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kflixnet · 2 years ago

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[MDNI] Check out our member Kelly's smut fic!

Feeling in Chaos - Fall pt. 2 | JJK

Pairing: Jungkook x (f) reader

Genre: drama, angst, smut

AU: art college!au, friends to lovers, best friend’s brother

Wordcount: 12,670

Summary: It’s time to talk about it.

Rating: M / 18+

Warnings: Language. Grief. Panic attacks. MC has PTSD and is learning how to get through it. Jealousy. Self-loathing. Ryujin’s trying. Koo’s going through something. Possibly problematic friendship/relationship.

Smut Warnings: None, just mentions of the smut in the previous chapter.

AN: Ah, so…surprise? Over two months later…This chapter has a lot going on. A lot of much needed conversations and finally some attempts to move forward. I have nothing further to add, except for my apologies for it being late. 😅Thank you to the soulmate @playmetheclassics for beta reading. ily

Banner and Divider by @classicscreations

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When you finally get to the club, you glance around to ensure Ryujin isn’t outside. You walk to the front of the line and get the security guard’s attention.

“I’m sorry, my friend is in there, she’s drunk, and I just need to get her out and take her home. Is there any way I can just go in and grab her?”

The tall buff man that could honestly give The Rock a run for his money shakes his head.

“Sorry, miss. I’ve heard that line one too many times. You’ll have to wait in line with the others.”

“Please? She’s grieving, and I just. I need to get her home before she does something she regrets.”

He only shakes his head again and points towards the back of the line. You sigh, grabbing your phone and calling her again. She answers, but you can barely hear her over the thumping bass.

“Ry? I’m outside. They won’t let me in. Come out, and we can go home.”

“Wha? Where are yo—?”

Her voice cuts off as the call ends. You groan in annoyance, getting in the stupid long line to get in the shitty building.

The sense of panic sets in again as you wait. How do you get her home? What do you say? Do you let her speak? Do you wait until she’s sober to talk? Or do you yell at her now and hope she remembers? How the fuck are you going to get her home? Yoongi was right. But, fuck, you can’t get him involved in this. You’ve already gotten too close to him tonight. You can’t do it anymore.

You go to your contacts, pressing the call button and hating yourself already. It only rings twice before he picks up.

“Y/n? Are you okay? Are you still at the studio?” Your heart cracks at the voice laced with worry.

“No, Jungkook. I left already.”

“Where are you? Because you’re not at your apartment.”

“Have you been waiting there?” Your voice falters. The image of him waiting in your apartment while you’re on the couch in your studio getting fucked and almost confessed to by your group therapy buddy flashing in your mind makes you want to scream.

He stays silent, answering your question without saying a word.

“Kookie…I need your help.” You exhale a shaky breath, trying to stay focused.

“What happened? Did he do something?” There’s a certain bite in his voice that feels like an attack on you, but you set it aside, planning on stressing over it later.

“No, Koo. He didn’t do anything. It��s Ry. She’s at this club or bar or whatever, she’s shitfaced and called me, and I’m waiting outside, but I…I don’t know how to get her home.”

He gives it a moment after your voice trails off, finally speaking again after a while.

“You want me to come get you two?” His voice is softer, but still tense, and you hate it.

“Yes, please…” you quietly admit, and you can hear the sound of his keys moving as he tells you to send the address via text and to wait for him.

This feels too familiar.

“Jungkook?” You quickly speak up before he hangs up.

“Yes, y/n?”

“Please drive carefully.” you feel your stomach twist, “get here safely, okay?”

He doesn’t need to ask why you’re saying these things. He knows. You know he knows. He reassures you he’ll be okay, hanging up only when you’re ready, and you look back down at your phone as the call ends.

Five minutes later, you’re almost at the front of the line when you see Ryujin stumbling out of the building, looking around in confusion.

“Ry!” You shout as you finally escape the line, much to the satisfaction of the people behind you. You want to run to her, but she’s still a ticking time bomb, and you’re already on edge enough that you don’t want to risk her wrath even if she was the one that called you.

“Y/n!” She shouts back, tears streaming down her face as she runs to you. You let her hug you first, hesitantly hugging her back and only tightening your hold when she starts sobbing against your shoulder.

“Hey hey hey, I’m here. It’s okay, Ry. What happened?” You don’t expect an answer and don’t let go, just letting her desperately hold onto you and cry.

When she finally lets go of you, you guide her to sit on the curb. It’s gross, but it’s away from the club goers passing by, and it’s still within sight of the security guard. Your hands never leave her, one on her back and the other gripping one of hers like if you let go, she’d vanish from you too.

You stay silent for her, watching her battle with the thoughts in her head and the words behind her ruby-red lips. You look away, down the street to see if Jungkook’s car would be in view, but you wanted to give her more space.

“I don’t blame you.” Her voice cracks, and your neck almost snaps when turning back to her.

“What?” You’re afraid to ask in case it all goes wrong.

“For…for Kai’s death. I don’t blame you. I never did.” Her grip on your hand tightens, and the tears fall again across her beautiful face. “I know it’s not your fault. But I just…I needed someone to hate, someone that isn’t me.”

Her? Why? Why would she…?

“Ry, what do you mean someone that isn’t you?”

She finally looks up at you, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she relives memories you have no idea about. Moments she wishes she could forget or do over.

“It doesn't matter now.” She shakes her head, holding your hand close to her chest. “Please, y/n. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. You’re my best friend and there’s no excuse for the things I said. Please don’t hate me. I can’t lose you, too.”

You look at your best friend. The girl that was born a day before you in the same hospital. The girl that asked to draw with you on the playground. The girl that yelled at anyone and everyone that dared say anything bad about you. The girl that held you as you cried over your first heartbreak. And your second, third, fourth…

The girl that, despite coming across as perfect to the world, bared her soul, fears, and insecurities to you one night after sneaking into her parents’ liquor cabinet. The girl that promised to be by your side for forever when your parents said you’d be nothing. The girl you watched fall in love with your brother, having the most beautiful and loving relationship with him.

The girl who fell apart just as badly as you did. But instead of seeking help, she burned the world around her down, starting with you.

Her name quietly escapes your lips, but before you can say anything else, Jungkook pulls up against the curb next to you. He quickly exits the car to squat down in front of you both, eyes meeting yours briefly before turning his attention to his sister.

He looks exhausted.

“Hey, Rybread. You okay?” He gently grabs her free hand, bringing her attention away from you and to him instead. She nods, a broken sob escaping when Jungkook helps her stand, you having to stand with her because her hand is still tightly gripping yours.

“Let’s get you two home, yeah?” He gently speaks to only her, still refusing to look at you for more than a second. You carefully pull your hand away from Ryujin, watching Jungkook help his sister enter the backseat. When she’s finally in, seatbelt on, head leaning back, eyes closed, he looks back at you.

You hate the sadness in those big beautiful brown eyes. Hate the dark bags forming underneath them. Hate that you’re probably the cause of some of it.

“Are you okay to sit in the backseat or do you need to be upfront?” His question is as monotone as he can make it, but you can still pick up on the notes of concern in his words.

You open your mouth to speak, eyes glancing between the backseat and the passenger’s seat, when Jungkook shuts Ryujin’s door a little harsher than necessary, causing you both to jump.

“Upfront it is. Come on.” He mumbles, opening the passenger’s side door before returning to the driver’s seat with a huff.

You get in only when he’s put his seatbelt on and turned the key in the ignition, the engine roaring to life. You put your seatbelt on, backpack across your lap and fingers toying with the straps for a moment before a big hand reaches for your left hand.

His fingers intertwine with yours, settling on his lap, his free hand on the steering wheel, effortlessly pulling away from the curb and driving off.

Your eyes stay on the road, trying to watch every car while simultaneously trying to remind yourself to breathe. At every stop light, Jungkook brings your joined hand to his chest, his thumb rubbing the back of your hand until the light turns green and you’re past the intersection.

You say nothing, forcing the fear deep down inside to deal with when you’re alone. Your right hand grips the door handle like you’re bracing for impact, and it takes everything in you not to scream to pull over. The last time you were in a car was on the way home from the funeral. You were so ready to jump out of the car on the highway, actually opening the door at one point, not caring what happened to you, only about getting out.

“You need to breathe, y/n.” His voice is gentle but still in that monotone voice. It doesn’t match the way his thumb is soothing over your hand or how tightly he’s holding it.

You hadn’t realized you were barely taking any breaths, afraid if you did, you’d scream or cry. You still don’t respond, only squeezing his hand in response as you take a deep breath, shakingly exhaling after.

“I’m trying. It’s just—” you look down for a moment, your free hand playing with the zipper on your back, “I’m too focused on not panicking. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?” His voice is losing the monotone effect, and you sneak a glance at his face. His jaw is clenched, and he looks anything but soft, more stoic instead.

“I don’t know…I’m sure there’s a list of shit I need to apologize for that’s so long, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“The top, usually.” He’s quick to respond, and you have to fight the urge to give even the smallest smile.

“The top…the top says ‘I’m sorry you met me and got dragged into this.’”

“Well, that’s a stupid apology.” He says after a moment. “You didn’t know what would happen when we were kids. If you did, I’d have many questions. One being lottery numbers.”

You quietly laugh to yourself. Eyes jumping from the roads, to your hand in his, and his face that still won’t look at you. You’re partially relieved he’s keeping his eyes on the road.

“And I’m not sorry I met you. You’re insanely frustrating at times. You drive me to be a jealous mess of hopelessness plagued by unrequited love. But I’m not sorry I met you. Not even a little bit. I’d rather have you in my life than out of it.”

You stare at him, lips parting with no words able to form. He’s confessed in various ways so many times now, and it feels like a punch in the gut every time. This time, however, feels more like a stab to the heart.

“…it’s not hopeless, Jungkook.” You swallow thickly, looking away from him and focusing on his hand wrapped around your own instead. “And it’s not unrequited…”

“Feels a lot like it…”

You say nothing, the car stopping in the apartment complex.

You barely even registered the rest of the drive home once he started talking. Your breathing was steadied, your heart rate was racing, albeit for a different reason, and you weren’t trying to escape the car.

Jungkook gets out first, walking around to get to Ryujin sitting behind you. You quietly get out, watching him try to coax her awake, eventually giving up and handing you the keys before scooping her out of the car.

You lock the car when he’s got her, following behind inside to the elevator and to the apartment, neither speaking except for random gibberish from your tipsy sleeping best friend.

He sits her down on the counter in the bathroom while you grab her a change of clothes. He leaves the both of you alone so you can help her remove her makeup and do your best to take her through her beauty routine. She'd always go on about how she could never miss a day, walking you through each step for moments like this.

What feels like ages later, you finally emerge from the bathroom, letting her change in private, and head back down to the living room. Jungkook is sitting on the armrest of the couch with palms running across his face while you lean against the wall.

The atmosphere is awkward. You don’t know what to say, so you pull out your phone, remembering your spat with Yoongi.

Y/N (3:35 am): hey. I’m home. I hope you made it back okay. I’m really sorry about what I said. You didn’t deserve that.

You hit send and watch as it switches from delivered to read within seconds. The typing bubbles appear moments later.

Yoongi (3:35 am): Apologize with pie.

A shaky giggle escapes your lungs before you can catch it, and Jungkook scoffs.

Your head snaps up to the sound, wide eyes and body frozen. He shakes his head, eyes cast to the floor. You lower your gaze back to the phone, trying to decide what to type next when he finally speaks to you.

“So why didn’t Yoongi come with you to get Ry?” You look back up at him; he’s still trying to stay neutral, a stoic demeanor that doesn’t care.

“Koo–”

“I mean, it’s kind of a dick move to let a woman walk alone at this hour, isn’t it?” He crosses his arms, repositioning his stance as if he’s uncomfortable.

“I didn’t want him to come with me. He insisted but I yelled at him…” you sigh, briefly looking back at your phone before tucking it back in your pocket. “I didn’t want him to get involved in all of this.” you gesture all around you, mostly towards Ryujin’s door and Jungkook himself.

He stares you down, tilting his head to the side and even though he’s not directly in front of you or right next to you, his stare makes you feel small. It feels suffocating - like he’s hovering above you and you’re backed into a corner.

His eyes scan your face, your bruised lips, the very light, barely there yet hickies on your neck as well as the guilty expression. His eyes widen, and the stoic demeanor is gone, replaced by one you can’t quite read, but know all too well.

“It’s not just sex, is it? There are feelings there.” His question knocks the wind out of you, and you shrink down even more.

“I don’t know.” the only response you can bring yourself to say that won’t hurt either of you.

You were wrong.

“What do you mean you don’t know? Either you like him, or you don’t.”

You open your mouth to speak, but Ryujin’s door opens just as you do. She stands at the top of the stairs in the pajamas you picked out, and she looks exhausted, eyes swollen and puffy from crying. You rip your attention away from her brother when she mumbles your name.

You rush to grab her hand, bringing her back to her room and guiding her to her bed. She gets in, but the tears start streaming again.

“He’s really gone…” she whispers, pulling the covers to her chin.

You nod, Jungkook comes in after you with water and pills for her to take. Ryujin shakes her head.

“No. The smell. He’s gone. I could sleep because I could smell him in the sheets. Now it’s gone.”

This is the longest she’s spoken to you since before the crash. And you’re still scared of her reaction to your responses. So you tell her to wait, going back to her bathroom and forcing yourself to open the cabinet he took over when he kept staying the night, finding the little bottle you were hoping to find.

You were secretly hoping to break into her room one day to find the bottle and keep it for yourself. But you kept reminding yourself she probably needed it more.

When you come back, you tell her to give you her pillow, and she obliges. You take the cap off the cologne bottle, spraying the pillow lightly as it dangles in your hand away from you. You hand it back to her, smiling a little when she hugs it, taking a deep breath.

“It smells like him…” she murmurs, laying back down, pillow resting under her head.

“I know it’s not the same, but hopefully it helps enough.” You whisper, lightly petting her hair as her eyes close and a small smile forms.

“We should buy it in bulk. So it can always smell like him.” you let out a shaky laugh.

“I’ll get right on that, Ry. Now get some sleep, okay?”

“Okay.”

You get up to leave the room, Jungkook starting to lead the way when a small hand wraps around your wrist. You turn to look at Ryujin who looks panicked.

“Y/n, you forgive me, right?”

You open your mouth to respond but, for what feels like the millionth time tonight, are cut off before you can form words.

“You do, right? You know I didn’t mean any of it. I would never. Please. Please say you forgive me.”

You say nothing, looking to Jungkook for help. He stands at the doorway, hands in his hoodie’s pocket, seemingly uninterested in this conversation. You sigh, turning back to her, gently grabbing the hand attached to your wrist to peel her off you, but her grip tightens.

“We’ll talk about this when you’re sober, Ry, okay? Get some sleep.”

“No. Not until you forgive me.”

“Ry.” your voice shakes, a piercing pain in your eyes as you can feel the tears forming.

“Y/n, please,”

“I…–”

“Ryujin, stop.” Jungkook interjects, both you and his sister looking towards the owner of the stern voice.

“Let her go. Go to bed. She’ll talk to you about it when you’re sober.”

You both stay silent, your eyes glued to her grip on your wrist, hers bouncing between you, her brother, and her hold on you. After a few moments, she finally lets go, laying back down and hugging her pillow.

“Okay. Tomorrow…” she whispers in defeat.

“Tomorrow.” you mimic the word, pulling her blanket back over her to keep her warm before finally shuffling out of the room, walking past Jungkook, who closes the door once you’re both out.

You run your fingers through your hair, steadying your breathing, so you don’t cry in front of Jungkook more than you already have.

You both lean against the back of the couch this time. Both are dead silent as you figure out who should speak first. Your eyes cast down to the floor, watching his feet shift as he tries to find a more comfortable stance.

“You shouldn’t forgive her.” You look up at him to see he was doing the same thing as you, eyes to the ground.

“What?”

“You shouldn’t forgive Ryujin.”

“Jungkook. She…she didn’t mean it—”

“No, y/n. Have you not heard the shit she’s been screaming at you? Have you not heard the shit she’s accused you of?” He turns to face you, his voice a harsh whisper.

“Do you not remember how fucking terrible she’s made your life the last two months? You’ve had to fucking sneak into your apartment, change your schedules to be the opposite of hers, so you don’t run into her.”

“I…” your words stumble over one another in your mind.

“She’s my best friend, Jungkook. She’s grieving. I…her world just got crushed. What do you expect me to do? Just sever all ties with her and leave? Leave her to be all by herself? And what about you? You’re her brother, Jungkook. If I do that with her, I do that with you. And I’m not going to do that. Not with the two people that mean more than anything to me.”

Fuck not again. Please don’t cry again.

“I’ll talk to her about it tomorrow. I won’t forgive her until I know she means it. I’m so fucking tired right now, so can we please just end this conversation?”

The words rush out in a few short breaths, tears still threatening to escape when you look at him. You can’t tell what he’s thinking. His facial expression holds many different emotions. His eyes are sad, angry, desperate, and scared.

“Fine.”

You fucked up again. Twice in one night. Way to go, y/n, you idiot.

“I’ll head home. Good luck.” He turns away from you, but before you can think it through, your hand grabs his wrist like his sister did to you moments ago.

“It…it’s almost three in the morning. Just stay here.”

You’re both staring at his wrist, captured by your fingers, and in the quiet, you give a small squeeze, pleading. But his next words feel like a direct stab to the heart.

“Is your boyfriend gonna be okay with that?”

“He’s not…”

“Please stop lying to me. Just admit there’s something there so I can try to move on, like really try.”

No.

Don’t move on.

You’re mine.

I won’t let you go.

“Koo…” the name barely falls from your lips. “I can’t.”

In the blink of an eye, he’s trapped you between his body and the back of the couch. Both hands, yours still clutching his wrist, cup your face and tilting you to look up at him.

“You can’t be honest with me? Or you can’t admit there’s something there with him?”

You close your eyes to prevent the tears, but they win, escaping down your cheeks only to be caught and wiped away by his thumbs.

Your name is a soft pleading whisper on his lips, making you want to crawl into a cave forever. You can only say the first thing that comes to your mind.

“Please…just stay.”

You feel his forehead press against yours, noses touching, lips mere inches away from his.

Just do it. Lean forward. His lips are right there. Just give in. You know it’s always going to be him.

Do it.

But you don’t, and neither does he, instead breathing out a heavy sigh, pulling away from you, and unwrapping your grip from his wrist.

“I can’t be your second anymore, y/n.”

“You’re not.” Just say it. Admit it. Fucking do it.

“I am, though. If I wasn’t, you wouldn’t hesitate. You wouldn’t look at me with all that fear in your eyes. Tell me, do you hesitate with him?”

You don’t respond, trying to find the best answer.

“Your silence is so loud, y/n.” He backs away from you, heading upstairs to your room to grab the extra blankets and pillows you’d usually have on standby for when he’d stay over. He walks back into the living room, ignoring your hurt expression.

“I’ll sleep on the couch and be out before you wake up.”

“Jungkook…”

“Stop, y/n. Just…end it there, okay?” you want to run to him, kiss him, tell him he’s number one. He will always be number one. Yoongi is nothing compared to him. You should. You should move your feet right now.

But you don’t.

You hesitate.

And instead, he sets up the bedding on the couch before looking at you again.

“Goodnight.” He turns off the living room light, covering the area in complete darkness as he lays down on the couch.

You sniffle, muttering a quiet apology before slinking away to the stairs to your room. Once the door is closed, you close your eyes and take a deep breath, screaming internally. You allow yourself five seconds to cry before opening your eyes and staring off into space in an attempt to silence the voices and the pain.

It doesn’t.

They just get louder.

You force yourself into your bathroom to turn on the shower. You watch yourself in the mirror as you slowly shed your clothing, piece by piece, like you’re removing everything that happened today with every fabric. Once you’re in your bra and underwear, you look back in the mirror at the bites and handprints on your hips where Yoongi had gripped you tight at one point.

The painting of the music notes on your thigh.

You feel sick.

You quickly shed the bra and underwear, throwing them in the trash before showering. You grab your body wash, squeezing out more than needed onto your loofah and scrubbing away at your skin.

You cry out in pain, not realizing you’re scrubbing yourself raw, trying to get the feeling of Yoongi off your skin. Anywhere he touched, breathed, or kissed suddenly felt like acid, and you needed it off you. You stay in the scalding hot shower for thirty minutes, trying to get him off your skin and out of your hair, muttering curse words the entire time.

When you finally leave the shower, you feel like you are running on autopilot. You change into some clean pajamas, dry your hair, and drag yourself through a quick skin routine, playing some music on your AirPods while doing so.

You sit on your bed, staring at your closed bedroom door. You want to open it and get on the couch with him, cuddle with him like you used to, tell him it’s always him, and just be with him in every way you can.

Stop hesitating.

You throw the blankets off you, forcing yourself out of bed and padding over to the bedroom door, opening it confidently and heading down the stairs.

But you stop halfway.

Your body stills as you listen to him lightly snoring, and you flash to a few weeks ago when he confessed to having trouble sleeping. He wouldn’t say why, he wouldn’t say if it was related to Kai, and he didn’t go any further in his explanation other than it’s hard for him to sleep lately.

So you back away from the doorway, leaving the door open, and crawl back in bed. You won’t be why he can’t get back to sleep just because you need him.

An hour later, you wake up to someone crying. You sit up in bed, rubbing your eyes to get rid of the tears you assume you’re shedding. But there’s nothing there. No tears, just a puffy and tired face.

You listen closer. It can’t be Ryujin. Her door is closed, and she’s out cold. It’s shockingly not you, which means it’s only one other person.

Jungkook?

You throw the blankets off of you, quietly rushing down the stairs and peaking into the living room. He’s on the couch, still asleep but sniffling and whimpering.

You tip-toe over to him as he lays there in his sleep, tears escaping closed eyes and body shaking in fear.

Is this what he was talking about?

Is this every night?

Why didn’t he say anything?

“Jungkook?” You try whispering his name, but he doesn’t respond. You try again, a little louder, and place a hand on his shoulder to gently shake him awake.

Gently, being the keyword.

It apparently wasn’t.

Jungkook wakes up terrified, smacking your hand away from him and cowering back into the couch in fear.

“Koo, it’s okay. It’s me. It’s y/n. I’m sorry. I’m so sor—.”

You’re pulled into a hug before you can finish apologizing, one hand grabbing your arm to pull you to him, the other wrapping around your shoulders. You instinctively crawl onto the couch, curling up with him as he buries his face in your neck, tears streaming down his cheeks as he hyperventilates in your arms.

You hold him as close as you can, your legs wrapped around him, acting as a weighted blanket.

“It’s okay. You’re safe.” You whisper against his temple, wincing a little when the hand gripping your arm finds your back, grasping your shirt. His nails dig into the skin on the back of your neck.

You give him a few more minutes to panic in your arms before easing his face away from your neck, cradling his face in your hands.

“How often has this been happening, Koo?” His eyes close, shaking his head as he tries to bury back into your neck. You stop him, pulling further away.

“Jungkook, talk to me.”

“Almost every night…”

Not again.

“Why didn’t you say anything? To me? To Ryujin?”

He stumbles over a few words, trying to figure out the answer. His hands let go of your shirt before grabbing it again seconds later, as if he has to remind himself he has control and isn’t dreaming anymore.

“It’s nothing.”

“It's not nothing, Jungkook, if you’re having nightmares again every night...”

“They’re not nightmares.”

“No?” You raise an eyebrow, “then what are they?”

“They’re just dreams, y/n.” He shuts down the conversation, and you have no choice but to follow along.

“Fine. Let’s go back to my bed and sleep there, then.”

“I’m fine down here.”

“I don’t care. I want to make sure you’re okay. Can I do that? You do it for Ry and me every day. Let someone else be there for you. Please?”

He lets out a heavy sigh before mumbling in agreement. You disconnect from him, getting off the couch and helping him get up. His eyes meet yours, and your heart cracks at the sight. His eyes are red, eyelids puffy from the tears he never shows. You frown, wrapping his hand in yours, keeping it close as you climb the stairs to your room.

He lets go of your hand as you both crawl into your bed, laying on your back to let him curl up against you. His face finds its way back between your neck and shoulder, and you can’t help the goosebumps that appear all over your body from his breath on your skin.

Neither of you say anything. Probably for the best.

You fall asleep in that position, Jungkook’s tattooed fingers mindlessly dancing along the side of your waist over your shirt. One hand tangled in his hair, softly massaging his head while your other hand rests on his forearm draped across your stomach.

For just a moment, you forget everything that’s wrong with this. For just a moment, it’s back before everything went to shit, and this was enough for both of you.

When you wake up the next morning, which was really a few hours later, you’re still in the same position. The only difference is Jungkook’s legs have tangled up with yours, and his hand found a way under your shirt, lightly holding onto your side. His touch feels scalding hot against your skin. The breathing on your neck gives you goosebumps. Your hands are still in the same position.

You’re about to wake him up when there’s a soft knock on the door before it slowly opens.

Ryujin enters quietly; her eyes cast to the ground like a child knowing she’s in trouble. You know that look all too well. It’s the same look Jungkook gave when he accidentally broke the bottle of one of your more expensive paints, letting it spill all over the floor.

Big round brown eyes, like a puppy pleading its innocence.

When she looks up, her eyes widen at seeing her brother wrapped around your body. She shoots you a questioning look, and you have no choice but to quietly whisper nightmare in hopes she doesn’t get it confused.

Her face softens with a frown at the realization of the word.

“That’s supposed to be my job…I’m supposed to be there for him when it happens.”

You sigh, your hand moving from his hair.

“We’re all still trying to figure this out, Ry. Don’t take it personally.”

“I’m not… I’m… I’m not. I just feel like I failed him. Like I failed you…”

“You’re not failing any—” You cut yourself off when Jungkook’s head moves, pressing his face even closer to your neck for a moment before his eyes open.

“Who are you talking to?” He mumbles, still half asleep. His voice is low and husky and it kills you that you have to ignore it, as well as ignore the way his hand squeezes your side as he readjusts to get comfortable.

“Ryujin’s here…”

He lifts his head to look around the room, tired eyes landing on his sister. His fingers dig into your side momentarily as the siblings make eye contact. Jungkook finally lets go of you, muttering a soft oh, and pulling away from you and out of the bed.

“I’m gonna make breakfast…” he speaks softly, giving his sister a small hug before turning back to you.

“Thank you…for earlier…” you nod in response, not sure what to say to either of them anymore.

When he leaves the room, there’s an awkward silence in the air. Ryujin’s gaze is locked on where her brother was just laying and yours is on her, trying to figure out what’s happening.

And then it hits you.

All the times she’d come over after a fight with another friend, a disagreement with Jungkook, one of the few fights with Kai, or just when all the pressures of life got too much. She’d crawl into your bed just like Jungkook did and wrap her body around yours and fall asleep in your arms.

You called it a Jeon Thing.

You opened your arms up hesitantly, second guessing if that’s what she’s thinking of. But you didn’t have to wait too long before her eyes lit up a little and she’s hurrying to crawl in next to you, replicating the position Jungkook was just in, except her head rests softly on your shoulder and the hand across your stomach is playing with the fabric rather than touching your skin.

You stay completely still, still terrified of her explosions. But they don’t come, instead she sniffles.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hmm?” You have to stay calm. Don’t give in too easily.

“I’m really fucking sorry, y/n”

“Be more specific.” You slow your breathing, making sure you’re not the one that explodes.

But maybe you should.

Ryujin buries her face in your shoulder before speaking.

“For everything. Being horrible to you. Blaming you. Saying the shit that I said…”

That’s it? That’s the apology?

Jungkook’s words from last night loop in your head rapidly, and you’re speaking before you can stop yourself, sitting up and dislodging her, forcing her to sit up facing you.

“You accused me of killing my brother, Ryujin. My brother. The one fucking person I could always count on. The one person in my family that believed in me and encouraged me to do what I wanted to do. You called me a murderer. You said it should’ve been me, Ry. You said you’d rather I have died instead of Kai. You said that about your best friend. Me. Do you hear how fucked up that is?”

Her eyes well up with tears, yours already escaping like a pro, as she fists the blankets in her hands, scared to look up.

“I…I’m sor—”

“Ry, I’m terrified of you. You know that, right? I have to fucking sneak into our apartment. I changed my schedule at school to avoid you. I fucking went to the studio last night because I never want to come home. I stay with Yoongi a few times after group therapy until I think you might be asleep because, as stupid of a decision that is, it hurts less than coming home to my best friend telling me I murdered my fucking brother.”

Ryujin opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She continues pulling at the fabric of the sheets in front of her as you watch the gears in her mind turn, trying desperately to come up with some form of words.

This was always her weakness. Being told she did wrong, being told she fucked up, and there wasn’t some easy fix. One time in high school, she was so sleep-deprived from studying the night before a midterm, that she mismarked every answer on the scantron, thinking the answers were for the question before. When the teacher told her she had failed, she lost all ability to function, too shocked to speak. You had to talk to the teacher to find out what was wrong, begging him to let her retake it the next day.

But this isn’t high school. This isn’t a test she can just retake. There is no fix for this. The only thing she can do is accept that she fucked up.

The silence is deafening, save for the sound of Jungkook downstairs in your kitchen making food and the morning hustle and bustle outside. She keeps trying to speak, but it’s getting harder and harder for you to tolerate.

“Ry…” she stays frozen. “Ry, look at me.” You grab both of her hands, stopping her from potentially ripping your sheets. When she finally looks up, tears running down her face, you give her a tiny comforting smile.

“I love you, Ryujin. You know I do, and I always will,” you start, and she whispers I love you, too back, smiling through the tears. “Our bond is unbreakable, and you and I both know we will always be there for each other through thick and thin. But this? The things you said? Ry, I can’t just easily forgive you when you say sorry.”

“I…I know. But what do I do? How? How do I fix this?”

“You can’t. That’s the problem. This is something that only time can fix, and I wish that wasn’t the case. But I’m scared of being around you right now, Ry. Even right now, I’m afraid you’ll launch an attack and spew vile accusations at me.”

“No. I won’t. I won’t do that. Ever again.”

You smile, but it falters fast.

“I don’t think it’ll be okay until you take the initiative to get help. Talk to someone, Ry—a professional. And stop drinking so much, eat something, design your pretty dresses again, work on the showcase, and take time for yourself. It sucks, it’s scary, and it sounds miserable, I know. But until you come back to being my Ryujin? I can’t do this with you anymore.”

Her eyes widen, hands gripping yours.

“What does that mean?”

Suddenly it’s hard to look at her. You’ve been sitting on this decision for a while but didn’t think you’d ever have to make it officially.

“I think it might be better for us both if I move out for a bit…”

“…no”

“Ry…” she shakes her head repeatedly. “We need to figure this out separately. I can’t baby you into getting help. And you can’t deal with me and my bullshit while you’re trying to heal. I’ll still be here when you need me. I’ll be here if you need help with your project. I’m not leaving, leaving. I could never leave you. You’re my person.”

“But where are you gonna go?”

“I…don’t know. Maybe the studio?”

“But there’s no shower there.”

Fuck. There isn’t.

“What if you stay with Jungkook?”

Your face heats up at the idea of living with Jungkook, but your stomach drops at the idea of being so close to Kai’s stuff.

“I don’t think I can…”

“He’s miserable, you know.” Her voice softens, and her hands move out from under yours to be the ones holding on this time.

“I think he’s afraid to be alone. He hasn’t talked about Kai unless someone starts the conversation, but he shuts it down fast. He’s so focused on you that I don’t think he’s realized how much help he needs. Maybe staying with him can help.”

“I didn’t ask him to focus on me.” You try not to sound defensive. She knows that, choosing to ignore the tone.

“We both know he didn’t choose to. It’s a part of who he is. You are a part of who he is, no matter what.”

Are you, though? Or is he a part of who you are? He could replace you so easily if you just let him go. You know that. He must know that. Maybe that’s why he wants you to tell him to move on. That you and Yoongi are a thing.

He wants to replace you with anyone who makes him less sad.

Anyone but you.

“Hey,” Ryujin’s voice cuts through your thoughts, your eyes looking up at her in a panic. “I see where your mind is right now. Stop whatever it is you’re thinking.”

“But—”

“I don’t care. Whatever you’re telling yourself to make yourself think he wouldn’t want to have you by his side every moment of every day is a lie, and you know it.”

You don’t respond, mind running a mile a second, and all you want to do is go back to sleep.

“I…I understand if you feel you need to move out and get some space from me temporarily. I would never hold that against you, y/n. But please go with someone I know so I can know you’re okay. What even is a Yoongi?”

Your body freezes at his name. Of course she doesn’t know Yoongi. Of course she doesn’t know you’re sleeping with someone from group therapy. Of course she doesn’t know you went to the studio with him last night and fucked on your couch while you only thought about Jungkook.

“A mistake. I think…” your gaze stays focused on Ryujin’s hands holding yours, eyes burning from the tears threatening to return for the nth time.

“Y/n…you’re doing it again, aren’t you?” She’s careful not to sound judgmental, but you can still feel it.

“No. No. I’m…I’m not.” You shake your head, shutting your eyes tight. “I’m trying not to. It’s just sex. But last night…I fucked up. And then you called. And then we argued. And then Jungkook…”

She stays silent, and it drives you crazy that you can’t read her mind.

“I’m gonna end it with him. Whatever it is. I can’t…keep doing this. I’m tired, Ry. I’m so fucking tired.”

“I know, babes. And I know a good amount of it is my fault, and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you.”

You try to speak, but nothing comes out as her thumbs rub back and forth on the back of your hands just like Jungkook was doing last night.

“What if I temporarily move out instead? You stay here. I’ll stay with Jungkook and stay in Kai’s room. You can stay here and try to heal on your own terms. It’ll be less stressful for you. You don’t always have to be the one making changes to your life for others, y/n. Let us make changes instead.”

You finally look up at her. Both of you have tear-stained faces, but she’s holding a smile that breaks your heart.

“Ry…”

“I’m doing it. I’ve decided.”

You smile back at her briefly.

“Are you sure you’re even ready to go in his room? I went to his studio last night and couldn’t breathe.”

She pauses momentarily, eyes on the ceiling as she thinks.

“I think…I think I’m ready. I mean… No one will ever be with something like this, right? It’s always going to be scary. It’s always going to hurt. Even the smallest task will sometimes feel like a punch in the gut, right?” She takes a deep breath, seeing you smile again.

“I miss him. I think being around his stuff can help me.” she quietly speaks.

“Yeah?”

She smiles, nodding. There’s something in her expression that is still broken. Something you must not know about. But you don’t question it. Everyone has their secrets. You tell yourself that she’ll talk about it when she’s ready..

She doesn’t let you try to dissuade her, instead getting off your bed and dragging you to the kitchen where Jungkook has put together a full breakfast.

He turns to you both, eyes widening at your hand in hers before looking at you.

“Everything good?” He asks slowly. You nod silently, letting go of her hand to grab a plate and scoot past him to pile some pancakes on with some eggs.

“Hopefully soon, yes,” Ryujin answers for you, looking nervously at her brother. “But I’m moving in with you for a bit. Until we figure out how to be, I guess…” she copies your moves, grabbing a plate and scooting past her befuddled brother.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“She wanted to move out to put some space between us. I offered instead. I’m going to stay in Kai’s room…”

“But…” he starts, but you interrupt.

“But we haven’t gone in there yet. We’re gonna do that tomorrow morning. If you want to join, we can do it together. Maybe it’ll help you, too.”

“Yeah, JK. Y/n said you’ve been having nightmares again. And I know you’ve been sleeping on our couch more than your bed. Maybe having someone else there can help you?”

Jungkook stares at you both, sitting on opposite sides of the table with the same amount of food on your plates. Neither looking at him. Both making decisions without him. He grips the counter with both hands, pushing down every emotion. You almost miss it when you look up.

“Jungkook? Are you okay?” You move to get up, but you hesitate, again, when he closes his eyes and nods.

“I’m fine.”

Liar.

“Don’t you have group therapy tomorrow morning?” He changes the subject back to you, an easy task for him. It’s easier to focus on you, Ryujin, school, work, anything and everything but himself.

Your eyes drop back down to your food, pushing it around.

“I’m not going.” You state, hoping he doesn’t question it further.

But of course, it’s Jungkook.

“Why not?”

Your chest tightens, your throat closing in on itself. When did it get so hot? Are you sweating? Is that your heart or your brain pounding?

“I don’t feel like going.” You try sounding confident, but your voice shakes, betraying you.

“Y/n.” Your eyes meet his, begging him to drop it.

“Jungkook, if she doesn’t want to go, she’s not going. Let her make decisions for herself.”

“I’m not telling her what to do, Ry. I’m trying to help her.”

“Sounds like the same thing.”

Both of you, stop. Please.

“It’s not, though. If she wants to learn to grieve and move on in her own way, that’s what she’ll do. You can’t control her.”

“Well, obviously, but—”

Snap.

Your fist slams down on the table, dishes rattling and silencing the room.

“Please stop! Both of you. Stop talking about me like I’m not here. I’m right fucking here. Right here.”

You’re so tired of crying, of feeling. It’s exhausting. Every single little thing makes you want to cry. It’s ridiculous.

“Jungkook, I’m not going. I’ll go to the next one, and I still have my regular appointment with Dr. Adams on Monday. But I’d rather help Ry, okay?” You wait for him to nod in understanding before turning to his sister.

“And Ry. He is trying to help. He’s been pushing me to do what I want to avoid, and I appreciate it. I’d still be curled up in my room if it wasn’t for him. So if he has to be pushy, it’s for a reason. Leave it.”

She nods, and everything goes silent.

This is why you need space.

This is suffocating.

“I have to get ready for class. I have to head back to the studio and pick up my canvas, so I need to leave in twenty minutes…” you get up from the table, rinsing the plate before placing it in the dishwasher.

“Thank you for breakfast, Koo. It was delicious.” You try walking past him, but a hand lands on your stomach, preventing you from leaving.

“Do you want a ride? You seemed more or less okay with it last night.”

You should say no. You want to distance yourself from everyone right now. You need to distance yourself. Everything is happening all at once, and you should say no, walk to the studio, and walk to campus.

But it was easier being in a car with him.

But you should say no anyway.

“Okay…I’ll get ready quickly.” You whisper, walking past him when his hand moves.

You hear the two of them whisper as you climb the stairs, but you’re too tired to care, so you slink back to your room. You grab your phone to charge it while you get ready, ignoring the notifications glaring at you as you plug it in and walk away.

When it’s time to leave, Ryujin is already back in her room, making a list of things to bring to Jungkook’s while he’s sitting on the couch, keys in hand.

The walk to his car is quiet. Getting in is just as silent, but he repeats the night before, grabbing your hand in his and holding it close to his chest through every intersection it takes to get to the studio. When he parks in his usual spot, his squeeze tightens on you, head lolling back against the headrest.

He looks nervous. He feels nervous. His hand is getting sweaty while his grip switches between a death grip and shaking, barely holding on.

“Jungkook?” You inquire softly, waiting for him to give some sign that he's okay. “Do you wanna come in?”

He exhales a small breath, shaking his head.

“I don’t think I can.”

You shift in your seat, removing your seatbelt and grabbing the hand wrapped around yours. His eyes find yours, and you’re right. He’s scared.

Is this how you looked last night?

“I’m not gonna lie to you, Koo. It sucks. The second you step into the studio, you’re back at the moments before finals. You go into his studio, and you fully expect him to be in there working his ass off on whatever assignment he has. But he’s not. And it’s like having to relive that night all over again. And it fucking sucks.” You sniffle, playing with his tattooed hand.

“And I know the last thing you want me to do right now is mention Yoongi,” he groans out a small laugh, and the corner of your lips twitch into a smirk, “but he made a good point, Koo. The longer you hold off on doing this, on going into the rooms, reliving the memories with him, talking about him, the more it’s going to hurt you.”

He sighs, closing his eyes. “I’m going to pretend he didn’t say that and that it’s just you being all wise.”

“Well, I am all wise. We’ve established this many times.” You both grin, enjoying the brief moment of normalcy before he agrees to go in with you. His hand never leaves yours, but this time you’re the one rubbing your thumb on the back of his hand.

When you both reach the the front door, you unlock it, letting go of his hand. You give him a second before he opens the door fully, letting him step inside first.

You watch him from the front door as he stands in the middle of the living area, eyes scanning every inch of the room. When he turns back around, facing you, his eyes cast to his studio room.

You can’t decipher the look on his face.

He’s so good at pretending to be okay that it makes it impossible to read him sometimes. He looks as if he’s dazed; his mind is far away from the studio to somewhere you don’t know.

“You good?” You hesitantly ask, taking two steps closer to him.

He blinks a few times, eyes finding your worried expression before offering a small smile.

“I’m okay. I need to get something from my room. A lens I need for class.”

“Oh. Okay.” You nod, expecting him to move, but he’s standing perfectly still. “Well, I’m going to get my canvas and clean up really quickly since I left abruptly last night…” you quietly walk to your room, turning to see him finally at his door, fingers hesitating over the pin pad before finally putting in the number and walking in.

You enter your room, your canvas still leaning against your old ones. Black and white still. Paints dried up on the palette, and brushes stiff as a result. You dump the brushes into a jar of water and the palette onto the desk, making a mental note to return later tonight to clean up correctly. You swear you see a hint of purple as you put the canvas in a tote after ensuring it was dry.

You turn and are greeted by the cat painting Yoongi was obsessed with. Should you still give it to him? Even if you plan on ending things? You don’t want it, and it would look good in a cat cafe. If anything, you could give it to the cafe directly.

God, you don’t want to talk to Yoongi. But you don’t want to ghost him completely. And before the sex, he was actually starting to be a good friend and an excellent partner in helping each other through your traumas.

You look at the couch, resisting the urge to deep clean every inch of it. Maybe a new couch. One that won’t make you feel dirty and wrong every time you look at it.

You have to apologize. And you have to cut ties with him.

You have to.

You’re just going to hurt him in the end.

You’re so good at hurting people.

You hear the beeping of a keypad, turning your head to the doorway before grabbing your tote, setting the cat painting aside, and leaving your room.

Kai’s door is open.

“Jungkook?” You softly call out, leaving the tote on the couch in the living area. You call out his name again, slowly approaching your brother’s room. Your heart breaks at the sight.

Jungkook’s sitting on the small couch with his knees pressed to his chest and his arms around his shins. His head is buried in between his knees, but he’s silent.

“Koo?” You try again, slowly approaching, moving some of Kai’s scattered papers out of the way, and sitting next to him.

When he still doesn’t respond, you stop trying. You’ll sit and wait by his side, ready to be there for whatever he needs.

The most important rule in helping someone grieve: never push them to grieve how you think they should. Just be there when they’re ready.

A mantra of sorts drilled into your brain in group therapy.

His body finally moves, his back rising suddenly as he takes a deep breath before slowly letting it out and raising his head. He doesn’t look at you, instead looking at the room he’s in. The same way you did the night before.

His face is flush, like he was forcing himself to hold his breath. His eyes are dry, and he looks exhausted.

“How did it go last night, coming in here?” He finally asks, head leaning back to rest on the couch.

You flatten your hands on the couch, sliding them back and forth to feel the texture. It’s a nice distraction to keep your hands apart and not claw at your skin.

“I had a full blown panic attack. Felt like I was dying. Like my brain was on the verge of exploding, and I kept hearing voices screaming, and I couldn’t see.” You let out a nervous laugh, keeping your eyes on the couch.

“Voices?”

“Uh…yeah. Like, like my own thoughts, but amplified. I don’t know how to explain it…I’d rather not try, honestly.”

“You don’t have to.” He whispers, a hand stopping one of yours and softly holding onto it.

“How’d you get through it?”

“Jungkook…”

“What?”

“Stop…doing that.”

“Stop doing what?”

“Diverting. You already know the answer. When I say Yoongi got me through it, you’re going to say something about how I feel about him, and then we’ll fight. You know it’s always going to be you in the end. I don’t understand why you keep saying it’s so one-sided when it’s clearly not. It’s just messy and complicated right now, okay? I don’t want to have that scene play out again. Specifically not here.”

He doesn’t respond, instead, staring at your hand in his, his thumb running over your ring finger. Your eyes flick up to his face, jaw clenched tight and eyes sad. There’s no sparkle in them like there usually is, and you’re not sure how long they’ve been so dull.

How have you not noticed that?

“Have you allowed yourself to cry yet?” You hesitate to ask, but you have to. It’s been months since Kai passed, and you haven’t seen him cry since the crash or last night in his sleep. You want to be wrong. Please let him tell you you’re wrong.

“No.” His voice cracks as he shakes your head, and you can feel your heart drop with it.

“Koo. You have to let it out at some point. Or else you’ll be stuck and have those nightmares forever.”

You turn your body to face him better, bringing your entwined hands to your lap.

“I’m scared.” He shuts his eyes tight.

“Scared of what?”

“If I cry, I’m scared I’ll never stop.”

“Koo…”

And that’s all it takes for the dam to break, tears streaming down his face as he begins to sob. He buries his head back into his knees and lets the floodgates open. You do nothing. You don’t want to. You want him to finally let it out and focus on himself and his own grief.

So you sit.

And you wait. His hand stays in yours as he finally lets go of months of emotional trauma, stress, and fears.

You’ve only seen Jungkook cry like this once. It was after his parents divorced just before he graduated high school. He had so much going on, from finishing up high school to getting accepted to the same school as you and Ryujin. He had finals, projects, an internship, a part-time job, and a social life.

All at the same time as he watched his parents argue, his mother packing up her stuff and moving out the day after his graduation. It became too overwhelming for him. He pushed everything down as far as he could and pretended he was fine.

But you could see it in his eyes. Just like now, that sparkle was gone. He barely spoke, and if he did, it was about anyone else. He just focused on finishing the day and praying no one talked to him the entire time.

Until one day, you both went to a street fair to celebrate high school being over. There were a few booths with carnival games and one that let you break plates. You dragged him over, encouraging him to destroy some ceramic dinnerware and let it all out. He did, but after breaking a good handful of plates, it was as if something in him snapped.

You rushed him out of the booth, taking him to a darkened alley to fully cry in peace. He hated crying in front of others. He hated the idea of people perceiving him as weak. You’ve told him many times it doesn’t, but you still take him somewhere quiet and safe when you know he’s upset.

He cried in your arms in that alley for thirty minutes, finally letting you take him home and having him fall asleep in your arms.

You’re pulled from the memory when Jungkook’s hand pulls yours closer. You shift on the couch, wrapping your arms around him as he curls into your side. His tear stained face finds its home in the space between your neck and shoulder, his hands tightly grabbing at any part of you he can like you’re his lifeline.

In a way, you are, to him at least.

Just like he’s yours.

He cries in your arms for what feels like fifteen minutes, random words stumbling out of his sobs, followed by questions that will never get answered and wishes that will never be granted. You continue to stay silent, only ever whispering that he’s okay, he’s safe, and to let it out. Every now and again kissing the top of his head when he grew silent, clutching him harder when the sobs returned stronger.

Somewhere in the living room, your phone rings. You ignore it.

Not right now.

It rings again. You bury your face in Jungkook’s messy curls, focusing on the smell of his conditioner instead.

Please stop.

On the third call, Jungkook lifts his face from your neck just enough to look at you.

“You should get that.” His voice is a hoarse whisper. Your hand softly cradles his cheek as you shake your head.

“Nah. My top priority right now is making sure you’re okay.”

He smiles. It’s broken and weak, but it’s there as he pulls away from you, sitting up straight and rubbing his hands across his puffy face.

“I’m okay.” He mumbles behind his hands, “I’m puffy and probably need to rehydrate. But I’m okay.”

“We can wrap an ice pack in a towel to reduce the puffiness. And there’s water in the fridge, I’m sure.” You mimic how he sits, brushing some of his hair out of his face.

“Mmm. We should do a spa day. Once you and Ry are a little better, that is.”

“I look forward to it. Full on facemasks and mani/pedis.” It's a soft whisper. You do genuinely hope there will be a time when you three can go back to normal. Or as normal as you can without your brother.

“You sure you’re okay, Koo?” He nods, but you shake your head. “I need you to promise me you’ll stop blocking everything out. We’re all hurting. We’re all scared of a future without him. We’re all going through this together. You don’t have to always try to be the big brave hero.”

“But then what am I? I feel like I need to be something or do something so I’m not…so I don’t—”

“Remember that he’s gone?”

He’s silent for a moment, eyes dancing around his best friend’s studio where he’s spent countless hours pacing the floor while Kai was at his desk or on the couch talking about complete nonsense, complaining about Ryujin or ranting about your latest relationship failures.

“Yeah…” his head drops, eyes falling to the floor in defeat. “I just want to forget. Focusing on anything else helps with that.” You stop yourself from reaching out to touch him again, instead placing both your hands on your lap, twiddling your fingers in place.

“Jungkook?” You tilt your head to the side, eyebrows knit together as you focus on your hands, carefully forming the words in your brain before speaking again.

“Kai’s gone. He died. I was there. I held his hand as he died. So, I understand wanting to forget that he’s gone and distracting yourself from remembering. But I relive that moment every day. I don’t have that same luxury you do of being able to forget. I wake up every morning thinking this is a sick nightmare and that he’ll be on the couch or in the kitchen stealing our food. But then he’s not. And I have to remember what it felt like to hold his hand for the last time. I have to remember watching them take his body away.”

You don’t even realize you’re crying until the feeling of Jungkook’s hands holding yours makes you flinch, causing the tears to fall on them.

“So please, please, understand what I’m saying when I say how lucky you are that you have that option to forget, but also how ridiculous and rude it is to Kai to want to forget that he’s gone.”

“Y/n…that’s…I would nev—”

“He was your best friend, Jungkook. He always will be in a way. He would've been your brother-in-law once he and Ry got married. Don’t do that disservice to your best friend by trying to forget that he died. Forget the fights, forget the disagreements and all the bad moments you had with him. That’s fine. But don’t forget Kai, okay?”

He remains silent, lips shut tight, and eyes watering again. But he nods, squeezing your hands with his as a quiet okay escapes his lips.

Your phone rings a fourth time, and you groan, letting go of Jungkook’s hands and getting up. You stomp over to your phone and glare at the screen.

Mother (7) Missed Call

Mother (12) Text Message

Father (1) Text Message

Yoongi (3) Text Message

You put your phone on silent, slipping it into your backpack all the way at the bottom.

The door to Kai’s room closes, and Jungkook appears behind you.

“Was that Yoongi?” His voice carries no negative tone for once, no malice or anger. You shake your head, picking up the canvas tote that’s quickly taken away from you by Jungkook.

“My mother…” your voice trails as you watch him walk towards the front door. He grimaces in your direction when your feet finally catch up to him.

“Gross.” He steps out of the studio, letting you lock the door. You both silently head down the elevator and back to his car, where he waits until you both have your seatbelts on and your hand is back in his when he pulls out of the parking space.

“What does she want now?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to know. Probably asking when I’m gonna come back home and get a real job now that they’re left with the lesser child.” You scoff, eyes on the road.

“That or she already wants me to make plans for Christmas. Which I don’t want to think about at all.”

Jungkook smirks, bringing your hand to his chest at a stop light. It takes you a second until you realize you’ve made it several blocks without your heart rate skyrocketing. Your eyes have been watching every car just like last night, but it feels less stressful.

Because it’s him. It’s always him.

“Why is it always you?”

“Hmm?” The light turns green, and he steps on the gas. The feeling of panic is still there. But you’re able to push it back down. You don’t say anything, and he doesn’t question you further as he pulls into the school’s parking lot.

He exits the car first, helping you out next and putting your canvas tote on his shoulder. His hand finds yours again as you both walk to the art building in silence.

“So when do I get to see the painting?” He questions, handing you the tote.

“At the showcase.” You smile at his pout.

“But that's months away.”

“Exactly. I don’t think I want anyone important to see any of it until then. It’s hard enough that I can’t see the colors right now. I don’t need other people seeing whatever mess I’ve made.”

“I’m sure it’s beautiful. Just like everything you create.” His hand squeezes yours, and you smile at the feel of his hand wrapped around yours. Your safety blanket.

“I can’t wait to see your showcase next year. It’s gonna be great. You should use that one photo you took when we all went on that hike and saw all those stars.” You grin, the memory is still so bright and real in your mind. The meteor shower you wanted to see so badly that you convinced the three of them to hike up a mountain with you just to see it.

“You and that damn mountain. You bamboozled us.” Jungkook groans.

“Excuse me. You said you had fun and would do it again!”

“Only if you wanted to. And had a better reason. And without Ryujin. She complained the entire time. Even Kai was getting annoyed.”

“Okay. We’ll go back, just the two of us, the next time there’s a good meteor shower.”

“It’s a date.”

You nod, but don’t respond. That phrase suddenly has such a bigger meaning than it did before. Instead, you focus on climbing the stairs to the third floor and approaching your classroom. His voice eventually breaks you out of your racing thoughts.

“Do you want a ride home tonight?”

“I need to actually clean my brushes from last night. So I’ll be at the studio. Besides, isn’t your last class later than mine?”

“Fair. I can come get you after? Or bring food?” Your silence makes him panic, “or not. I just hate the idea of you out on your own so late…that’s all. I’m not trying to control you or anything.”

“No, no. I get it. Yeah. Come by after class. That’s fine. I just. I don’t know. Sorry.” You shake your head, gripping the straps to the tote. Confused, Jungkook opens his mouth to ask you to clarify what you’re saying, but the sound of his and your name from down the hall stops him.

Your eyes find the source of the shout and land on Joshua and Jimin. Joshua glances down to your hand in Jungkook’s before shooting you a smirk. You let go out of instinct and readjust your grasp on your tote with both hands and avoid how Jungkook looks at you.

“Hey, Jimin. How’s your second to last year so far?” You smile at him. His face flashes from confusion towards Jungkook to the same friendly smile you have towards him.

“It’s great! Frustrating moments when my equipment decides not to function, but that’s expected. How—, uh, how’s your painting?”

You can’t blame him for sounding hesitant. You haven’t seen Jimin since the funeral, and with the way everything that happened that day, you’d be treading lightly too.

“It’s…going. I’m trying to change the way I paint. I’m not excited about the showcase, though.”

“Oh, yeah. Taehyung’s been going on about it. You two have a lot to do, huh?” You smile at the mention of his boyfriend, missing the nights you’d invite them out to drink with the rest of the sQuad.

“Yeah. I’m not sure how to get it all done in time. But I can’t wait to see what Taehyung does.”

He smiles in return, and it’s suddenly awkward. You don’t know what you’re supposed to say next. Jimin looks just as lost, and Joshua is on his phone. Jungkook sniffs for the sake of making a noise.

“We should go out to that karaoke bar again soon.” His voice breaks the silence, the three of you looking up at him.

“I think that’s a great idea.” Joshua chimes in, “but first, we have a class that starts in forty-five seconds. See ya, friends.” He grabs your wrist, spinning you around in the direction of the classroom, dragging you with him.

“Shua, class starts in ten minutes. Not forty-five seconds.” You whine as he sits you down in your seat, sitting next to you after going across the room and coming back with two blank canvases, setting one on his easel and the other on yours.

“I know. But I needed to get you away from Jungkook so you could tell me why y’all were holding hands.” He grins, turning to face you once his stuff is set up.

“This isn’t elementary school, Joshua. We can hold hands without it being anything.” You glare at him, slowly pulling your tools out of your bag, and placing them neatly on the table next to your easel. You grab a second easel, a much smaller one, and place it next to the big window.

“While that is true, y/n, it’s you and Jungkook. Everything either of you do with one another means something. Always has been, always will.”

You look down at your canvas tote with a frown. He’s not wrong. That’s how you two are. Every action, every sentence, every thought. It all means something. Even if that something is meaningless to others, it’s the world to you both.

“I guess…” you sigh, opening the tote and pulling out your canvas. Suddenly very hyper aware others can see it as you set it down on the easel by the window.

“Oh, holy shit, that’s beautiful, y/n.” Joshua says, standing up to look closer, “the colors are stunning.”

“Are they…?” You squint at the painting. Some colors are just barely visible. You see the purple a little stronger, and a bit of what you think is yellow? You’re still not sure.

“Yeah, the way you blended the green with the—”

“No! Don’t tell me. I wanna wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For when I can see the colors again.” You grin, actually feeling hopeful for once. Joshua smiles back, patting your shoulder and sitting back down. Before Joshua can question further, Professor Varon walks in exactly as class is set to begin.

“Okay, everyone! Let’s get to it! The first week is done, and now down to serious business!”

The class goes by so fast you’re not even sure you registered any information in your brain. You spent too much time glancing between the professor and your finished painting. At one point, while walking the room, he stopped by you, eyes on the finished piece as he asked you to stay after class.

Joshua packs up his stuff, saying goodbye to you with the promise of getting together for clothes shopping in a week or two. Professor Varon makes his way to your seat next to the big window once everyone is out.

“So, how was the process?”

“The what?” You look up at him, his eyes still on the painting. “Oh. Uh, shit? Yesterday after I left I went to our shared studio for the first time…”

How was that only yesterday?

“And how’d that go? Being in a place you used to spend a lot of time with him in?”

“Horribly?” You let out an exasperated laugh, “I went in his room, had a panic attack, made a horrible decision, woke up, sat in his room talking to nothing, and then finished the painting.” He gives it a beat of silence before he smiles.

“So it sounds like it went pretty well.” You both laugh as you slowly put your stuff away.

“I guess so. It felt good painting…I just kinda zoned out for a few hours, and when I came back, it was done more or less.”

“And what about the colors?”

“Joshua said there was green in it. I can kind of see purple, and I think there’s yellow. But I’ve decided to stop straining to see it.”

“That’s a good idea,” he smiles at you, “just keep painting, y/n. You’ll see it again.”

“Thank you…I’m trying.”

“That’s all you can do sometimes.” He shrugs, walking back to his desk as you put the canvases back in your tote. “And put that one in your showcase. Everyone should see it.”

Hope you enjoyed it, let me know what you think, any ideas on where it’s going or any questions. The next chapter is Ryujin’s POV and oh boy is that not gonna be fun to write. 😖

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ofmermaidstories · 1 year ago

Text

You are five when your Quirk manifests for the first time, with Rinchan.

‼️📍 content warnings: implied major character death, death in general, in a myriad of ways (falling, head trauma, old age, drowning, suicide), im a little graphic for emphasis, grief and mourning. there’s also some light smut and implied underage sex.

Rinchan. Rinchan who watches you while your mother goes to work. Rinchan with her big, soft, crepe-paper arms; who holds you in them for as long as you want, singing you songs as she shells peas into a metal bowl—you clinging to her, placid as a koala, your legs dangling over her lap. Rinchan who is probably your most favourite person in the entire world—the entire world being your neighbourhood and your school and the nearby park, overgrown, and the overwhelming shopping centre a car ride away.

Rinchan. Rinchan. Rinchan who, when you are five, starts appearing before you naked and wet, her face covered in blood.

The first time it happens she’s still alive; the sizzle of her cooking coming from the kitchen just behind you as you sit on the floor with a pile of milk-chews in front of you, staring in frozen horror at this other her—shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O, everything about her soft and sagging.

You make a tiny noise—fear, caught in your throat, a baby mouse curled up—and then Rinchan, your Rinchan, Rinchan alive and warm and dry, calls out, “Are you okay, Baby?”

The Other Rinchan’s mouth stretches open further, like it recognises her—like it’s trying to say something back and you—

You wail in answer, scrabbling at Rinchan (living, alive) when she flys in, concerned, asking, “What? What? What is it? What’s wrong?” her soft crepe-paper arms around you tight as you sob into her neck.

She’s bewildered and a little frightened herself; but she hums as she rocks you, a warm hand stroking your back, soothing you both until your sobs are little more than wet snuffling, your hand curling into the fabric of her dress.

You loved her. You love her, still, after all this time. But that love doesn’t save either of you, and you are haunted by the other Rinchan for the rest of that awful summer: in the park, with your friends, Rinchan watching, mouth agape, from the bushes. Walking home, hand-in-hand with your mother, Rinchan behind you. Alone in your bedroom, at night, Rinchan standing over you as you watch the water drip down her skin. You start wetting yourself with the fear, whenever it happens—a response that quickly loses you those parkside friends and worries your mother and living Rinchan sick, the pair of them whispering about you when they think you can’t hear, their fear—your fear—condemning you to pull-ups, like a giant baby.

It doesn’t stop the end from coming.

Rin dies just before Halloween, when the shops are filled with green-faced witches and plastic skeletons that rattle and can’t frighten you, anymore. She dies alone, at night. A fall in the shower, your mother tells you in a whisper a couple of days later, red-eyed. You knew enough by then to be able to picture it: Rin, shining with water, her mouth stretched open in a startled O—her face covered in blood.

Your mother holds your hand at her funeral, too tight, and you cling back and say nothing.

The other Rinchan never comes back. Rin never comes back—cannot come back, no matter how much you love her.

Others do, though.

It’s a parade of the dead, shuffling forward to a dirge only you can hear. You learn, over time, that it’s specific to people you either know or will come to know—people you have some kind of tie to, some bond, good or bad. When you are fifteen it’s your homeroom teacher Miss Aoki: her head and shoulder caved in, her right eye bulging out at you, unseeing. You’d been drinking a bottle of milk-tea when she arrived, the blood stark and jewel-like in the daylight. You do not touch milk-tea for ages, afterwards.

You no longer wet yourself in fear, but you cannot look your teacher in the eye for weeks—it ruins everything. You stop pausing after homeroom to talk to her, stop sharing the music that brought you together, unable to face her, unable to face the bemusement and then the tiny flashes of hurt.

You cannot warn her. What would you warn her about? The trauma to her head could’ve been a fall, or some kind of rock—an accident or murder. And even if you knew, even if you could pinpoint it, she would not believe you. You know that because you had tried, with the ghost after Rinchan—with Yochan. Yochan, a boy from your neighbourhood and once, once before your Quirk had come, a boy you had followed around like a guiding star. You and all the other kids, faithful to him above all. But when your Quirk came and you got weird, he got mean.

“You’re a stupid piss-baby!” He’d shout at you, cackling. The other kids hung back, unsure of how to treat you—and this was how you saw him, the other him, standing behind the others with a swollen, awful face, his Endeavour shirt stained with a creamsicle, his eyes disappeared under the red, weeping slits of an allergic reaction.

You tried. You tried.

“Yochan,” you’d whisper, “please—”

His face would twist in disgust though, any time you came near him. “Freak!” he’d hiss. “Piss-baby! Get lost!”

He’d run away, then, laughing to himself and telling everyone that you had threatened him (“Piss Baby wants me dead!”)—and you had shut into yourself more, haunted by the agonised version of him that only you could see, that would stand there in your bedroom and twitch, the last throes of death.

It came for him, eventually. More than half a year later, during a game of softball where he’d knocked over a wasp nest and stomped over to it, the others too scared.

(The teacher explains it in class the following week and you sit there, in your seat by the window, untouched by the light. Empty.

Miss Aoki dies during the war, caught in the shadow of a collapsing building. You go to her service without your mother to hold your hand, and pray for forgiveness.)

You can map your life by the bodies that follow you. A year after after Miss Aoki it’s Hiroe: the tiny, fierce old woman down the street who grumbles at you every morning. When her doppleganger appears across the street from the pair of you, thin and wan and gasping as the hospital gown slips off her shoulders, the living her angrily talking about her carnations, the only thing you feel is relief. She’ll be in hospital—someone will be with her. It won’t be alone in a shower, or sprawled out on her kitchen floor, blood pooling under her. It’ll be death, still, leeching the life out of a woman who pertly tells you that the colour of your coat doesn’t suit you, but it’ll better than some of the lonely things you’ve seen, you live with.

(But it’s not better at all. Hiroe’s son works too hard, his hours too long in the aftermath of the war, helping the restoration. You visit her after school, bright flowers in hand and some of the colour returns to her face as she complains that you’re already dressing her altar, but her son is never there—and she dies alone, during the night, gasping for breath.)

You’re cursed, you think; cursed to see death everywhere you go, in everyone you know. And then you meet Kouki and realise that your curse smears over your future, too.

Kouki. Kouki with his brilliant red hair, like autumn leaves in the sunlight. Kouki who laughed easily, who would evenutally come to keep his pocket full of those old-fashioned milk-chews, just for you. Kouki, who, before you meet him alive, you meet dead—floating mid-air before you during your walk home one night, his hair dancing around his face, his eyes unseeing as his mouth opens and closes, gulping for air that isn’t there.

You are seventeen by this stage. It had been a hard couple of years with Miss Aoki, with the war, with Hiroe. Kouki appears before you under a streetlamp and you drop your schoolbag, your throat siezing.

“Don’t,” you say to this corpse of a boy you haven’t met, yet. “Don’t—don’t you dare do this to me.”

He opens his mouth; a tiny silver fish darts out and you burst into tears, overwhelmed, your new ghost lingering with you as you sob on the street, alone in the night. You don’t even know him. You don’t even know him.

He transfers to your senior class at the end of the month.

By then you had gotten used to the vision of him, numbly, the drowned boy following you around like a harmless stray—keeping you company on your walks home from your part-time job. You had sat with him as he floated, you solidly on the ledge of a park, unwrapping milk-chews and staring out at the dark before you, undaunted and unafraid, the most haunted thing there as his tiny fish flittered about him, again and again, on loop.

And then he walks into class that first day, and you are—you are frozen, even as he grins at you, bright and undaunted and alive.

“Hey,” he says after class, too interested and too friendly. “You look a little frightened—you good?”

Considering you had woken up that morning to his vestige floating at the foot of your bed, you most certainly were not good. What you say instead though is a curt, “I’m fine,” which proves to be mistake.

His eyes—big and blue—brighten at the challenge, and he grins.

“Fujita Kouki,” he introduces himself. “What’s your name?”

In the daylight, the light of the living where he can soak in the sun and return it, Kouki’s—Fujita’s—eyes are warm, not the milky colour you’ve been haunted with. You should walk away, you think desperately, wavering; you should retreat immediately. But the daylight is seductive. You are seventeen and it has a been a hard year and you are tired of being afraid.

Your lips part, even as you hesitate. But when you give him your name, his smile widens, and it almost—almost—chases the ghosts away.

Kouki quickly becomes your best friend.

Best friend is not the right term; it’s not fair to him and what you know about him. It doesn’t capture the horror of seeing him walk into your classroom that first day, nor the fear that follows you when he’s late to meeting up, or stays home from school because of a cold, because he’s bored. But—

He’s easy going. Refreshing, like cold, sparkling lemonade in the hot sun. He’s friendly and quickly becomes popular with so many of the others in your class and he wants to—he wants to hang out with you, walk you home. With Kouki you’re not the Silent Weirdo that never interacts with anyone. With Kouki you laugh—all the time, like all he wants to do is make you happy. He fills his pockets with those milk-chews and walks with you in the evenings, pushing his bike alongside you, telling you about the way his little brother terrorises his parents and how his father has been wanting to go on a vacation for years, now—and you let him. You let him become apart of your life, you let him walk you home. You let him sink into everything you know, into your pores, the fabric of who you are. He’s the good morning lets gooo texts before you meet up for school. He’s the warmth against you as you sit side-by-side on your park ledge, no longer the most haunted thing in the dark but what you should have always been: just a kid, sitting with a friend. Being with Kouki is easy, too easy. You no longer see the ghost of him—suspended in midair, his silver fish. You just see him, have him—Kouki, alive, chuckling to himself as he hands you another milk-chew.

“My dad’s finally free,” he tells you one night. You’re sitting on your ledge, mouth full of the creamy chews—Kouki (living) before you, lingering close.

“Mmph?” You question, unable to quite pry your jaw open enough for real words.

Kouki laughs like you had said something funny, and despite yourself your stomach flips, pleased to hear it. He’d been subdued; unusually quiet, had been since lunch that day, when Keichan had confessed her feelings to him in front of everyone. Keichan was pretty, effervescent—she laughed like he did, easily and among others who sparkled with her attention. On paper they were a perfect match and you almost wanted it—you wanted Kouki to be happy, however it happened. For as long as he could be.

But he had said no. You, sitting on the edges of the yard and picking at the grass, had been unable to help but watch in the same horrified, fascinated fear as everyone else, all of you silent. Keichan’s pretty face—shocked. Kouki’s red hair shinning brilliantly like fire, as he shook his head.

“Sorry,” he’d said, not sounding the least bit contrite. “I just—I don’t want that.”

In the evening gloom, he nudges your knee.

“The old man’s finally got that time off he wanted,” Kouki explains. You nod, swallowing your chews and trying to ignore how he moves forward—bracketing you, where you sit. “He wants to go fishing.”

“Oh,” you say, a little uselessly. Kouki’s hands are either side of you, distracting—the space between you warm, as he dips his head in closer.

You still. He’s always crowded your space but tonight in the silver light his face—normally so open, light—is afraid.

“You never tell me what you’re thinking,” he says, low, and you shake your head, emptied of words. It wasn’t true—you told him about the books you read, the songs you heard. The way you liked cupping sunlight in your hands because it made them glow, made you feel like you had a different Quirk entirely. You had never told anyone else that.

Kouki’s eyebrows tighten; pull. Frustrated, maybe, even as his hand balls itself into your skirt.

It pulls you closer to him, just a little. Your hand comes up between you—your fingers tracing the fold of his jacket pocket.

“You smell like those milkchews,” he whispers, and your heart is in your throat even as your lips part, his parting in echo as he watches them—

—and you don’t know who pulls who in first but then you are kissing, a hand cupping your face, anchoring you to the moment, to him as your fist tightens into his jacket. You sigh into the cool of his mouth and can almost taste the way he smiles before he presses in harder, hungry.

He pulls away after a moment; only to press more kisses, soft and careful, against your mouth, your nose, your cheek, laughing when you make a tiny, annoyed noise.

“You’re dumb,” he tells you, low, pressing another kiss against your hair, and then another. “And I’m gonna take you out and watch you eat those dumb sweets and make you tell me everything you’re thinking, forever. Until you’re sick of me.”

Your heart lurches. Forever.

“I could never be sick of you,” you tell him, the ache reopening inside of you.

Kouki grins, pleased and so, so alive; his brilliance softening to a glow as he dips his face close again, tracing your nose with his.

“I mean it,” he says, quiet. Promising. “You’re gonna have to chase me off.”

You try to stay in the warmth of him, the light and life, clutching at him, letting him kiss you again, soft.

But there’s a sob in your throat. And when you open your eyes, breathing in as Kouki kisses your jaw, your neck, his spectre is there—mouth gaping open, as a tiny, silver fish darts out.

(You beg him not to go, when his father announces the boat he’s rented, for his fishing trip. The man’s never been out on one before. Kouki has never seen your desperation, your fear, not like this and he almost stays, brows furrowed—but his little brother is excited. His father too. He buys all three of them matching fishing hats.

“It’s okay,” he whispers against the back of your neck, when you’re curled up together in your tiny, childhood bed. The house is quiet; you have it to yourselves, the sunlight dappling in your room, filtered through the tree outside. “I’m a good swimmer. Don’t worry.”

He presses a kiss against your shoulder, his fingers slow, tracing figures in the wet touch of your underwear. You breathe him in and to reassure yourself he’s right, that he will be okay, that you will always have this.

He’s gone by the following week. A storm. Kouki was right—he was a good swimmer. But his little brother wasn’t, and the love that made him go in the first place was the same love that made him search for him, endlessly, after their boat was capsized.

You go to the joint service. Kouki, his father, his little brother. His mother is held together by an older woman, desolate. In a row in front Keichan cries silent tears but you—

You stand there and you stare at Kouki’s portrait, his smiling face. He will never again soak in the sunlight and reflect it He will never again wait for you, his pockets filled with your favourite sweets. He will never again kiss you, with the cool press of his lips, the taste of his laugh behind them.

Fujita Kouki is gone. He is gone, slipping away—taking the you who believed in hope and a future where you could be happy with him.)

The years slip away. One, then two, then three and then four and then five. You move to a bigger city; and then you move again. You work in offices, department stores, a warehouse once, washing carrots—anything that will pay you, pay the bills. You keep to yourself and your coworkers lose interest in trying to keep up small talk with you and you don’t form any kind of tie, good or bad, that could manifest before you, rattling in death.

Kouki would never forgive you for this bleak existence, you think, if he could see it. But wherever he is it’s not with you, not on this plane, and so you keep your head down and when one of your ghosts does come to you, you grit your teeth and ignore it.

Even in isolation, they find a way to haunt you. You start seeing the clerk from the 7/11 you stop in to and from work, his neck snapped, and you avoid the store for three weeks before telling yourself it was stupid of you, that maybe you could say something—only to find someone else there, when you walk in, the guy already replaced.

The new hire at the office you work at starts appearing before you, swinging, his throat and face mottled as hands claw at a rope that’s not there and you—you thank him when he brings you a coffee, and try to be a little kinder, try to watch as he blends in with the others, laughs among them, the crack underneath his smile not showing.

He bungles a client, six months into working there. Your boss chews him out in front of everyone, the guy taking it with a silent, shame-faced nod, and when you try to say, “You worked hard, mistakes can happen to anyone—” he only bows hurriedly, already backing away.

(he doesn’t come back, and two weeks later his desk is cleared.)

Head down, keep to yourself. Another year passes. And then another. And then your curse rears its ugly head one final, terrible time.

You are waiting for the lights to change in the middle of a busy street, on a cold, bright afternoon, when you first see him.

You’re not paying attention; staring into the crowd on the other side of the street, thinking about what you had in the fridge at home and then he’s there, in your line of sight, his face twisting in fury, in grief, as he reaches out, shouting something—

And then there’s a flash of light, blinding and sharp and he is gone, startling you even as the crosswalk starts to sing, people moving around you like water around a stone as your heart races.

No, you think weakly. No. Not again.

He doesn’t return and you stand there, in the same spot, even as the crosswalk blinks back to red.

All your life, your Quirk has worked one way: showing you the death of someone you already knew, for better or for worse. Not someone famous, not a stranger. Kouki had been an—anomaly, you thought, desperate. Some freak tie. Japan had gone through so much in those years during and after the war: reports of abnormal adolescent Quirk growth had spiked, at its worse. You had always thought that maybe yours had been apart of that, that that’s what Kouki’s ghost had been. A result of stress, or your loneliness. Something, anything. And you’d only grown more sure of it when it didn’t repeat—

Until now.

You get home that night and in a fit of anger tear through everything, up end it all. Your clothes, out from the wardrobe or the basket, strewn along the floor. Your pots, clattering thunderously throughout your kitchen. You scream, pitching book after book across the room at your couch, the covers bending, pages tearing. You wouldn’t go through it again, you wouldn’t—

You curl up against your kitchen island, sobbing. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t. You wouldn’t do this. Not again. Not ever again.

(But your heart’s already sinking. Already tender with the hurt, remembered and preemptive. His hair had been golden in the light—like winter sun.

When your hiccups calm, you look up—and he is standing over you, his face twisting again. You shut your eyes but the flash is bright, even then. Nuclear.

When you open them, he’s gone.

“Please,” you whisper to your empty apartment. “Please don’t do this to me.”

But it’s only the silence that answers you, the absence of mercy or comfort and you shudder, your tears nothing but salt in your mouth.)

Your plan, eventually, is simple: just ignore your newest ghost, when you finally meet him.

It should be easy. Even though he was a Pro-Hero he was also a famous one—and how often did you run into famous Pro-Heroes? They always had something to defend, always had someone to save. You just had to keep living your life, squarely and safe and you would be fine. You would skirt past each other and he would live or die just however a Pro Hero should.

A month passes. And then another. You begin to think maybe you’re safe; and then you’re not.

“If everyone can line up, then that’ll make everything go smoother,” your boss calls out, echoed throughout the office. Below on the street is the firetruck—overseeing the drill. You peer over the ledge of the window in worry, trying to count the firefighters out: seven that you could see. If you saw anymore than that while out on the street you were just going to close your eyes and wait it out.

Your boss calls your name—and when you glance to him, startled, he gestures with his megaphone, sheepish.

“Can you run and grab my laptop case for me?” he asks, already half out the door. “You’re closer, and I have a feeling we’ll be down there for a while.”

“Yeah,” you say, already standing. You leave your own things at your desk—as you’re meant to—and dart to his office, partitioned by glass. When you turn around, the case in hand, the office is empty—your boss’s megaphone calling out down the hall, down the stairway, leaving you alone in the wake of it.

You go to the window again, to count the firefighters. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven—

You freeze. There’s an eighth figure there, standing solidly with them, talking, his arms crossed. A Pro Hero—dressed in black, with bright orange details.

Your ghost, you think in alarm.

He looks up at the window and you jerk away, startled. He shouldn’t be able to see—the glass was tinted—but his face is suspicious and you clutch your boss’s case to you tighter, heart thumping.

Don’t give him a reason to single you out, you think desperately—you hurry to join the others but they have left you on an empty floor, already making their way down the three flights quickly, leaving you and your noisy footfall as you race down the emergency stairs—only to have the door to the lobby thrown open roughly before you could even reach it.

It bangs against the wall; leaving you to stare in silence as he fills the doorway fully, glowering, stopping you in your tracks.

“The hell?” He asks you, roughly. Under his mask his eyes flicker over you, over the case in your hands, unimpressed. “Why didn’t you evacuate with the others?”

You can only shake your head, tucking your hands around the case tighter. Even having his spectre repeat and repeat in front of you—it doesn’t compare to the space and heat of him in the flesh, taking up a doorway. He’s more solid now, more real and when he shifts, just a fraction, you step back in fright.

Something his eyes—ink red under his mask—don’t miss, narrowing.

“I’m sorry,” you say, and mercifully your voice is calm. “I had to grab something.”

“You ain’t meant to take anything,” he points out, barely civil, and you duck your head into a nod—his jaw tightening in response.

You’d rather this, you think, wincing. The brittle patience, barely hiding his rippling irritation. Anything was better than the despair that’d been playing over and over in front of you.

Pro Hero Dynamight—Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight—scowls at you, jerking behind him. “The extra with the megaphone is doin’ roll call.”

He means your boss. You look at him, curious, and his mouth tightens. It doesn’t thin the curve of his lips, though, and when you realise you’ve noticed that—

You hold your boss’s laptop closer. “Okay,” you say, meaninglessly.

Dynamight only moves out of the way when you go to squeeze past him, your jacket catching against his suit as he grunts.

“Wait,” he commands, annoyed. You stare ahead and will everything within your mind to empty as he pulls you free from the catch of one of his grenades—you mutter a thank-you and don’t look back as you hurry to the glass doors, the light, the open outside away from him and the heat of his space.

(You hide behind your coworkers as your boss commends everyone for their examplumery speed and when one of the firefighters steps forward to walk everyone through the basic dangers of an office building fire it’s Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight who stands behind him, solid and real and flinty eyed, as he stares everyone down. Someone in front of you giggles; he glares at her until she stops, bowing her head in shame and letting him look directly at—

You. Standing at the back.

His mask moves; his eyebrow raised. You lift yours in a helpless, silent, question. He frowns, like you’re speaking two different languages and morosely you think to yourself, so much for not giving him a reason to single you out.)

It’s just one off-chance meeting, you tell yourself. Just a weird little moment to establish something there, and make you feel a little guilty when you hear about his death on the news.

Only—

Only it keeps happening.

Perhaps it’s your karma, for never saying anything to the ghosts that had followed you. Or maybe it’s one last laugh from Kouki, his evil delight in teasing you manifested. Maybe it’s just plain old bad luck—but whatever it was, it meant you kept running into Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight over and over again, humiliation on repeat.

He’s—there, in his Pro-Hero gear, at the konbini you get your morning coffee, scowling as the cashier stammers through the burglary you’d only just missed. He’s—crouching amid a group of excitable kids, his grin for them sudden and sharp and bright, distracting even in the middle of a busy street. He’s—walking past you as you startle, safely tucked away into a coffee shop as he patrols past, barely sparing the café window a glance.

He is everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. And in turn his ghost is too: the blinding flash in your mirror, as you try to brush your teeth, squinting. The nuclear eruption that startles you awake, in the darkness of your room. The silent twist of his face as he reaches out to you, over your counter as you eat your cereal.

It’s worse than it was with Kouki, you think bitterly. When Kouki the living appeared in your life, Kouki the ghost receded. Now you were just being haunted on both ends, both versions just as fleeting as the other.

Your only consolation is that you are, truly, a nobody to him. Just another face amid a city full of them. For all the tiny run-ins, the awful timing, you manage to wriggle away quickly, without attention—or so you’d thought.

You’re walking home under the city dusk: a universe of lights below you as you trek up the winding path that leads home. Work had been awful. You’d seen your vision of Dynamight no less than three seperate times that day, the furious twist of his face, his silent shouting—his disappearing. He was taking you with him, you thought in despair. No other ghost of yours had been so persistent. Distracted, you’d bought a supermarket bento for dinner—some nectarines, for dessert. As you walked the bag swung low and slow, too flimsy; when it splits everything in it splatters, and tumbles.

You swear, skidding as you try to chase the fruit, rolling away as they gain speed—

Stopped by a black boot, it’s orange detailing almost glowing as it scuffs along the ground, blocking them.

Everything within you settles; flattens as you straighten.

Under his mask, Dynamight arches in an eyebrow.

“You good?” He asks.

You shrug, and hold up the remnants of your plastic bag—drifting like a bride’s veil, between you.

The Pro-Hero tsks, crouching, picking up your nectarines. “Weak crap.”

In the twilight the black of his uniform makes him a dark void—until he stands again, holding out your fruit to you. You frown, and watch him mirror it, his wide mouth turning down, unhappily.

“You afraid of me, or somethin’?” He asks, rough. His face is pinched—it makes him look like a little kid, trying to tough out a pout and your stomach squeezes with the guilt. The last anyone would see of him would be a flash of light—and then Japan’s dynamite, Japan’s explosive anger, would be gone forever.

And here you were—making him feel bad in what could, quite possibly, be his last days.

“No,” you admit, opening your handbag to take back the nectarines. “I’m not afraid of you.”

He squints at you, disbelieving.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Then why do you keep runnin’ away like you’ve shit yourself?”

Oh, you think, he’s disgusting.

“I do not,” you say instead, crossly, dropping to the ground grab the remains of your bento.

Dynamight grunts in dismissal. “Yeah you do. Every time I’m walkin’ down a street, or I have to drop into some shitty little place—you’re there, turning tail. If you ain’t on laxatives and you ain’t afraid, then what is it?”

“I’m prejudiced against all Pro-Heroes,” you tell him, stoutly. “And you keep foiling my plans for world domination. Why do you notice, anyway? Why are you here?”

His boots scrape against the path, suddenly loud between you, as he moves in closer.

“‘M on patrol,” he tells you. “It’s my job on patrol to notice weirdoes—and you’ve been the weirdest.”

“Congratulations!” you tell him sourly, skittering around the solid wall of his presence to a nearby trash can. It’s already overflowing, but you squeeze your own rubbish in and turn back to the Pro, as much apart of the world around you as the dark undergrowth of the pathway, or the city lights behind him.

He’s so real, you think angrily. And in days, weeks—maybe months, if he was lucky—he’d be gone, just like that.

“Now what?” You ask him, ask yourself. “What happens now?”

Below, a train screeches past. Great Explosion Murder God: Dynamight shrugs, indifferent.

“Depends,” he says. “You gonna keep being weird?”

You almost laugh. You don’t, though, holding your handbag with your nectarines closer. You are standing in the last, dark moments of a twilight world with a man who will die, God knew when—weird was probably the least you could be.

“Maybe,” you say instead. “I haven’t decided yet.”

The Pro-Hero shrugs again. “Then I do my job, and keep an eye on ya.”

He’s not looking at you when he says it, shifting awkwardly like a school boy and you—

You let your shoulders sag. You are an adult, no longer seventeen—but has been a hard life, and you are tired. Tired of being afraid. Of always being at the edges of your own life.

“Okay,” you tell him, tell yourself. Tell your ghosts, wherever they’re gathered. “I surrender.”

Dynamight snorts, kicking out a loose gravel and when he glances back to you his face has softened from its suspicion—waiting, instead.

A new pattern starts.

He walks past the coffee shop when you’re there and squints at you—acknowledgement you return with the ugliest face you can manage, the woman at the table across from you snorting into her mug.

You walk past him one weekend, surrounded by fans, and he looks up and sees you—bright eyes flickering over the fizzing orange juice in your hand, your wide sunhat, not hiding the startled surprise on your face—and grunts at the kids around him, holding up his hand as he tries to squeeze out, to you.

“Your hat makes you look like a frilly grandma,” he complains, loudly, as the fans follow him, encircling you both.

“I like your hat!” One girl says, brightly. She’s wearing a GEMG:D shirt with his scowling face under his title scrawl; you touch the brim of your hat, self-consciously.

“Thanks,” you say, self-conscious. She beams at you, even as Dynamight starts jabbing at you, trying to get you to move.

“I gotta get grandma home,” he tells everyone, as the group groans. “S’gotta have that nanna nap.”

You let him bully you. You let him pick you out, every time you cross paths. You don’t fight it—and when you start seeing him out of his Pro-Hero gear, his weaponry, your heart tightens in on itself in warning.

“You hungry?” He asks you, one evening. You’d been walking together, the pair of you having finished work at the same time; you in your neat, office wear, your leather handbag. Dynamight in sweats, a loose shirt, a dufflebag over his shoulder.

The sky above you is pink, the moon a silver crescent. A manga moon, you think to yourself; overlooking a love story.

“Yeah,” you answer him, eventually. “I’m starving.”

He nods, resolutely not looking at you—though when you glance at him his jaw tightens, head turning away.

“Denimhead introduced me to a place near here,” he says, gruffly. “They’re decent, ain’t wankers. And they’re cheap. Private.”

He should be doing this with anyone else, you thought to yourself, desperately, watching your shoes. Anyone. Someone who wouldn’t be counting down the days, the weeks, the months.

“I’d like that,” you say instead, softer. “I’d like to go.”

He doesn’t risk looking at you but his smooth face reddens, even as he passes a large hand over the back of his neck, like he could rub the colour out.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Let’s go then.”

It’s a bistro; a tiny pocket of a place only marked by a single, hanging sign of a smiling cow, the sizzle of steak permeating the alleyway. Inside the lights are low—Dynamight stands back to let you sit at the bar first, watching hawkishly, before he follows, the bartender smiling at you both.

“They gotta menu,” he says, nodding to the mirror behind the bar, where a sparse few dishes are written. “Otherwise if ya trust me I can—I can suggest shit.”

His gaze flickers over your face as you watch him in turn. He was so—here. Alive. With every tiny movement—the draw back of his elbow, the flex of his hand—you feel it, too aware.

“I trust you,” you tell him.

He grins—sudden and pointed and startling a smile out of you too, even as you try to bite it back.

(He orders blistered tomatoes, the size of doll heads, dressed in olive oil and a sweet fig vinegar, a soft cheese that bursts over them. There’s toasted baguette—slathered with bone marrow, garlic butter. There’s steak cut like it’s been shared among cavemen, several inches thick and still on the bone, bleeding even as it sizzles. The bartender puts down a little plate of fine, perfectly ruffled pasta in front of you; dressed in pesto, charred greens, tiny flowers and you have to share it with your Pro-Hero, who’s nose wrinkles when you try to offer him a speared garnish.

He is warm and he is close and he smells like the char of a grill and soap and a sweet wood layered over warm skin and neither of you move to touch each other—

But his leg presses against yours, and stays. Your hand slips over his by accident as you move to help yourself to dessert, a soft creamy dish with fruit—and he turns his palm up, catching it. Squeezing your fingers for a brief moment before letting them go, unmooring you only to anchor you again when you walk side-by-side, back to the train station, the warmth of him reassuring, and inescapable.)

Days. Weeks. Months.

You walk together, have dinner sometimes, lunch others. He complains about the other Heroes he works with; you listen, side-eyeing him when he then mentions feeding them, making meals at the agency because everyone was useless—

He doesn’t poke at you to talk, but you start sharing anyway. The book in your handbag; the gossip the others at the office always had.

“Tell ‘em to either deal with it or shut up,” he suggests, and you laugh despite yourself.

Days. Weeks. Months.

He goes away on a mission across the country—after a villain the news was calling Hazard. He’d been responsible for the complete destruction, the levelling, of a factory, a shopping centre, slipping away before anyone could scramble through the rumble and detain him. It rains the entire time Dynamight is gone, leaving you to walk home alone, an umbrella over you, as the news loops over about flood warnings.

(When he comes back it’s an overcast day; finally dry. He’s waiting for you at your usual crossroad, now, and when you see him you smile, his eyes following the curve of it before flickering over you.

“You good?” He asks.

“Better now that you’re back,” you admit, before you can stop yourself.

You were. You had stayed up every night he was gone, on your phone—watching the news, the tags, waiting for his name to appear, footage of the flash that would take him. There’d been nothing; no arrests, no collision.

But your Pro-Hero’s face softens, just slight, and you realise that he’d read something else in it when he says, low, “Yeah. I get it.”

Days, weeks, months. Your heart thumps to it, reminding you and nervously, you shift away.

“Are you hungry?” You ask, wanting to fill the space between you with anything else.

He watches you skitter away, trying to encourage him to move; his eyes ruby.

“Yeah,” he repeats and in relief you turn away, all too aware of his stare, at the back of your head.)

Days. Weeks. When you finally kiss it’s at his table, in his home; empty plates in front of you.

“I think this is the best thing I’ve ever eaten,” you tell him honestly, quietly, the smears of your tiramisu the only remains as you stand, to take your plate to the kitchen.

“You’re always tryna—dart away,” he says suddenly, still sitting.

You startle at the look on his face—serious, soft mouth trying not to pout.

“I just—I just want to help with the dishes,” you say, but his brow furrows, pinched, and when he stands it’s carefully, slow, the coiled draw of a bow that shivers, waiting.

“I can’t get a read on you,” he admits to the quiet, his knuckles against the table. “Can’t—guess at whatever’s goin’ on in that squirrelly head of yours.”

You swallow, and run your hand across your forearm, too aware of the soft edges of your sleeves, of your Pro-Hero following your fingers.

“There’s nothing,” you whisper, and he snorts; boyish, disbelieving. It makes him less of a threat and more of a man—real, living, breathing, with his own thoughts and his own feelings.

“Like hell there is,” he swears, stepping closer. It brings his warmth in; the smell of coffee, of his cologne, aniseed sweet. “Whatever you’ve got spinnin’ around in there keeps you worlds away from this one. And I ain’t—”

He stops himself, his mouth parted around the rest of his words as his eyes flicker over your face, your lips; the way you can’t breathe for his nearness, hesitating in the space between you.

“—I ain’t gonna let you disappear,” he finishes, low. For a moment he traces your nose with his, and when your lashes flutter he sucks his breath in, tight; his mouth on yours, warm and sudden. A press. And then another. And then another and then the kiss is deepening and you tilt your head as hands fist themselves in your hair, keeping you close even as he pulls away, tiny, to pant against your lips. “Hah—”

You kiss him back. You take him back. Your hands are tight in his shirt, too flimsy to hold him and you whine and you can feel him snarl—or smile?—against you, his teeth hard against the corner of your mouth, scraping your jaw as he nips at your neck.

The plates on the table rattle as you both slide to the floor. You gasp as his mouth meets the bare skin of your thigh, then again as his thumbs hook under your underwear, the cool of his floor a shock. He moans, muffled; free of your ass your underwear drapes, wet and warm against you and he mouths at it, a heavy kiss as you gasp again at his tongue through cotton. He kisses deeper—you gasp again, and again, until you’re panting, tiny ah, ah, ahs that have him squeezing your hip, nosing the wet slop of your underwear out of the way so that his mouth meets your skin and you both moan.

(You are unravelled, on the floor—your clothes pooling, your breasts freed, your legs splayed. His hold is firm and warm and you are heavy-eyed, even as you gasp again, under him. You want to drift away—you want to stay, hissing as his blunt nails claw along the meat of your ass.

He lifts himself to meet you for a kiss—his mouth and chin shiny, his eyes glimmering as his shoulders ripple, panther-lithe as he leans over you.

His mouth is warm. You hum into it as he curses, tasting him—coffee, sex, you—as hot hands smooth the small of your back, the slip of him inside of you so, so easy and wet.

Even in the rut, the thrust, you are safe. You arch off of the floor like you’re trying to escape it, escape into the solid wall of him, waiting with another kiss, long and hard as he thrusts in deeper, deeper still.

You curl your legs against him, your heel in his ass. He grunts, then bites at your chin and your laugh is broken off into a moan as he ruts in hard.

Days. Weeks. When you come it’s sudden, starflash hot; you gasp for a final time and your hero is there to nose against your wet skin, to kiss you, his own undoing a groan, a sigh into your mouth.

There are no ghosts, lingering afterwards. Only him, panting; only you, your legs slipping together, your lips parting. Only him, only you.

He presses a kiss against the side of your head, almost forcefully.

“Wasn’t too shit,” he says, gruff, and you laugh around your breathlessness, anchored and alive.)

Days, weeks. Days.

Your Hero asks you stay over; you do, waking up in sheets that smell like him, that smell like sex, like you. You give yourself the moments—let yourself kiss his shoulder in hello, when he’s brushing his teeth. Lean into his touch, when his hand smooths up and down your waist.

“The others wanna meet ya,” he says one night, grumpily. “Said something about a lunch—I told ‘em s’up to you.”

At the counter, you hesitate. Who knew what you’d see, around them, the country’s frontliners. And it would only make this death, the one you were waiting on, worse—

But your Hero is determinedly not looking at you, his face pink, and you realise—he wants it. He wants you to meet them. Them to meet you.

Oh, you think, stricken. This was going to hurt.

“Okay,” you say. “I’d—I’d like that. Let’s do that.”

When he grins it twists his whole face into childlike brightness. You smile back with a wobble, looking at him and only him—ignoring his ghost behind him, shouting at you before the flash.

Days. Day. It’s a bright Saturday and you were meant to be meeting his friends, at last, the city busy as you hurry to the department store. There was a store in the food hall that sold small, perfectly round cream cakes, with glossy coatings and made to look like fruit—you wanted a tray of them, to take.

The sales clerk is handing you the bag, sealed with a ribbon when the shouting starts.

“RUN!” Someone screams, a flash from the back of the store blinding you. It’s the call, the break through the spell. Everyone panics, shouting as people start to bolt for the stairs to the street outside.

You’re almost torn away from the store—the girl serving you yelping as people barrel past, the force of them moving you, too, until the girl shrieks—trapped behind the counter.

“Wait!” You say, but a man almost shoves you aside and you drop your bag, your cakes, pushing against the others that follow him until there’s a gap. The sales clark is wincing, behind her case, but there’s a ominous rattling above you and you scream, “Come on!” at her, your hand held out as everyone on the floor screams.

She sobs as someone smashes into her counter, shoved up by a crowd and you wedge yourself out of the way and scream again, “We have to go! Now!”

You’re almost blind in your panic, wheezing as your elbowed in someone else’s desperation—but then she’s scrambling with the hatch, reaching out to you too and when her hand is in yours you run, following the crowd.

You’re separated in the push—there’s more screams, as more and more flashes fill the room and someone, an older man, almost claws at your face to get in front of you.

Outside there’s a wail of sirens; someone on a megaphone, shouting for surrender.

The explosion is small. It doesn’t feel like it—everyone tumbles to the ground with the shock wave, the smoke quickly filling the space and trying to tunnel out the same way and someone grabs your elbow and tugs, begging you to move—

You follow them. Her, the girl from the cake stand, her face puffy and bruised. The pair of you crawl over people, stand, and when you break out of the glass doors and into the daylight it’s almost a relief—until you see the ring of Pro-Heroes, police officers, all tense.

Your stomach swoops. The Pros, the cops closest to you are ashen-faced—looking beyond you, to whoever is now holding you in place with a calm, heavy hand on your shoulder.

“Just put your hands up,” one of the cops calls out, over the megaphone. “And surrender. There’s no need for hostages.”

Behind you, broken glass shifts. The hand on your shoulder squeezes tighter, a warning, and you stare out at the crowd, trying to empty your mind even as the clerk, still next you, sobs.

Day. Moments.

Beyond the crowd you can hear his sharp voice, his shouting and you squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to know, not wanting to see—

But everything within you is attuned to him. The world falls away into white noise and all you can hear is your name, being screamed furiously, and you have to look.

You blink away your tears, and he’s there, two other Pros trying to hold him back as he swears, elbowing out at them; his face twisting in fury, in grief. Your eyes meet—and he surges forward again, shouting something to you as he reaches out, an officer barrelling into him as nails dig into your shoulder—

And then there is a flash of light. Blinding and sharp.

And you are gone.

#‼️📍 content warnings at the beginning of the post 📍‼️#tw: major character death #tw: death #tw: bludgeoning #tw: wasp stings #tw: drowning #tw: suicide #tw: grief/mourning #tw: smut #bakugou x reader #prompts and drabbles and other things #merms apology tour

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