#there's like 10 more days until the release of the next major story beats idk i'll just tag it for safety

[kitsunabi]

I'm like 2 weeks late to the plot, I'm sorry you leave your country and you just straight up suffer memory loss?

[yeoldontknow]

Wings

Author’s Note: lord i didnt think id be writing this so soon but ive been so soft (tm) and pcy has been doing the most(tm) so here we are i guess. this is the first part of his Did You See story. im weak as hell lmao Pairing: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female) Summary: Chanyeol is your best friend and travel buddy. Everywhere you go, he falls a little bit more in love with you. Eventually, he tells you why he goes everywhere with you - just you.  Genre: fluff; angst Rating: PG-13 Warnings: some swearing Word Count: 5,356

Yeolo sent a Photo Yeolo[12:04 AM]: LOOK!!! YN[12:05 AM]: this is shockingly neat YN[12:06 AM]: im stunned Yeolo[12:06 AM]: :< Yeolo[12:07 AM]: i am neat :< YN[12:08 AM]: youre like… YN[12:09 AM]: slightly organized chaos Yeolo[12:10 AM] - Message sent with Confetti: CHAOS

Yeolo[12:11 AM]: do you like how i rolled my shirts ! YN[12:12 AM]: im mostly impressed with how fucking many you fit in there Yeolo[12:13 AM]: WELL!! Yeolo[12:14 AM]: you know different shirts for different moods… Yeolo[12:14 AM]: weather YN[12:15 AM]: IS THAT WHAT I THINK IT IS?? Yeolo[12:15 AM]: WAT WAT YN sent a Photo with Mark Up Yeolo[12:16 AM]: YES YES THE HOODIE HE IS COMING YN[12:17 AM]: I AM STEALING HIM ON DAY 2 AND YOU WILL NEVER SEE HIM AGAIN Yeolo[12:18 AM]: *frowns loudly* he YN[12:19 AM] - Message sent with Celebration: his butt is mine Yeolo[12:20 AM]: do you still heave beat it in your head from JDs party???? YN[12:21 AM]: listen if i have to suffer with it YN[12:21 AM]: you have to suffer with me Yeolo[12:22 AM]: yikes YN[12:24 AM]: are you taking any converters? Yeolo[12:24 AM]: yeah you can use mine YN[12:25 AM]: yay! Yeolo[1:06 AM]: are you nervous? Yeolo[1:07 AM]: wait are you up Yeolo[1:08 AM]: im nervous but idk why YN[1:09 AM]: im up. i wouldnt say im nervous weve done this a million times YN[1:10 AM]: i just dont like flying very much Yeolo[1:11 AM]: no one really likes flying Yeolo[1:12 AM]: but ill hold your hand the whole time YN[1:13 AM] - Message sent with Love: u Yeolo[1:13 AM] - Message sent with Fireworks: me Yeolo[1:15 AM]: can i come over? Yeolo[1:16 AM]: i sleep better next you YN[1:17 AM]: you haven't needed to ask for 5 years don't be a goose YN[1:18 AM]: but yes im too excited to sleep anyway Yeolo[1:19 AM]: ill bring my shit so we can just go to the airport together YN[1:20 AM]: key is under the mat. im getting your fave blanket out of the closet Yeolo[1:21 AM]: !!!! Yeolo[1:22 AM]: ill just take the spare toothbrush i have there with me instead of my good electric one YN[1:23 AM]: u is smert Yeolo[1:24 AM]: i be there in 10 minie YN[1:25 AM]: 10 MINIES!!!

Remaining in bed, you lay back and stare at the ceiling, heartbeat keeping time with the rain against your window. You think you love him most when he’s like this, needy and clingy and over excited. London was his idea, or maybe it was yours, or, possibly, you thought of it at the same time. It felt like it, the way you both talked excitedly on his couch eight months ago, bare feet battling for dominance on the tattered cushion. The way the words spilled eagerly from your mouths, the way he’d already Googled, and you’d already used your credit card points for airline tickets, it felt like you were connected, united.

Something as simple as this, as planning a trip, felt remarkable and exciting. The phrase ‘why don't we go’ igniting a fire in your veins, making the world sound sweeter just because he spun city names into gold against his tongue. Always, it’s like this with him, life becoming an thrilling bundle of possibility, filled with magic and wonder, and existing without obstacles. It’s like this with him because he makes it so, his mouth only ever giving you the best words and your heart unable to say no at the sight of his wide eyes.

Precisely ten minutes later, Chanyeol’s heavy feet resonate throughout the hall as he struggles up the stairs to your door. Already, between the plaster and the wood of your door, you can feel him, his energy permeating your space and making your heart feel heavy with want. The sound of him alone wakes you up, invigorates you, sending sparks along your skin that make you feel electric or magnetic, or maybe both.

After six years of knowing Chanyeol, learning his noise and learning his breath, you are skilled at discerning his mood from the sound of his steps. Tonight, he is elated, hurried in his movements and wholly unburdened by the weight of his suitcase, driven into a clamor by the force of his excitement. Tonight, he is humming, as quietly as he can, yet still his voice his a thunderclap, barreling through the walls and deep into your bloodstream. You don't recognize what he's humming, the sound slow and somber, but it sounds important, like he's very serious about getting the notes right, and you find yourself frowning when he stops, saddened by the loss of the his voice.

At the first sounds of the spare key sliding into the lock, you turn over in bed, making room for him on the mattress, in your life, in your body, ready to keep him with you for always. When he pushes through the door, clambering with his limbs and his bags, he releases a giddy sigh, an exclamation of relief that makes a smile spread across your lips. Keeping still, you listen as he moves through your house and into your kitchen with sure steps. He turns on the electric kettle, the one he bought your for Christmas three years ago. Rummaging through your cupboard, the one he helped you build, he pulls out mug with a happy chuckle. Something has amused him, and you swoon into the bed at the sound, pressing your head against your pillows with a sigh.

You know he thinks of this space as his, moves around it openly and possessively, because his memories exist within the paint and the furnishings just as much as yours. Not least because he spends the majority of his time in the space you occupy, your flat larger and quieter than his own, but because he was the one who found it for you. Because, when your life felt as though it was ending, he was the one who built it back up around you, with you, leaving his traces on all the new pieces.

It is not that you expected your relationship with Ethan to last forever, merely that, after Ethan, you thought there would be something. When you found Ethan in your bed with another woman, hands and mouth pulling at her skin as if he wanted to make a home of her body, you found you simply didn't want anything. His lies had reduced you to nothing and, while you knew it was not the case, you felt nothing was what you deserved forevermore.

For two weeks, you slept on Chanyeol's couch, curled into a ball and trying not to be a burden. For five more, you slept in his bed, neither sexual nor wanting it to be, simply because he said he wanted you comfortable. Then, he said it was because no one should cry alone. Then, and lastly, because he said he never felt comfortable without you beside him. Not anymore.

His hands shook when he showed you the advertisement, and you wondered why he was nervous. Looking at your feet and with his voice quite small, he said he didn't want you to think he was kicking you out. You said, ‘are you?’ And he just looked at you, suddenly the most serious you've ever seen him, and said, ‘I just want you to have something that's yours.’ Sincerity looked beautiful on Chanyeol, not that he was insincere, but this was transcendent. You felt him then, like a knife. You don't think you’ve stopped feeling him since.

He never really went home after you moved in, just brought an air bed and stayed with you until you could afford decent furniture. You cried a lot those first few days, scared but not alone, and wondering how you could, or would, cope with this sudden something. Chanyeol held you, tighter than usual, and didn't say anything just clung to you until you were tired and wholly exhausted from living. You think that was when his habit for humming started, those days when his voice was a comfort, a lullaby, and its sound evolving into something you felt belonged to you.

Painting the living room was your favourite day, the first day you ever saw him, really saw him. The paint on his cheek made him look wild, like he was at war with the wall and was trying to win you over. You didn't know how to tell him he'd already won. You think he won the day you met him, you just needed the world to take on better colours.

The sound of your door opening shakes you from your thoughts, and Chanyeol enters with a grin, hair messy and cheeks puffy from lack of sleep. He's arrived already in his pajamas, ready to be comfortable and ready to be near you, and you watch, turning the sheets over for him, as he climbs into the bed with careful placements of his limbs.

‘Here,’ he says, handing you a mug - his favourite, the one he leaves for himself.

Careful not to spill anything, you take it, letting your fingers graze momentarily to feel the spark once more, and smell its contents.

‘Is this chamomile?’

Chanyeol settles against the pillows with a hum, and turns onto his side to face you. ‘It’ll help you de-stress,’ he shrugs, before his hand snakes into the pocket of his hoodie. ‘I also got you this.’

He hands you something black, something plastic, and, in the dim light of the bedroom, it takes you a moment to recognize it.

‘A sleeping mask?’ You glance at him, confused.

‘With cucumber.’ Laying back to nestle into the bed, he pulls out his phone and yawns. ‘You’re always super hot on flights and you never sleep. So, just try this please.’

‘You’re a nerd,’ you murmur, glad he is distracted and unable to see the blush that is blooming beneath your cheeks.

‘And you are annoying,’ he retorts, peering up at you with a grin, tongue between his teeth.

Dropping the mask to your nightstand, you sigh, somewhat heavy for the light feeling in your chest. ‘But you love me.’

‘And you love me.’

It feels too raw to agree or acknowledge the statement, like saying anything will force you to say absolutely everything, and so instead you remain silent, keeping your tongue locked behind your teeth so as not to give yourself away.

Time passes steadily, your body relaxing simply because he is near and you can hear the even rise and fall of his breath. The rain and his quiet hums become a soundtrack for your slow sipping of the tea, scrolling through your phone mindlessly, unfocused, and running through your packing checklist once more. 

Eventually, Chanyeol puts his phone beneath a pillow and cuddles against you, resting his head on your shoulder as he watches you scroll. Sometimes, he reaches forward to tap the screen, teasing you by threatening to like pictures on Instagram that belong to people you know of, but do not really know. You fight him off weakly, push yourself away, tell him he’s being an ass, and warning that you will spill, but you don’t mean it. Not at all. The cup is empty, anyway.

After thirty minutes, you place your phone and mug on the nightstand beside the mask, turning over in the bed to face him. For a while, you say nothing, just admire the way his hair falls over his forehead and into his eyes, the small mole on his nose, the way his mouth pouts slightly, the way just seeing you seems to make him smile - or perhaps, he’s simply excited.

Pressing yourself closer to him, you yawn. ‘Did you remember your passport?’

Chanyeol rears back, eyes wide and lips parted in horror, paling in the wake of your words. Your stomach drops.

‘Chanyeol!’

‘Yes,’ he laughs, reaching out from under the blanket to tap your nose. ‘I remembered it.’

Rolling your eyes, you bury your face in the pillow. ‘We should sleep,’ you announce, voice muffled. ‘We have a long drive to the airport tomorrow.’

He nuzzles close, draping an arm over your waist to pull you into his chest. Curling against him with a happy sigh, you press your ear to his sternum to hear his heartbeat. It flutters, just once. ‘Do you think it’ll be raining like this in London?’ he ponders quietly as he draws lazy circles along your spine.

‘It might be,’ you murmur, instantly relaxing into his hold and feeling yourself slip into sleep.

‘I hope so,’ his whispers into your hair, tightening his hold on your body. ‘It’ll feel like tonight never ended.’

You didn’t think the mask would work, but it does. Somewhere over Iceland, you fall asleep against Chanyeol’s shoulder, soothed by the cool mask and his reassuring grip in your hand. Your body tilts into his until you are resting at his side, and he lifts his arm to pull you close, tucking the blanket beneath your chin. Sleeping, simply sleeping, with you is a quiet gift from the universe, one he relishes with his whole heart.

Because you are sleeping, he is free to watch you and free to want you without limitations. Always, he wants to touch you, has stop himself from stroking his thumb along your cheek and across your lips. Always, he has to remind himself that you are not his, you are not his touch nor his to have, but how he wants you. Oh, how he wants you with every beat of his weary heart.

You are not his, so when he sees the green and amber lights erupt just beyond the window, he nudges you awake. Bleary eyed and cranky, you whine for him to stop until he points, makes you see the lights and how they transform the earth into an alien thing, a new thing, something you cannot imagine existing within.

You are not his, so when he sees the Aurora Borealis, he nudges you awake simply so he can share one moment with you. One moment he can call ours.

Yeolo sent a Photo Yeolo[6:31 PM]: whats this YN[6:34 PM]: un stylo Yeolo sent a Photo Yeolo[6:35 PM]: ???? YN[6:36 PM]: un café Yeolo[6:37 PM]: how do i say map? YN[6:38 PM]: i already taught you that one lmao la carte Yeolo[6:39 PM]: train station YN[6:39 PM]: la gare YN[6:40 PM]: how do you say im lost Yeolo[6:41 PM]: uhhhhhhhh Yeolo[6:42 PM]: je me losté YN[6:43 PM]: INCORRECT Yeolo[6:43 PM]: T____T FRENCH IS HARD YN[6:44 PM]: weve been over this one: je suis perdu Yeolo[6:45 PM]: why do you just assume im going to get lost Yeolo[6:46 PM]: the other vocab is more fun :< YN[6:47 PM]: its not an assumption i have money riding on it with baek Yeolo[6:48 PM]: you guys are assholes YN[6:49 PM]: connards Yeolo sent a Photo Yeolo[6:51 PM]: what is this YN[6:52 PM]: un ananas YN[6:52 PM]: when are you ever going to need pineapple on this trip??? Yeolo[6:53 PM]: YOU NEVER KNOW Yeolo sent a Photo Yeolo[6:54 PM]: this? YN[6:59 PM]: moi YN[6:59 PM]: when did you take this?? i didnt even see you doing it Yeolo[7:01 PM]: at sooberrys bonfire last week Yeolo sent a photo Yeolo[7:02 PM]: AND THIS? YN[7:03 PM]: un branleur Yeolo[7:04 PM]: wait idk that word Yeolo[7:04 PM]: countess tell me what that means YN[7:06 PM] - Message sent with Loud Effect: COUNTESS? Yeolo[7:08 PM] - Sent with Slam Effect: HEY!! Yeolo[7:08 PM]: i googled! im not a wanker! YN sent a Video Yeolo[7:09 PM]: thats the most emasculating eye roll ive ever seen Yeolo[7:10 PM]: *cries loudly* YN[7:11 PM]: tell me why you called me countess Yeolo[7:13 PM]: no youre being mean :< YN sent a Photo Yeolo[7:14 PM]: stop pouting !!!! Yeolo[7:15 PM]: my heart !!! YN[7:17 PM]: fine YN[7:18 PM]: the correct word for that picture is très mignon Yeolo[7:19 PM]: CUTE! YOU THINK IM VERY CUTE YN[7:20 PM]: of course you know that and not the IMPORTANT WORDS

In the middle of the Notre Dame, Chanyeol slips his fingers between yours and squeezes. Several moments pass before you realize he’s done this, and you, shaken and trembling, are too weak to truly look up at him. You know how you look, wide eyed and trying not to cry, emotions running free and rampant, turning you into a vulnerable, fragile thing. Overwhelmed, is how you think you feel, body and heart too full of beautiful things to truly process everything in front of you. Looking at Chanyeol would cause the dam inside you to fissure, shattering just enough to release the deluge, and you don’t think you are strong enough to survive such an onslaught of emotional veracity. Not today, at least. Not when everything around you is so perfectly quiet. 

Leading you over to a pew, he sits beside you but does not let go of your hand. For one hour, you remain in silence. It’s the longest you think he’s ever gone without saying a word, and when you finally gather the strength to look at him, when you finally think you truly could be brave, if only so you could keep his after image alive in your mind for eternity, you see that he looks just the same as you.

Reverence has settled on and underneath his skin, giving him an ethereal glow from the inside out. The sun pours through the stained glass windows, and the bronze and honey of the wood polish seem to seek out his shades, eager to make shadows beneath his cheekbones; they turn him into an angelic thing, a holy thing, something that makes you feel the true definition of awe. It hurts to see him like this, you think, to see his lips, so full and pink as the blood races through his body, fighting to keep and carry all his emotions beneath the blanket of his flesh. It hurts to see him like this, looking almost naked and fragile, just like you.

It hurts to see him and not be able to call him yours, so you tell him things that belong to neither of you, only to souls long passed. Doing this makes it easy, makes suffering the the pain of true adoration feel somewhat weightless because you can almost imagine this too shall pass. Hands built this cathedral, fingers laid all the stained glass into intricate patterns, and the whole length of their life seemed infinite and paradoxically brief. Someone must have loved like this, felt devoted to a thing that could not love them back, and they lived - or, perhaps, they died and, if they died, it was not by the hands of love.

You tell him of the French Revolution and the cloister windows; you tell him of the organ, and its 32-key pedalboard. You tell him of all these things, hoping that the lives and the wars and the names of the all the people who suffered to build, and rebuild the cathedral can also build, and rebuild your heart.

You tell him all these things and, as you do, he watches. You point to the windows, discussing with yourself how they were destroyed during the revolution when the cathedral was used as a storage warehouse for food, and how even the restoration couldn’t get the art quite the same. Chanyeol listens, but he does not want to look at them, not when he’s looking at you. Between his fingers, your small hand squeezes and jitters, shaking his in excitement to show him something new, but still he only sees you.

He’s not sure why no one else seems to notice, how simply being in this church has suddenly given you wings. Thousands of names run up and into his mouth, through his mind, and he wants to give them to you, wants them to spill out and over for everyone to hear. He wants to call you Angel, wants to call you Goddess, wants to call you nothing at all because something this pure and this holy should never be tarnished by his tongue.

He wants to call you everything so instead he calls you mes tous.

He knows it’s wrong, rather, thinks it is wrong, but when he’s looking at you, he simply cannot fathom any other term.

For him, you are everything, and nothing else will ever compare.

Yeolo[11:32 AM]: countess YN[11:33 AM]: this text better be about lolla tix Yeolo[11:33 AM]: it is not YN[11:34 AM]: GOD DAMMIT YN[11:34 AM]: T______T YN[11:35 AM]: i hate meetings YN[11:36 AM]: im so sad now Yeolo[11:37 AM]: i know baby i know Yeolo[11:38 AM]: but whats the name of that place you stayed in last year Yeolo[11:39 AM]: for the fest YN[11:40 AM]: the hi chicago hostel YN[11:41 AM]: why YN[11:42 AM]: i am NOT making shithead baek reservations if he got tix YN[11:43 AM]: maybe i will for yixing YN[11:43 AM]: because i am nice Yeolo sent a Photo YN[11:44 AM]: PARK CHANYEOL YN[11:45 AM]: YOU BETTER NOT BE FUCKING WITH ME Yeolo[11:46 AM]: I AM NOT FUCKING WITH YOU BABY YN[11:47 AM]: YOU GOT THEM Yeolo[11:48 AM]: I GOT THEM BABY WERE GOING YN wants to FaceTime

The rain in Chicago is biblical, pouring out of a chasm in the sky in torrents. You could drown in it, you think, if you let yourself go, let it take you over. Like this, it’s easy to associate it with Chanyeol, to assume that it’s him in the rain; it’s him soaking you with wet kisses that cover your hair. It covers you how Chanyeol covers you: completely, warm against your skin and never feeling like a threat, simply cleansing - your body and your mind, making you feel free, making you feel new. The rain feels like Chanyeol, and so you welcome it, let it run down your neck, let it pour into your lungs, and over your skin, baptising yourself in his essence before he comes to wipe his holy residue away.

With the festival over, Chanyeol takes your hand and starts leading you through the crowd to exit the park. He doesn’t say anything, just glances down at you and smiles, squinting through the rain, though his grip never slips. Even in the dark of the night and in between the thick drops, you can see him, radiating like a beacon, calling you to him, a lighthouse for the lonely ship of your ardor.

Standing on Michigan Ave, you cock your head back, letting people push past and grumble at your stillness, and try to keep all of this with you, within you. The city, the weather, the music, his touch, his hands, his mouth. You think on Chanyeol’s arms as they held you, swayed with you to your favourite songs. You think on his laugh as he ran from stage to stage, forcing you to keep up with his long stride. You think of how he fell asleep in your lap, curled up on a blanket beneath a tree, cuddling into you for comfort.

These things, these important, meaningful things, are carved into your bones, and you think they were drawn by Chicago itself. Leaving means tearing out your ribs and leaving them behind. Leaving means going back to how things are, to reality, to the realization that Chanyeol is not yours. And you cannot expect him to be.

Tugging on your hand, Chanyeol waits patiently before you as you open your eyes, and you smile. Rain glides down his nose, dripping off at the tip, making him chuckle. Intensely, he holds your gaze, does not waver and instead looks into you, as though he is seeking your heart, seeking your blood, and asking for both with only his eyes. With parted lips, he breathes through his mouth, as though he has run a mile to get to you, perhaps run for his whole life to have you with him.

A tether has started to spawn between your chests, growing into steel cable and pulling you to him, as though he is a magnet. You step closer forcing your steps to be cautious, your anxious feet wanting to run to him, run through him to say you have been inside him, and left your name behind on all his brightest and ugliest parts. And when he steps closer, gaze dark and chest heaving and hands seeking the wet skin of your arms, you think maybe you could speak, if only to keep him with you, like this, for just one minute more.

‘Let’s not go home.’ It’s neither a question nor a plea, simply a wish, simply a door to an alternate reality you wish you could unlock.

But Chanyeol, already having learned to be brave for you, slides his hands from your arms to your cheeks, and thinks he could do it again. ‘I already am home.’

He presses your lips together without caution, without fear, as if it’s the only thing he’s known how to do in his life. Tilting your head to the side, you open for him, and feel him growl into your mouth as he crushes your body against his, hands moving to splay against your back. You are glad for his tight hold, your knees starting to shake and your hands fisting in his shirt for purchase. He holds you up and supports you with ease, swallows your moans with the whole of his greedy throat, and devours you as though he could never have his fill. Lips moving in unison, you suck on his bottom lip, relishing how soft and smooth the skin feels against your hungry mouth, and this makes him part, gasping for breath.

‘Chanyeol,’ you try, though your voice sounds weak and broken.

Pressing his forehead against yours, he closes his eyes and tries to speak. ‘I call you Countess,’ he croaks, voice tight and small as he struggles to catch his breath and not to cry.

You nod, unable to offer anything else, skin sliding against his. ‘Yes.’

Shaking his head, he pulls away from you for a moment but does not let you go. ‘It comes from the French comte, and that comes from Latin meaning companion,’ he attempts to explain, the words sounding lackluster and unconfident in his haste. ‘You are...that and...I listen to you.’

‘You’re not makin sense, dove,’ you say, lacing your tone with compassion as you bring a palm to his cheek.

‘You don’t think I listen but I do.’ He nuzzles into your palm with a content sigh, closing his eyes for a moment before pressing a wet kiss to your palm and continuing. ‘I hang off every fucking word you say, commit it to memory. I’m always wanting you to say things twice: first so I can learn it and second just so I can hear you say it. I just want to hear it.’

‘Ch-’

‘I’m in love with you.’

Chanyeol announces the words like they’re a jumble of syllables he’s never had to use and is only now learning how to phrase them, or how to shape them. In the wake of their cadence, he takes in your wide, shocked eyes, and realizes he loves them. He loves how they sound on his tongue, loves how they make you look, and so he says them again.

‘I’m so in love with you,’ he repeats, this time slower, and this time making sure you hear. You have the passing sensation he looks like he could float away, awed smile on his lips as he regards you and eyes blown with desire, dark and purely euphoric. ‘It took me forever to figure it out because I’ve never felt this way before, it honestly feels like I could die or I could live forever, like just breathing around you is a risk but fuck, I’ve never felt more alive just standing next to you, just existing beside you.’

The ground seemingly disappears from beneath your feet at his confession, voice gone off in search of the terrain you once knew so well. A shiver runs through your body, though you cannot tell if it is simply of the rain or because of the things he is saying. Unable to do or think through anything, you merely stare, hold onto his shoulders and try not to whimper at the way he whines at the loss of your skin against his.

‘I think I’ve been in love with you since I met you,’ he continues, ‘when the Empress brought you to JD’s party, remember? How I didn’t stop standing next to you or trying to talk to you? You thought I was clingy, maybe I am, but I just wanted to share everything with you. And you already had a boyfriend. He was such a shithead. I hated him first because he had you and then most because he hurt you. The first time I heard you crying on the couch I sat against my door and listened. I wanted to die and then I wanted to go kill him. You did that for weeks, until I needed you in my bed. I couldn’t take it, I just wanted to hold you.’

Running his hands along your cheeks, he kisses your forehead, as your eyes flutter shut with a sight. Then he brings his lips to your nose, your cheeks, your eyes, and, lastly, your lips.

‘I always want to hold you,’ he whispers, breath warm against your mouth as he lingers close. ‘I can’t sleep without you. I don’t deserve you. At all. You’re beautiful, you’re smart, you’re funny, half the time you look like a fucking angel. I keep fucking up things I want to say because you look at me and it’s like my whole life is suddenly shifting. I don’t deserve you, and you can do so much better than me, so we travel. I give you the world because you deserve that, and at least that I get to share.’

It takes you a long while to find your voice, your hands playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck as he presses chaste kisses against your lips. He’s scared, you can feel it in the way he trembles against you, body exhilarated from his confession and terrified, now, of rejection. He’s scared you will push him away, and so he takes what he can get from your mouth and your skin, having his fill to keep it inside for always, even after you are gone.

Much the same, you press your body close to his, letting his cologne linger on your tongue and inside your blood. For you, he is a contact high, a shot of adrenaline straight to your heart that makes the world seem better, seem brighter, simply because he is there to change the spectrum of your vision. And so you take your time simply touching him, touching all the things you’ve felt before without really letting yourself feel them.

‘I decide what I deserve,’ you mutter quietly against his jaw.

This seems to shock him into action, his body careening into yours as he buries his face into your neck. ‘I want you,’ he cries, in relief. ‘Oh my God, I want you.’

‘I’m yours,’ you whisper, pulling his head from your neck and kissing him, first with your soul and then with your mouth. ‘I’m yours.’