#like really i live month to month and i am not the only one
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soulrox · 2 days ago
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DPxDC #22
(kind of a prequel/companion for #21 adding in my new OC whispers)
Danny is squatting in an abandoned building working on some tech he found in a dumpster.
??: *whispering* Numbers, the wind told me you are a protector and will keep me safe.
Danny turns his head to see a little blond girl in torn, dirty street clothes, maybe around age 10. The spirits around Danny all gain that soft look in their eyes when seeing something precious.
Danny aka Numbers: Well I can certainly try, what do you need? And what do I call you?
Little girl: *Whispering* I'm Whisper. Metas, especially young ones are trafficked. The wind sings to me, telling me secrets. Your secrets are many but you are a protector and can keep me safe.
Numbers tries to keep his face in check hearing the truth, pain, and fear in the young girl's words. Without hesitation, agrees to be her protector.
Numbers: Welp guess I'm a big brother (again). Okay, Whisper I will take you with me and protect you. You do not have to share anything at all about what you hear unless you want to, understand.
Whispers smile is blinding while she nods.
Numbers is well known to the other street kids as he's been living in Gotham for a few months and has good street cred. He is known to be kind to everyone and help anyone, especially with anything to do with numbers. Numbers is also well known for giving info to Red Hood on those who go against the rules of Crime Alley. Red Hood himself is supportive of Numbers, even though it's clear Numbers isn't a native Gothamite.
The kids of Crime Alley soon get used to Numbers and Whispers being inseparable and Numbers calling Whisper his sister. However, the street kids were not ready for what would become of the duo.
Whispers knowing now she would be safe did tell Numbers the secrets carried by the wind. Anything from the little things like someone tripped a few blocks over to a member of the Bats and Birds near, to the trafficking ring being set up outside Crime Alley.
Numbers knows he has to share the bigger things with Red Hood. Especially because Numbers has hung up his own vigilante suit. Racking his brain for how to share this information without letting people know it came from Whispers was actually easy to figure out. Numbers will say he's a psychopomp. Well, he can see and interact with ghosts since he himself is half dead but shhhh.
The spirits of Gotham are in abundance but he hasn't really interacted with them since coming here. He did listen to them when they told him Crime Alley run by Red Hood would make a good place to live.
Asking the ghosts to find out where Hood is was simple. A young male with a gruesome hole in his chest had shown them right to the rooftop Hood was chilling on. Numbers grabbed hold of Whisper and using his powers flew them to the top.
Numbers: Hello Red Hood! Lovely night for a rooftop stroll!
Red Hood gave a minuscule flinch.
Hood: Numbers! *grumbling* every time.
Hood: What do you got for me this time?
Hood notices that Numbers isn't alone for the first time. He inclines his head in a silent question.
Numbers: This is my little sister Whispers!
Whispers gives a small wave from beside him.
Numbers: And I got a new trafficking ring being set up at ____corner of ______ outside of Crime Alley. They haven't picked anyone up yet though.
Whisper nudges him. Leaning down so Whispers can talk to him
Whisper: *whispering* they are planning to head out in the morning.
Standing back up straight, Numbers turns his head to look at an empty spot, tilting his head like he's listening to something then turns to Hood.
Numbers: Actually you should hurry with dealing with them they are planning to head out in the morning.
Hood: Hmm okay, Numbers you always have the best intel but this is new even for you. Do you want to tell me how the info has changed since you've been standing here or?
Numbers: *sigh* only because you are Red Hood will I tell you. I am a psychopomp.
Hood stumped: okay cool I'll keep that to myself then, thank you for trusting me. Anything you learn from them you can tell me personally and I'll help in any way I can.
Hood quickly departed heading off to deal with the traffickers.
Whisper: *whispering* the wind sings his praise so much, even though his secrets burden him.
Numbers: The ghosts sing his praise too.
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anna-mellgren · 7 hours ago
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I have been asked about my different experiences living in different countries a lot so I will share my thoughts here.
America: I partially grew up in the USA so I never experienced a proper culture shock in the USA because I was so young when we lived there the first time.  I just noticed the differences from Sweden instead. Americans are so friendly so any homesickness was always cushioned by that. I just accepted America for what it was but it is obviously a lot more conservative & religious than Sweden. Americans can be super friendly but sometimes that friendliness can be a little superficial… swedes are more reserved but more loyal instead when you get to know them well. Female athletics is more developed in the USA which I liked. I had a good school experience and probably had a more chill time than most people had in high school.
France: I only lived in Paris for 6 months and I mostly hung out with international students who were studying french so I am not sure I can give a super accurate opinion of france. I got to know a few french people through a friend and they were similar to swedes in a way… they are very liberal, they ride their mopeds, they like soccer, they have a healthy aversion towards religion, they are not huge fans of loud people etc. Parisians are very cosmopolitan people and I got on really well with the ones I got to know.  I know parisians have a reputation for being rude and they are rude to tourists lol but honestly, the amount of tourists in Paris is insane. Even I, as a foreigner, could get annoyed with them at times. I liked to run by the Seine river and tourists would try to stop me mid-run in order to take their pictures? Why couldn’t you find another tourist to do that for you when I am clearly running? I think the french are similar to swedes with being reserved but very kind and loyal once you get to know them. I think being reserved can sometimes come off as being rude if you don’t understand the culture.
Ireland: I think I suffered a big culture shock in Ireland. Before then I had a slightly naive/american view that european countries are more similar than they actually are? I think Ireland has to be one of the most extrovert countries in Europe while Sweden is probably the most reserved… so that is a clear cultural difference. I used to think americans could be chatty & loud but some irish people are like americans on steroids. Sweden is one of the most atheist countries while Ireland is one of the most religious countries in Europe. Sweden is probably the most liberal and Ireland is one of the most ~historically~ conservative countries in Europe. Ireland has become a lot more liberal recently but I think Sweden is farther ahead on certain things… especially when it comes to sexism & behavior between the sexes.
Ireland had a certain lad culture when I was there which was honestly a bit unhinged. I know there are bad apples in Sweden but I don’t think their bad behaviour is accepted in Sweden as it is in Ireland.  I think the lad culture at university is exacerbated by a lot of people going to catholic girls & boys schools while growing up so they don’t interact with each other as much as they do in mixed schools in sweden & the USA. It was like they didn’t know how to behave towards each other? The emotional intelligence just wasn’t there at times. The banter sometimes went too far and became bullying in my opinion. The way guys talked about girls really got on my nerves too…not about me specifically but just girls in general. I remember there was a girl in my course who slept with a guy and the stuff I saw written on social media and what was said in real life really shocked me. My one irish friend said it was just “banter” and I would say no… it was stone-cold misogyny/sexism. I would then be labeled as “someone who didn’t understand banter” but Ireland legalized divorce & decriminalized marital rape in the 1990s (which is actually insane) so to be honest I don’t think they have the upper hand when it comes to defining misogyny? Their humor is based on slagging each other off which is fine but I sometimes think people took it too far... I prefer swedish humor which is more based on self deprecation & is a bit similar to british humor.  I think I was not willing to adjust and that caused me problems but I think the school culture as a whole was more toxic compared to where I had lived before. I think I got a bit unlucky with a few people to be brutally honest and I don’t think my experience resembles Ireland as a whole but the culture was a bit harsh. I remember girls rating each other on social media with bitchy comments on their friends' pictures by writing “6/10”… people who were friends with each other? None of us look like Adriana Lima but why put each other down? Or make someone feel mediocre? Some girls were seriously vain and judgemental & I missed the strong feminist sisterhood I felt in Sweden or the sisterhood I felt in sports in America. To be clear, many irish girls were genuinely nice & perfectly fine human beings but a few definitely gave off the vibe that I belonged with my fellow foreigners in the course. Every time I kissed a guy there would be random guys taking pictures of me and post it god knows where? Guys I didn’t even know? Just to gossip or slutshame me for kissing someone? They did this to everyone, not just me.
People in my course made facebook groups and wrote mean things about people who were not in the groups… just things like that. I came from a super laid-back enviornment with very opened-minded people so I had a hard time adjusting to this harsher, sometimes hostile, environment. I don��t think I was a specific target but I didn’t feel comfortable there. One day I was walking down the street and a passing car threw eggs at me?  I have pretty good eyesight so I saw the ex-girlfriend of a guy I knew in the car…I think I got hit because I had kissed him a few months before. Stuff like this just doesn’t happen in Sweden. I lived in a smaller city and maybe I would've been happier in a more cosmopolitan place like Dublin. I think there are many great people in Ireland but I found the university culture to be very gossipy, mean, judgemental & cliquey. They all thought it was normal but it rubbed me the wrong way. Looking back I think some people were just immature and have probably changed a lot. To be fair, I never gave it a real shot because I was unhappy and struggling with autoimmune issues. Not all people were like this but when you find yourself in a place where you don’t know anyone and a few people treat you in a very bad way then it can have a big impact. I think people matured with the years and chilled out a bit to be fair but I never experienced it because I left. I have met many great irish people so in a way I just think I was unlucky and perhaps would’ve had a different experience if I stuck it out. Not all people were bad in my course either, the majority were perfectly fine people but I think initially the people who had lived in this city their entire life were unbothered with making friends or being friendly. I think they branched out later on. I think I had lived in a bubble before then and I had just never experienced anyone mean before? Which is probably a bit bizarre too, to be honest. My school experience before then was people being either nice to me or neutral… like I was just another human on planet earth.  In my honest opinion, I think some irish people are like Conor Mcgregor and truly embrace lad culture but there are also plenty of irish people who are salt of the earth and have the same aura as Cillian Murphy. I would even say the majority of irish people are like Cillian Murphy. I think Ireland has a unique culture, people are generally friendly despite my experience & the nature is beautiful. My mental health suffered that year and I moved home which was definitely the right decision for me. I should’ve been more social but I didn’t have the mental or physical strength with my anemia. I knew a norwegian girl in ireland who seemed to love everything about it and I always compared myself to her. I felt like a bit of a failure for feeling like I did until I met a danish girl who had a far worse experience than me in Ireland and it was a bit comforting to know I was not alone in how I felt. I think experiences are subjective & overall I learned a lot. I don’t dislike Ireland or irish people at all, to the contrary actually… I just didn’t have a great experience. In a way, I think moving home to Sweden was a long-time coming.  
Argentina: I think south americans in general are very welcoming and warm people. However- Argentina, like many other South American countries, have problems with corruption & crime etc but people are very loving. You will hopefully be fine if you just take some extra precautions but I think you have to be very mindful as a woman and be careful. Don’t get into taxis alone. Watch your drink on nights out. Don’t drink too much and always be in full control. Never leave a friend behind. Just stuff like that. I came to Argentina with limited spanish & lived with an argentine host family. All of my argentine classmates spoke terrible english which was great for me because I was forced to learn spanish. I was put in a class and the girls in this class took me in as one of their own. They brought me everywhere and I was their swedish mascot who just tagged along everywhere lol. I was treated really well and still keep in touch with them today. They said I was less shy after 5 months but it was not until then that I could understand what they were saying lol. Argentine families sometimes have limited means but they truly taught me the value of making the most of what you are given and making the best of what you have. I volunteered with handicapped children during my time there and these kids would correct my spanish non-stop which was great. My Argentine friends were too lazy to correct my grammar lol. I went running with a blind 14-year-old boy who had developed an eye disease just years earlier and I think this volunteer work really put life in perspective for me. Overall I had a great time in Argentina and I hit the jackpot because I spent my exchange year in patagonia. I had the classic experience of falling in love, traveling, going to school & just being fully immersed in argentine culture. My entire high school class came to wave me goodbye at the airport when I flew back to the USA <3 I will always look back at that year as one of the best years of my life. I think being an exchange student in high school is very different compared to being an exchange student at university. You’re still so young when you’re in high school and people are not as independent yet. You really get to experience family life, school life & the youth culture when you go as an exchange student in high school. I later lived in Buenos Aires for 6 months and studied at university during my gap year after living in Paris. I had a great time in Buenos Aires but I think my high school experience was more unique. I loved Buenos Aires though & the girls in my course would invite me to BBQs etc and I had a great time.
These are my experiences of my adventures living abroad. I would urge everyone to travel because nothing makes you appreciate home quite like living abroad. Or perhaps you will find a new home if the home you grew up in made you unhappy.
one thing about me……..i am hyperaware of the Vibes
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typicalopposite · 23 hours ago
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👶🏻👶🏻👶🏻👶🏻 I'm soooo curious for this one!!!!
Well here you go then! 🫶🫶 20ishhhh more sentences of the new Tommy mpreg fic 🫶
(Five Months Later) 
“Kinard!” Captain Torrence barks, jolting Tommy awake— he didn’t even realize he was falling asleep. “I’m sorry, am I boring you?” 
“No sir…” Tommy mutters. He tries to not make the situation worse by yawning, but can’t help it as he straightens himself in his seat and stretches. This earns him muffled laughter from his team, to which he rolls his eyes and ignores. To call them his team almost feels like a reach at this point… they’re his co-workers at best, and really just a bunch of strangers. 
Lucy transferred upstate a few months back, and Melvin took to being a Fire Marshall a little too well after an injury took him out of the sky temporarily (or it was supposed to be temporarily…); he randomly decided he didn’t want to come back to the dangers of being a firefighter pilot. Kate and Harrison got married and moved to Ohio— of all places, and Jones reenlisted; his last day was a week ago. Even the captain is new— he was only supposed to stand in while Collier had hip surgery… then the old fucker up and retired. 
Tommy is surrounded by new faces, and the ones that aren’t new never spoke to him to begin with. Work has gone from a get away from the loneliness of his empty home (and empty life), to an even more miserable just more crowded loneliness; he hates it. He has never felt so on his own in his life… even when he went through his extreme hermit stage after breaking up with Evan, where he shut everyone out. Lucy put a stop to that quickly, and with the assistance of Sal he was dragged out of his burrow and forced to face the world with the new reality of the decision he made (regardless of how idiotic they both thought it was) and move on. 
Sal— his best friend at times, biggest headache at others— unfortunately hasn’t lived in LA since a year after Bobby transferred him. He flew in to help Lucy, then flew out with the promise of checking in regularly to make sure Tommy’s stupid ass (his words exactly) doesn’t go all Bella Swan in the second Twilight.
It’s Jones’ replacement— some smart mouth kid transferred in from the 133— that makes the first remark. Tommy has just settled on the couch with his lunch. “Really… tuna nachos. Again, Kinard?”
Tommy looks at the plate he has just finished assembling: a handful of tortilla chips loaded with queso, salsa, jalapeños, guacamole… and canned tuna. Different, sure; delicious, definitely. Any of this nosey kid’s business? Absolutely not. 
<3<3<3<3<3
Make Me Write!
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blissfullyecho · 3 days ago
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My 2025 Skinny Routine
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1. I’m cutting back on added sugar. My ultimate goal is to keep my added sugar below 20g or 30g weekly (I have a huge sweet tooth and can easily have this in a day). Added sugar is only found in processed foods and it makes you fat and age. But I’m not giving up on sweets entirely so I’ll limit my budget to 20-30g weekly.
2. Intermittent fasting at least 16:8 daily. Fasting is such a good way for your blood sugar to regulate, your gut to actually run smoothly, burns through carbs and sugars first to then burn fat (energy), etc.
3. Skinny dinners— no carbs at night unless it was on occasion. Carbs are important to give us fuel and energy. I don’t need energy and fuel before bed in a couple of hours.
4. I’m ditching dairy and having it on special occasions like if I ate out. But I won’t have dairy or anything containing dairy in my kitchen this year. I’ll enjoy it when I’m eating out.
5. Fasted cardio. So I live in LA and since moving here, I fell in love with hiking. My job allows me to work remote so I can go on a few hikes per week in the morning. Running is also one of my favs but I would like to be outside more this year.
6. Reformer pilates. I currently go to Pilates a solid 3x a week but I’m going to increase that to 4x a week. I spend almost $800 a month for my current membership (I have unlimited mat and reformer pilates) and would actually like to take advantage of what I’m paying for.
7. I’m going to start eating breakfasts again. I’ve noticed that when I don’t have breakfast, I make crazy decisions for lunch and dinner. I intermittent fast currently from 12p-6p but I’m thinking about changing it to 9a-3p.
8. You guys are going to gag but I spend almost $2k a month in food delivery. This includes tipping, and yes, I always tip and I tip 25% because I found out Uber only pays the drivers $2 per trip and drivers have to pay for their own gas. So yes, I’m tipping and I’m not going to cut down on tipping. But I am going to cut down on the amount of times I get food delivery because I get so bloated everytime I eat out. LA has really good healthy options but I still feel nauseous after I eat out vs. when I eat from home.
9. I’m going to start reaching for fruit way more than sweets. My problem is that I will buy a bunch of produce because it’s convenient for me when I’m feeling lazy, and then it sits in my fridge getting moldy because I want Tiramisu instead. I’m going to have to train myself to grab for fruit and let the tiramisu be a weekly treat and not a daily 9pm Uber Eats delivery (although I have been good because it’s holiday season and I cut back on the junk this time of year)
10. Scale back on the red meat. I have been eating steak almost every day and I am so lethargic afterwards. I’ve never really been a crazy meat eater but lately I’ve been eating filet or wagyu daily. I even had bacon wrapped scallops last night and I hate bacon. Like I said in my last skinny post, I eat a ton of protein around this time of year but the red meat is not making me feel too hot.
This is obviously subject to change but this is what I’ve been feeling lately. I don’t care for any messages that tell me this is triggering. What this is is healthy. Having 10 burgers a week because you’re “listening to your body” is not healthy and that’s not self-love or balance. That’s 10 freaking cheeseburgers lol.
Anyway, my book The Luxe Girl’s Playbook to Life that talks about going into 2025 an upgraded version of yourself will be unavailable in 2 days from this post (11/28/24). Get yourself yours today or miss out.
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kwondotcom · 3 days ago
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(1) i reference almond by won-pyung sohn as the book that minghao is reading. in the english translation, one of my favorite lines is "anything will lose its meaning if you repeat it often enough. at fisrt you feel you are getting the hang of it, but then as time goes by, you feel like the meaning's changing and becoming tarnished. then, finally, it gets lost. completely fades to white. love, love, love, love, love, lo, ve, looo, veee, love, lovelo, -velo, -velo."
i think that perfectly encapsulates a conflict that minghao goes through in the fic. how often can we say a word before it loses its meaning? how generous should we allow ourselves to be when it comes to the truth?
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(2) i think i'm a better poet than i am a writer (lol), so one of my habits is referencing beginnings in the endings. this is one such parallel: how minghao learns about the 'gut feeling' from reader, only to subscribe to it when it matters the most.
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(3) language as a time capsule, as a chronicle of one's self, is a recurring theme throughout the work. to minghao, mandarin is the sound of a home that he doesn't get to go back to as often; it's his mother's singing, his childhood friends' games. and to you, who knows several languages, korean sounds a lot like coming home. it's the simple language of your past. before you became a translator. before you had to make a living out of words.
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(4) more parallels! :) from minghao thinking it's too much, to so much yet not enough. it's a subtle acknowledgement of his feelings taking a turn for something more romantic.
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(5) i've joked that this is an origin story for @xinganhao, except it's not really a joke (lol). this fic came to fruition before i made my sideblog. i couldn't figure out a username, and so i just mindlessly jammed out xinganhao, and, bam. the rest is history. so, quite literally, my sideblog is 'darling, hao.' [xīngān is pronounced shin-gahn!]
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(6) when i first wrote the movie-watching scene, i expressly named dìdi as the the film they watched. i eventually culled it in favor of being more vague about the movie, since i couldn't bear the story going on for longer. i'd chosen the film for its logline: "in 2008, during the last month of summer before high school begins, an impressionable 13-year-old taiwanese american boy learns what his family can't teach him: how to skate, how to flirt, and how to love his mum."
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(7) i remain a firm believer that minghao is not only soulmates coded, but red string of fate coded. honestly, it's the underlying thread (badum-ts) trying my minghao birthday series together. it's explicitly mentioned in haven't we met?, but pervades in the sense that no matter the universe that minghao is set in, there is a string of fate and love tying him into place.
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(8) translator!reader's sentiment about soulmates is a ripoff from my favorite series of all time, the good place. i have minghao echo it in the end for another 'full circle' moment.
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(9) a small, almost inconsequential part, but i really loved getting to write this. the two faces of the same coin, the sentiment and the language, in the languages that each of you know.
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(10) i'd written the story mostly in order— about 85% of it is done that way— but it's worth noting that the japan bathroom 'fight' scene is the last part i wrote. i couldn't figure out a proper argument for them to get in, because the original argument involved minghao getting a little too handsy with the reader. it felt out of character and i'm glad to have written it out. i still feel like the bathroom scene is one of the weaker scenes in the entire piece, especially as the 'conflict' takes place in vague, overlapping conversation, but i needed some sort of catalyst for the scene that follows.
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(11) no real^TM notes on this except that i love yearning...! lmao. the "you said it was pretty, but i was looking at you instead" trope is the oldest cliche in the book. unfortunately, i eat it up every! single! time!
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(12) the phone call scene is one of my favorites, if only because there's a lot of interesting dynamics there about the push-and-pull of language. reader choosing to stick to korean because of medical jargon/minghao's moment of wanting to tell you to just use mandarin/reader's switch to mandarin when she senses minghao's mounting panic. i feel like it's the part that encapsulates the fic the most. in it, there's also the line i eventually lead with in the intro. being good to you is the easy part. again, it's minghao in a nutshell. the idea that— despite later insistence, in the confession scene— minghao will 'do all the work', he still thinks it's effortless. treating you well. loving you.
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(13) the tooth-rotting fluff in the hospital scene genuinely makes me want to tear my hear out. personally, i latch on to this one little line, as well as this part: "he laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?"
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(14) again, no notes, except for that i truly wanted to do something in ode of minghao since this is a birthday fic. i've always loved his name (the etymologies of names, in general), and so being able to squeeze it in here felt apt. notably, there's at least three distinct sky scenes in the fic. the stars in japan, the cliffside sunset, and the ending with the moon. in japan, minghao has his revelation; on the cliffside, he's given something he can hold to. the beach scene, under the moon, is where he finally confesses.
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(15) "of course i'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to. is probably my favorite line in the entire fic. it's difficult to explain, but it goes much deeper than just a confession of feelings. it speaks a lot about minghao as a character, as a person, from someone who worked hard to get to each tomorrow, someone steadfast and resilient. it's also just a nice sentiment, [fan]fiction or not. the idea that, no matter what it is, there is only really one thing we can do for the rest of our lives: try again, and again, and again, for all the tomorrows that we have.
lost in translation ♾️ minghao x reader.
“being good to you is the easy part.” # day eight of (the)8 days of minghao. ♡ happy birthday, minghao!
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☆ includes: translator/interpreter!reader, idiots in love, yearning!!!, hurt/comfort, confessions. alcohol consumption, reader gets a [minor] surgery. mandarin & other languages are all courtesy of google translate. word count: 25,800+ (damn.)
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Minghao learned early on that there were words that didn’t always have a translation.
He had grown up with Shenyang Mandarin, only to have to learn Korean, English, and even some Japanese. It was always such a frustrating feeling, to have the Mandarin word at the tip of his tongue then to need to swallow it or substitute it.
He’s never felt that way with you, at least.
You, PLEDIS’ skilled, multilingual interpreter-slash-translator. Minghao remembers the day you came in, nine years ago. How he had felt a spark of hope when you slid into the dialect that was all-too familiar to him. Finally, Minghao had thought.
He had started off as your pupil, your tutee for Korean. Over time, it blossomed into genuine friendship. He can count on one hand the things that he has in Korea. The group. The fans. The other Chinese idols. And you.
It’s comfortable and easy with you. It’s always been. It’s why Minghao is fine with seeking you out at the company, with sliding into the seat next to you even though you’re working on something on your laptop. Checking subtitles for a SEVENTEEN video, it seems.
He waits until you’ve noticed him before he holds out the book he had been reading. It's a Korean novel. Almond by Sohn Wonpyung. He points to a particular phrase— 눈치가 빠르다— before speaking, but the words aren’t in Korean.
“Is there a Mandarin word for this?” he asks in Mandarin, his voice taking on the lower pitch of the dialect. His eyebrows knit together in a look of utter concentration. “Or is this one of those untranslatables?”
You pull out your earphones, a mild look of amusement on your face at Minghao’s sudden appearance. When you realize what he’s asking of you, a small huff of laughter escapes, but you concede to looking at the book in his hands. You say the phrase under your breath, as if testing it out. 
“It’s not untranslatable,” you say, sliding right into Mandarin to match Minghao. “The literal translation is observant or perceptive. But in Korean contexts, it’s meant to describe— I suppose, comprehension that something is going on with a friend, or a family member. Like, ah—”
You pause. And then you code switch, again, this time, to English. “A gut feeling?”
“Ah.”
Minghao’s expression clears as comprehension filters across his face, his mouth forming that little ‘o’ shape as he repeats the phrase as well. “A gut feeling... okay, like intuition.”
He pulls his legs up on to the chair, resting his chin on his knee. “Do you think it's something that is universal? A gut feeling. Is there a word for that in Mandarin?”
You’re far too used to Minghao getting philosophical, to him pressing for more than the first answer. “Gut feeling in Mandarin... zhíjué?” you offer. 
“Zhíjué,” Minghao repeats quietly, mulling the word over. There’s something satisfying and soothing about rolling the syllables on his tongue, the way he does it. The way they come from the back of his throat— a language that's as intimate as his mother's lullabies when he was a child.
He lets the word rest in his mouth for a while— zhíjué, gut feeling— before he looks back at you, his chin tilting forward in a nod. He gives you a little smile, appreciative.
"Mhm," he says. "That’s close enough."
You chuckle before slipping right back into Korean. It’s a dizzying back-and-forth between at most three languages, at any given time. The two of you have been called out for it, but Minghao secretly enjoys the challenge. 
"I’ve been meaning to check that out from my neighborhood's library," you note as you tap at the spine of Minghao's copy of Almond. He privately marvels at how your voice sounds more mellifluous in your first language, almost missing the question you pose. “How are you liking it so far?”
He looks down at the book in his lap, thumbing through the pages idly. “It’s good,” he answers simply. There’s a pause, but it's not quite awkward. It's something else... an afterthought. The next words are quieter than the last. “A bit sad.”
“That’s what most reviewers have said about it,” you muse, leaning back against your chair to stretch your legs underneath you. “Maybe I’ll finally pick it up this weekend.”
Minghao doesn’t look at you directly when you start to stretch out, when your shoulders roll forward. Instead the focus of his eyes is on the book on his lap, but his mind is most definitely not on the words on the pages.
When you mention picking it up that weekend, he nods in silent agreement, the movement a bit stiff. And then, in that same beat: “Have you gone to the doctor about your back pain?”
The question is quiet but pointed, with just a hint of concern to his voice. He spots all the tells of you preparing to lie to him— the tick in your jaw, your tongue peeking out between your clenched teeth. “Of course I have,” you lie smoothly. “It’s just your regular back pains that come with sitting in a chair a lot.”
“Hm.”
Even this late in the game, you still thought you could lie to Minghao. And maybe you could, and he would let it slide, in favor of being considerate and polite.
But only for a bit, because he knows you haven't seen a doctor about the back pain that started recently. Knows that you’re being a hypocrite, always asking him to take care of himself when you aren’t even doing the same for yourself.
He’s not entirely surprised, admittedly. You’ve always been so focused on your work and on taking care of others that it was sometimes hard to think that you focused on yourself. Not that Minghao is one to talk, when it comes to taking time for his own health. But this was you.
He sighs, just barely, before he reaches over to nudge you on the shoulder, like he would do with Jun or Soonyoung or any of the other members. “Liar.”
A sound between a huff and a laugh escapes you, but then you raise your palms in a show of surrender. 
“I haven't really had the time to go to the doctor,” you admit sheepishly. “There’s been a lot of content to translate. And I’ve been preparing for the group's Japan showcase next week.”
Minghao knows you well enough to know that you'd probably work yourself till you dropped, if you had the chance. The thought makes him want to roll his eyes.
“Mm,” he responds, his eyes narrowing as he crosses his arms across his chest. “You can stop working for ten minutes to go to a clinic. You have enough money. And even if you don’t, I could—”
He cuts himself off, biting the inside of his cheek. The words nearly slipped.
— take you to one, he had meant to say. 
The offer is on the tip of his tongue; the thought of you walking around with such bad back pain that you could barely walk without hobbling having pissed him off. Some part of him, some tiny selfish part, is holding him back from saying anything.
Maybe he just wants to see what you do. If you’ll finally do something about it, if only because he’s asked you to care for yourself for once.
There’s a flicker of surprise on your expression, though it's quickly smoothed out by something more akin to affection. Minghao had always been the thoughtful kind. It had taken some time for him to warm up to you, but around three or so years into your friendship, you’d started becoming a recipient to his quiet care and compassion.
“I’ll get a proper checkup once the Japan showcase is over,” you finally concede, if only to put his mind at ease. “The whole thing. A CT scan and all that.”
Minghao let out a breath he didn’t realize he had been holding out in silent relief, his shoulders dropping. When you promise that you'll go for a checkup when the Japan showcase is over, part of him wants to say I don’t believe you or I’m coming with you or even I’ll take you there myself.
But he decides to keep his mouth shut. There's no point in arguing, unless he wants to give you even more of a headache. He huffs with faux annoyance. "I’ll hold you to that," he tells you.
Minghao’s little show of annoyance does little to unnerve you, especially when you know it’s just that. A show. You shake your head with amusement before glancing at the table in front of you, where your laptop rests, forgotten. 
“I still have to finish this, though,” you say almost ruefully to Minghao, tilting your head slightly as you look back at him. “Do you have any other schedules for the rest of the day?”
“I don’t,” he says. “We have a free day today. My only plans were to bother you.”
Minghao’s definition of bothering was a lot different from, say, what Mingyu or Jeonghan would call being a bother. No, for Minghao, bothering you entailed simply being in your space— mostly in silence.
“Knock yourself out, then,” you say with a slight wave of your hand, essentially giving Minghao the carte blanche to stick around, maybe read, as you finish off your work. “I'll probably be done in half an hour. Let's grab something to eat after?”
“Thirty minutes,” he agrees. “And I get to pick the place.”
For the next half hour, Minghao makes an effort to not bother you in the way most of the other members would. No unnecessary comments, no sudden pokes with a pen or a random finger tapping at your shoulder.
He simply sits there, legs crossed out in front of him, one hand flicking through the pages of the book he was reading earlier, the other hand on his knee. Every so often, he glances up, just a brief glance to check if you’re still swamped with work.
It’s hard for anybody, even the most unobservant of people, to miss the sight of the two of you  sharing the couch in the company lounge. Two such different people— you, with your cool temperament and soft features, and Minghao, with his sharp eyes and his sharper tongue.
And yet, the sight of the two of you is more familiar than anything else. Anyone who’s been around the company long enough has seen the two of you sitting almost shoulder to shoulder. Quiet. Serene. At utter peace with each other's company.
There are others who want to interrupt, but the intensity of Minghao’s gaze as he glances up briefly is enough to discourage them. It’s a silent challenge and a promise that they better not disturb the two of you.
By the end of the thirty minutes, you’re nearly done with the video subtitles, and Minghao is about five or so pages from finishing his book. The book has been set aside on the table by then, his gaze now focusing on your work, rather than the story in his hands.
You hammer out the last of your subtitles with a mumble of “I’m done, I’m done.” 
You shut your laptop with a slight snap, groaning slightly as you sink back against the back of the couch. “That was rough,” you huff as you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “My French is getting rusty.”
“You say that about every language,” he points out. He watches you for a moment more before he reaches over, fingers wrapping around one of your wrists to tug at your arm. “Come here.”
This wasn’t the first time he’d used touch to get your attention. Minghao wasn’t the most outwardly tactile, but he had his moments. Touch was an easy, unspoken thing; it required no language, it spoke volumes.
This was one of those rare, intimate, moments of his. The moments where he let his guard down, the walls around him falling away. He tugs again, pulling you a little closer to him.
“Come here,” he says again. The word comes out in Mandarin, his fingers gently squeezing around your wrist, his other hand going to your hip to encourage you to lean in.
“So demanding,” you huff in the same language. 
You’re complaining, but there isn’t any bite or any real annoyance in your tone. If you were really bothered, you’d pull your arm away and snap at him in Korean. Instead, you go along with what he’s doing, allowing him to pull you closer, even as you continue to grumble under your breath in Mandarin.
You give too much, he thinks silently, as his hand moves up from your hip to gently press your head into his shoulder, his arm wrapping around your waist instead. You let me have too much.
It’s a compromising position, especially in the company lounge. No other idol would be caught dead cozying up to a staff member like this, but Minghao was just a little bit above it all and HR had long since given up on lecturing you both about propriety.
Your hand absentmindedly rests over his knee, the platonic touch hidden underneath the table. You stick to Mandarin as you hum “This is nice.”
Minghao can’t help but agree with your words, his eyes fluttering close as he rests his cheek on the top of your head. Even with a company full of people around you and a door that anyone could walk through at any second, the two of you are tucked away in your own little world. He hums in response to your words, his own hand moving slightly to lace his fingers through yours.
Despite the fatigue weighing down on you both, the two of you stay like that, tangled together on the couch in a way that's more akin to a couple than just friends.
Eventually, the silence and stillness between you two is broken by a gentle knock on the wood.
Minghao’s eyes flutter open; he lifts his head up slightly to glance towards the door. “It’s open,” he says, his voice not betraying that you’re tucked into his side or that his hand is tangled with yours.
The door creaks open a crack, and Jeonghan peeks in. His eyebrows shoot up slightly. His mouth opens and closes, as if to say something, but you can see a knowing look pass across his face.
“Ah,” he says, and it almost sounds like he’s laughing.
You code switch to Korean, unsurprisingly. “Jeonghan,” you greet, raising your free hand to wave at the older boy. You make no real effort to disentangle from Minghao. If anything, the fact that it's just one of his members makes it easier for you to just relax a bit more. "Hao kept me company while I was working."
"I can see that," Jeonghan says with no shortage of amusement. He steps into the room, decisively closing the lounge door behind him. "I figured he'd be here."
Jeonghan takes a few steps closer to the couch before he halts, just a few steps away, his legs slightly apart and his arms folded over his chest. He looks between the two of you, his gaze drifting meaningfully from the arm wrapped around your waist, to the fingers still entwined with Minghao's.
“He's good at keeping company,” Jeonghan agrees, his head slightly tilted.
“Shut it,” Minghao grumbles in response, irritation obvious in his voice.
He doesn’t move his head or his arm wrapped around your waist. Instead, he raises his other hand— the one that’s still holding your hand— to give Jeonghan a gesture that clearly means for him to go away.
Jeonghan just laughs in response to the gesture, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “What, are you two lovebirds too busy for me?” he says, his tone deliberately saccharine. “I just wanted to tell you that the boys scheduled a game night later.”
Minghao glances down at the watch on his wrist, before looking back at the two of you. “What time?” he grumbles to Jeonghan, visibly displeased at the thought of having to disentangle from you. 
“In about an hour,” Jeonghan sing-songs. 
“Don’t be late,” he adds cheerfully, before promptly turning around and leaving the room.
“There goes our dinner plans,” you deadpan to Minghao once Jeonghan has left, although you don’t really sound upset about it. It’s more of a statement of a fact.
“Guess so,” he responds, his chin still resting on top of your head. Your hair is soft, and his fingers absently brush against the strands.
There’s a beat of stillness between the two of you, before he speaks again. “Sorry,” he murmurs, the word quiet and soft. He knows you’d probably been hoping to eat before going back to subtitles.
“No apologies necessary,” you say easily, because this was just sometimes the reality of our friendship. You always had a dozen other things pulling at you in different directions, and so a couple of stolen hours was always a welcome reprieve.
You give Minghao's hand a gentle squeeze. “Let's stay like this for— five more minutes,” you bargain, a slight smile tugging at your lips as you stare ahead. “And then we can pack up.”
“Five more minutes?” Minghao repeats, his voice low. He thinks over your words for a moment, before he lets out a soft sigh, his hand tightening around yours. “Okay.” 
There aren’t many moments when he isn't in control, or when he lets his guard down. But this— with you, with your soft hair and comfortable warmth, is something he can’t resist. He lets his chin rest on top of your head, the weight of his head resting against you. He closes his eyes, and simply lets himself breathe.
The minutes pass by in comfortable silence, the two of you still tangled together on the couch. For those few moments, Minghao has nothing to worry about and nothing to think about. He has no choreography to practice, no schedule to keep. 
Five minutes spin into seven, then ten. Neither of you are keen to pull away. At the fifteen-minute mark, you finally do try. “We’ve had more than five minutes,” you say against Minghao’s shoulder.
Minghao’s arm tightens around your waist, his fingers curling around your hip in a silent bid to keep you in place. He can feel the reluctance in your tone, the hesitation, and that’s what spurs him to be a little selfish.
He lets out a soft breath, his words a low, reluctant mumble. “Just... one more minute.”
“We have to go, xīngān,” you mutter absentmindedly.
It’s unfair, the way a single word in Mandarin sounds perfect in your voice. He doesn’t know if you’re even aware that you just called him darling— maybe it was a lapse in the switch to Mandarin, maybe it was intentional.
Either way, it doesn’t take more than a single moment for his heart to skip a beat, the sound of the word making something flutter and stir in his chest. His fingers involuntarily tighten around your hip.
“Okay,” he responds, his own voice coming out quieter than usual.
He does let go of you afterwards, the loss of your body heat making his hand feel a little cold. The couch feels noticeably larger and cooler without your side pressed against his, and he already misses the weight of your head against his shoulder.
Minghao tries very hard to look collected as he stands up from the couch, his face almost carefully neutral. His lips quirk up into the ghost of a smile before he offers you a hand to help you up as well.
He holds your hand a little longer than is necessary before letting go slowly. Silence drifts over the two of you as you make your way to the door, and for once, Minghao isn’t quite sure what to say. All he can think about is the single word you’d used— xīngān, in that warm tone of yours.
It’s an endearment he’s heard from friends, family, and fans. It’s a simple, innocent term. The only thing that makes it strange is that he’d never heard you use it for him until now.
He clears his throat, trying— and failing— to keep the quiet waver out of his voice. “Hey,” he says, the word falling from his lips a little more softly than he'd intended.
He pauses for a beat, as you turn to look at him questioningly. He doesn't know how to voice what he wants to say, so he opts to keep things as simple as possible.
“You called me xīngān,” he says point blank. 
For a moment, the silence drags on as you keep walking. "Xīngān," you repeat a little dumbly, your eyebrows furrowed as you try to remember how the word translates in. When it seems to dawn on you, you stop dead in your tracks. 
You’re speaking in Korean when you frantically wave your hands in front of you, your eyes slightly wider than before. “I’m sorry,” you say, panicked. “I think I was aiming for yīngjùn de. You know, ‘handsome.’ I don’t know why I called you—”
Minghao's shoulders nearly slump in disappointment. It’s a stupid, pointless feeling. It’s just a word, and a common endearment, at that— and yet he’s disappointed to learn that you were trying to say something else.
He gives a little scoff, not bothering to keep the petulance out of his voice. “Oh,” he responds, his hand lifting to rub absently at the back of his neck. “Damn.”
“Did you— like being called xīngān?” you ask, and then you try for the term in your smooth, easy Korean. “Yeobo?”
Minghao hesitates, the slightest hitch in his breath as you repeat the word in Korean.
The truth is a stupid, pointless one. The truth is that his heart almost jumped into his throat the moment he heard that single word, those two syllables. The truth is that he did like being called that. He liked being called darling. He liked it a lot, to be quite honest.
He gives an aborted nod, his gaze falling away from your face. “Maybe. A little.”
“In Korean or in Mandarin?” you prod. 
“Do you prefer yeobo,” you start, the Korean term rolling easily off your tongue. “Or xīngān?”
Your Mandarin version is a little more hesitant, more reserved, but just a touch more sweeter.
Both, Minghao nearly blurts out, before he stops himself. He doesn't know which one it is he likes more— the sweet, gentle lilt of the Mandarin, or the smooth, almost-familiar Korean. All he knows is that the sound of being called ‘darling’ in your voice, in any language, makes something in his chest flutter and tighten.
He hesitates, but again— there's no point in being coy about it, is there? 
“Both,” he answers softly, his eyes lifting up to meet yours.
“Darling,” you test out— this time not in Mandarin or Korean, but in English. It's heavily accented and clumsy, but the sentiment is still the same. Minghao sucks in a breath, his heart skipping another beat. It's stupid, he’s stupid, but—
He likes how you sound, speaking English. He likes the way your words soften and drag, the way your tongue wraps around the syllables, the gentle flow of your sentences. It’s all so stupid, and yet his heart can't help but skip another beat as he listens to you speak.
The corners of his mouth lift slightly. “I like that one too,” he responds.
“In any language, huh?” you tease lightly, a light pink dusting your cheeks. The two of you begin to walk, again, because you do have places to be.
In an absentminded way, you begin to mumble the ways you know ‘darling’ is translated in other languages.
Spanish. Cariño. Portuguese. Querido. Italian. Tesoro. French. Chérie. German. Liebling.
If nothing else, Minghao has to admit that watching your cheeks flush— and hearing you speak all these other languages— is very distracting.
He’s still busy mentally storing away this new, intriguing tidbit of information that he's learned about himself, but he still can't help his mind from wandering at the sound of other languages falling from your lips. A few of them are familiar, having seen or heard them before, but some of them are entirely new.
Minghao can’t help his mind from dwelling on how good they sound when you say them.
"Wait— what about Arabic?" he asks, cutting into your little list.
It’s the only one he can think of. He just wanted to hear you say this one, too.
“I haven’t touched Arabic in ages,” you mutter distractedly. Minghao can’t help but silently laugh as he watches your facial expressions flicker in a series of micro-emotions, each one slightly different from the other. Frustration, confusion, a pinch of annoyance— and all of it over this little thing.
“I think it's maḥbūb,” you answer after a full moment's pause. Your nose scrunches up in mild frustration; the endearment accented in the language you don’t use often.
His laugh turns into a little scoff, before he finally just lets the laugh roll right out of his lungs. “You’re cute when you’re frustrated,” he tells you fondly, the words falling from his mouth before he can help himself.
Shit.
He'd planned on saying that, but not so— casually. So off-handedly, without a thought to the meaning behind the sentiment. It’s a little much, and yet he can't take the words back now that they’re out there. Thankfully, you take it in stride. 
“And you’re cute for liking to be called darling,” you tease right back.
The words hit Minghao square in the chest like one of your punches. He’s glad you’re a few paces ahead of him so you can’t see the way his mouth parts slightly, the way he nearly stumbles. He’s thankful for the few beats of silence before you pipe up once more.
“I think I’ll stick to xīngān,” you commit.
And just like that, he’s breathless again.
He’s a sucker for that term, the way it rolls off your tongue. The way you choose it, like it's the easiest, most obvious choice in the world. “Xīngān,” he finds himself echoing, his voice softer, breathier than he’d meant it to be.
The sound of it leaves a warm, pleasant feeling in his chest. He likes the safety of the word, the way it makes something in his chest flutter. He can’t help the slight smile from tugging at his lip.
“I like the way you say it,” he admits, no longer bothering to keep up the charade of nonchalance.
“I’ll say it more, then,” you muse.
Minghao isn’t even fully convinced that you realize that this is flirting. He’d always gotten that feeling, that you don't always notice when something turns into that sort of casual teasing. He knows you can flirt; he’s witnessed some of your flirtations personally and he’s heard plenty of stories from the others.
But this sort of thing— this banter, the way you tease him with a casual sweetness in your voice— it’s new flirting territory. It’s something he's never experienced in your presence.
He follows you silently to the doors of the company, his heart pounding in his chest. The two of you walk side-by-side, your hips and shoulders nearly brushing with every two steps.
Neither of you bother to slow down as you near your inevitable separation. There isn’t a point, after all. Why draw out the goodbyes?
Before he loses the confidence, Minghao reaches out to snag your wrist. He can only hope that you’re less oblivious than he’s afraid you are. 
“Hey,” he calls you back, his voice just a touch breathless. “You free this weekend?”
You tilt your head to one side, only momentarily thrown off. It wasn’t unnatural for you to meet with the boys when they didn’t have a schedule. Sometimes, it was a language lesson; other times, it was a spontaneous hangout. It was always discreet, never anything to really read in to.
You and Minghao have had your fair share of escapades. Chinese takeout on the floor of your apartment, trips to a local library. They’re few and far between, but always welcome.
“I’m free Saturday evening. I have to work in the morning, and I have a family thing on Sunday,” you answer. “What’s up?”
Minghao feels the slight tension in his shoulders loosen at your answer. It’s not a no, not when it comes with a little extra clarification, as though you had been expecting something of a meetup anyway.
He drops the grip on your wrist, his fingers loosening just enough that you can pull away if you want. “Do you want to—” he starts, the words catching in his throat. Is it just him, or is the hallway warm? “Do you want to go to the movies?”
“The movies? Sure. What did you want to watch?" you inquire, your head tilting further as your curiosity is piqued.
The overhead lights catch the soft, sharp lines of your face, illuminating the features that Minghao knows like the back of his hand. The gentle tilt of your chin, the way you’re slightly shorter than he was, the way your hair frames your face in a messy but unfussy way— as though you didn’t try, but the effect was pleasing nonetheless.
It’s an effect that isn't lost on Minghao, that leaves something warm and fond twisting in his chest. He struggles to get a hold of himself.
“There's a film festival,” he says. “An international film festival, over in Gwangjin.”
If Minghao were a weaker man, he would have beamed at your reaction— the excitement in your voice, the way you reached out to squeeze his wrist in turn.
“That sounds fun,” you say happily. “I’d love to go.”
He knew you were passionate about languages, about cultures— one of the reasons you two have gotten on so well, as you’re the only person he’s ever met who shares that sort of enthusiasm. The only person who understands it in a way that doesn’t feel too much.
He gives you a little flicker of a smile before he answers. “Good.” 
There's a beat of silence as he contemplates his next few words— and what exactly he was about to propose. “You know…” he finally says, his tone just a little hesitant. “There's a… there's a film that I really wanted to see. In the festival, I mean.” 
“It’s in Mandarin,” he quickly clarifies, the words tumbling from his mouth in a way that feels a little too much like panic. “Um— will your Mandarin be up to it? No subtitles.”
“I’ll be up for it,” you assure Minghao laughingly. “If I miss anything, I guess I’ll just have to ask you.”
Ask him? The idea— the mere implication that you’d be leaning in, closer, to ask him. That you’d be needing something, some sort of clarification, a better context.
The way you'd need him.
And perhaps it was obvious, the way you and he were constantly switching back and forth— him with his Mandarin and your Korean and English, to fill in the blanks. But the words still set something loose in his chest, to know that he would be there to help you if you needed it.
“Yeah,” he says, once he finally manages to remember how to speak. “Yeah, you can ask me.”
As you begin to step away, you speak up. “It’s a date, then,” you say casually, still painfully unheeding to the implications of everything. “Will you pick me up or should I meet you there, xīngān?”
Minghao has never felt more simultaneously grateful and betrayed by your lack of awareness.
Because how could you be so casual, how could you just drop that right in front of him— calling it a date, calling him ‘darling’— as though it was nothing more than just another hangout? It leaves him reeling in a way that makes it impossible to respond.
He can only offer a nod, his throat dry, as one hand lifts in a half-wave. “I’ll pick you up,” he says, his brain lagging behind with the rest of his body.
You give a small wave back, your smile just as bright and friendly as the rest of you. This was going to be a thorn in Minghao's side, it seemed. Your brain wasn’t good at half measures. You needed clarity, needed straightforwardness to confront abstract feelings.
You disappear through the revolving front doors of the company, leaving Minghao in the company lobby that suddenly feels all-too warm. His phone pings in his pocket; a text from Jun.
You're late to game night, his member teases. Get away from the love of your life and get your ass over here. ㅋㅋㅋ
Because of course Jeonghan had tattled to all the other boys where Minghao had been. He rolls his eyes as he glances down at the screen, tapping out a quick response.
I'm coming. Don't cheat.
He glances up and back at the glass revolving doors, knowing full-well that you're already on the street at this point.
Minghao, for all his bluntness, has suddenly found himself in a situation where all he can do is beat around the bush.
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Minghao arrives outside your apartment building on time, his hands shoved deep in his pockets against the early evening chill. His heart is pounding in his chest, the nervous energy buzzing in his veins.
He had dressed up. He had put on cologne. He was taking you to a film festival. What could possibly happen that would go wrong?
It's a thought that is interrupted when a horn beeping snaps Minghao's attention away from his inner thoughts, as he straightens and glances down the street. There's no one parked on your street, no one walking down the sidewalk. He takes a step forward, peering across to the other side of the street— and there you are, stepping out of the building.
It takes everything he's got to keep a straight face. It feels like something out of a drama, and he's still not entirely sure he's not dreaming.
The fact that you're dressed up too is not lost on him. Damn it, of course you'd look good to him, no matter what you'd chosen to wear.
Minghao straightens as you draw closer, suddenly not quite knowing what to do with his hands. Does he pull you in for a hug? Offer up a casual, friendly greeting?
He settles for a nod, shoving his hands further into the pockets of his jeans, doing his best not to stare. "Hey."
"Hey," you greet right back, flashing Minghao a dimpled smile. You give Minghao a once-over.
"You look nice," you say like it's the most casual observation in the world. 
The praise sets something aflutter in Minghao's stomach, his hands gripping his car keys a little tighter to try and keep them from shaking. "Thanks," he responds, somehow finding it in himself to step closer and unlock the car door for you. "You look good, too." 
Good doesn't even begin to cover it, he thinks as he goes to slide into the driver’s seat. 
"You got me nervous," you say as you pull the seat belt over yourself, suddenly slipping into Mandarin. "About the film having no subtitles, I mean. So I ended up brushing up on my Mandarin."
He lets out a small huff of a laugh that's bordering on a scoff. "Since when have you had to brush up on anything?" he responds in Mandarin as well, flicking on the turn signal and pulling the car out into the street. "Your Mandarin is perfect."
"I'm always studying. You know me," you chirp, leaning forward slightly to fiddle with the knobs of Minghao's car radio. You’ve been in his passenger seat enough time to feel comfortable doing this; you settle on a station playing mostly Western indie songs.
"And my Mandarin always has room for improvement," you go on. "I'm still working on that C2-level proficiency."
Of course you weren't satisfied with just good. You had to go and be an overachiever. Minghao finds himself shaking his head at the thought of how your drive for excellence in everything was— for lack of any better word— admirable and adorable all at the same time.
"You're insane," he says under his breath, still so awed by self-imposed standards. "You really don't need to do that, you know. You're great the way you are."
"How is it that you're both goading and complimenting me at the same time?" you tease.
The way you speak sounds effortless and yet Minghao can pick up on the little moments where your tongue would just ever so slightly stumble. He could correct you, but God, he's never quite heard that same sound before.
In fact, he's suddenly very aware of just how different you two sound when you speak his mother tongue.
"It's called being a good friend," he responds, fighting the rising urge to say something else.
"You're a pain in the ass, but I love you, anyway," he continues, his hand settling on a knob on the center console to change the radio station to something with a bit more of a modern beat. You always had to listen to indie music.
As the sounds of some Top Fifties pop song filters through the car, you let out a snort of laughter and respond noncommittally to Minghao's jab. "Love you, too," you say with no shortage of sarcasm. The words, in Mandarin— wǒ yě ài nǐ— still sound soft and sweet and lilting, despite your best effort to sound mocking.
Minghao suddenly has to swallow against his very dry throat. He hadn't expected that response from you, not when the last time he had said those words to you was months and months ago during an argument between the two of you. A particularly stressful work week, a squabble that neither of you talk about anymore.
"You better," he manages to respond, his voice cracking ever so slightly on the second syllable of 'better'. He hopes it goes unnoticed.
That little stutter, that tiny stumble around the last syllable of 'better', was the only indicator that betrayed the way Minghao's heart was hammering out the wildest beat in his chest.
He knows it's a sign of his own impending nerves when he turns the radio volume all the way up, drowning out any chance of conversation between the two of you for the rest of the ride to the venue.
Far too used to Minghao's pockets of peace, you pay no heed to the fact that the rest of the car ride is spent in companionable silence. You only break it once Minghao is pulling up into the parking lot of the theater house.
"You should go ahead. I'll get us snacks," you offer delicately, this time in Korean. The reminder of how the two of you had to hide any sort of public interaction settles like a stone at the very bottom of Minghao's stomach, and yet he nods anyway, silently agreeing with the logic of your suggestion.
You ask, "Is there anything you want to eat?"
He lets out a soft sigh as he pulls the keys out of the ignition. "Popcorn," he responds, his eyes skimming over your form as you unclick the seatbelt to leave. "With M&Ms."
The familiar request makes a small smile tug at your lips. It was the same thing, still, that Minghao asked for after all these years of movie-watching. "Got it," you say, sliding out of his car. "I'll find you in a bit."
Even through the closed car door and over the sound of the car radio turned up to its highest, he can still clearly hear the smile in your voice. It sets that now familiar thump in his chest into overdrive.
"Hurry up," he responds in all of his usual nonchalance, despite the fact that his eyes are still following your figure, taking in the way you carry yourself as you walk away.
Shit, he's so gone for you.
Minghao's choice of seats are typical as always. In the very back of the theater, to keep him away from possible prying eyes.
You settle into the seat at his right, carefully balancing the food you’d gotten the two of you. "I couldn't carry two popcorn buckets, so we'll have to share this big one," you whisper to him as you pass him his pack of M&Ms and a bottle of soda.
"Thanks,” he murmurs over the sound of advertisements playing over the big screen.
"I've heard a lot of good things about this film," you mumble. "No making fun of me if I cry."
"I would never," he replies, voice as light as yours.
Sure enough, the opening of the film has Minghao leaning forward on the edge of his seat, engrossed in the drama unraveling between the characters on-screen. It's like he was that sixteen year-old boy in the movie, struggling to find his place in the world.
He's all but quiet in his consumption of popcorn, a hand sneaking into the bucket at times to munch on a few pieces idly. A few times, when the food almost runs out— he accidentally brushes his fingers against yours. The touch is brief, accidental, but each time, his skin feels like it's singing, and he fights the impulse to grasp your hand altogether every time he reaches for popcorn.
He does notice, however, when you seem to encounter unfamiliar words. His gaze flicks over to you as your lips wordlessly form the nickname they call the main character. Xiǎoshì.
It's a term, sure, but it's far more than that to him.
For him, it's a moment. A time in his life that was so brief, but one he remembers like it happened yesterday. A small part of him wants to tell you all about it, but he can't now. 
And so he settles on another form of communication. With your attention still on the screen, Minghao reaches over— and finally grasps your hand. Interlocking your fingers together.
As your fingers grasp with his, a part of him hopes that you don't pull away. He almost wants to look sideways at you, just so he can see your reaction— read your face as you focus on the movie in front of you, as your heart beats fast, loud, against your ribcage.
He doesn't dare to hope, though. He keeps his hand in yours, holding on tightly, as the movie continues to play out, the scenes getting more familiar to him.
The main character gets into a particularly nasty row with his mother about following his dreams, about leaving home, about wanting a better life than the one they had in their province. His gaze flinches slightly at the familiar scene before him and the memories, the emotions, that it all brings up in him.
It's a tense scene, spoken in the scathing language he'd grown up in, and you can tell the way it's affecting him. Instinctively, you reach your free hand over to gently press at the side of Minghao's head; a quiet invitation for him to rest his head on your shoulder.
Minghao takes you up on your invitation, the touch of your hand almost a command to him. He lets his head rest on your shoulder, not unlike a weary puppy. He can practically hear his mother's voice in some parts of the argument playing out in the movie. He can hear his own words echoing in his ears— almost as if he himself was the one speaking on-screen.
He wants to stay in the moment, with you, in the darkened theater as the movie continues to play. He doesn't think he can tear his eyes away from the screen, just like how he feels like he can't let go of your hand.
But it's a movie— a coming-of-age one, at that— and so all ends well. The boy and his mother reconcile. The main character is not any older by the last part of the film, but he's wiser, and the whole thing ends with him looking out at the Beijing skyline, humming an old lullaby for comfort.
The credits roll. The lights stay off as they do, and you finally, finally, bring yourself to pull away from Minghao's shoulder.  
You keep your hand in his, though, as you let out a quiet, watery laugh. "Xu Minghao," you reprimand in Mandarin. "You took me to the saddest movie ever."
"I told you," he responds back lightly, in Mandarin, his own voice a little rough from trying to hold himself back just a bit. "My friend said it was a sad one, when he recommended it. And you said you were fine."
He squeezes your hand again, shifting in his seat so that he was facing you, a hint of teasing in his tired eyes.
Absent-mindedly, you rub your thumb on the back of his palm. "How did you like it?" you ask, pitching your voice lower, still, despite no one being within your vicinity.  
Minghao's eyes soften a little at the tender gesture on your part. He feels the light, comforting motion of your thumb brushing against the back of his palm and he lets out a small, shaky sigh of his own. "It was... a little difficult to watch," he admits, his voice quiet, his eyes focused on your interlocked hands between you.  
"Do you want to talk about it over dinner?" you offer, your smile just a touch rueful. "Or we could just... have dinner and not talk about it at all. Whichever works best for you."  
At your offer, a small, almost self-deprecating smile quirks at the corner of Minghao's lips. He squeezes your hand one more time. "Dinner, yes. Talking, no."
The walk back to the car is a quiet one. Once you’re in your seats, Minghao puts the burden of deciding on you. 
"There's this barbeque place I've really been wanting to try out over in Myeongdeong," you rave, but then your fingers freeze over the GPS screen. You glance at Minghao over your shoulder, suddenly a bit sheepish. "It's a bit out of the way from your dorm and my apartment, though. Is that alright?"  
He lets out a small, soft laugh, shifting in his seat a little before reaching over to lightly flick your ear. "When has distance ever stopped me?" he retorts, his usual dry tease in his voice. "Let's go, I'm starving."  
"Alright, alright," you huff as you plug in the address. The directions to the restaurant— somewhere twenty minutes away, barring traffic— appear on screen as you move back into your seat, still pouting slightly at your ear being flicked. "I just thought you'd be sick of me after the movie."  
"Sick of you?" He scoffs at your words as he begins to peel out of the parking lot. "I think I would die of boredom without you, actually."  
“Ah. Because no one else will keep up with you like this, hm?"  
"They're not quick enough. You're one of the rare ones who don't make me want to tear my hair out."  
"You're laying it on thick tonight. Is this a ploy to get me to pick up the dinner bill?” you tease. "Because really, Hao, there's a rather big difference between the salaries of idols and translators."  
He chuckles a little at your comment, his grip around the steering wheel tightening slightly. "No, this is not a ploy to make you pay for dinner. I'm treating tonight. I'm rich, remember?"  
"Yah, you're not treating!” you shoot back. “We’ll pay for our own shares. You should only spend your money on things that are important.”  
"And treating you isn't important? You're always important to me. Don't deny it."  
When you suddenly go silent as a flush starts to creep up your face, Minghao can't help but look away from the road for a few moments to glance at you from the corner of his eye. He can only see the side of your face, the blush that colors your cheeks glowing against your skin.  
"You can't just say stuff like that so casually," you snap, though your tone is soft around the edges. "You should save that for birthdays or holidays."  
"And why only birthdays and holidays?" he muses. "I'd rather tell you all the time."  
In a bid to regain a bit of an upper hand, you keep your eyes out the window as you mumble in Mandarin, "Just keep driving, xīngān."  
Seeing your flustered face flush an even deeper color of red gives Minghao a sort of satisfaction, his lips tugging up at the corners. He can't help but chuckle a little more when he hears the words that leave your mouth in Mandarin, his mind taking a few moments to register the nickname he's grown to like.  
"Yah, don't just call me that without warning," he says, voice slightly muffled as he continues to focus on the road. "My heart can only handle so much."  
You finally glance over at him. The blush still lingers, but there's a bit of a mischievous glint in your eyes now. "Should I warn you, then, if I'm about to use it?" you say sweetly, sticking to his mother tongue for the sake of seeing how far you can go with it. "Should I only save it for special occasions?"
"Yes," he manages to hiss out after a beat, a small scowl on his face when he realizes that you're taking advantage of his weakness. "I'd much prefer you to warn me in advance. And only use it on occasions that actually count."
"I'm about to use it," you warn instantly, leaning slightly forward to turn down the radio. There had been some other group's song playing, filling the car with the sweet, lilting sounds of a ballad.  
"This occasion counts, xīngān," you sing-song. "Every moment with you counts."  
At your obvious mockery, Minghao's scowl only deepens, not that he really minds. Your sweet words have his heart thudding loudly in his chest in spite of his protests.  
"Stop being so cheesy. You're only saying this because you know that I like it, aren't you?"  
"I'm saying it because I like it," you answer. "It suits you. I'm about to use it again."  
You pause for a beat. "Darling," you say, this time cycling between English, Korean, and Mandarin. "Yeobo. Xīngān."  
This time, Minghao can't help but chuckle. He's definitely going to be having a good time tonight.  
"Are you going to spend the rest of the night calling me that?" he questions, finally having to pause at a red light. He turns to look at you for a few moments. "Just so I know what to expect."  
"Do you want me to?" you ask right back, your eyebrows raised slightly.  
"If you did," he starts, the words coming out before he even fully registers them, "I wouldn't stop you."  
The light turns green. The cars in front of you move forward a bit, and that means that you have to as well. The moment passes ever so slightly as Minghao is forced to lurch forward, to turn the corner that will finally have you at the barbecue place you'd recommended.  
You look ahead, away, the smile on your face widening just a bit. And because he said he wouldn't mind, because he'd given you something akin to a go-ahead—  
"Alright, xīngān," you say softly.  
The term of affection in your voice has Minghao's heartbeat rising, the nickname ringing in his ears, filling his chest with a sort of sweetness at the sound of it. It was like music to his ears, he thinks, the way you say it, the way it sounds.  
Once again, he can't help the smile that finds a place on his face, though he hides it by turning away to concentrate on the road ahead, trying to focus on it instead of the way his heart just won't stop racing in his chest.
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The meal is comfortable. You talk about everything and nothing; you take turns cooking the meat. If sometimes you fall silent, neither of you feel the need to fill that quiet. You're so assured in each other's presence that we're fine to just be.
It's easy, with you— easy to relax in a way that he sometimes can't with others. He feels comfortable with you, safe around you, and he doesn't really have to think about what words he uses or the right thing to say.
You make it easy for him. And he's grateful for it.
As the night continues, though, the light conversation seems to eventually die down. Not that it bothers him; no, as Minghao has said before, the two of you do well with silence.
In the quiet that now surrounds the two of you, though, his mind begins to wander. A thought that has been in the back of his mind since earlier that night resurfaces again.
"Xīngān," he begins tentatively, his eyes still on the grill in front of him as if staring at it is supposed to give him some strength. Once again, he finds himself turning to Mandarin for the question, the words feeling like home on his tongue.
It feels, somehow, more fitting to ask you this question in the language that's his, one that he's comfortable and practiced in. "Do you believe in fate?"
Mìngyùn. Fate. Your mouth soundlessly tries out the word, the two syllables lolling on your tongue.  
"Like— the red thread of fate," you say, just a little dumbly, as you contemplate Minghao's question. You don't even notice the way you've switched over to Mandarin to match his pace. "Like that kind of fate? Or something else?"  
He takes a beat before he answers, trying to figure out how to word his question, how to express what he means in a way that makes sense, even to himself. "I mean that kind of fate," he clarifies. "Like, soulmates."  
"Do you?" you ask suddenly, throwing the query back to him.  
"I do."  
"What version of the red string of fate do you believe in?"  
He hesitates when you ask him the question, not quite sure how to explain the kind of fate he believes in. "I believe in things that are inevitable."  
"I mean— I believe in things that are destined," he continues, trying to elaborate. "I believe the people— the ones who are supposed to be together— will always find each other, in a way, no matter what happens. No matter how much time passes, or what obstacles there are between them."  
The way the corner of your mouth twitches when he says the word inevitable sets something ablaze inside him. 
He knows the look you're giving him is just one of interest, not a look of affection, but to him, it feels like a look of affection.  
Your lips twist into a slightly rueful smile as you take a moment to flip the meat on the grill, trying to keep it from burning. It's your turn to keep your gaze evasive as you answer. 
"I'm not sure if I believe in fate," you say, your Mandarin deliberately careful and slow. "Or soulmates. Not in the way that you do, at least."  
The words strike a painful sort of ache in his chest and Minghao finds himself having to bite down on the inside of his lip, trying to quell the way his heart seems to clench at the confession.  
This time, you slide into Korean, desperate to get your point across in the language that you know, in the tongue where you won’t be misconstrued. "I want to. I want to believe that soulmates exist— that there's someone out there for all of us," you say with a little more firmness, the change in speech giving you some more conviction.
"But I think that if soulmates do exist, they're not found; they're made." You pause to bring your gaze back up to Minghao. "People meet, they get a good feeling, and they get to work building a relationship. And that will lead to the inevitable."  
He's not quite sure why it feels like a loss, somehow, to no longer be speaking in Mandarin, and it makes his fingers itch for something to do. There's a moment where Minghao has to process the words you say, the way you express yourself so firmly and deliberately, as if you've given this some thought. Slowly, he gives a nod. "Like working in a relationship. Like making it work."  
"Like making it work," you concede.  
You gently place the last pieces of meat on Minghao's plate. "The concept of the red string of fate has always scared me," you admit, your mouth twitching upward in a slightly wistful smile. "What if the person on the other end follows the string only to realize they don't like what they find?"  
Minghao's gaze drifts down to the plate of food you've assembled for him, a gesture that feels oddly domestic, somehow, to have someone prepare a plate for him, and his heart gives a warm, affectionate little squeeze. 
He looks back up when you speak, his face a carefully stoic mask in spite of the way his heart is giving a painful thud, thud, thud inside his chest.  
"I think..." he begins slowly, his eyes still on you, the words leaving his lips careful and deliberate, as if he's trying to pick them out slowly from a tangled mess in his mind.
There's an intensity to his gaze, a gravity that's hard to miss. "I think even if the person on the other end of the string doesn't like what they find, it's what they're supposed to have. It's what they're destined for."  
"Ah. Destiny."  
Minghao had stuck with Mandarin; you say it in Korean. The two words— mìngyùn, unmyeong— are the two faces of the same coin.  
"And who do you think I'm destined for, xīngān?" you ask with just the right amount of teasing, making it a point to still refer to Minghao with the Mandarin term of ‘darling’ despite speaking the rest of the question in Korean.  
It's supposed to be nothing more than a good-natured joke, but Minghao feels the sudden urge to be honest.
He knows it's a joke, he knows it's meant to be a lighthearted question, but something in the back of his head, something sharp and cruel, his traitorous, selfish heart keeps repeating the question back to him: Who do you think I'm destined for? 
The thought that you'd be destined for anyone but him makes him feel like there's something lodged in his throat, something painful and sharp, and he wants to reach out and grab you, hold you, pull you tight against him and just never let go.
But instead he just looks at you and he forces the corners of his lips to tug up into a smile. "You're destined for someone wonderful," he says in his soft Mandarin, his trademark sincerity.
It's a non-answer; a cop-out, a way to avoid confessing things he shouldn't, but it's the best he can manage at this moment, when I wish it was me is screaming so loud in his head, it's all he can hear.
You smile softly.
Minghao had told the truth. You are destined for someone wonderful. 
He just wishes he could have been more specific. 
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The next time he sees you is ahead of the boys’ Japanese showcase. Minghao had been lagging behind in the airport; he'd managed to get a few moments of shut eye on the plane, but it did little to stave off the exhaustion he still felt.
He walks a few steps behind Seungcheol, his eyes flitting idly through the crowd, until they land on you, walking slightly ahead.
You were already moving efficiently, keeping your gaze straight as you walked next to Seungcheol, your eyes focused and unflinching even as the press and fans yelled out at you.
Minghao's eyes don't leave your figure, following you and Seungcheol as you navigate the throngs of airport patrons with practiced ease. He's almost unsettled by how effortless you seemed— walking through the crowd as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll through the park, your expression set and unwavering as you translate for Seungcheol in a low, firm tone.
Once you finally get past the front doors of the airport, there's a lull as the boys all pile into a twelve-seater van. You stay by the door, finally stealing seconds to see each of them as they pass by you.  
Vernon dips his head in a nod. Mingyu throws you an exaggerated wink. Jun mouths 'hello' to you in Japanese. 
And then it's Minghao's turn to get in the van, to pass by you. There's not much either of you can do or say yet, considering the fact that there are still fans and press scrutinizing your every move, but he still has this. A moment of acknowledgment, however he deems fit.  
Minghao's mouth tugs up at one corner as he sees you smile at him, the sight immediately making something warm bloom in his chest.  
He can't help the subtle, almost instinctual reaction as he stops ever so slightly in passing you. He wants to say something, but words elude him.  
Instead, his hand just grazes against your wrist— the merest press of his fingers against the bare skin of your arm. It's a tiny gesture, but one that speaks volumes.
For the rest of the car ride to the hotel, Minghao struggles.
He's stuck in a car full of members, all exhausted from the flight, all loud and noisy and rowdy, and the van feels suddenly stifling. He spends most of the time looking out the window, trying to focus on whatever he sees.
Anything to distract himself from thoughts of you and the ghost of your soft, warm skin under his fingers.
The next time you're slated to see the group is in the dressing room before their showcase. It's hours later. Hours you spend translating, liaising, transcribing. The dressing room is as lively as ever, most of the members having already changed into their stage outfits. Several of them are sitting around, idly eating snacks or watching videos.  
You carefully push open the door. "Hey," you greet, and you're met with the instant chorus of thirteen boys welcoming you.  
Seungkwan excitedly calls out, "Hey, hey, hey!"  
Joshua gives you a warm smile. Chan waves exaggeratedly.  
You let out a huff of laughter, already acutely familiar with the boys' habits. "Just wanted to check in on everyone before the showcase," you say as you lean against the doorframe.
Minghao is sitting on a couch in the corner of the room, his eyes on you as you say your reason for coming to see them. 
"We're all good here," Jeonghan answers, one hand propping his chin up. "You look like you could use a sit, though."
Your laugh is just a little strained, your smile a touch forced. But your façade stays intact, even as you shake your head. "I've still got some preparations to do," you say lightly, and then you shift gears before anyone can press. "How was the flight?"
"It was fine," Seokmin pipes up. "You know, nothing out of the usual. We were well-behaved."
"Well-behaved," Wonwoo echoes from the couch. "If by well-behaved, you mean Soonyoung and Vernon got extremely handsy in the plane."
"Hey," Vernon protests, whipping his head around to look at Wonwoo, "don't say it like that!"
On the couch, Jihoon lets out an amused snort, shaking his head in fond, exasperated disbelief. "No, no, please," he encourages, his voice laced with sarcasm, "tell everyone how you two almost got us yelled at by the stewards because you were roughhousing over some food."
Soonyoung pouts, his expression instantly adopting a look of exaggerated innocence. "I don't know what you're talking about," he insists. "I was a perfect angel."
While the other boys are all busy ribbing on Vernon and Soonyoung, Minghao makes his way over to where you're standing against the doorframe.
He stops when he's standing next to you, and the corner of his mouth tugs up into an amused smile as he takes in your distant, almost out of it expression. When he speaks, his voice is soft enough for you to hear but low enough that the others can't, barely more than a whisper. 
"You look tired."
You give him a sheepish smile as you pat out invisible wrinkles on your linen blazer. "Hao," you greet quietly, still a bit hesitant to use xīngān in front of his members.
Your gaze flickers briefly to the rest of the room before you switch to Mandarin, a clear indication that you want your next words to be for Minghao and Minghao alone.  
"I am tired," you admit in his native tongue. "But it's nothing crazy. Just the usual exhaustion."  
"You always work too hard," he responds, matching your switch to Mandarin. His gaze sweeps over your form, taking in the weary lines of your frame, the subtle stiffness in your stance. "You look like you'll fall over any second."  
You roll your shoulders a bit, unconsciously leaning closer toward him. "It's my back, still," you confess. "Making things a little harder than usual. I really will get it checked when we're back in Korea."  
A concerned frown tugs at the corners of Minghao's mouth when he hears you say it's your back, his eyes sweeping over your frame once again. "How long has it been bothering you?" he asks, his gaze sweeping over you.  
He tries not to seem too obvious about it, but he steps a little bit closer, shifting a fraction of an inch closer in case you do fall over. His arm brushes up against yours, the contact between the two of you almost imperceptible.  
"This morning," you say with a rueful smile, your hand reaching behind to massage the small of your back from over your layers of clothing. "The plane was a bit cramped."  
Minghao's eyes narrow a fraction of an inch when he hears the reason, one of his eyebrows lifting slightly in a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I told you to get it checked before the flight," he says.  
You give Minghao a look that's mildly exasperated and wholly exhausted. "I'm already booked to see a physician once this trip is over," you grumble, crossing your arms over your chest as you look up at Minghao.  
"You always say that," Minghao responds, the hint of annoyance in his voice a clear indication of just how frustrated he is. "It's clearly bothering you every day. If you just took some time off, maybe even just a week, maybe you'd—"  
"Minghao."
The quiet, stern way you say his name— just his name; not Hao, not xīngān— cuts right through his frustrated tirade. A flicker of surprise passes across Minghao's features, the almost snap in your tone shutting him up.
"I'm going to go," you inform him stiffly, slipping back into Korean and away from the language you reserved for each other. "We need to prepare for the showcase."
His jaw clenches, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he tries to keep his mouth shut for once, biting back the words he wants to say, the protests that are so close to leaving his lips. He lets out another huff of air, forcing his expression to stay neutral. 
"Yeah," he replies in the same language, the one word filled with annoyance. "See you."
When the showcase rolls around, you maintain a backstage presence. Your role, as always, entails that you pay complete attention to the boys as they speak. Whenever they address the crowd as a whole, you translate their Korean into Japanese.
For some reason, hearing the familiar sound of your voice coming out of the speakers, the smoothness of your Japanese, still feels somewhat calming to Minghao. In the chaos of lights and loud music, hearing the rhythm of your words through the speakers makes it feel like, at least for the moment, you're still right there beside him.
When the songs pass and the showcase ends, the members are all still riding the high of the excitement of their performance, the energy of their fans still buzzing in the atmosphere.
They all make their way backstage, the hum of their conversations filling the air, a sense of excitement and satisfaction, each and every one of them energized. Minghao, once again, makes his way over to where you're standing, his eyes on you, his expression almost intense.
You don't immediately notice Minghao approaching because a staff member is talking to you in rapid Japanese about some interviews you need to coordinate, need to play the role of interpreter for. You're trying to bargain for a moment's break, but it's a losing battle.
The staff then suddenly folds into a bow, and only then do you realize that Minghao had come up to you. You dip your head in an equally respectful bow of acknowledgement.
In Japanese, you tiredly assure the staff member you'll be there for the press circus; she leaves Minghao and you alone at your reassurance. You flash Minghao a weary smile, slipping, this time, into Korean. "Good job with the showcase," you say benevolently. "You did well."
He can't help the subtle frown that forms on his face, the way his eyebrows furrow in concern. The fact that you're once again hiding behind that professional exterior of yours, the friendly, polite smile you're shooting him, does nothing to soothe his frustration.
"Thanks," he mutters, his tone somewhat clipped.
He hesitates for a moment, his gaze sweeping over you. "Hey," he eventually says. "Come with me for a second."
You cast a glance around backstage. The boys are all off doing their own things— chugging water, ribbing each other, taking photos. In a gaggle of thirteen, it's easy to fly under the radar at any given time.
"You have a magazine interview in fifteen minutes," you tell Minghao, clueing him in on the conversation you had with staff just moments prior. "We can't really go anywhere—"
"I know," Minghao responds, his tone perhaps a little sharper than he'd meant it to be, frustration getting the better of him.
He takes a quick glance around the backstage area, confirming that the others are all occupied enough that they won't notice, before his gaze lands back on you. "We won't be long," he assures you, already grabbing your wrist.
His grasp on your wrist is firm, his hand strong and his fingers wrapping around the limb easily, pulling you along with him, with no room for any protest. He doesn't break his pace until he's found a small, secluded bathroom, pulling you inside and shutting the door behind the two of you before anyone could notice.
"Minghao," you hiss under your breath, still obviously pissed in the way you forgo both his nickname and pet name. "You can't just drag me off when we have work."  
Even in his already frustrated state, Minghao finds himself momentarily distracted by your pissed off tone, and the use of his name without a nickname or pet name. He likes you calling him by some form of a cute or affectionate moniker far more than just plain, unadorned Minghao.  
"We still have a couple more minutes," he retorts, mirroring your tone even as his hand slides down to lace your fingers together.  
His eyes are heavy on you, his expression intense even as he takes an unabashed, close-up look at your face, studying the weariness in your expression, and the strain that's clearly weighing down on you.  
He makes a move to reach down, his gaze on your cheek, to brush away a strand of stray, loose hair. His heart lurches when he sees the way your expression softens subtly, even when you're still trying to be mad at him. The way you immediately intertwine your fingers in his— God.  
"We look very suspicious right now," you say dryly, your free hand gesturing vaguely to the fact that Minghao practically has you pinned against the bathroom wall. "Is this what you pulled me away for?"  
"We'll make it quick," he manages to reply, sounding slightly hoarse, before closing the already-minimal distance between the two of you, one arm snaking around your waist.  
"We shouldn't—" you protest weakly, because there's just some things you can't explain away. Like how Minghao and you might be caught hugging in this bathroom when you were colleagues at worst, good friends at best. "We're going to get in trouble."  
"We won't," he responds, his tone firm, stubborn.  
His other hand comes up to rest at the back of your head, pulling you in even closer, burying your face in his chest, the other arm still looped firmly around your waist. He lets out a sharp exhale of air, the frustration and tension of the moment melting into something akin to relief. 
"Just—" he mumbles, his breath hot in your ear. "Let me hold you. Just a little— for a second."  
A small flicker of relief fills his chest when he feels the tension ease as a result of his embrace, the way you lean against him, almost as if you're allowing yourself just to relax. To melt against his body the way you almost never did in public.  
When you mumble Mandarin against his chest, your words are slightly muffled. "I'm sorry about earlier," you whisper. "I was really stressed."  
"I know," he responds, just as quietly. "I'm sorry too."  
This was how it was with the two of you— the quick-tempered arguments, the stubborn disagreements, and then the inevitable apologies that always followed. Minghao knew he was stubborn, maybe even a little irritable, and he would admit that he could've handled his response better.
But, for some reason— in the moment, at least— all of that tension that had been between the two of you in that moment just evaporated in the embrace. "You're working yourself to the bone," he mutters quietly, into your collarbone.
He knows how hard you work, in general, but it's become increasingly worse as of late. The endless translation, the interviews, the subtitles and scripts. It all seemed to be getting too much, even for you.
"I know it's not my place to tell you this but—" he continues, his voice becoming even more hoarse and heavy in worry. "You need to take better care of yourself. You can't just keep pushing yourself like this. Not like you've been doing. You're going to burn out at this rate."
It's just the way the two of you were— you, the overworked, over-stressed, and over-tired, and him, almost constantly worried about your general well-being, worried about you working yourself to actual exhaustion.
The moment you gently run your fingers through his hair, he instantly melts against you even more, practically nuzzling against your shoulder.
"You do have some right to tell me this. We're friends," you sigh, tilting your head to press your lips to the side of Minghao's temple. "And you're right— I'll look into taking a medical leave for a bit, once we get back home."  
"Good," he responds, his voice quiet but firm. "You need a break. And I—" he pauses, hesitating.  
He doesn't like seeing you like that, he wants to say. He doesn't like seeing you so tired and so stressed every day. He doesn't like how you barely have any time together anymore. He doesn't like seeing you overexert yourself so much.  
He stops himself from saying it out loud, instead letting out a soft huff before continuing. "I really worry about you, you know?" he mutters against your shoulder.  
"I know, xīngān," you respond, slipping into Mandarin in a bid to comfort Minghao a little more. A beat. And then, ever so quietly: "I worry about you, too."  
You slide your hand up and down his back. "We're both fools," you whisper with a slight huff of laughter.  
"Yeah," he agrees with an exhale of a laugh at your last words. "We are both fools."  
But we're fools for each other, his mind unhelpfully reminds him as he dares to hold you for just a moment more.
He just has to go and mess it all up by insisting, "I wish you’d let people take care of you."
People, meaning him. He had meant to say I wish you’d let me take care of you, but instead something entirely else came out. He knows he ought to back down the moment he feels you tense under his grasp, but Minghao was nothing if not adamant.
"I don’t need to be taken care of," you persist. 
Minghao huffs into your hair. "That’s bullshit and you know it."
"Hao—"
"It’s not a sign of weakness—"
"You keep treating me like—"
"I’m not—"
"Minghao!"
You’ve all but pulled away now, your earlier softness replaced with a new kind of tension. It’s not the same tiredness from being overworked; no, it’s the frustration of the two of you trying to speak over each other. The push and pull of your words. Your mutual inability to communicate just what you mean. 
Minghao’s fingers ball into fists at his sides to hide his almost trembling hands. It’s all he can do to keep himself from reaching back out for you.     
"I'll go ahead," you whisper decisively, your gaze fixed on the door. "I'll see you at the magazine interview."
An almost visceral, physical pain shoots through Minghao's chest at the mention of you leaving. His mind screams no, don't leave, don't go. But he swallows down his own irrational, impulsive desires, his own selfish longing for you.
"I— yeah," Minghao responds slowly. "I'll meet you there."
He watches silently, almost helplessly, as you make a beeline for the door.
The interview is with NYLON JAPAN. You interpret and translate for both the interviewer and the boys, once again acting as an off-camera presence— an intent, constant figure quietly relaying questions and answers.  
There's some benefit in SEVENTEEN being thirteen members strong. That way, Minghao is in the second row, some distance away from you. If you avoid his gaze, it almost feels negligible.
For the duration of the interview, Minghao can hardly concentrate on the questions and answers being traded between the members and the interviewer. His focus is firmly drawn towards you.  
He can't help but glance in your direction every so often. Every time your gaze accidentally meets his, it's like a jolt of electricity straight to his chest, his stomach clenching at the painful realization of how close you are and how far away you feel.
When the interviewer begins to ask member-specific questions, you do your job as well as you always do. The first two are for Seungcheol, then Chan. And then, of course, there it is.
You nod a bit as the interviewer poses his question. "Jun and Minghao," you translate, your voice wavering imperceptibly on the second name. "You two are the members that have given up a life in your home country in exchange for being an idol. How are you able to cope with that?"
As you translate Jun’s answer to the interviewer, Minghao can hardly focus on the actual words he's saying. He’s only half-listening as he watches the subtle flutter of your eyelashes, the slight parting of your lips, the crinkle in your forehead as you concentrate hard on getting the Japanese translation perfect.
His chest feels tight, like there's a band wrapped around his entire body, constricting his airflow.
When your gaze finally moves back to him, locking eyes with his own, a rush of breath leaves his lungs, his heart jumping in his throat. The look in your eyes, the distance between the two of you— it’s nothing short of exaggerated.
For a brief moment, he's not answering a question for a Japanese magazine interview. He's answering a question for you. 
"It's hard," Minghao answers, his voice quiet and low, somewhat hoarse. "It’s really hard and lonely sometimes."
Every word that leaves his lips feels like a struggle to get out, like they're getting stuck in his throat, choking him.
"But I have the members, and we have the fans," he continues, a quiet yearning in his eyes. "And so it’s bearable," he says, despite the pit still present in his stomach, despite the ache of needing more.
He keeps his gaze focused on you, letting every word he says hold a meaning beyond the answer to the interviewer’s question— as if he’s answering for you and not the interviewer. But he has to keep his words vague, just in case those damned cameras picked up on his words and the way he looks at you.
"It's bearable," he repeats, swallowing hard, letting his eyes convey what he really means, even if his words can’t. You make it bearable.
There are some things that don't need to be translated. The pinched look on Minghao's face. The way he's openly staring at you. The subtle shift among the members— all of whom seem to pick up on something Minghao isn’t saying.
"Is that all?" you ask Minghao in Korean, your voice steady as ever despite the flicker of emotion in your gaze.
That aching, yearning expression is still present on his face as he responds. 
"Yeah," he says. "That’s all."
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Minghao's phone is tucked under his pillow, the device set to vibrate.
He jolts awake the moment it begins to buzz, a habit he had grown after years of being under the spotlight and on the road. His hand flies out to grab the phone.
His eyes bleary, he blinks a few times to clear his vision. A slight smile involuntarily tugs at his lip when he sees your message, his eyes skimming over the contents of it several times.
i'm sorry about today. (yesterday, technically?) i hope you're resting right now. ily.
"Idiot," he murmurs quietly to himself.
You don't have anything to apologize for, he replies quickly. It's not your fault. I'm the one who should be sorry. I should've been more patient with you.
How are you? Are you okay?
i'm ok. fell asleep on the couch and woke up suddenly. but did i wake you? it's so late. you should be asleep.
A quiet sigh leaves Minghao's lips as he reads your response, a part of him feeling a pang of guilt, as if knowing he was the reason you were awake right now.
You did wake me. But don't worry. I'm glad you texted me. Can you call me?
A beat. 
let me just step out onto my balcony so i don't wake my roommates.
The image of you carefully sneaking out onto the balcony to talk, just so you wouldn't wake your roommates, briefly flashes through Minghao's mind. It reminds him of his own sleeping roommates a mere few feet away from him.
He sighs softly, quietly pulling himself out of bed, careful to not disturb Mingyu and Jun as he quietly makes his way out into the balcony from the door to his left.
The air is cold and the night sky is clear. Those are the two of the three things Minghao registers when he steps out on the balcony of his hotel room. The third thing comes after you call him and there’s a slightly amused edge to your tone as you say, "Look to your right, xīngān."
He turns to look to his right just as you asked, his eyes searching the balcony area in the distance. He can't quite make out any details on your figure in the low lighting, but when his eyes finally land on you, his heart skips a beat all the same.
"Found you," he murmurs.
"I didn’t mean to wake you," you say softly. "We could have talked in the morning, you know."
"I know," Minghao responds. He leans against the railing of his own balcony, the metal cold to the touch, his eyes fixed on you. He's sure you can't see him clearly, but it doesn’t matter at this moment.  
He was looking at you, and that was enough.
"I wanted to talk to you," he says simply, the words said without a trace of shame, just quiet honesty.
"What did you want to talk about?" you ask, giving him the liberty to set the pace for tonight, to pick and choose his battles.
There are a lot of things Minghao could say right now, a lot of things he wants to say. But instead, he settles for, "How are you?"
"Better now," you say simply, your gaze still fixed on Minghao in the distance. And it's the truth, even if the second half of your answer goes unspoken. Better now, that you're talking to him.
He stands there silently, still watching you from a distance. Despite his earlier confidence in talking to you, he's suddenly feeling uncharacteristically timid. Tongue-tied, almost, with his words caught in his throat. He can’t bring himself to speak for a moment, a part of him still feeling guilty about earlier.
He swallows the tightness in his throat, taking a deep breath, before finally forcing the words out. "I'm sorry," he mumbles. "For what happened in the bathroom."
Perhaps it's the years you’ve known each other, the herculean task you’ve both faced. But Minghao and you know better than anyone that things were so easily lost in translation, that there’s only so many emotions that can be grasped in all the languages of the world.
"We just have to get better at using our words, I guess," you sigh. 
Something in his chest settles at your response— at the understanding in it, at the fact that you don't hate him. The knowledge washes over him like a sudden warmth, the guilt he'd felt earlier slowly evaporating with each passing moment.
"We do," he replies quietly.
There's a comfort, still, in being just a couple of balconies away. How you can make out each other's vague silhouettes in the late evening of this foreign country.
It feels like you're standing on the precipice of something, of possibility.  
But instead of confronting it, you opt to dance the line a little longer. Your eyes are still trained on the sky as you slip into Mandarin.  
"The stars out here are so clear, xīngān," you muse thoughtfully. "It's beautiful, don't you think?"
The change in language registers quietly in Minghao's mind, his brain taking a second to get used to it after speaking in Korean and stilted Japanese most of the day.  
He looks up at the night sky for a moment in quiet contemplation, taking in the beauty of the stars as you'd described them, before turning his gaze back to the shadowed outline of your figure in the distance.  
Something about the sight, about you, makes his heart ache a little bit. Beautiful, you had said about the stars, but he’s not looking at them. 
He responds softly, longingly, in Mandarin, his voice almost a whisper in the night air. "It really is."
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The next day, you both get on separate flights back to Seoul. As Minghao had poked and prodded you to do, you finally take the medical leave from work— a one-week block, which was the longest you’d ever gone away from PLEDIS since you first started nine years ago.
Roughly three days into your break, Minghao is in dance practice when he feels his phone buzzing in his pocket. He frowns when he glances at the screen and sees your name. 
can i call? 
The sight of the message, so unlike your usual lighthearted air, makes his heart drop instantly in his chest. There's no text-speak, no cutesy words, no emoji— just a simple question. He drops whatever he's doing, ignoring the questioning stares from the members as he steps out into the hallway and quickly dials your number without a second thought.
"Xīngān," he greets you, a little breathless from the rush he'd felt upon seeing your message. There's a hint of concern in his voice as his heart races in his chest, his mind whirling with thoughts. 
He doesn't even bother with pleasantries or small talk, diving straight into the issue at hand. "Is everything alright? What's wrong?"
Much to Minghao's chagrin, you bother with pleasantries. "Hey," you say back in Mandarin when he greets you. For a moment, you hesitate; like you're not quite sure which language you want to speak to Minghao in.  
"I'm sorry," you say in Korean. "Did I bother you?"  
Minghao shakes his head even if you can't see him. He's silent for a moment, mulling over his words before replying, "No. Never. You didn't bother me, xīngān."  
The words are uttered quietly, his voice soft and gentle, as if he's afraid that the volume of his own voice might somehow scare you away.  
"I finally visited a doctor for my back," you say, finally. "It's a herniated disc, and I'm being slotted in for a surgery in two days."  
His heart drops into his chest at your admission, the words feeling like a sudden weight upon him. Herniated disc.  
The words feel like a sudden strike to his heart, his mind racing with questions and concerns. "A herniated... disc," he repeats, his voice a little breathless, a little shocked, as he quickly tries to process what he'd just heard.  
He doesn't realize he's switched to Mandarin, his own words spoken in a rush. "How bad is it? What are the doctors saying?"  
You stubbornly stick to Korean, likely because it's easier to accurately relay your medical results in the same language you'd received them in. "It's not bad," you say firmly. "The operation is an open discectomy on my lower back. It will take at most an hour, and I'll only need to stay in the hospital for up to three days."  
There's a flicker of irritation in Minghao's eyes at your insistence to continue speaking in your language, frustrated at the lack of comprehension and understanding it brought. He wants to protest, to argue, to tell you to just use Mandarin— but it disappears when he hears your firm voice, when he realizes what it is you're telling him.  
An hour-long operation. Three days in the hospital. It didn't sound bad, per se, and logically, he knew that you would probably be fine. It still didn't make him worry any less.  
"What are the risks?" Minghao asks after a moment.  
Normally, he would have just looked up whatever answers he wanted, searching it up in medical databases and online articles. But, for some reason, he's suddenly terrified to hear anything other than the sound of your voice— your words, reassuring him that everything will be okay.  
"No change to the back pains," you rattle off. "A five to fifteen percent chance of a revision discectomy if the herniated disc returns. A lower chance of an unstable spine. It's— they're truly not bad risks, Hao."  
"Five to fifteen perc— no, that's not a 'truly not bad risk'," Minghao counters immediately, his voice sharp and frustrated, as if scolding a child that was being too nonchalant.  
"You— it's surgery, xīngān—" he continues in Mandarin, his tone almost pleading. "Five to fifteen percent chance— it— what if something goes wrong?"  
He feels a little bit frustrated at his sudden loss for words in both languages, as if his own limited vocabulary couldn’t express the rush of emotions that had suddenly overwhelmed him.  
"Hey," you say softly into the receiver, this time switching over to Mandarin. Because it had always been more soothing to him, more familiar in the sense that mattered. "Take a moment and breathe for me, xīngān."
There's a sense of calm that washes over him as he finally hears the change in language. He takes a deep, shuddering inhale, followed by a slow exhale, his eyes squeezed shut as he mentally counts down seconds.
Slowly, the panic, the fear he'd felt gradually starts to subside, leaving his heart and breath steadier— but not completely unbothered.
After a moment, you go on in Mandarin, calm and measured. "It's a surgery with a high success rate of sixty to ninety percent," you maintain. "I need it to address the persistent back pains, xīngān. If I don't do it now, the pain will only get worse and more of my spine could be affected."  
You pause, letting the words sink in. "These doctors are good," you go on. "They do their job well."  
Minghao takes several more slow, steady breaths as he listens, the sound of your voice alone calming him down, helping him keep his mind clear and focused. He knows you're speaking to him in Mandarin because it's easier to communicate with him this way, but he can't help but notice the subtle firmness, the reassurance in your tone.  
The statistics, the numbers, the facts— they're hard to deny, and as he takes another shaky inhale and exhale, he realizes that you're right. "Sixty to ninety percent success rate," he repeats to himself, his voice a soft murmur.  
"Sixty to ninety percent," you reaffirm. Then, in a more shy tone, you add, "I'm sorry for springing this on you. I— I just didn't know who else to call."  
He notices it then, the meekness in your words, the small hint of vulnerability in your voice. Any remaining anxiety he felt from the situation suddenly dissolves with the realization that you needed this.  
You had called him because you’d needed to hear a familiar, comforting voice, a sense of reassurance after what you'd just confessed. He swallows back his fears, his worries, any thoughts about the risk and that lingering, unpleasant feeling in his chest, because you needed him to be calm, to be steadfast.  
"Don't... Don't apologize, xīngān," he says almost immediately after. He swallows again before continuing, mentally berating himself for letting his anxiety and irrational fears take over his brain. "No, don't— I'm glad you called. I'll always pick up the phone."  
"Are you free tomorrow?" you ask tentatively. "We could grab a meal before I have to check into the hospital."  
As he hears the question, his mind immediately begins to run through his schedule for the next day.  
He knows what he should do. He knows what the logical part of his brain, the part that's in control of his rationality, is supposed to do. But when he thinks of you— of you, in the hospital, waiting to undergo a surgery (it's safe, it's a safe surgery, he chants in his brain) alone, without him—  
"I'll clear my schedule," he tells you.  
"No, you don't have to," you say quickly, falling back on Korean in an attempt to express your haste. "It's okay. We can just meet once the operation is over—"  
"I'm clearing my schedule,” he repeats, his voice firm, final. “I’m going to be there. We’re eating before the surgery, and I’m going to be at the hospital with you afterwards. I’m not letting you go to the hospital alone."  
A beat. While there are things that Minghao and you have yet to clear about the nature of your friendship, one thing stands true regardless of label.
"You're too good to me, Xu Minghao," you say softly, shifting to his mother tongue for the sake of sentiment. 
He lets the sound of your voice, the familiar language, wash over him. As it does, it soothes the anxiety that still gnaws at the corners of his mind.
"It’s…” he begins quietly, a small, almost sheepish smile forming on his lips, “not really…”
There’s a moment of silence before he sighs softly, his expression growing more earnest as he continues. “Being good to you is the easy part.”
"And it’s xīngān, not Xu Minghao," he adds quickly, and he’s sure you can hear the pout in his voice. 
It draws a laugh out of you— one that's still quiet, but a lot more genuine. A moment of levity. A brightness that only Minghao could truly give you. The sound of your laughter, even over the phone, is enough to lift his spirits, his heart swelling in his chest in relief.
"Xīngān," you amend, and your voice is just a little too fond to be friendly. 
For a moment, Minghao can convince himself that all will be alright in the world again. 
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The discectomy is relatively uneventful, which can only mean that it was good. There's no way of Minghao knowing this, of course, not as he spends the entire morning in a group meeting he can't really skip.
Regardless, all the members can tell that Minghao's heart isn't really in it. That he's physically at the PLEDIS building, sure, but his mind is on you— somewhere in an operating room, under anesthesia.
Seungcheol broaches the topic carefully. "Ah, it’s their surgery today, isn’t it?" the leader asks almost too casually, to no one in particular. There's a murmur of agreement across the table of thirteen boys. Some shifty, knowing glances at Minghao.
Minghao nods in response to Seungcheol's question, his expression still entirely too… anxious. "Yeah," he replies, keeping his voice as controlled as he possibly can, even as he feels his dread build up inside of him. "I'll be going to see them, after this."
It doesn't go amiss to anyone that Minghao doesn't even bother to extend the invite to anyone else. Jun is the only one who looks vaguely miffed about it, but they're all mostly understanding of how different Minghao felt with you compared to their own concern, their own affection.
Joshua offers the next best thing. 
"I was thinking we could chip in to send flowers," he says, and there's easy assent across the group. Minghao feels a small flicker of warmth in his chest at the thought of how you'd receive these messages of their care and concern.
As Vernon and Jeonghan debate what arrangement to send, Jun throws a glance at Minghao and almost smiles. Almost.
"What flowers did you get them?" Jun says in Mandarin, so no one else in the room can pick up how quickly the other Chinese man had clocked that Minghao was already three steps ahead.
Minghao glances over to his friend, his expression unreadable, as he answers in the same language. "Sunflowers," he replies, not missing a beat.
Jun can only smile faintly at Minghao's answers. "Sunflowers for your sunshine," Jun teases good-naturedly, still in the tongue that none of the other members will understand.
There's something about the way the Mandarin word for 'sunshine'— yángguāng— that sounds just so right. The Chinese term falls from the older man's lips like a blessing, a wish for good luck and health and goodness for all those involved. 
Minghao isn't sure if he'd imagined it, not exactly, but he sees the way Jun looks at him right after he says the word. For a split second, Minghao's chest tightens, his throat clenching up, because maybe Jun thinks his feelings for you are obvious.
Maybe Jun thinks he's been obvious all this time. In his head, Minghao had already been thinking it— yángguāng, sunshine, mine— And it's only now that he realizes that he was never the only one who saw it that way. That saw you and Minghao as something inevitable. 
He glances at Jun, eyes softening, filled with almost a wave of gratitude.
"Sunflowers for my sunshine," he repeats, hoping it will somehow manifest like a prophecy. 
You wake up after your operation with one less disc in your spine and one too many floral arrangements in your hospital room. As you blink against the vestiges of your anesthesia, you register the absurd, almost comical amount of flowers piled on the couch, and it doesn't take you more than a couple of seconds to realize it came from the boys.  
One of whom is dozing off in a chair next to you. You watch with mild amusement as Minghao's head dips in his restless slumber, his fingers still surprisingly firm around the bouquet of sunflowers in his lap. The affection you feel for him then threatens to overwhelm you.  
You manage to tamp it down in favor of gently prompting, "Minghao."  
Your voice is still hoarse, still a little rough around the edges. Not quite enough to rouse him from his sleep. After two or so more attempts, you go for what you know will wake him up.  
"Xīngān," you call out with no shortage of fondness.  
The sound of your voice jolts Minghao awake, and he opens his eyes in an instant. For a moment, his vision is still blurry, the world around him seeming almost vague, fuzzy with sleep, but then it snaps into focus when he sees you.
When he sees you awake, alive, and looking at him. His heart does somersaults in his chest.
"Yángguāng," he answers, his voice low, soft and affectionate, barely above a whisper.
"That's a new one," you say in Mandarin; your voice is still scratchy, but your amusement is not any less evident.    
He thinks he'll never get tired of watching that. Of watching your lips move that way. "You like it?" Minghao asks.  
He doesn't need an answer to his question, because he already knows that you do— but he can't help himself, needing the confirmation, needing to hear your answer. The thought of calling you 'sunshine' isn't a new one, but saying it out loud to you for the first time, when you're awake? It feels like a miracle.  
"I could live with it," you answer with a soft smile— even though both Minghao and you knew that you would now never be able to live without it.  
Minghao wants to laugh at the way you shrug his question off, at the way you seem so nonchalant, even as you give him that sweet, sweet smile that is so bright that it could rival the very sun itself.  
Because he knows the truth. He knows you're happy about it. He knows you love it. He can tell it in the way you're looking at him, in the way your eyes glitter with affection.  
"I'm glad," he answers, playing right into your charade because he knows every little trick in your book.  
And then, in a fit of bravery— one that he almost feels like applauding himself for— he leans in to press a kiss to your temple.  
When he pulls away, the bouquet of sunflowers still clutched in his hands, he's sure he can see it. The happiness in your eyes. The sheer, blinding affection in your smile.  
"Thank you," you whisper earnestly. Partly because your voice is still shot; partly because you don't trust yourself to speak any louder. "For coming to see me."  
He has to swallow hard to regain control of his emotions, because he is so terribly, terribly in love. He laughs under his breath because he's not sure what to do about his feelings anymore. Maybe it's best to just throw himself off the cliff and see what happens, right?  
"I'll always come see you," he answers, instead, making a promise for the future.  
He leans in again with that thought on his mind, and he presses another kiss to your temple, softer, longer, his lips lingering against your skin for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary.  
He pulls away to meet your gaze, and he almost feels like laughing at the way he can see his feelings reflecting in your eyes, shining in the pools of your irises. He loves you, he loves you, he loves you. How is he going to live with that?  
Minghao leans in again, but this time, he kisses the corner of your lips, right where your smile is.  
And it's astounding, really, just how terrible Minghao and you still are at this whole thing. Despite all the years between you, you still falter and stumble in getting your feelings across.  
There was always something. A job to do. A reputation to uphold. And now, a hospital bed, a recovery period.  
But, for once, you can only laugh breathlessly as Minghao gives you two more kisses, as you feel the upward curve of his lips against your face. Your heart stutters at the peck on the corner of your mouth; it's not quite what you both want, what you both need, but you'll take it. God, you'd take it.  
"Stop that," you try to chide in between your giggles. "Get off me, Hao—"
The sound of you laughing is like a revelation in Minghao's chest. As if a chord of tension that had been strung taut within him for so long had been cut.
He pulls back with a look of satisfaction on his face, that teasing grin playing on his lips as he does. "But why?" he asks in an absolutely, unbearably sweet tone, a tone that is laced with faux innocence, even though he knows why. You were recovering. You had to be careful.
A part of him is almost glad he hadn't kissed you properly. Because if he so much as feels the softness of your lips against his, he's not sure he'll be able to stop.
But God, does that make him want it even more— the fact that he can't, the fact that you're so close and still beyond his grasp. He forces himself to look elsewhere then and his gaze falls to the bouquet on his lap, to the flowers he'd brought you.
Sunflowers, because he doesn't think they make flowers that even compare to the brightness of your smile, or the way your eyes glitter when you laugh— at least, not flowers that make him think of you and you alone.
He holds the bouquet out to you. "Do you like them?" he can't help but laugh. He had chosen them and bought them for you, and yet, in true Minghao fashion, he finds himself still asking for your approval.
"I love them," you say easily, readily, already reaching out to take the arrangement from Minghao. 
Three sunflowers in full bloom, flanked by chamomile and irises and baby's-gypsophila. Your smile is bright and wide as you look down at it, as you hold it delicately. 
When you look back up at Minghao, there's that touch of amusement again. That tinge of disbelief that seems to wordlessly communicate, I can't believe you.  
"You didn't have to," you point out with a low chuckle, shifting slightly in your hospital bed as your fingers go imperceptibly tighter around his flowers. "But thank you."  
The sight of the smile on your face is enough to almost make him want to kiss you all over again.  
It's not the first time he'd given you an arrangement of flowers, but it's the first time it's made Minghao feel like he's just given you his heart, too.  
"No, I didn't," he agrees lightly, reaching out to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, the very tips of his fingers brushing against your soft skin. But I wanted to.
The boys all come to visit, one after the other. In small groups, in age order, until they have to be kicked out for being too noisy and potentially drawing too much attention to themselves. There are doctors, too, and nurses. All of whom are a little shell shocked at the idols just milling about in your hospital room, making themselves at home.  
Throughout it all, Minghao stays. His usual quiet, steadfast presence. He absorbs all the diagnoses; he tells off his members when they get overwhelming. And, when no one's looking, he'll squeeze your hand or press his fingers into your shoulder.  
As always, there are some things neither of you have to say out loud.  
He's more than happy to play the role of your protector, even as he continues to worry, even as he's filled with dread over the possibility of you not recovering fully and what that might mean.  
See, Minghao would never describe himself as a man of prayer. He doesn't go to temples nearly as often as he should, though he does go often, and he doesn't consider himself not spiritual.  
He finds himself praying anyway. To the universe and whatever is out there, begging for the chance that all of this would work out for you.  
But for now, at this moment, all Minghao can do is wait, and focus on the way your hand feels in his— a source of comfort in and of itself.  
That's how your mother finds you, actually, on the evening that she deigns to visit.  
Minghao is at your bedside, playing with your fingers, and the two of you are debating over something trivial— the merits of adapting dramas into other languages— with your heads bent together. It would've been negligibly friendly if it weren't for the obvious affection in your petty argument, the way you practically lean into each other's touch.  
That's why it takes a moment for either of you to register that a third person had entered your hospital room. You look up at the sound of a throat clearing, and you're just about to apologize when you register who the silver-haired woman by the entryway is.  
Your spine goes rigid; your eyes, imperceptibly wide. "Eomma," you choke out in a slightly strangled whisper.  
Minghao goes still the moment the word leaves your lips, and his mouth goes dry when he registers the figure at the door. He doesn't exactly know what kind of a relationship the two of you had, but Minghao can only hope, for the sake of politeness and respect, that she doesn't despise him.  
"Hello," he says weakly, his hand tightening almost protectively around yours in a silent gesture of support before he finally rises to greet her. He bows respectfully, clearing his throat to greet your mother appropriately.  
Your mother's scrutinizing gaze flickers over Minghao— everything from his polite bow to the way he had just been holding your hand, moments prior. When she speaks, it's in garbled Korean; there's a hint of a French accent, one that doesn't quite match her Seoul dialect.  
"There's no need for that," your mother tells Minghao, referring to his bow. She's aiming for kindness but comes off, still, as cold. It must come with the nature of her profession; you had once mentioned that your parents were diplomats.   
Minghao forces himself to stay calm and composed, even as the fear of how your mother may react to him sets in the pit of his stomach. He nods his head, but he doesn't quite dare to look her in the eye  
"I'm Xu Minghao, ma'am. I'm here to offer some company," Minghao tries to explain, though he's not sure he's doing the best job of it.  
There's a flicker of recognition on your mother's composed expression. The look of recognition in your mother's eyes puts Minghao slightly at ease, but that doesn't quite erase the nervous tension, the anxiety that thrums against the underside of his very skin.  
"Xu Minghao," she repeats, and you let out a groan when she sounds just a little amused despite her stoic demeanor.  
He waits, just about holding his breath as your mother comes further into the room, stopping in front of the two of you. Minghao shifts awkwardly in his spot, glancing over to you just about nervously, as if waiting for you to take charge of the situation.  
"Eomma," you repeat. This time your voice is a lot more level. You try to ignore the way Minghao seems absolutely scared shitless at your side. "When did you fly in?"  
There's a detached casualness to your mother's response, almost more like you're colleagues than family. "Just this morning," she says. "I'm staying at your grandparents’ for now."  
You dip your head into a nod. There's a pause.  
"Minghao is a member of SEVENTEEN," you say, sounding just slightly resigned at having to remind your mother.  
The older woman turns her gaze back to Minghao, her eyebrows raised slightly. "I'm aware," she says coolly, an edge of amusement in her tone. When she refers to you, she sticks to your full name instead of your nickname. "How is it working with my child, Minghao?"  
"They’re wonderful," Minghao answers without hesitation, his answer almost coming out a little too fast.  
He doesn't bother to temper it back, because that's how he feels— and because he believes that your mother needs to know how he feels about working with you, about being around you.  
"Kind," he adds after a moment of pause, looking back over to you, just about begging to be given permission to continue, to gush about you.  
You look straight back at Minghao, barely resisting the urge to vehemently shake your head. You know him. You know how he wants to say more, would probably talk hours and hours about your role as an interpreter if you gave him the green light.  
As you attempt to wordlessly communicate with him through your pointed glare, your mother watches the exchange with growing amusement. Then, just as you always have whenever you wanted to get Minghao talking more—  
"I would hope they were kind," your mother says, though she says the words in Mandarin.  
When your mother speaks in Mandarin, Minghao can't help the rush of gratitude that floods through him, because that only means one thing— that it was okay, that he was encouraged to say more. And so, he does, a small smile on his lips.  
"Kind, thoughtful, patient," he says softly, almost like a litany. "Always on top of things. Brilliant."  
There was something about talking about you in his own language that made everything come so much easier to Minghao. "They make us all look bad," he adds with a soft laugh, though there's a hint of truth behind the words. He means it.  
You made him want to be better to you, more worthy of you, and not just as a person, either. As a man, too.  
You stare up at Minghao, exasperated at how a simple change in language had suddenly gotten him so honest. "You shouldn't say all that—" you hiss at him.  
As you go on to tell off Minghao under your breath and he only looks down at you with that completely smitten expression, your mother puts two and two together. One doesn't have to be in the same room as the two of you for too long to recognize it.  
Ah, the older woman thinks to herself. They're in love with each other, and they don't even know it.  
The expression on Minghao's face as you scold him would be better described as that of a puppy who doesn't quite understand what he'd done wrong. His eyebrows furrow, and as you continue to hiss under your breath, he looks like he simply wants to reach out and pull you into a hug because he can't stand it when you fuss over him.  
But he settles for squeezing your fingers once more, his grip tightening, just enough to ground himself when you don't seem to relent in your quiet berating.  
After a moment, your mother clears her throat again. It's a habit of hers that immediately gets you to shut up.  
"I just wanted to drop by," she says vaguely, switching back to Korean. "But I really must get going. Duty calls."  
"Duty calls," you echo quietly, and your mother's gaze softens imperceptibly.  
"I'll be back later tonight," she reassures you. Her gaze flickers to Minghao for a moment before returning to you. "I trust that you'll be in good hands until then."  
"Eomma," you huff, and your mother looks like she almost might laugh.  
Minghao stays still as he watches you interact with your mother, as he watches her gaze flicker back and forth between the both of you. He can't help the slight smile on his face at the look in your mother's eyes, however, because it's almost like approval.  
She turns to Minghao, this time. Gives him a once-over. He's jolted when your mother suddenly speaks French. It's not anything Minghao will understand— just a brief sentence that is meant for you and you alone. It's almost impertinent; the words are anything but.
Your smile widens and you respond in the same language.  
Your mother gives Minghao a nod. "Goodbye, Minghao," she says in Korean as she takes her leave. "It was a pleasure to meet you."  
Minghao is left looking at you, still holding on to your hand. His eyes flicker down to your smile, a grin of his own blossoming on his lips. "What did you say to each other?" he asks, almost immediately pouting.  
He won't admit it, but he feels almost jealous. The feeling tides over when you absentmindedly note, "It was nothing."    
The smile on Minghao's face turns soft and he squeezes your hand for good measure, still watching your face even as you slump back against your bed.  
"You're a terrible liar, y'know." He raises your hand to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss against your knuckles. "You know I can read you, right?"  
"She asked me if I agreed with the meaning of your name," you say point blank. "And I said yes. Of course."  
Minghao pauses, his lips still at your knuckles as he absorbs your words.  
He knows what his name means. He's heard it enough in his lifetime. As far as names were concerned, he always considered himself lucky for the fact that he's got a pretty decent one.  
Ming, 明, which meant bright and brilliant. Hao, 浩, which meant grand and vast. Minghao— someone bright, brilliant, vast like the sky.  
But to hear you say it back to him like this? It feels like a revelation. Like you're giving him a gift, something that he can hold on to.  
"Of course," he repeats reverently, his heart a steady thump, thump, thump in his chest.
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The subsequent recovery period is a slow crawl. Minghao fusses more often than not. He ensures you're on top of things— physical therapy, check-ups— and is extra careful about anything that might involve your back.  
Even as you're given the go-ahead to return to work, he frets, having read through one too many articles about the risks of having a discectomy. How strenuous labor and contact sports are still off the table for the foreseeable future. How, now, four weeks after the surgery, you still ought to be careful with routine activities.  
It's as endearing as it is vaguely irksome, especially on instances such as these. The rest of the staff avert their gazes and try not to laugh. The boys look like they're most definitely going to give you grief later on.  
Because Minghao is still adamantly carrying your things as you all head to a shooting location for the newest Going Seventeen episode.  
"Hao," you say through gritted teeth, right at Minghao's heels as he lugs around your duffel bag. "I told you, I can carry that!"  
Despite the slight exasperation in your voice, Minghao can't hide the way the corners of his lips tug into a smile.  
He knows exactly what he's doing and he knows how it makes you feel. But he can't help himself; it's too easy to wind you up. "It's heavy," Minghao insists, despite the fact that it's not that heavy, or that he doesn't actually believe that it is.  
He’s just being a slight nuisance on purpose, something he does often to get your attention.  
"It's not heavy," you seethe, taking extra steps to keep up with Minghao's lithe strides. He’s leading you to one of the company buses that would take all the members and the staff to today's shooting location— some beachside AirBnB along Sokcho.  
"I packed it, for Christ's sake. I know it's not heavy," you insist helplessly, reaching out one hand to tug at the back of Minghao's shirt.  
He's always like this, pushing and prodding and annoying you to get reactions out of you because he finds it amusing. It's been such a long time since you last properly scolded him, and oh, how he wants you to do it again.  
He stops in his tracks, forcing you to either halt in yours or bump into him. When he pauses, your feet keep moving on their own accord. Your face smashes right into Minghao's back.  
Immediately, your hand that had been grasping his shirt flies to your face. You clutch the bridge of your nose— feeling a slight sting there, following the impact— as you mumble a low chorus of "ow, ow, ow, what the hell..."  
The moment your face smashes into his back, Minghao finds himself doubling over in laughter, his frame shaking as he braces against his knees. The look of pure disbelief on your face is probably one of the funniest things he's seen all week, and the laughter that bubbles up out of his chest is unrestrained and free.  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry—" he apologizes, his voice wavering in between laughter as he slowly tries to regain his composure. "Are you... are you alright? Does it hurt? Is it broken?"  
"You're insufferable," you huff before stomping ahead of him, making it a point to bump your shoulders against his as you make a beeline for the bus.  
Minghao only continues to chuckle, shaking his head as he follows after you, his laughter never once dissipating. By the time he reaches the bus, he's still smiling, completely unable to hide the way he keeps grinning.  
Much to Minghao's chagrin, however, you exact your revenge in the smallest way possible: By settling into a seat next to Mingyu, who's always more than a little willing to jump on Minghao's nerves when given the chance.  
"Sorry, Hao," Mingyu sing-songs, his eyes sparkling with mirth. "But I'm calling dibs for the next two hours. There's an empty seat next to Jun, though!"
Minghao only rolls his eyes, clearly slightly miffed at the way you'd just abandoned him for Mingyu in a heartbeat.
He finds his way to Jun's side, plopping down on the seat next to the other boy with an overdramatic, exaggerated sigh. "He snatched her away from me, ge," he whines, glancing back over to you with that same pout still on his face.
"You made her bump into you, Haohao," Jun points out with another roll of his eyes, shaking his head, though there was still a slight curl on the corners of his lip.
"I'm just having fun! You could at least sympathize with me.” There's no seriousness behind Minghao's complaint. It's a tone of complete and utter playfulness, and that only deepens Minghao's smile as he leans back in his chair.
The bus ride drags on, slow and careful, with Mingyu and you chatting about menial things. At one point, he slumps against your side to fall asleep on your shoulder, and you doze off with your cheek pressed to the top of his head. Seokmin takes a photo for posterity purposes.
Jun and Minghao watch from a couple of seats behind, and for a moment, Jun is contemplative.
It's a conscious choice for Jun to slide into Mandarin. The only other person in the bus who might understand it would be you, and you’re knocked out cold. That means the words are for Minghao alone.
"How much do you like them, Haohao?"
The switch in language catches Minghao's attention, especially when he hears the seriousness in Jun's voice. It's enough for him to pause, lifting his head up from where he'd had his chin resting against his knees.
"Too much, I think," he finally answers, with just a slight hint of hesitation.
It's not because he's ashamed, but because he's never been the kind of person to be so open about these type of feelings before. He's not even sure he knows how, sometimes.
"There's no going back now," Jun says, reaching out to lightly nudge Minghao's hip with his own. There's a slight look of concern in his eyes, but he speaks carefully, keeping his voice low as he continues.
"You might be in too deep," Jun continues, his voice a low murmur as he adds. "But I think... if the way they look at you is any indication, they’re right there with you."
The smile that spreads across Minghao's face is blinding, despite the way he turns his gaze down to his shoes. He can't help it— not when his heart is beating fast against his chest, at the idea of you feeling the same way that he does.
He wants it to be true, more than he's ever wanted something to be true in his entire life.
"I should hope so," he says, in an attempt at being flippant, but the way his voice sounds? It would give him away instantly.
When the company bus eventually rolls up onto a gravelly parking lot, the sight beyond the vehicle is one to behold. Sprawling, white sand beaches with glittering waters. The boys are still supposed to film some content, do some challenges, but the prospect of being in somewhere so pretty has significantly boosted everyone's spirits.
Wonwoo rouses Mingyu and you from your sleep. Mingyu chatters aimlessly at your side, only pausing when Minghao comes up to you; of course, the older boy can't resist one last jab.
In full view of Minghao, Mingyu does an infuriating shaka sign in front of his face and mouths 'call me, jagiya', completely unwarranted. It draws a proper snort of laughter out of you. 
"Stop it," Minghao whines as he reaches out to pinch Mingyu, though there's no real heat behind his voice. He doesn't even try to hide that smile on his face, not when he catches the way you laugh.
He can't look away from you once he sets his eyes on you. He's never been able to.
He just hopes that you can't tell exactly how in love he is. Because how is he supposed to tell you he's fallen hard?
The day at the shore flies by faster than any of them expect it to, but in the end, the filming is finally over.
By the time the staff tells them they're finished, the sky is painted in beautiful shades of orange, pink, and purple. It only adds to Minghao's already good mood, especially when he gets the chance to steal you back from Mingyu and get you all to himself.
When filming wraps up and the cameramen all begin to pack their material, the boys take it as a go-ahead to treat the rest of the late afternoon as a beach day.
You smile, mostly to yourself, as they break off— to take photos, to go for a swim, to explore the private beach. All the while, you try to maintain your focus on your laptop, your practiced fingers moving across your keyboard.  
It's why you're initially oblivious to Minghao's stealthy approach.  
Minghao lingers behind for a moment, watching you work. He's already gotten changed, his clothes swapped with swim trunks and a simple black tank top.  
He knows better than to bother you while you're working, and so— to your oblivious self— he's content to stand by and simply watch until you're done. After another moment, his expression softness as he sees how your brow furrows in concentration. Minghao steps in a little closer, one hand coming up to gently ruffle your hair.  
He almost doesn't want you to get back to work and instead considers pulling you up so you can go for a swim with him. He does no such thing, though, settling for patting your cheek once before pulling his hand away.  
You briefly glance up from your laptop so you can flash him a ghost of a smile. There's something to be said about the ways you often communicate without words, how easy it is to just understand.  
You dip your head, give a wave of your hand, turn your gaze back to your laptop. A silent, speechless Go ahead, I'll follow.  
It's like there's nothing he's not feeling right then— just happiness at seeing a smile, and the way that it feels like there's no secrets between the two of you.  
He reaches out to gently pat your cheek once more, his hand lingering for a moment before he pulls away again, turning to make his way out of the tent, the grin on his face still ever-present.  
By the time you're done with your work and changed into some proper swimwear, most of the boys and the staff are already in the water. It's in moments like these when you're reminded why you've stayed with PLEDIS for so long— the ways you're allowed to interact, to just be, when there's no cameras on, no job to do.  
You linger by the shoreline for a beat too long. Before you know it, you're being swept off your feet. Your shriek of surprise pierces across the beach as Jun easily throws you over one shoulder, his hand respectfully bracing the part of your back where there's still marks from your surgery.  
"Sorry, tàiyáng," Jun cheekily says in Mandarin as he rushes the two of you into the water, eliciting laughs from everyone else. He sends you hurtling into the ocean as you scream bloody murder, but you're laughing, still, as you go down.  
Minghao is laughing from where he's standing near the shore, still waist-deep in the water. He'd heard you scream, but the second he hears the sound of your laugh he knows you're fine. Instead of rushing to his feet and out of the ocean, he just stays where he is, the smile on his face never faltering.
The sound of your laughter is only made better by the way the sunlight dances off the water, reflecting off its shimmering surface like diamonds.
He watches as you resurface, your wet hair in your face as you gasp for breath, your face bright with a smile, and he can't help the way he feels himself falling, falling, falling.
He wants to swim over and make sure you're alright, but he knows that Jun won't let anything happen to you. All Minghao does is watch, his grin wide and bright, his eyes never leaving you. He's completely smitten, and right now, the others are just going to have to deal with him being even more of an insufferable, lovestruck fool.
The next couple of moments drag on with light-hearted rough housing, with idle splashing and lazy swimming, until Jun has somehow maneuvered you and him towards where Minghao is in the water.
Jun, behind your back, throws his best friend a conspiratorial wink.
Minghao knows that he can be obvious to an almost comical degree when he's in over his head in his feelings for you, but Jun winking is an entirely different story, and he's already a little wary as Jun brings the two of you over in his direction. 
Even still, nothing could prepare him for the sight of you soaked from head to toe, the water shimmering on your skin in the sunlight as you near him.
Oh, he's screwed, and he's pretty sure Jun and the others know that.
So he does the only thing he can think of.
Minghao dips under the surface of the water and disappears, ducking under the water for a few seconds before he comes back up just behind you, and reaches out to tickle your sides. If he's going to be an idiot and fall all over you, he might as well try and cover it up with a little bit of playfulness.
"Yah, don't do that!" you cry, already rounding in a futile attempt to stop Minghao. You weren't particularly ticklish, but something about the cool water and the warm breeze has you feeling more sensitive than necessary. Breathless laughter escapes you as you try to capture Minghao's wrists, to stop him from his actions.  
Jun quietly pads away with the pleased air of someone having done his job well. Some of the other boys share knowing glances— like they know they ought to intervene— but it's Seungcheol who shakes his head, who wordlessly calls everyone off.  
The leader, telling his members in the most subtle way, Let Minghao have this.  
There are words Minghao wants to say when you reach for his wrists to stop his actions, to ask if you want to join him in diving under the water with him, but words have never been his strong suit.  
No, it's actions that are his strength. And so, instead of asking if you'd like to join him, Minghao does just that, wrapping his arms around your waist and ducking the both of you under the water, the salt in the water stinging his eyes a bit as he opens them briefly beneath the surface.  
And then he brings you back up for air, the look on his face almost triumphant as he laughs, shaking his head to rid himself of the water that's plastered all over his hair and face.  
When you emerge, you laugh in between gasps for air, and instinctively reach up to push aside the wet strands of hair sticking to Minghao's face. "Look at you," you say disapprovingly, but you're betrayed by the pure, unadulterated adoration in your tone.  
"You love this look on me, xīngān," he insists, with that same wide grin on his face.  
And, well, he's not wrong. He can see the way your gaze lingers on his face, even as you scold him and ruffle his wet hair teasingly.  
It makes him wonder what it'd be like if all the what-ifs were real, if this was a relationship rather than an almost. He's almost afraid to wish for it. As if wanting it too much might break it.  
Minghao likes the way that you press close to him, and he keeps his arm wrapped snugly around your waist as you talk and laugh and joke with the others.  
It almost feels right, the way you're there next to him. Even though this isn't a relationship, the way that you slot right next to him is comforting because it almost makes what isn't feel more like what it could be.  
He wants the taste of you to be something more than just a taste. He wants more than a simple bite.
And so, that's how he finds himself suggesting that the two of you go on a walk together once the sun starts to set. There's a slight flush to his cheeks as he asks the question, a shy little smile on his face as he murmurs it.
He wants a chance to be alone with you. He thinks he deserves that much, especially now, after spending the rest of the day having been teased and prodded and jabbed at by the others about his feelings for you.
"Sure," you say coolly, somehow managing to keep your voice level. "Let me just grab my stuff."  
That's how you and Minghao end up breaking off from everyone else, kicking up the sand underneath your feet as you go. There's a couple of jeers here and there; Seungcheol warns you both to be back before dark.  
You take it in stride as you go on ahead, your shoulders just barely brushing. Like you're absolutely helpless to the pull of gravity that tries to keep you together.  
Once the other boys are out of sight, out of earshot, Minghao finds himself growing slightly less shy as you walk side by side, the two of you headed for a small cliffside pathway.  
His gaze is drawn to you rather quickly— to the way the ocean breeze makes your hair blow about, the way you almost shine when the sunlight hits you. The way your hand is so tantalizingly close. His own almost aches to reach out and take yours.  
"You know," he says instead, his lips quirking up into a little cheeky grin that makes his dimple show when he sees the path lined with flowers. Some of them blooming, some small clusters of white blooms scattered around the cliffside.  
Minghao plucks one of the blooms from its plant and tucks it into your hair so it's just behind your ear. He has to focus to not notice the way his fingers skim your cheek, and God, you're so close.  
"I think you look pretty like this," he says, and the words are whispered out like a confession. He picks another of the blooms, and offers it to you, his smile bright, genuine. "Take it. For good luck, maybe."  
When he extends to you one of the white blooms with that gorgeous, dimpled grin, you chuckle quietly. You take the flower. You hold it in your fingers for just a beat.  
And then you stand on your tiptoes to mimic Minghao's action— tucking the bloom right above his ear.  
"You're all the good luck that I need, xīngān," you say laughingly, in Minghao's mother tongue.  
Minghao melts, his lips parting in the slightest as he stares at you like you're a vision, like you're something to worship. He's already far too gone on. The moment he feels your fingertips against his skin, he decides he'll never be able to get over you, not if it takes him years to try to do it.  
There, the two of you stand, looking at each other with an unspoken, shared admiration, standing in front of a cliffside that overlooks the ocean with the sun setting against it, the horizon all burning shades of amber and orange and red.  
This is a moment that Minghao won't forget, and he takes your hand in his, slowly interlacing your fingers together to see if you'll let him.  
Just to know that there's a little bit of a chance that his dreams could come true, someday.  
Your fingers find purchase in the spaces between Minghao's, slotting there as if it was something meant to be. As if the two of you might have the right.  
For a beat, neither of you really say anything as you look out to the glittering expanse of ocean, the sun setting right beneath the horizon. It's a little too picture perfect.  
Exactly the reason why neither Minghao nor you dare to verbalize whatever this is, whatever you've been dancing around for years and years. Minghao wants to tell you everything, tell you that he loves you, maybe get down on his knees and kiss your hands, ask you to be his and to let him be yours.  
But he stays there. Silent. Holding your hand by your side.
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When you head back to everyone— where food is being served for the members and the staff— there's a bit of an exaggerated welcome from all sides. The boys all jeer, and the staff give you side-eyes, but you only shake your head slightly as you peel away from Minghao's side.  
The words stay unspoken. The red thread of fate, the one that Minghao so firmly believes in, draws out for another moment more.  
As you go to shoot back some drinks with your team, Mingyu sidles up to Minghao's side. The older man presses a sweating bottle of beer into Minghao's hand.  
"Still not tonight, huh?" Mingyu asks with no shortage of amusement.  
The beer in his hand is cold enough that it would be a little uncomfortable to hold onto if Minghao weren't so used to it, but he simply wraps his fingers around the bottle and takes a half-hearted sip from it.  
His lips purse as he hears Mingyu's question, a frown crossing his face.  
"No. We didn't talk about anything," he says, somewhat regretfully, because tonight just felt like it could have been the right night to say something. To finally admit how he feels, to finally ask what he wants to ask.  
And maybe you would deny him, tell him that you just wanted to be his friend, but he'd take it. He'd take anything if it meant he could stay in your life—  
Or maybe you'd even say yes, and he could finally have a chance to prove himself to you.  
"Are you going to try again tomorrow?" Mingyu asks, taking a sip of his own beer, his eyebrows raising a little.  
Another sigh falls from Minghao's lips and he nods, his gaze softening as he looks in your direction, watching you smile in spite of the way he aches to be by your side.  
"Of course I'm going to try again tomorrow," he whispers, and he'll do that for the rest of his life if he has to.  
The night drags on with everyone getting progressively more drunk. Soonyoung is reduced to tears at one point, while Seungkwan puts on an enthusiastic, one-man performance of Aju Nice. 
And maybe Minghao drinks a little more than he usually does, partly because Mingyu and Jun take advantage of the fact that it's a rare thing for them to be drinking with you within the vicinity.  
Minghao's best friends are menaces who want to see what type of drunk he is, who want to see how it will affect the way he approaches you. He's always been quiet when he's drunk— the type of drunk with a slight permanent blush to his cheeks, with a lazy grin on his face, with thoughts too slurred or in Mandarin for most of the boys to understand.  
And tonight was no different, with his face flushed from alcohol and his words so slurred that all Mingyu and Jun can pick up is the word pretty over and over, along with a couple of other words in Mandarin. But he's always been honest when he's drunk— almost too much so.  
Jun is a bit stressed having to play interpreter for Minghao's drunken ramblings, but it's all worth it when Mingyu tosses his head back with raucous laughter at every word spilling from Minghao's lips, interpreted by Jun.  
"This is too much," Jun whines once the three of them have worked through a significant amount of soju. A glassy-eyed Mingyu nods in agreement, though neither of them are as bad as the notoriously lightweight Minghao.  
"Haohao, are you going to go up to her or what?" Mingyu teases.  
Another slurred word in Mandarin falls from Minghao's lips upon hearing that, his eyebrows knitting together for a moment as he pouts at Mingyu.
It's almost comical to see, to hear Minghao's usually soft and lilting voice falter, all while his cheeks stay a soft pink and his hair is a mess from how he's been running his hand through it.
The thought of approaching you makes his stomach churn, but he knows that he will. After this next shot. Just one more drink.
"Ge, you said you'd only drink one," Jun murmurs, a bit of concern seeping in his tone as he sees Minghao grab shakily yet another shot glass of soju.
Of course, he ignores their warnings for the moment as he downs the shot, his face growing pinker as he shakes his head and pushes himself to his feet.
It takes him a moment to gain his footing, his legs a little wobbly from alcohol, but he gets it. Mingyu laughs so hard that tears come out of his eyes. Jun, distressed, shoots back some more alcohol.
Minghao's vision is a little blurry, but you're just within his sight. And so, with Jun and Mingyu watching from behind, he makes his way towards you.
He's got a lopsided grin on his face, his cheeks a little pink, and he thinks he must be in love in a moment like this.
"Xīngān," he slurs, a slight hiccup following the word as he stops in front of you, his vision still a little fuzzy. He raises his hand to gently rub the back of his neck, his tone a little softer— and a bit more earnest— as he murmurs his invitation. “Can we talk for a minute?”
"Hey, you," you greet, readjusting the flower that he'd placed behind your ear. "Having fun?"  
Minghao shakes his head, his lips parting to say no only to dissolve back into soft little hiccupping giggles instead. Of course he's having fun— how could he not, when his love is right there, and he gets to see you smiling and laughing and tipsy yourself?  
He stumbles forward, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you in, his free hand coming up to your face as he squishes your cheeks and gives you a bright, gummy smile. "Are you having fun, xīngān?" he asks.  
"I'm having fun, Hao," you concede laughingly, resting your other hand at his waist to keep yourself steady. It's— once again— a position that implicates you a little more than it should, but everyone's varying levels of drunk anyway.  
This isn't the drunk Minghao, exactly, that everyone has seen. This is the one he so rarely allows anyone to witness, the one who gets clingy and a little emotional. He's usually much more capable of keeping his composure, even with alcohol loosening his tongue and his inhibitions, but he just can't manage to focus on anything but you tonight.
"Come run away with me," he murmurs. He tugs you against his side again, a little less carefully this time. He wants the closeness, tonight, as he leads the two of you over to the chairs loosely surrounding a warm bonfire.  
It's mostly the other boys here— Joshua and Vernon practicing an acoustic guitar, Jihoon chatting with the co-producer everyone knew he had a bit of a thing for. They all watch with mild amusement as Minghao drunkenly stumbles over to one of the chairs, single-minded in his ambition of sharing a single seat.  
He plops down onto the chair, tugging you right into his lap. He's so close to you then, his lips next to your ear as he wraps his arms snug around your waist, his legs on either side of you, pressing you close against him.  
"I missed you," he murmurs, and the words are slurred, warm on the shell of your ear as he presses his face into the crook of your neck and exhales softly for a moment.  
He's drunk. And in love. And that's a dangerous combination.  
You press your fingers into Minghao's knee, your shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. "How could you miss me?" you whisper back. "I was right there the whole night, xīngān."  
He shakes his head, burying his face into the crook of your neck, mumbling softly. "You were far," he pouts, his words a little more garbled than before. He has no sense of personal space right now, with you pressed so close against him, and he's more prone to whine to get his way. 
He wants this. He wants you close. He wants you. 
"Is that so?" you say sympathetically, the words coming out almost like a coo. "You have me now, though." 
"I'm never letting you go," he responds.  
There's still an almost childish part of him that thinks if he says it, like this, with you wrapped up in his arms, with your face flushed from alcohol, that maybe you'll stay by his side.  
He just has one question that he wants an answer for.  
"Will you hold my hand," his words are slurred, his fingers tracing along the small of your back, up, down, back up again, "and look at the moon with me?"
Wordlessly, you reach for his hand at the small of your back and you thread your fingers together. You keep your intertwined hands over your thigh as you lean just a little further into Minghao until he's pressed against the back of the chair and you're practically lying on top of him.  
It's easier, this way, for you to tilt your head back and do exactly as he asked. "Moon," you point out with your free hand, the word coming out in Mandarin. Yuèliàng. "It's a crescent moon tonight, see?"  
With his arm securely around your waist, he presses closer still to look at the moon together, his words still a stammer as he murmurs, "Yeah. Just like us."  
The words have no logic, not when he's drunk and soft and clingy like this. But he's still happy with it.  
"Just like us?" you echo, and you briefly wonder if you're just a little too tipsy; if you'd missed a chapter or two about how you could be compared to the waxing crescent. Your eyebrows furrow in mild confusion, though you quickly realize there's no point in worrying your head when you could just ask.  
"I'm the moon, and you're the flower," he declares, with all the confidence of his own drunken logic, his eyes falling to look at the flower still tucked behind your ear. He reaches up a hand to brush his fingers against the side of your face. 
If not for the alcohol, he might be too shy to admit how pretty you are to him. 
"We're a matched set, xīngān," he says.   
The smile that breaks out on your face, then, is bright and wide and warm, rivaled only by the bonfire raging a couple of feet away. Your friends are still chattering amongst themselves, completely oblivious to Minghao's bold declaration.
A matched set. And you're just a little out of it, just a little drunk yourself, as you mindlessly link Minghao and your pinkies together. It's a quiet promise on its own. An assurance that this was something that could happen, would happen, at the right time.  
"My moon," you concede, calling Minghao with a breathless sort of giggle. "My moon, my xīngān, my Hao."  
"I love it when you speak Mandarin," he admits, his words warm against your temple as he presses closer still, his lips a few centimeters from your skin.  
He has too much alcohol in his system, too little a filter for his thoughts, and right now, Minghao's world consists only of you and how you look in the moonlight— like some kind of vision, like something he'd write about in a song.  
"Say it again," he instructs, his tone gentle. A request. Never a command.  
"Which part do you want me to say again?" you ask in Mandarin, because Minghao had said he loved it when you spoke in it and you'd be damned not to give in.  
It's all the same to him. The gentle words that come tumbling from your lips— he doesn't need to understand the meaning, he just wants to hear you speak. 
Because how you sound when you speak Mandarin is lovely, and Minghao can't help but lean in just a little to drink in the sound of it, his fingers tracing along the exposed skin of your upper back.  
He's never cared or loved the way he does when he's speaking Mandarin. But you, when you speak to him, it sounds like poetry.  
"Anything," he murmurs. "Just say anything."  
You tilt your head back up to the sky, where none of the usual Seoul light pollution is barring you from seeing the stars. When you see the expanse of the Big Dipper, you stick to what you know.  
A Korean myth from your yesteryears, one that he hadn’t heard of in his own childhood.  
"Once upon a time, deep in the mountains, lived a mother and her seven sons," you start softly, in Mandarin, as per Minghao's request. You tell the story almost in a whisper— the cold winter, the seven brothers, the Jade Emperor of Heaven.  
A part of you, in the language that was a part of Minghao.
As you tell the fable, the alcohol settles comfortably in Minghao’s system. He feels sobered by the fact that you’re so close, that you’re indulging him in the way that you always do. So much, he thinks again. You give me so much. 
And yet it’s not enough, still. He thinks back to the Korean phrase he once sought you out for. Intuition. Zhíjué. 
Your story is winding to a close when he decides to trust his gut, this time. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face into the back of your shoulder.
"I love you," he says. Wǒ ài nǐ.
You pause. He can hear the smile in your tone as you respond, "I love you, too." Wǒ yě ài nǐ. 
But, no. Minghao is done.
He won’t let this pass, won’t let miscommunication take this away from him. He has spent the better half of his twenties grasping at straws, bridging gaps in languages; this will not be another one of those things that he can’t say. He takes a fortifying breath. 
He doesn’t care if you don’t believe in soulmates. If he’s the only one who thinks there’s a red string tied between you two. He’ll subscribe to your credo of destiny. He’ll do all the work. 
"I’m in love with you," he amends. Wǒ ài shàngle nǐ.
He says it in his language, because it feels right, but then he repeats it in yours so there’s no room for you to misunderstand. It doesn’t change, anyway. Korean, Mandarin. English, Japanese. 
Minghao is helplessly, hopelessly in love with you. 
It feels like forever before you respond. 
When you do, it’s in Mandarin. "Me, too," you admit, and he peeks at you enough just to see the way you’re gazing up at the night sky. He catches the hint of the smile on your face; the sincerity of which threatens to bowl him over. 
You repeat his words— I’m in love with you— in Mandarin, then Korean, then English, then Japanese. Then all the other languages you know. 
Minghao resists the urge to tell you to stop, to tell you it’s okay. He holds you tight, laughing quietly, as he basks in what feels a lot like the beginning of something. 
It’s okay, he wants to say as you confess to him in Spanish, in Portuguese, in Italian. 
I hear you. 
I hear you loud and clear. 
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lostintransist · 9 hours ago
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Mx. Misses
GN!Reader X Johnny "Soap" MacTavish and missing someone when you have ADHD.
Roughly 600 words of me just trying to process emotions.
“Do you miss me when I’m gone?”
Johnny is sitting on the counter behind you, kicking his feet out and back but stopping before they slam into the cabinets.
“No.”
You are deeply focused on not letting the custard in your pan cook the eggs wrong. Custard had been the one thing Johnny had requested when he touched down from his last job. This was your third attempt.
The silence behind you should have cued you in. You let out a sigh, finally seeing something that matched the pictures you had stared at obsessively. Tipping the custard into the special glasses you had found at the thrift store you fill the pan with water and put the treat into the fridge to chill.
Seeing Johnny’s work face in place pulls the smile from your face.
“What?”
“You donne miss me when I’m gone?” You had said something wrong, his accent only got this thick when he fought down his emotions.
Tucking your hands in your pockets you rock back on your heels.
“I don’t miss anyone really Johnny. My version of ADHD makes it so I don’t remember to think about anyone until they are back.”
Sliding from the counter Johnny folds his arms tight across his chest.
“Explain that.”
You hold your breath while you think. How do you even go about explaining this to him?
“I don’t miss you when you’re gone. I miss you when you’re here.” You look up at him, hopeful that made sense. It didn’t.
“But I’m here.” Confusion tugs at his face, highlighting his scar.
Blowing out a breath and rubbing your hand across your mouth you think of a different way to say it.
“Yes, you are here. And I cry that you have been gone the first shower I take alone after you come home. I miss you in the moment between breaths when you are on jobs, but I don’t live in those moments. They collect like rainwater in a barrel until I can hold you, touch you, and then the walls give and I experience all of the missing you all at once.”
He is staring at you now, brows drawn together. You keep talking, desperate to avoid a fight, to make him understand.
“The only reason I talk to my dad regularly is that he calls me every other week. I can go months without remembering that I have a sister until I see something that reminds me of her and then I want nothing more than to talk to her.”
His face smooths out. Still he watches. Does he hate you now, your last boyfriend did when you explained.
“You hide your tears from me?”
Letting out a sob of a laugh you rub at the emotions collecting in your throat.
“I guess?”
Johnny moves now, hands cradling your face.
“Let me have them. When ye weep for me, let me have them. I thought you didn’t care. That you didn’t love me enough to cry when I am gone.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth!” You hold Johnny’s hands to your face. “I miss you; it just comes out at weird times. I didn’t cry after my grandmother died until my birthday card from her never arrived. My brain is weird about grief, about joy, about well everything really.” Shrugging you try and play off the stilting air that surrounds you.
“Donne hide it from me, please,” his whisper softens as he lowers his lips to yours.
“I won’t,” you press into the kiss. The fear of confrontation melting away with the gentle brush of his hands on your face and fingers drifting into your hair.
Masterlist
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wannabanauthor · 1 day ago
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What should happen to BuckTommy in Season 8b
Eddie's thinking about moving to Texas, right?
Well, he has to pack, and he calls his two favorite buff men to help him pack and load all his stuff.
Tommy did not know Buck was going to be there, and vice versa.
They stare awkwardly at each other before noticing that most of Eddie's stuff is already packed.
Cheeky bastard.
He locks them both in his house with the parting, "Figure it the fuck out, then I'll unlock the doors."
Buck and Tommy are more than able to break down the door if necessary, but that wouldn't be a nice thing to do to their best friend's house.
They try to out-wait Eddie, but several hours pass with no communication from him.
Buck is doing his best to not look or talk to Tommy, but all the doors are locked, including the bedrooms, so he's stuck in the living room.
The kitchen doesn't have any baking/cooking ingredients, just prepared food in the fridge.
Buck is without his coping mechanism, and at some point he breaks down crying in the kitchen.
Tommy wants to comfort him, but he knows he's the reason Buck is like this, so he feels stuck and doesn't know what to do.
He hands Buck a tissue and some water, but Buck turns around and ignores him, trying to hide his sobs.
Tommy goes back to the living room and sits on the floor.
"Why?" he hears Buck say.
He gets back up and goes into the kitchen.
"Why what?" Tommy asks.
"Why did you give me a second chance just to break my heart six months later? Why didn't you tell me that you only saw us as a temporary thing? Why did you even give me hope that we could be something more?" Evan asks, in between sobs.
"Evan, I'm so-"
"It's Buck. You don't get to call me Evan anymore."
"I'm sorry."
Buck stops crying and looks at Tommy. There's anger and heartbreak written all over his face.
"Fuck you, you don't get to be sorry," Buck says.
"But I am. I didn't plan any of it. It just happened. You asked me to move in, and I panicked. I've been hurt before, and I knew I couldn't survive it if I moved in and then lost you."
Buck scoffed, but out of irony, not amusement.
Tommy stepped closer to him, and Buck remained where he was, almost as if he was sizing Tommy up.
"You kept putting me on this pedestal, and I knew one day you'd see me for who I am and leave," Tommy says.
"Is that what you think of me? Out of the two of us, you're the one who has left me, twice," Buck points out, and Tommy winces at that.
"You're very impulsive, and we hadn't even broached that topic before. I thought I was okay with you setting the pace, but I guess I wasn't. I thought it was in our best interest to end things now then later when it would hurt more."
Tommy pauses for a moment and looks at Buck. Really looks at him. His own heart breaks when he picks up on the little details of how Buck had been handling the breakup, The flour under his fingernails, his stubble, his longer curls, the bags under his eyes, the fidgeting with what's ever in reach, currently tissues being torn into little bits.
Tommy knows in his heart that he practically broke the man he loves, and it makes him feel even worse. There is still a part of him that wants to run, but he can't run again. Not after seeing Evan like this.
"I'm scared, Evan," Tommy confesses.
Buck's head snaps up in surprise, and he squints his eyes as if he doesn't trust Tommy.
Tommy feels the panic rise within him, but continues his train of thought. "Evan, I love you. But i'm terrified that one day you'll get tired of me and find someone else. It's happened before, and-"
"I'm not him. I'm me. From the first moment we met, I knew that I wanted to be with you. I didn't understand it at first because it felt so different from my past. I mean, you're not the first guy I've had a crush on. At all," Evan says.
Tommy clears his throat uncomfortably. He'd rather not think about Evan's past crushes.
"We spent nearly every free moment we've had together," Evan says. "I thought we were ready to move to the next step."
"I wasn't ready, and I'm sorry for not telling you sooner. I should have stayed and talked it out, but it felt like the room was closing in on me, and I needed to leave."
"And you left, then ignored me for weeks," Evan says. "I felt like I was going insane and imagined our whole relationship."
Tommy steps into Evan's space and uses two fingers to lift Evan's chin. "You are the best thing that's ever happened to me, Evan. I love you so much, and I'm terrified because it's never felt like this before."
Evan gives an amused chuckle. "I guess it was my turn to see you at your worst."
Tommy cups Evan's cheeks. "I am so sorry, for everything. I feel like I don't deserve a second chance, but I'm still ask-"
Evan cuts him off with a kiss.
Tommy relaxes and kisses him back. It feels like coming home after a long day of work to the arms of his partner. He never wants that feeling to leave.
"I love you too, asshole," Evan whispers against Tommy's lips.
They both chuckle at that.
"Where do we go from here?" Evan asks.
"Couple's counseling. I want us to work. I want us to be forever," Tommy says and gives Evan the tenderest kiss.
"That works," Evan replies between kisses.
They don't stop kissing or holding each other until they're nearly out of breath.
"Finally!" they hear from outside and jump.
Eddie's standing outside with his phone in hand, and on the screen is a live camera feed showing.
"Now, let's get something to eat," Tommy says and kisses Evan again. He was going to kill and thank Eddie, but for now, he's happy just to be with Evan again.
He looks into Evan's eyes and knows that this is it for him. Evan's the one.
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poissonchat-owo · 2 days ago
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Pls I need help , it can be considered vent so don't read if you're uncomfortable with it !
English isn't my first language so sorry if it's not perfect
I'm sorry this has nothing with my usual content but I'm desperate :(
For context , I'm 16 and I have a girlfriend who is 16 too , we are both furry . I only interact with other furries on discord to get commission but my gf have lots of interaction with other furry on multiple social media . We have been together for 8 months now.
The thing is that my gf interact with adult furry, it's not an issues BUT she's friend with one who is more than 20 (I don't remember exactly but it's between 20 and 30) . And when I said friend I mean that they have irl interaction cause they live in the same city and I'm really scared of that .
I know that sometimes I can be over protective and a little bit paranoid but this man really scare me , I'm so scared that my gf gets in trouble :(
He does things that I don't think your supposed to do w a minor when your adult, he have never done anything s*xual to her but he does weird thing:
-he let her go in her house because they are friends ( I know it's not really a big deal but i don't think a grow adult should let a child go in his house alone because they are friends)
-he let her do things without telling him to stop ,I don't remember a lot of things but he have let her draw nsfw of his character, I know it's my gf who is doing it but as an adult shouldn't he the one who tell her to not do it ??? Or maybe I'm totally wrong but that don't seems ok to me :(
-today I was talking to my girlfriend and I've learned that he bited her ?? She told me that she started to bite him to annoy him and he did it as well as a respond , again I know that she is the one who started but he's and adult, that seems so wrong to me :(
-sometime they say @ss jokes to each other , I know it's not in a serious way and I do these jokes w my gf too but again, HE IS AN ADULT, (when I say @ss joke I mean things like "s*ck my d*ck " or "f*ck me" in a non serious way, she is the one saying these jokes but he laugh at them and don't tell her to stop ??)
I tried to talk to her about the fact that it is not normal but she won't listen to me :(
I feel like she thinks I'm jealous because they see each other more that I see her (because we live far from each other) , it's a little bit the case but I'm just really worried about her :(
She thinks I'm mad at her because she bited him , to reassure me she told me that she would talk to him about that and she did , but she only talked to him about the "bitting things" cause she thinks I'm just uncomfortable with that .
As a respond he said that he was sorry it made me uncomfortable and he would such jokes in the future, from what I've understood he don't have much friend, he have stress issues and physical disability.
But even with that I'm still REALLY worried
Even if I tried to explain her she don't see the issues with that situation
I am the one who is wrong?? Is there really no issues with that?I am just over protective ?Pls can someone tell me :(
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dcdreamblog · 20 hours ago
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do you have any tidbits about the Red Bee? I heard he died decades ago but I also saw some people claiming that he showed up a few years back helping that Peacemaker guy
Depending on someone's level of familiarity his entire life is a fun tidbit but I will do my best.
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(Art piece of The Red Bee that adorns one wall of the Superior City Historic Society) Richard "Rick" Raleigh would have appeared to anyone who knew him as the most stand up kind of guy that existed at that time. The assistant DA in the booming pacific port town of Superior City. His only major quirk was a fascination with bees but hey, everyone has to have a hobby right? No one knows for sure what caused his turn to crime fighting, as I've stated before it really was just something in the air during those days. If people like The Sandman and The Atom could do it, and make the jackals preying on vulnerable communities shiver, then anyone would with the right willpower.
His abilities were modest. A motorcycle, a "stinger gun" (which in reality was just a souped up BB pistol but sting it did indeed do) and his secret weapon. A trained bee named Michael. Those of you who do not know this story just balked at that. How does one train a bee? Don't bees live like, two months at best? I need you to look at me when I tell you a couple of things and then the best guess we have. I am NOT fucking with you. 1. That bee is still alive, and has recently reunited with Raleigh's time displaced sidekick. 84 years after Raleigh's debut. Michael sat, and waited until Ladybug returned to the honey farm where he was housed and upon her return instantly flew up to her acting with direct recognition of the young woman after 8 decades.
2. Michael is able to sting multiple times without any ill effects on his person. (Bee-son. You know what I mean) Our best guess? The bee has a metagene.
A random mutation in this seemingly random worker bee has given it, what is from its perspective superhuman abilities of intellect, longevity and invulnerability. It is a theory because under no circumstances are we ever going to get to find out unless for some god forsaken reason the two heirs to Raleigh's estate pass it off to science when and if it does finally die.
Perhaps the discovery OF Michael's abilities were of partial inspiration for Raleigh's career. Truly we may never know.
Raleigh himself died in a battle with Nazi war criminal Baron Blitzkrieg in 1944, distracting the Baron long enough for his teammates in the Freedom Fighters to free themselves and turn the tide of battle. His memorial rests in Raleigh Park, Superior City for those curious. Note that it is a somber place of respect, those who have gone in an attempt to trivialize or joke on Raleigh's legacy have found themselves suspiciously targeted by the park's many large bee hives. The local superstition is that Michael has made it clear to all his fellows in the thousands of following generations who made their undisturbed home possible. (The park was built and is now maintained by the Raleigh estate, currently in the name of Raleigh's grand niece Jenna Raleigh and the descendants of the Rivera family who owned the honey farm where Michael was born) To this day, in Superior City, is considered very bad luck to harm a bee. And the city's annual Pollination Parade is held on Raleigh's birthday in July.
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littlecutiexox · 1 year ago
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endusviolence · 9 months ago
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Rowling isn't denying holocaust. She just pointed out that burning of transgender health books is a lie as that form of cosmetic surgery didn't exist. But of course you knew that already, didn't you?
I was thinking I'd probably see one of you! You're wrong :) Let's review the history a bit, shall we?
In this case, what we're talking about is the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft, or in English, The Institute of Sexology. This Institute was founded and headed by a gay Jewish sexologist named Magnus Hirschfeld. It was founded in July of 1919 as the first sexology research clinic in the world, and was run as a private, non-profit clinic. Hirschfeld and the researchers who worked there would give out consultations, medical advice, and even treatments for free to their poorer clientele, as well as give thousands of lectures and build a unique library full of books on gender, sexuality, and eroticism. Of course, being a gay man, Hirschfeld focused a lot on the gay community and proving that homosexuality was natural and could not be "cured".
Hirschfeld was unique in his time because he believed that nobody's gender was either one or the other. Rather, he contended that everyone is a mixture of both male and female, with every individual having their own unique mix of traits.
This leads into the Institute's work with transgender patients. Hirschfeld was actually the one to coin the term "transsexual" in 1923, though this word didn't become popular phrasing until 30 years later when Harry Benjamin began expanding his research (I'll just be shortening it to trans for this brief overview.) For the Institute, their revolutionary work with gay men eventually began to attract other members of the LGBTA+, including of course trans people.
Contrary to what Anon says, sex reassignment surgery was first tested in 1912. It'd already being used on humans throughout Europe during the 1920's by the time a doctor at the Institute named Ludwig Levy-Lenz began performing it on patients in 1931. Hirschfeld was at first opposed, but he came around quickly because it lowered the rate of suicide among their trans patients. Not only was reassignment performed at the Institute, but both facial feminization and facial masculization surgery were also done.
The Institute employed some of these patients, gave them therapy to help with other issues, even gave some of the mentioned surgeries for free to this who could not afford it! They spoke out on their behalf to the public, even getting Berlin police to help them create "transvestite passes" to allow people to dress however they wanted without the threat of being arrested. They worked together to fight the law, including trying to strike down Paragraph 175, which made it illegal to be homosexual. The picture below is from their holiday party, Magnus Hirschfeld being the gentleman on the right with the fabulous mustache. Many of the other people in this photo are transgender.
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[Image ID: A black and white photo of a group of people. Some are smiling at the camera, others have serious expressions. Either way, they all seem to be happy. On the right side, an older gentleman in glasses- Magnus Hirschfeld- is sitting. He has short hair and a bushy mustache. He is resting one hand on the shoulder of the person in front of him. His other hand is being held by a person to his left. Another person to his right is holding his shoulder.]
There was always push back against the Institute, especially from conservatives who saw all of this as a bad thing. But conservatism can't stop progress without destroying it. They weren't willing to go that far for a good while. It all ended in March of 1933, when a new Chancellor was elected. The Nazis did not like homosexuals for several reasons. Chief among them, we break the boundaries of "normal" society. Shortly after the election, on May 6th, the book burnings began. The Jewish, gay, and obviously liberal Magnus Hirschfeld and his library of boundary-breaking literature was one of the very first targets. Thankfully, Hirschfeld was spared by virtue of being in Paris at the time (he would die in 1935, before the Nazis were able to invade France). His library wasn't so lucky.
This famous picture of the book burnings was taken after the Institute of Sexology had been raided. That's their books. Literature on so much about sexuality, eroticism, and gender, yes including their new work on trans people. This is the trans community's Alexandria. We're incredibly lucky that enough of it survived for Harry Benjamin and everyone who came after him was able to build on the Institute's work.
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[Image ID: A black and white photo of the May Nazi book burning of the Institute of Sexology's library. A soldier, back facing the camera, is throwing a stack of books into the fire. In the background of the right side, a crowd is watching.]
As the Holocaust went on, the homosexuals of Germany became a targeted group. This did include transgender people, no matter what you say. To deny this reality is Holocaust denial. JK Rowling and everyone else who tries to pretend like this isn't reality is participating in that evil. You're agreeing with the Nazis.
But of course, you knew that already, didn't you?
Edit: Added image IDs. I apologize to those using screen readers for forgetting them. Please reblog this version instead.
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giantkillerjack · 2 years ago
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Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".
[plain-text version of this post can be found under the cut]
Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"
And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".
Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.
At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.
So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!
Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!
Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!
Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.
Plain-text version:
Today my therapist introduced me to a concept surrounding disability that she called "hLep".
Which is when you - in this case, you are a disabled person - ask someone for help ("I can't drink almond milk so can you get me some whole milk?", or "Please call Donna and ask her to pick up the car for me."), and they say yes, and then they do something that is not what you asked for but is what they think you should have asked for ("I know you said you wanted whole, but I got you skim milk because it's better for you!", "I didn't want to ruin Donna's day by asking her that, so I spent your money on an expensive towing service!") And then if you get annoyed at them for ignoring what you actually asked for - and often it has already happened repeatedly - they get angry because they "were just helping you! You should be grateful!!"
And my therapist pointed out that this is not "help", it's "hLep".
Sure, it looks like help; it kind of sounds like help too; and if it was adjusted just a little bit, it could be help. But it's not help. It's hLep.
At its best, it is patronizing and makes a person feel unvalued and un-listened-to. Always, it reinforces the false idea that disabled people can't be trusted with our own care. And at its worst, it results in disabled people losing our freedom and control over our lives, and also being unable to actually access what we need to survive.
So please, when a disabled person asks you for help on something, don't be a hLeper, be a helper! In other words: they know better than you what they need, and the best way you can honor the trust they've put in you is to believe that!
P.S. Also, I want to be very clear that the "getting angry at a disabled person's attempts to point out harmful behavior" part of this makes the whole thing WAY worse. Like it'd be one thing if my roommate bought me some passive-aggressive skim milk, but then they heard what I had to say, and they apologized and did better in the future - our relationship could bounce back from that. But it is very much another thing to have a crying shouting match with someone who is furious at you for saying something they did was ableist. Like, Christ, Jessica, remind me to never ask for your support ever again! You make me feel like if I asked you to call 911, you'd order a pizza because you know I'll feel better once I eat something!!
Edit: crediting my therapist by name with her permission - this term was coined by Nahime Aguirre Mtanous!
Edit again: I made an optional follow-up to this post after seeing the responses. Might help somebody. CW for me frankly talking about how dangerous hLep really is.
#hlep#original#mental health#my sympathies and empathies to anyone who has to rely on this kind of hlep to get what they need.#the people in my life who most need to see this post are my family but even if they did I sincerely doubt they would internalize it#i've tried to break thru to them so many times it makes my head hurt. so i am focusing on boundaries and on finding other forms of support#and this thing i learned today helps me validate those boundaries. the example with the milk was from my therapist.#the example with the towing company was a real thing that happened with my parents a few months ago while I was age 28. 28!#a full adult age! it is so infantilizing as a disabled adult to seek assistance and support from ableist parents.#they were real mad i was mad tho. and the spoons i spent trying to explain it were only the latest in a long line of#huge family-related spoon expenditures. distance and the ability to enforce boundaries helps. haven't talked to sisters for literally the#longest period of my whole life. people really believe that if they love you and try to help you they can do no wrong.#and those people are NOT great allies to the chronically sick folks in their lives.#you can adore someone and still fuck up and hurt them so bad. will your pride refuse to accept what you've done and lash out instead?#or will you have courage and be kind? will you learn and grow? all of us have prejudices and practices we are not yet aware of.#no one is pure. but will you be kind? will you be a good friend? will you grow? i hope i grow. i hope i always make the choice to grow.#i hope with every year i age i get better and better at making people feel the opposite of how my family's ableism has made me feel#i will see them seen and hear them heard and smile at their smiles. make them feel smart and held and strong.#just like i do now but even better! i am always learning better ways to be kind so i don't see why i would stop
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rockpaperscissuhs · 2 months ago
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HISPANIC HERITAGE MONTH + BAND OF BROTHERS:
JOSEPH "JOE" RAMIREZ
Born October 5th, 1921, in Nebraska
Died April 8th, 1988 (age 66), in Martinez, California
Joe Ramirez enlisted in September 1942 (age 20) in San Francisco, CA, and he trained with Easy Company at Toccoa. Holding the rank of Private, he served in Normandy, Holland, and Bastogne. He was hospitalized in January 1945, and discharged in July 1945. After the war, he was married for many years, and had children and grandchildren. When he passed away he was buried with his wife, who had passed away 11 years earlier. Further information about him is scarce, but the brief character profile in the Band of Brothers series bible describes him as Mexican-American, and his personality as "sensitive and nervous."
Appears in Episodes 1, 3-8, and 10; portrayed by actor Rene L. Moreno
Sources below
A million thanks to @bleedingcoffee42 for tracking down this info for me!
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#joe ramirez#joseph ramirez#band of brothers#rene l. moreno#mine: gifs#hispanic heritage month#latino heritage month#sources vary on whether he was a Private or PFC#they seem to have taken A LOT of creative liberties on the show bc#the only 2 anecdotes about him in BoB seem pretty diff from his character on-screen#not to mention that he would've been in the hospital during events of episodes 8 and 10 (each of which he's in several scenes)#on the other hand i do really like his character in the show and think he's one of the best and most underrated background characters#and why yes i am completely normal about him 😅#but also i'm sure he would've been great too if they'd made him more accurate to what limited info exists about the IRL guy#I forgot to save a few of the documents that bleedingcoffee42 sent me unfortunately but these are most of them!#but from one of them (his draft card?) i discovered he lived like 1.5 miles from my grandparents!!#(tho of course they moved there in the 50s so who knows if he was still living at same address by then... but still!)#oops i originally had the episodes he's in listed wrong on this#so AFAIK he's only NOT in eps 2 and 9#in ep 1 he's twirling a knife at the beginning and eating spaghetti next to Guarnere and Malarkey and playing basketball in England#in ep 6 he's eating the bean soup near the line when Sink arrives#in 7 he's sitting next to popeye and then in the church at the end (maybe in Foy but i'm not positive)#in ep 3 i thiiiink he's in Carentan next to Buck? and he's at the party in England sitting next to Lipton and listening to Gordon#in 4 he's in too many scenes to list here#in 8 he's in too many to list#in 10 he's hunting for food with the group and standing next to Grant's shooter when Speirs comes in the room
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ryllen · 2 years ago
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this PSA is brought to u, by first year farmer ・゚ *✧
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wonder-worker · 8 months ago
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I've been thinking about the tragedy of Elizabeth Woodville living to see the end of her family name.
I don't mean her family with her husband, which lived on through her daughter and grandson. I mean her own.
Her sisters died, one by one, many of them after 1485. When Elizabeth died, only Katherine was left, and she would die before the turn of the century as well.
All her brothers died, too. Lewis died in childhood. John was executed. Anthony was murdered. Lionel died suddenly in the peak of Richard's reign, unable to see his niece become queen. Edward perished at war. Richard died in grieving peace. For all the violence and judgement the family endured, it was "an accident of biology" that ended their line: none of the brothers left heirs, and the Woodville name was extinguished. We know the family was aware of this. We know they mourned it, too:
“Buy a bell to be a tenor at Grafton to the bells now there, for a remembrance of the last of my blood.”
Elizabeth lived through the deposition and death of her young sons, and lived to see the end of her own family name. It must have been such a haunting loss, on both sides.
#(the quote is by Richard Woodville in his deathbed will; he was the last of the Woodville brothers to die)#elizabeth woodville#woodvilles#my post#to be clear I am not arguing that the death of an English gentry family name is some kind of giant tragedy (it absolutely the fuck is not)#I'm trying to put it into perspective with regards to what Elizabeth may have felt because we know her family DID feel this way#writing this kinda reminded me of how I am just not fond at all about the way Elizabeth's experiences in 1483-85 are written about#and the way lots so many of the unprecedentedly horrifying aspects are overlooked or treated so casually:#the seizure and murder of two MINOR sons and the illegal execution of another;#her sheer vulnerability in every way compared to all her queenly predecessors; how she was harassed by 'dire threats' for months;#how she had 5 very young daughters with her to look after at the time (Bridget and Katherine were literally 3 and 4 years old);#how unprecedented Richard's treatment of her was: EW was the first queen of england to be officially declared an adulteress;#and the first and ONLY queen to be officially accused of witchcraft#(Joan of Navarre was accused of her treason; she was never explicitly accused of witchcraft on an official level like EW was)#the first crowned queen of england to have her marriage annulled; and the first queen to have her children officially bastardized#what former queens endured through rumors* were turned into horrifying realities for her.#(I'm not trying to downplay the nightmare of that but this was fundamentally on a different level altogether)#nor did Elizabeth get a trial or appeal to the church. like I cannot emphasize this enough: this was not normal for queens#and not normal for depositions. ultimately what Richard did *was* unprecedented#and of course let's not forget that Elizabeth had literally just been unexpectedly widowed like 20 days before everything happened#I really don't feel like any of this is emphasized as much as it should be?#apart from the horrifying death of her sons - but most modern books never call it murder they just write that they 'disappeared'#and emphasize that ACTUALLY we don't know what happened to them (this includes Arlene Okerlund)#rather than allowing her to have that grief (at the very least)#more time is spent dealing with accusations that she was a heartless bitch or inconsistent intriguer for making a deal with Richard instead#it also feels like a waste because there's a lot that can be analyzed about queenship and R3's usurpation if this is ever explored properly#anyway - it's kinda sad that even after Henry won and her daughter became queen EW didn't really get a break#her family kept dying one by one and the Woodville name was extinguished. and she lived to see it#it's kinda heartbreaking - it was such a dramatic rise and such a slow haunting fall#makes for a great story tho
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frogeyedape · 2 months ago
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I am so unbelievably pissed off. FUCK HOAs
Oh, my trash/recycling bin can't be visible except on pickup day? Ok whatever fine I hate you but I can deal with this
Weekly inspections?????? FU FU FU FU FU
SECOND NOTICE ALSO WE'RE CHARGING YOU MONEY TO SEND YOU CERTIFIED MAIL OF THIS TOTALLY LEGIT TOTALLY SECOND NOTICE OF WHAT IS ACTUALLY A VIOLATION cue me: checks notes. Hmm. My recycling bin was. on the curb. on recycling pickup day. You know. The day it has to be out. The day it is motherfucking ALLOWED TO BE FUCKING OUT AND VISIBLE.
so. 1) not a violation
I have sent them the trash AND recycling pickup schedules, which are DIFFERENT, btw
I have disputed the fact of the violation
I have disputed the linking of this "violation" to a previous violation MONTHS AGO--their "first notice" in this case was a "Courtesy Notice" LITERALLY 5 MONTHS AGO and they've done so many inspections since then and my bin CLEARLY WASN'T OUT IN THOSE INTERVENING MONTHS so WTMFH
So I am posting like a crazy person here instead of sending the absolutely deranged email I almost sent (I did send a slightly less deranged version with the disputes, and requesting a hearing)
OMG. It has been. Less than one hour since I learned this fun fun news. My bin was out YESTERDAY, y'all. YESTERDAY. I am going to blow a gasket
#it's a relatively privileged problem to have (omg i have a home truly i am grateful) but it's still a goddamned problem and i'm allowed#to fucking complain about it#in case it needs to be said#*rolling my eyes*#i advocate for free/actually affordable housing for everyone who needs it because we ALL deserve a safe secure stable home#whatever type of home that may be#it is absolutely goddamned ridiculous that megacorps can buy all the housing#rent it out at extortionate rates and evict people willy nilly#and we're talking about a “housing crisis” and not a “STOP LETTING CORPORATIONS AND BILLIONAIRES HOARD ALL THE HOUSING” crisis#goddamn.#ha elect me president (ahaha don't do this i am not a good public speaker) and I'll push congress to pass some really neat legislation#hey be more direct: elect me to congress (ahaha don't do this) and i'll WRITE some goddamn nifty legislation and yell about it as long and#as loud as i can until people start to just fucking say yes to make me shut the fuck up#(i know that's not how it works. again. don't actually elect me to a government position)#exemplia gratis:#No individual person shall own more than 6 homes UNLESS they pay a Housing Market Shrinkage Fee for removing viable housing from the market#why 6 and not 2? 2 is a lot! it's excessive! but having A vacation home shouldn't be a crime. Having 5 vacation homes is ridiculous and#awful and whatever but it's not likely to be the source of all our greatest “housing shortage” problems. no. I'm aiming for the absolutely#monstrously greedy and egregious motherfuckers who---ok#hang on. how many homes does the average min and max homeowner own? I would like to see data on that. but anyway#the next part of the legislation:#Homes owned >6 shall be charged X% Housing Market Shrinkage Fee UNLESS they are rented for affordable (15% or less than renter net income)#housing and are actively occupied by said renters. Rented out and charging more than 15% of renter's net? still gotta pay up.#EMPTY housing >6 shall be subject to an additional Y% Housing Market Shrinkage Fee (tax? should I call it a tax?) which increases with ever#month that the housing goes unoccupied. no one living in it? sell it rent it or pay the fuck up. and still pay the fuck up if you rent it#for way too goddamn much money#but like. less. we only REALLY hate you if you sit on empty houses that you don't even let anyone use#ok that's individuals. now onto BUSINESSES#ok so immediately it gets a little complicated cuz like presumably there's rental management businesses that don't own the rental propertie#that they manage BUT there are also companies that just outright own a shitfuckton of housing and THIS is the truly egregious monstrous sid
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