#of this novel i am gripping you by your lapels look me in the eyes do you hear me . | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

fandomlovingfreak · 3 years ago

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Glacial Passion (3/?)

Regulus Black/Reader

Rating: Lemon, 18+

Trigger Warning: Arranged Marriage, talk of potential pregnancy

Word Count: 2461

MasterList Link I AO3 Link I Wattpad Link

Summary: Glacial, cold, icy… all words that described Regulus Black’s grey eyes. Was there truly no emotion behind those eyes, or did a caring man exist beneath? Could she defrost those glacial eyes?

Disclaimer: Regulus Black (Walburga Black, Orion Black, and Sirius Black) is a character from Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling. Reader or y/n is not owned by Rowling. This work has not been created for profit or financial compensation, and is a transformative fair use work in accordance with Section 107 of the United States Copyright Act.

Notes: Chapter three! I thought this entire fic would be around three chapters, but we're not even close to done yet!

Enjoy

The guest room isn't so bad. He becomes very acquainted with the unused room as his wife had elected to ignore him for the foreseeable future.

After the fourth night that he'd slept and attended meals with his parents without (y/n), Walburga brings up the absence of his wife in her own special way . "You cannot sleep in a different room than your wife."

Regulus holds back from rolling his eyes, "you and father do not share a bedroom."

Walburga's ever-present frown deepens, "We already have a son."

Even after all these years, he hates that she pretends Sirius never existed.

"So this is about sex," he wipes his mouth with his napkin.

"It is."

"These things don't happen overnight."

"They don't happen if you do not participate in the happening," Walburga taps her manicured fingernails on the table.

"What do you want me to do? I can't force her to sleep with me." Besides, if they did continue to have sex, he will unquestionably use contraceptive charms to ensure his wife did not conceive.

Walburga studies his face, "If you do not try, you will not see success."

In an attempt to change the subject, he blurts out, "She is miserable here--"

"She will be content soon. Once she has the first child."

Orion takes this opportunity to speak up, "possibly you should take your new wife out of the country."

"Out of the country?" Regulus frowns.

"Take her out of this house on your honeymoon. Maybe visit Paris. It couldn't hurt after the past few days."

Honeymoon... he was hoping that he could avoid taking (y/n) on one of those. But, if Orion thinks this could make (y/n) happy... well, he supposes he can sacrifice the time.

***

Walburga catches him before he can make his way out of the dining room.

"You must not cast those charms any longer."

Regulus would rather his mother not tell him he can and cannot use contraceptives...

"Who says I did?"

Walburga squints angrily, "Next time you do your duty as the next Master of the house, make sure you give your seed time to take hold within your wife."

He draws his lips into a tight line, turning to leave the conversation before it became any more invasive.

No promises would be made to his mother or anyone else over the use of contraceptive charm. There was no need for a child in this present time. Things of that nature could wait.

***

"What are you doing here?" (y/n) asks when he walks into their shared bedroom.

"It's nice to see you too, wife."

She rolls her eyes, turning back to her novel.

"You were not at dinner tonight." Regulus unbuttons the top of his shirt.

"I wasn't hungry," she says without looking up from the book.

Regulus continues to undress, removing the cufflinks from his dress shirt.

"Mother was wondering where you were."

"I'm sure she was."

He watches her for a moment. "We will be leaving soon."

(y/n) looks at him confused, "Who will?"

"You and I."

"Leaving where?"

"On our... honeymoon."

"What do you mean?"

Regulus bites the inside of his cheek, "I'm taking you to Paris on our honeymoon."

"Honeymoon..." (y/n) looks like she's contemplating giving him a flat-out no.

"I can tell you are tired of the house. The apartments I've secured are much lighter than Grimmauld Place. Moreover, it has an excellent view of the city."

"I don't know..."

Regulus steps forwards, taking her hand in his. "Just spare two weeks at the least." The pad of his thumb rubs underneath the ring on her left hand. He's secretly pleased to see she has not taken it off despite the state of their relationship currently.

"Regulus," (y/n) tries to move away from him.

"Please," he breathes out the word, "please, I'm trying."

(y/n) analyzes his face, "what would we do in Paris?"

"I could think of many things we could do."

She doesn't respond to his suggestive words.

"Is that a yes?"

"I'll think about it."

"We're leaving tomorrow. I've already made the arrangements."

"You can't just-- just--"

"I thought you'd be happy to get out of the house."

She sighs, her fingers worrying the dark fabric of her skirts, "Ok."

"Excellent," he brings her hand up to his lips, "I look forward to sharing your bed again, Mistress Black."

***

Dressed in a violet dress, I stick out, standing next to my in-laws and husband. Which is fine by me. I rather stick out than look like I'm a part of a funeral precession every damned day .

"Are you ready?" Regulus holds his arm out to me.

I gently place my arm on his, nodding.

"Owl, if you decide to stay longer than planned," Orion looks to his son first than to me. He's got a small smile on his lips. I smile back politely.

"Naturally," Regulus says before apparating us away from the house.

I hate apparition. Hate it with my entire being. Squeezing my eyes shut tightly doesn't stop the uncomfortable movement of tumbling through time and space.

When I'm able to open my eyes, my fingers gripping Regulus's arm uncomfortably tight, I'm met with the sight of a large brick building.

"Are you okay?" Regulus steps in front of me. Cupping my face, he looks at me with concern.

I open my lips slightly, trying to find the words despite my churning stomach, "I just-- I just need a moment."

He nods, not letting go of my face. Then, almost absentmindedly, his thumb brushes against my cheek.

"I'm fine now. Where are we?" I squeak out, trying to distract him from continuing to touch my face like so.

Regulus snaps out of whatever was happening between us, his hands dropping from my face as he turns to look up at the building.

"This is where we will be staying." He hesitates for a moment before gently grasping my hand in his, "Do you mind?"

I shake my head no.

"Let me show you the apartment." Regulus helps me up the three steps of the building before holding the door open. He motions towards the staircase, placing his hand on the small of my back as we walk up the large staircase.

Regulus unlocks the heavy wooden door, pushing it open for me.

The sunshine in this room shines brighter than in Grimmauld Place. Probably due to the airy curtains and the creamy champagne color that the walls are painted.

It's a complete contrast to the rooms we share at Grimmauld Place.

"What do you think?" Regulus gently pulls me into the room.

I turn to admire the white comforter of the bed, running my fingers against the soft material.

"It's beautiful."

Turning, I catch Regulus's eye. He's leaning against the dresser, watching me intently.

I bite the inside of my cheek, "What are you looking at?"

"Am I not allowed to look at my wife?"

"Obviously, you are. If looking is all that is on your mind."

He actually smiles, looking down at the ground momentarily, " we are on our honeymoon."

Rolling my eyes, I begin to walk past him towards the bathroom. However, Regulus's fingers wrap around my wrist, preventing me from exiting the conversation.

"Regulus--" I find myself in his arms, his fingers tilting my chin towards him. Even as I despise the way he's dragged me into his arms, I can't say I hate the feeling of his body pressed against mine.

"Do you want this?" I hate that he's so diligent with asking for consent before he kissed me or initiated any-- activities . It would be so much easier to hate him if he was a beast of a man.

My contemplation of his question only lasts a few seconds before I lean up to kiss him.

Regulus makes a sound of surprise but quickly regains the dominance, his hands cupping my face.

Slowly, he begins to back us up towards the bed, pulling me onto his lap as he sits down on the white comforter.

"No," I pull away from the kiss, still straddling his thighs.

Regulus's lips are red as he looks at me confused, "You don't--?"

I shake my head, "I'm starving."

He smiles, tucking a flyaway hair back behind my ear, "We'll find you some food then."

***

(y/n) sips her tea. She hasn't spoken a word to him since he brought her to the wizard cafe.

"How is your food?"

She sets her tea down, "good."

Regulus strums his fingers against the table.

"Did you want something, Regulus?"

"Not particularly. Are you ready to get back?"

"Why are you so eager to get back?" Her smile is small, almost teasing.

"'m not eager..." Regulus frowns, straightening the lapel of his jacket.

"You've hardly touched your food," she looks pointedly towards his plate.

Regulus looks down as well, "I don't find myself quite as famished from our traveling, wife."

(y/n) rolls her eyes at his comment, "For your information, Regulus, I had to skip breakfast to pack for an impromptu trip my husband sprung upon me."

"I could have easily bought you a whole new wardrobe here if breakfast mattered to you that much."

"That would have been a waste--"

He chuckles, "money is not an issue for us, darling. You may have anything you desire simply by asking for it."

(y/n) bites the inside of her cheek, "Just because it is easily obtained does not mean it is not wasteful to live like this."

Regulus bites the inside of his cheek, looking away from (y/n).

***

Lounging on the bed, he watches her. The chiffon robe she wears leaves little to the imagination as she walks by the open window. Regulus is certain she'd be mortified to find out it's nearly transparent when the morning light hits the fabric. He's enjoying the show, but he hates that anyone outside could see her.

"(y/n)," Regulus stretches his arms above his head.

"Yes?" She turns, the fabric of the robe shifting.

"Come here, please."

She frowns, hands coming to her waist, "why?"

He shifts on the bed, "because you're walking by the window practically naked."

(y/n) crosses her arms across her chest, "Regulus!"

A small smile tugs at his lips, "Come here, darling."

She slowly makes her way to the bed. Regulus tugs her down to the bed, caging her in with his arms before she can make a noise. (y/n) looks up at him, the robe revealing her beautiful body.

Regulus trails his fingers down her neck towards her breast. Then, rolling her nipple between his fingers, he watches keenly at the way the nub hardened under his touch.

"Reg--"

He cuts her off, "do you want this?"

Her mouth opens and closes before she replies, "yes."

Regulus ducks down, kissing her deeply. He presses his rapidly hardening cock against her thigh.

"Have to be quick," he shoves his sleep pants down enough to free his cock.

"Why? What do we have to do today?"

He chuckles, "nothing that can't be pushed back. Do you want slow then Mistress Black?" Regulus's fingers drag down her jaw, fingers gently angling her face towards his.

(y/n) frowns back, "I--"

"You don't have to be embarrassed. I can make you squirm under me for however long you desire."

Slowly, he pulls the string of her robe loose, the material exposing her torso completely to his gaze.

"Is that what you want, darling?" He spreads her thighs so he can kneel between them.

Her mouth is parted slightly, chest heaving as she watches him drag his cock up and down her slit.

"Please--"

"Such a good girl." Regulus inches in, entranced by the way her body welcomes him.

(y/n)'s fingers pull at his hair as he bottoms out, "Merlin--!"

"Not my name," he slowly pulls out before thrusting in hard.

(y/n) snorts, "was that a joke? Did you just make a--" he thrusts in again, "a joke?"

Regulus smiles down at his wife, "possibly."

He doesn't expect her to giggle, and he especially does not expect his stomach flip-flopping at the sound of that giggle. To distract himself from this onrush of new emotion, he leans down, kissing her with feverish passion. The softness of her lips, the way her tongue moves shyly in an almost submissive manner with his, and the way she completely surrenders herself to his kiss doesn't help him as the sudden adoration he feels for this woman continues to skyrocket. Love isn't the word. Love maybe would never be the word, but he feels like when they express passion through their sexual encounters, he maybe could be feeling something like love .

"Oh, Regulus," (y/n) moves her hips in time with his, the push and pull of their lovemaking intoxicating.

His fingers move to play with her clit, rolling the bundle of nerves and making her squirm underneath him. The way she grinds her hips hard against him with each skilled movement of his hands on her delicate flesh feels magnificent. She's breathtaking, and he can't even find the words to tell her how-- how much he enjoys this.

Maybe enjoys it more than he's ever enjoyed it before.

"Don't stop," (y/n) whimpers.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he ducks down to kiss her as he pushes her over the edge. The feeling of her pulsing around him propels him towards his own release.

"Merlin--" He continues to thrust shallowly, burrowing his face in her neck. (y/n)'s fingers move tenderly across his back and shoulders as he comes down from his high. Regulus could stay like this forever.

"Are you going to--?" Her voice breaks his small paradise.

He frowns, "yes."

(y/n) stares at him before pushing his shoulders lightly until he pulls out, landing on the other side of the bed. "If you're going to do it, do it now. I want to take a bath."

He has a feeling the bath has something to do with washing away any trace of what they just did. Nevertheless, he does as she asks, wandlessly casting the charm.

***

After ignoring him for the rest of the morning and afternoon, reading on the sunny balcony, she appears to be in a better mood when he comes to get her for dinner.

"Do you wish to get dinner with me?"

(y/n) softly closes the worn novel before looking up at him. Her face is sweet, lacking any of the anger it held earlier when they quarreled.

"I would."

Regulus expects her to continue the conversation. Instead, she walks by him without another word. Placing his hands on the balcony's railing, Regulus looks out towards the city. The chaos of the muggles and their cars feels an awful lot like the current feeling in his head.

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jungwooisms · 4 years ago

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gekokujō | k.dy | official teaser

pairing: kim doyoung x female reader members: suh youngho (johnny), lee minhyung (mark), nakamoto yuta, lee jeno, kim jungwoo, jeong jaehyun genre: historical au (early 1900’s)/historical fiction, angst, fluff warnings: smoking, language, alcohol word count: 13k/? summary: kim doyoung left his home in search of himself; yet when a collection of both familiar and unfamiliar faces surface, he finds that he may just be a a part of something much larger than he anticipated.

| this will be a part of @puppywritings’ historical collab |

[1909.04.01. Boston, MA] ‘John,

I feel enough time has adequately passed to allow me to write to you. Although, there is not much news from home to tell you of.

The snow is fast disappearing now. I came across an article in the paper the other day about Boston and it said that 14 or 15 years ago bears used to roam around the northern end of the city, but there seems to be nothing around now except the wild fowl, and an uncountable number of deer.

How are your hands now? I know that the winter air dries yours as it does mine. Mine are very cut, so scattered with paper trails that I fear I should bleed ink from all the books that you left me. Have you been able to acquire any more on your travels? I find that the supply you gave me is running rather low now.

You left for Munich inquiring after Daniel Lim if I recall the name correctly, I hope you found him in good health on your arrival. I also hope he does not overwork you, you said as much happened the last you worked under him in London.

I am very pleased to say I am keeping very well, and I trust you are the same. If anything happens, know that I will gladly storm my way across the sea and give your wrongdoers what for.

I miss you, John. And I hope you return soon, you know I love to hear about your travels.’

A short chuckle to yourself as you pull the pen away from the paper after signing your name, ink stains settling into the grooves of your fingers as you aren’t cautious enough with the writing implement. Short blows over the thin paper as you try to dry the ink as quickly as possible, although this isn’t the sweltering heat of the summer you’re unsurprised the ink hasn't run but so much. Carefully standing from your seat you begin your search around the room for an envelope, fingers brushing over various stacks of papers and novellas lying around your workspace. Eventually you find a weathered, but perfectly usable one underneath a dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. You address the letter to his newest residence, some boarding house in Germany, but you aren't sure if he was even staying there anymore. If that doesn't work out and one of your letters was stamped “Return to Sender” once more, you’d just have to wait for him to send you something first. It seemed like you were always waiting after John. Not that you mind much, you had been as thick as thieves as teenagers and that had hardly ever changed, even after he’d decided to go abroad and study, then go onto some teaching stints wherever the wind blew him.

As you return to your seat you hear a gentle meowing outside, head peering over your desk and out of the glass panes into the garden below you spot a small black and white tabby looking up at you. A sigh escaping your lips as you move to grab your pen once more, beginning to write a post scriptum,

‘p.s. Your lovely feral cat has now decided that I take ownership of her in your absence. Is there a name you prefer I call her?’

You hope he can understand your tone, it’s an issue of yours that the words you write sometimes don't hit their mark. Regardless, you’d send the letter and hear his thoughts on it whenever he has the gaul to write back. You straighten your back from your hunched position and move through the house, your fingers tracing along the smooth walls until you reach the door leading into the garden, it lay nestled in the corner of the kitchen. There’s a faint scratching as you approach, only opening it to find the same tabby waiting for you, it barrels inside once it sees an opportunity.

“You wretch,” tsking as she begins brushing up against your leg. “What am I going to do with you?”

[1909.04.30. 今出川, 京都] The ground crunches underfoot as Doyoung walks; the pavement, covered with a thin layer of grit from a small windstorm that had picked up an hour or so prior, feeling as if it’s shifting as his leather soled shoes move over it. Storm having left its mark and not going to disappear until a rain shower decides to wash it away, he breathes in the particles still floating through the balmy weather. A small frown as he fans his jacket, allowing some air to circulate under the thick fabric. Had it not been impolite, he would have shed the garment as soon as he stepped out of the train station only minutes ago. His hand still wrapped around his bag he looks to the signs adorning the tops of businesses along the road. Doyoung was never great at learning hanja, so when it came time for him to begin learning the already different kanji and further hiragana and katakana that would come along with his trip abroad, he thought he might set out to find a tutor during his time here. Hand moving to rummage around the inside of his jacket, he procures a worn letter from its depths. ‘今出川居酒屋,’ it is the only thing foreign to him within the contents of the scripture, the sender had asked to meet him there for lunch on the second day of Doyoung’s arrival to Kyoto.

Doyoung finds the bar after walking a few more blocks, north from the station and hidden away behind a bookstore in a back alley. Before he enters, he pauses. His grip on the letter tightening, the parchment creasing from the increased pressure as the slight tingly pervasiveness of guilt begins to wrack him from the inside out. A look to his left, and then to his right, a ghost of a figure in his peripheral, deterring him from running from the drinkery. It drives him closer, away from an inevitable future and towards the uncertain present.

A haze of smoke blankets the air as he enters, that of tobacco intermingling with the small fire stoking in the back of the bar. It invades his nose rather viciously, itching the back of his throat and causing tears to form in the corners of his eyes as he greets the hostess with a small ‘Hello’ and ‘A table, please.’ She guides him and he settles down at a chabudai towards the front of the building, almost with enough of a view so that he can peer past the two small curtains at the entrance and into the street.

The letter now resting atop the table and his bag by its side, he reaches into his jacket yet again to procure an almost empty pack of cigarettes and a newly bought lighter. He had run out of fluid during his journey across the sea and he thought that buying a new one would be a novel idea to commemorate his trip. Doyoung’s eyes wander around the enclosed space as he scans the faces of the patrons. Most were men but there was the occasional woman mingling among the crowd as well. Cigarette placed on his lips, lighter spewing to life and igniting the end as he takes a deep breath in. Doyoung hates smoking, hates the way it pierces his lungs with its inky black vapors. It leaves his breath smelling awful, but it is just something people do to pass the time. Fingers finding the cigarette, he removes it for a moment, tapping it against a small silver dish atop the table, the ashes pooling at the bottom as he continues to look for someone he hasn’t met yet.

“Did you want to order anything else?” A voice to his right calls out, he jumps slightly before turning, only to find the kimono clad waitress at his side. She sets down a tray of dishes, some foods he recognizes, and some he thinks to be the local cuisine.

“Oh, no thank you.” As his eyes look over the food he moves to rest his cigarette in the ashtray to come back for later.

The woman gives a short smile and brief nod before speaking again, “Please let me know if you need anything.” Even after she had walked away, Doyoung could feel her eyes lingering on him like a child seeing some sort of marvel for the first time. This is not to say that he thinks that highly of himself, just that he knows that he is an outsider in a foreign place, his accent could tell anyone as much.

“I think she likes you.” A voice speaking up when Doyoung goes to take a bite out of the onigiri on his tray.

Mouth half full and brow furrowed in confusion, Doyoung turns to face wherever the voice had come from, “What did you say?” Chewing his food and swallowing rather harshly, he almost chokes as he thinks he’s going insane after hearing what sounded like Korean. This time it was a man who spoke, he was sitting at another table across from him, a shifty grin on his face. Something about him seemed different from everyone else in the bar, but the man couldn’t quite put a finger on it in this dimly lit room.

“She’s still staring at you.” The other man answers, now standing up and proceeding to walk over to him. “But it’s not like she’s hearing me say that anyway,” He laughs, brushing his hands against the lapels of his jacket.

Now in a better light, the man can get a better view of this stranger. “Are you Korean too?” He asks in his native tongue, feeling much more relieved that the burden of speaking a different language is momentarily sated.

“No,” Another laugh as the man settles down in the seat adjacent. “Just familiar with the language, is all.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes staring into Doyoung’s as if he’s trying to memorize his facial features. “You wouldn’t happen to be Kim Dongyoung, would you?”

“Doyoung, actually.” He clears his throat. “I am,” Eyes glancing at the letter still atop the table, Doyoung comes to a realization, “Are you Nakamoto Yuta?”

“I am,” A smile as he extends his hand. Less practiced with western formality Doyoung looks at the greeting for a moment before raising his own to formally address him, “It’s nice to meet you.” After a moment they drop their hands away from each other, Yuta’s gaze shifting to watch the hostess move his food from his old table to the one he now shares with Doyoung. “With an accent like that you must be from the south, Daegu, maybe?”

“Guri, actually.” He returns to his food for a moment, Yuta taking this time to also take a few bites from his own bento. “Where did you learn Korean?”

“Did Youngho not tell you?” Youngho is their mutual friend, he’d given Doyoung Yuta’s contact information to inquire if he had any availability to tutor him. “I studied with him when we were in college, I moved back here a year after we graduated, my mother fell ill and wanted to come back from living in Hanseong.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Doyoung frowns, shifting as he sets his chopsticks down. The two must have met after Doyoung had left his schooling to return to his family, per their wishes.

A smile, “She made a perfect recovery, but now that she’s home she never wants to leave again.” Yuta reaches for the porcelain flask of sake the hostess had brought over, pouring himself a small glass then offering one to Doyoung. The younger politely refuses, still not accustomed to the savoriness of the drink, as Yuta nods and knocks back his own cup before speaking again. “When can you start classes? We typically meet for an hour or two every day if we can.”

“We?” Doyoung’s caught up on the word, he thought these would be private lessons, not an actual class. He leans forward, somewhat anxious at the thought of his abysmal language skills to be put on show for more than one audience member.

“Just a handful of other students from all over the place,” Shoulders shrugging Yuta leans backwards, hands placed atop his knees as he stretches his back. “We have a few Korean and Chinese kids, even a Canadian student as well. Not everyone’s at the same level so you shouldn’t worry too much about it.” He smiles, toothy and carefree as if there wasn’t an unhappy thought that had ever crossed him, Doyoung somewhat resents the uncertain assumption he made. “The schoolhouse isn’t too far away from here actually; did you want to stop by?” Hand motioning towards the doorway, Yuta’s head tilts inquisitively.

“I actually have to check in at the hotel I’m staying in, my parents told me to write whenever I got here and I’ve been putting that off for a while,” A sigh escaping him. Doyoung had been thinking about what to pen for the past day and a half but couldn’t muster the strength to go through with it. He’d left on rocky terms and was expecting to be hounded whenever they responded. “I’ll stop by tomorrow when you have class if that’s alright?”

“Fine by me,” He’s now searching his own pockets, finding a pen and reaching out for the letter near Doyoung. Yuta scribbles down something, a few kanji that Doyoung can’t decipher, and hands him the paper back, “Classes start at ten, when you’re in the area just ask someone if they know where this is and they’ll point you in the right direction.”

“Thanks,” Doyoung looks down to the paper, seeing in his periphery that Yuta was already on his feet, straightening his jacket as he begins to head over to the waitress.

Doyoung sees him say something but can’t make out what, it’s only when Yuta turns to him and speaks that he can ascertain the meaning, “Don’t worry about paying this time, you’ll have to treat me to lunch some other day.” And with that Doyoung finds himself alone once more in the tavern.

[1909.04.30. Boston, MA] The letter had arrived early in the morning, but you had been out in town with your mother attending some group function that you didn't want to be a part of in the first place. So, when you walk into your own little study and see it lying atop your things you race over and tear open the seal adorning it.

‘When I arrived in Munich, my work left me so urgent that I could not write in time before I left again. I thus deferred it to a point where I once again found myself with solid footing. It rains heavily in Seoul today, my travels have taken me here instead of crossing the Atlantic.

Currently I am holding a tutoring position for the American consulate’s son. I expect to hold this position for some time before I return home to Boston.

Tell my mother not to fuss over me too much, if anything I implore her to look after you. Of all people, other than your own family, she knows of the antics you pursue.

I was able to sneak out a few books from Munich, upon my return I swear to you that you will have the greatest library in all America- no, the world, even.

If I were a better artist, or wealthy enough to photograph, I would show you how beautiful my journey across the world has been. Although, so much has changed in Seoul since I held my studies here. I cannot help but have the inklings of melancholy eat away as I recall the memories and compare them to what I see now. This will come to pass, I hope.

I hear the boy calling for me now— My writing will have to cease here, I fear. Send my affection to your family, I know they miss me as much as you do.

With all the love I can muster,

x John

p.s. I think I have decided to call her Minnie, please refer to her as that accordingly.’

While scattered with his familiarities and humor, the letter seems all too short, all too hurried. Your lips purse as you read over it, brow furrowing as a small knot in your stomach begins to form. Thumb rubbing over the x marking his name the worry only grows ever more prevalent, you pull your eyes away from the words and begin to rummage around for your own writing implements and paper, wanting to respond to him as quickly as possible.

‘John,

Your letter left much to be desired. Seoul? Your mother anxiously awaits your return any day now, before you left you said you would only be gone until early May at most. I hope that nothing unsavory has happened, God knows you find yourself in trouble more than any other man I know.

Please let her know that you are safe, I fear that she may follow after you should you be gone any longer. A son should never burden his mother with his absence for an extended period, I can only keep her company for so long before her weariness sets in and she longs to see you.

She also knitted you a pair of gloves, seeing as you left your moth-eaten ones behind. I know the air is growing warmer, but it is somewhat endearing to see how doting she is over you. Please, ease her mind by writing.’

[1909.04.30.-1909.04.31. 今出川ホテル, 京都] Doyoung eventually finds himself standing at the small entrance of a hotel, the name written in cursive English on a wooden sign above the doorway. Youngho had recommended the inn, saying that it would be one of the more accepting places to stay at as a foreigner. It has a somewhat Victorian looking façade, contrasting the traditional Japanese styled buildings around it, he wonders why that is as he ascends the handful of steps to the door, struggling ever so slightly while lugging his bag behind him. As the door swings open, he’s greeted by an elderly woman with a rather round face, “Good evening,” she smiles and ushers him inside. “Did you need a room for the night? Or do you have a reservation?”

Mind fogging as he struggles to keep up, “Apologies, my Japanese isn’t—” The stone floor clicking underfoot as he follows her to the main desk.

“Ah, Korean?” It’s accented, but he appreciates it nonetheless. “Do you have a reservation?” Her hands dance along a worn leather book atop the desk, flipping it open as she looks down a list of names, some of those which are crossed out and some of which are not.

“I do,” He nods his head with a short smile, “It should be under Kim.”

Humming as she runs her finger down the list, as her head turns upward it causes Doyoung to return his attention to her, “Kim Heesung or Kim Doyoung?”

“Doyoung,” he says, shifting his weight from foot to foot, mentally hitting himself as he should’ve been more specific. Eyes scanning the list, Doyoung takes a short look around the interior of the inn.The space is smaller than he imagined, but rather cozy. A glowing fire going to warm the chill of the night, large armchairs beside it and the largest bookshelf he’s ever seen built around the hearth.

“Wonderful,” She smiles, turning her back to him to find his room key from a small drawer behind the desk. Before she faces him again fully, she shifts through a small stack of papers atop the desk, “This also came for you,” The woman reaches to pull out a thin card from the stack, it has both hangul and kanji printed on it so it was easy to assume it’d come from his homeland.

“Thank you,” He smiles back before taking the telegram and tucking it into his jacket pocket. She hands him the key and he’s off to find his hotel room. It lays up the staircase and down a winding corridor, as he passes by some of the rooms, he can hear the muffled voices of a few of the other patrons, speaking languages he can mildly understand and others that sound alien. Once he finds his room, he’s all too giddy to throw himself onto the bed. Door locked, shoes and suitcase strewn aside he falls onto the plush bed, his eyes watching the ceiling as the weight of sleep begins to take over his vision.

Broken sunlight filters into the room, the shades drawn enough only to allow sharp slants of light to come through. The city outside is bustling whereas the hotel room seems almost vacant of any form of noise, save for the sound of soft breathing as the occupant sleeps. Kim Doyoung continues to snore softly, dreaming of something sweet enough to add a slight curvature to his lips. He rolls in his slumber, the telegram received in the night folding under his weight, unbeknownst to him.

Three swift knocks awake him from the depths of slumber. He bolts up, raising a hand to run through his hair as a frown of confusing forms on his lips, wiping away whatever essence of his dream remained. “Are you awake?” A voice rings out seconds after the rapping. It’s the woman from the night before, Doyoung was too tired to connect the dots quite yet.

“Yes,” He responds groggily, moving to allocate his footing onto the floor. He hears soft footsteps leading away from his door, he supposes his wakeup call is completed. Rummaging around his wrinkled jacket-pocket he pulls out his timepiece, the clock reveals that it is seven forty-five in the morning, he has two hours before his lessons begin. Letting out a soft groan, he places the watch away and pushes himself onto his feet. His knees creaking and cracking as he rises and stretches out his arms, signaling that his sleep must’ve been docile. Once again, his hand moves to his jacket as he recalls the telegram, now crumpled in the crevasses of his pocket. Doyoung pulls out the letter, walking to draw open the shades to allow more reading light in.

“Kim Dongyoung,” He mumbles out, reading over the first, short line as the sleep is rubbed from his eyes. ‘Mom and Dad are going to kill you if you continue to ignore them. For my sake, please write. - Donyun’

An audible scoff after he’s finished reading, he can almost hear his brother’s tone. Doyoung does care about his family, but his brother is as much on his parents’ side as he is against it, it is a giant rift in their already teetering relationship.

The telegram tossed onto the bed as Doyoung takes off his jacket, he’d been avoiding his familial issues for a while now and it seems as if they’re coming back to bite him in the ass. It wasn’t entirely his fault for doing so, his father was never a good listener and Doyoung’s ideas were always pushed asunder.

A few moments later he finds himself in a fresh set of clothes, ready to face the day. In truth, he is dreading his lessons but at least it will provide some relief from thinking about the drama happening back in Guri. His shoes drag along the wooden floor as he steps out of his room, locking it with the small gilded key behind him. Once in the hallway, his posture straightens as he begins to make his way towards the staircase that would lead him into the main lobby. The crushed emerald green velvet railing runs under his fingers as he descends, swiftly moving into his pockets once his feet land on the granite tiles splaying out an ocean of deep gray below him.

A thin beam of light shines in through the slit in the door of the entranceway, the windows attached to the door are covered in the same crushed velvet encasing the staircase via curtain. It feels like he is in a black hole with how dimly lit the interior of the building is. Eventually he makes his way through the lobby, past the plumes of smoke belonging to the lackadaisical men resting in overly decadent armchairs smoking out of their kiserus.

Doyoung shuffles his way to the front desk, a younger woman manning it instead of the elderly woman from the night prior. “Can I help you?” Voice sullen sounding, or maybe tired, Doyoung still isn’t awake enough yet to dissect it fully.

Reaching into his pocket, pulling out the letter from Yuta with the name of the school, “I’m looking for this?”

The girl leans over the desk, it’s easy to tell the yukata she wears is inhibiting her from her full range of motion. Eyes reading the characters carefully, “Whoever wrote this has awful handwriting,” She mutters under her breath and Doyoung can’t understand it entirely. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk that way,” Hand raising to motion southward, “When you see the sweets shop you should turn right, and it will be a few buildings down on your right.”

A nod of his head as he thinks he caught most of her instruction. He takes the paper back and tucks it away, thanking her as he makes for the door. The heat greets him with a gentle breeze, an inkling of warmth as to what’s in store for later in the day. Doyoung looks to the sky, to see where the sun is positioned so he is able to gauge the direction he was supposed to go. He sets off, pace not brisk or lax, merely at a stride to absorb what’s around him. It’s still early in the morning, plenty of time before the school day begins to wander the streets for a bit.

The street’s crowded, thinning in places where it seems more residential than not, it reminds him of home. Different feel, different language but it has a strange nostalgic aura about it. A sweetness hitting his nose as he approaches a small wooden building, he can’t read what it is but by the smells emanating from it he supposes that it’s the sweet shop the girl at the hotel had told him to turn at. Head tilting to peer down the street, it looks like nothing of note. As he stands there, presumably looking more confused than the average local, he feels a finger gently tap on his shoulder, “Are you lost?”

The voice comes as a surprise, turning Doyoung on his heels to come face to face with a stranger. Eyes wide as he looks the boy over, “A little bit... I’m looking for,” reaching into his pockets as the other stops him.

“Are you Kim Doyoung?” It seems as if everyone here knew of him before he could introduce himself. Before he can speak, a nod of affirmation rattles through him and the other smiles, “Yuta said that we’d be getting a new student in today.” Hand outstretching, Doyoung’s a little more practiced with the greeting now, “My name’s Lee Minhyung, I can show you the way to the school if you want?”

“It’s nice to meet you,” He gives a brief smile before another nod of his head, “I’d really appreciate it.”

[1909.05.05. San Francisco, CA] If anything were to be your downfall, it would be that of your impatience. You’d been sitting down with John’s mother, a woman you likened to your own family when the one back home was too involved in her own business, when the news broke. She was kind, offered you tea and as always had the little tin of biscuits you loved when you were a child sitting atop the tea tray, and then graciously divulged to you that her son was currently under police custody in Tokyo when the last you’d heard he’d been in Seoul. It would explain the absence of letters, or inability to write. Upon questioning her further you realize that maybe he was in far greater a circumstance than he left you off thinking.

It isn’t a matter of asking your parents to ship you off to a foreign land, it’s a matter of when and how soon you can leave. The money sitting in the dank vault of your late grandmother’s account had laid in wait for some sort of use, and she had wanted you to use it to fulfill some sort of errant dream of yours after her passing. You couldn’t find it within yourself to touch it, seeing it as too prized and too treasured a thing to take away from for some frivolous means. But your grandmother had liked John, the late one on your father’s side and not the vile one from your mother’s. She had treated him kindly whenever he had stopped by, sometimes even saying that she had wished him her grandson more than the monsters that were your cousins. You think that is reason enough to pull from your funds and splurge on a rescue mission to Japan. There were several people you’d known that had been there before, detailing it as a curious place but had neglected to tell you why; you don’t think of the language or cultural barriers separating you until you’re standing on a pier in San Francisco, waiting for your ship to dock.

The brine of the sea had never settled well in your stomach, salty on your lips and your cheeks as the coastal winds torrent towards you. Your ship doesn’t leave for a while yet but the queasiness felt on the decks of other ships returns to the pit of your stomach with a ghostlike vengeance. Perhaps it is anxiousness that riddles you instead of the fear of the sea.

“Im-a-de-ga-wa Gai-ko-ku-jin Ni-hon-go Ga-kko” words falling from your lips in strange and oblong vowels and consonants that were almost completely incorrect. John had mentioned it in the letter to his mother, detailing that should she not hear from him for another month to contact the school and ask for the aid of a Mr. Yuta Nakamoto, a friend that he’d talked about in passing a few times. Apparently, he is a persuasive sort that would most definitely help him out should the occasion arise. Or so John had put it, you aren't really sure what to think of him.

John’s mother had insisted that it had been a mix up at customs but a bitter taste in your mouth and gut wrenching feeling in your stomach told you otherwise. He was a rebellious spirit and had probably said a few choice words that had gotten him in trouble, he had said his Japanese wasn’t great but he had learned a handful of colorful phrases from the aforementioned friend in University that could definitely be taken the wrong way by unknowing ears.

If the seas were steady and your luck good, maybe you can reach him within a month. If not, a week or so longer but you’re not sure if the anticipation of it all would let you, you might jump ship and hope to swim there faster should such a situation arise. Again, impatience being your downfall you can barely stand just watching the large metal steamship land at port and empty its passengers before you were to board.

The air is salty, the gentle spray of foam from the shore landing on your cheeks carefully as you look towards the ship that is to be your dwelling for the next portion of your life. Maybe you shouldn’t have come alone, taken a chaperone or a friend with you, but you were worried, too crunched for time to even entertain the thought as you packed your bags and told your mother you were taking the first train out of town. Your face still stings with the remembrance of the slap she’d given you in her frenzy, calling you something along the lines of a girl too thoughtless to know her role. By no means a heartfelt way to leave her, but your father had said to go, knowing a little more than your mother how much John means to you.

Your bags, brown leather and worn from the days when your father was still youthful enough to travel, lay at your feet as the thin paper ticket folds under your grasp. The chatter from the crowds around you mixing in with shouts of vendors and merchants lining the docks over the squalls of seagulls overhead. It’s all too much when your mind is racing with concern, not too much though to deter you from a gentle tapping on your shoulder.

“I think you dropped this?” Deep voice causing you to turn on your heels and face the perpetrator. When you do, you’re greeted with your passport being held out to you and a dimpled smile to go along with a rather dashing face.

“Oh,” Eyebrows raised as you reach out to gingerly take your own booklet from the other, you hadn’t realized its absence since you had thought it stowed away in the depths of your handbag. “Thank you—?” A pause as you wait for an introduction.

“Jaehyun, or Jeffery, whichever is easiest for you,” he nods and then you offer your name before he speaks again. “It was really no problem,” he continues with a smile as he looks down to the bags at your feet, “Did you just get back or are you going somewhere?”

The innate curiosity of the stranger mildly perplexing, “I’m off to Tokyo.”

“Tokyo,” his tone faltering as his hand drops down to his side after you begin stowing the passport back away in the small purse slung over your shoulder. “What business is taking you there?”

You pause as you think, it isn’t exactly family troubles or business matters that are taking you across the Pacific, stubbornness, and inability to take your friend for everything he said, more like it. “A friend settled there a little while ago,” a nod after a moment of silence, “it seems that he has gotten himself into a little trouble so I am going to make sure everything is alright.” Absentmindedly patting the bag as you can see the other mull it over in his head, “What about you? Are you heading in or out?”

“Out,” The answer is almost immediate, a shift on his feet as he straightens his posture. “I’m heading to Korea; I haven’t seen my family in almost seven years.”

“Seven years?” The most John had been gone was the three years he spent studying abroad; you can’t imagine someone gone from your life for that amount of time. “What were you here for?”

“I was staying with a group of missionaries as I went through college,” Hands in his pockets as he turns to the blue horizon overlooking the ocean you were both meant to traverse, “Now that I’ve graduated there’s nothing keeping me here.”

“What will you do when you’re-” you begin to speak when a loud whistle blares from the port your ship had saddled up to. Growing quiet as you begin to hear the general buzz of the people around you grow as they begin to shuffle towards the bridge that linked the port to the steamship. “I guess it’s time,” Reaching to pick up your bags, the leather against your palm somewhat soothing your nerves, “are you boarding too?”

A shake of his head, “My ship doesn’t leave until the afternoon.”

“Ah,” the sound leaving your lips as the thought of, perhaps, having someone to accompany you on your journey was swiftly diminished. “Well,” A small smile gracing your lips, “It was nice to meet you, Jaehyun.”

“It was nice to meet you too,” smile returning, “Safe travels.”

“And to you,” You nod as you begin to walk towards the front port, looking down to your hand to make sure that your ticket is still in hand.

[1909.05.16. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] “It’s not kūremashita it’s agemashita.” writing on a chalkboard, the dust from the small white stick clinging to the ends of Yuta’s jacket as he scrawls out the hiragana. “Unless you’re thankful that Doyoung’s parents give him money?” A smattering of laughter echoing the room as he tries to teach the handful of students how to show appreciativeness and the reporting of it to others. “Try one more time.” Doyoung sits back in his chair and looks at a pink-cheeked Jungwoo who leans over his notes in an attempt to reconcile his verbal mistake.

There’s another try from the dark-haired man, it sounds good enough to Doyoung but apparently, the structure of the sentence needs more tweaking, as seen by Yuta giving out a small sigh before walking to Jungwoo’s side. Doyoung takes this time to look around the small, confined classroom. It was in no means shabby, but one could tell this building wasn’t meant to be a school, Doyoung thinks Yuta told him that it had been some sort of distillery prior to the deed falling into his hands.

From eleven in the morning, when the sun slants in through the two glass windows of the classroom just enough to see the dust flying through the air, to noon is when Yuta teaches the native Korean speakers basic Japanese grammar and vocabulary. It’s only a handful of students; Minhyung, whom Doyoung had met on his first day, Jungwoo, who is somewhat timid but roaringly confident at times, Jeno, a kid on some sort of exchange trip who hopes to build up his language skills before his university classes start in the fall, and of course, Doyoung himself. It is an intimate learning experience, perhaps that’s why Doyoung now feels miles more confident in his speaking ability now than he did a month prior. Hell, he could now converse freely, albeit somewhat confined in his topics, to the front desk woman at the hotel he still resided at.

There’s a knock at the classroom door, pulling the attention from the room’s occupants away from their work and now to the dark wooden door that leads out into the small foyer where the next group of students is presumably waiting for their lecture. “The next class doesn’t start until noon,” Yuta looks to the clock placed atop his desk, “You’ve got five minutes.”

The door opens with a small creak, shadows from the entranceway spilling in as Doyoung catches a familiar face standing there to greet the class. “I was actually hoping to sit in?” A voice Doyoung hadn’t heard since his university days accompanied the creak of floorboards underfoot as Youngho strides into the room. “I think my Japanese is a little rusty.”

A small laugh from Yuta as he recognizes his friend, “There’s the jailrat.” Yuta returns to the front of the room to stand in front of the taller, no doubt feeling the confused gazes of the students behind him staring past him and to the stranger. “I’m surprised they let you out that early.”

“You know I’m persuasive,” Smile lingering on his lips as his head turns and he catches sight of Doyoung looking at him quizzically. He is still caught up on the word jailrat and the connotation behind it, when had Youngho been incarcerated?

“Well,” Yuta turns on his heels to address the class, “Why don’t we end early today?”

Minhyung’s already leaned over his desk to get Jeno’s attention, Doyoung thinks he hears him say something about grabbing lunch at the nearby market, but his interest is far too deterred to be paying full attention to the younger men. The class packs their bags, Doyoung taking the longest time of all as he tucks away his books into his makeshift bag. In all earnest it was a bag he’d borrowed from the reception at the hotel, he’d neglected to bring or buy a suitable bag for school when he left home and arrived in Japan. The worn canvas of the thing almost wearing through at the bottom, he slings it over his shoulder and makes his way towards Youngho and Yuta, who look to be in deep conversation.

Youngho spots Doyoung approaching in his periphery, turning to greet him with a jovial smile. “I see you made it here in one piece?” His eyes looked tired, his face gaunter than the last time he’d seen his elder, but he wasn’t going to question, it was neither the time nor the place.

“Mostly,” Doyoung replies, “Yuta’s been a great teacher.”

“Thanks for the ego boost,” Yuta’s fingers dance on the lapels of his jacket in mock vanity, only then moving into his jacket pocket for a lighter and his infamous pack of Chūyū cigarettes. He offers one to Youngho and then to Doyoung, to which they accept, pulling their own lighters out of their pockets and lighting the butts of the sticks.

“God, these are shit,” a grit through Youngho’s teeth after he pulls in a drag. “They confiscated my Lucky Strike back in Tokyo.” Doyoung’s brow furrows as the other begins to speak again, “Let me know when you’ve got a free night. I’d love to grab dinner and catch up; it’s been a while.”

“I should have time this Saturday?” Doyoung thinks of his schedule, it’s not that he had massive time commitments here, but he was making a point to travel around the city in his free time. “If that works for you, of course.”

“It sounds doable,” A nod as Youngho moves his hand to tap his cigarette against an ashtray atop Yuta’s desk, the wood around the tray stained with the ashes of past smoking ventures. “Are you still staying at that hotel I told you about?”

Doyoung shifts on his feet, “I am, are you staying there too?”

“Yuta has offered me residence in his home until he is sick of me,” Youngho nods to the aforementioned, “I can meet you in the lobby around five then?”

“Sounds good,” Doyoung agrees, looking at the clock hanging on the wall, “I think Jungwoo wanted to go over the homework together so I should go and help him out.” It’s something of an excuse but Doyoung could feel as if there was some sort of pregnant secret looming over the heads of the other two.

“Would you mind sending Sicheng and the others in?” Yuta asks as Doyoung snubs out his cigarette in the ashtray and makes his way to the door.

Metal knob in hand, Doyoung turns and gives him a brief nod, “Of course.”

There’s something that doesn't sit right with Doyoung. Youngho had noted that he’d planned on staying in Hanseong for a while in the letter he’d sent to Doyoung a few weeks ago. It’s not as if plans can’t change or anything of the sort, yet he’d seemed vehement about it, detailing something about a someone he was going to visit before heading home to America. He isn’t one to question where questions aren’t due, if his friend was to stay in Kyoto for the time being, he’d be nothing more than appreciative of having a familiar face around.

[1909.05.18. 今出川ホテル、京都] When Doyoung ascends the staircase, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, he can immediately tell that Youngho sits in one of the large armchairs by the hotel’s unused fireplace in the lobby. Although his face is obscured by the wings, with the way his hand taps in rhythm with the song wafting through the air, the excitedness of the movements are a telling sign that it is his friend.

A glance to the victrola that lies in the corner of the room, the audio scratchy and soft as it emits a tune that Doyoung does not know. He strides over to the plush chair, glancing down to its occupant before speaking.

“Good afternoon,” the words escape him and Youngho turns to him with a jump and widened eyes before he realizes who it is.

“Dongyoung!” Youngho smiles from the armchair, rising to his feet to greet the other with a quick embrace, “Long time no see.”

“Actually I go by Doyoung now,” he nods awkwardly as Youngho steps back from him, his hand rising to scratch the back of his head, “helps me forget myself for a bit.”

“Still having family issues?” Youngho’s brow furrows as they break their embrace, “I thought you wrote that you had sorted that mess out?”

“More or less,” another awkward smile, “But enough about me— I thought you were supposed to be in Hanseong?”

“Change of plans, there was someone I was meant to meet in Tokyo, but they left during the time while I was imprisoned.”

“Yuta mentioned something like that when you first came in, what happened?” Youngho’s holds out his hand, motioning to the door, as Doyoung questions. The latter begins to walk forward, towards the entrance of the hotel as his friend trails behind him, “Were you really taken into custody?”

“They thought I had ties with Homer Hulbert,” A laugh as the two make their way out the front door, trapezing down the steps and onto the sidewalk, “Which is correct, but they had no grounds to imprison me on the idea that I know him alone or had one of his books in my possession.”

“Hulbert— is he the one that—?”

“The very same,” he nods, “But that is more than contrived at this point, let me know how you are. It sounds like things are the same with your family the last I saw you.”

“If things were okay then I would have stayed home,” A huff of heated breath leaving him in something of a passive laugh. “My father is still trying to set me up with that girl, the past runs deep, I suppose.”

“I cannot agree with you more,” Youngho agrees with a nod, “Have you even met her yet?”

“The last time I saw Seungwon was when I was thirteen, even if I saw her I cannot say I could point her out in a crowd if you asked me to.” Doyoung's hands find purchase in his pocket, hidden away from the sunlight that falls onto his head and burns the back of his neck as Youngho and he walk further down the street, through the masses of people.

The older nods solemnly, almost as if he understands the situation, "I have a friend who's nearly in a similar situation as you. Although her parents haven't found her a match or approved of anyone she's liked, I'd say her feelings mirror your own."

"Is that right?" Doyoung questions rhetorically as Youngho digs through his jacket pocket for a pack of cigarettes, "Is that the girl who you spoke so much about during our classes together?"

Youngho sputters, his hands failing to ignite his lighter at Doyoung's words, a cigarette dangling from his lips, "Did I really talk about her that much?"

"So much so I feel like I know her," Doyoung smiles and shakes his head, a familiar pang hitting his stomach once he looks back to the street before them. "Do you want to grab something to eat? I don't think I've eaten since lunchtime yesterday."

"Too busy studying?"

"Something like that..." In actuality, he'd received yet another telegram, this time from his mother, scolding him for staying away again.

"You always were more studious than me," the other nods and looks to a small restaurant they begin to pass on their left before stopping in his tracks, "What about this place?"

"Soba?" The intensity of the sun once again baring down above him as he looks to the sign on the door, he nods quickly, "Sounds great."

The pair make their way inside, settling down at a small table in the back corner of the shop as they wait for their food to arrive. Doyoung moves his hand to unbutton a few fastens from the front of his jacket to allow some of the shop's cooler air to hit him. His hands then move to rest atop the table, his long and slender fingers tapping as Youngho smokes the last of his cigarette, snubbing it out on the ashtray settled at the end of the table.

"How's your family doing? Is your father's business going well? I saw a few copies when I was in Hanseong.” Lackadaisical in question, Doyoung can hear something edging behind his friend’s tone that tinges upon suspicion.

“It’s going well,” a silent nod as a server comes to their table, the two order quickly, leaving little room for questions before Doyoung asks, “What about your family?”

“Willfully ignorant as ever,” Youngho frowns, shifting in his seat. It looks as if bitter words reside on his tongue but he swallows them down with a redemption of a smile.

“About what?” Doyoung pauses as he reaches for the pot of tea the server had brought on her arrival, his hand hovering over the handle.

“Everything.” Youngho’s shoulders shrug as Doyoung eventually pours himself and his friend a cup of tea. “Korean politics, American politics, hell- even the politics of their own inner circle. I refuse to believe they aren’t intelligent, they refuse to accept anything that isn’t affecting them personally.”

“I see…” He winds off his acknowledgement with the abating of his words, woefully aware that his parents are of the same mindset. His own father being the worst of all of them, claiming that any interaction or deals with unsavory business men were for the benefit of the family, not to the detriment.

“My father’s own brother died in ‘07 and he seemed unfazed by it at all,” Youngho huffs out, “At the hands of the Imperial Army, and yet, still, he said nothing.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen and he raises a finger to his lips as if to tell the older to lower his voice, unknowing if anyone within the shop understands Korean. “Even if he did, there would be nothing your father could have done about it. Not only is he in America, he holds no authority in Joseon.”

“No one wanting to do a damn holds any authority in Joseon anymore, you know better than me what the yangban have gone through, what everyone’s gone through.” Youngho leans in closer to Doyoung, ceding as he lowers his tone, “It may be easier said than done but I believe we have the ability to change that.”

“How would-” Doyoung begins but is interrupted when the server comes back with their food, carefully setting each dish atop the table before retreating back into the depths of the kitchen. “How could ‘we’ possibly do that?”

“There are ways, I know there are. I just need time to think of a proper solution,” Youngho nods as he reaches for his chopsticks, eager to sate his own hunger that had risen during their conversation. “If you’re interested I’ll tell you more when I have an idea.”

[1909.05.27. 今出川外国人日本語学校、京都] Doyoung’s mind doesn't return to that conversation with Youngho until a Wednesday afternoon about a week later. The sun begins to sink down in the sky as Youngho, Minhyung and himself were cleaning off some blackboard tablets in the main room of the school. Yuta was busy teaching a class and Doyoung’s fingers were pruned from what felt like endless scrubbing with a rag and vinegar ridden water.

“You know,” Youngho speaks up after what feels like an eternity of silence, brushing his hands on his pants after setting down a board onto the floor below. “I think we can really change something here.” His shoes quickly tapping on the floor in some sort of anxious apprehension, “Yuta and I have been talking and the resistance effort in Korea seems to be strengthening again.”

“What are you implying?” Doyoung asks, confused at the sudden statement. His brow wet with perspiration, even having the windows cracked open doesn't allow for much wind to travel throughout the building.

“I am saying that we can try and do something to change the… trouble happening back home,” Youngho shows no anger but a passion resides in his voice that remains hard to mask. “Do something before something more is done to us.”

“That is…” Minhyung begins, looking up to Youngho from his task of drying off the boards.

“Idealistic?” Doyoung interjects, biting his lower lip before continuing, “Youngho you do realize if someone hears you talking about that you’ll get thrown in prison again?”

Eyes trailing around the space as if he hadn’t already known they were alone, “Every one of us are sitting ducks. You know that,” a point to Minhyung and then a point to Doyoung, “and you know that. Is fighting back against that such a bad thing?”

“How do you propose we do that? Drop everything now, hop on a ship back to Korea and just roam the countryside looking for this supposed group?” Blood rushing to his ears as it sounds like waves crashing on a beach’s shore.

“Not at all,” A shake of his head. “There are ways of resisting that do not rely on fighting, think peaceful, diplomatic.”

A nervous laugh escapes Doyoung, it’s involuntary but he can’t help it. “Suh Youngho I knew you were insane, but this is another level.”

“I— uh— I’m going to get some chalk refills from the storage room,” Minhyung excuses himself from the conversation, a glance at him as he walks away tells Doyoung that he doesn’t know how to interact with the situation and was looking for an easy escape.

“Doyoung if you would just listen to me and get that stupid doubt out of your head you might just be able to make some sense of it all.” A sigh from Youngho as he stands, reaching into his jacket to rummage around for a pack of cigarettes. “Can I bum one off of you?”

Cheek bitten as he grabs his pack out of his pocket and tosses it to the other, “Do you have any idea what they would do to my family if they knew we were having this conversation? Your family and Minhyung’s are across the world and have no worries about what they say or do. The other student’s and mine are not privileged with that.” Cigarette carton tossed back, the sound of a lighter igniting and the smell of smoke pervading through the air as he tucks the pack away into his pocket.

Youngho thinks, an exhalation of smoke through troubled lungs as his outward breath intermingles with the dust thick in the air. It dissipates without a sound, quietly invading the space as Doyoung is overcome with a sense of trepidation from the other, he picks his words meticulously, trying to string them together as carefully as possible, “This is not just about you or me or my family or yours. It is the fate of a nation on the line, is that so hard to understand?”

It causes the younger pause for a moment, his hand falling to his pocket, hovering there before he pulls on the fabric as if he’d meant to straighten the coat all along. His throat clears, thinking of his parents and brother he’d left behind in Guri, what any actions that Youngho’s ideals cause may entail for them. Even if he was trying to get away from his obligations back home, he’d never want to intentionally put them in any sort of danger.

Doyoung opens his mouth to speak, before catching a bright glimpse of color passing by one of the front windows, followed by the school door opening with a large slam against the wall. Silhouette standing in the setting sun for a moment, not looking at all familiar to Doyoung. An equally confusing circumstance when the words, “John Suh,” spill from your lips. It’s a confounded expression that crosses your face, standing in the front door of the school as the taller leans leisurely back against one of the walls.

Cigarette in hand, Youngho turns at the call of his name, nearly falling over in surprise to see you standing there. No, not surprise- bewilderment, shock or some form of abject horror as you take a few long strides to stand in front of him. It’s as if a child’s been caught by his mother and Doyoung is playing witness to it all.

Doyoung watches the scene in a state likened to childlike curiosity, he understands not one word that falls from either of your or Youngho’s lips, but he can tell you’re angry and him beyond apologetic. Hand movements gesticulating, he catches the words ‘Seoul’ and ‘Tokyo’ at some point as you huff something out under your breath. Voices raising, Doyoung’s surprised Yuta hasn’t come out to tell them to be quiet, but if he were in Yuta’s shoes he wouldn’t as you sounded royally pissed. When you turn on your heels Doyoung looks to Youngho for some sort of explanation, but his gaze is solely locked on you leaving.

“Shouldn’t you chase after her?” Minhyung asks, the two others not realizing he had returned, box of chalk in hand as the three men watch you storm out into the crowded streets.

“She needs to calm down before I talk to her again or she might really kill me.” Youngho sighs, bringing the cigarette to his lips before taking in a long drag. A hand runs through his hair as it looks as if all of the blood had drained from his face upon your arrival.

“Is that the friend you mentioned a while ago? You showed us a picture I think.” Doyoung questions, somewhat relieved at your intrusion into their previous conversation.

“It is,” the answer not coming from Youngho, but from Minhyung. “And by the sound of it she’s ready to pack you into her suitcase and take you on the next boat home.” Head nodding as he looks to the space you once occupied, “You really didn’t tell her you were coming here?”

“You understood that?” Smoke leaving him he turns to the younger, “You didn’t tell me you speak English.”

“It never really came up.” Shoulders shrugging as he sets the box of chalk he’d been fiddling with down onto a nearby chair. “And I am from Canada, after all.”

“Son of a bitch, Yuta told me you were from Hanseong.” Youngho muses, tossing the cigarette from his hand and smothering it with his shoe. “But yeah, that’s her. I may have neglected to mention that but I was a little held up,” he looks confused as he pushes himself off the wall and makes his way to the door, peering out in the street. “I just don’t know how in the hell she found me.”

“She probably used the wrath of God to do it,” Minhyung suggests, “That’s how my mom says she knows everything I’ve ever done wrong.”

“Wouldn’t put it past her,” A shake of his head as Youngho turns to Doyoung. “She said she’s staying at the hotel you’re in. Would you mind meeting up with me tomorrow morning in the lobby to talk some sense into her and get her to go back home?”

“I don’t even know her though?” Hands dried on a nearby towel, Doyoung stands and reaches for the bucket of now dirty water. He walks past Youngho and into the street to dump its contents out, “I don’t even speak that much English.”

“It’s more of moral support than anything,” Youngho steps aside to let Doyoung back in, “I wasn’t joking: she might actually kill me if she gets the chance.”

“Fine,” Doyoung sighs, walking to pick up his bag from the corner of the room. His hands smell of vinegar and he rubs his still pruned fingertips together as he thinks of what the next morning would hold. “You owe me, though.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Youngho breathes a sigh of relief as Doyoung makes his way to the front door once again, this time with the intent of leaving. “Nine work for you?”

“Nine works for me.” A nod as he walks down the two steps and onto the dirt road below, the indentations from your shoes leading off down the almost empty road. He glances back to Youngho with a, “See you tomorrow,” and then to Minhyung with a question of “Do we have a quiz on Friday?” before waving it off and beginning his trek back home.

The night descends on Kyoto quietly and without noise, the stores closing long after the sun has fallen behind the western mountains in Arashiyama, lanterns aligning the street as Doyoung shuffles his way to the hotel. It’s quiet, the city typically is at this time of night, he’s learned over the course of his stay in the ancient former capital.

Before he goes inside, he stands outside of the entrance, hands tucked into the pockets of his coat as he stares up at the night sky blooming with stars. His bag lays at his feet, more worn now than it had been on the first day of class. Crumpled in his fists, buried away into the depths of his coat lies a letter, the ink that had adorned it far too smudged and water damaged to read now. Doyoung hadn’t meant to ‘accidentally’ drop it into a puddle when it had arrived that morning, so the contents lie unknown. However, on the corner of the envelope, a blurred name, ‘Seungwon’ stays virtually untouched as if to remind him of former obligations.

It’s as if there’s a clock ticking in his chest, counting down to a day, a time, when he’s meant to take up the holstered responsibility of his family and place it onto his own shoulders. A burden not yet ready to bear, he sighs out into the balmy night and makes his way inside of the hotel.

[1909.05.27. 今出川、京都] Doyoung wakes to the knocking on his door, his head burrowing into the tangled blankets and pillows from a restless night’s sleep. It takes a moment for him to find himself, writhing around the sheets before pulling himself out of his own stupor. Feet hitting the floor with a dull thud, he drags his lethargic body to the small bathroom, running his hands under the cool water of the faucet before splashing some onto his face to wake himself further. He meets his own gaze in the reflection, tired eyes and the slightest shadow of stubble beginning to darken on his jaw and upper lip. He’d have to visit the barber at some point in the coming days before he becomes totally unkempt.

He dresses himself in casual attire, a white linen button up, the most breathable thing he’d wear today, before he dons the dark blue of his three piece suit, a light gray and black one still residing in his wardrobe. He notices the threadings are nearly worn as he buttons the bottom half of his jacket, the things threatening to fall off should he exert too much force. The soles of his shoes too lie in disarray, wearing thin from endless wandering the streets of Kyoto after his classes have finished. It’s not that he’s searching for anything in particular, maybe a solution to his current situation. But he can’t find that at a merchant’s stall.

The route to the dining hall located on the first floor is a path easily tread, remembered in his first few days of arriving in Kyoto. The carpeted floors giving way to a wooden expanse the further he delves into the hotel, the scents of varying breakfast foods calling out to his aching stomach.

His hands keep busy with the morning paper, perhaps yesterday’s or the day prior to that one. It takes a while for the Korean post to arrive in Kyoto, the postage system seems to take years for important things to arrive, yet the letters from home seem to be weekly. A sigh as he sets down the news, reaching out for the carafe of coffee situated some ways away from where he’s seated. He begins to pour himself a cup of coffee, only pausing when he catches something out the corner of his eye.

A few darkened drips from the coffee pot settle into the white linen of the dining room tablecloth as he spots you stalking towards him. His eyes go wide and his breath hitches when your gaze narrows on him, almost causing him to choke on coffee he’d just brought to his lips.

The way you saunter over to his table reminds him of his mother when she’d be out to scold either him or his brother. Doyoung doesn’t know you but can easily tell that you’re not a force to be reckoned with.

“Where’s John?” You ask, standing before him, arms crossing over your chest as you look down at him expectantly. “You were one of the men with him yesterday, right?”

“What?” Doyoung asks, trying to make some sense of what you were saying. When he was a young boy, his parents had allowed him to take English lessons with a handful of the Christian missionaries that had drifted through Guri, but seeing as he understands nothing of what you just said, it’s obvious he hadn’t retained much, if any, of his vocabulary. “What are you looking for?” He sees no glimmer of understanding in your eyes as your brow furrows, probably trying to decipher what he’d just said. “Youngho? Are you looking for Youngho?” It’s the common connection the two of you seem to have, it’s his best bet on trying to figure out what you want.

You nod at the name, recalling that his mother shouts that at him whenever he’s angry. “Where is he?” If you’d taken up John on any of his invitational Korean lessons, you may have had much better luck in this situation. But you’d gone off to learn French because you were enamored with one of your classmates at the time, you could almost hit yourself seeing where it’s gotten you.

“Whe-” Doyoung pauses, lips pursing together as he thinks of the word. Youngho was meant to be in the lobby when she came downstairs, but it’s now clear he’s nowhere to be found.

“School.” It’s one of the words he can pull from memory. “He’s probably at the school,” he says again and gestures in the general direction of Yuta’s academy.

“The school- Imadegawa Gaikokujin Nihongo Gakko?” You’ve said the name of the institute hundreds of times to yourself that you think it’s the only Japanese you know. Not that you fully understand what it means, just knowing that it’s the name of the place.

Doyoung nods, somewhat surprised that you know the name.

“Can you take me?” The question falls out quickly and you see he’s confused, so you repeat it again slowly in hopes that he comprehends it. It seems that he does, reaching for his coffee and finishing the cup before rising to his feet, motioning for you to follow him as he heads towards the exit.

The walk to the school is painfully awkward, drenched in a silence that neither of you want to address. Both of you are not confident enough in the other’s mother tongue to make small talk as the two of you begin to walk the streets.

“Hey!” Doyoung hears Minhyung call out as the schoolhouse nears, “Took you long enough, you’re almost late.” When the younger sees that you’re accompanying him he gives you a small wave, “You’re Youngho’s friend, right?”

“I am,” You say after a moment, not having expected to hear English today. But with the company that John keeps, you can’t be too surprised at anything now. “Do you know where he is?”

“No, he’s not here yet,” he shakes his head and turns to Doyoung, “Didn’t Youngho say that you’d meet him at the hotel?”

“He did,” Doyoung’s lips curve into a frown as the three of you make your way into the school. “She’s been interrogating me about him, I think. Although I can barely understand what she’s saying.”

Minhyung laughs at the older and then turns back to you, “My name’s Minhyung, but you can call me Mark if that’s easier for you.” His demeanor has a lightness to it that descends onto you as something of a godsend. It’s an ease that you’d probably find with John if he were here and you aren't still angry at him.

“It’s nice to meet you Minhyung,” you offer him a smile before your eyes go wide and you turn to your partner, “I uhm, I never asked him what his name is.”

“Doyoung,” Minhyung answers, another chortle leaving him and the elder looks confused as to why his name’s just been called out. “What’s your name?”

You respond quickly, glancing over your shoulder to see if John is on his way in, to your misfortune, he isn’t. Minhyung quickly introduces you to Doyoung, probably so he has a gist of who you are. It’s hard to tell if John’s said anything about you to these men, but it doesn’t look as if he’s said much.

“We’ve got class soon,” Minhyung’s voice pulls you from your search and you turn back to him, “I’m sure Yuta would let you sit in on the class if you wanted to, although I’m not too sure that you’ll understand much, I don’t even get all of it.”

“It’s alright,” you shake your head at him, “I’ll just wait out here for Joh- Youngho.”

The man in question strolls into the school around thirty minutes later, the local paper tucked under his arm as his brow raises in surprise to see you, “I thought I said I’d meet you at the hotel.”

“I got impatient,” a frown as your gaze flickers over to him. “Jail John? Jail?” You fume, storming over to the taller, “Do you have any idea how worried I was, how worried your mother was? God- If you don’t write to her today and tell her that you’re okay, I'm stuffing you in my suitcase and taking you back with me.”

He laughs heartily, despite you glaring him down, “I wrote to her as soon as I got out. I wrote to you, too, but it doesn’t seem like you got the message.” A few more chuckles escape him as he holds his arms out, “I missed you.”

You sigh, falling into his embrace, “I missed you too.” After a moment you pull away, stepping back from him, “I’m glad to see that you’re okay, but if you ever do something like this again-”

“I’ve missed your hollow threats,” John smiles and glances around the school’s empty halls, “Do you want to get out of here for a while? I know a good cafe nearby.”

“Don’t you have class?” You question with a tilt of your head, the gentle murmurs from the classroom some ways away drifting out into the hall. “Minhyung said that Doyoung was already late, I wouldn’t want to stop you from your lesson.”

“I’m not a student,” John shakes his head, “I’m just… in town for a while and Yuta’s putting up with me for a bit.” He flashes you a grin before you have a chance to ask him exactly what he means by that, “Now come on before they run out.”

The two of you walk out into the dense heat of August, passing by a group of students as you do so. John recognizes some of them whereas you don’t, him saying something to them that elicits a laugh or two before you’re both back on your way to the city center.

“Why were you arrested?” You can’t stop yourself from asking the question as you turn onto the main road from the alley in which the school is situated. There are only a handful of people perusing the streets, but none look interested in what you’d just said. “It wasn’t serious, right?”

“Of course not,” he reassures you and looks to a few buildings ahead, “We’re almost there.” John walks in silence for a moment, his fingers rubbing against his palm as he looks back to you, “I lost my passport, can you believe it?” You recall when you were leaving San Francisco and you had lost your own passport, if it hadn’t been for the man that found it for you, you’re not sure where you’d be.

“Well, actually, I didn’t lose it, it fell between the pages of one of the books that I bought, which reminds me- I have a few for you, I wrote you about them, just remember to tell me to give them to you,” John says quickly as you approach the building he’d been eyeing earlier, walking into the opened door confidently and heading to the nearest open table.

You can tell he’s lying. You’ve only known him since you were children and he’s the closest person to you, you know almost every little quirk about him. And one of the first things you’d learned was that he talks quickly when he’s not being truthful. Yet, you don’t question him on it, seeing as you’d just calmed the tension between you, you don’t want to ignite it for the second time today. So, you just nod and follow him inside.

More oft than not, you hide your feelings behind a veneer of snark, of a bite that seems to sting but never lasts. It’s a sham way to hold yourself together, for if you let the dread of reality seep into your veins any longer than you allow it, you may just become the person you’re trying to hide. A vulnerable being who longs for the company of others but finds errant ways to keep them close instead of just outright saying it.

John offers out a seat to you and you sit, hands folding neatly atop the tabletop as you look to the menu scrawled onto a chalkboard near the cafe’s counter. You’re not sure why you do, the mix of Japanese alphabets is still foreign to you.

“I’ll go grab something, just wait here,” he says, noticing your confusion, still standing before he turns on his heels and strides over to the counter. You turn away before he begins to speak to the barista, looking out of the glass window at the front of the shop,

“How long were you planning on staying in Japan?” John’s voice stirs you some time later, the gentle sound of two cups being placed on the table making you turn in his direction as he sits down across from you.

“As long as it took me to find you.” You smile at him, reaching out for the small cup, “I guess that means I can pack my bags and leave now.” The smile placated on your lips is joking, but you hold a sincerity in your gaze as if to ask him if that’s what you should do next. He was the entire reason you were here, to find him, to make sure that he was okay and to bring him home if you could.

John’s finger traces the rim of his own coffee cup, gently lifting after a moment to tap along the surface of the tabletop. He hums, low and obstinate, as if to ponder the significance of you being here.

“I guess you could,” a slow nod of his head, “You know, you were never obligated to chase me half-way across the world to try and get me back home. I’ve been detained before-”

“You have?” eyes widening as you look from your coffee to meet his eyes, “You’ve never mentioned that.”

“I’ve been detained before but,” he continues, gaze hardening at you as you interrupt him, “I really thought I had lost my papers so I sent my mom a letter saying I may need my official documents back home to get me out of the mess I found myself in. This was a little more serious than the others.”

“What happened the other times?”

“Well, in London they stopped me for taking too much tea out of the country, I guess they thought I’d run them dry of it,” a teasing smile twinges on the corners of his lips, “and in Cairo, I tried to sneak off with a few things from Cleopatra’s tomb.”

“You know,” you lean back in your chair, a snide frown on your lips, “lying less might help you out in the future.”

John laughs, reaching into his jacket pocket to procure his pack of smokes, it isn’t until he’s got a lit cigarette dangling from his lips that he speaks again, “Where’s the fun in that?”

He suddenly gasps, the smoke he’d been inhaling filtering into his lungs and causing him to sputter for a moment. You reach for and hand him his cup of coffee so he doesn’t choke on himself. After a moment of hitting his chest and extinguishing his cigarette into the ashtray on the corner of the table, he speaks up, “You didn’t use your grandmother’s money to get you here, did you?”

“Well, technically it isn’t hers anymore,” a guilty exhalation of a chuckle, “but yes, I did.”

“Oh,” He’s crestfallen in the most faux of ways, “You said you’d take me to Italy with that.” It’s a joke, but you can see his concern wavering behind the sincerity of his words.

Your hand falls to run over the textured brocades of your dress, a wavering smile delicately tugging at the corners of your lips, “I was just worried about you.”

“And I appreciate that, I really do,” brow softening as he reaches for his coffee, voice still a bit hoarse from his earlier choking. “But you don’t need to throw everything you have away for me, I know the trip probably wasn’t cheap.”

John’s not wrong. It had taken quite a large portion from your deceased grandmother’s account to get you here, and the subsequent stay in the country.

“I had to make sure you were okay,” you shrug your shoulders with a coy smile, reaching out to pick up your teacup and bring it to your lips. It’s then you realize something, setting the cup back down and looking around the shop, eyes wide.

“What is it?” John questions, noticing your shift in demeanor.

“I haven’t ever been abroad before, I thought maybe I’d travel to Paris or London, Milan, even… Never…” A small hum as you turn to look back at him, “Never to Kyoto.”

“I’d have loved for you to see Seoul,” John smiles softly, his fingers tapping along the sides of the cup, “It’s beautiful this time of year.”

“You make it sound as if it’s impossible to go,” a tilt of your head. John had told you stories from his time studying abroad, of the antics he and his friends would get up to and of the history he’d learned.

“It would be a little difficult to go back right now,” the smile lingering on his lips looks sad now, almost wistful in a way, “I’m sure we could go in the future if you want to.”

“I’d love to,” you nod, glancing out of the window once more to watch the passersby walk up and down the crowded street.

#neowritingsnet #cznnet #doyoung fluff #doyoung angst #nct fluff #nct angst #13k for a teaser if that's any indication on how absolutely massive this'll be

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silhouetteofagirl · 7 years ago

Text

Temerity (Varric/Hawke)

I haven't actually played Inquisition due to not having a system that can handle it. So if I've got some details wrong, it's because my friends are really trying to avoid me seeing spoilers. (It's too late though, I know I'm going to be crushed by the fact I can't romance Scout Harding.)

Read On AO3

(You can also read about my Brosca as well.)

Hawke had arrived in the late evening and, after initial introductions had been made by him, had immediately been thrown into meetings with the inquisitor and her council. It wasn't that Varric resented how desperately her influence was needed, it was more that, well, he was nervous. He had missed Hawke, she was one of his dearest friends, but Varric wasn’t sure how this reunion would actually go.

He’d tried to distract himself, but his heart wasn’t into cheating at cards nor was his head in the right place to read or write. Still, he finds himself awake far into the small hours of the morning. It’s his favorite time of night, the world is a bit quieter and people are prone to be far more honest, or dishonest, both of which made for an interesting time. Yet here he was, sitting at his desk fighting the dull buzz of anxiety that filled his brain.

“Oh, mother of a nug-humping bastard!” he curses, dropping his quill onto the desk. It’s pointless for him to try to continue, but he knows sleep is going to evade him, even if he tries.

There’s a chuckle from behind him, “Hate to disappoint, but I am not quite any of those things. Though, I think that is an insult I have not been called yet.”

Hawke is leaning against his doorframe, arms crossed loosely with an amused expression on her face. She’s still in her leather pants from the road, but her more formal chest plate has been removed.

“Hawke, when did you—” His heart simultaneously leaps in his chest and plummets to his feet. It’s a very uncomfortable experience, but here she is. Between her dark circles and the smudges of dirt on her, it’s clear she’s worn from her travels, but her grin matches his and she seems to be just as happy to see him.

“Well, your door was open and after I had my ear talked off by the inquisition I could really use a drink.” she shrugs, straightening herself.

“The tavern is probably closed,” Varric says, standing up and slinging on his jacket.

“Like that ever stopped us.” she says with her usual teasing tone.

Varric chuckles, “Figured I’d give you the opportunity to maintain a somewhat decent reputation with the inquisitor before I offered.”

“If she knows you, I think my reputation has been thoroughly sullied. No need to keep up pretenses.” She smiles down at him. They chat about nothing particularly serious. Her trip was long and uneventful and she only heard a few erroneous tales about her. Varric laughs at that and then he tells her that apparently Cassandra, “that’s the one who dragged me in for questioning”, is quite the fan of his work. That gives Hawke a good laugh and then she mentions that Fenris has officially banned reading any of Varric’s work for practice.

“The stuff about me is weird and he gets frustrated at your artistic license and your other literature is… well,” she says. They arrive at the tavern and sure enough, it is dark. He reaches into a pocket a draws out his set of picks and sets to work.

“Aw, he didn’t like Hard in Hightown?”

“Initially he liked it, you have quite the flair for description, but once he realized you had written it, he got uncomfortable.” The lock clicks and they share a conspiratorial smile.

Varric enters, looking around until he finds a lamp in the low light. “So my works are damned by association.” he strikes a match and lights the lamp so Hawke can see where she’s going. They make their way to the bar and light a few of the candles there. It gives their corner of the bar a warm glow.

It’s a scene he’s described many times before in many contexts. The night is still and the candlelight flickers in the reflection of various bottles. The two of them sit at the bar, secluded in the corner, the rest of the world seemingly forgot. Hawke’s eyes sparkle in the low light as she smiles slowly and secretively. If Varric was merely a character in a story he was writing, he wouldn’t be quite sure what to say. Sure he would write that his mouth had gone dry at the sight of her sauntering around the bar, but is she merely walking with her usual confident sway, or is it the exhaustion from traveling that is making her walk so fluidly, or is it something more? Is the correct adjective for how she reaches up to grab a bottle from the shelf so careful because she is sore from the road, or is the movement achingly slow just so he can see the full length of her neck?

But if he were a character of his own creation, he would write about the incredible heaviness in the air. Something hangs in the air between them, something electric and uncertain, and it makes each action of Hawke’s seem to last an eternity. Hawke’s muscled arms ripple as she pulls the cork from the bottle, each bend of her wrist is fluid as she pours, and each inhale of breath makes the shadows hug her form. It all makes Varric very glad he really doesn’t write romances, well, at least slow ones.

Hawke slides him his glass and re-corks the bottle. “So we should talk Varric.”

His throat goes dry and the anxiety from earlier climbs up it to crawl back into his skull. “Uh, yes.”

Hawke picks up her drink, takes a swig, and then makes her way back around the bar. Her soft footfalls are the only noise in the heavy silence that stretches between them. He takes the opportunity to take a drink himself; the whiskey does nothing to wet his throat. She stops next to where he is sitting and places her glass on the counter. The turn he makes to face her feels more like putting on a noose than facing a friend, but he turns anyway. He’s never been quite sure how she does it, but Hawke looks so confident leaning against the tall bar counter.

“Did you really mean what you said? About being in love with me?” she asks softly.

Varric swallows. He can feel the lie on the tip of his tongue, almost see the plot of that Varric and that Hawke who laugh off any discomfort and go back to what was. He can predict and plan for those two, knows the setup, the foreshadow, to a familiar story that he so desperately wants. But he’s never met someone who defied every genre like Hawke and he knows that he cannot try to change what their story will be. So he puts down his glass, swallows the lie, and says the truth unable to look away from her intense gaze. “Every word.”

“Good,” Hawke says bluntly and he finds himself being pulled forward by his lapels, her lips on his. Varric’s genres are all mixed up, when did this adventure novel bleed into a romance and when did he go from narrator to just a character along for the ride of the plot. Yet what words could Varric ever write that could describe this. The feeling of her lips on his, Hawke’s tight grip keeping him up against her, the way her hair felt between his fingers, the taste of whiskey on her tongue.

When she pulls away so they can breathe, her tight grip on his lapels does not loosen. He’s still not entirely sure what had just happened, but he cannot deny her firm hold on him is grounding.

“Hawke? We going to talk about this?” he asks between breaths of air.

She takes a step forward so she is standing between his knees. “I’m a woman of action, Varric, not words. And Maker knows I’ve talked enough tonight.” Hawke says sharply and then she is kissing him again. He’s described kisses like this before, desperate, demanding, determined, delightful, the whole range, but this kiss is so incredibly like her. How she teases his bottom lip between her teeth before returning back to kissing him. All he can do is hang on and try to give as good as he’s getting as she kisses him. But eventually, they have to breathe once more.

“Fenris?” he asks as she presses her forehead against his as they pant.

“Is happy Isabella owes him 10 sovereigns. She didn’t think you would ever tell me.” She pulls back and smiles at him.

“Figured they would gamble.” He mutters, trying to ignore the blush crossing his cheeks.

Hawke smooths down his lapels, “But Fenris and I have talked and talked and talked. And I am so done with talking.”

“Then, by all means, Hawke, we can talk later.” She grins wickedly at his words. Later, when he will try to remember what happens next as inspiration for one of his more realistic romance novels, he will be unable. He won’t know how he ended up pressed against the bar counter, legs around her waist. He won’t be able to recall who put their hands down the other’s shirt first, just that he had left angry red scratches down her back when she had kissed and bit a trail down his neck. Varric won’t be able to place when she had tugged his ponytail out, but he will remember that their drinks ended up being left on the counter. Regardless, his inability to remember will leave him frustrated and not just because of the writer’s block. But there they are, her muscles tense under his fingers as she pins him to the bar, a hand tangled in his hair.

When her breath catches when he traces the curve of her shoulder, over her collarbone, to the swell of her breast, Varric pauses. “May I?”

“Yes, just be careful. I got a bit banged up on the way here.” She says, before returning her attentions to his neck where she was working on quite the collection of marks.

“Andraste’s tits, Hawke! Why the hell are we doing this is you’re ‘a bit banged up’.” She pulls away and gives him a look.

“Because honestly Varric, I’d like to be more than a bit banged up.” She says bluntly, pressing herself more firmly against him.

He kisses her, but it's brief and she frowns when he ends it. “Any other night, Waffles, but I’m not willing to continue until I’ve seen the damage.” Hawke nods and they slowly untangle themselves as their hands still wander.

“Come on, let’s go to my room where I have some supplies.”

“Are you sure you’re not just trying to get me in a bed?” she teases, tugging lightly on his hair. Varric chuckles and straightens his clothes

“All in good time.” He says and pulls her down for a lazy kiss. “But the sooner we get there, the sooner I get your shirt off.”

Hawke laughs at that and makes her way to the door. “Well then, come on.” He blows out the candles and follows her out. Once again they chatter on the way to his room, but this time there are surreptitious touches and they are both more relaxed. Varric hadn’t noticed how tense he had been on the journey here, but this time he can appreciate just the act of walking with her late at night as they used to. He hadn’t realized how much he had missed having Hawke around until he’s laughing at a joke she made as they just walk. Sure, there’s a promise of something more between them, but he has to pause to catch her arm.

She looks down at him, “Not having second thoughts, are you?”

“Never, it’s just nice to see you, Hawke,” he says. Hawke smiles and inclines her head. No quick quip this time, but sometimes quick wit isn’t needed. The quiet moment passes and they continue on their way, words a bit softer. When they get to his room, he points her to the bed.

“Shirt off, Hawke,” Varric commands, going over to a chest to grab out his traveling gear.

“You could buy get a girl a drink first.” she scoffs, but she starts to peel out of her tunic.

“I just did. You decided not to drink it.” He replies evenly, pulling out his medical gear from a pouch. He turns to face her and finds her mostly tangled in her shirt. Hawke had stopped halfway through removing her tunic to make sure he could see her rolling her eyes.

“You didn’t pay for it.” she says and pulls her shirt off the rest of the way.

“No, just picked the lock for you.” He crosses over to her. There are a few nasty bruises along her torso, a cut that goes from collarbone to just over her heart, what looks like a shallow stab wound, and a few nicks that seem to be from some other event. “How did you get these?”

“I didn’t exactly want to wear my plate up a mountain.” she sniffs. It isn’t the first time he’s seen her without her shirt, nor is this the first time that he’s had to patch her up, but there’s something about the angry scratch marks that wrap around her ribs to just over her hips and the knowledge that he gave her that takes his breath away. She’s just as scarred as he is; he knows many of the stories behind the silver marks that litter her skin, but he has no intention of her gaining a new scar just because there were more enticing activities they could be doing than cleaning and binding her wounds.

Hawke must have noticed how his eyes wandered more than needed to check for her injuries because she leans back on his bed and smirks. “You’re the one who wanted to stop.”

Varric clears his throat and puts the supplies he had gathered on the bed. “Yes. What the hell am I supposed to say? The Champion of Kirkwall risked infection because I was impatient? That is hardly a good story.”

“You could say I had to fight a demon or something.” She hisses and he dabs the cut with some alcohol. “Maker knows that there are enough demons that it’s believable.”

“Boring,” he says. Varric isn’t as overly careful with his hands as he had been in the past, letting fingers brush on her warm skin. They lapse into silence as he carefully cleans the wound and rubs salve into the worst of her bruises. By the time comes to bind her cut, he has to rouse her. “Come on, Hawke. Just a little longer, then you can sleep.”

She mutters something but sits up enough that he can wrap the wound. She starts to say something and he merely murmurs, “Just fucking sleep Hawke.” Then he is taking off her boots, shifting her so he can pull blankets up and over her as she makes a noise of agreement. Then he gets ready to sleep and before he can think twice about it, lays down next to her. Hawke shifts in her sleep and throws an arm over his torso. Varric falls asleep with Hawke snoring softly in his ear and smile on his face.

#varric #hawke #dwarf appreciation week #varric/hawke #da:i #I some how didn’t realize that dwarf appreciation week was a thing #so I prepared nothing for the week even though I have a few fics that only need a bit more work #if you want more dwarf fics though check out my ao3 #my fanfic

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