#iM just throwing stuff at the wall but this concept does amuse me

[magnuficent76]

Oc concept I'm still kind working out:

Eridian guardian who puppeteers around a human form through Alien Magic Bullshit and works for corporations out of genuine curiosity for what it is like. First Eridian to develop class consciousness by walking into Hyperion and unnerving everyone else for weeks /sill

[darkblueboxs]

howdy i love your aftg writing!! here’s a concept: i feel like once neil’s past is out, he has no reason to hesitate absolutely sucker punching someone. like we know he made neil a pushover because it raises less questions, but now that everyone knows who he is im SURE he’s just bitch slapped someone mid-game. no holding back, like if u say something fucked up he’s just gonna try to kill you!! do you know who this man is?? there’s no doubt in my mind that he knows some quick and lethal punches!

Oh yes, anon. Bruiser!Neil I can DEFO get behind. 

Here’s 3k of Neil punching stuff, and Andrew being wildly turned on by it. Read here or on AO3 (Check AO3 notes for content warnings, etc.)

*Edit* : In the original version of this fic, Nicky faces racist abuse in addition to homophobic abuse, and quotes the offensive language and slurs used against him. After concerns were raised regarding how I handled this abuse (specifically, the language used, the context in which the abuse takes place, and my position as a non-latine) I censored and subsequently removed the relevant dialogue. I sincerely apologise and promise to do better in the future. Please don't hesitate to contact me with any questions and concerns regarding this subject.

[01/06/2020]

All the Guys Love a Bruiser

Neil’s mother taught him how to throw a punch, of course she did. Their lessons took place anywhere spacious enough to swing a fist, in empty parking lots behind greasy gas stations or in dingy motel rooms if she thought the walls were thick enough to cover up the noises they made.

Mary had always been more flight than fight, an instinct she had forced into Neil over years of running. Even she had to admit, however, that sooner or later they would hit a dead end, and while that would spell certain death for both of them, it would be better to go down fighting than it would on their knees.

If their lessons ended with Neil aching black and blue, it was his own fault. He needed to be quicker, smarter, crueller. More like his mother.

Matt’s teaching style is different from Mary’s, as is his fighting style. It bears the hallmarks of professional athleticism, all stances and positioning and strategy. While his mother’s idea of a lesson in self-defence was to hit Neil until he figured out how to dodge her blows or hit back, Matt talks him through how to angle his body, how to make a fist in a way that won’t break his fingers. At the end of their first boxing lesson, the only bruises on Neil’s body are the light purple spreading across his knuckles.

That evening, he and Andrew take over the beanbags, TV muted in the background while they dig into ice-cream. The tub is pleasantly cool in Neil’s hands, and he rubs his knuckles against the sides like an improvised icepack. When the residual cold has melted away, Neil flexes his fingers, enjoying the faint tingle dancing across them. These marks are different from those his mother gave him; they weren’t inflicted on him unwillingly but earned with sweat and exertion. When Matt had let go of the punching bag and told him they were done for the day, Neil had been surprised by his own disappointment. He had never been sorry see the end of his mother’s lessons.

Andrew takes his hand suddenly, startling Neil from his thoughts. It’s a purely analytical touch; he turns Neil’s hand over and runs a finger across the blossoming bruises of his knuckles.

Neil bites back the I’m fine, knowing the look it would earn him. Instead he says, “I had fun. We’re meeting again next week.”

Andrew nods. It’s a few moments more before he relinquishes Neil’s hand, however. The heat of Andrew’s skin mingles with the singing twinge of Neil’s bruises like an after-print.

Next week, Andrew slouches into the gym after Neil. He ignores Matt’s invitation to join them, flopping onto a rowing machine and leaning back against the machinery so he can kick his feet up on the seat rail. They’re lucky that they chose unsociable hours for their workout, or a line of athletes would be forming to glare at him.

Andrew watches them train from across the room with apparent disinterest. He can feign boredom all he likes; Neil knows he wouldn’t have bothered following him to the gym without reason.

Matt, if anything, seems amused by Andrew’s presence. “Dan comes to watch me practice sometimes, too.” He pauses to correct the angles of Neil’s feet before nudging his arms into blocking positions. “She did it even before we started dating. She used to sit on an exercise bike and pretend she was cycling so I wouldn’t know she was there to watch me. It was never very convincing.”

“Why did she want to watch you?” Neil shifts his weight, trying to copy Matt’s position.

Matt’s face crinkles up with laughter. “That’s the most Neil thing you’ve ever said.”

“Everything I say is a Neil thing.”

“She liked it when I took my shirt off. C’mon, man, join the dots.”

“You don’t take your shirt off to box.”

“Yeah,” says Matt. “Don’t tell her that.”

Neil rolls his eyes. “Can I hit you now?”

Matt barks out a laugh, and training resumes.

“Enjoying the show?” Neil asks Andrew an hour later, dropping down on the gym mat next to him. Andrew hands Neil his water bottle with an unimpressed look.

“You’re awful.” Andrew flicks a look over to Matt, who is using their break to chat with the only other gym regular insane enough to be working out at the crack of dawn on a Sunday. “He could knock you on your ass with one right hook.”

“I know I’m awful. That’s what training is for.” Neil pauses to gulp down most of the bottle. A droplet escapes his lips and tracks down his jugular before falling into the dip of his clavicle. Andrew’s eyes track its path. “Matt isn’t going to hurt me. Is that what you’re worried about?”

“I’m not here to babysit you.”

“Huh.” Neil drains the last of the water before shaking the residual droplets over his head. The beads glint in the corners of his vision as they catch in his bangs and fleck his cheeks, mercifully cooling against his skin. Andrew is still watching him intently. His eyes flick to Matt once more, checking that he is still absorbed in his conversation.

“Yes or no?”

“Yes,” Neil replies, and he watches as Andrew takes Neil’s hand in his. The skin is flushed from strike after strike, not yet coloured in bruising patches but soon to be. Neil’s hands feel softer for it, sensitive to Andrew’s touch.

“I know my limits.” Neil isn’t sure why the gym suddenly feels three degrees warmer. “Really, it doesn’t hurt.”

“I know. I trust you.” Andrew sends one more look over Neil’s shoulder like he’s checking the coast is clear before pressing Neil’s knuckles to his lips.

The breath Neil was in the process of catching slips from his grasp entirely. “Oh.”

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“You like watching me fight.”

“It’s more interesting than watching you run.”

Neil leans in until he can see each individual freckle on Andrew’s cheeks. “Interesting?”

Andrew’s cool look is betrayed by the twitch of his jaw. “Something like that.”

If Matt notices Neil’s new vigour when they return to practice, he doesn’t comment on it. When he catches Neil’s eye, however, he grins knowingly. Perhaps Matt’s conversation had not been as absorbing as he made it out to be. Soon, however, the rhythm of the exercise draws Neil’s attention back to the task at hand.

Neil first learned to throw a punch because his mother believed that one day his life could depend on it. That isn’t the reason that he has resumed his training with Matt; it turns out that a good instructor and fewer death threats make the activity far more pleasant than Neil remembers. It may be a useful skill, but he values the challenge more than he does the practicality. The physicality, too – in fact, he likes boxing for the same reasons that he loves Exy. Quick, brutal, thrilling. He finally understands, too, why Andrew likes to spar with Renee whenever his emotions get on top of him. There’s a certain a sense of control that comes from putting his fist through a break-board. Not that he needs the empowerment as much as he once might have – most of Neil’s tormentors were killed long ago, his fears with them. Given his new life of safety and security, it’s likely that he’ll never really need to know how to throw a good punch.

It takes all of one week for Neil to be proven wildly, wildly wrong.

Opposition strikers – with one glaring, now very dead exception – are not typically Neil’s problem. Generally, if they end up playing on the same side of the court as him, something has gone wrong in the team’s strategies.

He can tell even from a distance, however, that one of the Terrapin strikers is causing difficulties. Not in terms of ability – of which Terrapin’s #13 has little – but in attitude. Thirteen is a vocal player, and Neil can hear snatches of his voice echoing across the court. No fists have been swung, which is an impressive feat for the Fox defenders, but perhaps only because the luck of substitutions has put Thirteen against Nicky more than anyone else, and Nicky is more likely to react to insults with mirth than anger.

Shortly before the end of the first half, Nicky is subbed off at the same time as Thirteen. Nicky passes Neil on the way to the court doors, clacking their racquets together with half a smile. “Give them hell, Neil.”

Thirteen passes them at the same moment, slamming Nicky’s shoulder as he passes. Nicky mutters a word under his breath that would have earned him a month of washing-up duty at Abby’s house before heading for the Foxes’ bench. Neil watches him go, eyebrows creasing together. Nicky isn’t easily upset by the cruelty of strangers; it’s the cruelty that comes from within his own family that is most likely to shake him from his good humour. The barbed insults of nameless players on the court, on the other hand, are usually brushed off with a rude gesture and no more.

Swept up in the rush of the match, Neil forgets about Nicky’s discomfort until half-time. The team pours from the court in high spirits; they have a decent lead over the Terrapins which should carry them through the second half when exhaustion starts to kick in. Nicky, despite having blocked more shots on goal than anyone, reacts to the arrival of the rest of the team with only a pallid grin. His grip on his water bottle is tight, and the cheap plastic crackles and caves in his hands.

Nicky is an easy read, and it doesn’t take long for the other Foxes to notice. After he brushes Renee’s concerned enquiry off, however, the team leaves him be.

When Neil returns to the court for the start of the third quarter, he breathes a sigh of relief to see that Thirteen is nowhere near Nicky. He’s standing closer to goal than Neil is happy with, but Andrew is more or less impervious to verbal abuse and Thirteen has yet to show signs of physical violence. As much as he wants to keep a closer eye on the situation, Kevin’s barked commands draw his attention to the match at hand. The best thing Neil can do for the Foxes’ defence is to spend as much time lobbing the ball at the Terrapin’s goal as possible.

Neil and Nicky are substituted at the same time; they collapse onto the bench and drown their exhaustion in Gatorade. Thirteen crushed Nicky against the wall moments before the substitution, and Nicky is uncharacteristically quiet as Abby examines the cut over his eye.

“You’re not whining about cramping your style,” she says as she presses a plaster in place. “Should I be worried?”

“Nah, this is great for my style. All the guys love a bruiser.” Nicky winks despite the blood crusting in his eyelashes. “Neil knows what I’m talking about, don’tcha, Neil?”

Abby makes a noise that isn’t convinced, but doesn’t press the issue. Neil waits until she’s out of earshot before saying casually, “I still have a few contacts in the mafia.”

“Your sense of humour is dire,” says Nicky, but he’s grinning, so Neil counts it as a win. “Don’t worry about it. I think Andrew’s drawing his fire now. Andrew handles that kind of thing a lot better than me.”

“What kind of thing?”

Nicky winced. “Don’t ask.”

“Tell me.”

“Let's just say he isn't exactly lining up to lead a Pride march.” Nicky snorts humorlessly.

The joke doesn’t land, and not because of Neil’s non-existent sense of humour. He may not be as obvious as Nicky in his preferences nor as dark-skinned, but he has still been on the receiving end of enough of that brand of bullshit to know how it scratches at one’s insides.

“I wasn’t joking about those contacts.”

Nicky sighs. “I was worried you would say that.”

Neil’s attention keeps slipping from the game and over to Andrew, who is standing in goal and ignoring the tirade of insults being thrown his way like a statue facing down a breeze. His non-reaction only seems to stoke Thirteen’s fury, spittle catching in the mesh of his helmet as he watches Andrew knock yet another attempt away from the Foxes’ end.

Andrew spares Thirteen no more than a second of blank indifference in the face of his tirade. Then he drops his stance, shoulders setting into a silent challenge that sends a hot bolt of excitement straight Neil’s to gut. Andrew is locking down the goal.

The Terrapins don’t score again for the rest of the match.

Neil is through the doors before the final buzzer has died, charging into the crush of Foxes at centre-court to join in their celebrations. Andrew, as usual, hovers at the edge of the throng, but he accepts the clack of Neil’s racquet against his. A light sheen of sweat dances across Andrew’s forehead and his lips are parted as he regains his breath after the exertion of locking the Terrapins out.

“Did Thirteen give you trouble?”

Andrew snorts derisively despite his breathlessness. “He tried.”

Neil gets to see Thirteen up close during the handshakes. He barely grazes the tips of each Foxes’ fingers as he passes one by one, but he stops when he gets to Neil. “I remember you. You were all over the news, weren’t you? The runaway Wesninski.” His expression speaks to his delight at the revelation. To no-one’s surprise, Thirteen is a sore loser.

Andrew barely moves, just a slight adjustment to his footing so that he presses a little closer into Neil’s shoulder.

Neil smiles. It is the kind of smile he has not had use for in some time. “Looking for an autograph?”

Thirteen snorts. “Bet you think you’re real bad. Bet you think those scars make you look tough. Too bad you’re still a puny little bitch.”

Neil flexes his hand before clenching it into a fist. “I do think I’m real bad, actually. Want to find out why?”

The striker waits for the hit to come. Neil doesn’t give him the satisfaction; the guy is a piece of shit, but he isn’t worth the trouble he’s clearly looking for. Neil drops his hands, meets his gaze, and waits for him to give up on getting his reaction and leave.

Most of the other players are moving off to their own respective sides, and their stand-off is beginning to attract attention. Kevin squints over at them, and at his side, Aaron pulls off his helmet.

“Oh shit. Twins.” Thirteen’s gaze swings from Aaron to Andrew, flashing with sudden recognition. “I remember you too.” His expression turns sharkish. “Now that was a story. So, which one is the murderer, and which is the brother-fucker?”

Andrew barely twitches. Neil’s reaction is less restrained.

It’s almost a play-by-play of decking Riko at the Winter Banquet.  The key difference between that punch and this one is hours of training with a borderline-professional boxer.

Neil squares his stance, draws back his fist, and puts his whole body behind the punch. He’s rewarded with the sickening crack of a nose breaking and a hot spurt of blood splattering his knuckles.

Thirteen staggers back, shock registering for a second before he spits blood at the floor. He’s swaying on his feet, but there’s still fight in his eyes.

Andrew’s hands go to his sheaths, but Neil waves him back. He wipes the hand bloodied by Thirteen’s face across his jaw unthinkingly, feels the wet, red heat clinging to his skin. “Hey. This one’s mine.” The smile he tacks onto the words is toothier than he means it to be. With blood still smeared across his chin, he can only imagine how he looks.

Andrew’s hand judders to a halt at the hems of his armbands. His jaw is clenched tight but roaring over the current of concern is something far darker. It creeps into his eyes, a weight to his gaze normally only visible in the privacy of their bedroom. Andrew’s gaze runs the length of Neil’s body before coming to rest on Neil’s mouth. His bottom lip catches momentarily in his teeth as he nods.

Thirteen’s first swing hits, and a burst of blood dances across Neil’s tongue as his lip is split open. Thirteen’s luck ends there; Neil blocks his second punch with a move Matt taught him the day before. He drives his free hand into Thirteen’s solar plexus, knocking the air from him.

Neil doesn’t get much time to appreciate how the striker falls on his ass as they’re rushed by teammates and officials who break them apart.

Neil stands placidly before Wymack and bears his row with the bare minimum of decorum. The lecture is undercut by Nicky, who’s expression alternates between elation, amusement and mock disapproval from moment to moment. Matt, at least, waits until Wymack is finished before applauding.

“I’ll give you some notes later, but all things considered it was a solid right hook.”

Neil brushes the team’s reactions off as best he can; he certainly didn’t do it for their recognition.

He takes his time showering, watching with a strange, sick pleasure as he rinses the striker’s blood away. It turns pink in the shower basin before swirling at last down the drain. Beneath the blood, Neil’s knuckles have begun to bruise, satisfaction burning them blue.

It’s at these times that Neil worries that he may have inherited too much from his father; the temper, the violence, the bloodlust. Then again, they all served as tools to his survival at one point or another. The key difference between Neil and his father is who they choose to turn their anger on. Neil’s father always set his sights on the underdog. Neil prefers to punch up.

No; if there’s one thing Nathan gave him, it was a distaste for bullies.

There’s a familiar tap at the door to Neil’s stall. The rest of the Foxes cleared out some time ago, still rowdy from the post-match high. Tonight was a home game; most of the team will be halfway back to Fox tower already, thinking only of booze and the weekend stretching ahead of them. There’s only one player who would have any reason to linger.

Andrew steps under the spray, his hair is plastered to his head by the steamy drizzle. He holds his hand out, and Neil offers his without question for Andrew’s inspection.

Andrew’s voice is dispassionate as he inspects the damage. “I don’t need a knight in shining armour. Nor for you to fight my battles for me.”

“The fight was for my own satisfaction. But I’ll stop if you want me to.”

Once again, Andrew presses his lips to Neil’s raw knuckles. The contact stings, sweet and savoury, pleasure and pain. “Would it kill you to make life easy for once?” The words tingle against the tender skin.

“I thought you liked to watch me fight.”

“Just because I find your stupidity entertaining doesn’t mean I encourage it.”

“It’s my stupidity you like, is it?”

“What else do you have?” Andrew’s eyes track the rivulets of water snaking down Neil’s neck.

“I’m sure I can think of a few things.” Neil says. Then, for clarity, “Yes or no?”

“Yes.” Andrew doesn’t let go of Neil’s hand, thumb running across the reddening knuckles once more before leading it to his chest. Neil leaves it resting there, marvelling at the colours bleeding between them under the shower’s onslaught, pink and brown and red and blue. Andrew soon tires of Neil’s staring, and is the first to bridge the gap between them.

Neil once compared Andrew’s kisses to a fight with their lives on the line. Countless kisses later, this fact has not changed in the slightest. Andrew leaves a bruising trail of kisses across Neil’s neck until he can’t remember which marks are from Exy and which are from Andrew. They all sting the same, sweet way.

Each kiss pressed to his mouth carries a metallic tang from Neil’s burst lip. He can tell from the fierce pressure of Andrew’s mouth against his that Andrew can taste it too, is feeding off the adrenaline rush just as Neil is. He catches Neil’s bottom lip between his teeth and with it sucks a groan from deep in Neil’s chest.

Andrew draws back to level him with an unimpressed look. “You’re far too into this.”

“You’re one to talk.” Neil raises his hand to Andrew’s eyeline, wiggling his fingers. Andrew’s eyes catch on the blooming violet patches. “You like this. Admit it.”

Andrew steps forward until his cheek brushes Neil’s fingers. Neil turns his hand automatically, cupping Andrew’s face.

“Yes,” says Andrew. His eyes stay on Neil’s, even as Neil’s hand drops lower.

It’s a small miracle, Neil thinks, that Andrew can trust Neil’s hands on him, after all he knows they are capable of. Maybe that’s part of the appeal, the evidence painted into Neil’s knuckles that Neil’s gentler touches are reserved for Andrew and Andrew alone. It’s strange that Andrew should love Neil’s fighting spirit as much as he does. After all, it was Andrew who taught Neil how to stand and fight in the first place.

It’s a fact that neither will ever let the other forget.

Neil leaves the shower sporting several more bruises than he entered with. Some are from Exy, some are from fighting, and some are from Andrew’s mouth.

He loves them all just the same.

 * Thanks for reading, let me know what you think! Still open to prompts etc.

[ily-like-a-banana]

Pull of Fate (ft. Hansol & Seungkwan)

♡ : how long will you be able to escape fate?

It’s happening again.

You halt in your steps, the sound of fellow nurses murmuring in the nearby hallway slowly fade. The sight of your hands reaching out towards the microwave to pop in your poor excuse of a lunch melt into a different picture altogether in a nanosecond.

You try to blink but it does nothing.

He’s strolling along the Saturday morning market - towards the side, booths made from light-colored wood are adorned with an assortment of fresh flowers: sunny daffodils, blushing carnations, scarlet roses. You know very well where the market is located - it’s a fifteen minute bike ride from home. Living in this small town your whole life guarantees you this.

He stops walking, stretches his hand out towards a bunch of sunflowers, your favorite. His thumb gently caress over the smooth golden petals, probably in admiration. He seems to look up, gaze meeting with what you presume to be the owner of the booth - a man in his late 40s with a balding head and warm chestnut eyes, wrinkle lines appearing on the corners as he smiles.

Louis, the scratched name tag pinned near his breast pocket, reads.  

Louis seems to be asking something but you don’t hear anything. He’s looking at you - but not really looking at you - and then smiles when an arm reaches out, picking out the sunflower and hands it over to Louis to have it wrapped before paying for it. An arm seemingly yours - but not really yours.

Within an abrupt intake of air, you are brought back to the nurse’s pantry. The saucer you meant to slide inside the microwave slips off your fingers, making contact with the floor with a pitchy clink. In the distance, you can hear the telephone ringing, the murmurs of doctors and nurses collectively and hurried footsteps along the hallway.

“Hey,” Jeonghan greets as he enters the pantry in his pink scrubs, pushing his glasses further up his nose as he leans on the wall beside you. He must have noticed the daze in your face so he goes, “rough day?”

It’s only six in the morning and the end of your shift is nearing. The caffeine in your system is starting to wear off and your legs tired and sore.

I just saw through my soulmate’s eyes, you want to say, I have been for the past two months.

But instead you force your eyes to meet Jeonghan’s honey ones despite the shaken up expression still swimming in yours. With a languid smile and a slight nod in your head, you mutter, “yeah, rough day."

You come home to the smell of pancakes wafting through your apartment, the sound of something sizzling on the pan and utensils clanking against each other rousing your senses.

“Hansol?” You call out, peering towards the kitchen from the door where you toe your shoes off and drop your backpack.

“Over here!”

A smile makes its way to your lips as you approach the tall male in the kitchen, his back facing you as he diligently flips a pancake on the pan. You take in the honey colored curls on his head, his broad, lean back and the lopsided smile he flashes when he turns to look back at you.

“Hi,” he says shyly as he opens his arms to which you nestle into with evident keenness. He places a gentle kiss on top of your head as he murmurs a softly spoken “welcome home.”

All you can do is hum in response, breathing in the hints of labdanum and woody notes on his shirt. You finally sigh in contentment. He feels like home.

“I made you breakfast,” he says with pride.

Your nose crinkles in amusement and laugh, “did you really come over to my apartment just to make me pancakes?”

You lean back to look at him, golden freckles in his eyes, swimming in a pool of golden honey, standing out against the rays from the sun, his arms still wrapped around your waist.

“Mmhmm,” he grins, “and I think I got it down this time.”

You lift a brow with a mixture of teasing and skepticism, looking over his back towards the stove, “are you sure about that?"

Hansol’s eyes suddenly grow wide and checks on the pancake behind him. He panickly reaches out for the spatula on top of the counter and lifts the pancake to show a ring of black burntness.

You laugh, turning off the stove yourself and patting Hansol on the back. “You did really well, Sol.”

He flashes you an embarrassed smile, “I cooked two more pancakes earlier. I swear, it’s cooked to perfection.”

Indeed, you notice the small table on the kitchen is made up - a plate of pancakes and a glass of juice set on top of blush pink placemats. You smile at him,“thank you.” You tiptoe your way up to meet his lips with yours to steal a quick peck, smiling into it. “I love you.”

“Very noble of you,” he laughs, tucking your hair behind your ear gently, “and I love you too.”

You’re very very certain Hansol is the one.

You’ve grown up together.

Your parents love him.

His parents love you.

He’s sweet. Kind. Smart. Funny. Talented.

(You hit your head against your pillow in frustration along with a gruff sigh.)

But he’s not your soulmate.

“No one really knows why it happens but it’s something that runs down in the family.”

You had merely blinked back at your mother in silence to which she just smiled patiently to. “I know it sounds really crazy,” you lift your brows and nod in definite agreement, “but it’s also exhilarating. When I met your father, it feels like I’m meeting someone I already… know, but also not really.”

You scrunched your brows at your mother, evidently lost in her attempt at explaining the whole deal. With a sigh, she finally gives up trying to get such a complex concept sink into your thick skull. “You’ll know when the time comes.”

Yet, here you are now, not knowing despite her reassurance years ago. Whenever you finally realize your mulling isn’t going to take you anywhere productive, you shut your eyes, pulling the blanket over your head and will for sleep to take over you.

You’ve made up your mind days later how you're going to deal with this whole situation.

I’m going to avoid ever meeting my soulmate.

Anyway, only you know about it. You're certain he doesn't go through episodes seeing through the other’s eyes like you do. Sure, your mother might question you about it but you'll figure out how to cover it up.

It should be simple enough to just stuff this soulmate thing inside a dusty, old box and push it far back a chained closet and throw the key away.

Then you'd live happily with Hansol, never speak of the episodes ever again and win at life.

“Penny for a thought?” You jump a little in surprise, turning around to see Jeonghan yet again in his scrubs with a clipboard in hand. “Hey,” you breathe out. You have been leaning over the railings for a few minutes now, facing the large windows that take up most of the space of the hospital’s walls. The skies are starting to show a deep blue shade - a sign that the sun is to make its appearance soon.

“You've been a little off lately, I notice.”

You muster up a tight smile in response. Landing a job in a prestigious hospital is thrilling but extremely taxing. But Jeonghan is your little bit of sanity in the whole building. He's your confidant so you understand when he looks at you inquisitively, his silence an open avenue for you to tell him the reason why you've been out of it for the past few days but you know this is not something he'd understand.  You squirm under his gaze and look away.

The tall male then decides to clear his throat to fill the silence when he notes that you aren't going to speak up. “Alright, well, shift’s over. Head home and rest up.” He reaches out and squeezes your shoulder comfortingly, “I'll see you tomorrow.”

You watch the tall male walk away, his pink scrubs slowly disappearing by the hallway.

Hansol: hey love

Hansol: check your drawers when you get home

Hansol: our plane’s about to take off :(

Hansol: see you in two months

Hansol: I love you

For when you get home from work and feel tired.

For when you're finding it hard to fall asleep.

For days when you need inspiration.

For when your faith is wavering.

For when you're doubting yourself.

For when you want to talk but I'm not available.

For when distance is making things difficult.

For days when you really need to hear how much I love you - but I'll make sure to let you know everyday.

The envelopes where the letters are enclosed feel like a physical form of Hansol’s comforting presence - the smoothness of the paper somehow reminds you of his fingertips skitting over your skin and the familiarity in his handwriting wrap around you like a tight hug. You fish out your phone from your pockets.

You: i just got home and saw what you left for me. you're the most thoughtful person :(

You: im going to miss you

You: in two months time :)

You: I love you, too

”I've got time. I'll do it.”

“I'll sub for you, no worries!”

“I can do it, no problem.”

Throwing your body on the nearest chair, you heave out a sigh. It feels like every fiber in your muscles ache, your hair in a state of pitiful mess and your eyes feel like a tonne heavy.

You hear someone pull up a chair from across you, but with your head almost hanging off the chair in exhaustment, you don't bother checking who it is.

“You look like you just went to hell and back.”

Jeonghan.

Something that sounds like a grumble and a gruff sigh escapes your lips in response. Recently, you've noticed that the episodes happen when you're too idle. It's been 4 days since you've tried to test out your hypothesis and so far, the results are proving your guess right ever since you've started drowning in work ruthlessly.

“Here, have some.”

Pop. Sizzle. Metal can sliding over the table.

You limply lift your head to see the small can of your favorite strawberry soda.

Managing a grateful smile, you look at Jeonghan with pure appreciation. “What would I do without you?”

The latter shrugs. “I know.”

You laugh, reaching for the can and gulping down the sweet liquid like a champ.

“Hey, slow down! Don't chug, you've got all the time in the wo-”

Before Jeonghan could even finish his sentence, your pager goes off, catching you off guard and almost snorting soda in the process. 

“Wish I did,” you say as soon as you toss the can into a bin. You pat Jeonghan on the shoulder before running off.

-

The loud wailing from the ambulance sirens signals everyone to get on their feet. The doors to the emergency hall bursts open along with a few members from the ERT. “Seungkwan? Seungkwan, are you still with me? Can you hear me? We're at the hospital now, okay?”

Blood. There is blood everywhere. You've handled emergency cases before but your surroundings seem to haze. You're running; you know this because you keep an equal pace with the stretcher being pushed by an emergency team where a man your age lay, pale and coughing; coughing up blood. And then without warning, it starts to happen again, your vision losing focus and you start to feel panic rise in your chest.

No, no, no, not now, not now.

In a split second, your hands lose its grip off of the stretcher and you halt in your footsteps.

His vision is blurry, barely making out reds and blues and hazy faces. He tries to focus on something, his eyes lift to the dark skies before it shifts to a bright, white ceiling and the sharp smell of hospital supplies hits his senses.

And then you see yourself- through his eyes - standing by the wall frozen.

The episode ends and your eyes meet with his, seeing him for the first time. Blonde hair matted by blood, an oxygen mask over his mouth, eyes barely open but you know... you know he sees you.

You will your legs to move and it does, unsure at first with reluctant steps until your strides elongate, catching up with the stretcher. Someone has taken your place but you follow along anyway, the noises from people shouting commands and the responses that come after blur to white noise in your ears, your eyes just focused on the male - on your soulmate. His eyes try to remain on you through a small space between a resident and an intern, never leaving your gaze. 

Before he's wheeled into the operating room, you catch him cast you a small smile and then his eyes flutter shut and the doors swing close.