#it’s actually saw trap sunday saturday. but it’s close enough | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

starkeristheendgame · 5 years ago

Note

hey!! im really sorry to bother but i really love your writing & saw that you were taking prompts!! i was wondering if you could do one where tony has a sort of kink for calling peter ‘kid’ in a way, if your comfortable of course! sorry if my English isn’t the best!

I’m so sorry that this got buried to the bottom of my inbox! I hope you’re still around and that you get to see this, and I’m so sorry again that it drowned! I hope you enjoy it and I can only apologise if you hate it 😂

Also; please, please don’t ever apologise for your verbal or lingual ability. Learning another language is hard, and English is noted as one of (if not the most) hardest languages to learn. Being bi/multi-lingual is something to be insanely proud of!

I hope you don’t mind, but all of my prompts recently have been in canon universe, so this is a neighbours AU with no powers. In which Tony is a rich ex-businessman who just wants to tinker on old cars in his (not) retirement and Peter is the high school kid that won’t leave him alone.

TW: ‘Kid’ kink (the term) | Underage character | Underage (SS&C) sex | Daddy kink

Someone had bought the house next to his over the half-term. Peter knew this because the sale sign went down and the garden was immediately de-turfed and a notice was posted through everyone’s door on Wayforest Road that ‘minor construction’ would begun within the next two weeks, from 8am to 5pm daily, save for Saturdays and Sundays.

Peter wanted to laugh in - and then punch - the face of whoever decided to term it minor. Abruptly on the following Monday, almost a full half-hour before his alarm was due to go off, Peter was awoken by deep, loud voices and the clanging of scaffolding poles as the workmen arrived.

Groaning did nothing. Neither did flopping about pathetically on his bed like a beached fish. Burrowing under his duvet and his pillow was also a lost cause; he’d left his window open to keep his room cool in the night.

Seething, Peter flung himself from bed, turned off his alarm, and hopped in the shower. The workmen were gone when he came back, but the house was now a big, ugly grey thing besides his own, and he paused on the sidewalk to eye it mulishly. “If you’re another crabby old man; I’m not helping you walk your groceries up to your porch” he announced loudly to the empty house, and scuttled away to the safety of his own home after being eyed balefully and judgmentally by Mrs. Witkin’s cat.

At the dinner table, the new house and its new occupants were all Aunt May seemed to want to talk about, despite the way Peter’s face resembled less of his usual ‘ :) ‘ and more of a ‘ -.- ‘ as she went on, guessing the features of their new neighbour animatedly around mouthfuls of mashed potato.

Tuesday morning found him jolting awake to a shout of “Jim! Jim! For fuck’s sake, Jim, get tha’ fuckin’ plank!” In a thick, overly loud Irish accent.

By Friday, Peter was ready to forgo just a punch to the face, and was willing to commit all out, planned murder. At somewhere around seven-am every morning that week, the workmen had woken him up with their clanging and their shouting and their existing. Friday evening he stomped around the corner with a glower, fingers tight around his backpack straps. Not even Mrs. Witkin’s mean old cat could deter him from scowling at the house the entire way to his door.

Town rumours be damned; that cat was just old and judgemental, like half the residents there. It was no trapped old lady or cursed young Prince.

Hopefully.

Peter crossed himself on his porch quickly just in case. It could never hurt to be a little superstitious. Especially not after the day that Mr. Herald proclaimed himself immortal and was then promptly wiped out by the tree in his yard collapsing.

By the following Monday, Peter caved and stayed at Ned’s for the night, for the first time in his entire life thankful to hear the music of his alarm and not a series of clangs or yells. It was even good enough that Ned’s snoring didn’t disturb him as much as it usually did. He felt chipper, refreshed. Right up until he turned the corner and found his street lined with vans, the workmen a little late finishing.

The next two months were cesspit of noise and strange men and sleepless days off. Apparently the person who had bought the house must’ve only liked the area and nothing about the house at all, because by week three, all that remained of it was the bare skeleton, gutted and stripped and ugly. But Peter was willing to concede that his new neighbour had good taste.

By the end of the second month the house had been entirely re-built, and Peter was convinced that his new neighbour was some very famous or important person looking for a secret hideaway, or a mob boss. There was no other logical explanation. What had once been a decent but generic detached property with a neglected garden was now a mini-mansion of sorts, all soft creams and light earth tones, with a stonewall front and staggered steps that led onto a half-gravel and half-grass front yard.

Large paned windows were already lined with thick curtains and plants and a sweeping gravel-scape led to a large garage, that seemed to be the most work of the renovation. It was huge, probably taking up over half of what used to be side garden and dead grass. No fence bordered the property, but the difference between Peter’s space and the new person’s space was immaculate and definitive.

“Huh” he mused aloud, blinking. Suddenly, he was less irritated at all those lost half-hours and more curious about who was going to be living there. They had money, for sure. Inheritance? Insurance claim payout? Illegal happenings? Aunt May’s two joking theories were suddenly looking less of a joke and more genuine possibilities.

As it would happen, Peter wouldn’t actually find out for another three or so months. The man moved in on a Saturday, quietly and with a small fleet of sleek SUV vehicles and fancy moving vans. Peter enjoyed a lazy morning, napping until the start of the afternoon and basking in the summer warmth, stretching in front of his bedroom window and looking down in time to see the last of the delivery and moving people packing down their vehicles.

Peter eyed all the bodies curiously, but it soon became clear none of them were his new neighbour, because they all stood around, flipping through paperwork, and then promptly left. Peter lingered under the pretence of dusting at his window ledge, but the street was quiet and empty.

Aunt May was anything but quiet when he finally dragged himself downstairs in search of food. “Peter! Morning, honey. Did you see the vans outside? Very fancy. Big enough for bodies, too, though” May hummed, flipping through the book she was currently reading.

Thirty Ways To Revive Your Youth.

Peter grimaced, and begun to rummage through the cupboards. “Not to question your intelligence, but. Why would a mob boss carry around his victims? Like a few teeth or knuckles ought to serve as good souvenirs. I don’t think carting around whole bodies is practical” Peter pointed out, settling on fruity oatmeal. Aunt May paused in her reading, nose twitching to adjust her glasses as she considered it.

“Hm. Point. Unless they bought the house because they run out of burial room, and these are fairly recent bodies they need the new soil for” she pointed out, and Peter pointed his spoon at her as he passed.

“Point” he agreed.

And so the weeks passed, but the mystery remained. No matter what time Peter tired to linger, or how early he awoke, his neighbour never seemed to be around. Here and there he would catch a figure roaming past the windows, kinda like a ghost, but never a clear view or a face. It was vastly disappointing, but his interest didn’t wane over the months that spanned between his rueful lack of sleep and now.

Now being a hazy Saturday morning, warm but not overly stuffy. Peter was coming back from a morning at Ned’s wherein they’d been steadily chewing away at the LEGO Galactic Supership. He was halfway down the street when a large trailer vehicle begun to drift down the street steadily, heading straight in Peter’s direction.

He paused on the sidewalk, watching it with interest. It was a transportation vehicle, and as it drew closer Peter could see there was a car on the back of it, heavily clamped down and chained to make sure it wouldn’t roll off. The vehicle passed him by some, and he got a clear view of the other car. It looked old, a little broken, rusted. Huge, though. Bigger than all the cars he’d seen before.

It pulled up right outside his neighbours house. Sensing an opportunity, and genuinely curious, Peter lingered, taking a few steps across the sidewalk to eye the car. It was a glossy red, though it had sun fade and was patchy. The chrome was glossy in places and dull, rusted in others. One headlight was missing.

The door of the cab opened, and Peter turned on his heel to see the driver getting out. The friendly greeting died on his lips as toned, thick thighs slid from the cab, followed by trim hips and a long, solid torso only half-hidden under a tank-shirt and overshirt. Broad shoulders prefaced the hottest man that Peter had ever laid eyes on.

He had a shaped jaw that was cut by stubble in a unique style that Peter had never seen anyone wearing before. He had sharp cheeks and dark, deep eyes with long lashes, tanned but not exactly browned and dark, dark hair with the barest flecks of grey at the roots, at his temples.

The man seemed surprised to find him there, pausing mid-way through pushing the door shut and peering around the street before looking back at him. One shaped brow lifted, and Peter stumbled to remember his manners, thrusting out a hand.

“Hi, Mister. Sorry - I was looking at the car. Is it for the new house?” He asked, forcing himself not to blush under the intense gaze. After a brief pause, the man took his hand, palm large and slightly rough, grip firm. He was even more attractive up close, slight crinkles at the corners of his eyes, dark lips and the strong scent of motor oil and grease.

“Would seem that way”.

And Ho-ly voice. Deep and with the softest of rumbles, soothing like a thunderstorm in the far distance. Peter clutched at his jacket when their hands dropped, coughing politely to hide whatever facial expression he’d pulled. The man strode past him and to the car, beginning to work on the many safety straps and chains.

“Did they…Is this theirs?” Peter asked after watching him quietly for several moments with a gesture towards the house besides them. Peter had discovered the house had a second parking bay on the other side, where a glossy black muscle car from the 60′s never seemed to move.

“Theirs’?” The man echoed, pausing in his movements to look up at Peter with curious amusement. It occurred to him then that it was likely some random car recovery guy had seen his new neighbour(s) before he had.

“Uh…Well. I’ve never actually seen them. So I don’t know if its one person, or a whole family, or…” Peter trailed off meekly, looking over his shoulder at the building. It looked as empty as it always did, no lights on and no figures moving behind the windows.

“Townsfolk say its some celebrity having a breakdown. Others say its some old widow using her husband’s life insurance. Even heard from someone that its a mafia lord, settling down in the middle of some quiet ass nowhere town” the recovery man grunted, hauling on a thick, heavy chain. Peter flushed.

Yeah. He was…Guilty of some pretty crazy guesses. But come on. Someone buys a house, spends upwards of hundreds of thousands doing it over, and then…Nothing. No new faces at the grocery store. Never seen, or even heard. Like a ghost.

“They’re not big fans of being…Seen. I guess? I mean, I know a guy with groceries comes around every Monday. Sometimes multiple times a week, but he always puts them in the garage and leaves. And this town is full of judgemental old people - Half of whom probably have mercury poisoning or something. There’s gonna be some pretty wild speculations going around” he pointed out, moving closer to look at what appeared to be a scratch in the paintwork.

The car gave a faint creak as the man released all of the holds on this side, snorting as he rounded the back of the vehicle and went to the other side with a loud, amused snort. Peter followed, and stifled a gasp at the sight of the other car. The man turned, eyeing him for a moment, before nodding.

“Got T-boned by an estate car. But she’s a tough old thing. Heavy metals and good steel; not like today’s cars. She came out better off” he mumbled as he worked on a thick strap, carefully taking apart the various clasps and buckles. Peter approached the car carefully, stretching up on his toes to brush his fingertips over the warped metal. He felt almost….Sad for the car.

He traced the flaking paint and the twisted, dented metal tenderly, and when he pulled away, the man was watching him again, movements slowed as he pulled the material through the metal. “Is this their car? What good is it now if its all broken up?” He asked curiously.

The man ducked his head, moving onto another thick chain. “Its just the one guy. I guess its a…Hobby. Of his. Bought her yesterday at a scrap lot”. He seemed uncomfortable saying it, but to Peter it was like gold trust. One guy. Huh. A big old house like that? That seemed rather lonely. Maybe it really was some rich old person retiring, enjoying a quiet place and a mechanics hobby.

Peter was going to ask more, but the car was freed with a grinding sound, and the man gestured him carefully back with his hand, holding it out in front of Peter to walk him back like a horse, to a safe distance. The man used two remotes to bring the car to the ground, Peter watching in fascination as rotors and rolling mechanisms moved it backwards and onto the tarmac of the road.

“How do you plan on moving it now?” Peter asked, and immediately regretted it as the man shed his over-shirt. Biceps. Shoulders. Forearms. His throat went dry and he could feel the heat rising to his cheeks.

As it turns out, the plan was simply ‘push’. Peter scoffed, but was soon at a loss to anything but stare as the man leaned heavily against the trunk of the car, muscles bulging in the afternoon sun. Heavy or not, the car soon begun to roll, and after a moment Peter dropped his backpack and came up besides the straining man, leaning all his might against the metal.

It probably did fuck all, but the man gave him a wry grin all the same, chest heaving with deep, controlled breaths as they moved the car across the flat ground and onto the side-drive space. Peter’s shoulder ached and his arms and thighs suddenly felt like jelly, but the man slapped him across the back.

“Good effort, kid” and then moved away, heading towards the front door. Peter gaped as the man simply grasped the doorhandle and pushed the door open, and floundered on the drive. “Wait! You’re just gonna walk into his house?” He called, and the man paused mid-step, looking back at him.

“Well. I ought to just ‘walk in’. Its my house”. And with a lewd, perfect wink he was gone. Peter wasn’t entirely sure what to do with himself, flailing on the driveway with error logs flashing behind his eyes. That was his neighbour. His neighbour was some rich, late-thirty something hot-hot-hot guy who fixed broken classic cars.

“Oh my god” Peter muttered, stomping down the driveway to get his bags. Four months. He’d lived next to this Playgirl model for four months.

He decided against telling Aunt May. It felt selfish, but it also felt good to know he was the only person to have seen him. Even though he realised not long after reaching his room that he hadn’t even gotten his name. Peter waited by his window for hours, but saw neither hair nor hide of the man again. By morning, the transport truck was gone and the cherry red car was presumably inside the garage.

The damned guy was magic. There was no other explanation. Fuelled, Peter spent the Sunday morning in the kitchen, furiously baking with narrowed eyes and a plan. The muffins were done by mid-day, and Peter iced them carefully before boxing them, and stomping across the sidewalk to his neighbour’s house.

Peter knocked, and waited. Knocked again. Waited. “If you don’t answer the door then I’m just going to sit here” he announced loudly, knocking again before plopping down onto the porch just to prove a point. Several long minutes passed before his neighbour appeared around the corner, from the garage judging by the grease steaks up his arms, scowling.

“Kid. Here’s a life tip; if someone doesn’t answer the door, its because they don’t want company” the man huffed, but his eyes zeroed in on the box with intense curiosity, and Peter shrugged, smug.

“You came out, though” he pointed out, pushing himself to his feet. The man scoffed, but allowed him to follow, leading the way around the building where a small side-door was open.

“I came out about thirty years ago, kiddo. If that’s a congratulations cake, you’re a little late”. Peter tripped over the gravel, fighting his legs to remain upright and his stomach did a weird knot inside him. Oh. Not only was his neighbour hot, but he was at the least male inclined, too.

Very interesting.

“Actually, these are just welcome muffins. Chocolate and orange” Peter murmured, stepping inside the garage. It was bigger than it seemed, and the cherry red car stood in the centre, sanded down and clearly being worked on already.

“Peter, by the way. Peter Parker” he added after a pause, and almost offered his hand for a second time, but settled instead on thrusting the muffin box at the man. He raised a brow, but delved inside to pull one out, clearly eager at the prospect.

“Tony” he offered simply, and Peter tested it on his tongue, enjoying the shape. For now; he’d let the lack of a last name go. Good things in time, after-all. Choosing to invite himself to stay, Peter perched primly on top of the edge of the workbench, electing another raised brow, but Tony’s mouth was too full of muffin to object.

Tony begun to work as he ate, and Peter sat in content silence, watching as Tony and his bulging arm muscles took each wheel off the car and begun to strip it of all its chrome features. Peter checked his phone after a while and was surprised to find that around four hours had passed. May would be home from her sewing group about now. He ought to head home.

“I’ll be back tomorrow” he announced, and jumped at the same time Tony did, the man smacking his arm off warped metal with a shout. Tony whirled on him, eyes wide, gaze flicking between him and the door, before he looked…Confused.

“You’re still here?” He asked, and Peter snorted as he dusted off his pants, heading for the door with a shake of his head. May came home shortly after he did, and Peter supposed he ought to let her know that he’d be visiting Tony again tomorrow.

“So he’s not a mafia boss? Or a celebrity?” She asked around a mouthful of roasted chicken, looking rather disappointed as Peter shrugged and shook his head.

“He just seems…Aloof? I don’t know. Maybe he’s some business tycoon or something. But he seems nice. I’m just going over to help him with this car he’s got. It’s real nice, too” Peter hummed, and Aunt May narrowed her eyes at him.

“Are you sure? I mean, you don’t know him. He’s a stranger. Albeit a hot one, apparently. And you have school tomorrow, too. You shouldn’t be hanging around strangers. Unless…If he happens to be single…I’d be open to his number” May shrugged after a pause, and Peter blinked.

May was surprisingly easy to placate, and he assured her that if she wanted to, she could march right over to Tony and give him a Mother Hen Talk after dinner, but she decided against that, and in favour of a hot bath. School on Monday rolled around quicker than Peter could say ‘garage’ and he decided against telling Ned about Tony.

He wanted Tony all to himself. At least…For as long as he could. It was strange, but he found his heart thumping as he marched down Tony’s driveway and up to the garage door this time, knocking on it loudly. He’d brought lemonade and sandwiches this time.

The garage door opened, and Tony looked equally as startled to see Peter there as he had the day prior, gaze raking his body before frowning, and stepping aside with a sigh. “You’re like a mosquito, kid. I came here to get away from people” Tony announced pointedly, and Peter founded on him with an unimpressed gaze and an arched brow of his own.

“If you truly wanted to get away from people, you’d have moved out in the mountains or something. Now, get back to work. In an hour you can stop for supper. I brought chicken sandwiches” he ordered, taking his seat from the day before and pulling his calculus homework from his bag.

He kept his gaze down as Toy stared at him, mouth opening and closing several times, before he went for his wrench, muttering to himself as he lay down on a wheeled bench and rolled under the car. Peter smiled quietly into his papers. A little over two hours later - he lost count, sue him - Peter pushed himself to his feet and strode over to the car, kicking Tony lightly in the ankle that stuck out.

“We can eat now” he announced, walking back over to his pack and taking out the tupperware he’d packed this morning. He could hear the sound of the wheels moving, and he turned, holding out the box. Tony looked perplexed, but approached and took it, still looking puzzled even as he bit into his own portion.

“Not that the pattern of snacks isn’t appreciated, kid, but…Why are you here?” he asked after he’d swallowed, and Peter actually had to think about it, flushing as his mind conjured up inappropriate responses like ‘I want to lick your arms’ and ‘You look like the hot mechanics in my pornos’.

He settled on a shrug, chewing slowly for more time. “You’re interesting. You’re my neighbour. You’re not a mafia boss or a broken down celebrity” he pointed out. Tony twitched on the last one, but gave a hum and moved away, scarfing down the last of his sandwich and returning to the car. This time, when Peter informed him he was leaving and would be back tomorrow again, Tony neither jumped nor looked surprised.

It became a pattern. Three out of seven days a week, Peter would sit in the garage with his homework or revision and Tony would work on the red car, which Peter came to learn was a 1958 Plymouth Fury. “Just like in Christine” Tony had huffed proudly, and had then been quickly appalled when Peter had simply stared blankly.

That night, Peter had watched the movie, and his next visit was spent talking animatedly about it with Tony, discussing their favourite parts and what it might be like if it was ever re-made. After a month, Aunt May picked her way across the gravel to finally meet the man her adopted son kept disappearing off to be with, and Peter had the unfortunate experience of watching them flirt together, Tony in a cheeky, smooth, outrageous manner and Aunt May like a school-girl. When he begun to gag in the corner, Tony threw an oil rag at him.

One day, a week before the summer holidays, Peter rounded the corner to find Tony stood on the porch, looking angry and tense and talking to a tall woman with red hair, tied up in a ponytail. Peter stopped and lingered, unsure of what to do. Besides him and May, he’d never seen anyone else talking to Tony. Even the grocery delivery guy simply put the bags in the garage and left.

After a while, the woman turned away, looking sullen and displeased, and slipped into a sleek black SUV, pulling off with a screech of her tires and the rev of her engine. By the time Peter reached the house, Tony was back inside, and he knocked quietly, leaning closer to the door.

Tony didn’t answer.

“Mr. Tony? I’m not sure what happened, but…If you’re not up for hanging out today, its cool. I brought soup, but I’ll leave yours on the porch. It might be hot, so…Be careful”. Peter stooped and left the thermos close to the door, before leaving. He felt uncomfortable for the rest of the day, longed to go see Tony, but everything in his gut told him to let him be for a time.

Whoever that man had been, he was clearly someone Tony didn’t like or want around.

Almost a whole week passed in which Tony didn’t answer the door, and by the Saturday, the first official day of the summer holidays, Peter was moping. Not to anyone that asked, but it was clear to even Ned that he’d been a little down lately, declining a celebratory LEGO fest in exchange for slinking up to his room.

No sooner had he toed off his shoes, the doorbell rung. Peter groaned, turning on his heel and abandoning his sweater on the staircase. It was probably another of Aunt May’s Amazon orders. Since she’d discovered the wonders of online shopping, Peter had learned their regular post-man was named Greg, he had two kids and a poodle, and was allergic to shrimp.

“What has she bought this ti- Tony?” Peter paused mid-sentence, eyes widening at the sight on his doorstep. Tony looked rough, dark circles under his eyes, his face looking more lined than before, but he gave a weak smile up at Peter, still stiff and unsure.

“Hey, kiddo. Figured you might…I made spaghetti. And I still have your thermos. Was gonna work on the car a bit”.

Peter recognised it for the attempted invitation that it was, and didn’t bother to fight off his broad grin. “Lucky for you, I love spaghetti. I just gotta grab a sweater on” he beamed, practically flinging himself up the stairs. Tony’s spaghetti was amazing, with some kind of pink-ish sauce, little chunks of shrimp and prawns, all tangy and sweet.

He even let Peter help with the car. Or…Well. He let Peter hold the torch. And the wrench. But still.

He was still grinning when he skipped home that evening, and when he crawled into bed his dreams were filled with oil-stained arms and a low, rumbling voice. He gasped awake in the early hours, cock hard and leaning against his hip, Tony’s voice echoing in his skull.

He shouldn’t.

He bit his lip and reached down, whimpering as he wrapped a hand around himself. He was too hard to last more than a few minutes, stifling his yell of “Tony!” Into his pillow as he came. When he arrived at Tony’s house later in the day, he could barely look the man in the eyes, flustered and shy.

The holidays continued in a similar fashion. They hung out almost every day in the garage, often for an entire day. Peter felt guilty about abandoning Ned, but looking at Tony’s broad smile, listening to his quips, watching his abs flex under his shirts as he lifted things...It was worth it.

By the fourth week of his holidays, after numerous days of lounging together with takeout and Tony helping him with his homework, Peter piped up.

“Peter”.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Peter” he repeated, nudging Tony gently where they lay together on the floor of the garage, staring up at the underside of the car. It was almost complete. Something to do with the clutch, and then all it needed was new paint. “You keep calling me ‘kid’. So. Y’know. In case you’d forgotten” he hummed.

Besides him Tony stilled, only briefly, before relaxing and swatting at him. “You are a kid, though”.

“I’m sixteen. I’m not a kid” Peter huffed, rolling onto his side and kneeing Tony in the thigh. Tony let his head loll, looking across at him with dark, dark eyes, and Peter’s breath hitched. Tony was close enough to kiss. And god, Peter wanted to kiss him. Had spent the past few weeks staring at his body, his mouth when he talked, waking up at night hard and aching.

Peter let his gaze drop, to plush lips outlined by dark stubble, and then he pushed himself up, momentarily hovering over Tony as he got his legs beneath him. “And you’re an old man” he tried, teasing, tugging at a lock of hair at Tony’s temple.

For the briefest, briefest of moments, Tony’s gaze went even darker. Hungrier. Peter thought about it in the shower that night, two fingers stuffed inside himself with too-little prep, mewling against the shower tiles. Almost as if…

He begun to get bolder. Touched Tony more. Stood closer. Any excuse to be in his space. If Tony noticed he said nothing, only giving lingering, unreadable looks and only ever turning away with a poorly hidden smirk whenever Peter said anything just a little too obvious.

On the last week of his holidays, Peter was kneeling half over Tony, dabbing gingerly at a slice on his bicep while the man clutched an ice-pack to his knee. The cherry red car was out, and an old, 1957 Chrysler Saratoga was in. And apparently, angry.

“Kid, seriously. I’m fine” Tony huffed, swatting at him as he dabbed away another crust of blood, peering at the wound. It wasn’t that deep, but it had bled something fierce. Peter lifted his gaze, scowling at him.

“I’m not a kid!” He snarked, pressed a little too hard on the wound just because he could. Watched Tony flinch under his touch and instantly felt guilty. He pulled away the cloth and ducked down, pressed a kiss to the wound before he could ever think about it. Aunt May had always done it for him, kissing his ouchies better. He froze, lips against jagged skin.

“Kid” Tony rasped, looking down at him with wide, dark eyes. Peter jerked backwards, and huffed.

“Keep calling me kid, I’m gonna start calling you ‘old man’“ he scowled. He was about to say ‘Or worse, Dad’, but…That was a bumpy road and he wasn’t ready to loose whatever he had built with Tony. Not yet. The older man snorted back at him, eyes rolling, and reached out, fingers closing around his jaw gently to shake his head a little.

“Look at you. You are. That little baby face. And you’re so small, like a cat. All slender. Couldn’t even lift up the gearbox. All big eyes and too must trust. I could’ve been an old pervert or sex criminal and you just walked right up to me and wouldn’t leave” Tony murmured, voice half-gone and gaze fixed on where he held Peter’s jaw.

“Wouldn’t - Did not” Peter managed, though he was already getting hard, his breathing was already a little shorter. Sharper. Tony gave a deep breath, fingers flexing against his jaw.

“You’re just a kid. A little baby. All soft-cheeked and gentle. You’re a kid now and you’ll be a kid for a long time. Nothing like me”.

And. Huh.

Peter blinked, jaw still clasped in Tony’s grip, and he relaxed his body, inching a little closer. “What is it about that, then? Why is that such a bad thing?”

“Its not. Its not bad. I’m just…I’m the bad one. Christ. Kid. You’re - You sit here doing homework. You don’t even have facial hair yet. I bet you haven’t even popped a stiffy before”. The words startled Tony as much as Peter, both visibly jolting, and Tony immediately looked like he wanted to die.

“Hey! Not true! Every night this holiday I’ve done more than ‘pop a stiffy’ over y-”. Peter bit down on his tongue, hard, watched the way Tony’s eyes widened. Fuck. They both jerked backwards, equally as taken aback by the revelation. There was no doubt as to what Peter had been about to say. Now way he could laugh it off or change it; though the subject was bad enough.

“I…”

“Kid…”

Peter huffed, leaning back on his haunches and dropping the cloth. “What, you got a kink for the word or something, Mister Tony?” Peter grumbled, but he could see Tony physically tense up opposite him, and he looked up, watched the almost shameful way that Tony turned his gaze away.

It hit him.

“You…Do” he huffed numbly.

“Its not…Christ. Peter. I’m not a…I’m not attracted to kids. I don’t know what it is. I just…Fuck. Maybe you should be calling me an old pervert. Fuck. I…Peter. You have to believe I don’t..I’ve never touched a kid. Never. My youngest partner was twenty when I was thirty. She was a hooker in Dubai and…Wait. You’re a fucking kid. I shouldn’t be talking about hookers and swearing and-”

Peter clamped a hand over Tony’s mouth, shaking his head. Jesus. He knew it was true, though. Tony was a recluse and laughably inept at anything social, but he wasn’t some scorned kiddie-toucher banished to a quaint little town.

“I know, Tony. I know. And I believe you. But if its not that, then…What is it?”. Tony only blinked at him slowly, for several beats, and it was then that Peter realised that his hand was on Tony’s mouth, and the man couldn’t speak. Though he could well have moved it himself. He let it drop, flushing.

“I don’t know” Tony croaked helplessly, and he looked so small, so lost. It was instinct that had Peter leaning forwards, gathering Tony in a tight embrace. The older man stiffened, but then relaxed, hand hesitantly falling to Peter’s side, featherlight like he was scared to touch him.

“Its…You’re so delicate. So…Untouched. Like a painting. Pretty. You shouldn’t be touched. Not yet. Not by me. But I want to”. It made Peter’s spine tingle and arch, letting out a surprised breath against the curve of Tony’s jaw. Tony made him sound like the Mona Lisa or something.

“I’m not a good person, Peter. I’m…All these months, you don’t even know my last name. Half the town thinks I’m a murderer or some kind of lunatic. But I’m worse than that”. Tony practically breathed it into his shoulder, head falling. Peter clutched at him, suddenly scared. Worse than those things?

“Tony Stark”.

Peter paused. Was silent for such a long time that Tony tensed against him again, before he begun to pet gently at Tony’s shoulders. “…Who? I mean, the name is vaguely familiar. But…Who?”

Tony pulled away, leaned back, looking up at him with glossy eyes and a ludicrous expression. “Stark. Tony Stark”.

Peter raised a brow. “Bond, James Bond?”

“What? No. The weapons company? Stark Industries?” Tony asked after a pause, like it was information Peter ought to know. After another pause of his mind being ridiculously blank, Peter sat upright, head tilting.

“Oh! Yeah. Stark Industries. But…What about it?”

Tony blinked at him, slowly, like there was a punchline he’d missed, and then he was reaching out, crushing Peter to his chest to the boy fell half over him with a yelp, squeezing him gently.

“You’re - Unbelievable. Never change, kid. I’m…I did bad things. I killed people. Carried on the family name despite spending my life trying to outrun it. I…I was betrayed. So I fixed it, and I left. And I was supposed to keep my hands off anything good. Anyone good. And here you are”.

“Okay. Firstly? You gotta stop calling me ‘kid’ now I know its a kink and you don’t intend to do anything about it. Secondly…I don’t know what you did. Or what happened. But I know what you’ve been since you got here. Who you’ve become. And I think you’re a good man” he breathed, adjusting so he was no longer straining, half-straddling Tony.

“You shouldn’t…” Tony didn’t finish the sentence, and there were a million things he could’ve said. But Peter chose to ignore them all, squirming his way closer until he really was sat in Tony’s lap. And this was more than they’d ever done.

More than the one-armed hugs and lingering touches, more than leaning shoulder-to-shoulder eating noodles. More than Peter listing against Tony’s side in the early morning hours, maths homework forgotten on the bench and Tony sitting still, so still, so as not to wake him.

“I’m old enough to know ‘should’ and ‘shouldn’t’, Mr. Stark. Besides. This is just…Hugging. Right? Innocent” he hummed, even as he deliberately shifted on Tony’s lap, a little heavier than he ought to, spread his legs wider around Tony’s hips.

“Ki- Peter” Tony huffed against him, fingers tightening around the hem of his sweater. It wasn’t until Peter shifted again that he realised; Tony was hard. Well. Getting there, but hard enough for Peter to recognise it. To feel it, digging into the round meat of his asscheek.

“I don’t touch kids” Tony repeated, and Peter snorted softly, shaking his head as he gripped at Tony’s broad shoulders, muscle honed by years of hard work. Muscle that led up to rough stubble, a sharp jaw that Peter nosed at.

“Good thing I’m not actually a kid then, Mr. Stark. That means you can touch”.

Tony surged forwards on a growl, lay Peter out like a feast on the garage floor; but still hovered over him. Reluctant. Uncertain. Peter lifted his legs, wrapped them around Tony’s waist, tight and steady. “Kiddo…”

“Mm. Your kiddo. Or I could be. If you kissed me” Peter grinned, breathless and bold with the sweet taste of Tony so close. Mere inches. “Kiss me” Peter repeated, and Tony growled as he surged downwards.

When Tony came, it was with ‘kid’ sharp and electric on his tongue. And…Well. Peter felt a little mollified, so naturally, it led to round two, pressing Tony down against the concrete, milking him for all he was worth as a broken ‘Peter!’ cracked on his tongue like a prayer.

The rounds after that were just…Well.

Purely selfish.

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uniarycode · 4 years ago

Text

Takari Week, Day 1 - Confession

Takeru has spent weeks trying to confess to Hikari but somehow he can never actually get it out. Hikari has a different interpretation on how they’ve been spending their time. Done as part of @takariweek 2020

Today was the day. Today everything would change for better or for worse. Today marked the first sentence of a new chapter of his life. Today was the day he was going to confess to Hikari.

Unlike all those other sentences he had to re-write.

This was not the first day this month Takeru had planned to confess. However, he was a romantic at heart, and no matter how much resolve he had beforehand somehow the moment never felt right. He would always be able to tell their grandkids about how they met, but he wanted to be proud or the story of how he first asked her out. And none of the opportunities so far fit his taste.

It was either that or he was afraid.

Even if his confession was successful, it would still mean a fundamental change would occur in his and Hikari’s relationship. And Takeru had a mixed relationship with change. Change meant the loss of his father and brother. Change meant the introduction of a strange world filled with monsters. Even the first time Patamon had changed into a new form had led to one of the most traumatic events in his life.

But change also led him to meet Patamon in the first place, something he wouldn’t trade for all the riches in the world. Change meant moving to the same school as Hikari, and meeting Miyako, Iori, Daisuke and Ken. Change meant that one day society might accept Digimon as a whole.

And whether he liked it or not, change was coming.

It was still surreal to him; his brother and Taichi had always seemed so close. They had never been part of the same cliques, and they spent almost as much time fighting as hanging out. But their friendship always eclipsed everything else, social standings, heated disputes, none of it mattered; they were best friends, through and through.

Then college happened. Now the legendary duo’s primary means of communication was via their siblings. Hikari would learn some new fact of her brother’s life, tell Takeru during the course of casual conversation, and Takeru would update his brother of the going-ons later that week.

It wasn’t just them. Even Mimi, who had an incessant talent for attaching herself onto someone and refusing to let them go, seemed much further from the rest of the chosen then she’d even been while she lived in America.

Takeru knew their bond was strong, that what the eight of them had done could not be forgotten or replaced. But even if distance could not destroy the bridge holding them together, it could certainly increase the hassle of travelling back and forth.

The last thing Takeru wanted was for that distance to appear between himself and Hikari. This was their final year in highschool, if he didn’t at least try now he might not ever get the opportunity again. He needed to try, despite the inherent risks.

Besides, Hikari had rejected Daisuke dozens of times, and they were still friends, right?

Gathering his courage, Takeru had asked Hikari if they could have a day to themselves, ‘just the two of them’. He’d suggested Wednesday, when neither club duties nor pressing assignments devoured too significant portions of their time.

Ever the romantic, he had it all planned out: First, karaoke. A good, private way to judge the mood, and get Hikari to let her hair down. Next, they had tickets to a movie, the new Disney flick that Hikari had been dying to see but never gotten around to (and without someone pressing, likely would not until it became available on dvd.) Finally, a romantic stroll on the boardwalk at sunset.

The boardwalk overlooking the bay.

The bay where they fought Ordienmon.

The bay where they’d been forced to kill one of their friends.

It was only after beginning his long-rehearsed spiel that Takeru had this epiphany, and, fearful that his date may have been quicker on the uptake than himself, he scrambled for a plan B.

Salvation came in the form of a nearby cat café, he knew as soon as he suggested it that Hikari would lose herself in the felines, paying more attention to the four-legged critters than she did to him, but it was worth it to avert potential catastrophe.

Fate still deigned to mock him however, from the instant he sat down a maine-coon attached to him, refusing to move from his side, or to let the memories of past failures escape.

All cats attached to Hikari, she merely shared them with the other customers as she saw fit. There was no doubt she enjoyed herself, but the moment had been well and truly ruined.

Takeru had managed to obtain an opportunity of redemption. ‘Same time next week’ had been the agreement, and he had near instantly resumed planning. Whatever he came up this time had to top what he’d just done, or else he might have to explain away his mistake.

But even the most perfect plan does not survive contact with the enemy, and the enemy presented itself as an ill-timed phone call from his father. One of his coworker’s households had apparently been graced by the appearance of a small white blob with a voracious appetite, and Hiroaki was wondering if his son could stop by after school and help calm the panicking mother, perhaps also giving tips for digital care.

Hikari would not allow him to say no, and insisted on tagging along. But the TV station itself held a lot of painful memories for the girl, every year she returned with an offering of flowers and incense for Wizardmon’s grave.

It was far from a total waste since an idol Hikari had been following was also present. Somehow the idol had overheard their arrival, and considered themselves interested in the pro-digimon cause. In fact, the idol had been downright helpful, asking questions of him and Hikari that the coworker was likely to embarrassed or too naïve to think of. Hiroaki ended up taking them all out for dinner, and they chatted for hours, finally assuaging the fear of a parent whose daughter now had a dog-head as a life partner.

By that point, he had to take Hikari home, with no real opportunity to confess, even if Wizardmon wasn’t on her mind.

The third attempt was a no go from the beginning, Hikari had been sent into a rare, foul state. All she wanted to do was eat ice-cream and rant, so they went to a dairy-bar overlooking the beach.

He’d let her vent when she wanted to vent, and when she was done he did what he did best: deflecting the conversation to some odd antics of Daisuke or his brother, anything to get her happy and cheerful again. Even after her mood had recovered, steering the conversation towards a confession felt like he might be taking advantage of her, or putting her on the spot somehow.

Cheering her up was reward enough, even as he paid for the forty-flavor super-jumbo, bottomless Sunday that they’d managed to make a liar out of.

(He’d eaten perhaps an eighth of it, there was no doubt in his mind that Hikari could have eaten the whole thing; but she at least wanted the plausible deniability to claim that he’d consumed half the calories.)

The fourth attempt was similarly doomed, he’d been too sick for school that day, and while Hikari had dropped by, he was too delirious to form a real confession, or for her to take any confession seriously.

The feel of her hand stroking his hear as she tended to him had been so heavenly though. He couldn’t regret the experience.

By this point Takeru was convinced their Wednesday gatherings were cursed. There was little reason Hikari would even see them as special. And while he always enjoyed spending time with her, especially just the two of them, he was worried that regularity may dampen the splendor he’d initially been going for.

This week he requested to move their weekly hang out session to Saturday. It would allow more time for them to be out at night, and thus more time for him to enact his perfect confession. Hikari’s father was away on business, and her mother had already agreed to be rather lax on her daughter’s curfew.

His mother had not, but she would not punish him if he told her he was out on his first date, nor would she punish him after getting rejected, yet another reason he needed to actually spit it out today.

And it seemed all the stars were aligning, on top of her father being out of town: a photography exhibition at a local gallery was going for half price, and her favorite indie group were headlining a public concert at the beach until sundown. Finally, there was a forecast for a clear, bright moon, and a local botanical garden was advertising a moonlit stroll through their flowers.

Hikari had agreed on one condition: they could wade through the shallows, but not do any real swimming at the beach. It had seemed odd to Takeru at first, but the beach had been more about the free concert than seeing her in her swimsuit.

***

When Takeru arrived at the Yagami apartment he was stunned by the vision of beauty that graced him. Hikari was wearing a strapless dress, black with accents of pink and white, that he’d never seen her in before. Based on how high her head was coming up his body, she had to be wearing quite daring heels as well.

And her makeup had been done with so much precision and effort he had to wonder if perhaps Mimi had come back to town to help her.

“T-Takeru?” she asked, and he realized he must have been staring.

“I’m sorry, have you seen Hikari? Brown hair, about yea tall,” he held his hand about three feet off the floor, “may have a family of ducklings following her around.”

“That was one time.” She scolded.

Takeru stood on his tip toes and moved one hand to sit above his eyes, like a visor. “Hikari? Is that you? Are you trapped behind this radiant goddess in front of me?”

A tell-tale pink infiltrated her cheeks as she turned around. “It’s too much isn’t it? I could still maybe change and-”

His hand shot out and grabbed her arm before she could escape. “You look perfect.” He said sincerely, pulling her in for a hug. “Besides, people at the exhibit will be expecting beauty and art. They just may not be expecting the source.”

“You’re just saying that.” She deflected.

He wasn’t.

Takeru was not the same connoisseur of photography Hikari was. When push comes to shove, he wasn’t sure anyone was the same connoisseur of photography Hikari was. That said, he enjoyed exhibits well enough. He liked to look at the pictures, and soak them in. Try and memorize every detail to regurgitate later.

Or occasionally, he would find a particular picture, and write a story in his head. How had they gotten here, to this moment, what did picture mean to the squirrel which was the focus? What was he doing immediately before? How did this moment change his life?

Such joys eluded him today, instead his focus was solely on the brunette accompanying him. The pictures only mattered in how they changed the expression on her face as she examined them.

After exiting the gallery, there was still about an hour before the band started playing at the beach, they stopped for a bite to eat, and Takeru did his best to fake his way though her questions on the exhibition.

What was his favorite photo? He named one on the left wall of the one she stared at for ten minutes, that had framed her head the whole time. Why? He made up some impromptu story he’d concocted about the scenery involved. It won him a laugh from her as he turned the questions around.

When they got to the beach, Hikari replaced her heels with flat sandals she kept in her purse. Takeru noted that he at least recognized the heels this time, unlike her dress, but he’d still never seen her wear them before.

Despite her insistence they not swim, (something Takeru now realized had to do with the amount of time she’d spent on her makeup,) hikari had instantly dragged him towards the water, to wade in the shallows. They didn’t go much more than ankle deep, anymore and they risked getting hikari’s dress and his shorts wet, but it had been romantic nonetheless.

When the main act began to play, they collected their shoes and moved towards the stage, communications dampening as the speakers drowned out all sounds but the band on stage.

Takeru didn’t need words, the sight of Hikari, framed by the sunset, losing herself in the moment was more than enough for him.

It was twilight when the band’s ‘second encore’ had concluded and the crowd began to peter out. There was a small ice-cream sack on the beach, and Hikari rarely turned down an opportunity for more of the frozen delight.

They talked about the concert, the waves on the beach, of everything and nothing all at once, until the residual light from the sun faded and the moon came in full force. In the city like this, there was always a glow of artificial light, but it did not diminish Tsukuyomi’s splendor.

Meandering towards the botanical gardens, continuing their chatter about daily life. Just outside Hikari stopped him, finding a bench to switch back from flats to heels, insisting it was more ‘proper’. Takeru didn’t let her get away unscathed, suggesting that if she wanted to feel taller, stilts would be more appropriate. She responded by playfully warning him that he may ‘wake up one day, two feet shorter’.

Neither comment had nearly as much effect as when the woman at the counter remarked on ‘What a beautiful date this would make’ and how she ‘wished her boyfriend had been so romantic at that age.’

Hikari’s face could be mistaken for a tomato, and Takeru adopted an uncharacteristic stutter as he paid their admission and ushered Hikari outside.

The woman’s words had a chilling effect, the natural conversation had all but dried up, replaced with subtle pleasantries and tepid remarks about the moonlit flowers. Before long Hikari had her camera out, taking pictures of the various plant life, abandoning most conversation all together.

Was this it, had such a small, well-meaning action already cursed him? Everything was going so well. Was he a modern Sysphus? Doomed to forever push himself up the hill of a relationship with Hikari only to fall down at the pinnacle and start all over?

“Takeru?” Hikari asked, snapping him out of his monologue, “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” Takeru replied “Just thinking.”

She grabbed his arm, pulling him towards a nearby bench. “Come on, let’s take a break, these shoes are killing me.”

“The price of fashion.” Takeru said sagely.

After they reached the bench, and Hikari had relieved herself of her footwear, they paused, focusing on some hydrangeas flow in the wind, accented by moon light. A weight appeared on Takeru’s shoulder, where Hikari began to rest her head.

“Right now.” She said “This moment just feels so…perfect.”

Takeru took a deep breath. He had the most wonderful girl on his arm, after spending nearly eight hours with her. “Yeah, perfect.”

A perfect moment.

It was unlikely a better opportunity would present itself.

“Hikari.” He said suddenly, just as she chimed in with his name. “Sorry,” they said in unison.

Her head pulled off his arm, quite disappointingly in his opinion, as she turned to face him.

“Ladies first.” Takeru said “I insist.” She gave him a soft look, knowing that he wouldn’t let her win this one.

“Okay.” She started “This last month, has just been so wonderful, so amazing. I know I’m not the most experienced with this, and I know we haven’t really put a name on it, but it’s still been like something out of a novel. I guess I should expect that from you.”

She had begun to look down, rummaging through her purse, as takeru tried to sort out exactly what she was talking about. Had it already been a month since they started these ‘friend-dates?’

Hikari continued obliviously, “It’s not much, especially since you seem to do all the planning, but I thought you’d like it.” She pulled out a tightly-wrapped box. “Happy one-month anniversary.”

Ani-what?

Dates rolled back in his head as he began to piece things together; the dress, the makeup, the heels, those were all for him? Had she always been considering these less friend-dates and more dates-dates?

And he, in a move of pure coincidence, had moved this week’s date to Saturday, one month to the day of that first date, and even asked her mother for permission to stay out late.

Takeru did the only thing he could think of in the moment.

He laughed.

“Tak-Takeru?” she asked, and he could already sense fear and hesitation begin to well up within her as she saw her (boyfriend?) laugh at her anniversary gift. He grabbed her and pulled her into a hug to dissuade any doubts.

“Happy anniversary,” he said when his hysterics died down. “One month, I’ve been trying to confess for a month, and you hit me with that.”

“Wait, confess?” Hiakri said, begging a laugh of his own that quickly spread to Takeru. “All this time and you didn’t even think we were dating? You completely stopped flirting with everyone else. Did you really think I didn’t…”

“We’re quite the pair, aren’t we?” Takeru teased in response.

“Yeah,” Hikari agreed. “Well, if you finally managed to confess after all that, maybe I can do something I’ve been too scared to do for the last month.”

Takeru looked down at her, “What would that be?” he asked leaning in close.

“This.” She pressed her lips against his.

#takari #takeru takaishi #hikari yagami #digimon #its still the 16th here so it counts #takari week

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black-streak · 5 years ago

Text

Saturday night's alright for fighting (but Sundays are meant for rest) - Dangerous Game Indeed

Part 4

Changing gears here for a moment. This part has no fluff. More character building than anything to set up the beginning of the next part, which should go back to being fluffy. Pretty sure I'm going to write their date next, but I felt it important to establish a few things early on. I promise if this gets you confused, the next part will explain what happened here better

~---~

So here's the thing about being a secret hero in a place teeming with vigilantes and villains.

Being a bright red flash across the horizon doesn't work.

Not that Marinette wouldn't love to zip across the high rise buildings by her yoyo, but it just wasn't a feasible option unless she wished to announce her presence to every person in the city. Seriously, Tikki, who does she think she is, Robin? One traffic light bright hero was enough.

That's how this… possibly unwise team up came to fruition.

See, Mari planned to stay within the shadows, outta sight from the many bat people that stalked the rooftops at night, but like hell would she stay idle and complacent while Gotham suffered. So she waited and watched for quite some time before selecting her new miraculouses, eventually settling on the cat and fox combined. After all, chaos, destruction, and deceit work well together.

With her mind made up, she proceeded to plan out the costume and discuss how their powers were likely to combine; what to expect from this merge. The end result was magnificent. The bottomless-pit black bottoms were looser than anything she'd had before, wrapping tight in fabric bands only at the ankles and waist before shifting into a long sleeve shirt, just as free in the arms with the same tight bands at the wrists. The soft fabric draped across her chest, the front coming up to cover the bottom half of her face, the sides and back lifting up into a hood that covered her all the way to the eyes. Her gloves and hidden boots were a soot gray, indistinguishable in the dead of night and only barely of note in the day, with black claw tips and touch sensitive paw pads. Under the hood, her hair took on a more soot gray tone as well, black fluffy ears with gray insides just barely hinting out. A fluffy black tail with gray tip swished behind her. The colors were all Plagg while the design took more to Trixx. Her eyes however went into catlike slits of silver sclera and icy blue irises with what appeared to be black kohl ringing her eyes. Lastly, twin daggers tucked into the seams on her inner arms.

The first thing she discovered upon merging was that she became undetectable. Her movements made no sound nor did her breathing. She blended seamlessly with shadows and the night sky alike. People who looked in her direction would blink and discover it to be a trick of the light or assume it to be a delusion if they even saw her at all. It took concentration to push off the magic and allow others to see past the illusion. But she feared once it was gone, it'd be lost on that person forever. Sure, maybe they wouldn't notice her due to her own skill, but the magic would no longer protect her from them. So she didn't test it out. The next thing she realized was that her transformation didn't have much of a timer to detransform. Having worked with different kwamis for so long had built up a resistance to the strain.

Secondly, she found their abilities didn't end at cataclysm and mirage. Funny thing about being in control of illusions and deceit; you could spot it in others from a mile away. Making villainous plans easier to tear apart without a charm.

Plagg's… well Plagg's was different. As it turned out, death is simply an extension of destruction and while she had always known a poorly placed cataclysm could potentially end a life, she never expected this ability to sense death itself. She could feel when a place had seen too much or where it lurked heaviest in her vicinity.

She could also sense when someone had been brushed with its weighted touch. Which had led to many tragic, heartbroken nights of research to discover why so many of the Waynes were smothered in it. From Jason disappearing for so long and being exposed to Kwami knows what. The potentially abusive upbringing of Damian by his mother who he refused to speak of. Bruce and his parents, murdered before his eyes. Tim losing his own parents and being around to bare witness to the many brushes of his adoptive family. Add on their secondary occupations and what it entailed and well, it was enough to know not to pry.

The first few transformations, she stayed docile, never engaging, silently observing the inner workings of the city. The next few, she branched out, interfering minor crimes with quick distractions and carefully curated traps. The criminals themselves would wake up outside the police station with evidence scattered about them and no memory of how they ended up there. Then a race against the clock would commence while they tried to gather everything thrown about them and run before any officers could take note and capture them. Mari took great pleasure in watching this part, sometimes binding their wrists or feet to add an extra element to their struggle.

The two kwamis truly brought out her more sly, volatile side.

Eventually it led to foiling larger scale villains when Batman seemed to be taking his own sweet time arriving to the scene. By the time he or one of his.. partners? Pupils? Kids? She never knew what he called them in costume... Well to whoever showed up, it would look like the plan collapsed within itself as though a few variables were forgotten or fell out of hand.

The problem with starting to take action in a place like Gotham though is that no matter how much they can't prove your existence, the bats are bound to take notice. Because if they aren't the ones taking down these people, who is?

That's how Mari found herself narrowly avoiding encounters on a weekly basis. Sure, no one spotted her yet, but tracking her location through found thugs she'd taken down moments before made for some close calls of almost physically being ran in to. Not sure how convincing of a pipe on a roof she could be if that were to happen.

Add on her own animalistic instinct to hunt that led to many nights of stalking different vigilantes for hours on end, holding back the urge to pounce and well… it made for a dangerous game of cat and mouse.

'Or rather, catfox and bird,' she thought, slowly inching along an edge wall of the roof where Red Robin laid in wait.

Mari couldn't be sure how, but he seemed to have some sixth sense for looming figures. Either that or heaps worth of paranoia. Multiple times she'd had to hold deadly still while he whipped his head in her direction, staring her down. If it hadn't been for the magic whispering across her skin, Marinette was sure he'd have had her pinned within the first night of her stalking. As it stood, Red only stared quietly, eyes roving the area she kept to, only relenting when it seemed nothing would appear.

Tonight… felt ominous. Marinette knew how dumb it was to purposefully follow Red, even more so while cleaning up the dock she had just vacated, leaving an unconscious scarecrow tied amongst his goons by crates worth of chemicals. Normally she wouldn't tie them up, but instead misconstrue things until it looked like an accident, confused weaker pawns wandering about, trying to collect their bosses only for the bats to find and finish up the job. However, her need to remain an unknown figure lost against the need for entertainment, so she made everything of her interference obvious, but left no trace of herself for Batman to find.

Now she watched as Red stayed still upon the roof, clean up done and nothing left to do but think. She waited for pacing, frustration, anything. She received silence.

How boring.

Of course... he knew it was her.

Robin, Red Robin, and Agent A had all either figured it out or had been informed by herself. It was the rest of the family they kept in the dark, her unwilling to trust them with this yet and the three recognizing it as not their secret to tell.

Doesn't mean Red didn't take every opportunity to try and catch her slipping up.

Marinette could almost hear Plagg goading her to toy with the bird, Trixx right behind telling Mari to trust in the illusion. It would only break where she wanted it to. With that reassurance and no Tikki to reason with, Mari moved forward a touch, still completely hidden, but testing how well he sensed her.

Immediately, he turned. She froze. Then remembering herself, she carefully focused on the magic about her before cautiously letting a huff of air out her mouth, just loud enough to pick up, but quiet enough to not immediately draw attention to her exact location.

It was enough.

"You're here."

She met him with only silence for a moment then clicked her claws gently to confirm.

Zeroing in further, he took a step forward.

Sliding to his side, Mari carefully scuffed a boot and watched him follow her.

He seemed to assess the situation before turning back to where she was, allowing her to creep behind him. The tension in his shoulders let on to him knowing her actual location though.

Of course she chose that moment to channel her inner idiot and play along. Tapping his shoulder in a clear indication of permission to turn around, as that seemed to be what he was waiting for, she hopped back into the shadows. It was obvious he was only showing passiveness to lure her into a sense of security enough to reveal herself.

She knew this and yet as he turned to face her again, she focused into the magic, peeling it back until she knew her eyes alone glowed out at him from the dark.

She let him meet her eyes for only a half second before taking off, quickly blending into the night once more to the sound of curses from the next building over where Hood had been waiting to step in.

Maybe next time she would stalk Jason and see how he liked being watched.

#maribat #timinette #trust me #this will make sense

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inspired-by-the-music · 5 years ago

Text

For You

Chapter 2: The Ribbon

“If you laugh one more time,” Lucas threatened through gritted teeth, “I’m dropping out of this subunit!”

Considering the initial stress of Kai’s departure from the subunit, I guess Lucas expected me to tremble at his threat. Instead, I laughed harder, and he glowered at me.

“I’m sorry.” My apology was insincere, but I had to say something when he looked at me like that. “It’s just— Lucas, this dance is so sensual, and my feelings for you are not—”

“That’s funny,” Lucas said without even the smallest smile. “I seem to remember you snapping on Kai at the photoshoot for having a very similar attitude.”

Again I said, “I’m sorry,” this time a little more earnestly before continuing, “It’s just a little embarrassing— dancing with you like this when you’re practically my brother.”

Lucas clicked his tongue and started to argue before realizing he couldn’t. “Yeah.” He laughed at our reflections, which gripped each other tightly. “Yeah, you’re kinda right.” He released his hold around my waist to flick the light switch off.

When Lucas pressed play on our subunit(LX2)’s first finalized song, returned to my side, and once again danced his fingertips across my lower back, I didn’t giggle at the contact. With the only light seeping into the room from under the studio door since the sunlight had not yet broken through the clouds— much less through the windows lining the wall— it was easy to forget that the touch belonged to Lucas. I could pretend that the touch belonged to someone else— someone whose presence didn’t make my heart swell from some fraternal familiarity but, instead, race in anticipation of some unknown affection.

Who did I imagine was dancing with me in the dark? Nobody specific. Nobody I knew. Nobody I met yet or would likely ever meet.

I was not often unsatisfied with my career. I loved performing, and I highly regarded the honor of representing my country as an idol and expressing myself as an artist. But in that moment when somebody who wasn’t Lucas touched me— when I realized at the sudden sound of his voice that this was a delusion, that romance would be a fantasy for as long as I was an idol (which I still hoped would be always)-- my heart plummeted from its height.

Maybe I was lonely.

Maybe we were all lonely.

Maybe it was just a matter of realizing it and admitting it.

Maybe we didn’t know how to admit it; maybe we never would.

“What would you say if I asked you to go camping with me and the guys this weekend?” Lucas asked. The question was almost an act of mercy, an instinct to protect me from thoughts and feelings that had no comfort— that would drown me if explored.

We moved in sync. We were always on the same page even if we weren’t allowed to be. For me, that closeness to Lucas was not an act of rebellion against our industry; I just didn’t know any other way to be.

I said, “I wouldn’t,” and Lucas huffed, frustrated either by my response or because he had fallen out of step. Squinting to watch him leap over to the stereo to restart the song, I added, “Even if Mom would let me go out into the middle of the woods with a bunch of boys— and she wouldn’t!— camping is not how I want to spend my last weekend of ‘freedom’ before the North American leg of our world tour.”

“Well,” Lucas sauntered over me, and we took the dance from the top. “How else do you plan to bond with the guys?”

I hadn’t drafted any ideas to appeal to the members who didn’t already like me. Burning at the reminder that I wasn’t well-received by everybody, I grumbled, “I’m not sneaking out of my mother’s house in a futile effort to get Kai to like me.”

“It’s not just about Kai.” Lucas smirked, “There’s also the opportunity to be alone with Taemin—”

“I don’t want to be alone with Taemin.”

Lucas laughed that shallow laugh he reserved for when he thought I was lying, but I was not lying. I meant it when I said that nothing seemed more distressing than the thought of being alone with Taemin.

“Besides,” I reminded him, “Donghae’s birthday party is this weekend, and we’re all required to go.”

“That’s on Sunday. Taeyong was thinking that we should go on Saturday—”

Before I could repeat that there was no way Mom would let me go camping, unsupervised, with SuperM— before I could explain that even if I wanted to (and I didn’t!), there was no way to sneak out without Mom noticing and grounding us all right before the tour— the lights flashed on. The room was illuminated a blinding white.

When my eyes adjusted, I saw that Lucas’s palm was flat against my cheek— I felt it, warm, coarse— and we flinched away from each other. We squirmed at the commercialization of something so intimate, at the realization that our first tender touches had been scripted, before Donghae’s shrieks split through ears

“Lei!” Donghae’s widened eyes fixed solely on me, and he scrambled to catch the milkshake that was falling from his grasp. “What— what are you doing?”

Had I been doing something scandalous, I might have been horrified by Donghae’s interruption of our dance practice. As it was, I treaded the brink of laughter long before Lucas collapsed on the ground in a fit of giggles.

It was silly that despite knowing my schedule well enough to plan when to bring me a milkshake, Donghae hadn’t known, “Yes, Donghae, my mother knows that I am practicing with Lucas for the debut of our subunit. This was her idea.”

“So she approves—” Donghae set the cup down at his feet to gesture vaguely at me and Lucas with his hands— “of all this. . . touching?”

When I nodded, and Lucas responded with more laughter, Donghae shook his head. “I can’t believe this! I’m going to talk to her!”

I don’t know what he hoped that would accomplish. The executives approved of LX2, and with so little time before the launch of the tour, they wouldn’t recast or disband the unit just because Donghae pitched a temper tantrum to Mom. Besides, I frowned, he wouldn’t have been able to get two words into his monologue with her avoiding him.

“And you two,” he scolded, “keep this door open and this light turned on. We don’t need any more scandals!”

As he sat upright, Lucas’s shoulders stiffened and I held my breath in anticipation of Donghae’s conclusion, “You don’t want to end up like the idol who never debuted!”

It always came back to her.

I was drowning in a nightmare that Lucas and I were on stage together in Atlanta. I was laughing because his fingertips tickled as they brushed against my exposed lower back. Lucas was laughing because he couldn’t imagine being attracted to me like the dance implied. The audience was laughing because our song was ridiculous. Baekhyun and Mark were laughing because that was all they ever did. Kai didn’t offer the smallest smile because he still hated me, and he knew that he could have performed in the subunit without making it a joke. I don’t know where Ten and Taeyong were, but they weren’t standing with Taemin who stared at me in utter disbelief, asking in a silent scream, “How did you ever become an idol?”

I woke with such a start, heart racing and breaths shallow, that I thought the pillowcase over my head was a figment of yet another nightmare until Mark’s voice, uncharacteristically nervous, said, “Guys, I think she’s awake.”

We were in a car, I realized, when we banged into a dip in the road.

“Shit, Baekhyun,” Lucas griped. “Learn how to drive!”

“I can drive just fine! The road just gets a little rockier the closer we get to the lake—”

“Lake?” My word was trapped inside the pillowcase. It bounced around, suffocated me, until Mark spoke up again.

“Lei is awake!” He yelled before pulling the pillowcase off of my head. He smiled so softly that I might have been grateful were it not for the rage that washed over me as my eyes blinked and adjusted to the reality that I was in the back of Baekhyun’s stupid Audi. With Mark. On the way, apparently, to a lake.

Lucas whirled around in the passenger seat. “Finally! How did ya sleep?”

My eyes narrowed as my tongue readied to lash Lucas for participating in some kidnapping plot, but my voice caught in my throat when Baekhyun turned from the darkened road to wink at me. “Pretty good, huh, Lei? I heard ya moaning something about Taemin.”

The color drained from my face and returned as a scarlet blush that I hoped the boys wouldn’t notice under the car’s roof that extinguished the starlight. Baekhyun laughed, and I sank back into the seat next to Mark. I turned my gaze out the window— trying to find the stars or moon through the Autumn trees— and I tried to cross my arms, but they were bound tightly behind my back with some silky fabric. I was too angry or embarrassed to speak even to ask someone to remove the restraints until Mark promised, “You didn’t actually say anything about Taemin.”

I glanced over at Mark, and his eyes were wide. Sincere. Holding his eternal desire to please. How much did that desire relate to his confessed crush on me? How much was it a mere character trait, a summation of Mark Lee?

“Yeah.” Lucas slapped a hand on the back of his headrest to get my attention. “You were totally passed out.”

Relieved slightly, I breathed, “I bet that made it a lot easier for you all to kidnap me.”

“You’d think so, right?” Baekhyun shook his head harder than he should have; there was no way he could focus on driving with his head thrashing like that. “I mean, I’m glad you didn’t scream— and Lucas told me you’re a biter—”

“Dude,” Mark laughed, “that sounds so dirty!” My swipe at his arm made him laugh harder. He probably didn’t feel the sting of the strike through his thick hoodie.

Undeterred by Mark’s outburst (and Lucas’s gagging at Mark’s outburst), Baekhyun continued, “But all your dead weight made you a lot heavier to lug out of that window. And why did you have to sleep on the second floor and make everything more difficult?”

I rolled my eyes. “Sorry. Next time, tell me when you’re gonna break into my house to drag me off on some midnight adventure— without my consent, I might add!— and I’ll be sure to fall asleep on the living room floor couch for your convenience.”

Lucas and Mark snorted at my reply, and Baekhyun said without taking the time to blink, “Thank you for your consideration!”

I wanted so badly to be mad— to keep my brow furrowed in the back seat and scowl so hard that they would have no choice but to take me home— but it was impossible because of the pearly grin Baekhyun flashed at me through the rearview mirror.

It’s unfair, really, that some people should be so cute. Baekhyun, Lucas, and— on occassion, when he decided it best suited his aims— Ten, were dangerously adorable. They could have convinced me with a single smile that they were innocent of murder, I bet. Baekhyun and Ten were conniving with their charms, but Lucas was just cute by coincidence or fate or nature.

Taemin could have been dangerous if he wanted to be, but I hadn’t known him to wield his cuteness as a weapon. Sometimes, I thought it was unfair that somebody should be as unaware of their charms as he was. Looking back, though, I don’t know if he was all that unaware. Maybe he knew well the effect he could have on people with no effort. I didn’t know; I don’t know; Taemin is, was, and always will be something like a mystery.

As if sharing one brain cell, Baekhyun and Lucas cheered, “I love this song!” and Lucas cranked the radio’s volume so high that the car bounced on soundwaves.

For Mark to hear over Lucas and Baekhyun’s deafening voices, I had to yell, “Where are we going?”

Mark’s face scrunched, confused. “Huh?” Then, a figurative light shone over his head. “We’re meeting the other guys at the campsite by the lake.”

Anxious once more, I asked, “Who’s going to be there?” But Mark had joined Lucas and Baekhyun in singing a song I couldn’t recognize, so he didn’t hear me.

My question went unanswered until Lucas helped me out of the backseat, and I looked over to see Taeyong, Ten, Kai, and Taemin gathered around a campfire. They were laughing at something, and their laughter grew louder as they raced to greet us.

Kai’s smile fell and crashed around his bare feet in the sand as his eyes settled on me. “What’s she doing here?”

Ten glared at him. Because I didn’t want to be a source of tension in the group, I scrambled to make a joke. Turning to reveal my bound wrists, I chuckled, “Well, believe me, I’m not here by choice!”

Suffice it to say that I hadn’t predicted the ensuing argument.

“What the hell?” Taeyong growled. When I turned to face him, he was cutting Baekhyun with his eyes. “Is this what you meant by ‘drastic measures?’ Kidnapping Lei from her house?”

“Don’t criticize your leader’s methods!” Baekhyun scolded as he pulled a drink— something I couldn’t quite see in the moonlight— out of a cooler in his car’s trunk. After gulping through half of the bottle, he said, “I got Lei here, and that’s more than you can say.”

Taeyong rolled his eyes, and Ten said, “Momager is definitely going to notice that Lei’s gone, and she’s going to kick your asses—” he gestured to Baekhyun, Lucas, and Mark— “and ground you, and take your phones—”

“I don’t want to get my ass kicked!” Mark pouted.

“And I don’t want to get my phone taken again,” Lucas sulked.

Baekhyun yelled, “if I’m going down, I’m taking all of you down with me!”

Kai argued, arms crossed, “Like hell I am! I didn’t even want her to come!”

I wished harder than ever that this was just another nightmare. Maybe, I thought, if I blinked enough, I would wake in my bed far away from this fighting, away from Kai’s scrutinizing stare. Fidgeting with my restraints while everybody was too busy bickering to notice— even Taeyong, who focused his rage on Baekhyun’s “poor leadership”— I wandered past the campfire.

Had I been wearing a jacket to shield myself from the cold mid-October nighttime breezes, it wouldn’t have been such a bad night to spend outdoors. The stars were on full display, and the moon was a sterling crescent so bright that I thought, were my wrists not bound, I could have reached out and grabbed it out of the sky and put it in my pocket.

That was a silly thought I dreamed about often: holding the moon, carrying it around with me in the daylight as if I could protect it better than the sky. I don’t know who planted that dream in my mind or why, but I was always grateful for it.

While I kicked at some rock I found at the edge of the water, somebody stepped up behind me and tugged at the fabric around my wrists. Half expecting it to be Lucas, I wheeled around with a smart-aleck comment dancing on the tip of my tongue.

I swallowed my words and forgot them as Taemin stared at me with smiling eyes. He waved. His mouth was closed, it seemed, to give me the opportunity to speak first. Then, realizing that I wouldn’t (couldn’t), he softly said, “Turn around, and I’ll untie you.”

While he set to untangling the knots, he offered, “I’ll drive you home if you really don’t want to be here.”

“You have a driver’s license?” I would have asked if my teeth didn’t sink into my tongue when his soft fingertips brushed against my skin as he unraveled the fabric.

Taemin grabbed my shoulder to urge me to face him. His eyebrows were raised in anticipation of an answer, so I shook my head and crossed my arms, trying to rub my goosebumps away. Again, Taemin had stolen my voice, and I was shrinking or melting under his gaze that I couldn’t match.

“Are you cold?” Taemin noticed how I shivered, and I noticed how he traced his fingers along a sky blue ribbon that must have been used to tie my wrists.

I nodded, realizing that Baekhyun, Lucas, or Mark must have stolen from my vanity the ribbon I wore on my debut stage. I wasn’t particularly attached to it until Taemin suggested, “I’ll give you my jacket if you give me this ribbon.”

I hadn’t worn it once since that performance nearly seven years ago, and it seemed that Taemin’s touch was reviving its once radiant color that faded after being abandoned on my vanity for all that time, but my chest tightened at the thought of losing this symbol of my debut.

Why did Taemin want it anyway? What could he do with an old ribbon?

Taemin shed his light blue denim jacket and carefully draped it over my shoulders. Its warmth enveloped me; its soft fleece interior— snow white— tickled my arms.

Mumbling my thanks, I bowed, and Taemin said, “You don’t really have to give me this.” He held the ribbon out to me. “It’s just— I heard that if someone gives you a ribbon—”

“Aye, love birds!” Baekhyun screamed at me and Taemin. He and the other boys, still wearing scowls, were gathering around the campfire. Beckoning me and Taemin over, Baekhyun announced, “We’re gonna play Truth or Dare!”

Before we obeyed Baekhyun, Taemin offered me the ribbon again. I shook my head, saying, “You can keep it if you want it.”

Not wanting to overanalyze my decision, I ran to sit down on a bean bag with Lucas. Here’s the problem: that bean bag wasn’t quite big enough for two people, so I nearly toppled onto the sandy, rocky ground. Thankfully, Lucas caught me— laughing as usual— and pulled me into his lap.

While Ten pretended to gag at us, Mark said, “Yo! Lei, there’s way more room with me!” although he sat on a bean bag identical to Lucas’s in every aspect except color; while Lucas’s was cotton candy pink, Mark’s was navy blue.

“Listen and listen good,” Lucas told Mark, “the most popular ship in S.M. is Leicas, not— well, your name and Lei’s don’t even fit together to make a ship name!”

Mark retorted, “Obviously, our ship name is Marklei, which is perfect because my name is actually—”

“I thought,” Baekhyun interrupted with a mischievous grin, “that the most popular ship in S.M. was Kai and Taemin.”

While Taemin offered a polite smile from his place on the ground at Kai’s side, Kai quietly glowered at the fire.

Oh, I sank, he really doesn’t want me here.

As if sensing my frown without seeing it, Lucas wrapped his arms around me and rested his chin on my shoulder. “So, are we gonna play Truth or Dare, or what?”

Baekhyun looked to Taeyong (who sat on a scarlet bean bag) for permission to start the game. Taeyong shrugged at the attention. “Why are you looking at me? I said that we should talk through our issues as a group. This Truth or Dare thing was your idea.”

Digging into his cooler, which I guess he pulled out of his trunk while I was talking to Taemin, Baekhyun chirped, “Oh yeah!” He held up a bottle. “Let’s start then!” After taking a swig, he passed the drink to Taeyong and asked, “Truth or Dare?”

“Truth.” Taeyong took a small sip of the drink that he spit out when Baekhyun asked, “Do you think I’m a bad leader?”

(Maybe) trying to prevent the atmosphere around the game from souring, Ten roared, “Take another sip! The first one doesn’t count since you just sprayed it all over Taemin’s face.”

Taemin still smiled politely as he brought the hem of his shirt up to wipe at his face with the white fabric. Although my eyes had already darted away from the first glimpse at Taemin’s abs, Lucas pressed his hands over my eyes.

Lucas laughed as I swatted him away so I could watch Taeyong’s face burn crimson as he took another sip at Ten’s direction. Meeting Baekhyun’s gaze, which was icy despite his boxy smile, Taeyong answered, “I think you have the potential to be a great leader, but you play around too much. These guys—” Taeyong nodded vaguely at Lucas and Mark— “really look up to you, and I think you should consider that when you encourage them to participate in over the top schemes.”

Baekhyun had been towering over Taeyong, but as he processed the mindfully phrased advice, Baekhyun sat atop the closed cooler. My gaze shifted nervously from Baekhyun to Taeyong, wondering who might first break the silence, wondering if Taeyong would apologize for speaking his mind.

The silence was finally broken by Baekhyun. “You know, I’ve never been a leader before. There’s a part of me that wants to believe that I’m doing a good job just because I have the title. There’s a part of me that wants to say that you all should follow me because I’m the oldest. But maybe— you know, I’ve never led a team with unlimited members.”

Baekhyun smiled at Taeyong and offered him a handshake that was instantly accepted.

Their agreement was unspoken, but I understood: Baekhyun knew that he could learn from Taeyong’s leadership experience. Baekhyun held the title, and Taeyong respected that, but the success of our group did not depend solely on Baekhyun’s wild schemes or Taeyong’s rational lectures. They— Baekhyun and Taeyong— were two halves of a whole leader.

The tension between them hadn’t disappeared, and it probably never would. Left unchecked, the tension would have led to dissent; once addressed, it could better our group. This, I realized, was the merit of open communication.

Bearing this in mind, I wasn’t offended by Kai’s response to Taeyong’s question, “How did you feel when Lei was added to SuperM?”

Although he was resigned to hating me, Kai seemed reluctant to answer even after taking several sips of the drink passed over by Taeyong.

“Upset,” was all that Kai said at first. He only added more at Taeyong’s urging. “It’s just— we had something really good between the seven of us. We had something special with our fans. Adding an eighth member feels wrong to me. And adding a girl—”

“Dude,” Ten snarled, “don’t start with that sexist shit, or—”

“It’s okay,” I said, knowing that Ten wouldn’t stand down at anybody else’s request. I smiled to prove that I wasn’t wounded by Kai’s words although my heart was pounding and a blush was rising in hot splotches across my cheeks.

Kai was entitled to his opinion even if his opinion didn’t favor me, so I met his eyes and said, “Please continue.”

As if seeing me for the first time, Kai held eye contact with me. “It’s nothing personal. I just— having a girl in the group adds a lot of complications. Everybody’s already gonna be focused on you because you’re new. On top of that, the fans are going to criticize us no matter how we interact with you because you’ll never be one of the guys.”

(I didn’t even want to be one of the guys, but I wheezed at the word “never.”)

“Just in this last week of people knowing that you’re in the group, SuperM has been associated with your Lucas dating rumors. And now that you’re in a subunit together, it’s just gonna be the Lei and Lucas show, and that’s not fair after all the work we— all the work I have dedicated to this group.”

Either to rebel against Kai’s criticisms or to brace me against them, Lucas patted my shoulders.

Weirdly, though, I didn’t feel upset. My skin was tougher than anybody expected. Besides, I preferred this conversation with Kai to the months of silently avoiding each other. Understanding his grievances against me helped me understand him. Maybe by responding with the same honesty, I could help him understand me.

I had to try.

“You might not have been excited to work with me,” I started as Kai passed the bottle to Mark (because, for some reason, Taemin had walked away from the game), “but I was excited by the chance to work with you.”

Kai’s eyes broke away from Mark and settled on me. This time, his eyes were no longer filled with anger or apprehension; they were soft, warm, kind enough to encourage me to keep speaking authentically.

“I know you’re probably right.” I shook my head, stomach tightening as I admitted, “No, you’re definitely right. People would rather look at me and guess who I’m kissing behind closed curtains than appreciate how I contribute to the group. They would rather see me as Lucas’s other half than my own person. I hate that too.” I did. I hated it. I hated it. I hated it. “I’m sorry that my presence has affected what you’ve built with the other members, especially because I didn’t want— I don’t want—”

My voice broke as I tried to organize my thoughts. I think everyone assumed I was on the verge of tears because Mark gasped, and Lucas hugged me, and Baekhyun distracted himself by rooting through the cooler again, and Taeyong ran a hand through his hair like he always did when stressed, and Ten glared at Kai, and Kai apologized and crossed the distance between us to envelope me in a bone-crushing embrace.

“I can’t breathe,” I gasped, and Kai dropped me onto Lucas’s lap. After Kai returned to his seat, and the thick tension in the air dissipated, and Taemin returned wearing a relieved sort of smile, I concluded, “I’m genuinely honored to perform with all of you.”

The boys responded with over-enthusiastic coos (Baekhyun even pretended to faint) before Mark was dared to jump into the lake wearing all of his clothes.

When he returned shivering, Mark yelled over everyone’s laughter, “Just watch— if I catch a cold, Momager will avenge me!”

“Yeah,” Ten agreed before taking a swig of the drink even though it wasn’t his turn to play yet, “right before she beats your ass for doing such a stupid thing just because Kai dared you!”

I don’t know why they were so fearful of Mom physically attacking them. Mom rarely raised her voice, let alone her fists. Still, when everybody else laughed at Ten’s remark (except poor freezing Mark), I couldn’t help but laugh along.

“Yo, Lei,” Mark raised his eyebrows at me.

“Yo, Mark.”

“Truth or dare?” Mark handed me the bottle. Now that I held it, I caught the strong scent of strawberry.

It was a sweet strawberry wine. The alcohol barely stung on its way down my throat. “Truth,” I chose, unwilling to leap in the lake or perform any such task.

Mark took no time to consider a question. I guess he’d had enough time to think of what to ask me; or, more likely, Mark didn’t have to think before speaking. “NCT Dream is, like, your ultimate group, right?”

No, they weren’t. I never publicly claimed a favorite group, but if I had to choose, it would not have been a difficult choice.

“I like NCT Dream,” I replied carefully. “Is that the question? To name my ultimate group?”

Mark shook his head, “Nah.”

I sighed, relieved that I wouldn’t have to admit that SHINee was my ultimate group right in front of Taemin, who observed the game with smiling eyes.

“Who’s your bias in NCT Dream?” Mark asked, sitting on the edge of his bean bag.

Lucas groaned and, I imagined, cradled his face in his hands. “I cannot believe that you just got her started on—”

Excited by the sudden turn in the conversation toward my absolute favorite topic, I smiled and sat up as straight as I could. Mark’s hopeful expression should have prompted me to lie— to say that he was my bias— but I enthusiastically confessed, “Obviously, my bias is the love of my life, Na Jaemin!”

Dramatically clutching over his heart, Mark collapsed on his bean bag.

Baekhyun smirked. “Maybe it was Jaemin’s name you were moaning in your sleep!”

And Taeyong raised a single eyebrow at Baekhyun’s response before focusing on me. “Jaemin? The love of your life is Jaemin? Baby Jaemin?” His reaction was a little ridiculous considering that Jaemin was only about a year and a half younger than me.

“He’s not looking like such a baby in the comeback promotional pictures!” I patted around my pockets before realizing that I didn’t have my phone. I didn’t even have pockets because I was wearing black polka dotted pajama bottoms.

I held my hand out for Lucas to give me his phone, and he shook his head when I looked back at him. “No way, Lei, I’m not enabling you to thirst after—”

“You can use my phone!” Taemin offered, holding his phone up high above his head. Everybody gawked at him because he had been so silent throughout the game, and he chose to speak up about something so silly.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have been able to look at Taemin for fear that I would never be able to look away. I wouldn’t have been able to speak to him. But to see Jaemin, I could do anything.

I leaped off of Lucas’s lap despite his laughing protests. Kai moved over to make space for me between himself and Taemin, reasoning, “I want to see the Dream comeback trailers, too,” as Taemin entrusted his phone to my hands. Sitting and setting the bottle of wine on the ground before us, I found the videos on YouTube and watched them with Taemin and Kai.

“Ah!” Taemin cried, “I can’t believe how tall Jisung is!”

“I know!” I beamed at Taemin’s enthusiasm and comfortably met his gaze for the first time. “No matter how tall he gets, though, I think he’ll always have the cutest baby face. Or at least I hope—”

“Alright!” Baekhyun whined, pounding his fist against the cooler. “I’m bored! Lei, ask somebody to play Truth or Dare! I command you as your leader!”

Taeyong shook his head at Baekhyun’s abuse of power while grinning.

Taemin held his hand out for the wine, so I gave it to him, asking, “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” Taemin said into the bottle.

Because I had been dying to know for what felt like an eternity, I asked, “What do you believe happens if somebody gives you a ribbon?”

“Huh?” Kai’s head quirked curiously.

Ten asked, “Is that code for something?” and I pictured from his tone that his eyebrows wiggled suggestively.

Baekhyun wailed, “It’s not a fair question if nobody else knows what you’re talking about!” But I didn’t care much whether it was a fair question.

Taemin’s face turned a pale pink, and a smile tugged gently at the corner of his lips. He reached a hand into the pocket of his hoodie where I dreamed he kept the ribbon. “I’m not sure, but I hear it has something to do with soulmates.”

Just like that, I couldn’t meet his eyes anymore.

As the boys erupted into chaotic screams, and my eyebrows knit together in confusion— heart fluttering at the word soulmates as my mind raced to decide whether they were real— Taemin stood to pass the bottle to Ten.

Ten chose dare, so Taemin dared him to call the seventh person on his recent call log (who happened to be Kun) and sing the chorus of “Love Talk.” Being absolutely shameless, Ten accomplished his task without breaking into the slightest blush. Ten laughed the hardest when Kun said, “You really need to lay off the wine— I can smell your breath from here,” with ‘here’ being the WayV dorms miles away.

Then, Ten dared Lucas to perform the subunit choreography with me. Initially, I protested because I didn’t want to make a fool of myself in front of the members, grumbling, “Why should I have to participate in Lucas’s dare?” But everyone started clapping and chanting, “Leicas, Leicas, Leicas,” even Taemin and Kai, so I had no choice.

In the end, Ten’s dare turned out to be a clever scheme. Just seconds into the dance, he claimed, “You’re doing it all wrong!” Ten peeled Lucas off of me so he could place his hands around my waist and joke to Kai, “This is one of the benefits of having a girl in the group, ya know?”

In retribution, Lucas and I slapped at Ten, and Kai kicked at him, but— being so sneaky and elusive— Ten evaded all of our attempts at justice while laughing.

Once all of us sat down, Lucas dared Baekhyun, “Drop three ice cubes down your pants!”

While the other guys groaned at Lucas’s dare— Mark shrieked, “You take it too far, man!”— Baekhyun challenged, “Only three?” before dumping two overflowing handfuls of ice— retrieved from the cooler— into his black joggers.

Baekhyun’s resulting screams and the other boys’ laughter blended together in an inhuman cacophony. As Baekhyun reached for the waistband of his pants, I screamed, and Taemin shielded my eyes with his hands.

The game continued after the Ice Incident, but I have forgotten most of what happened in the aftermath. I’ve heard that stress does strange things to the human mind. However, I can’t forget that when he had the opportunity to ask me anything, Taemin asked, “Who is your ultimate idol?”

Crinkles formed around Ten’s eyes when he laughed. “Didn’t you hear when Lei yelled at me last round for asking who her bias in WayV is?”

Baekhyun said, “She only got mad because she didn’t want to choose between you and Lucas!”

That was partially true, but I would never admit it.

“No,” Kai argued, “she clearly said that she was tired of everyone asking who her biases are after you—” he glared at Baekhyun— “kept pestering her about who she likes in EXO!”

Baekhyun defended his actions by explaining, “I honestly thought that if I went through every subunit, through every era, she would eventually pick me! I didn’t expect it to be all Sehun, Suho, and—” he mimicked my voice— “‘Baekhyun, my CBX bias is always Xiumin, so quit fishing for compliments!’”

We all laughed at how poorly Baekhyun’s joking tone masked genuine wounded feelings, and he threatened me, “Just wait until Sehun finds out that he’s really your bias after all!” before whipping his phone out of his pocket.

“Anyway,” I focused my attention on Taemin as well as I could, but it’s impossible to look directly at the sun. “You want to know who my ultimate idol is?”

It wasn’t such a bad question. Being asked who your idol is isn’t the same as being asked who your crush is. My idol was somebody who inspired me with his talent— with his art. I shouldn’t have been afraid to identify him because, in a way, it was almost like introducing myself.

But nobody ever asked me who my inspiration was before. On talk shows, it was always about who I was dating, or who I was rumored to be dating, or my relationships with Super junior, or my ideal type. Always, in some way or another, people tried to understand me through my relationships with men. Maybe it wouldn’t have been half as frustrating if I were actually allowed to have relationships—

No. It was frustrating to never be appreciated on my own merit as a human being. It was always frustrating, even though I rarely admitted it to myself.

Oblivious to my internal monologue, Taemin nodded, and I took a deep breath. If I kept thinking so hard about it, I would lose all nerve, so I forced myself to reply quickly, “You are.”

The guys— except Taemin, who seemed stunned by my answer— took turns gagging.

“Oh,” Taeyong teased, raising his eyebrows, “so it’s not the love of your life Na Jaemin?” He had been smug since learning that he was my bias in NCT 127.

Ten accused, “Lei, I bet your favorite comeback is ‘Move’ or ‘Want.’ You know, one of the really sensual ones, where Taemin moves like this.” Ever the show off, Ten jumped at the opportunity to perform Taemin’s choreography.

Kai and Mark were in agreement that “Well, those dances are pretty iconic,” but Lucas set the record straight.

“No, you guys got it all wrong. Lei is the kind who likes for a song to kick her right in her emotions, ya know? When she got ‘Want’ for her birthday, she put that ‘Monologue’ song on repeat. Her favorite SHINee song? The hella intense ‘An Encore’ or ‘From Now On.’ I thought she’d never leave her room again when Taemin performed ‘That I Was Once By Your Side’ on TV! I went over to her house three times that week— because, ya know, Mom is the best cook ever— and that song was on nonstop replay, and—”

“Alright!” I picked a marshmallow out of a bag Taemin retrieved from his car and threw it right at Lucas’s big head. “They get it!” And everyone looked at me to confirm Lucas’s claims, so I admitted, “Look— obviously ‘Move’ and ‘Want’ are iconic, okay? But at the end of the day, I like for a song to make me feel something, I don’t know, tear inducing.”

My tone was harsh, biting, and I glared at Lucas because I thought my personal preferences— especially my thing for emotional ballads— were a little too private to be brought up at a game of Truth or Dare. I knew the guys probably didn’t care much or at all about which Taemin songs I liked, but I felt like I (or, rather, Lucas) had shared too many of the pieces of identity I held closest to my heart.

Taemin ended his silence (which weighted my heart with the fear that he thought I was weird) by saying, “‘An Encore’ is my favorite song too.”

That was all he said before leaning forward so that his bright toothy smile, which was somehow far more beautiful than the usual polite closed-mouth grin, was an unavoidable display right before my eyes.

“Lucas, it’s cold,” I shivered, hoping that none of the others would overhear my complaint from their tents. I didn’t want to have a reputation for being the high maintenance member even if secretly (not so secretly) I was.

Lucas rolled over in our blanket fort to pin me under his weight again.

Suffocating, I hissed, “What are you doing? I told you already— stay on your side of the tent!”

“You’re cold,” he mumbled sleepily into my ear, “so obviously I’m warming you up with cuddles!”

Nobody on this planet craved cuddles more than Lucas, I swear. That arrangement— the warmth emanating from his body as he tucked his arm snugly around my waist— would have been perfect, romantic even, if I wanted Lucas that close to me in any version of the universe.

“Get off, Lucas!” I struggled in vain to untangle our limbs. It was impossible because he was taller, heavier, and stronger than me. “When I said that I was cold, I was hoping that you would pass me another blanket or—”

Unsympathetically, Lucas hummed, “I guess you should have kept Taemin’s jacket on.”

It was a cheap shot— trying to stun me into silence by mentioning Taemin— but Lucas wasn’t above committing that kind of foul.

I retorted, “I guess you should have thrown a travel bag together for me before aiding Baekhyun and Mark in their kidnapping plot—”

“You’re still going on about that?” Lucas huffed as if I would forgive or forget any time soon, especially with the total lack of apology. “Lei, I told you that I packed extra boxers that you can borrow—”

“I am not interested in borrowing your underwear, Lucas!”

Resolving that there was no other option, I forced both of my hands to the parts of his ribs just below his armpits, where I knew he was most ticklish. I basked in triumph as his entire body writhed in laughter, and I could finally muster the strength to push him away in his weakened state.

Lucas must have packed more than boxers in his duffel bag, I reasoned, and I had crossed most of the distance in our tiny tent to investigate that suspicion when he tackled me into the fluffy blanketed floor.

“Get off, Lucas!” Repeating myself was a waste of breath, but the words tumbled out of my mouth anyway.

He rolled me onto my back so I could watch his face contort with his maniacal laughter, so he could watch the panic that flashed in my eyes as I realized that I had started a tickle war. My eyes tightened closed, and I held my breath in anticipation of a touch that never happened.

As if Heaven or Hell intervened either to rescue from Lucas’s insanity or to one-up his chaos, the tent came crashing down around us. I guess Lucas took the blunt of the force because as I struggled to crawl out from under the orange fabric, he screamed something like, “My family jewels!”

That outburst, I think, was the cause of Ten’s and Baekhyun’s identical laughter that I witnessed as I emerged, breathless, from the collapsed tent.

“Mark wanted to wake you up,” Ten started, and Baekhyun finished, “but we told him that he probably didn’t want to see whatever was going on in that tent.”

Sitting on the hood of his car, Taeyong laughed, but he masked his laughter by pretending to choke on his breakfast bar.

Ten and Baekhyun, disappointed with my lack of response to their perversion, set to helping Mark untangle the still groaning Lucas from the tent.

Taemin was standing, leaned against Taeyong’s car, making a face that I thought was a reaction to Ten and Baekhyun’s stupid joke. He looked like he had chewed through a lemon.

“Lucas and I—” I started to explain that nothing that happened in the tent— well, nothing than Lucas annoying me, as usual— but I stopped when Taemin faced me with a smile.

Oh. I wanted to slap my forehead. He had been squinting at the over-enthusiastic bright morning sun. Taemin didn’t care about what Lucas and I did or didn’t do. Why would he?

“Um.” I should have been content to fall to silence, but I couldn’t say nothing with Taemin looking at me like that, like he was excited to hear whatever I had to say. Not wanting to talk about Lucas, I said, “I left your jacket in the tent.” I gestured over my shoulder with a thumb and followed my own gesture to see that Mark, Baekhyun, and Ten were no closer to rescuing Lucas.

Actually, it looked like they had wrapped him up into something resembling a burrito. Knowing them, that was probably their intention. Jokers, even at the crack of dawn.

Taemin’s voice claimed my attention. “Don’t worry about it.”

His hands were shoved into the front pockets of impractically tight black jeans. He had traded last night’s white hoodie for a black one. When his hand carded through his soft blonde— almost brown— hair, I thought he knew that he looked like a character from the pages of a young adult novel or a movie that makes every girl’s heart race.

But then I saw the blue ribbon, my blue ribbon, tied around his wrist, and I knew that Taemin was up to something that I didn’t understand or trust.

“It’s yours, you know.”

I figured that he was talking about the ribbon. For some reason, I felt so embarrassed that, for a split second, I vaguely regretted giving it to him when I barely knew him as anything more than an immaculate figure on stage. For some reason, I glared at him because I couldn’t believe that talk about soulmates, and I couldn’t understand why he should want to be mine— even if it was pretend or convenient or, like Ten said last night while dancing with me, one of the benefits of having a girl in the group.

Had Taemin been anyone else in the world, I would have barked that I was tired of being everybody’s safe crush— the person Lucas could cuddle because the fans shipped it and there were no real feelings involved, the person Mark could pine after shamelessly because I would never let the feelings lead us anywhere, the person Sehun liked to flirt with because there was no risk of slipping into a relationship due to my refusal to date.

I’m glad I admired Taemin too much to lose my temper; I would have felt stupid for ranting when he said, “The jacket, I mean. The jacket is yours. We made a trade, remember?”

“Oh.” I felt stupid even though my rant hadn’t left the confines of my mind.

Probably somehow bothered by our conversation— or maybe taking pity on my inability to talk to Taemin like a normal person— Taeyong knocked his knuckles against the hood of his car. “Lei, Kai said that he wants to talk to you before you leave.”

I grinned, relieved that Kai and I had made some progress toward friendship during Truth or Dare. I thought that even if he still hated me, I would have raced to find Kai to distract me from whatever fire Taemin struck in my mind or chest or stomach.

“Where is he?” I asked.

Taeyong pointed toward the water. Taemin offered to walk me there, and I blurted, “No.”

Taemin winced at my instant rejection, and Taeyong leaped off of his car to oversee the others’ progress in freeing Lucas.

I had to come up with a quick explanation for Taemin. I couldn’t tell him why I didn’t want him to walk with me even if I understood (and I didn’t), but I also couldn’t leave him sulking by Taeyong’s car.

“I have to apologize,” I decided, and Taemin’s forehead wrinkled. “I feel like I owe Kai a private apology, and if you’re there— well, it won’t be so private then, will it?”

Taemin shrugged, and I knew he didn’t buy my reasoning, but he gave me that polite smile. The closed mouth one. The one I was starting to think was more of a habit than a genuine expression. I stared at him, and he bowed, and that meant it was time for me to leave.

It’s funny that after rejoicing in having a reason to leave just moments before, I should search so desperately for a reason to stay standing with Taemin. There were no reasons, so I set off toward the water to find Kai while contemplating Taemin’s smile.

I had no right to crave his authentic expressions, yet I was reeling from receiving such a rehearsed gesture as that tight-lipped grin. I was stupid— for glaring at his ribbon symbolism and then for frowning at the behavior that was perfectly appropriate among colleagues, among acquaintances. This— this is why I didn’t mess with boys. I didn’t understand them, and I never wanted to before, so why did I want to think about Taemin’s smile even though it made me sick, even though it either filled my stomach with butterflies (when it was that bright, full, toothy smile) or tied it in knots (when it was that carefully molded meaningless grin)?

I forced the thoughts from the forefront of my mind and tried to ignore their nagging in the darker recesses when I sat next to Kai on the edge of a wooden pier. The pie wasn’t that tall, so Kai’s bare feet kissed the water’s surface. I imagined that with a little effort, I could make my feet reach the water, but I was content enough with the breeze breathing on my skin.

“Good morning, Kai,” I greeted. I wanted him to know that I wasn’t there just on Taeyong’s orders; I really wanted to talk to him.

“Good morning.”

Kai didn’t look at me directly; he met my eyes in my reflection on the water. He probably didn’t mean anything special by it, but I wanted to think that he was trying to make it easier for me to speak to him. In these past months of working together, he either stared at me, though me, or went to inconvenient lengths to look away from me. This place where we met on the water was a happy medium. It was like meeting halfway.

“I meant what I said last night,” he said, and I guessed that’s why he told Taeyong that he wanted to talk to me. “And I’m sorry.”

I nodded. “I know. I meant what I said too.” Not to make my ramblings to Taemin true but because I meant it, I added, “I’m sorry too, Kai.”

He smiled. Such a genuine smile had to be appreciated directly from the source, not through a rippling reflection on the water, so I looked at him. He looked at me. “You don’t have to call me Kai. You can call me Jongin.”

Maybe it wasn’t such a big deal to everyone, but I always felt wary of the difference between a stage name and a birth name. Lei was my name on stage and in life, and I often wondered what it would have been like to have separate names. Would that have made it easier to distinguish me (the person) from me (the idol)?

Lucas said that I thought too much when I asked him whether calling him Yukhei or Xuxi would make him my best friend. “I’m your best friend no matter what you call me, silly. Don’t ya know a name’s just a name?” He flicked my forehead, unaware that he had expressed a sort of wisdom penned by Shakespeare. (I know Lucas said it didn’t matter, but I feel like I should explain that I ended up calling him Lucas because he laughed at my pronunciations of Yukhei and Xuxi.)

I knew I wouldn’t make a habit of calling Kai by his birth name because I just didn’t know him well enough for it to sound right coming from my mouth. I should have just forced through my discomfort if sharing his name with me was a way to express the desire for friendship— if calling him Jongin was the way to become his friend— so I tried it just once when I said, “Okay, Jongin.”

That moment I shared with Kai was the happiest I had been since joining SuperM, and it couldn’t have lasted more than a few minutes before Heechul came running onto the pier, screaming, “I’ve found her, I’ve found her!” His chin length black hair was tousled by the wind, his eyebrows were gathered together as his eyes narrowed at me, and the swollen bags under his eyes were an exhausted purple. Heechul hissed, “What were you thinking, sneaking out like that? You mother and I looked for you all night!”

Ah, so that explained the dark bags under his eyes. I opened my mouth to ask how they finally found us, but Kai’s voice filled the air. “It’s not Lei’s fault. Baekhyun—”

Kai was going to explain that Baekhyun, Lucas, and Mark had kidnapped me from my room. That was the truth, and maybe they deserved to be punished for being so dumb, but I didn’t want them to get in trouble— especially not after I had finally started to fit into the group (at least in part) because of their efforts.

“Baekhyun talked me into going camping with everyone,” I said as Mom stood at Heechul’s side. They really did look like siblings wearing the same hairstyle and matching tracksuits— bright red— with their hands on their hips as they eyed me suspiciously. “Really! We needed the group bonding, and I didn’t want to interrupt your drama to tell you where I was going, and—” I knew this would push Heechul’s buttons, so I don’t know why I said this unless I wanted to watch his eyes pop out of his head— “I’m 21 years old, so ,technically, I’m allowed—”

“You are never allowed to give me a heart attack like that! No matter how old you are!” Heechul yelled, so Mom had to be calm even if she didn’t want to be.

“I’m tired.” Her voice was a mumble, and I knew that was my cue to leave. After waving goodbye to Kai on the pier and the other boys on the beach (Their heads were hung in shame at having been caught by Mom and Heechul with the rising of the sun.), I crawled into the backseat of Mom’s SUV.

Heechul passed out as soon as his head hit the passenger seat’s headrest. Trusting that he wouldn’t hear our conversation, Mom started the car and said, “I know you didn’t sneak out, Lei, and I know that I don’t need to explain how recklessly you all behaved.” She eyed me sternly through the rearview mirror. “You need to think about what it means to be the only girl in a group of boys, and you need to decide what you want your reputation to be before the tour stats tomorrow.”

In all my life, I had never really been scolded by Mom. It was worse than I could have imagined. Although she turned her eyes away from me quickly— her stare had lasted just a few seconds— the disappointment seemed to linger over me. I couldn’t tell if I had concerned her as a Mom or as a Manager. I couldn’t tell which was worse, and I wanted to say that I was sorry, but my throat felt too tight to speak.

The pounding of my heart quickened when I noticed it in the space next to me on the back seat: Taemin’s folded denim jacket. I couldn’t wear it with Mom sneaking those glances at me; she would ask where it came from. I couldn’t wear it out in public; it was noticeably too big, and fans would imagine that it had been given to me by a boyfriend. It would only be a matter of time before super fans started tagging me in pictures of Taemin wearing the same jacket.

What good was having a jacket that I could never wear? It was wasteful. It was a token of a memory I couldn’t quite understand.

And still, I felt like I would have to thank Taemin at Donghae’s birthday party.

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sticks-and-stone · 4 years ago

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Potts Preserve

September 21, 2019 - September 22, 2019

This was my first time camping since February when I went with my roommate and the dog we had at the time. Before that it was just camping with my father as a kid or drunk with my friends in high school (trips I almost don’t remember at all). So this trip was a pretty big deal with very few expectations or preparedness. I wanted to find a hobby that would not cost much, but would require significant planning and time out of my life before, during, and after. So camping seemed like a good fit. I decided to start planning monthly trips. So this was the first one!

When I first decided to go on this trip, I had next to no supplies. I wanted to go with whatever I had or could improvise as a way to get started on a list of things I wanted to add to my kit. What better way to figure out what I needed than to realize it in the moment!

This trip was only going to be a quick overnight so that in the event that we realized we had too little, we wouldn’t be stuck out there for days. I found a site that was owned by the Southwest Florida Water Management District and was free to use with a reservation. So I booked the site and called up an old friend, Jenna. Jenna and I did a lot of drunk camping together in high school and she had a foundation of camping with her own father as a child, so I knew she would be right for the job. She and I had also gone a long period of time without hanging out, so it was a good opportunity for us to catch up!

When we began planning this trip, I had a tent, and some other small stuff, but not a whole lot of anything else. We borrowed a cooler from my roommate, a chair from my parents, and just bought beer on our way out to the campsite.

I wanted to get a good night’s sleep before getting up midmorning on Saturday to meet Jenna and go, but I ended up staying up late. Like a child before her first trip to Disney World, I was restless, excited, and hyperactive. When I woke up (too early) the next day, all that excitement was squashed when I realized I had started my period. I was worried this would happen, but I was hoping my Day One would be on Sunday, but alas, I was going to have to go camping on my period. And not just any camping trip, a camping trip that I wasn’t totally sure I was prepared for. As it turned out, the portable toilets were close and clean enough for me. YAY!

Jenna showed up exactly on time - I really have to give her props for that. She helped me load up the car and then we took off! We stopped at my parents' house (they were out of town) for a little firewood and one of their camping chairs (Jenna did not have one) and also at a gas station for beer and snacks. Then we were on the road for real; it was about midday.

The drive down was quicker and easier than we expected. After not seeing each other for a few years, we had PLENTY to talk about and catch up on. She told me about all of her drama, I told her about all of mine. It was lovely. We arrived at the campground without getting lost or even a little turned around at all. There were about 4 other groups there already set up and as it was late afternoon on a Saturday, everyone seemed to be pretty settled in.

We found our spot. Unlike the other spots that people had set up around us, we did not have a fire pit, a picnic table, or a grill. Everyone else seemed to have all three. We didn’t mind and we found a nice flat place to lay our tent out. We found out later that what we chose was not a spot at all and that we were not even supposed to be back there.

We got the tent set up and I began to work on the air pump that I had borrowed from my roommate. I needed to strip the wire so that I could split it and plug it into the car battery that dad gave me to run the fan. We had no other form of electricity and no other way to pump the air mattresses up. I broke it. I ended up strippping the wires too much and the whole contraption became non-functional. We were only there for one night, though, and what’s sleeping on the ground other than the authenticity of a camping trip?

From the time of arrival until just before dusk (about 3 hours) we thought it would be nice to open up the tent to allow the breeze and light to enter it. Well, neither did and what did enter our tent was about 10,000 love bugs. So I went in there with our one bottle of bug spray and closed myself in. I held my breath and sprayed the shit out of the aerosol canister until I was sure everyone was dead and I could not hold my breath any longer.

To give the homemade bug bomb a chance to work, we decided to explore the area and go on a hike. We made it about a mile away from camp and it started raining. The trail seemed to come to a dead end so we just turned around and went back. I have a terrible sense of direction and would have honestly gotten completely lost if it hadn’t been for Jenna to guide us.

We got back to camp after our hike and I checked on our tent - no more living love bugs, but piles of dead ones on the ground. It was gross. I got Jenna and the broom and we got rid of as many of the dead bodies as we could. We would shake the rest out the next day when we packed up to leave.

We sat around the fire and played the guitar for a bit when suddenly I realized that we were going to get bored. We had been drinking beer since we arrived and we'd been going through it pretty fast. I never really thought about how to pass the time.

I went walking around looking for firewood. I had nothing to chop it with or nothing to cut the large limbs, but I could use leverage and my body weight for most of the work I needed to do.

The entire time we were there, I made sure to keep a list of all the things I thought about having that we didn’t have. The first being string, the next, an air pump that plugged into the car. Then a sponge. I started to realize that we had enough to survive in the woods, but we did not have enough to THRIVE. This trip was rough supplies-wise, but we made do. Thankfully we brought enough beer to ward off TOO much boredom.

As the sun went down and the alcohol made its way further into our bloodstreams, we decided we were hungry and wanted to eat the food I had brought for us. What I had brought was really simple. It was two pre-made PB&J sandwiches, pre-made mac and cheese, and PB&J crackers.

Dinner was a disaster. The sandwiches I made got soggy from the ice melting and the container failing to do its job in the cooler. The mac and cheese was attempted cold, but then it was decided that we would put it in the pot in the fire and see if we could heat it up. That actually worked out pretty well - but was all we had. Luckily, Jenna came armed with hummus and crackers and had bought some beef jerky at the gas station.

We went to sleep soon after dinner and made sure we got nice and drunk first because we had forgotten that we were sleeping on the ground that night. After all the alcohol, I was ready to crash. My body temp was high though so I put on the fan and slept on top of my blankets.

About halfway through the night I was woken up by the feeling of my bones turning to ice and cracking. I was violently shivering in my bed and wasn’t sure my toes were still attached to my body. I had to pee too. So I stood up clumsily in our little tent and put on my shoes. I looked over and Jenna was fast asleep but now wearing more clothes than she went to bed in - I guess she woke up the same way I did.

I walked to the bathroom and peed. I took comfort in the smelly plastic bin as it seemed to have held on to the day’s heat and trapped it inside. I was suddenly disgusted with myself for enjoying a port a potty, so I walked back to the tent.

When I got inside I turned off the fan. I looked through my suitcase - nothing but more short sleeved shirts and shorts. I took my shoes off but left my socks on and covered them with a second pair. I took the folded king-sized sheet off of my deflated twin size mattress and used that as extra cover in addition to the small throw blanket I had. I was able to make it a few more hours like that until the urge to pee woke me up again.

This time, it seemed warmer outside the tent so I took my double pair of socks off and slipped on flip flops. Jenna was still asleep so I stumbled out of the tent toward the bathroom. I handled my business and came back to the tent - this time, no lingering in the port-a-potty for warmth.

As I approached the site, I saw Jenna moving around outside the tent with her flashlight. I assumed she was doing the same thing I was - taking a midnight pee - but as I got closer I could see that she was in fact setting up the fire. As I got close enough I asked if she was trying to warm up so she could sleep, and she looked at me confused and said “No, this is today’s fire, it’s 6:30”. I was shocked and confused, but proud that we had made it to morning.

We had no breakfast. So we drank more beer. We were out of water, so I decided it was time to leave. We packed up quickly and cleaned the tent and tarps and then we were on our way out.

As we tried to exit the gate, our code wouldn’t work and we had to wait for a forest cop to show up and let us out. We probably waited an hour or so, but when he finally did arrive, he was super nice and as it turns out, from Jacksonville! We chatted with him for a while until a car pulled up behind us. We were finally on our way home!

The ride home was a bit different than the ride there. We double and triple checked my list and talked about all of the things we HAD to get for next time, which things I already had at home, and which things needed to be purchased. Overall the trip was fine, we decided, but we could do WAY better.

Observations:

SO MANY LOVE BUGS - they literally covered everything

We needed to pack the car more strategically - we had to pull everything out to get to the tent and table that we needed to set up first

We needed rope/string

More stakes for the tarp and the tent would not be a bad idea

A table or some platform to unpack on would be handy

Our air pump broke - we needed one that plugged into the car.

It's super important to keep the tent closed completely.

We needed a shovel to dig out the fire pit

We needed more lights around the site - the fire was not enough

Citronella candles would not be a bad idea either

Should have brought extra bug spray

We didn’t have much to do beyond sitting and drinking beer. We vowed to bring at least some books and crafts for next time. I want to learn to whittle.

I needed to stay more organized with the supplies as we unpacked. Things got messy.

Get Outside,

Stone.

#camping #outdoors #tent camping #tent #adventure #Potts Preserve #SWFWMD #Florida

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setaripendragon · 5 years ago

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Trapped in the Amber - 1x04

Book 1 :: 01 - 02 - 03 - 04 So this has always been one of my favourite episodes. Charlie (SPN has such a problem with reusing names, oh well) is an amazing character, and she’s going to get a recurring role in this story, because I said so. Also, for once, I get to make the (dis)claimer that the opinions expressed herein by the characters (specifically about Charlie’s ‘secret’) are absolutely the views of the author, and I projected like hell all over this chapter ^^” (Some things really needed to be said outright and just weren’t in this episode and I’m still mad about it.)

Toledo, Ohio – Saturday 14th January 2006

“Now, the newspapers said his daughter found him. She said his eyes were bleeding.” Sam says.

“More than that.” The assistant replies with an indecent level of glee as he drew the sheet back away from the corpse. “They practically liquefied.”

Meira has to fight not to pull a face at the state the man’s face is in. If it weren’t for the lack of scorch marks, she would have thought… Well. There are no scorch marks. She’s honestly completely stumped by this, which doesn’t happen to her often. Angelic memory means she doesn’t really forget things, but unlike the angels that were created before time began, she does have to experience them first. And this? This is brand new to her.

“Any sign of a struggle? Like maybe somebody did it to him?” Dean asks.

“Nope. Besides the daughter he was all alone.” The assistant replies.

Which doesn’t really mean much when a good half of what they hunt is incorporeal, but it does at least rule out the other half. Maybe. She doesn’t think she’s going to be much help here. She lets the conversation about skulls full of blood and exploding eyeballs pass her by, and valiantly restrains a snort when the assistant makes them bribe him again.

She can’t really complain about his morals when their next stop is crashing a funeral. It’s the eeriest thing Meira’s ever seen, and she almost freezes in the doorway. She thought she was getting used to having her grace bound, to not being able to see people’s souls, to not knowing who they are, but this is just not something she’s prepared for. There’s no emotion here.

She knows there is, of course, knows that these people are feeling just as deeply as those at any other funeral she’s ever seen, but she can’t feel it, eddies of grief and sorrow heavy around her. It’s just air, hollow and empty and sickening. Swallowing hard, she follows Sam and Dean into the house, and then out back when a helpful old man points out the daughters. Meira hovers, watching Sam and Dean reassure the younger daughter that her father’s death wasn’t her fault.

Meira decides to stay downstairs while Sam and Dean go to poke around where the guy actually died. It’s a little easier for two people to be inconspicuous than three, after all, and she wants to talk to Donna and Lily a little more. She knows what it’s like to lose a parent suddenly, after all, even if hers aren’t dead. She coaxes Lily out of her guilt and gets her talking about school and her friends, and Donna gives her a painfully grateful look that Meira returns with an understanding smile.

Toledo, Ohio – Sunday 15th January 2006

Meira foregoes sleep to help with the research, but even after Sam passes out, they get nowhere. “Here’s something- Never mind.” Dean says. “Her name was Laura.” He rolls his eyes.

“Middle name?” Meira asks, because at this point, she’s grasping at straws.

Dean makes a thoughtful face and checks. “Middle name Nichole.” He reports, throwing the papers down with disgust. He stares at them for long enough that Meira goes back to ploughing through her own stack of records, so she’s startled when he asks “Hey, is Meira some sort of derivative of Mary?”

“No, actually.” Meira answers slowly, a little confused. “It’s Hebrew. It means ‘god’s light’ or ‘one who illuminates’. Mary is English, although it comes from the Hebrew name Miriam, which means ‘bitterness’.”

“Huh.” Dean grunts, and then, at her continuing look of confusion, shrugs. “Just curious. Never heard that name before.” He points out.

“Qaada picked it.” Meira tells him on impulse, and then wishes she’d just kept her mouth shut. She’s still not sure how much of her life she ought to share with him, really. It feels a little like she’s stealing from him somehow. One day, he’s going to be holding a baby in his arms, and he’s not going to tell Qaada to name her because it just feels like the right thing to do, he’s going to do it because he knows that’s how it’s supposed to happen.

Dean blinks. “Is Qaada Hebrew for ‘dad’ or something?” He asks.

“Close enough.” Meira agrees, which is as close as she can get to saying yes without outright lying.

Dean is distracted from questioning her further when Sam wakes up with a gasp. “Why’d you let me fall asleep?” He asks, voice raspy and hollowed out.

“Cause I’m an awesome brother.” Dean retorts. “So what’d you dream about?”

“Lollipops and candy canes.” Sam answers, completely flat.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You find anything?” Sam asks, when Dean doesn’t offer up an alternative topic of conversation. Dean catches him up on their complete lack of anything substantial, and Meira looks back down at her stack of papers.

“Whatever’s happening here, maybe it just ain’t Mary.” Dean suggests.

“Or maybe it’s new.” Meira offers, only to be interrupted by Sam’s phone ringing. Dean arches an eyebrow at her while Sam locates his phone, and Meira shrugs. “Look, you said yourself that this myth isn’t particularly rigid. There’s a lot of variations.” She points out as Sam answers his phone. Dean nods. “Well, then, maybe this is just another variation. Maybe her spirit went dormant for some reason, and we don’t have records far enough back? Maybe she’s not actually dead, she’s in a coma, or she’s a potential psychic with a fuck-tonne of issues?” Meira gestures vaguely in the air to indicate an entire world of possibilities, and Dean pulls a duck-face of annoyed acceptance.

“That was Charlie.” Sam says, flipping his phone closed. “She said there’s something she thinks we need to hear about.”

“Charlie?” Meira asks, although she’s already putting the records aside and grabbing up her coat.

“One of Donna’s friends.” Dean tells her, grabbing his keys and starting for the door. “She caught us checking out the bathroom and threatened to scream if we didn’t tell her the truth about who we are and what we were doing there.”

“Oh, awesome. I like her.” Meira announces in delight.

Dean snorts. “Yeah, she was pretty freaking ballsy.”

“I told her to call us if she saw or heard anything weird or unusual.” Sam adds as they climb into the Impala. “She sounded really freaked out on the phone.”

The meet Charlie on a public green, and she tells them about Jill’s death in between trying not to cry. About half way through the explanation, Meira gives in, sits down beside her, and puts an arm around her shoulders. Charlie glances at her, tries for a smile that doesn’t really work, and finishes up her explanation. “And they found her on the bathroom floor, and, uh- her- her eyes, they were- g-gone.”

“I’m sorry.” Sam murmurs.

“And she said it.” Charlie adds in a rush, as though pushing herself to get the words out before she falters. “I heard her say it. But it couldn’t be because of that. I’m- insane, right?” It’s almost a plea.

Meira remembers what happened last time she dropped that bomb on someone, and looks to Sam, eyebrows raised. This time, she’s leaving it up to him so he can’t bite her head off later. Sam looks back, lips pursed and resignation written all over his face.

“No, you’re not insane.” Dean says, when neither Meira or Sam move to actually reassure the girl.

“Oh, god.” Charlie breathes. “That makes me feel so much worse.”

Meira gives her a comforting squeeze. “At least now you know there is an explanation.” She points out, and Charlie looks at her with her brow all crumpled up in distress and confusion. “People aren’t just dropping dead for no reason. Something is doing this, and we can stop it.” Charlie does seem to take some comfort in that, sniffling and nodding.

“We could use your help with that.” Dean adds, and after a moment of wide-eyed staring, Charlie nods again.

Then she helps them break into a teenage girl’s room. A dead teenage girl’s room, but still. Ballsy as hell. Sam asks her how she managed to get the room to herself, and she explains the lie she spun for Jill’s mom. “I hate lying to her.” She mutters.

“But you’re good at it.” Meira comments, and Charlie shoots her a stricken look. Meira winces. “That was meant to be a compliment, I swear. You’re confident, not just ‘you know how to act confident’, but you knew what you needed to do, and you did it, no matter how distasteful. Takes a strong person to hold onto that sort of conviction.”

“Oh, I guess.” Charlie hedges, shrinking in on herself a little. “I just don’t want anybody else to get hurt, that’s all.” Meira gives her a pointed smile, and waits for her to realise all by herself exactly what she just said. Charlie blushes when she catches up.

“So I don’t get it.” Sam says suddenly while checking the mirror for ectoplasmic residue. “I mean, the first victim didn’t summon Mary, and the second victim did. How’s she choosing them?”

“Beats me.” Dean replies, then glances at Charlie. “I want to know why Jill said it in the first place.”

“It was just a joke.” Charlie says, uncomfortable and defensive.

“A joke?” Meira echoes incredulously.

Charlie looks at her and then away. “We were talking on the phone, and she- I don’t know, she thought it was funny that I was… that I thought it might have been something…” She trails off uncomfortably.

“She was mocking you.” Meira realises, unimpressed.

“No!” Charlie says at once, and then falters. “Well, maybe a little, but… God, it would have been kind of funny if it wasn’t real.” She complains, wrapping her arms around herself and looking miserable.

Meira has her doubts about that, but she doesn’t voice them. “Yeah, well,” Dean sounds sceptical too, but he doesn’t push the subject either, “somebody’s going to say it again, it’s just a matter of time.” He points out ominously.

“Hey.” Sam says, leaning out of the bathroom. “There’s a blacklight in the trunk, right?”

They get the blacklight, and find a name written on the back of the bathroom mirror. Meira’s going to go out on a limb here and say that’s probably a clue. So then it’s off to the library to research the name, and Charlie tags along. This turns out to be a good thing when she figures out the connection between Jill and the name Mary had written on the girl’s mirror.

“We need to go back to your friend Donna’s house.” Dean says, and off they go.

Finding the man’s wife’s name on the back of the mirror is kind of sickening, and Donna clearly doesn’t like the implications of their questions, either. “Yeah, Linda’s my mom, okay? And she overdosed on sleeping pills. It was an accident and that’s it.” She insists. The silence following that pronouncement is damning, and Donna can hear it too. “I think you should leave.”

“Do you really believe that?” Meira asks, before she can push the issue.

Donna rounds on her, furious and scared. “What are you trying to say?!”

“I’m saying that even if you’re right, and she took those pills herself, I’d really like to know why she was taking enough to risk an overdose.” Meira points out calmly.

Donna blanches. “No.” She insists. “No, stop it. My dad’s dead, and you-”

“Sins don’t get erased by death.” Meira counters. Donna lets out a choked sob, shaking her head in denial, but Meira holds her gaze and refuses to let her. After a brief struggle with herself, Donna breaks down into tears, and Meira carefully draws her into a hug, checking every step of the way that Donna wants the comfort.

After several awkward minutes, Dean clears his throat. “You gonna be okay here if we head back to the motel?” He asks Meira. “I think we’ve got some research to do.”

“Yeah.” Meira assures him. Dean and Sam linger awkwardly a moment longer, then go.

Meira and Charlie eventually manage to herd Donna into the living room, get her sitting down with a glass of water and some tissues, and let her cry it out. “My dad wouldn’t-!” comes out several times, followed by more tears. Meira doesn’t bother to point out that if Donna had been certain of that, she wouldn’t be this upset by the notion.

Eventually, she cries herself out, and Charlie suggests putting on a movie. Donna nods listlessly, so Charlie bounds up and sticks on a cartoon that Donna gives her a judging look for. Charlie looks away. “I didn’t think a rom-com would be the best idea right now.” She points out quietly, and Donna looks away, something caught between rage and grief on her face.

Five minutes into the movie, Donna curls up around a cushion and falls asleep, obviously worn out by her grief. Meira and Charlie share a look over her, and then stay right where they are. Donna’s alone enough already, they’re not going to leave her to wake up alone, too. Charlie goes to get a blanket, and Meira refills the glass of water, ready for when Donna wakes up.

The movie is almost over when Meira’s phone rings, and she fishes it out, expecting it to be Sam or Dean. It’s not, it’s Haley. Eyebrows rising, Meira answers. “Hey, what’s up?” She asks lightly.

“Hey.” Haley answers, weirdly hesitant. Meira’s just about to ask what’s wrong more seriously, when Haley abruptly blurts out “How do you tell if a house is haunted?”

Ah. Meira has to grin a little, and gets up to wander into the kitchen so that she’s not interrupting the movie for Charlie. “My first stop would be checking for EMF. Get a reader, scan the place, and if it goes off like you’re standing next to a wireless router when you’re not, you’ve probably got a ghost. Why?”

“A friend of mine, she’s just moved into this new house, and… things keep moving about on their own, and she keeps getting into accidents. She’s a gymnast, she’s not that clumsy.” Haley insists.

“Sounds like it could maybe be a poltergeist.” Meira tells her, grimacing.

“Poltergeist? That’s different from a ghost?” Haley asks, sounding a touch incredulous.

“Yeah. Ghosts are people who refused to move on for one reason or another, but since human souls aren’t meant to linger without a body to protect them, they tend to… degrade over time, even if they’re not vengeful to start with. Poltergeists are… accumulations of energy. Usually negative, but I did find a poltergeist in a hospital, once, that manifested because of a bunch of miraculous recoveries. It went around healing people.”

“Oh, wow.” Haley says, and she sounds like she’s smiling, just a little bit. “So, how do I tell the difference, and what do I do about it once I know?” She asks, getting back to the practical issues without missing a beat. Meira really wishes she’d gotten the chance to kiss her.

“It can be a bit hit and miss telling the difference.” Meira admits with a grimace. “If it’s a ghost, it’s probably someone who died there, or who lived there for a really long time. You’ll have to find out who, and then salt and burn their bones.”

There’s an indrawn breath, and then Haley lets the breath out slowly. “That’s disgusting.” She announces, sounding more matter-of-fact than outright disgusted.

Meira snorts. “Yeah, it is.” She agrees, then sobers up a little. “Look, we’re in the middle of a job right now, but if you want we can come by once we’ve sorted this out and see if we can help?” She offers.

“No. It’s fine.” Haley assures her. “There’s no reason I can’t do it myself. I’m not that squeamish.” She announces, and Meira’s fond grin is back. “So, if it’s a ghost, salt and burn the bones, but if it’s a poltergeist?” Haley challenges.

“Poltergeists are more difficult. You’ll need a purification ritual, or a hell of a lot of the exact opposite kind of metaphysical energy to cancel it out, but that’s basically impossible unless you have a psychic about to tell you what kind of poltergeist it is. If you’ve got a pen, I can give you a basic recipe.” She offers.

“Hang on a minute,” Haley says, and then, once she’s presumably found herself a pen, “go on.” So Meira does, listing out the herbs and other ingredients needed, and adding in the instructions of how to purify a house. “Okay, thanks.” Haley says once she’s done. “Now how do I figure out which it is?”

“Best guess?” Meira offers, and Haley makes an annoyed sound. “Uh, poltergeists don’t tend to cause cold spots. If you ever see a human-like apparition, it’s a ghost. If it is a poltergeist, and it’s already trying to hurt someone, there will be some sort of atrocity in the history of the place to cause it.”

“Alright.” Haley agrees. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You took on a wendigo. Poltergeists aren’t gonna phase you.” Meira reminds her fondly.

Haley laughs. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

They say quick goodbyes, and then Meira hangs up and turns to go back into the living room, only to find Charlie leaning in the doorway, her eyes a bit wide. “All that stuff is really out there, isn’t it?” Charlie asks, sounding dazed.

Meira nods. “Yeah. And a hell of a lot more, besides.”

“God.” Charlie breathes, closing her eyes. “That’s terrifying.”

“It’s the same world you were living in yesterday.” Meira reminds her. Charlie gives her a look, and Meira shrugs. “Look, if you want someone to pretend it’s all a ghost story and there’s no monsters under the bed, you’ve got the wrong girl. Try giving Sam a call.” She advises dryly.

“I don’t want that.” Charlie insists straight away, and then sighs. “It’s just scary, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” Meira agrees.

“And you just… go around looking for it?” Charlie asks abruptly, incredulous. Meira shrugs and nods, and Charlie gapes at her. “Why?”

It’s a good question. Meira’s never lived the true hunter lifestyle before. Sure, she’s gone on the occasional hunt with her dad, and she’s run into more than her fair share of monsters, but that wasn’t because she’d gone looking for them. They’d all come looking for her. And now she’s only tagging along with Sam and Dean because she has nowhere else in the world to belong. So instead of answering for herself, she thinks about some of the things her dad has said about why he hunts. “Because someone has to.” She settles on finally. “There are monsters out there, Charlie, and someone needs to stop them before they hurt any more people. Most people don’t even believe they’re real, and so they don’t know how to protect themselves. So we protect them.”

Charlie nods slowly, staring at the floor and chewing on her lower lip. Meira gives her the time she needs to process, and is impressed when she suddenly looks up, steel in her eyes. “Teach me.” She says. “That’s what you were doing, wasn’t it? With whoever was on the phone. Teaching them how to protect themselves. I don’t want to die because I didn’t know better than to avoid something.”

Meira beams at her, inordinately proud of her for even thinking of it, never mind outright asking. “Sure. I probably won’t be sticking around long enough to do more than give you the bare basics, but if you give me your number, you can text me any questions you have.” She offers, and Charlie nods. So they exchange numbers, and then they sit down to talk about the most basic protections, the most common supernatural problems, and what to do about them.

Toledo, Ohio – Monday 16th January 2006

They’re on the way back from Fort Wayne when Charlie calls Meira. She’s expecting questions about what they talked about yesterday, what she gets instead is a desperate sob and a whispered “Oh, God, she’s here,” that sends a chill down her spine.

“Charlie?” Meira calls, sitting bolt upright in the back seat.

“Bloody Mary, she’s- Donna said it, and- and she’s coming for me.” Charlie blurts out in a rush, voice shaking, followed by a whimper.

“What’s going on?” Dean demands.

“Okay, Charlie, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to sit down, take a breath, and close your eyes.” Meira orders, keeping her voice as calm as she can. In the front, Dean swears, and floors the gas pedal. “Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yeah.” Charlie stammers.

“Good. Now, tell me where you are, and we’ll come get you.” Meira instructs.

“Outside school.” Charlie breathes. “I- I saw her in- she’s everywhere. In- in windows and the t-teacher’s glasses.”

Well, that’s not terrifying at all. Jesus. “That’s why you’re keeping your eyes closed, okay.” Meira soothes. “Now, are you somewhere public? Will other people see you and try to move you?”

“N-no. There’s a- an alley, between two of the houses across the street. No windows, so I-”

“Good, that was smart.” Meira compliments. “Do you think you can tell me how this happened? Why on earth did Donna say it?”

She hears Charlie take a deep, shuddering breath. “She- she was asking about… about why- why you guys were asking about- about her mom, and she- I tried to explain, but she got so mad, she said- said that you’d ‘made her think all that awful stuff’ for no reason, and how dare I go along with-” Charlie cuts off her explanation with a sob, and Meira murmurs a few soothing encouragements. “I told her it wasn’t for no reason, that- that she had gone after her dad instead of Lily for a reason, and she scoffed, and- and then she said it, like-”

“Like she was proving it wasn’t real.” Meira concludes, thinking, uncharitably, that Donna Shoemaker deserves a trickster’s attention for that. Grief or no grief, it’s a shitty thing to risk a friend’s life just to maintain your own blissfully ignorant illusion. And of course, they’re going to make damn sure Mary doesn’t kill Charlie, and so Donna is going to go on thinking she’s vindicated herself. Oh, yeah, Meira really wants to set Pabbi on her.

Biting back her anger, Meira puts her hand over the bottom of her phone to ask Dean “How long?”

“Fifteen minutes.” Dean says grimly.

Meira nods, and goes back to reassuring Charlie. She keeps her on the phone the whole time, talking her through the panic. Once they get back to Toledo, she alternates between reassurances to Charlie and directions to Dean. They pick Charlie up, and Meira guides her into the car while making sure she keeps her eyes closed. Then they take her back to the motel and do their best to cover up every reflective surface in Meira’s room.

Sam sits next to Charlie on the bed while Dean throws a towel over the TV, and Meira tacks up a sheet over the stupid frosted glass divider that serves absolutely no purpose but to be annoying in a situation like this. Meira honestly contemplated just smashing it. “Hey.” Sam says once Meira’s done. “Hey, it’s okay. You can open up your eyes, Charlie. It’s okay. Alright. Now listen. You’re going to stay right here, on this bed, and you’re not going to look at glass, or anything else that has a reflection, okay? Now, as long as you do that, she cannot get you.”

“But I can’t keep that up forever.” Charlie retorts, quiet but certain. “I’m going to die, aren’t I?”

“No.” Sam insists. “No, not anytime soon.”

Meira goes to sit next to Charlie, crawling right into the middle of the bed and putting an arm around her. “We’re going to stop her, Charlie.” She adds, and when Charlie looks at her imploringly, she gives her a reassuring smile. “Remember? This is what we do.” Swallowing hard, Charlie nods, and sits a little straighter.

“Alright, Charlie.” Dean says, perching on the end of the bed. “We need to know what happened.”

“We were in the bathroom, Donna said-” Charlie begins.

“That’s not what we’re talking about.” Dean interrupts. “Something happened, didn’t it? In your life. A secret. Someone got hurt.” Charlie blinks and sends tears cascading down onto her cheeks. Dean shares a look with Sam before pressing on, gentler than before. “Can you tell us about it?”

Charlie’s lip starts trembling, but when she starts talking, her voice is strong. “I had this boyfriend. I loved him, but he kinda scared me too, you know? And, one night, at his house, we got in this fight. And I broke up with him. And he got upset, and he said he needed me, and he loved me. And he said ‘Charlie, if you walk out that door right now, I’m going to kill myself.’ And do you know what I said? I said ‘go ahead’ and I left.”

“Good.” Meira says it before she can stop herself, and is aware of everyone’s eyes snapping to her in shock. God, she’s actually a little glad, for once, that Jace isn’t here, because if she’s this angry, Jace probably would go and find Charlie’s ex’s soul, and if he isn’t there already, deliver him directly to Hell, personally.

“What?” Charlie breathes.

Meira looks at her, and sees all the pain and guilt she’s been carrying around because of some asshole who tried to make his own life and his own choices her responsibility. “Charlie, his life was not your responsibility, and he had no right to lay that on you.”

“But I-” Charlie begins, and then falters.

“No, listen to me.” Meira insists, kneeling up and turning Charlie to face her fully. “That was his choice to make, not yours. He tried to chain you to him by making you feel responsible for his life and his actions, and you were right to do what you needed to, to free yourself. Just because his threat was aimed at himself, instead of someone else you love, doesn’t make it any less a threat. The fact that he followed through because you didn’t give him what he wanted is on him, not on you.”

“I-” Charlie says again, and then her expression crumples, and she starts to cry in earnest. “I didn’t want him to die.” She says, desperate.

Meira pulls her into her arms. “I know. It’s not your fault.”

“She’s right, it’s not.” Dean adds. Then he clears his throat, a hard, almost angry look on his face, and gets up. “Right, let’s go gank this bitch already.” He says, and Sam gets up immediately. Dean glances at Meira when she doesn’t move. “Meira?”

“I’ll stay here with Charlie.” Meira replies. “Keep her safe.”

“No.” Charlie says quietly, voice ragged. “You should go. It’s not like there’s anything you can- can really do here, anyway.”

Meira looks at her, impressed again by the strength in her. “I can keep you company.” She points out. “That’s important, too. Sam and Dean can handle this bitch, no problem.” She points out, and Charlie almost manages a smile, ducking her head in a way that’s not quite a nod, but that Meira takes as agreement anyway. She’s not leaving Charlie to sit here, alone in a dark room, with nothing to do but contemplate her douchebag ex and her impending death. No way.

“Hell yeah we can.” Dean agrees before heading out the door with Sam on his heels.

Toledo, Ohio – Tuesday 17th January 2006

Once it’s all over, Meira takes Charlie shopping. She tells Sam and Dean she wants to do something nice for her after the last few days, and Sam and Dean agree to leave that evening, instead of in the morning. They don’t have another hunt lined up yet anyway, so there’s no trouble with taking a day of down-time. She doesn’t tell them that it’s not clothes they’re shopping for. Well, not just clothes. They do get Charlie a nice leather jacket and some jeans that are easier to move in than her usual.

They go to a jewellery store and commission an anti-possession charm. Charlie will have to pick it up herself in a couple of weeks time, but it’s on its way, and that seems to make her feel better. They buy meters and meters of plastic tubing and a giant bag of rock-salt from a hardware store, along with a pocket knife, and then go poking around a dozen antique stores until they find a pure iron fire poker and a sterling silver cutlery set. They also buy her a rosary, along with a bottle of water that Meira blesses for her.

“I thought you needed to be ordained to make holy water.” Charlie remarks as they’re leaving the store, considering her new rosary with a slightly pinched expression.

“You might.” Meira acknowledges with a shrug. She honestly has no idea if just her blessing, without her grace being able to reach out and touch Charlie’s soul, would be enough, but Charlie certainly has it. “But best to have a rosary on hand anyway, just in case. Besides, as long as you’re careful, that bottle could last you forever.” Charlie looks at the simple one litre bottle, and then arches a sceptical eyebrow at Meira. “No, really.” Meira assures her, grinning. “Add more water and it becomes holy water, too. As long as you have some left, you can make it last forever.”

While they’re searching thrift stores for a decent rug with a pentacle on it, Charlie’s phone rings. She takes one look at the display, and her expression closes off. “Who-?” Meira asks softly.

“Donna.” Charlie answers, then takes a breath, and answers it, but doesn’t speak first.

Meira unashamedly boosts her hearing to eavesdrop. “…Charlie?”

“Yeah?” Charlie answers, level, not cold, but not overly warm, either.

“Oh, thank god.” Donna sighs. “Your mom called, she said you didn’t come home last night, and I heard that you’d freaked out at school yesterday.” She explains. “You’re okay, right?” Charlie’s lips thin and her jaw works as she tries several times to speak, and fails each time. “Charlie?” Donna prompts, voice going high with worry.

“Why do you care?” Charlie suddenly bursts out.

“What?” Donna replies, and then, after a beat. “Oh my god, Charlie, just because we had a fight yesterday doesn’t mean I want you to- to have some sort of episode and throw yourself in front of a car or something! Jesus!”

“You nearly got me killed yesterday!” Charlie retorts loudly, and then casts an embarrassed look around. Thankfully, there’s no one else in the store except the clerk, and they’re studiously pretending not to be able to hear anything.

“No, I didn’t. It’s not real, Charlie.” Donna retorts scornfully.

“The only reason I’m not lying in a pool of my own blood with my eyes gouged out just like your dad-” Donna sucks in a sharp breath. “-is because those ‘freaks’ risked their lives to save me. You-” Charlie cuts herself off and closes her eyes.

Donna scoffs. “If that’s true, who did you kill?” She bites out.

Charlie flinches, like she was no doubt meant to. Meira puts a hand on her arm, and when Charlie’s eyes flick up to meet hers, she says quietly “It doesn’t need to be a secret. You didn’t do anything wrong. But you don’t owe her anything, either.”

Charlie nods once, takes a shaking breath, and says “Did you know that Mark threatened to kill himself if I broke up with him?” in a surprisingly even tone, even though her eyes have gone glassy with unshed tears. “I broke up with him anyway.”

Donna is silent for a very, very long time. “Wow, what a dick.” She says finally, and Charlie laughs like it’s been startled out of her. She sniffs once and wipes at her eyes. There’s another, shorter silence. “I suppose you think this means that Lily is to blame for our dad’s death, then, huh?” She asks, bitterly angry and scared underneath.

“Oh my god, Donna, no. Lily was playing a stupid game with her friends, she didn’t know it was dangerous.” There’s a pause, and then Charlie adds, viciously, “You did. I told you it was dangerous, and you did it anyway, even though you knew it wasn’t just your own life on the line.”

Another silence. “What do you want me to say?” Donna asks resentfully.

“That you’re sorry?!” Charlie bursts out. “That you won’t do it again?! That you understand that, oh my god, even if you still don’t believe me, I believe it, and it’s a shitty thing to do to scare me just to, what? I don’t even know. And that if I tell you ‘hey, maybe don’t do that, it’s dangerous’ again, next time, you’ll listen?!”

“Yeah. Okay.” Donna says quietly.

Charlie waits. Donna doesn’t say anything else. “Well?!” Charlie snaps.

“Oh my god, I’m sorry, okay?!” Donna snaps back.

Meira wonders if maybe now would be a good opportunity to test out manifesting her wings. Perhaps a little solid proof would go a long way to improving Donna’s attitude. She’s still debating whether it’s a good idea or not when Charlie sighs. “Yeah, okay.” She says tiredly. “See you Monday, Donna.”

“Yeah, see you.” Donna agrees, and then Charlie hangs up on her. She stands there, staring at her phone for several minutes, looking torn and upset.

“I could probably show her proof, if you want.” Meira offers.

Charlie visibly thinks about it, but then shakes her head. “No. I don’t know. She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want to know, hasn’t she?”

Meira tips her head in acknowledgement of that, and then lets the subject drop. “Come on, Buffy, we’ve got rugs to buy.” She says instead, and Charlie snorts at the nickname, but she looks pleased, too, and Meira takes that as a win.

#Supernatural #time travel #next generation #original character #supernatural retelling #SPN 1x05 #Bloody Mary #Trapped in the Amber #Meira Winchester #Dean Winchester #Sam Winchester #og Charlie #who will be Charlie Jenkins for the purposes of this fic #(virtual cookies to anyone who can figure out why I picked Jenkins)#so no one gets her confused with the other awesome Charlie #it probably doesn't come across in this but I actually really like Donna too

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thepencilnerd · 6 years ago

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Melophile | Part II

– please read part 1 if you haven’t – (it can be found on my masterlist ^^ )

melo·phile- noun; a person with great love and affluent passion for music

➵ A piano major and a composition major collaborating for a final semester project. It seemed straightforward, right? But what if you were forced to pair up with the school’s most problematic genius, Min Yoongi? Add to that the fact that he absolutely hated your guts and you had the perfect recipe for disaster. How can someone you’ve never even met before despise you like a sworn enemy? Getting to know each other was hard enough, but what happens when the most beautiful, painful, and darkest secrets force the two of you to expose the thing you each guarded the most—your own emotions?

➵ pairing: min yoongi x reader

➵ genre: AU! enemies to lovers, fluff, angst, smut, slow-ish burn

➵ word count: 27k (sorry mobile readers)

➵ warnings: swearing, too much fluff, angst, discussions of depression, oral sex (m&f receiving), marking, biting, hair pulling, cumplay/eating, light impreg kink, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), i’m still screaming while writing these warnings bc i thought it’d pretty tame this chapter i was wrong

a/n: my longest work to date :’) i hope you all enjoyed and thank you so much for staying with me on this emotional rollercoaster <3

Previously on part one of Melophile...

“Stop calling me that.” Each word came out through pursed lips and clamped teeth. Leaning into you so that he was directly in your line of vision, his lip curled into a smirk and his eyes flaunted a veil of malicious intent.

“Make me,” he snarled. Never in your life had two words made you more furious than at that exact moment.

“Fuck you, Yoongi,” you spat out, face just centimeters away from his. “I’m sorry for what happened to you, I really am, okay? But you don’t know a single goddamn thing about me, so stop acting like you’re the only one who’s been hurt in the past.”

Moving closer to you in response, you felt his hot breath fan over your lips, making you lean back instinctively.

“I’m not hurt,” he pointed out with venom dripping from his voice. Leaning towards the shell of your ear, his exhaling breath tickled your neck.

“I’m broken, _____…” Yoongi growled.

“Fucking hell...” you muttered silently while pinching the bridge of your nose. Contemplating your reason for existence, you felt an unpleasant stickiness rub the inside of your thighs but ignored it as you found yourself studying the face of the sleeping figure beside you—what a great distraction to start off the day.

Yoongi’s sleeping face was the epitome of serenity. Lying on his side, his face pressed against the pillow like a marshmallow in a way that made his cheek and lips squish to the side lazily. His eyes were shut and his mouth was open the slightest bit, a faint snore emitting from his throat each time his chest rose and fell.

A grin sneakily crept onto your face when you took the time to admire how peaceful he looked. It was probably the first time you’d ever seen him so—exposed. Realizing the mistake of your words, your timing couldn’t have been worse when Yoongi’s eyelids fluttered open.

The corners of his eyes formed into half-moons as he crinkled his nose. Stretching over your body with his free arm, you shuffled away from his reach and rolled off the bed.

You let out a strangled yelp as your body tumbled onto the floor. As if you didn’t have enough bruises from last night already...

Hurrying to peek over the edge of the bed, Yoongi’s face bore a bemused look and you’d bet a million dollars he was about three seconds away from—

“Are you okay?” he chuckled, bursting into a fit of raspy laughter with a lazy smile.

His upbeat aura made you analyze his face for any indication that he was hungover or on possibly on something, but all you saw was a genuinely cheery boy.

“Y–Yeah...” you stuttered. “I’m good. Fine. I’m fine.”

Softening his gaze, he sighed and rolled back into bed, staring at the ceiling. What the hell were you supposed to do now? Struggling to find a way to break the ice, you only realized then now dry and scratchy your throat felt.

Clearing your throat, you scratched your head at your surroundings. “Is this your room?” Mumbling something that resembled an ‘mhmph,’ you took his half-ass mumble as a yes.

“How did we, um...” you hiccuped, nerves beginning to take over. You resorted to pointing to random points around the room sheepishly.

Hearing the rustling of sheets, you met his half-lidded gaze. He wasn’t wearing a top, yet you were the one who felt self-conscious and covered your chest with your arms—and you were actually wearing a shirt.

Sniffling slightly, he rested the side of his face on his arm lazily. “I piggybacked you here after you knocked out like a light,” he chuckled to himself, reliving the moment briefly. “Drooled all over my shoulder and everything.”

“I do not drool!” you exclaimed, wiping your mouth subconsciously while blushing furiously at his accusation.

“I beg to differ,” he smiled, flashing a gummy smile that made you hiccup. The conversation was becoming much too casual for your comfort, and you quickly got up on your feet to try and find your clothes. You needed to get out of here. You needed to get out of here now.

Unfortunately, your body betrayed you when your legs trembled and gave under you. Your muscles felt like jelly and you couldn’t even make an attempt at getting up the second time, so you slid down back into a cross-legged position on the floor as smoothly as you could, trying not to look as embarrassed or defeated as you felt. Yoongi hid his snort of amusement with a cough.

“Where are my clothes?” you questioned, suddenly aware that you were dressed in black boxer shorts and a shirt too large to be your size. Your eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets at the realization.

Hands shooting up to cover your chest instinctively, you stared at Yoongi like a deer in headlights. “You undressed me?!” you gawked.

Propping his elbow up, he rested his cheek on his hand as he chuckled. “Technically I redressed you after the undressing part, so it counts as a double negative,” he corrected. Smug bastard...

Wincing at the stretch you felt in your thighs from just sitting in a cross-legged position, you stood up again only to stumble again like a tower made of jello cubes. Yoongi sat up immediately, grabbing your arm to help you stay upright, but you tore yourself away from Yoongi’s warm hands. The soothing sensation of his touch was making you feel too comfortable for your own liking.

Clothes. Door. Exit. Now. Four words you never expected to dictate your every move thereon afterward.

He looked at you with a puzzled expression, taken aback by your irrational behavior. Yoongi opened his mouth to say something, but as soon as you spotted your pile of clothes in the corner of the room, you scurried across to pick them up.

Yanking down the boxers you were wearing and pulling off his shirt, the smell of his cologne sunk through the fabric and made your heartbeat jump for a moment. Flashbacks of last night snapped like a series of camera shutters in your mind; his scent rubbing onto your skin, the texture of his hair between your fingers, the warmth of his lips against your neck, the feeling of his tongue—

“Pull yourself together,” you screamed in your head. Shaking your head to snap yourself out of your sinful thoughts, you jumped up and down into your jeans and threw on your hoodie in record time before he could make a remark about your nude state.

Picking up your phone from his nightstand and stepping—more like tripping—into your shoes, you turned around and closed your eyes, crinkling your nose to focus and think about whether you needed to gather anything else. Once confirming that you didn’t bring anything other than your phone, you rushed out the door and left Yoongi with his mouth hung open.

“Well shit...” he thought.

It had been a full week since the “incident,” as you had labeled it, and you were cooped up in your dorm like a prisoner, only sneaking out to get snacks and coffee from the corner store across the street. The stupid week-long break could not come any sooner, could it?

Words splattered like stray drops of paint across the walls of your mind as panic occupied every waking thought since that night.

He knew your secret and you knew his.

You didn’t know why fear was growing on you like a parasite. It’s not like he was going to tell Powell. Even if he did, you’d probably just have to go to a few physical therapy lessons and get prescribed some medication to manage the pain.

“He’ll restrict your physical participation hours and make you play less...” your subconscious suspected. There it was—that was your greatest fear. Crawling bugs, skyscraper-tall heights, deep dark oceans, and even being trapped in a burning building didn’t compare to the complete and utter dread you would feel if you had lost music. Just thinking about it was enough to make you bite your nails.

As your silent nights of waking up, showering, eating a few bites of granola bars, and wallowing in your bed until you fell asleep became repetitive, Yoongi was as loud and active as he had ever been—in the form of texts, that is.

Saturday

Min Salty: You good? [1:41 p.m.]

Sunday

Min Salty: Earth to _____ ? [ 8:19 a.m.]

Min Salty: Did you get sick? [11:43 a.m.]

Monday

Min Salty: Are you okay? [4:50 p.m.]

Min Salty: Call me [5:01 p.m.]

Tuesday

Min Salty: _____ , talk to me [12:12 a.m.]

Wednesday

Min Salty: At least let me know that you’re alive [10:08 a.m.]

Yesterday

Min Salty: I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you need [9:04 p.m.]

Re-reading each text was like stabbing yourself with a rusted dagger over and over again as the realization of what you had done loomed over you like a storm cloud. Lying in your bed, you buried your face in the pillow and screamed, thankful that everyone down your dorm block was away for a few more days. It killed you even more inside when you read over the text you had sent five minutes ago.

Today

Min Salty: Practice room 2B at 3? [2:34 p.m.]

You: sure [2:41 p.m.]

Thrashing your arms and legs wildly in an attempt to relieve you of your impulsive and rash decision, you huffed one more time before getting out of bed and changing into a pair of jeans. Rubbing your eyes and triple-checking whether you had just done what you think you had done, you wailed overdramatically, praying that this was all just one big nightmare.

What the hell were you thinking?

Blowing your wild baby hairs away from your face, you ignored the state of the bird’s nest of a messy bun that laid atop your head and didn’t bother changing out of your hoodie. You were way too used to wearing those since you started college. Packing your dorm keys and notebook into your backpack, you slung it over your shoulder half-heartedly and prepared for the storm that lied ahead.

The entire walk across the campus was filled with dread and you didn’t bother cleaning up your disheveled state when you finally knocked on the door. When it swung open, you met his gaze for the first time in what felt like weeks.

Yoongi was sitting on the piano bench with a cup-holder filled with two hot drinks and a paper bag settled on the guest table. He too was flaunting just as plain of an outfit as your black joggers and school logo-printed hoodie.

With grey sweatpants, matching sweater, and grass-stained sneakers, you both stared at each other with awe at your equal ability to feel so comfortable in your less than dress code friendly attire. You didn’t even notice until your eyes landed on his socks that they were different colors, to which you clamped your hand over your mouth and disguised your snort with a brash cough.

“Don’t you look gorgeous?” he scoffed, admiring your equally casual half-strewn choice of an outfit. Pulling out two chairs from the side of the room and placing them next to the table, you opened your mouth to protest, but the smell of freshly brewed coffee and warm pastries filled the room.

Starting with the coffee, he handed you the paper cup, tapping under your chin playfully because he found your dazed face amusing. Angling your head down low, you felt a pang of regret. He shouldn’t be this happy...

He tore the bag open to reveal an array of croissants, donuts, and pastries from the café across the street. You’d gone there so many times in the last couple of years, you would be a moron if you hadn’t memorized the menu by now.

“Why did you—” you sputtered, pointing to the golden loaves of steaming hot fluffiness that made your mouth water. Sitting down, he patted the chair next to him, welcoming you to sit and make yourself comfortable.

“Food first then talk,” he halted. “You look like you haven’t eaten anything other than instant noodles and mix coffee in weeks—and I know better than anyone what that looks like...”

Scowling at his double-edged insult and scold, you sat moved the chair to be across from him rather than beside and sat down slowly like a cat who was exploring their new home.

Were you dreaming? Why was he being so soft? Was he on something? Perhaps, plotting his revenge? Or worse, your murder?

Sensing your hesitant state, Yoongi shoved a mini-donut into your agape mouth. “I didn’t poison anything, you fusspot.” He continued eating his food in silence as if nothing were wrong in the world. Maybe this would be an opportunity for you to get some actual food into your system and not be forced to talk.

And who were you to turn down lunch?

Chewing the mouthful of glazed donut you'd been fed, you chewed slowly and closed your eyes to hold back the moan that nearly came out. Starchy bread and sugary fruit preserves had never tasted so good.

A few minutes passed in total silence. The only sounds came from the crinkling of papers as Yoongi pulled out more napkins and the gulps that came from the two of you idly sipping your drinks. Yoongi had finished eating, but you were purposely taking your sweet time by chewing slower than a turtle and being overly cautious with your now-lukewarm coffee.

Leaning back onto the wall, Yoongi looked up at your room, breaking the silence first. “You’re in a single-dorm?”

Pausing in the middle of chewing, you swallowed and nodded, reaching over for your drink again.

“By request?”

Another nod.

“Does it get boring?” he continued, clearly seeing that he was getting under your skin with each question.

God, why did he have to talk so much?

You shook your head a little too vigorously as you took the last bite of your donut before setting it down and then taking a few reasonably long gulps of your coffee, finishing that as well.

“Why’d you call?” you finally asked.

Chuckling at how he had broken through your shell with the peace offering of food and coffee no one could resist, he fumbled with the empty cup in his hands. “I just wanted to check up on you,” he replied simply. “Plus, I was bored out of my mind and you’re the only other person on campus so I figured it’d be smart to kill some time with practice.”

You shifted in your seated position as the comment took you by surprise. “You knew I was fine,” you mumbled, voice coming just short of a shy child’s whisper.

“I actually,” he cleared his throat. “I wanted to talk to you about last week.”

“It was a mistake.” That was all it was; a mistake.

Yoongi’s eyes widened as his eyebrows lifted up, his expression morphing into one of shock at your unexpected answer. “No, I—”

Shaking your head, you gnawed on the inside of your cheek. The sooner you got this cleaned up the easier it’d be on both of you. “We made a mistake and we need to move past it. It wasn’t responsible for us and—”

“Bullshit.” The word came out in the familiar tone that he used with you that night; anger and rage directing itself into the fury of one single word.

“What?” you scoffed, wide awake now more than ever. You couldn’t tell whether it was because you were shocked at his view on the situation or whether it was the caffeine kicking in and doing its magic.

Stretching his neck to one side and exhaling through his nose, he couldn’t make direct eye contact with you and opted to stare at your hands wrapped around your cup. “It wasn’t a– you didn’t do anything wrong,” he altered his sentence. “I didn’t do anything wrong. Neither of us did anything wrong because you and I—” He pinched the bridge of his nose as he began to grow annoyed at himself.

Why was he stumbling over his words so bad?

“Yoongi,” you said firmly. It was your turn to take hold of the conversation. “Can we just pretend like none of this happened and go back to being—” Pausing to bury your face into your hands, you shrugged. “Whatever we were before.”

“You really don’t want to talk about it?” he asked bluntly.

You refused to even give yourself a second to process the question before you responded with a firm no. His tongue prodded the inside of his cheek for a moment before he got up. “Should we work on the piece then?”

For some reason, regret ate at you like a power-hungry monster that would never be satiated.

“Yeah,” you responded robotically, sitting yourself down on the cold leather chair. “Let’s practice.”

Never in your life had those words tasted so bitter in your mouth.

You wanted to say that moving past mortifyingly embarrassing moments in your life was a process in and of itself. You even dared to say that admitting them was the hardest part but of course, to each their own.

It had been two weeks since you last spoke to Yoongi and timed seemed to move slower than ever. Whenever you found yourself pondering over the option of texting him, your pride got the best of you.

Between passing periods and free time after school, you had yet to formally speak with him last week. You cringed internally as flashbacks of the week prior set off like landmines in your head.

Scurrying down the hallways like an undercover rat, you went as far as wearing sunglasses along with your hood to try and disguise yourself. Surely, Yoongi wouldn’t recognize you in this state, right? You were even wearing a colored hoodie, for God’s sake—completely unheard of for someone of your tastes. Black and grey hoodies were your wardrobes’ partners in crime.

You earned a couple stares from the crowds of people as you kept your back hunched and weaved through them, but it definitely won over having to run into Yoongi. Or even worse, actually having to talk to him. Chills ran down your spine. You’d have to face him one day, but this was the one things you could afford to procrastinate just a little bit.

Then came the day when he too learned about your schedule after countless trials of “accompanying” you to your classes—while hiding from your line of sight.

“_____!” he shouted through the bustling crowd, waving his arm in the hopes that you’d see him, but to aid him in the off chance that you wouldn’t run away from him this time. Somehow, by the laws of the universe and its devious ways, he managed to catch up to you and tug at your sleeve.

Turning around after muttering a wave of silent swears to yourself, you turned around like a character who was moments away from being murdered by the serial killer. Spoiler alert: this scene actually had a happy ending.

“I’m late for a class!” you chuckled wryly, cringing at your own forced and awkward tone. “Catch you later!” Waving goodbye, you sped off as quickly as your legs could carry you to your lecture.

“Catch you later?” Did you jump out of a 70′s sitcom or something? Your pessimist mocked you, poking fun at your awful crack at an excuse.

There was bound to be someone else who arrived at the lecture 20 minutes early, right?

Lounging in the tightly nestled corner of the café, you were in the middle of shuffling through the notes from class when a certain someone decided to grace you with the gift of a heart attack.

“Jesus freaking Christ!” Your notes nearly flew into the air as you jumped like an animated cat. Turning around to face the person behind you who had made the ballsy choice to sneak up on you and poke your shoulder, Yoongi’s face greeted you with a cheeky grin.

“Busy?” he asked nonchalantly as if he hadn’t just given you the fright of your life. Looking at him with your eyes open to the size of saucers, you wet your lips and gulped, trying to think of a way to dig out of yet, another hole you had buried yourself in.

Pointing behind you with your finger to distract him, you raised your shoulders and jutted your neck forward, contorting into an uncomfortable pose that screamed awkwardness. “Text me later!” you spit out, crinkling your nose with a forced chuckle.

“But—” Yoongi’s sputtering faded into silence as you dashed out of there quicker than a farm dog that was herding a flock of geese.

Each time you replayed the self-deprecating memories like a slideshow in your head, it was comparable to sticking your hand into ice cold water you’d scooped up from Antarctica. “Dammit.” Your voice came out hushed but dangerously close to being an audible growl and your fist slammed onto the wooden table.

Studying in the library was a bad choice. Odd stares and hushed whispers scattered across the room like a swarm of bees and caused the people around you to shift in their seats. Murming a silent apology at your sudden outburst, you packed your things and tried to leave as quietly as possible.

As you felt the satisfying crunch of leaves under your feet with each step, your eyes drifted off into nowhere while your mind was a million miles away. You didn’t know why you felt so strange. It was as if everyone saw the world through black or white lenses and yet, you were the only one who hallucinated color in between the lines.

Huddling your arms closer to your body, a cold gust of wind blew across your face, making you shiver and prickle with goosebumps. A dull, aching sensation made its way across the tops of your hands as your muscles reacted to the temperature difference, forcing you to tuck them under your armpits. Fashionable isn’t it? The weather of the autumn and winter months always bid the worst for your hands, and yet, your forgetful self always let the errand of buying a pair of stupid mittens slip your mind.

It had also been a week since you’d gone anywhere near a piano and it stuck like a wine stain on white linen. You were jittery and anxious like a stranded survivor balancing on on the tip of an iceberg. Since you had a natural inclination to let out your emotions through playing, your cognitive acuity also felt at an all-time low. The rare possibility of running into your professor while you were in this state was soul-crushing, and the off-chance that he might see your restricted playing ability was even more so debilitating.

Even though you hated to admit it, the best thing you could probably do for your hands was to go and play, even if it were for a few minutes. The doctor—even though it was his sincere recommendation for you to stop playing altogether and consider taking up stress ball yoga instead—told you that light activity was actually beneficial in regulating your chronic pain.

The occasional Advil helped as well, but you’d been popping the tryhard M&M’s like candy on a regular basis since sophomore year, so your built-up tolerance to the orange-coated tablets rendered them useless.

Debating between taking a hot shower back at the comfort of your room and going to practice for an hour (or three), you settled on the latter. You could use the extra hours anyway—you knew better than anyone how much you needed them.

You took your usual shortcut around the quad and turned at the corner of the brick building you’d grown too acquainted with throughout the years. Stepping into the corridors, warm air welcomed you like an old friend as the buzz and whirring of the heater indicated that it was on full blast. Thank God.

Treading down the length of the hallway with tentative steps, you were surprised to see that there were quite a few people occupying the studios. You recognized a few classmates through the glass panes of the doors.

Judging by the pointless blabbering, incessant arguing, harsh thumping of keys, and scattered frustrated groans, the muted sounds that were still clearly audible through the soundproof rooms made you chuckle. Something told you that these were the master procrastinators who didn’t decide to start on the project until now...

When you reached the end of the hall, you were relieved to find an empty room. Finally. Sighing in relief, you had never found the flick of a light switch and whoosh of a closing door more satisfying than in that moment.

Sprawling your things out haphazardly onto the floor, the overly-stiff lid of the piano opening made you scrunch up your face. If this piano was the only one out of tune in the building, you were going to—

You didn’t even finish the thought before your finger pressed on a key as if it had a mind of its own. “Thank the tuning gods,” you sighed, bringing your hand to your chest and exhaling out the air you’d held in your lungs. Sure, it was one of the older models the school’s inventory had to offer, but it was still miraculously in tune.

If anything, you let out a ‘hm’ of intrigue as you sat down. You’d never played in this particular studio or on this piano before, but the different weight of the keys and peculiar texture of sound that emanated from them piqued your interest.

Playing on a different piano than your usual model could best be described as a painter who had to paint with a completely different base canvas, colors of paint, and a set of brushes. Whereas a painter was familiar with his or her usual painting medium and more than comfortable with the feel of their brushes, the process of adapting to a new set of materials altogether was neither difficult nor easy, because they didn’t know what they were dealing with yet.

It was just different.

Pianos were almost grouped in the same theory, except rather than produce a visual piece with brushes and paint, you had to paint a picture with sound; an odd medium considering the less physically pliable nature of it.

This piano in particular, for example, required more weight on certain keys to produce an equal amount of sound as the others. The texture of the sound was also a different quality, this being more rustic and ragtime sounding than the new models lined up in the front entrance studios. Those sounded much more acoustic, crisper, and sharper, fitting a more classical and structured repertoire.

Starting easy with a few scales and basic pieces you learned when you were younger, the aching in your hands still lingered, but the pain grew more than bearable since your hands had warmed up.

What were you going to practice today? Chopin? Beethoven? Lizst? Forming your mouth into an ‘o’ shape at the last name, you quirked your lip into a meek grin. When was the last time you played one of that psycho’s pieces?

Settling on Liebestraum No. 3, you took a moment to try and remember the piece by heart. Closing your eyes to concentrate on picturing and mapping out the piece in your head, you breathed deeply and grazed your fingertips across the keys.

The collection of three pieces was also known as Dreams of Love and the third piece’s gentle and melodic hymn was just that. The beginning of the piece was soft like a lullaby, enveloping the listener into a space of warmth and tenderness; like the sparks of a newly blossoming and dreamlike relationship. Hypnotizing and consuming, the simple unfolding melody drew you in completely.

The second cadenza then transitioned into the harsh reality of love, becoming more weighted and melancholic as the tempo not only sped up and became more frantic, but the tones and harmonics also developed into more complex ones. Desperate, heartbreaking, and filled with the raw reality that love had the ability to take just as much as it had to give, your hands no longer dictated how well you played at that moment; your humanity did.

The final cadenza was the one that shredded your heartstrings. After the highs and lows of falling in and out of love, the dynamic returned to its former soft and lulling roots, reminding you that the everlasting form of love and eternal happiness was truly unattainable, and only lurked in the distant world that was your dreams.

The words that constantly lurked in your head sent a pang of guilt into your chest, erupting and manifesting itself physically into the delicate and drawn out keys of the pieces final notes. Would you ever be happy?

Coming down from the euphoria that engulfed every nerve in your body, tears brimmed your eyes. Scoffing at yourself, you sniffled, dabbing away the wetness that dampened your cheeks as self-pitying chuckles left your mouth. This was a definitely a first.

The sudden sense that someone was watching you made you grow suspicious. Snapping your head around to the door, your body went cold as a figure was visible through the glass pane of the door.

Yoongi.

You remained frozen in place, unable to move from the wave of anxiety that swallowed you whole. Your throat was dry and your tongue felt like it was cemented to the roof of your mouth. Turning back around to face the piano, you tried to wipe the remaining tears as discreetly as you could, but you realized that your puffy eyes and red nose betrayed you.

Facing back to the door, you pressed your lips into a thin line and hoped that it would mask any indication that you had just bawled over a stupid piece. God, you felt so pathetic...

Through the reflective pane, you tried to make out his expression but felt your heart hiccup when you zoned in on his face. He sniffled once before looking down at his feet, then back up at you, allowing you to catch a glimpse of his glassy eyes.

Was he—crying?

Blinking hard through your still-puffy and damp eyes, you squinted to try and get a clearer view of him through the glass, but in the blink of an eye and almost as soon as he had appeared, he was gone; vanishing like a figment of your imagination in a dream you had rudely woken up from.

Your feet felt like they were cement blocks weighing down on the pedals. Unable to come to your senses enough to stand up and stop him you could only stare blankly at the door as the illusion of his echoing footsteps deadened into silence.

Today

You: 4A in 20 minutes? [5:22 p.m.]

Min Salty: sure [5:26 p.m.]

Trying to push past and cross the awkward tightrope of a situation that you had created, you felt your breath hitch in your throat and form a hiccup instead. You weren’t sure what surprised you more, the fact that he had replied quicker than you anticipated or the actuality that he had replied to you at all.

Biting your cuticles raw, your nerves were stinging you like a swarm of angry bees. You were already in the studio, of course, and had been practicing for an hour or so before the idea popped into your head. After that, the text had been saved as a draft for about ten minutes before you eventually swallowed your ego and placed your finger on the dreaded send icon. That wasn’t so hard, was it?

Exactly two-minutes had passed since his response and each tick of the clock was like the ring of a bell, signaling that it was feeding time for the growing monster that was your anxiety.

You hissed through your teeth when you accidentally bit down too hard on your cuticle too hard and made a pool of bright red blood flood the edge of your nail. Simultaneously, the click and turn of the doorknob made you snap your head up and freeze, halting your pacing steps.

Smoothing over the top of his hood, Yoongi fashioned a plain black shirt, tattered burgundy jacket, distressed jeans, and scuffed white sneakers. It didn’t take you a second longer to notice the black dust mask he had over his mouth, either. Whether it had become a habit of yours or a natural inclination to study him from afar, you always found yourself staring for a moment too long before you spoke.

“You’re—” you cleared your throat. “—early.” Glancing at the clock, you made sure that you read it right. “Really early.”

He pulled out a chair and slung his bag onto the floor. “I figured you’d be here already.” His voice sounded rough, but not the abrasive kind of rough—the sick kind. When did he get sick? Did he take any medicine? Why was he here?

“Shut up...” you reminded yourself. “It’s none of your busine—”

“Are you sick?” Repressing your negative subconscious, you cared more about his health, for now, more than your ego could force you not to. He shook his head no rather than give you a formal response, refusing to speak and therefore, confirming your suspicions.

He hadn’t even taken off his mask yet and you were pretty sure it was about 75 degrees outside; more than toasty enough for him to walk around without a mask to keep his mouth warm.

“Yoongi, you should go home and rest,” you sighed. Instant guilt began to gnaw at you.

Another forceful head shake and a few suppressed coughs later, he sat down on the chair and pulled out his notebook. It was bad enough you had your own pride to deal with, and adding Yoongi’s into the mix wasn’t going to lead anywhere. You weren’t putting him through this today.

Taking his notebook away from his lap, you set it on top of his bag and kneeled down, placing your hand on his forehead. As you expected, it was slick with sweat.

“Christ, you’re burning up...” you swore, flipping back and forth between the palm and back of your hand to make sure that he was really that hot. Gently grabbing your wrist, he craned his neck away from your reach and pulled your arm away from his vicinity.

He took his mask off agitatedly at your relentless nagging to try and prove his point. “I’m fine.” His voice was stern but still weak, a clear indication that he was anything but that. Frowning with concern written all over your face, he simply stared vacantly into your eyes while still maintaining his hold around your wrist.

Shaking your head at his hardheaded attitude that mirrored yours, you pried his fingers off of your wrist and pressed the back of your hand to his damp cheek. Yoongi’s eyes went wide as his face instantly heated up and flushed at the contact.

“You’re running at least a 100 right now, Yoongi,” you scolded. “We can practice anytime, but right now, you need to go home and rest.” Your hand was still resting on his cheek while you spoke while he continued looking at anywhere but your eyes.

You pulled your hand away from his cheek and let out a near-inaudible gasp when he clutched your wrist again. Bringing your cool hand back to his face, you swallowed tensely when he slid his grip up to your hand and guided it to the side of his face, cupping his large hand over yours so that it was now cupping his cheek.

He closed his eyes tenderly at the coolness of your hand, relishing the soothing and comforting touch that only you could ever provide. Your eyes fluttered a few times before you gave into his silent plea. Running your thumb over the delicate skin of his cheekbones, a twinge of woe struck your chest at the sight before you.

“Why do you make me feel this way...” you murmured to yourself.

“If only I understood the way I felt about you...” Yoongi thought.

A soothing and not-entirely awkward silence filled the room. Yoongi’s throaty breathing and occasional sniffles were the only other noises that were distinguishable, and your intermittent hiccup decided to grace you with its presence towards the last three minutes of the hour.

“Yoongi?” you whispered. Had he fallen asleep? Sitting up? Was he secretly a horse?

“Mhm?” he hummed. Whew—still awake.

Holding back the tiniest grin, you sighed. “Let’s go back to your dorm.”

Mumbling something in his enervated state, you helped him up to his feet and slung his arm over your shoulders to keep him upright and on his feet. You could only pray that he was still conscious enough to have control over his legs.

That day, you learned that dragging a barely conscious man who was twice the size of you into the boys’ dorm block was a sight worthy of earning a couple tentative stares. The childishly logical part of your brain wondered how serial killers did it.

“Hm, I don’t know _____, maybe the fact that they’re absolutely maniacal psychopaths who possess four times the upper body strength you do helps,” you huffed, verbally exercising your strain as you tried to walk straight while propping Yoongi up. Was he drunk or really that sick?

Where was the RA anyway? Paying that high price of tuition should at least warrant a decent resident advisor for safety reasons.

Brushing the shoulder of a stranger, the guy stared at you with terribly confused eyes as he stopped brushing his teeth. Panting heavily, Yoongi grumbled another illegible sentence of nonsense as you took a breather to ask the stranger where his room was. Logically, it had to be one of the only single-dorms in the building, so you prayed it mirrored the layout of yours and was at the end of the hall.

The doe-eyed boy pointed to the end of the long corridor, the minty toothpaste bubbles foaming around the sides of his mouth as it remained parted open in confusion. You quickly thanked him and stumbled slowly but surely down the length of the hallway. Even though it was safe to assume that his door was locked, you turned down the lever and were surprised when the door swung open. Yoongi apparently doesn’t lock his door on the regular...

Thankfully, the layout of the room did, in fact, resemble yours, so you were able to find his bedroom with ease. You convinced yourself that fact that you had woken up there one fateful morning certainly played no part in it. Flinging himself (along with the frustrated force that resulted from your built-up and rushing endorphins) onto the mattress, he landed into the rumpled sheets with a thump. Apparently, he also didn’t have a habit of making his bed before he left his dorm.

You let out a final harsh exhale. You did it. Stretching out your shoulders as a reward, you were more than positive that they’d be sore tomorrow. When was the last time you worked out? A trick question with a secret option C. You couldn’t be bothered to.

Pulling off his shoes and peeling his jacket off of his body, you started to question whether he was secretly blackout drunk or truly terribly ill. He was out like a light within the first few steps into his dorm. You splayed his crinkled blanket over his body loosely, careful to keep him insulated but still allow some room for air to circulate and allow breathability.

When your fingers brushed away the blonde hairs that were stuck on his sweat-dampened forehead, he shifted from his side-lying position, reaching out instinctually to grab your hand again. Yoongi kept his grip on your wrist firm, locking it close against his chest like a child’s teddy bear. He nuzzled his head into your wrist like a puppy, nosing the soft skin between your pulse point and prominent vein. He couldn’t help it that the cool skin of your poorly circulating limbs felt like ice packs on his burning hot skin.

You blinked a couple times trying to process the options you had. Each tug in an attempt to free your arm from his grip only resulted in him clutching tighter, and he seemed to mumble something as his face contorted into a recognizable expression of discomfort. Nightmare?

Finally realizing that he wasn’t going to let go of you anytime soon, you gave up. It’s not like you had anything better to do today. Kneeling down beside the bed, you placed your free hand underneath your chin and propped your elbow on the mattress, trying to find a comfortable position and wait for the situation to pan out for a couple minutes. He’d have to let go of you eventually.

You couldn’t hold back the burning desire to admire his sleeping features. He looked so at peace compared to his day-to-day mood, almost like an entirely different person. Rubbing over his knuckles involuntarily, you didn’t even realize you were doing it until you felt his grip relax with your touch. Judging from how he had his mouth slightly parted and the steady rhythm of the rising and falling of his chest, you concluded that he had fallen asleep.

Not wasting another second, you stealthily slid your hand out of his caging hold and folded the remaining edge of the blanket over his arms. You stood up and brushed off your red kneecaps and tip-toed to the door, closing it as softly as you could. Yoongi needed to sleep his heart out.

Was it wrong to just leave? You stopped dead in your tracks when you realized that by the time he’d wake up, he would be starving. It wasn’t easy eating when you were sick, and Yoongi’s comment last week about him knowing what a month’s long diet of instant noodles and coffee looked like made you shudder in guilt. Gathering every single bit of patience and empathy you had left in the degrading bones of yours, you diverted yourself away from the exit and to the kitchen.

Single-dorms on the university campus were like miniature studio apartments. Usually reserved for students on an as-needed basis, there were only six or seven in total. So far, Yoongi was the only other person you had met who occupied one. You hated to admit it, but he was probably the only other person you had talked to and gotten to know this much in all your years of attending the school. Would you dare go as far as to say he was your only friend?

You quickly shook off the thought and went back to digging around his kitchen. His fridge and cupboard inventory didn’t come as much of a shock to you. It was, for lack of a better word, horrendous.

The small refrigerator was practically empty, and the only things occupying the near-empty shelves were a couple apples, a half-dozen pack of eggs, a measly portion of fruit salad (probably from the mini-mart down the street), a package of mixed and chopped vegetables for soups and stews, one styrofoam takeout box, and a suspicious looking tin-foil boat.

Don’t even mention the side compartments. Those were reserved for a few energy drinks, half-opened caffeine shots, packets of takeout condiments, a full-sized bottle of ketchup, a block of cheddar cheese, and a torn open foil pack of butter. Quirking the edge of your lip into a dumbfounded pucker, your face relaxed into one of comedic amusement. How could anyone live off of this—garbage? You couldn’t even bring yourself to say the word “food.” That would be offensive to the existence of food itself.

His freezer was completely empty, so moving onto the cupboards was either going to be a big mistake or a happy accident. You prayed deep down it was the latter. Then again, you also could not have been more wrong.

The cupboards weren’t any better. If anything, they were worse. The grey-painted plastic backboards were the only things visible, usually a sign that a student had just moved in days ago. In one corner of the lowest shelf was an almost-empty box of granola bars; the shitty 99 cent ones every seasoned uni student stocked up on in bulk before the semester started. Beside it was a newly opened bag of rice. At least that was the one food item in this crapshoot that seemed remotely new.

The rest of the shelves held two worn-out, rusty frying pans, and chipped glass china. Those were probably hand-me-downs from senior students who couldn’t be bothered to throw their old belongings away after graduation. There was a whole recycling bin full of them in the storage shed by the cafeteria

You bit your lip, trying to think of what to make with what little you were given. Omelet? Boring. Soup? Painfully more boring. Curious, you unwrapped the mysterious bundle of tin-foil and discovered a very fresh marbled flank of beef. Cheering internally, you set to work on your favorite childhood dish that you were most confident in cooking: fried rice.

You were more than willing to buy him another pack of meat. Hell, after the shock of seeing his fridge? You were more than willing to buy his groceries for a whole damn month if it meant he would take care of himself. Your grandparents always sent you too much money at once anyway. It wasn’t as if you had friends to go out and drink with, so paying for dinners wasn’t a usual activity you took part in.

You started off by washing the rice and setting it up on the stovetop to boil. It would take the longest to prepare, so it was only natural to get that out of the way first. Next came the simple process of chopping up the meat, cooking it thoroughly, combining the packet of pre-cut vegetables, and then mixing in the rice last. On any other given day, you would have seasoned the meat with at least a pinch of pepper, but you didn’t exactly have that option considering the given circumstances.

It didn’t take long since the limited and pre-measured ingredients boxed you in along the way. Plating the rice onto the only dish deep enough that Yoongi had available, you used the same pan to quickly fry up two eggs. The smell of steaming hot food made your stomach grumble in response.

Not to stroke your ego or anything, but you enjoyed patting yourself on the back for your accomplishments every now and then, no matter how small. Self-assurance was good for the old pessimistic soul.

You tried to think of any other thing you could add to the meal and ogled the table when you nearly forgot. Shuffling back to the fridge, you cut up half an apple and arranged the slices into the plastic mini-mart bowl of fruit salad. Then, you eagerly jumped towards the bottle of ketchup and shook it vigorously with arms that were already starting to feel sore from lugging around Yoongi earlier.

Drizzling the condiment over the golden heap of steaming rice, the red zig-zag streams finished off the orange and green vegetables quite nicely. You covered it with the only other dish Yoongi had in his cupboard and hoped it would still be warm by the time he woke up. Sighing in satisfaction as well as exhaustion, you didn’t pause to check the time.

“Shit...” you muttered. The sky was already pitch black, meaning that it was well past 9. You facepalmed. How long had you been here? Mind you, you also completely forgot that you still had an essay due next week. Do you know how much easier life would be if your laptop grew its own set of hands and just wrote it for you?

If you checked up on Yoongi before leaving, you had a feeling he would wake up the minute the doorknob clicked, so you thought it was best just to let him rest. Sneaking out of a dorm for the first time in your life, the door creaked ever-so-slightly before latching shut as Yoongi and his dorm returned to their all-too-familiar state of vacancy.

Getting up the next morning was certainly an interesting process, to say the least. You sat in your tangled mess of bedsheets for about ten minutes before coming to the realization that yesterday was everything but a dream. It hit you like a bucket of cold water that had just been dumped over your head.

Throughout the entire day, you hobbled through your classes with hunched shoulders and a rounded back, feeling a constant strain in your upper body each time you tried to straighten out. “Working out” was a mistake.

As the deadline for the performance was almost at the two-month mark, you grew more and more anxious with each passing day. It wasn’t anything special. You always had a healthy amount of anxiety revolving around academia but your performance nerves were on a completely different level.

Humming to piece to yourself, your phone buzzed from your pocket as the blaring of your ringtone sounded. Your parents didn’t call you during the weekdays and you couldn’t think of anyone else who had your phone number. “Perks of having no friends,” you thought. Fishing it out of your coat pocket, your eyes widened when Yoongi’s name flashed across the screen.

Your fingers swiped across the green icon absentmindedly, accepting the call with little hesitation. “Hello?” Didn’t he usually prefer to text you rather than call?

“Hey,” he replied. He sounded a lot better than yesterday but his throaty tone made it clear that traces of his cold still remained. “Are you free?”

You hiccuped. “Wh–yeah. Yeah, I’m free.” Of course, he knew you were free. It was a trick question. After following you around and trying to catch your tail, he had familiarized himself with your schedule, just as you had done a few weeks prior. “Do you want to book a practice room?”

A sniffle suddenly sounded from behind you and echoed in the receiver, making goosebumps sprawl across your neck. Not a millisecond after, the line clicked dead. Rip it off like a band-aid or peel it off slowly and painstakingly? Opting for the former, you closed your eyes tightly and mouthed a silent swear, turning around in slow motion like something out of an action film.

Low and behold, there was Yoongi shifting his weight back and forth on his heels. “I was actually wondering if you wanted to go on a—” he paused to rub the back of his neck; he only did that when he was nervous. “On a hike?”

“A hike?” The word felt foreign in your mouth. As far as you were concerned, yesterday’s fiasco was enough physical activity to last you for the rest of the year, but Yoongi wanted to go on a hike? “Aren’t you still sick?”

He shrugged. “A little cardio might help me burn it off and do me some good.”

“You’re not plotting my murder, are you?” you gulped. Why was that always the first logical explanation that presented itself in your head?

Blinking at you for a moment, he chuckled and shook his head at your comment. “Not unless it's by physical activity. And it’s only up to the viewpoint. You’ve sprinted to classes farther than that.”

He had a point. The school was built atop a hillside and the viewpoint was, as its name entailed, a spot where you could look over the entire campus. It was about a five-minute walk outside of the gates and the climb wasn’t too steep. It certainly beat running a whole campus-length to each of your classes.

“What about practice?” you sputtered, tongue weighing down your mouth like an ankle weight. “We haven’t gone over the piece in weeks.”

Throwing his arm over your sore shoulders and bringing you close to him, he sighed. “Learn to live a little, _____. We still have two more months. A walk might clear your head.” Since when was Yoongi the voice of reason?

You allowed him to walk a few steps ahead of you and ducked under his arm swiftly when you got the chance, freeing yourself from his hold. The concept of space bubbles around Yoongi had grown dangerously close to popping now.

“Okay,” you cleared your throat. “Fine, fine, let’s go.” Picking up your pace, he trailed behind you with an amused smirk.

Was it the cough medicine making him loopy or was he just particularly charming today?

“Min Yoongi, yo–I swear to God—” You couldn’t even finish your sentence before collapsing onto the grass like a sack of potatoes. “If I ever get the strength back in my legs, I am going to smother you with a pillow,” panting between each word.

By the time you made it up to the top of the hill, the sun was already set, making vivid orange and dusty pink colors streak across the darkened sky. The air was colder up here than back down on the campus level but you tried your best to hide your discomfort whenever your hands throbbed from the cold.

Yoongi laughed as his eyes crinkled and his pearly white teeth showed in a gummy smile. “Good luck with that,” he chuckled. Making himself comfortable and sitting down beside your limp body, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, breathing in deeply. The walk actually did in fact, miraculously clear up his stuffy sinuses. Wonderful.

Sitting up, you tried to rub your hands as discreetly as possible so as to not make him worry but failed when cracking of a few knuckles caused him to snap his gaze to you. He unzipped his jacket and flung off his hood and you immediately stopped him.

“Nope,” you retaliated quickly. “No. Put it back on. Don’t even think about doing anything textbook cliché or I’ll roll you down the hill like a Lincoln log.”

Raising his eyebrows slightly at your distaste and choice of a non-threatening threat, he shrugged his jacket back on with a quizzical pout. “Don’t you have a pair of mittens or something?”

You grumbled a no in response, embarrassed that even he was aware of how ridiculous it was. A calming silence cast over both of you, the only sound coming from a few crickets chirping and the murmuring city far below. Your teeth started to chatter a couple minutes in, making genuine concern spread across Yoongi’s face.

“Come here,” he sighed, gesturing to his open arms. Widening your eyes, you raised your hands assuringly.

“I’m fine,” you chuckled nervously. “I just have really bad circulation, that’s all.” It wasn’t a total lie. You really did have awful circulation and it constantly made your hands and feet cold. Not a day went by when you didn’t wear socks and a thick wooly sweater around your room.

“Do you want to get sick too?” he asked with a bite in his voice, almost as if your stubbornness was beginning to get the best of him as well. “We’ve done worse things with fewer clothes on anyway...”

“Hey!” You jabbed his side. Narrowing your eyes at him in a silent message that he had won this round, you scooted over beside him as he wrapped his arms around your frame. It never ceased to amaze you how no matter the situation, whether it was his hands around yours or his arms around your body, you seemed to fit perfectly in his hold like a matching puzzle piece.

Nestling yourself into his warm figure, you felt yourself relax into his touch. It would be a sin to deny that he had an unexplainable effect on you. The softness of his jacket, the heat radiating from his body, and his natural scent lulled you into a dazed state, too relaxed to even care about boundaries anymore.

“Can we talk about it now?” he whispered, voice coming out muffled because his cheek was squished on the top of your head like a child’s.

Fluttering your eyelashes open at his sudden request, you swallowed tensely. How did you not see this coming? You pulled away to get a proper glimpse of his face. “What is there to talk about, Yoongi?”

“Don’t say my name like that,” he cut off abruptly. Had you already ticked him off? Giving him a look of confusion, he shook his head and looked down. “Don’t say my name like you pity knowing me...”

“Yoongi,” you exhaled faintly. He didn’t interrupt you this time. “I don’t understand what you want to talk about. We got angry at each other, we fought, and we made a mistake. That’s all.” Forcing out the last phrase felt like swallowing a jagged blade. You hated admitting it because of how untrue it was.

“It didn’t feel like a mistake to me, _____.” His face remained firm as he used your name, speaking with an unflinching air of confidence and assuredness that only he could muster.

It was your turn to shake your head and scoff. “What do you want me to say? That it was amazing? Because it was. It was amazing, okay? Everything felt so fucking perfect and I hate admitting it—” Pausing to breathe, you groaned and tangled your fingers through your hair at the sudden outpour of emotions you’d kept bottled inside of you for weeks.

"Because feeling that good and happy for once scared the shit out of you, didn’t it?” he finished for you. Looking up at him, his gaze remained glued onto you, completely unfazed at your expected outburst.

The question that made your heart race like the beating of a butterfly’s wings suddenly presented itself on a silver platter.

“How did you know about my RA?” Your throat went dry as the words felt like chalk on your tongue. Had he told Powell yet?

Leaning his head to one side, his jaw muscles tensed. “It doesn’t take a doctor to see that you're in pain outside of class.” He said it with a tone of dripping bluntness. “Not to mention how sensitive you are to the temperature changes; how you always rub your hands when it’s cloudy outside because it’s cold; even after playing a long piece because your fingers start to ache, and how abnormally swollen your joints get after a long day.”

Your eyebrows furrowed into a dumbfounded frown. How did he know all of that? You weren’t even remotely aware of the fact that he was cognizant of your existence, much less your usual habits and mannerisms. “How do you notice all of that?”

Yoongi's jaw muscle tensed but he didn’t respond.

Licking your lips nervously, another equally anxiety-inducing question made its way to the tip of your tongue. Moving your hands down to his sleeved arm, Yoongi’s breath hitched in his throat when you looked at him softly, silently asking for his permission. His tongue darted out to lick his lips, hesitant for a brief second, before tipping his chin down once.

Your fingertips lightly brushed across the smooth skin of the top of his hand before grasping the edge of the sleeve cuff. Sliding it up slowly, the scars that were hidden became exposed, the milky tone of his skin contrasting with the rough and darkened scratches that were scattered across the entire length of his arm.

“Gnarly, isn’t it?” He let out a nasal scoff. These were the only battle scars he was sure he would never flaunt in all their glory. The pads of your fingers carefully brushed over the delicate skin, studying the textured pattern like an ancient relic; one that would leave an impression in the mind for all the wrong reasons.

“What happened afterward?” Your voice was cautious, coming out just shy of a whisper. Would he trust you enough with this?

Yoongi’s jaw clenched again. Before he could say anything, you slid his sleeve back down over his arm and instinctively held his hand for support. Gripping yours back in response, he took a deep breath to compose his thoughts before speaking. It was now or never.

“Powell found me. Whether it was because of fate or some bullshit theory of the universe, I don’t know, but he rushed me to the hospital and stayed with me for the entire week in the recovery unit.” A cold gust of wind blew and he was the one who held your hand tighter. “I didn’t tell my parents of course,” he chuckled dryly.

“They never supported me in music until the day I got my scholarship here. Before that, they practically forced me away from anything having to do with music. ‘You’ll die starving and poor; you won’t have a proper job; and when you’re on the streets, homeless and begging for money, we won’t be here to help you. Just to tell you, We told you so.’ If I told them, I knew they’d force me to move back in with them and take on the family trade; scrubbing pots and serving drinks for drunkard business mongrels until 3 a.m.”

Yoongi’s Adam’s apple bobbed at the memory but his eyes remained centered. “I took a semester off to recover and decided that it was probably best for me to just drop out since I couldn’t play anymore. PT was a crapshoot. There was nothing left here for me.” His eyes glazed over momentarily but returned in a split second. Did physical therapy really not work? Had he even tried a single session?

“Then Powell spent the entire semester practically begging on his knees to try and convince me to switch majors to composition and theory instead,” he grinned faintly, even letting out a ghost of a chuckle. “It took a month or two, but I figured I owed him that much. The old man practically raised me like his own son ever since freshman year.”

He turned to face you, gaze landing on your intense ones with a soft smile as his thumb rubbed over your hand. “Everyone thought I got sucked into the party scene, failed all of my classes. I think some of those idiots assumed I got hazed into a gang or a cult. Like those morons knew anything about me...”

You bit your lip. People were truly the worst. Not to mention immature, gossip-mongering, feeble-minded pre-burnout college pricks.

“The hospital seemed like heaven compared to the hell I stepped into when I got back. I was like an animated corpse. I rarely ate, couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t even bother going to classes. I’d just sit my bed all day and stare at the ceiling like a rock. I was too afraid to sleep because every time I did, I’d have nightmares about it.”

He frowned at the pang of contrition that struck him. “The headlights centimeters away from my face and blinding my eyes, the sirens ringing in my ears, the creaking metal wheels on the gurney...” Shaking his head, tears flung off his face and a droplet landed on the top of your hand.

Your eyes fell to the grass at you held back your own budding tears. No matter how badly you wanted to scream that it was all over and in the past and that you were there for him, all you could do was sit and listen.

“Everything just felt so fucking empty…” he whispered, tugging hard at the edge of his lower lip between his teeth. “That night with you in the practice room was the first good night’s sleep I’ve gotten in two years.” The confession took you by surprise, your eyes lighting up like a spark from a firework.

His eyes softened at your reaction. “When I got rolled into the ER, a nurse was rushing down the hall with me, holding my hand the entire way. I was busy blacking in and out of consciousness.” He stopped to grab your hand and bring it to cup his cheek, closing his eyes instantly at the contact-comfort. “But she had her hand by me the entire time until I completely knocked out in the operating room.”

Stroking your thumb over the sleep-deprived hollow that sunk in under his eye, his eyebrows knitted together and he clutched your hand tighter, afraid that if he let go, you’d dissipate like a figment of his imagination that was too good to be true. That’s why he wouldn’t fall asleep yesterday...

“It was dangling there like bait in right in front of me; taunting me, insulting me, mocking me like I was nothing—like the universe was reminding me that I was never going to be able to love anything else ever again and that I’d just have to live with it,” he continued with his face strained, expression taut as he tried to focus despite reliving the painful set of memories.

He hadn’t bothered touching a piano since that night, refusing to accept the fate he’d have to gamble in anticipation of finding out whether he still had the ability to play or not. In reality, he didn’t know whether he could still coordinate his muscles—and he had absolutely no desire to find out any time soon.

Yoongi let out a huff through his parted mouth. “Do you know how easy it is for people—things—to come into your life, give you everything that you would ever want and could possibly ask for, and then have them take it away just like that?” Seeing his breath through the frigid air, you had a feeling it wasn’t the weather making his words sound cold, but the emptiness and distance he had created within himself.

Gnawing on the corner of your lower lip, you kept your gaze focused down at your hands. It wasn’t supposed to be this difficult. Somehow, you finally found the courage to speak. “Is that why you hated me?” you asked in the barest of a whisper, your voice quieter than the rustling of the leaves on the trees. “Because you felt like I took that away from you?”

“No,” he replied instantly. Fluttering your eyelids at his unexpected and confident response, you frowned at him, confused.

“I never hated you—didn’t—hate you because you played the piano,” he shook his head, eyes directed to the ground wistfully. “I was jealous.”

Your gaze softened at the confession as you swallowed nervously, awaiting his next words. “You looked so happy,” he smiled, letting out a chuckle that was too full of melancholy. “I knew from the first moment I saw you playing by yourself in the studio...” Yoongi’s voice trailed off, face melting into an expression you couldn’t read.

Staring into his eyes, you silently pleaded him to continue. The corners of his mouth lifted into a gentle smile as his pearly white teeth barely peeked through his lips. “From the moment I saw you on my first day back, I knew I was screwed,” he grinned. “I wanted to hate you so badly but you were so perfect, how could I?”

A rosy flush crept onto your face at his heartfelt words. “You were alone in the studio two hours before any classes started and you were just playing your heart out,” Yoongi remembered the day clearly, the vivid details of the first time he encountered resurfacing like the fresh morning air after a rainstorm. The way his heart raced in his chest made it seem like it had just happened yesterday.

“I thought you were some competition kid who got a free pass into school because of personal connections or an arranged acceptance, but I just heard you playing and—” he chuckled, shaking his head again.

“You weren’t just reading notes and playing the piece like a robot; you were breathing the music and I could feel it.” Yoongi’s fingers stroked the palm of your hand. “I could feel you. In every single piece I’ve ever heard you play: Campanella, Liebestraum, Fantaisie, Moonlight Sonata...”

Your pulse was racing like the engine of a sports car. Judging by how confidently he listed down the pieces, he knew each of those pieces by heart, recalling each exact moment when you had played the melodies like a page out of the book of his recollections. Campanella was the piece you’d chosen for your junior year exam, Liebestraum your senior, Fantaisie was simply one you practiced for fun, and Moonlight Sonata was the piece Powell had asked you to play for an exhibition recently.

“I tried so hard to avoid you and hate you and completely despise your existence,” he scoffed at himself. “You glowed brighter than the stars when you played. Seeing it from you made it hurt so much more because I missed that feeling more than anything,” he paused. “But I couldn’t. I was already in too deep, so I just ignored you.”

For the first time, a lengthy and comfortable silence befell the two of you.

“I didn’t know what who I wanted to be until I started college,” you admitted suddenly, confidence stemming from the seed Yoongi had planted with his truth.

“My mom taught me how to play the piano when I was four. She’d put me in her lap while she played and let me press the keys.” You chuckled at the flashback. “I didn’t think much of it until I fell entirely in love with it in middle school. It was this weird need, this urge to play whenever I was happy, angry, sad, annoyed, and frustrated. I felt like it was the only friend who understood me better than the actual people I knew.”

Yoongi gave you an understanding smile, sympathizing with your logic by the nature of personal experience.

“In high school, everyone thought I was the one who had my whole life plotted out like a map: a loving family, supportive parents, good grades.” A ghost of a smile grazed your face at the distant memory. It felt so close and yet so far like you could reach out and touch it, yet it was a fingertip’s length from being torn away from you.

“During senior year, I found out that I really didn’t have a passion for anything. Not even for music—at the time,” you filled in. “I shut everyone out with these gates I built. I hated how lonely I was, but who else could I blame? I didn’t want people to see me for who I thought I was: a passionless, unmotivated, lazy, worthless failure who would never amount to anything.”

Shaking your head, tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision, yet refused to cry over something as stupid and insignificant as this. Seeing this, Yoongi simply laced his fingers through yours firmly, wordlessly showing his support for your endurance.

“I auditioned for fun one day after seeing the posters stapled across our school’s bulletin board. Didn’t expect much at the time since I didn’t think you could do anything with a degree in music, and in the beginning, I actually thought I was right,” you laughed wryly at yourself.

“Undergrad was pretty awful. Playing as a student with a major was so much different than playing for fun. I was so stressed with deadlines and projects and practice hours, I almost forgot why I started playing in the first place.” Your mind wandered back to the long, sleepless nights you spent in the studios trying to perfect what would never even come close to the synonym of perfection.

“Then in my sophomore year, I got to take more classes with Powell and he completely changed my life. I wish I was exaggerating, but he really did change who I was as a person, not just a dazed university student. I don’t think I’d still be here without him.”

Your lips formed into a tender smile. “I started getting my passion for playing back and I learned to appreciate the value of my scholarship. I guess now, I’m just hanging in the middle.” Yoongi’s eyes studied your features intently, concentration remaining unswayed for the entirety of your release of emotions.

A couple moments skimmed by before you resumed speaking.

“I like spending time at coffee shops, taking the bus to the bookstore when I have free time, and sometimes I even make an effort to actually greet some of the people there—but I like being alone,” you admitted. Yoongi’s ears perked up at your last phrase.

“I like doing things by myself and being able to have control over everything in my life so that I don’t have anyone to blame other than me when shit goes downhill,” you rambled, swallowing your words while you spoke like bitter medicine. Yoongi’s smoldering gaze, as it lay on you, was intense enough to start forest fires.

You sighed heavily. “But frankly, I don’t like being lonely.” The confession bled past your lips like spilled ink from a bottle, leaving a splattered and stained trail as it seeped through your mind.

“No one does,” he responded honestly. Directing your watery eyes to his softened gaze, you looked down at the pair of your hands entwined together.

What was this in his eyes?

Who were you to him?

Yoongi, on the other hand, didn’t waste a single second before cupping the sides of your face and bringing you into a kiss. The force took you by surprise and made you land on your back with a soft thud, causing you to burst into a fit of laughter against his lips.

It didn’t take you longer than a couple of flashes in your brain synapses to give into his magnetizing touch. Making out on a hilltop in front of the city lights never crossed the line of sounding appealing other than outside of a cheesy rom-com, but Yoongi’s warm lips preoccupied every train of logical thought that ran cross your mind. God, what was he doing to you?

You’d slept with him once and you still managed to get butterflies like a giddy teenager who was in their first relationship; immature and blind with infatuation. You tangled your hands through his hair like second nature as his weight pressed on top of you, making you feel secure under him. The kiss was tender and patient—a stark contrast to the last time you had locked lips with him.

“Can I be alone with you?” he asked suddenly, breath fanning across your lips because he refused to pull away farther than three centimeters from you.

You laughed heartily, making him flash his pearly whites and peeking pink gums again. “Is this your dumb way of asking me out?” Smiling widely in response, his lips connected with yours again, effectively shutting you up.

“I don’t want to pretend like I don’t have feelings for you anymore, _____,” he murmured into your ear. “Do you know how hard it’s been having to act like I hate your guts for the past three years when I can’t stop thinking about you on a regular basis?”

Another awfully timed blush graced the tops of your cheeks. You shoved his shoulder playfully at his seemingly sarcastic yet sincere compliment. “Stop being such a softie, it’s gross.” Yoongi pouted, feigning hurt at your teasing comment. His childish face made you burst into laughter, vibrant and full of life. You’d swear on your life that he had a million personalities buried deep underneath that facade of a stone-cold gargoyle.

Biting your lip, you shook your head, picking at the grass to distract yourself. “What if I’m sleeping and this is all some dream that’s way too good to be true?” you mumbled. How did you go from avoiding each other like water and oil to melding perfectly like paper and ink?

“Then it’d be your dream and my nightmare...” he murmured, keeping his forehead pressed against yours as his lips remained centimeters away from contact.

You laughed shyly, shoving him away teasingly at his admirably honest nature. “So three years, huh?”

Again, Yoongi chose not to respond, allowing you to take note of yet another one of his habits: refusing to answer a question he knew he was guilty of.

You only had one shitty, wonderful, stressful, joyous, short life. Might as well make it worth living with what you were given.

As you gazed deeply into the dark eyes that belonged to the person who you once thought hated your very being, you realized that you were entirely and utterly screwed—because you were completely captivated by each other.

The best part? You had a million more reasons to discover exactly why.

Relationships were never you or Yoongi’s thing. Whereas the typical couple would spend hours at a time arguing over stupid things, trying to work it out but only tearing their hair out in clumps and eventually breaking up, you never saw the point in arguing in general. If you argued with your partner, you would request to break up. Simple. Clean. Painless. Well, at least for one.

It was a really black and white way of seeing the complex web that composed a relationship, but to you, it was just blatantly obvious. Some called you cold but that was just another opinion.

Why argue if you’re “in love” with each other? Why fight if you’re “in love” with each other? Why hurt the person you love if you can choose not to be with them and let them be happy? Holding onto people for the sake of a quote on quote, “relationship” despite hurting each other was selfish and pointless.

To you, that wasn’t love. It was self-sabotage.

“You okay?” Yoongi’s voice peeped from above you, mumbling into your hair.

“Hm?” you hummed, snapping out of your daze. He chuckled deeply at your deeply unwavering expression, pressing a kiss to the top of your head tenderly. You were currently tangled in the sheets of his bed after waking up from a nap. Today marked the first week of your official relationship and you had to admit, it was pretty nice.

Okay, nice was an understatement. It was perfect.

You had yet to get into an argument, as both of you had quite passive and anti-argumentative personalities. Then again, you were still technically in the honeymoon phase of your relationship, so it was bound to pop up at some point.

Your days together were few and far between spending time in the studio practicing, sleeping over at his dorm (courtesy of his ever-so diligently working resident advisor), walking each other to class, texting and video calling for hours until one of you fell asleep, and occasionally going up to the viewpoint when the weather conditions proved to be favorable—and you had chugged four cups of coffee.

It was like something of a fairytale, and you were always worried that you’d wake up one day to find out that it was just that: a false reality you had conjured up in your own head. But if it was a dream, it was one you never wanted to wake up from.

“Hold still,” you scolded for the tenth time.

Yoongi grumbled. “I’m trying, but it’s hard when you’re tickling my neck.”

Huffing at his fidgety muscles, you blew a hair out of your face and kept your hands busy. “It wasn’t my idea to dye your hair, dummy.” He hummed an off-beat tune in response to your incessant scolds.

In the early hours of the morning, you had gotten a text from your loving and selfless boyfriend that he needed to save a few bucks and needed to touch up his hair. You, being the only other person he spoke in the whole universe (practically), so graciously agreed. It was about five minutes into the hands-on activity that you were beginning to regret your generous and giving disposition.

Thankfully, you didn’t have to deal with the fumes of bleach as Yoongi had opted to dye his hair back to his natural dark brown color. He mentioned something about his growing lazy temperament and it becoming too time-consuming to continuously touch up the dark roots every few weeks. It wasn’t exactly the best for his hair either, the blonde ends breaking off due to the harsh chemicals and his inability to spare the extra five minutes to use conditioner.

“Then why did you dye it in the first place?” you laughed, dumbfounded at his odd reasoning.

Mumbling something in an inaudible hush, you shot him a confused glance. "I was going through a phase...” he said clearer this time, tucking his chin down in shame.

Lifting your eyebrows, you nodded, accepting his answer and sensing that he wasn’t going to elaborate any time soon. “You know, you could just let it grow out and style it like that, grown out roots and everything” you offered. “I’ve seen a few celebrities who pull it off pretty well.”

“Eh,” he let out a disgruntled sound, crinkling one of his eyes.

You snorted through your nose from holding in your laugh, making him flinch as your breath tickled his sensitive neck again. “Sorry,” you giggled. Continuing brushing the pitch-black gel over his roots, you were trying to be careful and not let it get on his skin. As far as your experience in hair dye went, the stains would wash out easily with some warm water and soap, but you didn’t enjoy the extensive process of cleanup it would lead to.

“Does it bother you?” you asked, referring to the color differentiation of dark roots to beige blonde hair during the grow-out process.

Thinking over it for a minute, Yoongi pouted and gave into his perfectionist attitude as he clicked his tongue with a “yup.” Holding back a grin at his undeniably soft personality, you couldn’t believe that you still hadn’t woken up yet. You intentionally blew a puff of air in his ear, causing him to jolt from his seat.

“Hey!” he was the one to scold this time.

“My advisor is going to kill me.”

“If you die, I’ll kill you.”

Scrunching your nose at his menacing threat that made absolutely no sense, he let out a sleepy grumble, nestling his head into your hair and inhaling your scent.

“Just because your advisor is shit at his job, doesn’t mean that mine doesn't notice when I’m gone,” you pointed out.

Yoongi mumbled lazily into your hair in the hopes that you’d drop the topic and go to sleep. It was an idle Friday night and the two of you had spent the entire day at the studio practicing the piece. Since you only had classes from Mondays to Thursdays, you got into a routine of meeting up and spending the whole free day in the studios.

The last day of the week was what Yoongi looked forward to more than anything because it usually ended with you burying yourselves in his bed sheets with a random episode of The Office playing on your laptop and falling asleep tangled in each other.

“Yoongi,” you groaned. “What if I get in trouble?”

He hummed something inaudible into your chest once again, tickling your collarbone with his whispers. No way were you letting him fall asleep that easily. It was only fifteen minutes past 8.

“Hey, sleepyhead.” Poking his shoulder playfully, his mouth was still closed, indicating that he was indeed fully awake. He always parted his mouth slightly when he was asleep, another habit you picked up early on the way before your relationship started.

Then an idea struck you. There was that favor you needed to repay him for...

Prying your body away from his arms gently, you bit your lip coyly, smirking at his clueless sleeping body. Your hand trailed down to the band of his sweatpants slowly, making him gulp. Running your fingers along the bundle of fabric near his hipbone, you were surprised when your hand met his already-hard length.

Yoongi’s eyes were now fully open as you shot him a questioning gaze. “Your fault for being so goddamn attractive all the time...” he defended, jutting his lower lip into a pout and not bothering to hide his blatantly obvious hard-on.

Dropping your mouth in a mock offended gape, you raised your eyebrows as a chuckle of disbelief came out. “I haven’t even touched you yet!”

“I get hard just thinking about you,” he admitted all-too casually. Smacking him on the shoulder from embarrassment, you shook your head and couldn’t help but bury your face in his chest.

“It amazes me the same Min Yoongi who despised me a few months ago would turn out to be the softest cheeseball I know,” you scoffed.

Kissing your nose, he wrapped his arms around you and turned onto his back, rolling you on top of him. The change of angle made you immediately feel his hardness pressing under you. You rested your chin on his chest innocently, rolling the piling lint on his shirt between your fingers.

Yoongi’s eyes started drifting off again, too tired to keep the ball rolling, but not before giving you another idea. Keeping your chin resting atop his chest, you began rolling your hips slowly against his, making him suddenly choke while exhaling.

Lifting his head to look down at your seductive grin, you batted your eyelashes sweetly, feigning innocence as you continued grinding your hips over the growing tent in his pants.

“_____,” he whined, rubbing his tired eyes. “You know there’s nothing or anyone I’d rather be doing right now, but I’m a little sleepy.” Pressing a swift kiss to his lips, you ignored his excuses and slid down to pull down his sweats.

“Who said you had to do anything?” Your voice was too cocky for your own good and Yoongi was, as he had mentioned, too tired to even sit up and watch what you were doing. You had all of him to yourself and at your mercy.

Snapping the band of his boxers against his skin, Yoongi let out another soft whine as he started growing more impatient and harder with your teasing pace. His clothed member was straining against the tight cotton of his briefs and made you lick your lips in anticipation.

You palmed him through the thin fabric, drawing out teasing him for as long as possible to make his pleasure greater in the long run, but it forced another throaty growl out of his mouth. His gruff tone made wetness pool immediately between the junction of your thighs.

Unable to handle your own slow pace for much longer, you yanked down his briefs in one swift tug as his length immediately sprung out against his toned stomach. It was just as perfect as you had remembered.

You were seconds away from biting your lip to the point of breaking the skin. Wrapping your hand around his hardness like a magnet, it throbbed underneath your fingers, already oozing precum from the red and swollen tip. Each time you pumped up and down his length, it caused a bead to well up and pool around his slit. Fuck—how was he was so perfect?

“_____,” he moaned through a strangled whine. Watching his face with every precise stroke, Yoongi’s face flushed bright pink as he clenched his jaw and rubbed his forehead in frustration. Words of encouragement weren’t needed to put an end to your teasing; your own blooming arousal took care of that.

Gnawing on your lower lip, you couldn’t hold back your desire anymore as your tongue darted out to lick a slow line along his tip, grazing the dimple of his sensitive slit with the flat edge of your tongue. He arched his back off of the bed instantly and almost came with a single touch.

Unable to talk and already breathless from the contact he had been waiting for since that night, you peppered kisses down his thick member and licked a stripe on the prominent vein beside his tip, causing him to jolt again. Your core throbbed seeing him in such a vulnerable state, while Yoongi knew that at that exact moment, he belonged to you, and only you.

Finally wrapping your lips around his head, your tongue smoothed over his cock, sucking with just the right amount of pressure to keep his nails digging into the mattress. Swirling your tongue around the tip tantalizingly slowly, you guided his hands into your hair, directing him silently to tug your tresses.

Obeying instantly with a moan, lewd sounds began filling the room as you began bobbing up and down mercilessly, varying your speed and pressure occasionally to keep him on edge. You even went as far as to grasp him with your hand and drag his tip across your slick and swollen lips which earned you another deep moan from him.

“Fucking hell,” he moaned, throat raspy and rough from holding back his cries of pleasure. Pausing your unholy administrations, you gave your jaw a break by gripping his base tightly with one hand and swirling your tongue around the index finger of your free hand. He craned his head back in an overload of pleasure as you used it to rub over his slit, toying with his red tip.

Everyone had a different piece of advice regarding giving head. Some said you needed to focus on the tip; others said that the balls were highly disregarded; a few said that the spot where the head met the length was the most sensitive. All in all, it really depended on the person, and to be quite honest, you weren’t that experienced.

Yoongi was an exception, as both of you had learned your respective kinks out of genuine interest and desire for mutual pleasure, not as a nagging chore or contract payback.

Not to mention the first time you’d slept with each other was—enlightening.

“Fuck, _____,” he growled, moving your hair out of your face to gaze into your eyes. “How are you so fucking perfect?” Huh—even when he was blissed out, he was still the romantic type.

You broke your character of confidence as a shy grin escaped. Wrapping your mouth around him again, he let out a grunt and threw his head back onto the bed. The sloppy, obscene sounds returned once you repeated your actions, his knuckles moving out of your hair to grip the bed sheets for fear of hurting you. His fists were clenched so hard, his knuckles were white.

Yoongi’s body grew warm, a sheen of sweat formed on his forehead, and he began pulsating in your mouth more frequently; he was close. Closing your hand around his throbbing length, you gripped him firmly and coordinated your pumps with your mouth, making him throw his head back in pure ecstasy.

His hands found their way back to your hair, trying to pull you away as a warning that he would cum soon, but you swatted them away. Grabbing your hands instead, he laced his fingers through yours in a death grip, heart pounding so hard that it nearly burst through his ribcage.

His pants grew increasingly urgent and his moans were primal. He found his release with the cry of your name as his cock shot hot spurts of cum into your throat and on your readily cupped tongue. The sensation of him throbbing in your mouth as his breathing calmed down was such a powerful feeling, and add to it the pleasure of seeing him writhe in pleasure beneath your fingertips?

It sounded like a recipe for a perfect Friday night in both you and Yoongi’s books.

Sucking his remaining release off of his softening length, you savored the satisfying, salty taste like fine wine as it coated your tongue and throat. It felt so wrong but too right. You wiped off whatever you could from his spent cock, hating to waste anything. Once you were done, you tugged his boxers back on as Yoongi brought you into his hold and wasted no time kissing you deeply, exploring your mouth with his tongue.

Parting your mouth to calm your breathing, Yoongi’s eyes bore into yours with blown out pupils, still coming down from his high. “I didn’t know that’s what you meant by sleepyhead.” His euphoric chuckle reverberated like the baritone of a bass.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting to do that?” you moaned softly under your breath, licking the remnants of his release off of your index finger as you nestled into his side.

He gazed at you warmly as his mouth broke into a gummy smile and eyes into half-moons. “That’s supposed to be my line.”

Suddenly, a mischievous expression glassed over his features. You narrowed your eyes. “What is that face?” Smirking with a sinister gaze, Yoongi was now wide awake, giving you no time before flipping you onto your back and tickling your sides.

“Hey!” you giggled, trying to swat away his arms like flies. Without giving you a formal warning, he tugged down your shorts making you yelp in surprise when the cold air hit your dripping core.

Licking his lips in excitement and carnal instinct, he flashed a far too innocent grin at you before he delved in, unable to hold back his mundane hunger for another second.

It was going to be a long weekend.

Digging around the fridge, a bundle of asparagus landed in Yoongi’s hand as he caught it mid-air from falling. You were already crouched down and braced for impact, but unfurled your wound arms, taking a peek at the grinning figure above you.

“You okay there?” Yoongi’s eyes crinkled as he smiled, helping you up from your hunched position. Taking the bag from his hands, you beamed at him in response, turning back to the stovetop.

He sighed. “You really didn’t have to stock up my fridge, you know.” Sneaking a carrot off of your cutting board, he popped it into his mouth like a 12-year old badgering their mother in the kitchen. “The apocalypse isn’t until—” he snuck a glance at his imaginary watch, filling his cheeks with air and pursing his lips into a puffer-fish face pout. “—400 years from now.”

You rolled your eyes at his ever sarcastic jokes. “If the apocalypse doesn’t kill you, your diet of energy drinks and expired caffeine shots will,” you lectured.

Yoongi couldn’t help but smile warmheartedly. Not at your nurturing actions, but at you. He still felt like this was all a dream, too good to be true. Wrapping his arms around your waist, you fit into his larger frame like a lock and key as he nestled his head into the crook of your neck.

“What’s on the menu today?” he asked, voice producing ticklish vibrations just under the shell of your ear.

Turning to face him, you scrunched your nose. He wasn’t just a cheeseball—he was officially the biggest, softest, sweetest, weirdest, and most amazing person you had ever met. You never thought you’d say anything even remotely close to that in your entire life.

“Your favorite,” you answered in a sing-song voice.

The corners of his mouth turned up into a cheeky smirk you knew too well. His hands trailed down slowly to your hipbones, rubbing soothing circles into them out of habit. He licked over his bottom lip teasingly, all while keeping his eyes glued on you. Yours were focused on washing the rice.

“Yoongi,” you warned playfully, knowing his expressions like the back of your hand. You could feel his eyes drinking in your features, your very existence an oasis for him, a once deserted and desperate man. “Don’t even think about it.”

He pouted, jutting his lip out as his eyebrows furrowed into a dramatic scowl. “But I’m hungry!” he whined impishly into your hair.

“I’m making lunch,” you giggled. “Just wait.” Your eyes widened at the last word, emphasizing your point.

Trailing gentle pecks long your neck, he murmured softly into your ear. “Not for fried rice...”

Your hands froze in the midst of opening the bag of spinach.

“Yoongi!” you groaned.

Another Wednesday, another solitary four hours spent in the studio alone. After your classes were over, you texted Yoongi saying you needed a few hours alone to practice freely. Just because you were in a relationship didn’t mean you had to spend every waking moment with each other.

Besides, he and you were both aware of your respective personal space and private time you needed to spend doing your own things. Yoongi also mentioned that he needed to finish up a beat he was making for a friend, so it worked out well.

You walked out of the studio with a scarf wrapped around your neck, sheltering you from the biting wind that graced the campus grounds. Skipping down the stairs, you were greeted by the back of a person whom you had become very well-acquainted with.

Hearing the sound of your gleeful steps he had memorized down to the last click, he turned around—with a pair of to-go cups in his hands.

Your eyebrows raised up as your mouth broke into a mixture of an endeared laugh and astonished chuckle. Leaning down, he pecked you on the cheek, feeling his heart flutter at your effortless beauty.

“Was she even real?” he wondered.

“You didn’t have to,” you awed. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to get dinner anyway.”

Yoongi handed you the cup marked with the symbols you knew by heart: double-shot of espresso, a pump of mocha, a single packet of hazelnut creamer, and two packets of sugar.

“Your hands need to stay warm,” he insisted, rubbing over your hands that were now wrapped tightly around the cup.

Biting your lip, your cheeks were hurting from smiling so much at the simple but meaningful gesture. “Thank you,” you blushed sincerely, not just from the wave of emotions that washed over you but also from the cold.

Was he even real?

You nearly twisted your ankle trying to catch up to his speed-walking figure.

“Hey!” you shouted, panting heavily at how quick he was on his feet. Was he training for a marathon behind your back? “Yoongi! Hold–wait up! Slow down!”

No matter what you said, it didn’t seem to faze him as he continued walking. Hunching over and putting your hands on your bent knees to hold yourself up, you took a couple deep breaths before sprinting as fast as your burning legs could carry you.

“Min fucking Yoongi, if you don’t stop right now, I will—” You didn’t manage to finish your sentence before stumbling over a jagged crack in the pavement and falling with a gasp. The impact was abrupt, the shock not giving you a chance to let out a proper scream. Silent accidents were the ones that hurt the most.

Yoongi was by your side in the blink of an eye, almost tripping over the ditch himself when he ran back to you. “_____!” he shouted in pure panic. Well, that certainly broke his vow of silence...

Helping you get off of your stomach and sit up straight, he winced when he saw your forearm. The injury was nothing more than a wide scrape on the damp cement, but the rocky debris and dripping crimson trail made it appear all the more appealing for a Stephen King movie.

You cringed at the wound yourself, but more so at the stinging pain that began to spread over your elbow. Minor cuts and scratches were gifts sent from Satan himself. The thought of it getting infected made Yoongi pull out a pack of tissues from his bag as he pressed the bundle firmly over your wound. His face was still locked in an uncomfortable grimace.

“Let’s go back to my dorm. I have a first-aid kit,” he mumbled, helping you onto your feet and bending down on one knee. You raised your eyebrow at his odd position, only realizing a few seconds afterward that he was offering you a piggyback ride.

You let out a nasal scoff. “Yoongi, my legs are still perfectly mobile. Get up before you get your clothes wet.” You had enough to deal with his bitchy mood today and it certainly didn’t help that it had been raining a few hours prior to his temper tantrum.

He pressed his lips into a firm line, refusing to respond or get up from his crouched position. Was he messing around? After a minute of complete silence, you huffed, annoyed at his ridiculous and adamant form of an apology, and saddled onto his back.

Hooking his arms beneath your knees as you looped yours around his neck, you realized how much of a cheeky shit he truly was. Yes, he hated acknowledging it, but even he knew how ridiculous this argument and wanted to use the close proximity a piggyback would give to his advantage—even though the two of you were as stubborn as garden weeds.

“Are you going to talk to me now?” you asked, propping your chin comfortably on his shoulder like a perched bird as he began walking the two of you back to his dorm.

Sniffling once, he prodded the inside of his cheek in an effort to distract himself, too prideful to answer you right away.

“Yoongi...” you sighed faintly, saying his name the way you did whenever he tugged at your heartstrings. He exhaled harshly through his nose once before finally speaking.

“I don’t like how nice you are,” he said bluntly with an obviously sheepish tone of shame coating his voice. What?

“What?” you repeated out loud this time, unable to hold back your animated face of utter confusion.

When he didn’t reply, you tugged on his ears like you were scolding a child who’d just been caught licking dollops of icing straight from the piping bag. “Min Yoongi,” you called out half-threateningly.

He let out a whiny grumble, a sound that was a combination of a grumpy obese cat and worn out AC motor.

“I don’t like how nice you are to everyone,” he repeated. “Especially to guys.”

Your mouth was parted in an ‘o’ shape and your eyes were narrowed like an animated character’s. Was he—no way...

Your eyes widened to the size of the moon when he blushed. Oh my God. “You’re jealous?!” you screeched. He jumped at the volume of your voice. It was the first time he had ever heard you genuinely scream and he imagined it was what you would sound like if you were at a concert.

Were you a Liszt or Chopin person? Rachmaninoff? Maybe Beethoven? He nibbled on his lips to hide his grin. Why were you so cute?

“Earth to Yoongi?” you deadpanned, waving your hands in front of his face to get his attention. Snapping his eyes to you and blinking out of his daze, he returned to his stern expression. Tipping your head to one side, you stared at him with half-lidded eyes, tired of his antics.

No wonder relationships didn’t last long; human beings were naturally and wholeheartedly stubborn as fuck. Flaring your nostrils at his unyielding disposition, you clicked your tongue between your teeth, resorting to blatant, unfiltered honesty.

“Jungkook was just being helpful—and I was being polite.” Enunciating the word, Yoongi paid no attention to it, as it wasn’t one he had registered in his dictionary.

There it was. Yoongi’s breath caught in his throat at your ability to lay out your non-implicit thoughts onto the table. “You could’ve told me he was the idiot who told you where my dorm was when you were hauling me into my room that day.” He defended his reasoning, still unconvinced.

“I didn’t even know who he was until we met him today,” you groaned, repeating what you had said earlier for the fifth time. This was all so torturously textbook newly-blooming relationship bullcrap and was making your head pound in your skull.

Jungkook, the boy you’d seen that day when you dragged Yoongi down his dorm corridor and who had directed you to where his room was, recognized you during lunch today. Being the social butterfly and sweetheart he was, he found it in his best interest to introduce himself to you formally.

During the conversation, which lasted just short of a minute and a half, Yoongi’s glare was practically burning crater-sized holes into Jungkook’s face the entire time, imagining his face as target objects ranging from a checkered dartboard to a chipped wooden knife block.

He jutted his lower lip into his signature pout. “Well I didn’t exactly enjoy seeing the little prick recognize you and shout like he’d just won the damn lottery...” he remarked bitterly, irritation directed purely towards Jungkook and not you.

“Did he really not have a better way to grab your attention? I was this close to filing a lawsuit for hearing damage.” Unable to bring his fingers up to mimic a pinch, he narrowed his eyes tightly instead. “Nearly burst my damn eardrum running over to you and calling you 'superwoman lady...’”

“Yoongi,” you hummed, a chuckle escaping your lips like a song. “You’re jealous because of some sophomore who happened to recognize me from carrying her boyfriend—” you emphasized. “—to his dorm room because he was sick?”

Coming to terms with your lawful point, he mumbled something under his breath that you could’ve sworn was, “Not back then I wasn't.”

“I’m in love with you, you idiot.” Poking fun at his jealous side, it was quite endearing to know that he cared about you to the extent of fuming like a kettle in the presence of other guys. Grabbing one side of his face with one hand, you gave him an affectionate peck on his cheek, causing him to blush like a middle-schooler. God, he was so innocent.

After a couple more leisure paces in the direction of the boys' dorm, you stopped for a moment to look at you properly.

“I still think you’re too nice,” he closed with a ‘hmph,’ continuing his way back to his room. You could only hold back your hearty smile for so long before it burst.

“No freaking way, buddy,” you scoffed. Tossing another kernel of popcorn into your mouth, Yoongi pointed to his open mouth. Popping one into his, respectively, you returned to your bantering debate.

“Liszt is obviously far superior to Chopin,” Yoongi remarked snarkily. You’d gone over this for the past hour, killing time while the pre-packaged cookie dough you bough baked in the oven.

Another sarcastic puff of air left your lips. “Are you kidding me? Other than the fact that he had freakishly large hands and made a pact with Paganini and sacrificed both of their souls to the Devil, I don’t think this is even a real topic up for grabs.”

Snatching the kernel from your fingers in the midst of bringing it to your mouth, Yoongi chortled at your gaping jaw. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?” His straightforward and genuine eyebrow raise made you shrug.

“I don’t know. You listen to La Campanella and tell me.” Mirroring his inquisitive expression and raising your eyebrow, his voice vibrated in a lengthy hum.

“Hm... Well played, _____. Well played...” Yoongi’s eyes narrowed, trying his best to seem intimidating like a dollar store Sherlock Holmes. “But you mastered Campanella in your junior year, so who’s the real soul-sacrificing Devil here?”

You poked your tongue out, launching another piece of popcorn into his readily awaiting mouth to shut him up. However, your aim was a little too northbound and it ended up hitting his forehead. You laughed to the point where your stomach was cramping. You assumed it was karma taking your side.

Days blurred into weeks and before you knew it, it was the night before the performance exam. No matter how many times you’d been forced by your school assignments to play for an audience, it never ceased to get your heart pumping—for the wrong reasons.

Sighing, you flung your body into your freshly washed bed sheets. It was only 10, but you figured since it would take you a few hours to fall asleep from the nerves, it’d probably be best to knock out early.

“Not too late to sneak over and cuddle with me, you know,” a voice reverberated from your phone speaker.

You chuckled at Yoongi’s determined and unwavering stubbornness that stemmed from his giddy fondness for you. Your advisor had eventually caught you sneaking into your dorm room a few days ago and if you had, oddly enough, listened to Yoongi’s pestering and stayed in his room for the night, you wouldn’t be on room lockdown right about now. You felt like a prisoner in your own dorm.

Wrapping the blanket around yourself like a swaddle, you hid your gleeful smile with the bundle of sheets as his equally gummy grin displayed on the bright screen of your phone. Both of your room lights were all off so his cheeky face was all the more visible.

“She let me off easy and didn’t give me a suspension and that was because I’m one of the good students on this block,” you reminded. “I don’t think I want to push my luck.”

Yoongi huffed exasperatedly, irked that he wouldn’t be able to hold you tonight. “Are you ungrounded tomorrow?” He spoke in pout. That damn pout...

Burying your face in your blankets and clamping your hand over your mouth to hide your squeal, your mind couldn’t help but wander to the crude beginnings of your relationship. Was this real?

“Yup,” you mumbled sluggishly through the fabric. “You’re buying dinner after the performance is over.”

Letting out a sigh, he lied down on his bed and rested his hand comfortably beneath his head, allowing you to get a full glimpse of his body, only now realizing that he was shirtless. Despite the darkness that cascaded both of your rooms, you could clearly see the definition of his lean but built muscles, the veins on his forearm rippling with each time he shifted on his mattress.

“Who gave you permission to be so hot?” you yawned out, accidentally letting the lewd thought slip past your lips as you grew increasingly sleepy with each sentence. He laughed huskily in a low voice, admiring your state of sleep-drunkenness, as you liked to call it.

His raspy voice wasn’t just the thing you’re ears were blessed with in the mornings, but also at night when he was equally as exhausted as you. It was like a second piano to your ears, lulling you to sleep each time whether it was through video calls or cradled by his side.

Bundling the sheets around his body, you whined faintly at the loss of your favorite sight. “I don’t know, my girlfriend. She’s cool or whatever,” he whispered, eyes beginning to droop shut like yours. “But don’t tell her I said that.”

The word still felt like a new muscle stitched his tongue, every sentence that contained it sounding a million times better with the coined phrase. Yoongi continued cherishing his new reality: he had a girlfriend and it was you.

You couldn’t respond with words, just a fuzzy, softhearted grin. “Love you, dummy,” you yawned again.

Yoongi yawned in tandem with you, lips curling into the gummy smile you loved. “I love you, _____...” he managed to say before allowing sleep to consume him.

Neither of you even bothered to end the call, a habit you had developed from the hundreds of times you had rung each other and fallen asleep to each other’s voices. The first few times resulted in you both waking up with absolutely no battery and having to forgo your phones for the whole day, however, you quickly learned that splurging $30 on a portable charger just for these occasions was well worth it.

What if you mess up? Are your hands warm enough?

What if you forget a section? You should’ve fit in a few extra hours in the studio yesterday.

What if your fingers cramp up?

Did you remember to take an Advil? Should you have taken two?

A million questions pestered your mind like a plague, buzzing and ringing in your ears loud enough to make a swarm of steroid-filled bees jealous. Pacing around backstage as the muffled sounds from the auditorium filled the space, you were a few paces away from boring holes into the ground. Performance jitters were the worst and your anxiety made them all the more unbearable.

“Hey,” Yoongi interrupted, placing his hands on your shoulders to snap you out of your pool of overwhelming thoughts. “Calm down. Breathe. You’re starting to make me nervous.”

Running your hands through your hair, you groaned and uttered out another apology. Why were you so stressed out? It wasn’t a full audience. Just your entire class plus the comp majors and table of judgmental executioners, more commonly known as the board of music teachers. The entirety of their presence was the icing on top of your cake of nightmares. God, what you would do for a slice of double-chocolate cake right about now...

“What—” you started but Yoongi knew better to cut you off early and derail your train of thought before it arrived at the station.

He cupped his hands around your flustered cheeks, his cooling touch bringing relief to the blistering hot skin that began to rise with your heartbeat.

“Do you know how absolutely phenomenal these past few months have been?” Articulating his words in unison with his heartfelt gaze, his thumbs stroked over your cheeks softly, assuring you wholeheartedly with the fewest words he could.

“I know how much pressure you put on yourself, but I also know how much more you love playing the piano,” he spoke soothingly. “Don’t think about them or messing up. Hell, don’t even think about sticking to what we fixed and picked on during practice.”

He brought you into his arms, making you lean onto his chest and listen to his steady heartbeat that thumped through his shirt. “Think about enjoying it to the point of not having any regrets. Of what it feels like while you play. Think about how you love it unconditionally through thick and thin, and how you wouldn’t give up anything in the world to let it go.”

His words flowed like a stream in your head, smoothing over the rocky slopes of your worries and fears and replacing them with ripples of passion and confidence. Just as you pressed a kiss to his lips, the stage coordinator signaled to you with a frantic wave. It was your turn.

Yoongi held onto your hands tightly for just a moment before giving you a small grin and going to find a seat in the audience. You took a deep breath. You only had one chance at this; you were going to make it count.

Taking even-paced steps onto the stage, you closed your eyes and murmured a wordless prayer to whoever might be listening. Whether that’d be the piano gods themselves or the ibuprofen coursing through your bloodstream and numbing your nerves, it didn’t matter. You needed to play for you.

Not hesitating or wasting any more valuable seconds, your fingers brushed the cold keys, a sudden rush of eagerness filling your previously buzzing nerves. Your muscle memory activated like the flick of a light switch, the soft melody of the beginning exposition filling the echoey stage all the way to the back of the concert hall.

Your fingers stroked the keys with such accuracy and precision, nailing each of the complex chords with ease. The development was coming up next. Changing your tempo from the quick-paced and exciting beginning to a mellow and even-toned pace, a pre-recorded track suddenly flooded through the onstage speakers but you didn’t have time to react.

You could recognize that beat from a million miles away.

It was the same solemn tune that Yoongi was playing in the studio that night alone; same melodic chorus, orchestral strings, deep bass, and right down to the synth pad that started towards the end of the section. The flowing melody and tempo blended with your playing harmoniously, producing a euphonious sound that pushed you to play with more urgency and passion.

The unexpected harmony made you smile, on the verge of tears as you could only comprehend one message that rang as clear as a bell: he wrote this for you.

Before you knew it, you were already finished with the last recapitulation, the final remaining notes trailing off gently into what you assumed would be the end of the track, like that night, but it didn’t stop. It continued into another excerpt that melded perfectly with the coda you’d composed; vibrant, fuller, lively, vivid, and colorful—happy.

The full-bodied and adagio resonance of Yoongi’s composed track with what sounded like a philharmonic orchestra and synth board contrasted like day and night from your constantly moving fingers. High off of the adrenaline of playing and euphoria of music, you paid no attention to the burning that had spread in your fingers during the first two minutes of the piece, instead choosing to bask in the utter state of bliss you were in.

The track slowed down in sync with your playing, toning down the fast-paced and riveting chorus that had reverberated through the room seconds ago and replacing with it with the delicate and gentle closing notes that finished the piece.

It was over. You did it.

A momentary pause enveloped the auditorium, silence washing over the audience like a crashing tide. Your fingers were resting on the keys for a second before a roar of applause replaced the dead silent concert hall.

You did it.

The panel of teachers were all standing on their feet, their warm smiles and nods of approval and continuous claps almost making tears trail down your cheeks. Looking around the crowd of people to try and find Yoongi, a finger gently tapped your shoulder, making you turn around with glassy eyes.

There he stood in all his gummy cheesiness, smiling his heart out. You sniffled, unable to hold back the tidal wave of tears that overwhelmed you as you burst into sobs and threw yourself into the safety of his arms. Enveloping you into his ever-warm and comforting embrace, he pressed soft kisses on the crown of your head, keeping you secure in his hold. Refusing to pull away even for a brief moment, he stroked your hair soothingly, urging you to take your time to breathe.

Sniffling once more, you managed to croak out a word or two. “When? How? Why—” you couldn’t finish before breaking into tears. You were a mess.

Even though the entire auditorium was still filled with the continuous applause and praise from the audience, Yoongi leaned down and chose to whisper into your ear. “I told you. Ever since that night when I saw you in the studio alone…” You could practically feel the happy smile that danced across his voice.

It was the first dream you didn’t have to wake up from.

It was real.

All of this was real.

The first thing you did after finishing your presentation was sprint like a marathon runner to the dressing rooms and change out of your quote on quote, “formal” attire. Consisting of a pair of black dress pants and frilly blouse with heels, your feet screamed in relief when you changed to your usual outfit of straight-cut jeans, oversized sweater, and frayed sneakers.

Yoongi handed you a bouquet of flowers as you strode victoriously out of the concert hall to the stairwell at which he was waiting. You widened your eyes and had to blink a few times to make sure that this was still real life.

“Is this a practical joke or rom-com gesture?” you giggled, accepting the arrangement of dark red roses, lemon leaves, white snapdragons, and baby’s breath buds. He went the extra mile by personally requesting a gold ribbon to be weaved through each of the rose buds, making a sentimental warmth spread throughout your chest. Breathing in the fresh scent of the flora, the earthy and undeniably pleasant scent filled your airways.

Yoongi’s lips quirked in a shy grin and hid his gummy smile, rubbing the back of his head like he always did when he was apprehensive about something.

“I figured I missed out on doing this on our first official date,” he shrugged as his tongue caught on the unused word. “So, I felt like surprising you on our twenty-something official one. And I might have snuck in a slice or few of cake in your fridge... ”

Your jaw dropped to the floor. His face shifted back into the cheesy Chesire Cat grin you adored before humming a soft ‘ah’ and pausing his steps to reach for something in his bag. Was there anything that could make this day any better?

Fishing through his disarray of loose papers and crumpled notes that decorated his bag, he pulled out a box that had miraculously not gotten squished or dented inside. It was wrapped in rose gold colored polka-dot wrapping paper and adorned with yet, another glittery gold ribbon tied into a neat bow.

Making a shy face at the extensive detail, you carefully tugged on the end of the ribbon as flecks of glitter flew up in the air, the knot coming undone with ease. Yoongi offered his hand out to hold it.

Smiling, you moved onto the wrapping paper. Trying your best to peel it by the tape because you hated to tear it and make a mess, you finally got to the box. You pulled to top off to reveal another layer of tissue paper. A fluffy bundle of fabric was folded neatly underneath, making you take on a puzzled frown. When you took them out and unfolded them, you couldn’t muffle the gasp that escaped.

A pair of fuzzy mittens with a matching beanie.

“Yoongi...” you gawked. Rubbing over the feathery light, cozy fabric, he was still smiling widely at you, feeling pure happiness at seeing you so overjoyed from a pair of mittens.

Taking the bouquet, crumpled wrapping paper, and empty box from your hands, he set them down on the ledge beside the stairs. He first put the fluffy tasseled beanie on your head and smoothed out your baby hairs. Then, he rubbed your already-cold hands for a couple seconds to warm them up before sliding the plush gloves on.

“I don’t like it when you’re cold…” he said softly, rubbing circles over the tops of your hands through the wooly fabric. Cupping his cheeks with your warm and well-circulating hands, you pressed a single deep kiss onto his readily puckered lips.

“Your room or mine?” His breath grazed your pink lips, a distinct warmth emanating from his body compared to the crisp winds that blew against the pair of you.

Biting your lip at his query, you shoved his shoulder teasingly. He already knew the answer.

Making out and walking backward was anything but a non-hazardous concoction. You practically topped over the door ledge while walking into Yoongi’s dorm, continuing to stumble over the bumps and dents in the poorly boarded floor. He managed to pull off his shirt and unbuckle his belt before shoving you onto the bed, and you only made it to the zipper of your jeans before landing on your back with a soft thud.

Caging you in between his forearms, he reunited his mouth with yours in a heated and feverish kiss. You captured the delicate of his lower lip between your teeth, nipping, tugging, and sucking on it to tease and satiate him for the time being. You had the whole weekend for yourselves.

His eyebrows furrowed as he couldn’t resist anymore and gave into his body’s demands. Grinding his clothed member into your aching center, you moaned at how hard he was beneath the fabric of his jeans. Satisfaction and adrenaline surged through you and you couldn’t help but be the least bit proud at the fact that only you had this effect on each other. Undeniable lust triggered by unconditional love, aided with consistent support and mutual understanding; a thing so many people craved but so few had the ability to cultivate.

Yoongi let out a husky growl when your hands tangled into his dark hair, gripping firmly at his scalp and trailing down his bare back. Although your nails were trimmed short, they still left red lines down the defined ridges of his shoulders and back as he moaned into your mouth at the sensation.

Grasping you by the roots of your hair, he maneuvered your head to bare your neck to him, placing hot, open-mouthed kisses at the exposed and delicate skin. Nipping teasingly at the junction of your ear and pulse point, he bared his teeth in a grin before sucking a deep purple bruise into the skin, causing a rush of arousal to flow down your thighs.

“Yoongi,” you moaned out hoarsely. His pouty lips continued trailing down your neck before stopping, giving you to a moment to hastily take off your sweater and throw it mindlessly onto the floor. You’ll pick it up later. He licked his lips at the sight of you in all your beauty, pressing a soft kiss to the dip of your collarbone. He couldn’t help it when his lips instantly attached to your breast, massaging the other with his hand and lapping at your nipple skillfully. Moving onto the neglected side, you arched your back into his firm erection when he grazed his teeth over the sensitive nub.

Another gush of wetness flooded your thighs as you rubbed your legs together instinctually at the dampness. Yoongi noticed this like a hawk, eyeing your every movement keenly. Smirking, he slid down your unbuttoned jeans with one firm tug, swiftly yanking the loose-fitting pants down like a candy wrapper, except this sweet treat was one he could never get enough of. The best part? He didn’t have to worry about cavities.

Taking a moment to admire the string of arousal that trailed from your core to the string of your thong as he pulled them off, he gulped, saliva pooling in his mouth at the mere thought of lapping up all of your juices. His sculpted fingers rubbed small circles over your drenched folds, bringing the arousal coated digits to his mouth for a taste. He couldn’t wait another second.

Yoongi delved face first into your center, not caring to clean up the trail of wetness that painted your thighs beforehand. His cheeks were coated with your essence and he licked up as much as he could, his entire mouth cupping over your core in a desperate attempt to hear your delectable moans that spurred him on. Hearing your vocal sobs and whines of pleasure made him moan as you gripped his hair, the vibrations of his gruff voice making your body tingle with even more pleasure. It was a never-ending cycle of mutual pleasure.

You were in absolute heaven. Alternating the use of tender flat-edge of his warm tongue with the firm tip, you could’ve pulled a muscle in your back from how much you were contorting into the bed. Each time he sucked harshly at your swollen clit, it forced out a euphoric cry from you, teetering amidst the peak of your pleasure and the brink of startling ecstasy.

You tried to be gentle with his hair, but when you pulled your hands away from his tangled mess of locks, he growled in disapproval, immediately demanding that you return your hands to where they were by moving away from your aching core and biting at your thighs.

You wanted so badly to take his throbbing and dripping cock into your mouth. You salivated at the utter thought of it and it sent another stream of arousal down your thighs and into Yoongi’s mouth. Two fingers slowly stretched you out, pumping deliciously into your tight heat in sync with the flick and suckle of his tongue as it produced a high-pitched gasp from you.

His free hand came up to knead your breast, pinching and twisting your sensitive nipple agonizingly slow. He gazed into you with jet black pupils, a carnal aura surrounding his every breath, leaving you with no choice but to surrender to him willingly. He continued sucking at your clit while curling and pumping his long fingers into your heat at the perfect pace, earning a drawled-out moan from you each time. His dick twitched against the straining fabric of his boxers, begging for some kind of attention, but Yoongi ignored it.

Tonight, it was all about you and he was going to make sure you knew that.

The obscene sounds of his tongue working relentlessly against your drenched and throbbing pussy made you bite your lip hard enough to draw blood in a feeble attempt to drown out your moans. As he pinned your hips down with his forearm, his fingers suddenly changed pace, moving faster and curling deliciously against your tight walls. His mouth wrapped over your clit and fingers began pumping furiously, the bursting pressure of your peak shattering like glass with one last suck.

“Fuck, Yoongi!” you exclaimed, grinding into his mouth during the first few moments of your high to ride it out as long as possible. Feeling like a boneless pile of jelly from your staggering orgasm, you felt him smile against your dripping center, lapping up your flowing juices like an oasis in a desert. Your clit throbbed from the remnants of the overwhelming pleasure gifted to you by his talented tongue. By the time he was done, the only evidence that you had just had the best orgasm of your life was only visible on his face, his chin completely drenched in your essence.

Yoongi licked over his lips and swiped over his chin with his thumb to collect the remnants, popping his finger into his mouth to savor the taste he could never get enough of. His forehead glistened with a light sheen of sweat, chest rising and falling visibly from the effort he had just spent. How did he still have the stamina for more?

Lost in the blissed-out haze that came from your high, you chuckled lazily, still swimming an orgasm-induced trance. You’d never came like that before and you were more than sure you’d never be able to without the help of Yoongi. Smiling drunkenly as your post-orgasm blush dispersed along your face, a soft giggle left your lips when Yoongi hovered over you before flipping you over.

Lying on top of him, your hands ran down the svelte muscles of his chest and abs as you tasted yourself on his lips, the remaining wetness that spread over his chin coating yours in an act that was too sinful for you not to relive in the years to come. Literally.

Your mouths tangled in a fervent kiss full of desperation and need, running your hands over his toned body without any logical thought. The faintly metallic but not too bitter taste of yourself on his tongue made another pool of arousal stream down your folds. The pleasure was all yours now.

Before you scooted down to his desperately throbbing member, you made sure to appreciate the beauty that was Yoongi. You captured the delicate flesh of his vascular neck between your teeth and sucked blooming marks into the delicate skin, grinning in satisfaction when they mirrored yours but were half the size.

Nosing at the skin beneath his ear where his pulse pounded like the delicate wings of a hummingbird, your exhaling breath tickled the shell of his ear, making him let out the barest hint of a giggle. Tugging on the small hoop earring that decorated his ear lobe with your teeth for a sweet moment, you moved back to his torso.

Tracing across the picturesque sketch of his abs and the V-line that led down his pelvis, his skin felt hot beneath your lips, evidence that his blood was rushing just as much as yours had been not too long ago.

You forced out a grunt from him when you palmed his hard length through his unbuckled jeans, wasting no time and pulling the thick fabric down along with this cotton briefs. His immaculate length sprung up against his stomach with a soft slap, the head of his cock red and oozing precum. Rubbing over the dripping slit with your fingertip, his knuckles turned white from gripping the sheets so hard. He couldn’t think straight.

“_____,” he begged, Adam’s apple bobbing to expose his dewy neck. The glossy sheen that glossed over his entire upper body made your body hum with pure desire. He was so perfect…

You rubbed over the head of his cock a few more times just for the sheer satisfaction of watching a bead of precum form at his tip and pool around your index finger. Placing your now-glistening fingertip in your mouth, you hummed at the musky taste that coated your tongue. Without teasing any longer, you finally pumped his throbbing cock, licking down the length for more lubrication while trying to focus on his head.

“Fucking–God, _____,” he choked out through a guttural moan. With clenched teeth and hands now tangled in your hair, he didn’t have to guide you as you went to work pleasuring him. “Fuck.” He was like putty in your hands, melting into a pool of boiling hot magma with one single touch.

Stroking the base of his cock while you bobbed up and down the upper half, he jolted with the pace at which you were going. Your tongue swirled around his sensitive head and into his slit every few seconds, making him writhe in absolute ecstasy.

Yoongi let out a carnal growl, pulling you up by your arms up and up to his body. He cupped his hands your ass while his mouth locked onto yours in another deep kiss, exploring your mouth with a hunger he only possessed when he was with you; one that no matter how much time passed, would never be satiated.

Massaging your pillow-like cheeks with his firm grasp, you both moaned into each other’s mouths when your dripping wet slit found his dick. With the feeling of your slick pussy grinding over his bare length and your hands raking through his disheveled head of hair, Yoongi almost came right there.

This was completely different than the first night you two had spent together. The first time was entirely filled with sinful lust, primal hunger, and frantic passion. It resulted in a battle of teeth clashing against tongues, bruising grips, and hasty eagerness, allowing neither of you to feel the full extent of your deepest desires.

However, the deeper you fell in love with each other and the greater time you spent in each other’s company, sex became less about the physically pleasurable aspect and more about the raw emotional and near-spiritual bond you felt while connected.

Legs and arms entwined in a mess of tangled limbs; sticky bodies glistening with sweat; his hair sticking to his forehead and yours strung across his damp chest; the soft puffs of faint panting and the warmth of your bodies wound tightly against each other that lulled you into the best slumber you could possibly ask for. That was what you loved more than anything. The total submission of your barest state exposed in all its vulnerability and your mutual ability to look after one other unconditionally was more than you could ever ask for. He was yours, and you were his.

Yoongi’s hands ran over your shoulders and the small of your back, reuniting them with the plush pillows of your ass, admiring your rosy flushed face with awe.

“You’re so beautiful…” he said in a quiet voice, afraid that if he spoke with valor that you’d vanish like an illusion conjured by his deepest desires.

Calming down your heavy breathing, you placed a hand against his beating heart, the pronounced thumping of it underneath your fingertips causing goosebumps to scatter down the back of your neck. He placed one of his hands over yours while the other found your free one, cupping it against one of his cheeks tenderly. Nosing the delicate skin where your wrist met its socket, he inhaled gently, drinking in the feel of your soft skin against his.

Your fingers traced over the hollows of his cheekbones, marveling at how he appeared more beautiful than a millennium-old sculpture. You always took the time to admire and cherish every part of his body and his eyes were no exception. The deep-set and piercing gaze you had first feared was now a sight you hated to part with. Running alongside the hairs that stuck to his forehead, your focus settled on his lips, smiling heartily before pressing a slow and patient kiss to them.

“I love you so much, Yoongi,” you whispered against his mouth, earning you a smile back.

He clasped your hands tightly, pressing fluttery kisses to the tops of your knuckles before locking his gaze onto you. “I love you, _____...” He spoke in a hush like he was keeping a secret, you name rolling off of his tongue like a sacred hymn he held closest to his heart.

Studying the darkened gaze that cast over his eyes, your instincts clawed at you. “I need you inside me now, Yoongi.” Your voice came out in a whining sob, begging him to take you.

Slowly sitting down to guide his member into your aching heat, he kissed you with even more urgency and passion than you thought was possible, basking in the feeling of you consuming each other through the linking of your bodies as he buried himself hilt deep.

“Fuck, you’re always so tight for me,” he hissed. Dirty talk wasn’t really something you two prided yourselves in, preferring to voice your desires through physical actions alone, but you sure as hell didn’t have any complaints about it. It always seemed to come naturally for both of you and ended up sounding like praise rather than command.

Your velvety walls wrapped around his thick length and made him twitch inside of you. Grinding into his hips from your dominant position, Yoongi nestled his head into your chest as he began pounding into you mercilessly, all while paying equal attention to your sensitive bundles of nerves on your breasts.

Words weren’t needed to direct each other when you knew one other like clockwork; every kink, erogenous zones, sensitive spots—especially pace.

He leaned back onto the wall and lifted you by your hips, allowing you to hover over him at an angle that made him drive into a spot deep inside of you and gasp. “Oh my God, Yoongi, right there!” Your moans turned into pants and sobs of overwhelming delight at the deeper angle at which he was filling you.

A drop of sweat beaded at Yoongi’s furrowed brows, his tense expression a result of him also feeling the torturously delicious feeling of you encasing him. He couldn’t hold back for much longer and neither could you.

“Yoongi,” you warned, feeling your walls tense with each additional thrust he managed to power through his growing exhaustion, not from the physical act of relentless thrusting, but from the pure willpower he was exerting from holding his orgasm back. Your nails dug deep crescent half-moons into the ridges of his shoulders while his fingers pressed blossoming bruises into your hips, reminding you to gawk at them later.

Feeling your tense body, Yoongi used up the last remaining bits of his energy to pound into you furiously, exerting as much force as he had left. A sharp intake of breath came from deep inside his chest when you came around him without further warning, your unbelievably tight and utterly drenched cunt clenching around his cock and making him finish not a second later.

Bottoming out completely before sliding out and back in, it was almost too much when he continued hammering into you at a slower pace, his pulsating member shooting continuous spurts of hot cum deep into your heat. With his teeth bared in a silent snarl and your mouth parted in euphoria, you rolled your hips over his a few more times before collapsing on top of him, his spent cock still somehow twitching and filling your heat with thick spurts.

Yoongi’s eyes were half-lidded and dazed from his equally powerful orgasm. Staying inside of you for a few more seconds to ensure that as much of his cum remained inside of you as possible, you yelped when he slid out and replaced his cock with his hand, cupping your cunt to prevent any from seeping out. You giggled lightly at his concentrated face when he flipped you onto your back.

He also took great pleasure in scissoring your mixed fluids together between his fingers and bringing them up to his lips for a taste; another one of his post-sex habits. Curling into your drenched lips to scoop out more of the unholy mixture, you didn’t need to ask as he slid his coated fingers into your mouth, swiping over your readily cupped tongue as the evidence of your releases slicked down your throat.

“Kinky...” you giggled, running his fingertips along your lips before pecking them.

Yoongi gave you a half-parted gummy grin and chuckled. “You love me more for it.”

Completely spent, he kissed you deeply before he climbed into the covers, comfortably nestling his head into the valley of your breasts and nosing the soft skin. You cradled his head and pressed a delicate kiss to the top of his frizzy hair, raking through the messy knots with your fingertips. His exhaling breaths grew soft, indicating that he was on the verge of falling asleep.

Even though he mumbled the words into your chest, you broke into a heartwarming smile at his entirely too pure personality and held him in the security of your embrace. “I love you, _____.”

There it was again: your name.

It never sounded as good as it did unless it flowed from his lips.

“I love you too, Yoongi,” you whispered, your soft whisper lulling him into a deep slumber as his eyes drooped shut while his steady breaths coaxed you into the darkness of sleep as well.

It was real.

Some time in the near future...

You woke up to an empty bed, frowning in confusion instantly at the cold sheets that greeted you. Where was Yoongi? Almost as soon as you had asked the question, the smell of bacon and fried eggs filled your nostrils, making your mouth water.

Throwing your legs over the bed and climbing out of the disheveled bundle of sheets, you threw on one of Yoongi’s wrinkled shirts over your bare body, smiling sheepishly at how it draped over your thighs and stopped right above your knees. Brushing your teeth and rinsing your face in a record amount of time, you made your way to the kitchen and were greeted by the amusing sight of Yoongi dancing to the playlist you used when cleaning your room.

Jumping around like a maniac, he was too absorbed in his dancing and oil-spattering bacon to notice you leaning on the counter. With a cheeky grin gracing your face, Yoongi’s eyes bulged out of their sockets when he saw you. Clearing his throat harshly, you broke into a bright fit of laughter at how bashful he was. Was that what you looked like when he caught you dancing in your room?

“Good morning,” you giggled, nibbling the corner of your lip to hold back a snort.

Yoongi turned off the stovetop with the click of a knob, plating the hot food onto your dishes. “Good morning,” he played off cooly. Carrying the two plates to the small dining table, he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before setting them down.

“Happy Anniversary,” he exclaimed, returning to you to give you a proper kiss. Smiling onto his lips, you laced your arms around him as he wrapped his around your waist.

You scowled playfully but broke into a smile. “A little birdy told me a while ago that anniversaries were stupid…” you hummed jokingly, referring to the surprise you gifted him a year after you started dating. It was just a handwritten card and matching set of hoodies, but Yoongi let it slip that he thought regular anniversaries were cheesy and a little cringeworthy.

But he wholeheartedly appreciated your gift though, refusing to wear anything other than that exact hoodie for the majority of his classes. Often times, he asked you with puppy eyes and a pout to wear yours—even on some days when it was 80 degrees outside.

“Must have been a really drunk bird then,” he shrugged. You weren’t terribly hurt by his statement that night because you truly did understanding where he was coming from. Those couples who had hebdomadal anniversaries did, in fact, make you want to gag. Anniversaries in your mind were supposed to be reserved for monumental occasions and milestones, not as petty excuses to receive stupidly expensive gifts from each other.

You beamed, pecking his lips once more. “Mhm, not a very cute peeper either.” Your comment made Yoongi raise an eyebrow, nuzzling his mouth into your neck and blowing raspberries against your skin until you surrendered.

“Okay, okay, okay!” you gave up, choking your submission through joyous laughter. “Let’s eat, Yoongi!” Eyes lighting up in victory, he pulled out your chair for you before sitting down himself.

“Happy Anniversary, Yoongi,” you chuckled, lips forming into a loving grin at the gummy smile that blessed his sparkling eyes.

Reaching over the table to hold your hands and rub comforting circles into them, he blinked slowly, imprinting a picture-perfect snapshot of this moment in his long-term memory for years to come. “Happy Anniversary, _____,” he beamed.

“Are you sure about this, Yoongi?” you asked cautiously, rubbing his hands in the hopes of soothing his buzzing nerves. “We don’t have to do this today…”

He pressed his lips into a firm line and nodded, keeping his eyes glued on the black and white keys that lie before him. “I’m ready.”

Releasing his hands from your grasp, you patted them softly before letting them hover over the keys. Not having touched a piano since before the accident, the unfamiliar cold feeling of the wood made Yoongi’s breath hitch in his throat.

His fingers suddenly started to shake as bile rose in his throat and his face went pale, turning colorless enough to make the piano keys look off-white in comparison. His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like epoxy glue and felt heavier than a cement block. With his pupils dilated dangerously wide and beads of sweat forming along his hairline, his throat closed up, restricting his airflow.

Your eyes widened immediately, alarmed at his visceral reaction as he snatched his hands away from the keys and couldn’t bear to face the instrument for another second.

“I ca—I can’t. I can’t. I can’t do it,” he choked, shaking his head vigorously while hiccuping, trying to take in breaths of air as he began drowning in the memories that suddenly poured in.

You cupped the sides of his face and smoothed your fingers over his tear-stained cheeks gently. “Yoongi—look at me.” Shutting his eyes tightly, more droplets of his painful memories trailed down as his hands shook, the pads of his fingers squeezing coin-sized bruises into your forearms.

“Look at me,” you said more firmly the second time. Opening his eyes slowly with shaky eyelids, he swallowed the lump in his throat before making direct eye contact with you. “I’m here, okay? I’m right here. Nothing bad is going to happen to you. I’m right here with you, Yoongi.”

Relaxing his grip, his fingers that were pressing into your skin moments ago slowly began rubbing small circles into your forearms, soothing the numbing pressure as your blood began to circulate again.

“I’m so—,” he sobs choking on his tears, your lulling shushes helping his breathing calm down and slow. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—” His repetitive please continued into mumbled whispers.

As he continued to mutter his robotic sayings, you soon realized that he wasn’t apologizing only to you—he was apologizing to himself.

“Yoongi, it’s okay,” you whispered, allowing his head to fall into the crook of your neck as his tears left trailed down your chest, leaving a glistening trail of wetness that made your eyes sting with your own tears. Your heart shattered seeing him in such a state of distress, but all you could do was murmur softly into his hair while his shoulders continued to shake.

This too was real.

“Bach Invention No. 8 already?” you gawked. “Yoongi, how?”

He shrugged, shoulders rising up to his ears in humble yet clearly visible accomplishment.

“You were playing Hanon a few weeks ago, what are you putting in your cereal?” you chuckled, shaking your head in disbelief and awe at his consistently growing skills.

“I had a pretty great teacher,” he smiled warmly, patting the seat beside him and inviting you to sit down. Shaking your head at his lively and glowing image, you set down your two cups and made yourself comfortable.

It had been nine steady months since Yoongi had composed himself to start playing again and it would be a lie to say that it hadn’t been a time-consuming process. Slowly but surely through tears, overwhelming breakdowns, neverending hours, long nights, and emotional outpours, Yoongi’s natural instinct and eagle-eye muscle memory kicked in, aiding his subconscious breaking down the mental barrier he had formed since the accident.

The first few months were a struggle as he was stuck in his own head and high expectations. He stayed up constantly trying to master the most basic warm-up exercises, refusing to give up until he knew it by heart. Even during the deepest pitfalls of exhaustion, you stuck by him, likewise refusing to leave his side until he was half-asleep and drooling on the keys.

You, on the other hand, had finally gotten around to accepting physical therapy, regular check-ups, and after four years of putting it off, had your prescription officially signed off by your doctor.

The short-span of your potential professional career was inevitable, but you processed and accepted the outlook better than you did when you were first diagnosed. You had grown up since then. You weren’t a young, naïve, immature, want-it-all child anymore; you were just you, and that was more than enough. Life wasn’t about doing as much as you could for the quantity in hopes of happiness, but rather for the quality of happiness that you were living with what you could accomplish to your heart’s extent.

“Why not 13?” you asked curiously, referring to the piece that was in the solemn and dark minor key. Yoongi’s lips curled into a sheepish grin, sensing where you were going with your question.

“Major keys are nicer to listen to,” he mumbled. Fumbling with your fingers in his lap as he usually did when he felt the need for a distraction. “Minor scales are too depressing.”

Nodding your head in agreeance with his response, a soft chuckle reverberated from deep inside his chest. You gave him a comical eyebrow raise. He brought your hands to his cheek for what felt like the millionth time in the span of your relationship, leaning into your easing and tranquilizing touch as he melted in your hands.

After years of ignoring the adverse effect of your struggling circulation, the effort you dedicated last year in looking after your health had paid off; your hands were finally warm. All the more inviting for Yoongi to cup them around his plush cheeks. A healthy diet, consistent sleeping schedule, and regular hikes up to the viewpoint with Yoongi really went a long way in terms of lifestyle.

Thinking over his words, he shook his head rightfully so. “There are too many good things in life to do instead of drowning in that kind of ocean…” His kissed the top of your hand as his eyes met yours in a stare that radiated unconditional affection, complete fondness, and total selfless love.

Life was, in fact, too good to spend it wasting away in the shadows.

Some time further in the future...

Shuffling through the array of papers that littered the desk, you were seconds away from ripping your hair out. How were you going to do this? You started with the syllabus. That was probably the first step in starting a lecture, right? Then the expectations for the class? Goals? Learning outcomes?

God, were you even speaking English at this point? The abrupt buzz of your phone alarm snapped you out of your thoughts instantly. As crowds of students in what seemed like the hundreds flooded the lecture hall within seconds, you started to panic. Anxiety flooded your throat like thick smoke, forcing you to gulp a hiccup down. A gentle nudge on your shoulder caused you to turn around, coming into the view of none other than Yoongi.

“You okay?” His eyes voiced concern, eyebrows turned downwards as he studied your face with flowing sympathy.

You nodded, pressing your lips into a tight line. “Fine. Fine. All fine. Everything’s great.” Your speech flowed out like dreaded word vomit.

Yoongi rubbed your shoulder to ease your rippling waves of uneasiness, trying to relieve your bubbling apprehension. “Powell asked us to sub his class for a reason, _____. “Don’t doubt yourself. You’ll be amazing and I’ll be right by your side to help,” he convinced. “Okay?”

Swallowing down the sheet of sandpaper that lined your throat, you nodded.

The students were now fully seated and quiet, the soft hums of a few sorting through their bags and pulling out their laptops. The sea of L.E.D. apples and brightly lit block print logos made you nauseous. Once they were all settled, you cleared your throat.

“Thank you all for coming to today’s class,” you greeted with as much authority in your voice you could muster. “My name is _____, and this is Yoongi.” Pausing to direct your attention to him, he tipped his chin up lazily, reminding you of the first day you’d encountered him in a setting much like this one. Your eyes softened at the reminiscent memories. Time flies...

“We will be substituting for Professor Powell, as he is out sick for the week,” you explained.

A few scattered hollers and applause were heard from parts of the hall, making Yoongi shoot you a smug grin. You frowned quizzically for a brief moment before shrugging it off. “As former graduates ourselves, we are very aware of the immense pressure Professor Powell puts on you as first years in the graduate division. Trust me.” You turned your body to Yoongi, signaling him with a small nod. “We’ve both been there.”

He chuckled, taking the reins of the conversation smoothly while you began handing out the syllabus for the final project. “Powell might have discussed this project with you last semester or you might have heard legends about it from your upper classmates while you were freshmen.”

Yoongi didn’t bother using the title of “Professor” before he spoke, making some students gasp audibly. His voice was the epitome of confidence, self-assurance and clarity coating his voice like velvet as he articulated his words with consistency.

“The syllabus that is being handed out to you explains the details of your final project. Your partners have been chosen for you and will not, under any circumstance, be altered to fit your personal preference.”

Whispers spread across the entire room like a swarm of bees, students gasping and mumbling, appalled as they analyzed each detail written on the page. Your echoing clap silenced into their incessant grumbles. That seemed to grab their attention.

“As Professor Powell has said multiple times prior to the start of this semester and I’m sure as far back as your undergraduate days.” A grin formed on your lips and you glanced over at Yoongi, who was already smirking and staring back at you with his lip in between his teeth. “The audience needs to see who you are through the music; experience your deepest memories, feel your deepest pain, and live through your life up until this point.”

“You’ll laugh, cry, scream, and want to rip each other apart with your bare hands,” Yoongi added on with conviction in his voice, standing up straight and no longer leaning against the wall. “But above all the setbacks and obstacles, you’ll come out as stronger musicians and even better artists.”

“Complain and fail. Choose to work independently from each other and that implies that you are working against one other,” you noted. “You are there to help each other through difficult times, not leave the other person hanging when things get tough.”

Yoongi sighed. “It sucks, we know.” He glanced at you thoughtfully, a ghost of a smile dancing across his lips. “But we promise it’ll be worth it.”

At this, a student in the front row raised her hand, a wide-eyed curiosity glinting from her eyes. You smiled and gave her the cue to speak. “By chance, you guys aren’t the seniors who passed this same assignment with a full grade four years ago, are you?” Her naïve and self-answering question made you and Yoongi look to each other knowingly, embarrassed and honored that the rumor was still flying about, alive and well as ever. “You two are like living legends!”

The class erupted into another wave of applause and gasps, sounding like a sound effect out of a comedy club’s built-in soundboard.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he chuckled, leaning his head to one side and side-eyeing you lightheartedly. You also found yourself blushing and chuckling awkwardly, sighing as you avert your eyes to anywhere but the crowd of eyes glued onto you and him.

“It’s kind of a funny story…” you hummed.

“Why did you start liking me?” you asked. Lying down on the blanket that was strewn on top of the grass, Yoongi shifted beside you, admiring the spot on the viewpoint he picked out. The view of the campus never ceased to take your breath away.

The longest three seconds of your life passed before you turned on your side and he peeled his eyes away from the dim sky, redirecting his gaze to you. Taking your hands into his, the edges of his lips curled into the tiniest smile, staring thoughtfully at the sight he had never imagined in his wildest dreams would be here right in front of him.

“Because you gave me everything I could ever ask for without wanting anything in return, and I don’t deserve it.” His words flowed like ink from a fountain pen, soaking through the pages that bound your love for him.

Pausing before continuing, you couldn’t prepare yourself for what he had to say next.

“It’s like you’re too good to be real. Here. In front of me.” he clasped your hands tighter. “I still feel like don’t deserve you.” At this sudden confession, his tense expression softened. “Like I’m not enough for you...”

The dark and piercing stare you used to cower in fear at had now revealed itself to be the only one you knew that was full of vulnerability and as delicate as a glass menagerie. They were eyes you had grown fond of, admired, and more than anything—wholeheartedly and unequivocally loved.

Running his thumb over your cheek, you cupped over his hand in response, making your heart flutter at the delicate flush that spread across his face.

“Min Yoongi...” you sighed as your eyes began to form budding tears. Shaking your head while trying to hold back the painful smile that threatened to escape, you took a deep breath.

The lump in your throat returned tenfold when you looked up and saw that his eyes were glued onto yours, his deep brown orbs watering with glassy tears and lip quivering with the infinite ocean of amour he felt for you. You had already fallen in too deep to drown.

All these years later and you still made each other’s hearts race like a soaring kite.

Whether it was from the cold or the bursting dam of repressed emotions, it didn’t matter. You cupped both sides of his face and brought his forehead to yours, pressing lightly and maintaining contact so that you were trapped directly in-line of each other’s eyes. You couldn’t help but smile and allow a tear to trail down your cheek when his hands cupped over yours.

“You’re right. You aren’t just anything to me,” you whispered, your voice near barely audible to anyone except Yoongi. “You are absolutely everything I could ever ask for and more.

Yoongi swallowed the rush of nostalgia that flooded his mind and closed up his throat. “I have never in my entire life met someone who comes close to how you understand me, wait for me, and push me through my bad days,” he croaked through blurry eyes.

You sniffled, brimming tears finally spilling like the puddles of your youth you once basked in. “You make me the happiest and the best person I can be, and I love you more than anything else in this entire world...”

“And I promise that I will spend the rest of my life trying to make you feel the same way.” His Adam’s apple bobbed when he finally spoke, completing your words like the last piece of a puzzle fitting perfectly in its place.

His words and soft lips sealed a kiss on your forehead, your eyes fluttering softly at the ardor you felt only while in his warmth. You kissed him back, the saltiness of your mingled tears leaving watercolor thin streaks down both of your cheeks.

Words would never be enough to express the bond you and him shared. He could only pray to whoever was listening that you felt it as strongly as he did, and you for him.

A song composed with no more than the painful memories of your past, tender youth of the present, and limitlessly unbound fate of your future, your paths entwined with the string of fate and aria had brought you together to this exact moment in time.

Passionless pursuit in the chase for perfection; a journey filled with sorrows in the hopes of leading to the smallest sliver of happiness; an outcome neither of you had expected to come to fruition in your wildest and most distant dreams.

Everything else is arbitrary. Happiness through the darkest of times stemming from the willingness to fight and determination to be happy—that is what you made your lives out to be.

The faint glint of the rings you both bore reflected against the lamp post bulbs, an even brighter light emitting from both of your smiles. Had it already been a year since he’d asked for your hand? Yoongi’s fingers ran over the engraved metal, tracing the near-microscopic words that were etched into the band. You did the same with his, the loop of silver feeling cool against your fingertips.

It was real.

This was real.

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