#galatea 01 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

asphora · 4 years ago

Text

01. Technicolor | hvc

Your rules have always kept you grounded, helping you navigate a world driven by color without fail. It isn’t until you meet Hansol that you realize, sometimes, there are exceptions to the rules.

soulmate(ish) au

wc: 7402 | fluff, f!reader, modified idol!verse, cursing, best friends to lovers

a/n: I’ve finally gotten around to editing this cause I realized what a mess it was initially. I know its long, I’m such a lil bitch for long fics and world building ahhhhh ;A; lemme know what you think or don’t it’s all cool k thanks byeeee

01 . 02 . 03 . 04

Growing up in the kind of world that you do, you find that there are only a few fundamental truths one has to live by. Of course, everyone is different, but these truths you’d learned had, even in the most devastating times, held you together. This world is governed mostly by one factor and its color. It’s what sets people apart: those who can see in color, those who are in love and have found someone to love truly and unconditionally; and those who are only able to conceive of varying tones of gray, those who have yet to find love or maybe never will.

Not classes or hierarchies. Instead the world is moved by and moves through color. People, or at least most of society, like to think of it as some kind of “soulmate system”. A way by which only true happiness can be achieved. One could have multiple soulmates throughout their lives, but never more than one at a time and if one had color in their lives, they would do anything to keep it.

You on the other hand were less naive. You knew it wasn’t some kind of magic system that put two people automatically together. It surely didn’t mean that once you found someone who brought you color, it was one and done. A person could go their whole life knowing someone and only start developing color for them years down the line. It wasn’t something instantaneous and it surely wasn’t something that happened at first sight. It took time and patience, growth. Likewise, a person could go their whole lives never knowing color and living a perfectly happy and successful life. The notion that only one or the other was worth living for was a laughable notion to you.

If anything, you found that the color system was more of a poison than anything else. It was a lie people liked to buy into to feel secure in their existences and meaning in this lifetime. Color couldn’t give someone purpose just as much as it never ensured lasting love, it only ensured love in that moment. And love, you learn, is a fickle thing.

People lose and gain color every day. Once the love faded, so would the color. Of course, it was crushing. Color was like a drug, the highs leave you higher than the top of the world, while the lows left you plummeting and spiraling into an infernal abyss for months on end. You knew the experience first-hand.

That’s why some people become junkies. Almost everyone who didn’t have it was desperate to, and those who’d had it but lost it just can’t live without it once they’ve had a taste. Some even going as far as participating in underground meeting rings, illegal gatherings where sex and booze were rampant. Anything to find a connection, anything akin to love that would give them the high of seeing even the faintest tints of color in the corners of their irises, before they’d come crashing down, the cold gray hues seemingly darker than they seemed to remember and unbearably colder in comparison to the memory of color.

1. There is no such thing as soulmates.

When you first meet him, it’s at a dimly lit bar with some sort of open mic night that a close friend has invited you to come to, maybe even sing a few songs at. The place is mostly empty, save for a few regulars and scattered groups here and there that have come to listen to the performers drunkenly bare their souls out to the equally intoxicated public.

He’s there when you get on the platform stage after much coaxing from your friends, not that you really notice. Truly, you probably wouldn’t have even gone up if one of your friends hadn’t promised to shoulder the next round of drinks as long as you sang. You supposed you were just selfless like that; you’d take one for the team if it meant a round of free drinks.

On stage, you’re a bundle of nerves, but your body language is quiet and if you were shaking, you surely didn’t show it. You give a tentative nod to the person who manages the music, quietly whispering your song of choice to him. Your legs feel like jelly, but the rest of the crowd is too immersed in slightly buzzed conversation to notice.

When the music starts, the humdrum of chatter doesn’t subside and you’re thankful to be as invisible as you are, that the people don’t seem to pay too much mind to you. As you start singing though, your voice pierces through the talking like smooth whiskey down the throat of unsuspecting first-time drinker; there’s a sudden heat about the room. Something about the way your first notes hang in the cramped space and fill it completely with amber sound makes the air feel suddenly electric. There’s a sudden sizzle and tension that there wasn’t before, and the chatter of the crowd decrescendos into a whisper. All eyes on you, seemingly hanging onto every word.

Not one to revel in the spot-light or enjoy being the center of attention, you give what you think is somewhat of an awkward smile, lips upturned into a barley there smile; like remnants of a waxing or waning moon. You don’t know it, but the expression you make leaves the crowd completely disarmed; your quiet charm, along with the cooing depth of your voice capturing them all and leaving them spellbound, especially a particular regular.

The first time you hear his voice, it comes from behind you. You are at the bar sitting with friends, talking and laughing.

“I loved your number a while ago.” His voice is striking; it’s boyish but with a deep and almost gruff quality to it that made it an unmistakable sound. Such a distinct sound that seemed to effortlessly cut through the drunken laughter in the establishment. There was something almost foreign sounding about it despite the perfect syllables he let out, the subtle confidence in his tone making the hairs at the nape of your head stand. If anyone catches the shiver you let run down your spine, no one says anything.

You aren’t completely sure if he’s talking to you, so you pretend not to hear. It would have been absolutely mortifying to give a response to a stranger—an attractive sounding one at that—when he wasn’t even referring to you. So when the friend your facing taps you and points to something behind you, you feel your heart start to race.

So, he was talking to me.

“Hi?” You let out shyly, not meaning for the words to sound more like a question than a greeting. You hadn’t planned to say more after already opening so awkwardly, and being naturally quite soft spoken around strangers, you thank the universe because once your eyes land on the obviously much-too-attractive-to-be-talking-to-you male, you feel your heart jump into your throat, choking down any kind of words that may have been lingering there.

He looked like something out of a movie scene or a marble statue come to life, except that Galatea would have probably paled in comparison to his beauty. The seemingly soft but still masculine features of his face, the strong jaw—he seemed to be an Adonis in the flesh—the rest of him as equally enchanting, dressed in a crisp and clean looking dress shirt with one or two buttons too many left undone. You stop your eyes from traveling down the porcelain like skin and look into his eyes and at his face as he talks.

“I loved your song,” he flashes you a set of pearly whites held in a gummy smile as he talks, the expression reaching his eyes in a way that felt so sincere and too genuine. When he smiled like this, he didn’t seem nearly as mysterious as he sounded with your back turned, and you feel yourself relax, returning his smile with your own.

“From um, a while ago, I mean I guess you only sang one song though...” He rambles on, his hand moving to scratch the nape of his head.

It’s a shock to your senses, albeit quite refreshing though, how such an attractive individual could be so confident yet simultaneously awkward. It makes a giggle bubble up from inside you and spill out softly, as you reply, “Thanks.”

He chuckles a bit, the sounds of both of your laughter intertwining in a hush. There was something about him that was just so charming. You couldn’t help but feel slightly more relaxed despite just meeting him.

“Um, is this seat taken?” He points to the vacant barstool next to you, the pads of his fingers lightly grazing the leather of the stool. You meet his eyes and he’s patiently waiting for your response, eyes watching you with a soft but also curious expression. As if saying, I want to talk to you some more, do you want to talk to me some more?

Yes.

“No, it isn’t.” You reply, eyes lingering on him just a little too long, as he fills the space next to you. When he’s secure in his seat, he looks back at you and you pretend to busy yourself with drink in your hand. If he notices, he doesn’t let on and you’re glad he’s a gentleman like that.

He watches you swirl the liquid around, dainty fingers against the cool glass. “Can I get your next one?” He offers, eyeing the hard liquor in your glass. He’s hoping he isn’t sounding too forward, the nerves in his stomach settling momentarily then running a rampage the instant he hears you giggle.

“You’re offering to buy my next drink, but I don’t even know you.” The words come out as a soft but confident drawl. If he had color, he would have noticed the slight blush playing at your cheeks at how forward you’re being. It isn’t something you’d usually say, but something about this boy and the whiskey in your blood was making your heart do somersaults, pushing the blood to your head that was already swimming from the alcohol, effectively boosting your confidence and lowering your inhibitions.

“You don’t seem like you’re trying to get me drunk though,” you admit before he can formulate any kind of come-back, “you seem like a nice guy.”

You offer him a softer smile, one that isn’t so teasing, and that’s all it takes to lessen the tension that’s built up in his stomach and shoulders.

“My name’s Vernon.” He says the name with a different accent and it sparks a crinkle in your brow.

“That can’t be your real name.” You retort and he almost chokes on the swig he’s taking from his drink at how unusual your reaction is. It wasn’t like he didn’t look like a foreigner, and yet here you were, a perfect stranger, questioning the validity of his identity.

“It is my real name.” He counters, his voice losing the nervous edge, replaced by the playful and almost whining tone of a child who desperately wanted you to believe him, despite having been completely caught in the act.

“Oh c’mon! What’s your Korean name then?” You roll your eyes in a joking manner and he fights a smile that’s slowly getting wider on his lips, desperately biting it down with his teeth as he’s shaking his head.

“I’ll show you yours if you show me mine.” You raise an eyebrow at his innuendo but decide not to call him out on it. Instead you’re laughing at how silly this all feels. All over one name, not even his full one at that, the two of you were already crossing lines that wouldn’t have usually been crossed by a regular pair who’d just met. The strangeness of the situation isn’t lost on you, but you give in and tell him your name anyway.

He listens intently, repeating the syllables of your name again in a whisper. Drinking up the syllables as if it is something for only him to hear and know, imprinting the name into the soft skin of his lips before he proceeds to tell you his.

“Hansol, it’s Hansol.” He tells you, almost dejectedly and you nod. It wasn’t bad at all, you thought, trying to figure out why he’d wanted to hide it from you, when it rolled of your tongue so much more effortlessly compared to Vernon.

When you don’t immediately reply or say anything, quietly musing his name to yourself, he tries to fill the space with idle talk, “You know, Hansol, like Han-solo from Star Wars?”

His remark pulls you completely out of your reverie and into a fit of laughter. If you had been trying to be soft and dainty just a few moments ago, that was clearly out the door now; tilting your head slightly back and covering your mouth to suppress your sounds.

“It was fine before you said all that. I mean, was that supposed to be a save?”

“Yeah! Star Wars is cool.” He defends. His tone completely serious, pressing down on the last syllable, saying it as though it’s the highest universal truth there is, completely unswayed by your laughter which it at this point thankfully dying down.

“Wait, don’t tell me you don’t like Star Wars, because honestly that’s a deal breaker for me.” This time his smile is back, accompanied with light laughter and you can tell he’s joking now.

“Oh my gosh, how can someone so good looking be such a dork?”

He’s just as surprised at the words that tumble out of your mouth along with your laughter, and it makes him do a double take at you, “Wait, you think I’m good looking?”

There’s something about his completely stunned and dumbfounded expression that stops you from feeling even a single bit of shame or embarrassment at your slip up. Instead you steal your expression, look him in the eye and let the tension of silence pull for just a few more seconds before exhaling a disappointed sigh, “No, I don’t like Star Wars.”

He blinks. Once, twice. As if his brain is too slow to register the words, his eyes staring into your completely serious ones.

“Aw, shit.” The sound is completely disappointed, as he shakes his head in dismay, desperately trying to hold on to the serious facade. he can’t help the laugh that accompanies it, and the sound is so musical and sincere that it breaks your poker face. “I guess we’ll just have to watch it together so you can gain some taste.”

“It’s pretty cocky for you to assume I’d say yes to a second date, don’t you think?” You counter, taking a sip and finishing your drink.

“It’s pretty cocky of you to assume that I’m asking you out on a date, or that this is even considered one,” he smirks, “don’cha think?”

Fuck, he got you there.

His laughter reassures you that the exchange is purely in jest though and you laugh along with him, lifting your empty glass to your face in an attempt to hide your embarrassment.

“We can make it one though, if you want?” Your laughter subsides, your embarrassment slowly following suit at his question.

“What do you mean?”

“I can buy you that next drink and we can call it a date?” His eyes look anywhere but at your face and your confusion turns into fluttering in your stomach. His sudden shyness effectively calming the wild horse that is your heart in that moment.

“Sure, I guess.” you drawl and his entire frame perks up, eyes landing on you with what you could only describe as a shocked puppy dog expression, before calling out to the bartender for another two drinks.

That night you learn that Vernon is actually his middle name—his mom’s maiden name—and that he uses it ‘cause it usually sounds cooler than Hansol. To which you reply a jumbled, Hansol is just as cool though. You learn that his dad is Korean, and that he has a younger sister he adores. He says he loved your singing voice since he can’t, for the life of him, even hold a fucking tune. You learn that he actually likes rapping though and that while he’s working on other things, he’s an aspiring rapper and musician.

You learn that his eyes have a different sparkle when he’s talking about rapping and that you could probably listen to him for days on end just going on and on about it. You learn the way a soft smile naturally lifts the corners of his lips when he talks about his sister, Sofia, and how wonderful she is. You learn that he’s a good listener and that he nods a lot when he wants to show you he’s listening despite his eyes sometimes being far off if they aren’t intently staring and boring holes, and you learn that despite the initial awkwardness and the embarrassing first conversation you shared, he’s really easy to talk to.

When both of you are quite buzzed already, whether from the alcohol or high off each other, you’re both talking in quieter, hushed tones, sitting closer at the now, less populated bar.

“I’m guessing you have color, huh?” You can hear the disappointment in his tone as he trains his eyes on the liquid in his glass, as if it will suddenly respond to him.

“If you’re asking that glass of wine, I doubt she can answer.” You joke, nudging his shoulder lightly, “But I can’t tell you what color she is either, cause it’s all gray for me too.”

At your words, he slowly lifts his head to meet your amused gaze. “Don’t tell me you believe in that soulmate bullshit, ‘cause that would really be a deal breaker.” You echo his words from earlier, still smiling, but watching intently for his reaction.

You’re relieved when he smiles and shakes his head, “No, no, I don’t.” He lets out a breath he seems to have been holding in a laugh, “There’s no such thing as soulmates.”

“Have you ever had it?” you ask tentatively, not wanting to pry, but knowing that Hansol will let you down easy if it’s something he doesn’t want to talk about.

“No, never.” Is his quick response. “Have you?”

“Yeah, once.” You reply. This time it’s your turn to talk to your glass of whiskey, finding the liquid more forgiving than human interaction, “It was a long time ago.”

He doesn’t ask further and if he notices any sadness about you in that moment, he doesn’t call it out.

“So, wait, shouldn’t you know what color wine is then?” Instead, he opts to make you laugh. “I mean, since you’ve had color before, right?”

He doesn’t fail and you find yourself leaning into the strong muscle of his arm as you laugh. “It’s maroon or plum, but really dark,” you tell him, “but since you’ve never seen color, you don’t know what I’m talking about so...”

He laughs with you at the silliness of it all and despite the tones of gray that fill your sight, you think that this is how the memory of color feels like. Not quite the same, but something like the remnants of a dream after waking up; familiar but distant and foreign all at the same time.

You’d been friends for months now, keeping in close contact since that fateful night you met, but it felt like you’d known each other for lifetimes. His friends—all twelve of whom you’d already met at this point—often joke that you’re practically dating already (despite both of you deciding and explaining to all of them that you would stay friends first, and adamantly denying their accusations). Often berating Hansol with taunts of: “You don’t have to hide it from us, we’re practically family” or the common trick of crashing yours and Hansol’s hangouts and movie nights at his place while asking as casually as possible, “Hey Hansol, does my outfit today match?” or “Hansol, what color is this?” while holding up a random object trying to trip the boy up.

In times of desperation, they’d even go as far as try to trip you up with their relentless questioning, with you happily playing along, teasing them just as hard and trying to fool them back.

“Do you think the color of Hansol’s eyes are pretty?” Mingyu asks as you’re sitting on the couch next to Hansol while reading a book.

“Mingyu, don’t bother her.” Hansol reprimands unenthusiastically as he flips through the channels on the television.

“Yeah, they’re a really pretty shade, Gyu.” You drawl out, almost lazily, not even bothering to look up from your book.

Mingyu practically jumps at your words and Hansol almost drops the remote, both needing to do a double take at you from the shock your words elicit.

“I knew it, Hansol! I fucking knew it!” the former screams and practically bolts out of the living room area into a bedroom, running back to where you were with two socks in his hands.

Calling out to you, he holds one sock in each hand. “Tell me the colors of each sock!”

He’s so excited that it’s a struggle to keep your face completely deadpan, but you manage it for the sake of the punch line. You look at the socks for a while as if studying them closely and from your peripheral vision, you can already see that Hansol’s caught on and his fighting that adorable gummy smile of his from showing.

“This one,” you point to the sock in Mingyu’s left hand, “is gray.” Pointing to the other in his right, “And this one is dark gray.”

Hansol’s laughter is wild and roaring before you can even finish. His mouth is wide open, his eyes squinted from the laughter and he’s clapping like a monkey who’d just been told he’d won a lifetime supply of bananas. Grabbing your neck, Hansol pulls you in for some kind of hug that, really feels more like a wrestling move, his other hand snaking around your waist, pulling you flush to him and squeezing you. You laugh as you let him, your book discarded somewhere on the couch as your hands move to his head, ruffling the hair there.

“That’s right!” he laughs, your name mixing with his laughter, as he’s rubbing the hair on your head. To add insult to Mingyu’s injury, he continues at you, “I love your beautiful gray eyes too!”

The taller boy says nothing, his face twisting up in irritation as he throws the socks at you and Hansol as he glares at the two of you, a pile of tangled, laughing limbs.

"We love each other so much!” You say with sarcasm dripping from your tone, as you hook your leg along Hansol’s while he’s making sloppy, disgusting, and wet kissing sounds.

“You guys suck so much.” Is all Mingyu can retort, his bottom lip jutting out in what is probably the most convincing puppy dog pout both you and Hansol have ever seen.

“Aw, c’mon, Gyu, don’t be like that. You know we’re just playing with you.” Hansol laughs, putting on his best gummy smile and flashing it at him, trying to butter the taller male up, to no avail.

“Besides,” you add, siding with Hansol, “you know Sol and I are friends, serves you right trying to tease is like that.”

Hansol hugs your face into the crook of his neck, silencing you, muffling whatever words you plan to say next, and preventing from further irritating the already frustrated Mingyu.

“Just shut up and let me do the talking, you suck at getting on people’s good sides” Hansol whispers into your hair, muffled but just loud enough for you to hear.

You shake free of the headlock and look accusingly at him, “What the heck do you mean by that? I got on your good side, didn’t I?”

He gives you a barely convincing disgusted expression before saying, “I mean, did you? Did you really?”

Your jaw drops in mock disbelief and with your hands that are already wrapped around him, you reach for his ticklish spots which you know by heart. Laughing and desperately wriggling in an attempt to get free, Hansol tickles you right back, also knowing your weak spots by heart. You wrestle until both of you decide to call a truce, neither able to breathe or take the other down.

As yours and Hansol’s laughter dies down, Mingyu plops down on the couch next to the tangled mess of tired limbs which are you and Hansol. He ignores the two of you, grabbing the remote and casually flipping through the channels.

“Whatever.” He pipes up after a few seconds, “When you guys finally realize you’re in love, I’ll be right and you’re gonna eat your words.” His tone is so childish and butt-hurt that you almost expect him to stick his tongue out at both of you.

The mental image, along with his tone, have you on the brink of laughter as you desperately attempt to bite it down by physically biting down on your lower lip. Hansol notices your face, knowing full well what is going through your head by the looks of you tearing up from fighting your laughter so hard. His jaw drops in an open-mouthed silent laugh and just when his expression is about to drive you off the edge, he clamps a hand down on your mouth and hugs your head into the crook of his neck again with his free hand, the two of you shaking from the silent bubbles of laughter finally erupting.

Despite the way you both initially met, after countless late nights spent exploring your shared ideas on humanity and existence, you two had decided not to rush into anything, neither of you in any particular hurry to put a label on what you were. And while you were both obviously attracted to each other, the pressure of having to lock it down, wasn’t something that either of you felt looming above your heads.

It wasn’t so much that commitment was a big and daunting thing. It was just that everything was so effortless. You and Hansol both knew this. While most people feared destroying a good friendship with romantic feelings, Hansol was extremely chill, telling you honestly that he just wanted to be friends first and see where that would both take you. whatever it was that you two had simply flowed and ebbed like a river; wherever you turned he turned, wherever he was rocky and shaky, you easily followed suit, ridding the highs and lows with him. Simply being with each other, laughing, talking, it was always enough.

You were thankful for this arrangement, because despite having already experienced color, you were in no rush to do so again. If you were truly being honest with yourself—which admittedly most times, you were no good at—you knew the real reason you were so relieved he’d decided to keep things casual was because you were still wounded from the last time someone had loved you and only left you hurt. While most people were adamant about labels and defining their relationships, you were more than happy to be, and remain in the gray area—both visually and in your relationship with Hansol.

So when it starts, you don’t notice it at first. It’s slow and gradual, and with living day-to-day life, with Hansol practically always by your side, with the amount of sleepovers, parties, hangouts and movie nights you had, you barely picked up on it. You suppose color is sneaky like that. It’s isn’t glaringly obvious until it’s there, and it isn’t there until you notice it is. It creeps up on you, slowly trickling into your vision like poison, but once you saw it, it wasn’t something that could be ignored or unseen; like a burning car, once you had seen it, you just couldn’t look away.

It’s just a regular day when it happens. You’re walking down the street with Hansol and he’s talking animatedly, hands flailing and mouth wide, as he tells you about a new producer he’s met who wants to take him in as an apprentice. You’re watching him intently, unable to fight the smile that pulls on your lips as you watch him talk so passionately, completely in his own bubble as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist. That’s when you see it.

Just behind the gray of his hoody, peaking behind the gray of the looming buildings in the distance. The sky. Something bubbles up in your stomach, a familiar feeling you can’t quite name and don’t try to. You’re too focused on what you’re seeing. As you walk, your eyes are trained in the distance, as if trying to really scrutinize the clouds. They were the same kind of clouds you saw every day, gray and wide dancing in the expanse, but something was different today that you couldn’t quite place.

You almost stop right where you’re standing, his words meting away into the background noise, when you see it, really see it. It’s fairly light at first, like something playing on the edges of your vision, forcing you to chase it like something running at the corner of your eye. As elusive as it was, you could also feel it pulling all your attention, seemingly hypnotizing you. It’s barely there in your peripheral, but when you focus enough on the sight it’s unmistakable.

Blue.

A soft shed of pale blue brushes at the edges and seemingly melts into the gray expanse of your vision. If you hadn’t had color before, you probably wouldn’t have noticed it this early, but you recognize the color all too well, its vibrance becoming increasingly opaque the more you let yourself focus on it. Suddenly, the gray seems a little less gray and more tinted, like cellophane over your irises.

It’s beautiful.

You look to Hansol who is still talking, completely unaware as you match his stride. He and the rest of your vision is predominantly gray, save for tints of blues and hues caught in the corners of your eyes. Suddenly, as you watch him, you heart starts drumming in your chest, increasing in speed and crescendoing in your ears as you realize what’s happening and what this all means.

You were falling in love with him.

Oh, fuck.

2. Color is just a feeling; don’t get too carried away.

You should leave. You know this better than anyone. You have always been the most rational person you knew and every instinct and hair in your body is telling you to run. If your fight or flight instincts had their way, you’d be soaring miles from his tiny apartment; you would cut the proverbial chord before it strangled you, before something great turned into something horrible. So, two months later, when you are lying in Hansol’s bed with him, just talking, you wonder where all the rationality you’d prided yourself with has gone.

Neither of you were even naked, but lying like that, face to face, both of you with hands tucked under your head and talking about fearing failure and career paths, it was enough to get your head swimming. By this point, you could already see pretty much every color in the spectrum and Hansol was pretty much in color, save for his eyes and hair, along with some hues on his clothes that still remained relatively grey.

“I just don’t want to give it my everything and find out that I’m just no good, y’know?” Hansol’s warm breath brushes your face as he talks and you shut your eyes as you listen, desperately trying to ignore the existence of color and just wanting to be there for someone you cared about deeply.

“You are good, Sol.” You reassure him, opening your eyes and looking directly and only into his grey ones, “Your producer, she wouldn’t have taken you in if she didn’t think you weren’t good.”

“I knew you’d say that, but you’re just saying that ‘cause you love me though.” His words make your breath catch and you almost choke on it. You fight the fear and stress that rises in your chest, closing your eyes and slowing your heart rate down with deep steady breaths.

“I mean, okay, I’m good.” He continues and you’re thankful that he’s completely oblivious to your predicament. “But what if this is it? What if I’m just good and this is the best I could ever be?”

“What do I do if one day, I realize while I’m good, maybe I’m just not good enough to reach my dreams?” You listen intently to his words and focus only on the undertone of panic and sadness in his voice before opening your eyes to meet his deeply worried ones.

You’re quiet for a few seconds, watching him. All thoughts of color or hiding your feelings are out the window, and all you see is him. Your precious Hansol who is baring his soul to you, tormented by his thoughts and his aching heart. Thoughtlessly, your free hand reaches to cup his cheek and he closes his eyes, melting into your touch and leaning into it.

“Then you keep dreaming that same dream and keep working on yourself until you get it. Even if you think it won’t work out, I know you, Sol, you’d rather die trying than ever give up.”

You rub soft circles into the soft and supple skin of his cheek, “With a heart like that, how could you ever fail?” The words make his lids flutter open, then you see it.

Brown. His eyes are brown, and they are the most beautiful fucking thing I have ever seen.

He smiles, touched by your words, as you return the expression. You feel heat prickling your eyes and tears quickly filling them and slightly blurring your vision. You breathe out a shaky laugh, rolling your eyes to diffuse the moment and in an attempt to hide the tears you know he’s already noticed. “You’re turning me into a fucking softie, Sol, I swear to god.”

He laughs, taking you into his arms and pulling you flush against him, burying your head in his chest so he can no longer see your face, because he knew you hated letting anyone see you cry.

“Sorry.” He exhales the word into your hair through a laugh, “But seriously, what would I fucking do without you?”

“You’re the best.” And there they were. The three words that seemed to override any rational thought, any fear or better judgment you had. Three words you lived and breathed for, that kept you here, in his bed, in his arms every time you came to your senses and tried to run. The moment you heard them; you melted every time.

Breathing in his scent, you wrap your hands gently around his waist, returning the hug and letting the tears spill from your eyes. Game over. Your worst fear had finally come to fruition; not that there would be nothing left that you could do to fight this, but worse, that you didn’t want to.

The two of you fall asleep like that.

You are a really fucking good liar when you want to be, you realize; still perfectly playing the role of the wonderful doting best friend. Never mind that you’d often cry yourself to sleep on the rare nights you slept alone in your own apartment, or the lingering longing glances you gave Hansol when he wasn’t looking. As far as anyone was concerned, those moments of visceral lucidity did not exist. If you had been broken hearted over your unrequited love, there was absolutely no sign, none would be the wiser and you were going to keep it that way.

That aching heart, the lonely and isolating pang of jealousy you felt whenever women flirted with Hansol, the almost unbearable need to reach out for his pale hand as you walked down the street, the burn in your chest and on your skin that you felt whenever you two were alone and Hansol was in a particularly touchy and clingy mood—fuck ‘em. They weren’t real if you didn’t acknowledge them and this feeling wasn’t real as long as you didn’t say anything.

You’d die a thousand deaths in a million lifetimes before you let yourself ruin something as wonderful as your friendship with Hansol. So, you continue the charade, lying to Hansol, to your shared group of friends and even to yourself.

I’m fine, I’m okay. This is fine.

“Hey, so I have this gig tomorrow down at that bar where we first met, d’you remember the place?” Hansol’s question tears you from your thoughts and you take a few larger strides to match his pace. If he was paying more attention, which he usually did fairly well, he would have been taking smaller steps to match your pace, but since he was busy looking at the items on display as the two of you walked through the park bazaar, he was absentmindedly walking at his normal pace.

“Yeah, of course I remember.” You reply, now beside him, “Don’t think I could ever forget the day a stray decided to cling to me and never let go. By the way, his name was Hansol, if you were curious.”

“Oh, so I’m a puppy now?” He laughs.

“Seriously? A puppy, Sol? Don’t kid yourself. You’re not nearly as cute as puppy.” You quip, eying the small trinkets and pastries in the stalls.

“Har har, you’re so funny.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smile playing on his lips, “Why don’t you leave the witty remarks to me, huh?”

“Okay, Mr. Rapper-Man-Who-Walks-Way-Too-Fast-For-His-Friend.” You joke, bequeathing him with a new title on the spot.

Finally, he looks up at you from the various goods, and gives you a sheepish gummy smile. “Oh shit, sorry.”

You laugh, “It’s okay, you big loser. Just stop leaving me behind.”

“Here,” he raises his elbow, offering it to you, “so that I don’t forget to walk slower and so that you don’t get left behind. It’s a win-win, loser.”

You don’t hesitate to link your arm with his own. It’s nothing, friends can do this kind of thing, you tell yourself, it would have been more suspicious if you’d declined and made it a weird thing.

Arms now linked, the two of you resume walking and talking—Hansol being the one doing most of the latter, telling you about his gig.

“Anyway, my producer said they were so impressed with my demo, they wanted me to—Hey, look!” He stops walking, the abrupt stop causing you to jerk as you get caught in his arm.

“This is really pretty,” He holds up the scarf to your hair, as if to check if it matched. He was always like this, mister fashion expert, always offering advice on what looked nice with what kind of shape or style, of course, despite the fact that he was practically blind to color.

“Lavender really brings out the color of your eyes and it matches your outfit...” He trails off, eyes widening. His mouth opens and closes without a sound like a fish, he shakes his head and the panic that’s all over his face makes him look even paler than he usually is. It looks like he’s about to throw up before something shifts in his eyes. His shoulders sag as he sighs and he closes his mouth resolutely, his eyes lingering sadly at you, then to the ground in shame.

You gaze at his face that’s now completely crestfallen, your expression of surprise plastered to your face for seconds that, to Hansol, seem to last forever. Fighting the elation that bubbles up from your stomach and fills your chest, your eyes dart everywhere except to Hansol’s face which you can’t bear to see so dejected for even another second. You look through the various items on sale, arm still linked through his and lightly tugging him along with you, until you find the perfect one.

“This!” you practically shout, making Hansol flinch and pulling him out of his deflated state. In your hand you hold it up to his face, a navy-blue beanie. “I think this will go really well with the blue undertones in your hair,” you smile sheepishly hoping he would get the message, “y’know since you dyed it silver last month.”

He stares at you, beanie in hand, his face expressionless and his eyes wide but unreadable. You worry that maybe he hadn’t gotten the hint and so you turn to the other various things on sale and pick up a phone case. “And this, this uh,” you look at the bright yellow phone case, “really brings out the brown of your eyes?”

It was a stretch you had to admit, and suddenly you felt absolutely embarrassed. Nice going, real smooth, you thought. Hansol unlinks his arm from yours and the action, along with his accompanying laugh cuts through your thoughts and completely catches you off guard. The sound makes you panic, simultaneously making your heart race and your stomach drop.

You start to spiral, putting the items down as your mind raced a hundred miles per hour. Oh shit, did I read it wrong? Maybe he was just kidding? Fuck, was he just puling a prank and I—before you can spiral any further, you feel the warmth of his palms on either side of your face, thumbs rubbing your cheeks in soothing motions and forcing you to look into the dazzling brown of his eyes.

“I got it the first time,” He smiles as he says your name, once again flashing that heart-melting gummy smile of his, this time even more disarming and seemingly brighter than you had ever seen it. He was smiling fully, with completely abandon, to the point that it looked like maybe it hurt.

“I’m not stupid, y’know.” The lighthearted comment catches you, once again off guard, making you laugh.

“Really? I didn’t notice since you’re always being a dumbass.”

“By the way,” his hands are still gently cupping either side of your face, “it’s pretty bold of you to assume that you’re the one I’m in love with?” He mocks, echoing his words from the night you two first met.

Surprised but not thrown off by his words, you pretend to play along and give him a taste of his own medicine. Feigning shock and dismay, you back away slightly but not enough for him to untangle himself from you, “It’s not like you hang out with any other girls, but—oh god,” you gasp, and his eyes widen. You can tell from his face that he thinks his joke has gone too far and he’s about to clarify the joke, but you beat him to it, “Don’t tell me you’re in love with Seungkwan?”

His worry immediately dissipates and he’s back to laughing, albeit there’s a slight fake annoyance in his expression as he rolls his eyes and grabs you in a playful chokehold.

“Fuck you, okay,” he laughs, “Just fuck you.”

“Serves you right, you fuckin’ loser!” You laugh despite his grip on you, “I can’t believe I’m in love with such a fucking asshole.”

Loosening his grip and letting you stand, but still keeping his hands on you, he looks you in the eyes and firmly tells you, “I’m in love with you too, you’ve brought color to my life.”

It takes a second before the very intense but tender moment sinks in for both of you, before you simultaneously crinkle your noses and exclaim, “ew.”

“That was too much, Sol.”

“Ugh, I know right, sorry,” he says, slinging his arm around your shoulders as you finally resume walking, “I thought it would be romantic and cute like in the movies, they always make it so good.”

“That’s why those are movies, Sol,” you intertwine your fingers with the hand that he has around your shoulders, “If you ever do that again, I’ll punch you in the dick.”

“Honestly, I would let you.” He nods, and you both laugh.

Fin.

95 notes · View notes