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blitzwhore · 25 days ago

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New Year's Kiss

“I've been meaning to apologize,” Stolas’ low voice broke the comfortable silence between them.

Blitzø glanced up at him, and found the owl's gaze lost somewhere past the busy streets of Imp City.

It was twenty minutes—give or take a few—before midnight on New Year's Eve, and the streets were bustling with people coming and going, fireworks already booming on the horizon. Loona had long since left for a party with her friends. As far as Blitzø was aware, M&M were on a well deserved romantic, candle-lit date.

Any other year, midnight would've found Blitzø balls deep into a faceless stranger, or perhaps elbow-deep into a tub of Bee&Jerry's as he binge-watched his comfort shows until he passed out from exhaustion. One way or another, he would've been trying his damndest to push away memories of his past—to drown out thoughts of all the people he wouldn't get to spend the night with.

Tonight, it seemed like midnight was about to find him sharing yet another cig with Stolas on his balcony.

The mere thought filled his chest with a bubbling kind of happiness, made him giddy enough that he felt the impulse to lean closer to Stolas, rest his head on the bump of Stolas’ hip.

He resisted the urge, though, and instead replied to Stolas with a low, “What for?”

Stolas breathed out a cloud of smoke and glanced momentarily down at Blitzø.

“For my behavior in the last few weeks,” he said, rolling the cig between his fingers. “I have been… a mess, frankly. There's really no other way to put it.”

“Stols, you had reasons to be that way,” Blitzø said, resting a comforting hand on Stolas’ waist. Even through Stolas’ loose jumper, he could feel warmth emanating from the soft feathers hidden underneath. He thumbed at the dip just below his hip, and didn't miss the small shiver that ran down Stolas’ body. “You lost so much, so quickly. And you were off your meds. Anyone would be a mess, honestly.”

Stolas sighed, and, though he didn't look down at Blitzø again, he did lean slightly into his touch—just enough for Blitzø's hand to shift until it was cupping his lower back.

“I still feel like you deserve an apology, though,” Stolas murmured. “I can't have been easy to deal with.”

Blitzø snorted slightly. “‘Bout as easy as it is to handle me on a normal day, to be honest.”

At that, Stolas’ lips quirked slightly upwards, the sight making Blitzø's heart soar higher than he cared to admit.

“Anyway,” Blitzø added, “I'm glad the meds have been helping.” He accepted the cigarette when Stolas passed it and took a drag of it. When he gave it back, he stayed purposefully closer—close enough that he could feel Stolas’ warmth radiating off of him, that his lungs filled with Stolas’ scent with every slow breath. “It's just… it's nice to have you back, Stols.”

A low exhale. With it, Stolas inched ever so slightly closer to Blitzø, until Blitzø's head was almost brushing against his waist.

“It's nice to be back,” Stolas admitted in a low voice.

Closing his eyes for a moment, Blitzø nuzzled Stolas’ waist and rested his temple there, just breathing the owl in, just taking a break from it all.

Even through the sounds of cheering and screaming and fireworks in the distance, he felt so at peace. More at peace than he remembered ever feeling during a New Year Eve.

Not since the fire, anyway.

When he opened his eyes and checked his phone, it was exactly nine minutes to midnight.

Though he didn't mind the silence between them, he couldn't help but break it to ask a low, curious, “Any New Year's resolutions?”

“Hmm?” Stolas asked. “Resolutions?”

Blitzø glanced up at him without moving away from his waist. “Yeah. Don't you have those either?”

“I'm afraid not.” Stolas tossed the cig onto the street below, but made no move to pull away from Blitzø, either.

“Damn,” Blitzø murmured. “So you don't… have any New Year's Eve traditions?”

Stolas didn't immediately reply, fiddling slightly with his fingers as his body tensed a bit.

“The Goetia at large do,” he said, voice low. “Mostly, they use it as one more excuse to throw loud, ostensive parties. Most of them in our ballroom, courtesy of my ex-wife.” At this he paused again, grinding his beak slightly, as thought the sole memory made him uneasy. “I kept to myself when I could help it, though,” he said. And then, in a lower voice still, “Tried to drink enough that I'd remember as little of them as possible.”

“Oh.” Blitzø gulped. He was uncomfortably familiar with what that felt like, and he knew full well what paths that sort of urge to drink your sorrows away could lead down.

He'd recently started to suspect Stolas was no stranger to it, either. He guessed this tiny admission from Stolas confirmed it, at least to some extent.

Blitzø would've much preferred for his suspicions to be wrong.

“How about you?” Stolas asked then. “Any other New Year's Eve traditions, other than setting resolutions?”

“Oh yeah, there's a bunch,” Blitzø said, and Stolas glanced down at him, eyebrow quirked in interest. “Obviously there's the fireworks.”

“Obviously,” Stolas smirked, another round of loud bangs going off in the distance.

“There's a bunch'a songs we sing, too,” Blitzø added. “Specific meals, too, in some rings. And…”

And here he paused, gulping. A quick glance at his watch told him it was four minutes to midnight, and suddenly his heart was threatening to burst out of his chest.

He'd been thinking about it, of course he had. Ever since Stolas had kissed him on Sinsmas, it'd been practically all he could think of.

Still, maybe it was too soon; too quickly after the whole Octavia situation. Maybe it was just better not to bring it up at all. Maybe—

“And?” Stolas prompted, curiosity in his voice as he watched Blitzø expectantly.

“O-Oh, it's nothing important,” Blitzø quickly said. “Just—sometimes, when you're, y'know, spending the evening with the people you love…” Three minutes. Fuck. “There's this tradition to share a kiss. At midnight. On the cheek, if it's like your friend or whatever, or, you know…”

Blitzø couldn't keep going—not when Stolas was looking at him like that. Cheeks all flushed, and eyes so big, those ever-present pupils boring a hole into him as they blinked in slow understanding.

“Oh,” Stolas breathed with a low hoot.

Two minutes.

“That sounds…” Stolas started, seemingly at a loss for words. “Is that something you'd want to—”

“I'm not saying it because we have to—”

They both paused, having talked over each other, and now Blitzø could clearly feel the same heat that was tinting Stolas’ cheeks burning across his own.

Despite his galloping heart, Blitzø couldn't help the smile that pulled at his lips. Would the two of them ever stop being hopelessly stupid around each other?

He reached up to take one of Stolas’ hands on his own, loving how familiar it felt, how easy it came to him to just run his thumb across Stolas’ knuckles and thread their fingers together.

“We don't have to,” he said again, voice low, eyes carefully searching Stolas’. “Just getting to start the new year by your side is more than enough.”

“But you… want to?” Stolas murmured, almost breathless, like he barely dared to ask.

Blitzø smiled—fondly, sheepishly—and tugged gently at Stolas’ hand.

“I always want to kiss you,” he softly admitted.

Stolas’ whole body was turned towards him now. Another tug at his hand, and Stolas was on his knees, face at Blitzø's level, eyes searching Blitzø's face as a smile spread slowly across his lips.

“If…” Blitzø breathed. “If you want?”

His question was drowned by a blast of fireworks and people's cheers and laughter in the streets.

But Stolas’ gaze was already on his lips, his hand cupping Blitzø's cheek as he closed the distance between them and pressed their lips together softly.

Tracing Stolas’ cheek with his own palm, Blitzø stepped closer and deepened the kiss, humming low in his throat as Stolas’ familiar, warm taste flooded his senses.

Outside, the world celebrated and sparkled and shone. But Blitzø's world was reduced to this. To Stolas’ fingers threading through his back spines to keep him close—to Stolas’ low, contented moan when their tongues pressed together and fell into a well-known dance. To Stolas’ scent, Stolas’ touch, those slender hands roaming down to his waist and circling his lower back to press Blitzø closer to himself.

It felt like several minutes went by before they managed to part from one another, and still they stayed close as they caught their breaths.

When Blitzø opened his eyes, Stolas was smiling.

He looked happy. Happier than he'd looked since the trial, and just—more present. Like the depression fog was finally starting to lift, leaving behind a man that was still riddled with grief, still struggling to find his place, but—ready to find some happiness despite it all. Ready to be here, in Blitzø's arms, and allow himself this moment of comfort and hope.

Blitzø couldn't help it. He pressed his forehead against Stolas', his love for the bird too overwhelming to put into words.

Stolas held him there, a smile still present in his voice when he asked a low, “Any New Year's resolutions, then, darling?”

Smiling, Blitzø hummed in response, running his fingertips through the soft, long feathers at the back of Stolas’ head.

“Yeah,” he breathed, his mind a whirlwind of just Stolas, Stolas, Stolas. “To have more of this with you.”

On AO3

#helluva boss #stolitz #Blitzwhore writes #Written at 4am so I hope there's not like a million typos #Or English mistakes #😂😂#Happy new year!!!! ❤️

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vindicated-truth · 23 days ago

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“Why are you smiling at your phone?”

Dongsik pries his gaze away from the screen to look at the older and infinitely more handsome version tilting his head curiously.

Joowon looks over Dongsik’s shoulder, and his eyebrows fly to his hairline. “Why do you have that photo?”

Dongsik grins at him. “Your brother sent it to me.”

“I don’t have a brother,” is the automatic knee-jerk response, which just makes Dongsik grin wider. Joowon sighs. “When did hyung send that to you?”

Dongsik watches as Joowon gracefully returns to the Western-style pasta he’s been cooking in his kitchen—an acceptable compromise between Joowon’s preferred cuisine and Dongsik’s love for noodles. Dongsik has yet to completely endear Joowon to noodles with broth, and he’s just thankful Joowon is gamely willing to try anything Dongsik offers him, so this is just him returning the favour—even though Dongsik has never understood the appeal of pesto.

“Prosecutor Kwon sent it to me just now. He was clearing away some of the stuff at your house and chanced upon this photo album.” Dongsik waves the phone screen. “Said this was his favorite.”

Joowon looks up from the sauce he’s been mixing in the pot. “Why did he send that to you, then?”

When did the two of you become close is the true, unasked question, and Dongsik smirks. “Because Prosecutor Kwon wanted to gush about how cute you were as a baby without you killing him for it.”

Dongsik laughs out loud when Joowon just glares at him. “Clearly I was not a baby in that photo,” Joowon huffs. “I was seven years old when that was taken.”

“Oh?” Dongsik’s interest is piqued now. “So you remember exactly when this was taken?”

“Yes.” Joowon lifts the tasting spoon to his lips and seems to find the sauce satisfactory. “My mother took that photo when the school called to ask about my piano recital, which I never got to participate in because my father sent me to England right before the concert.”

Dongsik stills.

Joowon turns off the heat from the stove and looks up when the silence stretches for far too long. “Dongsik-ssi?”

A million questions come to Dongsik’s lips and he doesn’t know what to address first. He wants to ask about Joowon’s mother and how much of a presence she had been in Joowon’s life. He wants to ask about the bastard of a father who sent an innocent child thousands of miles away to live alone without even a support system.

But he doesn’t want to dredge up any more painful memories that Joowon might not be ready—or even want—to face again, so instead he asks about the most fascinating discovery of all:

“You play the piano?”

Joowon seems startled by the question, as if it’s one that he hasn’t expected Dongsik to ask. “Yes,” he answers simply.

Dongsik watches as Joowon moves to set the table, and normally Dongsik would help, except at the moment Dongsik is too captivated by the way Joowon’s features are fighting to stay neutral as he speaks. “I was able to continue the practice in England. When I did not yet know the language, music was the only way I could express myself.”

There’s a significant pause before Joowon deliberately returns to the stovetop to fiddle with the noodles so Dongsik can’t see his expression. “My father didn’t come to any of my performances, even though I called home several times to invite him. After that, I just—stopped trying.”

Dongsik is grateful that Joowon’s back is facing him, so he’s able to quell the white-hot rage that flares within him with alarming swiftness. The hand that is gripping his phone tightly returns it to his pocket as he closes his eyes and takes a deep, calming breath.

Fucking bastard I hope the fires of hell burn you a thousand times over.

He opens his eyes, pastes a smile on his face, and walks up to the kitchen counter. “Let me help you with that, Joowon-ah.”

Joowon blinks as Dongsik lifts the pot from beneath Joowon’s hands, which are left hanging in mid-air, and begins transferring the pasta to two bowls. “I’ll start grating the parmesan then,” Joowon comments with a hint of amusement in his tone.

They lapse into comfortable, companionable silence as they finish preparing dinner side by side—practiced and familiar—just as they have for so many nights that they have spent together in Joowon’s apartment, like this.

“White?” Dongsik peers at the wine bottle Joowon places on the table when they both finally settle down to eat. “You prefer red.”

“White wine goes with this type of pasta better,” Joowon explains as he takes the seat adjacent to Dongsik.

Dongsik’s mouth quirks. “I see,” he muses as he twirls the pasta on his fork. “And here I thought it’s because I prefer white.” He pops the pasta into his mouth—and pauses.

Ever attentive, Joowon immediately asks: “What’s wrong? Do you not like it? I can prepare something else if you—”

Dongsik raises a hand to forestall Joowon’s spiraling concern—and transparent insecurity—as he chews thoughtfully. “Huh,” Dongsik says as soon as he swallows. “You know, I never liked pesto.”

Joowon looks visibly crestfallen and opens his mouth, presumably to once again offer another fare, when Dongsik shakes his head and continues. “I’ve just now figured out that it’s not the sauce itself that I don’t like, but the way it’s cooked.”

He meets Joowon’s eyes and smiles. “And I like the way you cook.”

Joowon blinks, a vision of adorable confusion, before his features settle into something akin to mild chagrin. “There is no need to be polite with me, Dongsik-ssi, I would rather have your honesty. How else would I improve my skills?”

How else can I be better for you is the true, unspoken statement, and something inside of Dongsik’s chest twists.

“Joowon-ah.” Dongsik reaches out and clasps Joowon’s hand. “I like it.”

Dongsik holds Joowon’s gaze just as determinedly, and Dongsik is delighted to see Joowon’s ears redden at the unwavering attention.

“I’m glad,” Joowon returns just as softly, before he clears his throat. “So am I also allowed to eat now?”

Joowon looks pointedly at his dominant hand that Dongsik is tightly holding, and Dongsik sees on those lips the smile that Jowoon is fighting against—and failing.

“Of course,” Dongsik says amiably as he lets go and returns to his own plate. “Can’t have my little prince go hungry.”

“I am not a prince,” Joowon huffs as he digs into his own plate, and Dongsik bites the inside of his cheek to stop the grin threatening to form at how Joowon has not protested Dongsik’s possessive use of ‘my’.

They eat in contented silence for a while—the pasta really is delicious, and white wine does go well with it—and when Dongsik is down to the last few bites, he takes a deep breath.

“Yuyeon-ah plays the piano too.”

Joowon peers at Dongsik over the wine glass, the rim touching his lips as he processes Dongsik’s revelation.

Belatedly, Dongsik realizes he’s made use of the present tense.

Slowly, Joowon sets the wine glass back down on the table. Dongsik watches the way Joowon’s fingers—slim and long the way a pianist’s fingers are, heartrending in the familiarity—fiddle with the stem.

“Does Yuyeon-ssi perform at recitals too?’

Dongsik swallows against the sudden lump that forms in his throat as Joowon makes use of the present tense, too.

“Yes,” Dongsik answers softly. He smiles, eyes crinkling against the sudden blurring of his vision. “And we never miss a single one. Our mother, our father, and myself—we always sit front and center at every single one of her recitals.”

Dongsik lifts his head to look at Joowon, expecting the familiar pity he’d see in people’s eyes whenever he talks about his sister, or—although thankfully less frequent now—the familiar underlying guilt he’d always see shadowing Joowon’s incandescent gaze.

Instead, Dongsik is met with a gaze as warm as the alcohol coursing through his bloodstream, wrapping him in a sensation that’s distinctly similar to an embrace.

It takes Dongsik’s breath away.

“She must be very good,” Joowon murmurs with a gentle smile, and Dongsik has to fiercely fight against the sudden urge to cry.

“She is,” Dongsik affirms, voice watery and breath shaky, as he unfurls his palm on the table and this time—it is Joowon who interlaces their fingers together.

“She is.”

—

“What are you doing here?” Joowon bursts out.

“Why yes I’m fine, Joowon-ah,” Hyeok answers wryly as he steps up and grips Joowon’s shoulders affably. “Thank you so much for asking, especially since it’s been so long since we last saw each other.”

“We had lunch together at work last week,” Joowon deadpans.

“And a week is an incredibly long time!” Hyeok throws his arms wide. “Come here.”

“Do not—!”

Dongsik grins widely as he meets Joowon’s sullen gaze from across the room as the younger man finds himself hoisted into Hyeok’s bear hug—very much against his will, Dongsik can amusedly see.

“… embrace me.” Joowon glares at Dongsik over Hyeok’s back and silently mouths, ‘Why is he here?’

Why did you invite him is the true, unasked query, and in response, Dongsik instead turns towards the living room where the rest of their visitors are waiting.

From the entryway, Joowon follows Dongsik’s gaze—and his eyes widen.

Hyeok releases him just then, and Joowon stumbles both at the sudden action—and in shock.

“What are you all doing here?”

Jihoon waves enthusiastically from his seat. “Hi Joowon-hyung!”

This time, it’s Hyeok who catches Dongsik’s gaze and silently mouths in disbelief: ‘Hyung?’

Dongsik grins. Hyeok and Joowon are more alike than either of them will ever admit at gunpoint.

“Dongsik-ah had us all have this date blocked in our calendars for a while,” Jihwa explains from her seat beside her brother.

“Said we had no excuse for not coming since we could file for official leaves early on,” Gwangyoung adds at Joowon’s befuddled expression.

“Which was a hell of a thing to explain to the supervisors at work,” Ohsub grumbles from his seat at the head of the table.

“Chief Nam Sangbae won’t mind,” Dosoo pipes up brightly, catching Dongsik’s attention at how he, too, makes use of the present tense. “Especially now that his residence has become our official reunion house.”

Little Huimang burbles happily from her father’s knee, and Seonnyeo rests her head contentedly on her husband’s shoulder as she strokes her daughter’s hair.

“But why?” Joowon exclaims as he looks at each new person with increasing degrees of bewilderment as Hyeok moves to take his seat as well. “What’s the occasion?”

His seeking gaze finally lands on Jaeyi, who bestows upon him a knowing little smile.

“I believe,” she muses, “we were promised a special performance.”

Joowon stares at her. “What are you talking about?”

From his vantage point near the newly-installed upright piano, Dongsik finally pushes himself away from the wall he’s been leaning against while watching everything unfold before Joowon.

He holds out a sheaf of paper, and Joowon looks up at him questioningly.

“I’ve never been that good at reading sheet music,” Dongsik admits ruefully as his fingers lovingly caress the paper. “So I’ve never really managed to interpret Yuyeon-ah’s original compositions.”

Joowon, to his credit, has always been one of the smartest people Dongsik has ever known, and has always been preternaturally fast at picking up clues.

And with the way Joowon’s beautiful eyes have widened in utter shock, Dongsik knows Joowon has pieced together all the clues now, too.

“Joowon-ah,” Dongsik tells him softly. “I would love to hear my sister’s music once again.”

The papers audibly rustle as Joowon takes them with trembling hands. He shakes his head swiftly as he grasps for one final missing piece to the puzzle.

“But why are you all here?” Joowon breathes as he looks up at the sea of expectant gazes staring back at him. “Why would you all file official leaves at work for—this?”

Why would you do this for me is the real, desperate question, and Dongsik moves to take his seat beside Hyeok.

Front and center.

“Because, Lieutenant Han,” Seonnyeo smiles at him, “you always make time for family.”

Dongsik closes his eyes then. He senses movement as the audience settles behind him with bated breath.

He hears a seat being pushed back, a piano being opened, a music sheet being settled into place.

And for the first time in more than twenty years—

Yuyeon has finally returned.

—

모두 함께 노래 부르자 힘찬 노랫소리 슬픔 가려지도록 괜찮을 거야 시계의 바늘처럼 다시 돌고 돌아 제자리로 오겠지

Let's sing together To cover the sadness with the powerful song It's gonna be okay, like the hands on the clock They'll go in circles back to their places

—

Title and lyrics from "Circles" by SEVENTEEN

Happy New Year, my beloved Beyond Evil fandom ❤️

Also posted at AO3

—

Now with a missing scene.

#beyond evil #괴물 #my fic #happy new year my beloved beyond evil fandom ❤️#jwds #주원동식 #이동식 #한주원 #lee dongsik #han joowon

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