#watercolor bloom of spring | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

astraystayyh · 1 month ago

Text

Not a lot, just forever.

🪷 In which you make flowers bloom in a heart hyunjin saw as lifeless.

pairing: (tortured) painter!hyunjin x florist!yn.

genre: fluff. strangers to lovers. angst (but not between the characters). just very soft and tender.

wc: 10.2k

a.n.: this entire fic is inspired by the fact that hyunjin has his florist’s number. so i ran with it and it gave way to this!! i really love this fic so i hope you’ll love it in return 🫶🏻 and, of course, happy birthday to my spring, my light, my hyune. thank you for being such an easy person to love. i hope happiness always finds you wherever you may go❣️you deserve it. (pic is mine which is #crazy still can’t believe i’ve been in monet’s home!!!!)

In theory, a heart is simply a heart—an organ, no more sacred than the others, pulsing to pump blood into our veins, working tirelessly to keep one alive.

But to Hyunjin, a heart is a bit more than that. To him, the heart is a graveyard, a hollow, decaying thing where his dreams are laid to rest before they ever bloom. He finds it cruel, almost laughable, that the very thing meant to sustain him is the tomb beneath which he perishes—day after day, night after night.

Hyunjin never understood the notion of ending one’s own life. Weren’t there always reasons to stay? Beautiful things to gaze at, to hold on to— the slant of golden light through a window, the swell of waves as they kissed the shore? Wasn’t the sun always there patiently waiting to be seen?

But now he understands. It doesn’t matter if the sun is there or not. For the sun rises every day, yet Hyunjin can no longer see it.

Hyunjin hadn’t seen the sun for a long time.

He wasn’t always like this. In fact, he loved existing. He loved finding beauty in the smallest of things, in the details that mortal eyes don’t often stop to admire, too busy running, too busy surviving. But Hyunjin was different. He craved living. So, he paused. Almost reverent in the way he’d breathe in the sweet perfume of roses, soak in the way the sea folded itself around his ankles.

And he liked commemorating his feelings, he didn’t have the strongest memory, so he painted. He liked painting. No, he loved it, since he was a child and he found out what a brush is. He loved it the way the ocean loves the shore, relentlessly, endlessly, painted until his hands ached and his bones grew weary. He painted the way he loved too— excessively, hungrily, until the first threads of light stretched across the sky, his fingers stained in oil and watercolor, in reds deep as longing and blues heavy as sorrow.

It felt like a waste not to spend every waking moment painting, loving, yearning. it felt a waste not to feel as grandly as the mountains, as vastly as the stretch of oceans.

It felt like a waste for Hyunjin not to love Scarlet.

It must have felt like a waste, too, for the universe not to let him die at her hands.

So it did.

Hyunjin has not been alive for a long time. He does not think he will ever be again.

He’s staring at the blank canvas before him, a cruel expanse of white that’s almost mocking him. If he looks long enough, he can almost see a shape forming, lips moving to whisper the same word, over and over—worthless. worthless. worthless.

His fist drives through the cloth. The canvas falls to the ground in a thud so loud Hyunjin has to cradle his temple to ease the pang of pain it shoots through him. The wood easel splatters to the floor, though it does not look out of place in the ruins of his studio. Not when his brushes are scattered everywhere, palettes smashed against the walls, paint smeared in angry streaks against his floor.

His chest heaves as he stands there, amidst the wreckage that he caused, the place that once used to be his sanctuary. When did it all change? Perhaps when there was nothing left worth painting. Nothing worth breathing for.

He has always known it. A life does not end when one is laid underneath the soil. A life ends when nothing stirs wonder in your heart anymore, when you pass through the days but they do not pass by you, when they leave you untouched, unchanged.

He buries the sob wrapping around his throat. He has cried enough for things he cannot change, hasn’t he?

With trembling hands, Hyunjin reaches for his phone, thumb pressing Felix’s name—his publicist, his friend.

“Did you paint something?” Felix’s voice is bright, unshaken as he replies instantly.

Hyunjin closes his eyes.

“No,” he breathes. Not anymore.

A pause. Then, “Would you book me that trip to Giverny?”

“Giverny?”

“I’m giving myself one last chance.”

“To paint?” Felix asks, tone too eager, too hopeful.

“Mm,” Hyunjin nods absentmindedly. He can’t find it within him to break Felix’s hope, to whisper bleak things when his voice is so cheerful.

It’s not about painting anymore.

This is Hyunjin’s last chance to live.

—

The bell above your florist shop chimes sweetly as someone pushes open the large wooden doors. You glance up, slipping off the gloves you wore to tend to the newest arrival of white roses, carefully removing every damaged leaf and petal.

Your smile falters.

A man stands in the doorway—not just any man, but the most beautiful human you have ever seen.

You’ve had many visitors in the short year you’ve been in Giverny—locals and tourists alike. There is always a certain gentleness to the people who choose to step inside, those who pause in the midst of their days, their travels, to admire flowers, to buy them for their loved ones. You’ve seen it all—honeymooners exchanging delicate bouquets, old couples finding the smallest excuses to gift each other roses, solo travelers picking their favorite flowers to commemorate their journeys.

But never have you seen someone so heartbreakingly beautiful, so unbearably sad stepping into your shop.

“May I help you?” you ask.

He jolts, as if pulled from deep waters. His eyes meet yours across the shop, and it strikes you then—how effortlessly he belongs among the flowers. How his eyes resemble withering petals, how his sunken cheeks remind you of a bloom left untended.

You take pride in the way you’ve arranged your small shop. No flower is placed randomly, rather, you wanted them to speak to one another, talking in a language only few can understand. All your visitors have never failed to mention just how beautiful it looks. And yet, here he stands, untouched by its light.

“I’m just looking,” he says, his voice barely a whisper, and you have to lean in to catch its fragmented pieces. His gaze skims over the flowers, never lingering, never seeing.

“Is it your first time in Giverny?” you ask.

He nods, tucking his hands into his pockets. A white graphic tee clings to him, a plaid shirt tied loosely around his waist. A cross dangles from his neck. Your eyes trace the hollows of his cheeks—he is beautiful in the way shattered glass is. In the way standing amidst a storm is.

“It is,” he says curtly, then hesitates. “I’ll be here for a little while, though. Three or four months… We’ll see.”

“That’s exciting!” You smile, sidling closer. He smells of something sweet—flowers and musk, warmth and rain. “So, you don’t know what kind of flowers you’re looking for, do you?”

He shakes his head. “No.” He whispers it as if ashamed of not knowing.

“Then I’ll make you a welcome bouquet! On the house.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he murmurs, your eyes locking on his. all you see is his sadness, it’s everywhere, dripping over his face, staining his clothes, the very air around him. He’s so sad it makes you sad too.

“It’s okay,” you say softly. “I’d like to.”

A pause, then, something uncontainable prompts you to add—

“I know what it’s like to need to get away. Even if just for a little while.”

Your cheeks warm under his scrutinizing gaze. You’ve never been this bold with a stranger. Did you overstep?

But he only holds your eyes a moment longer before exhaling, a quiet breath through his nose.

“Thank you.”

You get to work. He lingers by your desk, watching as you deliberate over which flowers to pick. Minutes pass, and you can feel his gaze, burning as it traces the nape of your neck.

You know what to pick then. White Freesia—delicate, trumpet-shaped, the star of the bouquet. You pair them with Delphinium, deep blue against soft white, and baby’s breath, like a scattering of stars. A touch of foliage, then—

“What’s your favorite color?” you ask suddenly.

His eyes widen.

“Hm? Oh. Um—blue.”

You grin, reaching for blue wrapping paper. Scribbling a note, you tuck it into the bouquet before placing it in his hands.

“Ta-da,” you smile. “I hope I’ll see you again.”

It’s a courtesy to say to all your clients, but somehow you find yourself meaning it more when it comes to him. His sadness startles you, you do not know what must be roaming inside his mind for him to be this sorrowful— like an open wound, gushing droplets of blood for everyone to see.

“Will I? Right?” you suddenly add, a touch eager, worried.

His fingers delicately brush the petals.

“Yeah. You will.”

—

It is many hours later, the sky is dipped in an exquisite shade of midnight blue. Yet, sleep still refused to visit Hyunjin.

He lies awake, staring at the bouquet by his bedside. The note you wrote him itched behind his eyelids: Listen to the flowers. They’re always talking :)

He exhales, finally reaching for his phone. He types in a quick search: meaning of Freesia.

Friendship.

A small smile tugs at his lips.

Would you like to be his friend?

He doesn’t have much to offer. But maybe you’d like it if he just sat by your side while you tended to your flowers. He’ll make himself small too. You wouldn’t even feel his presence.

—

Hyunjin hesitates at your shop entrance— Anthomania, the dusty pink sign reads, swaying softly with the breeze. It’s around nine a.m., the quaint town slowly buzzing with life, like a swarm of bees swirling around the first blooms of spring. He’s clad in a white blouse, its first two buttons undone. His jade necklace rests comfortably by his collarbones, and he itches to touch it, to ground himself away from the anxiety thrumming right beneath his skin.

Is it too soon? To see you again in the very first hour of the next day? What if he had misread your gesture? What if the bouquet was nothing more than kindness, a simple marketing strategy? He must not be the only one you’ve given flowers to-

“Oh, hey!” you greet cheerfully, suddenly appearing beside him, a basket of fresh yellow tulips balanced on your hips. The scent of roses clings to you. Your eyes are so bright as if morning dew dripped into them too. You look happy, and it’s nine a.m., and Hyunjin doesn’t regret coming by as much as before.

“Hi,” he smiles, hesitant, awkwardly, only to wince inwardly. Is this what he has come to? Second guessing everything he does, even something as instinctive as smiling?

“I, um... I brought you croissants?” The statement tilts into a question as he lifts the paper bag, the warmth of the bakery still clinging to it. “As a thank you. For the bouquet. For—” He hesitates, his gaze flickering downward. “The Freesia. And… the friendship.”

Your lips curve into a smile, the morning sun catching on the glitter dusted across your eyelids. “So, you did listen to what the flowers had to say.”

You push the wooden door open, and he quickly follows.

“I looked up their meaning, if that’s what you mean.”

“It doesn’t sound nearly as romantic when you word it this way,” you pout, plucking the croissants from his hands. Hyunjin has to smile, pretend as if your words did not just stab him right across his chest in the middle of your shop. A gruesome act in the midst of beauty.

He too used to look for romance in everything. Not anymore. The more you seek it, the more it learns how to wound you.

He clears his throat, swallowing the phantom taste of blood before it can spill past his lips—before it can stain your flowers, stain you.

“I also looked up the meaning of Anthomania, an obsession with flowers in Latin. Are you?”

“Obsessed? You mean?” you giggle softly. “Given that I packed my bags and opened a florist shop in this town despite everyone’s warnings… I’d say yes.”

“Why Giverny?”

“I don’t know,” you muse, gaze drifting toward the window. Two children are walking hand in hand past Anthomania, their giggles make you smile for a fleeting instant. “Some places just feel right to our souls. Maybe because they know before we do that something beautiful is meant to happen there.”

You turn back to him, eyes warm. “Coffee?” You gesture toward the machine, and he nods, lost in thought.

“You seem distant,” you muse, gently placing a steaming cup of coffee before him. The scent of freshly ground beans drifts through the air, but it doesn’t spark anything within him—nothing like it once did. Not anymore. “Like your heart is elsewhere,” you finish.

“My heart?” He smiles softly, a breathy laugh escaping him. “Doesn’t the expression say your mind?”

You giggle, shaking your head. “Our minds wander all the time, that’s natural,” you say, voice trailing off as you study his face. “But you…” You hesitate, unsure. “You look like someone who’s been separated from their heart, and now, you’re almost grieving for it.”

He flinches.

Your eyes widen, and in a panic, you cover your mouth. “Oh god, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I said that I didn’t mean to—fuck, I’m sorry, I never think before I speak—”

“No, no,” he interrupts, shaking his head, his voice gentle. You quiet down, the color rising to your cheeks, and he feels it—seen, in ways he hadn’t thought possible. By a florist on the other side of the world, a stranger, a kind one, a beautiful one.

“You’re right.” His fingers tighten around the cup, his grip a little too tight. “I don’t think I can get my heart back. It feels like it’s buried somewhere far from me… I think I buried it,” he adds in a choked whisper, “that makes it worse.”

It strikes him how easily the words fall from his lips, how terrifying they are to say aloud. Yet, they slip out before you with no resistance, no shame. Maybe it’s the flowers—the thought that their petals might absorb the ugliness of his words, carry them away. Or maybe it’s just you, and the warmth of your gaze, that makes it feel safe to speak.

“Do you know where the lotus grows?” you suddenly ask.

He shakes his head, caught off guard by the shift in conversation.

“Their seeds are buried deep into the mud, forgotten at the bottom of still water. But then they germinate. They break through the darkness, reaching for the sun rays, until one day, they bloom, floating atop the water, untouched by the ugliness of where they have been, beautiful.” Your gaze softens. “Maybe your heart is simply being reborn. Give it time. It will find its way back to you.”

—

Hyunjin sits on a bench overlooking the Epte River, a fresh bouquet beside him—white lilies and pink tulips. Hope and warmth. He insisted on paying this time, slipping you a tip far too generous against your loudest protests.

For the first time in six months, something stirs within Hyunjin. Not quite sadness, not quite grief—something else.

His fingers itch for his charcoal pens, for his pastel watercolors. not to sketch the bouquet at his side, not to capture the river’s beauty. No, only to try, attempt to trace the memory of your smile.

He clenches his fingers into a tight fist. Not yet. But maybe… soon. When he finally learns the sound of your name.

That happens quicker than Hyunjin thought it would.

For three days, Hyunjin has watched his flowers with bated breath, waiting for the first petal to give in, for the first sign of decay. Then, at last, the freesia wilts, one trumpet falling to his bedside. And before he can think, Hyunjin is already out the door, following the familiar path that leads him to Anthomania.

“Back so soon?” you tease, grinning as he steps inside, the bell above chiming sweetly.

He falters beneath your gaze, almost self-conscious, as warmth creeps up his neck, blooming across his cheeks in shades of pink. “I—uh—sorry, I can just—” He gestures toward the door, flustered, but you only laugh, reaching for his wrist and pulling him deeper into the shop.

“Oh my god, I’m kidding! You’re always welcome here.”

The ghost of your touch lingers on his skin, almost burning him right where your fingers rested. It feels unfamiliar, strange—to feel anything other than sorrow resting in his bones.

“I wanted new flowers,” he finally says.

You giggle. “Are you opening a flower shop?”

“Yeah,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips. “Competing with yours, actually.”

You pout, snipping the stems of the sunflowers piled up before you. “That’s unfair. People will keep coming to you just because you’re pretty.”

“So you think I’m pretty?” He grins, a smile that does not feel rehearsed, nor heavy on his face. He’s smiling because he simply wishes to.

“Well, you are. Aren’t you?” you simply say, as if there is no reason to be coy about something as evident as this.

His smile softens, so does his voice. “You’re very truthful.”

“Isn’t it a waste of time to hide how you feel about things? Flowers are beautiful, right? Why is it so easy to say? Why should it be any different for people?”

You aren’t lying, that is your philosophy, you’ve found that lies sit heavy on your lungs, as if you’re caging your breaths in. Hiding the truth feels even heavier, like stones wrapped around your ankles, pulling you down. But still, complimenting Hyunjin makes you feel uncharacteristically shy.

You don’t know what to make of him—this stranger who keeps on returning to see you, his sadness trailing him like a shadow, his eyes dimmed, as if he had to snuff out their light, to pretend as if no soul inhabits his body, so he’d be left alone. So he’d survive.

“You’re right,” he says, gaze flickering toward the street. “I hate lies. I really, really hate them.” he grows quieter, smaller.

Something within you tightens at his words, at the sincerity within them mostly. You set your flowers down, turn to face him with your pinky extended.

“Then I promise that I’ll never lie to you.”

He exhales, his shoulders releasing some of their tension. And after a moment, his pinky hooks around yours. “Neither will I.”

Your fingers are soft, delicate, and he notices that your eyeshadow matches your shirt today. Auburn, a color that makes your irises gleam. He wants to tell you you’re beautiful, but the words feel too fragile in his mouth. Not as easy for him as they are for you.

Hyunjin had come for flowers, but you do not rush him. Instead, you bring him a glass of fresh lemonade, mint leaves and lemon slices swirling in ice, and pull up a stool by the window. The shop is quiet, save for the music floating from the speakers—Neon Moon by Cigarettes After Sex. His pick. You have similar tastes.

He watches you, not in a way that unsettles you, but in a way that makes you hyper-aware of your hands, of your breath, of your heartbeat. Mostly, he looks at the flowers, asking questions, his curiosity insatiable—What does this one symbolize? And this one? And this? But still, it is you who feels scrutinized, as if bathed in a bright, glaring neon light.

A soft hour passes then—soft like the moon light brushing against the window, soft like the way he speaks, voice never rising above a murmur when he answers your questions.

“I’ve been meaning to ask. What’s your name?”

“Hyunjin.”

You taste it, let the letters settle on your tongue before swallowing it down. It will take root within you and bloom into something beautiful later, though you do not yet know it.

You say yours.

“And what do you do, Hyunjin?” his name already feels familiar for you to speak.

“I’m a painter. Was. I… I’m not really sure.” he almost cowers in his place, you pretend as if you don’t notice, but your grip on the scissors falter.

“Was?” you echo.

“I haven’t painted in six months.”

Oh.

“Are you taking a break?”

“No. I… I actually,” he pauses, sighing. “I don’t want to lie to you, so I’d rather not answer,” he says, voice quiet, almost pleading, as if baring a wound too raw to support the weight of his words.

“It’s okay,” you smile, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. You can see his moles from this up close, the shape of his velvety lips as they part to exhale.

“I’d like to tell you, it’s just…”

“Does it hurt you?”

He nods, sudden tears glistening in his waterline. The sight makes something within you crumble. You know this pain—the kind that lingers just beneath the surface, waiting for the smallest touch to release it.

“The burden will ease with time. And then you’ll be able to speak of it. Your pain will be released into the wind, and the wind will scatter it away. it always does.”

“Will it still hurt this much?” he asks, lip trembling as he gazed up at you, pupils wide and lost

“It will be bearable. and soon you’ll grow accustomed to it. And then it will become a friend.”

“I suck at making friends though,” he says earnestly and you both burst into giggles.

“I don't think so. Look, you have befriended me.”

“Yeah, you’re my friend.” he smiles like the afternoon sun, like he has forgotten the warmth he used to carry at his zenith. “I'm happy you are.”

—

Hyunjin first met Scarlet in his art gallery, where the winter winds seemed to carry her in, sweeping past the doorway with each click of her heels.

She moved gracefully through the room, pausing before every painting, her crimson lips pressing together as she tilted her head to the side. Contemplating. Now and then, a hand would drift to her raven hair, tucking it behind her ear, twirling it between her delicate fingers. He was drawn to her— to her olive skin, the depth in her brown eyes, the curve of her neck that seemed to call his name.

Scarlet was a sculptor, and like the name she bore, she was vivid, untamed, catching the eyes of everyone around her. And she basked in their gaze, feeding on their admiration like it was the very oxygen she breathed.

She loved Hyunjin loudly, extravagantly, parading him through the world as if to say, Look what I have found. An artist who only has eyes for me. She draped him in praise, her voice ringing clear for all to hear. And for a while, he believed it.

But Scarlet did not love him—not in the way he had hoped. She loved his brightest hues, the fire in his hands, the sound of his name murmured in circles of art and acclaim. She stood beside him in the gallery, basking in the applause for his paintings as though it belonged to her. She loved the lights, the cameras, the way his gaze softened when it landed on her.

But she did not love his blues—the quiet ache that spilled from him when inspiration faded. She did not love the weight in his voice when he longed for a hand to hold, for a shoulder to rest upon. When the fire in him dimmed, when he was no longer the sun with planets orbiting at his feet, she withdrew. almost bored. He saw it in the flicker of her eyes, in the way her attention wandered elsewhere. As if he was a burden to care for, to tend to.

Hyunjin came to understand that Scarlet did not love him. Not truly. Not despite the way she swore she did. Not despite the way she kissed him before what turned to be his final work trip, her lips scorching against his skin. “So you’d carry me with you,” she had whispered, winking, leaving a mark on his neck like a signature, like a brand.

And he did carry her, he still does—like a weight wrapped around his ankles, like smoke filling his lungs, thick with the taste of his own shortcomings. He was not enough for her. And if he was not enough for her, then perhaps he would never be enough at all. in anything he does.

But the sting on his neck eases when he’s near you.

A month has passed since he arrived in Giverny. He has seen little of it—only the lake that stretches beyond his window, and you.

You do not shy away from his silence. If anything, your smile brightens when you see him. You do not speak of his withering career, his lost passion. You do not question why he needs flowers twice a week, and why he needs to talk to you for an hour—sometimes two, sometimes three—before deciding which blooms to pick. what words he’d like to convey to you without speaking.

Except for once.

He was lingering by the lilies, his fingers gently caressing their pink petals, tracing the lines of crimson right in their middle. Though it took him all his will to not look at you, again, more than what’s deemed socially acceptable. To capture you in his mind since he cannot do so with his pens.

“I saw your paintings,” you suddenly said, words coming out in a rushed string. He froze in his place, hand hovering over the rosy flowers. You sidled up to him. You smelled sweeter than all the blooms combined.

“I looked you up. I was curious and I… I can’t stop thinking of your paintings. They are exquisite Hyunjin.” you said with a conviction that seemed to rekindle something with him, a fire to paint even better so you’d compliment him more.

“Really?” he asked, turning to look at you. His eyes searched yours, looking for something, a reassurance, that he wasn’t a lost cause, that you’d look at him the way you do withering flowers, with the same affection as fully blooming ones.

“Yes. Your use of color… it’s breathtaking. It’s as if you give them voices, emotions, a soul almost. Especially that blue painting, the man screaming. His eyes… they feel endless, like sorrow spilling over. It’s so—” You stopped yourself, laughing. “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“No—no,” he rushed to say, stepping closer, a flush creeping up his neck. “Please. Tell me more.”

And you did.

Over a chocolat chaud at your favorite pâtisserie, you pulled up each of his paintings, tracing every detail you loved with words only an outsider to art could offer—unpolished, unrestrained, but brimming with wonder. You asked him questions, too. What inspired you? Why this color, this shape, this technique? Which one was your favorite? Your hardest? Your loneliest?

You talked and talked, until the drink grew cold but his heart felt lighter than it had in months.

Hyunjin was no stranger to praise—he was South Korea’s youngest millionaire-painter, after all. His work was admired, auctioned, owned. And yet, no compliment had ever felt quite like yours—so eager, so sincere, so soothing.

That evening, he walked you home, stopping just before your front door, neither of you quite willing to part.

“Can I have your number?” he asked suddenly.

You tilted your head, smiling.

“For… for the flowers,” he added, a little too quickly. “So I can order them, you know, in advance?”

“Right,” you giggled, typing your number into his phone. His fingers brushed against yours, his soul felt like it was cleaved wide open.

That night, he lay in bed, staring at your empty conversation, heart thrumming. Finally, he types a message.

thank you for today :) i dont think i expressed it well, but your words made me happy

really

Two seconds.

of course!!!

And then—

idk what happened hyunjin, but… i think art will find you again,, i don’t think a painter like you could ever stop painting

it’d be a waste for our world, really

He reads your words again and again, a quiet smile curling at the corners of his lips. They linger in his mind as his fingers brush the worn spine of his sketchbook, as he coaxes it open after months of neglect. And then he draws for the first time in months—nothing grand, nothing worth sharing, surely. Just a rose at first, simple and familiar, like the path to Anthomania.

Then, he turns the page. His posture shifts; he leans into his desk, back curved, brow furrowed in concentration. Time spins forward unnoticed. He doesn’t realize he’s been holding his breath till he finally exhales it, putting his pen down. he sees it then, what he painted in his insatiable frenzy. it’s you, smelling the rose.

He sleeps with a blooming blush on his face that night, as the inks in his dream bleeds into the color of your lips, the lines of his sketches softening into those of your silhouette.

—

Hyunjin started texting you more after that—on the days he forced himself not to drop by your flower shop. Because, yes, you said he was your friend, still, he didn’t know how many visits it’d take for you to realize he’s not worthy of friendship, or love, or the warm way you gaze at him.

But he was still greedy, drinking in the way conversations between you flowed as easily as rushing water. You spoke of everything and nothing: your favorite flower—tulips, his favorite painter—Monet. The way he missed the iced americanos from home, his deep disdain for eggplants, your love for glittery eyeshadow, and the names of the stars outside your window.

Your messages became a breath of fresh air to him, a little sanctuary hidden within his phone, filled with pictures of the blooms you carefully arranged each morning. He had no paintings to send in return, so instead, he captured his walks by the river, the way sunlight draped over the fruit he laid on his checkered picnic cloth.

Then, it turned to calls, and Hyunjin’s world shifted when your voice rang like an answered prayer through his phone. He was initially timid, calling you to check if you had sunflowers in your shop. It was an excuse, really, because it was nearing midnight and he felt terribly lonely in a way only you can soothe.

Your conversation didn’t stop then. Instead, it continued like the turning of books, spilling from one page to another. You were both so curious about one another, that it seemed as if you never ran out of questions to ask.

“When did you think of becoming a florist?” He asked you one night, the rustling of your sheets told him you were shifting in bed, in search of comfort.

“When I was five.” His eyes fluttered shut, as if to better listen, to pretend you were near. “My mom used to have lots of flowers in our backyard, and I’d tend to them on the weekends and vacation. I knew I wanted to spend the rest of my life surrounded by beauty, and wisdom.”

“Wisdom?” he asks.

“Mm.” And he can imagine you lying on your back, staring up at your ceiling. He suddenly wishes he was next to you, holding your hand as you spoke. “Everything I know is from flowers.”

“What’s the most valuable lesson, you think?”

You’re quiet for a long while, only the softness of your breathing ringing through the phone. It lulls him to a peaceful place he hasn’t set foot in in a long time. Somewhere where his worries drift away, carried by the tide of your presence.

“That flowers always bloom again. Even when the winter stretches for months and months, and the cold feels so harsh you forget what the sun ever felt like. Even then, the flowers will bloom once more. Winter passes, and spring comes.”

He bites his lip, as if trying to sew shut his mouth, physically stopping the strings of words from rolling off his tongue. And yet, they win.

“You feel like spring, little florist.”

A sharp inhale. Yours. A breath, unsteady. His. He wishes to bury himself within his covers. He wishes he could teleport to you.

“Thank you, Hyune.” The nickname settles against the sore places in his chest. He felt bruised by it, split open in the gentlest way.“I hope you have dreams as sweet as you.”

Hyunjin didn't sleep that night, not when his heart hadn’t felt this alive in an eternity, bursting with colors he hadn't seen in so long.

The phone calls continued, night after night, your voice coming to him as his own breath. still, no matter how much he enjoyed seeing your name light up his screen, nothing compared to you in person. Watching your expressions shift with his every word, witnessing your hands coax life into each bouquet, the warmth you pour nto every customer you spoke to.

People seemed to leave your shop a little lighter, as if you had tucked something magical between their petals. Hyunjin knew why. It’s because you understood flowers beyond their beauty, saw meaning even in the ones with bruised roots and browning leaves. And it is that same compassion you extended to humans. Though you seemed unaware of how much grace you carried within you.

It moved him. It unraveled him.

Hyunjin hadn’t known what he had been yearning for these past six months. The ache had been constant, an insatiable hunger for something nameless, a restlessness settling right beneath his skin, an itch he could not scratch. But now he knows—he has always been longing for kindness.

Your kindness, to be exact.

“You haven’t been to Monet’s house?!” you exclaim, eyes wide in disbelief. It’s your lunch break, and Hyunjin has brought you seafood pasta from a place he discovered on one of his walks.

“No, I haven’t seen much of Giverny, to be honest,” he admits.

“But you’ve been here for forty-five days.”

“Have you been counting?” he smirks, teasing.

“No,” your voice grows an octave higher, “it just coincided with a big shipment of roses, that’s all.” (That is a half-truth.)

You clear your throat, waving a hand dismissively in the air. “Anyways, let’s go tomorrow!”

Hyunjin’s heart plummets to his knees. You must notice it—the flicker in his expression, the slight falter in his gaze.

“Don’t you want to go?”

He says nothing. Your voice softens.

“Do you want to go alone?”

Hyunjin sighs, taking a long sip of the strawberry lemonade you prepared that day. The sweetness of the fruit makes it easier for him to speak.

“I told you that Monet is my favorite painter, right? When I started painting, I’m talking thirteen, fourteen, I was obsessed with technique, with proving that my paintings could be as realistic as possible. But then I discovered impressionism. And I… I fell in love with it. I realized that abstraction could hold even more emotion, even more depth than realistic paintings. And I… I’ve always wanted to see Monet’s gardens, to see what inspired so many of my favorite paintings.” He sucks in a deep breath, “but I’m scared… I’m terrified I’ll sit there amidst so much beauty and still feel nothing. That I won’t feel inspired. That I won’t wish to paint again.”

You nod, understanding, your eyes softening like silk honey. A quiet settles between you before your face brightens.

“Isn’t it good then? If you don’t feel inspired right away then we’ll have an excuse to visit such a beautiful place again.”

He exhales, something in his chest loosening.

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Find a silver lining in everything I say.”

You smile, almost melancholic, your gaze lost somewhere else. “I believe life is made up of lots of sorrows and lots of silver linings.” Your eyes meet his again. “Since my house burned down, I now own a better view of the moon… It’s a Japanese quote,” you clarify after a heartbeat. “I’m not that good with words.”

“Really? I find that I like your words much more,” he says, earnestly.

Both your fingers twitch at the same time.

Do yours hungrily want to reach for his too?

—

You like Hyunjin.

It seemed to be an inevitable outcome, one you didn’t even try to outrun, a tide you did not resist, instead, letting the water carry you wherever it saw fit. It’s as if you knew it was bound to happen when he set foot into Anthomenia for the first time, when his eyes glazed over the flowers with so much sorrow it felt like thorns curling around your throat. When he returned, again and again, when you started awaiting him with your breath clenched between your teeth. When you selfishly wished your flowers would wilt faster just so you’d be able to see him again.

It was inevitable for you to like Hyunjin. The beautiful man who sees beauty in everything but himself. The tortured painter with a heart so bruised you’re scared a single press of your thumb would be his undoing, like an overripe fruit, so sensitive to any touch, aching to be treated with tenderness.

You do not expect anything out of this crush. You do not expect him to reciprocate your feelings. You don’t think he ever would; even fantasizing of him thinking of you as fondly as you think of him makes you feel like you’re floating on cotton clouds. But then, the plummeting would only hurt even more, wouldn’t it? The sweetest dreams always ache at their zenith right before they dissolve into nothingness.

But you understand Hyunjin, in ways even you can’t fully describe or explain. In ways you aren’t sure he would himself. You can’t fault him for that— Hyunjin can only see your glittering surface. After all, you’ve gotten better at concealing your anguish, worn it for so long it has become a second skin to you.

But what matters is that you understand Hyunjin. It is because you understand that you wish for his spark to come back.

A life with no spark is no life, after all.

Hyunjin is growing increasingly nervous as you wait in line to enter Monet’s home and gardens. He’s fiddling with his Vetements t-shirt, tucking his hand into his jeans only to remove them once again. His fingers twist his jade necklace, then spin the rings adorning his hand, only to reach for his necklace once more.

You stare right ahead as you finally take hold of his fingers, entwining them softly with yours. You can feel him staring at you, his gaze burning the curve of your neck as his hand goes limp in your hold. He looks at you, and you look ahead. You’re scared of what he will read in your trembling irises if you dare hold his gaze.

But he doesn’t let go. Only holding on to you tighter, his thumb swiping gently across your palm. Your wrist. Anywhere its softness can reach.

You’ve been within these colorful gardens countless times before. On your first day in Giverny and once per month since, without fail, except when it closes for Winter.

Yet, you are always as bewitched by how beautifully arranged the gardens are, by how vastly their greenery stretches before your eyes. There is beauty to behold wherever your eyes rest, conversations between blooms to catch at every corner. You smell the mingling fragrances— the sweetness of roses and the citrus of orange blossoms. You hear the birds, singing and rejoicing in seeing another day, the rush of water carving its path through stones.

It is buzzing with life, the nature that seems to stretch its hand at you, beckoning you into the warmest of embraces.

Though today, you do not heed its call. Today, you hold on to Hyunjin’s hand.

He doesn’t let go of your hold as he slowly strolls around, stopping by the dahlias, breath caught in his throat as a bee buzzes around a nearby crimson peony. He leans into a yellow rose, his nose nearly brushing the dewdrops gathered on its petals. He breathes in beauty, lets it fill the hollows within him, and you watch—because seeing it through his eyes makes it all the more beautiful.

He smiles as he climbs the stairs of the home. As he pauses in the living room, taking in the dozen paintings hung on the wall—A Woman with a Parasol, The Water Lily Pond, Impression, Sunrise, Poppies, Bouquet of Sunflowers. Then, the lively bedrooms scattered around the home, the vibrant blue kitchen, the Japanese prints, and the pink orchid.

There is a little magic to his step as you follow the flowery path to the Water Lily Pond, with bamboo trees greeting you on your walk. He pulls you onto a bench, his eyes fixed on the turquoise and the floating water lilies, rootless yet still as happy, as beautiful. Like Hyunjin.

You can’t be as truthful as you wish around him anymore. Every compliment is starting to taste like a confession to you.

“I was in love with a girl,” he says, resting your interwoven hands upon his thigh. Your breath stumbles. You did not expect the sharp, sudden sting of jealousy latching onto your ribs, the burn of it. You look at the pond, hoping the water will rise from its place and douse the fire in your chest.

“She was my muse for the longest time. I was foolish, so I… I placed my heart within her palms. Here, take it, it’s yours, I told her. I was too blinded by my own need to be loved to realize that she didn’t love me.”

You steal a glance at him to find his eyes closed, his head leaning back. He’s so beautiful it almost feels like a dagger pressed against your throat.

“She cheated on me. In my own bed. While I was away for work,” he whispers, but his words still ring loudly in your ear. His words are so violent they feel out of place in such a beautiful setting. You swallow them. You don’t let him bear their weight alone.

“I don’t love her anymore. I think it evaporated the moment I saw her with him. But what hurts–” His voice trembles, and when he turns to you, his eyes are glistening, “what kills me is that I showed her all of me. I bared my soul to her, and it did not matter. It wasn’t enough for her to love me. And I… I don’t paint out of thin air, I paint out of my soul. I pour from myself onto the canvas. And if what makes me me isn’t worthy, then how could my paintings ever be enough? How could I ever be enough? In anything, to anyone?”

What do you do when someone hands you their bruised heart, bloody and butchered, when they unveil their deepest pains under the scorching sunlight, out in the open, with nowhere to hide it, nowhere to cancel it? What do you do with this violence? How do you undo it? How do you soothe it?

You don’t know. You wish you knew, more than ever before, as Hyunjin looks at you—almost expectantly, pleadingly—as if he has been waiting for months to speak these words to another soul. To unveil it.

Release me. You could almost hear it on the tip of his tongue. Please. Please. Please.

“Hyunjin,” you choke, your thumbs sweeping away the reflections of the swaying branches on his tear-streaked skin. “Hyunjin, Hyunjin, Hyunjin,” you repeat, as if he could hear the weight his name carries, the way it has taken roots within your ribs. “You are enough. You were enough before her, and you will remain so after.”

His lower lip trembles and quakes; you can feel that he’s standing on the precipice of unraveling, completely, loose threads falling apart at the slightest gust of wind. You can’t stitch him back together, you can’t order the wind to pause in its travels. But you can speak.

“Don’t torture yourself over things that aren’t your doing. She may have been your inspiration, but she was never the sole core of your talent. That is all you, Hyunjin. Your kindness is you, and your paintings are you. No matter who you loved, or if you had loved no one at all. You still would have made it here. Because you are Hyunjin.”

Hyunjin exhales, a sound between a sigh and a sob. “What if I feel like nothing without her?”

“She’s only everything because you’ve given her your entire self. She’s everything because you see in her a reflection of yourself. Your beautiful self.” You exhale softly. His tears gather at his lashes like petals trembling before the fall.

“We promised not to lie to one another, didn’t we?” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I’ve been lonely here, Hyunjin. Not physically. But something has been missing. A friend. You. Having you here makes me happy. And someone who isn’t beautiful could never make the world more beautiful just by being in it.” You smile, your nose tip almost resting against his. “You are enough, Hyunjin. Her wrongdoings aren’t your fault.”

He nods, closing his eyes, leaning into the warmth of your palm, his lips almost brushing against your skin. “I want to paint again. I miss it terribly.”

“You will.”

His next words are softer than the wind rustling the trees. “I drew you.”

You swallow the lump in your throat. “Did I turn out pretty?”

He smiles like a spring sun, warm and kind on your soul. “Of course. It would be impossible for you to be otherwise.”

—

Something has shifted.

Like sailing winds catching the perfect speed to carry a boat to safety, something within Hyunjin has clicked into place. Eased is the better way to describe it, as if his heart, once sinking like a stone in his chest, now floats weightlessly along his ribs, unrestrained.

He has been happier since stepping out of Monet’s house, his smile blooming the way flowers do in spring, the way water rushes down a waterfall, like a second nature.

He pauses before you, the sun that has pulled him from the dark, clasping his hands together. You smile, tilting your head, and his heart swoons at the simple motion, swaying as if caught in the wind.

“Should we rent bikes?” he asks, grinning. “There’s so much I haven’t seen in Giverny.”

You pout, teasing. “Is my shop no longer enough for you?”

He shakes his head fervently. “No, no, your shop is still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” His eyes widen with (exaggerated) sincerity. “I think all the other florists never stood a chance against you. In fact, every flower shop in the world should close right now!”

You laugh as he throws an arm over your shoulder, pulling you close. He leans into you instinctively, as if he belongs there, inhaling your flowery scent, borrowing your warmth.

“Alright, alright,” you giggle, “I’ll be your tour guide, then.”

True to your word, the two of you spend the afternoon biking—past the river, through the narrow streets of Giverny, past the old Mill of Vernon and the Impressionism Museum where flowers sketch your path. The sun sinks behind you, spilling watercolors across the sky. The wind tousles Hyunjin’s hair, and he feels it for the first time in a long time—what it must be like to be a bird. Free. Unbound. Guided by nothing but the pull of his own heart.

You keep glancing over your shoulder as you bike ahead of him, tossing excruciatingly beautiful smiles his way. He feels them in his chest, burning and ablaze where coldness once sat.

By the time you stop to rest, you’re both breathless, slightly sweaty but pleasantly exhausted.

He can already sense it– you’re only seconds away from saying you should head back, but he’s still not satiated of you, he doesn't think he ever will. “Come home with me. I want to cook for you. As a thank you.”

His cheeks are rosy, his chest rising and falling as he awaits your response. He prays you won’t say no. He thinks he’s ready to beg at your feet if you refuse.

But your smile is warm, your gaze soft as it traces the contours of his face. You’re already saying yes with your eyes.

“Depends. What will you cook for me, Mr. Hwang?”

“Anything you’d like.”

That turns out to be just ramyeon as Hyunjin quickly realizes his fridge is unfit for anything more elaborate. He peers inside, dismayed, and you burst into laughter at his expression, clutching the sides of your stomach. But as you watch him move around the kitchen, speaking excitedly about all the paintings he’s inspired to create now, your laughter slowly fades.

Because you see it then—a vision. Hyunjin cooking you breakfast tomorrow. And the day after. And the years to come. You see yourself standing up, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing a tender kiss to the nape of his neck. It’s so vivid, so sweet to imagine that it disarms you. Leaves you aching and pulsing for nothing. Like a heart beating with no blood flowing through it.

The vision lingers, syrup-thick, as Hyunjin hands you a steaming bowl of noodles. And when he gently wipes a smudge of sauce from the corner of your lips—when he licks it from his own thumb without thinking—your pulse stutters. His gaze darkens, storms brewing behind his irises. You feel as if he’s kissing you with his eyes alone, touching you as he stands a few feet away.

Hyunjin only manages to steady himself when you both settle in the canopy in his backyard, sipping the peach lemonade you made for him days ago, listening to the cicadas humming far away. The breeze is cool against his collarbones. The full moon bathes you both in silver light.

It seems closer tonight, as if watching over him. As if urging him to speak.

“Can I paint you?” he asks suddenly. “I… I’d like to paint you with you here.”

You blink, caught off guard, before placing your hand over his.

“I’d love that, Hyune.” You smile softly. “But tonight, I’d rather you paint yourself. I think it would help you see that you don’t need any muse but you.”

The sincerity in your voice makes him ache, makes him want to collapse into your arms with the certainty that you would catch him. You didn’t run when his pain shadowed you, when his tears slipped down your palm like salty rivulets. You didn’t let go.

He feels you within him now—a soft mass of stars and sunlight, resting below his ribs, expanding, glowing, loving.

So he does exactly that.

As the night weaves itself forward, the two of you settle into his room—you curled up on his bed, thumbing through a book, while he brings out his oil paints, the scent of turpentine invading his senses at once, like an old friend. The sight of you in his room drives him to the edge of delirium. You belong in his home, in his heart, so effortlessly that it makes something deep in his chest ache.

The conversation drifts in and out between you, like waves kissing the shore—never fully retreating, never fully letting go. Shadows stretch and soften beneath the moonlight. You are half-asleep when his voice stirs you awake.

“What do you think, little florist?”

He tilts the painting toward you, his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

It is a portrait of himself—but not as the world sees him. Rendered in deep Prussian and Manganese blue, abstract save for his eyes, which shimmer with unshed tears caught in the waterline. Yet his expression is not sorrow. No, it speaks of reverence. As if he is gazing upon something unbearably beautiful. Something so profound, it threatens to undo him.

You.

Your breath catches as you push yourself up, eyes widening.

“My God, you are so talented,” you whisper, stepping beside him, drawn in by the painting. He almost—almost—lets his head rest against your side but stops himself. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder, grounding, warm. You squeeze gently.

“How you ever thought you weren’t good enough is beyond me. This is the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen. I mean it.”

His ears burn. He feels their warmth creeping down his neck, this unbearable, tender shyness you seem to bring out in him every time.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a breath.

Your gaze flickers to the window, to the darkened sky. “It’s 3 a.m. already?” you murmur, blinking as exhaustion settles over you.

He hesitates for only a moment before reaching out, fingers curling lightly around your wrist.

“Stay the night.” It isn’t a demand, nor is it casual—it is hesitant, hopeful. “Unless you want me to take you home. I will, of course, but—I’d like you here.”

A pause. Two paths forging before you.

“I’d like that too.”

You change into the oversized T-shirt and pair of shorts he hands you, the fabric hanging loose around your frame. It smells like him—like paint and something sweet, something flowery too, as if he carries Anthomania on his skin like you do.

As you climb into his bed, he lights a single vanilla candle, its flame wavers, and you watch it for a while, thinking. The bed is wide enough that you do not have to touch. And yet—like a moth to a flame, like a flower bending instinctively toward the light—something in you aches to move closer. To rest against him. To rest in him.

He feels the same.

It starts with his hand, inching toward yours.

Then, the slow, tentative brush of his pinky against your skin, gently tracing the contours of your palm. Your fingers slide over his, resting there.

“You’re still awake,” he murmurs, voice low and drowsy.

“So are you.”

He hums softly, and his thumb begins to move—small, absentminded circles against your skin. As if his body has decided to reach for you before his mind can catch up.

You shift onto your side, edging closer, and now you can see him fully—the candlelight catching on his cheekbone, the way his dark hair spills onto the pillow. His eyes flicker open at the movement, lazy and heavy-lidded, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Can’t sleep?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

A pause. A heartbeat.

Then, softer, more vulnerable, he whispers, “Can I hold you?”

Your heart stumbles. For a moment, neither of you breathe.

“Can I tell you something first?” you ask, fully turning toward him, and he follows suit. Your fingers inch toward his face, ghosting over the mole by his eye, the one near the bridge of his nose, then down to his jaw, tracing his pulse where it beats wildly beneath your touch.

“Anything, little florist.”

You swallow. “I’ve never been in love before. And I’ve never been loved. I’ve spent the better part of my life craving a feeling that always seemed just out of reach.” A sad smile tugs at your lips. Hyunjin’s eyes soften at your confession. “It’s as if I’ve been deprived of something monumental and grand, something I searched for in everything I did.” You bite your lip. “And I like you, Hyunjin. I like you a lot. As silly as it is, because you are you and I am me, but it would kill me if you only wanted to hold me as a friend.”

“Shh, what are you saying?” he whispers, his thumb brushing over your lips, soft and reverent. “can’t you see it? you are the one who brought me back to life. I was a wilted thing before you. i feel as if you watered me, like one of your flowers.”

“Well, you are as beautiful as a flower.” A tear slips past your lashes. “And I am just a florist.” Perhaps it’s the late hour, or the way his warmth lulls you toward something soft, something safe. Or maybe it’s because the most beautiful person you’ve ever met is looking at you as if you are something holy.

But you start crying, unyielding tears coating your cheeks in their wetness. You don’t cry prettily nor quietly, but Hyunjin doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t leave before this gushing wound you’ve carried—this thirst for love you could never quench—now overflowing, too much, too much, too much.

Instead, he gently takes your hand, and presses it over his chest. Beneath your palm, his heart pounds wildly, you cannot fathom that it is your doing.

“I think you’re more beautiful than all the flowers combined.” His knuckle tenderly wipes your tears away. “And I adore you, my little florist. Not as a friend. In case that wasn’t clear.” He giggles, and so do you, something light and giddy coming to life between you.

“Then, can you hold me? Please.”

And he does. Instantly, greedily—his arms curling around you, pulling you into the warmth of him. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing him in, letting him breathe you in. You both sigh at once, as if you’ve been waiting your whole lives to reach this moment. As if you have spent too many years with no safe space to exhale.

“So, you like me?” he asks, pressing a tender kiss to your hair.

“I think I’ve made it pretty clear.” You smile, and he laughs.

“You feel warm,” he whispers, voice quieter now. “And safe. I never thought I’d feel this way again.” His nose tip grazes yours tenderly. “Please don’t hurt me, my little florist.”

“I think I’d rather hurt myself,” you confess, gently tucking away strands of his hair behind the cuff of his ear.

“Then, never mind. Hurt me instead,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you to cry anymore.”

“Are you trying to outdo me?”

“Mm, just need to prove I like you more.”

You giggle quietly, blushing. It’s nearly five a.m. now.

“I feel like I’m dreaming, Hyunjin. I’m scared I’ll wake up and won’t find you near.”

“I’m here,” he reassures, placing a tender kiss on the crown of your head. “I won’t leave. But would you wait for me? There are parts of myself I still need to heal before I can love you properly. You understand, right?”

“Love?” you echo.

“Is it too soon?” He shakes his head. “You know, I don’t care. I know that if we continue this way, I’ll only end up loving you. I think I’ve always known.”

“So did I,” you grin like the sun. “But I won’t wait for you from afar. I’ll hold your hand till you become even happier.”

He exhales, eyes fluttering shut. It looks like the milky way is swimming within his eyes once they lock on you. “I want to love you so much you’ll forget what it felt like to not be loved. I will. I promise you.”

And you believe him.

“Can you start tonight?”

It happens then—both of you moving at once, drawn together like tides to the moon, like roots seeking water. Your lips meet and something inside you quakes, shatters, is born again. His kiss is gentle, reverent, the kind of softness that makes your skin prickle, makes you ache in places you didn’t know could.

He tastes like peaches, like flowers, like the way his name sounds in your mouth. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the curve of you, tracing the length of your spine as if memorizing the shape of you, as if afraid you might slip away. And you are floating, slipping in and out of consciousness, dizzy with warmth, with his touch, with the way his lips seek yours again and again, as if he could kiss you for eternity and it still wouldn’t be enough to quench his thirst.

Your hand is the first to move beneath his shirt, fingertips grazing over his fevered skin. He shudders, his forehead pressing against yours.

“Touch me,” you whisper.

And Hyunjin swears he could die like this—if this is death, he would meet it ten times over at your hands.

He is everywhere, all-encompassing, warm, and tender, the weight of him pressing into you, anchoring you to this moment. Still he keeps asking, voice unsteady— Would you like me to stop? Tell me and I will. His fingers slip down the ridges of your stomach, tracing every dip, every line of yours, and your answer remains the same, pleading— No, keep going, please. please. You are a flower cracking through the hard soil, unfurling, meeting the light for the first time.

You have your answer then— why Giverny? It was to find him. It was to be found. It drapes over you like a certainty a year later, when his arm wraps around your shoulders, his chin resting on the crown of your head. As you gaze at the series of paintings he’s created over the past seven months— every bouquet you’ve ever made him since his first visit to you. Your gaze drifts to the central piece of his newest exposition— you, looking out of his window, laying on a bed of wildflowers, the light grazing your bare back like a lover.

He titled it Anthomania. An obsession with you.

#skz x reader #stray kids x reader #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #hyunjin x reader #hwang hyujin imagines #hyunjin fluff #hyunjin angst #skz scenarios #skz au #skz angst #stray kids angst #stray kids fanfic #stray kids fluff #stray kids scenarios #skz fluff

567 notes · View notes

archivegyu · 3 days ago

Text

masterlist

they grew where blossoms fall

On a breezy spring afternoon, the neighborhood park was a watercolor of motion and sound. Children ran in bright bursts across the grass, chasing bubbles and butterflies. Laughter rippled through the air, and the scent of fresh-cut grass mingled with the distant smell of popcorn from a nearby vendor. The cherry trees that lined the perimeter had begun to bloom, their pale pink petals occasionally breaking free to dance on the wind before finding rest on the shoulders of passersby.

Choi Seungcheol sat on the edge of a wooden bench, feet barely touching the ground, a juice box clutched between both hands. His mom was a few feet away, chatting with another parent. The soft cadence of their voices blended with the ambient sounds of the park. A pleasant backdrop to the scene unfolding before him. He didn't speak much, especially not to other kids. He preferred the comfort of watching from a quiet spot. The bench felt safe—solid. It didn't expect him to race or shout or chase after anyone. Instead, it offered him a perfect vantage point from which to observe the world, to take in all its colors and movements without being swept away by them.

His dark eyes followed a group of older boys playing soccer, their movements confident and purposeful. A toddler waddled past, her tiny fist wrapped around a melting popsicle that dripped sticky trails onto her fingers. An elderly couple strolled by arm in arm, their pace unhurried as they savored the simple pleasure of a spring day. Seungcheol absorbed it all with quiet curiosity, finding comfort in the patterns of ordinary life unfolding around him.

He watched as a girl flew past him, her arms stretched out like wings, roller skates flashing beneath her. She had knee pads that sparkled in the sun and a helmet with bunny stickers plastered across one side. Her hair streamed behind her like a banner, catching the sunlight in ways that made it look almost liquid. She looked like someone who believed she could fly.

And maybe she almost did.

Until she didn't.

Her wheels caught on a crack in the uneven pavement, and she tumbled forward with a soft thud, landing in a tangled sprawl right in front of him. The sound drew his attention instantly, pulling him from his observations and into the moment.

"Ow" she mumbled, pushing herself halfway up, blowing a strand of hair from her face.

He blinked, startled by her sudden proximity. Their eyes met—hers round and full of surprise, the color of warm honey in the sunlight, his wide with worry, deep and observant.

"Did you see that?" she asked breathlessly, her voice carrying a hint of laughter despite the fall. "I was almost cool. I mean, until I fell." She scrunched her nose, examining a small scrape that had appeared on her palm.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded, the movement slight but definite. His juice box was forgotten now, set carefully beside him on the bench.

A grin broke across her face, unbothered by the fall or the scuff on her elbow. "That counts as half a trick, right?"

He slid off the bench slowly and approached, silent as a cloud drifting across the sky. His steps were deliberate, careful, as though he were approaching a small animal that might startle. Then, with a little hesitation, he held out his hand, his fingers slightly curled inward with uncertainty.

She looked at it, blinked in surprise, then took it with a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes and revealed the dimple in her left cheek. He helped her to her feet, and for a moment, they just stood there, small hands still connected. The sounds of the park seemed to fade into the background, leaving them in a bubble of shared silence.

"Thanks" she said, her voice softer now, genuine. "You're quiet. But nice."

He didn't respond right away. Just gave a small nod, his expression serious but his eyes warm. A flush of pink colored the tips of his ears.

That was enough for her.

"Wanna watch me try again? I promise I'll fall less." She was already shifting from foot to foot, eager to continue her adventure, but something in her expression suggested she truly wanted his approval—his companionship.

He glanced at his mom, who gave him an encouraging nod, her eyes crinkling with a gentle smile. Then back at her, already wobbling back into position, determination etched across her features.

"…Okay" he said softly, the word carrying more meaning than its simple syllables suggested.

And just like that, a friendship began—rooted in scraped knees and soft smiles, in shared silence and unspoken understanding. She skated in wobbly circles around the bench where he sat, each loop bringing her a little closer, each passing moment filled with her cheerful commentary and his attentive nods. By the time the sun began to dip behind the trees, casting long shadows across the grass, they had established a rhythm all their own—her boundless energy balanced by his thoughtful calm.

The days that followed brought them together again and again, through spring showers and summer heat. She taught him how to blow the perfect bubble with gum, and he showed her how to fold paper cranes that could balance on the tip of a finger. Their differences melded into a harmony that felt as natural as breathing—his quiet contemplation a perfect complement to her exuberant joy.

——

The seasons changed. Summer faded into autumn, autumn gave way to winter, and winter eventually surrendered to spring once more. The park remained their sanctuary, the place where they built sandcastles in the communal sandbox, where they fed ducks with stale bread from her mother's kitchen, where they lay on their backs and found shapes in the clouds that drifted overhead.

Sunlight crept gently into Seungcheol's room, painting his walls with soft gold. The calendar on his desk marked an important date—the first day of grade school. He blinked awake, still wrapped tightly in his blue blanket, and sat up slowly, his hair sticking up in soft tufts. The weight of anticipation settled in his chest, a mixture of excitement and apprehension that made his heart beat just a little faster.

Today was the day.

His uniform hung neatly by the dresser, pressed and ready. The navy blue fabric looked crisp against the pale wall, a symbol of the new chapter about to begin. His backpack was packed with precision beside it—pencils sharpened to perfect points, notebook corners crisp and unmarked, lunch box filled with his favorite snacks. He was always like that—careful, thoughtful, attentive to details that others might overlook.

He slipped out of bed and padded to the window, drawing back the curtains to reveal a sky washed in the gentle hues of early morning. The street below was quiet, houses still in the peaceful embrace of dawn. Somewhere, he knew, she was probably already awake, probably already bouncing off walls with excitement. The thought made him smile.

Downstairs, the smell of pancakes welcomed him like a hug, warm and comforting. The kitchen was bathed in soft light, his mother bustling about with practiced efficiency while his father stood at the stove, spatula in hand.

"Morning, buddy" his dad greeted, flipping a pancake onto a plate with a flourish. "Excited?" His eyes were kind, understanding the significance of the day ahead.

Seungcheol nodded and took a seat at the table, his legs swinging slightly above the floor. "A little." His voice was quiet, but there was a steadiness to it that belied his nervousness.

His dad grinned and slid two pancakes onto his plate, golden and perfect. A small pool of maple syrup formed in the center, slowly spreading outward. "We'll pick her up in ten, so eat fast."

That made Seungcheol move a little quicker, cutting his pancakes into neat squares before eating them with focused intent. His mother placed a glass of milk beside his plate, gently ruffling his hair as she passed.

"Did you double-check your backpack?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. Seungcheol was nothing if not thorough.

He nodded, mouth full of pancake. "Three times."

Their families had grown close over the past couple of years, the initial playground introduction blossoming into a connection that extended far beyond the children. Weekly lunches turned into sleepovers. Her mom taught his mom how to make her favorite stew, the rich aroma filling their kitchen on cold winter evenings. His dad always brought her the strawberry gummies she liked when he went grocery shopping, knowing how her face would light up at the simple gesture.

They had become a unit of sorts, their lives intertwined in countless small ways that added up to something significant. When her parents' work schedules became particularly demanding, Seungcheol's family stepped in without hesitation, helping with school pickups and providing a second home when needed. It was an arrangement that had developed naturally, born of necessity and genuine care.

Soon, they were pulling up to her house, a modest two-story with a garden that exploded with wildflowers in the summer. Today was special—the first day of grade school—and both her parents had morning meetings they couldn't reschedule. Seungcheol's father had offered to take both children, an arrangement that had become comfortingly familiar. She was already outside waiting, spinning around on the driveway in excitement, one shoe untied, and her backpack hanging off one shoulder. Her uniform was slightly rumpled, as though she had been too eager to put it on to worry about wrinkles. Her hair was pulled into uneven pigtails, likely her own handiwork.

As soon as the car stopped, she flung the door open and bounced inside, bringing with her the scent of strawberry shampoo and the infectious energy that seemed to surround her like an aura.

"Cheol! Uncle!" she exclaimed, her voice carrying the melody of pure excitement as she greeted both Seungcheol and his father with equal enthusiasm. Being driven to school by Seungcheol's dad wasn't new—he'd taken her to piano lessons, playdates, and doctor's appointments whenever her parents' demanding work schedules overlapped—but today felt different. Special. "I didn't sleep last night. Too excited. Did you sleep? What if our teacher's scary? What if there's no playground? What if—wait, did you eat? You need energy." The words tumbled out in a rush, one thought bleeding into the next without pause.

He smiled softly, the expression barely visible but genuine, and held out the second juice box his dad had handed him before they left. It was her favorite—apple cranberry, with the bendy straw she preferred.

She gasped, her eyes widening with delight. "Wow! You remembered my favorite!" She took it with both hands, as though receiving a precious gift, and immediately stabbed the straw through the foil opening.

"She talks more in the morning than the radio" his dad said playfully, adjusting the rearview mirror to include both children in his view. There was genuine affection in his voice—he'd grown used to her presence in their lives, the way she brought noise and movement into their quiet household.

"I take that as a compliment!" she chirped, settling into her seat and buckling her seatbelt. She took a long sip of juice, her legs swinging in a rhythm only she could hear.

The rest of the ride was filled with her rambling about their class list, how she hoped there would be a finger painting session, and whether she could convince the lunch lady to give her an extra cookie. Seungcheol listened attentively, nodding at appropriate intervals and occasionally offering a quiet comment that made her beam with satisfaction.

The streets passed by in a blur of suburbia—neat houses with trimmed lawns, crossing guards in bright vests, other children walking hand in hand with parents. The world outside seemed to match their mood—bright, full of possibility, tinged with the bittersweet edge of something new and unknown.

When they reached the school gates, the noise hit them like a wave. Children in identical uniforms swarmed the entrance, some clinging to parents, others already racing toward the building. Teachers with clipboards stood at strategic points, directing the flow of bodies with practiced efficiency. First-day chaos, beautiful in its organized mayhem.

She grabbed his hand without thinking, an instinctive reaction to the overwhelming scene before them. Her palm was warm against his, slightly sticky from the juice box.

He didn't let go. Instead, his fingers tightened around hers, offering silent reassurance.

"Ready?" she asked, eyes sparkling with nervous excitement, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

"With you?" he said, his voice soft but sure, carrying a confidence that came only when they were together. "Yeah."

And together, hand in hand, they walked toward the school building, the weight of brand new adventures just beginning. The morning sun caught in her pigtails, turning them to gold, while Seungcheol's careful steps kept them both grounded.

Seungcheol’s Dad watched from the car, feeling a mixture of pride and nostalgia, knowing that this moment marked a milestone—not just for the children, but for the friendship that had become central to both families’ lives.

——

The classroom was a kaleidoscope of color and sound. Twenty-five children, all in various states of excitement or anxiety, found their assigned seats at small clustered desks. Name tags written in perfect teacher penmanship guided them to their spots. By some stroke of luck—or perhaps intentional placement based on their parents' request—they were seated at the same table group.

Their teacher, Mrs. Kim, was a woman with kind eyes and a voice that somehow managed to cut through the chaos without raising in volume. She wore a dress patterned with tiny apples and had her hair pulled back in a neat bun. When she smiled, the entire room seemed to brighten.

"Good morning, everyone! Welcome to your first day of grade school" she announced, clapping her hands together once to gather attention. "This is going to be a wonderful year of learning and growing together."

The morning proceeded with introductions, a tour of the classroom with its reading corner full of cushions and a class pet—a hamster named Einstein who spun lazily on his wheel. There were cubbies for their belongings, a job chart with rotating responsibilities, and a behavior system that involved moving clothespins up or down a colored chart.

When Mrs. Kim asked a question about the alphabet song they had just sung together, Seungcheol's hand shot up before he could second-guess himself. The movement surprised even him, but the encouraging nod from his friend gave him the courage to follow through.

"Yes, Seungcheol?" Mrs. Kim called, her expression warm.

"The letter 'L' comes after 'K'," he answered, his voice clear despite its softness.

"Excellent!" Mrs. Kim praised, placing a star sticker on the chart next to his name. "Very good listening."

Pride bloomed in his chest, not just from the teacher's praise but from the way his friend beamed at him from across the table, her smile wider than he had ever seen it.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of activities—coloring name cards, learning classroom rules, practicing lining up for lunch. Through it all, they remained each other's constant, exchanging glances across the room, sitting together during story time, sharing halves of their sandwiches at lunch despite having different favorites.

When the final bell rang, signaling the end of their first day, they gathered their belongings with a mixture of relief and satisfaction. The day had been full, overwhelming at times, but navigated successfully together.

They burst through the school gates that afternoon like they had conquered a small kingdom, shoulders bumping as they rushed toward their waiting parents.

"I got a star sticker!" he announced proudly, pointing to the gold star that now adorned his uniform pocket, a badge of honor from his first school accomplishment.

"He raised his hand first" she said, looking up at Seungcheol with admiration, her expression guileless in its pride. "He's so brave."

His ears turned pink at the praise, unused to being the center of attention but quietly pleased by her recognition.

Their parents, standing side by side, brightened at the sight of their children.

"So I guess you two survived?" her mom asked, bending down to straighten her daughter's crooked tie with practiced fingers.

"Thrived" she corrected with the confidence of someone far beyond her years, looping her arm through Seungcheol's as though they had been doing it forever. "Mrs. Kim has a hamster named Einstein, and Cheol got a star, and I made a new friend named Jisoo, but he’s not as cool as Cheol."

As they walked to the car, their backpacks bouncing and voices mixing into the air, hers loud and animated, his soft and measured. The two sets of parents shared a knowing look over their heads. This friendship, born from skates and quiet kindness on that spring day in the park—was something special. Something steady. The kind you hoped would last a lifetime.

——

The years unfolded like pages in a well-loved book, each chapter bringing new experiences but always returning to the same central characters. Elementary school blended into middle school, a time of awkward growth spurts and changing dynamics. She joined the dance team, finding joy in movement that harkened back to her roller-skating days. He discovered a talent for music, his quiet nature finding expression through melodies that he could shape and control.

They navigated the terrain of adolescence side by side. Through her first heartbreak when a boy from class 2-A told her he liked someone else, through his anxiety attacks before important performances. They studied together for exams, celebrated victories, mourned defeats, all within the sanctuary of a friendship that had become the foundation upon which they built their understanding of the world.

The summer before high school brought changes that neither had anticipated. Her father received a job offer in another country—an opportunity too good to pass up, but one that would separate them for the first time since that fateful day in the park.

They sat on his back porch the night before she was to leave, a plate of watermelon slices between them, untouched. The air was heavy with unspoken words and the sweet scent of night-blooming jasmine from his mother's garden.

"I don't know how to do this without you" she finally said, her voice lacking its usual brightness. "How am I supposed to start high school alone?"

Seungcheol looked at her, taking in the familiar features that had matured over the years. The rounded cheeks giving way to more defined angles, the eyes that still sparkled with the same light they had when she was six years old and covered in Band-Aids from skating mishaps.

"You're never really alone" he said, his voice still quiet but steady with conviction. "Not when you carry someone with you."

She smiled then, a watery smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "When did you get so wise, Choi Seungcheol?"

"Someone had to balance out your chaos" he replied, nudging her shoulder with his.

They laughed, the sound mingling with the chorus of cicadas that filled the summer night. And then they made promises—promises to call, to text, to visit during holidays. Promises that they both wanted desperately to believe would be enough.

——

The distance proved challenging but not insurmountable. Technology became their ally—video calls where they did homework together in comfortable silence, text messages that arrived at exactly the right moment, care packages exchanged during holidays that contained inside jokes and memories packaged as tangible objects.

High school brought new friends into both their lives, new interests, new challenges. She joined the debate team, channeling her natural expressiveness into structured arguments. He became part of the student council, his thoughtful approach to problem-solving earning him respect among peers and teachers alike.

In their sophomore year, her father's company opened a branch back in their hometown, bringing her family full circle. The reunion at the airport was nothing short of cinematic—her running through the terminal, him waiting with a hand-painted sign bearing a joke only she would understand. They collided in a hug that felt like coming home, her laughter muffled against his shoulder.

"Told you we weren't done" she whispered fiercely.

And they weren't—not by a long shot.

——

The college years brought separation again, this time by choice as they pursued different paths—she to study international relations at a university on the East Coast, he to attend music production school closer to home. But the foundation they had built proved strong enough to withstand the distance.

They visited when they could, spent holidays together, maintained their connection through deliberate effort and genuine care. Their friendship evolved to accommodate their growing identities, expanding rather than contracting under the pressure of change.

When they both found themselves back in their hometown after graduation—she working for a nonprofit organization, he producing music for local artists—it felt like the closing of a circle that had been drawn long ago in a park filled with spring sunshine.

——

The cherry trees in the park were in full bloom, their branches heavy with pink blossoms that swayed gently in the breeze. Seungcheol sat on a bench.

The same bench where they had first met all those years ago, though it had been replaced twice since then, watching children play tag across the grass. He checked his watch and smiled; she was running late, as usual.

He had just finished his first major production project at the recording studio, a milestone achievement that had his name listed in the credits of an up-and-coming idol group's debut album. The path hadn't been straightforward—three years of music production school, followed by a year of unpaid internships, then gradually building his reputation through networking and late nights. Now, at twenty-six, he was finally beginning to make a name for himself in the industry, his quiet persistence paying off in an environment that often favored the loud and flashy.

He heard her before he saw her—her laugh carried on the wind, as distinct and familiar to him as his own heartbeat. She appeared around the bend in the path, carrying two ice cream cones that were already beginning to melt in the spring warmth. Her work attire; a tailored blazer over a simple blouse, smart trousers, and sensible heels. It was a stark contrast to the playful treat in her hands.

"Sorry I'm late" she called, quickening her pace. "The line was ridiculous, and then I got a call from the Myanmar project coordinator. The funding finally came through!" She was breathless with excitement, both from rushing and from the news.

The nonprofit organization she worked for focused on educational opportunities for children in developing countries, a perfect fit for her passionate nature and endless energy. She had started as an administrative assistant right after college, but her natural ability to connect with people and her unwavering dedication had propelled her quickly up the ranks. Now she managed several international projects, her days filled with video calls, grant proposals, and occasional travel that took her to remote corners of the world.

He stood to meet her, taking one of the cones with a grateful nod. "Worth the wait," he replied, gesturing for her to sit beside him. "Congratulations on the funding. That's the one you've been working on for months, right?"

"Eight months, three weeks, and four days," she confirmed, sitting down and kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief. "But who's counting? How was the mastering session?"

"Finished an hour ago. The producer actually used my arrangement suggestion for the bridge." His voice was quiet but couldn't hide a note of pride. "The track releases next month."

"I'll play it on repeat until everyone I know is sick of it" she promised, raising her ice cream cone in a toast. "To making our teenage selves proud."

They ate in companionable silence for a moment, watching a young girl attempt cartwheels on the grass, her movements awkward but enthusiastic. The simple pleasure of ice cream in the park was a ritual they maintained despite busy schedules and adult responsibilities. A deliberate pause in the rush of life.

"Remember when we were that small?" she asked, nodding toward the children. "You were so quiet back then."

"I'm still quiet" he pointed out.

She laughed, bumping her shoulder against his. "Yeah, but now I know what all your different kinds of quiet mean. The 'I'm composing in my head' quiet. The 'I'm annoyed but too polite to say it' quiet. The 'I'm actually quite pleased but don't want to show it' quiet. That's the one you're doing now, by the way."

He smiled at that, because it was true. She had learned to read him over the years, to understand the nuances of his silences, just as he had learned to navigate the complexities of her exuberance. That mutual understanding had deepened with their professional lives—he often served as a sounding board for her most ambitious project ideas, while she was the first person he played his compositions for, her honest feedback guiding his revisions.

As they sat there, surrounded by the echoes of their shared past and the promise of a future still unfolding, Seungcheol was struck by the simple truth that had defined their relationship from the very beginning: they balanced each other. She pushed him to step beyond his comfort zone, to find his voice in a world that often overlooked the quiet ones. And he grounded her, provided a safe harbor when her boundless energy threatened to carry her too far adrift.

A cherry blossom petal drifted down, landing on the bench between them. She picked it up, twirling it between her fingers before offering it to him with a smile that still crinkled the corners of her eyes.

"For your collection" she said, referencing the pressed flowers he had kept since childhood, a habit she had always found endearing.

He accepted it carefully, placing it between the pages of the notebook he carried. Another memory preserved, another moment added to the tapestry they had been weaving together since that first fateful day in the park.

The sun began its descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the grass. They would soon leave, returning to their adult lives with all their responsibilities and complexities. But for now, in this moment suspended between past and future, they were simply themselves. Two souls whose paths had crossed by chance and remained intertwined by choice.

And as the cherry blossoms continued to fall around them, painting the world in delicate shades of pink and white, there was a quiet certainty in the air. A knowledge that some connections, once formed, become part of the very fabric of existence. Their story, which had begun with a fall and a helping hand, would continue to unfold in ways neither could predict but both would cherish.

For that was the nature of their friendship—a journey without end, a home without walls, a love that defied definition but defined them both in countless imperceptible ways.

And in that moment, it was enough. More than enough.

It was everything.

82 notes · View notes

whatsk-poppinhomies · 2 years ago

Text

Pairing : Hwang Hyunjin x F!Reader & Lee Felix x F!Reader TW : For Hyunjin : reader has a broken leg ; reader gets hit by a passenger van ; mentions of blood ; Hyunjin isn't really an asshole, he's just upset ; it's really fluffy at the end though ; For Felix : reader gets stabbed ; reader is in the hospital ; reader gets stitches ; Word Count : For Hyunjin : 2.9k For Felix : 5.8k (In total 8.7k) Request : @slayhyunjin wants the Hyunlix version of this and that is what they will get!! A/N : I hope you enjoy this and I'm sorry for making you wait so long for it : ' (( WENT ALL IN ON THE FELIX ONE! PLEASE ENJOY!!!

Hyunjin

He was on a mini tour, at least, that’s what you called it when he had to perform concerts closer to home. He was still gone, but he was in the country and it meant that he’d be home sooner which was always exciting. It was the one thing, the only thing you loved about when he went away… The moment he’d come back and it was like he had been gone for an eternity instead of just a couple months.

You loved surprising him when he came home too, saving up all the money you made at your work to buy him little things to add to his art room. New paint sets, a new canvas, new sketch pads and pencils. Anything that would make him happy, and he always got excited over the smallest things, but seeing the way his eyes would sparkle when he saw the new materials on his desk made the wait for him worth it.

This particular trip you had saved up enough money to buy him a brand new watercolor paint set, something that you knew he had his eyes on for a while. Luckily the art store was only a couple blocks away and you enjoyed the walk from the apartment to the shop, always stopping by the little cafe on your way there to get an iced americano, it made you feel closer to him when drinking his favorite drink and picking up his favorite things.

Spring time was your favorite time to walk, the scents of fresh flowers blooming and new leaves budding on the trees. It also meant the occasional rain that you were always prepared for, your umbrella hanging from your wrist as you walked along fairly busy sidewalks.

You had been in the store when it started raining, and you were planning on waiting it out close to the entrance like everyone else was, but this particular storm decided to last much longer than you had planned, so you ventured out. It’s not that the rain bothered you, it was more so that you didn’t want the set that you had bought to be potentially ruined.

It was crazy how things can go from being so perfect so fucked in a matter of seconds. First you’re walking across the street because the crosswalk light tells you it’s okay, and the next you’re being hit by a passenger van that didn’t even have the common decency to stop and make sure you were okay. At least they didn’t continue straight through and just completely run you over. They had simply gone over your leg which was still excruciatingly painful, but it definitely could have been worse.

Now, a lot of people might be wondering, why not call Hyunjin and let him know what happened?! And while it’s a very good question, you knew how he was. God, his heart was so big, his love for you was so strong, he’d try to get home to you so fast that he’d probably make the journey on foot if there wasn’t a flight that would get him to the nearest airport available right then and there. Not just that, but he’d stop at nothing to find whoever it was that hurt you, he’d track them down to the ends of the planet just to yell at them for hurting his love.

He was busy, you didn’t want to bother him with the silly little accident, and what was important was the fact that somehow, by some miracle, the watercolor set had survived. After going to the hospital and getting your leg casted up and making sure that nothing else was broken during the accident, you got to go back home and place the set in the center of his desk with the giant bow on it, anticipating the moment that he finally came home and saw it.

What you realized while trying to perfectly set up the watercolor set and make it look pretty was that it was a pain in the ass to try to walk on your cast, although the doctor had already strongly advised you not to do that… You thought that it was just a general thing he had to say to everyone. No wonder they were so hell bent on making sure you had someone at home to help you around the house the first couple of days. You couldn’t do shit.

A surprise visit home, that’s what he was planning. He had been talking to the guys about it for a solid week, and now it was the day. He stood at the front door, taking a deep breath before letting himself in, only to be met with the apartment in such a state of disarray that he had to do a double take to make sure he was heading into the right apartment.

Following the double take he saw you on the couch, that’s how he was 100% sure he was at the right place, but it didn’t make any sense. There were bowls of food and empty cups and take-out bags everywhere around you, and you were just laying on the couch all cozied up like you didn’t care. When he first met you, you were so organized, so clean, and not to the point of needing everything to be absolutely perfect but you surely weren’t like this. Maybe it was an act, and maybe the house looked like this every time he went on tour. The only reason it looked so clean when he came back all the other times was because he had told you he was coming.

“It’s… It’s such a mess…” He muttered to himself as he stepped deeper into the apartment, his heart sinking as he thought about how he almost left Kkami in your care. “There’s just… Mess everywhere…” He continued to talk to himself as he continued to look around. It looked like there hadn’t been any sort of cleaning done in weeks. This is the house that he lived in… He just couldn’t believe it.

You had been sleeping so soundly, but he tripped over one of your crutches, causing it to fall over and hit the floor, the sudden noise causing you to jolt awake. “Hyunjin! You’re home! You wouldn’t believe the week I had.” You said, your smile bright as you looked at him over the back of the couch. How could you still be so cheerful when surrounded by such filth? You must be used to it… But he wasn’t. He couldn’t live like this, and he surely couldn’t be with someone who regularly lived like this, who pretended to be someone they clearly weren’t when around him.

“I was just leaving.” He rushed the words out as he walked back towards the door. “I can’t be here… It’s just… Disgusting… I have to go.” He excused as he quickly walked out, accidentally slamming the door behind him. That was the irony of it though, the fact that your crutches had been the item that he tripped on, yet his mind had been so fogged by the filth that he didn’t even think to question what they were doing there. He didn’t even second guess their presence considering everything else looked so out of place.

Truthfully, he wasn’t even mad… He was just upset. The person that he saw today in his apartment was not the person that he had fallen in love with, and surely not the person that he imagined a future with. It’s not that he expected you to be his maid while he was working either, he knew that you worked, you were just as busy a person as he was, but he just thought that maybe you’d want the house to be kept a little clean… That’s the type of person you made it seem like you were… He was upset that he had been wrong.

Your blanket had somehow managed to get wrapped around you while you were napping on the couch, it made it impossible to kick it off in time for you to get up or for him to even see the cast around your leg. Of course, it would have been nice if he would have just let you explain, but you could understand his irritation.

As you looked around the house, you finally took in just how unsightly it was. It looked like there had been parties going on since he left and you hadn’t cleaned up after any of them. It was disgusting, you hated it, and you yourself would have been just as upset if you walked into your house and seen it looking like this.

“Shit…. Shit!” You hissed, unwrapping yourself from the blanket before trying to get up. It hurt, but nothing would hurt worse than Hyunjin leaving you, so you dealt with it, gritting your teeth to muffle your cries of pain as you started to clean up, trying your best to shift the weight off your bad leg, but it was almost impossible considering the mess that you had to avoid to get to the garbage can.

You weren’t even sure how so much shit had accumulated, but there were pizza boxes stacked up on the coffee table beside the carry–out bags, and there were the discarded plastic bags piling around you from when you’d get out the shower and just rip them off and place them to the side, promising yourself that you’d throw them away later.

Damp towels laid on the floor beside the dirty clothes hamper, towels from when you’d pull them from off your head, tossing them and hoping they’d make it in only for them to land everywhere but where you wanted. Again, you had promised to get to it, but you never had. It truly was disgusting, and even though your leg felt like it was on the verge of falling off right now just from walking on it, it shouldn’t be an excuse for how disgusting the house had gotten.

Aside from walking… Everything else was also a pain in the ass. You couldn’t bend over to grab things off the floor, although you were trying your best, but the gravitational pull of the earth had different ideas and you ended up falling face first to the floor, managing to bust your lip and bloody your nose in the process. It wasn’t bad enough that everything was a mess, but now you were just as bad off as the apartment.

What’s worse is that you couldn’t even get up. There was nothing close enough to give you the leverage that you needed, and your good leg was in just about as much pain as the broken one from you trying to catch your fall and landing right on your knee. Your phone was somewhere amongst the pile of garbage on the coffee table and you couldn’t even crawl over there to get it, you were left on the floor, and you felt that that’s where you belonged, alongside all the garbage that you had created.

Hyunjin was quick to realize that he had been wrong… Not about you, but about the situation. Not as quick as he wished he had been, but he was back at the dorms and he couldn’t stop beating himself up about the way he had left you. He hadn’t been rude, not exactly, not the way other people would have been… But he wasn’t exactly nice either.

He had gone back to the dorms, and the rest of the guys were still back at the hotel in the city they had just performed in. He felt more lonely than ever and he knew that he needed to talk to you to apologize for the way he had been acting, so he texted you. He would have gone back to the apartment, but he was so nervous about how you’d react to him suddenly showing back up that he felt it would be better if he just texted you first to ask if he could come back.

There was no response, and that made sense… Obviously you’d be mad at him for walking out the way he did… And now he was playing back those moments in his head, the moments that led up to him walking out… And he couldn’t stop thinking about the crutches that he had tripped over. Why were they even there? They hadn’t been there when he left… But if something had happened to you that would require you to need them… You would have told him about it… Right?

But what if you hadn’t told him about it… And something really bad happened… And that’s why you weren’t answering his texts. He hoped that wasn’t what was wrong… For the first time since being with you he was hoping that you were just mad at him and ignoring him. At least in that case you would still be okay. That didn’t stop him from panicking though. He called a cab and waited impatiently outside for them to pull up, not even waiting for the car to come to a complete stop before climbing in the back and giving the driver the address.

As soon as he got to the building he ran up the stairs, bursting through the front door and it felt like he was about to die, his heart breaking when he saw you laying in the middle of the floor. You looked absolutely lifeless, a puddle of blood on the floor next to your face, and the cast that wrapped from your foot up to your mid thigh explained everything. “Help… Please…” Your voice weakly called from the middle of the floor, and the only reason any sound of relief came from his lips is because you weren’t dead.

“I’m here…” He whimpered, already crying as he rushed over to you and helped you off the floor, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist to help support you as walked you back over to the couch. “I’m so sorry for leaving you, my love… I didn’t even wait to hear your reason… I just left…” He was full of shame and guilt as he looked at you, the blood that had trickled from your nose now dried on your upper lip and your bottom lip busted open from where it hit the floor. “One second… let me get something…”

He rushed off the couch and to the kitchen, grabbing a towel and soaking it in cold water before running back and lightly wiping away the blood. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t have let it get this bad. I would have been the same way… It just hurt so bad to walk and… I hate the crutches, they hurt my arms and… I’m sorry.” You mumbled, and he quickly pulled you into a hug, lightly pushing against the back of your head to muffle your words against his shoulder.

“I don’t care about the apartment, love… I care about you.” He whispered, repeatedly kissing the top of your head as he said the words. “Now… Tell me what happened… Please.”

You were right… Hyunjin had gone from crying profusely when he heard about the accident, his head shaking as he apologized over and over for not being there for you, although you repeatedly told him that you were the one that didn’t tell him. As soon as the tears stopped flowing though, he was angry, angry at the driver who so carelessly injured and could have potentially stolen away his love. He was so angry in fact, that he planned on having management go to every store with a security camera and demand the footage from the day that it happened so they could track down the person who did it.

After he had calmed down as much as he could, he called the guys to let them all know he wouldn’t be able to come back for the rest of the concerts, explaining to them that you needed him more than they did, and no, you couldn’t get him to change his mind, and none of the guys tried to get him to change his mind either. You were now stuck with a slightly overbearing and overly apologetic Hyunjin who didn’t leave your side at all.

“Why were you walking around down that way though? Your work isn’t down there…” He mused one evening, still unable to get over what had happened and trying his best to piece it all together although you had explained everything to him. You sighed softly, suggesting for him to check the art room, and he gently moved your leg from off his lap as he ran to the room, his squeal of excitement loud enough for not only you, but probably the neighbors on all sides of you to hear as well. “You almost got killed to get me this?!” He called from the room, and you giggled lightly.

“It’s the one you wanted, right?” You called back, as he came out from around the corner of the door, tears in his eyes as he clutched the box against his chest, his head nodding fast in response to your question. “Then it was worth it… I’m glad you like it, babe.”

“I don’t deserve your love!” You cried out as he rushed back over to the couch where you were resting, leaning over the back to catch your lips in a deep kiss. “I’m gonna paint your cast and make it look so pretty… You’ll be my canvas until it gets taken off.”

Felix

“You really can’t go with me this time?” Felix asked as he stood just off to the side of the TSA line at the airport. He had been asking the question since he found out he and the guys were going to Australia for a couple tour dates. Sadly your work schedule wouldn’t allow it to be done, and as much as you asked and practically begged for even three days off, they just couldn’t do it. You shook your head before kissing his lips softly, then doing the same to each of his cheeks, a salty taste clinging to your own lips from the tears that he had shed on the way to the airport. “I’m gonna miss you, angel… Be safe, remember to lock the doors, and look both ways before crossing the street… And don’t talk to strangers and don’t walk down alleys at night and-”

“Lixie…” You whispered, cutting him off for the sole purpose of, you knew he was stalling. He hated leaving you, and you hated when he left, but neither of you really had a choice in the matter. “You’re gonna miss your flight…” You reminded him, and he looked down at his phone that was open to his boarding pass, his bottom lip jutted out.

“So what if I did? Then I’d get to stay with you… Is that so bad?” He retorted and you truly wished it was that easy, but the both of you knew that it wasn’t, and the way that he said wasn’t the way that it would play out.

“The company would be pissed at both of us… And they’d just send you out on the next flight…” You explained, although he already knew that that’s what would happen. It didn’t stop him from wishfully thinking though. “Go on… I’ll be right here waiting for you when you get back. I’ll even have a big sign with your name on it… If management lets me.”

He chuckled, although the sound was more sad than anything else and he pulled you into his arms, squeezing you tightly as he took a deep breath of you, holding it in his lungs as if he was going to carry it with him the whole time. “Always wait for me, okay? I’ll always wait for you… I love you… I already miss you… Fuck… I have to go… I love you so much… So so much…” He continued to profess his love as he walked backwards into the line, his eyes squeezing shut every couple of seconds as tears rolled down his cheeks once more.

Every night he’d call you before you went to work, the joys of working the evening shift, and most of the call would be him just telling you that he loves you and how much he misses you and how much he wishes you were there with him. You’d tell him that it was going to be okay, that you’d be together soon and that you loved him too. The calls usually left you both crying, and you’d have to tell him that you’d be late for work if the call continued. Then he’d call you every night after work, asking you how your day went and once again telling you that he loved you, how he wanted so badly to be laying next to you in his hotel bed, holding onto you and burying his face in your hair, the smell of your shampoo filling his nose and helping him sleep better. He needed you, and you needed him too, it was only two weeks until he came back… It would be okay.

“It’s getting dark out, are you sure you don’t want me to drive you home?” Your boss asked as she stood at the door, leaning against it to hold it open for you. “I don’t mind it, I don’t want you walking out here by yourself.”

You hummed softly, shaking your head as you walked past her, adjusting your purse on your shoulder as you paused just outside the door. “I’ll be okay, I walk home all the time. I’ll see you tomorrow, drive safely.” You said cheerfully, anticipating the call that would come from Felix as soon as you got home.

The walk was always pleasant, the summer breeze that came with the hidden sun always felt nice when he blew around you, taking a deep breath and letting the fresh air fill your lungs… Until it didn’t. The breath that you tried to take now burned, the pain in your side wasn’t too bad, not until you tried to breath again and you couldn’t, it felt like your lungs were on fire.

“You need to be more aware of your surroundings, angel. You could get hurt.” You remembered Felixs words from a time not too long ago when you had started to walk across the street before the traffic had even stopped, so happy just being with him that you didn’t even take the time to look around. The words rang true as you finally looked down, noticing the knife that was still plunged into your side.

It was crazy how it didn’t start really hurting until you looked at it, and then, as if the world had been on mute for a couple minutes, all of the sound came back and you could hear bystanders screaming as they rushed over to you. “It’s okay! We’ve called an ambulance and the police! It’s okay! Just hold on!” You didn’t know who this person was, he simply caught you before you collapsed onto the ground, gently lowering you down, using the sleeve of his shirt to wipe the blood from your mouth every time you opened it. The taste of copper was nauseating and you couldn’t help but retch when it would coat your tongue. “No no… Don’t do that… It’ll make it worse!”

The knife still hadn’t been pulled out yet, and you remembered reading somewhere that if it had been pulled out immediately that you would have bled to death… But god, the pain was worse than whatever death could possibly feel like. “The ambulance is on its way! Someone caught her! They’re waiting for the police!” You could faintly hear a woman scream, but the sound of your breathing, if you could even call it that, was much louder in your ears. The rattle of your lungs and the heavy wheezing was so annoying, but sadly you couldn’t mute that sound considering it was coming from you.

There wasn’t much that you could do, there wasn’t anything you could do really… Just laying there, listening to the rattle and the commotion and the distant sirens that you knew were coming for you. All you could do was dive into your own mind, try to think of something, anything to make this moment just a little more bearable. Felix. He was the only thing you could think of. The way his smile brightened even the darkest nights, the way he’d come back home after performing and you’d have the honor of wiping off his makeup, kissing along his cheeks as his perfect freckles reappeared from under the makeup. The way his hair would drip onto your face after a shower when he’d climb on top of you, his fingers tickling your sides as he smothered you with kisses. He was your happy place, he always would be, and even if you died right now, there was no heaven that would ever be better than the one you got to live on earth when you were with him.

“Woman in custody after random stabbing near Yangjae-daero. Eyewitnesses say that the woman was a crazed fan, screaming that the victim “didn’t deserve to be with him.” Although the “him” in question was never specified. The victim is currently in the hospital with no update on her condition just yet…”

Bangchan shook his head as he read over the report, tossing his phone to the side and running his hands over his face. “I never thought that people would go this far. It’s ridiculous, it’s scary. We need to keep our girls safe.” He said, and Felix nodded his head in agreement, having been the first one to read the news. He hated that it was so close to your place of work, and he tried his best to call you and text you, but he was sure that right now you were being questioned by police about what you saw and heard.

“She’s probably so scared…” Felix murmured, checking his phone once more, but there were still no texts from you. “I don’t want her walking home by herself anymore… God, what if it had been her?” And while he wasn’t even 100% sure it wasn’t you, he wanted to believe you were okay, so he did. He filled his mind with every single scenario other than the one where you were the victim.

“Try not to worry too much, we’ll be going home tomorrow morning and you’ll be with her.” Chan said, but Felix felt it was quite hypocritical since his girlfriend had been texting him the entire time while Felix was getting nothing but silence from you. “Just try to get some sleep, okay?”

And he tried, he tried his best, but he couldn’t get even a wink of sleep without hearing your voice before bed, so many nights spent just laying on the hotel pillow that brought him no comfort since it didn’t smell like you, but he’d hear your voice, his phone on speaker but the volume low so that if he closed his eyes it sounded like you were really right there. He needed that, he needed you to call him, he needed you.

He wasn’t even close to falling asleep, it had been 4 hours, and the vibration from under his pillow had him rolling over onto his stomach to look at the screen that was so blinding in the darkness. You finally texted him though, he felt like he could finally breathe, at least a little bit. “Sorry for worrying you. Don’t worry, I’m fine. These cops had more questions than I thought they would.”

“It’s okay, I just needed to be sure you’re okay. Did you get home? Make sure to lock the doors, and if you need to go to work or anywhere, text Chans or Changbins girlfriends, they’d be happy to help you.” He knew you wouldn’t though, even though you’d be much safer if you did, you hated burdening people and putting them out of the way even if it meant you’d be safe. “Try to get some rest, it’s so late. I’ll call you tomorrow. I love you.” He texted and your response came quickly, telling him that you loved him too, that you hoped he slept well and had sweet dreams, and now that he knew you were okay, he knew that he’d be okay.

It had completely slipped his mind to let you know he was coming home the next day, he had finally gotten to sleep at 4am and he had to wake up at 6am to get to the airport by 7. A 10 hour flight, and he hoped he’d be able to sleep a little bit on the plane before he got to you, he didn’t want to be exhausted when he finally saw you.

By the time he landed in the afternoon his stomach was full of butterflies, his smile unwavering as he thought about how it would feel to hold you in his arms again. Of course you weren’t going to be at the airport waiting for him, you didn’t know he was coming home early. Nobody knew, but after the report, all of the guys wanted to go home to be with their girlfriends, there had never been such panic felt by Felix as the guys raced through the airport to get to the cars to go to see their girls. Felix felt the same way though, and while he hated comparing his emotions to anyone else's, his panic was far greater considering you had been so close.

Now, Felix loved a clean house as much as the next person, but he didn’t like it to be so clean that it felt like a sin to even walk across the floors. He liked things clean, but he still wanted the house to feel like it was lived in, he wanted it to feel like a home, which is why when he walked through the front door and saw your hoodie balled up on the bench instead of hung in the closet he felt nothing but warmth in his heart. It was your favorite hoodie, it was his hoodie, and seeing it on the bench meant that he’d be seeing you soon.

At least, that’s what he thought, but when he walked further into the house he still didn’t find you, but he did find a mess. Dishes still sat in the sink, begging to be washed. Your lounge clothes were discarded carelessly on the floor in the bedroom, not even brought to the dirty clothes hamper beside the washing machine, and speaking of the washer, the clothes that were in there had gone sour from being left to sit dampened in the bin for so long. There was a very big difference between a house being lived in, and a house just being dirty, and right now, the house felt dirty.

“Look…” He started the text, trying his best to sound as understanding as possible while also getting his point across. “I know you’ve seen some shit, but that doesn’t mean you can just let the house fall apart. I mean… Leaving dirty dishes in the sink? Leaving wet clothes in the washer? That could cause vermin… It could cause mold to build up in the washer and in the clothes. I thought you knew better… I thought you were better than that. I love you, but I’m not gonna pretend I’m not annoyed right now. I’ll stay at the dorms right now… And I’ll come back home tomorrow to help you with some stuff but… I don’t want to come back home and see the house like this. It’s kind of upsetting.”

Why didn’t you tell Felix about being stabbed… He wouldn’t have texted you that if he knew… He would be sitting in the hospital with you right now and comforting you. Well, there were a lot of reasons actually… But the main one was that you knew he’d blame himself for what happened. You thought that you’d be out of the hospital and at least able to do a little bit before he got home, you never thought he’d come back home early, and the most shocking part was the fact that all of the guys did.

It was a miracle that you were still alive, a little bit higher and the damage would have been way worse… At least that’s what the doctor said. It was also a miracle that you were being let out of the hospital only two days after getting major lung surgery, props to the surgeons and the amazing medical equipment that’s out now. Still, it’s not like you could really do much, there was actually more that you couldn’t do rather than what you could do. You just needed to keep your activity levels at a low and then you’d be totally fine. It’s not like you were running a marathon, you were just gonna go home and clean the house so that Felix wouldn’t be disappointed in you. Perfectly fine.

You ubered home considering the fact that Felix was annoyed with you and the last thing you needed was an apologetic clingy boyfriend to spend the entire car ride home belittling himself for saying such things to you. It’s not like he knew what happened, and it was his honest reaction, and to be fair, he had a point. Nothing he said in the text was wrong, and it wasn’t like he was vicious, he just didn’t want mice or roaches to take over and he didn’t want to deal with mold. Nobody wanted that, you didn’t want that. His annoyance was valid, and you didn’t want him to feel guilty over something he had no idea about.

And to be quite honest, the uber driver's face was priceless when he had asked you why you were in the hospital and you nonchalantly told him you got stabbed and had to have lung surgery. If laughing wasn’t on the list of things to do, you would have cracked up, but truthfully, it was painful to laugh. Breathing in itself was still quite painful, and it was crazy how you had to retrain yourself on how to breathe so that you weren’t in as much pain.

Walking into your home was like a breath of fresh air, except you couldn’t take that deep breath and instead you had to do a little sniff and just walking up the front stairs had you winded and you had to take a five minute breather on the couch before actually starting any chores. Crazy enough, the dishes, although they were your least favorite chore to do, they had been the easiest. There was no heavy lifting involved, there was no bending over… You finally found a reason to love doing the dishes.

While you were working in the kitchen, you had restarted the load of laundry that had been sitting in the washer, and it was just about done thankfully. All you had to do was switch the clothes into the drier and then you’d be able to take a little break. It was supposed to be quick and easy, and for the most part it was… Until that one last fucking sock at the bottom of the basin caught your eye. Everything, every bone in your body, your mind, your heart, everything was telling you to just leave it… But you couldn’t, and you stretched over the side of the basin, and you felt the tear, but in the moment you didn’t care because you were victorious, you had got that sock and you threw it in the drier and now you could rest.

Except you… you couldn’t rest… Because the warm trickle that ran down your side finally caught your full attention, and when you looked down at your shirt you could see the dark red stain that completely soaked through the fabric. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if you didn’t start instantly panicking… But who wouldn’t panic when their stitches from a surgery like yours busted open? And there was so much blood… So much… You started hyperventilating and that hurt even more and you ended up getting light headed and falling to the floor. You truly felt like you were dying, and you knew that you needed to get to the hospital and sure… You could have called an ambulance, you could have called Felix… But he was upset with you and now there was blood all over the floor and for some foolish reason you thought he’d be mad about that, so you called the only other person you could think of.

Chans girlfriend was like a sister to you, and you quickly called her, and luckily she thought the same way about you and immediately picked up. You could hear the other guys in the background, you could even hear Felix… But you were more focused on the sound of Chans girlfriends voice, finding in it some will to keep from fainting at the sight of all the blood on the floor and the warmth that continued to pour down your side. “Hey, what’s going on? Do you need to be picked up from work?” She sounded so cheerful, her and Chan truly were a perfect match.

“No… I need… Hospital… Can you take me?” You gasped out, and the silence coming from her end was deafening. If it weren’t for the sound of the other guys goofing off in the background you would have just assumed she had hung up. “Please… Bleeding… I’m bleeding… Really bad…”

“Y-Yeah… Do you want me to bring him?” You knew exactly who she was talking about, but she was smart, she knew that there was a reason that you hadn’t called him, and whatever that reason was, you most likely didn’t want her to say his name to catch his attention… But she still wanted to be sure.

“Just you… Please… Hurry…” You mumbled, and it felt like you had used the last bit of energy to say those four words. Your arm fell limp at your side and you didn’t even end the call, it felt like the room was fading in and out and this… this feeling… it was way worse than being stabbed initially. At least then the knife held everything in. Now it seemed like you were bleeding out and you couldn’t even breathe without getting lightheaded. It was the absolute worst.

Chans girlfriend had rushed out of the dorms so fast, even Chan had no idea what was going on, and he had texted her non stop questioning where she went and what was wrong, but she hadn’t answered. With everything that was going on, it made him uneasy, and now Felix was the one telling him it would be okay, that is, until she walked back into the dorms. She was a completely different person, her eyes almost shell shocked, she looked like she had seen a ghost.

“What happened?” Chan had immediately rushed over to her, and she only shook her head, and Felix could see the tears in her eyes as she looked at him and then back to Chan, motioning for him to follow her into one of the empty rooms. It’s not that Felix was nosy, but the way she had looked at him had him questioning what the hell she had seen, and why she hadn’t looked at the other guys the same way. “What?!” Everyone froze when they heard Chans scream, and then the rushed out shushes from his girlfriend. “Why didn’t she say anything?! He doesn’t know! Is she okay?! Oh fuck!” There was a panic in his voice, a certain fear that no one had ever heard from their leader before. It was concerning, but everyone was frozen in their seats, stunned into silence as they listened to the conversation, which was more like Chans screaming and his girlfriend's incomprehensible whispers. “Well I can’t just not tell him! You know how he is! For fucks sake, what if she dies?! How do you think he’d feel?! I’m telling him!”

Everyone else pretended to go back to whatever it was they were doing beforehand once Chan came out from the room, everyone but Felix who had his eyes glued to Chan and his girlfriend who walked out behind him. They were both looking directly at him too, and it only made him more confused when they stopped right in front of him and now he was being motioned to follow them into the empty room. Why was this so secretive?

“You should sit…” Chan started once he had gotten Felix into his room, and that only confused him more as he slowly lowered down onto Chans bed. “Do you know… Fuck… How am I even supposed to tell him this?!” He looked back to his girlfriend who was leaning against the door, sniffling so quietly that Felix hadn’t even been aware that she was crying until now.

“Tell me what? Just say it!” Felix demanded, growing impatient with the back and forth of it all, and the urgency in their tones had him on edge and his knee was bouncing so fast that it was shaking the entire frame of the mattress. Clearly it was something important and it was meant for him… “Just spit it out!”

“Y/N is in the hospital.” Chans girlfriend blurted out and that was the first shot, it was more like a gut punch, it was unexpected, and while it was definitely concerning… It didn’t explain what Chan had said earlier when he thought no one was listening. “She was bleeding a lot and… Her stitches from the lung surgery… They ripped and… She was trying to do the laundry I guess… There was blood everywhere and… She was unconscious when I got to the house and I called an ambulance and followed them there but they wouldn’t let me in…”

Lung surgery… There was nothing wrong with your lungs, at least there hadn’t been when he had left for Australia. “She… She didn’t say anything… About that…” Felix stammered, his heart going a mile a minute and his mind reeling as he thought about what to do… What he could do. He felt helpless, there truly was nothing he could do right now to help you. “Why…. Why would she need lung surgery…. What happened?”

Chans girlfriend sighed as her head fell forward, her eyes sticking to the ground now. “She was the one… From the news report…” It took a couple seconds for him to finally get it, but once it clicked, he felt like he couldn’t breathe. “She shouldn’t have been trying to do chores… Why would she do that? She’s crazy… That stuff could have waited until you got home to help her.”

It was his fault… Everything was his fault. His legs were shaking as he got up off the bed, and he almost fell forward, he would have fallen to the floor if Chan hadn’t been there to catch him. “Hey… Hey look… There’s nothing you can do right now… Just stay here, rest… I’m sure the hospital will call when they fix things… You’re not okay right now… Just lay down.” Chan urged, pushing him back onto the bed, and he couldn’t even get up, it felt like there was a thousand pounds against his chest, holding him against the mattress.

“It’s my fault… It’s all my fault… Mine…” Felix muttered to himself through tears, rolling over and curling up into a ball on Chans bed, violent sobs shaking his entire body. “I’m gonna lose her… I’m gonna… She’s gonna be gone… I can’t… I can’t live… Not without her… I can’t do anything… I need her, hyung… I really do…” He stammered, and the only thing Chan could do, the only thing anyone could do was try to console him, and they did their best, but he only got quiet when he cried himself to the point of exhaustion, his puffy eyes closing as his sobs turned to hiccups, then to shaky slumbered breaths.

“Damn… I’m back here again…” You muttered as your eyes opened to the familiar white walls of the hospital room. “Wanna go home… I’m ready to go home…” And you tried to move, but a familiar, yet strangely unfamiliar pain hit your side as you tried to get up, and when you looked down, you saw the long tube protruding from your side in the exact same spot that your stitches once were. “Now what the fuck is this?”

“Ma’am…” The doctor that had been standing in your room waiting for you to wake up finally walked over and sternly motioned for you to lay down. “Do you remember me?” Of course you did, it was the same doctor that had so happily discharged you before, and you quickly nodded your head before pointing questioningly to the lung that was poking out of your lung. “Well, you went against every single rule that was written for you to follow, and you tore your stitches, every single layer, and then during your panicked hyperventilation episode, you managed to inhale a lot of blood and now it needs to be drained.”

“I’m sensing sarcasm…” You mumbled, falling back against the bed since you had no other choice but to lay there. “So how long do I have to stay this time?” You asked, and the doctor rolled his eyes at your sassiness, tapping his pen against the clipboard that he was holding.

“Considering your lack of self regard and the fact that we have to make sure your lungs are properly drained and then we have to stitch you up again… It’ll probably be a good week before you’re out of here. Now… You said that you’d have someone there who knew what was going on when you got home… Why did the person who brought you in seem so confused? Did you lie just to get out of here?”

You sheepishly scratched the back of your head and then your face crinkled up as you nodded your head. “But, I was gonna tell my boyfriend! He just got home before me and the house was kind of a mess and I completely forgot about the laundry… You know… Getting stabbed kinda makes you forget about daily chores. I tried to do the laundry when I got home and then… Bam… Stitches popped. I blame the sock.”

“The sock? You blame the sock?” The doctor repeated, completely exasperated by your sense of disconcern for what was going on. “You could have just explained to your boyfriend that… you know… you got stabbed.” He mocked you, placing his clipboard under his arm as he shook his head. “I’m gonna assume your boyfriend is the dark haired freckled boy who has been loyally sitting on the floor by your door and crying his eyes out… Does that sound like him?” You pursed your lips, nodding your head slowly. “I’m gonna let him in now, okay?”

You barely recognized him when he walked in, his head hung low and his hair curtaining his face, but when the door shut behind him, he looked up at you, his eyes immediately focusing in on the tube in your side and then he was bawling once more. “Yah, why are you crying? I’m still alive and… painfully, still breathing!” You tried to laugh, but ended up hurting yourself in the process, wincing when the vibration of your chest caused the tube to shift.

“How are you still so happy?” Felix questioned, not even coming close to your hospital bed which was actually really upsetting considering the one thing that would probably heal you better than any surgery was one of his hugs and maybe one of his kisses. “Is it the morphine? Do you not feel anything?” He looked at the IV drip that was connected to your arm and then back at your face that was smiling so brightly, he’d think that you were in any normal bed just waking up from a nap…

“No, silly… It’s because you’re here.” You simply explained, holding your arms out to him. “Where’s my hug at? I’ve waited so long for one of your hugs, and you’re just gonna stand there and stare at me?” You pouted, looking down at the tube and letting out a quick sigh, it would have been longer and way more sassy if your lungs could have handled it, but they couldn’t, so a short bit of sass was all you could give right now. “I know I look like a lab experiment right now… but… A hug would be really nice.”

“You’re like this… because of me… And you still want a hug? You still want me close to you?” He quizzed, and your eyebrows lowered as you looked at him with such shock, your eyes looking around the room before landing back on him.

“Babe, I don’t know what you’re talking about right now, I just want a hug and maybe some kisses if you feel so inclined to give me them.” You motioned your arms out to him once more, a little more forcefully this time. “I’ll let you have a couple bites of my flavorless jello if you give me a hug… Please?”

He chuckled, although it sounded way more sad than usual as he finally walked over to you, carefully maneuvering his arms around the tube as he rested his forehead against yours. “You didn’t tell me…” He murmured, pressing a kiss to your nose before pulling back. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew that you’d blame yourself…” You brushed his hair away from his face before lightly poking his freckles and smiling to yourself. “You’re still doing that right now though… Which is silly. I’m the one that decided to do the laundry even though the doctor told me not to. That’s not your fault.”

“You didn’t tell me you got stabbed, angel. I wouldn’t have gotten so worked up about the house if I knew that… And you could have told me to go fuck myself after I sent that text.” He scoffed softly as he finally, carefully, sat down on the edge of the bed. “We’re suing her… The whole company is… And we’re gonna make sure you and the other girls have body guards at all times. Nothing like this will ever happen again…” He took a deep breath, and then pursed his lips apologetically as he let it out slowly through his nose and you snorted softly.

“Don’t feel guilty for being able to breathe better than me, breathe deeply for me since I can’t right now…” You joked and he rolled his eyes, his head falling back as he groaned loudly, but you could hear his laughter although he was trying his best to hide it.

“God, you really are something else…” He murmured once he had calmed down, looking over at you with the softest eyes that held the whole universe in them, although you could only see your reflection in his pupils, but to him, you were his entire universe. “They tried to send my angel back home… I’ll never let that happen… I won’t let you go. If you go, I go… I love you too much to live without you here beside me.”

You sniffled softly, biting your bottom lip to try to hide the fact that you were on the verge of tears. “Damn…” You choked out before clearing your throat. “I love you too, Lixie… Don’t make me cry though… Makes it hard to breathe…” His eyes widened, and you knew he was on the brink of beginning to apologize again, and you knew that if he did he wouldn’t stop so you cut him off before he could begin. “You think we got time for like… a quickie before the doctor comes in to check on me?”

“WHAT?!” He shrieked, his cheeks burning a bright red as he glanced at the door and then back at you. “You’re crazy… God I love you so much…” He chuckled as he shook his head, leaning in to kiss you softly as he pet his hands over your hair. “Maybe at night though… I missed you a lot… You know…”

1K notes · View notes

not-glorfindel-stop-asking · 27 days ago

Note

Lindir, do you happen to like bugs?

Does Rivendell have specific types of bugs there?

(TW: Bugs, insects, and all their many-legged wonders—if such things unsettle you, I advise caution before proceeding!)

Contrary to what I suspect may be "popular belief", I do, in fact, like bugs.

They are creatures of delicate intricacy, often misunderstood, yet undeniably vital to the world around us.

Rivendell is home to many such marvels, though I shall spare you an exhaustive list (unless, of course, you ask for one, in which case I shall gladly oblige). Among my favorites are the iridescent beetles that shimmer like gemstones in the sunlight, their shells gleaming in hues of emerald, sapphire, and gold.

There are the moon-moths, pale and spectral, with wings like fragile parchment illuminated by starlight. Also, LOOK AT THEIR FACE-

And, of course, there are the dragonflies—swift, precise, their gossamer wings cutting through the air with a grace I often envy.

But beyond Rivendell’s borders, one of the most impressive creatures I have ever encountered is the Orchid Praying Mantis. A creature so exquisitely camouflaged that it becomes a living bloom, a whisper of soft pink and white resting upon real petals, waiting, watching.

Its form is one of beauty and deception—an artist of survival, a sculptor of patience.

And, of course, I cannot neglect to mention the bumblebee.

Adorable, round, and industrious, they are like tiny, fuzzy messengers of spring, tumbling from flower to flower in their endless work of pollination. They are clumsy in a way that feels almost deliberate, as if they know their own charm and wield it effortlessly. (Though I must say, certain incidents involving startled horses and one particular bumblebee have made me wary of their unintended chaos. Looking at you, Eredin.)

Then there is the Rosy Maple Moth, which is quite possibly one of the most absurdly whimsical creatures I have ever had the pleasure of seeing. They are pink. They are fluffy. They look like a child’s watercolor dream brought to life. And yet, despite their utterly enchanting appearance, they are real.

The Jumping Spider holds a similar place in my heart—not only are they delightfully small and covered in soft fluff, but they are also curious, intelligent, and prone to tilting their heads in a way that is almost unbearably endearing.

The Silkworm Moth and the Poodle Moth must also be acknowledged—both fluffy, both remarkable in their own right. (Silkworm Moth below, Poodle Moth after)

The Poodle Moth in particular looks as though it belongs in some ancient tale of magical creatures rather than in the natural world, with its large, soft antennae and otherworldly fluff.

And, of course, I would be remiss if I did not end this with a nod to the honeybee, whose work sustains far more than just the hives they call home. Their honey is a gift, their structure a marvel, and they remind us that even the smallest of creatures can shape the world.

Bugs are, in their own way, little wonders of Arda. Some may startle, some may bite, and some—Elihal, I am looking at you—may demand a battle when startled by them. But they are, nonetheless, part of the great weave of life.

And I, for one, admire them.

8 notes · View notes

shroudkeeper · 1 year ago

Text

The warmth of her breath brushed my lips; a quiet prayer escaped mine to greet it. I worried, as her fingertips touched the blindfold, that the world greeting me would be one plunged into darkness, but as long as she was here, I would accept the ill fate. I held my breath and thought of the many things I could say..

“—softly, with hands as gentle as rain.”

..the words parted from me as I exhaled and felt the fabric lift away, I saw light beyond my closed eyelid. My pulse sped and I blinked at the light of dawn that pierced through the canopies of her garden. Everything was a splash of watercolors spreading before my vision. Before me bloomed the fresh palette of an early spring morning, the golds of the rising sun, the hues of bellflowers, and the white of melting snow.

She languidly filled my vision, taking shape as my focus steadily returned. Her garden dissolved into an ethereal landscape, the dwelling of the Twelve, where only she existed among the flowers that were the color of her worried gaze. She trembled, and so did I, her beauty, even in her state of concern, left me speechless.

My silence stretched into long seconds as I traced over the delicate curvature of her parted lips, the lifted brows that knitted together, the gorgeous veil and beautiful flowers adorning her violet crown. Then her hands, small and shaking, cupped my face, searching for an answer. This entire time all I desired was to drown in the scent of flowers, to be enveloped in her embrace, to finally breathe the words of my love upon her lips.

“..There you are, my lady Takahashi, I did not mean to keep you waiting long,” Twelve, I expected a slap to sting my cheek for what I made her endure, for months without even a letter to offer her comfort or warmth during the season's change.

I couldn't help but smile when the corners of her lips twitched into one as well, broadening further as her eyes stared into mine. Her soft fingertips set me ablaze as they left a trail of heat against the cut of my jaw and chin; she radiated heat whilst leaning into me as the sun rose high above us, forming a halo around her golden, ornate accessories.

This was my heaven, here, in her private garden, sharing this moment not amongst the shadows, but under the light, no longer hiding under cover of the cool shadows.

The anxiety, which crippled my thoughts prior, evaporated around me, but I felt a pang of guilt as I watched her tears run rivulets across her ruddied cheeks.

Again, I made her cry.

..but this would be the last time, a promise I would make to her, and one I meant to keep.

#ffxiv #ffxiv screenshot #ff14 screenshot #ffxiv writing #hancock fitzgerald #kikyo takahashi #her dad is still there by the way but this is in his pov #where the world around them literally became an ethereal landscape #of just the two of them

58 notes · View notes

thiswasinevitableid · 9 months ago

Text

Cactus Gorge (Sternclay)

For the yeehawgust "chaps n spurs" prompt poll, the tied winner was "cactus blossom." This fill is NSWF and does reference violence.

Cactus Blossom Gorge is said to be the prettiest place west of the Rockies. In the spring, the cacti bloom in waves of pink and orange, leaving the air almost candied in its sweetness and the vistas like a watercolor.

Barclay’s never had a reason to be in the canyon until now; it’s a day's ride from town, is steep and treacherous to descend, and is rumored to be home to a race of monsters. So, the fact that the blossoms can be boiled into syrups that make desserts taste amazing (and sell out faster than his flapjacks) has always taken second place to staying alive.

He wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for the fucking kidnapping.

He’d been hired out as a day cook for a party of wealthy tourists from back east. He didn’t take those jobs often, but with summer on the horizon, visitors to Kepler Desert will get scarcer, so he took the generous fee and left Moira to run the kitchen.

It should have been easy; pack a picnic and drinks, show off cooking on the campfire at dusk, then call it a day. But the group hired a guide they met at the station, rather than asking in town.

Turns out the guide was a member of the Copperhead Gang, looking for a fat mouse to lead straight into a trap.

So now he’s stuck here, five days later, arms tied except for when the bandits demand he cook something. They’ve left his legs undone, because his first escape attempt was also his last; he can afford the broken nose. If they get his fingers, like they promised they would, he’ll be fucked when he gets back home.

If he gets back home.

He’s laying on his side, in the shade of a boulder, wondering if anyone is looking for him. Mama, Aubrey, all his friends, they must be worried sick, must know what happened. The gang left the bodies there for the coyotes, after all.

But what if the sheriff and his men assumed Barclay’s body had just been dragged off? Told everyone it was a shame, that they’d catch the varmits eventually (as they’ve been saying for the last four months, in spite of there now being bounty hunters prowling the desert, looking to catch what they clearly can’t).

Dirt crunches behind him. Before he can sit up, a kick catches his upper back.

“Up. Buddy shot some quails.”

Barclay spends the sunset plucking the birds, cooking them over the fire. Sprinkles a seasoning blend over them; he intended to make these assholes eat the blandest food alive, but after they threatened to cut out his tongue since it was clear he wasn’t using it to taste, he’s been using his special mixture on sad stews and shot birds.

The leader, Bobby, snarls that he better not overcook it. Or he’ll end up like the last cook.

Barclay tries not to think about the last cook. The guy must have had friends and family, must have sat by the fire with these same copperheads circling him, hoping someone would save him.

(“Copperheads” he can hear his friend Duck’s voice in his head, “we ain’t even got those out here.”)

The meal is good enough to keep him alive, though he gets ash kicked on his shirt and nearly in his eyes for trying to snag a stray piece of skin.

Then he’s tied up by the boulder once again, eyes stinging, stomach rumbling, and hope fading.

It’s when empty plates are being scraped that one of the men says, “Where’d Mike go?”

“Powder room.” Bobby chuckles, still pleased with his idea to call the privacy granted by some stones twenty paces from camp.

“No I know, but he’s not back. Ain’t been since the start of dinner.”

“Then eat his share and shut up.”

“I’m worried-”

“Then you go check on him.”

A set of footsteps disappears into the darkness.

“Boss!” Buddy’s call is cut off, like someone knocked him out.

“What in the hell-” Another of the men, the one closest to Barclay, stands. Barclay rolls over in time to see him disappear the moment he steps out of the shrinking ring of firelight.

Guns are drawn now and Barclay curls further against the rock as bullets ricochet off stones and get stuck in cacti. A rock hit’s one of the remaining three men in the head, and when they all turn to shoot at the thrower, Barclay watches a huge, lithe figure dart past the fire, a tail kicking up sand to douse the flames.

The darkness only makes the gang fire more panicked shots. One man turns to flee, only to scream a moment later, and then there’s a horrible, clicking sound as the remaining henchman is dragged from view by clawed hands.

“Come out and fight me, fucker!” Bobby screams.

The monster is back, leaping from the surrounding boulders directly onto the outlaw. There’s a struggle, a moment of panicked, sobbing screaming, and then nothing as the creature sinks its teeth into Bobby’s neck.

Barclay is shaking, hands over his mouth, praying to anything that might listen that the thing hasn’t seen him.

The narrow head raises, then snaps his direction. Eyes, glowing eerily, faintly blue, lock onto him, and the beast stands.

Barclay closes his eyes. But the creature doesn’t move.

Or he thinks it doesn’t. When he opens them, it’s nearly to him on silent, clawed feet.

At this point he’s hiding his face in his arms, trying to do something, anything, rather than shake and whimper like a whipped dog.

“It’s okay.” The monster’s tone is cool but not unkind, and Barclay does not feel any less like a hound when it says, “it’s okay. I won’t hurt you.”

He freezes as it grips his arms, but a moment later the ropes drop away.

“Can you stand?”

He nods, lets the creature lift him until he has no choice but to take his weight or risk his feet leaving the dirt. Then the hands retreat, falling by dark-furred thighs. Barclay wills himself to look up; the monster is a head taller than him, face close to that of a wolf yet narrower, with a small mane of fur. It’s arms and legs are long, it’s tail like one of the lizards Duck is always trying to get to eat the ants who attack his garden. Short spines sit along it’s back from below it’s shoulders to it’s tailbone.

It takes Barclay a moment to register that the spines are poking through a men's shirt. No, not poking, it looks like it’s been tailored to let them through.

He looks down again; since when do monsters wear pants?

“Since I was able to get some made to fit. But I’m guessing you didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“S-sorry.” He looks away, “I, I don’t, I can’t…” he hugs himself, “what’s going on?”

“The short version is I don’t believe in letting murderers escape justice. The longer version is I’m a bounty hunter, they’re my quarry, and your friends back in Kepler will be so glad to see you.”

“How did-”

“You’re Barclay Cobb, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah I am.” He feels like he’s speaking from far away. Like he’s about to wake up and discover he’s still tied by the boulder. He shivers; it gets so cold in the canyons at night, it isn’t fair.

“I’m Joseph.” The monster extends his hand and Barclay shakes it, “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable for the night, Mr. Cobb.”

“You can call me Barclay. Basically everyone does.”

A smile, charming in spite of the sharp teeth, “I can manage that.”

He follows his rescuer out of the camp, doing his best to pick his way over small rocks and patches of plants without any moonlight for help. After his third, near-miss with a cactus, Joseph pauses.

“Do you want to take my hand? Night vision has its perks.”

Barclay takes the offered hand, holding tighter than he really means to as Joseph winds them through the canyon and up onto a ledge the size of a homestead. Barclay can make out the shape of an abandoned Pony Express depot; they’d tried to place one here once upon a time, only to half complete it before the express stopped running.

Joseph holds the door, allowing Barclay to pass inside. He stands awkwardly in the dark as there’s a rustling of a drawer, a thwick of a match, and a lantern springing to life.

The inside of the building is shockingly tidy; there’s a small bookshelf, a bed that’s been made as neatly as if they were in a hotel, and small wardrobe that looks like it’s been fucking dusted.

He glances down at himself and growls in frustrated disgust; his clothes are a mess of dust, sweat, spit, and blood both his own and not.

“Let’s see, order of operations…” Joseph is moving through clearly familiar motions, lighting lamps and opening doors, checking cabinets and running his claws though the fur atop his head.

“Please tell me there’s somewhere I can rinse off? Or change?”

“There’s a spring in the hillside. I have a towel somewhere, and I should be able to find you something of mine to wear.”

Barclay looks toward the back door where Joseph gestured. He can’t go out there. What if the gang isn’t all dead, what if one of them comes looking, what if Joseph isn’t the only one of his kind out here and the others aren’t nearly as friendly-

“Or” Joseph is studying his face, taking in his huddled posture, “I could fetch a few buckets of water and bring them in.”

“Please?”

“Make yourself comfortable.” Joseph picks up two wooden buckets and slips through the door. Barclay hears that same clicking, not as menacing, and the words, “here Nessa, brought you some blossoms.”

Barclay is still trying to figure out why someone like Joseph needs to ride a horse when his host returns, buckets sloshing slightly as Barclay holds the door for him.

“Here we go.” Joseph pulls over a stool, then sorts through the wardrobe, pulling out a washcloth and a bar of ivory soap and presenting them to Barclay, “there’s not much privacy so I, um” his spines ripple a moment, “I promise I’ll keep my eyes elsewhere.”

“Don’t mind if you peek, not like I haven’t been naked around guys before. But if you want a show, I might charge you.”

Fuck, where did that come from?

“Sorry, I, that was weird.”

Joseph lays a hand on his forearm, “You don’t need to apologize. You’ve been out here for close to a week, scared out of your mind and being mistreated. People say all kinds of things when they’re stressed. Or coming out of it.”

The hand retreats, the claws brushing his skin making him want to sigh and melt, to beg Joseph to trace them over him again.

The water is cold, Barclay’s skin going goosebumped after only a few minutes of scrubbing himself, but just being able to get clean makes him want to cry with relief.

When he’s done, he hangs the cloth on the little washline strung up on one of the windows, and picks up the towel Joseph left for him. He turns as he finishes tying it around his waist, and catches Joseph looking quickly back down at the newspaper he’s reading at the little table.

“I found a shirt that should work” Joseph stands, handing him the white fabric, “but none of my pants will fit you. The ones I wear, you’ll be swimming in, and the ones I have for a human body won’t fit someone as big as you.” His eyes stay politely on Barclay’s face, but the spines ripple again, “this should at least let you make a very comfy skirt.”

“Thanks.” Barclay takes the clothes, pulls on the shirt and wraps the soft blanket around his waist in place of the towel as Joseph pours them water and sets out a handkerchief with some hard tack and cured, even harder sausage.

He sips his water, finds it floral and bright, “Cactus blossoms?”

“It’s what I grew up putting in water jugs. If you don’t like it I can-”

“No, no I like it. Just surprised me. Kind of a delicacy up in town.” He takes another sip, “does that mean you, like, live down here?”

“Only sometimes; it’s often a better base camp if I’m hunting than town is. And since this stretch of canyon technically is my family territory, it does feel like home.”

Something about the way he says ‘technically” suggests a sore spot, and so Barclay flicks his gaze to the folded newspaper, looking for a new topic.

“You were solving the chess problem?”

A smile, “Yes! This was a quick one, at least for me. Do you want to give it a try?”

“Maybe after dinner. I try to solve those when it’s slow at the Lodge. I like the little mystery they’ve been running in the town paper lately, too.”

“Yes.” Joseph nods emphatically, “those are so tricky, I love the challenge.”

“Y’know they’re actually by the McElroy’s youngest? Kid’s got quite a mind for puzzles.” He snickers, “they’ve been coming to Lodge long enough I remember when his brother went through a phase where he’d only eat beans.”

“At the restaurant or…”

“Nope, period, poor Mrs. McElroy kept coming to me for recipes…”

They eat up the remainder of their dry, but pleasant, dinner discussing some of Barclay’s stranger customer requests, and Joseph’s memory of a fellow bounty hunter who seemed to survive on Parsons Cashews alone.

Joseph insists Barclay take the bed for the evening, so he settles himself on top of the quilt with the chess puzzle as Joseph snuffs out all but the nearest lamp and goes to check on Nessa one final time.

Barclay holds his breath the entire time his host is outside, afraid he’ll hear a thud and then a human face will peer through the door.

Joseph returns unscathed, tipping the last of the water into Barclay’s cup before setting himself in a chair with a book of ghost stories. The wind in the canyon is picking up, carrying blossoms past the windows as it rattles them.

Once he solves the puzzle, Barclay flips to a new page, reading the mystery for the day and solving it a bit faster than he’d hoped. Then he reads the news, then the want ads, then advertisements.

He’s considering starting the paper all over again when Joseph yawns, “I think we ought to turn in for the night. We have a long ride back to town tomorrow.”

“Yeah. Good point.” Barclay sets the paper away and crawls beneath the blankets. Joseph murmurs a goodnight and Barclay responds with the same.

Then he lays there. Wide awake. His brain plays the same song of “what if” over and over again; what if Joseph didn’t get them all? What if one escaped and brought back friends? What if Bobby was just playing dead and is waiting for them to sleep so he can sneak in and gut Barclay like a trout?

The window shakes again and he winces.

“Everything okay?” Joseph’s eyes glow up at him from the floor.

“Are you sure they’re all dead?”

Joseph sits up, “No. Because I didn’t kill them.”

“What?”

“I paralyzed them. My bite can do that, and I have enough practice to know how hard and long a bite I need to give in order to keep them out and immobile until I can round them tomorrow and take them into town. I…prefer to at least let there be a trial before someone dies. If you hadn’t been here I might have just tossed them all into the cart I have waiting and started for town, but you needed rest. And care. Besides” his smile is a little bitter, and a little ashamed, “I also don’t feel too bad if someone who murders people in cold blood loses a toe to a coyote because my bite has them too paralyzed to run.”

Barclay nods, trying to take all that in at once.

Joseph leans forward, resting a hand on his knee, “I’m good at what I do, Barclay. But even if somehow, someone slipped out of it and came here, I wouldn’t let them hurt you.”

“Thank you.” He takes Joseph’s hand, clinging to it, “fuck, I’m sorry, I know we need to sleep but I can’t, it’s awful, I keep jumping at every sound and when I close my eyes I see them leering over me or, or I see, see what they did, what I only survived because they’d seen me at the campfire.” He holds tighter, “I’m so tired. I could barely sleep because of how scared I was, or because they thought it was fucking funny to kick me awake.”

A low, rapid click, as Joseph’s tail twitches. Then he clears his throat, rubbing his thumb over Barclay’s knuckles, “Is there some way to help you relax.”

He starts to shake his head, then meets Joseph’s eyes, “What happens if you give someone a little bite?”

The spines straighten a moment, then relax, “It depends on how little. If it’s very small, it will produce a sense of relaxation and mild euphoria. You’ll still be lucid, but it might be easier to sleep if your body isn’t holding all that tension.”

“Please bite me.”

“You’re sure? I can try to think of something else, I don’t want it to backfire and leave you feeling helpless or like I’m hurting you-”

“Please” He says again, rolling onto his side, “I…I trust you.”

Joseph studies his face a moment, then lifts Barclay’s left hand. Carefully, he brings the tip of the thumb to his mouth, parting his lips. A hint of pressure, then a sting, and before Barclay even finishes gasping his monster is setting his hand gingerly back down on the mattress.

“How long does…does..” he blinks, suddenly finding his legs and neck heavy, but not unpleasantly so.

Joseph chuckles, “It happens incredibly quickly. In humans it’s almost instantaneous, but even for my kind, a bite only takes thirty seconds at most to kick in.”

“You bite each other? Like when you’re fighting?” The image of Joseph attacking Bobby comes back to him, but this time his mind lingers on how graceful Joseph was, how swiftly and smoothly he rescued him.

“Sometimes, but we love a debate more than a fistfight for settling arguments. Even if the debates take longer and can result in more bad blood in the end. But we do more biting with, um, with mates. Lovers. These mouths aren’t exactly as easy to kiss with as a human one is, so love biting takes its place.” The spines are rippling again, and Joseph is looking away from him.

Barclay reaches down, pulling Joseph’s hand up to his mouth. Then he turns it, palm up, and bites down on the soft, short fur and the skin beneath.

Joseph yips, surprised, but doesn’t pull away until Barclay lets him go.

“It’s not nice to tease, big guy.” He murmurs, tracing a line along the edge of Barclay’s beard.

“Not teasing. Was trying to kiss you. Besides, you just called me big guy.”

“It slipped out.” Joseph’s posture suggests he’s blushing, “Barclay, you’re incredibly handsome, and I’d fuck you in a heartbeat if I knew that’s what you wanted. But I don’t want you to do anything with me you might regret. Like sleeping with someone whose appearance scares the hell out of you.”

“I mean, it did.” Barclay tries to scoot closer but can’t without risking falling out of bed, “but it doesn’t now. Now I know you’re Joseph and not just something waiting in the dark to tear my throat out. And you’re, uh, It’s” he drags a hand over his face, “I almost never find guys who are bigger than me and it’s so fucking hot and it makes me feel so safe. Felt that way before you bit me, too.”

“In that case…” Joseph pulls the blanket off him, “you can bite me as many times as you like.”

Barclay undoes the knot on his makeshift skirt as quickly as his fingers allow, letting it fall open under Joseph’s appreciative gaze. A different noise bubbles from the monster’s throat, more a purr than a click, and he bends forward, tongue longer than humans lapping at Barclay’s cock as he cradles it in one palm.

“Ohhhhfuck, fuck, Joseph it, that feels incredible.” He’s heard of people paying to have wax dripped on them during sex, and maybe that’s because it feels like this; warm without being painful, smooth as it covers his skin and leaves him tingling.

“Better test it a few more times to be sure.” Joseph swirls his tongue over the head, licks lovingly up and down his shaft from every side. The claws of his free hand run with a comforting prickle along Barclay’s thigh and card through the hair on his stomach and chest with obvious pleasure.

He’s weightless, he’s in heaven, he’s getting the best head of his life.

And he’s not getting hard.

“Fuck” he groans, frustrated.

Joseph sits up, though his hand continues stroking and teasing Barclay’s cock, “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t, I think I’m too exhausted, or stressed or something, I can’t get it up, I’m sorry.”

“My sweet Barclay. That’s nothing to apologize for.” Joseph leans down, nuzzling his cheek, “All you have to do right now is let me take care of you, however feels good. Besides” the tongue drags up his throat, “who said anything about us needing your cock?”

“Fuck, yes” Barclay tries to spread his legs, but they feel as if they’re too heavy, or as if he’s too far away from them somehow.

“Oh, big guy, has it been too long?” He says it with genuine sympathy as he rolls Barclay onto his front.

“Uh huh, fuck, people get one look at my dick and they, they think I wanna be in charge, wanna be on top, fuck” he gasps, clutching for the pillows as Joseph’s tongue runs from his neck down to his ass.

“Well, they can have their narrow ideas while you and I have a great time.” Joseph nuzzles the top of his head this time with a happy sigh, “now, be a good boy and hold still for me.”

“You’re not gonna prep me?” Fear reemerges, threatening to spread through his system in a wave.

“It’s a little different with my, well, set-up,”

Barclay glances back; Joseph’s cock is thinner than a humans but a good seven or eight inches long, absolutely dripping with something golden and sticky, with short, knobbly spines scattered across it.

“They won’t hurt. Here, feel.” He rubs the shaft along Barclays ass with a hungry growl as the spines bend, soft and flexible.

“Okay.” Barclay takes a deep breath, spreading his knees wider, “okay.”

The tip of the cock presses into him with ease, whatever’s slicking its way seeming to open him as it does. Joseph wraps an arm around his middle, sets the other hand on top of Barclay’s own, “I’ve got you big guy.”

Joseph works his hips in short, deliberate thrusts, his cocking sliding deeper and deeper until he’s flush against Barclay’s ass and Barclay is nearly clawing the sheets from how good it feels. The spines rub against him, finding sensitive spots he’s not even sure he knew existed before now as Joseph’s breathing picks up.

“You feel so good, big guy. I think I might just stay here all night. If you can’t sleep, I could just keep fucking you until you’re too tire to keep your eyes open.”

“Fuck, yeah” He moans, trying to push back to meet the thrusts but finding his limbs to relaxed to do anything but keep him how Joseph has arranged him.

“Mmmm” Joseph laughs into his neck, then trills and clicks when Barclay turns to nip at his forearm, “maybe that’s my real reward for this bounty. Not the money, but the chance to demand that because I saved your life, I get to find you every night and fuck you until you’re dripping and so relaxed that all you can do lay there and let me be good to you.”

“Yes, fuck, yes, Josephohfuck” His toes curl as Joseph picks up the pace, his cock finally responding to being ground against the bed.

“That’s it big guy, let go for me. You’re mine, I’ve got you, I’ll never let anyone hurt you ever again, I take care of you, I will, ohfuck, shit” he pulses into Barclay, working his hips frantically as Barclay rocks against the quilt, desperate to cum. Eventually Joseph gets his breath back, little clicks and purrs leaving him as he whispers, “I love feeling watching you fuck my cum back into that perfect ass.”

Barclay cums with a weak cry against the sheets, Joseph rubbing his sides and doing his best to kiss his shoulders as he shakes and twitches through it.

There’s a mess on the quilt the instant he pulls out, but neither of them minds. Instead, Joseph curls around him, promising him he’s safe, telling him how wonderfully he did, and Barclay falls asleep petting soft, black fur.

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Barclay steps into the morning light to find Joseph hitching Nessa to a wagon full of bleary-eyed, terrified outlaws who, upon seeing Barclay, begin begging him not to let the monster get them.

“It’s funny, what heat and liquor can do a man.” Joseph produces a silver ring and slips it over his finger. Suddenly there’s no monster to be seen, just a tall, black-haired man with blue eyes and the most charming smile Barclay’s ever seen.

“Agreed. Makes people see things that aren’t there.” Barclay steps beside Joseph, ignoring the ongoing shouts from the wagon to press a kiss to his cheek.

Joseph passes him the reins to one of the outlaw’s horses, “We should hit Kepler before sunset. I need to take these men to the jail and collect my bounty.”

“Any idea what you’re gonna spend it on?” Barclay climbs into the saddle and Joseph does the same.

The bounty hunter sets a black hat onto his head as blossoms begin dancing in the breeze, “How about taking you to dinner?”

#sternclay #agent stern/barclay #western au #yeehawgust 2024 #human/monster romance #terato

14 notes · View notes