Things were changing before the eyes of the five different faces with five different stories. Changing, yet at the same time, feeling as if things had been returning.

“Yeah, all you have to do now is cut off your ear!” Namjoon said sarcastically.

More laughter, more good feelings poured into the library that once felt nothing more than a temporary, barren jail cell and a source of guilt and boredom. It was full now. Full of something much warmer than before. 

You were looking at Hoseok, now with a little less hatred. Seeing him smiling, laughing even, had softened your hatred to something else. It was still painful, and just as hard to identify as that particular quality of his. Whatever blame you directed towards him hadn’t been as hampering as this new feeling you got when you looked at him. He felt your gaze, louder than the chime of a bell, and wondered if he had shed enough skin yet to look back at you. To be filled with fresh linen and lemon and all the pieces of safety latched onto the exchange of glances that were not of the seniors in high school, but the childhood friends that long ago shared one heart.

Sadly, he didn't look to you, not yet. Not when he felt unready and unaccustomed to the ripe, underlying skin covering him now. He couldn't be brave enough to risk disappointing you with how his gaze might not have measured up to how sorry he felt for being the loose cannon in your life.

 You looked at the clock that read it was twenty-two minutes until the third hour of detention. Watching time tick by had proven to slow it nearly to a full stop, so you took to the sights displayed by the library window. The fog was still heavy, trading the perimeter of the parking lot with thick invisibility. Somehow, you had acclimated to the unseen sectors of what was within the fog. You couldn’t see through it, all you could truly see was fog, but that was not as pronounced as what you felt and what you knew. There was, without a doubt, something beyond the fog; that was what you knew. And what you felt was consoled in knowing there was surely something, anything beyond the fog, thus leading your eyes to Hoseok, again. You looked at him, right at his face, at his thin skin, and knew there was something beyond the fog.

“Stop leaning against the table, you’re gonna knock it down.” Namjoon had been referring to the tower of dusty books gone unread for a considerable amount of time for anyone, even the librarian, to notice they were missing. 

What, you wondered, could be more captivating than the mysteries hidden between the fog? To Jimin, Namjoon, and Seokjin, the antics of stacking books was that and more. There were about ten, maybe thirteen books piling taller than Namjoon. Though it had the advantage of resting on the already raised table, it was still admittedly impressive since Namjoon was on the taller side. Jimin stood on the table with arms flattened and extended to steady his balance and to still his body from any shaking that could derail their handy work. 

“Yeah, Jin, stop leaning.” What Hoseok said was clean of genuine concern, made clear from how he’d bumped the table with his knee causing the pile to teeter side to side, yet not enough to actually knock it down. The other three boys held their hands toward the books as if the gesture would have actually saved it from toppling over.

“___, come over and help us steady the books! Hurry!” Seokjin’s request had you rushing over try and balance the stack wobbling nearly to a complete collapse.

“Do you guys wanna do something actually fun?”

If not for the almost bewitching inflection of Hoseok’s question, you would have maintained focus on keeping these towering books from falling. Though, he spoke with an implication that he possessed something that would whisk you away from boredom and you were still, a bit less unapologetically, reeled tight around his finger. So, your attention was spent on Hoseok until there was no more. Same with the others. All four eyes tossing an unrestrained marvel in place of a verbal answer to his question. The vigilant silence was enough to have Hoseok’s hand digging in the pocket of his leather jacket and pulling out a neatly rolled joint.

“No fucking way, we can’t do that in here… Right?” Although he wanted to sound doubtful, repulsed by the stick of weed between Hoseok's fingers, the question threaded along the end of Jimin’s doubt had a faint enthusiasm.

“Dickson’s stupid. We can just tell him it was a skunk.” 

“I think we should really evaluate our actions before we do them.” By we, he really meant Hoseok. Seokjin tried to act in place of a sort of parental guidance, though he knew now how unlikely his influence would take effect.

“You’re right. Let’s see.” He paused and inspected the joint pinched between his fingers, “I’m bored, in fact, we’re all bored. I have weed, I want to get high, being high is fun. My evaluation says we should definitely get high.” Mocking the frail advice from Seokjin, Hoseok evaded the logic behind what the other boy had presented with yet another sarcastic remark. No one else argued, even those who were strongly opposed to drug usage, because there would clearly be no avail in discouraging Hoseok. Not to mention, deep down, all your inexperienced hearts had a slight curiosity for the coveted thing in Hoseok’s hand. 

“That’s hardly an adequate evaluation, Hoseok.” Namjoon said, though he was already crawling with a rising inclination since a much less favorable boredom would have tormented him if he declined the offer. Jimin, Seokjin, and Namjoon drove through the traffic of worries and doubts and arrived at the destination where Hoseok was impatiently waiting.

“Fine, then I guess I’ll just enjoy this by myself then.”

“Wait! I’ll- um, I’ll go.” Jimin said and it was enough for Namjoon and Seokjin to admit defeat to their desires. Football season had not begun yet, neither the periodic drug tests, and there was a growing stress looming over them all that could be displaced by getting high.

The only one still fraught with a neurotic hesitation and clinging opposition that pushed back from the cohorts all in agreement was you. Marijuana had always deterred your fascination, even though you knew it was on the safer side of most drugs, and your virgin lungs feared it in the same way your stomach feared alcohol and your heart once feared Hoseok’s return in it. However, Hoseok had slithered his way back into your life and that wasn’t scary in the slightest. It was exciting and comforting, even, to be graced with his return and it made you question what else you had been missing out on.

“Alright. Dickson usually falls asleep around now because he gets tired after eating lunch. God, I hate that I know that. Anyway, this gives us the chance to sneak out to the second-floor bathrooms where there aren’t any fire detectors.” 

The timing of his plan mapped out a perfect escape, however timing was never one to do you any favors. 

As the others snuck past the ajar door to Dickson’s office, inside the vice principal was sure enough sound asleep, you remained in the library and watched the others, one by one, throw all caution to the wind. Hoseok’s stalled exit from the room was ushering you to a state of indecisive pacing. It was clear he was waiting for you, though Namjoon’s, Jimin’s, and Seokjin’s company would satisfy the quota for a proper smoking circle. 

“You don’t have to come if you don't want to. The offer still stands either way.” He spoke tentatively and his eyes were habitually resting on anything, your hands, your chin, your lips, the floor, and even the fogged window, but not your eyes. He could resist the magnetism of your eyes because he felt like he needed to, but surrendered to the way his feet carried him a few steps closer to you. Enough steps to work a fast beating into your heart. 

“I’m not going to pressure you. I wouldn’t do that, you know?” 

You knew he meant this genuinely. The only thing thus far that came out of his mouth without the stain of sarcasm. It was because of how genuine he sounded that made the rattle between your bones far more feverish than the shallow, meaningless jabs he’d made to and about you during today.

Why does it hurt when you talk softly? Why does what should feel like soft fleece burn like the friction of gravel against my skin? 

You branded these questions in the eyes unseen by Hoseok. It aches to know that you hated him all this time, and you just now realized his soft spoken voice had been reigned by you. Softly, like the inner child begging to be liberated from Hoseok’s protective skin. Softly, like when he said he wouldn’t do that to you, it came from a place in his heart ten years in the making and reserved wholly by you.

“I just…” His steps hushed you. The proximity of his body to yours had placed you in the eye of the hurricane, where it was quiet and calm and even softer than his voice. He radiated an energy that reminded you of something strong that was tired of being strong and on the verge of withering away; like a tall, old oak tree. Mighty, beaten down from the weather, and readying to lay in its tomb. 

You always were able to admit he was attractive. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. The delicious sharpness of his facial features made for quite a face to look at. He was damn near perfect. But when did he become so beautiful? How did his sharp features soften to become delicate and lovely? The duality of this man was flexible, ranging from rough edges to rounded, gentle surfaces.

You believed his approach was to lead his quiet, soft voice to your ears because one had to be close - very close - for another to hear such a gentle tone. But he wouldn’t have achieved such closeness if it weren’t for the fortitude of longing and the smell of fresh linen and lemon that emigrated from you. Nor the gentleness of his voice could have been procured if the other three were still here. When it was just you, there was no reason to be anything but honest and gentle and close. Resistance was now undone by being with you and the timing of it all. It was peeling away more of Hoseok’s skin down to the bone and he allowed you to do this. Finding a place, the library, with someone, you, filled the hollow chasm of his chest with an oasis one could only classify as safety.

I want you to stay here with me. 

Wherever that thought surfaced from, whether it be the spirit of a younger you or the sentiment of the current you, it was too real to keep from choking back a few tears.

“___, I-” Before the words of an unbarred tongue expressed how he wanted to admit he missed you and lay out every reason for pushing you away in order to annul all the pain he caused both you and himself, Seokjin had peaked his head through the door quite similarly to the frantic way he previously exited it.

“Hey, are you guys coming or what?” His urgent whisper had melted the overwhelming feelings being exchanged through silent pauses and simultaneously reconstructed the wall that severed your friendship, or whatever you had with Hoseok. 

“___, you’re not coming?” Seokjin sounded friendly in his disappointment. If it weren't for the fact that what he was referring to was smoking pot then you would have joined simply because his tone had flipped into a sweet, inviting plea.

“No, sorry. I think I’m gonna hang back. Someone’s gotta keep watch for Dickson.” Hoseok exhaled with relief that you didn’t come. He didn’t want you to feel pressured and at least he could accomplish doing that.

The skin retraced its steps back onto Hoseok. And when you looked out the window, for you didn’t want to watch Hoseok leave you again, the fog was impervious. The tepid steps of his departure sounded similar to that of a ticking clock. Each tap moved time forward and Hoseok away from you.

When you looked back to the emptiness of the library, you wished you could follow him. It was too difficult. Not the walking itself, and joining them had only been one staircase away, but the following aspect of it. To follow him, to chase the man that left you like he did years ago, like a decomposed afterthought, was difficult because you feared to be met with dry rejection. You’d rather not venture off into the fog, and stay unharmed in the clearings.

 Hoseok should have, in the wise words of Seokjin, evaluated his actions before making any official commitments to them. His constant neglect of this crucial step had led him into quite disturbing situations, including this one.

It was a few minutes after the joint had been smoked to the stub of the filter. Hoseok tossed it in the toilet of the large stall they occupied. For the most part, the boys were silent and enjoying their highs. And Hoseok was silent as well, but his thoughts were under completely different circumstances. They were blaring around in his head with a sharp ringing.

The memory of you, his awareness of missing you, seeing you again, and finding that his ability to look into your eyes long expired had been a taxing precursor to getting high. It was a first to have his emotions heightened taller than a mountain because of his intoxication; most of the time it numbed his emotions and the world around him. Though, there is a first for everything and Hoseok was clamming up from all the guilt, loneliness, and longing ensued by the Indica making its way to his brain.

They were all talking by now, describing how they felt or if they were feeling any buzz at all. Namjoon was the first to be hit with a wave of high and he unceremoniously stood up to wash his hands because he insisted that he could ‘feel the germs crawling on his hands.’

Jimin and Seokjin were the next victims of the unspared joint. Jimin had been repeating the word “woah” until it was devoid of all meaning. 

Hoseok slipped under the spell last, but his high wasn't fermenting in the same light-hearted ways as the other boys’ highs. His harnessed a colossal weight that was an ounce away from being too much, from sending him into a fight or flight reaction. The stressor could only be the pent-up emotions that were billowing from his chest so wildly that there was no chance to inhibit or ignore it. Hoseok was not as high as the others, but high enough to send his dignity into the unreachable air. Soon, he couldn't tell if the discomfort in his skin was because of his high or his new discernment for this stifling barrier. 

The depth of this emotional hole was deeper than that of a dried well, and had left Hoseok to be somewhat of a benign lump to the conversation at hand.

“Guys, I think I’m peeing. I feel like I’m peeing. Am I peeing my pants right now?” Seokjin rose to a panicked stance, spinning and bending to check if there was any wetness seeping down the pant of his leg. Namjoon, who was still washing his hands, and Jimin had fallen into a debilitating laughter. Though even in a state of sobriety it would have perpetuated a hearty laugh, their elevated reactions were that of the high they were still riding, and based on Hoseok’s observations, wouldn’t be coming down from anytime soon. 

“Holy shit. Dude, just pee! we are literally surrounded by toilets.” It was a difficult task, but Jimin managed to squeak this out between his giggles. 

“I can't pee in front of you all! I get… I get pee shy.” They all noted, Seokjin was an exemplary companion to get high with. 

If Hoseok weren't entrapped in his thoughts of you, of fresh linen and lemon that seemed to be far more pungent than the remnants of weed wafting in the bathroom air, he would have tallied Seokjin as one of his go to smoking partners. Nothing deemed lucrative to distract him from what really mattered to him: 

Fresh linen and lemon and you, and his damn skin.

“You guys may make fun of me for my axe body spray but at least it’ll cover the weed smell.” Jimin gloated, hunchbacked and head lowered to check if the scent of weed clung to his clothes or hair.

“We’ve been in a closed room for like twenty minutes. Obviously, you’re not gonna smell the weed. ___’s probably gonna tell us that we smell like a walking dispensary.” Namjoon said with a chuckle. 

“Now you smell like Axe body spray and weed.” Seokjin hadn’t stopped patting down the inseam on his pants to make sure nothing was inordinately wet while throwing in an additional jab.

“We should be heading back soon.” The faucet finally shut upon hearing Hoseok’s suggestion. “You three go ahead first, I’ll hang back so Dickson doesn’t catch me with you all. God knows he would be way angrier to see me walking around with you three.” 

Namjoon dried his hands and nodded with red glazed eyes covered by partially deflated eyelids. Jimin stood up and yawned from the weed-induced drowse blanketing his own eyes and Seokjin’s eyes still scaled the expanse of his pant leg with hulking paranoia. 

In a line, they left the bathroom to house no one but Hoseok, the pungency of weed, and his memories. In Hoseok’s eyes, they were blindsided by one thing and one thing only.

 Ten years ago…

White faded to grey in the clouds hanging above your inattentive eyes. The sandbox with worn plastic digging tools and a red bucket was the only part of the world that mattered to you. Soon, everything else blurred into nothing. You liked the sandbox not for the majesty of castle building or the sandy canvas to carve the visions in your young, creative mind with the swipe of a finger, but because of its smallness and how there was no room for others to play in it if you were in it. That was undoubtedly a strange reason to enjoy a sandbox, especially since youth usually carried along with it a craving to meet the first friend you could find and stick with them through the trials and tribulations of elementary school. You were harder to please in the sphere of friendship, leaving you to take to the sandbox where there breached no worries of finding a companion. 

Your finicky little heart made you a feeble target for young, boyish bullies. The pleasure of picking on the loner of the grade often satisfied little boys of their brutish desires. You’d always been a bit docile, and perhaps too much for your own good. There was no need to fight back and usually their torments were no more damaging than paper cuts that would heal in less than one or two days.

Today, however, you were proud of the sand replica of the Andes Mountains, which was quite accurate in your own opinion. Having it grinded down to nothing, to a footprint of a bully’s unforgiving torture was the last straw. 

“What are you gonna do about it, loner?” One boy asked.

“Ha ha, good one!” The others cheered on his infantile belittlement.

You didn’t think words sanctioned a fitting reprimand for their actions which led you to throwing a handful of sand, aimed at their face. It wasn’t enough to do any physical damage, but it had been more than enough to elicit anger and fill the opened-mouthed laughs of the three other boys with the specks of dirt and other fine sediments. One boy cupped a clump of sand around a medium-sized rock and pelted your arm with it.

Hoseok, who had been sitting a few yards away, turned to see where the pained yelp originated. When his eyes laid on you and the way you had been rubbing a rock-shaped red mark on your left arm, he felt the muscles in his legs moving him before his brain told him to help you. Quite heroically, he leapt between the blockade of three boys and you, fists clenched and eyes narrowing to push the little roughness he had in his soft facial features against them.

“Leave. Go pick on someone else.” Hoseok warned with an edge that had two of the three boys tutting their heads down in shame.

“Oh yeah? What are you, ___’s boyfriend?” 

“I’m the guy who’s gonna beat you up if you don’t leave.” It had been the conviction in his voice that held all the power. The voice of an angel to you, and to them, the voice that made picking on the defenseless loner not worth the trouble. They all retreated to kick around dirt at each other giving Hoseok the chance to turn around and check your arm’s injury.

“Are you okay?” He sat down next to you, and to your surprise, there was just enough room for him in this tiny sandbox. 

“Yeah, it’s just a bruise. It’ll go away.”

“I’m sorry about those guys… I- I think they’re dumb jerks.” This little slight towards them was quite modest in comparison to how Hoseok spoke in his later years. It wasn’t intended to insult the bullies necessarily, but to show he was on your side. That you didn’t have to play in the sandbox alone anymore if he was lucky enough for your picky taste in friends to acquire a bias towards him

“Yeah, major jerks. They ruined my Andes Mountains.” You were shoving around some sand to piece together the broken sculpture.

“Why the Andes Mountains?”

“I don’t know. They’re cool! They’re super tall, have you seen them?” In some way, it wasn’t the mountains that were feeding your excitement and the discussion, though short, was much longer than anything you experienced before Hoseok. Not only did you ward off the few people that stumbled into your sandbox, but many kids began avoiding you altogether. 

“No, but I’ve seen pictures of other mountains.”

“I’ve seen them! They’re big and rocky and they go alllllll the way up to the sky!” Your arms shot up to mimic the mammoth Andes mountains. 

“I’ve never seen a mountain like that but I’ve seen a volcano.”

“Woah! Where?”

“It was on some beach. I don’t really remember.”

“You’ve been to the beach? I’ve always wanted to go! The beach is like one giant sandbox.” Hoseok chuckled at your fascination. If he could travel back in time, he would have befriended you long ago so you wouldn’t have to wish to go to the beach. You would have already been there - with him.

“It’s so fun! I found a jellyfish on the shore and threw it back into the ocean and it didn’t even sting me!” Now you had been laughing at his whimsical personality. 

“You’re weird… I like you.”

“Could I- Could I help you?” Hoseok asked this, already preparing himself to an untimely demise of his efforts to befriend you. 

You paused. Your empty arena of friends had gained a candidate well-suited for your liking. Even as a child, you knew the trope of ‘boys who bully you only do so because they have a crush on you’ was just a way to excuse the brazen attitudes of entitled little boys. Hoseok wasn’t like any of those boys. He was kind, he spoke gently when he asked to play with you. He fit into the sandbox with you and you didn’t mind the company. 

The answer was clear.

“Yeah sure. Grab a shovel!” You didn’t bother looking at him, though his eyes were immovable from you. 

“If you wet the sand it sticks together better.” He said, attempting to prove himself an asset to your sand mountain construction.

“I never thought about that. Thank you.” This piece of advice was the first of many gifts this boy would give to you. 

One could assume the rapid advancement of your affection towards him could be due to how easy it was for younger children to build attachments with one another. However, that could not single-handedly explain the way you already felt close to him and how when he wasn’t in the sandbox with you, the vast space was not comforting as it once was. Not in the slightest. It could not explain how you and him never fought over petty things such as sharing the red bucket or whose sandcastle was better. He, without fail, insisted yours was always best. How your fondness of him only grew whenever he handled you in a much more tender way than he handled the bullies, no longer coming around to throw rocks and mean words at you.

“Wanna have a playdate?” You proposed in an uncharacteristic lapse of valor. 

“Um…” The hesitance wasn't because he was opposed in the slightest to this offer, but the little details of his life that often got in the way of building normal relationships, “Yeah.”

“Yay! I just have to ask my mommy first. She will probably want to meet your parents.” You said while molding the sand into a pointed mound.

“I don’t…” He stilled his fingers against the dampened sand, hoping it would calm the fast pace of his heart. “I don’t have parents. I’m a foster kid.”

You didn’t give an immediate response, instead turning your attention over to the boy who was unable to move from mortification. It confused you that he felt ashamed of this, your young, well-intentioned mind unaware of the negative implications and stigmas that surrounded being in the foster system. You simply smiled.

“Well, that's ok! Mommy will just be happy I’m finally having a playdate.” You said, shearing away the depth to this aspect of Hoseok. He was surprised, and also comforted in the fact that him being a foster child was no bigger of a deal than the color of his hair or the size of his shoes. As if this trait of his was something normal. He felt normal with you, and his inexperienced heart couldn’t decorate the thankfulness he felt with the right words.

“I’m Hoseok, by the way.”

“I’m ___.”

And the rest was history.

With him, the world didn’t matter. The end of recess didn’t stalk your mind. The threat of mean boys had become unthreatening. The lonesome life that you were comfortable with now felt like pins and needles against your body. The idea of friendship that once felt like pins and needles was comfortable, with Hoseok. To think, you had been fooling yourself into believing you were okay with being lonely and that you would have never come to terms with the emotional poverty that being alone subjected you to if it weren’t for him. Because with him, you believed the byword adults would regularly preach ‘sharing is caring’. You nursed a considerable affection towards Hoseok to care for him and had now realized you had far too much space in your sandbox to not share it with him.

“Thank you for being my friend.” You said, in the wake of all the goodness of friendship he had introduced you to.

In sixth grade you weren’t worried about a new school or leeching onto a clique. The burden of belonging didn’t barge in on your life like it had most of your peers. You had the privilege of being best friends with Hoseok. He told you on the day of your fifth-grade promotion that middle school wasn’t so scary, not when he had you. There was nothing for you to do but trust in him, not because you had to, but because you wanted to and because you knew he would always be honest with you.

It was you, Hoseok, and the little sandbox against the world… until it was not.

Unlike the end of elementary school, the end of middle school was met with no such promises of the kindling allegiance Hoseok used to assure you of. You assumed it was because his consistency in your life now went without being said. However, you learned this was a terribly incorrect assessment.

The start of high school was when everything changed. The seasons cycled through right before your eyes, and you weren’t ready for the new semester of school that Autumn brought. What you had been even more unready for was the gradual disappearance of Hoseok from your life. When he’d been drawn to certain promiscuities and stopped coming over for the weekly visits and soon forgot the comfort of fresh linen and lemon. You wanted to ask him, or rather, plead that he wouldn’t drift. The only certainty in your life was becoming more and more unseen and, in his place, an evasive fog to renounce him from your vision altogether. There was nothing for you to do but let him go, not because you wanted to, but because you had to.

Because he stopped looking at you and forced a cold divide between you two without negotiation.

Eventually, you made friends though not nearly of the same caliber as Hoseok. Most of your connections felt shallow and a bit forced and you knew there was no way in hell you would have let them into the sandbox with you if you were a kid again. Not in the way you let Hoseok; you hated living with that knowledge.

It was horribly painful the way he tore the plant of his body from your life. He’d buried the seeds and began to fertilize your world with companionship and intimacy. He grew with every step that you grew, however the bud of your friendship hadn’t the chance to blossom before he ripped out every root tangled within the inner workings of your life.

He had abandoned you in the dark night of doubt and confusion and aloneness. Half of your broken heart was somewhat glad he didn’t tell you why he had done this because it would have been devastating to find out he simply didn’t like being around you anymore. That horrific thought that the need for you to be in his life grown to a rusted nonessential was second to aloneness in being the worst thing he left you with. The other half of your heart was dedicated to wishing he would walk into your life again.

Why would he do that to you? 

And more importantly, how could he do that to you? He knew there were no two things more fitting for each other than the two of you. So how could he dispose of the one thing that meant everything to you and leave it to rot in the soil with the rest of the broken, decaying promises? 

There was a reason, and he forbade himself from telling you. He was so ashamed of his bones that he decided to cover every fond memory and every scar that turned his skeleton textured with permanent divots with endless layers of skin.

The half of your heart that longed for him eventually merged with the other half that felt nothing but complete abandonment. The sandbox was of single occupancy once again. You hated him for that.

 Present day

Hoseok’s eyes were full. Not of bloodshot vessels along the whites of the eye and not of worry that Dickson would catch them. They were full, almost outweighing the irises, with none other than melancholy and tears. Real, wet tears. He could blink away the tears and wipe them on the sleeve of his flannel, but he couldn't disengage the melancholy, the utter sadness from infecting his eyes. 

Looking up at the tiled walls of the bathroom, there waxed a bitter disgust in his chest for going so long, far too many years, looking at anything that wasn't your eyes. His labored efforts to keep away from you, not even allowing himself the option to explain the purge of you from his life, was bitter. Disgusting. It filled him with more guilty tears. 

He wasn’t crying for himself or the pressing torture he had endured for the majority of his life. He was crying for you. He was crying for the fact that he couldn’t tell you all the reasons he’d left you and tarnished the purity of your smooth skin. He was crying for hurting you, he was not oblivious to it. 

Yes, he was crying. The portrait held a valid hypothesis of the future. An older Hoseok, crying for fear of losing you. For you.

He waited a few minutes longer, giving enough time to account for any sudden stops or distractions that might have been littered in the path of the other’s transfer back to the library. Hoseok stood, checking the mirror that the tears were dried, and the melancholy was clouded with a redeeming fog, and then made his way back to the library.

No one, not you, not even the thick skinned Hoseok could be immune to the commands of timing. It was unavoidable, the misfortune that timing would always sweep over the lives of you and Hoseok. Dickson was second to timing on being an unavoidable force of annoyance and persecution. Walking down the extensive, closed hallway gave Hoseok no possible divergent path to escape the hunt that Dickson seemed to be on. 

“Well, well, well. Look who we have here? I’m disappointed to say I’m not surprised to see you breaking the one rule I enforced.” The completely irrational and dictatorial rule that he had been referring to, of course, had Hoseok’s rejection of it written all over the way he strolled through the halls. 

Any number of excuses would have cushioned the blow of Dickson’s repercussive actions about to be set in a meticulous line. He could have said he honestly needed to relieve himself or that he was feeling nauseous and needed some air and a quick lap around the halls. But he didn’t want to make excuses for himself. 

Hoseok had been parading around this Saturday as if he had enough skin to protect him against the external forces of you, Dickson, even the other three boys. He was tired, reaching the apex of a tall cliff, climbing and climbing to what seemed like an abstracted end without the comfort of a hand to hold or a shoulder to lean on during this tiresome journey. And now, he just wanted to let his body fall down the agglomeration of his own barricades.

“I was smoking weed in the bathroom.” His defeat from trying and his apathy towards Dickson’s belligerent blows left him on the bottom of the cliff. There was no use in standing, in climbing again. No use but to fall and wait for the day to end.

Dickson took this vulnerability to his advantage. He was all too quick and far too eager to sink his teeth into the thin skin on Hoseok. As he was drinking the juices of all the power he felt entitled to, his thirst grew morbid, thinking the only way to quench it was to swallow every last drop of dignity from Hoseok’s body.

“You, Hoseok. You act like you’re top dog. You do whatever you want, whenever you want, and what does that leave you with? You’re never going to be satisfied. You’re gonna end up empty and broken just like the family you never had.” This was beyond crossing the line. Dickson had stomped over it, pummeled it into mush, spit his dirty hatred in it, and perverted every aspect of Hoseok’s life that had once been latched safely behind the line. “No wonder you’re such a troublemaker. You’re desperate for any sort of attention or authority because you never had the father figure in your life to set you straight. And even if you did, even if the world gave you every privilege and shortcut to living a better life, you would still probably be empty, broken, and useless to everyone around you. What are you gonna do? You’re gonna graduate in a year and I can safely bet you have no plans. You’re going to end up a nobody. A loser. Just another unwanted orphan.” 

The Hoseok four hours ago would kiss his knuckles against Dickson’s lip before he had the chance to finish grinding him to a pulp with those words. The Hoseok at twelve o’ clock, four hours older, was tired and swept in his anguish of losing you, or perhaps letting you go, or even worse, pushing you away. The tonnage of all these put his head into a haze and he couldn’t see Dickson, not that he wanted to. He couldn't see you, your eyes, even when he fell to his knees and begged the universe for that. He couldn’t smell fresh linen and lemon, only the faint memory of them which was quickly fading. The fog was surrounding, enclosing, imprisoning him but for what crime? For being the one who never seemed to be at the right place at the right times?

“Get your ass back to the library, Jung.” Dickson let this command roll off his tongue as if he’d been dubbed a place on a shiny pedestal. As if anyone in their right minds would have honored him for degrading the most fragile parts of Hoseok and shredding the sensitive skin of the man already fallen to the base of a cliff.

Wordless, visionless, Hoseok walked in a slump past Dickson to the library. Though, this book-filled prison felt safer than outside. Because it had you, it had the memory of your laughs and your eyes. It had the people who, though annoyed, still cared to give him more respect than he deserved. 

And everyone, especially you, were increasingly worried about the amount of time it took Hoseok to get back. The others almost settled on the conclusion that he had been caught and put in some sort of solitary confinement by Dickson. Toes curling and hands fisted, you prayed that he would return. You prayed and it cleared all the hatred from you, still leaving a few stains of resentment for him. You resented him, but hated? Not in the slightest. 

It was shocking, more so than your hatred of him, how in just four hours your animosity transformed into something tame and a little bit bruised and quite dramatically opposite of hatred. In hatred, one wants nothing to do with the other. In resentment, one seeks resolve with the other. You wanted him here and you wanted his eyes to make contact for longer than thirty seconds to make some sort of amends. 

“I’m guessing what's worrying you right now isn’t your essay?” Namjoon tacked a concern in his question and through the way he had been staring at the empty seat behind you, there was no doubt he was talking about Hoseok.

“I don’t know why I care. He’s the one who decided to leave.” The low hanging grin was the best ‘I’m fine’ face you could pull. It was no use against someone like Namjoon who, within seconds, painted a part of you gone unvisited by anyone, including yourself. “He probably ditched. He can never commit to anything.”

“Ouch. Didn’t know you took detention so seriously.” You and him were well aware that these questions were void of their surface meaning. The connotations strung onto his every word had encoded his knowledge of what was really going on and he was about to get it out of you. “You and him were friends in middle school right? I think I remember. You guys would always eat lunch together.”

You were about to correct him and tell him you’d actually been friends since the first grade, but you decided against it. What were you trying to prove by saying that, anyway?

“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago.” 

“Sorry, I didn't mean to pry.”

“No, it's nothing you have to be sorry about. It’s probably nothing he has to be sorry about either. It's just me setting my expectations too high and disappointing myself.” You paused to stilt the quiver in your voice about to crack through your words. No one had ever asked about what happened with you and Hoseok. No one had ever cared enough to even wonder. This was a first for you.

“I don’t see it that way. I think he’s lonelier than he lets on.” Namjoon wasn’t sure of what he was trying to prove, but he certainly harnessed more emotional intelligence than you had assumed. 

You suddenly felt guilty for doing the lazy thing of resigning him to a label, a slightly dehumanizing one at that, without even having one full conversation with him. 

“Sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I don't know. I’m not sure why I said that, but I just felt like I needed to say sorry. You’re a good guy, Namjoon.” The grin bubbling from your lips was not a front this time. You were genuinely, profoundly touched by the way he’d shown you compassion about the Hoseok situation like no other did. 

“Thanks, I guess.” He chuckled at the randomness of it, but knew you meant well and that you fully knew why you were apologetic. Feeling seen past the stigma pinned on his back, he knew you only meant well.

Right when you were about to give up and mark this as another self-designed hope that failed to be upheld, timing came to your aid. 

For once, it did and it brought Hoseok with it.

“I just got chewed out by Dickhead.” 

Despite the sting, the way he rubbed against the raw wound left by Dickson, it felt better than admitting it hurt him so. To make light of his deepest cuts and sprinkle a bit of his own salt in the wound, well, that was what Hoseok specialized in.

Seokjin, still riding on the waves of his high, walked over to Hoseok and wrapped him in a hug as if he had been gone for days. Hoseok stood still, he didn’t return the hug, nor did he shove Seokjin off of him. It wasn’t because he fancied a hug from this strange boy, but more so he felt too awkward to move or even react.

“Dude, we thought you died. We thought he killed you.” Eventually, Hoseok gathered the resolve to lightly nudge Seokjin from his personal space. 

“Well, I’m alive so you can stop hugging me.”

“Hoseok, what happened? Did he get you in trouble?” You sounded far more concerned than the rest. You really wanted to know if he was okay, but you found that it filtered through your throat with an overly mild expression of that. Still, he caught this, along with every other subtlety in your voice, and wanted more than anything to tell you the truth.

No, he thought, He did something far worse. I would have rather taken a lifetime of detentions than to have been forced to witness the sickeningly honest criticisms Dickson threw into my already melancholy, tearful eyes. How he left that interaction unscathed and I was drenched in the pain of facing my truth.

But the words didn't come out. He didn’t feel like anyone would care about what he said anyway, and he didn’t feel like dragging you into more of his issues.

“He just got all worked up about his no leaving the room policy. The usual ‘how dare you go against me’ sort of speech. I honestly didn’t really pay attention.” His eyes trailed to the floor.

“What a dick. Sorry, man.” Jimin said while yawning, unrecovered from the Indica induced drowsiness.

“Yeah sorry, but I’m sure you got in a few good comebacks, right?” Namjoon asked.

“Yeah, for sure.” Hoseok would have otherwise been boasting about the way he fired back against Dickson. You were expecting that, and when it failed to come you knew something was wrong.

Namjoon had been drawing a new picture while he asked this. Absent-mindedly enough to not notice Hoseok’s shaken behavior. The sketch was of the five of you, sitting in a circle. It was laid back, with a touch of delight that shed the new bond forming between you all into a visible light. No one in that room would have guessed this Saturday to turn out the way it did, however none of you really cared for the alternative outcomes. You were all just glad you were living through this one. 

The one that was encapsulated by the painting, the erasure of circumstantial union by a wave of perfectly crafted comradery. This wasn’t some deep insight of Namjoon’s, not like the ones in the individual portraits he drew. This was not of blind guesses or improbable hopes. This was clear to him, to you, to everyone. 

There were no such distractions to clamor your notice of his timid mannerisms. The way he walked a bit too quietly to his desk as if someone had stripped him down to nudeness for all eyes to witness. And just like before, when he first walked into the library, he found his seat without a single glance in your direction. Though, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel frustrated with him. Not when his worries were more real and devastating than his portrait. 

This time it was different on two accounts. One, your ambition for him to look to you was not so you could relish in the guilt tripping stare he would be met with. The reasons you wanted him to look to you now was because you wanted him to know he was seen and was anything but alone. Whatever Dickson said or did was not a burden he had to shoulder on his own. And two, he didn’t sit behind you, didn’t try to avoid the unavoidable. He sat right next to you, in the scant space of your table, and there was enough room for him; even in the smallest spaces, there would always be enough room for him anywhere you were.

The scenery of him was bringing it all back. The sandbox, the mountains of sand, the young savior with the heart of gold. The love of having him by your side and the pain of his gutting absence. The roots of him were sliding back between your veins, once again seeking habitat for the bloom of friendship, or something more. 

Look at me, you wanted to say. I’m finally able to see you again. Can you see me? We’re all here, Hoseok. Jimin, Namjoon, Seokjin, and me. We’re all here, waiting for your eyes. Waiting to see the bones beneath your skin.

“Hobi, are you okay?” This time you made sure your whisper only touched Hoseok’s ears.

“I don’t know. I don't know anymore.” He couldn’t see you and he had no idea you had been waiting for him, in the fog, all this time. 

 One week ago

The text read that the study group you had been invited to join, courtesy of your friend Lisa, had a study session on the second-floor study room. It wasn’t to hang out, just to study, and you wished it would be more than that. At least a part of you did. The other part of you, the one still hung up on something that happened long ago and the same part of you that liked to play in the sandbox alone, didn’t care that most of your friendly interactions had been surface level. 

One day, you’d meet with a few friends for coffee, or another you’d meet up with a group to study, and the more you hung out with people, the less personal friendship began to feel.

Friendship without Hoseok began to feel like a business exchange, or a mechanical interaction that had become overproduced and of less quality. Like pulling the same lever repeatedly, until it became a boring chore. Not to say you didn’t appreciate it. Though shallow, trite, and forced, it was more than Hoseok ever gave you these days.

But the text made you feel lonely, like an add on or an afterthought. Simply someone to fill an extra seat at the table. You wanted to feel like you weren’t just going through life without connecting, but connections were placed at such a high standard, thanks to Hoseok, that they were hard to come by.

Your teacher passed you through the halls, you tried to avoid eye contact but that made it even more obvious you didn’t want to talk to her. You both exchanged a cordial greeting and flung a few thoughtless comments about the weather into the mix to prevent any awkwardness. It was raining, you said. The rain looked like it was going to clear up, but still looks foggy out there, your teacher responded. She walked to her office and you returned to reality. 

Your reality. Alone.

You stared at the bulletin board and the dozens of neon colored flyers for new clubs and campus organizations. Band? You were hardly the musician. Physics? Barely passing Chemistry answered that quickly enough. Chess? You’d rather be lonely. Maybe it was pathetic, but you wondered why there wasn’t a club for finding people. No underlying activity, no common hobby shared amongst the group, just a club to help a few lonely souls feel a little less lonely. For people who had a hard time meeting friends and an even harder time keeping them. Where was that club?

You walked past the school’s cafe, not needing the caffeine to wind yourself up over the impeding awareness of how alone you felt today. Monday. The day of reckoning it seemed. When you felt alone, as you did today, your thoughts could only gather memories of Hoseok to cheer you up. To remember that once you weren’t so alone, it definitely felt better than remembering you were alone.

You and Hoseok had been diametrically opposed ever since the gradual end of your friendship. He’d become somewhat of a rebel and you stayed humbled and quiet. The once parallel lines of your souls running along the span of seven years together had diverged, his line east and yours, west, by the time you hit the eighth year. 

Today, all alone, you decided to start walking east. Not that you were looking for Hoseok necessarily, you were simply hoping to find something, or someone. It was that decision, along with the various others, that had you walking east and trying to get home before the rain fell again. You could have been surrounded by a group of classmates by now, who were half discussing the contents of the next Statistics exam and half meandering about what they were going to do this weekend, but that wouldn’t change the fact that you felt alone. 

Just like the one who played in the sandbox, you’d rather be alone while feeling alone. Though solitary walks in the rain meant you weren’t of any access to distractions. You began to wonder, which was never a good thing in your case, why you felt alone? There must be something wrong with you. Everyone else seemed to get along with the idea of friendship no matter the depth of them. You had concluded maybe ‘sociable’ wasn’t programmed in your DNA because sometimes you found yourself absolutely hating the idea. But that couldn’t be true because there was a part of your life that you spent loving the idea. Not just the idea, but the real deal as well. What could it be then? What was the reason you walked alone this Monday afternoon?

There he was. The moment you saw him you knew he was the reason.

“Hoseok.” You hadn’t felt those syllables in that order fall from your lips for quite some time, only hearing it in your head made him seem nearly unreal. But he was real, so was his name.

He had a cigarette stuck between his lips, then soon his fingers, leaning on the seat of his jet-black motorcycle. You were walking closer to him, slowly, like the way one would approach a wild animal so not to scare them off. Your steps drew you back to first grade again, and proximity wise, you were just as close to him as you were in the sand box. However, your hearts hadn’t even been in the same country.

“Do you need something?” The worst part about what he said was the fact that he didn’t mention your name. As if your name hadn’t crossed his mind in four years unlike how his was practically branded between the wrinkles of your brain. As if, to him, losing you was nothing more than a check off of some to-do list, a chore, a burden he was just trying to get over with. So, it was absolutely pathetic what you thought immediately in response to what he asked.

I need you.

“You smoke?”

“No, I just like holding cigarettes in my mouth.” Your eyes rolled to this, feeling a shockwave disassembling the Hoseok you remembered in your head. He was entirely new, not the boy who liked to go to the beach and played with sand, and you had a hard time recognizing him with this new skin he wore and the fog that, as your teacher guessed, was thickly lurking through the air. 

“How are you?” You thought this was a dumb question because you knew he would answer with some short winded, meaningless ‘good’ or ‘fine’ or maybe he wouldn’t even say anything at all, leading to a fateful dead-end to this dragged out conversation. It was enough to make you equally eager and exhausted. If you could call what you felt for him with words, it would be hate. Probably.

His face looked paler than it had before, and his hands looked like it would feel like ice if you touched them. You used to touch them all the time, and they were warm and looked just as warm as they felt. If you touched them now, would they be as cold as his voice? Would he even let you?

“I’d say I’m quite annoyed that someone decided to interrupt my peace and quiet.” He flicked the butt of the cigarette to shave a few ashes off the end of the stick. You just shook your head at how he didn’t hide the way he dodged your questions with insincerity.

“Sorry, jeez... How the tables have turned.” 

“What?”

“Oh just that,” You paused to wonder if him asking what you meant was some subtle indication he wanted to continue talking to you but you settled your bets on that being wishful thinking. Besides, you hated him so why should you care? “Way back when, I remember the roles were reversed. You were the one interrupting my peace and quiet.”

“I distinctly remember saving your life.” To you, no matter how desperate it was, any sort of mild banter with him was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, treasured with the memories stored in your chest. This was certainly the case being that in almost four years, the little he said to you now was the most he’d probably ever say to you in the rest of your lifetime. You took what you could get, after all, beggars can’t be choosers.

“Okay, calm down, you saved me from getting sand in my hair and down my pants.” You laughed and took a subconscious step closer to him. Carefully, lightly as not to scare him away because Hoseok looked stiff and distant minded when he saw you move towards him.

The mumble was registered clearly by Hoseok from the way you watched his partial scowl transform into a barely intelligible smile. You saw it, despite how small it was, and you missed the way he looked when he smiled at you. You missed knowing why he smiled, since right now you had no idea what prompted him to curve his lips the slightest bit upwards. More than that, you missed being the reason he smiled. That was selfish, maybe, and far-fetched from the looks of the gaping distance he seemed to be as comfortable with as you were uncomfortable.

“Li-”

“You-”

“Oh, you go.” His and your eyes were both fixed on the cigarette twirling between his fingers. And though you haven’t talked to him in a while, you knew that the tapping and twirling of his fingers was one of his habits to soothe his nervousness. 

Was he nervous? 

You wanted to carve the part of your brain dedicated to overthinking, specifically when it came to Hoseok, out of your skull. You hated the fact that you overanalyzed his every movement down to the twitch of his ears more than the fact that you cared enough to do so in the first place, and you hated that more than the man himself.

“You shouldn’t put that stuff in your body.” From the way his eyes didn’t move from the cigarette, it felt like you could have said nothing at all. He brushed it aside as if he was never intending on listening to you in the first place.

No, you thought, not Hobi. He would care, I think. He has to care enough about himself to keep his body healthy. And for some reason, above all the other overthought thoughts, that one seemed to scare you the most. If he didn’t care about you anymore, and he didn’t care about himself, then did he care about anything at all?

“Mm.” His gruff response fit unfortunately well with his hand, the one with the cigarette, that was moving towards his mouth again as if it were some act of defiance against you. 

Your hand moved to curl around his wrist, which began a new set of overthought thoughts about how rough his skin felt against your hand. Soon, you found your thumb grazing softly along the underside of his forearm. It was you double checking to make sure this was the same skin as the Hoseok you knew before, an accidental gesture born out of instinct rather than methodic planning, something that, if he asked, you wouldn’t be able to explain. For the time being, you did everything you could to investigate where his new nihilistic attitude had bloomed from.

Before the ten second mark of this abnormal, slightly familiar contact, you channeled every neuron in your body to signal your hand to let go of him. He seemed blind sighted enough for you to snag the cigarette out of his hands and into your own.

“Do you want a hole in your neck?” 

“What are you doing?” He didn’t sound as angry as you expected him to be. Moreover, he looked worried which under sighted your awareness of the deft approach to reach for his cigarette back.

“Like I said, the tables have turned. Now, it’s me who’s saving your life.” 

Before you could throw it on the ground and flatten out the flame with your shoe, you braced for the unforced mistake of looking into his eyes and seeing nothing. All that was sitting in the socket of his eyes was a lusterless fog. You wanted to see his eyes more than you wanted him to care, which was an odd transition being that his care had been the top priority ever since freshman year. Your hands were gloved by warm cotton, but you would have taken them off to hold his hand and make them warm with yours.

“Hey!” You thought that was just in your head. Maybe the voice of reason to advise you from holding his hand because that would be extremely weird to do to an estranged friend. But it wasn’t a voice of reason that stopped you, it was quite possibly the worst person to stumble upon this encounter. “No smoking on campus!”

You turned around and saw Dickson’s manic expression then immediately turned to the cigarette that was in your hand. 

Shit.

“I can explain! It wasn’t-”

“Can it, ___! No excuses.” Dickson’s eyes trailed to the pack of cigarettes that the one in your hand was sourced from. He didn’t say anything, just shook his head and reached into the pocket of his blazer to pull out that notorious pink pad of detention slips. With nothing more than a smug grin flashed like bright headlights against you and Hoseok, one that you would grow to hate more than anything, Dickson turned and strut away with long strides and an elevated self-esteem.

“Looks like I’ll be seeing you this Saturday, princess.” He smirked. To you, it was a mockery and some sort of reprisal for taking his hand and his cigarette soon after. 

“Fuck you.” You turned away to walk a petty five or so yards away from him before some gravitational force pulled your head to turn back to him. To see if he was watching, perhaps waiting for you to walk back over to him but sure enough he’d kicked his leg over the seat of his motorcycle and started the engine long before you walked halfway towards where you were left to do nothing but watch him leave. He became smaller and smaller, hazier and hazier, and then unforeseeable in the fog.

You watched him leave, and you were almost sure you hated him.

 One week ago

[Hoseok’s POV]

It was enraging and inconvenient for the weather to fog up right as school let out. Hoseok had more trouble driving his motorcycle when there was too much clutter in the air that disoriented the view of the road. He rarely stayed on campus for longer than he needed to, but it looked like he needed to. On the brighter side of things, Hoseok didn’t have to return to his foster house that smelled of old, wet, rotting rags and sounded of strained but persistent screams of his foster parents. 

Even sitting in the fog, sucking in the burn of nicotine, was better than going back there. Days similar to these, days intruding his week more often than not, he found himself stuck between a place he wanted nothing to do with and a place he could envision through a pixelated glare that brought him warmth, quiet tranquility, fresh linen, and lemon. The arms that would meet his body and wrap him snug against another body, then the excited face of yours that met with his equally excited face. 

It was a shame he could only live out these delights through an array of distant artifacts far too old to expel the loneliness from his heart.

Monday was whirling him through a pool of memories he’d rather keep covered up; it was winter and there was no need to swim in such a pool unless he deemed the risk of freezing to death a tenable substitution for smoking cigarettes in the fog. But it was not a matter of whether he would willingly dive into the pool, rather it was whether or not he could keep himself from falling in or even being pushed in.

Hoseok hadn’t seen your face in nearly four years. Of course, he saw you around the campus, strolling the halls or sitting in the cafeteria. He hadn’t seen your face, however, the way he used to look at it before high school. When he was a child free to flagrantly admire what his heart fancied as beautiful, there was no remorse or guilt from the way his eyes brazenly printed the details of your face into his memory. The creases at the sides of your mouth, the ends of your eyes that were pushed closed by the force of your cheek, and the number of teeth visible when you would smile had been graphed out like a mathematical equation; he was of the few that could solve it between the interval of two seconds. He knew where the inner portion of your eyebrows began and how far down the tip of your nose rested on your face along with the lining of your hair scaling the top of your forehead better than he knew any geographical map studied in school.

Most importantly, he studied your eyes more meticulously than he had his own eyes. Not your arms, or hands, or even the support of your legs could carry as much as your eyes. Hoseok liked to look at them when you smiled because they held the softness of a blanket after a tiring day burdened by a snowstorm. He could see it so clearly, a vast cloth in your eyes made specifically to wrap around a body in need of warmth.

But when you were angry, they held the wildest fires that would burn down anything in their line of vision. No matter how difficult it was to look at your eyes when they were sad, he was familiar with the molting roses that made your tears look like wilting petals; it was unsurprising that even in sadness, you shed beauty from your eyes. 

To him, you were the most beautiful being he’d ever gotten the chance to see.

He loved seeing your face, even if the only way he could do so now was through the partially disfigured memories of his younger self. He was sad to say he had no current frame of reference to jar in his mental gallery of you. There was no way he could look at you on the will of his own because he was afraid to unsheathe the distance and repression set to protect you from him

There was no way, because he would have probably fallen in love with you all over again.

He was about to leave, but a gust of wind blew him towards the decision to smoke one more cigarette before surrendering to the house that smelled and felt quite the opposite of one place he truly considered his home. 

And then he saw you. Walking slowly, and you looked so frightened of him. In all fairness, there was no reason for you to look at him with anything other than repugnance and unease because he turned quite jagged over the years.

You, however, were a relic of the past. Like a highly revered piece of art in a museum of grandeur, with the flawlessly manicured, picturesque beauty that couldn’t be bothered with the touch of Hoseok’s calloused hands. He could only stare from behind the velvet roped boundary that kept his body from melting into the art of you.

“Hoseok.” Your voice doubled down on the apprehension that tensed your walk up to him. He pulled the cigarette from his lips, feeling it inappropriate to have such a foul thing in his mouth if he were to greet you. 

You looked so beautiful. So different from the thinly spread memories of your face; your cheeks had grown into maturation but still maintained a soft innocence. When he looked in your eyes, he did not see roses or raging fires or warming blankets, in fact, he could barely recognize them let alone see what they were holding. It hurt more than the smoke battering his lungs.

Get your shit together. Get away from ___. He reminded himself in an incriminating manner.

“Do you need something?” How he had the ability to keep his mind wrapped around you but spewed words forcing you away was beyond any comprehension. Nonetheless, he did it, simultaneously scolding and applauding himself for not reverting to the version of him that would have greeted you with a soft hug or loving smile.

“You smoke?” The disappointment packed into your voice put him at an odd with himself. 

Finding the frustration plowing through his chest, he processed these self-aggressions through a misdirection onto an unsuspecting victim. One he never thought deserving to be the target of his projected anger, but then again, it was the only way to hinder your warm hands from digging beneath his skin.

“No, I just like holding cigarettes in my mouth.” He exhaled relief, along with the rest of the smoke inhabiting his lungs, that you had rolled your eyes. His charade was fooling you into annoyance, keeping you just out of his reach where you belonged. 

“How are you?” Or maybe this act of his was not working as well as he thought, since you padded these questions down like you had nothing better to do. Hoseok began to feel worried, the brimming loneliness was about to unleash through the conversation you were, for some reason, trying to initiate.

If you were to go away, it would break me again. But, at least, it would keep my skin intact.

“I’d say I’m quite annoyed that someone decided to interrupt my peace and quiet.” He freed his cigarette from the ashes bunching at the end, hoping you would mimic this riddance. Maybe you would see he had burnt your body to an ash, and sooner or later the entire cigarette would fall away to black dust. If you saw that, would you finally have the sense to leave him?

He couldn’t stand looking at your eyes. To behold such beauty, suspended from any chance to have your body against his was nothing less that torture to him because he was so very cold, and you looked like you harbored enough warmth in your fingertips alone to cure him of it.

“Sorry, jeez… How the tables have turned.” 

Hoseok bit down against the side of his cheek hard enough to steal a bit of blood from his gums and to keep him from asking what your eyes were holding today, and if you would be so kind as to give him a piece of it to feed his empty, starving eyes.

So, he settled on:

“What?”

“Oh just that,” Hoseok panicked in the span of your brief pause. Could you notice he was asking for a bit of your eyes and warmth? He was fucking everything up as usual, he thought. “Way back when, I remember the roles were reversed. You were the one interrupting my peace and quiet.”

The jig had not been up yet, thankfully.

“I distinctly remember saving your life.” 

“Okay, calm down, you saved me from getting sand in my hair and down my pants.” When you stepped close to him, the film of fear once guarding your walk was scraped clean which led to more silent punishment for letting his selfish indulgences of your company get the best of him. 

His muscles couldn’t resist the smile bubbling under the thick skin on his lips. Not even skin, or fog, could hide the smiles that never seemed to run short with you. 

And it was the step, or how miserably trapped in the purgatory he felt, or how he smelled fresh linen and lemon exuding from your hair and clothes that pushed him into the pool of memories he’d been walking around, but avoiding submergence. 

It was deathly freezing. Now, he was fully submerged in the fluid-filled vat of your memories, however. It wasn’t the bone chilling frigidity of the water that had him reaching his arm out and gasping for air, but the enticing warmth of your body that stood above him, as if you were waiting for him to reach to your aid, for you to fill his depraved lungs with linen and lemon tinted oxygen.

“Li-”

“You-”

“Oh, you go.” He believed it was better that you spoke.

“You shouldn't put that stuff in your body.” 

The broken levers and switches and pulleys which made up the inner mechanisms of his body found your banal suggestions as the only surge of kindness his old machinery had felt for a while. He’d heard it before; the Health Education segments, the anti-smoking adverts, the doctor’s orations tunneling out of his ears as quickly as they entered. But your words were caught like traffic in his head, so much that it blocked all entry of a fiery retort to pass through his mouth.

“Mm.” He mumbled because you were right. He shouldn’t be smoking; he shouldn’t be doing a lot of things but some of his actions felt out of his control at this point of his life.

Unprepared could not describe the intense degree of shock Hoseok felt when your fingers wrapped around his wrist so attentively. He was reaching his arm out, waiting to be removed from the cold and isolated pool he’d fallen into (or perhaps pushed into by you), but he never expected his hand to be met. He predicted he would spend eternity reaching to no avail, left to drown in this chilling pond of memories that rendered him frozen in the world of the past. Instead, his body reunited with the dryness of the air.

Hoseok hoped you couldn't feel the embarrassingly quick speed of his pulse with your thumb that rested right against his artery.

“Do you want a hole in your neck?”

He would have responded with: Could it be any worse than freezing to death?

“What are you doing?” His expressionless visage, one labored with hiding his worry, had fallen away from his face. 

The way the cigarette looked in your hands had him nearing a faint. To him, it felt like an accessory, like a bracelet or a belt, like it belonged in his hands. But when you held it, the small stick looked like it was going to leave permanent stains of corruption along your skin. It was absolutely abhorrent in your fingers. Any second, your entire body would be lurking with his repulsive residue and he thought it would kill him before it killed you.

“Like I said, the tables have turned. Now, it's me who’s saving your life.” 

That was the tipping point for him. The surge of tender nostalgia. The last bid of persuasion he needed to grab your wrist instead and press his mouth against yours, warm and wet and gentle. And he would have done exactly that, he would have kissed you and offered his last breath to your lungs if not for the unexpected saving grace that arrived in the form of a bitter vice principal.

“Hey!” Dickson’s approach was followed with the inevitability of detention. Hoseok only knew this to be true because even when he wasn’t smoking on campus or doing something that would elicit a detention, Dickson always found a way of weaving in reason to prosecute Hoseok. “No smoking on campus!”

“I can explain! It wasn't-” 

“Can it, ___! No excuses.” Hoseok was in his own world now, counting down the seconds until the pink slip of detention would be presented in front of him on a rusty silver platter. When Dickson walked away, he found it fitting to begin breathing once again.

“Looks like I’ll be seeing you this Saturday, princess.” The mischief in his smirk bred the annoyance back into your chest, which was his goal of course. Before he got the chance to enact his sinful deed to close the space between your lips and his, he hopped on his motorcycle and wheeled himself to a safe distance. 

Cold and lonely, but safe.

He had the rest of the week to figure out how in the hell he was going to spend an entire day with you without looking into your eyes and breaking through the already vulnerable skin. 

 12:00 - 2:00

“Are you okay?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

About two minutes after Jimin’s head took a dive, landed against the solid wood of the table, and snapped back awake, he looked a bit confused and tried to reattach himself to reality.

“Does anyone know what time it is?” 

“Twelve ten.” You and Namjoon answered in unison like you had been keeping track of every minute that passed since eight o’clock. 

“Time isn’t real.” The still high and rosy cheeked Seokjin mumbled out through a cluster of thoughts bumping around the otherwise empty space in his brain.

“I’m going to punch you.” Hoseok said, feeling sensitive to irritation after the denigration he had just undergone courtesy of a washed-out vice principal.

“Hoseok.” Your tone was a punishing command that needn’t more than the one-worded sternness to make Hoseok huff lightly in adherence. 

“It’s been,” Jimin paused to count with his fingers, “four hours already? It honestly hasn’t felt like it’s been that long.”

“Well, you know what they say.” Namjoon commented this with no further explanation as if Jimin had any actual clue to what the other boy was referring to.

“What? What do they say?” Jimin responded, expectant for the explanation.

“I know. Is it that time isn’t real?” You tried not to laugh at Seokjin’s re-utterance of his thoughts that were polished over with an intoxicated glaze, knowing your approbation to him would further aggravate Hoseok into actually punching Seokjin.

“How are you still that high, Jin?” Namjoon said through a soft chuckle.

“I don’t know it’s kind of freaking me out now. Am I gonna be high for the rest of my life?” 

“No and no. It’s that time goes by faster when you’re having fun.”

“That’s rich.” Hoseok took it upon himself to point out the irony and wicked hypocrisy of the insinuation that Jimin was having, of all things, fun with the four of you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jimin had almost forgotten Hoseok seemed to get the most satisfaction out of picking at Jimin specifically. 

Jimin wasn’t the easiest target since he was the furthest from a social pariah, Seokjin and Namjoon filled that slot, but he had both a namesake of being a star football player and a pyramidal structure of friends to lose from Hoseok’s unforgiving tongue. This made it much more satisfying to Hoseok.

“I just would have never guessed you would get off your high horse for a few hours to join the rest of us lowlifes. Consider me flattered.” This wasn’t the first or last sarcastic remark to whip tirelessly against Jimin however it was enough for Jimin to feel deserving of answers.

“Where do you keep getting this idea that I think of you guys as lowlifes?” 

“Oh, you wanna know?” Hoseok said, finding the clutter of denial Jimin had congregated around himself both ignorant and audacious. Even Namjoon and Seokjin found it astounding how gullible Jimin was towards his own refusal to admit an all too terrible truth.

“Please, enlighten me.” In the simplest terms, Jimin was in over his head to take on such a challenge with the amount of overzealous egoism in his voice. It felt like an affront, the ignorance shrouding him, to the experiences of the minnows that had to walk the halls with their heads hung low in order to avoid an unsolicited and traumatizing attack from the sharks of your school.

As much as Jimin didn’t want to acknowledge it, he was a shark, and the rest of you were minnows.

“Why don’t you tell everyone why you got detention?”

Jimin stiffened to a stone-like manner. It was petrifying to even move, let alone speak on behalf of his actions that led him here. He didn’t have his posse of dim-witted friends to protect him, nor the freedom of avoidance being trapped in the library. There was, for once, nowhere for Jimin to turn to other than the four faces of those deserving of his explanation.

“Well?” Hoseok coaxed.

“Damn, was it that bad?” Seokjin was worried he placed too much hope on Jimin’s shoulders. He wanted to believe Jimin was one of the good ones, or better ones at least. That out of his friends, Jimin would be the one to do the right thing because it would have been nothing short of betrayal if he relinquished himself to the cowardice of the ‘follow the leader’ mindset plaguing Jimin’s group of friends.

Perhaps it was the razing hues of the cheap fluorescent lights in the library, but there was a strange brightness illuminating this room in particular. Out in the halls, it was darker and easier to miss the faces of passing students. So dark that when you first stepped into the library, your eyes felt a slight burn and was forced to readjust to seeing with clarity for once in quite a long time. 

In the library, there was no way to miss their faces. Maybe if you closed your eyes it would have been easier and the burn of the lights infiltrating your retinas would be boiled down to a grazing sting but now wasn’t the time for closed eyes. The rarity of brightness and clarity was too good to return to the blindness of the halls and the fogged space of the world outside. It was safe to keep them open, just for now.

“Don’t tell me it was one of your dumb football friends who put you up to something.” You said as if you already knew this to be true. 

“They’re not dumb.” “What? Are you trying to defend them? Defend yourself?” Hoseok said and it was not caked in indifference or sarcasm. It was angry and driven by some demented sort of care for Jimin to take accountability for his actions; it was as if he knew Jimin was better than that but he wouldn’t admit this even with a gun to his head.

“No! It’s not that. It’s just…” Jimin had reached his breaking point. There was nothing left to hide. Not when the library was so damn bright that it singed his vision enough to well a few tears to collect at the base of his eyes. “They’re fucking cruel. I don’t think dumb people can be as cruel as them.” 

Jimin’s eyes were spaced out to the floor as if he had seen a ghost, or many ghosts in the form of the untracked amount of students that were swept into a relentless attack by those Jimin dared to call his friends. Those who he stood by, even if it cut through every moral instinct in his body. The most shameful ghosts were the ones sitting before him, listening attentively.

And the most haunting ghost of all was none other than himself. 

“Jimin, what did you do?” Namjoon, walking on eggshells or rather shards of glass, asked this of him apprehensively knowing how overwhelmingly displeased you all would be with his answer. 

“I didn’t have a choice! I-” The tears once held at bay on the bed of Jimin’s eyes had now been pushed over and down his cheeks from the guilt crowding the space where they once rested. “You know my friend Connor right? Well, I don’t know if I can call him a friend. Not anymore at least.”

The four silent nods didn’t give him enough time to construct the strong foundation of courage he needed to build upon this. However, Jimin had exhausted the last of his courage. All there was left for him, for all of you, was to be vulnerable. To be welcoming of his pain seemed to be the only source of strength to say what was needed to be said. What, for once, he felt like he could openly admit to. 

The library was bright. He began to feel seen because of it and the noiseless juncture gave him a chance to be heard.

“I, um, I made the mistake of leaving my phone out. God, I was so fucking stupid. I can’t believe I did that.” He took one deep breath to energize himself, “I, uh, I got a text from Kim Taehyung and,” 

Jimin had been instilling frequent pauses between what he was saying. Talking, especially to those whose opinions held a measurable importance to him, was the most difficult thing he had to do. Jimin spent over ten hours in the beating sun, extrapolated his muscles of their ability to move with the intensive workouts he had to do for training, ran over seven kilometers nearly every other day, and shoved an integral piece of his heart to a place of hateful and regretful shame for his whole life. But this, the uncomplicated act of talking had twisted into an unsolvable maze with Jimin placed right at the center.

“Connor looked. He- he fucking looked through my texts.”

The mention of Kim Taehyung, the only uncloseted person in your grade, had given you all the information needed to know why Connor looking through Jimin’s texts was not just an invasion of privacy but an infestation to the immunity Jimin built against how he loved; who he loved. The boundaries had been set and had been wrongly trespassed over, and to someone like Connor, that didn’t register as a violent act of homophobia. Jimin didn’t have to explain the contents of the texts for you all to know that it was far beyond platonic.

Suddenly, everything made sense to Hoseok. Being that he was the only one who knew what happened, but not as much to know the reasons behind it had him feeling almost as guilty as Jimin.

“You don’t have to explain yourself. I didn't know all that.” Hoseok had given Jimin an opt out, a shortcut to escape from the maze Jimin was still wandering through, which was his way of apologizing and clarifying he would never cross that boundary, the boundary that Connor ravaged with a hateful heart. 

Jimin turned it down. He turned down the shortcuts. This wasn’t a journey that would be accomplished by taking the easy way out. Sometimes, one must run right into the eye of the hurricane to be freed from the shackles of self-despair.

“No. I need to tell you guys. I don’t want you guys to think that...” Jimin pushed past the final wall, realizing the very mask meant to protect him was the thing that had been turning him into someone he couldn't recognize when he looked in the mirror. “I just… I want you guys to know.”

The low social status of the others in the room wasn’t why he felt like he could be honest. It wasn’t the fact that even if you all knew, it would have been diluted to an unverifiable and petty rumor because no one took what the delinquent, the loner, the nerd, and the freak said seriously. What motivated him, or more fittingly, what inspired him to be honest was your gift of listening, not just hearing to hear, but hearing to care and understand Jimin.

“I’m gay.” And he finally found the end of the maze. “I’ve never said it out loud before. It sounds weird coming out of my mouth.” What he expected was awkward silence, a few uncomfortable or disapproving grimaces, or a complete rejection of what he revealed himself to be. These expectations weren’t met, by the grace of God or more likely the grace of those who listened with care and understanding. And Jimin cried harder.

“I don’t think it sounds weird. I’m so happy you shared that with us.” You said in place of the expected rejection, and you smiled in the place of the expected turned back. “I’m proud of you for being so brave.”

“You are?” 

“We all are.” Namjoon added to the support.

No longer did Jimin feel the need to rely on the fractured confinement of the closet, but on the open, warm support of the four others and the brightness of the library. When he gathered the reactions for the four of you, the soft expressions directed towards him, he knew he was in a safe place. Even Hoseok, without outwardly smiling, gave him more acceptance than any of Jimin’s football teammates would have given him.

“No disrespect but what does that have to do with why you got detention?” Seokjin’s bluntness corralled Jimin back on topic, even if it wasn’t the most empathetic way of going about it.

“Oh yeah. Well, Connor started saying all this shit about telling everyone if I didn’t um…” It felt like the words coming from his throat weren’t hot air from his lungs, but jagged rocks scraping the sides of his windpipe, “If I didn’t beat Taehyung up then he’d tell everyone and leak our conversations.” 

“Would people finding out about you two be so bad?” Seokjin asked naively.

“You don’t understand. There weren’t just messages.” He had been fidgeting with the end of his shirt, engulfed by the regret of how he handled things. Though, his choices had made him a parcel between deciding on the lesser of two evils and this was never a fair advantage. “There- there were pictures too. He threatened to leak them and I… well, I thought I was protecting Taehyung from him, but I was being selfish. Weak. I was protecting myself.”

“Jimin, that’s not fair. Connor put you in such a fucked up position! God, how fucking dare he?” Your face was red with anger. Hoseok had been tracing the distress lines on your forehead and between your brows with reverence because it was too heartbreaking to look at the defeated expression tolling Jimin’s. “You know Connor also sent around my friend’s nudes after he was begging for them. He’s fucking vile.”

“There has to be something we can do to get him in trouble.” Namjoon had already been willing to risk having to voluntarily interact with Dickson to rat Connor out. However, Jimin objected strongly.

“No! Then word would get out. You don’t know half the shit my teammates say about gay people. There’s no way they would let me stay on the team. And my parents don’t have a clue. I have no idea how they’d react.” Jimin brought his forearm to wipe away the tears still spilling from his eyes. “I’m scared. I already lost the one person who I really cared about in this damn school because of that asshole. I can’t lose anything else.” 

“Why would you want to be on a team with people who hate gay people? Or be on the same team as the guy who literally blackmailed you into beating up your boyfriend.” Jimin didn’t take too kindly to Seokjin’s unthoughtful assertion. 

“You wouldn’t understand. I- I’ve built my life around football! I wouldn’t have any friends and my whole future is riding on my football career. God knows my grades aren’t enough to get me accepted into college let alone get a scholarship. You don’t understand the social pressure of not being a part of something.” Now, it was Jimin who made thoughtless assertions against Seokjin. “Someone like you just wouldn't understand.”

“Someone like me?”

“Do I have to say it?”

Internally, you pleaded with him not to say it. Namjoon already knew the hurtful assumptions Jimin had placed upon the four of you this whole time.

“Well, you're the one who brought it up.” Seokjin retorted.

“Say it, Jimin. Admit you think of yourself as better than us just because you're popular and on the football team.” Hoseok spat with a determined bite to his words.

“Fine! Someone like Seokjin is an outcast. It’s true, okay? It’s not my fault he doesn’t get the pressure that I’m under.” The admittance was torrid and vain but nonetheless true to Jimin’s prerogative. 

“Are you kidding me? You don't think all of us don't understand the social pressures of feeling like we don't belong?” He was never one to argue or get upset about things. He often felt like he had no place in ever standing up from the many instances when he’d been pushed to the ground for his entire life. 

Seokjin, and Namjoon too for that matter, have been casted as a sort of boot licker trapped in between the cogs of the social hierarchies in high school. Being at the very bottom, on the receiving end of the brute force from those who are lucky enough to be a part of something, hadn't been easy. They didn’t get the leverage to misstep or speak out, and their consequences had always been enforced with an expensive debt of hiding what was really on their minds. 

“You don’t think I see and hear the way people talk about me? I’m a freak, a low life, a joke. No one wants to be friends with someone like me. And yeah, I guess I am the joke of the school! The inside joke that everyone is a part of except for me. I've never had the fear of not belonging because that was a given ever since I started high school. At least you have something to lose. I never had that and I have to pretend like I’m okay with it all! I have to pretend that everything people say about me or make fun of me doesn't affect me. In fact, I feel like I have to constantly make a fool of myself because that’s the only way anyone pays attention to me! That's pathetic! If I didn’t, if I just shut up or if I-” His voice cut off momentarily from the lump impeding on his throat, “If I were to just disappear… or… if I were to die no one would care. And I have to pretend to be okay with that. But I’m not- I- I just hate it.” 

You didn’t have to look at his eyes to know he had also been crying. And he was right, everything he said. The way most people disregard him and when they do acknowledge Seokjin, it’s only to place hate or insults to titillate their sick amusement. It brought you to tears in the most gut-wrenching way, because part of you attuned to his loneliness. His feelings of unimportance, that if you were to fall off the face of the Earth one day, your tombstone would be just as undeclared and forgotten as your once beating hearts.

“Do you know how many death threats I’ve gotten in my locker? Yeah, they’re probably empty threats just to piss me off or scare me but they still affect me. I- I start to believe maybe I should be dead. I just… I just want to be seen.”

In some way, Jimin felt decided for just like Seokjin did. Decided by external forces that he should be manly, straight, and nothing beyond what had been expected of him. Though the oppression of heteronormativity chained around his neck was vastly different that the shackles that kept Seokjin at an arm's length away from ever making a true friend, there was a communion within the unwelcomed and pervasive loneliness.

And that kind of loneliness drives someone to a deep and unyielding kind of depression. The damaging isolation from having no one to tell you they love you when you feel unloved ricocheted against your insides, and it begins to feel like a hunger but a million times worse.

You couldn’t feed it on your own. You just have to wait for someone else to want to feed it, to want to love and accept you. But no one could wield such compassion when they were too occupied with fitting in, until now.

“I don’t think you’re a freak or a joke. I’d never make fun of you, and I would notice. If you left, Jin, I would notice.” Namjoon said to give Seokjin shelter and company in feeling out of place. He felt it too and it was heavy, crushingly heavy. 

“I think we’re all just pretending to be okay. Pretending that living and existing doesn't hurt and that every day doesn't leave a scar on our body in some way. Being alive when you are pretending is lonely because it isn’t you who’s living and existing. It’s the shell of you, and the real you has to watch from a distance. That distance is so lonely. And when you try to crawl back into that shell, and maybe become whole again, you just can’t. You’re stuck because you've been hurt too many times to feel safe in your own body. I’ve felt it, now I know Jimin and Seokjin feel it. Even ___ and Hoseok, I know you guys feel it too. I wish we could stop. I wish we didn’t have to pretend. If we could stay in this library, together, we wouldn’t have to. But the end of the day will come and we’ll all have to go back to pretending, won't we?”

A speechless agreement filled the air.

“I don’t. I don’t want to feel lonely anymore.” Seokjin said.

“Me neither, I don't want to go back to pretending. I want to be able to love who I want to love.” Jimin looked to Seokjin, scared and unsure of whether or not they could face the world again. Oddly enough, comfort surfed over fear and uncertainty because they were not alone anymore. To be in a state of apprehension with those who take time to understand one another lightened the load tenfold. If one can be lonely with other lonely people, then maybe they weren’t alone after all. 

In this library, bright and giving, they certainly weren't alone.

There was nothing to say or refute. Hoseok had in fact been pretending, his skin just as fake as the leather jacket covering him. Though now, unlike when he saw his portrait, he felt the absence of his skin to be freeing. He felt uncomfortable in his skin; he wanted it off completely. Being strong, pretending to be unhurt led him to come crashing down as hard as he did when he faced you again. You and all the mistakes he’d made and Dickson’s hostile attack in the halls. Perhaps weakness is a form of healing.

Letting the guard down just enough to let the kindness of another’s heart in. 

“Do you guys… to me, you guys are my friends.” Spoken with an intentional rephrase and delivered without an expectation that the four of you returned this projection of friendship, Seokjin felt less alone than he did in the dark of the hallways that, although physically narrow, were wide enough to have him walking through alone.

“You’re my friend.” You said this quickly, to not give any chance for silence to settle doubt. You were his friend, truly, more so than the friends you made to fill the Hoseok sized void in your life. “I don’t have a lot of friends either.”

“Me neither.” Namjoon said.

“I mean, I have a lot of friends, but I think it’s all bullshit. I think you guys are the only ones close to anything real.” Jimin said through a smile.

And though Hoseok had come to realize what it felt like to be seen, to have his bones exposed to the eyes of the understanding, there was still that adjustment period. Letting go of the habitual usage of rudeness and sarcasm as a defense mechanism against the rawness of being human with other people was not an easily dropped reflex.

“Wow, well this love fest was certainly something.” 

How could he do that? How could he reduce the trauma and bravery piled between the five of you to another crass, insensitive comment? 

“Oh, god. Can’t you just quit it already? Can’t you take anything seriously?” You were well beyond the brink of holding your tongue. Beyond the point of patience that was placating your owed explanation for Hoseok’s drastic change and unannounced desertion.

“No, that part of my brain died a long time ago. Sorry to burst your bubble, princess.”

“Oh, is that what your excuse is?”

The other boys sensed there was some unsaid history between the two of you which placed them as silent audience members, serving a watchful mediation to this long-awaited performance. 

“What’s your deal? Calm down, it was just a joke.” His insensitivity came from a place that grew used to pushing you away and stonewalling the idea of emotionality, yet another defense mechanism brandished to become second nature to him. And with the attentive eyes of the other three, there was no chance of loosening the skin and veered away from showing his bones. Hoseok knew exactly what ‘your deal’ was but he didn’t have the slightest idea of how much his feigned indifference packed more dirt in your wounds.

Or at least, you hoped he didn’t. It would have made it far worse to know he was aware of the way he hurt you. 

“What’s my deal? My deal is that you don’t care about anyone! You never cared about me and you made me believe that I could trust you. You’re just an asshole, when you get down to it. You have no heart.” You spat, feeling the heat rising just as quickly as your body which collected the strength to take a stand. 

He too stood up, facing you and it overspent the little energy he had to look into your eyes as you said these harsh things, unhidden in the library’s brightness. Of course, you didn't believe anything you just said. You knew he cared, or at least he did once, and that he had a heart, no matter how emptied of love it felt in his chest. His heart was there, beating slowly as if waiting to stop completely.

You were speaking through the frustrations of trying to reach out to someone who held their guard up stronger and mightier than a brick wall and seemed to want nothing to do with you. 

He didn’t know this. Hoseok was up to his neck in regret and guilt. He was tired, and his heart was weary from doing its job of maintaining his breath. A breath he didn’t feel worthy of harboring anymore. He had been tired for a while now and just wanted to be vulnerable, like the rest of you. However, no matter how many times he thought it over or talked himself into it, the skin just seemed to regenerate faster than it shed. 

He wanted to take you in his arms, never let go, tell you where it hurt and hoped you would love him there in the same way you would when you were young, and when his heart didn’t fully understand the hefty price of being the unwanted orphan who dragged misery into the lives of everyone associated with him. He wanted the sandbox, the Andes mountains, Marley and Me, the first grade, the aromas of linen and lemon, and you all over again. But he knew, he never stopped wanting that.

“You don’t know that, ___! You don’t know anything so how dare you make claims like that about me when you don't know half the shit I’ve been through!” He was screaming, though not so much in the literal sense. The high pitch of his voice was him trying to talk over the secrets that he kept from you. It seemed like the only thing that would drown out the loneliness itching to be liberated was his hurtful words. It sent you into a rage

“Then tell me! Let me help you or be there for you! Stop running away. For once in your life stop running!”

“Why would I tell you of all people?” The true meaning behind this was unclear through his spiteful tone and sandpaper skin. The one person he wanted the best for, he wanted to protect, wasn’t the person to dump all his problems on. Not you. Not your kind eyes and soft, warm hands and skin. He couldn't drag you under the bus with him and make you solve the unsolvable. To put you through that, it would have been better to drive a dull sword right through your chest. 

You wanted to slap him or shake him. Shake the secrets out of him and place him right under the bright lights of the library. You wanted to reach into his chest and pump the slowly dying organ with your own hand so he could keep on breathing.

“I hate you, Hobi. I fucking hate you.” You said this and you said his name. The name owned by your tongue that carried too much sentiment to mean anything of hatred. Both his name and your hatred flew through the thick fog surrounding Hoseok, but only one of those two met with his skin and melted it off his bones completely. 

“I hate me too.”

He couldn’t let you, or anyone see him cry. So he ran, just like always. Hoseok walked out of the library, right into the dark halls, but it was him running again. Running far away from you just like he did over three years ago.

It seemed like he didn’t reveal nearly as much as Seokjin and Jimin had. Even Namjoon, with the few words he’d offered on his place in the grips of loneliness seemed to be loads more than Hoseok gave.

But to you, it was enough. To you, his silence and grim avoidance told you everything you needed to know about Hoseok.

Dry eyes, dignity, skin, the defensive masks once mounded over your faces were nowhere in sight of this library. Becoming emotionally undone and disarmed was nothing more than becoming honest with yourselves and others. It came just in time before those mighty walls broke down to leave you all sitting ducks to the much harsher grasps of your peers’ judgements

It felt like symbiosis. The mutual giving and receiving between those who had been pretending, but were worn out by the last few hours of detention. To give the skin that covers and protects and hides the things unwanted by most of society. The things often put to shame or denial or negligence and root loneliness deeper into one’s body. And to receive a mindful ear that cares and listens, empathetically, to the words locked away, as well as a place where these insecurities and inner torments can be put to rest through the form of words.

No longer were these secrets kept. There was no one to shun or misunderstand or commit the crime of breaking the bones of those who stand out to fit in the mold of what was considered acceptable or worthwhile. 

Four out of five coats unworn, laying in the center of your circle, safe and understood.

The question remained, if and when the fifth one would be shed?

Namjoon broke the tense silence.

“Are you going to go after him?” 

If it was your freshman year, you would have been racing out of those doors before Namjoon had to ask. The you of the past would have climbed over the Andes mountains, the you of elementary school would have swam across the vast oceans to drag him back into your life. The you of the past, the one that had only a sandbox and Hoseok, would have gotten to the door before he had and blocked any exit from this room. 

But you were not in the past, and Hoseok was already gone. Namjoon had to ask whether or not you would go after him and that meant there was a chance you had given up, for good this time. There was a chance you wouldn’t go after him.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.”

 Five years ago

For the better part of a year, Hoseok tumbled through life without any cadence for feelings and emotions. He was an adolescent boy, after all, and each week brought a new challenge to his plate that left little room to focus on the chaos of his life and guidance of his heartbeat. This week, he set his sights on getting you to race him on your scooters down the steepest hill in your neighborhood. 

Dusk was orange and warm, sending its hues along the streets and faces who were under it like an important message one must read with the utmost care. Hoseok liked this part of the day specifically because the end of the hour would take his tired body into your home to eat dinner with you and your mom. He saved that for later and for now, he and you were occupied with scraped knees and tired knuckles from gripping the handles of your scooters, and a hill rolling down so far it seemed like it would take a lifetime to reach the bottom of it.

“Come on! We’ve been practicing for hours! You can do it!” His scooter was edging to slip off the slope and down the hill in eagerness. Yours stationed a foot behind with your helmet strapped snug around your chin and a grip around the handles so tight, you left the divots of each finger on the rubber padding. 

“What if we die?” You looked at the back of his head soon turned to become his face as he peeled away his determined glare to a soft reassurance. Wheeling back to align the front of his scooter with the front of yours, he was left to subside to the beatings of his heart, fed by the sun placing itself on the crest of your helmet and the luminescent rays drizzling like a serene waterfall down your face and body. 

He never thought about beauty much, being that he was no older than thirteen years, but seeing you under the aging sun had put it at the forefront of his focus.

“If we die… then you’re mom’s gonna be mad. So, I won’t let that happen.” 

“Hobi!” You swung your arm that braised the bone of his shoulder not without a laugh at his rather playful response to your worries. 

“Trust me. We don’t die. And whoever gets to the bottom first wins.” Your laugh served as a catalyst that quickened the pace of his heart. Whatever it was trying to tell him in this moment, it was surely of sizable importance being that it sent waves of warmth through his cheeks and down to his legs. The challenge now hadn’t been the epic scootering down the hill but putting his heart aside long enough to last the rest of dusk.

“Wins what?” You asked with intrigue.

“I don’t know. A piggyback ride all the way home.” Tired legs and a heavy head convinced you this prize had been worth the risk of falling, akin to dying in your perspective. Your head turned to the hill, looming over the intersecting street at the base of it, notifying Hoseok that backing down was no longer an option.

“Alright. Ready, set, go!”

Opening your mouth didn’t come with the expected release of terrified screams but laughs of thrilled enjoyment. The wind was cut through by your body, now rocketing down the gradient that felt much less steep than it looked, and you commended Hoseok for convincing you to tackle this seemingly trifling challenge. 

“This is so fun!” Your yelp was lost in the rapid descent, but Hoseok, a few feet ahead of you, had been in range of your acclaim. 

It was then when the young adolescence in his brain was overtaken by the guidance of his heart. His own tired body became alive and light. When you said this, the joy in your voice made the decision for him to discreetly apply pressure to the metal brake of his scooter with his heel, to realize he couldn’t make you carry him home. 

Not because it was tiring for you, but he wanted to see the look on your face when you won. He needed that smile and the warm blanket of your eyes that would heal his aching muscles and tired body. And it was your open-mouthed smile and celebratory hops, along with the showering glints of sunlight and the end of dusk that turned his loss into an incredible win. His covert efforts to draw this joy from you came from a place none other than pure love.

“I won! Hobi, I won!” Without a second to spare, you ran and mounted his back with legs wrapped tight around his torso and your arms snug, but not quite choking, his neck. 

“Alright, fair is fair.” Though, it wasn't fair. Not in the slightest, and Hoseok made sure of that. 

The feeling of your soft, jaded breath against his neck was energizing, and every so often you would give his body a tight squeeze when he was struggling to trudge back up the hill, as if to thank him. And you were because you knew he let you win. You squeezed him in your arms, keeping firm to the memory of him and this triumph gifted to you. Though, it was not as great of a gift as Hoseok was to your life. 

“Thank you, Hobi.” Your soft whisper was followed by an even softer kiss on his cheek, damp from the sun and the hill and the piggy-back ride. Soft enough to communicate to him the gratitude in your heart, which translated and directly manifested into his lungs now fanned of all the burning once inflaming them; his face sporting quite a bashful smile too.

He was not tired, not when he was holding you because it felt more like you were holding him. Like you were always going to hold onto him.

The neatly lined houses had little to no variation. Individuality in this small, suburban town was like finding that needle in the haystack. To him, your house was that shiny little pin. Your house was a home, and he saw that through the partly uncurtained windows that gave him a view of the scene inside. Most of the time, you were already seated by the sill, waiting for him to arrive. 

You and Hoseok had arrived at the base of your driveway, staring up at the small incline that looked like it was taller than the Andes Mountains themselves to Hoseok.

“You know how I said we won't die?” You turned to his lightly blushed cheeks upon hearing this to see he was smiling. “Yeah, well, I think I’m going to die.” 

His pearly whites cemented with metal braces and strands of his unkept hair stuck in the sweat of his forehead were sightly. You began to laugh, looking at the goliath hill separating you and him from a home-cooked meal courtesy of your mom, then back at the odd, awkward boy who had yet to discover the wonders of deodorant and properly fitted clothing.

Hoseok wasn’t all too desirable in terms of the traditional realm of attractiveness. His arms were lanky, unable to place themselves naturally at his sides without looking uneven, and his posture did him no favors either. And you took in all five foot five of him, before he hit a spur of growth, and thought he was the loveliest little thirteen-year-old in your grade and in the whole world. 

“Come on, you know my mom won’t allow that. I got you, Hobi.” You weaved your hand through his, pulling with all the force your muscles could exert to haul him up the driveway. You made it to the top and your hand didn’t let go of him. Your mind was trying to deny the twists and turns of your stomach and the fast pumping of your heart any credence. 

When all else fails, you must listen to your heart.

Both you and Hoseok discovered in your very young, inexperienced lives that hills and driveways and scooters and all the other trivial barriers were no match to hearts. 

It was in first grade that he knew he was going to be your best friend. It was by eighth grade he knew he loved you. So much he’d carry you with bruised knees and broken arms to the ends of the earth. 

 2:00 - 4:00

Hoseok’s memories of you became sort of a mosaic. The little pieces of you were, singularly, a bit insignificant in the time they were being experienced. Often overlooked, and taken for granted, he couldn’t realize the beauty they captured until he stepped back. With distance, he saw the full picture, the ethereal mosaic had brought him a far and lonely appreciation for the past. 

All throughout the day, he didn’t want to look into your eyes like he did the day you convened with him in the parking lot where he was smoking. His fluency of your eyes had unraveled with time, leaving him feeling illiterate in the language of you and completely lost. When he felt lost, he wanted his heart to guide him again, but it would instruct him to return to you and replenish the deserted friendship. However, from what everyone told him, even Dickson, he wasn’t worth the effort. 

You had been staring at the door opened and closed by Hoseok, waiting to be opened and closed by you. As if there were a part of you deciding on letting him go, you tapped your hand against the table synchronically with the seconds ticking by on the clock. The door had eroded the rest of the library away, along with the three sets of eyes staring earnestly at you.

“So, are you gonna go or what? We have like two hours left and God knows whether he actually stayed on campus or not.” Seokjin sliced the wordless atmosphere with heavy hopes you would make any indication of your next move. 

“Seokjin, shut up! ___, don’t feel pressured to do anything.” This overlaid Jimin’s pounding urge to hoist you up himself and throw you into the wiles of the halls.

“What? ___ clearly wants to find him.” 

“Well, he clearly doesn’t want to be found. He’s such a child, honestly, I shouldn’t waste my time.” You knew you only said this to try and talk yourself out of the decision which had been established by your beating heart the minute Hoseok walked out. The obvious desire to follow him had been expressed through the discomfort you felt for tearing your eyes away from the door; you were guilty, above all else. 

Each tap of your hand could have been a prelude to your inevitable pursuit of the man who, in fact, did want to be found. It was effortful but insincere to attempt leveling the scale between the two options of chasing or letting go; the opportunity of Hoseok was a weightier one than the life without him, executed through repetitive, passionless motions. You were bored, repulsed by the way you had lived out each moment of your life just to wait for the next and the next until your life was over. 

“Come on, you know that’s not true.” Namjoon added, “We’ll cover for you if Dickson comes back. I really think you should go.”

“Yes, please. Go.” Seokjin placed his desires proudly once again. 

“In all honesty, I think you should go t-”

“Enough! I’ve already gone down that path. All I ever got from it was unheard voicemails and ignored texts.” You were still looking at the door, and still trying to talk yourself out of it - and still feeling guilty.

“Love is hard, I get it. But-” You didn’t let Namjoon finish his well-thought out life lesson that would have coerced you into going after him.

“What? I don’t love him.”

“Ooo, ___ and Hoseok? Fire and ice. Rain and sun. Winter and Sum-”

“Seokjin, don’t you have an essay to write?” You cut his words down as well, finding none of their entertainment in your inner psyche appropriate. They were placing themselves in your mind, but to them it wasn’t so much of a locked door than a door wide open with its secrets spilling out faster than the tick of the clock and the tap of your hand.

“Well, he clearly loves you. I don’t know him that well, but I can assure you he doesn’t get like that around just anyone.” Whatever ‘like that’ meant, you were annoyed that you knew exactly what Namjoon was implying. It didn’t stop you from perpetual, stubborn denial.

“He doesn’t love me.” 

“Oh… Are you being- Is ___…? Are- You’re stupid.” Seokjin’s words crumbled to near incoherency due to his complete astonishment for your lack of judgment. Perhaps if your belief that he didn’t love you was a genuine judgment, then his assessment would have been correct; you were being stupid.

“Well, fuck you too!”

“What he means to say,” Namjoon’s pause was to shoot Seokjin a disapproving glance, “is that it's really obvious you guys are into each other. I don’t know your history but there are definitely some unresolved feelings.”

“If you’re not gonna talk things out with him, at least tell him to come back so Dickson doesn’t get him into even more trouble.” Jimin’s addition only vegetated your inclination to find him again. 

It made sense. It was rational, reasonable, and therefore possible. You couldn’t let him get in trouble. You were just doing him that small favor. In your head, it caked over the real reason; to know he still cared or to see his eyes looking back at you, and figuring out what was the wedge that drove you and him apart. Maybe this would somehow re-cultivate the half of your heart still hanging by the thread that tethered you to him.

“I-” You stood up, walking towards the door that was about to be opened and closed, and looked back at the three boys now favoring much more satisfied and slightly smug looks on their faces, “Oh, shut up.”

Jimin held his hand, palm facing the ceiling, in front of Namjoon who greeted it with a victorious high five. Seokjin held his pencil up to signify you that he could now peacefully start his essay, to which you smiled warmly. You couldn’t thank them out loud, because you had nothing to ‘thank’, or so you thought.

You were just making sure Hoseok wouldn't get in trouble. That’s all it was. Then, you opened and closed the door and began the chase again. This time, however, the fog that once hurdled your vision was easy to sift through with the loud beats of your heart navigating you through the moors of the hallways.

You turned left, then stopped to ponder on turning back and going right instead. Hoseok didn’t make this easy and you wouldn’t have expected anything less from him. Eventually, you just let your body wander the many halls for about ten minutes before you decided on furthering your search to the roof of the main building. 

There was a new revenue of motivation that moved your legs forward. Before, they were struggling to keep up with everything life hurled at you. Now, it was far more determined and self-assured because you were moving towards a goal. You wanted to find him, and this time everything you had faced, all the loneliness, self-blame, forced smiles and friendships couldn’t keep up with you.

The stairs proved to be quite a test for your determination, and you passed with flying colors, heavy breaths, and inflamed hamstrings. You were lucky to push through the door and find him standing, staring off into the expanse of the fog. Towering over the haze had you realizing the entire school had been submerged, not just Hoseok and you and the library. Everything was under that sheet of blindness except for, as of now, you and Hoseok. The roof served as a platform to look upon the fog and stand safe from the numbing effect it debilitated on those in it. You knew he heard you. The perk of his ear as you ungracefully fell through the door to the open air told you he knew you were there. 

You stood a few feet behind him, and he offered only the view of his back facing you. There was a line to be crossed if you were to go towards him, place your hand on his shoulder, and ask him to face you. Whatever line that was, you knew it was Hoseok who set it and you wanted to know why.

“It’s cold out here.”

He said nothing, but did provide the tenuous gesture to turn his head, giving you a side profile of his face. In turn, wiring through your eyes was the stains of what could only be deduced as tears along his cheek. 

“Aren’t you cold? Let’s go back inside, Hobi.” 

Hoseok couldn’t look, doing so would only invite you to join him. It would plot his every desire along the pavement and undress how much he wanted to have and hold you. But you were no one’s, least of all his, to hold.

“Dickson could be back any minute.” Your footsteps towards him raised the clarity of your voice. You were doing a fine job at hiding the real reason you came up to get him, both from yourself and Hoseok. It pinched his weathered heart that you had just come up to warn him about Dickson. 

“Okay.” He answered curtly to bitter the atmosphere and showed no sign of leaving. 

“Well, I’m not leaving here until you get your ass down there, so, you’ll be getting me in trouble too.” You crossed the line which felt more like walking over a burned bridge, and placed yourself next to him with perfect access to see his face.

He was even more beautiful standing above the fog. 

You leaned your elbows next to his on the ledge of the building. His eyes, glistening from the tint of resisted tears, plowed over the treetops peeking through the top layers of mist. It was difficult to tell whether or not he was listening when his eyes were busy whispering secrets to everything in the far distance and the close proximities. To everything but you.

“Why?” Hoseok’s eyes were nudging towards the direction of you. He wanted so badly to look at you, to brave a glance but he was so cold out here that he had frozen over into ice. 

In this ice, he couldn’t move or even breathe for that matter. Looking at you and not being able to move towards you was an unnecessary torture of which he'd rather not look at you at all. So, he remained in his calcified state, eyes edging dangerously close to you.

“Why what?” Your eyes moved away from him, to the fog instead, trying to see the ground below. “You’re staying up here, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’m staying with you.” Hoseok was shocked that you said this with such decisiveness; it was difficult to decipher whether this proposition came as easily as it was said. The lonely glades of mist were entrenched by a new plurality, like a double-edged sword ready to cut through the veil of secrets. The more you would push through Hoseok’s skin, the more it penetrated your own.

“God! Why can’t you just leave?” He removed himself from the ledge, pacing over to the space in the middle of the roof. Thinking this would suffice the desperation for distance was a gross miscalculation. You too pulled away from the ledge that overlooked the foggy plains and placed your steps consecutively with his. 

“Don’t you see I clearly don’t want you here?” That lie tasted much more sour when spoken out loud.

“I don't! Okay? I really don’t. I don't understand… I- Why did you leave? What the fuck did I do?” Your voice had matched in elevation with your frustration; you were not referring to him leaving the library, but to his cold departure from your life over three years ago. And with that, was the unending pursuit of him. 

“___, you just have better places to be. So go! Stop staying with me. Jesus fucking Christ! Look at me!” His hands angrily emphasized his sharp features that would surely draw blood if you came too close. “You shouldn't be hanging around with someone like me.”

“Is that what this has been all about?” You stood paralyzed; your body was stunned from this all too underwhelming reason. You were hoping that this wasn’t it, there was surely a much more redeeming explanation for how he ripped your heart right out of your chest. The thought that this was the reason for the cut tie had cornered you in a fiery rage. It made you furious. “Are you fucking kidding me, Hobi? That’s what this is about?”

What better place to be than right here, with you? You knew he would not be generous in giving any further explanation, so this question remained in your head.

“Yeah, actually, it is.” A shiver riddled its way under his jacket. He turned towards you, finding that revealing the truth which cemented him into a miserable, solitary life was not as climactic as he expected. Nor did he expect it to be revealed in the first place.

But it was, unceremoniously, rolled onto the roof. He had nothing to hide anymore so he looked at you. Your eyes, that he could finally see since you were above the fog, were close to tears. Years and years of denial and repression compounding against your heavy heart now alleviated, but it was not the least bit rewarding. You thought he was absolutely delusional to believe the gesture that his abandonment was rooted in the effort to protect you, when all it did was hurt you.

“No I-” You swiped your hand against your cheek, though it was useless as tears soon replaced themselves on your face, “That’s so stupid. That’s- You think I care? I don’t give a fuck about what you look like or what you do, Hobi. Don’t you understand I-”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m not good.” His voice wavered through his throat, releasing more as a cry for help than an assertion of truth. 

“How could you say that?” You did him the favor of taking the strides towards him. The initiative fell to you and your body moved through instinct to close that distance Hoseok kept trying to re-establish. His body was weak up close; when there was no space or fog and the jacket draped over his body could no longer keep his skin collected along his bones, he was weak and it was far more relieving to see him vulnerable. 

“You were the best thing to ever happen to me. You were the only little first grader that wanted to be my friend and not just that. You showed me that someone could actually want to be my friend. You gave me so many years of happiness that would have been dreadful without you. I would have hated life without you. And I do! I hate life without you, Hobi. I’m so lonely.” You were unsure how you came to finally reveal every message your heart pumped through your veins and up to your brain for all these years, but you were glad it happened.

It wasn’t Hoseok’s lack of effort that kept all the good things he’s done under the rug of unimportance. It was the mounds of contempt the world held for kids like him. The stigma of abandonment and undesirability that was clamping down on any part of him brave enough to reach out, making it difficult for any feelings to be shown without irreparable harm or discouragement.

“You don't mean that.”

“I don't mean that. That’s it? That’s all you can say?”

It was, for the moment, all he could say. The feelings of unworthiness facilitated utter shame of himself like congruent figures now inseparable from each other and had molded a cage of confinement around Hoseok. His body was trapped under the scrutiny of everyone who expected him to fail, and one day he was afraid your eyes would join. That one day, you would look upon him with nothing of warmth, love, or admiration. Nothing of the eyes populated with blankets and storms and bountiful roses. 

“You’re so fucking persistent!”

“Why are you pushing me away?”

“Because!”

“Tell me why! You know I deserve it.” The conversation metered out with a lot less organization and structure, which was the result of many untouched feelings released between the two of you. The blizzarding words were combative and destructive as well as reparative and conjoining, but most of all it was grievously uncivilized.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Three years. Three fucking years, Hoseok. I’ve wasted three years of my life blaming myself for losing you. Blaming myself for being lonely. God! I'm so mad at you! I'm so mad at myself for still loving you!”

And there it was. The last stroke of courage slipping from your mouth into the words spoken through an unfiltered and unrestrained heart. It was beating fast right now as if it had been unmoving in your chest for the past three years. Finally beating again, you felt all the blood return to your limbs in waves of pricks along the expanse of your skin.

Hoseok was not ready to be cast into the shallow, yet inescapable oasis of your testament. The remoteness of the past three years had him crawling through an emotionless desert, purged of any source of water or food or nourishments to keep his thick-skinned body functioning. The moment he was presented with a bit of the revitalizing water, Hoseok, like many starving people, dove into it too much, too fast.

He felt the atrophied muscles in his legs gain traction to glide towards you. The force was a savage agent of his tightly packed emotions which erupted the moment you said you loved him. He loved you, he knew that now, and his body wouldn’t allow him a second longer to sit desolate and starved. 

Without stopping him, his lips planted roughly and passionately against yours. You were wrapping your arms around his neck before the logical sense of what was happening had been granted permission into your conscience.

Your heart, his heart, were guiding and deepening the kiss, only tangling you tighter into your dedication for him as much as it was twisting the confusion and unanswered questions into a larger, messier knot.

His tongue slid against your lower lip, assuming an entrance to slip himself into your mouth. Your jaw hung slightly agape and gluttonous at the way his lips spilled such tender movements against yours. His hands were running along your back fervently, holding your body firmly in place, like he was trying to keep his own body from disassembling. 

Your lips were moving messily against his, though unchoreographed, they moved with a near perfect synchronicity. Refinement had seceded to your hunger to taste him. His mouth was sweet and hot, gentle and forceful, loving and angry, and the light pinch of his teeth that took your bottom lip between them had you moaning lightly into his mouth.

Then, everything once expounding into inexistence flooded back into reality. You divorced yourself from him as every empty promise claimed their demands to be fulfilled. The push against his chest was strong and it had to be in order to dissect that long awaited act of closeness. 

“What the hell?”

A long interval of silence tormented the rooftop since Hoseok could only explain himself through guilty looks directed at the concrete floor. The surface upholding him was solid, of course, so it was strange that he suddenly felt like he was sinking into the ground below. His hand ran through his hair, trying to bring himself to words. To say anything or do anything other than take you in his arms and hold onto you so that his body wouldn’t sink beneath the roof’s malleable surface.

“I’m sorry.” And that was not good enough for you. Not when he kissed you like he loved you and didn’t let you fill three years with desperate, lost hopes.

“Sorry for what? For kissing me or for giving up on our friendship? Or for breaking my heart? Or for making me feel like I did something wrong or wasn’t enough for you? Or for making me think that everything built between us was just my imagination?” The list could have lengthened into an unplanned admittance of all the pain he caused you, however, it wasn’t the time for you to speak. 

It was his turn.

“I guess I was just…” Afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore, “I guess I just didn't see it that way.”

“Stop lying.” You said and could only hope he wouldn’t revert to his evasive and insincere responses. Your hand came to rise and press against his chest. There was nothing to testify what came over you in this moment, but you wanted to feel his chest and know his heart was still beating. That, like yours, it still sent life throughout his body with its consecutive pumps. It was. 

Ever so harshly pounding away at his rib cage as if it were trying to break free.

“I never… I never had anyone care.”

“And?”

“And I didn’t wanna drag you into my shit.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Your hand moved from his chest to his chin, holding it in place so he couldn’t get the chance to look anywhere but into your eyes.

“Don’t be stupid, ___. My life isn't exactly picture perfect. From the beginning, my parents didn’t even want me.” He felt like he was being held emotionally captive by the years of trauma he had endured. Of the cycle of abuse and repression that crushed his will to feel anything at all. He was trying to break free. Despite all these facets of struggle, he spoke gently to you and it made your heart bleed empathy for his pain.

“Listen, there’s always that kid that everyone knows is trouble. Everyone knows that they’ll end up in a bad place. You know what I mean... That was me. I was that kid. I didn’t wanna drag you in that shit with me. You think I wanted to push you away? I had no other choice!” To you, he did have another choice. He could have stayed with you, but of course, he had no idea. 

Hoseok looked at you so sadly, with eyes begging to be loved and a voice softened by his tender, bruised heart. He felt so isolated. The imminence of his downfall became prevalent ever since he began to pay attention to the judgmental whispers of teachers and parents on open house nights when he showed up parentless, or when he was the last one at extended day care when everyone else’s parents came to pick them up from school. Paying attention to detail was the wrench thrown into his life, unhinging the naivety, and drilling in its place the knowledge that society had ostracized him for being an orphan.

Maybe it was because you loved him so much, and it was blinding. You didn’t see much of the world outside of the lens of Hoseok, but you didn’t feel the need to see such a place. Your figment of him was always in a good light; you couldn’t fathom shedding darkness or disappointment or repulsion anywhere near him. So, when he said this, you were completely oblivious of that dehumanizing label many teachers, parents, and fellow students grouped him under.

“I don’t understand.” 

“Of course you don’t.” He jerked his head away with a scoff. Though to no avail, your hand still mounted onto his chin.

“No I mean,” Your head turned down, attempting to process this information into coherency, “I don’t understand how anyone could see you like that.”

“See, this is exactly why I can’t be around you. I’d ruin you! You see the best in me and that's the worst thing you could do.”

‘Ruin you’? You still didn’t know what that meant.

“Were people really that bothered that you were an orphan?”

He said nothing. He simply looked at you as if you had pointed out an observation so universally accepted that it went unneeded to be discussed. Like it was a given to cast someone like him off, or to repeat his worthlessness until it was purged from a tongue bored of belittlement and moved onto the next victim of verbal assault. He was simply one of the dominoes falling into place. Falling on top of each forgotten and neglected child.

“You wanna know what Dickson said to me?” He paused, not to wait for your permission but to prepare himself to recount the hurtful things still pronging against his open wounds, “He told me I’m unwanted. He told me that I was going to end up some loser not even worth considering a part of society. Basically, I’m damaged goods, ___, and you shouldn’t be hanging around me. You actually have a chance to make something out of yourself. Don’t waste that chance on me. I can’t let you do that.”

“You know that's not true.” Your hand moved to his cheek since he slipped too easily away from your grip of his chin. You held him in place, you held him with you.

“Why shouldn’t I believe it? ___, think about it. I am pathetic. My own parents didn’t even want me. And my foster parents told me I was just a financial asset. That my only worth was their monthly foster parent check.” 

It was crushingly difficult to hear such punishing words coming from Hoseok. That he not only had to endure the unfeigned demoralization of those who saw his worth to be instrumental but that he had come to believe them. He came to resent himself for a choice that was not his to be made but still suffered every waking day for it.

“And I guess I thought you were going to leave me behind like everyone else seemed to do. Like everyone eventually just wants to get rid of me.” 

“What?” The core pillar of your relationship with Hoseok relied on his permanence in your life, so hearing him fear what didn’t once cross your mind took you back as well as your hand. “Hobi, how could you think that?”

He shrugged distantly.

“Don’t. Don't you dare.” Almost out of nowhere, your soft cries were emulsified by the dryness of the air and turned into a heavy sob. But, it was not out of nowhere. It was from somewhere deeply upset that you let him think so lowly of himself all these years. That maybe, you hadn’t fulfilled your job as his best friend. “First of all, don’t you dare say that about yourself and second of all Dickson is a piece of shit.”

“___, please don’t cry.” He was urgent in his request. 

Not over me. Don’t waste your wilting petals of tears over my corpse.

“You thought I would leave you? You weren’t protecting me from whatever inferiority complex you’ve carried around your whole life. You were protecting yourself.” 

“It’s not like that.” He stepped towards you, trying to ignore the wince worthy pain when you dodged him as if he were a bullet. “___, I love you.”

You were astounded by the signals so contrasting of each other that they led you to a plight of hysterics. You had to let out a flustered chuckle at the way he told you he would be heading left then turned right when you were already walking on the opposite path.

“I love you.”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“I love you.”

“You have a fucking horrible way of showing it.” Your arms folded over your chest and he realized it was his turn to keep your gaze locked with his. To chase you and to be put in the position that he forced you into three years ago. “I can’t understand you.”

“I was weak. If your hands were covered in blood would you walk up to something good and clean and force your stains on it? Would you leave disgusting prints of yourself on something so pure just because you were the only person in my life that didn’t see me as just an orphan?” Hoseok drowned himself in his words, but obtained and kept a soft hold on your cheeks with his hands.

 He was unable to register how distorted his perception of himself was in your eyes, feeling as though everything he said drowned his lungs with waters that almost choked him from speaking at all. 

There was a borderless delusion which fraught the comparison Hoseok just explained. It fell close to thoughtless and hollow, the way he reduced you to some virginal, helpless and unattainable prize on a pedestal; he subjected you to some paradigm of pristine stature that wouldn’t have the good nature to be anything less than empathetic for him. Though, you were not the image of purity or unmarred of pain and suffering; he was the reason for that.

“I'm not some little innocent kid. I know bad shit happens, but I’d never let that change the way I see you.” Filling the vacancy of your heart wasn't all too touching. You were distraught, distrustful, of everything in this world that led Hoseok to such a destructive mindset. To ruin the sweetest boy and subject him to undeserved misery. “You’re not just an orphan. You will not let that define you, you hear me? You are you. You are Jung Hoseok. To me, you will always be Hobi.”

The most frustrating part of this was tied between the fact that no real blame could be placed on one contender and the difficulty of understanding someone’s story when it went untold for far too long. Perhaps you had been pretending his pain didn’t exist because it was easier to see him as a stone-like, uncaring heathen. It was easier to cover your deep grief for losing him with hatred, but it did nothing to solve the division between you two; at the end of the day, you were still lonely and you still needed him. Wasting three years away to bitter resentment was nothing compared to knowing the truth of it all but having no power in redirecting yourself to compassion rather than anger.

“I should have been honest. I was scared.” He said. “I just thought I could never be enough for you.”

The fog was fully cleared. Your eyes panned from the edge of the roof to Hoseok’s needful gaze and down his addicting lips. All this time, he was just as alone and just as afraid, existing no less than a car ride away from you and still light years from ever being able to garnish his defeat with an admittance that he needed someone.

What more was there to say? Hoseok could have droned on about the way his foster parents stripped him of innocence and tossed him into the frigid hands of self-reliance or how he felt himself sinking into failure when the world of no mercy pulled him by the ankle and dragged his thrashing body through life without the guidance of someone who knew what was best for him. He could have explained how every unmet expectation put him against the world, in constant competition with not just everyone else but himself. Fighting against his need to be cradled and cared for with his resistance to tenderness enacted to thicken the skin on his body so the weaponry of an orphaned life, unearned glares of contempt and disapproval, and predisposed low regards wouldn’t dig as deeply. 

He could have relayed all his nights lost to wondering why he wasn’t worth keeping. Why a child without the slightest clue how to dress, or bathe, or speak, or trust was turned away by the very people who brought him into this world and had to figure out all these lessons on his own.

It was the depletion of his own self-worth that drove him to loosen his grips, and how that was not of apathy but instead caring too much to let himself get in the way of your opportunely life. Letting you go was a loss that came with a painful imminence.

He said none of this because you looked at his eyes and he looked at yours. Through the clean air, the ripe and unhazed space among reuniting stares, he saw what your eyes carried. It was an ocean. A place of immeasurable depth and complexity, never still and constantly giving the sand something to shelter and love. A wide body of life and water that replenished the seared collection of bones under the parched skin of Hoseok’s flesh.

In loving you, in gazing into you, he let the water diffuse his skin until he was skinless, fully bone.

“I never stopped.” You redacted the fact that you were referring to loving him, because the unsaid implications were communicated much more beautifully and accurately than what the entire collection of the English language could attribute.

“Me neither.” Hoseok paused, dropping his hands from your face to his sides knowing with full confidence you and your gaze would remain with him, “I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?”

“I hate living. It's terrible. Everything about my life is terrible and I hate it.” His face turned wet quickly. Seeing this brought a natural desire to hold him again and to cast off his despair with your loving touch.

“Am I terrible?” You asked, hoping your words would serve as that gentle caress.

“No, how- Why would you say that?”

“Because I’m a part of your life. You might have gotten rid of me once, but I’m here to stay. Am I so terrible?”

“No. You’re wonderful.”

“Can you look at me and tell me I’m wrong when I say I need you in my life just as much as you need me?” The stagnant exchange of undeterred eyes was a comforting overture. A beginning that was not quite new, but a dormant adventure ready to be reborn into fruition.

“No.”

“So, I’m going to tell you. Hoseok, I need you in my life because I love you. Because no matter what people may say, you’ve brought nothing but love and happiness into my life.” The words, like a needle and thread woven into him, stitched the fabric of his heart back to fullness.  “Do you understand? I believe in you. I will be there for you. That’s what friends are for.”

“You’re my friend.” It constituted both a question and an irrefutable statement.

“Yours.”

“Mine.” He smiled softly, a gentle disparity against his tears.

“Life won’t be so terrible. I promise. If we have each other. If we have people who care, life is not so terrible. You have me, Hobi, you have someone who cares.”

There was no profound revelation with what you said. Nothing that was original or unordinary; it was quite common to be told you were cared about. One could refine your words to about three, maybe four, with the same tact. But that is exactly what made it original and unordinary to Hoseok. Countless people said the words ‘I care about you’, trillions of times and in hundreds of different ways and languages. It was said over and over again but Hoseok was never familiar with the comfort of being on the receiving end. To be cared about, and to be told he was cared about was quite revolutionary, and a completely profound rarity to him. And to him, these words were invented by your caring tongue; the first utterance that transformed the radical concept of care into something plausible. 

Sometimes, that’s all one needs. To be told they are cared for. Sometimes it’s enough to clean the bone of its wretched, heavy skin.

“What’s going to happen now?” You and he had migrated to look out to the fog ejecting itself among the trees and stretching all the way to the horizon. The trees were sitting so close together yet far enough for fog to slide between them. You wondered if the trees knew that they weren’t alone. 

“At this point, it's up to you.”

Once again, it wasn’t said. The beautiful things were expressed through silence because it somehow fertilized the sincerity with greater effect. Verbalizing them would have tainted what was kept clean and loving inside the warmth and safety of your hearts. You never knew to have such a connection with someone where the most important things that should be said aloud were somehow louder when they weren’t. Somehow, with the gentle brush of his arms against your sides as he was embracing you from behind, it was louder than words.

There was a stillness encompassing every piece of this moment. A stillness of the air, of time, of the two bodies placed above the fog. You and Hoseok were arrested from reality, lounging in the freedom of each other’s presence. The bright orange sun permeated through the grey clouds, reflecting specks of light along the faces of you and him. Seeing your skin once again carrying soft ornaments of the sun’s rays returned him to the only place he felt like he belonged: your heart. Being taken away from the chaos of life, Hoseok felt that this Saturday fell within the bounds of eternity.

“Are we going to be okay?”

“Together, we will be. We have each other.”

You took his hand in yours, fingers sliding together. His attention was stolen by you, or maybe it had belonged to you this whole time and was simply being returned to its rightful owner, still soaking in the sweet rays of the sun. He had no facetious, obtuse comment to tack along the tenderness of the roof. For once, he was vulnerable. It felt euphoric, like his heart truly began to pump life blood into his body.

“Okay.” He readied himself for the new world he was about to embark on, though this time, it was hand in hand with you.

“Ready?” You took a few steps back, towards the stairwell, your arm pulling Hoseok along, “I got you, Hobi.”

He nodded, no longer afraid of the dark halls. His narrative was not a singular venture. There was a partnership, a force of love perhaps, that pushed him to step forward. 

Hoseok once feared no one would get to his bones; to see the skeleton of himself underneath the epidermal armor. After many years and many layers of skin, no one had attempted much less succeeded in exposing his bones that yearned to be seen by the eyes of someone brave enough to face this quagmire.

And by chance, by timing's watchful eye, you had done just that. Lovingly exfoliated each layer of skin, washing away the scars and bruises of everything they had endured, and held his bones bare in your hands. Standing in the glimmering ocean waves of your eyes, feeling his bones, purified of all grief, against the air and conflated four years’ worth of the lonely, blinding fog once surrounding him. 

Standing in the sandbox once again of double occupancy. 

“I love you.” The words cascaded off his tongue with the same grace and earnest of what being in love felt like. Hoseok couldn’t do a lot of things and had quite a bit of trouble expressing himself for these past few years, but his love for you was something that couldn’t be anything less than accurate and sincere to do his heart a bit of justice. 

“You said that already.”

“Are you going to say it back or not?” He pulled you in by your waist, leaving you no other option than to oblige the requests he flew into the air.

“I love you, Hobi. I do. I love you.” Your hands lifted to his face, and his cheeks were warm. Though soft skin covering it, you could feel his bones. They were being caressed, loved, touched by your hands. 

He closed his eyes, trying to remember the last time he felt this at home when he wasn’t in your home of linens and lemons. His face shifted to the side to press his lips into your palm.

“I love you.” He said again, seeping into skin, printing the words into your bones. Hoseok had to repeat it, just to hear you say it once more, to make sure it was all real. That it wasn’t just him that was melting into the art of you, but the art of you touching him, coalescing with him.

“I love you.” Tears of his face were brushed by your thumb and they didn’t feel like the sad ones shed before. They were a sweet and gentle ode to everything he’d ever wanted since the moment he asked to play with you in the sandbox.

You were crying as well, holding him in your hands. Holding him. You could not see the fog, the only thing rapturing every sense was Hoseok. Your lips pressed lightly against his, feeling him smile into the kiss, and that drowned out the crisp, punishing air that pricked chills against your cheeks. 

Hoseok knew he was going to be okay.

 The two of you made your way back to the library, greeted with three suspenseful eyes, trained against the doorway partly from apprehension that Dickson would return and partly from hoping you and Hoseok would make a swift return. They, too, cared and wanted to see if Hoseok’s skin had finally shed.

“Heeeeey.” Seokjin drew out his coy greeting to tease you and Hoseok for the all too noticeable gesture of holding hands. Jimin and Namjoon were captured in the physical intimacy that you two casually displayed as well.

“You two took your sweet time, didn’t you?” Namjoon said to the pair of smiling faces now returning to the table behind Jimin without further explanation. He was implying the long absence of you and Hoseok was not delayed through a reprimand from Dickson but by your own insatiable desires for each other. 

“I found this idiot on the roof. Took me a bit to convince him to come back down here, but I did it.” You turned over to Hoseok who was investing his efforts in rearranging himself back into an outwardly tough manner.

“Oh, I bet you had to do a lot of convincing, huh ___.” Seokjin’s comment was met with a light slap against his shoulder by your hand for his lewd teasing, and the way his fingers imitated quotation marks when he said the word ‘convincing’.

“Hey! I actually had to convince him. This man is very, very stubborn.”

“Yeah, ___ wouldn’t leave me alone so I didn’t have much of a choice.” He stared at his hand once being held in yours, trying to shovel over the smile simmering on his lips. Jimin shifted to face you and Hoseok, eyes squinting to slits from reading the overwhelmingly happy expressions on your faces.

“So, Dickson came back.” Jimin said, smiling widely.

“Oh shit. What did he say?”

“We all pretended that we could see you and he was the only one that couldn’t see you guys. It was hilarious, you should have seen his face.” Seokjin intervened with his own account of the story. Jimin turned to him and burst out laughing harder than when Dickson walked like a defeated soldier out of the library.

“He was like, ‘You kids need to learn respect. You mess with the bull, you get the horns’ whatever that means. But he didn’t even end up doing anything because he knew we wouldn’t snitch. But, damn, you should have seen his face.” Jimin’s hand covered his mouth during the process of him laughing and wedging in pieces of the story in between. 

“That sounds like the dumbest cover up ever, but I guess Dickson is somehow dumber than that.” The count of five smiles amounted to each of you hunching over with laughter at the vice principal’s idle reactions to the detentionees displaying a clear sign of insubordination. 

“He is. He really is that dumb.” Namjoon said during a pause from whatever he was drawing.

“Well, either way, I appreciate the effort. And Hobi does too, even though he won’t admit it.” His stubborn disavowal of expressing appreciation contrived through rolled eyes that then landed onto the four others accompanying his space. Though shadowed through his many apathetic modes of emoting, he found this Saturday detention not only bearable, but enjoyable. He found himself attached to other people after severing all ties from actual intimacy. Being connected and vulnerable was an easier way of going about his life. And, he didn’t realize it then, but he planned on keeping it that way. 

“Hey guys?” Seokjin tossed aside the Dickson debacle with this conversational prelude, “What’s gonna happen when we go back out there?”

“What do you mean?” You asked, absentmindedly reaching over to grab Hoseok’s hand at the mention of leaving the safe space of the library. He responded to you with a gentle, reassuring squeeze that eased the contraction of your worried muscles.

“We’re still gonna be friends, right?” The prospect fell into consideration as the five of you were moved to silence. After a few exchanges of ambivalent and uncertain glances, Namjoon worked in a soft smile to soothe the frightful thought of returning to the harsh reality. 

“Yeah. We are.” His confirmation spoke for the rest of your benevolent agreement. 

“Well, I better see you guys at all of my games.” Jimin set this expectation as a receival of the newly polished friendships, grooming quite a bit of fondness being that the four of you knew more about Jimin than his own parents. “And, we’ll be sure to go to Namjoon’s.... Art competitions?”

“Not quite, but I appreciate the thought.” Namjoon laughed. 

The commonalities that were once so obscured between you all had become clear by the arrival of the eighth hour. Though there were many obstacles placed to stint any form of connection between five polar adversaries, you all found a salve from the relentless feeling of loneliness through each other. Your essays were never written, finding Dickson’s call for another Saturday detention of probable cause. Even if you were to write an essay on what you did wrong and why it was wrong as well as why you were sorry, there would be no truth unveiled in it. You all found that living unapologetically had been a far more effective catalyst for growth and maturation than any half-hearted essay assigned by a man with no credentials to call himself a student administrator.  

There was that phrase, "down to the bone", that had hung over Hoseok's mind for quite a bit today. Some say it implies when you've spent all you had, and are left with the poverty of dry marrow. That, to him, was a mutilation of the phrase which he couldn't accept.

This colloquial, "down to the bone", could not be a reference to having nothing left. Not in his case at least. Not when he felt so full of safety with nothing but his bones under the home of your eyes and hands

Hoseok looked at you, then to the other three and knew things would be different. Eventually, things would get better, he just had to wait long enough for those better things to come.

You found each other, and that was all that mattered.

 A week later, you met up in the campus’ cafe with Jimin, Namjoon, Seokjin, and Hoseok discussing the rather insignificant topic of which contestant was going to be eliminated from the reality television show you had all been keeping up with. 

“Hey, did you guys ever actually write that essay Dickson told us to write?” Seokjin asked, knowing he had failed to do so.

“Nope.” Jimin said unregretfully, almost with a prideful twist.

“Of course not.” You replied.

“Well, I might have written something on behalf of all of us. It wasn’t an essay per say, more like a letter to Dickson.” Namjoon said smugly into the cup of his coffee.

“What? What did you write?” Jimin put forth the curiosity shared by the four of you.

“Oh nothing too special.” But, of course, if it was anything of Namjoon’s doing, it was something entirely special.

You decided not to further pry on the specifics of what was written, rather sipping your coffee and learning not to regret how the hot liquid burned your tongue. Those eight hours spent in the library gifted you with a wider perspective. Maybe you burned your tongue on this coffee, and tomorrow you might miss the bus to work. Or, sometime in the near future, there would be a new store in the mall that lured you away from the errands set to a schedule and you would have to rush back to work a few minutes late. You learned that these small misdirections in life happen, at the exact right time and the exact right place.

The grateful receive of every moment, deliberate or erroneous, was like a single grain of sand. One grain might pinch out some annoyance. Ten was too textured to ignore. Dozens and thousands padded down as a sandbox where two childhood friends could play. And millions of grains of sand, of gratefully received moments, cultivated a soft shoreline; a place where the deep blue tides had a comfortable bed to tumble onto when it was tired from the tempestuous ocean. Where the contents of the ocean could spill along the wet sand, and it would humbly the tired water’s offerings. A place where a mass of misty, opaque air could roll in, cover every inch of the ocean and would blind the eyes. 

But, never the heart. 

The hearts, joined since the first grade, were free of scars because of the plethora of love that continued to flourish even in your absence. Love always keeps the heart safe.

Timing was a fickle arbiter, always tearing you from one thing to the next and the next and the next, but somehow leading you to exactly where you were meant to be. It has a way about itself, inevitably delivering you into the lives of those you were meant to be with. 

With Jimin, with Namjoon, with Seokjin.

And once again with Hoseok.

-----

a/n: thank you so much for plowing through this long, angsty one shot! i am so happy to finally release this and hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed creating it. as always, i would love to hear feedback from you lovely readers! 

[suntrastar]

abstract: chapter 2

chapter 1!!  chapter 3!! you can also find this fic on ao3 :)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Artist!Reader

Summary: Wait- Bucky Barnes attends your art class? And you didn’t even recognize him?

Word Count: 7500 exactly. i am so lame.

Author’s note: hello!! when i was uploading ch 1 on here it never once crossed my mind that i should probably add ch 2 as well ... but oh well! it’s here now. hope u all like it. reblogs and likes and whatever else are very much appreciated. also i forgot to say last time- i paint a little but i am NOT a professional artist! i’m making all of this up as i go! if i’m wrong with something do NOT tell me. shh. but ok now enjoy!!

A blank canvas stands before you, as big as your torso and propped up on an easel. White, unmarked, clean- pristine and teeming with potential.

You hate it.

In your lap sits your sketchbook. Pages upon pages of rough, half-baked ideas, each more mediocre than the last. You thought that maybe you could churn something decent out if you came to your studio, soaked in enough of the atmosphere to coax out some sort of productivity.

Well, you were wrong. It’s the opposite- the empty canvas is slowing your thoughts down, muddling them together, disorienting you.

You stare at it for the better part of an hour, white searing into your vision, shoulders sagging with each passing minute.

There’s something there. You have something, a rough chunk of an idea in the back of your mind that could be great, but you can’t figure out what it is. And it’s not something you can just google- you can’t search up how to think a thought you haven’t had yet- so you sit on your own, unproductivity festering, oozing out like the orange from the skylights.

You’re not doing too well. The sun sets before it’s five, it’s Monday, you have a fifth adult class to teach, yesterday you only got to a third of your chores. It sucks- you should be better than this! Put-together, neat, confident, creative, actually able to do something.

You wallow freely, feeling no satisfaction when you reach forward and push the side of the canvas with one finger, tipping it off the easel and sending it clattering to the floor.

The warmth of the sun burns into your back. You don’t like wasting time like this, never have. Maybe you needed to, though, to help get you back on track.

You heave out a sigh and crack too many joints as you stand up, folding up your easel, picking up the dreaded canvas, shoving your sketchbook into your purse. The drawing pencils you set out on the table are neatly lined back up into their metal tin, the kneadable eraser kneaded for a few frustrating seconds before it’s put back as well.

You zip your coat all the way up to your chin. It’s still freezing outside, and the walk from your studio to the subway, from the subway to the other studio, is always a cold one.

***

At least you can move on from the watercolors.

Oil pastels! Still not a very desirable medium, but for today, you’ll take it. At least it’s saturated, at least you don’t have to worry about the whole thing coming apart with a spare drop of water. The way it stains your fingers and blends unpredictably is kind of charming, too.

You run through your demonstrations. You gesture to where the paper is located. You make a few suggestions for what people could draw: trees, landscapes, birds. Then you remember a box of handheld mirrors the studio owner keeps in one of the storage closets, and run over to get it.

“You can use them for self portraits,” you say, and then a particular man in the back scowls, and then you add that it’s optional.

But Steve takes two mirrors.

You don’t have time to analyze all of that. You walk around, offer a few words of advice. Shonna lays the preliminary sketch for a heron, and you’ve never seen grey and yellow look so nice together. Your favorite couple, Marcie and Ahmed, draw each other, but neither of them can draw. They laugh at themselves as they misshape each other’s noses, miscalculate the distance between each other’s eyes.

It’s cute. You stop at them and laugh a little, before continuing your round to the back of the room, to Steve and Bucky.

“Everything working out okay?” You say, while Steve frowns into a mirror.

“I feel kind of stuck-up doing this,” Steve says, and brings the mirror even closer to his face, right up to his eyes.

You laugh a little. “Don’t worry,” you say, and peer down at his sketch, which is already looking uncannily like him. “It looks just like you! You even got the nose right.”

Steve nods, still bothered by the apparent narcissism of this activity. He pulls a peach pastel from the set. “I guess,” he says, unconvinced, and streaks the pastel over the side of his drawn face, and you quietly marvel over how well he understands shadow. “Are you okay?”

The question catches you off guard.

“What?”

Steve sets his mirror down.

Next to him, Bucky glowers at you, like he wasn’t smiling at your bad jokes in the cafe, like, two days ago. He’s so vehement- you’re starting to think that you dreamt up the entire encounter.

“You look kind of stressed,” Steve says, and then winces. “Sorry. I didn't mean it like that.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, and hesitate for a second, before thinking what the hell, and deciding to just let it out. “I am stressed. I’m so stressed- Steve, I’m, like, this close to losing it.”

Steve’s eyebrows knit together. “What’s wrong?”

He’s so sincere. Always so nice, and you don't even care that Bucky’s glare deepens when you pull out the seat and sit down in it, because you are dying to tell someone.

“I have this show in the summer,” you say, and clench your hands, because just the thought of the show makes you want to wring your own neck, “but I still have no idea what to do. I mean, I do, but it’s like, I have point A and point B, but I don’t have the line connecting it. Does that make sense?”

“What are the points?” Steve asks, and takes up the mirror again, to analyze the lower portion of his face.

“Okay,” you say, and lean back in your seat, and maybe it’s a little unprofessional, but you’re cool enough that it really isn’t, “Point A is that I want everything to be busy. Lots of patterns and fabric and plants. Like, I don’t want there to be any resting space for your eyes, because that’s boring. And point B is that I want to use people- and this is where the problem comes in, because I don’t know what people to use.”

You’re talking kind of fast, but Steve seems to still be understanding what you’re saying.  “Why not?”

“Because I want it to be personal. For my previous stuff, I would just post ads on Instagram whenever I needed models, and take pictures of random people and paint them. But I don’t want to do that again, but I don’t know what I want to do. I want people to look at the people and say ‘wow, that’s personal,’ but I don't want them to be able to tell how personal it is. Like, personal at an arm’s length.

Steve stares at you like you have definitely lost it.

You pointedly don’t look at Bucky.

Then he reconsiders, and gives you a supportive little smile, and you can feel your stomach sinking further and further down.

“I don’t fully understand that,” he says, and reaches not for the orange or red pastel, but the pale blue one. “But I’m sure you’ll get it. Just give it some time.”

You watch him outline his chin, the left side of his nose, little strokes of his eyebrows. Blue and leaving little smears and flakes of color, and creating this swirling pattern with one of the streaks of peach, like ocean and sand upon each other, so pretty and bold.

“Thanks, Steve,” you say, and he grins into his mirror, still adding blue. It looks amazing. “Also, would you ever consider switching careers? The art world is missing out on you.”

He blushes.

“Use people you know.”

You and Steve turn fast to look at Bucky, still glaring. His red oil pastel, held tight in his gloved hand, looks ready to snap.

At least you’re sitting diagonally from him, instead of directly across. At least you don’t back down from looking him in the eye.

“For what?” you say, like you aren’t following, even though you are- you just have a feeling that he won’t tell you what he’s thinking unless you ask for it.

“For your painting thing,” he says. “Because it’s personal. To you.”

You stare at him like he’s crazy for a second or two, and he looks into his own mirror, set flat on the tabletop, without peering at his face. You glance over at his paper, at half a page full of perfectly identical red boxes, and realize that he’s drawing the ceiling panels.

Okay- lame.

But also, like, funny.

Then it starts to click.

“Wait,” you say, and you feel bashful, because he’s been listening to you this whole time, and in his silence he must have been thinking of you, and the thought of that is just too satisfying for you to let go of. He’s been thinking of you.

Or maybe he just wants you to leave.

“That works,” you say, and then you suddenly have the connecting line. “That works perfectly. It’s, like, not personal, but…”

“Familiar,” Bucky says, and you are half a red box away from leaning over the table and throwing yourself into his arms.

That’s exactly it.

“Thank you,” you say, and your brain is running a mile a minute, and he’s just staring at you. “Thank you so much. That’s exactly it, oh my god.”

You don’t even realize how far you’ve leaned over, hands balanced on the table, craning your head towards him. And you don’t even care- pieces are shifting and everything makes sense, and the weather outside isn’t cold, it’s beautiful! And this class is wonderful. Bucky himself is wonderful.

You float through the rest of the class. The clarity of your thoughts is jarring, the way you understand what you’re trying to do now. Flowers, fabric, and then you have an idea with a pair of earrings. You ache for a pen and sheet of paper to write it all down, but if you started doing it now, you don’t think you would be able to get up once the class ends.

Once, you smile at Bucky. He doesn’t return it- and you’re too in over your head to care.

***

He’s not genuinely interested.

This is a precaution. Bucky takes lots of precautions- he sleeps with weapons at his bedside, goes out with knives strapped to his body, always sweeps unfamiliar rooms before sitting, doesn’t tell anyone anything. This is just another thing thrown on top of his already exhausted routine, necessary to his safety and sanity and-

To his basic peace of mind.

He’s not a very good typer, so he asks JARVIS to look it all up instead, and transfer it to his overpriced, Stark-issued laptop.

There’s relief in that action itself- he tells JARVIS the wrong name twice, because that’s how personally disinterested he is. So disinterested that even something as simple as a name eludes him.

He doesn’t care.

The information gets transferred to his laptop. Bucky takes his time, carefully scanning the screen, preparing to tuck away anything concerning, for future reference.

There is a lot of information.

Articles- too many articles. Editorials, interviews, reviews. And pictures, and even videos, and he wonders if Steve ever brought this up to him, this level of renown that apparently you possess, and Bucky just wasn’t paying attention. But no, that couldn’t have been true- he’s been genetically enhanced to always be paying attention.

He’s a slow reader, and whenever the fonts are too small it gives him a headache, so rather than reading an article, he goes to the pictures tab.

Your art shows up first. He clicks on the picture to enlarge it, and it takes a long while for him to fully comprehend what he’s seeing.

A woman dancing with a cow in the background, a woman with butterflies on her eyelashes. Two men wearing crowns of pearls, but when he zooms in closer, they’re birds. A figure in a dress, wearing sleeves that resemble fish, with a halo of koi fish circling her head. Everything has to do with animals, and there’s so much movement, and he doesn’t like art, but he does have to admit that it’s all so pretty.

And there’s lots of yellow.

And as he scrolls further down, there’s pictures of you. In some, you stand with people who look ridiculously pretentious, with weird hair and odd clothes and thick-framed glasses. Other artists, he guesses, who have to let everyone know that they’re artists before they even open their mouths.

Then there’s pictures of just yourself. You, unsmiling next to a half-finished canvas, in the middle of twirling a paintbrush between your fingers. You, unsmiling in a white-walled photography studio. You, smiling while wearing a ridiculous sequined dress, which confuses him until he reads the description, and learns that the dress itself is an art installation.

It makes his head hurt.

He looks some more, even though he’s not really learning anything. Or maybe he is learning, just nothing concerning like he was hoping for. Something that would justify this search in the first place, but all he’s found is that you have pretentious colleagues and wear ridiculous dresses and deserve Steve’s admiration the way you’ve been receiving it.

Eventually, he coaxes himself into clicking a link. An article with a big publication, too big for just an art instructor- but you’re not just an art instructor. you’re, like, good. The article is an interview, which could have just been recorded and uploaded, but for some reason, it was transcribed and written in article format anyway.

The twenty-first century is stupid like that.

When it was written, you had just had your first solo exhibition, and it was more successful than anybody ever anticipated. The interview is meant to be a little off-the-wall, charmingly eccentric, asking about favorite foods and then your future aspirations in the same sequence, and then debating different colors and some political situation within the same question.

Bucky stumbles through a paragraph or two, not really comprehending anything but getting the gist, and his head hurts more, but he’s blissfully relieved of it all when Steve barges into his room without knocking.

He shuts his laptop screen so hard that the screen nearly cracks.

“Woah,” Steve says, and puts a hand up, but doesn’t take any steps back. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Bucky says, and stares at the laptop with fury, as if he’ll be able to close the tab that was still open through telekinesis alone.

“O-kay,” Steve says, totally unconvinced. He hoists the bag on his shoulder- his gear bag, with his supplies. He’s headed out for an indefinite period of time, anywhere between three days and two weeks. In the bag is his suit, in its patriotic spandex glory, his other supplies, bandages and a gun and a sketchbook.

To pass the time, if he gets bored on the flight.

“Are you leaving now?” Bucky asks.

Steve nods his head. “Yeah. Just came to say bye.”

“You mean see you later,” Bucky corrects, because those two things mean different things, and the difference is enough to matter to him.

“See you later,” Steve says, and he shifts, one massive wall of muscle leaning from one foot to the other. He’s uncertain of something- like Bucky can’t handle himself on his own.

He can handle himself.

Bucky lifts one silver hand and waves.

***

He doesn’t need to go.

Steve hasn’t returned, still somewhere in South America, away on a mission. It’s not like anyone is going to check, either, if he attends or not. It’s not like this is required, like he has some sort of moral or contractual obligation to show up.

Still, it’s become part of his routine, and deviating from routine makes his skin itch. As Monday strikes again, he slides into his seat in the art studio. At least he’s not too early; he doesn't know how he would be able to handle any pre-class conversation without Steve being there to do the actual conversating.

You start right on time. Always so prompt.

“We’re going to be working with oil pastels again,” you say, and make a big gesture with your hands. You wear chunky gold earrings that wink under the lights. “But I’m going to let you do whatever you want. Draw whatever. I’ve got out a few different types of paper, and some different tools for creating textures- I’ll show you all how to use them really quick.”

You scrape a sheet of paper hastily colored purple with something that looks like a plastic knife. Then you use something that looks like a plastic-toothed comb, and then some other pointy plastic objects to make lines and whirls on the paper. Texture. He watches the paper, some, but mostly you.

You look over at him two times. No more than you do at anyone else, but he still notices- as a precaution.

“Okay, I'm done. You all can get to work,” you say, and set the purple sheet down on your own table, at the front. “Have fun. Get crazy with it.”

Bucky looks down at the paper he’s set on the table, yellow-white and slightly textured. He looks at the oil pastels, sitting so dejectedly in their little cardboard dish, a product of low budget and disuse.

He takes the yellow one.

You come over to his table some time later, after getting to everyone else. He’s always last, he’s noticed- because he sits at the back, and because you like to take your time talking with Steve. But Steve isn’t here today, which means you won’t linger, which means he can continue on sitting in peace.

“How’s it going?” You ask. One of your hands comes to rest on top of the chair across from him.

“Your shoe is untied.”

Your smile falters as you look down, at your red sneaker- you wear hot red sneakers- but reaffirms itself a second later as you slide the chair out, and prop your foot up on it.

Bucky suddenly feels off. Your knee rests slightly above his head, and your head is tucked down but still looming high over him, cast in shadow. He’s beneath- under. And you’re double-knotting the laces of your shoe.

“Thanks,” you say, and it’s awkward to thank someone for something so little, but you don’t say it like it’s awkward. “I probably would’ve tripped on the laces. Anyways, again, how’s it going?”

He considers the question. “Fine.”

“Fine,” you repeat. You take your foot off the chair and tuck it back in, and then lean- loom even more- over him, looking over at his piece of paper.

He glares at you, even though you’re not looking at him.

“Wow,” you say, and your eyebrows are creasing, and he thinks that you’re struggling to come up with something to say, and after seeing those paintings online, he can’t even take offense at it. “Those lines are so… straight. How are they so straight?”

Because his metal hand has an internal stabilizer.

“They just are,” he says.

You look at him. Everything suddenly feels stuttered and slow, drenched in honey. He’s expecting some type of joke, and praying for the ground to open and swallow him up, bury him under six feet of tile. Has silence always been this unbearable?

“Awesome,” you say.

Then you look away and he’s able to breathe again, and you’re turning away, ready to flounce back over to someone else. He looks back down at his paper and picks up the pastel again, fingers pressing over the paper wrapper, so that he doesn’t get anything on his glove. He draws another straight line.

“Wait, one more thing.”

You turn around and his head snaps up, fully alarmed.

You take in his expression and look like you’re about to laugh. But you stifle it back, bite on your lip as you pull the chair back out again and sit down, across from him. Steve isn’t even here- Steve isn’t even your motivation for being here, today, and all he’s thinking about is you in that ridiculous art installation of a dress.

Floor-length. V-neck.

“So,” you say, and Bucky can’t look at you. In his peripheral vision he sees you curl your hands together, resting on top of the table. The glass on the watch flashes. “So, you know the idea that you gave me last week? With painting people I know? I started this painting of my mom- and all of these ideas in my head make sense to me now- wait. Let me show you, first.”

He keeps his eyes dutifully trained on his paper. Still, he can hear the smile in your voice as you pull your phone out of your back pocket, tapping away at something before turning the screen around for him to see.

Your arm is stretched all the way across the table. Bucky leans in a little bit, to see the picture you’ve pulled up.

A partially painted image of a woman that looks like you but not you, with almost the same face as you, but with hands mottled with age and a mouth starting to droop at the corners. Your mom, apparently, sitting with her hands clasped the way you’re clasping yours. She wears earrings that look like huge flowers, lilies, or something, and in a white dress that looks halfway like a swirled illusion.

“Nice,” he says, grudgingly, and you keep your hand outstretched. He wonders if you want him to take the phone from you, if you’re waiting for him to say more. “I like the dress.”

You beam at him. He’s been looking at you without realizing. “Thank you. I actually got the idea or the pattern from Steve- I’m just stealing ideas, aren’t I- but did you see the thing he did with his self-portrait last week? The swirls? It was so pretty- I couldn’t help myself. Anyways, where is he today?”

“Out of town.”

Dread curls at the pit of his stomach.

Bucky doesn’t know why, but he has the heavy, stone-cold realization that he does not want to be talking about Steve right now.

It must show, because you’re in the middle of opening your mouth to say something, and then abruptly close it.

“Oh,” you say, and you shift. He realizes that he doesn’t want you to leave yet, either. “Nice.”

You’re getting out of your seat. You must be feeling it too, the heaviness, the atmosphere so overwrought with polite dislike, because he still doesn’t like you, even though he knows your name now, but-

“What’s your next painting going to be?” he asks, so quickly that it comes off as a little frantic.

Your eyes widen and you’re carried back down, drifting back into your seat.

“I’m so glad you asked that,” you say, as you settle in. For a second, you’re frighteningly put together, shoulders straight, hands neatly folded, earrings glinting. “I’ve been wanting to tell someone about it so bad.”

You want your next painting to be of your dad. A portrait of just his face, close enough to add little, inconsequential details. You have this idea where you create patterns that look like flowers out of his wrinkles. He has teeth that are always yellow, because he drinks so much coffee, you say, a habit you’ve picked up, but you want to paint them almost neon, bring as much attention to it as you can. His hair is thinning and you want to make it all blue, like a receding tide.

It devolves, and his grip on the pastel loosens as you fall into something more and more jumbled, divulging other ideas you have, about things that aren’t directly related. You want to go big- much larger than life. A canvas as big as your body, just to paint a head. You make your own canvases, too, and you show him your palms, skin beneath your fingers raised and bumpy, with a ropy pink scar on your right hand. It’s from an incident with a saw, you say, even though you know your way around a saw. He almost wants to touch it.

Bucky thinks of his own right hand, with as many scars as it has lines. What does that mean, in terms of fate? He knows his way around a saw, too, and many other bigger, dangerous things, but you don’t know or don’t care about it. It devolves further, you sink lower in your seat, shoulders curving forward, and you’re telling him something else about nothing, and you aren’t minding that he’s mostly focused on just listening.

*

You’re laughing when someone behind you clears their throat.

You turn back, to see Shonna, looking uncomfortable as she fiddles with the strap of her purse.

“I’ve got to go,” she says, and, for whatever reason, gives you a look. “I finished my drawing, so I’m taking it with me. See you next week.”

“Have a good night!” You say, and cast a spare glance at your watch, to see how early she’s leaving.

She’s not leaving early.

You’re running nearly twelve minutes over.

“Oh my god,” you say, quietly, and pull away from Bucky. You have to pull this back together, quickly, you stand up and clear your throat.

“Hey, everybody,” you say, and so many people older than you turn to look at you, but the situation you’ve put yourself in doesn’t let you appreciate the thrill of it. “I wasn’t paying attention- we’re running past time. You all can go ahead and head out. I’ll clean up today. I’m sorry.”

Bucky is ignored, and it’s funny how quickly you’re able to slip away from him, him and unrelenting blue eyes and a stoic silence to bounce all of your thoughts off of. You keep your back to him and head back to the front of the room, standing and exchanging pleasantries as everyone heads out, apologizing with smiles and chastising yourself for being so careless.

Nobody berates you, though. You keep on expecting them to. There’s a sudden, sharp pain in the back of your neck. They all leave, and then it’s just you, standing by the entrance and staring at all the tables you have to clean, all the unfinished art projects you have to slide on the art racks, alongside the sticky poster-painted houses and clouds and corner-suns drawn by the kids in your Wednesday and Thursday classes.

All by yourself.

Or not.

Bucky lingers, putting his pastels back in the tray. He’s so silent that you missed him the first time, even though he was standing right there. Isn’t he some type of spy?

“Bucky, I got it,” you call. Without anyone in the room, it's like everything you just said to him didn’t happen. There’s no buffer and it’s just you and just him, and it's so empty. “You don’t have to clean up.”

Something in his gorgeous face shifts. You wish he was a little more expressive. His eyes hang dark underneath the brim of his dorky hat.

“I can help you,” he says, and adds, after an impossibly long second of hesitation, “I’ll make sure you don’t break any jars.”

You laugh out loud, but you’re confused. First listening to you talk on and on, now offering to help you and trying to make a joke- he doesn’t like you enough to be doing any of it. 

You know you like him, or at least find him intriguing enough to disregard his douchiness, but, like, still. Something’s off.

But then again, how do you deny him after that joke?

“Thank you,” you say, so formally, and you want to grimace. “That’s really nice of you.”

He blinks slowly, and you think that he’s going to smile, catch a ghost of it in his eyes.

It vanishes too fast, as he slides the cover back on the tray of sad oil pastels. You’re about to make some cynical comment about the lack of funding for the arts, just so there’s something to occupy all this new space between you and him, so you don’t accidentally lessen the space by doing something dumb, like moving closer to him.

“Where do I put these?” He asks, holding the sad tray up.

***

Steve returns for the seventh Monday class! You’re so happy when he walks in through the doors, abandoning your stacks of paper and speed-walking toward with a smile and a bouquet of paintbrushes.

“Hey, Steve!” you say, and he spooks, a little, but relaxes when he sees it’s you. No Rina today- she’s been leaving early lately. Maybe there’s some residual fear in her, just from that stare she was subjected to, all those weeks ago. “It’s good to see you.”

You get those stares every week, multiple times an hour, are getting one right this second- she needs to get over it.

He smiles and comes further into the classroom, meeting you over one of the tables. “It’s good to see you, too. Sorry I missed class last week.”

You wave him off. “Don’t worry about it. Here, take these for a second.”

In his massive hands, the paintbrushes look silly. Like dandelion stems, but it’s Steve, so he holds them gingerly, at a distance, like the wood might snap if he applies even the tiniest bit of pressure.

It’s not a good thought that you have next- it’s a deplorable thought- but you wonder if all super-soldiers have hands like that.

Behind Steve, there’s Bucky, standing in his usual black ensemble and glower. You know, now, that if you asked him to help, he would, but your mouth suddenly goes gummy and you trail off to the shelves instead, talking yourself up as you try to find a container for the brushes.

There, on the top shelf. How did it get all the way up there? You swipe it off and turn around, cheery and hopefully composed enough to not let any of your deplorable thoughts slip, and-

He’s there.

Not there, not all up in your face the way you would not want him to be, but closer, next to Steve instead of behind. His cheeks are rosy. You look out the window, to see if it looks cold. His face is pink, but he looks cold. Winter Soldier. You’re running hot, hot, hot.

“Hey,” You say, and politely smile, like while cleaning up last week, you didn’t spend an extra twenty minutes just talking to him.

“Hey,” he says, and does nothing, like the impassive brick he always is.

God.

You can’t be like this. This isn’t… it’s not cute. It’s embarrassing.

“Help me find the palettes,” you tell him, and place the container on the table for Steve. “I’ve been looking for them, for, like, ten minutes, and I can’t find them. And we’re painting today, so we need palettes.”

Steve dumps the brushes into the container. Bucky nods. He understands the importance of the palettes.

“Okay,” he says, and in the time it takes you to turn back to the shelves, he’s already standing behind you, surveying the shelves with you. Steve is probably giving you a look- he and Bucky seem like the kind of friends that tell each other all of their feelings, paint each other’s nails and read each other's diaries- he probably knows what’s going on.

If he does, you would like for him to tell you. All you know is that you’re really liking this.

Bucky finds the box of palettes wedged in the back of one of the shelves, in between thick pads of watercolor paper and glass cases of craft knives.

“Thank you,” you say, as he hands the box to you, as his fingertips just barely brush against yours. “Thank you so much.”

You catch another ghost-smile. “You’re so welcome,” he says.

Behind Bucky’s back, Steve gawks at you in disbelief.

*

Acrylic paint- the love of your life.

“It’s best for me to just let you guys loose,” you say, in your spot at the front of the room. Even now, your hands are itching, humming with energy, humming for a paintbrush. “If you need help, ask me, of course, but it’s more fun to just try and see what you can do.”

That’s part of why you love it- for its ease. Quick-drying, not water-soluble once dried, saturated. What is there even to explain? That you apply it with a brush? That you can blend with it? All of that is, like, obvious. All of it can be learned from trial, and any error can just be painted over.

Expression is so simple, with acrylic paint.

It’s messier, too, but nobody’s perfect.

You walk around. Shonna sketches out more birds- finches, yellow and mid-flight. Marcie and Ahmed start by painting without sketching first- one going for a sunset, the other palm trees. Classic. You catch a few others, silhouettes, some flowers, some abstract paint splatters.

Then, of course, you head to the back.

Steve is something out. You can’t tell what it is, yet, but you know that it's going to be beautiful. It’s already beautiful. He looks up and gives you a wordless smile, then gets right back to work. One of his hands is splayed over the sheet of chipboard, the other drawing quick, light lines with his pencil.

You wish that you could give them canvas. But canvas is expensive, and again- funding is bad, and you want to save the few you’ve scrounged up for one of the later classes, when everyone is more confident in their abilities.

Bucky mixes paint on his palette. Red and… black.

“That’s a pretty color,” you say, nodding down at the sad maroon. He looks up at you and you ball your hands into fists, placing them on your hips, not because you put your hands on your hips, but because you feel like you should be doing that right now, with how he’s looking at you. Gutting you.

He acknowledges you with a nod, and goes back to mixing the colors. 

Good grief, how much more is he going to mix?

You’re suddenly searching your mind for something interesting to say.

It’s awkward, and you’re even more mad at yourself- how can you be awkward in your own class? You’re so off today. Even Steve is solely focused on his canvas, and you’re happy for it- he’s drawing and really getting into it, but now you have no reason to linger!

You stay, for another awkward, insufferable second, before moving on to somewhere else.

It’s whatever. You want to think about it, but you push it out because there’s so many more important things to consider- like the painting of your mom nearly finished in your studio, the sketched-out canvas of your father, the dozens of other little ideas pushing up through the cracks in your thoughts, like delightful weeds.

You want to paint Rina. If her hair is still red when you see her, you’ll draw her upside down with poppies, wearing whatever crazy outfit she wants. You want to paint another friend, who’s constantly travelling but might be in New York next month, draped in gold jewelry and marigolds. You might even- you might even draw a few people you don’t talk to anymore, or people you don’t talk to enough, draw them with pansies and chrysanthemums.

Flowers. First, you were fixated on animals, but now it’s flowers- but it’s wholly unsymbolic, because symbolism gets trite, and you just want to make something that looks pretty.

Nobody asks you for help. Acrylic is fun like that- it’s a medium where you can help yourself.  The class gets loud- lively, even, and you just sit in your chair at your table and take it all in.

Bucky, in the far back, works on his painting with concentration that rivals Steve’s. You look for too long.

He can probably feel your eyes on him. You wonder if you should look him up, but that’s weird. Really weird, and what would you even search for? A Wikipedia article? Pictures? An interview?

Maybe you should, but you like the hot-and-cold mystery just how it is.

*

The class ends on time. You’re extra vigilant today, showing people how to lay their paintings on the drying racks, showing them where to dump their paint water.

You say that you’ll wash the brushes. Bucky can tell that you don’t trust anyone else to do it properly. You say that you’ll wipe down the tables, too, and you’ll move all the supplies back to the shelves. All you want is for everyone to put their paintings away and wash their palettes.

The work is done, and everyone files out, spurred by you wishing them all a good week. Steve lingers, as usual, and Bucky follows behind him.

You didn’t talk to him that much, today.

“Did you figure out your painting yet?” Steve asks.

“I did,” you say, and tell him exactly what you told Bucky, but more clearly, more well-articulated.

And less… elaborate. No talking about the idea for the second painting, no mentions of the canvases you make yourself. You don’t show him your palm.

Steve chats with you for a few minutes, until the conversation fizzles out. He shifts his shoulders and tells you he’s going to go.

“Have a good week,” you say, smiling, looking back at Bucky.

Steve gets to the doorway, and Bucky stays right where he is, and his stomach does a flip, because he can’t believe that he’s really going to be doing this.

“You coming, Buck?” Steve says.

“I’m going to stay back for a minute,” Bucky says, while looking at you.

He’s not a confident person, but he’s also not not confident. He just does what he has to do, without thinking, without sitting on it long enough for it to morph into anxiety, because when you've been impassive for seventy years, it’s hard to turn the faucet back on. 

Right now, though, he might be getting what they call butterflies.

“Why, is there something you-”

Steve cuts himself off. He understands.

“Nevermind,” he says, backtracking. “Okay. See you later.”

He leaves.

“What’s up?” You ask, as you head over to the sink. You’re so nonchalant, and he doesn’t know if he’s resenting it or grateful for it, so he just watches you pull cleaning supplies from the cabinet underneath.  “Are you here to help me clean up?”

No, but he’ll do it, if...

“Yeah.”

You reach out and rip a wad of paper towels from the dispenser.

“Great,” you say, and he’s just thinking, No, this is not great. You hand him a spray bottle and the paper towels. “Wipe down the tables, please. I’m going to get started with these brushes.”

He starts to wipe down the tables.

You get the sink running.

The streaks of paint on the tables haven't dried yet, so it all comes off with no effort. He gets through it all pretty quickly, one table after another.

Then he’s at your shoulder, tossing the wad of paper towels in the trash, setting the spray bottle precariously on the sink’s edge, since your legs are in front of the cabinet.

What else could he do? Sweep? Turn off the lights? He doesn’t know if you would trust him to do either of those things. He could close the blinds, but the sky is in transition, from grey to blue to ink, and he likes the way the dark seeps into the room.

It sets up the atmosphere.

You give him a quick smile, rub your thumb over the bristles of another brush. “That was fast.”

He shrugs.

It’s a dead conversation- he’s not used to this. Maybe he should be chatting you up, but he doesn’t chat people up, ever. You’re supposed to be the one that talks first, says something for him to go off of. He’s not good at this, but he suddenly wishes that he was.

“Cleaning brushes is such a painful process,” you say eventually, trying to sound exasperated, even though you’re  clearly not. “Takes forever- oh, wait. Not painful, paint-ful. Get it? ”

He gets it.

“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s not much, but it’s something. He wants to laugh but doesn't.

You add another brush to the growing pile of clean ones, laying on a bed of paper towels. The sink water drains slowly, dirty grey-brown.

“I know,” you say. “But anyways, I have a question.”

“What is it?”

“Is Bucky your real name?”

The fuck?

You’re genuinely asking, brows drawn close together. He wants to reach out and smoothen it. And also tug the strings of your apron loose, and hook a finger inside the hoop of your earring. He’s wanting to do lots of things- all crazy, irrational things.

“No,” he says, and he sounds weird saying it, when all that’s weird is you having asked in the first place. Your frame of reference for him is so poor- which is better for him, better for everything. It’s almost flattering. “It’s a nickname.”

You open your mouth for the next question, but he beats you to it.

“My real name is James.”

You abruptly look over at him in disbelief. “No way. Really?”

“Really.”

You’re on the last brush. You run it under the tap and the bristles send streams of purplish paint water over your fingers, and turn your head, looking over at him. He meets you back, glare icy, even though inside, he’s burning up.

“You don’t look like a James,” you say, and grin at him, and keep yourself looking at him as you finally shut off the sink.

He knows he doesn’t- that’s why he doesn’t go by it. But he’s going to indulge you, because he wants to.

“Don’t look much like a Bucky, either.”

“It’s a cute nickname, though,” you say suddenly.

His heart leaps to his throat.  

“You think it’s cute,” he says, and he shifts over and leans, against the wall, crossing his arms. He’s been standing too close, feels so unnaturally light. He can’t even pretend to dislike you anymore, not when you use the word cute to describe him, not when he likes it. Not when your name is rattling through his head over and over, a mile a minute.

“It’s so cute” you start, nodding along to yourself, “It’s like… nevermind. I don’t even remember what I was about to tell you. Can I get your number?”

That was not smooth.

At all.

But it still works, doesn’t it? You’re not trying too hard, so he doesn’t have to try too hard, either.

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles at you- and takes extra satisfaction in the way you light up. Yellow and radiant.

“Okay.” You wipe your hands down on your apron before pulling out your phone. Its case is glittery pink. The tips of your fingers have pruned.

Before, this would have all been so easy. Bucky could have you beside him the day he met you, turned you over in a whirlwind, in a flurry of milkshakes and dancing to music nobody listens to anymore. He wonders if he should miss you- and then tries to imagine you in a red lip, peroxided curls and a modest day dress, and gets the answer for himself.

He doesn’t miss it.

“Here,” you say, and hand him your phone, and he takes it immediately, he’s so over in his head.

He types his number in with his right hand. When he hands the phone back, the question is already burning in his mind.

“When will I hear from you?”

He shouldn't ask. But he needs to know, always needs to know things. Things can only be so irrational, it has to start making sense sometime- and anyways, it doesn’t seem to bother you. You stare at his number, type something in and put your phone away, and the whole time you’re grinning, and he realizes.

You’re pretty.

“Sometime.” you say, and you reach behind your back to untie the strings of your apron. As you bring the neck of it over your head, you wink.

Sometimes, parts of him still feel frozen, trapped in ice, like he wants to smile but can’t remember how, like he’s forever moving too slow, falling too far behind and below.

Right now, he’s all thawed out.

“You’re gonna keep me waiting like that?” He says, and he takes a daunting step forward, cocks his head to the side. He’s on autopilot, reacting on muscle memory alone- this is flirting, this is charming like it’s ‘38.

You nod, adopt a mock seriousness. “I am,” you say. “I like to keep a little bit of mystery.”

“Mystery girl.”

“You know it.”

His heartstrings loop over themselves, tying into in a double-knotted bow.

[verai-marcel]

Before This Dance Is Through (RDR2 Fanfic, Chapter 1 of 3, Arthur x Fem!Reader, 18+ ONLY)

Summary: You work at a super cute cat cafe run by your boss, Charles Smith. His friend, Arthur Morgan, is a tattoo artist who works across the street and comes by for coffee before he starts work. You’ve maintained a quiet and gentle persona in the hopes of getting him to fall for you, but one day, he catches you dancing your heart out to some dubstep in the downtown plaza early in the morning before most people are awake. What will you say to him when you see him staring at you, a dumbfounded look on his face?

Author’s Notes: My dear @r0xy-w0lf​ asked me for a fic about a Reader who can dance, and @myboah​ had a post asking what if Arthur was a tattoo artist in a modern AU. And SO BLAM, this story exploded from my brain, demanding to be written. And finally, I know practically nothing about street dance, so references might be vague to hide my ignorance. I'm sorry! 

Tags: modern AU, tattoo artist Arthur, fluff, romance, smut in Chapter 3, rough sex, probably incorrect dance terminology

AO3 Link is here, darlin’.

--------------------

Chapter 1 - Dance Around the Issue

It was a gorgeous summer morning, and you were cleaning tables at the cat cafe that you worked at. A pair of women were sitting in the corner, with one of them lifting her shirt sleeve to show off a tattoo. You noticed that it was an amazing design, a tiger lily that melted into a butterfly.

“That is so beautiful. Did you come up with it?”

“No, I just heard that if you talk to him for a while, he’ll come up with something for you, and it’s always this soul deep, beautiful thing that represents you perfectly.”

“Really? You just… talked?”

“Yeah, he sits you down, gets you some water, and just asks you how your day’s been, how you’re doing, and, I don’t know, I just ended up talking about my hopes and dreams. All the while he’s drawing in some little sketchbook. Twenty minutes later, he shows me this design and asks if it’s good, and I immediately said yes, draw it on me!”

“What, no way. No way anyone is that good.”

“His Instagram account says otherwise.”

You didn’t hear either of them speak for a while as one of them messed with her phone before handing it to the other. Then there were some gasps.

“Holy fuck. Holy FUCK.”

“I know, right? And here’s the kicker: he doesn’t even handle his Instagram account, he says his friend does all that social media stuff for him.”

“Well, whoever it is does a fucking good job at marketing him.”

“Right? Anyway, enough about me. How are you doing?”

The conversation carried on as you moved away from them, taking all the dishes and cups back into the kitchen.

Glancing at Charles, your boss and owner of the cafe, you noticed the smile on his face; it wasn’t a normal smile, more like the smile of someone laughing at an inside joke.

“What's up?” you asked as you walked by.

“I’ll tell you later,” he said.

***

Later that day, you reminded him.

“So what were you going to tell me?”

Charles scrunched his lips together as he tried to remember. “Oh, the two women talking about that tattoo artist? That’s Arthur.”

“Your friend who just joined the studio across the street?”

“Yup. Javier finally convinced him to leave his old studio after putting some hard numbers in front of him. Arthur’s so loyal, it took Javier writing out how much gas and time he was using to commute, and how little he was getting as an apprentice when he could be charging more as a solo artist.”

You had heard bits and pieces about Arthur from Charles and Javier, who was Charles’ business partner for the cafe, and did marketing for him. Javier was a charismatic man, who had actually suggested Charles hire a helper so he could focus on managing the cat lounge part of the cafe, which is why you were brought on board. So in a way, you were grateful to him, as you loved the laid back atmosphere of this job.

And during the slow times, you could play with the cats. 

***

You first met Arthur at the crack of dawn on a slow morning. 

"Hi, welcome to Crafty Cats!" You greeted the grumpy looking man with one of your gentle smiles; you were naturally quiet and easy-going when in the cafe, and fortunately that matched the general vibe of the lounge. Charles wanted it to be a place where people could relax and maybe consider adopting a cat, which was the other half of the business that he focused on. Your job was to make the cafe a place where people felt welcome, like they were coming back to an old friend. 

You observed the man as he walked up to the counter. He was easy on the eyes, but a bit intimidating, a big guy with big arms. His left bicep had a tattoo that went up his arm under the sleeve of his shirt; you couldn't see the rest of it, but it looked like some kind of animal, maybe a deer. His dark blue muscle shirt showed off his body rather magnificently, and his black jeans wrapped his hips lovingly. Good lord, if you didn't have a big man kink, you sure as hell had one now. 

"G'mornin'. Is Charles around?" 

Oh, his voice was deep, just the way you liked it, with a mix between a Texan and a southern twang to it. You pointed towards the cat lounge. Through the large window in the wall that separated the coffee bar and the cat lounge, you could see Charles in there brushing one of the cats. 

"I'll let you in," you said, walking out from around the counter. The man followed silently as you opened the door carefully and went inside. Immediately Natasha, a calico, started hissing at you. You rolled your eyes and ignored her; this was normal. 

"Hey, someone's here to see you?" You asked quietly. 

Charles looked up and smiled. "Hey Arthur. Have a seat, you can help me brush Natasha."

You winced. She only liked Charles. Whenever anyone else tried to pet her, she'd at best walk away. At worst, she'd hiss and bat at whoever came near. 

So you watched in utter disbelief as Arthur held his hand out and she immediately went up to him and nudged his hand, then plopped into his lap and started purring. 

"What…" 

Charles laughed at your reaction. "Arthur has a way with animals."

Then you heard Arthur croon softly to the cat, and your face heated up; you were suddenly wishing he was saying those things to you in that gravelly voice. 

"Good kitty, yer just a little sweetheart, ain'tcha?" he murmured as he took the brush that Charles wordlessly handed him and gently brushed Natasha. She just purred and blinked her eyes slowly. 

Charles got up and gestured for you to follow him. "I'll get you a coffee," he said over his shoulder to Arthur as he exited the lounge area with you. 

As soon as the door was shut, Charles looked at you knowingly. 

"He's single."

"I didn't ask!" 

Charles just smirked at you. "I could tell you wanted to know." He poured a cup of black coffee and handed it to you. "Bring this to him, please." 

You just shook your head. Your boss, playing matchmaker. Funny guy. But far too observant. 

***

It's been a couple months since then. Almost every morning, Arthur comes in for a coffee and plays with the cats, then goes to his studio. Sometimes he stops by after work to just chill with the cats, and Charles lets him. You wondered about the nepotism of it all, since the cat lounge had an admission price, but you didn’t bring it up. 

Turns out, you didn’t need to.

On a busy morning, Arthur, who was waiting in line for his coffee because he didn’t want to be that guy, asked you once he reached the counter, “Don’tchu charge people for hangin’ out in there?”

You nodded as you poured his coffee. “Yeah, $12 an hour.”

Arthur’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything else as he accepted the coffee from you.

“But Charles said it’s okay for you,” you quickly added. “He said you’re not allowed to have pets at your place.”

“Charles and his big mouth,” he grumbled, but a soft smile played on his lips as he spoke.

You loved his small smiles, his irreverent humor, his grumpy cheer.

He gave you a twenty. 

"What's this for?" you asked, blinking stupidly. 

"For the time in there," he replied, pointing a thumb at the cat lounge. 

"I said-" 

"Tell Charles he can shove his charity." And he walked into the cat lounge, sat down, and was immediately surrounded by three cats. 

You smiled at the scene; a big man, rough around the edges, speaking gently to some cats. 

And then two women sat next to him and started chatting with him. 

You bristled, but you couldn't do anything about it. After all, who the hell were you, when you hadn't scrounged up the courage to talk to him beyond the usual small talk? 

***

The twilight right before dawn was your favourite time, because no one would be out in the downtown square near the clock tower at this hour. You put your bag down and pulled out your phone and a small Bluetooth speaker. Switching to your dance playlist, a mix of dubstep, hip hop, and house music, you connected your phone to the speaker and hit play. 

As the music flowed through you, you let your body take over, pushing your active mind back as you popped and locked with the beat, undulating your body like it was liquid. 

This was your secret passion: street dance. You could do it with a group in public, but on your own? You'd rather dance where few people could see, but your studio apartment was cramped, and the park had too many dog walkers, even at this hour. So when you could, you came here, with your little speaker, and danced your heart out. You shook out the stress of the day to day, and let yourself just be in the moment, feel the rhythm of the song, the beat of life as it thrummed through you. 

Today, you were dancing out your frustration of being too meek to approach Arthur, too shy to talk more with him. Definitely too scared to ask him out on a date. You couldn't help but be quiet and polite; it was how you were raised. But inside, you were a storm of passion and emotion, always letting out everything in the form of dance. Your dance today was aggressive, fiery, raw. 

Years ago, a friend had suggested you get out your stress through physical exercise, and had dragged you to one of his street dance classes. And you had fallen in love with the feeling of letting the music take over. Now you dance any chance you get, if you could get yourself out of bed early enough. 

Your playlist ended as the sun lit up the plaza, and you went to grab your speaker when you heard a familiar voice behind you. 

"Didn't know you could dance like that," Arthur said as he came up behind you. 

You jumped. "How long have you been watching?" 

"Oh…" He checked his watch. "Since 'bout half an hour ago."

That was the length of your playlist. He had been watching the whole time?

"Sorry, didn't mean to gawk, I just…" Arthur trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck and looking nervously away. 

"It's fine," you said quickly to assuage his embarrassment. "I'm dancing in a public square, it's not a big deal." 

He nodded his head, opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

You waited patiently for him to gather his thoughts. 

"You, uh, you dance good,” he finally said. Immediately sighing, he spoke again. “I mean, it was fun to watch. I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

Your face heated up. 

Looking at your wide-eyed reaction and realizing what he said and how it sounded, Arthur cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, guess I better get goin’.”

Your heart raced as you watched him start to walk to work. It was now or never. You gathered your courage, while the energy of the dance still beat in your blood. “Hey, would you like to get dinner with me tonight?”

He stopped mid-stride. Turning around, the confused look in his eyes made your heart plummet. 

“Are… you askin’ me out on a date?” His tone was that of disbelief.

“Um, I mean, if you don’t want to, that’s fine, I just...” You trailed off when you saw the confusion melt away, replaced with a genuine smile.

“I’d love to have dinner with you.” Arthur beamed at you, and it felt like you got a direct hit from the sun.

---------------------------

Chapter 2 is next.

[sincerelymarinette]

A Recorded Life (11/50) - Miraculous Ladybug

Words: 2316 Chapter Summary: Time for Marinette to get some work in for Jagged Stone's project! Also, Adrien drops by, maybe it's time to make a video. Author's Note: I'm running out of prewritten chapters and have so little time to write. I'm here trying, and I'm also trying to figure out when the climax is a good time to have in the story. ALSO there may not be a few updates for a few weeks: I will be on vacation next week, then moving off to college the following few weeks. Gonna be crazy.

Prev / Next / Masterlist

Impromptu Q&A with Adrien

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Marinette was completely focused, sketching out an idea she had for one of the album covers. She had a bad case of art block, and now that she had some inspiration, she wasn't going to lose it. Jagged's song was playing in the background on repeat so she would get all aspects of the song, and Tikki was watching from her perch above Marinette.

Laying on the floor, she was sketching Jagged on a raised platform with lights pointing at him, creating a silhouette. His hands were pointed up towards the comers of the paper. As Marinette began to outline the background, she heard her name being called. "Just a second!" She shouted as she continued drawing.

A minute passed, and Marinette had already forgotten about her name being yelled. She jumped when her trap door opened, and she lost grip on her pencil, and it flew across the room. "Marinette?" Adrien's head popped into her room. "Throwing things?"

She sighed and laid her head down when she realized it wasn't an intruder, only Adrien. "You scared me."

"Couldn't tell," He smirked and picked up her pencil once he got into the room.  "What are you up to?"

"I'm working on one of the designs for Jagged's album project. I was inspired," She showed Adrien the sketch. "What are you doing here? Did we have something scheduled? Oh no, I'm so sorry!"

Adrien put his hands up and shook his head. "No, no, we didn't. Don't worry," He told her. "I sent you some texts and called, Alya was worried because she hadn't heard from you all day. So I called the bakery, and your mom said you were designing and probably would not pay attention to that stuff, so she recommended if I needed something from you to just come over," He shrugged. "But, I now realize you were in the zone, and I probably ruined that."

Marinette giggled. "It's okay; I needed to take a break. What's up?"

Adrien chuckled. "Oh...not much. Alya texted me to ask if I had heard from you, so I tried to get to you, and now we're here. My father and Nathalie are out of town, and the stuff they had planned for me fell through, so I feel like a free man!" Adrien replayed his day. "And I let Alya know you're alive, she was just worried. But that was such a tough adventure, now I'm starving," Adrien said.

"I would think so; you've had a busy day," Marinette smirked.

"Well, want to come with me? It seems as if you've had a busy day as well," Adrien motioned towards her sketches. "Reward yourself."

Marinette shook her head with a little laugh as she went to stand up. She grabbed her supplies off the floor and loved them to her desk. "Where are we going? Do I need to bring a camera?" She asked.

Adrien shrugged. "Who knows, weird things could happen at any time. We do have a Hawkmoth around, and maybe Alya needs a run for her money if you document it."

"I couldn't steal her brand!" Marinette gasped. "But I'll bring the camera just in case," Grabbing the camera, Adrien opened the trap door back up and started to head down with a smile on his face. Marinette grabbed her little purse and opened it just enough to let Tikki in. "Where are we headed?" She asked and followed Adrien down the steps.

Adrien shrugged. "I don't know; there's this little cafe near the park if you want to try that?"

"Perfect!" Marinette smiled. As they left the bakery, Marinette snapped a quick photo of the two of them and posted it on Instagram.

@MarinetteDupainCheng Between bad art block and sudden bursts of inspiration for the album project, Adrien got hungry, and now I'm going to lunch. I need to find a reason to get him in a video again...even though it's only been a few days. How would you guys like to see us play our favorite video game?

Adrien chuckled at the post when Marinette let him read and approve it before posting. He clicked post for her and waited for the likes and comments to roll in. I'm only a few minutes of random conversations, they ended up at the cafe and waited for their water to be served. "So, Adrien," Marinette switched to English when pointed her camera at him as they waited. "I just posted that picture, and now there are a good couple hundred questions on it. Maybe I should make a question and answer vlog where we answer the questions on the picture, but not tell anyone, so people get the real questions answered."

"I think that is an amazing idea!" Adrien smiled widely. "I'll pull up the picture and find some comments, but first I'm going to figure out what I'm having for lunch. I don't know if I've mentioned it, but I'm starving."

Marinette's eyebrows raised. "Wow, you really are a free man today. Choosing your own food and everything!"

"Hush," Adrien put his finger up. "This is an important decision."

A few minutes passed, and they placed their order, and Marinette had the camera back out to answer questions. They were sat in a booth, so she jumped to the other side to be next to Adrien, and set the camera in front of them so they both would be in the frame. "Some of these questions are so good, I can't wait to talk about them," Adrien chuckled as he scrolled through the comments.

Marinette shook her head and clapped in front of the camera to sync everything up. She pressed record and waited a few seconds to start this segment. "I'm over here now!" She waved into the camera. "We have successfully ordered lunch, and now we're going to answer some questions for an impromptu q-and-a. For the record, I did edit the caption on my post so people would ask questions, but it was an hour after I posted it. So it's kinda a surprise," She winked at the camera.

Marinette pointed to Adrien to have him ask the first question, and he smiled. "How did you two become friends?"

Rubbing her hands together, Marinette chuckled. "Buckle up, kiddos," She said. "It all started on our second day of school a few years ago. I walk in, and I see this blond boy putting gum on my seat. I yelled at him and put a tissue over it and sat out of the way of it. I hated him, he was brand new to school and already didn't like me! What a bully," Marinette rolled her eyes. "So, I was mad at this boy, right? Wouldn't even look his way, and when he tried to explain himself, I didn't listen," Marinette crossed her arms.

Adrien giggled as he listened to her dramatically tell the story of their friendship. "This also happened to be the day of the first Akuma France had witnessed, so everything was crazy, too. After the Akuma, we ended the day at school with rain, and I didn't have an umbrella. And of course, there comes blond boy with his umbrella to stroll by me. I didn't look at him, and he just sighed. Then, I let him explain himself. Partially because I was stuck standing there waiting to call my parents for help, but I hesitantly listened. Then he told me he was only trying to remove the gum another girl put there and only wanted to help, and then he gave me his umbrella. I stole it, and it's still at my house."

"To conclude, Adrien wasn't involved in this story at all. He sat behind me in class for three years before I even noticed him- hey!" Marinette chirped when Adrien nudged her with his elbow, a hurt look on his face.

Adrien rolled his eyes. "To conclude, it was my first day of school! I'd basically been stuck inside all my life; I had no idea how to interact with other people my age that wasn't Chloé. I was lucky I was even allowed to go to school," Adrien shrugged, then furrowed his eyebrows. "You still have my umbrella?"

"It's a nice umbrella. Probably going to be worth something someday," Marinette shrugged.

A smirk appeared on Adrien's face when he tried to hold in a laugh. "You forgot the best part! You opened the umbrella; then it closed on you! That was so funny, made my day!" Adrien continued laughing, while Marinette rolled her eyes.

"And that was only question one!" She announced. "Find me another one, my trusty assistant."

Adrien scrolled for a few seconds to find a good one. "How do you guys balance everything you do?" Adrien asked, then laughed. "Ha! I don't!" He said. "I barely get any sleep. Between school, and modeling, and all the countless activities, while also trying to maintain a social life...you think I balance it?" He joked. "I try to balance it, but it's hard. There's always so much going on."

Marinette nodded in agreement. "I'm the same way. I average very few hours of sleep every night with everything I do," She said and peered at the phone. "Ooh, this one next."

A second after Adrien read it, his facial expression was difficult to read. "What's something you wouldn't have expected to know about the other, but you do?" Adrien asked. "Hold on; I'm confused."

"Like something you wouldn't think the other person would do, or a personality trait I have you weren't expecting...kind of like that," Marinette tried to explain.

Adrien nodded and struggled to think. "See, everyone thinks I'm going to say I didn't expect you to be as passionate, or determined, but you are so passionate and determined that I knew that and everyone can tell. I'm never really surprised by things with you...I have to think on that," Adrien concluded.

Marinette's smile grew wide. "I didn't expect you to be such a rebel. I know you have a lot going on, and when we first met, you listened to nearly everything your father said. Now you're telling me you fake your piano classes and sneak off from time to time," Marinette said.

"Hey! What if he sees this? Shh!" Adrien jumped.

With raised eyebrows, Marinette gave him an annoyed look. "You think he watches my videos? Really? Adrien, come on," She said.

Adrien shrugged. "Who knows, he could be scoping out his up-and-coming competition. But maybe it's an excuse to check up on everything I'm doing," Adrien reasoned. "But he's got a real storm coming if he doesn't get you on his design team...you'd run him out of business!" Adrien told her.

Marinette scoffed and shook her head. "Next question?" She asked.

"Is Alya jealous that Adrien is taking her spot on the channel?" Adrien asked.

Quickly, Marinette shook her head. "Not at all! You guys may not know it, but Alya does so much work behind the scenes to help me with videos. More so for my main channel, but she helps me come up with ideas, shoot many videos, and runs my website. Not to mention, she's never shy giving me ideas for this channel as well and is always ready to help. I'm sure she enjoys the little break she gets when Adrien butts his way in, she's working really hard at her reporting internship and getting into the school she wants to. All while trying to maintain the Ladyblog, her social life, and her love life!" Marinette explained quickly. "She's like, a superhero."

"Say it louder for the people in the back!" Adrien cupped his hands around his mouth.

Marinette snatched the phone out of Adrien's hand to ask a question. "Who's your favorite superhero from the Avengers?" She asked and sighed. "I don't know about Adrien, but I love so many. Let's see-"

"Oh!" Adrien shouted. "I'm surprised you're such a big Chat Noir fan!" He interrupted.

"What?"

"From the question earlier! I'm surprised you like Chat Noir so much. I would have bet money on it that you liked Ladybug more, and I was shocked to find out!" Adrien gushed. "I'm sure he'd be flattered, by the way. Especially with that awesome outfit you made inspired by him. Still excited, I got to wear that."

Marinette chuckled. "I've met Chat Noir, and he seems really down to Earth. He protected me when an Akuma fell in love with me, and once I confessed that I was in love with him because I panicked over something? It was weird, but then my dad got akumatized, and I was basically Rapunzel, and he helped save me from that too. I haven't seen him in a while, but he was pretty awesome- minus all the puns."

Adrien gasped. "You don't like puns?" He put his hand over his heart and pretended to be hurt.

"I don't dislike them. He was just...very annoying when it came to puns. There were so many, Adrien," Marinette explained.

"I don't know if our friendship can survive this, Mari," Adrien said. As he crossed his arms and turned away from her, the waiter walked over with their food. "Perfect timing, now I have something to distract me from the traitor!" Adrien quietly shouted.

"I guess this is as good a time as any to end the video. Make sure to leave a like if you want more and subscribe to never miss an upload! You can check out all of mine and Adrien's social media around our faces or in the description below! See you guys next time!" Marinette made a peace sign and nudged Adrien with her arm. His arms were still crossed, and he tried not to giggle as he looked away from the camera.

The video ended with Adrien grumbling "traitor" as he made a peace sign as well.

--

@lady-of-the-roses-and-lilies@bookishserendipity03@avatheexceed @gkz10 @coccinellegirl@kat-thatoneweirdo@strawberryblondish @snow-swordswoman@lilgaga98

[maaaaaatryoshka0325]

Not Afraid of the Dark - Seo Changbin Gang AU Part 1

REQUESTED: Seo Changbin modern gang series

Description: you’re a college student, and so is he. Big difference? He’s a gang member.

(Part2) (Part3) (Part4) (Part5) (Part6) (Part7) (Part8) (Part9)

College life was going great so far. You got good grades. had your own dorm room to yourself, made friends, partied, all that college stuff. You were going to a college in Seoul. You had worked hard to get there, and you were grateful that you made it. 

You sat in your seat during lecture next to your friend, Nina. You both had the same literature class together along with your friend, Chul. You were in school to be a veterinarian, Nina wants to be a child therapist, and Chul was in business. You met them almost immediately after starting school, as the two have been friends since middle school. You liked going to the clubs with them, Nina was really fun to party with and so was Chul, but he also kept the weirdo’s away.

After lecture, you walked out to the garden in the middle of campus to get to your next class. A group of boys were in the way.. You looked down, making sure not to look at any of them, when you ran right into someone.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” You said, looking up at who you ran into. You froze as you realized you bumped into the one who stood out the most. Seo Changbin. Everyone knew who he was, he was the baddest boy in the school besides the other goons. 

“Watch where you’re going next time.” He said, looking back at you.

“Excuse me?” You asked.

“I’ll say it slowly this time so you understand this time Sweetheart.” He said, lowering his head to eye level with you. “Watch. Where, You’re. Going. Next. Time.”

“How about you not stand in the middle of the fucking sidewalk when there’s people walking.” You said, holding eye contact with him.

At first he seemed shocked, then amusement lightened his eyes and he smirked at you before stepping aside. You seemed calm and collected as you went to walk away, but anxiety had filled you ever since you let those words out. Even his friends seemed shocked at how you responded to him.

“I like her. She’s ballsy.” The one with the deep voice and  accent said as you walked by.

Ballsy. I guess that’a what I am. 

During your whole next class you couldn't help but think about the whole thing that had just gone down. You had just thrown Changbin a huge attitude, and he smiled at you? He thought it was funny? After your class you ran home to change into your work uniform. You worked part time at a maid cafe to bring home some extra cash while you went to school. The short dress, low pig tails. and thigh highs made you look cute. You worked there with your cute as a button coworker, Nari. She was younger than you by at least two years, but she was the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. She was naturally very innocent and had a small voice. 

You loved your job. Your boss was from Japan and she was the sweetest thing, she was even highering your pay and moving you up to the head waitress. Your customers were very nice too, aside from some of the creepy ones that found their way in here. Most of your regulars were actually older couples that thought the idea was cute. Your customers loved you on top of that.

You served one specific regular that night that was watching one of the TV’s. The news was on, and a report of a stabbing was on the TV.

“These gangs need to be stopped. Too much violence going on now a days.” He said.

You poured him some more sake and nodded in agreement.

“I agree Mr. Lim, It’s been getting bad recently.” You said.

“Then a little women like yourself has to walk home alone. Tell you what, you ever need a ride just give me and my wife a call, we’ll see you home safe.” He said.

“Thank you Mr. Lim.” You said, bowing then running food for other tables. 

That night, you waited out front for Nari’s sister to give her a ride. You would always wait outside with her, sometimes accepting the ride offer. It was nice out that night though, and the school dorms were only a ten minute walk from your job.

“Are you sure you don’t want a ride? Crazy thing have been happening.” Nari asked.

“No, I’m okay. It’s a short walk and its nice out.” You said, smiling at her and her sister.

“Okay, if you need us just give Nari a call.” Her sister said, pulling away.

You had changed into your usual clothes, not wanting to draw any unnecessary attention. As you walked home, you at this weird feeling in your stomach that something was wrong. As you approached an ally you heard a groan. You slowly approached a black mass and when you looked closer, you saw a young man laying on the ground.

“Sir, are you alright?” You asked.

When he didn’t respond you turned him over and you gasped. It was Changbin. He had blood on his shirt and his eyes were screwed shut.

“Oh my god.” You said.

You looked around and saw no sign of help.

“Hey, I’m gonna call an ambulance okay?” You said, taking out your phone. 

Right before you could dial in the numbers, he reached his hand out and grabbed your phone.

“No.” He rasped.

“What do you mean no?” You asked with your eyes wide. You looked closer and saw a bad gash on his chest.

“Oh my god, you were stabbed.” You gasped.

“No hospitals.” He said.

“What should I do then?” You asked.

He didn’t respond, his eyes just closed as his breathing became more ragged. You sighed and hauled him up with your shoulder before half dragging him into your dorm room. Good thing there wasn’t tight security that night like there should of been. You looked through your dorm room, which was basically a small apartment, for anything medical. An idea hit you. He needed stitches, definitely. But he refused to go to a hospital. You weren’t allowed to work on humans but as long as he keeps his mouth shut it should be fine, right? 

“Hey. I have numbing needles and thread for stitches, but I’m only authorized to work on small animals. If you keep your mouth shut about it I’ll give you stitches, okay?” You said.

His eyes fluttered open and he nodded. You slowly reached your hands up and ripped open the top of his shirt. You couldn’t help but noticed how built he was. His chest was nice and firm with noticeable muscle. You shook those thoughts out of your head and cleaned the wound. He lost quite a bit of blood, but it wouldn’t be enough to need a transfusion. You slowly stuck the needle into his chest and began the stitching. His eyes were closed the whole time, and he didn't even flinch. After about ten minutes you finished and put everything away. You put a blanket over him then pondered about what you should do now. You had someone you hardly knew laying in your dorm with a stab wound to his chest.

Just then a phone rang, and it wasn’t yours. You looked over at him and noticed that he didn’t even move. You slowly slid your hand into his pocket, hoping it was someone who could tell you what was going on and what to do. The name that popped up on the screen was familiar. Chan.

“H-Hello?” You answered.

“Who the fuck are you?” He hissed.

“U-Um..”

“I swear if you’re part of the Busan boys you’re dead.” He hissed.

You froze at the name. The Busan Boys were a gang from Busan that had made their way over to Seoul. If they were after Changbin does that mean... He’s in a gang too?

“I swear I’ll-” He started.

“Ahem. I’m the girl from earlier and I found your friend in an ally way. I live in the campus dorms.” You said.

“Oh.... Okay.” He said.

About a half hour later of explaining the situation and giving him your address, you opened your door and saw Chan, a tall handsome boy, and the eldest in the group, standing outside of your dorm. You beckoned them in and took them to where Changbin was asleep. 

“You gave him stitches?” The tall handsome one asked suspiciously.

“Yeah. Don’t rat me out either. I’m supposed to work on animals, not people. But he wouldn't let me bring him to a hospital.” You said.

You saw the suspicion leave his eyes and was replaced with gratitude. 

“Thank you for taking care of him. I’m Hyunjin by the way.” He introduced himself.

“I’m Woojin.” The eldest said.

“And you probably saw my name come up on his phone, but I’m Chan.” Chan said.

“So you guys might try and kill me for asking this but... Are you guys a gang, or?” You asked.

They all stared at you then looked at each other. 

“Yeah, we are.” Chan finally said.

You nodded.

“I always thought you guys were a bunch of hoodlums.” You said, laughing a little.

The three of them laughed then checked on Changbin.

“I’ll drive him back to the house. Felix will keep an eye on him. Good thing it’s Friday.” Chan said.

“What happened to him? Who would do this?” You asked.

“I don’t know. We were all gonna meet up since the Busan Boys had jumped Minho a couple weeks ago, and when Changbin didn’t show up I knew something happened.” Chan said.

You walked them out then headed back in and plopped on your bed. That whole day was crazy and it made you exhausted as you thought about it. You literally just got yourself caught up with a gang. 

[alittletournesol]

[M] Dinner {JongHo}

Sequel: Dinner.

(Prequel here)

That Sunday had gone smoothly after their teasing encounter in the kitchen and the ride in the dining room ; to an athletic morning had followed a peaceful day spent in town. As proposed, Minho had brought his boyfriend to one of his favourite cafe that opened until noon for brunch and turned into a quiet bar once evening came. To make for the wasted kimchi fried rice, the entire meal had been on the grey haired man, who loved to spend money as long as if it was for that short, hungry, forever young boy he was dating.

Since it was a day of rest for almost everyone, the town had been quite lively and although Jonghyun wasn’t one to enjoy it, he had accepted to go for some shopping at the biggest mall around. Once inside, the air conditioning had been enough for him to bear with everything else. He had even taken a lot of pleasure in helping his man finding new clothes, for the latter kept wanting more and more jackets and shoes. Seeing Minho, already so tall, looking so good in trench coats perfectly suitable for the upcoming fall… it had been worth every annoying screaming kid and every crowded shop.

They had spent almost the entire afternoon in shops, especially in the immense library where the older man had completely lost track of time. He was lucky enough to have a partner who was into books as well, maybe not as much as him but still enough to go around every shelve and display unit. After more than an hour reading back covers, though, Minho had had to pick a sitting Jonghyun up, surrounded by books and nose burying in a old-looking copy of an English volume of poetry, before the security guard would have come to him.

They had followed their improvised date by heading to their habitual coffee shop, not far from their flat, taking a well deserved break and relieving their arms from all those bags. Just as the taller man had expected it, his boyfriend hadn’t been patient enough and had been sipping his drink while starting one of his new books — the fourth volume of a series of essays by his favourite author. Smiling, Minho had let him have his quiet moment, himself drinking his coffee while checking on his family through texts and calls.

They were both home for a good hour by now, Jonghyun lazily lying on the couch with his sweater’s hood on his head, big glasses replacing his lenses as he couldn’t stop reading. He was so focused that he had sent his man on a mission : walking his — now their — dog before dinner. Grumbling at first, Minho had eventually gave up after receiving countless kisses and pouts, still calling the other man a lazy ass and a bad father out loud when talking to Roo in the hallway.

But he knew deep inside that nothing could draw Kim Jonghyun out of his beloved books, and although it had been very frustrating in the past, he could now deal with it. As soon as he had come back home, he’d given the dog her dinner and gone straight to the shower, noticing the top of a head sticking out of the couch while walking by the living room. His sport swatch beeped to announce it was seven in the evening right when he was leaving the bathroom, only wearing sweatpants and still drying his grey hair with a towel.

When he let himself fall on the L-shaped couch, in the corner so he could stretch his legs on the long seat, his boyfriend gasped. The sudden movement had made him jump with surprise and let go of his page… and he hadn’t time to memorise its number. He slowly turned his head towards the other man, who just grabbed the remote and turned the tv on, zapping until he came across the latest sports news. Jonghyun rolled his eyes and found himself praying for this evening not to be another one with a soccer match to watch.

“You made me lose my page.” He mumbled, taking his book again and struggling to find where he was. “Why can’t you sit gently.”

“You’ve dragged me around the mall for three hours, it’s tiring and my body couldn’t keep up with standing.” Minho answered, his eyes not leaving the screen. “Why can’t you sit properly in a first place.”

“Do you really want me to answer that question ?”

“Only if you’re not going to bring some joke about your sexual orientation having an impact on the way you’re sitting, just like those you read on that bird app.”

“You’re not funny. And so old.”

“Sure, hyung.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that.”

As a reply, the grey haired man just laughed and grabbed his boyfriend’s hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss it. Smiling, Jonghyun decided his book could wait as he moved on the couch, bringing himself closer and climbing on top of the other man. This was so much of an habit by now that Minho just opened his arms and lied still, waiting to have a shorter body completely lying on him, face pressed against his torso. That was at that moment he realised his lover had got rid of his pants and socks, only wearing his hoodie and boxers.

Softly snorting, he just closed one arm on the body resting on him, caressing the clothed back while changing channels. Maybe that was the annoying thing about Sundays : tv programmes were lame, even the available movies on their paid platform weren’t new. And as if it wasn’t enough of bad news…

“Tonight’s game is cancelled.” Minho said, despair noticeable in the dramatic sigh he let out. “Weather issues.”

“That’s too bad.” Jonghyun answered, his words muffled by his position but his sarcastic tone clearly evident. “I was so looking forward to watch it.”

“Why can I sense you’re clowning me ?”

“Because I’m dating the most perspicacious man in the world, that’s why.”

As he said this, the black haired man raised his head and pecked his boyfriend’s pouty lips. But the latter pretended to resist, not reacting and certainly not returning the kiss ; Jonghyun giggled and tried again, and again, until he felt a smile and heard the tv being turned off before a second hand was put on his back. Both men were now fully ready to give each other attention, and Minho gently took time to remove the other man’s glasses and hood to hold his cheeks and kiss him properly.

Wet lips moved against each other as the black haired men held himself on his palms, stretching his arms to push his lover’s head against the backrest. He took control of the kiss, being the one sliding his tongue in the taller man’s mouth and dancing with his, lazily, lasciviously. It was the kind of kiss they both preferred : slow at first, as if testing the waters, and progressively going warmer and passionate, their lips abusing each other until they took a red tint and swelled, making them even more appealing.

That was how Jonghyun liked Minho’s upper lip, which seemed to double its already considerable size and only made him want to kiss it more, nibble it, licking it. And so did he, never missing the opportunity and even less when he was on top, with the other man at his mercy. The latter gasped a bit as he hadn’t had time to properly breathe between their kisses before he was prisoner of lips sucking at his, teeth teasing… but he let the shorter man do, feeling the growing warmth of his body, trapped in that bothering hoodie.

As he was making a move to slide his hands under it, Jonghyun stopped his little game and straightened up to catch the hems of the sweater, passing it above his head and throwing it away before leaning on again, resuming his kissing. Minho laughed a bit, placing his hands on his boyfriend’s waist and giving what he wanted ; the older man soon got tired of lips and attacked the jaw, then the neck, while his hand was roaming down the muscular torso until the loose sweatpants… whose lace was already untied.

Cocking a knowing eyebrow, he looked down at it and smirked, making his fingers pass through the elastic band and pulling it upwards to peek into the pants. So his man hadn’t considered useful to wear underwear, huh… the shadow of his pubic hair wasn’t hiding the way something was slowly but surely responding Jonghyun’s little attentions, and it made the latter remember a little revenge he had to take.

“It’s not too early for dinner, is it ?” He asked while looking up at his boyfriend, whose eyes were darkened by a way too familiar expression. “What do you say ?”

“I say dinner can wait.” The grey haired man smiled. “Or should we call this dinner the way we called that breakfast, this morning ?”

“I like your sense of poetry… my turn to taste a piece of that ass tonight. Take that off.”

Saying this, Jonghyun offered his boyfriend his sexiest smirk while standing up, the kind that would make Minho do everything he wanted. As the latter obeyed and lifted his hips to make his pants slide down, the other man went to their bedroom for a quick second and when he came back, he had got rid of his boxers and was proudly walking, all naked and his cock hardening, a bottle of lube in hand. He was in a way different mood than on the morning, and it was deeply arousing… he wanted to be in charge, and his partner was all in for it.

As soon as Jonghyun kneeled at the end of the couch, Minho spread his now naked legs to welcome him wherever he wanted to go. The older man moved forwards between them and let his hands graze the firm THIGHS, caressing then pressing them for his own pleasure, in a way to tease in his turn, to test his boyfriend to the limit of his patience. The latter smiled at the touching and bit his lower lip while looking at his elder leaning on to press his hot mouth against his skin.

It felt like a slow, almost painful treasure hunt, as the black haired man kissed all along the thigh, teeth nibbling here and there… until his lips reached the most sensitive area, his lover’s member already reacting to simple kisses around it. It lasted for long seconds, but never did Jonghyun touch Minho’s demanding cock, to the latter’s surprise. It wasn’t in his habits to ignore it, it was usually quite the opposite.

“Aren’t you going to blow me ?” He bluntly asked, and the light gleaming in the other man’s eyes when he looked up startled him. “What’s with those eyes…”

“I came untouched this morning, right ?” Jonghyun asked in return, his voice deep and silky, this simple sound making his boyfriend’s member twitch, aroused. “Let me return the favour.”

“Now that sounds interesting.”

And with these so naive words, the tall, handsome boy didn’t realise what he had just agreed to. Concealing his real desire behind a cocky smirk, his elder just kept the trick going by moving his lips up the toned body, lingering on the line of hair just under Minho’s navel, which he found way too sexy to be ignored. Under him, the latter’s skin got soon covered with shivers and kept heating up until his mouth was finally captured in one of those smooth, lascivious kisses they both loved so much.

Jonghyun was like hovering above his boyfriend, making so sure their crotches wouldn’t touch each other that his back was deliciously arching, the curve making his ass look even more rounded, tempting… and soon prisoner of Minho’s big hands, roaming it and playing with the cheeks, their owner letting a moan out in the other man’s mouth. But this time, he wouldn’t let himself being won over, not when he had his revenge planned.

Without warning, he broke their kiss and straightened up, walking backwards on his knees until his own feet almost exceeded the edge of the couch. While he sat on his own heels, his next movement was fast and instinctive : he slid his hands under his lover’s lower back and pulled, making him fall lying on the noisy leather as he brought his ass on his lap. Once his surprise faded, Minho seemed to get his elder’s idea and used his abdominal muscles to straighten up, just enough to grab his knees and pull them back when lying down again.

Now, his ass was raised in a perfect angle for his puckering hole to be right within Jonghyun’s every kind of reach. He didn’t waste any more time and grabbed the bottle of lube to quote his fingers, not even caring about the few drops who fell on the couch. That didn’t go unnoticed by his boyfriend, who snorted.

“I thought we couldn’t have sex on the couch because you didn’t want to dirty it.” He commented. “What’s with this sudden turnaround ?”

“I guess the mere thought of pounding you deep into this black leather eventually made me forget about that promise I once made.” The other man replied with a knowing smile. “Kibum won’t be mad.”

“He doesn’t have to know.”

“He will, next time he visits. That guy can sense it when you have sex anywhere on or near something he offers you.”

“Then I suggest we do it good enough for him to lose his senses.”

“You’ll be the first one to go senseless tonight, trust me…”

Minho’s gaze darkened and as an answer, he pulled his knees even more to open his ass, inviting his boyfriend to please him. Facing such involvement, Jonghyun couldn’t do anything but accept. As he held the strong body in place with one hand on the hip, he brought his lubed fingers close enough for the other man to only feel the coolness of the gel. Ignoring the latter’s first needy whine, he took his time to cover the whole length of his rim, earning a quiet gasp at the sudden cold feeling on such a sensitive part of one’s body.

But his little game was far from being over ; the older man took the bottle again to coat his fingers again. Still, he was surprised by his boyfriend’s patience, as he was eagerly waiting for his hole to be filled already. This was somehow a way for both men to complete each other in sex : while Jonghyun was one to fall for being eaten out and giving head, Minho liked the real thing more and could bring himself to beg for his lover’s cock up his ass. A promising duo in the sheets, we could say.

Though this time, the taller man felt his partner wanted to do things slowly. Maybe a bit too slowly to his taste but it was only the beginning, so he had to be gentle. He loved his considerate boyfriend… When he felt the entrance of his hole being massaged by the tip of a finger, he bit his lip and cursed under his breath ; finally, it was starting. Jonghyun pushed a finger in, the sensation weird despite the slippery help, but Minho was so eager for it that he expressed it gladly.

“You’re being gentle.” He said, his tone implying he was no pussy.

With a smirk, the black haired man worked his finger in and out of the hungry hole that was puckering as to swallow it. A second digit joined and it stung for a short moment, the lying man gritting his teeth and his grip on his knees tightening. But it didn’t last long, the never-ending sliding movement soon feeling deliciously good, the burning sensation making space to something he couldn’t describe. His lips parted and he sighed more, Jonghyun’s fingers digging deeper inside by seconds passing and the feeling only getting better.

The latter enjoyed the view, his eyes not leaving Minho’s pleasured and pleasurable features with his grey hair already sticking to his forehead from the previous making-out session. It was turning him on so much he wondered for a second if he would be able to resist to the temptation he would create himself.

“Ah, Jjong…” The younger man moaned when the two fingers inside him seemed to graze a sensitive spot.

When he moaned, Minho’s voice was even deeper than usual, as if coming directly from the back of his throat. It sounded like a bestial growl, what had an incredible power on Jonghyun’s arousal, the latter immediately feeling his own cock twitching. As by instinct, he made his fingers go faster, working his boyfriend’s ass open and willing to plunge as deep as possible, for he knew where to go to make the other man lose it.

After a few seconds, he added a third finger and took enough time to let Minho adjust to the stinging pain, the latter involuntarily contracting all his muscles to the intrusion. His face got distort for a few seconds until he breathed in and out, relaxing his body and his walls to welcome the pleasurable sensation he could beg for. His sighs were growing louder as the wet noise of Jonghyun’s lubed fingers only added to both their arousal, the elder man’s body growing hotter and hotter.

Minho’s chest was raising fast as he ran short of breath, while his whole being was shaken by waves of pleasure going crescendo. He could feel himself close already, with only three fingers approaching so fast from his prostate, and he suddenly realized this foreplay was lasting for longer than usual. Opening his eyes, he let go of one of his legs and called for all his muscles to keep it in the air, holding himself on his elbow to straighten a bit up. He was definitely not prepared for the view of his boyfriend kneeling between his legs, working his raised ass open, would make him lose all his words…

“J-Jonghyun…” He called, having a hard time gathering his thoughts whenever he felt his insides swallowing the fingers and bringing them closer to his awaiting pleasure spot. “Jjong, I think it’s… ah, fuck it’s… it’s enough…”

“What is enough, baby ?” The older man replied, his lust shining in his eyes as they met Minho’s, the latter frowning and being prevented to answer by a moan. “You seem to enjoy it…”

“Y-Yes, I do…! But I think I’m prepared now, ugh…”

“Oh, you certainly are. But you won’t have my dick so easily. You’ll have to deserve it, baby.”

“What are you— oh, fuck…!”

Before he could protest the sudden idea, Jonghyun hit it. It was immediate, Minho’s words stayed stuck in his throat as he closed his eyes shut, the veins of his thick neck standing out as to express the pleasure silencing him. It only needed a second thrust of his boyfriend’s singer, right on the same spot, for him to finally let out the moan he didn’t want to hold back. Staring at him, at this strong body contorting itself like the couch wasn’t large enough to contain his enjoyment, the older man was filled with a feeling that was rather compromising his plan.

He hadn’t even touched himself yet, but this simple sight, the sensation of his fingers being engulfed whenever he reached this precious point, the face of the other man showing him how good it felt… he was turned on, and not just a bit. His cock twitched, almost painful as it asked to be pleased as well, and all of this started becoming difficult to handle. He wanted to put it in, to fuck Minho senseless and to give him what he liked ; at the same time, he needed his revenge to go on, as childish as it could sound.

He could hold it in a bit longer, he knew it. He just needed to focus his own need elsewhere… as if guided by some carnal instinct, Jonghyun made the most of his lover’s leg not being held anymore, grabbing it to throw it on his shoulder. The new position allowed him to bring his body closer and dig his fingers deeper, for Minho’s eternally grateful pleasure, but that wasn’t what the black haired man had it mind in a first place. The long, muscled thigh was now at his mouth’s reach and he didn’t need to be asked twice — not even once — to catch the thick, tanned skin between his teeth.

With his now free hand, the pleasured man brought his closed fist to his mouth and bit into it, his eyebrows furrowed and his closed eyes tearing up at the sudden pinching pain on his thigh. Though he wasn’t really suffering, the unceasing sliding in and out of his ass making the biting feel even more wonderful. The combination of these two raw sensations just made him forget who and where he was. Jonghyun kept nibbling, certainly leaving marks of his teeth on his skin while his fingers were hitting home whenever they entered him again.

At some point, it became too much for Minho who felt like he was going to implode, and he tried in a desperate attempt to move on the couch. He didn’t really know what he was doing nor why, but he found himself stuck in the corner ; damn that L-shaped sofa ! All he managed to do was to tense his back’s muscles when his head hit the backrest rougher than he had expected.

“And where are you going like that ?” Jonghyun asked with that silky voice of his, though broken by his erratic breath as he was resisting his own desire. “We’re just… starting…”

“It’s too much, it’s too much…!” His boyfriend whined, interrupted by a loud moan he silenced with a hand on his mouth. “Please, please Jjong…!”

“Please what, Minho ? You must use words if you want me to understand your request.”

“C-Can’t handle it any… anymore…”

“And what do you want me to do, then ?”

“Take me, t-touch me…!”

“I’m not hearing ?”

“I fucking beg you ! Please, please take me, please-ah…!”

“Why should I ? Did you take me this morning when I asked you to ? I’m not sure I can, Minho…”

Jonghyun didn’t know where this new skill came from, talking to his lover that way while he was dying inside from his denied pleasure. It was like a blaze coming out from all of his pores, it was panful but his stubborn self needed more than begging…

“Don’t you like what I give you ?” He asked, his voice now deeper and betraying his lust, his need for more. “Don’t you ?”

“I do…!” Minho cried out, his back arching and his body stiffening. “I’m sorry, okay ?! N-Next time I’ll fuck you right away…! Please…!”

“That’s all I needed to hear.”

The black haired man’s eyes were lit by a glint that said it all before they seem to darken, and he removed his fingers, causing his boyfriend’s to whine in a needy way. He had what he wanted. At light speed, Jonghyun caught the bottle of lube and squeezed it directly above his cock, roughly coating it with a couple of strokes. Within seconds, he slightly moved backwards to guide himself to the abused entrance, grabbing the thigh against his torso to pull it, pushing in at the same time.

Minho cried out, the ripping pain admittedly reduced by the long foreplay but still perceptible ; but the strength of his partner’s thrust added to the way his body was pulled had created a incredible sensation he couldn’t put words on. Only moans were enough of a language to convey the way he felt to Jonghyun, the latter gasping loudly after waiting for so long. It was instantaneous, both of them getting hit by pleasure twice more intensely than if they had got down to business sooner.

Somehow, in the heat of the action, none of them regretted this little revenge that had left them needy, feverish, longing for something they couldn’t have the way they wanted it. Thus, they didn’t hesitate anymore. Jonghyun’s hips started moving fiercely, only needing a few seconds before Minho’s ass met his pelvis with each thrust, the slapping sound of one’s balls against the other’s ass cheeks echoing in the living room.

The older man was standing straight on his knees, only his hips moving back and forth in a cadenced rhythm, as he held firmly onto his lover’s leg resting upright against his upper body. Gathering all the strength he could while his senses were leaving him, Minho was still pulling his knee as much as possible, opening his ass while his other arm had grabbed the backrest, veins threatening to pop just like the ones on his forehead and neck.

It was fast, it was raw, it was rough. The perfect conclusion of a long and torturous foreplay that had left both men even more sensitive. No words could be exchanged, only broken sighs and loud moans giving each other the tempo ; and the last chorus was close. As he felt the walls around his cock tightening more and more by seconds passing, his boyfriend’s breathing growing short, Jonghyun closed his fingers around the latter’s throbbing member. In one last desperate effort, Minho let go of his leg to put his hand around his lover’s, jacking hims off together.

A few strokes were enough for the grey haired man to be sent to seventh heaven, all of him being over-sensitive from the previous game. A simple touch made him see the stars and his back arched, his elder growling as his cock was squeezed in Minho’s orgasm, cum splattering his stomach. Jonghyun shut his eyes closed and he leaned on to catch the skin of his lover’s thigh again with his teeth ; his body was trembling, shaken by tremendous waves of one of the most intense kinds of pleasure he’d been given to feel.

His mind went white and his long-awaited release hit him, ecstasy flowing out to fill the other man. His own thighs quivering because of the effort, Jonghyun gave his last thrusts, cum oozing from Minho’s still stuffed hole, the latter’s short breath cut with low moans. The older man eventually let go of his boyfriend’s thigh, pressing his sweaty forehead against it instead, his hot breath certainly tickling as he heard a giggle. He smiled, his lips still parted to allow him to catch his breath, and looked up to find the other man running his hands through his wet grey hair to free his face.

Minho had always been the most beautiful man when sweating, whether this sweat came from exercising or having sex… it wasn’t disgusting nor gross, it was making him gleam as if his body was bathed in sunlight. He looked like an angel in this seventh heaven they had got transported to.

“Come here.” The younger man whispered, lazily grabbing his shirt on the floor to quickly wipe his stomach.

Smiling, Jonghyun slowly moved backwards to prevent the discomfort of his member leaving his lover’s body. As he leaned on to lie on the still hot skin under him, he hissed when their pelvises brushed each other in a not so agreeable way, their rough encounter leaving them way much more sensitive to after sex touches than usual. Once their faces were closer to each other, the older man gently pressed his lips against Minho’s, who returned the kiss with as much softness.

As was his habit, the black haired man buried his face in the crook of his boyfriend’s neck, finding his comfort when he felt arms closing on his body. He relished the sensation of a hand caressing his back while fingers were slowly running through his hair, this gesture particularly making him happy, at ease. When he let a comfortable hum out, Minho quietly giggled and closed his eyes for a minute, both of them enjoying afterglow.

“You tricked me.” The latter eventually commented, though his tone wasn’t suggesting that he was offended about it. “Have you planned it since this morning ?”

“Sort of, yes…” Jonghyun giggled before raising his head to look at the other man. “I was a bit upset that you teased me so much.”

“You’re really something. Though I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.”

“An eye for an eye.”

“I will remember that.”

Winking at his boyfriend, Minho slightly pushed on his head to bring him closer, kissing him in a way he could convey all the love he had for him. And heavens knew there was a lot, hence the long minutes they spent with their lips locked, almost forgetting any notion of time… until a gurgling interrupted them. Breaking the kiss, Jonghyun cocked an eyebrow and was answered with a defiant face.

“What ?” The taller man said. “You made us skip dinner.”

“As if it was disturbing you earlier. Should we order something tonight ?” His boyfriend asked, pouting. “I don’t want to cook and pizza sounds so good… you know, to celebrate the end of the weekend.”

“I don’t know, Jjong, it’ll be late by the time they’re here. Didn’t you say you were on a diet ?”

“What diet ? I never said that, someone else told you that, are you seeing someone else ? Are you cheating on me ? Who is it ?”

“Oh God, alright, go for a pizza !”

“Yes !”

Suddenly getting all his strength back, Jonghyun pecked the other man’s lips and stood up, trotting around in the living room to find his phone and call their favourite pizzeria. Looking at him from the couch, Minho couldn’t prevent the wide smile drawing on his lips ; a tiny bit and this man was the happiest kid. Sometimes it was surprising that he was the oldest of them… but that was somehow what they loved about each other.

The grey haired man sighed with comfort as he rested his head on a pillow, staring at the ceiling. He loved Sundays.

.

[codywalzel]

It is my personal belief that no one can teach another human being a single useful thing about how to make art. My understanding of “teaching” is giving someone something directly, like a full-proof method for balancing algebraic equations, or the definitions of SAT words. I went into art school with the hopes that cryptic lesson plans would lead to a Mr. Miyagi style evolution that would unlock my hidden powers. If I knew what I do now about how to art-learn, I might have gotten something substantial out of college. But in my experience, art education begins and ends with either: 1. Another artist opening your eyes to an idea about drawing that you hadn’t noticed before, or 2. Elaborating on their go-to solutions they use in their own work. Someone can tell you that you can ground your storyboards by drawing a ground grid. But using that grid in correct perspective, to it’s intended effect, is not something someone can do for you. Art educators and mentors can help you identify solutions to problems, then you work out how to implement it yourself. At the risk of sounding like a pedant for drawing that distinction, I’ll say that since I started approaching creative learning from this perspective, I get a lot more out of it. It’s become more “guided experimentation” than recording a recipe for the perfect painting. That said, storytelling in art is definitely something you can teach yourself. You’ve identified a trait already, storytelling, so you’re already at the limit of where some teachers can take you. Plus you identified something astute, because I’ve been trying to incorporate storytelling into my art for a while, and have only recently started to get a handle on it. So in my opinion, you’ve done the bulk of the thinking work. Now comes the heavy practice work to master this new spell. This journey has a lot to do with finding your voice as a storyteller, so the tone of “YOU”, and the style of rendering that best expresses that tone in this time and place, will have a unique set of challenges for each person. But, I’ll take you through some of the realizations I had on the path to where I am now: A proud adult with two cats and a hit or miss batting average at clearly expressing thought in a sketch.

Capturing an entire scene in a single, static drawing is something my mentor Ian Abando does masterfully. I used to try to emulate the personality I saw in those drawings, but I was only copying the surface. I realize now that me and Ian’s outlooks are so different, that Ian and I would never tell the same type of stories, much less the same exact same story about those people at the adjacent cafe table. He’s personable, outgoing, jovial. Ian is like a friendly labrador with a dark streak in his sense of humor. He can sketch two strangers and capture a warmth that makes you realize they’re actually two old friends that haven’t seen each other in years. I can find something in that coffee shop too, but I’m just a way bigger weirdo, so I’m more interested in weirdo shit. For me, the first step in capturing those stories was finding the right subject. I keep a sketchbook with me at all times, and I’ve developed a patience for waiting, for hunting the right subject. When Ian and I meet up at a coffee shop to sketch, it always seems like he can draw anything. He seems to rest his gaze somewhere in the room at random, then drop pencil to page and watch that snippet explode into life. But now, I think he’s hunting too. I think he’s searching for what’s interesting, what’s worth drawing to him. It only seemed random to me because I couldn’t see what was beautiful about a subject. That he can see a particular magic in a certain 6 square feet of space, and not 6 feet next to it, has to do with who he is. In my mind, he was making that table of pleasant, unremarkable strangers more interesting on the page than it really was. But in his mind, maybe he saw that a girl was counting down the seconds until the end of a bad date, and the guy was trying to find subtle ways to flex.  Even now that I can “see” more, I might never appreciate the specific things that Ian does until he draws them.

The potential exists for that to be true of all of us. Art is a magic that lends other people your eyes. So let people see the pieces of your world that only you can. Just like he can do for me, I can see what’s interesting in scenes that Ian would overlook. And there are a million scenes where we’d see the same fascinating thing, but we’d have a different approach to it (for one, his approach would be to be way better at drawing than me). And there are a million more scenes that we’d both see something interesting in, but we’d each attach to a different feature of it.  All of that to say, don’t just pick out something and draw. If you want to tell a story, then don’t draw just to put something down on the page. Wait. Observe. Find a moment that makes you laugh. Find somebody despicable, and capture what’s despicable about them. Use a sketch to vent. Or make a sketch intentionally cold, and show everyone what your specific brand of loneliness feels like without begging for sympathy. I’d rather keep observing and draw nothing than to try to draw something dull because it’s in front of me. Find the stories you’re personally interested in, you probably have something funny or insightful to say about a given situation that is unique to you. Try to put that weird part of you on display. If it scares you, then it’s probably coming from an honest place, and you should keep going. It may be clumsy at first. The story I want to tell still doesn’t come across on the page every time. Meanwhile, Ian seems to capture his stories without a single failure. If stories are Pokemon, he’s tossing great balls while I’m stuck with a standard issue poke ball. He’d probably say that comes down to pencil mileage. So keep practicing. Keep putting pencil to page even on the shit drawing days. It’s a toll you have to pay to be good down the line, even if you’re not good today. But, please, keep your brain turned on, that means always make an effort to be interesting. (Everyone go ahead and make that same effort in life too. Being boring around the water cooler at work is super rude and depressing.)  Like I said, being interesting in your art usually just comes down to taking an extra second to consider your subject before you start drawing. What am I seeing here? Is this the thing I want to draw? Where am I going with this? Is this coming from a real place? Am I digging to find the best I have today, or am I just making the same tired observation about airline food that I’ve seen before? And if I’m drawing something a lot of people draw, I make sure to ask what can I bring to this? What story can I tell about this that no one else is telling? Example: for the most part, if everyone around me is gushing about some new Star War via fanart, another well rendered post telling the story that you also enjoyed the Star War isn’t that interesting to me. I’d rather a worse drawing driven by a more interesting idea. You can participate in the cultural conversation without just repeating what’s already been said. I’m more likely to enjoy your Star War art if it comments on that one character’s funny butt pose in the third act. Or whatever. That’s just an hypothetical it doesn’t have to be butts. The point is to put more thought in to your art. Wait a sec for the right idea, don’t just start drawing. You will know when you spot the right subject because you will already see it on the page. Plussss, when you start drawing with a clear idea where you’re going, not only is it more interesting, but it actually informs your craft- your drawings will come out better. Okay, let’s say I’m not interested in the people a table over at the coffee shop, how do I know what else to look for? As stupid as this sounds, tweeting helped. Not just reading other people’s tweets, but putting myself out there, wording an idea with limited characters, figuring out what types of things could be explained, and what things were hard to express. And then I started to notice more and more effective way to express those ideas with a specific tone. One thing I realized about myself was that I trying to say two or three things about something at once. It made good ideas muddy, and weakened all three. I challenged myself to clarify, to combine, to present a single, strong idea. I’m still working on it, but for me tweeting is a storytelling exercise that’s helped put more “me” into my art. It forced me to get thoughts, ideas, jokes, frustrations, etc. out into the ether unadulterated by technique. There was no consideration of line quality or volume, so a thought had to stand on it’s own two legs. I doubt tweeting would help many artists in the same way.  But I think in words exclusively, images come later. I write outlines and dialogue in detail before I ever touch storyboard or comic thumbnails. But I’m in the middle of transitioning into writing, so I think my brain is naturally more verbal than most artists. Even with so much internal commentary, my art was without clear storytelling for a long time, because ideas either got lost in the drawing stage, or were too complicated to fit into a single image. Tweeting taught me how to be concise, (I’m clearly not using that skill for this reply, but whatever). So find your own method for making yourself comfortable enough to open up. Which leads me to the most my recent storytelling realization: Don’t be afraid to put your opinions in your art. What you feel passionate about from the deep to the mundane can guide you in your search for a subject. I think people’s egos are funny. LA’s coffee shops are flooded with aspiring creatives mouth-shitting hot takes on art with dogmatic authority, and all from their designated unemployment-check-opening-butt-crater that they’ve worn into the cafe couch. I’m not denigrating anyone that hasn’t made it yet. But I am laughing at the unearned confidence of beardy over at the next table, and the volume at which he’s dropping that savage insight into the Black Mirror episode using stolen lines he just finished reading in a Robert McKee book. Beardy is a “writer” you see, I know because he might have mentioned it a few times to the people he’s with. So yeah, one thing I like to draw is people with their ego’s showing. It makes me laugh. Probably because I too have a big, fragile ego.

That “storytelling” thing is a muscle, like being funny at a party. You get good at party banter if you put yourself through the pain of attending multiple parties close together. (I’m convinced no human being actually enjoys parties, by the way. We all think we’re the idiot just outside the conversation circle that can’t find a big enough gap in people’s shoulders. But parties are the hardest social video game and It’s a little fun to be good at it.) The same way, you keep that storytelling muscle active in your drawings, and you’ll get momentum. If you take a month off, it’ll get weaker, and you’ll have catching up to do when you come back to it. Draw “you” day in and day out. One day you’ll starting getting these bursts where you stop thinking about the drawing process. You’ll stop actively trying to make it “good”, you’ll be swept up, and you’ll disappear into your own rhythm. It’s probably on that day that you’ll look down and realize you just communicated on the page. But let’s move on to a matter of real importance:

The older I get the more I resemble an anime. Thoughts?

[starryseo]

superhero!sicheng

background: in this alternate universe, the members of nct will have various superpowers and abilities. this bulleted series will describe them in school situations - a school of superheroes/ villains - and also outside of school, in non-magical settings, for instance, describing a non-magical job they may have. it’s kind of like harry potter in the sense that only people with powers can access this magical world (where the school is) but magic users can easily travel in between both worlds. enjoy!

super speed & flexibility;

ok so sicheng here is like a mix of elastigirl and dash

dont ask me how that works out it just does ok

a bit weird maybe

but still super (hah puns) badass

he is really ! heckin' !! flexible !!!

like, he's out there doing flips and somersaults and it looks so cool damn

he can even do the acrobatics in super speed it's awesome

the guys took a video of him doing that once and when they hooked it up to a laptop to slo mo it, the laptop couldn’t handle processing it because they had to slow it reaaaaaaaaal down

so it just crashed lmao

he's really humble about his powers though

he never tries to show them off or gloat or anything

but if - when - people ask him to show them something

he just can't say no because he doesn't want to let them down or anything

he has this move that always makes him and the guys laugh

where he does the bridge, but then he elongates his arms and legs

((it’s the best thing ever))

donghyuck always jumps on top of sicheng when he does that

so hyuck is basically overlooking everyone

it makes him feel superior af #longlivekingdonghyuck

and whenever sicheng is in a minutely awkward or embarrassing situation

you bet your butt hes just gonna super speed away the heck outta there

people tend to think he’s always red because he’s always running really fast

but n o p e

he’s a shy bean that’s blushing because people are constantly complimenting him

ok so imagine there was a school vs school competition

but this time with magic !!!

you bet your butt (again) yuta signed him up for all the running races

yuta also has The Best™ signs and posters with sicheng’s face on it

and he coined the nickname Winwin bc sicheng’s always winning

even against the other super speed runners because this boy is always practicing so he doesn’t disappoint anyone during the race

his smile after winning each race is so precious-

ok so he’s great !!! at phys ed (esp. gymnastics and running for obvious reasons) but he’s also amazing at the no magic sports like swimming. he likes the rush he gets because he’s not as fast in water, so he’s trying to improve his personal best

ofc hyuck and yuta have made him try to run on water

after like 7 unsuccessful attempts (mainly bc hyuck kept pushing yuta into the water as sicheng was running) he finally managed to do it without them two interfering

it was legendary

kinda like dash’s run on water, minus the villains behind him trying to kill him

outside of school!!!!

he also has a job outside of being totally badass in school

of course he’s a cute lil’ barista boy at a cafe close-by

hes winwinning hearts there everyday too give him a break ppl

he tries making lots of different designs on the drink, he mainly bases them on different powers like drawing flames or a snowflake

they may not be super detailed but they’re really cute and he always serves them with a smile

so he gets a lot of tips :)))

he also really likes this job because he gets to see different kinds of people all the time

he usually has late shifts after school, so he gets to see how humans cope with their abundance of school work

and when he has really late shifts, how people are really quiet, mainly listening to music, barely awake

on the weekends, he’s there up and early, and he finds it funny how 50% of the customers are in a rush to get to places like shopping or work

but then the rest are coming in happy groups and they’re just chilling, having a good time

he just really likes watching humans do their thing,, makes him think that there really isn’t much of a difference between their kind and his

but there’s still this separation which he has never really liked, but has had to put up with

so he always try to be as happy as possible around them

because even if they don’t know that hes not 100% human he’s still going to be as nice as possible

bc he’s just a really nice guy like that

my beautiful sicheng, the speedy stretcher <3 

so, as cliches go, you guys met in the cafe he works at

and you quickly became a regular there because of a school project that you had

you would always have a hot chocolate with whipped cream but then ask the barista for what they’d recommend as a side dessert

and he sort of just found that cute and you super cute over the days

but he’s a shy lil’ thang so he would just hand you your stuff quickly & quietly when he was serving you

but then he was always cleaning around the table you were at when his role changed

the guys would catch on pretty quickly because he’d be rushing to leave after school and kept ditching their hang-out sessions for extra shifts

they thought he was doing something dodgy and not telling them 

so they followed him and were rlly confused when he did just get on with his actual job

UNTIIIIIL doyoung realised that sicheng kept staring at one particular customer in the far booth

and then the whole gang knew about this crush

yuta geared up and not so subtly used his powers [will be revealed in his one ;^)] to give sicheng a push in the right direction

a.k.a sicheng tripped over and fell right into you

a.k.a some teen nudged you just as you had picked up your now-lukewarm hot chocolate so it spilled onto you

panic ensued (with yuta and co. cackling in the background) and sicheng frantically trying to hand you tissues

he apologised profusely and you were kind enough to brush it off (but it was obvious you were kind of  annoyed)

and he felt so so so bad because there goes any chance he had with having a good first impression

you still came back the next day though and sicheng gave himself a quick pep talk and walked to you before he could change his mind

he started off the conversation saying sorry again and somehow he managed to string along “i’d really love to make it up to you this saturday...”

free food and time with a cute boy? you couldnt have said yes to his offer quicker

saturday came quickly and the date had gone amazingly - by now, sicheng knew the gang knew and they were all being the best WinWinWingMen [thats literally what they called themselves]

yuta & hyuck taught him Flirting 101

jaehyun picked out his outfit after johnny had had his fashion evaluation on it & then taeyong ironed the clothes out

doyoung tried starting a talk show to ease sicheng’s nerves until the dreamies shoved and locked him out

anyways, the date went amazingly and led to more until you guys started dating

it was cute and all but after being together for two years sicheng realised he hadn’t told you that he wasn’t... exactly... human

and he was really scared about how you would react

mainly because he’d seen people confess things in the cafe and usually it went well

but there were times that it didn’t and he remembers them better and so he’s scared

he doesn’t think you’d react in an over-the-top way but he’s still scared you’d leave him because he’s different

he’s never really spoken to you about Supers, fearing you’d realise he is one and leave him

but one day he decides that you should know because the relationship is serious now and he trusts you

when he sat you down to talk to you

first you thought he was going to break up with you because of how serious he was, and he kept saying “i’m so sorry about this, please don’t take this badly”

and you just held his face and stroked your thumb over his cheeks, telling him to breathe slowly

and after he had calmed down, he mumbled out so quietly, “i’m not... normal”

and at first you thought he was talking about his insecurities until he carried on

“i can do things other people can’t... like i can run and stretch myself”

and, to be completely honest, you were lost, and that obviously showed on your face because sicheng smiled a lil’ and decided to show you instead

so he stood up, and dashed to the door and you were like

whoa

how-

and then it finally clicked: he was superhuman

sicheng decided it would be better to stay away from you in case you reacted explosively

but he wished he was closer because your eyes were sparkling in awe

and he wishes he could’ve seen that up close instead

you were so in awe, and that night you got him to explain more about his powers and magic in general

and he’s so happy you’re still with him, that day was filled with non-stop affection 

after that he mixes up the dates by also taking you around the magic world, but he’s always careful to watch out for authority figures

because they might react badly to a non-magic person

but so far so good

and sicheng’s never been happier

highkey felt bad that i hadn’t posted anything in a while so here we go :)) hope you enjoyed!!

[miss-m-and-her-blog]

He’s My Girl (Chapter 2)

TITLE OF STORY: He’s My Girl

CHAPTER: 2

AUTHOR: miss-m-and-her-blog

WHICH TOM/CHARACTER: AU Actor!Tom

GENRE: Romance, Drama, Action

FIC SUMMARY: He’s a guy, she’s a boy in disguise. He’s an actor, she’s a stuntman or -woman. How can it ever work when the famous Tom Hiddleston stars in an action film, with Charlie or Charlene as his stunt choreographer? 

RATING: E (Only for this chapter)

WARNINGS/TRIGGERS/AUTHORS NOTES: Yep, just a little sex scenes in this chapter; not gonna tell you between whom, you have to read on to know haha :P

FEEDBACK/COMMENTS:  By the way, the photos that I use as banners are not mine, just found them here on Tumblr :)

-----

“Hey Dodong, take care of Cha in L.A..” Artem instructed his son before they boarded the airplane.

“I’ll take care of him, he’s too busy taking care of his abs!” Charlene shouted out and it made Artem laughed out loud.

Dodong could only scratch the back of his head as Charlene laughed on as they got inside the tube that leads to the plane.

Along with their teammates– three burly men, Josh, Tony, and Gab; they were chosen to train and give out an audition in L.A.. at the Lockley Studios.

Somehow, Charlene felt like she had just joined the Olympics and they are the athletic team representing their country. But she just feels excited because she would see her Uncle Barty again and her cousins.

She had never been to the U.S. but she sees her cousins every Christmas break before she and her father moved to Seoul. Her favorite cousin is the second to the youngest of the eight children that her Uncle has; Barty Jr., or also known as the Youtube sensation and one of the Make-up tutorial Queens– LilyShimmers.

Charlene kept communication with her relatives even when she was already in Seoul. But it had been 10 years since the last time she personally met them, and she can’t help but feel jittery in a good way.

When they got to their seats, Dodong sat with her.

“Comfy?” He asked.

“Yeah, thanks.” the only reply Charlene could only manage to say.

She feels awkward with Dodong and she can feel that he likes her. But as much as possible, she didn’t wanted to have any romantic connection as of the moment. Charlene wanted to focus on the job. But then she tried to think of it, if she ever had any romantic connections in her life; the only answer would be no.

As the plane started to take flight, she looked outside the window and thought about it;

I never had anyone else to love but my Papa. No boyfriends, some intense but quiet crushes on some boys– but no one else.

She settled on to her seat and thought to herself, it didn’t mattered to her if she is a NBSB or, a No-Boyfriend-Since-Birth; she wants to have a job more than she wants to have one.

If I would have a boyfriend, it would be like I took a stone that I’d bash my head with.

This made her chuckle and it made Dodong look.

“Did you said something?” He turned to her.

“Nope. I’ll just take a nap, if you don’t mind.” She replied.

“Okay.” Dodong sighed.

And for the rest of the take-off, Charlene only slept. Not just because she wanted to rest, she wanted evade Dodong’s special attention.

—-

Where are you? I’m outside the cafe.

Tom immediately looked from left to right when he received that text.

And there, he saw her standing over the doorway, wearing a beanie over her fair head and wayfarers as a disguise. He got up to meet her and he gave her a peck on the cheek, and so did she.

“Hi. Thanks for meeting me, Paula.” Tom charmingly said.

“So, you want to go someplace else?” She replied, pointing out.

“Uhm, you don’t like this cafe?” Tom’s brows furrowed in worry.

“Nope. This place swarm with paparazzis, I’ll take you some place else.”

Without any hesitation, Tom took Paula’s hand and they started to walk in the streets. Little did they knew, the paparazzis had already taken a picture of them as they head down to Venice Beach.

There were a few people at the beach for that day, and some people didn’t recognized the both of them behind their guises of sunglasses, a beanie and a fedora hat in Tom’s case.

Tom initiated on getting to know Paula more; when he met her in the script reading, Tom knew he had to get her number. It wasn’t that hard for him as Paula had already shown an interest.

There was something about her that draws Tom; or maybe it’s just his recklessness and needing to forget about his ex that pushes him to Paula.

Paula knew the place very well as she found a lone hotdog stand in the boardwalk. They took a seat and ordered hotdogs and beer. Tom kept looking from left to right, a little bit anxious that somebody might recognize them at the boardwalk.

Paula giggled as she watched him. Tom gave out a nervous chuckle.

“I’ve tried that the first time I ate here. Nobody recognized me, ever. Here–” Then she removed her beanie and sunglasses.

Tom saw her infectious smile that brightens her pale blue eyes. He felt a little breathless, but he kept his cool. Finally, he removed his sunglasses and hat; he squinted a little from the sun, but Paula’s radiant beauty was more blinding than ever.

They began eating their hotdogs and Tom would ask a thing or two about Paula.

He found out that Paula used to be a ballerina until the age of 16. Then, after she was discovered in a play in her high school; she pursued acting.  Her uncle, George Weissman, became her acting coach; while her mother, Celine, pushed her into her career.

Paula paused for a while before speaking another word about her mother.

“Can we talk about something else?”

Tom nodded, “Sure.”

Then Paula’s gaze became direct, “What do you want to do after this?”

He tried to think of something to do, but Paula started with, “How about this; we go back to my place. I’ll make you coffee then listen to music.”

Tom leaned in closer to her, “Then what?” He saw her eyes burn with something else; it was passion, but it was so subtle, it’s only for him to witness.

“We’ll see, Mr. Hiddleston.” Paula winked at him.

“The day’s still young, though.” Tom remarked as he looked around.

Paula tucked her hair behind her ear and replied, “The way you say that, it’s just so Shakespearean.”

“Well, that’s what I was trained for.” Tom quipped.

They both chuckled at each other, but they went quiet, as if they were lost in the budding bliss that both of them are sharing. Tom brushed the side of her head and down to her hair.

I can already tell that I’d be sleepless again because of this woman.

They talked for another hour, something about their previous endeavors in the show business; and even down to their exes. Paula used to date a rock band front man, but she couldn’t handle his womanizing ways, she called it quits.

“Maybe it’s because rock-stars evoke desire from women, you know? Good girls like bad boys-thing.” Paula remarked.

“So, you tend to go for bad boys?” Tom quipped.

This made Paula laugh out loud as it is true. “Well, you’re not one. You’re a straight arrow, Tom.”

Then she placed a hand on his lap that made Tom slowly smile. “You have no idea; but man, did I try.”

Tom then stroke his lower lip as he eyed Paula. Paula couldn’t hide her smile, there she thought, she needed to have him right then. “Listen, Tom, do you want to go now? Back at my place? It’s not far from here.” She offered.

The invitation was enough for Tom to say yes to Paula. He thought, that was he was there for; to hook up.

“Let’s go then, darling.” Tom insinuated sweetly that gave Paula the most seductive smile he ever saw from her.

-----

Charlene felt the jet lag as she went out of the tube. But she also felt the cool winds of L.A. in its November weather. It didn’t felt any different from Seoul, but the air felt more rich to her.

Dodong never left her side, and he even guided her through the crowd. The boys followed them out and when they got into the arrival area, Charlene immediately saw a large glittery-pink sign board, with her name on it.

There was no doubt, it was her cousin's work.

"Lillllyyy!!!" Charlene shouted out amidst the people and she heard a loud and joyful call as a response,

"Cha-Chaaaaaaa!!!" And it was indeed her on-fleek gay cousin, Barty Jr.

Charlene couldn't help it, she left Dodong to run towards Barty Jr.

"Oh my god, Cha-Cha! Come here, lemme hug the fuck out of you!"

As what he is now known by, LilyShimmers, some of the newly arrived passengers and even stewardesses looked on as Charlene and Lily embraced each other so warmly.

"Look at you, Lily! You got taller! You look like a supermodel!" Charlene praised her cousin's outfit for the day and of course, matched with divine make-up that he is widely known for.

Lily had an androgynous body and features; a boy of only 19, he was two heads taller than Charlene; his mermaid-dyed hair ran through his shoulders.  He turned and poised for her as his smile met his violet eyes made possible by colored contact lenses; Charlene was just left breathless and smiling.

Then after the fabulous greeting from Lily, her Uncle Barty came over to welcome her. "Cha-Cha, welcome to L.A.!" And Uncle Barty gave her one tight bear hug.

It was as if the dark cloud of her past shooed away and it was replaced with warmth and happiness, just by a simple welcoming from her relatives.  Charlene tried to wipe out a few tears of joy from her cheeks.

"Aww, why are you crying, Cha?" Lily mumbled to Charlene. Because of this, Lily pulled Charlene in and wiped her tears away.

"I just missed you, guys-- that's all." She choked.

"We missed you too, Cha. And Bo also." Uncle Barty placed a hand on her head to comfort her

Then, Dodong and the boys came over to them; but their biceps and chiseled jaws got Lily's attention.

"Well, hot dayum!" Lily whispered to Charlene and she could only make a funny face at Lily.

"Oh, is this Dodong, Cha?" Uncle Barty asked her, then he met him with a handshake and a tap on the young man's shoulder,

"Dodong! It is you! If it weren't for your eyebrows, I wouldn't recognize you!"

"Thanks, Uncle Barty." He replied with a bright smile.

"How's Artem and Nini?" Dodong asked him.

"Papa and Mama are doing well. Papa's still on stunt choreography."

"Dad, are you going to introduce the boys to me-- I mean to us girls?” Lily sassed, but Charlene snorted out.

Uncle Barty sighed, “This is my boy, Barty Gosengtian Jr.; Junior, the boys.”

Lily wiggled his hips closer to Dodong and the boys to introduce himself, “Just call me... Lily.” His voice got ditzier that made Charlene snigger, she tried to look away so she wouldn’t burst out laughing.

But Uncle Barty already had a sour look on his face, he cut off the introductions by restraining Lily and pulling him back.

“Now, that’s enough, Junior-- anyways, where are you staying, you and the boys, Dodong?” Uncle Barty asked them.

“Lockley Studios had us provided lodging; we’ll be fine, Uncle Bart.”

“Oh, that’s good. So we’ll take Charlene home now, if you don’t mind.”

Dodong tried to hide his disappointment, and Uncle Barty saw it.

“Don’t worry, you’ll see her again.” He joked.

He gave out a nervous chuckle, but Uncle Barty already took Charlene’s pack.

“Bye, Dodong.” Charlene said finally.

“Bye, boys.” Lily gave out flying kisses to them before they left.

Charlene didn’t mind the boys; they’ll contact her in the day of the audition. But as they got to the car park, Lily and Charlene are already gushing about the past 10 years that they have to catch on about.

She may be in a different country, but Charlene felt home. It may not be her father’s company, but to her; it was enough.

------

Paula’s home was just a further walk from the boardwalk; and it was a beautiful two-floor four square house that has a breathtaking view of the beach and the sea. The design of the house for is built for a modernist or millennial, Tom observed.

Girl got class. He thought to himself.

She brought him to the living room where the kitchen was just the other side. Paula turned on the stereo and started to play a song.

“It’s a Lana Del Rey song; from her new album, Lust for Life. I hate to gush but, I so so adore Lana.” Paula lovingly explained as she paused over the counter.

Tom stood up and went over Paula’s side, “I’ve heard some of her songs. What’s the title?”

She looked away as she heard the lyrics of the chorus play, “Love.”

“Sounds hauntingly beautiful.” Tom whispered, but then, he leaned in to kiss her lips.

Paula felt herself bend over to Tom and willingly receive his lips. She closed her eyes and felt how sweet Tom can kiss.

But for a while, she hesitated and she let go of Tom.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

“What about coffee?” She replied, breathless.

“Fuck coffee. I want you.” He hungrily whispered and once again, he took Paula into a deeper kiss.

Tom’s hands got a hold of her cheeks, but those hands went down to her shoulders, to her arms, until it found her waist. Paula couldn’t help but let a moan escape while he kissed her, as Tom was just too good at it.

He grabbed her everywhere he can grab, he placed her above the counter as he devoured her lips then down to her neck. His warm breath tickled Paula but made her want for more.

She was not letting him do all the work; her hand already found its way to the buckle of his belt, ready to unbutton and unzip his jeans.

Tom smirked but he kept on kissing her. Then, Paula spoke as she also wanted to catch her breath, “Let’s take this up. I’ve got a bed upstairs, you know.”

He carried her in his arms, and up they went to her room.

Tom didn’t cared as he pushed the door with his feet. He settled Paula down on the floor then proceeded in undressing each other. And when they both have no more article of clothing left in their bodies; Tom paused for a while to look at Paula.

“Damn. I could get used to this.” His sweet husky voice made Paula smile.

Then he pulled her once again, but she took him by surprise by pushing him gently into the bed. Tom knows well what she will do; Paula never broke eye contact as her lips got further down from his chest.

He shuddered when she reached his belly button, but that didn’t stop her from giving him head.

He gave in to the pleasure, the decadent sensation. Tom had been given blowjobs in his lifetime, but none were close to how Paula does it. With it every bob of her head, made it feel like he was going to come early.

And so, he stopped her midway; he didn’t wanted to blow off that fast. He asked Paula for a condom, and she was ready for it and gave him one immediately.

“Let’s do it from behind.” Paula breathed.

“What?” Tom’s brows were furrowed as he is now putting on the condom.

“Fuck me from behind.” She almost ordered him but she still sounded like an angel to Tom.

“Well then. How do you like it?”

Paula gave him a kiss, “As hard as you can.”

Tom smiled and made her turn around. They both crouched over the bed, and then he noticed that there was a mirror in front of them.

He slid his cock in and Paula felt it all.

“Fuck.” Tom moaned as he felt it all slippery and wet even though he already had a condom on.

“Because you-- were a good, good girl... You’re gonna get it... Hard... and fast.” He spoke through his thrusts.

With his pace, Paula moaned out loud and had her head slumped down to the bed. They both melted, like ice brought next to scorching-hot fire. They were one and they could feel every sensation, every touch, every breath that they took.

Tom saw their reflection on the mirror; but there was nothing more that he could think of but Paula. She looked at him through their reflection. Her angelic face writhed with passion and desire.

Tom couldn’t hold it back, he was coming. His breath hasten as he went faster with his pace.

"Oh, Paula-- fuck!” He moaned out loud, but he heard in a while, they were both proclaiming out sighs of pleasure through the whole room.

It was done. Tom bent over Paula and made her head turn so he could kiss her.

“So much for listening to music and drinking coffee.” She teased.

Tom chuckled and took her into sweet embrace. They both took a rest, as it had been a wild activity for the both of them.

Paula fell asleep on the bed, while Tom, he brooded over the curtained wide windows that shows the view of the sea. The filming for the The Last Deal would start in two weeks. Till then, he won’t be seeing her for a time.

He was informed that an audition for stunt performers were to take place this Friday. A stunt trainer for him will be chosen, and Tom has still no idea who it would be.

But then, his thoughts got back to Paula. He was wondering where their fling would go. if it’s for the long run or just the short time. He sighed and leaned on the post at the window. For now, he doesn’t want to think about it. He would just enjoy the ride for now.

[sunlightdances]

come alive with every touch

Pairing: Sebastian Stan x Female Reader Rating: T - no real warnings. Summary: You and Sebastian met a few months ago while he had a break between movies. Since then, you've grown close, and you decide to surprise him on location in Atlanta. Author's Note: Hi, hello. I’ve never posted RPF on this blog, but I had a request to write something for Sebastian Stan. General disclaimer: I don't know Sebastian, or any of the people in his life. Any similarities are coincidental, and there's no disrespect intended to anyone involved.

You’re nervous, to say the least. It’s a little crazy, what you’re doing, but you didn’t let yourself start second guessing.

The last time you Skyped with Sebastian, he looked and sounded so tired. Not just physically, but you could see it written all over his face. He’s running on fumes.

He loves his job. He’s told you as much, but you can tell it gets to him sometimes - the long hours and days that seem to bleed together. Your heart goes out to him, because if he’s feeling half as anxious as you are about your job, he’s probably teetering on the edge.

You’re in the back of a cab on the way to the location for his latest film, though he doesn’t know that. You were only able to get the info from his manager, whose details you had to hunt down online. You felt like a stalker, but it was all finally worked out. Turns out Sebastian had mentioned you enough that his manager knew who you were, and she helped you plan the whole thing.

Smiling to yourself, you hope he’s happy to see you. You haven’t seen each other in person in six months.

Six months ago

“Shit, shit shit...” you mutter to yourself as you hurry down a busy downtown street, hoping you make it to your meeting in time. Trying to dodge a bunch of other busy people on the street, you try to pull back your shoulder, but you’re jostled by someone on your other side, and you slam right into someone on your left. “Shit. I’m so sorry.” You say as he drops what he was carrying. Blushing, you crouch down to help him.

“It’s okay.” The man says, and when you look up, your eyes widen, although you try desperately to act nonchalant. “It’s crowded today.” He says, smiling softly at you. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” You say quietly, unsure if you should say anything, because you definitely recognize that this is Sebastian Stan right in front of you. You hand him back what he dropped, what you recognize is a script. “Have an audition?”

He smiles. “Yeah, on my way there now.” If he recognizes that obviously you know who he is, he doesn’t draw attention to it.

“Well, I won’t keep you. I’m late for work, anyway. It was nice to meet you.” 

“You too.” He says. 

“Good luck at the audition!” You tell him, and then force yourself to walk away, before you can make a bigger idiot out of yourself. “Smooth.” You chastise yourself. 

You head to work, resisting the urge to turn back around. If you did, you would have seen Sebastian standing there, watching you go with a smile and a bit of a dazed look on his face.

.

Two weeks later, you’re out making the office coffee run when you hear a familiar voice behind you. 

“Late again?”

You turn around and see him grinning at you, his blue eyes shining. You swallow nervously, but force a smile. “Actually, not this time. Just drew the short straw today,” you say, holding up a piece of paper with everyone’s coffee order on it.

“Ah, I see.” You move out of the way as he orders, and watch, amused, as the barista barely contains herself as she takes his order. 

“It’s not that funny.” He grumbles, after, when he joins you down the counter waiting for the last few drinks in your order. 

You bite back a smile. “It’s a little funny. She looked like she was ready to propose.” 

He blushes, and you struggle to not find that incredibly endearing. Your last drink comes out, and you put in the cardboard carrier, grabbing a few straws and napkins. You don’t want to go back to work. It’s stupid, but something keeps telling you that it means something that you’re bumping into him again and that he remembers you from before.

He scratches the back of his neck and looks away from you for a second, looking like he’s thinking about something. “Um, feel free to, you know, totally run in the other direction, but... would it be forward of me if I asked for your number?”

Your heart stops. This can’t be happening. 

You must have been quiet for too long, because he laughs uncomfortably. “I guess it was. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to--”

“No!” You blurt, trying not to be too loud. “No, it’s not. I-- yes. You can have my number.” 

.

For the last six months after that day at Starbucks, he’s been away from his apartment a lot, and when he is in town, the two of you are usually too busy to meet up even for a cup of coffee. 

He texts you a lot, and you manage to have a few phone calls and Facetime sessions a few times a week. You’re not really sure what it is the two of you are doing, but he’s not shy about flirting with you, and you’ve learned to not be so shy about flirting right back.

You fidget in your seat as the cab pulls up to a sleek building that you assume must be the offices for the film lot. His manager told you to come through the front door and someone from the crew would meet you and take you to the set. 

You’re nervous, but you keep telling yourself that if he didn’t want to talk to you, he wouldn’t have bothered keeping touch for all these months. It would have been so easy for him to just ghost you after awhile, especially considering he was so far away most of the time, but he never did. In fact, if he forgot to text you back or call you back after a few hours, he would apologize until you told him not to worry. It’s that reassurance that keeps you walking towards the front door even though you want to run away.

 You walk in and give the receptionist your name, and then it all sort of blurs together until you’re standing in a dark room, watching as the lights get adjusted on a soundstage and Sebastian and his castmates finish filming a few scenes. 

You can’t help but smile as you watch him, and when the lights come back on, you resist the urge to hide behind someone as the director walks over to give the cast a few notes. The cast start to disperse, and you watch Sebastian sling on a jacket before he starts walking in your direction, seemingly immersed in the notes he was given.

“Nice jacket.” You say, just loud enough for him to hear, and you watch as he freezes, looking up with wide eyes.

His face completely lights up with a smile when he sees you. “Oh my god,” he says, and then he’s striding towards you. His arms are around you before you can say anything, and he’s lifting you off your feet in a hug, his laugh sounding breathless in your ears. “Sweetheart.” He says, his voice raw, and you almost feel tears pricking in your eyes.

He pulls back slightly, still grinning, and then seems to realize that there are still people around, so he takes your hand and tugs you out of the room and down the hall. “Please don’t tell me we made plans and I forgot.” He says, and you laugh.

You shake your head no. “I wanted to surprise you.” 

He’s leaning against the wall, your hand still loosely held in his, and you step a little bit closer when he smiles, shaking his head. “My god, you’re incredible.” He says quietly, and you feel your heart start racing. “I-- I guess I didn’t know how much I missed you until just now.”

“I missed you too. Work has been terrible lately. I needed to get away, and it sounded like you could use a distraction.”

His smile is shaky. “You picked that up, huh?”

“A little bit.” You tilt your head, watching him as he keeps his eyes on the ground. “Are you okay? You don’t have to hide it.” 

“I’m--” He takes a deep breath, and then exhales. “I’m fine, mostly. I’m just tired. I want to do this role right, and it’s taking a lot out of me.” 

“Any chance you can sneak away for lunch?” 

He smiles at that. “I can definitely do that. Just let me go to wardrobe and change, or they’ll never let me off the lot.”

A half hour later, Sebastian is typing away at his phone as he comes outside to meet you, and you smile softly watching him, the way his brow is furrowed as he concentrates. When he looks up and meets your eyes, his face changes entirely. This thing is still so new... even though you feel like you know him now, you haven’t spent a lot of time together in person. You still feel a little bit nervous, but the way he looks at you makes you feel amazing.

“Hey. Sorry, just ordering some catering for the crew.” He says, and when you don’t reply right away, he looks up, frowning. “What?”

“Nothing! That’s just-- that’s really sweet, Seb.” You say, the nickname slipping out before you can stop it.

A completely devastating grin crosses his face. “I like that.” 

You blush. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He says, and the two of you have a hard time looking away from each other. He clears his throat, the ghost of that smile still on his face. “Um, I have an idea of where we can go, if that’s okay?”

“Sure. You’re the one who’s been living here.” 

You decide to walk, and he slides a pair of sunglasses on over his face, paired with a hat as he tries to go unnoticed. It seems like second nature now, and the thought makes you a little sad.

“You said work’s been awful lately.” He says, glancing at you, leaving the question unasked. 

You sigh. “Just... my boss has been really riding me lately. I feel like nothing I do, no matter how above and beyond I go, is good enough.”

He frowns. “You’ve been working a lot of long hours.” 

You nod. “I’ve been working sixty hour weeks for the last two months. I’m tired, and stressed, and--” You stop yourself, feeling like you actually might cry. “-- I don’t know. I just needed to get out of there for a few days.”

His hand brushes yours as you walk. “It’s fine to be overwhelmed, you know.” He tells you gently, guiding you into a cafe with outdoor seating on your left. You get seated by a hostess outside, and settle into your chair, thanking the hostess for the water she pours before you turn back to Sebastian. 

“I just feel like-- I don’t know. I feel like I can’t do my job.”

“I’m sure it’s just a rough patch. Hopefully a break will be good for you.” He says, reassuring you. “Have I mentioned I’m really glad you’re here?”

“A time or two.” You smile.

The two of you order, and you catch up on what’s been going on over the last few weeks. You’re so happy that you don’t feel awkward or nervous anymore. The two of you seem to pick up right where you left off the last time you talked on the phone, even if you do spend too much time admiring the color of his eyes and the way he runs his hand through his hair every so often.

If he notices, he doesn’t say anything, but he shifts a little closer every few minutes, always finding an excuse to casually touch you - a hand on your arm as he tells you something funny that happened with the cast, brushing a strand of hair out of your face when the breeze picks up. It makes your heart race.

He has to go back to work, but he walks you to your hotel first, chiding you for taking a cab to the set in the first place. 

“I didn’t know where I was going!” You protest, and he laughs, a sound that you want to hear a hundred more times.

You part ways by the elevator, but not before he asks if you’ll come by his apartment that he’s renting for dinner. 

“Of course I will.” You say, and he smiles in relief, as if he thought you’d really turn him down. 

.

.

A few hours later, you’re knocking on his door. You found the place pretty easily, and texted him to let him know you were on your way. When he opens the door, he looks exhausted. He smiles at you though, and gestures for you to come in. 

“No offense, but you look terrible.”

He snorts. “You really know how to charm a guy.” He motions for you to go into the kitchen, where you sit at the breakfast bar. “The afternoon was long. They owed us a night off, though.”

“Have you been sleeping at all?” 

He sighs, turning to the stove, his back to you slightly. “Here and there.” 

“Seb.” 

He pulls a pan off the stove and dishes up two plates, handing one to you with a fork. “I’m just tired. I’d really like to live in the apartment that I pay for, in New York. I love my job, but sometimes... I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I sound like an asshole.”

“No you don’t. You sound like you’ve filmed almost three movies in six months.”

He looks up at you, the corner of his mouth tilted up. “See? This is why I like you.” He points at you with his fork. “I never have to-- I don’t have to pretend.”

You look down, blushing. “I like that too.”

He looks at you for a minute, clearly thinking about something, and then he gets up from his stool, crowding you against the counter. “Don’t freak out.” He whispers, and then he kisses you, simple as that.

It’s a hard kiss, like he’s been thinking about doing it forever and can’t take it anymore. You inhale sharply as you kiss him back, and he slows down, his hands framing your face as the kiss turns more gentle, but no less passionate. 

“I’ve been wanting to do that for six months.” He says, breathless. 

“Really?” You blurt, still a little shocked. 

He smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corner. “Yes, really. I-- I don’t know. You’re a breath of fresh air, truly.” He tugs at the ends of your hair gently. “I still can’t believe you’re here.”

“I can’t either, to be honest.” 

“I can’t tell you how much that means to me. That you would come here to see me, when you could have gone anywhere else.”

“There’s nowhere else I wanted to be.” You tell him, feeling bold, and his eyes snap up to yours, searching for something. He must find it, because he pulls you to your feet, his mouth finding yours again. 

He’s quite a bit taller than you, so he tilts your head upwards, your mouth falling open beneath his, pulling a deep groan from him. He pulls away, panting. “I’m--” he runs a hand through his hair, again, “Sorry. I just... I’m so tired. Can we put this on hold, maybe?”

You grin. “I’m here for a week, Seb.”

His face lights up. “That is... excellent information.” 

The two of you finish dinner, and then he tugs you over towards the couch with him, stretching out so your head is resting on his chest as he flips through the channels. Neither of you are awake enough to pay attention to anything, so he puts on a baseball game.

The crowd noise and quiet voice of the commentators is the perfect white noise, and soon you’re both asleep.

.

A few hours later, you wake up, blinking as you try to regain your bearings. 

“Hey.” His voice, scratchy from sleep, greets you, and you crane your neck up to look at him. You realize he’s been awake for awhile, his fingers carding through your hair, and you let yourself think for a second how you wouldn’t mind spending every single evening like this. 

“Hi.” 

“Sleep well?” He asks, smiling softly at you. 

“Yeah.” You yawn. You turn onto your side, pressing your face against his neck, feeling a little cuddly. “You?”

His hand runs down your back, pulling you a little tighter against him. “Best sleep I’ve had in ages.” 

You hum, reaching for his free hand. 

He laughs. “You’re cute when you’ve just gotten up from a nap.” 

“Don’t embarrass me when I’m not awake enough for a good comeback.” You tell him, and he makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat. 

“Funny, too. I knew there was a reason I liked you so much.” 

“So you’re not going to tell me to get back on a plane?” You ask, your inner anxiety coming out. You know he wants you here, but you can’t help that voice in the back of your head that’s telling you this is all too much, too fast.

“Not a chance.” He says, firm, and you grin.

“Cool.”

“Cool,” he repeats, ducking his head to kiss you.

Very cool indeed, you think, grinning against his mouth.

[cutiesaeran]

not really related to new year's buuut can i request the RFA members + Saeran + V and their reactions when they find out MC is a well-known fiction writer? thankies! c:

Aha, when MC is living my dream, you mean? :)

Sorry this took so long, I kept stopping and starting because of a sudden urge to draw. :/

Yoosung

He knows that you write, but since you never specified he just assumed you’re a blogger or maybe write freelance; it didn’t occur to him that you might actually be popular?

Of course he noticed that you have a lot of nice things, but he’s constantly surrounded by people with nice things so he doesn’t think too much of it. It’s not like you’re living on Jumin’s level, anyway. You’re living like a “commoner,” just with nice things.

So he’s a little caught off guard when you casually drop into a conversation that you have a meeting with your publisher for your next book.

Wait, what?

Now he’s asking all sorts of questions - what do you write, how long have you done it, why didn’t you just say so

“I did, Yoosung.”

“But you didn’t say you wrote books. Or that your books were popular.”

He’s so excited to find this out, especially once he knows what you write because he knows sooooo many people who like them and ohmygod he can brag that he’s dating you???

Except please don’t, because you don’t want a line of people suddenly showing up at your place. Or his.

He’d been considering reading them but had been devoting most of his free time to LOLOL. Now he has a reason to make time to read them.

“Do you need a beta reader? Because I’ll totally do that”

Zen

He’s calm. It’s pretty cool, he definitely thinks it’s awesome but he’s not as easily excitable as a certain blond boy.

It’s wonderful that you are both low-key famous though?? Like, he’s not well-known off the musical route and your books are bestsellers but again, you’re not well-known outside of those who read your brand of fiction.

It works out well with how much he works because you just pour all your time writing into the hours he’s gone and then chill with him when he’s around.

He really likes that part.

He reads your books whenever he gets the chance and loves them.

“Babe, can we turn them into musicals?”

“…Zen, I can’t write songs. Or music.”

“But think of how amazing I would be at play RandomName Character!”

That calmness dissipates whenever you release a new book; then he’s your biggest fan and is telling anyone and everyone who will listen about your new book.

Number One Fan and Number One Salesman™

Jaehee

She had no idea how successful you were because you’d never exactly stated that you were a bestselling author. She assumed you were good since you lived off of it - great for helping organize the RFA parties - but she didn’t know you were that good.

It isn’t until you two get into deep discussions about the cafe that you mention it, and even then it’s just kind of a casual “hey, if you want, I can put down the same amount of money you are to help fund it.”

She’s floored.

She’s shook, flustered, discombobulated, the whole shebang.

You see her extreme shock and confusion to it and laugh, explaining to her that your books are very popular. If things keep going the way they are, you’ll kind of be like Korea’s J.K. Rowling

That’s a huge accomplishment.

She encourages you to use the cafe once it’s opened as a place to write and you oblige, happily basking in the atmosphere when you’re not busy helping her.

She’s surprised that you still want to help with the physical labor of it all, since you definitely don’t need another income, but you tell her that you love it because it’s with her.

She is so supportive and will close the cafe to go places with you when you tour.

Jumin

Fiction isn’t really up his alley, but he respects you for writing it.

It takes a lot of effort and ingenuity to break out among the vast ocean of writers to become well-known, and he applauds you for both of those things.

He does manage to read your books but you both know they’re not really… his style, so he opts to keep most of what he has to say to himself, since it wouldn’t exactly be helpful. But the fact that he did read them means a lot.

The fact that you’re popular enough that you live comfortably already helps ease any nagging fears that he has that you just might be like all the others he’s met. Especially once you two officially get together because you never ask him for money. Never.

It’s also nice that you’re successful because it means that he doesn’t have to fight with his father about it at all - you may have started out as a commoner but you’ve obviously worked hard to get where you’re at and even Mr. Chairman can respect that.

He offers to find a way to have C&R sponsor you, but you decline. You understand that it’s just him trying to find a way he’s happy with to support you, but it’s really not necessary (and you don’t want to be responsible for poor Jaehee getting more work)

707

He’s like, super duper excited when he finds this tidbit of info out during his background search. SUPER excited.

He doesn’t have a lot of extra time to read but he will download audio books to listen to at times, and after reading some killer reviews about your sci-fi space series, he just had to check them out.

The boy may have become mildly obsessed with them.

And now you’re here

In his chatroom

Talking to him

OMG he’s fanboying hardcore

He drops lots of references to your books in the chat, wondering if anyone else will catch on (he does this in other routes too, fyi :D) but the only person to ever play along is, of course, you.

It’s hard to believe that the author of his favorite book series is just a down-to-earth, genuinely kind and funny person? And that you bother talking to him and memeing with him and all that jazz? Like whoa

It makes it all the harder when he comes to Rika’s apartment to save you and you make it very clear that you’re interested in him romantically.

Talk about adding another layer of angst onto his already warring heart and mind about what to do with you.

When it all works out, he ends up spewing word vomit about how much he loves your books and telling you all of his metas and headcanons and whatnot. When he finally realizes what he’s doing, he tries to shut up but it’s already too late.

But you love discussing it with him and go back and forth all the time. He even gives you new ideas to incorporate in the future (though you don’t tell him until he reads the book and is like ‘hey!’)

He’s thinks he may have died and gone to heaven

V

He’s so proud of you!

This is the man who considers himself a father figure to most of the RFA, and while your position in his life is… a little different than that, he still has a lot of the dad-like qualities in how he reacts to things.

There’s no shock, no awe, just him being incredibly proud.

He pulls you into his arms and kisses you, just beaming at your admission.

Reading is a little tough for him these days (he can do it, it just strains his eyes a lot) so he asks if you’ll read your stories to him. He wants to know what they’re about and he loves your voice, so win/win? Of course, you agree to this.

At the end of every book,he will sit thoughtfully for a bit before gently giving you his opinion. It’s never negative, but he’s good at analyzing the story and characters and you genuinely find what he says interesting and sometimes take notes to file away for future use.

It takes a while to go through them all - after all, they’re not shorts and you’ve published quite a few - but eventually you make it through the ones that are already out there.

 You start to go through the WIPs you have, asking his opinions and thoughts and incorporating some of it to make your stories even better.

He ends up contributing enough that you mention putting his name on them too but he declines, saying it’s all yours and he just helped push you forward.

He’s really such a cinnamon roll.

Saeran

At first, he doesn’t really care.

No, scratch that, at first he actually hates it.

So you’re successful. That’s great. He’s not. Just another nail in the coffin that guarantees you’ll leave him one day for him not being good enough.

Of course, that isn’t the truth but his mind doesn’t let him believe it for a long, long time. He wasn’t worthy of good things before and now, after all that he’s done? Definitely not.

It takes a lot of time and patience to convince him that your career has no bearings on your feelings toward him; it’s just something you love to do and are good at.

When he gets over the initial insecurities, he decides to read one of your books without telling you that he is. He’s not sure what to expect and doesn’t want to get your hopes up in case he doesn’t like it.

Turns out that was a needless worry. He’s sucked into it with your thrilling plot line, fleshed-out, realistic and relateable characters (wait- is that one modeled after me?) and reads through it faster than he’s ever read anything before.

JFC no wonder you’re popular.

You find him on the couch one day, completely immersed in your newest release. He’s so into it that he didn’t even notice your entry which is incredibly unusual for the usually super-attentive man.

When you place a hand on him he jumps and looks ashamed, getting angry at first before realizing he has no reason to be.

It’s a large turning point in your relationship when he starts to openly support you and show excitement, and you know that you’re finally past the original resentment he felt.