#lord knows I know nothing about him other than the fact that apparently he reads Buddie fic

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

I'm gonna be honest at this point we deserve for them to make Buddie friends-to-fiancés like yeah we missed out on canon with the shooting and season five and who even knows what the fuck was going on in season six we're like three seasons behind now chop chop just skip it all and have Eddie desperately propose in the rain. I need it. It would cure me. More importantly it would be the most in-character way you could possibly get these codependent desperately abnormal idiots together.

[lesbiansforboromir]

In a BoromirLives fanfic, Faramir must be forced to confront this line of his in particular; Whether he erred or no, of this I am sure: he died well, achieving some good thing. His face was more beautiful even than in life. It's vital to me that this is addressed. Because in Tolkien beauty is holy, they are intertwined inextricably, the holy will be beautiful.

Boromir did not live a beautiful holy life according to most, his life is not spoken of with uncomplicated worth by any but Denethor, Eomer, Theoden and Pippin (all either 'simple' or outwardly rebellious against god). But he did die a beautiful holy death, it is what most people praise him for and in Faramir's mystical dream where he sees Boromir's dead body floating down the river, this is his reaction. Boromir's corpse was more beautiful than his living body, because in death he was 'redeemed' and served his purpose in the great holy plan. He 'died well'.

This is horrifying right? It horrifies me when I read it. And I think it so concisely reveals how Faramir and many others viewed Boromir. I am essentially here to argue that this is all about piety, once again, yes I'm a one track record.

Gandalf, when hearing of Boromir's death from Aragorn, declares; It was a sore trial for such a man: a warrior, and a lord of men. Galadriel told me that he was in peril. But he escaped in the end. I am glad. It was not in vain that the young hobbits came with us, if only for Boromir’s sake.

Now, what is Gandalf saying here? Boromir did not escape, he died. Does he mean he escaped corruption? Well, no, since apparently this 'escape' had something to do with Merry and Pippin and Boromir shook off the pull of the Ring long before he was sent to find them. What role did Merry and Pippin play in this 'escape'? Well, Boromir died for them, he had too, there was no other way out of that ambush. So by process of elimination the only thing the 'young hobbits' did that was 'for Boromir's sake' was... to be there so he could die for them, right?

And remember, his death did not actually save them or really help in any way, the hobbits are still taken and the Uruk-hai's downfall has nothing to do with Boromir. In fact Aragorn squandered any time Boromir might have given him to catch up to the Uruk-hai by spending hours on his funeral. So, the death alone is what is being called 'good' here, what is beautiful. Boromir dies and that is beautiful and something to be glad for, according to Gandalf and Faramir.

But why do they think this? Faramir has his 'alas for Boromir, whom I too loved' and Gandalf laments 'poor Boromir', so they have at least some pity for him. What was 'good' to them about Boromir dying? Well we all know this one don't we, it's the accepted narrative of it all, Boromir 'redeemed' himself with this deed. He tried to take the Ring, and for this crime he needed redemption that he gained through vainly giving up his life to try and save Merry and Pippin.

But, in fact, Boromir himself has a slightly different way of phrasing it. Boromir says, of his own death; ‘I tried to take the Ring from Frodo,’ [-] ‘I am sorry. I have paid.’

He paid for it. To Boromir, in this cosmic exchange, he chose wrongly and paid for the offence with his death. This wasn't redemption, it was spiritual commerce, crime and punishment. Which is a perspective that once again demonstrates Boromir's enduring lack of 'faith' or spirituality. The powers of the west and Eru may exist, but they exist to him as forces of nature, some fact of the world we all must just live with, not something that fills him with hope or brings him nobility or meaning or a 'higher purpose'. Boromir does not want to be closer to divinity, he does not want to be beautiful or noble, he wants his people to be safe.

But of course, this is entirely opposite to Faramir's perspective, and if not downright heretical then at least unfaithful. So, when alive, Boromir cannot achieve 'beauty' in Faramir's mind, because he is unfaithful. It is only when he is dead, when 'fate' draws him into this spiritually good 'end' that sees him give up his life for a holy quest, when Boromir's life is no longer defined by him but by his death, that he can be beautiful.

And bringing this all the way back around, there are two ways you could do this in a boromirlives fic. Either, Boromir comes back but he does not look like he did in Faramir's dream. He did not pay, he is still alive to define who he is and Faramir finds himself slowly drawn into this terrible psychological horror as he realises he misses his brother's death more than he missed his actual brother.

Or Faramir needs to be confronted with a brother who looks dead to him. Boromir has come back and to Faramir's eyes he looks exactly as he did in the dream, but now this corpse moves and speaks and can no longer be confined to one perfect conceptual moment. And this also horrifies him. It is for authors to decide if this is just an aspect of Faramir's perspective, or if Boromir actually 'came back wrong' as it were, he did pay but somehow he came back anyway.

[thepixelelf]

Bluff and Nonsense - she/her ver.

genres: romance, angst, some fluff, university au, not a fake dating au pairing: female reader x hoshi words: 17.0k (01:08) warnings: cursing, alcohol notes (orig, 2020): "so the title is fluffy and this was a title fic, but then it ran away on me. I really like this one so... yeah. Enjoy!” update, 2023: this is the she/her version of Bluff and Nonsense. other than the pronouns, nothing else has been changed. you can find the original they/them version here, and the he/him version here

“Soonyoung? Yeah I know him, you should too. He’s on the uni’s dance crew, and ever since he joined them, their popularity’s skyrocketed. I’ve met him a few times, great guy — got a tendency to run his mouth but hey, no one’s perfect. He’s smart anyways, probably knows how to deal with the consequences, right?”

or

Soonyoung never thought one bluff could lead to so much nonsense.

Kwon Soonyoung is a man of many talents. He’s the guy who could fit a whole orange in his mouth in fourth grade, the guy who always knew how to make the social studies teacher talk about his divorce instead of the world wars, and the guy who brought a live pigeon to school with no one questioning him whatsoever. He’s also the head choreographer of the university’s dance crew — you barely knew there was a dance crew until he showed up with his hand-drawn posters — as well as a totally well-rounded fine arts major. C’mon, who takes a chemistry course in the fine arts? Kwon Soonyoung, apparently.

Of his many talents though, lying is not one of them.

Which is why, when asked if he likes anyone, Soonyoung says your name instead of simply saying “no” (a much better option in hindsight). He actually likes a girl on his dance crew. Cute, funny, has those eyes you can just get lost in — lord knows Soonyoung has. But, at this relatively quiet party, with half the guests crowded on Seungcheol’s couch and the other half on the disgusting carpeted floor of his apartment, Soonyoung can’t admit his real crush because she’s sitting just a few feet away.

It wouldn’t be such a bad lie if you weren’t also sitting a few feet away.

You’re on your phone when he says your name in his heartbeat-induced panic, but you look up at the sound of it, as does Seungkwan, who was reading something on your phone from the beanbag chair you’re both sitting in.

A chorus of low, teasing ‘ooh’s rises throughout the room, almost like it’s eighth grade again and Soonyoung just got called down to the office. Except now, he might actually be in trouble. He gets a few claps on the back from his friends close enough to reach, commending him on his bravado even though he doesn’t deserve it. Really, the whole situation only dawns on Soonyoung after 6.8 seconds, which is a bit too long considering he made the situation in the first place. Blood rushes to his cheeks, not because of the alcohol in his red cup he’s yet to drink, but because you’re looking right at him, and he has no idea what to do.

Soonyoung doesn’t know you very well. In fact, he’d almost say he doesn’t know you at all.

You’re Seungkwan’s friend from one of his classes — computing science, if Soonyoung remembers correctly, but he’s not totally confident. The only reason you came tonight is because of Seungkwan. You don’t know anyone else.

With a tilt of your head, your face scrunches with question, and you look to Seungkwan for help. You know Soonyoung said your name, but you missed hearing the context. It looks like Seungkwan missed it too, seeing as the conversation you two have only makes your brow furrow more as the room chatter picks back up. Everyone else is already over Soonyoung’s sudden confession when Jeonghan starts talking about something else.

Except Soonyoung’s friends, of course. That would be too easy.

Mingyu turns to him with a stupid smile, his cheeks red from both the free opportunity to tease his upperclassman and the light beer he’s been sipping and pretending to get buzzed on all night. He nudges Soonyoung with his shoulder where they sit on the floor, leaning in to speak under the conversations surrounding them. “You didn’t tell me you like her,” he says, the jesting tone in his voice clearer than water.

“Yeah...” Soonyoung doesn’t know why he doesn’t just retract his confession, it’s not like Mingyu is close to you or anything, he’d understand. But then again, he’s bad at lying, and the girl he likes is still sitting on the couch. He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s sort of a recent thing.”

Mingyu’s smile only widens at Soonyoung’s response, his eyes turning to slits with the rise of his cheeks. “Soonie’s in looove~!”

And Soonyoung doesn’t know what to say. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before, not exactly like this, anyways. So he just looks down, scratches the back of his neck again, looks at one of his dance crew friends when she calls his name.

He doesn’t dare glance your way for the rest of the night.

Turns out you do know someone else other than Seungkwan, because once most of the guests have cleared out, leaving only half the boys to clean up, Seokmin approaches Soonyoung as he scrubs the sink of whatever that weird green stuff is.

He asks how Soonyoung knows you and says off-handedly that he’s never even seen the two of you talk. (Which is right.) He says these things shouldn’t be joked about, that you’re a person with feelings, and Soonyoung should leave you alone if he’s just doing this for comedy’s sake.

Soonyoung thinks he’s never seen Seokmin so serious.

It’s probably fine. You haven’t said anything good or bad, and other than the occasional tease from his friends, no one has taken anything too far. Maybe you’ll forget about it tomorrow. Maybe he’ll forget about it tomorrow, and it will all be okay.

Besides, it’s not like he actually likes you. And his real secret is still safe and sound.

•

Of Soonyoung’s many talents, making people sad is also not one of them.

It’s not that he actively tries to cause misery only to fail, it’s that he can’t stand upsetting anyone. He’s a people-pleaser by nature, that’s just how it is.

So he doesn’t say no when you ask him out for coffee.

And he smiles at you when you try to make conversation, even though it’s awkward and hesitant despite having a mutual friend like Seungkwan. It’s not so bad, he thinks. You’re trying, at least, and when you ask him about his interests, you actually listen, which isn’t common when he tends to over-explain his love for dance and performance. He has a coffee in his hand too, so that’s a plus.

You ask him if what he said at the party was true, and something in your eyes makes him say yes.

•

There are a few more coffee dates after that. It’s nothing official, and Soonyoung is hesitant to call the meetups “dates” because he’s not interested in dating you. But it’s a little late for that.

You seem brighter, though, every time he sees you again; he can’t bring himself to take that away, to cut the cord, to clean this mess he made.

Something about the way you two talk is nice, at least. Soonyoung can’t quite put his finger on it, and he tells himself that’s what’s drawing him back every time, not the guilt he feels sunken in his ribcage whenever you smile his way. It’s not that deep, he repeats to himself whenever you wave to him on campus, making him feel obligated to walk you to class. It’s not that deep.

He’s in the library one day when he spots you at one of the tables, books open and spread out as you scribble down notes, a pair of earbuds dangling from your ears. You haven’t seen him, so he doesn’t try to approach, just ducks back behind the bookshelf he’s been exploring. His hand is on a book he might like when a voice stops him.

“You know you’re an idiot, right?”

Minghao leans against the opposite bookshelf, his arms crossed, locked and loaded for judgement. Soonyoung looks around, but of course he’s talking to him. They’re the only ones in the row.

“Um, how do you want me to answer that?” he asks, unsure of exactly what Minghao’s talking about. Yeah, he knows he’s a bit dense sometimes, but not all the time.

Minghao rolls his eyes. “I know you like Sehee. You haven't stopped laughing like an idiot at her bad jokes." He nods his chin outwards, gesturing over Soonyoung's shoulder and through the bookshelves towards where you're sitting. "What are you doing messing with Seungkwan's friend?"

It’s not too surprising that Minghao knows — he’s an intuitive guy, but Soonyoung is still caught off guard. He asks first, under his breath, “Does anyone else know?”

“If you mean dumb and dumber, then no.” Minghao jerks his head to swing his dark bangs out of his eyes. Everyone keeps telling him to just cut his hair shorter, but he refuses for the aesthetic, or something. “Chan is way too focused on dancing to notice your dumbassery, and Jun is about as observant as a fishcake when it comes to feelings.”

Soonyoung’s shoulders fall in relief, though he didn’t even realize they’d tensed up. 

“But that’s not the problem here. Why are you playing around with her if you’re into Sehee?”

“I’m not—” Soonyoung pauses, thoughts deliberate, “—I’m not playing around, okay? I just... I don’t know. You were all looking at me, and I couldn’t just say Sehee's name, she was right there!”

Minghao cocks an eyebrow at that. “But you could say hers?”

“It was a moment of weakness.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m aware.”

Soonyoung groans quietly — he’s still in a library after all. He covers his face with both hands, not wanting to look at Minghao nor have Minghao look at him. For a second, it’s blissful, awkward silence, which Soonyoung would take over Minghao’s scolding any day. But of course, no haven lasts forever.

“You’re gonna have to tell her,” Minghao says, and he’s probably right. No, he is right, Soonyoung just doesn’t want him to be.

“I can’t do that! I said I like her— twice!”

“Twice?”

“Twice!”

Minghao only drops his head for a second, scoffing at the whole situation. Soonyoung wishes he could do that too, just laugh it off because it’s someone else’s problem.

“Well, you’re going to have to say something sooner or later.” Meeting his eyes, Soonyoung realizes Minghao might actually be worried. About you, or him, or something else, he’s not sure, but the subtle fold of Minghao’s eyelids tells Soonyoung this is about more than just calling out idiocy. “And I think sooner will hurt less.”

Soonyoung knows he’s right. But he doesn’t like it.

Before he can come up with a rebuttal, though, Minghao’s hands are on Soonyoung’s shoulders, and he’s pushing him out of the row of bookshelves and straight towards your table.

“You can do it, Soonyoung, just rip the band-aid while you still can,” he whispers in Soonyoung’s ear right before one last push at his back.

Soonyoung stumbles a bit, but once he regains his footing, Minghao’s already gone and you’ve already noticed the ruckus. You pull one earbud out with a bright smile. It’s so jovial that Soonyoung almost forgets why he’s here.

“Hi Soonyoung, I didn’t see you come in,” you say, and there’s no way you’re this energized just from studying in a library.

“Uh... hi.”

“You’ve actually got the perfect timing.” Waving to him, you gesture for him to sit next to you, and he does. You pull out some sort of planner, opening it to a few months from now. “I wanted to ask when exactly your showcase is? Seungkwan’s no help at all because he only cares about his concerts and stuff. Honestly, there aren’t that many...”

You’re going to have to say something sooner or later.

Soonyoung picks later.

•

“So when are you gonna ask her out?”

Jihoon stands in front of the stove, watching his hot water simmer, a bag of dry ramen in one hand and long cooking chopsticks in the other. It’s Soonyoung’s turn to make dinner tonight, but since he says he isn’t hungry, Jihoon’s scrounging it out himself.

Soonyoung, on the other hand, sits at their tiny dinner table, his forehead pressed to the cool surface, arms hanging limp at his sides. He mumbles something of a response, but it’s nothing more than a questioning grunt, if anything.

“Oh, you know.” Even when Jihoon says your name, Soonyoung stays still. “Only the girl you’ve been on several “dates” with ever since you confessed to her at Seungcheol’s party. When are you gonna ask her on a real date?”

Tired, Soonyoung groans. “When the time is right, I guess.”

•

You work on campus. It’s some part-time job you don’t care about enough to even complain over, despite the fact that you have to deal with annoying university kids every day. Soonyoung finds this out when he has coffee with Minghao in one of the buildings he doesn’t normally frequent, and only goes to today since Minghao has a class nearby in the next hour.

The coffee isn’t great, and it’s too expensive, but Soonyoung drinks it anyways. He much prefers the coffee from the cafe he goes to with you. Because the coffee is better. Obviously.

He hears your voice first, words indiscernible with distance and overshadowed by a much louder, angrier one, but still. Minghao sees you first, though, and he points past Soonyoung to the student printing center, where you’re standing behind the counter and arguing with some guy. You don’t seem too riled, but Soonyoung can tell you want to be anywhere but there, especially when the angry guy’s voice keeps getting louder and louder.

Soonyoung’s feet bring him over before his brain can register what to do. You haven’t seen him yet, he could just walk away, but he doesn’t. Your voice becomes clearer as he approaches.

“Listen, the printing center is for education, art, or business. I can’t print this for you.”

The guy goes off about personal freedoms or whatever, Soonyoung isn’t really listening.

“No, I get that this is a student printing center, but I really don’t think your big tiddie anime gf poster has anything to do with education, art, or business.”

And that’s when the guy grabs your arm. Which results in Soonyoung grabbing his arm. Which results in the accusatory question, “What are you, her boyfriend or something?”

Now, in a perfect story, this would be the first time Soonyoung meets you. Or maybe you’ve been close friends for a while. And this would be when Soonyoung says that, yes, he is your boyfriend, and he would save the day. Except you’d be all “why would you do that?” which would result in you both having to fake date to keep that guy off your back. In this perfect story, there would be no Sehee to like and no Minghao to judge, just you and Soonyoung fake dating. Eventually, you’d both catch real feelings instead of fake ones, and then boom, happily ever after.

But this isn’t a perfect story.

Soonyoung still says yes, and the guy still backs off. In reality though, because Soonyoung never thinks before he lies, you momentarily duck behind the counter and bring a hand up to your face to cover your ever-brightening smile. In reality, Sehee still exists at the forefront of his mind every dance practice, even though you’re the one he just promptly claimed to be the boyfriend of. In reality, Minghao watches from a little ways away, sipping his coffee and shaking his head in what can only be called disappointment.

Soonyoung’s never been good at lying. One would think he’d stop by now.

•

So, it’s official.

You’ve put a heart next to his contact name. He’s put one next to yours — red, because he doesn’t know your favourite colour. Seungkwan’s done the whole if you break my friend’s heart I break you spiel and Soonyoung finally realizes he’s in too deep.

It's almost too natural, how easily you bring him into your life and how easily he finds himself fitting. It's all so wrong.

Soonyoung feels like an imposter, like there's someone meant to be by your side, but it's not him.

You pluck up the courage one day to hold his hand, and he can't pull away because the lies tying him to you are too strong. The small bluffs he's spun have weaved themselves into a net he's tangled himself in.

His dance crew congratulates him when Jun spills the news. It's all mundane, really — dating in university isn't all that uncommon. Mostly, Soonyoung gets casual "you go, dude" comments or the like, but then Sehee says nothing. She smiles, and it has to be one of the most tragically beautiful things Soonyoung's ever seen. His heart fractures, just a little, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to fix it.

He smiles it off. Tries to, anyways.

Chan complains that Soonyoung's too harsh that day.

•

Jihoon likes you.

Not in a "Mister Steal Yo' Girl" way, but he laughed at one of your jokes the first time you came over to Soonyoung's apartment, and ever since then, he's been convinced.

"You must feel like the luckiest guy on earth with her around," Jihoon says once you leave for the night.

Soonyoung has no idea how to tell him he's felt nothing but unlucky these past few weeks, so he doesn't.

•

He polishes up on his acting. As awful as it is to think, Soonyoung has gotten really, really good.

His smile looks genuine. It has to — he shows it to Minghao, who says it's "adequate," which basically means perfect to the lowly humans beneath him.

He's gotten good at responding to you too, copying how the male leads do it in dramas and movies. It's sort of easy.

He hates how easy it is.

Soon enough, you try befriending the whole group. Being Seungkwan's friend, you've always wanted to, but apparently this is the push you needed. The boys are quick to warm up to you because, as Soonyoung's new girlfriend, you're now a new teasing target besides Chan. The youngest was always the brunt until you came along.

You say you don't mind — that his friends are amazing despite all the jokes and chaos. He believes you.

Minghao keeps his distance, saying he doesn't want to get himself involved. He's still the only one to know the truth, and his judging stare only grows worse as the days pass. Soonyoung wants so badly to make it go away, but he knows the only way to do that would be to tell you the truth, and he's just not ready.

Soonyoung's never broken a heart before. He's never planned on it.

Sometimes life makes its own plans.

"My shift got moved to tomorrow," you tell him when he picks you up from class, one hand in his and the other in your pocket. He knows it means something, but he doesn't know what. Your lips purse into a line as you stare at your shoes. “I was thinking... could I come watch your dance practice? If that’s okay?”

Now, Soonyoung loves dancing. He loves dance. He loves to dance. Performing sends an unparalleled thrill rushing through his veins like the solar system hurtling through the universe, and it’s something he’s never felt doing anything else. Dancing with others is a beautiful connection, an emission of silent truths communicated through the body. Practice, however, is the dirty version of dance. It has to be built up first — polished. Which is why Soonyoung says what he says. He doesn’t even think it over.

“No.”

It’s what he says every time someone asks. He doesn’t invite people to practices — never has. Even after his prompt refusal, he doesn’t register his mistake until the light in your eyes wavers. It doesn't disappear — just ripples. Comes back weaker than before.

"Oh," you say. The word should sound dejected but it doesn't. There's a smile at your lips, and Soonyoung can't help but think it looks kind of like his. "That's— that's okay! I was just — I don't know, I guess I just thought... I wanted to..."

Meeting his gaze, you look at him with shaking eyes, almost as if it takes great strength to keep them on his. He tries to backpedal, but you continue.

"I'll be going home then. I've got an assignment due soon anyways, so..." You pull your hand from his grip and, from where you two were walking toward the fine arts building, turn the opposite way. Your dorm is on the other side of campus. "See you tomorrow, Soonyoung. Have fun at practice."

Something about your smile haunts him.

It's hollow; feels empty when you flash it at him before going. He thinks fake smiles all look like that — insincere. His smiles at you must be the same way.

For an awful moment, he's hopeful. Maybe this will be the trigger. Maybe you'll end this tonight — whatever "this" is that Soonyoung has with you. Maybe he won't have to tell any harsh truths at all.

He turns and walks to practice.

The routine feels lighter tonight, though Soonyoung can’t pinpoint why. His body almost floats, and while that sounds good, it’s not. The rhythm is off. He’s not landing when he should be.

His crew notices, especially Chan, who complains that Soonyoung’s too much of a cocksure choreographer to be making repeated mistakes like this. They tell him maybe everyone should take a break. He agrees, but only because he’s frustrated — and he shouldn’t channel his anger into dance. Not this one, at least. 

Everyone spreads throughout the studios to the edges, where they lean their body weight on the walls and slide down, water bottles in hand. The room reeks of sweat and feet, but Soonyoung’s used to it by now. He guzzles down half of his water in one go and pulls out his phone.

[❤] Sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to react all... cold? Seungkwan told me you never invite anyone to practice, so it makes total sense why you said no

[❤] If I’m ever crossing any boundaries, let me know, okay?

Of course you’d be understanding. Soonyoung wouldn’t be that lucky.

He tosses his phone haphazardly in his bag, groaning and throwing his head back so it hits the wall with a dampened thud. The pain is dull compared to the thoughts top-spinning in his mind.

Across the studio, Minghao clears his throat, raising an eyebrow at Soonyoung when he opens his eyes to look at him. It only takes two reluctant nods for Minghao to understand the source of Soonyoung’s groans, and he does nothing to react but look away. Soonyoung thinks that’s almost worse than the judging eyes. At least at that point Minghao thought he was something other than a lost cause.

He doesn’t text you back. By the time he thinks of something a boyfriend would say, the time to say it has passed.

•

How much longer is he going to let this go on?

Soonyoung wonders that to himself as he sits, returned to Seungcheol's apartment for another one of his "getties" as people are so apt to call them. He's never understood the difference between a getty and a party, and he's always been too stubborn to ask, knowing he'd be mercilessly made fun of for not knowing something apparently all university students knew.

This one isn't so different from the last. More or less the same crowd, the same atmosphere as the night goes on. Only this time, when everyone's settled down in what can hardly be called a circle, Soonyoung's on the couch, sunken into the too-old cushions with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You're far from your last claimed spot with Seungkwan on that ratty old beanbag chair, sitting comfortably under Soonyoung's arm with a plastic cup of whatever Jeonghan concocted for you — which you've yet to drink much of.

Sehee sits across from you both while she laughs at something Wonwoo says. You laugh too, but Soonyoung barely notices, eyes glued to the girl they've been stuck on since she joined his dance crew over a year ago. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is when she smiles, even under the light of Seungcheol's dingy apartment, but he can't. He wants to tell her how he's felt for months, but you're next to him. He wants to have a fucking drink but all he has in his cup is fucking iced green tea because he knows if he drinks he'll fuck up again.

Just like last time.

"You okay?" you whisper in his ear at one point.

He turns to see your concerned expression, and it only makes Soonyoung hate this even more. He doesn't deserve your concern.

"I'm fine."

But he's not fine.

He doesn't participate in much conversation — only speaks when spoken to, and even then with few words. You seem to become tense next to him, but he does nothing to try and fix it. Just tonight, he's going to let himself be tired.

Three times, you offer to leave, and all three he refuses. You give up eventually, though he can tell you know something's off. God, if he were drunk, he wouldn't even have to think about you for a whole night.

Somehow the topic of discussion turns to couples, and suddenly, an entire room of eyes is on you and Soonyoung. He barely catches the question before you're already pondering your answer.

What do the two lovebirds love most about each other?

You look at him. At him, at him. He feels your stare in the dip of his throat because he can't seem to swallow anymore. It's like his soul is being scanned for viruses.

"Hmm..." You let your chin fall into your palm with a smile. It's real. Too real. "I like his resolve," you finally say. "If he wants to do something, he does it." With a loud exhale through your nose, you tilt your head, still meeting his eyes with your own. Soonyoung's mouth slightly parts, slack with something he can't name. "I could learn a thing or two from him."

The room bristles with your answer, various response piping up around. Soonyoung sort of registers Chan saying, "That's cute. I wanna vomit," but he's too busy thinking about you, about how you've come to like something about him as deep as that when all he's done is pretend to even like you at all.

And even when his mind swims with that, Sehee asks again.

"Then Soonyoung, what do you like about her?"

It sort of hurts. Soonyoung's not afraid to admit to himself that hearing Sehee ask what he likes about you sends pain straight through his ears to his heart. There's an awkward pause and everyone's looking at him expectantly and, god, he wishes he stole your drink when he had the chance.

"I..." His throat goes dry. His lips part, but there aren't any words to slip past them. "I, um..." He looks to you, and your eyes speak volumes. Everyone else in this room has a sort of... hungry look. They want to know Soonyoung's answer for one reason or another, maybe to tease with or to ridicule or even wish for themselves. But you, your eyes meet his and he knows you're not expecting anything. That hurts too. He doesn't know why. But even then, he can't think of the words. Any words. He steals a glance at Sehee, whose expression is curious, doe eyes slightly giddy from alcohol. She's pretty.

"I like her laugh," he says. It's not about you. "Whenever she laughs, I think to myself, 'What I wouldn't give to see her laugh again'."

Your eyes move to the plastic cup you've got gripped between two hands in your lap, and Seungkwan points out your flustered state to the entire room despite the fact everyone can see it as long as they've got working eyes. You purse your lips together to contain a smile, but it doesn't work. Even Soonyoung can see that.

He needs a drink. 

Having to go to the bathroom is a lousy excuse, and Soonyoung knows it, but he whispers that in your ear anyways and retracts his arm from your shoulder before escaping. He does go to the bathroom, a small thing with a shower and no bath, but all he does in there is stare at himself in the mirror. And when that becomes too much, his feet.

Someone else eventually has to use the bathroom for its actual purpose, so he opens it to the banging fist outside and slides past the person back into the hallway. He pauses before walking all the way back. You're caught up in some other conversation now, laughing and dramatically waving your hands as you deny some crazy embarrassing story Seungkwan's trying to spill about you. Seems you've already integrated yourself with his friends more than he thought.

Since your attention is occupied, Soonyoung instead ducks into the half-kitchen — not necessarily out of sight, but no one's really paying attention anyways. He knows he shouldn't take any chances, but he really, really wants to let go. He's been wearing a facade ever since he said your name that night.

"I wouldn't, if I were you."

Minghao's voice has Soonyoung jerking up and banging his head on the door of the open fridge he was rummaging through. He winces in pain, kneading his fingers into his scalp as if that will do anything.

"Wouldn't what?" he snaps.

"I dunno." Minghao shrugs, and it's almost infuriating how nonchalant he is. "Do something you might regret, I guess."

He takes the yet unopened bottle from Soonyoung's hands, reaching beyond him to put it back in place. There's no point in fighting against him since he's undeniably right, but Soonyoung grumbles anyways. His eyes glance every few seconds to you on the couch. If you happen to hear anything...

Well, he doesn't know exactly. But he doesn't want to find out.

"You have to end it."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just—" Soonyoung takes in a breath, too loud for his liking. He lowers his voice. "I can't, okay? I don't want to hurt her."

"So you're just going to date her based on false pretenses because you're too much of a coward to admit your mistakes?" Voice laced with sharpness, Minghao places his palms flat on the counter.

Soonyoung takes a deep breath through his nose, lips twisting in frustration. "Yeah, okay? Yeah," he whispers. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do."

A second passes. Minghao's brow furrows.

"And quite frankly," Soonyoung continues, "I'd rather you keep your nosy ass out of my business from now on."

He nearly storms off right then with the last word, but Minghao's fingers around his elbow stop him.

"You're going to get yourself hurt," Minghao warns through his teeth. He nods towards you. "And her in the process."

"We'll see about that."

Soonyoung has acted on impulse before. It happened with the pigeon, it happened with your name, and it's happening right now. Nothing is compelling him other than the absolute need to prove Minghao wrong, and even then, he doesn't know why.

He sits back down next to you, his spot saved by some miracle considering the surrounding company. The look on your face is happy, jovial. You must be having a right old time. His nerves strike with a feeling he's never quite experienced before.

When you study his face, no doubt not nearly as cheerful as yours, the expression you held falters to worry.

"You okay?" is once again the question on your lips, quiet, meant for his ears only.

Impulse is a scary thing. Soonyoung hates it almost as much as lying.

He leans in, crashing his lips on yours with his eyes half closed. His lips move and yours don't. Soonyoung can't even be sure you've closed your eyes, but at this very moment, he doesn't care. All he knows is he's angry and Minghao is watching.

This isn’t your first kiss — he knows because you’ve talked to him about this very topic. This is, however, to your understanding, the first “real” relationship you’ve ever been in. You told him yourself that you don’t really count that past kiss as your first, that you felt a bit... violated when it happened.

Soonyoung thinks this isn’t all too different.

He steals your second first kiss, and later, staring at the water-stained stucco ceiling of his bedroom, he kicks himself so hard it hurts.

•

You show up to movie night. Apparently Jihoon invited you — explained it like this:

“You won’t have to be so clingy with me if she’s here.”

At first, Soonyoung thinks Jihoon just wants to drop their roommate movie nights because he’s always complained about them, but Jihoon sticks around during Anastasia; sings along with you during Once Upon a December despite the fact that neither of you really know the words. He sits right in front of you two on the couch, cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of popcorn in his lap, that of which he only offers to you twice and Soonyoung once.

Whatever. You’re a better cuddler than Jihoon anyway.

Somehow it doesn’t feel forced when you lean your head on Soonyoung’s shoulder, or when he wraps his arm around your waist to get comfortable. He blames it on how tired he is, how he always gets on movie night after a week of classes and practices and too much work for one person to handle. Jihoon complains all the time that he’s too touchy when tired.

You absentmindedly play with his fingers for most of the movie. He doesn’t mind.

It’s been about a month now.

Soonyoung doesn’t kiss you again after the first time. Doesn’t stop you, either, but you’re more of an on-the-cheek kind of person. He thinks you think he wants to take this slow, even though he initiated the first big step (as convoluted as it was). He lets you think what you want.

Nasty business, it is.

Cleaning a bowl that once held popcorn. All the grease that sticks to the side because Jihoon likes to use too much butter. All the grains of salt that get underneath Soonyoung’s fingernails. He’s washing, Jihoon’s drying. It’s an arrangement of sorts.

You’ve already left for the night, gone back to your dorm since it’s only a five minute walk or so through campus. Jihoon insisted on Soonyoung escorting you, but you only smiled sweetly and refused. Maybe Soonyoung should’ve argued harder against you. He didn’t though. That’s why he’s scrubbing a bit too harshly now — he doesn’t like messing up.

Seems that’s all he’s good for lately.

“You’re unhappy.”

Soonyoung stops scrubbing. The only noise in the whole apartment is the slow gurgle of the sink because even with a plug, such an old thing just lets the hot water seep away as the seconds go by. Jihoon’s gaze is on the pan he’s drying, but Soonyoung knows his heart is in the question. It always is.

“I’m not,” he tries to deny, but it’s difficult to fool a person like Jihoon. (Especially since Soonyoung can’t even convince himself.)

The non-stick pan from yesterday’s dinner clangs against an older one when Jihoon puts it away. He looks at Soonyoung, but by then he’s turned back to washing the popcorn bowl, so their eyes don’t end up meeting.

“I’ve known you since tenth grade. You think I can’t tell when you’re upset?”

Soonyoung finds it hard to read Jihoon’s feelings most of the time. He didn’t realize he was such an open book the other way around.

Sighing, he continues to scrub the bowl, which has probably been clean for a minute already. “I’m just... stressed.”

“About?”

Minghao already knows; already thinks lowly of Soonyoung for it. If Jihoon knew... Soonyoung doesn’t know if he can take that.

So he lies. Again.

“Just the dance showcase.”

It isn’t a whole lie, not really, but he can’t call it the truth either.

Jihoon takes the bowl from Soonyoung’s grasp and rinses it under the tap. Since that’s the last dish, Soonyoung is stuck with nothing for his hands to do. They rest on the edge of the sink, but his fingers ache for a task.

Jihoon, the friend that he is, says, “That’s not for three months, though. I’m sure you’ll be perfect by then.”

“I don’t know...”

“Well I do.” Eyes meet eyes, a pair determined, a pair apprehensive. “Everything will work out.”

“...Okay.”

•

Soonyoung measures time in terms of you now.

When he last texted you. When he last saw you. When he last spoke to you.

It’s all a very elaborate calculation — how much time he’s spent on you versus how much time he should spend on you. No relationship is quite like this one, he thinks, and it’s quite the romantic notion out of context. The fact remains, every interaction he has with you only pulls him further and deeper into his lie.

Soonyoung’s time moves a bit slower now.

Faster, sometimes, but only when he doesn’t want it to.

•

You tell him you might be in love with him.

He says he might be in love with you.

He’s never hated lying more.

•

Jihoon is cleaning out the fridge when the buzzer goes off, so since he’s close by, he picks up the old corded phone attached to the wall. From his spot on the couch, Soonyoung looks up from his phone to see Jihoon cover the receiver and mouth your name. Jihoon makes some sort of gesture with his hands, and somehow Soonyoung understands that as, were you expecting her?

His eyes widen as it settles in that no, he’s not expecting you. The apartment is a mess.

Jihoon buzzes you in, hangs up, and immediately moves from the fridge to the coffee table, throwing the laundry he was planning on folding back in the plastic hamper and shoving the pile in Soonyoung’s lap.

“Take care of this,” he says. “I’ll clear up the kitchen.”

Right. Can’t have you thinking your boyfriend and his roommate are slobs.

Soonyoung reacts quickly, standing from his spot on the couch with the laundry basket in hand. He dashes to his room, where he plans to stuff the laundry in his closet and save that problem for later, but once he gets there, he realizes his room is even worse. There are dirty clothes dispersed all over his bed and old coffee cups littering his desk. Scrambling to shove the new laundry in his closet, the dirty clothes in the now empty hamper, and gather all the paper cups in his arms, Soonyoung’s breath starts to catch.

When he emerges from his room with two armfuls of garbage, he finds you at the door with Jihoon, your face hidden in his shoulder and your arms wrapped tight around his waist. Jihoon’s arms are up, almost like he’s being held at gunpoint, and his eyes widen even further when he catches sight of Soonyoung.

“Uhh... it’s for you.”

Soonyoung can hear your quiet hiccups even though they’re muffled in Jihoon’s shirt. He can’t bear it when people cry.

Yeah, maybe he’s been pretending to like you for a long time now, but he’s not a monster.

Right?

He likes you as a person. As a friend. And there’s no way he’s letting his friend go through pain like this.

Soonyoung swiftly discards his trash into the garbage bin and approaches you and Jihoon. At the commotion, you lift your head from Jihoon’s shoulder, eyes all red and puffy. Your lips press together, emotions nearly bursting at the seams, but they finally break out when Soonyoung opens his arms wide.

“C’mere.”

You practically flail into his embrace, arms wrapping around his torso in a vice grip as you hide your face again. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay — he knows you’re not.

Jihoon stands in the doorway for a few seconds, just looking at you and Soonyoung clutching at each other in the middle of the apartment before he shuts the front door and clears his throat.

“I’ll just, uh, I’ll be — um. Mhm. Yup.”

He escapes to his room.

Soonyoung squishes his cheek to your temple as you both stay there. You’re shaking, and his arms squeeze tighter. If only he could make it stop. He doesn’t know what to say or do to make you feel better.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, though quiet and hesitant.

You shake your head, mumbling something he can’t quite make out. He pulls back a bit, just enough to see your face and gently cup your cheeks in his palms. His thumbs rub at your cheeks, smoothing any stray tears across your skin.

“What’s that?”

“Just...” Your eyes glisten. His heart beats. “Could you please just hold me?”

And he does.

Decidedly, his bed is much more comfortable than standing in the living room, so he sways, rocking side to side with small steps that force you to walk backwards. His smile, though, is reassuring, and you follow his guidance without much complaint. He sits you down on his bed, thankful that he cleaned up beforehand, and slowly leans you down so you’re both on your sides, facing each other. Pulling you closer, he lets you rest your head on his chest. Your hand lies flat on top of him, but eventually your fingers curl, clutching a bit of Soonyoung’s shirt between them. Silent tears fall from your eyes to his chest, but he doesn’t care.

His arm underneath you wraps around, hand landing on your back so his thumb can rub soothing circles.

It’s quiet.

Funny. Soonyoung used to dislike silence with you — always felt the need to fill it with conversation or jokes or laughter. He wonders when it was last since he felt that way.

Soonyoung doesn’t know how much time passes. His eyes stick to his bedroom ceiling as he holds you close, thoughts on everything and nothing all at once. Are you asleep? Your tears stopped some time ago.

His question is answered when your voice, small and unsure, breaks the long-standing silence.

“Soonyoung?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you about it?”

He cranes his neck to look at you, but it doesn’t really work. “Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

You sigh. “I don’t know. I just... I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not.”

“I know, but—”

“You’re not.”

You look up at him finally, and seeing your smile sends warmth through his blood. Your face is still looks wrecked from tears gone by, but your smile pushes all that out of the way.

“Thank you,” comes past your lips in a whisper. Then, after a moment of waiting, you say, “It’s just that... I... this — ugh.” You hide your face in his shirt again. “This is so embarrassing. I don’t even know why I got so worked up.”

Soonyoung doesn’t respond to that, just pats your back a few times and encourages you to keep going. You toy with the fabric of his shirt.

“This guy I used to know — I thought I’d never see him again, but he showed up today. Ran into him when I was walking back from the convenience store.” You bite the inside of your lip. “I haven’t thought about him in a long time, but, I don’t know, I guess seeing him just brought all these memories back all at once.”

“Bad ones?”

A breathy laugh escapes you. “Sure, you could say that.”

The silence comes back, and your brows furrow, almost like you’re trying to solve the problem all on your own. But you don’t have to. Soonyoung is here.

“Do you remember when I told you about my first kiss? Like, my real first kiss?”

Soonyoung hums. Of course he remembers.

“Back in high school, I used to have this friend. Sammy. She was — god, she was beautiful. And kind, and smart, and just... amazing. I miss her a lot. She’s abroad now, travelling the world with her sister. I think she’s in Peru now.” You chuckle at the mention of your old friend, but soon your smile twists into a frown. “This guy... I don’t like saying his name, but he liked Sammy. Everyone did, I don’t blame him for that, honestly. He was pretty popular back then — one of those sports boys, you know? Thinking about it now, he could’ve easily gotten with Sammy if he hadn’t been so conniving.”

“Conniving?”

“Yeah, he was... I don’t know how he got the idea in his head, but he came to me first. He kept hanging out with me, taking me on these... dates? But they weren’t really dates, all we did was talk about Sammy — what she liked, what she didn’t like. I knew he was using me, but I just... let him, I guess. Maybe back then I was just so caught up in being needed that I didn’t really mind being used.”

Soonyoung hugs you tighter.

“I guess he felt sorry, maybe? Right before he went to go ask Sammy out, he just... laid one on me. It was stupid. Like a pity kiss for my service or whatever. I wasn’t in love with the guy or anything, but it felt so... degrading. Like all I deserved was some action from a conventionally good-looking guy."

Your tears come back, brimming at the edge of your eyelids.

“I don’t know, it just — it just made me feel so...”

You take a breath. Exhale.

“...worthless.”

Soonyoung doesn’t fail to see the irony here, at least, but he feels slightly lifted. Whoever this guy is, Soonyoung’s a million times better.

“You’re not worthless,” he says — because he knows it’s true.

“I know.” You readjust yourself curled around him, wiping away the tears which haven’t fallen. “I mean, I know now.” Sighing, you wrap your arm around his waist, somehow pulling him closer than he already was. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here. For being you. For letting me be me.”

“It is my absolute pleasure to serve you, your majesty.”

You wack him with the sleeve of your sweater. “You’re such a dork!”

Your laugh is nice. Soonyoung hopes to hear it again soon.

“You know,” you say, eyes closed as you lie there with him on his bed. “Normally I would’ve gone to Seungkwan with my problems, but tonight...”

“Tonight?”

“You make me feel safe, Soonyoung. Thank you.”

His eyes close. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “That, and if I told Seungkwan, he would’ve found the guy and beat him to a pulp.”

“Why can I see that?”

“Because it’s true.”

You stay the night.

•

With a group of friends as big as Soonyoung’s, it’s about once every blue moon that the boys find a time that works for everyone, especially coming up on finals season. They all have their own worries around this time: the dance showcase, the big play, last-minute assessments, and — of course — finals.

So when they’re all free for barbecue one night, everyone’s ecstatic. Reservations are made, gratuities are calculated, and the group chat blows up every few hours with various changes to plans. (Mostly from Mingyu, who’s eager to show off his grilling skills.)

But of course, university is university, and it’s inevitable that someone has to bail out. That someone being Soonyoung.

The dance showcase creeps up a bit faster than anyone likes, and now Soonyoung’s professor is forcing him to choreograph an entire song for some freshmen only a month before the whole thing goes onstage.

First of all, who signs up for a showcase only four weeks before the performance? Who lets them sign up?

And second of all, doesn’t his professor realize Soonyoung has a life? He’s got other dances to work on, other classes to study for, friends to have barbecue with. How is he supposed to cram an entire choreography — not the mention the time it’ll take to teach the freshmen — into his already hectic lifestyle?

But Soonyoung is a people-pleaser. He doesn’t say no.

Instead, he regretfully messages the group chat, saying he can’t hang out tonight in favour of attempting to choreograph at least a quarter of the song in one sitting. He gets the usual whining, but they all know they can’t change his mind, so it fades out fast.

What he doesn’t expect is for them to invite you instead.

“It’s a thirteen person reservation,” Seungcheol reasons. “Besides, she’s basically one of us by now.”

Soonyoung can’t exactly argue with that.

So, you go to the restaurant with them while Soonyoung heads to the studio. Minghao picks you up along with Vernon and Chan, which sends an anxious bit of worry down Soonyoung’s spine, but he does nothing about it. If Minghao wanted to tell you, he would’ve by now.

You send him a good luck text.

[🍥] Don’t let those kids work you into the ground!

He stares at your words for a bit, distracted from finding the song he’s supposed to use. Your contact name is different now — one of those naruto fishcakes because of that time you took him out for ramen. That night had been full of laughter and loud, borderline obnoxious slurping, ending with the beautiful finale of Soonyoung throwing a fishcake straight into your open mouth.

You were the one that sweet-talked you both out of getting banned.

Soonyoung finally opens his music app and finds the song the freshmen requested (a rather boring one, if you ask him) which he sets to max volume. He doesn’t bother plugging his phone into the speaker system, not when he’s the only one in the studio.

Maybe he can do this.

•

“The trick is to add eggs and use less water,” you say as you scoop more batter onto the waffle iron.

Jihoon snorts from where he sits at the table, still shoveling more whipped cream and strawberry-smothered waffle in his mouth. “Are you sure the trick isn’t to just not be Soonyoung?”

“Hey!” Soonyoung pauses his own eating just to pout. “My waffles are good!”

“Sure, you keep telling yourself that.”

Both you and Jihoon laugh at Soonyoung’s expense, only further accentuating the pout on his face. You and Jihoon are too alike in that aspect. Well, actually, Soonyoung knows you’d never laugh at him, but he still can’t be sure about Jihoon. One time, back in high school, Soonyoung tripped over (what he thought was) a dead bird, and Jihoon laughed for hours — though Soonyoung always exaggerates the story into him laughing for days.

You sit down next to him with your own plate of waffles. There’s flour dusted on your arms, but you don’t seem to mind.

“You’ve got a little...” You point a finger at the corner of your mouth.

He knows. Soonyoung can feel the cool whipped cream right where you say it is.

He smiles wide. “I’m saving it for later.”

“Hmm...”

You say nothing, just smile as you lean in, kissing the corner of his lips. It’s quick, chaste, and barely a real kiss, but Soonyoung’s heart bounces in his chest. He’s never been kissed like that before.

He wonders if this is what it’s like to be loved.

That thought, though, he pushes back for another time.

“Gross. You guys made me lose my appetite,” Jihoon says. He keeps eating.

•

With eyes drooping shut every few seconds, Soonyoung decides it’s time to call it quits on the chemistry homework. It’s nearly one in the morning, anyways. He flips his textbooks shut and gathers up all his notes, putting them all in a haphazard pile that he’ll worry about in the morning. Swivelling in his chair, his eyes land on you.

Oh. He forgot you’re here.

You’re snuggled up on top of his covers, one arm wrapped around the pillow your head should be on, eyes closed as even, slow breaths come past your slightly parted lips. One of his hoodies is draped over your legs like a blanket. He wonders why you didn’t just get under the covers.

Well, he has been walking you home ever since he hadn’t some time ago. Maybe you were waiting.

He feels a bit guilty as he brushes his teeth and washes his face, but not too bad since you only have afternoon classes tomorrow. Maybe he can treat you to something in the morning to make up for it.

After he tucks you under a fluffy throw blanket, he crawls into bed and lies on his side, facing you.

Your other hand is lax, palm up and fingers curled, almost like you’re holding something invisible.

His hand would fit perfectly.

The tips of his fingers graze over the lines on your palm. Slow. Trepidatious.

You shift, fingers unconsciously curling around Soonyoung’s hand.

He closes his eyes.

•

The moves aren’t working.

The moves aren’t working and the music isn’t working and the dance isn’t working and nothing is working.

Soonyoung groans in frustration, almost screaming with his fingers threaded through his damp hair as he messes up yet another landing. He’s drenched in sweat, and it’s only been so many hours since the rest of the crew left for the night, not that he’s kept track.

It’s less than a week until the showcase. Six days, as Chan is apt to remind everyone with his stupid holiday countdown app.

That freshmen choreography is already over and done with — Soonyoung’s made it, he’s taught it to those over-eager nuisances, and if they need anything more, that’s on them. They’re no longer his responsibility.

That’s not what has him in such a state right now.

His solo — the one he’s been planning for the entire semester — it just doesn’t... feel right. He’s been slaving over it for days now, reworking the steps, figuring out what to take out and what to replace. But the more he fixes it, the more it feels wrong.

He can’t get the steps right. He can’t get anything right.

What is wrong with him?

He starts the music again at exactly one minute, thirty-eight seconds. The moves are clear in his mind. One step. Two steps. Sweep. Spin. Jump—

He falls.

The music goes on.

Soonyoung slams his fist onto the softwood floor, cursing at his ineptitude. He stays like that for a moment, eyes screwed shut and fists clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms. The song ends, only to restart again, but Soonyoung barely notices.

Screw the music. He stands; positions himself; tries again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

He falls.

He yells out at the floor, at his feet, at whatever is holding him back.

His reflection in the mirror stares back at him.

Mind blank, he sits there, legs stretched out in front of him as he hunches over, eyes closed to the world around. His breaths come out shaky and uneven, but even though every moment sitting still feels like eternity, his lungs fail to calm.

Someone knocks on the door, and for a second, Soonyoung thinks it’s Jun coming to tell him to go home for the night. He doesn’t want to, so he doesn’t look up.

The door opens, he can hear the quiet shuffling of hesitant feet that have removed their shoes just because the sign on the door told them to.

“Soonyoung?”

Your voice is clear — like a single drop of water coalescing into a whole — and it cuts through the sound of blood rushing past Soonyoung’s ears.

He looks up to see you standing a good length away, almost like you’re scared to approach. You’re wearing pyjamas, a thick sweater pulled over your shoulders and fuzzy socks donning your feet. Something bulges from the pocket of your sweater.

“What are you...”

“Minghao called me.”

In the back of his mind, a small part of Soonyoung wonders exactly when you and Minghao have gotten close enough to call each other, but the thought doesn’t stay for long. It can’t, really, not when you’re in front of him.

When Soonyoung says nothing more, you take another step forward. “What’s wrong?”

To anyone else, he might say nothing. Absolutely nothing is wrong.

His voice breaks when he tries to laugh.

“Everything.”

Your eyes soften, a small smile tugging at your lips. It’s not one of those pitiful smiles, he can tell, but it’s not fake, either. You bring your hands together in front of you, fiddling with the tips of your fingers as your eyes move from them to his gaze again. “I’m coming over. Is that okay?”

He nods.

First, you find his phone and turn down the music until it’s gone. You sit right behind him, legs spread on either side of his body, and you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing flush to his back and resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. He squirms a bit.

“I’m all sweaty,” he tries to argue, but you only squeeze him tighter.

“Yeah, you are.”

He stops resisting. It’s much too hot, what with his hours of constant exercise and your thick layers, but he can’t complain.

“Do you want to talk about it?” This time it’s your turn to ask.

“...Just hold me?”

And you do.

You press a kiss to the back of his neck. Slow, soft, and when your lips leave his searing skin, your forehead replaces them.

That’s when the dam breaks.

Hot, fat tears roll from Soonyoung’s eyes down his cheeks as sobs rack through his chest. The vibrations shake him and you all at once, but your hold never falters. He can’t see anything, only a blur of what should be his legs and your arms wrapped around his stomach. His hands go to clutch at your arms, desperate to hold onto something; to not let him sink.

It’s ugly, the way he cries, but you let it happen. You hold him.

This is what it’s like.

Eventually, his desperate hands find yours, his arms crossed so his right is over your right, his left over your left. His fingers roam over the smooth backs of your hands until they reach your fingers and interlock. The palms of your hands are warm compared to his fingertips.

You’ve locked onto his body language by now — you’re fluent, so you know to continue pressing reassuring, slow kisses into his skin. You know to whisper little words that should mean nothing, but coming from your lips, mean everything.

He’s going to be okay.

For some reason, coming from you, he believes it.

You hold him until the hiccuping stops, until the tears are just dry streaks on his face, until his breath comes out in long streams instead of bursts.

His eyes stay shut as he feels you shift. One of your hands slips out of his grasp, your arm reaching back, and Soonyoung almost whines until he feels its return.

“Look,” you whisper.

It itches to open his eyes, but when he does, he sees what’s in your hand, right in front of him. A small stuffed tiger sits in your palm, positioned anatomically incorrect like a teddy bear, a velvet heart between its paws. Stitched white letters read:

Go get ‘em, tiger!

You chuckle lightly, repositioning yourself so your chin hooks over his shoulder. “Cheesy, I know. I was going to give this to you the day of the showcase, but I think you could use it right about now.”

Gingerly, Soonyoung lifts his hands together, and you place the plush in his awaiting palms.

His voice is slow to restart, but he manages to say, “Thank you.”

Hands now free, you wrap yourself around his waist again. “Anything for you.”

Such a simple sentence, that, and yet the confession sends blood to Soonyoung’s ears in the form of an awfully embarrassing blush. He runs his thumbs over the fuzzy fabric of the tiger plush.

“Soonyoung?”

“Hm?”

You press your lips to the crook of his shoulder, voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t force you to stop practicing. I know this is important to you.” Soonyoung feels your breath fan over his skin. “But I also want you to rest — you shouldn’t overwork yourself.”

One of your hands rises to his chin, guiding it up so he looks forward at the studio mirror and meets your gaze in the reflection.

“Whaddya say we do, hm?” You tilt your head, and Soonyoung thinks his pupils may be heart-shaped. “Do you want to practice more? Or can I take you home?”

“Just...” He swallows what’s left in his dry mouth. “Just once more.”

You smile. “Okay.”

As you get up, you run your hands up to Soonyoung’s shoulder and down to his hand, where you playfully pretend to pull him up with you. He laughs, hiding his face behind the tiger plush for a second before he stands, tugging your hands as he does so you fall into him when he rights himself. Both your hands are squeezed between him and you, while his unoccupied arm finds its way to your side.

Another smile tugs at your lips at the proximity. You shift your hands up so they wrap over his shoulders, linking behind his head. Leaning closer, your eyes gleam under the fluorescent lights. To the sound of silence, you sway together, waltzing in the dead of night.

“I’ll be outside, okay?”

Soonyoung’s expression tightens, eyebrows shifting in confusion. “Why?”

“Well,” you say. “I know how you feel about audiences during practice.”

Something about your smile right now makes Soonyoung feel so undeniably safe. You understand him. Never once have you questioned him over why he doesn’t invite you to practices, never once did you pressure him to change that.

“Do you know how I feel about you?”

“Hmm, do I?”

Do you?

“Stay.”

And you do.

•

Here’s the thing about dance showcases:

They’re big, they’re flashy, they take the entire year to plan, and they’re over in one night.

Soonyoung stands in the wings, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, hopefully not loud enough for anyone to hear. He watches as the group performing before his solo finishes up their dance, though he knows there is at least a minute before he’ll have to go on.

A tap on his shoulder makes him turn his head, and he sees Sehee’s smiling face.

“Nervous?” she asks, her voice hidden beneath the music.

She’s all dolled up, dressed in her costume with a sleek leather jacket to bring everything together. Her eyes glimmer just as much as her eyelids.

“You have no idea,” Soonyoung jokes, but his heart isn’t really in it.

Sehee tilts her head; blinks a few times. “You’ll do amazing. You always do.”

For what it’s worth, Soonyoung hasn’t forgotten his attraction. Sehee’s words soothe him to some extent, pump him up, even. It’s slightly terrifying — how much she still affects him even now.

You’re in the audience tonight, third row from the front, somewhere in the middle. Your seat is between Seungkwan’s and Jihoon’s, whereas all the other boys came (almost) too late and had to find seats elsewhere.

The music ends, applause erupts, and Soonyoung knows it’s his turn. He waits for the group to exit on the opposite side, and when the resounding claps quiet down, he takes the first step onstage.

Something Soonyoung has almost always known: stage lights are blinding. If they’re set up right, anyone onstage will have a damn hard time seeing anyone in the audience. He can’t see you — couldn’t during his previous performance with the crew, either. The only reason he knows you’re there is the million assuring texts you sent him before you had to turn off your phone for the show.

But he knows you’re there. He knows you’re watching.

Soonyoung stands with his left foot on the spike mark, right where he’s practiced time and time again ever since they transitioned into the space. Music floods his veins, and the world is gone.

He wouldn’t call it an escape. Soonyoung doesn’t use dance to get away, it’s not like that. This world he creates with dance — this other space where nothing exists except him and the music and the floor and the feeling — he chooses to go there. Euphoria, he thinks it might be called. Euphoric.

The space takes him. He lets it.

And then it’s over.

Soonyoung’s breath leaves him in bursts, his shoulders heaving despite how hard he fights to keep them still in his final pose. His back faces the audience, his right arm stretched out and up, fingers curling around nothing. Stars dance before his eyes — which he fails to catch with his outstretched hand.

He thinks he can faintly hear applause, but it’s nothing compared to the heart beating in his chest. Your voice plays in his ears, yet he knows it’s simply his imagination — his recollection.

I like your dance, you’d said that night. I’m no expert, no judge, but I like it. I love it, honestly. Your dancing... I don’t know. I wish I had the words. It’s like... a little box.

A little box?

You’ve got a little box in your hand. Brown, maybe the size of your palm. You open it and there’s no bottom, no sides, no shape, just an expanse of universe in blues and pinks and purples and whatever colours we don’t know exist. You look inside and reach your hand in, somehow fitting in the tiny yet infinite space. Your fingers brush through starlight like strands of silk, like the rays are minnows you’ve met during a summer dip. Like that. A little box.

I thought you said you didn’t have the words?

I don’t. Not enough.

Soonyoung vaguely registers the lights going black, the way his feet drift him offstage, the music of the seniors’ finale.

At some point, the lights are back on. Not the stage lights, but the harsh fluorescents once the audience has fully filtered out into the lobby. Most of them will leave, but the family and friends of performers are sure to stay, waiting there to congratulate and fawn over the dancers as soon as they’re let go for the night. Somewhere in his mind, Soonyoung knows his friends are outside waiting for him — him, Jun, Minghao, and Chan.

Roses are passed around. He’s never seen a blue rose before, but some dancers walk around with them as they change out of costume and gather their things. He points out a yellow rose from the bunch presented to him, but it turns out to be a bouquet for him specifically, and he takes the whole thing with his jaw slightly hanging. Everything’s a bit... slow. Soonyoung feels like he’s wading through water.

He hasn’t changed yet, simply standing in his costume as he watches people go back and forth. Other performers move from dressing room to dressing room, cleaning up what they have to while simultaneously patting each other’s backs. Techs go around making sure everything’s in order, nothing lost or forgotten. They put away the MC’s microphones and bother the dancers for not taking proper care of props even though it’s only been one night.

Another tap on his shoulder; it’s Sehee again.

“Can I talk to you?” she asks.

He follows her to a corner of the stage, where the curtains hang and hide the two — for the most part.

She turns almost too abruptly, causing Soonyoung to stumble over his own two feet to avoid bumping into her.

“This is really hard for me to say,” she starts. “But I have to get it out.”

Soonyoung nods, maybe saying something close to a confirmation, but he can’t really tell. He’s a little lightheaded. Sehee has changed out of her leather, instead now in a pair of grey sweatpants and a simple t-shirt. That’s the thing about Sehee, though, she has that unnamed sort of... effortless beauty. Even with her stage makeup wiped off, she glows.

“This might be one of the last times I ever work with you, you know? Next year, my parents are making me quit dancing so I can focus on my major. It sucks, yeah, but they’re right. I need to focus if I want to succeed. You know that too, don’t you? The need to succeed?” She takes a breath; laughs bitterly. “Sorry, I’m getting off track... I just — I wanted to tell you this because if I don’t tonight, I might never get the chance again.”

Maybe Soonyoung has dreamed of this moment. He can’t be sure, not yet, so he lets her continue.

“I like you, Soonyoung. I have for a while. But things happened, and you got together with...” her voice trails off. “And you seemed happy, after a while. I thought maybe I could just keep it hidden but, I don’t know, I think I need to tell you, to get closure because I'm not sure if I can go on without at least—”

Choices. Soonyoung — and everyone else in the world — has only made it through life with decisions. He’s made good ones. Bad ones. He’s had regrets and he’s had none. This, though, this choice is intensely apparent.

Apparent in the way he knows it will affect much more than he wishes.

He kisses her.

God, this is what he wanted, right? What he’s wanted for so long. He used to toss and turn at night over the thought of Sehee’s eyes; her smile; her lips.

And on his, they were heaven. Plump and soft just like the romance novels say, moving at the exact pace of his heartbeat.

The hand holding his bouquet drops to his side as the other goes to cup Sehee’s cheek. Faintly, the sound of paper fluttering to the ground reaches his ears, but nothing can distract him from this moment.

Until, of course, it ends.

Sehee pulls away. “We can’t— I don’t—”

Someone clears their throat.

Soonyoung turns, finding Minghao standing just off from the curtains, arms crossed and face contorted in thinly-veiled anger.

And you.

You’re standing next to Minghao, obviously shocked — over being seen or what you’ve seen, Soonyoung doesn’t know. Hands fisted and held close to your chest, your eyes widen as they meet Soonyoung’s.

It’s not so dramatic as the movies.

Soonyoung stares at you, tongue unmoving with nothing to say. You stare back, almost frozen, until Minghao gently takes you by your shoulders, forcing you to turn and leave the way you must’ve come. Nothing happens in the time it takes. Soonyoung simply watches.

He’s never been good at reading lips, but he thinks he knows exactly what Minghao whispers in your ear.

There’s something you should know.

Sehee mutters, “Sorry,” and leaves. She looks guilt-ridden as she does, but even in his half-frozen state, Soonyoung knows all of this is on him.

He stands alone in that corner of the stage, the only noise being the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the last stragglers in the dressing rooms. His hands clench, and the brown paper of the bouquet crumples. He looks at it then, at the yellow roses and baby’s breath, at the beige note that’s fallen to the floor.

Slowly, he crouches, picking up the note with his thumb and forefinger.

Congratulations Soonyoung!! I know how hard you’ve worked for this night, which is why I ordered these to be delivered. Joshua told me yellow roses represent happiness, or something. Pretty, right? You deserve every happiness, so I decided to start with flowers. Tonight may be over, but who knows, maybe we’ll find happiness in tomorrow, too.

It’s stupid. It’s not a love letter. It’s laced with love, though, and he hates that he recognizes your handwriting.

Time moves heavily as Soonyoung turns to the backstage door. He’s the only one left now, his station in the second boy’s dressing room is messy, unlike everyone else’s. His reflection stares back at him while he sits in front of the mirror, motions halved in speed as he wipes off his eye makeup.

It’s over.

When was the last time he thought about how it would end?

He changes out of costume, arms growing stiff, and stuffs everything in his bag without much care for how. His regular clothes itch; he longs to scratch at his skin, but he doesn’t.

He leaves your bouquet on the counter.

His friends stand in a circle in the lobby, brows furrowed and voices hushed as they discuss... something. Soonyoung has a bad feeling he knows exactly the topic. Minghao isn’t there. Nor are you.

Jihoon isn’t around, either, but Soonyoung remembers he had to leave immediately after the performance. Something about an essay. It doesn’t really matter now, not compared to this.

When he approaches his friends, they quiet down further. Half of them look his way with a frown, while the other half choose to avert their eyes. What do they know?

Seungkwan stands out the most. His arms are crossed, his lips are pressed together in a thin line, and anger radiates from his very being. Of course he’s mad. You’re his friend.

The silence consumes Soonyoung as he nearly shrivels under his friends’ gazes. He must have taken his time, the lobby is empty except for them.

“Where’s Minghao?” he asks.

Seungkwan lurches forward, but both Seungcheol and Wonwoo bring up their arms to hold him back. 

“Where’s Minghao? Where’s Minghao?” he seethes. He jabs an accusatory finger in Soonyoung’s face. “You just kissed some girl and broke my best friend’s heart and you’re asking about Minghao?!”

So they don’t know. Not really.

Soonyoung endures the scolding. The looks. The questions. The noise.

No answers are really given.

The great thing about having best friends is that they know not to pamper you when you’ve done wrong. That’s also the worst thing about having best friends.

Seungkwan would go on and on, surely, but soon enough the boys notice how little Soonyoung is reacting — how his face and expression is slack and dull.

Joshua holds up a finger to quiet down the ones still complaining, then gestures towards the front entrance.

“Minghao left with her a while ago.” The look on his face is one of pity. Soonyoung hates it.

He nods; stuffs his hands in his pockets as he turns to the door.

“Wait! I’m not done—!” Seungkwan struggles against Wonwoo and Seungcheol, but he’s no match.

Soonyoung doesn’t stick around long enough to hear what happens next.

He has no sense of what to do when he walks out that door. Go home, maybe.

The night breeze hits him with more force than it should, making his eyes go dry and his lips tremble. Outside, everything is almost too loud. There’s traffic on all sides, surrounding the lot of the theatre; the sound of humming engines and honking horns assaults his senses.

He walks — though it feels like wandering — to the parking lot, where he plans to look around for a bus stop.

You’re there.

A mirage, he thinks at first, but you’re really there, sitting on one of those concrete barriers, legs outstretched and ankles crossed. You have your head lowered as you sit, hands braced on the cold concrete.

His held breath escapes him, and you look up.

“You’re here,” you say. The smile on your lips, ever so slight and ever so bitter, causes a ringing in his ears. “I almost thought you forgot about me.”

“I...”

“It’s a lie, right?” Your eyes glisten, but no tears fall. “You wouldn’t— I’m not— I’m not that naive, am I?”

Soonyoung’s lips part, but nothing moves past them. His hands itch to leave his pockets, but with nothing to reach for, they stay still.

“...I see.”

You drop your head again, bringing your hands together to fiddle with your fingernails. He hears your breath, shaky as it is, and his lungs constrict.

“God, it felt so real. I thought— I guess I don’t know what I thought, huh?” A shiver runs through you. “Was any of it real?” you ask the ground.

Soonyoung longs to answer. That’s the thing, though.

He doesn’t know.

Can any of it be real?

You laugh. Before, your laugh was spring strawberries; summer warblers; winter snowdrops. Now, your dry laughter echoes in Soonyoung’s mind like a pebble in a failed attempt of skipping stones.

“Guess not.”

You hop off the concrete barrier, wiping off your pants of dust and dirt. Still, you don’t meet his eyes.

Soonyoung’s heart beats in a way he knows isn’t natural. Guilt seeps through every orifice. “You’re not... you’re not yelling at me. You’re not crying — you’re not angry,” he stumbles through. “Why?”

It’s then that when you meet his eyes, he notices the dried tracks lining your cheeks. You have been crying, just in the time it took for him to come across you.

“I’m just disappointed in myself, Soonyoung,” you say. “I’m the one who fell for it so easily. I’m the one that was tricked. I’m the one who—” a breath “—who loved someone that didn’t love me back.” You step closer, arms limp at your side. “Once I get home, sure, I’ll cry my eyes out. Is that what you want to hear? I’ll curse myself for being so... so stupid.”

“It’s not your fault—”

“No, it’s not. This is not my fault. All I did was believe the words you said to me. All I did was hand myself to you on a silver platter.” Unshed tears brim at your eyelids, but it seems you refuse to let them fall. “But you know the worst part, Soonyoung?”

Everything?

“The worst part is I can’t yell at you. I’m not angry because I fell in love with someone who doesn’t love me back and it hurts and I can’t bring myself to hate you despite being told you’ve never thought about me the way I think about you.”

A breathy gasp escapes you, and you turn on a dime, the sight of your back an icy reminder to Soonyoung of what he’s yet to learn. You take a deep breath to gather yourself, shoulders rising and falling.

“I’ll be going now. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

Soonyoung doesn’t move from his spot when you walk away, or when you get into Minghao’s car, which pulls away after a moment of sitting there in its parking spot. His feet are stuck in stiff mud, unable to shift, even.

Perhaps he stands there for too long. It’s not until he’s staring down the front of his apartment that he realizes one of his friends must have dropped him off.

•

He hasn’t heard from you in a few days. He hasn’t heard from anyone in just as long.

Jihoon already knew (not everything, but enough) by the time Soonyoung rolled out of bed the day after. He hasn’t said anything about it, but Soonyoung can tell this silence isn’t the same as usual. They rarely eat meals together anymore. Last movie night, Jihoon didn’t even pretend to be busy, instead saying he simply wasn’t in the mood.

Seungkwan hasn’t left your side ever since... that happened. If Soonyoung happens to see you on campus, which is almost never, he backs out of approaching you because of the sheer force that is Seungkwan’s glare. Besides, he wouldn’t know what to say even if he did find the courage to face you.

Classes go by in blurs. Not quickly, like scenery past a car window, but so slow that once Soonyoung leaves, he remembers nothing but hours upon hours of staring at his empty notebook, even if the lecture was only fifty minutes long. Days are kind of like that too.

•

Sehee apologizes. She shouldn’t, but she does.

Soonyoung didn’t really hate what he did at first. He liked her, after all.

But when Sehee chokes on her own words, pleading to whoever will listen that she’s not that kind of girl, Soonyoung regrets kissing her more than he ever wanted to kiss her in the first place.

•

please let me explain

I’m sorry

it’s been a while, but still

I’m sorry

[🍥] Explain what?

[🍥] ...

[🍥] Soonyoung?

sorry I just

I wasn’t expecting you to answer

[🍥] Maybe I shouldn’t have

no

wait

I’m sorry

[🍥] So I’ve heard

I just want you to know why what happened, happened

[🍥] But I already know why

it’s not that simple

[🍥] You lied because you suck at lying. Because you knew Sehee was there that night and panicked. I was just collateral damage

[🍥] ...

[🍥] No answer, huh?

[🍥] So it really is that simple

please wait

I’m just trying to figure myself out

[🍥] Let me help you

[🍥] You want my forgiveness because you feel guilty. Maybe you don’t know it yet, but you want me to say I forgive you just so you won’t have to carry this around for the rest of your life

[🍥] I know this isn’t some romcom. I know you’re not here to get me back

[🍥] So just let it go

[🍥] Let’s just forget about this. About what happened

what if I can’t

[🍥] I don’t know

[🍥] Figure it out, I guess

[🍥] But do it on your own

•

Soonyoung doesn’t measure his time anymore.

He wakes up. He eats. He goes to class. He skips lunch. He goes home. He eats. He falls asleep.

When was the last time he went out with someone? When was the last time he had a real conversation?

He doesn’t know.

•

[Minghao] You should tell everyone else

why

[Minghao] Would you rather they think you’re a cheater or just an idiot?

I don’t know

[Minghao] I think they deserve an explanation

[Minghao] Want me to do it for you?

does it even matter anymore

[Minghao] It’s your choice

[Minghao] You just have to make it

then tell them

I don’t care

[Minghao] Are you sure?

tell them

•

These days, Soonyoung stays late at the studio. No one really practices there anymore, not since the showcase finished and finals have rolled around. Actually, Soonyoung should be studying too, but he can’t find the motivation. He thinks it might be the guilt.

You were right. He doesn’t want to carry this around.

The thing is, despite spending entire evenings in the studio, he can’t remember anything as he walks home. It must be hours spent in there, and yet, when he walks out, he can’t recall a thing. Like he was never there at all.

Where does the time go?

With his luck, the elevator is broken when he returns to the apartment building, so he has to take the stairs. Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, but after hours of mindless, sloppy dancing, he’s much too tired. He fumbles with his keys when he tries to open the door, and he rests his forehead on the cool wood for a moment, sighing before he tries again.

The door creaks open. Though it’s late, the lights are still on, which Soonyoung frowns at when he realizes. Lately, Jihoon is never up when Soonyoung comes home. But there he is, sitting at the table right next to the kitchen with his eyes on his hands and his feet tucked under the chair.

Soonyoung freezes after shutting the door behind him, not wholly sure what to make of the scene before him.

After a moment of silence, Jihoon looks up from his fingers and meets Soonyoung’s gaze.

“Minghao called me today,” he says.

Soonyoung gulps, but doesn’t respond — doesn’t know how to.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first, you know.” His voice is slow, croaky; tired. “But it sort of makes sense, doesn’t it. I don’t know how I didn’t see it from the start.”

Slowly, Soonyoung slips off his shoes and steps further into the apartment. “So now you know. I’m really not in the mood for a lecture right now.”

“I just have a question.”

Soonyoung pauses, halfway through the apartment and only a few meters from his bedroom door. He turns to face Jihoon, sighing through his nose and digging his palm into his eye sockets. “Fine,” he concedes. “What?”

“If you never loved — never liked her, why are you acting like this now?”

“Acting like what?”

“Like a dead man walking.”

Soonyoung scoffs, a dry, empty sound as he looks away for a moment before meeting Jihoon’s gaze again. “You’re kidding, right?” he asks. “I lied to someone for months. I pretended to love someone I didn’t. I used her because of my own stupidity and pride, and then I used Sehee, too—” Pausing, he closes his eyes; takes a breath. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s guilt. I feel guilty for... for everything.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“Excuse me?”

Jihoon rhythmically taps the pads of his fingers on the table. It’s not loud enough to be heard, but Soonyoung’s eyes train to the sight. “It’s only the guilt?”

“What else would it be?”

This time, it’s Jihoon who sighs. He looks at his hands again for a second. “Do me a favour,” he says without looking up.

“Look, I already—”

“Just do what I say.”

Soonyoung groans, but he knows he can’t argue with Jihoon and win — not now at least. He rubs his eyes, shoulders rising and falling as he takes in a deep breath. Mumbling under his breath, he says, “Fine.”

Jihoon stands from his chair, and in such stagnant silence, the sound of the legs squeaking on the floor is profound. He points to the middle of the apartment, the large bit of floor-space that’s too big to be considered part of the kitchen but too small to house any furniture.

“Stand right there.”

“...What?”

Without answering, Jihoon simply points at the floor again, and Soonyoung can only groan in defiance as he moves to stand in that spot. Grabbing a throw pillow from the couch, Jihoon steps a few feet away, facing Soonyoung with the pillow held in one hand at his side. He seems to consider something for a moment.

Soonyoung has never been unable to read Jihoon this much, so he asks, “What is this all about—”

Jihoon screams. Not a high-pitched screech, but a guttural battle cry, and Soonyoung’s eyes widen. Faster than he can comprehend, Jihoon runs towards him and tackles him to the ground. Soonyoung’s legs crumble as he falls, and he feels the throw pillow pressing onto his face.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he dies.

“Jihoon!” he cries, but his protest is muffled by the pillow. “What the fuck are you—!”

“You fucking idiot! You don’t know shit!”

“I know that!” Soonyoung thrashes to get the pillow off, but Jihoon is way stronger than he looks.

“You miss her you fucking buffoon! You’re all in your doom and gloom because you had a good thing going and had to go fuck it up!”

“I don’t!”

“Don’t try to argue with me, fucker, I know you better than anyone. Now scream!”

The pillows squishes further down, and while Soonyoung can still breathe, it’s far from comfortable. He continues to struggle even though he knows it’s useless.

“What?!”

“Scream into the pillow! You’re mad at yourself and you should be! Let it all out!”

“I—”

“Scream!”

And he does. He lets out a loud bellow that’s nothing but sound roaring from his lungs. He does it mostly to appease Jihoon — so that maybe he’ll finally get off.

But it feels good.

No, not good, really. It feels awful. Everything feels awful. Yet, something about screaming makes him want to do it again. He yells once more into the pillow, the sound muffled in the fabric and yet intensely remarkable. He screams and he screams and he screams until he can’t scream anymore and his voice is raw and there’s no more sound aside from the fractured gasps of his sobs. Tears soak into rough fabric, and he doesn’t even notice that Jihoon isn’t holding the pillow anymore — he’s pressing it to his face himself. His body shakes under Jihoon. Soonyoung feels pathetic, but he can’t stop.

He tries again to scream into the pillow, but his voice cracks and all he knows is to cry.

This is what it’s like.

Quietly, Jihoon maneuvers himself so he sits by Soonyoung’s head. He slowly lifts a corner of the pillow and peeks at Soonyoung’s red face. “So,” he whispers, voice soft and full of care. “What are you going to do now?”

Soonyoung wraps his arms around the pillow, hiding his face again.

“I don’t know,” he says. He’s never felt less sure of anything. “I don’t know.”

•

That night, Soonyoung cleans his room. He doesn’t reorganize or anything, just picks discarded clothes up off the ground and throws them in a hamper, spreads his blankets so his bed actually looks bed-like, and takes his overflowing garbage bin out to the door, where he’ll take it out tomorrow morning. As he stretches his arm between his bed and the wall, his fingers close around the sweater he’s trying to reach and... something else. When he brings his hand back up, a small tiger plush stares back at him.

Go get ‘em, tiger!

He stares at the words for a moment, sitting up on his bed and leaning his back against the wall. The plush feels frail in his hands, almost like the velvet heart held in the tiger’s paws could crumble at any moment. Maybe it will.

Soonyoung settles down above the covers that night, and the tiger sits on his other pillow.

The one that still smells like you.

•

He cries. (For the second time since you left.)

•

After everything that’s happened, one would think it would take a miracle to fix what’s been broken. Soonyoung thinks it will take more than that, but still; he’s no miracle worker. He thinks it will take magic to just see you again.

Turns out, it takes a coffee.

Jihoon forces Soonyoung to join him in visiting one of the campus cafes. He doesn’t think about it too much, just believes Jihoon’s trying to keep him alive with a little kick of caffeine. That thought is pushed away when Jihoon blocks him from sitting at the little table, pointing instead across the space to the student printing center.

You’re talking to a customer at the front counter, forearms rested on the white faux marble. A smile is on your lips as you say whatever it is you’re saying to the girl, and Soonyoung finds it almost impossible to tear his eyes away. But he does. He scans the rest of the building for a second. Seungkwan is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Minghao.

He turns to Jihoon, a question on the tip of his tongue.

“She told the bodyguards to back off,” Jihoon explains without needing to be asked. “It’s been a few days.” He nods his chin towards you. “Go on. Talk to her.”

Soonyoung shakes his head, gulping down the words he can’t yet think of. “I don’t... I’m not... ready.”

“If you back out now, you’re going to keep backing out until it’s too late.”

Jihoon’s eyes blaze with an unfitting determination for such a setting. He looks stupid, like some self-made, all-knowing relationship guru who likes the coke he’s gripping too much. Still, he’s right.

Soonyoung licks his dry lips and looks at you again. You’ve sat down, relaxed after having helped that customer and now conversing with one of the other students working there. He misses the way you looked when you were happy — when you were happy with him.

What will it take to see that again?

What will it take to hold you again?

His feet move before his doubts can stop him, and the scene feels awfully familiar. This time though, Soonyoung can’t help but feel like the bad guy.

You don’t notice him until he’s right in front of you, and he doesn’t know what hurts more: the immediate frown, or the fake smile you use to cover it up.

“Hi, what can I do for you today?”

If Soonyoung had to define heartache, he might use this moment. Feigning to forget rather than acknowledging the past... it’s effective, but it hurts.

“Can...” He hesitates and curses himself for it. “Can we talk?”

“About printing, yes. About anything else? I really would rather we didn’t,” you say under your breath. It’s hushed, and you don’t shy away when Soonyoung leans closer to hear. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

“But there’s something I need to say.”

“I don’t think I want to hear anymore apologies, Soonyoung.”

“It’s not that,” he argues.

Your eyebrows scrunch together. “It’s not an apology?”

“No— I mean, well, yes I want to apologize. I don’t think I’ll ever stop apologizing, but— but that’s not what I—”

“Soonyoung.”

He stops at your word, knowing that speaking will only get him further into trouble. Around you, his words keep failing. Instead, he meets your eyes, which under more inspection, seem hardened.

Have eyes ever looked so hardened when brimmed with tears?

“I don’t know if you know this, but seeing you makes me hate myself.” By now, your coworker has walked to the back, probably to respect your privacy. Your voice almost cracks. “I’ve felt worthless before, but Soonyoung, do you even realize what that — what you did to me?”

He barely breathes before saying, “What if I... what if I said I fell in love with you? Somewhere along the way?” A pause. Your eyes waver, but steady themselves. “What if I said I love you?”

“Soonyoung,” you say after a second.

“Yes?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

•

[🍥] Give me a reason to give you a chance

this is real right?

[🍥] It’s not a dream if that’s what you’re asking

all of a sudden??

[🍥] Minghao and Jihoon said I should

[🍥] And I think I should too

[🍥] But it’s hard

[🍥] What you said yesterday... I don’t know if I can believe it just yet

will you meet me?

I want to see you

[🍥] Can you give me some time?

yes

all the time you need

but will you?

will you meet me?

[🍥] I don’t want to

[🍥] But then again, I do

[🍥] Just give me some time

•

A strange thing, time. It passes by much too quickly when you want it to last, and it drags on when all you want is to be there. There; right then; right now.

Soonyoung stays up late turning on and off his phone, waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.

It’s only been two days.

Jihoon thinks he’s crazy, though he hasn’t said it out loud — Soonyoung can tell.

He also thinks he might be a little crazy, but that’s okay. If it means he’ll get the chance to make it up to you... maybe he’s fine with being crazy.

At some point, Jihoon barges into his room and takes away Soonyoung’s phone, snatching it straight out of his hands like the little thief he is. He keeps it out of reach despite being shorter, preaching bullshit like, “You need to calm down and act like a normal person!”

Fine, whatever.

Soonyoung goes out for some air. And instant ramen.

There’s a twenty-four hour convenience store right on the edge of campus, manned by a single tired university student that everyone is aware of, yet no one really seems to know his name. It’s one of those spots where time doesn’t exist; maybe names don’t, either.

Compared to the blackness of night, the blanch white convenience store sticks out like a sore thumb, especially with all the bright posters and fluorescent tube-lights. Soonyoung feels just as out of place with no people around just outside the store, but really, it’s to be expected at a time like two in the morning.

He’s right at the door when it chimes and slides open. And so are you.

Both of you freeze where you are, you in the doorway and he just in front. His jaw slacks slightly as he takes you in.

You’re in casual clothes again, a thick sweater and presumably pyjama pants. This version of you comes with good memories — for some reason he likes it more than he cares to admit. Maybe he liked that you could share a more vulnerable side to him, and he to you in return. Although, you’ve shown this side to even the unnamed convenience store guy.

It’s your voice that breaks him from his reverie.

“Soonyoung,” you say, and it’s softer than before. Maybe your voice is lighter from the fact that it’s two in the morning, maybe just because you’re tired, but a small part of Soonyoung wishes that it’s something else — that you sound softer because you’ve missed him too.

He hopes it isn’t just hope.

He says your name, the sound beautiful and battered on his tongue. A small smile passes your lips, so fast that he almost misses it, but he doesn’t. That’s one thing he knows about you: how much you care. Even if someone hurts you, you always take the time to hear them out. You give them chances. Soonyoung should thank his lucky stars that you’ve done the same for him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You smile again, and it reaches your eyes, however sad.

“Is it time?” he asks.

“It can be.” The plastic bag in your hand crinkles as you sway it back and forth. “Do you want it to be?”

“Yeah.” His voice comes out like a breath. “Please.”

“Then that’s what we’ll make it.”

You gesture to the ground, where the curb meets the asphalt, but Soonyoung is still a little shocked that he’s even met you here in the first place, so he watches, dazed, as you sit down on the curb before joining in. He stays silent as you pull out an ice cream cup and hand it to him. He stays silent as you procure a second one and peel open the plastic lid, digging into it with the wooden stick spoon-wannabe that comes with the package. He stays silent as you look at him, the wooden stick hanging from your mouth.

“So,” you say, scraping the side of the paper cup. Meeting his eyes, you sport a sly smile. “I hear you’re in love with me.”

The ice cream stays unopened in his hands. He finds it so easy to smile back.

“Yeah. I think I am.”

“You think you are?”

“I’ve never loved someone like this before,” he tries to explain, though the words are slow to his tongue. “I can only think.”

“I guess so.”

“But—” he looks at his fingers, fiddling with the plastic lid of the cup, and a small laugh escapes “—I’m thinking really, really hard.”

You laugh too; his heart blooms.

“Is that so?” you tease, smiling around the wooden spoon. “It’s gonna take more than that.”

“I think I can do it.”

“You think?”

“I think really hard.”

Soonyoung might be in love with every part of you, even if he never realized. Your laugh, your smile, your tells, your habits. He wishes he knew sooner, that this laugh could’ve been his forever long before now.

You scrape the last drops of ice cream out of the paper cup and leave the stick in your mouth, a bit chewed up. Your shoes tap against the asphalt, the rhythm something that draws both his and your eyes.

“You know...” you say, turning your head to meet his gaze once more. “You know you hurt me, right? You know this won’t be easy?”

“None of what we had was easy.”

A scoff runs past your lips. You bump your shoulder against his. “Speak for yourself. I fell hard and fast for you, asshole.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I know.” You take the still unopened ice cream from his hands and stuff it right back in the bag it came from. “Say it again, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmmm... maybe it’ll take a few more times.”

“I’m—”

“But not tonight,” you say. “Tonight...”

Your hand beside him closes the distance, grazing over his and pulling it over to your lap.

“...just hold me?”

And he does.

Bonus (gn) epilogue: Fluff and Context Bonus (gn) blurbs: [a fate of my choosing][pick a struggle]

[bonecarversbestie]

why do you hate azriel, what is there to hate about him he's quiet and polite? just curious

Thank you so much for asking, I’ve been waiting to talk about this topic for a long time.

For your pleasure and convenience, I’ve organized my points into an easily digestible numbered list:

Caution: Azriel criticism ahead

First, his particular brand of emo broodiness is just not my cup of tea, and I enjoy scenes less when he is lurking in the corner.

Similar to how some people dislike Nesta because they have been hurt by someone like her, I have never liked Az because I’ve had someone in my real life pine after me like he did to Mor (read: super obvious, with no encouragement from me, in a way that made me feel guilty for not returning their feelings and everyone around us felt uncomfy/like they needed to buffer the situation)

I didn’t appreciate that he wasn’t a very good chaperone to Nesta. If the IC was going to force her into “rehab” they were obligated to protect her while she was there (including from Cassian). I accept that Az was busy spying on Briallyn, but even when he was around it seemed clear that he did not take his chaperoning very seriously.  

The hero complex. I get that this comes from his trauma and low self esteem – he doesn’t value his life as much as the lives of his family, but he also knows that they are all competent and strong, and trying to take on every risky task to keep them from darkness or danger is not practical, possible or fair.

The torturing people thing – yes it’s his job, and sometimes it’s justified like with the Attor. But torturing Eris’s soldiers was wrong especially because it was clear they were not in their right minds and Eris is an ally to their court. He also alludes to torturing people for information in the human queens’ castle. Yes, some of them may have been sympathetic to Briallyn’s cause, but how many were just humans working their 9 to 5? After Eris’s soldiers I don’t trust him to make ethical decisions about choosing his victims.

I’m uncomfortable with how easily he can invade the privacy of others with his shadowsinger gifts. We don’t have evidence that he abuses these gifts, but I don't completely trust him either. (see point 5, ethical decision making)

Most of my reasons for disliking Azriel actually have little to do with ships, but as he relates to Lucien: I don’t like how little respect he seems to have for Lucien and Elain’s bond while apparently wanting a mating bond himself. And his assertion that Lucien doesn’t deserve Elain despite being her mate, and despite the fact that Lucien has been nothing but polite and cooperative since arriving in the Night Court rubs me the wrong way.

And as for Elain: I think he will be yet another person in her life who is overly protective and coddling rather than someone who will empower and encourage her to grow (see point 4: hero complex) I also never got the impression that his feelings for her come from a place of genuine interest in Elain as a person. I cannot blame him for being interested in someone who is kind and beautiful, but I think that’s all she is to him. Elain is also extremely vulnerable and isolated at this point in her story and it seems like he is just pursuing her because she’s there and available (and per the bonus chapter he feels at least some amount of entitlement to her).

His temper is a red flag. Even Rhys admits that Az still sometimes scares the shit out of him. He could have ruined everything at the High Lord meeting by taking Eris’s bait, and he had to be called off by Feyre. It gave the same vibe as a child having to sit by the teacher because they can’t keep their hands to themselves.

Doesn’t want to write poetry. Not very romantic if you ask me. Doesn’t need to resort to it? Or doesn’t know how? Sounds like a skill issue.

[ughmyreality]

Anti Polin overview / Rewrite

Here's a dedicated longer post, now that I’ve watched all of part one, as to my problems with Polin. Although, I don’t think it’s completely beyond repair, so in the later half, I’ve shown how I would have preferred their romance to go. (SPOILERS ahead)

They tell us a lot but hardly show us anything. We’re supposed to believe that Penelope and Colin are friends but they barely interact with each other. When they did, I often felt like Colin was only doing that out of obligation to Eloise. Like ‘this is my sister’s best friend after all’. Not because he wanted to be her friend.

Neither character has shown what they like about the other. Penelope has apparently liked him for so long that we should just be satisfied knowing that. There is no real depth as to why she does. Colin does a 180 and besides her physical appearance we also don’t know what changed for him to like her.

Colin doesn’t have enough personality for me to root for him. He’s just kind of there on the sidelines. In comparison to Penelope, he hardly talks at all. Going back to the tell but not show, we get the talk from Violet about his character traits but he doesn’t act that way. He’s not very memorable and he needs more time to establish who he is.

Penelope can’t help lying and instigating. Unlike Cressida, Penelope wants to keep up this innocent victim act. There’s nothing wrong with Penelope liking to stir the pot, but she just needs to own up to it. If they were going to make her a morally gray character, then I wish she would go full out instead of acting like she’s the one always wronged.

I’m all for the new outfits and hairstyles but it kind of feels like Colin only likes her because she changed her outward appearance. It’s lust instead of love. This isn’t helped by the fact that Colin has two separate sex scenes in the span of four episodes. Not only that but the lustful innuendos, for example the frosting thing with Penelope. He only seems to think about sexual appeal rather than a true connection.

Penelope has absolutely zero self confidence when around him. Let’s say that Colin courted her in her first season out, she wouldn’t know how to take it. She has him on this unreachable pedestal and she doesn’t find herself worthy of him. Yet she can’t stand the idea of him with someone else.

She is too possessive over a man that is not only not hers, but never showed interest in her. Her reading Colin’s writings of his escapades in France and then spiking with embarrassed jealousy is a prime example. Penelope has no right to act like Colin owes her anything.

Colin never considers that Penelope might have liked Lord Debling. Even if she didn't, she's still reeling after what she thought would be a proposal. He doesn't take her feelings into consideration and assumes that he's the best there is.

Moving on to a positive note of how I would have preferred it to go.

Polin would have actually been a slow burn friends to lovers. They would have had more moments between season 1 to 3. However, if for whatever reason, this wasn’t possible:

Penelope would have no one to turn to and admit to herself that she doesn’t have any friends. The entire first half would be Colin and Penelope developing their friendship with no romance. Get rid of the entire “lessons” plot and instead shift over to Colin trying to teach her that it’s ok to be yourself even if that means being alone.

There could still be some conflict with Eloise and Colin. Let's say that she gets mad that Colin is trying to befriend Penelope because she thinks that he’s only doing that to spite her. Eloise confides in the rest of her siblings and they start picking sides causing even more discourse. This can be why Colin doesn’t talk to his siblings very much rather than he just can’t be bothered. 

Colin and Penelope develop their friendship outside of the “My best friend’s brother” trope and become genuine friends.

After finally feeling like she has someone to confide in, she would feel guilty about keeping secrets and reveal that she’s Lady Whistledown. Which then would actually lead to a suspenseful end for part two.

Part two would start with Penelope alone at a party after Colin gets rightfully upset. She meets Lord Debling and they start their semi-romance. 

Francesca would be on Colin’s side and give Colin the chance to be close with one of his siblings. (Side note- I think every sibling has a somewhat favorite A-D, B-E, G-H, that only leaves out Francesca and Colin) It would also serve as a way to get more insight on Francesca. She would tell him what's been going on with Penelope and Lord Debling and the suspected proposal. 

Colin runs off to find her but it’s too late and Lord Debling is in the mist of proposing. In a surprising turn of events Penelope tells him that she can’t marry him and runs off in embarrassment. Colin follows and she asks what he’s doing there, he confesses that he loves her. They both apologize for the things they’ve done.

At this point, we're probably running out of time, so to move things along, let’s say they get caught kissing by Violet and she assumes that they’ve been courting for a while. She jokingly asks when's the wedding and Colin takes that as an opportunity to propose. They get married… THE END.

[mamawasatesttube]

Kon-El questions 3, 7 and 16

3. Least favorite canon thing about this character?

hmmm. how do i put this. it's like... the way karl kesel treated him as a self-insert for his own teenage fantasy self or whatever sometimes. obviously this comes out in the way he gets preyed on by adult women and this is played off as cool and chill, but it also comes out in the way a) kesel writes his flirting. sometimes it's very endearing and cringefail, and other times he's kissing women without consent, and that's played off as chill and fine because kesel thinks it should be and the women in question almost always are fine with that, but also b) he writes off concerns about indigenous hawaiians in kon's narrative (like silver sword or ...man i'm forgetting that kid who gets jealous of him and has powers about it for a minute, but that narrative). and like. yeah. white man in the 90s wrote this for SURE. i don't think it's like, written in the absolute poorest taste imaginable, because there's a lot of ways where it seems almost like they were trying to be respectful of native hawaiian culture, but then there's shit that's so far off the mark it's like. dude. and it's very evident that it just reflects karl kesel's own views much more than any character in-narrative.

7. What's something the fandom does when it comes to this character that you like?

lmaooo that's a toughie!!!! fanon kon at large is just. straight up not my boy. however there's a subset of fandom who leans into him being genderqueer/gnc/trans a lot more than canon ever has and i looove that. trans kon truthers lets go ♥

16. What's your least favorite ship for this character?

LORD. tim/ber/kon is the one that makes me roll my eyes hardest, alongside the rarer but no less irksome ber/kon. it's like... this is 100% not about kon as a character. this is about tim. ber/kon is almost funny in that it's entirely about tim but with tim himself cut out of the picture. but tim/ber/kon is just "let's take tim's most popular two fanon love interests and just shove all of them together!" and i have yet to see Anything even remotely try to convince me why kon and bernard should give a shit about each other. like, MAYBE you could sell it as a loooong slow burn, but i just. i don't see it man. putting the rest under a cut bc i AM gonna ramble about why i dislike it, so if you like tim/ber/kon or tim/ber and don't wanna see that, keep scrolling here👍!!

this is also partly bc i just... man i really wanted to like bernard and tim/ber but there's nothing there. i knew i didn't like rebirth tim characterization going in when i read tdr but i was hoping i'd at least find some crumbs. it's all just ... like there's no substance to it. there's no conflict, no character flaws, no "why do they even like each other???", no particular way they seem to help each other grow. it's just tropey "told, not shown" fluff where megfitz insists they are SO in love and perfect for each other, over and over, without backing that up really at all, and it just holds absolutely no appeal to me. and when it's just tim/ber i'm like yeah ok sure it's not my thing but whatever. but when people start trying to shove kon into there i'm like NO!!!!!! sdjkfhkd like im just SO unconvinced and it feels like such a great steaming heap of Nothing.

the main reason that is is that to me a relationship needs to have an arc. it can't just be stagnant. if there's no conflict, if there's no room for growth, if there's no development, it falls apart in my eyes. it doesn't feel like a real story about actual people. and as far as the tim/ber dynamic established in tdr, there's just. nothing. even the fact that bernard apparently somehow knows that tim is robin, which should be a HUGE source of conflict, is completely glossed over. it never comes up in any way.

like, we know that tim wants to tell people, but holds back out of a sense of duty. in robin '93, he agonizes about this with steph. but when bruce tells her his identity without his consent - which steph tells him bruce did immediately - he flips the fuck out!!!! he panics and runs away and he's furious with them both!!! so you'd ostensibly think that bernard knowing, and then not telling him he knows, would be sowing the seeds for an explosive conflict later down the line. especially because bernard now knows that tim is just. lying to him. all the time. shamelessly and blatantly lying through his teeth. and sure, it's for a good cause. right? but you'd think that in a relationship that's only just been established, just for a few months, that would also be offputting!! you'd think he'd start getting more and more unhappy that tim is just constantly lying to him and he knows it!! because he knows it about the robin secret, but what else might tim be lying to him about??? he knows now that tim has no qualms just lying to his face all the goddamn time, and he's... FINE with that???? there's this giant secret they're both dancing around and it's set up that there's just. N O T H I N G done with that. it drives me up the wall. i found this absolutely infuriating to read. both of them just being so one-dimensionally "oh we're in looooove so nothing else matters" that it erodes not only tim's specific characterization but bernard's ability to react like . idk. a human being? it just feels like running into dead end after dead end.

so yeah adding kon into that mix makes me want to tear my hair out bc it just feels SO surface-level. it's like... how much of him are you gonna shave off to fit him into this soulless, conflictless mold? it's like how i get annoyed when tim/kon fics ignore kon being genuinely really upset tim didn't share his identity with the team in yj98, but worse. because identity shit REALLY matters to kon. kon has never dated anyone who didn't know he was superboy. all of his civilian friends in sb11 know he's superboy. like, he does Not get close to people if he can't share that. it would be!!! a source!!! of conflict!!! but i've never seen Any ship content for tim/ber/kon that isn't just either completely declawed fluff that's just oh hehe tim has two boyfriends, or "kon angsting over tim dating someone else uwu" bullshit, which occasionally leads into completely declawed "tim has two boyfriends" fluff. it just does such a disservice to every character involved imo.

[demontobee]

A Night to Remember

Aziraphale (about the ball he's planning):

A Night to Remember:

A book by Walter Lord, published in 1955. It is a non-fictional account of what happened on board the Titanic before and during the catastrophe (it was also made into a movie in 1958). Sinking ship, sounds familiar? Check out my post on Good Omens and Lord Jim.

In A Night to Remember, the author uses interviews with 63 survivors of the catastrophe and other first-hand accounts to weave together a realistic account of what happened to the Titanic and its passengers. How is this relevant to GO? Well, the author of the book got praise for his unconventional treatment of chronology, time and space (check out my post on GO queering plot/narrative).

Apparently, he used a multitude of perspectives to present the same event from different POVs, creating multiple narratives that are arranged in a way that juxtaposes contradicting facts and emotions. And what for? To show the “human element” of the disaster rather than the mythology of it. Sounds familiar?

I find this intertextual reference especially intriguing seeing as Aziraphale’s dance in the bookshop is followed by disaster, and Aziraphale (the captain of this particular metaphorical ship) is too enmeshed in his fantasy of love and romance that he does not see the danger ahead, even when warned by Crowley. And obviously the consequences of that particular night are far-reaching.

Here's a bonus quote from Wikipedia:

“Lord updates the popular interpretation of the Titanic disaster by portraying it in world-historical terms as the symbolic and actual end of an era, and as an event which "marked the end of a general feeling of confidence." Uncertainty replaced orderliness, and the ship's sinking marked the beginning of the twentieth century's "unending sequence of disillusionment. Before the Titanic, all was quiet. Afterward, all was tumult."

But not enough: “A Night to Remember” is also a Song by Shalamar from 1982:

When you love someone, it's natural, not demanding And that's one thing I'm proud to say I've found in you I'm so glad we reached an understanding Now I know my heart is safe with you, ooh So now my love to you, baby, I surrender

Get ready, tonight Gonna make this a night to remember Get ready, oh, baby, tonight Gonna make this a night to remember

Celebrations in the heart 'cause we're united And there's nothing in this world to come between me and you We're together, and it keeps me so excited To think of what the power of love can do, ooh And I'm filled with a love that's, oh, so tender

…

This night you won't forget Gonna make this a night to remember 'Cause your love I won't regret Gonna make this a night to remember

Get ready, (baby) tonight (darling) Gonna make this a night to remember Get ready, (it won't be like the past) tonight (I will make it last) Gonna make this a night to remember

Let's make a toast to those who helped make this occasion They turned their back on love, and that's what drove you straight to me Now to you I make a lasting dedication I'll show you all that love and life can be, ooh And each day that I live I will deliver

Get ready, (this night you won't forget) tonight Gonna make this a night to remember Get ready, ('cause your love, I won't regret) tonight Gonna make this a night to remember

Get ready, (baby) tonight (darlin') Gonna make this a night to remember

In my reading, this is how Aziraphale feels during the dance. He is totally caught up in the fantasy of “a love that’s, oh, so tender” and he really makes this grand gesture to make it a night to remember for him and Crowley. The lines that get me most here are “I’m so glad we reached an understanding” (oh no), “to think of what the power of love can do” (a 25-lazarii miracle, perhaps?) and “Now to you I make a lasting dedication/ I'll show you all that love and life can be, ooh/ And each day that I live I will deliver” (I am sure this is what Aziraphale is trying to prove to Crowley all the time, in his own way …)

[the12thnightproject]

Chapter 27 - Tab A. The return of Mozumi’s pillow book brings with it an awkward conversation and too many emotional truths for Okatsu to handle.

Mitsunari x OC; Nobunaga x Mai

Previous Chapter

Logline - In order to protect a political alliance, Katusko and Mitsunari must pretend an engagement. But this “all business” arrangement is threatened by a coup against Nobunaga… and by feelings.

From the Military Notes of Ishida Mitsunari…

Hideyoshi informs me that Shohime and Hikosane will be moving to Azuchi. I asked him if he thought Okatsu and I needed to stay engaged, since our original ruse was prompted by Shohime’s interest in me. But Hideyoshi said that it appeared Shohime’s interest had moved on to Masamune, and Masamune can take care of himself.

“You’ll be relieved to know that as soon as we return to Azuchi, we will be able to publicly dissolve your engagement, and you can return to spending your days quietly reading.”

Reading…

I excused myself from the conversation. There is a book I must read.

I learned a long while back that time travel can not be initiated by closing your eyes and reopening them.

I tried it anyway.

Nope.

Mitsunari was still in front of me, clutching the pillow book, and I had a feeling we were about to have a very awkward conversation.

“Lord Nobunaga suggested that I read this,” Mitsunari finally said.

Ok. Nobunaga was totally capable of being an enormous troll and doing just that, but… “Why?”

“I wanted to understand love.” He brushed at a page in the book, then gave it a closer look and slammed it closed.

Ah. Say something. Say something. I sank down on a cushion by the tea table. And said… nothing.

Mitsunari seated himself on the futon.

I mentally composed a hundred or so quippy comments before settling on, “Why?”

There was a slight hesitation before he answered. “Because I need to know what it feels like. Does it hurt? I think it must hurt sometimes.”

I took the book out of his hands and placed it on the desk. And then flipped it over so it was face down. “This is not the kind of book that will help. It might not be in any books at all.” (Modern self-help industry nonwithstanding). “Love is different for everyone.”

He nodded at the pillow book. “It seems like it would be futile, then to write this sort of text.”

“That’s not love. Well, I mean people who are in love enjoy those activities, in fact being in love likely enhances the experience – but that sort of thing can be enjoyable between any two-” Two or more, but I didn’t feel like I had the mental capacity to explain that “-people who are willing to participate.”

“That makes sense. In which case, I have a follow-up question.” He tapped the book. “Is the knowledge in this necessary for…” He left the sentence hanging.

I waited, but he didn’t fill in the blank. “I’m pretty sure it’s the kind of thing that people figured out long before there were books. Or there wouldn’t have been people around to write the books.”

“Yes. I see.” He sighed. My answer apparently hadn’t been satisfactory.

“Honestly, I don’t think this book is a ‘how to.’ Mozumi collected it because he enjoyed looking at the drawings.” Given the way he had treated Shohime and tried to manhandle me, I could almost guarantee that he hadn’t obtained the book for clues to how to satisfy a woman. “I mean, sure it probably helps to know what you’re doing. But you don’t need a book.” I reached my foot out and gently poked his calf. “Yes, there are things that you can figure out without a book. If two people pay attention to what each other likes, then it’s a good start.”

It looked like he was filing that information away to mull over later. “I’m not always adept at understanding what others like or feel. Is it permissible to ask? For example, if I said, ‘Okatsu, where do you like to be touched?’ it would be ok?”

My hand flew to the base of my throat before I could stop it, and I could feel my face grow warm. “Um. Yeah. It’s ok.”

He nodded as if I had answered more than one question, then opened his mouth to ask another, but I put up my hand. “Please. I am really not the person you should be talking about this with.” At his quizzical look, I sighed. “When it comes to the examples in that book, a lot of my knowledge is purely theoretical.”

“Ah. I understand. Would you like to borrow this book when I am finished reading it?” His expression was almost completely blank, save for a tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth that hinted at suppressed laughter.

Was Mitsunari actually… teasing me?

Well, we’ve already established that what I would have liked would have been to back out of the room and re-enter to pretend this conversation never happened, and … wait…. “What were you doing when I came in?”

He crouched next to me and opened to a page where the couple appeared to be performing something extremely acrobatic, for reasons unknown to me. “This looked rather difficult to achieve, and as I am generally clumsy, I wanted to test it out in case it was something that could potentially result in an injury.”

My first thought was that that made sense in a weirdly illogical-logical way. But that was swamped by the realization that this entire situation was completely ridiculous and I started laughing.

Mitsunari looked hurt, so I hurried to explain. “No… No. I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at-” I gestured to the room at large. “All this.”

A smile slowly bloomed across his face… and it was joy. “When you walked in… the look on your face. You must have thought I had gone mad.”

“I did, yes.” Since the book was just sitting there, I flipped a few pages and went off in giggles again. “Thank goodness you didn’t attempt this one – you might have given yourself a concussion!”

He tilted his head sideways to take in the full effect of the drawing. “I cannot imagine anyone performing that without injury.”

“Well. I could get into that position – it’s a simple handstand.” I got up and demonstrated. “With a little artistic flair.” I lowered my legs into a split – remnants of my old gymnastic days. “But I don’t see why you would when a futon is perfectly comfortable.”

Mitsunari tilted his head further, looking all like a baby bird waiting for his mum to return with a worm. “Perhaps I ought to bring the book to Nobunaga and asks him to elucidate the purpose of these later illustrations.”

I got an image. “I wouldn’t.”

“Hideyoshi then. Yes. Hideyoshi would be more patient.”

I pictured Hideyoshi’s face. “No! Don’t make me laugh when I’m upside down!”

TILT!

I tried to right myself before disaster.

Then Mitsunari tried to help.

We ended up in a heap on the floor. He caught my eye, and we started laughing again.

Until we were no longer laughing, but simply gazing at each other. I knew I should look away. I should stand up and move myself to another part of the room, but I was unable to do anything except look at him. That steady violet gaze – the one that always said, ‘I see you, you are ok, no matter what, things will be ok,’ usually calmed me but now it was making me wonder, ‘what if?’ What would it be like to allow myself to be loved and cherished?

Then all at once I felt like I wanted to cry. “I’m sorry, I must be crushing you.”

In an instant, I rolled off him and gotten to my feet.

The next instant, I was behind the screen, hidden from that gaze. I took several deep breaths, reminded myself that I was leaving, soon, in fact, the sooner the better, for everyone’s peace of mind.

That look in his eyes… he thought he loved me. But… we were just actors in a play. He’d gotten caught up in it all. Or maybe it was the placebo effect of that probably-fake love potion. The longer I stayed the more dangerous it was, the more I would be tempted to let him continue to believe he loved me. The longer I stayed, the more I would hurt him when I left.

“Okatsu, are you alright?” Mitsunari’s concerned voice floated through the screen.

“Yes. Fine. I’m just changing into my night clothes.” I wiped my eyes.

“Okatsu. Your nightclothes are out here.” A pause. A rustle. Then he handed me my clothes over the top of the screen.”

Another deep breath. “Thank you.”

I needed to leave.

Tonight.

I pulled the nightrobe on over my kimono. Maybe I looked a little bulkier than normal, but I hurried under the covers, dashing from the screen to the futon while Mitsunari determinedly had his head bent over a book (not the pillow book – he’d returned to military theory).

“Goodnight.” I turned my face away from the light.

“Goodnight, Okatsu. Sleep well.” He shuttered the lantern.

As I let my breathing even out, I concentrated on listening to Mitsunari, as his own breath slowed then slipped into that tiny humming noise he made when he slept. Once I was sure he was indeed asleep, I waited another half hour to be sure he was deeply past dreamland. Then I silently eased out from under the covers, slipped out of my sleeping robe, and found my old pack where I’d kept it on the shelf. Mitsunari didn’t even stir as I grabbed the pack, my sword, my bow and arrows.

Now, I could almost leave Okatsu behind, save for the light purple kimono I’d been wearing under the night robe. I didn’t want to further risk waking Mitsunari – instead, I would change back to my old self somewhere between here and Aki’s manor. The only thing of Okatsu’s that I would keep was the fan Mitsunari had given me. It was too useful to leave behind, I told myself.

Carrying my sandals in one hand and the pack in the other, sword stuffed into my obi, and my archery equipment slung across my back, I crept out of the room and padded silently down the corridor, making a detour to the kitchens. I would need some food for the road, and really, after all he’d (unintentionally) put us through, Mozumi owed me a meal or three.

Just as I was stuffing some fruit into my pack…

“What are you doing out of your room at this hour?” The ‘young lady’ was implied by the tone of voice.

Hideyoshi.

I give up.

He apparently has the Sengoku version of a tracker hidden in my things. It’s the only explanation I can think of for his continued popping up at the worst possible time.

“I’m leaving.” As his brows became that monobrow of frustration, I hurried on. “I need to meet up with my brother and return home.”

“Now? What is so important that you’ve got to leave in the middle of the night?” He looked beyond into the moonlit courtyard. “It’s not safe for a girl alone.”

I gestured to my weapons, and then to my pack. “I won’t be a girl. I’ll be the boy you met the first day I arrived.”

“I don’t like it.” While he continued to scowl, I liberated more rations from Mozumi’s stores.

“If I don’t leave now – it will just be harder for everyone later.” I wasn’t going to explain things any further, not to Hideyoshi, who had never approved of me to begin with.

He stared down at my face for a long time. “I see.”

Yes… he probably did.

“Did you leave a note?”

I shook my head. “There wasn’t time. And… maybe it would be kinder not to?” As soon as I said that, I knew I was wrong. Aki had ghosted my mother, and she had never recovered from the not-knowing why. “I’ll write one and leave it in the archives room before I go.”

“Do not move.” Wordlessly, he turned and stalked out of the kitchens.

I took the order at face value, and did not move, although I was impatient to get going while the moon was still out.

A few moments later, Hideyoshi returned with a writing set and a blank sheet of rice paper. He placed it on the table in front of me. “Try not to hurt him any more than you have to.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall.

I stared at the blank page for a moment, tempted to lie to him and tell him I had had news of Aki, but in the end, I settled on vague. Dear Mitsunari, I’m sorry to leave in the middle of the night, but I thought about it and realized I cannot wait to search for my father. I didn’t wake you up, because I was afraid you would want to come with me, and I would not be strong enough to say no. You have a place with Hideyoshi and Nobunaga, and I don’t want my personal … I paused trying to figure out the correct word… quest to come between you and them. These past few weeks have been special to me and I’ll always remember you with love. No. Don’t confuse things. I scratched out ‘with love’. Be happy. Katsuko (Okatsu).

Then I folded it up and handed it to Hideyoshi. He sighed. “I’ll go get your horse.”

“No. Actually, it would be better if you distract Mitsuhide while I sneak her out.” While I was sure Mitsuhide would let me go (pretty sure… semi-sure), I didn’t feel up to dealing with the teasing he would put me through before that.

Artwork for this Chapter by Cali

@lorei-writes @bestbryn @katriniac @lyds323 @briars7

[theladyofdeath]

Lady Death's Lover {VI}

Lady Death's Lover Masterlist & Summary

19th Century Period AU Nesta x Cassian Secret Affair / Enemies to Lovers / Forbidden Romance Fanfiction / Characters from Sarah J Maas / ACOTAR Based on a prompt sent in by anonymous

A/N: Oh my word...I have had the most difficult time getting this up this week! I'm sorry for the delay. I hope you enjoy! Thank you to everyone who reads, comments, likes, and reblogs! x

TW: marital abuse, sexual content, language, depression, alcohol abuse

This story is for readers 18+. Mature readers only. Content should not be read by anyone under 18.

Dear Cassian,

I must admit that I am completely miserable in Adriata. It has rained all week so I cannot go to the ocean, which is the only thing worthwhile to do here. I have also found zero romantic partners which has brought the boredom to a new level of heinousness. I do not think I can stand this place for more than a fortnight. By the Cauldron, I do not think I can stand it for another day. Perhaps I will cut my trip short. 

Do have enough diabolical fun for the both of us in my absence, will you? If I know you are causing chaos, that is enough for me for now.

Your Favorite,

Mor 

P.S. Try not to attempt to philander with any more married women. It’s very ungentleman-like. 

Nesta

My gowns are lovely.

The modiste has truly outdone herself. There are four in total and each matches the other but has its own personality. The fabrics are all deep blues and grays, meant to bring out my eyes. They are the colors I am most comfortable in. In fact, most of my wardrobe consists of blues and grays but no one has complained about it thus far. 

After transferring payment, my gowns are loaded into my carriage. Before making my way back home, I take advantage of the time alone and make my way down the street to my favorite bakery. I’ve never been one for sweets but they make the best macarons in Velaris and I cannot help but buy a box whenever I visit the modiste. 

It is when I’m coming out of this bakery that I see him.

For a moment, I forget how to walk. Every elegant thought vanishes from my mind and I am suddenly all too aware of the giant box of sweets in my hands. 

I pray he doesn’t see me and for a moment I feel I will get away with it, but then he turns from where he walks across the street and halts when he catches my eye. For a moment, we both stand there, staring at one another. 

Then the world around me comes back to life.

The city streets around me resume, full of life. Carriages hurry past and people rush in and out of the shops. The sky above, recently clear and bright, opens up and the softest of rains falls down upon me and my macarons. 

He still stands just across the street, watching me, although his head has since cocked to the side and a grin has begun spreading across his lips. A sudden sense of embarrassment floods me. I must look foolish, standing here in the rain with a box of baked goods while everyone around me starts to run to safety from the turn in weather. 

Oh, gods. 

He’s coming towards me.

“Lady Nesta,” he begins when he’s halfway across the street, “your dress. You should find cover.” 

I find my voice. “Ah, Mr. Nazari. Yes, I, um…yes.” 

I go to turn on my heels but, in true Lord Cassian fashion, he steps in front of me just before I can get far. “A lady should never be caught in the rain.”

“If it were not for you blocking me I would be well on my way to shelter, my lord.” I try not to sound too demeaning, but I cannot help myself. Every now and then that tone just seeps out and there is nothing I can do to stop it. 

He finds this funny, apparently. A chuckle escapes him and he nods. “Apologies. Good day, Lady Nesta.”

Not Lady Mandray.

Lady Nesta.

I somehow like it better coming from him, like it better than the title the rest of the ton refers to me as.

Lord Cassian steps aside and I go to stroll past him, but I stop when he begins to walk behind me. Turning, I lift a brow. 

He stops and rocks back on his heels. “Do not fear, I am not following you. I walked here and now must walk home, which is this direction. That is all.”

“How far do you have to walk?” I ask, the rain picking up. I worry more for the well-being of my macarons than my hair. 

“A little more than a mile, it’s no worry,” he says, shrugging, then continues on his way.

I hesitate, knowing I shouldn’t ask what I’m about to but asking it anyway. 

“Would you care to join me?” I ask, and he freezes, his back to me. “It seems we’re going the same direction and you should not have to walk in the rain. It seems a storm is brewing. You wouldn’t want to catch a cold.” 

Lord Cassian looks up at the dark clouds, the rain falling directly onto his face as he squints. He looks back to me, his face searching mine, but then he asks, “Are you certain? I don’t mind a little rain.”

Thunder rolls and lightning strikes, and I nearly drop my macarons. I swear it’s purely for my benefit when he clears his throat and says, “It would be a pleasure to join you, Lady Nesta.” 

I nod quickly as a downpour begins and hurry to my coach up the street. By the time I throw myself inside, my dress is drenched and my hat is drooping. Lord Cassian is in no better condition as he slides onto the bench across from me, his jacket drenched and his trousers sticking to his thighs. 

My breath catches at the sight of him and I suddenly feel foolish. It should be impossible for a man to look more dashing sopping wet, but he somehow manages to. That ridiculous, shoulder-length hair of his is soaked and dripping into his cravat. I don’t realize I’m staring until I meet his eyes, and suddenly I’m all too aware of every inch of my body and his. My cheeks turn pink and I have to clasp my hands together to keep them from shaking. 

The carriage jolts as it begins its journey and it makes me jump, which makes Lord Cassian grin…although he tries to suppress it. This was a mistake. That’s what I get for trying to be nice. This very thing reminds me why I do not do nice things often. Nice things always come back to bite me in the ass.

. . . . . . . . . 

Cassian

Lady Nesta looks equally stunning and uncomfortable, although her discomfort is not the type of discomfort that causes alarm. No, it’s the type of discomfort that tells me she does not do this often.

I do not know much about this woman but I do know that she’s not exactly…personable. I’ve heard what other women of the ton think about Nesta — Mor brought the gossip to our recent Monday tea time and I have a feeling Rhys put her up to it — and it’s not good. In fact, the ladies of Velaris think Lady Nesta to be brutally honest and permanently bitter. I, however, value honesty and think a certain level of self-hatred and introverted nature can be mistaken for anger or bitterness. 

Not that it should matter.

After my last encounter with Nesta, I vowed never to be around her again. Especially alone. Yet, the second I saw her stepping out of the bakery with a box-full of what seems to be macarons, my feet decided my thoughts should be damned and acted of their own volition. Before I could fully comprehend what I was doing, I was standing in front of her.

Now, I’m alone with her yet again, stuck in a coach as it rattles down the cobblestone. Outside, it’s pouring as it often does in the spring, and all I can think about is how her eyes keep drifting to me. 

I’m trying to also be inconspicuous about where my eyes are wandering, but from the way her pale cheeks are turning pink, I don’t think I’m doing it properly. 

Her light blue dress is clinging to her skin and I can’t ignore how her breasts are even further on display behind the soaked fabric. It doesn’t help that her chest is rising and falling, rapidly, as if she’s had a difficult time catching her breath since entering the confined space that surrounds us.

“You’re having a ball soon,” I say, because I’m not sure what else to say but I know that we can’t keep sitting here in silence, me trying my best to avoid the swells of her breasts, the way I can see her peaked nipples through the wet cotton.

“I am,” she says, voice soft but firm. “Will you be in attendance?” 

I clear my throat. “Yes. Thank you for the invite.”

I neglect to mention that I originally did not plan to attend, that being in the same room as her is too tempting and I’m currently going mad, but my brothers coaxed me into going. 

She gives me a curt nod before taking a deep breath and letting her eyes wander towards the closed window. I swallow, cursing as my eyes take another dive to her chest and back up again. Once the silence becomes too heavy, allowing my thoughts to run rampant and inappropriately wild, I ask, “Do you do this often?”

Nesta’s eyes snap to mine and she blinks. “Do what?”

“Come into town on your own,” I say, and I watch as she swallows and clenches her jaw. “Not even a maid with you? Isn’t that unbecoming?”

Her eyes narrow and if it wasn’t for the quick rise and fall of her chest, the way her skin is flushed, I would think she was offended and not something else entirely. “Are you implying that I do not live my life as a lady should, my lord?” 

“I’m implying that it is simply not safe for you to be traveling alone,” I say, and she watches as I run my hands down my thighs, trying to eliminate my sweaty palms. It does not work. “You never know others’ intentions when they see a woman alone.”

“It is the middle of the day,” she says, meeting my eye once more. “And I have my driver.”

“Still.”

We stare at one another for just a moment, but that moment is filled with so much silent, skin burning tension that I feel the need to loosen my cravat, shrug off my coat, but I don’t. I let it suffocate me, let her gaze strip me bare instead. 

If I slouched in the slightest, my knees would nearly graze hers. Suddenly the space between us seems so short, too short to make any rational decisions. This was a mistake. I should have stayed on my own damn side of the street. I should have walked. 

“Is that what this is, then?” she asks, and I blink.

“Pardon?”

“Do you have poor intentions, my lord?” she asked, clasping her hands on her lap. I swear they’re trembling.

“Need I remind you that you were the one that offered me a ride in your coach?” I ask, then add, “my lady.”

Her lips part, and it’s so slight that one has to be watching them intently to have seen it, which I am.

She shifts on the bench, words seeming to have left her. It’s the silence that makes me say, only because I cannot stand silence and I’ve already seemed to have dug myself into a hole of wickedness, “Perhaps it is you that has poor intentions.” 

Her head leans to the side, which is somehow unladylike and beautifully cunning at the same time, and the smallest of smiles plays on her lips. There’s no joy in this smile, only a cruel seduction that has my trousers holding back my hardening cock. Now it’s my turn to shift, and she notes it, those dark eyes trailing down until they’ve settled on my lap. Her eyes flare before snapping back up to mine.

“I am a lady,” she says, simply. “Ladies do not have poor intentions, only charitable ones. What kind of lady would I be if I were to let a gentleman walk through a downpour?” 

“Indeed,” I say, and I cannot even help how rough my voice suddenly sounds. 

This is ridiculous. I feel like I have never been around a woman before, or like I am once again sixteen and around a woman for the very first time. Furthermore, she’s married. This is highly inappropriate, but I seem to have lost control.

No.

That’s not entirely true.

If I had lost control her dress would be torn to shreds and I’d have her lying beneath me on this bench, worshiping every inch of her body beneath. 

“I am grateful,” I add, and she nods her head politely in response. I stay in control until a wheel hits a dip in the road and our bodies jostle, and we touch.

My knee hits hers and her foot lands on mine as she tries to stop herself from toppling forward. I don’t even realize my hand is on her leg, just above her knee, until we both look down at it.

I don’t move it.

She doesn’t ask me to, nor does she move at all. All that moves is the rapid rising and falling of her chest — a chest that my eyes are in perfect line with. Mustering every ounce of self control that I have, I go to lean back, to settle myself once again on the opposite bench until this torturous ride is over, but I don’t make it far.

Just as I move, Nesta places her hand on top of mine and I freeze. She’s looking at me wildly, searching my eyes for something. I don’t think I’m breathing at all. I have no thoughts in my mind whatsoever. All I can focus on is her intent eyes, her hand on mine, my hand on her skirts, her lips that are parted and begging to be kissed.   

Neither of us says a word.

“Just—“

Whatever she’s about to say evaporates as the coach slows and when it jerks to a stop, reality steps back in.

Nesta snatches her hand from mine as if she’s been burned and I take the hint, pulling myself back just as the door opens and I’m looking at the front door of my townhouse.

Not wanting to keep the poor lad standing in the storm, I take my leave and hurry to my front door, drenching myself further. I don’t look back at Nesta. I have a feeling she doesn’t want me to.

I have a feeling that whatever she was about to say, whatever would have happened if we just kept driving, would have surely led to utter regret.

Before I shut my door behind me, I watch Nesta’s carriage roll away, gone into the storm.

Calling for my butler, I beg for a drink to calm my still pounding heart. 

[marislittlestories]

Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Mature | Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Spy Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy in the Muggle World, Hogwarts Eighth Year

3/10 - chapter one, two - read on ao3

may 1998 - july 1998

Draco used to be small, short and waif-like. In the past couple of years, he’s gained a few inches of height and enough wiry muscle to complete this one, final task for the Dark Lord. Even if he hadn’t, if he still had a child’s frame, if he was weak and underfed, this is something he would find the strength for. He would do it brittle and broken and barely standing, if he had to. 

He cradles Harry’s fragile bones, all the skin and sinew that make up this impossible body, against his chest. He’s reassured by the heartbeat he feels beneath his palms, faint and almost unnoticeable. Harry is alive. Harry is alive and Draco’s mind is a frozen, glassy lake, reflecting only the certainty on its surface. Voldemort’s attention is elsewhere, on the other Death Eaters and then on the crowd amassed in front of the destroyed castle, but Draco knows better than to let his guard down for even a second.

Harry is alive, and that means the war must continue. Draco is not done yet.

When Harry shifts in his arms, Draco gives up his wand easily, gladly, knowing that it will be Harry’s devoted and abiding servant, just as Draco himself has been.

It doesn’t even feel like a loss, not when it’s him. 

***

Dean finds him after everything has calmed. Draco is laying flat in an empty courtyard, away from most of the carnage. He can’t make himself move. Three years of his life, years that he won’t, can’t regret, but years that are now useless all the same. He’s tired, and he’s lonely, and there is nothing left inside of him. He has used up every reserve. He’s done what he promised, even if it was a vow he’d only ever spoken to an empty room, and now it’s over. He’s not sure what comes next.

His eyes are closed, but he can still tell when a shadow falls over him. He looks. 

“You know, there’s a bit of a mob after you,” Dean says, like he can’t decide how seriously to take it.

“They think I’m a Death Eater,” Draco pauses, runs a hand over his forearm, “I guess I am. You think they’ll leave me in Azkaban while they get it sorted?”

A strange sense of calm falls over him. It doesn’t matter much what happens to him now, no missions to complete, no one to save.

“I’m not letting them. Apparently, neither is Harry.”

Draco blinks, “Harry?”

“Yeah, I told him I’d find you while he kept them busy. He said you lied to Voldemort.”

Draco snorts, “Is that proof of innocence now? If so, he should let all the Death Eaters loose.”

“You lied about him being dead.”

“Yeah.”

“And you lied about recognizing him at the Manor. Obviously I wasn’t there to see that either, but Hermione’s a good storyteller. You might want to leave? It’s still a little chaotic, and there’s not exactly a way to notify the entirety of England that you’re actually fine.”

Draco rubs at his eyes, “I need to see my handler.”

“Alright,” Dean says skeptically, “Who’s the unlucky bastard?”

“Hestia Jones. I saw her earlier, so she’s definitely here.”

Dean hauls Draco up, grasping his elbow, and then lets go of him just long enough to throw an arm across his narrow shoulders, “Listen, after everything is less mad, Luna and I are going to spend some time in my village. You should come with us.”

“What?” Draco splutters, “Why would you want me to come with you?”

“You’re our friend,” Dean says like it’s a fact of life, like it should be common knowledge.

Together, they pass from the courtyard into a corridor, empty except for Ron and Hermione standing at one end of it, staring. 

“Apparently he’s got a death wish,” Dean sighs, “Have either of you seen Jones?”

Ron and Hermione narrow their eyes at him, perfectly in sync, heads tilted at the same angle and everything. It’s a little eerie. After a moment, however, Hermione sets her shoulders and her expression clears.

“She’s in the Hall with Kingsley,” she turns the corner ahead of them.

When they enter the Hall, Harry is not battling a crowd hungry for Draco’s blood. He’s sitting alone, staring out at the bodies lined up on the floor.

Draco eyes Dean with suspicion. He shrugs.

A few people shoot Draco angry or fearful glances while they make their way to the corner where Hestia and Kingsley are surveying the room. Hestia’s face brightens when she sees Draco.

“Mr. Malfoy,” Hestia says, “We finally meet.”

Draco rolls his eyes, “Hello, Hestia.”

She gives him a look, sharp and dangerous, “I heard a story, just now.”

He meets her gaze warily.

“Apparently, you had a chance to use your extraction plan and you didn’t.”

He winces, “I wasn’t compromised-”

She swats at the back of his head, “I could just strangle you! Oh, well, I guess it’s no use now. It’s all over. You’re a free man.”

“Am I?” he side-eyes Kingsley, who doesn’t appear to be paying any attention.

“Give me a break,” Hestia grumbles, “You just had the bloody Savior protesting your innocence, no one is about to cart you off under a binding spell. Is your mother here?” 

Draco shakes his head, though really, Hestia should know the answer to that question.

“Thought not. That’s probably for the best. I don’t think that the new Ministry will be eager to make an example of her, not when they have your father.”

Draco nods, just once, thankful for the confirmation. Hestia never does beat around the bush, and outside of the sporadic expression of care for his safety, she treats his life like a series of variables to maximize. He doesn’t really mind. He wouldn’t have responded to anything else.

Kingsley clears his throat, “The new Ministry won’t be making examples out of anyone, if I have anything to say about it. Justice is a worthier objective.”

“Of course,” Hestia says.

Draco is familiar with the tone of Hestia’s voice when she’s being patronizing, so he has to stifle a laugh. 

“Some people are being… difficult,” Dean says, “About Draco, I mean.”

Draco elbows him.

Hestia waves Dean off, turning to Draco again, “Yes, yes, I’m aware. You can handle yourself, no?”

“I can,” Draco says. 

Dean digs his fingers into Draco’s shoulder, “No, he cannot. Besides, isn’t handling him your job?”

Hestia smiles indulgently, “Not anymore. Free man, remember? But if anyone tries to hex him, you’re welcome to send them my way.”

Draco tugs on Dean’s arm, “I’m sure you’re busy, so we’ll just be leaving now.”

“Take care, Draco,” Hestia says.

“You too.”

Dean lets himself be dragged away.

“Is Luna alright?” Draco asks, words running into each other.

He’s operating on fumes now, and he’ll crash soon, but the conversation with Hestia has given him a bit of direction. His work is not done, not yet.

“Yes, she’s fine. She went to find her father.”

Draco nods absently, scanning the room, though he’s not sure what he’s looking for until he sees it: Harry, still alone, head hung. It’s strange. Draco hasn’t felt much besides weariness and desperation and scattered flashes of relief for months, maybe years. He doesn’t now. But he does get the familiar urge to smooth a hand over Harry’s shoulders, to take his weight, to help. Like muscle memory.

Draco blinks, comes back to himself. Dean is staring at him, waiting for him to speak.

“Okay,” Draco breathes, “Okay, then. I need to- You understand, I can’t stay-”

Dean groans, “Yes, yes, I understand. Go figure your shit out.”

“Could you tell Weasley and Granger thank you for me? If you get the chance?”

“Not Harry?” Dean asks, looking genuinely bewildered. 

Draco knows that he’s blushing. His only hope is that his face is streaked with enough dust and blood to obscure it, “Uh, yes, Harry too.”

“I’ll tell them,” Dean assures him.

Dean, thankfully, doesn’t try to prolong the goodbye, or extract any promises from him. He knows where Draco will be.

***

Draco’s mother has not moved since the last time Draco was at the Manor, nearly three days ago. As soon as he’s confirmed that she is alive, he ventures carefully into the dungeons. His body aches, bone deep. He hasn’t slept or eaten. He pushes through the lingering pain and dread.

He isn’t sure what to expect. There haven’t been many prisoners at the Manor in recent weeks, but there are other Wizarding houses that were used by Death Eaters, who will likely retreat to these last strongholds.

Hestia knows everything he does. He trusts her to take care of it. And she knows that he will take care of this. He has to. 

There’s something that happens when you’re powerless, when your mind is forced to confront the horror that surrounds it, when you have no escape: you contract to fit within the space you have. That’s what he does, what he has always done. He has one narrow path now, and he will walk it, no matter how painful it will be.

One foot in front of the other, all the way down the steps and into the first empty chamber. He’s more afraid of what he’ll find in the rooms at the back of the dungeons used for interrogations. 

Draco pulls the first of the iron doors open. 

“Onward,” he whispers into the darkness.

***

It takes a full week for her to gain consciousness. Most healing spells are accompanied by side effects of intense drowsiness, so Draco tries not to worry about it too much. The Muggle girl he had found half-dead in the very last room couldn’t be older than twelve or thirteen. Draco suspects that she survived because whoever was in the process of killing her was called away to fight.

When she does come to, she stares at him with bottomless black eyes and a trembling lip, “Please, please, I just want to go home.”

She doesn’t try to run away, or even sit up, but she does flinch away from Draco’s steady hand. 

“It’s okay,” he says as calmly as he can, “You’re safe now. No one is going to hurt you. Do you remember what happened?”

“My sister’s a witch. We were taken by Snatchers over Easter, but I don’t know where she is or, or-” she starts crying, and heaving these shuddery breaths that sound like they hurt. 

Draco shifts uncomfortably. He knows he has terrible bedside manner, “Um. She’s not here, but she could have been taken somewhere else, okay?”

“Oh-Okay.”

“The Wizarding hospital is still getting back up and running, so I’ve given you what treatment I was able to. Hopefully, they’ll be operational soon.”

“Where am I?”

Draco sighs, “This is the house above the dungeons you were in, but the war is over. The last of the Death Eaters are on the run, and I’ve locked them out of the wards. You don’t need to worry about them. You know about the Order?”

She nods. 

“They’re hunting them down right now.”

“Who are you?” she asks.

“My name is Draco. This is my house now, my father has been sent to Azkaban.”

“You’re not…?” she shakes her head, like she’s trying to assure herself, “I’m Marcie.”

Draco rolls up his sleeve to show her the Mark. He doesn’t want her to be afraid of him, but if he was in her position, he would feel safer if he knew everything upfront. 

“I got the Mark so I could relay information back to the Order. I swear you’re safe with me.”

Marcie’s eyes widen, “So you’re like a spy?”

“I suppose.”

“Wicked.”

He seems to have assuaged the last of Marcie’s fears, because she becomes instantly more energetic, peppering him with questions about the house and books he’s read. She seems horrified to learn that he’s never even heard of her favorite author.

“Well, if we’re to be friends at all, you’ll have to at least read Matilda and James and the Giant Peach, they’re my favorites.”

Draco raises his eyebrows, “Oh, will I?”

“Yes. And there’s a film for Matilda as well, but Ella says wizards don’t have tellies.”

Draco is only thirty percent sure he knows what she’s talking about, but he doesn’t have to admit it to her. Marcie is already nodding off into a restful sleep. Draco checks her vitals once before he slips out of the room. He has a monitoring spell up that will alert him if she shows signs of waking, but he still checks obsessively. It feels like the only thing he can do.

Dean and Luna come to check on him later in the afternoon, apparating directly into the most bearable sitting room while he’s pacing down the length of the corridor outside. Dean pokes his head out of the doorway.

“Everything alright?”

Draco joins him and Luna in the sitting room, “The little girl woke up. Her name is Marcie. She fell asleep again before I could get too much information about where she’s from and all that, but she’s much better. Her wounds have healed fine, and nourishment charms have improved the slight malnutrition, but she can’t fully recover here.”

Luna nods, “Too much Dark magic.”

“Too much rot,” Draco says fiercely, “I don’t have time to fix it now.”

If he’s being honest with himself, he’s not sure if it can be fixed at all. The Manor was the first thing he ever loved, before his mother, before anyone or anything else. It was never about the house, but Draco knows that the stain has seeped into the ground. He loves his home, but someday he may leave and never return. 

For now, he sets to finding a flat in London. 

***

“Marcie, do you have somewhere else you could stay?” Draco asks a couple days later, when she’s managed to stay awake for more than half an hour at a time. He has a feeling that he knows the answer already.

She shakes her head and makes a valiant effort to refrain from crying. Draco envelops her in a very stiff and very awkward hug. 

“Your sister, what’s her name? We can try to find her.”

“Her name is Ella. Ella Renford. She’s a fifth year, and she has the prettiest hazel eyes you’ve ever seen,” Marcie sniffs, “She was wearing a purple friendship bracelet I gave her when we got taken.”

Draco is silently relieved. He helped bury a lot of bodies, and none of them had a purple bracelet or looked the right age to be Marcie’s sister. She could still be alive.

“Okay. I’m going to write some letters to people who can look for her. For now, we’re going to find somewhere else to stay.”

“But you’ll be with me, right?”

Draco wants to fall at this little girl’s feet and weep for a week straight. Instead, he just pats her shoulder.

“As long as you want me there.”

He decides, fairly quickly, that his flat should be in a Muggle area. He wants Marcie to be comfortable, and he wants to be far enough from Diagon Alley that his mother can gaze unseeing out of a window and not be recognized from the street. 

He drags Dean and Luna to showings.

“I’m afraid of doing something strange,” Draco tells them, “I don’t know how Muggles behave.”

Dean and Luna exchange a pitying glance. They know as well as he does that he’s more afraid of being alone. They keep him company anyways. Dean is just as useful as Draco had imagined. He knows what to look for in a Muggle place, and a little about how magic interacts with Muggle technology.

Luna is supremely unhelpful. She contributes nothing but vaguely ominous commentary, delivered in her trademark dreamy lilt. Draco listens to her when she tells him not to apply to the flat above the chippy regardless.

Eventually, he finds a decent flat and moves Marcie and his mother in. Marcie recovers as much as she’s going to without a Healer. Mungo’s is still battling with potions shortages and staff shortages and too many patients that are worse off than Marcie, so they stay in the London flat and Marcie makes him go to the library with her so she can sign up for a card.

And then, one afternoon when Marcie has goaded him into a game of Go Fish that he is absolutely going to lose, Ron Weasley shows up at his door.

He’s laughing at Marcie’s bragging when he flings it open, expecting Luna even though she never knocks, or perhaps the nosy old man who lives across the hall. But no, it’s Weasley, tall and freckled and looking about as uncomfortable as Draco has ever seen him.

“Oh. Ron,” Draco says, then curses himself. He has literally never called him Ron, “Um, how can I help you?”

“Hestia sent me. She couldn’t get away from the Ministry, but there’s been a development about that girl-”

Draco moves out into the hallway quickly, closing the door softly behind him, “Ella Renford?”

Ron takes a small step back, creating an acceptable amount of space between them and narrowing his eyes, “Yes. Ella. We still don’t know exactly where she is, but one of the prisoners rescued from the Rosier house recognized the description you gave. Apparently, she escaped from there a week before the Battle. There’s no information that suggests she was recaptured.”

“So she’s alive?” Draco is aware that he’s wearing perhaps the biggest smile he has ever worn in his life. Ron looks a bit concerned.

“Presumably. We still need to locate her, of course, and there’s still a possibility that-”

Ron stops talking, probably because he is taken aback by the massive hug that Draco sweeps him up in. 

“Thank you, thank you so much, Merlin,” Draco sets him back down, “I need to tell Marcie.”

Ron frowns, “Who’s Marcie?”

“Oh, just come in. You might as well meet her. I’m sure she’ll want to hug you as well.”

His suspicions are correct. Marcie squeals and leaps into Ron’s arms as soon as he can get the words out. 

“I knew it, I knew it,” she cries, “Ella’s so clever, I knew she would get out and come find me. Draco, didn’t I tell you?”

Draco laughs, “You did.”

Ron leaves with orders to read Matilda at his earliest convenience and a stilted handshake from Draco, who is so happy that he wants to do something he hasn’t truly done in years: celebrate. Marcie and him venture out to a Muggle shop, where she coaches him through buying ice cream. They eat straight from the carton, saving a thick layer at the bottom.

“When Ella comes, she can have the rest of it,” Marcie murmurs, and succumbs to the inevitable sugar crash.

Draco hasn’t quite figured out how to be gentle with anyone but Marcie. It’s easier, he thinks, to do it when no one is around waiting for him to fuck it up. 

Luna and Dean are the best friends he’s had since fourth year, and he loves them as much as he’s loved anyone he doesn’t also hate, but despite their efforts to pull him into casual embraces he maintains his distance. There is a wall he’s built that he doesn’t know how to take down. He did it knowingly and willingly, and he will never regret it, not when it saved Harry’s life. 

With Marcie, though, it’s easy. It’s more instinct than it is desire, a softening of his voice and care to his touch that he’s never really experienced before. He grew up an only child, isolated from the rest of the world. She’s not exactly the gentlest kid anyway. She’s loud and often afraid but never sad. She is quite possibly the happiest person Draco has ever met.

“Do you miss Ella?” he asks one day, after they’ve spent most of it lazing about a park in London, picking at the food Draco brought and watching the ducks in the pond nearby. Marcie had named each and every one of them, even if she definitely couldn’t tell them apart. 

Marcie smiles, because of course she does, “We play this game, when she’s away at school, where we talk to the wind instead of each other. That way, we don’t miss each other as much. I’ve been talking to the wind so it’s not that different from when she’s at Hogwarts. I wish she was here, and I hope that she’s safe but I know that I’ll see her soon.”

“I can’t wait to meet her,” Draco says, swallowing the worry that tries to climb up the back of his throat. It has only been three or four days since Ron showed up at the flat, and the time is blurring. They’ll find her soon, he tells himself. They have to.

Dean has gone back to his village, Crawley Down. It’s close enough to London that anyone with a license can apparate, but he’s spending time with his mums and warned Draco and Luna not to expect him to be going back and forth very often. Luna is joining him at the end of May, which is rapidly approaching.

Draco doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He doesn’t particularly want to stay in London. Something about the city makes him feel claustrophobic. You can never really be alone here. There’s always someone on the other side of a wall or next to you on the pavement. He also doesn’t want to leave Marcie. He’s definitely not going to leave until they find Ella, and maybe not for a while after that. 

He knows he can’t hold onto her forever. She deserves a genuinely stable home, one that isn’t under the direction of a fractured teenage boy, one that ghosts don’t linger at the edges of. The beginnings of a Ministry program for war orphans is coming together, but he’s not sure where a Muggle kid fits into that. Some day, he will have to let her go, and then he’ll be alone again. 

He’s scared to return to the Manor, of what he’ll find there.

He sets it aside for now. It’s a beautiful day and Marcie wants him to teach her how to do a cartwheel.

***

The next time there’s a knock at the door, Draco races to answer it, full of breathless hope. Instead of Ron, Harry and Hermione are on the other side.

Draco’s smile falls. They both look far too solemn to be delivering good news. He glances over his shoulder. Marcie is in her bedroom, door shut, inhaling one of the books they’d checked out from the library last week. They’d forgotten to bring a bag with them, and had to walk back to the flat with stacks of books held tight beneath their chins. 

“Is this about Ella?” he asks quietly, hoping that they’ll follow his lead. If it’s bad news, he doesn’t want Marcie to overhear it before he can figure out how to tell her.

Harry blinks, confused, but Hermione seems to know what he’s talking about.

“Oh, no, still no word about her.”

Draco sags a bit against the doorframe, relieved. There’s a bit of silence, and then Harry clears his throat and his face hardens into a confident, serious expression. It’s a little disappointing when Draco feels nothing. Whatever fire had raged inside of him at fourteen has been snuffed out, and he’s not sure he’s capable of lighting it again, for anyone.

“We’re arranging public hearings,” Harry says, “And we need your testimony. If not against your father, then the other Death Eaters you interacted with.”

Draco doesn’t reply immediately. He thinks about everything he’d be asked about, everything he’d have to explain to a room full of people who largely despise him, all his worst moments laid out in front of a captive, unsympathetic audience. He’s not sure why he didn’t see this coming, but he does know what his answer is.

“No.”

Harry narrows his eyes, “What?”

“I have nothing to offer that you can’t get from someone else,” Draco says firmly, “I won’t participate.”

“You don’t feel responsible?” Hermione asks, finding her voice.

“For what?”

“For what happens next,” she says, “For the world being rebuilt.”

Draco feels a savage sort of vindication when he smiles at her, “Fuck the world.”

“What was the point then? Of all the fighting?” Harry frowns, annoyed.

Harry is doing what he always does. He’s trying to understand what Draco is doing, ascribing motives and intentions where there was nothing but blind panic. Draco, though, is finally, finally free. He has done his duty. 

“I had people I wanted to protect, people I was responsible for, and I gave up three years of my life to them. I have no debts.”

“But-” 

Draco shakes his head sharply, “I won’t testify. Hestia knows everything I know, and it has not escaped my attention that she isn’t here asking me to do this.”

Hermione stares at him, disappointed and a little frustrated maybe. Harry is, as always, more suspicious than anything else, though he also seems rather angry. Draco hasn’t been paying very much attention to how the news of his true loyalties has been received, but judging from Harry’s willingness to fall back into old patterns, there must still be some skepticism.

Testifying in the trials could quiet that. It could also make it worse. The thing is, Draco doesn’t care. He will never be a convenient hero, and he’s not interested in plunging himself into the same hurricane of public opinion that he saw Harry experience at school. 

“Hestia doesn’t know everything, though,” Hermione says thoughtfully, “You didn’t tell her about the Manor.”

At that, Harry tenses up, coils, like he’s getting ready to strike.

“Astonishingly, I was not the only person present for that. I’m sure you’ll muddle through without me.”

Draco is getting tired of being cross-examined. He’s tired of fighting. 

He starts to shut the door, “Have a good day.”

“Why?” Hermione asks, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

“She would have been angry.”

“Because you stayed?”

Draco shrugs, “I’m sure she’d be happy to answer your questions about how stupid I am.”

***

Marcie is too old to ask for bedtime stories, but not too old to want them. Draco’s not sure how it happened the first time, all he knows is that it ended in Marcie fast asleep on the bed beside him and no nightmares for either of them. 

He does it every night now, reads a chapter from Fantastic Mr Fox and then leaves a nightlight on for her. He likes it. There’s something comforting about things made for children, and it’s a comfort he never had, not even when he was a child himself. It was always running off by himself between French tutoring and etiquette lessons. 

Marcie has him read James and the Giant Peach on his own time, and he surprises himself by bursting into tears when he turns the last page. If he had to put it into words, he would say something about how the world is depicted as cruel and kind in equal measure, mundane and magical. Marcie makes fun of him for the tears and hugs him tightly.

“You know why I like Roald Dahl?” Marcie’s voice is uncharacteristically sensitive.

“Why?”

“He knows how scary it is to be a kid.”

Draco nods, “Yeah, he does.”

“I used to dream of someone coming to save us, you know,” she continues, “But no one did. No one even helped us.”

“I used to dream of that too,” Draco replies. 

He had wanted to live in the kitchens, or be whisked off by some distant relative, or to disappear into the untamed wilderness. It was a lonely child’s fantasy. He wants nothing more than to make it come true for Marcie.

It’s a pointless exercise, really. Marcie has already seen the horrors of war, and before it, the cruel tide of an uncaring world, in all of its violent ebbs and flows. Draco can only give her space, only time. So a day before the trials start, he starts to build levees to keep the flood at bay. He takes Marcie out of London on an early train, barreling through the brilliant green dips and crests of the English countryside. Draco bought a pack of two disposable cameras at the station, and Marcie spends at least an hour of the ride adorning them with stickers. 

They end up, quite by accident, at the eastern coast.

She’s never seen the ocean, but she falls in love immediately, gasping at the very first sight of the deep blue waves, glimmering and churning, from the train’s window. They’ve made no plans, booked no reservations, so they spend the entire day at the beach, eating kebabs from a stand on the boardwalk. Marcie’s curls turn wilder, and the waves Draco has resolutely ignored all his life make themselves known, and forcefully. 

Once the sun starts to set, once Marcie starts shivering, he finds a nearby hotel and pays for a room. He’s never experienced this before, the quiet pleasure of taking a hot shower and sinking into a strange, pillowy bed, but it feels nostalgic all the same. 

The concierge at the hotel, when prompted, offers Draco a few bookshops and their addresses. They waste a delightful afternoon trying to navigate the winding streets, getting lost and ducking in and out of shops. Marcie finds a pair of terrifying porcelain dolls at an antique store and insists that they must have them. Finally, they locate one of the bookshops and they emerge with three bags altogether, mostly for Marcie. She sneaks in a few Muggle classics for Draco.

“We’ll need to watch the series once you’re finished with this one,” she says, back in the hotel room, holding up a cheap paperback copy of Pride and Prejudice, “Ella loves it. I’m undecided.”

Draco can’t respond with anything but a smile, “Undecided?”

“I don’t want to spoil it for you,” Marcie mimes zipping her mouth shut.

Sitting on the floor of the room that night, eating Indian takeaway and taking turns reading passages from Matilda out loud, he imagines another life, maybe a Muggle one, with seaside holidays and a large, warm family.

It’s not his, nor is it Marcie’s. It never will be, not quite, not completely, but for now this is enough. It is enough to spend the rest of the week going on precarious, salt-rusted rides and learning how to beat each other at arcade games and finding little nooks to read together in comfortable, placid silence and taking so many photos that Draco has to buy another set of cameras, then another. It is enough to roll it in sugar, to give her a glossy, saccharine summer as an epilogue to her bitter story. 

When he develops the film, it paints an eclectic, beautiful montage of wide smiles and blue skies; Marcie standing in the ocean, Draco sleeping on the train home, the view from the top of the observation wheel, Draco’s face half-hidden by A Tale of Two Cities, Marcie holding the creepy dolls, a cute dog they’d seen on the street. He gets two copies of all of them, one for him and one for Marcie.

She tapes one of them, a blurry shot of the two of them sprawled on the beach, over her bed. It tears at Draco’s heart the first time he sees it, and every time after. He thinks that maybe he could do this. He could keep Marcie safe, wrap her up in a patchwork of new memories, each replacing the ones he never asks about and she never offers up. He’s full to the brim, with love, with possibility.

Although the fighting is long over, and now the trials are as well, Draco feels for the first time like the war might be ending too.

And the war does end for Draco, on his eighteenth birthday, a breezy morning at the very beginning of June. Luna and him and Marcie are at the London flat, attempting to bake his cake, when Harry shows up on the doorstep, bearing the only gift Draco wants this year:

Ella Renford, fifteen years old, as tall as Draco and scowling at him with hazel eyes.

***

Luna darts into another obscure little shop he’s never noticed in Diagon before, pulling Draco right along with her. She’s joining Dean in Crawley Down next week, and she wants to get a gift for his mums before she goes. It’s a bit worrying, honestly, because she’s being quite indecisive for Luna.

“Maybe you should just bring flowers,” Draco suggests after the fourth or fifth shop, “Or, I don’t know, ask Dean?”

Luna shakes her head, pale curls almost floating in the breeze behind her. Her expression is as serene as ever, except for the miniscule crease between her brows. It gives her away every time.

“No. I need to get this right.”

“You get everything right, Lunes. You’re sort of a genius.”

“But,” she pauses, “I know there’s a perfect gift. I just haven’t found it yet.”

Draco raises an eyebrow.

“It’s a feeling.”

“Oh, it is?” Draco sighs, looking down the street. He doesn’t really go into Diagon much these days, just when Luna asks, because he still gets tight, apprehensive looks from people on the street. It’s much easier to stick to Muggle London, even if sometimes he feels like he’s bumbling around, especially with Marcie.

“I don’t think it’s flowers.”

“Is this a feeling,” he stresses the word, because you never know with Luna, “Or are you just being fussy?”

She gazes at him with wide blue eyes and Draco feels silly. Who would ever accuse Luna of being fussy?

“Alright, we’ll keep looking. What happens if you don’t find something? Are you going to postpone leaving?”

“Maybe,” Luna chirps, “I could just stay in London until you come as well.”

Draco folds his arms. He’s left Marcie at the flat with Ella, whose side she hasn’t left in the days since Draco’s birthday. He’s so fucking Happy that Ella is okay and that Marcie has her sister again, but it means he has to face the music of what happens next. 

“Don’t say that, you might end up staying forever.”

Luna slits about the sidewalk like an agitated pixie, “I might.”

“You won’t. You’ll go to Dean’s little village and make friends with all the cows, I’m assuming there will be cows, and you’ll charm everyone you meet and his mums will fall just as in love with you as Dean is.”

Luna doesn’t roll her eyes, because she never rolls her eyes, but there’s something fondly exasperated about the way she pats his hair, “Okay, Draco. I don’t see why you can’t just bring Ella and Marcie to Crawley Down.”

Draco doesn’t have anything to say to that. If he told her the truth, she’d only argue with him, in whatever way Luna argues. 

“You love them,” Luna says gently and then she mercifully lets the conversation wilt and die.

He returns to a flat quiet, except for the sound of Ella and Marcie talking through the walls, a near-constant hum. Ella has said no more than a handful of words to him. He loves her despite it, for it, and he does it fiercely. He also knows that there is only one way to be kind to her, and that is to let the both of them go. Draco is already fracturing beneath his own weight, and he cannot take her burden and stay standing. 

She deserves to set it down, though. She deserves the same careless freedom he’s tried to give Marcie, but Ella is older and wiser and she knows what Marcie doesn’t, what Draco can’t help but know. She knows that he isn’t to be trusted. Not with this. 

His mother sits, silent and still, in her chair by the window. Sometimes vague expressions flicker across her face now. He reminds himself that it’s progress, that she might get better, that one day she might even meet his eyes and smile. There’s an emotion that swells inside of him when he looks at her but he refuses to name it, to give it space within him.

He’s not sure how to help her and he’s tired of the obligation. He’s tired of the way it pulls at him, snagging on his skin and tearing his body up.

“Love you, Mom,” He taps the doorframe and moves on to his own room, which is depressingly devoid of his personality. Trinkets from Luna crowd the top of his dresser, but other than that, his space is generic. 

He’s tired of this too, of feeling like a blank sheet of paper that the people around him write on, only for their signatures to be quickly erased. He’s tired of loving, and staying, and being ripped apart for it. His love is a thing that has never brought out the best of anyone, Draco included.

“Home sweet home.”

***

The knock on the door, the one that Draco has been dreading, comes just after Luna has left for Crawley Down, a packet of seeds and a well-worn cookbook stashed in her bags.

Mr. Garnier, as he introduces himself, is coordinating the Ministry response for displaced children. He apologizes profusely for how much time it has taken to get to their situation, but he had much more urgent placements to deal with. And, as Marcie and Ella were safe here, they were some of the last children to be settled. 

“But we have found an older Wizarding couple to take you in!” He says, as if he expects Marcie and Ella to jump for joy. 

Marcie attempts a shaky smile. Ella glares. 

“Their children have all left home, and they’re eager to help in any way they can. I’m sure you’ll be very happy there.”

Marcie looks at Draco expectantly, but he’s not sure what he’s supposed to do. 

Ella grabs Marcie’s hand, “Come on. We have to get our things.”

Draco hovers, asking them repeatedly if they have everything they need. He slips Marcie pastries, lemon raspberry like they ate the morning they got lost in a seaside town, bundled up in waxed paper and tied up with a blue ribbon.

Mr. Garnier flushes red, “They will certainly have food at their new home.”

Marcie pulls Draco into a tight, grasping hug. She trembles in his arms. Ella steps on Mr. Garnier’s foot on their way out and Draco has to choke down a laugh. She never really warmed up to him, but he’ll miss her all the same. Luna was right, after all. He loves them.

And he loves them enough to give Marcie a kiss on the head and give Ella a fistbump. He loves them enough to tell them they can write him anytime. He loves them enough to cry once they’ve well and truly left.

He loves them enough to not ask them to stay.

***

He tells Dean and Luna in a letter that the girls are gone, which is an adventure in and of itself. He has to send it off to Crawley Down in the Muggle post. He’s only certain that he’s done it right when he gets a letter back urging him to join them in Crawley Down.

They probably know that he’s not fit to be alone, but he doesn’t really feel fit for company either. He lingers in London, haunting the flat like some kind of phantom, until he can’t stand to look at his mother’s vacant, unseeing stare anymore and he does the only thing he can.

He goes to the Manor. 

Walking through the deserted halls is like walking through a mausoleum. A testament of things long gone. He is surrounded by decay, outnumbered. He doesn’t dare touch anything. There is a thin layer of dust, of course, but it’s worse than that. If he looks closely, he can see blood worked into the grain of the wooden floors. 

Dark Magic creeps over every surface like mold, like a living thing. There’s a chilling, spectral presence somewhere in the walls, in the very fabric of this place. He knows, without needing an official Ministry inspection, that it cannot be salvaged.

He walks out into the garden, stares up at the ivy-covered wall that he used to perch on. He hasn’t climbed it since that night last summer, the night he brushed death twice, but he toes his shoes off now and peels his socks from his feet. He scales the wall with practiced ease. It still leaves his soles sore and weeping. He looks out at his forest, and there is nothing left of that teeming, wild life, stretching as far as the eye can see.

Draco cries again, there at the top of his entire world. He hasn’t gone to the clearing yet, but somehow he knows what he’ll find, and he’s correct. He steps past the treeline into a meadow covered in snow. It’s the middle of June, but try as he might, he can’t banish the storm clouds from the sky above or the icy wind from between the trees. Within this sacred grove, it is eternal winter.

***

Hestia can’t have known that he returned to the Manor, but something prompts her to coerce him into lunch. 

“You look like shit,” is the first thing she says, the second being, “It’s nice to see you.”

He sighs and accepts a stiff but welcome hug, “You look great.”

“I know.”

“Where are we going for lunch?” 

They’ve met at Hestia’s office in the Ministry. It’s charmingly cluttered, with a picture of her dog hanging right across from the desk. A map of Wales is spread out on the floor, anchored in each corner with empty beer bottles.

“I’ve got my Wizarding robes on today,” she says as if he can’t see that with his own two eyes, “So it’ll have to be somewhere in Diagon.”

“You don’t want to swing by McDonald’s?” he jokes. 

She gives him a look, “You’re buying, and I know exactly how much money you have in your Gringotts vaults. If we were going somewhere Muggle, it would be somewhere a lot nicer than a McDonald’s. Our Wizarding options are limited. Diagon’s still a bit empty.”

“Yeah, I went with Luna a little while ago. So many shops were still boarded up.”

“There’s a bill working its way through the Wizengamot right now, special loans for small businesses,” Hestia gives a vague wave of her hand, “Anyways, we’ve got the Leaky Cauldron, that French bistro that just opened, and the chippy, which I’m convinced will survive the apocalypse.”

“What, do you want me to guess where you’d like to go?”

She rolls her eyes, “French alright with you?”

They apparate to Diagon, and Draco tries not to let on that he’s on the brink of puking his guts out on the sidewalk. Apparition does not agree with him. There’s a reason he and Marcie took a train to the coast. 

The teenage witch who seats them at the bistro seems to recognize them both, but thankfully doesn’t say anything except to tell them the name of their server. They make it through appetizers before disaster strikes in the form of Harry Potter. He is, for some unfathomable reason, alone and being seated at a table set for one. Hestia sees him before Draco does.

She raises an arm, “Potter, are you eating alone?”

Draco follows her gaze to its inevitable conclusion, green eyes and the casual line of Harry’s body. He feels the ghost of broken glass against his feet. 

“Uh, yes.”

“Join us if you’d like.”

And he does. He waves off the hostess and moves his setting to their table himself, grinning at Hestia and throwing an unreadable glance Draco’s way.

“Draco,” Harry greets him without meeting his eyes, “It’s been a while. How is your mother?”

The question only stings a little, “She’s alright. Better, I think.”

Hestia peers at him over her menu. For all of his secrets he’s laid bare at Hestia’s feet, this is not one of them. She knows him, though, and to anyone well-versed in the language of Draco Malfoy, he’s being quite obvious. He’s just answered a question about his mum, for Christ’s sake.

Harry immediately turns that fleeting glimmer of attention on Hestia, “Any luck with Robards?”

Hestia shakes her head, her lips cutting a grim line across her face, “I swear to Merlin, if he blocks one more thing…”

“Charlie told me that Travers might be susceptible to a bit of charm, but I don’t know. Seems pretty tight lipped to me. He’s the only person who might know anything.”

Draco stiffens, but keeps his head tilted down at his glass of wine. It’s no use, though. Hestia knows fucking everything.

“Hm,” she says, a laugh hiding just behind the sound, “If only you were the political sort, Draco.”

He glares at her, half embarrassment, half betrayal, “He won’t tell me shit.”

“Oh, I’m not so sure. What was it that he left for you? A bouquet?”

Oliver Travers, distantly related to one of the Death Eaters and educated at Beauxbatons, had been Draco’s only Order contact besides Snape and Hestia in the last year of the war. He was a low-level Ministry official, and he had been nothing but a middle-man, one stop along a winding channel of information, passed down from spy to spy.

He’d taken to leaving a bundle of forget-me-nots with the information drops after he’d met Draco for the first time, as a reference to his clothes, spun with Notice-Me-Not charms in the very fibers. 

It had been nice, and a little funny. Ironic. He still has a few of them pressed between the pages of a book in his room at the Manor, a reminder of the loneliest time of his life and one of the only people who had noticed. 

“He’s too self-serving,” Draco says, knowing it’s more an easy answer than a truthful one, “That’s why we understand each other.”

Hestia does something ridiculous with her eyebrows and Draco takes a long drink of his wine, bitter and dry against his tongue. He keeps doing it, not because he needs the buzz or even wants it, but to distract his mouth from contributing to the conversation.

He’s tipsy by the end of lunch anyways, and in no state to apparate. He’ll have to leave Diagon Alley on the other end and walk back to his flat from there. He’s never been intoxicated, in any sense of the word, in front of his mother, but he’s comforted by the thought that it won’t matter at all. She likely won’t even look at him.

Draco takes care of the check, waving off Harry’s insistence that they split it, “Tell him, Jones. She knows exactly how much gold I’ve got in my family vault. I’m convinced that she checks it every day, you know, just to know another thing.”

Harry hasn’t looked at him with open hostility at any point in the afternoon, but he gets close then. Draco smiles, and he knows it’s a sharp, brutal thing. His favorite thing about alcohol has always been the heat, the slide of it down his throat and the embers settling in his chest, but his fingers are cold and shaking on the tablecloth.

Harry clears his throat, “I meant to ask, how are Ella and Marcie?”

“They’re alright. The Ministry finally got to their case, they’re with an older couple now.”

“I thought-” Harry shakes his head, “I’m surprised. From what Ron said, Marcie seemed pretty attached to you.”

“They’re better off where they are,” he says blandly. If he says any more, he’s going to burst into a fresh round of tears, and then he won’t just be drunk, he’ll be drunk and crying.

Harry scowls at him but doesn’t say anything. He’s silent as they leave the restaurant, waving when he parts from them. 

“That was fun,” Hestia says cheerfully, “And enlightening.”

“Fuck off.”

***

He struggles through 7 days of interviews with French nurses and tries to coax out a sign of approval from his mother. He writes another letter to Luna and Dean, full of nothing, and crumples the paper in his hands. There is a dam inside of him, one of his own making. Every night when he lays in his bed, he can feel the pressure building, and he’s scared out of his mind at the eventual collapse, the one he knows is inevitable.

Draco doesn’t mean to, but he finds himself loitering outside of Harry’s office at the Ministry on Monday night, trying to stop himself from knocking on the door. He should be packing up his things, finding someone to watch over his mother, taking the train to Crawley Down if he can’t stand the feel of apparition in his stomach. 

There’s a light on inside, warm and inviting, and there’s a lure hooked deep in Draco’s chest, pulling him in. He imagines what would happen if he did it, if he knocked. Harry would call out for him to come in, and then he’d turn that shocked, pleased smile Draco’s way.

Except that’s not right. That’s an expression Draco has only seen in his periphery, directed at other people, or in muddled dreams. He recalls the look Harry had given him at lunch, distrustful and turbulent, and the way he’d looked at Draco in sixth year. Frustration and hatred and desperation, all warring for dominance in his narrowed eyes and the rigid set of his mouth.

Draco’s not sure what he’s doing here, but no, that’s not exactly the truth. He’s here because he’s looking for something. Whatever it is- redemption, understanding, punishment- he knows he won’t find it. Not in the green tiled halls of the Ministry, and certainly not from Harry Potter.

Draco decides that now is the time to develop survival instincts. He apparates to his flat, and arrives already hyperventilating. There is no reason why he should feel like he’s being hunted, like he’s back in the halls of the Manor, sneaking potions ingredients into Severus’ makeshift lab. He is fine. He’s in London, he’s safe, he’s fine.

If he spends another week here, he is definitely going to do something he will deeply regret. 

He owls one of the nurses on Tuesday morning and draws up a contract. He packs his things. He sends a message to Mr. Garnier, asking him to pass on his new address to Marcie and Ella. By sundown, he’s on the last train out of London.

Luna meets him at the station in Crawley Down. She doesn’t ask him why he didn’t apparate, or how he’s doing or what’s taken him so long, she just envelops him in a hug.

“Come on,” She says, pulling back just a bit to smile dreamily at him, “Arabella’s very excited to meet you.”

Arabella, Draco knows, is one of Dean’s mothers. He’s got two, because he’s lucky, but Arabella is Mum and Claire is Ma. It feels like something he has always known, but in reality, he’s only known it since the Manor.

Draco shakes his head, trying to clear it, “Okay.”

Luna leads him into the village and to a picturesque two story house in the center of it. Wisteria crawls up one side of the gray stone walls. The front door is painted a bright blue. Luna doesn’t bother knocking, she just opens the door and tugs Draco along after her.

They’re greeted with the scent of chocolate and the sound of low chatter, both filtering out from a room to the right of the main hall. Dean leans out of the doorway.

“Hey! Do you want a brownie?”

Draco pushes away the old, creeping feeling that he doesn’t belong here, “Yes. Please.”

Dean dresses him in his old clothes, frayed denim and soft, worn t-shirts from when Dean was approximately Draco’s size, years ago. They spend most of their time that first week at the house. Dean is worried about Luna and Draco sticking out in the village, though he doesn’t say it in so many words, but Draco is at least somewhat used to the Muggle world because of Marcie.

Luna is another story. 

They go on long walks up and down the river. Luna adores the ducks that float along with the current and waddle up onto the banks. Dean gives her corn to toss their way, and she greets each one by name. Draco is reminded, with a sharp pang, of Marcie doing the same thing. Luna, though, recognizes them and somehow remembers the complex web of relationships between them. She talks to them as if they can talk back.

Dean looks on fondly, trading faintly incredulous looks with Draco. They get used to it quickly. She does the same with the sheep that come up to sniff at their hands through the fence by the road. Luna could befriend anything with a heartbeat. 

“So,” Dean says on one of their morning strolls,  “I know you’re not exactly the most chatty person, but are we really not going to talk about it?”

His arm is wrapped around Luna’s shoulders, but his hold is light. She keeps running off to pick flowers or to take a closer look at the cows in the pasture across the road, but she always comes back to tuck herself into Dean’s side. It makes something warm spark in Draco’s chest, a brief flash of warmth and pain, and then it’s gone again before he can grab onto it.

Draco’s mind races, “Talk about what?”

“Any of it? The Manor, the forest, Marcie and Ella?”

“What made you finally come here?” Luna adds. 

“No, we’re not.”

They accept the answer, but he knows it won’t last. Eventually, the dam will break.

After a week or two, Dean takes them to wander around the shops. Luna is still odd, but that’s an immutable fact. Most of the villagers, who are primarily over the age of 60, are charmed by her lyrical way of speaking and the wide-eyed sense of wonder that lingers in the space around her. They seem indifferent to Draco. He’s quiet but there’s something about his accent and his posture that instantly sets him apart. He tries to bow his shoulders.

The summer is full of warm, sunny days and dark, muggy nights. He looks up at the stars and is comforted by their brightness, this far from the city. They still look wrong, like there is something in him that can tell they aren’t in the correct order, though he doesn’t really know anything about the constellations. 

And then the weather turns.

The storm lasts nearly a week, six days of rain and thunder. The sudden chill and the damp air and the dark clouds all conspire against him, and he ends up with the worst cold of his life. 

He’s spent so long boxing away the weak, vulnerable parts, punishing them. The deprivation is almost satisfying. It’s harder to do this, to let Claire measure out his medicine, to accept soup and honey lavender tea from Arabella, to allow Dean and Luna’s concern. Suffering feels like a natural part of his existence, an existence he has become accustomed to enduring alone.

“How’s your appetite today?” Arabella asks, voice soft.

Draco groans. He’s starving, a gnawing emptiness in his stomach, but if he eats something there’s a good chance he’ll throw it back up.

Arabella sighs and she manages to make it sound empathetic, “Oh, sweetheart. I wish there was something I could do. Sometimes you just have to wait these things out.”

Draco decides he hates cough syrup, its artificial flavor, the slide of it down his throat, the sickly sweet coating it leaves on his tongue and teeth. More than anything, he hates the way it makes him feel like a prisoner in his own body. 

It’s only a sensation, crawling across his skin, only a throbbing in his head and a heaviness in his joints. He slips into these strange moments where he loses track of time, drifting in and out of restless sleep, and it shouldn’t be a big deal. He should be able to get sick and let people take care of him and have a few nights of shitty sleep, without completely losing it. It’s not a big deal.

Except.

The last time he felt so disconnected from his body and from the world around him, he was sweating poison out on the Manor’s lawn. He tries not to think about it, but the memories persist, and he can’t hold onto the tenuous threads of his mind long enough to batter them away. He has a dream where he’s falling into an inky black emptiness, and when he wakes up, his skin is on fire.

He wants to plead, to his friends, to the universe, but his throat is scraped raw and no sound comes out. It makes him panic more. 

Flashes of that night come back to him, but they’re distorted, sometimes by sleep and sometimes by the effects of the cough syrup. He sees his clearing back at the Manor, but the trees are burning around him and he’s choking on the ash. He sees Nagini, poised to strike, and then her jaw unhinges and swallows him whole. He hears Snape singing a lullaby that Narcissa sings in Draco’s earliest memory.

It’s different from truly reliving the experiences, because in his delirium, they’ve become cartoonishly horrifying, easier to handle than the solid, awful truth of it.

He stops taking medicine. He recovers from the cold. He once again seals off the portion of his mind where he keeps all of the worst things about himself and he talks to Luna and Dean. He doesn’t tell them much, but it’s enough. It’s enough for now.

He tells them about the Manor, about his soft soles and the rough ground, about how much love has always hurt him. He tells them about the thing he was as a child, a boy whose friends were trees and rocks and the animals that roamed the Manor’s grounds. He tells them about Twila and his clearing and all of the beautiful corners of the place he grew up.

“I don’t think I can ever go back there,” he says, and he doesn’t have to tell them that he will never truly be happy anywhere else. They know.

They’ve seen him there, in the middle of war, not happy but more somehow than he is in the aftermath, like there was a center to him, a tie that bound him to his home. A tie that’s been cut now.

Luna leans her head on his shoulder, “Maybe we can find somewhere else.”

He nods and he smiles and Dean looks at him, just looks. It’s not lost on him that Luna had said ‘we’. He does not take it for granted. He wants to find a home with them, but deep down, he knows it’ll never be quite what he’s lost. 

The place where he spent his childhood was not inherently special or beautiful or magical, but because it was the first thing that was his. He had so much love within him once, and he poured it all into leaking cups, all except the love he gave to his home. It was the first and best thing he loved as a child, the only thing that ever truly protected him. It was the only thing that loved him back in a way that made a difference.

He can’t put it into words, or even thoughts, what it means to him. He will never be able to go back, and he will never be able to leave it behind him. He’s scared to even try. 

“You might not be able to go home, or find another one,” Dean says after a few moments, “But I think you can make one.”

[chaoticstrata]

So I was hit with a bit of inspiration for Doc...no particular reason at all...-cough cough- ------------------------------------- Doc poked his head into the Kai’raan’s room.

“Hey, I’m about to head out for some drinks and…” Doc stopped and tilted his head as he looked at the Jedi master sitting in his chair, reading something from his datapad. It wasn’t the fact that he was reading that made him pause, it was the look upon the other man’s face that did. “Everything alright, Kai?”

Crimson eyes blinked a few times before they looked up at him in bemusement. “Yes, why do you ask?”

“Well, you look like someone’s kicked your akk puppy,” the medic said as he leaned against the doorway, jacket hung over his crossed arms.

“It’s nothing, really,” the Jedi tried to say before Doc snorted.

“Right, sure…you know you’re lying to someone who knows everyone’s tell in sabbak on this ship, right?” the older man asked, raising an eyebrow, “That includes Lord Stick Up His Ass.”

He motioned if he could enter the room, and did so when he received a nod from Kai’raan. 

The Jedi knight seemed to hesitate in his reply, looking away before looking back at the datapad. “I…I just feel…lonely, I suppose.”

“Lonely, hmm?” Doc tilted his head slightly, puzzling over that as he took a seat at the end of Kai’raan’s bed. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say you’re not lonely in the friendship department, but the romantic one?”

Doc knew he hit the nail on the head when the Jedi’s cheeks turned a stunning shade of purple.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” he chuckled softly. Pulling up a leg so his ankle rested on his knee, he planted his elbow on the other and leaned forward on it. “Why not take Kira up on her offer then?”

The scrunched nose that Kai’raan made was rather adorable, Doc had to admit.

“Besides the fact that she was my student for a time,” Kai’raan started to say, setting down the datapad and leaning back in his comfy chair, “She’s not my type.”

“Too much sass?” the medic asked with a shit eating grin.

“No, I like sass,” the other man laughed, “I don’t find women attractive, Doc.”

That statement had the medic blink rapidly in surprise. He hadn’t expected that. Then again, he had no other way of knowing, what with his friend being a Jedi and all…wait. He paused and thought back to all his interactions with the knight. Kai’raan always seemed friendly enough, but now that he really thought about it…he was also flirty. 

Doc rubbed the bridge of his nose. Kirffing void, how did he miss this!?

“Wait…were you…have you…wait…”

“Did I just render you speechless, Archiban?” Kai’raan chuckled, sounding very much amused.

“Shut it,” Doc pouted. He was annoyed, but more so about his name being used than the teasing, “And excuse me if I’m a bit rusty with telling when a gorgeous man is flirting with me!”

He felt rather smug in the shocked expression he received for that.

“Uh, w-what?”

“What, what?” Doc asked, tilting his head, “Where’d I lose you?”

“What do you mean rusty?” Kai’raan replied with a question, brow furrowing.

“Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had a guy flirt with me…” he trailed off when he realized why the Jedi was so confused. A soft laugh escaped him as he said. “I know I’m a ladies man, Kai, but I do like both women and men.”

He felt more than a bit amused as the realization of his statement clicked for the Chiss. Had he mentioned how adorable Kai’raan’s facial expressions were? He had? Well, he was going to repeat himself.

Fucking adorable.

“I will always appreciate a good looking man…and maybe more, depending on his own preference,” he explained further, resting his chin on his hand. “I’ve just gotten rusty at picking up on them flirting with me…unless I’m wrong.”

“Not wrong,” the Chiss Jedi said, blush came back tenfold. “I was flirting…but backed down when I realized, or at least thought, you were politely ignoring it…”

“Not polite, just stupid,” Doc snickered, “Like I said, rusty.”

“Apparently,” Kai’raan chuckled, he looked off to the side with a soft smile, “I can’t say I’m much better…but I believe it’s more inexperienced than rust.”

“Which is fair, all things considered,” the medic said, “I doubt the Order has a 101 class on flirting or anything of the sort.”

“No, no they do not,” the battlemaster said quietly. He sighed and shook his head, closing his eyes. The next thing the Jedi said was spoken so softly Doc almost missed it. “Don’t know why I want to find someone to be with.”

“Because it’s a perfectly human thing to want,” Doc said, shrugging when the other man looked up at him in surprise. “Really good hearing for a Human,” he said by way of explanation. “And people weren't really meant to be alone--well, most people anyways. We crave contact and connection, be it just as friends, a full blown relationship, or even a one night stand.”

He stood from his spot with a soft grunt, stretching his arms over his head.

“Not even Jedi cut themselves out completely, as much as they say they do,” he continued. Walking over to the knight, he held out his hand. “Come on, you need to get out of this ship and live a little. Let’s go have a few drinks--on me.”

Kai’raan blinked a few times before a small smile formed across his lips. When he took the offered hand, Doc helped pull him up with a wide grin.

“Now, let's see if we can find you a cute young man for the evening.”

Kai’raan laughed and shook his head. “Doc…no.”

“Fine, how about a ruggedly handsome medic for the evening?” 

Said medic swore the knight’s eyebrows hit his hairline.

------------------------------------ This is a bit of headcannon for me that Doc is Bi with a heavy leaning towards women. With men, he definitely flirts and appreciates, but for something more there needs to be more there for him. He and Kai'raan stay friends (especially see Kai'raan becomes Kai'shan at some point -wink wink-). But I see him as a good support person for Kai. :)

[mariana-oconnor]

The Priory School pt 1

A 4-parter? Exciting. Though I'm going away in a couple of days so I don't know when I'll get a chance to properly read through it all.

Anyway, first thing's first:

I cannot recollect anything more sudden and startling than the first appearance of Thorneycroft Huxtable, M.A., Ph.D., etc.

What a name. Are those both surnames or did his parents name him Thorneycroft? If so, that's quite the name to have. It's got to be a two-part surname, hasn't it?

...so large, so pompous, and so dignified that he was the very embodiment of self-possession and solidity. And yet his first action when the door had closed behind him was to stagger against the table, whence he slipped down upon the floor, and there was that majestic figure prostrate and insensible upon our bearskin hearthrug.

He collapsed, but he did it in the most dignified manner possible.

That's a superpower.

Then Holmes hurried with a cushion for his head and I with brandy for his lips.

BRANDY!

How I have missed you! Clearly the only possible medical response to such an entrance. Give the man a brandy, let it work its magic!

Brandy, the unsung hero of the Holmes stories. The true doctor. The panacea of the ages.

"Thank you, if I might have a glass of milk and a biscuit I have no doubt that I should be better."

What? No brandy?

Milk and a biscuit? I like this guy.

“Have you heard nothing of the abduction of the only son of the Duke of Holdernesse?”

Hey wait, is that one of the stories that was mentioned in a previous story? I vaguely recall something about the Duke being kind of a dickhead. But I might be confusing matters.

By 'late Cabinet Minister' does Holmes mean that of late the duke was a cabinet minister, or that he was a cabinet minister and then he died?

And how many 'wealthiest' people in the country are there? We seem to be collecting them.

"I may tell you, however, that his Grace has already intimated that a cheque for five thousand pounds will be handed over to the person who can tell him where his son is, and another thousand to him who can name the man, or men, who have taken him.”

That's over £600,000 in today's money if anyone's wondering, which translates to Just under $750,000.

"And now, Dr. Huxtable, when you have consumed that milk you will kindly tell me what has happened, when it happened, how it happened, and, finally, what Dr. Thorneycroft Huxtable, of the Priory School, near Mackleton, has to do with the matter, and why he comes three days after an event—the state of your chin gives the date—to ask for my humble services.”

Wait, wait, wait. He called him Dr Huxtable, so that means Thorneycroft is actually his first name. Seriously?

Wow.

That's a choice.

Both by author and by fictional parents. A. Choice.

I'm glad they gave him his milk and biscuits. 😊

"It is an open secret that the Duke's married life had not been a peaceful one, and the matter had ended in a separation by mutual consent, the Duchess taking up her residence in the South of France."

This is strangely functional compared to other relationships we've seen. Apart from the custody issues. (Did the boy run off to live with his mother?) At least neither of them is actively abusing or killing the other - as far as we can tell from this information at least. A mutual separation is very grown up of them.

"Heidegger, the German master, was missing. His room was on the second floor, at the farther end of the building, facing the same way as Lord Saltire's. His bed had also been slept in; but he had apparently gone away partly dressed, since his shirt and socks were lying on the floor."

Was going to say 'suspicious', but the fact that he wasn't fully dressed seems pretty certain to point to him having observed the boy going/being taken and having taken off after him in a hurry. No self respecting kidnapper would do the job half-dressed. At least not in the early twentieth century. Imagine kidnapping someone without your waistcoat or your hat? The horror!

"It is only a few miles away, and we imagined that in some sudden attack of home-sickness he had gone back to his father; but nothing had been heard of him."

You said yourself he was sent to your school because he was miserable at home and missed his mother. Isn't it more likely he was heading to the South of France if he left by himself?

“I am not to blame, Mr. Holmes. His Grace was extremely desirous to avoid all public scandal. He was afraid of his family unhappiness being dragged before the world. He has a deep horror of anything of the kind.”

I take back everything I said about this duke being a grown up. Your child is missing. Unless you know exactly where he is and that he's safe, or you have a ransom note saying that if you tell people they'll kill him, you don't try and cover the thing up. Avoiding scandal is not more important than your son.

“Was he in the master's class?” “No; he never exchanged a word with him so far as I know.” “That is certainly very singular."

I mean, if you look out your window and see a child absconding from school grounds in the middle of the night, then you kind of have to go after him. You don't just say 'oh, well he's not in my class, it must be someone else's problem'... do you? There's a duty of care, surely.

“Well, now, you do not mean to seriously suggest that this German rode off upon a bicycle in the dead of the night bearing the boy in his arms?” “Certainly not.” “Then what is the theory in your mind?”

That the boy got into a car/carriage with someone he trusted and the German teacher set off in pursuit on his bicycle because one of the students was being kidnapped.

I do hope the poor German teacher isn't dead in a ditch somewhere. He seems to be the only person thus far with any sense (although maybe shouting to wake someone else up might have been a thought).

“His Grace is never very friendly with anyone. He is completely immersed in large public questions, and is rather inaccessible to all ordinary emotions. But he was always kind to the boy in his own way.”

Sounds like the perfect candidate for sole custody of a young boy.

“I have had some confidential talks with Mr. James Wilder, his Grace's secretary. It was he who gave me the information about Lord Saltire's feelings.”

This is the second, or maybe third, mention of Mr James Wilder, his Grace's secretary. Hmmmmm

If anyone could imitate the duke's handwriting, it would be his secretary. And he's going around talking about his employer's private affairs. Hmmm and again I say hmmmmm

"...it would be well to allow the people in your neighbourhood to imagine that the inquiry is still going on in Liverpool, or wherever else that red herring led your pack."

Huh, the phrase 'red herring', according to Google, originated in the year 1807... or 1686... or 1884...

So... that clears that up. 🤣

“The Duke is here,” said he. “The Duke and Mr. Wilder are in the study. Come, gentlemen, and I will introduce you.”

Ah, Mr Wilder, you grow more suspicious by the second.

“Hardly that, Doctor, hardly that,” said Holmes, in his blandest voice. “This northern air is invigorating and pleasant, so I propose to spend a few days upon your moors, and to occupy my mind as best I may. Whether I have the shelter of your roof or of the village inn is, of course, for you to decide.”

Telling Holmes to stop investigating something is like telling a toddler that they aren't allowed to eat the chocolate cake. Inevitably it makes them want it more. Congratulations, Mr Wilder, you just made sure Holmes is never leaving. You are stuck with him.

The nobleman's reply was interrupted by his secretary, who broke in with some heat. “His Grace is not in the habit of posting letters himself...”

Heaven forfend that a duke should post his own letters! LE GASP. He might... touch something common and contaminate his noble hands! Or the effort of such menial exertions might raise a common sweat upon his noble brow! How could you even suggest such a thing, Holmes? How dare?!

It was evident that to his intensely aristocratic nature this discussion of his intimate family affairs with a stranger was most abhorrent, and that he feared lest every fresh question would throw a fiercer light into the discreetly shadowed corners of his ducal history.

I'm not exactly predisposed to like aristocratic characters, I will admit, but this is just such a 'Really? Really really?' moment. I get stiff-upper-lip, toxic-masculinity, allergic-to-emotions, but your only son is missing. Sir, either you are dead inside or you know exactly where he is and are responsible.

[thepixelelf]

Bluff and Nonsense - he/him ver.

genres: romance, angst, some fluff, university au, not a fake dating au pairing: male reader x hoshi words: 17.0k (01:08) warnings: cursing, alcohol notes (orig, 2020): "so the title is fluffy and this was a title fic, but then it ran away on me. I really like this one so... yeah. Enjoy!” update, 2023: this is the he/him version of Bluff and Nonsense. other than the pronouns, nothing else has been changed. you can find the original they/them version here, and the she/her version here

“Soonyoung? Yeah I know him, you should too. He’s on the uni’s dance crew, and ever since he joined them, their popularity’s skyrocketed. I’ve met him a few times, great guy — got a tendency to run his mouth but hey, no one’s perfect. He’s smart anyways, probably knows how to deal with the consequences, right?”

or

Soonyoung never thought one bluff could lead to so much nonsense.

Kwon Soonyoung is a man of many talents. He’s the guy who could fit a whole orange in his mouth in fourth grade, the guy who always knew how to make the social studies teacher talk about his divorce instead of the world wars, and the guy who brought a live pigeon to school with no one questioning him whatsoever. He’s also the head choreographer of the university’s dance crew — you barely knew there was a dance crew until he showed up with his hand-drawn posters — as well as a totally well-rounded fine arts major. C’mon, who takes a chemistry course in the fine arts? Kwon Soonyoung, apparently.

Of his many talents though, lying is not one of them.

Which is why, when asked if he likes anyone, Soonyoung says your name instead of simply saying “no” (a much better option in hindsight). He actually likes a girl on his dance crew. Cute, funny, has those eyes you can just get lost in — lord knows Soonyoung has. But, at this relatively quiet party, with half the guests crowded on Seungcheol’s couch and the other half on the disgusting carpeted floor of his apartment, Soonyoung can’t admit his real crush because she’s sitting just a few feet away.

It wouldn’t be such a bad lie if you weren’t also sitting a few feet away.

You’re on your phone when he says your name in his heartbeat-induced panic, but you look up at the sound of it, as does Seungkwan, who was reading something on your phone from the beanbag chair you’re both sitting in.

A chorus of low, teasing ‘ooh’s rises throughout the room, almost like it’s eighth grade again and Soonyoung just got called down to the office. Except now, he might actually be in trouble. He gets a few claps on the back from his friends close enough to reach, commending him on his bravado even though he doesn’t deserve it. Really, the whole situation only dawns on Soonyoung after 6.8 seconds, which is a bit too long considering he made the situation in the first place. Blood rushes to his cheeks, not because of the alcohol in his red cup he’s yet to drink, but because you’re looking right at him, and he has no idea what to do.

Soonyoung doesn’t know you very well. In fact, he’d almost say he doesn’t know you at all.

You’re Seungkwan’s friend from one of his classes — computing science, if Soonyoung remembers correctly, but he’s not totally confident. The only reason you came tonight is because of Seungkwan. You don’t know anyone else.

With a tilt of your head, your face scrunches with question, and you look to Seungkwan for help. You know Soonyoung said your name, but you missed hearing the context. It looks like Seungkwan missed it too, seeing as the conversation you two have only makes your brow furrow more as the room chatter picks back up. Everyone else is already over Soonyoung’s sudden confession when Jeonghan starts talking about something else.

Except Soonyoung’s friends, of course. That would be too easy.

Mingyu turns to him with a stupid smile, his cheeks red from both the free opportunity to tease his upperclassman and the light beer he’s been sipping and pretending to get buzzed on all night. He nudges Soonyoung with his shoulder where they sit on the floor, leaning in to speak under the conversations surrounding them. “You didn’t tell me you like him,” he says, the jesting tone in his voice clearer than water.

“Yeah...” Soonyoung doesn’t know why he doesn’t just retract his confession, it’s not like Mingyu is close to you or anything, he’d understand. But then again, he’s bad at lying, and the girl he likes is still sitting on the couch. He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s sort of a recent thing.”

Mingyu’s smile only widens at Soonyoung’s response, his eyes turning to slits with the rise of his cheeks. “Soonie’s in looove~!”

And Soonyoung doesn’t know what to say. Nothing like this has ever happened to him before, not exactly like this, anyways. So he just looks down, scratches the back of his neck again, looks at one of his dance crew friends when she calls his name.

He doesn’t dare glance your way for the rest of the night.

Turns out you do know someone else other than Seungkwan, because once most of the guests have cleared out, leaving only half the boys to clean up, Seokmin approaches Soonyoung as he scrubs the sink of whatever that weird green stuff is.

He asks how Soonyoung knows you and says off-handedly that he’s never even seen the two of you talk. (Which is right.) He says these things shouldn’t be joked about, that you’re a person with feelings, and Soonyoung should leave you alone if he’s just doing this for comedy’s sake.

Soonyoung thinks he’s never seen Seokmin so serious.

It’s probably fine. You haven’t said anything good or bad, and other than the occasional tease from his friends, no one has taken anything too far. Maybe you’ll forget about it tomorrow. Maybe he’ll forget about it tomorrow, and it will all be okay.

Besides, it’s not like he actually likes you. And his real secret is still safe and sound.

•

Of Soonyoung’s many talents, making people sad is also not one of them.

It’s not that he actively tries to cause misery only to fail, it’s that he can’t stand upsetting anyone. He’s a people-pleaser by nature, that’s just how it is.

So he doesn’t say no when you ask him out for coffee.

And he smiles at you when you try to make conversation, even though it’s awkward and hesitant despite having a mutual friend like Seungkwan. It’s not so bad, he thinks. You’re trying, at least, and when you ask him about his interests, you actually listen, which isn’t common when he tends to over-explain his love for dance and performance. He has a coffee in his hand too, so that’s a plus.

You ask him if what he said at the party was true, and something in your eyes makes him say yes.

•

There are a few more coffee dates after that. It’s nothing official, and Soonyoung is hesitant to call the meetups “dates” because he’s not interested in dating you. But it’s a little late for that.

You seem brighter, though, every time he sees you again; he can’t bring himself to take that away, to cut the cord, to clean this mess he made.

Something about the way you two talk is nice, at least. Soonyoung can’t quite put his finger on it, and he tells himself that’s what’s drawing him back every time, not the guilt he feels sunken in his ribcage whenever you smile his way. It’s not that deep, he repeats to himself whenever you wave to him on campus, making him feel obligated to walk you to class. It’s not that deep.

He’s in the library one day when he spots you at one of the tables, books open and spread out as you scribble down notes, a pair of earbuds dangling from your ears. You haven’t seen him, so he doesn’t try to approach, just ducks back behind the bookshelf he’s been exploring. His hand is on a book he might like when a voice stops him.

“You know you’re an idiot, right?”

Minghao leans against the opposite bookshelf, his arms crossed, locked and loaded for judgement. Soonyoung looks around, but of course he’s talking to him. They’re the only ones in the row.

“Um, how do you want me to answer that?” he asks, unsure of exactly what Minghao’s talking about. Yeah, he knows he’s a bit dense sometimes, but not all the time.

Minghao rolls his eyes. “I know you like Sehee. You haven't stopped laughing like an idiot at her bad jokes." He nods his chin outwards, gesturing over Soonyoung's shoulder and through the bookshelves towards where you're sitting. "What are you doing messing with Seungkwan's friend?"

It’s not too surprising that Minghao knows — he’s an intuitive guy, but Soonyoung is still caught off guard. He asks first, under his breath, “Does anyone else know?”

“If you mean dumb and dumber, then no.” Minghao jerks his head to swing his dark bangs out of his eyes. Everyone keeps telling him to just cut his hair shorter, but he refuses for the aesthetic, or something. “Chan is way too focused on dancing to notice your dumbassery, and Jun is about as observant as a fishcake when it comes to feelings.”

Soonyoung’s shoulders fall in relief, though he didn’t even realize they’d tensed up. 

“But that’s not the problem here. Why are you playing around with him if you’re into Sehee?”

“I’m not—” Soonyoung pauses, thoughts deliberate, “—I’m not playing around, okay? I just... I don’t know. You were all looking at me, and I couldn’t just say Sehee's name, she was right there!”

Minghao cocks an eyebrow at that. “But you could say his?”

“It was a moment of weakness.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m aware.”

Soonyoung groans quietly — he’s still in a library after all. He covers his face with both hands, not wanting to look at Minghao nor have Minghao look at him. For a second, it’s blissful, awkward silence, which Soonyoung would take over Minghao’s scolding any day. But of course, no haven lasts forever.

“You’re gonna have to tell him,” Minghao says, and he’s probably right. No, he is right, Soonyoung just doesn’t want him to be.

“I can’t do that! I said I like him— twice!”

“Twice?”

“Twice!”

Minghao only drops his head for a second, scoffing at the whole situation. Soonyoung wishes he could do that too, just laugh it off because it’s someone else’s problem.

“Well, you’re going to have to say something sooner or later.” Meeting his eyes, Soonyoung realizes Minghao might actually be worried. About you, or him, or something else, he’s not sure, but the subtle fold of Minghao’s eyelids tells Soonyoung this is about more than just calling out idiocy. “And I think sooner will hurt less.”

Soonyoung knows he’s right. But he doesn’t like it.

Before he can come up with a rebuttal, though, Minghao’s hands are on Soonyoung’s shoulders, and he’s pushing him out of the row of bookshelves and straight towards your table.

“You can do it, Soonyoung, just rip the band-aid while you still can,” he whispers in Soonyoung’s ear right before one last push at his back.

Soonyoung stumbles a bit, but once he regains his footing, Minghao’s already gone and you’ve already noticed the ruckus. You pull one earbud out with a bright smile. It’s so jovial that Soonyoung almost forgets why he’s here.

“Hi Soonyoung, I didn’t see you come in,” you say, and there’s no way you’re this energized just from studying in a library.

“Uh... hi.”

“You’ve actually got the perfect timing.” Waving to him, you gesture for him to sit next to you, and he does. You pull out some sort of planner, opening it to a few months from now. “I wanted to ask when exactly your showcase is? Seungkwan’s no help at all because he only cares about his concerts and stuff. Honestly, there aren’t that many...”

You’re going to have to say something sooner or later.

Soonyoung picks later.

•

“So when are you gonna ask him out?”

Jihoon stands in front of the stove, watching his hot water simmer, a bag of dry ramen in one hand and long cooking chopsticks in the other. It’s Soonyoung’s turn to make dinner tonight, but since he says he isn’t hungry, Jihoon’s scrounging it out himself.

Soonyoung, on the other hand, sits at their tiny dinner table, his forehead pressed to the cool surface, arms hanging limp at his sides. He mumbles something of a response, but it’s nothing more than a questioning grunt, if anything.

“Oh, you know.” Even when Jihoon says your name, Soonyoung stays still. “Only the guy you’ve been on several “dates” with ever since you confessed to him at Seungcheol’s party. When are you gonna ask him on a real date?”

Tired, Soonyoung groans. “When the time is right, I guess.”

•

You work on campus. It’s some part-time job you don’t care about enough to even complain over, despite the fact that you have to deal with annoying university kids every day. Soonyoung finds this out when he has coffee with Minghao in one of the buildings he doesn’t normally frequent, and only goes to today since Minghao has a class nearby in the next hour.

The coffee isn’t great, and it’s too expensive, but Soonyoung drinks it anyways. He much prefers the coffee from the cafe he goes to with you. Because the coffee is better. Obviously.

He hears your voice first, words indiscernible with distance and overshadowed by a much louder, angrier one, but still. Minghao sees you first, though, and he points past Soonyoung to the student printing center, where you’re standing behind the counter and arguing with some guy. You don’t seem too riled, but Soonyoung can tell you want to be anywhere but there, especially when the angry guy’s voice keeps getting louder and louder.

Soonyoung’s feet bring him over before his brain can register what to do. You haven’t seen him yet, he could just walk away, but he doesn’t. Your voice becomes clearer as he approaches.

“Listen, the printing center is for education, art, or business. I can’t print this for you.”

The guy goes off about personal freedoms or whatever, Soonyoung isn’t really listening.

“No, I get that this is a student printing center, but I really don’t think your big tiddie anime gf poster has anything to do with education, art, or business.”

And that’s when the guy grabs your arm. Which results in Soonyoung grabbing his arm. Which results in the accusatory question, “What are you, his boyfriend or something?”

Now, in a perfect story, this would be the first time Soonyoung meets you. Or maybe you’ve been close friends for a while. And this would be when Soonyoung says that, yes, he is your boyfriend, and he would save the day. Except you’d be all “why would you do that?” which would result in you both having to fake date to keep that guy off your back. In this perfect story, there would be no Sehee to like and no Minghao to judge, just you and Soonyoung fake dating. Eventually, you’d both catch real feelings instead of fake ones, and then boom, happily ever after.

But this isn’t a perfect story.

Soonyoung still says yes, and the guy still backs off. In reality though, because Soonyoung never thinks before he lies, you momentarily duck behind the counter and bring a hand up to your face to cover your ever-brightening smile. In reality, Sehee still exists at the forefront of his mind every dance practice, even though you’re the one he just promptly claimed to be the boyfriend of. In reality, Minghao watches from a little ways away, sipping his coffee and shaking his head in what can only be called disappointment.

Soonyoung’s never been good at lying. One would think he’d stop by now.

•

So, it’s official.

You’ve put a heart next to his contact name. He’s put one next to yours — red, because he doesn’t know your favourite colour. Seungkwan’s done the whole if you break my friend’s heart I break you spiel and Soonyoung finally realizes he’s in too deep.

It's almost too natural, how easily you bring him into your life and how easily he finds himself fitting. It's all so wrong.

Soonyoung feels like an imposter, like there's someone meant to be by your side, but it's not him.

You pluck up the courage one day to hold his hand, and he can't pull away because the lies tying him to you are too strong. The small bluffs he's spun have weaved themselves into a net he's tangled himself in.

His dance crew congratulates him when Jun spills the news. It's all mundane, really — dating in university isn't all that uncommon. Mostly, Soonyoung gets casual "you go, dude" comments or the like, but then Sehee says nothing. She smiles, and it has to be one of the most tragically beautiful things Soonyoung's ever seen. His heart fractures, just a little, and he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to fix it.

He smiles it off. Tries to, anyways.

Chan complains that Soonyoung's too harsh that day.

•

Jihoon likes you.

Not in a "Mister Steal Yo' Girl" way, but he laughed at one of your jokes the first time you came over to Soonyoung's apartment, and ever since then, he's been convinced.

"You must feel like the luckiest guy on earth with him around," Jihoon says once you leave for the night.

Soonyoung has no idea how to tell him he's felt nothing but unlucky these past few weeks, so he doesn't.

•

He polishes up on his acting. As awful as it is to think, Soonyoung has gotten really, really good.

His smile looks genuine. It has to — he shows it to Minghao, who says it's "adequate," which basically means perfect to the lowly humans beneath him.

He's gotten good at responding to you too, copying how the male leads do it in dramas and movies. It's sort of easy.

He hates how easy it is.

Soon enough, you try befriending the whole group. Being Seungkwan's friend, you've always wanted to, but apparently this is the push you needed. The boys are quick to warm up to you because, as Soonyoung's new boyfriend, you're now a new teasing target besides Chan. The youngest was always the brunt until you came along.

You say you don't mind — that his friends are amazing despite all the jokes and chaos. He believes you.

Minghao keeps his distance, saying he doesn't want to get himself involved. He's still the only one to know the truth, and his judging stare only grows worse as the days pass. Soonyoung wants so badly to make it go away, but he knows the only way to do that would be to tell you the truth, and he's just not ready.

Soonyoung's never broken a heart before. He's never planned on it.

Sometimes life makes its own plans.

"My shift got moved to tomorrow," you tell him when he picks you up from class, one hand in his and the other in your pocket. He knows it means something, but he doesn't know what. Your lips purse into a line as you stare at your shoes. “I was thinking... could I come watch your dance practice? If that’s okay?”

Now, Soonyoung loves dancing. He loves dance. He loves to dance. Performing sends an unparalleled thrill rushing through his veins like the solar system hurtling through the universe, and it’s something he’s never felt doing anything else. Dancing with others is a beautiful connection, an emission of silent truths communicated through the body. Practice, however, is the dirty version of dance. It has to be built up first — polished. Which is why Soonyoung says what he says. He doesn’t even think it over.

“No.”

It’s what he says every time someone asks. He doesn’t invite people to practices — never has. Even after his prompt refusal, he doesn’t register his mistake until the light in your eyes wavers. It doesn't disappear — just ripples. Comes back weaker than before.

"Oh," you say. The word should sound dejected but it doesn't. There's a smile at your lips, and Soonyoung can't help but think it looks kind of like his. "That's— that's okay! I was just — I don't know, I guess I just thought... I wanted to..."

Meeting his gaze, you look at him with shaking eyes, almost as if it takes great strength to keep them on his. He tries to backpedal, but you continue.

"I'll be going home then. I've got an assignment due soon anyways, so..." You pull your hand from his grip and, from where you two were walking toward the fine arts building, turn the opposite way. Your dorm is on the other side of campus. "See you tomorrow, Soonyoung. Have fun at practice."

Something about your smile haunts him.

It's hollow; feels empty when you flash it at him before going. He thinks fake smiles all look like that — insincere. His smiles at you must be the same way.

For an awful moment, he's hopeful. Maybe this will be the trigger. Maybe you'll end this tonight — whatever "this" is that Soonyoung has with you. Maybe he won't have to tell any harsh truths at all.

He turns and walks to practice.

The routine feels lighter tonight, though Soonyoung can’t pinpoint why. His body almost floats, and while that sounds good, it’s not. The rhythm is off. He’s not landing when he should be.

His crew notices, especially Chan, who complains that Soonyoung’s too much of a cocksure choreographer to be making repeated mistakes like this. They tell him maybe everyone should take a break. He agrees, but only because he’s frustrated — and he shouldn’t channel his anger into dance. Not this one, at least. 

Everyone spreads throughout the studios to the edges, where they lean their body weight on the walls and slide down, water bottles in hand. The room reeks of sweat and feet, but Soonyoung’s used to it by now. He guzzles down half of his water in one go and pulls out his phone.

[❤] Sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to react all... cold? Seungkwan told me you never invite anyone to practice, so it makes total sense why you said no

[❤] If I’m ever crossing any boundaries, let me know, okay?

Of course you’d be understanding. Soonyoung wouldn’t be that lucky.

He tosses his phone haphazardly in his bag, groaning and throwing his head back so it hits the wall with a dampened thud. The pain is dull compared to the thoughts top-spinning in his mind.

Across the studio, Minghao clears his throat, raising an eyebrow at Soonyoung when he opens his eyes to look at him. It only takes two reluctant nods for Minghao to understand the source of Soonyoung’s groans, and he does nothing to react but look away. Soonyoung thinks that’s almost worse than the judging eyes. At least at that point Minghao thought he was something other than a lost cause.

He doesn’t text you back. By the time he thinks of something a boyfriend would say, the time to say it has passed.

•

How much longer is he going to let this go on?

Soonyoung wonders that to himself as he sits, returned to Seungcheol's apartment for another one of his "getties" as people are so apt to call them. He's never understood the difference between a getty and a party, and he's always been too stubborn to ask, knowing he'd be mercilessly made fun of for not knowing something apparently all university students knew.

This one isn't so different from the last. More or less the same crowd, the same atmosphere as the night goes on. Only this time, when everyone's settled down in what can hardly be called a circle, Soonyoung's on the couch, sunken into the too-old cushions with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You're far from your last claimed spot with Seungkwan on that ratty old beanbag chair, sitting comfortably under Soonyoung's arm with a plastic cup of whatever Jeonghan concocted for you — which you've yet to drink much of.

Sehee sits across from you both while she laughs at something Wonwoo says. You laugh too, but Soonyoung barely notices, eyes glued to the girl they've been stuck on since she joined his dance crew over a year ago. He wants to tell her how beautiful she is when she smiles, even under the light of Seungcheol's dingy apartment, but he can't. He wants to tell her how he's felt for months, but you're next to him. He wants to have a fucking drink but all he has in his cup is fucking iced green tea because he knows if he drinks he'll fuck up again.

Just like last time.

"You okay?" you whisper in his ear at one point.

He turns to see your concerned expression, and it only makes Soonyoung hate this even more. He doesn't deserve your concern.

"I'm fine."

But he's not fine.

He doesn't participate in much conversation — only speaks when spoken to, and even then with few words. You seem to become tense next to him, but he does nothing to try and fix it. Just tonight, he's going to let himself be tired.

Three times, you offer to leave, and all three he refuses. You give up eventually, though he can tell you know something's off. God, if he were drunk, he wouldn't even have to think about you for a whole night.

Somehow the topic of discussion turns to couples, and suddenly, an entire room of eyes is on you and Soonyoung. He barely catches the question before you're already pondering your answer.

What do the two lovebirds love most about each other?

You look at him. At him, at him. He feels your stare in the dip of his throat because he can't seem to swallow anymore. It's like his soul is being scanned for viruses.

"Hmm..." You let your chin fall into your palm with a smile. It's real. Too real. "I like his resolve," you finally say. "If he wants to do something, he does it." With a loud exhale through your nose, you tilt your head, still meeting his eyes with your own. Soonyoung's mouth slightly parts, slack with something he can't name. "I could learn a thing or two from him."

The room bristles with your answer, various response piping up around. Soonyoung sort of registers Chan saying, "That's cute. I wanna vomit," but he's too busy thinking about you, about how you've come to like something about him as deep as that when all he's done is pretend to even like you at all.

And even when his mind swims with that, Sehee asks again.

"Then Soonyoung, what do you like about him?"

It sort of hurts. Soonyoung's not afraid to admit to himself that hearing Sehee ask what he likes about you sends pain straight through his ears to his heart. There's an awkward pause and everyone's looking at him expectantly and, god, he wishes he stole your drink when he had the chance.

"I..." His throat goes dry. His lips part, but there aren't any words to slip past them. "I, um..." He looks to you, and your eyes speak volumes. Everyone else in this room has a sort of... hungry look. They want to know Soonyoung's answer for one reason or another, maybe to tease with or to ridicule or even wish for themselves. But you, your eyes meet his and he knows you're not expecting anything. That hurts too. He doesn't know why. But even then, he can't think of the words. Any words. He steals a glance at Sehee, whose expression is curious, doe eyes slightly giddy from alcohol. She's pretty.

"I like his laugh," he says. It's not about you. "Whenever he laughs, I think to myself, 'What I wouldn't give to see him laugh again'."

Your eyes move to the plastic cup you've got gripped between two hands in your lap, and Seungkwan points out your flustered state to the entire room despite the fact everyone can see it as long as they've got working eyes. You purse your lips together to contain a smile, but it doesn't work. Even Soonyoung can see that.

He needs a drink. 

Having to go to the bathroom is a lousy excuse, and Soonyoung knows it, but he whispers that in your ear anyways and retracts his arm from your shoulder before escaping. He does go to the bathroom, a small thing with a shower and no bath, but all he does in there is stare at himself in the mirror. And when that becomes too much, his feet.

Someone else eventually has to use the bathroom for its actual purpose, so he opens it to the banging fist outside and slides past the person back into the hallway. He pauses before walking all the way back. You're caught up in some other conversation now, laughing and dramatically waving your hands as you deny some crazy embarrassing story Seungkwan's trying to spill about you. Seems you've already integrated yourself with his friends more than he thought.

Since your attention is occupied, Soonyoung instead ducks into the half-kitchen — not necessarily out of sight, but no one's really paying attention anyways. He knows he shouldn't take any chances, but he really, really wants to let go. He's been wearing a facade ever since he said your name that night.

"I wouldn't, if I were you."

Minghao's voice has Soonyoung jerking up and banging his head on the door of the open fridge he was rummaging through. He winces in pain, kneading his fingers into his scalp as if that will do anything.

"Wouldn't what?" he snaps.

"I dunno." Minghao shrugs, and it's almost infuriating how nonchalant he is. "Do something you might regret, I guess."

He takes the yet unopened bottle from Soonyoung's hands, reaching beyond him to put it back in place. There's no point in fighting against him since he's undeniably right, but Soonyoung grumbles anyways. His eyes glance every few seconds to you on the couch. If you happen to hear anything...

Well, he doesn't know exactly. But he doesn't want to find out.

"You have to end it."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just—" Soonyoung takes in a breath, too loud for his liking. He lowers his voice. "I can't, okay? I don't want to hurt him."

"So you're just going to date him based on false pretenses because you're too much of a coward to admit your mistakes?" Voice laced with sharpness, Minghao places his palms flat on the counter.

Soonyoung takes a deep breath through his nose, lips twisting in frustration. "Yeah, okay? Yeah," he whispers. "That's exactly what I'm gonna do."

A second passes. Minghao's brow furrows.

"And quite frankly," Soonyoung continues, "I'd rather you keep your nosy ass out of my business from now on."

He nearly storms off right then with the last word, but Minghao's fingers around his elbow stop him.

"You're going to get yourself hurt," Minghao warns through his teeth. He nods towards you. "And him in the process."

"We'll see about that."

Soonyoung has acted on impulse before. It happened with the pigeon, it happened with your name, and it's happening right now. Nothing is compelling him other than the absolute need to prove Minghao wrong, and even then, he doesn't know why.

He sits back down next to you, his spot saved by some miracle considering the surrounding company. The look on your face is happy, jovial. You must be having a right old time. His nerves strike with a feeling he's never quite experienced before.

When you study his face, no doubt not nearly as cheerful as yours, the expression you held falters to worry.

"You okay?" is once again the question on your lips, quiet, meant for his ears only.

Impulse is a scary thing. Soonyoung hates it almost as much as lying.

He leans in, crashing his lips on yours with his eyes half closed. His lips move and yours don't. Soonyoung can't even be sure you've closed your eyes, but at this very moment, he doesn't care. All he knows is he's angry and Minghao is watching.

This isn’t your first kiss — he knows because you’ve talked to him about this very topic. This is, however, to your understanding, the first “real” relationship you’ve ever been in. You told him yourself that you don’t really count that past kiss as your first, that you felt a bit... violated when it happened.

Soonyoung thinks this isn’t all too different.

He steals your second first kiss, and later, staring at the water-stained stucco ceiling of his bedroom, he kicks himself so hard it hurts.

•

You show up to movie night. Apparently Jihoon invited you — explained it like this:

“You won’t have to be so clingy with me if he’s here.”

At first, Soonyoung thinks Jihoon just wants to drop their roommate movie nights because he’s always complained about them, but Jihoon sticks around during Anastasia; sings along with you during Once Upon a December despite the fact that neither of you really know the words. He sits right in front of you two on the couch, cross-legged on the floor with a bowl of popcorn in his lap, that of which he only offers to you twice and Soonyoung once.

Whatever. You’re a better cuddler than Jihoon anyway.

Somehow it doesn’t feel forced when you lean your head on Soonyoung’s shoulder, or when he wraps his arm around your waist to get comfortable. He blames it on how tired he is, how he always gets on movie night after a week of classes and practices and too much work for one person to handle. Jihoon complains all the time that he’s too touchy when tired.

You absentmindedly play with his fingers for most of the movie. He doesn’t mind.

It’s been about a month now.

Soonyoung doesn’t kiss you again after the first time. Doesn’t stop you, either, but you’re more of an on-the-cheek kind of person. He thinks you think he wants to take this slow, even though he initiated the first big step (as convoluted as it was). He lets you think what you want.

Nasty business, it is.

Cleaning a bowl that once held popcorn. All the grease that sticks to the side because Jihoon likes to use too much butter. All the grains of salt that get underneath Soonyoung’s fingernails. He’s washing, Jihoon’s drying. It’s an arrangement of sorts.

You’ve already left for the night, gone back to your dorm since it’s only a five minute walk or so through campus. Jihoon insisted on Soonyoung escorting you, but you only smiled sweetly and refused. Maybe Soonyoung should’ve argued harder against you. He didn’t though. That’s why he’s scrubbing a bit too harshly now — he doesn’t like messing up.

Seems that’s all he’s good for lately.

“You’re unhappy.”

Soonyoung stops scrubbing. The only noise in the whole apartment is the slow gurgle of the sink because even with a plug, such an old thing just lets the hot water seep away as the seconds go by. Jihoon’s gaze is on the pan he’s drying, but Soonyoung knows his heart is in the question. It always is.

“I’m not,” he tries to deny, but it’s difficult to fool a person like Jihoon. (Especially since Soonyoung can’t even convince himself.)

The non-stick pan from yesterday’s dinner clangs against an older one when Jihoon puts it away. He looks at Soonyoung, but by then he’s turned back to washing the popcorn bowl, so their eyes don’t end up meeting.

“I’ve known you since tenth grade. You think I can’t tell when you’re upset?”

Soonyoung finds it hard to read Jihoon’s feelings most of the time. He didn’t realize he was such an open book the other way around.

Sighing, he continues to scrub the bowl, which has probably been clean for a minute already. “I’m just... stressed.”

“About?”

Minghao already knows; already thinks lowly of Soonyoung for it. If Jihoon knew... Soonyoung doesn’t know if he can take that.

So he lies. Again.

“Just the dance showcase.”

It isn’t a whole lie, not really, but he can’t call it the truth either.

Jihoon takes the bowl from Soonyoung’s grasp and rinses it under the tap. Since that’s the last dish, Soonyoung is stuck with nothing for his hands to do. They rest on the edge of the sink, but his fingers ache for a task.

Jihoon, the friend that he is, says, “That’s not for three months, though. I’m sure you’ll be perfect by then.”

“I don’t know...”

“Well I do.” Eyes meet eyes, a pair determined, a pair apprehensive. “Everything will work out.”

“...Okay.”

•

Soonyoung measures time in terms of you now.

When he last texted you. When he last saw you. When he last spoke to you.

It’s all a very elaborate calculation — how much time he’s spent on you versus how much time he should spend on you. No relationship is quite like this one, he thinks, and it’s quite the romantic notion out of context. The fact remains, every interaction he has with you only pulls him further and deeper into his lie.

Soonyoung’s time moves a bit slower now.

Faster, sometimes, but only when he doesn’t want it to.

•

You tell him you might be in love with him.

He says he might be in love with you.

He’s never hated lying more.

•

Jihoon is cleaning out the fridge when the buzzer goes off, so since he’s close by, he picks up the old corded phone attached to the wall. From his spot on the couch, Soonyoung looks up from his phone to see Jihoon cover the receiver and mouth your name. Jihoon makes some sort of gesture with his hands, and somehow Soonyoung understands that as, were you expecting him?

His eyes widen as it settles in that no, he’s not expecting you. The apartment is a mess.

Jihoon buzzes you in, hangs up, and immediately moves from the fridge to the coffee table, throwing the laundry he was planning on folding back in the plastic hamper and shoving the pile in Soonyoung’s lap.

“Take care of this,” he says. “I’ll clear up the kitchen.”

Right. Can’t have you thinking your boyfriend and his roommate are slobs.

Soonyoung reacts quickly, standing from his spot on the couch with the laundry basket in hand. He dashes to his room, where he plans to stuff the laundry in his closet and save that problem for later, but once he gets there, he realizes his room is even worse. There are dirty clothes dispersed all over his bed and old coffee cups littering his desk. Scrambling to shove the new laundry in his closet, the dirty clothes in the now empty hamper, and gather all the paper cups in his arms, Soonyoung’s breath starts to catch.

When he emerges from his room with two armfuls of garbage, he finds you at the door with Jihoon, your face hidden in his shoulder and your arms wrapped tight around his waist. Jihoon’s arms are up, almost like he’s being held at gunpoint, and his eyes widen even further when he catches sight of Soonyoung.

“Uhh... it’s for you.”

Soonyoung can hear your quiet hiccups even though they’re muffled in Jihoon’s shirt. He can’t bear it when people cry.

Yeah, maybe he’s been pretending to like you for a long time now, but he’s not a monster.

Right?

He likes you as a person. As a friend. And there’s no way he’s letting his friend go through pain like this.

Soonyoung swiftly discards his trash into the garbage bin and approaches you and Jihoon. At the commotion, you lift your head from Jihoon’s shoulder, eyes all red and puffy. Your lips press together, emotions nearly bursting at the seams, but they finally break out when Soonyoung opens his arms wide.

“C’mere.”

You practically flail into his embrace, arms wrapping around his torso in a vice grip as you hide your face again. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay — he knows you’re not.

Jihoon stands in the doorway for a few seconds, just looking at you and Soonyoung clutching at each other in the middle of the apartment before he shuts the front door and clears his throat.

“I’ll just, uh, I’ll be — um. Mhm. Yup.”

He escapes to his room.

Soonyoung squishes his cheek to your temple as you both stay there. You’re shaking, and his arms squeeze tighter. If only he could make it stop. He doesn’t know what to say or do to make you feel better.

“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, though quiet and hesitant.

You shake your head, mumbling something he can’t quite make out. He pulls back a bit, just enough to see your face and gently cup your cheeks in his palms. His thumbs rub at your cheeks, smoothing any stray tears across your skin.

“What’s that?”

“Just...” Your eyes glisten. His heart beats. “Could you please just hold me?”

And he does.

Decidedly, his bed is much more comfortable than standing in the living room, so he sways, rocking side to side with small steps that force you to walk backwards. His smile, though, is reassuring, and you follow his guidance without much complaint. He sits you down on his bed, thankful that he cleaned up beforehand, and slowly leans you down so you’re both on your sides, facing each other. Pulling you closer, he lets you rest your head on his chest. Your hand lies flat on top of him, but eventually your fingers curl, clutching a bit of Soonyoung’s shirt between them. Silent tears fall from your eyes to his chest, but he doesn’t care.

His arm underneath you wraps around, hand landing on your back so his thumb can rub soothing circles.

It’s quiet.

Funny. Soonyoung used to dislike silence with you — always felt the need to fill it with conversation or jokes or laughter. He wonders when it was last since he felt that way.

Soonyoung doesn’t know how much time passes. His eyes stick to his bedroom ceiling as he holds you close, thoughts on everything and nothing all at once. Are you asleep? Your tears stopped some time ago.

His question is answered when your voice, small and unsure, breaks the long-standing silence.

“Soonyoung?”

“Yeah?”

“Can I tell you about it?”

He cranes his neck to look at you, but it doesn’t really work. “Of course,” he says. “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

You sigh. “I don’t know. I just... I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You’re not.”

“I know, but—”

“You’re not.”

You look up at him finally, and seeing your smile sends warmth through his blood. Your face is still looks wrecked from tears gone by, but your smile pushes all that out of the way.

“Thank you,” comes past your lips in a whisper. Then, after a moment of waiting, you say, “It’s just that... I... this — ugh.” You hide your face in his shirt again. “This is so embarrassing. I don’t even know why I got so worked up.”

Soonyoung doesn’t respond to that, just pats your back a few times and encourages you to keep going. You toy with the fabric of his shirt.

“This guy I used to know — I thought I’d never see him again, but he showed up today. Ran into him when I was walking back from the convenience store.” You bite the inside of your lip. “I haven’t thought about him in a long time, but, I don’t know, I guess seeing him just brought all these memories back all at once.”

“Bad ones?”

A breathy laugh escapes you. “Sure, you could say that.”

The silence comes back, and your brows furrow, almost like you’re trying to solve the problem all on your own. But you don’t have to. Soonyoung is here.

“Do you remember when I told you about my first kiss? Like, my real first kiss?”

Soonyoung hums. Of course he remembers.

“Back in high school, I used to have this friend. Sammy. She was — god, she was beautiful. And kind, and smart, and just... amazing. I miss her a lot. She’s abroad now, travelling the world with her sister. I think she’s in Peru now.” You chuckle at the mention of your old friend, but soon your smile twists into a frown. “This guy... I don’t like saying his name, but he liked Sammy. Everyone did, I don’t blame him for that, honestly. He was pretty popular back then — one of those sports boys, you know? Thinking about it now, he could’ve easily gotten with Sammy if he hadn’t been so conniving.”

“Conniving?”

“Yeah, he was... I don’t know how he got the idea in his head, but he came to me first. He kept hanging out with me, taking me on these... dates? But they weren’t really dates, all we did was talk about Sammy — what she liked, what she didn’t like. I knew he was using me, but I just... let him, I guess. Maybe back then I was just so caught up in being needed that I didn’t really mind being used.”

Soonyoung hugs you tighter.

“I guess he felt sorry, maybe? Right before he went to go ask Sammy out, he just... laid one on me. It was stupid. Like a pity kiss for my service or whatever. I wasn’t in love with the guy or anything, but it felt so... degrading. Like all I deserved was some action from a conventionally good-looking guy."

Your tears come back, brimming at the edge of your eyelids.

“I don’t know, it just — it just made me feel so...”

You take a breath. Exhale.

“...worthless.”

Soonyoung doesn’t fail to see the irony here, at least, but he feels slightly lifted. Whoever this guy is, Soonyoung’s a million times better.

“You’re not worthless,” he says — because he knows it’s true.

“I know.” You readjust yourself curled around him, wiping away the tears which haven’t fallen. “I mean, I know now.” Sighing, you wrap your arm around his waist, somehow pulling him closer than he already was. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For being here. For being you. For letting me be me.”

“It is my absolute pleasure to serve you, your majesty.”

You wack him with the sleeve of your sweater. “You’re such a dork!”

Your laugh is nice. Soonyoung hopes to hear it again soon.

“You know,” you say, eyes closed as you lie there with him on his bed. “Normally I would’ve gone to Seungkwan with my problems, but tonight...”

“Tonight?”

“You make me feel safe, Soonyoung. Thank you.”

His eyes close. “Really?”

“Yeah,” you breathe out. “That, and if I told Seungkwan, he would’ve found the guy and beat him to a pulp.”

“Why can I see that?”

“Because it’s true.”

You stay the night.

•

With a group of friends as big as Soonyoung’s, it’s about once every blue moon that the boys find a time that works for everyone, especially coming up on finals season. They all have their own worries around this time: the dance showcase, the big play, last-minute assessments, and — of course — finals.

So when they’re all free for barbecue one night, everyone’s ecstatic. Reservations are made, gratuities are calculated, and the group chat blows up every few hours with various changes to plans. (Mostly from Mingyu, who’s eager to show off his grilling skills.)

But of course, university is university, and it’s inevitable that someone has to bail out. That someone being Soonyoung.

The dance showcase creeps up a bit faster than anyone likes, and now Soonyoung’s professor is forcing him to choreograph an entire song for some freshmen only a month before the whole thing goes onstage.

First of all, who signs up for a showcase only four weeks before the performance? Who lets them sign up?

And second of all, doesn’t his professor realize Soonyoung has a life? He’s got other dances to work on, other classes to study for, friends to have barbecue with. How is he supposed to cram an entire choreography — not the mention the time it’ll take to teach the freshmen — into his already hectic lifestyle?

But Soonyoung is a people-pleaser. He doesn’t say no.

Instead, he regretfully messages the group chat, saying he can’t hang out tonight in favour of attempting to choreograph at least a quarter of the song in one sitting. He gets the usual whining, but they all know they can’t change his mind, so it fades out fast.

What he doesn’t expect is for them to invite you instead.

“It’s a thirteen person reservation,” Seungcheol reasons. “Besides, he’s basically one of us by now.”

Soonyoung can’t exactly argue with that.

So, you go to the restaurant with them while Soonyoung heads to the studio. Minghao picks you up along with Vernon and Chan, which sends an anxious bit of worry down Soonyoung’s spine, but he does nothing about it. If Minghao wanted to tell you, he would’ve by now.

You send him a good luck text.

[🍥] Don’t let those kids work you into the ground!

He stares at your words for a bit, distracted from finding the song he’s supposed to use. Your contact name is different now — one of those naruto fishcakes because of that time you took him out for ramen. That night had been full of laughter and loud, borderline obnoxious slurping, ending with the beautiful finale of Soonyoung throwing a fishcake straight into your open mouth.

You were the one that sweet-talked you both out of getting banned.

Soonyoung finally opens his music app and finds the song the freshmen requested (a rather boring one, if you ask him) which he sets to max volume. He doesn’t bother plugging his phone into the speaker system, not when he’s the only one in the studio.

Maybe he can do this.

•

“The trick is to add eggs and use less water,” you say as you scoop more batter onto the waffle iron.

Jihoon snorts from where he sits at the table, still shoveling more whipped cream and strawberry-smothered waffle in his mouth. “Are you sure the trick isn’t to just not be Soonyoung?”

“Hey!” Soonyoung pauses his own eating just to pout. “My waffles are good!”

“Sure, you keep telling yourself that.”

Both you and Jihoon laugh at Soonyoung’s expense, only further accentuating the pout on his face. You and Jihoon are too alike in that aspect. Well, actually, Soonyoung knows you’d never laugh at him, but he still can’t be sure about Jihoon. One time, back in high school, Soonyoung tripped over (what he thought was) a dead bird, and Jihoon laughed for hours — though Soonyoung always exaggerates the story into him laughing for days.

You sit down next to him with your own plate of waffles. There’s flour dusted on your arms, but you don’t seem to mind.

“You’ve got a little...” You point a finger at the corner of your mouth.

He knows. Soonyoung can feel the cool whipped cream right where you say it is.

He smiles wide. “I’m saving it for later.”

“Hmm...”

You say nothing, just smile as you lean in, kissing the corner of his lips. It’s quick, chaste, and barely a real kiss, but Soonyoung’s heart bounces in his chest. He’s never been kissed like that before.

He wonders if this is what it’s like to be loved.

That thought, though, he pushes back for another time.

“Gross. You guys made me lose my appetite,” Jihoon says. He keeps eating.

•

With eyes drooping shut every few seconds, Soonyoung decides it’s time to call it quits on the chemistry homework. It’s nearly one in the morning, anyways. He flips his textbooks shut and gathers up all his notes, putting them all in a haphazard pile that he’ll worry about in the morning. Swivelling in his chair, his eyes land on you.

Oh. He forgot you’re here.

You’re snuggled up on top of his covers, one arm wrapped around the pillow your head should be on, eyes closed as even, slow breaths come past your slightly parted lips. One of his hoodies is draped over your legs like a blanket. He wonders why you didn’t just get under the covers.

Well, he has been walking you home ever since he hadn’t some time ago. Maybe you were waiting.

He feels a bit guilty as he brushes his teeth and washes his face, but not too bad since you only have afternoon classes tomorrow. Maybe he can treat you to something in the morning to make up for it.

After he tucks you under a fluffy throw blanket, he crawls into bed and lies on his side, facing you.

Your other hand is lax, palm up and fingers curled, almost like you’re holding something invisible.

His hand would fit perfectly.

The tips of his fingers graze over the lines on your palm. Slow. Trepidatious.

You shift, fingers unconsciously curling around Soonyoung’s hand.

He closes his eyes.

•

The moves aren’t working.

The moves aren’t working and the music isn’t working and the dance isn’t working and nothing is working.

Soonyoung groans in frustration, almost screaming with his fingers threaded through his damp hair as he messes up yet another landing. He’s drenched in sweat, and it’s only been so many hours since the rest of the crew left for the night, not that he’s kept track.

It’s less than a week until the showcase. Six days, as Chan is apt to remind everyone with his stupid holiday countdown app.

That freshmen choreography is already over and done with — Soonyoung’s made it, he’s taught it to those over-eager nuisances, and if they need anything more, that’s on them. They’re no longer his responsibility.

That’s not what has him in such a state right now.

His solo — the one he’s been planning for the entire semester — it just doesn’t... feel right. He’s been slaving over it for days now, reworking the steps, figuring out what to take out and what to replace. But the more he fixes it, the more it feels wrong.

He can’t get the steps right. He can’t get anything right.

What is wrong with him?

He starts the music again at exactly one minute, thirty-eight seconds. The moves are clear in his mind. One step. Two steps. Sweep. Spin. Jump—

He falls.

The music goes on.

Soonyoung slams his fist onto the softwood floor, cursing at his ineptitude. He stays like that for a moment, eyes screwed shut and fists clenched so tight his nails dig into his palms. The song ends, only to restart again, but Soonyoung barely notices.

Screw the music. He stands; positions himself; tries again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

He falls.

He yells out at the floor, at his feet, at whatever is holding him back.

His reflection in the mirror stares back at him.

Mind blank, he sits there, legs stretched out in front of him as he hunches over, eyes closed to the world around. His breaths come out shaky and uneven, but even though every moment sitting still feels like eternity, his lungs fail to calm.

Someone knocks on the door, and for a second, Soonyoung thinks it’s Jun coming to tell him to go home for the night. He doesn’t want to, so he doesn’t look up.

The door opens, he can hear the quiet shuffling of hesitant feet that have removed their shoes just because the sign on the door told them to.

“Soonyoung?”

Your voice is clear — like a single drop of water coalescing into a whole — and it cuts through the sound of blood rushing past Soonyoung’s ears.

He looks up to see you standing a good length away, almost like you’re scared to approach. You’re wearing pyjamas, a thick sweater pulled over your shoulders and fuzzy socks donning your feet. Something bulges from the pocket of your sweater.

“What are you...”

“Minghao called me.”

In the back of his mind, a small part of Soonyoung wonders exactly when you and Minghao have gotten close enough to call each other, but the thought doesn’t stay for long. It can’t, really, not when you’re in front of him.

When Soonyoung says nothing more, you take another step forward. “What’s wrong?”

To anyone else, he might say nothing. Absolutely nothing is wrong.

His voice breaks when he tries to laugh.

“Everything.”

Your eyes soften, a small smile tugging at your lips. It’s not one of those pitiful smiles, he can tell, but it’s not fake, either. You bring your hands together in front of you, fiddling with the tips of your fingers as your eyes move from them to his gaze again. “I’m coming over. Is that okay?”

He nods.

First, you find his phone and turn down the music until it’s gone. You sit right behind him, legs spread on either side of his body, and you wrap your arms around his waist, pressing flush to his back and resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. He squirms a bit.

“I’m all sweaty,” he tries to argue, but you only squeeze him tighter.

“Yeah, you are.”

He stops resisting. It’s much too hot, what with his hours of constant exercise and your thick layers, but he can’t complain.

“Do you want to talk about it?” This time it’s your turn to ask.

“...Just hold me?”

And you do.

You press a kiss to the back of his neck. Slow, soft, and when your lips leave his searing skin, your forehead replaces them.

That’s when the dam breaks.

Hot, fat tears roll from Soonyoung’s eyes down his cheeks as sobs rack through his chest. The vibrations shake him and you all at once, but your hold never falters. He can’t see anything, only a blur of what should be his legs and your arms wrapped around his stomach. His hands go to clutch at your arms, desperate to hold onto something; to not let him sink.

It’s ugly, the way he cries, but you let it happen. You hold him.

This is what it’s like.

Eventually, his desperate hands find yours, his arms crossed so his right is over your right, his left over your left. His fingers roam over the smooth backs of your hands until they reach your fingers and interlock. The palms of your hands are warm compared to his fingertips.

You’ve locked onto his body language by now — you’re fluent, so you know to continue pressing reassuring, slow kisses into his skin. You know to whisper little words that should mean nothing, but coming from your lips, mean everything.

He’s going to be okay.

For some reason, coming from you, he believes it.

You hold him until the hiccuping stops, until the tears are just dry streaks on his face, until his breath comes out in long streams instead of bursts.

His eyes stay shut as he feels you shift. One of your hands slips out of his grasp, your arm reaching back, and Soonyoung almost whines until he feels its return.

“Look,” you whisper.

It itches to open his eyes, but when he does, he sees what’s in your hand, right in front of him. A small stuffed tiger sits in your palm, positioned anatomically incorrect like a teddy bear, a velvet heart between its paws. Stitched white letters read:

Go get ‘em, tiger!

You chuckle lightly, repositioning yourself so your chin hooks over his shoulder. “Cheesy, I know. I was going to give this to you the day of the showcase, but I think you could use it right about now.”

Gingerly, Soonyoung lifts his hands together, and you place the plush in his awaiting palms.

His voice is slow to restart, but he manages to say, “Thank you.”

Hands now free, you wrap yourself around his waist again. “Anything for you.”

Such a simple sentence, that, and yet the confession sends blood to Soonyoung’s ears in the form of an awfully embarrassing blush. He runs his thumbs over the fuzzy fabric of the tiger plush.

“Soonyoung?”

“Hm?”

You press your lips to the crook of his shoulder, voice muffled in the fabric of his shirt. “I won’t force you to stop practicing. I know this is important to you.” Soonyoung feels your breath fan over his skin. “But I also want you to rest — you shouldn’t overwork yourself.”

One of your hands rises to his chin, guiding it up so he looks forward at the studio mirror and meets your gaze in the reflection.

“Whaddya say we do, hm?” You tilt your head, and Soonyoung thinks his pupils may be heart-shaped. “Do you want to practice more? Or can I take you home?”

“Just...” He swallows what’s left in his dry mouth. “Just once more.”

You smile. “Okay.”

As you get up, you run your hands up to Soonyoung’s shoulder and down to his hand, where you playfully pretend to pull him up with you. He laughs, hiding his face behind the tiger plush for a second before he stands, tugging your hands as he does so you fall into him when he rights himself. Both your hands are squeezed between him and you, while his unoccupied arm finds its way to your side.

Another smile tugs at your lips at the proximity. You shift your hands up so they wrap over his shoulders, linking behind his head. Leaning closer, your eyes gleam under the fluorescent lights. To the sound of silence, you sway together, waltzing in the dead of night.

“I’ll be outside, okay?”

Soonyoung’s expression tightens, eyebrows shifting in confusion. “Why?”

“Well,” you say. “I know how you feel about audiences during practice.”

Something about your smile right now makes Soonyoung feel so undeniably safe. You understand him. Never once have you questioned him over why he doesn’t invite you to practices, never once did you pressure him to change that.

“Do you know how I feel about you?”

“Hmm, do I?”

Do you?

“Stay.”

And you do.

•

Here’s the thing about dance showcases:

They’re big, they’re flashy, they take the entire year to plan, and they’re over in one night.

Soonyoung stands in the wings, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, hopefully not loud enough for anyone to hear. He watches as the group performing before his solo finishes up their dance, though he knows there is at least a minute before he’ll have to go on.

A tap on his shoulder makes him turn his head, and he sees Sehee’s smiling face.

“Nervous?” she asks, her voice hidden beneath the music.

She’s all dolled up, dressed in her costume with a sleek leather jacket to bring everything together. Her eyes glimmer just as much as her eyelids.

“You have no idea,” Soonyoung jokes, but his heart isn’t really in it.

Sehee tilts her head; blinks a few times. “You’ll do amazing. You always do.”

For what it’s worth, Soonyoung hasn’t forgotten his attraction. Sehee’s words soothe him to some extent, pump him up, even. It’s slightly terrifying — how much she still affects him even now.

You’re in the audience tonight, third row from the front, somewhere in the middle. Your seat is between Seungkwan’s and Jihoon’s, whereas all the other boys came (almost) too late and had to find seats elsewhere.

The music ends, applause erupts, and Soonyoung knows it’s his turn. He waits for the group to exit on the opposite side, and when the resounding claps quiet down, he takes the first step onstage.

Something Soonyoung has almost always known: stage lights are blinding. If they’re set up right, anyone onstage will have a damn hard time seeing anyone in the audience. He can’t see you — couldn’t during his previous performance with the crew, either. The only reason he knows you’re there is the million assuring texts you sent him before you had to turn off your phone for the show.

But he knows you’re there. He knows you’re watching.

Soonyoung stands with his left foot on the spike mark, right where he’s practiced time and time again ever since they transitioned into the space. Music floods his veins, and the world is gone.

He wouldn’t call it an escape. Soonyoung doesn’t use dance to get away, it’s not like that. This world he creates with dance — this other space where nothing exists except him and the music and the floor and the feeling — he chooses to go there. Euphoria, he thinks it might be called. Euphoric.

The space takes him. He lets it.

And then it’s over.

Soonyoung’s breath leaves him in bursts, his shoulders heaving despite how hard he fights to keep them still in his final pose. His back faces the audience, his right arm stretched out and up, fingers curling around nothing. Stars dance before his eyes — which he fails to catch with his outstretched hand.

He thinks he can faintly hear applause, but it’s nothing compared to the heart beating in his chest. Your voice plays in his ears, yet he knows it’s simply his imagination — his recollection.

I like your dance, you’d said that night. I’m no expert, no judge, but I like it. I love it, honestly. Your dancing... I don’t know. I wish I had the words. It’s like... a little box.

A little box?

You’ve got a little box in your hand. Brown, maybe the size of your palm. You open it and there’s no bottom, no sides, no shape, just an expanse of universe in blues and pinks and purples and whatever colours we don’t know exist. You look inside and reach your hand in, somehow fitting in the tiny yet infinite space. Your fingers brush through starlight like strands of silk, like the rays are minnows you’ve met during a summer dip. Like that. A little box.

I thought you said you didn’t have the words?

I don’t. Not enough.

Soonyoung vaguely registers the lights going black, the way his feet drift him offstage, the music of the seniors’ finale.

At some point, the lights are back on. Not the stage lights, but the harsh fluorescents once the audience has fully filtered out into the lobby. Most of them will leave, but the family and friends of performers are sure to stay, waiting there to congratulate and fawn over the dancers as soon as they’re let go for the night. Somewhere in his mind, Soonyoung knows his friends are outside waiting for him — him, Jun, Minghao, and Chan.

Roses are passed around. He’s never seen a blue rose before, but some dancers walk around with them as they change out of costume and gather their things. He points out a yellow rose from the bunch presented to him, but it turns out to be a bouquet for him specifically, and he takes the whole thing with his jaw slightly hanging. Everything’s a bit... slow. Soonyoung feels like he’s wading through water.

He hasn’t changed yet, simply standing in his costume as he watches people go back and forth. Other performers move from dressing room to dressing room, cleaning up what they have to while simultaneously patting each other’s backs. Techs go around making sure everything’s in order, nothing lost or forgotten. They put away the MC’s microphones and bother the dancers for not taking proper care of props even though it’s only been one night.

Another tap on his shoulder; it’s Sehee again.

“Can I talk to you?” she asks.

He follows her to a corner of the stage, where the curtains hang and hide the two — for the most part.

She turns almost too abruptly, causing Soonyoung to stumble over his own two feet to avoid bumping into her.

“This is really hard for me to say,” she starts. “But I have to get it out.”

Soonyoung nods, maybe saying something close to a confirmation, but he can’t really tell. He’s a little lightheaded. Sehee has changed out of her leather, instead now in a pair of grey sweatpants and a simple t-shirt. That’s the thing about Sehee, though, she has that unnamed sort of... effortless beauty. Even with her stage makeup wiped off, she glows.

“This might be one of the last times I ever work with you, you know? Next year, my parents are making me quit dancing so I can focus on my major. It sucks, yeah, but they’re right. I need to focus if I want to succeed. You know that too, don’t you? The need to succeed?” She takes a breath; laughs bitterly. “Sorry, I’m getting off track... I just — I wanted to tell you this because if I don’t tonight, I might never get the chance again.”

Maybe Soonyoung has dreamed of this moment. He can’t be sure, not yet, so he lets her continue.

“I like you, Soonyoung. I have for a while. But things happened, and you got together with...” her voice trails off. “And you seemed happy, after a while. I thought maybe I could just keep it hidden but, I don’t know, I think I need to tell you, to get closure because I'm not sure if I can go on without at least—”

Choices. Soonyoung — and everyone else in the world — has only made it through life with decisions. He’s made good ones. Bad ones. He’s had regrets and he’s had none. This, though, this choice is intensely apparent.

Apparent in the way he knows it will affect much more than he wishes.

He kisses her.

God, this is what he wanted, right? What he’s wanted for so long. He used to toss and turn at night over the thought of Sehee’s eyes; her smile; her lips.

And on his, they were heaven. Plump and soft just like the romance novels say, moving at the exact pace of his heartbeat.

The hand holding his bouquet drops to his side as the other goes to cup Sehee’s cheek. Faintly, the sound of paper fluttering to the ground reaches his ears, but nothing can distract him from this moment.

Until, of course, it ends.

Sehee pulls away. “We can’t— I don’t—”

Someone clears their throat.

Soonyoung turns, finding Minghao standing just off from the curtains, arms crossed and face contorted in thinly-veiled anger.

And you.

You’re standing next to Minghao, obviously shocked — over being seen or what you’ve seen, Soonyoung doesn’t know. Hands fisted and hanging loose at your sides, your eyes widen as they meet Soonyoung’s.

It’s not so dramatic as the movies.

Soonyoung stares at you, tongue unmoving with nothing to say. You stare back, almost frozen, until Minghao gently takes you by your shoulders, forcing you to turn and leave the way you must’ve come. Nothing happens in the time it takes. Soonyoung simply watches.

He’s never been good at reading lips, but he thinks he knows exactly what Minghao whispers in your ear.

There’s something you should know.

Sehee mutters, “Sorry,” and leaves. She looks guilt-ridden as she does, but even in his half-frozen state, Soonyoung knows all of this is on him.

He stands alone in that corner of the stage, the only noise being the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant sound of the last stragglers in the dressing rooms. His hands clench, and the brown paper of the bouquet crumples. He looks at it then, at the yellow roses and baby’s breath, at the beige note that’s fallen to the floor.

Slowly, he crouches, picking up the note with his thumb and forefinger.

Congratulations Soonyoung!! I know how hard you’ve worked for this night, which is why I ordered these to be delivered. Joshua told me yellow roses represent happiness, or something. Pretty, right? You deserve every happiness, so I decided to start with flowers. Tonight may be over, but who knows, maybe we’ll find happiness in tomorrow, too.

It’s stupid. It’s not a love letter. It’s laced with love, though, and he hates that he recognizes your handwriting.

Time moves heavily as Soonyoung turns to the backstage door. He’s the only one left now, his station in the second boy’s dressing room is messy, unlike everyone else’s. His reflection stares back at him while he sits in front of the mirror, motions halved in speed as he wipes off his eye makeup.

It’s over.

When was the last time he thought about how it would end?

He changes out of costume, arms growing stiff, and stuffs everything in his bag without much care for how. His regular clothes itch; he longs to scratch at his skin, but he doesn’t.

He leaves your bouquet on the counter.

His friends stand in a circle in the lobby, brows furrowed and voices hushed as they discuss... something. Soonyoung has a bad feeling he knows exactly the topic. Minghao isn’t there. Nor are you.

Jihoon isn’t around, either, but Soonyoung remembers he had to leave immediately after the performance. Something about an essay. It doesn’t really matter now, not compared to this.

When he approaches his friends, they quiet down further. Half of them look his way with a frown, while the other half choose to avert their eyes. What do they know?

Seungkwan stands out the most. His arms are crossed, his lips are pressed together in a thin line, and anger radiates from his very being. Of course he’s mad. You’re his friend.

The silence consumes Soonyoung as he nearly shrivels under his friends’ gazes. He must have taken his time, the lobby is empty except for them.

“Where’s Minghao?” he asks.

Seungkwan lurches forward, but both Seungcheol and Wonwoo bring up their arms to hold him back. 

“Where’s Minghao? Where’s Minghao?” he seethes. He jabs an accusatory finger in Soonyoung’s face. “You just kissed some girl and broke my best friend’s heart and you’re asking about Minghao?!”

So they don’t know. Not really.

Soonyoung endures the scolding. The looks. The questions. The noise.

No answers are really given.

The great thing about having best friends is that they know not to pamper you when you’ve done wrong. That’s also the worst thing about having best friends.

Seungkwan would go on and on, surely, but soon enough the boys notice how little Soonyoung is reacting — how his face and expression is slack and dull.

Joshua holds up a finger to quiet down the ones still complaining, then gestures towards the front entrance.

“Minghao left with him a while ago.” The look on his face is one of pity. Soonyoung hates it.

He nods; stuffs his hands in his pockets as he turns to the door.

“Wait! I’m not done—!” Seungkwan struggles against Wonwoo and Seungcheol, but he’s no match.

Soonyoung doesn’t stick around long enough to hear what happens next.

He has no sense of what to do when he walks out that door. Go home, maybe.

The night breeze hits him with more force than it should, making his eyes go dry and his lips tremble. Outside, everything is almost too loud. There’s traffic on all sides, surrounding the lot of the theatre; the sound of humming engines and honking horns assaults his senses.

He walks — though it feels like wandering — to the parking lot, where he plans to look around for a bus stop.

You’re there.

A mirage, he thinks at first, but you’re really there, sitting on one of those concrete barriers, legs outstretched and ankles crossed. You have your head lowered as you sit, hands braced on the cold concrete.

His held breath escapes him, and you look up.

“You’re here,” you say. The smile on your lips, ever so slight and ever so bitter, causes a ringing in his ears. “I almost thought you forgot about me.”

“I...”

“It’s a lie, right?” Your eyes glisten, but no tears fall. “You wouldn’t— I’m not— I’m not that naive, am I?”

Soonyoung’s lips part, but nothing moves past them. His hands itch to leave his pockets, but with nothing to reach for, they stay still.

“...I see.”

You drop your head again, bringing your hands together to fiddle with your fingernails. He hears your breath, shaky as it is, and his lungs constrict.

“God, it felt so real. I thought— I guess I don’t know what I thought, huh?” A shiver runs through you. “Was any of it real?” you ask the ground.

Soonyoung longs to answer. That’s the thing, though.

He doesn’t know.

Can any of it be real?

You laugh. Before, your laugh was spring strawberries; summer warblers; winter snowdrops. Now, your dry laughter echoes in Soonyoung’s mind like a pebble in a failed attempt of skipping stones.

“Guess not.”

You hop off the concrete barrier, wiping off your pants of dust and dirt. Still, you don’t meet his eyes.

Soonyoung’s heart beats in a way he knows isn’t natural. Guilt seeps through every orifice. “You’re not... you’re not yelling at me. You’re not crying — you’re not angry,” he stumbles through. “Why?”

It’s then that when you meet his eyes, he notices the dried tracks lining your cheeks. You have been crying, just in the time it took for him to come across you.

“I’m just disappointed in myself, Soonyoung,” you say. “I’m the one who fell for it so easily. I’m the one that was tricked. I’m the one who—” a breath “—who loved someone that didn’t love me back.” You step closer, arms limp at your side. “Once I get home, sure, I’ll cry my eyes out. Is that what you want to hear? I’ll curse myself for being so... so stupid.”

“It’s not your fault—”

“No, it’s not. This is not my fault. All I did was believe the words you said to me. All I did was hand myself to you on a silver platter.” Unshed tears brim at your eyelids, but it seems you refuse to let them fall. “But you know the worst part, Soonyoung?”

Everything?

“The worst part is I can’t yell at you. I’m not angry because I fell in love with someone who doesn’t love me back and it hurts and I can’t bring myself to hate you despite being told you’ve never thought about me the way I think about you.”

A breathy gasp escapes you, and you turn on a dime, the sight of your back an icy reminder to Soonyoung of what he’s yet to learn. You take a deep breath to gather yourself, shoulders rising and falling.

“I’ll be going now. I’ve got a lot to think about.”

Soonyoung doesn’t move from his spot when you walk away, or when you get into Minghao’s car, which pulls away after a moment of sitting there in its parking spot. His feet are stuck in stiff mud, unable to shift, even.

Perhaps he stands there for too long. It’s not until he’s staring down the front of his apartment that he realizes one of his friends must have dropped him off.

•

He hasn’t heard from you in a few days. He hasn’t heard from anyone in just as long.

Jihoon already knew (not everything, but enough) by the time Soonyoung rolled out of bed the day after. He hasn’t said anything about it, but Soonyoung can tell this silence isn’t the same as usual. They rarely eat meals together anymore. Last movie night, Jihoon didn’t even pretend to be busy, instead saying he simply wasn’t in the mood.

Seungkwan hasn’t left your side ever since... that happened. If Soonyoung happens to see you on campus, which is almost never, he backs out of approaching you because of the sheer force that is Seungkwan’s glare. Besides, he wouldn’t know what to say even if he did find the courage to face you.

Classes go by in blurs. Not quickly, like scenery past a car window, but so slow that once Soonyoung leaves, he remembers nothing but hours upon hours of staring at his empty notebook, even if the lecture was only fifty minutes long. Days are kind of like that too.

•

Sehee apologizes. She shouldn’t, but she does.

Soonyoung didn’t really hate what he did at first. He liked her, after all.

But when Sehee chokes on her own words, pleading to whoever will listen that she’s not that kind of girl, Soonyoung regrets kissing her more than he ever wanted to kiss her in the first place.

•

please let me explain

I’m sorry

it’s been a while, but still

I’m sorry

[🍥] Explain what?

[🍥] ...

[🍥] Soonyoung?

sorry I just

I wasn’t expecting you to answer

[🍥] Maybe I shouldn’t have

no

wait

I’m sorry

[🍥] So I’ve heard

I just want you to know why what happened, happened

[🍥] But I already know why

it’s not that simple

[🍥] You lied because you suck at lying. Because you knew Sehee was there that night and panicked. I was just collateral damage

[🍥] ...

[🍥] No answer, huh?

[🍥] So it really is that simple

please wait

I’m just trying to figure myself out

[🍥] Let me help you

[🍥] You want my forgiveness because you feel guilty. Maybe you don’t know it yet, but you want me to say I forgive you just so you won’t have to carry this around for the rest of your life

[🍥] I know this isn’t some romcom. I know you’re not here to get me back

[🍥] So just let it go

[🍥] Let’s just forget about this. About what happened

what if I can’t

[🍥] I don’t know

[🍥] Figure it out, I guess

[🍥] But do it on your own

•

Soonyoung doesn’t measure his time anymore.

He wakes up. He eats. He goes to class. He skips lunch. He goes home. He eats. He falls asleep.

When was the last time he went out with someone? When was the last time he had a real conversation?

He doesn’t know.

•

[Minghao] You should tell everyone else

why

[Minghao] Would you rather they think you’re a cheater or just an idiot?

I don’t know

[Minghao] I think they deserve an explanation

[Minghao] Want me to do it for you?

does it even matter anymore

[Minghao] It’s your choice

[Minghao] You just have to make it

then tell them

I don’t care

[Minghao] Are you sure?

tell them

•

These days, Soonyoung stays late at the studio. No one really practices there anymore, not since the showcase finished and finals have rolled around. Actually, Soonyoung should be studying too, but he can’t find the motivation. He thinks it might be the guilt.

You were right. He doesn’t want to carry this around.

The thing is, despite spending entire evenings in the studio, he can’t remember anything as he walks home. It must be hours spent in there, and yet, when he walks out, he can’t recall a thing. Like he was never there at all.

Where does the time go?

With his luck, the elevator is broken when he returns to the apartment building, so he has to take the stairs. Normally that wouldn’t be a big deal, but after hours of mindless, sloppy dancing, he’s much too tired. He fumbles with his keys when he tries to open the door, and he rests his forehead on the cool wood for a moment, sighing before he tries again.

The door creaks open. Though it’s late, the lights are still on, which Soonyoung frowns at when he realizes. Lately, Jihoon is never up when Soonyoung comes home. But there he is, sitting at the table right next to the kitchen with his eyes on his hands and his feet tucked under the chair.

Soonyoung freezes after shutting the door behind him, not wholly sure what to make of the scene before him.

After a moment of silence, Jihoon looks up from his fingers and meets Soonyoung’s gaze.

“Minghao called me today,” he says.

Soonyoung gulps, but doesn’t respond — doesn’t know how to.

“I didn’t want to believe it at first, you know.” His voice is slow, croaky; tired. “But it sort of makes sense, doesn’t it. I don’t know how I didn’t see it from the start.”

Slowly, Soonyoung slips off his shoes and steps further into the apartment. “So now you know. I’m really not in the mood for a lecture right now.”

“I just have a question.”

Soonyoung pauses, halfway through the apartment and only a few meters from his bedroom door. He turns to face Jihoon, sighing through his nose and digging his palm into his eye sockets. “Fine,” he concedes. “What?”

“If you never loved — never liked him, why are you acting like this now?”

“Acting like what?”

“Like a dead man walking.”

Soonyoung scoffs, a dry, empty sound as he looks away for a moment before meeting Jihoon’s gaze again. “You’re kidding, right?” he asks. “I lied to someone for months. I pretended to love someone I didn’t. I used him because of my own stupidity and pride, and then I used Sehee, too—” Pausing, he closes his eyes; takes a breath. “Isn’t it obvious? It’s guilt. I feel guilty for... for everything.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“Excuse me?”

Jihoon rhythmically taps the pads of his fingers on the table. It’s not loud enough to be heard, but Soonyoung’s eyes train to the sight. “It’s only the guilt?”

“What else would it be?”

This time, it’s Jihoon who sighs. He looks at his hands again for a second. “Do me a favour,” he says without looking up.

“Look, I already—”

“Just do what I say.”

Soonyoung groans, but he knows he can’t argue with Jihoon and win — not now at least. He rubs his eyes, shoulders rising and falling as he takes in a deep breath. Mumbling under his breath, he says, “Fine.”

Jihoon stands from his chair, and in such stagnant silence, the sound of the legs squeaking on the floor is profound. He points to the middle of the apartment, the large bit of floor-space that’s too big to be considered part of the kitchen but too small to house any furniture.

“Stand right there.”

“...What?”

Without answering, Jihoon simply points at the floor again, and Soonyoung can only groan in defiance as he moves to stand in that spot. Grabbing a throw pillow from the couch, Jihoon steps a few feet away, facing Soonyoung with the pillow held in one hand at his side. He seems to consider something for a moment.

Soonyoung has never been unable to read Jihoon this much, so he asks, “What is this all about—”

Jihoon screams. Not a high-pitched screech, but a guttural battle cry, and Soonyoung’s eyes widen. Faster than he can comprehend, Jihoon runs towards him and tackles him to the ground. Soonyoung’s legs crumble as he falls, and he feels the throw pillow pressing onto his face.

This is it, he thinks. This is how he dies.

“Jihoon!” he cries, but his protest is muffled by the pillow. “What the fuck are you—!”

“You fucking idiot! You don’t know shit!”

“I know that!” Soonyoung thrashes to get the pillow off, but Jihoon is way stronger than he looks.

“You miss him you fucking buffoon! You’re all in your doom and gloom because you had a good thing going and had to go fuck it up!”

“I don’t!”

“Don’t try to argue with me, fucker, I know you better than anyone. Now scream!”

The pillows squishes further down, and while Soonyoung can still breathe, it’s far from comfortable. He continues to struggle even though he knows it’s useless.

“What?!”

“Scream into the pillow! You’re mad at yourself and you should be! Let it all out!”

“I—”

“Scream!”

And he does. He lets out a loud bellow that’s nothing but sound roaring from his lungs. He does it mostly to appease Jihoon — so that maybe he’ll finally get off.

But it feels good.

No, not good, really. It feels awful. Everything feels awful. Yet, something about screaming makes him want to do it again. He yells once more into the pillow, the sound muffled in the fabric and yet intensely remarkable. He screams and he screams and he screams until he can’t scream anymore and his voice is raw and there’s no more sound aside from the fractured gasps of his sobs. Tears soak into rough fabric, and he doesn’t even notice that Jihoon isn’t holding the pillow anymore — he’s pressing it to his face himself. His body shakes under Jihoon. Soonyoung feels pathetic, but he can’t stop.

He tries again to scream into the pillow, but his voice cracks and all he knows is to cry.

This is what it’s like.

Quietly, Jihoon maneuvers himself so he sits by Soonyoung’s head. He slowly lifts a corner of the pillow and peeks at Soonyoung’s red face. “So,” he whispers, voice soft and full of care. “What are you going to do now?”

Soonyoung wraps his arms around the pillow, hiding his face again.

“I don’t know,” he says. He’s never felt less sure of anything. “I don’t know.”

•

That night, Soonyoung cleans his room. He doesn’t reorganize or anything, just picks discarded clothes up off the ground and throws them in a hamper, spreads his blankets so his bed actually looks bed-like, and takes his overflowing garbage bin out to the door, where he’ll take it out tomorrow morning. As he stretches his arm between his bed and the wall, his fingers close around the sweater he’s trying to reach and... something else. When he brings his hand back up, a small tiger plush stares back at him.

Go get ‘em, tiger!

He stares at the words for a moment, sitting up on his bed and leaning his back against the wall. The plush feels frail in his hands, almost like the velvet heart held in the tiger’s paws could crumble at any moment. Maybe it will.

Soonyoung settles down above the covers that night, and the tiger sits on his other pillow.

The one that still smells like you.

•

He cries. (For the second time since you left.)

•

After everything that’s happened, one would think it would take a miracle to fix what’s been broken. Soonyoung thinks it will take more than that, but still; he’s no miracle worker. He thinks it will take magic to just see you again.

Turns out, it takes a coffee.

Jihoon forces Soonyoung to join him in visiting one of the campus cafes. He doesn’t think about it too much, just believes Jihoon’s trying to keep him alive with a little kick of caffeine. That thought is pushed away when Jihoon blocks him from sitting at the little table, pointing instead across the space to the student printing center.

You’re talking to a customer at the front counter, forearms rested on the white faux marble. A smile is on your lips as you say whatever it is you’re saying to the girl, and Soonyoung finds it almost impossible to tear his eyes away. But he does. He scans the rest of the building for a second. Seungkwan is nowhere to be seen, and neither is Minghao.

He turns to Jihoon, a question on the tip of his tongue.

“He told the bodyguards to back off,” Jihoon explains without needing to be asked. “It’s been a few days.” He nods his chin towards you. “Go on. Talk to him.”

Soonyoung shakes his head, gulping down the words he can’t yet think of. “I don’t... I’m not... ready.”

“If you back out now, you’re going to keep backing out until it’s too late.”

Jihoon’s eyes blaze with an unfitting determination for such a setting. He looks stupid, like some self-made, all-knowing relationship guru who likes the coke he’s gripping too much. Still, he’s right.

Soonyoung licks his dry lips and looks at you again. You’ve sat down, relaxed after having helped that customer and now conversing with one of the other students working there. He misses the way you looked when you were happy — when you were happy with him.

What will it take to see that again?

What will it take to hold you again?

His feet move before his doubts can stop him, and the scene feels awfully familiar. This time though, Soonyoung can’t help but feel like the bad guy.

You don’t notice him until he’s right in front of you, and he doesn’t know what hurts more: the immediate frown, or the fake smile you use to cover it up.

“Hi, what can I do for you today?”

If Soonyoung had to define heartache, he might use this moment. Feigning to forget rather than acknowledging the past... it’s effective, but it hurts.

“Can...” He hesitates and curses himself for it. “Can we talk?”

“About printing, yes. About anything else? I really would rather we didn’t,” you say under your breath. It’s hushed, and you don’t shy away when Soonyoung leans closer to hear. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

“But there’s something I need to say.”

“I don’t think I want to hear anymore apologies, Soonyoung.”

“It’s not that,” he argues.

Your eyebrows scrunch together. “It’s not an apology?”

“No— I mean, well, yes I want to apologize. I don’t think I’ll ever stop apologizing, but— but that’s not what I—”

“Soonyoung.”

He stops at your word, knowing that speaking will only get him further into trouble. Around you, his words keep failing. Instead, he meets your eyes, which under more inspection, seem hardened.

Have eyes ever looked so hardened when brimmed with tears?

“I don’t know if you know this, but seeing you makes me hate myself.” By now, your coworker has walked to the back, probably to respect your privacy. Your voice almost cracks. “I’ve felt worthless before, but Soonyoung, do you even realize what that — what you did to me?”

He barely breathes before saying, “What if I... what if I said I fell in love with you? Somewhere along the way?” A pause. Your eyes waver, but steady themselves. “What if I said I love you?”

“Soonyoung,” you say after a second.

“Yes?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

•

[🍥] Give me a reason to give you a chance

this is real right?

[🍥] It’s not a dream if that’s what you’re asking

all of a sudden??

[🍥] Minghao and Jihoon said I should

[🍥] And I think I should too

[🍥] But it’s hard

[🍥] What you said yesterday... I don’t know if I can believe it just yet

will you meet me?

I want to see you

[🍥] Can you give me some time?

yes

all the time you need

but will you?

will you meet me?

[🍥] I don’t want to

[🍥] But then again, I do

[🍥] Just give me some time

•

A strange thing, time. It passes by much too quickly when you want it to last, and it drags on when all you want is to be there. There; right then; right now.

Soonyoung stays up late turning on and off his phone, waiting and waiting and waiting and waiting.

It’s only been two days.

Jihoon thinks he’s crazy, though he hasn’t said it out loud — Soonyoung can tell.

He also thinks he might be a little crazy, but that’s okay. If it means he’ll get the chance to make it up to you... maybe he’s fine with being crazy.

At some point, Jihoon barges into his room and takes away Soonyoung’s phone, snatching it straight out of his hands like the little thief he is. He keeps it out of reach despite being shorter, preaching bullshit like, “You need to calm down and act like a normal person!”

Fine, whatever.

Soonyoung goes out for some air. And instant ramen.

There’s a twenty-four hour convenience store right on the edge of campus, manned by a single tired university student that everyone is aware of, yet no one really seems to know his name. It’s one of those spots where time doesn’t exist; maybe names don’t, either.

Compared to the blackness of night, the blanch white convenience store sticks out like a sore thumb, especially with all the bright posters and fluorescent tube-lights. Soonyoung feels just as out of place with no people around just outside the store, but really, it’s to be expected at a time like two in the morning.

He’s right at the door when it chimes and slides open. And so are you.

Both of you freeze where you are, you in the doorway and he just in front. His jaw slacks slightly as he takes you in.

You’re in casual clothes again, a thick sweater and presumably pyjama pants. This version of you comes with good memories — for some reason he likes it more than he cares to admit. Maybe he liked that you could share a more vulnerable side to him, and he to you in return. Although, you’ve shown this side to even the unnamed convenience store guy.

It’s your voice that breaks him from his reverie.

“Soonyoung,” you say, and it’s softer than before. Maybe your voice is lighter from the fact that it’s two in the morning, maybe just because you’re tired, but a small part of Soonyoung wishes that it’s something else — that you sound softer because you’ve missed him too.

He hopes it isn’t just hope.

He says your name, the sound beautiful and battered on his tongue. A small smile passes your lips, so fast that he almost misses it, but he doesn’t. That’s one thing he knows about you: how much you care. Even if someone hurts you, you always take the time to hear them out. You give them chances. Soonyoung should thank his lucky stars that you’ve done the same for him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

You smile again, and it reaches your eyes, however sad.

“Is it time?” he asks.

“It can be.” The plastic bag in your hand crinkles as you sway it back and forth. “Do you want it to be?”

“Yeah.” His voice comes out like a breath. “Please.”

“Then that’s what we’ll make it.”

You gesture to the ground, where the curb meets the asphalt, but Soonyoung is still a little shocked that he’s even met you here in the first place, so he watches, dazed, as you sit down on the curb before joining in. He stays silent as you pull out an ice cream cup and hand it to him. He stays silent as you procure a second one and peel open the plastic lid, digging into it with the wooden stick spoon-wannabe that comes with the package. He stays silent as you look at him, the wooden stick hanging from your mouth.

“So,” you say, scraping the side of the paper cup. Meeting his eyes, you sport a sly smile. “I hear you’re in love with me.”

The ice cream stays unopened in his hands. He finds it so easy to smile back.

“Yeah. I think I am.”

“You think you are?”

“I’ve never loved someone like this before,” he tries to explain, though the words are slow to his tongue. “I can only think.”

“I guess so.”

“But—” he looks at his fingers, fiddling with the plastic lid of the cup, and a small laugh escapes “—I’m thinking really, really hard.”

You laugh too; his heart blooms.

“Is that so?” you tease, smiling around the wooden spoon. “It’s gonna take more than that.”

“I think I can do it.”

“You think?”

“I think really hard.”

Soonyoung might be in love with every part of you, even if he never realized. Your laugh, your smile, your tells, your habits. He wishes he knew sooner, that this laugh could’ve been his forever long before now.

You scrape the last drops of ice cream out of the paper cup and leave the stick in your mouth, a bit chewed up. Your shoes tap against the asphalt, the rhythm something that draws both his and your eyes.

“You know...” you say, turning your head to meet his gaze once more. “You know you hurt me, right? You know this won’t be easy?”

“None of what we had was easy.”

A scoff runs past your lips. You bump your shoulder against his. “Speak for yourself. I fell hard and fast for you, asshole.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. I know.” You take the still unopened ice cream from his hands and stuff it right back in the bag it came from. “Say it again, though.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmmm... maybe it’ll take a few more times.”

“I’m—”

“But not tonight,” you say. “Tonight...”

Your hand beside him closes the distance, grazing over his and pulling it over to your lap.

“...just hold me?”

And he does.

Bonus (gn) epilogue: Fluff and Context Bonus (gn) blurbs: [a fate of my choosing][pick a struggle]

[mysteryshoptls]

SR Sebek Zigvolt Lab Coat Personal Story: Part 2

"I will most definitely remove that for you!"

(Part 1) Part 2

[Laboratory]

Sebek: Why did you make me change into a lab coat…!? I thought you would simply be showing me the detergent…

Azul: Yes, indeed. However, the detergent in this little glass vial has been specially concocted to be extra strong.

Azul: If, by any chance, you were to spill some on your uniform, it will turn white in less than 5 minutes.

Azul: In addition, it would be dangerous to not protect your eyes, either. This is fairly serious business.

Sebek: Are you sure it will be safe to use such a dangerous detergent!? If something happens to my lord's lab coat…

Azul: It has a strong bleaching capability that is only harmful to skin, but I assure you it will not damage the fabric.

Azul: Jade, Floyd.

Jade: Right. I've prepared here some cloth that has a ketchup stain similar to that lab coat.

Floyd: Wooah～ It's red allll over～

Sebek: Since when were you―!? Or rather, where were you two hiding!?

Azul: Don't fret over trivial details. Now, if we were to put regular detergent on the soiled portion of this fabric… What do you see?

Sebek: Nothing's changed at all… I did not expect ketchup to be this resilient of a stain.

Azul: However, if we were to pour this Octavinelle Deluxe Detergent directly on the stain…

Floyd: Like this～

Sebek: Wh-What!? That horribly stubborn stain is just coming off before my eyes!?

Azul: All that is left to do is rinse it in cold water, and it has returned to its original state.

Azul: It may be somewhat pricy, but this vial holds 20 uses.

Sebek: With just this small amount!?

Sebek: B-But you said it's expensive...?

Azul: Indeed, it will cost roughly 3,000 Madol. [30 Thaumarks]

Sebek: What… That's too much! Even normal detergent is only 500 Madol!! [5 Thaumarks]

Azul: Well, I have good news for you, Sebek-san! In fact, this detergent is currently on sale.

Azul: Right now, we are offering it for only 1,500 Madol! [15 Thaumarks]

Sebek: Half price!? Yes, I shall buy it!

Azul: Thank you for your patronage. That will be 1,500 Madol… And, received.

Sebek: Now, I can immediately pour it onto my liege's lab coat...

Sebek: Woah, it turned white in an instant! Thank goodness… With this, I shall not be a disappointment!

Sebek: I must go and show it to him at once!

Azul: Make sure you read all the instructions before using it! …Well, he sure dashed off with some zeal.

Azul: I had called out to him, hoping to be able to use him as an in to gain some of the noble clientele that reside in Diasomnia, but…

Jade: I wonder how that would fare. Sebek-kun himself seemed to be rather naïve and easy to handle, yes.

Azul: Only, I know there are many others in Diasomnia that can be quite fearsome when angered.

Azul: In the end, I do not believe this simple encounter will be enough.

[Diasomnia Dorm – Lounge]

Sebek: My liege! I have returned!

Malleus: Ah, welcome back.

Silver: Have you really been trying to clean off the stain from Malleus-sama's lab coat this whole time…?

Lilia: I don't know if I should say you were faster than I expected, or slower than I expected. So, what were your results?

Sebek: Yes, sir! As you can see, the obstinate stain is no more!

Malleus: Oh, well now… This is astounding. It is much whiter than it was before it was stained.

Sebek: M-My lord…! I thank you for your kind words…!

Sebek: Ah, right, my liege! Please take a look at this detergent. I purchased it from the Octavinelle Dorm Leader, and…

Sebek: Apparently it will turn white any kind of possible stain. If there are any other stains you wish to be free from, please leave it to me!

Silver: You got this from Azul…? Sebek, are you sure you were not taken advantage of?

Lilia: I don't think there's anything to worry about. He may be someone who constantly has ulterior motives…

Lilia: But he wouldn't do anything as reckless as make enemies of us here in Diasomnia.

Silver: That's true…

Sebek: Fufu. My liege, please, try it on!

Malleus: Alright, alright. Now then…

Silver: Malleus-sama, please don't humor him so. You spoil him.

Silver: And, Sebek. You only did what you had to do to rectify your own mistake, it is not anything praiseworthy.

Sebek: Wha…!! Y-You may be right, but…

Malleus: At any rate, the lab coat has been returned to normal. That is enough.

Sebek: M-My liege…!

Sebek: Thank you very much! If there ever comes a time that your clothes are soiled with stains, please call upon me at any time!

Silver: Even though I think Malleus-sama's magic would be able to instantly remove it…

(Part 1) Part 2

[s10127470]

Fant4stic: A Fantastic Failure (Part 2)

Warning: LowTierGod moments incoming

Hey guys!

I'm back with the awaited second (and final part) of my Fant4stic review!

As I'm sure most you of read the first part noticed, there was one other important character that I didn't get to (largely due to men

And that's none other than the villain of the film himself, Victor.

GOOD LORD, THIS CHARACTER……

But before we talk about him, let's talk about his original counterpart.

Victor is cold, arrogant, petty, relatively calm but can be little theatrical at times, and most importantly of all, has an ego the size of Ego!

Like, he literally wants to the conquer the world just to show that he would be better at running it than everyone else.

The thought is nice and all but….ego much?

He's also incredibly vain and a massive perfectionist.

The reason he wears his trademark mask is because he sees himself as hideous because of a scar he obtained during his university days via an miscalculation, despite the fact that the scar itself isn't even all that bad and Victor himself is actually a pretty handsome man.

Apart from his personality, Victor is also one of the biggest villains in the Marvel Universe.

In addition to his willpower and diplomatic immunity, he is insanely intelligent.

He's literally tied with Reed as being the most intelligent person in the Marvel Universe, which he hates (more on that a little later).

Victor's famous armor also makes him even more of a threat, granting him strength and durability that allows him tank and trade blows with Ben (along with other heavy hitters of the Marvel Universe like Spider-Man and even The Hulk), the ability to project energy in all kinds of ways (from concussive blasts to force fields), and all kinds of special gadgets.

This is made even worse with the fact that he's a skilled combatant, being skilled in the ways of the Tibetan monks and is even a master swordsman.

But the real kicker to his presence as a major threat is that he's a master of the mystic arts, rivaling even the likes of Doctor Strange as being one of the most powerful magic users in the Marvel Universe.

Another major and important aspect of his character is his rivalry with Reed.

Victor hates Reed with a passion, due to them being rivals during their university days.

This was only made even worse due to the accident that scarred Victor's face, which was the result of a miscalculation on his part, which Reed pointed out but Victor ignored.

Victor feels that Reed is always trying to outdo him, and will go drastic, borderline psychopathic lengths to 1-up him.

If I remember correctly, he was once willing to allow the destruction of all reality just to show up Reed.

It's that bad.

Now let's look at Fant4astic Victor.

This version has practically nothing in common with the OG Victor, apart from being arrogant, cold and a little petty.

This Victor is an anti-social, basement-dwelling, nihilistic douchebag with a hard-on for Sue.

I'm not joking. They basically turned Doctor Doom, one of the greatest villains in all comic book and even fictional history, into a Discord moderator!

Or a Redditor. They're kinda interchangeable.

But apart from those traits I just mentioned, he doesn't have any......ANYTHING in common with his original counterpart (or most other iterations of the character in general)!

He doesn't really have an ego, despite his anti-social personality.

He never shown be all that theatrical, because that would actually require showing actual emotion!

Which yeah, I'm going off-tangent here, but let's talk about the acting real quick.

Is acting in this film is genuinely awful, despite the fact that I know DAMN well these people are actually good actors.

Every person in this film talks in such a dry and bland tone.

There's no distinction in how any of them talk!

And my GOD! Could these people look anymore miserable?

It's so apparent that nobody was enjoying acting for this film.

Probably because their characters had nothing that made original counterparts so great.

Top that off with how Trank famously treated literally everyone on set like absolute SHIT.

You can't blame anyone in this film for looking or acting the way they did.

They do not want to be here!

The only time any of these guys show any other emotion besides boredom or silent misery is during the body horror scenes.

Where everyone is screaming and in pain.....

Speaking of which, that was something Trank was really pushing for in this film.

And while the concept doesn't sound too bad on paper, like most of the other stuff in this movie, it ended up coming off as unnecessarily tryhard and edgy.

But back on topic about Victor.

He's not shown to be all that vain.

Nor does he come off as a massive perfectionist.

Because showing actual care, dedication and passion for your work was just clearly too much for this film's direction.

Also, what it is with live-action adaptations forgetting that Victor is literally the ruler of an ENTIRE FUCKING NATION?!

That's a pretty big deal, if you ask me!

But then again, I don't think anyone would want the ruler of a nation to look like.....this:

He's not skilled in magic because that's certainly not "gRoUnDeD aNd ReAlIsTiC".

And there's NO WAY in hell that this version actually knows how fight anyone.

The only powers this Doom has are vaguely telekinetic ones, which he obtains after the incident.

That's literally it.

We don't known if his new skin makes him all that durability.

Nor even that physically strong.

And he doesn't have any sort of special gadgets on him because that would actually be interesting to see.

Which this film can't be bothered to do.

And side-note: Victor's metal look just looks so fucking dumb. In the words of the SmegHead (of Cinematic Excrement fame), he looks like C-P3O had sex with a glowstick....inside a microwave oven.

And although all of this is incredibly bad, perhaps the worst thing about this version of Victor is rivalry with Reed.....or lack thereof.

Yeah!

Despite being one of the most important aspect of Victor, he has no rivalry (or any of sort of relationship) with Reed all at.

Hell, they only interact with each other a handful of times throughout the film.

And this actually perfectly segways into one of the film's greatest flaws: the lack of chemistry between any of the characters.

It's actually hilarious how this film was aiming to be "grounded and realistic as possible", but nobody in this film talks like an actual fucking human being!

They speak like walking cliches (which many of them are) and even A.I.

But even that's an insult to A.I. because I've heard A.I. voices with much more emotion than any of the performances in this film!

Despite being childhood best friends, Reed and Ben never really come off as friends whatsoever.

They feel more like acquaintances who just so happen to have known each other for many years.

It's even worse with Sue and Johnny.

You remember how I mentioned making Sue and Johnny adopted siblings rather than biological ones like in every other iteration was quite debatable?

Well, this is why.

This two don't feel like siblings whatsoever.

And even if they were biologically related, it still wouldn't make much of a difference.

Even worse is Reed and Sue, who have little to no scene between each other and have the chemistry of water and oil.

And remember. In the comics and most other iterations, these two are married and have children!

But worst of all is the "chemistry" between the Four.

Fun fact: The entirety of the Four don't share the screen together until the film's climax!

This film undoubtedly misses the main core of the Fantastic Four.

They're suppose to be a family! Even if they're not all related to each other! And no matter what, they would always be by each other's side!

Even the Story films, as flawed as they are, understood that point.

But here, the Four just feel like four random schmucks who barely care about each other.

And I'm guessing because it wasn't "dark, grounded and realistic" enough.

Which yeah, let's talk about that real quick.

The movie's depiction of a dark and gritty style feels like it was written by an angsty teenager who thinks 13 Reasons Why and Rick and Morty are deep, thought-provoking masterpieces and that Devil May Cry would've been better off with this Dante.

There's just something about the style that just screams pretentious.

Plus, it seems that in terms of realism, they're going off the Mark Millar philosophy of such.

As where life is just a never-ending stream of failure, disappointment, and misery.

And literally every human being is some variation of being a miserable asshole.

Which like.....can we kindly let that mindset fucking die already?

Conclusion:

And it says in the title of this post, Fant4stic was a FANTASTIC FAILURE!

It only grossed $167.9 million worldwide against a production budget of $120 million, essentially making the film a bonafide box office bomb.

And it wasn’t any better with the reception.

Pretty much everyone HATED this film. Critics hated it. Audiences hated it. And you better believe that the FF fans hated it as well.

But the biggest haters of the film, funnily enough, was actually Marvel themselves.

They've understandably and rightfully disowned this film.

They never mention it's existence.

Which is saying something when you remember that they've actually mentioned the existence of this in the past....

The universe of the film itself doesn't even have an official convoluted number like literally every other piece of official Marvel nedia.

Hell, Marvel's hatred for this film is so great that in issue 12 of Jason Aaron's run of The Punisher, there was actually a scene where the actors of the movie literally get violently killed in an fucking explosion!

I've heard of spite, but takes it to a whole new level!

And although Jason claimed that they did survive the explosion. Let's be real, he definitely intended for these guys to get blown to kingdom come.

And you know this film was absolute garbage when even Stan Lee himself didn't cameo.

Yeah! Fant4astic is one of the VERY few films based on a Marvel property pre-passing that didn't feature a cameo from him.

And this isn't gonna be the last time you'll be hearing about Stan in this post.

And in all honesty, you can't blame anyone for the reaction this movie got.

This is movie is just genuinely really terrible.

Apart from the effects (which are decent enough) and the weirdly funny choice of casting Dan Castellaneta (the voice of Homer Simpson) as Reed's teacher, there is not ONE ounce of redeeming worth about this film.

The story is paper thin and ungodly boring.

The acting is incredibly half-assed.

The tone and style is just plain sucks.

And the characters are about as interesting as cardboard on wheat beard.

As an adaptation of the Fantastic Four, this film is an absolute insult and disgrace to the team and their legacy.

And even you look at the project as its own thing (which like, why would you do that for an adaptation of all things?), it's still awful.

Fant4stic is genuinely one of the worst films I've ever had the displeasure of watching.

And among the multitude of superhero films, I wholeheartedly say that it's the worst one of all time (along with being one of the worst overall films in history).

Yes. Worse than Howard the Duck. Worse than Catwoman. Worse than Batman & Robin. And even worse than Morbius and Madame. FUCKING. Web.

At very least, those have a "so-bad, it's-good" kinda feel to them.

Where you can't help but laugh and be charmed at how awful they are.

But Fant4stic? It has nothing. It is nothing.

And the thing that really pisses me off about this film (apart from everything listed above) is just how blatantly....shallow it is.

Fant4stic is one of the most lifeless, soulless and passionless pieces of media I've ever seen in my entire life.

And as an artist, this genuinely makes me upset.

And when you look at the history of the film, it really was.

It was created by a studio who only wanted to make it as an excuse to latch onto rights that they would've needed to sell at some point.

And a director, who as we would find out from various members of the crew, didn't care about the property he was working with and essentially wanted to make his own new movie.

Speaking of which, let's talk about the after effects this film had on the people involved.

20th Century Fox was definitely affected by the film's failure the least.

However, they never made any more FF films after this one.

Especially since they would be officially bought out by you-know-who.

Plus, plans for sequels (yes, they actually believed this piece of shit would actually be successful enough to warrant continuations) were INSTANTLY scrapped.

One of which included a crossover with the X-Men film franchise.

Which continuity of it, your guess is as good as mine's.

Next we have the main stars.

With the exception of Michael B. Jordan, this film seriously wrecked many of their careers, due to how young (though I use that term somewhat loosely) and up-and-coming they were.

It would take them a good while before they really reached stardom.

But the one who was affected by the film's failure the most was none other than Josh Trank himself.

If you look at his filmography, who can see that ever since this film, this hasn't done much.

Ever since Fant4astic, He directed, wrote and edited the 2020 film Capone, which I had only found out the existence of while I was doing research for this post.

From what I've gathered, the film was released to streaming (for obvious reasons) and film received mixed reviews.

And apart from minor acting credits in 2021, he's barely done anything in the last decade.

And hasn't done anything in the last three years.

I think it's safe to say that Trank is pretty much a washed-up has-been now.

And honestly, rightfully so.

If you read the first part of this, you'd remember the list I made about how much Trank made the production of Fant4astic an absolute FUCKING nightmare.

Yeah, I know everyone's has already said it, but I'm gonna say it as well.

Trank's behavior was ABSOLUTELY unacceptable.

Just because the studio is making your life a living hell, doesn't mean you have the right to threat everyone around you as your verbal and physical punching bags!

And it's safe to say that the reason Trank has barely done any work since this film is because no major studio wants to work with him.

And remember, all the stuff about Trank's behavior was leaked even before the film was released.

And I'm sure had to be very shocking, given how new he was to the film industry.

And in all honesty, Trank got what he deserved.

Over the last couple of years, Hollywood has become infamous for stories of directors and producers abusing their cast and crew in all types of ways.

Only to get away with it because of their power.

But thankfully, there are stories of these monsters getting what they deserve.

And I'm glad that this is one of those stories.

And just to show how much of a scumbag Trank truly is, let's go back to Stan Lee.

According to Trank, he claimed that Stan himself actually approved of his dark take on the Fantastic Four.

However, Stan had been quite open about how much he hates this film.

So much so that once again, he refused to cameo in it!

With all that considered, it really makes it seem like that Trank essentially lied through his teeth in order to justify his take on the Fantastic Four, which I think even before the teaser trailer, was already getting major criticism.

And for the last part of this discussion: you remember how I mentioned that Trank made an infamous tweet on Twitter just the day before the film's release, only to get deleted the next day?

Well, this is what he said.

"A year ago I had a fantastic version of this. And it would've recieved great reviews. You’ll probably never see it. That’s reality though."

Trank ended up deleting the tweet as he felt that it came off as an insult to literally everyone else who worked on the film.

And it was.

And apart from that, the tweet also has this sense of ego to it.

From what I've gathered, the final product is pretty close to what Trank envisioned for the film, albeit somewhat mangled thanks to Fox's constant meddling.

And even if Trank didn't have to deal with the meddling, I highly doubt that Fant4stic would've still be any good.

It's like how The Snyder Cut of Justice League is technically better than the theatrical cut of the film, but it's still not a good film.

Snyder fans after reading this:

But overtime, we would actually get to see the original draft of this film.

And believe or not.....

It was actually good.

Like, REALLY good.

But the thing is....this wasn't from Trank.

It was actually from Jeremy Slater, one of the writers on the film.

This draft was FAR more faithful adaptation of the Fantastic Four.

In general, the Fantastic Four would have used their powers in more varied ways and would utilize a greater degree of teamwork.

Franklin Storm was not present in the script.

Ben and Reed teleported objects into another dimension, which would have later been found in the Negative Zone.

Ben's status as the team's muscle was also established in more detail - essentially having the character serve as Reed's bodyguard - as a way to justify his involvement in the expedition.

Victor would have secretly stolen Reed's research to give to Latverian spies.

Sue and Johnny were originally both going to stay behind and use the Baxter Building's technology to help Reed, Ben, and Victor explore the Negative Zone. The expedition would have involved a portal instead of a teleporter.

When the characters teleported into the Negative Zone, they would have found themselves inside a ruined otherworldly city with alien corpses strewn about. They would have found Galactus there (appearing as he does in the comics), who would have seemingly killed Victor with Dark Matter. Galactus would have fired the Dark Matter into the portal that Ben and Reed were using just as they escaped, affecting the two of them alongside Johnny and Sue. A Body Horror sequence similar to the one in the final film (though most likely not nearly as edgy and tryhard) would have played out, with a noted addition of there being a scene where Sue's skin disappeared and her muscles were visible.

A time skip of four years would have been implemented. While Ben still would have been used as a military weapon and Reed would still have been a fugitive, Johnny was going to have been a television star and Sue would have used her powers to help people suffering from cancer (and search for a cure for Ben's condition). During his time in hiding, Reed would have built H.E.R.B.I.E. as his own robot companion, alongside the Fantasti-Car. Ben also would have come to terms with his status as a monstrous-looking being.

Latveria's government would have completed their own version of the portal using the knowledge that Victor stole. Victor would have come out of the portal as Doctor Doom, killing the military and government leaders singlehandedly and quickly conquering Latveria.

Doctor Doom would then send shock troopers armed with futuristic weapons after Reed, who would escape with H.E.R.B.I.E. and the Fantasti-Car to warn his friends in New York.

Harvey Elder (who was planned to be in the movie) created artificial life (The Moloids) at the Baxter Building that Sue would have feared would be weaponized. Her fears are proven correct when Doom's shock troopers arrive and activate the Dark Matter on one of the Moloids, transforming the creature into Giganto. The Moloid formula would have spilled onto Harvey Elder and he would have become The Mole Man, who would've served as the villain for a potential sequel.

The team then would have met in New York to battle Giganto together, officially making them the Fantastic Four. After defeating the monster, Mister Fantastic, Invisible Woman, Thing, and Human Torch would travel to Latveria to battle Doctor Doom and his army of shock troopers.

Doctor Doom would have been revealed to be a composite character with traits of The Silver Surfer, while Galactus would similarly have been a composite character with traits of Annihilus. After serving as Galactus's herald for four years, Doctor Doom decides that it would be better to destroy him and save the Earth by building the Ultimate Nullifier.

The Fantastic Four would have discovered that the Doctor Doom they face was actually a Doombot in a manner of speaking - Victor Von Doom is physically tied within the Negative Zone. The Fantastic Four ultimately defeat Doctor Doom's copy on Earth and trap Doctor Doom in the Negative Zone. The Fantastic Four warn the government of the threat of Galactus, continuing Doctor Doom's work on the Ultimate Nullifier in a way that does not threaten the rest of the world.

The Fantastic Four make the Baxter Building their base of operations and sow the seeds of the Future Foundation by bringing in child prodigies and teen geniuses from around the world to solve the world's problems.

As for why this draft wasn't used, there were two reasons....

Fox believed that this version of the film would've costed them more money than they initially had planned to used. It seems like they were trying to keep the budget of this as low as they could in order to make any sort of financial returns worth it. We all know how that went....

As I mentioned in the pervious post, it clashed with Frank's vision for the film, who 1) Had little familiarity with the Fantastic Four, and 2) wanted to make a film that, as I mentioned before, was "dArK, gRoUnDeD, aNd ReAlIsTiC."

And after reading all this, I'm sure many of you are going....

Like dude.

We were SO close to greatness.

This easily could've been the best Fantastic Four ever made and the first good one since the Roger Corman film!

This draft really felt like it was made by someone who actually understood and cared about the Fantastic Four.

But unfortunately, it was made for a studio that was kinda being cheap and were kinda rushing it for pretty scummy reasons, and worse of all, a director who couldn't fucking cooperate and wanted everything to be his way.

In the end, Fant4stic serves as a example of the worst kind of inception a film can have.

Not one from the passion of a director/creator.

Nor the curiosity and willing to experiment from a studio.

This movie was only made for one reason only: copyright hoarding.

And between this and the Roger Corman film (which I was mentioned in the last post was also made for the same reason as well), I don't know which one had the more tragic and scummy outcome.

The Roger Corman film never even got to release and resulted in the lives of literary everyone involved to be played with.

But at the very least, I think the cast and crew of that were treated well during the film's production.

Contrast that to Fant4stic, where the cast and crew of that film literally went through hell having to deal with Fox's constant meddling and Trank's constant douchebaggery.

And despite Fox having high hopes for the film, it ended up bombing hard and being reviewed bombed into oblivion.

And while people are cautiously interested in the MCU film.

With that caution becoming even greater after a recent announcement involving a particular casting choice.

I think we all agree that at least it'll NEVER stoop as low as this film.

[dee-in-the-box]

thinking. about the way i write Dee.

like, think about it: she probably spent the most time around Jack when she was alive, since we know Peter moved out at some point, and that means that Jack would've been the main guy taking care of her. we all know how Jack is. who's to say he didn't rub off on her a bit?

(also thinking about how she said "I didn't go down easily the first time, either!" and "To call my death clean would be to call Fredbear "big-boned."" because. It Gives Me Thoughts.)

like. i always project onto her a little bit. she gives off the vibes that she would've been a "weird girl" (read: autistic) when she was alive. like, she's generally off to herself, she's generally off doing odd things during recess, like watching cool bugs move around or swinging by herself while humming. sometimes she just kinda. stands around and watches everyone else. not because she's trying to be creepy, she just finds it fun. (< i did the "Stand To The Side And Watch Everyone Else Play" thing when i was little. also the swinging.)

she'll stare off into space for several minutes, and it concerns quite literally Everyone else besides Peter and Jack ('cause they Also do that). she'll just sit down and happily draw cats and Nothing Else for like an hour and she'll be like "ooo that was fun! :D"

she fidgets with her scarf when she's overwhelmed or nervous. she kicks her legs under the table. she hums various nursery rhymes.

and now, onto Dee being Chaotic As Hell!

i think Jack lets her swear. with permission. i mean, canonically speaking, she has sworn before, and has no problems with others swearing around her. like, imagine this five-year-old girl, all dressed up nice, just talking to you about cats like "so yeah, I think cats are cool as FUCK-"

given that this was still during a time where young girls were taught/expected to be nice, polite, quiet, and just generally not draw attention to themselves. Dee fits most of these...but she has to remind herself to be polite, because dear lord, is it hard to not call people assholes to their faces sometimes-

Jack would sometimes take her to work at the Diner, and she'd have to (as nicely as possible) make it clear to Henry that she wanted to be left the fuck alone. she doesn't trust this man, and she doesn't want to interact with him more than she has to.

(also, fun fact! my headcanon is that Dee fought back hard as she was being murdered. we're talking kicking, scratching, and biting Henry. and when i say bite, i don't mean she gives a moderate-strength bite that leaves a temporary-ish mark, i mean she bites him hard enough to break the skin.)

and i think this would extend to after her death! Dee knocking stuff off of tables like a cat while making eye contact with Henry and/or Dave! her just causing general chaos as a ghost!!

like, didn't Henry basically say that he was trying to trap Dee because she was causing so many problems? how much trouble was she causing in the short time between her death and when Henry basically forced her to possess the Puppet? apparently enough to where he went "Yeah, we need to take care of this, like, as soon as fucking possible."

like!! give me chaotic Dee!! she deserves it!!