#idk i just think it's a neat detail that got lost in translation

[lloydfrontera]

lloyd: "i can't intervene against julian being bullied because i can't stay here to protect him and it may make it worse for him-" (sees the bruises in julian's arm) "oh i'm gonna have to kill someone ok cool good to know :)"

[tenderlyrenjun]

away we happened

summary: leaving jaemin to deal with math problems and renjun’s problems, jeno accompanies his parents to a gala in japan, and he gets the rare opportunity to see a ghost. ↛ ↛ ↛ rich boy!jeno x rich kid!reader ↛ ↛ college au, rich kids au, mentions of food, secret rendevous, might do another part for jaemin but idk yet ↛ word count: 1.8k

spin off from the rich truth: part four

"You’re not supposed to be back here.”

Jeno slowly sets down his phone, starting with the speakers then gently cupping his fingertips behind, on the camera. He looks at the second intruder, his now accomplice, and his jaw starts to close again, preventing the half-chewed gyoza from falling off his tongue. His other hand, which hid under the small, square bamboo plate, moves every non-essential item from his person so that he can adjust his tie and re-button his suit jacket. Jeno returns his glasses on the bridge of his nose, now needing to aid his vision for the far away beauty at the secret entrance of the kitchen. Well, this place is not really a secret, but he likes to think it is, otherwise his parents would find him ditching their colleagues at yet another vaguely important. And it is not like he has no reason to ditch - Jaemin, notoriously bad at math, is working, back in Korea, on their physics worksheet, alone; his parents stole him away at a bad time. Though, as he takes a look at you, dressed in some well-known designer evening wear, he knows that coming to Japan was not a mistake.

“You’re not supposed to be here either,” Jeno tells you, straightening up. His toes tap inside his black oxfords, hesitating to take the first step forward. And he does not, instead choosing to challenge the situation, as if you would betray him again and expose this place, this rendezvous, to his parents.

You roll your eyes, gliding further into the kitchen, now that the penultimate appetizer tray has left with the last of the champagne. Taking note of Jeno’s cutlery, you assume that he sequestered the remaining bits of food so that he could hide away back here until the announcements began. After all, it is a ritual you two share, no matter the continent. And consequently, you relax into your shoes, heel clicks translating into acoustic waves; Jeno thinks, probably still caught up by his international texts to Jaemin. You mute every sound, turning off his phone ringer first then slide onto the counter, face-to-face: an effective way to provoke his attention. The little paper bowl of soba noodles look the most delicious, you deem, and they make their way into a neat pile around Jeno’s remaining gyoza pieces, accompanied by a few extra cucumbers from the other dishes.

“The speeches are going to start in twenty minutes,” you reveal, passing the plate back into his hands. You pick up some utensils and dip it shallowly into the mini-mountain, then feed yourself a bite and pass it onto Jeno. “You ... We should leave here soon.”

Your torso turns away from him, allowing you to grab a nearby by napkin. It feels soft between your fingers and you yield back to Jeno while staring at the little paper cloth. Do you wipe his mouth too? Or have you lost that privilege, from all the distance that has separated you two? That distance seems so small now, as he watches you and you refuse to look into his eye, despite all the intimate acts you keep initiating.

Once your body feels too warm, burning bluer than his suit, your leg shakes toward the ground, foot dipping below your outfit’s lowest hem. And even though he duplicated your introductory accusation, Jeno does not want you to leave. He brings his palm up your thigh, onto your waist, repositioning you chest to chest, face to face, still on the counter (where appetizers belong). You ball the napkin into your hands before discarding it to the side, where your gaze follows, but he brings you to look at him with three little words:

“Don’t go yet,” he asks of you, eyes downcast at his fingers toying with your satin material, suddenly losing all of his confidence. He can feel your stare bouncing trough to crest to trough, your hands and his acting as pivotal nodes. His eyes though stand an amplitude taller, right under yours, at an origin neither of you can muster the courage to wave through.     

"Why?” you copy his tone. He peeks up, shoulders tugged forward by your disposition as a smile tugs towards him. You keep in a personal bubble, but not annoyed when he breaks it, hands coming up your arms until you whisper a little taunt: “Scared that I’ll snitch?”

“Like you did last time?” he mimics you.

And you roll your eyes again, hand grazing his chest as you push him away. The second you detach from him, he grabs your wrist, staying true to his request. His grip is loose enough for you to truly leave if you want, but small enough to make an impact. So you indulge him, slipping your fingers between his, pulling his hand into your lap. 

“Last time,” you reminisce out loud, “you almost got me in trouble with my parents.” 

Jeno’s head falls, dangling chin against chest. His hair looks overly gelled, you notice then scan down his face. Something you will never forget, and particularly fall in love with over and over, is his smile - it sneaks into all the corners of his profile, across his eyes, raising his cheekbones, freeing his lips. And ever so enamored with bringing that beam, or at least some variation of it, back into his face, you stroke his bangs away, like opening curtains to the sunshine. Jeno perks up, his eyes finding yours then closing as he leans into your hand.

“But seriously,” you alert him, almost reminding him of Renjun’s soft voice when he is annoyed - it essentially tells him that you have spent too much time apart. When he opens his eyes again, the warmth of your palm unmasking his face, he sees you staring out the circular window on the kitchen’s main entrance. “We should get going.” You turn back to Jeno, retreating your hand and jumping off the counter, standing closer than the width of a magazine. “Remember the charity gala? Christmas 2018?”

Jeno trails your fingertips, nodding his head back into your palm. “Of course. You threw me under the bus because your parents hadn’t found us yet.”

“Yeah,” you confirm, trailing off.

A few social events ago, when you were addicted to your phone and lavish trysts, consumed by fighting for popularity at an international school in Germany that Jeno had never heard about until then, you wandered into the back room as it functioned like a closet for the toy donation and attendee’s coats. You kept staring at your phone and it only riled Jeno up, having met up with him earlier than usual. It felt weird, he recalls, because he gets to know you through all your social media updates and the infrequent FaceTime calls from a different timezone. He wanted your attention - handing you champagne glasses filled with cider, doing dumb dances to make you laugh, pulling out toys from the bins so that you would at least look at him instead of whoever the fuck Yangyang was. All his tactics were so effective, even the one where he poured his beverage into a water gun and stained your trousers, just under the knee; that you literally lost your phone that night. The two of you ended up giggling loudly until someone leaned in; Jeno thinks it was you and you think it was him, and the only thing either of you can implicitly agree upon is the illustrative glow on each other’s faces. Then his mom came knocking around and stumbled on the two of you before dragging Jeno, mouth stained red and jacket around your shoulders, out by the ear. His mom was going to tell your parents about how you were a bad influence on her son, but you told her that it was his idea to wander about prior to the actual start of the gala, even citing one of secret rendezvous points that you knew she was aware of.

“Can’t believe you ratted me out,” Jeno marvels, his tone light, without malice as he stands more upright. “You know that she capped my bank account and sent me to Kumon?”

Ah, of course you know that. It was the first reason he mentioned when he finally caught the time to talk to you, just before this semester started. You never forget a detail about him.

“Hey,” Jeno calls at you, his hand drifting toward your cheek now, repeating your actions onto you. His opposite hand braces against the counter thickness, almost to keep balance before you two head out into separate worlds again. He smiles though when you lean into his touch, clasping your hands at his lower back. His grip loosens as you tilt your head back, shaking your hair free, but ultimately, you return to his embrace. “You’re like a ghost most of the time.”

“How can I be?” you implore him, staring up in his eyes. Your hands travel up his chest, smoothing over the lapels, until you wrap around his neck. The urge to taunt him again goes suppressed as you focus on how handsome he is in this moment. And with the way he guides you, guides your conversation, you feel comfortable and curious, bouncing to the tips of your toes to meet him closer. “You see me online all the time.”

Jeno’s hand raises outside your arms, and his finger draws on your hair strand, springing it playfully a few times instead of answering you, almost like giving himself time to respond. Usually he would do this at the gala with some sparkling wine or at a dinner with a glass of water, and like you, he tries not to forget the little illustrations about your life, but then again ...

“It’s not the same,” he answers you, “and you know it.” By now the first announcer can be heard outside, which means the silver platters will interrupt their brief tête-à-tête - god, does it always need to be so short, because ... “I miss you.”

Your eyes glisten at him apologetically, and he tells you that it is okay, holding your face intimately in his hands. You bend into his embrace, wrapping your fingers around his. He continues soothing you, as if taking turns with you in a silent conversation, rubbing at your cheeks with his lone thumb, the only appendage free from your grip. It seems symbolic, since the two of you always have one foot out the door - almost literally in this case. You turn your head, looking out the window one more time before referring into Jeno one last time.

“I’m sorry.”