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studioeisa · 7 months ago

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babe for the weekend ❄️ soonyoung x reader.

Everybody thought that you and Kwon Soonyoung were a foregone conclusion, but then he had to go and change the ending. Six years after the breakup, he decides to come home for the holidays— and now, you’re stuck between your pride, his dreams, and the road not taken. ‘Tis the damn season, indeed.

୨ৎ pairing: dance studio ceo!soonyoung x lawyer!f!reader. ୨ৎ genre/warnings: hurt/comfort, angst, romance. alternate universe: non-idol. mentions of food, alcohol consumption, swearing/cussing. post-breakup dynamics and quarter-life crises. high school lovers to exes. law terms. spiteful reader. rated T for languages and themes. title and synopsis shamelessly reference taylor swift's t'is the damn season. ୨ৎ word count: 16.6k ୨ৎ footnotes: this is part of @camandemstudios's winter with you collaboration! ´◡` thank you so much for trusting me with soonyoung. also eternally grateful to @shinwonderful and @biniaiahs for beta reading. may revisit this to do edits in the future, but for now, we settle.

in the words of a, i am the 'harbringer of doom and angst.' happy holidays, everyone! + tag list in the comments.

⋆˚ 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ winter with you masterlist ┆ my masterlist ┆ the official babe for the weekend playlist.

This has to be the universe’s idea of a joke.

It’s like the time your professor refused to round up your grade in college and you almost got set back a semester. Or that one day at work, where the forecast said it would be sunny— only for you to get caught in a downpour on your way home.

The universe had to be an aspiring amateur comedian, because why else would Kwon Soonyoung be in front of you right now?

“What?” Soonyoung chirps. “No ‘hello’ for your favorite ex?”

Six years. It’s been six years since you last saw each other, and those are the opening words he decides to go with.

You’re torn between smacking him upside on the head and strangling him. Maybe both, you muse, as you survey the ways he’s changed over time.

His hair is blonde now. His once-pale skin is a little more tan. And— as much as you loathe to admit it— he looks more fit. You can vaguely make out the muscles straining underneath his casual wear.

Dancer’s build, you begrudgingly concede.

When Soonyoung calls you out in a bid to snap you out of your daydream, you physically flinch. Your name still rolls right off his tongue like honey. You don’t have the right to call me that, a small, bitter voice says in the back of your mind. You don’t have the right to talk to me at all.

“Hellooo,” he sing-songs, waving one of his palms inches away from your face. “Did you have a stroke or something?”

That prompts you to speak.

After all that time, your first words to Soonyoung in six years are cold and curt: “Get out.”

A corner of Soonyoung’s mouth twitches upward. The infuriating bastard. He probably anticipated a reaction like this from you.

He straightens until he can shove his hands into the pockets of his winter coat. “I don’t see any signs that say I’m not allowed to be here,” he says. “Did I miss it?”

He makes a whole show of looking around your family’s restaurant. A part of you is grateful that you’re the only one on today’s shift; your parents would’ve undoubtedly had over-the-top reactions to Soonyoung’s sudden reappearance. It’s only through years of conditioning that you’ve learned to keep your reactions under control, even when the world throws you curveballs such as these.

Your expression is perfectly blank as you dryly note, “There’s a sign out on the front, actually.”

“Oh? Really?”

“Yeah. No strays allowed.”

Soonyoung shakes his head. “Brutal,” he says, but there’s still that hint of a smile on his face.

If you strained your ears, you might hear the trace of affection in his tone. The thought of it— of Soonyoung holding any sort of fondness for you— makes you want to scream.

You manage to tamp that urge in favor of jerking your head towards the front door of the restaurant. “Out,” you repeat, your gaze briefly flickering to the CCTV in the corner of the store.

Your father would probably kill you if he found out you were turning someone away. A supposed family friend, at that. But this wasn’t just a customer, and you weren’t sure if you could still call Soonyoung a friend, and it’s been six years, damn it.

“Is that any way to treat a customer?” Soonyoung goads.

“You’re not a customer.”

“You haven’t given me the chance to be.”

“That’s because you’re not welcome here.”

“It’s pretty bad for business that—”

That wasn’t going to fly. You weren’t about to take business advice from Kwon Soonyoung of all people.

One minute, you’re behind the counter with your hands clenched into fists. The next, you’ve closed the space between you and Soonyoung. He falters as you approach, looking almost like he’s holding his breath.

It’s not a slap that greets him. Most definitely not a hug, either.

Instead, one of your hands dart out until you’ve got a firm grip on his ear.

Soonyoung is still taller than you, but he folds over at your rough tug. “Ow, ow, ow!” he screeches, his own hands flying out of his pockets in a futile attempt to either push you off or shield himself.

In his split second of indecision, you manage to haul him back over to the entrance. Because you had been manning the fort, you hadn’t even noticed that it had started to snow. The first of the year.

You don’t have the time to appreciate it. Your focus is entirely on channeling your energy to shove Soonyoung out of the restaurant. He stumbles out on the sidewalk where he rubs his offended ear with a scandalized expression on his face.

A lesser man might have snapped back, might have demanded an explanation for being manhandled so shamelessly. To your sheer annoyance, Soonyoung only laughs.

It’s a full-bodied sound, one that practically bounces off the street. He laughs, and he laughs, and he laughs, clutching at his stomach like this is the funniest thing in the world.

Remember how, earlier, you thought you might scream? Now, you truly almost do. Because the years have passed— but Soonyoung still laughs exactly the same.

You don’t stick around to find out if you do end up yelling. Instead, you march right back into the restaurant with your chin jut up in a show of confidence. You can hear him trying to choke out words between his laughing fit, something akin to, “Hey, wait—,” but you’re not about to hear him out.

Not today, not ever.

It’s the most satisfying feeling in the world, getting to slam the door in his face.

“Why did you come home?”

“I got hungry.”

“ — tried to give me business advice! Me, business advice!”

You punctuate your exclamation with a slap to your office table. Jihoon and Wonwoo are a little too familiar with your fits of passion to be surprised; Wonwoo barely looks up from his round of Block Blast, while Jihoon only shakes his head.

“Sounds like something he would do,” Jihoon offers empathetically.

You lean back into your chair, your expression contorted into one of utter frustration. The three of you rarely meet in your office, but you had called a DEFCON 1 situation in light of recent events. Jihoon and Wonwoo lounged leisurely in front of you as you ranted your heart away for the past thirty or so minutes.

“Who does he think he is?” you seethe. “Showing up here unannounced!”

Wonwoo pipes up. “It wasn’t unannounced.”

Jihoon silences Wonwoo with a warning glare. You can only glance between the two boys before Jihoon heaves out a sigh and admits, “We knew that he was coming back to visit.”

The look of betrayal on your face must be clear as day, because Wonwoo guiltily pauses his game to flash you a sheepish grin. “We met up with him— yesterday, was it?”

Yesterday. “And you didn’t tell me?!” Your voice is a little shrill and a whole lot incredulous.

Ever the pragmatic one, Jihoon quips, “You’ve always said that you want nothing to do with him. I presumed that involved knowing whether or not he was coming home.”

Damn it. Jihoon got you there.

You’re not sure what you would’ve even done, really, if you’d been given a heads up. Would you have boarded up the doors to your home? Would you have sought him out yourself in a prideful bid to maintain some twisted sort of upper hand?

You’re still mulling it over when Wonwoo delicately says, “Look at the bright side. You probably won’t run into him again.”

Jihoon attempts to distract you by getting you to talk about your most recent client— a stubborn chicken shop significantly behind on mortgage payments. You give in, if only because you want so very badly to believe in Wonwoo’s words.

You should’ve known better, really, because of course your friends would lie to you.

That’s the only thought on your mind as you keep your eyes firmly ahead and away from the smirking blonde in your peripheral vision. Already, you’re contemplating the bodily harm you’ll cause Jihoon and Wonwoo for leaving out this vital piece of information.

But you can’t be wrathful. Not in front of the kids.

The gaggle of twenty-something elementary students sit cross-legged on the floor, their gazes all trained on the newcomer. They’re whispering excitedly among themselves, so much so that Teacher Kang has to clap more than thrice to recapture their attention.

“Now, everyone,” Teacher Kang announces. “Do you remember what I said about having a very special guest for today?”

A high-pitched chorus of “Yes, Teacher Kang,” resounds throughout the auditorium.

“Very good. Can we please give a warm welcome to Teacher Kang’s friend, Soonyoung?”

Soonyoung makes his way to the front of the gaggle with an easy grin and a relaxed gait, like he belongs here. And maybe a part of him does. This was his turf once, too.

“‘Soonyoung’ is a bit long, isn’t it?” he says, speaking to both Teacher Kang and the kids in front of them. It’s a small grace that he isn’t calling you out just yet, though you wouldn’t put him past it.

“Everybody!” Soonyoung proclaims. There’s a bit of a flourish in how he moves, how he looks down at the awe-stricken kids with a bright, wide smile. He puts up one hand to his face and bends his fingers in an imitation of a paw. “You can call me Hoshi!”

The kids echo it back to him— “Teacher Hoshi!” “Hello, Mr. Hoshi!” “What’s a Hoshi?”— while Teacher Kang only smiles fondly. For your part, you keep your expression perfectly controlled, even though you’re telepathically trying to get Soonyoung to combust.

It’s one thing for him to waltz back into your life like it’s nothing. It’s another thing for him to come around and introduce himself with the pet name you used to have for him.

Suddenly, you’re teenagers again, visiting the zoo on a field trip. The two of you had tried so hard to hide from your chaperones that you were holding hands in the pockets of your winter coats. In hindsight, it had been the most obvious thing in the world.

Soonyoung had excitedly pointed out the Bengal tigers lounging in their enclosure, and you joked about how similar he looked to them. 호랑이의 시선. Horangi-ui siseon, the tiger’s gaze.

Soon after, you took to calling him Hoshi when he was on stage, when the two of you were arguing over something petty, when you wanted to be affectionate. Hoshi, let’s get ice cream today. Hoshi, take me to the library. Hoshi, I love you!

Something that was once yours alone was now everybody else’s, too. It bothers you more than you care to admit.

You’re so caught up in reminiscing that you almost miss Teacher Kang saying, “Soonyoung— er, Hoshi— is going to help us with the Christmas showcase. He’s a very popular dancer in Seoul, so we’re happy to have him here.”

The betrayal that rises up within you is sharp albeit short-lived. Teacher Kang didn’t owe you a warning the same way that, say, Jihoon or Wonwoo might’ve. But still. Any indication at all would have been nice.

One of the younger students— an absolute sweetheart by the name of Iseul— tugs at your pant leg. You lean down so she can cup her little hand over your ear.

“Do you know Mr. Hoshi?” she whispers conspiratorially.

How fitting, for a five-year-old to pose the million-won question. It’s a loaded gun of a query even though there’s technically no right or wrong answer.

Of course you knew ‘Mr. Hoshi’. Your mothers were best friends. The two of you were in the same classes. You dated him throughout high school. You knew him well, like the back of your hand.

That was before he got up and left without so much of a glance over his shoulder, though.

You give Iseul a tight-lipped smile. “I knew him once,” you answer. It’s not quite the truth, but it will have to do for now.

“Why did you come home?”

“Took a wrong turn and ended up here.”

“Are you going to ignore me the whole time, or…?”

You answer Soonyoung’s prodding by ignoring him.

The past week has been largely uneventful, sans Soonyoung’s occasional effort to poke his nose into your business. He at least had the decency to not show up at your family’s restaurant again, and whether or not he knows of your office is yet to be seen.

Your interactions with him have been largely limited to the one-hour a day that you’ve dedicated to Yangjeong Elementary School.

Yangjeong was yet another thing that the two of you shared. You were once a pig-tailed menace who outran all the boys on the playground, and Soonyoung was your snot-nosed partner-in-crime.

Planning Yangjeong’s Christmas showcase has been your yearly commitment for as long as you can remember. Even when you were off at college, you had made it a point to set aside time for it. Volunteers have come and gone throughout the past, though this year’s volunteer was undeniably one of the more annoying ones.

“You’re going to have to talk to me eventually, you know.” Soonyoung practically flops himself onto the desk in front of you, the sudden weight of him making the table creak. As you turn your face away, you catch sight of the pout beginning to form on his lips.

You almost snipe at him, something along the lines of stop that or grow up or that doesn’t work on me anymore. You hold your tongue, in favor of wordlessly getting up to move to a different chair.

Soonyoung is right. You will have to talk to him soon enough.

But as you sit as far away from him as possible, readying yourself for the day ahead, you can at least decide that today will not be that day.

Preparations for the showcase involve discussing the program with the teachers and readying the students for their performances. It’s never anything spectacular— just your run-of-the-mill rotation of tone-deaf singing and middling dances— but the town’s overzealous parents are always more than happy to indulge the show.

Today, you and Soonyoung are set to meet with Teacher Kang to discuss the showcase’s overarching theme.

The sixty-something-year-old woman had been your teacher as well, and so it’s understandable why she’s eyeing the pair of you with poorly concealed amusement. There’s a palpable tension between you and Soonyoung, though a significant majority of the awkwardness is likely from your end.

“Have the two of you not kept in touch?” Teacher Kang asks as she sets down two mugs— coffee for you, hot chocolate for Soonyoung.

“No,” the two of you say simultaneously.

Soonyoung steals an all-too obvious glance. You keep your eyes on the coffee in front of you.

Teacher Kang— bless her heart— decides not to push it. She settles in her own seat, her hands wrapped around a cup of tea.

“The principal wants all the kids to do a number. Nothing too flashy, but something that will give everyone a chance to be on stage.” The elderly teacher sips at her drink before going on. “That’s why I called you in, Soonyoung.”

“I’m the reinforcements,” he jokes.

Teacher Kang gives a short laugh in response. “Something like that.”

She turns to you, then, with that same motherly simper that you’ve never been able to say ‘no’ to. You wonder if she’s doing this on purpose— pulling all the stops to get you to agree to what she’s going to say next.

“I know your hands are going to be full with the program and the staffing,” she starts. “But you’ll work with Soonyoung, won’t you?”

What kind of person would you be if you said ‘no’? If you threw a fit and demanded for Soonyoung to be thrown out?

“Of course,” you say, the word gritted out through your teeth.

At your side, Soonyoung lets out a loud cough to disguise his grumble of ‘bullshit’. You fight the urge to kick him in the shins.

The beguiling expression on Teacher Kang’s face is merciless. At this point, she’s no longer hiding the way that she’s watching you and Soonyoung’s heatless bickering. And when she comments on it, when she says “You two haven’t changed,” you almost walk out then and there.

I’ve changed, you want to insist. He’s changed. We’re both changed; we had to.

Otherwise, it wouldn’t have been worth it. The breakup, the distance, all of it.

Soonyoung recovers before you do.

“Ah, before I forget!” He digs for something in his pants pocket, which he eventually holds out for Teacher Kang. “You asked me for this, the last time we saw each other.”

Despite yourself, you can’t help but try and crane your neck to catch sight of what had been handed over. Soonyoung catches the small shift and huffs out a laugh.

“You could just ask, you know,” he says, reaching back into his pocket.

Your protest of “I don’t—” is cut off by him shoving the same thing in your hand. Your fingers close around the calling card bearing the illustration of a tiger and a string of unfamiliar numbers.

Hoshi, A.K.A Kwon Soonyoung, it also says. Chief Executive Officer, Eye of the Tiger Dance Studio. B1, 47, Dogok-ro 27-Gil, Gangnam-Gu, Seoul.

“So you know where to find me,” he says with the world’s most obnoxious smirk.

“Why did you come home?”

“I forgot something.”

“From six years ago?”

“From six years ago.”

Everybody thought that you and Soonyoung were a foregone conclusion.

It had been your stereotypical small town romance. You were kids together and then you were teenagers together. Some might have blamed it on forced proximity, but you like to think that the attraction and affection was real. That it wasn’t a matter of not having any other choice.

You had chosen Soonyoung happily. He had chosen you right back.

After an awkward dance of ‘will-they-won’t-they,’ the two of you started dating in your freshman year of high school. It was the type of thing that had everybody— your respective families, your mutual friends— breathing a sigh of relief. Something akin to finally.

For nearly four years, Soonyoung was it for you.

He was the one walking you home, the one you messed around with behind the library building. The two of you shared nearly every first that mattered. Every first that a high schooler could afford, anyway.

First date.

First kiss.

And, so it goes— first heartbreak.

Soonyoung had worn his heart on his sleeve; it was abundantly clear to everyone what he cared about. Two things in particular defined him: You, and dancing.

If you really tried, you can still remember the first time that Soonyoung had choreographed a dance himself. He had been young, scrappy, hungry— all the qualities that made it possible for him to tear up the stage and leave the rest of you in awe.

He went on to be president of your school’s modern dance club. He went on to compete, both in groups and by himself, and win.

You picked up on it, too, if only to indulge him. The two of you had your fair share of semi-viral dance covers and podium finishes at local contests. It was yet another testament to your partnership, to what everyone presumed would spell out endgame.

Except you only loved to dance, while Soonyoung lived for it.

“Come with me,” he had invited you the night before your high school graduation.

The two of you were supposed to be in bed, but your phone buzzed underneath your pillow and you couldn’t resist one last act of rebellion. You climbed out your window and met up with Soonyoung at your typical halfway point— the derelict playground the two of you have long since grown out of.

“To where?” you asked, your sandaled feet dragging through the sand beneath the swing. Uncharacteristically, Soonyoung hadn’t kicked off at all, instead opting to remain still.

His fingers had been tightly clenched around the rusting chain of the dated swing. You remember that much. In hindsight, he looked nervous.

There is a timeline where he might have proposed to you that night, might have asked for an early hand in marriage, with how on edge he was acting.

But, instead, you had prompted, “Have you finally decided on a uni?”

A beat.

His voice— soft and vulnerable— broke the silence of the February evening. “I’m not going to uni.”

You should have stopped swinging, then. Should have ground to a halt and grabbed Soonyoung by the shoulders. Should have called him crazy, insane.

Maybe you should have asked him to reconsider. That might have changed things.

Except you only kept on pushing. Back, forth. Back, forth. Like this was just a normal conversation and not a relationship-defining, life-altering moment for the two of you.

“I’m going to Seoul,” he elaborated, desperate to fill your silence. “I’m going to try and be a dancer. You— you could, too.”

Your answer was immediate. “I’m not as good as you.”

“You are,” he argued. A muscle in his jaw jumped, then. You’d known him for long enough to recognize his little tells and ticks, and that had been one of them. An indicator of a lie.

“I’m not.” You kept swinging, kept your face angled away from your boyfriend who was slipping through your fingers. “I’m going to uni, Soonyoung.”

“But—”

“But what?”

You’ll never admit this, but you had been cruel back then. You know that now.

There are things you would have done differently. You wouldn’t have snapped. You would have looked at him.

You were young, though, and angry. Your heart had been shattering in your chest and the only thing you could do was go back and forth on that creaking swing as Soonyoung tried to get through to you.

It hadn’t been that much of a surprise. Soonyoung’s general disinterest in college applications— and his constant rumblings about city life— had given you some idea of what his plans might be.

You just thought you would be more involved in it. That you wouldn’t be simply handed the decision, as if it were something you would have to accept.

Young, angry, and selfish to boot.

“Nothing.” Soonyoung eventually said. His words sounded like a concession, like some form of twisted acceptance. “You’ll go to uni.”

“And you’ll go to Seoul.”

In your peripheral vision, you had seen Soonyoung tilt his head away as if trying to hide his face from you. Six years is a long time ago. You can’t tell if he had cried, or maybe you’ve chosen to erase that from your memory.

“I’ll go,” Soonyoung repeated, an edge of defeat in his tone.

You swung, and swung, and swung, like it was the only thing keeping you tethered.

Back, forth. Back, forth.

The quiet had stretched, giving you a chance, an opportunity. To convince him otherwise. To change your own mind.

But—

“And I’ll stay,” you had responded.

That’s the thing about endings: They’re susceptible to change.

The first civil words you utter to Soonyoung are “Yeah, I think the kids will enjoy Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.”

He’d been spewing out prospects for the showcase’s group dance, though each idea had to be delicately shot down by Teacher Kang. Jingle Bell Rock? Performed three years ago. Baby, It’s Cold Outside? Perhaps not the most appropriate for children.

You can see from a mile away, the signs of Soonyoung’s growing frustration— the downturn of his lips, the furrow of his brows. When he recommends the Maria Carey classic, you throw him a bone. Just to try and wipe that look off his face.

You immediately regret your kindness, because Soonyoung’s head whips around and he looks at you with the most disbelieving, wide-eyed expression. You return the overreaction with a half-hearted glare.

“What?” you ask defensively.

“It’s—” He pauses, his eyes flicking to Teacher Kang. “Nothing, nothing.”

His jaw ticks. All that time apart and he’s still never learned how to get better at lying.

You don’t have to poke and prod to know what’s coming. Once your little meeting draws to a close— Teacher Kang eventually agreeing with Santa Claus Is Coming to Town— Soonyoung makes a beeline for your side, his excitement barely concealed.

“Is the world ending?” he asks you.

You attempt to shoulder past him, but he only follows you out of the classroom, sticking to your side. “You said we would have to talk eventually,” you point out. “Here’s your ‘eventually’. Don’t be too happy about it.”

“But I am happy about it,” he responds, his tone almost like that of a whining puppy. “Not too much. Just an appropriate amount.”

So help me, God.

You keep your gaze ahead as you walk out of the school. Soonyoung matches your pace, humming underneath his breath. You better watch out, you better not cry. You better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why.

Once the two of you are out the front doors of the school, you’re greeted to a light dusting of snow on Namyangju’s sidewalks.

“So,” Soonyoung says casually as you pull out your phone to check the weather for the rest of the day. “You don’t work full-time at your parents’ restaurant, do you?”

Involuntarily, a derisive snort of laughter escapes you. “Small talk? Really?”

There’s a boyish grin on Soonyoung’s face. “Gotta take advantage of you being chatty,” he shoots back, which only prompts you to shake your head.

You could ignore him, like you always have. You probably should. That had always been Soonyoung’s style.

Give him an inch and he’ll take a mile.

And yet—

“No,” you grumble, your eyes still absentmindedly scanning your weather app. “I only work at the restaurant part-time.”

“The rest of the time?”

“I didn’t realize this was going to be a talk show.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m primetime’s most charming host—”

“Law. I work at a law firm.”

The answer is ripped from you in a bid to avoid Soonyoung’s theatrics, and you find yourself blinking with mild surprise, like you hadn’t prepared to divulge the detail at all. Soonyoung notices, and his lips curl in a smug smirk.

“I know,” he says simply. “Jihoon told me.”

You make a mental note to berate your mutual friend as you exasperatedly say, “Why did you ask, then?”

“Because I wanted to hear it from you.”

Soonyoung lets his words hang, linger, before he goes on. It’s just four words, what he utters next, but it still threatens to tilt your world on its axis.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You’ve heard your fair share of the platitude throughout the years. From Jihoon and Wonwoo, when you first got into law school. From your parents, when you passed the bar exam. From Teacher Kang, every December, when the Christmas showcase is pulled off.

This is something entirely different. This has you shoving your phone back into your bag, just to hide the way your hand had begun to twitch at the words.

“You can’t say stuff like that to your ex,” you snap.

Soonyoung’s answer comes without a moment’s hesitation. “Why? Being exes doesn’t take away the fact that I’m proud of you.”

Too much, too much, too much. It’s too much for your pride, your emotions, your heart. You wish you could take this for what it is— a compliment, some kindness— but the history goes deep, and the words feel like a scab being picked.

You do what you do best. You turn on your heel and begin to walk away.

Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t follow you. But he’s nothing if not vexatious, so he squeezes in a sing-song cry of “Byeee, attorney!” as you leave.

You quicken your pace just a little bit more.

Jihoon has the tendency to look like a kicked puppy when he’s being told off.

He doesn’t pout, no, but the expression on his face is a close thing as you give him grief over telling Soonyoung about you. Wonwoo, stuck in the middle as per usual, only calmly cuts into his lunch.

“Why did you have to tell Soonyoung about my work, huh?” you demand as you slice a little too forcefully into your bulgogi. “Giving him free ammunition or something?”

Jihoon finally gets a word in edgewise. “It’s because he asks about you,” he deadpans.

The thought of it is so insane that you bark out a laugh. The retort— bullshit!— is right on the tip of your tongue, but it dies out when Wonwoo bobs his head up and down.

Wonwoo has always been the less likely of the two to lie to you. You’re still a bit baffled even as the bespectacled man confirms, “Yeah. He asks me, too.”

“Asks what?”

“How you’re doing.” Wonwoo is so nonchalant about the whole affair that you’re tempted to call him out, too, but the lack of teasing in his tone gives you some sense of where his head is at. “What you’re up to. Stuff like that.”

Kwon Soonyoung has kept tabs on you.

In the years that you’ve tried to bury the memory of your friendship, of your relationship, Kwon Soonyoung has kept tabs.

“He—” You clear your throat when your voice comes out a little more high-pitched than usual. If Jihoon and Wonwoo notice, they mercifully don’t call you out.

You manage, “He could have just reached out to me.”

Jihoon, who had taken advantage of the reprieve to shovel some spoonfuls of rice into his mouth, swallows hard before speaking.

“Would you have answered?” he inquires, one eyebrow arched upward.

The truth— rarely plain, never simple— lies in a single, two-lettered word. No. No, you probably wouldn’t have answered. And even though you want to defend yourself, to claim otherwise, both Jihoon and Wonwoo would only do what you had wanted to do earlier. Call bullshit.

You let out a groan of defeat, slumping forward until your forehead has planted on the table in front of you.

“No further questions, Your Honor,” Wonwoo chirps, and though you can’t see him, you can already imagine the smirk that he’s sporting.

“Why did you come home?”

“I thought there would be a high school reunion. I think I got the date wrong.”

The abundance of existing routines for Santa Claus Is Coming to Town makes it somewhat easier for you and Soonyoung to dumb it down for the kids.

You spend the next week keeping the students in line as Soonyoung teaches them how to shimmy, how to slide, how to do jazz hands. Every so often, you catch him at a loss— like when one of the younger boys tries to eat a crayon, or when the kids go into a scream-filled debate about the existence of Santa Claus.

These are things you’re used to. These are things you can handle.

Taking the crayons away or assuring the kids that Santa Claus is real is far, far easier than being in forced proximity with the one that got away. You’re reminded of that, now, as Soonyoung taps out for a breather and you sub in to go over the routine with the kids once more.

They’re more prone to listening to you, and so you easily get one run of the song down without a hitch. In the years that you’ve voluntarily choreographed for the showcase, you’ve never thought too much about the technicalities of your skill. You danced well enough to teach, to pull off a decent, child-appropriate routine. That had been enough.

But with the scrutinizing eyes of dance studio CEO ‘Hoshi’ following your every move, you feel that simmer of competitiveness in your stomach.

After three more runs of the number with the children, you let them go. As you go to catch your breath over one of the auditorium’s bleachers, you’re surprised by a hand holding out a Cool Blue Raspberry Gatorade.

“Is this still your poison?” Soonyoung asks with a hint of amusement as he settles into the space next to you.

You don’t answer. Briefly, your mind goes to those days— the salsa competitions, the random play dance events. How Soonyoung’s backpack always had his Game Boy Color, a change of clothes, and a blue Gatorade. The last one, always for you.

You uncork the drink, tilt your head back, and take a long swig. It’s as close to a confirmation that you’re going to give him.

The two of you sit in silence as the children begin to file out of the auditorium. Once the only two of you are left, Soonyoung speaks up, the words far too quiet in the otherwise empty room.

“You really are good, you know.”

It takes you a beat too long to realize that he’s talking about your dancing. If the two of you were on better terms, you might have teased him about that night on the playground, many years ago, when he had fibbed about you being as good of a dancer as he is.

As it is, you can only respond with an equally soft, “Thanks.”

Being the bigger person lasts for all of fifty seconds, though, because Soonyoung’s next words prickle.

“Could’ve been much bigger.”

“Excuse me?”

He freezes, an oh shit type of expression crossing his face. Even so, he doubles down. “I'm just saying,” he starts, his tone growing slightly more defensive. “You could have done much more—”

Your words are cold as your fingers close tighter around the half-empty bottle of Gatorade. “Am I not doing much where I am right now?”

“You’re twisting my words,” he shoots back.

“Those are exactly your words,” you fume.

It’s an old wound, one that Soonyoung poked with something sharp the second he returned home and made his presence known. You’ve done everything you can to ignore it, to keep the ache and the bitterness at bay, but you can’t help the way that it rises in your throat like bile. Something acidic, and foul, and unwelcome.

You get to your feet, leaving the offered Gatorade on the bleacher. “Sorry not all of us moved to the city and had a big break, Kwon,” you say as you begin to gather your things.

“Jesus Christ.” Soonyoung’s cuss is punctuated with a laugh, but it’s not like any of the laughs you’re used to from him. The sound is annoyed, pained. Almost hurt, even, though you try not to dwell on that.

Your relationship, your breakup, is an old wound that hasn’t completely healed. It’s been on the edge of festering ever since you lost contact with him.

And, now, as you leave him stewing in his emotions, you figure that it’s only going to fester some more.

Back then, the two of you had dubbed each other The Great Pretenders.

Dating in high school required a certain level of delicadeza. While your relationship was largely accepted and acknowledged, there were still a number of things you had to hide from your families and friends. Tear-stained faces after petty arguments. Hickies under the collars of your school uniforms.

It’s been years, but The Great Pretenders makes a reappearance when the pair of you have to face Teacher Kang the next day.

It goes unspoken that whatever the hell is going on between you two shouldn’t affect the showcase, shouldn’t be obvious to anyone that matters. And so the two of you update her on the kids’ progress, and sip the warm drinks that she offers, without any indication of having had a spat.

The check-in winds to a close after a couple of polite exchanges. Teacher Kang seems pleased with preparations so far, though she looks even more happy about you and Soonyoung’s perceived civility, which damn near bowls you over.

“By the way, Soonyoung,” Teacher Kang says conversationally as the three of you pack up for the afternoon. “How’s the studio?”

“All good.” He pauses, like he realized he hadn’t given that sufficient of an answer. “We’re usually busy around this time of year, but I have one of my staff keeping watch while I’m here. I plan to head back once the holiday season is over.”

You should’ve seen it coming, but something beneath your rib cage still twinges at the thought. You ignore the feeling in favor of shouldering your backpack.

“You shouldn’t wait so long before coming back again,” Teacher Kang half-jokes.

Soonyoung’s chuckle— a dry, unconvincing huff of ha-ha— is chased with the cool delivery of “I’ll try to make it a more regular thing.”

In the corner of your eye, you catch what Teacher Kang misses. The most imperceptible tick in Soonyoung’s jaw.

Liar, you think. Liar, liar, liar.

You and Soonyoung had mastered the art of pretending, sure, but you could never quite get away from each other.

“Why did you come home?”

“I’d forgotten the sound of my mother’s voice.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

The snow returns with a vengeance.

It’s that time of winter where the streets are blanketed with white, where the sleet and rain makes conditions horrendous. You have no choice but to soldier through the soft hail as you make your way to the school, which you’re committed to reach come rain or shine.

Except when you get to the front doors, you’re greeted by a bemused-looking Soonyoung.

You pat down your snow-clad clothes as you look him up and down. “Where are you going?”

He answers your question with one of his own. “Haven’t you heard?” He holds up his phone. “Practice is cancelled today. Everybody’s snowed in.”

You were rarely the type to walk and text, so your phone has been sitting pretty in your pocket this whole time. When you go to check it, you find messages from Teacher Kang. Canceling showcase preparations in lieu of the weather. Stay safe and dry.

“I just found out myself,” Soonyoung says delicately.

Ah. That explained why he was the only other person around.

Disgruntled, you glance at your surroundings. There’s barely anyone present, and the snow is only seeming to fall heavier with each passing minute. You’d be lucky to get a cab at this rate—

“Or I could just drive you.”

You jump a bit. At what point had you started saying that last thought out loud?

“That’s not necessary,” you start to say, but Soonyoung is already fishing for his car keys in his jacket pocket.

“I know you hate my ass,” he responds bluntly. “But that hatred isn’t worth freezing to death over, no?”

His face is turned away from you, so there’s no way for you to tell what expression he’s sporting. It’s a small grace. Even though you dread the thought of being stuck in a small space with nothing but your thoughts and an old ghost to keep your company, you do hate the prospect of hypothermia even more.

That’s how you end up in the passenger seat of Soonyoung’s beat-up Hyundai Pony, which stutters and bucks every time he has to take a turn. It’s the very same car that you both learned to drive in, though it’s looking significantly worse for wear.

While nostalgia has proven to be a bitch, you can’t resist the jab on the tip of your tongue. “Jesus,” you breathe, your fingers tightening around your seatbelt as Soonyoung barely makes a corner. “I can’t believe this thing’s still alive.”

“That makes two of us,” he quips with a grimace.

Once the car miraculously makes its way past a snowed-out road, Soonyoung notes, “Remember when my dad first taught us how to get through rain?”

The memory brings the flicker of a smile to your face. “You were so scared you might run a squirrel over,” you say.

“You swore up and down that you’d never drive on a wet road,” Soonyoung shoots back.

“I still don’t,” you respond, glancing out the window for the lack of a better thing to look at. “I ask my dad to drive whenever it’s raining.”

Soonyoung’s next words make you pause. “Your dad hated me,” he huffs.

You let out a snort of laughter. “That’s not true. He really liked you.”

“He always left the room whenever I came in,” Soonyoung argues.

“He wanted to give us privacy.” You can’t help the sigh that slides past your lips, the sound edged with annoyance. “Really, you’ve got to stop blaming other people for why we didn’t work out.”

The words hang heavy in the din of the car. You wonder, for a second, if you’d been too callous, but there’s something like a rueful smile that tugs at Soonyoung’s face.

“Sorry. Coping mechanism,” he responds, and you don’t push any further.

An awkward couple of moments follow. Unfortunately for you, Soonyoung has never learned the art of tact— always pushing it just a little bit, right to the point where the tension is drawn like a rubber band.

“You know, my mom has been asking about you,” Soonyoung says conversationally as he turns into your neighborhood. “Says I should invite you over for lunch.”

Your grasp on the seatbelt is white-knuckled. It wasn’t like you were actively avoiding the Kwons; you were perfectly polite when you saw them in public, when you ran into them in the supermarket or at church. But it’s been years since you last stepped foot in their house, and for obvious reasons, too.

“I’m not ready for that,” you answer tersely.

Soonyoung is either oblivious to your agitation or ignorant of it. Regardless of which, he goes on, “I said the same thing. I guess she still thinks—”

“Let’s not go there.” Your tone is just cutting enough to give Soonyoung pause, to have him stammer to a halt as he pulls to a stop in front of your house. “I’m hot having this conversation with you, Soonyoung.”

He doesn’t apologize, though he does back down. “Right,” he mumbles as he parks. “Right.”

You unbuckle your seatbelt, careful to keep your gaze trained away from Soonyoung. “Thanks for the ride.”

Soonyoung is graciously quiet as you step out of his car, though that lasts for all of ten seconds— just enough for you to almost close the door on him— when he speaks up.

“Hey. For the record,” he starts, leaning over the center console to get in the last word. “I don’t blame anyone else for our breakup. I know whose fault it is.”

You raise an eyebrow. He throws you an infuriating grin before reaching over to pull the door close himself.

Soonyoung peels away, once again leaving you with more questions than answers.

“Why did you come home?”

“It’s cold in the city, during the winter.”

You and Soonyoung find yourselves doubling your efforts as the date of the showcase looms.

You spend more of your time with Teacher Kang. You extend a little more patience to the kids. You dance— dance the routines, dance with Soonyoung, dance around the truth.

But when the elephant in the room is as big as it is, ignorance is not an option. And Soonyoung never did learn how to keep his mouth shut.

It’s late in the evening, the two of you having pulled extra hours to work on decor. You’d felt like it was going a little too well with the way that the two of you were uncharacteristically cordial throughout the afternoon. But of course that was too good to be true, because just as you were packing up for the night, Soonyoung had to go and say—

“Are you happy here?”

You freeze midway into packing away the multi-colored, Christmas tree-shaped banners. That familiar flash of frustration, that inkling that he’s looking down on you, rises up again.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you say, and he’s immediately prickly.

“It’s nothing.” He shoves some of the props behind the stage, hasty in his pursuit to end the conversation as fast as possible. “Forget I said anything.”

“Come on,” you bristle. All the while, you’re also putting things back in place— your movements just a little more forceful than necessary. “Spit it out. You started it.”

“I was just asking.”

“You’re never ‘just asking’. Go on, say it.”

“You—”

The two of you are glaring at each other, now, your face red and Soonyoung’s fists balled at his side. When you speak, it’s with a tone that could cut through ice.

“Just because I chose to stay,” you say. “It doesn’t mean my dreams are smaller than yours.”

Soonyoung looks dumbstruck. His voice is impossibly tight; his words, reverberating in the otherwise empty hall.

“I wasn’t going to say your dreams are small. It’s just… We—” He backtracks, like the pronoun had been a scalding slip of the tongue. “You could’ve sold out auditoriums.”

Your answer is immediate, if not a little strained.

“A sold out auditorium doesn’t matter if the one person you want isn’t at the recital,” you say. “Some people find happiness right where they are, and this is mine.”

And that’s always been the crux of it, hasn’t it? Soonyoung has tried to make a name for himself in cities, in rooms full of people cheering his name. His definition of success was only achievable in quantity, in scale. Yours was different, and he could never really quite accept that.

There’s a moment where Soonyoung doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with a pinched expression on his face. He opens his mouth like he might say something—

“Oi! You two!”

You and Soonyoung jump, the tension that had been simmering between you two disappearing at the interruption. The school’s ancient janitor lingers by the door, squinting at you two.

“Whaddya think yer still doin’ here?” the old man croaks, wielding his broom in a fashion that still makes you recoil. “It’s past curfew! Geddout!”

Never mind the fact you and Soonyoung were now in your late twenties and long out of high school. The two of you still cower and meekly mumble, “Sorry, Mr. Cho.”

It’s snowing again when the two of you step out. Soonyoung’s face is set in stone as he mumbles, “Get in my car.”

Right. Like that was going to happen.

With a wordless huff, you begin to march in the opposite direction to him. “Hey,” he calls out. “Where are you going?”

“Home!”

“In this— hey, it’s snowing!”

“That’s what happens during the winter!”

You’d be a little more conscious about having a screaming match in the streets if it wasn’t nearly midnight. Something about the incessant snowfall and the cloak of darkness gives you just a little more courage to speak your mind, to toe that line that the two of you have so haphazardly drawn.

Soonyoung marches after you, his own misgivings about the weather momentarily forgotten. He’s raring to fight, and it shows in the way he stomps through the snow like an overgrown child.

“So that’s it, then?” he hollers from a couple of paces behind you. “You’re just going to stay here for the rest of your life, playing it safe? Work at the family restaurant because of filial piety? Marry— I don’t fucking know— guy-next-door Joshua Hong, and have babies, and—”

“What is your problem?!” you snap, rounding on Soonyoung. He skids to a halt, stopping himself from completely barreling into you. “Why are you acting like you know me?”

“Because I do!” His voice cracks on the last word. “I know you!”

“No, you don’t.”

“I know you very well.”

“From what? Jihoon and Wonwoo’s stories?” There’s a muscle straining in your neck from the way you’ve raised your voice, but you can’t find it in yourself to back down. “Think that’s enough to fill a six-year gap?”

That seems to get Soonyoung. “You never reached out to me! Not once!” he seethes.

“Well, neither did you!”

“I didn’t think—” His breath catches. He pushes on. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.”

“That’s a bullshit excuse and you know it.”

“What’s your excuse, then?” he shoots back. “Come on. I’m dying to hear it.”

What’s your excuse, he’s asking. Why haven’t you reached out? If you were so angry and upset about the radio silence, why did you do nothing about it?

Several answers occur to you at once. There was Soonyoung’s own flimsy reasoning. I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me.

There was something close to the truth, something a little too vulnerable to be spoken out loud. I was mad at you. I hated you for a bit. I think I still hate you even now.

There was the whisper of something treacherous, something damning. I was scared that I would only end up asking for you to come back.

None of those words come out. You stay standing across from Soonyoung in the wake of his challenge, your face flushed, your gaze narrow. He glares right back at you, unyielding in his pride and his pain.

The silence stretches. It becomes an answer in itself.

“Exactly,” Soonyoung says with a heavy exhale. There’s a spark of flint in his eyes, a flicker of something that could almost be likened to hurt. “It takes two people to break up. You always seem to forget that.”

As he begins to stalk away, you’re overcome with that feeling again. That heavy weight in your chest, put there whenever you know he got the last word, whenever he turned out to be right. Soonyoung has only taken about three steps away before you’re bending down and cupping some snow in your hands.

The hastily-made snowball hits Soonyoung on the back of his head. It splatters against his hair, leaving tiny, glistening flakes tangled in his blonde strands.

He freezes, but only for a moment. In the blink of an eye, Soonyoung is already crouching down to retaliate. He’s quicker and much more savage, and his revenge soars through the end to land squarely in your chest.

You stagger backward, the gasp catching in your throat. Oh, it’s on.

What ensues is the most ruthless snowball fight that your small town has seen. Snowballs are hurled with reckless abandon, the ice crystals getting everywhere from your clothes to your socks. Neither of you even bother to try and hide from the onslaught. The two of you take each other’s attacks, every hit punctuated with heatless insults that have simmered too long.

“You never called—” Soonyoung screeches, sending a cold sphere against your shoulder.

“You didn’t visit—” you shriek as you shape ammunition in your gloved hands.

“You deleted every photo of me off your Facebook—” A snowball to your side.

“You talked to Jihoon and Wonwoo, but not me—” Another square hit to Soonyoung’s chest, sending a puff of powdery snow up into his face.

“Coward!”

“Asshole!”

It feels like hours before the two of you let up.

The two of you are covered in snow from head to toe; your chests heaving from exertion, your cheeks ruddy from the cold. The heat of the exchange leaves you both puffing breaths that cloud the air between you.

There’s a hint of something in your stances. Something that feels like it belongs to another time— before the breakup, before the distance.

Quietly, Soonyoung starts to laugh.

His hands are on his hips and his head is tilted back. The flakes catch on his eyelashes, his hair, but he keeps his face upturned to the sky as he laughs, and laughs, and laughs.

That old, familiar sound. The one that warms you up from the inside, whether or not you care to admit it. You’re doubled over, your hands on your knees, as you watch him look more and more like the boy you loved and lost.

“I hate you,” you choke out, though a corner of your mouth has twitched upward.

He doesn’t even look at you as he responds.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Missed you, too.”

“Why did you come home?”

“Am I not allowed to?”

“Soonyoung says you two kissed and made up.”

You shoot Jihoon an unamused glare.

From across you, he raises his hand in a defensive gesture. “I didn’t believe him, of course,” he insists, though you don’t miss the way he and Wonwoo try to discreetly exchange money under the table.

Wonwoo catches your suspicious expression and gives you an apologetic grin in return.

“Made a bet,” he says.

“You two suck,” you groan.

Your three’s weekly lunch has gone mostly swimmingly up to the point that Jihoon had brought up Soonyoung. Now, though, with the topic broached, neither of your friends see the need to be discreet about it.

“I do wonder why Soonie decided to come home now, after all these years,” Wonwoo muses aloud, toying with his chopsticks as he speaks. “Seems a bit out of the blue, doesn’t it?”

“He came home because Teacher Kang asked him,” you point out.

One of Jihoon’s eyebrows cocks upward. “Teacher Kang has asked him every year for the past couple of years,” he says. “So it’s not just that, I’m sure.”

Wonwoo chimes in with, “Must be something real important, then.”

Jihoon nearly smirks. “Or someone.”

What feels like your nth groan of the evening escapes you. “Put a sock in it, you two,” you grumble, drawing snickers from your friends.

Jihoon mouths something to Wonwoo. You can’t make it out for certain, but it looks suspiciously like a wordless grumble of Bet’s still on.

Civility is a rare thing to share with Soonyoung.

With the showcase mere days away, it’s a welcome development. At least it’s easier for the two of you to iron out the chinks in the routines, to ensure the program is up to par with the school’s standards.

But with civility comes an even more fragile thing— hope.

It’s in the way Soonyoung will hold open doors for you or haul the heavier props on your behalf, much to your chagrin and to Teacher Kang’s amusement.

It’s in the way Soonyoung starts to make small talk about everything from your day job to your parents, never minding much that he’s the one who has to carry half the conversations.

It’s in the way Soonyoung tries to make you laugh, and how, one afternoon, he finally succeeds.

You can’t even remember what it was. Some terrible joke about the kids, maybe. All you know is that a snort of laughter had slid out of you, the sound not quite the derisive giggles you’d been giving him the past couple of weeks.

You’re still chuckling when you see Soonyoung’s face.

Immediately, you sober up. “What?” you ask, because he’s staring at you with his jaw slack and his eyes slightly wide.

He tries to rearrange his expression into something more acceptable; it’s too late, given that you’ve already caught him. Soonyoung may have not always been honest, but he was expressive.

You glare at him, indicating that he’s not about to escape, and he huffs out a defeated sigh.

“It’s just— I forgot, okay?”

“Forgot what?”

“How good happiness looks on you.”

Who the hell says something like that on a random Thursday?

Soonyoung still has that vaguely dazed look in his eyes, even though you’ve begun to stare at him like he’s insane. As he walks away to go and refill his water bottle, he nearly collides with one of the auditorium’s poles, drawing raucous laughter from the kids.

You shush them, the tips of your ears beginning to flame.

“Why did you come home?”

“It was about time.”

It’s nothing short of a miracle, how you, Jihoon, Soonyoung, and Wonwoo all end up at the same table at Taco Joe’s.

Jihoon had been the one who proposed the idea. So casually, too, like he was readying himself for one of your infamous tirades or a flurry of your punches. Soonyoung wants to grab drinks with all of us.

To Jihoon and Wonwoo’s surprise, you had only responded with, “When?”

Neither boys want to look a gift horse in the mouth, so they’re extra careful in playing their cards right. Wonwoo vows to be the designated driver. Jihoon holds back on making any jokes about the whole affair. And, Soonyoung— well, he’s just happy to be there.

“This place really hasn’t changed, huh?” Soonyoung snickers as he sips at his beer.

There’s not a lot of bars to choose from in your small town, making Taco Joe’s something of an institution. Its low lights, Top 50’s playlist, and cheap drinks attract more of the mid-twenties crowd, though there had been a time in your teenage years when you’d all tried and failed to sneak in.

“Joe threatened to ban us for life when we first stepped foot in here,” Jihoon reminisces.

Wonwoo pushes his glasses up his face by the bridge of his nose. “Worse,” he says. “He said he would tell our parents.”

Simultaneously, the four of you shudder. A small smile tugs at your lips as you extend your cocktail for the boys to cheers with.

“To vindication,” you announce.

There’s a ripple of laughter among your friends.

“Vindication,” they echo, clinking their bottles and glasses with yours.

A part of you is suspicious at how pleasant the night is going. The conversation is easy, if not a little on the safe side. The drinks are good. The music is more often a hit instead of a miss. It’s shaping up to be a decent evening, though there are a handful of interruptions here and there.

Kwon Soonyoung is a bit of a local celebrity, after all.

Everybody and their mother knows about his swanky dance studio in the city, about the idols and celebrities he’s met in his line of work. Every so often, someone will stop by to greet him, to exchange a word or two with him.

Soonyoung is perfectly amicable to all of them. His smile, practiced; his words, cool and smooth. After the fourth or so person has come up to say hello to the Hoshi, Jihoon voices out what you’ve all been thinking.

“It’s so exhausting hanging out with you,” Jihoon says dryly.

Soonyoung giggles mid-swig of his alcohol. “Can’t help it.” He fakes a tired sigh, his shoulders rising in a shrug. “Everybody wants a piece of me.”

“I’ll tear you to pieces if anyone else comes up to us,” Wonwoo warns.

Your gaze flicks over Wonwoo’s shoulder, towards someone approaching your corner table. “Get those claws ready, Wonu,” you say.

When Joshua Hong saunters up to your group’s table, though, his greeting for Soonyoung is cursory at best.

“Nice to see you back, Kwon,” the man says politely before turning his attention to you. “Hey, you.”

You straighten in your seat. Jihoon and Wonwoo exchange a look. Soonyoung’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he gives a grumbled ‘hello’ to Joshua’s lackluster greeting.

It’s apparent that Joshua isn’t there for him, because Joshua is instead smiling at you. “Hey,” you respond in kind. “What’s up?”

Joshua had been an upperclassman during your school days, part of the infamous trio featuring troublemaker Yoon Jeonghan and varsity captain Choi Seungcheol. But Joshua was more on the mild side, known for his volunteer work at the local choir. He wasn’t any less unattainable, though, and you’re reminded of why Soonyoung so callously threw his name out during your more recent spat.

Prior to dating Soonyoung, you did have a raging crush on Joshua, after all. You’re briefly reminded of it as he flashes you a warm smile. “I was hoping I could buy you a drink,” he says. “For… you know.”

There’s absolutely nothing coy in Joshua’s words. He’s not suggestive, not trying to come on to you. All the same, the three boys at your table react like Joshua had just proposed.

Jihoon bites back a grin. Wonwoo cocks his head to one side. Soonyoung shoots back a quarter of his beer.

For… you know, Joshua is saying, and you know exactly what he means even though the rest aren’t privy to it. You’re already getting to your feet before you can register it. “Yeah,” you say, nodding towards the bar. “Let’s go.”

None of your friends say a thing as you step away with Joshua, but you can feel their eyes on your back. You know you’re going to get hell for it later— but, for now, you focus on the small talk that Joshua has to offer.

He lets you pick out your cocktail of choice. As the bartender goes to make it, Joshua smiles down at you. There had been a time where you might’ve keened over at the sight of it; now, though, it only makes your heart flutter a bit.

His voice is just loud enough to be heard over the thumping music, but low enough that it’s just for the two of you.

“Thank you for your help,” he says. “Really. You’re a life-saver.”

Your expression softens underneath the lights of the bar. “How’s your dad?”

Joshua’s smile is a little tight, but not any less sincere. “Better,” he responds. “It’s rough, of course, but he’s coping.”

Earlier in the year, Joshua’s father had been one of your firm’s clients. It had been a lot more challenging than you thought, working with someone you personally knew. The arduous process had involved unsecured debts, scarred credit scores, and seized collaterals, but you were ultimately able to help the Hongs in closing down their music school.

“I’m glad.” You pause, as if realizing that’s not quite the right thing to say. “I’m not glad about what happened—”

Joshua’s laughter cuts through your tirade. Your shoulders ease when you realize it’s not a particularly mean laugh. More of an amused sound at your panic.

“Don’t worry, I get it,” he reassures as the bartender slides your drinks to you. Joshua gives the other man a nod and a mumbled promise of tipping later.

“I don’t want to keep you,” Joshua says. “Just wanted to show my appreciation.”

“You didn’t have to.” Your fingers wrap around the drink he brought you. “But thank you, anyway.”

Joshua nods, grins. The lines are clear as day. He’s not flirting, not trying to get in your pants or anything. The drink is exactly that: A show of gratitude. Nothing more, nothing less.

Some old version of you might have been disappointed. Tonight, you are only oddly relieved. The two of you talk a little more— about things that are neither here nor there— before Joshua lets you go.

Upon your return to your table, you’re greeted with a sight for sore eyes.

Somehow, in the fifteen or so minutes that you were gone, Soonyoung had already shot back his first bottle of beer. As you slide back into your seat next to Wonwoo, your bespectacled friend quietly divulges, “That’s his third one.”

“Third?” You glance toward Soonyoung, your eyebrows raised quizzically. “Are you trying to get alcohol poisoning or something?”

Soonyoung only flashes you a grin before taking another swig. He ignores your question in favor of chatting Jihoon’s ear off; the latter throws you a bemused look before going back to his conversation with Soonyoung.

You huff out a sigh as you go to nurse the cocktail that Joshua got you.

“I wonder what’s gotten into him,” Wonwoo says, his tone just a little too smug for his own good.

You shoot him a sideways glare. He sinks his teeth into his lower lip, hiding his blooming smile behind a sip of his soda.

As the night wears on, you begin to feel that familiar buzz in your system. The telltale signs of your tipsiness leave you pleasantly sated— your laughter a little less restrained, your brain a lot more empty. So when Soonyoung leans across the table to yell at you, “Let’s dance!”, your first instinct is not to say Fuck off.

The words that come out instead are “To what song?”

Soonyoung is already standing up and moving around the table to get to your side. An intoxicated Jihoon and sober Wonwoo only watch on, spectators to this impending dumpster fire, as Soonyoung reaches out to tug you out of your seat.

“Any song,” he breathes. His face is flushed a deep shade of red, but his eyes are as bright as ever. “Anything you want.”

There’s a right thing to do in this situation.

The right thing to do would be to let Soonyoung down politely. To tell him no, you’re not interested in dancing. You’re happy to drink with him and your friends, but you’re not about to indulge him with the thing that once made the two of you so close. You don’t think your heart can take it.

But you’re two cocktails in. The music is good. And Soonyoung is looking at you with that absolutely incandescent expression, faring not any better than you in the game of sobriety. How could you deny him?

You let him pull you to your feet. His hand stays wrapped around your wrist as he drags you out onto the dance floor, as he leans over to the DJ and yells, “Do you have any GD?!”

The current track transitions into the unmistakable beats of Good Boy. Soonyoung’s face lights up like a firework.

You’re drunk enough to laugh at him, with him, as you easily fall into the decade-old dance routine. No matter how long it’s been, it seems like your body still remembers every step, every hand movement.

You’re drunk enough to not care that Wonwoo is not-so discreetly filming the two of you, that Jihoon is wearing a knowing smirk. Come tomorrow, your friends will have a lot to say about this moment. But, right now, it’s all inconsequential.

You’re drunk enough to dance. To dance in a way that isn’t simply for Christmas showcase purposes. To dance and remember why you loved it so much in the first place.

To dance with the boy who got you into it in the first place.

Good Boy spins into Home Sweet Home, then Fantastic Baby, then Gee. You and Soonyoung dance through it all. Honestly, you’re no longer built for this the same way that you once were, and you’re certainly not up to par with Soonyoung.

His drunkenness does nothing to dampen his energy or his dancing skills. He moves across the floor with the practiced ease of a professional, putting everyone to shame without even trying. His toothy smile never leaves his face as the two of you swing and pop and glide.

By the time the DJ starts to play more modern pop, you call for a time-out. Soonyoung stumbles after you and the two of you collapse onto a nearby couch, boneless from the non-stop dancing.

Wonwoo is off to one side, chatting with a girl, while Jihoon is nowhere to be found. You wouldn’t hold it past the latter to be on a smoke break of some sorts; nights out always tended to drain him, after all.

“Insane,” Soonyoung croaks out. Blonde strands of his hair stick to his face due to sweat. You resist the urge to fix it.

“I haven’t danced like that in ages,” you say, rolling your shoulders to fight off the growing ache in your body.

Soonyoung tries to laugh. The sound comes out more like a wheeze. His next words are mumbled in between attempts to catch his breath. “You’re good, babe.”

Come Back Home is thumping through the speakers. You try to focus on that instead of Soonyoung’s Freudian slip; you fail miserably, and it must show on your face because Soonyoung sucks in some air through his teeth.

“Sorry.” He’s laughing, but the sound is a bit rough around the edges. “Moment of weakness.”

A beat. “Wanna dance some more?” he prompts.

Whether it’s a desperate bid to run from his words or a sincere offer by a man who simply lives to dance, you don’t question it. “Yeah,” you say a little too quickly. “Let’s dance.”

You dance until you feel like your feet are going to fall off. Soonyoung matches your pace, never missing a beat. When he needs to take a break, he drinks some more— an endless cycle of dance floor shenanigans and drawn-out sips of beer.

It’s probably why he’s swaying by the time that you’re all calling it a night. Wonwoo and Jihoon flank Soonyoung on either side, the blonde still somehow having the tenacity to chatter while dragging his feet. He’s talking out of his ass about one thing or another, like music these days “not being as good as the OGs,” and you can sense Wonwoo’s exasperation over the whole thing.

“Living in Seoul has done absolutely nothing for your tolerance,” Wonwoo grumbles, prompting Soonyoung to go into a long-winded rant about the cultural differences in drinking culture.

The relief on Wonwoo’s face is palpable as he shoves Soonyoung into the backseat of his car.

Jihoon gives a nod of his own. “You’ll be good to drive?” he asks Wonwoo.

“Didn’t drink a drop,” Wonwoo chirps. “You?”

“Sobered up, like, two hours ago,” Jihoon says wryly. He gives you a vicious side eye— wordlessly blaming you for not being able to go home any earlier, since he was your designated driver— and you raise your shoulders in a half-shrug.

“You were the one who invited me out to drink.” Your voice is hoarse from all the alcohol, from the physical exertion of non-stop dancing.

You’re somehow lucid enough to register that Soonyoung is calling for you. There’s a slight pout on his face, like he’s upset to be missing out on the conversation. He’s bracing himself against the frame of the car door, his legs swung over the seat, as you gingerly approach.

“What?” you ask.

This close, you can smell his faint cologne, mingling with the scent of alcohol and sweat.

This close, you can see the way his eyes are slightly unfocused; his mouth, still bearing the hint of a glowing smile.

“You—” he croaks out.

His gaze darts to your lips. It’s a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. You don’t miss it.

Your breath stills in your chest, and Soonyoung is looking up at your face like he’s searching for something. Denial? Reciprocity?

He must not have found what he was looking for, because the words he grumbles are, “I’m going to hurl.”

Wonwoo’s panicked shriek cuts through the otherwise quiet parking lot.

“Not in my fucking car, asswipe!”

Soonyoung’s hangover the next day is comical.

You can’t help but snicker as he rolls up to the showcase’s dry run with shades over his eyes and a large cup of coffee in his shaking hands.

“You suck,” he hisses to you as he slides on to the bench next to you. Teacher Kang is busy heralding the students, getting them into their costumes and places, so the two of you have a minute alone before the hubbub strikes up.

“You’re the one who can’t hold down his alcohol,” you respond, eyeing his slumped form with amusement.

Soonyoung mumbles some incoherent cusses, his free hand reaching up to rub at his temples.

“God, my last memory was Hong coming up to the table,” he grouses.

You’re reminded of the inordinate amount of alcohol he downed in your brief absence. I wonder what’s gotten into him, Wonwoo had said.

“That clears,” you say sympathetically.

There’s a moment’s pause before Soonyoung tentatively asks, “Did the two of you ever…?”

You don’t immediately register what he’s asking about Joshua. When it hits you, though, you find a startled laugh sliding past your lips. Because there’s Wonwoo’s answer, even though you don’t recognize it then and there.

“Hong? No, no.” For reasons you can’t quite explain, you feel compelled to tack on, “I haven’t really had the time to date.”

“Oh.” It kills you, how Soonyoung almost sounds relieved. “Me, too. I mean— me neither.”

“Ah.”

“Running a dance studio is a lot of work.”

“Right.”

“And I’m sure— law school, right? That was a lot of work, too.”

“Right, yeah.”

It’s a stilted conversation, one heavy in its implications. The real things that the two of you want to say, want to address, linger on the surface, but neither of you seem to want to break that ice.

You settle, instead, for this moment. For the negligible distance between the two of you on the bleachers and how it closes, slow but steady, like the ticking hands of a clock.

Your shoulder just barely presses against Soonyoung’s.

Neither of you move away.

“Why did you come home?”

“Because I love you, and I miss you.”

“You’re lying.”

“Only one of those is a lie, actually.”

You’ve always liked being front of house during the showcase.

You’re a familiar face to the parents of the children, to the community members who attended the event every year. Their warmth is a welcome reprieve from your nerves.

You make small talk. You usher people to their seats. You try not to wonder where the hell Kwon Soonyoung is.

Despite having his calling card, you haven’t deigned to reach out. It’s tucked away in a drawer at home; you don’t quite know what to do with it. Maybe you’ll actually save his number one of these days.

You’re entertaining the thought when you feel a hand at your elbow. The smiling face of Iseul’s mother— the pompous but well-meaning Mrs. Hwang— greets you.

“There’s no need for that,” she says with a chuckle as you fold into a bow. You don’t miss the way she nonetheless preens at your formalities. It’s why you keep up with it.

You let her link your arms and, out of instinct, you begin to lead her to one of the free seats in the auditorium. “Are you excited for this year’s show, Mrs. Hwang?” you ask conversationally.

“You know it,” she answers. “Iseul has been talking non-stop about her performance, but she refuses to tell me what song to expect!”

You’d recognize Mrs. Hwang’s baiting tendencies from a mile away. With a curt giggle, you tell her, “You’ll find out soon enough, Mrs. Hwang. I promise it’ll be worth the suspense.”

The older woman gives you a disapproving frown, but it smooths out as she seems to realize a change in topic. The auditorium is notably a little more packed this year, enough to have the volunteers bringing out additional Monobloc chairs.

“I guess people want to see what the Kwon boy has done to the showcase, hm?” she notes, speaking into existence the fact that you’ve neglected to acknowledge so far.

Surprisingly, you don’t feel bitter about it. People were showing up to assess Soonyoung’s choreography, to bask in the product of his labor. There’s a twinge of something in your chest. It could almost be mistaken for pride.

Mrs. Hwang tacks on, “Mighty shame.”

That throws you off. “Pardon?”

She doesn’t respond immediately, her eyes zeroing in on an empty chair by the front of the stage. She practically drags you there as she continues, “It’s really so unfortunate. The whole thing about his dance studio tanking.”

The whole thing about his dance studio tanking.

What the hell was she talking about?

The universe, once again, had to be messing with you. You’re convinced this is some skit. Some buildup to a joke.

But the punch line never comes, and you end up admitting, “I don’t think I’ve heard about that yet, Mrs. Hwang.”

Your voice is surprisingly even for someone whose world was closing in. If Mrs. Hwang can sense the trepidation in your demeanor, she makes no indication of it. You’re grateful for her obliviousness, even, because she only keeps talking as she settles into her seat.

“My girls are always talking about it,” she says, referring to the group of forty-something-year-old women who like to gather and gossip in the town’s sole Italian restaurant. “That’s why he’s back. Couldn’t hack it out there.”

When she glances up at you with a scrutinizing expression, you just know you’re not going to like what she says next. You’re proven right when she says, “We thought he’d ask for your help, actually. Isn’t liquidation your specialty?”

You can’t be bothered to correct the woman over the technicalities. You give her a tight smile, a nod of your head, a polite ‘goodbye’ as you take your leave.

There are much more pressing matters, you think to yourself, as you go to greet more guests, make sure the music is all queued up, check in on the host’s script.

You didn’t spend over a month preparing for tonight only to lose yourself before it’s even begun. You refuse to let the new piece of information trip you up, even though it has your heart acting like a caged animal underneath your ribs.

The showcase goes by without a hitch. The children are more than phenomenal; they’re perfect.

The audience is enamored. The teachers are overjoyed.

You want nothing more than to go home and tear up Soonyoung’s calling card.

As the showcase wraps up to enthusiastic applause, Teacher Kang snatches the microphone from the host for one last announcement.

“This wouldn’t have been possible without two of our very tireless volunteers,” she says, and— from backstage— you wince. Before you know it, you’re being pushed out onto the stage.

Soonyoung exits from the other stage wing.

He’s managed to evade you the entire showcase, and now you realize why. In his arms, he holds a monstrous bouquet. Yellow acacias, striped carnations, bunch-flowered daffodils. Your first thought is how expensive it might have been, to find out-of-season blooms in the thick of winter.

Your second thought is that you want to hurl, but that’s neither here nor there.

As Soonyoung strides in from the other side of the stage to meet you in the middle, he sees it. He sees the hint of trepidation underneath your practiced grin, sees the way your eyes flash momentarily. His own grin drops ever so slightly.

But the two of you are in an auditorium, on a stage in front of Namyangju’s best and brightest. Neither of you can afford to give voice to what you feel.

Soonyoung hands you the bouquet. You nod in acknowledgement.

The two of you instinctively reach for each other’s hands.

You hadn’t noticed that the crowd had gotten to their feet. A standing ovation. It feels like an echo of the past, a cruel reminder of an alternate universe.

Even so, your smile never wavers. Neither does Soonyoung’s. He raises your hand. The two of you take a bow.

The Great Pretenders put on their best show yet.

“What was that?”

A part of you is surprised that Soonyoung found you. The moment the showcase officially concluded, you were booking it out of the auditorium before he could even get a word in edgewise. Gracefully, the dozens of people hounding him for photos and small talk let you widen the gap.

Still, he caught up. Just as you were passing by the godforsaken playground that had witnessed the ending of it all. Oh, the universe and its jokes.

Soonyoung is red-faced, like you’d embarrassed him somehow despite the convincing act you both put on. Your fingers tighten around the bouquet he gave you.

“What was that?” he repeats, and what little restraint you had left snaps.

“Why did you come home?” you ask point blank.

“Teacher Kang—”

“Don’t,” you snipe. “Teacher Kang asked you last year. And the year before that. Why did you come home now, Soonyoung?”

The question hangs heavy in the early December evening. You and Soonyoung are staring at each other, mere paces away from the swing set where the two of you made your choices.

He doesn’t answer right away, so you prompt him with, “Is it because of me?”

Soonyoung misinterprets the question. You can see the way his eyes light up, the way his lips part like he’s just about to say something of consequence.

You almost feel guilty about the next words that tear out of you. “You’re going bankrupt,” you say, and the hope on his face fizzles out like a popped lightbulb.

“Who told you—” he chokes out.

“So it’s true?”

Kwon Soonyoung is struck dumb.

Soonyoung, whose mouth ran faster than his brain. Soonyoung, who was full of quick quips and witty remarks.

Soonyoung, who is now staring at you like you’ve told him the world was about to end.

You contemplate throwing his bouquet in his face. It will make for a dramatic, pretty picture— the petals falling onto the soft snow, the fuck you loud despite being unspoken. For now, you only clutch the arrangement closer to your chest like it's a lifeline.

“And here I thought—” Your breath hitches on a scoff, the puff of air visible in the chill. “I was a fool who thought you came back for me.”

The truth cuts. Your laugh bitterly as you go on, “I guess you still did, though, huh? Because you need me. What? Were you hoping to avail of cheap services, Kwon?”

“That’s not—”

“That’s exactly it!” Your tone is shrill. Soonyoung always did bring out the worst in you. “You were away for six years, and now you’ve come crawling back—”

“Do you think I wanted to fail?”

Soonyoung’s voice rises, his frustration bubbling over to match yours.

“I starved out there,” he bites out. “Ate cup noodles for a year so the studio could afford rent for one more month. Sold half of my stuff so I could pay my employees. It was so hard.”

The way Soonyoung’s voice breaks on the last word makes something in your heart clench. For a moment, you think it might be pity, but you kill the feeling as soon as it tries to make itself known.

You don’t want to pity Soonyoung, which is both an insult and a grace.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” you ask instead, even though a part of you already knows the answer.

A sound that’s almost like a delirious laugh escapes him. “Not when I was the one who made it out,” he responds.

You never realized how much you’d prefer Soonyoung’s cocky, self-assured self over this version of him. This boy— man— who is defeated and resigned. Even in your anger, there is a small part of you that wants to do something to wipe that look off his face.

“I made it out,” he repeats wearily, like it’s taking everything in him to face the truth of being Namyangju’s failing poster boy.

He continues, “I gave up everything to be there. I gave up you.”

Your grip on the bouquet tightens. There’s a faint prickle behind your eyes, but you refuse to let those tears fall. “You did that like it was easy,” you mumble, your voice just loud enough to carry.

Soonyoung meets your gaze. He looks like he’s on the verge of sobbing himself, but his tone brokers no arguments.

“It wasn’t,” he says.

And that was that.

You’ve never been able to stand not having the last word. You clear your throat, attempting to speak through the lump forming there. “Yeah, well,” you say shakily. “You’re not the only one who lost something.”

It’s a shitty comparison and you know it. Soonyoung’s sacrifices dwarf yours. You weren’t the one who moved away, who bore the weight of an entire city’s pride.

Thankfully, Soonyoung doesn’t call you out on it. He only takes a sharp exhale and turns his gaze away, his eyes fixed on the swings.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Almost like the words are an afterthought. “For the record— that night?” he says. You don’t have to ask for clarification. You know exactly which night he’s talking about.

“I was hoping you’d change my mind,” he confesses.

A physical blow to the chest would have hurt less. You stagger, but you try to mask it like you’re taking a step back. Like you’re walking away, even as your eyes never leave Soonyoung’s face.

“And I was hoping I’d be worth staying for,” you say with a humorless laugh, the distance between the two of you growing, growing, growing.

Your parting words are the proverbial nail on the coffin: “I guess we both didn’t get what we wanted.”

“Why did you come home?”

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

For once, Jihoon and Wonwoo have nothing to say.

No wisecrack. No jab. No exchange of money in some backhanded bet.

They listen as you recount the salient points of the argument. You keep the personal stuff out of your own retelling, focusing only on the broad strokes. The biggest concern lies in one nagging question.

“Did you know?” you ask, your hands bracing the table in front of you.

“No,” Jihoon says immediately.

Wonwoo chimes in with a quiet “Me neither.”

You know these boys. You’ve seen them lie to their parents about their homework, lie to their girlfriends about where they were.

They’re not lying now. You know that much.

A shaky exhale escapes you. It’s been three days since the fight and you’ve yet to run into Soonyoung. You wouldn’t hold it past him to avoid you, either by steering clear from the places you frequent or getting on the first bus back to Seoul.

“When he asked about how you were doing,” Jihoon says gruffly. “I thought it was just— yearning or some shit.”

“Me, too,” Wonwoo adds.

Yearning or shit. The words almost make you laugh.

The pinched expression on your face prompts Wonwoo to ask, “Are you upset?”

‘Upset’ feels like too light of a term to describe the maelstrom of emotions within you. There are facts: You wish you had known. You could have afforded to be kinder. You are afraid that you will never stop being angry.

You answer Wonwoo’s question with a mumbled, “Would it be cliché to say that I’m just disappointed?”

“Ah.” His face is thoughtful, understanding. “Because you expected something from him.”

“That’s not it,” you say dryly.

It is.

The three of you lapse into contemplative silence. Jihoon breaks it after a couple of moments, his tone soft and serious.

“I know it’s shitty,” he says. “But I do hope that he’s okay.”

That would be the mature thing to do. Even Wonwoo is nodding his agreement, willing to set aside his own gripes in favor of well wishing.

You can’t bring yourself to do the same. The platitude sticks in your throat until you feel like it will suffocate you.

Soonyoung has an alibi for not showing up to Teacher Kang’s post-processing session.

You’re grateful that the elderly woman doesn’t go on about the details of his absence. She mentions something about him being busy with the holidays, and you take it in stride.

You try not to picture the way his jaw might’ve twitched before sending out the text, before lying to get away.

“Everybody loved the show,” Teacher Kang gushes. “I’m so proud of you, dear. I really do hope we can have Soonyoung on board more often.”

An offhand joke of “we’ll probably be seeing a lot more of him in the near future” crosses your mind, but you hold it back. You may be calloused, but you’re not heartless.

You nod. You agree with Teacher Kang. You hold it together, up until you’re halfway out the door and she calls you back for one last word.

“You know,” she starts. “I remember the two of you when you were kids.”

You’d been dreading this— the inevitable trip down memory lane. You thought you had escaped it, but now you’re facing it with one of the world’s fakest smiles.

“That was a long time ago,” you say.

“It was.” There’s a glimmer in Teacher Kang’s eye. Something unbearably tender. “Soonyoung always made you smile a certain way. You’ve started smiling like that again. It’s nice to see.”

You don’t know how you manage to laugh it off, to bid Teacher Kang goodbye and make your way back to your car. Your hands are shaking as you slide into the driver’s seat of your car.

The school’s parking lot is gracefully empty. It’s a good thing, because then no one can hear you as you fold in half and screech.

You scream until your voice goes hoarse, until the windows shake.

You scream until you can’t hear the way your chest is caving in on your heart.

Your theory of running into everyone but Soonyoung is proven when you’re sooner to cross paths with Mama Kwon.

Your carts nearly collide in the pasta aisle of the grocery store. You’re already bowing, apologizing profusely, when you realize that you recognize the woman holding a can of pesto.

She says your name with the fondness that could rival your own mother’s. It takes everything in you not to bolt at the sound of it.

“What a coincidence,” she says with a tinkling laugh.

You know in your heart of hearts that it’s exactly that. A coincidence. Still, you can’t help but think some higher power is out to get you. Call it karmic justice.

“How have you been, Mrs. Kwon?” you ask, feeling the slight nip of not addressing the woman as you typically might.

She notices too, if her slightly furrowed brow is any indication. She manages to rearrange her expression into something more neutral as she answers.

“You know how the holidays are,” she says, wielding her pesto bottle in an absentminded gesture. “It’s a full house!”

That stings.

You’ve heard from your mother how the past couple of years, Mama Kwon would complain about her household feeling empty during the holidays. The seat at the dining table stayed vacant for the son that refused to come home.

You don’t know how much she knows about the state of the dance studio, so you decide to play it safe. “I’m sure it is,” you say.

The small talk is tearing you up from the inside, but you don’t want to be rude. Don’t want to be a stranger to the woman who once cared for you so deeply— who probably still cares for you, if you really thought of it.

The question is out of you before you can hold it back. “Are you with Soonyoung?”

What would you even do with that information? Would you have booked it if she said ‘yes, he’s right around the corner’? Would you have cried if she revealed that he headed back to the city?

You’re not sure.

Here’s what happens instead: A sigh nearly breaks out of you when Mama Kwon responds, “He’s in the next shop over, getting some repairs for the car. We’re meeting at Italianni's for lunch.”

Still here, a small voice murmurs in the back of your mind. Hasn’t left for Seoul just yet.

You shake the thought away as Mama Kwon delicately prompts, “Would you like to join us?”

Mama Kwon is probably not inviting you solely out of politeness. She’s making the offer because she wants you to be there. She wants you to be at the same table as her family, sharing a pizza and whatever the restaurant’s special for the day is. She wants you to sit next to Soonyoung and play nice, even though you currently can’t stomach the thought of being anywhere near him.

For some reason, it makes you want to cry.

To lose somebody in a breakup is painful, yes. To lose all the things that came with it— like the family that you might have learned to love yourself?

A different type of ache all together.

Your smile is so painfully fake, almost hurting the edges of your mouth, as you try to let her down gently. “I wouldn’t want to impose,” you say. “But thank you for thinking of me.”

For once, The Great Pretenders is met with negative reviews.

Then again, nothing ever really escaped Mama Kwon’s scrutinizing gaze. She surveys your expression and purses her lips. You can practically see the way that the cogs turn in her brain, as if trying to decide on the response that will do the least amount of damage.

It doesn’t matter how gentle she tries to be. The words that she eventually extends still hurt like a bitch.

“He still talks about you a lot,” she muses.

Oh.

“Oh?”

“Nothing bad,” Mama Kwon says quickly. She laughs again, smiling very much like how her son might.

“Just—” She leans in. Your body autonomously mimics the action.

You’re reminded of being younger, of when she’d do the exact same thing to whisper you some ‘secret’. I got Soonyoung new shoes for Christmas. The car side mirror is busted because of me. I packed you extra of those choco pies you like.

Today, she whispers, “I think he came home for you.”

“Why did you come home?”

“I had a nightmare that I visited and I couldn’t recognize a thing. All the street names were different. The buildings were new. I kept running, trying to look for something familiar, and I just— I was just lost. And that sucked. This was mine once. You know?”

“It still is.”

“You don’t have to lie to me. It isn’t anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.”

“You know, I really have missed your mother’s cooking.”

You smile ruefully at Soonyoung’s words.

He’s digging heartily into your mother’s signature kimchi jjigae, and you have half the mind to tell him to close his mouth as he chews. Instead, you let him devour the dish.

It had taken a little bit of masterminding to pull this off. Maybe it would’ve been easier to send Soonyoung a text of Let’s meet up, but your blasted pride was one of the last things you had left. You’d be damned if you were going to give that away, too.

You enlisted Jihoon and Wonwoo’s help in orchestrating this, in convincing Soonyoung that he could sneak into your family restaurant undetected. Sure, the blonde had been more than a little miffed when his friends ditched him and left him with you, though his irritation was short-lived in the face of the food he had been craving for God-knows-how-long.

“Maybe that’s because you’ve only been eating shin ramyun,” you point out.

Soonyoung barely looks up from his bowl as he shovels more food into his mouth. “Low blow,” he says in between bites.

You wince. “Sorry.”

“You’re not really sorry.”

“No, I am.”

That drags Soonyoung’s attention away from his stew.

His guarded expression slots right back into place, like he’s realizing you have some ulterior motive beyond feeding him. He rests his spoon against his bowl and leans back into his chair. With one eyebrow raised, he says, “This feels a lot like the lead-in to a breakup.”

A bark of laughter escapes you. Of course Soonyoung would make a joke like that.

You reach into your pocket until you’ve found what you’re looking for. Wordlessly, you slide it across the table until it’s resting by Soonyoung’s hand.

“I’ll give you a discount,” you tell him. “But only, like, fifteen percent. Anything more than that is just pushing it.”

Your calling card stares up at him. It bears your name along with your firm’s address, your phone number, and your title. Consumer bankruptcy lawyer.

Even now, Soonyoung can’t help but be expressive. His wide eyes are fixed on the card you’ve laid out. For a moment, your offer hangs in precious balance, but you don’t have a single urge to take it back. It’s entirely, wholly for Soonyoung to take.

He asks the question that you know is coming. “Why are you doing this?” he says, his words like a raw nerve.

You almost smile. Almost.

In the past week that you’ve mulled it over, you’ve reached at least a dozen different answers.

Because Jihoon and Wonwoo worry about you.

Because it’s the right thing to do.

Because Teacher Kang talks about you like you hung the stars and the moon.

Because I owe you one.

Because I don’t want you to let Mama Kwon down.

Because I’ve missed you, and I want you to be happy, even if that happiness has nothing to do with me.

The answer that eventually, finally comes to you is none of the above.

You simply say, “Because you’re my favorite ex.”

The call asking for your help never comes.

A couple of days after that lunch, you find something on your desk. Your calling card.

If it weren’t for one small thing, you would’ve thought that it was a stray card of yours that you’d forgotten. But then you catch sight of a doodle in one corner right before you’re about to tuck the card away in your closet.

A crude drawing of a tiger, with crescent-shaped eyes and a toothy smile.

You instantly know what it means. Sure enough, you hear from Jihoon that same evening.

Kwon Soonyoung has left as quietly as he arrived.

There is relief. There is regret. How you feel ultimately doesn’t matter, because you knew it would always come to this— a choice being made.

He left. You stayed.

The world spins madly on.

The last of the snow is melting on an unassuming Tuesday afternoon when your phone pings in your pocket. You fish it out to find two texts from an unknown number. The first is a link to a news article.

You’re suspicious, but curiosity always did kill the cat. The article loads and fills your screen.

Eye of the Tiger Dance Studio To Start Offering Child-Friendly Dance Lessons

By: Xu Minghao

SEOUL, South Korea – Eye of the Tiger Dance Studio, founded by renowned choreographer and performer Kwon Soonyoung, better known as HOSHI, is expanding its mission to inspire a new generation of dancers. The studio announced it will officially begin offering child-friendly dance lessons following a successful pilot program last month.

Parents and young aspiring dancers can look forward to the official launch of child-friendly lessons early next year. According to HOSHI, the initiative aims to “nurture the joy of dance from an early age and build a foundation for self-expression and confidence.”

The studio piloted its first all-children dance classes in January, offering a creative and supportive environment for young dancers to explore movement. The program’s success has led to an upcoming showcase featuring the children at the KB Art Hall in Gangnam.

HOSHI, celebrated for his innovative choreography and passion for dance, revealed the inspiration behind this new direction.

“There was a time I felt lost, like I had lost my purpose for dance,” HOSHI shared, reflecting on a challenging period in his career. “I was going through the motions, using dance as a way to distract myself from everything else, rather than embracing it as a part of who I am.”

“But I realized something important recently,” he goes on. “Dance shouldn’t be an escape or a vacation. It should be a homecoming.”

And that’s exactly what they hope to do with their upcoming showcase. Details on the event can be found here.

The second text bears only a couple of words, but it changes the ending of everything.

There’s only one seat that will matter in that auditorium, it reads.

Please make sure it’s not empty.

“Why did you come home?”

“Home had you.”

#winterwithyoucollab #svthub #mansaenetwork #soonyoung x reader #hoshi x reader #svt x reader #seventeen x reader #soonyoung imagines #hoshi imagines #soonyoung fic #hoshi fic #soonyoung angst #hoshi angst #svt fic #seventeen fic #( <3 here it is! my love my light the fruit of my labor etc. )#( annotations/editing are imminent. but for now know i was insaneee over this )#(💎) page: svt #(🥡) notebook

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carolperkinsexgirlfriend · 8 months ago

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can you see the stars in your dreams (and do they have a lot to say about me) - Part 1

Or: a secret Admirer AU

Less than a month into the school year, and Steve’s already making use of the library. If Mrs. Click could see him now, she’d be proud–until she caught sight of the blank notebook page in front of him and the lack of textbooks on the table.

He feels stupid; he’s hunched over his notebook, trying to make his thoughts transfer onto the page in any coherent form. But, he’s not like Eddie with his impassioned speeches and clever English papers.

Words flow through Eddie in fully-formed, concrete ideas. For Steve, it’s more of a drip. Each word has to be scaffolded onto the previous one with blood, sweat, and tears. Even then, it’s never quite right. Too abrupt, never what he was actually trying to say.

He’s just never been good with words.

By the time he gives up, there’s more crossed out than left written, so he gets a clean page of paper and transcribes it as best he can. He’s left with:

Your hair is pretty. Do you use conditioner?

Steve tears it from his notebook and lays it flat atop his table in the library, smoothing out any crinkles in the page. It feels like the start to something, sure, but there’s more blank space on the page than words. By a lot.

He leans back over his work, adds a little wonky heart in his blue pen and signs the whole thing—

❤ your secret admirer

—the way all the girls who leave notes in his locker do. Their notes are usually on pretty paper, written in sparkly gel pen that smells like strawberries. The i’s are sometimes dotted with little hearts he’ll never admit to finding cute. And there’s envelopes involved, and usually more than eleven measly words.

His looks like something Eddie’ll toss out before opening, mistaking it for trash.

Steve grimaces. How do girls do this? Do they all take some sort of class on how to write pretty letters on pretty enough paper that boys will fall in love with them? Is that what they teach in Home Ec? He should have never let Tommy mock him into switching to shop class.

Should he ask a girl?

Under no conditions will he ever ask Carol. She’d have far too many uncomfortable questions and tell the whole school all of his embarrassing answers. He’d be run out of town within days, Carol holding the sharpest pitchfork.

Steve leans back in his chair with a groan too loud for the library and fists his hands to rub tired eyes.

“Are you okay?” Steve jerks, sending his pen and paper careening to the ground in his attempt to cover the compromising words upon the page. “Oh, sorry!”

Steve watches, horrified, as Chrissy Cunningham bends down to pick his supplies up off the carpet before he’s had time to scramble out of his chair. She’s in her cheer uniform, white zip-up Hawkins hoodie covering her arms. She looks perfect and preppy and just like all the girls who’ve ever left a note in his locker.

She’d be able to write something that Eddie would want to read.

“Steve?” Chrissy’s hovering over him, lips pursed, eyes big and worried. “Are you okay?”

“Shit, sorry,” he replies. She’s got his note clutched to her chest. He curls his fingers against the urge to reach out for it—that’ll just draw her attention, and that’s the last thing Steve wants right now. “Just got lost in my head.”

“Anything I can help with?”

He knows what she’s going to do before it happens. Chrissy’s sweet—if there’s a way to help, she’ll want to. So, she holds out the paper and begins to read, probably expecting an assignment she can tutor him on, and there they are: Steve’s damning words written in still-wet blue ink.

Her brow furrows as she takes an obscene amount of time mouthing out the words before she looks back up to meet his eyes. “Did someone give this to you?”

Her eyes are still big, but they look sad now, like just the thought of someone receiving the note he’d slaved over is enough to distress her. Unable to help himself, Steve snatches it from her hands and crumples it into a ball, damning words hidden in his fist.

Chrissy gasps at his abrupt movement and takes a halting step away.

“I wrote it,” he mutters, no longer able to meet her eyes.

She’s silent for long enough that he’d think she left, except the library’s quiet, and he hasn’t heard her take a step. He stares at the grains of the wood in the table, empty hand rubbing against the smudged top as he waits for her to do something.

“Are you…” she starts, trailing off for a moment before picking her thought back up, “…picking on someone?”

Steve clenches his fist tighter, note crinkling beyond repair beneath his nails as he mutters, “no.”

Chrissy’s quiet again. Steve doesn’t dare to look up, even as he hears the chair across from him pull out, the sound of her weight settling into the wood. The table’s just so interesting. Nothing has ever been as intriguing as the little chip out of its edge, the ring on the wood where someone had let their drink condensate against all the library’s rules.

“Who’s this for?” Chrissy’s voice is soft now, like he’s some sort of horse, prone to bolting when spooked. “Steve?”

Steve looks up. Her eyes aren’t sad anymore; they’re piercing.

He’s always liked Chrissy. She’s the nicest girl in the school, until someone does something she doesn’t like. Then, it’s all disappointed eyes, and pouty lips. It’s like disappointing his Mom, but worse, because his Mom’s never around to stare balefully at him.

The point is, Chrissy’s nice. She’s not like Carol. If he told her, there would be no lynch mob, or fleeing Hawkins in the dead of the night with nothing but the clothes on his back. Probably. Maybe.

Steve tries to smooth out the page, and scowls down at it when the wrinkles refuse to disappear. It’s even worse now, words made illegible by the deep creases his fingers have pressed into the paper. There’s no way Eddie’d ever want a note like this.

So, he says, “Munson,” looking up to try to watch his meaning land on her face.

It doesn’t. Her foreheads all scrunched up as she looks down at the note. Only then does Steve realize he’s caressing the wonky little heart. He pulls his hand back, curling his fingers in so she can’t see the smudge of blue on his pointer finger.

“And you aren’t making fun of him?”

Steve can feel his shoulders drooping. He wants to disappear into the floor, melt into the carpet and become one with all the other mysterious stains upon it. “No.”

“Oh,” Chrissy replies, drawn out and low as she peers down at the crinkled note with a confused frown. But something must click because she straightens, eyes wide beneath her bangs. “Oh!”

It’s loud enough that they both reflexively flinch. But, when no librarians come skulking around any corners, Chrissy turns back to him, gaze uncomfortably intent. Steve wonders, somewhat horrified by the turn his life has taken, if he’s about to get hate-crimed by a cheerleader half his size.

But Chrissy’s nice—always has been, always will be. So, she bites her lip and looks furtively around like she’s only just realized this is a conversation that shouldn’t have any witnesses. “But you like him?” she whispers.

Steve leans forward, matching her energy and pitch as he replies, “yeah,” quiet enough that it’s barely a breath. Chrissy smiles at him, warm and small, just like her hand as she reaches across the table to put it over his and squeeze comfortingly.

The note sits, damningly soiled beneath their linked hands, wrinkled, and smudged, and barely-legible handwriting. The weight that’d lifted with Chrissy’s smile sinks back into his gut.

“But it doesn’t matter,” Steve says, letting go of her hand so he can pull the note closer to himself. “I’m no good at this stuff.”

Steve crinkles the note back up. It’s unsalvageable—a stupid idea executed badly.

He’s in the middle of stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans to keep his keys company until he can toss it out in the comfort of his home when Chrissy says, “maybe I can help?” voice lilting up, like it’s a question.

Steve meets her eyes, hand still half-shoved in his pocket. She’s all earnest now, the way she usually is when there isn’t a sad boy infecting her with his own ineptitude. Eyes shining with conviction, bangs curling sweetly around her face. She’s no Carol, that’s for sure.

“How?” he asks, and when she smiles, it looks a bit like hope.

***

“I can help you write a better letter,” Chrissy starts. He perks up like a dog the moment its owner gets home. “If you do something for me.”

She feels like scum when he curls back into himself, gaze forlorn.

When she’d caught sight of the note he’d spent what seemed like a full hour pouring over, this isn’t what she’d been expecting. And when she’d finally made out his chicken scratch scrawl, she’d been sure Steve was picking on someone, no matter how unlike him it would have been. But then his shoulders had curled in, and his ears had turned red, and his voice had gone all soft and squishy when he’d said Eddie Munson’s name.

And she’d just wanted to fix it.

So, even as he asks, “what?” all sad and droopy again, she knows she’s going to help him, no matter what he says.

“Date me,” she asserts. It’s only as Steve blinks stupidly at her that she realizes how that came out of her mouth. “No, wait, not really!”

Her hands are waving around wildly and she can feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. In contrast, Steve seems to come back into himself, shoulders shoring up as he smirks across at her with his signature raised brow. The one he’d used while leaning on Nancy Wheeler’s locker last year, or holding her books as they walked to class, and all the other assortment of stereotypical boyfriend activities.

He’d worn it all the time, like it was part of the uniform.

“I just meant, we could fake it?” His right eyebrow raises to meet his left, forehead scrunching up with his incredulity. “It’s just, Jason and I broke up? And he won’t leave me alone.”

It takes all her strength to keep meeting his eyes as the seconds tick away. But then Steve nods, swings his letterman jacket off, and tosses it across at her. Unprepared for his sudden movement, it hits her in the face and drops into her lap.

“There you go, sweetheart,” he says with a cheesy wink that somehow manages to feel more genuine than any of his actual flirting techniques. “Gotta sell it somehow.”

“What a romantic,” she replies, deadpan, but she pulls his jacket on anyway, something that feels an awful lot like relief steadying her heart rate as she smooths down the too-long sleeves.

Jason’s going to freak out. But after that, maybe he’ll stop calling her house, and trying to put his arm around her at lunch, and trying to pick her up for school every morning. She’d do almost anything to get it into his thick skull that she’s not interested.

So, here she is, hashing out the details of a secret admirer letter from Steve Harrington to Eddie Munson, of all the unlikely pairings.

“What’s wrong with what I wrote?” Steve whines, running his fingers through his hair until it’s all mussed up and falling into his face.

Chrissy snorts. “It sounds like you’re telling him his hair is frizzy and dry.”

“I said it was pretty!” He throws his hands in the air before crossing them and pouting his lower lip out.

Chrissy can’t help but laugh. She’s always liked Steve. He’s nicer than most of his friends, and he’s easy to talk to. But this is a side she’s never seen of him. She’s not sure anyone has; can’t imagine Carol or Tommy seeing him put his whole heart into something and not tearing it to shreds.

“Do you use conditioner?” she asks, throwing finger quotations around it as she reads it off the crumpled page.

Steve’s blushing again, cheeks all blotchy and red, rather unbecoming for the shoo-in for this year’s prom king. “Well, I thought you said you’d help!” he says, a little too loud for the library.

So, that’s how she ends up spending the next hour painfully turning Steve’s earnest thoughts into words on the pretty baby blue paper she’d carefully removed from the back of her daily planner.

In the end, they’re left with this:

Eddie –

I wish I could say this to your face, but I’ve never been good with words, and you’d probably think it was a joke.

I can’t even get myself to talk to you, you’re so distracting.

I like how pretty your hair is. How do you get your curls so shiny? I want to run my fingers through them.

I hope this note brightens up your day. You deserve all the smiles you can get.

Yours,

Your Secret Admirer

It’s not what she would write, but still, it’s leagues better than what he’d started with. She slides it across to Steve, and he smiles down at it. He reaches his hand out, fingers almost brushing the page before he pulls his hand back, curling his fingers into a fist.

“What if someone sees me?” he asks, voice so quiet she can barely hear him even in the resounding silence of the library.

They’d managed not to talk about it, the dangers of Steve liking a boy. But it’d been present in the hesitancy by which he shared each of his thoughts, looking up at her like each remark would be the last straw before she recoils in disgust.

If someone finds out that Steve has a crush on a boy, it won’t take long until he’s getting beat up between classes or heckled straight out of school. Heck, even with all the rumors floating around about him, Eddie might be the one to throw the first punch.

“Do you want me to deliver it for you?” she asks.

“You’d do that?” he asks back, because apparently no one ever taught him not to answer a question with a question. “For me?”

“What else are fake girlfriends for?” she asks because they’re all questions now, no answers to be had between the pair of them.

Steve laughs, all tension leaving his shoulders as he throws his head back with amusement, eyes downright twinkling as he beams across at her.

“You’re the best, Chrissy,” Steve says, smiling even brighter as she replies, “I know.”

She leaves school that night after pushing Steve Harrington’s love note through the slats of Eddie’s locker, Steve’s letterman jacket keeping her warm from the cold.

This might be the best relationship she’s ever had, fake or not. Eat your heart out, Jason Carver.

PART 2

Welcome to my new AU! This will be posted in 21 parts. It is complete, so there will be a new update each morning until it's all posted. I've elected not to do a tag list, but it will be added to my pinned post each day as well. If that's not your speed, it will be added to Ao3 once it's all been posted here.

Special shoutout to @queenie-ofthe-void for not only their usual fabulous beta work, but also both the original idea and the writing of some of the secret admirer letters. You not only make me a better writer, but this work literally would not exist without you. <3<3

Title of the fic from the song Eyes in the Sun by Florist

#koko's steddie secret admirer au #my fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie #this has been a silly goofy wonderful labor of love I am now releasing into the wild for all of you <3 #also for those of you who voted in that poll #i elected to post the batches in about 4k or less parts because that's about my own personal cap for enjoyment in reading fics on tumblr #longer than that and i have a propensity to run out of time and lose it so!#here you go

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starcurtain · 3 months ago

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Some Notes on Mydei's Characterization (Part 2)

<- Part 1 is back this way.

I hit the tumblr image limit way before I ran out of things to say about Mydei, so here is the second half of the notes I've been collecting on his characterization. As always, interpretations are my own.

6. Mydei Both Embodies and Challenges Nikador's Virtues

We know that Mydei is regarded, by characters in the game at least, as the perfect avatar for Strife. Repeatedly, the game parallels Mydei and Nikador, and throughout our journey in 3.0 with Gnaeus, we're supposed to see the similarities between his aloof but noble behavior and Mydei's belief that violence without honor is nothing but meaningless slaughter. Obviously the undying king with powers literally based on the spilled blood of legions would be a good match for the warrior god whose conquest plucked the sun out of the sky... (Although I do like the recent discussions I've seen of there being mismatches between the Chrysos Heirs and the titans, hmm.)

But though Mydei reveres Nikador as his people's god, at the same time, he actually reviles what Nikador has come to represent, quintessentially rejecting the the central tenants of his own people's faith. Even as he recognizes the inevitability of the prophecy, Mydei is unwilling to accept the coreflame because he sees his own identity as diametrically opposed to Kremnos's conception of Strife. Mydei doesn't want to become what Strife means for his people; he does not feel fit to be Strife's demigod because he understands that doing so will mean losing himself, a person who is fundamentally different from the Nikador of Amphoreus's current timeline.

So the game is simultaneously telling us that Mydei is a great parallel to Nikador and a terrible parallel to Nikador, and it achieves this interesting contradiction by deliberately examining Nikador's five core traits in comparison to Mydei, who both exemplifies those traits and defies them.

According to the Kremnoans, the five virtues of Nikador are:

Unfearing of blade at the throat, manifesting the visage of courage

Unyielding to conniving treachery, protecting the crown of honor

Unblinking of eyes burning bright, upholding the cornerstone of reason

Unbending from wounds to flesh, forging characters of tenacity

Undaunted of risking life to protect, embodying corpus of sacrifice

Taking only the key concepts--courage, honor, reason, tenacity, and sacrifice--it should be abundantly clear how closely Mydei hews to these virtues and how they've informed his character arc so far, but I think it's particularly interesting: Mydei's story also intentionally refutes the traditional Kremnoan interpretations of those virtues.

I'll talk more about sacrifice later, but the other virtues are very apparent:

"Unfearing of the Blade at the Throat"

I barely have to say anything, do I? I doubt there's anyone who would question Mydei's courage given what we see in from 3.0 to 3.1. Without flinching, Mydei was willing to plunge into single combat against Nikador, despite knowing that he would almost certainly die a countless number of times while trying to hold the god off. Even knowing that Phainon was literally losing his mind in Nikador's coreflame trial, Mydei was willing to jump into the trial himself to save Phainon, again without a single ounce of hesitation. Mydei has lived a life where he has constantly faced death head on, where he has needed to stand up against impossible odds over and over again.

Clearly, he fully embodies the classic Kremnoan notion of charging into battle without wavering, of never backing down from the challenge, and of never shying away, even when loss is imminent. On the surface, we can easily say that Mydei parallels Nikador in this manner, and that Mydei gracefully fulfills his people's expectations for a leader to be absolutely undaunted in combat.

But then the game takes another track and tells us that Mydei is not only what he seems on the surface. With direct confirmation, the game tells us that Mydei is not fearless.

In fact, he's flat out terrified--not of combat, but of history. He is frightened of his own authority, of the responsibility he bears toward others, of choice that has been left in his hands. He is afraid of making the wrong choice, and for both 3.0 and 3.1, we see him do the exact thing a Kremnoan king--an embodiment of Strife--should never do: he wavers. Multiple characters criticize him for this hesitance, even Phainon, who jokingly scoffs at the idea of Mydei breaking his people's traditions, only to backpedal when he realizes Mydei is serious.

The conclusion of Mydei's arc in 3.1 is not the trial with Nikador. It's not Mydei's becoming a demigod. It's not Mydei's battle with Flame Reaver. It's Mydei finally making up his mind and committing both himself and the Kremnoan people to the dead opposite path expected of a blood-stained conquering nation. Mydei's definition of courage directly opposes the traditional Kremnoan definition, and therefore also opposes their interpretation of Nikador's "unfearing" virtue.

Rather than charging into battle without flinching--Mydei's courage demands the Kremnoans surrender the fight instead. Instead of dying, now they have to live. This is what makes it so fascinating that Krateros actually reacts to Mydei's brand of courage with terror:

Kremnoans know how to throw their lives away without hesitation. But asking them to embrace peace? Change? To survive? They are unprepared and entirely out of their realm of experience.

Mydei's courage parallels Nikador's--but also utterly inverts it.

"Unbending from Wounds of Flesh"

Tenacity, too, should be very obvious. Of course Mydei fits the traditional Kremnoan interpretation to a T--he takes every hit and stands right back up again. Very little needs to be said about Mydei's willingness to keep going even if it kills him, then to come back swinging even after dying. In the eyes of the traditional Kremnoan people, who could possibly be a better example of tenacity than someone whose body can't even be stopped by death itself?

The implication of the original Kremnoan virtue, linking tenacity to being "unbending from wounds," is that physicality is what matters. Before all else, to be able to battle without ceasing is the aspiration, while other aspects of the soul, other elements necessary for meaningful lives, are left under-developed or entirely eschewed. You keep going into battle or you might as well not keep going at all.

But Mydei once again challenges this notion, as his character revolves around a central conflict whose answer is "peace"--he doesn't want the Kremnoans to have to show the type of tenacity they most ferociously believe in. Like Mydei's courageous decision to lead his people away from their own faith, Mydei's actual tenacity appears most clearly in his ability to face Amphoreus's cruel world with empathy.

Given everything he has experienced in his life, Mydei is the character in Amphoreus who has the most right to be jaded, to believe that people are inherently cruel, that nothing in their dying world can be improved, and that there's no meaning to life other than to suffer. He was murdered by his father who also murdered the mother who loved him. He suffered ten thousand deaths drifting miserably in the abyss of the Sea of Souls, entirely alone--yet he clung tenaciously to that life that promised nothing but more suffering, dragged himself free of that hell and kept going. He embraced friendship and found himself a family, only to lose every tiny shred of joy he had cobbled together for himself as they died in front of him in horrific ways, one after another. He became the crown prince of a fallen kingdom, leading refugees into a city that hated and mistreated them for years while he served as fodder for battle, all while knowing that his own ultimate fate would be to surrender his remaining humanity to become an avatar for calamity, ensuring his own future would nothing but endless pain and loneliness.

The man had absolutely nothing to live for (except for the fact he can't die, I guess), but instead of surrendering to despair, he's the one joining in on the Flame-Chase Journey, telling Aglaea that he admires her most because she managed to light the flame of hope in people--even in him.

Knowing that only more suffering lies ahead of him, Mydei still ferociously embraces the life he's been given and the heavy honor he bears in guiding others on the right path. Rather than just racing mindlessly into battle, again and again into the same cycle of conquest, Mydei's truest example of tenacity is his ability to "take the first step," moving forward mentally and emotionally toward the future he dreams of for his people.

"Unyielding to Conniving Trickery"

Just as with all of Nikador's other virtues, Mydei clearly embodies the traditional Kremnoan definition of honor: He's honest, straightforward, and reviles those who use trickery to achieve their goals. To that end, we can see his act of patricide as the ultimate example of Mydei upholding the very classic Kremnoan definition of honor, killing a conniving schemer, his father Eurypon, to avenge an honorable warrior, his mother Gorgo.

Yet even as he accomplishes what he views as a necessary act--a duty to his mother's memory--Mydei does not react to the deed as other Kremnoans expect. Krateros rejoices at Mydei's decision to kill his father, but Mydei's only response is silence. Later, as I mentioned above, he discusses the pursuit of vengeance with Phainon and warns Phainon that revenge can never bring joy or closure.

In the ruins of Castrum Kremnos, when Phainon and Mydei debate the intersection of honor in combat, Mydei at first challenges Phainon's soft-hearted view with the traditional Kremnoan definition--but then, when Phainon claims that Mydei doesn't believe in his own people's tenets--Mydei remains silent again, tacitly agreeing with the truth Phainon has revealed.

Mydei is a deeply honorable character. Certainly the Kremnoans would have no scruples saying that about him, if only his surface actions are considered. Yet at his core, Mydei's definition of honor ultimately rejects everything the Kremnoans stand for, seeing absolutely no meaning in their pointless battles or their excuses for bringing harm upon others. Recognizing that nothing is truly gained even during the most justifiable of killings, Mydei's own sense of honor makes all of Kremnos's sacred history look like nothing but a record of historic evils.

"Unblinking of Eyes Burning Bright"

"Reason" is the virtue missing from Nikador, the one that up and wanders away while the Black Tide moves in. We're introduced to Nikador's reason as an entire embodied concept through Gnaeus. Through Castorice's interactions with Gnaeus, we're led to believe that Nikador was once fair and just, capable of staying his blade in respect of worthy opponents and of discerning the schemes of lesser men. The virtue, in the classical Kremnoan interpretation, seems to lie in being judicious, in knowing when to strike to always secure victory.

Mydei, of course, is not an unreasonable person. (He's more reasonable than the cranky/tsundere stereotypes he gets in fandom, anyway lol.) As I mentioned in the first part of this post, when Phainon wants to go charge straight into fight Nikador, it's Mydei who demonstrates this virtue of reason, reminding Phainon that they simply don't have the resources to tackle the fight. In 3.1, it's Mydei who reasons out what is going on in the first coreflame trial and determines how to solve their issue, find Phainon, and safely escape. Tactically, Mydei clearly demonstrates the ability to keep up with his opponents' moves, strategically divide forces, and see through enemy bluffs. By all accounts, he's a perfect picture of traditional Kremnoan "reason" too.

Yet, once again, Mydei's particular sense of reason puts him at odds with Kremnoan beliefs--because he is smart enough to see the bigger picture. What does victory in one, two, three battles mean? What does winning one war mean, if the next war is already on the horizon? What purpose does dying in noble combat even serve in a world that is already ending? Mydei applies his reason not to the short-sighted conquest of prior Kremnoans but to the longer view of the future, recognizing the futility and inevitability of the rise and fall of nations. For this clear view of history, Krateros warns Mydei that the ultimate consequence of his own intelligence will only be more suffering for him:

Like Nikador's reason standing alone, Mydei's reason sets him entirely outside the Kremnoan faith, causing him to recognize the inherent failings of a cultural system of wasteful violence enforced for over a thousand years. Looking at his own people with a discerning eye, Mydei ends up accidentally separating himself entirely from the familiar confines of his people and their traditions--like Gnaeus, struggling but unable to return to the whole.

On the surface, Mydei represents an excellent embodiment of classical Kremnoan virtues. As Eurypon says in the Kremnos flashback, Mydei bears the seeds of all of Nikador's virtues, stepping unflinching into battle, refusing to surrender in the face of death, approaching every duel with honor, and knowing when and where to strike. But at every turn, he also rejects and exceeds the confines of his people's interpretations of those virtues, using courage to stop battles rather than start them, tenacity to take the first step on a journey toward a more peaceful future, honor to reject the cruelty of Kremnos's callous views on death, and reason to grasp the broader context of making meaning in a dying world.

Mydei should be understood, at his core, as a character of extreme contradictions--both the "most and least Kremnoan of them all." Examining the way his character parallels while also wildly deviates from Nikador's perfectly encapsulates the core conflict of Mydei's character arc, the place where who the world expects him to be--crown prince of Kremnos, demigod of Strife--clashes directly with who he wants to be--the revolutionary remembered for freeing his people from despair into a true "Era Nova" of hope.

7. The Person Who Matters Least to Mydei is Mydei

Okay, so wait--what about "sacrifice"? It almost goes without saying, but I left the last virtue to its own point because "sacrifice" is the single most important trait of Mydei's character.

This is true in two entirely different ways: Mydei's life and philosophy were shaped almost single-handedly by the sacrifices of others--first, by his mother fighting to the death in an attempt to avenge him, and then by the sacrifices of each of his five friends in turn, who died insisting that Mydei should live on in their place. Knowing of his mother's sacrifice and witnessing his friends' deaths were clearly the life-altering experiences driving Mydei's departure from the Kremnoan faith.

Even as he tried to fulfill his friends' wishes by taking up his place as the crown prince of Kremnos, it's from these losses that Mydei truly learned the meaningless of the central tenet of Kremnoan belief, "valorous death before glorious return." There was nothing valorous in the deaths Mydei was forced to watch--the people he loved died pointlessly, fighting essentially for a cause and nation that had already rejected them. By watching everyone he cared for sacrifice themselves on the altar of Kremnoan ideology, he--the sole survivor, the one always, always left behind--was forced to confront the real reality of a culture that chooses to romanticize death, that hinges self-worth on a willingness to kill and be killed, that exists entirely as a war machine dependent on its ability to bring pain and suffering to others.

Even as he loved Kremnos for being the nation to birth him, the nation to embrace him, and the nation to need him--I think Mydei must have hated Castrum Kremnos in equal measure. This, I think is core to understanding Mydei's relationship with his own self-identity as Kremnos's prince: He loved what Kremnos could have been, while despising what it had become.

In the sacrifices of his comrades, Mydei found the very opposite cause his friends expected of him--he found his will to tear down their entire nation's thousands-year-old system of wasteful bloodshed.

But, another contradiction: While hating the sacrifices others were willing to make for him, Mydei has also proven himself to be an exceedingly, unflinchingly giving person. There is no aspect of himself, his own happiness, or his own freedom that Mydeimos is not willing to sacrifice if it means protecting the people, the land, and the world. If by giving something of himself, he can improve the lives of those who deserve it, Mydei will always choose to take the suffering of others on himself.

We see this selflessly giving nature from his earliest memories. His first character story impresses that even from his time as a tiny child, he was willing to aid others with no thought of reward, at his own expense even, helping drowning fisherman make it to safety but never seeming to be able to make it out of the Sea of Souls himself. By 3.0, we're told that Mydei and the Kremnoan detachment had become Aglaea's blade, carrying the brunt of Okhema's battle against the Black Tide and the raving titankin. Despite the fact that Mydei has reservations about Aglaea's orders, he follows them essentially without question, even when he knows this will put him at risk of pain and death:

But 3.1, of course, is what truly hammers the extent of Mydei's self-sacrificial behavior home. In 3.0, we see Mydei flat out refuse the coreflame of Strife several times. Mission text for the game tells us that he has "an absurd extent of hesitation and objection to accepting the god's authority," but Mydei also insists repeatedly that his hesitation doesn't have to do with worrying about himself. Instead, he says that his only hesitation is his people. Whether this is true... more in a second, but for now:

Mydei does not want to accept his destiny to become the demigod of Strife because he fears it will bring harm to those he cares for, the Kremnoan people he has fought for and died (many times) to protect. He is afraid he will perpetuate the exact same cycle of needless violence he despises if he loses his self-identity to the soul of Strife. He is, he claims, perfectly willing to sacrifice his humanity and self-identity as "Mydei" to become "Amphoreus's Guardian"--but only if he can do so while still ensuring a real future for the Kremnoans. Sure, this seems like a noble goal, but in all of this, there is no talk of Mydei's life, Mydei's freedom, or Mydei's dreams. It is only ever "what is best for the Kremnoan people" and "what is best for Amphoreus."

In essence: What Mydei wants does not matter, because Mydei's only spoken concern is the needs of other people.

For me as a fan of this character, the first half of 3.1 was viscerally discomforting. As players, we have the oh-so-pleasant privilege of starting 3.1 watching Mydei be systematically manipulated into sacrificing his own autonomy. I absolutely love Aglaea and Tribbie, but I won't sugarcoat it: by word and action, both of Okhema's demigods knowingly stripped Mydei of his agency:

First, Aglaea insults and pressures Mydei, calling him foolhardy and essentially suggesting that if Amphoreus falls, it's going to be because of Mydei's indecision. She essentially drops the responsibility for all of Amphoreus on his shoulders:

Then, Mydei confronts Tribbie about the even harsher truth, that both Aglaea and Tribbie had knowingly gambled with Phainon's life strictly to push Mydei into that corner:

Yet even after all this, even knowing that Aglaea and Tribbie have just doomed him to an end in pain and misery, what does Mydei say? "I have no intention of condemning you for it." He knows the meaning of the Flame-Chase Journey and understands that his autonomy was never going to stand up to the prophecy. He just lost every hope he might have had of living the life he dreamed of--and what does he still say? "It's okay. I don't blame you." Goddamn Mydei, won't you stand up for yourself at least a little?

Then we get to watch Mydei grow desperate. His freedom and future are already bought and sold. He knows he's running out of time, and he still hasn't found a way to protect the people who are relying on him. He practically begs Krateros to help turn the Kremnoans away from their path of bloodshed, and what does he get from the closest thing he ever had to a father figure?

A extremely cutting guilt trip, and, maybe even worse, a thinly veiled threat to withhold regard:

This might as well be a father saying "You have disappointed me."

Mydei has no one to turn to in these early scenes. Again, not a shipping post, but his only genuine ally, Phainon, isn't here to be his back up, leading to scene after scene where Mydei is treated like fate's chew toy. Players get to watch every single character who is indebted Mydei for his service and who has every reason to respect his wishes instead turn on him and push him into doing things he doesn't want to do.

(Okay, I'm lying, this is a little bit of a shipping post: I can't help but laugh, because the plot of mid-3.1 is literally "Phainon comes back for one scene and almost single-handedly solves Mydei's central character conflict by sending him to talk to Chartonus." He really said "I gotchu, man." 😂)

In Mydei's final goodbye to Castorice, we even see this unhesitating self-sacrificial nature when Mydei thoughtlessly offers to let Castorice kill him just so he can help with her own goal of pursuing Thanatos. Castorice is quick to rebuke him because, unlike Mydei, who has come to view his uncountable number of lives as nothing but currency to be spent in service to others, Castorice desperately values life. She chides him for being so willing to sacrifice himself, but he basically deflects, claiming it's an aspect of all Kremnoans rather than reconciling with the fact that, by this point, he's basically given up on trying to have any regard for himself.

In the end, Mydei manages to find his way forward, making the final, devastating difficult call to dissolve the dynasty and end the history of Castrum Kremnos. This is framed as Mydei reclaiming his agency, making the choice that he knows is right over the choice everyone expects of him. This is what Mydei wants for his people.

But what is the final outcome here for Mydei? The Kremnoans staying safe in the holy city wasn't Krateros's wish, nor the detachment's wish--it wasn't even the young Kremnoan children's wishes to stay in Okhema. It was Mydei's wish to live peacefully in Okhema with those he cares about, finally free of the shadow of Kremnos's bloodstained history and the madness of the path of Strife.

The life that Mydei secured for the Kremnoans is the life he dreamed of living.

And now the only Kremnoan who doesn't get to live that dream is Mydei.

Mydei went to Castrum Kremnos knowing he would likely never return. He went knowing his own death was already signed and underlined in future records of history, either at the hands of enemies from the Black Tide or at the hands of the person he trusted his deepest secret to. He knew that he would spend the rest of his life alone, engaged in the very same endless war he wanted to stop, the strife he did everything to spare his people from.

He sacrificed his own humanity, his entire life--everything he fought to claim as his own--all to protect other people. (I.... love this character so much...)

Nikador's last virtue is sacrifice. If you want to understand Mydei's character, just remember: Mydei is the kind of person willing to sacrifice everything he has.

8. But the Fact that "Mydei" Exists Means Something

Okay, but with all of that said, the true tragedy of Mydei's story is that he wasn't completely selfless. If he genuinely had no thoughts for himself and lived only for the happiness of others, his actions in 3.1 wouldn't be framed as a sacrifice in the first place.

Mydei's decision was difficult, and his ultimate departure was saddening, because he did have some regard for his own life. Mydei had dreams that didn't involve becoming the demigod of Strife. There were things Mydei was looking for in the world that now he will never get the chance to find.

And nothing more clearly tells players this than the existence of the name "Mydei."

Unfortunately, the effect of Mydei's name change is a little bit lost from the original Chinese to English: In Chinese, while "Mydeimos" is the same as in English (Màidémósī/迈德谟斯), "Mydei" is actually "Wàndí" (万敌), functionally an entirely different name. This works in Chinese because the use of specific characters allows the meaning of the name to stay the same (the "My" in Mydeimos means "ten thousand" and so does "万") while the sound of the name changes noticeably. In English, just using an abbreviation doesn't have quite the same effect unfortunately, but obviously the English translators didn't have the same options.

Anyway, the point is that in the original text, Mydei didn't just ask the Chrysos Heirs to use a nickname; he literally gave them an entirely different name--almost an entirely different identity. This distinction is reflected in his very first voice line, where he introduces himself as both "Mydeimos, the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, and Mydei, the warrior of Okhema," as if these are two different people.

Mydei was essentially inventing a different life for himself, a life where he didn't have to be a prince but instead could be just a regular warrior, where he wasn't "of Castrum Kremnos" but "of Okhema."

At the end of 3.1, Mydei's return to Castrum Kremnos is framed as "returning home." The mission description suggests this, and when Mydei returns to Castrum Kremnos, he's greeted by his mother's voice and answers her turn.

But this is actually bittersweet, because the game tells us repeatedly that Mydei has deeply conflicted feelings over whether to think of Castrum Kremnos as his home. In 3.0, Phainon insists that Mydei must be feeling extreme homesickness while exploring the ruins of Castrum Kremnos, but Mydei's conflicting backstories make it unclear whether he ever truly lived in Castrum Kremnos as a child.

Then, in 3.1, Mydei's scene with the children is obviously meant to be an evocative parallel. The children insist that Kremnos is their home, but Mydei pauses and asks them: "Can a place you've never seen be called your home?" This scene is important, because it is clearly intended to parallel Mydei's own situation. Most characters in the story--including all the Kremnoans--view Castrum Kremnos as Mydei's home, but he was thrown into the sea from the time he was an infant. Even if he returned to Kremnos after that, it could only have been under a false name, hiding his existence from his father the king. Is he himself holding on to the notion of Kremnos less for what it is and more for what he feels it's supposed to mean to him? Merely because of tradition and history? Was Castrum Kremnos ever really his home, or has Mydei's home always been the people he loves?

When Castorice asks him if he's returning home at the end of 3.1, Mydei struggles to answer the question, making it clear that he doesn't truly believe that Castrum Kremnos is his home anymore:

But if Kremnos isn't his home, then where is? (Oh, you wandering lion...)

I'd like to point out that Mydei's "About Self" line isn't "About Self: Castrum Kremnos." It's "About Self: Holy City." In this voice line, he expresses his surprise about the new life he managed to create in Okhema, how he never would have dreamed of ending up there as their ally one day. But in the same breath, he laments that "Okhema cannot be a home for everyone," because, as he discusses later in his "Annoyances" voice line: "Castrum Kremnos and Okhema have long been at odds. A spear can pierce the enemy king, but it cannot resolve the deep grudges of the people." Mydei is vexed by the barrier between the Kremnoans and the Okhemans because he doesn't want his two nations to be at odds. He wants Okhema to be a welcoming place for the Kremnoans--himself included.

The game tells us that Mydei was a person who was looking for a home, and that he wanted Okhema to be that home.

Mydei admits to Phainon that he is (they both are) naive, always wanting the best for everyone:

What Mydei believed was "the best for everyone" was a peaceful place. A place his people could prosper, a place where they could live on without needlessly wasting their lives on the battlefield, where, like the Mountain-Dwellers pushed from their homes in Chartonus's story, there would at least be a future for the Kremnoans that wasn't just "valorous death."

But Mydei wanted all that for himself too.

In "As I've Written," the author writes that Okhema was the final gift Mydei gave to his people--but in doing so, he had to sacrifice the chance to keep Okhema as a home for himself.

Mydeimos was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for his people without hesitating. He was willing to throw himself into danger over and over again, even when it would kill him painfully numerous times. He was willing to face his deepest fear and take on the coreflame of Strife to protect Amphoreus, despite knowing that the cost would be his personal happiness and freedom. He did so almost entirely without regard for his own life, unwavering in his sense of duty to others.

But the existence of "Mydei" meant something: a small, secret wish for a different future, to become someone who could live freely in a world without meaningless, endless violence, unchained from the evernight at last, surrounded by the people he cared for and who cared for him in turn.

Many people are worried for the numerous death flags surrounding our favorite prince... but the truth is that "Mydei" is already dead. That hoped-for life died the moment Mydeimos accepted the coreflame of Strife and surrendered his humanity, the moment he returned to the empty darkness of a fallen kingdom, where only a throne of blood was waiting, bidding farewell to any dream he ever had for a softer future.

9. Deeply Affected by Okhema's Discrimination

All right, that was bad. So you know what I'm going to do now? Make it worse.

I truly believe that part of the reason Mydei did not fight harder against his fate is that, even as he made his decree telling all the other Kremnoans to stay in Okhema and adapt to their ways... He didn't know how to do that himself. Even as he wanted to make Okhema his new home, he didn't know how to make the holy city accept him. (He probably doesn't know how to make himself feel at home anywhere, really.)

"As I've Written" says that cruel rumors followed him everywhere he went in Okhema, even though he never raised a hand against anyone in the city:

His voice line "Annoyances" suggests that Mydei is frustrated that he could kill what was likely one of Okhema's greatest enemies, Eurypon, and yet still the city would not forgive the grudges of the past. In 3.0, one of Mydei's first lines to Phainon is to remind him that Okhemans and Kremnoans still don't get along, even as he also says "I'm not in a place where I'm free to change that."

In 3.1, we see that despite serving the city faithfully as frontline soldiers for years, dying for Okhema's cause, the Kremnoans are still so mistrusted that the Council orders higher ranking members like Krateros to be placed under surveillance. In 3.0, the Kremnoan NPC Aeleus basically ends up running off from Okhema (to his implied death) simply because the Okhemans would not accept his relationship with one of their own. At the very beginning of 3.0, one of Phainon's first lines is chiding Mydei for not protecting "Okhema's citizens," but the way the line is framed accidentally excludes Mydei from being counted among those citizens, something which Mydei calls Phainon out for.

In 3.1, what the Kremnoan children tell Mydei is pretty devastating: they're being ostracized so badly, they can't even think of the place where they were born as their home.

At the end of 3.1, Mydei is even shocked to see that people other than the Kremnoans have come to see him off, seeming genuinely surprised that any of the Okhemans would respect him enough to want to say goodbye.

Even more telling, Mydei's own allies, his fellow Chrysos Heirs, admit that they've completely neglected the situation of the Kremnoans, turning a blind eye to the discrimination and hardships Mydei's people have been facing for years.

But all of this really culminates in the first coreflame trial. Although I've seen lots of people talking about how Mydei's fear was losing his friends, including Phainon, I think a lot of people kind of blanked over the fact that Mydei didn't just fear losing his friends--he specifically feared that his people would become the victims of hate crimes. The entire setting of the first trial for Mydei was watching the Okhemans turn on the Kremnoans, hurling slander and literally beating Kremnoans to death in the streets.

(This last one was particularly harsh, as Mydei clearly holds Chartonus in high regard--seeing someone he cares for act frightened of him and tell him there's no place for him in Okhema clearly shook Mydei even more than seeing the shade of Perdikkas die again.)

Mydei confirms for Tribbie that in Nikador's trial, he saw his "greatest fear," something that "terrified him." But Mydei wasn't just frightened of losing his friends--if it was only losing his friends that he feared, then like Phainon was, he would have been transported to the past and relived their real deaths. Instead, we specifically see a new fear: Mydei is terrified of Okhema's xenophobia, terrified that his people (and himself) will eventually be entirely rejected, losing their last refuge in a dying world.

Part of Mydei's greatest fear is the belief that no one wants him, that there is no place in Amphoreus for the "beast spurned by all."

This, of course, makes Tribbie's comment about how she and Aglaea have sidelined the Kremnoans' concerns all the worse--while treating him as a friend and ally, the Chrysos Heirs seem to have largely failed to do anything to address the prejudice Mydei was facing. In fact, we even see this mirrored in the bath scene later; yes, it's light-hearted but also, in the broader context, it isn't the greatest of looks: Even though Phainon is obviously being dumb, everyone automatically believes Phainon when he pins the blame on Mydei, and they confront Mydei as if the whole thing were his fault.

Mydei is an incredibly resilient and enduring person. He has faced the entire world as his enemy and still come out on the side of good. He certainly would not allow the opinions of plebeians to sway him. Nothing others could say or do would force him to bow his head.

But... I don't think Mydei was as immune to Okhema's discrimination as he liked to seem. The fact that he created an entire new name for himself, that he swore his loyalty to Aglaea and kept every promise he made to Okhema and the Chrysos Heirs, and yet still couldn't find a way to make Okhema his home... The fact that dream he had for his people's future was essentially for them to be able to live the exact same lives the Okhemans already do, in peace and prosperity, and yet even while living among them for years, the Kremnoans hadn't been able to reach that level of comfort... The fact that his last wish to Phainon was for him to be the bridge to finally help the Kremnoans adapt to life in their new nation...

Phainon's comments about what happened to the Mountain-Dwellers after they left their homes almost seemed to suggest that he fully understood the dangers of the action Mydei had just taken--like the Mountain-Dwellers, committing the Kremnoans to a future in Okhema does mean exposing them to further prejudice and mistreatment. Mydei accepts this as fact, suggesting that he knows just how much his people might suffer from the choice forcing them adapt to a foreign culture's expectations. And yet Mydei excluded himself from that need, and now will likely never--in this life at least--have the opportunity to grow to fit the place he expects his people to one day call home.

The fact that so much of Mydei's story revolves around this conflict between the two halves of his life, his two nations, suggests that this issue did affect him significantly, likely for years. I think it is actually one of the key reasons Mydei struggled so severely with his decision over the Kremnoans' future--and over his own future. If Okhema had accepted Mydei with open arms, treated him with respect and affection, if the holy city had given him a real home for possibly the first time... I don't think the story would be where it is now. Mydei was so willing to give up his own life and freedom at least in part because he felt like he had no other options, and some of that feeling certainly comes from believing he had no place in Okhema. Mydei was convinced that the other Kremnoans would eventually adapt and be accepted by the Okhemans, but I don't believe he ever thought that acceptance would apply to him.

It wasn't just the prophecy that drove Mydei away to Castrum Kremnos.

I think Mydei's character should be best understood as someone who, even while refusing to ever give in to the hurtful comments and behavior of others, was at least very much aware of, and shaped by, years of discrimination for beliefs he didn't even hold.

10. Stranger Danger/"I Won't Say I'm in Love~"

All right, with those wonderfully depressing points out of the way, why don't I end with some comedic relief? There's one last thing I want to say about Mydei's characterization:

He's kind of shy.

😂😂😂Okay, okay, I'm kidding. Mydei isn't actually shy by the average definition of shy folks (nervous, struggling to assert themselves, cracking under the slightest scrutiny). Mydei isn't going to ever make himself smaller or run away when someone tries to approach him, of course not.

But Mydei is reserved. It seems that he does not usually befriend people easily, is slow to trust, and keeps himself aloof, particularly among those he doesn't know well. It's easy to see this in the flashback from early on in Phainon and Mydei's acquaintance, where his responses to the conversation are exceptionally stand-offish, devolving into just one-word answers to try to free himself from the awkward small talk with a stranger.

One of the places people are most likely to find Mydei in Okhema is withdrawn, keeping to himself all the way up on the farthest corner of the roof. He even flat out asks why the Trailblazer would ignore his obvious wish for alone time. Even in 3.1, when taking a photo with the Trailblazer, Mydei is pretty awkward about it, saying that he doesn't take photos often, which suggests that he doesn't put himself out there much, even on Okhema's World Wound Web. (Maybe he's just hiding behind his cute chimera tiktoks instead; I am a Fig Stew truther lol.)

But I think perhaps the funniest indicator of Mydei's reserved nature are the scenes in Castrum Kremnos in 3.0. Although the Trailblazer is obviously not the most talkative character in Star Rail, Mydei goes almost that entire sequence without speaking more than a single sentence directly to the Trailblazer. Literally, the only line of cutscene dialogue he says to the Trailblazer for an entire two hour sequence of the patch is "Think what you want." Every other line in the entire Castrum Kremnos sequence is instead spoken to Phainon; sometimes he even speaks about the Trailblazer but goes right over Trailblazer's head to talk to them through the medium of Phainon.

Even Mydei's voice lines start with bare bones, one-word answers; his greeting to the Trailblazer is just "Mhm," despite clearly having no issues speaking full sentences to people he knows better.

Mydei really said "I don't talk to strangers."

Which, honestly? Totally fair of him. When you're an exile from your homeland which is ruled by a king who tried to kill you and every single other surviving nation on the planet hates your guts, it's not like a lot of the strangers you meet are going to end up being friendly. Mydei has obvious reasons to be aloof and to withhold his thoughts from people until he's certain he can trust them. He even has reasons to not be that well adjusted; the first nine years of his life were spent with virtually no human contact, and then even after that, he was taken in by the Kremnoan exiles who were already predisposed to support him no matter what his ability to connect with others was like. It's perfectly understandable for Mydei to not be the most talented social speaker and to tend to keep to himself.

But it's also just so humorous in practice--an undying prince of a conquering nation, one of the lead warriors of Okhema, rife with the pride of Castrum Kremnos, refined in both body and manner... And he's just awkward with people he doesn't know well. As much as it might be influenced by a tragic past, it's also a charm point.

Hell, Mydei's a little bit awkward even with people he does know well, at least when it comes to trying to express himself. Of course, the bath scene is the best example of this. Mydei comes up with literally five different options for things to say to Phainon and then ultimately scraps them all because "None of those sound right." (What he goes with in the end honestly isn't any better lol.)

Mydei was clearly trying his best to find the correct words, and the fact that he hesitated over picking the "right" answer tells us that he's not always as confident in communicating with others as he might initially come across. He's not just trying to come up with the first thing possible--he's trying to find the right thing to say because he is considerate and invested in in being understood by those he actually cares about. Krateros accuses Mydei of using words alone to try to end the Kremnoan dynasty, but the truth is that if Mydei were better at expressing himself--more eloquent and more persuasive--he likely would have faced less opposition for his beliefs.

When characterizing Mydei, I think he reads very much as the kind of person who can say the exact right thing in the exact right moment when it comes to, say, earth-shattering duels with the gods--the kind of person who can speak with poise if there's a challenging political or martial situation afoot. But in closer settings? In those personal conversations where he can't assume a distant, military commander stance and fall back on the expected answers of a warrior prince? The places where what he says really matters, emotionally, to the person on the other side? A lot tougher battlefield.

I think Mydei really is someone who comes across as distinctly reserved--not always because he's aloof or untrusting, but because sometimes he just doesn't know what to say or how to say the things he's feeling and thinking. It's cute, okay?

And you know what else is cute?

It's true that Mydei isn't classically shy, but his marketing has shown us that there is one scenario that he absolutely can't handle: Mydei can't even hear the word "romance" without getting flustered. (The gap moe is so, so real; I am not immune to your propaganda, Hoyo...)

In the 3.1 special program, just the rumor that Nikador once had amorous feelings is enough to leave Mydei stuttering, and in his weibo animation, when the "princess" demands that Mydei act charming, he completely falls apart, so much that he can't even get the sentences out straight and blurs them into a nonsensical mess.

Mydei, fistfighting a god: For me, it was Tuesday.

Mydei, being asked on a date: This is how it ends.

I know it's popular to make jokes about Mydei having his harem, but honestly, if just hearing the word "pretty" makes him panic, I'm not sure how he would ever have managed it. 🤣

Of course, this gets even funnier when we remember that Mydei is also the male character who most consistently brings up talks about emotions and the importance of recognizing and embracing them, who chides Phainon for trying to hide his sadness during their goodbye, and who casually drops half of Amphoreus's most romantic lines. Mr. "If there's chance in the next life, you should come visit my library" can't handle "Do you wanna dance together?"

Make of all this what you will; I don't have a deeper meta analysis of this that wouldn't be better put in a ship post, but in terms of characterization, I think the way Mydei communicates, struggles to communicate, and the places where his communication completely breaks down are all great indicators of the overall person the dev team was trying to convey:

Someone who cares for other people, even more than he cares for himself, but who still, and perhaps always, longed to find a place to belong, loved ones to come home to, and those who will listen to both the words he says and the ones he can't quite get out.

Mydei isn't a brawn over brains brute whose temper pops off every single time he gets mildly annoyed, or someone who lives his whole life in the training arena and takes every chance he can to start petty arguments. He isn't especially grumpy, machismo, or repressing his feelings, even when he's not always capable of realizing just how justified those feelings are. He's not unnecessarily aggressive or particularly rash, and he's definitely not dumb muscle. He is self-sacrificial to a fault...

But he is also a character of true extremes, combining an incredible capacity for violence with a longing for peace, a desire to do his duty to others while still wanting to keep something for himself, a pragmatist who understood the futility of fighting fate while still, deep down, harboring the idealized dream of a kinder future. He is the one who always asks to talk, but also struggles to find the right words; the one who embodies every tenet of his people's faith, only to reject everything that faith stood for.

Mydeimos, the crown prince of Castrum Kremnos, and Mydei, just the warrior of Okhema.

The man that you are. ❤️

One of my favorite Star Rail characters, beyond a doubt.

#honkai star rail #mydei #mydeimos #character analysis #hsr meta #amphoreus meta #so when do I get to start legally calling myself a top ten Mydei fan?#tiny bit of #phaidei #coding here #tagging so people who have the ship blocked won't have to see it #take my labor of love #I sacrificed sleep for this #I also ran a 101 fever the entire time I was writing this #because I got sick with the flu right after starting it #so if anything sounds weird #my excuse is that I was higher than a kite on over-dosed cold meds #don't @ me

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lilimoon-draws · 3 months ago

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wife (wip) 🐬✨

#my art #mipha #wip #she has SO MANY details and accessories 😭#im exhausted 🫠#drawing her is a labor of love 😤#*insert borat my wife meme here*

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heynhay · 9 months ago

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guys!!!! preorders for Cosmic Constant are OPEN until nov 10!!! get your canonverse klance fix from our uber talented artists and writers :]

#klance #EEEEEK IM SO PROUD YALL #its been. checks watch. eight months in the making #but its here!! for you!!!#a labor of love and a heynhay guarantee that you will love it #art #my art #voltron #vld

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kelpio · 2 months ago

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sending this outside the niche context I made it for because it was very fun looking up weird teeth and eye anatomy. i recommend

#i have way too many fake journal pages dedicated to canon divergent multiverse shenanigans not to post some of them here #it was like a months long process writing and making art and formatting. labor of love sigh #but if anyone wants to read the rest i dont mind posting them #gravity falls #stanford pines #ford pines #bill cipher #billford #art #artists on tumblr #gravity falls fanart #stanford pines fanart #gf art #kelps sticker board

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vantablackdraws · 2 months ago

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scrub scrub scrub

#sometimes a labor of love can be washing your partner's longass hair #one of these days I'll get to making that hair washing comic I've been sitting on for years at this point #but depending on how this post goes I'll either keep it up or take it down and redo it cuz eeeeeeeeeeh #it could be better in a lot of ways #but I've been staring at this for too long so here #my art #anji mito #baiken #anbai #guilty gear #cw nudity

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sollucets · 1 year ago

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@userdramas event 15: something new

something old: ramking, who i've loved for a while something new: ayluna, who i love now something borrowed: layout inspiration and something (cyan) blue! 🩵💚

#my engineer #23point5 #23.5 degrees #ramking #aylinluna #rowan gifs #*showcase #tostrangers #userdramas #uservid #lextag #tuseralexa #purpleguitar #hi heres the labor of love for audience of me i was talking about #this particular niche of pairing is very special to me #and the similarities were killing me by episode two but i just knew that to effectively make my point it'd be a Whole Thing #so hopefully this does the job. despite how it turned out in places i did work very hard ><#also yes. the banana is there. no elaboration

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cryogeniccrush · 6 days ago

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“Soft on You” (bucky barnes x f!reader) 18+

Part Two: Sweet Girl in Distress

Summary: You had one job—just one. Survive a regular Tuesday. Instead, you woke up from a dream that should be illegal, delivered coffee to the most gorgeous man alive, and somehow ended the day fearing for your job. The girls have theories. Bucky has a plan. And your sanity? Rapidly vanishing.

Word count: 6k

Warnings: heavy yearning, one (1) sex dream, reader blushing violently, inappropriate workplace tension, mutual emotional delusion, meddling coworkers, Bucky being accidentally hot, reader being so down bad it’s concerning, light language

part one • masterlist • next part

The sheets twisted around your legs.

A hand brushed your hip—warm, rough, familiar. It curled around your waist and pulled you closer.

His voice was a whisper at your ear, low and thick and reverent.

“Does that feel alright, sweet girl?”

You gasped, but the sound didn’t reach your lips. Not with his mouth already there. Pressing. Kissing. Worshiping. You arched into him, head tilting back as his teeth scraped lightly down your jaw and—

You shot upright in bed.

Eyes wide. Hair a mess. Breath stuck somewhere in your chest.

Oh my God.

You slammed your pillow over your face and screamed into it. A long, muffled, tortured sound.

“What is wrong with me?”

The alarm hadn’t even gone off yet. You rolled over and checked your phone.

6:04 a.m.

You didn’t need to be up for another two hours.

But there was no way you were going back to sleep now. Not with the ghost of Bucky Barnes’s dream hands still gripping your thighs.

You got dressed, grabbed your coat, and fled.

════════════════════════════════

Winter bit at your nose as you sat on a cold metal bench, legs crossed, scarf tucked under your chin. The world was just beginning to wake. Cars rolled by with sleepy drivers. A man jogged past with a husky. Two women walked arm-in-arm, laughing under their breath. Lovers, maybe. Or something close.

Your eyes flicked to their hands. Intertwined. Swinging softly.

You swallowed the sudden lump in your throat.

“What would it feel like…” you murmured, “…to hold his hand?”

To wake up every morning and see that face—those sleepy eyes, that grumpy half-smile.

You shook your head hard.

“What the hell is wrong with me? Am I crazy now?”

Yes. The answer was probably yes.

You bundled deeper into your coat, tugged the collar higher. At least you’d dressed warm: pants, turtleneck, and basically every other thing you found in your closet. Your hair was down today. A new perfume clung to your skin—sweet citrus with a hint of amber.

☕ 7:39 a.m. – At the Café

The coffee shop door chimed as you stepped inside, warmth curling around your boots.

“Hey, you’re early today!” the barista beamed from behind the counter.

You smiled. “Couldn’t sleep.”

She tilted her head. “The usual?”

“Yup,” you said. “And… an espresso too.”

The barista smiled, scribbling on the cups. “Smiley face today?”

You hesitated.

Your breath caught just a little.

“No,” you said softly. “Not today.”

She blinked. “Oh. Well—I hope it’s back soon.”

You gave her a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah. Me too.”

🏢 7:56 a.m. – The Building

The lobby was still quiet—eerily so. That pre-9 a.m. silence that only happened in government buildings, where the fluorescent lights buzzed a little too loud and the air smelled like over-waxed floors and bureaucracy.

Only two people were ever here this early:

Mark, the security guard, and Congressman Barnes.

You didn’t know why Bucky came in before everyone else. Maybe he liked the quiet. Maybe he couldn’t sleep. Maybe he was just that dedicated.

Whatever the reason, it meant the office always felt... different in the morning. Slower. Still. Like the whole building was holding its breath.

“Morning, sunshine!” Mark called from the front desk, voice bright as ever.

“Hi, Mark,” you said, smile already blooming. “I have something for you.”

You handed him the espresso. His eyes lit up.

“Oh, this is perfect. You got my order down now, huh?”

“I have a gift,” you teased, tapping your temple. “Also, you always look out for me. I figured it’s my turn.”

He patted his chest dramatically. “I’m gonna cry.”

“Don’t cry, just enjoy it.”

Mark walked you to the elevator, pressed the button for your floor, and gave a playful salute as the doors slid shut.

Okay, you thought.

Deep breath. You can do this.

Little did you know, that’s exactly when the universe (and Bucky, and literally everyone else) decided to start testing your patience.

════════════════════════════════

📋 Test #1: His Office ✅

The scent hit you first.

Bergamot. Old paper. Cedar. And… something else. Him.

Sunlight filtered through the blinds like a dream. And there he was—silhouetted by the window, mug in hand. Hair falling into his eyes. Sleeves rolled. Tie loose.

Death, you thought. I’ve entered death. This is the afterlife.

You stepped in and handed him his coffee. He took it without looking at first, murmured a distracted “Thanks,” and then—He paused.

Glanced down at the cup.

Still no smiley face.

His fingers brushed over the sleeve, thumb hesitating where the little doodle usually went. A tiny crease formed between his brows.

“You beat me today, sweet girl,” he said finally, looking up at you with a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You held your breath.

“I had a weird dream,” you said too fast, setting a stack of papers on his desk. “Didn’t feel like going back to sleep.”

He turned slowly.

His eyes were curious. Gentle. Unreadable.

“What kind of dream?”

You blinked.

Lie. Lie fast. “I… don’t remember, something weird.”

He raised a brow, moving closer as he flipped through the files you’d delivered.

“Weird how?” he asked, almost to himself. “Weird like… insects?”

Oh my God.

“Weird like nonsense?”

Please stop talking.

He leaned in just slightly.

Or maybe the room shrank.

“Or weird like… something else?”

Your brain blue-screened. You stood so fast your chair almost fell.

“I—don’t remember,” you squeaked.

Bucky glanced up. Smirked.

“Aja,” he said softly.

Then: “You can go to your desk now, Lila.”

You didn’t walk—you escaped. Like the room was on fire and your entire nervous system short-circuited.

You didn’t breathe again until you sat down.

You just put your head down and whimpered softly into your keyboard.

📋 Test #2 – Thumbgate ✅

A little later, the office began to fill in. The quiet hum of early morning gave way to rustling bags, soft chatter, and the hiss of the espresso machine down the hall.

Katt came in first, hair damp and messy from a rushed shower. She clocked you instantly.

“Girl, you look like a panda. Did you sleep at all?”

You threw a paperclip at her. “Love you too.”

Mai walked in behind her, sunglasses still on indoors. She didn’t even sit before smirking. “Let me guess—you were up all night thinking about what it’d feel like if he proposed to you.”

Your jaw dropped. “No!”

She raised a brow.

You pouted. “I just… had a weird dream, okay?”

“Weird like what?” Katt asked, settling into her chair with way too much interest.

You looked at your screen. “Nothing. Drop it.”

They exchanged a silent, knowing look.

You tried to disappear into your keyboard.

You finished the reports. Perfect. Flawless. Color-coded like the neurotic overachiever you were.

You looked at Mai...

She looked at you...

You glared.

She pointed toward Bucky’s office like she was casting a curse.

You pouted. Then trudged forward like a soldier marching into war.

He was at his desk, reading. You set the folder down with practiced grace.

His thumb brushed yours.

Your heart hiccupped. Skipped. Maybe died.

You walked out like nothing happened.

Then sat down and whispered to Mai: “I think I need to be resuscitated.”

📋Test #3 – The Chair Incident ✅

Katt and Mai were gossiping about something involving Legal when it happened.

Bucky walked out of his office—paper in hand—and made a beeline straight to your cubicle.

Katt blinked, mid-sip of iced tea. “Uh… is he coming over here?”

Mai squinted. “He’s definitely coming over here.”

You pretended not to notice. Focused hard on your screen. Didn’t even flinch when he stopped right beside you.

“So… Katt,” Bucky said, awkward and low. “That, um, that presentation yesterday—really great job.”

Katt blinked. “Thanks, Mr. Barnes. That’s… literally my job?”

He nodded. “Right. Yeah. Just saying.”

Then he turned to you.

You nearly passed out.

He walked around behind you and gently—gently—adjusted your chair.

You froze.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself like that,” he said quietly, fingers brushing the back of your seat. “Neck strain.”

Then… silence.

The office had stopped breathing.

Bucky glanced up and realized everyone was staring. Katt’s mouth was open. Mai was gripping her desk like it owed her money.

Panic flickered in his eyes.

“I—I just can’t have my employees getting hurt,” he said, voice a little too loud. He laughed awkwardly. “Ergonomics, right? Haha.”

He pointed randomly. “Good posture, Jason. Keep it up.”

From across the cubicle, a confused voice: “Uh, it’s Jackson, Mr. Barnes.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky nodded, backing up. “That’s what I said. Jackson.”

And then he disappeared into his office like a man fleeing the scene of a crime.

Katt’s jaw dropped. “Did he just—did he just adjust your chair?”

Mai blinked. “He totally did that on purpose.”

Katt slapped Mai’s arm. “Omg her brain stopped working. Look at her. She’s paralyzed.”

Mai crouched beside you like an emergency medic. “Okay. Deep breaths. Come on, babe. Inhale. Exhale.”

You inhaled.

You exhaled.

You remembered how close his mouth was.

You inhaled harder.

Katt smacked your arm. “Girl, not in labor! Normal breathing!”

📋 Test #4 – The Tie Emergency ✅

Your name echoed through the phone system: “Lila, Mr. Barnes would like to see you.”

You stopped at his door, took a breath, and silently prayed—to every god, goddess, saint, and minor deity you could think of—for the survival of your last two brain cells.

Then you entered his office like you were walking into a dragon’s den.

He stood in front of the mirror, hair slightly messy, shirt half-buttoned, tie in hand.

“I need you,” he said breathlessly.

You short-circuited.

“…Excuse me?” you squeaked.

He turned. “To help with this damn tie.”

You blinked.

He frowned at the tie like it had personally betrayed him. “I’ve tried three knots, and they all look like I’m going to a middle school dance.”

You walked over, heart in your throat.

He stepped close.

Too close.

You reached up. Fingers brushed his collar. His chest. Your entire bloodstream dissolved into glitter.

“This one?” you managed.

He met your eyes, that rare softness flickering.

“You always pick well,” he murmured.

You almost dropped the tie.

You didn’t breathe until you were safely in the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face like a woman in crisis.

“He’s trying to kill me,” you muttered. “That’s what this is. Slow emotional death.”

📋Test #5 – The Yelena Incident ✅

Bucky had decided to call a team meeting. Something about "transparency" and "better internal communication"—his words, but clearly following instructions from Charlie, the team’s ever-enthusiastic manager. Charlie was great. Bright. Energetic. Occasionally too energetic. But manageable. Hence: mandatory morning meeting.

That’s why you were all in the conference room, suffering in collective silence.

You sat at the end of the table, pen in hand, pretending to take notes while your soul hovered ten feet above your body.

Bucky sat at the head of the table, talking budget.

You weren’t listening.

Because he kept looking at you.

Not once.

Not twice.

Five times in ten minutes.

Your pen almost exploded from how tightly you were holding it.

Yelena slid into the chair beside you with a devious grin.

“You good?” she whispered.

“Peachy,” you whispered back.

“You don’t look good.”

You gulped. “Caught the flu. Or the plague.”

Yelena’s eyes flicked to Bucky.

He was watching.

She smirked.

“You know you’re cute, right?” she whispered, just loud enough.

Your soul left your body.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. Jaw flexed.

“Th-thank you,” you whispered.

Yelena beamed. “Look, Barnes. She blushed. That’s fucking adorable.”

Bucky’s voice dropped into a hiss:

“I see that, Yelena.”

Katt covered her mouth. Mai blinked like she’d just seen a live fire.

You stared at the table, praying it would swallow you whole.

════════════════════════════════

You were in the break room, wedged between Katt and Mai on the old green couch, a cookie in one hand and your cup of tea in the other. The overhead lights buzzed slightly. The heater ticked. Outside, the city dragged itself through another gray, winter afternoon—but in here, it was warm. Safe. Friendly.

Natalie, the new girl from the communications team, was leaning against the counter, texting someone and grinning to herself.

“Okay,” Mai said, stretching her legs out in front of her. “Let’s talk vacations. Where are we going?”

“Greece,” Katt said immediately. “I want to be chaotic in Santorini.”

“I want to go to Japan,” Natalie added. “Cherry blossoms. Cute cafes. That kind of vibe.”

“I just want sleep,” you muttered into your mug.

“Poor baby,” Katt cooed dramatically as you leaned your head against her shoulder. “She’s been emotionally tortured all day.”

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered, eyes heavy. “He’s everywhere.”

“For me, it’s pretty clear,” Mai said, sipping her chai. “You both like each other. And you’re both the same amount of stupid.”

You blinked. “That’s… a very bold theory.”

“Not bold. Obvious.”

You didn’t argue. Mostly because you didn’t have the energy.

Natalie perked up. “Have you guys heard the rumors?”

All three of you said, “What rumors?” at the same time, like a Greek chorus of doom.

She looked over her shoulder, eyes wide. “Charlie told me—during the meeting prep—that Bucky mentioned he’s eyeing people for the secretary position.”

You sat bolt upright, nearly spilling your tea.

“WHAT?!”

“Shhhhhh,” the three of them hissed in unison, grabbing your arms like you were about to be escorted from the premises.

You flopped back into the chair and clutched your hair. “I’m so fired. This is it. This is my funeral. Start planning it. Lilac flowers. Closed casket. Bury me with my organizational binder.”

“No, no, no!” Natalie said quickly. “I don’t think he’s firing you. I think he’s just… overwhelmed. It’s a big job. Maybe he thinks you need help?”

“Or maybe he’s giving you early vacation,” Katt offered, munching on a cookie. “You’ve been working nonstop since summer.”

“Okay,” Mai said, clapping her hands once. “Let’s all calm down. You’re literally the best secretary this building’s ever seen. You’re at the top of the Secretarial Hunger Games rankings. Borderline neurotic. Flawless in heels. The man literally drinks your coffee like it’s communion wine. I highly doubt you’re getting fired.”

“…Okay,” you said, very softly. “:(”

════════════════════════════════

Bucky’s Office – Before the Meeting

Yelena was asleep on his couch again, snoring softly, one hand draped over her eyes.

Bucky stared at his desk, chewing the inside of his cheek.

She looked tired.

She’s always tired. Shit.

He slammed his hand on the desk, sending a stack of folders skittering.

Yelena jumped, nearly falling off the sofa. “Happy Christmas, what the fuck?”

“I know what to do,” Bucky said, standing like he was about to deliver a battle speech.

Yelena squinted. “Oh God.”

“I’m giving her a vacation.”

She blinked. “You mean… like normal bosses do?”

He ignored the sarcasm and opened a drawer, pulling out a thick stack of résumés—applications they kept on hand “just in case.” He slammed them onto the desk.

“Make yourself useful,” he said. “Help me pick a secretary.”

Yelena rolled off the couch, hair wild, snatching a few of the papers. “You know, this would all be so much easier if you just told her you liked her.”

Bucky turned to her like she’d grown a second head. “What do you mean I like her?”

Yelena arched a brow, deadpan. “Really?”

“I don’t—” he made a disgusted noise. “She’s just really good at her job. That’s all.”

Yelena put her feet up on his desk, flipped through a résumé lazily. “Mhm. Sure. Keep lying to yourself, Barnes. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Bucky scoffed, tossing another folder aside. “Where are the decent candidates? Is there no one competent left in this city?”

Yelena smirked without looking up. “You’re one to talk.”

════════════════════════════════

🌙 6:04 p.m.

You knocked twice.

“Come innnn,” Yelena sing-songed through the door.

You poked your head in.

She was draped across the couch like royalty. Bucky was still at his desk, sleeves rolled up, brows furrowed—but his eyes softened when he saw you.

“I’m heading out, Mr. Barnes,” you said, careful not to let your voice crack from exhaustion. “Need anything before I go?”

He looked up at you, took you in for a moment. “I’ll manage,” he said, voice gentler than usual. “Go home. Rest.”

You nodded. “Okay. Goodnight, Mr. Barnes.” You gave Yelena a tiny wave. “Bye, Yelena.”

“Bye, cutie.” she called, winking.

You blushed so hard your ears burned and closed the door behind you like it might keep your heart from leaping out.

════════════════════════════════

Outside, the wind was sharp and cold against your cheeks. Katt stood on your right. Mai on your left. Three exhausted women against the world.

“We should have a girls’ night,” Katt said, tugging her scarf up. “I’m talking wine, chocolate, reality TV that makes us dumber.”

“I’m too tired,” you mumbled as you reached your building. “Maybe tomorrow?”

Mai kissed your cheek. “Sleep well, Lila. And none of that dreaming about metal arms and sexy workplace power dynamics.”

You groaned. “You’re both the worst.”

“Love you too,” Katt said, waving.

You watched them walk away, then headed upstairs.

Your apartment was warm but too quiet.

You curled into bed in mismatched pajamas, staring at the ceiling.

What if I am getting fired?

Or replaced?

Your pillow didn’t have any answers. Just the lingering scent of that citrus perfume you wore this morning.

Still, sleep came faster than you thought.

But peace didn’t.

First of all—THANK YOU.

The love for Part One has absolutely melted my brain in the best way. Every comment, every tag, every scream. I read them all. I giggled. I kicked my feet. You guys make writing this so fun and I’m so grateful. Thank you thank you thank you. 💓

Now. Part Two.

Bucky is confused. The reader is malfunctioning.

We got dream sex, thumb brushes, ergonomic warfare, and a chair adjustment so intimate it caused a spiritual crisis.

Charlie still hasn’t figured out that he’s managing a romantic comedy and not a congressional team, and I think that’s beautiful.

Anyway, buckle up. This is only the beginning of the blushing violence, and Yelena being the best wingwoman against Bucky’s will.

More chaos soon. <3

Taglist: @jenniferpendragon , @iyskgd , @amarveloustime222 , @httpkoylinnn 💓

#she’s NOT okay your honor #the girls need a raise for emotional support labor #romantic tension so thick you could file a report on it #yelena is just here to cause chaos and we love her for it #bucky please stop adjusting chairs it’s getting too intimate #can someone check if HR exists in this universe #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky fic #bucky #avengers #bucky barnes x reader #james barnes x reader

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quinns-art-box · 1 year ago

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HAPPY BIRTHDAY KAEDE AKAMATSU!!! she is one of my favorite characters ever of all time but yall already knew that. here she is having a nice birthday with all her friends 💖 because i have postgame v3 diseases

i thought it would be funny if everyone accidentally got her the exact same thing (a sweater vest) and they're all varying degrees of embarrassed/amused but kaede is just so happy and she's gonna wear all of them

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aphelionatseven · 9 months ago

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— Our Lady of Destiny

#the gallery #scuderia ferrari #saint ferrari #charles leclerc #carlos sainz #charlos #f1 fanart #formula 1 #f1 #hhngngng falls over and DIES this took. 5 hours and 13 minutes exactly #theres symbolism here if u look hard enough alright #if this flops i will cry #PLZE this is a . monumental labor of love from kacey strwbrryfire #anyways. this in celebration of my beautiful lambs' austin 1-2 #a worthy cause of jubilation if u ask me

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the-zephyr-zone · 4 months ago

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Day 9 of doodling until Jet Lag season 13 comes out!!!

#y'all asked for it #so here's sam in a dress/skirt #he'd 100% go for comfort #hence the hoodie #and those short shorts he loves to wear would totally translate into a skirt #unsure of how the quality of these is going to be going forward #gonna be doing lots of manual labor over my spring break #trying desperately to not accidentally doxx myself #lol ben doyle reference #but we'll see how that goes #also gonna be leaving my time zone for the first time ever???#every time someone mentions me being jet lagged my first instinct is to bring up Jet Lag #you know its bad when youre excited to be jet lagged for the first time lmao #anyway i think if i yap any more yall could find me and i love yall but no #jet lag the game #zeph's art #sam denby #jet lag the game fan art

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maladyinpink · 5 months ago

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🔊 RAINY DAY SOIRÉE ♥︎♠︎- Haz/bin Ho/tel Wav - ♡-Day Special

Projects will always be strictly AI FREE.

Hi All!...HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY! I'm nervous as hell but excited to share my first wav, this Established Husker/Dust Special, with you guys! ART PAGE/MAKING OF

RAINY DAY SOIRÉE - An/gel Du/st comes home from the studio in a hellstorm to find poor Hu/sk, snuggled up with Fat Nuggets and coming down with a cold in his muzzle. The spider affectionately takes care of his bartender beau, but not without catching it himself...Lil vignettes of Husker/dust's shared sick day and soft caretaking.

CW: Long depiction of shared illness, breathy vocal build-ups, loud deep cold sneezing, contagion, higher pitched cold sneezing fits, snotty/honked nose blowing, dry coughing, snzart visuals, blessing, kissing, emotional comfort, spoilers for the Great Gatsby and lots of fluff.

youtube

Script, if you guys want to read along, is below...Enjoy!

~ Love, Pink

♥︎♠︎ - Rainy Day Soirée - Script.

(Scene 1 - ANGEL DUST enters the front door of the Hotel in one of the Pride Ring's thundering hellstorms under his Pink umbrella. It's early evening and the lobby is suspiciously empty.)

ANGEL: *Shudders* It's wetter than dick out there!...Shit…Hello? Anybody home?

(Hanging up his coat, ANGEL heads upstairs and unlocks the door to the room he shares with...)

ANGEL: Husk…Honey?...You in here?-

(He's greeted by Fat Nuggets! The hell-hog scampers off the bed and across the floor to see his Daddy at the door)

ANGEL: Hey! My Sweet Boy!...Lookat'chu Bastards, you an' Papa havin' a snuggle, without me…Traitors.

(Yawning deeply, HUSK is still waking up, grumbling to himself about being woken up by a pig and stretching just like an Old man should. ANGEL coos to Fat Nuggets.)

ANGEL: Uh-Oh…Did we wake Papa?...Yeah, we woke Papa…(then to HUSK) Hi, Baby.

HUSK: (Just noticing his partner, tilts his head) Hm- Hey Legs…Damn, y'home early?

ANGEL: Yeah, just pick up shots today (Not really, by pick up shots, he means his scene partner picked him up and pinned him against the wall, he doesn't want HUSK to worry though.)

HUSK: (always concerned when it comes to the studio, but doesn't want to press ANGEL) Oh…um…Y'okay?

ANGEL: (Can't lie, sadly, but tries to reassure) Just uh…the usual...B-But I'm okay, m'fine. (Starts to laugh and ramble)...Actually, it was kinda funny…Long story short, the last scene- Val wants to get the climax again…and again…AND again. What a set of pipes on the poor motherfucker, screamin' to high heaven!...But, uh- Val got called into a meetin' with Vox, thank god…Shoot got cut short an'...Well, most workin' wanted to head home before the storm got bad…

(He trails off...Usually HUSK would respond somehow...ANGEL notices HUSK scrunching up his muzzle and squeezing the bridge of his nose with two fingers, as if he's in pain. He tenderly approaches.)

ANGEL: S-shit…Are you okay?...You ain't lookin' so hot.

(HUSK waves ANGEL off)

HUSK: M'fine…S'just a headache…

ANGEL: (know's he's been given bullshit) N-No No, there's somethin' else…Whaddya not tellin' me…Whaddya hung over?-

HUSK: HUH'ETSH'SHOO!

(ANGEL startles at the intense sneeze and Nuggets squeals, running under the bed. HUSK sniffles and wiggles and clicks his muzzle.)

ANGEL: Jesus!...Honey?! What the fuck was that?!

HUSK: (out of breath, and a little flustered.) Whew, Sorry…'Scuse me…Didn't mean to scare ya.

ANGEL: Next time warn a gal…It's just, heh-…Y'never do that…Come to think of it, I don't think I've heard ya so much as sniffle before?

HUSK: W-whaddya talkin' 'bout…Everyone…(Trails off) S-s-s…..sn-...Sneezes…

ANGEL: (scoffs) Yeah?...Not like that…

HUSK: HEH'ISHH'HOooo!

ANGEL: (starts laughing and mimics Husk's low growly sneeze) Achoooo!

HUSK: Oho! Y'think that's funny?...Laugh it up, Smartass…L-laugh…Hhhh- Goddamni-EH'RTSH'SHOO!...Motherfucker.

ANGEL: (still laughing, but sympathetic) It's…a little funny….Bless you!..H-honey, are you okay?

HUSK: Figures…Now I'm gettin' a cold, now that the seasons pickin' up.

ANGEL: Aww, my poor baby...That's why y'closed up shop so early, huh?

HUSK: Charlie said I was lookin' a lil…hhh… hhh...Peaky…Shit wasn't my choice.

(HUSK lets out a raspy sounding cough and leans back to monstrously sneeze again.)

HUSK: AH'RKK'HOOO!

ANGEL: Ah, Salute! Here…Blow the Thompson on the end of your face hon. (He offers a tissue box from the nightstand)

HUSK: …Thank you baby…(into tissue) AH'ITSH'IUUU…Ugh, Christ…

ANGEL: (unable to keep from laughing, lovingly mocks again with similar inflection)...B-B-Bless you!

HUSK: Very funny Ange…Real fuckin' hilarious…Alright, C'mere y'little shit!

(HUSK starts to tickle ANGEL's arms. The couple both start laughing.)

ANGEL: No!...No…I'm sorry!…H-Honey that tickles!...

HUSK: (growls playfully) I gotcha!

(Both laugh)

ANGEL: Husk!...Husk, Uncle!

HUSK: (listens, satisfied) Hm…That's whatcha get sweetheart.

ANGEL: (fondly) You're a sadist…M'sorry y'sick honey… (leans down and plants a kiss on the top of the cat's head, then notices a book in his paw) …Hey, whatcha readin'?

HUSK: …Gatsby (The Great Gatsby by F. Scott. Fitzgerald)

ANGEL: Ooh, t-that one…Uh…(suddenly a little embarassed, nervously laughs)...Y'know, s'funny…I ain't never read it?

HUSK: Sweetheart, you've never read The Great Gatsby?

ANGEL: I know, I know…S'crime against literature or somethin'...Y-you tell me, if y'think I'da had time between all the heists n' highs for a few chapters

HUSK: Y'got time now, don'tcha? (Sniffles) Why don't we read it together?

ANGEL: (hopeful) Really?

HUSK: Yeah!...I mean…I've read it a hudred times, but….I'd love to see it through your eyes.

ANGEL: Alright, babycakes…But uh, blow y'muzzle first, I can hear ya, gettin' all stuffy.

(HUSK honks a hefty blow into a tissue. Key word being honk.)

ANGEL: Alright, Mother Goose! D'ya wanna start the story or should I?

HUSK: I ain't got the energy to put up with this shit, dickhead…

ANGEL: Alright, Jackass! I'll take care of it, just listen to the Soothing sounds of my voice...

(He clears his throat and starts the book.

♥︎♠︎

(Scene 2 - The next time we see the pair…It's the next morning. ANGEL is in bed and is woken by a loud nose blow and growly bellowed sneezes coming from the bathroom. ANGEL stretches and cranes his neck to look at the bathroom door.

ANGEL: (called out) Bless you!

(The bathroom door opens and a pathetic looking bartender enters, looking exausted.)

HUSK: M'sorry, did I wake you?

ANGEL: Oh baby, nonsense!...You can't help that. You're sick….(clears his throat, still waking, hesitates to ask)...Uh, how's the head?

(HUSK just deeply coughs and raises his eyebrow at the wording. Anyway, ANGEL already knows the answer.)

ANGEL: Y'know what- …don't answer that, uh…I'm gonna go downstairs an' make us some tea.

HUSK: (childlike, pleading eyes)...With bourbon?

ANGEL: (Agreeing) With. Bourbon.

(ANGEL fiddles with the kettle in the kitchen, filling it up with water, putting it on the stove, turning on the burner…He feels something creeping up.)

ANGEL: Heht'ktsh'iew!...Damn…Niffty needs to dust 'round here.

(He hears the door creak open and feels something ELSE creeping up. Needless to say, it's not HUSK.)

ANGEL: Oh, honey?...It's okay, I got it under control you can just go back to bed.

ALASTOR: …Are you quite sure?

(ANGEL startles and rolls his eyes once he sees ALASTOR, but politely replies and resumes watching the kettle.)

ANGEL: Yeah...G'mornin' to you too, Al.

ALASTOR: My my! Someone's broadening their palate!...It's rather funny, usually you'd be schmoozing a mimosa out of our esteemed bartender…But here you are! Making…what smells to be a morning cuppa of chammomile- Or a double. How domestic…What's the occasion?

(ANGEL keeps his reply short, cold and brisk. He's never liked how AL treats his boyfriend and knows AL probably already is well aware, but wants the satisfaction.)

ANGEL: Well our esteemed bartender is playin' hooky today, he's got a real bad cold…(then realizes he can use this to his advantage) Y'don't wanna risk gettin' it Al, y'should probably keep away…like far far away.

ALASTOR: (Sees right through) Come now Angel, you can rest assured that I have no desire to hang around such pestilence. But I also trust that you'll inform Husker of his responsibilities and how he'll be making up for lost time…(He presses the laugh track on his staff)...I must say, I never took you as the caretaking type.

ANGEL: (Ignores the bite, sighs fondly) Well, someone's gotta take care of the big lug…(then bites) Lord know's you won't…Eet'Tschuu!

ALASTOR: (knowingly) Well! Seems as though pot just met kettle, and with that, I'll be on my merry way…(darkly) Seems as though disgusting affections are in the air…among other things.

(In an instant, AL leaves and the kettle begins to screech. ANGEL growls to himself in Italian.)

ANGEL: Stronzo di Fragole!…Hhh…Aat'tshew!

(Back upstairs in ANGEL's room, ANGEL sets the tray with two mugs and another box of tissues down on the bed and sits down.)

ANGEL: (tenderly) Here ya go, Babycakes. Careful, it's hot.

HUSK: (coughs sleepily)...Thank you, Sweetheart.

ANGEL: D'aww, you are welcome!...So uh, where did we leave off?

HUSK: (coughs) Page 41, the big party.

ANGEL: Okay…'I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby's house'-…'Scuse me…Sorry…Heh…Heh…Ih!…Ihh'eck'iew!...Heh'ish'uu!

HUSK: (chuckling) Uh-oh…Bless you!...Tissue?

ANGEL: Yeah I'b…I'm fine, Honey…Thanks…(tries to start reading) 'I belie- (sputters and coughs)...

HUSK: (gently) Are you okay?

ANGEL: (insistant)…I'm okay! 'I believe that on the first night I went to Gatsby's house…I believe I was-' (takes a deep breath, he is feeling awful and…is about to sneeze again)...Shit-

HUSK: (worried) Angel?

ANGEL: Eh…Eh- Sorry, I'm…I'm godda sneeze!...IT'Tshuu!...Its'Shhh-Oh fuck me sideways!

HUSK: Bless you…Are y'sure you're okay?

ANGEL: I'm fide?….heh…I'm fide.

HUSK: (smirks) Uh-huh, okay…5…4…3…2-

ANGEL: ahh'eeehhhehh'heh!-...ISH'UU!...aghih hhhdihh…ICK'HIUU!

HUSK: Bless you, Sweetheart.

ANGEL: (long sniffle, finally admits)...Baby?...I think I'm catching ya sniffles.

HUSK: (sarcastically) Really, y'don't say?…

ANGEL: Hht'tsh'iuu!

HUSK: (chuckles fondly)...Bless you…Y'know, this isn't how I imagined we'd spend our first day off together.

ANGEL: (coughs) Me neither…(blows his nose) Thought we'd have a glamorous date…Night out on the town…Er- somethin'...

HUSK: Well, we can still do that…With Daisy, Nick an' Gatsby…What's more glamourous than a grand soiree?

(ANGEL blows his nose again, a loud honk)

ANGEL: (sarcastically, glumly) Oh yeah, Honey…Real Glamourous.

(HUSK tries to think of a way to cheer up Angel and gets an idea.)

HUSK: Hold that thought…

ANGEL: Husk?…Whatcha doin'?

(HUSK gets up and starts to mess around with ANGEL's record player. Looking through the collection of vinyls, he finds one that they'd both enjoy. Glenn Miller's 'Chatanooga Choo Choo' starts playing and HUSK starts to sway and kick his feet a little, then does a little Charleston step.)

ANGEL: What are you doin'...Are you…dancin'?

HUSK: Eh…How's that for Glamour?…'Scuse me, sir?

ANGEL: (laughs) Who me?

HUSK: Couldn't help but notice…Y'seem a bit…sniffly-

ANGEL: (still laughing, loving this bit) No shit, it's your fault!

HUSK: -But otherwise…Absolutely beautiful. I'm a bit sniffly myself…(feigns surprise) We have so much in common!

ANGEL: (laughs) Y'so cheesy...

HUSK: I would love nothing more than to dance with you…Whaddya say?

(ANGEL gets up and takes HUSK's arm, joining the bit as they begin to sway gently to the music)

ANGEL: Well sir, I'd love to…But between you an' me?...Keep this on the downlow, Y'don't wanna let my grump of a boyfriend know that I'm dancing with such a gentleman.

HUSK: Well, I dunno this fella…But if he's doin' anything right, I think he'd just be happy to see you happy.

(The two dance and sway in their pajamas for a while, wrapped in eachother's arms)

HUSK: One…Two…-....Hhhh

(ANGEL notices HUSK's twitching and hitching and offers to help.)

ANGEL: Honey?...Y'okay? Y'need a tissue?...A tissue?

HUSK: AH'ICKHH'HIOOoo!

ANGEL: Yeah, that's what I thought…Bless you Ol' Man.

HUSK: Uhhh….Th- Thank-....Tha-...uhh'ITSH'hooo

ANGEL: Salute, Mio Caro…Here.

(HUSK takes the offered tissue)

HUSK: (stuffily) Thank you baby…(he coughs amd hitches as another big painful sneeze is coming)...HEHRK'HOOOOOOO!

ANGEL: (clicks his tongue, sympathetic) Bless you!...I think that's our cue to get back in bed baby.

♥︎♠︎

(Scene 3 - Hours of reading later. The couple has reached the big twist of the heightening drama of the book. Daisy Buchanan was the one driving the car that hit Myrtle Wilson. Jay Gatsby, who's in love with Daisy, will take the blame. ANGEL's heart and weakened immune system cannot take this.)

ANGEL: (floored, heartbroken) Husk…No…No, it was Daisy?!

HUSK: (knew this was coming) Daisy was drivin' baby...

ANGEL: No!...She did it?...N-no!...Fuck no! (Throws the book) Goddamnit! (A coughing jag starts)

HUSK: Easy!...Easy, Jesus Christ…Breathe, baby, breathe…Are you okay?

ANGEL: (carries on) An' he's just gon' take the fall for her sorry ass…Oh my god! (Way too into the story.)

HUSK: (laughs a little at his partner's passion) I know…I know-...Shit Angel are you cryin'?

ANGEL: (He is. Emotional, sniffling)...S'just so fucked up.

HUSK: Easy now…I know…But that's the beauty of it…ain't it?

ANGEL: (crying, looks up, confused) B-beauty?...Of someone bein' a selfish bitch an' ruinin' lives?

HUSK: Nah, Ange, The beauty of the story…is in it's honesty…Shows us the darker sides of love…An' how far an fucked folks'll get protectin' it.

ANGEL: (quiet) Husk?…Husk.

HUSK: What's wrong lovebug?

ANGEL: (sadly)…Would you do that for me?...Would ya..t-take the fall?

HUSK: (nonchalantly) Hm, probably.

ANGEL: Even if it meant…everything?

HUSK: Lookatcha!...Y'gettin' all existential on me!

ANGEL: M'serious!

HUSK: (looks ANGEL in the eyes, with utter conviction) If it meant, keepin' you safe, keepin' y'by my side…Then yes…

(HUSK feels ANGEL's breathing start to hitch as he holds him)

HUSK: Alright baby…Quit cryin'...(Notices he's pulling away and fanning his face and grabbing a tissue)...Oh…O-oh, are you okay?

ANGEL: (breathlessly) No!...N-No, I'm gonna sneeze!...Itsh'uu!...Eck'hiiuu, Ehhhishhh'shuu!...Heh'rkk'kiew! (Groans) Oh go-...Irrkk'hew! (Gasp) Heh'Ihhk'hew…Eh…Ehyiiishhhiew!...

HUSK: Bless you, Bless you- Bless you!...Holy shit, Ange! …Fuckin' Shit! Aww baby…Shhh, Breathe baby.

ANGEL: ….Hhh….Aacksh'IEW!...(groans)

HUSK: (chuckles) Bless you!...Y'always sneeze like that?

ANGEL: (sniffles) Like what?...(realizes) Oh, I'm sorry! (Coughs) Not all of us start a damn natural disaster every time the pollen count goes up.

(HUSK belly laughs, ANGEL's jab was...pretty fair enough. HUSK's laugh trails off into little coughs and grows a bit raspy.)

HUSK: (lovingly firm) Alright, blow your nose.

(ANGEL blows thickly and groans)

HUSK: There y'go…Feel better?

ANGEL: (tired from his emotional burst and his sneezing fit, he deadpans) What do you think?

HUSK: (not really bothered by his partner's moodiness, but calls it out anyway) Damn, you're startin' to get a lil bitchy.

(ANGEL is too sleepy to argue with this, so he lays down and pulls the blanket up, snuggling into HUSK's side.)

ANGEL: (quiet)…Gonna take a nap.

HUSK: (coughs) That's a brilliant idea, Sweetheart…

(Nuggets comes out from under the bed and paws to be let up. HUSK pats the bed.)

HUSK: Well, c'mon!...Get on up, here.

♥︎♠︎

(Scene 4 - Another few hours later…a knock at the door wakes the couple)

ANGEL: (grumpily, sleepily, stuffily)...Hm, Who the fuck is that?... If anyone tries to enter this room with me looking like absolute shit…I will not hesitate to shoot them.

HUSK: (yawns, sleepily and raspily) S'okay, Ange, just stay in bed…I'll get it.

(HUSK coughs a jag into his arm as he answers the door. ANGEL lets our a rough Aagh'ish'hew!, and Nuggets greets Princess Charlie Morningstar behind the door, who's carrying a large thermos and still dressed in her pajamas.)

HUSK: Sorry…Hi, Princess.

CHARLIE: Holy shit…You guys sound awful (coughs roughly a little herself...revealing the bug is clearly going around)

ANGEL: Hell, you ain't sounding much better, Toots.

Charlie: (In-denial, laughs) No!...I'm fine- I'm fine, Angel…Nothing to worry about! Vaggie is downstairs with something nasty…So I'm gonna go take care of her, BUT I brought you guys some chicken soup, I hope you enjoy it!

HUSK: (smiles sincerely and takes the thermos) Much obliged…Thank you…(then looks doubtful) Are you sure you're okay?

CHARLIE: (giggles again, still denying) No! I'm fine! I'm fine guys, I- Hh! HEP'PTSH'SHIEEW!

(CHARLIE inherited her Dad's tendency to occasionally become a...flamethrower when sneezing. Tends to get worse with a cold. Her demon form is out. ANGEL, HUSK and Nuggets stare blankly, a bit scared.)

ANGEL:…Bless you.

HUSK:…Bless you.

HUSK: (quietly to ANGEL) I didn't jus' hallucinate, right?...Fire came out her nose…

ANGEL: (quietly back) Dunno, y'talkin' to a former crackhead, if anyone's hallucinatin' it should be me…

CHARLIE: Eh…Heh…Ih…IPTSH'SHIEEW!

ANGEL: (Gently, firmly, big brother energy) Charlie…Dollface?... Y'takin' care a' everybody…But don't forget to take care a' y'self. (as Charlie coughs, ANGEL melts and invites her in for a hug)...C'mere.

CHARLIE: (Emotional)...Oh, Angel!

ANGEL: (waving her off, still a bit nervous) Yeah, yeah… Just do me a favor? Try not to set me on fire?

(HUSK joins the hug, wrapping his wings around the three of them.)

HUSK: C'mere, kid…If you tell anybody about this…I will gut you like a fish. (No real bite)

CHARLIE: (beat.) Thank you guys…Um…Vaggie and I are gonna watch some movies in the lobby, if you guys wanna join us, you're free to!...And if you need anything, give us a holler- Well actually, don't do that- Save your voices…Okay, bye!

(Door closes)

HUSK: Could be fun…It'll help distract from your…existential dread.

ANGEL: (coughs) Hey, fuck off!...Anyway, I have a better distraction…

HUSK: What?...(realizes and stiffens) No!...No. Are- Are you really feelin' up to that right now?

ANGEL: (pouts) C'mon Whiskers, don'tcha want me to…feel better?...(muffles a stuffy sneeze behind his hands) Ktsch'yew!- Oh my god…

HUSK: (smirks) Need a tissue?

ANGEL: (sniffles) I need…YOU, Baby! Besides, didn'tcha know that the Pentagram's leadin' scientists and' medical professionals say 'Sex is good for a cold!'

HUSK: (contemplates, then smiles slyly and inches closer) Well…Then I guess we gotta do what we gotta do…For science.

ANGEL: (smiles back, sniffling) That's right, we're just doin' this for a good cause…In the name of 'Science'.

(They melt into an embrace in a slow passionate kiss.)

ANGEL: ...I love you

HUSK: ...I love you too

(ANGEL's nose gets brushed and he pulls away to harshly sneeze, and looks up apologetically)

ANGEL: ...Aack'shew!...Ugh sorry.

HUSK: (tenderly) Bless you, Sweetheart.

♥︎♠︎ - è finito

The end, hope you enjoyed!

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